Читать книгу: «Scenes and Characters, or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft», страница 6

‘Oh! how much worse it must be to bear with ill-temper in poverty,’ said Emily, ‘when we think it quite wonderful to see a young lady kind and patient with a cross old relation; what must it be when she is denying herself, not only her pleasure, but her food for her sake; not merely sitting quietly with her all day, and calling a servant to wait upon her, but toiling all day to maintain her, and keeping awake half the night to nurse her?’

‘Those are realities, indeed,’ said Alethea; ‘our greatest efforts seem but child’s play in comparison.’

Lilias could hardly have helped being sobered by this conversation if she had attended to it, but she had turned away to repeat the story of Mrs. Walls to Jane, and then, fancying that the others were still remarking upon it, she said in a light, laughing tone, ‘Well, so far I agree with you.  I know of a person who may well be called one of ourselves, who I could quite fancy making such a speech.’

‘Whom do you mean?’ said Mr. Devereux.  Alethea wished she did not know.

‘No very distant relation,’ said Jane.

‘Do not talk nonsense, Jane,’ said Claude, gravely.

‘No nonsense at all, Claude,’ cried Jane in her very very pertest tone, ‘it is exactly like Eleanor; I am sure I can see her with her hands before her, saying in her prim voice, “I must turn my old black silk and trim it with crape, for I have had a misfortune, and lost my brother.”’

‘Lilias,’ said Miss Weston, somewhat abruptly, ‘did you not wish to sing with me this evening?’

And thus she kept Lilias from any further public mischief that evening.

Claude, exceedingly vexed by what had passed, with great injustice, laid the blame upon Miss Weston, and instead of rendering her the honour which she really deserved for the tact with which she had put an end to the embarrassment of all parties, he fancied she was anxious to display her talents for music, and thus only felt fretted by the sounds.

Mr. Weston and his daughter intended to walk home that evening, as it was a beautiful moonlight night.

‘Oh, let us convoy you!’ exclaimed Lilias; ‘I do long to show Alethea a glow-worm.  Will you come, Claude?  May we, papa?  Feel how still and warm it is.  A perfect summer night, not a breath stirring.’

Mr. Mohun consented, and Lily almost hurried Alethea upstairs, to put on her bonnet and shawl.  When she came down she found that the walking party had increased.  Jane and Reginald would both have been in despair to have missed such a frolic; Maurice hoped to fall in with the droning beetle, or to lay violent hands on a glow-worm; Emily did not like to be left behind, and even Mr. Mohun was going, being in the midst of an interesting conversation with Mr. Weston.  Lily, with an absurd tragic gesture, told Alethea that amongst so many, such a crowd, all the grace and sweet influence of the walk was ruined.  The ‘sweet influence’ was ruined as far as Lily was concerned, but not by the number of her companions.  It was the uneasy feeling caused by her over-strained spirits and foolish chattering that prevented her from really entering into the charm of the soft air, the clear moon, the solemn deep blue sky, the few stars, the white lilies on the dark pond, the long shadows of the trees, the freshness of the dewy fields.  Her simplicity, and her genuine delight in the loveliness of the scene, was gone for the time, and though she spoke much of her enjoyment, it was in a high-flown affected style.

When the last good-night had been exchanged, and Lily had turned homeward, she felt the stillness which succeeded their farewells almost oppressive; she started at the dark shadow of a tree which lay across the path, and to shake off a sensation of fear which was coming over her, she put her arm within Claude’s, exclaiming, ‘You naughty boy, you will be stupid and silent, say what I will.’

‘I heard enough to-night to strike me dumb,’ said Claude.

For one moment Lily thought he was in jest, but the gravity of his manner showed her that he was both grieved and displeased, and she changed her tone as she said, ‘Oh!  Claude, what do you mean?’

‘Do you not know?’ said Claude.

‘What, you mean about Eleanor?’ said Lily; ‘you must fall upon Miss Jenny there—it was her doing.’

‘Jane’s tongue is a pest,’ said Claude; ‘but she was not the first to speak evil falsely of one to whom you owe everything.  Oh!  Lily, I cannot tell you how that allusion of yours sounded.’

‘What allusion?’ asked Lily in alarm, for she had never seen her gentle brother so angry.

‘You know,’ said he.

‘Indeed, I do not,’ exclaimed Lily, munch frightened.  ‘Claude, Claude, you must mistake, I never could have said anything so very shocking.’

