MINOR MISFORTUNES
‘Loving she is, and tractable though wild.’
IN a day or two Lady Rotherwood and her daughter called at the New Court.
On this occasion Lilias was employed in as rational and lady-like a
manner as could be desired—in practising her music in the drawing-room;
Emily was reading, and Ada threading beads.
Lady Rotherwood greeted her nieces very affectionately, gave a double
caress to Adeline, stroked her pretty curls, admired her beadwork, talked
to her about her doll, and then proceeded to invite the whole family to a
Twelfth-Day party, given for their especial benefit. The little
Carringtons and the Weston girls were also to be asked. Emily and Lilias
were eagerly expressing their delight when suddenly a trampling, like a
charge of horse, was heard in the hall; the door was thrown back, and in
rushed Reginald and Phyllis, shouting, ‘Such fun!—the pigs are in the
garden!’
At the sight of their aunt they stopped short, looking aghast, and
certainly those who beheld them partook of their consternation. Reginald
was hot and gloveless; his shoes far from clean; his brown curls hanging
in great disorder from his Scotch cap; his handkerchief loose; his jacket
dusty—but this was no great matter, since, as Emily said, he was ‘only a
boy.’ His bright open smile, the rough, yet gentleman-like courtesy of
his advance to the Marchioness, his comical roguish glance at Emily, to
see if she was very angry, and to defy her if she were, and his speedy
exit, all greatly amused Lady Florence, and made up for what there might
have been of the wild schoolboy in his entrance.
Poor Phyllis had neither the excuse of being a schoolboy nor the
good-humoured fearlessness that freed her brother from embarrassment, and
she stood stock-still, awkward and dismayed, not daring to advance;
longing to join in the pig-chase, yet afraid to run away, her eyes
stretched wide open, her hair streaming into them, her bonnet awry, her
tippet powdered with seeds of hay, her gloves torn and soiled, the colour
of her brown holland apron scarcely discernible through its various
stains, her frock tucked up, her stockings covered with mud, and without
shoes, which she had taken off at the door.
‘Phyllis,’ said Emily, ‘what are you thinking of? What makes you such a
figure? Come and speak to Aunt Rotherwood.’
Phyllis drew off her left-hand glove, and held out her hand, making a few
sidelong steps towards her aunt, who gave her a rather reluctant kiss.
Lily bent her bonnet into shape, and pulled down her frock, while
Florence laughed, patted her cheek, and asked what she had been doing.
‘Helping Redgie to chop turnips,’ was the answer.
Afraid of some further exposure, Emily hastily sent her away to be made
fit to be seen, and Lady Rotherwood went on caressing Ada and talking of
something else. Emily had no opportunity of explaining that this was not
Phyllis’s usual condition, and she was afraid that Lady Rotherwood would
never believe that it was accidental. She was much annoyed, especially
as the catastrophe only served to divert Mr. Mohun and Claude. Of all
the family William and Adeline alone took her view of the case. Ada
lectured Phyllis on her ‘naughtiness,’ and plumed herself on her aunt’s
evident preference, but William was not equally sympathetic. He was
indeed as fastidious as Emily herself, and as much annoyed by such
misadventures; but he maintained that she was to blame for them, saying
that the state of things was not such as it should be, and that the
exposure might be advantageous if it put her on her guard in future.
It appeared as if poor Phyllis was to be punished for the vexation which
she had caused, for in the course of her adventures with Reginald she
caught a cold, which threatened to prevent her from being of the party on
Twelfth-Day. She had a cough, which did not give her by any means as
much inconvenience as the noise it occasioned did to other people. Every
morning and every evening she anxiously asked her sisters whether they
thought she would be allowed to go. Another of the party seemed likely
to fail. On the 5th of January Claude came down to breakfast later even
than usual; but he had no occasion to make excuses, for his heavy eyes,
the dark lines under them, his pale cheeks, and the very sit of his hair,
were sure signs that he had a violent headache. He soon betook himself
to the sofa in the drawing-room, attended by Lily, with pillows,
cushions, ether, and lavender. Late in the afternoon the pain diminished
a little, and he fell asleep, to the great joy of his sister, who sat
watching him, scarcely daring to move.
Suddenly a frightful scream and loud crash was heard in the room above
them. Claude started up, and Lily, exclaiming, ‘Those tiresome
children!’ hurried to the room whence the noise had come.
