Scenes and Characters, or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft

‘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 me au courant du jour.  I will not be in the dark about your best friends and neighbours when I come home next July.’

CHAPTER XVI

VANITY AND VEXATION

‘And still I have to tell the same sad taleOf wasted energies, and idle dreams.’

Devereux Castle now 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.’