Scenes and Characters, or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft
by Charlotte M. Yonge · English · Gutenberg #4944 · 501,308 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Scenes and Characters, or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft
Author: Charlotte M. Yonge
Release date: January 1, 2004 [eBook #4944]
Most recently updated: January 16, 2015
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4944
Credits: Transcribed from the 1889 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SCENES AND CHARACTERS, OR, EIGHTEEN MONTHS AT BEECHCROFT ***
Transcribed from the 1889 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
[Picture: She visited the village school.—p. 38]
SCENES AND CHARACTERS,
OR,
Eighteen Months at Beechcroft
BY
CHARLOTTE M. YOUNGE
AUTHOR OF ‘THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE,’ ‘THE TWO GUARDIANS,’ ETC.
[Picture: ‘Yes, Miss, Dick Rood is a sad fellow.’—p. 41]
_FIFTH EDITION_
ILLUSTRATED BY W. J. HENNESSY
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND NEW YORK
1889
_All rights reserved_
PREFACE
OF those who are invited to pay a visit to Beechcroft, there are some
who, honestly acknowledging that amusement is their object, will be
content to feel with Lilias, conjecture with Jane, and get into scrapes
with Phyllis, without troubling themselves to extract any moral from
their proceedings; and to these the Mohun family would only apologise for
having led a very humdrum life during the eighteen months spent in their
company.
There may, however, be more unreasonable visitors, who, professing only
to come as parents and guardians, expect entertainment for themselves, as
well as instruction for those who had rather it was out of sight,—look
for antiques in carved cherry-stones,—and require plot, incident, and
catastrophe in a chronicle of small beer.
To these the Mohuns beg respectfully to observe, that they hope their
examples may not be altogether devoid of indirect instruction; and lest
it should be supposed that they lived without object, aim, or principle,
they would observe that the maxim which has influenced the delineation of
the different _Scenes and Characters_ is, that feeling, unguided and
unrestrained, soon becomes mere selfishness; while the simple endeavour
to fulfil each immediate claim of duty may lead to the highest acts of
self-devotion.
NEW COURT, BEECHCROFT,
18th _January_.
PREFACE (1886)
PERHAPS this book is an instance to be adduced in support of the advice I
have often given to young authors—not to print before they themselves are
old enough to do justice to their freshest ideas.
Not that I can lay claim to its being a production of tender and
interesting youth. It was my second actual publication, and I believe I
was of age before it appeared—but I see now the failures that more
experience might have enabled me to avoid; and I would not again have
given it to the world if the same characters recurring in another story
had not excited a certain desire to see their first start.
In fact they have been more or less my life-long companions. An almost
solitary child, with periodical visits to the Elysium of a large family,
it was natural to dream of other children and their ways and sports till
they became almost realities. They took shape when my French master set
me to write letters for him. The letters gradually became conversation
and narrative, and the adventures of the family sweetened the toils of
French composition. In the exigencies of village school building in
those days gone by, before in every place
“It there behoved him to set up the standard of her Grace,”
the tale was actually printed for private sale, as a link between
translations of short stories.
This process only stifled the family in my imagination for a time. They
awoke once more with new names, but substantially the same, and were my
companions in many a solitary walk, the results of which were scribbled
down in leisure moments to be poured into my mother’s ever patient and
sympathetic ears.
And then came the impulse to literature for young people given by the
example of that memorable book the _Fairy Bower_, and followed up by _Amy
Herbert_. It was felt that elder children needed something of a deeper
tone than the Edgeworthian style, yet less directly religious than the
Sherwood class of books; and on that wave of opinion, my little craft
floated out into the great sea of the public.
Friends, whose kindness astonished me, and fills me with gratitude when I
look back on it, gave me seasonable criticism and pruning, and finally
launched me. My heroes and heroines had arranged themselves so as to
work out a definite principle, and this was enough for us all.
Children’s books had not been supposed to require a plot. Miss
Edgeworth’s, which I still continue to think gems in their own line, are
made chronicles, or, more truly, illustrations of various truths worked
out upon the same personages. Moreover, the skill of a Jane Austen or a
Mrs. Gaskell is required to produce a perfect plot without doing violence
to the ordinary events of an every-day life. It is all a matter of
arrangement. Mrs. Gaskell can make a perfect little plot out of a sick
lad and a canary bird; and another can do nothing with half a dozen
murders and an explosion; and of arranging my materials so as to build up
a story, I was quite incapable. It is still my great deficiency; but in
those days I did not even understand that the attempt was desirable.
Criticism was a more thorough thing in those times than it has since
become through the multiplicity of books to be hurried over, and it was
often very useful, as when it taught that such arrangement of incident
was the means of developing the leading idea.
Yet, with all its faults, the children, who had been real to me, caught,
chiefly by the youthful sense of fun and enjoyment, the attention of
other children; and the curious semi-belief one has in the phantoms of
one’s brain made me dwell on their after life and share my discoveries
with my friends, not, however, writing them down till after the lapse of
all these years the tenderness inspired by associations of early days led
to taking up once more the old characters in _The Two Sides of the
Shield_; and the kind welcome this has met with has led to the
resuscitation of the crude and inexperienced tale which never pretended
to be more than a mere family chronicle.
C. M. YONGE.
6_th_ _October_ 1886.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
THE ELDER SISTER 1
CHAPTER II
THE NEW COURT 6
CHAPTER III
THE NEW PRINCIPLE 15
CHAPTER IV
HONEST PHYL 26
CHAPTER V
VILLAGE GOSSIP 35
CHAPTER VI
THE NEW FRIEND 52
CHAPTER VII
SIR MAURICE 61
CHAPTER VIII
THE BROTHERS 78
CHAPTER IX
THE WASP 101
CHAPTER X
COUSIN ROTHERWOOD 109
CHAPTER XI
DANCING 123
CHAPTER XII
THE FEVER 131
CHAPTER XIII
A CURIOSITY MAP 143
CHAPTER XIV
CHRISTMAS 155
CHAPTER XV
MINOR MISFORTUNES 167
CHAPTER XVI
VANITY AND VEXATION 186
CHAPTER XVII
LITTLE AGNES 198
CHAPTER XVIII
DOUBLE, DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE 208
CHAPTER XIX
THE RECTOR’S ILLNESS 222
CHAPTER XX
THE LITTLE NEPHEW 227
CHAPTER XXI
CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME 235
CHAPTER XXII
THE BARONIAL COURT 249
CHAPTER XXIII
JOYS AND SORROWS 256
CHAPTER XXIV
LOVE’S LABOUR LOST 264
CHAPTER XXV
THE THIRTIETH OF JULY 277
CHAPTER XXVI
THE CRISIS 297
CHAPTER XXVII
CONCLUSION 313
CHAPTER I
THE ELDER SISTER
‘Return, and in the daily round
Of duty and of love,
Thou best wilt find that patient faith
That lifts the soul above.’
ELEANOR MOHUN was the eldest child of a gentleman of old family, and good
property, who had married the sister of his friend and neighbour, the
Marquis of Rotherwood. The first years of her life were marked by few
events. She was a quiet, steady, useful girl, finding her chief pleasure
in nursing and teaching her brothers and sisters, and her chief annoyance
in her mamma’s attempts to make her a fine lady; but before she had
reached her nineteenth year she had learnt to know real anxiety and
sorrow. Her mother, after suffering much from grief at the loss of her
two brothers, fell into so alarming a state of health, that her husband
was obliged immediately to hurry her away to Italy, leaving the younger
children under the care of a governess, and the elder boys at school,
while Eleanor alone accompanied them.
Their absence lasted nearly three years, and during the last winter, an
engagement commenced between Eleanor and Mr. Francis Hawkesworth, rather
to the surprise of Lady Emily, who wondered that he had been able to
discover the real worth veiled beneath a formal and retiring manner, and
to admire features which, though regular, had a want of light and
animation, which diminished their beauty even more than the thinness and
compression of the lips, and the very pale gray of the eyes.
The family were about to return to England, where the marriage was to
take place, when Lady Emily was attacked with a sudden illness, which her
weakened frame was unable to resist, and in a very few days she died,
leaving the little Adeline, about eight months old, to accompany her
father and sister on their melancholy journey homewards. This loss made
a great change in the views of Eleanor, who, as she considered the cares
and annoyances which would fall on her father, when left to bear the
whole burthen of the management of the children and household, felt it
was her duty to give up her own prospects of happiness, and to remain at
home. How could she leave the tender little ones to the care of
servants—trust her sisters to a governess, and make her brothers’ home
yet more dreary? She knew her father to be strong in sense and firm in
judgment, but indolent, indulgent, and inattentive to details, and she
could not bear to leave him to be harassed by the petty cares of a
numerous family, especially when broken in spirits and weighed down with
sorrow. She thought her duty was plain, and, accordingly, she wrote to
Mr. Hawkesworth, to beg him to allow her to withdraw her promise.
Her brother Henry was the only person who knew what she had done, and he
alone perceived something of tremulousness about her in the midst of the
even cheerfulness with which she had from the first supported her
father’s spirits. Mr. Mohun, however, did not long remain in ignorance,
for Frank Hawkesworth himself arrived at Beechcroft to plead his cause
with Eleanor. He knew her value too well to give her up, and Mr. Mohun
would not hear of her making such a sacrifice for his sake. But Eleanor
was also firm, and after weeks of unhappiness and uncertainty, it was at
length arranged that she should remain at home till Emily was old enough
to take her place, and that Frank should then return from India and claim
his bride.
Well did she discharge the duties which she had undertaken; she kept her
father’s mind at ease, followed out his views, managed the boys with
discretion and gentleness, and made her sisters well-informed and
accomplished girls; but, for want of fully understanding the characters
of her two next sisters, Emily and Lilias, she made some mistakes with
regard to them. The clouds of sorrow, to her so dark and heavy, had been
to them but morning mists, and the four years which had changed her from
a happy girl into a thoughtful, anxious woman, had brought them to an age
which, if it is full of the follies of childhood, also partakes of the
earnestness of youth; an age when deep foundations of enduring confidence
may be laid by one who can enter into and direct the deeper flow of mind
and feeling which lurks hid beneath the freaks and fancies of the early
years of girlhood. But Eleanor had little sympathy for freaks and
fancies. She knew the realities of life too well to build airy castles
with younger and gayer spirits; her sisters’ romance seemed to her
dangerous folly, and their lively nonsense levity and frivolity. They
were too childish to share in her confidence, and she was too busy and
too much preoccupied to have ear or mind for visionary trifles, though to
trifles of real life she paid no small degree of attention.
It might have been otherwise had Henry Mohun lived; but in the midst of
the affection of all who knew him, honour from those who could appreciate
his noble character, and triumphs gained by his uncommon talents, he was
cut off by a short illness, when not quite nineteen, a most grievous loss
to his family, and above all, to Eleanor. Unlike her, as he was joyous,
high-spirited, full of fun, and overflowing with imagination and poetry,
there was a very close bond of union between them, in the strong sense of
duty, the firmness of purpose, and energy of mind which both possessed,
and which made Eleanor feel perfect reliance on him, and look up to him
with earnest admiration. With him alone she was unreserved; he was the
only person who could ever make her show a spark of liveliness, and on
his death, it was only with the most painful efforts that she could
maintain her composed demeanour and fulfil her daily duties. Years
passed on, and still she felt the blank which Harry had left, almost as
much as the first day that she heard of his death, but she never spoke of
him, and to her sisters it seemed as if he was forgotten. The reserve
which had begun to thaw under his influence, again returning, placed her
a still greater distance from the younger girls, and unconsciously she
became still more of a governess and less of a sister. Little did she
know of the ‘blissful dreams in secret shared’ between Emily, Lilias, and
their brother Claude, and little did she perceive the danger that Lilias
would be run away with by a lively imagination, repressed and starved,
but entirely untrained.
Whatever influenced Lilias, had, through her, nearly the same effect upon
Emily, a gentle girl, easily led, especially by Lilias, whom she regarded
with the fondest affection and admiration. The perils of fancy and
romance were not, however, to be dreaded for Jane, the fourth sister, a
strong resemblance of Eleanor in her clear common sense, love of
neatness, and active usefulness; but there were other dangers for her, in
her tendency to faults, which, under wise training, had not yet developed
themselves.
Such were the three girls who were now left to assist each other in the
management of the household, and who looked forward to their new offices
with the various sensations of pleasure, anxiety, self-importance, and
self-mistrust, suited to their differing characters, and to the ages of
eighteen, sixteen, and fourteen.
CHAPTER II
THE NEW COURT
‘Just at the age ’twixt boy and youth,
When thought is speech, and speech is truth.’
THE long-delayed wedding took place on the 13th of January, 1845, and the
bride and bridegroom immediately departed for a year’s visit among Mr.
Hawkesworth’s relations in Northumberland, whence they were to return to
Beechcroft, merely for a farewell, before sailing for India.
It was half-past nine in the evening, and the wedding over—Mr. and Mrs.
Hawkesworth gone, and the guests departed, the drawing-room had returned
to its usual state. It was a very large room, so spacious that it would
have been waste and desolate, had it not been well filled with handsome,
but heavy old-fashioned furniture, covered with crimson damask, and one
side of the room fitted up with a bookcase, so high that there was a
spiral flight of library steps to give access to the upper shelves.
Opposite were four large windows, now hidden by their ample curtains; and
near them was at one end of the room a piano, at the other a
drawing-desk. The walls were wainscoted with polished black oak, the
panels reflecting the red fire-light like mirrors. Over the
chimney-piece hung a portrait, by Vandyke, of a pale, dark cavalier, of
noble mien, and with arched eyebrows, called by Lilias, in defiance of
dates, by the name of Sir Maurice de Mohun, the hero of the family, and
allowed by every one to be a striking likeness of Claude, the youth who
at that moment lay, extending a somewhat superfluous length of limb upon
the sofa, which was placed commodiously at right angles to the fire.
The other side of the fire was Mr. Mohun’s special domain, and there he
sat at his writing-table, abstracted by deafness and letter writing, from
the various sounds of mirth and nonsense, which proceeded from the party
round the long narrow sofa table, which they had drawn across the front
of the fire, leaving the large round centre table in darkness and
oblivion.
This party had within the last half hour been somewhat thinned; the three
younger girls had gone to bed, the Rector of Beechcroft, Mr. Robert
Devereux, had been called home to attend some parish business, and there
remained Emily and Lilias—tall graceful girls, with soft hazel eyes,
clear dark complexions, and a quantity of long brown curls. The latter
was busily completing a guard for the watch, which Mr. Hawkesworth had
presented to Reginald, a fine handsome boy of eleven, who, with his
elbows on the table, sat contemplating her progress, and sometimes
teasing his brother Maurice, who was earnestly engaged in constructing a
model with some cards, which he had pilfered from the heap before Emily.
She was putting her sister’s wedding cards into their shining envelopes,
and directing them in readiness for the post the next morning, while they
were sealed by a youth of the same age as Claude, a small slim figure,
with light complexion and hair, and dark gray eyes full of brightness and
vivacity.
He was standing, so as to be more on a level with the high candle, and as
Emily’s writing was not quite so rapid as his sealing, he amused himself
in the intervals with burning his own fingers, by twisting the wax into
odd shapes.
‘Why do you not seal up his eyes?’ inquired Reginald, with an arch glance
towards his brother on the sofa.
‘Do it yourself, you rogue,’ was the answer, at the same time approaching
with the hot sealing-wax in his hand—a demonstration which occasioned
Claude to open his eyes very wide, without giving himself any further
trouble about the matter.
‘Eh?’ said he, ‘now they try to look innocent, as if no one could hear
them plotting mischief.’
‘Them! it was not!—Redgie there—young ladies—I appeal—was not I as
innocent?’—was the very rapid, incoherent, and indistinct answer.
‘After so lucid and connected a justification, no more can be said,’
replied Claude, in a kind of ‘leave me, leave me to repose’ tone, which
occasioned Lilias to say, ‘I am afraid you are very tired.’
‘Tired! what has he done to tire him?’
‘I am sure a wedding is a terrible wear of spirits!’ said Emily—‘such
excitement.’
‘Well—when I give a spectacle to the family next year, I mean to tire you
to some purpose.’
‘Eh?’ said Mr. Mohun, looking up, ‘is Rotherwood’s wedding to be the
next?’
‘You ought to understand, uncle,’ said Lord Rotherwood, making two stops
towards him, and speaking a little more clearly, ‘I thought you longed to
get rid of your nephew and his concerns.’
‘You idle boy!’ returned Mr. Mohun, ‘you do not mean to have the
impertinence to come of age next year.’
‘As much as having been born on the 30th of July, 1825, can make me.’
‘But what good will your coming of age do us?’ said Lilias, ‘you will be
in London or Brighton, or some such stupid place.’
‘Do not be senseless, Lily,’ returned her cousin. ‘Devereux Castle is to
be in splendour—Hetherington in amazement—the county’s hair shall stand
on end—illuminations, bonfires, feasts, balls, colours flying, bands
playing, tenants dining, fireworks—’
‘Hurrah! jolly! jolly!’ shouted Reginald, dancing on the ottoman, ‘and
mind there are lots of squibs.’
‘And that Master Reginald Mohun has a new cap and bells for the
occasion,’ said Lord Rotherwood.
‘Let me make some fireworks,’ said Maurice.
‘You will begin like a noble baron of the hospitable olden time,’ said
Lily.
‘It will be like the old days, when every birthday of yours was a happy
day for the people at Hetherington,’ said Emily.
‘Ah! those were happy old days,’ said Lord Rotherwood, in a graver tone.
‘These are happy days, are not they?’ said Lily, smiling.
Her cousin answered with a sigh, ‘Yes, but you do not remember the old
ones, Lily;’ then, after a pause, he added, ‘It was a grievous mistake to
shut up the castle all these years. We have lost sight of everybody. I
do not even know what has become of the Aylmers.’
‘They went to live in London,’ said Emily, ‘Aunt Robert used to write to
them there.’
‘I know, I know, but where are they now?’
‘In London, I should think,’ said Emily. ‘Some one said Miss Aylmer was
gone out as a governess.’
‘Indeed! I wish I could hear more! Poor Mr. Aylmer! He was the first
man who tried to teach me Latin. I wonder what has become of that mad
fellow Edward, and Devereux, my father’s godson! Was not Mrs. Aylmer
badly off? I cannot bear that people should be forgotten!’
‘It is not so very long that we have lost sight of them,’ said Emily.
‘Eight years,’ said Lord Rotherwood. ‘He died six weeks after my father.
Well! I have made my mother promise to come home.’
‘Really?’ said Lilias, ‘she has been coming so often.’
‘Aye—but she is coming this time. She is to spend the winter at the
castle, and make acquaintance with all the neighbourhood.’
‘His lordship is romancing,’ said Claude to Lily in a confidential tone.
‘I’ll punish you for suspecting me of talking hyperborean
language—hyperbolical, I mean,’ cried Lord Rotherwood; ‘I’ll make you
dance the Polka with all the beauty and fashion.’
‘Then I shall stay at Oxford till it is over,’ said Claude.
‘You do not know what a treasure you will be,’ said the Marquis, ‘ladies
like nothing so well as dancing with a fellow twice the height he should
be.’
‘Beware of putting me forward,’ said Claude, rising, and, as he leant
against the chimney-piece, looking down from his height of six feet
three, with a patronising air upon his cousin, ‘I shall be taken for the
hero, and you for my little brother.’
‘I wish I was,’ said Lord Rotherwood, ‘it would be much better fun. I
should escape the speechifying, the worst part of it.’
‘Yes,’ said Claude, ‘for one whose speeches will be scraps of three words
each, strung together with the burthen of the apprentices’ song, Radara
tadara, tandore.’
‘Radaratade,’ said the Marquis, laughing. ‘By the bye, if Eleanor and
Frank Hawkesworth manage well, they may be here in time.’
‘Because they are so devoted to gaiety?’ said Claude. ‘You will say next
that William is coming from Canada, on purpose.’
‘That tall captain!’ said Lord Rotherwood. ‘He used to be a very awful
person.’
‘Ah! he used to keep the spoilt Marquis in order,’ said Claude.
‘To say nothing of the spoilt Claude,’ returned Lord Rotherwood.
‘Claude never was spoilt,’ said Lily.
‘It was not Eleanor’s way,’ said Emily.
‘At least she cannot be accused of spoiling me,’ said Lord Rotherwood.
‘I shall never dare to write at that round table again—her figure will
occupy the chair like Banquo’s ghost, and wave me off with a knitting
needle.’
‘Ah! that stain of ink was a worse blot on your character than on the new
table cover,’ said Claude.
‘She was rigidly impartial,’ said Lord Rotherwood.
‘No,’ said Claude, ‘she made exceptions in favour of Ada and me. She
left the spoiling of the rest to Emily.’
‘And well Emily will perform it! A pretty state you will be in by the
30th of July, 1846,’ said Lord Rotherwood.
‘Why should not Emily make as good a duenna as Eleanor?’ said Lily.
‘Why should she not? She will not—that is all,’ said the Marquis. ‘Such
slow people you all are! You would all go to sleep if I did not
sometimes rouse you up a little—grow stagnant.’
‘Not an elegant comparison,’ said Lilias; ‘besides, you must remember
that your hasty brawling streams do not reflect like tranquil lakes.’
‘One of Lily’s poetical hits, I declare!’ said Lord Rotherwood, ‘but she
need not have taken offence—I did not refer to her—only Claude and Emily,
and perhaps—no, I will not say who else.’
‘Then, Rotherwood, I will tell you what I am—the Lily that derives all
its support from the calm lake.’
‘Well done, Lily, worthy of yourself,’ cried Lord Rotherwood, laughing,
‘but you know I am always off when you talk poetry.’
‘I suspect it is time for us all to be off,’ said Claude, ‘did I not hear
it strike the quarter?’
‘And to-morrow I shall be off in earnest,’ said Lord Rotherwood. ‘Half
way to London before Claude has given one turn to “his sides, and his
shoulders, and his heavy head.”’
‘Shall we see you at Easter?’ said Emily.
‘No, I do not think you will. I am engaged to stay with somebody
somewhere, I forget the name of place and man; besides, Grosvenor Square
is more tolerable then than at any other time of the year, and I shall
spend a fortnight with my mother and Florence. It is after Easter that
you come to Oxford, is it not, Claude?’
