Wednesday came—no cover, blank or unblank. Had he been taken with a fit of diffidence, and been less precipitate than he intended? Womanhood hoped so, and rather enjoyed the possibility of his being kept a little in suspense. Or suppose he had forgotten his cover, and then should think the absence of a letter her fault? Thursday—still no tidings. Should she venture a letter to him? No; lovers were inexplicable people, and after all, what could she say? Perhaps he was only waiting for an opportunity, and if Cecily had been ungracious at the last meeting, she might not afford one. Day after day wore on, and still the post-bag was emptied in vain, and Phœbe’s patience was kept on tenterhooks, till, when a full fortnight had passed, she learnt through the servants that Mr. Mervyn’s wardrobe and valet, grooms and horses, had been sent for to London.
So he had been refused, and could not bear to tell her so! And here she was disappointed and pitying, and as vexed with Miss Raymond as if it had not been no more than he deserved. But poor Mervyn! he had expected it so little, and had been so really attached, that Phœbe was heartily grieved for him, and longed to know how he bore it. Nay, with all the danger of removal, the flatness of the balked excitement was personally felt, and Phœbe would have been glad, in her monotonous life, of something to hope or to fear.
Her greatest pleasure was in Miss Charlecote’s return. The long watch over her old friend was over. Honor had shared his wife’s cares, comforted and supported her in her sorrow, and had not left her till the move from her parsonage was made, and she was settled among her own relations. Much as Honor had longed to be with Phœbe, the Savilles had nearer claims, and she could not part with them while there was any need of her. Indeed, Mr. Saville, as once the husband of Sarah Charlecote, the brother-in-law of Humfrey, and her own friend and adviser, was much esteemed and greatly missed. She felt as if her own generation were passing away, when she returned to see the hatchment upon Beauchamp, and to hear of the widow’s failing health. Knowing how closely Phœbe was attending her mother, Honor drove to Beauchamp the first day after her return, and had not crossed the hall before the slender black figure was in her arms.
Friends seem as though they must meet to know one another again, and begin afresh, after one of the great sorrows of life has fallen on either side, and especially when it is a first grief, a first taste of that cup of which all must drink. As much of the child as could pass from Phœbe’s sweet, simple nature had passed in those hours that had made her the protector and nurse of her mother, and though her open eyes were limpid and happy as before, and the contour of the rounded cheek and lip as youthful and innocent, yet the soft gravity of the countenance was deepened, and there was a pensiveness on the brow, as though life had begun to unfold more difficulties than pleasures.
And Honor Charlecote? That ruddy golden hair, once Owen’s pride, was mingled with many a silvery thread, and folded smoothly on a forehead paler, older, but calmer than once it had been. Sorrow and desertion had cut deeply, and worn down the fair comeliness of heathful middle age; but something of compensation there was in the less anxious eye, from which had passed a certain restless, strained expression; and if the face were more habitually sad, it was more peaceful. She did not love less those whom she ‘had seen,’ but He whom she ‘had not seen’ had become her rest and her reliance, and in her year of loneliness and darkness, a trust, a support, a confiding joy had sprung up, such as she had before believed in, but never experienced. ‘Her Best, her All;’ those had been words of devotional aspiration before, they were realities at last. And it was that peace that breathed into her fresh energy to work and love on, unwearied by disappointment, but with renewed willingness to spend and be spent, to rejoice with those who rejoiced, to weep with them that wept, to pray and hope for those who had wrung her heart.
Her tears were flowing as she tenderly embraced Phœbe, and the girl clung fast to her, not weeping, but full of warm, sweet emotion. ‘Dear Miss Charlecote, now you are come, I have help and comfort!’
‘Dear one, I have grieved to be away, but I could not leave poor Mrs. Saville.’
‘Indeed, I know you could not; and it is better to have you now than even at the time. It is a new, fresh pleasure, when I can enjoy it better. And I feel as if we had a right to you now—since you know what I told you,’ said Phœbe, with her pretty, shy, lover-like colouring.
‘That you are Humfrey’s ward?—my legacy from him? Good!’ said Honora, ratifying the inheritance with a caress, doubly precious to one so seldom fondled. ‘Though I am afraid,’ she added, ‘that Mr. Crabbe would not exactly recognize my claim.’
‘Oh, I don’t want you for what Mr. Crabbe can do for us, but it does make me feel right and at ease in telling you of what might otherwise seem too near home. But he was intended to have taken care of us all, and you always seem to me one with him—’
Phœbe stopped short, startled at the deep, bright, girlish blush on her friend’s cheek, and fearing to have said what she ought not; but Honor, recovering in a moment, gave a strange bright smile and tightly squeezed her hand. ‘One with him! Dear Phœbe, thank you. It was the most undeserved, unrequited honour of my life that he would have had it so. Yes, I see how you look at me in wonder, but it was my misfortune not to know on whom or what to set my affections till too late. No; don’t try to repent of your words. They are a great pleasure to me, and I delight to include you in the charges I had from him—the nice children he liked to meet in the woods.’
‘Ah! I wish I could remember those meetings. Robert does, and I do believe Robert’s first beginning of love and respect for what was good was connected with his fondness for Mr. Charlecote.’
‘I always regard Bertha as a godchild inherited from him, like Charlecote Raymond, whom I saw ordained last week. I could not help going out of my way when I found I might be present, and take his sister Susan with me.’
‘You went.’
‘Yes, Susan had been staying with her uncle at Sutton, and met me at Oxford. I am glad we were able to go. There was nothing that I more wished to have seen.’
Irrepressible curiosity could not but cause Phœbe to ask how lately Miss Raymond had been at Sutton, and as Miss Charlecote answered the question she looked inquisitively at her young friend, and each felt that the other was initiated. Whether the cousin ought to have confided to Miss Charlecote what she had witnessed at Sutton was an open question, but at least Honor knew what Phœbe burnt to learn, and was ready to detail it.
It was the old story of the parish priest taking pupils, and by dire necessity only half fulfilling conflicting duties, to the sacrifice of the good of all. Overworked between pupils and flock, while his wife was fully engrossed by children and household cares, the moment had not been perceived when their daughter became a woman, and the pupil’s sport grew to earnest. Not till Mervyn Fulmort had left Sutton for the University were they aware that he had treated Cecily as the object of his affection, and had promised to seek her as soon as he should be his own master. How much was in his power they knew not, but his way of life soon proved him careless of deserving her, and it was then that she became staid and careworn, and her youth had lost its bloom, while forced in conscience to condemn the companion of her girlhood, yet unable to take back the heart once bestowed, though so long neglected.
But when Mervyn, declaring himself only set at liberty by his father’s death, appeared at Sutton, Cecily did not waver, and her parents upheld her decision, that it would be a sin to unite herself to an irreligious man, and that the absence of principle which he had shown made it impossible for her to accept him.
Susan described her as going about the next morning looking as though some one had been killing her, but going through her duties as calmly and gently as ever, though preyed on by the misery of the parting in anger, and the threat that if he were not good enough for her, he would give her reason to think so! Honor had pity on the sister, and spared her those words, but Phœbe had well-nigh guessed them, and though she might esteem Cecily Raymond, could not but say mournfully that it was a last chance flung away.
