Phyllis had already gone, and the next moment thrust into Lily's hand the first of the medicaments which she had found in the drawing-room. The faintness soon went off, but Claude thought he had better not struggle against the headache any longer, but go to bed, in hopes of being better the next day. William went with him to his room, and Lilias lingered on the stairs, very humble, and very wretched. William soon came forth again, and asked the meaning of the uproar.
'It was all my fault,' said she; 'I was vexed at Claude's being waked, and that made me speak sharply to Phyllis, and set her roaring.'
'I do not know which is the most inconsiderate of you,' said William.
'You cannot blame me more than I deserve,' said Lily. 'May I go to poor Claude?'
'I suppose so; but I do not see what good you are to do. Quiet is the only thing for him.'
Lily, however, went, and Claude gave her to understand that he liked her to stay with him. She arranged his blinds and curtains comfortably, and then sat down to watch him. William went to the drawing-room to write a letter. Just as he had sat down he heard a strange noise, a sound of sobbing, which seemed to come from the corner where the library steps stood. Looking behind them, he beheld Phyllis curled up, her head on her knees, crying bitterly.
'You there! Come out. What is the matter now?'
'I am so very sorry,' sighed she.
'Well, leave off crying.' She would willingly have obeyed, but her sobs were beyond her own control; and he went on, 'If you are sorry, there is no more to be said. I hope it will be a lesson to you another time. You are quite old enough to have more consideration for other people.'
'I am very sorry,' again said Phyllis, in a mournful note.
'Be sorry, only do not roar. You make that noise from habit, I am convinced, and you may break yourself off it if you choose.'
Phyllis crept out of the room, and in a few minutes more the door was softly opened by Emily, returning from her walk.
'I thought Claude was here. Is he gone to bed? Is his head worse?'
'Yes, the children have been doing their best to distract him. Emily, I want to know why it is that those children are for ever in mischief and yelling in all parts of the house.'
'I wish I could help it,' said Emily, with a sigh; 'they are very troublesome.'
'There must be great mismanagement,' said her brother.
'Oh, William! Why do you think so?'
'Other children do not go on in this way, and it was not so in Eleanor's time.'
'It is only Phyllis,' said Emily.
'Phyllis or not, it ought not to be. What will that child grow up, if you let her be always running wild with the boys?'
'Consider, William, that you see us at a disadvantage; we are all unsettled by this illness, and the children have been from home.'
'As if they learnt all these wild tricks at Broomhill! That excuse will not do, Emily.'
'And then they are always worse in the holidays,' pleaded Emily.
'Yes, there are reasons to be found for everything that goes wrong; but if you were wise you would look deeper. Now, Emily, I do not wish to be hard upon you, for I know you are in a very difficult position, and very young for such a charge, but I am sure you might manage better. I do not think you use your energies. There is no activity, nor regularity, nor method, about this household. I believe that my father sees that this is the case, but it is not his habit to find fault with little things. You may think that, therefore, I need not interfere, but-'
'Oh, William! I am glad-'
'But remember that comfort is made up of little things. And, Emily, when you consider how much my father has suffered, and how desolate his home must be at the best, I think you will be inclined to exert yourself to prevent him from being anxious about the children or harassed by your negligence.'
'Indeed, William,' returned Emily, with many tears, 'it is my most earnest wish to make him comfortable. Thank you for what you have said. Now that I am stronger, I hope to do more, and I will really do my best.'
At this moment Emily was sincere; but the good impulse of one instant was not likely to endure against long cherished habits of selfish apathy.
Claude did not appear again till the middle of the next day. His headache was nearly gone, but he was so languid that he gave up all thoughts of Devereux Castle that evening. Lord Rotherwood, who always seemed to know what was going on at Beechcroft, came to inquire for him, and very unwillingly allowed that it would be better for him to stay at home. Lilias wished to remain with him; but this her cousin would not permit, saying that he could not consent to lose three of the party, and Florence would be disappointed in all her plans. Neither would Claude hear of keeping her at home, and she was obliged to satisfy herself with putting his arm-chair in his favourite corner by the fire, with the little table before it, supplied with books, newspaper, inkstand, paper-knife, and all the new periodicals, and he declared that he should enjoy the height of luxury.