‘Yes, my year of idleness will be over. And there is the Baron looking
at his watch.’
The ‘Baron’ was the title by which the young people were wont to
distinguish Mr. Mohun, who, as Lily believed, had a right to the title of
Baron of Beechcroft. It was certain that he was the representative of a
family which had been settled at Beechcroft ever since the Norman
Conquest, and Lily was very proud of the name of Sir William de Moune in
the battle roll, and of Sir John among the first Knights of the Garter.
Her favourite was Sir Maurice, who had held out Beechcroft Court for six
weeks against the Roundheads, and had seen the greater part of the walls
battered down. Witnesses of the strength of the old castle yet remained
in the massive walls and broad green ramparts, which enclosed what was
now orchard and farm-yard, and was called the Old Court, while the
dwelling-house, built by Sir Maurice after the Restoration, was named the
New Court. Sir Maurice had lost many an acre in the cause of King
Charles, and his new mansion was better suited to the honest squires who
succeeded him, than to the mighty barons his ancestors. It was
substantial and well built, with a square gravelled court in front, and
great, solid, folding gates opening into a lane, bordered with very tall
well-clipped holly hedges, forming a polished, green, prickly wall.
There was a little door in one of these gates, which was scarcely ever
shut, from whence a well-worn path led to the porch, where generally
reposed a huge Newfoundland dog, guardian of the hoops and walkingsticks
that occupied the corners. The front door was of heavy substantial oak,
studded with nails, and never closed in the daytime, and the hall,
wainscoted and floored with slippery oak, had a noble open fireplace,
with a wood fire burning on the hearth.
On the other side of the house was a terrace sloping down to a lawn and
bowling-green, hedged in by a formal row of evergreens. A noble
plane-tree was in the middle of the lawn, and beyond it a pond renowned
for water-lilies. To the left was the kitchen garden, terminating in an
orchard, planted on the ramparts and moat of the Old Court; then came the
farm buildings, and beyond them a field, sloping upwards to an extensive
wood called Beechcroft Park. In the wood was the cottage of Walter
Greenwood, gamekeeper and woodman by hereditary succession, but able and
willing to turn his hand to anything, and, in fact, as Adeline once
elegantly termed him, the ‘family tee totum.’
To the right of the house there was a field, called Long Acre, bounded on
the other side by the turnpike road to Raynham, which led up the hill to
the village green, surrounded by well-kept cottages and gardens. The
principal part of the village was, however, at the foot of the hill,
where the Court lane crossed the road, led to the old church, the school,
and parsonage, in its little garden, shut in by thick yew hedges. Beyond
was the blacksmith’s shop, more cottages, and Mrs. Appleton’s wondrous
village warehouse; and the lane, after passing by the handsome old
farmhouse of Mr. Harrington, Mr. Mohun’s principal tenant, led to a
bridge across a clear trout stream, the boundary of the parish of
Beechcroft.
CHAPTER III
THE NEW PRINCIPLE
‘And wilt thou show no more, quoth he,
Than doth thy duty bind?
I well perceive thy love is small.’
ON the Sunday evening which followed Eleanor’s wedding, Lilias was
sitting next to Emily, and talking in very earnest tones, which after a
time occasioned Claude to look up and say, ‘What is all this about?
Something remarkably absurd I suspect.’
‘Only a new principle,’ said Emily.
‘New!’ cried Lily, ‘only what must be the feeling of every person of any
warmth of character?’
‘Now for it then,’ said Claude.
‘No, no, Claude, I really mean it (and Lily sincerely thought she did).
I will not tell you if you are going to laugh.’
‘That depends upon what your principle may chance to be,’ said Claude.
‘What is it, Emily? She will be much obliged to you for telling.’
‘She only says she cannot bear people to do their duty, and not to act
from a feeling of love,’ said Emily.
‘That is not fair,’ returned Lily, ‘all I say is, that it is better that
people should act upon love for its own sake, than upon duty for its own
sake.’
‘What comes in rhyme with Lily?’ said Claude.
‘Don’t be tiresome, Claude, I really want you to understand me.’
‘Wait till you understand yourself,’ said the provoking brother, ‘and let
me finish what I am reading.’
For about a quarter of an hour he was left in peace, while Lily was
busily employed with a pencil and paper, under the shadow of a book, and
at length laid before him the following verses:—
‘What is the source of gentleness,
The spring of human blessedness,
Bringing the wounded spirit healing,
The comforts high of heaven revealing,
The lightener of each daily care,
The wing of hope, the life of prayer,
The zest of joy, the balm of sorrow,
Bliss of to-day, hope of to-morrow,
The glory of the sun’s bright beam,
The softness of the pale moon stream,
The flow’ret’s grace, the river’s voice,
The tune to which the birds rejoice;
Without it, vain each learned page,
Cold and unfelt each council sage,
Heavy and dull each human feature,
Lifeless and wretched every creature;
In which alone the glory lies,
Which value gives to sacrifice?
’Tis that which formed the whole creation,
Which rests on every generation.
Of Paradise the only token
Just left us, ’mid our treasures broken,
Which never can from us be riven,
Sure earnest of the joys of Heaven.
And which, when earth shall pass away,
Shall be our rest on the last day,
When tongues shall fail and knowledge cease,
And throbbing hearts be all at peace:
When faith is sight, and hope is sure,
That which alone shall still endure
Of earthly joys in heaven above,
’Tis that best gift, eternal Love!’
‘What have you there?’ said Mr. Mohun, who had come towards them while
Claude was reading the lines. Taking the paper from Claude’s hand, he
read it to himself, and then saying, ‘Tolerable, Lily; there are some
things to alter, but you may easily make it passable,’ he went on to his
own place, leaving Lilias triumphant.
‘Well, Claude, you see I have the great Baron on my side.’
‘I am of the Baron’s opinion,’ said Claude, ‘the only wonder is that you
doubted it.’
‘You seemed to say that love was good for nothing.’
‘I said nothing but that Lily has a rhyme.’
‘And saying that I was silly, was equivalent to saying that love was
nothing,’ said Lily.
‘O Lily, I hope not,’ said Claude, with a comical air.
‘Well, I know I often am foolish, but not in this,’ said Lily; ‘I do say
that mere duty is not lovable.’
‘Say it if you will then,’ said Claude, yawning, ‘only let me finish this
sermon.’
Lily set herself to reconsider some of her lines: but presently Emily
left the room, Claude looked up, and Lily exclaimed, ‘Now, Claude, let us
make a trial of it.’
‘Well,’ said Claude, yawning again, and looking resigned.
‘Think how Eleanor went on telling us of duty, duty, duty—never making
allowances—never relaxing her stiff rules about trifles—never unbending
from her duenna-like dignity—never showing one spark of enthusiasm—making
great sacrifices, but only because she thought them her duty—because it
was right—good for herself—only a higher kind of selfishness—not because
her feeling prompted her.’
‘Certainly, feeling does not usually prompt people to give up their
lovers for the sake of their brothers and sisters.’
‘She did it because it was her duty,’ said Lily, ‘quite as if she did not
care.’
‘I wonder whether Frank thought so,’ said Claude.
‘At any rate you will confess that Emily is a much more engaging person,’
said Lily.
‘Certainly, I had rather talk nonsense to her,’ said Claude.
‘You feel it, though you will not allow it,’ said Lily. ‘Now think of
Emily’s sympathy, and gentleness, and sweet smile, and tell me if she is
not a complete personification of love. And then Eleanor,
unpoetical—never thrown off her balance by grief or joy, with no ups and
downs—no enthusiasm—no appreciation of the beautiful—her highest praise
“very right,” and tell me if there can be a better image of duty.’
Claude might have had some chance of bringing Lily to her senses, if he
had allowed that there was some truth in what she had said; but he
thought the accusation so unjust in general, that he would not agree to
any part of it, and only answered, ‘You have very strange views of duty
and of Eleanor.’
‘Well!’ replied Lily, ‘I only ask you to watch; Emily and I are
determined to act on the principle of love, and you will see if her
government is not more successful than that of duty.’
Such was the principle upon which Lily intended her sister to govern the
household, and to which Emily listened without knowing what she meant
much better than she did herself. Emily’s own views, as far as she
possessed any, were to get on as smoothly as she could, and make
everybody pleased and happy, without much trouble to herself, and also to
make the establishment look a little more as if a Lady Emily had lately
been its mistress, than had been the case in Eleanor’s time. Mr. Mohun’s
property was good, but he wished to avoid unnecessary display and
expense, and he expected his daughters to follow out these views, keeping
a wise check upon Emily, by looking over her accounts every Saturday, and
turning a deaf ear when she talked of the age of the drawing-room carpet,
and the ugliness of the old chariot. Emily had a good deal on her hands,
requiring sense and activity, but Lilias and Jane were now quite old
enough to assist her. Lily however, thought fit to despise all household
affairs, and bestowed the chief of her attention on her own
department—the village school and poor people; and she was also much
engrossed by her music and drawing, her German and Italian, and her verse
writing.
Claude had more power over her than any one else. He was a gentle,
amiable boy, of high talent, but disposed to indolence by ill health. In
most matters he was, however, victorious over this propensity, which was
chiefly visible in his love of easy chairs, and his dislike of active
sports, which made him the especial companion of his sisters. A
dangerous illness had occasioned his removal from Eton, and he had since
been at home, reading with his cousin Mr. Devereux, and sharing his
sisters’ amusements.
Jane was in her own estimation an important member of the administration,
and in fact, was Emily’s chief assistant and deputy. She was very small
and trimly made, everything fitted her precisely, and she had tiny
dexterous fingers, and active little feet, on which she darted about
noiselessly and swiftly as an arrow; an oval brown face, bright colour,
straight features, and smooth dark hair, bright sparkling black eyes, a
little mouth, wearing an arch subdued smile, very white teeth, and
altogether the air of a woman in miniature. Brisk, bold, and blithe—ever
busy and ever restless, she was generally known by the names of Brownie
and Changeling, which were not inappropriate to her active and prying
disposition.
Excepting Claude and Emily, the young party were early risers, and Lily
especially had generally despatched a good deal of business before the
eight o’clock breakfast.
At nine they went to church, Mr. Devereux having restored the custom of
daily service, and after this, Mr. Mohun attended to his multitudinous
affairs; Claude went to the parsonage,—Emily to the storeroom, Lily to
the village, the younger girls to the schoolroom, where they were
presently joined by Emily. Lily remained in her own room till one
o’clock, when she joined the others in the schoolroom, and they read
aloud some book of history till two, the hour of dinner for the younger,
and of luncheon for the elder. They then went out, and on their return
from evening service, which began at half-past four, the little ones had
their lessons to learn, and the others were variously employed till
dinner, the time of which was rather uncertain but always late. The
evening passed pleasantly and quickly away in reading, work, music, and
chatter.
As Emily had expected, her first troubles were with Phyllis; called, not
the neat handed, by her sisters; Master Phyl, by her brothers; and Miss
Tomboy, by the maids. She seemed born to be a trial of patience to all
concerned with her; yet without many actual faults, except giddiness,
restlessness, and unrestrained spirits. In the drawing-room, schoolroom,
and nursery she was continually in scrapes, and so often reproved and
repentant, that her loud roaring fits of crying were amongst the ordinary
noises of the New Court. She was terribly awkward when under constraint,
or in learning any female accomplishment, but swift and ready when at her
ease, and glorying in the boyish achievements of leaping ditches and
climbing trees. Her voice was rather highly pitched, and she had an
inveterate habit of saying, ‘I’ll tell you what,’ at the beginning of all
her speeches. She was not tall, but strong, square, firm, and active;
she had a round merry face, a broad forehead, and large bright laughing
eyes, of a doubtful shade between gray and brown. Her mouth was wide,
her nose turned up, her complexion healthy, but not rosy, and her stiff
straight brown hair was more apt to hang over her eyes, than to remain in
its proper place behind her ears.
Adeline was very different; her fair and brilliant complexion, her deep
blue eyes and golden ringlets, made her a very lovely little creature;
her quietness was a relief after her sister’s boisterous merriment, and
her dislike of dirt and brambles, continually contrasted with poor
Phyllis’s recklessness of such impediments. Ada readily learnt lessons,
which cost Phyllis and her teacher hours of toil; Ada worked deftly when
Phyllis’s stiff fingers never willingly touched a needle; Ada played with
a doll, drew on scraps of paper, or put up dissected maps, while Phyllis
was in mischief or in the way. A book was the only chance of interesting
her; but very few books took her fancy enough to occupy her long;—those
few, however, she read over and over again, and when unusual tranquillity
reigned in the drawing-room, she was sure to be found curled up at the
top of the library steps, reading one of three books—_Robinson Crusoe_,
_Little Jack_, or _German Popular Tales_. Then Emily blamed her
ungraceful position, Jane laughed at her uniform taste, and Lily proposed
some story about modern children, such as Phyllis never could like, and
the constant speech was repeated, ‘Only look at Ada!’ till Phyllis
considered her sister as a perfect model, and sighed over her own
naughtiness.
_German Popular Tales_ were a recent introduction of Claude’s, for
Eleanor had carefully excluded all fairy tales from her sisters’ library;
so great was her dread of works of fiction, that Emily and Lilias had
never been allowed to read any of the Waverley Novels, excepting _Guy
Mannering_, which their brother Henry had insisted upon reading aloud to
them the last time he was at home, and that had taken so strong a hold on
their imagination, that Eleanor was quite alarmed.
One day Mr. Mohun chanced to refer to some passage in _Waverley_, and on
finding that his daughters did not understand him, he expressed great
surprise at their want of taste.
Poor things,’ said Claude, ‘they cannot help it; do not you know that
Eleanor thinks the Waverley Novels a sort of slow poison? They know no
more of them than their outsides.’
‘Well, the sooner they know the inside the better.’
‘Then may we really read them, papa?’ cried Lily.
‘And welcome,’ said her father.
This permission once given, the young ladies had no idea of moderation;
Lily’s heart and soul were wrapped up in whatever tale she chanced to be
reading—she talked of little else, she neglected her daily occupations,
and was in a kind of trance for about three weeks. At length she was
recalled to her senses by her father’s asking her why she had shown him
no drawings lately. Lily hesitated for a moment, and then said, ‘Papa, I
am sorry I was so idle.’
‘Take care,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘let us be able to give a good account of
ourselves when Eleanor comes.’
‘I am afraid, papa,’ said Lily, ‘the truth is, that my head has been so
full of _Woodstock_ for the last few days, that I could do nothing.’
‘And before that?’
‘_The Bride of Lammermoor_.’
‘And last week?’
‘_Waverley_. Oh! papa, I am afraid you must be very angry with me.’
‘No, no, Lily, not yet,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I do not think you quite knew
what an intoxicating draught you had got hold of; I should have cautioned
you. Your negligence has not yet been a serious fault, though remember,
that it becomes so after warning.’
‘Then,’ said Lily, ‘I will just finish _Peveril_ at once, and get it out
of my head, and then read no more of the dear books,’ and she gave a deep
sigh.
‘Lily would take the temperance pledge, on condition that she might
finish her bottle at a draught,’ said Mr. Mohun.
Lily laughed, and looked down, feeling quite unable to offer to give up
_Peveril_ before she had finished it, but her father relieved her, by
saying in his kind voice, ‘No, no, Lily, take my advice, read those
books, for most of them are very good reading, and very pretty reading,
and very useful reading, and you can hardly be called a well-educated
person if you do not know them; but read them only after the duties of
the day are done—make them your pleasure, but do not make yourself their
slave.’
‘Lily,’ said Claude the next morning, as he saw her prepare her
drawing-desk, ‘why are you not reading _Peveril_?’
‘You know what papa said yesterday,’ was the answer.
‘Oh! but I thought your feelings were with poor Julian in the Tower,’
said Claude.
‘My feelings prompt me to sacrifice my pleasure in reading about him to
please papa, after he spoke so kindly.’
‘If that is always the effect of your principle, I shall think better of
it,’ said Claude.
Lily, whether from her new principle, or her old habits of obedience,
never ventured to touch one of her tempters till after five o’clock, but,
as she was a very rapid reader, she generally contrived to devour more
than a sufficient quantity every evening, so that she did not enjoy them
as much as she would, had she been less voracious in her appetite, and
they made her complain grievously of the dulness of the latter part of
Russell’s _Modern Europe_, which was being read in the schoolroom, and
yawn nearly as much as Phyllis over the ‘Pragmatic Sanction.’ However,
when that book was concluded, and they began Palgrave’s _Anglo Saxons_,
Lily was seized within a sudden historical fever. She could hardly wait
till one o’clock, before she settled herself at the schoolroom table with
her work, and summoned every one, however occupied, to listen to the
reading.
CHAPTER IV
HONEST PHYL
‘Multiplication
Is a vexation.’
IT was a bright and beautiful afternoon in March, the song of the
blackbird and thrush, and the loud chirp of the titmouse, came merrily
through the schoolroom window, mixed with the sounds of happy voices in
the garden; the western sun shone brightly in, and tinged the white
wainscoted wall with yellow light; the cat sat in the window-seat,
winking at the sun, and sleepily whisking her tail for the amusement of
her kitten, which was darting to and fro, and patting her on the head, in
the hope of rousing her to some more active sport.
But in the midst of all these joyous sights and sounds, was heard a
dolorous voice repeating, ‘three and four are—three and four are—oh dear!
they are—seven, no, but I do not think it is a four after all, is it not
a one? Oh dear!’ And on the floor lay Phyllis, her back to the window,
kicking her feet slowly up and down, and yawning and groaning over her
slate.
Presently the door opened, and Claude looked in, and very nearly departed
again instantly, for Phyllis at that moment made a horrible squeaking
with her slate-pencil, the sound above all others that he disliked. He,
however, stopped, and asked where Emily was.
‘Out in the garden,’ answered Phyllis, with a tremendous yawn.
‘What are you doing here, looking so piteous?’ said Claude.
‘My sum,’ said Phyllis.
‘Is this your time of day for arithmetic?’ asked he.
‘No,’ said Phyllis, ‘only I had not done it by one o’clock to-day, and
Lily said I must finish after learning my lessons for to-morrow, but I do
not think I shall ever have done, it is so hard. Oh!’ (another stretch
and a yawn, verging on a howl), ‘and Jane and Ada are sowing the
flower-seeds. Oh dear! Oh dear!’ and Phyllis’s face contracted, in
readiness to cry.
‘And is that the best position for doing sums?’ said Claude.
‘I was obliged to lie down here to get out of the way of Ada’s sum,’ said
Phyllis, getting up.
‘Get out of the way of Ada’s sum?’ repeated Claude.
‘Yes, she left it on the table where I was sitting, where I could see it,
and it is this very one, so I must not look at it; I wish I could do sums
as fast as she can.’
‘Could you not have turned the other side of the slate upwards?’ said
Claude, smiling.
‘So I could!’ said Phyllis, as if a new light had broken in upon her.
‘But then I wanted to be out of sight of pussy, for I could not think a
bit, while the kitten was at play so prettily, and I kicked my heels to
keep from hearing the voices in the garden, for it does make me so
unhappy!’
Some good-natured brothers would have told the little girl not to mind,
and sent her out to enjoy herself, but Claude respected Phyllis’s honesty
too much to do so, and he said, ‘Well, Phyl, let me see the sum, and we
will try if we cannot conquer it between us.’
Phyllis’s face cleared up in an instant, as she brought the slate to her
brother.
‘What is this?’ said he; ‘I do not understand.’
‘Compound Addition,’ said Phyllis, ‘I did one with Emily yesterday, and
this is the second.’
‘Oh! these are marks between the pounds, shillings, and pence,’ said
Claude, ‘I took them for elevens; well, I do not wonder at your troubles,
I could not do this sum as it is set.’
‘Could not you, indeed?’ cried Phyllis, quite delighted.
‘No, indeed,’ said Claude. ‘Suppose we set it again, more clearly; but
how is this? When I was in the schoolroom we always had a sponge
fastened to the slate.’
‘Yes,’ said Phyllis, ‘I had one before Eleanor went, but my string broke,
and I lost it, and Emily always forgets to give me another. I will run
and wash the slate in the nursery; but how shall we know what the sum
is?’
‘Why, I suppose I may look at Ada’s slate, though you must not,’ said
Claude, laughing to himself at poor little honest simplicity, as he
applied himself to cut a new point to her very stumpy slate-pencil, and
she scampered away, and returned in a moment with her clean slate.
‘Oh, how nice and fresh it all looks!’ said she as he set down the clear
large figures. ‘I cannot think how you can do it so evenly.’
‘Now, Phyl, do not let the pencil scream if you can help it.’
Claude found that Phyllis’s great difficulty was with the farthings. She
could not understand the fractional figures, and only knew thus far, that
‘Emily said it never meant four.’
Claude began explaining, but his first attempt was far too scientific.
Phyllis gave a desponding sigh, looking so mystified, that he began to
believe that she was hopelessly dull, and to repent of having offered to
help her; but at last, by means of dividing a card into four pieces, he
succeeded in making her comprehend him, and her eyes grew bright with the
pleasure of understanding.
Even then the difficulties were not conquered, her addition was very
slow, and dividing by twelve and twenty seemed endless work; at length
the last figure of the pounds was set down, the slate was compared with
Adeline’s, and the sum pronounced to be right. Phyllis capered up to the
kitten and tossed it up in the air in her joy, then coming slowly back to
her brother, she said with a strange, awkward air, hanging down her head,
‘Claude, I’ll tell you what—’
‘Well, what?’ said Claude.
‘I should like to kiss you.’
Then away she bounded, clattered down stairs, and flew across the lawn to
tell every one she met that Claude had helped her to do her sum, and that
it was quite right.
‘Did you expect that it would be too hard for him, Phyl?’ said Jane,
laughing.
‘No,’ said Phyllis, ‘but he said he could not do it as it was set.’
‘And whose fault was that?’ said Jane.
‘Oh! but he showed me how to set it better,’ said Phyllis, ‘and he said
that when he learnt the beginning of fractions, he thought them as hard
as I do.’
‘Fractions!’ said Jane, ‘you do not fancy you have come to fractions yet!
Fine work you will make of them when you do!’
In the evening, as soon as the children were gone to bed, Jane took a
paper out of her work-basket, saying, ‘There, Emily, is my account of
Phyl’s scrapes through this whole week; I told you I should write them
all down.’
