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CHAPTER III
THE NEW PRINCIPLE

 
‘And wilt thou show no more, quoth he,
   Than doth thy duty bind?
I well perceive thy love is small.’
 

On the Sunday evening which followed Eleanor’s wedding, Lilias was sitting next to Emily, and talking in very earnest tones, which after a time occasioned Claude to look up and say, ‘What is all this about?  Something remarkably absurd I suspect.’

‘Only a new principle,’ said Emily.

‘New!’ cried Lily, ‘only what must be the feeling of every person of any warmth of character?’

‘Now for it then,’ said Claude.

‘No, no, Claude, I really mean it (and Lily sincerely thought she did).  I will not tell you if you are going to laugh.’

‘That depends upon what your principle may chance to be,’ said Claude.  ‘What is it, Emily?  She will be much obliged to you for telling.’

‘She only says she cannot bear people to do their duty, and not to act from a feeling of love,’ said Emily.

‘That is not fair,’ returned Lily, ‘all I say is, that it is better that people should act upon love for its own sake, than upon duty for its own sake.’

‘What comes in rhyme with Lily?’ said Claude.

‘Don’t be tiresome, Claude, I really want you to understand me.’

‘Wait till you understand yourself,’ said the provoking brother, ‘and let me finish what I am reading.’

For about a quarter of an hour he was left in peace, while Lily was busily employed with a pencil and paper, under the shadow of a book, and at length laid before him the following verses:—

 
‘What is the source of gentleness,
The spring of human blessedness,
Bringing the wounded spirit healing,
The comforts high of heaven revealing,
The lightener of each daily care,
The wing of hope, the life of prayer,
The zest of joy, the balm of sorrow,
Bliss of to-day, hope of to-morrow,
The glory of the sun’s bright beam,
The softness of the pale moon stream,
The flow’ret’s grace, the river’s voice,
The tune to which the birds rejoice;
Without it, vain each learned page,
Cold and unfelt each council sage,
Heavy and dull each human feature,
Lifeless and wretched every creature;
In which alone the glory lies,
Which value gives to sacrifice?
’Tis that which formed the whole creation,
Which rests on every generation.
Of Paradise the only token
Just left us, ’mid our treasures broken,
Which never can from us be riven,
Sure earnest of the joys of Heaven.
And which, when earth shall pass away,
Shall be our rest on the last day,
When tongues shall fail and knowledge cease,
And throbbing hearts be all at peace:
When faith is sight, and hope is sure,
That which alone shall still endure
Of earthly joys in heaven above,
’Tis that best gift, eternal Love!’
 

‘What have you there?’ said Mr. Mohun, who had come towards them while Claude was reading the lines.  Taking the paper from Claude’s hand, he read it to himself, and then saying, ‘Tolerable, Lily; there are some things to alter, but you may easily make it passable,’ he went on to his own place, leaving Lilias triumphant.

‘Well, Claude, you see I have the great Baron on my side.’

‘I am of the Baron’s opinion,’ said Claude, ‘the only wonder is that you doubted it.’

‘You seemed to say that love was good for nothing.’

‘I said nothing but that Lily has a rhyme.’

‘And saying that I was silly, was equivalent to saying that love was nothing,’ said Lily.

‘O Lily, I hope not,’ said Claude, with a comical air.

‘Well, I know I often am foolish, but not in this,’ said Lily; ‘I do say that mere duty is not lovable.’

‘Say it if you will then,’ said Claude, yawning, ‘only let me finish this sermon.’

Lily set herself to reconsider some of her lines: but presently Emily left the room, Claude looked up, and Lily exclaimed, ‘Now, Claude, let us make a trial of it.’

‘Well,’ said Claude, yawning again, and looking resigned.

‘Think how Eleanor went on telling us of duty, duty, duty—never making allowances—never relaxing her stiff rules about trifles—never unbending from her duenna-like dignity—never showing one spark of enthusiasm—making great sacrifices, but only because she thought them her duty—because it was right—good for herself—only a higher kind of selfishness—not because her feeling prompted her.’

‘Certainly, feeling does not usually prompt people to give up their lovers for the sake of their brothers and sisters.’

‘She did it because it was her duty,’ said Lily, ‘quite as if she did not care.’

‘I wonder whether Frank thought so,’ said Claude.

