THE BROTHERS
‘But smiled to hear the creatures he had known
So long were now in class and order shown—
Genus and species. “Is it meet,” said he,
“This creature’s name should one so sounding be—
’Tis but a fly, though first-born of the spring,
Bombylius Majus, dost thou call the thing?”
IT was not till Sunday, that Lily’s eager wish was fulfilled, of
introducing her friend and her brothers; but, as she might have foreseen,
their first meeting did not make the perfections of either party very
clear to the other. Claude never spoke to strangers more than he could
help, Maurice and Reginald were in the room only a short time; so that
the result of Miss Weston’s observations, when communicated in reply to
Lily’s eager inquiries, was only that Claude was very like his father and
eldest brother, Reginald very handsome, and Maurice looked like a very
funny fellow.
On Monday, Reginald and Maurice were required to learn what they had
always refused to acknowledge, that the holidays were not intended to be
spent in idleness. A portion of each morning was to be devoted to study,
Claude having undertaken the task of tutor—and hard work he found it; and
much did Lily pity him, when, as not unfrequently happened, the summons
to the children’s dinner would bring him from the study, looking
thoroughly fagged—Maurice in so sulky a mood that he would hardly deign
to open his lips—Reginald talking fast enough, indeed, but only to murmur
at his duties in terms, which, though they made every one laugh, were
painful to hear. Then Claude would take his brothers back to the study,
and not appear for an hour or more, and when he did come forth, it was
with a bad headache. Sometimes, as if to show that it was only through
their own fault that their tasks were wearisome, one or both boys would
finish quite early, when Reginald would betake himself to the schoolroom
and employ his idle time in making it nearly impossible for Ada and
Phyllis to learn, by talking, laughing, teasing the canary, overturning
everything in pursuing wasps, making Emily fretful by his disobedience,
and then laughing at her, and, in short, proving his right to the title
he had given himself at the end of the only letter he had written since
he first went to school, and which he had subscribed, ‘Your affectionate
bother, R. Mohun.’ So that, for their own sake, all would have preferred
the inattentive mornings.
Lily often tried to persuade Claude to allow her to tell her father how
troublesome the boys were, but never with any effect. He once took up a
book he had been using with them, and pointing to the name in the first
page, in writing, which Lily knew full well, ‘Henry Mohun,’ she perceived
that he meant to convince her that it was useless to try to dissuade him,
as he thought the patience and forbearance his brother had shown to him
must be repaid by his not shrinking from the task he had imposed upon
himself with his young brothers, though he was often obliged to sit up
part of the night to pursue his own studies.
If Claude had rather injudiciously talked too much to Lilias of ‘her
principle,’ and thus kept it alive in her mind, yet his example might
have made its fallacy evident. She believed that what she called love
had been the turning point in his character, that it had been his earnest
desire to follow in Henry’s steps, and so try to comfort his father for
his loss, that had roused him from his indolence; but she was beginning
to see that nothing but a sense of duty could have kept up the power of
that first impulse for six years. Lily began to enter a little into his
principle, and many things that occurred during these holidays made her
mistrust her former judgment. She saw that without the unvarying
principle of right and wrong, fraternal love itself would fail in outward
acts and words. Forbearance, though undeniably a branch of love, could
not exist without constant remembrance of duty; and which of them did not
sometimes fail in kindness, meekness, and patience? Did Emily show that
softness, which was her most agreeable characteristic, in her whining
reproofs—in her complaints that ‘no one listened to a word she said’—in
her refusal to do justice even to those who had vainly been seeking for
peace? Did Lily herself show any of her much valued love, by the sharp
manner in which she scolded the boys for roughness towards herself? or
for language often used by them on purpose to make her displeasure a
matter of amusement? She saw that her want of command of temper was a
failure both in love and duty, and when irritated, the thought of duty
came sooner to her aid than the feeling of love.
