Scenes and Characters, or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft

‘Do I know her face?’ said Claude.  ‘Oh yes!  I do.  She has black eyes, I think, and would be pretty if she did not look pert.’

‘You provoking Claude!’ cried Lily, ‘you are as bad as Alethea, who never will say that Esther is the best person for us.’

‘I was going to inquire for the all-for-love principle,’ said Claude, ‘but I see it is in full force.  And how are the verses, Lily?  Have you made a poem upon Michael Moone, or Mohun, the actor, our uncle, whom I discovered for you in Pepys’s Memoirs?’

‘Nonsense,’ said Lily; ‘but I have been writing something about Sir Maurice, which you shall hear whenever you are not in this horrid temper.’

The next afternoon, as soon as luncheon was over, Lily drew Claude out to his favourite place under the plane-tree, where she proceeded to inflict her poem upon his patient ears, while he lay flat upon the grass looking up to the sky; Emily and Jane had promised to join them there in process of time, and the four younger ones were, as usual, diverting themselves among the farm buildings at the Old Court.

Lily began: ‘I meant to have two parts about Sir Maurice going out to fight when he was very young, and then about his brothers being killed, and King Charles knighting him, and his betrothed, Phyllis Crossthwayte, embroidering his black engrailed cross on his banner, and then the taking the castle, and his being wounded, and escaping, and Phyllis not thinking it right to leave her father; but I have not finished that, so now you must hear about his return home.’

‘A romaunt in six cantos, entitled Woe woe,By Miss Fanny F. known more commonly so,’

muttered Claude to himself; but as Lily did not understand or know whence his quotation came, it did not hurt her feelings, and she went merrily on:—

‘’Tis the twenty-ninth of merry May;Full cheerily shine the sunbeams to-day,   Their joyous light revealingFull many a troop in garments gay,With cheerful steps who take their way   By the green hill and shady lane,While merry bells are pealing;   And soon in Beechcroft’s holy faneThe villagers are kneeling.Dreary and mournful seems the shrineWhere sound their prayers and hymns divine;   For every mystic ornament   By the rude spoiler’s hand is rent;   Scarce is its ancient beauty traced   In wood-work broken and defaced,   Reft of each quaint device and rare,   Of foliage rich and mouldings fair;   Yet happy is each spirit there;      The simple peasantry rejoice   To see the altar decked with care,      To hear their ancient Pastor’s voice   Reciting o’er each well-known prayer,   To view again his robe of white,   And hear the services aright;   Once more to chant their glorious Creed,   And thankful own their nation freed   From those who cast her glories down,   And rent away her Cross and Crown.   A stranger knelt among the crowd,   And joined his voice in praises loud,   And when the holy rites had ceased,   Held converse with the aged Priest,   Then turned to join the village feast,   Where, raised on the hill’s summit green,   The Maypole’s flowery wreaths were seen;   Beneath the venerable yew   The stranger stood the sports to view,   Unmarked by all, for each was bent   On his own scheme of merriment,   On talking, laughing, dancing, playing—   There never was so blithe a Maying.   So thought each laughing maiden gay,   Whose head-gear bore the oaken spray;   So thought that hand of shouting boys,   Unchecked in their best joy—in noise;   But gray-haired men, whose deep-marked scars   Bore token of the civil wars,   And hooded dames in cloaks of red,   At the blithe youngsters shook the head,   Gathering in eager clusters told   How joyous were the days of old,   When Beechcroft’s lords, those Barons bold,   Came forth to join their vassals’ sport,   And here to hold their rustic court,   Throned in the ancient chair you see   Beneath our noble old yew tree.   Alas! all empty stands the throne,   Reserved for Mohun’s race alone,   And the old folks can only tell   Of the good lords who ruled so well.   “Ah!  I bethink me of the time,   The last before those years of crime,   When with his open hearty cheer,   The good old squire was sitting here.”   “’Twas then,” another voice replied,   “That brave young Master Maurice tried   To pitch the ball with Andrew Grey—   We ne’er shall see so blithe a day—      All the young squires have long been dead.”   “No, Master Webb,” quoth Andrew Grey,      “Young Master Maurice safely fled,   At least so all the Greenwoods say,   And Walter Greenwood with him went   To share his master’s banishment;   And now King Charles is ruling here,   Our own good landlord may be near.”   “Small hope of that,” the old man said,   And sadly shook his hoary head,   “Sir Maurice died beyond the sea,   Last of his noble line was he.”   “Look, Master Webb!” he turned, and there   The stranger sat in Mohun’s chair;   At ease he sat, and smiled to scan   The face of each astonished man;   Then on the ground he laid aside   His plumed hat and mantle wide.   One moment, Andrew deemed he knew   Those glancing eyes of hazel hue,   But the sunk cheek, the figure spare,   The lines of white that streak the hair—   How can this he the stripling gay,   Erst, victor in the sports of May?   Full twenty years of cheerful toil,   And labour on his native soil,   On Andrew’s head had left no trace—      The summer’s sun, the winter’s storm,   They had but ruddier made his face,      More hard his hand, more strong his form.   Forth from the wandering, whispering crowd,   A farmer came, and spoke aloud,   With rustic bow and welcome fair,   But with a hesitating air—   He told how custom well preserved   The throne for Mohun’s race reserved;   The stranger laughed, “What, Harrington,   Hast thou forgot thy landlord’s son?”   Loud was the cry, and blithe the shout,   On Beechcroft hill that now rang out,   And still remembered is the day,   That merry twenty-ninth of May,   When to his father’s home returned   That knight, whose glory well was earned.   In poverty and banishment,   His prime of manhood had been spent,   A wanderer, scorned by Charles’s court,   One faithful servant his support.   And now, he seeks his home forlorn,   Broken in health, with sorrow worn.   And two short years just passed away,   Between that joyous meeting-day,   And the sad eve when Beechcroft’s bell   Tolled forth Sir Maurice’s funeral knell;And Phyllis, whose love was so constant and tried,Was a widow the year she was Maurice’s bride;Yet the path of the noble and true-hearted knight,Was brilliant with honour, and glory, and light,And still his descendants shall sing of the fameOf Sir Maurice de Mohun, the pride of his name.’

