Lady Florence, though liking Lilias, thought this walk extravagant. Emily feared Lilias had lost her aunt’s good opinion, and prepared herself for some hints about a governess. It was untoward; but in the course of the evening she was a little comforted by a proposal from Lady Rotherwood to take her and Lilias to a ball at Raynham, which was to take place in January; and as soon as the gentlemen appeared, they submitted the invitation to their father, while Lady Rotherwood pressed William to accompany them, and he was refusing.
‘What are soldiers intended for but to dance!’ said Lord Rotherwood.
‘I never dance,’ said William, with a grave emphasis.
‘I am out of the scrape,’ said the Marquis. ‘I shall be gone before it takes place; I reserve all my dancing for July 30th. Well, young ladies, is the Baron propitious?’
‘He says he will consider of it,’ said Emily.
‘Oh then, he will let you go,’ said Florence, ‘people never consider when they mean no.’
‘No, Florence,’ said her brother, ‘Uncle Mohun’s “consider of it” is equivalent to Le Roi’s “avisera.”’
‘What is he saying?’ asked Lily, turning to listen. ‘Oh, that my wig is in no ball-going condition.’
‘A wreath would hide all deficiencies,’ said Florence; ‘I am determined to have you both.’
‘I give small hopes of both,’ said Claude; ‘you will only have Emily.’
‘Why do you think so, Claude?’ cried both Florence and Lilias.
‘From my own observation,’ Claude answered, gravely.
‘I am very angry with the Baron,’ said Lord Rotherwood; ‘he is grown inhospitable: he will not let me come here to-morrow—the first Christmas these five years that I have missed paying my respects to the New Court sirloin and turkey. It is too bad—and the Westons dining here too.’
‘Cousin Turkey-cock, well may you be in a passion,’ muttered Claude, as if in soliloquy.
Lord Rotherwood and Lilias both caught the sound, and laughed, but Emily, unwilling that Florence should see what liberties they took with her brother, asked quickly why he was not to come.
‘I think we are much obliged to him,’ said Florence, ‘it would be too bad to leave mamma and me to spend our Christmas alone, when we came to the castle on purpose to oblige him.’
‘Ay, and he says he will not let me come here, because I ought to give the Hetherington people ocular demonstration that I go to church,’ said Lord Rotherwood.
‘Very right, as Eleanor would say,’ observed Claude.
‘Very likely; but I don’t care for the Hetherington folks; they do not know how to make the holly in the church fit to be seen, and they will not sing the good old Christmas carols. Andrew Grey is worth all the Hetherington choir put together.’
‘Possibly; but how are they to mend, if their Marquis contents himself with despising them?’ said Claude.
‘That is too bad, Claude. When you heard how submissively I listened to the Baron, and know I mean to abide by what he said, you ought to condole with me a little, if you have not the grace to lament my absence on your own account. Why, I thought myself as regular a part of the feast as the mince-pies, and almost as necessary.’
Here a request for some music put an end to his lamentations. Lilias was vexed by the uncertainty about the ball, and was, besides, too tired to play with spirit. She saw that Emily was annoyed, and she felt ready to cry before the evening was over; but still she was proud of her exploit, and when, after the party was gone, Emily began to represent to her the estimate that her aunt was likely to form of her character, she replied, ‘If she thinks the worse of me for carrying the broth to those poor old people, I am sure I do not wish for her good opinion.’
Mr. Mohun was not propitious when the question of Lily’s going to the ball was pressed upon him. He said that he thought her too young for gaieties, and, besides, that late hours never agreed with her, and he advised her to wait for the 30th of July.
Lilias knew that it was useless to say any more. She was much disappointed, and at the same time provoked with herself for caring about such a matter. Her temper was out of order on Christmas Day; and while she wondered why she could not enjoy the festival as formerly, with thoughts fitted to the day, she did not examine herself sufficiently to find out the real cause of her uncomfortable feelings.
The clear frost was only cold; the bright sunshine did not rejoice her; the holly and the mistletoe seemed ill arranged; and none of the pleasant sights of the day could give her such blitheness as once she had known.
She was almost angry when she saw that the Westons had left off their mourning, declaring that they did not look like themselves; and her vexation came to a height when she found that Alethea actually intended to go to the ball with Mrs. Carrington. The excited manner in which she spoke of it convinced Mr. Mohun that he had acted wisely in not allowing her to go, since the very idea seemed to turn her head.
‘Loving she is, and tractable though wild.’
‘Loving she is, and tractable though wild.’
Ina day or two Lady Rotherwood and her daughter called at the New Court. On this occasion Lilias was employed in as rational and lady-like a manner as could be desired—in practising her music in the drawing-room; Emily was reading, and Ada threading beads.
Lady Rotherwood greeted her nieces very affectionately, gave a double caress to Adeline, stroked her pretty curls, admired her beadwork, talked to her about her doll, and then proceeded to invite the whole family to a Twelfth-Day party, given for their especial benefit. The little Carringtons and the Weston girls were also to be asked. Emily and Lilias were eagerly expressing their delight when suddenly a trampling, like a charge of horse, was heard in the hall; the door was thrown back, and in rushed Reginald and Phyllis, shouting, ‘Such fun!—the pigs are in the garden!’
At the sight of their aunt they stopped short, looking aghast, and certainly those who beheld them partook of their consternation. Reginald was hot and gloveless; his shoes far from clean; his brown curls hanging in great disorder from his Scotch cap; his handkerchief loose; his jacket dusty—but this was no great matter, since, as Emily said, he was ‘only a boy.’ His bright open smile, the rough, yet gentleman-like courtesy of his advance to the Marchioness, his comical roguish glance at Emily, to see if she was very angry, and to defy her if she were, and his speedy exit, all greatly amused Lady Florence, and made up for what there might have been of the wild schoolboy in his entrance.
Poor Phyllis had neither the excuse of being a schoolboy nor the good-humoured fearlessness that freed her brother from embarrassment, and she stood stock-still, awkward and dismayed, not daring to advance; longing to join in the pig-chase, yet afraid to run away, her eyes stretched wide open, her hair streaming into them, her bonnet awry, her tippet powdered with seeds of hay, her gloves torn and soiled, the colour of her brown holland apron scarcely discernible through its various stains, her frock tucked up, her stockings covered with mud, and without shoes, which she had taken off at the door.
‘Phyllis,’ said Emily, ‘what are you thinking of? What makes you such a figure? Come and speak to Aunt Rotherwood.’
Phyllis drew off her left-hand glove, and held out her hand, making a few sidelong steps towards her aunt, who gave her a rather reluctant kiss. Lily bent her bonnet into shape, and pulled down her frock, while Florence laughed, patted her cheek, and asked what she had been doing.
‘Helping Redgie to chop turnips,’ was the answer.