‘I hope I do,’ said Claude; ‘I could hardly believe that one of the little ones who cannot remember him, could have referred to him in that way—but for you!’

‘Him?’ said Lilias.

‘I do not like to mention his name to one who regards him so lightly,’ said Claude.  ‘Think over what passed, if you are sufficiently come to yourself to remember it.’

After a little pause Lily said in a subdued voice, ‘Claude, I hope you do not believe that I was thinking of what really happened when I said that.’

‘Pray what were you thinking of?’

‘The abstract view of Eleanor’s character.’

‘Abstract nonsense!’ said Claude.  ‘A fine demonstration of the rule of love, to go about the world slandering your sister!’

‘To go about the world!  Oh!  Claude, it was only Robert, one of ourselves, and Alethea, to whom I tell everything.’

‘So much the worse.  I always rejoiced that you had no foolish young lady friend to make missish confidences to.’

‘She is no foolish young lady friend,’ said Lilias, indignant in her turn; ‘she is five years older than I am, and papa wishes us to be intimate with her.’

‘Then the fault is in yourself,’ said Claude.  ‘You ought not to have told such things if they were true, and being utterly false—’

‘But, Claude, I cannot see that they are false.’

‘Not false, that Eleanor cared not a farthing for Harry!’ cried Claude, shaking off Lily’s arm, and stopping short.

‘Oh!—she cared, she really did care,’ said Lily, as fast as she could speak.  ‘Oh!  Claude, how could you think that?  I told you I did not mean what really happened, only that—Eleanor is cold—not as warm as some people—she did care for him, of course she did—I know that—I believe she loved him with all her heart—but yet—I mean she did not—she went on as usual—said nothing—scarcely cried—looked the same—taught us—never—Oh! it did not make half the difference in her that it did in William.’

‘I cannot tell how she behaved at the time,’ said Claude, ‘I only know I never had any idea what a loss Harry was till I came home and saw her face.  I used never to trouble myself to think whether people looked ill or well, but the change in her did strike me.  She was bearing up to comfort papa, and to cheer William, and to do her duty by all of us, and you could take such noble resignation for want of feeling!’

Lilias looked down and tried to speak, but she was choked by her tears; she could not bear Claude’s displeasure, and she wept in silence.  At last she said in a voice broken by sobs, ‘I was unjust—I know Eleanor was all kindness—all self-sacrifice—I have been very ungrateful—I wish I could help it—and you know well, Claude, how far I am from regarding dear Harry with indifference—how the thought of him is a star in my mind—how happy it makes me to think of him at the end of the Church Militant Prayer; do not believe I was dreaming of him.’

‘And pray,’ said Claude, laughing in his own good-humoured way, ‘which of us is it that she is so willing to lose?’

‘Oh! Claude, no such thing,’ said Lily, ‘you know what I meant, or did not mean.  It was nonsense—I hope nothing worse.’  Lily felt that she might take his arm again.  There was a little silence, and then Lily resumed in a timid voice, ‘I do not know whether you will be angry, Claude, but honestly, I do not think that if—that Eleanor would be so wretched about you as I should.’

‘Eleanor knew Harry better than you did; no, Lily, I never could have been what Harry was, even if I had never wasted my time, and if my headaches had not interfered with my best efforts.’

‘I do not believe that, say what you will,’ said Lily.

‘Ask William, then,’ said Claude, sighing.

‘I am sure papa does not think so,’ said Lily; ‘no, I cannot feel that Harry is such a loss when we still have you.’

‘Oh! Lily, it is plain that you never knew Harry,’ said Claude.  ‘I do not believe you ever did—that is one ting to be said for you.’

‘Not as you did,’ said Lily; ‘remember, he was six years older.  Then think how little we saw of him whilst they were abroad; he was always at school, or spending the holidays with Aunt Robert, and latterly even farther off, and only coming sometimes for an hour or two to see us.  Then he used to kiss us all round, we went into the garden with him, looked at him, and were rather afraid of him; then he walked off to Wat Greenwood, came back, wished us good-bye, and away he went.’

‘Yes,’ said Claude, ‘but after they came home?’

‘Then he was a tall youth, and we were silly girls,’ said Lilias; ‘he avoided Miss Middleton, and we were always with her.  He was good-natured, but he could not get on with us; he did very well with the little ones, but we were of the wrong age.  He and William and Eleanor were one faction, we were another, and you were between both—he was too old, too sublime, too good, too grave for us.’

