LOVE’S LABOUR LOST
‘And well, with ready hand and heart,
Each task of toilsome duty taking,
Did one dear inmate take her part,
The last asleep, the earliest waking.’
IN the course of the afternoon Lord Rotherwood and Florence called, to
see Eleanor, inquire after Ada, and make the final arrangements for going
to a morning concert at Raynham the next day. Lady Rotherwood was afraid
of the fatigue, and Florence therefore wished to accompany her cousins,
who, as Eleanor meant to stay at home, were to be under Mrs. Weston’s
protection. Lady Florence and her brother, therefore, agreed to ride
home by Broomhill, and mention the plan to Mrs. Weston, and took their
leave, appointing Adam’s shop as the place of rendezvous.
Next morning Emily, Lilias, and Jane happened to be together in the
drawing-room, when Mr. Mohun and Claude came in, the former saying to
Lily, ‘Here is the mason’s account for the gravestone which you wished to
have put up to Agnes Eden; it comes to two pounds. You undertook half
the expense, and as Claude is going to Raynham, he will pay for it if you
will give him your sovereign.’
‘I will,’ said Lily, ‘but first I must ask Emily to pay me for the London
commissions.’
Emily repented not having had a private conference with Lily.
‘So you have not settled your accounts,’ said Mr. Mohun. ‘I hope Lily
has not ruined you, Emily.’
‘I thought her a mirror of prudence,’ said Claude.
‘Well, Emily, is the sovereign forthcoming? I am going directly, for
Frank has something to do at Raynham, and William is going to try his
gray in the phaeton.’
‘I am afraid you will think me very silly,’ said Emily, after some
deliberation, ‘but I hope Lily will not be very angry when I confess that
seven shillings is the sum total of my property.’
‘Oh, Emily,’ cried Lily, in dismay, ‘what has become of your five
pounds?’
‘I gave them as a subscription for a clergyman’s widow in distress,’ said
Emily; ‘it was the impulse of a moment, I could not help it, and, dear
Lily, I hope it will not inconvenience you.’
‘If papa will be kind enough to wait for this pound till Michaelmas,’
said Lily.
‘I would wait willingly,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘but I will not see you
cheated. How much does she owe you?’
‘The commissions came to six pounds three,’ said Lily, looking down.
‘But, Lily,’ said Jane, ‘you forget the old debt.’
‘Never mind,’ whispered Lily; but Mr. Mohun asked what Jane had said, and
Claude repeated her speech, upon which he inquired, ‘What old debt?’
‘Papa,’ said Emily, in her most candid tone, ‘I do not know what I should
have done but for Lily’s kindness. Really, I cannot get on with my
present allowance; being the eldest, so many expenses come upon me.’
‘Then am I to understand,’ replied Mr. Mohun, ‘that your foolish vanity
has led you to encroach on your sister’s kindness, and to borrow of her
what you had no reasonable hope of repaying? Again, Lily, what does she
owe you?’
Emily felt the difference between the sharp, curious eyes with which Jane
regarded her, and the sorrowful downcast looks of Lily, who replied, ‘The
old debt is four pounds, but that does not signify.’
‘Well,’ resumed her father, ‘I cannot blame you for your good-nature,
though an older person might have acted otherwise. You must have managed
wonderfully well, to look always so well dressed with only half your
proper income. Here is the amount of the debt. Is it right? And, Lily,
one thing more; I wish to thank you for what you have done towards
keeping this house in order. You have worked hard, and endured much, and
from all I can gather, you have prevented much mischief. Much has
unfairly been thrown upon you, and you have well and steadily done your
duty. For you, Emily, I have more to say to you, but I shall not enter
on it at present, for it is late. You had better get ready, or you will
keep the others waiting.’
‘I do not think I can go,’ sighed Emily.
‘You are wanted,’ said Mr. Mohun. ‘I do not think your aunt would like
Florence to go without you.’
Lily had trembled as much under her father’s praise as Emily under his
blame. She did not feel as if his commendation was merited, and longed
to tell him of her faults and follies, but this was no fit time, and she
hastened to prepare for her expedition, her spirits scarcely in time for
a party of pleasure. Jane talked about the 30th, and asked questions
about London, all the way to Raynham, and both Emily and Lily were glad
to join in her chatter, in hopes of relieving their own embarrassment.
On arriving at the place of meeting they found Lady Florence watching for
them.
