The stillness became an effort at last, but it was resolutely preserved till the frost-bound gravel resounded with wheels. Phœbe rose, Mervyn started up, caught her hand and squeezed it hard. ‘Do not let him be hard on me, Phœbe,’ he said. ‘I could not bear it.’
She had little expected this. Her answer was a mute caress, and she hurried out, but in a tumult of feeling, retreated behind the shelter of a pillar, and silently put her hand on Robert’s arm as he stepped out of the carriage.
‘Wait,’ he whispered, holding her back. ‘Hush! I have promised that she shall see no one.’
Bertha descended, unassisted, her veil down, and neither turning to the right nor the left, crossed the hall and went upstairs. Robert took off his overcoat and hat, took a light and followed her, signing that Phœbe should remain behind. She found Mervyn at the library door, like herself rather appalled at the apparition that had swept past them. She put her hand into his, with a kind of common feeling that they were awaiting a strict judge.
Robert soon reappeared, and in a preoccupied way, kissed the one and shook hands with the other, saying, ‘She has locked her door, and says she wants nothing. I will try again presently—not you, Phœbe; I could only get her home on condition she should see no one without her own consent. So you had my telegram?’
‘We met it at the station. How did you find her?’
‘Had the man been written to?’ asked Robert.
‘No,’ said Mervyn; ‘we thought it best to treat it as childish nonsense, not worth serious notice, or in fact—I was not equal to writing.’
The weary, dejected tone made Robert look up, contrary to the brothers’ usual habit of avoiding one another’s eye, and he exclaimed, ‘I did not know! You were not going to London to-night?’
‘Worse staying at home,’ murmured Mervyn, as, leaning on a corner of the mantelshelf, he rested his head on his hand.
‘I was coming with him,’ said Phœbe; ‘I thought if he gave directions, you could act.’
Robert continued to cast at him glances of dismay and compunction while pursuing the narrative. ‘Hastings must have learnt by some means that the speculation was not what he had imagined; for though he met her at Paddington—’
‘He did?’
‘She had telegraphed to him while waiting at Swindon. He found her out before I did, but he felt himself in a predicament, and I believe I was a welcome sight to him. He begged me to do him the justice to acquit him of all participation in this rash step, and said he had only met Bertha with a view to replacing her in the hands of her family. How it would have been without me, I cannot tell, but I am inclined to believe that he did not know how to dispose of her. She clung to him and turned away from me so decidedly that I was almost grateful for the line he took; and he was obliged to tell her, with many fine speeches, that he could not expose her to share his poverty; and when the poor silly child declared she had enough for both, he told her plainly that it would not be available for six years, and he could not let her—tenderly nurtured, etc., etc. Then supposing me uninformed, he disclaimed all betrayal of your confidence, and represented all that had passed as sport with a child, which to his surprise she had taken as earnest.’
‘Poor Bertha!’ exclaimed Phœbe.
‘Pray where did this scene take place?’ asked Mervyn.
‘On the platform; but it was far too quiet to attract notice.’
‘What! you had no fits nor struggles?’
‘I should think not,’ smiled Phœbe.
‘She stood like a statue, when she understood him; and when he would audaciously have shaken hands with her, she made a distant courtesy, quite dignified. I took her to the waiting-room, and put back her veil. She was crimson, and nearly choking, but she repelled me, and never gave way. I asked if she would sleep at an inn and go home to-morrow; she said “No.” I told her I could not take her to my place because of the curates. “I’ll go to a sisterhood,” she said; and when I told her she was in no mood to be received there, she answered, “I don’t care.” Then I proposed taking her to Augusta, but that was worse; and at last I got her to come home in the dark, on my promise that she should see no one till she chose. Not a word has she since uttered.’
‘Could he really have meant it all in play?’ said Phœbe; ‘yet there was his letter.’
‘I see it all,’ said Mervyn. ‘I was an ass to suppose such needy rogues could come near girls of fortune without running up the scent. As I told Phœbe, I know they had some monstrous ideas of the amount, which I never thought it worth my while to contradict. I imagine old Jack only intended a promising little flirtation, capable of being brought to bear if occasion served, but otherwise to be cast aside as child’s play. Nobody could suspect such an inflammable nature with that baby face; but it seems she was ready to eat her fingers with dulness in the school-room, and had prodigious notions of the rights of woman; so she took all he said most seriously, and met him more than half-way. Then he goes to London, gets better information, looks at the will in Doctors’ Commons, maybe, finds it a slowish speculation, and wants to let her down easy; whereof she has no notion, writes two letters to his one, as we know, gets desperate, and makes this excursion.’
Robert thoughtfully said ‘Yes;’ and Phœbe, though she did not like to betray it, mentally owned that the intercepted letter confirmed Mervyn’s opinion, being evidently meant to pacify what was inconveniently ardent and impassioned, without making tangible promises or professions.
The silence was broken by Mervyn. ‘There! I shall go to bed. Phœbe, when you see that poor child, tell her not to be afraid of me, for the scrape was of my making, so don’t be sharp with her.’
‘I hope not,’ said Robert gravely; ‘I am beginning to learn that severity is injustice, not justice. Good night, Mervyn; I hope this has not done you harm.’
‘I am glad not to be at Paddington this minute,’ said Mervyn. ‘You will stay and help us through this business. It is past us.’
‘I will stay as long as I can, if you wish it.’
Phœbe’s fervent ‘Thank you!’ was for both. She had never heard such friendly tones between those two, though Mervyn’s were still half sullen, and chiefly softened by dejection and weariness.
‘Why, Phœbe,’ cried Robert, as the door closed, ‘how could you not tell me this?’
‘I thought I had told you that he was very unwell.’
‘Unwell! I never saw any one so much altered.’
‘He is at his best when he is pale. The attacks are only kept off by reducing him, and he must be materially better to have no threatening after such a day as this.’
‘Well, I am glad you have not had the letter that I posted only to-day!’
‘I knew you were displeased,’ said Phœbe, ‘and you see you were quite right in not wishing us to stay here; but you forgive us now—Mervyn and me, I mean.’
‘Don’t couple yourself with him, Phœbe!’
‘Yes, I must; for we both equally misjudged, and he blames himself more than any one.’
‘His looks plead for him as effectually as you can do, Phœbe, and rebuke me for having fancied you weak and perverse in remaining after the remonstrance.’
‘I do not wonder at it,’ said Phœbe; ‘but it is over now, and don’t let us talk about it. I want nothing to spoil the comfort of knowing that I have you here.’
‘I have a multitude of things to say, but you look sleepy.’
‘Yes, I am afraid I am. I should like to sit up all night to make the most of you, but I could not keep awake.’
Childlike, she no sooner had some one on whom to repose her care than slumber claimed its due, and she went away to her thankful rest, treasuring the thought of Robert’s presence, and resting in the ineffable blessing of being able to overlook the thorns in gratitude for the roses.
Bertha did not appear in the morning. Robert went to her door, and was told that she would see no one; and Phœbe’s entreaties for admission were met with silence, till he forbade their repetition. ‘It only hardens her,’ he said; ‘we must leave her to herself.’
‘She will not eat, she will be ill!’