‘Not so, my dear. What is right comes right. A regular life without repentance is sometimes a more hopeless state than a wilder course, and this rejection may do him more good than acceptance.’
‘It is right, I know,’ said Phœbe. ‘I could advise no one to take poor Mervyn; but surely it is not wrong to be sorry for him.’
‘No, indeed, dear child. It is only the angels who do not mourn, though they rejoice. I sometimes wonder whether those who are forgiven, yet have left evil behind them on earth, are purified by being shown their own errors reduplicating with time and numbers.’
‘Dear Miss Charlecote, do not say so. Once pardoned, surely fully sheltered, and with no more punishment!’
‘Vain speculation, indeed,’ answered Honor. ‘Yet I cannot help thinking of the welcome there must be when those who have been left in doubt and fear or shipwreck come safely into haven; above all, for those who here may not have been able to “fetch home their banished.”’
Phœbe pressed her hand, and spoke of trying whether mamma would see her.
‘Ah!’ thought Honora, ‘neither of us can give perfect sympathy. And it is well. Had my short-sighted wish taken effect, that sweet face might be clouded by such grief as poor Cecily Raymond’s.’
Mrs. Fulmort did see Miss Charlecote, and though speaking little herself, was gratified by the visit, and the voices talking before her gave her a sense of sociability. This preference enabled Phœbe to enjoy a good deal of quiet conversation with her friend, and Honora made a point of being at Beauchamp twice or three times a week, as giving the only variety that could there be enjoyed. Of Mervyn nothing was heard, and house and property wanted a head. Matters came to poor Mrs. Fulmort for decision which were unheard-of mysteries and distresses to her, even when Phœbe, instructed by the steward, did her utmost to explain, and tell her what to do. It would end by feeble, bewildered looks, and tears starting on the pale cheeks, and ‘I don’t know, my dear. It goes through my head. Your poor papa attended to those things. I wish your brother would come home. Tell them to write to him.’
‘They’ wrote, and Phœbe wrote, but in vain, no answer came; and when she wrote to Robert for tidings of Mervyn’s movements, entreating that he would extract a reply, he answered that he could tell nothing satisfactory of his brother, and did not know whether he were in town or not; while as to advising his mother on business, he should only make mischief by so doing.
Nothing satisfactory! What could that imply? Phœbe expected soon to hear something positive, for Bertha’s teeth required a visit to London, and Miss Fennimore was to take her to Lady Bannerman’s for a week, during which the governess would be with some relations of her own.
Phœbe talked of the snugness of being alone with her mother and Maria, and she succeeded in keeping both pleased with one another. The sisters walked in the park, and brought home primroses and periwinkles, which their mother tenderly handled, naming the copses they came from, well known to her in childhood, though since her marriage she had been too grand to be allowed the sight of a wild periwinkle. In the evening Phœbe gave them music, sang infant-school hymns with Maria, tried to teach her piquet; and perceived the difference that the absence of Bertha’s teasing made in the poor girl’s temper. All was very quiet, but when good night was said, Phœbe felt wearied out, and chid herself for her accesses of yawning, nay, she was shocked at her feeling of disappointment and tedium when the return of the travellers was delayed for a couple of days.
When at length they came, the variety brightened even Mrs. Fulmort, and she was almost loquacious about some mourning pocket-handkerchiefs with chess-board borders, that they were to bring. The girls all drank tea with her, Bertha pouring out a whole flood of chatter in unrestraint, for she regarded her mother as nobody, and loved to astonish her sisters, so on she went, a slight hitch in her speech giving a sort of piquancy to her manner.
She had dined late every day, she had ridden with Sir Bevil in the Park, her curly hair had been thought to be crépé, she had drunk champagne, she would have gone to the Opera, but the Actons were particular, and said it was too soon—so tiresome, one couldn’t do anything for this mourning. Phœbe, in an admonitory tone, suggested that she had seen the British Museum.
‘Oh yes, I have it all in my note-book. Only imagine, Phœbe, Sir Nicholas had been at Athens, and knew nothing about the Parthenon! And, gourmet as he is, and so long in the Mediterranean, he had no idea whether the Spartan black broth was made with sepia.’
‘My dear,’ began her mother, ‘young ladies do not talk learning in society.’
‘Such a simple thing as this, mamma, every one must know. But they are all so unintellectual! Not a book about the Bannermans’ house except Soyer and the London Directory, and even Bevil had never read the Old Red Sandstone nor Sir Charles Lyell. I have no opinion of the science of soldiers or sailors.’
‘You have told us nothing of Juliana’s baby,’ interposed Phœbe.
‘She’s exactly like the Goddess Pasht, in the Sydenham Palace! Juliana does not like her a bit, because she is only a girl, and Bevil quite worships her. Everything one of them likes, the other hates. They are a study of the science of antipathies.’
‘You should not fancy things, Bertha.’
‘It is no fancy; every one is observing it. Augusta says she has only twice found them together in their own house since Christmas, and Mervyn says it is a warning against virulent constancy.’
‘Then you saw Mervyn?’ anxiously asked Phœbe.
‘Only twice. He is at deadly feud with the Actons, because Bevil takes Robert’s part, and has been lecturing him about the withdrawing all the subscriptions!’
‘What?’ asked Phœbe again.
‘Oh! I thought Robert told you all, but there has been such a row! I believe poor papa said something about letting Robert have an evening school for the boys and young men at the distillery, but when he claimed it, Mervyn said he knew nothing about it, and wouldn’t hear of it, and got affronted, so he withdrew all the subscriptions from the charities and everything else, and the boys have been mobbing the clergy, and Juliana says it is all Robert’s fault.’
‘And did you see Robert?’
‘Very little. No one would come to such an old fogy’s as Sir Nicholas, that could help it.’
‘Bertha, my dear, young ladies do not use such words,’ observed her mother.
‘Oh, mamma, you are quite behindhand. Slang is the thing. I see my line when I come out. It would not do for you, Phœbe—not your style—but I shall sport it when I come out and go to the Actons. I shall go out with them. Augusta is too slow, and lives with nothing but old admirals and gourmands; but I’ll always go to Juliana for the season, Phœbe, wear my hair in the Eugenie style, and be piquante.’
‘Perhaps things will be altered by that time.’
‘Oh no. There will be no retrograde movement. Highly educated women have acquired such a footing that they may do what they please.’
‘Are we highly educated women?’ asked Maria.
‘I am sure you ought to be, my dear. Nothing was grudged for your education,’ said her mother.
‘Well, then, I’ll always play at bagatelle, and have a German band at the door,’ quoth Maria, conclusively.
‘Did you go to St. Matthew’s?’ again interrupted Phœbe.
‘Yes, Bevil took me. It is the oddest place. A white brick wall with a red cross built into it over the gate, and the threshold is just a step back four or five hundred years. A court with buildings all round, church, schools, and the curates’ rooms. Such a sitting-room; the floor matted, and a great oak table, with benches, where they all dine, schoolmaster, and orphan boys, and all, and the best boy out of each class.’
‘It is a common room, like one at a college,’ explained Phœbe. ‘Robert has his own rooms besides.’