And Maurice and Reginald were really very provoking. Maurice loved no
amusement better than teasing his sisters, and this was almost the only
thing in which Reginald agreed with him. Reginald was affectionate, but
too reckless and violent not to be very troublesome, and he too often
flew into a passion if Maurice attempted to laugh at him; the little
girls were often frightened and made unhappy; Phyllis would scream and
roar, and Ada would come sobbing to Emily, to be comforted after some
rudeness of Reginald’s. It was not very often that quarrels went so far,
but many a time in thought, word, and deed was the rule of love
transgressed, and more than once did Emily feel ready to give up all her
dignity, to have Eleanor’s hand over the boys once more. Claude, finding
that he could do much to prevent mischief, took care not to leave the two
boys long together with the elder girls. They were far more inoffensive
when separate, as Maurice never practised his tormenting tricks when no
one was present to laugh with him, and Reginald was very kind to Phyllis
and Ada, although somewhat rude.
It was a day or two after they returned that Phyllis was leaning on the
window-sill in the drawing-room, watching a passing shower, and admiring
the soft bright tints of a rainbow upon the dark gray mass of cloud. ‘I
do set my bow in the cloud,’ repeated she to herself over and over again,
until Adeline entering the room, she eagerly exclaimed, ‘Oh Ada, come and
look at this beautiful rainbow, green, and pink, and purple. A double
one, with so many stripes, Ada. See, there is a little bit more green.’
‘There is no green in a rainbow,’ said Ada.
‘But look, Ada, that is green.’
‘It is not real green. Blue, red, and yellow are the pragmatic colours,’
said Ada, with a most triumphant air. ‘Now are not they, Maurice?’ said
she, turning to her brother, who was, as usual, deep in entomology.
‘Pragmatic, you foolish child,’ said he. ‘Prismatic you mean. I am glad
you remember what I tell you, however; I think I might teach you some
science in time. You are right in saying that blue, red, and yellow are
the prismatic colours. Now do you know what causes a rainbow?’
‘It is to show there is never to be another flood,’ said Phyllis,
gravely.
‘Oh, I did not mean that,’ said Maurice, addressing himself to Ada, whose
love of hard words made him deem her a promising pupil, and whom he could
lecture without interruption. ‘The rainbow is caused by—’
‘But, Maurice!’ exclaimed Phyllis, remaining with mouth wide open.
‘The rainbow is occasioned by the refraction of the rays of the sun in
the drops of water of which a cloud is composed.’
‘But, Maurice!’ again said Phyllis.
‘Well, what do you keep on “but, Mauricing,” about?’
‘But, Maurice, I thought it said, “I do set my bow in the cloud.” Is not
that right? I will look.’
‘I know that, but I know the iris, or rainbow, is a natural phenomenon
occasioned by the refraction.’
‘But, Maurice, I can’t bear you to say that;’ and poor Phyllis sat down
and began to cry.
Ada interfered. ‘Why, Maurice, you believe the Bible, don’t you?’
This last speech was heard by Lilias, who just now entered the room, and
greatly surprised her. ‘What can you be talking of?’ said she.
‘Only some nonsense of the children’s,’ said Maurice, shortly.
‘But only hear what he says,’ cried Ada. ‘He says the rainbow was not
put there to show there is never to be another flood!’
‘Now, Lily,’ said Maurice, ‘I do not think there is much use in talking
to you, but I wish you to understand that all I said was, that the
rainbow, or iris, is a natural phenomenon occasioned by the refraction of
the solar—’
‘You will certainly bewilder yourself into something dreadful with that
horrid science,’ said Lily. ‘What is the matter with Phyl?’
‘Only crying because of what I said,’ answered Maurice. ‘So childish,
and you are just as bad.’
‘But do you mean to say,’ exclaimed Lily, ‘that you set this human theory
above the authority of the Bible?’
‘It is common sense,’ said Maurice; ‘I could make a rainbow any day.’
Whereupon Phyllis cried the more, and Lily looked infinitely shocked.
‘This is philosophy and vain deceit,’ said she; ‘the very thing that
tends to infidelity.’
‘I can’t help it—it is universally allowed,’ said the boy doggedly.
