THE CRISIS
‘“Is this your care of the nest?” cried he,
“It comes of your gadding abroad,” said she.’
TO the consternation of the disconsolate damsels, the first news they
heard the next morning was that Mr. Mohun was gone to breakfast at
Broomhill, and the intelligence was received by Frank Hawkesworth with a
smile which they thought perfectly malicious. Frank, William, and
Reginald talked a little at breakfast about the _fête_, but no one joined
them, and Claude looked so grave that Eleanor was convinced that he had a
headache, and vainly tried to persuade him to stay at home, instead of
setting off to Devereux Castle immediately after breakfast.
The past day had not been spent in vain by Ada. Mrs. Weston had led her
by degrees to open her heart to her, had made her perceive the real cause
of her father’s displeasure, see her faults, and promise to confess them,
a promise which she performed with many tears, as soon as she saw Eleanor
in the morning.
On telling this to Emily Eleanor was surprised to find that she was not
listened to with much satisfaction. Emily seemed to think it a piece of
interference on the part of Mrs. Weston, and would not allow that it was
likely to be the beginning of improvement in Ada.
‘The words were put into her mouth,’ said she; ‘and they were an easy way
of escaping from her present state of disgrace.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Eleanor, ‘she seemed to think that she justly
deserved to be in disgrace.’
‘Did you think so?’ said Emily, in a careless tone.
‘You are in a strange mood to-day, Emily,’ said Eleanor.
‘Am I? I did not know it. I wonder where Lily is.’
Lily was in her own room, teaching Phyllis. Phyllis was rather wild and
flighty that morning, scarcely able to command her attention, and every
now and then bursting into an irrepressible fit of laughter. Reginald
and Phyllis found it most difficult to avoid betraying Marianne, and as
soon as luncheon was over, they agreed to set out on a long expedition
into the woods, where they might enjoy their wonderful secret together.
Just at this time Mr. Mohun returned. He came into the drawing-room, and
Lilias, perceiving that the threatened conversation with Emily was about
to take place, made her escape to her own room, whither she was presently
followed by Jane, who could not help running after her to report the
great news that Emily was to be deposed.
‘I am sure of it,’ said she. ‘They sent me out of the room, but not
before I had seen certain symptoms.’
‘It is very hard that poor Emily should bear all the blame,’ said Lily.
‘You have managed to escape it very well,’ said Jane, laughing. ‘You
have all the thanks and praise. I suppose it is because the intimacy
with Miss Weston was your work.’
‘I will not believe that nonsense,’ said Lily.
‘Seeing is believing, they say,’ said Jane. ‘Remember, it is not only
me. Think of Rotherwood. And Maurice guesses it too, and Redgie told
him great things were going on.’
While Jane was speaking they heard the drawing-room door open, and in
another moment Emily came in.
It was true that, as Jane said, she had been deposed. Mr. Mohun had
begun by saying, ‘Emily, can you bring me such an account of your
expenditure as I desired?’
‘I scarcely think I can, papa,’ said Emily. ‘I am sorry to say that my
accounts are rather in confusion.’
‘That is to say, that you have been as irregular in the management of
your own affairs as you have in mine. Well, I have paid your debt to
Lilias, and from this time forward I require of you to reduce your
expenses to the sum which I consider suitable, and which both Eleanor and
Lilias have found perfectly sufficient. And now, Emily, what have you to
say for the management of my affairs? Can you offer any excuse for your
utter failure?’
‘Indeed, papa, I am very sorry I vexed you,’ said Emily. ‘Our illness
last autumn—different things—I know all has not been quite as it should
be; but I hope that in future I shall profit by past experience.’
‘I hope so,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘but I am afraid to trust the management of
the family to you any longer. Your trial is over, and you have failed,
merely because you would not exert yourself from wilful indolence and
negligence. You have not attended to any one thing committed to your
charge—you have placed temptation in Esther’s way—and allowed Ada to take
up habits which will not be easily corrected. I should not think myself
justified in leaving you in charge any longer, lest worse mischief should
ensue. I wish you to give up the keys to Eleanor for the present.’
Mr. Mohun would perhaps have added something if Emily had shown signs of
repentance, or even of sorrow. The moment was at least as painful to him
as to her, and he had prepared himself to expect either hysterical tears,
with vows of amendment, or else an argument on her side that she was
right and everybody else wrong. But there was nothing of the kind; Emily
neither spoke nor looked; she only carried the tokens of her authority to
Eleanor, and left the room. She thought she knew well enough the cause
of her deposition, considered it quite as a matter of course, and
departed on purpose to avoid hearing the announcement which she expected
to follow.
