JOYS AND SORROWS
‘Complaint was heard on every part
Of something disarranged.’
THE next day, Sunday, was one of the most marked in Lily’s life. It was
the first time she saw Mr. Devereux after his illness, and though Claude
had told her he was going to church, it gave her a sudden thrill of joy
to see him there once more, and perhaps she never felt more thankful than
when his name was read before the Thanksgiving. After the service there
was an exchange of greetings, but Lily spoke no word, she felt too happy
and too awe-struck to say anything, and she walked back to the New Court
in silence.
In the afternoon she had hopes that a blessing would be granted to her,
for which at one time she had scarcely dared to hope; and she felt
convinced that so it would be when she saw that Mr. Devereux wore his
surplice, although, as in the morning, his friend read the service.
After the Second Lesson there was a pause, and then Mr. Devereux left the
chair by the altar, walked along the aisle, and took his stand on the
step of the font. Lily’s heart beat high as she saw who were gathering
round him—Mrs. Eden, Andrew Grey, James Harrington, and Mrs. Naylor, who
held in her arms a healthy, rosy-checked boy of a year old.
She could not have described the feelings which made her eyes overflow
with tears, as she saw Mr. Devereux’s thin hand sprinkle the drops over
the brow of the child, and heard him say, ‘Robert, I baptize thee’—words
which she had heard in dreams, and then awakened to remember that the
parish was at enmity with the pastor, the child unbaptized, and herself,
in part, the cause.
The name of the little boy was an additional pledge of reconciliation,
and at the same time it made her feel again what had been the price of
his baptism. When she looked back upon the dreary feelings which she had
so lately experienced, it seemed to her as if she might believe that this
christening was, as it were, a pledge of pardon, and an earnest of better
things.
Naylor, who had recovered much more slowly than Mr. Devereux, was at
church for the first time, and after the service Mr. Mohun sought him out
in the churchyard, and heartily shook hands with him. Lily would gladly
have followed his example, but she only stood by Eleanor and Mrs. Weston,
who were speaking to Mrs. Eden and Mrs. Naylor, admiring the little boy,
and praising him for his good behaviour in church.
Love of babies was a strong bond between Mrs. Weston and Mrs.
Hawkesworth, who seemed to become well acquainted from the first moment
that little Henry was mentioned; and Lily was well pleased to see that in
Jane’s phrase Eleanor ‘took to her friends so well.’
And yet this day brought with it some annoyances, which once would have
fretted her so much as to interfere even with such joy as she now felt.
The song, with which she had taken so much pains, ought to have been sent
home a week before, but owing to the delay caused by Emily’s
carelessness, it had been burnt in the fire in the schoolroom, and Lily
could not feel herself forgiven till she had talked the disaster over in
private with her friend, and this was out of her power throughout the
day, for something always prevented her from getting Alethea alone. In
the morning Jane stuck close to her, and in the afternoon William walked
to the school gate with them. But Alethea’s manner was kinder towards
her than ever, and she was quite satisfied about her.
It gave her more pain to perceive that Emily in every possible manner
avoided being alone with her. It was by her desire that Phyllis came to
sleep in their room; she would keep Jane talking there, give Esther some
employment which kept her in their presence, linger in the drawing-room
while Lilias was dressing, and at bedtime be too sleepy to say anything
but good-night.
That Sunday was a sorrowful one to Eleanor; for in the course of the
conversation with Ada, which Mr. Mohun had desired her to hold, she
became conscious of the little girl’s double-dealing ways. It was only
by a very close cross-examination that she was able to extract from her a
true account of the disaster, and though Ada never went so far as
actually to tell a falsehood, it was evident that she was willing to
conceal as much as possible, and to throw the blame on other people. And
when the real facts were confessed she did not seem able to comprehend
why she was regarded with displeasure; her instinct of truth and
obedience was lost for the time, and Eleanor saw it with the utmost pain.
Adeline had been her especial darling, and cold as her manner had often
been towards the others, it ever was warm towards the motherless little
one, whom she had tended and cherished with most anxious care from her
earliest infancy. She had left her gentle, candid, and affectionate; a
loving, engaging, little creature, and how did she find her now? Her
fair bright face disfigured, her caresses affected, her mind turned to
deceit and prevarication! Well might Eleanor feel it more than ever
painful to leave her own little Henry to the care of others; and well it
was for her that she had learned to find comfort in the consciousness
that her duty was clear.
The next morning Emily learned what was Henry’s destination.
‘Oh! Eleanor,’ said she, ‘why do you not leave him here? We should be so
rejoiced to have him.’
‘Thank you, I am afraid it is out of the question,’ answered Eleanor,
quietly.
‘Why, dear Eleanor? You know how glad we should be. I should have
thought,’ proceeded Emily, a little hurt, ‘that you would have wished him
to live in your own home.’
Eleanor did not speak, and Emily, who had the little boy in her arms,
went on talking to him: ‘Come, baby, let us persuade mamma to let you
stay with Aunt Emily. Ask papa, Henry, won’t you? Seriously, Eleanor,
has Frank considered how much better it would be to have him in the
country?’
‘He has, Emily; he once wished much to leave him here.’
