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Scenes and Characters

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> Scenes and Characters




It happened one day that Jane, having finished her book, looked round
for some other occupation; she knew that Miss Weston had walked to
Broomhill; Rachael was with Lilias, and there was no amusement at
hand. At last she recollected that her papa had said in the morning,
that he hoped to see her and Emily in the schoolroom in the course of
the day, and hoping to meet her sister, she resolved to try and get
there. The room had been Mr. Mohun's sitting-room since the
beginning of their illness, and it looked so very comfortable that
she was glad she had come, though she was so tired she wondered how
she should get back again. Emily was not there, so she lay down on
the sofa and took up a little book from the table. The title was
Susan Harvey, or Confirmation, and she read it with more interest as
she remembered with a pang that this was the day of the confirmation,
to which she had been invited; she soon found herself shedding tears
over the book, she who had never yet been known to cry at any story,
however affecting. She had not finished when Mr. Devereux came in to
look for Mr. Mohun, and finding her there, was going away as soon as
he had congratulated her on having left her room, but she begged him
to stay, and began asking questions about the confirmation.

'Were there many people?'

'Three hundred.'

'Did the Stoney Bridge people make a disturbance?'

'No.'

'How many of our people?'

'Twenty-seven.'

'Did all the girls wear caps?'

'Most of them.'

Jane was rather surprised at the shortness of her cousin's answers,
but she went on, as he stood before the fire, apparently in deep
thought.

'Was Miss Burnet confirmed? She is the dullest girl I ever knew, and
she is older than I am. Was she confused?'

'She was.'

'Did you give Mary Wright a ticket?'

'No.'

'Then, of course, you did not give one to Ned Long. I thought you
would never succeed in making him remember which is the ninth
commandment.'

'I did not refuse him.'

'Indeed! did he improve in a portentous manner?'

'Not particularly.'

'Well, you must have been more merciful than I expected.'

'Indeed!'

'Robert, you must have lost the use of your tongue, for want of us to
talk to. I shall be affronted if you go into a brown study the first
day of seeing me.'

He smiled in a constrained manner, and after a few minutes said, 'I
have been considering whether this is a fit time to tell you what
will give you pain. You must tell me if you can bear it.'

'About Lily, or the little ones?'

'No, no! only about yourself. Your father wished me to speak to you,
but I would not have done so on this first meeting, but what you have
just been saying makes me think this is the best occasion.'

'Let me know; I do not like suspense,' said Jane, sharply.

'I think it right to tell you, Jane, that neither your father nor I
thought it would be desirable for you to be confirmed at this time.'

'Do you really mean it?' said Jane.

'Look back on the past year, and say if you sincerely think you are
fit for confirmation.'

'As to that,' said Jane, 'the best people are always saying that they
are not fit for these things.'

'None can call themselves worthy of them; but I think the conscience
of some would bear them witness that they had profited so far by
their present means of grace as to give grounds for hoping that they
would derive benefit from further assistance.'

'Well, I suppose I must be very bad, since you see it,' said Jane, in
a manner rather more subdued; 'but I did not think myself worse than
other people.'

'Is a Christian called, only to be no worse than others?'

'Oh no! I see, I mean--pray tell me my great fault. Pertness, I
suppose--love of gossip?'

'There must be a deeper root of evil, of which these are but the
visible effects, Jane.'

'What do you mean, Robert?' said Jane, now seeming really impressed.

'I think, Jane, that the greatest and most dangerous fault of your
character is want of reverence. I think it is want of reverence
which makes you press forward to that for which you confess yourself
unfit; it is want of reverence for holiness which makes you not care
to attain it; want of reverence for the Holy Word that makes you
treat it as a mere lesson; and in smaller matters your pertness is
want of reverence for your superiors; you would not be ready to
believe and to say the worst of others, if you reverenced what good
there may be in them. Take care that your want of reverence is not
in reality want of faith.'

Jane's spirits were weak and subdued. It was a great shock to her to
hear that she was not thought worthy of confirmation; her faults had
never been called by so hard a name; she was in part humbled, and in
part grieved, and what she thought harshness in her cousin; she
turned away her face, and did not speak. He continued, 'Jane, you
must not think me unkind, your father desired me to talk to you, and,
indeed, the time of recovery from sickness is too precious to be
trifled away.'

Jane wept bitterly. Presently he said, 'It grieves me to have been
obliged to speak harshly to you, you must forgive me if I have talked
too much to you, Jane.'

