CHAPTER XXIX
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of the snow,
Before the soil hath smutched it?—Ben Jonson
At the end of a week Mervyn made his appearance in a vehement hurry. Cecily’s next sister, an officer’s wife, was coming home with two little children, for a farewell visit before going to the Cape, and Maria and Bertha must make way for her. So he wanted to take Phœbe home that afternoon to get the Underwood ready for them.
‘Mervyn, how can I go? I am not nearly ready.’
‘What can you have been doing then?’ he exclaimed, with something of his old temper.
‘This house has been in such a state.’
‘Well, you were not wanted to nurse the sick man, were you? I thought you were one that was to be trusted. What more is there to do?’
Phœbe looked at her list of commissions, and found herself convicted. Those patterns ought to have been sent back two days since. What had she been about? Listening to Mr. Randolf’s explanations of the Hiawatha scenery! Why had she not written a note about that hideous hearth-rug? Because Mr. Randolf was looking over Stowe’s Survey of London. Methodical Phœbe felt herself in disgrace, and yet, somehow, she could not be sorry enough; she wanted a reprieve from exile at Hiltonbury,
alone and away from all that was going on. At least she should hear whether Macbeth, at the Princess’s Theatre, fulfilled Mr. Randolf’s conceptions of it; and if Mr. Currie approved his grand map of the Newcastle district, with the little trees that she had taught him to draw.
Perhaps it was the first time that Mervyn had been justly angry with her; but he was so much less savage than in his injustice that she was very much ashamed and touched; and finally, deeply grateful for the grace of this one day in which to repair her negligence, provided she would be ready to start by seven o’clock next morning. Hard and diligently she worked, and very late she came home. As she was on her way up-stairs she met Robert coming out of Owen’s room.
‘Phœbe,’ he said, turning with her into her room, ‘what is the matter with Lucy?’
‘The matter?’
‘Do you mean that you have not observed how ill she is looking?’
‘No; nothing particular.’
‘Phœbe, I cannot imagine what you have been thinking about. I thought you would have saved her, and helped Miss Charlecote, and you absolutely never noticed her looks!’
‘I am very sorry. I have been so much engaged.’
‘Absorbed, you should call it! Who would have thought you would be so heedless of her?’
He was gone. ‘Still crazy about Lucy,’ was Phœbe’s first thought; her second, ‘Another brother finding me heedless and selfish! What can be the matter with me?’ And when she looked at Lucilla with observant eyes, she did indeed recognize the justice of Robert’s anxiety and amazement. The brilliant prettiness had faded away as if under a blight, the eyes were sinking into purple hollows, the attitude was listless, the whole air full of suffering. Phœbe was dismayed and conscience-stricken, and would fain have offered inquiries and sympathy, but no one had more thoroughly than Lucy the power of repulsion. ‘No, nothing was amiss—of course she felt the frost. She would not speak to Honor—there was nothing to speak about;’ and she went up to her brother’s room.
Mr. Randolf was out with Mr. Currie, and Phœbe, still exceedingly busy writing notes and orders, and packing for her journey, did not know that there was an unconscious resolution in her own mind that her business should not be done till he came home, were it at one o’clock at night! He did come at no unreasonable hour, and found her fastening directions upon the pile of boxes in the hall.
‘What are you doing? Miss Charlecote is not going away?’
‘No; but I am going to-morrow.’
‘You!’
‘Yes; I must get into our new house, and receive my sisters there the day after to-morrow.’
‘I thought you lived with Miss Charlecote.’
‘Is it possible that you did not know what I have been doing all this week?’
‘Were you not preparing a house for your brother?’
‘Yes, and another for myself. Did you not understand that we set up housekeeping separately upon his marriage?’
‘I did not understand,’ said Humfrey Randolf, disconsolately. ‘You told me you owed everything to Miss Charlecote.’
‘I am afraid your colonial education translated that into £ s. d.’
‘Then you are not poor?’
‘No, not exactly,’ said Phœbe, rather puzzled and amused by his downcast air.
‘But,’ he exclaimed, ‘your brother is in business; and Mr. Fulmort of St. Matthew’s—’
‘Mr. Fulmort of St. Matthew’s is poor because he gave all to St. Matthew’s,’ said Phœbe; ‘but our business is not a small one, and the property in the country is large.’
He pasted on her last direction in disconsolate silence, then reading, ‘Miss Fulmort, The Underwood, Hiltonbury, Elverslope Station,’ resumed with fresh animation, ‘At least you live near Miss Charlecote?’
‘Yes, we are wedged in between her park and our own—my brother’s, I mean.’
‘That is all right then! She has asked me for Christmas.’
