Chapter IV

“... Selfishness
May not come near him, nor the little throng
Of flitting pleasures tempt him from his path.”

_The Prelude._

But when Albert was out of sight, Leicester reissued from the door, and walked up and down in the bright moonlight, almost till the break of day. He was in a mood of mind which sometimes attacked him; a mood at once of excitement and depression; of depression _because_ excited; a mood of mind in which his life’s prospects pressed heavily, and when the icy chain which severed him from his kind hung round him like a fetter of lead.

There had been a time--it was in Leicester’s early youth--when his shyness had found relief in society beneath him, and when the dangers which attend that relief had appeared to be closing around him, leading, or rather dragging him into temptation. But these perils were dissipated, and the chain of evil habits and lowering associations, broken at once and for ever by the death of his father, when he was twenty-four years old. At his death he found himself left as sole guardian to five sisters, all younger than himself; and the responsibility imposed upon him bound him for ever.

Mr. Leicester, the father, had held a legal office, which allowed him to bring up his family in comfort and even in affluence. His death was sudden, and cut him off while yet only on the borders of age; but though sudden, his cares for his children had provided for a change, and the arrangements he had made were such as a father’s foresight had deemed the best. His daughters were motherless, and at the age most needing careful guardianship. His only son was, as has been said, involved in dangers which might lead to a loss of character and respectability. Had he taken advice, the wisest counsellor might have said, “appoint another and safer guardian for your motherless children.” But Mr. Leicester had looked with keen discrimination into his son’s character. He trusted him while his steps were wandering from the right way. He left to him all he possessed, with the simple request that he would be a father to his sisters, and provide for and watch over them as their father would have done.

It was a heavy responsibility for so young a man. Young married men grow with the growth of their family, and every year is a school of experience for the year that is to follow; but on Leicester the burden of a full-grown family was suddenly laid. He felt the burden, and with natural diffidence felt also his inability to perform the task; but not the less he set himself to it, shaking himself free from old temptations, putting aside other hopes and cares; gravely and sadly, but nobly and honourably, and with all his heart. His father had rightly judged of him.

A house in Clarges Street, and eight hundred a-year; this was what his father had left to him, in charge for his sisters; to educate the younger, to give comforts and pleasures to the elder, to lay by for future portions, or sudden emergencies; to shield them all, as far as in him lay, from the disappointments and cares which their reduced income and change of life must naturally bring. These had been his ceaseless thoughts for eight long years; thoughts so engrossing that his own selfish existence had seem to pass out of sight, that hope or joy in life--except as connected with their welfare--had vanished, or seemed to vanish from his imagination, and from theirs also. One separate existence alone he had, and this was in his legal studies, vigorously pursued for their benefit and his own, but, so far as yet appeared, pursued without end or hope.

Beneath these cares and studies life had flowed by him with a heavy step; slight tints of grey were visible in his dark hair, and furrows lightly streaked his broad high brow; while an expression of melancholy, not oppressive, but gentle and subdued, seemed the expression natural to his countenance.

In some respects the charge that had been laid upon him operated disadvantageously on his character. His natural gravity increased; thought drew him further and further from the animating scenes of life, and habit set its fatal seal on a diffidence that once might have been overcome. The absence of selfish hopes and fears in some degree dulled the outward man, depriving him of those qualities which the world sees and hears of, which win and attract the many, and which are twice blessed; blessing those who have, and those who see them. But, though he suffered under this disadvantage, there was compensation, and far more than compensation within; as much more as the gifts of the moral nature are above the graces of the outward man. He had that within that passed show; a mind in which every evil thought or desire was conquered through the desire to be worthy of his trust; a mind refined and purified even as he wished to guard his sisters innocent and pure; a mind from which man’s strongest enemy--self-love--was, through the love of others, as nearly banished as perhaps in human nature it is possible to be. And, as years passed on, silently and almost unconsciously a diviner principle was growing up. He felt his weakness to be and do all that a father might and should--that picture of a father which he had set before himself, sublimated, perhaps, beyond any human model, so watchful, so far-seeing, so tender in sympathy, so long-suffering with infirmity--and as man, frail and infirm, must do when once fully conscious of his weakness, he began to seek and find his strength above. There is said to be a peculiar character attendant upon a widow’s son; in such a character the guardian brother shares.