Afraid of some further exposure, Emily hastily sent her away to be made fit to be seen, and Lady Rotherwood went on caressing Ada and talking of something else. Emily had no opportunity of explaining that this was not Phyllis’s usual condition, and she was afraid that Lady Rotherwood would never believe that it was accidental. She was much annoyed, especially as the catastrophe only served to divert Mr. Mohun and Claude. Of all the family William and Adeline alone took her view of the case. Ada lectured Phyllis on her ‘naughtiness,’ and plumed herself on her aunt’s evident preference, but William was not equally sympathetic. He was indeed as fastidious as Emily herself, and as much annoyed by such misadventures; but he maintained that she was to blame for them, saying that the state of things was not such as it should be, and that the exposure might be advantageous if it put her on her guard in future.
It appeared as if poor Phyllis was to be punished for the vexation which she had caused, for in the course of her adventures with Reginald she caught a cold, which threatened to prevent her from being of the party on Twelfth-Day. She had a cough, which did not give her by any means as much inconvenience as the noise it occasioned did to other people. Every morning and every evening she anxiously asked her sisters whether they thought she would be allowed to go. Another of the party seemed likely to fail. On the 5th of January Claude came down to breakfast later even than usual; but he had no occasion to make excuses, for his heavy eyes, the dark lines under them, his pale cheeks, and the very sit of his hair, were sure signs that he had a violent headache. He soon betook himself to the sofa in the drawing-room, attended by Lily, with pillows, cushions, ether, and lavender. Late in the afternoon the pain diminished a little, and he fell asleep, to the great joy of his sister, who sat watching him, scarcely daring to move.
Suddenly a frightful scream and loud crash was heard in the room above them. Claude started up, and Lily, exclaiming, ‘Those tiresome children!’ hurried to the room whence the noise had come.
Reginald, Phyllis, and Ada, all stood there laughing. Reginald and Phyllis had been climbing to the top of a great wardrobe, by means of a ladder of chairs and tables. While Phyllis was descending her brother had made some demonstration that startled her, and she fell with all the chairs over her, but without hurting herself.
‘You naughty troublesome child,’ cried Lily, in no gentle tone. ‘How often have you been told to leave off such boyish tricks! And you choose the very place for disturbing poor Claude, with his bad headache, making it worse than ever.’
Phyllis tried to speak, but only succeeded in giving a dismal howl. She went on screaming, sobbing, and roaring so loud that she could not hear Lily’s attempts to quiet her. The next minute Claude appeared, looking half distracted. Reginald ran off, and as he dashed out of the room, came full against William, who caught hold of him, calling out to know what was the matter.
‘Only Phyllis screaming,’ said Lily. ‘Oh, Claude, I am very sorry!’
‘Is that all?’ said Claude. ‘I thought some one was half killed!’
He sank into a chair, pressing his hand on his temples, and looking very faint. William supported him, and Lily stood by, repeating, ‘I am very sorry—it was all my fault—my scolding—’
‘Hush,’ said William, ‘you have done mischief enough. Go away, children.’
Phyllis had already gone, and the next moment thrust into Lily’s hand the first of the medicaments which she had found in the drawing-room. The faintness soon went off, but Claude thought he had better not struggle against the headache any longer, but go to bed, in hopes of being better the next day. William went with him to his room, and Lilias lingered on the stairs, very humble, and very wretched. William soon came forth again, and asked the meaning of the uproar.
‘It was all my fault,’ said she; ‘I was vexed at Claude’s being waked, and that made me speak sharply to Phyllis, and set her roaring.’
‘I do not know which is the most inconsiderate of you,’ said William.
‘You cannot blame me more than I deserve,’ said Lily. ‘May I go to poor Claude?’
‘I suppose so; but I do not see what good you are to do. Quiet is the only thing for him.’
Lily, however, went, and Claude gave her to understand that he liked her to stay with him. She arranged his blinds and curtains comfortably, and then sat down to watch him. William went to the drawing-room to write a letter. Just as he had sat down he heard a strange noise, a sound of sobbing, which seemed to come from the corner where the library steps stood. Looking behind them, he beheld Phyllis curled up, her head on her knees, crying bitterly.
‘You there! Come out. What is the matter now?’
‘I am so very sorry,’ sighed she.
‘Well, leave off crying.’ She would willingly have obeyed, but her sobs were beyond her own control; and he went on, ‘If you are sorry, there is no more to be said. I hope it will be a lesson to you another time. You are quite old enough to have more consideration for other people.’
‘I am very sorry,’ again said Phyllis, in a mournful note.
‘Be sorry, only do not roar. You make that noise from habit, I am convinced, and you may break yourself off it if you choose.’
Phyllis crept out of the room, and in a few minutes more the door was softly opened by Emily, returning from her walk.
‘I thought Claude was here. Is he gone to bed? Is his head worse?’
‘Yes, the children have been doing their best to distract him. Emily, I want to know why it is that those children are for ever in mischief and yelling in all parts of the house.’
‘I wish I could help it,’ said Emily, with a sigh; ‘they are very troublesome.’
‘There must be great mismanagement,’ said her brother.
‘Oh, William! Why do you think so?’
‘Other children do not go on in this way, and it was not so in Eleanor’s time.’
‘It is only Phyllis,’ said Emily.
‘Phyllis or not, it ought not to be. What will that child grow up, if you let her be always running wild with the boys?’
‘Consider, William, that you see us at a disadvantage; we are all unsettled by this illness, and the children have been from home.’
‘As if they learnt all these wild tricks at Broomhill! That excuse will not do, Emily.’
‘And then they are always worse in the holidays,’ pleaded Emily.
‘Yes, there are reasons to be found for everything that goes wrong; but if you were wise you would look deeper. Now, Emily, I do not wish to be hard upon you, for I know you are in a very difficult position, and very young for such a charge, but I am sure you might manage better. I do not think you use your energies. There is no activity, nor regularity, nor method, about this household. I believe that my father sees that this is the case, but it is not his habit to find fault with little things. You may think that, therefore, I need not interfere, but—’
‘Oh, William! I am glad—’
‘But remember that comfort is made up of little things. And, Emily, when you consider how much my father has suffered, and how desolate his home must be at the best, I think you will be inclined to exert yourself to prevent him from being anxious about the children or harassed by your negligence.’
‘Indeed, William,’ returned Emily, with many tears, ‘it is my most earnest wish to make him comfortable. Thank you for what you have said. Now that I am stronger, I hope to do more, and I will really do my best.’
At this moment Emily was sincere; but the good impulse of one instant was not likely to endure against long cherished habits of selfish apathy.
Claude did not appear again till the middle of the next day. His headache was nearly gone, but he was so languid that he gave up all thoughts of Devereux Castle that evening. Lord Rotherwood, who always seemed to know what was going on at Beechcroft, came to inquire for him, and very unwillingly allowed that it would be better for him to stay at home. Lilias wished to remain with him; but this her cousin would not permit, saying that he could not consent to lose three of the party, and Florence would be disappointed in all her plans. Neither would Claude hear of keeping her at home, and she was obliged to satisfy herself with putting his arm-chair in his favourite corner by the fire, with the little table before it, supplied with books, newspaper, inkstand, paper-knife, and all the new periodicals, and he declared that he should enjoy the height of luxury.
