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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?’
‘Act just as you would with any of the village girls,’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘I should be very sorry to do otherwise,’ said Mr. Devereux; ‘but I thought you might like, since every one knows that she is a candidate, that she should not be at home at the time of the confirmation, if it is necessary to refuse her.’
‘No,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I should not wish to shield her from the disgrace. It may be useful to her, and besides, it will establish your character for impartiality. I have not been satisfied with all I saw of little Jane for some time past, and I am afraid that much passes amongst my poor girls which never comes to my knowledge. Her pertness especially is probably restrained in my presence.’
‘It is not so much the pertness that I complain of,’ said Mr. Devereux, ‘for that might be merely exuberance of spirits, but there is a sort of habitual irreverence, which makes one dread to bring her nearer to sacred tings.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘and I think the pertness is a branch of it, more noticed because more inconvenient to others.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Devereux, ‘I think the fault I speak of is most evident; when there is occasion to reprove her, I am always baffled by a kind of levity which makes every warning glance aside.’
‘Then I should decidedly say refuse her,’ said Mr. Mohun. ‘It would be a warning that she could not disregard, and the best chance of improving her.’
‘Yet,’ said Mr. Devereux, ‘if she is eager for confirmation, and regards it in its proper light, it is hard to say whether it is right to deny it to her; it may give her the depth and earnestness which she needs.’
‘Poor child,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘she has great disadvantages; I am quite sure our present system is not fit for her. Things shall be placed on a different footing, and in another year or two I hope she may be fitter for confirmation. However, before you finally decide, I should wish to have some conversation with her, and speak to you again.
‘That is just what I wish,’ said Mr. Devereux.
CHAPTER XII
THE FEVER
‘Jane borrowed maxims from a doubting school,
And took for truth the test of ridicule.’
The question of Jane’s confirmation was decided in an unexpected manner; for the day after Mr. Mohun’s conversation with his nephew she was attacked by a headache and sore throat, spent a feverish night, and in the morning was so unwell that a medical man was sent for from Raynham. On his arrival he pronounced that she was suffering from scarlet fever, and Emily began to feel the approach of the same complaint.
Phyllis and Adeline were shut up in the drawing-room, and a system of quarantine established, which was happily brought to a conclusion by a note from Mrs. Weston, who kindly begged that they might be sent to her at Broomhill, and Mr. Mohun gladly availing himself of the offer, the little girls set off, so well pleased to make a visit alone, as almost to forget the occasion of it. Mrs. Weston had extended her invitation to Lilias, but she begged to be allowed to remain with her sisters, and Mr. Mohun thought that she had been already so much exposed to the infection that it was useless for her to take any precautions.
She was therefore declared head nurse; and it was well that she had an energetic spirit, and so sweet a temper, that she was ready to sympathise with all Emily’s petulant complaints, and even to find fault with herself for not being in two places at once. Two of the maids were ill, and the whole care of Emily and Jane devolved upon her, with only the assistance of Esther.
Emily was not very seriously ill, but Jane’s fever was very high, and Lily thought that her father was more anxious than he chose to appear. Of Jane’s own thoughts little could be guessed; she was often delirious, and at all times speaking was so painful that she said as little as possible.
Lily’s troubles seemed at their height one Sunday afternoon, while her father was at church. She had been reading the Psalms and Lessons to Emily, and she then rose to return to Jane.
‘Do not go,’ entreated Emily.
‘I will send Esther.’
‘Esther is of no use.’
‘And therefore I do not like to leave her so long alone with Jane. Pray spare me a little smile.’
‘Then come back soon.’
Lily was glad to escape with no more objections. She found Jane complaining of thirst, but to swallow gave her great pain, and she required so much attendance for some little time, that Emily’s bell was twice rung before Esther could be spared to go to her.
She soon came back, saying, ‘Miss Mohun wants you directly, Miss Lilias.’
‘Tell her I will come presently,’ said Lily, who had one hand pressed on Jane’s burning temples, while the other was sprinkling her with ether.
‘Stay,’ said Jane, faintly, and Esther left the room.
Jane drew her breath with so much difficulty that a dreadful terror seized upon Lily, lest she should be suffocated. She raised her head, and supported her till Esther could bring more pillows. Esther brought a message from Emily to hasten her return; but Jane could not be left, and the grateful look she gave her as she arranged the pillows repaid her for all her toils. After a little time Jane became more comfortable, and said in a whisper, ‘Dear Lily, I wish I was not so troublesome.’