It was fortunate that the next person who entered the room was Claude,
and all at once he was appealed to by the four disputants, Lily the
loudest and most vehement. ‘Claude, listen to him, and tell him to throw
away these hateful new lights, which lead to everything that is
shocking!’
‘Listen to him, with three ladies talking at once?’ said Claude. ‘No,
not Phyl—her tears only are eloquent; but it is a mighty war about the
token of peace and _love_, Lily.’
‘The love would be in driving these horrible philosophical speculations
out of Maurice’s mind,’ said Lily.
‘No one can ever drive out the truth,’ said Maurice, with provoking
coolness. ‘Don’t let her scratch out my eyes, Claude.’
‘I am not so sure of that maxim,’ said Claude. ‘Truth is chiefly
injured—I mean, her force weakened, by her own supporters.’
‘Then you agree with me,’ said Maurice, ‘as, in fact, every rational
person must.’
‘Then you are with me,’ said Lily, in the same breath; ‘and you will
convince Maurice of the danger of this nonsense.’
‘Umph,’ sighed Claude, throwing himself into his father’s arm-chair,
‘’tis a Herculean labour! It seems I agree with you both.’
‘Why, every Christian must be with me, who has not lost his way in a mist
of his own raising,’ said Lilias.
‘Do you mean to say,’ said Maurice, ‘that these colours are not produced
by refraction? Look at them on those prisms;’ and he pointed to an
old-fashioned lustre on the chimney-piece. ‘I hope this is not a part of
the Christian faith.’
‘Take care, Maurice,’ and Claude’s eyes were bent upon him in a manner
that made him shrink. And he added, ‘Of course I do believe that chapter
about Noah. I only meant that the immediate cause of the rainbow is the
refraction of light. I did not mean to be irreverent, only the girls
took me up in such a way.’
‘And I know well enough that you can make those colours by light on drops
of water,’ said Lily.
‘So you agreed all the time,’ said Claude.
‘But,’ added Lily, ‘I never liked to know it; for it always seemed to be
explaining away the Bible, and I cannot bear not to regard that lovely
bow as a constant miracle.’
‘You will remember,’ said Claude, ‘that some commentators say it should
be, “I _have_ set my bow in the cloud,” which would make what already
existed become a token for the future.
‘I don’t like that explanation,’ said Lily.
‘Others say,’ added Claude, ‘that there might have been no rain at all
till the windows of heaven were opened at the flood, and, in that case,
the first recurrence of rain must have greatly alarmed Noah’s family, if
they had not been supported and cheered by the sight of the rainbow.’
‘That is reasonable,’ said Maurice.
‘I hate reason applied to revelation,’ said Lily.
‘It is a happier state of mind which does not seek to apply it,’ said
Claude, looking at Phyllis, who had dried her tears, and stood in the
window gazing at him, in the happy certainty that he was setting all
right. Maurice respected Claude for his science as much as his
character, and did not make game of this observation as he would if it
had been made by one of his sisters, but he looked at him with an odd
expression of perplexity. ‘You do not think ignorant credulity better
than reasonable belief?’ said he at length.
‘It is not I only who think most highly of child-like unquestioning
faith, Maurice,’ said Claude—‘faith, that is based upon love and
reverence,’ added he to Lily. ‘But come, the shower is over, and
philosophers, or no philosophers, I invite you to walk in the wood.’
‘Aye,’ said Maurice, ‘I daresay I can find some of the Arachne species
there. By the bye, Claude, do you think papa would let me have a piece
of plate-glass, eighteen by twenty, to cover my case of insects?’
‘Ask, and you will discover,’ said Claude.
Accordingly, Maurice began the next morning at breakfast, ‘Papa, may I
have a piece of plate-glass, eighteen by—?’
But no one heard, for Emily was at the moment saying, ‘The Westons are to
dine here to-day.’
Claude and Maurice both looked blank.
‘I persuaded papa to ask the Westons,’ said Lily, ‘because I am
determined that Claude shall like Alethea.’
‘You must expect that I shall not, you have given me so many orders on
the subject,’ said Claude.
‘Take care it has not the same effect as to tell Maurice to like a book,’
said Emily; ‘nothing makes his aversion so certain.’
