Scenes and Characters, or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft Part 33

'But tell me, what shall I do?'

'What to do, you ask,' said the Rector; 'I am not sure that I know what you mean. If your neglect has added to her sufferings, you cannot remove them; and I would not add to your sorrow unless you wished me to do so for your good.'

'I do not see how I could be more unhappy than I am now,' said Lily.

'I think if you wish to turn your grief to good account you must go a little deeper than this omission.'

'You mean that it is a result of general carelessness,' said Lily; 'I know I have been in an odd idle way for some time; I have often resolved, but I seem to have no power over myself.'

'May I ask you one question, Lily? How have you been spending this Lent?'

'Robert, you are right,' cried Lily; 'you may well ask. I know I have not gone to church properly, but how could you guess the terrible way in which I have been indulging myself, and excusing myself every unpleasant duty that came in my way? That was the very reason of this dreadful neglect; well do I deserve to be miserable at Easter, the proper time for joy. Oh! how different it will be.'

'It will be, I hope, an Easter marked by repentance and amendment,'

said the Rector.

'No, Robert, do not begin to be kind to me yet, you do not know how very bad I have been,' said Lily; 'it all began from just after Eleanor's wedding. A mad notion came into my head and laid hold of me. I fancied Eleanor stern, and cold, and unlovable; I was ingrat.i.tude itself. I made a foolish theory, that regard for duty makes people cold and stern, and that feeling, which I confused with Christian love, was all that was worth having, and the more Claude tried to cure me, the more obstinate I grew; I drew Emily over to my side, and we set our follies above everything. Justified ourselves for idling, neglecting the children, indulging ourselves, calling it love, and so it was, self-love. So my temper has been spoiling, and my mind getting worse and worse, ever since we lost Eleanor. At last different things showed me the fallacy of my principle, but then I do believe I was beyond my own management. I felt wrong, and could not mend, and went on recklessly. You know but too well what mischief I have done in the village, but you can never know what harm I have done at home. I have seen more and more that I was going on badly, but a sleep, a spell was upon me.'

'Perhaps the pain you now feel may be the means of breaking the spell.'

'But is it not enough to drive me mad to think that improvement in me should be bought at such a price--the widow's only child?'

'You forget that the loss is a blessing to her.'

'Still I may pray that my punishment may not be through them,' said Lily.

'Surely,' was the answer, 'it is grievous to see that dear child cut off; and her patient mother left desolate--yet how much more grievous it would be to see that spotless innocence defiled.'

'If it was to fall on any one,' said Lilias, 'I should be thankful that it is on one so fit to die.'

The church bell began to ring, and they quickened their steps in silence. Presently Lily said, 'Tell me of something to do, Robert, something that may be a pledge that my sorrow is not a pa.s.sing shower, something unnecessary, but disagreeable, which may keep me in remembrance that my Lent was not one of self-denial.'

'You must be able to find more opportunities of self-denial than I can devise,' said her cousin.

'Of course,' said Lily; 'but some one thing, some punishment.'

'I will answer you to-morrow,' said Mr. Devereux.

'One thing more,' said Lily, looking down; 'after this great fall, ought I to come to next Sunday's feast? I would turn away if you thought fit.'

'Lily, you can best judge,' said the Rector, kindly. 'I should think that you were now in a humble, contrite frame, and therefore better prepared than when self-confident.'

'How many times! how shall I think of them! but I will,' said Lily; 'and Robert, will you think of me when you say the Absolution now and next Sunday at the altar?'

They were by this time at the church-porch. As Mr. Devereux uncovered his head, he turned to Lilias, and said in a low tone, 'G.o.d bless you, Lilias, and grant you true repentance and pardon.'

Early the next morning the toll of the pa.s.sing-bell informed Lily that the little lamb had been gathered into the heavenly fold.

When she took her place in church she found in her Prayer-book a slip of paper in the handwriting of her cousin. It was thus: 'You had better find out in which duty you have most failed, and let the fulfilment of that be your proof of self-denial. R. D.'

Afterwards Lily learnt that Agnes had been sensible for a short time before her peaceful death. She had spoken much of her baptism, had begged to be buried next to a little sister of Kezia's, and asked her mother to give her new Bible to Kezia.