‘I am glad you are come,’ said she, ‘Rotherwood will always set out
either too soon or too late, and this time it was too soon, so here we
have been full a quarter of an hour, but he does not care. There he is,
quite engrossed with his book.’
Lord Rotherwood was standing by the counter, reading so intently that he
did not see his cousins’ arrival. When they entered he just looked up,
shook hands, asked after Ada, and went on reading. Lily began looking
for some books for the school, which she had long wished for, and was now
able to purchase; Emily sat down in a melancholy, abstracted mood, and
Florence and Jane stood together talking.
‘You know you are all to come early,’ said the former, ‘I do not know how
we should manage without you. Rotherwood insists on having everything
the same day—poor people first, and gentry and farmers altogether. Mamma
does not like it, and I expect we shall be dreadfully tired; but he says
he will not have the honest poor men put out for the fashionables; and
you know we are all to dance with everybody. But Jenny, who is this
crossing the street? Look, you have an eye for oddities.’
‘Miss Fitchett, the subscription-hunter,’ said Jane.
‘She is actually coming to hunt us. I believe I have my purse. Oh!
Emily is to be the first victim.’
Miss Fitchett advanced to Emily, and saying that she believed she had the
honour to address Miss Mohun, began to tell her that her friend having
been prematurely informed of her small efforts, had with a noble spirit
of independence begged that the subscription might not be continued, and
that what had already been given might be returned, and she rejoiced in
this opportunity of making the explanation. But Miss Fitchett could not
bear to relinquish the five-pound note, and added, that perhaps Miss
Mohun might not object to apply her subscription to some other object,
the Dorcas Society for instance.
‘Thank you, I have no interest in the Dorcas Society,’ said Emily; a
reply which brought upon her a full account of all its aims and objects;
and as still her polite looks spoke nothing of assent, Miss Fitchett went
on with a string of other societies, speaking the louder and the more
eagerly in the hope of attracting the attention of the young marquis and
his sister. Emily was easily overwhelmed with words, and not thinking it
lady-like to claim her money, yet feeling that none of these societies
were fit objects for it, she stood confused and irresolute, unwilling
either to consent or refuse. Jane, perceiving her difficulty, turned to
Lord Rotherwood, and rousing him from his book, explained Emily’s
distress in a few words, and sent him to her rescue. He stepped forward
just as Miss Fitchett, taking silence for consent, was proceeding to
thank Emily; ‘I think you misunderstand Miss Mohun,’ said he. ‘Since her
subscription is not needed by the person for whom it was intended, she
would be glad to have it restored. She does not wish to encourage any
unauthorised societies.’
Boy as he was, in appearance still more than in age, there was a dignity
in his manner which, together with the principle on which he spoke,
overawed Miss Fitchett even more than his rank. She only said, ‘Oh! my
lord, I beg your pardon. Certainly, only—’
The note was placed in Emily’s hands, and with a bow from Lord
Rotherwood, she retreated, murmuring to herself the remonstrance which
she had not courage to bestow upon the Marquis.
‘Thank you, thank you, Rotherwood,’ said Emily; ‘you have done me a great
service.’
‘Well done, Rotherwood,’ said Florence; ‘you have given the old lady
something to reflect upon.’
‘Made a public announcement of principle,’ said Lily.
‘I was determined to give her a reason,’ said the Marquis, laughing, ‘but
I assure you I felt like the stork with its head in the wolf’s mouth, I
thought she would give me a screed of doctrine. How came you to let your
property get unto her clutches, Emily?’
‘It was a subscription for Mrs. Aylmer,’ said Emily.
‘Our curate’s wife!’ cried he with a start; ‘how was it? Florence, did
you know anything? I thought she was in London. Why were we in the
dark? Tell me all.’
‘All I know is that she is living somewhere in Raynham, and last week
there was a paper here to say that she was in want of the means of
fitting out her son for India.’
‘Yes, yes, Johnny, I know my father did get a promise for him—well!’
‘That is all I know, except that she does not choose to be a beggar.’
‘Poor Mrs. Aylmer! shameful neglect! she shall not be ill-used any
longer, I will find her out this instant. Don’t wait for me.’
And after a few words to Mr. Adams, off he went, walking as fast as he
could, and leaving the young ladies not without fear of another invasion.
Soon, however, the brothers came in, and presently after Mrs. Weston
appeared. It was agreed that Lord Rotherwood should be left to his own
devices, and they set out for the concert-room. Poor Florence lost much
pleasure in disappointment at his non-appearance, but when the concert
was over they found him sitting in the carriage, reading. As soon as
they appeared he sprang out, and came to meet them, pouring rapidly out a
history of his adventures.