Jane tried to speak, but sobs prevented her, and she gave way to a
violent fit of crying. Her cousin feared he had been unwise in
saying so much, and had weakened the effect of his own words. He
would have been glad to see tears of repentance, but he was afraid
that she was weeping over fancied unkindness, and that he might have
done what might be hurtful to her in her weak state. He said a few
kind words, and tried to console her, but this change of tone rather
added to her distress, and she became hysterical. He was much vexed
and alarmed, and, ringing the bell, hastened to call assistance. He
found Esther, and sent her to Jane, and on returning to the
schoolroom with some water, he found her lying exhausted on the sofa;
he therefore went in search of his uncle, who was overlooking some
farming work, and many were the apologies made, and many the
assurances he received, that it would be better for her in the end,
as the impression would be more lasting.

Jane was scarcely conscious of her cousin's departure, or of Esther's
arrival, but after drinking some water, and lying still for a few
moments, she exclaimed, 'Oh, Robert! oh, Esther! the confirmation!'
and gasped and sobbed again. Esther thought she had guessed the
cause of her tears, and tried to comfort her.

'Ah! Miss Jane, there will be another confirmation some day; it was a
sad thing you were too ill, to be sure, but--'

'Oh! if I had--if he would not say--if he had thought me fit.'

Esther was amazed, and asked if she should call Miss Weston, who was
now with Lilias.

'No, no!' cried Jane, nearly relapsing into hysterics. 'She shall
not see me in this state.'

Esther hardly knew what to do, but she tried to soothe and comfort
her by following what was evidently the feeling predominating in
Jane's mind, as indicated by her broken sentences, and said, 'It was
a pity, to be sure, that Mr. Devereux came and talked so long, he
could not know of your being so very weak, Miss Jane.'

'Yes,' said Jane, faintly, 'I could have borne it better if he had
waited a few days.'

'Yes, Miss, when you had not been so very ill. Mr. Devereux is a
very good gentleman, but they do say he is very sharp.'

'He means to be kind,' said Jane, 'but I do not think he has much
consideration, always.'

'Yes, Miss Jane, that is just what Mrs. White said, when--'

Esther's speech was cut short by the entrance of Miss Weston. Jane
started up, dashed off her tears, and tried to look as usual, but the
paleness of her face, and the redness of her eyes, made this
impossible, and she was obliged to lie down again. Esther left the
room, and Miss Weston did not feel intimate enough with Jane to ask
any questions; she gave her some sal volatile, talked kindly to her
of her weakness, and offered to read to her; all the time leaving an
opening for confidence, if Jane wished to relieve her mind. The book
which lay near her accounted, as she thought, for her agitation, and
she blamed herself for having judged her harshly as deficient in
feeling, now that she found her so much distressed, because illness
had prevented her confirmation. Under this impression she honoured
her reserve, while she thought with more affection of Lily's open
heart. Jane, who never took, or expected others to take, the most
favourable view of people's motives, thought Alethea knew the cause
of her distress, and disliked her the more, as having witnessed her
humiliation.

Such was Jane's love of gossip that the next time she was alone with
Esther she asked for the history of Mrs. White, thus teaching her
maid disrespect to her pastor, indirectly complaining of his
unkindness, and going far to annul the effect of what she had learnt
at school. Perhaps during her hysterics Jane's conduct was not under
control, but subsequent silence was in her power, and could she be
free from blame if Esther's faults gained greater ascendency?

The next day Mr. Mohun attempted to speak to Jane, but being both
frightened and unhappy, she found it very easy and natural, as well
as very convenient, to fall into hysterics again, and her father was
obliged to desist, regretting that, at the only time she was subdued
enough to listen to reproof, she was too weak to bear it without
injury. Rachel, who was nearly as despotic among the young ladies as
she had been in former times in the nursery, now insisted on Emily's
going into the schoolroom, and when there, she made rapid progress.
Alethea was amused to see how Jane's decided will and lively spirit
would induce Emily to make exertions, which no persuasions of hers
could make her think other than impossible.

A few days more, and they were nearly well again; and Lilias so far
recovered as to be able to spare her kind friend, who returned home
with a double portion of Lily's love, and of deep gratitude from Mr.
Mohun; but these feelings were scarcely expressed in words. Emily
gave her some graceful thanks, and Jane disliked her more than ever.

