'He is a botanist, and would bore me with looking for weeds. No, I will have you, or stay at home.'

Claude proposed several others as companions, but Lord Rotherwood treated them all with as much disdain 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 undertook 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.'

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

'Not for the Universe, but for U-,' said Lord Rotherwood.

'Worthy of a companion true, of the University 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 arrangements 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 cordial 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 sacrifice 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.

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 sunrise 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 meantime I will call you to-morrow.'

Loud voices and laughter in the hall, and the front door creaking on its hinges at sunrise, 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 was not claimed by any particular owner.

Maurice displayed to Jane the contents of two 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 estimating 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 who had three kinds of handwriting, 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 anywhere 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.

'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-rub her—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 managed 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 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 good-natured 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 everything,' said Lilias.

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

'Never fear,' said Claude, 'my vis inertiae is enough to counterbalance any amount of restlessness.'

'Here they come,' said Lily; 'how Wat Greenwood is grinning at Rotherwood's jokes!'

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

'He must comfort himself with Redgie,' said Claude.

'Rotherwood is only eager about shooting in common with everything 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 farming 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 everything. '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 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 fidgeted and sighed, and Maurice grew graver and graver as they thought of the wasps. Maurice wanted to take a nest entire, and began explaining 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. 'I never was wider awake. What are you waiting for, Reginald? 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 Greenwood 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, 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.'

'I'll 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 Maurice to try again,' said his father.

'The brute, he stung me,' cried Reginald, knocking down a wasp or two as he came down. 'What is this?' added he, as he stumbled over something 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 supposed Jane had given him a 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 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 flies 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 inquiry.

'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.

'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 Rotherwood'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 sentence; 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 presented 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 upstairs, she found Emily full of complaints at the inconvenience of having no Rachel to assist her in dressing, and to see that everything was in order, and that 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 everything went off just as could be wished. Lord Rotherwood talked intelligibly and sensibly, and Mr. Mohun's neighbour 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 countenance, 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. She was asked to play, and did tolerably well, but was too shy to sing, nor, indeed, was Reginald encouraging. 'What is the use of your singing, Lily? If it was like Miss Weston's, now—'

Reginald had taken a great fancy to Miss Weston; he stood by her all the evening, and afterwards let her talk to him, and then began to chatter himself, at last becoming so confidential as to impart to her the grand object of his ambition, which was to be taller than Claude!

The next morning Lord Rotherwood left Beechcroft, 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 everything 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 constitutional indolence, looked on it as a temptation, and struggled against it, almost envying his cousin his unabated eagerness and untiring energy, and liking to be with him, because no one else so effectually roused him from his habitual languor. His indolence 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 his brothers' studies were finished each day, he was unfit for anything 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 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 Marianne.

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.



CHAPTER XI—DANCING



'Prescribe us not our duties.'

'Well, Phyllis,' said her father, as he passed through the hall to mount his horse, 'how do you like the prospect of Monsieur le Roi's instructions?'

'Not at all, papa,' answered Phyllis, running out to the hall door to pat the horse, and give it a piece of bread.

'Take care you turn out your toes,' said Mr. Mohun. 'You must learn to dance like a dragon before Cousin Rotherwood's birthday next year.'

'Papa, how do dragons dance?'

'That is a question I must decide at my leisure,' said Mr. Mohun, mounting. 'Stand out of the way, Phyl, or you will feel how horses dance.'

Away he rode, while Phyllis turned with unwilling steps to the nursery, to be dressed for her first dancing lesson; Marianne Weston was to learn with her, and this was some consolation, but Phyllis could not share in the satisfaction Adeline felt in the arrival of Monsieur le Roi. Jane was also a pupil, but Lily, whose recollections of her own dancing days were not agreeable, absented herself entirely from the dancing-room, even though Alethea Weston had come with her sister.

Poor Phyllis danced as awkwardly as was expected, but Adeline seemed likely to be a pupil in whom a master might rejoice; Marianne was very attentive and not ungraceful, but Alethea soon saw reason to regret the arrangement that had been made, for she perceived that Jane considered the master a fair subject for derision, and her 'nods and becks, and wreathed smiles,' called up corresponding looks in Marianne's face.

