As soon as Mrs. Hazleby made her appearance in the drawing-room before dinner, Rupert began repeating,
'The wound it seemed both sore and sadTo every Christian eye,And while they swore the dog was mad,They swore the child would die,
But soon a wonder came to light,That shewed the rogues they lied,The child recovered of the bite,It was the dog that died.'
'I beg to offer my congratulations,' continued he, setting a chair for her.
Mrs. Hazleby looked surprised.
'On the demonstration we have this day received of your superior judgement, Ma'am,' said Rupert, 'though indeed we could hardly have doubted it before.'
'Pray let me understand you, Mr. Merton,' said Mrs. Hazleby.
'Have you not heard of the circumstance to which I allude?' said Rupert; 'for if you are not already aware of it, I must beg to be excused from relating it; I could not bear to give so great a shock to a lady's feelings.'
'Oh! you mean about Fido,' said Mrs. Hazleby, almost smiling; 'yes, Lucy told me that you had found him. Really, my girls are so careless, I can trust nothing to them.'
'Indeed, Madam,' said Rupert, 'I assure you that nothing could have been more heart-rending than the scene presented to our eyes when the Miss Hazlebys first became aware of the untimely fate of their favourite. Who could behold it with dry eye—or dry foot?' added he, in an under-tone, with a side glance at Anne.
Rupert contrived to talk so much nonsense to Mrs. Hazleby, that he charmed her with his attention, gave her no time to say anything about Fido, and left Anne much surprised that she had never found out that he was laughing at her. At dinner, the grouse he had brought came to their aid; Mrs. Hazleby was delighted to taste a blackcock once more, and was full of reminiscences of Inchlitherock; and by means of these recollections, and Rupert's newly imported histories, Sir Edward and Mr. Woodbourne contrived to make the conversation more entertaining than Elizabeth thought it ever could be in any party in which Mrs. Hazleby was present.
Afterwards in the drawing-room, Dora's bulrushes and the other children's purchases were duly admired, and the little people, being rather fatigued, were early sent to bed, although Edward vehemently insisted, with his eyes half shut, that he was not in the least sleepy. The elder girls then arranged themselves round the table. Helen was working a bunch of roses of different colours; Anne admired it very much, but critics were not wanting to this, as to every other performance of Helen's.
'It is all very pretty except that rose,' said Katherine, 'but I am sure that is an unnatural colour.—Is it not, Anne?'
'I do not think that I ever saw one like it,' said Anne; 'but that is no proof that there is no such flower.'
'What do you think, Lizzie?' said Katherine; 'ought not Helen to alter it?'
Anne was rather alarmed by this appeal; but Elizabeth answered carelessly, without looking up, 'Oh! you know I know nothing about that kind of work.'
'But you can tell what colour a rose is,' persisted Katherine; 'now do not you think Helen will spoil her work with that orange-coloured rose? who ever heard of such a thing?'
Helen was on the point of saying that one of the gable-ends of the house at Dykelands was covered with a single rose of that colour, but she remembered that Dykelands was not a safe subject, and refrained.
'Come, do not have a York and Lancaster war about an orange-coloured rose, Kate,' said Elizabeth, coming up to Helen; 'why, Anne, where are your eyes? did you never see an Austrian briar, just the the colour of Helen's lambs-wools?'
Though this was a mere trifle, Helen was pleased to find that Elizabeth could sometimes be on her side of the question, and worked on in a more cheerful spirit.
'Why, Anne,' said Elizabeth, presently after, 'you are doing that old wreath over again, that you were about last year, when I was at Merton Hall.'
'Yes,' said Anne; 'it is a pattern which I like very much.'
'Do you like working the same thing over again?' said Katherine; 'I always get tired of it.'
'I like it very much,' said Anne; 'going over the same stitches puts me in mind of things that were going on when I was working them before.—Now, Lizzie, the edge of that poppy seems to have written in it all that delightful talk we had together, at home, about growing up, that day when Papa and Mamma dined out, and we had it all to ourselves. And the iris has the whole of Don Quixote folded up in it, because Papa was reading it to us, when I was at work upon it.'
'There certainly seems to be a use and pleasure in never sitting down three minutes without that carpet-work, which I should never have suspected,' said Elizabeth.
'Anne thinks as I do,' said Mrs. Woodbourne; 'I find carpet-work quite a companion to me, but I cannot persuade Lizzie to take any pleasure in it.'
'I have not time for it,' said Elizabeth, 'nor patience if I had time. It is all I can persuade myself to do to keep my clothes from being absolute rags.'
'Yes,' said Katherine; 'you always read with Meg in your lap, when you have no mending to do; you have been six months braiding that frock.'
'Oh! that is company work,' said Elizabeth; 'I began it at Merton Hall for Dora, but I believe Winifred must have it now. But now it is so nearly done, that I shall finish while you are here.'
Elizabeth did not however long continue working, for as soon as tea was over she proposed to play at the game of Conglomeration, as she had talked of doing in the course of the walk. 'I give notice, however,' said she, 'that we are likely to laugh more than will suit the gravity of the elders, therefore I recommend adjourning to the inner drawing-room.—Mamma, may we have candles there?'
Consent was given, and while the candles were being brought, and Elizabeth was looking out some paper, Anne whispered to her brother, 'Rupert, pray say nothing about Fido, or the Mechanics' Institute, or something unpleasant will surely come of it.'
'Oh! Anne,' was the answer, 'you have robbed me of my best couplet—
Weeping like forsaken Dido,When she found the slaughtered Fido.
Where is the use of playing if there is to be no fun?'
''Where is the use of fun?' said the cockchafer to the boy who was spinning it,' said Anne.
'Impertinence, impertinence, impertinence,' said Rupert, shaking his head at her.
By this time all was ready, and Elizabeth called the brother and sister to take their places at the table in the inner drawing-room. She then wrote a substantive at the upper end of a long strip of paper, and folding it down, handed it on to Lucy, who also wrote a noun, turned it down, and gave the paper to Helen, who, after writing hers and hiding it, passed it on to Rupert. Thus the paper was handed round till it was filled. It was then unrolled, and each player was required to write a copy of verses in which these words were to be introduced as rhymes in the order in which they stood in the list. Rupert was rather put out by his sister's not allowing him to turn the poem in the way he wished, and he thought proper to find fault with half the words in the list.
'HARROGATE,' said he, 'what is to be done with such a word?'
'You can manage it very well if you choose,' said Elizabeth.
'But who could have thought of such a word?' said he, holding up the list to the candle, and scrutinizing the writing. 'Some one with a watery taste, doubtless.'
'You know those things are never divulged,' said Anne.
