THE NEW PRINCIPLE
‘And wilt thou show no more, quoth he,
Than doth thy duty bind?
I well perceive thy love is small.’
ON the Sunday evening which followed Eleanor’s wedding, Lilias was
sitting next to Emily, and talking in very earnest tones, which after a
time occasioned Claude to look up and say, ‘What is all this about?
Something remarkably absurd I suspect.’
‘Only a new principle,’ said Emily.
‘New!’ cried Lily, ‘only what must be the feeling of every person of any
warmth of character?’
‘Now for it then,’ said Claude.
‘No, no, Claude, I really mean it (and Lily sincerely thought she did).
I will not tell you if you are going to laugh.’
‘That depends upon what your principle may chance to be,’ said Claude.
‘What is it, Emily? She will be much obliged to you for telling.’
‘She only says she cannot bear people to do their duty, and not to act
from a feeling of love,’ said Emily.
‘That is not fair,’ returned Lily, ‘all I say is, that it is better that
people should act upon love for its own sake, than upon duty for its own
sake.’
‘What comes in rhyme with Lily?’ said Claude.
‘Don’t be tiresome, Claude, I really want you to understand me.’
‘Wait till you understand yourself,’ said the provoking brother, ‘and let
me finish what I am reading.’
For about a quarter of an hour he was left in peace, while Lily was
busily employed with a pencil and paper, under the shadow of a book, and
at length laid before him the following verses:—
‘What is the source of gentleness,
The spring of human blessedness,
Bringing the wounded spirit healing,
The comforts high of heaven revealing,
The lightener of each daily care,
The wing of hope, the life of prayer,
The zest of joy, the balm of sorrow,
Bliss of to-day, hope of to-morrow,
The glory of the sun’s bright beam,
The softness of the pale moon stream,
The flow’ret’s grace, the river’s voice,
The tune to which the birds rejoice;
Without it, vain each learned page,
Cold and unfelt each council sage,
Heavy and dull each human feature,
Lifeless and wretched every creature;
In which alone the glory lies,
Which value gives to sacrifice?
’Tis that which formed the whole creation,
Which rests on every generation.
Of Paradise the only token
Just left us, ’mid our treasures broken,
Which never can from us be riven,
Sure earnest of the joys of Heaven.
And which, when earth shall pass away,
Shall be our rest on the last day,
When tongues shall fail and knowledge cease,
And throbbing hearts be all at peace:
When faith is sight, and hope is sure,
That which alone shall still endure
Of earthly joys in heaven above,
’Tis that best gift, eternal Love!’
‘What have you there?’ said Mr. Mohun, who had come towards them while
Claude was reading the lines. Taking the paper from Claude’s hand, he
read it to himself, and then saying, ‘Tolerable, Lily; there are some
things to alter, but you may easily make it passable,’ he went on to his
own place, leaving Lilias triumphant.
‘Well, Claude, you see I have the great Baron on my side.’
‘I am of the Baron’s opinion,’ said Claude, ‘the only wonder is that you
doubted it.’
‘You seemed to say that love was good for nothing.’
‘I said nothing but that Lily has a rhyme.’
‘And saying that I was silly, was equivalent to saying that love was
nothing,’ said Lily.
‘O Lily, I hope not,’ said Claude, with a comical air.
‘Well, I know I often am foolish, but not in this,’ said Lily; ‘I do say
that mere duty is not lovable.’
‘Say it if you will then,’ said Claude, yawning, ‘only let me finish this
sermon.’
Lily set herself to reconsider some of her lines: but presently Emily
left the room, Claude looked up, and Lily exclaimed, ‘Now, Claude, let us
make a trial of it.’
‘Well,’ said Claude, yawning again, and looking resigned.
‘Think how Eleanor went on telling us of duty, duty, duty—never making
allowances—never relaxing her stiff rules about trifles—never unbending
from her duenna-like dignity—never showing one spark of enthusiasm—making
great sacrifices, but only because she thought them her duty—because it
was right—good for herself—only a higher kind of selfishness—not because
her feeling prompted her.’
‘Certainly, feeling does not usually prompt people to give up their
lovers for the sake of their brothers and sisters.’
‘She did it because it was her duty,’ said Lily, ‘quite as if she did not
care.’
‘I wonder whether Frank thought so,’ said Claude.
‘At any rate you will confess that Emily is a much more engaging person,’
said Lily.
‘Certainly, I had rather talk nonsense to her,’ said Claude.
‘You feel it, though you will not allow it,’ said Lily. ‘Now think of
Emily’s sympathy, and gentleness, and sweet smile, and tell me if she is
not a complete personification of love. And then Eleanor,
unpoetical—never thrown off her balance by grief or joy, with no ups and
downs—no enthusiasm—no appreciation of the beautiful—her highest praise
“very right,” and tell me if there can be a better image of duty.’