‘If she do not yield at dinner-time, Lieschen shall carry food to her, but she shall not have the pleasure of disappointing you. Sullenness must be left to weary itself out.’
‘Is not this more shame than sullenness?’
‘True shame hides its face and confesses—sullen shame hides like Adam. If hers had not been stubborn, it would have melted at your voice. She must wait to hear it again, till she have learnt to crave for it.’
He looked so resolute that Phœbe durst plead no longer, but her heart sank at the thought of the obstinate force of poor Bertha’s nature. Persistence was innate in the Fulmorts, and it was likely to be a severe and lasting trial whether Robert or Bertha would hold out the longest. Since he had captured her, however, all were relieved tacitly to give her up to his management; and at dinner-time, on his stern assurance that unless she would accept food, the door would be forced, she admitted some sandwiches and tea, and desired to have her firing replenished, but would allow no one to enter.
Robert, at Mervyn’s earnest entreaty, arranged to remain over the Sunday. The two brothers met shyly at first, using Phœbe as a medium of communication; but they drew nearer after a time, in the discussion of the robbery, and Robert presently found means of helping Mervyn, by letter-writing, and taking business off his hands to which Phœbe was unequal. Both concurred in insisting that Phœbe should keep her engagement to the Raymonds for the morrow, as the only means of preventing Bertha’s escapade from making a sensation; and by night she became satisfied that not only would the brothers keep the peace in her absence, but that a day’s téte-à-téte might rather promote their good understanding.
Still, she was in no mood to enjoy, when she had to leave Bertha’s door still unopened, and the only comfort she could look to was in the conversation with Miss Charlecote on the way. From her, there was no concealing what had happened, and, to Phœbe’s surprise, she was encouraging. From an external point of view, she could judge better than those more nearly concerned, and her elder years made her more conscious what time could do. She would not let the adventure be regarded as a lasting blight on Bertha’s life. Had the girl been a few years older, she could never have held up her head again; but as it was, Honor foretold that, by the time she was twenty, the adventure would appear incredible. It was not to be lightly passed over, but she must not be allowed to lose her self-respect, nor despair of regaining a place in the family esteem.
Phœbe could not imagine her ever recovering the being thus cast off by her first love.
‘My dear, believe me, it was not love at all, only mystery and the rights of woman. Her very demonstrativeness shows that it was not the heart, but the vanity.’
Phœbe tried to believe, and at least was refreshed by the sympathy, so as to be able, to her own surprise, to be pleased and happy at Moorcroft, where Sir John and his wife were full of kindness, and the bright household mirth of the sons and daughters showed Phœbe some of the benefit Miss Fennimore expected for Bertha from girl friends. One of the younger ones showed her a present in preparation for ‘cousin Cecily,’ and embarked in a list of the names of the cousinhood at Sutton; and though an elder sister decidedly closed young Harriet’s mouth, yet afterwards Phœbe was favoured with a sight of a photograph of the dear cousin, and inferred from it that the young lady’s looks were quite severe enough to account for her cruelty.
The having been plunged into a new atmosphere was good for Phœbe, and she brought home so cheerful a face, that even the news of Bertha’s continued obstinacy could not long sadden it, in the enjoyment of the sight of Robert making himself necessary to Mervyn, and Mervyn accepting his services as if there had never been anything but brotherly love between them. She could have blessed Bertha for having thus brought them together, and felt as if it were a dream too happy to last.
‘What an accountant Robert is!’ said Mervyn. ‘It is a real sacrifice not to have him in the business! What a thing we should have made of it, and he would have taken all the bother!’
‘We have done very well to-day,’ was Robert’s account; ‘I don’t know what can have been the matter before, except my propensity for making myself disagreeable.’
Phœbe went to bed revolving plans for softening Bertha, and was fast asleep when the lock of her door was turned. As she awoke, the terrors of the robbery were upon her far more strongly than at the actual moment of its occurrence; but the voice was familiar, though thin, weak, and gasping. ‘O Phœbe, I’ve done it! I’ve starved myself. I am dying;’ and the sound became a shrill cry. ‘The dark! O save me!’ There was a heavy fall, and Phœbe, springing to the spot where the white vision had sunk down, strove to lift a weight, cold as marble, without pulse or motion. She contrived to raise it, and drag it with her into her own bed, though in deadly terror at the icy touch and prone helplessness, and she was feeling in desperation for the bell-rope, when to her great relief, light and steps approached, and Robert spoke. Alas! his candle only served to show the ghastly, senseless face.
‘She has starved herself!’ said Phœbe, with affright.
‘A swoon, don’t be afraid,’ said Robert, who was dressed, and had evidently been watching. ‘Try to warm her; I will fetch something for her; we shall soon bring her round.’
‘A swoon, only a swoon,’ Phœbe was forced to reiterate to herself to keep her senses and check the sobbing screams that swelled in her throat during the hour-like moments of his absence. She rose, and partly dressed herself in haste, then strove to chafe the limbs; but her efforts only struck the deathly chill more deeply into her own heart.
He brought some brandy, with which they moistened her lips, but still in vain, and Phœbe’s dismay was redoubled as she saw his terror. ‘It must be fainting,’ he repeated, ‘but I had better send for Jackson. May God have mercy on us all—this is my fault!’
‘Her lips move,’ gasped Phœbe, as she rubbed the temples with the stimulant.
‘Thank God!’ and again they put the spoon to her lips, as the nostrils expanded, the eyes opened, and she seemed to crave for the cordial. But vainly Robert raised her in his arms, and Phœbe steadied her own trembling hand to administer it, there were only choking, sobbing efforts for words, resulting in hoarse shrieks of anguish.
Mervyn and Miss Fennimore, entering nearly at the same moment, found Phœbe pale as death, urging composure with a voice of despair; and Robert with looks of horror that he could no longer control, holding up the sinking child, her face livid, her eyes strained. ‘I can’t, I can’t,’ she cried, with frightful catches of her breath; ‘I shall die—’ and the screams recurred.
Mervyn could not bear the spectacle for an instant, and fled only to return to listen outside. Miss Fennimore brought authority and presence of mind. ‘Hysterical,’ she said. ‘There, lay her down; don’t try again yet.’
‘It is hunger,’ whispered the trembling Phœbe; but Miss Fennimore only signed to be obeyed, and decidedly saying, ‘Be quiet, Bertha, don’t speak,’ the habit of submission silenced all but the choking sobs. She sent Robert to warm a shawl, ordered away the frightened maids, and enforced stillness, which lasted till Bertha had recovered breath, when she sobbed out again, ‘Robert! Where is he! I shall die! He must pray! I can’t die!’
Miss Fennimore bade Robert compose his voice to pray aloud, and what he read tranquillized all except Mervyn, who understood this to mean the worst, and burst away to sit cowering in suspense over his fire. Miss Fennimore then offered Bertha a morsel of roll dipped in port wine, but fasting and agitation had really produced a contraction of the muscles of the throat, and the attempt failed. Bertha was dreadfully terrified, and Phœbe could hardly control herself, but she was the only person unbanished by Miss Fennimore. Even Robert’s distress became too visible for the absolute calm by which the governess hoped to exhaust the hysteria while keeping up vitality by outward applications of warmth and stimulants, and from time to time renewing the endeavour to administer nourishment.