‘I am sure grandpapa would like it,’ said Emily. ‘Do you observe,
Eleanor, how fond he is of baby, always calling him Harry too, as if he
liked the sound of the name?’
‘It has all been talked over, Emily, and it cannot be.’
‘With papa?’ asked Emily in surprise.
‘No, with Lily.’
‘With Lily!’ exclaimed Emily. ‘Did not Aunt Lily wish to keep you,
Harry? I thought she was very fond of you.’
‘You had better inquire no further,’ said Eleanor, ‘except of your own
conscience.’
‘Did Lily think us unfit to take care of him?’ asked Emily, in surprise.
As she spoke Lily herself came in, the key of the storeroom in her hand,
and looks of consternation on her face. She came to announce a terrible
deficiency in the preserved quinces, which she herself had carefully put
aside on a shelf in the storeroom, and which Emily said she had not
touched in her absence.
‘Let me see,’ said Eleanor, rising, and setting off to the storeroom;
Emily and Lily followed, with a sad suspicion of the truth. On the way
they looked into the nursery, to give little Henry to his nurse, and to
ask Jane, who was sitting with Ada, what she remembered about it. Jane
knew nothing, and they went on to the storeroom, where Eleanor, quite in
her element, began rummaging, arranging, and sighing over the confusion,
while Lily lent a helping hand, and Emily stood by, wishing that her
sister would not trouble herself. Presently Jane came running up with a
saucer in her hand, containing a quarter of a quince and some syrup,
which she said she had found in the nursery cupboard, in searching for a
puzzle which Ada wanted.
‘And,’ said Jane, ‘I should guess that Miss Ada herself knew something
about it, for when I could not find the puzzle in the right-hand
cupboard, she was so very unwilling that I should look into that one; she
said there was nothing there but the boys’ old playthings and Esther’s
clothes. And I do not know whether you saw how she fidgeted when you
were talking about the quinces, before you went up.’
‘It is much too plain,’ sighed Lily. ‘Oh! Rachel, why did we not listen
to you?’
‘Do you suppose,’ said Eleanor, ‘that Ada has been in the habit of taking
the key and helping herself?’
‘No,’ said Emily, ‘but that Esther has helped her.’
‘Ah!’ said Eleanor, ‘I never thought it wise to take her, but how could
she get the key? You do not mean that you trusted it out of your own
keeping.’
‘It began while we were ill,’ faltered Emily, ‘and afterwards it was
difficult to bring matters into their former order.’
‘But oh, Eleanor, what is to be done?’ sighed Lily.
‘Speak to papa, of course,’ said Eleanor. ‘He is gone to the castle, and
in the meantime we had better take an exact account of everything here.’
‘And Esther? And Ada?’ inquired the sisters.
‘I think it will be better to speak to him before making so grave an
accusation,’ said Eleanor.
They now commenced that wearisome occupation—a complete
setting-to-rights; Eleanor counted, weighed, and measured, and extended
her cares from the stores to every other household matter. Emily made
her escape, and went to sit with Ada; but Lily and Jane toiled for
several hours with Eleanor, till Lily was so heated and wearied that she
was obliged to give up a walk to Broomhill, and spend another day without
a talk with Alethea. However, she was so patient, ready, and
good-humoured, that Eleanor was well pleased with her. She could hardly
think of the slight vexation, when her mind was full of sorrow and shame
on Esther’s account. It was she who, contrary to the advice of her
elders, had insisted on bringing her into the house; she had allowed
temptation to be set in her way, and had not taken sufficient pains to
strengthen her principles; and how could she do otherwise than feel
guilty of all Esther’s faults, and of those into which she had led
Adeline?
On Mr. Mohun’s return Ada was interrogated. She pitied herself—said she
did not think papa would be angry—prevaricated—and tried to coax away his
inquiries, but all in vain; and at length, by slow degrees, the
confession was drawn from her that she had been used to asking Esther for
morsels of sweet things when she was sent to the storeroom; that
afterwards she had seen her packing up some tea and sugar to take to her
mother, and that Esther on that occasion, and several others, purchased
her silence by giving her a share of pilfered sweetmeats. Telling her
that he only spared her a very severe punishment for the present, on
account of her illness, Mr. Mohun left her, and on his way downstairs met
Phyllis.
‘Phyl,’ said he, ‘did Esther ever give you sweet things out of the
storeroom?’
‘Once, papa, when she had been putting out some currant jam, she offered
me what had been left in the spoon.’
‘Did you take it?’
‘No, papa, for Eleanor used to say it was a bad trick to lick out
spoons.’
‘Did you ever know that she took tea and sugar from the storeroom, for
her mother?’
‘Took home tea and sugar to her mother! She could not have done it,
papa. It would be stealing!’
Esther, who was next called for, cried a great deal, and begged for
pardon, pleading again and again that—
‘It was mother,’ an answer which made her young mistresses again sigh
over the remembrance of Rachel’s disregarded advice. Her fate was left
for consideration and consultation with Mr. Devereux, for Mr. Mohun,
seeing himself to blame for having allowed her to be placed in a
situation of so much trial, and thinking that there was much that was
good about her, did not like to send her to her home, where she was
likely to learn nothing but what was bad.