‘Still in his eyes his soul revealing,He dreams not, knows not of concealing,Does all he does with single mind,And thinks of others that are kind.’
‘Still in his eyes his soul revealing,He dreams not, knows not of concealing,Does all he does with single mind,And thinks of others that are kind.’
Thetravellers were expected to arrive at about seven o’clock in the evening, and in accordance with a well-known taste of Eleanor’s, Emily had ordered no dinner, but a substantial meal under the name of tea. When the sound of carriage wheels was heard, Jane was with Adeline, Maurice was in his retreat at the Old Court, and it was with no cheerful alacrity that Emily went alone into the hall. Phyllis was already at the front door, and the instant Mr. Mohun set foot on the threshold, her hand grasped his coat, and her shrill voice cried in his ear, ‘Papa, I am very sorry I blew up the gunpowder and burnt Ada.’
‘What, my dear? where is Ada?’
‘In bed. I blew up the gunpowder and burnt her face,’ repeated Phyllis.
‘We have had an accident,’ said Emily, ‘but I hope it is nothing very serious, only poor Ada is a sad figure.’
In another moment Mr. Mohun and Eleanor were on the way to the nursery; Lilias was following, but she recollected that a general rush into a sickroom was not desirable, and therefore paused and came back to the hall. The worst was over with Phyllis when the confession had been made. She was in raptures at the sight of the baby, and was presently showing the nurse the way upstairs, but her brother William called her back: ‘Phyllis, you have not spoken to any one.’
Phyllis turned, and came down slowly in her most ungainly manner, believing herself in too great disgrace to be noticed by anybody, and she was quite surprised and comforted to be greeted by her brothers and Lily just as usual.
‘And how did you meet with this misfortune?’ asked Mr. Hawkesworth.
‘I banged the door, and made it go off,’ said Phyllis.
‘What can you mean?’ said William, in a tone of surprise, which Phyllis took for anger, and she hid her face to stifle her sobs.
‘No, no, do not frighten her,’ said Claude’s kind voice.
‘Run and make friends with your nephew, Phyllis,’ said Mr. Hawkesworth; ‘do not greet us with crying.’
‘First tell me what is become of Maurice,’ said Claude, ‘is he blown up too?’
‘No, he is at the Old Court,’ said Phyllis. ‘Shall I tell him that you are come?’
‘I will look for him,’ said Claude, and out he went.
The others dispersed in different directions, and did not assemble again for nearly half an hour, when they all met in the drawing-room to drink tea; Claude and Maurice were the last to appear, and, on entering, the first thing the former said was, ‘Where is Phyllis?’
‘In the nursery,’ said Jane; ‘she has had her supper, and chooses to stay with Ada.’
‘Has any one found out the history of the accident?’ said William.
‘I have vainly been trying to make sense of Maurice’s account,’ said Claude.
‘Sense!’ said William, ‘there is none.’
‘I am perfectly bewildered,’ said Lily; ‘every one has a different story, only consenting in making Phyllis the victim.’
‘And,’ added Claude, ‘I strongly suspect she is not in fault.’
‘Why should you doubt what she says herself?’ said Eleanor.
‘What does she say herself?’ said William, ‘nothing but that she shut the door, and what does that amount to?—Nothing.’
‘She says she touched the powder,’ interposed Jane.
‘That is another matter,’ said William; ‘no one told me of her touching the powder. But why do you not ask her? She is publicly condemned without a hearing.’
‘Who accuses her?’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘I can hardly tell,’ said Emily; ‘she met us, saying she was very sorry. Yes, she accuses herself. Every one has believed it to be her.’
‘And why?’
There was a pause, but at last Emily said, ‘How would you account for it otherwise?’
‘I have not yet heard the circumstances. Maurice, I wish to hear your account. I will not now ask how you procured the powder. Whoever was the immediate cause of the accident, you are chiefly to blame. Where was the powder?’
Maurice gave his theory and his facts, ending with the powder-horn being driven out of the window upon the green.
‘I hear,’ said Mr. Mohun. ‘But, Maurice, did you not say that Phyllis touched the powder? How do you reconcile that with this incomprehensible statement?’
‘She might have done that before,’ said Maurice.
‘Now call Phyllis,’ said his father.
‘Is it not very formidable for her to be examined before such an assembly?’ said Emily.
‘The accusation has been public, and the investigation shall be the same,’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘Then you do not think she did it, papa?’ cried Lily.
‘Not by shutting the door,’ said William.
Phyllis entered, and Mr. Mohun, holding out both hands to her, drew her towards him, and placing her with her back to the others, still retained her hands, while he said, ‘Phyllis, do not be frightened, but tell me where you were when the powder exploded?’
‘Coming into the room,’ said Phyllis, in a trembling voice.
‘Where had you been?’
‘Fetching a wafer out of the drawing-room.’
‘What was the wafer for?’
‘To put on Emily’s letter, which she told us to send.’
‘And where was Ada?’
‘In the schoolroom, reading the direction of the letter.’
‘Tell me exactly what happened when you came back.’
‘I opened the door, and there was a flash, and a bang, and a smoke, and Ada tumbled down.’
‘I have one more question to ask. When did you touch the powder?’
‘Then,’ said Phyllis.
‘When it had exploded? Take care what you say.’
‘Was it naughty? I am very sorry,’ said Phyllis, beginning to cry.
‘What powder did you touch? I do not understand you, tell me quietly.’
‘I touched the powder-horn. What went off was only a little in a paper on the table, and there was a great deal more. When the rocket blew up there was a great noise, and Ada and I both screamed, and Hannah ran in and took up Ada in her arms. Then I saw a great fire, and looked, and saw Emily’s music-book, and all the papers blazing. So I thought if it got to the powder it would blow up again, and I laid hold of the horn and threw it out of the window. That is all I know, papa, only I hope you are not very angry with me.’
She looked into his face, not knowing how to interpret the unusual expression she saw there.
‘Angry with you!’ said he. ‘No, my dear child, you have acted with great presence of mind. You have saved your sister and Hannah from great danger, and I am very sorry that you have been unjustly treated.’
He then gave his little daughter a kiss, and putting his hand on her head, added, ‘Whoever caused the explosion, Phyllis is quite free from blame, and I wish every one to understand this, because she has been unjustly accused, without examination, and because she has borne it patiently, and without attempting to justify herself.’
‘Very right,’ observed Eleanor.
‘Shake hands, Phyllis,’ said William.
The others said more with their eyes than with their lips. Phyllis stood like one in a dream, and fixing her bewildered looks upon Claude, said, ‘Did not I do it?’
‘No, Phyllis, you had nothing to do with it,’ was the general exclamation.
‘Maurice said it was the door,’ said Phyllis.
‘Maurice talked nonsense,’ said Claude; ‘you were only foolish in believing him.’
Phyllis went up to Claude, and laid her head on his arm; Mr. Hawkesworth held out his hand to her, but she did not look up, and Claude withdrawing his arm, and raising her head, found that she was crying. Eleanor and Lilias both rose, and came towards her but Claude made them a sign, and led her away.
‘What a fine story this will be for Reginald,’ said William.
‘And for Rotherwood,’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘I do not see how it happened,’ said Eleanor.
‘Of course Ada did it herself,’ said William.
