Chapter 16. Vanity And Vexation

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_ CHAPTER XVI. VANITY AND VEXATION

'And still I have to tell the same sad tale
Of wasted energies, and idle dreams.'

Devereux Castle now became the great resort of the Miss Mohuns. They were always sure of a welcome there. Lady Rotherwood liked to patronise them, and Florence was glad of their society.

This was quite according to the wishes of Emily, who now had nothing left to desire, but that the style of dress suitable, in her opinion, to the granddaughter of the Marquis of Rotherwood, was more in accordance with the purse of the daughter of the Esquire of Beechcroft. It was no part of Emily's character to care for dress. She was at once too indolent and too sensible; she saw the vulgarity of finery, and only aimed at simplicity and elegance. During their girlhood Emily and Lilias had had no more concern with their clothes than with their food; Eleanor had carefully taught them plain needlework, and they had assisted in making more than one set of shirts; but they had nothing to do with the choice or fashion of their own apparel. They were always dressed alike, and in as plain and childish a manner as they could be, consistently with their station. On Eleanor's marriage a suitable allowance was given to each of them, in order that they might provide their own clothes, and until Rachel left them they easily kept themselves in very good trim. When Esther came Lily cheerfully took the trouble of her own small decorations, considering it as her payment for the pleasure of having Esther in the house. Emily, however, neglected the useful 'stitch in time,' till even 'nine' were unavailing. She soon found herself compelled to buy new ready-made articles, and expected Lilias to do the same. But Lilias demurred, for she was too wise to think it necessary to ruin herself in company with Emily, and thus the two sisters were no longer dressed alike. A constant fear tormented Emily lest she should disgrace Lady Rotherwood, or be considered by some stranger as merely a poor relation of the great people, and not as the daughter of the gentleman of the oldest family in the county. She was, therefore, anxious to be perfectly fashionable, and not to wear the same things too often, and in her disinterested desire to maintain the dignity of the family the allowance which she received at Christmas melted away in her hands.

Lily, though exempt from this folly, was not in a satisfactory state of mind. She was drawn off from her duties by a kind of spell. It was not that she liked Florence's society better than her home pursuits.

Florence was indeed a very sweet-tempered and engaging creature; but her mind was not equal to that of Lilias, and there was none of the pleasure of relying upon her, and looking up to her, which Lilias had learnt to enjoy in the company of her brother Claude, and of Alethea Weston. It was only that Lily's own mind had been turned away from her former occupations, and that she did not like to resume them. She had often promised herself to return to her really useful studies, and her positive duties, as soon as her brothers were gone; but day after day passed and nothing was done, though her visits to the cottages and her lessons to Phyllis were often neglected. Her calls at Devereux Castle took up many afternoons. Florence continually lent her amusing books, her aunt took great interest in her music, and she spent much time in practising. The mornings were cold and dark, and she could not rise early, and thus her time slipped away, she knew not how, uselessly and unsatisfactorily. The three younger ones were left more to themselves, and to the maids. Jane sought for amusement in village gossip, and the little ones, finding the nursery more agreeable than the deserted drawing-room, made Esther their companion.

Mr. Mohun had, at this time, an unusual quantity of business on his hands; he saw that the girls were not going on well, but he had reasons for not interfering at present, and he looked forward to Eleanor's visit as the conclusion of their trial.

'I cannot think,' said Marianne Weston one day to her sister, 'why Mr. Mohun comes here so often.'

Alethea told her he had some business with their mamma, and she thought no more of the matter, till she was one day questioned by Jane. She was rather afraid of Jane, who, as she thought, disliked her, and wished to turn her into ridicule; so it was with no satisfaction that she found herself separated from the others in the course of a walk, and submitted to a cross-examination.

Jane asked, in a mysterious manner, who had been at Broomhill that morning.

'Mr. Mohun,' said Marianne.

'What did he go there for?' said Jane.

'Alethea says he has some business with mamma.'

'Then you did not hear what it was?'

'I was not in the room.'

'Are you never there when he comes?'

'Sometimes.'

'And is Alethea there?'

'Oh yes!'

'His business must be with her too. Cannot you guess it?'

'No,' said Marianne, looking amazed.

'How can you be so slow?'

'I am not sure that I would guess if I could,' said Marianne, 'for I do not think they wish me to know.'

'Oh! nonsense, it is fine fun to find out secrets,' said Jane. 'You will know it at last, you may be sure, so there can be no harm in making it out beforehand, so as to have the pleasure of triumph when the wise people vouchsafe to admit you into their confidence; I am sure I know it all.'

'Then please do not tell me, Jane, I ought not to hear it.'

'Little Mrs. Propriety,' said Jane, 'you are already assuming all the dignity of my Aunt Marianne, and William's Aunt Marianne--oh! and of little Henry's Great-aunt Marianne. Now,' she added, laughing, 'can you guess the secret?'

Marianne stood still in amazement for a moment, and then exclaimed, 'Jane, Jane! you do not mean it, you are only trying to tease me.'

'I am quite serious,' said Jane. 'You will see that I am right.'