Back came Esther at this moment, saying, ‘Miss Emily says she is worse, and wants you directly, Miss Lilias.’
Lily hurried away to Emily’s room, and found what might well have tried her temper. Emily was flushed indeed, and feverish, but her breathing was smooth and even, and her hand and pulse cool and slow, compared with the parched burning hands, and throbbings, too quick to count, which Lily had just been watching.
‘Well, my dear Emily, I am sorry you do not feel better; what can I do for you?’
‘How can I be better while I am left so long, and Esther not coming when I ring? What would happen if I were to faint away?’
‘Indeed, I am very sorry,’ said Lily; ‘but when you rang, poor Jenny could spare neither of us.’
‘How is poor Jenny?’ said Emily.
‘Her throat is very bad, but she is quite sensible now, and wishes to have me there. What did you want, Emily?’
‘Oh! I wish you would draw the curtain, the light hurts me; that will do—no—now it is worse, pray put it as it was before. Oh! Lily, if you knew how ill I am you would not leave me.’
‘Can I do anything for you—will you have some coffee?’
‘Oh! no, it has a bad taste, I am sure it is carelessly made.’
‘Shall I make you some fresh, with the spirit lamp?’
‘No, I am tired of it. I wonder if I might have some tamarinds?’
‘I will ask as soon as papa comes from church.’
‘Is he gone to church? how could he go when we are all so ill?’
‘Perhaps he was doing us more good at church than he could at home. You will be glad to hear, Emily, that he has sent for Rachel to come and help us.’
‘Oh! has he? but she lives so far off, and gets her letters so seldom, I don’t reckon at all upon her coming. If she could come directly it would be a comfort.’
‘It would, indeed,’ said Lily; ‘she would know what to do for Jane.’
‘Lily, where is the ether? You are always taking it away.’
‘In Jane’s room; I will fetch it.’
‘No, no, if you once get into Jane’s room I shall never see you back again.’
Now Emily knew that Jane was very ill, and Lily’s pale cheeks, heavy eyes, and failing voice, might have reminded her that two sick persons were a heavy charge upon a girl of seventeen, without the addition of her caprices and fretfulness. And how was it that the kind-hearted, affectionate Emily never thought of all this? It was because she had been giving way to selfishness for nineteen years; and now the contemplation of her own sufferings was quite enough to hide from her that others had much to bear; and illness, instead of teaching her patience and consideration, only made her more exacting and querulous.
To Lily’s unspeakable relief, Miss Weston accompanied Mr. Mohun from church, and offered to share her attendance. No one knew what it cost Alethea to come into the midst of a scene which constantly reminded her of the sisters she had lost, but she did not shrink from it, and was glad that her parents saw no objection to her offering to share Lily’s toils. Her experience was most valuable, and relieved Lilias of the fear that was continually haunting her, lest her ignorance might lead to some fatal mistake. The next day brought Rachel, and both patients began to mend. Jane’s recovery was quicker than Emily’s, for her constitution was not so languid, and having no pleasure in the importance of being an invalid, she was willing to exert herself, and make the best of everything, while Emily did not much like to be told that she was better, and thought it cruel to hint that exertion would benefit her. Both were convalescent before the fever attacked Lily, who was severely ill, but not alarmingly so, and her gentleness and patience made Alethea delight in having the care of her. Lily was full of gratitude to her kind friend, and felt quite happy when Alethea chanced one day to call her by the name of Emma; she almost hoped she was taking the place of that sister, and the thought cheered her through many languid hours, and gave double value to all Alethea’s kindness. She did not feel disposed to repine at an illness which brought out such affection from her friend, and still more from her father, who, when he came to see her, would say things which gave her a thrill of pleasure whenever she thought of them.
It happened one day that Jane, having finished her book, looked round for some other occupation; she knew that Miss Weston had walked to Broomhill; Rachael was with Lilias, and there was no amusement at hand. At last she recollected that her papa had said in the morning, that he hoped to see her and Emily in the schoolroom in the course of the day, and hoping to meet her sister, she resolved to try and get there. The room had been Mr. Mohun’s sitting-room since the beginning of their illness, and it looked so very comfortable that she was glad she had come, though she was so tired she wondered how she should get back again. Emily was not there, so she lay down on the sofa and took up a little book from the table. The title was Susan Harvey, or Confirmation, and she read it with more interest as she remembered with a pang that this was the day of the confirmation, to which she had been invited; she soon found herself shedding tears over the book, she who had never yet been known to cry at any story, however affecting. She had not finished when Mr. Devereux came in to look for Mr. Mohun, and finding her there, was going away as soon as he had congratulated her on having left her room, but she begged him to stay, and began asking questions about the confirmation.
