Scenes and Characters, or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft

Loud voices and laughter in the hall, and the front door creaking on its hinges at sunrise, convinced the household that this was no vain boast; before breakfast was quite over the fishermen were seen approaching the house.  Lord Rotherwood was an extraordinary figure, in an old shooting jacket of his uncle’s, an enormous pair of fishing-boots of William’s, and the broad-brimmed straw hat, which always hung up in the hall, and was not claimed by any particular owner.

Maurice displayed to Jane the contents of two phials, strange little creatures, with stranger names, of which he was as proud as Reginald of his three fine trout.  Lord Rotherwood did not appear till he had made himself look like other people, which he did in a surprisingly short time.  He began estimating the weight of the fish, and talking at his most rapid rate, till at last Claude said, ‘Phyllis told us just now that you were coming back, for that she heard Cousin Rotherwood talking, and it proved to be Jane’s old turkey cock gobbling.’

‘No bad compliment,’ said Emily, ‘for Phyllis was once known to say, on hearing a turkey cock, “How melodiously that nightingale sings.”’

‘No, no! that was Ada,’ said Lilias.

‘I could answer for that,’ said Claude.  ‘Phyllis is too familiar with both parties to mistake their notes.  Besides, she never was known to use such a word as melodiously.’

‘Do you remember,’ said the Marquis, ‘that there was some great lawyer who had three kinds of handwriting, one that the public could read, one that only his clerk could read, and one that nobody could read?’

‘I suppose I am the clerk,’ said Claude, ‘unless I divide the honour with Florence.’

‘I do not think I am unintelligible anywhere but here,’ said Lord Rotherwood.  ‘There is nothing sufficiently exciting at home, if Grosvenor Square is to be called home.’

‘Sometimes you do it without knowing it,’ said Lily.

‘Yes,’ said Claude, ‘when you do not exactly know what you are going to say.’

‘Then it is no bad plan,’ said Lord Rotherwood.  ‘People are satisfied, and you don’t commit yourself.’

‘I’ll tell you what, Cousin Rotherwood,’ exclaimed Phyllis, ‘your hand is bleeding.’

‘Is it?  Thank you, Phyllis, I thought I had washed it off: now do find me some sealing-wax—India-rub her—sticking-plaster, I mean.’

‘Oh!  Rotherwood,’ said Emily, ‘what a bad cut, how did it happen?’

‘Only, I am the victim to Maurice’s first essay in fishing.’

‘Just fancy what an awkward fellow Maurice is,’ said Reginald, ‘he had but one throw, and he managed to stick the hook into Rotherwood’s hand.’

‘One of those barbed hooks?  Oh! Rotherwood, how horrid!’ said Emily.

‘And he cut it out with his knife, and caught that great trout with it directly,’ said Reginald.

‘And neither half drowned Maurice, nor sent him home again?’ asked Lily.

‘I contented myself with taking away his weapon,’ said the Marquis; ‘and he wished for nothing better than to poke about in the gutters for insects; it was only Redgie that teased him into the nobler sport.’

Emily was inclined to make a serious matter of the accident, but her cousin said ten words while she said one, and by the time her first sentence was uttered, she found him talking about his ride to Devereux Castle.

He and Claude set out as soon as breakfast was over, and came back about three o’clock; Claude was tired with the heat, and betook himself to the sofa, where he fell asleep, under pretence of reading, but the indefatigable Marquis was ready and willing to set out with Reginald and Wat Greenwood to shoot rabbits.

Dinner-time came, and Emily sat at the drawing-room window with Claude and Lilias, lamenting her cousin’s bad habits.  ‘Nothing will ever make him punctual,’ said she.

‘I am in duty bound to let you say nothing against him,’ said Claude.

‘It is very good-natured in him to wait for you,’ said Lily, ‘but it would be horribly selfish to leave you behind.’

‘Delay is his great horror,’ said Claude, ‘and the wonder of his character is, that he is not selfish.  No one had ever better training for it.’

‘He does like his own way very much,’ said Lilias.

‘Who does not?’ said Claude.

‘Nothing shows his sense so much,’ said Emily, ‘as his great attachment to papa—the only person who ever controlled him.’

‘And to Claude—his opposite in everything,’ said Lilias.

‘I think he will tire you to death in Germany,’ said Emily.

‘Never fear,’ said Claude, ‘my vis inertiæ is enough to counterbalance any amount of restlessness.’

‘Here they come,’ said Lily; ‘how Wat Greenwood is grinning at Rotherwood’s jokes!’