‘I am very glad of it,’ said Phœbe. ‘There, thank you, good night.’
‘Is there nothing more that I can do for you?’
‘Nothing—no, no, don’t hammer that down, you will wake Owen. Good night, good-bye; I shall be gone by half-past six.’
Though Phœbe said good-bye, she knew perfectly well that the hours of the morning were as nothing to the backwoodsman, and with spirits greatly exhilarated by the Christmas invitation, she went to bed, much too sleepy to make out why her wealth seemed so severe a shock to Humfrey Randolf.
The six o’clock breakfast was well attended, for Miss Charlecote was there herself, as well as the Canadian, Phœbe, and Mervyn, who was wonderfully amiable considering the hour in the morning. Phœbe felt in some slight degree less unfeeling when she found that Lucilla’s fading looks had been no more noticed by Miss Charlecote than by herself; but Honor thought Owen’s illness accounted for all, and only promised that the doctor should inspect her.
A day of exceeding occupation ensued. Mervyn talked the whole way of Cecily, his plans and his prospects; and Phœbe had to draw her mind out of one world and immerse it into another, straining ears and voice all the time to hear and be heard through the roar of the train. He left her at the cottage: and then began the work of the day, presiding over upholsterers, hanging pictures, arranging books, settling cabinets of collections, disposing of ornaments, snatching meals at odd times, in
odder places, and never daring to rest till long after dark, when, with fingers freshly purified from dust, limbs stiff with running up and down stairs, and arms tired with heavy weights, she sat finally down before the drawing-room fire with her solitary cup of coffee, and a book that she was far too weary to open.
Had she never been tired before, that her heart should sink in this unaccountable way? Why could she not be more glad that her sisters were coming home, and dear Miss Fennimore? What made every one seem so dull and stupid, and the comings and goings so oppressive, as if everything would be hateful till Christmas? Why had she belied all her previous good character for method and punctuality of late, and felt as if existence only began when—one person was in the room?
Oh! can this be falling in love?
There was a chiffonier with a looking-glass back just opposite to her, and, raising her eyes, poor Phœbe beheld a young lady with brow, cheeks, and neck perfectly glowing with crimson!
‘You shan’t stand there long at any rate,’ said she, almost vindictively, getting up and pushing the table with its deep cover between her and the answering witness.
‘Love! Nonsense! Yet I don’t see why I should be ashamed! Yes! He is my wise man, he is the real Humfrey Charlecote! His is the very nature I always thought some one must still have—the exact judgment I longed to meet with. Not stern like Robin’s, not sharp like Mervyn’s, nor high-flying like dear Miss Charlecote’s, nor soft like Bevil’s, nor light like Lucy’s, nor clear and clever like Miss Fennimore’s—no, but considerate and solid, tender and true—such as one can lean upon! I know why he has the steadfast eyes that I liked so much the first evening. And there is so much more in him than I can measure or understand. Yes, though I have known him but ten days, I have seen much more of him than of most men in a year. And he has been so much tried, and has had such a life, that he may well be called a real hero in a quiet way. Yes, I well may like him! And I am sure he likes me!’ said another whisper of the heart, which, veiled as was the lady in the mirror, made Phœbe put both hands over her face, in a shamefaced ecstatic consciousness. ‘Nay—I was the first lady he had seen, the only person to speak to. No, no; I know it was not that—I feel it was not! Why, otherwise, did he seem so sorry I was not poor? Oh! how nice it would be if I were! We could work for each other in his glorious new land of hope! I, who love work, was made for work! I don’t care for this mere young lady life! And must my trumpery thousand a year stand in the way? As to birth, I suppose he is as well or better born than I—and, oh! so far superior in tone and breeding to what ours used to be! He ought to know better than to think me a fine young lady, and himself only an engineer’s assistant! But he won’t! Of course he will be honourable about it—and—and perhaps never dare to say another word till he has made
his fortune—and when will that ever be? It will be right—’ ‘But’ (and a very different but it was this time) ‘what am I thinking about? How can I be wishing such things when I have promised to devote myself to Maria? If I could rough it gladly, she could not; and what a shameful thing it is of me to have run into all this long day dream and leave her out. No, I know my lot! I am to live on here, and take care of Maria, and grow to be an old maid! I shall hear about him, when he comes to be a great man, and know that the Humfrey Charlecote I dreamt about is still alive! There, I won’t have any more nonsense!’
And she opened her book; but finding that Humfrey Randolf’s remarks would come between her and the sense, she decided that she was too tired to read, and put herself to bed. But there the sense of wrong towards Maria filled her with remorse that she had accepted her rights of seniority, and let the maids place her in the prettiest room, with the best bay window, and most snug fireplace; nor could she rest till she had pacified her self-reproach, by deciding that all her own goods should move next day into the chamber that did not look at the Holt firs, but only at the wall of the back yard.
