Young Brotherton, for his part, was delighted with his old cousin. It was from her, he perceived with pleasure, that Liddy had taken her willowy grace, and the refined and delicate features which bore little resemblance to those of Mrs. Selby. He was in a humour to be pleased with everything he saw. When the master of the house appeared, he thought him the model of an old North-country squire, rough, perhaps, but manly and full of character, as suited that strong-minded country. The plainness of manners and living, the woman-servant, not very adroit, that served the dinner—which was plainly dinner, and not luncheon—the atmosphere of farm and stables outside of the house, instead of park and pleasure-grounds, all struck him in the most favourable light. Liddy had thrown glamour in the young man’s eyes; he saw them all through her. These, the unusual features in her surroundings, appeared to him in the form of characteristic traits and country peculiarities, not as symptoms of a level of society lower than his own. It was all piquant, novel, delightful, and when he was asked to stay, a grace which Joscelyn put forth to the wonder and admiration of all the household, he accepted the invitation with eagerness. Mrs. Selby, for one, could not get over her astonishment.
“Nay, when father’s asked him there’s not a word to say,” she cried. “Father! I would as soon have believed that you and me, Phil, would have been asked to take tea with the Queen.”
CHAPTER IV.
BEGINNING.
BROTHERTON stayed a week at the White House—to the great mortification of the Pilgrims at Wyburgh, whose guest he had been. Nobody likes to have their visitors interfered with, or that a new acquaintance, whom they have themselves introduced and brought out, so to speak, in society, should desert them for a new circle. The girls and the mother were alike indignant, and the incident even had the effect of quickening the action of the father, and making him more impatient of the delays in respect to old Mr. Joscelyn’s estate. But this had little effect upon the household at the White House, which for the moment was more happy and peaceful than perhaps it had ever been before. It was the beginning of one of those new chapters in life which revive the interest of the old story. Poor Mrs. Joscelyn had lived through many such, but they had been in most cases not of the pleasant, but painful kind. Her blood had been quickened in her veins, her heart driven into wild beating, as one crisis after another occurred in the family life. But now everything was changed. Lydia had become to her another self. She was not sure whether it was not herself again, glorified, elevated, made beautiful by present youth and infinite hope, which was always about her—moving with her step for step, talking, even thinking with her: the same thoughts rising to their lips. Between two sisters such a dual life is sweet; but to a mother it is a recompense for all the pangs of life, which are seldom few or small. She was not sure that it was not herself who spoke, and thought, and smiled in Lydia; but only a self far more firm, erect, and self-supporting than she had ever been. Lydia was not afraid of anything, and of Ralph Joscelyn least of all. This of itself made the strangest difference. It gave a flavour and fragrance to their mingled life. The mother felt herself more brave and more strong in her child; and now romance was arriving to her late in the same way. Ralph Joscelyn’s wooing had been a rough one. During its course the pretty, drooping Lydia of those days had been charmed by its very abruptness, and considered the peremptory passion a double compliment to herself, and to the power of love in subduing the strong. She had liked all the silly similes, the lion enchained, the giant deprived of his strength, and had believed in her foolish heart that her half-savage hero would be always in her toils—however rough to others, yet to herself the gentlest of the gentle. From this foolish dream there had been a summary awakening; and all her long life since had been calculated to convince the romantic woman that romance existed only in her dreams. But now another kind of awakening was coming to her. Youth had come back with its visions, and Arcadia, and love. The young man who was her own kith and kin (which of itself was sweet) was also, as becomes a young man, something of her own kind. He was full of poetry, and sympathy, and enthusiasm: it was not after her old-fashioned mode, but yet it was not the common strain of prose to which she had been accustomed. To see his eyes turn to her Lydia was to Mrs. Joscelyn like the revival of all her own maiden fancies; and the affectionate worship which he gave to herself completed the charm. Perhaps she was happier than Lydia in those early days of wooing. She saw the dawn of admiration and enthusiasm in his eyes, when Lydia herself thought of him only as a sort of advanced playfellow, a something new in his youth and pleasantness. Mrs. Joscelyn saw it all from the beginning; she felt from the beginning that it was written in heaven. It was half like a story which she was reading in snatches, or chapters, a single page at a time, always longing to go on with it, to see what the next step was to be, to anticipate the end.
As for Lydia herself, after the little excitement of the arrival, and the pleasure of bringing this new cousin to her mother—the most delightful present that could be thought—of she subsided sedately into her usual life, and treated him as a new companion, not doubting his interest in her simple occupations. His servant came over from Wyburgh with his baggage, which was a shock to the primitive household; but as the man was rather in charge of the horse than of his master, and that is a point on which princes and grooms may fraternise, the alarm was soon over. Brotherton wanted, it appeared, to find a shooting box, a little place in which he could establish himself for the autumn. He explained that he was not rich enough to aspire to a Scotch moor, and modestly permitted it to be understood that the Duke’s youngest son was his intimate friend, and that it was chiefly to be near him, and share his shootings, that he had chosen this part of the world. With the hospitality of primitive regions, Ralph Joscelyn would have taken him in permanently, and allowed him to be an inmate of the White House; but his wife retained enough of her old breeding to see that this expedient was undesirable, even though her heart stirred faintly with a hope that in that case the Duchess might have called, which is the chief sign of belonging to the aristocracy in these countries. The Duchess had never given her this sign of recognition, which had been a life-long smart to the poor lady. What did she care about such distinctions now? but yet for the sake of Liddy, she said to herself. To have her Lydia asked to a ball at the Castle would indeed be something to reward her for living, to make her feel that now she could die in peace. Mrs. Joscelyn did not say anything about this hope—for the disappointment, if nothing came of it, would have been very severe she felt, too great a trial to expose her child to: but she cherished it in her heart of hearts. And in the meantime they made every effort they could to find for this new relation the lodging he wanted. It was Lydia at last who suggested the old Birrenshead, the house which had been Uncle Harry’s, but which had not been inhabited by anybody but Isaac Oliver in the memory of man.
“It is a very tumble-down old place,” she said, deprecating, “but it is only two miles from here.”
“Oh, if it is only two miles from here—!” cried the young man, eagerly. This was one of those elliptical forms of speech which he had begun to employ unawares, and which only Mrs. Joscelyn understood. She smiled within herself, but she said nothing; and it was agreed that he should walk there next day and see what accommodation the place possessed. The name of it threw a little tremor over Mrs. Joscelyn, although she had smiled. And next morning, when with great simplicity, and without any thought of harm, Lydia set out with the stranger to show him the way, she told him the circumstances in which the family stood, as she had before revealed to him the fact of her brother’s disappearance. It did not occur either to Lydia or to her mother that there was anything wrong, anything out of the common, in showing young Brotherton the way to Birrenshead. It seemed indeed of all things the simplest and most natural. She walked by his side as seriously as if the young man had been her own grandfather, with all the dignity of a princess in her own country. Nor did anyone in the village think it strange. They saw her pass, and wondered who it was who accompanied her over the bridge; but that was all.
“This is part of the property,” she said gravely, “which was left to my poor brother whom I told you of. That is what made my mother look so serious. She does not like to hear about Uncle Henry’s property. If we do not hear something of Harry soon, it will have to be divided, they say.”