She was annoyed by finding her sisters in her room, and especially
irritated by Jane’s tone, as she eagerly asked, ‘Well, what did he say?’
‘Never mind,’ replied Emily, pettishly.
‘Was it about Miss Weston?’ persisted Jane.
‘Not actually, but I saw it was coming,’ said Emily.
‘Ah!’ said Jane, ‘I was just telling Lily that she owes all her present
favour to her having been Alethea’s bosom friend.’
‘I confess I thought Miss Weston was assuming authority long ago,’ said
Emily.
‘Emily, how can you say so?’ cried Lily. ‘How can you be so unjust and
ungrateful? I do not believe this report; but if it should be true, are
not these foolish expressions of dislike so many attempts to make
yourself undutiful?’
‘I have rather more sincerity, more dignity, more attachment to my own
mother, than to try to gain favour by affecting what I do not feel,’ said
Emily.
‘Rather cutting, Emily,’ said Jane.
‘Do not give that speech an application which Emily did not intend,’ said
Lily, sadly.
‘What makes you think I did not intend it?’ said Emily, coldly.
‘Emily!’ exclaimed Lily, starting up, and colouring violently, ‘are you
thinking what you are saying?’
‘I do not know what you mean,’ replied Emily quietly, in her soft,
unchanging voice; ‘I only mean that if you can feel satisfied with the
new arrangement you are more easily pleased than I am.’
‘Only tell me, Emily, do you accuse me of attempting to gain favour in an
unworthy manner?’
‘I only congratulate you on standing so well with every one.’
Lily hid her face in her hands. At this moment Eleanor opened the door,
saying, ‘Can you come down? Mrs. Burnet is here.’ Eleanor went without
observing Lily, and Emily was obliged to follow. Jane lingered in order
to comfort Lily.
‘You know she did not quite mean it,’ said she; ‘she is only very much
provoked.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Lily; ‘she is very sorry herself by this time. Of
course she did not mean it, but it is the first unkind thing she ever
said to me. It is very silly, and very unjust to take it seriously, but
I cannot help it.’
‘It is a very abominable shame,’ said Jane, ‘and so I shall tell Emily.’
‘No, do not, Jenny, I beg. I know she thinks so herself, and grieves too
much over it. No wonder she is vexed. All my faults have come upon her.
You had better go down, Jane; Mrs. Burnet is always vexed if she does not
see a good many of us, and I am sure I cannot go. Besides, Emily
dislikes having that girl to entertain.’
‘Lily, you are so very gentle and forgiving, that I wonder how any one
can say what grieves you,’ said Jane, for once struck with admiration.
She went, and Lily remained, weeping over the injustice which she had
forgiven, and feeling as if, all the time, it was fair that the rule of
‘love’ should, as it were, recoil upon her. Her tears flowed fast, as
she went over the long line of faults and follies which lay heavy on her
conscience. And Emily against her! That sister who, from her infancy,
had soothed her in every trouble, of whose sympathy she had always felt
sure, whose gentleness had been her admiration in her days of sharp
answers and violent temper, who had seemed her own beyond all the others;
this wound from her gave Lily a bitter feeling of desertion and
loneliness. It was like a completion of her punishment—the broken reed
on which she leant had pierced her deeply.
She was still sitting on the side of her bed, weeping, when a slight tap
at the door made her start—a gentle tap, the sound of which she had
learned to love in her illness. The next moment Alethea stood before
her, with outstretched arms. This was a time to feel the value of such a
friend, and every suspicion passing from her mind, she flew to Alethea,
kissed her again and again, and laid her head on her shoulder. Her
caress was returned with equal warmth.
‘But how is this?’ said Alethea, now perceiving that her face was pale,
and marked by tears. ‘How is this, my dear Lily?’
‘Oh, Alethea! I cannot tell you, but it is all misery. The full effect
of my baneful principle has appeared!’
‘Has anything happened?’ exclaimed Alethea.
‘No,’ said Lily. ‘There is nothing new, except the—Oh! I cannot tell
you.’
‘I wish I could do anything for you, my poor Lily,’ said Alethea.
‘You can look kind,’ said Lily, ‘and that is a great comfort. Oh!
Alethea, it was very kind of you to come and speak to me. I shall do
now—I can bear it all better. You have a comforting face and voice like
nobody else. When did you come? Have you been in the drawing-room?’
‘No,’ said Alethea. ‘I walked here with Marianne, and finding there were
visitors in the drawing-room we went to Ada, and she told me where to
find you. I had something to tell you—but perhaps you know already.’