'Oh Brownie, you are a naughty thing!' said Emily, as soon as M. le Roi had departed.

'He really was irresistible!' said Jane.

'I suppose ridicule is one of the disagreeables to which a dancing- master makes up his mind,' said Alethea.

'Yes,' said Jane, 'one can have no compunction in quizzing that species.'

'I do not think I can quite say that, Jane,' said Miss Weston.

'This man especially lays himself open to ridicule,' said Jane; 'do you know, Alethea, that he is an Englishman, and his name is King, only he calls himself Le Roi, and speaks broken English!'

Though Alethea joined in the general laugh, she did not feel quite satisfied; she feared that if not checked in time, Jane would proceed to actual impertinence, and that Marianne would be tempted to follow her example, but she did not like to interfere, and only advised Marianne to be on her guard, hoping that Emily would also speak seriously to her sister.

On the next occasion, however, Jane ventured still farther; her grimaces were almost irresistible, and she had a most comical manner of imitating the master's attitudes when his eye was not upon her, and putting on a demure countenance when he turned towards her, which sorely tried Marianne.

'What shall I do, Alethea?' said the little girl, as the sisters walked home together; 'I do not know how to help laughing, if Jane will be so very funny.'

'I am afraid we must ask mamma to let us give up the dancing,' replied Alethea; 'the temptation is almost too strong, and I do not think she would wish to expose you to it.'

'But, Alethea, why do not you speak to Jane?' asked Marianne; 'no one seems to tell her it is wrong; Miss Mohun was almost laughing.'

'I do not think Jane would consider that I ought to find fault with her,' said Alethea.

'But you would not scold her,' urged Marianne; 'only put her in mind that it is not right, not kind; that Monsieur le Roi is in authority over her for the time.'

'I will speak to mamma,' said Alethea, 'perhaps it will be better next time.'

And it was better, for Mr. Mohun happening to be at home, was dragged into the dancing-room by Emily and Ada. Once, when she thought he was looking another way, Jane tried to raise a smile, but a stern 'Jane, what are you thinking of?' recalled her to order, and when the lesson was over her father spoke gravely to her, telling her that he thought few things more disgusting in a young lady than impertinence towards her teachers; and then added, 'Miss Weston, I hope you keep strict watch over these giddy young things.'

Awed by her father, Jane behaved tolerably well at that time and the next, and Miss Weston hoped her interference would not be needed, but as if to make up for this restraint, her conduct a fortnight after was quite beyond bearing. She used every means to make Marianne laugh, and at last went so far as to pretend to think that M. le Roi had not understood what she said in English, and to translate it into French. Poor Marianne looked imploringly at her sister, and Alethea hoped that Emily would interpose, but Emily was turning away her head to conceal a laugh, and Miss Weston was obliged to give Jane a very grave look, which she perfectly understood, though she pretended not to see it. When the exercise was over Miss Weston made her a sign to approach, and said, 'Jane, do you think your papa would have liked—'

'What do you mean?' said Jane, 'I have not been laughing.'

'You know what I mean,' said Alethea, 'and pray do not be displeased if I ask you not to make it difficult for Marianne to behave properly.'

Jane drew up her head and went back to her place. She played no more tricks that day, but as soon as the guests were gone, began telling Lilias how Miss Weston had been meddling and scolding her.

'And well you must have deserved it,' said Lily.

'I do not say that Jenny was right,' said Emily, 'but I think Miss Weston might allow me to correct my own sister in my own house.'

'You correct Jane!' cried Lily, and Jane laughed.

'I only mean,' said Emily, 'that it was not very polite, and papa says the closest friendship is no reason for dispensing with the rules of politeness.'

'Certainly not,' said Lily, 'the rules of politeness are rules of love, and it was in love that Alethea spoke; she sees how sadly we are left to ourselves, and is kind enough to speak a word in season.'

'Perhaps,' said Jane, 'since it was in love that she spoke, you would like to have her for our reprover for ever, and I can assure you more unlikely things have happened. I have heard it from one who can judge.'

'Let me hear no more of this,' said Emily, 'it is preposterous and ridiculous, and very disrespectful to papa.'

Jane for once, rather shocked at her own words, went back to what had been said just before.