It was not till two terrible hours had passed that Phœbe came to the school-room, and announced to her brothers that after ten minutes’ doze, Bertha had waked, and swallowed a spoonful of arrowroot and wine without choking. She could not restrain her sobs, and wept uncontrollably as Mervyn put his arm round her. He was the most composed of the three, for her powers had been sorely strained, and Robert had suffered most of all.
He had on this day suspected that Bertha was burning the provisions forced on her, but he had kept silence, believing that she would thus reduce herself to a more amenable state than if she were angered by compulsion, and long before serious harm could ensue. Used to the sight of famine, he thought inanition would break the spirit without injuring the health. Many a time had he beheld those who professed to have tasted nothing for two days, trudge off tottering but cheerful, with a soup-ticket, and he had not calculated on the difference between the children of want and the delicately nurtured girl, full of overwrought feeling. Though he had been watching in loving intercession for the unhappy child, and had resolved on forcing his way to her in the morning, he felt as if he had played the part of the Archbishop of Pisa, and that, had she perished in her fearful determination, her blood would have been on himself. He was quite overcome, and forced to hurry to his own room to compose himself, ere he could return to inquire further; but there was little more to hear. Miss Fennimore desired to be alone with the patient; Phœbe allowed herself to be laid on the sofa and covered with shawls; Mervyn returned to his bed, and Robert still watched.
There was a great calm after the storm, and Phœbe did not wake till the dim wintry dawn was struggling with the yellow candlelight, and a consultation was going on in low tones between Robert and the governess, both wan and haggard in the uncomfortable light, and their words not more cheering than their looks. Bertha had become feverish, passing from restless, talking sleep to startled, painful wakening, and Miss Fennimore wished Dr. Martyn to be sent for. Phœbe shivered with a cold chill of disappointment as she gathered their meaning, and coming forward, entreated the watchers to lie down to rest, while she relieved guard; but nothing would persuade Miss Fennimore to relinquish her post; and soon Phœbe had enough to do elsewhere; for her own peculiar patient, Mervyn, was so ill throughout the morning, that she was constantly employed in his room, and Robert looking on and trying to aid her, hated himself doubly for his hasty judgments.
Maria alone could go to church on that Sunday morning, and her version of the state of affairs brought Miss Charlecote to Beauchamp to offer her assistance. She saw Dr. Martyn, and undertook the painful preliminary explanation, and she saw him again after his inspection of Bertha.
‘That’s a first-rate governess! Exactly so! An educational hot-bed. Why can’t people let girls dress dolls and trundle hoops, as they used to do?’
‘I have never thought Bertha oppressed by her lessons.’
‘So much the worse! Those who can’t learn, or won’t learn, take care of themselves. Those who have a brain and use it are those that suffer! To hear that poor child blundering algebra in her sleep might be a caution to mothers!’
‘Did you ever see her before, so as to observe the little hesitation in her speech?’
‘No, they should have mentioned that.’
‘It is generally very slight; but one of them—I think, Maria—told me that she always stammered more after lessons—’
‘The blindness of people! As if that had not been a sufficient thermometer to show when they were overworking her brain! Why, not one of these Fulmorts has a head that will bear liberties being taken with it!’
‘Can you let us hope that this whole affair came from an affection of the brain?’
‘The elopement! No; I can’t flatter you that health or sanity were in fault there. Nor is it delirium now; the rambling is only in sleep. But the three days’ fast—’
‘Two days, was it not?’
‘Three. She took nothing since breakfast on Thursday.’
‘Have you made out how she passed the last two days?’
‘I wrung out some account. I believe this would never have occurred to her if her brother had given her a sandwich at Paddington; but she came home exhausted into a distaste for food, which other feelings exaggerated into a fancy to die rather than face the family. She burnt the provisions in a rage at their being forced on her, and she slept most of the time—torpor without acute suffering. Last night in sleep she lost her hold of her resolution, and woke to the sense of self-preservation.’
‘An infinite mercy!’
‘Not that the spirit is broken; all her strength goes to sullenness, and I never saw a case needing greater judgment. Now that she is reduced, the previous overwork tells on her, and it will be a critical matter to bring her round. Who can be of use here? Not the married sisters, I suppose? Miss Fulmort is all that a girl can be at nineteen or twenty, but she wants age.’
‘You think it will be a bad illness?’
‘It may not assume an acute form, but it may last a good while; and if they wish her to have any health again, they must mind what they are about.’
Honora felt a task set to her. She must be Phœbe’s experience as far as her fifty years could teach her to deal with a little precocious rationalist in a wild travestie of Thekla. Ich habe geliebt und gelebet was the farewell laid on Bertha’s table. What a Thekla and what a Max! O profanation! But Honor felt Bertha a charge of her own, and her aid was the more thankfully accepted that the patient was quite beyond Phœbe. She had too long rebelled against her sister to find rest in her guardianship. Phœbe’s voice disposed her to resistance, her advice to wrangling, and Miss Fennimore alone had power to enforce what was needful; and so devoted was she, that Honor could scarcely persuade her to lie down to rest for a few hours.
Honor was dismayed at the change from the childish espiègle roundness of feature to a withered, scathed countenance, singularly old, and mournfully contrasting with the mischievous-looking waves and rings of curly hair upon the brow. Premature playing at passion had been sport with edged tools. Sleeping, the talk was less, however, of the supposed love, than of science and metaphysics; waking, there was silence between weakness and sullenness.
Thus passed day after day, always in the same feverish lethargic oppression which baffled medical skill, and kept the sick mind beyond the reach of human aid; and so uniform were the days, that her illness seemed to last for months instead of weeks.
Miss Fennimore insisted on the night-watching for her share. Phœbe divided with her and Lieschen the morning cares; and Miss Charlecote came in the forenoon and stayed till night, but slept at home, whither Maria was kindly invited; but Phœbe did not like to send her away without herself or Lieschen, and Robert undertook for her being inoffensive to Mervyn. In fact, she was obliging and unobtrusive, only speaking when addressed, and a willing messenger. Mervyn first forgot her presence, then tolerated her saucer eyes, then found her capable of running his errands, and lastly began to care to please her. Honora had devised employment for her, by putting a drawer of patchwork at her disposal, and suggesting that she should make a workbag for each of Robert’s 139 school girls; and the occupation this afforded her was such a public benefit, that Robert was content to pay the tax of telling her the destination of each individual bag, and being always corrected if he twice mentioned the same name. When Mervyn dozed in his chair, she would require from Robert ‘stories’ of his scholars; and it even came to pass that Mervyn would recur to what had then passed, as though he had not been wholly asleep.
Mervyn was chiefly dependent on his brother for conversation, entertainment, and assistance in his affairs; and though not a word passed upon their differences and no professions were made, the common anxiety, and Mervyn’s great need of help, had swept away all traces of unfriendliness. Not even when children in the nursery had they been so free from variance or bitterness as while waiting the issue of their sister’s illness; both humbled, both feeling themselves in part the cause, each anxious to cheer and console the other—one, weak, subdued, dependent—the other, considerate, helpful, and eager to atone for past harshness. Strange for brothers to wait till the ages of twenty-nine and twenty-seven to find out that they really did prefer each other to every one else, in spite of the immense differences between their characters and habits!