Phyllis considered it to be entirely her fault that he could not go, and was too much grieved on that account to have many regrets to spare for herself. She enjoyed seeing Adeline dressed, and hearing Esther's admiration of her. And having seen the party set off, she made her way into the drawing-room, opening the door as gently as possible, just wide enough to admit her little person, then shutting it as if she was afraid of hurting it, she crept across the room on tiptoe. She started when Claude looked up and said, 'Why, Phyl, I have not seen you to-day.'
'Good morning,' she mumbled, advancing in her sidelong way.
Claude suspected that she had been more blamed the day before than the occasion called for, and wishing to make amends he kissed her, and said something good-natured about spending the evening together.
Phyllis, a little reassured, went to her own occupations. She took out a large heavy volume, laid it on the window-seat, and began to read. Claude was interested in his own book, and did not look up till the light failed him. He then, closing his book, gave a long yawn, and looked round for his little companion, almost thinking, from the stillness of the room, that she must have gone to seek for amusement in the nursery.
She was, however, still kneeling against the window-seat, her elbows planted on the great folio, and her head between her hands, reading intently.
'Little Madam,' said he, 'what great book have you got there?'
'As You Like It,' said Phyllis.
'What! are you promoted to reading Shakspeare?'
'I have not read any but this,' said Phyllis. 'Ada and I have often looked at the pictures, and I liked the poor wounded stag coming down to the water so much, that I read about it, and then I went on. Was it wrong, Claude? no one ever told me not.'
'You are welcome to read it,' said Claude, 'but not now-it is too dark. Come and sit in the great chair on the other side of the fire, and be sociable. And what do you think of 'As You Like It?''
'I like it very much,' answered Phyllis, 'only I cannot think why Jacks did not go to the poor stag, and try to cure it, when he saw its tears running into the water.'
To save the character of Jacks, Claude gravely suggested the difficulty of catching the stag, and then asked Phyllis her opinion of the heroines.
'Oh! it was very funny about Rosalind dressing like a man, and then being ready to cry like a girl when she was tired, and then pretending to pretend to be herself; and Celia, it was very kind of her to go away with Rosalind; but I should have liked her better if she had stayed at home, and persuaded her father to let Rosalind stay too. I am sure she would if she had been like Ada. Then it is so nice about Old Adam and Orlando. Do not you think so, Claude? It is just what I am sure Wat Greenwood would do for Redgie, if he was to be turned out like Orlando.'
'It is just what Wat Greenwood's ancestor did for Sir Maurice Mohun,' said Claude.
'Yes, Dame Greenwood tells us that story.'
'Well, Phyl, I think you show very good taste in liking the scene between Orlando and Adam.'
'I am glad you li
ke it, too, Claude. But I will tell you what I like best,' exclaimed the little girl, springing up, 'I do like it, when Orlando killed the lioness and the snake,-and saved Oliver; how glad he must have been.'
'Glad to have done good to his enemy,' said Claude; 'yes, indeed.'
'His enemy! he was his brother, you know. I meant it must be so very nice to save anybody-don't you think so, Claude?'
'Certainly.'
'Claude, do you know there is nothing I wish so much as to save somebody's life. It was very nice to save the dragon-fly; and it is very nice to let flies out of spiders' webs, only they always have their legs and wings torn, and look miserable; and it was very nice to put the poor little thrushes back into their nest when they tumbled out, and then to see their mother come to feed them; and it was very pleasant to help the poor goose that had put its head through the pales, and could not get it back. Mrs. Harrington said it would have been strangled if I had not helped it. That was very nice, but how delightful it would be to save some real human person's life.'
Claude did not laugh at the odd medley in her speech, but answered, 'Well, those little things train you in readiness and kindness.'