'Then, perhaps, you would like to have Eleanor back again?'

'I am sure you want some one to put you in mind of your duty,' said Lily.

'Eleanor and duty!' cried Emily; 'you who thought so much of the power of love!'

'Of Emily and love, she would say, if it sounded well,' said Jane.

'I cannot see what true love you or Jane are showing now,' said Lily, 'it is no kindness to encourage her pertness, or to throw away a friendly reproof because it offends your pride.'

'Nobody reproved me,' replied Emily; 'besides, I know love will prevail; for my sake Jane will not expose herself and me to a stranger's interference.'

'If you depend upon that, I wish you joy,' said Lilias, as she left the room.

'What a weathercock Lily is!' cried Jane, 'she has fallen in love with Alethea Weston, and echoes all she says.'

'Not considering her own inconsistency,' said Emily.

'That Alethea Weston,' exclaimed Jane, in an angry tone;—but Emily, beginning to recover some sense of propriety, said, 'Jenny, you know you were very ill-bred, and you made it difficult for the little ones to behave well.'

'Not our own little ones,' said Jane; 'honest Phyl did not understand the joke, and Ada was thinking of her attitudes; one comfort is, that I shall be confirmed in three weeks' time, and then people cannot treat me as a mere child—little as I am.'

'Oh! Jane,' said Emily, 'I do not like to hear you talk of confirmation in that light way.'

'No, no,' said Jane, 'I do not mean it—of course I do not mean it— don't look shocked—it was only by the bye—and another by the bye, Emily, you know I must have a cap and white ribbons, and I am afraid I must make it myself.'

'Ay, that is the worst of having Esther,' said Emily, 'she and Hannah have no notion of anything but the plainest work; I am sure if I had thought of all the trouble of that kind which having a young girl would entail, I would never have consented to Esther's coming.'

'That was entirely Lily's scheme,' said Jane.

'Yes; it is impossible to resist Lily, she is so eager and anxious, and it would have vexed her very much if I had opposed her, and that I cannot bear; besides, Esther is a very nice girl, and will learn.'

'There is Robert talking to papa on the green,' said Jane; 'what a deep conference; what can it be about?'

If Jane had heard that conversation she might have perceived that she could not wilfully offend, even in what she thought a trifling matter, without making it evident, even to others, that there was something very wrong about her. At that moment the Rector was saying to his uncle, 'I am in doubt about Jane, I cannot but fear she is not in a satisfactory state for confirmation, and I wished to ask you what you think?'

'Act just as you would with any of the village girls,' said Mr. Mohun.

'I should be very sorry to do otherwise,' said Mr. Devereux; 'but I thought you might like, since every one knows that she is a candidate, that she should not be at home at the time of the confirmation, if it is necessary to refuse her.'

'No,' said Mr. Mohun, 'I should not wish to shield her from the disgrace. It may be useful to her, and besides, it will establish your character for impartiality. I have not been satisfied with all I saw of little Jane for some time past, and I am afraid that much passes amongst my poor girls which never comes to my knowledge. Her pertness especially is probably restrained in my presence.'

'It is not so much the pertness that I complain of,' said Mr. Devereux, 'for that might be merely exuberance of spirits, but there is a sort of habitual irreverence, which makes one dread to bring her nearer to sacred tings.'

'I know what you mean,' said Mr. Mohun, 'and I think the pertness is a branch of it, more noticed because more inconvenient to others.'

'Yes,' said Mr. Devereux, 'I think the fault I speak of is most evident; when there is occasion to reprove her, I am always baffled by a kind of levity which makes every warning glance aside.'

'Then I should decidedly say refuse her,' said Mr. Mohun. 'It would be a warning that she could not disregard, and the best chance of improving her.'

'Yet,' said Mr. Devereux, 'if she is eager for confirmation, and regards it in its proper light, it is hard to say whether it is right to deny it to her; it may give her the depth and earnestness which she needs.'

'Poor child,' said Mr. Mohun, 'she has great disadvantages; I am quite sure our present system is not fit for her. Things shall be placed on a different footing, and in another year or two I hope she may be fitter for confirmation. However, before you finally decide, I should wish to have some conversation with her, and speak to you again.