‘I say,’ asked Mervyn, one day, when resting after having brought on giddiness and confusion by directing Robert how to answer a letter from the office, ‘what would you do with this bore of a business, if it came to you?’
‘Get rid of it,’ said Robert, surveying him with startled eyes.
‘Aye—sell it, and get the devilry, as you call it, multiplied to all infinity.’
‘Boil soup in the coppers; bake loaves in the furnaces? It makes you look at me perilously—and a perilous game you would find it, most likely to swallow this place and all the rest. Why, you, who had the making of a man of business in you, might reflect that you can’t annihilate property without damage to other folks.’
‘I did not reflect,’ said Robert, gravely; ‘the matter never occurred to me.’
‘What is the result of your reflection now?’
‘Nothing at all,’ was the somewhat impatient reply. ‘I trust never to have to consider. Get it out of my hands at any sacrifice, so as it may do the least harm to others. Had I no other objection to that business, I should have no choice.’
‘Your cloth? Well, that’s a pity, for I see how it could be mitigated, so as to satisfy your scruples;’ and Mervyn, whose head could work when it was not necessary, detailed a scheme for gradually contracting the most objectionable traffic, and adopting another branch of the trade.
‘Excellent,’ said Robert, assenting with delight at each pause. ‘You will carry it out.’
‘I? I’m only a reprobate distiller.’
There it ended, and Robert must have patience.
The guardian, Mr. Crabbe, came as soon as his gout would permit, and hemmed and grunted in reply to the strange narrative into which he had come to inquire. Acting was as yet impossible; Mervyn was forbidden to transact business, and Bertha was far too ill for the removal of the young ladies to be attempted. Miss Fennimore did indeed formally give in her resignation of her situation, but she was too necessary as a nurse for the time of her departure to be fixed, and Mr. Crabbe was unable to settle anything definitively. He found Robert—who previously had spurred him to strong measures—bent on persuading him to lenity, and especially on keeping Phœbe with Mervyn; and after a day and night of perplexity, the old gentleman took his leave, promising to come again on Bertha’s recovery, and to pacify the two elder sisters by representing the condition of Beauchamp, and that for the present the Incumbent of St. Matthew’s and Miss Charlecote might be considered as sufficient guardians for the inmates. ‘Or if their Ladyships thought otherwise,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘why did they not come down themselves?’
Mervyn made a gesture of horror, but all knew that there was little danger. Augusta was always ‘so low’ at the sight of illness, and unless Phœbe had been the patient out of sight, Juliana would not have brought her husband; obvious as would have been the coming of an elder sister when the sickness of the younger dragged on so slowly and wearily.
No one went through so much as Miss Fennimore. Each hour of her attendance on Bertha stamped the sense of her own failure, and of the fallacies to which her life had been dedicated. The sincerity, honour, and modesty that she had inculcated, had been founded on self-esteem alone; and when they had proved inadequate to prevent their breach, their outraged relics had prompted the victim to despair and die. Intellectual development and reasoning powers had not availed one moment against inclination and self-will, and only survived in the involuntary murmurs of a disordered nervous system. All this had utterly overthrown that satisfaction in herself and her own moral qualities in which Miss Fennimore had always lived; she had become sensible of the deep flaws in all that she had admired in her own conduct; and her reason being already prepared by her long and earnest study to accept the faith in its fulness, she had begun to crave after the Atoning Mercy of which she sorely felt the need. But if it be hard for one who has never questioned to take home individually the efficacy of the great Sacrifice, how much harder for one taught to deny the Godhead which rendered the Victim worthy to satisfy Eternal Justice? She accepted the truth, but the gracious words would not reach her spirit; they were to her as a feast in a hungry man’s dream. Robert alone was aware of the struggles through which she was passing, and he could do little in direct aid of her; the books—even the passages of Scripture that he found for her—seemed to fall short; it was as though the sufferer in the wilderness lay in sight of the brazen serpent, but his eyes were holden that he could not see it.
Only the governess’s strong and untaxed health could have carried her through her distress and fatigue, for she continued to engross the most trying share of the nursing, anxious to shield Phœbe from even the knowledge of all the miseries of Bertha’s nights, when the poor child would start on her pillow with a shriek, gaze wildly round, trembling in every limb, the dew starting on her brow, face well-nigh convulsed, teeth chattering, and strange, incoherent words—
‘A dream, only a dream!’ she murmured, recovering consciousness.
‘What was only a dream?’ asked Miss Fennimore, one night.
‘Oh, nothing!’ but she still shivered; then striving to catch hold of the broken threads of her philosophy, ‘How one’s imagination is a prey to—to—what is it? To—to old impressions—when one is weak.’
‘What kind of impressions?’ asked Miss Fennimore, resolved to probe the matter.
Bertha, whose defect of speech was greatly increased by weakness, was long in making her answer comprehensible; but Miss Fennimore gathered it at last, and it made her spirit quake, for it referred to the terrors beyond the grave. Yet she firmly answered—
‘Such impressions may not always result from weakness.’
‘I thought,’ cried Bertha, rising on her elbow, ‘I thought that an advanced state of civilization dispenses with sectarian—I mean superstitious—literal threats.’
‘No civilization can change those decrees, nor make them unmerited,’ said Miss Fennimore, sadly.
‘How?’ repeated Bertha, frowning. ‘You, too? You don’t mean that? You are not one of the narrow minds that want to doom their fellow-creatures for ever.’ Her eyes had grown large, round, and bright, and she clutched Miss Fennimore’s hand, gasping, ‘Say, not for ever!’
‘My poor child! did I ever teach you it was not?’
‘You thought so!’ cried Bertha; ‘enlightened people think so. O say—only say it does not last!’
‘Bertha, I cannot. God forgive me for the falsehoods to which I led you, the realities I put aside from you.’
Bertha gave a cry of anguish, and sank back exhausted, damps of terror on her brow; but she presently cried out, ‘If it would not last! I can’t bear the thought! I can’t bear to live, but I can’t die! Oh! who will save me?’
To Miss Fennimore’s lips rose the words of St. Paul to the jailer.
‘Believe! believe!’ cried Bertha, petulantly, ‘believe what?’
‘Believe that He gave His Life to purchase your safety and mine through that Eternity.’
And Miss Fennimore sank on her knees, weeping and hiding her face. The words which she had gazed at, and listened to, in vain longing, had—even as she imparted them—touched herself in their fulness. She had seen the face of Truth, when, at Mrs. Fulmort’s death-bed, she had heard Phœbe speak of the Blood that cleanseth from all sin. Then it had been a moment’s glimpse. She had sought it earnestly ever since, and at length it had come to nestle within her own bosom. It was not sight, it was touch—it was embracing and holding fast.
Alas! the sight was hidden from Bertha. She moodily turned aside in vexation, as though her last trust had failed her. In vain did Miss Fennimore, feeling that she had led her to the brink of an abyss of depth unknown, till she was tottering on the verge, lavish on her the most tender cares. They were requited with resentful gloom, that the governess felt to be so just towards herself that she would hardly have been able to lift up her head but for the new reliance that gave peace to deepening contrition.
