substantial oak, studded with nails, and never closed in the daytime, and the hall, wainscoted and floored with slippery oak, had a noble open fireplace, with a wood fire burning on the hearth.
On the other side of the house was a terrace sloping down to a lawn and bowling-green, hedged in by a formal row of evergreens. A noble plane-tree was in the middle of the lawn, and beyond it a pond renowned for water-lilies. To the left was the kitchen garden, terminating in an orchard, planted on the ramparts and moat of the Old Court; then came the farm buildings, and beyond them a field, sloping upwards to an extensive wood called Beechcroft Park. In the wood was the cottage of Walter Greenwood, gamekeeper and woodman by hereditary succession, but able and willing to turn his hand to anything, and, in fact, as Adeline once elegantly termed him, the ‘family tee totum.’
To the right of the house there was a field, called Long Acre, bounded on the other side by the turnpike road to Raynham, which led up the hill to the village green, surrounded by well-kept cottages and gardens. The principal part of the village was, however, at the foot of the hill, where the Court lane crossed the road, led to the old church, the school, and parsonage, in its little garden, shut in by thick yew hedges. Beyond was the blacksmith’s shop, more cottages, and Mrs. Appleton’s wondrous village warehouse; and the lane, after passing by the handsome old farmhouse of Mr. Harrington, Mr. Mohun’s principal tenant, led to a bridge across a clear trout stream, the boundary of the parish of Beechcroft.
CHAPTER III
THE NEW PRINCIPLE
‘And wilt thou show no more, quoth he,
Than doth thy duty bind?
I well perceive thy love is small.’
On the Sunday evening which followed Eleanor’s wedding, Lilias was sitting next to Emily, and talking in very earnest tones, which after a time occasioned Claude to look up and say, ‘What is all this about? Something remarkably absurd I suspect.’
‘Only a new principle,’ said Emily.
‘New!’ cried Lily, ‘only what must be the feeling of every person of any warmth of character?’
‘Now for it then,’ said Claude.
‘No, no, Claude, I really mean it (and Lily sincerely thought she did). I will not tell you if you are going to laugh.’
‘That depends upon what your principle may chance to be,’ said Claude. ‘What is it, Emily? She will be much obliged to you for telling.’
‘She only says she cannot bear people to do their duty, and not to act from a feeling of love,’ said Emily.
‘That is not fair,’ returned Lily, ‘all I say is, that it is better that people should act upon love for its own sake, than upon duty for its own sake.’
‘What comes in rhyme with Lily?’ said Claude.
‘Don’t be tiresome, Claude, I really want you to understand me.’
‘Wait till you understand yourself,’ said the provoking brother, ‘and let me finish what I am reading.’
For about a quarter of an hour he was left in peace, while Lily was busily employed with a pencil and paper, under the shadow of a book, and at length laid before him the following verses:—
‘What is the source of gentleness,
The spring of human blessedness,
Bringing the wounded spirit healing,
The comforts high of heaven revealing,
The lightener of each daily care,
The wing of hope, the life of prayer,
The zest of joy, the balm of sorrow,
Bliss of to-day, hope of to-morrow,
The glory of the sun’s bright beam,
The softness of the pale moon stream,
The flow’ret’s grace, the river’s voice,
The tune to which the birds rejoice;
Without it, vain each learned page,
Cold and unfelt each council sage,
Heavy and dull each human feature,
Lifeless and wretched every creature;
In which alone the glory lies,
Which value gives to sacrifice?
’Tis that which formed the whole creation,
Which rests on every generation.
Of Paradise the only token
Just left us, ’mid our treasures broken,
Which never can from us be riven,
Sure earnest of the joys of Heaven.
And which, when earth shall pass away,
Shall be our rest on the last day,
When tongues shall fail and knowledge cease,
And throbbing hearts be all at peace:
When faith is sight, and hope is sure,
That which alone shall still endure
Of earthly joys in heaven above,
’Tis that best gift, eternal Love!’
‘What have you there?’ said Mr. Mohun, who had come towards them while Claude was reading the lines. Taking the paper from Claude’s hand, he read it to himself, and then saying, ‘Tolerable, Lily; there are some things to alter, but you may easily make it passable,’ he went on to his own place, leaving Lilias triumphant.
‘Well, Claude, you see I have the great Baron on my side.’
‘I am of the Baron’s opinion,’ said Claude, ‘the only wonder is that you doubted it.’
‘You seemed to say that love was good for nothing.’
‘I said nothing but that Lily has a rhyme.’
‘And saying that I was silly, was equivalent to saying that love was nothing,’ said Lily.
‘O Lily, I hope not,’ said Claude, with a comical air.
‘Well, I know I often am foolish, but not in this,’ said Lily; ‘I do say that mere duty is not lovable.’
‘Say it if you will then,’ said Claude, yawning, ‘only let me finish this sermon.’
Lily set herself to reconsider some of her lines: but presently Emily left the room,