‘Then you have found them, and what can be done for them?’
‘Everything ought to be done, but Mrs. Aylmer has a spirit of
independence. That foolish woman’s advertisement was unknown to her till
Emily’s five pounds came in, so fine a nest-egg that she could not help
cackling, whereupon Mrs. Aylmer insisted on having every farthing
returned.’
‘Can she provide the boy’s outfit?’
‘She says so, or rather that her daughter can, but I shall see about
that. It is worth while to be of age. Imagine! That bank which failed
was the end of my father’s legacy. They must have lived on a fraction of
nothing! Edward went to sea. Miss Aylmer went out as a governess. Now
she is at home.’
‘Miss Aylmer!’ exclaimed Miss Weston, ‘I know she was a clergyman’s
daughter. Do you know the name of the family she lived with?’
‘Was it Grant?’ said William. ‘I remember hearing of her going to some
Grants.’
‘It was,’ said Alethea; ‘she must be the same. Is she at home?’
‘Yes,’ said Lord Rotherwood, ‘and you may soon see her, for I mean to
have them all to stay at the castle as soon as our present visitors are
gone. My mother and Florence shall call upon them on Friday.’
‘Now,’ said Claude, ‘I have not found out what brought them back to
Raynham.’
‘Have you lived at Beechcroft all your life, and never discovered that
there is a grammar-school at Raynham, with special privileges for the
sons of clergymen of the diocese?’
A few more words, and the cousins parted; Emily by no means sorry that
she had been obliged to go to Raynham. She tendered the five-pound note
to her father, but he desired her to wait till Friday, and then to bring
him a full account of her expenditure of the year. Her irregular ways
made this almost impossible, especially as in the present state of
affairs she wished to avoid a private conference with either Lily or
Jane. She was glad that an invitation to dine and sleep at the castle on
Wednesday would save her from the peril of having to talk to Lily in the
evening. Reginald came home on Tuesday, to the great joy of all the
party, and especially to that of Phyllis. This little maiden was more
puzzled by the events that had taken place than conscious of the feeling
which she had once thought must be so delightful. She could scarcely
help perceiving that every one was much more kind to her than usual,
especially Claude and Lily, and Lord Rotherwood said things which she
could not at all understand. Her observation to Reginald was, ‘Was it
not lucky I had a cough on Twelfth Day, or Claude would not have told me
what to do about gunpowder?’
Reginald troubled Phyllis much by declaring that nothing should induce
him to kiss his nephew, and she was terribly shocked by the indifference
with which Eleanor treated his neglect, even when it branched out into
abuse of babies in general, and in particular of Henry’s bald head and
turned-up nose.
In the evening of Wednesday Phyllis was sitting with Ada in the nursery,
when Reginald came up with the news that the party downstairs were going
to practise country dances. Eleanor was to play, Claude was to dance
with Lily, and Frank with Jane, and he himself wanted Phyllis for a
partner.
‘Oh!’ sighed Ada, ‘I wish I was there to dance with you, Redgie! What
are the others doing?’
‘Maurice is reading, and William went out as soon as dinner was over;
make haste, Phyl.’
‘Don’t go,’ said Ada, ‘I shall be alone all to-morrow, and I want you.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Reginald, ‘do you think she is to sit poking here all
day, playing with those foolish London things of yours?’
‘But I am ill, Redgie. I wish you would not be cross. Everybody is
cross to me now, I think.’
‘I will stay, Ada,’ said Phyllis. ‘You know, Redgie, I dance like a
cow.’
‘You dance better than nothing,’ said Reginald, ‘I must have you.’
‘But you are not ill, Redgie,’ said Phyllis.
He went down in displeasure, and was forced to consider Sir Maurice’s
picture as his partner, until presently the door opened, and Phyllis
appeared. ‘So you have thought better of it,’ cried he.
‘No,’ said Phyllis, ‘I cannot come to dance, but Ada wants you to leave
off playing. She says the music makes her unhappy, for it makes her
think about to-morrow.’
‘Rather selfish, Miss Ada,’ said Claude.
‘Stay here, Phyllis, now you are come,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘I will go and
speak to Ada.’
