Scenes and Characters, or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft

Alethea went, and Lilias lingered by the fire.  Mrs. Weston once asked her if she knew how late it was; but still she waited, until she was startled by the sound of the bell for evening service.  As she went to church with Mrs. Weston and Emily she met Jane, who told her that her class had been unemployed all the afternoon.

‘I would have taken them,’ said she, ‘but that Robert does not like me to teach the great girls, and I do think Alethea might have heard them.’

‘It is very provoking,’ said Lily, pettishly; ‘I thought I might depend—’  She turned and saw Miss Weston close to her.  ‘Oh, Alethea!’ said she, ‘I thought you would have heard those girls.’

‘I thought you were coming,’ said Alethea.

‘So I was, but I am sure the bell rang too early.  I do wish you had taken them, Alethea.’

‘I am sorry you are vexed,’ said Alethea, simply.

‘What makes you think I am vexed?  I only thought you liked hearing my class.’

They were by this time at the church door, and as they entered Alethea blamed herself for feeling grieved, and Lily awoke to a sense of her unreasonableness.  She longed to tell Alethea how sorry she felt, but she had no opportunity, and she resolved to go to Broomhill the next day to make her confession.  In the night, however, snow began to fall, and the morning showed the February scene of thawing snow and pouring rain.  Going out was impossible, both on that day and the next.  Wednesday dawned fair and bright; but just after breakfast Lily received a little note, with the intelligence that Mr. Weston had arrived at Broomhill on Monday evening, and with his wife and daughters was to set off that very day to make a visit to some friends on the way to London.  Had not the weather been so bad, Alethea said she should have come to take leave of her New Court friends on Tuesday, but she could now only send this note to tell them how sorry she was to go without seeing them, and to beg Emily to send back a piece of music which she had lent to her.  The messenger was Faith Longley, who was to accompany them, and who now was going home to take leave of her mother, and would call again for the music in a quarter of an hour.  Lily ran to ask her when they were to go.  ‘At eleven,’ was the answer; and Lily telling her she need not call again, as she herself would bring the music, went to look for it.  High and low did she seek, and so did Jane, but it was not to be found in any nook, likely or unlikely; and when at last Lily, in despair, gave up the attempt to find it, it was already a quarter to eleven.  Emily sent many apologies and civil messages, and Lily set out at a rapid pace to walk to Broomhill by the road, for the thaw had rendered the fields impassable.  Fast as she walked, she was too late.  She had the mortification of seeing the carriage turn out at the gates, and take the Raynham road; she was not even seen, nor had she a wave of the hand, or a smile to comfort her.

Almost crying with vexation, she walked home, and sat down to write to Alethea, but, alas! she did not know where to direct a letter.  Bitterly did she repent of the burst of ill-temper which had stained her last meeting with her friend, and she was scarcely comforted even by the long and affectionate letter which she received a week after their departure.  Kindness from her was now forgiveness; never did she so strongly feel Florence’s inferiority; and she wondered at herself for having sought her society so much as to neglect her patient and superior friend.  She became careless and indifferent to Florence, and yet she went on in her former course, following Emily, and fancying that nothing at Beechcroft could interest her in the absence of her dear Alethea Weston.

CHAPTER XVII

LITTLE AGNES

‘O guide us when our faithless hearts   From Thee would start aloof,Where patience her sweet skill imparts,   Beneath some cottage roof.’

Palm Sunday brought Lily many regrets.  It was the day of the school prize giving, and she reflected with shame, how much less she knew about the children than last year, and how little they owed to her; she feared to think of the approach of Easter Day, a dread which she had never felt before, and which she knew to be a very bad sign; but her regret was not repentance—she talked, and laughed, and tried to feel at ease.  Agnes Eden’s happy face was the most pleasant sight on that day.  The little girl received a Bible, and as it was given to her her pale face was coloured with bright pink, her blue eyes lighted up, her smile was radiant with the beauty of innocence, but Lily could not look at her without self-reproach.  She resolved to make up for her former neglect by double kindness, and determined that, at any rate, Passion Week should be properly spent—she would not once miss going to church.

But on Monday, when Emily proposed to ride to Devereux Castle, she assented, only saying that they would return for evening service.  She took care to remind her sister when it was time to set out homewards; but Emily was, as usual, so long in taking her leave that it was too late to think of going to church when they set off.