‘How kind!’ muttered Claude.
Regardless of her brother, who had not looked up from his book, Jane
began reading her list of poor Phyllis’s misadventures. ‘On Monday she
tore her frock by climbing a laurel-tree, to look at a blackbird’s nest.’
‘I gave her leave,’ said Emily. ‘Rachel had ordered her not to climb;
and she was crying because she could not see the nest that Wat Greenwood
had found.’
‘On Tuesday she cried over her French grammar, and tore a leaf out of the
old spelling-book.’
‘That was nearly out before,’ said Emily, ‘Maurice and Redgie spoilt that
long ago.’
‘I do not know of anything on Wednesday, but on Thursday she threw Ada
down the steps out of the nursery.’
‘Oh! that accounts for the dreadful screaming that I heard,’ said Claude;
‘I forgot to ask the meaning of it.’
‘I am sure it was Phyl that was the most dismayed, and cried the
loudest,’ said Lily.
‘That she always does,’ said Jane. ‘On Friday we had an uproar in the
schoolroom about her hemming, and on Saturday she tumbled into a wet
ditch, and tore her bonnet in the brambles; on Sunday, she twisted her
ancles together at church.’
‘Well, there I did chance to observe her,’ said Lily, ‘there seemed to be
a constant struggle between her ancles and herself, they were continually
coming lovingly together, but were separated the next moment.’
‘And to-day this sum,’ said Jane; ‘seven scrapes in one week! I really
am of opinion, as Rachel says when she is angry, that school is the best
place for her.’
‘I think so too,’ said Claude.
‘I do not know,’ said Emily, ‘she is very troublesome, but—’
‘Oh, Claude!’ cried Lily, ‘you do not mean that you would have that poor
dear merry Master Phyl sent to school, she would pine away like a wild
bird in a cage; but papa will never think of such a thing.’
‘If I thought of her being sent to school,’ said Claude, ‘it would be to
shield her from—the rule of love.’
‘Oh! you think we are too indulgent,’ said Emily; ‘perhaps we are, but
you know we cannot torment a poor child all day long.’
‘If you call the way you treat her indulgent, I should like to know what
you call severe.’
‘What do you mean, Claude?’ said Emily.
‘I call your indulgence something like the tender mercies of the wicked,’
said Claude. ‘On a fine day, when every one is taking their pleasure in
the garden, to shut an unhappy child up in the schoolroom, with a hard
sum that you have not taken the trouble to teach her how to do, and late
in the day, when no one’s head is clear for difficult arithmetic—’
‘Hard sum do you call it?’ said Jane.
‘Indeed I explained it to her,’ said Emily.
‘And well she understood you,’ said Claude.
‘She might have learnt if she had attended,’ said Emily; ‘Ada understood
clearly, with the same explanation.’
‘And do not you be too proud of the effect of your instructions, Claude,’
said Jane, ‘for when honest Phyl came into the garden, she did not know
farthings from fractions.’
‘And pray, Mrs. Senior Wrangler,’ said Claude, ‘will you tell me where is
the difference between a half-penny and half a penny?’
After a good laugh at Jane’s expense, Emily went on, ‘Now, Claude, I will
tell you how it happened; Phyllis is so slow, and dawdles over her
lessons so long, that it is quite a labour to hear her; Ada is quick
enough, but if you were to hear Phyllis say one column of spelling, you
would know what misery is. Then before she has half finished, the clock
strikes one, it is time to read, and the lessons are put off till the
afternoon. I certainly did not know that she was about her sum all that
time, or I would have sent her out as I did on Saturday.’
‘And the reading at one is as fixed as fate,’ said Claude.
‘Oh, no!’ said Jane, ‘when we were about old “Russell,” we did not begin
till nearly two, but since we have been reading this book, Lily will
never let us rest till we begin; she walks up and down, and hurries and
worries and—’
‘Yes,’ said Emily, in a murmuring voice, ‘we should do better if Lily
would not make such a point of that one thing; but she never minds what
else is cut short, and she never thinks of helping me. It never seems to
enter her head how much I have on my hands, and no one does anything to
help me.’
‘Oh, Emily! you never asked me,’ said Lily.
‘I knew you would not like it,’ said Emily. ‘No, it is not my way to
complain, people may see how to help me if they choose to do it.’
‘Lily, Lily, take care,’ said Claude, in a low voice; ‘is not the rule
you admire, the rule of love of yourself?’
‘Oh, Claude!’ returned Lily, ‘do not say so, you know it was Emily that I
called an example of it, not myself, and see how forbearing she has been.
Now I see that I am really wanted, I will help. It must be love, not
duty, that calls me to the schoolroom, for no one ever said that was my
province.’
‘Poor duty! you give it a very narrow boundary.’
Lilias, who, to say the truth, had been made more careful of her own
conduct, by the wish to establish her principle, really betook herself to
the schoolroom for an hour every morning, with a desire to be useful.
She thought she did great things in undertaking those tasks of Phyllis’s
which Emily most disliked. But Lilias was neither patient nor humble
enough to be a good teacher, though she could explain difficult rules in
a sensible way. She could not, or would not, understand the difference
between dulness and inattention; her sharp hasty manner would frighten
away all her pupil’s powers of comprehension; she sometimes fell into the
great error of scolding, when Phyllis was doing her best, and the poor
child’s tears flowed more frequently than ever.
Emily’s gentle manner made her instructions far more agreeable, though
she was often neither clear nor correct in her explanations; she was
contented if the lessons were droned through in any manner, so long as
she could say they were done; she disliked a disturbance, and overlooked
or half corrected mistakes rather than cause a cry. Phyllis naturally
preferred being taught by her, and Lily was vexed and unwilling to
persevere. She went to the schoolroom expecting to be annoyed, created
vexation for herself, and taught in anything but a loving spirit. Still,
however, the thought of Claude, and the wish to do more than her duty,
kept her constant to her promise, and her love of seeing things well done
was useful, though sadly counterbalanced by her deficiency in temper and
patience.
CHAPTER V
VILLAGE GOSSIP
‘The deeds we do, the words we say,
Into still air they seem to fleet;
We count them past,
But they shall last.’
SOON after Easter, Claude went to Oxford. He was much missed by his
sisters, who wanted him to carve for them at luncheon, to escort them
when they rode or walked, to hear their music, talk over their books,
advise respecting their drawings, and criticise Lily’s verses. A new
subject of interest was, however, arising for them in the neighbours who
were shortly expected to arrive at Broom Hill, a house which had lately
been built in a hamlet about a mile and a half from the New Court.
These new comers were the family of a barrister of the name of Weston,
who had taken the house for the sake of his wife, her health having been
much injured by her grief at the loss of two daughters in the scarlet
fever. Two still remained, a grown-up young lady, and a girl of eleven
years old, and the Miss Mohuns learnt with great delight that they should
have near neighbours of their own age. They had never had any young
companions as young ladies were scarce among their acquaintance, and they
had not seen their cousin, Lady Florence Devereux, since they were
children.
It was with great satisfaction that Emily and Lilias set out with their
father to make the first visit, and they augured well from their first
sight of Mrs. Weston and her daughters. Mrs. Weston was alone, her
daughters being out walking, and Lily spent the greater part of the visit
in silence, though her mind was made up in the first ten minutes, as she
told Emily on leaving the house, ‘that Miss Weston’s tastes were in
complete accordance with her own.’
‘Rapid judgment,’ said Emily. ‘Love before first sight. But Mrs. Weston
is a very sweet person.’
‘And, Emily, did you see the music-book open at “Angels ever bright and
fair?” If Miss Weston sings that as I imagine it!’
‘How could you see what was in the music-book at the other end of the
room? I only saw it was a beautiful piano. And what handsome furniture!
it made me doubly ashamed of our faded carpet and chairs, almost as old
as the house itself.’
‘Emily!’ said Lily, in her most earnest tones, ‘I would not change one of
those dear old chairs for a king’s ransom!’
The visit was in a short time returned, and though it was but a formal
morning call, Lilias found her bright expectations realised by the
sweetness of Alethea Weston’s manners, and the next time they met it was
a determined thing in her mind that, as Claude would have said, they had
sworn an eternal friendship.
She had the pleasure of lionising the two sisters over the Old Court,
telling all she knew and all she imagined about the siege, Sir Maurice
Mohun, and his faithful servant, Walter Greenwood. ‘Miss Weston,’ said
she in conclusion, ‘have you read _Old Mortality_?’
‘Yes,’ said Alethea, amused at the question.
‘Because they say I am as bad as Lady Margaret about the king’s visit.’
‘I have not heard the story often enough to think so,’ said Miss Weston,
‘I will warn you if I do.’
In the meantime Phyllis and Adeline were equally charmed with Marianne,
though shocked at her ignorance of country manners, and, indeed, Alethea
was quite diverted with Lily’s pity at the discovery that she had never
before been in the country in the spring. ‘What,’ she cried, ‘have you
never seen the tufts of red on the hazel, nor the fragrant golden palms,
and never heard the blackbird rush twittering out of the hedge, nor the
first nightingale’s note, nor the nightjar’s low chirr, nor the
chattering of the rooks? O what a store of sweet memories you have lost!
Why, how can you understand the beginning of the Allegro?’
Both the Miss Westons had so much pleasure in making acquaintance with
‘these delights,’ as quite to compensate for their former ignorance, and
soon the New Court rang with their praises. Mr. Mohun thought very
highly of the whole family, and rejoiced in such society for his
daughters, and they speedily became so well acquainted, that it was the
ordinary custom of the Westons to take luncheon at the New Court on
Sunday. On her side, however, Alethea Weston felt some reluctance to
become intimate with the young ladies of the New Court. She was pleased
with Emily’s manners, interested by Lily’s earnestness and simplicity,
and thought Jane a clever and amusing little creature, but even their
engaging qualities gave her pain, by reminding her of the sisters she had
lost, or by making her think how they would have liked them. A country
house and neighbours like these had been the objects of many visions of
their childhood, and now all the sweet sights and sounds around her only
made her think how she should have enjoyed them a year ago. She felt
almost jealous of Marianne’s liking for her new friends, lest they should
steal her heart from Emma and Lucy; but knowing that these were morbid
and unthankful feelings, she struggled against them, and though she
missed her sisters even more than when her mother and Marianne were in
greater need of her attention, she let no sign of her sorrowful feeling
appear, and seeing that Marianne was benefited in health and spirits, by
intercourse with young companions, she gave no hint of her disinclination
to join in the walks and other amusements of the Miss Mohuns.
She also began to take interest in the poor people. By Mrs. Weston’s
request, Mr. Devereux had pointed out the families which were most in
need of assistance, and Alethea made it her business to find out the best
way of helping them. She visited the village school with Lilias, and
when requested by her and by the Rector to give her aid in teaching, she
did not like to refuse what might be a duty, though she felt very
diffident of her powers of instruction. Marianne, like Phyllis and
Adeline, became a Sunday scholar, and was catechised with the others in
church. Both Mr. Mohun and his nephew thought very highly of the family,
and the latter was particularly glad that Lily should have some older
person to assist her in those parish matters which he left partly in her
charge.
Mr. Devereux had been Rector of Beechcroft about a year and a half, and
had hitherto been much liked. His parishioners had known him from a boy,
and were interested about him, and though very young, there was something
about him that gained their respect. Almost all his plans were going on
well, and things were, on the whole, in a satisfactory state, though no
one but Lilias expected even Cousin Robert to make a Dreamland of
Beechcroft, and there were days when he looked worn and anxious, and the
girls suspected that some one was behaving ill.
‘Have you a headache, Robert?’ asked Emily, a few evenings before
Whit-Sunday, ‘you have not spoken three words this evening.’
‘Not at all, thank you,’ said Mr. Devereux, smiling, ‘you need not think
to make me your victim, now you have no Claude to nurse.’
‘Then if it is not bodily, it is mental,’ said Lily.
‘I am in a difficulty about the christening of Mrs. Naylor’s child.’
‘Naylor the blacksmith?’ said Jane. ‘I thought it was high time for it
to be christened. It must be six weeks old.’
‘Is it not to be on Whit-Sunday?’ said Lily, disconsolately.
‘Oh no! Mrs. Naylor will not hear of bringing the child on a Sunday, and
I could hardly make her think it possible to bring it on Whit-Tuesday.’
‘Why did you not insist?’ said Lily.
‘Perhaps I might, if there was no other holy day at hand, or if there was
not another difficulty, a point on which I cannot give way.’
‘Oh! the godfathers and godmothers,’ said Lily, ‘does she want that
charming brother of hers, Edward Gage?’
‘Yes, and what is worse, Edward Gage’s dissenting wife, and Dick Rodd,
who shows less sense of religion than any one in the parish, and has
never been confirmed.’
‘Could you make them hear reason?’
‘They were inclined to be rather impertinent,’ said Mr. Devereux. ‘Old
Mrs. Gage—’
‘Oh!’ interrupted Jane, ‘there is no hope for you if the sour Gage is in
the pie.’
‘The sour Gage told me people were not so particular in her younger days,
and perhaps they should not have the child christened at all, since I was
such a _contrary_ gentleman. Tom Naylor was not at home, I am to see him
to-morrow.’
‘Well, I do not think Tom Naylor is as bad as the rest,’ said Lily; ‘he
would have been tolerable, if he had married any one but Martha Gage.’
‘Yes, he is an open good-natured fellow, and I have hopes of making an
impression on him.’
‘If not,’ said Lily, ‘I hope papa will take away his custom.’
‘What?’ said Mr. Mohun, who always heard any mention of himself. Mr.
Devereux repeated his history, and discussed the matter with his uncle,
only once interrupted by an inquiry from Jane about the child’s name, a
point on which she could gain no intelligence. His report the next day
was not decidedly unfavourable, though he scarcely hoped the christening
would be so soon as Tuesday. He had not seen the father, and suspected
he had purposely kept out of the way.
Jane, disappointed that the baby’s name remained a mystery, resolved to
set out on a voyage of discovery. Accordingly, as soon as her cousin was
gone, she asked Emily if she had not been saying that Ada wanted some
more cotton for her sampler.
‘Yes,’ said Emily, ‘but I am not going to walk all the way to Mrs.
Appleton’s this afternoon.’
‘Shall I go?’ said Jane. ‘Ada, run and fetch your pattern.’ Emily and
Ada were much obliged by Jane’s disinterested offer, and in a quarter of
an hour Ada’s thoughts and hands were busy in Mrs. Appleton’s drawer of
many-coloured cotton.
‘What a pity this is about Mrs. Naylor’s baby,’ began Jane.
‘It is a sad story indeed, Miss Jane, I am sure it must be grievous to
Mr. Devereux,’ said Mrs. Appleton. ‘Betsy Wall said he had been there
three times about it.’
‘Ah! we all know that Walls have ears,’ said Jane; ‘how that Betsy does
run about gossiping!’
‘Yes, Miss Jane, there she bides all day long at the stile gaping; not a
stitch does she do for her mother; I cannot tell what is to be the end of
it.’
‘And do you know what the child’s name is to be, Mrs. Appleton?’
‘No, Miss Jane,’ answered Mrs. Appleton. ‘Betsy did say they talked of
naming him after his uncle, Edward Gage, only Mr. Devereux would not let
him stand.’
‘No,’ said Jane. ‘Since he married that dissenting wife he never comes
near the church; he is too much like the sour Gage, as we call his
mother, to be good for much. But, after all, he is not so bad as Dick
Rodd, who has never been confirmed, and has never shown any sense of
religion in his life.’
‘Yes, Miss, Dick Rodd is a sad fellow: did you hear what a row there was
at the Mohun Arms last week, Miss Jane?’
‘Aye,’ said Jane, ‘and papa says he shall certainly turn Dick Rodd out of
the house as soon as the lease is out, and it is only till next
Michaelmas twelve-months.’
‘Yes, Miss, as I said to Betsy Wall, it would be more for their interest
to behave well.’
‘Indeed it would,’ said Jane. ‘Robert and papa were talking of having
their horses shod at Stoney Bridge, if Tom Naylor will be so obstinate,
only papa does not like to give Tom up if he can help it, because his
father was so good, and Tom would not be half so bad if he had not
married one of the Gages.’
‘Here is Cousin Robert coming down the lane,’ said Ada, who had chosen
her cotton, and was gazing from the door. Jane gave a violent start,
took a hurried leave of Mrs. Appleton, and set out towards home; she
could not avoid meeting her cousin.
‘Oh, Jenny! have you been enjoying a gossip with your great ally?’ said
he.
‘We have only been buying pink cotton,’ said Ada, whose conscience was
clear.
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Devereux, ‘Beechcroft affairs would soon stand still,
without those useful people, Mrs. Appleton, Miss Wall, and Miss Jane
Mohun,’ and he passed on. Jane felt her face colouring, his freedom from
suspicion made her feel very guilty, but the matter soon passed out of
her mind.
Blithe Whit-Sunday came, the five Miss Mohuns appeared in white frocks,
new bonnets were plenty, the white tippets of the children, and the
bright shawls of the mothers, made the village look gay; Wat Greenwood
stuck a pink between his lips, and the green boughs of hazel and birch
decked the dark oak carvings in the church.
And Whit-Monday came. At half-past ten the rude music of the band of the
Friendly Society came pealing from the top of the hill, then appeared two
tall flags, crowned with guelder roses and peonies, then the great blue
drum, the clarionet blown by red-waist-coated and red-faced Mr. Appleton,
the three flutes and the triangle, all at their loudest, causing some of
the spectators to start, and others to dance. Then behold the whole
procession of labourers, in white round frocks, blue ribbons in their
hats, and tall blue staves in their hands. In the rear, the confused
mob, women and children, cheerful faces and mirthful sounds everywhere.
These were hushed as the flags were lowered to pass under the low-roofed
gateway of the churchyard, and all was still, except the trampling of
feet on the stone floor. Then the service began, the responses were made
in full and hearty tones, almost running into a chant, the old 133rd
Psalm was sung as loudly and as badly as usual, a very short but very
earnest sermon was preached, and forth came the troop again.
Mr. Devereux always dined with the club in a tent, at the top of the
hill, but his uncle made him promise to come to a second dinner at the
New Court in the evening.
‘Robert looks anxious,’ said Lily, as she parted with him after the
evening service; ‘I am afraid something is going wrong.’
‘Trust me for finding out what it is,’ said Jane.
‘No, no, Jenny, do not ask him,’ said Lily; ‘if he tells us to relieve
his mind, I am very glad he should make friends of us, but do not ask.
Let us talk of other things to put it out of his head, whatever it may
be.’
Jane soon heard more of the cause of the depression of her cousin’s
spirits than even she had any desire to do. After dinner, the girls were
walking in the garden, enjoying the warmth of the evening, when Mr.
Devereux came up to her and drew her aside from the rest, telling her
that he wished to speak to her.
‘Oh!’ said Jane, ‘when am I to meet you at school again? You never told
me which chapter I was to prepare; I cannot think what would become of
your examinations if it was not for me, you could not get an answer to
one question in three.’
‘That was not what I wished to speak to you about,’ said Mr. Devereux.
‘What had you been saying to Mrs. Appleton when I met you at her door on
Saturday?’
The colour rushed into Jane’s cheeks, but she replied without hesitation,
‘Oh! different things, _La pluie et le beau temps_, just as usual.’
‘Cannot you remember anything more distinctly?’
‘I always make a point of forgetting what I talk about,’ said Jane,
trying to laugh.
‘Now, Jane, let me tell you what has happened in the village—as I came
down the hill from the club-dinner—’
‘Oh,’ said Jane, hoping to make a diversion, ‘Wat Greenwood came back
about a quarter of an hour ago, and he—’
Mr. Devereux proceeded without attending to her, ‘As I came down the hill
from the club-dinner, old Mrs. Gage came out of Naylor’s house, and her
daughter with her, in great anger, calling me to account for having
spoken of her in a most unbecoming way, calling her the sour Gage, and
trying to set the Squire against them.’
‘Oh, that abominable chattering woman!’ Jane exclaimed; ‘and Betsy Wall
too, I saw her all alive about something. What a nuisance such people
are!’
‘In short,’ said Mr. Devereux, ‘I heard an exaggerated account of all
that passed here on the subject the other day. Now, Jane, am I doing you
any injustice in thinking that it must have been through you that this
history went abroad into the village?’
‘Well,’ said Jane, ‘I am sure you never told us that it was any secret.
When a story is openly told to half a dozen people they cannot be
expected to keep it to themselves.’
‘I spoke uncharitably and incautiously,’ said he, ‘I am willing to
confess, but it is nevertheless my duty to set before you the great
matter that this little fire has kindled.’
‘Why, it cannot have done any great harm, can it?’ asked Jane, the
agitation of her voice and laugh betraying that she was not quite so
careless as she wished to appear. ‘Only the sour Gage will ferment a
little.’
‘Oh, Jane! I did not expect that you would treat this matter so
lightly.’
‘But tell me, what harm has it done?’ asked she.
‘Do you consider it nothing that the poor child should remain unbaptized,
that discord should be brought into the parish, that anger should be on
the conscience of your neighbour, that he should be driven from the
church?’
‘Is it as bad as that?’ said Jane.
‘We do not yet see the full extent of the mischief our idle words may
have done,’ said Mr. Devereux.
‘But it is their own fault, if they will do wrong,’ said Jane; ‘they
ought not to be in a rage, we said nothing but the truth.’
‘I wish I was clear of the sin,’ said her cousin.
‘And after all,’ said Jane, ‘I cannot see that I was much to blame; I
only talked to Mrs. Appleton, as I have done scores of times, and no one
minded it. You only laughed at me on Saturday, and papa and Eleanor
never scolded me.’
‘You cannot say that no one has ever tried to check you,’ said the
Rector.
‘And how was I to know that that mischief-maker would repeat it?’ said
Jane.
‘I do not mean to say,’ said Mr. Devereux, ‘that you actually committed a
greater sin than you may often have done, by talking in a way which you
knew would displease your father. I know we are too apt to treat lightly
the beginnings of evil, until some sudden sting makes us feel what a
serpent we have been fostering. Think this a warning, pray that the evil
we dread may be averted; but should it ensue, consider it as a punishment
sent in mercy. It will be better for you not to come to school
to-morrow; instead of the references you were to have looked out, I had
rather you read over in a humble spirit the Epistle of St. James.’