“And that is a grief to her?” Brotherton said, sympathetically.
“Oh, Mr. Brotherton, think! to be the heir of your own child—do you wonder that she cannot bear it? They say we should all have our share, father and mother too. He does not say much, but he thinks more than he says, and I am sure he would rather die than touch it. But my brothers,” said Lydia, with a sigh, “my other brothers, don’t think so. They want us to yield and consent that Harry is dead. But that is what I will never do.”
Brotherton looked at her animated face with admiring interest. “You must have been very fond of this brother,” he said.
“I scarcely remember him; but I am sure I should find him,” cried Lydia. “You will say that is nonsense; but then I have been my mother’s only companion all these years, and she will never be happy till she has seen Harry again. She has not had a very happy life; perhaps she has not always understood—and then no one has understood her. I must, I must get her some happiness before she dies!”
There was a glow of tender enthusiasm about the girl which touched her companion deeply. “I think,” he said, “she is happy in you. It would be strange if she were not,” he added, half under his breath.
This brought a wave of colour over Lydia’s face. “She is a little more happy in me; but she will not be really happy till she sees Harry.”
“And if——”
“Don’t say so, Mr. Brotherton, please! Don’t think so even. Do you imagine if he had been —— that mother would not know? If I could only go abroad I know I should find him. Here is old Isaac Oliver, old Uncle Henry’s man. He will let you see the place; and if he is cross you will not mind? He has been here so long that he thinks it is his own.”
They were walking along the edge of a field of corn, on a little footpath so narrow that here and there they had to walk singly. The wind, which swept the tall rustling crop in waves like breath coming and going, blew the pale yellow heads against them as they went along in pleasant contact with this wealth and freshness of nature. The corn was still pale in tint, ripening slowly under the northern sun, with a glimmer of red poppies under the surface like the woven under-ground of some rich Indian stuff. As Lydia spoke, an old man became visible between the corn and the hedgerow, pushing his stooping shoulders along before him with a sidelong movement like a crab. His head was bent to one side, his footsteps shuffling. Ten years had told upon Isaac. He did not take off his hat when he saw Liddy approaching, such a ceremonial being scarcely necessary to the familiar intercourse of the country, but he nodded amiably, and made signs of welcome with his hand. As, however, the path widened a little just at that moment, and young Brotherton, making a quicker step, appeared suddenly at Lydia’s side, Isaac, who had not seen him before, was greatly startled. He stopped short in his crab-like course to stare at the new comer. He fell back a step or two and screwed his stooping head aloft in a sidelong attitude. Then he gave vent to a shrill, prolonged “E-eh!” which penetrated the air like a skewer. “So he’s coomed back,” the old man said.
“Who has come back?” said Lydia, startled and eager.
“Lord, Master, give us a grip o’ your hand. You’re no Master Harry now, you’re master’s sel’. T’ ould Master left it all to ye, as I said he would if you’d let him be; but you never would listen, nor think on——” When he had got so far, old Isaac paused. His head had sunk a little from its first energy of motion, but he kept one eye screwed up and shining, and his mouth twisted upward at one corner. Here, however, he paused, and a cloud came over his face. “Miss Liddy,” he said, reproachfully, “you might have tellt me it wasn’t him.”
“Who did you think it was, Isaac? It is Mr. Brotherton, a——distant cousin. Did you think——? Oh, tell me, is he like, is he like——?”
The old man recovered himself gradually. He gave a grin which seemed to twist upwards from his mouth to his little twinkling eyes.
“Not a feature in his face,” he said, with a growl of angry laughter, “not a bit, no more nor I’m like. I’m just an old fool. I take anyone for him. Ne’er a soul comes down t’ Fells but I say, it’s him, as if he was coming from t’ skies. A fine joke that; and him t’ prodigal son, a good joke; to look for him from t’ skies! He should come from t’ other place, Miss Liddy, up from t’ ground.”
“But he was no prodigal,” said Liddy, indignantly. “He did not go away for any harm, Isaac, you know that!”
“I know a’ about it, a’ about it,” said the old man. “Step forward, Sir, into the light. If you keep there dangling behind her—Lord! but I’ll think it’s you after a’.”
“You must be like Harry,” cried Lydia, turning round quickly upon her companion. “When she saw you first, my mother started too.”
“He’s about the same age,” said old Isaac, “and tallness—no more, not a hair. Don’t you speak to me, Miss Liddy. If I dunnot know him, who does? I brought him up, though you wouldn’t think it. I put him on a pony the first time. I gied him most of his lessons, out of t’ school. But this isn’t him,” the old man said indignantly, “it’s not him, I tell ye. Don’t you think to impose on me.”
“Isaac,” said Lydia, “will you let Mr. Brotherton see the house? He wants to live here for a little. Mother thinks you might put in a little furniture, and make him comfortable.”
“Com—fortable!” said the old man, prolonging the word with a half-laughing, half-angry cry; “and it was your mother said it? If he likes t’ bide with the bats and the rats, he may be com—fortable. There’s been nobody else there as long’s I mind. Do you mean,” he added, suddenly screwing up his eye into a little spark of red fire, “that she’s consented, and Miss Joan, and you? I’ll not b’lieve it; and who,” he asked fiercely, “is to get this share?”
“You must not speak so to me. We have not consented, and I never will consent. But this gentleman does not understand what we are talking about,” said Lydia; “take him into the house and show him what rooms there are, and I will go and see your wife.”
“Oh, ay,” said Isaac, “speak to t’ missis, you’ll find her in a fine way. If she hadna gotten t’ meekest man, next to Job, that was ever in this ill world—a pictur and a pattern. But you’ll see for yourself, Miss Liddy; you can drop a word about t’ gentleman to soothen her down. Come this way round, come this way round, it’s the best way.”
Old Isaac had turned in front of them, and was creeping along by the side of the path scarcely so high as the corn, his battered old hat about the same height as the yellow ears. When the cornfield ended they came out abruptly upon a grey old house, surrounded by a small rough square of grass, in which were some fine trees. The house looked as if it had been forgotten there, like an old plough. It had a square, respectable portico, with a pediment above it, and rows of windows chiefly broken, the lower ones closed with shutters which were falling to pieces. A huge elm-tree stood up at one corner, throwing its shadow over half the house; behind it were traces of the trees of an orchard; but the fields all round had encroached on the place, potatoes were growing within a stone’s throw of the great door, and everything bearing witness of its deposition and reduction from a human centre of life to a mere wreck and encumbrance on the earth.
“Ay, ay,” said old Isaac, shaking his head, “they’d just like to pull it down and no leave one stone on another, like Jerusalem in t’ Bible; but the walls is good, and the woodwork’s good, and it would last his time and mine—and far more if Mr. Harry would come home, as he ought.”
“Then you think he’ll come home,” said young Brotherton, not knowing what to say.
“Wha said he wasna coming home, why should he no come home?” said Isaac, screwing up his eye once more into a red spark of angry light. “Them that say so know nothing about it, I can tell you that, Master. Them that are of that opinion have nothing to found it on. Who understands Master Harry like me, unless, maybe, it was his mother? Well, his mother and me, we’re both expecting him. That should be an answer, except to them that arguys just for the sake of arguyment,” the old man said, fiercely. “Will you come in and see the house?”