'FRANCES, too,' continued Rupert, 'there is another impossible case; I will answer for it, Helen wrote that, a reminiscence of dear Dykelands.'
'No, indeed I did not,' said Helen; 'it is FRANCIS, too, I believe.'
'Oh yes,' said Harriet, 'it is FRANCIS, I wrote it, because—do not you remember, Lucy?—Frank Hollis—'
'Well, never mind,' said Elizabeth, who wished to hear no more of that gentleman; 'you may make it whichever you please. And Rupert, pray do not be so idle; put down the list, no one can see it; write your own verses, and tell me the next word to witch.'
'EYES,' said Rupert, 'and then BOUNCE. I do not believe that word is English.'
'BOUNCE, no,' said Katherine; 'it is BONNET, I wrote it myself.'
'Then why do you make your 't' so short?' said Rupert; 'I must give you a writing lesson, Miss Kitty.'
'I must give you a lesson in silence, Mr. Rupert,' said Elizabeth.
'I obey,' said Rupert, with a funny face of submission, and taking up his paper and pencil; but in a minute or two he started up, exclaiming, 'What are they saying about Oxford?' and walked into the next room, intending to take part in the conversation between his father and uncle. Mr. Woodbourne, however, who was no great admirer of Rupert's forwardness, did not shew so much deference to his nephew's opinion as to make him very unwilling to return to the inner drawing-room, when Anne came to tell him that all the poems were finished, and Elizabeth ready to read them aloud.
'So this is all that you have to shew for yourself,' said Elizabeth, holding up a scrap of paper; 'what is all this?'
'A portrait of Miss Merton,' said Rupert; 'do not you see the poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling?'
'Is it?' said Elizabeth; 'I took it for Miss Squeers in the agonies of death, as I see that is the subject of the poem—all that there is of it, at least.
Did ever you see a stupider POEM?Pray who is the author? I know him, I know him,He went to school to Mr. Squeers,Who often made the youth shed TEARS.
Now for the next, which is nearly as short.
I will write a POEM,Clear and flowing,It will make you shed TEARS,And excite your fears.'Tis about a witch,Drowned in a ditch,Your tears come from your EYES.If you are wise,Don't make a BOUNCE,Or you'll tear your flounce,And upset the sugar JAR,Which I cannot spare,I must give some to FRANCIS,So well he dances;Sugar canes packed up in LEAVES,The canes are tied up like wheat sheaves;Francis wears a scarlet JACKET,He made a dreadful racketAt HARROGATE,Because he had to wait,In a field of BARLEY,To hold a parley,About a bone of marrow;His heart was transfixed by an ARROW,By a lady in VELVET,And he was her pet.'
All laughed heartily at this poem, which perhaps diverted them more than a better would have done; Harriet was highly delighted with what she considered their applause, though she knew that of all the rhymes, scarcely three had been found by herself.
'Why, Mr. Merton, what are you doing?' asked Harriet; 'are you writing any more?'
'Oh! I hope he will tell us about Mr. Squeers,' said Katherine.
No one could doubt that the next which Elizabeth read was her own.
I'm afraid you expect a beautiful POEM,Though I make a long and tedious proem,But great and dreadful are my fears,No poem of mine will put you in TEARS.My genius suggests neither fairy nor witch,My tales to adorn with cauldrons of pitch,Alarm the world with fiery EYES,And from the hero snatch his prize,Leap out from her den with a terrible BOUNCE,And on the trembling damsel pounce,And bottle her up in a close corked JAR,Or whirl her away in a flaming car;Then her knight, the brave Sir FRANCIS,Upon his noble steed advances,All his armour off he LEAVES,Preserves alone his polished greaves,His defence is a buff JACKET,Nor sword nor axe nor lance can crack it,It was made at HARROGATE,By a tailor whose shop had a narrow gate;The elves attack with spears of BARLEY,But he drives them off, oh! rarely,Then they shoot him with an ARROW,From bow-strings greased with ear-wigs' marrow,The feathers, moth-wings downy VELVET,The bow-strings, of the spider's net:Thousands come, armed in this PATTERN,Which proves their mistress is no slattern;Some wear the legs and hoof of PAN,And some are in the form of man;But the knight is armed, for in his POCKETHe has a talismanic locket,Which once belonged to HERCULES,Who wore it on his bunch of keys;The fairy comes, quite old and fat,Mounted upon a monstrous BAT;Around the knight a web she weaves,And holds him fast, and there she LEAVESSir Francis weeping for his charmer,And longing for his knightly ARMOUR.But his sword was cast in the self-same forgeAs that of the great champion GEORGE;Thus he defies the witch's ARMY,He breaks his bands; 'Ye elves, beware me,I fear not your LEVIATHAN,No spells can stop a desperate man.'Away in terror flies the REAR-GUARD,He seizes on the witch abhorred,Confines her in a COCKLE SHELL,And breaks all her enchantments fell,Catches her principal LIEUTENANT,Makes him of a split pine the tenant;Carries away the lady, nimble,As e'er Miss Merton plied her THIMBLE;Oh! this story would your frowns unbend.Could I tell it to the END.
'Oh!' said Rupert, glad to seize an opportunity of retaliating upon Elizabeth; 'I give you credit; a very ingenious compound of Thalaba, Pigwiggin, and the Tempest, and the circumstance of the witch whirling away the lady is something new.'
'No, it is not,' said Elizabeth; 'it is the beginning of the story of the Palace of Truth, in the Veillees du Chateau. I only professed to conglomerate the words, not to pass off my story as a regular old traditional legend.'
'Well, well,' said Rupert; 'go on; have you only two more?'
'Only two,' said Elizabeth; 'Kate and Lucy behaved as shabbily as you did. Helen, I believe you must read yours. I can never read your writing readily, and besides, I am growing hoarse.'
Helen obeyed.
How hard it is to write a POEM,Graceful and witty, plain and clear,Harder than ploughing—'tis, or sowing,So hard that I should shed a TEAR.
Did I not know the highest pitchOf merit, in the poet's EYESIs but to laugh, a height to WHICH'Tis not so hard for me to rise.
For badness soon is gained, forth BOUNCEMy rhymes such as they are;Good critics, on my lines don't pounce,Though on the ear they JAR.
I've had a letter from dear FRANCES,Who says, through the light plane tree LEAVES,Upon the lawn the sun-beam glances,The wheat is bound up in its sheaves
By Richard, in the fustian JACKETHis mistress bought at HARROGATE,And up in lofty ricks they stack it,There for the threshing will it wait.
Then will they turn to fields of BARLEY,Bearded and barbed with many an ARROW,Just where the fertile soil is marly,And in the spring was used the harrow.