‘Of course,’ said Maurice. ‘It was all from Emily’s setting them to seal her letter, that is plain now.’
‘Would not Ada have said so?’ asked Eleanor.
Lily sighed at the thought of what Eleanor had yet to learn.
‘Did you tell them to seal your letter, Emily?’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘I am sorry to say that I did tell them to send it,’ said Emily, ‘but I said nothing about sealing, as Jane remembers, and I forgot that Maurice’s gunpowder was in the room.’
Eleanor shook her head sorrowfully, and looked down at her knitting, and Lily knew that her mind was made up respecting little Henry’s dwelling-place.
It was some comfort to have raised no false expectations.
‘Ada must not be frightened and agitated to-night,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘but I hope you will talk to her to-morrow, Eleanor. Well, Claude, have you made Phyllis understand that she is acquitted?’
‘Scarcely,’ said Claude; ‘she is so overcome and worn out, that I thought she had better go to bed, and wake in her proper senses to-morrow.’
‘A very unconscious heroine,’ said William. ‘She is a wonder—I never thought her anything but an honest sort of romp.’
‘I have long thought her a wonderful specimen of obedience,’ said Mr. Mohun.
William and Claude now walked to the parsonage, and the council broke up; but it must not be supposed that this was the last that Emily and Maurice heard on the subject.
‘Complaint was heard on every partOf something disarranged.’
‘Complaint was heard on every partOf something disarranged.’
Thenext day, Sunday, was one of the most marked in Lily’s life. It was the first time she saw Mr. Devereux after his illness, and though Claude had told her he was going to church, it gave her a sudden thrill of joy to see him there once more, and perhaps she never felt more thankful than when his name was read before the Thanksgiving. After the service there was an exchange of greetings, but Lily spoke no word, she felt too happy and too awe-struck to say anything, and she walked back to the New Court in silence.
In the afternoon she had hopes that a blessing would be granted to her, for which at one time she had scarcely dared to hope; and she felt convinced that so it would be when she saw that Mr. Devereux wore his surplice, although, as in the morning, his friend read the service. After the Second Lesson there was a pause, and then Mr. Devereux left the chair by the altar, walked along the aisle, and took his stand on the step of the font. Lily’s heart beat high as she saw who were gathering round him—Mrs. Eden, Andrew Grey, James Harrington, and Mrs. Naylor, who held in her arms a healthy, rosy-checked boy of a year old.
She could not have described the feelings which made her eyes overflow with tears, as she saw Mr. Devereux’s thin hand sprinkle the drops over the brow of the child, and heard him say, ‘Robert, I baptize thee’—words which she had heard in dreams, and then awakened to remember that the parish was at enmity with the pastor, the child unbaptized, and herself, in part, the cause.
The name of the little boy was an additional pledge of reconciliation, and at the same time it made her feel again what had been the price of his baptism. When she looked back upon the dreary feelings which she had so lately experienced, it seemed to her as if she might believe that this christening was, as it were, a pledge of pardon, and an earnest of better things.
Naylor, who had recovered much more slowly than Mr. Devereux, was at church for the first time, and after the service Mr. Mohun sought him out in the churchyard, and heartily shook hands with him. Lily would gladly have followed his example, but she only stood by Eleanor and Mrs. Weston, who were speaking to Mrs. Eden and Mrs. Naylor, admiring the little boy, and praising him for his good behaviour in church.
Love of babies was a strong bond between Mrs. Weston and Mrs. Hawkesworth, who seemed to become well acquainted from the first moment that little Henry was mentioned; and Lily was well pleased to see that in Jane’s phrase Eleanor ‘took to her friends so well.’
And yet this day brought with it some annoyances, which once would have fretted her so much as to interfere even with such joy as she now felt. The song, with which she had taken so much pains, ought to have been sent home a week before, but owing to the delay caused by Emily’s carelessness, it had been burnt in the fire in the schoolroom, and Lily could not feel herself forgiven till she had talked the disaster over in private with her friend, and this was out of her power throughout the day, for something always prevented her from getting Alethea alone. In the morning Jane stuck close to her, and in the afternoon William walked to the school gate with them. But Alethea’s manner was kinder towards her than ever, and she was quite satisfied about her.
It gave her more pain to perceive that Emily in every possible manner avoided being alone with her. It was by her desire that Phyllis came to sleep in their room; she would keep Jane talking there, give Esther some employment which kept her in their presence, linger in the drawing-room while Lilias was dressing, and at bedtime be too sleepy to say anything but good-night.
That Sunday was a sorrowful one to Eleanor; for in the course of the conversation with Ada, which Mr. Mohun had desired her to hold, she became conscious of the little girl’s double-dealing ways. It was only by a very close cross-examination that she was able to extract from her a true account of the disaster, and though Ada never went so far as actually to tell a falsehood, it was evident that she was willing to conceal as much as possible, and to throw the blame on other people. And when the real facts were confessed she did not seem able to comprehend why she was regarded with displeasure; her instinct of truth and obedience was lost for the time, and Eleanor saw it with the utmost pain. Adeline had been her especial darling, and cold as her manner had often been towards the others, it ever was warm towards the motherless little one, whom she had tended and cherished with most anxious care from her earliest infancy. She had left her gentle, candid, and affectionate; a loving, engaging, little creature, and how did she find her now? Her fair bright face disfigured, her caresses affected, her mind turned to deceit and prevarication! Well might Eleanor feel it more than ever painful to leave her own little Henry to the care of others; and well it was for her that she had learned to find comfort in the consciousness that her duty was clear.
The next morning Emily learned what was Henry’s destination.
‘Oh! Eleanor,’ said she, ‘why do you not leave him here? We should be so rejoiced to have him.’
‘Thank you, I am afraid it is out of the question,’ answered Eleanor, quietly.
‘Why, dear Eleanor? You know how glad we should be. I should have thought,’ proceeded Emily, a little hurt, ‘that you would have wished him to live in your own home.’
Eleanor did not speak, and Emily, who had the little boy in her arms, went on talking to him: ‘Come, baby, let us persuade mamma to let you stay with Aunt Emily. Ask papa, Henry, won’t you? Seriously, Eleanor, has Frank considered how much better it would be to have him in the country?’
‘He has, Emily; he once wished much to leave him here.’
‘I am sure grandpapa would like it,’ said Emily. ‘Do you observe, Eleanor, how fond he is of baby, always calling him Harry too, as if he liked the sound of the name?’
‘It has all been talked over, Emily, and it cannot be.’
‘With papa?’ asked Emily in surprise.
‘No, with Lily.’
‘With Lily!’ exclaimed Emily. ‘Did not Aunt Lily wish to keep you, Harry? I thought she was very fond of you.’
‘You had better inquire no further,’ said Eleanor, ‘except of your own conscience.’
‘Did Lily think us unfit to take care of him?’ asked Emily, in surprise.
As she spoke Lily herself came in, the key of the storeroom in her hand, and looks of consternation on her face. She came to announce a terrible deficiency in the preserved quinces, which she herself had carefully put aside on a shelf in the storeroom, and which Emily said she had not touched in her absence.