Here they were interrupted, and as soon as she returned from her walk Marianne, perplexed and amazed, went to her mother, and told her all that Jane had said.

'How can she be so silly?' said Mrs. Weston.

'Then it is all nonsense, as I thought,' said Marianne, joyfully. 'I should not like Alethea to marry an old man.'

'Mr. Mohun is very unlikely to make himself ridiculous,' said Mrs. Weston. 'Do not say anything of it to Alethea; it would only make her uncomfortable.'

'If it had been Captain Mohun, now --' Marianne stopped, and blushed, finding her speech unanswered.

A few days after, Mr. Mohun overtook Marianne and her mother, as he was riding home from Raynham, and dismounting, led his horse, and walked on with them. Either not perceiving Marianne, or not caring whether she heard him, he said,

'Has Miss Weston received the letter she expected?'

'No,' said Mrs. Weston, 'she thinks, as there is no answer, the family must be gone abroad, and very probably they have taken Miss Aylmer with them; but she has written to another friend to ask about them.'

'From all I hear,' said Mr. Mohun, 'I should prefer waiting to hear from her, before we make further inquiries; we shall not be ready before midsummer, as I should wish my eldest daughter to assist me in making this important decision.'

'In that case,' said Mrs. Weston, 'there will be plenty of time to communicate with her. I can see some of the friends of the family when I go to London, for we must not leave Mr. Weston in solitude another spring.'

'Perhaps I shall see you there,' said Mr. Mohun. 'I have some business in London, and I think I shall meet the Hawkesworths there in May or June.'

After a little more conversation Mr. Mohun took his leave, and as soon as he had ridden on, Marianne said, 'Oh! mamma, I could not help hearing.'

'My dear,' said Mrs. Weston, 'I know you may be trusted; but I should not have told you, as you may find such a secret embarrassing when you are with your young friends.'

'And so they are to have a governess?'

'Yes; and we are trying to find Miss Aylmer for them.'

'Miss Aylmer! I am glad of it; how much Phyllis and Ada will like her!'

'Yes, it will be very good for them; I wish I knew the Grants' direction.'

'Well, I hope Jane will not question me any more; it will be very difficult to manage, now I know the truth.'

But poor Marianne was not to escape. Jane was on the watch to find her alone, and as soon as an opportunity offered, she began:-

'Well, auntie, any discoveries?'

'Indeed, Jane, it is not right to fancy Mr. Mohun can do anything so absurd.'

'That is as people may think,' said Jane.

'I wish you would not talk in that way,' said Marianne.

'Now, Marianne,' pursued the tormentor, 'if you can explain the mystery I will believe you, otherwise I know what to think.'

'I am certain you are wrong, Jane; but I can tell you no more.'

'Very well, my good aunt, I am satisfied.'

Jane really almost persuaded herself that she was right, as she perceived that her father was always promoting intercourse with the Westons, and took pleasure in conversing with Alethea. She twisted everything into a confirmation of her idea; while the prospect of having Miss Weston for a stepmother increased her former dislike; but she kept her suspicions to herself for the present, triumphing in the idea that, when the time came, she could bring Marianne as a witness of her penetration.

The intercourse between the elder Miss Mohuns and Miss Weston was, however, not so frequent as formerly; and Alethea herself could not but remark that, while Mr. Mohun seemed to desire to become more intimate, his daughters were more backward in making appointments with her. This was chiefly remarkable in Emily and Jane. Lilias was the same in openness, earnestness, and affection; but there was either a languor about her spirits or they were too much excited, and her talk was more of novels, and less of poor children than formerly. The constant visits to Devereux Castle prevented Emily and Lilias from being as often as before at church, and thus they lost many walks and talks that they used to enjoy in the way home. Marianne began to grow indignant, especially on one occasion, when Emily and Lily went out for a drive with Lady Rotherwood, forgetting that they had engaged to take a walk with the Westons that afternoon.

'It is really a great deal too bad,' said she to Alethea; 'it is exactly what we have read of in books about grandeur making people cast off their old friends.'

'Do not be unfair, Marianne,' said Alethea. 'Lady Florence has a better right to--'

'Better right!' exclaimed Marianne. 'What, because she is a marquis's daughter?'

'Because she is their cousin.'

'I do not believe Lilias really cares for her half as much as for you,' said Marianne. 'It is all because they are fine people.'

'Nay, Marianne, if our cousins were to come into this neighbourhood, we should not be as dependent on the Mohuns as we now feel.'

'I hope we should not break our engagements with them.'

'Perhaps they could not help it. When their aunt came to fetch them, knowing how seldom they can have the carriage, it would have been scarcely civil to say that they had rather take a walk with people they can see any day.'

'Last year Lilias would have let Emily go by herself,' said Marianne. 'Alethea, they are all different since that Lady Rotherwood came--all except Phyl. Ada is a great deal more conceited than she was when she was staying here; she pulls out her curls, and looks in the glass much more, and she is always talking about some one having taken her for Lady Florence's sister. And, Alethea, just fancy, she does not like me to go through a gate before her, because she says she has precedence!'