'That is just what I wish,' said Mr. Devereux.



CHAPTER XII—THE FEVER



'Jane borrowed maxims from a doubting school, And took for truth the test of ridicule.'

The question of Jane's confirmation was decided in an unexpected manner; for the day after Mr. Mohun's conversation with his nephew she was attacked by a headache and sore throat, spent a feverish night, and in the morning was so unwell that a medical man was sent for from Raynham. On his arrival he pronounced that she was suffering from scarlet fever, and Emily began to feel the approach of the same complaint.

Phyllis and Adeline were shut up in the drawing-room, and a system of quarantine established, which was happily brought to a conclusion by a note from Mrs. Weston, who kindly begged that they might be sent to her at Broomhill, and Mr. Mohun gladly availing himself of the offer, the little girls set off, so well pleased to make a visit alone, as almost to forget the occasion of it. Mrs. Weston had extended her invitation to Lilias, but she begged to be allowed to remain with her sisters, and Mr. Mohun thought that she had been already so much exposed to the infection that it was useless for her to take any precautions.

She was therefore declared head nurse; and it was well that she had an energetic spirit, and so sweet a temper, that she was ready to sympathise with all Emily's petulant complaints, and even to find fault with herself for not being in two places at once. Two of the maids were ill, and the whole care of Emily and Jane devolved upon her, with only the assistance of Esther.

Emily was not very seriously ill, but Jane's fever was very high, and Lily thought that her father was more anxious than he chose to appear. Of Jane's own thoughts little could be guessed; she was often delirious, and at all times speaking was so painful that she said as little as possible.

Lily's troubles seemed at their height one Sunday afternoon, while her father was at church. She had been reading the Psalms and Lessons to Emily, and she then rose to return to Jane.

'Do not go,' entreated Emily.

'I will send Esther.'

'Esther is of no use.'

'And therefore I do not like to leave her so long alone with Jane. Pray spare me a little smile.'

'Then come back soon.'

Lily was glad to escape with no more objections. She found Jane complaining of thirst, but to swallow gave her great pain, and she required so much attendance for some little time, that Emily's bell was twice rung before Esther could be spared to go to her.

She soon came back, saying, 'Miss Mohun wants you directly, Miss Lilias.'

'Tell her I will come presently,' said Lily, who had one hand pressed on Jane's burning temples, while the other was sprinkling her with ether.

'Stay,' said Jane, faintly, and Esther left the room.

Jane drew her breath with so much difficulty that a dreadful terror seized upon Lily, lest she should be suffocated. She raised her head, and supported her till Esther could bring more pillows. Esther brought a message from Emily to hasten her return; but Jane could not be left, and the grateful look she gave her as she arranged the pillows repaid her for all her toils. After a little time Jane became more comfortable, and said in a whisper, 'Dear Lily, I wish I was not so troublesome.'

Back came Esther at this moment, saying, 'Miss Emily says she is worse, and wants you directly, Miss Lilias.'

Lily hurried away to Emily's room, and found what might well have tried her temper. Emily was flushed indeed, and feverish, but her breathing was smooth and even, and her hand and pulse cool and slow, compared with the parched burning hands, and throbbings, too quick to count, which Lily had just been watching.

'Well, my dear Emily, I am sorry you do not feel better; what can I do for you?'

'How can I be better while I am left so long, and Esther not coming when I ring? What would happen if I were to faint away?'

'Indeed, I am very sorry,' said Lily; 'but when you rang, poor Jenny could spare neither of us.'

'How is poor Jenny?' said Emily.

'Her throat is very bad, but she is quite sensible now, and wishes to have me there. What did you want, Emily?'

'Oh! I wish you would draw the curtain, the light hurts me; that will do—no—now it is worse, pray put it as it was before. Oh! Lily, if you knew how ill I am you would not leave me.'

'Can I do anything for you—will you have some coffee?'

'Oh! no, it has a bad taste, I am sure it is carelessly made.'

'Shall I make you some fresh, with the spirit lamp?'

'No, I am tired of it. I wonder if I might have some tamarinds?'

'I will ask as soon as papa comes from church.'

'Is he gone to church? how could he go when we are all so ill?'

