“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.”