DOUBLE, DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE
‘Truly the tender mercies of the weak,
As of the wicked, are but cruel.’
AND how did Lilias show that she had been truly benefited by her sorrows?
Did she fall back into her habits of self-indulgence, or did she run into
ill-directed activity, selfish as her indolence, because only gratifying
the passion of the moment?
Those who lived with her saw but little change; kind-hearted and generous
she had ever been, and many had been her good impulses, so that while she
daily became more steady in well-doing, and exerting herself on
principle, no one remarked it, and no one entered into the struggles
which it cost her to tame her impetuosity, or force herself to do what
was disagreeable to herself, and might offend Emily.
However, Emily could forgive a great deal when she found that Lily was
ready to take any part of the business of the household and schoolroom,
which she chose to impose upon her, without the least objection, yet to
leave her to assume as much of the credit of managing as she chose—to
have no will or way of her own, and to help her to keep her wardrobe in
order.
The schoolroom was just now more of a labour than had ever been the case,
at least to one who, like Lilias, if she did a thing at all, would not be
satisfied with half doing it. Phyllis was not altered, except that she
cried less, and had in a great measure cured herself of dawdling habits
and tricks, by her honest efforts to obey well-remembered orders of
Eleanor’s; but still her slowness and dulness were trying to her
teachers, and Lily had often to reproach herself for being angry with her
‘when she was doing her best.’
But Adeline was Lily’s principal trouble; there was a change in her, for
which her sister could not account. Last year, when Eleanor left them,
Ada was a sweet-tempered, affectionate child, docile, gentle, and,
excepting a little occasional affectation and carelessness, very free
from faults; but now her attention could hardly be commanded for five
minutes together; she had lost the habit of ready and implicit obedience,
was petulant when reproved, and was far more eager to attract notice from
strangers—more conceited, and, therefore, more affected, and, worse than
all, Lily sometimes thought she perceived a little slyness, though she
was never able to prove any one instance completely to herself, much less
to bring one before her father. Thus, if Ada had done any mischief, she
would indeed confess it on being examined; but when asked why she had not
told of it directly, would say she had forgotten; she would avail herself
of Phyllis’s assistance in her lessons without acknowledging it, and
Lilias found it was by no means safe to leave the Key to the French
Exercises alone in the room with her.
Emily’s mismanagement had fostered Ada’s carelessness and inattention.
Lady Rotherwood’s injudicious caresses helped to make her more affected;
other faults had grown up for want of sufficient control, but this last
was principally Esther’s work. Esther had done well at school; she liked
learning, was stimulated by notice, was really attached to Lilias, and
tried to deserve her goodwill; but her training at school and at home
were so different, that her conduct was, even at the best, far too much
of eye-service, and she had very little idea of real truth and sincerity.
On first coming to the New Court she flattered the children, because she
did not know how to talk to them otherwise, and afterwards, because she
found that Miss Ada’s affections were to be gained by praise. Then, in
her ignorant good-nature, she had no scruples about concealing mischief
which the children had done, or procuring for Ada little forbidden
indulgences on her promise of secrecy, a promise which Phyllis would not
give, thus putting a stop to all those in which she would have
participated. It was no wonder that Ada, sometimes helping Esther to
deceive, sometimes deceived by her, should have learnt the same kind of
cunning, and ceased to think it a matter of course to be true and just in
all her dealings.
But how was it that Phyllis remained the same ‘honest Phyl’ that she had
ever been, not one word savouring of aught but strict truth having ever
crossed her lips, her thoughts and deeds full of guileless simplicity?
