‘The deeds we do, the words we say,Into still air they seem to fleet;We count them past,But they shall last.’
‘The deeds we do, the words we say,Into still air they seem to fleet;We count them past,But they shall last.’
Soonafter 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 readOld 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 acontrarygentleman. 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.
‘Maidens should be mild and meek,Swift to hear, and slow to speak.’
‘Maidens should be mild and meek,Swift to hear, and slow to speak.’
Miss Westonhad 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.’
‘Shall thought was his, in after time,Thus to be hitched into a rhyme;The simple sire could only boastThat he was loyal to his cost,The banished race of kings revered,And lost his land.’
‘Shall thought was his, in after time,Thus to be hitched into a rhyme;The simple sire could only boastThat he was loyal to his cost,The banished race of kings revered,And lost his land.’
Theholidays 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 inMYclass,’ 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,’
‘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 revealingFull many a troop in garments gay,With cheerful steps who take their wayBy the green hill and shady lane,While merry bells are pealing;And soon in Beechcroft’s holy faneThe villagers are kneeling.Dreary and mournful seems the shrineWhere sound their prayers and hymns divine;For every mystic ornamentBy the rude spoiler’s hand is rent;Scarce is its ancient beauty tracedIn 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 rejoiceTo see the altar decked with care,To hear their ancient Pastor’s voiceReciting 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 freedFrom 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 yewThe stranger stood the sports to view,Unmarked by all, for each was bentOn 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 scarsBore token of the civil wars,And hooded dames in cloaks of red,At the blithe youngsters shook the head,Gathering in eager clusters toldHow 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 seeBeneath our noble old yew tree.Alas! all empty stands the throne,Reserved for Mohun’s race alone,And the old folks can only tellOf 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 triedTo 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 wentTo 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 thereThe stranger sat in Mohun’s chair;At ease he sat, and smiled to scanThe face of each astonished man;Then on the ground he laid asideHis plumed hat and mantle wide.One moment, Andrew deemed he knewThose 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 preservedThe 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 returnedThat 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 bellTolled 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 fameOf Sir Maurice de Mohun, the pride of his name.’
‘’Tis the twenty-ninth of merry May;Full cheerily shine the sunbeams to-day,Their joyous light revealingFull many a troop in garments gay,With cheerful steps who take their wayBy the green hill and shady lane,While merry bells are pealing;And soon in Beechcroft’s holy faneThe villagers are kneeling.Dreary and mournful seems the shrineWhere sound their prayers and hymns divine;For every mystic ornamentBy the rude spoiler’s hand is rent;Scarce is its ancient beauty tracedIn 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 rejoiceTo see the altar decked with care,To hear their ancient Pastor’s voiceReciting 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 freedFrom 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 yewThe stranger stood the sports to view,Unmarked by all, for each was bentOn 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 scarsBore token of the civil wars,And hooded dames in cloaks of red,At the blithe youngsters shook the head,Gathering in eager clusters toldHow 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 seeBeneath our noble old yew tree.Alas! all empty stands the throne,Reserved for Mohun’s race alone,And the old folks can only tellOf 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 triedTo 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 wentTo 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 thereThe stranger sat in Mohun’s chair;At ease he sat, and smiled to scanThe face of each astonished man;Then on the ground he laid asideHis plumed hat and mantle wide.One moment, Andrew deemed he knewThose 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 preservedThe 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 returnedThat 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 bellTolled 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 fameOf 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 Icankeep 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.