'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.