‘Yes,’ said Phœbe, stoutly in her honest dealing with herself in her fresh, untried morning senses. ‘I do love Humfrey Charlecote Randolf, and I think he loves me! Whether anything more may come of it, will be ordered for me; but whether it do so or not, it is a blessing to have known one like him, and now that I am warned, and can try to get back self-control, I will begin to be the better for it. Even if I am not quite so happy, this is something more beautiful than I ever knew before. I will be content!’
And when Bertha and Maria arrived, brimful of importance at having come home with no escort but a man and maid, and voluble with histories of Sutton, and wedding schemes, they did not find an absent nor inattentive listener. Yet the keen Bertha made the remark, ‘Something has come over you, Phœbe. You have more countenance than ever you had before.’
Whereat Phœbe’s colour rushed into her cheeks, but she demanded the meaning of countenance, and embarked Bertha in a dissertation.
When Phœbe was gone, Robert found it less difficult to force Lucilla to the extremity of a tête-à-tête. Young Randolf was less in the house, and, when there, more with Owen than before, and Lucilla was necessarily sometimes to be caught alone in the drawing-room.
‘Lucy,’ said Robert, the first time this occurred, ‘I have a question to ask you.’
‘Well!’—she turned round half defiant.
‘A correspondent of Mervyn, on the Spanish coast, has written to ask him to find a chaplain for the place, guaranteeing a handsome stipend.’
‘Well,’ said Lucilla, in a cold voice this time.
‘I wished to ask whether you thought it would be acceptable to Mr. Prendergast.’
‘I neither know nor care.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Robert, after a pause; ‘but though I believe I learnt it sooner than I ought, I was sincerely glad to hear—’
‘Then unhear!’ said Lucilla, pettishly. ‘You, at least, ought to be glad of that.’
‘By no means,’ returned Robert, gravely. ‘I have far too great a regard for you not to be most deeply concerned at what I see is making you unhappy.’
‘May not I be unhappy if I like, with my brother in this state?’
‘That is not all, Lucilla.’
‘Then never mind! You are the only one who never pitied me, and so I like you. Don’t spoil it now!’
‘You need not be afraid of my pitying you if you have brought on this misunderstanding by your old spirit!’
‘Not a bit of it! I tell you he pitied me. I found it out in time, so I set him free. That’s all.’
‘And that was the offence?’
‘Offence! What are you talking of? He didn’t offend—No, but when I said I could not bring so many upon him, and could not have Owen teased about the thing, he said he would bother me no more, that I had Owen, and did not want him. And then he walked off.’
‘Taking you at your word?’
‘Just as if one might not say what one does not mean when one wants a little comforting,’ said Lucy, pouting; ‘but, after all, it is a very good thing—he is saved a great plague for a very little time, and if it were all pity, so much the better. I say, Robin, shall you be man enough to read the service over me, just where we stood at poor Edna’s funeral?’
‘I don’t think that concerns you much,’ said Robert.
‘Well, the lady in Madge Wildfire’s song was gratified at the “six brave gentlemen” who “kirkward should carry her.” Why should you deprive me of that satisfaction? Really, Robin, it is quite true. A little happiness might have patched me up, but—’
‘The symptoms are recurring? Have you seen F---?’
‘Yes. Let me alone, Robin. It is the truest mercy to let me wither up with as little trouble as possible to those who don’t want me. Now that you know it, I am glad I can talk to you, and you will help me to think of what has never been enough before my eyes.’
Robert made no answer but a hasty good-bye, and was gone.
Lucilla gave a heavy sigh, and then exclaimed, half-aloud—
‘Oh, the horrid little monster that I am. Why can’t I help it? I verily believe I shall flirt in my shroud, and if I were canonized my first miracle would be like St. Philomena’s, to make my own relics presentable!’
Wherewith she fell a laughing, with a laughter that soon turned to tears, and the exclamation, ‘Why can I make nobody care for me but those I can’t care for? I can’t help disgusting all that is good, and it will be well when I am dead and gone. There’s only one that will shed tears good for anything, and he is well quit of me!’
The poor little lonely thing wept again, and after her many sleepless nights, she fairly cried herself to sleep. She awoke with a start, at some one being admitted into the room.
‘My dear, am I disturbing you?’
It was the well-known voice, and she sprang up.
‘Mr. Pendy, Mr. Pendy, I was very naughty! I didn’t mean it. Oh, will you bear with me again, though I don’t deserve it?’
