Kitabı oku: «Scenes and Characters, or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft», sayfa 17
The simplicity and earnestness of the old man’s tones were appreciated by all, and the tremendous cheer, which almost terrified Phyllis, was a fit assent to the hearty good wishes of the old farmer.
‘Now comes the trial!’ whispered Claude to Lilias, after he had vehemently contributed his proportion to the noise. Lilias saw that his colour had risen, as much as if he had to make a speech himself, and he earnestly examined the coronet on his fork, while every other eye was fixed on the Marquis. Eloquence was not to be expected; but, at least, Lord Rotherwood spoke clearly and distinctly.
‘My friends,’ said he, ‘you must not expect much of a speech from me; I can only thank you for your kindness, say how glad I am to see you here, and tell you of my earnest desire that I may not prove myself unworthy to be compared with my forefathers.’ Here was a pause. Claude’s hand shook, and Lily saw how anxious he was, but in another moment the Marquis went on smoothly. ‘Now, I must ask you to drink the health of a gentleman who has done his utmost to compensate for the loss which we sustained nine years ago, and to whom I owe any good intentions which I may bring to the management of this property. I beg leave to propose the health of my uncle, Mr. Mohun, of Beechcroft.’
Claude was much surprised, for his cousin had never given him a hint of his intention. It was a moment of great delight to all the young Mohuns when the cheer rose as loud and hearty as for the young lord himself, and Phyllis smiled, and wondered, when she saw her papa rise to make answer. He said that he could not attempt to answer Lord Rotherwood, as he had not heard what he said, but that he was much gratified by his having thought of him on this occasion, and by the goodwill which all had expressed. This was the last speech that was interesting; Lady Rotherwood’s health and a few more toasts followed, and the party then left the tent for the lawn, where the cool air was most refreshing, and the last beams of the evening sun were lighting the tops of the trees.
The dancing was now to begin, and this was the time for Claude to be useful. He had spent so much time at home, and had accompanied his father so often in his rides, that he knew every one, and he was inclined to make every exertion in the cause of his cousin, and on this occasion seemed to have laid aside his indolence and disinclination to speak to strangers.
Lady Florence was also indefatigable, darting about, with a wonderful perception who everybody was, and with whom each would like to dance. She seized upon little Devereux Aylmer for her own partner before any one else had time to ask her, and carried him about the lawn, hunting up and pairing other shy people.
‘Why, Reginald, what are you about? You can manage a country-dance. Make haste; where is your partner?’
‘I meant to dance with Miss Weston,’ said Reginald, piteously.
‘Miss Weston? Here she is.’
‘That is only Marianne,’ said Reginald.
‘Oh! Miss Weston is dancing with William. Marianne, will you accept my apologies for this discourteous cousin of mine? I am perfectly horror-struck. There, Redgie, take her with a good grace; you will never have a better partner.’
Marianne was only too glad to have Reginald presented to her, ungracious as he was, but the poor little couple met with numerous disasters. They neither of them knew the way through a country-dance, and were almost run over every time they went down the middle; Reginald’s heels were very inconvenient to his neighbours; so much so, that once Claude thought it expedient to admonish him, that dancing was not merely an elegant name for football without a ball. Every now and then some of their friends gave them a hasty intimation that they were all wrong, but that they knew already but too well. At last, just when Marianne had turned scarlet with vexation, and Reginald was growing so desperate that he had thoughts of running a way, the dance came to an end, and Reginald, with very scanty politeness to his partner, rushed away to her sister, saying, in rather a reproachful tone, ‘Miss Weston, you promised to dance with me.’
‘I have not forgotten my promise,’ said Alethea, smiling.
At the same moment Claude hurried up, saying, ‘William, I want a partner for Miss Wilkins, of the Wold Farm. Miss Wilkins, let me introduce Captain Mohun.’
‘You see I have made the Captain available,’ said Claude, presently after meeting Lord Rotherwood, as he speeded across the lawn.
‘Have you? I did not think him fair game,’ said the Marquis. ‘Where is your heroine, Claude? I have not seen her dancing.’
‘What heroine? What do you mean?’
