VILLAGE GOSSIP
‘The deeds we do, the words we say,
Into still air they seem to fleet;
We count them past,
But they shall last.’
SOON after Easter, Claude went to Oxford. He was much missed by his
sisters, who wanted him to carve for them at luncheon, to escort them
when they rode or walked, to hear their music, talk over their books,
advise respecting their drawings, and criticise Lily’s verses. A new
subject of interest was, however, arising for them in the neighbours who
were shortly expected to arrive at Broom Hill, a house which had lately
been built in a hamlet about a mile and a half from the New Court.
These new comers were the family of a barrister of the name of Weston,
who had taken the house for the sake of his wife, her health having been
much injured by her grief at the loss of two daughters in the scarlet
fever. Two still remained, a grown-up young lady, and a girl of eleven
years old, and the Miss Mohuns learnt with great delight that they should
have near neighbours of their own age. They had never had any young
companions as young ladies were scarce among their acquaintance, and they
had not seen their cousin, Lady Florence Devereux, since they were
children.
It was with great satisfaction that Emily and Lilias set out with their
father to make the first visit, and they augured well from their first
sight of Mrs. Weston and her daughters. Mrs. Weston was alone, her
daughters being out walking, and Lily spent the greater part of the visit
in silence, though her mind was made up in the first ten minutes, as she
told Emily on leaving the house, ‘that Miss Weston’s tastes were in
complete accordance with her own.’
‘Rapid judgment,’ said Emily. ‘Love before first sight. But Mrs. Weston
is a very sweet person.’
‘And, Emily, did you see the music-book open at “Angels ever bright and
fair?” If Miss Weston sings that as I imagine it!’
‘How could you see what was in the music-book at the other end of the
room? I only saw it was a beautiful piano. And what handsome furniture!
it made me doubly ashamed of our faded carpet and chairs, almost as old
as the house itself.’
‘Emily!’ said Lily, in her most earnest tones, ‘I would not change one of
those dear old chairs for a king’s ransom!’
The visit was in a short time returned, and though it was but a formal
morning call, Lilias found her bright expectations realised by the
sweetness of Alethea Weston’s manners, and the next time they met it was
a determined thing in her mind that, as Claude would have said, they had
sworn an eternal friendship.
She had the pleasure of lionising the two sisters over the Old Court,
telling all she knew and all she imagined about the siege, Sir Maurice
Mohun, and his faithful servant, Walter Greenwood. ‘Miss Weston,’ said
she in conclusion, ‘have you read _Old Mortality_?’
‘Yes,’ said Alethea, amused at the question.
‘Because they say I am as bad as Lady Margaret about the king’s visit.’
‘I have not heard the story often enough to think so,’ said Miss Weston,
‘I will warn you if I do.’
In the meantime Phyllis and Adeline were equally charmed with Marianne,
though shocked at her ignorance of country manners, and, indeed, Alethea
was quite diverted with Lily’s pity at the discovery that she had never
before been in the country in the spring. ‘What,’ she cried, ‘have you
never seen the tufts of red on the hazel, nor the fragrant golden palms,
and never heard the blackbird rush twittering out of the hedge, nor the
first nightingale’s note, nor the nightjar’s low chirr, nor the
chattering of the rooks? O what a store of sweet memories you have lost!
Why, how can you understand the beginning of the Allegro?’