‘It is a pity they should sing of it in such lines as those last four,’ said Claude.  ‘Let me see, I like your bringing in the real names, though I doubt whether any but Greenwood could have been found here.’

‘Oh! here come Emily and Jane,’ said Lily, ‘let me put it away.’

‘You are very much afraid of Jane,’ said Claude.

‘Yes, Jane has no feeling for poetry,’ said Lily, with simplicity, which made her brother smile.

Jane and Emily now came up, the former with her work, the latter with a camp-stool and a book.  ‘I wonder,’ said she, ‘where those boys are!  By the bye, what character did they bring home from school?’

‘The same as usual,’ said Claude.  ‘Maurice’s mind only half given to his work, and Redgie’s whole mind to his play.’

‘Maurice’s talent does not lie in the direction of Latin and Greek,’ said Emily.

‘No,’ said Jane, ‘it is nonsense to make him learn it, and so he says.’

‘Perhaps he would say the same of mathematics and mechanics, if as great a point were made of them,’ said Lily.

‘I think not,’ said Claude; ‘he has more notion of them than of Latin verses.’

‘Then you are on my side,’ said Jane, triumphantly.

‘Did I say so?’ said Claude.

‘Why not?’ said Jane.  ‘What is the use of his knowing those stupid languages?  I am sure it is wasting time not to improve such a genius as he has for mechanics and natural history.  Now, Claude, I wish you would answer.’

‘I was waiting till you had done,’ said Claude.

‘Why do you not think it nonsense?’ persisted Jane.

‘Because I respect my father’s opinion,’ said Claude, letting himself fall on the grass, as if he had done with the subject.

‘Pooh!’ said Jane, ‘that sounds like a good little boy of five years old!’

‘Very likely,’ said Claude.