Drawn by the steeds in coats of VELVET,Old Steady, Jack, and Slattern,Their manes well combed, and black as jet,Their tails in the same PATTERN.
While Richard's son, with pipe of PAN,His hands within his POCKETS,Walks close beside the old plough-man,Dreaming of squibs and rockets.
That youth, he greatly loves his ease,He's growing much too fat,And though as strong as HERCULES,He'll only use his BAT.
He won't sweep up the autumn LEAVES,The tree's deciduous ARMOUR,No scolding Dickey's spirit grievesLike working like a farmer,
Or labouring like his cousin GEORGE,With arms all bare and brawny,Within the blacksmith's glowing forge;He would be in the ARMY.
But no, young Dick, you're not the manOur realms to watch and ward,For worse than a LEVIATHANYou'd dread the foe's REAR-GUARD,
And in the storm of shot and SHELL,You'd soon desert your pennant,Care nought for serjeant, corporal,Or general LIEUTENANT,
But prove yourself quite swift and nimble,And thus would meet your END;No, better take a tailor's THIMBLEAnd learn your ways to mend.
'Capital, Helen!' said Elizabeth.
'How very pretty!' said Lucy.
'And very well described,' said Anne; 'you have brought in those ungainly words most satisfactorily.'
'Now, Helen, here is Anne's,' said Elizabeth; 'it is a choice one, and I have kept it for the last.'
'Let me read Anne's,' said Rupert; 'no one can decypher her writing as well as I can.'
'As was proved by the thorough acquaintance you shewed with the contents of her last letter,' said Elizabeth.
Rupert began as follows:
Now must I write in numbers flowingExtemporaneously a POEM?
'Why, Rupert,' cried Anne, 'you must be reading Kate's. Mine began with—'
'I declare that I have yours in my hand, Anne,' said Rupert.
'And I did not write one,' said Katherine.
Now must I write in numbers flowingExtemporaneously a POEM?One that will fill your eyes with TEARS,While I relate how our worst fearsWere realized in yonder ditch.Conveyed there by some water-WITCH,We found, sad sight for longing EYES!Fido, much loved, though small in size.Hard fate, but while our tears bemoan it,Let us take up the corpse and BONE it,Then place the mummy in a JAR,Keep it from sausage-makers far,Extract his heart to send to FRANCIS;This gift from HER, his soul entrances,Within his scarlet gold-laced JACKETHis heart makes a tremendous racket;Visions of bliss arise, a surrogate,Ay, and a wedding tour to HARROGATE.
When Rupert came to Fido, Anne uttered one indignant 'Rupert!' but as he proceeded, she was too much confounded to make the slightest demonstration, and yet she was nearly suffocated with laughter in the midst of her vexation, when she thought of the ball at Hull, and 'Frank Hollis.' Elizabeth and Katherine too were excessively diverted, though the former repented of having ever proposed such a game for so incongruous a party. There was a little self-reproach mingled even with Anne's merriment, for she felt that if she had more carefully abstained from criticising the Hazlebys, or from looking amused by what was said of them, Rupert would hardly have attempted this piece of impertinence. Helen, who considered it as a most improper proceeding, sat perfectly still and silent, with a countenance full of demure gravity, which made Elizabeth and Anne fall into fresh convulsions as they looked at her; Lucy only blushed; and as for Harriet, the last two lines could scarcely be heard, for her exclamations of, 'O Mr. Merton, that is too bad! O Mr. Merton, how could you think of such a thing? O Mr. Merton, I can never forgive you! Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall never stop laughing. Oh dear! Mr. Merton, what would Frank Hollis say to you? how ridiculous!'
'Now for Anne's real poem, Rupert,' said Elizabeth, not choosing to make any remarks, lest Rupert should consider them as compliments.
'Have you not heard it?' said Rupert.
'Nonsense,' said Elizabeth.
'Why, I told you I had it in my hand,' said Rupert.
'And you have it still,' said Elizabeth; 'deliver it up, if you please; it is the best of all, I can tell you, I had a cursory view of it.'
'No, no,' said Anne, who saw that her brother meant to teaze her, and not to restore her verses; 'it was a very poor performance, it is much better for my fame that it should never be seen. Only think what a sublime notion the world will have of it, when it is said that even the great Rupert himself is afraid to let it appear.'
Elizabeth made another attempt to regain the poem, but without effect, and Anne recalled the attention of all to Helen's verses.
'What is a pennant?' said Elizabeth; 'I do not like words to be twisted for the sake of the rhyme.'
A flag,' said Helen.
'I never doubted that you intended it for a flag,' said Elizabeth; 'but what I complain of is, that it is a transmogrified pennon.'
'I believe a pennant to be a kind of flag,' said Helen.
'Let us refer the question to Papa,' said Anne, 'as soon as he has finished that interminable conversation with Uncle Woodbourne.'
'Really, in spite of that slight blemish,' said Elizabeth, 'your poem is the best we have heard, Helen.'
'And I can testify,' said Rupert, 'that the description of the cart-horses at Dykelands is perfectly correct. But, Helen, is it true that your friend Dicky has been seized with a fit of martial ardour such as you describe?'
'Yes,' said Helen, 'he was very near enlisting, but it made his mother very unhappy, and Mrs. Staunton—'
'Went down upon her knees to beseech him to remain, and let her roast beef be food for him, not himself be food for powder,' said Rupert, 'never considering how glad the parish would be to get rid of him.'
'No,' said Helen, 'her powder became food for him; she made him under-gamekeeper.'
'Excellent, Helen, you shine to-night,' cried Elizabeth; 'such a bit of wit never was heard from you before.'
'Your poem is a proof that the best way of being original is to describe things as you actually see them,' said Anne.
'Is not mine original? I do not think it was taken from any book,' said Harriet, willing to pick up a little more praise.
'Not perhaps from any book,' said Elizabeth, with a very grave face; 'but I am afraid we must convict you of having borrowed from the mother of books, Oral tradition.'
'Oral tradition!' repeated Harriet, opening her mouth very wide.
'Yes,' said Elizabeth; 'for I cannot help imagining that the former part of your ode is a parody upon
"I'll tell you a storyAbout Jack A'Nory,And now my story's begun;I'll tell you anotherAbout Jack and his brother,And now my story is done."
And that your friend Francis must have been the hero who complains so grievously of Taffy the Welshman, whose house was doubtless situated in a field of barley, while his making a dreadful racket is quite according to the ancient notions of what he did with the marrow-bone.'
'Oh! there is Papa looking in at us,' said Anne; 'now for the question of pennon and pennant.'
'Oh! Anne, it is all nonsense,' cried Helen; 'do not shew it.'