That was a bad night, and the day was worse. Bertha had more strength, but more fever; and the much-enduring Phœbe could hardly be persuaded to leave her to Miss Charlecote at dusk, and air herself with her brothers in the garden. The weather was close and misty, and Honora set open the door to admit the air from the open passage window. A low, soft, lulling sound came in, so much softened by distance that the tune alone showed that it was an infant school ditty sung by Maria, while rocking herself in her low chair over the school-room fire. Turning to discover whether the invalid were annoyed by it, Honor beheld the hard, keen little eyes intently fixed, until presently they filled with tears; and with a heavy sigh, the words broke forth, ‘Oh! to be as silly as she is!’
‘As selig, you mean,’ said Honor, kindly.
‘It is the same thing,’ she said, with a bitter ring in her poor worn voice.
‘No, it is not weakness that makes your sister happy. She was far less happy before she learnt to use her powers lovingly.’
With such earnestness that her stuttering was very painful to hear, she exclaimed, ‘Miss Charlecote, I can’t recollect things—I get puzzled—I don’t say what I want to say. Tell me, is not my brain softening or weakening? You know Maria had water on the head once!’ and her accents were pitiably full of hope.
‘Indeed, my dear, you are not becoming like Maria.’
‘If I were,’ said Bertha, certainly showing no such resemblance, ‘I suppose I should not know it. I wonder whether Maria be ever conscious of her Ich,’ said she, with a weary sigh, as if this were a companion whence she could not escape.
‘Dear child, your Ich would be set aside by living to others, who only seek to make you happier.’
‘I wish they would let me alone. If they had, there would have been an end of it.’
‘An end—no indeed, my poor child!’
‘There!’ cried Bertha; ‘that’s what it is to live! To be shuddered at!’
‘No, Bertha, I did not shudder at the wild delusion and indiscretion, which may be lived down and redeemed, but at the fearful act that would have cut you off from all hope, and chained you to yourself, and such a self, for ever, never to part from the shame whence you sought to escape. Yes, surely there must have been pleading in Heaven to win for you that instant’s relenting. Rescued twice over, there must be some work for you to do, something to cast into shade all that has passed.’
‘It will not destroy memory!’ she said, with hopeless indifference.
‘No; but you may be so occupied with it as to rise above your present pain and humiliation, and remember them only to gather new force from your thankfulness.’
‘What, that I was made a fool of?’ cried Bertha, with sharpness in her thin voice.
‘That you were brought back to the new life that is before you.’
Though Bertha made no answer, Honor trusted that a beginning had been made, but only to be disappointed, for the fever was higher the next day, and Bertha was too much oppressed for speech. The only good sign was that in the dusk she desired that the door should be left open, in case Maria should be singing. It was the first preference she had evinced. The brothers were ready to crown Maria, and she sang with such good-will that Phœbe was forced to take precautions, fearing lest the harmony should lose ‘the modest charm of not too much.’
There ensued a decided liking for Maria’s company, partly no doubt from her envied deficiency, and her ignorance of the extent of Bertha’s misdemeanour, partly because there was less effort of mind in intercourse with her. Her pleasure in waiting on her sister was likewise so warm and grateful, that Bertha felt herself conferring a favour, and took everything from her in a spirit very different from the dull submission towards Miss Fennimore or the peevish tyranny over Phœbe. Towards no one else save Miss Charlecote did she show any favour, for though their conversation was never even alluded to, it had probably left a pleasant impression, and possibly she was entertained by Honor’s systematic habit of talking of the world beyond to the other nurses in her presence.
But these likings were far more scantily shown than her dislikes, and it was hard for her attendants to acquiesce in the physician’s exhortations to be patient till her spirits and nerves should have recovered the shock. Even the entrance of a new housemaid threw her into a trepidation which she was long in recovering, and any proposal of seeing any person beyond the few who had been with her from the first, occasioned trembling, entreaties, and tears.
Phœbe, after her brief heroineship, had lapsed into quite a secondary position. In the reaction of the brothers’ feeling towards each other, they almost left her out. Both were too sure of her to be eager for her; and besides, as Bertha slowly improved, Mervyn’s prime attention was lavished on the endeavour to find what would give her pleasure. And in the sick room, Miss Fennimore and Miss Charlecote could better rule; while Maria was preferred as a companion. Honor often admired to see how content Phœbe was to forego the privilege of waiting on her sister, preparing pleasures and comforts for her in the background, and committing them to the hands whence they would be most welcome, without a moment’s grudge at her own distastefulness to the patient. She seemed to think it the natural consequence of the superiority of all the rest, and fully acquiesced. Sometimes a tear would rise for a moment at Bertha’s rude petulance, but it was dashed off for a resolute smile, as if with the feeling of a child against tears, and she as plainly felt the background her natural position, as if she had never been prominent from circumstances. Whatever was to be done, she did it, and she was far more grateful to Mervyn for loving Robert and enduring Maria, than for any preference to herself. Always finding cause for thanks, she rejoiced even in the delay caused by Bertha’s illness, and in Robert’s stay in his brother’s home, where she had scarcely dared to hope ever to have seen him again. Week after week he remained, constantly pressed by Mervyn to delay his departure, and not unwillingly yielding, since he felt that there was a long arrear of fraternal kindness to be made up, and that while St. Matthew’s was in safe hands, he might justly consider that his paramount duty was to his brother and sisters in their present need. At length, however, the Lent services claimed him in London, and affairs at Beauchamp were so much mended, that Phœbe owned that they ought no longer to detain him from his parish, although Bertha was only able to be lifted to a couch, took little notice of any endeavour to interest her, and when he bade her farewell, hardly raised eye or hand in return.
CHAPTER XXII
When all is done or said,
In th’ end this shall you find,
He most of all doth bathe in bliss
That hath a quiet mind.—Lord Vaux
Robert had promised to return in the end of March to be present at the Assizes, when the burglars would be tried, and he did not come alone. Mr. Crabbe judged it time to inspect Beauchamp and decide for his wards; and Lady Bannerman, between Juliana’s instigations, her own pride in being connected with a trial, and her desire to appropriate Phœbe, decided on coming down with the Admiral to see how matters stood, and to give her vote in the family council.
Commissions from Mervyn had pursued Robert since his arrival in town, all for Bertha’s amusement, and he brought down, by special orders, a musical-box, all Leech’s illustrations, and a small Maltese dog, like a spun-glass lion, which Augusta had in vain proposed to him to exchange for her pug, which was getting fat and wheezy, and ‘would amuse Bertha just as well.’ Lady Bannerman hardly contained her surprise when Maria, as well as Mervyn and Phœbe, met her in the hall, seemingly quite tame and at her ease. Mervyn looked better, and in answer to inquiries for Bertha, answered, ‘Oh, getting on, decidedly; we have her in the garden. She might drive out, only she has such a horror of meeting any one; but her spirits are better, I really thought she would have laughed yesterday when Maria was playing with the kitten. Ha! the dog, have you got him, Robert. Well, if this does not amuse her, I do not know what will.’
And at the first possible moment, Mervyn, Maria, and the Maltese were off through the open window. Robert asked what Phœbe thought of Mervyn. She said he was much stronger, but the doctor was not satisfied that the mischief was removed, and feared that a little want of care or any excitement might bring on another attack. She dreaded the morrow on his account.
