Scenes and Characters, or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft

Ada gave her six shillings, with orders to buy either a doll or a book—the former if Eleanor did not say it was silly; and Phyllis put into her hands a weighty crown piece, begging for as many things as it could buy.  Jane’s wants and wishes were moderate and sensible, and she gave Lily the money for them.  With Emily there was more difficulty.  All Lily’s efforts had not availed to prevent her from contracting two debts at Raynham.  More than four pounds she owed to Lily, and this she offered to pay her, giving her at the same time a list of commissions sufficient to swallow up double her quarter’s allowance.  Lily, though really in want of the money for her own use, thought the debts at Raynham so serious, that she begged Emily to let her wait for payment till it was convenient, and to pay the shoemaker and dressmaker immediately.

Emily thanked her, and promised to do so as soon as she could go to Raynham, and Lily next attempted to reduce her list of London commissions to something more reasonable.  In part she succeeded, but it remained a matter of speculation how all the necessary articles which she had to buy for herself, and all Emily’s various orders, were to come out of her own means, reduced as they were by former loans.

The next day Lilias was on her way to London; feeling, as she left Beechcroft, that it was a great relief that the schoolroom and storeroom could not follow her.  She was sorry that she should miss seeing Alethea Weston, who was to come home the next day, but she left various messages for her, and an affectionate note, and had received a promise from her sisters that the copy of the music should be given to her the first day that they saw her.  Her journey afforded her much amusement, and it was not till towards the end of the day that she had much time for thinking, when, her companions being sleepily inclined, she was left to her own meditations and to a dull country.  She began to revolve her own feelings towards Eleanor, and as she remembered the contempt and ingratitude she had once expressed, she shrank from the meeting with shame and dread, and knew that she should feel reproached by Eleanor’s wonted calmness of manner.  And as she mused upon all that Eleanor had endured, and all that she had done, such a reverence for suffering and sacrifice took possession of her mind that she was ready to look up to her sister with awe.  She began to recollect old reproofs, and found herself sitting more upright, and examining the sit of the folds of her dress with some uneasiness at the thought of Eleanor’s preciseness.  In the midst of her meditations her two companions were roused by the slackening speed of the train, and starting up, informed her that they were arriving at their journey’s end.  The next minute she heard her father consigning her and the umbrellas to Mr. Hawkesworth’s care, and all was bewilderment till she found herself in the hall of her aunt’s house, receiving as warm and affectionate a greeting from Eleanor as Emily herself could have bestowed.

‘And the baby, Eleanor?’

‘Asleep, but you shall see him; and how is Ada? and all of them? why, Claude, how well you look!  Papa, let me help you to take off your greatcoat—you are cold—will you have a fire?’

Never had Lily heard Eleanor say so much in a breath, or seen her eye so bright, or her smile so ready, yet, when she entered the drawing-room, she saw that Mrs. Hawkesworth was still the Eleanor of old.  In contrast with the splendid furniture of the apartments, a pile of shirts was on the table, Eleanor’s well-known work-basket on the floor, and the ceaseless knitting close at hand.

Much news was exchanged in the few minutes that elapsed before Eleanor carried off her sister to her room, indulging her by the way with a peep at little Harry, and one kiss to his round red cheek as he lay asleep in his little bed.  It was not Eleanor’s fault that she did not entirely dress Lily, and unpack her wardrobe; but Lilias liked to show that she could manage for herself; and Eleanor’s praise of her neat arrangements gave her as much pleasure as in days of yore.

The evening passed very happily.  Eleanor’s heart was open, she was full of enjoyment at meeting those she loved, and the two sisters sat long together in the twilight, talking over numerous subjects, all ending in Beechcroft or the baby.

Yet when Lily awoke the next morning her awe of Eleanor began to return, and she felt like a child just returned to school.  She was, however, mistaken; Eleanor assumed no authority, she treated Lily as her equal, and thus made her feel more like a woman than she had ever done before.  Lily thought either that Eleanor was much altered, or that in her folly she must have fancied her far more cold and grave than she really was.  She had, however, no time for studying her character; shopping and sight-seeing filled up most of her time, and the remainder was spent in resting, and in playing with little Henry.

One evening, when Mr. Mohun and Claude were dining out, Lilias was left alone with Mr. and Mrs. Hawkesworth.  Lily was very tired, but she worked steadily at marking Eleanor’s pocket-handkerchiefs, until her sister, seeing how weary she was, made her lie down on the sofa.

