THE NEW FRIEND
‘Maidens should be mild and meek,
Swift to hear, and slow to speak.’
MISS WESTON had been much interested by what she heard respecting Mrs.
Eden, and gladly discovered that she was just the person who could assist
in some needlework which was required at Broom Hill. She asked Lilias to
tell her where to find her cottage, and Lily replied by an offer to show
her the way; Miss Weston hesitated, thinking that perhaps in the present
state of things Lily had rather not see her; but her doubts were quickly
removed by this speech, ‘I want to see her particularly. I have been
there three times without finding her. I think I can set this terrible
matter right by speaking to her.’
Accordingly, Lilias and Phyllis set out with Alethea and Marianne one
afternoon to Mrs. Eden’s cottage, which stood at the edge of a long field
at the top of the hill. Very fast did Lily talk all the way, but she
grew more silent as she came to the cottage, and knocked at the door; it
was opened by Mrs. Eden herself, a pale, but rather pretty young woman,
with a remarkable gentle and pleasing face, and a manner which was almost
ladylike, although her hands were freshly taken out of the wash-tub. She
curtsied low, and coloured at the sight of Lilias, set chairs for the
visitors, and then returned to her work.
‘Oh! Mrs. Eden,’ Lily began, intending to make her explanation, but
feeling confused, thought it better to wait till her friend’s business
was settled, and altered her speech into ‘Miss Weston is come to speak to
you about some work.’
Mrs. Eden looked quite relieved, and Alethea proceeded to appoint the day
for her coming to Broom Hill, and arrange some small matters, during
which Lily not only settled what to say, but worked herself into a fit of
impatience at the length of Alethea’s instructions. When they were
concluded, however, and there was a pause, her words failed her, and she
wished that she was miles from the cottage, or that she had never
mentioned her intentions. At last she stammered out, ‘Oh! Mrs. Eden—I
wanted to speak to you about—about Mr. Devereux and your brother.’
Mrs. Eden bent over her wash-tub, Miss Weston examined the shells on the
chimney-piece, Marianne and Phyllis listened with all their ears, and
poor Lily was exceedingly uncomfortable.
‘I wished to tell you—I do not think—I do not mean—It was not his saying.
Indeed, he did not say those things about the Gages.’
‘I told my brother I did not think Mr. Devereux would go for to say such
a thing,’ said Mrs. Eden, as much confused as Lily.
‘Oh! that was right, Mrs. Eden. The mischief was all my making and
Jane’s. We said those foolish things, and they were repeated as if it
was he. Oh! do tell your brother so, Mrs. Eden. It was very good of you
to think it was not Cousin Robert. Pray tell Tom Naylor. I cannot bear
that things should go on in this dreadful way.’
‘Indeed, Miss, I am very sorry,’ said Mrs. Eden.
‘But, Mrs Eden, I am sure that would set it right again,’ said Lily, ‘are
not you? I would do anything to have that poor baby christened.’
Lily’s confidence melted away as she saw that Mrs. Eden’s tears were
falling fast, and she ended with, ‘Only tell them, and we shall see what
will happen.’
‘Very well, Miss Lilias,’ said Mrs. Eden. ‘I am very sorry.’
‘Let us hope that time and patience will set things right,’ said Miss
Weston, to relieve the embarrassment of both parties. ‘Your brother must
soon see that Mr. Devereux only wishes to do his duty.’
Alethea skilfully covered Lily’s retreat, and the party took leave of
Mrs. Eden, and turned into their homeward path.
Lily at first seemed disposed to be silent, and Miss Weston therefore
amused herself with listening to the chatter of the little girls as they
walked on before them.
‘There are only thirty-six days to the holidays,’ said Phyllis; ‘Ada and
I keep a paper in the nursery with the account of the number of days. We
shall be so glad when Claude, and Maurice, and Redgie come home.’
‘Are they not very boisterous?’ said Marianne.
‘Not Maurice,’ said Phyllis.
‘No, indeed,’ said Lily, ‘Maurice is like nobody else. He takes up some
scientific pursuit each time he comes home, and cares for nothing else
for some time, and then quite forgets it. He is an odd-looking boy too,
thick and sturdy, with light flaxen hair, and dark, overhanging eyebrows,
and he makes the most extraordinary grimaces.’
