Scenes and characters, or, Eighteen months at Beechcroft

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SCENES

AND

CHARACTERS;

OK,

EIGHTEEN MONTHS AT BEECHCROFT.

BY THE AUTHOR OP

“ ABBEYCHURCH, OR SELF CONTROL AND SELF CONCEIT."

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! n>

“ Nay, said he, “ where duty lies,
There is highest sacrifice,

Oft in meanest tasks on earth,
Faith doth show her genuine birth,
Giving them immortal worth.”

/

LONDON:

JAMES BURNS, PORTMAN STREET ;

AND HENRY MOZLEY AND SONS, DERBY.

1847 .

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PREFACE.

Of those who are invited to pay a visit to Beech-
croft, there are some, who, honestly acknowledging
that amusement is their object, will be content to
feel with Lilias, conjecture with Jane, and get into
scrapes with Phyllis, without troubling themselves
to extract any moral from their proceedings ; and
to these the Mohun family would only apologize for
having led a very humdrum life during the eighteen
months spent in their company.

There may, however, be more unreasonable
visitors, who, professing only to come as parents
and guardians, expect entertainment for themselves,
as well as instruction for those who had rather it
was out of sight, look for antiques in carved cherry
stones, and require plot, incident, and catastrophe in
a chronicle of small beer.

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PREFACE.

To these, the Mohuns beg respectfully to observe,
that they hope their examples may not be altogether
devoid of indirect instruction ; and lest it should be
supposed that they lived without object, aim, or
principle, they would observe that the maxim which
has influenced the delineation of the different
“ Scenes and Characters,” is, that feeling, unguided
and unrestrained, soon becomes mere selfishness ;
while the simple endeavour to fulfil each immedi-
ate claim of duty, may lead to the highest acts of
self-devotion.

New Court, Beechcroft,
Jan. 13 th.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS;

OB,

EIGHTEEN MONTHS AT BEECHCROFT.

CHAPTER I.

THE ELDER SISTER*

** Return, and in the daily round
Of duty and of love,

Thou best wilt find that patient faith
That lifts the soul above.'*

Eleanor Mohun was the eldest child of a gentleman
of old family, and good property, who had married
the sister of his friend and neighbour, the Marquis of
Rotherwood. The first years of her life were marked
by few events. She was a quiet, steady, useful girl,
finding her chief pleasure in nursing and teaching
her brothers and sisters, and her chief annoyance in
her mamma’s attempts to make her a fine lady ; but
as she grew older, she began to learn what real trou-
bles were. Claude, her third brother, was attacked by
a dangerous complaint in the head ; and her mother,

B

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

always delicate, suffered greatly from her exertions
and anxiety during his long illness, and was after-
wards thrown back by grief for the loss of her two
brothers, Lord Robert Devereux and Lord Rother-
wood, who died within a year of each other of decline.
As Lady Emily Mohun showed symptoms of the same
complaint, her husband hurried her away to Italy,
accompanied only by Eleanor, who was then nearly
eighteen. William, the next in age, was at Sand-
hurst, and Henry at Eton, where he was now joined
by Claude, who, his father hoped, might improve in
health and vigour, by mixing with other boys, instead
of being constantly watched and petted by his anxious
mother.

The school-room girls, Emily, Lilias and Jane,
the nursery boys, Maurice and Reginald, and the
baby Phyllis, were left at home, to the care of a
governess and nurse, and all were under the superin-
tendence of their aunt, Lady Robert, who lived near
Beechcroft.

In the third year after the travellers left England,
Lady Emily was so much better, as to be able to
enter into society during a winter spent at Florence,
and it was there that an engagement commenced be-
tween Eleanor and Mr. Francis Hawkesworth, who
had come to Italy in company with a sister in deli-
cate health.

Lady *Emily wondered how he had been able to
discover her daughter’s real worth beneath her formal
and retiring manner, and to admire features, which '
though regular had no claim to beauty, from the
thinness of the lips, the light grey of the eyes, and a

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THE ELDER SISTER.

3

want of light and animation about the whole coun-
tenance.

It was settled that the family should return home in
the spring, that the marriage should then take place,
and that Eleanor should accompany her husband to
India. But clouds again gathered over the Mohun
family ; very alarming accounts reached them of the
health of Lady Robert Devereux, and they were
hastening home to relieve her of her charge, when
Lady Emily was attacked with a sudden illness,
which made such rapid progress, that, at the end of
a very few days, she died, leaving the little Adeline,
about eight months old, to accompany Eleanor and'her
father on their mournful journey. They arrived in
England only just in time to attend the death-bed of
Lady Robert, Mr. Mohun’s only sister, and the per-
son on whom he most relied for assistance in the
education of his daughters. Her death made a great
change in the views of Eleanor, who, as she con-
sidered the cares and annoyances which would fall
on her father, when left to bear the whole burthen
of the management of the children and household,
felt it was her duty to give up her own prospects of
happiness and to remain at home. How could she
leave the tender little ones to the care of servants —
trust her sisters to a governess, and make her bro-
thers* home yet more dreary ? She knew fyer father
to be strong in sense and firm in judgement, but indo-
lent, indulgent, and inattentive to details, and she
could not bear to leave him to be harassed by the
petty cares of a numerous family, especially when
broken in spirits and weighed down with sorrow.

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SCENES ANI> CHARACTERS.

She thought her duty was plain, and accordingly,
she wrote to Mr. Hawkesworth, to beg him to allow
her to withdraw her promise.

Her brother Henry was the only person who knew
what she had done, and he alone perceived some-
thing of tremulousness about herein the midst of
the even cheerfulness with which she had from the
first supported her father’s spirits. Mr. Mohun,
however, did not long remain in ignorance, for Frank
Hawkesworth himself arrived at Beechcroft to plead
his cause with Eleanor. He knew her value too
well to give her up, and Mr. Mohun would not hear
of her making such a sacrifice for his sake. But
Eleanor was also firm, and after weeks of unhappi-
ness and uncertainty, it was at length arranged that
she should remain at home, till Emily was old enough
to take her place, and that Frank should then return
from India and claim his bride.

Well did she discharge the duties which she had
undertaken ; she kept her father’s mind at ease, fol-
lowed out his views, managed the boys with discre-
tion and gentleness, and made her sisters well
informed and accomplished girls ; but, for want of
fully understanding the characters of Emily and
Lilias, she made some mistakes with regard to them.
The four years which had changed her from a happy
girl into a thoughtful anxious woman, had brought
them to an age, which, if it is full of the fol-
lies of childhood, also partakes of the earnestness
of youth ; an age, when deep foundations of enduring
confidence may be laid by one who can enter into,
ahd direct the deeper flow of mind and feeling, which

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THE ELDER SISTER.

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lurks hid beneath the freaks and fancies of the early
years of girlhood. But Eleanor had little sympathy
for freaks and fancies. She knew the realities of
life too well to build airy castles with younger and
gayer spirits ; her sisters’ romance seemed to her
dangerous folly, and their lively nonsense, levity and
frivolity. They were too childish to share in her
confidence, and she was too busy and too much pre-
occupied to have ear or mind for visionary trifles,
though to trifles of real life she paid no small degree
of attention.

It might have been otherwise had Henry Mohun
lived ; but, in the midst of the affection of all who
knew him, honour from those who could appreciate
his noble character, and triumphs gained by his un-
common talents, he was cut off by a short illness,
when not quite nineteen, a most grievous loss to his
family, and above all to Eleanor. Unlike her as he
was, joyous, high spirited, full of fun, and overflow-
ing with imagination and poetry, there was a very
close bond of union between them, in the strong sense
of duty, the firmness of purpose, and energy of mind
which both possessed, and which made Eleanor feel
perfect reliance on him, and look up to him with
earnest admiration. With him alone she was unre-
served ; he was the only person who could ever
make her show a spark of liveliness, and on his
death, it was only with the most painful efforts that
she could maintain her composed demeanour and
fulfil her daily duties. Years passed on, and still
she felt the blank which Harry had left, almost as
much as the first day that she heard of his death,

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SCENES AND CHABACTEBS.

but she never spoke of him, and to her sisters it
seemed as if he was forgotten. The reserve which
had begun to thaw under his influence, again return-
ing, placed her at a still greater distance from the
younger girls, and unconsciously she became still
more of a governess and less of a sister. Little did
she know of the “ blissful dreams in secret shared,”
between Emily, Lilias, and their brother Claude,
and little did she perceive the danger that Lilias
would be run away with, by a lively imagination, re-
pressed and starved, but entirely untrained.

Whatever influenced Lilias, had, through her,
nearly the same effect upon Emily, a gentle girl, easily
led, especially by Lilias, whom she regarded with the
fondest affection and admiration. The perils of
fancy and romance were not, however, to be dreaded,
for Jane, the fourth sister, a strong resemblance of
Eleanor in her clear common sense, love of neatness
and active usefulness ; but there were other dangers
for her, in her tendency to faults, which, under wise
training, had not yet developed themselves.

Such were the three girls, who were now left to
assist each other in the management of the house-
hold, and who looked forward to their new offlces
with the various sensations of pleasure, anxiety, self-
importance and self-mistrust, suited to their differing
characters, and to the ages of eighteen, sixteen and
fourteen.

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THE NEW COURT.

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CHAPTER H.

THE NEW COURT.

“ Just at the age *twixt boy and youth,

When thought is speech, and speech is truth."

The long delayed wedding took place on the 13th of
January, 1845, and the bride and bridegroom imme-
diately departed for a year’s visit among Mr. Hawkes-
worth’s relations in Northumberland, whence they
were to return to Beechcroft, merely for a farewell
before sailing for India.

It was half-past nine in the evening, and the wed-
ding over — Mr. and Mrs. Hawkesworth gone — and
the guests departed, the drawing-room had returned
to its usual state. It was a very large room, so spa-
cious that it would have been waste and desolate, had
it not been well filled with handsome, but heavy old
fashioned furniture, covered with crimson damask,
and one side of the room fitted up with a book-case,
so high that there was a spiral flight of library steps
to give access to the upper shelves. Opposite, were
four large windows, now hidden by their ample cur-
tains ; and near them was at one end of the room a
piano, at the other a drawing desk. The walls were

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

wainscoted with polished black oak, the pannels re-
flecting the red fire-light like mirrors. Over the
chimney-piece, hung a portrait by Vandyke, of a pale,
dark cavalier, of noble mien, and with arched eye-
brows, called by Lilias, in defiance of dates, by the
name of Sir Maurice de Mohun, the hero of they
family, and allowed by every one to be a striking
likeness of Claude, the youth who at that momeilt
lay, extending a somewhat superfluous length of limb
upon the sofa, which was placed commodiously at
right angles to the fire.

The other side of the fire was Mr. Mohun’s special
domain, and there he sat at his writing table, ab-
stracted by deafness and letter writing, from the
various sounds of mirth and nonsense, which pro-
ceeded from the party round the long narrow sofa
table, which they had drawn across the front of the
fire, leaving the large round centre table in darkness
and oblivion.

This party had within the last half hour been
somewhat thinned ; the three younger girls had
gone to bed, the Rector of Beechcroft, Mr. Robert
Devereux, had been called home to attend some
parish business, and there remained Emily and Lilias
— tall graceful girls, with soft hazel eyes, clear dark
complexions, and a quantity of long brown curls.
The latter was busily completing a guard for the
watch, which Mr. Hawkesworth had presented to
Reginald, a fine handsome boy of eleven, who, with
his elbows on the table, sat contemplating her pro-
gress, and sometimes teazing his brother Maurice,
who was earnestly engaged in constructing a model

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THE NEW COURT.

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with some cards, which he had pilfered from the
heap before Emily. She was putting her sister’s
wedding cards into their shining envelopes, and
directing them in readiness for the post the next
morning, while they were sealed by a youth of the
same age as Claude, a small slim figure, with light
complexion and hair, and dark grey eyes full of
brightness and vivacity. He was standing, so as to be
more on a level with th$ high candle, and as Emily’s
writing was not quite so rapid as his sealing, he
amused himself, in the intervals, with burning his
own fingers by twisting the wax into odd shapes.

“ Why do not you seal up his eyes ?” enquired
Reginald, with an arch glance towards his brother on
the sofa.

“ Do it yourself, you rogue,” was the answer, at
the same time approaching with the hot sealing
wax in his hand — a demonstration which occasioned
Claude to open his eyes very wide, without giving
himself any further trouble about the matter.

“ Eh ?” said he, “ now they try to look innocent, as
if no one could hear them plotting mischief.”

“ Them ! it was not I — Redgie there — Young
ladies — I appeal — Was not I as innocent ?” — was the
very rapid, incoherent and indistinct answer.

“ After so lucid and connected a justification, no
more can be said,” replied Claude, in a kind of
“leave me, leave me to repose” tone, which occa-
sioned Lilias to say “I am afraid you are very tired.”
“ Tired ! what has he done to tire him ?”

“ I am sure a wedding is a terrible wear of spirits !”
said Emily, “ such excitement.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ Well — when I give a spectacle to the family next
year, I mean to tire you to some purpose.”

“ Eh ?” said Mr. Mohun, looking up, “ is Rother-
wood’s wedding to be the next ?”

“You ought to understand, uncle,” said Lord
Rotherwood, making two steps towards him, and
speaking a little more clearly, “ I thought you longed
to get rid of your nephew and his concerns.”

“ You idle boy !” returned Mr. Mohun, “ you do
not mean to have the impertinence to come of age ^
next year.”

“As much as having been bom on the 30th of
July, 1825, can make me.”

“ But what good will your coming of age do us ?”
said Lilias, “ you will be in London or Brighton, or
some such stupid place.”

“ Do not be senseless, Lily,” returned her cousin, j
“ Devereux castle is to be in splendour. Hethering-
ton in amazement — the county’s hair shall stand on
end. Illuminations, bonfires, feasts, balls, colours
flying, bands playing, tenants dining, fireworks” —

“ Hurrah ! jolly ! jolly !” shouted Reginald, danc-
ing on the ottoman, “and mind. there are lots of
squibs.”

“ And that Master Reginald Mohun has a new cap
and bells for the occasion,” said Lord Rotherwood.”

“ Let me make some fireworks,” said Maurice.”

“ You will begin like a noble baron of the hospi-
table olden time,” said Lily.

“ It will be like the old days when every birthday
of yours was a happy day for the people at Hether-
ington,” said Emily.

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THE NEW COURT.

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“Ah! those were happy old days,” said Lord
Rotherwood, in a graver tone.

“ These are happy days, are not they T said Lily,
smiling.

Her cousin answered with a sigh, “Yes, but
you do not remember the old ones, Lily then
after a pause, he added, “ It was a grievous mistake
to shut up the castle all these years. We have lost
sight of everybody. I do not even know what has
become of the Aylmers.”

“ They went to live in London,” said Emily, “ aunt
Robert used to write to them there.”

“ I know, I know, but where are they now V

“ In London, I should think,” said Emily. “ Some
one said Miss Aylmer was gone out as a governess.”

“ Indeed ! I wish I could hear more ! Poor Mr.
Aylmer ! He was the first man who tried to teach
me Latin. I wonder what has become of that mad
fellow Edward, and Devereux, my father’s godson !
Was not Mrs. Aylmer badly off ? I cannot bear that
people should be forgotten !

“ It is not so very long that we have lost sight of
them,” said Emily. .

“ Eight years,” said Lord Rotherwood. “ He died
six weeks after my father. Well ! I have made my
mother promise to come home.”

“ Really T said Lilias, “ she has been coming so
often.”

“ Aye — but she is coming this time. She is to
spend the winter at the castle, and make acquaint-
ance with all the neighbourhood.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“His Lordship is romancing,” said Claude to Lily,
in a confidential tone.

“ I’ll punish you for suspecting me of talking hy-
perborean language — hyperbolical, I mean,” cried
Lord Rotherwood, “ I’ll make you dance the Polka
with all the beauty and fashion.”

“ Then I shall stay at Oxford till it is over,” said
Claude.

“ You do not know what a treasure you will be,”
said the Marquis, “ladies like nothing so well as
dancing with a fellow twice the height he should be.”
“Beware of putting me forward,” said Claude,
rising, and, as he leant against the chimney-piece,
looking down from his height of six feet three, with
a patronizing air, upon his cousin, “ I shall be taken
for the hero, and you for my little brother.”

“ I wish I was,” said Lord Rotherwood, “ it would
be much* better fun. I should escape the speechify-
ing, the worst part of it.”

“ Yes,” said Claude, “ for one whose speeches will
be scraps of three words each, strung together with
the burthen of the apprentices' song, Radara tadara,
tandore.”

“ Radaratade,” said the Marquis, laughing. “ By
the bye, if Eleanor and Frank Hawkesworth manage
well, they may be here in time.”

“ Because they are so devoted to gaiety ?” said
Claude. “ You will say next that William is coming
from Canada on purpose.”

“ That tall captain !” said Lord Rotherwood. “ He
used to be a very awful person.”

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THE NEW COURT.

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“ Ah ! he used to keep the spoilt Marquis in
order,” said Claude.

“ To say nothing of the spoilt Claude,” returned
Lord Rotherwood.

“ Claude never was spoilt,” said Lily.

“ It was not Eleanor’s way,” said Emily.

“ At least she cannot be accused of spoiling me,”
said Lord Rotherwood. “ I shall never dare to write
at that round table again — her figure will occupy the
chair like Banquo’s ghost, and wave me off with a
knitting needle.”

“ Ah ! that stain of ink was a worse blot on your
character than on the new table cover,” said Claude.

“ She was rigidly impartial,” said Lord Rother-
wood.

“ No,” said Claude, “she made exceptions in favour
of Ada and me. She left the spoiling of the rest to
Emily.”

“ And well Emily will perform it ! A pretty state
you will be in by the 30th of July, 1846,” said Lord
Rotherwood.

u Why should not Emily make as good a duenna
as Eleanor T said Lily.

“ Why should she not ? She will not, that is all,”
said the Marquis. “ Such slow people you all are !
You would all go to sleep if I did not sometimes
rouse you up a little ! grow stagnant.”

“ Not an elegant comparison,” said Lilias, " besides
you must remember that your hasty brawling streams
do not reflect like tranquil lakes.”

“ One of Lily’s poetical hits, I declare !” said Lord
Rotherwood, “ but she need not have taken offence —

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

I did not refer to her— only Claude and Emily, and
perhaps — no, I will not say who else.”

“ Then Rotherwood, I will tell you what I am —
the Lily that derives all its support from the calm
lake.”

“ Well done, Lily, worthy of yourself,” cried Lord
Rotherwood, laughing, “ but you know I am always
off when you talk poetry.”

“I suspect it is time for us all to be off,” said
Claude, “ did I not hear it strike the quarter ?”

“ And to-morrow I shall be off in earnest,” said
Lord Rotherwood. “ Half way to London before
Claude has given one turn to his sides, and his
shoulders, and his heavy head.”

“ Shall we see you at Easter ?” said Emily.

“ No, I do not think you will. I am engaged to
stay with somebody somewhere, I forgot the name
of place and man ; besides, Grosvenor Square is
more tolerable then than at any other time of the
year, and I shall spend a fortnight with my mother
and Florence. It is after Easter that you come to
Oxford, is not it, Claude ?”

“ Yes, my year of idleness will be over. And there
is the Baron looking at his watch.”

The “ Baron ” was the title by which the young
people were wont to distinguish Mr. Mohun, who,
as Lily believed, had a right to the title of Baron of
Beechcroft. It was certain that he was the repre-
sentative of a family which had been settled at
Beechcroft ever since the Norman Conquest, and
Lily was very proud of the name of Sir William de
Moune in the battle roll, and of Sir John among the

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THE NEW COURT.

15

first Knights of the Garter. Her favourite was Sir
Maurice, who had held out Beechcroft Court for six
weeks against the Roundheads, and had seen the
greater part of the walls battered down. Witnesses
of the strength of the old castle yet remained in the
massive walls and broad green ramparts, which en-
closed what was now orchard and farm yard, and was
called the Old Court, while the dwelling house, built
by Sir Maurice after the Restoration, was named the
New Court. Sir Maurice had lost many an acre in
the cause of King Charles, and his new mansion was
better suited to the honest squires who succeeded
him, than to the mighty Barons his ancestors. It was
substantial and well built, with a square gravelled
court in front, and great, solid, folding gates opening
into a lane, bordered with very tall, well-clipped holly
hedges, forming a polished, green, prickly wall.
There was a little door in one of these gates, which
was scarcely ever shut, from whence a well-worn
path led to the porch, where generally reposed a
huge Newfoundland dog, guardian of the hoops and
walking sticks that occupied the comers. The front
door was of heavy substantial oak, studded with
nails, and never closed in the day-time, and the hall,
wainscoted and floored with slippery oak, had a noble
open fireplace, with a wood fire burning on the
hearth.

On the other side of the house was a terrace
sloping down to a lawn and bowling green, hedged
in by a formal row of evergreens. A noble plane
tree was in the middle of the lawn, and beyond it a
pond renowned for water lilies. To the left was the

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

kitchen garden, terminating in an orchard, planted
on the ramparts and moat of the Old Court ; then
came the farm buildings, and* beyond them a field,
sloping upwards to an extensive wood called Beech-
croft park. In the wood was the cottage of Walter
Greenwood, gamekeeper and woodman by hereditary
succession, but able and willing to turn his hand to
anything, and in fact, as Adeline once elegantly
termed him, the " family tee tot urn.”

To the right of the house there was a field, called
Long Acre, bounded on the other side by the turn-
pike toad to Raynham, which led up the hill to the
village green, surrounded by well kept cottages and
gardens. The principal part of the village was, how-
ever, at the foot of the hill, where the Court lane
crossed the road, led to the old Church, the school,
and parsonage, in its little garden, shut in by thick
yew hedges. Beyond was the blacksmith’s shop,
more cottages, and Mrs. Appleton’s wondrous village
warehouse ; and the lane, after passing by the hand-
some old farm house of Mr. Harrington, Mr. Mohun’s
principal tenant, led to a clear trout stream, the
boundary of the parish of Beechcroft.

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THE NEW PRINCIPLE.

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CHAPTER m.

THE NEW PRINCIPLE.

“ And wilt thou show no more, quoth be,
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 talk-
ing in very earnest tones, which after a time occa-
sioned 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 sin-
cerely 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.

c

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ 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 T said Claude.

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

“ Wait till you understand yourself,” said the pro-
voking 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.

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Of Paradise the only token

Just left ns, ’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 V 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.

“ 0 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 loveable.”

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SCENES AND dHARACTERS.

u 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 relax-
ing 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 gentle-
ness, 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

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THE NEW PRINCIPLE.

21

joy, with no ups and downs — no enthusiasm — no ap-
preciation 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 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 I” 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 every body 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 pro-
perty 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, re-
quiring sense and activity, but Lilias and Jane were

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS. «

now quite old enough to assist her. Lily, however,
thought fit to despise all household affairs, and be-
stowed the chief of her attention on her own depart-
ment — 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 propen-
sity, 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 dan-
gerous illness had occasioned his removal from Eton,
and he had since been at home, reading with his
cousin Mr. Devereux, and sharing his sisters’ amuse-
ments.

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, every thing fitted her pre-
cisely, 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 spark-
ling black eyes, a little mouth, wearing an arch sub-
dued 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

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THE NEW PRINCIPLE.

23

were early risers, and Lily especially bad generally
despatched a good deal of business before the eight
o’clock breakfast.

At nine they went to church, Mr. Devereux hav-
ing restored the custom of daily service, and after
this, Mr. Mohun attended to his multitudinous affairs ;
Claude went to the Parsonage, Emily to the store-
room, Lily to the village, the younger girls to the
school-room, where they were presently joined by
Emily. Lily remained in her own room till one
o’clock, when she joined the others in the school-room,
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 Tom
boy, by the maids. She seemed bom 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,
school-room and nursery, she was continually in
scrapes, and so often reproved and repentant, that
her loud roaring fits of crying were amongst the ordi-
nary noises of the New Court. She was terribly
awkward when under constraint, or in learning any

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

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 grey and brown.
Her mouth was wide, her nose turned up, her com-
plexion 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 doH, 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 draw-
ing-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

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THE NEW PRINCIPLE.

25

Popular Tales.” Then Emily blamed her ungrace-
ful position, Jane laughed at her triform taste, and
Lily proposed some story about modem children,
such as Phyllis never could like, and die constant
speech was repeated, “ Only look at Ada !” till
Phyllis considered her sister as a perfect model, and
sighed over her own naughtiness.

“ Gorman Popular Tales” were a recent introduc-
tion of Claude’s, for Eleanor had carefully excluded
all fairy tales from her sister's library 5 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

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

wrapped up in whatever tale she chanced to be read-
ing — 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 mo-
ment, 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 con-
dition that she might finish her bottle at a draught,”
said Mr. Mohun.

Lily laughed, and looked down, feeling quite un-
able to offer to give up “Peveril” before she had

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THE NEW PRINCIPLE. 27

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 dullness of the
latter part of “ Russell’s Modem Europe,” which was
being read in the school-room, and yawned nearly
as much as Phyllis over the “ Pragmatic Sanction.”
However, when that book was concluded, and they

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

began “ Palgrave’s Anglo-Saxons,” Lily was seized
with a sudden historical fever. She could hardly
wait till one o’clock, before she settled herself at the
school-room table with her work, and summoned
every one, however occupied, to listen to the read-
ing.

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HONEST PHYL.

29

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
school-room 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.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

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.

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HONEST PHYL.

31

“ 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 pussey, 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 eqjoy her-
self, 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 be-
tween 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, shil-
lings, 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 de-
lighted.

“ No indeed,” said Claude, “ suppose we set it
again, more clearly ; but how is this ? When I was
in the school-room, 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 ?”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“Why, I suppose I may look at Ada’s slate,
though you must not,” said Claude, laughing to him-
self 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 peneil scream if you
can help it.”

Claude found that Phyllis’s great difficulty was j
with the farthings. She could not understand the
fractional figures, and only knew thus far, that j
“ 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, hang-
ing down her head, “ Claude, I’ll tell you what.”

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HONEST PHYL.

33

“ Well, what T said Claude*

“ I should like to kiss you.”

Then away she hounded, 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 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 black-
bird’s nest.”

“ I gave her leave,” said Emily. “ Rachael had
ordered her not to climb ; and she was crying be-

D

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

cause she could not see the nest that Wat Green-
wood had found.”

“ On Tuesday, she cried over her French gram-
mar, and tore a leaf out of the old spelling-book.”

“ That was nearly out before,” said Emily, “ Mau-
rice and Redgie spoilt that long ago.”

“ I do not know of any thing 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 dis-
mayed, and cried the loudest,” said Lily.

“ That she always does,” said Jane. “ On Friday
we had an uproar in the school-room about her hem-
ming, 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 be-
tween 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 Rachael 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 trou-
blesome, but — ”

“ Oh, Claude !” cried Lily, “ you do not mean that

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HONE8T PHYL.

35

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 school-
room, 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 ex-
planation.”

“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 ?” •

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

After a good laugh at J ane’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 any thing 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 !” upturned Lily, “ do not say so,

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HONEST PHYL.

37

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 school-
room, 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 school-room
for an hour every morning, with a desire to be use-
ful. She thought she did great things in under-
taking 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 ex-
plain difficult rules in a sensible way. She could
not, or would not, understand the difference between
dullness and inattention ; her sharp hasty manner
would frighten away all her pupil’s powers of com-
prehension ; 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 man-
ner, so long as she could say they were done ; she
disliked a disturbance, and overlooked or half cor-
rected 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 school-room expecting to be annoyed, created

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

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 counter-
balanced by her deficiency in temper and patience.

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VILLAGE GOSSIP.

39

CHAPTER V.

VILLAGE GOSSIP.

“ The deeds we do, the words we say,

Into still air they seem to fleet ;

We coant them past,

Bat they shall last.**

Soon after Easter, Claude went to Oxford. He was
much missed by his sisters, who wanted him to
carve for them at luncheon, to escort them when
they rode or walked, to hear their music, talk over
their books, advise respecting their drawings, and
criticise Lily’s verses. A new subject of interest
was, however, arising for them in the neighbours
who were shortly expected to arrive at Broom Hill,
a house which had lately been built in a hamlet
about a mile and a half from the New Court.

These new comers were the family of a barrister
of the name of Weston. He had taken the house for
the sake of his wife, who had fallen into delicate
health, in consequence of the loss of two daughters
by the scarlet fever. Two still remained, -a grown
up young lady, and a girl of eleven years old, and
the Miss Mohuns learnt with great delight, that

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

they should have near neighbours of their own age.
They had never had any young companions, as young
ladies were scarce among their acquaintance, and
they had not seen their cousin, Lady Florence Deve-
reux, since they were children.

It was with great satisfaction that Emily and
Lilias set out with their father to make the first
visit, and they augured well from their first sight of !
Mrs. Weston and her daughters. A few visits more,
and a few meetings in the village, and Marianne
Weston, Phyllis and Adeline, were excellent friends
and companions, and Lilias was fully convinced that '
Alethea was to be her bosom friend. On her side,
however, Alethea Weston felt some reluctance to
become intimate with the young ladies of the New
Court. She was pleased with Emily’s manners, in-
terested by Lily’s earnestness and * simplicity, and
thought Jane a clever and amusing little creature,
but even their engaging qualities gave her pain, by
reminding her of the sisters she had lost, or by
making her think how they would have liked them.

A country house and neighbours like these, had been
the objects of many visions of their childhood, and
now all the sweet sights and sounds around her only
made her think how she should have enjoyed them, a
year ago. She felt almost jealous of Marianne’s
liking for her new friends, lest they should steal her
heart from Emma and Lucy ; but knowing that these
were morbid and unthankful feelings, she struggled
against them, and though she missed her sisters even
more than when her mother and Marianne were in
greater need of her attention, she let n<y»sign of

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her sorrowful feeling appear, and seeing that Mari-
anne was benefited in health and spirits, by inter-
course with young companions, she gave no hint of
her disinclination to join in the walks and other
amusements of the Miss Mohuns.

She also began to take interest in the poor people.
By Mrs. Weston’s request, Mr. Devereux had pointed
out the families which were most in need of assist-
ance, and Alethea made it her business to find out
the best way of helping them. She visited the vil-
lage school with Lilias, and when requested by her
and by the Hector, to give her aid in teaching, she
did not like to refuse what might be a duty, though
she felt very diffident of her powers of instruction.
Marianne, like Phyllis and Adeline, became a Sunday
scholar, and was catechized with the others in Church.
Both Mr. Mohun and his nephew thought very highly
of the family, and the latter was particularly glad
that Lily should have some older person to assist her
in those parish matters which he left partly in her
charge.

Mr. Devereux had been Rector of Beechcroft
about a year and a half, and had hitherto been much
liked. His parishioners had known him from a boy,
and were interested about him, and though very
young, there was something about him that gained
their respect. Almost all his plans were going on
well, and things were on the whole, in a satisfactory
state, though no one but Lilias expected even cousin
Robert to make a Dreamland of Beechcroft, and
there were days when he looked worn and anxious,

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

and the girls suspected that some one was be-
having ill.

“ Have you a headache, Robert ?” asked Emily, a
few evenings before Whit- Sunday, “you have not
spoken three words this evening.”

“Not at all, thank you,” said Mr. Devereux,
smiling, “you need not think to make me your
victim, now you have no Claude to nurse.”

“ Then if it is not bodily, it is mental,” said Lily.

“ I am in a difficulty about the christening of Mrs.
Naylor’s child.”

“ Naylor the blacksmith ?” said Jane, “ I thought
it was high time for it to be christened. It must be
six weeks old.” .

“ Is it not to be on Whit- Sunday ?” said Lily/dis-
consolately.

“ Oh no ! Mrs. Naylor will not hear of ^bringing
the child on a Sunday, and I could hardly make her
think it possible to bring it on Whit-Tuesday.”

“ Why did you not insist ?” said Lily.

“ Perhaps I might, if there was no other holy day
at hand, or if there was not another difficulty, a point
on which I cannot give way.”

“ Oh ! the godfathers and godmothers,” said Lily,
“does she want that charming brother of hers,
Edward Gage ?”

“ Yes, and what is worse, Edward Gage’s dissent-
ing wife, and Dick Rodd, who shows less sense of
religion than any one in the parish, and has never
been confirmed.”

“ Could you make them hear reason ?”

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“They were inclined to be rather impertinent,”
said Mr. Devereux. “ Old Mrs. Gage — ”

“ Oh !” interrupted Jane, “ there is no hope for
you, if the sour Gage is in the pie.”

“ The sour Gage told me people were not so par-
ticular in her younger days, and perhaps they should
not have the child christened at all, since I was such
a contrary gentleman. Tom Naylor was not at
home, I am to see him to-morrow.”

“ Well, I do not think Tom Naylor is as bad as
the rest,” said Lily, “ he would have been tolerable,
if he had married any one but Martha Gage.”

“Yes, he is an open good-natured fellow, and I
have hopes of making an impression on him.”

“ If not,” said Lily, “ I hope papa will take away
his custom.”

“ What ?” said Mr. Mohun, who always heard any
mention of himself. Mr. Devereux repeated his his-
tory, and discussed the matter with his uncle, only
once interrupted by an enquiry from Jane, about the
child’s name, a point on which she could gain no
intelligence. His report the next day was not de-
cidedly unfavourable, though he scarcely hoped the
christening would be so soon as Tuesday. He had
not seen the father, and suspected he had purposely
kept out of the way.

Jane, disappointed that the baby’s name remained
a mystery, resolved to set out on a voyage of dis-
covery. Accordingly, as soon as her cousin was
gone, she asked Emily if she had not been saying
that Ada wanted some more cotton for her sampler.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ Yes,” said Emily, “ but I am not going to walk
all the way to Mrs. Appleton’s this afternoon.”

“ Shall I go ?” said Jane. “ Ada, run and fetch
your pattern.” Emily and Ada were much obliged j
by Jane’s disinterested offer, and in a quarter of an
hour, Ada’s thoughts and hands were busy in Mrs.
Appleton’s drawer of many-coloured cotton.

“ What a pity this is about Mrs. Naylor’s baby,”
began Jane.

“It is a sad story indeed, Miss Jane, I am sure it
must be grievous to Mr. Devereux,” said Mrs.
Appleton, “ Betsy Wall said he had been there three
times about it.”

“Ah ! we all know that Walls have ears,” said
Jane, “ how that Betsy does run about gossiping !”

“ Yes, Miss Jane, there she bides all day long at
the stile, gaping, not a stitch does she do for her
mother, I cannot tell what is to be the end of it.”

“And do you know what the child’s name is to
be, Mrs. Appleton ?”

“ No, Miss Jane,” answered Mrs. Appleton, “Betsy
did say they talked of naming him after his uncle,
Edward Gage, only Mr. Devereux would not let him
stand.”

“ No,” said J ane. “ Since he married that dissent-
ing wife, he never comes near the Church, he is too
much like the sour Gage, as we call his mother, to
be good for much. But after all, he is not so bad as
Dick Rodd, who has never been confirmed, and has
never shown any sense of religion in his life.”

“ Yes, Miss, Dick Rodd is a sad fellow ; did you

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45

hear what a row there was at the Mohun Arms last
week, Miss Jane ?”

“ Aye,” said Jane, “ and papa says he shall cer-
tainly turn Dick Rodd out of the house as soon as
the lease is out, and it is only till next Michaelmas
twelve-months.”

“ Yes, Miss, as I said to Betsy Wall, it would be
more for their interest to behave well.”

“Indeed it would,” said Jane, “Robert and papa
were talking of having their horses shod at Stoney
Bridge, if Tom Naylor will be so obstinate, only
papa does not like to give Tom up if he can help it,
because his father was so good, and Tom would not
be half so bad if he had not married one of the
Gages.”

“ Here is cousin Robert coming down the lane,”
said Adt^ who had chosen her cotton, and was gazing
from the door. Jane gave a violent start, took a
hurried leave of Mrs. Appleton, and set out towards
home ; she could not avoid meeting her cousin.

“ Oh, Jenny ! have you been enjoying a gossip
with your great ally ?” said he.

“We have only been buying pink cotton,” said
Ada, whose conscience was clear.

“ Ah l” said Mr. Devereux, “ Beecheroft affairs
would soon stand still, without those useful people,
Mrs. Appleton, Miss Wall, and Miss Jane Mohun,”
and he passed on. Jane felt her face colouring, his
freedom from suspicion made her feel very guilty,
but the matter soon passed out of her mind.

Blithe Whit- Sunday came, the five Miss Mohuns
appeared in white frocks, new bonnets were plenty,

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

the white tippets of the children, and the bright
shawls of the mothers, made the village look gay ;
Wat Greenwood stuck a pink between his lips, and
the green boughs of hazel and birch decked the dark
oak carvings in the Church.

And Whit-Monday came. At half-past ten, the
rude music of the band of the Friendly Society, came
pealing from the top of the hill, then appeared two
tall flags, crowned with guelder roses and peonies,
then the great blue drum, the clarionet blown by red
waistcoated and red faced Mr. Appleton, the three
flutes and the triangle, all at their loudest, causing
some of the spectators to start and others to dance.
Then behold the whole procession of labourers, in
white round frocks, blue ribbons in their hats, and
tall blue staves in their hands. In the rear, the con-
fused mob, women and children, cheerful faces and
mirthful sounds every where. These were hushed
as the flags were lowered to pass under the low
roofed gateway of the Church yard, and all was still
except the trampling of feet on the stone floor.
Then the service began, the responses were made in
full and hearty tones, almost running into a chant,
the old 133rd Psalm was sung as loudly and as badly
as usual, a very short but very earnest sermon was
preached, and forth came the troop again.

Mr. Devereux always dined with the club in a
tent, at the top of the hill, but his uncle made him
promise to come to a second dinner at the New
Court in the evening.

“ Robert looks anxious,” said Lily, as she parted

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47

with him after the evening service, “I am afraid
something is going wrong.”

“ Trust me for finding out what it is,” said Jane.
“No, no, Jenny, do not ask him,” said Lily, “if
he tells us to relieve his mind, I am very glad he
should make friends of us, but do not ask. Let us
talk of other things to put it out of his head, what-
ever it may be.”

Jane soon heard more of the cause of the depres-
sion of her cousin’s spirits than even she had any
desire to do. After dinner, the girls were walking
in the garden, enjoying the warmth of the evening,
when Mr. Devereux came up to her and drew her
aside from the rest, telling her that he wished to
speak to her.

“ Oh !” said Jane, “ when am I to meet you at
school again ? You never told me which chapter I
was to prepare, I cannot think what would become
of your examinations if it was not for me, you could
not get an answer to one question in three.”

“ That was not what I wished to speak to you
about,” said Mr. Devereux. “ What had you been
saying to Mrs. Appleton when I met you at her
door on Saturday ?”

The colour rushed into Jane’s cheeks, but she re-
plied without hesitation, “ Oh ! different things, La
pluie et le beau temps , just as usual.”

“ Cannot you remember anything more distinctly ?”
“ I always make a point of forgetting what I talk
about,” said Jane, trying to laugh.*

“Now, Jane, let me tell you what has happened

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

in the village — as I came down the hill from the
club-dinner — ”

“ Oh !” said Jane, hoping to make a diversion,
“ Wat Greenwood came back about a quarter of an
hour ago, and he — ”

Mr. Devereux proceeded without attending to her,
“As I came down the hill from the club-dinner, old
Mrs. Gage came out of Naylor’s house, and her
daughter with her, in great anger, calling me to ac-
count for having spoken of her in a most unbecoming
way, calling her the sour Gage, and trying to set the
Squire against them.”

“ Oh ! that abominable chattering woman,” Jane
exclaimed, “ and Betsy Wall too, I saw her all alive
about something. What a nuisance such people are !”

“In. short,” said Mr. Devereux, “I heard an ex-
aggerated account of all that passed here on the sub-
ject the other day. Now, Jane, am I doing you any
injustice in thinking that it must have been through
you, that this history went abroad into the village ?”

“ Well !” said Jane, “ I am sure you never told us
that it was any secret. When a story is openly told
to half a dozen people, they cannot be expected to
keep it to themselves.”

“ I spoke uncharitably and incautiously,” said he,
“ I am willing to confess, but it is nevertheless my
duty to set before you the great matter that this
little fire has kindled.”

“ Why, it cannot have done any great harm, can
it 7 * asked Jane, the agitation of her voice and laugh
betraying that she was not quite so careless as she
wished to appear. “ Only the sour Gage will fer-
ment a little.”

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“ Oh, Jane ! I did not expect that you would treat
this matter so lightly.”

“ But tell me, what harm has it done ?” asked she.

“ Do you consider it nothing, that the poor child
should remain unbaptized, that discord should be
brought into the parish, that anger should be on the
conscience of your neighbour, that he should be
driven from the Church’ ?”

“ Is it as bad as that ?” said Jane.

“We do not yet see the full extent of the mischief
our idle words may have done,” said Mr. Devereux.

“ But it is their own fault, if they will do wrong,”
said Jane, “ they j)ught not to be in a rage, we said
nothing but the truth.”

“ I wish I was clear of the sin,” said her cousin.

“ And after all,” said Jane, “ I cannot see that I
was much to blame, I only talked to Mrs. Appleton,
as I have done scores of times, and no one minded it.
You only laughed at me on Saturday, and papa and
Eleanor never scolded me.”

“ You cannot say that no one has ever tried to
check you,” said the Rector.

“ And how was I to know that that mischief-
maker would repeat it ?” said Jane.

“ I do not mean to say,” said Mr. Devereux, “ that
you actually committed a greater sin than you may
often have done, by talking in a way which you
knew would displease your father. I know we are
too apt to treat lightly the beginnings of evil, until
some sudden sting makes us feel what a serpent we
have been fostering. Think this a warning, pray
that the evil we dread may be averted ; but should it

E

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

ensue, consider it as a punishment sent in mercy. It
will be better for you, not to come to school to-mor-
row ; instead of the references you were to have
looked out, I had rather you read over in a humble
spirit, the Epistle of St. James.”