But Anne, with Helen's paper in her hand, had already attacked Sir Edward, who, to the author's great surprise, actually read the poem all through, smiling very kindly, and finished by saying, 'Ah ha! Helen, it is plain enough that your friends are naval. I can see where your pennant came from.'
'But is it not a flag, Uncle Edward?' asked Helen.
'A flag it is,' said Sir Edward, 'and properly called and spelt pendant.'
'There, Helen, you are an antidote to the hydrophobia,' said Rupert; 'everything becomes—'
'Do not let us have any more of that stale joke,' said Elizabeth; 'it is really only a poetical license to use a sea-flag for a land-flag, and Helen had the advantage of us, since we none of us knew that Pennant signified anything but the naturalist.'
'And pray, Helen,' said Sir Edward, 'am I to consider this poem as an equivalent for the music you have cheated us of, this evening?'
'I hope you will consider that it is,' said Elizabeth; 'is it not positively poetical, Uncle Edward?'
Helen was hardly ever in a state of greater surprise and pleasure than at this moment, for though she could not seriously believe that her lines were worthy of all the encomiums bestowed on them, yet she was now convinced that Elizabeth was not absolutely determined to depreciate every performance of hers, and that she really possessed a little kindness for her.
When Mr. Woodbourne rang the bell, Elizabeth gathered up all the papers, and was going to put them into a drawer, when Harriet came up to her, saying in a whisper, evidently designed to attract notice, 'Lizzie, do give me that ridiculous thing, you know, of Mr. Merton's; I could not bear you to have it, you would shew it to everyone.'
'Indeed I should do no such thing,' said Elizabeth; 'I never wish to see it more, you are very welcome to it.'
Harriet received the precious document with great satisfaction, carefully folded it up, and placed it in her bag, very much to Rupert's delight, as he silently watched her proceedings.
When they went up to bed, Anne followed Lady Merton to her room, in order to ask some question about the dress which she was to wear the next day, Sunday, and after remaining with her a few minutes, she returned to Elizabeth. She found her looking full of trouble, quite a contrast to the bright animated creature she had been a few minutes before.
'My dear Lizzie,' exclaimed Anne, 'has anything happened? what has grieved you?'
'Why, Anne,' said Elizabeth, with almost a groan, 'has not enough happened to grieve me? is it not terrible to think of what I have done?'
Anne stood still and silent, much struck by her cousin's sorrow; for she had considered their expedition to the Mechanics' Institute as a foolish girlish frolic, but by no means as serious a matter as it now proved to be.
'I want you to tell me, Anne,' continued Elizabeth; 'was I not quite out of my senses yesterday evening? I can hardly believe it was myself who went to that horrible place, I wish you could prove that it was my double-ganger.'
Anne laughed,
'But does it not seem incredible,' said Elizabeth, 'that I, Elizabeth Woodbourne, should have voluntarily meddled with a radical, levelling affair, should have sought out Mrs. Turner and all the set I most dislike, done perhaps an infinity of mischief, and all because Kate wanted to go out on a party of pleasure with that foolish Willie. Oh! Anne, I wish you would beat me.'
'Would that be any comfort to you?' said Anne, smiling.
'Yes,' said Elizabeth; 'I should feel as if I was suffering a little for my madness. Oh! how I hope Papa will speak to me about it. If he does not, I shall see his displeasure in his eyes, and oh! I could bear anything better than the silent stern way in which he used to look at me, once before, when I had behaved very ill. And then, to-morrow is Sunday, and I shall scarcely see him all day, and he will have no time to speak to me; and how can I get through a Sunday, feeling that he is angry with me? how shall I teach the children, or do anything as usual? Anne, what do you think was the first sound in my ears when I awoke this morning, and has been returning upon me all day?—the words, "It was a tree to be desired to make one wise."'
'Little wisdom we have gained from it,' said Anne.
'Eve's wisdom,' said Elizabeth, 'the knowledge of evil, and the wisdom of vanity and vexation of spirit. But was it not curious, Anne? when first I woke, before I had opened my eyes, those words were sounding in my ears, like a dream of Papa's voice, reading the Lesson at church; I almost fell asleep again, and again those words came back in Papa's voice, and then I woke entirely, and before I had seen what kind of day it was, before I knew whether it was Saturday or Sunday, I was sure there was something wrong, and then there was all this black Mechanics' Institute business before me. And all through this day those words have been ringing in my ears, and coming upon me like the pressure of King James's iron belt.'
'Have they indeed?' said Anne, 'I could hardly have believed it. I have not seen your "look o'ercast and lower," like his.'
'Perhaps not,' said Elizabeth; 'but yet I was like him.
"Forward he rushed with double gleeInto the tide of revelry."
And I believe that having anything on my mind puts me in wilder spirits, apparently, than usual, but I am sure that my merriment to-day was no proof that I was happy. It was partly, I believe, from a mad spirit, like what drives wicked men to drinking, and partly from folly and levity. It was the same when Mamma's sister, Miss Dorothea Hazleby, died; I am sure I was very sorry for Aunt Dorothy, for she was a most amiable person, and had always been particularly kind to me, and I was very sorry too for Mamma and old Mrs. Hazleby, who were broken-hearted about it; yet would you believe it? the very day that Papa was gone to Hastings, to the funeral, and Mamma was at home, too ill and too wretched to go, even to her mother, I was out in the garden with Horace and Dora, forgot all about her distress, and began a noisy game with them close under her window. She sent Kate to tell them not to make such a noise; and when we came in, and she found that it was my doing, she gave me such a kind, grieved, reproachful look, that I think I shall never forget it. And now it is most strange to think how wildly and merrily I laughed at all Rupert's jokes, when I knew I was in disgrace, and after having behaved so very ill.'
'Indeed, I did not think it would have distressed you so much,' said Anne; 'I never thought it was more than a very foolish affair.'
'It is a very different thing for you,' said Elizabeth; 'you have nothing to do with the town, and you need not have known that it was not a fit place to go to.'
'But you did not know that it was not fit for us,' said Anne.
'I did know that I ought not to go where I had not been told I might go,' said Elizabeth. 'It was relying on my own judgement that led me astray. But, oh! I wish I had been here at the time the Socialist lectures were given; I should as soon have thought of climbing up the kitchen-chimney, as of going to that den, and giving the ragamuffins such a victory over Papa.'
'It was very silly of us not to ask a few more questions,' said Anne.
'Ah! that is the worst part of my behaviour,' said Elizabeth; 'that abominably unfair account which I gave you, at Mr. Turner's door, of Helen's objections. It was in fact almost deceit, and the only thing that can take off from the blackness of it, is that I was sufficiently senseless to believe it myself at the time I spoke.'
