VANITY AND VEXATION
‘And still I have to tell the same sad tale
Of wasted energies, and idle dreams.’
DEVEREUX CASTLE now became the great resort of the Miss Mohuns. They
were always sure of a welcome there. Lady Rotherwood liked to patronise
them, and Florence was glad of their society.
This was quite according to the wishes of Emily, who now had nothing left
to desire, but that the style of dress suitable, in her opinion, to the
granddaughter of the Marquis of Rotherwood, was more in accordance with
the purse of the daughter of the Esquire of Beechcroft. It was no part
of Emily’s character to care for dress. She was at once too indolent and
too sensible; she saw the vulgarity of finery, and only aimed at
simplicity and elegance. During their girlhood Emily and Lilias had had
no more concern with their clothes than with their food; Eleanor had
carefully taught them plain needlework, and they had assisted in making
more than one set of shirts; but they had nothing to do with the choice
or fashion of their own apparel. They were always dressed alike, and in
as plain and childish a manner as they could be, consistently with their
station. On Eleanor’s marriage a suitable allowance was given to each of
them, in order that they might provide their own clothes, and until
Rachel left them they easily kept themselves in very good trim. When
Esther came Lily cheerfully took the trouble of her own small
decorations, considering it as her payment for the pleasure of having
Esther in the house. Emily, however, neglected the useful ‘stitch in
time,’ till even ‘nine’ were unavailing. She soon found herself
compelled to buy new ready-made articles, and expected Lilias to do the
same. But Lilias demurred, for she was too wise to think it necessary to
ruin herself in company with Emily, and thus the two sisters were no
longer dressed alike. A constant fear tormented Emily lest she should
disgrace Lady Rotherwood, or be considered by some stranger as merely a
poor relation of the great people, and not as the daughter of the
gentleman of the oldest family in the county. She was, therefore,
anxious to be perfectly fashionable, and not to wear the same things too
often, and in her disinterested desire to maintain the dignity of the
family the allowance which she received at Christmas melted away in her
hands.
Lily, though exempt from this folly, was not in a satisfactory state of
mind. She was drawn off from her duties by a kind of spell. It was not
that she liked Florence’s society better than her home pursuits.
Florence was indeed a very sweet-tempered and engaging creature; but her
mind was not equal to that of Lilias, and there was none of the pleasure
of relying upon her, and looking up to her, which Lilias had learnt to
enjoy in the company of her brother Claude, and of Alethea Weston. It
was only that Lily’s own mind had been turned away from her former
occupations, and that she did not like to resume them. She had often
promised herself to return to her really useful studies, and her positive
duties, as soon as her brothers were gone; but day after day passed and
nothing was done, though her visits to the cottages and her lessons to
Phyllis were often neglected. Her calls at Devereux Castle took up many
afternoons. Florence continually lent her amusing books, her aunt took
great interest in her music, and she spent much time in practising. The
mornings were cold and dark, and she could not rise early, and thus her
time slipped away, she knew not how, uselessly and unsatisfactorily. The
three younger ones were left more to themselves, and to the maids. Jane
sought for amusement in village gossip, and the little ones, finding the
nursery more agreeable than the deserted drawing-room, made Esther their
companion.
Mr. Mohun had, at this time, an unusual quantity of business on his
hands; he saw that the girls were not going on well, but he had reasons
for not interfering at present, and he looked forward to Eleanor’s visit
as the conclusion of their trial.
‘I cannot think,’ said Marianne Weston one day to her sister, ‘why Mr.
Mohun comes here so often.’
Alethea told her he had some business with their mamma, and she thought
no more of the matter, till she was one day questioned by Jane. She was
rather afraid of Jane, who, as she thought, disliked her, and wished to
turn her into ridicule; so it was with no satisfaction that she found
herself separated from the others in the course of a walk, and submitted
to a cross-examination.
Jane asked, in a mysterious manner, who had been at Broomhill that
morning.