Jane’s tears, by this time, were flowing fast, and
finding that she no longer attempted to defend her-
self, her cousin said no more. He joined the others,
and Jane, escaping to her own room, gave way to a
passionate fit of crying. Whether her tears were of
true sorrow or of anger, she could not have told her-
self ; she was still sobbing on her bed, when the
darkness came on, and her two little sisters came in
on their way to bed, to wish her good night.

“ Oh ! Jane, Jane, what is the matter, have you
been naughty ?” asked the little girls in great amaze-
ment.

“ Never mind,” said Jane, shortly, “goodnight,”
and she sat up, and wiped away her tears. The
children still lingered, “ Go away, do,” said she. “ Is
Robert gone ?”

“ No,” said Phyllis, “ he is reading the newspaper.”
Phyllis and Adeline left the room, and Jane
walked up and down, considering whether she should
venture to go down to tea, perhaps her cousin had
waited till the little girls had gone, before he spoke
to Mr. Mohun, or perhaps her red eyes might cause
questions on her troubles ; she was still in doubt,
when Lily opened the door, a lamp in her hand.

“ My dear Jenny, are you here ? Ada told me you
were crying, what is the matter ?”

“ Then you have not heard ?” said Jane.

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“ Only Robert began just now, ‘ Poor Jenny, she
has been the cause of getting us into a very awkward
scrape,’ but then Ada came to tell me about you, and
I came away.”

“ Yes,” said Jane, angrily, “ he will throw dll the
blame upon me, when I am sure it was quite as much
the fault of that horrible Mrs. Appleton, and papa
will be as angry as possible.”

“ But what has happened ?” asked Lily.

“ Oh ! that chatterer, that worst of gossipers, has
gone and told the Naylors and Mrs. Gage, all we
said about them the other day.”

“ So you told Mrs. Appleton ?” said Lily, “ so that
was the reason you were so obliging about the mark-
ing thread. Oh ! Jane, you had better say no more
about Mrs. Appleton ! And has it done much mis-
chief?”

“ Oh ! Mrs. Gage pitched into Robert, as Wat
Greenwood would say, and the christening is off
again.”

“Jane, this is frightful,” said Lily, “I do not
wonder that you are unhappy.”

“ Well, I dare say it will all come right again,” said
Jane, “there will only be a little delay, papa and
Robert will bring them to their senses in time.”

“ Suppose the baby was to die,” said Lily.

“ Oh ! it will not die,” said Jane, “ a great fat
healthy thing like that, likely to die indeed !”

“ I cannot make you out, Jane,” said Lily. “ If I
had done such a thing, I do not think I could have a
happy minute till it was set right.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“Well, I told you I was very sorry,” said Jane,
“ only I wish they would not all be so hard upon me,
Robert owns that he should not have said such things
if he did not wish them to be repeated.”

“ Does he ?” cried Lily, “ how exactly like Robert
that is, to own himself in fault, when he is obliged to
blame others. Jane, how could you hear him say
such things, and not be overcome with shame ? and
then to turn it against him ! Oh ! Jane, I do not
think I can talk to you any more.”

“I do not mean to say it was not very good of
him,” said Jane.

“ Good of him, what a word !” cried Lily. “ Well,
good night, I cannot bear to talk to you now. Shall
I say any thing for you down stairs ?”

“ Oh, tell papa and Robert I am very sorry,” said
Jane, “ I shall not come down again, you may leave
the lamp.”

On her way down stairs in the dark, Lilias was led
by the example of her cousin, to reflect that she was
not without some share in the mischief that had been
done, the words which report imputed to Mr. Deve-
reux, were mostly her own, or Jane’s. There was
no want of candour in Lily, and as soon as she en-
tered the drawing-room, she went straight up to her
father and cousin, and began “ Poor Jenny is very
unhappy, she desired me to tell you how sorry she
is. But I really believe that I did the mischief,
Robert. It was I who said those foolish things that
were repeated as if you had said them. It is a
grievous affair, but who could have thought that
we were doing so much harm ?”

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“ Perhaps it may not do any,” said Emily. “ The
Naylors have a great deal of good about them.”

“ They must have more than I suppose, if they
can endure what Robert is reported to have said of
them,” said Mr. Mohun.

“ What did you say, Robert,” said Lily, “ did you
not tell them all was said by your foolish young
cousins ?”

“ I agreed with you too much to venture on con-
tradicting the report, you know I could not even
deny having called Mrs. Gage by that name.”

“ Oh ! if I could do any thing to mend it !” cried
Lily.

But wishes had no effect, Lilias and Jane had to
mourn over the full extent of harm done by hasty
words. After the more respectable men had left the
Mohun Arms on the evening of Whit-Monday, the
rest gave way to unrestrained drunkenness, not so
much out of reckless self-indulgence, as to defy the
Clergyman and the Squire. They came to the front
of the Parsonage, yelled and groaned for some time,
and ended by breaking down the gate.

This conduct was repeated on Tuesday, and on
many Saturdays following, some young trees in the
Churchyard were cut, and abuse of the Parson writ-
ten on the walls — the idle young men taking this
opportunity to revenge their own quarrels, caused by
Mr. Devereux’s former efforts for their reformation.

On Sunday, several children were absent from
school, all those belonging to Farmer Gage’s labourer
were taken away, and one man was turned off by th.
farmer, for refusing to remove his child.

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54 SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

Now that the war was carried on so openly, Mr.
Mohun considered it his duty to withdraw his cus-
tom from one who choose to set his Pastor at defi-
ance. He went to the Forge, and had a long con-
versation with the blacksmith, but though he was
listened to with respect, it was not easy to make
much impression on an ignorant, hot-tempered man,
who had been greatly offended, and prided himself on
showing that he would support the quarrel of his wife
and her relations against both Squire and Parson,
and though Mr. Mohun did persuade him to own
that it was wrong to be at war with the Clergyman,
the effect of his arguments was soon done away with
by the Gages, and no ground was gained.

Mr. Gage’s farm was unhappily at no great dis-
tance from a dissenting chapel and school, in the
adjoining parish of Stony Bridge, and thither the
farmer and blacksmith betook themselves, with many
of the cottagers of Broom Hill.

One alone of the family of Tom Naylor refused to
join him in his dissent, and that was his sister, Mrs.
Eden, a widow with one little girl about seven years
old, who, though in great measure dependant upon
him for subsistence, knew her duty too well to desert
the Church, or to take her child from school, and
continued her even course, toiling hard for bread,
and uncomplaining, though often much distressed.
All the rest of the parish who were not immediately
under Mr. Mohun’s influence, were in a sad state of
confusion.

Jane was grieved at heart, but would not confess
*.t, and Lilias was so restless and unhappy that Emily

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55

was quite weary of her lamentations. Her best
comforter was Miss Weston, who patiently listened
to her, sighed with her ovei "^he evident sorrow of
the Rector, and the mischief in the parish, and
proved herself a true friend, by never attempting to
extenuate her fault.

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SCENES AND CHABACTERS.

CHAPTER VI.

THE NEW FRIEND.

“ Maidens should be mild and meek,

Swift to hear, and slow to speak.*’

Miss Weston had been much interested by what she
heard respecting Mrs. Eden, and gladly discovered
that she was just the person who could assist in some
needle-work which was required at Broom Hill.
She asked Lilias to tell her where to find her cottage,
and Lily replied by an offer to show her the way ;
Miss Weston hesitated, thinking that perhaps in the
present state of things, Lily had rather not see her,
but her doubts were quickly removed by this speech,
“ I want to see her particularly. I have been there
three times without finding her. I think I can set
this terrible matter right by speaking to her.”

Accordingly, Lilias and Phyllis set out with Ale-
thea and Marianne one afternoon to Mrs. Eden’s
cottage, which stood at the edge of a long field at
the top of the hill. Very fast did Lily talk all the
way, but she grew more silent as she came to the
cottage, and knocked at the door. It was opened by
Mrs. Eden herself, a pale but rather pretty young
woman, with a remarkably gentle and pleasing face,

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57

and a manner which was almost lady-like, although
her hands were freshly taken out of the wash tub.
She curtsied low, and coloured at the sight of Lilias,
set chairs for the visitors, and then returned to her
work.

“ Oh ! Mrs. Eden,” Lily began, intending to make
her explanation, but feeling confused, thought it
better to wait till her friend’s business was settled,
and altered her speech into “ Miss Weston is come
to speak to you about some work.”

Mrs. Eden looked quite relieved, and Alethea pro-
ceeded to appoint the day for her coming to Broom
Hill, and arrange some small matters, during which
Lily not only settled what to say, but worked herself
into a fit of impatience at the length of Alethea’s in-
structions. When they were concluded, however,
and there was a pause, her words failed her, and she
wished that she was miles from the cottage, or that
she had never mentioned her intentions. At last
she stammered out, “ Oh ! Mrs. Eden — I wanted to
speak to you about — about Mr. Devereux and your
brother.”

Mrs. Eden bent over her wash tub, Miss Weston
examined the shells on the chimney-piece, Marianne
and Phyllis listened with all their ears, and poor
Lily was exceedingly uncomfortable.

“ I wished to tell you — I do not think — I do not
mean — It was not his saying. Indeed, he did not
say those things about the Gages.”

“ I told my brother I did not think Mr. Devereux
would go for to say such a thing,” said Mrs. Eden,
as much confused as Lily.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ Ok ! that was right, Mrs. Eden. The mischief
was all my making and Jane’s. We said those
foolish things, and they were repeated as if it was
he. Oh ! do tell your brother so, Mrs. Eden. It
was very good of you to think it was not cousin
Robert. Pray tell Tom Naylor. I cannot bear that
things should go on in this dreadful way.”

“ Indeed, Miss, I am very sorry,” said Mrs. Eden.
“ But Mrs. Eden, I am sure that would set it right
again,” said Lily, “ are not you ? I would do anything
to have that poor baby christened.”

Lily’s confidence melted away as she saw that Mrs.
Eden’s tears were falling fast, and she ended with,
“ Only tell them, and we shall see what will happen.”
“Very well, Miss Lilias,” said Mrs. Eden. “I
am very sorry.”

“ Let us hope that time and patience will set things
right,” said Miss Weston, to relieve the embarrass-
ment of both parties. “Your brother must soon see
that Mr. Devereux only wishes to do his duty.”
Alethea skilfully covered Lily’s retreat, and the
party took leave of Mrs. Eden, and turned into their
homeward path.

Lily at first seemed disposed to be silent, and Miss
Weston therefore amused herself with listening to
the chatter of the little girls as they walked on
before them.

“ There are only thirty-six days to the holidays,”
said Phyllis, “Ada and I keep a paper in the nursery
with the account of the number of days. We shall
be so glad when Claude, and Maurice and Redgie
come home.”

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“ Are not they very boisterous T said Marianne.

“ Not Maurice,” said Phyllis.
u No, indeed,” said Lily, “ Maurice is like nobody
else. He takes up some scientific pursuit each time
he comes home, and cares for nothing else for some
time, and then quite forgets it. He is an odd look-
ing boy too, thick and sturdy, with light flaxen hair,
and dark overhanging eyebrows, and he makes the
most extraordinary grimaces.”

“ And Reginald ?” said Alethea.

“ Oh ! Redgie is a noble looking fellow. But just
eleven, and taller than Jane. His complexion so
fair, yet fresh and boyish, and his eyes that beautiful
blue that Ada’s are — real blue. Then his hair, in
dark brown waves, with a rich auburn shine. The
old Knights must have been just like Redgie. And
Claude — Oh ! Miss Weston, have you ever seen
Claude ?

“ No, but I have seen your eldest brother.”

“ William ? Why he has been in Canada these
three years. Where could you have seen him T
“ At Brighton, about four years ago.”

“ Ah ! the year before he went. I remember that
his regiment was there. Well, it is curious that you
should know him ; and did you ever hear of Harry,
the brother that we lost ?”

“ I remember Captain Mohun’s being called away
to Oxford by his illness,” said Alethea.

“ Ah yes ! William was the only one of us who
was with him, even papa was not there. His illness
was so short.”

“ Yes,” said Alethea, “ I think it was on a Tues-

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

day that Captain Mohun left Brighton, and we saw
his death in the paper on Saturday.”

“ William only arrived the evening that he died.
Papa was gone to Ireland to see about cousin Rother-
wood’s property. Robert not knowing that, wrote
to him at Beechcroft, Eleanor forwarded the letter
without opening it, and so we knew nothing till
Robert came to tell us that all was over.”

“ Without any preparation ?”

“With none. Harry had left home about ten
days before, quite well, and looking so handsome.
You know what a fine looking person William is.
Well, Harry was very like him, only not so tall and
strong, with the same clear hazel eyes, and more
pink in his cheeks — fairer altogether. Then Harry
wrote saying that he had caught one of his bad
colds. We did not think much of it, for he was
always having coughs. We heard no more for a
week, and then one morning Eleanor was sent for
out of the school-room, and there was Robert come
to tell us. Oh ! it was such a thunderbolt. This
was what did the mischief. You know papa and
mamma being from home so long, after aunt Robert
was ill, the elder boys had no settled place for the
holidays, sometimes they staid with one friend, some-
times with another, and so no one saw enough of
them to find out how delicate poor Harry really was.
I think papa had been anxious the only winter they
were at home together, and Harry had been talked
to and advised to take care ; but in the summer and
autumn he was well, and did not think about it. He
went to Oxford by the coach — it was a bitterly cold

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frosty day — there was a poor woman outside, shiver-
ing and looking very ill, and Harry changed places
with her. He was horribly chilled, but thinking he
had only a common cold, he took no care. Robert
coming to Oxford about a week after, found him
very ill, and wrote to papa and William, but William
scarcely came in time. Harry just knew him, and
that was all. He could not speak, and died that
night. Then William staid at Oxford to receive
papa, and Robert came to tell us.”

“ It must have been a terrible shock.”

“ Such a loss — he was so very good and clever.
Every one looked up to him. William almost as
much as the younger ones. He never was in any
scrape — had all sorts of prizes at Eton, besides get-
ting his scholarship before he was seventeen.”

Whenever Lily could get Miss Weston alone, it
was her way to talk in this manner. She loved the
sound of her own voice so well, that she was never
better satisfied than when engrossing the whole con-
versation. Having nothing to talk of but her books,
her poor people, and her family, she gave her friend
the full benefit of all she could say on each subject,
while Alethea had kindness enough to listen with
real interest to her long rambling discourses, well
pleased to see her happy.

The next time they met, Lilias told her all she
knew or imagined respecting Eleanor, and of her
own debate with Claude, and ended, “ Now, Miss
Weston, tell me your opinion, which would you
choose for a sister, Eleanor or Emily ?”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ I have some experience of Miss Mohun’s delight-
ful manners, and none of Mrs. Hawkesworth’s, so I
am no fair judge,” said Alethea.

“I really have done justice to Eleanor’s sterling
goodness,” said Lily. “ Now what should you think ?”

“ I can hardly imagine greater proofs of affection
than Mrs. Hawkesworth has given you,” said Miss
Weston, smiling.

“It was because it was her duty,” said Lilias.
“You have only heard the facts, but you cannot judge
of her ways and looks. Now only think, when
Frank came home, after seven years of perils by field
and flood — there she rose up to receive him as if he
had been Mr. Nobody, making a morning call. And
all the time before they were married, I do believe
she thought more of showing Emily how much tea
we were to use in a week than anything else.”

“Perhaps some people might have admired her
self-command,” said Alethea.

“ Self-command, the refuge of the insensible ?
And now, I told you about dear Harry the other
day. He was Eleanor’s especial brother, yet his
death never seemed to make any difference to her.
She scarcely cried : she heard our lessons as usual,
talked in her quiet’ voice — showed no tokens of
feeling.”

“ Was her health as good as before ?” asked Miss
Weston.

“ She was not ill,” said Lily, “ if she had, I should
have been satisfied. She certainly could not take
long walks that winter, but she never likes walking.
People said she looked ill, but I do not know.”

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“ Shall I tell you what I gather from your
history?”

“ Pray do.”

“ Then do not think me very perverse, if I say that
perhaps the grief she then repressed may have
weighed down her spirits ever since, so that you can
hardly remember any alteration.”

“ That I cannot,” said Lily. “ She is always the
same, but then she ought to have been more cheer-
ful before his death.”

“ Did not you lose him soon after your mother ?”
i said Alethea.

“ Two whole years,” said Lily. “ Oh ! and aunt
Robert too, and Frank went to India the beginning
of that year ; yes, there was enough to depress her,
but I never thought of grief going on in that quiet
dull way for so many years.”

“ You would prefer one violent burst, and then
forgetfulness ?”

“Not exactly,” said Lily ; “but I should like a
little evidence of it If it is really strong, it cannot
be hid.”

Little did Lily think of the grief that sat heavy
upon the spirit of Alethea, who answered —

“ Some people can do any thing that they consider
their duty.”

“Duty ! what, are you a duty lover ?” exclaimed
Lilias, “I never suspected it, because you are not
disagreeable.”

“ Thank you,” said Alethea, laughing, “your com-
pliment rather surprises me, for I thought you told

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

me that your brother Claude was on the duty side of
the question.*

“ He thinks he is,” said Lily, “ but love is his real
motive of action, as I can prove to you. Poor Claude
had a very bad illness when he was about three years
old, and ever since, he has been liable to terrible
headaches, and he is not at all strong. Of course he
cannot always study hard, and when first he went to
school, every one scolded him for being idle. I
really believe he might have done more, but then he
was so clever, that he could keep up without any
trouble, and as Robert says, that was a great tempta-
tion ; but still papa was not satisfied, because he said
Claude could do better. So said Harry. Oh ! you
cannot think what a person Harry was, as high
spirited as William, and as gentle as Claude ; and in
his kind w$y he used to try hard to make Claude
exert himself, but it never would do — he was never
in mischief, but he never took pains. Then Harry
died, and when Claude came home, and saw how
changed things were, how grey papa’s hair had
turned, and how silent and melancholy William had
grown, he set himself with all his might to make up
to papa as far as he could. He thought only of
doing what Harry would have wished, and papa
himself says that he has done wonders. I cannot
see that Henry himself could have been more than
Claude is now ; he has not spared himself in the
least, his Tutor says, and he would have had the
Newcastle Scholarship last year, if he had not worked
so hard that he brought on one of his bad illnesses,
and was obliged to come home. Now I am sure

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that he has acted from love, for it was as much his
duty to take pains while Harry was alive, as after-
wards.”

“ Certainly,” said Miss Weston, “but what does
he say himself ?”

“ Oh ! he never will talk of himself,” said Lily.

“ Have you not overlooked one thing which may
be the truth,” said Alethea, as if she was asking for
information, “ that duty and love may be identical.
Is not St. Paul’s description of charity very like the
duty to our neighbour ?”

“ The practice is the same, but not the theory,”
said Lily.

“Now, what is called duty, seems to me to be
love doing unpleasant work,” said Miss Weston,
“love disguised under another name, when obliged
to act in a way which seems, only seems, out of ac-
cordance with its real title.”

“ That is all very well for those who have love,”
said Lily. “ Some have not who do their duty con-
scientiously — another word which I hate, by the bye.”

“ They have love in a rough coat, perhaps,” said
Alethea, “ and I should expect it soon to put on a
smoother one.”

F

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

CHAPTER YH.

SIR MAURICE.

“ Small thought was his, in after time,

Thus to be hitched into a rhyme ;

The simple sire could only boast
That he was loyal to his cost.

The banished race of kings revered,

And lost his land.’*

The holidays arrived, and with them the three bro-
thers, for during the first few weeks of the Oxford
vacation, Claude accompanied Lord Rotherwood on
visits to some college friends, and only came home
the same day as the younger ones.

Maurice did not long leave his sisters in doubt as
to what was to be his reigning taste, for, as soon as
dinner was over, he made Jane find the volume of
the Encyclopaedia containing Entomology, and with
his elbows on the table, proceeded to study it so in-
tently, that the young ladies gave up all hopes of
rousing him from it Claude threw himself down
on the sofa to enjoy the luxury of a desultory talk
with his sisters ; and Reginald, his head on the floor,
and his heels on a chair, talked loud and fast enough

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67

for all three, with very little regard to what the
damsels might be saying.

“Oh ! Claude,” said Lily, “ you cannot think how
much we like Miss Weston, she lets us call her
Alethea, and — ”

Here came an interruption from Mr. Mohun, who
perceiving the position of Reginald’s dusty shoes, gave
a loud “ Ah — h !” as if he was scolding a dog, and
ordered him to change them directly.

“ Here, Phyl I” said Reginald, kicking off his
shoes, “just step up and bring my slippers, Rachel
will give them to you.”

Away went Phyllis, well pleased to be her bro-
ther’s fag.

“ Ah ! Redgie does not know the misfortune that
hangs over him,” said Emily.

“ What ?” said Reginald, “ will not the Baron let
Viper come to the house ?”

“ Worse,” said Emily, “ Rachel is going away.”

“ Rachel ?” cried Claude, starting up from the sofa.

“ Rachel ?” said Maurice, without raising his eyes.

“ Rachel ! Rachel ! botheration !” roared Reginald,
with a wondrous caper.

“ Yes, Rachel,” said Emily, “ Rachel, who makes
so much of you, for no reason that I could ever dis-
cover, but because you are the most troublesome.”

“You will never find any one to mend your
jackets, and dress your wounds like Rachel,” said
Lily, “ and make a baby of you instead of a great
school-boy. What will become of you, Redgie ?”

“ What will become of any of us ?” said Claude,

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68 SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ I thought Rachel was the main -spring of the
house.”

“ Have you quarrelled with her, Emily T said
Reginald.

“ Nonsense,” said Emily, “ it is only that her bro-
ther has lost his wife, and wants her to take care of
his children.”

“ Well,” said Reginald, “ her master has lost his
wife, and wants her to take care of his children.”

“I cannot think what I shall do,” said Ada, “I
cry about it every night when I go to bed. What
is to be done ?”

“ Send her brother a new wife,” said Maurice.

“ Send him Emily,” said Reginald, “ we could spare
her much better.”

“ Only I don’t wish him joy,” said Maurice.

“Well, I hope you wish me joy of my substitute,”
said Emily, “ I do not think you would ever guess,
but Lily, after being in what Rachel calls quite a
way, has persuaded every one to let us have Esther
Bateman.”

“ What, the Baron ?” said Claude, in surprise.

“ Yes,” said Lily, “ is it not delightful ? He said
at first, Emily was too inexperienced to teach a
young servant ; but then we settled that Hannah
should be upper servant, and Esther will only have
to wait upon Phyl and Ada. Then he said Faith
Longley was of a better set of people, but I am sure
it would give one the nightmare to see her lumber-
ing about the house, and then he talked it over with
Robert and with Rachel.”

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“ And was not Rachel against it, or was she too
kind to her young ladies ?”

“ Oh ! she was cross when she talked it over with
us,” said Lily, “ hut we coaxed her over, and she
told the Baron it would do very well.”

“ And Robert ?”

“He was quite with us, for he likes Esther as
much as I do,” said Lily.

“Now, Lily,” said Jane, “how can you say he
was quite with you, when he said he thought it
would be better if she was further from home, and
under some older person.”

“Yes, but he allowed that she would be much
safer here than at home,” said Lily.

“But I thought she used to be the head of all
the ill behaviour in school,” said Claude.

“ Oh ! that was in Eleanor’s time,” said Lily,
“ there was nothing to draw her out, she never was
encouraged ; but since she has been in my class, and
has found that her wishes to do right are appreci-
ated and met by affection, she has been quite a new
creature.”

“ Since she has been in my class,” Claude repeated.

“ Well,” said Lily, with a slight blush, “it is just
what Robert says. He told her when he gave her
her prize Bible on Palm Sunday, that she had been
going on very well, but she must take great care
when removed from those whose influence now guided
her, and who could he have meant but me ? And
now she is to go on with me always. She will be quite
one of the old sort of faithful servants, who feel that
they owe every thing to their masters, and will it not

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

be pleasant to have so sweet and expressive a face
about the house ?”

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

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

“ I was going to enquire for the all for love prin-
ciple,” said Claude, “ but I see it is in full force.
And how are the verses, Lily ? Have you made a
poem upon Michael Moone, or Mohun, the actor,
our uncle, whom I discovered for you in Pepys*
Memoirs ?”

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

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

Lily began, “ I meant to have two parts about Sir
Maurice going out to fight when he was very young,
and then about his brothers being killed, and King
Charles knighting him, and his betrothed, Phyllis
Crossthwayte embroidering his black engrailed cross
on his banner, and then the taking the castle, and

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Ids being wounded, and escaping, and Phyllis not
thinking it right to leave her father, but I have not
finished that, so now you must hear about his return
home.”

** A romaunt in six cantos, entitled Woe woe,

By Miss Fanny F. known more commonly so,**

muttered Claude to himself, but as Lily did not un-
derstand, or know whence his quotation came, it did
not hurt her feelings, and she went merrily on.

’Tis the twenty-ninth of merry May ;

Full cheerily shine the sunbeams to-day,

Their joyous light revealing
Full many a troop in garments gay.

With cheerful steps who take their way
By the green hill and shady lane,

While merry bells are pealing ;

And soon in Beechcroft’s holy fane
The villagers are kneeling.

Dreary and mournful seems the shrine
Where sound their prayers and hymns divine ;

For every mystic ornament
By the rude spoiler*s hand is rent ;

Scarce is its ancient beauty traced
In wood-work broken and defaced.

Reft of each quaint device and rare,

Of foliage rich and mouldings fair ;

Yet happy is each spirit there ;

The simple peasantry rejoice
To see the Altar decked with care,

To hear their aneient Pastor’s voice
Reciting o’er each well known prayer.

To view again his robe of white,

And Hfear the services aright ;

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

Once more to chant their glorious Creed,

And thankful own their nation freed
From those who cast her glories down.

And rent away her Cross and Crown.

A stranger knelt among the crowd,

And joined his voice in praises loud.

And when the holy rites had ceased
Held converse with the aged Priest,

Then turned to join the village feast,

Where, raised on the hill’s summit green,

The Maypole’s flowery wreaths were seen ;
Beneath the venerable yew
The stranger stood the sports to view,
Unmarked by all, for each was bent
On his own scheme of merriment.

On talking, laughing, dancing, playing,

There never was so blithe a Maying.

So thought each laughing maiden gay,

Whose head gear bore the oaken spray ;

So thought that band of shouting boys.
Unchecked in their best joy — in noise ;

But grey haired men, whose deep marked scars
Bore token of the civil wars,

And hooded dames in cloaks of red,

At the blithe youngsters shook the head,
Gathering in eager clusters told
How joyous were the days of old,

When Beechcroft’s lords, those Barons bold.
Came forth to join their vassals’ sport.

And here to hold their rustic court.

Throned in the ancient chair you see
Beneath our noble old yew tree.

Alas ! all empty stands the throne,

Reserved for Mohun’s race alone.

And the old folks can only tell
Of the good lords who ruled so well.

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SIR MAURICE.

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“ Ah ! I bethink me of the time,

The last before those years of crime.

When with his open hearty cheer,

The good old squire was sitting here."

“ *Twas then,” another voice replied,

“ That brave young Master Maurice tried
To pitch the ball with Andrew Grey,

We ne’er shall see so blithe a day, —

All the young squires have long been dead.”
“ No Master Webb,” quoth Andrew Grey,

“ Young Master Maurice safely fled,

At least, so all the Greenwoods say,

And Walter Greenwood with him went
To share his master’s banishment ;

And now King Charles is ruling here,

Our own good landlord may be near.”

“ Small hope of that,” the old man said.

And sadly shook his hoary head, *

“ Sir Maurice died beyond the sea,

Last of his noble line was he.”

“ Look Master Webb !” he turned, and there
The stranger sat in Mohun’s chair ;

At ease he sat, and smiled to scan
The face of each astonished man ;

Then on the ground he laid aside
His plumed hat and mantle wide ;

One moment, Andrew deemed he knew
Those glancing eyes of hazel hue.

But the sunk cheek, the figure spare,

The lines of white that streak the hair —

How can this be the stripling gay,

Erst, victor in the sports of May ?

Full twenty years of cheerful toil,

And labour on bis native soil,

On Andrew’s head had left no trace,

The summer’s sun, the winter’s storm,

They had but ruddier made his face,

More hard his hand, more strong his form .

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74 SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

Forth from the wondering, whispering crowd,

A farmer came, and spoke aloud.

With rustic bow and welcome fair,

But with a hesitating air —

He told how custom well preserved
The throne for Mohun’s race reserved ;

The stranger laughed, “ What, Harrington,

Hast thou forgot thy landlord's son ?”

Loud was the cry, and blithe the shout,

On Beechcroft hill that now rang out,

And still remembered is the day.

That merry twenty-ninth of May,

When to his father's home returned
That knight, whose glory well was earned.

In poverty and banishment.

His prime of manhood had been spent,

A wanderer, scorned by Charles's court.

One faithfol servant his support.

And now, he seeks his home forlorn,

Broken in health, with sorrow worn ;

And two short years just passed away.

Between that joyous meeting day.

And the sad eve when Beechcroft's bell
Tolled forth Sir Maurice's funeral knell.

And Phyllis, whose love was so constant and tried.
Was a widow the year she was Maurice’s bride.

Yet the path of the noble and true-hearted knight.
Was brilliant with honour, and glory, and light.

And still his descendants shall sing of the fame
Of Sir Maurice de Mohun, the pride of bis name.

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

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

“ You are very much afraid of Jane,” said Claude.

“ Yes, Jane has no feeling for poetry,” said Lily,
with simplicity, which made her brother smile. Jane
and Emily now came up, the former with her work,
the latter with a camp stool and a book. “ I won-
der,” said she, “ where those boys are ! By the bye,
what character did they bring home from school ?”

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

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

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

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

“ I think not,” said Claude, “ he has more notion
of them than of Latin verses.”

“ Then you are on my side,” said Jane, trium-
phantly.

“Did I say so ?” said Claude.

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

“ I was waiting till you had done,” said Claude.

“ Why do you not think it nonsense Y* persisted
Jane.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

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

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

“ Very likely,” said Claude.

“ But you have some opinion of your own,” said
Lily.

“ Certainly.”

“ Then I wish you would give it,” said Jane.

“ Come, Emily,” said Claude, “ have you brought
any thing to read ?”

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

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

“ Oh,” said Emily, “ I thought it was a long time
since we had heard any thing of those uproarious
mortals.”

“ I hope there is nothing the matter,” said Lily.

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

“ Aye, but among that party,” said Emily, “ Red-
gie’s laugh is not always a proof of peace, they are
too much in the habit of acting the boys and the
frogs.”

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

“Miss Molly, as William used to call him with

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SIR MAURICE. 77

more propriety,” said Claude, “not half so well
worth playing with as such a fellow as Redgie.”

“ Not even for young ladies ?” said Emily.

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

“ There were others to do it for you,” said Jane.

“ Harry never teazed,” said Emily, “ and William
scorned us.”

“ His teazing was all performed upon Claude,”
said Lily, “ and a great shame it was.”

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

“ A bad comparison,” said Lily, “ but what is all
this ? Here come the children in dismay — What is
the matter, my dear child ?”

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

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

“ I caught it,” said Phyllis, “ but not to have it
killed, Oh ! take it away !”

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

“ Stingers !” said Phyllis, “ they do not sting any
thing, pretty creatures.”

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

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS,

In the mean time, Maurice came up at his leisure,
holding his prize by the wings, “ Look what a beau-
tiful Libellulla Puella,” said he to Jane.

“A demoiselle dragon-fly,” said Lily, “what a
beauty, what are you going to do with it ?”

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

“ Oh, Maurice ! do not,” said Emily.

“ One good squeeze,” said Reginald, “ I will do it.”
“ How can you be so cruel,” said Lily.

“No, a squeeze will not do,” said Maurice, “it
would spoil its beauty, I must put it over the fumes
of carbonic acid.”

“ Maurice, you really must not,” said Emily.

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

“Nonsense, get out of the way,” said Maurice,
turning away.

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

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

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

“ Such useless cruelty,” said Emily.

“ Useless !” said Maurice, “ Pray how is any one

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to make a collection of natural objects without kill-
ing things ?”

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

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

“ Who ever heard of a man of science managing in
such a ridiculous way ?” said Maurice.

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

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

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

“ You might help it now at any rate,” muttered
Claude.

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

“ You forget that I am in charge,” said Jane.

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

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

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

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

“ Jenny, brownie,” called Maurice from his bed-
room window, “ I want the sulphuric acid.”

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

“ They shall not catch me here,” cried Reginald,
rushing off into the shrubbery.

“ Are you coming in, Claude ?” said Emily.

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

“They will see you from the window,” said
Emily.

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

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

“ Fly away, fly away, you pretty creature,” said
Phyllis, “make haste, or Maurice will come and
catch you again, I wish I had not given you such a
fright ; I thought you would have been killed, and a

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

“ Well, where is the Libellulla ?” said he.

“ The dragon-fly ?” said Phyllis, “ I let it out.”

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

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

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

“ What else did you do it for !” said Maurice,
“ Jt is horrid not to be able to leave one’s things a
minute — ”

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

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ That is a puzzler, Mohun senior,” said Reginald.

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

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

“ I do not think I can promise,” said Phyllis.

“ 0 yes you can,” said Reginald, “ you know they
are not his.”

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

“ ril tell you what, Maurice,” said Phyllis, “ I do
wish you would not make me promise, for I do not
think I can keep it, for I cannot bear to see the
beautiful live things killed — ”

“Nonsense,” said Maurice, fiercely, “I am very
angry indeed, you naughty child, promise — ”

“ I cannot,” said Phyllis, beginning to cry.

“ Then,” said Maurice, “ I will not speak to you
all day.”

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

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

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Phyllis screamed and begged for mercy, her last
ally had deserted her, “ Promise,* cried the boys.

“ Oh ! don’t,* was all her answer.

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

“ Hands off, boys, I will not have her bullied,”
said Claude, half rising.

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

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

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

Claude, with his arm still round his sister’s waist,
gave Maurice a look, expressing, “ Is that the
truth ?” and Reginald tumbled head over heels, ex-
claiming, “I would have not have been Phyl just
then.”

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

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

“ I shall not go,” said Reginald.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ Papa is there, and he sent for you,” said Ada.

“ Plague,” was the answer.

“ See what you get by making such a row,” said

Claude. “ If you had been as orderly members of
society as I am — ”

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

“ You are not worth it, Ada,” said Reginald, and
Claude did not contradict him.

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CHAPTER Yin.

THE BROTHERS.

“ Bat smiled to hear the creatures he had known
So long, were now in class and order shown—

Genus and species. • Is it meet,* said he,

1 This creature’s name should one so sounding be —

*Tis but a fly, though first-born of the spring,

Bombylius Majus, dost thou call the thing ?* ”

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

On Monday, Reginald and Maurice were required
to learn, what they had always refused to acknow-
ledge, that the holidays were not intended to be
spent in idleness. A portion of each morning was

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

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

Lily often tried to persuade Claude to allow her to
tell her father how troublesome the boys were, but
never with any effect. He once took up a book he
had been using with them, and pointing to the name
in the first page in writing which Lily knew full

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well, “ Henry Mohun,” she perceived that he meant
to convince her that it was useless to try to dissuade
him, as he thought the patience and forbearance his
brother had shown to him, must be repaid by his
not shrinking from the task he had imposed upon
himself with his young brothers, though he was often
obliged to sit up part of the night to pursue his own
studies as much as he thought necessary.

If Claude had rather injudiciously talked too much
to Lilias of “ her principle,” and thus kept it alive
in her mind, yet his example might have made its
fallacy evident ; she believed that what she called
love, had been the turning point in his character,
that it had been his earnest desire to follow in
Henry’s steps, and so try to comfort his father for his
loss, that had roused him from his indolence, but she
was beginning to see that nothing but a sense of
duty could have kept up the power of that first
impulse for six years. Lily began to enter a little
into his principle, and many things that occurred
during these holidays, made her mistrust her former
judgment. She saw that without the unvarying
principle of right and wrong, fraternal love itself
would fail in outward acts and words. Forbearance,
though undeniably a branch of love, could not exist
without constant remembrance of duty, and which of
them did not sometimes fail in kindness, meekness,
and patience ? Did Emily show that softness, which
was her most agreeable characteristic, in her whining
reproofs, in her complaints that “ no one listened to
a word she said,” in her refusal to do justice even to
those who had vainly been seeking for peace ? Did

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

Lily herself show any of her much valued love, by
the sharp manner in which she scolded the boys for
roughness towards herself? or for language often
used by them on purpose to make her displeasure a
matter of amusement ? She saw that her want of com-
mand of temper was a failure both in love and duty,
and when irritated, the thought of duty came sooner
to her aid, than the feeling of love.

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

“ The Westons are gsteg to dine here to-day, and
Robert,” said Emily, one morning at breakfast.

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Claude and Maurice both looked blank.

“ I persuaded Papa to ask the Westons,” said Lily,
“because I am determined that Claude shall like
Alethea.”

“You must expect that I shall not, you have
given me so many orders on the subject,” said
Claude.

“ Take care it has not the same effect as to tell
Maurice to like a book,” said Emily, “ nothing makes
his aversion so certain.”

“ Except when he takes it up by mistake, and for-
gets that it has been recommended to him,” said
Claude. “ Take care, Redgie, with your knife, don’t
put out my eyes in your ardour against that wretched
wasp. Wat Greenwood may well say there is a ter-
rible sight of waspses this year.”

“ I killed twenty-nine yesterday,” said Reginald.

“ And I will tell you what I saw,” said Phyllis,
“ I was picking up apples, and the wasps were flying
all round, and there came a hornet.”

“ Yespa Crabro !” cried Maurice, “ Oh ! I must
have one !”

“Well, what of the hornet ?” said Mr. Mohun.

“Pll tell you what,” resumed Phyllis, “he saw a
wasp flying, and so he went up in the air, and
pounced on the poor wasp as the hawk did on Jane’s
bantam. So then he hung himself up to the branch of
a tree by one of his legs, and held the wasp with the
other five, and began to pack it up. First he bit off
the yellow tail, then the legs, and threw them away,
and then there was nothing^ft but the head, and so
he flew away with it to his nest.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ Which way did he go ?” said Maurice.

“ To the Old Court,” answered Phyllis, “ I think
the nest is in the roof of the old cow-house, for they
were flying in and out there yesterday, and one was
eating out the wood from the old rails.”

“Well,” said Mr. Mohun, “ you must show me a
hornet hawking for wasps before the nest is taken,
Phyllis, I suppose you have seen the wasps catching
flies ?”

“ Oh ! yes, Papa, but they pack them up quite
differently, they db not hang by one leg, but they
sit down quite comfortably on a branch while they
bite off the wings and legs.”

“ There, Maurice,” said Mr. Mohun, “ I had
rather hear of one such well-observed fact than of a
dozen of your hard names and impaled insects.”
Phyllis looked quite radiant with delight at his
approbation.

“But Papa,” said Maurice, reiterating an oft-
repeated request, “may I have a piece of plate-
glass, eighteen by twenty ?”

“ When you observe facts in natural history, per-
haps I may say something to your entomology,”
said Mr. Mohun.

“ But, Papa, all my insects will be spoilt if I may
not have a piece of glass, eighteen by — ”

He was interrupted by the arrival of the post-bag,
which Jane, as usual, opened. “ A letter from Ro-
therwood,” said she, “ I hope he is coming at last.”
“He is,” said Claude, reading the letter, “but
only from Saturday till Wednesday.”

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“ He never gave us so little of his good company
as he has this summer,” said Emily.

“ You will have them all in the autumn to com-
fort you,” said Claude, “for he hereby announces
the marvellous fact that the Marchioness sends him
to see if the Castle is fit to receive her.”

“ Are you sure he is not only believing what he
wishes ?” said Mr. Mohun.

“I think he will gain his point at last,” said
Claude.

“ How stupid of him to stay no longer !” said
Reginald.

“ I think he has some scheme for this vacation,
said Claude, “ and I suppose he means to crowd all
the Beechcroft diversions of a whole summer into
those few days.”

“ Emily,” said Mr. Mohun, “ I wish him to know
the Carringtons ; invite them and the Westons to
dinner on Tuesday.”

“ Oh ! don’t !” cried Reginald, “ It will be so
jolly to have him to take wasp’s nests, and may I go
out rabbit-shooting with him ?”

“ If he goes.”

“ And may I carry a gun ?”

66 If it is not loaded,” said his father.

“ Indeed I would do no mischief,” said Reginald.

" Let me give you one piece of advice, Reginald,
said Mr. Mohun, with a mysterious air— “ never
make rash promises.”

Lilias was rather disappointed in her hopes that
Mia s Weston and Claude would become better
acquainted. At dinner, the conversation was almost

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

entirely between the elder gentlemen, Claude scarcely
spoke except when referred to by his father or Mr.
Devereux. Miss Weston never liked to incur the
danger of having to repeat her insignificant speeches
to a deaf ear, and being interested in the discussion
that was going on, she by no means seconded Lily’s
attempt to get up an under current of talk. In
general, Lily liked to listen to conversation in silence,
but she was now in very high spirits, and could not
be quiet, fortunately she had no interest in the sub-
ject the gentlemen were discussing, so that she could
not meddle with that, and finding Alethea silent, and
Claude out of reach, she turned to Reginald, and
talked and tittered with him all dinner time.

In the drawing-room she had it all her own way,
and talked enough for all the sisters.

“ Have you heard that cousin Rotherwood is
coming ?”

“ Yes, you said so before dinner.”

“We hope,” said Emily, “that you and Mr.
Weston will dine here on Tuesday, the Carringtons
are coming, and a few others.”

“ Thank you,” said Alethea, “ I dare say Papa
will be very glad to come.”

“ Have you ever seen Rotherwood ?” said Lilias.

“ Never,” was the reply.

“Do not expect much,” said Lily, laughing,
though she knew not why, “ he is a very little fellow,
no one would suppose him to be twenty, he has such
a boyish look, then he never sits dowil — ”
“Literally?” said Emily.

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“ Literally, ” persisted Lily, “ such a quick person
you never did see.”

“ Is he at Oxford ?”

“ Oh, yes ! it was all Papa’s doing that he was sent
to Eton. Papa is his guardian. Aunt Rotherwood
never would have parted with him.”