'Oh yes, of course you did,' said Anne.
'Yet there must have been a sort of feeling that your hearing her arguments would put a stop to the beautiful scheme,' said Elizabeth; 'you do not know, perhaps, that Kate was nearly convinced by Helen's good sense, and I do believe that the reason I was not, was, what I tremble to think of, that I have been indulging in a frightful spirit of opposing and despising Helen, because I was angry with her for loving Dykelands better than home. I do believe she hardly dares to open her lips. I heard her telling Lucy afterwards that there was a rose at Dykelands of the colour of her pattern, and I dare say she did not say so, when it would have been to the purpose, for fear I should say that damp turns roses orange-coloured; and I could see she did not defend her pendant with Captain Atherley for fear I should tell her he was not infallible. No wonder she pines for Dykelands; a fine sort of sister and home she has found here, poor child.'
'Oh! now you think so—' Anne began, but here she stopped short, checked by her dread of interfering between sisters; she could not bear to add to Elizabeth's bitter feelings of self-reproach, and she could not say that her conduct on the preceding evening had been by any means what it ought to have been, that she had treated Helen kindly, or that Helen had not suffered much from her want of consideration for her. She only kissed her cousin, and wished her good night very affectionately, and nothing more was said that evening.
But Anne's silence was often very expressive to those who could understand it, and of these Elizabeth was one.
The toilette of Katherine and Helen passed in a very different manner that evening; Katherine did nothing but giggle and chatter incessantly, about the game they had been playing at, in order to prevent Helen from saying anything about the result of their excursion the evening before, and to keep herself from thinking of the cowardly part she had been acting all day. Helen only wished to be left in peace, to think over her share in all these transactions, and to consider how she might become a tolerably useful member of society for the future; and on her making no reply to one of Katherine's speeches, the latter suddenly became silent, and she was left to her own reflections.
Elizabeth was always fully employed on a Sunday, and on that which followed the Consecration she had perhaps more on her hands even than usual, so that she had little opportunity for speaking, or even for thinking, of her troubles.
Mr. Woodbourne was going to assist Mr. Somerville in the services at St. Austin's, leaving Mr. Walker to do the duty at St. Mary's, as the old church was now to be always called.
Mr. Somerville had asked Mrs. Woodbourne to bring all her party to luncheon at his house, and had added a special invitation to the children to be present at the opening of the new Sunday-school, which was to take place between the services. It was however necessary that someone should stay and superintend what the young people called, rather contemptuously, 'the old school;' and this Elizabeth undertook, saying that she did not like to lose one Sunday's teaching of her own class. Anne was about to offer to remain with her and assist her, but on Helen's making the same proposal, she thought it better to give the sisters an opportunity of being alone together, and, as she was more desirous of doing right than of appearing eager to be useful, she said nothing of what she had intended. Elizabeth was much gratified by her sister's voluntary proffer of assistance, for the head and front of Helen's offences on her return from Dykelands, had been, that she had loathed the idea of helping to train the screaming school-girls to sing in church, and had altogether shewn far less interest in parish matters than Elizabeth thought their due.
'I am sure,' said Elizabeth, as they were walking from school to church, 'it is worth while to stay to see the aisle now it is clear of the benches, and there is breathing room left in the dear old church. And listen to the bells! does not it seem as if the two churches were exchanging greetings on St. Austin's first Sunday? Yes, St. Mary's is our home, our mother church,' added she, as she walked under the heavy stone porch, its groined roof rich with quaint bosses, the support of many a swallow's nest, and came in sight of the huge old square font, standing on one large column and four small ones, where she herself and all her brothers and sisters had been christened.
The three little children were not to go to St. Austin's in the morning, but Katherine had promised to come back to fetch them in time for the luncheon at Mr. Somerville's, and thus Dora had the full advantage of studying the Puddington monument before the service began.
Katherine and Harriet came back whilst Elizabeth and Helen were at luncheon, and after giving them a list of half the people who were at church, they called the children to come to Mr. Somerville's with them.
'Why do not you put on your bonnet, Dora?' said Winifred.
'I am not going,' said Dora.
'Why not?' asked Winifred.
'Because I had rather not,' was the answer.
'Why, you silly little child,' said Katherine; 'are you shy of Mr. Somerville? look there, Edward and Winifred are not shy, and you are quite a great girl. How Horace would laugh!'
'I cannot help it,' said Dora; 'I had rather not go.'
'If you are thinking of your little class, Dora,' said Elizabeth, 'I will hear them for you; you will trust them with me, will you not? and I will remember who is first.'
'Thank you,' said Dora; 'I had rather go to church and school with you.'
'Nonsense, Dora,' said Katherine; 'I wish you would come.'
'Now do,' said Harriet; 'you cannot think what a nice luncheon Mr. Somerville will have for you.'
'There is a very nice luncheon here,' said Dora.
'Oh! but not like a company luncheon,' said Harriet; 'besides, Mr. Somerville will be so disappointed if you do not come. Poor Mr. Somerville, won't you be sorry for him, Dora?'
'Oh no, he does not want me—does he, Lizzie?' said Dora.
'No, I do not suppose he does,' said Elizabeth; 'he only asked you out of good nature.'
'Well, if Dora will not come,' said Katherine, 'there is no use in staying.—Come, Winifred and Edward.'
Elizabeth was sure that Dora had reasons of her own for choosing to remain with her, but she thought it best to ask no questions; and the reasons appeared, when, as they came into the Alms-house Court after evening service, Dora pressed her hand, saying, in a low mysterious tone, 'Lizzie, will you shew me what you promised?'
Elizabeth knew what she meant, and returning through the church into the church-yard, led the way to the east end, where, close beside a projecting buttress, Dora beheld a plain flat white stone, with three small crosses engraven on it, and with a feeling between awe and wonder, read the simple inscription.
It was the first time that Elizabeth and Helen had stood together at their mother's grave, for Helen was but three years old at the time she had been deprived of her, and, after their father's second marriage, a kind of delicacy in Elizabeth, young as she was, had prevented her from ever mentioning her to her younger sisters.
After a few minutes, during which no one spoke, the three sisters turned away, and re-entered the church. Helen and Dora had reached the north door, and were leaving the church, when they missed Elizabeth, and looking round, saw her sitting in one of the low pews, in the centre aisle, her face raised towards the flamboyant tracery of the east window. Dora, who seemed to have a sort of perception that her presence was a restraint upon her sisters, whispered, 'I am going to feed the doves,' and hastened across the quadrangle, while Helen came back to Elizabeth's side. Her sister rose, and with her own bright smile, said, 'Helen, I could not help coming here, it was where I sat at the day of the funeral, and I wanted to look at that flame-shaped thing in the top of the window, as I did all through the reading of the Lesson. Do you see? What strange thoughts were in my head, as I sat looking at that deep blue glass, with its shape like an angel's head and meeting wings, and heard of glories celestial! I never hear those words without seeing that form.'