Both the Miss Westons had so much pleasure in making acquaintance with
‘these delights,’ as quite to compensate for their former ignorance, and
soon the New Court rang with their praises. Mr. Mohun thought very
highly of the whole family, and rejoiced in such society for his
daughters, and they speedily became so well acquainted, that it was the
ordinary custom of the Westons to take luncheon at the New Court on
Sunday. On her side, however, Alethea Weston felt some reluctance to
become intimate with the young ladies of the New Court. She was pleased
with Emily’s manners, interested by Lily’s earnestness and simplicity,
and thought Jane a clever and amusing little creature, but even their
engaging qualities gave her pain, by reminding her of the sisters she had
lost, or by making her think how they would have liked them. A country
house and neighbours like these had been the objects of many visions of
their childhood, and now all the sweet sights and sounds around her only
made her think how she should have enjoyed them a year ago. She felt
almost jealous of Marianne’s liking for her new friends, lest they should
steal her heart from Emma and Lucy; but knowing that these were morbid
and unthankful feelings, she struggled against them, and though she
missed her sisters even more than when her mother and Marianne were in
greater need of her attention, she let no sign of her sorrowful feeling
appear, and seeing that Marianne was benefited in health and spirits, by
intercourse with young companions, she gave no hint of her disinclination
to join in the walks and other amusements of the Miss Mohuns.
She also began to take interest in the poor people. By Mrs. Weston’s
request, Mr. Devereux had pointed out the families which were most in
need of assistance, and Alethea made it her business to find out the best
way of helping them. She visited the village school with Lilias, and
when requested by her and by the Rector to give her aid in teaching, she
did not like to refuse what might be a duty, though she felt very
diffident of her powers of instruction. Marianne, like Phyllis and
Adeline, became a Sunday scholar, and was catechised with the others in
church. Both Mr. Mohun and his nephew thought very highly of the family,
and the latter was particularly glad that Lily should have some older
person to assist her in those parish matters which he left partly in her
charge.
Mr. Devereux had been Rector of Beechcroft about a year and a half, and
had hitherto been much liked. His parishioners had known him from a boy,
and were interested about him, and though very young, there was something
about him that gained their respect. Almost all his plans were going on
well, and things were, on the whole, in a satisfactory state, though no
one but Lilias expected even Cousin Robert to make a Dreamland of
Beechcroft, and there were days when he looked worn and anxious, and the
girls suspected that some one was behaving ill.
‘Have you a headache, Robert?’ asked Emily, a few evenings before
Whit-Sunday, ‘you have not spoken three words this evening.’
‘Not at all, thank you,’ said Mr. Devereux, smiling, ‘you need not think
to make me your victim, now you have no Claude to nurse.’
‘Then if it is not bodily, it is mental,’ said Lily.
‘I am in a difficulty about the christening of Mrs. Naylor’s child.’
‘Naylor the blacksmith?’ said Jane. ‘I thought it was high time for it
to be christened. It must be six weeks old.’
‘Is it not to be on Whit-Sunday?’ said Lily, disconsolately.
‘Oh no! Mrs. Naylor will not hear of bringing the child on a Sunday, and
I could hardly make her think it possible to bring it on Whit-Tuesday.’
‘Why did you not insist?’ said Lily.
‘Perhaps I might, if there was no other holy day at hand, or if there was
not another difficulty, a point on which I cannot give way.’
‘Oh! the godfathers and godmothers,’ said Lily, ‘does she want that
charming brother of hers, Edward Gage?’
‘Yes, and what is worse, Edward Gage’s dissenting wife, and Dick Rodd,
who shows less sense of religion than any one in the parish, and has
never been confirmed.’
‘Could you make them hear reason?’
‘They were inclined to be rather impertinent,’ said Mr. Devereux. ‘Old
Mrs. Gage—’
‘Oh!’ interrupted Jane, ‘there is no hope for you if the sour Gage is in
the pie.’
‘The sour Gage told me people were not so particular in her younger days,
and perhaps they should not have the child christened at all, since I was
such a _contrary_ gentleman. Tom Naylor was not at home, I am to see him
to-morrow.’
‘Well, I do not think Tom Naylor is as bad as the rest,’ said Lily; ‘he
would have been tolerable, if he had married any one but Martha Gage.’
‘Yes, he is an open good-natured fellow, and I have hopes of making an
impression on him.’
‘If not,’ said Lily, ‘I hope papa will take away his custom.’
‘What?’ said Mr. Mohun, who always heard any mention of himself. Mr.