But man is _man_, nevertheless, and cannot at all times live in the same exaltation of spirit. There were moments when Leicester’s heart sank under that want of selfish hope which his position seemed to him to forbid. He had early convinced himself that that which had been left as trust for his sisters, might not (so long, at least, as they remained unmarried or poor) furnish forth the means to make a happy home for his later years. It was but seldom that this fact presented itself with anything of pain to his mind; for the most part his love went hand-in-hand with his duty to his sisters, and he was content to be theirs alone; but there were moments when he was less strong; moments when his heart yearned for the rising up of those hopes which bless most men in their dreams. It was one of these fits of excitement and depression which visited him on the night of which we speak; a fit so violent and so prolonged that he walked on and on in the stillness of the night before the enemy was conquered. Wherefore on this night? Who can tell? Many varied thoughts sweep over the brain, and some among them, though but light thoughts, have a strange exciting power; many sights pass before the eye, and some, without our knowledge, impress the memory, leaving a trace never to be effaced again. It might have been the sight of a happy home, a father’s fond love, or a daughter’s devotion; it might have been the sight of a fair face, or the sound of a sweet voice, or the laugh of one who knew no care. It might have been the attraction of one being towards another by inexplicable, magical attraction; who can tell? There is no questioning of the inner springs of thought and feeling. All that man can do is to master such disturbances of the inward man which reason or conscience forbids him to indulge. And so, before he slept, Leicester set himself to master the giant Self, who had suddenly taken possession of his soul.

And now, if it be asked whether his sisters were worthy of his devotion, whether the home they made for him was as happy as his affection had demanded, it must be owned in answer that they were even unusually compassed about with human infirmities; infirmities very various in their kinds, but all conspiring to mar that peace and sympathy which, had it been more perfect, might have satisfied all his affections.

Marian, the eldest, was at this time twenty-nine, three years younger than her brother. At the period of her father’s death, she had been a weak-minded, frivolous girl, with thoughts dwelling exclusively on balls and parties, dress, partners, and love. Her brother endeavoured to impress her mind with the necessity for care and thought in the arrangement of their now limited income, and for this purpose consulted her seriously, not only on matters of housekeeping, but on the needful sums to be allotted to the different departments of dress, pleasure, and education. He succeeded in interesting her not only beyond his hopes, but beyond his wishes. The love of usefulness, the love of power, the love of management, laid firm hold on her mind; and, with the exclusiveness of weak minds, shut out all other loves. Henceforth, balls, parties, dress, and lovers were abjured; she became a tolerable housekeeper, and a tiresome woman.

Henrietta, the second sister, had a family likeness to Marian’s original character. She was also frivolous and sentimental; but with a more varied disposition, and a greater charm of manner, she could never have been what her sister was. Jessie, the fourth, was again a reproduction of the same character, under slightly varying features--more silly than Marian, and with less charm than Henrietta.

All three were pretty, for there was great beauty in the family; and none had any very serious faults or evil tempers. But all their minds were small; they were immersed in small cares, small joys, and still smaller jealousies. Leicester did not find much sympathy of soul with them.

The other two were formed in a different mould. Rachel, the third sister, was like her brother in person, and like him, also, in mind. Her face was beautiful; her mind, thoughtful and diffident in a degree even beyond his. This diffidence was increased by circumstances. She was lame; not sufficiently so to cause her much personal inconvenience, but enough to cause awkwardness in her movements, and to make her bashful and retiring from observation. This diffidence prevented that union with her brother and comfort in his society which might have been hers. All the sisters were jealous of his affection; all would willingly have supposed themselves his first object. Rachel had not the moral courage, even for his sake, to brave the pain these jealousies might cause, and to go forward to give and receive the confidence that might have existed, the sympathy that did exist between them. She was a failure, and she knew it.

Perhaps the one from whom he derived the greatest pleasure and comfort, was his youngest sister, Margaret, now just eighteen. Though she had grown up beneath his fatherly care, she stood less in awe of him than any of her sisters; and though less capable of understanding him, and unable to be so real a friend as Rachel, the freedom and confidence with which she treated him made her society the greatest refreshment he knew. She helped him in other ways also. Since she had grown to reasonable and observant years, she had stood forth in his defence against the exactions of her elder sisters--exactions thoughtlessly enforced by them, and patiently and kindly submitted to by him, but whose pertinacity tended to reduce him to slavery.

This was the sister of whom he had spoken to Violet as preferring his chaperonage to that of all others. She was a pretty, straightforward, good-humoured girl, who, with no superiority of character, was an example of the comfort such practical qualities as good sense, good temper, and self-reliance can give.

“You were very late last night, John,” observed Marian, as the whole party sat at breakfast on the following morning; “I did not hear your door shut until after three o’clock. What was the cause?”

“Don’t answer unless you please,” said Margaret, who sat by his side.

“I have no objection to answer,” he replied, smiling; “it was a bright moonlight night, and I walked about till I was quite tired.”

“Where did you dine last night?” said Henrietta. “Oh! I remember!--it was Mr. Osborne’s, was it not?”

“Yes--Albert Ellis’s uncle.”

“Has he a fine house?” asked Marian; “what sort of establishment does he keep?”

“Nothing you will care to hear about, my dear Marian; everything very grand. I have brought away no hints for you.”

“But he has a daughter. We should like to hear about her. I know people call her a beauty; is she a beauty? What is she like? Does she dress very fine?”