“ He is the only son,” interposed Emily.

“Uncle Rotherwood put him quite in Papa’s
power ; aunt Rotherwood wanted to keep him at
home with a tutor, and what she would have made
of him, I cannot think,” said Lily, and regardless
of Emily’s warning frowns, and Alethea’s attempt to
change the subject, she went on, “when he was
'quite a child he used to seem a realization of all the
naughty Dicks and Toms in story books. Miss
Middleton had a perfect horror of his coming here,
for he would mind no one, and played tricks and
drew Claude into mischief ; but he is quite altered
since Papa had the management of him — Oh ! such
talks as Papa has had with aunt Rotherwood — do
you know, Papa says no one knows what it is to lose
a father, but those who have the care of his children,
and aunt Rotherwood is so provoking.”

Here Alethea determined to put an end to this
oration, and to Emily’s great relief, she cut short the
detail of Lady Rotherwood’s offences, by saying, “ Do
you think Faith Longley likely to suit us, if we took
her to help the housemaid ?”

“Are you thinking of taking her ?” cried Lily,
“yes, for steady, stupid household work, Faith
would do very well, she is just the stuff to make a

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

servant of, ‘ for dullness ever must be regular,’ I
mean for those who like mere steadiness better than
any thing more loveable.”

As Alethea said laughing, “ I must confess my
respect for that quality,” Mr. Devereux and Claude
entered the room.

“ Oh Robert,” cried Lily, “ Mrs. Weston is going
to take Faith Longley to help the housemaid,”

“ You are travelling too fast, Lily,” said Alethea,

“ she is only going to think about it,”

“I should be very glad,” said Mr. Devereux,

“ that Faith should have a good place, the Langleys
are very respectable people, and they behaved par-
ticularly well in refusing to let this girl go and live *
with some dissenters at Stoney Bridge.”

“I like what I have seen of the girl very much,”
said Miss Weston.

“ In spite of her sad wpnt of feeling,” said Robert,
smiling, as he looked at Lily.

“ Oh ! she is a good work-a-day sort of person,”
said Lily, “like all other poor people, hard and
passive. Now do not set up your eye-brows, Claude,

I am quite serious, there is no warmth about any
except — ”

“ So this is what Lily is come to !” cried Emily,

“ the grand supporter of the poor on poetical prin-
ciples !”

“ The poor not affectionate !” said Alethea.

“Not, compared with people whose minds and
affections have been cultivated,” said Lily. “Now
just hear what Mrs. Wall said to me only yesterday,

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she asked for a black stuff gown out of the clothing
club, ‘for,’ said she ‘I had a misfortune, Miss,’ I
thought it would be, and tore my gown, but it was
‘I had a misfortune, Miss, and lost my brother.’ ”

“ A very harsh conclusion on very slight grounds,”
said Mr. Devereux.

“Prove the contrary,” said Lily,

“ Facts would scarcely demonstrate it either way,”
said Mr. Devereux, “ they would only prove what
was the case with individuals who chanced to come
in our way, and if we are seldom able to judge of
the depth of feeling of those with whom we are
familiar, how much less of those who feel our pre-
sence a restraint.”

“Intense feeling mocks restraint,” said Lily.

“ Violent, not intense,” said Mr. Devereux. “ Be-
sides, you talk of cultivating the affections, now
what do you mean ? Exercising them, or talking
about them ?”

“ Ah !” said Emily, “ the affection of a poor person
is more tried ; we blame a poor man for letting his
old mother go to the workhouse, without considering
how many of us would do the same, if we had as
little to live upon.”

“ Still,” said Alethea, “ the same man who would
refuse to maintain her if poor, would not bear with
her infirmities if rich.”

“ Are the poor never infirm and peevish ?” said
Mr. Devereux.

“ 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

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

patient with a cross old relation, what must it he
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. Wall 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. 1 know of a per-
son 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 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,

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with great injustice, laid the blame upon Miss Wes-
ton, 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 up stairs, 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 drowning 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 conversa-
tion 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

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

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 every thing. 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, much fright-

*

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99

ened. “ Claude, Claude, you must mistake, I never
could have said any thing so very shocking.”

“ I hope I do,” said Claude, “ I could hardly be-
lieve that one of the little ones who cannot remem-
ber 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 every thing.”

“ 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.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ 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 regard-
ing dear Harry with indifference — how the thought of
him is a star in my mind — how happy it makes me

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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 non-
sense, 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 thing 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 lat-
terly even further off, and only coming sometimes for
an hour or two to see us. Then he used to kiss us all

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

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 na-
tured, 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 other-
wise, 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.’ ”

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“ 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 be-
fore.”

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 past away from her mind like other idle

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

words, which however could not but leave an im-
pression 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 ar-
rived at its full growth, and he deserved credit for
keeping his opinion to himself.

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CHAPTER IX.

THE WASP.

“ Whom He hath blessed and called His own.

He tries thdm 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 patronizing her, be-
cause, in her secret soul, she felt that she might have
done her a little injustice, in choosing her own fa-
vourite 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 mis-
chance to her frock was not so grave 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 com-
pelled to put away the playthings they took out.

Maurice and Reginald had agreed to defer their
onslaught on the wasps till Lord Rotherwood’s arri-
val, and the war was now limited to attacks on forag-

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

ing 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 recon-
noitre, 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 per-
suade 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, whafr do you think of it ?”

“ Mind you catch a fire-fly for me,” said Maurice.
“ Why don’t you answer, Claude ?” said Lilias,
“ only imagine seeing Undine’s Castle !”

“ Eh, Claude ?” said his father.

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“ 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 Mount 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 every thing worth seeing that it contains.”

“Then perhaps you will get as far as Antwerp,
and spend the rest of the holidays between the Cathe-
dral 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 great coat pocket
in the hall for Murray’s Hand-book, 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 him-

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

self, 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 Mar-
quis.

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 be-
sides, 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

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109

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 dis-
liked 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 at-
tracted her pupils, and fixed their attention, so as
scarcely to allow the careless room for irreverence,
while mere cleverness seemed almost to lose its ad-
vantage in learning, what can 'only truly be entered
into by those whose conduct agrees with their know-
ledge.

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 atten-
tion, 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 irksome-
ness 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 ser-
vice, including the sermon !

Her place, (chosen for her by Eleanor when first
she had begun to go to Church, as far as possible

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

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 kneel-
ing, she felt a sudden thrill of sharp pain near 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 intention-
ally killed any thing, 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 pro-
ceeded 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

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Ill

would ijot 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 60 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. WTiy 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 enquiries from her

, *

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

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 laven-
der-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 im-
portance, 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 enquire 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 sur-
prise 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

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113

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 even-
ing, 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 not have
been half so good, her simple, humble spirit came
to her aid, and she answered, “HI 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.”

y Google

114

SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

CHAPTER X.

COUSIN ROTHERWOOD.

“We care not who says
And intends it dispraise.

That an Angler to a fool is next neighbour.”

In the evening, Lord Rotherwood renewed his en-
treaties to Claude to join him on his travels. He
was very much bent on taking him, for his own plea-
sure depended not a little on his cousin’s company.
Claude lay on the grassy slope of the terrace, while
Lord Rotherwood paced rapidly up and down before
him, persuading him with all the allurements he could
think of, and looking the picture of impatience.
Lily sat by adding her weight to all his arguments.
But Claude was almost contemptuous to all the beau-
ties of Germany, and all the promised sights, he
scarcely gave himself the trouble to answer his tor-
mentors, only vouchsafing sometimes to open his lips
to say that he never meant to go to a country where
people spoke a language that sounded like cracking
walnuts, that he hated steamers, had no fancy for tum-
ble-down castles, that it was so common to travel,

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COUSIN ROTHERWOOD.

115

there was more distinction in staying at home, that
the field of Waterloo had been spoilt, and was not
worth seeing ; his ideas of glaciers would be ruined
by the reality, and he did not care to see Cologne
Cathedral till it was finished.

On this Lily set up an outcry of horror.

“ One comfort is, Lily,” said Lord Rotherwood,
“he does not mean it, he did not say it from the
bottom of his heart. Now, confess you did not
Claude.”

Claude pretended to be asleep.

“ I see plainly enough,” said the Marquis to Lily,
“it is as Wat Greenwood says, ‘Mr. Reynolds and
the grapes.’ ”

“ But it is not,” said Lily, “ and that is what pro-
vokes me, Papa says he is quite welcome to go if he
likes, and that he thinks it will do him a great deal
of good, but that foolish boy will say nothing but ‘ I
will think about it,’ and 5 thank you.’ ”

“ Then I give him up as regularly dense.”

“ It is the most delightful plan ever thought of,”
said Lily, “ so easily done, and just bringing within
his compass all he ever wished to see.”

“ Oh ! his sole ambition is to stretch those long
legs of his on the grass, like a great vegetable mar-
row,” said Lord Rotherwood. “ It is vegetating like
a plant that makes him so much taller than any
rational creature *with a little animal life.”

“ I think Jane has his share of curiosity,” said Lily,
“ I am sure I had no idea that any thing belonging
to us could be so stupid.”

“ Well,” said the Marquis, “ I shall not go.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“No?” said Lily.

“ No, I shall certainly not go.”

“Nonsense,” said Claude, waking from his pre-
tended sleep, “why do you not ask Travers to go
with you, he would like nothing better ?”

“ He is a botanist, and would bore me with look-
ing for weeds, no, 1 will have you, or stay at home.”
Claude proposed several others as companions, but
Lord Rotherwood treated them all with as much dis-
dain as Claude had shown for Germany, and ended
with “Now, Claude, you know my determination,
only tell me why you will not go ?”

“Then I do tell you, Rotherwood, the truth is,
that those boys, Maurice and Reginald, are perfectly
unmanageable when they *are left alone with the
girls.”

“ Have a tutor for them,” said the Marquis.

“ Very much obliged to you they would be for
the suggestion,” said Claude.

“ Oh ! but Claude,” said Lily.

“ I really cannot go. They mind no one but the
Baron and me, and besides that it would be no small
annoyance to the house, ten tutors could not keep
them from indescribable bits of mischief. I under-
took them these holidays, and I mean to keep them.”
Lilias was just flying off to her father, when
Claude caught hold of her, saying, “I desire you
will not,” and she stood still, looking at her cousin
in dismay.

“ It is all right,” cried the Marquis, joyfully, “ it
is only to set off three weeks later.”

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117

“ Oh ! I thought you would not go a week later
for the universe,” said Claude, smiling.

“ Not for the U — niverse, but for U — ,” said Lord
Rotherwood.

“ Worthy of a companion true, of the U — niver-
sity of Gottingen,” said Claude, “ but Rotherwood,
do you really mean that it will make no difference to
you.?”

“ None whatever, I meant to spend three weeks
with my mother at the end of the tour, and I shall
spend them now instead. I only talked of going
immediately, because nothing is done at all that is
not done quickly, and I hate delays, but it is all the
same, and now it stands for Tuesday three weeks.
Now we shall see what he says to Cologne, Lily.”

Claude sprung up, and began talking over arrange-
ments and possibilities with zest, which showed what
his wishes had been from the first. All was quickly
settled, and as soon as his father had given his cor-
dial approbation to the scheme, it was amusing to
see how animated and active Claude became, and in
how different a style he talked of the once slighted
Rhine.

Lord Rotherwood told the boys that their brother
was a great deal too good for them, but they never
troubled themselves to ask in what respect ; Lilias
took very great delight in telling Emily of the sacri-
fice which he had been willing to make, and looked
forward to talking it over with Alethea, but she
refrained, as long as he was at home, as she knew it
would greatly displease him, and she had heard
enough about Missish confidences.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

The Marquis of Rotherwood was certainly the
very reverse of his chosen travelling companion in
the matter of activity. He made an appointment
with the two boys to get up at half-past four on
Monday morning for some fishing, before the sun
was too high — Maurice not caring for the sport, but
intending to make prize of any of the “ insect youth”
which might prefer the sun-rise for their gambols,
and Reginald in high delight at the prospect of real
fishing, something beyond his own performances
with a stick and a string, in pursuit of minnows in
the ditches. Reginald was making contrivances for
tying a string round his wrist and hanging the end
of it from the window, that Andrew Grey might
give it a pull as he went by to his work, to wake
him, when Lord Rotherwood exclaimed, “ What !
cannot you wake yourself at any time you please ?”

" No,” said Reginald, “ I never heard of any one
that could.”

“ Then I advise you to learn the art, in the mean
time, I will call you to-morrow.”

Loud voices and laughter in the hall, and the front
door creaking on its hinges at sun-rise, 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 w T as not claimed by any
particular owner.

Maurice displayed to Jane the contents of two

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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 estimat-
ing 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 w;ho had three kinds of hand-
writing, 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 any where 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.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ 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 rubber — 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 man-
aged 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

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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 goodnatured 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 every thing,” said
Lilias.

“ I think he will tire you to death in Germany,”
said Emily.

“Never fear,” said Claude, “my vis inertice is
enough to counterbalance any amount of restless-
ness.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ Here they come,” said Lily, “ how Wat Green-
wood is grinning at Rotlierwood’s jokes.”

“ A happy day for Wat,” said Emily. “ He will be
quite dejected if William is not at home next shoot-
ing season. He thinks you a degenerate Mohun,
Claude.”

“ He must comfort himself with Redgie,” said
Claude.

“ Rotherwood is only eager about shooting, in com-
mon with every thing 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 farm-
ing 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 every thing,
M 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

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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 fidgetted and sighed, and Maurice grew
graver and graver as they thought of the wasps.
Maurice wanted to take a nest entire, and began ex-
plaining 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. “ 1 never
was wider awake. What are you waiting for, Regi-
nald? 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 Green-
wood 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

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

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.”

“ Til 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 Mau-
rice to try again,” said his father.

' “ The brute, he stung me,” cried Reginald, knock-
ing down a wasp or two, as he came down. “ What
is this ?” added he, as he stumbled over something

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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 sup-
posed Jane had given him the 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 own 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 files
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
enquiry.

“ 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.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ 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 Rother-
wood’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 sen-
tence, 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 pre-
sented 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 up stairs
she found Emily full of complaints at the inconve-
nience of having no Rachel to assist her in dressing,
and to see* that every thing was in order, and that

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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 every thing went
off just as could be wished. Lord Rotherwood talked
intelligibly and sensibly, and Mr. Mohun’s neigh-
bour 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 counte-
nance, 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. It pleased her to see how
Reginald was attracted by Miss Weston’s sweet
voice in the evening, he stood by her all the time she
sang, and afterwards let her talk to him, and then
began to chatter himself, at last becoming so con-
fidential as to impart to her the grand object of his
ambition, which was, to be taller than Claude !

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

The next moring Lord Rotherwood left Beech-
croft, 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 every thing 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 consti-
tutional indolence, looked on it as a temptation, and
struggled against it, almost envying his cousin, his
unabated eagerness and untiring energy, and likin g
to be with him because no one else so effectually
roused him from his habitual languor. His indo-
lence 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 has bro-
thers’ studies were finished each day, he was unfit
for any thing 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

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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 Mari-
anne.

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.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

CHAPTER XL

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 birth-day 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 un-
willing 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

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from the dancing-room, even though Alethea Wes-
ton had come with her sister.

Poor Phyllis danced as awkwardly as was ex-
pected, 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 on Marianne’s face.

“ O 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 ridi-
cule,” 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 im-
pertinence, 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:

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

On the next occasion however Jane ventured still
further, 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 toward 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 Koi 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

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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 Frefach. 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,

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“but I think Miss Weston might allow me to correct
my own sister in my own house.”

“ You correct J ane !” cried Lily, and Jane laughed.

“I only mean,” said Emily, “that it was not
very polite, and Papa says, the closest friendship i3
no reason for dispensing with the rules of politeness.”

“Certainly not,” said Lily, “the rules of polite-
ness^ 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 re-
prover 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 en-

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courage 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.

“ O ! 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.”

“ Aye, that is the worst of having Esther,” said
Emily, “she and Hannah have no notion of any

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136 SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

thing 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 con-
sented 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 mo-
ment 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 Confirma-
tion, 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

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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, espe-
cially, 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 things.”

“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, tX she has great
disadvantages, I am quite sure our present system is
not fit for her. Things shall be placed on a differ-
ent 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 conversa-
tion with her, and speak to you again.”

“ That is just what I wish,” said Mr. Devereux.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

CHAPTER XIL

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 at-
tacked by a headache and sore throat, spent a fever-
ish 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.

Phylis 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 ex-

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tended 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 sympathize 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 while.”

“ 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 attend-

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

ance 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 diffi-
culty, 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 ?”

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141

Indeed, I am very sorry,” said Lily, “ but when
you rang poor Jeuny 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 any thing for you, will you have some
coffee ?”

“ Oh ! no, it has a bad taste, I am sure it is care-
lessly 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
eoming. If she could come directly, it would be a
comfort.”

“ It would indeed,” said Lily, “ she would know
what to do for Jane.”

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“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 wa& 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 patience
and consideration, only made her more exacting and
querulous.

To Lily’s unspeakable relief, Miss Weston accom-
panied 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 re-
minded 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

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languid, and having no pleasure in the importance of
being an invalid, she was willing to exert herself,
and make the best of every thing, 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 at-
tacked 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, shtralmost 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 affec-
tion 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 Broom-
hill, Rachel 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 school-room, in the course
of the $ay, and hoping to meet her sister, she re-
solved 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

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

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 ; stVsoon 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 Stony-bridge people make a disturb-
ance ?”

“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 an* Was
she confused ?”

“ She was.”

“ Did you give Mary Wright a ticket ?”

“No.”

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“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 command-
ment.”

“ I did not refuse him.”

“Indeed ! did he improve in a portentous man-
ner ?”

“ 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 af-
fronted 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 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 sin-
cerely think you are fit for Confirmation ?”

L

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“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 dan-
gerous 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.”

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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, at 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 return-
ing to the school-room 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 he made,
and many the assurances he received that it would

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be better for her in the end, as the impression would
be more lasting.

Jane was scarcely conscious of her cousin’s depar-
ture, or of Esther’s arrival, but after drinking some
water, and lying still for a few moments, she ex-
claimed, “ Oh, Robert ! Oh, Esther ! the Confirma-
tion !” 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 Confirma-
tion some day, it was a sad pity 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 hys-
terics. “ 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 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.”

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“ 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 impos-
sible, 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 de-
ficient in feeling, now that she found her so much
distressed, because illness had prevented her Con-
firmation. Under this impression, she honoured her
reserve, while she thought with more affection of
Lily’s open heart. Jane, who never took, or ex-
pected 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 her control, but subse-
quent silence was in her power, and could she be

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

free from blame if Esther’s faults gained greater
ascendancy ?

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 conve-
nient, 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 in-
sisted on Emily’s going into the school-room, 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 her’s 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 por-
tion 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 shiver-
ing with cold, feeling the large room dreary and
deserted, missing the merry voices of the children.

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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 needle-work, 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 backgam-
mon. 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.

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CHAPTER XIII.

A CURIOSITY TRAP.

“ Keek into the draw-well,

Janet, Janet,

There ye’ll see your bonny sell.

My jo Janet.”

It was at this time that Lady Rotherwood and her
daughter arrived at Devereux Castle, and Mr. Mohun
was obliged to go to meet her there, leaving his
three daughters to spend a long winter evening by
themselves in their doleful and dismal way, as Lily
called it.

The evening had closed in, but they did not ring
for candles lest they should make it seem longer,
and Jane was just beginning to laugh at Emily for
the deplorable state of her frock and collar, tumbled
with lying on the sofa, when the three girls all
started at the unexpected sound of a ring at the
front door.

With a rapid and joyful suspicion who it might
be, Emily and Lilias sprang to the door, Jane thrust
the poker into the fire, in a desperate attempt to
produce a flame, drove an arm chair off the hearth-
rug, whisked an old shawl out of sight, and flew

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after them into the hall, just as the deep tones
of a well-known voice were heard greeting old
Joseph.

“ William !” cried the girls. “ Oh ! is it you ?
Are you not afraid of the scarlet fever ?

“ No, who has it ?”

“We have had it, hut we are quite well now.
How cold you are !”

“ But where is my father T

“ Gone to Hetherington with Robert, to meet
aunt Rotherwood. Come into the drawing-room.”

Here Emily glided off to perform a hurried toilette.

“ And the little ones ?”

“ At Broomhill. Mrs. Weston was so kind as to
take them out of the way of the infection,” said Lily.
“ Oh ! William, those Westons!”

“ Westons, what Westons ? Not those I knew at
Brighton ?”

“ The very same,” said Lily. “ They have taken
the house at Broomhill. Oh ! they have been so
very kind, I do not know what would have become
of us without Alethea.”

“ Why did you not tell me they were living here ?
And you like them ?”

“ Like them ! No one can tell the comfort Alethea
has been. She came to us and nursed us, and has
been my great support.”

“ And Phyllis and Ada are with them ?”

“Yes, they have been at Broomhill these six
weeks and more.”

Here Emily came in and told William that his
room was ready, and Rachel on the stairs wishing to
see the Captain.

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“ How well he looks !” cried Lily, as he closed the
door, “ it is quite refreshing to see any one looking
so strong and bright.”

“And more like Sir Maurice than ever,” said
Emily.

“ Ah ! but Claude is more like,” said Lily, “ be-
cause he is pale.”

“ Well,” said Jane, “ do let us in the mean time
make the room look more fit to be seen before he
comes down.”

The alacrity which had long been wanting to
Lilias and Jane, had suddenly returned, and they
succeeded in making the room look surprisingly
comfortable, compared with its former desolate as-
pect, before William came down, and renewed his
enquiries after all the family.

“ And how is my father’s deafness ?” was one of
his questions.

“ Worse,” said Emily. “I am afraid all the
younger ones will learn to vociferate. He hears no
one well but ourselves.”

“Oh! and Alethea Weston,” said Lily, “Her
voice is so clear and distinct, that she hardly ever
raises it to make him hear. And have you ever
heard her sing ?”

“ Yes, she sings very well. I cannot think why
you never told me they were living here.”

“ Because you never honour us with your corre-
spondence,” said Emily, “ if you had vouchsafed to
write to your sisters, you could not have escaped
hearing of the Westons.”

“And has Mr. Weston given up the Law ?”

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“ No, he only came here in the vacation,” said
Emily. “ Did you know they had lost two daugh-
ters ?”

“ I saw it in the paper. Emma and Lucy were
nice girls, but not equal to Miss Weston. What a
shock to Mrs. Weston !”

“ Yes, she quite lost her health, and the doctors
said she must move into the country directly. Mrs.
Carrington, who is some distant connexion, told
them of this place, and they took it rather hastily.”

“ Do they like it ?”

“ Oh, yes ! very much,” said Emily. “ Mrs.
Weston is very fond of the garden, and drives about
in the pony-carriage, and it is quite pleasant to see
how she admires the views.”

“ And,” added Lily, “ Alethea walks with us, and
sings with me, and teaches at school, and knows all
the poor people.”

“I must go and see those children to-morrow,”
said William.

The evening passed very pleasantly, and perhaps
in truth, Captain Mohun and his sisters were sur-
prised to find each other so agreeable, for in the eyes
of the young ladies, he was by far the most awful
person in the family.

When he had been last at home, Harry’s recent
death had thrown a gloom over the whole family,
and he had especially missed him. Himself quick,
sensible, clever, and active, he was intolerant of
opposite qualities, and the principal effect of that
visit to Beechcroft was to make all the younger ones
afraid of him, to discourage poor Claude, and to

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give to himself a gloomy remembrance of that home
which had lost its principal charms in his mother
and Harry.

He had now come home rather from a sense of
duty, than an expectation of pleasure, and he was
quite surprised to find how much more attractive
the New Court had become. Emily and Lilias were
now conversible and intelligent companions, better
suited to him than Eleanor had ever been, and he
had himself in these four years acquired a degree of
gentleness and consideration, which prevented him
from appearing so unapproachable as in days of old.
This was especially the case with regard to Claude,
whose sensitive and rather timid nature had in his
childhood suffered much from William’s boyish at-
tempts to make him manly, and as he grew older,
had almost felt himself despised, but now William
appreciated his noble qualities, and was anxious to
make amends for former unkindness.

Claude came home from Oxford, not actually ill,
but in the ailing condition in which he often was,
just weak enough to give his sisters a fair excuse
for waiting upon him, and petting him all day long.
About the same time Phyllis and Adeline came back
from Broomhill, and there was great joy at the New
Court at the news that Mrs. Hawkesworth was the
happy mother of a little boy.

Claude was much pleased by being asked by
Eleanor to be godfather to his little nephew, whose
name was to be Henry. Perhaps he hoped, what
Lilias was quite sure of, that Eleanor did not think
him unworthy to stand in Harry’s place.

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The choice of the other sponsors did not meet
with universal approbation. Emily thought it rather
hard that Mr. Hawkesworth’s sister, Mrs. Ridley,
should have been chosen before herself, and both
she and Ada would have greatly preferred either
Lord Rotherwood, Mr. Devereux, or William, to
Mr. Ridley, while Phyllis had wonderings of her
own how Claude could be godfather without being
present at the christening.

One evening, Claude was writing his answer to
Eleanor, sitting at the sofa table where a small lamp
was burning. Jane, attracted by its bright and
soft radiance, came and sat down opposite to him
with her work.

“ What a silence !” said Lily, after about a quarter
of an hour.

“ What made you start, Jane ?” said William.

“Did I?” said Jane.

“ My speaking, I suppose,” said Lily, “ breaking
the awful spell of silence.”

“ How red you look, Jane. What is the matter ?”
said William.

“ Do I ?” asked Jane, becoming still redder.

“ It is holding your face down over that baby’s
hood,” said Emily, “ you will sacrifice the colour of
your nose to your nephew.”

Claude now asked Jane for the sealing-wax, folded
up his letter, sealed it, put on a stamp, and as Jane
was leaving the room at bed-time, said, “ Jenny, my
dear, as you go by, just put that letter in the post
bag.”

Jane obeyed, and left the room. Claude soon

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

after took the letter out of the bag, went to Emily’s
door, listened to ascertain that Jane was not there,
and then knocked and was admitted.

“ I could not help coming,” said he, “ to tell you
of the trap in which Brownie has been caught.”

“ Ah !” said Lily, “ I fancied I saw her peeping
slyly at your letter.”

“Just so,” said Claude, “ and I hope she has ex-
perienced the truth of an old proverb.”

“ Oh ! tell us what you have said,” cried the
sisters.

Claude read, “Jane desires me to say that a hood
for the baby shall be sent in the course of a week,
and she hopes that it may be worn at the Christen-
ing. I should rather say I hope it may be lost in
the transit, for assuredly the head that it covers
must be infected with something far worse than the
scarlet fever — the fever of curiosity, the last quality
which I should like my godson to possess. My only
consolation is, that he will see the full deformity of
the vice, as, poor little fellow, he becomes acquainted
with “ that worst of plagues, a prying maiden aunt.”
If Jane was simply curious, I should not complain,
but her love of investigation is not directed to what
ought to be known, but rather to find out some
wretched subject for petty scandal, to blacken every
action, and to add to the weight of every misdeed,
and all for the sake of detailing her discoveries in
exchange for similar information with Mrs. Apple-
ton, or some equally suitable confidante.

“ Is that all ?” said Lily.

“ And enough too, I hope,” said Claude. •

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“ It ought to cure her,” said Emily.

“ Cure her !” said Claude, “ no such thing, cures
are not wrought in this way ; this is only a joke,
and to keep it up, I will tell you a piece of news,
which Jane must have spied out in my letter, as I
had just written it when I saw her eyes in a suspi-
cious direction. It was settled that Messieurs Mau-
rice and Redgie are to go for two hours a day, three
times a week, to Mr. Stevens, during the holidays.”

“ The new Stony Bridge Curate ?” said Emily.

“ I am very glad you are not to be bored by
them,” said Lily, “ but how they will dislike it.”

“ It is very hard upon them,” said Claude, “ and
I tried to prevent it, but the Baron was quite de-
termined. Now I will begin to talk about this plan
and see whether Jenny betrays any knowledge of it.”
“ Oh ! it will be rare !” cried Lily, “ but do not
speak of it before the Baron or William.”

“ Let it be at luncheon,” said Emily, “ you know
they never appear. Do you mean to send the letter ?”
“ Not that part of it,” said Claude, “ you see 3*can
tear off the last page, and it is only to add a new
conclusion. Good night.”

Jane had certainly not spent the evening in an
agreeable manner, she had not taken her seat at
Claude’s table with any evil designs towards his
letter, but his writing was clear and legible, and her
eye caught the word “ Maurice,” she wished to know
what Claude could be saying about him, and having
once begun, she could not leave off, especially when
she saw her own name, When aware of the com-
pliments he was paying her, she looked at him, but

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

his eyes were fixed on his pen, and no smile, no sig-
nificant expression betrayed that he was aware of
her observations, and even when he gave her the
letter to put into the post-bag, he looked quite in-
nocent and unconcerned. On the other hand she
did not like to think that he had been sending such
a character of her to Eleanor in sober sadness ; it
was impossible to find out whether he had sent the
letter, she could not venture to beg him to keep it
back, she could only trust to his good-nature.

At luncheon as they had agreed, Lily began by
asking where her Papa and William were gone ?
Claude answered, “ to Stony Bridge to call upon
Mr. Stevens, they mean to ask him to dine one day
next week to be introduced to his pupils.”

“ Is he an Oxford or Cambridge man ?” asked

My.

“ Oxford,” exclaimed Jane, quite forgetting whence
she had derived her information, “ he is is a fellow of — ”

“ Indeed !” said Lily, “ how do you know that ?”

64 Why, we have all been talking of him lately,”
said Jane.

“Not I,” said Emily, “why should he interest
us ?”

“Because he is to tutor the boys,” said Jane.

“ When did you hear that he is to tutor the
boys ?” asked Lily.

“ When you did, I suppose,” said Jane, blushing.

“ You did, did you ?” said Claude, “ I feel con-
vinced, if so, that you must really be what you are
so often called, a changeling.”

“We shall have to perform a brewery of egg

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161

shells this evening, and put the elf to flight with a
red hot poker, and what a different sister Jane we
shall recover, instead of this little mischief-making
sprite, so quiet, so reserved, never intruding her
opinion, showing constant deference to all her supe-
riors ; yes, and to her inferiors, shutting her eyes to
the faults of others, and when they come before her,
trying to shield the offender from those who regard
them as merely exciting news.”

Claude’s speech had become much more serious
than he intended, and he felt quite guilty when he
had finished, so that it was not at all an undesirable
interruption when Phyllis and Adeline asked for the
story of the brewery of egg shells.

Emily and Lilias kindly avoided looking at Jane,
who, after fidgetting on her chair, and turning very
red, succeeded in regaining outward composure.
She resolved to let the matter die away, and think
no more about it.

When Mr. Mohun and William came home, they
brought the news that Lady Rotherwood had in-
vited the whole party to dinner.

“ I am very glad we are allowed to see them,”
said Emily, “ I am quite tired of being shut up.”

“ If it was not for the Westons we might as well
live in Nova Zembla,” said Jane.

“ I am glad you damsels should know a little more
of Florence,” said Mr. Mohun.

“ Yes,” said Claude, “ cousins were made to be
friends.”

“ In that case one ought to be able to choose
them,” said William.

M

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“And know them,” said Emily, “We have not
seen Florence since she was eleven years old.”

“ Cousin or not,” said Lilias, “ Florence can hardly
be so much my friend as Alethea.”

“Right, Lily,” said William, “stand up for old
friends against all the cousins in the universe.”

“ Has Alethea a right to be called an old friend ?”
said Emily, “ does three quarters of a year make
friendship venerable ?”

“No one can deny that she is a tried friend,”
said Lilias.

“But pray, good people,” said Claude, “what
called forth those vows of eternal constancy ? why
was my innocent general observation construed
into an attack upon Miss Weston ?”

“ Because there was something invidious in your
tone,” said Lily.

“What kind of girl is that Florence?” asked
William.

“ Oh ! a nice lively pleasant girl,” said Claude.

“ I cannot make out what her pursuits are,” said
Lily, “ Rotherwood never talks of her reading any
thing.”

“ She has been governessed and crammed till she
is half sick of all reading,” said Claude, “ of all study
— aye, and all accomplishments.”

“ So that is the friend you recommend Lily !”
said William.

“ Well, Claude, that is what I call a great shame,”
said Emily.

“ Stay,” said Claude, “ you have heard but half
my story, I say that this is the re-action. Florence

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has no lack of sense, and if you young ladies are
wise, you may help her to find the use of it.”

Claude’s further opinion did not transpire, as din-
ner was announced, and nothing more was said
about Lady Florence, till the girls had an oppor-
tunity of judging for themselves. She had a good
deal of her brother’s vivacity, with gentleness and
grace, which made her very engaging, and her per-
fect recollection of the New Court, and of childish
days, charmed her cousins. Lady Rotherwood was
very kind and affectionate, and held out hopes of
many future meetings. The next day Maurice and
Reginald came home from school, bringing a better
character for diligence than usual, on which they
founded hopes that the holidays would be left to their
own disposal. They were by no means pleased with
the arrangement made with Mr. Stephens, and most
unwillingly did they undertake the expedition to
Stony Bridge, performing the journey in a very un-
sociable manner. Maurice was no horseman, and
chose to jog on foot through three miles of lane,
while Reginald’s poney cantered merrily along, its
master’s head being intent upon the various winter
sports in which William and Lord Rotherwood
allowed him to share. Little did Maurice care for
such diversions, he was, as Adeline said, studying
another “ apology.” This time it was phrenology, for
which the cropped heads of Lilias and Jane afforded
unusual facility. There was, however, but a limited
supply of heads willing to be fingered, and Maurice
returned to the most abiding of his tastes, and in an

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

empty room at the Old Court, laboured assiduously
to find the secret of perpetual motion.

A few days before Christmas, Rachel Harvey
again took leave of Beechcroft, with a promise that
she would make them another visit when Eleanor
came home. Before she went, she gave Emily a
useful caution, telling her it was not right to trust
her keys out of her own possession. It was what
Miss Mohun never would have done, she had never
once committed them even to Rachel.

“With due deference to Eleanor,” said Emily,
with her winning smile, “ we must allow that that
was being over cautious.”

Rachel smiled, but her lecture was not averted
by the compliment.

“It might have been very well since you have
known me^ Miss Emily, but I do not know what
would have come of it, if I had been too much
trusted, when I was a giddy young thing like
Esther ; that girl comes of a bad lot, and if any
thing is to be made of her, it is by keeping tempta-
tion out of her way, and not letting her be with that
mother of her’s.”

Rachel had rather injured the effect of her ad-
vice by behaving top like a mistress during her
visit ; Emily had more than once wished that
old servants were not privileged people, and she
was more offended than convinced by the re-
monstrance.

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CHAPTER XIV.

CHRISTMAS.

“ Slee, sla, slud.

Stuck in the mud,

0 it is pretty to wade through a flood,

Come, wheel round.

The dirt we have found,

Won d be an estate at a farthing a pound.’*

Lily’s illness, interrupted her teaching at the village
school for many weeks, and she was in no great
haste to resume it. Alethea Weston seemed to
enjoy doing all that was required, and Lily left it in
her hands, glad to shut her eyes as much as possible
to the disheartening state the parish had been in
ever since her former indiscretion.

The approach of Christmas however made it
necessary for her to exert herself a little more,
and her interest in parish matters revived as she
distributed the clothing club goods, and in private
conference with each good dame, learnt the wants of
her family. But it was sad to miss several names
struck out of the list for non-attendance at Church,
and when Mrs. Eden came for her child’s clothing,
Lily remarked that the articles she chose were,

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

unlike those of former years, the cheapest and
coarsest she could find.

St. Thomas’s day was marked by the custom,
called at Beechcroft, “ gooding.” Each mother of a
family came to all the principal houses in the parish to
receive sixpence, towards providing a Christmas
dinner, and it was Lily’s business to dispense this
dole at the New Court. With a long list of names
and a heap of silver before her, she sat at the oaken
table by the open chimney in the hall, returning a
nod or a smiling greeting to the thanks of the women
as they came one by one to receive the little silver
coins, and warm themselves by the glowing wood
fire.

Pleasant as the task was at first, it ended painfully.
Agnes Eden appeared, in order to claim the double
portion allotted to her mother, as a widow. This
was the first time that Mrs. Eden had asked for the
gooding-money, and Lily knew that it was a sign
that she must be in great distress. Agnes made her
had little curtsey, and crept away again as soon as she
received her shilling ; but Mrs. Grey, who was Mrs.
Eden’s neighbour, had not quite settled her penny
club affairs, and remained a little longer. An unas-
suming and highly principled person was Mrs. Grey,
and Lily enjoyed a talk with her, while she was
waiting for the purple stuff frock which Jane was
measuring off for Kezia. They spoke of the chil-
dren, and of a few other little matters, and presently
something was said about Mrs. Eden ; Lily asked if
the blacksmith helped her.

“ O ! no, Miss Lilias, he will do nothing for her,

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while she sends her child to school and to Church.
He will not speak to her even. Not a bit of butter
nor a morsel of bacon has been in her house since
Michaelmas, and what she would have done if it was
not for Mr. Devereux and Mrs. Weston, I cannot
think.”

Lilias, much shocked by this account of the dis-
tress into which she and Jane had been the means
of bringing the widow, reported it to her father and
to the Rector ; entreating the former to excuse her
rent, which he willingly promised to do, and also
desired his daughters to give her a blanket, and tell
her to come to the house whenever any broth was to
be given away. Mr. Devereux, who already knew
of her troubles, and allowed her a small sum weekly,
now told his cousins how much the Greys had
assisted her. Andrew Grey had dug up and housed
her winter’s store of potatoes, he had sought work
for her, and little Agnes often shared the meals of
his children. The Greys had a large family, very
young, so that all that they did for her was the fruit
of self-denial. Innumerable were the kindnesses
which they performed unknown to any but the
widow and her child. More by a hundred times did
they assist her than the thoughtless girls who had
occasioned her sufferings, though Lily was not the
only one who felt that nothing was too much for
them to do. Nothing perhaps would have been too
much except to bear her in mind and steadily aid
her in little things, but Lily took no account of little
things, talked away her feelings, and thus all her
grand resolutions produced almost nothing. Lord

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

Rotherwood sent Mrs. Eden a sovereign, the girls
newly clothed little Agnes, Phyllis sometimes carried
her the scraps of her dinner, Mrs. Eden once came
to work at the New Court, and a few messes of
broth were given to her, but in general she was
forgotten, and when remembered, indolence or care-
lessness too often prevented the Miss Mohuns from
helping her. In Emily’s favourite phrase, each in-
dividual thing “ was not worth while.”

When Lilias did think it “ worth while,” she would
do a great deal upon impulse, sometimes with more
zeal than discretion, as she proved by an expedition
which she took on Christmas Eve. Mr. Mohun did
not allow the poor in the village to depend entirely
on the gooding for their Christmas dinner, but on
the 24th of December, a large mess of excellent beef
broth was prepared at the New Court, and dis-
tributed to all his own labourers, and the most re-
spectable of the other cottagers.

In the course of the afternoon, Lily found that
one portion had not been given out. It was that
which was intended for the Martins, a poor old
rheumatic couple, who lived at South End, the most
distant part of the parish. Neither of them could
walk as far as the New Court, and most of their
neighbours had followed Farmer Gage, and had
therefore been excluded from the distribution, so
that there was no one to send. Lily therefore re-
solved herself to carry the broth to them, if she could
find an escort, which was not an easy matter, as the
frost had that morning broken up, and a good deal
of snow and rain had been falling in the course of

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the day. In the hall she met Reginald, just turned
out of Maurice’s work-shop, and much at a loss for
employment.

“ Redgie,” said she, “you can do me a great
kindness.”

“Kit is not a bore,” returned Reginald.

“ I only want you to walk with me to South End.”

“ Eh ?” said Reginald, “ I thought the little
Misses were too delicate to put their dear little pro-
boscises outside the door.”

“ That is the reason I ask you, I do not think
Emily or Jane would like it, and it is too far for
Claude. Those poor old Martins have not got their
broth, and there is no one to fetch it for them.”

“ Then do not be half an hour putting on your
things.”

“ Thank you ; and do not run off, and make me
spend an hour in hunting for you, and then say that
I made you wait.”

“ I will wait fast enough. You are not as bad as
Emily,” said Reginald, while Lily ran up stairs to
equip herself. When she came down, she was glad
to find her escort employed in singeing the end of
the tail of the old rocking-horse, at the fire in the
hall, so that she was not obliged to seek him in the
drawing-room, where her plans would probably have
met with opposition. She had, however, objections
to answer from an unexpected quarter. Reginald
was much displeased when she took possession of
the pitcher of broth.

“ I will not walk with such a thing as that,” said

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

he, “ it makes you look like one of the dirty girls in
the village.”

“ Then you ought, like the courteous Einaldo, to
carry it for me,” said Lily.

“ I touch the nasty thing ! Faugh ! Throw it into
the gutter, Lily.”

He made an attempt to dispose of it in that man-
ner, which it required all Lily’s strength to with-
stand, as well as an imploring “ Now, Redgie, think
of the poor old people. Remember you have pro-
mised.”

“ Promised ! I never promised to walk with a
greasy old pitcher. What am I to do if we meet
Miss Weston ?”

Lily contrived to overcome Reginald’s refined
notions, sufficiently to make him allow her to carry
the pitcher ; and when he had whistled up two of
the dogs, they proceeded merrily along the road,
dirty and wet though it was. Their walk was not
entirely without adventures ; first, they had to turn
back in the path by the river side, which would
have saved them half a mile, but was now flooded.
Then, as they were passing through a long lane,
which led them by Edward Gage’s farm, a great dog
rushed out of the yard, and fell upon the little ter-
rier, Viper. Old Neptune flew to the rescue, and to
the great alarm of Lily, Reginald ran up with a
stick ; happily, however, a labourer, at the same
time, came out with a pitchfork, and beat off the
enemy. These two delays, together with Reginald’s
propensity for cutting sticks, and for breaking ice,
made it quite late when they arrived at South End.

