Scenes and Characters, or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft

William gave Lily his arm, and on finding she was both tired and wet, again scolded her, walked so fast that she was out of breath, then complained of her folly, and blamed Reginald.  It was very unpleasant, and yet she was very much obliged to him, and exceedingly sorry he had taken so much trouble.

They came home at about seven o’clock.  Jane met them in the hall, full of her own and Lady Rotherwood’s wonderings; she hurried Lily upstairs, and—skilful, quick, and ready—she helped her to dress in a very short time.  As they ran down Reginald overtook them, and they entered the drawing-room as the dinner-bell was ringing.  William did not appear for some time, and his apologies were not such as to smooth matters for his sister.

Perhaps it was for this very reason that Mr. Mohun allowed Lily to escape with no more than a jesting reproof.  Lord Rotherwood wished to make his cousin’s hardihood and enterprise an example to his sister, and, in his droll exaggerating way, represented such walks as every-day occurrences.  This was just the contrary to what Emily wished her aunt to believe, and Claude was much diverted with the struggle between her politeness to Lord Rotherwood and her desire to maintain the credit of the family.

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.

CHAPTER XV

MINOR MISFORTUNES

‘Loving she is, and tractable though wild.’

In a 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 why Jacks did not go to the poor stag, and try to cure it, when he saw its tears running into the water.’

To save the character of Jacks, 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?’