‘Too grave!’ said Claude; ‘I never heard a laugh so full of glee, except, perhaps, Phyllis’s.’

‘The last time he was at home,’ continued Lily, ‘we began to know him better; there was no Miss Middleton in the way, and after you and William were gone, he used to walk with us, and read to us.  He read Guy Mannering to us, and told us the story of Sir Maurice de Mohun; but the loss was not the same to us as to you elder ones; and then sorrow was almost lost in admiration, and in pleasure at the terms in which every one spoke of him.  Claude, I have no difficulty in not wishing it otherwise; he is still my brother, and I would not change the feeling which the thought of his death gives me—no, not for himself in life and health.’

‘Ah!’ sighed Claude, ‘you have no cause for self-reproach—no reason to lament over “wasted hours and love misspent.”’

‘You will always talk of your old indolence, as if it was a great crime,’ said Lily.

‘It was my chief temptation,’ said Claude.  ‘As long as we know we are out of the path of duty it does not make much difference whether we have turned to the right hand or to the left.’

‘Was it Harry’s death that made you look upon it in this light?’ said Lily.

‘I knew it well enough before,’ said Claude, ‘it was what he had often set before me.  Indeed, till I came home, and saw this place without him, I never really knew what a loss he was.  At Eton I did not miss him more than when he went to Oxford, and I did not dwell on what he was to papa, or what I ought to be; and even when I saw what home was without him, I should have contented myself with miserable excuses about my health, if it had not been for my confirmation; then I awoke, I saw my duty, and the wretched way in which I had been spending my time.  Thoughts of Harry and of my father came afterwards; I had not vigour enough for them before.’

Here they reached the house, and parted—Claude, ashamed of having talked of himself for the first time in his life, and Lily divided between shame at her own folly and pleasure at Claude’s having thus opened his mind.

Jane, who was most in fault, escaped censure.  Her father was ignorant of her improper speech.  Emily forgot it, and it was not Claude’s place to reprove his sisters, though to Lily he spoke as a friend.  It passed away from her mind like other idle words, which, however, could not but leave an impression on those who heard her.

An unlooked-for result of the folly of this evening was, that Claude was prevented from appreciating Miss Weston He could not learn to like her, nor shake off an idea, that she was prying into their family concerns; he thought her over-praised, and would not even give just admiration to her singing, because he had once fancied her eager to exhibit it.  It was unreasonable to dislike his sister’s friend for his sister’s folly, but Claude’s wisdom was not yet arrived at its full growth, and he deserved credit for keeping his opinion to himself.

CHAPTER IX
THE WASP

 
‘Whom He hath blessed and called His own,
He tries them early, look and tone,
   Bent brow and throbbing heart,
Tries them with pain.’
 

The next week Lily had the pleasure of fitting out Faith Longley for her place at Mrs. Weston’s.  She rejoiced at this opportunity of patronising her, because in her secret soul she felt that she might have done her a little injustice in choosing her own favourite Esther in her stead.  Esther’s popularity at the New Court, however, made Lilias confident in her own judgment; the servants liked her because she was quick and obliging, Mr. Mohun said she looked very neat, Phyllis liked her because a mischance to her frock was not so brave an offence with her as with Rachel, and Ada was growing very fond of her, because she was in the habit of bestowing great admiration on her golden curls as she arranged them, and both little girls were glad not to be compelled to put away the playthings they took out.

Maurice and Reginald had agreed to defer their onslaught on the wasps till Lord Rotherwood’s arrival, and the war was now limited to attacks on foraging parties.  Reginald most carefully marked every nest about the garden and farm, and, on his cousin’s arrival on Saturday evening, began eagerly to give him a list of their localities.  Lord Rotherwood was as ardent in the cause as even Reginald could desire, and would have instantly set out with him to reconnoitre had not the evening been rainy.

Then turning to Claude, he said, ‘But I have not told you what brought me here; I came to persuade you to make an expedition with me up the Rhine; I set off next week; I would not write about it, because I knew you would only say you should like it very much, but—some but, that meant it was a great deal too much trouble.’

‘How fast the plan has risen up,’ said Claude, ‘I heard nothing of it when I was with you.’

‘Oh! it only came into my head last week, but I do not see what there is to wait for, second thoughts are never best.’

‘Oh! Claude, how delightful,’ said Lily.

Claude stirred his tea meditatively, and did not speak.