‘And Reginald?’ said Alethea.
‘Oh! Redgie is a noble-looking fellow. But just eleven, and taller than
Jane. His complexion so fair, yet fresh and boyish, and his eyes that
beautiful blue that Ada’s are—real blue. Then his hair, in dark brown
waves, with a rich auburn shine. The old knights must have been just
like Redgie. And Claude—Oh! Miss Weston, have you ever seen Claude?’
‘No, but I have seen your eldest brother.’
‘William? Why, he has been in Canada these three years. Where could you
have seen him?’
‘At Brighton, about four years ago.’
‘Ah! the year before he went. I remember that his regiment was there.
Well, it is curious that you should know him; and did you ever hear of
Harry, the brother that we lost?’
‘I remember Captain Mohun’s being called away to Oxford by his illness,’
said Alethea.
‘Ah, yes! William was the only one of us who was with him, even papa was
not there. His illness was so short.’
‘Yes,’ said Alethea, ‘I think it was on a Tuesday that Captain Mohun left
Brighton, and we saw his death in the paper on Saturday.’
‘William only arrived the evening that he died. Papa was gone to Ireland
to see about Cousin Rotherwood’s property. Robert, not knowing that,
wrote to him at Beechcroft; Eleanor forwarded the letter without opening
it, and so we knew nothing till Robert came to tell us that all was
over.’
‘Without any preparation?’
‘With none. Harry had left home about ten days before, quite well, and
looking so handsome. You know what a fine-looking person William is.
Well, Harry was very like him, only not so tall and strong, with the same
clear hazel eyes, and more pink in his cheeks—fairer altogether. Then
Harry wrote, saying that he had caught one of his bad colds. We did not
think much of it, for he was always having coughs. We heard no more for
a week, and then one morning Eleanor was sent for out of the schoolroom,
and there was Robert come to tell us. Oh! it was such a thunderbolt.
This was what did the mischief. You know papa and mamma being from home
so long, the elder boys had no settled place for the holidays; sometimes
they stayed with one friend, sometimes with another, and so no one saw
enough of them to find out how delicate poor Harry really was. I think
papa had been anxious the only winter they were at home together, and
Harry had been talked to and advised to take care; but in the summer and
autumn he was well, and did not think about it. He went to Oxford by the
coach—it was a bitterly cold frosty day—there was a poor woman outside,
shivering and looking very ill, and Harry changed places with her. He
was horribly chilled, but thinking he had only a common cold, he took no
care. Robert, coming to Oxford about a week after, found him very ill,
and wrote to papa and William, but William scarcely came in time. Harry
just knew him, and that was all. He could not speak, and died that
night. Then William stayed at Oxford to receive papa, and Robert came to
tell us.’
‘It must have been a terrible shock.’
‘Such a loss—he was so very good and clever. Every one looked up to
him—William almost as much as the younger ones. He never was in any
scrape, had all sorts of prizes at Eton, besides getting his scholarship
before he was seventeen.’
Whenever Lily could get Miss Weston alone, it was her way to talk in this
manner. She loved the sound of her own voice so well, that she was never
better satisfied than when engrossing the whole conversation. Having
nothing to talk of but her books, her poor people, and her family, she
gave her friend the full benefit of all she could say on each subject,
while Alethea had kindness enough to listen with real interest to her
long rambling discourses, well pleased to see her happy.
The next time they met, Lilias told her all she knew or imagined
respecting Eleanor, and of her own debate with Claude, and ended, ‘Now,
Miss Weston, tell me your opinion, which would you choose for a sister,
Eleanor or Emily?’
‘I have some experience of Miss Mohun’s delightful manners, and none of
Mrs. Hawkesworth’s, so I am no fair judge,’ said Alethea.
‘I really have done justice to Eleanor’s sterling goodness,’ said Lily.
‘Now what should you think?’
‘I can hardly imagine greater proofs of affection than Mrs. Hawkesworth
has given you,’ said Miss Weston, smiling.