With these words Elizabeth and Helen left the church; Helen put her arm into her sister's, a thing which Elizabeth very seldom liked anyone to do, even Anne, but now the two girls walked slowly arm-in-arm, through the quadrangle, and along the broad gravel path in the Vicarage garden.
'Then you were at her funeral?' was the first thing Helen said.
'Yes,' said Elizabeth; 'Papa wished it, and I am sure I am very glad they let me go.'
No more was spoken till Helen began again. 'When I was at Dykelands, Mrs. Staunton used often to talk to me about our mother, and I began to try to recollect her, but I had only an impression of something kind, some voice I should know again, but I could not remember her in the least.'
'Ah! I wish you could,' said Elizabeth thoughtfully.
'I suppose you remember her quite well,' said Helen, 'and all that happened?'
'Yes,' said Elizabeth, 'I remember some things as well as if they had happened yesterday, and others are all confusion in my mind; I quite remember going to kiss her, the last day, and how strange and silent and sad all the room looked, and Aunt Anne keeping quite calm and composed in the room, but beginning to cry as soon as she had led me out. I shall never forget the awful mysterious feelings I had then.'
'And could she speak to you?' said Helen; 'did she know you?'
'Yes, she gave me one of her own smiles, and said something in a very low voice.'
'Tell me a little more, Lizzie,' said Helen, 'for I have thought very much about her lately. Can you remember her before she was ill?'
'Oh yes,' said Elizabeth, speaking slowly, and pausing now and then; 'I remember her well; I sometimes fancy I can hear her voice and her step at night, when she used to come up to the nursery to see us in bed. I always used to listen for her; and when she began to grow weak, and could not come up so many stairs, I used to lie and cry for half an hour. And now, when I am reading the same books with the children that I read with her, things that she said to me come back upon me.'
'Do you think,' said Helen, 'that you are as like her as Uncle Edward once said you were?'
Elizabeth paused; 'possibly,' said she, 'in eyes, nose, and mouth; but, Helen, I do not think there ever could be anyone really like our mother; I was much too young to know all that she was whilst she was alive, but as I have grown older, and compared what I have seen of other people with what I recollect of her, I have grown certain that she must have been the most excellent, sensible, clever, kind, charming person that ever lived.'
'So Mrs. Staunton says,' replied Helen; 'she used to tell me that I was a good deal like her, and should be more so; but I do not think she would have said so, if she had seen you. I am so slow and so dull, and so unlike to you in your quick active ways.'
'Do you know, Helen,' said Elizabeth, who had been pursuing her own thoughts, rather than listening to her sister's words, 'I do believe that we should all have been more like her if she had lived; at least, I am sure I should.'
Helen did not answer; and Elizabeth continued in her usual rapid manner, 'I do not mean to lay all my faults at Mamma's door, for I should have been much worse without her, and I have spurned away most of the good she would have done me in her kind gentle way; but I do believe no one but my own mother ever knew how to manage me. You never were so wild, Helen, and you will do far far better.'
'O Lizzie, what do you mean?' cried Helen.
'I mean, my dear Helen,' exclaimed Elizabeth, hardly knowing what she was saying, 'that I have been using you shamefully ever since you came home. I have done nothing but contradict you, and snap at you, whether right or wrong; and a pretty spectacle we must have made of ourselves. Now I see that you have twice the sense and understanding that I have, and are so unpretending as to be worth a hundred times more. I wish with all my heart that I had taken your advice, and that the Mechanics' Institute was at the bottom of the sea.'
Before Helen had recovered from her astonishment at this incoherent speech, sufficiently to make any sort of reply, the rest of the party were seen returning from St. Austin's, and Winifred and Edward hastened towards the two sisters, to tell them all the wonders they had seen.
During the remainder of that day, a few words in her mother's feeble voice rung in Elizabeth's ears more painfully even than the text she had mentioned the day before. It was, 'Lizzie, I know you will be a kind sister to Kate and poor little Helen.'
In the course of the evening, Lady Merton found Anne and Helen alone together in the drawing-room. Helen was reclining on the sofa, in a dreamy state, her book half closed in her hand, and Anne was sitting at the window, reading as well as she could by the failing light.
'So you are alone here,' said Lady Merton, as she entered the room.
'Yes,' said Helen, starting up; 'I rather think the Hazlebys are packing up—you know they go by the one o'clock train to-morrow—and I believe Kate is helping them; and Mamma is hearing the little ones say the Catechism.'
'So I thought,' said Lady Merton. 'I was surprised to find you here.'
'Oh!' said Helen, 'we generally say the Catechism to Papa every Sunday evening, and he asks us questions about it; and we are to go on with him till we are confirmed.'
'And when will that be?' said her aunt.
'Next spring,' said Helen; 'we shall all three of us be confirmed at the same time. But if Mrs. Hazleby had not been here, Papa would have heard us all down-stairs. I should have liked for you to hear how perfect Edward is now, and how well Dora answers Papa's questions; though perhaps before you she would be too shy.'
'And I should have been glad for Anne to have joined you,' said Lady Merton; 'it is long since your godfather has heard you, Anne.'
'Not since we were here last,' said Anne, 'and that is almost two years ago.'
'And where is Lizzie?' said Lady Merton; 'is she with your Mamma?'
'No,' said Helen, 'her other work is not over yet. On Sunday evening, she always reads with four great girls who have left school, and have no time to learn except on Sunday evenings. I am sure I cannot think how she can; I should have thought morning and afternoon school quite enough for anyone!' And she threw herself back on the sofa, and gave a very long yawn.
Her aunt smiled as she answered, 'You certainly seem to find it so.'
'Indeed I do,' said Helen; 'I think teaching the most tiresome work in the world.'
'O Helen, is it possible?' cried Anne.
'Helen is not much used to it,' said her aunt.
'No,' said Helen, 'there used to be teachers enough without me, but now Lizzie wants me to take a class, I suppose I must, because it is my duty; but really I do not think I can ever like it.'
'If you do it cheerfully because it is your duty, you will soon be surprised to find yourself interested in it,' said her aunt.
'Now, Aunt Anne,' said Helen, sitting up, and looking rather more alive, 'I really did take all the pains I could to-day, but I was never more worried than with the dullness of those children. They could not answer the simplest question.'
'Most poor children seem dull with a new teacher,' said Lady Merton; 'besides which, you perhaps did not use language which they could understand.'