Phyllis considered it to be entirely her fault that he could not go, and was too much grieved on that account to have many regrets to spare for herself. She enjoyed seeing Adeline dressed, and hearing Esther’s admiration of her. And having seen the party set off, she made her way into the drawing-room, opening the door as gently as possible, just wide enough to admit her little person, then shutting it as if she was afraid of hurting it, she crept across the room on tiptoe. She started when Claude looked up and said, ‘Why, Phyl, I have not seen you to-day.’
‘Good morning,’ she mumbled, advancing in her sidelong way.
Claude suspected that she had been more blamed the day before than the occasion called for, and wishing to make amends he kissed her, and said something good-natured about spending the evening together.
Phyllis, a little reassured, went to her own occupations. She took out a large heavy volume, laid it on the window-seat, and began to read. Claude was interested in his own book, and did not look up till the light failed him. He then, closing his book, gave a long yawn, and looked round for his little companion, almost thinking, from the stillness of the room, that she must have gone to seek for amusement in the nursery.
She was, however, still kneeling against the window-seat, her elbows planted on the great folio, and her head between her hands, reading intently.
‘Little Madam,’ said he, ‘what great book have you got there?’
‘As You Like It,’ said Phyllis.
‘What! are you promoted to reading Shakspeare?’
‘I have not read any but this,’ said Phyllis. ‘Ada and I have often looked at the pictures, and I liked the poor wounded stag coming down to the water so much, that I read about it, and then I went on. Was it wrong, Claude? no one ever told me not.’
‘You are welcome to read it,’ said Claude, ‘but not now—it is too dark. Come and sit in the great chair on the other side of the fire, and be sociable. And what do you think of ‘As You Like It?’’
‘I like it very much,’ answered Phyllis, ‘only I cannot think whyJacksdid not go to the poor stag, and try to cure it, when he saw its tears running into the water.’
To save the character ofJacks, Claude gravely suggested the difficulty of catching the stag, and then asked Phyllis her opinion of the heroines.
‘Oh! it was very funny about Rosalind dressing like a man, and then being ready to cry like a girl when she was tired, and then pretending to pretend to be herself; and Celia, it was very kind of her to go away with Rosalind; but I should have liked her better if she had stayed at home, and persuaded her father to let Rosalind stay too. I am sure she would if she had been like Ada. Then it is so nice about Old Adam and Orlando. Do not you think so, Claude? It is just what I am sure Wat Greenwood would do for Redgie, if he was to be turned out like Orlando.’
‘It is just what Wat Greenwood’s ancestor did for Sir Maurice Mohun,’ said Claude.
‘Yes, Dame Greenwood tells us that story.’
‘Well, Phyl, I think you show very good taste in liking the scene between Orlando and Adam.’
‘I am glad you like it, too, Claude. But I will tell you what I like best,’ exclaimed the little girl, springing up, ‘I do like it, when Orlando killed the lioness and the snake,—and saved Oliver; how glad he must have been.’
‘Glad to have done good to his enemy,’ said Claude; ‘yes, indeed.’
‘His enemy! he was his brother, you know. I meant it must be so very nice to save anybody—don’t you think so, Claude?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Claude, do you know there is nothing I wish so much as to save somebody’s life. It was very nice to save the dragon-fly; and it is very nice to let flies out of spiders’ webs, only they always have their legs and wings torn, and look miserable; and it was very nice to put the poor little thrushes back into their nest when they tumbled out, and then to see their mother come to feed them; and it was very pleasant to help the poor goose that had put its head through the pales, and could not get it back. Mrs. Harrington said it would have been strangled if I had not helped it. That was very nice, but how delightful it would be to save some real human person’s life.’
Claude did not laugh at the odd medley in her speech, but answered, ‘Well, those little things train you in readiness and kindness.’
‘Will they?’ said Phyllis, pressing on to express what had long been her earnest wish. ‘If I could but save some one, I should not mind being killed myself—I think not—I hope it is not naughty to say so. I believe there is something in the Bible about it, about laying down one’s life for one’s friend.’
‘There is, Phyl, and I quite agree with you; it must be a great blessing to have saved some one.’
‘And little girls have sometimes done it, Claude. I know a story of one who saved her little brother from drowning, and another waked the people when the house was on fire. And when I was at Broomhill, Marianne showed me a story of a young lady who helped to save the Prince, that Prince Charlie that Miss Weston sings about. I wish the Prince of Wales would get into some misfortune—I should like to save him.’
‘I do not quite echo that loyal wish,’ said Claude.
‘Well, but, Claude, Redgie wishes for a rebellion, like Sir Maurice’s, for he says all the boys at his school would be one regiment, in green velvet coats, and white feathers in their hats.’
‘Indeed! and Redgie to be Field Marshal?’
‘No, he is to be Sir Reginald Mohun, a Knight of the Garter, and to ask the Queen to give William back the title of Baron of Beechcroft, and make papa a Duke.’
‘Well done! he is to take good care of the interests of the family.’
‘But it is not that that I should care about,’ said Phyllis. ‘I should like it better for the feeling in one’s own self; I think all that fuss would rather spoil it—don’t you, Claude?’
‘Indeed, I do; but Phyllis, if you only wish for that feeling, you need not look for dangers or rebellions to gain it.’
‘Oh! you mean the feeling that very good people indeed have—people like Harry—but that I shall never be.’
‘I hope you mean to try, though.’
‘I do try; I wish I was as good as Ada, but I am so naughty and so noisy that I do not know what to do. Every day when I say my prayers I think about being quiet, and not idling at my lessons, and sometimes I do stop in time, and behave better, but sometimes I forget, and I do not mind what I am about, and my voice gets loud, and I let the things tumble down and make a noise, and so it was yesterday.’ Here she looked much disposed to cry.
‘No, no, we will not have any crying this evening,’ said Claude. ‘I do not think you did me much mischief, my head ached just as much before.’
‘That was a thing I wanted to ask you about: William says my crying loud is all habit, and that I must cure myself of it. How does he mean? Ought I to cry every day to practise doing it without roaring?’
‘Do you like to begin,’ said Claude, laughing; ‘shall I beat you or pinch you?’
‘Oh! it would make your head bad again,’ said Phyllis; ‘but I wish you would tell me what he means. When I cry I only think about what makes me unhappy.’
‘Try never to cry,’ said Claude; ‘I assure you it is not pleasant to hear you, even when I have no headache. If you wish to do anything right, you must learn self-control, and it will be a good beginning to check yourself when you are going to cry. Do not look melancholy now. Here comes the tea. Let me see how you will perform as tea-maker.’
‘I wish the evening would not go away so fast!’
‘And what are we to do after tea? You are queen of the evening.’
‘If you would but tell me a story, Claude.’
They lingered long over the tea-table, talking and laughing, and when they had finished, Phyllis discovered with surprise that it was nearly bedtime. The promised story was not omitted, however, and Phyllis, sitting on a little footstool at her brother’s feet, looked up eagerly for it.
‘Well, Phyl, I will tell you a true history that I heard from an officer who had served in the Peninsular War—the war in Spain, you know.’
‘Yes, with the French, who killed their king. Lily told me.’
‘And the Portuguese were helping us. Just after we had taken the town of Ciudad Rodrigo, some of the Portuguese soldiers went to find lodgings for themselves, and, entering a magazine of gunpowder, made a fire on the floor to dress their food. A most dangerous thing—do you know why?’