To Brotherton it had begun to seem, by this time, as if the house and all about it, the very skies overhead, had darkened. He did not quite know at first what was the cause. It was some cloud that had come over the sun; or was there some obscurity about the house, some shadow of fate, which darkened the skies at midday? It seemed to him suddenly that nothing could be more dreary than the aspect of the place altogether, though before Lydia disappeared round the broken bit of garden-wall, it had seemed so inviting and desirable. But he did not ask himself if Lydia’s disappearance had anything to do with this sudden change: all he said to himself was, “it is only two miles from the White House,” and, strengthened by this reminder, he went on with courage into the dark portal. It was, as Liddy had said, a very tumble-down house. There was a dirty and ragged carpet on the floor, sometimes moving in waves when the windows were opened; a table stood in the centre of the largest sitting-room, and the chairs were put round, as if some sober party had just risen from them. This was on the first floor, in the drawing-room of the house; behind it were some bed-rooms scarcely more inviting; the dust rose in clouds when the air was admitted, the furniture seemed dropping to pieces. Brotherton stood at the door of one room after another, with a blank stare at them. They had but one quality; they were within two miles of the White House.
“And do you think they will suit you?” Lydia asked, coming back to him when his inspection was over.
She had not been in dusty places like those which he had just left, but came round the corner of the garden wall, looking so fresh and bright, that somehow that cloud over the sun disappeared in a moment, and the whole landscape brightened, and the dust went out of his throat. He had been feeling half choked, but he felt so no more. He had thought that they would not do at all; but now a sort of heavenly suitability seemed to come to them all at once, and it appeared to him in a moment that, if he could have the choice of all sorts of lodgings, these dreary rooms were those which would suit him best.
“They will do beautifully,” he said, with much cheerfulness. “So far as I can see they are the very thing I want; and then so near the White House! What is two miles? I shall be able to walk over constantly—if you will let me,” he added, in a softer tone.
“Of course we will let you,” said Lydia, sedately. “We shall miss you so much that we shall be very happy to have you whenever you like. But were they not in very bad order? the furniture dreadful? and everything dropping to pieces?”
“I did not see it,” said young Brotherton, stoutly. “They were, I daresay, a little dusty; when a place has been uninhabited for a long time—I suppose nobody has lived there lately?”
“Nobody has lived there since I can remember—oh, and not for a long time before. Even Uncle Henry never lived there. I think I must have been silly to bring you, for it can’t be fit to live in now I think of it; and while matters are undecided about poor Harry they will not do anything. Oh, I am afraid mother and I were hasty in thinking it would do.”
“On the contrary,” said young Brotherton, feeling in the enthusiasm of the moment as if it had been a palace which he had just quitted, “it is everything I require. Perhaps,” he added, modestly, as if by an afterthought, “they would not mind—sweeping it out.”
“I spoke to Jane, that is Isaac’s wife. Isaac is a very funny old man, but he is frightened for his wife. She keeps him right. And she will scrub it, and sweep it, and dust it, and make it as clean as a new pin. Oh, you may be quite sure of that. And then, at first, you can take your meals with us, the White House is so near—only two miles, what is that?”
“Nothing,” said Brotherton, with enthusiasm. Then he added, “I must not tire you out. I shall do very well. I can get everything I want here.”
“Oh, no; until you get used to Jane, and accustomed to the cooking, and all that—I know these things are of consequence to gentlemen,” Lydia said, with a soft smile of feminine superiority, “you must come and take your meals at the White House. But Jane Oliver is quite a good cook,” she added, encouragingly. Brotherton’s heart had sunk within him at the mention of Jane’s cookery. The cookery could not but be a terrible necessity in such a place. But he scorned to show any such weakness.
“I am sure she is,” he said, cheerfully. “I feel certain that I shall be in the best of quarters. Is there a ghost?”
“A ghost! why should there be a ghost?” cried Lydia, in surprise. Then she added, with a little dignity, “There was never anybody injured or betrayed in a house that belonged to the Joscelyns. So there can’t be any ghosts.”
“You reprove me justly,” he said, feeling his little joke very small indeed in the presence of Lydia’s youthful dignity. “It was a vulgar, slangy sort of suggestion. I see the folly of it now.”
“No folly,” said Lydia, from her pedestal; “you did not know.”
And then they went on together, once more very sedately, as if they had been a sober, middle-aged couple, the corn rustling and nodding towards them, the soft wind sweeping over it, bowing its yellow plumes in soft successions of movement, the whole air full of a happy rustle and sweep of sound, the sound of the atmosphere, the subdued hum of summer happiness common to all the world. He made up his mind that the landscape, all full of young trees and northern colours, and the moment, in which there was no positive bliss indeed, but only a dreary, dusty lodging, and the prospect of being cared for by a ploughman’s wife—were perfect, and that life could not hold anything sweeter. Lydia went on talking of the chance that perhaps Mr. Pilgrim, the executor, would “do something” when he heard of a tenant, until it gradually began to appear to the young man as if she were talking of improving heaven. What could be equal in all the world to a place which was within reach of the White House? “But if your brother were to come home suddenly,” he said, “what would become of me? Should I be turned out?”
“Harry!” cried Lydia, with glistening eyes; and then she said, turning to him (he was behind her for the moment, the path was so narrow), “Harry! Oh, how kind you are! To speak like that is to give one courage; for you really, really think, Mr. Brotherton, don’t you, now you have heard all about him, that he must come home?”
CHAPTER V.
THE DUCHESS.
