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.
And next day, with some suppressed tears and fictitious smiles, and a general excitement of the whole neighbourhood, as if the village itself had been going abroad, the party went away. The vicarage people and all the Selbys came out to their doors to see them pass. Raaf Selby on horseback stood like a statue at the end of the bridge, and took off his hat and gave Lydia a look half-tragical and altogether melodramatic. Joan drove her mother in the phaeton steadily, but with a very grave countenance, though now and then bursting into momentary jokes and laughter, to the station to see them off, her husband riding very slowly by their side. Joan laughed by times, but that did not change the seriousness of her face; and Mrs Joscelyn sat with her veil down, a large Spanish veil covered by great spots of black flowers, behind which nobody could see what she was doing. Lydia herself broke down, and cried freely, though her mother could not cry. “I’ll bring home Harry,” the girl cried, with a passionate promise, out of one window of the railway carriage. Lionel was at another, keeping in the background, eager to be off, and shorten the moment of farewells, when his attention was distracted from the pathetic group by the sudden swaying upwards of old Isaac’s shock head. “I thought you’d like to know, Sir,” old Isaac said, “as my missis and me’s the best of friends. And it’s all owing to you, as had the judgment never to say a word. Good-bye and good luck to you, Master; don’t forget old Isaac Oliver as will do you a good turn and welcome whenever he has the chance. Lord! but we took t’ Missis in, that time,” Isaac said, with a grin that reached from ear to ear. And that was the last the travellers saw of the village folk.