Reginald, Phyllis, and Ada, all stood there laughing. Reginald and
Phyllis had been climbing to the top of a great wardrobe, by means of a
ladder of chairs and tables. While Phyllis was descending her brother
had made some demonstration that startled her, and she fell with all the
chairs over her, but without hurting herself.
‘You naughty troublesome child,’ cried Lily, in no gentle tone. ‘How
often have you been told to leave off such boyish tricks! And you choose
the very place for disturbing poor Claude, with his bad headache, making
it worse than ever.’
Phyllis tried to speak, but only succeeded in giving a dismal howl. She
went on screaming, sobbing, and roaring so loud that she could not hear
Lily’s attempts to quiet her. The next minute Claude appeared, looking
half distracted. Reginald ran off, and as he dashed out of the room,
came full against William, who caught hold of him, calling out to know
what was the matter.
‘Only Phyllis screaming,’ said Lily. ‘Oh, Claude, I am very sorry!’
‘Is that all?’ said Claude. ‘I thought some one was half killed!’
He sank into a chair, pressing his hand on his temples, and looking very
faint. William supported him, and Lily stood by, repeating, ‘I am very
sorry—it was all my fault—my scolding—’
‘Hush,’ said William, ‘you have done mischief enough. Go away,
children.’
Phyllis had already gone, and the next moment thrust into Lily’s hand the
first of the medicaments which she had found in the drawing-room. The
faintness soon went off, but Claude thought he had better not struggle
against the headache any longer, but go to bed, in hopes of being better
the next day. William went with him to his room, and Lilias lingered on
the stairs, very humble, and very wretched. William soon came forth
again, and asked the meaning of the uproar.
‘It was all my fault,’ said she; ‘I was vexed at Claude’s being waked,
and that made me speak sharply to Phyllis, and set her roaring.’
‘I do not know which is the most inconsiderate of you,’ said William.
‘You cannot blame me more than I deserve,’ said Lily. ‘May I go to poor
Claude?’
‘I suppose so; but I do not see what good you are to do. Quiet is the
only thing for him.’
Lily, however, went, and Claude gave her to understand that he liked her
to stay with him. She arranged his blinds and curtains comfortably, and
then sat down to watch him. William went to the drawing-room to write a
letter. Just as he had sat down he heard a strange noise, a sound of
sobbing, which seemed to come from the corner where the library steps
stood. Looking behind them, he beheld Phyllis curled up, her head on her
knees, crying bitterly.
‘You there! Come out. What is the matter now?’
‘I am so very sorry,’ sighed she.
‘Well, leave off crying.’ She would willingly have obeyed, but her sobs
were beyond her own control; and he went on, ‘If you are sorry, there is
no more to be said. I hope it will be a lesson to you another time. You
are quite old enough to have more consideration for other people.’
‘I am very sorry,’ again said Phyllis, in a mournful note.
‘Be sorry, only do not roar. You make that noise from habit, I am
convinced, and you may break yourself off it if you choose.’
Phyllis crept out of the room, and in a few minutes more the door was
softly opened by Emily, returning from her walk.
‘I thought Claude was here. Is he gone to bed? Is his head worse?’
‘Yes, the children have been doing their best to distract him. Emily, I
want to know why it is that those children are for ever in mischief and
yelling in all parts of the house.’
‘I wish I could help it,’ said Emily, with a sigh; ‘they are very
troublesome.’
‘There must be great mismanagement,’ said her brother.
‘Oh, William! Why do you think so?’
‘Other children do not go on in this way, and it was not so in Eleanor’s
time.’
‘It is only Phyllis,’ said Emily.
‘Phyllis or not, it ought not to be. What will that child grow up, if
you let her be always running wild with the boys?’
‘Consider, William, that you see us at a disadvantage; we are all
unsettled by this illness, and the children have been from home.’
‘As if they learnt all these wild tricks at Broomhill! That excuse will
not do, Emily.’
‘And then they are always worse in the holidays,’ pleaded Emily.