'Will they?' said Phyllis, pressing on to express what had long been her earnest wish. 'If I could but save some one, I should not mind being killed myself-I think not-I hope it is not naughty to say so. I believe there is something in the Bible about it, about laying down one's life for one's friend.'
'There is, Phyl, and I quite agree with you; it must be a great blessing to have saved some one.'
'And little girls have sometimes done it, Claude. I know a story of one who saved her little brother from drowning, and another waked the people when the house was on fire. And when I was at Broomhill, Marianne showed me a story of a young lady who helped to save the Prince, that Prince Charlie that Miss Weston sings about. I wish the Prince of Wales would get into some misfortune-I should like to save him.'
'I do not quite echo that loyal wish,' said Claude.
'Well, but, Claude, Redgie wishes for a rebellion, like Sir Maurice's, for he says all the boys at his school would be one regiment, in green velvet coats, and white feathers in their hats.'
'Indeed! and Redgie to be Field Marshal?'
'No, he is to be Sir Reginald Mohun, a Knight of the Garter, and to ask the Queen to give William back the title of Baron of Beechcroft, and make papa a Duke.'
'Well done! he is to take good care of the interests of the family.'
'But it is not that that I should care about,' said Phyllis. 'I should like it better for the feeling in one's own self; I think all that fuss would rather spoil it-don't you, Claude?'
'Indeed, I do; but Phyllis, if you only wish for that feeling, you need not look for dangers or rebellions to gain it.'
'Oh! you mean the feeling that very good people indeed have- people like Harry-but that I shall never be.'
'I hope you mean to try, though.'
'I do try; I wish I was as good as Ada, but I am so naughty and so noisy that I do not know what to do. Every day when I say my prayers I think about being quiet, and not idling at my lessons, and sometimes I do stop in time, and behave better, but sometimes I forget, and I do not mind what I am about, and my voice gets loud, and I let the things tumble down and make a noise, and so it was yesterday.' Here she looked much disposed to cry.
'No, no, we will not have any crying this evening,' said Claude. 'I do not think you did me much mischief, my head ached just as much before.'
'That was a thing I wanted to ask you about: William says my crying loud is all habit, and that I must cure myself of it. How does he mean? Ought I to cry every day to practise doing it without roaring?'
'Do you like to begin,' said Claude, laughing; 'shall I beat you or pinch you?'
'Oh! it would make your head bad again,' said Phyllis; 'but I wish you would tell me what he means. When I cry I only think about what makes me unhappy.'
'Try never to cry,' said Claude; 'I assure you it is not pleasant to hear you, even when I have no headache. If you wish to do anything right, you must learn self-control, and it will be a good beginning to check yourself when you are going to cry. Do not look melancholy now. Here comes the tea. Let me see how you will perform as tea-maker.'
'I wish the evening would not go away so fast!'
'And what are we to do after tea? You are queen of the evening.'
'If you would but tell me a story, Claude.'
They lingered long over the tea-table, talking and laughing, and when they had finished, Phyllis discovered with surprise that it was nearly bedtime. The promised story was not omitted, however, and Phyllis, sitting on a little footstool at her brother's feet, looked up eagerly for it.
'Well, Phyl, I will tell you a true history that I heard from an officer who had served in the Peninsular War-the war in Spain, you know.'
'Yes, with the French, who killed their king. Lily told me.'
'And the Portuguese were helping us. Just after we had taken the town of Ciudad Rodrigo, some of the Portuguese soldiers went to find lodgings for themselves, and, entering a magazine of gunpowder, made a fire on the floor to dress their food. A most dangerous thing-do you know why?'
'The book would be burnt,' said Phyllis.
'What book, you wise child?'
'The Magazine; I thought a magazine was one of the paper books that Maurice is always reading.'
'Oh!' said Claude, laughing, 'a magazine is a store, and as many different things are stored in those books, they are called magazines. A powder magazine is a store of barrels of gunpowder. Now do you see why it was dangerous to light a fire?'
'It blows up,' said Phyllis; 'that was the reason why Robinson Crusoe was afraid of the lightning.'