‘It was because it was her duty,’ said Lilias. ‘You have only heard the
facts, but you cannot judge of her ways and looks. Now only think, when
Frank came home, after seven years of perils by field and flood—there she
rose up to receive him as if he had been Mr. Nobody making a morning
call. And all the time before they were married, I do believe she
thought more of showing Emily how much tea we were to use in a week than
anything else.’
‘Perhaps some people might have admired her self-command,’ said Alethea.
‘Self-command, the refuge of the insensible? And now, I told you about
dear Harry the other day. He was Eleanor’s especial brother, yet his
death never seemed to make any difference to her. She scarcely cried:
she heard our lessons as usual, talked in her quiet voice—showed no
tokens of feeling.’
‘Was her health as good as before?’ asked Miss Weston.
‘She was not ill,’ said Lily; ‘if she had, I should have been satisfied.
She certainly could not take long walks that winter, but she never likes
walking. People said she looked ill, but I do not know.’
‘Shall I tell you what I gather from your history?’
‘Pray do.’
‘Then do not think me very perverse, if I say that perhaps the grief she
then repressed may have weighed down her spirits ever since, so that you
can hardly remember any alteration.’
‘That I cannot,’ said Lily. ‘She is always the same, but then she ought
to have been more cheerful before his death.’
‘Did not you lose him soon after your mother?’ said Alethea.
‘Two whole years,’ said Lily. ‘Oh! and aunt, Robert too, and Frank went
to India the beginning of that year; yes, there was enough to depress
her, but I never thought of grief going on in that quiet dull way for so
many years.’
‘You would prefer one violent burst, and then forgetfulness?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Lily; ‘but I should like a little evidence of it. If
it is really strong, it cannot be hid.’
Little did Lily think of the grief that sat heavy upon the spirit of
Alethea, who answered—‘Some people can do anything that they consider
their duty.’
‘Duty: what, are you a duty lover?’ exclaimed Lilias. ‘I never suspected
it, because you are not disagreeable.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alethea, laughing, ‘your compliment rather surprises
me, for I thought you told me that your brother Claude was on the duty
side of the question.’
‘He thinks he is,’ said Lily, ‘but love is his real motive of action, as
I can prove to you. Poor Claude had a very bad illness when he was about
three years old; and ever since he has been liable to terrible headaches,
and he is not at all strong. Of course he cannot always study hard, and
when first he went to school, every one scolded him for being idle. I
really believe he might have done more, but then he was so clever that he
could keep up without any trouble, and, as Robert says, that was a great
temptation; but still papa was not satisfied, because he said Claude
could do better. So said Harry. Oh! you cannot think what a person
Harry was, as high-spirited as William, and as gentle as Claude; and in
his kind way he used to try hard to make Claude exert himself, but it
never would do—he was never in mischief, but he never took pains. Then
Harry died, and when Claude came home, and saw how changed things were,
how gray papa’s hair had turned, and how silent and melancholy William
had grown, he set himself with all his might to make up to papa as far as
he could. He thought only of doing what Harry would have wished, and
papa himself says that he has done wonders. I cannot see that Henry
himself could have been more than Claude is now; he has not spared
himself in the least, his tutor says, and he would have had the Newcastle
Scholarship last year, if he had not worked so hard that he brought on
one of his bad illnesses, and was obliged to come home. Now I am sure
that he has acted from love, for it was as much his duty to take pains
while Harry was alive as afterwards.’
‘Certainly,’ said Miss Weston, ‘but what does he say himself?’
‘Oh! he never will talk of himself,’ said Lily.
‘Have you not overlooked one thing which may be the truth,’ said Alethea,
as if she was asking for information, ‘that duty and love may be
identical? Is not St. Paul’s description of charity very like the duty
to our neighbour?’
‘The practice is the same, but not the theory,’ said Lily.
‘Now, what is called duty, seems to me to be love doing unpleasant work,’
said Miss Weston; ‘love disguised under another name, when obliged to act
in a way which seems, only seems, out of accordance with its real title.’
‘That is all very well for those who have love,’ said Lily. ‘Some have
not who do their duty conscientiously—another word which I hate, by the
bye.’
‘They have love in a rough coat, perhaps,’ said Alethea, ‘and I should
expect it soon to put on a smoother one.’