Phyllis was now captured, and made to take her place opposite to
Reginald; but more than once she sighed under the apprehension that Ada
was receiving a lecture. This was the case; and very little did poor Ada
comprehend the change that had taken place in the conduct of almost every
one towards her; she did not perceive that she was particularly naughty,
and yet she had suddenly become an object of blame, instead of a spoiled
pet. Formerly her little slynesses had been unnoticed, and her
overbearing ways towards Phyllis scarcely remarked, but now they were
continually mentioned as grievous faults. Esther, her especial friend
and comforter, was scarcely allowed to come into the same room with her;
Hannah treated her with a kind of grave, silent respect, far from the
familiarity which she liked; little Henry’s nurse never would talk to
her, and if it had not been for Phyllis, she would have been very
miserable. On Phyllis, however, she repaid herself for all the
mortifications that she received, while the sweet-tempered little girl
took all her fretfulness and exactions as results of her illness, and
went on pitying her, and striving to please her.
When Phyllis came up to wish her good-night, she was received with an
exclamation at her lateness in a peevish tone: ‘Yes, I am late,’ said
Phyllis, merrily, ‘but we had not done dancing till tea-time, and then
Eleanor was so kind as to say I might sit up to have some tea with them.’
‘Ah! and you quite forgot how tiresome it is up here, with nobody to
speak to,’ said Ada. ‘How cross they were not to stop the music when I
said it made me miserable!’
‘Claude said it was selfish to want to stop five people’s pleasure for
one,’ said Phyllis.
‘But I am so ill,’ said Ada. ‘If Claude was as uncomfortable as I am, he
would know how to be sorry for me. And only think—Phyl, what are you
doing? Do not you know I do not like the moonlight to come on me. It is
like a great face laughing at me.’
‘Well, I like the moon so much!’ said Phyllis, creeping behind the
curtain to look out, ‘there is something so white and bright in it; when
it comes on the bed-clothes, it makes me go to sleep, thinking about
white robes, oh! and all sorts of nice things.’
‘I can’t bear the moon,’ said Ada; ‘do not you know, Maurice says that
the moon makes the people go mad, and that is the reason it is called
lunacy, after _la lune_?’
‘I asked Miss Weston about that,’ said Phyllis, ‘because of the Psalm,
and she said it was because it was dangerous to go to sleep in the open
air in hot countries. Ada, I wish you could see now. There is the great
round moon in the middle of the sky, and the sky such a beautiful colour,
and a few such great bright stars, and the trees so dark, and the white
lilies standing up on the black pond, and the lawn all white with dew!
what a fine day it will be to-morrow!’
‘A fine day for you!’ said Ada, ‘but only think of poor me all alone by
myself.’
‘You will have baby,’ said Phyllis.
‘Baby—if he could talk it would be all very well. It is just like the
cross people in books. Here I shall lie and cry all the time, while you
are dancing about as merry as can be.’
‘No, no, Ada, you will not do that,’ said Phyllis, with tears in her
eyes. ‘There is baby with all his pretty ways, and you may teach him to
say Aunt Ada, and I will bring you in numbers of flowers, and there is
your new doll, and all the pretty things that came from London, and the
new book of Fairy Tales, and all sorts—oh! no, do not cry, Ada.’
‘But I shall, for I shall think of you dancing, and not caring for me.’
‘I do care, Ada—why do you say that I do not? I cannot bear it, Ada,
dear Ada.’
‘You don’t, or you would not go and leave me alone.’
‘Then, Ada, I will not go,’ said Phyllis; ‘I could not bear to leave you
crying here all alone.’
‘Thank you, dear good Phyl, but I think you will not have much loss. You
know you do not like dancing, and you cannot do it well, and they will be
sure to laugh at you.’
‘And I daresay Redgie and Marianne will tell us all about it,’ said
Phyllis, sighing. ‘I should rather like to have seen it, but they will
tell us.’
‘Then do you promise to stay?—there’s a dear,’ said Ada.
‘Yes,’ said Phyllis. ‘Cousin Robert is coming in, and that will be very
nice, and I hope he will not look as he did the day the gunpowder went
off—oh, dear!’ She went back to the window to get rid of her tears
unperceived. ‘Ah,’ cried she, ‘there is some one in the garden!’
‘A man!’ screamed Ada—‘a thief, a robber—call somebody!’
‘No, no,’ said Phyllis, laughing, ‘it is only William; he has been out
all the evening, and now papa has come out to speak to him, and they are
walking up and down together. I wonder whether he has been sitting with
Cousin Robert or at Broomhill! Well, good-night, Ada. Here comes
Hannah.’