It was rather a dreary time that now commenced with the young ladies;
they were tired of seeing the same faces continually, and dispirited
by hearing that the fever was spreading in the village. The autumn
was far advanced, the weather was damp and gloomy, and the sisters
sat round the fire shivering with cold, feeling the large room dreary
and deserted, missing the merry voices of the children, and much
tormented by want of occupation. They could not go out, their hands
were not steady enough to draw, they felt every letter which they had
to write a heavy burden; neither Emily nor Lily could like
needlework; they could have no music, for the piano at the other end
of the room seemed to be in an Arctic Region, and they did little but
read novels and childish stories, and play at chess or backgammon.
Jane was the best off. Mrs. Weston sent her a little sock, with a
request that she would make out the way in which it was knit, in a
complicated feathery pattern, and in puzzling over her cotton, taking
stitches up and letting them down, she made the time pass a little
less heavily with her than with her sisters.



CHAPTER XIII--A CURIOSITY MAP



'Keek into the draw-well,
Janet, Janet,
There ye'll see your bonny sell,
My jo Janet.'

It was at this time that Lady Rotherwood and her daughter arrived at
Devereux Castle, and Mr. Mohun was obliged to go to meet her there,
leaving his three daughters to spend a long winter evening by
themselves, in their doleful and dismal way, as Lily called it.

The evening had closed in, but they did not ring for candles, lest
they should make it seem longer; and Jane was just beginning to laugh
at Emily for the deplorable state of her frock and collar, tumbled
with lying on the sofa, when the three girls all started at the
unexpected sound of a ring at the front door.

With a rapid and joyful suspicion who it might be, Emily and Lilias
sprang to the door, Jane thrust the poker into the fire, in a
desperate attempt to produce a flame, drove an arm-chair off the
hearth-rug, whisked an old shawl out of sight, and flew after them
into the hall, just as the deep tones of a well-known voice were
heard greeting old Joseph.

'William!' cried the girls. 'Oh! is it you? Are you not afraid of
the scarlet fever?'

'No, who has it?'

'We have had it, but we are quite well now. How cold you are!'

'But where is my father?'

'Gone to Hetherington with Robert, to meet Aunt Rotherwood. Come
into the drawing-room.'

Here Emily glided off to perform a hurried toilette.

'And the little ones?'

'At Broomhill. Mrs. Weston was so kind as to take them out of the
way of the infection,' said Lily.

'Oh! William, those Westons!'

'Westons, what Westons? Not those I knew at Brighton?'

'The very same,' said Lily. 'They have taken the house at Broomhill.
Oh! they have been so very kind, I do not know what would have become
of us without Alethea.'

'Why did you not tell me they were living here? And you like them?'

'Like them! No one can tell the comfort Alethea has been. She came
to us and nursed us, and has been my great support.'

'And Phyllis and Ada are with them?'

'Yes, they have been at Broomhill these six weeks, and more.'

Here Emily came in and told William that his room was ready, and
Rachel on the stairs wishing to see the Captain.

'How well he looks!' cried Lily, as he closed the door; 'it is quite
refreshing to see any one looking so strong and bright.'

'And more like Sir Maurice than ever,' said Emily.

'Ah! but Claude is more like,' said Lily, 'because he is pale.'

'Well,' said Jane, 'do let us in the meantime make the room look more
fit to be seen before he comes down.'

The alacrity which had long been wanting to Lilias and Jane had
suddenly returned, and they succeeded in making the room look
surprisingly comfortable, compared with its former desolate aspect,
before William came down, and renewed his inquiries after all the
family.

'And how is my father's deafness?' was one of his questions.

'Worse,' said Emily. 'I am afraid all the younger ones will learn to
vociferate. He hears no one well but ourselves.'

'Oh! and Alethea Weston,' said Lily. 'Her voice is so clear and
distinct, that she hardly ever raises it to make him hear. And have
you ever heard her sing?'

'Yes, she sings very well. I cannot think why you never told me they
were living here.'

'Because you never honour us with your correspondence,' said Emily;
'if you had vouchsafed to write to your sisters you could not have
escaped hearing of the Westons.'

'And has Mr. Weston given up the law?'

'No, he only came home in the vacation,' said Emily. 'Did you know
they had lost two daughters?'

'I saw it in the paper. Emma and Lucy were nice girls, but not equal
to Miss Weston. What a shock to Mrs. Weston!'

'Yes, she quite lost her health, and the doctors said she must move
into the country directly. Mrs. Carrington, who is some distant
connection, told them of this place, and they took it rather
hastily.'

'Do they like it?'