‘Except when he takes it up by mistake, and forgets that it has been
recommended to him,’ said Claude.
‘Take care, Redgie, with your knife; don’t put out my eyes in your ardour
against that wretched wasp. Wat Greenwood may well say “there is a
terrible sight of waspses this year.”’
‘I killed twenty-nine yesterday,’ said Reginald.
‘And I will tell you what I saw,’ said Phyllis; ‘I was picking up apples,
and the wasps were flying all round, and there came a hornet.’
‘Vespa Crabro!’ cried Maurice; ‘oh, I must have one!’
‘Well, what of the hornet?’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ resumed Phyllis, ‘he saw a wasp flying, and so he
went up in the air, and pounced on the poor wasp as the hawk did on
Jane’s bantam. So then he hung himself up to the branch of a tree by one
of his legs, and held the wasp with the other five, and began to pack it
up. First he bit off the yellow tail, then the legs, and threw them
away, and then there was nothing left but the head, and so he flew away
with it to his nest.’
‘Which way did he go?’ said Maurice.
‘To the Old Court,’ answered Phyllis; ‘I think the nest is in the roof of
the old cow-house, for they were flying in and out there yesterday, and
one was eating out the wood from the old rails.’
‘Well,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘you must show me a hornet hawking for wasps
before the nest is taken, Phyllis; I suppose you have seen the wasps
catching flies?’
‘Oh yes, papa! but they pack them up quite differently. They do not hang
by one leg, but they sit down quite comfortably on a branch while they
bite off the wings and legs.’
‘There, Maurice,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I had rather hear of one such
well-observed fact than of a dozen of your hard names and impaled
insects.’
Phyllis looked quite radiant with delight at his approbation.
‘But, papa,’ said Maurice, ‘may I have a piece of plate-glass, eighteen
by twenty?’
‘When you observe facts in natural history, perhaps I may say something
to your entomology,’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘But, papa, all my insects will be spoilt if I may not have a piece of
glass, eighteen by—’
He was interrupted by the arrival of the post-bag, which Jane, as usual,
opened. ‘A letter from Rotherwood,’ said she; ‘I hope he is coming at
last.’
‘He is,’ said Claude, reading the letter, ‘but only from Saturday till
Wednesday.’
‘He never gave us so little of his good company as he has this summer,’
said Emily.
‘You will have them all in the autumn, to comfort you,’ said Claude, ‘for
he hereby announces the marvellous fact, that the Marchioness sends him
to see if the castle is fit to receive her.’
‘Are you sure he is not only believing what he wishes?’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘I think he will gain his point at last,’ said Claude.
‘How stupid of him to stay no longer!’ said Reginald.
‘I think he has some scheme for this vacation,’ said Claude, ‘and I
suppose he means to crowd all the Beechcroft diversions of a whole summer
into those few days.’
‘Emily,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I wish him to know the Carringtons; invite them
and the Westons to dinner on Tuesday.’
‘Oh don’t!’ cried Reginald. ‘It will be so jolly to have him to take
wasps’ nests; and may I go out rabbit-shooting with him?’
‘If he goes.’
‘And may I carry a gun?’
‘If it is not loaded,’ said his father.
‘Indeed, I would do no mischief,’ said Reginald.
‘Let me give you one piece of advice, Reginald,’ said Mr. Mohun, with a
mysterious air—‘never make rash promises.’
Lilias was rather disappointed in her hopes that Miss Weston and Claude
would become better acquainted. At dinner the conversation was almost
entirely between the elder gentlemen; Claude scarcely spoke, except when
referred to by his father or Mr. Devereux. Miss Weston never liked to
incur the danger of having to repeat her insignificant speeches to a deaf
ear, and being interested in the discussion that was going on, she by no
means seconded Lily’s attempt to get up an under-current of talk. In
general, Lily liked to listen to conversation in silence, but she was now
in very high spirits, and could not be quiet; fortunately, she had no
interest in the subject the gentlemen were discussing, so that she could
not meddle with that, and finding Alethea silent and Claude out of reach,
she turned to Reginald, and talked and tittered with him all dinner-time.