Devereux repeated his history, and discussed the matter with his uncle,
only once interrupted by an inquiry from Jane about the child’s name, a
point on which she could gain no intelligence. His report the next day
was not decidedly unfavourable, though he scarcely hoped the christening
would be so soon as Tuesday. He had not seen the father, and suspected
he had purposely kept out of the way.
Jane, disappointed that the baby’s name remained a mystery, resolved to
set out on a voyage of discovery. Accordingly, as soon as her cousin was
gone, she asked Emily if she had not been saying that Ada wanted some
more cotton for her sampler.
‘Yes,’ said Emily, ‘but I am not going to walk all the way to Mrs.
Appleton’s this afternoon.’
‘Shall I go?’ said Jane. ‘Ada, run and fetch your pattern.’ Emily and
Ada were much obliged by Jane’s disinterested offer, and in a quarter of
an hour Ada’s thoughts and hands were busy in Mrs. Appleton’s drawer of
many-coloured cotton.
‘What a pity this is about Mrs. Naylor’s baby,’ began Jane.
‘It is a sad story indeed, Miss Jane, I am sure it must be grievous to
Mr. Devereux,’ said Mrs. Appleton. ‘Betsy Wall said he had been there
three times about it.’
‘Ah! we all know that Walls have ears,’ said Jane; ‘how that Betsy does
run about gossiping!’
‘Yes, Miss Jane, there she bides all day long at the stile gaping; not a
stitch does she do for her mother; I cannot tell what is to be the end of
it.’
‘And do you know what the child’s name is to be, Mrs. Appleton?’
‘No, Miss Jane,’ answered Mrs. Appleton. ‘Betsy did say they talked of
naming him after his uncle, Edward Gage, only Mr. Devereux would not let
him stand.’
‘No,’ said Jane. ‘Since he married that dissenting wife he never comes
near the church; he is too much like the sour Gage, as we call his
mother, to be good for much. But, after all, he is not so bad as Dick
Rodd, who has never been confirmed, and has never shown any sense of
religion in his life.’
‘Yes, Miss, Dick Rodd is a sad fellow: did you hear what a row there was
at the Mohun Arms last week, Miss Jane?’
‘Aye,’ said Jane, ‘and papa says he shall certainly turn Dick Rodd out of
the house as soon as the lease is out, and it is only till next
Michaelmas twelve-months.’
‘Yes, Miss, as I said to Betsy Wall, it would be more for their interest
to behave well.’
‘Indeed it would,’ said Jane. ‘Robert and papa were talking of having
their horses shod at Stoney Bridge, if Tom Naylor will be so obstinate,
only papa does not like to give Tom up if he can help it, because his
father was so good, and Tom would not be half so bad if he had not
married one of the Gages.’
‘Here is Cousin Robert coming down the lane,’ said Ada, who had chosen
her cotton, and was gazing from the door. Jane gave a violent start,
took a hurried leave of Mrs. Appleton, and set out towards home; she
could not avoid meeting her cousin.
‘Oh, Jenny! have you been enjoying a gossip with your great ally?’ said
he.
‘We have only been buying pink cotton,’ said Ada, whose conscience was
clear.
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Devereux, ‘Beechcroft affairs would soon stand still,
without those useful people, Mrs. Appleton, Miss Wall, and Miss Jane
Mohun,’ and he passed on. Jane felt her face colouring, his freedom from
suspicion made her feel very guilty, but the matter soon passed out of
her mind.
Blithe Whit-Sunday came, the five Miss Mohuns appeared in white frocks,
new bonnets were plenty, the white tippets of the children, and the
bright shawls of the mothers, made the village look gay; Wat Greenwood
stuck a pink between his lips, and the green boughs of hazel and birch
decked the dark oak carvings in the church.