Jane’s tears by this time were flowing fast, and finding that she no
longer attempted to defend herself, her cousin said no more. He joined
the others, and Jane, escaping to her own room, gave way to a passionate
fit of crying. Whether her tears were of true sorrow or of anger she
could not have told herself; she was still sobbing on her bed when the
darkness came on, and her two little sisters came in on their way to bed
to wish her good-night.
‘Oh, Jane, Jane! what is the matter? have you been naughty?’ asked the
little girls in great amazement.
‘Never mind,’ said Jane, shortly; ‘good-night,’ and she sat up and wiped
away her tears. The children still lingered. ‘Go away, do,’ said she.
‘Is Robert gone?’
‘No,’ said Phyllis, ‘he is reading the newspaper.’
Phyllis and Adeline left the room, and Jane walked up and down,
considering whether she should venture to go down to tea; perhaps her
cousin had waited till the little girls had gone before he spoke to Mr.
Mohun, or perhaps her red eyes might cause questions on her troubles; she
was still in doubt when Lily opened the door, a lamp in her hand.
‘My dear Jenny, are you here? Ada told me you were crying, what is the
matter?’
‘Then you have not heard?’ said Jane.
‘Only Robert began just now, “Poor Jenny, she has been the cause of
getting us into a very awkward scrape,” but then Ada came to tell me
about you, and I came away.’
‘Yes,’ said Jane, angrily, ‘he will throw all the blame upon me, when I
am sure it was quite as much the fault of that horrible Mrs. Appleton,
and papa will be as angry as possible.’
‘But what has happened?’ asked Lily.
‘Oh! that chatterer, that worst of gossipers, has gone and told the
Naylors and Mrs. Gage all we said about them the other day.’
‘So you told Mrs. Appleton?’ said Lily; ‘so that was the reason you were
so obliging about the marking thread. Oh, Jane, you had better say no
more about Mrs. Appleton! And has it done much mischief?’
‘Oh! Mrs. Gage “pitched” into Robert, as Wat Greenwood would say, and
the christening is off again.’
‘Jane, this is frightful,’ said Lily; ‘I do not wonder that you are
unhappy.’
‘Well, I daresay it will all come right again,’ said Jane; ‘there will
only be a little delay, papa and Robert will bring them to their senses
in time.’
‘Suppose the baby was to die,’ said Lily.
‘Oh, it will not die,’ said Jane, ‘a great fat healthy thing like that
likely to die indeed!’
‘I cannot make you out, Jane,’ said Lily. ‘If I had done such a thing, I
do not think I could have a happy minute till it was set right.’
‘Well, I told you I was very sorry,’ said Jane, ‘only I wish they would
not all be so hard upon me. Robert owns that he should not have said
such things if he did not wish them to be repeated.’
‘Does he?’ cried Lily. ‘How exactly like Robert that is, to own himself
in fault when he is obliged to blame others. Jane, how could you hear
him say such things and not be overcome with shame? And then to turn it
against him! Oh, Jane, I do not think I can talk to you any more.’
‘I do not mean to say it was not very good of him,’ said Jane.
‘Good of him—what a word!’ cried Lily. ‘Well, good-night, I cannot bear
to talk to you now. Shall I say anything for you downstairs?’
‘Oh, tell papa and Robert I am very sorry,’ said Jane. ‘I shall not come
down again, you may leave the lamp.’
On her way downstairs in the dark Lilias was led, by the example of her
cousin, to reflect that she was not without some share in the mischief
that had been done; the words which report imputed to Mr. Devereux were
mostly her own or Jane’s. There was no want of candour in Lily, and as
soon as she entered the drawing-room she went straight up to her father
and cousin, and began, ‘Poor Jenny is very unhappy; she desired me to
tell you how sorry she is. But I really believe that I did the mischief,
Robert. It was I who said those foolish things that were repeated as if
you had said them. It is a grievous affair, but who could have thought
that we were doing so much harm?’
‘Perhaps it may not do any,’ said Emily. ‘The Naylors have a great deal
of good about them.’
‘They must have more than I suppose, if they can endure what Robert is
reported to have said of them,’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘What did you say, Robert,’ said Lily, ‘did you not tell them all was
said by your foolish young cousins?’
‘I agreed with you too much to venture on contradicting the report; you
know I could not even deny having called Mrs. Gage by that name.’
‘Oh, if I could do anything to mend it!’ cried Lily.
But wishes had no effect. Lilias and Jane had to mourn over the full
extent of harm done by hasty words. After the more respectable men had
left the Mohun Arms on the evening of Whit-Monday, the rest gave way to
unrestrained drunkenness, not so much out of reckless self-indulgence, as
to defy the clergyman and the squire. They came to the front of the
parsonage, yelled and groaned for some time, and ended by breaking down
the gate.
This conduct was repeated on Tuesday, and on many Saturdays following;
some young trees in the churchyard were cut, and abuse of the parson
written on the walls the idle young men taking this opportunity to
revenge their own quarrels, caused by Mr. Devereux’s former efforts for
their reformation.
On Sunday several children were absent from school; all those belonging
to Farmer Gage’s labourers were taken away, and one man was turned off by
the farmers for refusing to remove his child.
Now that the war was carried on so openly, Mr. Mohun considered it his
duty to withdraw his custom from one who chose to set his pastor at
defiance. He went to the forge, and had a long conversation with the
blacksmith, but though he was listened to with respect, it was not easy
to make much impression on an ignorant, hot-tempered man, who had been
greatly offended, and prided himself on showing that he would support the
quarrel of his wife and her relations against both squire and parson; and
though Mr. Mohun did persuade him to own that it was wrong to be at war
with the clergyman, the effect of his arguments was soon done away with
by the Gages, and no ground was gained.
Mr. Gage’s farm was unhappily at no great distance from a dissenting
chapel and school, in the adjoining parish of Stoney Bridge, and thither
the farmer and blacksmith betook themselves, with many of the cottagers
of Broom Hill.
One alone of the family of Tom Naylor refused to join him in his dissent,
and that was his sister, Mrs. Eden, a widow, with one little girl about
seven years old, who, though in great measure dependent upon him for
subsistence, knew her duty too well to desert the church, or to take her
child from school, and continued her even course, toiling hard for bread,
and uncomplaining, though often munch distressed. All the rest of the
parish who were not immediately under Mr. Mohun’s influence were in a sad
state of confusion.
Jane was grieved at heart, but would not confess it, and Lilias was so
restless and unhappy, that Emily was quite weary of her lamentations.
Her best comforter was Miss Weston, who patiently listened to her, sighed
with her over the evident sorrow of the Rector, and the mischief in the
parish, and proved herself a true friend, by never attempting to
extenuate her fault.
CHAPTER VI
THE NEW FRIEND
‘Maidens should be mild and meek,
Swift to hear, and slow to speak.’
MISS WESTON had been much interested by what she heard respecting Mrs.
Eden, and gladly discovered that she was just the person who could assist
in some needlework which was required at Broom Hill. She asked Lilias to
tell her where to find her cottage, and Lily replied by an offer to show
her the way; Miss Weston hesitated, thinking that perhaps in the present
state of things Lily had rather not see her; but her doubts were quickly
removed by this speech, ‘I want to see her particularly. I have been
there three times without finding her. I think I can set this terrible
matter right by speaking to her.’
Accordingly, Lilias and Phyllis set out with Alethea and Marianne one
afternoon to Mrs. Eden’s cottage, which stood at the edge of a long field
at the top of the hill. Very fast did Lily talk all the way, but she
grew more silent as she came to the cottage, and knocked at the door; it
was opened by Mrs. Eden herself, a pale, but rather pretty young woman,
with a remarkable gentle and pleasing face, and a manner which was almost
ladylike, although her hands were freshly taken out of the wash-tub. She
curtsied low, and coloured at the sight of Lilias, set chairs for the
visitors, and then returned to her work.
‘Oh! Mrs. Eden,’ Lily began, intending to make her explanation, but
feeling confused, thought it better to wait till her friend’s business
was settled, and altered her speech into ‘Miss Weston is come to speak to
you about some work.’
Mrs. Eden looked quite relieved, and Alethea proceeded to appoint the day
for her coming to Broom Hill, and arrange some small matters, during
which Lily not only settled what to say, but worked herself into a fit of
impatience at the length of Alethea’s instructions. When they were
concluded, however, and there was a pause, her words failed her, and she
wished that she was miles from the cottage, or that she had never
mentioned her intentions. At last she stammered out, ‘Oh! Mrs. Eden—I
wanted to speak to you about—about Mr. Devereux and your brother.’
Mrs. Eden bent over her wash-tub, Miss Weston examined the shells on the
chimney-piece, Marianne and Phyllis listened with all their ears, and
poor Lily was exceedingly uncomfortable.
‘I wished to tell you—I do not think—I do not mean—It was not his saying.
Indeed, he did not say those things about the Gages.’
‘I told my brother I did not think Mr. Devereux would go for to say such
a thing,’ said Mrs. Eden, as much confused as Lily.
‘Oh! that was right, Mrs. Eden. The mischief was all my making and
Jane’s. We said those foolish things, and they were repeated as if it
was he. Oh! do tell your brother so, Mrs. Eden. It was very good of you
to think it was not Cousin Robert. Pray tell Tom Naylor. I cannot bear
that things should go on in this dreadful way.’
‘Indeed, Miss, I am very sorry,’ said Mrs. Eden.
‘But, Mrs Eden, I am sure that would set it right again,’ said Lily, ‘are
not you? I would do anything to have that poor baby christened.’
Lily’s confidence melted away as she saw that Mrs. Eden’s tears were
falling fast, and she ended with, ‘Only tell them, and we shall see what
will happen.’
‘Very well, Miss Lilias,’ said Mrs. Eden. ‘I am very sorry.’
‘Let us hope that time and patience will set things right,’ said Miss
Weston, to relieve the embarrassment of both parties. ‘Your brother must
soon see that Mr. Devereux only wishes to do his duty.’
Alethea skilfully covered Lily’s retreat, and the party took leave of
Mrs. Eden, and turned into their homeward path.
Lily at first seemed disposed to be silent, and Miss Weston therefore
amused herself with listening to the chatter of the little girls as they
walked on before them.
‘There are only thirty-six days to the holidays,’ said Phyllis; ‘Ada and
I keep a paper in the nursery with the account of the number of days. We
shall be so glad when Claude, and Maurice, and Redgie come home.’
‘Are they not very boisterous?’ said Marianne.
‘Not Maurice,’ said Phyllis.
‘No, indeed,’ said Lily, ‘Maurice is like nobody else. He takes up some
scientific pursuit each time he comes home, and cares for nothing else
for some time, and then quite forgets it. He is an odd-looking boy too,
thick and sturdy, with light flaxen hair, and dark, overhanging eyebrows,
and he makes the most extraordinary grimaces.’
‘And Reginald?’ said Alethea.
‘Oh! Redgie is a noble-looking fellow. But just eleven, and taller than
Jane. His complexion so fair, yet fresh and boyish, and his eyes that
beautiful blue that Ada’s are—real blue. Then his hair, in dark brown
waves, with a rich auburn shine. The old knights must have been just
like Redgie. And Claude—Oh! Miss Weston, have you ever seen Claude?’
‘No, but I have seen your eldest brother.’
‘William? Why, he has been in Canada these three years. Where could you
have seen him?’
‘At Brighton, about four years ago.’
‘Ah! the year before he went. I remember that his regiment was there.
Well, it is curious that you should know him; and did you ever hear of
Harry, the brother that we lost?’
‘I remember Captain Mohun’s being called away to Oxford by his illness,’
said Alethea.
‘Ah, yes! William was the only one of us who was with him, even papa was
not there. His illness was so short.’
‘Yes,’ said Alethea, ‘I think it was on a Tuesday that Captain Mohun left
Brighton, and we saw his death in the paper on Saturday.’
‘William only arrived the evening that he died. Papa was gone to Ireland
to see about Cousin Rotherwood’s property. Robert, not knowing that,
wrote to him at Beechcroft; Eleanor forwarded the letter without opening
it, and so we knew nothing till Robert came to tell us that all was
over.’
‘Without any preparation?’
‘With none. Harry had left home about ten days before, quite well, and
looking so handsome. You know what a fine-looking person William is.
Well, Harry was very like him, only not so tall and strong, with the same
clear hazel eyes, and more pink in his cheeks—fairer altogether. Then
Harry wrote, saying that he had caught one of his bad colds. We did not
think much of it, for he was always having coughs. We heard no more for
a week, and then one morning Eleanor was sent for out of the schoolroom,
and there was Robert come to tell us. Oh! it was such a thunderbolt.
This was what did the mischief. You know papa and mamma being from home
so long, the elder boys had no settled place for the holidays; sometimes
they stayed with one friend, sometimes with another, and so no one saw
enough of them to find out how delicate poor Harry really was. I think
papa had been anxious the only winter they were at home together, and
Harry had been talked to and advised to take care; but in the summer and
autumn he was well, and did not think about it. He went to Oxford by the
coach—it was a bitterly cold frosty day—there was a poor woman outside,
shivering and looking very ill, and Harry changed places with her. He
was horribly chilled, but thinking he had only a common cold, he took no
care. Robert, coming to Oxford about a week after, found him very ill,
and wrote to papa and William, but William scarcely came in time. Harry
just knew him, and that was all. He could not speak, and died that
night. Then William stayed at Oxford to receive papa, and Robert came to
tell us.’
‘It must have been a terrible shock.’
‘Such a loss—he was so very good and clever. Every one looked up to
him—William almost as much as the younger ones. He never was in any
scrape, had all sorts of prizes at Eton, besides getting his scholarship
before he was seventeen.’
Whenever Lily could get Miss Weston alone, it was her way to talk in this
manner. She loved the sound of her own voice so well, that she was never
better satisfied than when engrossing the whole conversation. Having
nothing to talk of but her books, her poor people, and her family, she
gave her friend the full benefit of all she could say on each subject,
while Alethea had kindness enough to listen with real interest to her
long rambling discourses, well pleased to see her happy.
The next time they met, Lilias told her all she knew or imagined
respecting Eleanor, and of her own debate with Claude, and ended, ‘Now,
Miss Weston, tell me your opinion, which would you choose for a sister,
Eleanor or Emily?’
‘I have some experience of Miss Mohun’s delightful manners, and none of
Mrs. Hawkesworth’s, so I am no fair judge,’ said Alethea.
‘I really have done justice to Eleanor’s sterling goodness,’ said Lily.
‘Now what should you think?’
‘I can hardly imagine greater proofs of affection than Mrs. Hawkesworth
has given you,’ said Miss Weston, smiling.
‘It was because it was her duty,’ said Lilias. ‘You have only heard the
facts, but you cannot judge of her ways and looks. Now only think, when
Frank came home, after seven years of perils by field and flood—there she
rose up to receive him as if he had been Mr. Nobody making a morning
call. And all the time before they were married, I do believe she
thought more of showing Emily how much tea we were to use in a week than
anything else.’
‘Perhaps some people might have admired her self-command,’ said Alethea.
‘Self-command, the refuge of the insensible? And now, I told you about
dear Harry the other day. He was Eleanor’s especial brother, yet his
death never seemed to make any difference to her. She scarcely cried:
she heard our lessons as usual, talked in her quiet voice—showed no
tokens of feeling.’
‘Was her health as good as before?’ asked Miss Weston.
‘She was not ill,’ said Lily; ‘if she had, I should have been satisfied.
She certainly could not take long walks that winter, but she never likes
walking. People said she looked ill, but I do not know.’
‘Shall I tell you what I gather from your history?’
‘Pray do.’
‘Then do not think me very perverse, if I say that perhaps the grief she
then repressed may have weighed down her spirits ever since, so that you
can hardly remember any alteration.’
‘That I cannot,’ said Lily. ‘She is always the same, but then she ought
to have been more cheerful before his death.’
‘Did not you lose him soon after your mother?’ said Alethea.
‘Two whole years,’ said Lily. ‘Oh! and aunt, Robert too, and Frank went
to India the beginning of that year; yes, there was enough to depress
her, but I never thought of grief going on in that quiet dull way for so
many years.’
‘You would prefer one violent burst, and then forgetfulness?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Lily; ‘but I should like a little evidence of it. If
it is really strong, it cannot be hid.’
Little did Lily think of the grief that sat heavy upon the spirit of
Alethea, who answered—‘Some people can do anything that they consider
their duty.’
‘Duty: what, are you a duty lover?’ exclaimed Lilias. ‘I never suspected
it, because you are not disagreeable.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alethea, laughing, ‘your compliment rather surprises
me, for I thought you told me that your brother Claude was on the duty
side of the question.’
‘He thinks he is,’ said Lily, ‘but love is his real motive of action, as
I can prove to you. Poor Claude had a very bad illness when he was about
three years old; and ever since he has been liable to terrible headaches,
and he is not at all strong. Of course he cannot always study hard, and
when first he went to school, every one scolded him for being idle. I
really believe he might have done more, but then he was so clever that he
could keep up without any trouble, and, as Robert says, that was a great
temptation; but still papa was not satisfied, because he said Claude
could do better. So said Harry. Oh! you cannot think what a person
Harry was, as high-spirited as William, and as gentle as Claude; and in
his kind way he used to try hard to make Claude exert himself, but it
never would do—he was never in mischief, but he never took pains. Then
Harry died, and when Claude came home, and saw how changed things were,
how gray papa’s hair had turned, and how silent and melancholy William
had grown, he set himself with all his might to make up to papa as far as
he could. He thought only of doing what Harry would have wished, and
papa himself says that he has done wonders. I cannot see that Henry
himself could have been more than Claude is now; he has not spared
himself in the least, his tutor says, and he would have had the Newcastle
Scholarship last year, if he had not worked so hard that he brought on
one of his bad illnesses, and was obliged to come home. Now I am sure
that he has acted from love, for it was as much his duty to take pains
while Harry was alive as afterwards.’
‘Certainly,’ said Miss Weston, ‘but what does he say himself?’
‘Oh! he never will talk of himself,’ said Lily.
‘Have you not overlooked one thing which may be the truth,’ said Alethea,
as if she was asking for information, ‘that duty and love may be
identical? Is not St. Paul’s description of charity very like the duty
to our neighbour?’
‘The practice is the same, but not the theory,’ said Lily.
‘Now, what is called duty, seems to me to be love doing unpleasant work,’
said Miss Weston; ‘love disguised under another name, when obliged to act
in a way which seems, only seems, out of accordance with its real title.’
‘That is all very well for those who have love,’ said Lily. ‘Some have
not who do their duty conscientiously—another word which I hate, by the
bye.’
‘They have love in a rough coat, perhaps,’ said Alethea, ‘and I should
expect it soon to put on a smoother one.’
CHAPTER VII
SIR MAURICE
‘Shall thought was his, in after time,
Thus to be hitched into a rhyme;
The simple sire could only boast
That he was loyal to his cost,
The banished race of kings revered,
And lost his land.’
THE holidays arrived, and with them the three brothers, for during the
first few weeks of the Oxford vacation Claude accompanied Lord Rotherwood
on visits to some college friends, and only came home the same day as the
younger ones.
Maurice did not long leave his sisters in doubt as to what was to be his
reigning taste, for as soon as dinner was over, he made Jane find the
volume of the Encyclopædia containing Entomology, and with his elbows on
the table, proceeded to study it so intently, that the young ladies gave
up all hopes of rousing him from it. Claude threw himself down on the
sofa to enjoy the luxury of a desultory talk with his sisters; and
Reginald, his head on the floor, and his heels on a chair, talked loud
and fast enough for all three, with very little regard to what the
damsels might be saying.
‘Oh! Claude,’ said Lily, ‘you cannot think how much we like Miss Weston,
she lets us call her Alethea, and—’
Here came an interruption from Mr. Mohun, who perceiving the position of
Reginald’s dusty shoes, gave a loud ‘Ah—h!’ as if he was scolding a dog,
and ordered him to change them directly.
‘Here, Phyl!’ said Reginald, kicking off his shoes, ‘just step up and
bring my shippers, Rachel will give them to you.’
Away went Phyllis, well pleased to be her brother’s fag.
‘Ah! Redgie does not know the misfortune that hangs over him,’ said
Emily.
‘What?’ said Reginald, ‘will not the Baron let Viper come to the house?’
‘Worse,’ said Emily, ‘Rachel is going away.’
‘Rachel?’ cried Claude, starting up from the sofa.
‘Rachel?’ said Maurice, without raising his eyes.
‘Rachel! Rachel! botheration!’ roared Reginald, with a wondrous caper.
‘Yes, Rachel,’ said Emily; ‘Rachel, who makes so much of you, for no
reason that I could ever discover, but because you are the most
troublesome.’
‘You will never find any one to mend your jackets, and dress your wounds
like Rachel,’ said Lily, ‘and make a baby of you instead of a great
schoolboy. What will become of you, Redgie?’
‘What will become of any of us?’ said Claude; ‘I thought Rachel was the
mainspring of the house.’
‘Have you quarrelled with her, Emily?’ said Reginald.
‘Nonsense,’ said Emily, ‘it is only that her brother has lost his wife,
and wants her to take care of his children.’
‘Well,’ said Reginald, ‘her master has lost his wife, and wants her to
take care of his children.’
‘I cannot think what I shall do,’ said Ada; ‘I cry about it every night
when I go to bed. What is to be done?’
‘Send her brother a new wife,’ said Maurice.
‘Send him Emily,’ said Reginald; ‘we could spare her much better.’
‘Only I don’t wish him joy,’ said Maurice.
‘Well, I hope you wish me joy of my substitute,’ said Emily; ‘I do not
think you would ever guess, but Lily, after being in what Rachel calls
quite a way, has persuaded every one to let us have Esther Bateman.’
‘What, the Baron?’ said Claude, in surprise.
‘Yes,’ said Lily, ‘is it not delightful? He said at first, Emily was too
inexperienced to teach a young servant; but then we settled that Hannah
should be upper servant, and Esther will only have to wait upon Phyl and
Ada. Then he said Faith Longley was of a better set of people, but I am
sure it would give one the nightmare to see her lumbering about the
house, and then he talked it over with Robert and with Rachel.’
‘And was not Rachel against it, or was she too kind to her young ladies?’