‘Here is a gentleman who is tired too,’ said Eleanor, dancing the baby; ‘we will carry you off, sir, and leave Aunt Lily to go to sleep.’

‘Aunt Lily is not so tired as that,’ said Lily; ‘pray keep him.’

‘It is quite bedtime,’ said Eleanor, in her decided tone, and she carried him off.

Lilias took up the knitting which she had laid down, and began to study the stitches.  ‘I should like this feathery pattern,’ said she, ‘(if it did not remind me so much of the fever); but, by the bye, Frank, have you completed Master Henry’s outfit?  I looked forward to helping to choose his pretty little things, but I see no preparation but of stockings.’

‘Why, Lily, did not you know that he was to stay in England?’

‘To stay in England?  No, I never thought of that—how sorry you must be.’

At this moment Eleanor returned, and Mr. Hawkesworth told her he had been surprised to find Lily did not know their intentions with regard to the baby.

‘If we had any certain intentions we should have told her,’ said Eleanor; ‘I did not wish to speak to her about it till we had made up our minds.’

‘Well, I know no use in mysteries,’ said Mr. Hawkesworth, ‘especially when Lily may help us to decide.’

‘On his going or staying?’ exclaimed Lily, eagerly looking to Mr. Hawkesworth, who was evidently more disposed to speak than his wife.

‘Not on his going or staying—I am sorry to say that point was settled long ago—but where we shall leave him.’

Lily’s heart beat high, but she did not speak.

‘The truth is,’ proceeded Mr. Hawkesworth, ‘that this young gentleman has, as perhaps you know, a grandpapa, a grandmamma, and also six or seven aunts.  With his grandmamma he cannot be left, for sundry reasons, unnecessary to mention.  Now, one of his aunts is a staid matronly lady, and his godmother besides, and in all respects the person to take charge of him,—only she lives in a small house in a town, and has plenty of babies of her own, without being troubled with other people’s.  Master Henry’s other five aunts live in one great house, in a delightful country, with nothing to do but make much of him all day long, yet it is averred that these said aunts are a parcel of giddy young colts, amongst whom, if Henry escapes being demolished as a baby he will infallibly be spoilt as he grows up.  Now, how are we to decide?’

‘You have heard the true state of the case, Lily,’ said Mrs. Hawkesworth.  ‘I did not wish to harass papa by speaking to him till something was settled; you are certainly old enough to have an opinion.’

‘Yes, Lily,’ said Frank; ‘do you think that the hospitable New Court will open to receive our poor deserted child, and that these said aunts are not wild colts but discreet damsels?’

Playful as Mr. Hawkesworth’s manner was, Lily saw the earnestness that was veiled under it: she felt the solemnity of Eleanor’s appeal, and knew that this was no time to let herself be swayed by her wishes.  There was a silence.  At last, after a great struggle, Lily’s better judgment gained the mastery, and raising her head, she said, ‘Oh!  Frank, do not ask me—I wish—but, Eleanor, when you see how much harm we have done, how utterly we have failed—’

Lily’s newly-acquired habits of self-command enabled her to subdue a violent fit of sobbing, which she felt impending, but her tears flowed quietly down her cheeks.

‘Remember,’ said Frank, ‘those who mistrust themselves are the most trustworthy.’

‘No, Frank, it is not only the feeling of the greatness of the charge, it is the knowledge that we are not fit for it—that our own faults have forfeited such happiness.’

Again Lily was choked with tears.

‘Well,’ said Frank, ‘we shall judge at Beechcroft.  At all events, one of those aunts is to be respected.’

Eleanor added her ‘Very right.’

This kindness on the part of her brother-in-law, which Lily felt to be undeserved, caused her tears to flow faster, and Eleanor, seeing her quite overcome, led her out of the room, helped her to undress, and put her to bed, with tenderness such as Lily had never experienced from her, excepting in illness.

In spite of bitter regrets, when she thought of the happiness it would have been to keep her little nephew, and of importunate and disappointing hopes that Mrs. Ridley would find it impossible to receive him, Lily felt that she had done right, and had made a real sacrifice for duty’s sake.  No more was said on the subject, and Lily was very grateful to Eleanor for making no inquiries, which she could not have answered without blaming Emily.