‘Let me see,’ said Eleanor, rising, and setting off to the storeroom; Emily and Lily followed, with a sad suspicion of the truth. On the way they looked into the nursery, to give little Henry to his nurse, and to ask Jane, who was sitting with Ada, what she remembered about it. Jane knew nothing, and they went on to the storeroom, where Eleanor, quite in her element, began rummaging, arranging, and sighing over the confusion, while Lily lent a helping hand, and Emily stood by, wishing that her sister would not trouble herself. Presently Jane came running up with a saucer in her hand, containing a quarter of a quince and some syrup, which she said she had found in the nursery cupboard, in searching for a puzzle which Ada wanted.
‘And,’ said Jane, ‘I should guess that Miss Ada herself knew something about it, for when I could not find the puzzle in the right-hand cupboard, she was so very unwilling that I should look into that one; she said there was nothing there but the boys’ old playthings and Esther’s clothes. And I do not know whether you saw how she fidgeted when you were talking about the quinces, before you went up.’
‘It is much too plain,’ sighed Lily. ‘Oh! Rachel, why did we not listen to you?’
‘Do you suppose,’ said Eleanor, ‘that Ada has been in the habit of taking the key and helping herself?’
‘No,’ said Emily, ‘but that Esther has helped her.’
‘Ah!’ said Eleanor, ‘I never thought it wise to take her, but how could she get the key? You do not mean that you trusted it out of your own keeping.’
‘It began while we were ill,’ faltered Emily, ‘and afterwards it was difficult to bring matters into their former order.’
‘But oh, Eleanor, what is to be done?’ sighed Lily.
‘Speak to papa, of course,’ said Eleanor. ‘He is gone to the castle, and in the meantime we had better take an exact account of everything here.’
‘And Esther? And Ada?’ inquired the sisters.
‘I think it will be better to speak to him before making so grave an accusation,’ said Eleanor.
They now commenced that wearisome occupation—a complete setting-to-rights; Eleanor counted, weighed, and measured, and extended her cares from the stores to every other household matter. Emily made her escape, and went to sit with Ada; but Lily and Jane toiled for several hours with Eleanor, till Lily was so heated and wearied that she was obliged to give up a walk to Broomhill, and spend another day without a talk with Alethea. However, she was so patient, ready, and good-humoured, that Eleanor was well pleased with her. She could hardly think of the slight vexation, when her mind was full of sorrow and shame on Esther’s account. It was she who, contrary to the advice of her elders, had insisted on bringing her into the house; she had allowed temptation to be set in her way, and had not taken sufficient pains to strengthen her principles; and how could she do otherwise than feel guilty of all Esther’s faults, and of those into which she had led Adeline?
On Mr. Mohun’s return Ada was interrogated. She pitied herself—said she did not think papa would be angry—prevaricated—and tried to coax away his inquiries, but all in vain; and at length, by slow degrees, the confession was drawn from her that she had been used to asking Esther for morsels of sweet things when she was sent to the storeroom; that afterwards she had seen her packing up some tea and sugar to take to her mother, and that Esther on that occasion, and several others, purchased her silence by giving her a share of pilfered sweetmeats. Telling her that he only spared her a very severe punishment for the present, on account of her illness, Mr. Mohun left her, and on his way downstairs met Phyllis.
‘Phyl,’ said he, ‘did Esther ever give you sweet things out of the storeroom?’
‘Once, papa, when she had been putting out some currant jam, she offered me what had been left in the spoon.’
‘Did you take it?’
‘No, papa, for Eleanor used to say it was a bad trick to lick out spoons.’
‘Did you ever know that she took tea and sugar from the storeroom, for her mother?’
‘Took home tea and sugar to her mother! She could not have done it, papa. It would be stealing!’
Esther, who was next called for, cried a great deal, and begged for pardon, pleading again and again that—
‘It was mother,’ an answer which made her young mistresses again sigh over the remembrance of Rachel’s disregarded advice. Her fate was left for consideration and consultation with Mr. Devereux, for Mr. Mohun, seeing himself to blame for having allowed her to be placed in a situation of so much trial, and thinking that there was much that was good about her, did not like to send her to her home, where she was likely to learn nothing but what was bad.
‘And well, with ready hand and heart,Each task of toilsome duty taking,Did one dear inmate take her part,The last asleep, the earliest waking.’
‘And well, with ready hand and heart,Each task of toilsome duty taking,Did one dear inmate take her part,The last asleep, the earliest waking.’
Inthe course of the afternoon Lord Rotherwood and Florence called, to see Eleanor, inquire after Ada, and make the final arrangements for going to a morning concert at Raynham the next day. Lady Rotherwood was afraid of the fatigue, and Florence therefore wished to accompany her cousins, who, as Eleanor meant to stay at home, were to be under Mrs. Weston’s protection. Lady Florence and her brother, therefore, agreed to ride home by Broomhill, and mention the plan to Mrs. Weston, and took their leave, appointing Adam’s shop as the place of rendezvous.
Next morning Emily, Lilias, and Jane happened to be together in the drawing-room, when Mr. Mohun and Claude came in, the former saying to Lily, ‘Here is the mason’s account for the gravestone which you wished to have put up to Agnes Eden; it comes to two pounds. You undertook half the expense, and as Claude is going to Raynham, he will pay for it if you will give him your sovereign.’
‘I will,’ said Lily, ‘but first I must ask Emily to pay me for the London commissions.’
Emily repented not having had a private conference with Lily.
‘So you have not settled your accounts,’ said Mr. Mohun. ‘I hope Lily has not ruined you, Emily.’
‘I thought her a mirror of prudence,’ said Claude.
‘Well, Emily, is the sovereign forthcoming? I am going directly, for Frank has something to do at Raynham, and William is going to try his gray in the phaeton.’
‘I am afraid you will think me very silly,’ said Emily, after some deliberation, ‘but I hope Lily will not be very angry when I confess that seven shillings is the sum total of my property.’
‘Oh, Emily,’ cried Lily, in dismay, ‘what has become of your five pounds?’
‘I gave them as a subscription for a clergyman’s widow in distress,’ said Emily; ‘it was the impulse of a moment, I could not help it, and, dear Lily, I hope it will not inconvenience you.’
‘If papa will be kind enough to wait for this pound till Michaelmas,’ said Lily.
‘I would wait willingly,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘but I will not see you cheated. How much does she owe you?’
‘The commissions came to six pounds three,’ said Lily, looking down.
‘But, Lily,’ said Jane, ‘you forget the old debt.’
‘Never mind,’ whispered Lily; but Mr. Mohun asked what Jane had said, and Claude repeated her speech, upon which he inquired, ‘What old debt?’
‘Papa,’ said Emily, in her most candid tone, ‘I do not know what I should have done but for Lily’s kindness. Really, I cannot get on with my present allowance; being the eldest, so many expenses come upon me.’
‘Then am I to understand,’ replied Mr. Mohun, ‘that your foolish vanity has led you to encroach on your sister’s kindness, and to borrow of her what you had no reasonable hope of repaying? Again, Lily, what does she owe you?’
Emily felt the difference between the sharp, curious eyes with which Jane regarded her, and the sorrowful downcast looks of Lily, who replied, ‘The old debt is four pounds, but that does not signify.’