And Whit-Monday came. At half-past ten the rude music of the band of the
Friendly Society came pealing from the top of the hill, then appeared two
tall flags, crowned with guelder roses and peonies, then the great blue
drum, the clarionet blown by red-waist-coated and red-faced Mr. Appleton,
the three flutes and the triangle, all at their loudest, causing some of
the spectators to start, and others to dance. Then behold the whole
procession of labourers, in white round frocks, blue ribbons in their
hats, and tall blue staves in their hands. In the rear, the confused
mob, women and children, cheerful faces and mirthful sounds everywhere.
These were hushed as the flags were lowered to pass under the low-roofed
gateway of the churchyard, and all was still, except the trampling of
feet on the stone floor. Then the service began, the responses were made
in full and hearty tones, almost running into a chant, the old 133rd
Psalm was sung as loudly and as badly as usual, a very short but very
earnest sermon was preached, and forth came the troop again.
Mr. Devereux always dined with the club in a tent, at the top of the
hill, but his uncle made him promise to come to a second dinner at the
New Court in the evening.
‘Robert looks anxious,’ said Lily, as she parted with him after the
evening service; ‘I am afraid something is going wrong.’
‘Trust me for finding out what it is,’ said Jane.
‘No, no, Jenny, do not ask him,’ said Lily; ‘if he tells us to relieve
his mind, I am very glad he should make friends of us, but do not ask.
Let us talk of other things to put it out of his head, whatever it may
be.’
Jane soon heard more of the cause of the depression of her cousin’s
spirits than even she had any desire to do. After dinner, the girls were
walking in the garden, enjoying the warmth of the evening, when Mr.
Devereux came up to her and drew her aside from the rest, telling her
that he wished to speak to her.
‘Oh!’ said Jane, ‘when am I to meet you at school again? You never told
me which chapter I was to prepare; I cannot think what would become of
your examinations if it was not for me, you could not get an answer to
one question in three.’
‘That was not what I wished to speak to you about,’ said Mr. Devereux.
‘What had you been saying to Mrs. Appleton when I met you at her door on
Saturday?’
The colour rushed into Jane’s cheeks, but she replied without hesitation,
‘Oh! different things, _La pluie et le beau temps_, just as usual.’
‘Cannot you remember anything more distinctly?’
‘I always make a point of forgetting what I talk about,’ said Jane,
trying to laugh.
‘Now, Jane, let me tell you what has happened in the village—as I came
down the hill from the club-dinner—’
‘Oh,’ said Jane, hoping to make a diversion, ‘Wat Greenwood came back
about a quarter of an hour ago, and he—’
Mr. Devereux proceeded without attending to her, ‘As I came down the hill
from the club-dinner, old Mrs. Gage came out of Naylor’s house, and her
daughter with her, in great anger, calling me to account for having
spoken of her in a most unbecoming way, calling her the sour Gage, and
trying to set the Squire against them.’
‘Oh, that abominable chattering woman!’ Jane exclaimed; ‘and Betsy Wall
too, I saw her all alive about something. What a nuisance such people
are!’
‘In short,’ said Mr. Devereux, ‘I heard an exaggerated account of all
that passed here on the subject the other day. Now, Jane, am I doing you
any injustice in thinking that it must have been through you that this
history went abroad into the village?’
‘Well,’ said Jane, ‘I am sure you never told us that it was any secret.
When a story is openly told to half a dozen people they cannot be
expected to keep it to themselves.’
‘I spoke uncharitably and incautiously,’ said he, ‘I am willing to
confess, but it is nevertheless my duty to set before you the great
matter that this little fire has kindled.’
‘Why, it cannot have done any great harm, can it?’ asked Jane, the
agitation of her voice and laugh betraying that she was not quite so
careless as she wished to appear. ‘Only the sour Gage will ferment a
little.’
‘Oh, Jane! I did not expect that you would treat this matter so
lightly.’
‘But tell me, what harm has it done?’ asked she.
‘Do you consider it nothing that the poor child should remain unbaptized,
that discord should be brought into the parish, that anger should be on
the conscience of your neighbour, that he should be driven from the
church?’
‘Is it as bad as that?’ said Jane.
‘We do not yet see the full extent of the mischief our idle words may
have done,’ said Mr. Devereux.