‘At any rate you will confess that Emily is a much more engaging person,’ said Lily.

‘Certainly, I had rather talk nonsense to her,’ said Claude.

‘You feel it, though you will not allow it,’ said Lily.  ‘Now think of Emily’s sympathy, and gentleness, and sweet smile, and tell me if she is not a complete personification of love.  And then Eleanor, unpoetical—never thrown off her balance by grief or joy, with no ups and downs—no enthusiasm—no appreciation of the beautiful—her highest praise “very right,” and tell me if there can be a better image of duty.’

Claude might have had some chance of bringing Lily to her senses, if he had allowed that there was some truth in what she had said; but he thought the accusation so unjust in general, that he would not agree to any part of it, and only answered, ‘You have very strange views of duty and of Eleanor.’

‘Well!’ replied Lily, ‘I only ask you to watch; Emily and I are determined to act on the principle of love, and you will see if her government is not more successful than that of duty.’

Such was the principle upon which Lily intended her sister to govern the household, and to which Emily listened without knowing what she meant much better than she did herself.  Emily’s own views, as far as she possessed any, were to get on as smoothly as she could, and make everybody pleased and happy, without much trouble to herself, and also to make the establishment look a little more as if a Lady Emily had lately been its mistress, than had been the case in Eleanor’s time.  Mr. Mohun’s property was good, but he wished to avoid unnecessary display and expense, and he expected his daughters to follow out these views, keeping a wise check upon Emily, by looking over her accounts every Saturday, and turning a deaf ear when she talked of the age of the drawing-room carpet, and the ugliness of the old chariot.  Emily had a good deal on her hands, requiring sense and activity, but Lilias and Jane were now quite old enough to assist her.  Lily however, thought fit to despise all household affairs, and bestowed the chief of her attention on her own department—the village school and poor people; and she was also much engrossed by her music and drawing, her German and Italian, and her verse writing.

Claude had more power over her than any one else.  He was a gentle, amiable boy, of high talent, but disposed to indolence by ill health.  In most matters he was, however, victorious over this propensity, which was chiefly visible in his love of easy chairs, and his dislike of active sports, which made him the especial companion of his sisters.  A dangerous illness had occasioned his removal from Eton, and he had since been at home, reading with his cousin Mr. Devereux, and sharing his sisters’ amusements.

Jane was in her own estimation an important member of the administration, and in fact, was Emily’s chief assistant and deputy.  She was very small and trimly made, everything fitted her precisely, and she had tiny dexterous fingers, and active little feet, on which she darted about noiselessly and swiftly as an arrow; an oval brown face, bright colour, straight features, and smooth dark hair, bright sparkling black eyes, a little mouth, wearing an arch subdued smile, very white teeth, and altogether the air of a woman in miniature.  Brisk, bold, and blithe—ever busy and ever restless, she was generally known by the names of Brownie and Changeling, which were not inappropriate to her active and prying disposition.

Excepting Claude and Emily, the young party were early risers, and Lily especially had generally despatched a good deal of business before the eight o’clock breakfast.

At nine they went to church, Mr. Devereux having restored the custom of daily service, and after this, Mr. Mohun attended to his multitudinous affairs; Claude went to the parsonage,—Emily to the storeroom, Lily to the village, the younger girls to the schoolroom, where they were presently joined by Emily.  Lily remained in her own room till one o’clock, when she joined the others in the schoolroom, and they read aloud some book of history till two, the hour of dinner for the younger, and of luncheon for the elder.  They then went out, and on their return from evening service, which began at half-past four, the little ones had their lessons to learn, and the others were variously employed till dinner, the time of which was rather uncertain but always late.  The evening passed pleasantly and quickly away in reading, work, music, and chatter.