‘Yes, there are reasons to be found for everything that goes wrong; but
if you were wise you would look deeper. Now, Emily, I do not wish to be
hard upon you, for I know you are in a very difficult position, and very
young for such a charge, but I am sure you might manage better. I do not
think you use your energies. There is no activity, nor regularity, nor
method, about this household. I believe that my father sees that this is
the case, but it is not his habit to find fault with little things. You
may think that, therefore, I need not interfere, but—’
‘Oh, William! I am glad—’
‘But remember that comfort is made up of little things. And, Emily, when
you consider how much my father has suffered, and how desolate his home
must be at the best, I think you will be inclined to exert yourself to
prevent him from being anxious about the children or harassed by your
negligence.’
‘Indeed, William,’ returned Emily, with many tears, ‘it is my most
earnest wish to make him comfortable. Thank you for what you have said.
Now that I am stronger, I hope to do more, and I will really do my best.’
At this moment Emily was sincere; but the good impulse of one instant was
not likely to endure against long cherished habits of selfish apathy.
Claude did not appear again till the middle of the next day. His
headache was nearly gone, but he was so languid that he gave up all
thoughts of Devereux Castle that evening. Lord Rotherwood, who always
seemed to know what was going on at Beechcroft, came to inquire for him,
and very unwillingly allowed that it would be better for him to stay at
home. Lilias wished to remain with him; but this her cousin would not
permit, saying that he could not consent to lose three of the party, and
Florence would be disappointed in all her plans. Neither would Claude
hear of keeping her at home, and she was obliged to satisfy herself with
putting his arm-chair in his favourite corner by the fire, with the
little table before it, supplied with books, newspaper, inkstand,
paper-knife, and all the new periodicals, and he declared that he should
enjoy the height of luxury.
Phyllis considered it to be entirely her fault that he could not go, and
was too much grieved on that account to have many regrets to spare for
herself. She enjoyed seeing Adeline dressed, and hearing Esther’s
admiration of her. And having seen the party set off, she made her way
into the drawing-room, opening the door as gently as possible, just wide
enough to admit her little person, then shutting it as if she was afraid
of hurting it, she crept across the room on tiptoe. She started when
Claude looked up and said, ‘Why, Phyl, I have not seen you to-day.’
‘Good morning,’ she mumbled, advancing in her sidelong way.
Claude suspected that she had been more blamed the day before than the
occasion called for, and wishing to make amends he kissed her, and said
something good-natured about spending the evening together.
Phyllis, a little reassured, went to her own occupations. She took out a
large heavy volume, laid it on the window-seat, and began to read.
Claude was interested in his own book, and did not look up till the light
failed him. He then, closing his book, gave a long yawn, and looked
round for his little companion, almost thinking, from the stillness of
the room, that she must have gone to seek for amusement in the nursery.
She was, however, still kneeling against the window-seat, her elbows
planted on the great folio, and her head between her hands, reading
intently.
‘Little Madam,’ said he, ‘what great book have you got there?’
‘_As You Like It_,’ said Phyllis.
‘What! are you promoted to reading Shakspeare?’
‘I have not read any but this,’ said Phyllis. ‘Ada and I have often
looked at the pictures, and I liked the poor wounded stag coming down to
the water so much, that I read about it, and then I went on. Was it
wrong, Claude? no one ever told me not.’
‘You are welcome to read it,’ said Claude, ‘but not now—it is too dark.
Come and sit in the great chair on the other side of the fire, and be
sociable. And what do you think of ‘_As You Like It_?’’
‘I like it very much,’ answered Phyllis, ‘only I cannot think why _Jacks_
did not go to the poor stag, and try to cure it, when he saw its tears
running into the water.’
To save the character of _Jacks_, Claude gravely suggested the difficulty
of catching the stag, and then asked Phyllis her opinion of the heroines.
‘Oh! it was very funny about Rosalind dressing like a man, and then being
ready to cry like a girl when she was tired, and then pretending to
pretend to be herself; and Celia, it was very kind of her to go away with
Rosalind; but I should have liked her better if she had stayed at home,
and persuaded her father to let Rosalind stay too. I am sure she would
if she had been like Ada. Then it is so nice about Old Adam and Orlando.
Do not you think so, Claude? It is just what I am sure Wat Greenwood
would do for Redgie, if he was to be turned out like Orlando.’
‘It is just what Wat Greenwood’s ancestor did for Sir Maurice Mohun,’
said Claude.
‘Yes, Dame Greenwood tells us that story.’
‘Well, Phyl, I think you show very good taste in liking the scene between
Orlando and Adam.’
