SIR MAURICE
‘Shall thought was his, in after time,
Thus to be hitched into a rhyme;
The simple sire could only boast
That he was loyal to his cost,
The banished race of kings revered,
And lost his land.’
THE holidays arrived, and with them the three brothers, for during the
first few weeks of the Oxford vacation Claude accompanied Lord Rotherwood
on visits to some college friends, and only came home the same day as the
younger ones.
Maurice did not long leave his sisters in doubt as to what was to be his
reigning taste, for as soon as dinner was over, he made Jane find the
volume of the Encyclopædia containing Entomology, and with his elbows on
the table, proceeded to study it so intently, that the young ladies gave
up all hopes of rousing him from it. Claude threw himself down on the
sofa to enjoy the luxury of a desultory talk with his sisters; and
Reginald, his head on the floor, and his heels on a chair, talked loud
and fast enough for all three, with very little regard to what the
damsels might be saying.
‘Oh! Claude,’ said Lily, ‘you cannot think how much we like Miss Weston,
she lets us call her Alethea, and—’
Here came an interruption from Mr. Mohun, who perceiving the position of
Reginald’s dusty shoes, gave a loud ‘Ah—h!’ as if he was scolding a dog,
and ordered him to change them directly.
‘Here, Phyl!’ said Reginald, kicking off his shoes, ‘just step up and
bring my shippers, Rachel will give them to you.’
Away went Phyllis, well pleased to be her brother’s fag.
‘Ah! Redgie does not know the misfortune that hangs over him,’ said
Emily.
‘What?’ said Reginald, ‘will not the Baron let Viper come to the house?’
‘Worse,’ said Emily, ‘Rachel is going away.’
‘Rachel?’ cried Claude, starting up from the sofa.
‘Rachel?’ said Maurice, without raising his eyes.
‘Rachel! Rachel! botheration!’ roared Reginald, with a wondrous caper.
‘Yes, Rachel,’ said Emily; ‘Rachel, who makes so much of you, for no
reason that I could ever discover, but because you are the most
troublesome.’
‘You will never find any one to mend your jackets, and dress your wounds
like Rachel,’ said Lily, ‘and make a baby of you instead of a great
schoolboy. What will become of you, Redgie?’
‘What will become of any of us?’ said Claude; ‘I thought Rachel was the
mainspring of the house.’
‘Have you quarrelled with her, Emily?’ said Reginald.
‘Nonsense,’ said Emily, ‘it is only that her brother has lost his wife,
and wants her to take care of his children.’
‘Well,’ said Reginald, ‘her master has lost his wife, and wants her to
take care of his children.’
‘I cannot think what I shall do,’ said Ada; ‘I cry about it every night
when I go to bed. What is to be done?’
‘Send her brother a new wife,’ said Maurice.
‘Send him Emily,’ said Reginald; ‘we could spare her much better.’
‘Only I don’t wish him joy,’ said Maurice.
‘Well, I hope you wish me joy of my substitute,’ said Emily; ‘I do not
think you would ever guess, but Lily, after being in what Rachel calls
quite a way, has persuaded every one to let us have Esther Bateman.’
‘What, the Baron?’ said Claude, in surprise.
‘Yes,’ said Lily, ‘is it not delightful? He said at first, Emily was too
inexperienced to teach a young servant; but then we settled that Hannah
should be upper servant, and Esther will only have to wait upon Phyl and
Ada. Then he said Faith Longley was of a better set of people, but I am
sure it would give one the nightmare to see her lumbering about the
house, and then he talked it over with Robert and with Rachel.’
‘And was not Rachel against it, or was she too kind to her young ladies?’
‘Oh! she was cross when she talked it over with us,’ said Lily; ‘but we
coaxed her over, and she told the Baron it would do very well.’
‘And Robert?’
‘He was quite with us, for he likes Esther as much as I do,’ said lily.
‘Now, Lily,’ said Jane, ‘how can you say he was quite with you, when he
said he thought it would be better if she was farther from home, and
under some older person?’
‘Yes, but he allowed that she would be much safer here than at home,’
said Lily.
