The Two Guardians

"Never mind; only be a good girl, and let me have them."

"You had plenty of money when you came to Fern Torr. How could you have got rid of it all?"

"Come, come, Marian, don't be tiresome. Haven't I had to give to all the old women in the place?"

"But do you really mean that you have no money?"

"O yes, I have some, but not what I want. Come, I know you keep California in your pocket. What harm can it do you?"

After all Marian's presents at Fern Torr, it was not quite as convenient, as Gerald fancied, to part with two pounds; but that was not the best motive to put forward, nor was it her reason for hesitating.

"I don't know whether it is right; that is the thing, Gerald."

"Right! why where is the right or wrong in it?"

"I am afraid it may do you harm," said she, in a trembling, doubtful voice.

"Stuff! I'll take care of that!"

"If you would only tell me what you want it for?"

"I tell you, Marian, I can't do without it; I don't know what I shall do, if you won't give it to me."

"Debts! O Gerald, you have not got into debt?"

"Well, and what do you look so scared about? Do you think they will kill me?"

"O, Gerald, Gerald, this proves it all."

"It? what?" said Gerald. "Come, don't be so like a girl! I have not been doing any thing wrong, I tell you, and it is all your fault if I can't get clear."

"With such an allowance as you have, O Gerald, how could you? And how could you throw about money at home, when you knew you were in debt?"

"You talk as if I had been ruining my wife and ten small children," cried Gerald, impatiently. "A fine fuss about making a few pounds stand over till next half. But you women go headlong at it, never see the rights of a thing. So, you won't? Well, it is your doing now!"

"I can't see any end to it," said Marian, reflectingly. "If I thought you would make a resolution—but you will be without money at all, and how are you to get through this half? O, Gerald! better write to Mr. Lyddell at once, and he will set you straight, and you can begin fresh."

Gerald made a face of utter contempt. The steam whistle was heard; they were stopping. "There is an end of it, then" said he, angrily. "I did not think you had been so ill-natured; it is all your fault, I tell you. I thought you cared for me."

This was dreadful; Marian's purse was in her hand, and she began "O Gerald dear, anything but that!"—when they found themselves close in front of the station, and Lionel pulling at the door of their carriage, and calling fiercely to the porter to unlock them.

Caroline was standing on the platform, and there was a tumult of greetings and inquiries for luggage to be taken out and put in. Gerald ran to see that his goods were separated from his sister's; Lionel shook hands with Marian, and scolded her for staying away all the holidays; roared to the porter that his portmanteau was for Slough, then turned again to say, "You've heard of poor unfortunate, Marian?"

The bell rang; Gerald ran back; Marian knew she was weak, but could not help it,—she squeezed the two sovereigns into his hand, and was comforted for the moment by his affectionate farewell. Lionel and he threw themselves into their carriage, and were whisked off.

"There!" said Caroline. "Now come along. O, I am so glad you are come; I have so much to say."

Marian could not dwell on Gerald; she put her arm within Caroline's, looked back to see Fanny safe under the care of an Oakworthy footman, and soon was in the carriage.

"Well, Caroline; and how is every one?"

"Pretty well, considering the revulsion of ideas we have all undergone. Poor Miss Morley left plenty of farewells for you. You can't think haw pleased she was with your message."

"Poor thing! Where is she?"

"At her aunt's; she went on Monday. Mamma was impatient to have it over.

You know her ways."

Marian knew that this intimated that Caroline thought her mother had not been kind; and she doubted whether to continue her inquiries; but Caroline was too eager to tell, to wait for questions, and proceeded:—"There had been dissatisfaction for a long time, as I believe you may have guessed; mamma thought Clara backward, and wanting in what Miss Morley calls 'the solid;' and at last, coming suddenly into the schoolroom at twelve o'clock one fine day, she found reason good, for they were very comfortably reading M. Eugene Sue."

"O, Caroline, impossible!"

"Too possible," said Caroline, "though I would not believe it at first. However, they did not know what it was when they began, and were afterwards too much bewitched with the story to leave off; and as they felt it was wrong, they read it the more constantly to get it over faster."

"But how in the world could they get such a book?"