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When there, they found that a kind neighbour had
brought the old people their broth in the morning,
and intended to go for her own when she came home
from her work in the evening. It was not often that
Lily went to South End ; the old people were de-
lighted to see her, and detained her for some time,
by a long story about their daughter at service,
while Reginald looked the picture of impatience,
drumming on his knee, switching the leg of the
table, and tickling Neptune’s ears. When they left
the cottage, it was much more late and dark than
they had expected, but Lily was unwilling again to
encounter the perils of the lane, and consulted her
brother whether there was not some other way. He
gave notice of a cut across some fields, which would
take them into the turnpike road, and Lily agreeing,-
they climbed over a gate into a pathless turnip
field. Reginald strode along first, calling to the
dogs, while Lily followed, abstaining from dwelling
on the awkward circumstance, that every step she
took led her further from home, and rejoicing that
it was so dark that she could not see the mud which
plastered the edge of her petticoats. After plodding
through three very long fields, they found themselves
shut in by a high hedge and tall ditch.

“ That fool of a farmer !” cried Reginald.

“ What is to be done ?” said Lily, disconsolately.

“ There is the road,” said Reginald.

“ How do you propose to get into it ?”

“ There was a gap here last summer,” said the boy.

“ Very likely ! Come back : try the next field ; it
must have a gate somewhere.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

Back they went, after seeing the carrier’s cart
from Raynham pass by.

“ Redgie, it must be half-past five ! We shall
never be in time ! Aunt Rotherwood coming too !”
After a desperate plunge through a swamp of ice,
water, and mud, they found themselves at a gate,
and safely entered the turnpike road.

“ How it rains,” said Lily ; “ one comfort is, that
it is too dark for any one to see us.”

“ Not very dark, either,” said Reginald, “ I be-
lieve there is a moon if one could see it. Ha ! here
comes some one on horseback. It is a grey horse ;
it is William.”

“ Come to look for us,” said Lily ; “ Oh, Redgie !”
“ Coming home from Raynham,” said Reginald,
“ do not fancy yourself so important, Lily. William,
is that you ?”

“ Reginald !” exclaimed William, suddenly check-
ing his horse, “ Lily, what is all this ?”

“ We set out to South-end, to take the broth to
the old Martins, and we found the meadows flooded,
which made us late, but we shall soon be at home,”
said Lily, in a make-the-best-of-it tone.

“ Soon ? You are a mile and a half from home
now, and do you know how late it is ?”

“ Half-past five,” said Lily.

“ Six, at least ; how could you be so absurd ?”
William rode quickly on ; Reginald laughed, and
they plodded on ; at length, a tall dark figure was
seen coming towards them, and Lily started, as it
addressed her, “Now what is the meaning of all
this ?” *

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“ O, William, have you come to meet us ? Thank
you ; I am sorry — ”

“ How were you to come through the village in
the dark, without some one to take care of you ?”

“I am taking care of her,” said Reginald, af-
fronted.

“ Make haste * my aunt is come. How could you
make the people at home so anxious ?”

William gave Lily his arm, and on finding she
was both tired and wet, again scolded her, walked so
fast that she was out of breath, then complained of
her folly, and blamed Reginald. It was very un-
pleasant, and yet she was very much obliged to him,
and exceedingly sorry he had taken so much trouble.

They came home at about seven o’clock. Jane
met them in the hall, full of her own and Lady Roth-
erwood’s wonderings ; she hurried Lily up stairs,
and — skilful, quick, and ready — she helped her to
dress in a very short time. As they ran down,
Reginald overtook them, and they entered the draw-
ing-room as the dinner-bell was ringing. William
did not appear for some time, and his apologies were
not such as to smooth matters for his sister.

Perhaps it was for this very reason that Mr.
Mohun allowed Lily to escape with no more than a
jesting reproof. Lord Rotherwood wished to make
his cousin’s hardihood and enterprize an example to
his sister, and, in his droll exaggerating way, repre-
sented such walks as every-day occurrences. This
was just the contrary to what Emily wished her
aunt to believe, and Claude was much diverted with
the struggle between her politeness to Lord Rother-

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

wood, and her desire to maintain the credit of the
family.

Lady Florence, though liking Lilias, thought this
walk extravagant. Emily feared Lilias had lost her
aunt’s good opinion, and prepared herself for some
hints about a governess. It was untoward, but in
the course of the evening she was .a little comforted
by a proposal from Lady Rotherwood, to take her
and Lilias to a ball at Raynham, which was to take
place in January, and as soon as the gentlemen ap-
peared, they submitted the invitation to their father,
while Lady Rotherwood pressed William to accom-
pany them, and he was refusing.

“ What are soldiers intended for but to dance ?”
said Lord Rotherwood.

“ I never dance,” said William, with a grave em-
phasis.

“l am out of the scrape,” said the Marquis, “I
shall be gone before it takes place ; I reserve all my
dancing for July 30th. Well, young ladies, is the
Baron propitious ?”

“ He says he will consider of it,” said Emily.

“Oh, then he will let you go,” said Florence,
“ people never consider when they mean No.”

“ No, Florence,” said her brother, “ Uncle Mo-
hun’s consider-of-it is equivalent to ‘ Le Roy s’avi-
sera.’ ”

“ What is he saying ?” asked Lily, turning to
listen. “ Oh, that my wig is in no ball-going con-
dition.”

“A wreath would hide all deficiencies,” said
Florence ; “lam determined to have you both.”

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“ I give small hopes of both,” said Claude, “ you
will only have Emily.”

“ Why do you think so, Claude ?” cried both
Florence and Lilias.

“From my own observation,” Claude answered
gravely.

“I am very angry with the Baron,” said Lord
Rotherwood, “ he is grown inhospitable ; he will
not let me come here to-morrow — the first Christmas
these five years that I have missed paying my re-
spects to the New Court Sirloin and turkey. It is
too bad — and the Westons dining here too.”

“ Cousin Turkey cock, well may you be in a
passion,” muttered Claude, as if in soliloquy.

Lord Rotherwood and Lilias both caught the
sound and laughed, but Emily, unwilling that Flo-
rence should see what liberties they took with her
brother, asked quickly why he was not to come.

“I think we are much obliged to him,” said
Florence, “ it would be too bad to leave mamma and
me to spend our Christmas alone, when we came to
the Castle on purpose to oblige him.”

“ Aye, and he says he will not let me come here,
because I ought to give the Hetherington people
ocular demonstration that I go to Church,” said
Lord Rotherwood.

“Very right, as Eleanor would say,” observed
Claude.

" Very likely ; but I don’t care for the Hether-
ington folks ; they do not know how to make the
holly in the Church fit to be seen, and they will not

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

sing the good old Christmas Carols. Andrew Grey
is worth all the Hetherington choir put together.”

“ Possibly ; but how are they to mend, if their
Marquis contents himself with despising them ?” said
Claude.

“That is too bad, Claude. When you heard
how submissively I listened to the Baron, and know
I mean to abide by what he said, you ought to
condole with me a little, if you have not the grace
to lament my absence on your own account. Why,
I thought myself as regular a part of the feast as
the mince pies, and almost as necessary.”

Here a request for some music put an end to his
lamentations. Lilias was vexed by the uncertainty
about the ball, and was, besides, too tired to play
with spirit. She saw that Emily was annoyed, and
she felt ready to cry before the evening was over, but
still she was proud of her exploit, and when, after
the party was gone, Emily began to represent to her
the estimate that her aunt was likely to form of her
character, she replied, “ If she thinks the worse of
me for carrying the broth to those poor old people, I
am sure I do not wish for her good opinion.”

Mr. Mohun was not propitious when the question
of Lily’s going to the ball was pressed upon him.
He said that he thought her too young for gaieties,
and besides, that late hours never agreed with her,
and he advised her to wait for the 30th of July.

Lilias knew that it was useless to say any more.
She was much disappointed, and at the same time
provoked with herself for caring about such a mat-
ter. Her temper was out of order on Christmas

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Day ; and while she wondered why she could not
enjoy the festival as formerly, with thoughts fitted
to the day, she did not examine herself sufficiently
to find out the real cause of her uncomfortable
feelings.

The clear frost was only cold ; the bright sun-
shine did not rejoice her ; the holly and the mistle-
toe seemed ill-arranged, and none of the pleasant
sights of the day could give her such blitheness as
once she had known. She was almost angry when
she saw that the Westons had left off their mourn-
ing, declaring that they did not look like them-
selves ; and her vexation came to a height when she
found that Alethea actually intended to go to the
ball with Mrs. Carrington. The excited manner in
which she spoke of it convinced Mr. Mohun that he
had acted wisely in not allowing her to go, since the
very idea seemed to turn her head.

N

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CHAPTER XT.

MINOR MISFORTUNES.

“ Loving she is, and tractable though wild.*'

In a day or two, Lady Rotherwood and her daughter
called at the New Court On this occasion, Lilias
was employed in as rational and lady-like a manner
as could be desired, in practising her music in the
drawing-room ; Emily was reading, and Ada thread-
ing beads.

Lady Rotherwood greeted her nieces very affec-
tionately, gave a double caress to Adeline, stroked
her pretty curls, admired her bead-work, talked to
her about her doll, and then proceeded to invite the
whole family to a Twelfth Day party, given for
their especial benefit. The little Carringtons and
the Weston girls were also to be asked. Emily and
Lilias were eagerly expressing their delight, when
suddenly, a trampling, like a charge of horse, was
heard in the hall ; the door was thrown back, and in
rushed Reginald and Phyllis, shouting, “ Such fun I”
“ The pigs are in the garden !”

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At the sight of their aunt they stopped short,
looking aghast, and certainly those who beheld them
partook of their consternation. Reginald was hot
and gloveless ; his shoes far from clean ; his brown
curls hanging in great disorder from his Scotch cap,
his handkerchief loose, his jacket dusty, — but this
was no great matter, since, as Emily said, he was
“ only a boy.” His bright open smile, the rough,
yet gentleman-like courtesy of his advance to the
Marchioness, his comical roguish glance at Emily, to
see if she was very angry, and to defy her if she
were, and his speedy exit, all greatly amused Lady
Florence, and made up for what there might have
been of the wild school-boy in his entrance.

Poor Phyllis had neither the excuse of being a
school-boy, nor the good-humoured fearlessness that
freed her brother from embarrassment, and she
stood stock still, awkward and dismayed, not daring
to advance, longing to join in the pig-chase, yet
afraid to run away, her eyes stretched wide open,
her hair streaming into them, her bonnet awry, her
tippet powdered with seeds of hay, her gloves torn
and soiled, the colour of her brown holland apron
scarcely discernible through its various stains, her
frock tucked up, her stockings covered with mud,
and without shoes, which she had taken off at the
door.

“Phyllis,” said Emily, “what are you thinking
of ? What makes you such a figure ? Come and
speak to aunt Rotherwood.”

Phyllis drew off her left-hand glove, and held out
her hand, making a few sidelong steps towards her

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

aunt, who gave her a rather reluctant kiss. Lily
bent her bonnet into shape, and pulled down her
frock, while Florence laughed, patted her cheek, and
asked what she had been doing.

“ Helping Redgie chop turnips,” was the answer.

Afraid of some further exposure, Emily hastily
sent her away to be made fit to be seen, and Lady
Rotherwood went on caressing Ada and talking of
something else. Emily had no opportunity of ex-
plaining that this was not Phyllis’s usual condition,
and she was afraid that Lady Rotherwood would
never believe that it was accidental. She was much
annoyed, especially as the catastrophe only served to
divert Mr. Mohun and Claude. Of all the family
William and Adeline alone took her view of the
case. Ada lectured Phyllis on her “naughtiness,”
and plumed herself on her aunt’s evident preference,
but William was not equally sympathetic. He was
indeed as fastidious as Emily herself, and as much
annoyed by such misadventures ; but he maintained
that she was to blame for them, saying that the state
of things was not such as it should be, and that the
exposure might be advantageous if it put her on her
guard in future.

It appeared as if poor Phyllis was to be punished
for the vexation which she had caused, for in the
course of her adventures with Reginald, she caught
a cold, which threatened to prevent her from being
of the party on Twelfth-day. She had a cough
which did not give her by any means as much incon-
venience, as the noise it occasioned did to other
people. Every morning and every evening she

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anxiously asked her sisters whether they thought
she would be allowed to go, Another of the party
seemed likely to fail. On the 5th of January,
Claude came down to breakfast later even than
usual, but he had no occasion to make excuses, for
his heavy eyes, the dark lines under them, his pale
cheeks, and the very sit of his hair were sure signs
that he had a violent headache. He soon betook
himself to the sofa in the drawing-room, attended by
Lily with pillows, cushions, ether and lavender.
Late in the afternoon, the pain diminished a little,
and he fell asleep, to the great joy of his sister, who
sat watching him, scarcely daring to move.

Suddenly, a frightful scream and loud crash was
heard in the room above them, Claude started up,
and Lily exclaiming, “ Those tiresome children !”
hurried to the room whence the noise had come.

Reginald, Phyllis and Ada all stood there laugh-
ing. Reginald and Phyllis had been climbing to
the top of a great wardrobe, by means of a ladder of
chairs and tables. While Phyllis was descending
her brother had made some demonstration which
startled her, and she fell with all the chairs over her,
but without hurting herself.

“ You naughty troublesome child,” cried Lily, in
no gentle tone. “ How often have you been told to
leave off such boyish tricks ! And you choose the
very place for disturbing poor Claude, with his bad
headache, making it worse than ever.”

Phyllis tried to speak, but only succeeded in giving
a dismal howl. She went on screaming, sobbing

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

and roaring so loud that she could not hear Lily’s
attempts to quiet her. The next minute Claude ap-
peared, looking half distracted. Reginald ran off,
and as he dashed out of the room, came full against
William, who caught hold of him, calling out to
know what was the matter. “ Only Phyllis scream-
ing,” said Lily. “ Oh, Claude, I am very sorry !”
“Is that all?” said Claude. “I thought some
one was half killed !”

He sank into a chair, pressing his hand on his
temples, and looking very faint. William supported
him, and Lily stood by repeating, “ I am very sorry
— it was all my fault — my scolding — ”

“ Hush,” said William, “ you have done mischief
enough. Go away, children.”

Phyllis had already gone, and the next moment
thrust into Lily’s hand, the first of the medicaments
which she had found in the drawing-room. The
faintness soon went off, but Claude thought he had
better not struggle against the headache any longer,
but go to bed, in hopes of being better the next
day. William went with him to his room, and
Lilias lingered on the stairs, very humble, and very
wretched. William soon came forth again, and
asked the meaning of the uproar.

“ It was all my fault,” said she, “ I was vexed at
Claude’s being waked, and that made me speak
sharply to Phyllis, and set her roaring.”

“ I do not know which is the most inconsiderate of
you,” said William.

“You cannot blame me more than I deserve,”
said Lily. “ May I go to poor Claude ?”

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“ I suppose so, but I do not see what good you are
to do. Quiet is the only thing for him.”

Lily, however, went, and Claude gave her to un-
derstand that he liked her to stay with him. She
arranged his blinds and curtains comfortably, and
then sat down to watch him. William went to the
drawing-room to write a letter. Just as he had
sat down, he heard a strange noise, a sound of
sobbing, which seemed to come from the comer
where the library steps stood. Looking behind
them, he beheld Phyllis curled up, her head on her
knees, crying bitterly.

“ You there ! Come out. What is the matter
now ?”

“Iam so very sorry,” sighed she.

“Well, leave off crying.” She would willingly
have obeyed, but her sobs were beyond her own con-
trol, and he went on, “ If you are sorry, there is no
more to be said. I hope it will be a lesson to you
another time. You are quite old enough to have
more consideration for other people.”

“ I am very sorry,” again said Phyllis, in a mourn-
ful note.

“Be sorry, only do not roar. You make that
noise from habit, I am convinced, and you may
break yourself of it, if you choose.”

Phyllis crept out of the room, and in a few minutes
more the door was softly opened by Emily, return-
ing from her walk.

“ I thought Claude was here. Is he gone to bed ?
Is his head worse ?”

“ Yes, the children have been doing their best to

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

distract, him. Emily, I want to know why it is that
those children are for ever in mischief, and yelling
in all parts of the house.”

“ I wish I could help it,” said Emily, with a sigh,
“ they are very troublesome.”

“ There must be great mismanagement,” said her
brother.

“ Oh, William ! Why do you think so ?”

“ Other children do not go on in this way, and it
was not so in Eleanor’s time.”

“ It is only Phyllis,” said Emily.

“ Phyllis or not, it ought not to be. What will
that child grow up if you let her be always running
wild with the boys ?”

“ Consider, William, that you see us at a disad-
vantage, we are all unsettled by this illness, and the
children have been from home.”

“ As if they learnt all these wild tricks at Broom-
hill ! That excuse will not do, Emily.”

“ And then they are always worse in the holidays,”
pleaded Emily.

“Yes, there are reasons to be found for every
thing that goes wrong, but if you were wise, you
would look deeper. Now, Emily, I do not wish to
be hard upon you, for I know you are in a very diffi-
cult position, and very young for such a charge, but
I am sure you might manage better. I do not think
you use your energies. There is no activity, nor
regularity, nor method about this household. I be-
lieve my father sees that this is the case, but it is
not his habit to find fault with little things. You
may think that therefore I need not interfere, but—”

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“ Oh, William ! I am glad — ”

“ But remember that comfort is made up of little
things. And, Emily, when you consider how much
my father has suffered, and how desolate his home
must be at the best, I think you will be inclined to
exert yourself to prevent him from being anxious
about the children, or harassed by your negligence. ,,

“Indeed, William,” returned Emily, with many
tears, “ it is my most earnest wish to make him com-
fortable. Thank you for what you have said. Now
that I am stronger, I hope to do more, and I will
really do my best.”

At this moment Emily was sincere ; but the good
impulse of one instant was not likely to endure
against long cherished habits of selfish apathy.

Claude did not appear again till the middle of the
next day, His headache was nearly gone, but he
was so languid that he gave up all thoughts of
Devereux Castle that evening. Lord Rotherwood,
who always seemed to know what was going on at
Beechcroft, came to enquire for him, and very un-
willingly allowed that it would be better for him to
stay at home. Lilias wished to remain with him,
but this her cousin would not permit, saying that he
could not consent to lose three of the party, and
Florence would be disappointed in all her plans.
Neither would Claude hear of keeping her at home,
and she was obliged to satisfy herself with putting
his arm chair in his favourite corner by the fire,
with the little table before it, supplied with books,
newspaper, ink-stand, paper-knife, and all the new

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

periodicals, and he declared that he should enjoy the
height of luxury.

Phyllis considered it to be entirely her fault that
he could not go, and was too much grieved on that
account to have many regrets to spare for herself.
She enjoyed seeing Adeline dressed, and hearing
Esther’s admiration of her. And having seen the
party set off, she made her way into the drawing-
room, opening the door as gently as possible, just
wide enough to admit her little person, then shut-
ting it as if she was afraid of hurting it, she crept
across the room on tiptoe. She started when Claude
looked up and said “Why, Phyl, I have not seen
you to-day.”

“ Good morning,” she mumbled, advancing in her
sidelong way.

Claude suspected that she had been more blamed
the day before, than the occasion called for, and
wishing to make amends, he kissed her and said
something good-natured about spending the evening
together. Phyllis, a little re-assured, went to her
own occupations. She took out a large heavy volume,
laid it on the window-seat, and began to read.
Claude was interested in his own book, and did not
look up till the light failed him. He then, closing
his book, gave a long yawn, and looked round for
his little companion, almost thinking from the still-
ness of the room, that she must have gone to seek
for amusement in the nursery*

She was, however, still kneeling against the win-
dow-seat, her elbows planted on the great folio, and
her head between her hands, reading intently.

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“Little Madam,” said he, 44 what great book have
you got there ?”

44 4 As you like it,’ ” said Phyllis.

44 What ! are you promoted to reading Shaks-
peare ?”

“I have not read any but this,” said Phyllis,
44 Ada and I have often looked at the pictures, and I
liked the poor wounded stag coming down to the
water, so much that I read about it, and then I went
on. Was it wrong, Claude ? no one ever told me
not.”

“ You are welcome to read it,” said Claude, “ but
not now, it is too dark, come and sit in the great
chair on the other side of the fire, and be sociable.
And what do you think of 4 As you like it Y ”

44 I like it very much,” answered Phyllis, 44 only I
cannot think why Jacks did not go to the poor
stag, and try to cure it, when he saw its tears run-
ning into the water.”

To save the character of Jacks, Claude gravely
suggested the difficulty of catching the stag, and
then asked Phyllis her opinion of the heroines. ■

44 O ! it was very funny about Rosalind dressing
like a man, and then being ready to cry like a girl,
when she was tired, and then pretending to pretend
to be herself, and Celia, it was very kind of her to
go away with Rosalind ; but I should have liked her
better, if she had staid at home, and persuaded her
father to let Rosalind stay too, I am sure she would
if she had been like Ada. Then it is so nice about
old Adam and Orlando. Do not you think so,
Claude ? it is just what I am sure Wat Greenwood

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

would do for Redgie, if he was to be turned out, like
Orlando.”

“It is just what Wat Greenwood’s ancestor did
for Sir Maurice Mohun,” said Claude.

“ Yes, Dame Greenwood tells us that story.”

“ Well, Phyl, I think you show very good taste in
liking the scene between Orlando and Adam.”

“ I am glad you like it too, Claude, but I will tell
you what I like best,” exclaimed the little girl,
springing up, “ I do like it, when Orlando killed the
lioness and the snake, and saved Oliver $ how glad
he must have been.”

“Glad to have done good to his enemy,” said
Claude, “ Yes, indeed.”

“ His enemy ! he was his brother, you know. I
meant it must be so very nice to save any body,
don’t you think so, Claude ?”

“ Certainly.”

“ Claude, do you know there is nothing I wish so
much as to save somebody’s life. It was very nice
to save the dragon-fly ; and it is very nice to let flies
out *>f spider’s webs, only they always have their
legs and wings torn, and look miserable ; and it was
very nice to put the poor little thrushes back into
their nest when they tumbled out, and then to see
their mother come to feed them ; and it was very
pleasant to help the poor goose that had put its head
through the pales, and could not get it back. Mrs.
Harrington said it 'would have been strangled if I
had not helped it. That was very nice, but how de-
lightful it would be to save some real human person’s
life.”

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Claude did not laugh at the odd medley in her
speech, but answered, “ Well, those little things
train you in readiness and kindness.”

“ Will they ?” said Phyllis, pressing on to ex-
press what had long been her earnest wish, “ if I
could but save some one, I should not mind being
killed myself, I think not, I hope it is not naughty
to say so. I believe there is something in the Bible
about it, about laying down one’s life for one’s
friend.”

“ There is, Phyl, and I quite agree with you, it
must be a great blessing to have saved some one.”

“ And little girls have sometimes done it, Claude.
I know a story of one who saved her little brother
from drowning, and another waked the people when
the house was on fire. And when I was at Broom
Hill, Marianne showed me a story of a young lady
who helped to save the Prince, that Prince Charlie
that Miss Weston sings about. I wish the Prince of
Wales would get into some misfortune, I should like
to save him.”

“ I do not quite echo that loyal wish,” said
Claude.

“ Well, but Claude, Redgie wishes for a rebellion,
like Sir Maurice’s, for he says all the boys at his
school would be one regiment, in green velvet coats
and white feathers in their hats.”

“ Indeed ! and Redgie to be Field Marshal ?”

“ No, he is to be Sir Reginald Mohun, a Knight of
the Garter, and to ask the Queen to give William
back the title of Baron of Beechcroft, and make
Papa a Duke.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“Well done ! he is to take good care of -the in-
terests of the family.’ *

“ But it is not that that I should care about,”
said Phyllis, “ I should like it better for the feeling
in one’s own self, I think all that fuss would rather
spoil it, don’t you, Claude ?”

“ Indeed I do, but, Phyllis, if you only wish for
that feeling, you need not look for dangers or re-
bellions to gain it.”

“ Oh ! you mean the feel that very good people
indeed have, people like Harry, but that, I shall
never be.”

“ I hope you mean to try, though.”

“ I do try ; I wish I was as good as Ada, but I
am so naughty and so noisy that I do not know
what to do. Every day when I say my prayers, I
think about being quiet, and not idling at my lessons,
and sometimes I do stop in time, and behave better,
but sometimes I forget, and I do not mind what I
am about, and my voice gets loud, and I let the
things tumble down, and make a noise, and so it was
yesterday.” Here she looked much disposed to cry.

“ No, no, we will not have any crying this even-
ing,” said Claude, “ I do not think you did me much
mischief, my head ached just as much before.”

“ That was a thing I wanted to ask you about ;
William says my crying loud is all habit, and that I
must cure myself of it, how does he mean ? ought I
to cry every day to practise doing it without roaring T
" Do you like to begin,” said Claude, laughing,
“ shall I beat you or pinch you ?”

“ Oh ! it would make your head bad again,” said

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Phyllis, “ but I wish you would tell me what he
means. When I cry, I only think about what makes
me unhappy.”

“ Try never to cry,” said Claude, “ I assure you
it is not pleasant to hear you, even when I have no
headache. If you wish to do any thing right, you
must learn self-controul, and it will be a good begin-
ning to check yourself when you are going to cry.
Do not look melancholy now. Here comes the tea.
Let me see how you will perform as tea-maker.”

“ I wish the evening would not go away so fast !”

“ And what are we to do after tea ? you are queen
of the evening.”

“ If you would but tell me a story, Claude.”

They lingered long over the tea-table, talking
and laughing, and when they had finished, Phyllis
discovered with surprise that it was nearly bed-
time. The promised story was not omitted, however,
and Phyllis, sitting on a little footstool at her bro-
ther’s feet, looked up eagerly for it.

“ Well, Phyl, I will tell you a true history that I
heard from an officer who had served in the Penin-
sular war. The war in Spain you know.”

“Yes, with the French who killed their king.
Lily told me.”

“And the Portuguese were helping us. Just
after we had taken the town of Ciudad Rodrigo^
some of the Portuguese soldiers went to find lodg-
ings for themselves, and entering a magazine of gun-
powder, made a fire on the floor to dress their food.
A most dangerous thing — do you know why ?”

“ The book would be burnt,” said Phyllis.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ What book, you wise child ?”

“ The magazine ; I thought a magazine was one of
the paper books that Maurice is always reading.”

“ Oh !” said Claude, laughing, “ a magazine is a
store, and as many different things are stored in
those books, they are called magazines. A powder
magazine is a store of barrels of gunpowder. Now
do you see why it was dangerous to light a fire ?”

“ It blows up,” said Phyllis, “ that was the reason
why Robinson Crusoe was afraid of the lightning.”
“Right, Phyl, and therefore a candle is never
allowed to be carried into a powder-magazine, and
even nailed shoes are never worn there, lest they
should strike fire. One spark, lighting on a grain
of gunpowder scattered on the floor, might commu-
nicate with the rest, make it all explode, and spread
destruction every where. Think in what fearful peril
these reckless men had placed, not only themselves
but the whole town, and the army. An English
officer chanced to discover them, and what do you
think he did ?”

“ Told all the people to run away.”

“ How could he have told every one, soldiers, in-
habitants, and all ? where could they have gone ? No,
he raised no alarm, but he ordered the Portuguese
out of the building, and with the help of an English
^ergeant, he carried out, piece by piece, all the wood
which they had set -on fire. Now imagine what
that must have been. An explosion might happen
at any moment, yet they had to walk steadily, slowly,
and with the utmost caution, in and out of this place
-several times, lest one spark might fly back.”

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“ Then they were saved,” cried Phyllis, breath-
lessly, “ and what became of them afterwards ?”

“ They were both killed in battle, the officer, I
believe, at Badajos, and the sergeant some time
afterwards.”

Phyllis gave a deep sigh, and sat silent for some
minutes. Next, Claude began a droll Irish fairy-
tale, which he told with spirit and humour, such as
some people would have scorned to exert for the
amusement of a mere child. Phyllis laughed, and
was so happy, that when suddenly they heard the
sound of wheels, she started up, wondering what
brought the others home so soon, and was still
more surprised when Claude told her it was past
ten.

“ Oh, dear ! what will Papa and Emily say to me
for being up still ? but I will stay now, it would not
be fair to pretend to be gone to bed.”

“ Well said, honest Phyl, now for the news from
the Castle.”

“ Why, Claude,” said his eldest brother, entering,
“ you are alive again.”

“ I doubt whether your evening could have been
pleasanter than ours,” said Claude.

“ Phyl,” cried Ada, “ do you know, Mary Car-
rington’s governess thought I was Florence’s sister.”

“ You look so bright, Claude,” said Jane, “ I think
you must have had Cinderella’s friend with the
pumpkin to enliven you.”

“ My fairy was certainly sister to a brownie,” said
Claude, stroking Phyllis’s liair.

“ Claude,” again began Ada, “ Miss Car — ”

o

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SCENES AND CHABACTEBS.

“ I wish Cinderella’s fairy may be forthcoming the
day of the ball,” said Lily, disconsolately.

“ And William is going after all,” said Emily.

“ Indeed ! has the great Captain relented ?”

“ Yes. Is it not good of him ? Aunt Rother-
wood is so much pleased that he consents to go
entirely to oblige her.”

“ Sensible of his condescension,” said Claude, “ by
the bye, what makes the Baron look so mis-
chievous ?”

“ Mischievous ?” said Emily, looking round with
a start, “ he is looking very comical, and so he has
been all the evening.”

“ What ? you thought mischievous was meant in
Hannah’s sense, when she complains of master Regi-
nald being very mische-vi-ous.”

Ada now succeeded in saying, “ the Carrington’s
governess called me Lady Ada.”

“ How could she bring herself to utter so horrid a
sound ?” said Claude.

“ Ada is more cock-a-hoop than ever, now,” said
Reginald, “she does not think Miss Weston good
enough to speak to.”

“ But, Claude, she really did, she thought I was
Florence’s sister, and she said I was just like her.”

“ I wish you would hold your tongue, or go to
bed,” said William, “ I have heard nothing but this
nonsense all the way home.”

While William was sending off Ada to bed, and
Phyllis was departing with her, Lily told Claude
that the Captain had been most agreeable. “I
feared,” said she, “ that he would be too grand for

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195

this party, but he was particularly entertaining ;
Rotherwood was quite eclipsed.”

“ Rotherwood wants Claude to set him off,” said
Mr. Mohun. “ Now, young ladies, reserve the rest
of your adventures for the morning.”

Adeline had full satisfaction in recounting the
governess’s mistake to the maids, and in hearing
from Esther that it was no wonder, for that she
looked more like a born lady than Lady Florence
herself!”

Lilias’s fit of petulance about the ball had re-
turned more strongly than ever ; she partly excused
herself to her own mind, by fancying she disliked
the thought of the lonely evening she was to spend,
more than that of losing the pleasure of the ball.
Mr. Mohun would be absent, conducting Maurice to
a new school, and Claude and Reginald would also
be gone.

Her temper was affected in various ways ; she
wondered that William and Emily could like to go
— she had thought that Miss Weston was wiser.
Her daily occupations were irksome — she was cross
to Phyllis. It made her very angry to be accused
by the young brothers of making a fuss, and Claude’s
silence was equally offensive. It was upon principle
that he said nothing, he knew it was nothing but a
transient attack of silliness, of which she was her-
self ashamed, but he was sorry to leave her in that
condition, and feared Lady Rotherwood ’s coming
into the neighbourhood was doing her harm, as cer-
tainly as it was spoiling Ada. The ball day arrived,
and it was marked by a great burst of fretfulness on

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

the part of poor Lilias, occasioned by so small a
matter as the being asked by Emily to write a letter
to Eleanor. Emily was dressing to go to dine at
Devereux Castle when she made the request.

“ What have I to say ? I never could write a letter
in my life, at least not to the Duenna, there is no
news. ,,

“About the boys going to school,’ * Emily sug-
gested.

“ As if she did not know all about them as well as
I can tell her. She does not care for my news, I
see no one to hear gossip from. I thought you un-
dertook all the formal correspondence, Emily.”

“ Do you call a letter to your sister formal corre-
spondence ?”

“ Every thing is formal with her. All I can say
is, that you and William are going to the ball, and
she will say that is very silly.”

“ Eleanor once went to this Raynham ball ; it was
her first and last,” said Emily.

“ Yes, not long before they went to' Italy, it will
only make her melancholy to speak of it, I declare
I cannot write.”

“And I have no time,” said Emily, “and you
know how vexed she is if she does not get her letter
every Saturday.”

“All for the sake of punctuality, nothing else,”
said Lily, “ I rather like to disappoint fidgetty people,
don’t you, Emily ?”

“Well,” said Emily, “only Papa does not like
that she should be disappointed.”

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“ You might have written, if you had not dawdled
away all the morning.”

This was true, and it therefore stung Emily, who
complained that Lily. was very unkind. Lily de-
fended herself sharply, and the dispute was growing
vehement, when William happily cut it short by a
summons to Emily to make haste.

When they were gone, Lily had time for reflection.
Good temper was so common a virtue, and generally
cost her so little effort, that she took no pains to cul-
tivate it, but she now felt she had lost all claim to
be considered amiable under disappointment. It
was too late to bear the privation with a good grace.
She was heartily ashamed of having been so cross
about a trifle, and ashamed of being discontented at
Emily’s having a pleasure in which she could not
share. Would this have been the case a year ago ?
She was afraid to ask herself the question, and with-
out going deep enough into the history of her own
mind to make her sorrow and shame profitable, she
tried to satisfy herself with a superficial compensa-
tion, by making herself particularly agreeable to her
three younger sisters, and by writing a very long
and entertaining letter to Eleanor.

She met Emily with a cheerful face the next day,
and listened with pleasure to her history of the ball,
and when Mr. Mohun returned home, he saw that
the cloud had passed away. But, alas ! Lilias neg-
lected to take the only means of preventing its recur-
rence.

The next week William departed. Before he
went, he gave his sisters great pleasure by desiring

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

them to write to him, and not to let him fall into his
ancient state of ignorance respecting the affairs of
Beechcroft.

“Mind,” was his farewell speech, “I expect you
to keep me au courant du jour. I will not be in
the dark about your best friends and neighbours
when I come home next July.”

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CHAPTER XVI.

VANITY AND VEXATION.

“ And still I have to tell the same sad tale
Of wasted energies, and idle dreams.’*

Devereux Castle now became the great resort of
the Miss Mohuns. They were always sure of a
welcome there. Lady Rotherwood liked to patronize
them, and Florence was glad of their society.

This was quite according to the wishes of Emily,
who now had nothing left to desire, but that the
style of dress suitable, in her opinion, to the grand-
daughter of the Marquis of Rotherwood, was more
in accordance with the purse of the daughter of the
Esquire of Beechcroft. It was no part of Emily’s
character to care for dress. She was at once too in-
dolent and too sensible ; she saw the vulgarity of
finery, and only aimed at simplicity and elegance.
During their girlhood, Emily and Lilias had had no
more concern with their clothes than with their
food ; Eleanor had carefully taught them plain
needlework, and they had assisted in making more
than one set of shirts ; but they had nothing to do
with the choice or fashion of their own apparel.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

They were always dressed alike, and in as plain and
childish a manner as they could be, consistently with
their station. On Eleanor’s marriage, a suitable
allowance was given to each of them, in order that
they might provide their own clothes, and until
Rachel left them, they easily kept themselves in
very good trim. When Esther came, Lily cheer-
fully took the trouble of her own small decorations,
considering it as her payment for the pleasure of
having Esther in the house. Emily, however, neg-
lected the useful “ stitch in time,” till even “nine”
were unavailing. She soon found herself compelled
to buy new ready-made articles, and expected Lilias
to do the same. But Lilias demurred, for she was
too wise to think it necessary to ruin herself in com-
pany with Emily, and thus the two sisters were no
longer dressed alike. A constant fear tormented
Emily lest she should disgrace Lady Rotherwood, or
be considered by some stranger, as merely a poor
relation of the great people, and not as the daughter
of the gentleman of the oldest family in the county.
She was therefore anxious to be perfectly fashion-
able, and not to wear the same things too often, and
in her disinterested desire to maintain the dignity of
the family, the allowance which she received at
Christmas melted rapidly away in her hands.

Lily, though exempt from this folly, was not in a
satisfactory state of mind. She was drawn off from
her duties by a kind of spell. It was not that she
liked Florence’s society better than her home pur-
suits. Florence was indeed a very sweet tempered
and engaging creature ; but her mind was not equal

i

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to that of Lilias, and there was none of the pleasure
of relying upon her, and looking up to her, which
Lilias had learnt to enjoy in the company of her
brother Claude, and of Alethea Weston. It was
only that Lily’s own mind had been turned away
from her former occupations, and that she did not
like to resume them. She had often promised her-
self to return to her really useful studies, and her
positive duties, as soon as her brothers were gone,
but day after day passed and nothing was done,
though her visits to the cottages and her lessons to
Phyllis were often neglected. Her calls at Deve-
reux Castle took up many afternoons ; Florence con-
tinually lent her amusing books, her aunt took great
interest in her music, and she spent much time in
practising ; the mornings were cold and dark, and
she could not rise early, and thus her time slipped
away she knew not how, uselessly and unsatisfac-
torily. The three younger ones were left more to
themselves, and to the maids. Jane sought for
amusement in village gossip, and the little ones,
finding the nursery more agreeable than the deserted
drawing-room, made Esther their companion.

Mr. Mohun had, at this time, an unusual quantity
of business on his hands ; he saw that the girls were
not going on well, but he had reasons for not inter-
fering at present, and he looked forward to Eleanor’s
visit as the conclusion of their trial.

“ I cannot think,” said Marianne Weston one day
to her sister, “ why Mr. Mohun comes here so often.”

Alethea told her he had some business with their
mamma, and she thought no more of the matter,

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

till she was one day questioned by Jane. She was
rather afraid of Jane, who, as she thought, dis-
liked her, and wished to turn her into ridicule ; so
it was with no satisfaction that she found herself
separated from the others in the course of a walk,
and submitted to a cross-examination.

Jane asked, in a mysterious manner, who had
been at Broomhill that morning.

“ Mr. Mohun,” said Marianne.

“ What did he go there for ?” said Jane.

“ Alethea says he has some business with mamma.”
“ Then you did not hear what it was ?”

“ I was not in the room.”

“ Are you never there when he comes ?”

“ Sometimes.”

“ And is Alethea there ?”

“ Oh, yes !”

M His business must be with her too. Cannot you
guess it ?”

“ No,” said Marianne, looking amazed.

“ How can you be so slow ?”

“I am not sure that I would guess if I could,”
said Marianne, “ for I do not think they wish me to
know.”

“ Oh ! nonsense, it is fine fun to find out secrets,”
said Jane, “ you will know it at last, you may be
sure, so there can be no harm in making it out be-
forehand, so as to have the pleasure of triumph when
the wise people vouchsafe to admit you into their
confidence ; I am sure I know it all.”

“ Then please do not tell me, Jane, I ought not to
hear it.”

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“Little Mrs. Propriety,” said Jane, “you are
already assuming all the dignity of my aunt Mari-
anne, and William’s aunt Marianne, Oh ! and of
little Henry’s great aunt Marianne. Now,” she
added, laughing, “ can you guess the secret ?”

Marianne stood still in amazement for a moment,
and then exclaimed, “ Jane, Jane, you do not mean
it, you are only trying to teaze me.”

“ I am quite serious,” said Jane. “ You will see
that I am right.”

Here they were interrupted, and as soon as she
returned from her walk, Marianne, perplexed and
amazed, went to her mother, and told her all that
Jane had said.

“ How can she be so silly ?” said Mrs. Weston.

“ Then it is all nonsense, as I thought,” said Mari-
anne, joyfully, “ I should not like Alethea to marry
an old man.”

“Mr. Mohun is very unlikely to make himself
ridiculous,” said Mrs. Weston, “do not say any
thing of it to Alethea, it would only make her un-
comfortable.”

“ If it had been Captain Mohun, now — ” Mari-
anne stopped, and blushed, finding her speech un-
answered.

A few days after, Mr. Mohun overtook Marianne
and her mother, as he was riding home from Rayn-
ham, and dismounting, led his horse, and walked on
with them. Either not perceiving Marianne, or not
caring whether she heard him, he said,

“Has Miss Weston received the letter she ex-
pected ?”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ No,” said Mrs. Weston, “ she thinks, as there is
no answer, the family must be gone abroad, and very
probably they have taken Miss Aylmer with them ;
but she has written to another friend to ask about
them.”

“ From all I hear,” said Mr. Mohun, “ I should
prefer waiting to hear from her, before we make
farther enquiries ; we shall not be ready before Mid-
summer, as I should wish my eldest daughter to
assist me in making this important decision.”

“In that case,” said Mrs. Weston, “there will be
plenty of time to communicate with her. I can see
some of the friends of the family, when I go to
London, for we must not leave Mr. Weston in soli-
tude another spring.”

“ Perhaps I shall see you there,” said Mr. Mohun,
“I have some business in London, and I think I
shall meet the Hawkesworths there, in May or June.”
After a little more conversation, Mr. Mohun took
his leave, and as soon as he had ridden on, Marianne
said,

“ Oh ! mamma, I could not help hearing.”

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Weston, “ I know you may
be trusted, but I should not have told you, as you
may find such a secret embarrassing when you are
with your young friends.”

“ And so they are to have a governess !”

“ Yes, and we are trying to find Miss Aylmer for
them.”

“ Miss Aylmer ! I am glad of it, how much
Phyllis and Ada will like her !”

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“ Yes, it will be very good for them, I wish I
knew the Grants’ direction.”

“ Well, I hope Jane will not question me any
more, it will be very difficult to manage, now I know
the truth.”

But poor Marianne was not to escape, Jane was
on the watch to find her alone, and as soon as an
opportunity offered, she began,

“ Well, Auntie, any discoveries ?”

“ Indeed, Jane, it is not right to fancy Mr. Mohun
can do any thing so absurd.”

“ That is as people may think,” said Jane.

“I wish you would not talk in that way,” said
Marianne.

“ Now, Marianne,” pursued the tormentor, “ if you
can explain the mystery I will believe you, other-
wise I know what to think.”