‘But it is their own fault, if they will do wrong,’ said Jane; ‘they
ought not to be in a rage, we said nothing but the truth.’
‘I wish I was clear of the sin,’ said her cousin.
‘And after all,’ said Jane, ‘I cannot see that I was much to blame; I
only talked to Mrs. Appleton, as I have done scores of times, and no one
minded it. You only laughed at me on Saturday, and papa and Eleanor
never scolded me.’
‘You cannot say that no one has ever tried to check you,’ said the
Rector.
‘And how was I to know that that mischief-maker would repeat it?’ said
Jane.
‘I do not mean to say,’ said Mr. Devereux, ‘that you actually committed a
greater sin than you may often have done, by talking in a way which you
knew would displease your father. I know we are too apt to treat lightly
the beginnings of evil, until some sudden sting makes us feel what a
serpent we have been fostering. Think this a warning, pray that the evil
we dread may be averted; but should it ensue, consider it as a punishment
sent in mercy. It will be better for you not to come to school
to-morrow; instead of the references you were to have looked out, I had
rather you read over in a humble spirit the Epistle of St. James.’
Jane’s tears by this time were flowing fast, and finding that she no
longer attempted to defend herself, her cousin said no more. He joined
the others, and Jane, escaping to her own room, gave way to a passionate
fit of crying. Whether her tears were of true sorrow or of anger she
could not have told herself; she was still sobbing on her bed when the
darkness came on, and her two little sisters came in on their way to bed
to wish her good-night.
‘Oh, Jane, Jane! what is the matter? have you been naughty?’ asked the
little girls in great amazement.
‘Never mind,’ said Jane, shortly; ‘good-night,’ and she sat up and wiped
away her tears. The children still lingered. ‘Go away, do,’ said she.
‘Is Robert gone?’
‘No,’ said Phyllis, ‘he is reading the newspaper.’
Phyllis and Adeline left the room, and Jane walked up and down,
considering whether she should venture to go down to tea; perhaps her
cousin had waited till the little girls had gone before he spoke to Mr.
Mohun, or perhaps her red eyes might cause questions on her troubles; she
was still in doubt when Lily opened the door, a lamp in her hand.
‘My dear Jenny, are you here? Ada told me you were crying, what is the
matter?’
‘Then you have not heard?’ said Jane.
‘Only Robert began just now, “Poor Jenny, she has been the cause of
getting us into a very awkward scrape,” but then Ada came to tell me
about you, and I came away.’
‘Yes,’ said Jane, angrily, ‘he will throw all the blame upon me, when I
am sure it was quite as much the fault of that horrible Mrs. Appleton,
and papa will be as angry as possible.’
‘But what has happened?’ asked Lily.
‘Oh! that chatterer, that worst of gossipers, has gone and told the
Naylors and Mrs. Gage all we said about them the other day.’
‘So you told Mrs. Appleton?’ said Lily; ‘so that was the reason you were
so obliging about the marking thread. Oh, Jane, you had better say no
more about Mrs. Appleton! And has it done much mischief?’
‘Oh! Mrs. Gage “pitched” into Robert, as Wat Greenwood would say, and
the christening is off again.’
‘Jane, this is frightful,’ said Lily; ‘I do not wonder that you are
unhappy.’
‘Well, I daresay it will all come right again,’ said Jane; ‘there will
only be a little delay, papa and Robert will bring them to their senses
in time.’
‘Suppose the baby was to die,’ said Lily.
‘Oh, it will not die,’ said Jane, ‘a great fat healthy thing like that
likely to die indeed!’
‘I cannot make you out, Jane,’ said Lily. ‘If I had done such a thing, I
do not think I could have a happy minute till it was set right.’
‘Well, I told you I was very sorry,’ said Jane, ‘only I wish they would
not all be so hard upon me. Robert owns that he should not have said
such things if he did not wish them to be repeated.’