‘But I thought she used to be the head of all the ill behaviour in
school,’ said Claude.
‘Oh! that was in Eleanor’s time,’ said Lily; ‘there was nothing to draw
her out, she never was encouraged; but since she has been in my class,
and has found that her wishes to do right are appreciated and met by
affection, she has been quite a new creature.’
‘Since she has been in MY class,’ Claude repeated.
‘Well,’ said Lily, with a slight blush, ‘it is just what Robert says. He
told her, when he gave her her prize Bible on Palm Sunday, that she had
been going on very well, but she must take great care when removed from
those whose influence now guided her, and who could he have meant but me?
And now she is to go on with me always. She will be quite one of the old
sort of faithful servants, who feel that they owe everything to their
masters, and will it not be pleasant to have so sweet and expressive a
face about the house?’
‘Do I know her face?’ said Claude. ‘Oh yes! I do. She has black eyes,
I think, and would be pretty if she did not look pert.’
‘You provoking Claude!’ cried Lily, ‘you are as bad as Alethea, who never
will say that Esther is the best person for us.’
‘I was going to inquire for the all-for-love principle,’ said Claude,
‘but I see it is in full force. And how are the verses, Lily? Have you
made a poem upon Michael Moone, or Mohun, the actor, our uncle, whom I
discovered for you in Pepys’s Memoirs?’
‘Nonsense,’ said Lily; ‘but I have been writing something about Sir
Maurice, which you shall hear whenever you are not in this horrid
temper.’
The next afternoon, as soon as luncheon was over, Lily drew Claude out to
his favourite place under the plane-tree, where she proceeded to inflict
her poem upon his patient ears, while he lay flat upon the grass looking
up to the sky; Emily and Jane had promised to join them there in process
of time, and the four younger ones were, as usual, diverting themselves
among the farm buildings at the Old Court.
Lily began: ‘I meant to have two parts about Sir Maurice going out to
fight when he was very young, and then about his brothers being killed,
and King Charles knighting him, and his betrothed, Phyllis Crossthwayte,
embroidering his black engrailed cross on his banner, and then the taking
the castle, and his being wounded, and escaping, and Phyllis not thinking
it right to leave her father; but I have not finished that, so now you
must hear about his return home.’
‘A romaunt in six cantos, entitled Woe woe,
By Miss Fanny F. known more commonly so,’
muttered Claude to himself; but as Lily did not understand or know whence
his quotation came, it did not hurt her feelings, and she went merrily
on:—
‘’Tis the twenty-ninth of merry May;
Full cheerily shine the sunbeams to-day,
Their joyous light revealing
Full many a troop in garments gay,
With cheerful steps who take their way
By the green hill and shady lane,
While merry bells are pealing;
And soon in Beechcroft’s holy fane
The villagers are kneeling.
Dreary and mournful seems the shrine
Where sound their prayers and hymns divine;
For every mystic ornament
By the rude spoiler’s hand is rent;
Scarce is its ancient beauty traced
In wood-work broken and defaced,
Reft of each quaint device and rare,
Of foliage rich and mouldings fair;
Yet happy is each spirit there;
The simple peasantry rejoice
To see the altar decked with care,
To hear their ancient Pastor’s voice
Reciting o’er each well-known prayer,
To view again his robe of white,
And hear the services aright;
Once more to chant their glorious Creed,
And thankful own their nation freed
From those who cast her glories down,
And rent away her Cross and Crown.
A stranger knelt among the crowd,
And joined his voice in praises loud,
And when the holy rites had ceased,
Held converse with the aged Priest,
Then turned to join the village feast,
Where, raised on the hill’s summit green,
The Maypole’s flowery wreaths were seen;
Beneath the venerable yew
The stranger stood the sports to view,
Unmarked by all, for each was bent
On his own scheme of merriment,
On talking, laughing, dancing, playing—
There never was so blithe a Maying.