As Emily had expected, her first troubles were with Phyllis; called, not the neat handed, by her sisters; Master Phyl, by her brothers; and Miss Tomboy, by the maids.  She seemed born to be a trial of patience to all concerned with her; yet without many actual faults, except giddiness, restlessness, and unrestrained spirits.  In the drawing-room, schoolroom, and nursery she was continually in scrapes, and so often reproved and repentant, that her loud roaring fits of crying were amongst the ordinary noises of the New Court.  She was terribly awkward when under constraint, or in learning any female accomplishment, but swift and ready when at her ease, and glorying in the boyish achievements of leaping ditches and climbing trees.  Her voice was rather highly pitched, and she had an inveterate habit of saying, ‘I’ll tell you what,’ at the beginning of all her speeches.  She was not tall, but strong, square, firm, and active; she had a round merry face, a broad forehead, and large bright laughing eyes, of a doubtful shade between gray and brown.  Her mouth was wide, her nose turned up, her complexion healthy, but not rosy, and her stiff straight brown hair was more apt to hang over her eyes, than to remain in its proper place behind her ears.

Adeline was very different; her fair and brilliant complexion, her deep blue eyes and golden ringlets, made her a very lovely little creature; her quietness was a relief after her sister’s boisterous merriment, and her dislike of dirt and brambles, continually contrasted with poor Phyllis’s recklessness of such impediments.  Ada readily learnt lessons, which cost Phyllis and her teacher hours of toil; Ada worked deftly when Phyllis’s stiff fingers never willingly touched a needle; Ada played with a doll, drew on scraps of paper, or put up dissected maps, while Phyllis was in mischief or in the way.  A book was the only chance of interesting her; but very few books took her fancy enough to occupy her long;—those few, however, she read over and over again, and when unusual tranquillity reigned in the drawing-room, she was sure to be found curled up at the top of the library steps, reading one of three books—Robinson Crusoe, Little Jack, or German Popular Tales.  Then Emily blamed her ungraceful position, Jane laughed at her uniform taste, and Lily proposed some story about modern children, such as Phyllis never could like, and the constant speech was repeated, ‘Only look at Ada!’ till Phyllis considered her sister as a perfect model, and sighed over her own naughtiness.

German Popular Tales were a recent introduction of Claude’s, for Eleanor had carefully excluded all fairy tales from her sisters’ library; so great was her dread of works of fiction, that Emily and Lilias had never been allowed to read any of the Waverley Novels, excepting Guy Mannering, which their brother Henry had insisted upon reading aloud to them the last time he was at home, and that had taken so strong a hold on their imagination, that Eleanor was quite alarmed.

One day Mr. Mohun chanced to refer to some passage in Waverley, and on finding that his daughters did not understand him, he expressed great surprise at their want of taste.

Poor things,’ said Claude, ‘they cannot help it; do not you know that Eleanor thinks the Waverley Novels a sort of slow poison?  They know no more of them than their outsides.’

‘Well, the sooner they know the inside the better.’

‘Then may we really read them, papa?’ cried Lily.

‘And welcome,’ said her father.

This permission once given, the young ladies had no idea of moderation; Lily’s heart and soul were wrapped up in whatever tale she chanced to be reading—she talked of little else, she neglected her daily occupations, and was in a kind of trance for about three weeks.  At length she was recalled to her senses by her father’s asking her why she had shown him no drawings lately.  Lily hesitated for a moment, and then said, ‘Papa, I am sorry I was so idle.’

‘Take care,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘let us be able to give a good account of ourselves when Eleanor comes.’

‘I am afraid, papa,’ said Lily, ‘the truth is, that my head has been so full of Woodstock for the last few days, that I could do nothing.’

‘And before that?’

‘The Bride of Lammermoor.’

‘And last week?’

‘Waverley.  Oh! papa, I am afraid you must be very angry with me.’

‘No, no, Lily, not yet,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I do not think you quite knew what an intoxicating draught you had got hold of; I should have cautioned you.  Your negligence has not yet been a serious fault, though remember, that it becomes so after warning.’

‘Then,’ said Lily, ‘I will just finish Peveril at once, and get it out of my head, and then read no more of the dear books,’ and she gave a deep sigh.

‘Lily would take the temperance pledge, on condition that she might finish her bottle at a draught,’ said Mr. Mohun.

Lily laughed, and looked down, feeling quite unable to offer to give up Peveril before she had finished it, but her father relieved her, by saying in his kind voice, ‘No, no, Lily, take my advice, read those books, for most of them are very good reading, and very pretty reading, and very useful reading, and you can hardly be called a well-educated person if you do not know them; but read them only after the duties of the day are done—make them your pleasure, but do not make yourself their slave.’

‘Lily,’ said Claude the next morning, as he saw her prepare her drawing-desk, ‘why are you not reading Peveril?’