‘It is too much trouble, I perceive,’ said Lord Rotherwood; ‘just as I told you.’

‘Not exactly,’ said Claude.

Lord Rotherwood now detailed his plan to his uncle, who said with a propitious smile, ‘Well, Claude, what do you think of it?

‘Mind you catch a firefly for me,’ said Maurice.

‘Why don’t you answer, Claude?’ said Lilias; ‘only imagine seeing Undine’s Castle!’

‘Eh, Claude?’ said his father.

‘It would be very pleasant,’ said Claude, slowly, ‘but—’

‘What?’ said Mr. Mohun.

‘Only a but,’ said the Marquis.  ‘I hope he will have disposed of it by the morning; I start next Tuesday week; I would not go later for the universe; we shall be just in time for the summer in its beauty, and to have a peep at Switzerland.  We shall not have time for Mont Blanc, without rattling faster than any man in his senses would do.  I do not mean to leave any place till I have thoroughly seen twice over everything worth seeing that it contains.’

‘Then perhaps you will get as far as Antwerp, and spend the rest of the holidays between the Cathedral and Paul Potter’s bull.  No, I shall have nothing to say to you at that rate,’ said Claude.

‘Depend upon it, it will be you that will wish to stand still when I had rather be on the move,’ said the Marquis.

‘Then you had better leave me behind.  I have no intention of being hurried over the world, and never having my own way,’ said Claude, trying to look surly.

‘I am sure I should not mind travelling twice over the world to see Cologne Cathedral, or the field of Waterloo,’ said Lily.

‘Let me only show him my route,’ said Lord Rotherwood.  ‘Redgie, look in my greatcoat pocket in the hall for Murray’s Handbook, will you?’

‘Go and get it, Phyl,’ said Reginald, who was astride on the window-sill, peeling a stick.

Away darted Lord Rotherwood to fetch it himself, but Phyllis was before him; her merry laugh was heard, as he chased her round the hall to get possession of his book, throwing down two or three cloaks to intercept her path.  Mr. Mohun took the opportunity of his absence to tell Claude that he need not refuse on the score of expense.

‘Thank you,’ was all Claude’s answer.

Lord Rotherwood returned, and after punishing the discourteous Reginald by raising him up by his ears, he proceeded to give a full description of the delights of his expedition, the girls joining heartily with him in declaring it as well arranged as possible, and bringing all their knowledge of German travels to bear upon it.  Claude sometimes put in a word, but never as if he cared much about the matter, and he was not to be persuaded to give any decided answer as to whether he would accompany the Marquis.

The next morning at breakfast Lord Rotherwood returned to the charge, but Claude seemed even more inclined to refuse than the day before.  Lilias could not divine what was the matter with him, and lingered long after her sisters had gone to school, to hear what answer he would make; and when Mr. Mohun looked at his watch, and asked her if she knew how late it was, she rose from the breakfast-table with a sigh, and thought while she was putting on her bonnet how much less agreeable the school had been since the schism in the parish.  And besides, now that Faith and Esther, and one or two others of her best scholars, had gone away from school, there seemed to be no one of any intelligence or knowledge left in the class, except Marianne Weston, who knew too much for the others, and one or two clever inattentive little girls: Lily almost disliked teaching them.

Phyllis and Adeline were in Miss Weston’s class, and much did they delight in her teaching.  There was a quiet earnestness in her manner which attracted her pupils, and fixed their attention, so as scarcely to allow the careless room for irreverence, while mere cleverness seemed almost to lose its advantage in learning what can only truly be entered into by those whose conduct agrees with their knowledge.

Phyllis never dreamt that she could be happy while standing still and learning, till Miss Weston began to teach at the Sunday school.  Obedience at school taught her to acquire habits of reverent attention, which gradually conquered the idleness and weariness which had once possessed her at church.  First, she learnt to be interested in the Historical Lessons, then never to lose her place in the Psalms, then to think about and follow some of the Prayers; by this time she was far from feeling any fatigue at all on week-days; she had succeeded in restraining any contortions to relieve herself from the irksomeness of sitting still, and had her thoughts in tolerable order through the greater part of the Sunday service, and now it was her great wish, unknown to any one, to abstain from a single yawn through the whole service, including the sermon!