So thought each laughing maiden gay,
Whose head-gear bore the oaken spray;
So thought that hand of shouting boys,
Unchecked in their best joy—in noise;
But gray-haired men, whose deep-marked scars
Bore token of the civil wars,
And hooded dames in cloaks of red,
At the blithe youngsters shook the head,
Gathering in eager clusters told
How joyous were the days of old,
When Beechcroft’s lords, those Barons bold,
Came forth to join their vassals’ sport,
And here to hold their rustic court,
Throned in the ancient chair you see
Beneath our noble old yew tree.
Alas! all empty stands the throne,
Reserved for Mohun’s race alone,
And the old folks can only tell
Of the good lords who ruled so well.
“Ah! I bethink me of the time,
The last before those years of crime,
When with his open hearty cheer,
The good old squire was sitting here.”
“’Twas then,” another voice replied,
“That brave young Master Maurice tried
To pitch the ball with Andrew Grey—
We ne’er shall see so blithe a day—
All the young squires have long been dead.”
“No, Master Webb,” quoth Andrew Grey,
“Young Master Maurice safely fled,
At least so all the Greenwoods say,
And Walter Greenwood with him went
To share his master’s banishment;
And now King Charles is ruling here,
Our own good landlord may be near.”
“Small hope of that,” the old man said,
And sadly shook his hoary head,
“Sir Maurice died beyond the sea,
Last of his noble line was he.”
“Look, Master Webb!” he turned, and there
The stranger sat in Mohun’s chair;
At ease he sat, and smiled to scan
The face of each astonished man;
Then on the ground he laid aside
His plumed hat and mantle wide.
One moment, Andrew deemed he knew
Those glancing eyes of hazel hue,
But the sunk cheek, the figure spare,
The lines of white that streak the hair—
How can this he the stripling gay,
Erst, victor in the sports of May?
Full twenty years of cheerful toil,
And labour on his native soil,
On Andrew’s head had left no trace—
The summer’s sun, the winter’s storm,
They had but ruddier made his face,
More hard his hand, more strong his form.
Forth from the wandering, whispering crowd,
A farmer came, and spoke aloud,
With rustic bow and welcome fair,
But with a hesitating air—
He told how custom well preserved
The throne for Mohun’s race reserved;
The stranger laughed, “What, Harrington,
Hast thou forgot thy landlord’s son?”
Loud was the cry, and blithe the shout,
On Beechcroft hill that now rang out,
And still remembered is the day,
That merry twenty-ninth of May,
When to his father’s home returned
That knight, whose glory well was earned.
In poverty and banishment,
His prime of manhood had been spent,
A wanderer, scorned by Charles’s court,
One faithful servant his support.
And now, he seeks his home forlorn,
Broken in health, with sorrow worn.
And two short years just passed away,
Between that joyous meeting-day,
And the sad eve when Beechcroft’s bell
Tolled forth Sir Maurice’s funeral knell;
And Phyllis, whose love was so constant and tried,
Was a widow the year she was Maurice’s bride;
Yet the path of the noble and true-hearted knight,
Was brilliant with honour, and glory, and light,
And still his descendants shall sing of the fame
Of Sir Maurice de Mohun, the pride of his name.’
‘It is a pity they should sing of it in such lines as those last four,’
said Claude. ‘Let me see, I like your bringing in the real names, though
I doubt whether any but Greenwood could have been found here.’
‘Oh! here come Emily and Jane,’ said Lily, ‘let me put it away.’
‘You are very much afraid of Jane,’ said Claude.
‘Yes, Jane has no feeling for poetry,’ said Lily, with simplicity, which
made her brother smile.
Jane and Emily now came up, the former with her work, the latter with a
camp-stool and a book. ‘I wonder,’ said she, ‘where those boys are! By
the bye, what character did they bring home from school?’
‘The same as usual,’ said Claude. ‘Maurice’s mind only half given to his
work, and Redgie’s whole mind to his play.’
‘Maurice’s talent does not lie in the direction of Latin and Greek,’ said
Emily.
‘No,’ said Jane, ‘it is nonsense to make him learn it, and so he says.’
‘Perhaps he would say the same of mathematics and mechanics, if as great
a point were made of them,’ said Lily.