'Right, Phyl, and therefore a candle is never allowed to be carried into a powder magazine, and even nailed shoes are never worn there, lest they should strike fire. One spark, lighting on a grain of gunpowder, scattered on the floor, might communicate with the rest, make it all explode, and spread destruction everywhere. Think in what fearful peril these reckless men had placed, not only themselves, but the whole town, and the army. An English officer chanced to discover them, and what do you think he did?'
'Told all the people to run away.'
'How could he have told every one, soldiers, inhabitants, and all? where could they have gone? No, he raised no alarm, but he ordered the Portuguese out of the building, and with the help of an English sergeant, he carried out, piece by piece, all the wood which they had set on fire. Now, imagine what that must have been. An explosion might happen at any moment, yet they had to walk steadily, slowly, and with the utmost caution, in and out of this place several times, lest one spark might fly back.'
'Then they were saved?' cried Phyllis, breathlessly; 'and what became of them afterwards?'
'They were both killed in battle, the officer, I believe, in Badajoz, and the sergeant sometime afterwards.'
Phyllis gave a deep sigh, and sat silent for some minutes. Next, Claude began a droll Irish fairy-tale, which he told with spirit and humour, such as some people would have scorned to exert for the amusement of a mere child. Phyllis laughed, and was so happy, that when suddenly they heard the sound of wheels, she started up, wondering what brought the others home so soon, and was still more surprised when Claude told her it was past ten.
'Oh dear! what will papa and Emily say to me for being up still? But I will stay now, it would not be fair to pretend to be gone to bed.'
'Well said, honest Phyl; now for the news from the castle.'
'Why, Claude,' said his eldest brother, entering, 'you are alive again.'
'I doubt whether your evening could have been pleasanter than ours,' said Claude.
'Phyl,' cried Ada, 'do you know, Mary Carrington's governess thought I was Florence's sister.'
'You look so bright, Claude,' said Jane, 'I think you must have taken Cinderella's friend with the pumpkin to enliven you.'
'My fairy was certainly si
ster to a Brownie,' said Claude, stroking Phyllis's hair.
'Claude,' again began Ada, 'Miss Car-'
'I wish Cinderella's fairy may be forthcoming the day of the ball,' said Lily, disconsolately.
'And William is going after all,' said Emily.
'Indeed! has the great Captain relented?'
'Yes. Is it not good of him? Aunt Rotherwood is so much pleased that he consents to go entirely to oblige her.'
'Sensible of his condescension,' said Claude. 'By the bye, what makes the Baron look so mischievous?'
'Mischievous!' said Emily, looking round with a start, 'he is looking very comical, and so he has been all the evening.'
'What? You thought mischievous was meant in Hannah's sense, when she complains of Master Reginald being very mischie-vi-ous.'
Ada now succeeded in saying, 'The Carringtons' governess called me Lady Ada.'
'How could she bring herself to utter so horrid a sound?' said Claude.
'Ada is more cock-a-hoop than ever now,' said Reginald; 'she does not think Miss Weston good enough to speak to.'
'But, Claude, she really did, she thought I was Florence's sister, and she said I was just like her.'
'I wish you would hold your tongue, or go to bed,' said William, 'I have heard nothing but this nonsense all the way home.'
While William was sending off Ada to bed, and Phyllis was departing with her, Lily told Claude that the Captain had been most agreeable. 'I feared,' said she, 'that he would be too grand for this party, but he was particularly entertaining; Rotherwood was quite eclipsed.'
'Rotherwood wants Claude to set him off,' said Mr. Mohun. 'Now, young ladies, reserve the rest of your adventures for the morning.'
Adeline had full satisfaction in recounting the governess's mistake to the maids, and in hearing from Esther that it was no wonder, 'for that she looked more like a born lady than Lady Florence herself!'
Lilias's fit of petulance about the ball had returned more strongly than ever; she partly excused herself to her own mind, by fancying she disliked the thought of the lonely evening she was to spend more than that of losing the pleasure of the ball. Mr. Mohun would be absent, conducting Maurice to a new school, and Claude and Reginald would also be gone.
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