"From the circulating library. It appears that they found the evenings rather dull in London this spring, when we were all out, and so began a little secret hiring, which was continued at Oakworthy, and with a worse choice of books."

"That she should be so little to be trusted!"

"Nay, Marian, who could live with her half-an-hour in the schoolroom, and think she could?"

"Certainly, she often puzzled me when first I came."

"And you never saw the worst. You always kept order, after you came."

"O, Caroline, what nonsense!"

"Yes, indeed you did. I do assure you that, scores of times, the knowledge that your great eyes were wondering at me has kept me from bullying Miss Morley into letting me do what I knew to be wrong. I could persuade her and deceive myself, but I could not persuade you; and then all the rest went for nothing, because you were sure to be right."

"It is very easy to see the right for other people," said Marian, with rather a sad smile.

"Yes, only other people don't mind that, unless you do the right for yourself; and that is the thing in you, Marian. If you had said anything, I should not have minded it half so much; but your 'I don't know,' cut me home."

"I am sorry—"

"No, don't be sorry, for I am glad. If you had not come before all the good of Miss Cameron had gone off from me, what should I have been? O, Marian, I am very glad you are come back; I did not know I liked you half so well till you were gone."

"I am sure I might say the same" almost whispered Marian, in a choked tone, under her bonnet. Caroline caught it up eagerly, and seizing her by both hands, exclaimed, stooping forward to peep at her face, "Marian, Marian, do you say so? And are you really not so very miserable at coming back to us?"

A tear, one of Marian's very reluctant tears, actually rushed from her eye, and with a hard struggle to speak, she said, "Miserable! how can you say so? You are so very kind to me."

"And do you not hate us?" said Caroline, with, an arch look of delight, then softened into something of mournfulness. "Nay, I did not mean that; but you can bear to be with us after your own Agnes,—after those good people,—after such a home as Fern Torr?"

"O, Caroline, this is very unlike my first coming to you!"

"Yes, I know we were not kind; we were not as we ought to have been to you."

"No, no, no; I was stiff and disagreeable; I would not be pleased," said Marian, forgetting all coldness but her own.

"No wonder. O, Marian," and Caroline's voice trembled, "no one knows better than I do how much there is to be lamented in our ways of going on,—how different our house is from Fern Torr." Marian could not say no. "You were too good for us; you are still, I would not see you like us; but if we could make you comfortable enough to think Oakworthy not an exile, but something like a home, how glad I should be!"

Marian laid her hand on Caroline's arm; and, with an effort that cost her a spasm in her throat, she said, "You have!" Not another word could she get out; but this was enough. Caroline kissed her for the first time in her life, except at the formal partings at bed-time, and there were tears on both their faces. After a time, Caroline broke into the flood of thoughts in her cousin's mind, by saying, playfully, "When folks are missed, then they are mourned, people say; and I am sure you deserve the compliment, for till you were gone, I never knew your value. How many silly fancies of Clara's have flourished, for want of your indifference to put them down! How stupid it has been not to have you to read with, or talk to! How lonely the drawing-room has been, and nothing but nonsense if I went to the schoolroom. And then the boys,—Lionel has been so unruly there was no bearing it, and grumbling for you every day; and Johnny,—O, Marian, do you know it is settled that Johnny goes to sea, after all?"

"Johnny! I know he wished it, but I thought Mrs. Lyddell never would make up her mind to it."

"Ah! there have been storms in the higher quarters," said Caroline, with would-be gaiety. "You are very lucky to have been away all this time, for it has been by no means a serene sky. You know," she proceeded with gravity, "they say the times are bad; well, in the midst of papa's vexation at the tenants asking for a reduction of rent, in came a whole lot of Elliot's long bills, which made papa lecture Walter and me one whole evening on economy, and caused him to be extremely annoyed with everything and everybody, and to say mamma must give up her opposition to Johnny's being a sailor; and I never saw mamma take anything so really to heart. It has been very uncomfortable; and in the midst came this business of poor Miss Morley, who had rather harder measure in consequence."