She met with the same temptations, the same neglect, the same bad
example, as her sister; why had they no effect upon her? In the first
place, flattery could not touch her, it was like water on a duck’s back,
she did not know that it was flattery, but so thoroughly humble was her
mind that no words of Esther’s would make her believe herself beautiful,
agreeable, or clever. Yet she never found out that Esther over-praised
her sister; she admired Ada so much that she never suspected that any
commendation of her was more than she deserved. Again, Phyllis never
thought of making herself appear to advantage, and her humility saved her
from the habit of concealing small faults, for which she expected no
punishment; and, when seriously to blame, punishment seemed so natural a
consequence, that she never thought of avoiding it, otherwise than by
expressing sorrow for her fault. She was uninfected by Esther’s deceit,
though she never suspected any want of truth; her singleness of mind was
a shield from all evil; she knew she was no favourite in the nursery, but
she never expected to be liked as much as Ada, her pride and glory. In
the meantime Emily went on contriving opportunities and excuses for
spending her time at Devereux Castle, letting everything fall into Lily’s
hands, everything that she had so eagerly undertaken little more than a
year ago. And now all was confusion; the excellent order in which
Eleanor had left the household affairs was quite destroyed. Attention to
the storeroom was one of the ways in which Lilias thought that she could
best follow the advice of Mr. Devereux, since Eleanor had always taught
that great exactness in this point was most necessary. Great disorder
now, however, prevailed there, and she found that her only chance of
rectifying it was to measure everything she found there, and to beg Emily
to allow her to keep the key; for, when several persons went to the
storeroom, no one ever knew what was given out, and she was sure that the
sweet things diminished much faster than they ought to do; but her sister
treated the proposal as an attempt to deprive her of her dignity, and she
was silenced.
She was up almost with the light, to despatch whatever household affairs
could be settled without Emily, before the time came for the children’s
lessons; many hours were spent on these, while she was continually
harassed by Phyllis’s dulness, Ada’s inattention, and the interruption of
work to do for Emily, and often was she baffled by interference from Jane
or Emily. She was conscious of her unfitness to teach the children, and
often saw that her impatience, ignorance, and inefficiency, were doing
mischief; but much as this pained her, she could not speak to her father
without compromising her sister, and to argue with Emily herself was
quite in vain. Emily had taken up the principle of love, and defended
herself with it on every occasion, so that poor Lily was continually
punished by having her past follies quoted against herself.
Each day Emily grew more selfish and indolent; now that Lily was willing
to supply all that she neglected, and to do all that she asked, she
proved how tyrannical the weak can be.
The whole of her quarter’s allowance was spent in dress, and Lily soon
found that the only chance of keeping her out of debt was to spend her
own time and labour in her behalf; and what an exertion of patience and
kindness this required can hardly be imagined. Emily did indeed reward
her skill with affectionate thanks and kind praises, but she interfered
with her sleep and exercise, by her want of consideration, and hardened
herself more and more in her apathetic selfishness.
Some weeks after Easter Lilias was arranging some books on a shelf in the
schoolroom, when she met with a crumpled piece of music-paper, squeezed
in behind the books. It proved to be Miss Weston’s lost song, creased,
torn, dust-stained, and spoiled; she carried it to Emily, who decided
that nothing could be done but to copy it for Alethea, and apologise for
the disaster. Framing apologies was more in Emily’s way than copying
music; and the former task, therefore, devolved upon Lily, and occupied
her all one afternoon, when she ought to have been seeking a cure for the
headache in the fresh air. It was no cure to find the name of Emma
Weston in the corner, and to perceive how great and irreparable the loss
of the paper was to her friend. The thought of all her wrongs towards
Alethea, caused more than one large tear to fall, to blot the heads of
her crotchets and quavers, and thus give her all her work to do over
again.
The letter that she wrote was so melancholy and repentant, that it gave
great pain to her kind friend, who thought illness alone could account
for the dejection apparent in the general tone of all her expressions.
In answer, she sent a very affectionate consoling letter, begging Lily to
think no more of the matter; and though she had too much regard for truth
to say that she had not been grieved by the loss of Emma’s writing, she
added that Lily’s distress gave her far more pain, and that her copy
would have great value in her eyes.
The beginning of June now arrived, and brought with it the time for the
return of Claude and Lord Rotherwood.
The Marquis’s carriage met him at Raynham, and he set down Claude at New
Court, on his way to Hetherington, just coming in to exchange a hurried
greeting with the young ladies.