'Possibly,' said Helen languidly; 'but then there is another thing which I dislike—I cannot bear to hear the most beautiful chapters in the Bible stammered over as if the children had not the least perception of their meaning.'
'Their not being able to read the chapter fluently is no proof that they do not enter into it,' said Lady Merton; 'it often happens that the best readers understand less than some awkward blunderers, who read with reverence.'
'Then it is very vexatious,' said Helen.
'You will tell a different story next year,' said Lady Merton, 'when you have learnt a little more of the ways of the poor children.'
'I hope so,' said Helen; 'but what I have seen to-day only makes me wonder how Papa and Lizzie can get the children to make such beautiful answers as they sometimes do in church.'
'And perhaps,' said Lady Merton, smiling, 'the person who taught Miss Helen Woodbourne to repeat Gray's Elegy, would be inclined to wonder how at fourteen she could have become a tolerably well-informed young lady.'
'Oh, Aunt,' said Helen, 'have not you forgotten that day? How dreadfully I must have tormented everybody! I am sure Mamma's patience must have been wonderful.'
'And I am very glad that Lizzie saves her from so much of the labour of teaching now,' said Lady Merton.
'I see what you mean,' said Helen; 'I ought to help too.'
'Indeed, my dear, I had no intention of saying so,' said Lady Merton; 'yourself and your mamma can be the only judges in such a matter.'
'I believe Mamma does think that Lizzie has almost too much to do,' said Helen; 'but there has been less since Horace has been at school.'
'But Edward is fast growing up to take his place,' said her aunt.
'Edward will never take Horace's place,' said Helen; 'he will be five times the trouble. Horace could learn whatever he pleased in an instant, and the only drawback with him was inattention; but Edward is so slow and so dawdling, that his lessons are the plague of the school-room. His reading is tiresome enough, and what Lizzie will do with his Latin I cannot think; but that can be only her concern. And Winifred is sharp enough, but she never pays attention three minutes together; I could not undertake her, I should do her harm and myself too.'
'I am rather of your opinion, so far,' said Lady Merton; 'but you have said nothing against Dora.'
'Dora!' said Helen; 'yes, she has always been tolerably good, but she knows nearly as much as I do. Lizzie says she knows the reasons of a multiplication sum, and I am sure I do not.'
'Perhaps you might learn by studying with her,' aaid Lady Merton.
'Yes, Lizzie says she has learnt a great deal from teaching the children,' said Helen; 'but then she had a better foundation than most people. You know she used to do her lessons with Papa, and he always made her learn everything quite perfect, and took care she should really understand each step she took, so that she knows more about grammar and arithmetic, and all the latitude and longitude puzzling part of geography than I do—a great deal more.'
'I am sorry to find there is some objection to all the lessons of all the children,' said Lady Merton.
'I suppose I might help in some,' said Helen; 'but then I have very little time; I have to draw, and to practise, and to read French and Italian and history to Mamma, and to write exercises; but then Mamma has not always leisure to hear me, and it is very unsatisfactory to go on learning all alone. At Dykelands there were Fanny and Jane.'
'I should not have thought a person with four sisters need complain of having to learn alone,' said her aunt.
'No more should I,' said Helen; 'but if you were here always, you would see how it is; Lizzie is always busy with the children, and learns her German and Latin no one knows when or how, by getting up early, and reading while she is dressing, or while the children are learning. She picks up knowledge as nobody else can; and Kate will only practise or read to Mamma, and she is so desultory and unsettled, that I cannot go on with her as I used before I went to Dykelands; and Dora—I see I ought to take to her, but I am afraid to do so—I do not like it.'
'So it appears,' said Lady Merton.
'I should think it the most delightful thing!' cried Anne.
'You two are instances of the way in which people wish for the advantages they have not, and undervalue those they have,' said Lady Merton, smiling.
'Advantages!' repeated Helen.
'Why, do not you think it an advantage to have sisters?' said Anne; 'I wish you would give some of them to me if you do not.'
'Indeed,' said Helen warmly, 'I do value my sisters very much; I am sure I am very fond of them.'
'As long as they give you no trouble,' said Lady Merton.
'Well,' said Helen, 'I see you may well think me a very poor selfish creature, but I really do mean to try to improve. I will offer to undertake Dora's music; Lizzie does not understand that, and it is often troublesome to Mamma to find time to hear her practise, and I think I should pay more attention to it than Kate does sometimes. I think Dora will play very well, and I should like her to play duets with me.'
'I am glad you can endure one of your sisters,' said Anne, laughing rather maliciously.
'Pray say no more of that, Anne,' said Helen; 'it was only my foolish indolence that made me make such a speech.'
As Helen finished speaking, Elizabeth came into the room, looking rather weary, but very blithe. 'I have been having a most delightful talk about the Consecration with the girls,' said she, 'hearing what they saw, and what they thought of it. Mary Watson took her master's children up the hill to see the church-yard consecrated, and the eldest little boy—that fine black-eyed fellow, you know, Helen—said he never could play at ball there again, now the Bishop had read the prayers there. I do really hope that girl will be of great use to those little things; her mistress says no girl ever kept them in such good order before.'
'I was going to compliment you on the good behaviour of your children at St. Austin's, Lizzie,' said Lady Merton; 'I thought I never saw a more well conducted party.'
'Ah! some of our best children are gone to St. Austin's,' said Elizabeth; 'I quite grudge them to Mr. Somerville; I hate the girls to get out of my sight.'
'So do I,' said Anne, 'I am quite angry when our girls go out to service, theywillget such horrid places—public houses, or at best farm houses, where they have a whole train of babies to look after, and never go to church.'
'And very few of the most respectable fathers and mothers care where their children go to service,' said Elizabeth; 'I am sure I often wish the children had no parents.'
'In order that they may learn a child's first duty?' said Lady Merton.
'Well, but is it not vexatious, Aunt Anne,' said Elizabeth, 'when there is a nice little girl learning very well in school, but forgetting as soon as she is out of it, her mother will not put herself one inch out of the way to keep her there regularly; when the child goes to church continually, the mother never comes at all, or never kneels down when she is there. If you miss her at school on the Sunday morning, her mother has sent her to the shop, and perhaps told her to tell a falsehood about it; if her hand is clammy with lollipops, or there is a perfume of peppermint all round her, or down clatters a halfpenny in the middle of church, it is all her father's fault.'
'Oh! except the clatter, that last disaster never happens with us,' said Anne; 'the shop is not open on Sunday.'
'Ah! that is because Uncle Edward is happily the king of the parish,' said Elizabeth; 'it has the proper Church and State government, like Dante's notion of the Empire. But you cannot help the rest; and we are still worse off, and how can we expect the children to turn out well with such home treatment?'