In the drawing-room she had it all her own way, and talked enough for all
the sisters.
‘Have you heard that Cousin Rotherwood is coming?’
‘Yes, you said so before dinner.’
‘We hope,’ said Emily, ‘that you and Mr. Weston will dine here on
Tuesday. The Carringtons are coming, and a few others.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alethea; ‘I daresay papa will be very glad to come.’
‘Have you ever seen Rotherwood?’ said Lilias.
‘Never,’ was the reply.
‘Do not expect much,’ said Lily, laughing, though she knew not why; ‘he
is a very little fellow; no one would suppose him to be twenty, he has
such a boyish look. Then he never sits down—’
‘Literally?’ said Emily.
‘Literally,’ persisted Lily; ‘such a quick person you never did see.’
‘Is he at Oxford?’
‘Oh yes! it was all papa’s doing that he was sent to Eton. Papa is his
guardian. Aunt Rotherwood never would have parted with him.’
‘He is the only son,’ interposed Emily.
‘Uncle Rotherwood put him quite in papa’s power; Aunt Rotherwood wanted
to keep him at home with a tutor, and what she would have made of him I
cannot think,’ said Lily; and regardless of Emily’s warning frowns, and
Alethea’s attempt to change the subject, she went on: ‘When he was quite
a child he used to seem a realisation of all the naughty Dicks and Toms
in story-books. Miss Middleton had a perfect horror of his coming here,
for he would mind no one, and played tricks and drew Claude into
mischief; but he is quite altered since papa had the management of
him—Oh! such talks as papa has had with Aunt Rotherwood—do you know, papa
says no one knows what it is to lose a father but those who have the care
of his children, and Aunt Rotherwood is so provoking.’
Here Alethea determined to put an end to this oration, and to Emily’s
great relief, she cut short the detail of Lady Rotherwood’s offences by
saying, ‘Do you think Faith Longley likely to suit us, if we took her to
help the housemaid?’
‘Are you thinking of taking her?’ cried Lily. ‘Yes, for steady, stupid
household work, Faith would do very well; she is just the stuff to make a
servant of—“for dulness ever must be regular”—I mean for those who like
mere steadiness better than anything more lovable.’
As Alethea said, laughing, ‘I must confess my respect for that quality,’
Mr. Devereux and Claude entered the room.
‘Oh, Robert!’ cried Lily, ‘Mrs. Weston is going to take Faith Longley to
help the housemaid.’
‘You are travelling too fast, Lily,’ said Alethea, ‘she is only going to
think about it.’
‘I should be very glad,’ said Mr. Devereux, ‘that Faith should have a
good place; the Longleys are very respectable people, and they behaved
particularly well in refusing to let this girl go and live with some
dissenters at Stoney Bridge.’
‘I like what I have seen of the girl very much,’ said Miss Weston.
‘In spite of her sad want of feeling,’ said Robert, smiling, as he looked
at Lily.
‘Oh! she is a good work-a-day sort of person,’ said Lily, ‘like all other
poor people, hard and passive. Now, do not set up your eyebrows, Claude,
I am quite serious, there is no warmth about any except—’
‘So this is what Lily is come to!’ cried Emily; ‘the grand supporter of
the poor on poetical principles.’
‘The poor not affectionate!’ said Alethea.
‘Not, compared within people whose minds and affections have been
cultivated,’ said Lily. ‘Now just hear what Mrs. Wall said to me only
yesterday; she asked for a black stuff gown out of the clothing club,
“for,” said she, “I had a misfortune, Miss;” I thought it would be, “and
tore my gown,” but it was, “I had a misfortune, Miss, and lost my
brother.”’
‘A very harsh conclusion on very slight grounds,’ said Mr. Devereux.
‘Prove the contrary,’ said Lily.
‘Facts would scarcely demonstrate it either way,’ said Mr. Devereux.
‘They would only prove what was the case with individuals who chanced to
come in our way, and if we are seldom able to judge of the depth of
feeling of those with whom we are familiar, how much less of those who
feel our presence a restraint.’