'Perhaps he was doing us more good at church than he could at home. You will be glad to hear, Emily, that he has sent for Rachel to come and help us.'

'Oh! has he? but she lives so far off, and gets her letters so seldom, I don't reckon at all upon her coming. If she could come directly it would be a comfort.'

'It would, indeed,' said Lily; 'she would know what to do for Jane.'

'Lily, where is the ether? You are always taking it away.'

'In Jane's room; I will fetch it.'

'No, no, if you once get into Jane's room I shall never see you back again.'

Now Emily knew that Jane was very ill, and Lily's pale cheeks, heavy eyes, and failing voice, might have reminded her that two sick persons were a heavy charge upon a girl of seventeen, without the addition of her caprices and fretfulness. And how was it that the kind-hearted, affectionate Emily never thought of all this? It was because she had been giving way to selfishness for nineteen years; and now the contemplation of her own sufferings was quite enough to hide from her that others had much to bear; and illness, instead of teaching her patience and consideration, only made her more exacting and querulous.

To Lily's unspeakable relief, Miss Weston accompanied Mr. Mohun from church, and offered to share her attendance. No one knew what it cost Alethea to come into the midst of a scene which constantly reminded her of the sisters she had lost, but she did not shrink from it, and was glad that her parents saw no objection to her offering to share Lily's toils. Her experience was most valuable, and relieved Lilias of the fear that was continually haunting her, lest her ignorance might lead to some fatal mistake. The next day brought Rachel, and both patients began to mend. Jane's recovery was quicker than Emily's, for her constitution was not so languid, and having no pleasure in the importance of being an invalid, she was willing to exert herself, and make the best of everything, while Emily did not much like to be told that she was better, and thought it cruel to hint that exertion would benefit her. Both were convalescent before the fever attacked Lily, who was severely ill, but not alarmingly so, and her gentleness and patience made Alethea delight in having the care of her. Lily was full of gratitude to her kind friend, and felt quite happy when Alethea chanced one day to call her by the name of Emma; she almost hoped she was taking the place of that sister, and the thought cheered her through many languid hours, and gave double value to all Alethea's kindness. She did not feel disposed to repine at an illness which brought out such affection from her friend, and still more from her father, who, when he came to see her, would say things which gave her a thrill of pleasure whenever she thought of them.

It happened one day that Jane, having finished her book, looked round for some other occupation; she knew that Miss Weston had walked to Broomhill; Rachael was with Lilias, and there was no amusement at hand. At last she recollected that her papa had said in the morning, that he hoped to see her and Emily in the schoolroom in the course of the day, and hoping to meet her sister, she resolved to try and get there. The room had been Mr. Mohun's sitting-room since the beginning of their illness, and it looked so very comfortable that she was glad she had come, though she was so tired she wondered how she should get back again. Emily was not there, so she lay down on the sofa and took up a little book from the table. The title was Susan Harvey, or Confirmation, and she read it with more interest as she remembered with a pang that this was the day of the confirmation, to which she had been invited; she soon found herself shedding tears over the book, she who had never yet been known to cry at any story, however affecting. She had not finished when Mr. Devereux came in to look for Mr. Mohun, and finding her there, was going away as soon as he had congratulated her on having left her room, but she begged him to stay, and began asking questions about the confirmation.

'Were there many people?'

'Three hundred.'

'Did the Stoney Bridge people make a disturbance?'

'No.'

'How many of our people?'

'Twenty-seven.'

'Did all the girls wear caps?'

'Most of them.'

Jane was rather surprised at the shortness of her cousin's answers, but she went on, as he stood before the fire, apparently in deep thought.

'Was Miss Burnet confirmed? She is the dullest girl I ever knew, and she is older than I am. Was she confused?'

'She was.'

'Did you give Mary Wright a ticket?'

'No.'

'Then, of course, you did not give one to Ned Long. I thought you would never succeed in making him remember which is the ninth commandment.'

'I did not refuse him.'

'Indeed! did he improve in a portentous manner?'

'Not particularly.'

'Well, you must have been more merciful than I expected.'

'Indeed!'

'Robert, you must have lost the use of your tongue, for want of us to talk to. I shall be affronted if you go into a brown study the first day of seeing me.'