The colour on her cheek recalled all Lily’s fears, and to hear the news
from herself was an unexpected trial. She felt as if what she had said
justified Emily’s reproach, and turning away her head, replied, ‘Yes, I
know.’
Alethea was a little hurt by her coldness, but she ascribed it to
dejection and embarrassment, and blamed herself for hurrying on what she
had to tell without sufficient regard for Lily’s distress. There was an
awkward pause, which Alethea broke, by saying, ‘Your brother thought you
would like to hear it from me.’
‘My brother!’ cried Lily, with a most sudden change of tone. ‘William?
Oh, Alethea! dearest Alethea; I beg your pardon. They almost made me
believe it was papa. Oh! I am so very glad!’
Alethea could not help laughing, and Lily joined her heartily. It was
one of the brightest hours of her life, as she sat with her hand in her
friend’s, pouring out her eager expressions of delight and affection.
All her troubles were forgotten—how should they not, when Alethea was to
be her sister! It seemed as if but a few minutes had passed, when the
sound of the great clock warned Alethea that it was time to return to
Broomhill, and she asked Lilias to walk back with her. After summoning
Marianne, they set out through the garden, where, on being joined by
William, Lily thought it expedient to betake herself to Marianne, who was
but too glad to be able freely to communicate many interesting
particulars. At Broomhill she had a very enjoyable talk with Mrs.
Weston, but her chief delight was in her walk home with her brother. She
was high in his favour, as Alethea’s chief friend. Though usually
reserved, he was now open, and Lily wondered to find herself honoured
with confidence. His attachment had begun in very early days, when first
he knew the Westons in Brighton. Harry’s death had suddenly called him
away, and a few guarded expressions of his wishes in the course of the
next winter had been cut short by his father. He then went to Canada,
and had had no opportunity of renewing his acquaintance till the last
winter, when, on coming home, to his great joy and surprise he found the
Westons on the most intimate terms with his family.
He then spoke to his father, who wished him to take a little more time
for consideration, and he had accordingly waited till the summer. Lily
longed to know his plans for the future, and presently he went on to say
that his father wished him to leave the army, live at home, and let
Alethea be the head of the household.
‘Oh, William! it is perfect. There is an end of all our troubles. It is
as if a great black curtain was drawn up.’
‘They say such plans never succeed,’ said William; ‘but we mean to prove
the contrary.’
‘How good it will be for the children!’ said Lily.
‘Oh! why had we not such a guide at first?’
‘She has all that Eleanor wants,’ said William.
‘My follies were not Eleanor’s fault,’ said Lily; ‘but I do think I
should not have been quite so silly if I had known Alethea from the
first.’
It was not in the power of William himself to say more in her praise than
Lily. In the eagerness of their conversation they walked slowly, and as
they were crossing the last field the dinner-bell rang. As they
quickened their steps they saw Mr. Mohun looking at his wheat. Lily told
him how late it was.
‘There,’ said he, ‘I am always looking after other people’s affairs.
Between Rotherwood and William I have not a moment for my own crops.
However, my turn is coming. William will have it all on his hands, and
the old deaf useless Baron will sit in his great chair and take his
ease.’
‘Not a bit, papa,’ said Lily, ‘the Baron will grow young, and take to
dancing. He is talking nonsense already.’
‘Eh! Miss Lily turned saucy? Mrs. William Mohun must take her in hand.
Well, Lily, has he your consent and approbation?’
‘I only wish this was eighteen months ago, papa.’
‘We shall soon come into order, Lily. With Miss Aylmer for the little
ones, and Mrs. Mohun for the great ones, I have little fear.’
‘Miss Aylmer, papa!’
‘Yes, if all turns out well. We propose to find a house for her mother
in the village, and let her come every day to teach the little ones.’
‘Oh! I am very glad. We liked her so much.’
‘I hope,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘that this plan will please Claude better than
my proposal of a governess last month. He looked as if he expected
Minerva with helmet, and Ægis and all. Now make haste and dress. Do not
let us shock Eleanor by keeping dinner waiting longer than we can help.’
Lilias found that her sisters had long been dressed and gone down. She
dressed alone, every now and then smiling at her own happy looks
reflected in the glass. Just as she had finished, Claude knocked at the
door, and putting in his head, said, ‘Well, Lily, has the wonderful news
come forth? I see it has, by your face.’
‘And do you know what it is, Claude?’ said Lily.
‘I know what Rotherwood meant, and I cannot think where all our senses
were.’
‘And, Claude, only say that you like her.’