Sight-seeing prospered very well under Claude’s guidance, and Lily’s wonder and delight was a constant source of amusement to her friends.  Her shopping was more of a care than a pleasure, for, in spite of the handsome equipments which Mr. Mohun presented to all his daughters, it was impossible to contract Emily’s requirements within the limits of what ought to be her expenditure, and the different views of her brother and sister were rather troublesome in this matter.  Claude hated the search for ladies’ finery, and if drawn into it, insisted on always taking her to the grandest and most expensive shops; while, on the other hand, though Eleanor liked to hunt up cheap things and good bargains, she had such rigid ideas about plainness of dress, that there was little chance that what she approved would satisfy Emily.

CHAPTER XXI

CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME

‘Suddenly, a mighty jerkA mighty mischief did.’

In the meantime Emily and Jane went on very prosperously at home, looking forward to the return of the rest of the party on Saturday, the 17th of July.  In this, however, they were doomed to disappointment, for neither Mr. Mohun nor Mr. Hawkesworth could wind up their affairs so as to return before the 24th.  Maurice’s holidays commenced on Monday the 19th, and Claude offered to go home on the same day, and meet him, but in a general council it was determined to the contrary.  Claude was wanted to stay for a concert on Thursday, and both Mr. Mohun and Eleanor thought Maurice, without Reginald, would not be formidable for a few days.

At first he seemed to justify this opinion.  He did not appear to have any peculiar pursuit, unless such might be called a very earnest attempt to make Phyllis desist from her favourite preface of ‘I’ll tell you what,’ and to reform her habit of saying, ‘Please for,’ instead of ‘If you please.’  He walked with the sisters, carried messages for Mr. Devereux, performed some neat little bits of carpentry, and was very useful and agreeable.

On Wednesday afternoon Lord Rotherwood and Florence called, their heads the more full of the 30th because the Marquis had not once thought of it while Mr. Devereux was ill.  Among the intended diversions fireworks were mentioned, and from that moment rockets, wheels, and serpents, commenced a wild career through Maurice’s brain.  Through the whole evening he searched for books on what he was pleased to call the art of pyrotechnics, studied them all Wednesday, and the next morning announced his intention of making some fireworks on a new plan.

‘No, you must not,’ said Emily, ‘you will be sure to do mischief.’

‘I am going to ask Wat for some powder,’ was Maurice’s reply, and he walked off.

‘Stop him, Jane, stop him,’ cried Emily.  ‘Nothing can be so dangerous.  Tell him how angry papa would be.’

Though Jane highly esteemed her brother’s discretion, she did not much like the idea of his touching powder, and she ran after him to suggest that he had better wait till papa’s return.

‘Then Redgie will be at home,’ said Maurice, ‘and I could not be answerable for the consequence of such a careless fellow touching powder.’

This great proof of caution quite satisfied Jane, but not so Wat Greenwood, who proved himself a faithful servant by refusing to let Master Maurice have one grain of gunpowder without express leave from the squire.  Maurice then had recourse to Jane, and his power over her was such as to triumph over strong sense and weak notions of obedience, so that she was prevailed upon to supply him with the means of making the dangerous and forbidden purchase.

Emily was both annoyed and alarmed when she found that the gunpowder was actually in the house, and she even thought of sending a note to the parsonage to beg Mr. Devereux to speak to Maurice; but Jane had gone over to the enemy, and Emily never could do anything unsupported.  Besides, she neither liked to affront Maurice nor to confess herself unable to keep him in order; and she, therefore, tried to put the whole matter out of her head, in the thoughts of an expedition to Raynham, which she was about to make in the manner she best liked, with Jane in the close carriage, and the horses reluctantly spared from their farm work.

As they were turning the corner of the lane they overtook Phyllis and Adeline on their way to the school with some work, and Emily stopped the carriage, to desire them to send off a letter which she had left on the chimney-piece in the schoolroom.  Then proceeding to Raynham, they made their visits, paid Emily’s debts, performed their commissions, and met the carriage again at the bookseller’s shop, at the end of about two hours.

‘Look here, Emily!’ exclaimed Jane.  ‘Read this! can it be Mrs. Aylmer?’

‘The truly charitable,’ said Emily, contemptuously.  ‘Mrs. Aylmer is above—’

‘But read.  It says “unbeneficed clergyman and deceased nobleman,” and who can that be but Uncle Rotherwood and Mr. Aylmer.’

‘Well, let us see,’ said Emily, ‘those things are always amusing.’

It was an appeal to the ‘truly charitable,’ from the friends of the widow of an unbeneficed clergyman of the diocese, one of whose sons had, it was said, by the kindness of a deceased nobleman, received the promise of an appointment in India, of which he was unable to avail himself for want of the funds needful for his outfit.  This appeal was, it added, made without the knowledge of the afflicted lady, but further particulars might be learnt by application to E. F., No. 5 West Street, Raynham.