‘Honest Phyl, of course. Did you think I meant Miss Weston?’
‘With Eleanor, somewhere. Is the next dance a quadrille?’
Lord Rotherwood ran up the bank to the terraced walks, where the undancing part of the company sat or walked about. Soon he spied Phyllis standing by Eleanor, looking rather wearied. ‘Phyllis, can you dance a quadrille?’
Phyllis opened her eyes, and Eleanor desired her to answer.
‘Come, Phyllis, let me see what M. Le Roi has done for you.’
He led her away, wondering greatly, and thinking how very good-natured Cousin Rotherwood was.
Emily was much surprised to find Phyllis her vis à vis. Emily was very generally known and liked, and had no lack of grand partners, but she would have liked to dance with the Marquis. When the quadrille was over, she was glad to put herself in his way, by coming up to take charge of Phyllis.
‘Well done, Phyl,’ said he; ‘no mistakes. You must have another dance. Whom shall we find for you?’
‘Oh! Rotherwood,’ said Emily, ‘you cannot think how you gratified us all with your speech.’
‘Ah! I always set my heart on saying something of the kind; but I wished I could have dared to add the bride’s health.’
‘The bride!’
‘Do not pretend to have no eyes,’ said Lord Rotherwood, with a significant glance, which directed Emily’s eyes to the terrace, where Mr. Mohun and Alethea were walking together in eager conversation.
Emily was ready to sink into the earth. Jane’s surmises, and the mysterious words of her father, left her no further doubt. At this moment some one asked her to dance, and scarcely knowing what she did or said, she walked to her place. Lord Rotherwood now found a partner for Phyllis, and a farmer’s daughter for himself.
This dance over, Phyllis’s partner did not well know how to dispose of her, and she grew rather frightened on finding that none of her sisters were in sight. At last she perceived Reginald standing on the bank, and made her escape to him.
‘Redgie, did you see who I have been dancing with? Cousin Rotherwood and Claude’s grand Oxford friend—Mr. Travers.’
‘It is all nonsense,’ said Reginald. ‘Come out of this mob of people.’
‘But where is Eleanor?’
‘Somewhere in the midst. They are all absurd together.’
‘What is the matter, Redgie?’ asked Phyllis, unable to account for this extraordinary fit of misanthropy.
‘Papa and William both driving me about like a dog,’ said Reginald; ‘first I danced with Miss Weston—then she saw that woman—that Miss Aylmer—shook hands—talked—and then nothing would serve her but to find papa. As soon as the Baron sees me he cries out, “Why are not you dancing, Redgie? We do not want you!” Up and down they walk, ever so long, and presently papa turns off, and begins talking to Miss Aylmer. Then, of course, I went back to Miss Weston, but then up comes William, as savage as one of his Canadian bears; he orders me off too, and so here I am! I am sure I am not going to ask any one else to dance. Come and walk with me in peace, Phyl. Do you see them?—Miss Weston and Marianne under that tulip-tree, and the Captain helping them to ice.’
‘Redgie, did you give Miss Weston her nosegay? Some one put such beautiful flowers in it, such as I never saw before.’
‘How could I? They sent me off with Lily and Jane. I told William I had the flowers in charge, and he said he would take care of them. By the bye, Phyl,’ and Reginald gave a wondrous spring, ‘I have it! I have it! I have it! If he is not in love with Miss Weston you may call me an ass for the rest of my life.’
‘I should not like to call you an ass, Redgie,’ said Phyllis.
‘Very likely; but do not make me call you one. Hurrah! Now ask Marianne if it is not so. Marianne must know. How jolly! I say, Phyl, stay there, and I will fetch Marianne.’
Away ran Reginald, and presently returned with Marianne, who was very glad to be invited to join Phyllis. She little knew what an examination awaited her.
‘Marianne,’ began Phyllis, ‘I’ll tell you what—’
‘No, I will do it right,’ said Reginald; ‘you know nothing about it, Phyl. Marianne, is not something going on there?’
‘Going on?’ said Marianne, ‘Alethea is speaking to Mrs. Hawkesworth.’