‘I think not,’ said Claude; ‘he has more notion of them than of Latin
verses.’
‘Then you are on my side,’ said Jane, triumphantly.
‘Did I say so?’ said Claude.
‘Why not?’ said Jane. ‘What is the use of his knowing those stupid
languages? I am sure it is wasting time not to improve such a genius as
he has for mechanics and natural history. Now, Claude, I wish you would
answer.’
‘I was waiting till you had done,’ said Claude.
‘Why do you not think it nonsense?’ persisted Jane.
‘Because I respect my father’s opinion,’ said Claude, letting himself
fall on the grass, as if he had done with the subject.
‘Pooh!’ said Jane, ‘that sounds like a good little boy of five years
old!’
‘Very likely,’ said Claude.
‘But you have some opinion of your own,’ said Lily.
‘Certainly.’
‘Then I wish you would give it,’ said Jane.
‘Come, Emily,’ said Claude, ‘have you brought anything to read?’
‘But your opinion, Claude,’ said Jane. ‘I am sure you think with me,
only you are too grand, and too correct to say so.’
Claude made no answer, but Jane saw she was wrong by his countenance;
before she could say anything more, however, they were interrupted by a
great outcry from the Old Court regions.
‘Oh,’ said Emily, ‘I thought it was a long time since we had heard
anything of those uproarious mortals.’
‘I hope there is nothing the matter,’ said Lily.
‘Oh no,’ said Jane, ‘I hear Redgie’s laugh.’
‘Aye, but among that party,’ said Emily, ‘Redgie’s laugh is not always a
proof of peace: they are too much in the habit of acting the boys and the
frogs.’
‘We were better off,’ said Lily, ‘with the gentle Claude, as Miss
Middleton used to call him.’
‘Miss Molly, as William used to call him with more propriety,’ said
Claude, ‘not half so well worth playing with as such a fellow as Redgie.’
‘Not even for young ladies?’ said Emily.
‘No, Phyllis and Ada are much the better for being teased,’ said Claude.
‘I am convinced that I never did my duty by you in that respect.’
‘There were others to do it for you,’ said Jane.
‘Harry never teased,’ said Emily, ‘and William scorned us.’
‘His teasing was all performed upon Claude,’ said Lily, ‘and a great
shame it was.’
‘Not at all,’ said Claude, ‘only an injudicious attempt to put a little
life into a tortoise.’
‘A bad comparison,’ said Lily; ‘but what is all this? Here come the
children in dismay! What is the matter, my dear child?’
This was addressed to Phyllis, who was the first to come up at full
speed, sobbing, and out of breath, ‘Oh, the dragon-fly! Oh, do not let
him kill it!’
‘The dragon-fly, the poor dear blue dragon-fly!’ screamed Adeline, hiding
her face in Emily’s lap, ‘Oh, do not let him kill it! he is holding it;
he is hurting it! Oh, tell him not!’
‘I caught it,’ said Phyllis, ‘but not to have it killed. Oh, take it
away!’
‘A fine rout, indeed, you chicken,’ said Reginald; ‘I know a fellow who
ate up five horse-stingers one morning before breakfast.’
‘Stingers!’ said Phyllis, ‘they do not sting anything, pretty creatures.’
‘I told you I would catch the old pony and put it on him to try,’ said
Reginald.
In the meantime, Maurice came up at his leisure, holding his prize by the
wings. ‘Look what a beautiful Libellulla Puella,’ said he to Jane.
‘A demoiselle dragon-fly,’ said Lily; ‘what a beauty! what are you going
to do with it?’
‘Put it into my museum,’ said Maurice. ‘Here, Jane, put it under this
flower-pot, and take care of it, while I fetch something to kill it
with.’
‘Oh, Maurice, do not!’ said Emily.
‘One good squeeze,’ said Reginald. ‘I will do it.’
‘How came you be so cruel?’ said Lily.
‘No, a squeeze will not do,’ said Maurice; ‘it would spoil its beauty; I
must put it ever the fumes of carbonic acid.’
‘Maurice, you really must not,’ said Emily.