“Iam certain you are wrong, Jane, but I can tell
you no more.”

“ Very well, my good aunt, I am satisfied.”

Jane really almost persuaded herself that she was
right, as she perceived that her father was always
promoting intercourse with the Westons, and took
pleasure in conversing with Alethea. She twisted
every thing into a confirmation of her idea ; while
the prospect of having Miss Weston for a step-
mother increased her former dislike ; but she kept
her suspicions to herself for the present, triumph-
ing in the idea that when the time came, she could
bring Marianne as a witness of her penetration.

The intercourse between the elder Miss Mohuns
and Miss Weston was, however, not so frequent as

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

formerly, and Alethea herself could not but remark
that, while Mr. Mohun seemed to desire to become
more intimate, his daughters were more backward
in making appointments with her. This was chiefly
remarkable in Emily and Jane, Lilias was the same
in openness, earnestness and affection, but there was
either a languor about her spirits, or they were too
much excited, and her talk was more of novels, and
less of poor children than formerly. The constant
visits to Devereux Castle prevented Emily and Lilias
from being, as often as before, at Church, and thus
they lost many walks and talks that they used to
enjoy in the way home. Marianne began to grow
indignant, especially on one occasion when Emily
and Lily went out for a drive with Lady Rother-
wood, forgetting that they had engaged to take a
walk with the Westons that afternoon.

“It is really a great deal too bad,” said she to
Alethea, “it is exactly what we have read of in
books about grandeur ’making people cast off their
old friends.”

“Do not be unfair, Marianne,” said Alethea,
“ Lady Florence has a better right to — ”

“ Better right !” exclaimed Marianne. “ What
because she is a Marquis’s daughter ?”

“ Because she is their cousin.”

• “ I do not believe Lilias really cares for her half as
much as for you,” said Marianne, “ it is all because
they are fine people.”

“ Nay, Marianne, if our cousins were to come into
this neighbourhood, we should not be as dependant
on the Mohuns as we now feeL”

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“I hope we should not break our engagements
with them.”

“Perhaps they could not help it. When their
aunt came to fetch them, knowing how seldom they
can have the carriage, it would have been scarcely
civil to say that they had rather take a walk with
people they can see any day.”

“Last year, Lilias would have let Emily go by
herself,” said Marianne. “ Alethea, they are all dif-
ferent since that Lady Rotherwood came, all except
Phyl. Ada is a great deal more conceited than she
was when she was staying here, she pulls out her
curls, and looks in the glass much more, and she is
always talking about some one having taken her for
Lady Florence’s sister. And Alethea, just fancy, she
does not like me to go through a gate before her,
because she says she has precedence !”

Alethea was much amused, but she would not let
Marianne condemn the whole family for Ada’s folly.
“ It will all come right,” said she, “ let us be patient
and good-humoured, and nothing can be really
wrong.”

Though Alethea made the best of it to her sister,
she could not but feel hurt, and would have been
much more so, if her temper had been jealous or
sentimental. Almost in spite of herself, she had be-
stowed upon Lilias no small share of her affection,
and she would have been more pained by her neg-
lect, if she had not partaken of that spirit which
“ thinketh no evil, but beareth all things, believeth
all things, hopeth all things, and endureth all things.”
Lilias was not satisfied with either herself, her

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

home, her sisters, or her school ; she was far from
being the fresh happy creature that she had been the
year before. She had seen the fallacy of her prin-
ciple of love, but in her self-willed adherence to it,
she had lost the strong sense and habit of duty
which had once ruled her, and, in a vague and rest-
less frame of mind, she merely sought from day to
day, for pleasure and idle occupation. Lent came,
but she was not roused, she was only more uncom-
fortable when she saw the Rector, or Alethea, or
went to Church. Alethea’s unfailing gentleness,
she felt almost as a rebuke, and Mr. Devereux,
though always kind and good-natured, had ceased to
speak to her of those small village matters in which
she used to be prime counsellor.

The school became a burthen instead of a delight,
and her attendance there a fatigue. On going in
one Sunday morning, very late, she found Alethea
teaching her class as well as her own. With a look
of vexation, she enquired, as she took her place, if it
was so very late, and on the way to Church, she said
again, “ I thought I was quite in time ; I do not
like to hurry the children, the distant ones have not
time to come. It was only half-past nine.”

“ Oh ! Lilias,” said Marianne, “ it was twenty
minutes to ten, I know, for I had just looked at
the clock.”

“ That clock is always too fast,” said Lily.

The next Sunday was very cold, and Lilias did
not feel at all disposed to leave the fire, when the
others prepared to go to the afternoon school.

“ Is it time ?” said she. “ I was chilled at Church,

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and my feet are still like ice ; I will follow you in
five minutes.”

Alethea went, and Lilias lingered by the fire.
Mrs. Weston once asked her if she knew how late it
was, but still she waited, until she was startled by
the sound of the bell for evening service. As she
went to Church with Mrs. Weston and Emily, she
met Jane, who told her that her class had been un-
employed all the afternoon.

“ I would have taken them,” said she, “ but that
Robert does not like me to teach the great girls,
and I do think Alethea might have heard them.”

“It is very provoking,” said Lily, pettishly, “I
thought I might depend — ” She turned and saw
Miss Weston, close to her. “Oh ! Alethea,” said
she, “ I thought you would have heard those girls.”

“ I thought you were coming,” said Alethea.

“ So I was, but I am sure the bell rang too early :
I do wish you had taken them, Alethea.”

“Iam sorry you are vexed,” said Alethea, simply.
“ What makes you think I am vexed ? I only
thought you liked hearing my class.”

They were by this time at the Church door, and
as they entered, Alethea blamed herself for feeling
grieved, and Lily awoke to a sense of her unreason-
ableness. She longed to tell Alethea how sorry she
felt, but she had no opportunity, and she resolved to
go to Broomhill the next day, to make her con-
fession. In the night, however, snow began to fall,
and the morning showed the February scene o 1
thawing snow and pouring rain. Going out was
impossible, both on that day and the next. Wed-

p

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

nesday dawned fair and bright, bat just after break-
fast, Lily received a little note, with the intelligence
that Mr. Weston had arrived at Broomhill, on Mon-
day evening, and with his wife and daughters, was
to set off that very day to make a visit to some
friends on the way to London. Had not the weather
been so bad, Alethea said she should have come to
take leave of her New Court friends on Tuesday,
but she could now only send this note, to tell them
how sorry she was to go without seeing them, and to
beg Emily to send back a piece of music, which she
had lent to her. The messenger was Faith Longley,
who was to accompany them, and who now was
going home to take leave of her mother, and would
call again for the music in a quarter of an hour.
Lily ran to ask her when they were to go. “At
eleven,” was the answer, and Lily telling her she
need not call again, as she herself would bring the
music, went to look for it. High and low did she
seek, and so did Jane, but it was not to be found in
any nook, likely or unlikely ; and when at last Lily,
in despair, gave up the attempt to find it, it was
already a quarter to eleven. Emily sent many
apologies and civil messages, and Lily set out at a
rapid pace, to walk to Broomhill, by the road, for the
thaw had rendered the fields impassable. Fast as
she walked, she was too late ; she had the mortifica-
tion of seeing the carriage turn out at the gates, and
take the Raynham road, she was not even seen, nor
had she a wave of the hand, or a smile to comfort
her.

Almost crying with vexation, she walked home,

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and sat down to write to Alethea, but, alas ! she did
not know where to direct a letter. Bitterly did she
repent of the burst of ill temper, which had stained
her last meeting with her friend, and she was
scarcely comforted even by the long and affectionate
letter which she received about a week after their
departure. Kindness from her, was now forgive-
ness ; never did she so strongly feel Florence’s infe-
riority, and she wondered at herself, for having
sought her society so much, as to neglect her patient
and superior friend. She became careless and indif-
ferent to Florence, and yet she went on in her former
course, following Emily, and fancying that nothing
at Beechcroft could interest her in the absence of
her dear Alethea Weston.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

CHAPTER XVII.

LITTLE AGNES.

“ O guide us when our faithless hearts
From Thee would start aloof,

Where patience her sweet skill imparts,

Beneath some cottage roof.”

Palm Sunday brought Lily many regrets. It was
the day of the school prize giving, and she reflected
with shame, how much less she knew about the
children than last year, and how little they owed to
her ; she feared to think of the approach of Easter-
day, a dread which she had never felt before, and
which she knew to be a very bad sign ; but her
regret was not repentance, she talked and laughed,
and tried to feel at ease. Agnes Eden’s happy face
was the most pleasant sight on that day. The little
girl received a Bible, and as it was given to her, her
pale face was coloured with bright pink, her blue eyes
lighted up, her smile was radiant with the beauty of
innocence, but Lily could not look at her without self-
reproach. She resolved to make up for her former

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neglect, by double kindness, and determined that at
any rate, Passion-week should be properly spent,
she would not once miss going to Church.

But on Monday, when Emily proposed to ride to
Devereux Castle, she assented, only saying, that
they would return for evening service. She took
care to remind her sister when it was time to set out
homewards, but Emily was as usual, so long in taking
her leave, that it was too late to think of going to
Church, when they set off.

About two miles from Beechcroft, Lily saw a little
figure in a grey cloak, trudging steadily along the
road, and as she came nearer, she recognized Kezia
Grey. She stopped, and asked the child what
brought her so far from home.

“Iam going for the doctor, Miss,” said the child.
“ Is your mother worse ?” asked Lily.

“ Mother is pretty well,” said Kezia, “ but it is for
Agnes Eden, Miss, she is terrible bad.”

“ Poor little Agnes !” exclaimed Lily. “ Why,
she was at school yesterday.”

“ Yes, Miss, but she was taken bad last night.”
After a moment’s consultation between the sisters,
Kezia was told that she might return home, and the
servant who accompanied the Miss Mohuns was
sent to Raynham for the doctor. The next after-
noon, Lily was just setting out to enquire for Agnes,
when Lord Rotherwood arrived at the New Court,
with his sister. He wanted to show Florence some
of his favourite haunts at Beechcroft, and had
brought her to join his cousins in their walk. A
very pleasant expedition they made, but it led them

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

so far from home, that the Church bell was heard
pealing over the woods far in the distance. lily
could not go to Mrs. Eden’s cottage, because she did
not know the nature of Agnes’s complaint, and her
aunt could not bear that Florence should go into any
house where there was illness. In the course of the
walk, however, she met Kezia, on her way to the
New Court, to ask for a blister for Agnes, the doc-
tor having advised Mrs. Eden to apply to the Miss
Mohuns for one, as it was wanted quickly, and it
was too far to send to Raynham. Lily promised to
send the blister as soon as possible, and desired the
little messenger to return home, where she was much
wanted, and to help her mother, who had a baby of
less than a week old.

Alas ! in the mirth and amusement of the even-

ing, Lily entirely forgot the blister, until just as she
went to bed, when she made one of her feeble reso-
lutions to take it, or send it early in the morning.
She only awoke just in time to be ready for break-
fast, went down stairs, without one thought of the
sick child, and never recollected her, until at Church,
just before the Litany, she heard these words, “ The
prayers of the congregation are desired for Agnes
Eden.”

She felt as if she had been shot, and scarcely knew
where she was for several moments. On coming
out of Church, she stood almost in a dream, while
Emily and Jane were talking to the Rector, who
told them how very ill the child was, and how little
hope there was of her recovery. He took leave
of them, and Lily walked home, scarcely hearing

the soothing words with which Emily strove to

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comfort her. The morning passed away mourn-
fully ; Lily sat over the fire without speaking, and
without attempting to do any thing. In the after-
noon, rain came on, but Lily, too unhappy not to be
restless, put on her bonnet and cloak, and went out.

She walked quickly up the hill, and entered the
field where the cottage stood. There she paused.
She did not dare to knock at the cottage-door, she
could not bear to speak to Mrs Eden, she dreaded
the sight of Mrs. Grey or Kezia, and she gazed
wistfully at the house, longing, yet fearing, to know
what was passing within it. She wandered up and
down the field, and at last was trying to make up
her mind to return home, when she heard footsteps
behind her, and turning, saw Mr. Devereux ad-
vancing along the path at the other end of the field.

“ Have you been to enquire for Agnes ?” said he.
“ I could not, I long to know, but I cannot bear to
ask, I cannot venture in.”

“ Do you like to go in with me ?” said her cousin,
“ I do not think you will see any thing dreadful.”

“ Thank you,” said Lily, “ I would give any thing
to know about her.”

“ How you tremble ! but you need not be afraid.”
He knocked at the door, but there was no answer ;
he opened it, and going to the foot of the stairs,
gently called Mrs. Eden, who came down calm and
quiet as ever, though very pale.

“ How is she ?”

“ No better, Sir, thank you, light-headed still.”

“ O ! Mrs. Eden, I am so sorry,” sobbed Lily,
“ Oh ! can you forgive me ?”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ Pray do not take on so, Miss,” said Mrs. Eden,
“you have always been a very kind friend to her,
Miss Lilias. Do not take on, Miss, if it is His will,
nothing could have made any difference.”

Lily was going to speak again, but Mr. Devereux
stopped her, saying, “ we must not keep Mrs. Eden
from her, Lily.”

“ Thank you, Sir, her aunt is with her,” said Mrs.
Eden, “ and no one is any good there now, she does
not know any one. Will you walk up and see her.
Sir ? will you walk up, Miss Lilias ?”

Lily silently followed her cousin up the narrow
stairs to the upper room, where, in the white-cur-
tained bed, lay the little child, tossing about and
moaning, her cheeks flushed with fever, and her
blue eyes wide open, but unconscious. A woman,
whom Lily did not at first perceive to be Mrs.
Naylor, rose and curtsied on their entrance. Agnes’s
new Bible was beside her, and her mother told them
that she was not easy if it was out of sight for an
instant.

At this moment Agnes called out, “ Mother,” and
Mrs. Eden bent down to her, but she only repeated
“ Mother,” two or three times, and then began talk-
ing, “ Kissy, I want my bag — where is my thimble —
no, not that — I can’t remember — my catechism book
— my godfathers and godmothers in my baptism,
wherein I was made a member — my Christian name
— my name it is my Christian name, no, that is
not it —

‘ It is a name by which I am
Writ in the book of life,

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217

f And here below a charm to keep

[ Unharmed by sin and strife:

[ As often as my name I hear,

I hear my Saviour’s voice/ ”

Then she began the Creed, but breaking off, ex-
I claimed, “ Where is my Bible, Mother, I shall read

I it to-morrow — read that pretty verse about 6 1 am

: the good Shepherd — The Lord is my Shepherd,

| therefore can I lack nothing — Yea, though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, I will
I fear no evil, for Thou art with me/

‘ 1 now am of that little dock
Which Christ doth call his own,

For all His sheep He knows by name,

And He of them is known/ **

“ Let us call upon your good Shepherd, Agnes,”
said the Pastor, and the child turned her face
towards him as if she understood him. Kneeling
down he repeated the Lord's Prayer, and the feeble
voice followed his. He then read the prayer for a
sick child, and left the room, for he saw that Lily
would be quite overcome, if she remained there any
longer. Mrs. Eden followed them down stairs, and
again stung poor Lily to the heart by thanks for all
her kindness.

They then left the house of mourning, Lily trem-
bled violently, and clung to her cousin's arm for sup-
port. Her tears streamed fast, but her sobs were
checked by awe at Mrs. Eden's calmness. She felt
as if she had been among the angels.

“ How pale you are,” said her cousin, “ I would

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

not have taken you there, if I had thought it would
overset you so much. Come in to Mrs. Grey’s, sit
down and recover a little.”

“ No, no, do not let me see any one,” said Lily,
“ Oh ! that dear child ! Robert, let me tell you the
worst, for your kindness is more than I can bear.
I promised Agnes a blister and forgot it !”

She could say no more for some minutes, but her
cousin did not speak. Recovering her voice, she
added, “ Only speak to me, Robert.”

“Iam very sorry for you,” answered he, in a kind
tone.

“ But tell me, what shall I do ?”

“ What to do, you ask,” said the Rector, “I am
not sure that I know what you mean. If your neg-
lect has added to her sufferings, you cannot remove
them, and I would not add to your sorrow unless
you wished me to do so for your good.”

“ I do not see how I could be more unhappy than
I am now,” said Lily.

“ I think if you wish to turn your grief to good
account, you must go a little deeper than this
omission.”

“ You mean that it is a result of general careless-
ness,” said Lily, “ I know I have been in an odd
idle way for some time, I have often resolved, but I
seem to have no power over myself.”

“ May I ask you one question, Lily. How have
you been spending this Lent ?”

“Robert, you are right,” cried Lily, “you may
well ask, I know I have not gone to Church pro-
perly, but how could you guess the terrible way in

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219

which I have been indulging myself, and excusing
myself every unpleasant duty that came in my way ;
that was the very reason of this dreadful neglect,
well do I deserve to be miserable at Easter, the pro-
per time for joy. Oh ! how different it will be.”

“ It will be, I hope, an Easter marked by repent-
ance and amendment,” said the Rector.

“ No, Robert, do not begin to be kind to me yet,
you do not know how very bad I have been,” said
Lily, “ it all began from just after Eleanor’s wedding.
A mad notion came into my head, and laid hold of
me. I fancied Eleanor stern, and cold, and unlove-
able ; I was ingratitude itself. I made a foolish
theory, that regard for duty makes people cold and
stern, and that feeling, which I confused with Chris-
tian Love, was all that was worth having, and the
more Claude tried to awe me, the more obstinate I
grew ; I drew Emily over to my side, and we set
our follies above every thing. Justified ourselves
for idling, neglecting the children, indulging our-
selves, calling it love, and so it was, self-love. So
my temper has been spoiling, and my mind getting
worse and worse, ever since we lost Eleanor. At
last different things showed me the fallacy of my
principle, but then I do believe I was beyond my
own management. I felt wrong, and could not
mend, and went on recklessly. You know but too
well what mischief I have done in the village, but
you can never know what harm I have done at home.
I have seen more and more that I was going on
badly, but a sleep, a spell was upon me.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ Perhaps the pain you now feel may be the means
of breaking the spell.”

“ But is it not enough to drive me mad to think
that improvement in me should be bought at such a
price — the widow’s only child ?”

“ You forget that the loss is a blessing to her.”

“ Still I may pray that my punishment may not
be through them,” said Lily.

u Surely,” was the answer, “ it is grievous to see
that dear child cut off and her patient mother left
desolate — yet how much more grievous it would be
to see that spotless innocence defiled.”

“ If it was to fall on any one,” said Lilias, “ I
should be thankful that it is on one so fit to die.”

The Church bell began to ring, and they quick-
ened their steps in silence. Presently Lily said,
“ tell me of something to do, Robert, something that
may be a pledge that my sorrow is not a passing
shower, something unnecessary, but disagreeable,
which may keep me in remembrance that my Lent
was not one of self-denial.”

“ You must be able to find more opportunities of
self-denial than I can devise,” said her cousin.

“ Of course,” said Lily, “ but some one thing,
some punishment.”

“ I will answer you to-morrow,” said Mr.
Devereux.

“ One thing more,” said Lily, looking down, “ after
this great fall ought I to come to next Sunday’s
feast ? I would turn away if you thought fit.”

“Lily, you can best judge,” said the Rector,
kindly, “I should think that you were now in a

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humble contrite frame, and therefore better pre-
pared than when self-confident.”

“ How many times ! how shall I think of them ?
but I will,” said Lily, “ and Robert, will you think
of me when you say the Absolution now, and next
Sunday, at the Altar ?”

They were by this time at the Church-porch.
As Mr. Devereux uncovered his head, he turned to
Lilias, and said in a low tone, “ God bless you,
Lilias, and grant you true repentance and pardon.”
Early the next morning the toll of the passing-
bell informed Lily that the little lamb had been
gathered into the heavenly fold.

When she took her place in Church, she found in
her Prayer-book, a slip of paper in the handwriting
of her cousin. It was thus : “You had better find
out in which duty you have most failed, and let the
fulfilment of that be your proof of self-denial. R. D.”
Afterwards Lily learnt that Agnes had been sen-
sible for a short time before her peaceful death.
She had spoken much of her baptism, had begged to
be buried next a little sister of Kezia’s, had asked
her mother to give her new Bible to Kezia.

It was not till Sunday that Lilias felt as if she
could ever be comforted. Her heart was indeed
ready to break as she walked at the head of the
school-children, behind the white covered coffin, and
she felt as if she did not deserve to dwell upon the
child’s present happiness, but afterwards she was
relieved by joining in prayer for the pardon of our
sins and negligences, and she felt as if she was for-

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

given, at least by man, when she joined with Mrs.
Eden in the appointed feast of Easter-day.

Mrs. Naylor was at Church on that and several
following Sundays, but though her husband now
showed every kindness to his sister, he still ob-
stinately refused to be reconciled to Mr. Devereux.

For many weeks poor little Kezia looked very
unhappy. Her blithe smiles were gone, her eyes
filled with tears whenever she was reminded of her
friend, she walked to school alone, she did not join
the sports of the other children, but she kept dose
to the side of Mrs. Eden, and seemed to have no
pleasure but with her, or in nursing her little sister,
who, two Sundays after the funeral, was christened
by the name of Agnes.

It was agreed by Mr. Mohun and Lilias, that the
grave of the little girl should be marked by a stone
cross, thus inscribed : —

“ Agnes Eden,

April 8th, 1846,

Aged 7 years.”

“ He shall gather the Lambs in His arms.”

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CHAPTER XVHL

DOUBLE DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE.

“ Truly the tender mercies of the weak,

As of the wicked, are but cruel.'*

And how did Lilias show that she had been truly
benefitted by her sorrows ? Did she fall back into
her habits of self-indulgence, or did she run into ill-
directed activity, selfish as her indolence, because
only gratifying the passion of the moment ?

Those who lived with her, saw but little change ;
kind-hearted and generous, she had ever been, and
many had been her good impulses, so that while she
daily became more steady in well-doing, and exert-
ing herself on principle, no one remarked it, and no
one entered into the struggles which it cost her to
tame her impetuosity, or force herself to do what
was disagreeable to herself, and might offend Emily.

However, Emily could forgive a great deal when
she found that Lily was ready to take any part of the
business of the household and school-room, which
she chose to impose upon her, without the least ob-
jection, yet to leave her to assume as much of the
credit of managing as she chose — to have no will or

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SCENES AND C HARA CTERS.

way of her own, and to help her to keep her ward-
robe in order.

The school- room was just now more of a labour
than had ever been the case, at least, to one, who
like Lilias, if she did a thing at all, would not be
satisfied with half doing it. Phyllis was not altered,
except that she cried less, and had in a great mea-
sure, cured herself of dawdling habits and tricks, by
her honest efforts to obey well-remembered orders
of Eleanor’s ; but still her slowness and dullness
were trying to her teachers, and Lily had often to
reproach herself for being angry with her “ when
she was doing her best.”

But Adeline was Lily’s principal trouble ; there
was a change in her, for which her sister could not
account. Last year, when Eleanor left them, Ada
was a sweet tempered, affectionate child, docile,
gentle, and excepting a little occasional affectation
and carelessness, very free from faults ; but now
her attention could hardly be commanded for five
minutes together ; she had lost the habit of ready
and implicit obedience, was petulant when reproved,
and was far more eager to attract notice from stran-
gers — more conceited, and therefore, more affected,
and, worse than all, Lily sometimes thought she per-
ceived a little slyness, though she was never able to
prove any one instance completely to herself, much
less, to bring one before her father. Thus, if Ada
had done any mischief, she would indeed confess it
on being examined ; but when asked why she had
not told of it directly, would say she had forgotten ;
she would avail herself of Phyllis’s assistance in her

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225

lessons, without acknowledging it, and Lilias found
it was by no means safe to leave the Key to the
French Exercises alone in the room with her.

Emily’s Mismanagement had fostered Ada’s care-
lessness and inattention. Lady Rotherwood’s inju-
dicious caresses helped to make her more affected,
other faults had grown up for want of sufficient con-
trol, but this last was principally Esther’s work.
Esther had done well at school ; she liked learning,
was stimulated by notice, was really attached to
Lilias, and tried to deserve her good will ; but her
training at school and at home, were so different,
that her conduct was, even at the best, far too much
of eye-service, and she had very little idea of real
truth and sincerity.

On first coming to the New Court, she flattered
the children, because she did not know how to talk
to them otherwise, and afterwards, because she found
that Miss Ada’s affections were to be gained by
praise. Then, in her ignorant good-nature, she had
no scruples about concealing mischief which the chil-
dren had done, or procuring for Ada little forbidden
indulgences, on her promise of secresy, a promise
which Phyllis would not give, thus putting a stop to
all those in which she would have participated. It
was no wonder that Ada, sometimes helping Esther
to deceive, sometimes deceived by her, should have
learnt the same kind of cunning, and ceased to think
it a matter of course to be true and just in all her
dealings.

But how was it that Phyllis remained the same
“honest Phyl” that she had ever been, not one
Q

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SCEUBS AND CHARACTERS.

t

word savouring of aught but strict truth having
ever crossed her lips, her thoughts and deeds full of
guileless simplicity ? She met with the same temp-
tations, the same neglect, the same bad example, as
her sister, .why had they no effect upon her ? In
the first place, flattery could not touch her, it was
like water on a duck’s back, she did not know that
it was flattery, but so thoroughly humble was her
mind, that no words of Esther’s would make her be-
lieve herself beautiful, agreeable, or clever. Yet
she never found out that Esther over-praised her
sister ; she admired Ada so much, that she never
suspected that any commendation of her was more
than she deserved. Again, Phyllis never thought of
making herself appear to advantage, and her humility
saved her from the habit of concealing small faults,
for which she expected no punishment ; and, when
seriously to blame, punishment seemed so natural a
consequence, that she never thought of avoiding it,
otherwise than by expressing sorrow for her fault.
She was uninfected by Esther’s deceit, though she
never suspected any want of truth ; her singleness
of mind was a shield from all evil ; she knew she was
no favourite in the nursery, but she never expected
to be liked as much as Ada, her pride and glory.
In the mean time, Emily went on contriving oppor-
tunities and excuses for spending her time at Deve-
reux Castle, letting every thing fall into Lily’s hands,
every thing that she had so eagerly undertaken little
more than a year ago. And now all was confusion ;
the excellent order in which Eleanor had left the
household affairs was quite destroyed. Attention to

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the store-room was one of the ways in which Lilias
thought that she could best follow the advice of
Mr. Devereux, since Eleanor had always taught that
great exactness in this point was most necessary.
Great disorder, now however, prevailed* there, and
she found that her only chance of rectifying it,
was to measure every thing she found there, and to
beg Emily to allow her to keep the key ; for when
several persons went to the store-room, no one ever
knew what was given out, and she was sure that
the sweet things diminished much faster than they
ought to do ; but her sister treated the proposal as
an attempt to deprive her of her dignity, and she
was silenced.

She was up almost with the light, to despatch
whatever household affairs could be settled without
Emily, before the time came for the children’s les-
sons ; many hours were spent on these, while she
was continually harassed by Phyllis’s dullness, Ada’s
inattention, and the interruption of work to do for
Emily, and often was she baffled by interference
from Jane or Emily. She was conscious of her un-
fitness to teach the children, and often saw that her
impatience, ignorance, and inefficiency were doing
mischief ; but much as this pained her, she could not
speak to her father without compromising her sister,
and to argue with Emily herself was quite in vain.
Emily had taken up the principle of love, and de-
fended herself with it on every occasion, so that
poor Lily was continually punished by having her
past follies quoted against herself.

Each day Emily grew more selfish and indolent ;

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

now that Lily was willing to supply all that she neg-
lected, and to do all that she asked, she proved how
tyrannical the weak can be.

The whole of her quarter’s allowance was spent in
dress, and Lily soon found, that the only chance of
keeping her out of debt, was to spend her own time
and labour in her behalf, and what an exertion of
patience and kindness this required, can hardly be
imagined. Emily did indeed reward her skill with
affectionate thanks and kind praises, but she inter-
fered with her sleep and exercise, by her want of
consideration, and hardened herself more and more
in her apathetic selfishness.

Some weeks after Easter, Lilias was arranging
some books on a shelf in the school-room, when she
met with a crumpled piece of music paper, squeezed
in behind the books. It proved to be Miss Weston’s
lost song, creased, torn, dust-stained, and spoiled ;
she carried it to Emily, who decided that nothing
could be done but to copy it for Alethea, and apolo-
gize for the disaster. Framing apologies was more
in Emily’s way than copying music, and the former
task, therefore, devolved upon Lily, and occupied
her all one afternoon, when she ought to have been
seeking a cure for a headache, in the fresh air.
It was no cure to find the name of Emma Weston in
the comer, and to perceive how great and irreparable
the loss of the paper was to her friend. The thought
of all her wrongs towards Alethea, caused more
than one large tear to fall, to blot the heads of her
crotchets and quavers, and thus give her all her work
to do over again.

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The letter that she wrote, was so melancholy and
repentant, that it gave great pain to her kind friend,
who thought illness alone could account for the de-
jection apparent in the general tone of all her ex-
pressions. In answer, she sent a very affectionate
consoling letter, begging Lily to think no more of
the matter, and though she had too much regard for
truth, to say that she had not been grieved by the
loss of Emma’s writing, she added, that Lily’s dis-
tress gave her far more pain, and that her copy
would have great value in her eyes.

The beginning of June now arrived, and brought
with it the time for the return of Claude, and Lord
Rotherwood.

The Marquis’s carriage met him at Raynham, and
he set down Claude at New Court, on his way to
Hetherington, just coming in to exchange a hurried
greeting with the young ladies.

Their attention was principally taken up by their
brother.

“ Claude, how well you look ! How fat you are !”
was their exclamation.

“ Is not he ?” said Lord Rotherwood. “ I am
quite proud of him. Not one headache since he
went. He will have no excuse for not dancing the
Polka.”

“ I do not return the compliment to you, Lily,”
said Claude, looking anxiously at his sister. “ What
is the matter with you ? Have you been ill ?”

“ Oh, no ! not at all !” said Lily, smiling.

“ I am sure there is enough to make any one ill,”
said Emily, in her deplorable tone, “ I thought this

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

poor parish had had its share of illness, with the
scarlet fever, and now it has turned to a horrible
typhus fever.”

“ Indeed !” said Claude. “ Where ? Who ?”

“ Oh ! the Naylors, and the Rays, and the Walls.
John Ray died this morning, and they do not think
that Tom Naylor will live.”

u Well,” interrupted Lord Rotherwood, “I shall
not stop to hear any more of this chapter of acci-
dents. I am off, but mind, remember the 30th, and
do not any of you frighten yourselves into the fever.”
He went, and Lily now spoke. “There is one
thing in all this, Claude, that is matter of joy, Tom
Naylor has sent for Robert.”

“ Then, Lily, I do most heartily congratulate you.”
U I hope things may go better,” said Lily, with
tears in her eyes. “ The poor baby is with its grand-
mother. Mrs. Naylor is ill too, and every one is so
afraid of the fever, that nobody goes near them but
Robert, and Mrs. Eden, and old Dame Martin.
Robert says Naylor is in a satisfactory frame?— deter-
mined on having the baby christened — but, oh ! I
am afraid the christening is to be bought by some-
thing terrible.”

“ I do not think those fevers are often very infec-
tious,” said Claude.

“ So Papa says,” replied Emily, “ but Robert looks
very ill. He is wearing himself out with sitting up.
Making himself nurse as well as every thing else.”
This was very distressing, but still Claude scarcely
thought it accounted for the change that had taken
place in Lilias. Her cheek was pale, her eye heavy,

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her voice had lost its merry tone ; Claude knew that
she had had much to grieve her, but he was as yet
far from suspecting how she was overworked and
harassed. He spoke of Eleanor’s return, and she did
not brighten ; she smiled sadly at his attempts to
cheer her, and he became more and more anxious
about her. He was not long in discovering what
was the matter.

The second day after his return, Robert told them
at the Churchyard gate, that Tom Naylor was be-
ginning to mend, and this seemed to be a great com-
fort to Lily, who walked home with a blither step
than usual. Claude betook himself to the study,
and saw no more of his sisters till two o’clock, when
Lily appeared with the languid dejected look, which
she had lately worn, and seemed to find it quite an
efibrt to keep the tears out of her eyes. Ada and
Phyllis were in very high spirits, because they were
going to Raynham, with Emily and Jane, and at
every speech of Ada’s, Lily looked more grieved.
After the Raynham party were gone, Claude began
to look for Lily. He found her in her room, an
evening dress spread on the bed, a roll of ribbon
in one hand, and with the other, supporting her
forehead, while tears were slowly rolling down her
cheeks.

“ Lily, my dear, what is the matter ?”

“ Oh ! nothing, nothing, Claude,” said she, quickly.

“ Nothing ! no, that is not true. Tell me, Lily.
You have been disconsolate ever since I came home,
and I will not let it go on so. No answer ? Then
am I to suppose that these new pearlins are the

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

cause of her sorrow ? Come, Lily, be like yourself,
and speak. More tears ! Here, drink this water, be
yourself again, or I shall be angry and vexed. Now
then, that is right : make an effort, and tell me.”

“ There is nothing to tell,” said Lily, “ only you
are very kind — I do not know what is the matter
with me — only I have been very foolish of late — and
every thing makes me cry.”

“ My poor child, I knew you had not been well.
They do not know how to take care of you, Lily,
and I shall take you in hand. I am going to order
the horses, and we will have a gallop over the
downs, and put a little colour into your cheeks.”
“No, no, thank you, Claude, I cannot come, in-
deed I cannot, I have this work, which must be done
to-day.”

“ At work at your finery, instead of coming out !
You must be altered, indeed, Lily.”

“ It is not for myself,” said Lily, “ but I promised
Emily she should have it ready to wear to-morrow.”
“ Emily, eh ? So she is making a slave of you ?”

“ No, no, it was a voluntary promise. She does
not care about it, only she would be disappointed,
and I have promised.”

“ I hate promises !” said Claude. “ Well, what
must be, must be, so I will resign myself to this
promise of yours, only do not make such another.
Well, but that was not all ; you were not crying
about that fine green thing, were you ?”

“ Oh, no !” said Lily, smiling, as now she could
smile again.

“ What then ? I will know, Lily.”

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“ I was only vexed at something about the chil-
dren.”

“ Then what was it 7 *

“ It was only that Ada was idle at her lessons ;
I told her to learn a verb as a punishment, she went
to Emily, and somehow or other, Emily did not find
out the exact facts, excused her, and took her to
Raynham. I was vexed because I am sure it does
Ada harm, and Emily did not understand what I
said afterwards ; I am sure she thought me unjust.”

“ How came she not to be present ?”

“ Emily does not often sit in the school-room in
the morning, since she has been about that large
drawing.”

“ So you are governess as well as ladies’-maid, are
you, Lily ? What else ? Housekeeper, I suppose,
a? I see you have all the weekly bills on your desk.
Why, Lily, this is perfectly philanthropic of you.
You are exemplifying the rule of love in a majestic
manner. Crying again ! Water lily once more ?”

Lily looked up, and smiled, “ Claude, how can you
talk of that old, silly, nay, wicked nonsense of my
principle. I was wise above what was written, and
I have my punishment in the wreck which my ‘ frenzy
of spirit, and folly of tongue’ have wrought. The
unchristened child, Agnes’s death, the confusion of
this house, all are owing to my hateful principle. I
see the folly of it now, but Emily has taken it up,
and acts upon it in every thing. I do struggle
against it a little ; but I cannot blame any one, I can
do no good, it is all owing to me. We have betrayed
Papa’s confidence ; if he does not see it now, it will

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

all come upon him when Eleanor comes home, and
what is to become of us ? How it will grieve him, to
see that we cannot be trusted !”

“ Poor Lily !” said Claude. “ It is a bad pros-
pect, but I think you see the worst side of it. You
are not well, and therefore doleful. This, lily, I
can tell you, that the Baron always considered
Emily’s government as a kind of experiment, and so
perhaps he will not be so grievously disappointed as
you expect. Besides, I have a strong suspicion that
Emily’s own nature has quite as much to do with
her present conduct as your principle, which after
all, did not live very long.”

“ Just long enough to unsettle me, and make it
more difficult for me to get any way right,” said
Lily. “ Oh ! dear, what would I give to force back-
ward the wheels of time !”

“ But as you cannot, you had better try to brighten
up your energies. Come, you know I cannot tell you
not to look back, but I can tell you not to look for-
ward. Nay, I do tell you literally, to look forward,
out of the window, instead of back into this hot
room. Do not you think the plane tree there looks
very inviting ? Suppose we transport Emily’s dra-
pery there, and I want to refresh my memory with
Spenser, I do not think I have touched him since
plane tree time last year.”

“ I believe Spenser and the plane tree are insepa-
rably woven together in your mind,” said Lily.

“ Yes, ever since the time when I first met with
the book. I remember well, roving over the book-
case and meeting with it, and taking it out there, for

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fear Eleanor should see me and tell Mamma. Phyl,
with ‘ As you like it,’ put me much in mind of my-
self with that.”

Claude talked in this manner, while Lily, listening
with a smile, prepared her work. He read, and she
listened. It was such a treat as she had not enjoyed
for a long time, for she had begun to think, that all
her pleasant reading-days were past. Her work
prospered, and her face was bright, when her sisters
came home. But, alas ! Emily was not pleased with
her performance, she said that she intended some-
thing quite different, and by manner, rather than by
words, indicated that she should not be satisfied, un-
less Lily completely altered it. It was to be worn
at the Castle the next evening, and Lily knew she
should have no time for it in the course of the day.
Accordingly, at half-past twelve, as Claude was
going up to bed, he saw a light under his sister’s
door, and knocked to ask the cause. Lily was still
at work upon the trimming, and very angry he was,
particularly when she begged him to take care not
to disturb Emily. At last, by threatening to awake
her, for the express purpose of giving her a scolding,
he made Lily promise to go to bed immediately, a
promise which she, poor weary creature, was very
glad to make.

Claude now resolved to tell his father the state of
things, for he well knew that though it was easy to
obtain a general promise from Emily, it was likely
to be of little effect in preventing her from spurring
her willing horse to death.

The next morning, he rose in time to join his

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

father in the survey, which he usually took of his
fields, before breakfast, and immediately beginning
on the subject on which he was anxious, he gave a
full account of his sisters’ proceedings, “ In short,”
said he, “Emily and Ada torment poor Lily every
hour of her life, she bears it all as a sort of penance,
and how it is to end I cannot tell.”

“ Unless,” said Mr. Mohun, smiling, “ as Rother-
wood would say, Jupiter will interfere. Well, Jupi-
ter has begun to take measures, and has asked Mrs.
Weston to look out for a governess. Eh ! Claude ?”
he continued, after a pause. “ You set up your eye-
brows, do you ? You think it will be a bore. Very
likely, but there is nothing else to be done. Jane is
under no control, Phyllis running wild, Ada worse
managed than any child of my acquaintance, — ”

“And poor Lily wearing herself to a shadow, in
vain attempts to mend matters,” said Claude.

“ If Lily was the eldest, things would be very dif-
ferent,” said Mr. Mohun.

“ Or even if she had been as wise last year as she
is now,” said Claude, “ she would have kept Emily
in order then, but now it is too late.”

“ This year is on many accounts, much to be
regretted,” said Mr. Mohun, “but I think it has
brought out Lily’s character.”

“ And a very fine character it is,” said Claude.

“ Very. She has been, and is, more childish than
Eleanor ever was, but she is her superior in most
points. She has been your pupil, Claude, and she
does you credit.”

“ Thereby hangs a tale which does me no credit,”

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muttered Claude, as he remembered how foolishly
he had roused her spirit of contradiction, besides the
original mischief of naming Eleanor the duenna,
“ but we will not enter into that now. I see this
governess is their best chance. Have you heard of
one ?”

“ Of several ; but the only one who seems likely
to suit us, is out of reach for the present, and I do
not regret it, for I shall not decide till Eleanor comes.”
“Emily will not be much pleased,” said Claude.
“ It has long been her great dread that aunt Rother-
wood should recommend one.”

“Aye, Emily’s objections and your aunt’s recom-
mendations, are what I would gladly avoid,” said
Mr. Mohun.

“ But, Lily !” said Claude, returning to the sub-
ject on which he was most anxious. “ She is already
what Ada calls a monotony, and there will be nothing
left of her by the time Eleanor comes, if matters go
on in their present fashion.”

“ I have a plan for her. . A little change will set
her to rights, and we will take her to London, when
we go next week to meet Eleanor. She deserves a
a little extra pleasure ; you must take her under
your protection, and lionize her well.”

“ Trust me for that,” said Claude. “ It is the best
news I have heard for a long time.”

“ Well, I am glad that one of my remedies meets
with your approbation,” said his father, smiling.
“ For the other, you are much inclined to pronounce
the cure as bad as the disease.”

“ Not for Lily,” said Claude, laughing.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ And,” said Mr. Mohun, “ I think I can promise
you that a remedy will be found for all the other
grievances by Michaelmas.”

Claude looked surprised, but as Mr. Mohan ex-
plained no further, only observing upon the potatoes,
through which they were walking, he only said,
“ Then it is next week that you go to London.”

“ There is much to do, both for Rotherwood, and
for Eleanor ; I shall go as soon as I can, but I do
not think it will be while this fever is so prevalent.
I had rather not be from home — I do not like
Robert’s looks.”

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CHAPTER XIX.

THE RECTOR’S ILLNESS.

“ Thou drooping sick man, bless the guide
That checked, or turned thy headstrong youth.'*

The thought of her brother’s kindness, and the effect
of his consolation, made Lilias awake that morning
in more cheerful spirits, but it was not long before
grief and anxiety again took possession of her.

The first sound that she heard on opening the
school-room window, was the tolling of the Church
bell, giving notice of the death of another of those to
whom she felt bound by the ties of neighbourhood.

At Church, she saw that Mr. Devereux was look-
ing more ill than he had yet done, and it was plainly
with very great exertion that he succeeded in finish-
ing the service. The Mohun party waited as usual,
to speak to him afterwards, for since his attend-
ance upon Naylor had begun, he had not thought
it safe to come to the New Court as usual, lest he
should bring the infection to them. He was very

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

pale, and walked wearily, but he spoke cheerfully,
as he told them that Naylor was now quite out of
danger.