He smiled in a constrained manner, and after a few minutes said, 'I have been considering whether this is a fit time to tell you what will give you pain. You must tell me if you can bear it.'

'About Lily, or the little ones?'

'No, no! only about yourself. Your father wished me to speak to you, but I would not have done so on this first meeting, but what you have just been saying makes me think this is the best occasion.'

'Let me know; I do not like suspense,' said Jane, sharply.

'I think it right to tell you, Jane, that neither your father nor I thought it would be desirable for you to be confirmed at this time.'

'Do you really mean it?' said Jane.

'Look back on the past year, and say if you sincerely think you are fit for confirmation.'

'As to that,' said Jane, 'the best people are always saying that they are not fit for these things.'

'None can call themselves worthy of them; but I think the conscience of some would bear them witness that they had profited so far by their present means of grace as to give grounds for hoping that they would derive benefit from further assistance.'

'Well, I suppose I must be very bad, since you see it,' said Jane, in a manner rather more subdued; 'but I did not think myself worse than other people.'

'Is a Christian called, only to be no worse than others?'

'Oh no! I see, I mean—pray tell me my great fault. Pertness, I suppose—love of gossip?'

'There must be a deeper root of evil, of which these are but the visible effects, Jane.'

'What do you mean, Robert?' said Jane, now seeming really impressed.

'I think, Jane, that the greatest and most dangerous fault of your character is want of reverence. I think it is want of reverence which makes you press forward to that for which you confess yourself unfit; it is want of reverence for holiness which makes you not care to attain it; want of reverence for the Holy Word that makes you treat it as a mere lesson; and in smaller matters your pertness is want of reverence for your superiors; you would not be ready to believe and to say the worst of others, if you reverenced what good there may be in them. Take care that your want of reverence is not in reality want of faith.'

Jane's spirits were weak and subdued. It was a great shock to her to hear that she was not thought worthy of confirmation; her faults had never been called by so hard a name; she was in part humbled, and in part grieved, and what she thought harshness in her cousin; she turned away her face, and did not speak. He continued, 'Jane, you must not think me unkind, your father desired me to talk to you, and, indeed, the time of recovery from sickness is too precious to be trifled away.'

Jane wept bitterly. Presently he said, 'It grieves me to have been obliged to speak harshly to you, you must forgive me if I have talked too much to you, Jane.'

Jane tried to speak, but sobs prevented her, and she gave way to a violent fit of crying. Her cousin feared he had been unwise in saying so much, and had weakened the effect of his own words. He would have been glad to see tears of repentance, but he was afraid that she was weeping over fancied unkindness, and that he might have done what might be hurtful to her in her weak state. He said a few kind words, and tried to console her, but this change of tone rather added to her distress, and she became hysterical. He was much vexed and alarmed, and, ringing the bell, hastened to call assistance. He found Esther, and sent her to Jane, and on returning to the schoolroom with some water, he found her lying exhausted on the sofa; he therefore went in search of his uncle, who was overlooking some farming work, and many were the apologies made, and many the assurances he received, that it would be better for her in the end, as the impression would be more lasting.

Jane was scarcely conscious of her cousin's departure, or of Esther's arrival, but after drinking some water, and lying still for a few moments, she exclaimed, 'Oh, Robert! oh, Esther! the confirmation!' and gasped and sobbed again. Esther thought she had guessed the cause of her tears, and tried to comfort her.

'Ah! Miss Jane, there will be another confirmation some day; it was a sad thing you were too ill, to be sure, but—'

'Oh! if I had—if he would not say—if he had thought me fit.'

Esther was amazed, and asked if she should call Miss Weston, who was now with Lilias.

'No, no!' cried Jane, nearly relapsing into hysterics. 'She shall not see me in this state.'

Esther hardly knew what to do, but she tried to soothe and comfort her by following what was evidently the feeling predominating in Jane's mind, as indicated by her broken sentences, and said, 'It was a pity, to be sure, that Mr. Devereux came and talked so long, he could not know of your being so very weak, Miss Jane.'

'Yes,' said Jane, faintly, 'I could have borne it better if he had waited a few days.'