‘But you have some opinion of your own,’ said Lily.

‘Certainly.’

‘Then I wish you would give it,’ said Jane.

‘Come, Emily,’ said Claude, ‘have you brought anything to read?’

‘But your opinion, Claude,’ said Jane.  ‘I am sure you think with me, only you are too grand, and too correct to say so.’

Claude made no answer, but Jane saw she was wrong by his countenance; before she could say anything more, however, they were interrupted by a great outcry from the Old Court regions.

‘Oh,’ said Emily, ‘I thought it was a long time since we had heard anything of those uproarious mortals.’

‘I hope there is nothing the matter,’ said Lily.

‘Oh no,’ said Jane, ‘I hear Redgie’s laugh.’

‘Aye, but among that party,’ said Emily, ‘Redgie’s laugh is not always a proof of peace: they are too much in the habit of acting the boys and the frogs.’

‘We were better off,’ said Lily, ‘with the gentle Claude, as Miss Middleton used to call him.’

‘Miss Molly, as William used to call him with more propriety,’ said Claude, ‘not half so well worth playing with as such a fellow as Redgie.’

‘Not even for young ladies?’ said Emily.

‘No, Phyllis and Ada are much the better for being teased,’ said Claude.  ‘I am convinced that I never did my duty by you in that respect.’

‘There were others to do it for you,’ said Jane.

‘Harry never teased,’ said Emily, ‘and William scorned us.’

‘His teasing was all performed upon Claude,’ said Lily, ‘and a great shame it was.’

‘Not at all,’ said Claude, ‘only an injudicious attempt to put a little life into a tortoise.’

‘A bad comparison,’ said Lily; ‘but what is all this?  Here come the children in dismay!  What is the matter, my dear child?’

This was addressed to Phyllis, who was the first to come up at full speed, sobbing, and out of breath, ‘Oh, the dragon-fly!  Oh, do not let him kill it!’

‘The dragon-fly, the poor dear blue dragon-fly!’ screamed Adeline, hiding her face in Emily’s lap, ‘Oh, do not let him kill it! he is holding it; he is hurting it!  Oh, tell him not!’

‘I caught it,’ said Phyllis, ‘but not to have it killed.  Oh, take it away!’

‘A fine rout, indeed, you chicken,’ said Reginald; ‘I know a fellow who ate up five horse-stingers one morning before breakfast.’

‘Stingers!’ said Phyllis, ‘they do not sting anything, pretty creatures.’

‘I told you I would catch the old pony and put it on him to try,’ said Reginald.

In the meantime, Maurice came up at his leisure, holding his prize by the wings.  ‘Look what a beautiful Libellulla Puella,’ said he to Jane.

‘A demoiselle dragon-fly,’ said Lily; ‘what a beauty! what are you going to do with it?’

‘Put it into my museum,’ said Maurice.  ‘Here, Jane, put it under this flower-pot, and take care of it, while I fetch something to kill it with.’

‘Oh, Maurice, do not!’ said Emily.

‘One good squeeze,’ said Reginald.  ‘I will do it.’

‘How came you be so cruel?’ said Lily.

‘No, a squeeze will not do,’ said Maurice; ‘it would spoil its beauty; I must put it ever the fumes of carbonic acid.’

‘Maurice, you really must not,’ said Emily.

‘Now do not, dear Maurice,’ said Ada, ‘there’s a dear boy; I will give you such a kiss.’

‘Nonsense; get out of the way,’ said Maurice, turning away.

‘Now, Maurice, this is most horrid cruelty,’ said Lily; ‘what right have you to shorten the brief, happy life which—’

‘Well,’ interrupted Maurice, ‘if you make such a fuss about killing it, I will stick a pin through it into a cork, and let it shift for itself.’

Poor Phyllis ran away to the other end of the garden, sat down and sobbed, Ada screamed and argued, Emily complained, Lily exhorted Claude to interfere, while Reginald stood laughing.

‘Such useless cruelty,’ said Emily.