About two miles from Beechcroft Lily saw a little figure in a gray cloak trudging steadily along the road, and as she came nearer she recognised Kezia Grey.  She stopped and asked the child what brought her so far from home.

‘I am going for the doctor, Miss,’ said the child.

‘Is your mother worse?’ asked Lily.

‘Mother is pretty well,’ said Kezia; ‘but it is for Agnes Eden, Miss—she is terrible bad.’

‘Poor little Agnes!’ exclaimed Lily.  ‘Why, she was at school yesterday.’

‘Yes, Miss, but she was taken bad last night.’

After a moment’s consultation between the sisters, Kezia was told that she might return home, and the servant who accompanied the Miss Mohuns was sent to Raynham for the doctor.  The next afternoon Lily was just setting out to inquire for Agnes when Lord Rotherwood arrived at the New Court with his sister.  He wanted to show Florence some of his favourite haunts at Beechcroft, and had brought her to join his cousins in their walk.  A very pleasant expedition they made, but it led them so far from home that the church bell was heard pealing over the woods far in the distance.  Lily could not go to Mrs. Eden’s cottage, because she did not know the nature of Agnes’s complaint, and her aunt could not bear that Florence should go into any house where there was illness.  In the course of the walk, however, she met Kezia, on her way to the New Court, to ask for a blister for Agnes, the doctor having advised Mrs. Eden to apply to the Miss Mohuns for one, as it was wanted quickly, and it was too far to send to Raynham.  Lily promised to send the blister as soon as possible, and desired the little messenger to return home, where she was much wanted, to help her mother, who had a baby of less than a week old.

Alas! in the mirth and amusement of the evening Lily entirely forgot the blister, until just as she went to bed, when she made one of her feeble resolutions to take it, or send it early in the morning.  She only awoke just in time to be ready for breakfast, went downstairs without one thought of the sick child, and never recollected her, until at church, just before the Litany, she heard these words: ‘The prayers of the congregation are desired for Agnes Eden.’

She felt as if she had been shot, and scarcely knew where she was for several moments.  On coming out of church, she stood almost in a dream, while Emily and Jane were talking to the Rector, who told them how very ill the child was, and how little hope there was of her recovery.  He took leave of them, and Lily walked home, scarcely hearing the soothing words with which Emily strove to comfort her.  The meaning passed away mournfully; Lily sat over the fire without speaking, and without attempting to do anything.  In the afternoon rain came on; but Lily, too unhappy not to be restless, put on her bonnet and cloak, and went out.

She walked quickly up the hill, and entered the field where the cottage stood.  There she paused.  She did not dare to knock at the cottage door; she could not bear to speak to Mrs. Eden; she dreaded the sight of Mrs. Grey or Kezia, and she gazed wistfully at the house, longing, yet fearing, to know what was passing within it.  She wandered up and down the field, and at last was trying to make up her mind to return home, when she heard footsteps behind her, and turning, saw Mr. Devereux advancing along the path at the other end of the field.

‘Have you been to inquire for Agnes?’ said he.

‘I could not.  I long to know, but I cannot bear to ask, I cannot venture in.’

‘Do you like to go in with me?’ said her cousin.  ‘I do not think you will see anything dreadful.’

‘Thank you,’ said Lily, ‘I would give anything to know about her.’

‘How you tremble! but you need not be afraid.’

He knocked at the door, but there was no answer; he opened it, and going to the foot of the stairs, gently called Mrs. Eden, who came down calm and quiet as ever, though very pale.

‘How is she?’

‘No better, sir, thank you, light-headed still.’

‘Oh!  Mrs. Eden, I am so sorry,’ sobbed Lily.  ‘Oh! can you forgive me?’

‘Pray do not take on so, Miss,’ said Mrs. Eden.  ‘You have always been a very kind friend to her, Miss Lilias.  Do not take on so, Miss.  If it is His will, nothing could have made any difference.’

Lily was going to speak again, but Mr. Devereux stopped her, saying, ‘We must not keep Mrs. Eden from her, Lily.’

‘Thank you, sir, her aunt is with her,’ said Mrs. Eden, ‘and no one is any good there now, she does not know any one.  Will you walk up and see her, sir? will you walk up, Miss Lilias?’