'Oh yes, very much!' said Emily. 'Mrs. Weston is very fond of the
garden, and drives about in the pony-carriage, and it is quite
pleasant to see how she admires the views.'

'And,' added Lily, 'Alethea walks with us, and sings with me, and
teaches at school, and knows all the poor people.'

'I must go and see those children to-morrow,' said William.

The evening passed very pleasantly; and perhaps, in truth, Captain
Mohun and his sisters were surprised to find each other so agreeable;
for, in the eyes of the young ladies, he was by far the most awful
person in the family.

When he had been last at home Harry's recent death had thrown a gloom
over the whole family, and he had especially missed him. Himself
quick, sensible, clever, and active, he was intolerant of opposite
qualities, and the principal effect of that visit to Beechcroft was
to make all the younger ones afraid of him, to discourage poor
Claude, and to give to himself a gloomy remembrance of that home
which had lost its principal charms in his mother and Harry.

He had now come home rather from a sense of duty than an expectation
of pleasure, and he was quite surprised to find how much more
attractive the New Court had become. Emily and Lilias were now
conversible and intelligent companions, better suited to him than
Eleanor had ever been, and he had himself in these four years
acquired a degree of gentleness and consideration which prevented him
from appearing so unapproachable as in days of old. This was
especially the case with regard to Claude, whose sensitive and rather
timid nature had in his childhood suffered much from William's boyish
attempts to make him manly, and as he grew older, had almost felt
himself despised; but now William appreciated his noble qualities,
and was anxious to make amends for his former unkindness.

Claude came home from Oxford, not actually ill, but in the ailing
condition in which he often was, just weak enough to give his sisters
a fair excuse for waiting upon him, and petting him all day long.
About the same time Phyllis and Adeline came back from Broomhill, and
there was great joy at the New Court at the news that Mrs.
Hawkesworth was the happy mother of a little boy.

Claude was much pleased by being asked by Eleanor to be godfather to
his little nephew, whose name was to be Henry. Perhaps he hoped,
what Lilias was quite sure of, that Eleanor did not think him
unworthy to stand in Harry's place.

The choice of the other sponsors did not meet with universal
approbation. Emily thought it rather hard that Mr. Hawkesworth's
sister, Mrs. Ridley, should have been chosen before herself, and both
she and Ada would have greatly preferred either Lord Rotherwood, Mr.
Devereux, or William, to Mr. Ridley, while Phyllis had wanderings of
her own how Claude could be godfather without being present at the
christening.

One evening Claude was writing his answer to Eleanor, sitting at the
sofa table where a small lamp was burning. Jane, attracted by its
bright and soft radiance, came and sat down opposite to him with her
work.

'What a silence!' said Lily, after about a quarter of an hour.

'What made you start, Jane?' said William.

'Did I?' said Jane.

'My speaking, I suppose,' said Lily, 'breaking the awful spell of
silence.'

'How red you look, Jane. What is the matter?' said William.

'Do I?' asked Jane, becoming still redder.

'It is holding your face down over that baby's hood,' said Emily,
'you will sacrifice the colour of your nose to your nephew.'

Claude now asked Jane for the sealing-wax, folded up his letter,
sealed it, put on a stamp, and as Jane was leaving the room at
bedtime, said, 'Jenny, my dear, as you go by, just put that letter in
the post-bag.'

Jane obeyed, and left the room. Claude soon after took the letter
out of the bag, went to Emily's door, listened to ascertain that Jane
was not there, and then knocked and was admitted.

'I could not help coming,' said he, 'to tell you of the trap in which
Brownie has been caught.'

'Ah!' said Lily, 'I fancied I saw her peeping slyly at your letter.'

'Just so,' said Claude, 'and I hope she has experienced the truth of
an old proverb.'

'Oh! tell us what you have said,' cried the sisters.

Claude read, 'Jane desires me to say that a hood for the baby shall
be sent in the course of a week, and she hopes that it may be worn at
the christening. I should rather say I hope it may be lost in the
transit, for assuredly the head that it covers must be infected with
something far worse than the scarlet fever--the fever of curiosity,
the last quality which I should like my godson to possess. My only
consolation is, that he will see the full deformity of the vice, as,
poor little fellow, he becomes acquainted with "that worst of
plagues, a prying maiden aunt." If Jane was simply curious, I should
not complain, but her love of investigation is not directed to what
ought to be known, but rather to find out some wretched subject for
petty scandal, to blacken every action, and to add to the weight of
every misdeed, and all for the sake of detailing her discoveries in
exchange for similar information with Mrs. Appleton, or some equally
suitable confidante.'