"Poor little woman! Well, she was very good-natured," said Marian, glad to turn the conversation from this account of family matters, not given in the pleasantest style, but rather as if Caroline was trying to conceal her real feelings by an air of satire.

"She was like a child in authority. You see, we, who know her well, never think of blaming her as if she had originated the mischief; while mamma, who never did know her, cannot be persuaded that she simply yielded to Clara."

"That is not exactly the object one desires in a governess," said Marian. "Well, poor thing! and how is Clara? is she very sorry?"

"I really can hardly tell. I have been vexed with Clara myself, to tell you the truth; for I thought she acted shabbily. The blame passed over her, and lighted on Miss Morley; and she did not stretch out a hand to help her. Now Clara knew that it was wrong to read those books, just as well as you or I; indeed, it was all her doing; and I could not bear to see, her thinking herself innocent, and led into the scrape by Miss Morley. She did cry excessively, and was very unhappy when she found Miss Morley was really going, and the parting was heart-rending; but then the very next day, in spite of their confidential friendship, she began to disclose the poor woman's follies one after another, till I am quite tired of hearing of them. They must have grown much worse than they were in our time. I never knew then that she was always fancying people were in love with her."

"T wonder what she will do!"

"She would not be a bad governess where the mother looked after the children. Well, I hope she will soon get another situation, poor thing!"

"Yes, indeed, for I am afraid she never saved anything."

"O, no, she frittered all her money away, and always was poor at quarter-day; and she has only that old aunt to take care of her."

"Poor thing, poor thing! If she would but have been firmer. And is Clara to have another governess?"

"No, mamma thinks her too old; but I am sure I hope she is to develope more. I do not think you or I were like her at fifteen."

"I think," said Marian, meditatively, "that Miss Morley and Clara helped what—was not wise in each other."

"Yes, that is my hope,—that when Clara is out of her influence, she may grow wiser. People's minds do grow at different times, you know. Poor little Clara! I want Walter to talk to her, but it is hard to bring about; for they seem to have no common subject. Ours is a very odd household; we all go our own ways in our own worlds. Papa and mamma each have their way; and Elliot his way. Walter stands alone too; then I am a sort of connecting-link between the schoolroom set and mamma,—yes, and with Walter too: while the three boys are a party by themselves. O, Marian, no wonder you did not like us."

"Say no more of that, pray, Caroline."

She made no answer, but after a pause, suddenly exclaimed, "Nothing would matter, if it was not for Elliot. He is the root of all that has gone wrong."

"Is he at home?"

"No; he went last week, and the storm lulled then. O, Marian, I am weary of it all! But it is one comfort that you are come."

Caroline certainly looked very much harassed, and her words showed that every one had been out of temper, and she had been obliged to bear it all. Marian was very sorry, and felt quite fond of her, as she answered, with a kind tone, "Thank you."

"Walter has been the only comfort; but then he has been very unhappy too. I am afraid he knows more and worse of Elliot than he chooses to tell me. And then he is so busy,—going up for his degree, you know, after the vacation, and so nervous about it, that I have not liked to talk to him about anything tiresome, because, poor fellow, he is quite worried enough already. Well, but now tell me about pleasanter things—your pretty Agnes, how is she? and Gerald?—I wanted to have seen more of him. Was not he in glory?"

"O, yes," said Marian, as a pang shot through her at this recall of her anxieties.

"And tell me the whole story of Saunders' wedding."

The two cousins had so much to say, that the long reaches of white chalk road and the bare downs had hardly time to pain Marian's eye; and she was surprised so soon to find herself in the well-known street of Oakworthy.

It was not a hopeful prospect with which to return, after so happy a summer as she had spent; and yet a degree of trouble gave Marian a kindlier feeling towards the Lyddells. If it had not been for Gerald, she would have arrived at Oakworthy in a bright temper. Even now the discontent had been expelled by the dispositions fostered by Mr. Wortley; and if there was a weight on her, it was not a burthen of selfish repining,—the worst burthen of all. That Caroline had really missed her,—that Caroline loved her,—was a discovery that warmed her heart, and inclined her more than all before to look kindly on Oakworthy, when she drove up to the door, and met Clara in the hall.