‘Useless!’ said Maurice.  ‘Pray how is any one to make a collection of natural objects without killing things?’

‘I do not see the use of a collection,’ said Lily; ‘you can examine the creatures and let them go.’

‘Such a young lady’s tender-hearted notion,’ said Reginald.

‘Who ever heard of a man of science managing in such a ridiculous way?’

‘Man of science!’ exclaimed Lily, ‘when he will have forgotten by next Christmas that insects ever existed.’

It was not convenient to hear this speech, so Maurice turned an empty flower-pot over his prisoner, and left it in Jane’s care while he went to fetch the means of destruction, probably choosing the lawn for the place of execution, in order to show his contempt for his sisters.

‘Fair damsel in boddice blue,’ said Lily, peeping in at the hole at the top of the flower-pot, ‘I wish I could avert your melancholy fate.  I am very sorry for you, but I cannot help it.’

‘You might help it now, at any rate,’ muttered Claude.

‘No,’ said Lily, ‘I know Monsieur Maurice too well to arouse his wrath so justly.  If you choose to release the pretty creature, I shall be charmed.’

‘You forget that I am in charge,’ said Jane.

‘There is a carriage coming to the front gate,’ cried Ada.  ‘Emily, may I go into the drawing-room?  Oh, Jenny, will you undo my brown holland apron?’

‘That is right, little mincing Miss,’ said Reginald, with a low bow; ‘how fine we are to-day.’

‘How visitors break into the afternoon,’ said Emily, with a languid turn of her head.

‘Jenny, brownie,’ called Maurice from his bedroom window, ‘I want the sulphuric acid.’

Jane sprang up and ran into the house, though her sisters called after her, that she would come full upon the company in the hall.

‘They shall not catch me here,’ cried Reginald, rushing off into the shrubbery.

‘Are you coming in, Claude?’ said Emily.

‘Send Ada to call me, if there is any one worth seeing,’ said Claude

‘They will see you from the window,’ said Emily.

‘No,’ said Claude, ‘no one ever found me out last summer, under these friendly branches.’

The old butler, Joseph, now showed himself on the terrace; and the young ladies, knowing that he had no intention of crossing the lawn, hastened to learn from him who their visitors were, and entered the house.  Just then Phyllis came running back from the kitchen garden, and without looking round, or perceiving Claude, she took up the flower-pot and released the captive, which, unconscious of its peril, rested on a blade of grass, vibrating its gauzy wings and rejoicing in the restored sunbeams.

‘Fly away, fly away, you pretty creature,’ said Phyllis; ‘make haste, or Maurice will come and catch you again.  I wish I had not given you such a fright.  I thought you would have been killed, and a pin stuck all through that pretty blue and black body of yours.  Oh! that would be dreadful.  Make haste and go away!  I would not have caught you, you beautiful thing, if I had known what he wanted to do.  I thought he only wanted to look at your beautiful body, like a little bit of the sky come down to look at the flowers, and your delicate wings, and great shining eyes.  Oh! I am very glad God made you so beautiful.  Oh! there is Maurice coming.  I must blow upon you to make you go.  Oh, that is right—up quite high in the air—quite safe,’ and she clapped her hands as the dragon-fly rose in the air, and disappeared behind the laurels, just as Maurice and Reginald emerged from the shrubbery, the former with a bottle in his hand.

‘Well, where is the Libellulla?’ said he.

‘The dragon-fly?’ said Phyllis.  ‘I let it out.’

‘Sold, Maurice!’ cried Reginald, laughing at his brother’s disaster.

‘Upon my word, Phyl, you are very kind!’ said Maurice, angrily.  ‘If I had known you were such an ill-natured crab—’

‘Oh!  Maurice dear, don’t say so,’ exclaimed Phyllis.  ‘I thought I might let it out because I caught it myself; and I told you I did not catch it for you to kill; Maurice, indeed, I am sorry I vexed you.’

‘What else did you do it for?’ said Maurice.  ‘It is horrid not to be able to leave one’s things a minute—’

‘But I did not know the dragon-fly belonged to you, Maurice,’ said Phyllis.