“Then I hope you did not stay there all last
night,” said Mr. Mohun.

“ No, I did not, I was so tired when I came back
from poor John Ray’s funeral, that I thought I
would take a holiday, and sleep at home.”

“I am afraid you have not profited by your
night’s rest,” said Emily, “ you look as if you had a
horrible headache.”

“Now,” said Mr. Mohun, “I prescribe for you
that you go home and lie down, I am going to
Raynham, and I will tell your friend there that you
want help for the evening service. Do not think of
moving again to-day. I shall send Claude home
with you to see that you obey my prescription.”

Claude went home with his cousin, and his sisters
saw him no more till late in the day, when he came
to tell them that Mr. Mohun had brought back Dr.
Leslie from Raynham with him, that Dr. Leslie had
seen Mr. Devereux, and had pronounced that he had
certainly caught the fever.

Lily had made up her mind to this for some time,
but still it seemed almost as great a blow as if it had
come without any preparation. The next day was
the first Sunday that Mr. Devereux had not read
the service since he had been Rector of Beechcroft.
The villagers looked sadly at the stranger who ap-
peared in his place, and many tears were shed when
the prayers of the congregation were desired for
Robert Devereux, and Thomas and Martha Naylor.

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It was announced that the daily service would be
discontinued for the present, and Lily felt as if all
the blessings which she had misused were to be
taken from her.

For some time Mr. Devereux continued very ill,
and Dr. Leslie gave little hope of his improvement.
Mr. Mohun and Claude were his constant attend-
ants, an additional cause of anxiety to the Miss
Mohuns. Emily was listless and melancholy, talking
in a maundering, dismal way, not calculated to brace
her spirits or those of her sisters. Jane was not
without serious thoughts, but whether they would
benefit her depended on herself, for as we have seen
by the events of the autumn, sorrow and suffering do
not necessarily produce good effects, though some
effects they always produce.

Thus it was with Lilias. Grief and anxiety aided
her in subduing her will and learning resignation.
She did not neglect her daily duties, but was more
exact in their fulfilment, and low as her spirits had
been before, she now had an inward spring which
enabled her to be the support of the rest. She was
useful to her father, always ready to talk to Claude
or walk with him in the intervals when he was sent
out of the sick room to rest and breathe the fresh
air. She was cheerful and patient with Emily, and
devoid of petulance, when annoyed by the spirits of
the younger ones rising higher than accorded with
the sad and anxious hearts of their elders. Her
most painful feeling was, that it was possible that
she might be punished through her cousin, as she
had already been through Agnes, that her follies
R

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

might have brought this distress upon every one,
and that this was the price at which the child’s Bap-
tism was to be bought. Yet Lily would not have
changed her present thoughts for any of her varying
frames of mind since that fatal Whitsuntide. Better
feelings were springing up within her than she had
then known, the Church Service and Sunday were
infinitely more to her, and she was beginning to
obtain peace of mind independent of external things.

She could not help rejoicing to see how many
evidences of affection to the Rector were called forth
by this illness ; presents of fruit poured in from all
quarters, from Lord Rother wood’s choice hot-house
grapes, to poor little Kezia Grey’s wood-strawber-
ries ; enquiries were continual, and the stillness of
the village was wonderful. There was no cricket on
the hill, no talking in the street, no hallooing in the
hay-field, and no burst of noise when the children
were let out of school. Many of the people were
themselves in grief for the loss of their own re-
lations, and when on Sunday the Miss Mohuns saw
how many were dressed in black, they thought with
a pang how soon they themselves might be mourn-
ing for one whose influence they had crippled, and
whose plans they had thwarted during the three
short years of his ministry.

During this time, it was hard to say whether Lord
Rotherwood was more of a comfort or a torment.
He was attached to his cousin with all the ardour of
his affectionate disposition, and not one day passed
without his appearing at Beechcroft. At first, it
was always in the parlour at the Parsonage, that he

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took, up his station, and waited till he could find
some means of getting at Claude or his uncle, to
hear the last report from them, and if possible to
make Claude come out for a walk or ride with him.
And once Mr. Mohun caught him standing just out-
side Mr. Devereux’s door, waiting for an oppor-
tunity to make an entrance. He could not, or
would not see why Mr. Mohun should allow Claude
to run the risk of infection rather than himself, and
thus he kept his mother in continual anxiety, and
even his uncle could not feel by any means certain
that he would not do something imprudent. At
last, a promise was extracted from him that he
would not again enter the parsonage, but he would
not gratify Lady Rotherwood so far as to abstain
from going to Beechcroft, a place which she began
to regard with horror. He now was almost con-
stantly at the New Court, talking over the reports,
and quite provoking Emily by never desponding, and
never choosing to perceive how bad things really
were. Every day which was worse than the last
was supposed to be the crisis, and every restless
sleep that they heard of, he interpreted into the be-
ginning of recovery. At last, however, after ten
days of suspense, the report began to improve,
and Claude came to the New Court with a more
cheerful face, to say that his cousin was really much
better. The world seemed immediately to grow
brighter, people went about with joyful looks, Lord
Rotherwood declared that from the first he had
known all would be well, and Lily began to hope
that now that she had been spared so heavy a punish-

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

meat, it was a kind of earnest that other things
would mend, that she had suffered enough. The
future no longer hung before her in such dark
colours as before Mr. Devereux’s illness, though still
the New Court was in no satisfactory state, and still
she had reason to expect that her father and Eleanor
would be disappointed and grieved. Thankfulness
that Mr. Devereux was recovering, and that Claude
had escaped the infection, made her once more hope-
ful and cheerful, she let the morrow take thought for
the things of itself, rejoicing that it was not her bu-
siness to make arrangements.

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CHAPTER XX.

THE LITTLE NEPHEW.

“ You must be father, mother, both,
And uncle, all in one/’

Mr. Mohtjn had much business to transact in Lon-
don, which he could not leave undone, and as soon
as his nephew began to recover, he thought of set-
ting off to meet Mr. and Mrs. Hawkesworth, who
had already been a week at Lady Rotherwood’s
house in Grosvenor Square, which she had lent to
them for the occasion. Claude had intended to stay
at home, as his cousin was not yet well enough to
leave his room ; but just at this time a college friend
of the Rector’s hearing of his illness, wrote to pro-
pose to come and stay with him for a month or six
weeks, and help him in serving his Church. Mr.
Devereux was particularly glad to accept this kind
offer, as it left him no longer dependent on Mr.
Stephens and the Raynham curates, and set Claude
at liberty for the London expedition. All was
settled in the short space of one day, the very next
they were to set off, and in great haste, Lily did all
she could for the regulation of the house, packed up

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

her goods, and received the commissions of her
sisters.

Ada gave her six shillings with orders to buy
either a doll or a book, the former, if Eleanor did
not say it was silly ; and Phyllis put into her hands a
weighty crown-piece, begging for as many things as
it could buy. Jane’s wants and wishes were mode-
rate and sensible, and she gave Lily the money for
them. With Emily there was more difficulty. All
Lily’s efforts had not availed to prevent her from
contracting two debts 'at Raynham. More than four
pounds she owed to Lily, and this she offered to pay
her, giving her at the same time a list of com-
missions sufficient to swallow up double her quar-
ter’s allowance. Lily, though really in want of the
money for her own use, thought the debts at Rayn-
ham so serious, that she begged Emily to let her
wait for payment till it was convenient, and to pay
the shoe-maker and dress-maker immediately.

Emily thanked her, and promised to do so as soon
as she could go to Raynham, and Lily next attempted
to reduce her list of London commissions to some-
thing more reasonable. In part she succeeded, but
it remained a matter of speculation how all the
necessary articles which she had to buy for herself,
and all Emily’s various orders were to come out of
her own means, reduced as they were by former
loans.

The next day Lilias was on her way to London ;
feeling, as she left Beechcroft, that it was a great
relief that the school-room and store-room could not
follow her. She was sorry that she should miss

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seeing Alethea Weston, who was to come home the
next day, but she left various messages for her, and
an affectionate note, and had received a promise
from her sisters that the copy of the music should
be given to her, the first day that they saw her.
Her journey afforded her much amusement, and it
was not till towards the end of the day, that she had
much time for thinking, when, her companions being
sleepily inclined, she was left to her own meditations
and to a dull country. She began to revolve her
own feelings towards Eleanor, and as she remem-
bered the contempt and ingratitude she had once
expressed, she shrank from the meeting with shame
and dread, and knew that she should feel reproached
by Eleanor's wonted calmness of manner. And as
she mused upon all that Eleanor had endured, and all
that she had done, such a reverence for suffering
and sacrifice took possession of her mind that she
was ready to look up to her sister with awe. She
began to recollect old reproofs, and found herself
sitting more upright, and examining the sit of the
folds of her dress with some uneasiness, at the
thought of Eleanor’s preciseness. In the midst of
her meditations her two companions were roused by
the slackening speed of the train, and starting up,
informed her that they were arriving at their jour-
ney’s end. The next minute she heard her father
consigning her and the umbrellas to Mr. Hawkes-
worth’s care, and all was bewilderment till she found
herself in the hall of her aunt’s house, receiving as
warm and affectionate a greeting from Eleanor, as
Emily herself could have bestowed.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ And the baby, Eleanor ?”

“ Asleep, but you shall see him, and how is Ada ?
and all of them ? why, Claude, how well you look !
Papa, let me help you to take off your great coat,
you are cold, will you have a fire ?”

Never had Lily heard Eleanor say so much in a
breath, or seen her eye so bright, or her smile so
ready, yet, when she entered the drawing-room, she
saw that Mrs. Hawkesworth was still the Eleanor of
old. In contrast with the splendid furniture of the
apartments, a pile of shirts was on the table,
Eleanor’s well-known work-basket on the floor, and
the ceaseless knitting close at hand.

Much news was exchanged in the few minutes
that elapsed before Eleanor carried off her sister to
her room, indulging her by the way with a peep at
little Harry, and one kiss to his round red cheek as
he lay asleep in his little bed. It was not Eleanor’s
fault that she did not entirely dress Lily, and un-
pack her wardrobe, but Lilias liked to show that she
could manage for her herself, and Eleanor’s praise
of her neat arrangements gave her as much pleasure
as in days of yore.

The evening passed very happily, Eleanor’s heart
was open, she was full of enjoyment at meeting
those she loved, and the two sisters sat long together
in the twilight, talking over numerous subjects, all
ending in Beechcroft or the baby.

Yet when Lily awoke the next morning, her awe
of Eleanor began to return, and she felt like a child
just returned to school. She was however mistaken ;
Eleanor assumed no authority, she treated Lily as

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her equal, and thus made her feel more like a woman
than she had ever done before. Lily thought either
that Eleanor was much altered, or that in her folly,
she must have fancied her far more cold and grave
than she really was. She had however no time for
studying her character ; shopping and sight-seeing
filled up most of her time, and the remainder was
spent in resting, and in playing with little Henry.

One evening, when Mr. Mohun and Claude were
dining out, Lilias was left alone with Mr. and Mrs.
Hawkes worth, Lily was very tired, but she worked
steadily at marking Eleanor’s pocket-handkerchiefs,
until her sister seeing how weary she was, made her
lie down on the sofa.

“ Here is a gentleman who is tired too,” said
Eleanor, dancing the baby, “ we will carry you off,
sir, and leave aunt Lily to go to sleep.”

“ Aunt Lily is not so tired as that,” said Lily,
“ pray keep him.”

“It is quite bed-time,” said Eleanor, in her de-
cided tone, and she carried him off.

Lilias took up the knitting which she had laid
down, and began to study the stitches. “ I should
like this feathery pattern, said she, (if it did not re-
mind me so much of the fever) but, by the bye,
Frank, have you completed Master Henry’s outfit ?
I looked forward to helping to choose his pretty
little things, but I see no preparation, but of
stockings.”

“ Why, Lily, did not you know that he was to
stay in England ?”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ To stay in England ? No, I never thought of
that, how sorry you must be. ,,

At this moment Eleanor returned, and Mr.
Hawkesworth told her he had been surprised to find
Lily did not know their intentions with regard to
the baby.

“ If we had any certain intentions, we should have
told her,” said Eleanor, “ I did not wish to speak to
her about it till we had made up our minds.”

“ Well, I know no use in mysteries,” said Mr.
Hawkesworth, “ especially when Lily may help us
to decide.”

“ On his going or staying ?” exclaimed Lily,
eagerly looking to Mr. Hawkesworth, who was evi-
dently more disposed to speak than his wife.

“ Not on his going or staying, I am sorry to say
that point was settled long ago, but where we shall
leave him.”

Lily’s heart beat high, but she did not speak.

“ The truth is,” proceeded Mr. Hawkesworth,
“that this young gentleman has, as perhaps you
know, a grandpapa, a grandmamma, and also six or
seven aunts. With his grandmamma he cannot be
left for sundry reasons, unnecessary to mention.
Now one of his aunts is a staid matronly lady,
and his godmother besides, and in all respects, the
person to take charge of him, only she lives in a
small house in a town, and has plenty of babies of
her own, without being troubled with other people’s.
Master Henry’s other five aunts, live in one great
house, in a delightful country, with nothing to do
but make much of him all day long, yet it is averred,

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that these said aunts are a parcel of giddy young
colts, amongst whom, if Henry escapes being demol-
ished as a baby, he will infallibly be spoilt as he
grows up. Now, how are we to decide ?

“ You have heard the true state of the case, Lily,”
said Mrs. Hawkesworth. “ I did not wish to harass
Papa, by speaking to him till something was settled,
you are certainly old enough to have an opinion.”

“ Yes, Lily,” said Frank, “ do you think that the
hospitable New Court will open to receive our poor
deserted child, and that these said aunts are not wild
colts, but discreet damsels ?”

Playful as Mr. Hawkesworth’s manner was, Lily
saw the earnestness that was veiled under it ; she
felt the solemnity of Eleanor’s appeal, and knew that
this was no time to let herself be swayed by her
wishes. There was a silence. At last, after a great
struggle, Lily’s better judgment gained the mastery,
and raising her head, she said, “ Oh ! Frank, do not
ask me — I wish — but Eleanor, when you see how
much harm we have done, how utterly we have
failed—”

Lily’s newly acquired habits of self-command, en-
abled her to subdue a violent fit of sobbing, which
she felt impending, but her tears flowed quietly down
her cheeks.

“Remember,” said Frank, “those who mistrust
themselves are the most trustworthy.”

“No, Frank, it is not only the feeling of the
greatness of the charge — it is the knowledge that we
are not fit for it — that our own faults have forfeited
such happiness.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

Again Lily was choked with tears.

“ Well,” said Frank, “ we shall judge at Beech-
croft. At all events, one of those aunts is to be re-
spected.”

Eleanor added her “ Very right.”

This kindness on the part of her brother-in-law,
which Lily felt to be undeserved, caused her tears to
flow faster, and Eleanor seeing her quite overcome,
led her out of the room, helped her to undress,
and put her to bed, with tenderness such as Lily
had never experienced from her, excepting in illness.

In spite of bitter regrets, when she thought of the
happiness it would have been to keep her little
nephew, and of importunate and disappointing hopes
that Mrs. Ridley would find it impossible to receive
him, Lily felt that she had done right, and had made
a real sacrifice for duty’s sake. No more was said
on the subject, and Lily was very grateful to Eleanor
for making no enquiries, which she could not have
answered without blaming Emily.

Sight-seeing prospered very well under Claude’s
guidance, and Lily’s wonder and delight was a con-
stant source of amusement to her friends. Her
shopping was more of a care than a pleasure, for in
spite of the handsome equipments which Mr. Mohun
presented to all his daughters, it was impossible to
contract Emily’s requirements within the limits of
what ought to be her expenditure, and the different
views of her brother and sister were rather trouble-
some in this matter. Claude hated the search for
ladies’ finery, and if drawn into it, insisted on always
taking her to the grandest and most expensive shops,

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while on the other hand, though Eleanor liked to
hunt up cheap things and good bargains, she had
such rigid ideas about plainness of dress, that there
was little chance that what she approved would
satisfy Emily.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME.

“ Suddenly, a mighty jerk
A mighty mischief did.”

In the mean time, Emily and Jane went on very
prosperously at home, looking forward to the return
of the rest of the party, on Saturday, the 17th of
July. In this, however, they were doomed to
disappointment, for neither Mr. Mohun nor Mr.
Hawkesworth could wind up their affairs so as to
return before the 24th. Maurice’s holidays com-
menced on Monday, the 19th, and Claude offered to
go home on the same day, and meet him, but in a
general council it was determined to the contrary.
Claude was wanted to stay for a concert on Thurs-
day, and both Mr. Mohun and Eleanor thought
Maurice without Reginald would not be formidable
for a few days.

At first, he seemed to justify this opinion. He
did not appear to have any peculiar pursuit, unless
such might be called a very earnest attempt to make
Phyllis desist from her favourite preface of “I’ll

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tell you what,” and to reform her habit of saying,

“ Please for,” instead of “ If you please.” He walked
with the sisters, carried messages for Mr. Devereux,
performed some neat little bits of carpentry, and was
very useful and agreeable.

On Wednesday afternoon, Lord Rotherwood and
Florence called, their heads the more full of the 30th
because the Marquis had not once thought of it
while Mr. Devereux was ill. Among the intended
diversions, fireworks were mentioned, and from that
moment, rockets, wheels, and serpents, commenced
a wild career through Maurice’s brain. Through
the whole* evening he searched for books on what he
was pleased to call the art of Pyrotechnics, studied
them all Wednesday, and the next morning an-
nounced his intention of making some fireworks on
a new plan.

“No, you must not,” said Emily, “you will be
sure to do mischief.”

“I am going to ask Wat for some powder,” was
Maurice’s reply, and he walked off.

“ Stop him, Jane, stop him,” cried Emily. “ No-
thing can be so dangerous. Tell him how angry
Papa would be.”

Though Jane highly esteemed her brother’s dis-
cretion, she did not much like the idea of his touch-
ing powder, and she ran after him to suggest that he
had better wait till Papa’s return.

“ Then Redgie will be at home,” said Maurice,
“ and I could not be answerable for the consequence
of such a careless fellow touching powder.”

This great proof of caution quite satisfied Jane,

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

but not so Wat Greenwood, who proved himself a
faithful servant, by refusing to let Master Maurice
have one grain of gunpowder, without express leave
from the squire. Maurice then had recourse to
Jane, and his power over her, was such as to tri-
umph over strong sense and weak notions of obedi-
ence, so that she was prevailed upon to supply him
with the means of making the dangerous and forbid-
den purchase.

Emily was both annoyed and alarmed, when she
found that the gunpowder was actually in the house,
and she even thought of sending a note to the par-
sonage to beg Mr. Devereux to speak to Maurice ;
but Jane had gone over to the enemy, and Emily
never could do anything unsupported. Besides, she
neither liked to affront Maurice, nor to confess her-
self unable to keep him in order, and she therefore
tried to put the whole matter out of her head in the
thoughts of an expedition to Raynham, which she
was about to make in the manner she best liked,
with Jane in the close carriage, and the horses re-
luctantly spared from their farm work.

As they were turning the corner of the lane, they
overtook Phyllis and Adeline, on their way to the
school with some work, and Emily stopped the car-
riage, to desire them to send off a letter which she
had left on the chimney-piece, in the school-room.
Then proceeding to Raynham, they made their
visits, paid Emily’s debts, performed their commis-
sions, and met the carriage again at the bookseller’s
shop, at the end of about two hours.

“ Look here, Emily !” exclaimed Jane. “ Read
this ! can it be Mrs. Aylmer ?”

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"The truly charitable,” said Emily, contemptu-
ously. “ Mrs. Aylmer is above — ”

" But read. It says ‘ unbeneficed clergyman, and
deceased nobleman,* and who can that be but uncle
Rotherwood and Mr. Aylmer ?”

"Well, let us see,” said Emily, " those things are
always amusing.”

It was an appeal to the " truly charitable,” from
the friends of the widow of an unbeneficed clergy-
man of the diocese, one of whose sons had, it was said,
by the kindness of a deceased nobleman, received
the promise of an appointment in India, of which
he was unable to avail himself, for want of the
funds needful for his outfit. This appeal was, it
added, made without the knowledge of the afflicted
lady, but further particulars might be learnt by ap-
plication to E. F., No. 5, West Street, Raynham.

"E. F. is plainly that bustling, little, old Miss
Fitchett, who wrote to Papa for some subscription,”
said Emily. " You know she is a regular beggar,
always doing these kind of things, but I can never
believe that Mrs. Aylmer would consent to appear
in this manner.”

" Ah ! but it says without her knowledge,” said
Jane. " Don’t you remember Rother wood’s lament-
ing that they were forgotten ?”

"Yes, it is shocking,” said Emily, "the clergy-
man that married Papa and Mamma !”

" Ask Mr. Adams what he knows ?” said Jane.
Emily accordingly applied to the bookseller, and
learnt that Mrs. Aylmer was indeed the person in-
s

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

tended. “ Something must be done,” said she, re-
turning to Jane. “ Our name will be a help.”

“Speak to aunt Rotherwood,” said Jane. “Or
suppose we apply to Miss Fitehett, we should have
time to drive that way.”

“ I am sure I shall not go to Miss Fitehett,” said
Emily, “she only longs for an excuse to visit us.
What can you be thinking of ? Lend me your pencil,
Jenny, if you please.”

And Emily wrote down, “ Miss Mohun £5.” and
handed to the bookseller, all that she possessed to-
wards paying her just debts to Lilias. While she
was writing, Jane had turned towards the window,
and suddenly exclaiming, “ There is Ben ! Oh ! that
gunpowder !” darted out of the shop. She had seen
the groom on horseback, and the next moment she
was asking breathlessly, “ Is it Maurice ?”

“No, Miss Jane ; but Miss Ada is badly burnt,
and Master Maurice sent me to fetch Mr. Saunders.”

“ How did it happen ?”

“ I can’t say, Miss, the school-room has been on
fire, and Master Maurice said the young ladies had
got at the gunpowder.”

Emily had just arrived at the door, looking dread-
fully pale, and followed by numerous kind offers of
salts, and glasses of water ; but Jane, perceiving
that at least she had strength to get into the car-
riage, refused them all, helped her in, and with instant
decision, desired to be driven to the surgeon’s. Emily
obeyed like a child, and threw herself back in the car-
riage, without a word ; Jane trembled like an aspen
leaf, but her higher spirit took the lead, and very

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sensibly she managed, stopping at Mr. Saunders’ door
to offer to take him to Beechcroft, and getting a glass
of sal volatile for Emily, while they were waiting for
him. His presence was a great relief, for Emily’s
natural courtesy made her exert herself, and thus
warded off much that would have been very dis-
tressing.

In the mean time, we will return to Beechcroft,
where Emily’s request respecting her letter, had oc-
casioned some discussion between the little girls, as
they returned from a walk with Marianne. Phyllis
thought that Emily meant them to wafer the letter,
since they were under strict orders never to touch fire
or candle ; but Ada argued that they were to seal
it, and that permission to light a candle was implied
in the order. At last Phyllis hoped the matter
might be settled by asking Maurice to seal the letter,
and meeting him at the front door, she began, unfor-
tunately, with “ Please Maurice — ”

“ I never listen to anything beginning with please,’’
said Maurice, who was in a great hurry, “ only don’t
touch my powder.”

Away he went, deaf to all his sister’s shouts of
“ Maurice, Maurice,” and they went in, Ada not
sorry to be unheard, as she was bent on the grand
exploit of lighting a lucifer match, but Phyllis still
pleading for the wafer. They found the school-
room strewed with Maurice’s preparations for fire-
works, and Emily’s letter on the chimney-piece.

“ Let us take the letter down stairs, and put on a
wafer,” said Phyllis. “ Won’t you come, Ada ?”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ No, the stamps are here, and so are the matches,
I can do it easily.”

“But Ada, Ada, it would be naughty. Only
wait, and I will show you such a pretty wafer that
I know of in the drawing-room, I will run and
fetch it.”

Phyllis went, and Ada stood a few moments in
doubt, looking at the letter. The recollection of
duty was not strong enough to balance the tempta-
tion, and she took up a match, and drew it along the
sand-paper. It did not light — a second pull, and the
flame appeared, more suddenly than she had expected,
while at the same moment, the lock of the door
turned, and fancying it was Maurice, she started and
dropped the match. Phyllis opened the door, heard
a loud explosion and a scream, saw a bright flash,
and a cloud of smoke. She started back, but the
next moment again opened the door, and ran for-
ward. Hannah rushed in at the same time, and
caught up Ada, who had fallen to the ground. A
light in the midst of the smoke made Phyllis turn,
and she beheld the papers on the table on Are.
Maurice’s powder horn was in the midst, but the
flames had not yet reached it, and, mindful of
Claude’s story, she sprung forward, caught it up,
and dashed it through the window ; she felt the
glow of the fire upon her cheek, and stood still as if
stunned, till Hannah carried Ada out of the room,
and screamed to her to come away, and cafi Joseph.
The table was now one sheet of flame, and Phyllis
flew to the pantry, where she gave the summons in
almost inaudible tones. The servants hurried to the

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spot, and she was left alone and bewildered ; she ran
hither and thither in confusion, till she met Hannah,
eagerly asking for Master Maurice, and saying that
the surgeon must be instantly sent for, as Ada’s face
and neck were badly burnt. Phyllis ran down, call-
ing Maurice, and at length met him at the front
door, looking much frightened, and asking for Ada.

“ Oh ! Maurice, her face and neck are burnt, and
badly. She does scream — ”

“ Did I not tell you not to meddle with the pow-
der ?” said Maurice.

“ Indeed, I could not help it,” said Phyllis.

“ Stuff and nonsense ! It is very well that you
have not killed Ada, and I think that would have
made you sorry.”

Phyllis with difficulty mentioned Hannah’s desire
that a surgeon should be sent for : Maurice went
to look for Ben, and she followed him. Then he
began asking how she had done the mischief.

“ I do not know,” said she, “ I do not much think
I did it.”

“ Mind, you can’t humbug me. Did you not say
that you touched the powder ?”

“ Yes, but — ”

“ No buts,” said Maurice, making the most of his
brief authority. “ I hate false excuses. What were
you doing when it exploded ?”

“ Coming into the room.”

Oh* ! that accounts for it,” said Maurice, “the
slightest vibration causes an explosion of that sort of
rocket, and of course it was your bouncing into the
room ! You have had a lesson against rushing about

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

the house. Come, though, cheer up Phyl, it is a
bad business, but it might have been worse; you
will know better next time. Don’t cry, Phyl, I will
explain to you all about the patent rocket.”

“But do you really think that I blew up Ada ?”

“ Blew up Ada ! caused the powder to ignite.
The inflammable matter — ”

As he spoke, he followed Phyllis to the nursery,
and there was so much shocked, that he could no
longer lord it over her, but shrinking back, shut
himself into his room, and bolted the door.

Nearly an hour passed away before the arrival of
Emily, Jane, and Mr. Saunders. Phyllis ran down,
and meeting them at the door, exclaimed “ Oh !
Emily, poor Ada ! I am so sorry.”

The sisters hurried past her to the nursery, where
Ada was lying on the bed, half undressed, and her
face, neck, and arm such a spectacle, that Emily
turned away, ready to faint. Mr. Saunders was
summoned, and Phyllis thrust out of the room. She
sat down on the step of the stairs, resting her fore-
head on her knees, and trembling, listened to the
sounds of voices, and the screams which now and
then reached her ears. After a time, she was
startled by hearing herself called from the stairs
below, by a voice which she had not heard for many
weeks, and springing up, saw Mr. Devereux leaning
on the banisters. The great change in his appear-
ance frightened her almost as much as the accident
itself, and she stood looking at him without speaking.
“Phyllis,” said he, in a voice hoarse with agitation,
“what is it ? tell me at once.”

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She could not speak, and her wild and frightened
air might well give him great alarm. She pointed
to the nursery, and put her finger to her lips, and he,
beckoning to her to follow him, went down stairs,
and turning into the drawing-room, said, as he sank
down upon the sofa, “ Now, Phyllis, what has
happened ?”

“ The gunpowder— I made it go off, and it has
burnt poor Ada's face ! Mr. Saunders is there, and
she screams — ”

Phyllis finding herself ready to roar, left off speak-
ing, and laying her head on the table, burst into an
agony of crying, while Mr. Devereux was too much
exhausted to address her ; at last she exclaimed, “ I
hear the nursery-door, he is going !”

She flew to the door, and listened, and then called
out, “ Emily, Jane, here is cousin Robert !”

Jane came down, leaving Emily to finish hearing
Mr. Saunders’ directions. She was even more
shocked at her cousin’s looks than Phyllis had been,
and though she tried to speak cheerfully, her man-
ner scarcely agreed with her words. “ It is all well,
Robert, I am sorry you have been so frightened.
It is but a slight affair, though it looks so shocking.
There is no danger. But, oh, Robert ! you ought
not to be here. What shall we do for you ? you are
quite knocked up.”

“ Oh ! no,” said Mr. Devereux, “I am only a
little out of breath. A terrible report came to me,
and I set off to learn the truth. I should like to
hear what Mr. Saunders says of her.”

“I will call him in here before he goes,” said

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

Jane, “ how tired you are ; you have not been out
before.”

“ Only to the gate to speak to Rotherwood yester-
day, and prevent him from coming in,” said Mr.
Devereux, “but I have great designs for Sunday.
They come home to-morrow, do not they ?”

Jane was much relieved by hearing her cousin
talk in this manner, and answered, “ Tes, and a dis-
mal coming home it will be ; it is too late to let
them know.”

Mr. Saunders now entered, and gave a very favour-
able account of the patient, saying, that even the
scars would probably disappear in a few weeks.
His gig had come from Raynham, and he offered to
set Mr. Devereux down at the Parsonage ; a propo-
sal which the latter was very glad to accept. Emily
and Jane had leisure, when they were gone, to
enquire into the manner of the accident. Phyllis
answered that Maurice said that her banging the
door had made the powder go off. Jane then asked
where Maurice was, and Phyllis reporting that he
was in his own room, she repaired thither, and
knocked twice without receiving an answer. On her
call however he opened the door ; she saw that he
had been in tears, and hastened to tell him Mr.
Saunders’s opinion. He fastened the door again as
soon as she had entered. “ If I could have thought
it !” sighed he, “ Fool that I was not to lock the
door !”

“ Then you were not there ? Phyllis says that she
did it by banging the door. Is not that nonsense T

“ Not at all Did I not read to you in the Year

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Book of Facts about the patent signal rockets which
explode with the least vibration, even when a car-
riage goes by ? Now mine was on the same prin-
ciple. I was making an experiment on the ingre-
dients ; I did not expect to succeed the first time,
and so I took no precautions. Well ! Pyrotechnics
are a dangerous science ! Next time I study them it
shall be at the work-shop at the Old Court.* *

Maurice was sincerely sorry for the consequence
of his disobedience, and would have been much to
be pitied had it not been for his secret satisfaction in
the success of his art He called his sister into the
school-room to explain how it had happened. The
r<>om was a dismal sight, blackened with smoke, and
flooded with water, the table and part of the floor
e.aarred, a mass of burnt paper in the midst, and a
gfcifiing smell of fire. A pane of glass was shattered,
•md Maurice ran down to the lawn to see if he could
find any thing there to account for it. The next
moment he returned, the powder-horn in his hand.
“See, Jenny, how fortunate that this was driven
through the window with the force of the explosion.
The whole place might have been blown to atoms
with such a quantity as this.”

“ Then what was it that blew up ?” asked Jane.
“What I had put out for my rocket, about two
ounces. If this half-pound had gone, there is no
saying what might have happened.”

“ Now Maurice,” said Jane, “ I must go back to
Ada, and will you run down to the Parsonage with
a parcel, directed to Robert, that you will find in the
hall?”

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SCEN1S AND CHARACTERS.

This was a device to occupy Maurice, who, as
Jane saw, was so restless and unhappy, that she did
not like to leave him, much as she was wanted
elsewhere. He went, but afraid to see his cousin,
only left the parcel at the door. As he was going
back he heard a shout, and looking round, saw Lord
Rotherwood mounted on Cedric, his most spirited
horse, gallopping up the lane. “Maurice!” cried
he, “ what is all this ? they say the New Court is
blown up, and you and half the girls killed, but I
hope one part is as true as the other.”

“Nobody is hurt but Ada,” said Maurice, “but
her face is a good deal burnt.”

“ Eh ? then she won’t be fit for the 60th, poor
child ! tell me how it was, make haste. I heard it
from Mr. Burnet as I came down to dinner. We
have a dozen people at dinner. I told him not to
mention it to my mother, and rode off to hear the
truth. Make haste, half the people were come
when I set off.”

The horse’s caperings so discomposed Maurice
that he could scarcely collect his wits enough to
answer, “ Some signal rockets on a new principle,
detonating powder, composed of oxymuriate — Oh !
Rotherwood, take care !”

“ Speak sense, and go on.”

“ Then Phyllis came in, banged the door, and the
vibration caused the explosion,” said Maurice,
scared into finishing promptly.

“ Eh ! banging the door ? You had better not
tell that story at school.”

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“ But Rotherwood the deton— Oh ! that horse —
you will be off !”

“Not half so dangerous as patent rockets. Is
Emily satisfied with such stuff ?”

“ Don’t you know that fulminating silver — ”

“ What does Robert Devereux say ¥*

“ Really, Rotherwood, I could show you — ”

“ Show me ? no, if rockets are so perilous I shall
have nothing to do with them. Stand still, Cedric I
Just tell me about Ada. Is there much harm
done ?”

“ Her face is scorched a good deal, but they say it
will soon be right.”

“Iam glad — we will send to enquire to-morrow,
but I cannot come — ha, ha ! a new infernal machine,
good bye, Friar Bacon.”

Away he went, and Maurice stood looking after
him with complacent disdain. “ There they go,
Cedric and Rotherwood, equally well provided with
brains ! What is the use of talking science to either ?”
It was late when he reached the house, and his
two sisters shortly came down to tea with news
that Adeline was asleep, and Phyllis was going to
bed. The accident was again talked over.

“ Well,” said Emily, “ I do not understand it, but
I suppose Papa will.”

“The telling Papa is a bad part of the affair,
with William and Eleanor there too,” said Jane.

“I do not mean to speak to Phyllis about it
again,” said Emily, “ it makes her cry so terribly.”
“It will come out fast enough,” sighed Maurice,
“ good night.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

More than once in, the course of the night did
poor Phyllis wake and cry, and the next day was the
most wretched she had ever spent ; she was not
allowed to stay in the nursery, and the school-room
was uninhabitable, so she wandered listlessly about
the garden, sometimes creeping down to the Church-
yard, where she looked up at the old tower, or pon-
dered over the graves, and sometimes forgetting her
troubles in converse with the dogs, in counting the
rings in the inside of a foxglove flower, or in
rescuing tadpoles stranded on the broad leaf of a
water-lily.

Her sisters and brother were not less forlorn.
Emily sighed and lamented, Adeline was feverish
and petulant, and Jane toiled in vain to please and
soothe both, and to comfort Maurice ; but with all her
good-temper and good-nature, she had not the spirit
which alone could enable her to be a comfort to any
one. .Ada whined, fretted, and was disobedient,
and from Maurice she met nothing but rebuffs ; he
was silent and sullen, and spent most of the day in
the workshop, slowly planing scraps of deal-board,
and watching with a careless eye, the curled shavings
float to the ground.

In the course of the afternoon, Alethea and Mari-
anne came to enquire after the patient. Jane came
down to them and talked very fast, but when they
asked for a further explanation of the cause of the
accident, Jane declared that Maurice said it was im-
possible that any one who did not understand chem-
istry, should know how it happened, and Alethea

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went away, strongly reminded that it was no affair
of her’s.

Notes passed between the New Court and the
Vicarage, but Mr. Devereux was feeling the effect
of his yesterday’s exertion too much to repeat it, and
no persuasion of the sisters could induce Maurice to
visit him.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

CHAPTER XXIL .

THE BARONIAL COURT.

** Still in his eyes his soul revealing,

He dreams not, knows not of concealing.

Does all he does with single mind,

And thinks of others that is kind.'*

The travellers were expected to arrive at about
seven o’clock in the evening, and in accordance with
a well-known taste of Eleanor’s, Emily had ordered
no dinner, but a substantial meal under the name
of tea. When the sound of carriage wheels was
heard, Jane was with Adeline, Maurice in his
retreat at the Old Court, and it was with no cheerful
alacrity that Emily went alone into the hall. Phyllis
was already at the front door, and the instant Mr.
Mohun set foot on the threshold, her hand grasped
his coat, and her shrill voice cried in his ear, “ Papa,
I am very sorry, I blew up the gunpowder and burnt
Ada.”

“ What, my dear ? where is Ada ?”

“ In bed, I blew up the gunpowder and burnt her
face,” repeated Phyllis.

“ We have had an accident,” said Emily, “ but I

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271

hope it is nothing very serious, only poor Ada is a
sad figure.”

In another moment Mr. Mohun and Eleanor were
on the way to the nursery, Lilias was following, but
she recollected that a general rush into a sick room
was not desirable, and therefore paused and came
back to the hall. The worst was over with Phyllis
when the confession had been made. She was in
raptures at the sight of the baby, and was pre-
sently showing the nurse the way up-stairs, but her
brother William called her back ; “ Phyllis, you
have not spoken to any one.”

Phyllis turned, and came down slowly in her most
ungainly manner, believing herself in too great
disgrace to be noticed by any body, and she was
quite surprised and comforted to be greeted by her
brothers and Lily just as usual.

“ And how did you meet with this misfortune ?”
asked Mr. Hawkesworth.

“ I banged the door, and made it go off,” said
Phyllis.

“ What can you mean ?” said William, in a tone
of surprise, which Phyllis took for anger, and she
hid her face to stifie her sobs.

“ No, no, do not frighten her,” said Claude’s kind
voice.

“Run and make friends with your nephew,
Phyllis,” said Mr. Hawkesworth, “ do not greet us
with crying.”

“ First tell me what is became of Maurice,” said
Claude, “ is he blown up too ?”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ No, he is at the Old Court,” said Phyllis. “ Shall
I tell him that you are come V

“ I will look for him,” said Claude, and out he
went.

The others dispersed in different directions, and
did not assemble again for nearly half an hour,
when they all met in the drawing-room to drink tea ;
Claude and Maurice were the last to appear, and, on
entering, the first thing the former said was, “ Where
is Phyllis ?”

“In the nursery,” said Jane ; “she has had her
supper, and chooses to stay with Ada.”

“ Has any one found out the history of the acci-
dent ?” said William.

“I have vainly been trying to make sense of
Maurice’s account,” said Claude.

“ Sense,” said William, “ there is none.”

“Iam perfectly bewildered,” said Lily, “ every one
has a different story, only consenting in making
Phyllis the victim.”

“ And,” added Claude, “ I strongly suspect she is
not in fault.”

“ Why should you doubt what she says herself ?”
said Eleanor.

“What does she say herself?” said William,
“ nothing but that she shut the door, and what does
that amount to ? — Nothing.”

“ She says she touched the powder,” interposed
Jane.

“ That is another matter,” said William, “ no one
told me of her touching the powder. But why do

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you not ask her ? She is publicly condemned without
a hearing.”

“ Who accuses her ?” said Mr. Mohun.

“I can hardly tell,” said Emily, “she met us,
saying she was very sorry. Yes, she accuses herself.
Every one has believed it to be her.”

“ And why ?” «

There was a pause, but at last Emily said, “ how
would you account for it otherwise ?”

“ I have not yet heard the circumstances. Mau-
rice, I wish to hear your account. I will not now
ask how you procured the powder. Whoever was
the immediate cause of the accident, you are chiefly
to blame. Where was the powder ?”

Maurice gave his theory and his facts, ending
with the powder-horn being driven out of the win-
dow, upon the green.

“I hear,” said Mr. Mohun, “but, Maurice, did
you not say that Phyllis touched the powder ? How
do you reconcile that with this incomprehensible
statement ?”

“ She might have done that before,” said Maurice

“ Now call Phyllis,” said his father.

“ Is it not very formidable for her to be examined
before such an assembly ?” said Emily.

“ The accusation has been public, and the inves-
tigation shall be the same,” said Mr. Mohun.

“ Then you do not think she did it, Papa,” cried
Lily.

“ Not by shutting the door,” said William.

Phyllis entered, and Mr. Mohun holding out both

T

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

hands to her, drew her towards him, and placing her
with her hack to the others, still retained her hands,
while he said, “Phyllis, do not be frightened, but
tell me where you were when the powder exploded ?”

“ Coming into the room,” said Phyllis, in a trem-
bling voice.

“ Where had you been ?”

“ Fetching a wafer out of the drawing-room.”

“ What was the wafer for ?”

“ To put on Emily’s letter which she told us to
send.”

“ And where was Ada ?”

“ In the school-room, reading the direction of the
letter.”

“ Tell me exactly what happened when you came
back.”

“ I opened the door, and there was a flash, and a
bang, and a smoke, and Ada tumbled down.”

“ I have one more question to ask. When did you
touch the powder ?”

“ Then,” said Phyllis.

“ When it had exploded ? Take care what you

„„„ 99

say.

“Was it naughty ? I am very sorry,” said Phyllis,
beginning to cry.

“ What powder did you touch ? I do not understand
you, tell me quietly.”

“ I touched the powder-horn. What went off was
only a little in a paper on the table, and there was a
great deal more. When the rocket blew up, there
was a great noise, and Ada and I both screamed,
and Hannah ran in and took up Ada in her arms.

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Then I saw a great fire, and looked, and saw Emily’s
music-book, and all the papers blazing. So I thought
if it got to the powder it would blow up again, and I
laid hold of the horn, and threw it out of the win-
dow. That is all I know, Papa, only I hope you are
not very angry with me.”

She looked into his face, not knowing how to in-
terpret the unusual expression that she saw there.

“Angry with you !” said he, “no, my dear child,
you have acted with great presence of mind. You
have saved your sister and Hannah from great dan-
ger, and I am very sorry that you have been un-
justly treated.”