‘E. F. is plainly that bustling, little, old Miss Fitchett, who wrote to papa for some subscription,’ said Emily.  ‘You know she is a regular beggar, always doing these kind of things, but I can never believe that Mrs. Aylmer would consent to appear in this manner.’

‘Ah! but it says without her knowledge,’ said Jane.  ‘Don’t you remember Rotherwood’s lamenting that they were forgotten?’

‘Yes, it is shocking,’ said Emily; ‘the clergyman that married papa and mamma!’

‘Ask Mr. Adam what he knows,’ said Jane.

Emily accordingly applied to the bookseller, and learnt that Mrs. Aylmer was indeed the person intended.  ‘Something must be done,’ said she, returning to Jane.  ‘Our name will be a help.’

‘Speak to Aunt Rotherwood,’ said Jane.  ‘Or suppose we apply to Miss Fitchett, we should have time to drive that way.’

‘I am sure I shall not go to Miss Fitchett,’ said Emily, ‘she only longs for an excuse to visit us.  What can you be thinking of?  Lend me your pencil, Jenny, if you please.’

And Emily wrote down, ‘Miss Mohun, £5,’ and handed to the bookseller all that she possessed towards paying her just debts to Lilias.  While she was writing, Jane had turned towards the window, and suddenly exclaiming, ‘There is Ben!  Oh! that gunpowder!’ darted out of the shop.  She had seen the groom on horseback, and the next moment she was asking breathlessly, ‘Is it Maurice?’

‘No, Miss Jane; but Miss Ada is badly burnt, and Master Maurice sent me to fetch Mr. Saunders.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘I can’t say, Miss; the schoolroom has been on fire, and Master Maurice said the young ladies had got at the gunpowder.’

Emily had just arrived at the door, looking dreadfully pale, and followed by numerous kind offers of salts and glasses of water; but Jane, perceiving that at least she had strength to get into the carriage, refused them all, helped her in, and with instant decision, desired to be driven to the surgeon’s.  Emily obeyed like a child, and threw herself back in the carriage without a word; Jane trembled like an aspen leaf; but her higher spirit took the lead, and very sensibly she managed, stopping at Mr. Saunders’s door to offer to take him to Beechcroft, and getting a glass of sal-volatile for Emily while they were waiting for him.  His presence was a great relief, for Emily’s natural courtesy made her exert herself, and thus warded off much that would have been very distressing.

In the meantime we will return to Beechcroft, where Emily’s request respecting her letter had occasioned some discussion between the little girls, as they returned from a walk with Marianne.  Phyllis thought that Emily meant them to wafer the letter, since they were under strict orders never to touch fire or candle; but Ada argued that they were to seal it, and that permission to light a candle was implied in the order.  At last, Phyllis hoped the matter might be settled by asking Maurice to seal the letter, and meeting him at the front door, she began, in fortunately, with ‘Please, Maurice—’

‘I never listen to anything beginning with please,’ said Maurice, who was in a great hurry, ‘only don’t touch my powder.’

Away he went, deaf to all his sister’s shouts of ‘Maurice, Maurice,’ and they went in, Ada not sorry to be unheard, as she was bent on the grand exploit of lighting a lucifer match, but Phyllis still pleading for the wafer.  They found the schoolroom strewed with Maurice’s preparations for fireworks, and Emily’s letter on the chimney-piece.

‘Let us take the letter downstairs, and put on a wafer,’ said Phyllis.  ‘Won’t you come, Ada?’

‘No, the stamps are here, and so are the matches, I can do it easily.’

‘But Ada, Ada, it would be naughty.  Only wait, and I will show you such a pretty wafer that I know of in the drawing-room.  I will run and fetch it.’