‘Oh! she was cross when she talked it over with us,’ said Lily; ‘but we
coaxed her over, and she told the Baron it would do very well.’
‘And Robert?’
‘He was quite with us, for he likes Esther as much as I do,’ said lily.
‘Now, Lily,’ said Jane, ‘how can you say he was quite with you, when he
said he thought it would be better if she was farther from home, and
under some older person?’
‘Yes, but he allowed that she would be much safer here than at home,’
said Lily.
‘But I thought she used to be the head of all the ill behaviour in
school,’ said Claude.
‘Oh! that was in Eleanor’s time,’ said Lily; ‘there was nothing to draw
her out, she never was encouraged; but since she has been in my class,
and has found that her wishes to do right are appreciated and met by
affection, she has been quite a new creature.’
‘Since she has been in MY class,’ Claude repeated.
‘Well,’ said Lily, with a slight blush, ‘it is just what Robert says. He
told her, when he gave her her prize Bible on Palm Sunday, that she had
been going on very well, but she must take great care when removed from
those whose influence now guided her, and who could he have meant but me?
And now she is to go on with me always. She will be quite one of the old
sort of faithful servants, who feel that they owe everything to their
masters, and will it not be pleasant to have so sweet and expressive a
face about the house?’
‘Do I know her face?’ said Claude. ‘Oh yes! I do. She has black eyes,
I think, and would be pretty if she did not look pert.’
‘You provoking Claude!’ cried Lily, ‘you are as bad as Alethea, who never
will say that Esther is the best person for us.’
‘I was going to inquire for the all-for-love principle,’ said Claude,
‘but I see it is in full force. And how are the verses, Lily? Have you
made a poem upon Michael Moone, or Mohun, the actor, our uncle, whom I
discovered for you in Pepys’s Memoirs?’
‘Nonsense,’ said Lily; ‘but I have been writing something about Sir
Maurice, which you shall hear whenever you are not in this horrid
temper.’
The next afternoon, as soon as luncheon was over, Lily drew Claude out to
his favourite place under the plane-tree, where she proceeded to inflict
her poem upon his patient ears, while he lay flat upon the grass looking
up to the sky; Emily and Jane had promised to join them there in process
of time, and the four younger ones were, as usual, diverting themselves
among the farm buildings at the Old Court.
Lily began: ‘I meant to have two parts about Sir Maurice going out to
fight when he was very young, and then about his brothers being killed,
and King Charles knighting him, and his betrothed, Phyllis Crossthwayte,
embroidering his black engrailed cross on his banner, and then the taking
the castle, and his being wounded, and escaping, and Phyllis not thinking
it right to leave her father; but I have not finished that, so now you
must hear about his return home.’
‘A romaunt in six cantos, entitled Woe woe,
By Miss Fanny F. known more commonly so,’
muttered Claude to himself; but as Lily did not understand or know whence
his quotation came, it did not hurt her feelings, and she went merrily
on:—
‘’Tis the twenty-ninth of merry May;
Full cheerily shine the sunbeams to-day,
Their joyous light revealing
Full many a troop in garments gay,
With cheerful steps who take their way
By the green hill and shady lane,
While merry bells are pealing;
And soon in Beechcroft’s holy fane
The villagers are kneeling.
Dreary and mournful seems the shrine
Where sound their prayers and hymns divine;
For every mystic ornament
By the rude spoiler’s hand is rent;
Scarce is its ancient beauty traced
In wood-work broken and defaced,
Reft of each quaint device and rare,
Of foliage rich and mouldings fair;
Yet happy is each spirit there;
The simple peasantry rejoice
To see the altar decked with care,
To hear their ancient Pastor’s voice
Reciting o’er each well-known prayer,
To view again his robe of white,
And hear the services aright;
Once more to chant their glorious Creed,
And thankful own their nation freed
From those who cast her glories down,
And rent away her Cross and Crown.
A stranger knelt among the crowd,
And joined his voice in praises loud,
And when the holy rites had ceased,
Held converse with the aged Priest,
Then turned to join the village feast,
Where, raised on the hill’s summit green,
The Maypole’s flowery wreaths were seen;
Beneath the venerable yew
The stranger stood the sports to view,
Unmarked by all, for each was bent
On his own scheme of merriment,
On talking, laughing, dancing, playing—
There never was so blithe a Maying.
So thought each laughing maiden gay,
Whose head-gear bore the oaken spray;
So thought that hand of shouting boys,
Unchecked in their best joy—in noise;
But gray-haired men, whose deep-marked scars
Bore token of the civil wars,
And hooded dames in cloaks of red,
At the blithe youngsters shook the head,
Gathering in eager clusters told
How joyous were the days of old,
When Beechcroft’s lords, those Barons bold,
Came forth to join their vassals’ sport,
And here to hold their rustic court,
Throned in the ancient chair you see
Beneath our noble old yew tree.
Alas! all empty stands the throne,
Reserved for Mohun’s race alone,
And the old folks can only tell
Of the good lords who ruled so well.
“Ah! I bethink me of the time,
The last before those years of crime,
When with his open hearty cheer,
The good old squire was sitting here.”
“’Twas then,” another voice replied,
“That brave young Master Maurice tried
To pitch the ball with Andrew Grey—
We ne’er shall see so blithe a day—
All the young squires have long been dead.”
“No, Master Webb,” quoth Andrew Grey,
“Young Master Maurice safely fled,
At least so all the Greenwoods say,
And Walter Greenwood with him went
To share his master’s banishment;
And now King Charles is ruling here,
Our own good landlord may be near.”
“Small hope of that,” the old man said,
And sadly shook his hoary head,
“Sir Maurice died beyond the sea,
Last of his noble line was he.”
“Look, Master Webb!” he turned, and there
The stranger sat in Mohun’s chair;
At ease he sat, and smiled to scan
The face of each astonished man;
Then on the ground he laid aside
His plumed hat and mantle wide.
One moment, Andrew deemed he knew
Those glancing eyes of hazel hue,
But the sunk cheek, the figure spare,
The lines of white that streak the hair—
How can this he the stripling gay,
Erst, victor in the sports of May?
Full twenty years of cheerful toil,
And labour on his native soil,
On Andrew’s head had left no trace—
The summer’s sun, the winter’s storm,
They had but ruddier made his face,
More hard his hand, more strong his form.
Forth from the wandering, whispering crowd,
A farmer came, and spoke aloud,
With rustic bow and welcome fair,
But with a hesitating air—
He told how custom well preserved
The throne for Mohun’s race reserved;
The stranger laughed, “What, Harrington,
Hast thou forgot thy landlord’s son?”
Loud was the cry, and blithe the shout,
On Beechcroft hill that now rang out,
And still remembered is the day,
That merry twenty-ninth of May,
When to his father’s home returned
That knight, whose glory well was earned.
In poverty and banishment,
His prime of manhood had been spent,
A wanderer, scorned by Charles’s court,
One faithful servant his support.
And now, he seeks his home forlorn,
Broken in health, with sorrow worn.
And two short years just passed away,
Between that joyous meeting-day,
And the sad eve when Beechcroft’s bell
Tolled forth Sir Maurice’s funeral knell;
And Phyllis, whose love was so constant and tried,
Was a widow the year she was Maurice’s bride;
Yet the path of the noble and true-hearted knight,
Was brilliant with honour, and glory, and light,
And still his descendants shall sing of the fame
Of Sir Maurice de Mohun, the pride of his name.’
‘It is a pity they should sing of it in such lines as those last four,’
said Claude. ‘Let me see, I like your bringing in the real names, though
I doubt whether any but Greenwood could have been found here.’
‘Oh! here come Emily and Jane,’ said Lily, ‘let me put it away.’
‘You are very much afraid of Jane,’ said Claude.
‘Yes, Jane has no feeling for poetry,’ said Lily, with simplicity, which
made her brother smile.
Jane and Emily now came up, the former with her work, the latter with a
camp-stool and a book. ‘I wonder,’ said she, ‘where those boys are! By
the bye, what character did they bring home from school?’
‘The same as usual,’ said Claude. ‘Maurice’s mind only half given to his
work, and Redgie’s whole mind to his play.’
‘Maurice’s talent does not lie in the direction of Latin and Greek,’ said
Emily.
‘No,’ said Jane, ‘it is nonsense to make him learn it, and so he says.’
‘Perhaps he would say the same of mathematics and mechanics, if as great
a point were made of them,’ said Lily.
‘I think not,’ said Claude; ‘he has more notion of them than of Latin
verses.’
‘Then you are on my side,’ said Jane, triumphantly.
‘Did I say so?’ said Claude.
‘Why not?’ said Jane. ‘What is the use of his knowing those stupid
languages? I am sure it is wasting time not to improve such a genius as
he has for mechanics and natural history. Now, Claude, I wish you would
answer.’
‘I was waiting till you had done,’ said Claude.
‘Why do you not think it nonsense?’ persisted Jane.
‘Because I respect my father’s opinion,’ said Claude, letting himself
fall on the grass, as if he had done with the subject.
‘Pooh!’ said Jane, ‘that sounds like a good little boy of five years
old!’
‘Very likely,’ said Claude.
‘But you have some opinion of your own,’ said Lily.
‘Certainly.’
‘Then I wish you would give it,’ said Jane.
‘Come, Emily,’ said Claude, ‘have you brought anything to read?’
‘But your opinion, Claude,’ said Jane. ‘I am sure you think with me,
only you are too grand, and too correct to say so.’
Claude made no answer, but Jane saw she was wrong by his countenance;
before she could say anything more, however, they were interrupted by a
great outcry from the Old Court regions.
‘Oh,’ said Emily, ‘I thought it was a long time since we had heard
anything of those uproarious mortals.’
‘I hope there is nothing the matter,’ said Lily.
‘Oh no,’ said Jane, ‘I hear Redgie’s laugh.’
‘Aye, but among that party,’ said Emily, ‘Redgie’s laugh is not always a
proof of peace: they are too much in the habit of acting the boys and the
frogs.’
‘We were better off,’ said Lily, ‘with the gentle Claude, as Miss
Middleton used to call him.’
‘Miss Molly, as William used to call him with more propriety,’ said
Claude, ‘not half so well worth playing with as such a fellow as Redgie.’
‘Not even for young ladies?’ said Emily.
‘No, Phyllis and Ada are much the better for being teased,’ said Claude.
‘I am convinced that I never did my duty by you in that respect.’
‘There were others to do it for you,’ said Jane.
‘Harry never teased,’ said Emily, ‘and William scorned us.’
‘His teasing was all performed upon Claude,’ said Lily, ‘and a great
shame it was.’
‘Not at all,’ said Claude, ‘only an injudicious attempt to put a little
life into a tortoise.’
‘A bad comparison,’ said Lily; ‘but what is all this? Here come the
children in dismay! What is the matter, my dear child?’
This was addressed to Phyllis, who was the first to come up at full
speed, sobbing, and out of breath, ‘Oh, the dragon-fly! Oh, do not let
him kill it!’
‘The dragon-fly, the poor dear blue dragon-fly!’ screamed Adeline, hiding
her face in Emily’s lap, ‘Oh, do not let him kill it! he is holding it;
he is hurting it! Oh, tell him not!’
‘I caught it,’ said Phyllis, ‘but not to have it killed. Oh, take it
away!’
‘A fine rout, indeed, you chicken,’ said Reginald; ‘I know a fellow who
ate up five horse-stingers one morning before breakfast.’
‘Stingers!’ said Phyllis, ‘they do not sting anything, pretty creatures.’
‘I told you I would catch the old pony and put it on him to try,’ said
Reginald.
In the meantime, Maurice came up at his leisure, holding his prize by the
wings. ‘Look what a beautiful Libellulla Puella,’ said he to Jane.
‘A demoiselle dragon-fly,’ said Lily; ‘what a beauty! what are you going
to do with it?’
‘Put it into my museum,’ said Maurice. ‘Here, Jane, put it under this
flower-pot, and take care of it, while I fetch something to kill it
with.’
‘Oh, Maurice, do not!’ said Emily.
‘One good squeeze,’ said Reginald. ‘I will do it.’
‘How came you be so cruel?’ said Lily.
‘No, a squeeze will not do,’ said Maurice; ‘it would spoil its beauty; I
must put it ever the fumes of carbonic acid.’
‘Maurice, you really must not,’ said Emily.
‘Now do not, dear Maurice,’ said Ada, ‘there’s a dear boy; I will give
you such a kiss.’
‘Nonsense; get out of the way,’ said Maurice, turning away.
‘Now, Maurice, this is most horrid cruelty,’ said Lily; ‘what right have
you to shorten the brief, happy life which—’
‘Well,’ interrupted Maurice, ‘if you make such a fuss about killing it, I
will stick a pin through it into a cork, and let it shift for itself.’
Poor Phyllis ran away to the other end of the garden, sat down and
sobbed, Ada screamed and argued, Emily complained, Lily exhorted Claude
to interfere, while Reginald stood laughing.
‘Such useless cruelty,’ said Emily.
‘Useless!’ said Maurice. ‘Pray how is any one to make a collection of
natural objects without killing things?’
‘I do not see the use of a collection,’ said Lily; ‘you can examine the
creatures and let them go.’
‘Such a young lady’s tender-hearted notion,’ said Reginald.
‘Who ever heard of a man of science managing in such a ridiculous way?’
‘Man of science!’ exclaimed Lily, ‘when he will have forgotten by next
Christmas that insects ever existed.’
It was not convenient to hear this speech, so Maurice turned an empty
flower-pot over his prisoner, and left it in Jane’s care while he went to
fetch the means of destruction, probably choosing the lawn for the place
of execution, in order to show his contempt for his sisters.
‘Fair damsel in boddice blue,’ said Lily, peeping in at the hole at the
top of the flower-pot, ‘I wish I could avert your melancholy fate. I am
very sorry for you, but I cannot help it.’
‘You might help it now, at any rate,’ muttered Claude.
‘No,’ said Lily, ‘I know Monsieur Maurice too well to arouse his wrath so
justly. If you choose to release the pretty creature, I shall be
charmed.’
‘You forget that I am in charge,’ said Jane.
‘There is a carriage coming to the front gate,’ cried Ada. ‘Emily, may I
go into the drawing-room? Oh, Jenny, will you undo my brown holland
apron?’
‘That is right, little mincing Miss,’ said Reginald, with a low bow; ‘how
fine we are to-day.’
‘How visitors break into the afternoon,’ said Emily, with a languid turn
of her head.
‘Jenny, brownie,’ called Maurice from his bedroom window, ‘I want the
sulphuric acid.’
Jane sprang up and ran into the house, though her sisters called after
her, that she would come full upon the company in the hall.
‘They shall not catch me here,’ cried Reginald, rushing off into the
shrubbery.
‘Are you coming in, Claude?’ said Emily.
‘Send Ada to call me, if there is any one worth seeing,’ said Claude
‘They will see you from the window,’ said Emily.
‘No,’ said Claude, ‘no one ever found me out last summer, under these
friendly branches.’
The old butler, Joseph, now showed himself on the terrace; and the young
ladies, knowing that he had no intention of crossing the lawn, hastened
to learn from him who their visitors were, and entered the house. Just
then Phyllis came running back from the kitchen garden, and without
looking round, or perceiving Claude, she took up the flower-pot and
released the captive, which, unconscious of its peril, rested on a blade
of grass, vibrating its gauzy wings and rejoicing in the restored
sunbeams.
‘Fly away, fly away, you pretty creature,’ said Phyllis; ‘make haste, or
Maurice will come and catch you again. I wish I had not given you such a
fright. I thought you would have been killed, and a pin stuck all
through that pretty blue and black body of yours. Oh! that would be
dreadful. Make haste and go away! I would not have caught you, you
beautiful thing, if I had known what he wanted to do. I thought he only
wanted to look at your beautiful body, like a little bit of the sky come
down to look at the flowers, and your delicate wings, and great shining
eyes. Oh! I am very glad God made you so beautiful. Oh! there is
Maurice coming. I must blow upon you to make you go. Oh, that is
right—up quite high in the air—quite safe,’ and she clapped her hands as
the dragon-fly rose in the air, and disappeared behind the laurels, just
as Maurice and Reginald emerged from the shrubbery, the former with a
bottle in his hand.
‘Well, where is the Libellulla?’ said he.
‘The dragon-fly?’ said Phyllis. ‘I let it out.’
‘Sold, Maurice!’ cried Reginald, laughing at his brother’s disaster.
‘Upon my word, Phyl, you are very kind!’ said Maurice, angrily. ‘If I
had known you were such an ill-natured crab—’
‘Oh! Maurice dear, don’t say so,’ exclaimed Phyllis. ‘I thought I might
let it out because I caught it myself; and I told you I did not catch it
for you to kill; Maurice, indeed, I am sorry I vexed you.’
‘What else did you do it for?’ said Maurice. ‘It is horrid not to be
able to leave one’s things a minute—’
‘But I did not know the dragon-fly belonged to you, Maurice,’ said
Phyllis.
‘That is a puzzler, Mohun senior,’ said Reginald.
‘Now, Redgie, do get Maurice to leave off being angry with me,’ implored
his sister.
‘I will leave off being angry,’ said Maurice, seeing his advantage, ‘if
you will promise never to let out my things again.’
‘I do not think I can promise,’ said Phyllis.
‘O yes, you can,’ said Reginald, ‘you know they are not his.’
‘Promise you will not let out any insects I may get,’ said Maurice, ‘or I
shall say you are as cross as two sticks.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Maurice,’ said Phyllis, ‘I do wish you would not
make me promise, for I do not think I _can_ keep it, for I cannot bear to
see the beautiful live things killed.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Maurice, fiercely, ‘I am very angry indeed, you naughty
child; promise—’
‘I cannot,’ said Phyllis, beginning to cry.
‘Then,’ said Maurice, ‘I will not speak to you all day.’
‘No, no,’ shouted Reginald, ‘we will only treat her like the
horse-stinger; you wanted a puella, Maurice—here is one for you, here,
give her a dose of the turpentine.’
‘Yes,’ said Maurice, advancing with his bottle; ‘and do you take the
poker down to Naylor’s to be sharpened, it will just do to stick through
her back. Oh! no, not Naylor’s—the girls have made a hash there, as they
do everything else; but we will settle her before they come out again.’
Phyllis screamed and begged for mercy—her last ally had deserted her.
‘Promise!’ cried the boys.
‘Oh, don’t!’ was all her answer.
Reginald caught her and held her fast, Maurice advanced upon her, she
struggled, and gave a scream of real terror. The matter was no joke to
any one but Reginald, for Maurice was very angry and really meant to
frighten her.
‘Hands off, boys, I will not have her bullied,’ said Claude, half rising.
Maurice gave a violent start, Reginald looked round laughing, and
exclaimed, ‘Who would have thought of Claude sneaking there?’ and Phyllis
ran to the protecting arm, which he stretched out. To her great
surprise, he drew her to him, and kissed her forehead, saying, ‘Well
done, Phyl!’
‘Oh, I knew he was not going to hurt me,’ said Phyllis, still panting
from the struggle.
‘To be sure not,’ said Maurice, ‘I only meant to have a little fun.’
Claude, with his arm still round his sister’s waist, gave Maurice a look,
expressing, ‘Is that the truth?’ and Reginald tumbled head over heels,
exclaiming, ‘I would not have been Phyl just them.’
Ada now came running up to them, saying, ‘Maurice and Redgie, you are to
come in; Mr. and Mrs. Burnet heard your voices, and begged to see you,
because they never saw you last holidays.’
‘More’s the pity they should see us now,’ said Maurice.
‘I shall not go,’ said Reginald.
‘Papa is there, and he sent for you,’ said Ada.
‘Plague,’ was the answer.
‘See what you get by making such a row,’ said Claude. ‘If you had been
as orderly members of society as I am—’
‘Oh, but Claude,’ said Ada, ‘papa told me to see if I could find you.
Dear Claude, I wish,’ she proceeded, taking his hand, and looking
engaging, ‘I wish you would put your arm round me as you do round Phyl.’
‘You are not worth it, Ada,’ said Reginald, and Claude did not contradict
him.
CHAPTER VIII
THE BROTHERS
‘But smiled to hear the creatures he had known
So long were now in class and order shown—
Genus and species. “Is it meet,” said he,
“This creature’s name should one so sounding be—
’Tis but a fly, though first-born of the spring,
Bombylius Majus, dost thou call the thing?”
IT was not till Sunday, that Lily’s eager wish was fulfilled, of
introducing her friend and her brothers; but, as she might have foreseen,
their first meeting did not make the perfections of either party very
clear to the other. Claude never spoke to strangers more than he could
help, Maurice and Reginald were in the room only a short time; so that
the result of Miss Weston’s observations, when communicated in reply to
Lily’s eager inquiries, was only that Claude was very like his father and
eldest brother, Reginald very handsome, and Maurice looked like a very
funny fellow.
On Monday, Reginald and Maurice were required to learn what they had
always refused to acknowledge, that the holidays were not intended to be
spent in idleness. A portion of each morning was to be devoted to study,
Claude having undertaken the task of tutor—and hard work he found it; and
much did Lily pity him, when, as not unfrequently happened, the summons
to the children’s dinner would bring him from the study, looking
thoroughly fagged—Maurice in so sulky a mood that he would hardly deign
to open his lips—Reginald talking fast enough, indeed, but only to murmur
at his duties in terms, which, though they made every one laugh, were
painful to hear. Then Claude would take his brothers back to the study,
and not appear for an hour or more, and when he did come forth, it was
with a bad headache. Sometimes, as if to show that it was only through
their own fault that their tasks were wearisome, one or both boys would
finish quite early, when Reginald would betake himself to the schoolroom
and employ his idle time in making it nearly impossible for Ada and
Phyllis to learn, by talking, laughing, teasing the canary, overturning
everything in pursuing wasps, making Emily fretful by his disobedience,
and then laughing at her, and, in short, proving his right to the title
he had given himself at the end of the only letter he had written since
he first went to school, and which he had subscribed, ‘Your affectionate
bother, R. Mohun.’ So that, for their own sake, all would have preferred
the inattentive mornings.
Lily often tried to persuade Claude to allow her to tell her father how
troublesome the boys were, but never with any effect. He once took up a
book he had been using with them, and pointing to the name in the first
page, in writing, which Lily knew full well, ‘Henry Mohun,’ she perceived
that he meant to convince her that it was useless to try to dissuade him,
as he thought the patience and forbearance his brother had shown to him
must be repaid by his not shrinking from the task he had imposed upon
himself with his young brothers, though he was often obliged to sit up
part of the night to pursue his own studies.