‘Mr. Mohun,’ said Marianne.
‘What did he go there for?’ said Jane.
‘Alethea says he has some business with mamma.’
‘Then you did not hear what it was?’
‘I was not in the room.’
‘Are you never there when he comes?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘And is Alethea there?’
‘Oh yes!’
‘His business must be with her too. Cannot you guess it?’
‘No,’ said Marianne, looking amazed.
‘How can you be so slow?’
‘I am not sure that I would guess if I could,’ said Marianne, ‘for I do
not think they wish me to know.’
‘Oh! nonsense, it is fine fun to find out secrets,’ said Jane. ‘You will
know it at last, you may be sure, so there can be no harm in making it
out beforehand, so as to have the pleasure of triumph when the wise
people vouchsafe to admit you into their confidence; I am sure I know it
all.’
‘Then please do not tell me, Jane, I ought not to hear it.’
‘Little Mrs. Propriety,’ said Jane, ‘you are already assuming all the
dignity of my Aunt Marianne, and William’s Aunt Marianne—oh! and of
little Henry’s Great-aunt Marianne. Now,’ she added, laughing, ‘can you
guess the secret?’
Marianne stood still in amazement for a moment, and then exclaimed,
‘Jane, Jane! you do not mean it, you are only trying to tease me.’
‘I am quite serious,’ said Jane. ‘You will see that I am right.’
Here they were interrupted, and as soon as she returned from her walk
Marianne, perplexed and amazed, went to her mother, and told her all that
Jane had said.
‘How can she be so silly?’ said Mrs. Weston.
‘Then it is all nonsense, as I thought,’ said Marianne, joyfully. ‘I
should not like Alethea to marry an old man.’
‘Mr. Mohun is very unlikely to make himself ridiculous,’ said Mrs.
Weston. ‘Do not say anything of it to Alethea; it would only make her
uncomfortable.’
‘If it had been Captain Mohun, now—’ Marianne stopped, and blushed,
finding her speech unanswered.
A few days after, Mr. Mohun overtook Marianne and her mother, as he was
riding home from Raynham, and dismounting, led his horse, and walked on
with them. Either not perceiving Marianne, or not caring whether she
heard him, he said,
‘Has Miss Weston received the letter she expected?’
‘No,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘she thinks, as there is no answer, the family
must be gone abroad, and very probably they have taken Miss Aylmer with
them; but she has written to another friend to ask about them.’
‘From all I hear,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I should prefer waiting to hear from
her, before we make further inquiries; we shall not be ready before
midsummer, as I should wish my eldest daughter to assist me in making
this important decision.’
‘In that case,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘there will be plenty of time to
communicate with her. I can see some of the friends of the family when I
go to London, for we must not leave Mr. Weston in solitude another
spring.’
‘Perhaps I shall see you there,’ said Mr. Mohun. ‘I have some business
in London, and I think I shall meet the Hawkesworths there in May or
June.’
After a little more conversation Mr. Mohun took his leave, and as soon as
he had ridden on, Marianne said, ‘Oh! mamma, I could not help hearing.’
‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘I know you may be trusted; but I should not
have told you, as you may find such a secret embarrassing when you are
with your young friends.’
‘And so they are to have a governess?’
‘Yes; and we are trying to find Miss Aylmer for them.’
‘Miss Aylmer! I am glad of it; how much Phyllis and Ada will like her!’
‘Yes, it will be very good for them; I wish I knew the Grants’
direction.’
‘Well, I hope Jane will not question me any more; it will be very
difficult to manage, now I know the truth.’
But poor Marianne was not to escape. Jane was on the watch to find her
alone, and as soon as an opportunity offered, she began:—
‘Well, auntie, any discoveries?’
‘Indeed, Jane, it is not right to fancy Mr. Mohun can do anything so
absurd.’
‘That is as people may think,’ said Jane.
‘I wish you would not talk in that way,’ said Marianne.