‘Intense feeling mocks restraint,’ said Lily.
‘Violent, not intense,’ said Mr. Devereux. ‘Besides, you talk of
cultivating the affections. Now what do you mean? Exercising them, or
talking about them?’
‘Ah!’ said Emily, ‘the affection of a poor person is more tried; we blame
a poor man for letting his old mother go to the workhouse, without
considering how many of us would do the same, if we had as little to live
upon.’
‘Still,’ said Alethea, ‘the same man who would refuse to maintain her if
poor, would not bear with her infirmities if rich.’
‘Are the poor never infirm and peevish?’ said Mr. Devereux.
‘Oh! how much worse it must be to bear with ill-temper in poverty,’ said
Emily, ‘when we think it quite wonderful to see a young lady kind and
patient with a cross old relation; what must it be when she is denying
herself, not only her pleasure, but her food for her sake; not merely
sitting quietly with her all day, and calling a servant to wait upon her,
but toiling all day to maintain her, and keeping awake half the night to
nurse her?’
‘Those are realities, indeed,’ said Alethea; ‘our greatest efforts seem
but child’s play in comparison.’
Lilias could hardly have helped being sobered by this conversation if she
had attended to it, but she had turned away to repeat the story of Mrs.
Walls to Jane, and then, fancying that the others were still remarking
upon it, she said in a light, laughing tone, ‘Well, so far I agree with
you. I know of a person who may well be called one of ourselves, who I
could quite fancy making such a speech.’
‘Whom do you mean?’ said Mr. Devereux. Alethea wished she did not know.
‘No very distant relation,’ said Jane.
‘Do not talk nonsense, Jane,’ said Claude, gravely.
‘No nonsense at all, Claude,’ cried Jane in her very very pertest tone,
‘it is exactly like Eleanor; I am sure I can see her with her hands
before her, saying in her prim voice, “I must turn my old black silk and
trim it with crape, for I have had a misfortune, and lost my brother.”’
‘Lilias,’ said Miss Weston, somewhat abruptly, ‘did you not wish to sing
with me this evening?’
And thus she kept Lilias from any further public mischief that evening.
Claude, exceedingly vexed by what had passed, with great injustice, laid
the blame upon Miss Weston, and instead of rendering her the honour which
she really deserved for the tact with which she had put an end to the
embarrassment of all parties, he fancied she was anxious to display her
talents for music, and thus only felt fretted by the sounds.
Mr. Weston and his daughter intended to walk home that evening, as it was
a beautiful moonlight night.
‘Oh, let us convoy you!’ exclaimed Lilias; ‘I do long to show Alethea a
glow-worm. Will you come, Claude? May we, papa? Feel how still and
warm it is. A perfect summer night, not a breath stirring.’
Mr. Mohun consented, and Lily almost hurried Alethea upstairs, to put on
her bonnet and shawl. When she came down she found that the walking
party had increased. Jane and Reginald would both have been in despair
to have missed such a frolic; Maurice hoped to fall in with the droning
beetle, or to lay violent hands on a glow-worm; Emily did not like to be
left behind, and even Mr. Mohun was going, being in the midst of an
interesting conversation with Mr. Weston. Lily, with an absurd tragic
gesture, told Alethea that amongst so many, such a crowd, all the grace
and sweet influence of the walk was ruined. The ‘sweet influence’ was
ruined as far as Lily was concerned, but not by the number of her
companions. It was the uneasy feeling caused by her over-strained
spirits and foolish chattering that prevented her from really entering
into the charm of the soft air, the clear moon, the solemn deep blue sky,
the few stars, the white lilies on the dark pond, the long shadows of the
trees, the freshness of the dewy fields. Her simplicity, and her genuine
delight in the loveliness of the scene, was gone for the time, and though
she spoke much of her enjoyment, it was in a high-flown affected style.
When the last good-night had been exchanged, and Lily had turned
homeward, she felt the stillness which succeeded their farewells almost
oppressive; she started at the dark shadow of a tree which lay across the
path, and to shake off a sensation of fear which was coming over her, she
put her arm within Claude’s, exclaiming, ‘You naughty boy, you will be
stupid and silent, say what I will.’