‘Such a hole!’ continued Bertha. ‘It is the worst of all the curates’ sitting-rooms, looking out into the nastiest little alley. It was a shame he did not have the first choice, when it is all his own.’
‘Perhaps that is the reason he took the worst,’ said Phœbe.
‘A study in extremes,’ said Bertha. ‘Their dinner was our luncheon—the very plainest boiled beef, the liquor given away and at dinner, at the Bannermans’, there were more fine things than Bevil said he could appreciate, and Augusta looking like a full-blown dahlia. I was always wanting to stick pins into her arms, to see how far in the bones are. I am sure I could bury the heads.’
Here, seeing her mother look exhausted, Phœbe thought it wise to clear the room; and after waiting a few minutes to soothe her, left her to her maid. Bertha had waited for her sister, and clinging round her, said, ‘Well, Phœbe, aren’t you glad of us? Have you seen a living creature?’
‘Miss Charlecote twice, Mr. Henderson once, besides all the congregation on Sunday.’
‘Matter-of-fact Phœbe! Perhaps you can bear it, but does not your mind ache, as if it had been held down all this time?’
‘So that it can’t expand to your grand intellect?’ said Phœbe.
‘It is no great self-conceit to hope one is better company than Maria! But come, before we fall under the dominion of the Queen of the West Wing, I have a secret for you.’ Then, after a longer stammer than usual, ‘How should you like a French sister-in-law?’
‘Nonsense, Bertha!’
‘Ah! you’ve not had my opportunities. I’ve seen her—both of them. Juliana says the mother is his object; Augusta, the daughter. The mother is much the most brilliant; but then she has a husband—a mere matter of faith, for no one ever sees him. Mervyn is going to follow them to Paris, that’s certain, as soon as the Epsom day is over.’
‘You saw them!’
‘Only in the Park—oh, no! not in a room! Their ladyships would never call on Madame la Marquise; she is not received, you know. I heard the sisters talk it all over when they fancied me reading, and wonder what they should do if it should turn out to be the daughter. But then Juliana thinks Mervyn might never bring her home, for he is going on at such a tremendous rate, that it is the luckiest thing our fortunes do not depend on the business.’
Phœbe looked quite appalled as she entered the schoolroom, not only at Mervyn’s fulfilment of his threat, but at Bertha’s flippancy and shrewdness. Hitherto she had been kept ignorant of evil, save what history and her own heart could tell her. But these ten days had been spent in so eagerly studying the world, that her girlish chatter was fearfully precocious.
‘A little edged tool,’ said Miss Fennimore, when she talked her over afterwards with Phœbe. ‘I wish I could have been with her at Lady Bannerman’s. It is an unsafe age for a glimpse of the world.’
‘I hope it may soon be forgotten.’
‘It will never be forgotten’ said Miss Fennimore. ‘With so strong a relish for society, such keen satire, and reasoning power so much developed, I believe nothing but the devotional principle could subdue her enough to make her a well-balanced woman. How is that to be infused?—that is the question.’
‘It is, indeed.’
‘I believe,’ pursued the governess, ‘that devotional temper is in most cases dependent upon uncomprising, exclusive faith. I have sometimes wondered whether Bertha, coming into my hands so young as she did, can have imbibed my distaste to dogma; though, as you know, I have made a point of non-interference.’
‘I should shudder to think of any doubts in poor little Bertha’s mind,’ said Phœbe. ‘I believe it is rather that she does not think about the matter.’
‘I will read Butler’s Analogy with her,’ exclaimed Miss Fennimore. ‘I read it long ago, and shall be glad to satisfy my own mind by going over it again. It is full time to endeavour to form and deepen Bertha’s convictions.’
‘I suppose,’ said Phœbe, almost to herself, ‘that all naughtiness is the want of living faith—’
But Miss Fennimore, instead of answering, had gone to another subject.
‘I have seen St. Matthew’s, Phœbe.’
‘And Robert?’ cried Phœbe. ‘Bertha did not say you were with her.’
‘I went alone. No doubt your brother found me a great infliction; but he was most kind, and showed me everything. I consider that establishment a great fact.’
Phœbe showed her gratification.
‘I heard him preach,’ continued Miss Fennimore. ‘His was a careful and able composition, but it was his sermon in brick and stone that most impressed me. Such actions only arise out of strong conviction. Now, the work of a conviction may be only a proof of the force of the will that held it; and thus the effect should not establish the cause. But when I see a young man, brought up as your brother has been, throwing himself with such energy, self-denial, and courage into a task so laborious and obscure, I must own that, such is the construction of the human mind, I am led to reconsider the train of reasoning that has led to such results.’
And Miss Fennimore’s sincere admiration of Robert was Phœbe’s one item of comfort.
Gladly she shared it with Miss Charlecote, who, on her side, knew more than she told Phœbe of the persecution that Robert was undergoing from a vestry notoriously under the influence of the Fulmort firm, whose interest it was to promote the vice that he came to withstand. Even the lads employed in the distillery knew that they gratified their employer by outrages on the clergy and their adherents, and there had been moments when Robert had been exposed to absolute personal danger, by mobs stimulated in the gin-shops; their violence against his attacks on their vicious practices being veiled by a furious party outcry against his religious opinions. He meanwhile set his face like a rock, and strong, resolute, and brave, went his own way, so unmoved as apparently almost to prefer his own antagonistic attitude, and bidding fair to weary out his enemies by his coolness, or to disarm them by the charities of which St. Matthew’s was the centre.
As Phœbe never read the papers, and was secluded from the world’s gossip, it was needless to distress her with the knowledge of the malignity of the one brother, or the trials of the other; so Honor obeyed Robert by absolute silence on this head. She herself gave her influence, her counsel, her encouragement, and, above all, her prayers, to uphold the youth who was realizing the dreams of her girlhood.
It might be that the impress of those very dreams had formed the character she was admiring. Many a weak and fragile substance, moulded in its softness to a noble shape, has given a clear and lasting impress to a firm and durable material, either in the heat of the furnace, or the ductility of growth. So Robert and Phœbe, children of the heart that had lost those of her adoption, cheered these lonely days by their need of her advice and sympathy.
Nor was she without tasks at home. Mr. Henderson, the vicar, was a very old man, and was constantly growing more feeble and unequal to exertion. He had been appointed by the squire before last, and had the indolent conservative orthodoxy of the old school, regarding activity as a perilous innovation, and resisting all Miss Charlecote’s endeavours at progress in the parish. She had had long patience, till, when his strength failed, she ventured to entreat him to allow her to undertake the stipend of a curate, but this was rejected with displeasure, and she was forced to redouble her own exertions; but neither reading to the sick, visiting the cottages, teaching at school, nor even setting up a night-school in her own hall, availed to supply the want of an active pastor and of a resident magistrate.
Hiltonbury was in danger of losing its reputation as a pattern parish, which it had retained long after the death of him who had made it so. The younger race who had since grown up were not such as their fathers had been, and the disorderly household at Beauchamp had done mischief. The primitive manners, the simplicity, and feudal feeling were wearing off, and poor Honor found the whole charge laid to her few modern steps in education! If Hiltonbury were better than many of the neighbouring places, yet it was not what it had been when she first had known it, and she vexed herself in the attempt to understand whether the times or herself were the cause.