Claude might have had some chance of bringing Lily to her senses, if he
had allowed that there was some truth in what she had said; but he
thought the accusation so unjust in general, that he would not agree to
any part of it, and only answered, ‘You have very strange views of duty
and of Eleanor.’
‘Well!’ replied Lily, ‘I only ask you to watch; Emily and I are
determined to act on the principle of love, and you will see if her
government is not more successful than that of duty.’
Such was the principle upon which Lily intended her sister to govern the
household, and to which Emily listened without knowing what she meant
much better than she did herself. Emily’s own views, as far as she
possessed any, were to get on as smoothly as she could, and make
everybody pleased and happy, without much trouble to herself, and also to
make the establishment look a little more as if a Lady Emily had lately
been its mistress, than had been the case in Eleanor’s time. Mr. Mohun’s
property was good, but he wished to avoid unnecessary display and
expense, and he expected his daughters to follow out these views, keeping
a wise check upon Emily, by looking over her accounts every Saturday, and
turning a deaf ear when she talked of the age of the drawing-room carpet,
and the ugliness of the old chariot. Emily had a good deal on her hands,
requiring sense and activity, but Lilias and Jane were now quite old
enough to assist her. Lily however, thought fit to despise all household
affairs, and bestowed the chief of her attention on her own
department—the village school and poor people; and she was also much
engrossed by her music and drawing, her German and Italian, and her verse
writing.
Claude had more power over her than any one else. He was a gentle,
amiable boy, of high talent, but disposed to indolence by ill health. In
most matters he was, however, victorious over this propensity, which was
chiefly visible in his love of easy chairs, and his dislike of active
sports, which made him the especial companion of his sisters. A
dangerous illness had occasioned his removal from Eton, and he had since
been at home, reading with his cousin Mr. Devereux, and sharing his
sisters’ amusements.
Jane was in her own estimation an important member of the administration,
and in fact, was Emily’s chief assistant and deputy. She was very small
and trimly made, everything fitted her precisely, and she had tiny
dexterous fingers, and active little feet, on which she darted about
noiselessly and swiftly as an arrow; an oval brown face, bright colour,
straight features, and smooth dark hair, bright sparkling black eyes, a
little mouth, wearing an arch subdued smile, very white teeth, and
altogether the air of a woman in miniature. Brisk, bold, and blithe—ever
busy and ever restless, she was generally known by the names of Brownie
and Changeling, which were not inappropriate to her active and prying
disposition.
Excepting Claude and Emily, the young party were early risers, and Lily
especially had generally despatched a good deal of business before the
eight o’clock breakfast.
At nine they went to church, Mr. Devereux having restored the custom of
daily service, and after this, Mr. Mohun attended to his multitudinous
affairs; Claude went to the parsonage,—Emily to the storeroom, Lily to
the village, the younger girls to the schoolroom, where they were
presently joined by Emily. Lily remained in her own room till one
o’clock, when she joined the others in the schoolroom, and they read
aloud some book of history till two, the hour of dinner for the younger,
and of luncheon for the elder. They then went out, and on their return
from evening service, which began at half-past four, the little ones had
their lessons to learn, and the others were variously employed till
dinner, the time of which was rather uncertain but always late. The
evening passed pleasantly and quickly away in reading, work, music, and
chatter.
As Emily had expected, her first troubles were with Phyllis; called, not
the neat handed, by her sisters; Master Phyl, by her brothers; and Miss
Tomboy, by the maids. She seemed born to be a trial of patience to all
concerned with her; yet without many actual faults, except giddiness,
restlessness, and unrestrained spirits. In the drawing-room, schoolroom,
and nursery she was continually in scrapes, and so often reproved and
repentant, that her loud roaring fits of crying were amongst the ordinary
noises of the New Court. She was terribly awkward when under constraint,
or in learning any female accomplishment, but swift and ready when at her
ease, and glorying in the boyish achievements of leaping ditches and
climbing trees. Her voice was rather highly pitched, and she had an
inveterate habit of saying, ‘I’ll tell you what,’ at the beginning of all
her speeches. She was not tall, but strong, square, firm, and active;
she had a round merry face, a broad forehead, and large bright laughing
eyes, of a doubtful shade between gray and brown. Her mouth was wide,
her nose turned up, her complexion healthy, but not rosy, and her stiff
straight brown hair was more apt to hang over her eyes, than to remain in
its proper place behind her ears.