‘That is a puzzler, Mohun senior,’ said Reginald.

‘Now, Redgie, do get Maurice to leave off being angry with me,’ implored his sister.

‘I will leave off being angry,’ said Maurice, seeing his advantage, ‘if you will promise never to let out my things again.’

‘I do not think I can promise,’ said Phyllis.

‘O yes, you can,’ said Reginald, ‘you know they are not his.’

‘Promise you will not let out any insects I may get,’ said Maurice, ‘or I shall say you are as cross as two sticks.’

‘I’ll tell you what, Maurice,’ said Phyllis, ‘I do wish you would not make me promise, for I do not think I can keep it, for I cannot bear to see the beautiful live things killed.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Maurice, fiercely, ‘I am very angry indeed, you naughty child; promise—’

‘I cannot,’ said Phyllis, beginning to cry.

‘Then,’ said Maurice, ‘I will not speak to you all day.’

‘No, no,’ shouted Reginald, ‘we will only treat her like the horse-stinger; you wanted a puella, Maurice—here is one for you, here, give her a dose of the turpentine.’

‘Yes,’ said Maurice, advancing with his bottle; ‘and do you take the poker down to Naylor’s to be sharpened, it will just do to stick through her back.  Oh! no, not Naylor’s—the girls have made a hash there, as they do everything else; but we will settle her before they come out again.’

Phyllis screamed and begged for mercy—her last ally had deserted her.

‘Promise!’ cried the boys.

‘Oh, don’t!’ was all her answer.

Reginald caught her and held her fast, Maurice advanced upon her, she struggled, and gave a scream of real terror.  The matter was no joke to any one but Reginald, for Maurice was very angry and really meant to frighten her.

‘Hands off, boys, I will not have her bullied,’ said Claude, half rising.

Maurice gave a violent start, Reginald looked round laughing, and exclaimed, ‘Who would have thought of Claude sneaking there?’ and Phyllis ran to the protecting arm, which he stretched out.  To her great surprise, he drew her to him, and kissed her forehead, saying, ‘Well done, Phyl!’

‘Oh, I knew he was not going to hurt me,’ said Phyllis, still panting from the struggle.

‘To be sure not,’ said Maurice, ‘I only meant to have a little fun.’

Claude, with his arm still round his sister’s waist, gave Maurice a look, expressing, ‘Is that the truth?’ and Reginald tumbled head over heels, exclaiming, ‘I would not have been Phyl just them.’

Ada now came running up to them, saying, ‘Maurice and Redgie, you are to come in; Mr. and Mrs. Burnet heard your voices, and begged to see you, because they never saw you last holidays.’

‘More’s the pity they should see us now,’ said Maurice.

‘I shall not go,’ said Reginald.

‘Papa is there, and he sent for you,’ said Ada.

‘Plague,’ was the answer.

‘See what you get by making such a row,’ said Claude.  ‘If you had been as orderly members of society as I am—’

‘Oh, but Claude,’ said Ada, ‘papa told me to see if I could find you.  Dear Claude, I wish,’ she proceeded, taking his hand, and looking engaging, ‘I wish you would put your arm round me as you do round Phyl.’

‘You are not worth it, Ada,’ said Reginald, and Claude did not contradict him.

CHAPTER VIII

THE BROTHERS

‘But smiled to hear the creatures he had knownSo long were now in class and order shown—Genus and species.  “Is it meet,” said he,“This creature’s name should one so sounding be—’Tis but a fly, though first-born of the spring,Bombylius Majus, dost thou call the thing?”

It was not till Sunday, that Lily’s eager wish was fulfilled, of introducing her friend and her brothers; but, as she might have foreseen, their first meeting did not make the perfections of either party very clear to the other.  Claude never spoke to strangers more than he could help, Maurice and Reginald were in the room only a short time; so that the result of Miss Weston’s observations, when communicated in reply to Lily’s eager inquiries, was only that Claude was very like his father and eldest brother, Reginald very handsome, and Maurice looked like a very funny fellow.