Even her old bailiff, Brooks, did not second her. He had more than come to the term of service at which the servant becomes a master, and had no idea of obeying her, when he thought he knew best. Backward as were her notions of modern farming, they were too advanced for him, and either he would not act on them at all, or was resolved against their success when coerced. There was no dismissing him, and without Mr. Saville to come and enforce her authority, Honor found the old man so stubborn that she had nearly given up the contest, except where the welfare of men, not of crops, was concerned.
A maiden’s reign is a dreary thing, when she tends towards age. And Honor often felt what it would have been to have had Owen to back her up, and infuse new spirit and vigour.
The surly ploughboy, who omitted to touch his cap to the lady, little imagined the train of painful reflections roused by this small indication of the altering spirit of the place!
CHAPTER XVI
Even in our ashes glow the wonted fires.—Gray
‘My dear, I did not like the voice that I heard just now.’
‘I am sure I was not out of temper.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Well, I am sure any one would be vexed.’
‘Cannot you tell me what was the matter without being sure so often?’
‘I am sure—there, mamma, I beg your pardon—I am sure I did not mean to complain.’
‘Only, Sarah, neither your voice has such a ring, nor are you so sure, when nothing has gone wrong. What was it?’
‘It is that photography, mamma. Miss Sandbrook is so busy with it! I could not copy in my translation that I did yesterday, because she had not looked over it, and when she said she was coming presently, I am afraid I said it was always presently and never present. I believe I did say it crossly, and I am sorry I denied it,’ and poor Sarah’s voice was low and meek enough.
‘Coming? Where is she?’
‘In the dark chamber, doing a positive of the Cathedral.’
Mrs. Prendergast entered the schoolroom, outside which she had been holding this colloquy. The powerful sun of high summer was filling the room with barred light through the Venetian blinds, and revealing a rather confused mass of the appliances of study, interspersed with saucers of water in which were bathing paper photographs, and every shelf of books had a fringe of others on glass set up to dry. On the table lay a paper of hooks, a three-tailed artificial minnow, and another partly clothed with silver twist, a fly-book, and a quantity of feathers and silks.
‘I must tell Francis that the schoolroom is no place for his fishing-tackle!’ exclaimed Mrs. Prendergast.
‘O, mamma, it is Miss Sandbrook’s. She is teaching him to dress flies, because she says he can’t be a real fisherman without, and the trout always rise at hers. It is quite beautiful to see her throw. That delicate little hand is so strong and ready.’
A door was opened, and out of the housemaid’s closet, defended from light by a yellow blind at every crevice, came eager exclamations of ‘Famous,’ ‘Capital,’ ‘The tower comes out to perfection;’ and in another moment Lucilla Sandbrook, in all her bloom and animation, was in the room, followed by a youth of some eighteen years, Francis Beaumont, an Indian nephew of Mrs. Prendergast.
‘Hit off at last, isn’t it, aunt? Those dog-tooth mouldings will satisfy even the uncle.’
‘Really it is very good,’ said Mrs. Prendergast, as it was held up to the light for her inspection.
‘Miss Sandbrook has bewitched the camera,’ continued he. ‘Do you remember the hideous muddles of last summer? But, oh! Miss Sandbrook, we must have one more; the sun will be off by and by.’
‘Only ten minutes,’ said Lucilla, in a deprecating tone. ‘You must not keep me a second more, let the sun be in ever such good humour. Come, Sarah, come and show us the place you said would be so good.’
‘It is too hot,’ said Sarah, bluntly, ‘and I can’t waste the morning.’
‘Well, you pattern-pupil, I’ll come presently. Indeed I will, Mrs. Prendergast.’
‘Let me see this translation, Sarah,’ said Mrs. Prendergast, as the photographers ran down-stairs.
She looked over it carefully, and as the ten minutes had passed without sign of the governess’s return, asked what naturally followed in the morning’s employment.
‘Italian reading, mamma; but never mind.’
‘Find the place, my dear.’
‘It is only while Francis is at home. Oh, I wish I had not been cross.’ And though Sarah usually loved to read to her mother, she was uneasy all the time, watching the door, and pausing to listen at the most moving passages. It was full half an hour before the voices were heard returning, and then there was a call, ‘Directly, Sarah!’ the dark chamber was shut up, and all subsided.
Mrs. Prendergast stayed on, in spite of an imploring glance from her daughter, and after an interval of the mysterious manipulations in the closet, the photograph was borne forth in triumph.
Lucilla looked a little abashed at finding Mrs. Prendergast in presence, and began immediately, ‘There, Mr. Beaumont, you see! I hope Mrs. Prendergast is going to banish you forthwith; you make us shamefully idle.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Prendergast, gravely, ‘I am going to carry him off at once, and make a law against future invasions.’
Francis attempted loud appeals, but his aunt quashed them with demeanour that showed that she was in earnest, and drove him away before her.
‘Indeed, Miss Sandbrook,’ said Sarah, with affectionate compunction, ‘I did not mean to speak so loud and so crossly.’
‘My dear,’ said Lucilla, leaning back and fanning herself with her hat, ‘we all know that we reverse the laws of teacher and pupil! Small blame to you if you were put out, and now I hope your mamma will keep him to herself, and that I shall have time to get cool. There! read me some French, it is a refreshing process—or practise a little. I declare that boy has dragged me in and out so often, that I haven’t energy to tell a noun from a verb.’
Mrs. Prendergast had hardly descended to the drawing-room before her husband’s voice called her to the study, where he stood, his broad mouth distended by a broader smile, his eyes twinkling with merriment.
‘Old woman’ (his favourite name for her), ‘do you know what a spectacle I have been witnessing?’ and as she signed inquiry, ‘Mrs. Sprydone, with numerous waggings of the head, and winkings of the eyes, inveigled me into her den, to see—guess.’
‘Francis and Miss Sandbrook in the cloister photographing.’
‘Old woman, you are a witch.’
‘I knew what they were about, as well as Mrs. Sprydone’s agony to open my eyes.’
‘So your obstinate blindness drove her to me! She thought it right that I should be aware The Close, it seems, is in a fever about that poor girl. What do you know? Is it all gossip?’
‘I know there is gossip, as a law of nature, but I have not chosen to hear it.’
‘Then you think it all nonsense?’
‘Not all.’
‘Well, what then? The good ladies seem terribly scandalized by her dress. Is there any harm in that? I always thought it very becoming.’
‘Exactly so,’ said his wife, smiling.
‘If it is too smart, can’t you give her a hint?’
‘When she left off her mourning, she spoke to me, saying that she could not afford not to wear out what she already had. I quite agreed; and though I could wish there were less stylishness about her, it is pleasant to one’s own eye, and I see nothing to object to.’
‘I’m sure it is no concern of the ladies, then! And how about this lad? One of their wild notions, is not it? I have heard her tell him half-a-dozen times that she was six years his elder.’
‘Four-and-twenty is just the age that young-looking girls like to boast of. I am not afraid on her account; she has plenty of sense and principle, and I believe, too, there is a very sore spot in her heart, poor girl. She plays with him as a mere boy; but he is just at the time of life for a passion for a woman older than himself, and his devotion certainly excites her more than I could wish.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Peter didn’t like it at all.’