‘Well,’ resumed her father, ‘I cannot blame you for your good-nature, though an older person might have acted otherwise. You must have managed wonderfully well, to look always so well dressed with only half your proper income. Here is the amount of the debt. Is it right? And, Lily, one thing more; I wish to thank you for what you have done towards keeping this house in order. You have worked hard, and endured much, and from all I can gather, you have prevented much mischief. Much has unfairly been thrown upon you, and you have well and steadily done your duty. For you, Emily, I have more to say to you, but I shall not enter on it at present, for it is late. You had better get ready, or you will keep the others waiting.’
‘I do not think I can go,’ sighed Emily.
‘You are wanted,’ said Mr. Mohun. ‘I do not think your aunt would like Florence to go without you.’
Lily had trembled as much under her father’s praise as Emily under his blame. She did not feel as if his commendation was merited, and longed to tell him of her faults and follies, but this was no fit time, and she hastened to prepare for her expedition, her spirits scarcely in time for a party of pleasure. Jane talked about the 30th, and asked questions about London, all the way to Raynham, and both Emily and Lily were glad to join in her chatter, in hopes of relieving their own embarrassment.
On arriving at the place of meeting they found Lady Florence watching for them.
‘I am glad you are come,’ said she, ‘Rotherwood will always set out either too soon or too late, and this time it was too soon, so here we have been full a quarter of an hour, but he does not care. There he is, quite engrossed with his book.’
Lord Rotherwood was standing by the counter, reading so intently that he did not see his cousins’ arrival. When they entered he just looked up, shook hands, asked after Ada, and went on reading. Lily began looking for some books for the school, which she had long wished for, and was now able to purchase; Emily sat down in a melancholy, abstracted mood, and Florence and Jane stood together talking.
‘You know you are all to come early,’ said the former, ‘I do not know how we should manage without you. Rotherwood insists on having everything the same day—poor people first, and gentry and farmers altogether. Mamma does not like it, and I expect we shall be dreadfully tired; but he says he will not have the honest poor men put out for the fashionables; and you know we are all to dance with everybody. But Jenny, who is this crossing the street? Look, you have an eye for oddities.’
‘Miss Fitchett, the subscription-hunter,’ said Jane.
‘She is actually coming to hunt us. I believe I have my purse. Oh! Emily is to be the first victim.’
Miss Fitchett advanced to Emily, and saying that she believed she had the honour to address Miss Mohun, began to tell her that her friend having been prematurely informed of her small efforts, had with a noble spirit of independence begged that the subscription might not be continued, and that what had already been given might be returned, and she rejoiced in this opportunity of making the explanation. But Miss Fitchett could not bear to relinquish the five-pound note, and added, that perhaps Miss Mohun might not object to apply her subscription to some other object, the Dorcas Society for instance.
‘Thank you, I have no interest in the Dorcas Society,’ said Emily; a reply which brought upon her a full account of all its aims and objects; and as still her polite looks spoke nothing of assent, Miss Fitchett went on with a string of other societies, speaking the louder and the more eagerly in the hope of attracting the attention of the young marquis and his sister. Emily was easily overwhelmed with words, and not thinking it lady-like to claim her money, yet feeling that none of these societies were fit objects for it, she stood confused and irresolute, unwilling either to consent or refuse. Jane, perceiving her difficulty, turned to Lord Rotherwood, and rousing him from his book, explained Emily’s distress in a few words, and sent him to her rescue. He stepped forward just as Miss Fitchett, taking silence for consent, was proceeding to thank Emily; ‘I think you misunderstand Miss Mohun,’ said he. ‘Since her subscription is not needed by the person for whom it was intended, she would be glad to have it restored. She does not wish to encourage any unauthorised societies.’
Boy as he was, in appearance still more than in age, there was a dignity in his manner which, together with the principle on which he spoke, overawed Miss Fitchett even more than his rank. She only said, ‘Oh! my lord, I beg your pardon. Certainly, only—’
The note was placed in Emily’s hands, and with a bow from Lord Rotherwood, she retreated, murmuring to herself the remonstrance which she had not courage to bestow upon the Marquis.
‘Thank you, thank you, Rotherwood,’ said Emily; ‘you have done me a great service.’
‘Well done, Rotherwood,’ said Florence; ‘you have given the old lady something to reflect upon.’
‘Made a public announcement of principle,’ said Lily.
‘I was determined to give her a reason,’ said the Marquis, laughing, ‘but I assure you I felt like the stork with its head in the wolf’s mouth, I thought she would give me a screed of doctrine. How came you to let your property get unto her clutches, Emily?’
‘It was a subscription for Mrs. Aylmer,’ said Emily.
‘Our curate’s wife!’ cried he with a start; ‘how was it? Florence, did you know anything? I thought she was in London. Why were we in the dark? Tell me all.’
‘All I know is that she is living somewhere in Raynham, and last week there was a paper here to say that she was in want of the means of fitting out her son for India.’
‘Yes, yes, Johnny, I know my father did get a promise for him—well!’
‘That is all I know, except that she does not choose to be a beggar.’
‘Poor Mrs. Aylmer! shameful neglect! she shall not be ill-used any longer, I will find her out this instant. Don’t wait for me.’
And after a few words to Mr. Adams, off he went, walking as fast as he could, and leaving the young ladies not without fear of another invasion. Soon, however, the brothers came in, and presently after Mrs. Weston appeared. It was agreed that Lord Rotherwood should be left to his own devices, and they set out for the concert-room. Poor Florence lost much pleasure in disappointment at his non-appearance, but when the concert was over they found him sitting in the carriage, reading. As soon as they appeared he sprang out, and came to meet them, pouring rapidly out a history of his adventures.
‘Then you have found them, and what can be done for them?’
‘Everything ought to be done, but Mrs. Aylmer has a spirit of independence. That foolish woman’s advertisement was unknown to her till Emily’s five pounds came in, so fine a nest-egg that she could not help cackling, whereupon Mrs. Aylmer insisted on having every farthing returned.’
‘Can she provide the boy’s outfit?’
‘She says so, or rather that her daughter can, but I shall see about that. It is worth while to be of age. Imagine! That bank which failed was the end of my father’s legacy. They must have lived on a fraction of nothing! Edward went to sea. Miss Aylmer went out as a governess. Now she is at home.’
‘Miss Aylmer!’ exclaimed Miss Weston, ‘I know she was a clergyman’s daughter. Do you know the name of the family she lived with?’
‘Was it Grant?’ said William. ‘I remember hearing of her going to some Grants.’
‘It was,’ said Alethea; ‘she must be the same. Is she at home?’
‘Yes,’ said Lord Rotherwood, ‘and you may soon see her, for I mean to have them all to stay at the castle as soon as our present visitors are gone. My mother and Florence shall call upon them on Friday.’
‘Now,’ said Claude, ‘I have not found out what brought them back to Raynham.’
‘Have you lived at Beechcroft all your life, and never discovered that there is a grammar-school at Raynham, with special privileges for the sons of clergymen of the diocese?’