'Yes, Miss, when you had not been so very ill. Mr. Devereux is a very good gentleman, but they do say he is very sharp.'

'He means to be kind,' said Jane, 'but I do not think he has much consideration, always.'

'Yes, Miss Jane, that is just what Mrs. White said, when—'

Esther's speech was cut short by the entrance of Miss Weston. Jane started up, dashed off her tears, and tried to look as usual, but the paleness of her face, and the redness of her eyes, made this impossible, and she was obliged to lie down again. Esther left the room, and Miss Weston did not feel intimate enough with Jane to ask any questions; she gave her some sal volatile, talked kindly to her of her weakness, and offered to read to her; all the time leaving an opening for confidence, if Jane wished to relieve her mind. The book which lay near her accounted, as she thought, for her agitation, and she blamed herself for having judged her harshly as deficient in feeling, now that she found her so much distressed, because illness had prevented her confirmation. Under this impression she honoured her reserve, while she thought with more affection of Lily's open heart. Jane, who never took, or expected others to take, the most favourable view of people's motives, thought Alethea knew the cause of her distress, and disliked her the more, as having witnessed her humiliation.

Such was Jane's love of gossip that the next time she was alone with Esther she asked for the history of Mrs. White, thus teaching her maid disrespect to her pastor, indirectly complaining of his unkindness, and going far to annul the effect of what she had learnt at school. Perhaps during her hysterics Jane's conduct was not under control, but subsequent silence was in her power, and could she be free from blame if Esther's faults gained greater ascendency?

The next day Mr. Mohun attempted to speak to Jane, but being both frightened and unhappy, she found it very easy and natural, as well as very convenient, to fall into hysterics again, and her father was obliged to desist, regretting that, at the only time she was subdued enough to listen to reproof, she was too weak to bear it without injury. Rachel, who was nearly as despotic among the young ladies as she had been in former times in the nursery, now insisted on Emily's going into the schoolroom, and when there, she made rapid progress. Alethea was amused to see how Jane's decided will and lively spirit would induce Emily to make exertions, which no persuasions of hers could make her think other than impossible.

A few days more, and they were nearly well again; and Lilias so far recovered as to be able to spare her kind friend, who returned home with a double portion of Lily's love, and of deep gratitude from Mr. Mohun; but these feelings were scarcely expressed in words. Emily gave her some graceful thanks, and Jane disliked her more than ever.

It was rather a dreary time that now commenced with the young ladies; they were tired of seeing the same faces continually, and dispirited by hearing that the fever was spreading in the village. The autumn was far advanced, the weather was damp and gloomy, and the sisters sat round the fire shivering with cold, feeling the large room dreary and deserted, missing the merry voices of the children, and much tormented by want of occupation. They could not go out, their hands were not steady enough to draw, they felt every letter which they had to write a heavy burden; neither Emily nor Lily could like needlework; they could have no music, for the piano at the other end of the room seemed to be in an Arctic Region, and they did little but read novels and childish stories, and play at chess or backgammon. Jane was the best off. Mrs. Weston sent her a little sock, with a request that she would make out the way in which it was knit, in a complicated feathery pattern, and in puzzling over her cotton, taking stitches up and letting them down, she made the time pass a little less heavily with her than with her sisters.



CHAPTER XIII—A CURIOSITY MAP



'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 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, but we are quite well now. How cold you are!'

'But where is my father?'

'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.

'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, 'because he is pale.'

'Well,' said Jane, 'do let us in the meantime 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 aspect, before William came down, and renewed his inquiries 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 correspondence,' 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?'

'No, he only came home in the vacation,' said Emily. 'Did you know they had lost two daughters?'

'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 connection, 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 surprised 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 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 attempts 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 his 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.

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 wanderings 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 bedtime, said, 'Jenny, my dear, as you go by, just put that letter in the post-bag.'

Jane obeyed, and left the room. Claude soon 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 experienced 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 christening. 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. Appleton, or some equally suitable confidante.'

'Is that all?' said Lily.

'And enough, too, I hope,' said Claude.

'It ought to cure her!' cried 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 suspicious direction. It was settled that Messieurs Maurice and Redgie are to go for two hours a day, three times a week, to Mr. Stevens, during the holidays.'