These and other like questions were asked by Henrietta and Jessie between them.

“She is not like any of _us_,” was the reply. “She has blue eyes and auburn hair. As to her dress, I cannot give you any particulars. It was pretty, I think, but whether fine or not I don’t know.”

“Were there many young people there? Has Miss Osborne a great many people who admire her? Did you like her, John?” continued the two inquirers.

“Don’t answer, John,” said Margaret, lifting up her hand; “I don’t choose that John should be pestered with questions. Let him tell us what he likes, but don’t let us worry him to death.”

“You are needlessly officious, Margaret,” said Marian; “John is able to decide whether he pleases to answer or not, without your help.”

“Not quite; John is too good-natured.”

“But, John, do answer us,” said Jessie. “Is Miss Osborne a nice girl? is she very fascinating? Did you get on with her, and do you think you could fall in love with her?”

“There is Jessie’s rapid imagination,” he said, smiling, though the ten curious eyes that looked into his face succeeded in bringing a faint, very faint colour there; “Jessie asks that question every time I make a new acquaintance.”

“But you have not answered me to-day,” said Jessie; “in general, he says no--does he not, Henrietta? But to-day he will not say no. Now, John....”

“I will not have John pestered,” cried Margaret, peremptorily; “leave him and Miss Osborne alone.”

“My dear Margaret,” he said, with quickness, “they do not pester me in the least. I will answer anything you please, Jessie--what is it you want to know?”

“Whether you think you could fall in love with Miss Osborne,” said both Jessie and Henrietta, eagerly.

“And that is rather a difficult question to answer,” he replied, playfully; “if I say no, that is not very civil to a young lady, is it? and if I say yes, it is not very decorous. But why this extraordinary interest in Miss Osborne? What do you know of her to excite it?”

“As to that, I feel it too,” said Margaret; “I suppose it is because we know Mr. Ellis a little. I like Mr. Ellis, and so I fancy his cousin.”

“Besides, she is a beauty,” said Henrietta; “and though you may think me frivolous to say so, a beauty always interests me more than a common girl.”

“So far from thinking you frivolous, Henrietta,” said Leicester, smiling, “I am of the same mind myself; but I am afraid we must leave all frivolous things for the present. Marian, you look as if the house books were waiting. Do you want me before I go out?”

She acquiesced, and they went away together. Marian was the only one who ever saw her brother alone. If any other had attempted a private interview, a storm of curiosity and jealousy would have been excited in the house. Of her opportunities, Marian made no use, so far as acquaintance with his tastes and wishes went. Her interviews were solely confined to complaints of servants and tradespeople, taxes, and prices. These things weighed heavily on her mind, and she poured them out into his kind and patient ears on every occasion, heedless how she wearied him, and regardless whether or not he had any worries or troubles to confide in return.

The remaining sisters conversed on what had passed.

“I think John is going to be in love with Miss Osborne,” said Henrietta; “you may not believe me, but before anything was said, when he first came in this morning, I saw something unusual in his face.”

“So did I,” said Jessie; which fact, however, was doubtful, for Jessie’s thoughts had but seldom an independent being.

“Then why did you ask so many questions?” said Rachel, speaking for the first time, and then with a rising colour; “don’t you wish him to be in love, and to marry?”

“To marry!” cried Margaret, startled and aghast; “no, indeed, I don’t wish him to marry!”

“No, indeed!” echoed the two others. “Marry! I never thought of such a thing! John must not marry!”

“It is the thing I long for,” continued Rachel, her colour deepening in the earnestness of her manner; “he has been long enough devoted to us; it is time he had some hope of his own.”

“But good gracious!” cried Henrietta, “what would happen to us if he married? Think of the house without a man in it.”

“We must all marry too, that is certain,” said Margaret; “I could no more live in the house without John than I could live with the fishes in the sea. But, happily, there is no need to think about it. Rachel’s thoughts have flown as fast as Jessie’s. John has no thoughts of marrying, I am very sure.”

“I did not think he had; I only _wish_ he had.”

“Then pray don’t wish, my dear Rachel,” said Margaret, earnestly; “it is being so much more unselfish than I can be, that it makes me quite uncomfortable.”

“What did you think, Rachel?” asked Henrietta; for where John was concerned, Rachel’s insight into his feelings was instinctively felt; “did you think he was going to be in love with Miss Osborne?”

“He certainly gave us no reason to think so,” she replied, “and I don’t think John is a person to fall in love in a few hours; but still I did fancy, like you, that I saw some kind of thought in his face this morning. It need not have been that, however. He has many things to think of.”

“Oh, no, it was that,” cried Jessie, sentimentally; “I saw love in his face when first he came in this morning.”

“Don’t talk such trash!” said Margaret, indignantly; “one would think John was a lackadaisical fool to hear you speak. I am sick of the very name of Miss Osborne. Pray let us leave her alone.”