'Lionel! Lionel! you come home? What is the matter?' exclaimed she.
'Matter! matter enough, I think,' said, or rather muttered Lionel; 'There is an end of the Cape, or anything else.'
'How are your eyes?' asked Marian, in consternation.
'Only I am blind for life!' answered Lionel; still hiding his face, and speaking in a sullen, defiant tone.
Marian, dreadfully shocked, almost beyond all power of speaking or moving, could only drop down sitting on the grass beside him, and take his hand.
'All neglect, too,' he added; then vehemently, 'I don't believe, no I don't, there is any pauper's son in the parish that would have been so used!'
Her voice was low with fright: 'But, Lionel, what has happened? Let me see you. Is it worse? can't you see?'
'O yes, I can see now, after a fashion, at least, but that is soon to go, they say, and then--They have done it themselves, and they may have that satisfaction!' added he, with a fearful bitterness in his tone. 'Elections, and parliament, and dinners, and that Faulkner,--that is what they have given my sight for.' He withdrew his hand, and turned his shoulder from Marian, as if resolute not to be comforted; and again he shook with agony.
'O, don't say such dreadful things, dear Lionel! O, if I could but do anything for you!' she cried, in a tone of heartfelt grief, which seemed to soften the poor boy a little; for he twisted round, so that his face, still pillowed on one arm, was half raised to her, and she could see how flushed it was, and that the eyelids were inflamed, though not with tears, and the eyes themselves had not altered from their former appearance.
''Tis not your fault,' he said. 'If my mother had cared for me one quarter--'
'Don't blame anybody, pray!' interrupted Marian: 'it only makes it worse. Only tell me all about it. Did the occulist say--'
'Not to me,' answered Lionel; 'not the worst, at least. He examined my eyes very closely, and asked me all manner of questions about what I could see, and what I could not, and what things hurt them, and how long it had been going on, and how I had been using them. Then he told me that it was impossible for him to do anything for them as yet, till the disease had made more progress; that most likely I should quite lose my sight this winter, and then I must come to him again. So that was bad enough, but I could have made up my mind to that, and they sent me away. Then it seems that, after I was gone, he went on about it to papa, and told him that the mischief had been brewing time out of mind, and some time ago it might have been stopped; but all that straining of my eyes at Eton, last half, had done immense harm, and confirmed the disease; and it is of a kind that--that--there is no cure for!' He buried his face again.
'Did Mr. Lyddell tell you this?'
'No, he only told me we were to go home directly, and wrote to Gerald to send my things from Eton. He hardly spoke a word all the way,--only led me about, and poked me in and out of the carriage, as if I was blind already; it put me almost in a rage. Then as soon as we came home,--about half an hour ago, I should think,--he told it all straight out to my mother, did not mince matters, I assure you: indeed, I believe they both forgot I was there. They are apt to forget me, you know. He regularly stormed about the neglect, and told her it was all her fault; and while this was going on, I found I had heard the worst, and I did not want to be pitied, so I came out here. And so there is the whole story for you, Marian, and a pretty one it is! A fine sort of life I shall have instead--'
'Well but, Lionel,' cried Marian, eagerly, 'are you sure that be said _for certain_ that it was hopeless? for it seems so odd that he should have told you one thing, and Mr. Lyddell another.'
'Pshaw! I suppose he had got some consideration, and did not want to knock me down with the worst at once.'
'I should think it was more comfortable to know the worst at once!' said