If Claude had rather injudiciously talked too much to Lilias of ‘her
principle,’ and thus kept it alive in her mind, yet his example might
have made its fallacy evident. She believed that what she called love
had been the turning point in his character, that it had been his earnest
desire to follow in Henry’s steps, and so try to comfort his father for
his loss, that had roused him from his indolence; but she was beginning
to see that nothing but a sense of duty could have kept up the power of
that first impulse for six years. Lily began to enter a little into his
principle, and many things that occurred during these holidays made her
mistrust her former judgment. She saw that without the unvarying
principle of right and wrong, fraternal love itself would fail in outward
acts and words. Forbearance, though undeniably a branch of love, could
not exist without constant remembrance of duty; and which of them did not
sometimes fail in kindness, meekness, and patience? Did Emily show that
softness, which was her most agreeable characteristic, in her whining
reproofs—in her complaints that ‘no one listened to a word she said’—in
her refusal to do justice even to those who had vainly been seeking for
peace? Did Lily herself show any of her much valued love, by the sharp
manner in which she scolded the boys for roughness towards herself? or
for language often used by them on purpose to make her displeasure a
matter of amusement? She saw that her want of command of temper was a
failure both in love and duty, and when irritated, the thought of duty
came sooner to her aid than the feeling of love.
And Maurice and Reginald were really very provoking. Maurice loved no
amusement better than teasing his sisters, and this was almost the only
thing in which Reginald agreed with him. Reginald was affectionate, but
too reckless and violent not to be very troublesome, and he too often
flew into a passion if Maurice attempted to laugh at him; the little
girls were often frightened and made unhappy; Phyllis would scream and
roar, and Ada would come sobbing to Emily, to be comforted after some
rudeness of Reginald’s. It was not very often that quarrels went so far,
but many a time in thought, word, and deed was the rule of love
transgressed, and more than once did Emily feel ready to give up all her
dignity, to have Eleanor’s hand over the boys once more. Claude, finding
that he could do much to prevent mischief, took care not to leave the two
boys long together with the elder girls. They were far more inoffensive
when separate, as Maurice never practised his tormenting tricks when no
one was present to laugh with him, and Reginald was very kind to Phyllis
and Ada, although somewhat rude.
It was a day or two after they returned that Phyllis was leaning on the
window-sill in the drawing-room, watching a passing shower, and admiring
the soft bright tints of a rainbow upon the dark gray mass of cloud. ‘I
do set my bow in the cloud,’ repeated she to herself over and over again,
until Adeline entering the room, she eagerly exclaimed, ‘Oh Ada, come and
look at this beautiful rainbow, green, and pink, and purple. A double
one, with so many stripes, Ada. See, there is a little bit more green.’
‘There is no green in a rainbow,’ said Ada.
‘But look, Ada, that is green.’
‘It is not real green. Blue, red, and yellow are the pragmatic colours,’
said Ada, with a most triumphant air. ‘Now are not they, Maurice?’ said
she, turning to her brother, who was, as usual, deep in entomology.
‘Pragmatic, you foolish child,’ said he. ‘Prismatic you mean. I am glad
you remember what I tell you, however; I think I might teach you some
science in time. You are right in saying that blue, red, and yellow are
the prismatic colours. Now do you know what causes a rainbow?’
‘It is to show there is never to be another flood,’ said Phyllis,
gravely.
‘Oh, I did not mean that,’ said Maurice, addressing himself to Ada, whose
love of hard words made him deem her a promising pupil, and whom he could
lecture without interruption. ‘The rainbow is caused by—’
‘But, Maurice!’ exclaimed Phyllis, remaining with mouth wide open.
‘The rainbow is occasioned by the refraction of the rays of the sun in
the drops of water of which a cloud is composed.’
‘But, Maurice!’ again said Phyllis.
‘Well, what do you keep on “but, Mauricing,” about?’
‘But, Maurice, I thought it said, “I do set my bow in the cloud.” Is not
that right? I will look.’
‘I know that, but I know the iris, or rainbow, is a natural phenomenon
occasioned by the refraction.’
‘But, Maurice, I can’t bear you to say that;’ and poor Phyllis sat down
and began to cry.
Ada interfered. ‘Why, Maurice, you believe the Bible, don’t you?’
This last speech was heard by Lilias, who just now entered the room, and
greatly surprised her. ‘What can you be talking of?’ said she.
‘Only some nonsense of the children’s,’ said Maurice, shortly.
‘But only hear what he says,’ cried Ada. ‘He says the rainbow was not
put there to show there is never to be another flood!’
‘Now, Lily,’ said Maurice, ‘I do not think there is much use in talking
to you, but I wish you to understand that all I said was, that the
rainbow, or iris, is a natural phenomenon occasioned by the refraction of
the solar—’
‘You will certainly bewilder yourself into something dreadful with that
horrid science,’ said Lily. ‘What is the matter with Phyl?’
‘Only crying because of what I said,’ answered Maurice. ‘So childish,
and you are just as bad.’
‘But do you mean to say,’ exclaimed Lily, ‘that you set this human theory
above the authority of the Bible?’
‘It is common sense,’ said Maurice; ‘I could make a rainbow any day.’
Whereupon Phyllis cried the more, and Lily looked infinitely shocked.
‘This is philosophy and vain deceit,’ said she; ‘the very thing that
tends to infidelity.’
‘I can’t help it—it is universally allowed,’ said the boy doggedly.
It was fortunate that the next person who entered the room was Claude,
and all at once he was appealed to by the four disputants, Lily the
loudest and most vehement. ‘Claude, listen to him, and tell him to throw
away these hateful new lights, which lead to everything that is
shocking!’
‘Listen to him, with three ladies talking at once?’ said Claude. ‘No,
not Phyl—her tears only are eloquent; but it is a mighty war about the
token of peace and _love_, Lily.’
‘The love would be in driving these horrible philosophical speculations
out of Maurice’s mind,’ said Lily.
‘No one can ever drive out the truth,’ said Maurice, with provoking
coolness. ‘Don’t let her scratch out my eyes, Claude.’
‘I am not so sure of that maxim,’ said Claude. ‘Truth is chiefly
injured—I mean, her force weakened, by her own supporters.’
‘Then you agree with me,’ said Maurice, ‘as, in fact, every rational
person must.’
‘Then you are with me,’ said Lily, in the same breath; ‘and you will
convince Maurice of the danger of this nonsense.’
‘Umph,’ sighed Claude, throwing himself into his father’s arm-chair,
‘’tis a Herculean labour! It seems I agree with you both.’
‘Why, every Christian must be with me, who has not lost his way in a mist
of his own raising,’ said Lilias.
‘Do you mean to say,’ said Maurice, ‘that these colours are not produced
by refraction? Look at them on those prisms;’ and he pointed to an
old-fashioned lustre on the chimney-piece. ‘I hope this is not a part of
the Christian faith.’
‘Take care, Maurice,’ and Claude’s eyes were bent upon him in a manner
that made him shrink. And he added, ‘Of course I do believe that chapter
about Noah. I only meant that the immediate cause of the rainbow is the
refraction of light. I did not mean to be irreverent, only the girls
took me up in such a way.’
‘And I know well enough that you can make those colours by light on drops
of water,’ said Lily.
‘So you agreed all the time,’ said Claude.
‘But,’ added Lily, ‘I never liked to know it; for it always seemed to be
explaining away the Bible, and I cannot bear not to regard that lovely
bow as a constant miracle.’
‘You will remember,’ said Claude, ‘that some commentators say it should
be, “I _have_ set my bow in the cloud,” which would make what already
existed become a token for the future.
‘I don’t like that explanation,’ said Lily.
‘Others say,’ added Claude, ‘that there might have been no rain at all
till the windows of heaven were opened at the flood, and, in that case,
the first recurrence of rain must have greatly alarmed Noah’s family, if
they had not been supported and cheered by the sight of the rainbow.’
‘That is reasonable,’ said Maurice.
‘I hate reason applied to revelation,’ said Lily.
‘It is a happier state of mind which does not seek to apply it,’ said
Claude, looking at Phyllis, who had dried her tears, and stood in the
window gazing at him, in the happy certainty that he was setting all
right. Maurice respected Claude for his science as much as his
character, and did not make game of this observation as he would if it
had been made by one of his sisters, but he looked at him with an odd
expression of perplexity. ‘You do not think ignorant credulity better
than reasonable belief?’ said he at length.
‘It is not I only who think most highly of child-like unquestioning
faith, Maurice,’ said Claude—‘faith, that is based upon love and
reverence,’ added he to Lily. ‘But come, the shower is over, and
philosophers, or no philosophers, I invite you to walk in the wood.’
‘Aye,’ said Maurice, ‘I daresay I can find some of the Arachne species
there. By the bye, Claude, do you think papa would let me have a piece
of plate-glass, eighteen by twenty, to cover my case of insects?’
‘Ask, and you will discover,’ said Claude.
Accordingly, Maurice began the next morning at breakfast, ‘Papa, may I
have a piece of plate-glass, eighteen by—?’
But no one heard, for Emily was at the moment saying, ‘The Westons are to
dine here to-day.’
Claude and Maurice both looked blank.
‘I persuaded papa to ask the Westons,’ said Lily, ‘because I am
determined that Claude shall like Alethea.’
‘You must expect that I shall not, you have given me so many orders on
the subject,’ said Claude.
‘Take care it has not the same effect as to tell Maurice to like a book,’
said Emily; ‘nothing makes his aversion so certain.’
‘Except when he takes it up by mistake, and forgets that it has been
recommended to him,’ said Claude.
‘Take care, Redgie, with your knife; don’t put out my eyes in your ardour
against that wretched wasp. Wat Greenwood may well say “there is a
terrible sight of waspses this year.”’
‘I killed twenty-nine yesterday,’ said Reginald.
‘And I will tell you what I saw,’ said Phyllis; ‘I was picking up apples,
and the wasps were flying all round, and there came a hornet.’
‘Vespa Crabro!’ cried Maurice; ‘oh, I must have one!’
‘Well, what of the hornet?’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ resumed Phyllis, ‘he saw a wasp flying, and so he
went up in the air, and pounced on the poor wasp as the hawk did on
Jane’s bantam. So then he hung himself up to the branch of a tree by one
of his legs, and held the wasp with the other five, and began to pack it
up. First he bit off the yellow tail, then the legs, and threw them
away, and then there was nothing left but the head, and so he flew away
with it to his nest.’
‘Which way did he go?’ said Maurice.
‘To the Old Court,’ answered Phyllis; ‘I think the nest is in the roof of
the old cow-house, for they were flying in and out there yesterday, and
one was eating out the wood from the old rails.’
‘Well,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘you must show me a hornet hawking for wasps
before the nest is taken, Phyllis; I suppose you have seen the wasps
catching flies?’
‘Oh yes, papa! but they pack them up quite differently. They do not hang
by one leg, but they sit down quite comfortably on a branch while they
bite off the wings and legs.’
‘There, Maurice,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I had rather hear of one such
well-observed fact than of a dozen of your hard names and impaled
insects.’
Phyllis looked quite radiant with delight at his approbation.
‘But, papa,’ said Maurice, ‘may I have a piece of plate-glass, eighteen
by twenty?’
‘When you observe facts in natural history, perhaps I may say something
to your entomology,’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘But, papa, all my insects will be spoilt if I may not have a piece of
glass, eighteen by—’
He was interrupted by the arrival of the post-bag, which Jane, as usual,
opened. ‘A letter from Rotherwood,’ said she; ‘I hope he is coming at
last.’
‘He is,’ said Claude, reading the letter, ‘but only from Saturday till
Wednesday.’
‘He never gave us so little of his good company as he has this summer,’
said Emily.
‘You will have them all in the autumn, to comfort you,’ said Claude, ‘for
he hereby announces the marvellous fact, that the Marchioness sends him
to see if the castle is fit to receive her.’
‘Are you sure he is not only believing what he wishes?’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘I think he will gain his point at last,’ said Claude.
‘How stupid of him to stay no longer!’ said Reginald.
‘I think he has some scheme for this vacation,’ said Claude, ‘and I
suppose he means to crowd all the Beechcroft diversions of a whole summer
into those few days.’
‘Emily,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I wish him to know the Carringtons; invite them
and the Westons to dinner on Tuesday.’
‘Oh don’t!’ cried Reginald. ‘It will be so jolly to have him to take
wasps’ nests; and may I go out rabbit-shooting with him?’
‘If he goes.’
‘And may I carry a gun?’
‘If it is not loaded,’ said his father.
‘Indeed, I would do no mischief,’ said Reginald.
‘Let me give you one piece of advice, Reginald,’ said Mr. Mohun, with a
mysterious air—‘never make rash promises.’
Lilias was rather disappointed in her hopes that Miss Weston and Claude
would become better acquainted. At dinner the conversation was almost
entirely between the elder gentlemen; Claude scarcely spoke, except when
referred to by his father or Mr. Devereux. Miss Weston never liked to
incur the danger of having to repeat her insignificant speeches to a deaf
ear, and being interested in the discussion that was going on, she by no
means seconded Lily’s attempt to get up an under-current of talk. In
general, Lily liked to listen to conversation in silence, but she was now
in very high spirits, and could not be quiet; fortunately, she had no
interest in the subject the gentlemen were discussing, so that she could
not meddle with that, and finding Alethea silent and Claude out of reach,
she turned to Reginald, and talked and tittered with him all dinner-time.
In the drawing-room she had it all her own way, and talked enough for all
the sisters.
‘Have you heard that Cousin Rotherwood is coming?’
‘Yes, you said so before dinner.’
‘We hope,’ said Emily, ‘that you and Mr. Weston will dine here on
Tuesday. The Carringtons are coming, and a few others.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alethea; ‘I daresay papa will be very glad to come.’
‘Have you ever seen Rotherwood?’ said Lilias.
‘Never,’ was the reply.
‘Do not expect much,’ said Lily, laughing, though she knew not why; ‘he
is a very little fellow; no one would suppose him to be twenty, he has
such a boyish look. Then he never sits down—’
‘Literally?’ said Emily.
‘Literally,’ persisted Lily; ‘such a quick person you never did see.’
‘Is he at Oxford?’
‘Oh yes! it was all papa’s doing that he was sent to Eton. Papa is his
guardian. Aunt Rotherwood never would have parted with him.’
‘He is the only son,’ interposed Emily.
‘Uncle Rotherwood put him quite in papa’s power; Aunt Rotherwood wanted
to keep him at home with a tutor, and what she would have made of him I
cannot think,’ said Lily; and regardless of Emily’s warning frowns, and
Alethea’s attempt to change the subject, she went on: ‘When he was quite
a child he used to seem a realisation of all the naughty Dicks and Toms
in story-books. Miss Middleton had a perfect horror of his coming here,
for he would mind no one, and played tricks and drew Claude into
mischief; but he is quite altered since papa had the management of
him—Oh! such talks as papa has had with Aunt Rotherwood—do you know, papa
says no one knows what it is to lose a father but those who have the care
of his children, and Aunt Rotherwood is so provoking.’
Here Alethea determined to put an end to this oration, and to Emily’s
great relief, she cut short the detail of Lady Rotherwood’s offences by
saying, ‘Do you think Faith Longley likely to suit us, if we took her to
help the housemaid?’
‘Are you thinking of taking her?’ cried Lily. ‘Yes, for steady, stupid
household work, Faith would do very well; she is just the stuff to make a
servant of—“for dulness ever must be regular”—I mean for those who like
mere steadiness better than anything more lovable.’
As Alethea said, laughing, ‘I must confess my respect for that quality,’
Mr. Devereux and Claude entered the room.
‘Oh, Robert!’ cried Lily, ‘Mrs. Weston is going to take Faith Longley to
help the housemaid.’
‘You are travelling too fast, Lily,’ said Alethea, ‘she is only going to
think about it.’
‘I should be very glad,’ said Mr. Devereux, ‘that Faith should have a
good place; the Longleys are very respectable people, and they behaved
particularly well in refusing to let this girl go and live with some
dissenters at Stoney Bridge.’
‘I like what I have seen of the girl very much,’ said Miss Weston.
‘In spite of her sad want of feeling,’ said Robert, smiling, as he looked
at Lily.
‘Oh! she is a good work-a-day sort of person,’ said Lily, ‘like all other
poor people, hard and passive. Now, do not set up your eyebrows, Claude,
I am quite serious, there is no warmth about any except—’
‘So this is what Lily is come to!’ cried Emily; ‘the grand supporter of
the poor on poetical principles.’
‘The poor not affectionate!’ said Alethea.
‘Not, compared within people whose minds and affections have been
cultivated,’ said Lily. ‘Now just hear what Mrs. Wall said to me only
yesterday; she asked for a black stuff gown out of the clothing club,
“for,” said she, “I had a misfortune, Miss;” I thought it would be, “and
tore my gown,” but it was, “I had a misfortune, Miss, and lost my
brother.”’
‘A very harsh conclusion on very slight grounds,’ said Mr. Devereux.
‘Prove the contrary,’ said Lily.
‘Facts would scarcely demonstrate it either way,’ said Mr. Devereux.
‘They would only prove what was the case with individuals who chanced to
come in our way, and if we are seldom able to judge of the depth of
feeling of those with whom we are familiar, how much less of those who
feel our presence a restraint.’
‘Intense feeling mocks restraint,’ said Lily.
‘Violent, not intense,’ said Mr. Devereux. ‘Besides, you talk of
cultivating the affections. Now what do you mean? Exercising them, or
talking about them?’
‘Ah!’ said Emily, ‘the affection of a poor person is more tried; we blame
a poor man for letting his old mother go to the workhouse, without
considering how many of us would do the same, if we had as little to live
upon.’
‘Still,’ said Alethea, ‘the same man who would refuse to maintain her if
poor, would not bear with her infirmities if rich.’
‘Are the poor never infirm and peevish?’ said Mr. Devereux.
‘Oh! how much worse it must be to bear with ill-temper in poverty,’ said
Emily, ‘when we think it quite wonderful to see a young lady kind and
patient with a cross old relation; what must it be when she is denying
herself, not only her pleasure, but her food for her sake; not merely
sitting quietly with her all day, and calling a servant to wait upon her,
but toiling all day to maintain her, and keeping awake half the night to
nurse her?’
‘Those are realities, indeed,’ said Alethea; ‘our greatest efforts seem
but child’s play in comparison.’
Lilias could hardly have helped being sobered by this conversation if she
had attended to it, but she had turned away to repeat the story of Mrs.
Walls to Jane, and then, fancying that the others were still remarking
upon it, she said in a light, laughing tone, ‘Well, so far I agree with
you. I know of a person who may well be called one of ourselves, who I
could quite fancy making such a speech.’
‘Whom do you mean?’ said Mr. Devereux. Alethea wished she did not know.
‘No very distant relation,’ said Jane.
‘Do not talk nonsense, Jane,’ said Claude, gravely.
‘No nonsense at all, Claude,’ cried Jane in her very very pertest tone,
‘it is exactly like Eleanor; I am sure I can see her with her hands
before her, saying in her prim voice, “I must turn my old black silk and
trim it with crape, for I have had a misfortune, and lost my brother.”’
‘Lilias,’ said Miss Weston, somewhat abruptly, ‘did you not wish to sing
with me this evening?’
And thus she kept Lilias from any further public mischief that evening.
Claude, exceedingly vexed by what had passed, with great injustice, laid
the blame upon Miss Weston, and instead of rendering her the honour which
she really deserved for the tact with which she had put an end to the
embarrassment of all parties, he fancied she was anxious to display her
talents for music, and thus only felt fretted by the sounds.
Mr. Weston and his daughter intended to walk home that evening, as it was
a beautiful moonlight night.
‘Oh, let us convoy you!’ exclaimed Lilias; ‘I do long to show Alethea a
glow-worm. Will you come, Claude? May we, papa? Feel how still and
warm it is. A perfect summer night, not a breath stirring.’
Mr. Mohun consented, and Lily almost hurried Alethea upstairs, to put on
her bonnet and shawl. When she came down she found that the walking
party had increased. Jane and Reginald would both have been in despair
to have missed such a frolic; Maurice hoped to fall in with the droning
beetle, or to lay violent hands on a glow-worm; Emily did not like to be
left behind, and even Mr. Mohun was going, being in the midst of an
interesting conversation with Mr. Weston. Lily, with an absurd tragic
gesture, told Alethea that amongst so many, such a crowd, all the grace
and sweet influence of the walk was ruined. The ‘sweet influence’ was
ruined as far as Lily was concerned, but not by the number of her
companions. It was the uneasy feeling caused by her over-strained
spirits and foolish chattering that prevented her from really entering
into the charm of the soft air, the clear moon, the solemn deep blue sky,
the few stars, the white lilies on the dark pond, the long shadows of the
trees, the freshness of the dewy fields. Her simplicity, and her genuine
delight in the loveliness of the scene, was gone for the time, and though
she spoke much of her enjoyment, it was in a high-flown affected style.
When the last good-night had been exchanged, and Lily had turned
homeward, she felt the stillness which succeeded their farewells almost
oppressive; she started at the dark shadow of a tree which lay across the
path, and to shake off a sensation of fear which was coming over her, she
put her arm within Claude’s, exclaiming, ‘You naughty boy, you will be
stupid and silent, say what I will.’
‘I heard enough to-night to strike me dumb,’ said Claude.
For one moment Lily thought he was in jest, but the gravity of his manner
showed her that he was both grieved and displeased, and she changed her
tone as she said, ‘Oh! Claude, what do you mean?’
‘Do you not know?’ said Claude.
‘What, you mean about Eleanor?’ said Lily; ‘you must fall upon Miss Jenny
there—it was her doing.’
‘Jane’s tongue is a pest,’ said Claude; ‘but she was not the first to
speak evil falsely of one to whom you owe everything. Oh! Lily, I
cannot tell you how that allusion of yours sounded.’
‘What allusion?’ asked Lily in alarm, for she had never seen her gentle
brother so angry.
‘You know,’ said he.
‘Indeed, I do not,’ exclaimed Lily, munch frightened. ‘Claude, Claude,
you must mistake, I never could have said anything so very shocking.’