‘I am glad you like it, too, Claude. But I will tell you what I like
best,’ exclaimed the little girl, springing up, ‘I do like it, when
Orlando killed the lioness and the snake,—and saved Oliver; how glad he
must have been.’
‘Glad to have done good to his enemy,’ said Claude; ‘yes, indeed.’
‘His enemy! he was his brother, you know. I meant it must be so very
nice to save anybody—don’t you think so, Claude?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Claude, do you know there is nothing I wish so much as to save
somebody’s life. It was very nice to save the dragon-fly; and it is very
nice to let flies out of spiders’ webs, only they always have their legs
and wings torn, and look miserable; and it was very nice to put the poor
little thrushes back into their nest when they tumbled out, and then to
see their mother come to feed them; and it was very pleasant to help the
poor goose that had put its head through the pales, and could not get it
back. Mrs. Harrington said it would have been strangled if I had not
helped it. That was very nice, but how delightful it would be to save
some real human person’s life.’
Claude did not laugh at the odd medley in her speech, but answered,
‘Well, those little things train you in readiness and kindness.’
‘Will they?’ said Phyllis, pressing on to express what had long been her
earnest wish. ‘If I could but save some one, I should not mind being
killed myself—I think not—I hope it is not naughty to say so. I believe
there is something in the Bible about it, about laying down one’s life
for one’s friend.’
‘There is, Phyl, and I quite agree with you; it must be a great blessing
to have saved some one.’
‘And little girls have sometimes done it, Claude. I know a story of one
who saved her little brother from drowning, and another waked the people
when the house was on fire. And when I was at Broomhill, Marianne showed
me a story of a young lady who helped to save the Prince, that Prince
Charlie that Miss Weston sings about. I wish the Prince of Wales would
get into some misfortune—I should like to save him.’
‘I do not quite echo that loyal wish,’ said Claude.
‘Well, but, Claude, Redgie wishes for a rebellion, like Sir Maurice’s,
for he says all the boys at his school would be one regiment, in green
velvet coats, and white feathers in their hats.’
‘Indeed! and Redgie to be Field Marshal?’
‘No, he is to be Sir Reginald Mohun, a Knight of the Garter, and to ask
the Queen to give William back the title of Baron of Beechcroft, and make
papa a Duke.’
‘Well done! he is to take good care of the interests of the family.’
‘But it is not that that I should care about,’ said Phyllis. ‘I should
like it better for the feeling in one’s own self; I think all that fuss
would rather spoil it—don’t you, Claude?’
‘Indeed, I do; but Phyllis, if you only wish for that feeling, you need
not look for dangers or rebellions to gain it.’
‘Oh! you mean the feeling that very good people indeed have—people like
Harry—but that I shall never be.’
‘I hope you mean to try, though.’
‘I do try; I wish I was as good as Ada, but I am so naughty and so noisy
that I do not know what to do. Every day when I say my prayers I think
about being quiet, and not idling at my lessons, and sometimes I do stop
in time, and behave better, but sometimes I forget, and I do not mind
what I am about, and my voice gets loud, and I let the things tumble down
and make a noise, and so it was yesterday.’ Here she looked much
disposed to cry.
‘No, no, we will not have any crying this evening,’ said Claude. ‘I do
not think you did me much mischief, my head ached just as much before.’
‘That was a thing I wanted to ask you about: William says my crying loud
is all habit, and that I must cure myself of it. How does he mean?
Ought I to cry every day to practise doing it without roaring?’
‘Do you like to begin,’ said Claude, laughing; ‘shall I beat you or pinch
you?’
‘Oh! it would make your head bad again,’ said Phyllis; ‘but I wish you
would tell me what he means. When I cry I only think about what makes me
unhappy.’
‘Try never to cry,’ said Claude; ‘I assure you it is not pleasant to hear
you, even when I have no headache. If you wish to do anything right, you
must learn self-control, and it will be a good beginning to check
yourself when you are going to cry. Do not look melancholy now. Here
comes the tea. Let me see how you will perform as tea-maker.’
‘I wish the evening would not go away so fast!’
‘And what are we to do after tea? You are queen of the evening.’
‘If you would but tell me a story, Claude.’
They lingered long over the tea-table, talking and laughing, and when
they had finished, Phyllis discovered with surprise that it was nearly
bedtime. The promised story was not omitted, however, and Phyllis,
sitting on a little footstool at her brother’s feet, looked up eagerly
for it.