‘The book would be burnt,’ said Phyllis.
‘What book, you wise child?’
‘The Magazine; I thought a magazine was one of the paper books that Maurice is always reading.’
‘Oh!’ said Claude, laughing, ‘a magazine is a store, and as many different things are stored in those books, they are called magazines. A powder magazine is a store of barrels of gunpowder. Now do you see why it was dangerous to light a fire?’
‘It blows up,’ said Phyllis; ‘that was the reason why Robinson Crusoe was afraid of the lightning.’
‘Right, Phyl, and therefore a candle is never allowed to be carried into a powder magazine, and even nailed shoes are never worn there, lest they should strike fire. One spark, lighting on a grain of gunpowder, scattered on the floor, might communicate with the rest, make it all explode, and spread destruction everywhere. Think in what fearful peril these reckless men had placed, not only themselves, but the whole town, and the army. An English officer chanced to discover them, and what do you think he did?’
‘Told all the people to run away.’
‘How could he have told every one, soldiers, inhabitants, and all? where could they have gone? No, he raised no alarm, but he ordered the Portuguese out of the building, and with the help of an English sergeant, he carried out, piece by piece, all the wood which they had set on fire. Now, imagine what that must have been. An explosion might happen at any moment, yet they had to walk steadily, slowly, and with the utmost caution, in and out of this place several times, lest one spark might fly back.’
‘Then they were saved?’ cried Phyllis, breathlessly; ‘and what became of them afterwards?’
‘They were both killed in battle, the officer, I believe, in Badajoz, and the sergeant sometime afterwards.’
Phyllis gave a deep sigh, and sat silent for some minutes. Next, Claude began a droll Irish fairy-tale, which he told with spirit and humour, such as some people would have scorned to exert for the amusement of a mere child. Phyllis laughed, and was so happy, that when suddenly they heard the sound of wheels, she started up, wondering what brought the others home so soon, and was still more surprised when Claude told her it was past ten.
‘Oh dear! what will papa and Emily say to me for being up still? But I will stay now, it would not be fair to pretend to be gone to bed.’
‘Well said, honest Phyl; now for the news from the castle.’
‘Why, Claude,’ said his eldest brother, entering, ‘you are alive again.’
‘I doubt whether your evening could have been pleasanter than ours,’ said Claude.
‘Phyl,’ cried Ada, ‘do you know, Mary Carrington’s governess thought I was Florence’s sister.’
‘You look so bright, Claude,’ said Jane, ‘I think you must have taken Cinderella’s friend with the pumpkin to enliven you.’
‘My fairy was certainly sister to a Brownie,’ said Claude, stroking Phyllis’s hair.
‘Claude,’ again began Ada, ‘Miss Car—’
‘I wish Cinderella’s fairy may be forthcoming the day of the ball,’ said Lily, disconsolately.
‘And William is going after all,’ said Emily.
‘Indeed! has the great Captain relented?’
‘Yes. Is it not good of him? Aunt Rotherwood is so much pleased that he consents to go entirely to oblige her.’
‘Sensible of his condescension,’ said Claude. ‘By the bye, what makes the Baron look so mischievous?’
‘Mischievous!’ said Emily, looking round with a start, ‘he is looking very comical, and so he has been all the evening.’
‘What? You thought mischievous was meant in Hannah’s sense, when she complains of Master Reginald being very mischie-vi-ous.’
Ada now succeeded in saying, ‘The Carringtons’ governess called me Lady Ada.’
‘How could she bring herself to utter so horrid a sound?’ said Claude.
‘Ada is more cock-a-hoop than ever now,’ said Reginald; ‘she does not think Miss Weston good enough to speak to.’
‘But, Claude, she really did, she thought I was Florence’s sister, and she said I was just like her.’
‘I wish you would hold your tongue, or go to bed,’ said William, ‘I have heard nothing but this nonsense all the way home.’
While William was sending off Ada to bed, and Phyllis was departing with her, Lily told Claude that the Captain had been most agreeable. ‘I feared,’ said she, ‘that he would be too grand for this party, but he was particularly entertaining; Rotherwood was quite eclipsed.’
‘Rotherwood wants Claude to set him off,’ said Mr. Mohun. ‘Now, young ladies, reserve the rest of your adventures for the morning.’
Adeline had full satisfaction in recounting the governess’s mistake to the maids, and in hearing from Esther that it was no wonder, ‘for that she looked more like a born lady than Lady Florence herself!’
Lilias’s fit of petulance about the ball had returned more strongly than ever; she partly excused herself to her own mind, by fancying she disliked the thought of the lonely evening she was to spend more than that of losing the pleasure of the ball. Mr. Mohun would be absent, conducting Maurice to a new school, and Claude and Reginald would also be gone.
Her temper was affected in various ways; she wondered that William and Emily could like to go—she had thought that Miss Weston was wiser. Her daily occupations were irksome—she was cross to Phyllis.
It made her very angry to be accused by the young brothers of making a fuss, and Claude’s silence was equally offensive. It was upon principle that he said nothing. He knew it was nothing but a transient attack of silliness, of which she was herself ashamed; but he was sorry to leave her in that condition, and feared Lady Rotherwood’s coming into the neighbourhood was doing her harm, as certainly as it was spoiling Ada. The ball day arrived, and it was marked by a great burst of fretfulness on the part of poor Lilias, occasioned by so small a matter as the being asked by Emily to write a letter to Eleanor. Emily was dressing to go to dine at Devereux Castle when she made the request.
‘What have I to say? I never could write a letter in my life, at least not to the Duenna—there is no news.’
‘About the boys going to school,’ Emily suggested.
‘As if she did not know all about them as well as I can tell her. She does not care for my news, I see no one to hear gossip from. I thought you undertook all the formal correspondence, Emily?’
‘Do you call a letter to your sister formal correspondence!’
‘Everything is formal with her. All I can say is, that you and William are going to the ball, and she will say that is very silly.’
‘Eleanor once went to this Raynham ball; it was her first and last,’ said Emily.
‘Yes, not long before they went to Italy; it will only make her melancholy to speak of it—I declare I cannot write.’
‘And I have no time,’ said Emily, ‘and you know how vexed she is if she does not get her letter every Saturday.’
‘All for the sake of punctuality, nothing else,’ said Lily. ‘I rather like to disappoint fidgety people—don’t you, Emily?’
‘Well,’ said Emily, ‘only papa does not like that she should be disappointed.’
‘You might have written, if you had not dawdled away all the morning.’
This was true, and it therefore stung Emily, who complained that Lily was very unkind. Lily defended herself sharply, and the dispute was growing vehement, when William happily cut it short by a summons to Emily to make haste.
When they were gone Lily had time for reflection. Good-temper was so common a virtue, and generally cost her so little effort, that she took no pains to cultivate it, but she now felt she had lost all claim to be considered amiable under disappointment. It was too late to bear the privation with a good grace. She was heartily ashamed of having been so cross about a trifle, and ashamed of being discontented at Emily’s having a pleasure in which she could not share. Would this have been the case a year ago? She was afraid to ask herself the question, and without going deep enough into the history of her own mind to make her sorrow and shame profitable, she tried to satisfy herself with a superficial compensation, by making herself particularly agreeable to her three younger sisters, and by writing a very long and entertaining letter to Eleanor.