It was not till Sunday that Lilias felt as if she could ever be comforted. Her heart was indeed ready to break as she walked at the head of the school children behind the white-covered coffin, and she felt as if she did not deserve to dwell upon the child's present happiness; but afterwards she was relieved by joining in prayer for the pardon of our sins and negligences, and she felt as if she was forgiven, at least by man, when she joined with Mrs. Eden in the appointed feast of Easter Day.

Mrs. Naylor was at church on that and several following Sundays; but though her husband now showed every kindness to his sister, he still obstinately refused to be reconciled to Mr. Devereux.

For many weeks poor little Kezia looked very unhappy. Her blithe smiles were gone, her eyes filled with tears whenever she was reminded of her friend, she walked to school alone, she did not join the sports of the other children, but she kept close to the side of Mrs. Eden, and seemed to have no pleasure but with her, or in nursing her little sister, who, two Sundays after the funeral, was christened by the name of Agnes.

It was agreed by Mr. Mohun and Lilias that the grave of the little girl should be marked by a stone cross, thus inscribed

'AGNES EDEN, April 8th, 1846, Aged 7 years.

"He shall gather the lambs in His arms."'

CHAPTER XVIII: DOUBLE, DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE

'Truly the tender mercies of the weak, As of the wicked, are but cruel.'

And how did Lilias show that she had been truly benefited by her sorrows? Did she fall back into her habits of self-indulgence, or did she run into ill-directed activity, selfish as her indolence, because only gratifying the pa.s.sion of the moment?

Those who lived with her saw but little change; kind-hearted and generous she had ever been, and many had been her good impulses, so that while she daily became more steady in well-doing, and exerting herself on principle, no one remarked it, and no one entered into the struggles which it cost her to tame her impetuosity, or force herself to do what was disagreeable to herself, and might offend Emily.

However, Emily could forgive a great deal when she found that Lily was ready to take any part of the business of the household and schoolroom, which she chose to impose upon her, without the least objection, yet to leave her to a.s.sume as much of the credit of managing as she chose--to have no will or way of her own, and to help her to keep her wardrobe in order.

The schoolroom was just now more of a labour than had ever been the case, at least to one who, like Lilias, if she did a thing at all, would not be satisfied with half doing it. Phyllis was not altered, except that she cried less, and had in a great measure cured herself of dawdling habits and tricks, by her honest efforts to obey well- remembered orders of Eleanor's; but still her slowness and dulness were trying to her teachers, and Lily had often to reproach herself for being angry with her 'when she was doing her best.'

But Adeline was Lily's princ.i.p.al trouble; there was a change in her, for which her sister could not account. Last year, when Eleanor left them, Ada was a sweet-tempered, affectionate child, docile, gentle, and, excepting a little occasional affectation and carelessness, very free from faults; but now her attention could hardly be commanded for five minutes together; she had lost the habit of ready and implicit obedience, was petulant when reproved, and was far more eager to attract notice from strangers--more conceited, and, therefore, more affected, and, worse than all, Lily sometimes thought she perceived a little slyness, though she was never able to prove any one instance completely to herself, much less to bring one before her father.

Thus, if Ada had done any mischief, she would indeed confess it on being examined; but when asked why she had not told of it directly, would say she had forgotten; she would avail herself of Phyllis's a.s.sistance in her lessons without acknowledging it, and Lilias found it was by no means safe to leave the Key to the French Exercises alone in the room with her.

Emily's mismanagement had fostered Ada's carelessness and inattention. Lady Rotherwood's injudicious caresses helped to make her more affected; other faults had grown up for want of sufficient control, but this last was princ.i.p.ally Esther's work. Esther had done well at school; she liked learning, was stimulated by notice, was really attached to Lilias, and tried to deserve her goodwill; but her training at school and at home were so different, that her conduct was, even at the best, far too much of eye-service, and she had very little idea of real truth and sincerity.

On first coming to the New Court she flattered the children, because she did not know how to talk to them otherwise, and afterwards, because she found that Miss Ada's affections were to be gained by praise. Then, in her ignorant good-nature, she had no scruples about concealing mischief which the children had done, or procuring for Ada little forbidden indulgences on her promise of secrecy, a promise which Phyllis would not give, thus putting a stop to all those in which she would have partic.i.p.ated. It was no wonder that Ada, sometimes helping Esther to deceive, sometimes deceived by her, should have learnt the same kind of cunning, and ceased to think it a matter of course to be true and just in all her dealings.