‘Yes,’ said the elder sister, ‘I don’t wonder! A most atrocious attempt! I declare I could hardly make up my mind to sleep in the house! Mind you swear to them all, my dear.’
‘I only saw Smithson clearly.’
‘Oh, never mind; if they have not done that, they have done something quite as bad; and I should never sleep a night again in peace if they got off. Was it true that they had packed up all the liqueurs?’
Phœbe exonerated them from this aggravated guilt.
‘I say, my dear, would you tell the butler to bring up some of the claret that was bought at Mr. Rollestone’s auction. I told Sir Nicholas that he should taste it, and I don’t like to mention it to poor Mervyn, as he must not drink wine.’
‘There is some up,’ said Phœbe; ‘Mervyn fancies that Bertha liked it.’
‘My dear, you don’t give Bertha that claret! you don’t know what poor papa gave for it.’
‘If Bertha would only enjoy anything, Mervyn would be overjoyed.’
‘Yes, it is as Juliana says; it is nothing but spoiling that ails her,’ said Augusta. ‘Did you say she was in the garden? I may as well go and see her.’
This Phœbe withstood with entreating looks, and representations that Bertha had as yet seen no fresh face, and was easily startled; but her sister insisted that she was no stranger, and could do no harm, till Phœbe had no choice but to run on and announce her, in the hope that surprise might lessen the period of agitation.
In the sunniest and most sheltered walk was a wheeled chair over which Miss Fennimore held a parasol, while Mervyn and Maria were anxiously trying to win some token of pleasure from the languid, inanimate occupant to whom they were displaying the little dog. As the velvet-bordered silk, crimson shawl, and purple bonnet neared the dark group, a nervous tremor shot through the sick girl’s frame, and partly starting up, she made a gesture of scared entreaty; but Lady Bannerman’s portly embrace and kind inquiries were not to be averted. She assured the patient that all was well since she could get out of doors, the air would give her a famous appetite, and if she was able to drink claret, she would be strong enough in a day or two to come up to Juliana in London, where change and variety would set her up at once.
Bertha scarcely answered, but made an imperious sign to be drawn to the west wing, and as Phœbe succeeded in turning Augusta’s attention to the hothouses Mervyn beckoned to Robert, rather injudiciously, for his patient was still tremulous from the first greeting. Her face had still the strangely old appearance, her complexion was nearly white, her hair thin and scanty, the almost imperceptible cast of the eye which had formerly only served to give character to her arch expression, had increased to a decided blemish; and her figure which had shot up to woman’s height, seemed to bend like a reed as Mervyn supported her to the sofa in the school-room. With nervous fright she retained his hand, speaking with such long, helpless hesitation that Robert caught only the words ‘Juliana—never—’
‘Never, never,’ answered Mervyn; ‘don’t fear! We’ll prevent that, Robert; tell her that she shall not fall into Juliana’s hands—no, nor do anything against her will.’
Only after repeated assurances from both brothers that Augusta should not carry her off in her present state, did she rest tranquilly on the sofa, while Mervyn after waiting on her assiduously, with touching tenderness, as if constantly imploring her to be pleased, applied himself to playing with the dog, watching her face for some vestige of interest, and with so much gratification at the slightest sign of amusement as to show how melancholy must have been the state compared with which this was improvement.
After slowly attaining her present amount of convalescence, she had there stopped short, without progress in strength or spirits, and alarms constantly varying for her head, spine, and lungs, as if the slightest accidental cause might fix permanent disease in either quarter; and to those who daily watched her, and knew the miserable effects produced by the merest trifles, it was terrible to think that her destination was in the hands of a comparative stranger, urged on by the dull Augusta and the acid Juliana. Mervyn needed no severer penalty for having forfeited his right to protect his sisters; attached to them and devoted to Bertha as the anxieties of the spring had rendered him. The sight of Bertha had so far modified Lady Bannerman’s scheme, that she proposed herself to conduct the three to Brighton, and there remain till the London season, when the two younger could be disposed of in some boarding-school, and Phœbe conducted to Albury-street. Mr. Crabbe did not appear averse to this offer, and there was a correctness about it which rendered it appalling to those who had not Phœbe’s quiet trust that no part of it would be allowed to happen unless it were good for them. And she found her eldest brother so much subdued and less vituperative, that she thought him quite obliged by her experienced counsel on his housekeeping and cookery, breaking up his present establishment and letting the house for a year, during which she promised him all facilities for meeting a young widow, the wealth of whose stockbroking husband would be exactly what his business and estate required, and would pay off all his debts.
Phœbe saw indications on Mervyn’s countenance which made it no surprise that he was in such a condition in the morning that only copious loss of blood and the most absolute rest to the last moment enabled him to go to W--- for the trial. Miss Charlecote had undertaken the care of Bertha, that Miss Fennimore might take charge of Maria, who was exceedingly eager to see her brother and sister give evidence.
There is no need to dwell on the proceedings. It was to Phœbe on a larger scale what she had previously gone through. She was too much occupied with the act before God and her neighbour to be self-conscious, or to think of the multitudes eagerly watching her young simple face, or listening to her grave clear tones. A dim perception crossed Lady Bannerman’s mind that there really might be something in little Phœbe when she found the sheriff’s wife, the grande dame of the hunting field, actually shedding tears of emotion.
As soon as Mervyn’s own evidence had been given he had been obliged to go to the inn and lie down; and Phœbe wished to join him there and go home at once. Both Robert and Sir John Raymond were waiting for her at the door of the witness-box, and the latter begged to introduce the sheriff, who pressed her to let him take her back into court to Lady Bannerman, his wife wished so much to see her there and at luncheon. And when Phœbe declared that she must return to her brother, she was told that it had been settled that she was to come with Sir Nicholas and Lady Bannerman to dine and sleep at the sheriff’s next day, after the assize was over, to meet the judges.
Phœbe was almost desperate in her refusals, and was so little believed after all, that she charged Robert—when the sheriff had taken leave—to assure Augusta of the impossibility of her accepting the invitation. Sir John smiled, saying, ‘Lady Caroline scarcely deserved her,’ and added, ‘Here is another who wishes to shake hands with you, and this time I promise that you shall not be persecuted—my brother.’
He was a thin, spare man, who might have been taken for the elder brother, with a gentle, dreamy expression and soft, tender voice, such as she could not imagine being able to cope with pupils. He asked after her brother’s health, and she offered to ascertain whether Mervyn felt well enough to see him, but he thanked her, saying it was better not.
‘It could not have been his doing,’ thought Phœbe, as she went up-stairs. ‘How strong-minded Cecily must be! I wonder whether she would have done Bertha good.’
‘Whose voice was that?’ exclaimed Mervyn, at his door above.
‘Sir John Raymond and his brother.’
‘Are they coming in?’
‘No; they thought it might disturb you.’
Phœbe was glad that these answers fell to the share of the unconscious Robert. Mervyn sat down, and did not revert to the Raymonds through all the homeward journey. Indeed, he seemed unequal to speaking at all, went to his room immediately, and did not appear again when the others came home, bringing tidings that the verdict was guilty, and the sentence penal servitude. Lady Bannerman had further made a positive engagement with the sheriff’s lady, and was at first incredulous, then highly displeased, at Phœbe’s refusal to be included in it. She was sure it was only that Phœbe was bent on her own way, and thought she should get it when left at home with her guardian and her brothers.