A few more words, and the cousins parted; Emily by no means sorry that she had been obliged to go to Raynham. She tendered the five-pound note to her father, but he desired her to wait till Friday, and then to bring him a full account of her expenditure of the year. Her irregular ways made this almost impossible, especially as in the present state of affairs she wished to avoid a private conference with either Lily or Jane. She was glad that an invitation to dine and sleep at the castle on Wednesday would save her from the peril of having to talk to Lily in the evening. Reginald came home on Tuesday, to the great joy of all the party, and especially to that of Phyllis. This little maiden was more puzzled by the events that had taken place than conscious of the feeling which she had once thought must be so delightful. She could scarcely help perceiving that every one was much more kind to her than usual, especially Claude and Lily, and Lord Rotherwood said things which she could not at all understand. Her observation to Reginald was, ‘Was it not lucky I had a cough on Twelfth Day, or Claude would not have told me what to do about gunpowder?’
Reginald troubled Phyllis much by declaring that nothing should induce him to kiss his nephew, and she was terribly shocked by the indifference with which Eleanor treated his neglect, even when it branched out into abuse of babies in general, and in particular of Henry’s bald head and turned-up nose.
In the evening of Wednesday Phyllis was sitting with Ada in the nursery, when Reginald came up with the news that the party downstairs were going to practise country dances. Eleanor was to play, Claude was to dance with Lily, and Frank with Jane, and he himself wanted Phyllis for a partner.
‘Oh!’ sighed Ada, ‘I wish I was there to dance with you, Redgie! What are the others doing?’
‘Maurice is reading, and William went out as soon as dinner was over; make haste, Phyl.’
‘Don’t go,’ said Ada, ‘I shall be alone all to-morrow, and I want you.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Reginald, ‘do you think she is to sit poking here all day, playing with those foolish London things of yours?’
‘But I am ill, Redgie. I wish you would not be cross. Everybody is cross to me now, I think.’
‘I will stay, Ada,’ said Phyllis. ‘You know, Redgie, I dance like a cow.’
‘You dance better than nothing,’ said Reginald, ‘I must have you.’
‘But you are not ill, Redgie,’ said Phyllis.
He went down in displeasure, and was forced to consider Sir Maurice’s picture as his partner, until presently the door opened, and Phyllis appeared. ‘So you have thought better of it,’ cried he.
‘No,’ said Phyllis, ‘I cannot come to dance, but Ada wants you to leave off playing. She says the music makes her unhappy, for it makes her think about to-morrow.’
‘Rather selfish, Miss Ada,’ said Claude.
‘Stay here, Phyllis, now you are come,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I will go and speak to Ada.’
Phyllis was now captured, and made to take her place opposite to Reginald; but more than once she sighed under the apprehension that Ada was receiving a lecture. This was the case; and very little did poor Ada comprehend the change that had taken place in the conduct of almost every one towards her; she did not perceive that she was particularly naughty, and yet she had suddenly become an object of blame, instead of a spoiled pet. Formerly her little slynesses had been unnoticed, and her overbearing ways towards Phyllis scarcely remarked, but now they were continually mentioned as grievous faults. Esther, her especial friend and comforter, was scarcely allowed to come into the same room with her; Hannah treated her with a kind of grave, silent respect, far from the familiarity which she liked; little Henry’s nurse never would talk to her, and if it had not been for Phyllis, she would have been very miserable. On Phyllis, however, she repaid herself for all the mortifications that she received, while the sweet-tempered little girl took all her fretfulness and exactions as results of her illness, and went on pitying her, and striving to please her.
When Phyllis came up to wish her good-night, she was received with an exclamation at her lateness in a peevish tone: ‘Yes, I am late,’ said Phyllis, merrily, ‘but we had not done dancing till tea-time, and then Eleanor was so kind as to say I might sit up to have some tea with them.’
‘Ah! and you quite forgot how tiresome it is up here, with nobody to speak to,’ said Ada. ‘How cross they were not to stop the music when I said it made me miserable!’
‘Claude said it was selfish to want to stop five people’s pleasure for one,’ said Phyllis.
‘But I am so ill,’ said Ada. ‘If Claude was as uncomfortable as I am, he would know how to be sorry for me. And only think—Phyl, what are you doing? Do not you know I do not like the moonlight to come on me. It is like a great face laughing at me.’
‘Well, I like the moon so much!’ said Phyllis, creeping behind the curtain to look out, ‘there is something so white and bright in it; when it comes on the bed-clothes, it makes me go to sleep, thinking about white robes, oh! and all sorts of nice things.’
‘I can’t bear the moon,’ said Ada; ‘do not you know, Maurice says that the moon makes the people go mad, and that is the reason it is called lunacy, afterla lune?’
‘I asked Miss Weston about that,’ said Phyllis, ‘because of the Psalm, and she said it was because it was dangerous to go to sleep in the open air in hot countries. Ada, I wish you could see now. There is the great round moon in the middle of the sky, and the sky such a beautiful colour, and a few such great bright stars, and the trees so dark, and the white lilies standing up on the black pond, and the lawn all white with dew! what a fine day it will be to-morrow!’
‘A fine day for you!’ said Ada, ‘but only think of poor me all alone by myself.’
‘You will have baby,’ said Phyllis.
‘Baby—if he could talk it would be all very well. It is just like the cross people in books. Here I shall lie and cry all the time, while you are dancing about as merry as can be.’
‘No, no, Ada, you will not do that,’ said Phyllis, with tears in her eyes. ‘There is baby with all his pretty ways, and you may teach him to say Aunt Ada, and I will bring you in numbers of flowers, and there is your new doll, and all the pretty things that came from London, and the new book of Fairy Tales, and all sorts—oh! no, do not cry, Ada.’
‘But I shall, for I shall think of you dancing, and not caring for me.’
‘I do care, Ada—why do you say that I do not? I cannot bear it, Ada, dear Ada.’
‘You don’t, or you would not go and leave me alone.’
‘Then, Ada, I will not go,’ said Phyllis; ‘I could not bear to leave you crying here all alone.’
‘Thank you, dear good Phyl, but I think you will not have much loss. You know you do not like dancing, and you cannot do it well, and they will be sure to laugh at you.’
‘And I daresay Redgie and Marianne will tell us all about it,’ said Phyllis, sighing. ‘I should rather like to have seen it, but they will tell us.’
‘Then do you promise to stay?—there’s a dear,’ said Ada.
‘Yes,’ said Phyllis. ‘Cousin Robert is coming in, and that will be very nice, and I hope he will not look as he did the day the gunpowder went off—oh, dear!’ She went back to the window to get rid of her tears unperceived. ‘Ah,’ cried she, ‘there is some one in the garden!’
‘A man!’ screamed Ada—‘a thief, a robber—call somebody!’
‘No, no,’ said Phyllis, laughing, ‘it is only William; he has been out all the evening, and now papa has come out to speak to him, and they are walking up and down together. I wonder whether he has been sitting with Cousin Robert or at Broomhill! Well, good-night, Ada. Here comes Hannah.’
‘The heir, with roses in his shoes,That night might village partner choose.’
‘The heir, with roses in his shoes,That night might village partner choose.’
The30th of July was bright and clear, and Phyllis was up early, gathering flowers, which, with the help of Jane’s nimble fingers, she made into elegant little bouquets for each of her sisters, and for Claude.
‘How is this?’ said Mr. Hawkesworth, pretending to look disconsolate, ‘am I to sing “Fair Phyllida flouts me,” or why is my button-hole left destitute?’
‘Perhaps that is for you on the side-table,’ said Lily.
