The Two Guardians

by Charlotte Mary Yonge

  Hour after hour went by, bringing no change for the better. Day had faded into twilight, and twilight became night. Midnight had come, and Marian was still sitting, as she had done for more than an hour, holding up the faint head; for Caroline could no longer breathe in a recumbent posture, and sat partly supported on pillows, partly resting on Marian's shoulder. Her eyes were shut, and she seemed unconscious; it might be that she slept, but the features were full of suffering, and Marian could feel each of her breaths, gasping and convulsive. Her mother hung over her, feeling her pulse, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, or walking to the foot of the bed to speak to Mr. Lyddell, or to the apothecary, in the restless misery of despair. Mr. Lyddell came in and out, unable to bear the sight, yet unable to stay away. Clara had been too much overcome, and growing hysterical, had been sent away, and advised to go to bed. Lionel, too, had been sent to bed, but his room was in the same passage, and he lay with his door open, catching, with his quickened ears, at every sound in the sick room, and hearing each word of the hushed conferences that took place outside.

  A fresh tread was in the house--on the stairs--in the passage; Lionel's heart could not help bounding at it, as it came so softly along. It was the tread of the brother who, for his effort of courage and principle had been allowed to leave home like an exile, and treated as an offender. Lionel heard his father's step coming to meet him: how would they meet? He could hear the movement as their hands grasped together, and then Mr. Lyddell's smothered, choked whisper, "Only just in time, Walter! she won't know you. Come!"

  "Is it so?" said Walter, in a low tone, as of one extremely choked and overwhelmed.

  A sort of sob came before the answer, "Going fast."

  The steps moved on; Lionel could not stay where he was, dressed himself, and felt his way to the sick room. He heard the stifled breathings: he felt onward,--found he had hold of the bed-post, and leant against it, unheeded by all, so intently were all watching Caroline.

  "Speak to her," was the first thing he heard whispered by the doctor.

  "Caroline!" said Walter's trembling voice, "dear Caroline!"

  Poor Lionel could not see how, at the call, the dark blue eyes once more opened, and looked up in Walter's face; he only heard the steadier tone in which the brother said the ministerial words, "Peace be with this house!"

  The solemn calmness of the tone came gently and soothingly upon Lionel's ear; and withal there spread over Caroline's face a gleam of joy, and then a quiet stillness, as of a freedom from suffering. There was an interval--a gasp--another interval--another gasp--a pause--

  Marian's voice was the first, and very low and awe-struck. "It has been without a struggle."

  A slight cry from his mother, and a confused movement, as if they were lifting something--steps--he stood still, and the next moment felt Marian's hand on his arm. "Mrs. Lyddell has fainted," said she, in explanation; "Mr. Lyddell and Walter are taking her to her own room,"

  Lionel clasped Marian's hand very tight, and each felt how the other was trembling. "We must come away," said Marian; then hesitating, and with a quivering whisper, she said, "Would you like to kiss her?"

  "Yes, let me!"

  It was strange to guide the blind brother to kiss the white brow of the dead sister. Marian's throat was aching to such a degree with intense feeling, that she could hardly utter a word; but Lionel, who could not see, must hear. "She looks so calm, so sweet," said Marian struggling, "but I must go to your mother. Let me take you to your room; I'll send Walter to you. Lionel, Lionel, indeed she is happy!" said Marian, earnestly, while Lionel burst into a flood of tears, wholesome tears, as she led him from the room.

  She thought Walter would be the greatest comfort to him; and recollecting Mrs. Lyddell had no woman with her but her maid, she told Lionel she must go to his mother, ran down, and met Walter waiting in the dressing-room. "Is she recovering?"

  "A little."

  "Will you go to Lionel?"

  "This instant, but--" and he looked at her earnestly.