‘Well, Phyl, I will tell you a true history that I heard from an officer
who had served in the Peninsular War—the war in Spain, you know.’
‘Yes, with the French, who killed their king. Lily told me.’
‘And the Portuguese were helping us. Just after we had taken the town of
Ciudad Rodrigo, some of the Portuguese soldiers went to find lodgings for
themselves, and, entering a magazine of gunpowder, made a fire on the
floor to dress their food. A most dangerous thing—do you know why?’
‘The book would be burnt,’ said Phyllis.
‘What book, you wise child?’
‘The Magazine; I thought a magazine was one of the paper books that
Maurice is always reading.’
‘Oh!’ said Claude, laughing, ‘a magazine is a store, and as many
different things are stored in those books, they are called magazines. A
powder magazine is a store of barrels of gunpowder. Now do you see why
it was dangerous to light a fire?’
‘It blows up,’ said Phyllis; ‘that was the reason why Robinson Crusoe was
afraid of the lightning.’
‘Right, Phyl, and therefore a candle is never allowed to be carried into
a powder magazine, and even nailed shoes are never worn there, lest they
should strike fire. One spark, lighting on a grain of gunpowder,
scattered on the floor, might communicate with the rest, make it all
explode, and spread destruction everywhere. Think in what fearful peril
these reckless men had placed, not only themselves, but the whole town,
and the army. An English officer chanced to discover them, and what do
you think he did?’
‘Told all the people to run away.’
‘How could he have told every one, soldiers, inhabitants, and all? where
could they have gone? No, he raised no alarm, but he ordered the
Portuguese out of the building, and with the help of an English sergeant,
he carried out, piece by piece, all the wood which they had set on fire.
Now, imagine what that must have been. An explosion might happen at any
moment, yet they had to walk steadily, slowly, and with the utmost
caution, in and out of this place several times, lest one spark might fly
back.’
‘Then they were saved?’ cried Phyllis, breathlessly; ‘and what became of
them afterwards?’
‘They were both killed in battle, the officer, I believe, in Badajoz, and
the sergeant sometime afterwards.’
Phyllis gave a deep sigh, and sat silent for some minutes. Next, Claude
began a droll Irish fairy-tale, which he told with spirit and humour,
such as some people would have scorned to exert for the amusement of a
mere child. Phyllis laughed, and was so happy, that when suddenly they
heard the sound of wheels, she started up, wondering what brought the
others home so soon, and was still more surprised when Claude told her it
was past ten.
‘Oh dear! what will papa and Emily say to me for being up still? But I
will stay now, it would not be fair to pretend to be gone to bed.’
‘Well said, honest Phyl; now for the news from the castle.’
‘Why, Claude,’ said his eldest brother, entering, ‘you are alive again.’
‘I doubt whether your evening could have been pleasanter than ours,’ said
Claude.
‘Phyl,’ cried Ada, ‘do you know, Mary Carrington’s governess thought I
was Florence’s sister.’
‘You look so bright, Claude,’ said Jane, ‘I think you must have taken
Cinderella’s friend with the pumpkin to enliven you.’
‘My fairy was certainly sister to a Brownie,’ said Claude, stroking
Phyllis’s hair.
‘Claude,’ again began Ada, ‘Miss Car—’
‘I wish Cinderella’s fairy may be forthcoming the day of the ball,’ said
Lily, disconsolately.
‘And William is going after all,’ said Emily.
‘Indeed! has the great Captain relented?’
‘Yes. Is it not good of him? Aunt Rotherwood is so much pleased that he
consents to go entirely to oblige her.’
‘Sensible of his condescension,’ said Claude. ‘By the bye, what makes
the Baron look so mischievous?’
‘Mischievous!’ said Emily, looking round with a start, ‘he is looking
very comical, and so he has been all the evening.’
‘What? You thought mischievous was meant in Hannah’s sense, when she
complains of Master Reginald being very mischie-vi-ous.’
Ada now succeeded in saying, ‘The Carringtons’ governess called me Lady
Ada.’
‘How could she bring herself to utter so horrid a sound?’ said Claude.
‘Ada is more cock-a-hoop than ever now,’ said Reginald; ‘she does not
think Miss Weston good enough to speak to.’
‘But, Claude, she really did, she thought I was Florence’s sister, and
she said I was just like her.’