Lily silently followed her cousin up the narrow stairs to the upper room, where, in the white-curtained bed, lay the little child, tossing about and moaning, her cheeks flushed with fever, and her blue eyes wide open, but unconscious.  A woman, whom Lily did not at first perceive to be Mrs. Naylor, rose and courtsied on their entrance.  Agnes’s new Bible was beside her, and her mother told them that she was not easy if it was out of sight for an instant.

At this moment Agnes called out, ‘Mother,’ and Mrs. Eden bent down to her, but she only repeated, ‘Mother’ two or three times, and then began talking:

‘Kissy, I want my bag—where is my thimble—no, not that I can’t remember—my catechism-book—my godfathers and godmothers in my baptism, wherein I was made a member—my Christian name—my name, it is my Christian name; no, that is not it—

“It is a name by which I am   Writ in the hook of life,And here below a charm to keep,   Unharmed by sin and strife;As often as my name I hear,   I hear my Saviour’s voice.”’

Then she began the Creed, but, breaking off, exclaimed, ‘Where is my Bible, mother, I shall read it to-morrow—read that pretty verse about “I am the good Shepherd—the Lord is my Shepherd, therefore can I lack nothing—yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art within me.”

“I now am of that little flock   Which Christ doth call His own,For all His sheep He knows by name,   And He of them is known.”’

‘Let us call upon your good Shepherd, Agnes,’ said the pastor, and the child turned her face towards him as if she understood him.  Kneeling down, he repeated the Lord’s Prayer, and the feeble voice followed his.  He then read the prayer for a sick child, and left the room, for he saw that Lily would be quite overcome if she remained there any longer.  Mrs. Eden followed them downstairs, and again stung poor Lily to the heart by thanks for all her kindness.

They then left the house of mourning; Lily trembled violently, and clung to her cousin’s arm for support.  Her tears streamed fast, but her sobs were checked by awe at Mrs. Eden’s calmness.  She felt as if she had been among the angels.

‘How pale you are!’ said her cousin, ‘I would not have taken you there if I thought it would overset you so much.  Come into Mrs. Grey’s, and sit down and recover a little.’

‘No, no, do not let me see any one,’ said Lily.  ‘Oh! that dear child!  Robert, let me tell you the worst, for your kindness is more than I can bear.  I promised Agnes a blister and forgot it!’

She could say no more for some minutes, but her cousin did not speak.  Recovering her voice, she added, ‘Only speak to me, Robert.’

‘I am very sorry for you,’ answered he, in a kind tone.

‘But tell me, what shall I do?’

‘What to do, you ask,’ said the Rector; ‘I am not sure that I know what you mean.  If your neglect has added to her sufferings, you cannot remove them; and I would not add to your sorrow unless you wished me to do so for your good.’

‘I do not see how I could be more unhappy than I am now,’ said Lily.

‘I think if you wish to turn your grief to good account you must go a little deeper than this omission.’

‘You mean that it is a result of general carelessness,’ said Lily; ‘I know I have been in an odd idle way for some time; I have often resolved, but I seem to have no power over myself.’

‘May I ask you one question, Lily?  How have you been spending this Lent?’

‘Robert, you are right,’ cried Lily; ‘you may well ask.  I know I have not gone to church properly, but how could you guess the terrible way in which I have been indulging myself, and excusing myself every unpleasant duty that came in my way?  That was the very reason of this dreadful neglect; well do I deserve to be miserable at Easter, the proper time for joy.  Oh! how different it will be.’

‘It will be, I hope, an Easter marked by repentance and amendment,’ said the Rector.

‘No, Robert, do not begin to be kind to me yet, you do not know how very bad I have been,’ said Lily; ‘it all began from just after Eleanor’s wedding.  A mad notion came into my head and laid hold of me.  I fancied Eleanor stern, and cold, and unlovable; I was ingratitude itself.  I made a foolish theory, that regard for duty makes people cold and stern, and that feeling, which I confused with Christian love, was all that was worth having, and the more Claude tried to cure me, the more obstinate I grew; I drew Emily over to my side, and we set our follies above everything.  Justified ourselves for idling, neglecting the children, indulging ourselves, calling it love, and so it was, self-love.  So my temper has been spoiling, and my mind getting worse and worse, ever since we lost Eleanor.  At last different things showed me the fallacy of my principle, but then I do believe I was beyond my own management.  I felt wrong, and could not mend, and went on recklessly.  You know but too well what mischief I have done in the village, but you can never know what harm I have done at home.  I have seen more and more that I was going on badly, but a sleep, a spell was upon me.’