Clara hung upon her, and overwhelmed her with kisses; Mrs. Lyddell received her just as she had done before; and Walter shook hands cordially, as if he was very glad to see her again. The talk went on about visits and engagements, and each moment made Marian feel that her Sunday world had passed from her, and her workday world begun again.

Clara came to her room with her, partly to see her new maid, and partly to talk with her about Miss Morley; but Marian, not wishing to have Fanny immediately astonished by her random way of talking, gave a sort of stern look and sign, which silenced poor Clara on that subject. There were plenty more, however, and she talked on fast; indeed, Marian had not two minutes alone that whole evening, till, somewhere towards half-past eleven, her cousins bade her a final good-night.

She had time at last to think over that parting with Gerald, which had hung heavily on her all this time, without her being able to enter upon the subject with herself. What did it mean? Was it so very bad a sign? Did it really confirm all her fears? or was it not possible that he might have got into some chance difficulty? Might he not be careless and extravagant, without being seriously in fault? Yes; but this was but of a piece with other things which she had observed. Alone, it might not have been so alarming; but even apart from this, she could not be quite happy about him, after all she had observed. And had she been weak? had she done what was bad for him? O, for some one to consult!—some one under whose charge to put him! Was it her own fault that she had missed the opportunity with Mr. Wortley!

To pray for him was all that could be done, and it in some degree stilled that aching feeling in her heart. Yet, whenever she woke in the night, she seemed to hear Caroline saying, "If it was not for Elliot!" with a foreboding that "If it was not for Gerald!" might be on her tongue in the same manner, for the rest of her life.

Every time Gerald's name was mentioned, there was a pang; every time she thought of him in solitude, the fear and anxiety gained strength. Consciousness of ignorance added to its poignancy; and young as she was, it would be hard to describe how much suffering she underwent in secret, night after night, as she lay awake, in her perplexed musings on that one absorbing thought. Yet they were like those vague nightly terrors of wolves, darkness, or mysterious horrors, from which little children often suffer so much, without revealing them, and entirely shake off by day; for Marian awoke in the morning to cheerfulness and activity, with spirits undepressed, full of interest in things around; and only when reminded of her fears, secretly wincing at the sudden throb of pain.

Marian's days were more at her own disposal than formerly. She might do as she pleased all the morning,—sit in her own room, and choose her own occupation; and she was just beginning to think over two or three bright plans of usefulness. She would make a series of copies, from prints, of Scripture subjects, for the Fern Torr children; she would translate some stories for them, and she had devised many other things to be done; when Caroline one day said to her, "Marian, I don't know if it is asking a great deal, but if you could sit with us sometimes in the morning, it would be a great gain. Mamma wants me to read with Clara. Now, you know I have no authority; and doing it for a lesson, as if it was for Clara's good, will only make her hate it, and pay no attention at all. But if we read together, as if it was for our own benefit, she will join in, and think it a womanly thing."

Marian smiled at the ingenuity of the scheme, such as she would have been a great deal too awkward, as well as too straightforward ever to devise. It was a case where "no" could not have been said, but there were many ways of acting a no; and Marian was so sorry to give up the Scripture drawings, the idea of which had greatly delighted her when proposed by Agnes, that she had it in her heart to have backed out of it as often as she could. A little thought, however, convinced her, that to help Caroline's plans for her sister's good was the foremost duty, that to avoid it would be positive wrong and unkindness; so she resolved to lend herself to it with all her might, even though Agnes might be disappointed.

And pray, why should Agnes be disappointed? Why were the drawing and reading incompatible? Marian had taught herself to think it impossible to do anything for Fern Torr, in public, for fear of being laughed at, or observed upon; and these drawings, which were of sacred subjects, and further involved some alterations of her own, would, she thought, be worse than any. She mused a long time whether this was right feeling or foolish bashfulness, and decided at last that it was a little of the former trying to justify a great deal of the latter, and that Caroline and Clara were not the same thing as Miss Morley and all the boys; so with an effort, which, considering the occasion, was almost absurd in its magnitude, she brought her portfolio down, began to draw, and did not experience anything unpleasant in consequence. It was one of her first practical lessons in the fancifulness of her shyness. Her cousins took interest in what she was about, admired, and helped her to hunt up subjects to make her series complete; indeed the three girls were exceedingly comfortable together, and a pleasant, mutual good-feeling constantly grew between them. Clara was certainly becoming less childish and silly when no longer nominally under the authority of Miss Morley, and the confidante of all her follies, but the companion of two sensible girls, young and bright enough to enter into all the liveliness about her that was not silliness and a great deal that was, and to drive away some of her nonsense by laughing at it.