WHEN it was known that the old house at Birrenshead had been taken by a gentleman for shooting quarters, the astonishment of the neighbourhood was great. The house was known to be in a most dilapidated condition, and the rooms had not been occupied in the memory of man. The village took the most anxious interest in the rash gentleman, and inquired, with much solicitude, “what motive” he could have for burying himself in such a place? Was it for the sake of Lydia Joscelyn? But then he had been much nearer Lydia Joscelyn at the White House, where the family no doubt would gladly have kept him had he wished it; or was it on the other hand to get away from Lydia, who had been devoting herself too unreasonably to him? Both these opinions had their supporters; but as it was impossible to prove either, the question remained a burning question for half of the time that young Brotherton lived at Birrenshead, where he soon became well-known. He was quite a gentleman, there could be no doubt of that. He had a couple of horses and a man, and money did not seem to be wanting with him. The neighbours soon found out all that was to be found, which was not saying much—that he was Sir John Brotherton’s son, and a great friend of Lord Eldred, the second son at the Castle; and that he was actually, on his own showing, second cousin to Mrs. Joscelyn. Had she said it the neighbourhood might have doubted; but he said it himself; and he was constantly at the White House. Scarcely a day elapsed that he was not there on one pretence or another, and sometimes Lord Eldred would go with him, having his dinner there, the gossips said, and sometimes tea, and conducting himself as if the Joscelyns were his equals. This opened a new and exciting question, which was discussed warmly by the different sides, each maintaining its own view. What would the Duchess do? She had excluded the Joscelyns from the list of county gentry when they were first married, asking, with a contempt for blood, which was most unbecoming in the local head of society (and the Joscelyns had blood—it was the one thing that could not be denied to them), “Why should I call upon people who have nothing to recommend them but that their grandfathers were gentlemen?” This leaving out of the family altogether had been very marked; when you consider that the Selbys, who were nobodies, had cards from the Duchess because the old Doctor was their father! Mrs. Joscelyn had not said anything about it, but she had felt the sting all her life. And she was not less interested than the rest of the world in the question—What would the Duchess now do? This problem was not solved for several weeks; but at last, just before the great ball which absorbed the whole county in consideration of what to wear, and how to appear to the best advantage, the village was convulsed by the appearance of the ducal liveries. It was an October day, with frost in the air, so clear that you could see to any distance, from one end of the dale to the other. The Selbys, called to their windows by the roll of wheels and the jingle of the horses’ feet and furniture, and the flood of blue and yellow in the air, rushed to the vicarage to rouse their friends to the seriousness of the crisis. “The Duchess is going to call,” they cried, rushing in open-mouthed. “The Duchess has called,” cried the others, who were all grouped round a telescope which they had brought to bear on the door of the White House. There the carriage was undoubtedly standing, delayed an unreasonable time at the door—which both the families felt, whatever reason they might have, showed bad taste on the part of the Joscelyns. Then the footman, a splendid apparition all plush and powder, was seen to make his way a second time up the narrow path, between the two grass plots, bordered all round with chrysanthemums. The watchers had a moral certainty that Mrs. Joscelyn was not out. Had she denied herself to the Duchess? A thrill of sensation passed through the minds of the observers—of mingled stupefaction and excitement. To say “not at home” was a moral offence upon which people were hard in that primitive community; but to have the courage to say it, was something which overawed them. And to the Duchess! Imagination could scarcely go further.
When Mrs. Joscelyn perceived, with a sudden rush of blood from her heart to her head, that the honour she had been looking for all her life had actually happened to her, she rose up precipitately and fled, throwing a shawl over her head. This was partly fright, and partly resentment, and partly it was a wise impulse. The family parlour and Betty in her white apron to open the door, were not accessories which would impress the Duchess, and Mrs. Joscelyn had not much confidence in the refinement of her own appearance. She was not so bold a sinner, however, as to sit still and instruct her innocent maid to say, “Not at home,” a task to which Betty, knowing it was not true, would not have been equal. So she went out, meeting Betty trembling with excitement, tying on her clean apron as she came. “It’s the Duchess, missis!” Betty said, overwhelmed. “You will say, Not at home,” said Mrs. Joscelyn breathless. “I am going out, you see.” “Going out! Missis! and the Duchess at the door.” Betty thought it was incredible. Mrs. Joscelyn, however, deaf to remonstrance, though herself trembling with excitement, ran out upon the Fell side, and enjoyed the spectacle. She was an Englishwoman, and it is not to be supposed that the sight of the blue and yellow liveries, and the carriage with a Duchess in it, did not touch the highest feelings in her nature; and to have spoken to that Duchess, to have realised the full glory of the event, would have been sweet—but it would have been alarming too, and discretion is the better part of valour. She stood upon the rising ground with her heart beating, and gazed at the wonderful sight, visions rising before her of the ball, and the invitation for Lydia which would be sure to follow, and the ball dress, and all the excitement of so great an occasion. She breathed more freely when the great lady drove away, and she was delivered from the fear of being sent for, and compelled to come back by some dreadful mistake on Betty’s part. But Betty too had risen to the occasion. She had said trembling, but resolute, “Not at home, Sir,” to the fine footman—arguing with herself that it was quite true that Missis wasn’t at home, for hadn’t she seen her, with her own eyes, go out? Betty went out too to ease her Mistress’s mind, when the incident was over, carrying the cards in her apron. She did not like to touch them with her hands, though she had scrubbed those hands crimson only a few minutes before. “T’ gentleman said as Her Grace was sorry,” said Betty, her eyes almost out of her head with staring. “T’ gentleman” was the biggest part of the event to her; she had never in her life seen anything so grand so near. Her ruddy cheeks were crimson, and her liberal bosom palpitated. And Mrs. Joscelyn could not herself restrain a tremor when she took these sacred bits of pasteboard in her hand.
The excitement about the ball, however, was not all pleasurable. The invitation came a few days after, and at first Lydia, who had a great spirit, altogether refused to avail herself of it. She was in the parlour with her mother, arranging bunches of the ruddy leaves and rowan berries which made the country gay, in the big old-fashioned china vases which stood on the mantel-piece, and which were worth their weight in silver, though nobody was aware of it. Lionel Brotherton had come in on his way back from a short day’s shooting. He had brought some game, which lay in a shallow basket on the table, the mingled colours of the plumage harmonizing well with the warm autumnal tints of leaves and fruit. The whole culminated in the girl’s glowing and animated countenance as she stood by the table, twisting her garlands of leaves and throwing them about with a freshness of gesture and energy which only a touch of indignation could have given. She had put a cluster of the red berries into her hair, with a few long serrated leaves, marked with brilliant red upon the green; and thus crowned was like an autumnal nymph, not mature enough for a Ceres, but yet warm with the northern glow of colour and life. “Why should I go?” she was saying. “What is it to me, mother? If the Duchess chooses to fling an invitation at us after all these years, are you and I to seize upon it as if we cared? I don’t care. I don’t want it. I should not like to go—Of course I may be forced,” cried Lydia. “I may have to do it, for all the several reasons which people always bring up; but listen, mother, this is the truth, I should not like to go.”
“My dearest,” said her mother, joining her hands in that instinctive movement of entreaty which was her natural attitude. Nobody could admire Liddy as her mother did, not even the young man who sat a little apart gazing at her, and thinking all kinds of foolish thoughts. Mrs. Joscelyn saw in her the perfection of herself, the accomplished ideal to which she had been striving all her life. She herself would never have had the strength of mind to look so, and speak so—but Liddy had; and even while she remonstrated and entreated, she approved. “My pet, that is just your fancy. Why shouldn’t you like it? You have never been at a ball.”
“That is just the reason,” cried Lydia; “when I do go I want to enjoy it. I want to be as good as anybody there. I want people to think as much of me as anyone, and ask me to dance, and think my dress pretty, and like me altogether. I won’t go anywhere unless I can be sure of that.”
“And so you will, my darling,” Mrs. Joscelyn said. Brotherton did not venture to speak, but he put a great deal into his eyes. Lydia indeed did not look at him, and so could not perceive this, but perhaps she had some notion of it all the same. Her colour increased the least in the world, taking a glow from the red leaves in her hands and the red berries in her hair.
“No, mother, I know how it will be. We shall come in at the end with the Selbys, and the Armstrongs and the Pilgrims, and—oh, a great many more. There will not be any want of companions in distress. We will all keep together at one end of the room, and our hearts will all beat if anybody comes near us. If it is an officer from Carlisle, or if it is Mr. Brotherton, or still more if it should happen to be Lord Eldred. Oh my!” cried Lydia with momentary mimicry, clasping her hands, “We shall look at him as if we could eat him, and almost hold out our hands like the children at school, and cry, me, me! If you think that is nice for nice girls to have to do, mother, I don’t,” said Lydia with a sudden vivid flush. “So I don’t want to go.”