Poor Phœbe, she did not so much as know what her own way was! She had never so much wished for her wise guardian, but in the meantime the only wisdom she could see was to wait patiently, and embrace whatever proposal would seem best for the others, though with little hope that any would not entail pain and separation from those who could spare her as ill as she could spare them.
Dr. Martyn was to come over in the course of the ensuing day to examine Bertha, and give her guardian his opinion of her state. There was little danger of its being favourable to violent changes, for Augusta made a descent on the school-room after dinner, and the morbid agitation thus occasioned obliged Miss Fennimore to sit up with the patient till one o’clock. In the morning the languor was extreme, and the cough so frequent that the fear for the lungs was in the ascendant.
But Augusta, knowing of all this, believed her visit to have been most important, and immediately after breakfast summoned Robert to a conference, that he might be convinced that there must be no delay in taking measures for breaking up the present system.
‘We must hear what Dr. Martyn says.’
‘I never thought anything of Dr. Martyn since he advised me to leave off wine at supper. As Juliana says, a physician can always be taken in by an artful woman, and he is playing into her hands.’
‘Into whose?’ said Robert, unable to suppose it could be Phœbe’s.
‘Come, Robert, you ought not to let yourself be so blinded. I am sure it is more for your interest than my own, but I see you are as simple as ever. Juliana said any one could hoodwink you by talking of altar-cloths and Anglo-Saxons.’
‘Anglo-Catholics, possibly.’
‘Well, it is all the same! It is those nonsensical distinctions, rather than your own interests; but when you are cut out, and depend upon it, she will lose no time in his state of health—’
‘Of whom or what are you talking?’
‘I never thought well of her, pretending to drink nothing but water; and with that short, dry way, that I call impertinence; but I never thought she could be so lost till last night! Why, when I thought I would just go and see how the child was—there, after calling himself too ill to come in to dinner, there sat Mervyn, actually drinking tea. I promise you they looked disconcerted!’
‘Well they might be! Bertha suffered half the night from that sudden visit.’
‘And you believe that, Robert! Well! it is a convenient blind! But if you won’t, we shall do our best to shame them, and if she dares it, we shall never visit her! That’s all!’
Her drift here becoming revealed to Robert, his uncontrollable smile caused Augusta to swell with resentment. ‘Aye! nothing on earth will make you own yourself mistaken, or take the advice of your elders, though you might have had enough of upholding Phœbe’s wilfulness.’
‘Well, what do you want me to do?’
‘To join us all in seeing that Miss Fennimore leaves the house before us. Then I will take the girls to Brighton, and you and the Actons might keep watch over him, and if he should persist in his infatuation—why, in the state of his head, it would almost come to a commission of lunacy. Juliana said so!’
‘I have no doubt of it,’ said Robert, gravely. ‘I am obliged to you both, Augusta. As you observe, I am the party chiefly concerned, therefore I have a right to request that you will leave me to defend my interests as I shall see best, and that you will confide your surmise to no one else.’
Robert was not easily gainsaid when he spoke in that tone, and besides, Augusta really was uncertain whether he did not seriously adopt her advice; but though silenced towards him, she did not abstain from lamenting herself to Miss Charlecote, who had come by particular request to consult with Dr. Martyn, and enforce his opinion on Mr. Crabbe. Honora settled the question by a laugh, and an assurance that Mervyn had views in another direction; but Augusta knew of so many abortive schemes for him, and believed him to be the object of so many reports, that she treated this with disdain, and much amused Honora by her matronly superiority and London patronage.
Dr. Martyn came to luncheon, and she endeavoured to extort from him that indulgence hurt Bertha, and that Mervyn needed variety. Failing in this, she remembered his anti-supper advice, and privately warned Mr. Crabbe against him.
His advice threw a new light on the matter. He thought that in a few weeks’ time, Bertha ought to be taken to Switzerland, and perhaps spend the winter in the south of France. Travelling gave the best hope of rousing her spirits or bracing her shattered constitution, but the utmost caution against fatigue and excitement would be requisite; she needed to be at once humoured and controlled, and her morbid repugnance to new attendants must be respected till it should wear off of its own accord.
Surely this might be contrived between sister, governess, and German nurse, and if Mr. Fulmort himself would go too, it would be the best thing for his health, which needed exemption from business and excitement.
Here was playing into the governess’s hands! Mindful of Juliana’s injunctions, Lady Bannerman announced her intention of calling heaven and earth together rather than sanction the impropriety, and set off for her party at the sheriff’s in a mood which made Phœbe tremble lest the attractions of ortolans and Burgundy should instigate the ‘tremendous sacrifice’ of becoming chaperon.
Mervyn thought the doctor’s sentence conclusive as to Miss Fennimore’s plans, but to his consternation it made no change in them, except that she fixed the departure of the family as the moment of parting. Though her manner towards him had become open and friendly, she was deaf to all that he could urge, declaring that it was her duty to leave his sisters, and that the change, when once made, would be beneficial to Bertha, by removing old associations. In despair, he came to Miss Charlecote, begging her to try her powers of persuasion for the sake of poor Bertha, now his primary object, whom he treated with spoiling affection. He was quite powerless to withstand any fancy of Bertha in her present state, and not only helpless without Miss Fennimore, but having become so far used to her that for his own sake he could not endure the notion of a substitute. ‘Find out the objection,’ he said, ‘that at least I may know whether to punch Augusta’s head.’
Honora gratified him by seeking an interview with the governess, though not clear herself as to the right course, and believing that her advice, had she any to give, would go for very little with the learned governess. Miss Fennimore was soft and sad, but decided, and begging to be spared useless arguments. Whether Lady Bannerman had insulted her by hinting her suspicions, Honor could not divine, for she was firmly entrenched within her previous motive, namely, that it would be wrong to remain in a family where first her system, and then her want of vigilance, had produced such results. And to the representation that for her own sake the present conjuncture was the worst in which she could depart, she replied that it mattered not, since she saw her own deficiencies too plainly ever to undertake again the charge of young ladies, and only intended to find employment as a teacher in a school.
‘Say no more,’ she entreated; ‘and above all do not let Phœbe persuade me,’ and there were tears on either cheek.
‘Indeed, I believe her not having done so is a most unselfish act of deference to your judgment.’
‘I know it for a sign of true affection! You, who know what she is, can guess what it costs me to leave her above all, now that I am one in faith with her, and could talk to her more openly than I ever dared to do; she whose example first showed me that faith is a living substance! Yes, Miss Charlecote, I am to be received into the Church at St. Wulstan’s, where I shall be staying, as soon as I have left Beauchamp.’
Overcome with feeling, Honora hastily rose and kissed the governess’s forehead, her tears choking her utterance. ‘But—but,’ she presently said, ‘that removes all possible doubt. Does not Robert say so?’