‘Peter was certainly not in a gracious mood when he was here last week. I could not make out whether seeing her a governess were too much for him, or whether he suspected me of ill-using her.’
‘No, no; it was rivalry between him and Master Francis!’ said the Doctor, laughing. ‘How he launched out against young men’s conceit when Francis was singing with her. Sheer jealousy! He could see nothing but dilapidation, dissent, and dirt at Laneham, and now has gone and refused it.’
‘Refused Laneham!—that capital college living!—with no better dependence than his fellowship, and such a curacy as Wrapworth?’
‘Indeed he has. Here’s his letter. You may read it and give it to Miss Sandbrook if you like—he seems quite dispirited.’
‘“Too old to enter on a new field of duties,”’ read Mrs. Prendergast, indignantly. ‘Why, he is but forty-four! What did he think of us for coming here?’
‘Despised me for it,’ said the Doctor, smiling. ‘Never mind; he will think himself younger as he grows older—and one can’t blame him for keeping to Wrapworth as long as the old Dean of --- lives, especially as those absentee Charterises do so much harm.’
‘He does not expect them to give him the living? They ought, I am sure, after his twenty years’ labour there already.’
‘Not they! Mr. Charteris gratuitously wrote to tell him that, on hearing of his burying that poor young Mrs. Sandbrook there, all scruples had been removed, and the next presentation was offered for sale. You need not tell Miss Sandbrook so.’
‘Certainly not; but pray how does Peter mean to avoid the new field of duty, if he be sure of turning out on the Dean’s death? Oh! I see—“finish his days at his College, if the changes at the University have not rendered it insupportable to one who remembers elder and better days.” Poor Peter! Well; these are direful consequences of Miss Sandbrook’s fit of flightiness! Yes, I’ll show her the letter, it might tame her a little; and, poor thing, I own I liked her better when she was soft and subdued.’
‘Ha! Then you are not satisfied? Don’t go. Let me know how it is. I am sure Sarah is distracted about her—more than even Francis. I would not part with her for a great deal, not only on Peter’s account, but on her own and Sarah’s; but these ladies have raked up all manner of Charteris scandal, and we are quite in disgrace for bringing her here.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Prendergast, ‘while we lived at our dear old country home, I never quite believed what I heard of jealous ill-nature, but I have seen how it was ever since those Christmas parties, when certainly people paid her a great deal of attention.’
‘Who would not?—the prettiest, most agreeable young woman there.’
‘It may be vexatious to be eclipsed not only in beauty, but in style, by a strange governess,’ said Mrs. Prendergast. ‘That set all the mothers and daughters against her, and there have been some spiteful little attempts at mortifying her, which have made Sarah and me angry beyond description! All that they say only impels me towards her. She is a rare creature, most engaging, but I do sometimes fear that I may have spoilt her a little, for she has certainly not done quite so well of late. At first she worked hard to keep in advance of Sarah, saying how she felt the disadvantage of superficial learning and desultory habits; she kept in the background, and avoided amusements; but I suppose reaction is natural with recovered spirits, and this summer she has taken less pains, and has let Francis occupy her too much, and—what I like least of all—her inattention brings back the old rubs with Sarah’s temper.’
‘You must take her in hand.’
‘If she were but my daughter or niece!’
‘I thought you had made her feel as such.’
‘This sort of reproof is the difficulty, and brings back the sense of our relative positions. However, the thing is to be done as much for her sake as for our own.’
Lucilla knew that a lecture was impending, but she really loved and esteemed Mrs. Prendergast too much to prepare to champ the bit. That lady’s warmth and simplicity, and, above all, the largeness of mind that prevented her from offending or being offended by trifles, had endeared her extremely to the young governess. Not only had these eight months passed without the squabble that Owen had predicted would send her to Hiltonbury in a week, but Cilla had decidedly, though insensibly, laid aside many of the sentiments and habits in which poor Honor’s opposition had merely confirmed her. The effect of the sufferings of the past summer had subdued her for a long time, the novelty of her position had awed her, and what Mrs. Prendergast truly called the reaction had been so tardy in coming on that it was a surprise even to herself. Sensible that she had given cause for displeasure, she courted the téte-à-téte, and herself began thus—‘I beg your pardon for my idleness. It is a fatal thing to be recalled to the two passions of my youth—fishing and photography.’
‘My husband will give Francis employment in the morning,’ said Mrs. Prendergast. ‘It will not do to give Sarah’s natural irritability too many excuses for outbreaks.’
‘She never accepts excuses,’ said Lucilla, ‘though I am sure she might. I have been a sore trial to her diligence and methodicalness; and her soul is too much bent on her work for us to drag her out to be foolish, as would be best for her.’
‘So it might be for her; but, my dear, pardon me, I am not speaking only for Sarah’s sake.’
With an odd jerk of head and hand, Cilly exclaimed, ‘Oh! the old story—the other f—flirting, is it?’
‘I never said that! I never thought that,’ cried Mrs. Prendergast, shocked at the word and idea that had never crossed her mind.
‘If not,’ said Cilla, ‘it is because you are too innocent to know flirting when you see it! Dear Mrs. Prendergast, I didn’t think you would have looked so grave.’
‘I did not think you would have spoken so lightly; but it is plain that we do not mean the same thing.’
‘In fact, you in your quietness, think awfully of that which for years was to me like breathing! I thought the taste was gone for ever, but, you see’—and her sad sweet expression pleaded for her—‘you have made me so happy that the old self is come back.’ There was a silence, broken by this strange girl saying, ‘Well, what are you going to do to me?’
‘Only,’ said the lady, in her sweet, full, impressive voice, ‘to beg you will indeed be happy in giving yourself no cause for self-reproach.’
‘I’m past that,’ said Lucilla, with a smile on her lip and a tear in her eye. ‘I’ve not known that sensation since my father died. My chief happiness since that has lain in being provoking, but you have taken away that pleasure. I couldn’t purposely vex you, even if I were your adopted child!’
Without precisely knowing the full amount of these words, Mrs. Prendergast understood past bitterness and present warmth, and, gratified to find that at least there was no galling at their mutual relations, responded with a smile and a caress that led Lucilla to continue—‘As for the word that dismayed you, I only meant to acknowledge an unlucky propensity to be excited about any nonsense, in which any man kind is mixed up. If Sarah would take to it, I could more easily abstain, but you see her coquetries are with nobody more recent than Horace and Dante.’
‘I cannot wish it to be otherwise with her,’ said Mrs. Prendergast gravely.
‘No! It is a bad speculation,’ said Lucilla, sadly. ‘She will never wish half her life could be pulled out like defective crochet; nor wear out good people’s forbearance with her antics. I did think they were outgrown, and beat out of me, and that your nephew was too young; but I suppose it is ingrain, and that I should be flattered by the attentions of a he-baby of six months old! But I’ll do my best, Mrs. Prendergast; I promise you I’ll not be the schoolmistress abroad in the morning, and you shall see what terms I will keep with Mr. Beaumont.’