‘I think it is a very good thing indeed.’
‘Only say that you cordially like her.’
‘I do. I admire her sense and her gentleness very much, and I think you
owe a great deal to her.’
‘Then you allow that you were unjust last summer?’
‘I do; but it was owing to you. You were somewhat foolish, and I thought
it was her fault. Besides, I was quite tired of hearing that
extraordinary name of hers for ever repeated.’
Here they were summoned to dinner, and hurried down. The dinner passed
very strangely; some were in very high spirits, others in a very
melancholy mood; Eleanor and Maurice alone preserved the golden mean; and
the behaviour of the merry ones was perfectly unintelligible to the rest.
Reginald, still bound by his promise to Marianne, was wild to make his
discovery known, and behaved in such a strange and comical manner as to
call forth various reproofs from Eleanor, which provoked double mirth
from the others. The cause of their amusement was ostensibly the talking
over of yesterday’s _fête_, but the laughing was more than adequate, even
to the wonderful collection of odd speeches and adventures which were
detailed. Emily and Jane could not guess what had come to Lily, and
thought her merriment very ill-placed. Yet, in justice to Lily, it must
be said that her joy no longer made her wild and thoughtless. There was
something guarded and subdued about her, which made Claude reflect how
different she was from the untamed girl of last summer, who could not be
happy without a sort of intoxication.
The ladies returned to the drawing-room, where Ada now appeared for the
first time, and while they were congratulating her Mr. Mohun summoned
Eleanor away. Jane followed at a safe distance to see where they went.
They shut themselves into the study, and Jane, now meeting Maurice, went
into the garden with him. ‘It must be coming now,’ said she; ‘oh! there
are William and Claude talking under the plane-tree.’
‘Claude has his cunning smile on,’ said Maurice.
‘No wonder,’ said Jane, ‘it is very absurd. I daresay William will
hardly ever come home now. One comfort is, they will see I was right
from the first.’
Jane and Maurice remained in the garden till teatime, and thus missed
hearing the whole affair discussed in the drawing-room between Emily,
Lilias, and Frank. This was the first news that Emily heard of it, and a
very great relief it was, for she could imagine liking, and even loving,
Alethea as a sister-in-law. Her chief annoyance was at present from the
perception of the difference between her own position and that of Lilias.
Last year how was Lily regarded in the family, and what was her opinion
worth? Almost nothing; she was only a clever, romantic, silly girl,
while Emily had credit at least for discretion. Now Lily was consulted
and sought out by father, brothers, Eleanor—no longer treated as a child.
And what was Emily? Blamed or pitied on every side, and left to hear
this important news from the chance mention of her brother-in-law,
himself not fully informed. She had become nobody, and had even lost the
satisfaction, such as it was, of fancying that her father only made her
bad management an excuse for his marriage. She heard many particulars
from Lily in the course of the evening, as they were going to bed; and
the sisters talked with all their wonted affection, although Emily had
not thought it worth while to revive an old grievance, by asking Lily’s
pardon for her unkind speech, and rested satisfied with the knowledge
that her sister knew her heart too well to care for what she said in a
moment of irritation. On the other hand, Lily did not think that she had
a right to mention the plan of Alethea’s government, and the next day she
was glad of her reserve, for her father called her to share his early
walk for the purpose of talking over the scheme, telling her that he
thought she understood the state of things better than Eleanor could, and
that he considered that she had sufficient influence with Emily to
prevent her from making Alethea uncomfortable. The conclusion of the
conversation was, that they thought they might depend upon Emily’s
amiability, her courtesy, and her dislike of trouble, to balance her love
of importance and dignity. And that Alethea would do nothing to hurt her
feelings, and would assume no authority that she could help, they felt
convinced.
After breakfast Mr. Mohun called Emily into his study, informed her of
his resolution, to which she listened with her usual submissive manner,
and told her that he trusted to her good sense and right feeling to
obviate any collisions of authority which might be unpleasant to Alethea
and hurtful to the younger ones. She promised all that was desired, and
though at the moment she felt hurt and grieved, she almost immediately
recovered her usual spirits, never high, but always serene, and only
seeking for easy amusement and comfort in whatever happened. There was
no public disgrace in her deposition; it would not seem unnatural to the
neighbours that her brother’s wife should be at the head of the house.
She would gain credit for her amiability, and she would no longer be
responsible or obliged to exert herself; and as to Alethea herself, she
could not help respecting and almost loving her. It was very well it was
no worse.