But how was it that Phyllis remained the same 'honest Phyl' that she had ever been, not one word savouring of aught but strict truth having ever crossed her lips, her thoughts and deeds full of guileless simplicity? She met with the same temptations, the same neglect, the same bad example, as her sister; why had they no effect upon her? In the first place, flattery could not touch her, it was like water on a duck's back, she did not know that it was flattery, but so thoroughly humble was her mind that no words of Esther's would make her believe herself beautiful, agreeable, or clever. Yet she never found out that Esther over-praised her sister; she admired Ada so much that she never suspected that any commendation of her was more than she deserved. Again, Phyllis never thought of making herself appear to advantage, and her humility saved her from the habit of concealing small faults, for which she expected no punishment; and, when seriously to blame, punishment seemed so natural a consequence, that she never thought of avoiding it, otherwise than by expressing sorrow for her fault. She was uninfected by Esther's deceit, though she never suspected any want of truth; her singleness of mind was a s.h.i.+eld from all evil; she knew she was no favourite in the nursery, but she never expected to be liked as much as Ada, her pride and glory. In the meantime Emily went on contriving opportunities and excuses for spending her time at Devereux Castle, letting everything fall into Lily's hands, everything that she had so eagerly undertaken little more than a year ago. And now all was confusion; the excellent order in which Eleanor had left the household affairs was quite destroyed. Attention to the storeroom was one of the ways in which Lilias thought that she could best follow the advice of Mr. Devereux, since Eleanor had always taught that great exactness in this point was most necessary. Great disorder now, however, prevailed there, and she found that her only chance of rectifying it was to measure everything she found there, and to beg Emily to allow her to keep the key; for, when several persons went to the storeroom, no one ever knew what was given out, and she was sure that the sweet things diminished much faster than they ought to do; but her sister treated the proposal as an attempt to deprive her of her dignity, and she was silenced.

She was up almost with the light, to despatch whatever household affairs could be settled without Emily, before the time came for the children's lessons; many hours were spent on these, while she was continually hara.s.sed by Phyllis's dulness, Ada's inattention, and the interruption of work to do for Emily, and often was she baffled by interference from Jane or Emily. She was conscious of her unfitness to teach the children, and often saw that her impatience, ignorance, and inefficiency, were doing mischief; but much as this pained her, she could not speak to her father without compromising her sister, and to argue with Emily herself was quite in vain. Emily had taken up the principle of love, and defended herself with it on every occasion, so that poor Lily was continually punished by having her past follies quoted against herself.

Each day Emily grew more selfish and indolent; now that Lily was willing to supply all that she neglected, and to do all that she asked, she proved how tyrannical the weak can be.

The whole of her quarter's allowance was spent in dress, and Lily soon found that the only chance of keeping her out of debt was to spend her own time and labour in her behalf; and what an exertion of patience and kindness this required can hardly be imagined. Emily did indeed reward her skill with affectionate thanks and kind praises, but she interfered with her sleep and exercise, by her want of consideration, and hardened herself more and more in her apathetic selfishness.

Some weeks after Easter Lilias was arranging some books on a shelf in the schoolroom, when she met with a crumpled piece of music-paper, squeezed in behind the books. It proved to be Miss Weston's lost song, creased, torn, dust-stained, and spoiled; she carried it to Emily, who decided that nothing could be done but to copy it for Alethea, and apologise for the disaster. Framing apologies was more in Emily's way than copying music; and the former task, therefore, devolved upon Lily, and occupied her all one afternoon, when she ought to have been seeking a cure for the headache in the fresh air.

It was no cure to find the name of Emma Weston in the corner, and to perceive how great and irreparable the loss of the paper was to her friend. The thought of all her wrongs towards Alethea, caused more than one large tear to fall, to blot the heads of her crotchets and quavers, and thus give her all her work to do over again.

The letter that she wrote was so melancholy and repentant, that it gave great pain to her kind friend, who thought illness alone could account for the dejection apparent in the general tone of all her expressions. In answer, she sent a very affectionate consoling letter, begging Lily to think no more of the matter; and though she had too much regard for truth to say that she had not been grieved by the loss of Emma's writing, she added that Lily's distress gave her far more pain, and that her copy would have great value in her eyes.