The mornings were thus pleasant and satisfactory, the afternoons were less certain to be agreeable. If there was a ride, it was delightful, if a walk, it was all very well; but there was a third contingency, to which Marian had become liable, of being carried forth with her green card-case on a morning visiting expedition by Mrs. Lyddell, and this was one which required all her powers of resignation, though the misfortune was much more imaginary than real.

There were three chances of the way of spending the evening too. The first, the family party alone, this was pretty well, and though not charming, was by far the best; Mrs. Lyddell's talk was agreeable, and to sit with Caroline, and perhaps with the addition of Walter, at the small table, working, reading, and talking, was as quiet and comfortable a way of passing the time as might be. A dinner party at home was next best, for she had her own quiet corners of conversation, and Walter would sometimes come and take shelter there too, and get into a talk, as well as if the room were empty of company, sometimes better, because his mother could not hear him, and he was never so backward in telling his real mind, as in her hearing. Worst of all was a party from home, where she knew few persons, and disliked all she knew.

Unhappily, this was generally her feeling towards all the neighbourhood; and though it may seem to be a strong expression, it is scarcely too much to say that in Marian's habitual frame she looked on every one that could be considered as company in the light of natural enemies, leagued to prevent her walks and rides, to tease her, and to spoil her evenings.

This was partly the result of her constitutional shyness, but it would have gone off, by this time, if she had not fostered it by imbibing Lady Marchmont's exclusiveness. Marian would have been shocked to realize how she despised and scorned her acquaintance—why? the answer would have been hard to find—because they were company—because they were the world—because they were Mrs. Lyddell's society—because she was superior? How or why? She disdained them all, without knowing it, and far less knowing why. She complied scrupulously with every rule of formal politeness, and had become a tolerable mistress, by rote, of such common-place small talk as served to fulfil her part, and make her not feel herself absurd, but this was all; she would not let herself be pleased or amused, she would not open her eyes to anything good or agreeable about the people, except a very few favoured ones, chiefly clergymen or their wives.

It was very wrong, it was Marian's one great fault at this period of her life, and it had the effect of making her almost disliked. Clara had scarcely said too much in telling Agnes that her pride was often remarked, for Mrs. Lyddell's neighbours were just the people to fancy pride where it was not, especially where the rank was superior to their own. Tall, handsome, and outwardly self-possessed, Miss Arundel did not gain credit, from superficial observers, for shyness, and was looked upon as a very haughty ungracious girl, while it was whispered that Mrs. Lyddell had had a great deal of trouble with her.

The autumn passed on in this manner, and towards its close, Elliot returned from shooting in Scotland, and announced that his friend, Mr. Faulkner, was coming to Oakworthy, to look at an estate, which was for sale in the neighbourhood.

Mrs. Lyddell was pleased, and questioned her son about Mr. Faulkner's thousands a-year; then turning to Marian, said,

"Surely, Marian, you know him; I heard of your meeting him and Lady Julia at Lady Marchmont's."

"Yes," said Marian, with her face of rigidity.

"Ah! yes, to be sure, he told me so," said Elliot.

"Any one but Marian would be impatient to know what he said of her," said Caroline.

"Do you want to know yourself, Caroline?" said Elliot; "shall I tell you?"

"Yes, do," said Caroline, in her curiosity, forgetting that Marian might be pained.

"Ah! you ought to be warned if you want to set your cap at him, for she has forestalled you. Let me see, what was it he said? O, that Lady Marchmont would scarcely be alone in her glory long, for, for such as liked the style of thing, her cousin was as perfect a piece of carving in white marble as he ever had seen."