‘A happy day for Wat,’ said Emily.  ‘He will be quite dejected if William is not at home next shooting season.  He thinks you a degenerate Mohun, Claude.’

‘He must comfort himself with Redgie,’ said Claude.

‘Rotherwood is only eager about shooting in common with everything else,’ said Lily, ‘but Redgie, I fear, will care for nothing else.’

Lord Rotherwood came in, accounting for being late, as, in passing through a harvest field, he could not help attempting to reap.  The Beechcroft farming operations had been his especial amusement from very early days, and his plans were numerous for farming on a grand scale as soon as he should be of age.  His talk during dinner was of turnips and wheat, till at length Mr. Mohun asked him what he thought of the appearance of the castle.  He said it was very forlorn; the rooms looked so dreary and deserted that he could not bear to be in them, and had been out of doors almost all the time.  Indeed, he was afraid he had disappointed the housekeeper by not complimenting her as she deserved, for the freezing dismal order in which she kept everything.  ‘And really,’ said he, ‘I must go again to-morrow and make up for it, and Emily, you must come with me and try to devise something to make the unhappy place less like the abode of the Prince of the Black Islands.’

Emily willingly promised to go, and she went on talking to him, and telling him whom he was to meet on the next day, when an unusual silence making her look up, she beheld him more than half asleep.

Reginald fidgeted and sighed, and Maurice grew graver and graver as they thought of the wasps.  Maurice wanted to take a nest entire, and began explaining his plan to Claude.

‘You see, Claude, burning some straw and then digging, spoils the combs, as Wat does it; now I have got some puff-balls and sulphur to put into the hole, and set fire to them with a lucifer match, so as to stifle the wasps, and then dig them out quietly to-morrow morning.’

‘It is all of no use, if that Rotherwood will do nothing but sleep,’ said Reginald, in a disconsolate tone.

‘You should not have made him get up at four,’ said Emily.

‘Who!  I?’ exclaimed the Marquis.  ‘I never was wider awake.  What are you waiting for, Reginald?  I thought you were going to take wasps’ nests.’

‘You are much too tired, I am sure,’ said Emily.

‘Tired! not in the least, I have done nothing to-day to tire me,’ said Lord Rotherwood, walking up and down the room to keep himself awake.

The whole party went out, and found Wat Greenwood waiting for them with a bundle of straw, a spade, and a little gunpowder.  Maurice carried a basket containing all his preparations, on which Wat looked with supreme contempt, telling him that his puffs were too green to make a smeech.  Maurice, not condescending to argue the point, ran on to a nest which Reginald had marked on one of the green banks of the ancient moat.

‘Take care that the wasps are all come in; mind what you are about, Maurice,’ called his father.

‘Master Maurice,’ shouted Wat, ‘you had better take a green bough.’

‘Never mind, Wat,’ said Lord Rotherwood, ‘he would not stay long enough to use it if he had it.’

Reginald ran after Maurice, who had just reached the nest.

‘There is one coming in, the evening is so warm they are not quiet yet.’

‘I’ll quiet them,’ said Maurice, kneeling down, and putting his first puff-ball into the hole.

Reginald stood by with a sly smile, as he pulled a branch off a neighbouring filbert-tree.  The next moment Maurice gave a sudden yell, ‘The wasps! the wasps!’ and jumping up, and tripping at his first step, rolled down the bank, and landed safely at Lord Rotherwood’s feet.  The shouts of laughter were loud, but he regarded them not, and as soon as he recovered his feet, rushed past his sisters, and never stopped till he reached the house.  Redgie stood alone, in the midst of a cloud of wasps, beating them off with a bough, roaring with laughter, and calling Wat to bring the straw to burn them.

‘No, no, Redgie, come away, leave them for Maurice to try again,’ said his father.

‘The brute, he stung me,’ cried Reginald, knocking down a wasp or two as he came down.  ‘What is this?’ added he, as he stumbled over something at the bottom of the slope.  ‘Oh!  Maurice’s basket; look here—laudanum—did he mean to poison the wasps?’

‘No,’ said Jane, ‘to cure their stings.’

‘The poor unhappy quiz!’ cried Reginald.

While the others were busy over a nest, Mr. Mohun asked Emily how the boy got at the medicine chest.  Emily looked confused, and said she supposed Jane had given him a bottle.

‘Jane is too young to be trusted there,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I thought you knew better; do not let the key be out of your possession again.’