‘He does,’ said Miss Fennimore; ‘but I cannot think so. After having miserably infused my own temper of rationalism, how could I, as a novice and learner, fitly train that poor child? Besides, others of the family justly complain of me, and I will not be forced on them. No, nor let my newly-won blessing be alloyed by bringing me any present advantage.’
‘I honour you—I agree with you,’ said Miss Charlecote, sadly; ‘but it makes me the more sorry for those poor girls. I do not see what is to be done! A stranger will be worse than no one to both the invalids; Lieschen has neither head nor nerve; and though I do not believe Phœbe will ever give way, Bertha behaves very ill to her, and the strain of anxiety may be too much for such a mere girl, barely twenty! She may suffer for it afterwards, if not at the time.’
‘I feel it all,’ sighed Miss Fennimore; ‘but it would not justify me in letting myself be thrust on a family whose confidence in me has been deceived. Nobody could go with them but you, Miss Charlecote.’
‘Me! how much obliged Mervyn would be,’ laughed Honora.
‘It was a wild wish, such as crosses the mind in moments of perplexity and distress; but no one else could be so welcome to my poor Bertha, nor be the motherly friend they all require. Forgive me, Miss Charlecote; but I have seen what you made of Phœbe, in spite of me and my system.’
So Honor returned to announce the ill-success of her mission.
‘There!’ said Mervyn; ‘goodness knows what will become of us! Bertha would go into fits at the sight of any stranger; and such a hideous old catamaran as Juliana will be sure to have in pickle, will be the death of her outright. I think Miss Charlecote had better take pity on us!’
‘Oh, Mervyn, impossible!’ cried Phœbe, shocked at his audacity.
‘I protest,’ said Mervyn, ‘nothing else can save you from some nasty, half-bred companion! Faugh! Now, Miss Charlecote would enjoy the trip, put Maria and Bertha to bed, and take you to operas, and pictures, and churches, and you would all be off my hands!’
‘For shame, Mervyn,’ cried Phœbe, crimson at his cavalier manner.
‘It is the second such compliment I have received, Phœbe,’ said Honor. ‘Miss Fennimore does me the honour to tell me to be her substitute.’
‘Then if she says so,’ said Mervyn, ‘it is our only rescue!’
If Honor laughed it was not that she did not think. As she crossed the park, she felt that each bud of spring beauty, each promised crop, each lamb, each village child, made the proposal the more unwelcome; yet that the sense of being rooted, and hating to move, ought to be combated. It might hardly be treating Humfrey’s ‘goodly heritage’ aright, to make it an excuse for abstaining from an act of love; and since Brooks attended to her so little when at home, he could very well go on without her. Not that she believed that she should be called on to decide. She did not think Mervyn in earnest, nor suppose that he would encumber himself with a companion who could not be set aside like a governess, and was of an age more ‘proper’ and efficient than agreeable. His unceremonious manner proved sufficiently that it was a mere joke, and he would probably laugh his loud, scoffing laugh at the old maid taking him in earnest. Yet she could not rid herself of the thought of Phœbe’s difficulties, and in poor Bertha, she had the keen interest of nurse towards patient.
‘Once before,’ she thought, ‘have I gone out of the beaten track upon impulse. Cruel consequences! Yet do I repent? Not of the act, but of the error that ensued. Then I was eager, young, romantic. Now I would rather abstain: I am old and sluggish. If it is to be, it will be made plain. I do not distrust my feeling for Phœbe—it is not the jealous, hungering love of old; and I hope to be able to discern whether this be an act of charity! At least, I will not take the initiative. I did so last time.’
Honor’s thoughts and speculations were all at Beauchamp throughout the evening and the early morning, till her avocations drove it out of her mind. She was busy, trying hard to get her own way with her bailiff as to the crops, when she was interrupted by tidings that Mr. Fulmort was in the drawing-room; and concluding it to be Robert, she did not hurry her argument upon guano. On entering the room, however, she was amazed at beholding not Robert, but his brother, cast down in an armchair, and looking thoroughly tired out.
‘Mervyn! I did not expect to see you!’
‘Yes, I just walked over. I thought I would report progress. I had no notion it was so far.’
And in fact he had not been at the Holt since, as a pert boy, he had found it ‘slow.’ Honor was rather alarmed at his fatigue, and offered varieties of sustenance, which he declined, returning with eager nervousness to the subject in hand.
The Bannermans, he said, had offered to go with Bertha and Phœbe, but only on condition that Maria was left at a boarding-house, and a responsible governess taken for Bertha. Moreover, Augusta had told Bertha herself what was impending, and the poor child had laid a clinging, trembling grasp on his arm, and hoarsely whispered that if a stranger came to hear her story, she would die. Alas! it might be easier than before. He had promised never to consent. ‘But what can I do?’ he said, with a hand upon either temple; ‘they heed me no more than Maria!’
Robert had absolutely half consented to leave his cure in the charge of another, and conduct his brother and sisters, but this plan did not satisfy the guardian, who could not send out his wards without some reliable female.
He swung the tassel of the sofa-cushion violently as he spoke, and looked imploringly at Honora, but she, though much moved, felt obliged to keep her resolution of not beginning.
‘Very hard,’ he said, ‘that when there are but two women in the world that that poor child likes, she can have neither!’ and then, gaining hope from something in her face, he exclaimed, ‘After all, I do believe you will take pity on her!’
‘I thought you in joke yesterday.’
‘I thought it too good to be true! I am not so cool as Phœbe thought me. But really,’ he said, assuming an earnest, rational, gentlemanly manner, ‘you have done so much for us that perhaps it makes us presume, and though I know it is preposterous, yet if it were possible to you to be long enough with poor Bertha to bring her round again, I do believe it would make an infinite difference.’
‘What does Phœbe say?’ asked Honor.
‘Phœbe, poor child, she does not know I am come. She looks as white as death, and got up a smile that was enough to make one cry, but she told me not to mind, for something would be sure to bring it right; and so it will, if you will come.’
‘But, Mervyn, you don’t consider what a nuisance I shall be to you.’
Mervyn looked more gallant than Robert ever could have done, and said something rather foolish; but anxiety quickly made him natural again, and he proceeded, ‘After all, they need not bother you much. Phœbe is of your own sort, and Maria is inoffensive, and Bertha will have Lieschen, and I—I’ll take my own line, and be as little of a bore as I can. You’ll go?’
‘If—if it will do.’
That odd answer was enough. Mervyn, already leaning forward with his arms on his knees, held out one hand, and shaded his eyes with the other, as, half with a sob, he said, ‘There, then, it is all right! Miss Charlecote, you can’t guess what it is to a man not to be trusted with his own sisters!’
These words made that bête noire, John Mervyn Fulmort, nearly as much a child of her own as his brother and sister; for they were in a tone of self-blame—not of resentment.
She was sufficiently afraid of him to respect his reserve; moreover, he looked so ill and harassed that she dreaded his having an attack, and heartily wished for Phœbe, so she only begged him to rest till after her early dinner, when she would convey him back to Beauchamp; and then left him alone, while she went to look her undertaking in the face, rather amused to find herself his last resource, and surprised to find her spirit of enterprise rising, her memories of Alps, lakes, cathedrals, and pictures fast assuming the old charm that had erst made her long to see them again. And with Phœbe! Really it would be almost a disappointment if the scheme failed.