“But that is impossible,” Brotherton cried.
“No, not at all impossible; it is just what happens, when people ask you because they cannot help it; of course they don’t take any trouble about you; and of course the gentlemen prefer to dance with girls they know, and who belong to their own class, instead of seeking out poor little Miss Selbys and Miss Armstrongs, and Miss Jos—No,” said Liddy vehemently, “a Miss Joscelyn has never been in it, and, mother, if you please, never will be. I don’t say,” she added, calming down, “that it is anyone’s fault. I feel quite sure for one that you would ask me to dance, Mr. Brotherton.”
“Do you really—think so? The time has come,” said the young man, hurried and nervous, but with a laugh of excitement, “to set one matter to rights. Mr. Brotherton will certainly not ask you to dance, Miss Joscelyn. I have a right to be Cousin Lionel, and I will be so. I am not to be defrauded of my birthright any longer. You talk of the Duchess, but you are far more haughty than the Duchess. Take the beam out of your own eye, Cousin Lydia, and then you will see more clearly to take the mote out of the Duchess’s. Mrs. Joscelyn, am I not right?”
Mrs. Joscelyn looked at them both with a pleasure that almost went the length of tears. In the sudden union which her glance from one to another made between them, the young man and the young woman blushed—blushed for nothing at all, for sympathy, for fellow-feeling, and a little for pleasure. “Yes, yes, my dear,” Mrs. Joscelyn said, “yes, yes, I think he is right; and your cousin—your cousin would make a difference. And then, my darling, if you do not go, people will never know that you were invited, Liddy; and that means—”
“That we are not county people; and we are not county people. We need not keep up any pretences before—before Cousin Lionel,” said Lydia with a blush and a smile, and a curtsey to the young man, who looked on with a sense of enchantment. “Uncle Henry was one of them; but not we. We are Joscelyns, however,” she cried, tossing her head upwards with a proud movement, “and if blood means anything, that means something better than her Grace.”
“But why do you say if blood means anything, Liddy?” said her mother, “of course it means everything, my love.”
Then Lydia looked straight at the two people before her; both so admiring, the one more foolish than the other—and the meaning changed in her face. She sighed; her pretty head, crowned with the glowing red berries and brilliant leaves, drooped a little. “Because I don’t believe it does,” she said.
Then there was an outcry, “Oh, Liddy, Liddy!” of horror and alarm from her mother, who had borne everything else, poor soul, but who could not bear any attack upon her last stronghold, her pride of family. It had always been a comfort to her in all her troubles, and specially in those social ones which her greater neighbours had made her suffer—that, to everybody who knew, the Joscelyns were far superior even to her Grace, who had been nobody. To hear her favourite child express this scepticism was terrible. Even Brotherton sustained a slight shock of disappointment. He would have preferred on the whole that Lydia should have felt a romantic certainty of the claims of “blood;” but since it was not so, he made a virtue out of her incredulity, and looked at her with a smile and little nod of sympathy. Lydia, however, was wise enough to make no answer to her mother’s exclamation of horror.
“If I went,” she said with great decision, “you would have to go too; I will not go with anybody but you.”
“Me, Liddy?” Mrs. Joscelyn cried in alarm.
“And my father. I will go with you both, or not at all,” Lydia gave out as her final deliverance; and then she went out of the room, carrying the remains of her autumnal wreaths, and paying no attention to the pathos of her mother’s protestations. Mrs. Joscelyn could do nothing but turn to her young kinsman, and appeal to his impartial judgment.
“What should I do among all those fine people? I have not been out in the evening nor worn a low dress (in those days ‘low dresses’ were exacted even from old ladies by the stern fiat of fashion) since that child was born. You must speak to her, you must speak to her, Mr. Brotherton—I mean Lionel. Oh, yes, I want her to go; but me! and Ralph. Ralph has never gone among them, I think he has done himself injustice; but it is too late to change now. You must tell her it would never do.”
“But you would not like her to go with the Selbys or the Pilgrims—people not fit to be in the same room with her. I should not like that,” young Brotherton said. And Mrs. Joscelyn’s pale countenance coloured with pleasure to think that her child should be so determined, and her young cousin so approving. This sudden appreciation of herself was late, but yet it was pleasant, though also embarrassing. And after this there were continual remonstrances and arguments, Liddy holding to her point, her mother fighting desperately against it. As for Ralph Joscelyn, he separated himself at once from the feminine part of his household. “Go to what tomfoolery you like,” he said, with his usual courtesy, “but don’t ask me; I’ve nought to do with such nonsense.” Mrs. Joscelyn was then driven to the end of her forces. She was disturbed too about Lydia’s ball-dress, which Joan would fain have gone to Carlisle for and been “done with,” in her energetic way; but the mother had no confidence in Joan’s taste. And for her part, though Joan had behaved generously it cannot be denied that she felt her exclusion from the splendour which ought to have belonged to her as the eldest Miss Joscelyn, but which her husband’s position excluded her from. The other Selbys even, who went on sufferance as the Doctor’s family, made it more hard for Joan.
“My husband is a deal better a man than Raaf Selby will ever be,” she said with some indignation to Brotherton, who heard the complaints on all sides, “and nobody that knows them would ever hesitate between them. But Heatonshaw is only a little place, and we’ve nothing at all to do with the great folks at the Castle. Of course it is me Liddy ought to go with; and it is a joke to think that Raaf Selby’s family should all be going, and not me. But I will never forgive mother if she sends Liddy with them, and does not go herself to take care of the child. Mother’s a strange woman. She was never happy till the Duchess called, and now she has got her desire she’ll not hear any more of it. I like consistency. Now I don’t care a snap of my fingers for the Duchess; but if she invited me,” said Joan, magnanimously, “I’d go.” Here she paused, but a minute or two after resumed with great gravity. “A woman takes her husband’s rank, whatever that may be. I am not ashamed of my husband because he does not take her Grace’s eye.” And here Joan laughed again, but with an uneasy laughter. She was sore on the subject, and perhaps if she had been entrusted with the buying of the dress the result might have been disastrous. Mrs. Joscelyn would not trust Joan, but in her own timid person hesitated and doubted what to do, when Brotherton, the confidant of all their troubles, came to her aid. He proposed that his mother, who was in town (much the best place for everything of the kind; the place where fashion reigned, and ball-dresses were much more plentiful than blackberries), should get the dress.
“Which will be of no use,” said Lydia, sternly, “without a dress for my mother too.” At this Mrs. Joscelyn was ready to cry, not knowing what else to do. Her hands stole towards each other with the nervous gesture of old, when Brotherton again whispered in her ear a message of hope.
“My mother is coming—leave it to me,” he said. She had almost thrown her arms round his neck in her intense relief and thankfulness.