‘Now do not, dear Maurice,’ said Ada, ‘there’s a dear boy; I will give
you such a kiss.’
‘Nonsense; get out of the way,’ said Maurice, turning away.
‘Now, Maurice, this is most horrid cruelty,’ said Lily; ‘what right have
you to shorten the brief, happy life which—’
‘Well,’ interrupted Maurice, ‘if you make such a fuss about killing it, I
will stick a pin through it into a cork, and let it shift for itself.’
Poor Phyllis ran away to the other end of the garden, sat down and
sobbed, Ada screamed and argued, Emily complained, Lily exhorted Claude
to interfere, while Reginald stood laughing.
‘Such useless cruelty,’ said Emily.
‘Useless!’ said Maurice. ‘Pray how is any one to make a collection of
natural objects without killing things?’
‘I do not see the use of a collection,’ said Lily; ‘you can examine the
creatures and let them go.’
‘Such a young lady’s tender-hearted notion,’ said Reginald.
‘Who ever heard of a man of science managing in such a ridiculous way?’
‘Man of science!’ exclaimed Lily, ‘when he will have forgotten by next
Christmas that insects ever existed.’
It was not convenient to hear this speech, so Maurice turned an empty
flower-pot over his prisoner, and left it in Jane’s care while he went to
fetch the means of destruction, probably choosing the lawn for the place
of execution, in order to show his contempt for his sisters.
‘Fair damsel in boddice blue,’ said Lily, peeping in at the hole at the
top of the flower-pot, ‘I wish I could avert your melancholy fate. I am
very sorry for you, but I cannot help it.’
‘You might help it now, at any rate,’ muttered Claude.
‘No,’ said Lily, ‘I know Monsieur Maurice too well to arouse his wrath so
justly. If you choose to release the pretty creature, I shall be
charmed.’
‘You forget that I am in charge,’ said Jane.
‘There is a carriage coming to the front gate,’ cried Ada. ‘Emily, may I
go into the drawing-room? Oh, Jenny, will you undo my brown holland
apron?’
‘That is right, little mincing Miss,’ said Reginald, with a low bow; ‘how
fine we are to-day.’
‘How visitors break into the afternoon,’ said Emily, with a languid turn
of her head.
‘Jenny, brownie,’ called Maurice from his bedroom window, ‘I want the
sulphuric acid.’
Jane sprang up and ran into the house, though her sisters called after
her, that she would come full upon the company in the hall.
‘They shall not catch me here,’ cried Reginald, rushing off into the
shrubbery.
‘Are you coming in, Claude?’ said Emily.
‘Send Ada to call me, if there is any one worth seeing,’ said Claude
‘They will see you from the window,’ said Emily.
‘No,’ said Claude, ‘no one ever found me out last summer, under these
friendly branches.’
The old butler, Joseph, now showed himself on the terrace; and the young
ladies, knowing that he had no intention of crossing the lawn, hastened
to learn from him who their visitors were, and entered the house. Just
then Phyllis came running back from the kitchen garden, and without
looking round, or perceiving Claude, she took up the flower-pot and
released the captive, which, unconscious of its peril, rested on a blade
of grass, vibrating its gauzy wings and rejoicing in the restored
sunbeams.
‘Fly away, fly away, you pretty creature,’ said Phyllis; ‘make haste, or
Maurice will come and catch you again. I wish I had not given you such a
fright. I thought you would have been killed, and a pin stuck all
through that pretty blue and black body of yours. Oh! that would be
dreadful. Make haste and go away! I would not have caught you, you
beautiful thing, if I had known what he wanted to do. I thought he only
wanted to look at your beautiful body, like a little bit of the sky come
down to look at the flowers, and your delicate wings, and great shining
eyes. Oh! I am very glad God made you so beautiful. Oh! there is
Maurice coming. I must blow upon you to make you go. Oh, that is
right—up quite high in the air—quite safe,’ and she clapped her hands as
the dragon-fly rose in the air, and disappeared behind the laurels, just
as Maurice and Reginald emerged from the shrubbery, the former with a
bottle in his hand.