‘Perhaps the pain you now feel may be the means of breaking the spell.’

‘But is it not enough to drive me mad to think that improvement in me should be bought at such a price—the widow’s only child?’

‘You forget that the loss is a blessing to her.’

‘Still I may pray that my punishment may not be through them,’ said Lily.

‘Surely,’ was the answer, ‘it is grievous to see that dear child cut off; and her patient mother left desolate—yet how much more grievous it would be to see that spotless innocence defiled.’

‘If it was to fall on any one,’ said Lilias, ‘I should be thankful that it is on one so fit to die.’

The church bell began to ring, and they quickened their steps in silence.  Presently Lily said, ‘Tell me of something to do, Robert, something that may be a pledge that my sorrow is not a passing shower, something unnecessary, but disagreeable, which may keep me in remembrance that my Lent was not one of self-denial.’

‘You must be able to find more opportunities of self-denial than I can devise,’ said her cousin.

‘Of course,’ said Lily; ‘but some one thing, some punishment.’

‘I will answer you to-morrow,’ said Mr. Devereux.

‘One thing more,’ said Lily, looking down; ‘after this great fall, ought I to come to next Sunday’s feast?  I would turn away if you thought fit.’

‘Lily, you can best judge,’ said the Rector, kindly.  ‘I should think that you were now in a humble, contrite frame, and therefore better prepared than when self-confident.’

‘How many times! how shall I think of them! but I will,’ said Lily; ‘and Robert, will you think of me when you say the Absolution now and next Sunday at the altar?’

They were by this time at the church-porch.  As Mr. Devereux uncovered his head, he turned to Lilias, and said in a low tone, ‘God bless you, Lilias, and grant you true repentance and pardon.’

Early the next morning the toll of the passing-bell informed Lily that the little lamb had been gathered into the heavenly fold.

When she took her place in church she found in her Prayer-book a slip of paper in the handwriting of her cousin.  It was thus: ‘You had better find out in which duty you have most failed, and let the fulfilment of that be your proof of self-denial.  R. D.’

Afterwards Lily learnt that Agnes had been sensible for a short time before her peaceful death.  She had spoken much of her baptism, had begged to be buried next to a little sister of Kezia’s, and asked her mother to give her new Bible to Kezia.

It was not till Sunday that Lilias felt as if she could ever be comforted.  Her heart was indeed ready to break as she walked at the head of the school children behind the white-covered coffin, and she felt as if she did not deserve to dwell upon the child’s present happiness; but afterwards she was relieved by joining in prayer for the pardon of our sins and negligences, and she felt as if she was forgiven, at least by man, when she joined with Mrs. Eden in the appointed feast of Easter Day.

Mrs. Naylor was at church on that and several following Sundays; but though her husband now showed every kindness to his sister, he still obstinately refused to be reconciled to Mr. Devereux.

For many weeks poor little Kezia looked very unhappy.  Her blithe smiles were gone, her eyes filled with tears whenever she was reminded of her friend, she walked to school alone, she did not join the sports of the other children, but she kept close to the side of Mrs. Eden, and seemed to have no pleasure but with her, or in nursing her little sister, who, two Sundays after the funeral, was christened by the name of Agnes.

It was agreed by Mr. Mohun and Lilias that the grave of the little girl should be marked by a stone cross, thus inscribed:—

‘Agnes Eden,April 8th, 1846,Aged 7 years“He shall gather the lambs in His arms.”’

CHAPTER XVIII

DOUBLE, DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE

‘Truly the tender mercies of the weak,As of the wicked, are but cruel.’

And how did Lilias show that she had been truly benefited by her sorrows?  Did she fall back into her habits of self-indulgence, or did she run into ill-directed activity, selfish as her indolence, because only gratifying the passion of the moment?

Those who lived with her saw but little change; kind-hearted and generous she had ever been, and many had been her good impulses, so that while she daily became more steady in well-doing, and exerting herself on principle, no one remarked it, and no one entered into the struggles which it cost her to tame her impetuosity, or force herself to do what was disagreeable to herself, and might offend Emily.

However, Emily could forgive a great deal when she found that Lily was ready to take any part of the business of the household and schoolroom, which she chose to impose upon her, without the least objection, yet to leave her to assume as much of the credit of managing as she chose—to have no will or way of her own, and to help her to keep her wardrobe in order.