  "Yes, yes," said she hastily, "it is all right and beautiful. Here's her last letter; I've been reading it all day. Take it; you'll see how--"

  Marian's voice broke down, and she hastened to the open door of Mrs. Lyddell's room. There was something for her to do in attempting to restore her, for the maid was not helpful; and Mr. Lyddell stood at the foot of the bed, as if all his powers were paralysed. Mr. Wells wanted assistance; for Mrs. Lyddell, exhausted by watching and her previous weakness, was in so sinking and depressed a state, as to need the greatest care.

  Marian was employed in attending her till towards morning, when she sank into a sleep. "You had better go to bed," said Mr. Lyddell, very kindly, as Marian at length turned away from her, and stood by the fireside, where he was sitting in the arm-chair, his hands over his forehead "I must not let you overwork yourself."

  "O, I am not tired, if I can be of any use."

  "No, no, rest now, thank you," said he, in a broken, dejected tone.

  She went, and again found Walter in the outer room, watching for tidings of his mother. "Asleep," she said. "Lionel?"

  "Asleep too, I hope. You are going to bed?"

  "Yes, thank you; but Clara--"

  "I will go to Clara the first thing in the morning. I shall sit up on my father's account. Don't you think of it,--sleep as long as you can; you have had watching enough."

  "I have been so glad," Marian said, in a tear-stilled whisper.

  "You cannot tell how I have longed to thank you, Marian, for what you have been to her:" said Walter, speaking from the fulness of heart, which overcame his natural reserve and bashfulness. "You are thanked enough by our present feelings on the subject,--by that letter:--may I keep it a little longer?"

  "O yes, yes!" cried Marian, hastily, disclaiming in her heart all his thanks, though unable to do so with her lips.

  "It takes away all regret for the briefness of the illness," added Walter, as if the speaking of it was a satisfaction he could hardly relinquish.

  "I am sure she thought much; no one can tell what passed," said Marian, in a low, broken murmur.

  "Little did I think last summer--" said Walter, aloud to himself. "Yes, this is best, far best, if one could but feel it so!"

  Marian thought the same, and, like him, could not feel it; but unable to express herself, she simply said, as soon as her tears would let her, "Good-night," and went up to her own room.

  Fatigue came on her now. When she took off the dress she had worn since leaving Fern Torr, she found her limbs stiff and aching, and her head dizzy with weariness. She could hardly get through the operation of undressing; and when she tried to say her prayers, they would not come. She could only go through the LORD'S Prayer; and too worn out to be shocked at herself more than in a dull way, scarcely even alive to the recollection of what had happened, she laid herself down on the bed, which seemed strangely soft, but for a long time was too tired to sleep. With confused thoughts and exhausted spirits, she kept on feeling as if her aching limbs belonged to somebody else, and going off into odd, dreamy vagaries, each more uncomfortable than the last,--ever and anon waking into a moment's remembrance that Caroline was dead, wondering at herself for being so dull as only to think it strange, then losing the consciousness again. At last the light of morning made her perceptions clearer. Fanny knocked at her door, and brought her a cup of tea. She heard that all was quiet,--said she would get up; but with that resolution she suddenly became more easy, and while believing she was getting up, fell into a sound sleep.