‘Now, Marianne,’ pursued the tormentor, ‘if you can explain the mystery I
will believe you, otherwise I know what to think.’
‘I am certain you are wrong, Jane; but I can tell you no more.’
‘Very well, my good aunt, I am satisfied.’
Jane really almost persuaded herself that she was right, as she perceived
that her father was always promoting intercourse with the Westons, and
took pleasure in conversing with Alethea. She twisted everything into a
confirmation of her idea; while the prospect of having Miss Weston for a
stepmother increased her former dislike; but she kept her suspicions to
herself for the present, triumphing in the idea that, when the time came,
she could bring Marianne as a witness of her penetration.
The intercourse between the elder Miss Mohuns and Miss Weston was,
however, not so frequent as formerly; and Alethea herself could not but
remark that, while Mr. Mohun seemed to desire to become more intimate,
his daughters were more backward in making appointments with her. This
was chiefly remarkable in Emily and Jane. Lilias was the same in
openness, earnestness, and affection; but there was either a languor
about her spirits or they were too much excited, and her talk was more of
novels, and less of poor children than formerly. The constant visits to
Devereux Castle prevented Emily and Lilias from being as often as before
at church, and thus they lost many walks and talks that they used to
enjoy in the way home. Marianne began to grow indignant, especially on
one occasion, when Emily and Lily went out for a drive with Lady
Rotherwood, forgetting that they had engaged to take a walk with the
Westons that afternoon.
‘It is really a great deal too bad,’ said she to Alethea; ‘it is exactly
what we have read of in books about grandeur making people cast off their
old friends.’
‘Do not be unfair, Marianne,’ said Alethea. ‘Lady Florence has a better
right to—’
‘Better right!’ exclaimed Marianne. ‘What, because she is a marquis’s
daughter?’
‘Because she is their cousin.’
‘I do not believe Lilias really cares for her half as much as for you,’
said Marianne. ‘It is all because they are fine people.’
‘Nay, Marianne, if our cousins were to come into this neighbourhood, we
should not be as dependent on the Mohuns as we now feel.’
‘I hope we should not break our engagements with them.’
‘Perhaps they could not help it. When their aunt came to fetch them,
knowing how seldom they can have the carriage, it would have been
scarcely civil to say that they had rather take a walk with people they
can see any day.’
‘Last year Lilias would have let Emily go by herself,’ said Marianne.
‘Alethea, they are all different since that Lady Rotherwood came—all
except Phyl. Ada is a great deal more conceited than she was when she
was staying here; she pulls out her curls, and looks in the glass much
more, and she is always talking about some one having taken her for Lady
Florence’s sister. And, Alethea, just fancy, she does not like me to go
through a gate before her, because she says she has precedence!’
Alethea was much amused, but she would not let Marianne condemn the whole
family for Ada’s folly. ‘It will all come right,’ said she, ‘let us be
patient and good-humoured, and nothing can be really wrong.’
Though Alethea made the best of it to her sister, she could not but feel
hurt, and would have been much more so if her temper had been jealous or
sentimental. Almost in spite of herself she had bestowed upon Lilias no
small share of her affection, and she would have been more pained by her
neglect if she had not partaken of that spirit which ‘thinketh no evil,
but beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, and
endureth all things.’
Lilias was not satisfied with either herself, her home, her sisters, or
her school; she was far from being the fresh, happy creature that she had
been the year before. She had seen the fallacy of her principle of love,
but in her self-willed adherence to it she had lost the strong sense and
habit of duty which had once ruled her; and in a vague and restless frame
of mind, she merely sought from day to day for pleasure and idle
occupation. Lent came, but she was not roused, she was only more
uncomfortable when she saw the Rector, or Alethea, or went to church.
Alethea’s unfailing gentleness she felt almost as a rebuke; and Mr.
Devereux, though always kind and good-natured, had ceased to speak to her
of those small village matters in which she used to be prime counsellor.