Mrs. Prendergast was less pleased after than before this promise. It was again that freedom of expression that the girl had learnt among the Charterises, and the ideas that she accepted as mere matters of course, that jarred upon the matron, whose secluded life had preserved her in far truer refinement. She did not know how to reply, and, as a means of ending the discussion, gave her Mr. Prendergast’s letter, but was amazed at her reception of it.
‘Passed the living! Famous! He will stick to Wrapworth to the last gasp! That is fidelity! Pray tell him so from me.’
‘You had better send your message through Dr. Prendergast. We cannot but be disappointed, though I understand your feeling for Wrapworth, and we are sorry for the dispirited tone about the letter.’
‘Well he may be, all alone there, and seeing poor Castle Blanch going to rack and ruin. I could cry about it whenever I think of it; but how much worse would it have been if he had deserted too! As long as he is in the old vicarage there is a home spot to me in the world! Oh, I thank him, I do thank him for standing by the old place to the last.’
‘It is preposterous,’ thought Mrs. Prendergast. ‘I won’t tell the Doctor. He would think it so foolish in him, and improper in her; I verily believe it is her influence that keeps him at Wrapworth! He cannot bear to cross her wishes nor give her pain. Well, I am thankful that Sarah is neither beautiful nor attractive.’
Sincere was Lucilla’s intention to resume her regular habits, and put a stop to Francis Beaumont’s attentions, but the attraction had already gone so far that repression rendered him the more assiduous, and often bore the aspect (if it were not absolutely the coyness) of coquetry. While deprecating from her heart any attachment on his part, her vanity was fanned at finding herself in her present position as irresistible as ever, and his eagerness to obtain a smile or word from her was such an agreeable titillation, that everything else became flat, and her hours in the schoolroom an imprisonment. Sarah’s methodical earnestness in study bored her, and she was sick of restraint and application. Nor was this likely to be merely a passing evil, for Francis’s parents were in India, and Southminster was his only English home. Nay, even when he had returned to his tutor, Lucilla was not restored to her better self. Her craving for excitement had been awakened, and her repugnance to mental exertion had been yielded to. The routine of lessons had become bondage, and she sought every occasion of variety, seeking to outshine and dazzle the ladies of Southminster, playing off Castle Blanch fascinations on curates and minor canons, and sometimes flying at higher game, even beguiling the Dean himself into turning over her music when she sang.
She had at first, by the use of all her full-grown faculties, been just able to keep sufficiently ahead of her pupil; but her growing indolence soon caused her to slip back, and not only did she let Sarah shoot ahead of her, but she became impatient of the girl’s habits of accuracy and research; she would give careless and vexatious answers, insist petulantly on correcting by the ear, make light of Sarah and her grammar, and hastily reject or hurry from the maps, dictionaries, and cyclopædias with which Sarah’s training had taught her to read and learn. But her dislike of trouble in supporting an opinion did not make her the less pertinacious in upholding it, and there were times when she was wrathful and petulant at Sarah’s presumption in maintaining the contrary, even with all the authorities in the bookshelves to back her.
Sarah’s temper was not her prime quality, and altercations began to run high. Each dispute that took place only prepared the way for another, and Mrs. Prendergast, having taken a governess chiefly to save her daughter from being fretted by interruptions, found that her annoyances were tenfold increased, and irritations were almost habitual. They were the more disappointing because the girl preserved through them all such a passionate admiration for her beautiful and charming little governess, that, except in the very height of a squabble, she still believed her perfection, and was her most vehement partisan, even when the wrong had been chiefly on the side of the teacher.
On the whole, in spite of this return to old faults, Lucilla was improved by her residence at Southminster. Defiance had fallen into disuse, and the habit of respect and affection had softened her and lessened her pride; there was more devotional temper, and a greater desire after a religious way of life. It might be that her fretfulness was the effect of an uneasiness of mind, which was more hopeful than her previous fierce self-satisfaction, and that her aberrations were the last efforts of old evil habits to re-establish their grasp by custom, when her heart was becoming detached from them.
Be that as it might, Mrs. Prendergast’s first duty was to her child, her second to the nephew intrusted to her, and love and pity as she might, she felt that to retain Lucilla was leading all into temptation. Her husband was slow to see the verification of her reluctant opinion, but he trusted to her, and it only remained to part as little harshly or injuriously as might be.
An opening was afforded when, in October, Mrs. Prendergast was entreated by the widow of one of her brothers to find her a governess for two girls of twelve and ten, and two boys younger. It was at a country-house, so much secluded that such temptations as at Southminster were out of reach, and the younger pupils were not likely to try her temper in the same way as Sarah had done.
So Mrs. Prendergast tenderly explained that Sarah, being old enough to pursue her studies alone, and her sister, Mrs. Willis Beaumont, being in distress for a governess, it would be best to transfer Miss Sandbrook to her. Lucilla turned a little pale, but gave no other sign, only answering, ‘Thank you,’ and ‘Yes,’ at fit moments, and acceding to everything, even to her speedy departure at the end of a week.
She left the room in silence, more stunned than even by Robert’s announcement, and with less fictitious strength to brave the blow that she had brought on herself. She repaired to the schoolroom, and leaning her brow against the window-pane, tried to gather her thoughts, but scarcely five minutes had passed before the door was thrown back, and in rushed Sarah, passionately exclaiming—
‘It’s my fault! It’s all my fault! Oh, Miss Sandbrook, dearest Miss Sandbrook, forgive me! Oh! my temper! my temper! I never thought—I’ll go to papa! I’ll tell him it is my doing! He will never—never be so unjust and cruel!’
‘Sarah, stand up; let me go, please,’ said Lucy, unclasping the hands from her waist. ‘This is not right. Your father and mother both think the same, and so do I. It is just that I should go—’
‘You shan’t say so! It is my crossness! I won’t let you go. I’ll write to Peter! He won’t let you go!’ Sarah was really beside herself with despair, and as her mother advanced, and would have spoken, turned round sharply, ‘Don’t, don’t, mamma; I won’t come away unless you promise not to punish her for my temper. You have minded those horrid, wicked, gossiping ladies. I didn’t think you would.’
‘Sarah,’ said Lucilla, resolutely, ‘going mad in this way just shows that I am doing you no good. You are not behaving properly to your mother.’
‘She never acted unjustly before.’
‘That is not for you to judge, in the first place; and in the next, she acts justly. I feel it. Yes, Sarah, I do; I have not done my duty by you, and have quarrelled with you when your industry shamed me. All my old bad habits are come back, and your mother is right to part with me.’
‘There! there, mamma; do you hear that?’ sobbed Sarah, imploringly. ‘When she speaks in that way, can you still—? Oh! I know I was disrespectful, but you can’t—you can’t think that was her fault!’
‘It was,’ said Lucilla, looking at Mrs. Prendergast. ‘I know she has lost the self-control she once had. Sarah, this is of no use. I would go now, if your mother begged me to stay—and that,’ she added, with her firm smile, ‘she is too wise to do. If you do not wish to pain me, and put me to shame, do not let me have any more such exhibitions.’
Pale, ashamed, discomfited, Sarah turned away, and not yet able to govern herself, rushed into her room.
‘Poor Sarah!’ said her mother. ‘You have rare powers of making your pupils love you, Miss Sandbrook.’
