Scenes and Characters, or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And welcome,’ said her father.

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

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

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

‘And before that?’

‘The Bride of Lammermoor.’

‘And last week?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV

HONEST PHYL

‘Multiplication
Is a vexation.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘My sum,’ said Phyllis.

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

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