‘Does he?’ cried Lily. ‘How exactly like Robert that is, to own himself
in fault when he is obliged to blame others. Jane, how could you hear
him say such things and not be overcome with shame? And then to turn it
against him! Oh, Jane, I do not think I can talk to you any more.’
‘I do not mean to say it was not very good of him,’ said Jane.
‘Good of him—what a word!’ cried Lily. ‘Well, good-night, I cannot bear
to talk to you now. Shall I say anything for you downstairs?’
‘Oh, tell papa and Robert I am very sorry,’ said Jane. ‘I shall not come
down again, you may leave the lamp.’
On her way downstairs in the dark Lilias was led, by the example of her
cousin, to reflect that she was not without some share in the mischief
that had been done; the words which report imputed to Mr. Devereux were
mostly her own or Jane’s. There was no want of candour in Lily, and as
soon as she entered the drawing-room she went straight up to her father
and cousin, and began, ‘Poor Jenny is very unhappy; she desired me to
tell you how sorry she is. But I really believe that I did the mischief,
Robert. It was I who said those foolish things that were repeated as if
you had said them. It is a grievous affair, but who could have thought
that we were doing so much harm?’
‘Perhaps it may not do any,’ said Emily. ‘The Naylors have a great deal
of good about them.’
‘They must have more than I suppose, if they can endure what Robert is
reported to have said of them,’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘What did you say, Robert,’ said Lily, ‘did you not tell them all was
said by your foolish young cousins?’
‘I agreed with you too much to venture on contradicting the report; you
know I could not even deny having called Mrs. Gage by that name.’
‘Oh, if I could do anything to mend it!’ cried Lily.
But wishes had no effect. Lilias and Jane had to mourn over the full
extent of harm done by hasty words. After the more respectable men had
left the Mohun Arms on the evening of Whit-Monday, the rest gave way to
unrestrained drunkenness, not so much out of reckless self-indulgence, as
to defy the clergyman and the squire. They came to the front of the
parsonage, yelled and groaned for some time, and ended by breaking down
the gate.
This conduct was repeated on Tuesday, and on many Saturdays following;
some young trees in the churchyard were cut, and abuse of the parson
written on the walls the idle young men taking this opportunity to
revenge their own quarrels, caused by Mr. Devereux’s former efforts for
their reformation.
On Sunday several children were absent from school; all those belonging
to Farmer Gage’s labourers were taken away, and one man was turned off by
the farmers for refusing to remove his child.
Now that the war was carried on so openly, Mr. Mohun considered it his
duty to withdraw his custom from one who chose to set his pastor at
defiance. He went to the forge, and had a long conversation with the
blacksmith, but though he was listened to with respect, it was not easy
to make much impression on an ignorant, hot-tempered man, who had been
greatly offended, and prided himself on showing that he would support the
quarrel of his wife and her relations against both squire and parson; and
though Mr. Mohun did persuade him to own that it was wrong to be at war
with the clergyman, the effect of his arguments was soon done away with
by the Gages, and no ground was gained.
Mr. Gage’s farm was unhappily at no great distance from a dissenting
chapel and school, in the adjoining parish of Stoney Bridge, and thither
the farmer and blacksmith betook themselves, with many of the cottagers
of Broom Hill.
One alone of the family of Tom Naylor refused to join him in his dissent,
and that was his sister, Mrs. Eden, a widow, with one little girl about
seven years old, who, though in great measure dependent upon him for
subsistence, knew her duty too well to desert the church, or to take her
child from school, and continued her even course, toiling hard for bread,
and uncomplaining, though often munch distressed. All the rest of the
parish who were not immediately under Mr. Mohun’s influence were in a sad
state of confusion.
Jane was grieved at heart, but would not confess it, and Lilias was so
restless and unhappy, that Emily was quite weary of her lamentations.
Her best comforter was Miss Weston, who patiently listened to her, sighed
with her over the evident sorrow of the Rector, and the mischief in the
parish, and proved herself a true friend, by never attempting to
extenuate her fault.