‘Nonsense, I know better, Marianne. I have a suspicion that I could tell what the Captain was about yesterday when he walked off after dinner.’
‘How very wise you think you look, Reginald!’ said Marianne, laughing heartily.
‘But tell us; do tell us, Marianne,’ said Phyllis.
‘Tell you whet?’
‘Whether William is going to marry Miss Weston,’ said the straightforward Phyllis. ‘Redgie says so—only tell us. Oh! it would be so nice!’
‘How you blurt it out, Phyl,’ said Reginald. ‘You do not know how those things are managed. Mind, I found it out all myself. Just say, Marianne. Am not I right?’
‘I do not know whether I ought to tell,’ said Marianne.
‘Oh! then it is all right,’ said Reginald, ‘and I found it out. Now, Marianne, there is a good girl, tell us all about it.’
‘You know I could not say “No” when you asked me,’ said Marianne; ‘I could not help it really; but pray do not tell anybody, or Captain Mohun will not like it.’
‘Does any one know?’ said Reginald.
‘Only ourselves and Mr. Mohun; and I think Lord Rotherwood guesses, from something I heard him say to Jane.’
‘To Jane?’ said Reginald. ‘That is provoking; she will think she found it out all herself, and be so conceited!’
‘You need not be afraid,’ said Marianne, laughing; ‘Jane is on a wrong scent.’
‘Jane? Oh! I should like to see her out in her reckonings! I should like to have a laugh against her. What does she think, Marianne?’
‘Oh! I cannot tell you; it is too bad.’
‘Oh! do; do, pray. You may whisper it if it is too bad for Phyllis to hear.’
‘No, no,’ said Marianne; ‘it is nothing but nonsense. If you hear it, Phyllis shall too; but mind, you must promise not to say anything to anybody, or I do not know what will become of me.’
‘Well, we will not,’ said Reginald; ‘boys can always keep secrets, and I’ll engage for Phyl. Now for it.’
‘She is in a terrible fright lest it should be Mr. Mohun. She got it into her head last autumn, and all I could say would not persuade her out of it. Why, she always calls me Aunt Marianne when we are alone. Now, Reginald, here comes Maurice. Do not say anything, I beg and entreat. It is my secret, you know. I daresay you will all be told to-morrow,—indeed, mamma said so,—but pray say nothing about me or Jane. It was only settled yesterday evening.’
At this moment Maurice came up, with a message that Miss Weston and Eleanor were going away, and wanted the little girls. They followed him to the tent, which had been cleared of the tables, and lighted up, in order that the dancing might continue there. Most of their own party were collected at the entrance, watching for them. Lilias came up just as they did, and exclaimed in a tone of disappointment, on finding them preparing to depart. She had enjoyed herself exceedingly, found plenty of partners, and was not in the least tired.
‘Why should she not stay?’ said William. ‘Claude has engaged to stay to the end of everything, and he may as well drive her as ride the gray.’
‘And you, Jenny,’ said Mr. Mohun, ‘do you like to stay or go? Alethea will make room for you in the pony-carriage, or you may go with Eleanor.
‘With Eleanor, if you please,’ said Jane.
‘Already, Jane?’ said Lily. ‘Are you tired?’
Jane drew her aside. ‘Tired of hearing that I was right about what you would not believe. Did you not hear what he called her? And Rotherwood has found it out.’
‘It is all gossip and mistake,’ said Lily.
Here Jane was called away by Eleanor, and departed with her; Lilias went to look for her aunt or Florence, but on the way was asked to dance by Mr. Carrington.
‘I suppose I may congratulate you,’ said he in one of the pauses in the quadrille.
Lily thought it best to misunderstand, and answered, ‘Everything has gone off very well.’
‘Very. Lord Rotherwood will be a popular man; but my congratulations refer to something nearer home. I think you owe us some thanks for having brought them into the neighbourhood.’
‘Report is very kind in making arrangements,’ said Lily, with something of Emily’s haughty courtesy.
‘I hope this is something more than report,’ said her partner.
‘Indeed, I believe not. I think I may safely say that it is at present quite unfounded,’ said Lily.
Mr. Carrington, much surprised, said no more.