‘I hope I do,’ said Claude; ‘I could hardly believe that one of the
little ones who cannot remember him, could have referred to him in that
way—but for you!’
‘Him?’ said Lilias.
‘I do not like to mention his name to one who regards him so lightly,’
said Claude. ‘Think over what passed, if you are sufficiently come to
yourself to remember it.’
After a little pause Lily said in a subdued voice, ‘Claude, I hope you do
not believe that I was thinking of what really happened when I said
that.’
‘Pray what were you thinking of?’
‘The abstract view of Eleanor’s character.’
‘Abstract nonsense!’ said Claude. ‘A fine demonstration of the rule of
love, to go about the world slandering your sister!’
‘To go about the world! Oh! Claude, it was only Robert, one of
ourselves, and Alethea, to whom I tell everything.’
‘So much the worse. I always rejoiced that you had no foolish young lady
friend to make missish confidences to.’
‘She is no foolish young lady friend,’ said Lilias, indignant in her
turn; ‘she is five years older than I am, and papa wishes us to be
intimate with her.’
‘Then the fault is in yourself,’ said Claude. ‘You ought not to have
told such things if they were true, and being utterly false—’
‘But, Claude, I cannot see that they are false.’
‘Not false, that Eleanor cared not a farthing for Harry!’ cried Claude,
shaking off Lily’s arm, and stopping short.
‘Oh!—she cared, she really did care,’ said Lily, as fast as she could
speak. ‘Oh! Claude, how could you think that? I told you I did not
mean what really happened, only that—Eleanor is cold—not as warm as some
people—she did care for him, of course she did—I know that—I believe she
loved him with all her heart—but yet—I mean she did not—she went on as
usual—said nothing—scarcely cried—looked the same—taught us—never—Oh! it
did not make half the difference in her that it did in William.’
‘I cannot tell how she behaved at the time,’ said Claude, ‘I only know I
never had any idea what a loss Harry was till I came home and saw her
face. I used never to trouble myself to think whether people looked ill
or well, but the change in her did strike me. She was bearing up to
comfort papa, and to cheer William, and to do her duty by all of us, and
you could take such noble resignation for want of feeling!’
Lilias looked down and tried to speak, but she was choked by her tears;
she could not bear Claude’s displeasure, and she wept in silence. At
last she said in a voice broken by sobs, ‘I was unjust—I know Eleanor was
all kindness—all self-sacrifice—I have been very ungrateful—I wish I
could help it—and you know well, Claude, how far I am from regarding dear
Harry with indifference—how the thought of him is a star in my mind—how
happy it makes me to think of him at the end of the Church Militant
Prayer; do not believe I was dreaming of him.’
‘And pray,’ said Claude, laughing in his own good-humoured way, ‘which of
us is it that she is so willing to lose?’
‘Oh! Claude, no such thing,’ said Lily, ‘you know what I meant, or did
not mean. It was nonsense—I hope nothing worse.’ Lily felt that she
might take his arm again. There was a little silence, and then Lily
resumed in a timid voice, ‘I do not know whether you will be angry,
Claude, but honestly, I do not think that if—that Eleanor would be so
wretched about you as I should.’
‘Eleanor knew Harry better than you did; no, Lily, I never could have
been what Harry was, even if I had never wasted my time, and if my
headaches had not interfered with my best efforts.’
‘I do not believe that, say what you will,’ said Lily.
‘Ask William, then,’ said Claude, sighing.
‘I am sure papa does not think so,’ said Lily; ‘no, I cannot feel that
Harry is such a loss when we still have you.’
‘Oh! Lily, it is plain that you never knew Harry,’ said Claude. ‘I do
not believe you ever did—that is one ting to be said for you.’
‘Not as you did,’ said Lily; ‘remember, he was six years older. Then
think how little we saw of him whilst they were abroad; he was always at
school, or spending the holidays with Aunt Robert, and latterly even
farther off, and only coming sometimes for an hour or two to see us.
Then he used to kiss us all round, we went into the garden with him,
looked at him, and were rather afraid of him; then he walked off to Wat
Greenwood, came back, wished us good-bye, and away he went.’
‘Yes,’ said Claude, ‘but after they came home?’
‘Then he was a tall youth, and we were silly girls,’ said Lilias; ‘he
avoided Miss Middleton, and we were always with her. He was
good-natured, but he could not get on with us; he did very well with the
little ones, but we were of the wrong age. He and William and Eleanor
were one faction, we were another, and you were between both—he was too
old, too sublime, too good, too grave for us.’
‘Too grave!’ said Claude; ‘I never heard a laugh so full of glee, except,
perhaps, Phyllis’s.’
‘The last time he was at home,’ continued Lily, ‘we began to know him
better; there was no Miss Middleton in the way, and after you and William
were gone, he used to walk with us, and read to us. He read _Guy
Mannering_ to us, and told us the story of Sir Maurice de Mohun; but the
loss was not the same to us as to you elder ones; and then sorrow was
almost lost in admiration, and in pleasure at the terms in which every
one spoke of him. Claude, I have no difficulty in not wishing it
otherwise; he is still my brother, and I would not change the feeling
which the thought of his death gives me—no, not for himself in life and
health.’
‘Ah!’ sighed Claude, ‘you have no cause for self-reproach—no reason to
lament over “wasted hours and love misspent.”’
‘You will always talk of your old indolence, as if it was a great crime,’
said Lily.
‘It was my chief temptation,’ said Claude. ‘As long as we know we are
out of the path of duty it does not make much difference whether we have
turned to the right hand or to the left.’
‘Was it Harry’s death that made you look upon it in this light?’ said
Lily.
‘I knew it well enough before,’ said Claude, ‘it was what he had often
set before me. Indeed, till I came home, and saw this place without him,
I never really knew what a loss he was. At Eton I did not miss him more
than when he went to Oxford, and I did not dwell on what he was to papa,
or what I ought to be; and even when I saw what home was without him, I
should have contented myself with miserable excuses about my health, if
it had not been for my confirmation; then I awoke, I saw my duty, and the
wretched way in which I had been spending my time. Thoughts of Harry and
of my father came afterwards; I had not vigour enough for them before.’
Here they reached the house, and parted—Claude, ashamed of having talked
of himself for the first time in his life, and Lily divided between shame
at her own folly and pleasure at Claude’s having thus opened his mind.
Jane, who was most in fault, escaped censure. Her father was ignorant of
her improper speech. Emily forgot it, and it was not Claude’s place to
reprove his sisters, though to Lily he spoke as a friend. It passed away
from her mind like other idle words, which, however, could not but leave
an impression on those who heard her.
An unlooked-for result of the folly of this evening was, that Claude was
prevented from appreciating Miss Weston He could not learn to like her,
nor shake off an idea, that she was prying into their family concerns; he
thought her over-praised, and would not even give just admiration to her
singing, because he had once fancied her eager to exhibit it. It was
unreasonable to dislike his sister’s friend for his sister’s folly, but
Claude’s wisdom was not yet arrived at its full growth, and he deserved
credit for keeping his opinion to himself.
CHAPTER IX
THE WASP
‘Whom He hath blessed and called His own,
He tries them early, look and tone,
Bent brow and throbbing heart,
Tries them with pain.’
THE next week Lily had the pleasure of fitting out Faith Longley for her
place at Mrs. Weston’s. She rejoiced at this opportunity of patronising
her, because in her secret soul she felt that she might have done her a
little injustice in choosing her own favourite Esther in her stead.
Esther’s popularity at the New Court, however, made Lilias confident in
her own judgment; the servants liked her because she was quick and
obliging, Mr. Mohun said she looked very neat, Phyllis liked her because
a mischance to her frock was not so brave an offence with her as with
Rachel, and Ada was growing very fond of her, because she was in the
habit of bestowing great admiration on her golden curls as she arranged
them, and both little girls were glad not to be compelled to put away the
playthings they took out.
Maurice and Reginald had agreed to defer their onslaught on the wasps
till Lord Rotherwood’s arrival, and the war was now limited to attacks on
foraging parties. Reginald most carefully marked every nest about the
garden and farm, and, on his cousin’s arrival on Saturday evening, began
eagerly to give him a list of their localities. Lord Rotherwood was as
ardent in the cause as even Reginald could desire, and would have
instantly set out with him to reconnoitre had not the evening been rainy.
Then turning to Claude, he said, ‘But I have not told you what brought me
here; I came to persuade you to make an expedition with me up the Rhine;
I set off next week; I would not write about it, because I knew you would
only say you should like it very much, but—some but, that meant it was a
great deal too much trouble.’
‘How fast the plan has risen up,’ said Claude, ‘I heard nothing of it
when I was with you.’
‘Oh! it only came into my head last week, but I do not see what there is
to wait for, second thoughts are never best.’
‘Oh! Claude, how delightful,’ said Lily.
Claude stirred his tea meditatively, and did not speak.
‘It is too much trouble, I perceive,’ said Lord Rotherwood; ‘just as I
told you.’
‘Not exactly,’ said Claude.
Lord Rotherwood now detailed his plan to his uncle, who said with a
propitious smile, ‘Well, Claude, what do you think of it?
‘Mind you catch a firefly for me,’ said Maurice.
‘Why don’t you answer, Claude?’ said Lilias; ‘only imagine seeing
Undine’s Castle!’
‘Eh, Claude?’ said his father.
‘It would be very pleasant,’ said Claude, slowly, ‘but—’
‘What?’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘Only a but,’ said the Marquis. ‘I hope he will have disposed of it by
the morning; I start next Tuesday week; I would not go later for the
universe; we shall be just in time for the summer in its beauty, and to
have a peep at Switzerland. We shall not have time for Mont Blanc,
without rattling faster than any man in his senses would do. I do not
mean to leave any place till I have thoroughly seen twice over everything
worth seeing that it contains.’
‘Then perhaps you will get as far as Antwerp, and spend the rest of the
holidays between the Cathedral and Paul Potter’s bull. No, I shall have
nothing to say to you at that rate,’ said Claude.
‘Depend upon it, it will be you that will wish to stand still when I had
rather be on the move,’ said the Marquis.
‘Then you had better leave me behind. I have no intention of being
hurried over the world, and never having my own way,’ said Claude, trying
to look surly.
‘I am sure I should not mind travelling twice over the world to see
Cologne Cathedral, or the field of Waterloo,’ said Lily.
‘Let me only show him my route,’ said Lord Rotherwood. ‘Redgie, look in
my greatcoat pocket in the hall for Murray’s Handbook, will you?’
‘Go and get it, Phyl,’ said Reginald, who was astride on the window-sill,
peeling a stick.
Away darted Lord Rotherwood to fetch it himself, but Phyllis was before
him; her merry laugh was heard, as he chased her round the hall to get
possession of his book, throwing down two or three cloaks to intercept
her path. Mr. Mohun took the opportunity of his absence to tell Claude
that he need not refuse on the score of expense.
‘Thank you,’ was all Claude’s answer.
Lord Rotherwood returned, and after punishing the discourteous Reginald
by raising him up by his ears, he proceeded to give a full description of
the delights of his expedition, the girls joining heartily with him in
declaring it as well arranged as possible, and bringing all their
knowledge of German travels to bear upon it. Claude sometimes put in a
word, but never as if he cared much about the matter, and he was not to
be persuaded to give any decided answer as to whether he would accompany
the Marquis.
The next morning at breakfast Lord Rotherwood returned to the charge, but
Claude seemed even more inclined to refuse than the day before. Lilias
could not divine what was the matter with him, and lingered long after
her sisters had gone to school, to hear what answer he would make; and
when Mr. Mohun looked at his watch, and asked her if she knew how late it
was, she rose from the breakfast-table with a sigh, and thought while she
was putting on her bonnet how much less agreeable the school had been
since the schism in the parish. And besides, now that Faith and Esther,
and one or two others of her best scholars, had gone away from school,
there seemed to be no one of any intelligence or knowledge left in the
class, except Marianne Weston, who knew too much for the others, and one
or two clever inattentive little girls: Lily almost disliked teaching
them.
Phyllis and Adeline were in Miss Weston’s class, and much did they
delight in her teaching. There was a quiet earnestness in her manner
which attracted her pupils, and fixed their attention, so as scarcely to
allow the careless room for irreverence, while mere cleverness seemed
almost to lose its advantage in learning what can only truly be entered
into by those whose conduct agrees with their knowledge.
Phyllis never dreamt that she could be happy while standing still and
learning, till Miss Weston began to teach at the Sunday school.
Obedience at school taught her to acquire habits of reverent attention,
which gradually conquered the idleness and weariness which had once
possessed her at church. First, she learnt to be interested in the
Historical Lessons, then never to lose her place in the Psalms, then to
think about and follow some of the Prayers; by this time she was far from
feeling any fatigue at all on week-days; she had succeeded in restraining
any contortions to relieve herself from the irksomeness of sitting still,
and had her thoughts in tolerable order through the greater part of the
Sunday service, and now it was her great wish, unknown to any one, to
abstain from a single yawn through the whole service, including the
sermon!
Her place (chosen for her by Eleanor when first she had begun to go to
Church, as far as possible from Reginald) was at the end of the seat,
between her papa and the wall. This morning, as she put her arm on the
book-board, while rising from kneeling, she felt a sudden thrill of sharp
pain smear her left elbow, which made her start violently, and would have
caused a scream, had she not been in church. She saw a wasp fall on the
ground, and was just about to put her foot on it, when she recollected
where she was. She had never in her life intentionally killed anything,
and this was no time to begin in that place, and when she was angry. The
pain was severe—more so perhaps than any she had felt before—and very
much frightened, she pulled her papa’s coat to draw his attention. But
her first pull was so slight that he did not feel it, and before she gave
a second she remembered that she could not make him hear what was the
matter, without more noise than was proper. No, she must stay where she
was, and try to bear the pain, and she knew that if she did try, help
would be given her. She proceeded to find out the Psalm and join her
voice with the others, though her heart was beating very fast, her
forehead was contracted, and she could not help keeping her right hand
clasped round her arm, and sometimes shifting from one foot to the other.
The sharpness of the pain soon went off; she was able to attend to the
Lessons, and hoped it would soon be quite well; but as soon as she began
to think about it, it began to ache and throb, and seemed each moment to
be growing hotter. The sermon especially tried her patience, her cheeks
were burning, she felt sick and hardly able to hold up her head, yet she
would not lean it against the wall, because she had often been told not
to do so. She was exceedingly alarmed to find that her arm had swelled
so much that she could hardly bend it, and it had received the impression
of the gathers of her sleeve; she thought no sermon had ever been so
long, but she sat quite still and upright, as she could not have done,
had she not trained herself unconsciously by her efforts to leave off the
trick of kicking her heels together. She did not speak till she was in
the churchyard, and then she made Emily look at her arm.
‘My poor child, it is frightful,’ said Emily, ‘what is the matter?’
‘A wasp stung me just before the Psalms,’ said Phyllis, ‘and it goes on
swelling and swelling, and it does pant!’
‘What is the matter?’ asked Mr. Mohun.
‘Papa, just look,’ said Emily, ‘a wasp stung this dear child quite early
in the service, and she has been bearing it all this time in silence.
Why did you not show me, Phyl?’
‘Because it was in church,’ said the little girl.
‘Why, Phyllis, you are a very Spartan,’ said Lord Rotherwood.
‘Something better than a Spartan,’ said Mr. Mohun. ‘Does it give you
much pain now, my dear?’
‘Not so bad as in church,’ said Phyllis, ‘only I am very tired, and it is
so hot.’
‘We will help you home, then,’ said Mr. Mohun. As he took her up in his
arms, Phyllis laughed, thanked him, replied to various inquiries from her
sisters and the Westons—laughed again at sundry jokes from her brothers,
then became silent, and was almost asleep, with her head on her papa’s
shoulder, by the time they reached the hall-door. She thought it very
strange to be laid down on the sofa in the drawing-room, and to find
every one attending to her. Mrs. Weston bathed her forehead with
lavender-water, and Lily cut open the sleeve of her frock; Jane fetched
all manner of remedies, and Emily pitied her. She was rather frightened:
she thought such a fuss would not be made about her unless she was very
ill; she was faint and tired, and was glad when Mrs. Weston proposed that
they should all come away, and leave her to go to sleep quietly.
Marianne was so absorbed in admiration of Phyllis that she did not speak
one word all the way from church to the New Court, and stood in silence
watching the operations upon her friend, till Mrs. Weston sent every one
away.
Adeline rather envied Phyllis; she would willingly have endured the pain
to be made of so much importance, and said to be better than a Spartan,
which must doubtless be something very fine indeed!
Phyllis was waked by the bells ringing for the afternoon service; Mrs.
Weston was sitting by her, reading, Claude came to inquire for her, and
to tell her that as she had lost her early dinner, she was to join the
rest of the party at six. To her great surprise she felt quite well and
fresh, and her arm was much better; Mrs. Weston pinned up her sleeve, and
she set off with her to church, wondering whether Ada would remember to
tell her what she had missed that afternoon at school. Those whose
approbation was valuable, honoured Phyllis for her conduct, but she did
not perceive it, or seek for it; she did not look like a heroine while
running about and playing with Reginald and the dogs in the evening, but
her papa had told her she was a good child, Claude had given her one of
his kindest smiles, and she was happy. Even when Esther was looking at
the mark left by the sting, and telling her that she was sure Miss
Marianne Weston would have not been half so good, her simple, humble
spirit came to her aid, and she answered, ‘I’ll tell you what, Esther,
Marianne would have behaved much better, for she is older, and never
fidgets, and she would not have been angry like me, and just going to
kill the wasp.’
CHAPTER X
COUSIN ROTHERWOOD
‘We care not who says
And intends it dispraise,
That an Angler to a fool is next neighbour.’
IN the evening Lord Rotherwood renewed his entreaties to Claude to join
him on his travels. He was very much bent on taking him, for his own
pleasure depended not a little on his cousin’s company. Claude lay on
the glassy slope of the terrace, while Lord Rotherwood paced rapidly up
and down before him, persuading him with all the allurements he could
think of, and looking the picture of impatience. Lily sat by, adding her
weight to all his arguments. But Claude was almost contemptuous to all
the beauties of Germany, and all the promised sights; he scarcely gave
himself the trouble to answer his tormentors, only vouchsafing sometimes
to open his lips to say that he never meant to go to a country where
people spoke a language that sounded like cracking walnuts; that he hated
steamers; had no fancy for tumble-down castles; that it was so common to
travel; there was more distinction in staying at home; that the field of
Waterloo had been spoilt, and was not worth seeing; his ideas of glaciers
would be ruined by the reality; and he did not care to see Cologne
Cathedral till it was finished.
On this Lily set up an outcry of horror.
‘One comfort is, Lily,’ said Lord Rotherwood, ‘he does not mean it; he
did not say it from the bottom of his heart. Now, confess you did not,
Claude.’
Claude pretended to be asleep.
‘I see plainly enough,’ said the Marquis to Lily, ‘it is as Wat Greenwood
says, “Mr. Reynold and the grapes.”’
‘But it is not,’ said Lily, ‘and that is what provokes me; papa says he
is quite welcome to go if he likes, and that he thinks it will do him a
great deal of good, but that foolish boy will say nothing but “I will
think about it,” and “thank you”.’
‘Then I give him up as regularly dense.’
‘It is the most delightful plan ever thought of,’ said Lily, ‘so easily
done, and just bringing within his compass all he ever wished to see.’
‘Oh! his sole ambition is to stretch those long legs of his on the grass,
like a great vegetable marrow,’ said Lord Rotherwood. ‘It is vegetating
like a plant that makes him so much taller than any rational creature
with a little animal life.’
‘I think Jane has his share of curiosity,’ said Lily, ‘I am sure I had no
idea that anything belonging to us could be so stupid.’
‘Well,’ said the Marquis, ‘I shall not go.’
‘No?’ said Lily.
‘No, I shall certainly not go.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Claude, waking from his pretended sleep, ‘why do you not
ask Travers to go with you? He would like nothing better.’
‘He is a botanist, and would bore me with looking for weeds. No, I will
have you, or stay at home.’
Claude proposed several others as companions, but Lord Rotherwood treated
them all with as much disdain as Claude had shown for Germany, and ended
with ‘Now, Claude, you know my determination, only tell me why you will
not go?’
‘Then I do tell you, Rotherwood, the truth is, that those boys, Maurice
and Reginald, are perfectly unmanageable when they are left alone with
the girls.’
‘Have a tutor for them,’ said the Marquis.
‘Very much obliged to you they would be for the suggestion,’ said Claude.
‘Oh! but Claude,’ said Lily.
‘I really cannot go. They mind no one but the Baron and me, and besides
that, it would be no small annoyance to the house; ten tutors could not
keep them from indescribable bits of mischief. I undertook them these
holidays, and I mean to keep them.’
Lilias was just flying off to her father, when Claude caught hold of her,
saying, ‘I desire you will not,’ and she stood still, looking at her
cousin in dismay.
‘It is all right,’ cried the Marquis, joyfully, ‘it is only to set off
three weeks later.’
‘Oh! I thought you would not go a week later for the universe,’ said
Claude, smiling.
‘Not for the Universe, but for U—,’ said Lord Rotherwood.
‘Worthy of a companion true, of the University of Gottingen,’ said
Claude; ‘but, Rotherwood, do you really mean that it will make no
difference to you?’
‘None whatever; I meant to spend three weeks with my mother at the end of
the tour, and I shall spend them now instead. I only talked of going
immediately, because nothing is done at all that is not done quickly, and
I hate delays, but it is all the same, and now it stands for Tuesday
three weeks. Now we shall see what he says to Cologne, Lily.’
Claude sprung up, and began talking over arrangements and possibilities
with zest, which showed what his wishes had been from the first. All was
quickly settled, and as soon as his father had given his cordial
approbation to the scheme, it was amusing to see how animated and active
Claude became, and in how different a style he talked of the once
slighted Rhine.
Lord Rotherwood told the boys that their brother was a great deal too
good for them, but they never troubled themselves to ask in what respect;
Lilias took very great delight in telling Emily of the sacrifice which he
had been willing to make, and looked forward to talking it over with
Alethea, but she refrained, as long as he was at home, as she knew it
would greatly displease him, and she had heard enough about missish
confidences.