'Is that all?' said Lily.

'And enough, too, I hope,' said Claude.

'It ought to cure her!' cried Emily.

'Cure her!' said Claude, 'no such thing; cures are not wrought in
this way; this is only a joke, and to keep it up, I will tell you a
piece of news, which Jane must have spied out in my letter, as I had
just written it when I saw her eyes in a suspicious direction. It
was settled that Messieurs Maurice and Redgie are to go for two hours
a day, three times a week, to Mr. Stevens, during the holidays.'

'The new Stoney Bridge curate?' said Emily.

'I am very glad you are not to be bored by them,' said Lily, 'but how
they will dislike it!'

'It is very hard upon them,' said Claude, 'and I tried to prevent it,
but the Baron was quite determined. Now I will begin to talk about
this plan, and see whether Jenny betrays any knowledge of it.'

'Oh! it will be rare!' cried Lily; 'but do not speak of it before the
Baron or William.'

'Let it be at luncheon,' said Emily, 'you know they never appear. Do
you mean to send the letter?'

'Not that part of it,' said Claude, 'you see I can tear off the last
page, and it is only to add a new conclusion. Good-night.'

Jane had certainly not spent the evening in an agreeable manner; she
had not taken her seat at Claude's table with any evil designs
towards his letter, but his writing was clear and legible, and her
eye caught the word 'Maurice;' she wished to know what Claude could
be saying about him, and having once begun, she could not leave off,
especially when she saw her own name. When aware of the compliments
he was paying her, she looked at him, but his eyes were fixed on his
pen, and no smile, no significant expression betrayed that he was
aware of her observations; and even when he gave her the letter to
put into the post-bag he looked quite innocent and unconcerned. On
the other hand, she did not like to think that he had been sending
such a character of her to Eleanor in sober sadness; it was
impossible to find out whether he had sent the letter; she could not
venture to beg him to keep it back, she could only trust to his good-
nature.

At luncheon, as they had agreed, Lily began by asking where her papa
and William were gone? Claude answered, 'To Stoney Bridge, to call
upon Mr. Stevens; they mean to ask him to dine one day next week, to
be introduced to his pupils.'

'Is he an Oxford or Cambridge man?' asked Lily.

'Oxford,' exclaimed Jane, quite forgetting whence she had derived her
information, 'he is a fellow of--'

'Indeed?' said Lily; 'how do you know that?'

'Why, we have all been talking of him lately,' said Jane.

'Not I,' said Emily, 'why should he interest us?'

'Because he is to tutor the boys,' said Jane.

'When did you hear that he is to tutor the boys?' asked Lily.

'When you did, I suppose,' said Jane, blushing.

'You did, did you?' said Claude. 'I feel convinced, if so, that you
must really be what you are so often called, a changeling. I heard
it, or rather read it first at Oxford, where the Baron desired me to
make inquiries about him. You were, doubtless, looking over my
shoulder at the moment. This is quite a discovery. We shall have to
perform a brewery of egg-shells this evening, and put the elf to
flight with a red-hot poker, and what a different sister Jane we
shall recover, instead of this little mischief-making sprite, so
quiet, so reserved, never intruding her opinion, showing constant
deference to all her superiors--yes, and to her inferiors, shutting
her eyes to the faults of others, and when they come before her,
trying to shield the offender from those who regard them as merely
exciting news.'

Claude's speech had become much more serious than he intended, and he
felt quite guilty when he had finished, so that it was not at all an
undesirable interruption when Phyllis and Adeline asked for the story
of the brewery of egg-shells.

Emily and Lilias kindly avoided looking at Jane, who, after fidgeting
on her chair and turning very red, succeeded in regaining outward
composure. She resolved to let the matter die away, and think no
more about it.

When Mr. Mohun and William came home, they brought the news that Lady
Rotherwood had invited the whole party to dinner.

'I am very glad we are allowed to see them,' said Emily, 'I am quite
tired of being shut up.'

'If it was not for the Westons we might as well live in Nova Zembla,'
said Jane.

'I am glad you damsels should know a little more of Florence,' said
Mrs. Mohun.

'Yes,' said Claude, 'cousins were made to be friends.'

'In that case one ought to be able to choose them,' said William.

'And know them,' said Emily. 'We have not seen Florence since she
was eleven years old.'

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