‘Were there many people?’
‘Three hundred.’
‘Did the Stoney Bridge people make a disturbance?’
‘No.’
‘How many of our people?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘Did all the girls wear caps?’
‘Most of them.’
Jane was rather surprised at the shortness of her cousin’s answers, but she went on, as he stood before the fire, apparently in deep thought.
‘Was Miss Burnet confirmed? She is the dullest girl I ever knew, and she is older than I am. Was she confused?’
‘She was.’
‘Did you give Mary Wright a ticket?’
‘No.’
‘Then, of course, you did not give one to Ned Long. I thought you would never succeed in making him remember which is the ninth commandment.’
‘I did not refuse him.’
‘Indeed! did he improve in a portentous manner?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Well, you must have been more merciful than I expected.’
‘Indeed!’
‘Robert, you must have lost the use of your tongue, for want of us to talk to. I shall be affronted if you go into a brown study the first day of seeing me.’
He smiled in a constrained manner, and after a few minutes said, ‘I have been considering whether this is a fit time to tell you what will give you pain. You must tell me if you can bear it.’
‘About Lily, or the little ones?’
‘No, no! only about yourself. Your father wished me to speak to you, but I would not have done so on this first meeting, but what you have just been saying makes me think this is the best occasion.’
‘Let me know; I do not like suspense,’ said Jane, sharply.
‘I think it right to tell you, Jane, that neither your father nor I thought it would be desirable for you to be confirmed at this time.’
‘Do you really mean it?’ said Jane.
‘Look back on the past year, and say if you sincerely think you are fit for confirmation.’
‘As to that,’ said Jane, ‘the best people are always saying that they are not fit for these things.’
‘None can call themselves worthy of them; but I think the conscience of some would bear them witness that they had profited so far by their present means of grace as to give grounds for hoping that they would derive benefit from further assistance.’
‘Well, I suppose I must be very bad, since you see it,’ said Jane, in a manner rather more subdued; ‘but I did not think myself worse than other people.’
‘Is a Christian called, only to be no worse than others?’
‘Oh no! I see, I mean—pray tell me my great fault. Pertness, I suppose—love of gossip?’
‘There must be a deeper root of evil, of which these are but the visible effects, Jane.’
‘What do you mean, Robert?’ said Jane, now seeming really impressed.
‘I think, Jane, that the greatest and most dangerous fault of your character is want of reverence. I think it is want of reverence which makes you press forward to that for which you confess yourself unfit; it is want of reverence for holiness which makes you not care to attain it; want of reverence for the Holy Word that makes you treat it as a mere lesson; and in smaller matters your pertness is want of reverence for your superiors; you would not be ready to believe and to say the worst of others, if you reverenced what good there may be in them. Take care that your want of reverence is not in reality want of faith.’
Jane’s spirits were weak and subdued. It was a great shock to her to hear that she was not thought worthy of confirmation; her faults had never been called by so hard a name; she was in part humbled, and in part grieved, and what she thought harshness in her cousin; she turned away her face, and did not speak. He continued, ‘Jane, you must not think me unkind, your father desired me to talk to you, and, indeed, the time of recovery from sickness is too precious to be trifled away.’
Jane wept bitterly. Presently he said, ‘It grieves me to have been obliged to speak harshly to you, you must forgive me if I have talked too much to you, Jane.’
Jane tried to speak, but sobs prevented her, and she gave way to a violent fit of crying. Her cousin feared he had been unwise in saying so much, and had weakened the effect of his own words. He would have been glad to see tears of repentance, but he was afraid that she was weeping over fancied unkindness, and that he might have done what might be hurtful to her in her weak state. He said a few kind words, and tried to console her, but this change of tone rather added to her distress, and she became hysterical. He was much vexed and alarmed, and, ringing the bell, hastened to call assistance. He found Esther, and sent her to Jane, and on returning to the schoolroom with some water, he found her lying exhausted on the sofa; he therefore went in search of his uncle, who was overlooking some farming work, and many were the apologies made, and many the assurances he received, that it would be better for her in the end, as the impression would be more lasting.