  She awoke refreshed, and entirely herself again, though feeling stunned and bewildered by the all-pervading thought. Caroline dead! It seemed as if it was not otherwise with the rest of the family. Her illness had been so short, that there had been no time to grow familiar with the idea of her danger; and it was the first death in the household that had hitherto been so strong and confident in health,--the first touch that taught them how little the world they loved was an abiding-place. So su
dden had been the stroke, that they seemed to pause and stand aghast under it, scarcely conscious how deep the wound might be. Her father went about the house, bowed down and stricken with grief, his tones low, sorrowful, and so gentle when speaking to his children, or to Marian, that they could scarcely be recognised as the same voice; but, without a word, so far as Marian, Clara, or Lionel knew, of his daughter, or of his own feelings. Her mother, already very weak, and suffering most acutely from the remembrance of the coldness with which she had treated her during the last autumn, became so seriously unwell, between a return of influenza, and her extreme depression and nervous hysterical agitation, that Marian and Clara were almost entirely occupied in nursing her, and trying to soothe her. In this work they were little successful. Marian had no hold on her affection, no power of talking soothingly, though most anxious to do what she could, and distressed excessively by her inability to be a comfort in the painful scenes which she was obliged to witness. She almost thought her presence made things worse, and that Mrs. Lyddell wished her away; but poor Clara was so entirely helpless and frightened, clung to her in so imploring a way, and was so incapable, from the restraint that had always subsisted between her and her mother, of saying anything to comfort her, or assuming any direction, that Marian was obliged, for her sake, to be almost always in the room. The only thing Marian could do in the way of consolation was to read aloud; she could not talk of the great thankfulness, peace, and hope which she felt herself, to Mrs. Lyddell, though she could have done so a little, with time, to Lionel, or even Clara; she could only read, and whether this did any good, she knew not. At any rate, it was what she ought to do; and the sound of the voice going on continuously had certainly a calming effect. Walter used daily to come and read, but this she did not seem to like, though she never made any objection; and there was so much reason for guarding against agitation and excitement, that he, never familiar with her, could not venture to attempt speaking to her on the subject of which all their hearts were full. It was only Mr. Lyddell who had any real serviceable influence with her. Her hysterical attacks never came on in his presence, and a few affectionate words or demonstrations from him would soothe the very worst of them. Marian saw so much real tenderness in his character, that she positively began to feel considerable affection for him.

  Clara was entirely bewildered and frightened, hardly yet realizing that she had lost her sister; perplexed and alarmed about her mother, suddenly thrust forward, from being an unregarded child, into having all the responsibilities of the eldest daughter of a sick mother on her hands, she could only depend upon Marian, and hang on her for direction, assistance, and consolation,--say "yes" to whatever she suggested, and set about it; and whenever she felt lonely, sisterless, and wretched, lean on her, pour out her grief, and feel that she had a kind listener, though only a monosyllabic answerer. She used to have great fits of crying at night, when they passed Caroline's door; and more than once she was so inconsolable, that Marian was obliged to come and stay in her room, and sleep all night with her arm clinging round her. Altogether, it was very desolate and perplexing; and Marian was grieved at herself for dwelling more on this, and on the loss of her dear companion and friend, than on the hope and happiness that ought to occupy her. How different in the two deaths she had known before, where there was none of this weary, harassed, doubtful, careworn feeling; only the sorrow, bitter indeed as it was, of the parting, but with time and scope for dwelling on all thoughts of comfort, when they would come.

  Lionel had his brother, and was thus in the best hands; and she saw very little of him except at meal-times, when all were silent and subdued.

  So passed the week before the funeral. Only the gentlemen attended it; Marian and Clara stayed with Mrs. Lyddell, who went through the time better than they had ventured to hope. She was altogether improved, and was able to sit up a little in the evening. Lionel was to go the next day to London, to be seen by the oculist; and her sanguine mind was fastening itself on the hope of his recovery; and though there was too much danger that she was only hoping in order to be the more disappointed, yet the present relief was great.

  Marian and Clara went down to dinner somewhat cheered, and hoping to carry satisfaction with them; but there was a deeper despondency in Mr. Lyddell's air than ever. He scarcely seemed to know what he was doing; and when at last dinner was over, he rose up, stood by the fire a moment, coughed, said to Walter, "You tell them," and ran upstairs.

  There was a silence: each of the three dreaded to ask what was the matter; Walter did not know how to begin. Marian began to think it was some family misfortune, better mentioned in her absence, and was rising to go away; but Walter exclaimed, "No, don't go, Marian; all the world must know it soon, I fear."

  "Not Johnny!" cried Clara. "O, Walter, Walter, don't let it be Johnny!"

  "No," said Lionel; "I know it is something more about Elliot. Is it very bad indeed, Walter?"

  "Very; I do not think he is going to tell my mother the full extent. There was a letter from Paris this morning, from Captain Evans, saying he thought it right that my father should be warned that Elliot is going on there in his old way, and worse still, is reported to be on the brink of a ruinous marriage."