‘If it were for their good,’ sighed Lucilla.
‘It has been much for her good; she is far less uncouth, and less exclusive. And it will be more so, I hope. You will still be her friend, and we shall often see you here.’
Lucilla’s tears were dropping fast; and looking up, she said with difficulty—‘Don’t mind this; I know it is right; I have not deserved the happy home you have given me here. Where I am less happy, I hope I may keep a better guard on myself. I thought the old ways had been destroyed, but they are too strong still, and I ought to suffer for them.’
Never in all her days had Lucilla spoken so humbly!
CHAPTER XVII
Though she’s as like to this one as a crab is like to an apple,
I can tell what I can tell.—King Lear
Often a first grief, where sorrow was hitherto been a stranger, is but the foretaste to many another, like the first hailstorm, after long sunshine, preluding a succession of showers, the clouds returning after the rain, and obscuring the sky of life for many a day.
Those who daily saw Mrs. Fulmort scarcely knew whether to attribute her increasing invalidism to debility or want of spirits; and hopes were built on summer heat, till, when it came, it prostrated her strength, and at last, when some casual ailment had confined her to bed, there was no rally. All took alarm; a physician was called in, and the truth was disclosed. There was no formed disease; but her husband’s death, though apparently hardly comprehended, had taken away the spring of life, and she was withering like a branch severed from the stem. Remedies did but disturb her torpor by feverish symptoms that hastened her decline, and Dr. Martyn privately told Miss Charlecote that the absent sons and daughters ought to be warned that the end must be very near.
Honor, as lovingly and gently as possible, spoke to Phœbe. The girl’s eyes filled with tears, but it was in an almost well-pleased tone that she said, ‘Dear mamma, I always knew she felt it.’
‘Ah! little did we think how deeply went the stroke that showed no wound!’
‘Yes! She felt that she was going to him. We could never have made her happy here.’
‘You are content, my unselfish one?’
‘Don’t talk to me about myself, please!’ implored Phœbe. ‘I have too much to do for that. What did he say? That the others should be written to? I will take my case and write in mamma’s room.’
Immediate duty was her refuge from anticipation, gentle tendance from the sense of misery, and, though her mother’s restless feebleness needed constant waiting on, her four notes were completed before post-time. Augusta was eating red mullet in Guernsey, Juliana was on a round of visits in Scotland, Mervyn was supposed to be in Paris, Robert alone was near at hand.
At night Phœbe sent Boodle to bed; but Miss Fennimore insisted on sharing her pupil’s watch. At first there was nothing to do; the patient had fallen into a heavy slumber, and the daughter sat by the bed, the governess at the window, unoccupied save by their books. Phœbe was reading Miss Maurice’s invaluable counsels to the nurses of the dying. Miss Fennimore had the Bible. It was not from a sense of appropriateness, as in pursuance of her system of re-examination. Always admiring the Scripture in a patronizing temper, she had gloried in critical inquiry, and regarded plenary inspiration as a superstition, covering weak points by pretensions to infallibility. But since her discussions with Robert, and her readings of Butler with Bertha, she had begun to weigh for herself the internal, intrinsic evidence of Divine origin, above all, in the Gospels, which, to her surprise, enchained her attention and investigation, as she would have thought beyond the power of such simple words.
Pilate’s question, ‘What is truth?’ was before her. To her it was a link of evidence. Without even granting that the writer was the fisherman he professed to be, what, short of Shakesperian intuition, could thus have depicted the Roman of the early Empire in equal dread of Cæsar and of the populace, at once unscrupulous and timid, contemning Jewish prejudice, yet, with lingering mythological superstition, trembling at the hint of a present Deity in human form; and, lost in the bewilderment of the later Greek philosophy, greeting the word truth with the startled inquiry, what it might be. What is truth? It had been the question of Miss Fennimore’s life, and she felt a blank and a disappointment as it stood unanswered. A movement made her look up. Phœbe was raising her mother, and Miss Fennimore was needed to support the pillows.
‘Phœbe, my dear, are you here?’
‘Yes, dear mamma, I always am.’
‘Phœbe, my dear, I think I am soon going. You have been a good child, my dear; I wish I had done more for you all.’
‘Dear mamma, you have always been so kind.’
‘They didn’t teach me like Honora Charlecote,’ she faltered on; ‘but I always did as your poor papa told me. Nobody ever told me how to be religious, and your poor papa would not have liked it. Phœbe, you know more than I do. You don’t think God will be hard with me, do you? I am such a poor creature; but there is the Blood that takes away sin.’
‘Dear mother, that is the blessed trust.’
‘The Truth,’ flashed upon Miss Fennimore, as she watched their faces.
‘Will He give me His own goodness?’ said Mrs. Fulmort, wistfully. ‘I never did know how to think about Him—I wish I had cared more. What do you think, Phœbe?’
‘I cannot tell how to answer fully, dear mamma,’ said Phœbe; ‘but indeed it is safe to think of His great loving-kindness and mercy. Robert will be here to-morrow. He will tell you better.’
‘He will give me the Holy Sacrament,’ said Mrs. Fulmort, ‘and then I shall go—’
Presently she moved uneasily. ‘Oh, Phœbe, I am so tired. Nothing rests me.’
‘There remaineth a rest,’ gently whispered Phœbe—and Miss Fennimore thought the young face had something of the angel in it—‘no more weariness there.’
‘They won’t think what a poor dull thing I am there,’ added her mother. ‘I wish I could take poor Maria with me. They don’t like her here, and she will be teased and put about.’
‘No, mother, never while I can take care of her!’
‘I know you will, Phœbe, if you say so. Phœbe, love, when I see God, I shall thank Him for having made you so good and dear, and letting me have some comfort in one of my children.’
Phœbe tried to make her think of Robert, but she was exhausted, dozed, and was never able to speak so much again.
Miss Fennimore thought instead of reading. Was it the mere effect on her sympathies that bore in on her mind that Truth existed, and was grasped by the mother and daughter? What was there in those faltering accents that impressed her with reality? Why, of all her many instructors, had none touched her like poor, ignorant, feeble-minded Mrs. Fulmort?
Robert arrived the next day. His mother knew him and was roused sufficiently to accept his offices as a clergyman. Then, as if she thought it was expected of her, she asked for her younger daughters, but when they came, she looked distressed and perplexed.
‘Bless them, mother,’ said Robert, bending over her, and she evidently accepted this as what she wanted; but ‘How—what?’ she added; and taking the uncertain hand, he guided it to the head of each of his three sisters, and prompted the words of blessing from the failing tongue. Then as Bertha rose, he sank on his knees in her place, ‘Bless me, bless me, too, mother; bless me, and pardon my many acts of self-will.’
‘You are good—you—you are a clergyman,’ she hesitated, bewildered.
‘The more reason, mamma; it will comfort him.’ And it was Phœbe who won for her brother the blessing needed as balm to a bleeding heart.
‘The others are away,’ said the dying woman; ‘maybe, if I had made them good when they were little, they would not have left me now.’
While striving to join in prayer for them, she slumbered, and in the course of the night she slept herself tranquilly away from the world where even prosperity had been but a troubled maze to her.