'No, Lizzie,' said Lady Merton; 'you must not expect them to turn out well.'
'O Mamma! Mamma!' cried Anne.
'What do you teach them for?' exclaimed Helen.
'I see what you mean,' said Elizabeth; 'we can only cast our bread upon the waters; we must look to the work, and not to the present appearance. But, Aunt Anne, the worst is, if they go wrong, I must be afraid it is my fault; that it is from some slip in my teaching, some want of accordance between my example and my precept, and no one can say that it is not so.'
'No one on earth,' said her aunt solemnly; 'and far better it is for you, that you should teach in fear.'
'I sometimes fancy,' said Elizabeth, 'that the girls would do better if we had the whole government of them, but I know that is but fancy; they are each in the place and among the temptations which will do them most good. But oh! it is a melancholy thing to remember that of the girls whom I myself have watched through the school and out into the world, there are but two on whom I can think with perfect satisfaction.'
'Taking a high standard, of course?' said Lady Merton.
'Oh yes, and not reckoning many who I hope will do well, like this one of whom I was talking, but who have had no trial,' said Elizabeth; 'there are many very good ones now, if they will but keep so. One of these girls that I was telling you of, has shewn that she had right principle and firmness, by her behaviour towards a bad fellow-servant; she is at Miss Maynard's.'
'And where is the other?' asked Anne.
'In her grave,' said Elizabeth.
'Ah!' said Helen, 'I missed her to-day, in the midst of her little class, bending over them as she used to do, and looking in their faces, as if she saw the words come out of their mouths.'
'Do you mean the deaf girl with the speaking eyes?' said Anne; 'you wrote to tell me you had lost her.'
'Yes,' said Elizabeth; 'she it was whose example shewed me that an infirmity may be a blessing. Her ear was shut to the noises of the world, the strife of tongues, and as her mother said, "she did not know what a bad word was," only it was tuned to holy things. She always knew what was going on in church, and by her eager attention learnt to do everything in school; and when her deafness was increased by her fever, and she could not hear her mother's and sisters' voices, she could follow the prayers Papa read, the delirium fled away from them. Oh! it is a blessing and a privilege to have been near such a girl; but then—though the last thing she said was to desire her sisters to be good girls and keep to their church and school—she would have been the same, have had the same mind, without our teaching—our mere school-keeping, I mean. Aunt Anne, you say you have kept school in your village for thirty years; you were just in my situation, the clergyman's daughter; so do tell me what effect your teaching has had as regards the children of your first set of girls. Are they better managed at home than their mothers?'
'More civilized and better kept at school, otherwise much the same,' said Lady Merton. 'Yes, my experience is much the same as yours; comparatively few of those I have watched from their childhood have done thoroughly well, and their good conduct has been chiefly owing to their parents. Some have improved and returned to do right, perhaps partly in consequence of their early teaching.'
'Sad work, sad work, after all!' said Elizabeth, as she left the room to finish hearing the little ones, and release Mrs. Woodbourne.
'And yet,' said Helen, as the door closed, 'no one is so happy at school as Lizzie, or delights more in the children, or in devising pleasure for them.'
'I never shall understand Lizzie,' said Anne, with a kind of sigh; 'who would have suspected her of such desponding feelings? and I cannot believe it is so bad an affair. How can it be, taking those dear little things fresh from their baptism, training them with holy things almost always before them, their minds not dissipated by all kinds of other learning, like ours.'
'I do not know that that is quite the best thing, though in a degree it is unavoidable,' said her mother.
'So I was thinking,' said Helen; 'I think it must make religious knowledge like a mere lesson; I know that is what Lizzie dreads, and they begin the Bible before they can read it well.'
'But can it, can it really be so melancholy? will all those bright-faced creatures, who look so earnest and learn so well, will they turn their backs upon all that is right, all they know so well?' said poor Anne, almost ready to cry. 'O Mamma, do not tell me to think so.'
'No, no, you need not, my dear,' said Lady Merton; 'it would be grievous and sinful indeed to say any such things of baptized Christians, trained up by the Church. The more you love them, and the more you hope for them, the better. You will learn how to hope and how to fear as you grow older.'
'But I have had as much experience as Lizzie,' said Anne; 'I am but a month younger, and school has been my Sunday delight ever since I can remember; Mamma, I think the Abbeychurch people must be very bad—you see they keep shop on Sunday; but then you spoke of our own people. It must have been my own careless levity that has prevented me from feeling like Lizzie; but I cannot believe—'
'You have not been the director of the school for the last few years, as Lizzie has,' said Lady Merton; 'the girls under your own protection are younger, their trial is hardly begun.'
'I am afraid I shall be disheartened whenever I think of them,' said Anne; 'I wish you had not said all this—and yet—perhaps—if disappointment is really to come, I had better be prepared for it.'
'Yes, you may find this conversation useful, Anne,' said Lady Merton; 'if it is only to shew you why I have always tried to teach you self-control in your love of the school.'
'I know I want self-control when I let myself be so engrossed in it as to neglect other things,' said Anne; 'and I hope I do manage now not to shew more favour to the girls I like best, than to the others; but in what other way do you mean, Mamma?'
'I mean that you must learn not to set your heart upon individual girls, or plans which seem satisfactory at first,' said Lady Merton; 'disappointment will surely be sent in some form or other, to try your faith and love; and if you do not learn to fear now that your hopes are high, you will hardly have spirit enough left to persevere cheerfully when failure has taught you to mistrust yourself.'
'I know that I must be disappointed if I build upon schemes or exertions of my own,' said Anne; 'but I should be very conceited—very presumptuous, I mean—to do so, and I hope I never shall.'
'I cannot think how you, or anybody who thinks like you, can ever undertake to keep school,' said Helen; 'I never saw how awful a thing it is, before; not merely hearing lessons, and punishing naughty children, I am sure I dread it now; I would have nothing to do with it if Papa did not wish it, and so make it my duty.'
'Nobody would teach the children at all if they thought like you, Helen,' said Anne; 'and then what would become of them?'
'People who are not fit often do teach them, and is not that worse than nothing?' said Helen; 'I should think irreverence and false doctrine worse than ignorance.'
'Certainly,' said Lady Merton; 'and happy it is, that, as in your case, Helen, the duty of obedience, or some other equally plain, teaches us when to take responsibility upon ourselves and when to shrink from it.'
'I must say,' said Anne, 'I cannot recover from hearing Mamma and Lizzie talk of their "little victims," just in Gray's tone.'
'No,' said Lady Merton; 'I only say,
"If thou wouldst reap in love,First sow in holy fear."'