The Marquis of Rotherwood was certainly the very reverse of his chosen
travelling companion, in the matter of activity. He made an appointment
with the two boys to get up at half-past four on Monday morning for some
fishing, before the sun was too high—Maurice not caring for the sport,
but intending to make prize of any of the ‘insect youth’ which might
prefer the sunrise for their gambols; and Reginald, in high delight at
the prospect of real fishing, something beyond his own performances with
a stick and a string, in pursuit of minnows in the ditches. Reginald was
making contrivances for tying a string round his wrist and hanging the
end of it from the window, that Andrew Grey might give it a pull as he
went by to his work, to wake him, when Lord Rotherwood exclaimed, ‘What!
cannot you wake yourself at any time you please?’
‘No,’ said Reginald, ‘I never heard of any one that could.’
‘Then I advise you to learn the art; in the meantime I will call you
to-morrow.’
Loud voices and laughter in the hall, and the front door creaking on its
hinges at sunrise, convinced the household that this was no vain boast;
before breakfast was quite over the fishermen were seen approaching the
house. Lord Rotherwood was an extraordinary figure, in an old shooting
jacket of his uncle’s, an enormous pair of fishing-boots of William’s,
and the broad-brimmed straw hat, which always hung up in the hall, and
was not claimed by any particular owner.
Maurice displayed to Jane the contents of two phials, strange little
creatures, with stranger names, of which he was as proud as Reginald of
his three fine trout. Lord Rotherwood did not appear till he had made
himself look like other people, which he did in a surprisingly short
time. He began estimating the weight of the fish, and talking at his
most rapid rate, till at last Claude said, ‘Phyllis told us just now that
you were coming back, for that she heard Cousin Rotherwood talking, and
it proved to be Jane’s old turkey cock gobbling.’
‘No bad compliment,’ said Emily, ‘for Phyllis was once known to say, on
hearing a turkey cock, “How melodiously that nightingale sings.”’
‘No, no! that was Ada,’ said Lilias.
‘I could answer for that,’ said Claude. ‘Phyllis is too familiar with
both parties to mistake their notes. Besides, she never was known to use
such a word as melodiously.’
‘Do you remember,’ said the Marquis, ‘that there was some great lawyer
who had three kinds of handwriting, one that the public could read, one
that only his clerk could read, and one that nobody could read?’
‘I suppose I am the clerk,’ said Claude, ‘unless I divide the honour with
Florence.’
‘I do not think I am unintelligible anywhere but here,’ said Lord
Rotherwood. ‘There is nothing sufficiently exciting at home, if
Grosvenor Square is to be called home.’
‘Sometimes you do it without knowing it,’ said Lily.
‘Yes,’ said Claude, ‘when you do not exactly know what you are going to
say.’
‘Then it is no bad plan,’ said Lord Rotherwood. ‘People are satisfied,
and you don’t commit yourself.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Cousin Rotherwood,’ exclaimed Phyllis, ‘your hand is
bleeding.’
‘Is it? Thank you, Phyllis, I thought I had washed it off: now do find
me some sealing-wax—India-rub her—sticking-plaster, I mean.’
‘Oh! Rotherwood,’ said Emily, ‘what a bad cut, how did it happen?’
‘Only, I am the victim to Maurice’s first essay in fishing.’
‘Just fancy what an awkward fellow Maurice is,’ said Reginald, ‘he had
but one throw, and he managed to stick the hook into Rotherwood’s hand.’
‘One of those barbed hooks? Oh! Rotherwood, how horrid!’ said Emily.
‘And he cut it out with his knife, and caught that great trout with it
directly,’ said Reginald.
‘And neither half drowned Maurice, nor sent him home again?’ asked Lily.
‘I contented myself with taking away his weapon,’ said the Marquis; ‘and
he wished for nothing better than to poke about in the gutters for
insects; it was only Redgie that teased him into the nobler sport.’
Emily was inclined to make a serious matter of the accident, but her
cousin said ten words while she said one, and by the time her first
sentence was uttered, she found him talking about his ride to Devereux
Castle.
He and Claude set out as soon as breakfast was over, and came back about
three o’clock; Claude was tired with the heat, and betook himself to the
sofa, where he fell asleep, under pretence of reading, but the
indefatigable Marquis was ready and willing to set out with Reginald and
Wat Greenwood to shoot rabbits.
Dinner-time came, and Emily sat at the drawing-room window with Claude
and Lilias, lamenting her cousin’s bad habits. ‘Nothing will ever make
him punctual,’ said she.
‘I am in duty bound to let you say nothing against him,’ said Claude.
‘It is very good-natured in him to wait for you,’ said Lily, ‘but it
would be horribly selfish to leave you behind.’
‘Delay is his great horror,’ said Claude, ‘and the wonder of his
character is, that he is not selfish. No one had ever better training
for it.’
‘He does like his own way very much,’ said Lilias.
‘Who does not?’ said Claude.
‘Nothing shows his sense so much,’ said Emily, ‘as his great attachment
to papa—the only person who ever controlled him.’
‘And to Claude—his opposite in everything,’ said Lilias.
‘I think he will tire you to death in Germany,’ said Emily.
‘Never fear,’ said Claude, ‘my _vis inertiæ_ is enough to counterbalance
any amount of restlessness.’
‘Here they come,’ said Lily; ‘how Wat Greenwood is grinning at
Rotherwood’s jokes!’
‘A happy day for Wat,’ said Emily. ‘He will be quite dejected if William
is not at home next shooting season. He thinks you a degenerate Mohun,
Claude.’
‘He must comfort himself with Redgie,’ said Claude.
‘Rotherwood is only eager about shooting in common with everything else,’
said Lily, ‘but Redgie, I fear, will care for nothing else.’
Lord Rotherwood came in, accounting for being late, as, in passing
through a harvest field, he could not help attempting to reap. The
Beechcroft farming operations had been his especial amusement from very
early days, and his plans were numerous for farming on a grand scale as
soon as he should be of age. His talk during dinner was of turnips and
wheat, till at length Mr. Mohun asked him what he thought of the
appearance of the castle. He said it was very forlorn; the rooms looked
so dreary and deserted that he could not bear to be in them, and had been
out of doors almost all the time. Indeed, he was afraid he had
disappointed the housekeeper by not complimenting her as she deserved,
for the freezing dismal order in which she kept everything. ‘And
really,’ said he, ‘I must go again to-morrow and make up for it, and
Emily, you must come with me and try to devise something to make the
unhappy place less like the abode of the Prince of the Black Islands.’
Emily willingly promised to go, and she went on talking to him, and
telling him whom he was to meet on the next day, when an unusual silence
making her look up, she beheld him more than half asleep.
Reginald fidgeted and sighed, and Maurice grew graver and graver as they
thought of the wasps. Maurice wanted to take a nest entire, and began
explaining his plan to Claude.
‘You see, Claude, burning some straw and then digging, spoils the combs,
as Wat does it; now I have got some puff-balls and sulphur to put into
the hole, and set fire to them with a lucifer match, so as to stifle the
wasps, and then dig them out quietly to-morrow morning.’
‘It is all of no use, if that Rotherwood will do nothing but sleep,’ said
Reginald, in a disconsolate tone.
‘You should not have made him get up at four,’ said Emily.
‘Who! I?’ exclaimed the Marquis. ‘I never was wider awake. What are
you waiting for, Reginald? I thought you were going to take wasps’
nests.’
‘You are much too tired, I am sure,’ said Emily.
‘Tired! not in the least, I have done nothing to-day to tire me,’ said
Lord Rotherwood, walking up and down the room to keep himself awake.
The whole party went out, and found Wat Greenwood waiting for them with a
bundle of straw, a spade, and a little gunpowder. Maurice carried a
basket containing all his preparations, on which Wat looked with supreme
contempt, telling him that his puffs were too green to make a smeech.
Maurice, not condescending to argue the point, ran on to a nest which
Reginald had marked on one of the green banks of the ancient moat.
‘Take care that the wasps are all come in; mind what you are about,
Maurice,’ called his father.
‘Master Maurice,’ shouted Wat, ‘you had better take a green bough.’
‘Never mind, Wat,’ said Lord Rotherwood, ‘he would not stay long enough
to use it if he had it.’
Reginald ran after Maurice, who had just reached the nest.
‘There is one coming in, the evening is so warm they are not quiet yet.’
‘I’ll quiet them,’ said Maurice, kneeling down, and putting his first
puff-ball into the hole.
Reginald stood by with a sly smile, as he pulled a branch off a
neighbouring filbert-tree. The next moment Maurice gave a sudden yell,
‘The wasps! the wasps!’ and jumping up, and tripping at his first step,
rolled down the bank, and landed safely at Lord Rotherwood’s feet. The
shouts of laughter were loud, but he regarded them not, and as soon as he
recovered his feet, rushed past his sisters, and never stopped till he
reached the house. Redgie stood alone, in the midst of a cloud of wasps,
beating them off with a bough, roaring with laughter, and calling Wat to
bring the straw to burn them.
‘No, no, Redgie, come away, leave them for Maurice to try again,’ said
his father.
‘The brute, he stung me,’ cried Reginald, knocking down a wasp or two as
he came down. ‘What is this?’ added he, as he stumbled over something at
the bottom of the slope. ‘Oh! Maurice’s basket; look here—laudanum—did
he mean to poison the wasps?’
‘No,’ said Jane, ‘to cure their stings.’
‘The poor unhappy quiz!’ cried Reginald.
While the others were busy over a nest, Mr. Mohun asked Emily how the boy
got at the medicine chest. Emily looked confused, and said she supposed
Jane had given him a bottle.
‘Jane is too young to be trusted there,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I thought you
knew better; do not let the key be out of your possession again.’
After a few more nests had been taken in the usual manner, they returned
to the house. Maurice was lying on the sofa reading the _Penny
Magazine_, from which he raised his eyes no more that evening, in spite
of all the jokes which flew about respecting wounded knights, courage,
and the balsam of Fierabras. He called Jane to teach her how flies were
made, and as soon as tea was over he went to bed. Reginald, after many
yawns, prepared to follow his example, and as he was wishing his sisters
good-night, Emily said, ‘Now, Redgie, do not go out at such a
preposterous hour to-morrow morning.’
‘What is that to you?’ was Reginald’s courteous inquiry.
‘I do not wish to see every one fast asleep to-morrow evening,’ said
Emily, and she looked at her cousin, whose head was far back over his
chair.
‘He is a Trojan,’ said Reginald.
‘Is a Trojan better than a Spartan?’ asked Ada, meditatively.
‘Helen thought so,’ said Claude.
‘“When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war,”’ muttered the
Marquis.
‘You are all talking Greek,’ said Jane.
‘Arabic,’ said Claude.
As far as it could be comprehended, Lord Rotherwood’s answer related to
Maurice and the wasps.
‘There,’ said Emily, ‘what is to be done if he is in that condition
to-morrow?’
‘I am not asleep; what makes you think I am?’
‘I wish you would sit in that great chair,’ said Emily, ‘I am afraid you
will break your neck; you look so uncomfortable, I cannot bear to see
you.’
‘I never was more comfortable in my life,’ said Lord Rotherwood, asleep
while finishing the sentence; but this time, happily with his elbows on
the table, and his head in a safer position.
The next day was spent rather more rationally. Lord Rotherwood met with
a book of Irish Tales, with which he became so engrossed that he did not
like to leave it when Emily and Claude were ready to ride to Devereux
Castle with him. When there he was equally eager and vehement about each
matter that came under consideration, and so many presented themselves,
that Emily began to be in agonies lest she should not be at home in time
to dress and receive her guests. They did, however, reach the house
before Lilias, who had been walking with Miss Weston, came in, and when
she went upstairs, she found Emily full of complaints at the
inconvenience of having no Rachel to assist her in dressing, and to see
that everything was in order, and that Phyllis was fit to appear when she
came down in the evening; but, by the assistance of Lily and Jane, she
got over her troubles, and when she went into the drawing-room, she was
much relieved to find her two gentlemen quite safe and dressed. She had
been in great fear of Lord Rotherwood’s straying away to join in some of
Reginald’s sports, and was grateful to the Irish book for keeping him out
of mischief.
Emily was in her glory; it was the first large dinner-party since Eleanor
had gone, and though she pitied herself for having the trouble of
entertaining the people, she really enjoyed the feeling that she now
appeared as the mistress of New Court, with her cousin, the Marquis, by
her side, to show how highly she was connected. And everything went off
just as could be wished. Lord Rotherwood talked intelligibly and
sensibly, and Mr. Mohun’s neighbour at dinner had a voice which he could
hear. Lily’s pleasure was not less than her sister’s, though of a
different kind. She delighted in thinking how well Emily did the
honours, in watching the varied expression of Lord Rotherwood’s animated
countenance, in imagining Claude’s forehead to be finer than that of any
one else, and in thinking how people must admire Reginald’s tall, active
figure, and very handsome face. She was asked to play, and did tolerably
well, but was too shy to sing, nor, indeed, was Reginald encouraging.
‘What is the use of your singing, Lily? If it was like Miss Weston’s,
now—’
Reginald had taken a great fancy to Miss Weston; he stood by her all the
evening, and afterwards let her talk to him, and then began to chatter
himself, at last becoming so confidential as to impart to her the grand
object of his ambition, which was to be taller than Claude!
The next morning Lord Rotherwood left Beechcroft, somewhat to Emily’s
relief; for though she was very proud of him, and much enjoyed the
dignity of being seen to talk familiarly with him, yet, when no strangers
were present, and he became no more than an ordinary cousin, she was
worried by his incessant activity, and desire to see, know, and do
everything as fast and as thoroughly as possible. She could not see the
use of such vehemence; she liked to take things in a moderate way, and as
Claude said, much preferred the passive to the active voice. Claude, on
the contrary, was ashamed of his constitutional indolence, looked on it
as a temptation, and struggled against it, almost envying his cousin his
unabated eagerness and untiring energy, and liking to be with him,
because no one else so effectually roused him from his habitual languor.
His indolence was, however, so much the effect of ill health, that
exertion was sometimes scarcely in his power, especially in hot weather,
and by the time his brothers’ studies were finished each day, he was
unfit for anything but to lie on the grass under the plane-tree.
The days glided on, and the holidays came to an end; Maurice spent them
in adding to his collection of insects, which, with Jane’s assistance, he
arranged very neatly; and Reginald and Phyllis performed several
exploits, more agreeable to themselves than satisfactory to the more
rational part of the New Court community. At the same time, Reginald’s
devotion to Miss Weston increased; he never moved from her side when she
sang, did not fail to be of the party when she walked with his sisters,
offered her one of his own puppies, named his little ship ‘Alethea,’ and
was even tolerably civil to Marianne.
At length the day of departure came; the boys returned to school, Claude
joined Lord Rotherwood, and the New Court was again in a state of
tranquillity.
CHAPTER XI
DANCING
‘Prescribe us not our duties.’
‘WELL, Phyllis,’ said her father, as he passed through the hall to mount
his horse, ‘how do you like the prospect of Monsieur le Roi’s
instructions?’
‘Not at all, papa,’ answered Phyllis, running out to the hall door to pat
the horse, and give it a piece of bread.
‘Take care you turn out your toes,’ said Mr. Mohun. ‘You must learn to
dance like a dragon before Cousin Rotherwood’s birthday next year.’
‘Papa, how do dragons dance?’
‘That is a question I must decide at my leisure,’ said Mr. Mohun,
mounting. ‘Stand out of the way, Phyl, or you will feel how horses
dance.’
Away he rode, while Phyllis turned with unwilling steps to the nursery,
to be dressed for her first dancing lesson; Marianne Weston was to learn
with her, and this was some consolation, but Phyllis could not share in
the satisfaction Adeline felt in the arrival of Monsieur le Roi. Jane
was also a pupil, but Lily, whose recollections of her own dancing days
were not agreeable, absented herself entirely from the dancing-room, even
though Alethea Weston had come with her sister.
Poor Phyllis danced as awkwardly as was expected, but Adeline seemed
likely to be a pupil in whom a master might rejoice; Marianne was very
attentive and not ungraceful, but Alethea soon saw reason to regret the
arrangement that had been made, for she perceived that Jane considered
the master a fair subject for derision, and her ‘nods and becks, and
wreathed smiles,’ called up corresponding looks in Marianne’s face.
‘Oh Brownie, you are a naughty thing!’ said Emily, as soon as M. le Roi
had departed.
‘He really was irresistible!’ said Jane.
‘I suppose ridicule is one of the disagreeables to which a dancing-master
makes up his mind,’ said Alethea.
‘Yes,’ said Jane, ‘one can have no compunction in quizzing that species.’
‘I do not think I can quite say that, Jane,’ said Miss Weston.
‘This man especially lays himself open to ridicule,’ said Jane; ‘do you
know, Alethea, that he is an Englishman, and his name is King, only he
calls himself Le Roi, and speaks broken English!’
Though Alethea joined in the general laugh, she did not feel quite
satisfied; she feared that if not checked in time, Jane would proceed to
actual impertinence, and that Marianne would be tempted to follow her
example, but she did not like to interfere, and only advised Marianne to
be on her guard, hoping that Emily would also speak seriously to her
sister.
On the next occasion, however, Jane ventured still farther; her grimaces
were almost irresistible, and she had a most comical manner of imitating
the master’s attitudes when his eye was not upon her, and putting on a
demure countenance when he turned towards her, which sorely tried
Marianne.
‘What shall I do, Alethea?’ said the little girl, as the sisters walked
home together; ‘I do not know how to help laughing, if Jane will be so
very funny.’
‘I am afraid we must ask mamma to let us give up the dancing,’ replied
Alethea; ‘the temptation is almost too strong, and I do not think she
would wish to expose you to it.’
‘But, Alethea, why do not you speak to Jane?’ asked Marianne; ‘no one
seems to tell her it is wrong; Miss Mohun was almost laughing.’
‘I do not think Jane would consider that I ought to find fault with her,’
said Alethea.
‘But you would not scold her,’ urged Marianne; ‘only put her in mind that
it is not right, not kind; that Monsieur le Roi is in authority over her
for the time.’
‘I will speak to mamma,’ said Alethea, ‘perhaps it will be better next
time.’
And it was better, for Mr. Mohun happening to be at home, was dragged
into the dancing-room by Emily and Ada. Once, when she thought he was
looking another way, Jane tried to raise a smile, but a stern ‘Jane, what
are you thinking of?’ recalled her to order, and when the lesson was over
her father spoke gravely to her, telling her that he thought few things
more disgusting in a young lady than impertinence towards her teachers;
and then added, ‘Miss Weston, I hope you keep strict watch over these
giddy young things.’
Awed by her father, Jane behaved tolerably well at that time and the
next, and Miss Weston hoped her interference would not be needed, but as
if to make up for this restraint, her conduct a fortnight after was quite
beyond bearing. She used every means to make Marianne laugh, and at last
went so far as to pretend to think that M. le Roi had not understood what
she said in English, and to translate it into French. Poor Marianne
looked imploringly at her sister, and Alethea hoped that Emily would
interpose, but Emily was turning away her head to conceal a laugh, and
Miss Weston was obliged to give Jane a very grave look, which she
perfectly understood, though she pretended not to see it. When the
exercise was over Miss Weston made her a sign to approach, and said,
‘Jane, do you think your papa would have liked—’
‘What do you mean?’ said Jane, ‘I have not been laughing.’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Alethea, ‘and pray do not be displeased if I
ask you not to make it difficult for Marianne to behave properly.’
Jane drew up her head and went back to her place. She played no more
tricks that day, but as soon as the guests were gone, began telling
Lilias how Miss Weston had been meddling and scolding her.
‘And well you must have deserved it,’ said Lily.
‘I do not say that Jenny was right,’ said Emily, ‘but I think Miss Weston
might allow me to correct my own sister in my own house.’
‘You correct Jane!’ cried Lily, and Jane laughed.
‘I only mean,’ said Emily, ‘that it was not very polite, and papa says
the closest friendship is no reason for dispensing with the rules of
politeness.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Lily, ‘the rules of politeness are rules of love,
and it was in love that Alethea spoke; she sees how sadly we are left to
ourselves, and is kind enough to speak a word in season.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Jane, ‘since it was in love that she spoke, you would
like to have her for our reprover for ever, and I can assure you more
unlikely things have happened. I have heard it from one who can judge.’
‘Let me hear no more of this,’ said Emily, ‘it is preposterous and
ridiculous, and very disrespectful to papa.’
Jane for once, rather shocked at her own words, went back to what had
been said just before.
‘Then, perhaps, you would like to have Eleanor back again?’
‘I am sure you want some one to put you in mind of your duty,’ said Lily.
‘Eleanor and duty!’ cried Emily; ‘you who thought so much of the power of
love!’
‘Of Emily and love, she would say, if it sounded well,’ said Jane.
‘I cannot see what true love you or Jane are showing now,’ said Lily, ‘it
is no kindness to encourage her pertness, or to throw away a friendly
reproof because it offends your pride.’
‘Nobody reproved me,’ replied Emily; ‘besides, I know love will prevail;
for my sake Jane will not expose herself and me to a stranger’s
interference.’
‘If you depend upon that, I wish you joy,’ said Lilias, as she left the
room.
‘What a weathercock Lily is!’ cried Jane, ‘she has fallen in love with
Alethea Weston, and echoes all she says.’
‘Not considering her own inconsistency,’ said Emily.
‘That Alethea Weston,’ exclaimed Jane, in an angry tone;—but Emily,
beginning to recover some sense of propriety, said, ‘Jenny, you know you
were very ill-bred, and you made it difficult for the little ones to
behave well.’
‘Not our own little ones,’ said Jane; ‘honest Phyl did not understand the
joke, and Ada was thinking of her attitudes; one comfort is, that I shall
be confirmed in three weeks’ time, and then people cannot treat me as a
mere child—little as I am.’
‘Oh! Jane,’ said Emily, ‘I do not like to hear you talk of confirmation
in that light way.’
‘No, no,’ said Jane, ‘I do not mean it—of course I do not mean it—don’t
look shocked—it was only by the bye—and another by the bye, Emily, you
know I must have a cap and white ribbons, and I am afraid I must make it
myself.’
‘Ay, that is the worst of having Esther,’ said Emily, ‘she and Hannah
have no notion of anything but the plainest work; I am sure if I had
thought of all the trouble of that kind which having a young girl would
entail, I would never have consented to Esther’s coming.’
‘That was entirely
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