‘Oh! no,’ said Phyllis, ‘those are some Provence roses for Miss Weston and Marianne, because Miss Weston likes those, and they have none at Broomhill. Redgie is going to take care of them. I will get you a nosegay, Frank. I did not know you liked it.’
She started up. ‘How prudent, Phyllis,’ said Eleanor, ‘not to have put on your muslin frock yet.’
‘Oh! I am not going,’ said Phyllis.
‘Not going!’ was the general outcry.
‘No, poor Ada cries so about being left at home with only baby, that I cannot bear it, and so I promised to stay.’
Away went Phyllis, and Reginald exclaimed, ‘Well, she shall not be served so. I will go and tell Ada so this instant.’
Off he rushed, and putting in his head at the nursery door, shouted, ‘Ada, I am come to tell you that Phyl is not to be made your black-a-moor slave! She shall go, that is settled.’
Down he went with equal speed, without waiting for an answer, and arrived while Eleanor was saying that she thought Ada was provided with amusement with the baby, her playthings, and books, and that Mr. Devereux had promised to make her a visit.
‘Anybody ought to stay at home rather than Phyllis,’ said Lily; ‘I think I had better stay.’
‘No, no, Lily,’ said Jane, ‘you are more wanted than I am; you are really worth talking to and dancing with; I had much better be at home.’
‘I forgot!’ exclaimed William. ‘Mrs. Weston desired me to say that she is not going, and she will take care of Ada. Mr. Weston will set her down at half-past ten, and take up one of us.’
‘I will be that one,’ said Reginald, ‘I have not seen Miss Weston since I came home. I meant to walk to Broomhill after dinner yesterday, only the Baron stopped me about that country-dance. Last Christmas I made her promise to dance with me to-day.’
Lily had hoped to be that one, but she did not oppose Reginald, and turned to listen to Eleanor, who was saying, ‘Let us clearly understand how every one is to go, it will save a great deal of confusion. You and Jane, and Maurice, go in the phaeton, do not you? And who drives you?’
‘William, I believe,’ said Lily. ‘Claude goes earlier, so he rides the gray. Then there is the chariot for you and Frank, and papa and Phyllis.’
So it was proposed, but matters turned out otherwise. The phaeton, which, with a promoted cart-horse, was rather a slow conveyance, was to set out first, but the whole of the freight was not ready in time. The ladies were in the hall as soon as it came to the door, but neither of the gentlemen were forthcoming. Reginald, who was wandering in the hall, was sent to summon them; but down he came in great wrath. Maurice had declared that he was not ready, and they must wait for him till he had tied his neckcloth, which Reginald opined would take three quarters of an hour, as he was doing it scientifically, and William had said that he was not going in the gig at all, that he had told Wat Greenwood to drive, and that Reginald must go instead of Maurice.
In confirmation of the startling fact Wat, who had had a special invitation from the Marquis, was sitting in the phaeton in his best black velvet coat. Jane only hoped that Emily would not look out of the window, or she would certainly go into fits on seeing them arrive with the old phaeton, the thick-legged cart-horse, and Wat Greenwood for a driver; and Reginald, after much growling at Maurice, much bawling at William’s door, and, as Jane said, romping and roaring in all parts of the house, was forced to be resigned to his fate, and all the way to Hetherington held a very amusing conversation with his good-natured friend the keeper.
They were overtaken, nodded to, and passed by the rest of their party. Maurice had been reduced to ride the pony, William came with the Westons, and the chariot load was just as had been before arranged.
Claude came out to meet them at the door, saying, ‘I need not have gone so early. What do you think has become of the hero of the day? Guess, I will just give you this hint,
“Though on pleasure he was bent, he had no selfish mind.”’
“Though on pleasure he was bent, he had no selfish mind.”’
‘Oh! the Aylmers, I suppose,’ said Lilias.
‘Right, Lily, he heard something at dinner yesterday about a school for clergymen’s sons, which struck him as likely to suit young Devereux Aylmer, and off he set at seven o’clock this morning to Raynham, to breakfast with Mrs. Aylmer, and talk to her about it. Never let me hear again that he is engrossed with his own affairs!’
‘And why is he in such a hurry?’ asked Lily.
‘’Tis his nature,’ said Claude, ‘besides Travers, who mentioned this school, goes away to-morrow. My aunt is in a fine fright lest he should not come back in time. Did not you hear her telling papa so in the drawing-room?’
‘There he is, riding up to the door,’ said Phyllis, who had joined them in the hall. Lord Rotherwood stopped for a few moments at the door to give some directions to the servants, and then came quickly in. ‘Ah, there you are!—What time is it? It is all right, Claude—Devereux is just the right age. I asked him a few questions this morning, and he will stand a capital examination. Ha, Phyl, I am glad to see you.’
‘I wish you many happy returns of the day, Cousin Rotherwood.’
‘Thank you, Phyl, we had better see how we get through one such day before we wish it to return. Are the rest come?’
He went on into the drawing-room, and hastily informing his mother that he had sent the carriage to fetch Miss Aylmer and her brothers to the feast, called Claude to come out on the lawn to look at the preparations. The bowling-green was to serve as drawing-room, and at one end was pitched an immense tent where the dinner was to be.
‘I say, Claude,’ said he in his quickest and most confused way, ‘I depend upon you for one thing. Do not let the Baron be too near me.’
‘The Baron of Beef?’ said Claude.
‘No, the Baron of Beechcroft. If you wish my speech to beradara tadara, put him where I can imagine that he hears me.’
‘Very well,’ said Claude, laughing; ‘have you any other commands?’
‘No—yes, I have though. You know what we settled about the toasts. Hunt up old Farmer Elderfield as soon as he comes, and do not frighten him. If you could sit next to him and make him get up at the right time, it would be best. Tell him I will not let any one propose my health but my great-grandfather’s tenant. You will manage it best. And tell Frank Hawkesworth, and Mr. Weston, or some of them, to manage so that the gentry may not sit together in a herd, two or three together would be best. Mind, Claude, I depend on you for being attentive to all the damsels. I cannot be everywhere at once, and I see your great Captain will be of no use to me.’
Here news was brought that the labourers had begun to arrive, and the party went to the walnut avenue, where the feast was spread. It was pleasant to see so many poor families enjoying their excellent dinner; but perhaps the pleasantest sight was the lord of the feast speaking to each poor man with all his bright good-natured cordiality. Mr. Mohun was surprised to see how well he knew them all, considering how short a time he had been among them, and Lilias found Florence rise in her estimation, when she perceived that the inside of the Hetherington cottages were not unknown to her.
‘Do you know, Florence,’ said she, as they walked back to the house together, ‘I did you great injustice? I never expected you to know or care about poor people.’
‘No more I did till this winter,’ said Florence; ‘I could not do anything, you know, before. Indeed, I do not do much now, only Rotherwood has made me go into the school now and then; and when first we came, he made it his especial request that whenever a poor woman came to ask for anything I would go and speak to her. And so I could not help being interested about those I knew.’
‘How odd it is that we never talked about it,’ said Lily.
‘I never talk of it,’ said Florence, ‘because mamma never likes to hear of my going into cottages with Rotherwood. Besides, somehow I thought you did it as a matter of duty, and not of pleasure. Oh! Rotherwood, is that you?’