And this was how it was that Lydia Joscelyn made such a sensation at the ball. Had she gone with the Selbys, all would have happened precisely as she predicted. She would have stood among them, in a white gown bought at Carlisle, at the bottom of the room, surrounded by a little crowd of other obscure young ladies, left out in the cold, tremulously eager to secure partners, and taken notice of by nobody. There she would have stayed, pretending to be amused, till old Mrs. Selby gave the signal, and gathered her little flock around her, tired with standing, sick with waiting, cross, and humiliated and mortified, consoled only by the thought that the ball at the Castle would be a thing to talk of long after people had forgotten to ask, “Did you dance much?” But for Lydia was reserved a more splendid fate. She had a dress which everybody at the White House thought would have been fit for a princess, and she went with Lady Brotherton, with whom she stayed at the Wyburgh Hotel afterwards, and whose presence introduced her into the selectest circle, and the company of all the first people. Lady Althea went so far as to admire her dress, and Lord Eldred danced with her so often that his mother was alarmed, but yet could not do anything but smile upon the stranger whom Lady Brotherton patronised and introduced as “my young cousin.” Lady Brotherton was a fanciful and romantic woman, and she seized at once upon the idea that Lydia was the object of a romantic attachment on the part of Lord Eldred. Perhaps had she known that her own son was in any danger from the same quarter, it might have checked her enthusiasm. But Lionel did not feel bound in honour to give her any information on that point. She was seized with an enthusiastic friendship for Liddy before they had been half an hour together, and as she was a graceful, sentimental woman, with very tender and engaging manners, Lydia was not wanting in her response. Then Sir John, who was much older than his wife, added his contribution to the rising warmth of the relationship by vowing continually that this was the Cousin Lydia of his youth over again. The fact was that he had seen his cousin Lydia only once or twice in her youth, but he was old enough to have forgotten that, and nobody knew it was a mistake. So all things concurred in the growth of this sudden devotion, and before Lydia returned to her mother she was invited to accompany the Brothertons abroad, and had become, so to speak, one of the family.
“I will come and see your mother,” Lady Brotherton said, “and I will take no denial;” while Sir John patted her on the shoulder, and told her with his toothless jaws, that she was “sh’image of” her mother. Lydia came home with her head turned, but faithful, among all these new crotchets of other people’s, to her own.
“You are not to say no, mother dear; but I know you will never do that. You are to put up with the loneliness, and manage without me the best you can; for I am going to find Harry,” Lydia cried. This new piece of excitement obliterated the ball, which was quite an inferior event. Mrs. Joscelyn cried, and clung to her child in a kind of despair, yet hope.
“Oh, my darling, what shall I do without you? and how are you to find him?” she said; then wept and wrung her hands. “And how am I to make sure that your new friends will be kind to you? Oh, yes, they are kind now; but it is different now and when you have nobody else; and what, oh what, if you were unhappy, my pet, when you were away.”
“Well,” said Lydia, who was a young person of much strength of mind, “even in that case there could be nothing desperate about it, for I should come back. They could not lock me up in my room and feed me on bread and water. If I was not happy I should come home.”
“But oh, my pet, think,” cried Mrs. Joscelyn, with a fresh outbreak, “if you should be left like that to travel alone.”
“And why not?” said Liddy. “Nobody would meddle with me if I behaved myself; and I hope I should always behave myself. But they will not be unkind to me. Do you think there is anything unkind about—Cousin Lionel.” She pronounced his name always with a little hesitation, which, to the foolish young man himself, made it very sweet.
“No, no, Liddy; but then he is only a man—only a young man, and admires you. His mother will not be like that. A lady is different; a lady is not carried away.”
“A lady is—much more easily satisfied,” said Liddy. “She took to me in a moment, mother. They said they never saw her take so quickly to anyone; and Sir John says I am like you.”
“Like me! I don’t think he ever saw me.”
“Never mind, never mind, mother; they are not a den of robbers. They cannot do me any harm. And I shall find Harry,” Lydia said.
CHAPTER VI.
THE OPINION OF THE FAMILY.
THE Joscelyns were much excited and disturbed by all this “to do” about Liddy, which the sisters-in-law thought intolerable, and which, as has been already related, moved even Joan to some sensation of displeasure, notwithstanding the gratified sense of family pride which she experienced as a Joscelyn in the recognition of her family, which, though late, was satisfactory. But Mrs. Will and Mrs. Tom had no such feeling. To them the sense of being left out was not less but rather more disagreeable because a little chit like Liddy had been made much of and received as the representative of her race. Neither of these ladies could bear to hear of it, and Will and Tom showed their feelings in indignant ridicule, scorning the thought that a little lass should be put in the foreground, and their own substantial claims as the heirs of the Joscelyn name disregarded. For what is a girl in a family? nothing; a mere accident; perhaps useful in a way as extending the connection, but directly of no sort of benefit at all. When they heard, however, that Lydia was going “abroad” their indignation burst all bounds. Where was the money to come from? The sons and the sons’ wives were as angry as if it came out of their own pockets. Mrs. Will even cried, and enumerated a whole list of things which were wanted to make her house comfortable. “I never have even a trip to the seaside,” she said, “and as for a piano where I’m to get one I can’t tell, and the children all growing up; and there isn’t a sideboard in the house, not like I was used to, and the poorest stock of linen! while your sister is gallivanting all over the world.” Mrs. Tom suggested that nothing but a surreptitious slice out of Uncle Henry’s property—which it was a sin and a shame to keep hanging on because of a runaway, who must be dead years ago or he would have come back on the hands of his family, no doubt about that—could have induced Ralph Joscelyn to consent to such a mad piece of expenditure. “That Pilgrim just plays into their hands,” she said; “your mother’s silly enough for anything, when it’s for Liddy, but your father’d never have done it without something to go upon.” The brothers were so moved by these arguments, and by their own sense of injustice, that they made a joint raid upon the paternal house to see what remonstrance would do. “I’ll tell you what it is, father, it’s time that money was divided,” said Will; “it would come in uncommon handy, I can tell you, in my house, with all my children growing up.” Tom had no children, but he was not less forcible in his representations. “We’re a laughing-stock to all the county,” he said, “hanging on waiting for Harry turning up. If Harry had been going to turn up he’d have done it long ago. There never was a good-for-nothing in a family but he came back.” Now the day of this visit was a day which Joan had chosen to come to the White House to hear “all about it,” and these words were spoken at the family table just after the early dinner, for which an additional chicken had been killed on account of the guests.
“Good for nothing!” said Joan, indignantly, “that’s what our Harry never was. You may say what you like of yourselves, but of him I’ll never stand such lying. He was as honourable a lad as ever stepped. He never asked a penny from one of you, nor from father either—that he got. So far from taking anything of yours with him, he left his own behind him. Poor lad! there’s his very clothes in his drawers. It must have cost him a mint of money to get more to put in their place. I’ve often thought of that. If it’s just to put mother out, which is all you’ll do, you may as well try some other subject than Harry. Mother, don’t you take on. He’s no more dead than I am. He’ll come home some fine day to take up his property—if you don’t let them put you into your grave first.”
Mrs. Joscelyn’s hands had crept together in a nervous clasp. She looked pitifully from one to another. “Boys,” she said, in her soft voice, to the threatening men who looked older and infinitely harder than she, “I hope you’ll have a little patience. If I had the money, oh! how gladly I would give it you! It is hard, too, when you have need of it. I say nothing against that.”