She met Emily with a cheerful face the next day, and listened with pleasure to her history of the ball; and when Mr. Mohun returned home he saw that the cloud had passed away. But, alas! Lilias neglected to take the only means of preventing its recurrence.
The next week William departed. Before he went he gave his sisters great pleasure by desiring them to write to him, and not to let him fall into his ancient state of ignorance respecting the affairs of Beechcroft.
‘Mind,’ was his farewell speech, ‘I expect you to keep meau courant du jour. I will not be in the dark about your best friends and neighbours when I come home next July.’
‘And still I have to tell the same sad taleOf wasted energies, and idle dreams.’
‘And still I have to tell the same sad taleOf wasted energies, and idle dreams.’
Devereux Castlenow became the great resort of the Miss Mohuns. They were always sure of a welcome there. Lady Rotherwood liked to patronise them, and Florence was glad of their society.
This was quite according to the wishes of Emily, who now had nothing left to desire, but that the style of dress suitable, in her opinion, to the granddaughter of the Marquis of Rotherwood, was more in accordance with the purse of the daughter of the Esquire of Beechcroft. It was no part of Emily’s character to care for dress. She was at once too indolent and too sensible; she saw the vulgarity of finery, and only aimed at simplicity and elegance. During their girlhood Emily and Lilias had had no more concern with their clothes than with their food; Eleanor had carefully taught them plain needlework, and they had assisted in making more than one set of shirts; but they had nothing to do with the choice or fashion of their own apparel. They were always dressed alike, and in as plain and childish a manner as they could be, consistently with their station. On Eleanor’s marriage a suitable allowance was given to each of them, in order that they might provide their own clothes, and until Rachel left them they easily kept themselves in very good trim. When Esther came Lily cheerfully took the trouble of her own small decorations, considering it as her payment for the pleasure of having Esther in the house. Emily, however, neglected the useful ‘stitch in time,’ till even ‘nine’ were unavailing. She soon found herself compelled to buy new ready-made articles, and expected Lilias to do the same. But Lilias demurred, for she was too wise to think it necessary to ruin herself in company with Emily, and thus the two sisters were no longer dressed alike. A constant fear tormented Emily lest she should disgrace Lady Rotherwood, or be considered by some stranger as merely a poor relation of the great people, and not as the daughter of the gentleman of the oldest family in the county. She was, therefore, anxious to be perfectly fashionable, and not to wear the same things too often, and in her disinterested desire to maintain the dignity of the family the allowance which she received at Christmas melted away in her hands.
Lily, though exempt from this folly, was not in a satisfactory state of mind. She was drawn off from her duties by a kind of spell. It was not that she liked Florence’s society better than her home pursuits.
Florence was indeed a very sweet-tempered and engaging creature; but her mind was not equal to that of Lilias, and there was none of the pleasure of relying upon her, and looking up to her, which Lilias had learnt to enjoy in the company of her brother Claude, and of Alethea Weston. It was only that Lily’s own mind had been turned away from her former occupations, and that she did not like to resume them. She had often promised herself to return to her really useful studies, and her positive duties, as soon as her brothers were gone; but day after day passed and nothing was done, though her visits to the cottages and her lessons to Phyllis were often neglected. Her calls at Devereux Castle took up many afternoons. Florence continually lent her amusing books, her aunt took great interest in her music, and she spent much time in practising. The mornings were cold and dark, and she could not rise early, and thus her time slipped away, she knew not how, uselessly and unsatisfactorily. The three younger ones were left more to themselves, and to the maids. Jane sought for amusement in village gossip, and the little ones, finding the nursery more agreeable than the deserted drawing-room, made Esther their companion.
Mr. Mohun had, at this time, an unusual quantity of business on his hands; he saw that the girls were not going on well, but he had reasons for not interfering at present, and he looked forward to Eleanor’s visit as the conclusion of their trial.
‘I cannot think,’ said Marianne Weston one day to her sister, ‘why Mr. Mohun comes here so often.’
Alethea told her he had some business with their mamma, and she thought no more of the matter, till she was one day questioned by Jane. She was rather afraid of Jane, who, as she thought, disliked her, and wished to turn her into ridicule; so it was with no satisfaction that she found herself separated from the others in the course of a walk, and submitted to a cross-examination.
Jane asked, in a mysterious manner, who had been at Broomhill that morning.
‘Mr. Mohun,’ said Marianne.
‘What did he go there for?’ said Jane.
‘Alethea says he has some business with mamma.’
‘Then you did not hear what it was?’
‘I was not in the room.’
‘Are you never there when he comes?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘And is Alethea there?’
‘Oh yes!’
‘His business must be with her too. Cannot you guess it?’
‘No,’ said Marianne, looking amazed.
‘How can you be so slow?’
‘I am not sure that I would guess if I could,’ said Marianne, ‘for I do not think they wish me to know.’
‘Oh! nonsense, it is fine fun to find out secrets,’ said Jane. ‘You will know it at last, you may be sure, so there can be no harm in making it out beforehand, so as to have the pleasure of triumph when the wise people vouchsafe to admit you into their confidence; I am sure I know it all.’
‘Then please do not tell me, Jane, I ought not to hear it.’
‘Little Mrs. Propriety,’ said Jane, ‘you are already assuming all the dignity of my Aunt Marianne, and William’s Aunt Marianne—oh! and of little Henry’s Great-aunt Marianne. Now,’ she added, laughing, ‘can you guess the secret?’
Marianne stood still in amazement for a moment, and then exclaimed, ‘Jane, Jane! you do not mean it, you are only trying to tease me.’
‘I am quite serious,’ said Jane. ‘You will see that I am right.’
Here they were interrupted, and as soon as she returned from her walk Marianne, perplexed and amazed, went to her mother, and told her all that Jane had said.
‘How can she be so silly?’ said Mrs. Weston.
‘Then it is all nonsense, as I thought,’ said Marianne, joyfully. ‘I should not like Alethea to marry an old man.’
‘Mr. Mohun is very unlikely to make himself ridiculous,’ said Mrs. Weston. ‘Do not say anything of it to Alethea; it would only make her uncomfortable.’
‘If it had been Captain Mohun, now—’ Marianne stopped, and blushed, finding her speech unanswered.
A few days after, Mr. Mohun overtook Marianne and her mother, as he was riding home from Raynham, and dismounting, led his horse, and walked on with them. Either not perceiving Marianne, or not caring whether she heard him, he said,
‘Has Miss Weston received the letter she expected?’
‘No,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘she thinks, as there is no answer, the family must be gone abroad, and very probably they have taken Miss Aylmer with them; but she has written to another friend to ask about them.’
‘From all I hear,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I should prefer waiting to hear from her, before we make further inquiries; we shall not be ready before midsummer, as I should wish my eldest daughter to assist me in making this important decision.’
‘In that case,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘there will be plenty of time to communicate with her. I can see some of the friends of the family when I go to London, for we must not leave Mr. Weston in solitude another spring.’