‘The Aylmers are come,’ said Lord Rotherwood, drawing her arm into his, ‘and I want you to come and speak to them, Florence and Lily; I can’t find any one; all the great elders have vanished. You know them of old, do not you, Lily?’
‘Of old? Yes; but of so old that I do not suppose they will know me. You must introduce me.’
He hastened them to the drawing-room, where they found Miss Aylmer, a sensible, lady-like looking person, and two brothers, of about fifteen and thirteen.
‘Well, Miss Aylmer, I have brought you two old friends; so old, that they think you have forgotten them—my cousin Lilias, and my sister Florence.’
‘We have not forgotten you, Miss Aylmer,’ said Florence, warmly shaking hands with her. ‘You seem so entirely to belong to Hetherington that I scarcely knew the place without you.’
There was something that particularly pleased Lily in the manner in which Miss Aylmer answered. Florence talked a little while, and then proposed to adjourn to the supplementary drawing-room—the lawn—where the company were already assembling.
Florence was soon called off to receive some other guest, and Lilias spent a considerable time in sitting under a tree talking to Miss Aylmer, whom she found exceedingly pleasant and agreeable, remembering all that had happened during their former intercourse, and interested in everything that was going on. Lily was much amused when her companion asked her who that gentleman was—‘that tall, thin young man, with dark hair, whom she had seen once or twice speaking to Lord Rotherwood?’
The tall gentleman advanced, spoke to Miss Aylmer, told Lily that the world was verging towards the tent, and giving one arm to her and the other to Miss Aylmer, took that direction. In the meantime Phyllis had been walking about with her eldest sister, and wondering what had become of all the others. In process of time she found herself seated on a high bench in the tent, with a most beautiful pink-and-white sugar temple on the table before her. She was between Eleanor and Frank. All along one side of the table was a row of faces which she had never seen before, and she gazed at them in search of some well-known countenance. At last Mr. Weston caught her eye, and nodded to her. Next to him she saw Marianne, then Reginald; on the other side Alethea and William. A little tranquillised by seeing that every one was not lost, she had courage to eat some cold chicken, to talk to Frank about the sugar temple, and to make an inventory in her mind of the smartest bonnets for Ada’s benefit. She was rather unhappy at not having found out when grace was said before dinner, and she made Eleanor promise to tell her in time to stand up after dinner. She could not, however, hear much, though warned in time, and by this time more at ease and rather enjoying herself than otherwise. Now Eleanor told her to listen, for Cousin Rotherwood was going to speak. She listened, but knew not what was said, until Mr. Hawkesworth told her it was Church and Queen. What Church and Queen had to do with Cousin Rotherwood’s birthday she could not imagine, and she laid it up in her mind to ask Claude. The next time she was told to listen she managed to hear more. By the help of Eleanor’s directions, she found out the speaker, an aged farmer, in a drab greatcoat, his head bald, excepting a little silky white hair, which fell over the collar of his coat. It was Mr. Elderfield, the oldest tenant on the estate, and he was saying in a slow deliberate tone that he was told he was to propose his lordship’s health. It was a great honour for the like of him, and his lordship must excuse him if he did not make a fine speech. All he could say was, that he had lived eighty-three years on the estate, and held his farm nearly sixty years; he had seen three marquises of Rotherwood besides his present lordship, and he had always found them very good landlords. He hoped and believed his lordship was like his fathers, and he was sure he could do no better than tread in their steps. He proposed the health of Lord Rotherwood, and many happy returns of the day to him.
The simplicity and earnestness of the old man’s tones were appreciated by all, and the tremendous cheer, which almost terrified Phyllis, was a fit assent to the hearty good wishes of the old farmer.
‘Now comes the trial!’ whispered Claude to Lilias, after he had vehemently contributed his proportion to the noise. Lilias saw that his colour had risen, as much as if he had to make a speech himself, and he earnestly examined the coronet on his fork, while every other eye was fixed on the Marquis. Eloquence was not to be expected; but, at least, Lord Rotherwood spoke clearly and distinctly.
‘My friends,’ said he, ‘you must not expect much of a speech from me; I can only thank you for your kindness, say how glad I am to see you here, and tell you of my earnest desire that I may not prove myself unworthy to be compared with my forefathers.’ Here was a pause. Claude’s hand shook, and Lily saw how anxious he was, but in another moment the Marquis went on smoothly. ‘Now, I must ask you to drink the health of a gentleman who has done his utmost to compensate for the loss which we sustained nine years ago, and to whom I owe any good intentions which I may bring to the management of this property. I beg leave to propose the health of my uncle, Mr. Mohun, of Beechcroft.’
Claude was much surprised, for his cousin had never given him a hint of his intention. It was a moment of great delight to all the young Mohuns when the cheer rose as loud and hearty as for the young lord himself, and Phyllis smiled, and wondered, when she saw her papa rise to make answer. He said that he could not attempt to answer Lord Rotherwood, as he had not heard what he said, but that he was much gratified by his having thought of him on this occasion, and by the goodwill which all had expressed. This was the last speech that was interesting; Lady Rotherwood’s health and a few more toasts followed, and the party then left the tent for the lawn, where the cool air was most refreshing, and the last beams of the evening sun were lighting the tops of the trees.
The dancing was now to begin, and this was the time for Claude to be useful. He had spent so much time at home, and had accompanied his father so often in his rides, that he knew every one, and he was inclined to make every exertion in the cause of his cousin, and on this occasion seemed to have laid aside his indolence and disinclination to speak to strangers.
Lady Florence was also indefatigable, darting about, with a wonderful perception who everybody was, and with whom each would like to dance. She seized upon little Devereux Aylmer for her own partner before any one else had time to ask her, and carried him about the lawn, hunting up and pairing other shy people.
‘Why, Reginald, what are you about? You can manage a country-dance. Make haste; where is your partner?’
‘I meant to dance with Miss Weston,’ said Reginald, piteously.
‘Miss Weston? Here she is.’
‘That is only Marianne,’ said Reginald.
‘Oh! Miss Weston is dancing with William. Marianne, will you accept my apologies for this discourteous cousin of mine? I am perfectly horror-struck. There, Redgie, take her with a good grace; you will never have a better partner.’
Marianne was only too glad to have Reginald presented to her, ungracious as he was, but the poor little couple met with numerous disasters. They neither of them knew the way through a country-dance, and were almost run over every time they went down the middle; Reginald’s heels were very inconvenient to his neighbours; so much so, that once Claude thought it expedient to admonish him, that dancing was not merely an elegant name for football without a ball. Every now and then some of their friends gave them a hasty intimation that they were all wrong, but that they knew already but too well. At last, just when Marianne had turned scarlet with vexation, and Reginald was growing so desperate that he had thoughts of running a way, the dance came to an end, and Reginald, with very scanty politeness to his partner, rushed away to her sister, saying, in rather a reproachful tone, ‘Miss Weston, you promised to dance with me.’
‘I have not forgotten my promise,’ said Alethea, smiling.
At the same moment Claude hurried up, saying, ‘William, I want a partner for Miss Wilkins, of the Wold Farm. Miss Wilkins, let me introduce Captain Mohun.’
‘You see I have made the Captain available,’ said Claude, presently after meeting Lord Rotherwood, as he speeded across the lawn.