The schoolroom was just now more of a labour than had ever been the case, at least to one who, like Lilias, if she did a thing at all, would not be satisfied with half doing it.  Phyllis was not altered, except that she cried less, and had in a great measure cured herself of dawdling habits and tricks, by her honest efforts to obey well-remembered orders of Eleanor’s; but still her slowness and dulness were trying to her teachers, and Lily had often to reproach herself for being angry with her ‘when she was doing her best.’

But Adeline was Lily’s principal trouble; there was a change in her, for which her sister could not account.  Last year, when Eleanor left them, Ada was a sweet-tempered, affectionate child, docile, gentle, and, excepting a little occasional affectation and carelessness, very free from faults; but now her attention could hardly be commanded for five minutes together; she had lost the habit of ready and implicit obedience, was petulant when reproved, and was far more eager to attract notice from strangers—more conceited, and, therefore, more affected, and, worse than all, Lily sometimes thought she perceived a little slyness, though she was never able to prove any one instance completely to herself, much less to bring one before her father.  Thus, if Ada had done any mischief, she would indeed confess it on being examined; but when asked why she had not told of it directly, would say she had forgotten; she would avail herself of Phyllis’s assistance in her lessons without acknowledging it, and Lilias found it was by no means safe to leave the Key to the French Exercises alone in the room with her.

Emily’s mismanagement had fostered Ada’s carelessness and inattention.  Lady Rotherwood’s injudicious caresses helped to make her more affected; other faults had grown up for want of sufficient control, but this last was principally Esther’s work.  Esther had done well at school; she liked learning, was stimulated by notice, was really attached to Lilias, and tried to deserve her goodwill; but her training at school and at home were so different, that her conduct was, even at the best, far too much of eye-service, and she had very little idea of real truth and sincerity.

On first coming to the New Court she flattered the children, because she did not know how to talk to them otherwise, and afterwards, because she found that Miss Ada’s affections were to be gained by praise.  Then, in her ignorant good-nature, she had no scruples about concealing mischief which the children had done, or procuring for Ada little forbidden indulgences on her promise of secrecy, a promise which Phyllis would not give, thus putting a stop to all those in which she would have participated.  It was no wonder that Ada, sometimes helping Esther to deceive, sometimes deceived by her, should have learnt the same kind of cunning, and ceased to think it a matter of course to be true and just in all her dealings.

But how was it that Phyllis remained the same ‘honest Phyl’ that she had ever been, not one word savouring of aught but strict truth having ever crossed her lips, her thoughts and deeds full of guileless simplicity?  She met with the same temptations, the same neglect, the same bad example, as her sister; why had they no effect upon her?  In the first place, flattery could not touch her, it was like water on a duck’s back, she did not know that it was flattery, but so thoroughly humble was her mind that no words of Esther’s would make her believe herself beautiful, agreeable, or clever.  Yet she never found out that Esther over-praised her sister; she admired Ada so much that she never suspected that any commendation of her was more than she deserved.  Again, Phyllis never thought of making herself appear to advantage, and her humility saved her from the habit of concealing small faults, for which she expected no punishment; and, when seriously to blame, punishment seemed so natural a consequence, that she never thought of avoiding it, otherwise than by expressing sorrow for her fault.  She was uninfected by Esther’s deceit, though she never suspected any want of truth; her singleness of mind was a shield from all evil; she knew she was no favourite in the nursery, but she never expected to be liked as much as Ada, her pride and glory.  In the meantime Emily went on contriving opportunities and excuses for spending her time at Devereux Castle, letting everything fall into Lily’s hands, everything that she had so eagerly undertaken little more than a year ago.  And now all was confusion; the excellent order in which Eleanor had left the household affairs was quite destroyed.  Attention to the storeroom was one of the ways in which Lilias thought that she could best follow the advice of Mr. Devereux, since Eleanor had always taught that great exactness in this point was most necessary.  Great disorder now, however, prevailed there, and she found that her only chance of rectifying it was to measure everything she found there, and to beg Emily to allow her to keep the key; for, when several persons went to the storeroom, no one ever knew what was given out, and she was sure that the sweet things diminished much faster than they ought to do; but her sister treated the proposal as an attempt to deprive her of her dignity, and she was silenced.