Jane was scarcely conscious of her cousin’s departure, or of Esther’s arrival, but after drinking some water, and lying still for a few moments, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, Robert! oh, Esther! the confirmation!’ and gasped and sobbed again. Esther thought she had guessed the cause of her tears, and tried to comfort her.
‘Ah! Miss Jane, there will be another confirmation some day; it was a sad thing you were too ill, to be sure, but—’
‘Oh! if I had—if he would not say—if he had thought me fit.’
Esther was amazed, and asked if she should call Miss Weston, who was now with Lilias.
‘No, no!’ cried Jane, nearly relapsing into hysterics. ‘She shall not see me in this state.’
Esther hardly knew what to do, but she tried to soothe and comfort her by following what was evidently the feeling predominating in Jane’s mind, as indicated by her broken sentences, and said, ‘It was a pity, to be sure, that Mr. Devereux came and talked so long, he could not know of your being so very weak, Miss Jane.’
‘Yes,’ said Jane, faintly, ‘I could have borne it better if he had waited a few days.’
‘Yes, Miss, when you had not been so very ill. Mr. Devereux is a very good gentleman, but they do say he is very sharp.’
‘He means to be kind,’ said Jane, ‘but I do not think he has much consideration, always.’
‘Yes, Miss Jane, that is just what Mrs. White said, when—’
Esther’s speech was cut short by the entrance of Miss Weston. Jane started up, dashed off her tears, and tried to look as usual, but the paleness of her face, and the redness of her eyes, made this impossible, and she was obliged to lie down again. Esther left the room, and Miss Weston did not feel intimate enough with Jane to ask any questions; she gave her some sal volatile, talked kindly to her of her weakness, and offered to read to her; all the time leaving an opening for confidence, if Jane wished to relieve her mind. The book which lay near her accounted, as she thought, for her agitation, and she blamed herself for having judged her harshly as deficient in feeling, now that she found her so much distressed, because illness had prevented her confirmation. Under this impression she honoured her reserve, while she thought with more affection of Lily’s open heart. Jane, who never took, or expected others to take, the most favourable view of people’s motives, thought Alethea knew the cause of her distress, and disliked her the more, as having witnessed her humiliation.
Such was Jane’s love of gossip that the next time she was alone with Esther she asked for the history of Mrs. White, thus teaching her maid disrespect to her pastor, indirectly complaining of his unkindness, and going far to annul the effect of what she had learnt at school. Perhaps during her hysterics Jane’s conduct was not under control, but subsequent silence was in her power, and could she be free from blame if Esther’s faults gained greater ascendency?
The next day Mr. Mohun attempted to speak to Jane, but being both frightened and unhappy, she found it very easy and natural, as well as very convenient, to fall into hysterics again, and her father was obliged to desist, regretting that, at the only time she was subdued enough to listen to reproof, she was too weak to bear it without injury. Rachel, who was nearly as despotic among the young ladies as she had been in former times in the nursery, now insisted on Emily’s going into the schoolroom, and when there, she made rapid progress. Alethea was amused to see how Jane’s decided will and lively spirit would induce Emily to make exertions, which no persuasions of hers could make her think other than impossible.
A few days more, and they were nearly well again; and Lilias so far recovered as to be able to spare her kind friend, who returned home with a double portion of Lily’s love, and of deep gratitude from Mr. Mohun; but these feelings were scarcely expressed in words. Emily gave her some graceful thanks, and Jane disliked her more than ever.
It was rather a dreary time that now commenced with the young ladies; they were tired of seeing the same faces continually, and dispirited by hearing that the fever was spreading in the village. The autumn was far advanced, the weather was damp and gloomy, and the sisters sat round the fire shivering with cold, feeling the large room dreary and deserted, missing the merry voices of the children, and much tormented by want of occupation. They could not go out, their hands were not steady enough to draw, they felt every letter which they had to write a heavy burden; neither Emily nor Lily could like needlework; they could have no music, for the piano at the other end of the room seemed to be in an Arctic Region, and they did little but read novels and childish stories, and play at chess or backgammon. Jane was the best off. Mrs. Weston sent her a little sock, with a request that she would make out the way in which it was knit, in a complicated feathery pattern, and in puzzling over her cotton, taking stitches up and letting them down, she made the time pass a little less heavily with her than with her sisters.