Lily did not believe the report sufficiently to be annoyed by it during the excitement and pleasure of the evening, and at present her principal vexation was caused by the rapid diminution of the company. She and her brother were the very last to depart, even Florence had gone to bed, and Lady Rotherwood, looking exceedingly tired, kissed Lily at the foot of the stairs, pitied her for going home in an open carriage, and wished her good-night in a very weary tone.
‘I should think you were the fiftieth lady I have handed across the hall,’ said Lord Rotherwood, as he gave Lily his arm.
‘But where were the fireworks, Rotherwood?’
‘Countermanded long ago. We have had enough of them. Well, I am sorry it is over.’
‘I am very glad it is so well over,’ said Claude.
‘Thanks to your exertions, Claude,’ said the Marquis. ‘You acted like a hero.’
‘Like a dancing dervish you mean,’ said Claude. ‘It will suffice for my whole life.’
‘I hope you are not quite exhausted.’
‘No, thank you. I have turned over a new leaf.’
‘Talking of new leaves,’ said the Marquis, ‘I always had a presentiment that Emily’s government would come to a crisis to-day.’
‘Do you think it has?’ said Claude.
‘Trust my word, you will hear great news to-morrow. And that reminds me—can you come here to-morrow morning? Travers is going—I drive him to meet the coach at the town, and you were talking of wanting to see the new windows in the cathedral: it will be a good opportunity. And dine here afterwards to talk over the adventures.’
‘Thank you—that last I cannot do. The Baron was saying it would be the first time of having us all together.’
‘Very well, besides the great news. I wish I was going back with you; it is a tame conclusion, only to go to bed. If I was but to be on the scene of action to-morrow. Tell the Baron that—no, use your influence to get me invited to dinner on Saturday—I really want to speak to him.’
‘Very well,’ said Claude, ‘I’ll do my best. Good-night.’
‘Good-night,’ said the Marquis. ‘You have both done wonders. Still, I wish it was to come over again.’
‘Few people would say so,’ said Lily, as they drove off.
‘Few would say so if they thought so,’ said Claude. ‘I have been quite admiring the way Rotherwood has gone on—enjoying the fun as if he was nobody—just as Reginald might, making other people happy, and making no secret of his satisfaction in it all.’
‘Very free from affectation and nonsense,’ said Lily, ‘as William said of him last Christmas. You were in a fine fright about his speech, Claude.’
‘More than I ought to have been. I should have known that he is too simple-minded and straightforward to say anything but just what he ought. What a nice person that Miss Aylmer is.’
‘Is not she, Claude? I was very glad you had her for a neighbour. Happy the children who have her for a governess. How sensible and gentle she seems. The Westons—But oh! Claude, tell me one thing, did you hear—’
‘Well, what?’
‘I am ashamed to say. That preposterous report about papa. Why, Rotherwood himself seems to believe it, and Mr. Carrington began to congratulate—’
‘The public has bestowed so many ladies on the Baron, that I wonder it is not tired,’ said Claude. ‘It is time it should patronise William instead.’
‘Rotherwood is not the public,’ said Lily, ‘and he is the last person to say anything impertinent of papa. And I myself heard papa call her Alethea, which he never used to do. Claude, what do you think?’
After a long pause Claude slowly replied, ‘Think? Why, I think Miss Weston must be a person of great courage. She begins the world as a grandmother, to say nothing of her eldest daughter and son being considerably her seniors.’
‘I do not believe it,’ said Lily. ‘Do you, Claude?’
‘I cannot make up my mind—it is too amazing. My hair is still standing on end. When it comes down I may be able to tell you something.’
Such were the only answers that Lily could extract from him. He did not sufficiently disbelieve the report to treat it with scorn, yet he did not sufficiently credit it to resign himself to such a state of things.
On coming home Lily found Emily and Jane in her room, eagerly discussing the circumstances which, to their prejudiced eyes, seemed strong confirmation. While their tongues were in full career the door opened and Eleanor appeared. She told them it was twelve o’clock, turned Jane out of the room, and made Emily and Lily promise not to utter another syllable that night.
CHAPTER XXVI
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.’