‘You know what papa said yesterday,’ was the answer.

‘Oh! but I thought your feelings were with poor Julian in the Tower,’ said Claude.

‘My feelings prompt me to sacrifice my pleasure in reading about him to please papa, after he spoke so kindly.’

‘If that is always the effect of your principle, I shall think better of it,’ said Claude.

Lily, whether from her new principle, or her old habits of obedience, never ventured to touch one of her tempters till after five o’clock, but, as she was a very rapid reader, she generally contrived to devour more than a sufficient quantity every evening, so that she did not enjoy them as much as she would, had she been less voracious in her appetite, and they made her complain grievously of the dulness of the latter part of Russell’s Modern Europe, which was being read in the schoolroom, and yawn nearly as much as Phyllis over the ‘Pragmatic Sanction.’  However, when that book was concluded, and they began Palgrave’s Anglo Saxons, Lily was seized within a sudden historical fever.  She could hardly wait till one o’clock, before she settled herself at the schoolroom table with her work, and summoned every one, however occupied, to listen to the reading.

CHAPTER IV
HONEST PHYL

 
‘Multiplication
Is a vexation.’
 

It was a bright and beautiful afternoon in March, the song of the blackbird and thrush, and the loud chirp of the titmouse, came merrily through the schoolroom window, mixed with the sounds of happy voices in the garden; the western sun shone brightly in, and tinged the white wainscoted wall with yellow light; the cat sat in the window-seat, winking at the sun, and sleepily whisking her tail for the amusement of her kitten, which was darting to and fro, and patting her on the head, in the hope of rousing her to some more active sport.

But in the midst of all these joyous sights and sounds, was heard a dolorous voice repeating, ‘three and four are—three and four are—oh dear! they are—seven, no, but I do not think it is a four after all, is it not a one?  Oh dear!’  And on the floor lay Phyllis, her back to the window, kicking her feet slowly up and down, and yawning and groaning over her slate.

Presently the door opened, and Claude looked in, and very nearly departed again instantly, for Phyllis at that moment made a horrible squeaking with her slate-pencil, the sound above all others that he disliked.  He, however, stopped, and asked where Emily was.

‘Out in the garden,’ answered Phyllis, with a tremendous yawn.

‘What are you doing here, looking so piteous?’ said Claude.

‘My sum,’ said Phyllis.

‘Is this your time of day for arithmetic?’ asked he.

‘No,’ said Phyllis, ‘only I had not done it by one o’clock to-day, and Lily said I must finish after learning my lessons for to-morrow, but I do not think I shall ever have done, it is so hard.  Oh!’ (another stretch and a yawn, verging on a howl), ‘and Jane and Ada are sowing the flower-seeds.  Oh dear!  Oh dear!’ and Phyllis’s face contracted, in readiness to cry.

‘And is that the best position for doing sums?’ said Claude.

‘I was obliged to lie down here to get out of the way of Ada’s sum,’ said Phyllis, getting up.

‘Get out of the way of Ada’s sum?’ repeated Claude.

‘Yes, she left it on the table where I was sitting, where I could see it, and it is this very one, so I must not look at it; I wish I could do sums as fast as she can.’

‘Could you not have turned the other side of the slate upwards?’ said Claude, smiling.

‘So I could!’ said Phyllis, as if a new light had broken in upon her.  ‘But then I wanted to be out of sight of pussy, for I could not think a bit, while the kitten was at play so prettily, and I kicked my heels to keep from hearing the voices in the garden, for it does make me so unhappy!’

Some good-natured brothers would have told the little girl not to mind, and sent her out to enjoy herself, but Claude respected Phyllis’s honesty too much to do so, and he said, ‘Well, Phyl, let me see the sum, and we will try if we cannot conquer it between us.’

Phyllis’s face cleared up in an instant, as she brought the slate to her brother.

‘What is this?’ said he; ‘I do not understand.’

‘Compound Addition,’ said Phyllis, ‘I did one with Emily yesterday, and this is the second.’

‘Oh! these are marks between the pounds, shillings, and pence,’ said Claude, ‘I took them for elevens; well, I do not wonder at your troubles, I could not do this sum as it is set.’

‘Could not you, indeed?’ cried Phyllis, quite delighted.