After a few more nests had been taken in the usual manner, they returned to the house.  Maurice was lying on the sofa reading the Penny Magazine, from which he raised his eyes no more that evening, in spite of all the jokes which flew about respecting wounded knights, courage, and the balsam of Fierabras.  He called Jane to teach her how flies were made, and as soon as tea was over he went to bed.  Reginald, after many yawns, prepared to follow his example, and as he was wishing his sisters good-night, Emily said, ‘Now, Redgie, do not go out at such a preposterous hour to-morrow morning.’

‘What is that to you?’ was Reginald’s courteous inquiry.

‘I do not wish to see every one fast asleep to-morrow evening,’ said Emily, and she looked at her cousin, whose head was far back over his chair.

‘He is a Trojan,’ said Reginald.

‘Is a Trojan better than a Spartan?’ asked Ada, meditatively.

‘Helen thought so,’ said Claude.

‘“When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war,”’ muttered the Marquis.

‘You are all talking Greek,’ said Jane.

‘Arabic,’ said Claude.

As far as it could be comprehended, Lord Rotherwood’s answer related to Maurice and the wasps.

‘There,’ said Emily, ‘what is to be done if he is in that condition to-morrow?’

‘I am not asleep; what makes you think I am?’

‘I wish you would sit in that great chair,’ said Emily, ‘I am afraid you will break your neck; you look so uncomfortable, I cannot bear to see you.’

‘I never was more comfortable in my life,’ said Lord Rotherwood, asleep while finishing the sentence; but this time, happily with his elbows on the table, and his head in a safer position.

The next day was spent rather more rationally.  Lord Rotherwood met with a book of Irish Tales, with which he became so engrossed that he did not like to leave it when Emily and Claude were ready to ride to Devereux Castle with him.  When there he was equally eager and vehement about each matter that came under consideration, and so many presented themselves, that Emily began to be in agonies lest she should not be at home in time to dress and receive her guests.  They did, however, reach the house before Lilias, who had been walking with Miss Weston, came in, and when she went upstairs, she found Emily full of complaints at the inconvenience of having no Rachel to assist her in dressing, and to see that everything was in order, and that Phyllis was fit to appear when she came down in the evening; but, by the assistance of Lily and Jane, she got over her troubles, and when she went into the drawing-room, she was much relieved to find her two gentlemen quite safe and dressed.  She had been in great fear of Lord Rotherwood’s straying away to join in some of Reginald’s sports, and was grateful to the Irish book for keeping him out of mischief.

Emily was in her glory; it was the first large dinner-party since Eleanor had gone, and though she pitied herself for having the trouble of entertaining the people, she really enjoyed the feeling that she now appeared as the mistress of New Court, with her cousin, the Marquis, by her side, to show how highly she was connected.  And everything went off just as could be wished.  Lord Rotherwood talked intelligibly and sensibly, and Mr. Mohun’s neighbour at dinner had a voice which he could hear.  Lily’s pleasure was not less than her sister’s, though of a different kind.  She delighted in thinking how well Emily did the honours, in watching the varied expression of Lord Rotherwood’s animated countenance, in imagining Claude’s forehead to be finer than that of any one else, and in thinking how people must admire Reginald’s tall, active figure, and very handsome face.  She was asked to play, and did tolerably well, but was too shy to sing, nor, indeed, was Reginald encouraging.  ‘What is the use of your singing, Lily?  If it was like Miss Weston’s, now—’

Reginald had taken a great fancy to Miss Weston; he stood by her all the evening, and afterwards let her talk to him, and then began to chatter himself, at last becoming so confidential as to impart to her the grand object of his ambition, which was to be taller than Claude!

The next morning Lord Rotherwood left Beechcroft, somewhat to Emily’s relief; for though she was very proud of him, and much enjoyed the dignity of being seen to talk familiarly with him, yet, when no strangers were present, and he became no more than an ordinary cousin, she was worried by his incessant activity, and desire to see, know, and do everything as fast and as thoroughly as possible.  She could not see the use of such vehemence; she liked to take things in a moderate way, and as Claude said, much preferred the passive to the active voice.  Claude, on the contrary, was ashamed of his constitutional indolence, looked on it as a temptation, and struggled against it, almost envying his cousin his unabated eagerness and untiring energy, and liking to be with him, because no one else so effectually roused him from his habitual languor.  His indolence was, however, so much the effect of ill health, that exertion was sometimes scarcely in his power, especially in hot weather, and by the time his brothers’ studies were finished each day, he was unfit for anything but to lie on the grass under the plane-tree.