‘Perhaps I shall see you there,’ said Mr. Mohun. ‘I have some business in London, and I think I shall meet the Hawkesworths there in May or June.’
After a little more conversation Mr. Mohun took his leave, and as soon as he had ridden on, Marianne said, ‘Oh! mamma, I could not help hearing.’
‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘I know you may be trusted; but I should not have told you, as you may find such a secret embarrassing when you are with your young friends.’
‘And so they are to have a governess?’
‘Yes; and we are trying to find Miss Aylmer for them.’
‘Miss Aylmer! I am glad of it; how much Phyllis and Ada will like her!’
‘Yes, it will be very good for them; I wish I knew the Grants’ direction.’
‘Well, I hope Jane will not question me any more; it will be very difficult to manage, now I know the truth.’
But poor Marianne was not to escape. Jane was on the watch to find her alone, and as soon as an opportunity offered, she began:—
‘Well, auntie, any discoveries?’
‘Indeed, Jane, it is not right to fancy Mr. Mohun can do anything so absurd.’
‘That is as people may think,’ said Jane.
‘I wish you would not talk in that way,’ said Marianne.
‘Now, Marianne,’ pursued the tormentor, ‘if you can explain the mystery I will believe you, otherwise I know what to think.’
‘I am certain you are wrong, Jane; but I can tell you no more.’
‘Very well, my good aunt, I am satisfied.’
Jane really almost persuaded herself that she was right, as she perceived that her father was always promoting intercourse with the Westons, and took pleasure in conversing with Alethea. She twisted everything into a confirmation of her idea; while the prospect of having Miss Weston for a stepmother increased her former dislike; but she kept her suspicions to herself for the present, triumphing in the idea that, when the time came, she could bring Marianne as a witness of her penetration.
The intercourse between the elder Miss Mohuns and Miss Weston was, however, not so frequent as formerly; and Alethea herself could not but remark that, while Mr. Mohun seemed to desire to become more intimate, his daughters were more backward in making appointments with her. This was chiefly remarkable in Emily and Jane. Lilias was the same in openness, earnestness, and affection; but there was either a languor about her spirits or they were too much excited, and her talk was more of novels, and less of poor children than formerly. The constant visits to Devereux Castle prevented Emily and Lilias from being as often as before at church, and thus they lost many walks and talks that they used to enjoy in the way home. Marianne began to grow indignant, especially on one occasion, when Emily and Lily went out for a drive with Lady Rotherwood, forgetting that they had engaged to take a walk with the Westons that afternoon.
‘It is really a great deal too bad,’ said she to Alethea; ‘it is exactly what we have read of in books about grandeur making people cast off their old friends.’
‘Do not be unfair, Marianne,’ said Alethea. ‘Lady Florence has a better right to—’
‘Better right!’ exclaimed Marianne. ‘What, because she is a marquis’s daughter?’
‘Because she is their cousin.’
‘I do not believe Lilias really cares for her half as much as for you,’ said Marianne. ‘It is all because they are fine people.’
‘Nay, Marianne, if our cousins were to come into this neighbourhood, we should not be as dependent on the Mohuns as we now feel.’
‘I hope we should not break our engagements with them.’
‘Perhaps they could not help it. When their aunt came to fetch them, knowing how seldom they can have the carriage, it would have been scarcely civil to say that they had rather take a walk with people they can see any day.’
‘Last year Lilias would have let Emily go by herself,’ said Marianne. ‘Alethea, they are all different since that Lady Rotherwood came—all except Phyl. Ada is a great deal more conceited than she was when she was staying here; she pulls out her curls, and looks in the glass much more, and she is always talking about some one having taken her for Lady Florence’s sister. And, Alethea, just fancy, she does not like me to go through a gate before her, because she says she has precedence!’
Alethea was much amused, but she would not let Marianne condemn the whole family for Ada’s folly. ‘It will all come right,’ said she, ‘let us be patient and good-humoured, and nothing can be really wrong.’
Though Alethea made the best of it to her sister, she could not but feel hurt, and would have been much more so if her temper had been jealous or sentimental. Almost in spite of herself she had bestowed upon Lilias no small share of her affection, and she would have been more pained by her neglect if she had not partaken of that spirit which ‘thinketh no evil, but beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, and endureth all things.’
Lilias was not satisfied with either herself, her home, her sisters, or her school; she was far from being the fresh, happy creature that she had been the year before. She had seen the fallacy of her principle of love, but in her self-willed adherence to it she had lost the strong sense and habit of duty which had once ruled her; and in a vague and restless frame of mind, she merely sought from day to day for pleasure and idle occupation. Lent came, but she was not roused, she was only more uncomfortable when she saw the Rector, or Alethea, or went to church. Alethea’s unfailing gentleness she felt almost as a rebuke; and Mr. Devereux, though always kind and good-natured, had ceased to speak to her of those small village matters in which she used to be prime counsellor.
The school became a burthen instead of a delight, and her attendance there a fatigue. On going in one Sunday morning, very late, she found Alethea teaching her class as well as her own. With a look of vexation she inquired, as she took her place, if it was so very late, and on the way to church she said again, ‘I thought I was quite in time; I do not like to hurry the children—the distant ones have not time to come. It was only half-past nine.’
‘Oh, Lilias,’ said Marianne, ‘it was twenty minutes to ten, I know, for I had just looked at the clock.’
‘That clock is always too fast,’ said Lily.
The next Sunday was very cold, and Lilias did not feel at all disposed to leave the fire when the others prepared to go to the afternoon school.
‘Is it time?’ said she. ‘I was chilled at church, and my feet are still like ice; I will follow you in five minutes.’
Alethea went, and Lilias lingered by the fire. Mrs. Weston once asked her if she knew how late it was; but still she waited, until she was startled by the sound of the bell for evening service. As she went to church with Mrs. Weston and Emily she met Jane, who told her that her class had been unemployed all the afternoon.
‘I would have taken them,’ said she, ‘but that Robert does not like me to teach the great girls, and I do think Alethea might have heard them.’
‘It is very provoking,’ said Lily, pettishly; ‘I thought I might depend—’ She turned and saw Miss Weston close to her. ‘Oh, Alethea!’ said she, ‘I thought you would have heard those girls.’
‘I thought you were coming,’ said Alethea.
‘So I was, but I am sure the bell rang too early. I do wish you had taken them, Alethea.’
‘I am sorry you are vexed,’ said Alethea, simply.
‘What makes you think I am vexed? I only thought you liked hearing my class.’