‘Well, where is the Libellulla?’ said he.
‘The dragon-fly?’ said Phyllis. ‘I let it out.’
‘Sold, Maurice!’ cried Reginald, laughing at his brother’s disaster.
‘Upon my word, Phyl, you are very kind!’ said Maurice, angrily. ‘If I
had known you were such an ill-natured crab—’
‘Oh! Maurice dear, don’t say so,’ exclaimed Phyllis. ‘I thought I might
let it out because I caught it myself; and I told you I did not catch it
for you to kill; Maurice, indeed, I am sorry I vexed you.’
‘What else did you do it for?’ said Maurice. ‘It is horrid not to be
able to leave one’s things a minute—’
‘But I did not know the dragon-fly belonged to you, Maurice,’ said
Phyllis.
‘That is a puzzler, Mohun senior,’ said Reginald.
‘Now, Redgie, do get Maurice to leave off being angry with me,’ implored
his sister.
‘I will leave off being angry,’ said Maurice, seeing his advantage, ‘if
you will promise never to let out my things again.’
‘I do not think I can promise,’ said Phyllis.
‘O yes, you can,’ said Reginald, ‘you know they are not his.’
‘Promise you will not let out any insects I may get,’ said Maurice, ‘or I
shall say you are as cross as two sticks.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Maurice,’ said Phyllis, ‘I do wish you would not
make me promise, for I do not think I _can_ keep it, for I cannot bear to
see the beautiful live things killed.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Maurice, fiercely, ‘I am very angry indeed, you naughty
child; promise—’
‘I cannot,’ said Phyllis, beginning to cry.
‘Then,’ said Maurice, ‘I will not speak to you all day.’
‘No, no,’ shouted Reginald, ‘we will only treat her like the
horse-stinger; you wanted a puella, Maurice—here is one for you, here,
give her a dose of the turpentine.’
‘Yes,’ said Maurice, advancing with his bottle; ‘and do you take the
poker down to Naylor’s to be sharpened, it will just do to stick through
her back. Oh! no, not Naylor’s—the girls have made a hash there, as they
do everything else; but we will settle her before they come out again.’
Phyllis screamed and begged for mercy—her last ally had deserted her.
‘Promise!’ cried the boys.
‘Oh, don’t!’ was all her answer.
Reginald caught her and held her fast, Maurice advanced upon her, she
struggled, and gave a scream of real terror. The matter was no joke to
any one but Reginald, for Maurice was very angry and really meant to
frighten her.
‘Hands off, boys, I will not have her bullied,’ said Claude, half rising.
Maurice gave a violent start, Reginald looked round laughing, and
exclaimed, ‘Who would have thought of Claude sneaking there?’ and Phyllis
ran to the protecting arm, which he stretched out. To her great
surprise, he drew her to him, and kissed her forehead, saying, ‘Well
done, Phyl!’
‘Oh, I knew he was not going to hurt me,’ said Phyllis, still panting
from the struggle.
‘To be sure not,’ said Maurice, ‘I only meant to have a little fun.’
Claude, with his arm still round his sister’s waist, gave Maurice a look,
expressing, ‘Is that the truth?’ and Reginald tumbled head over heels,
exclaiming, ‘I would not have been Phyl just them.’
Ada now came running up to them, saying, ‘Maurice and Redgie, you are to
come in; Mr. and Mrs. Burnet heard your voices, and begged to see you,
because they never saw you last holidays.’
‘More’s the pity they should see us now,’ said Maurice.
‘I shall not go,’ said Reginald.
‘Papa is there, and he sent for you,’ said Ada.
‘Plague,’ was the answer.
‘See what you get by making such a row,’ said Claude. ‘If you had been
as orderly members of society as I am—’
‘Oh, but Claude,’ said Ada, ‘papa told me to see if I could find you.
Dear Claude, I wish,’ she proceeded, taking his hand, and looking
engaging, ‘I wish you would put your arm round me as you do round Phyl.’
‘You are not worth it, Ada,’ said Reginald, and Claude did not contradict
him.