Their attention was principally taken up by their brother.
‘Claude, how well you look! How fat you are!’ was their exclamation.
‘Is not he?’ said Lord Rotherwood. ‘I am quite proud of him. Not one
headache since he went. He will have no excuse for not dancing the
polka.’
‘I do not return the compliment to you, Lily,’ said Claude, looking
anxiously at his sister. ‘What is the matter with you? Have you been
ill?’
‘Oh, no! not at all!’ said Lily, smiling.
‘I am sure there is enough to make any one ill,’ said Emily, in her
deplorable tone; ‘I thought this poor parish had had its share of
illness, with the scarlet fever, and now it has turned to a horrible
typhus fever.’
‘Indeed!’ said Claude. ‘Where? Who?’
‘Oh! the Naylors, and the Rays, and the Walls. John Ray died this
morning, and they do not think that Tom Naylor will live.’
‘Well,’ interrupted Lord Rotherwood, ‘I shall not stop to hear any more
of this chapter of accidents. I am off, but mind, remember the 30th, and
do not any of you frighten yourselves into the fever.’
He went, and Lily now spoke. ‘There is one thing in all this, Claude,
that is matter of joy, Tom Naylor has sent for Robert.’
‘Then, Lily, I do most heartily congratulate you.’
‘I hope things may go better,’ said Lily, with tears in her eyes. ‘The
poor baby is with its grandmother. Mrs. Naylor is ill too, and every one
is so afraid of the fever that nobody goes near them but Robert, and Mrs.
Eden, and old Dame Martin. Robert says Naylor is in a satisfactory
frame—determined on having the baby christened—but, oh! I am afraid the
christening is to be bought by something terrible.’
‘I do not think those fevers are often very infectious,’ said Claude.
‘So papa says,’ replied Emily; ‘but Robert looks very ill. He is wearing
himself out with sitting up. Making himself nurse as well as everything
else.’
This was very distressing, but still Claude scarcely thought it accounted
for the change that had taken place in Lilias. Her cheek was pale, her
eye heavy, her voice had lost its merry tone; Claude knew that she had
had much to grieve her, but he was as yet far from suspecting how she was
overworked and harassed. He spoke of Eleanor’s return, and she did not
brighten; she smiled sadly at his attempts to cheer her, and he became
more and more anxious about her. He was not long in discovering what was
the matter.
The second day after his return Robert told them at the churchyard gate
that Tom Naylor was beginning to mend, and this seemed to be a great
comfort to Lily, who walked home with a blither step than usual. Claude
betook himself to the study, and saw no more of his sisters till two
o’clock, when Lily appeared, with the languid, dejected look which she
had lately worn, and seemed to find it quite an effort to keep the tears
out of her eyes. Ada and Phyllis were in very high spirits, because they
were going to Raynham with Emily and Jane, and at every speech of Ada’s
Lily looked more grieved. After the Raynham party were gone Claude began
to look for Lily. He found her in her room, an evening dress spread on
the bed, a roll of ribbon in one hand, and with the other supporting her
forehead, while tears were slowly rolling down her cheeks.
‘Lily, my dear, what is the matter?’
‘Oh! nothing, nothing, Claude,’ said she, quickly.
‘Nothing! no, that is not true. Tell me, Lily. You have been
disconsolate ever since I came home, and I will not let it go on so. No
answer? Then am I to suppose that these new pearlins are the cause of
her sorrow? Come, Lily, be like yourself, and speak. More tears! Here,
drink this water, be yourself again, or I shall be angry and vexed. Now
then, that is right: make an effort, and tell me.’
‘There is nothing to tell,’ said Lily; ‘only you are very kind—I do not
know what is the matter with me—only I have been very foolish of late—and
everything makes me cry.’
‘My poor child, I knew you had not been well. They do not know how to
take care of you, Lily, and I shall take you in hand. I am going to
order the horses, and we will have a gallop over the Downs, and put a
little colour into your cheeks.’