“Need of it! I should think we had need of it,” said Will. “As for giving it if you had it, that’s easy speaking; and there are plenty that promise what they haven’t, and think no more of it when they have. What’s this we hear of Liddy going abroad? I should say that would cost a pretty penny. My wife and me, we can’t take our family so much as for a fortnight to the sea-side.”
“And what business is it of your wife’s and yours where Liddy goes?” said Joan, instantly throwing her shield over her own side. “You’ll not get Liddy’s money, you may be sure of that, to take you to the sea-side.”
“Oh, children!” cried Mrs. Joscelyn, clasping her hands.
“Well, I must say it’s more reasonable that a family of children should have a change, than that a bit of a lass like Liddy should go picking up foreign manners and ruining her character—not that I am speaking for myself——” Tom interposed. But he was interrupted by a cry from Joan, repeating his last words, “ruining her character!” and by an exclamation of pain from her mother. “Well,” cried Tom, “I say again, ruining her character. Is there any decent man about here that would have anything to do with a Frenchified wife?—not to say that a woman’s morals are always undermined in those foreign places. And Liddy’s flyaway enough, already——”
Here Joscelyn commanded silence by striking his fist upon the table with a blow that made the glasses ring. “Hold your dashed tongues,” he said. “What have you got to do with it, you lads? You’ve got what belongs to you, and you can go to Jericho and be blanked to you. If there’s any man has a right to interfere in my house, I’d like just to see his dashed face. Hold your tongues, the whole blanked lot of you. Them that’s in my house will do as I please, and them that has houses of their own had better go where they came from; and, Liddy, don’t you say a word, my lass. I’ll look after you,” he said, laying a large hand upon her shoulder, as he thrust his chair away from the table with an impulse which displaced the table too, and jarred and shook everything upon it. When Joscelyn “spoke up,” there was nobody in his family that ventured to withstand him. The sons rose, too, somewhat abashed, and strode forth after him to view the stables, which was the recognised thing to do after the meal, which thus came to an abrupt conclusion. They shook their heads over father’s weakness, and declared to each other that “they (meaning the women) had got him under their thumb”—though “who would have thought it of father!” “It’s what every man comes to when he begins to break up,” Tom said.
When they were gone Mrs. Joscelyn cried, but the two sisters were indignant. “Now, mother, don’t be a silly,” Joan said. “They are just as worldly and as hard as they always were. But what can you expect when you think of the two women these poor lads married? It is a wonder they are no worse.”
“Oh!” sighed poor Mrs. Joscelyn, “when I think the bonnie boys they were!” for she was a woman upon whom experience had little power, and who never could learn.
As for Lydia it struck her against her will with a strong sense of the ridiculous to hear her middle-aged brothers, in whose favour she had scarcely even a natural prejudice, spoken of as “bonnie boys.” It was all she could do out of respect for her mother not to laugh. And she was more angry than she was amused. “What harm does it do to Will and Tom,” she said, “that I should be going abroad?”
“They are just furious that Liddy has been asked to the Castle,” said Joan. “Oh, I know them down to the bottom of their hearts; but I’ll tell you what, mother, if it’s a question of making a lady of Liddy, and sending her out in a way to do us credit, you mind there’s nothing to be spared upon her, for Phil and me, we’ll do our share.”
This was all Mrs. Will and Mrs. Tom (for the other women of the family scouted the idea that the brothers were anything but puppets in the hands of these ladies), made by their motion. They threw Joan vehemently upon the other side, blew away the little vapour of envy and uncharitableness which made the elder sister grudge for a moment the younger’s elevation, and bound Joan in enthusiastic partizanship to all her little sister’s wishes. “She shall do us credit,” Joan said, “if I don’t have a gown to my back for years to come. She shall want for nothing if I have to give up my party next Christmas. She shall find out who it is that stands by her, and them that think of her in the family.”
“I never had any doubt about that,” said Lydia, throwing her arms round her sister, “and, Joan, I’ll bring you the best of presents, I’ll bring you Harry back.”
At this Joan shook her head and wiped a tear out of the corner of her eye. “It’s a blessing,” she said, “you little thing, that Phil’s just as silly about you as me; but to find Harry, poor Harry, will take a cleverer than you.”
“Joan, do not you say that. I have it borne in upon me here,” said Mrs. Joscelyn, laying her thin hands upon her bosom, “that before I die I will see my boy back.”
“And it is I that will find him,” Liddy cried, throwing back her head with a proud movement of self-confidence; for the moment, being foolish women, they all believed in this inspiration. “And why not,” said sensible Joan, “it may be the Lord that has put it into her head. And all these fine folks, the Duchess and my lady and the rest of them, may just have been instruments.”
This suggestion filled them all with momentary awe. To see such noble means bringing about a triumphant end, and to be able to trace so easily the workings of Providence, is always the highest of pleasures to the simple-minded. To bring Harry back to his own, and comfort the heart of his mother before she died, was this not an object worthy the employment of Duchesses? Meanwhile Tom and Will went home discomfited, and told their wives how father had “shut them up.” “These women have got him under their thumb,” was what they all said.
Then there came another agitating crisis; Sir John and Lady Brotherton offered a visit to their cousin to arrange the details of their journey, and this made such an overturn in the White House as had not been known in the memory of man. To the wonder of everybody, Joscelyn made no objection to it. A shade of complacency even stole over his face as he gave his consent. “My lady—will maybe take a fancy to me, as some one else has ta’en a fancy to thee,” he said, pulling Lydia’s ear with unprecedented playfulness. Certainly the women had got him under their thumb at last. Joan and her husband came over with a great sense of importance to help to prepare for this great ceremonial, he enacting butler and she housekeeper to the admiration of all concerned. Philip Selby knew about wine, nobody could gainsay that; while his wife prepared enough of what were then called “made dishes,” and pastry and cakes, to have lasted a month instead of a day. Then the amiable pair drove home at a great rate, to dress themselves in their best and present themselves solemnly as guests to meet the strangers. Lionel Brotherton was in all these secrets; Joan and he indeed exchanged a smile of intelligence when after working together all day they met and shook hands in the evening; but he kept inviolate the confidence bestowed upon him, and never betrayed even to his mother the tremendous pains that had been taken to prepare for her, and receive her fitly. When he went up to her room after the dinner was over, to bid her good night, Lady Brotherton could not speak enough in praise of their new cousin. “You did well to say it was an idyllic life,” she cried. “You did not say a word too much, Lionel; what freshness, what simplicity, what a breath of the moor; and all so nice, such pretty curtains (Lionel himself had helped to fasten them up that morning), such nice old furniture! I thought pretty Liddy was quite an exceptional moor-blossom, but I quite understand her now. Her mother is a most refined woman. I should like to model those hands of hers; they are full of expression. And that handsome whitehaired father like a tower, quite the ideal representative of a very old impoverished family, little education, and not much to say, but with long descent in every feature!” It was all Lionel could do to keep his countenance.
“I am so glad you like them, mother; I don’t know when I have been so glad; and you can’t think how kind they have been to me.”
“I love them for it,” said Lady Brotherton, “not that I am surprised—for they like you, Lionel, one can see that, and nothing could be more delightful to your mother. Tell me, dear, does poor Lord Eldred come often, or is he forbidden to come? I want to know how far it has gone.”
“How far what has gone?” said Lionel aghast.