‘No, indeed,’ said Claude.  ‘Suppose we set it again, more clearly; but how is this?  When I was in the schoolroom we always had a sponge fastened to the slate.’

‘Yes,’ said Phyllis, ‘I had one before Eleanor went, but my string broke, and I lost it, and Emily always forgets to give me another.  I will run and wash the slate in the nursery; but how shall we know what the sum is?’

‘Why, I suppose I may look at Ada’s slate, though you must not,’ said Claude, laughing to himself at poor little honest simplicity, as he applied himself to cut a new point to her very stumpy slate-pencil, and she scampered away, and returned in a moment with her clean slate.

‘Oh, how nice and fresh it all looks!’ said she as he set down the clear large figures.  ‘I cannot think how you can do it so evenly.’

‘Now, Phyl, do not let the pencil scream if you can help it.’

Claude found that Phyllis’s great difficulty was with the farthings.  She could not understand the fractional figures, and only knew thus far, that ‘Emily said it never meant four.’

Claude began explaining, but his first attempt was far too scientific.  Phyllis gave a desponding sigh, looking so mystified, that he began to believe that she was hopelessly dull, and to repent of having offered to help her; but at last, by means of dividing a card into four pieces, he succeeded in making her comprehend him, and her eyes grew bright with the pleasure of understanding.

Even then the difficulties were not conquered, her addition was very slow, and dividing by twelve and twenty seemed endless work; at length the last figure of the pounds was set down, the slate was compared with Adeline’s, and the sum pronounced to be right.  Phyllis capered up to the kitten and tossed it up in the air in her joy, then coming slowly back to her brother, she said with a strange, awkward air, hanging down her head, ‘Claude, I’ll tell you what—’

‘Well, what?’ said Claude.

‘I should like to kiss you.’

Then away she bounded, clattered down stairs, and flew across the lawn to tell every one she met that Claude had helped her to do her sum, and that it was quite right.

‘Did you expect that it would be too hard for him, Phyl?’ said Jane, laughing.

‘No,’ said Phyllis, ‘but he said he could not do it as it was set.’

‘And whose fault was that?’ said Jane.

‘Oh! but he showed me how to set it better,’ said Phyllis, ‘and he said that when he learnt the beginning of fractions, he thought them as hard as I do.’

‘Fractions!’ said Jane, ‘you do not fancy you have come to fractions yet!  Fine work you will make of them when you do!’

In the evening, as soon as the children were gone to bed, Jane took a paper out of her work-basket, saying, ‘There, Emily, is my account of Phyl’s scrapes through this whole week; I told you I should write them all down.’

‘How kind!’ muttered Claude.

Regardless of her brother, who had not looked up from his book, Jane began reading her list of poor Phyllis’s misadventures.  ‘On Monday she tore her frock by climbing a laurel-tree, to look at a blackbird’s nest.’

‘I gave her leave,’ said Emily.  ‘Rachel had ordered her not to climb; and she was crying because she could not see the nest that Wat Greenwood had found.’

‘On Tuesday she cried over her French grammar, and tore a leaf out of the old spelling-book.’

‘That was nearly out before,’ said Emily, ‘Maurice and Redgie spoilt that long ago.’

‘I do not know of anything on Wednesday, but on Thursday she threw Ada down the steps out of the nursery.’

‘Oh! that accounts for the dreadful screaming that I heard,’ said Claude; ‘I forgot to ask the meaning of it.’

‘I am sure it was Phyl that was the most dismayed, and cried the loudest,’ said Lily.

‘That she always does,’ said Jane.  ‘On Friday we had an uproar in the schoolroom about her hemming, and on Saturday she tumbled into a wet ditch, and tore her bonnet in the brambles; on Sunday, she twisted her ancles together at church.’

‘Well, there I did chance to observe her,’ said Lily, ‘there seemed to be a constant struggle between her ancles and herself, they were continually coming lovingly together, but were separated the next moment.’

‘And to-day this sum,’ said Jane; ‘seven scrapes in one week!  I really am of opinion, as Rachel says when she is angry, that school is the best place for her.’

‘I think so too,’ said Claude.