Adeline was very different; her fair and brilliant complexion, her deep
blue eyes and golden ringlets, made her a very lovely little creature;
her quietness was a relief after her sister’s boisterous merriment, and
her dislike of dirt and brambles, continually contrasted with poor
Phyllis’s recklessness of such impediments. Ada readily learnt lessons,
which cost Phyllis and her teacher hours of toil; Ada worked deftly when
Phyllis’s stiff fingers never willingly touched a needle; Ada played with
a doll, drew on scraps of paper, or put up dissected maps, while Phyllis
was in mischief or in the way. A book was the only chance of interesting
her; but very few books took her fancy enough to occupy her long;—those
few, however, she read over and over again, and when unusual tranquillity
reigned in the drawing-room, she was sure to be found curled up at the
top of the library steps, reading one of three books—_Robinson Crusoe_,
_Little Jack_, or _German Popular Tales_. Then Emily blamed her
ungraceful position, Jane laughed at her uniform taste, and Lily proposed
some story about modern children, such as Phyllis never could like, and
the constant speech was repeated, ‘Only look at Ada!’ till Phyllis
considered her sister as a perfect model, and sighed over her own
naughtiness.
_German Popular Tales_ were a recent introduction of Claude’s, for
Eleanor had carefully excluded all fairy tales from her sisters’ library;
so great was her dread of works of fiction, that Emily and Lilias had
never been allowed to read any of the Waverley Novels, excepting _Guy
Mannering_, which their brother Henry had insisted upon reading aloud to
them the last time he was at home, and that had taken so strong a hold on
their imagination, that Eleanor was quite alarmed.
One day Mr. Mohun chanced to refer to some passage in _Waverley_, and on
finding that his daughters did not understand him, he expressed great
surprise at their want of taste.
Poor things,’ said Claude, ‘they cannot help it; do not you know that
Eleanor thinks the Waverley Novels a sort of slow poison? They know no
more of them than their outsides.’
‘Well, the sooner they know the inside the better.’
‘Then may we really read them, papa?’ cried Lily.
‘And welcome,’ said her father.
This permission once given, the young ladies had no idea of moderation;
Lily’s heart and soul were wrapped up in whatever tale she chanced to be
reading—she talked of little else, she neglected her daily occupations,
and was in a kind of trance for about three weeks. At length she was
recalled to her senses by her father’s asking her why she had shown him
no drawings lately. Lily hesitated for a moment, and then said, ‘Papa, I
am sorry I was so idle.’
‘Take care,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘let us be able to give a good account of
ourselves when Eleanor comes.’
‘I am afraid, papa,’ said Lily, ‘the truth is, that my head has been so
full of _Woodstock_ for the last few days, that I could do nothing.’
‘And before that?’
‘_The Bride of Lammermoor_.’
‘And last week?’
‘_Waverley_. Oh! papa, I am afraid you must be very angry with me.’
‘No, no, Lily, not yet,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I do not think you quite knew
what an intoxicating draught you had got hold of; I should have cautioned
you. Your negligence has not yet been a serious fault, though remember,
that it becomes so after warning.’
‘Then,’ said Lily, ‘I will just finish _Peveril_ at once, and get it out
of my head, and then read no more of the dear books,’ and she gave a deep
sigh.
‘Lily would take the temperance pledge, on condition that she might
finish her bottle at a draught,’ said Mr. Mohun.
Lily laughed, and looked down, feeling quite unable to offer to give up
_Peveril_ before she had finished it, but her father relieved her, by
saying in his kind voice, ‘No, no, Lily, take my advice, read those
books, for most of them are very good reading, and very pretty reading,
and very useful reading, and you can hardly be called a well-educated
person if you do not know them; but read them only after the duties of
the day are done—make them your pleasure, but do not make yourself their
slave.’
‘Lily,’ said Claude the next morning, as he saw her prepare her
drawing-desk, ‘why are you not reading _Peveril_?’
‘You know what papa said yesterday,’ was the answer.
‘Oh! but I thought your feelings were with poor Julian in the Tower,’
said Claude.
‘My feelings prompt me to sacrifice my pleasure in reading about him to
please papa, after he spoke so kindly.’
‘If that is always the effect of your principle, I shall think better of
it,’ said Claude.
Lily, whether from her new principle, or her old habits of obedience,
never ventured to touch one of her tempters till after five o’clock, but,
as she was a very rapid reader, she generally contrived to devour more
than a sufficient quantity every evening, so that she did not enjoy them
as much as she would, had she been less voracious in her appetite, and
they made her complain grievously of the dulness of the latter part of
Russell’s _Modern Europe_, which was being read in the schoolroom, and
yawn nearly as much as Phyllis over the ‘Pragmatic Sanction.’ However,
when that book was concluded, and they began Palgrave’s _Anglo Saxons_,
Lily was seized within a sudden historical fever. She could hardly wait
till one o’clock, before she settled herself at the schoolroom table with
her work, and summoned every one, however occupied, to listen to the
reading.