He then gave his little daughter a kiss, and put-
ting his hand on her head, added, “ Whoever caused
the explosion, Phyllis is quite free from blame, and I
wish every one to understand this, because she has
been unjustly accused, without examination, and be-
cause she has borne it patiently, and without attempt-
ing to justify herself.”

“ Very right,” observed Eleanor.

“ Shake hands, Phyllis,” said William.

The others said more with their eyes, than with
their lips. Phyllis stood like one in a dream, and
fixin g her bewildered looks upon Claude, said, “ Did
not I do it ?”

“No, Phyllis, you had nothing to do with it,” was
the general exclamation.

“ Maurice said it was the door,” said Phyllis.

“Maurice talked nonsense,” said Claude, “you
were only foolish in believing him.”

Phyllis went up to Claude, and laid her head on

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

his arm, Mr. Hawkesworth held out his hand to her,
hut she did not look up, and Claude withdrawing his
arm, and raising her head, found that she was cry-
ing. Eleanor and Lilias both rose, and came towards
her, but Claude made them a sign and led her away.

“What a fine story this will be for Reginald,”
said William.

“ And for Rotherwood,” said Mr. Mohun.

“ I do not see now how it happened,” said Eleanor.

“ Of course Ada did it herself,” said William.

“Of course,” said Maurice. “It was all from
Emily’s setting them to seal her letter, that is plain
now.”

“ Would not Ada have said so ?” asked Eleanor.

Lily sighed at the thought of what Eleanor had
yet to learn.

“ Did you tell them to seal your letter, Emily ?”
said Mr. Mohun.

“Iam sorry to say that I did tell them to send it,”
said Emily, “but I said nothing about sealing, as
Jane remembers, and I forgot that Maurice’s gun-
powder was in the room.”

Eleanor shook her head sorrowfully, and looked
down at her knitting, and Lily knew that her mind
was made up respecting little Henry’s dwelling-
place. It was some comfort to have raised no false
expectations.

“ Ada must not be frightened and agitated to-
night,” said Mr. Mohun, “ but I hope you will talk
to her to-morrow, Eleanor. Well, Claude, have you
made Phyllis understand that she is acquitted ?”

“ Scarcely,” said Claude, “ she is so overcome and

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worn out, that I thought she had better go to bed,
and wake in her proper senses to-morrow.”

“A very unconscious heroine,” said William.
“ She is a wonder — I never thought her any thing
but an honest sort of romp.”

“ I have long thought her a wonderful specimen
of obedience,” said Mr. Mohun.

William and Claude now walked to the parsonage,
and the council broke up ; but it must not be sup-
posed that this was the last that Emily and Maurice
heard on the subject.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

CHAPTER XXHI.

JOTS AND SORROWS.

** Complaint was heard on every part
Of something disarranged.’'

The next day, Sunday, was one of the most marked
in Lily’s life. It was the first time she saw Mr.
Devereux after his illness, and though Claude had
told her he was going to Church, it gave her a sud-
den thrill of joy to see him there once more, and
perhaps she never felt more thankful than when his
name was read before the Thanksgiving. After the
service, there was an exchange of greetings, but
Lily spoke no word, she felt too happy and too awe-
struck, to say anything, and she walked back to the
New Court in silence.

In the afternoon, she had hopes that a blessing
would be granted to her, for which at one time, she
had scarcely dared to hope ; and she felt convinced
that so it would be when she saw that Mr. Devereux
wore his surplice, although, as in the morning,
his friend read the service. After the Second

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Lesson there was a pause, and then Mr. Devereux
left the chair by the Altar, walked along the aisle,
and took his stand on the step of the Font. Lily’s
heart beat high as she saw who were gathering
round him — Mrs. Eden, Andrew Grey, James Har-
rington, and Mrs. Naylor, who held in her arms a
healthy rosy-cheeked boy of a year old.

She could not have described the feelings which
made her eyes overflow with tears, as she saw Mr.
Devereux’ s thin hand sprinkle the drops over the
brow of the child, and heard him say, “Robert,
I baptize thee,” words which she had heard in
dreams, and then awakened to remember that the
• parish was at enmity with the Pastor, the child un-
baptized, and herself, in part, the cause.

The name of the little boy was an additional
pledge of reconciliation, and at the same time, it
made her feel again, what had been the price of his
Baptism. When she looked back upon the dreary
feelings which she had so lately experienced, it
seemed to her as if she might believe that this
christening was, as it were, a pledge of pardon, and
an earnest of better things.

Naylor, who had recovered much more slowly
than Mr. Devereux, was at Church for the first
time, and after the service, Mr. Mohun sought him
out in the Churchyard, and heartily shook hands
with him. Lily would gladly have followed his ex-
ample, but she only stood by Eleanor and Mrs.
Weston, who were speaking to Mrs. Eden and Mrs.
Naylor, admiring the little boy, and praising him
for his good behaviour in Church.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

Love of babies was a strong bond between Mrs.
Weston and Mrs. Hawkes worth, who seemed to be-
come well acquainted from the first moment that
little Henry was mentioned, and Lily was well
pleased to see that in Jane’s phrase, Eleanor took to
her friends so well.

And yet this day brought with it some annoy-
ances, which once would have fretted her so much
as to interfere even with such joy as she now felt.
The song, with which she had taken so much pains,
ought to have been sent home a week before, but
owing to the delay caused by Emily’s carelessness,
it had been burnt in the fire in the school-room, and
Lily could not feel herself forgiven, till she had
talked the disaster over in private with her friend,
and this was out of her power throughout the day,
for something always prevented her from getting
Alethea alone. In the morning, Jane stuck close to
her, and in the afternoon, William walked to the
school gate with them. But Alethea’s manne^pvas
kinder towards her than ever, and she was quite
satisfied about her.

It gave her more pain to perceive that Emily in
every possible manner avoided being alone with her.
It was by her desire that Phyllis came to sleep in
their room ; she would keep Jane talking there,
give Esther some employment which kept her in
their presence, linger in the drawing-room while
Lilias was dressing, and at bed-time be too sleepy to
say any thing but good-night.

That Sunday was a sorrowful one to Eleanor, for
in the course of the conversation with Ada, which

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Mr. Mohun had desired her to hold, she became
conscious of the little girl’s double-dealing ways. It
was only by a very close cross-examination, that she
was able to extract from her a true account of the
disaster, and though Ada never went so far as actu-
ally to tell a falsehood, it was evident that she was
willing to conceal as much as possible, and to throw
the blame on other people. And when the real facts
were confessed, she did not seem able to comprehend
why she was regarded with displeasure ; her instinct
of truth and obedience was lost for the time, and
Eleanor saw it with the utmost pain. Adeline had
been her especial darling, and cold as her manner
had often been towards the others, it ever was warm
towards the motherless little one, whom she had
tended and cherished with most anxious care from
her earliest infancy. She had left her gentle, can-
did, and affectionate, a lovely engaging little crea-
ture, and how did she find her now ? Her fair bright
facQjdisfigured, her caresses affected, her mind turned
to deceit and prevarication ! Well might Eleanor
feel it more than ever painful to leave her own
little Henry to the care of others ; and well it was
for her, that she had learned to find comfort in the
consciousness that her duty was clear.

The next morning, Emily learned what was
Henry’s destination.

“ Oh ! Eleanor,” said she, “ why do you not leave
him here ? We should be so rejoiced to have him.”

“ Thank you, I am afraid it is out of the question,”
answered Eleanor, quietly.

“ Why, dear Eleanor ? You know how glad we

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

should be. I should have thought,” proceeded Emily,
a little hurt, “ that you would have wished him to
live in your own home.”

Eleanor did not speak, and Emily, who had the
little boy in her arms, went on talking to him.
“ Come, baby, let us persuade Mamma to let you
stay with aunt Emily. Ask Papa, Henry, won’t
you ? Seriously, Eleanor, has Frank considered how
much better it would be to have him in the country T

“ He has, Emily, he once wished much to leave
him here.”

“ I am sure Grandpapa would like it,” said Emily.
“ Do you observe, Eleanor, how fond he is of baby,
always calling him Harry too, as if he liked the
sound of the name ?”

“ It has all been talked over, Emily, and it can-
not be.”

“ With Papa ?” asked Emily in surprise.

“No, with Lily.”

“ With Lily !” exclaimed Emily. “ Did not funt
Lily wish to keep you, Harry, I thought she was
very fond of you.”

“ You had better enquire no further,” said Eleanor,
“ except of your own conscience.”

“ Did Lily think us unfit to take care of him ?”
asked Emily, in surprise.

As she spoke, Lily herself came in, the key of the
store-room in her hand, and looks of consternation
on her face. She came to announce a terrible de-
ficiency in the preserved quinces, which she herself
had carefully put aside on a shelf in the store-room,
and which Emily said she had not touched in her
absence.

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“ Let me see,” said Eleanor, rising, and setting off
to the store-room ; Emily and Lily followed, with a
sad suspicion of the truth. On the way, they looked
into the nursery, to give little Henry to his nurse,
and to ask Jane, who was sitting with Ada, what
she remembered about it. Jane knew nothing, and
they went on to the store-room, where Eleanor, quite
in her element, began rummaging, arranging, and
sighing over the confusion, while Lily lent a help-
ing hand, and Emily stood by wishing that her sister
would not trouble herself. Presently, Jane came
running up with a saucer in her hand, containing a
quarter of a quince and some syrup, which she said
she had found in the nursery cupboard, in searching
for a puzzle which Ada wanted.

“ And,” said Jane, “I should guess that Miss Ada
herself knew something about it, for when I could
not find the puzzle in the right-hand cupboard, she
was so very unwilling that I should look into that
one ; she said there was nothing there, but the boys*
old playthings, and Esther’s clothes. And I do not
know whether you saw how she fidgetted, when you
were talking about the quinces, before you went up.”

“ It is much too plain,” sighed Lily. “ Oh !
Rachel, why did we not listen to you ?”

“ Do you suppose,” said Eleanor, “ that Ada has
been in the habit of taking the key and helping her-
self?”

“No,” said Emily, “but that Esther has helped
her.”

“ Ah !” said Eleanor, “ I never thought it wise to
take her, but how could she get the key ? You do

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not mean that you trusted it out of your own keep-
ing.”

“It began while we were ill,” faultered Emily,
“ and afterwards it was difficult to bring matters into
their former order.”

“ But oh, Eleanor ! what is to be done ?” sighed
Lily.

“ Speak to Papa, of course,” said Eleanor. “ He
is gone to the Castle, and in the mean time, we had
better take an exact account of every thing here.”

“ And Esther ? And Ada T* enquired the sisters.

“ I think it will be better to speak to him, before
making so grave an accusation,” said Eleanor.

They now commenced that wearisome occupa-
tion, a complete setting to rights ; Eleanor counted,
weighed, and measured, and extended her cares from
the stores to every other household matter. Emily
made her escape, and went to sit with Ada ; but
Lily and Jane toiled for several hours with Eleanor,
till Lily was so heated and wearied, that she was
obliged to give up a walk to Broomhill, and spend
another day without a talk with Alethea. However,
she was so patient, ready, and good-humoured, that
Eleanor was well pleased with her. She could hardly
think of the slight vexation, when her mind was full
of sorrow and shame on Esther’s account. It was
she, who, contrary to the advice of her elders had
insisted on bringing her into the house ; she had
allowed temptation to be set in her way, and had
not taken sufficient pains to strengthen her prin-
ciples, and how could she do otherwise, than feel

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guilty of all Esther’s faults, and of those into which
she had led Adeline.

On Mr. Mohun’s return, Ada was interrogated.
She pitied herself — said she did not think Papa
would be angry — prevaricated — and tried to coax
away his enquiries, but all in vain ; and at length,
by slow degrees, the confession was drawn from her,
that she had been used to ask Esther for morsels of
sweet things, when she was sent to the store-room,
that afterwards, she had seen her packing up some
tea and sugar to take to her mother, and that Esther
had on that occasion, and several others, purchased
her silence by giving her a share of pilfered sweet-
meats. Telling her that he only spared her a very
severe punishment for the present, on account of her
illness, Mr. Mohun left her, and on his way down
stairs, met Phyllis.

“Phyl,” said he, “did Esther ever give you sweet
things out of the store-room ?”

“ Once, Papa, when she had been putting out
some currant jam, she offered me what had been left
in the spoon.”

“ Did you take it ?”

“ No, Papa, for Eleanor used to say it was a bad
trick to lick out spoons.”

“ Did you ever know that she took tea and sugar
from the store-room, for her mother ?”

“ Took home tea and sugar to her mother ! She
could not have done it, Papa. It would be steal-
ing !”

Esther, who was next called for, cried a great deal,
and begged for pardon, pleading again and again,

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

that “it was mother,” an answer which made her
young mistresses again sigh over the remembrance
of Rachel’s disregarded advice. Her fate was left
for consideration, and consultation with Mr. Deve-
reux, for Mr. Mohun seeing himself to blame, for
having allowed her to be placed in a situation of so
much trial, and thinking that there was much that
was good about her, did not like to send her to her
home, where she was likely to learn nothing but
what was bad.

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CHAPTER XXIV.

love’s labour lost.

“ And well, with ready hand and heart,

Each task of toilsome duty taking,

Did one dear inmate take her part,

The last asleep, the earliest waking.”

In the course of the afternoon, Lord Rotherwood
and Florence called to see Eleanor, enquire after
Ada, and make the final arrangements for going to a
morning concert at Raynham, the next day. Lady
Rotherwood was afraid of the fatigue, and Florence
therefore, wished to accompany her cousins, who, as
Eleanor meant to stay at home, were to be under
Mrs. Weston’s protection. Lady Florence and her
brother, therefore, agreed to ride home by Broom-
hill, and mention the plan to Mrs. Weston, and took
their leave, appointing Adams’s shop as the place of
rendezvous.

Next morning, Emily, Lilias, and Jane, happened
to be together in the drawing-room, when Mr.
Mohun and Claude came in, the former saying to
Lily, “ Here is the mason’s account for the grave-

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

stone, which you wished to have put up to Agnes
Eden ; it comes to two pounds. You undertook half
the expense, and as Claude is going to Raynham, he
will pay for it if you will give him your sovereign.”

“ I will,” said Lily, “ but first, I must ask Emily
to pay me for the London commissions.”

Emily repented not having had a private confer-
ence with Lily.

“ So you have not settled your accounts,” said Mr.
Mohun. “ I hope Lily has not ruined you, Emily.”
“ I thought her a mirror of prudence,” said Claude.
“ Well, Emily, is the sovereign forthcoming ? I am
going directly, for Frank has something to do at
Raynham, and William is going to try his grey in
the phaeton.”

“Iam afraid you will think me very silly,” said
Emily, after some deliberation, “but I hope Lily will
not be very angry, when I confess that seven shil-
lings is the sum total of my property.”

“ Oh, Emily !” cried Lily, in dismay, “ what has
become of your five pounds ?”

“ I gave them as a subscription for a clergyman’s
widow in distress,” said Emily ; “it was the impulse
of a moment, I could not help it, and dear Lily, I
hope it will not inconvenience you.”

“If Papa will be kind enough to wait for this
pound till Michaelmas,” said Lily.

“ I would wait willingly,” said Mr. Mohun, “ but
I will not see you cheated. How much does she
owe you ?”

“The commissions came to six pounds three,”
said Lily, looking down.

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“ But Lily,” said Jane, “you forget the old debt.”
“ Never mind,” whispered Lily, but Mr. Mohun
asked what Jane had said, and Claude repeated her
speech, upon which, he enquired, “ What old debt ?”
“ Papa,” said Emily, in her most candid tone, “ I
do not know what I should have done, but for Lily’s
kindness. Really I cannot get on with my present
allowance ; being the eldest, so many expenses come
upon me.”

“ Then I am to understand,” replied Mr. Mohun,
“ that your foolish vanity has led you to encroach on
your sister’s kindness, and to borrow of her what
you had no reasonable hope of repaying. Again,
Lily, what does she owe you ?”

Emily felt the difference between the sharp curi-
ous eyes with which Jane regarded her, and the
sorrowful downcast looks of Lily, who replied, “ The
old debt is four pounds, but that does not signify.”

“ Well,” resumed her father, “ I cannot blame you
for your good-nature, though an older, person might
have acted otherwise. You must have managed
wonderfully well, to look always so well dressed with
only half your proper income. Here is the amount
of the debt. Is it right ? And, Lily, one thing
more ; I wish to thank you for what you have
done towards keeping this house in order. You
have worked hard, and endured much, and from
all I can gather, you have prevented much mischief.
Much has unfairly been thrown upon you, and you
have well and steadily done your duty. For you,
Emily, I have more to say to you, but I shall not
u

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

enter on it at present, for it is late. You had better
get ready, or you will keep the others waiting.”

“ I do not think I can go,” sighed Emily.

“ You are wanted,” said Mr. Mohun. “ I do not
think your aunt would like for Florence to go with-
out you.”

Lily had trembled as much under her father's
praise, as Emily under his blame. She did not feel
as if his commendation was merited, and longed to
tell him of her faults and follies, but this was no fit
time, and she hastened to prepare for her expedition,
her spirits scarcely in tune for a party of pleasure.
Jane talked about the 30th, and ashed questions
about London, all the way to Raynham, and both
Emily and Lily were glad to join in her chatter, in
hopes of relieving their own embarrassment.

On arriving at the place of meeting, they found
Lady Florence watching for them.

“ I am glad you are come,” said she, “ Rotherwood
will always set out either too soon or too late, and
this time it was too soon, so here we have been full
a quarter of an hour, but he does not care. There
he is, quite engrossed with his book.”

Lord Rotherwood was standing by the counter,
reading so intently that he did not see his cousins'
arrival. When they entered, he just looked up,
shook hands, asked after Ada, and went on reading.
Lily began looking for some books for the school,
which she had long wished for, and was now able to
purchase, Emily sat down in a melancholy, abstracted
mood, and Florence and Jane stood together talking.

“ You know you are all to come early,” said the

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former, “I do not know how we should manage
without you. Rotherwood insists on having every
thing the same day — poor people first, and gentry
and farmers all together. Mamma does not like it,
and I expect we shall be dreadfully tired ; but he
says he will not have the honest poor men put out for
the fashionables ; and you know we are all to dance
with every body. But Jenny, who is this crossing
the street ? Look, you have an eye for oddities.”

“Miss Fitchett, the subscription-hunter,” said
Jane.

“ She is actually coming to hunt us. I believe I
have my ptfrse. Oh ! Emily is to be the first
victim.”

Miss Fitchett advanced to Emily, and saying, that
she believed she had the honour to address Miss
Mohun, began to tell her, that her friend having
been prematurely informed of her small efforts, had
with a noble spirit of independence begged that the
subscription might not be continued, and that what
had already been given, might be returned, and she
rejoiced in this opportunity of making the expla-
nation. But Miss Fitchett could not bear to re-
linquish the five pound-note, and added, that perhaps
Miss Mohun might not object to apply her subscrip-
tion to some other object, the Dorcas Society for
instance.

u Thank you, I have no interest in the Dorcas
Society,” said Emily, a reply which brought upon
her a full account of all its aims and objects, and
as still her polite looks spoke nothing of assent,
Miss Fitchett went on with a string of other socie-

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

ties, speaking the louder, and the moire eagerly in
the hope of attracting the attention of the young
Marquis and his sister. Emily was easily over-
whelmed with words, and not thinking it lady-like
to claim her money, yet feeling that none of these
societies were fit objects for it, she stood confused
and irresolute, unwilling either to consent or refuse.
Jane, perceiving her difficulty, turned to Lord
Rotherwood, and rousing him from his book, ex-
plained Emily’s distress in a few words, and sent
him to her rescue. He stepped forward just as Miss
Fitchett, taking silence for consent, was proceeding
to thank Emily ; “ I think you misunderstand Miss
Mohun,” said he. “ Since her subscription is not
needed by the person for whom it was intended,
she would be glad to have it restored. She does
not wish to encourage any unauthorized societies.”

Boy as he was, in appearance still more than in
age, there was a dignity in his manner which, to-
gether with the principle on which he spoke, over-
awed Miss Fitchett, even more than his rank. She
only said, “ Oh ! my Lord, I beg your pardon.
Certainly, only — ”

The note was placed in Emily’s hands, and with a
bow from Lord Rotherwood, she retreated, mur-
muring to herself the remonstrance which she had
not courage to bestow upon the Marquis.

“ Thank you, thank you, Rotherwood,” said
Emily, “ you have done me a great service.”

“Well done, Rotherwood,” said Florence, “you
have given the old lady something to reflect upon.”

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“ Made a public announcement of principle,” said
Lily.

“ I was determined to give her a reason,” said the
Marquis, laughing, “ but I assure you I felt like the
stork with its head in the wolfs mouth, I thought she
would give me a screed of doctrine. How came you
to let your property get into her clutches, Emily ?”

“ It was a subscription for Mrs. Aylmer,” said
Emily.

“ Our Curate’s wife !” cried he, with a start,
“ how was it ? Florence, did you know any thing ? I
thought she was in London. Why were we in the
dark ? Tell me all.”

“ All I know is that she is living somewhere in
Raynham, and last week there was a paper here to
say that she was in want of the means of fitting out
her son for India.”

“ Yes, yes, Johnny, I know my father did get a
promise for him — well !”

“ That is all I know except that she does not
choose to be a beggar.”

“ Poor Mrs. Aylmer ! shameful neglect ! she shall
not be ill used any longer, I will find her out this
instant. Don’t wait for me.”

And after a few words to Mr. Adams, off he
went, walking as fast as he could, and leaving the
young ladies not without fear of another invasion.
Soon, however, the brothers came in, and presently
after Mrs. Weston appeared. It was agreed that Lord
Rotherwood should be left to his own devices, and
they set out for the concert-room. Poor Florence
lost much pleasure in disappointment, at his non-

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appearance, but when the concert was over, they
found him sitting in the carriage reading. As soon
as they appeared, he sprang out, and came to meet
them, pouring rapidly out a history of his adventures.

“Then you have found them, and what can be
done for them ?”

“ Every thing ought to done, but Mrs. Aylmer
has a spirit of independence. That foolish woman’s
advertisement was unknown to her till Emily’s five
pounds came in, so fine a nest egg that she could
not help cackling, whereupon Mrs. Aylmer insisted
on having every farthing returned.”

“ Can she provide the boy’s outfit ?”

“ She says so, or rather that her daughter can,
but I shall see about that. It is worth while to be
of age. Imagine ! That bank which failed, was the
end of my father’s legacy. They must have lived on
a fraction of nothing ! Edward went to sea, Miss
Aylmer went out as a governess. Now she is at
home.”

“ Miss Aylmer !” exclaimed Miss Weston, “ I
know she was a clergyman’s daughter. Do you
know the name of the family she lived with.”

“ Was it Grant ?” said William, “ I remember
hearing of her going to some Grants.”

“ It was,” said Alethea ; “ she must be the same.
Is she at home ?”

“ Yes,” said Lord Rotherwood, “ and you may
soon see her, for I mean to have them all to stay at
the Castle as soon as our present visitors are gone.
My mother and Florence shall call upon them on
Friday.”

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“ Now,” said Claude, “ I have not found out what
brought them back to Raynham.”

“ Have you lived at Beechcroft all your life, and
never discovered that there is a grammar-school at
Raynham, with special privileges for the sons of
clergymen of the diocese ?”

A few more words, and the cousins parted ; Emily
by no means sorry that she had been obliged to go to
Raynham. She tendered the five pound note to her
father, but he desired her to wait till Friday, and
then to bring him a full account of her expenditure
of the year. Her irregular ways made this almost
impossible, especially as in the present state of
affairs she wished to avoid a private conference with
either Lily or Jane. She was glad that an invitation
to dine and sleep at the Castle on Wednesday, would
save her from the peril of having to talk to Lily in
the evening. Reginald came home on Tuesday, to
the great joy of all the party, and especially to that
of Phyllis. This little maiden was more puzzled by
the events that had taken place, than conscious of
the feeling which she had once thought must be so
delightful. She could scarcely help perceiving that
every one was much more kind to her than usual,
especially Claude and Lily, and Lord Rotherwood
said things which she could not at all understand.
Her observation to Reginald was, “ was it not lucky
I had a cough on Twelfth day, or Claude would not
have told me what to do about gunpowder.”

Reginald troubled Phyllis much by declaring that
nothing should induce him to kiss his nephew, and
she was terribly shocked by the indifference with

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which Eleanor treated his neglect, even when it
branched out into abuse of babies in general, and in
particular of Henry’s bald head and turned-up nose.

In the evening of Wednesday, Phyllis was sitting
with Ada in the nursery, when Reginald came up
with the news, that the party down-stairs were
going to practise country-dances ; Eleanor was to
play, Claude was to dance with Lily, and Frank with
Jane, and he himself wanted Phyllis for a partner.

“ Oh !” sighed Ada, “ I wish I was there to dance
with you, Redgie. What are the others doing ?”
“Maurice is reading, and William went out as
soon as dinner was over ; make haste, Phyl.”

“ Don’t go,” said Ada, “ I shall be alone all to-
morrow, and I want you.”

“Nonsense,” said Reginald, “do you think she is
to sit poking here all day, playing with those foolish
London things of yours.”

“ But I am ill, Redgie. I wish you would not be
cross. Every body is cross to me now I think.”

“ I will stay, Ada,” said Phyllis, “ you know,
Redgie, I dance like a cow.”

“ You dance better than nothing,” said Reginald,
“ I must have you.” *

“ But you are not ill, Redgie,” said Phyllis.

He went down in displeasure, and was forced to
consider Sir Maurice’s picture as his partner, until
presently the door opened, and Phyllis appeared.
“ So you have thought better of it,” cried he.

“ No,” said Phyllis, “ I cannot come to dance, but
Ada wants you to leave off playing. She says the

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music makes her unhappy, for it makes her think
about to-morrow.”

“ Rather selfish, Miss Ada,” said Claude.

“ Stay here, Phyllis, now you are come,” said Mr.
Mohun, “ I will go and speak to Ada.”

Phyllis was now captured, and made to take her
place, opposite to Reginald ; but more than once she
sighed under the apprehension that Ada was re-
ceiving a lecture. This was the case ; and very
little did poor Ada comprehend the change that had
taken place in the conduct of almost every one
towards her, she did not perceive that she was par-
ticularly naughty, and yet she had suddenly become
an object of blame instead of a spoiled pet. For-
merly her little slynesses had been unnoticed, and
her overbearing ways towards Phyllis scarcely re-
marked, but now they were continually mentioned as
grievous faults. Esther, her especial friend and
comforter, was scarcely allowed to come into the
same room with her ; Hannah treated her with a
kind of grave, silent respect, far from the familiarity
which she liked, little Henry's nurse never would
talk to her, and if it had not been for Phyllis, she
would have been very miserable. On Phyllis, how-
ever, she repaid herself for all the mortifications that
she received, while the sweet-tempered little girl took
all her fretfulness and exactions as results of her ill-
ness, and went on pitying her, and striving to please
her.

When Phyllis came up to wish her good-night,
she was received with an exclamation at her lateness
in a peevish tone ; “ Yes, I am late,” said Phyllis,

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

merrily, “but we had not done dancing till tea-
time, and then Eleanor was so kind as to say I
might sit up to have some tea with them.”

“ Ah ! and you quite forgot how tiresome it is up
here, with nobody to speak to,” said Ada. “ How
cross they were not to stop the music when I said it
made me miserable !”

“ Claude said it was selfish to want to stop five
people’s pleasure for one,” said Phyllis.

“ But I am so ill,” said Ada. “ If Claude was as
uncomfortable as I am, he would know how to be
sorry for me. And only think — Phyl, what are you
doing ? Do not you know I do not like the moon-
light to come on me. It is like a great face laughing
at me.”

“ Well, I like the moon so much !” said Phyllis,
creeping behind the curtain to look out, “ there is
something so white and bright in it, when it comes
on the bed-clothes, it makes me go to sleep, thinking
about white robes, oh ! and all sorts of nice things.”

“ I can’t bear the moon,” said Ada, “ do not you
know, Maurice says that the moon makes the people
go mad, and that is the reason it is called lunacy,
after la lune .”

“ I asked Miss Weston about that,” said Phyllis,
“ because of the Psalm, and she said, it was because
it was dangerous to go to sleep in the open air in
hot countries. Ada, I wish you could see now.
There is the great round moon in the middle of the
sky, and the sky such a beautiful colour, and a few
such great bright stars, and the trees so dark, and
the white lilies standing up on the black pond, and

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the lawn all white with dew ! what a fine da y it
will be to-morrow !”

“ A fine day for you !” said Ada, “ but only
think poor me, all alone by myself.”

“ You will have baby,” said Phyllis.

“ Baby — if he could talk it would be all very well.
It is just like the cross people in books. Here I
shall lie and cry all the time, while you are dancing
about as merry as can be.”

“ No, no, Ada, you will not do that,” said Phyllis,
with tears in her eyes. “ There is baby with all his
pretty ways, and you may teach him to say aunt
Ada, and I will bring you in numbers of flowers,
and there is your new doll, and all the pretty things
that came from London, and the new book of Fairy
Tales, and all sorts— oh ! no, do not cry, Ada.”

“ But I shall, for I shall think of you dancing,
and not caring for me.”

“ I do care, Ada, why do you say that I do not ?
I cannot bear it, Ada, dear Ada.”

“ You don’t, or you would not go and leave me
alone.”

“ Then, Ada, I will not go,” said Phyllis, “ I
could not bear to leave you crying here all alone.”

“ Thank you, dear good Phyl, but I think you will
not have much loss. You know you do not like
dancing, and you cannot do it well, and they will be
sure to laugh at you.”

“ And I dare say Redgie and Marianne will tell
us all about it,” said Phyllis, sighing. “I should
rather like to have seen it, but they will tell us.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ Then do you promise to stay, there’s a dear,”
said Ada.

“ Yes,” said Phyllis. “ Cousin Robert is coming
in, and that will be very nice, and I hope he will
not look as he did the day the gunpowder went off,
oh, dear !” She went back to the window to get
rid of her tears unperceived. “Ah,” cried she,
“ there is some one in the garden !”

“ A man !” screamed Ada, “ a thief, a robber,
call somebody !”

“No, no,” said Phyllis, laughing, “it is only
William, he has been out all the evening, and now,
Papa has come out to speak to him, and they are
walking up and down together. I wonder whether
he has been sitting with cousin Robert, or at Broom-
hill ! Well, good-night, Ada. Here comes Hannah.”

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CHAPTER XXY.

THE THIRTIETH OF JULY.

“ The heir with roses in his shoes,

That night might village partner choose.”

The 30th of July was bright and clear, and Phyllis
was up early, gathering flowers, which, with the
help of Jane’s nimble fingers, she made into elegant
little bouquets for each of her sisters, and for Claude.

“How is this?” said Mr. Hawkesworth, pre-
tending to look disconsolate, “am I to sing ‘ Fair
Phyllida flouts me,’ or why is my button-hole left
destitute ?”

“ Perhaps that is for you on the side-table,” said
Lily.

“ O ! no,” said Phyllis, “ those are some Provence
roses for Miss Weston and Marianne, because Miss
Weston likes those, and they have none at Broom-
hill. Redgie is going to take care of them. I will
get you a nosegay, Frank. I did not know you
liked it.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

She started up. “ How prudent, Phyllis,” said
Eleanor, “not to have put on your muslin-frock
yet.”

“ Oh ! I am not going,” said Phyllis.

“ Not going !” was the general outcry.

“ No, poor Ada cries so about being left at home
with only baby, that I cannot bear it, and so I
promised to stay.”

Away went Phyllis, and Reginald exclaimed,
“ well ! she shall not be served so. I will go and
tell Ada so, this instant !”

Off he rushed, and putting in his head at the nur-
sery door, shouted “ Ada, I am come to tell you that
Phyl is not to be made your black-a-moor slave !
she shall go, that is settled.”

Down he went with equal speed, without waiting
for an answer, and arrived while Eleanor was saying
that she thought Ada was provided with amuse-
ment with the baby, her playthings and books, and
that Mr. Devereux had promised to make her a
visit.

“Any body ought to stay at home rather than
Phyllis,” said Lily, “ I think I had better stay.”

“ No, no, Lily,” said Jane, “ you are more wanted
than I am ; you are really worth talking to, and
dancing with, I had much better be at home.”

“ I forgot !” exclaimed William, “Mrs. Weston de-
sired me to say that she is not going, and she will
take care of Ada. Mr. Weston will set her down at
half-past ten, and take up one of us.”

“ I will be that one,” said Reginald, “ I have not
seen Miss Weston since I came home. I meant to

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walk to Broom-hill after dinner yesterday, only the
Baron stopped me, about that country dance. Last
Christmas I made her promise to dance with me
to-day.”

Lily had hoped to be that one, but she did not
oppose Reginald, and turned to listen to Eleanor,
who was saying, “Let us clearly understand how
every one is to go, it will save a great deal of con-
fusion. You, and Jane, and Maurice go in the
phaeton, do not you ? And who drives you ?”

“ William, I believe,” said Lily, “ Claude goes
earlier, so he rides the grey. Then there is the
chariot for you and Frank, and Papa, and Phyllis.”

So it was proposed, but matters turned out other-
wise. The phaeton, which, with a promoted cart-
horse, was rather a slow conveyance, was to set out
first, but the whole of the freight was not ready in
time. The ladies were in the hall as soon as it came
to the door, but neither of the gentlemen was forth-
coming. Reginald, who was wandering in the hall
was sent to summon them ; but down he came in great
wrath. Maurice had declared that he was not ready,
and they must wait for him till he had tied his neck-
cloth, which Reginald opined, would take three
quarters of an hour, as he was doing it scientifically,
and William had said, that he was not going in the
gig at all, that he had told Wat Greenwood to drive,
and that Reginald must go instead of Maurice.

In confirmation of the startling fact, Wat, who
had had a special invitation from the Marquis, was
sitting in the phaeton in his best black -velvet coat.
Jane only hoped that Emily would not look out of

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

the window, or she would certainly go into fits on
seeing them arrive with the old phaeton, the thick-
legged cart-horse, and Wat Greenwood for a driver,
and Reginald, after much growling at Maurice, much
bawling at William’s door, and, as Jane said, ramp-
ing and roaring in all parts of the house, was forced
to be resigned to his fate, and all the way to Hether-
ington, held a very amusing conversation with his
good-natured friend the keeper.

They were overtaken, nodded to, and passed by the
rest of their party. Maurice had been reduced to
ride the pony, William came with the Westons, and
the chariot load was just as had been before
arranged.

Claude came out to meet them at the door, saying,
“I need not have gone so early. What do you
think has become of the hero of the day ? Guess, I
will just give you this hint,

4 Though on pleasure he was bent, he had no selfish mind.’ ”

“ Oh ! the Aylmers, I suppose,” said Lilias.

“Right, Lily, he heard something at dinner
yesterday about a school for clergymen’s sons, which
struck him as likely to suit young Devereux Aylmer,
and off* he set at seven o’clock this morning to
Raynham, to breakfast with Mrs. Aylmer, and talk
to her about it. Never let me hear again that he is
engrossed with his own affairs !”

“ And why is he in such a hurry ?” asked Lily.

“ ’Tis his nature,” said Claude, “ besides, Travers,
who mentioned this school, goes away to-morrow.
My aunt is in a fine fright lest he should not come

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back in time. Do not you hear her telling Papa so
in the drawing-room ?”

“ There he is, riding up to the door,” said Phyllis,
who had joined them in the hall. Lord Rotherwood
stopped for a few moments at the door to give some
directions to the servants, and then came quickly in.
“ Ah ! there you are ! what time is it ? it is all
right, Claude, Devereux is just the right age, I
asked him a few questions this morning, and he will
stand a capital examination. Ha, Phyl, I am glad to
see you.”

“ I wish you many happy returns of the day,
cousin Rotherwood.”

“ Thank you, Phyl, we had better see how we get
through one such day before we wish it to return.
Are the rest come ?”

He went on into the drawing-room, and hastily
informing his mother, that he had sent the carriage
to fetch Miss Aylmer and her brothers to the feast,
called Claude to come out on the lawn to look at the
preparations. The bowling-green was to serve as
drawing-room, and at one end was pitched an im-
mense tent where the dinner was to be.

“ I say, Claude,” said he, in his quickest and most
confused way, “ I depend upon you for one thing.
Do not let the Baron be too near me.”

“ The Baron of Beef,” said Claude.

“ No, the Baron of Beechcroft. If you wish my
speech to be radara tadara , put him where I can
imagine that he hears me.”

“ Very well,” said Claude, laughing, “ have you
any other commands ?”

x

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306 SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ No — yes, I have though. You know what we
settled about the toasts. Hunt up old Farmer Elder-
held as soon as he comes, and do not frighten him.
If you could sit next to him and make him get up at
the right time, it would be, best. Tell him I will not
let any one propose my health but my great grand-
father’s tenant. You will manage it best. And tell
Frank Hawkes worth, and Mr. Weston, or some of
them to manage so that the gentry may not sit
together in a herd, two or three together would be
best. Mind, Claude, I depend on you for being
attentive to all the damsels. I cannot be everywhere
at once, and I see your great Captain will be of no
use to me.”

Here news was brought that the labourers had
begun to arrive, and the party went to the walnut
avenue, where the feast was spread. It was plea-
sant to see so many poor families enjoying their
excellent dinner, but, perhaps the pleasantest sight
was, the Lord of the feast, speaking to each poor
man with all his bright good-natured cordiality.
Mr. Mohun was surprised to see how well he knew
them all, considering how short a time he had been
among them, and Lilias found Florence rise in her
estimation, when she perceived that the inside of the
Hetherington cottages was not unknown to her.

“ Do you know, Florence,” said she, as they
walked back to the house together, “ I did you great
injustice, I never expected you to know or care
about poor people.”

“ No more I did till this winter,” said Florence ;
“ I could not do anything, you know, before. In-

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deed, I do not do much now, only Rotherwood has
made me go into the school now and then ; and
when first we came, he made it his especial request
that whenever a poor woman came to ask for any-
thing I would go and speak to her. And so I could
not help being interested about those I knew.”

“ How odd it is that we never talked about it,”
said Lily.

"I never talk of it,” said Florence, “because
Mamma never likes to hear of my going into cot-
tages with Rotherwood. Besides, somehow I thought
you did it as a matter of duty, and not of plea-
sure. Oh ! Rotherwood, is that you ?”

“The Aylmers are come,” said Lord Rother-
wood, drawing her arm into his, “ and I want you to
come and speak to them, Florence and Lily ; I can’t
find any one ; all the great elders have vanished.
You know them of old, do not you, Lily ?”

“ Of old ? Yes ; but of so old that I do not sup-
pose they will know me. You must introduce me.”
He hastened them to the drawing-room, where
they found Miss Aylmer, a sensible, lady-like look-
ing person, and two brothers, of about fifteen and
thirteen.

“Well, Miss Aylmer, I have brought you two
old friends ; so old, that they think you have for-
gotten them, — my cousin Lilias, and my sister Flo-
rence.”

“We have not forgotten you, Miss Aylmer,” said
Florence, warmly shaking hands with her. “You
seem so entirely to belong to Hetherington that I
scarcely knew the place without you.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

There was something that particularly pleased
Lily, in the manner in which Miss Aylmer an-
swered. Florence talked a little while, and then
proposed to adjourn to the supplementary drawing-
room — the lawn — where the company were already
assembling.

Florence soon was called off to receive some other
guest, and Lilias spent a considerable time in sitting
under a tree, talking to Miss Aylmer, whom she
found exceedingly pleasant and agreeable, remem-
bering all that had happened during their former
intercourse, and interested in everything that was
going on. Lily was much amused when her com-
panion asked her who that gentleman was — “that
tall, thin young man, with dark hair, whom she had
seen once or twice speaking to Lord Rotherwood.”

The tall gentleman advanced, spoke to Miss Ayl-
mer, told Lily tha^ the world was verging towards
the tent, and giving one arm to her and the other to
Miss Aylmer, took that direction. In the mean
time, Phyllis had been walking about with her eldest
sister, and wondering what had become of all the
others. In process of time she found herself seated
on a high bench in the tent, with a most beautiful
pink and white sugar temple on the table before her.
She was between Eleanor and Frank. All along
one side of the table was a row of faces which she
had never seen before, and she gazed at them, in
search of some well-known countenance. At last
Mr. Weston caught her eye, and nodded to her.
Next to him she saw Marianne, then Reginald ; on
the other side, Alethea and William. A little tran-

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quillized by seeing that every one was not lost, she
had courage to eat some cold chicken, to talk to
Frank about the sugar temple, and to make an in-
ventory in her mind of the smartest bonnets, for
Ada’s benefit. She was rather unhappy at not
having found out when Grace was said before dinner,
and she made Eleanor promise to tell her in time to
stand up after dinner. She could not, however,
hear much, though warned in time, and by this time
more at ease, and rather enjoying herself than other-
wise. Now Eleanor told her to listen, for cousin
Rotherwood was going to speak. She listened, but
knew not what was said, until Mr. Hawkesworth
told her it was Church and Queen. What Church
and Queen had to do with cousin Rotherwood’s
birthday she could not imagine, and she laid it up in
her mind, to ask Claude. The next time she was
told to listen, she managed to^bear more. By the
help of Eleanor’s directions, she found out the
speaker, an aged farmer, m a drab great coat, his
head bald, excepting a little silky white hair, which
fell over the collar of his coat. It was Mr. Elder-
field, the oldest tenant on the estate, and he was
saying in a slow deliberate tone, that he was told he
was to propose his Lordship’s health. It was a great
honour for the like of him, and his Lordship must
excuse him if he did not make a fine speech. All
he could say was, that he had lived eighty-three
years on the estate, and held his farm nearly sixty
years ; he had seen three Marquises of Rotherwood
besides his present Lordship, and he had always
found them very good landlords. He hoped and be-

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

lieved his Lordship was like his fathers, and he was
sure he could do no better than tread in their steps.
He proposed the health of Lord Rotherwood, and
many happy returns of the day to him.