'The new Stoney 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 determined. 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 I 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 compliments he was paying her, she looked at him, but his eyes were fixed on his pen, and no smile, no significant 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 innocent 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 Stoney 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 Lily.

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

'Indeed?' said Lily; 'how do you know that?'

'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 convinced, if so, that you must really be what you are so often called, a changeling. I heard it, or rather read it first at Oxford, where the Baron desired me to make inquiries about him. You were, doubtless, looking over my shoulder at the moment. This is quite a discovery. We shall have to perform a brewery of egg-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 superiors—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 fidgeting 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 invited 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 Mrs. Mohun.

'Yes,' said Claude, 'cousins were made to be friends.'

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

'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 is 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 anything.'

'She has been governessed and crammed till she is half sick of all reading,' said Claude, 'of all study—ay, 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 reaction. Florence 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 dinner was announced, and nothing more was said about Lady Florence till the girls had an opportunity 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 perfect 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. Stevens and most unwillingly did they undertake the expedition to Stony Bridge, performing the journey in a very unsociable manner. Maurice was no horseman, and chose to jog on foot through three miles of lane, while Reginald's pony 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 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 anything is to be made of her, it is by keeping temptation out of her way, and not letting her be with that mother of hers.'

Rachel had rather injured the effect of her advice by behaving too like a mistress during her visit; Emily had more than once wished that all servants were not privileged people, and she was more offended than convinced by the remonstrance.



CHAPTER XIV—CHRISTMAS



'Slee, sla, slud, Stuck in the mud, O! it is pretty to wade through a flood, Come, wheel round, The dirt we have found, Would he 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 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 a little courtesy, and crept away again as soon as she had 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 unassuming and lightly- 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 children, and of a few other little matters, and presently something was said about Mrs. Eden; Lily asked if the blacksmith helped her.

'Oh! no, Miss Lilias, he will do nothing for her 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 distress 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 dine 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 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 carelessness too often prevented the Miss Mohuns from helping her. In Emily's favourite phrase, each individual 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 of 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 distributed to all his own labourers, and the most respectable 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, resolved 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 the day. In the hall she met Reginald, just turned out of Maurice's workshop, and much at a loss for employment.

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

'If it 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 proboscises 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 so bad as Emily,' said Reginald, while Lily ran upstairs 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 he, 'it makes you look like one of the dirty girls in the village.'

'Then you ought, like the courteous Rinaldo, 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 manner, which it required all Lily's strength to withstand, as well as an imploring 'Now, Redgie, think of the poor old people. Remember, you have promised.'

'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 terrier, 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. 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 delighted 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 later and darker 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 farther 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.'

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 believe there is a moon if one could see it. Ha! here comes some one on horseback. It is a gray 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 checking 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?'

'Oh, 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, affronted.

'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 unpleasant, 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 Rotherwood's wonderings; she hurried Lily upstairs, 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 drawing-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 enterprise an example to his sister, and, in his droll exaggerating way, represented 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 Rotherwood 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 appeared, they submitted the invitation to their father, while Lady Rotherwood pressed William to accompany them, and he was refusing.

'What are soldiers intended for but to dance!' said Lord Rotherwood.

'I never dance,' said William, with a grave emphasis.

'I 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 Mohun's "consider of it" is equivalent to Le Roi's "avisera."'

'What is he saying?' asked Lily, turning to listen. 'Oh, that my wig is in no ball-going condition.'

'A wreath would hide all deficiencies,' said Florence; 'I am determined to have you both.'

'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 respects 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 Florence 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.'

'Ay, 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 Hetherington folks; they do not know how to make the holly in the church fit to be seen, and they will not 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 matter. Her temper was out of order on Christmas 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 sunshine did not rejoice her; the holly and the mistletoe 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 mourning, declaring that they did not look like themselves; 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.



CHAPTER XV: 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 threading beads.

Lady Rotherwood greeted her nieces very affectionately, gave a double caress to Adeline, stroked her pretty curls, admired her beadwork, 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!—the pigs are in the garden!'

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 schoolboy in his entrance.

Poor Phyllis had neither the excuse of being a schoolboy 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.