The days glided on, and the holidays came to an end; Maurice spent them in adding to his collection of insects, which, with Jane’s assistance, he arranged very neatly; and Reginald and Phyllis performed several exploits, more agreeable to themselves than satisfactory to the more rational part of the New Court community.  At the same time, Reginald’s devotion to Miss Weston increased; he never moved from her side when she sang, did not fail to be of the party when she walked with his sisters, offered her one of his own puppies, named his little ship ‘Alethea,’ and was even tolerably civil to Marianne.

At length the day of departure came; the boys returned to school, Claude joined Lord Rotherwood, and the New Court was again in a state of tranquillity.

CHAPTER XI

DANCING

‘Prescribe us not our duties.’

‘Well, Phyllis,’ said her father, as he passed through the hall to mount his horse, ‘how do you like the prospect of Monsieur le Roi’s instructions?’

‘Not at all, papa,’ answered Phyllis, running out to the hall door to pat the horse, and give it a piece of bread.

‘Take care you turn out your toes,’ said Mr. Mohun.  ‘You must learn to dance like a dragon before Cousin Rotherwood’s birthday next year.’

‘Papa, how do dragons dance?’

‘That is a question I must decide at my leisure,’ said Mr. Mohun, mounting.  ‘Stand out of the way, Phyl, or you will feel how horses dance.’

Away he rode, while Phyllis turned with unwilling steps to the nursery, to be dressed for her first dancing lesson; Marianne Weston was to learn with her, and this was some consolation, but Phyllis could not share in the satisfaction Adeline felt in the arrival of Monsieur le Roi.  Jane was also a pupil, but Lily, whose recollections of her own dancing days were not agreeable, absented herself entirely from the dancing-room, even though Alethea Weston had come with her sister.

Poor Phyllis danced as awkwardly as was expected, but Adeline seemed likely to be a pupil in whom a master might rejoice; Marianne was very attentive and not ungraceful, but Alethea soon saw reason to regret the arrangement that had been made, for she perceived that Jane considered the master a fair subject for derision, and her ‘nods and becks, and wreathed smiles,’ called up corresponding looks in Marianne’s face.

‘Oh Brownie, you are a naughty thing!’ said Emily, as soon as M. le Roi had departed.

‘He really was irresistible!’ said Jane.

‘I suppose ridicule is one of the disagreeables to which a dancing-master makes up his mind,’ said Alethea.

‘Yes,’ said Jane, ‘one can have no compunction in quizzing that species.’

‘I do not think I can quite say that, Jane,’ said Miss Weston.

‘This man especially lays himself open to ridicule,’ said Jane; ‘do you know, Alethea, that he is an Englishman, and his name is King, only he calls himself Le Roi, and speaks broken English!’

Though Alethea joined in the general laugh, she did not feel quite satisfied; she feared that if not checked in time, Jane would proceed to actual impertinence, and that Marianne would be tempted to follow her example, but she did not like to interfere, and only advised Marianne to be on her guard, hoping that Emily would also speak seriously to her sister.

On the next occasion, however, Jane ventured still farther; her grimaces were almost irresistible, and she had a most comical manner of imitating the master’s attitudes when his eye was not upon her, and putting on a demure countenance when he turned towards her, which sorely tried Marianne.

‘What shall I do, Alethea?’ said the little girl, as the sisters walked home together; ‘I do not know how to help laughing, if Jane will be so very funny.’

‘I am afraid we must ask mamma to let us give up the dancing,’ replied Alethea; ‘the temptation is almost too strong, and I do not think she would wish to expose you to it.’

‘But, Alethea, why do not you speak to Jane?’ asked Marianne; ‘no one seems to tell her it is wrong; Miss Mohun was almost laughing.’

‘I do not think Jane would consider that I ought to find fault with her,’ said Alethea.

‘But you would not scold her,’ urged Marianne; ‘only put her in mind that it is not right, not kind; that Monsieur le Roi is in authority over her for the time.’

‘I will speak to mamma,’ said Alethea, ‘perhaps it will be better next time.’

And it was better, for Mr. Mohun happening to be at home, was dragged into the dancing-room by Emily and Ada.  Once, when she thought he was looking another way, Jane tried to raise a smile, but a stern ‘Jane, what are you thinking of?’ recalled her to order, and when the lesson was over her father spoke gravely to her, telling her that he thought few things more disgusting in a young lady than impertinence towards her teachers; and then added, ‘Miss Weston, I hope you keep strict watch over these giddy young things.’