  Clara was the first to break the silence of consternation. "Marriage! and now! a Frenchwoman! O Walter, Walter it can't be true! he can't do it now, at any rate!"

  "There is some hope that this may make a delay: it is the one chance that my father trusts to," said Walter. "The history seems to be this, as far as I can understand. When the discovery of all these debts came on my father, he wrote Elliot a very indignant letter, refusing to be answerable for any of them except that which Faulkner had guaranteed which of course he paid at once. This letter seems to have stirred Elliot up into a fit of passion; he went on more recklessly than ever, and now is getting drawn into this miserable connection."

  "Yes, just like Elliot!" said Lionel. "And what is papa going to do?"

  "He means to go to Paris at once, sacrifice any thing, pay all the debts at any cost, if he can only bring Elliot back with him, and save him from ruining himself entirely."

  "But he is not going to tell mamma about the marriage, I hope?" said Clara.

  "No, he will leave her to think it is only the old story, and that he wants to see if anything can be done about the debts. There is a hope that the news he must have had by this time may have checked him."

  "Perhaps it may be bringing him home," said Marian.

  "No, I fear he is too much involved to venture to England."

  Again following a silence; no one could think of anything consoling to suggest; all were unwilling to heap censure upon one who deserved it but too richly. Only Lionel was heard to give a sort of groan, find after a time Clara asked, "Is it a Frenchwoman?"

  "Yes," said Walter; "a person connected with the theatres."

  The four again sat in mournful silence.

  "I suppose," said Lionel at length, "that my going to London had better be put off till he comes back."

  "No," said Walter, "he wishes that to be done at once. We are all three to go to London to-morrow, as was settled before; he will go with you to see the oculist, and on to Dover by the night-train; and if the oculist wishes to keep you, I shall stay with you in London till he comes back, or till my mother and the rest can come."

  "Thank you," said Lionel, sighing; "I wish I could help it! Is not it leaving a pretty state of things behind us, though? not that we are any great good to the ladies to be sure!"

  "Yes, it is leaving you at a very sad time," said Walter, looking at the two girls, "but we are hardly able to be of much use to my mother, and if there was any prospect of your improvement, that they all say would do her more good than anything else. However, my father said that must be according to your feelings, Clara and Marian, if you were afraid to be left with the charge of her, I would remain."

  One of Walter's awkward ways of putting the question, and it instantly suggested to Clara to be afraid.r />
  "I am sure I shan't know what to do. Only think, Marian, for us to be left--what should we do if mamma was to get suddenly worse? We should have no one to help us, I shall be in such a nervous state, I could do no good."

  "No, no, Clara, you won't," said Marian, whilst Walter had begun to look in consternation at Clara. "Nobody ever has nerves when there is anything to be done. You know Mrs. Lyddell is much better."

  "O but she will be so very unhappy and excited about papa's being gone, and I am sure I shall never be able to conceal from her all this dreadful business about Elliot."

  "Yes, you will," said Marian quietly. "We shall do very well indeed, it cannot be for long, and if we wanted him we could get Walter home in a few hours' time. If he can send us good news of Lionel, it will help us much more than his staying here could do."

  "If dear Caroline,"--and Clara burst into a fit of weeping, which obliged her to leave the room. Every one was feeling the same thing, that Caroline, with her energy, good sense, and the power she had once possessed with her mother, would have made all easy, and the sense of missing her had come strongly upon them all. Marian followed Clara to her own room, let her lean upon her and cry, wept with her, joined in saying how grievous the loss was, and how much they had loved her, and how they should want her every day and every hour, then called hack the remembrance that Caroline had not been happy here, and had longed for rest, and it was come to her, and they must not be selfish, but there Clara cried more, saying that Marian never knew what a sister was, and it was unkind to wish her to be glad.

  "I don't know," said Marian, pausing as her tears flowed fast, "I have known death, Clara."