‘I heard enough to-night to strike me dumb,’ said Claude.
For one moment Lily thought he was in jest, but the gravity of his manner
showed her that he was both grieved and displeased, and she changed her
tone as she said, ‘Oh! Claude, what do you mean?’
‘Do you not know?’ said Claude.
‘What, you mean about Eleanor?’ said Lily; ‘you must fall upon Miss Jenny
there—it was her doing.’
‘Jane’s tongue is a pest,’ said Claude; ‘but she was not the first to
speak evil falsely of one to whom you owe everything. Oh! Lily, I
cannot tell you how that allusion of yours sounded.’
‘What allusion?’ asked Lily in alarm, for she had never seen her gentle
brother so angry.
‘You know,’ said he.
‘Indeed, I do not,’ exclaimed Lily, munch frightened. ‘Claude, Claude,
you must mistake, I never could have said anything so very shocking.’
‘I hope I do,’ said Claude; ‘I could hardly believe that one of the
little ones who cannot remember him, could have referred to him in that
way—but for you!’
‘Him?’ said Lilias.
‘I do not like to mention his name to one who regards him so lightly,’
said Claude. ‘Think over what passed, if you are sufficiently come to
yourself to remember it.’
After a little pause Lily said in a subdued voice, ‘Claude, I hope you do
not believe that I was thinking of what really happened when I said
that.’
‘Pray what were you thinking of?’
‘The abstract view of Eleanor’s character.’
‘Abstract nonsense!’ said Claude. ‘A fine demonstration of the rule of
love, to go about the world slandering your sister!’
‘To go about the world! Oh! Claude, it was only Robert, one of
ourselves, and Alethea, to whom I tell everything.’
‘So much the worse. I always rejoiced that you had no foolish young lady
friend to make missish confidences to.’
‘She is no foolish young lady friend,’ said Lilias, indignant in her
turn; ‘she is five years older than I am, and papa wishes us to be
intimate with her.’
‘Then the fault is in yourself,’ said Claude. ‘You ought not to have
told such things if they were true, and being utterly false—’
‘But, Claude, I cannot see that they are false.’
‘Not false, that Eleanor cared not a farthing for Harry!’ cried Claude,
shaking off Lily’s arm, and stopping short.
‘Oh!—she cared, she really did care,’ said Lily, as fast as she could
speak. ‘Oh! Claude, how could you think that? I told you I did not
mean what really happened, only that—Eleanor is cold—not as warm as some
people—she did care for him, of course she did—I know that—I believe she
loved him with all her heart—but yet—I mean she did not—she went on as
usual—said nothing—scarcely cried—looked the same—taught us—never—Oh! it
did not make half the difference in her that it did in William.’
‘I cannot tell how she behaved at the time,’ said Claude, ‘I only know I
never had any idea what a loss Harry was till I came home and saw her
face. I used never to trouble myself to think whether people looked ill
or well, but the change in her did strike me. She was bearing up to
comfort papa, and to cheer William, and to do her duty by all of us, and
you could take such noble resignation for want of feeling!’
Lilias looked down and tried to speak, but she was choked by her tears;
she could not bear Claude’s displeasure, and she wept in silence. At
last she said in a voice broken by sobs, ‘I was unjust—I know Eleanor was
all kindness—all self-sacrifice—I have been very ungrateful—I wish I
could help it—and you know well, Claude, how far I am from regarding dear
Harry with indifference—how the thought of him is a star in my mind—how
happy it makes me to think of him at the end of the Church Militant
Prayer; do not believe I was dreaming of him.’
‘And pray,’ said Claude, laughing in his own good-humoured way, ‘which of
us is it that she is so willing to lose?’
‘Oh! Claude, no such thing,’ said Lily, ‘you know what I meant, or did
not mean. It was nonsense—I hope nothing worse.’ Lily felt that she
might take his arm again. There was a little silence, and then Lily
resumed in a timid voice, ‘I do not know whether you will be angry,
Claude, but honestly, I do not think that if—that Eleanor would be so
wretched about you as I should.’