Alethea was much amused, but she would not let Marianne condemn the whole family for Ada's folly. 'It will all come right,' said she, 'let us be patient and good-humoured, and nothing can be really wrong.'

Though Alethea made the best of it to her sister, she could not but feel hurt, and would have been much more so if her temper had been jealous or sentimental. Almost in spite of herself she had bestowed upon Lilias no small share of her affection, and she would have been more pained by her neglect if she had not partaken of that spirit which 'thinketh no evil, but beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, and endureth all things.'

Lilias was not satisfied with either herself, her home, her sisters, or her school; she was far from being the fresh, happy creature that she had been the year before. She had seen the fallacy of her principle of love, but in her self-willed adherence to it she had lost the strong sense and habit of duty which had once ruled her; and in a vague and restless frame of mind, she merely sought from day to day for pleasure and idle occupation. Lent came, but she was not roused, she was only more uncomfortable when she saw the Rector, or Alethea, or went to church. Alethea's unfailing gentleness she felt almost as a rebuke; and Mr. Devereux, though always kind and good- natured, had ceased to speak to her of those small village matters in which she used to be prime counsellor.

The school became a burthen instead of a delight, and her attendance there a fatigue. On going in one Sunday morning, very late, she found Alethea teaching her class as well as her own. With a look of vexation she inquired, as she took her place, if it was so very late, and on the way to church she said again, 'I thought I was quite in time; I do not like to hurry the children--the distant ones have not time to come. It was only half-past nine.'

'Oh, Lilias,' said Marianne, 'it was twenty minutes to ten, I know, for I had just looked at the clock.'

'That clock is always too fast,' said Lily.

The next Sunday was very cold, and Lilias did not feel at all disposed to leave the fire when the others prepared to go to the afternoon school.

'Is it time?' said she. 'I was chilled at church, and my feet are still like ice; I will follow you in five minutes.'

Alethea went, and Lilias lingered by the fire. Mrs. Weston once asked her if she knew how late it was; but still she waited, until she was startled by the sound of the bell for evening service. As she went to church with Mrs. Weston and Emily she met Jane, who told her that her class had been unemployed all the afternoon.

'I would have taken them,' said she, 'but that Robert does not like me to teach the great girls, and I do think Alethea might have heard them.'

'It is very provoking,' said Lily, pettishly; 'I thought I might depend--' She turned and saw Miss Weston close to her. 'Oh, Alethea!' said she, 'I thought you would have heard those girls.'

'I thought you were coming,' said Alethea.

'So I was, but I am sure the bell rang too early. I do wish you had taken them, Alethea.'

'I am sorry you are vexed,' said Alethea, simply.

'What makes you think I am vexed? I only thought you liked hearing my class.'

They were by this time at the church door, and as they entered Alethea blamed herself for feeling grieved, and Lily awoke to a sense of her unreasonableness. She longed to tell Alethea how sorry she felt, but she had no opportunity, and she resolved to go to Broomhill the next day to make her confession. In the night, however, snow began to fall, and the morning showed the February scene of thawing snow and pouring rain. Going out was impossible, both on that day and the next. Wednesday dawned fair and bright; but just after breakfast Lily received a little note, with the intelligence that Mr. Weston had arrived at Broomhill on Monday evening, and with his wife and daughters was to set off that very day to make a visit to some friends on the way to London. Had not the weather been so bad, Alethea said she should have come to take leave of her New Court friends on Tuesday, but she could now only send this note to tell them how sorry she was to go without seeing them, and to beg Emily to send back a piece of music which she had lent to her. The messenger was Faith Longley, who was to accompany them, and who now was going home to take leave of her mother, and would call again for the music in a quarter of an hour. Lily ran to ask her when they were to go. 'At eleven,' was the answer; and Lily telling her she need not call again, as she herself would bring the music, went to look for it. High and low did she seek, and so did Jane, but it was not to be found in any nook, likely or unlikely; and when at last Lily, in despair, gave up the attempt to find it, it was already a quarter to eleven. Emily sent many apologies and civil messages, and Lily set out at a rapid pace to walk to Broomhill by the road, for the thaw had rendered the fields impassable. Fast as she walked, she was too late. She had the mortification of seeing the carriage turn out at the gates, and take the Raynham road; she was not even seen, nor had she a wave of the hand, or a smile to comfort her.

Almost crying with vexation, she walked home, and sat down to write to Alethea, but, alas! she did not know where to direct a letter. Bitterly did she repent of the burst of ill-temper which had stained her last meeting with her friend, and she was scarcely comforted even by the long and affectionate letter which she received a week after their departure. Kindness from her was now forgiveness; never did she so strongly feel Florence's inferiority; and she wondered at herself for having sought her society so much as to neglect her patient and superior friend. She became careless and indifferent to Florence, and yet she went on in her former course, following Emily, and fancying that nothing at Beechcroft could interest her in the absence of her dear Alethea Weston. _

Read next: Chapter 17. Little Agnes

Read previous: Chapter 15. Minor Misfortunes

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