On Monday, Reginald and Maurice were required to learn what they had always refused to acknowledge, that the holidays were not intended to be spent in idleness.  A portion of each morning was to be devoted to study, Claude having undertaken the task of tutor—and hard work he found it; and much did Lily pity him, when, as not unfrequently happened, the summons to the children’s dinner would bring him from the study, looking thoroughly fagged—Maurice in so sulky a mood that he would hardly deign to open his lips—Reginald talking fast enough, indeed, but only to murmur at his duties in terms, which, though they made every one laugh, were painful to hear.  Then Claude would take his brothers back to the study, and not appear for an hour or more, and when he did come forth, it was with a bad headache.  Sometimes, as if to show that it was only through their own fault that their tasks were wearisome, one or both boys would finish quite early, when Reginald would betake himself to the schoolroom and employ his idle time in making it nearly impossible for Ada and Phyllis to learn, by talking, laughing, teasing the canary, overturning everything in pursuing wasps, making Emily fretful by his disobedience, and then laughing at her, and, in short, proving his right to the title he had given himself at the end of the only letter he had written since he first went to school, and which he had subscribed, ‘Your affectionate bother, R. Mohun.’  So that, for their own sake, all would have preferred the inattentive mornings.

Lily often tried to persuade Claude to allow her to tell her father how troublesome the boys were, but never with any effect.  He once took up a book he had been using with them, and pointing to the name in the first page, in writing, which Lily knew full well, ‘Henry Mohun,’ she perceived that he meant to convince her that it was useless to try to dissuade him, as he thought the patience and forbearance his brother had shown to him must be repaid by his not shrinking from the task he had imposed upon himself with his young brothers, though he was often obliged to sit up part of the night to pursue his own studies.

If Claude had rather injudiciously talked too much to Lilias of ‘her principle,’ and thus kept it alive in her mind, yet his example might have made its fallacy evident.  She believed that what she called love had been the turning point in his character, that it had been his earnest desire to follow in Henry’s steps, and so try to comfort his father for his loss, that had roused him from his indolence; but she was beginning to see that nothing but a sense of duty could have kept up the power of that first impulse for six years.  Lily began to enter a little into his principle, and many things that occurred during these holidays made her mistrust her former judgment.  She saw that without the unvarying principle of right and wrong, fraternal love itself would fail in outward acts and words.  Forbearance, though undeniably a branch of love, could not exist without constant remembrance of duty; and which of them did not sometimes fail in kindness, meekness, and patience?  Did Emily show that softness, which was her most agreeable characteristic, in her whining reproofs—in her complaints that ‘no one listened to a word she said’—in her refusal to do justice even to those who had vainly been seeking for peace?  Did Lily herself show any of her much valued love, by the sharp manner in which she scolded the boys for roughness towards herself? or for language often used by them on purpose to make her displeasure a matter of amusement?  She saw that her want of command of temper was a failure both in love and duty, and when irritated, the thought of duty came sooner to her aid than the feeling of love.

And Maurice and Reginald were really very provoking.  Maurice loved no amusement better than teasing his sisters, and this was almost the only thing in which Reginald agreed with him.  Reginald was affectionate, but too reckless and violent not to be very troublesome, and he too often flew into a passion if Maurice attempted to laugh at him; the little girls were often frightened and made unhappy; Phyllis would scream and roar, and Ada would come sobbing to Emily, to be comforted after some rudeness of Reginald’s.  It was not very often that quarrels went so far, but many a time in thought, word, and deed was the rule of love transgressed, and more than once did Emily feel ready to give up all her dignity, to have Eleanor’s hand over the boys once more.  Claude, finding that he could do much to prevent mischief, took care not to leave the two boys long together with the elder girls.  They were far more inoffensive when separate, as Maurice never practised his tormenting tricks when no one was present to laugh with him, and Reginald was very kind to Phyllis and Ada, although somewhat rude.