They were by this time at the church door, and as they entered Alethea blamed herself for feeling grieved, and Lily awoke to a sense of her unreasonableness. She longed to tell Alethea how sorry she felt, but she had no opportunity, and she resolved to go to Broomhill the next day to make her confession. In the night, however, snow began to fall, and the morning showed the February scene of thawing snow and pouring rain. Going out was impossible, both on that day and the next. Wednesday dawned fair and bright; but just after breakfast Lily received a little note, with the intelligence that Mr. Weston had arrived at Broomhill on Monday evening, and with his wife and daughters was to set off that very day to make a visit to some friends on the way to London. Had not the weather been so bad, Alethea said she should have come to take leave of her New Court friends on Tuesday, but she could now only send this note to tell them how sorry she was to go without seeing them, and to beg Emily to send back a piece of music which she had lent to her. The messenger was Faith Longley, who was to accompany them, and who now was going home to take leave of her mother, and would call again for the music in a quarter of an hour. Lily ran to ask her when they were to go. ‘At eleven,’ was the answer; and Lily telling her she need not call again, as she herself would bring the music, went to look for it. High and low did she seek, and so did Jane, but it was not to be found in any nook, likely or unlikely; and when at last Lily, in despair, gave up the attempt to find it, it was already a quarter to eleven. Emily sent many apologies and civil messages, and Lily set out at a rapid pace to walk to Broomhill by the road, for the thaw had rendered the fields impassable. Fast as she walked, she was too late. She had the mortification of seeing the carriage turn out at the gates, and take the Raynham road; she was not even seen, nor had she a wave of the hand, or a smile to comfort her.
Almost crying with vexation, she walked home, and sat down to write to Alethea, but, alas! she did not know where to direct a letter. Bitterly did she repent of the burst of ill-temper which had stained her last meeting with her friend, and she was scarcely comforted even by the long and affectionate letter which she received a week after their departure. Kindness from her was now forgiveness; never did she so strongly feel Florence’s inferiority; and she wondered at herself for having sought her society so much as to neglect her patient and superior friend. She became careless and indifferent to Florence, and yet she went on in her former course, following Emily, and fancying that nothing at Beechcroft could interest her in the absence of her dear Alethea Weston.
‘O guide us when our faithless heartsFrom Thee would start aloof,Where patience her sweet skill imparts,Beneath some cottage roof.’
‘O guide us when our faithless heartsFrom Thee would start aloof,Where patience her sweet skill imparts,Beneath some cottage roof.’
Palm Sundaybrought Lily many regrets. It was the day of the school prize giving, and she reflected with shame, how much less she knew about the children than last year, and how little they owed to her; she feared to think of the approach of Easter Day, a dread which she had never felt before, and which she knew to be a very bad sign; but her regret was not repentance—she talked, and laughed, and tried to feel at ease. Agnes Eden’s happy face was the most pleasant sight on that day. The little girl received a Bible, and as it was given to her her pale face was coloured with bright pink, her blue eyes lighted up, her smile was radiant with the beauty of innocence, but Lily could not look at her without self-reproach. She resolved to make up for her former neglect by double kindness, and determined that, at any rate, Passion Week should be properly spent—she would not once miss going to church.
But on Monday, when Emily proposed to ride to Devereux Castle, she assented, only saying that they would return for evening service. She took care to remind her sister when it was time to set out homewards; but Emily was, as usual, so long in taking her leave that it was too late to think of going to church when they set off.
About two miles from Beechcroft Lily saw a little figure in a gray cloak trudging steadily along the road, and as she came nearer she recognised Kezia Grey. She stopped and asked the child what brought her so far from home.
‘I am going for the doctor, Miss,’ said the child.
‘Is your mother worse?’ asked Lily.
‘Mother is pretty well,’ said Kezia; ‘but it is for Agnes Eden, Miss—she is terrible bad.’
‘Poor little Agnes!’ exclaimed Lily. ‘Why, she was at school yesterday.’
‘Yes, Miss, but she was taken bad last night.’
After a moment’s consultation between the sisters, Kezia was told that she might return home, and the servant who accompanied the Miss Mohuns was sent to Raynham for the doctor. The next afternoon Lily was just setting out to inquire for Agnes when Lord Rotherwood arrived at the New Court with his sister. He wanted to show Florence some of his favourite haunts at Beechcroft, and had brought her to join his cousins in their walk. A very pleasant expedition they made, but it led them so far from home that the church bell was heard pealing over the woods far in the distance. Lily could not go to Mrs. Eden’s cottage, because she did not know the nature of Agnes’s complaint, and her aunt could not bear that Florence should go into any house where there was illness. In the course of the walk, however, she met Kezia, on her way to the New Court, to ask for a blister for Agnes, the doctor having advised Mrs. Eden to apply to the Miss Mohuns for one, as it was wanted quickly, and it was too far to send to Raynham. Lily promised to send the blister as soon as possible, and desired the little messenger to return home, where she was much wanted, to help her mother, who had a baby of less than a week old.
Alas! in the mirth and amusement of the evening Lily entirely forgot the blister, until just as she went to bed, when she made one of her feeble resolutions to take it, or send it early in the morning. She only awoke just in time to be ready for breakfast, went downstairs without one thought of the sick child, and never recollected her, until at church, just before the Litany, she heard these words: ‘The prayers of the congregation are desired for Agnes Eden.’
She felt as if she had been shot, and scarcely knew where she was for several moments. On coming out of church, she stood almost in a dream, while Emily and Jane were talking to the Rector, who told them how very ill the child was, and how little hope there was of her recovery. He took leave of them, and Lily walked home, scarcely hearing the soothing words with which Emily strove to comfort her. The meaning passed away mournfully; Lily sat over the fire without speaking, and without attempting to do anything. In the afternoon rain came on; but Lily, too unhappy not to be restless, put on her bonnet and cloak, and went out.
She walked quickly up the hill, and entered the field where the cottage stood. There she paused. She did not dare to knock at the cottage door; she could not bear to speak to Mrs. Eden; she dreaded the sight of Mrs. Grey or Kezia, and she gazed wistfully at the house, longing, yet fearing, to know what was passing within it. She wandered up and down the field, and at last was trying to make up her mind to return home, when she heard footsteps behind her, and turning, saw Mr. Devereux advancing along the path at the other end of the field.
‘Have you been to inquire for Agnes?’ said he.
‘I could not. I long to know, but I cannot bear to ask, I cannot venture in.’
‘Do you like to go in with me?’ said her cousin. ‘I do not think you will see anything dreadful.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lily, ‘I would give anything to know about her.’
‘How you tremble! but you need not be afraid.’
He knocked at the door, but there was no answer; he opened it, and going to the foot of the stairs, gently called Mrs. Eden, who came down calm and quiet as ever, though very pale.
‘How is she?’
‘No better, sir, thank you, light-headed still.’
‘Oh! Mrs. Eden, I am so sorry,’ sobbed Lily. ‘Oh! can you forgive me?’
‘Pray do not take on so, Miss,’ said Mrs. Eden. ‘You have always been a very kind friend to her, Miss Lilias. Do not take on so, Miss. If it is His will, nothing could have made any difference.’
Lily was going to speak again, but Mr. Devereux stopped her, saying, ‘We must not keep Mrs. Eden from her, Lily.’
‘Thank you, sir, her aunt is with her,’ said Mrs. Eden, ‘and no one is any good there now, she does not know any one. Will you walk up and see her, sir? will you walk up, Miss Lilias?’
Lily silently followed her cousin up the narrow stairs to the upper room, where, in the white-curtained bed, lay the little child, tossing about and moaning, her cheeks flushed with fever, and her blue eyes wide open, but unconscious. A woman, whom Lily did not at first perceive to be Mrs. Naylor, rose and courtsied on their entrance. Agnes’s new Bible was beside her, and her mother told them that she was not easy if it was out of sight for an instant.