‘I do not know,’ said Emily, ‘she is very troublesome, but—’

‘Oh, Claude!’ cried Lily, ‘you do not mean that you would have that poor dear merry Master Phyl sent to school, she would pine away like a wild bird in a cage; but papa will never think of such a thing.’

‘If I thought of her being sent to school,’ said Claude, ‘it would be to shield her from—the rule of love.’

‘Oh! you think we are too indulgent,’ said Emily; ‘perhaps we are, but you know we cannot torment a poor child all day long.’

‘If you call the way you treat her indulgent, I should like to know what you call severe.’

‘What do you mean, Claude?’ said Emily.

‘I call your indulgence something like the tender mercies of the wicked,’ said Claude.  ‘On a fine day, when every one is taking their pleasure in the garden, to shut an unhappy child up in the schoolroom, with a hard sum that you have not taken the trouble to teach her how to do, and late in the day, when no one’s head is clear for difficult arithmetic—’

‘Hard sum do you call it?’ said Jane.

‘Indeed I explained it to her,’ said Emily.

‘And well she understood you,’ said Claude.

‘She might have learnt if she had attended,’ said Emily; ‘Ada understood clearly, with the same explanation.’

‘And do not you be too proud of the effect of your instructions, Claude,’ said Jane, ‘for when honest Phyl came into the garden, she did not know farthings from fractions.’

‘And pray, Mrs. Senior Wrangler,’ said Claude, ‘will you tell me where is the difference between a half-penny and half a penny?’

After a good laugh at Jane’s expense, Emily went on, ‘Now, Claude, I will tell you how it happened; Phyllis is so slow, and dawdles over her lessons so long, that it is quite a labour to hear her; Ada is quick enough, but if you were to hear Phyllis say one column of spelling, you would know what misery is.  Then before she has half finished, the clock strikes one, it is time to read, and the lessons are put off till the afternoon.  I certainly did not know that she was about her sum all that time, or I would have sent her out as I did on Saturday.’

‘And the reading at one is as fixed as fate,’ said Claude.

‘Oh, no!’ said Jane, ‘when we were about old “Russell,” we did not begin till nearly two, but since we have been reading this book, Lily will never let us rest till we begin; she walks up and down, and hurries and worries and—’

‘Yes,’ said Emily, in a murmuring voice, ‘we should do better if Lily would not make such a point of that one thing; but she never minds what else is cut short, and she never thinks of helping me.  It never seems to enter her head how much I have on my hands, and no one does anything to help me.’

‘Oh, Emily! you never asked me,’ said Lily.

‘I knew you would not like it,’ said Emily.  ‘No, it is not my way to complain, people may see how to help me if they choose to do it.’

‘Lily, Lily, take care,’ said Claude, in a low voice; ‘is not the rule you admire, the rule of love of yourself?’

‘Oh, Claude!’ returned Lily, ‘do not say so, you know it was Emily that I called an example of it, not myself, and see how forbearing she has been.  Now I see that I am really wanted, I will help.  It must be love, not duty, that calls me to the schoolroom, for no one ever said that was my province.’

‘Poor duty! you give it a very narrow boundary.’

Lilias, who, to say the truth, had been made more careful of her own conduct, by the wish to establish her principle, really betook herself to the schoolroom for an hour every morning, with a desire to be useful.  She thought she did great things in undertaking those tasks of Phyllis’s which Emily most disliked.  But Lilias was neither patient nor humble enough to be a good teacher, though she could explain difficult rules in a sensible way.  She could not, or would not, understand the difference between dulness and inattention; her sharp hasty manner would frighten away all her pupil’s powers of comprehension; she sometimes fell into the great error of scolding, when Phyllis was doing her best, and the poor child’s tears flowed more frequently than ever.

Emily’s gentle manner made her instructions far more agreeable, though she was often neither clear nor correct in her explanations; she was contented if the lessons were droned through in any manner, so long as she could say they were done; she disliked a disturbance, and overlooked or half corrected mistakes rather than cause a cry.  Phyllis naturally preferred being taught by her, and Lily was vexed and unwilling to persevere.  She went to the schoolroom expecting to be annoyed, created vexation for herself, and taught in anything but a loving spirit.  Still, however, the thought of Claude, and the wish to do more than her duty, kept her constant to her promise, and her love of seeing things well done was useful, though sadly counterbalanced by her deficiency in temper and patience.