The simplicity and earnestness of the old man’s
tone were appreciated by all, and the tremendous
cheer, which almost terrified Phyllis, was a fit assent
to the hearty good wishes of the old farmer.

“ Now comes the trial !” whispered Claude to
Lilias, after he had vehemently contributed his pro-
portion to the noise. Lilias saw that his colour had
risen, as much as if he had to make a speech him-
self, and he earnestly examined the coronet on his
fork, while every other eye was fixed on the Mar-
quis. Eloquence was not to be expected ; but, at
least, Lord Rotherwood spoke clearly and distinctly.

“My friends,” said he, “you must not expect
much of a speech from me ; I can only thank you
for your kindness, say how glad I am to see you
here, and tell you of my earnest desire that I may
not prove myself unworthy to be compared with my
forefathers.” Here was a pause. Claude’s hand
shook, and Lily saw how anxious he was, but in
another moment the Marquis went on smoothly.
“ Now I must ask you to drink the health of a gen-
tleman who has done his utmost to compensate for
the loss which we sustained nine years ago, and to
whom I owe any good intentions which I may bring
to the management of this property. I beg leave to
propose the health of my uncle, Mr. Mohun, of
Beechcroft.”

Claude was much surprised, for his cousin had

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never given him a hint of his intention. It was a
moment of great delight to all the young Mohuns,
when the cheer rose as loud and hearty as for the
young Lord himself, and Phyllis smiled, and won-
dered when she saw her Papa rise to make answer.
He said that he could not attempt to answer Lord
Rotherwood, as he had not heard what he said, but
that he was much gratified by his having thought of
him on this occasion, and by the good-will which all
had expressed. This was the last speech that was
interesting ; Lady Rotherwood’s health, and a few
more toasts, followed, and the party then left the
tent for the lawn, where the cool air was most re-
freshing, and the last beams of the evening sun were
lighting the tops of the trees.

The dancing was now to begin, and this was the
time for Claude to be useful. He had spent so
much time at home, and had accompanied his father
so often in his rides, that he knew every one, and he
was inclined to make every exertion in the cause of
his cousin, and on this occasion seemed to have laid
aside his indolence, and disinclination to speak to
strangers.

Lady Florence was also indefatigable, darting
about, with a wonderful perception who every body
was, and with whom each would like to dance. She
seized upon little Devereux Aylmer for her own
partner, before any one else had time to ask her, and
carried him about the lawn, hunting up and pairing
other shy people.

“ Why, Reginald, what are you about ? You can

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

manage a country dance. Make haste ; where is
your partner ?”

“ I meant to dance with Miss Weston,” said Regi-
nald piteously.

“ Miss Weston ? Here she is.”

“ That is only Marianne,” said Reginald.

“Oh! Miss Weston is dancing with William.
Marianne, will you accept my apologies for this dis-
courteous cousin of mine ? I am perfectly horror-
struck. There, Redgie, take her with a good grace ;
you will never have a better partner.”

Marianne was only too glad to have Reginald
presented to her, ungracious as he was, hut the poor
little couple met with numerous disasters. They
neither of them knew the way through a country
dance, and were almost run over, every time they
went down the middle ; Reginald’s heels were very
inconvenient to his neighbours ; so much so, that
once Claude thought it expedient to admonish him,
that dancing was not merely an elegant name for
foot-ball without a ball. Every now and then, some
of their friends gave them a hasty intimation that
they were all wrong, but that they knew already but
too well. At last, just when Marianne had turned
scarlet with vexation, and Reginald was growing so
desperate that he had thoughts of running away, the
dance came to an end, and Reginald, with very
scanty politeness to his partner, rushed away to her
sister, saying, in rather a reproachful tone, “ Miss
Weston, you promised to dance with me.”

“ I have not forgotten my promise,” said Alethea,
smiling.

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At the same moment Claude hurried up, saying,
“ William, I want a partner for Miss Wilkins, of the
Wold Farm. Miss Wilkins, let me introduce Cap-
tain Mohun.”

“You see I have made the Captain available,”
said Claude, presently after meeting Lord Rother-
wood, as he speeded across the lawn.

“ Have you ? I did not think him fair game,” said
the Marquis. “ Where is your heroine, Claude ? I
have not seen her dancing.”

“ What heroine ? What do you mean ?”

“ Honest Phyl, of course. Did you think I
meant Miss Weston ?”

“With Eleanor, somewhere. Is the next dance
a quadrille ?”

Lord Rotherwood ran up the bank to the terraced
walks, where the undancing part of the company sat
or walked about. Soon he spied Phyllis, standing
by Eleanor, looking rather wearied. “ Phyllis, can
you dance a quadrille ?”

Phyllis opened her eyes, and Eleanor desired her
to answer.

“ Come, Phyllis, let me see what M. Le Roi has
done for you.”

He led her away, wondering greatly, and thinking
how very good-natured cousin Rotherwood was.

Emily was much surprised to find Phyllis her
vis d vis . Emily was very generally known and
liked, and had no lack of grand partners, but she
would have liked to dance with the Marquis. When
the quadrille was over, she was glad to put herself in
his way, by coming up to take charge of Phyllis.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ Well done, Phyl,” said he ; “ no mistakes. You
must have another dance. Whom shall we find for
you ?”

“ Oh ! Rotherwood,” said Emily, u you cannot
think how you gratified us all with your speech.”

“ Ah ! I always set my heart on saying something
of the kind ; but I wished I could have dared to add
the bride’s health.”

“ The bride !”

“ Do not pretend to have no eyes,” said Lord
Rotherwood, with a significant glance, which di-
rected Emily’s eyes to the terrace, where Mr. Mohun
and Alethea were walking together, in eager conver-
sation.

Emily was ready to sink into the earth. Jane’s
surmises, and the mysterious words of her father,
left her no further doubt. At this moment some
one asked her to dance, and scarcely knowing what
she did or said, she walked to her place. Lord
Rotherwood now found a partner for Phyllis, and a
farmer’s daughter for himself.

This dance over, Phyllis’s partner did not well
know how to dispose of her, and she grew rather
frightened on finding that none of her sisters were
in sight. At last she perceived Reginald standing
on the bank, and made her escape to him.

“ Redgie, did you see who I have been dancing
with ? Cousin Rotherwood, and Claude’s grand
Oxford friend — Mr. Travers.”

“ It is all nonsense,” said Reginald. “ Come out
of this mob of people.”

“ But where is Eleanor ?”

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“ Somewhere in the midst. They are all absurd
together.”

“ What is the matter, Redgie ?” asked Phyllis,
unable to account for this extraordinary fit of mis-
anthropy.

“ Papa and William both driving me about like a
dog,” said Reginald $ “ first I danced with Miss
Weston, then she saw that woman — that Miss Ayl-
mer — shook hands — talked — and then nothing would
serve her but to find Papa. As soon as the Baron
sees me, he cries out, ‘ Why are not you dancing,
Redgie ? We do not want you !’ Up and down they
walk, ever so long, and presently Papa turns off, and
begins talking to Miss Aylmer. Then, of course, I
went back to Miss Weston, but then up comes Wil-
liam, as savage as one of his Canadian bears ; he
orders me off too, and so here I am ! I am sure I
am not going to ask any one else to dance. Come,
and walk with me in peace, Phyl. Do you see
them ? — Miss Weston and Marianne under that
tulip tree, and the Captain helping them to ice.”

“Redgie, did you give Miss Weston her nosegay ?
Some one put such beautiful flowers in it, such as
I never saw before.”

“ How could I ? They sent me off with Lily and
Jane. I told William I had the flowers in charge,
and he said he would take care of them. By the
bye, Phyl,” and Reginald gave a wondrous spring,
“ I have it ! I have it ! I have it ! If he is not in
love with Miss Weston, you may call me an ass for
the rest of my life.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ I should not like to call you an ass, Redgie,” said
Phyllis.

“Very likely ; but do not make me call you one.
Hurrah ! Now ask Marianne if it is not so. Ma-
rianne must know. How jolly ! I say, Phyl, stay
there, and I will fetch Marianne.”

Away ran Reginald, and presently returned with
Marianne, who was very glad to be invited to join
Phyllis. She little knew what an examination
awaited her.

“ Marianne,” began Phyllis, “ Til tell you what — ”
“ No, I will do it right,” said Reginald ; “ you
know nothing about it, Phyl. Marianne, is not
something going on there ?”

“ Going on ?” said Marianne, “ Alethea is speak-
ing to Mrs. Hawkesworth.”

“ Nonsense, I know better, Marianne. I have a
suspicion that I could tell what the Captain was
about yesterday, when he walked off after dinner.”

“ How very wise you think you look, Reginald !”
said Marianne, laughing heartily.

“ But tell us ; do tell us, Marianne,” said Phyllis.
" Tell you what ?”

“ Whether William is going to marry Miss Wes-
ton,” said the straightforward Phyllis ; “ Redgie
says so— only tell us. Oh ! it would be so nice !”

“ How you blurt it out, Phyl,” said Reginald.
“ You do not know how those things are managed.
Mind, I found it out all myself. Just say, Mari-
anne. Am not I right ?”

“I do not know whether I ought to tell,” said
Marianne.

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THE THIRTIETH OF JULY. 317

“ Oh ! then it is all right,” said Reginald, “ and I
found it out. Now, Marianne, there is a good girl,
tell us all about it.”

“ You know I could not say ‘ No’ when you asked
me,” said Marianne ; “ I could not help it really,
but pray do not tell any body, or Captain Mohun
will not like it.”

“ Does any one know ?” said Reginald.

“ Only ourselves and Mr. Mohun ; and I think
Lord Rotherwood guesses, from something I heard
him say to Jane.”

“ To Jane ?” said Reginald. “ That is provoking ;
she will think she found it out all herself, and be so
conceited !”

“ You need not be afraid,” said Marianne, laugh-
ing : “ Jane is on quite a wrong scent.”

“ Jane ? Oh ! I should like to see her out in her
reckonings ! I should like to have a laugh against
her. What does she think, Marianne ?”

“ Oh ! I cannot tell you ; it is too bad.”

“ Oh ! do ; do, pray. You may whisper it if it
is too bad for Phyllis to hear.”

“ No, no,” said Marianne ; “ it is nothing but
nonsense. If you hear it, Phyllis shall too ; but
mind, you must promise not to say any thing to any
body, or I do not know what will become of me.”

“Well, we will not,” said Reginald ; “boys can
always keep secrets, and Til engage for Phyl. Now
for it.”

“ She is in a terrible fright, lest it should be Mr.
Mohun. She got it into her head last autumn, and
all I could say, would not persuade her out of it.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

Why, she always calls me aunt Marianne when we
are alone. Now, Reginald, here comes Maurice.
Do not say any thing, I beg and entreat. It is my
secret, you know. I dare say you will all be told
to-morrow, indeed, Mamma said so, but pray say
nothing about me, or Jane. It was only settled
yesterday evening.”

At this moment Maurice came up, with a message
that Miss Weston and Eleanor were going away,
and wanted the little girls. They followed him to
the tent, which had been cleared of the tables, and
lighted up, in order that the dancing might continue
there. Most of their own party were collected at the
entrance, watching for them. Lilias came up just
as they did, and exclaimed in a tone of disappoint-
ment, on finding them preparing to depart. She
had enjoyed herself exceedingly, found plenty of
partners, and was not in the least tired.

“ Why should she not stay ?” said William,
“Claude has engaged to stay to the end of every
thing, and he may as well drive as ride the grey.”
“And you, Jenny,” said Mr. Mohun, “do you
like to stay or go ? Alethea will make room for you
in the pony-carriage, or you may go with Eleanor.”
“ With Eleanor, if you please,” said Jane.

“ Already, Jane ?” said Lily. “Are you tired ?”
Jane drew her aside. “ Tired of hearing that I
was right about what you would not believe. Did
you not hear what he called her ? And Rotherwood
has found it out.”

“ It is all gossip and mistake,” said Lily.

Here Jane was called away by Eleanor, and de-

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parted with her ; Lilias went to look for her aunt or
Florence, but on the way, was asked to dance by
Mr. Carrington.

“ I suppose I may congratulate you,” said he, in
one of the pauses in the quadrille.

Lily thought it best to misunderstand, and an-
swered, “ Every thing has gone off very well.”

“ Very. Lord Rotherwood will be a popular man,
but my congratulations refer to something nearer
home. I think you owe us some thanks for having
brought them into the neighbourhood.”

“Report is very kind in making arrangements,”
said Lily, with something of Emily’s haughty
courtesy.

“ I hope this is something more than report,” said
her partner.

“ Indeed, I believe not. I think I may safely say
that it is at present quite unfounded,” said Lily.

Mr. Carrington, much surprised, said no more.

Lily did not believe the report sufficiently to be
annoyed by it, during the excitement and pleasure
of the evening, and at present her principal vexation
was caused by the rapid diminution of the company.
She and her brother were the very last to depart,
even Florence had gone to bed, and Lady Rother-
w6od, looking exceedingly tired, kissed Lily at the
foot of the stairs, pitied her for going home in an
open carriage, and wished her good-night in a very
weary tone.

“ I should think you were the fiftieth lady I have
handed across the hall,” said Lord Rotherwood, as
he gave Lily his arm.

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SCENES AND CHABACTEBS.

“ But where were the fireworks, Rotherwood ?”

“ Countermanded long ago. We have had enough
of them. Well, I am sorry it is over.”

“Iam very glad it is so well over,” said Claude.
“Thanks to your exertions, Claude,” said the
Marquis. “ You acted like a hero.”

“Like a dancing dervish, you mean,” said Claude.
“ It will suffice for my whole life.”

“ I hope you are not quite exhausted.”

“ No, thank you. I have turned over a new leaf.”
“ Talking of new leaves,” said the Marquis, “I
always had a presentiment that Emily’s government
would come to a crisis to-day.”

“ Do you think it has ?” said Claude.

“Trust my word, you will hear great news to-
morrow. And that reminds me — can you come here
to-morrow morning ? Travers is going — I drive
him to meet the coach at the town, and you were
talking of wanting to see the new windows in the
Cathedral : it will be a good opportunity. And dine
here afterwards to talk over the adventures.”

“ Thank you, that last I cannot do. The Baron
was saying it would be the first time of having us all
together.”

“Very well, besides the great news. I wish I
was going back with you, it is a tame conclusion,
only to go to bed. If I was but to be on the scene
of action to-morrow. Tell the Baron that — no, use
your influence to get me invited to dinner on Satur-
day, I really want to speak to him.”

“Very well,” said Claude, “I’ll do my best.
Good-night.”

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321

“ Good-night,” said the Marquis. “ You have
both done wonders. Still, I wish it was to come
over again.”

“ Few people would say so,” said Lily, as they
drove off.

“Few would say so if they thought so,” said
Claude. “I have been quite admiring the way
Rotherwood has gone on — enjoying the fun as if
he was nobody — -just as Reginald might, making
other people happy, and making no secret of his
satisfaction in it all.”

“Very free from affectation and nonsense,” said
Lily, “ as William said of him last Christmas. You
were in a fine fright about his speech, Claude.”

“ More than I ought to have been. I should have
known that he is too simple-minded and straight-
forward, to say anything but just what he ought.
What a nice person that Miss Aylmer is.”

“ Is not she, Claude ? I was very glad you had
her for a neighbour. Happy the children who have
her for a governess. How sensible and gentle she
seems. The Westons — But oh ! Claude, tell me
one thing, did you hear — ”

“Well, what?”

“lam ashamed to say. * That preposterous report
about Papa. Why Rotherwood himself seems to
believe it, and Mr. Carrington began to congratu-
late — *

“ The public has bestowed so many ladies on the
Baron, that I wonder it is not tired,” said Claude.
“ It is time it should patronize William instead.”

“ Rotherwood is not the public,” said Lily, “ and

Y

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

he is the last person to say anything impertinent of
Papa. And I myself heard Papa call her Alethea,
which he never used to do. Claude, what do you
think r

After a long pause Claude slowly replied, “ Think ?
Why, I think Miss Weston must be a person of
great courage. She begins the world as a grand-
mother, to say nothing of her eldest daughter and
son being considerably her seniors.”

“ I do not believe it,” said Lily. “ Do you,
Claude ?”

“ I cannot make up my mind, it is too amazing.
My hair is still standing on end. When it comes
down, I may be able to tell you something.”

Such were the only answers that Lily could ex-
tract from him. He did not sufficiently disbelieve
the report, to treat it with scorn, yet he did not suf-
ficiently credit it to resign himself to such a state of
things.

On coming home, Lily found Emily and Jane in
her room, eagerly discussing the circumstances,
which, to their prejudiced eyes, seemed strong con-
firmation. While their tongues were in full career,
the door opened, and Eleanor appeared. She told
them it was twelve o’clock, turned Jane out of the
room, and made Emily and Lily promise not to utter
another syllable that night.

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323

CHAPTER XXX.

THE CRISIS.

“ ‘ Is this your care of the nest,’ cried he,

‘It comes of your gadding abroad,’ said she.*'

To the consternation of the disconsolate damsels,
the first news they heard the next morning, was that
Mr. Mohun was gone to breakfast at Broomhill, and
the intelligence was received by Frank Hawkesworth
with a smile which they thought perfectly malicious.
Frank, William, and Reginald, talked a little at
breakfast about the fete , but no one joined them,
and Claude looked so grave, that Eleanor was con-
vinced that he had a headache, and vainly tried to
persuade him to remain at home, instead of setting
off to Devereux Castle immediately after breakfast.

The past day had not been spent in vain by Ada.
Mrs. Weston had led her by degrees to open her
heart to her, had made her perceive the real cause
of her father’s displeasure, see her faults, and pro-
mise to confess them, a promise which she performed

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

with many tears, as soon as she saw Eleanor in the
morning.

On telling this to Emily, Eleanor was surprised to
find that she was not listened to with much satisfac-
tion. Emily seemed to think it a piece of inter-
ference on the part of Mrs. Weston, and would not
allow that it was likely to be the beginning of im-
provement in Ada.

“ The words were put into her mouth,” said she,
“ and they were an easy way of escaping from her
present state of disgrace.”

“ On the contrary,” said Eleanor. “ She seemed
to think that she justly deserved to be in disgrace.”

“ Did you think so ?” said Emily, in a careless tone.

“ You are in a strange mood to-day, Emily,” said
Eleanor.

“ Am I ? I did not know it. I wonder where
Lily is.”

Lily was in her own room, teaching Phyllis.
Phyllis was rather wild and flighty that morning,
scarcely able to command her attention, and every
now and then bursting into an irrepressible fit of
laughter. Reginald and Phyllis found it most diffi-
cult to avoid betraying Marianne, and as soon as
luncheon was over, they agreed to set out on a long
expedition into the woods, where they might enjoy
their wonderful secret together. Just at this time,
Mr. Mohun returned. He came into the drawing-
room, and Lilias, perceiving that the threatened con-
versation with Emily, was about to take place, made
her escape to her own room, whither she was pre-
sently followed by Jane, who could not help running

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325

after her to report the great news, that Emily was to
be deposed.

“ I am sure of it,” said she. “ They sent me out
of the room, but not before I had seen certain symp-
toms.”

“ It is very hard that poor Emily should bear all
the blame,” said Lily.

“ You have managed to escape it very well.” said
Jane, laughing. “You have all the thanks and
praise. I suppose it is because the intimacy with
Miss Weston was your work.”

“ I will not believe that nonsense,” said Lily.

“ Seeing is believing, they say,” said Jane. “ Re-
member, it is not only me. Think of Rotherwood.
And Maurice guesses it too, and Redgie told him
great things were going on.”

While Jane was speaking, they heard the drawing-
room door open, and in another moment Emily
came in.

It was true that, as Jane said, she had been de-
posed. Mr. Mohun had begun by saying, “ Emily,
can you bring me such an account of your expendi-
ture as I desired ?”

“ I scarcely think I can, Papa,” said Emily. “ I
am sorry to say that my accounts are rather in con-
fusion.”

“ That is to say, that you have been as irregular
in the management of your own affairs, as you have
in mine. Well, I have paid your debt to Lilias, and
from this time forward, I require of you to reduce
your expenses to the sum which I consider suitable,
and which both Eleanor and Lilias have found per-

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

fectly sufficient. And now, Emily, what have you
to say for the management of my affairs ? Can you
offer any excuse for your utter failure ?”

“Indeed, Papa, I am very sorry I vexed you,”
said Emily. “ Our illness last autumn — different
things — I know all has not been quite as it should
be, but 1 hope that in future I shall profit by past
experience.”

“ I hope so,” said Mr. Mohun, “ but I am afraid
to trust the management of the family to you any
longer. Your trial is over, and you have failed,
merely because you would not exert yourself, from
wilful indolence and negligence. You have not at-
tended to any one thing committed to your charge,
you have placed temptation in Esther’s way, and
allowed Ada to take up habits which will not be
easily corrected. I should not think myself justified
in leaving you in charge any longer, lest worse mis-
chief should ensue. I wish you to give up the keys
to Eleanor for the present.”

Mr. Mohun would perhaps have added something,
if Emily had shown signs of repentance, or even of
sorrow. The moment was at least as painful to him
as to her, and he had prepared himself to expect
either hystirical tears with vows of amendment, or
else an argument on her side that she was right, and
every body else wrong. But there was nothing of
the kind ; Emily neither spoke nor looked, she only
carried the tokens of her authority to Eleanor, and
left the room. She thought she knew well enough
the cause of her deposition, considered it quite as a
matter of course, and departed on purpose to avoid

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327

hearing the announcement which she expected to
follow.

She was annoyed by finding her sisters in her
room, and especially irritated by Jane’s tone, as she
eagerly asked, “ Well, what did he say ?”

“ Never mind,” replied Emily, pettishly.

“ Was it about Miss Weston ?” persisted Jane.

“ Not actually, but I saw it was coming,” said
Emily.

“ Ah !” said Jane, “I was just telling Lily that
she owes all her present favour to her having been
Alethea’s bosom friend.”

“ I confess I thought Miss Weston was assuming
authority long ago,” said Emily.

“ Emily, how can you say so ?” cried Lily. “ How
can you be so unjust and ungrateful ? I do not be-
lieve this report ; but if it should be true, are not
these foolish expressions of dislike, so many attempts
to make yourself undutiful ?”

“ I have rather more sincerity, more dignity, more
attachment to my own mother, than to try to gain
favour by affecting what I do not feel,” said Emily.

“Rather cutting, Emily,” said Jane.

“ Do not give that speech an application which
Emily did not intend,” said Lily, sadly.

“ What makes you think I did not intend it ?” said
Emily, coldly.

“ Emily !” exclaimed Lily, starting up, and colour-
ing violently, “ are you thinking what you are say-
ing ?”

“ I do not know what you mean,” replied Emily,
quietly, in her soft, unchanging voice, “ I only mean

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

that if you can feel satisfied with the new arrange-
ment, you are more easily pleased than I am.”

“Only tell me, Emily, do you accuse me of at-
tempting to gain favour in an unworthy manner T
“ I only congratulate you on standing so well with
every one.”

Lily hid her face in her hands. At this moment,
Eleanor opened the door, saying, “Can you come
down ? Mrs. Burnet is here.” Eleanor went with-
out observing Lily, and Emily was obliged to follow.
Jane lingered in order to comfort Lily.

“ You know she did not quite mean it,” said she,
“ she is only very much provoked.”

“ I know, I know,” said Lily, “ she is very sorry
herself by this time. Of course she did not mean it,
but it is the first unkind thing she ever said to me.
It is very silly and very unjust to take it seriously,
but I cannot help it.”

“ It is a very abominable shame,” said Jane, “and
so I shall tell Emily.”

“No, do not, Jenny, I beg. I know she thinks so
herself, and grieves too much over it. No wonder
she is vexed. All my faults have come upon her.
You had better go down, Jane, Mrs. Burnet is
always vexed if she does not see a good many of us,
and I am sure I cannot go. Besides, Emily dislikes
having that girl to entertain.”

“ Lily, you are so very gentle and forgiving, that
I wonder how any one can say what grieves you,”
said Jane, for once struck with admiration.

She went, and Lily remained, weeping over the

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injustice which she had forgiven, and feeling as if, all
the time, it was fair that the rule of “ love” should,
as it were, recoil upon her. Her tears flowed fast,
as she went over the long line of faults and follies,
which lay heavy on her conscience. And Emily
against her ! That sister, who from her infancy had
soothed her in every trouble, of whose sympathy she
had always felt sure, whose gentleness had been her
admiration in her days of sharp answers and violent
temper, who had seemed her own beyond all the
others ; this wound from her, gave Lily a bitter feel-
ing of desertion and loneliness. It was like a com-
pletion of her punishment, the broken reed on which
she leant had pierced her deeply.

She was still sitting on the side of her bed, weep-
ing, when a slight tap at the door made her start —
a gentle tap, the sound of which, she had learned to
love, in her illness. The next moment Alethea stood
before her, with outstretched arms. This was a
time to feel the value of such a friend, and every
suspicion passing from her mind, she flew to Alethea,
kissed her again and again, and laid her head on
her shoulder. Her caress was returned with equal
warmth.

“ But how is this ?” said Alethea, now perceiving
that her face was pale, and marked by tears. “ How
is this, my dear Lily ?”

“ Oh, Alethea ! I cannot tell you, but it is all
misery. The full effect of my baneful principle has
appeared !”

“ Has any thing happened ?” exclaimed Alethea.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ No,” said Lily. “ There is nothing new, except
the — Oh ! I cannot tell you.”

“ I wish I could do any thing for you, my poor
Lily,” said Alethea.

“ You can look kind,” said Lily, “ and that is a
great comfort. Oh I Alethea, it was very kind of
you to come and speak to me. I shall do now, I can
bear it all better. You have a comforting face and
voice like nobody else. When did you come ? Have
you been in the drawing-room ?”

“ No,” said Alethea. “ I walked here with Mari-
anne, and finding there were visitors in the drawing-
room, we went to Ada, and she told me where to
find you. I had something to tell you — but perhaps
you know already.”

The colour on her cheek recalled all Lily’s fears,
and to hear the news from herself was an unexpected
trial. She felt as if what she had said justified
Emily’s reproach, and turning away her head, re-
plied, “ Yes, I know.”

Alethea was a little hurt by her coldness, but she
ascribed it to dejection and embarrassment, and blamed
herself for hurrying on what she had to tell, without
sufficient regard for Lily’s distress. There was an
awkward pause, which Alethea broke, by saying,
“Your brother thought you would like to hear it
from me.”

“ My brother !” cried Lily, with a most sudden
change of tone, “ William ? Oh, Alethea ! dearest
Alethea ! I beg your pardon. They had almost made
me believe it was Papa. Oh ! I am so very glad !”

Alethea could not help laughing, and Lily joined

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331

her heartily. Some conversation followed, after
which, Alethea proposed to Lily to walk back to
Broomhill with her. After summoning Marianne,
they set out through the garden, where they were
joined by William, and Lilias betaking herself to
Marianne, heard 'from her a great deal of interesting
news. At Broomhill, she had a very enjoyable talk
with Mrs. Weston, but her chief delight was in her
walk home with her brother. She was high in his
favour, as Alethea’s chief friend. Though usually
reserved, he was now open, and Lily wondered to
find herself honoured with confidence. His at-
tachment had begun in very early days, when first
he knew the Westons at Brighton. Harry’s death
had suddenly called him away, and a few guarded
expressions of his wishes in the course of the next
winter, had been cut short by his father. He then
went to Canada, and had had no opportunity of re-
newing his acquaintance till the last winter, when,
on coming home, to his great joy and surprise, he
found the Westons on the most intimate terms with
his family. He then spoke to his father, who wished
him to take a little more time for consideration, and
he had accordingly waited till the summer. Lily
longed to know his plans for the future, and pre-
sently he went on to say, that his father wished him
to leave the army, live at home, and let Alethea be
the head of the household.

“ Oh, William ! it is perfect. There is an end of
all our troubles. It is as if a great black curtain
was drawn up.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

“ They say such plans never succeed,” said
William, “ but we mean to prove the contrary.”

“ How good it will be for the children,” said Lily.
“ Oh ! why had we not such a guide at first T
“ She has all that Eleanor wants,” said William.

“ My follies were not Eleanor’s fault,” said Lily,
“but I do think I should not have been quite so
silly, if I had known Alethea from the first.”

It was not in the power of William himself to say
more in her praise than Lily. In the eagerness of
their conversation, they walked slowly, and as they
were crossing the last field, the dinner bell rang.
As they quickened their steps, they saw Mr. Mohun
looking at his wheat. Lily told him how late it was.

“ There,” said he, “ I am always looking after other
people’s affairs. Between Rotherwood and William,
I have not a moment for my own crops. However,
my turn is coming, William will have it all on his
hands, and the old deaf useless Baron will sit in his
great chair, and take his ease.”

“Not a bit, Papa,” said Lily, “the Baron will
grow young, and take to dancing. He is talking
nonsense already.”

“ Eh ! Miss Lily turned saucy ? Mrs. William
Mohun must take her in hand. Well, Lily, has he
your consent and approbation ?”

“ I only wish this was eighteen months ago,
Papa.”

“We shall soon come into order, Lily. With
Miss Aylmer for the little ones, and Mrs. Mohun
for the great ones, I have little fear.”

“ Miss Aylmer, Papa ?”

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“ Yes, if all turns out well. We propose to find
a house for her and her mother in the village, and
let her come every day to teach the little ones.”

“ Oh ! I am very glad. We liked her so much.”

“ I hope,” said Mr. Mohun, “ that this plan will
please Claude better than my proposal' of a, governess
last month. He looked as if he expected Minerva
with helmet, and iEgis and all — Now make haste
and dress. Do not let us shock Eleanor, by keeping
dinner waiting longer than we can help.”

Lilias found that her sisters had long been dressed
and gone down. She dressed alone, every now and
then smiling at her own happy looks, reflectedjn^the
glass. Just as she had finished, Claude knocked at
the door, and putting in his head, said, “ Well, Lily,
has the wonderful news come forth ? I see it has, by
your face.”

“ And do you know what it is, Claude ?” said
Lily.

“ I know what Rotherwood meant, and I cannot
think where all our senses were.”

“ And Claude, only say that you like her.”

“ I think it is a very good thing indeed.”

“ Only say that you cordially like her.”

“ I do, I admire her sense and her gentleness
very much, and I think you owe a great deal to her.”
“Then you allow that you were unjust last
summer.”

“I do, but it was owing to you. You were
somewhat foolish, and I thought it was her fault.
Besides, I was quite tired of hearing that extraor-
dinary name of hers for ever repeated.”

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

Here they were summoned to dinner, and hurried
down. The dinner passed very strangely ; some
were in very high spirits, others in a very melan-
choly mood ; Eleanor and Maurice alone preserv ed
the golden mean, and the behaviour of the merry
ones was perfectly unintelligible to the rest. Regi-
nald, still bound by his promise to Marianne, was
wild to make his discovery known, and behaved in
such a strange and comical manner, as to call forth
various reproofs from Eleanor, which provoked dou-
ble mirth from the others. The cause of their
amusement was ostensibly the talking over of yester-
day’s fete, but the laughing was more than ade-
quate, even to the wonderful collection of odd
speeches and adventures which were detailed. Emily
and Jane could not guess what had come to Lily,
and thought her merriment very ill placed. Yet, in
justice to Lily, it must be said, that her joy no
longer made her wild and thoughtless. There was
something guarded and subdued about her, which
made Claude reflect how different she was from the
untamed girl of last summer, who could not be
happy without a sort of intoxication.

The ladies returned to the drawing-room, where
Ada now appeared for the first time, and while they
were congratulating her, Mr. Mohun summoned
Eleanor away. Jane followed at a safe distance to
see where they went. They shut themselves into
the study, and Jane, now meeting Maurice, went
into the garden with him. “It must be coining
now,” said she, “ Oh ! there are William and Claude
talking under the plane-tree.”

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“ Claude has his cunning smile on,” said Maurice.

“ No wonder,” said Jane, “ it is very absurd. I
dare say William will hardly ever come home now.
One comfort is, they will see I was right from the
first.”

Jane and Maurice remained in the garden till tea-
time, and thus missed hearing the whole affair dis-
cussed in the drawing-room, between Emily, Lilias,
and Frank. This was the first news that Emily
heard of it, and a very great relief it was, for she
could imagine liking, and even loving, Alethea as a
sister-in-law. Her chief annoyance was at present
from the perception of the difference between her
own position and that of Lilias. Last year, how
was Lily regarded in the family, and what was her
opinion worth ? Almost nothing ; she was only a
clever, romantic, silly girl, while Emily had credit
at least for discretion. Now Lily was consulted and
sought out by father, brothers, Eleanor, no longer
treated as a child, and what was Emily ? Blamed or
pitied on every side, and left to hear this important
news from the chance mention of her brother-in-law,
himself not fully informed. She had become nobody,
and had even lost the satisfaction, such as it was, of
fancying that her father only made her bad manage-
ment an excuse for his marriage. She heard many
particulars from Lily in the course of the evening,
as they were going to bed, and the sisters talked
with all their wonted affection, although Emily
had not thought it worth while to ijfcvive an old
grievance by asking Lily’s pardon for her unkind

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

speech, and rested satisfied with the knowledge
that her sister knew her heart too well to care
for what she said in a moment of irritation. On
the other hand, Lily did not think that she had a
right to mention the plan of Alethea’s government,
and the next day she was glad of her reserve, for her
father called her to share his early walk for the pur-
pose of talking over the scheme, telling her that
he thought she understood the state of things bet-
ter than Eleanor could, and that he considered that
she had sufficient influence with Emily to pre-
vent her from making Alethea uncomfortable. The
conclusion of the conversation was, that they thought
they might depend upon Emily’s amiability, her
courtesy, and her dislike of trouble, to balance
her love of importance and dignity. And that
Alethea would do nothing to hurt her feelings, and
would assume no authority that she could help, they
felt convinced.

After breakfast, Mr. Mohun called Emily into his
study, informed her of his resolution, to which she
listened with her usual submissive manner, and told
her that he trusted to her good sense and right
feeling to obviate any collisions of authority which
might be unpleasant to Alethea, and hurtful to the
younger ones. She promised all that was desired,
and though, at the moment, she felt hurt and
grieved, she almost immediately recovered her usual
spirits, never high, but always serene, and only
seeking for easy amusement and comfort in whatever
happened. There was no public disgrace in her

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deposition ; it would not seem unnatural to the
neighbours that her brother’s wife should be at the
head of the house, she would gain credit for her
amiability, and she would no longer be respon-
sible or obliged to exert herself, and as to Alethea
herself, she could not help respecting and almost
loving her. It was very well it was no worse.

In the mean time, Lily, struck by a sudden
thought, had hastened to her mother’s little deserted
morning-room, to see if it could not be made a de-
lightful abode for Alethea, and she was considering
of its capabilities, when she started at the sound of
an approaching step. It was the rapid and measured
tread of the Captain, and, in a few moments he en-
tered. “ Thank you,” said he, smiling, “ you are on
the same errand as myself.”

“ Exactly so,” said Lily, “ it will do capitally ;
how pretty Long Acre looks, and what a beautiful
view of the Church !”

“ This room used once to be pretty,” said William,
looking round, disappointed, “ it is very forlorn.”

“ AJi ! but it will look very different when the
chairs do not stand with their backs to the wall. I
do not think Alethea knows of this room, for nobody
has sat in it for years, and we will make it a sur-
prise. And here is your own picture, at ten years
old, over the fire-place ! -I have such a vision, you
will not know the room when I have set it to
rights.”

They went on talking eagerly of the improve-
ments that might be made, and from thence came to
other subjects ; Alethea herself, and the future

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

plans. At last, William asked if Lily knew what
made Jane look as deplorable as she had done for
the last two days, and Lily was obliged to tell him,
with the addition, that Eleanor had begun to inform
her of the real fact, but that she had stopped her by
declaring that she had known it all from the first.
Just as they had mentioned her, Jane, attracted by
the unusual sound of voices in Lady Emily’s room,
came in, asking, what they could be doing there.
Lily would scarcely have dared to reply, but William
said in a grave matter-of-fact way, “ We are think-
ing of having this room newly fitted up.”

. “ For Alethea Weston ?” said Jane, “ how can
you, Lily ? I should have thought at least it was
no laughing matter.”

“ I advise you to follow Lily’s example and make
the best of it,” said William.

“ I do, but it is another thing to stand laughing
here. I see one thing that I shall do, I shall take
away your picture and hang it in my room.”

“ We shall see,” said William, following Lilias,
who had left the room to hide her laughter.

To mystify Jane, was the great amusement of the
day, Reginald finding Maurice possessed with the
same notion, did more to maintain it than the others
would have thought right, and Maurice reporting
his speeches to Jane, she had not the least doubt
that her idea was correct. Lord Rotherwood, who
came to dinner, being informed by Reginald of
the joke, entered heartily into it, but, on the other
hand, Claude thinking it had gone far enough, and
fearing lest she might say something she would

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repent, resolved to contrive that she should be soon
undeceived. An opportunity quickly offered. It
was in the evening, when the younger ones were
sitting on the lawn, leaving the drawing-room to the
elder and more careful ladies ; Lily was lamenting
her speech to Mr. Carrington, and saying, that she
was afraid the world would suspect her of disap-
proving.

“ Ah !” said Lord Rotherwood, “ your blindness
only proves my greatness. Yo el Marques was
China in the map, absorbing all beholders, and even
the magnanimous Mohuns could not perceive—”

“Cannot you imagine,” interrupted Jane, “that
we might shut our eyes to what we did not wish
to see ?”

The singular inappropriateness of this speech set
everyone in a roar, of laughing, and Jane looked
round her utterly bewildered. Every one whom
she asked why they laughed, replied by saying,
“ ask Marianne Weston and at length, after much
puzzling and guessing, and being more laughed at
than had ever before happened to her in her life, she
was obliged to seek an explanation from Marianne,
who might well have triumphed had she been so
disposed. Jane’s character for penetration was en-
tirely destroyed, and the next morning she received
as a present from Claude, an old book, which had
long belonged to the nursery, entitled a Puzzle for a
Curious Girl.

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CONCLUSION.

“ There let Hymen oft appear
In saffron robe, with taper clear,

And pomp, and feast, and revelry,

And mask, and antique pageantry ;

Such sights as youthful poets dream
On summer eves, by haunted stream.”

On the morning of a fine day, late in September,
the Beechcroft bells were ringing merrily, and a
wedding-procession was entering the gate of the
Churchyard.

In the afternoon there was a great feast. on the
top of the hill, attended by all the Mohuns, who
were forced, to Lily’s great satisfaction, to give it
there, as there was no space in the grounds at the
New Court. All was wonderfully suitable to old
times, inasmuch as the Baron was actually per-
suaded to sit for five minutes under the Yew-tree,
where “Mohun’s chair” ought to have been, and
the cricketers were of all ranks, from the Marquis
1 of Rotherwood, to little Dick Grey.

The wedding had been hurried on, and the wed-
ding-tour was shortened, in order that Mrs. William

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CONCLUSION.

341

Mohun might be installed as mistress of the New
Court, before Eleanor’s departure, which took place
early in October, and shortly after, Mrs. Ridley, who
had come on a visit to Beechcroft, to take leave of
her brother, returned to the north, taking with her
the little Harry. He was nearly a year old, and
it gave great pain to his young aunts to part with
him, now that he had endeared himself to them by
many engaging ways, but Lily felt herself too un-
equal to the task of training him up to make any
objection, and there were many promises that he
should not be a stranger to his grandfather’s home.

Mrs. and Miss Aylmer had been about a month
settled at a superior sort of cottage, near the New
Court, with Mrs. Eden for their servant. Lord
Rotherwood had fitted out the second son, who
sailed for India with Mr. and Mrs. Hawkes worth,
had sent Devereux to school, and was lying in wait
to see what could be done for the two others, and
Jane was congratulated far more than she wished,
on having been the means of discovering such an
excellent governess. Jane was now a regular in-
habitant of the school-room, as much tied down to
lessons and school-room hours as her two little
sisters, with the prospect of so continuing for two
years, if not for three. She made one attempt to be
pert to Miss Aylmer, but something in the manner of
her governess quite baffled her, and she was obliged
to be more obedient than she had ever been. The
mischief ’Which Emily and Lilias had done to her, by
throwing off their allegiance to Eleanor, and thus
unconsciously leading her to set her at nought, was,

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SCENES AND CHARACTERS.

at her age, not to be easily repaired $ yet with no
opportunity for gossiping, and, with an involuntary
respect for her governess, there were hopes that she
would lose the habit of her two great faults. There
certainly was an improvement in her general tone
and manner, which made Mr. Devereux hope that he
might soon resume with her the preparation for con-
firmation which had been cut short the year before.

Phyllis and Adeline had been possessed by Regi-
nald with a great dread of governesses, and they
were agreeably surprised in Miss Aylmer, whom
they found neither cross nor strict, and always
willing to forward their amusements, and let them
go out with their papa and sisters whenever they
were asked. Phyllis, without much annoyance to
one so obedient, was trained into more civilization,
and Ada’s more serious faults were duly watched and
guarded against. The removal of Esther was a
great advantage to Ada ; an older and more
steady person was taken in her place, while to
the great relief of Mr. Mohun and Lilias, Rachel
Harvey took Esther to her brother’s farm-house,
where she promised to watch and teach her, and
hoped in time to make her a good servant.

Of Emily there is little to say. She eat, drank,
and slept, talked agreeably, read idle books, and
looked nice in the drawing-room, wasting time,
throwing away talents, weakening the powers of her
mind, and laying up a store of sad reflections for
herself against the time when she must awake from
her selfish apathy.

As to Lilias Mohun, the heroine of this tale, the

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343

history of the formation of her character has been
told, and all that remains to be said of her is, that
the memory of her faults and her sorrows did not
fleet away like a morning cloud, though followed by
many happy and prosperous days, and though the
effects of many were repaired. Agnes’s death,
Esther’s theft, Ada’s accident, the schism in the
parish, and her own numerous mistakes were con-
stantly recalled, and never without a thought of the
danger of being wise above her elders, and taking
mere feeling for Christian charity.

FINIS.

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