Augusta arrived, weeping profusely, but with all her wits about her, so as to assume the command, and to provide for her own, and her Admiral’s comfort. Phœbe was left to the mournful repose of having no one to whom to attend, since Miss Fennimore provided for the younger ones; and in the lassitude of bodily fatigue and sorrow, she shrank from Maria’s babyish questions and Bertha’s levity and curiosity, spending her time chiefly alone. Even Robert could not often be with her, since Mervyn’s absence and silence threw much on him and Mr. Crabbe, the executor and guardian; and the Bannermans were both exacting and self-important. The Actons, having been pursued by their letters from place to place in the Highlands, at length arrived, and Mervyn last of all, only just in time for the funeral.
Phœbe did not see him till the evening after it, when, having spent the day nearly alone, she descended to the late dinner, and after the quietness in which she had lately lived, and with all the tenderness from fresh suffering, it seemed to her that she was entering on a distracting turmoil of voices. Mervyn, however, came forward at once to meet her, threw his arm round her, and kissed her rather demonstratively, saying, ‘My little Phœbe, I wondered where you were;’ then putting her into a chair, and bending over her, ‘We are in for the funeral games. Stand up for yourself!’
She did not know in the least what he could mean, but she was too sick at heart to ask; she only thought he looked unwell, jaded, and fagged, and with a heated complexion.
He handed Lady Acton into the dining-room; Augusta, following with Sir Bevil, was going to the head of the table, when he called out, ‘That’s Phœbe’s place!’
‘Not before my elders,’ Phœbe answered, trying to seat herself at the side.
‘The sister at home is mistress of the house,’ he sternly answered. ‘Take your proper place, Phœbe.’
In much discomfort she obeyed, and tried to attend civilly to Sir Nicholas’s observations on the viands, hoping to intercept a few, as she perceived how they chafed her eldest brother.
At last, on Mervyn himself roundly abusing the flavour of the ice-pudding, Augusta not only defended it, but confessed to having herself directed Mrs. Brisbane to the concoction that morning.
‘Mrs. Brisbane shall take orders from no lady but Miss Fulmort, while she is in my house,’ thundered Mervyn.
Phœbe, in agony, began to say she knew not what to Sir Bevil, and he seconded her with equal vehemence and incoherency, till by the time they knew what they were talking of, they were with much interest discussing his little daughter, scarcely turning their heads from one another, till, in the midst of dessert, the voice of Juliana was heard,—‘Sir Bevil, Sir Bevil, if you can spare me any attention—What was the name of that person at Hampstead that your sister told me of?’
‘That person! What, where poor Anne Acton was boarded? Dr. Graham, he called himself, but I don’t believe he was a physician. Horrid vulgar fellow!’
‘Excellent for the purpose, though,’ continued Lady Acton, addressing herself as before to Mr. Crabbe; ‘advertises for nervous or deficient ladies, and boards them on very fair terms: would take her quite off our hands.’
Phœbe turned a wild look of imploring interrogation on Sir Bevil, but a certain family telegraph had electrified him, and his eyes were on the grapes that he was eating with nervous haste. Her blood boiling at what she apprehended, Phœbe could endure her present post no longer, and starting up, made the signal for leaving the dinner-table so suddenly that Augusta choked upon her glass of wine, and carried off her last macaroon in her hand. Before she had recovered breath to rebuke her sister’s precipitation, Phœbe, with boldness and spirit quite new to the sisters, was confronting Juliana, and demanding what she had been saying about Hampstead.
‘Only,’ said Juliana, coolly, ‘that I have found a capital place there for Maria—a Dr. Graham, who boards and lodges such unfortunates. Sir Bevil had an idiot cousin there who died. I shall write to-morrow.’
‘I promised that Maria should not be separated from me,’ said Phœbe.
‘Nonsense, my dear,’ said Augusta; ‘we could not receive her; she can never be made presentable.’
‘You?’ said Phœbe.
‘Yes, my dear; did you not know? You go home with us the day after to-morrow; and next spring I mean to bring you out, and take you everywhere. The Admiral is so generous!’
‘But the others?’ said Phœbe.
‘I don’t mind undertaking Bertha,’ said Lady Acton. ‘I know of a good school for her, and I shall deposit Maria at Dr. Graham’s as soon as I can get an answer.’
‘Really,’ continued Augusta, ‘Phœbe will look very creditable by and by, when she has more colour and not all this crape. Perhaps I shall get her married by the end of the season; only you must learn better manners first, Phœbe—not to rush out of the dining-room in this way. I don’t know what I shall do without my other glass of wine—when I am so low, too!’
‘A fine mistress of the house, indeed,’ said Lady Acton. ‘It is well Mervyn’s absurd notion is impossible.’
‘What was that? To keep us all?’ asked Phœbe, catching at the hope.
‘Not Maria nor the governess. You need not flatter yourself,’ said Juliana; ‘he said he wouldn’t have them at any price; and as to keeping house alone with a man of his character, even you may have sense to see it couldn’t be for a moment.’
‘Did Robert consent to Maria’s going to Hampstead?’ asked Phœbe.
‘Robert—what has he to do with it? He has no voice.’
‘He said something about getting the three boarded with some clergyman’s widow,’ said Augusta; ‘buried in some hole, I suppose, to make them like himself—go to church every day, and eat cold dinners on Sunday.’
‘I should like to see Bertha doing that,’ said Juliana, laughing.
But the agony of helplessness that had oppressed Phœbe was relieved. She saw an outlet, and could form a resolution. Home might have to be given up, but there was a means of fulfilling her mother’s charge, and saving Maria from the private idiot asylum; and for that object Phœbe was ready to embrace perpetual seclusion with the dullest of widows. She found her sisters discussing their favourite subject—Mervyn’s misconduct and extravagance—and she was able to sit apart, working, and thinking of her line of action. Only two days! She must be prompt, and not wait for privacy or for counsel. So when the gentlemen came in, and Mr. Crabbe came towards her, she took him into the window, and asked him if any choice were permitted her as to her residence.
‘Certainly; so nearly of age as you are. But I naturally considered that you would wish to be with Lady Bannerman, with all the advantages of London society.’
‘But she will not receive Maria. I promised that Maria should be my charge. You have not consented to this Hampstead scheme?’
‘Her ladyship is precipitate,’ half whispered the lawyer. ‘I certainly would not, till I had seen the establishment, and judged for myself.’
‘No, nor then,’ said Phœbe. ‘Come to-morrow, and see her. She is no subject for an establishment. And I beg you will let me be with her; I would much prefer being with any lady who would receive us both.’
‘Very amiable,’ said Mr. Crabbe.
‘Ha!’ interrupted Mervyn, ‘you are not afraid I shall let Augusta carry you off, Phœbe. She would give the world to get you, but I don’t mean to part with you.’
‘It is of no use to talk to her, Mervyn,’ cried Augusta’s loud voice from the other end of the room. ‘She knows that she cannot remain with you. Robert himself would tell her so.’
‘Robert knows better than to interfere,’ said Mervyn, with one of his scowls. ‘Now then, Phœbe, settle it for yourself. Will you stay and keep house for me at home, or be Augusta’s companion? There! the choice of Hercules. Virtue or vice?’ he added, trying to laugh.