“Is it possible you have not noticed? I am sure he made no secret of it, poor fellow; the Duchess saw it well enough. Why, that Lord Eldred is over head and ears, or if there is any stronger expression—deep, deep in the depths of love; and I am mistaken if she does not know as well as I—”
“In love—with—? not Lydia? Lydia!” Lionel cried, as if this were the most astonishing thing in the world.
Lady Brotherton’s back was turned; she did not see his lamentable countenance. She laughed with a tinkling silvery laugh for which she was famous, but which her son at that moment felt to be the harshest and least melodious of sounds. “Who else?” she said; “there is no one but Lydia here capable of being fallen in love with. Not that nice Mrs. Selby, you may be sure, which would not be proper, and is impossible—no, Liddy—I like the name of Liddy. It is quite rural and moorland, like all the rest. Well, don’t you think she knows it too?”
“I shouldn’t say so,” Lionel answered with the greatest gravity. He tried very hard not to be so deadly serious; but he could not smile.
“Well, we shall see, we shall see,” said Lady Brotherton gaily, “of course I shall not interfere. I dare say the Duchess blesses me for taking her out of the way. But if the lover has the courage to follow, nobody need expect me to put obstacles in the course of true love. It shall run smooth for me. Going, Lionel? God bless you, dear; the Fells have agreed with you, you are as brown and strong as you can look, and I must go and see your den to-morrow. Good night, good night, my own boy.”
Lionel went away in a frame of mind very different from that with which he had followed his mother upstairs. He looked into the parlour with a countenance so solemn that the little party assembled there, and congratulating themselves on everything having gone off so well, were entirely chilled. Mrs. Joscelyn, reposing in her chair with her hands clasped, was smiling with relief and pleasure, while Joan described all the pangs with which she had looked forward to the arrival of my Lady. “I thought she would be so stiff and so grand,” said Joan, “Lord, I don’t know what I didn’t think; but she’s as nice a woman as mother or myself, and takes nothing upon her. As long as I live I’ll never be afraid of a fine lady again.” Here Lionel’s solemn voice was heard at the door.
“I have come to say good night,” he said; “no, thank you, I will not sit down. I have a long walk before me; not anything, thank you. My mother is very comfortable, and much obliged to you, Mrs. Joscelyn. I beg I may not trouble anyone to open the door.”
“What is the matter with him with all his ‘thank yous,’ and his ‘not troubling any ones,’” cried Joan when he went away without a smile. It was generally Lydia who let him out, which perhaps Mrs. Joscelyn should not have permitted. But to-night Lydia was checked by his cold looks, and held back shyly, and it was Philip Selby who opened the door. This was a slight matter; but it seemed to prove to Lionel everything his mother had said. He felt rather glad to have left a chill behind him, as he had evidently done; and he was very much tempted to steal to the window and peep in at them, and enjoy the wonder with which no doubt they would ask each other “What is the matter?” It was well he did not do so, for he would have seen the company in the parlour laughing—all but Lydia, who was wondering by herself in a corner, what was the matter?—at a witticism of Joan’s, who had made a solemn face in imitation of poor Lionel the moment his back was turned. Lionel was fortunately not aware of this; but felt that he had produced a sensation, and was not sorry; and so went away gloomily, not to say misanthropically, down into the village and across the bridge and along the river’s side to Birrenshead. On the way he met with old Isaac, who had once more been beguiled into the “Red Lion,” and was now making his way home with much stumbling.
“It was you as kept me, Master,” the old man said, “you know ’twas you as kept me. I’d never have stayed out so long if it hadn’t been for you. If you would mention it to t’missis I would take it kind, for women is very onreasonable.”
“T’auld sinner,” cried a voice in the dark, “to larn t’young gentleman a pack o’ lies. D’ye think I dunuo know where you’ve been just to hear your voice?”
“My good woman,” said Lionel, “don’t be hard upon poor Isaac.”
He was still so terribly serious, and spoke in tones so hollow and tragical, that Jane Oliver was alarmed. She darted forward in the dark and caught hold of his arm.
“Oh! my bonnie young gentleman,” she cried, “tell me! Something’s happened to my silly auld man?”
At this hint Isaac began to moan, and grasped at Lionel’s other arm, leaning heavily upon it.
“It’s nothing, Missis, nothing; that is, not much, nothing to frighten you. T’ young Master’s been that kind, he’s given me his arm to lean upon all along t’ water-side,” Isaac said, with a limp which would have been much too demonstrative had it been addressed to the eye; but in the dark it answered well enough. For once the Missis fell into the trap, and Lionel, dragged round by his pretended patient to the back door, with blessings called down upon his head by the deceived woman, went through the little fiction with the gravest countenance, and without the least inclination even to smile. It was not till he had left Isaac with his foot elevated on a chair, elaborating the story of a supposed sprain, and had groped his way round to the other entrance, and climbed the dilapidated stairs to the musty old sitting-room, in which his solitary lamp was flaring, that he burst into a short laugh, as he threw himself into a chair. If it was Isaac’s little comedy that called forth this sudden outburst, it was only as the climax of a hundred other comedies which were not mirthful. His disappointment, and the confusion of all his thoughts, which his mother’s revelation had brought about, made him, as was natural, misanthropical and bitter. He laughed at the tragical folly and falsehood of everything, himself included; from the Joscelyns making all sorts of efforts to appear better, more refined and comfortable, than they were, by way of pleasing, i.e., deceiving, Lady Brotherton—and Lady Brotherton accepting everything, adding her own fanciful interpretation, not only deceived, but deceiving herself—down to old Isaac, who had so often tried in vain to dupe his wife, and his wife, who was now duped so easily, not by Isaac, but, save the mark! by himself, Lionel, without intention or purpose. “And I, who am the biggest fool of all!” the poor youth said to himself. What had he been doing all these weeks? making a fool’s paradise out of this squalid ruin, and princes and princesses out of the Joscelyns, half farmers, half horse-coupers as they were—all because he had believed in the sweet looks of a girl who the whole time had been aiming these sweet looks over his head at a better match, and a greater personage than himself. What an idiot he had been! the scales seemed to fall from his eyes. He saw everything round him, he thought, in its true colour. What would his mother think if she came and saw the wretched place in which he had been living? She would ask, like the village folk, what could his motive be? His motive, what was it? Even now, mortified and discouraged as he was, he sat upright in his chair with a thrill of alarm, when he imagined a research into his motives. Lady Brotherton might stop the expedition altogether if she found them out. Lydia’s perfidy was terrible, but it would be more terrible still to leave her behind, perhaps to lose sight of her, to miss the opportunity to which he had been looking forward with so much delight. When he came to think of it, his mother had not said Lydia was in love with Lord Eldred, but only that Lord Eldred was in love with Lydia—which was so different. At this Lionel roused himself, and the sight of his portmanteaux packed and ready to be shut up, roused him still more. After all it was to-morrow they were to start, and he, and not Lord Eldred, was to be for the present Lydia’s daily companion. There would be time to do many things before that hero could arrive, even if, as Lady Brotherton suggested, he should join them afterwards. To-morrow, nay, to-day, for it was already past midnight, was all his own, with nobody to interfere.