The school became a burthen instead of a delight, and her attendance
there a fatigue. On going in one Sunday morning, very late, she found
Alethea teaching her class as well as her own. With a look of vexation
she inquired, as she took her place, if it was so very late, and on the
way to church she said again, ‘I thought I was quite in time; I do not
like to hurry the children—the distant ones have not time to come. It
was only half-past nine.’
‘Oh, Lilias,’ said Marianne, ‘it was twenty minutes to ten, I know, for I
had just looked at the clock.’
‘That clock is always too fast,’ said Lily.
The next Sunday was very cold, and Lilias did not feel at all disposed to
leave the fire when the others prepared to go to the afternoon school.
‘Is it time?’ said she. ‘I was chilled at church, and my feet are still
like ice; I will follow you in five minutes.’
Alethea went, and Lilias lingered by the fire. Mrs. Weston once asked
her if she knew how late it was; but still she waited, until she was
startled by the sound of the bell for evening service. As she went to
church with Mrs. Weston and Emily she met Jane, who told her that her
class had been unemployed all the afternoon.
‘I would have taken them,’ said she, ‘but that Robert does not like me to
teach the great girls, and I do think Alethea might have heard them.’
‘It is very provoking,’ said Lily, pettishly; ‘I thought I might depend—’
She turned and saw Miss Weston close to her. ‘Oh, Alethea!’ said she, ‘I
thought you would have heard those girls.’
‘I thought you were coming,’ said Alethea.
‘So I was, but I am sure the bell rang too early. I do wish you had
taken them, Alethea.’
‘I am sorry you are vexed,’ said Alethea, simply.
‘What makes you think I am vexed? I only thought you liked hearing my
class.’
They were by this time at the church door, and as they entered Alethea
blamed herself for feeling grieved, and Lily awoke to a sense of her
unreasonableness. She longed to tell Alethea how sorry she felt, but she
had no opportunity, and she resolved to go to Broomhill the next day to
make her confession. In the night, however, snow began to fall, and the
morning showed the February scene of thawing snow and pouring rain.
Going out was impossible, both on that day and the next. Wednesday
dawned fair and bright; but just after breakfast Lily received a little
note, with the intelligence that Mr. Weston had arrived at Broomhill on
Monday evening, and with his wife and daughters was to set off that very
day to make a visit to some friends on the way to London. Had not the
weather been so bad, Alethea said she should have come to take leave of
her New Court friends on Tuesday, but she could now only send this note
to tell them how sorry she was to go without seeing them, and to beg
Emily to send back a piece of music which she had lent to her. The
messenger was Faith Longley, who was to accompany them, and who now was
going home to take leave of her mother, and would call again for the
music in a quarter of an hour. Lily ran to ask her when they were to go.
‘At eleven,’ was the answer; and Lily telling her she need not call
again, as she herself would bring the music, went to look for it. High
and low did she seek, and so did Jane, but it was not to be found in any
nook, likely or unlikely; and when at last Lily, in despair, gave up the
attempt to find it, it was already a quarter to eleven. Emily sent many
apologies and civil messages, and Lily set out at a rapid pace to walk to
Broomhill by the road, for the thaw had rendered the fields impassable.
Fast as she walked, she was too late. She had the mortification of
seeing the carriage turn out at the gates, and take the Raynham road; she
was not even seen, nor had she a wave of the hand, or a smile to comfort
her.
Almost crying with vexation, she walked home, and sat down to write to
Alethea, but, alas! she did not know where to direct a letter. Bitterly
did she repent of the burst of ill-temper which had stained her last
meeting with her friend, and she was scarcely comforted even by the long
and affectionate letter which she received a week after their departure.
Kindness from her was now forgiveness; never did she so strongly feel
Florence’s inferiority; and she wondered at herself for having sought her
society so much as to neglect her patient and superior friend. She
became careless and indifferent to Florence, and yet she went on in her
former course, following Emily, and fancying that nothing at Beechcroft
could interest her in the absence of her dear Alethea Weston.