Her place (chosen for her by Eleanor when first she had begun to go to Church, as far as possible from Reginald) was at the end of the seat, between her papa and the wall.  This morning, as she put her arm on the book-board, while rising from kneeling, she felt a sudden thrill of sharp pain smear her left elbow, which made her start violently, and would have caused a scream, had she not been in church.  She saw a wasp fall on the ground, and was just about to put her foot on it, when she recollected where she was.  She had never in her life intentionally killed anything, and this was no time to begin in that place, and when she was angry.  The pain was severe—more so perhaps than any she had felt before—and very much frightened, she pulled her papa’s coat to draw his attention.  But her first pull was so slight that he did not feel it, and before she gave a second she remembered that she could not make him hear what was the matter, without more noise than was proper.  No, she must stay where she was, and try to bear the pain, and she knew that if she did try, help would be given her.  She proceeded to find out the Psalm and join her voice with the others, though her heart was beating very fast, her forehead was contracted, and she could not help keeping her right hand clasped round her arm, and sometimes shifting from one foot to the other.  The sharpness of the pain soon went off; she was able to attend to the Lessons, and hoped it would soon be quite well; but as soon as she began to think about it, it began to ache and throb, and seemed each moment to be growing hotter.  The sermon especially tried her patience, her cheeks were burning, she felt sick and hardly able to hold up her head, yet she would not lean it against the wall, because she had often been told not to do so.  She was exceedingly alarmed to find that her arm had swelled so much that she could hardly bend it, and it had received the impression of the gathers of her sleeve; she thought no sermon had ever been so long, but she sat quite still and upright, as she could not have done, had she not trained herself unconsciously by her efforts to leave off the trick of kicking her heels together.  She did not speak till she was in the churchyard, and then she made Emily look at her arm.

‘My poor child, it is frightful,’ said Emily, ‘what is the matter?’

‘A wasp stung me just before the Psalms,’ said Phyllis, ‘and it goes on swelling and swelling, and it does pant!’

‘What is the matter?’ asked Mr. Mohun.

‘Papa, just look,’ said Emily, ‘a wasp stung this dear child quite early in the service, and she has been bearing it all this time in silence.  Why did you not show me, Phyl?’

‘Because it was in church,’ said the little girl.

‘Why, Phyllis, you are a very Spartan,’ said Lord Rotherwood.

‘Something better than a Spartan,’ said Mr. Mohun.  ‘Does it give you much pain now, my dear?’

‘Not so bad as in church,’ said Phyllis, ‘only I am very tired, and it is so hot.’

‘We will help you home, then,’ said Mr. Mohun.  As he took her up in his arms, Phyllis laughed, thanked him, replied to various inquiries from her sisters and the Westons—laughed again at sundry jokes from her brothers, then became silent, and was almost asleep, with her head on her papa’s shoulder, by the time they reached the hall-door.  She thought it very strange to be laid down on the sofa in the drawing-room, and to find every one attending to her.  Mrs. Weston bathed her forehead with lavender-water, and Lily cut open the sleeve of her frock; Jane fetched all manner of remedies, and Emily pitied her.  She was rather frightened: she thought such a fuss would not be made about her unless she was very ill; she was faint and tired, and was glad when Mrs. Weston proposed that they should all come away, and leave her to go to sleep quietly.

Marianne was so absorbed in admiration of Phyllis that she did not speak one word all the way from church to the New Court, and stood in silence watching the operations upon her friend, till Mrs. Weston sent every one away.

Adeline rather envied Phyllis; she would willingly have endured the pain to be made of so much importance, and said to be better than a Spartan, which must doubtless be something very fine indeed!

Phyllis was waked by the bells ringing for the afternoon service; Mrs. Weston was sitting by her, reading, Claude came to inquire for her, and to tell her that as she had lost her early dinner, she was to join the rest of the party at six.  To her great surprise she felt quite well and fresh, and her arm was much better; Mrs. Weston pinned up her sleeve, and she set off with her to church, wondering whether Ada would remember to tell her what she had missed that afternoon at school.  Those whose approbation was valuable, honoured Phyllis for her conduct, but she did not perceive it, or seek for it; she did not look like a heroine while running about and playing with Reginald and the dogs in the evening, but her papa had told her she was a good child, Claude had given her one of his kindest smiles, and she was happy.  Even when Esther was looking at the mark left by the sting, and telling her that she was sure Miss Marianne Weston would have not been half so good, her simple, humble spirit came to her aid, and she answered, ‘I’ll tell you what, Esther, Marianne would have behaved much better, for she is older, and never fidgets, and she would not have been angry like me, and just going to kill the wasp.’