‘No, no, thank you, Claude, I cannot come, indeed I cannot, I have this
work, which must be done to-day.’
‘At work at your finery instead of coming out! You must be altered,
indeed, Lily.’
‘It is not for myself,’ said Lily, ‘but I promised Emily she should have
it ready to wear to-morrow.’
‘Emily, oh? So she is making a slave of you?’
‘No, no, it was a voluntary promise. She does not care about it, only
she would be disappointed, and I have promised.’
‘I hate promises!’ said Claude. ‘Well, what must be, must be, so I will
resign myself to this promise of yours, only do not make such another.
Well, but that was not all; you were not crying about that fine green
thing, were you?’
‘Oh, no!’ said Lily, smiling, as now she could smile again.
‘What then? I will know, Lily.’
‘I was only vexed at something about the children.’
‘Then what was it?’
‘It was only that Ada was idle at her lessons; I told her to learn a verb
as a punishment, she went to Emily, and, somehow or other, Emily did not
find out the exact facts, excused her, and took her to Raynham. I was
vexed, because I am sure it does Ada harm, and Emily did not understand
what I said afterwards; I am sure she thought me unjust.’
‘How came she not to be present?’
‘Emily does not often sit in the schoolroom in the morning, since she has
been about that large drawing.’
‘So you are governess as well as ladies’-maid, are you, Lily? What else?
Housekeeper, I suppose, as I see you have all the weekly bills on your
desk. Why, Lily, this is perfectly philanthropic of you. You are
exemplifying the rule of love in a majestic manner. Crying again! Water
lily once more?’
Lily looked up, and smiled; ‘Claude, how can you talk of that old, silly,
nay, wicked nonsense of my principle. I was wise above what was written,
and I have my punishment in the wreck which my “frenzy of spirit and
folly of tongue” have wrought. The unchristened child, Agnes’s death,
the confusion of this house, all are owing to my hateful principle. I
see the folly of it now, but Emily has taken it up, and acts upon it in
everything. I do struggle against it a little; but I cannot blame any
one, I can do no good, it is all owing to me. We have betrayed papa’s
confidence; if he does not see it now it will all come upon him when
Eleanor comes home, and what is to become of us? How it will grieve him
to see that we cannot be trusted!’
‘Poor Lily!’ said Claude. ‘It is a bad prospect, but I think you see the
worst side of it. You are not well, and, therefore, doleful. This,
Lily, I can tell you, that the Baron always considered Emily’s government
as a kind of experiment, and so perhaps he will not be so grievously
disappointed as you expect. Besides, I have a strong suspicion that
Emily’s own nature has quite as much to do with her present conduct as
your principle, which, after all, did not live very long.’
‘Just long enough to unsettle me, and make it more difficult for me to
get any way right,’ said Lily. ‘Oh! dear, what would I give to force
backward the wheels of time!’
‘But as you cannot, you had better try to brighten up your energies.
Come, you know I cannot tell you not to look back, but I can tell you not
to look forward. Nay, I do tell you literally, to look forward, out of
the window, instead of back into this hot room. Do not you think the
plane-tree there looks very inviting? Suppose we transport Emily’s
drapery there, and I want to refresh my memory with Spenser; I do not
think I have touched him since plane-tree time last year.’
‘I believe Spenser and the plane-tree are inseparably woven together in
your mind,’ said Lily.
‘Yes, ever since the time when I first met with the book. I remember
well roving over the bookcase, and meeting with it, and taking it out
there, for fear Eleanor should see me and tell mama. Phyl, with _As You
Like It_, put me much in mind of myself with that.’
Claude talked in this manner, while Lily, listening with a smile,
prepared her work. He read, and she listened. It was such a treat as
she had not enjoyed for a long time, for she had begun to think that all
her pleasant reading days were past. Her work prospered, and her face
was bright when her sisters came home.