Phyllis went, and Ada stood a few moments in doubt, looking at the letter.  The recollection of duty was not strong enough to balance the temptation, and she took up a match and drew it along the sandpaper.  It did not light—a second pull, and the flame appeared more suddenly than she had expected, while at the same moment the lock of the door turned, and fancying it was Maurice, she started, and dropped the match.  Phyllis opened the door, heard a loud explosion and a scream, saw a bright flash and a cloud of smoke.  She started back, but the next moment again opened the door, and ran forward.  Hannah rushed in at the same time, and caught up Ada, who had fallen to the ground.  A light in the midst of the smoke made Phyllis turn, and she beheld the papers on the table on fire.  Maurice’s powder-horn was in the midst, but the flames had not yet reached it, and, mindful of Claude’s story, she sprung forward, caught it up, and dashed it through the window; she felt the glow of the fire upon her cheek, and stood still as if stunned, till Hannah carried Ada out of the room, and screamed to her to come away, and call Joseph.  The table was now one sheet of flame, and Phyllis flew to the pantry, where she gave the summons in almost inaudible tones.  The servants hurried to the spot, and she was left alone and bewildered; she ran hither and thither in confusion, till she met Hannah, eagerly asking for Master Maurice, and saying that the surgeon must be instantly sent for, as Ada’s face and neck were badly burnt.  Phyllis ran down, calling Maurice, and at length met him at the front door, looking much frightened, and asking for Ada.

‘Oh!  Maurice, her face and neck are burnt, and badly.  She does scream?’

‘Did I not tell you not to meddle with the powder?’ said Maurice.

‘Indeed, I could not help it,’ said Phyllis.

‘Stuff and nonsense!  It is very well that you have not killed Ada, and I think that would have made you sorry.’

Phyllis with difficulty mentioned Hannah’s desire that a surgeon should be sent for: Maurice went to look for Ben, and she followed him.  Then he began asking how she had done the mischief.

‘I do not know,’ said she, ‘I do not much think I did it.’

‘Mind, you can’t humbug me.  Did you not say that you touched the powder?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘No buts,’ said Maurice, making the most of his brief authority.  ‘I hate false excuses.  What were you doing when it exploded?’

‘Coming into the room.’

‘Oh! that accounts for it,’ said Maurice, ‘the slightest vibration causes an explosion of that sort of rocket, and of course it was your bouncing into the room!  You have had a lesson against rushing about the house.  Come, though, cheer up, Phyl, it is a bad business, but it might have been worse; you will know better next time.  Don’t cry, Phyl, I will explain to you all about the patent rocket.’

‘But do you really think that I blew up Ada?’

‘Blew up Ada! caused the powder to ignite.  The inflammable matter—’

As he spoke he followed Phyllis to the nursery, and there was so much shocked, that he could no longer lord it over her, but shrinking back, shut himself up in his room, and bolted the door.

Nearly an hour passed away before the arrival of Emily, Jane, and Mr. Saunders.  Phyllis ran down, and meeting them at the door, exclaimed, ‘Oh! Emily, poor Ada!  I am so sorry.’

The sisters hurried past her to the nursery, where Ada was lying on the bed, half undressed, and her face, neck, and arm such a spectacle that Emily turned away, ready to faint.  Mr. Saunders was summoned, and Phyllis thrust out of the room.  She sat down on the step of the stairs, resting her forehead on her knees, and trembling, listened to the sounds of voices, and the screams which now and then reached her ears.  After a time she was startled by hearing herself called from the stairs by below a voice which she had not heard for many weeks, and springing up, saw Mr. Devereux leaning on the banisters.  The great change in his appearance frightened her almost as much as the accident itself, and she stood looking at him without speaking.  ‘Phyllis,’ said he, in a voice hoarse with agitation, ‘what is it? tell me at once.’

She could not speak, and her wild and frightened air might well give him great alarm.  She pointed to the nursery, and put her finger to her lips, and he, beckoning to her to follow him, went downstairs, and turning into the drawing-room, said, as he sank down upon the sofa, ‘Now, Phyllis, what has happened?’

‘The gunpowder—I made it go off, and it has burnt poor Ada’s face!  Mr. Saunders is there, and she screams—’

Phyllis finding herself ready to roar, left off speaking, and laying her head on the table, burst into an agony of crying, while Mr. Devereux was too much exhausted to address her; at last she exclaimed: ‘I hear the nursery door; he is going!’

She flew to the door, and listened, and then called out, ‘Emily, Jane, here is Cousin Robert!’

Jane came down, leaving Emily to finish hearing Mr. Saunders’s directions.  She was even more shocked at her cousin’s looks than Phyllis had been, and though she tried to speak cheerfully, her manner scarcely agreed with her words.  ‘It is all well, Robert, I am sorry you have been so frightened.  It is but a slight affair, though it looks so shocking.  There is no danger.  But, oh, Robert! you ought not to be here.  What shall we do for you? you are quite knocked up.’

‘Oh! no,’ said Mr. Devereux, ‘I am only a little out of breath.  A terrible report came to me, and I set off to learn the truth.  I should like to hear what Mr. Saunders says of her.’