In the meantime Lily, struck by a sudden thought, had hastened to her
mother’s little deserted morning-room, to see if it could not be made a
delightful abode for Alethea; and she was considering of its capabilities
when she started at the sound of an approaching step. It was the rapid
and measured tread of the Captain, and in a few moments he entered.
‘Thank you,’ said he, smiling, ‘you are on the same errand as myself.’
‘Exactly so,’ said Lily; ‘it will do capitally; how pretty Long Acre
looks, and what a beautiful view of the church!’
‘This room used once to be pretty,’ said William, looking round,
disappointed; ‘it is very forlorn.’
‘Ah! but it will look very different when the chairs do not stand with
their backs to the wall. I do not think Alethea knows of this room, for
nobody has sat in it for years, and we will make it a surprise. And here
is your own picture, at ten years old, over the fireplace! I have such a
vision, you will not know the room when I have set it to rights.’
They went on talking eagerly of the improvements that might be made, and
from thence came to other subjects—Alethea herself, and the future plans.
At last William asked if Lily knew what made Jane look as deplorable as
she had done for the last two days, and Lily was obliged to tell him,
with the addition that Eleanor had begun to inform her of the real fact,
but that she had stopped her by declaring that she had known it all from
the first. Just as they had mentioned her, Jane, attracted by the
unusual sound of voices in Lady Emily’s room, came in, asking what they
could be doing there. Lily would scarcely have dared to reply, but
William said in a grave, matter-of-fact way, ‘We are thinking of having
this room newly fitted up.’
‘For Alethea Weston?’ said Jane; ‘how can you, Lily? I should have
thought, at least, it was no laughing matter.’
‘I advise you to follow Lily’s example and make the best of it,’ said
William.
‘I do, but it is another thing to stand laughing here. I see one thing
that I shall do—I shall take away your picture and hang it in my room.’
‘We shall see,’ said William, following Lilias, who had left the room to
hide her laughter.
To mystify Jane was the great amusement of the day; Reginald, finding
Maurice possessed with the same notion, did more to maintain it than the
others would have thought right, and Maurice reporting his speeches to
Jane, she had not the least doubt that her idea was correct. Lord
Rotherwood came to dinner, and no sooner had he entered the drawing-room
than Reginald, rejoicing in the absence of the parties concerned,
informed him of the joke, much to his diversion, though rather to the
discomfiture of the more prudent spectators, who might have wished it
confined to themselves.
‘It has gone far enough,’ said Claude; ‘she will say something she will
repent if we do not take care.’
‘I should like to reduce her to humble herself to ask an explanation from
Marianne,’ said Lily.
‘And pray don’t spoil the joke before I have enjoyed it,’ said Lord
Rotherwood. ‘My years of discretion are not such centuries of wisdom as
those of that gentleman who looks as grim as his namesake the Emperor on
a coin.’
The entrance of Eleanor and Jane here put an end to the conversation,
which was not renewed till the evening, when the younger, or as Claude
called it, the middle-aged part of the company were sitting on the lawn,
leaving the drawing-room to the elder and more prudent, and the terrace
to the wilder and more active. Emily was talking of Mrs. Burnet’s visit
of the day before, and her opinion of the Hetherington festivities. ‘And
what an interminable visit it was,’ said Jane; ‘I thought they would
never go!’
‘People always inflict themselves in a most merciless manner when there
is anything going on,’ said Emily.
‘I wonder if they guessed anything,’ said Lily.
‘To be sure they did, and stayed out of curiosity,’ said Lord Rotherwood.
‘In spite of Emily’s dignified contradictions of the report, every one
knew it the other evening. It was all in vain that she behaved as if I
was speaking treason—people have eyes.’
‘Ah! I am very sorry for that contradiction,’ said Lily; ‘I hope people
will not fancy we do not like it.’
‘No, it will only prove my greatness,’ said Lord Rotherwood. ‘Your
Marques, was China in the map, so absorbing all beholders that the
magnanimous Mohuns themselves—’
‘What nonsense, Rotherwood,’ said Jane, sharply; ‘can’t you suppose that
one may shut one’s eyes to what one does not wish to see.’
The singular inappropriateness of this answer occasioned a general roar
of laughter, and she looked in perplexity. Every one whom she asked why
they laughed replied by saying, ‘Ask Marianne Weston;’ and at length,
after much puzzling and guessing, and being more laughed at than had ever
before happened to her in her life, she was obliged to seek an
explanation from Marianne, who might well have triumphed had she been so
disposed. Jane’s character for penetration was entirely destroyed, and
the next morning she received, as a present from Claude, an old book,
which had long belonged to the nursery, entitled, _A Puzzle for a Curious
Girl_.