Awed by her father, Jane behaved tolerably well at that time and the next, and Miss Weston hoped her interference would not be needed, but as if to make up for this restraint, her conduct a fortnight after was quite beyond bearing.  She used every means to make Marianne laugh, and at last went so far as to pretend to think that M. le Roi had not understood what she said in English, and to translate it into French.  Poor Marianne looked imploringly at her sister, and Alethea hoped that Emily would interpose, but Emily was turning away her head to conceal a laugh, and Miss Weston was obliged to give Jane a very grave look, which she perfectly understood, though she pretended not to see it.  When the exercise was over Miss Weston made her a sign to approach, and said, ‘Jane, do you think your papa would have liked—’

‘What do you mean?’ said Jane, ‘I have not been laughing.’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Alethea, ‘and pray do not be displeased if I ask you not to make it difficult for Marianne to behave properly.’

Jane drew up her head and went back to her place.  She played no more tricks that day, but as soon as the guests were gone, began telling Lilias how Miss Weston had been meddling and scolding her.

‘And well you must have deserved it,’ said Lily.

‘I do not say that Jenny was right,’ said Emily, ‘but I think Miss Weston might allow me to correct my own sister in my own house.’

‘You correct Jane!’ cried Lily, and Jane laughed.

‘I only mean,’ said Emily, ‘that it was not very polite, and papa says the closest friendship is no reason for dispensing with the rules of politeness.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Lily, ‘the rules of politeness are rules of love, and it was in love that Alethea spoke; she sees how sadly we are left to ourselves, and is kind enough to speak a word in season.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Jane, ‘since it was in love that she spoke, you would like to have her for our reprover for ever, and I can assure you more unlikely things have happened.  I have heard it from one who can judge.’

‘Let me hear no more of this,’ said Emily, ‘it is preposterous and ridiculous, and very disrespectful to papa.’

Jane for once, rather shocked at her own words, went back to what had been said just before.

‘Then, perhaps, you would like to have Eleanor back again?’

‘I am sure you want some one to put you in mind of your duty,’ said Lily.

‘Eleanor and duty!’ cried Emily; ‘you who thought so much of the power of love!’

‘Of Emily and love, she would say, if it sounded well,’ said Jane.

‘I cannot see what true love you or Jane are showing now,’ said Lily, ‘it is no kindness to encourage her pertness, or to throw away a friendly reproof because it offends your pride.’

‘Nobody reproved me,’ replied Emily; ‘besides, I know love will prevail; for my sake Jane will not expose herself and me to a stranger’s interference.’

‘If you depend upon that, I wish you joy,’ said Lilias, as she left the room.

‘What a weathercock Lily is!’ cried Jane, ‘she has fallen in love with Alethea Weston, and echoes all she says.’

‘Not considering her own inconsistency,’ said Emily.

‘That Alethea Weston,’ exclaimed Jane, in an angry tone;—but Emily, beginning to recover some sense of propriety, said, ‘Jenny, you know you were very ill-bred, and you made it difficult for the little ones to behave well.’

‘Not our own little ones,’ said Jane; ‘honest Phyl did not understand the joke, and Ada was thinking of her attitudes; one comfort is, that I shall be confirmed in three weeks’ time, and then people cannot treat me as a mere child—little as I am.’

‘Oh!  Jane,’ said Emily, ‘I do not like to hear you talk of confirmation in that light way.’

‘No, no,’ said Jane, ‘I do not mean it—of course I do not mean it—don’t look shocked—it was only by the bye—and another by the bye, Emily, you know I must have a cap and white ribbons, and I am afraid I must make it myself.’

‘Ay, that is the worst of having Esther,’ said Emily, ‘she and Hannah have no notion of anything but the plainest work; I am sure if I had thought of all the trouble of that kind which having a young girl would entail, I would never have consented to Esther’s coming.’

‘That was entirely Lily’s scheme,’ said Jane.

‘Yes; it is impossible to resist Lily, she is so eager and anxious, and it would have vexed her very much if I had opposed her, and that I cannot bear; besides, Esther is a very nice girl, and will learn.’

‘There is Robert talking to papa on the green,’ said Jane; ‘what a deep conference; what can it be about?’

If Jane had heard that conversation she might have perceived that she could not wilfully offend, even in what she thought a trifling matter, without making it evident, even to others, that there was something very wrong about her.  At that moment the Rector was saying to his uncle, ‘I am in doubt about Jane, I cannot but fear she is not in a satisfactory state for confirmation, and I wished to ask you what you think?’