At this moment Agnes called out, ‘Mother,’ and Mrs. Eden bent down to her, but she only repeated, ‘Mother’ two or three times, and then began talking:
‘Kissy, I want my bag—where is my thimble—no, not that I can’t remember—my catechism-book—my godfathers and godmothers in my baptism, wherein I was made a member—my Christian name—my name, it is my Christian name; no, that is not it—
“It is a name by which I amWrit in the hook of life,And here below a charm to keep,Unharmed by sin and strife;As often as my name I hear,I hear my Saviour’s voice.”’
“It is a name by which I amWrit in the hook of life,And here below a charm to keep,Unharmed by sin and strife;As often as my name I hear,I hear my Saviour’s voice.”’
Then she began the Creed, but, breaking off, exclaimed, ‘Where is my Bible, mother, I shall read it to-morrow—read that pretty verse about “I am the good Shepherd—the Lord is my Shepherd, therefore can I lack nothing—yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art within me.”
“I now am of that little flockWhich Christ doth call His own,For all His sheep He knows by name,And He of them is known.”’
“I now am of that little flockWhich Christ doth call His own,For all His sheep He knows by name,And He of them is known.”’
‘Let us call upon your good Shepherd, Agnes,’ said the pastor, and the child turned her face towards him as if she understood him. Kneeling down, he repeated the Lord’s Prayer, and the feeble voice followed his. He then read the prayer for a sick child, and left the room, for he saw that Lily would be quite overcome if she remained there any longer. Mrs. Eden followed them downstairs, and again stung poor Lily to the heart by thanks for all her kindness.
They then left the house of mourning; Lily trembled violently, and clung to her cousin’s arm for support. Her tears streamed fast, but her sobs were checked by awe at Mrs. Eden’s calmness. She felt as if she had been among the angels.
‘How pale you are!’ said her cousin, ‘I would not have taken you there if I thought it would overset you so much. Come into Mrs. Grey’s, and sit down and recover a little.’
‘No, no, do not let me see any one,’ said Lily. ‘Oh! that dear child! Robert, let me tell you the worst, for your kindness is more than I can bear. I promised Agnes a blister and forgot it!’
She could say no more for some minutes, but her cousin did not speak. Recovering her voice, she added, ‘Only speak to me, Robert.’
‘I am very sorry for you,’ answered he, in a kind tone.
‘But tell me, what shall I do?’
‘What to do, you ask,’ said the Rector; ‘I am not sure that I know what you mean. If your neglect has added to her sufferings, you cannot remove them; and I would not add to your sorrow unless you wished me to do so for your good.’
‘I do not see how I could be more unhappy than I am now,’ said Lily.
‘I think if you wish to turn your grief to good account you must go a little deeper than this omission.’
‘You mean that it is a result of general carelessness,’ said Lily; ‘I know I have been in an odd idle way for some time; I have often resolved, but I seem to have no power over myself.’
‘May I ask you one question, Lily? How have you been spending this Lent?’
‘Robert, you are right,’ cried Lily; ‘you may well ask. I know I have not gone to church properly, but how could you guess the terrible way in which I have been indulging myself, and excusing myself every unpleasant duty that came in my way? That was the very reason of this dreadful neglect; well do I deserve to be miserable at Easter, the proper time for joy. Oh! how different it will be.’
‘It will be, I hope, an Easter marked by repentance and amendment,’ said the Rector.
‘No, Robert, do not begin to be kind to me yet, you do not know how very bad I have been,’ said Lily; ‘it all began from just after Eleanor’s wedding. A mad notion came into my head and laid hold of me. I fancied Eleanor stern, and cold, and unlovable; I was ingratitude itself. I made a foolish theory, that regard for duty makes people cold and stern, and that feeling, which I confused with Christian love, was all that was worth having, and the more Claude tried to cure me, the more obstinate I grew; I drew Emily over to my side, and we set our follies above everything. Justified ourselves for idling, neglecting the children, indulging ourselves, calling it love, and so it was, self-love. So my temper has been spoiling, and my mind getting worse and worse, ever since we lost Eleanor. At last different things showed me the fallacy of my principle, but then I do believe I was beyond my own management. I felt wrong, and could not mend, and went on recklessly. You know but too well what mischief I have done in the village, but you can never know what harm I have done at home. I have seen more and more that I was going on badly, but a sleep, a spell was upon me.’
‘Perhaps the pain you now feel may be the means of breaking the spell.’
‘But is it not enough to drive me mad to think that improvement in me should be bought at such a price—the widow’s only child?’
‘You forget that the loss is a blessing to her.’
‘Still I may pray that my punishment may not be through them,’ said Lily.
‘Surely,’ was the answer, ‘it is grievous to see that dear child cut off; and her patient mother left desolate—yet how much more grievous it would be to see that spotless innocence defiled.’
‘If it was to fall on any one,’ said Lilias, ‘I should be thankful that it is on one so fit to die.’
The church bell began to ring, and they quickened their steps in silence. Presently Lily said, ‘Tell me of something to do, Robert, something that may be a pledge that my sorrow is not a passing shower, something unnecessary, but disagreeable, which may keep me in remembrance that my Lent was not one of self-denial.’
‘You must be able to find more opportunities of self-denial than I can devise,’ said her cousin.
‘Of course,’ said Lily; ‘but some one thing, some punishment.’
‘I will answer you to-morrow,’ said Mr. Devereux.
‘One thing more,’ said Lily, looking down; ‘after this great fall, ought I to come to next Sunday’s feast? I would turn away if you thought fit.’
‘Lily, you can best judge,’ said the Rector, kindly. ‘I should think that you were now in a humble, contrite frame, and therefore better prepared than when self-confident.’
‘How many times! how shall I think of them! but I will,’ said Lily; ‘and Robert, will you think of me when you say the Absolution now and next Sunday at the altar?’
They were by this time at the church-porch. As Mr. Devereux uncovered his head, he turned to Lilias, and said in a low tone, ‘God bless you, Lilias, and grant you true repentance and pardon.’
Early the next morning the toll of the passing-bell informed Lily that the little lamb had been gathered into the heavenly fold.
When she took her place in church she found in her Prayer-book a slip of paper in the handwriting of her cousin. It was thus: ‘You had better find out in which duty you have most failed, and let the fulfilment of that be your proof of self-denial. R. D.’
Afterwards Lily learnt that Agnes had been sensible for a short time before her peaceful death. She had spoken much of her baptism, had begged to be buried next to a little sister of Kezia’s, and asked her mother to give her new Bible to Kezia.
It was not till Sunday that Lilias felt as if she could ever be comforted. Her heart was indeed ready to break as she walked at the head of the school children behind the white-covered coffin, and she felt as if she did not deserve to dwell upon the child’s present happiness; but afterwards she was relieved by joining in prayer for the pardon of our sins and negligences, and she felt as if she was forgiven, at least by man, when she joined with Mrs. Eden in the appointed feast of Easter Day.