‘Have you? I did not think him fair game,’ said the Marquis. ‘Where is your heroine, Claude? I have not seen her dancing.’
‘What heroine? What do you mean?’
‘Honest Phyl, of course. Did you think I meant Miss Weston?’
‘With Eleanor, somewhere. Is the next dance a quadrille?’
Lord Rotherwood ran up the bank to the terraced walks, where the undancing part of the company sat or walked about. Soon he spied Phyllis standing by Eleanor, looking rather wearied. ‘Phyllis, can you dance a quadrille?’
Phyllis opened her eyes, and Eleanor desired her to answer.
‘Come, Phyllis, let me see what M. Le Roi has done for you.’
He led her away, wondering greatly, and thinking how very good-natured Cousin Rotherwood was.
Emily was much surprised to find Phyllis hervis à vis. Emily was very generally known and liked, and had no lack of grand partners, but she would have liked to dance with the Marquis. When the quadrille was over, she was glad to put herself in his way, by coming up to take charge of Phyllis.
‘Well done, Phyl,’ said he; ‘no mistakes. You must have another dance. Whom shall we find for you?’
‘Oh! Rotherwood,’ said Emily, ‘you cannot think how you gratified us all with your speech.’
‘Ah! I always set my heart on saying something of the kind; but I wished I could have dared to add the bride’s health.’
‘The bride!’
‘Do not pretend to have no eyes,’ said Lord Rotherwood, with a significant glance, which directed Emily’s eyes to the terrace, where Mr. Mohun and Alethea were walking together in eager conversation.
Emily was ready to sink into the earth. Jane’s surmises, and the mysterious words of her father, left her no further doubt. At this moment some one asked her to dance, and scarcely knowing what she did or said, she walked to her place. Lord Rotherwood now found a partner for Phyllis, and a farmer’s daughter for himself.
This dance over, Phyllis’s partner did not well know how to dispose of her, and she grew rather frightened on finding that none of her sisters were in sight. At last she perceived Reginald standing on the bank, and made her escape to him.
‘Redgie, did you see who I have been dancing with? Cousin Rotherwood and Claude’s grand Oxford friend—Mr. Travers.’
‘It is all nonsense,’ said Reginald. ‘Come out of this mob of people.’
‘But where is Eleanor?’
‘Somewhere in the midst. They are all absurd together.’
‘What is the matter, Redgie?’ asked Phyllis, unable to account for this extraordinary fit of misanthropy.
‘Papa and William both driving me about like a dog,’ said Reginald; ‘first I danced with Miss Weston—then she saw that woman—that Miss Aylmer—shook hands—talked—and then nothing would serve her but to find papa. As soon as the Baron sees me he cries out, “Why are not you dancing, Redgie? We do not want you!” Up and down they walk, ever so long, and presently papa turns off, and begins talking to Miss Aylmer. Then, of course, I went back to Miss Weston, but then up comes William, as savage as one of his Canadian bears; he orders me off too, and so here I am! I am sure I am not going to ask any one else to dance. Come and walk with me in peace, Phyl. Do you see them?—Miss Weston and Marianne under that tulip-tree, and the Captain helping them to ice.’
‘Redgie, did you give Miss Weston her nosegay? Some one put such beautiful flowers in it, such as I never saw before.’
‘How could I? They sent me off with Lily and Jane. I told William I had the flowers in charge, and he said he would take care of them. By the bye, Phyl,’ and Reginald gave a wondrous spring, ‘I have it! I have it! I have it! If he is not in love with Miss Weston you may call me an ass for the rest of my life.’
‘I should not like to call you an ass, Redgie,’ said Phyllis.
‘Very likely; but do not make me call you one. Hurrah! Now ask Marianne if it is not so. Marianne must know. How jolly! I say, Phyl, stay there, and I will fetch Marianne.’
Away ran Reginald, and presently returned with Marianne, who was very glad to be invited to join Phyllis. She little knew what an examination awaited her.
‘Marianne,’ began Phyllis, ‘I’ll tell you what—’
‘No, I will do it right,’ said Reginald; ‘you know nothing about it, Phyl. Marianne, is not something going on there?’
‘Going on?’ said Marianne, ‘Alethea is speaking to Mrs. Hawkesworth.’
‘Nonsense, I know better, Marianne. I have a suspicion that I could tell what the Captain was about yesterday when he walked off after dinner.’
‘How very wise you think you look, Reginald!’ said Marianne, laughing heartily.
‘But tell us; do tell us, Marianne,’ said Phyllis.
‘Tell you whet?’
‘Whether William is going to marry Miss Weston,’ said the straightforward Phyllis. ‘Redgie says so—only tell us. Oh! it would be so nice!’
‘How you blurt it out, Phyl,’ said Reginald. ‘You do not know how those things are managed. Mind, I found it out all myself. Just say, Marianne. Am not I right?’
‘I do not know whether I ought to tell,’ said Marianne.
‘Oh! then it is all right,’ said Reginald, ‘and I found it out. Now, Marianne, there is a good girl, tell us all about it.’
‘You know I could not say “No” when you asked me,’ said Marianne; ‘I could not help it really; but pray do not tell anybody, or Captain Mohun will not like it.’
‘Does any one know?’ said Reginald.
‘Only ourselves and Mr. Mohun; and I think Lord Rotherwood guesses, from something I heard him say to Jane.’
‘To Jane?’ said Reginald. ‘That is provoking; she will think she found it out all herself, and be so conceited!’
‘You need not be afraid,’ said Marianne, laughing; ‘Jane is on a wrong scent.’
‘Jane? Oh! I should like to see her out in her reckonings! I should like to have a laugh against her. What does she think, Marianne?’
‘Oh! I cannot tell you; it is too bad.’
‘Oh! do; do, pray. You may whisper it if it is too bad for Phyllis to hear.’
‘No, no,’ said Marianne; ‘it is nothing but nonsense. If you hear it, Phyllis shall too; but mind, you must promise not to say anything to anybody, or I do not know what will become of me.’
‘Well, we will not,’ said Reginald; ‘boys can always keep secrets, and I’ll engage for Phyl. Now for it.’
‘She is in a terrible fright lest it should be Mr. Mohun. She got it into her head last autumn, and all I could say would not persuade her out of it. Why, she always calls me Aunt Marianne when we are alone. Now, Reginald, here comes Maurice. Do not say anything, I beg and entreat. It is my secret, you know. I daresay you will all be told to-morrow,—indeed, mamma said so,—but pray say nothing about me or Jane. It was only settled yesterday evening.’
At this moment Maurice came up, with a message that Miss Weston and Eleanor were going away, and wanted the little girls. They followed him to the tent, which had been cleared of the tables, and lighted up, in order that the dancing might continue there. Most of their own party were collected at the entrance, watching for them. Lilias came up just as they did, and exclaimed in a tone of disappointment, on finding them preparing to depart. She had enjoyed herself exceedingly, found plenty of partners, and was not in the least tired.
‘Why should she not stay?’ said William. ‘Claude has engaged to stay to the end of everything, and he may as well drive her as ride the gray.’
‘And you, Jenny,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘do you like to stay or go? Alethea will make room for you in the pony-carriage, or you may go with Eleanor.