But, alas! Emily was not pleased with her performance; she said that she
intended something quite different, and by manner, rather than by words,
indicated that she should not be satisfied unless Lily completely altered
it. It was to be worn at the castle the next evening, and Lily knew she
should have no time for it in the course of the day. Accordingly, at
half-past twelve, as Claude was going up to bed, he saw a light under his
sister’s door, and knocked to ask the cause. Lily was still at work upon
the trimming, and very angry he was, particularly when she begged him to
take care not to disturb Emily. At last, by threatening to awake her,
for the express purpose of giving her a scolding, he made Lily promise to
go to bed immediately, a promise which she, poor weary creature, was very
glad to make.
Claude now resolved to tell his father the state of things, for he well
knew that though it was easy to obtain a general promise from Emily, it
was likely to be of little effect in preventing her from spurring her
willing horse to death.
The next morning he rose in time to join his father in the survey which
he usually took of his fields before breakfast, and immediately beginning
on the subject on which he was anxious, he gave a full account of his
sister’s proceedings. ‘In short,’ said he, ‘Emily and Ada torment poor
Lily every hour of her life; she bears it all as a sort of penance, and
how it is to end I cannot tell.’
‘Unless,’ said Mr. Mohun, smiling, ‘as Rotherwood would say, Jupiter will
interfere. Well, Jupiter has begun to take measures, and has asked Mrs.
Weston to look out for a governess. Eh! Claude?’ he continued, after a
pause, ‘you set up your eyebrows, do you? You think it will be a bore.
Very likely, but there is nothing else to be done. Jane is under no
control, Phyllis running wild, Ada worse managed than any child of my
acquaintance—’
‘And poor Lily wearing herself to a shadow, in vain attempts to mend
matters,’ said Claude.
‘If Lily was the eldest, things would be very different,’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘Or even if she had been as wise last year as she is now,’ said Claude,
‘she would have kept Emily in order then, but now it is too late.’
‘This year is, on many accounts, much to be regretted,’ said Mr. Mohun,
‘but I think it has brought out Lily’s character.’
‘And a very fine character it is,’ said Claude.
‘Very. She has been, and is, more childish than Eleanor ever was, but
she is her superior in most points. She has been your pupil, Claude, and
she does you credit.’
‘Thereby hangs a tale which does me no credit,’ muttered Claude, as he
remembered how foolishly he had roused her spirit of contradiction,
besides the original mischief of naming Eleanor the duenna; ‘but we will
not enter into that now. I see this governess is their best chance.
Have you heard of one?’
‘Of several; but the only one who seems likely to suit us is out of reach
for the present, and I do not regret it, for I shall not decide till
Eleanor comes.’
‘Emily will not be much pleased,’ said Claude. ‘It has long been her
great dread that Aunt Rotherwood should recommend one.’
‘Ay, Emily’s objections and your aunt’s recommendations are what I would
gladly avoid,’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘But Lily!’ said Claude, returning to the subject on which he was most
anxious. ‘She is already what Ada calls a monotony, and there will be
nothing left of her by the time Eleanor comes, if matters go on in their
present fashion.’
‘I have a plan for her. A little change will set her to rights, and we
will take her to London when we go next week to meet Eleanor. She
deserves a little extra pleasure; you must take her under your
protection, and lionise her well.’
‘Trust me for that,’ said Claude. ‘It is the best news I have heard for
a long time.’
‘Well, I am glad that one of my remedies meets with your approbation,’
said his father, smiling. ‘For the other, you are much inclined to
pronounce the cure as bad as the disease.’
‘Not for Lily,’ said Claude, laughing.
‘And,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I think I can promise you that a remedy will be
found for all the other grievances by Michaelmas.’
Claude looked surprised, but as Mr. Mohun explained no further, only
observing upon the potatoes, through which they were walking, he only
said, ‘Then it is next week that you go to London.’
‘There is much to do, both for Rotherwood and for Eleanor; I shall go as
soon as I can, but I do not think it will be while this fever is so
prevalent. I had rather not be from home—I do not like Robert’s looks.’