‘I wish you would hold your tongue, or go to bed,’ said William, ‘I have
heard nothing but this nonsense all the way home.’
While William was sending off Ada to bed, and Phyllis was departing with
her, Lily told Claude that the Captain had been most agreeable. ‘I
feared,’ said she, ‘that he would be too grand for this party, but he was
particularly entertaining; Rotherwood was quite eclipsed.’
‘Rotherwood wants Claude to set him off,’ said Mr. Mohun. ‘Now, young
ladies, reserve the rest of your adventures for the morning.’
Adeline had full satisfaction in recounting the governess’s mistake to
the maids, and in hearing from Esther that it was no wonder, ‘for that
she looked more like a born lady than Lady Florence herself!’
Lilias’s fit of petulance about the ball had returned more strongly than
ever; she partly excused herself to her own mind, by fancying she
disliked the thought of the lonely evening she was to spend more than
that of losing the pleasure of the ball. Mr. Mohun would be absent,
conducting Maurice to a new school, and Claude and Reginald would also be
gone.
Her temper was affected in various ways; she wondered that William and
Emily could like to go—she had thought that Miss Weston was wiser. Her
daily occupations were irksome—she was cross to Phyllis.
It made her very angry to be accused by the young brothers of making a
fuss, and Claude’s silence was equally offensive. It was upon principle
that he said nothing. He knew it was nothing but a transient attack of
silliness, of which she was herself ashamed; but he was sorry to leave
her in that condition, and feared Lady Rotherwood’s coming into the
neighbourhood was doing her harm, as certainly as it was spoiling Ada.
The ball day arrived, and it was marked by a great burst of fretfulness
on the part of poor Lilias, occasioned by so small a matter as the being
asked by Emily to write a letter to Eleanor. Emily was dressing to go to
dine at Devereux Castle when she made the request.
‘What have I to say? I never could write a letter in my life, at least
not to the Duenna—there is no news.’
‘About the boys going to school,’ Emily suggested.
‘As if she did not know all about them as well as I can tell her. She
does not care for my news, I see no one to hear gossip from. I thought
you undertook all the formal correspondence, Emily?’
‘Do you call a letter to your sister formal correspondence!’
‘Everything is formal with her. All I can say is, that you and William
are going to the ball, and she will say that is very silly.’
‘Eleanor once went to this Raynham ball; it was her first and last,’ said
Emily.
‘Yes, not long before they went to Italy; it will only make her
melancholy to speak of it—I declare I cannot write.’
‘And I have no time,’ said Emily, ‘and you know how vexed she is if she
does not get her letter every Saturday.’
‘All for the sake of punctuality, nothing else,’ said Lily. ‘I rather
like to disappoint fidgety people—don’t you, Emily?’
‘Well,’ said Emily, ‘only papa does not like that she should be
disappointed.’
‘You might have written, if you had not dawdled away all the morning.’
This was true, and it therefore stung Emily, who complained that Lily was
very unkind. Lily defended herself sharply, and the dispute was growing
vehement, when William happily cut it short by a summons to Emily to make
haste.
When they were gone Lily had time for reflection. Good-temper was so
common a virtue, and generally cost her so little effort, that she took
no pains to cultivate it, but she now felt she had lost all claim to be
considered amiable under disappointment. It was too late to bear the
privation with a good grace. She was heartily ashamed of having been so
cross about a trifle, and ashamed of being discontented at Emily’s having
a pleasure in which she could not share. Would this have been the case a
year ago? She was afraid to ask herself the question, and without going
deep enough into the history of her own mind to make her sorrow and shame
profitable, she tried to satisfy herself with a superficial compensation,
by making herself particularly agreeable to her three younger sisters,
and by writing a very long and entertaining letter to Eleanor.
She met Emily with a cheerful face the next day, and listened with
pleasure to her history of the ball; and when Mr. Mohun returned home he
saw that the cloud had passed away. But, alas! Lilias neglected to take
the only means of preventing its recurrence.
The next week William departed. Before he went he gave his sisters great
pleasure by desiring them to write to him, and not to let him fall into
his ancient state of ignorance respecting the affairs of Beechcroft.
‘Mind,’ was his farewell speech, ‘I expect you to keep me _au courant du
jour_. I will not be in the dark about your best friends and neighbours
when I come home next July.’