‘Eleanor knew Harry better than you did; no, Lily, I never could have
been what Harry was, even if I had never wasted my time, and if my
headaches had not interfered with my best efforts.’
‘I do not believe that, say what you will,’ said Lily.
‘Ask William, then,’ said Claude, sighing.
‘I am sure papa does not think so,’ said Lily; ‘no, I cannot feel that
Harry is such a loss when we still have you.’
‘Oh! Lily, it is plain that you never knew Harry,’ said Claude. ‘I do
not believe you ever did—that is one ting to be said for you.’
‘Not as you did,’ said Lily; ‘remember, he was six years older. Then
think how little we saw of him whilst they were abroad; he was always at
school, or spending the holidays with Aunt Robert, and latterly even
farther off, and only coming sometimes for an hour or two to see us.
Then he used to kiss us all round, we went into the garden with him,
looked at him, and were rather afraid of him; then he walked off to Wat
Greenwood, came back, wished us good-bye, and away he went.’
‘Yes,’ said Claude, ‘but after they came home?’
‘Then he was a tall youth, and we were silly girls,’ said Lilias; ‘he
avoided Miss Middleton, and we were always with her. He was
good-natured, but he could not get on with us; he did very well with the
little ones, but we were of the wrong age. He and William and Eleanor
were one faction, we were another, and you were between both—he was too
old, too sublime, too good, too grave for us.’
‘Too grave!’ said Claude; ‘I never heard a laugh so full of glee, except,
perhaps, Phyllis’s.’
‘The last time he was at home,’ continued Lily, ‘we began to know him
better; there was no Miss Middleton in the way, and after you and William
were gone, he used to walk with us, and read to us. He read _Guy
Mannering_ to us, and told us the story of Sir Maurice de Mohun; but the
loss was not the same to us as to you elder ones; and then sorrow was
almost lost in admiration, and in pleasure at the terms in which every
one spoke of him. Claude, I have no difficulty in not wishing it
otherwise; he is still my brother, and I would not change the feeling
which the thought of his death gives me—no, not for himself in life and
health.’
‘Ah!’ sighed Claude, ‘you have no cause for self-reproach—no reason to
lament over “wasted hours and love misspent.”’
‘You will always talk of your old indolence, as if it was a great crime,’
said Lily.
‘It was my chief temptation,’ said Claude. ‘As long as we know we are
out of the path of duty it does not make much difference whether we have
turned to the right hand or to the left.’
‘Was it Harry’s death that made you look upon it in this light?’ said
Lily.
‘I knew it well enough before,’ said Claude, ‘it was what he had often
set before me. Indeed, till I came home, and saw this place without him,
I never really knew what a loss he was. At Eton I did not miss him more
than when he went to Oxford, and I did not dwell on what he was to papa,
or what I ought to be; and even when I saw what home was without him, I
should have contented myself with miserable excuses about my health, if
it had not been for my confirmation; then I awoke, I saw my duty, and the
wretched way in which I had been spending my time. Thoughts of Harry and
of my father came afterwards; I had not vigour enough for them before.’
Here they reached the house, and parted—Claude, ashamed of having talked
of himself for the first time in his life, and Lily divided between shame
at her own folly and pleasure at Claude’s having thus opened his mind.
Jane, who was most in fault, escaped censure. Her father was ignorant of
her improper speech. Emily forgot it, and it was not Claude’s place to
reprove his sisters, though to Lily he spoke as a friend. It passed away
from her mind like other idle words, which, however, could not but leave
an impression on those who heard her.
An unlooked-for result of the folly of this evening was, that Claude was
prevented from appreciating Miss Weston He could not learn to like her,
nor shake off an idea, that she was prying into their family concerns; he
thought her over-praised, and would not even give just admiration to her
singing, because he had once fancied her eager to exhibit it. It was
unreasonable to dislike his sister’s friend for his sister’s folly, but
Claude’s wisdom was not yet arrived at its full growth, and he deserved
credit for keeping his opinion to himself.