She clung to him like a child wearied with its own naughtiness.
‘I was too hasty,’ he said; ‘I forgot how wrapped up you were in your brother, and how little attention you could spare, and then I thought that in him you had found all you wanted, and that I was only in your way.’
‘How could you? Didn’t you know better than to think that people put their brothers before their—Mr. Pendys?’
‘You seemed to wish to do so.’
‘Ah! but you should have known it was only for the sake of being coaxed!’ said Lucilla, hanging her head on one side.
‘You should have told me so.’
‘But how was I to know it?’ And she broke out into a very different kind of laughter. ‘I’m sure I thought it was all magnanimity, but it is of no use to die of one’s own magnanimity, you see.’
‘You are not going to die; you are coming to this Spanish place, which will give you lungs of brass.’
‘Spanish place? How do you know? I have not slept into to-morrow, have I? That Robin has not flown to Wrapworth and back since three o’clock?’
‘No, I was only inquiring at Mrs. Murrell’s.’
‘Oh, you silly, silly person, why couldn’t you come here?’
‘I did not want to bother you.’
‘For shame, for shame; if you say that again I shall know you have not forgiven me. It is a moral against using words too strong for the occasion! So Robert carried you the offer of the chaplaincy, and you mean to have it!’
‘I could not help coming, as he desired, to see what you thought of it.’
‘I only know,’ she said, half crying, yet laughing, ‘that you had better marry me out of hand before I get into any more mischief.’
The chaplaincy was promising. The place was on the lovely coast of Andalusia. There was a small colony of English engaged in trade, and the place was getting into favour with invalids. Mervyn’s correspondent was anxious to secure the services of a good man, and the society of a lady-like wife, and
offered to guarantee a handsome salary, such as justified the curate in giving up his chance of a college living; and though it was improbable that he would ever learn a word of Spanish, or even get so far as the pronunciation of the name of the place, the advantages that the appointment offered were too great to be rejected, when Lucilla’s health needed a southern climate.
‘Oh! yes, yes, let us go,’ she cried. ‘It will be a great deal better than anything at home can be.’
‘Then you venture on telling Owen, now!’
‘Oh, yes! It was a mere delusion of mine that it would cost him anything. Honor is all that he wants, I am rather in their way than otherwise. He rests on her down-pillow-ship, and she sees, hears, knows nothing but him!’
‘Is Miss Charlecote aware of—what has been going wrong?’
‘Not she! I told her before that I should take my own time for the communication, and I verily believe she has forgotten all about it! Then little demure Phœbe fell over head and ears in love with the backwoodsman on the spot, and walked about in a dream such as ought to have been good fun to watch, if I had had the spirit for it; and if Robert had not been sufficiently disengaged to keep his eyes open, I don’t know whether anything would have roused them short of breaking a blood-vessel or two.’
‘I shall never rest till you are in my keeping! I will go to Fulmort at once, and tell him that I accept.’
‘And I will go to Owen, and break the news to him. When are you coming again?’
‘To-morrow, as soon as I have opened school.’
‘Ah! the sooner we are gone the better! Much good you can be to poor Wrapworth! Just tell me, please, that I may know how badly I served you, how often you have inquired at Mrs. Murrell’s.’
‘Why—I believe—each day except Saturday and Sunday; but I never met him there till just now.’
Lucilla’s eyes swam with tears; she laid her head on his shoulder, and, in a broken voice of deep emotion, she said, ‘Indeed, I did not deserve it! But I think I shall be good now, for I can’t tell why I should be so much loved!’
Mr. Prendergast was vainly endeavouring to tell her why, when Humfrey Randolf’s ring was heard, and she rushed out of the room.
Owen’s first hearty laugh since his return was at her tidings. That over, he spoke with brotherly kindness.
‘Yes, Lucy,’ he said, ‘I do think it is the best and happiest thing for you. He is the only man whom you could not torment to death, or who would have any patience with your antics.’
‘I don’t think I shall try,’ said Lucy. ‘What are you shaking your head for, Owen? Have I not had enough to tame me?’
‘I beg your pardon, Cilly. I was only thinking of the natural companionship of bears and monkeys. Don’t beat me!’
‘Some day you shall come out and see us perform, that’s all,’ said Lucilla, merrily. ‘But indeed, Owen, if I know myself at all, unmerited affection and forbearance, with no nonsense about it, is the only way to keep me from flying out. At any rate, I can’t live without it!’
‘Ah!’ said Owen, gravely, ‘you have suffered too much through me for me to talk to you in this fashion. Forgive me, Lucy; I am not up to any other, just yet.’
Whatever Lucilla might have said in the first relief of recovering Mr. Prendergast, she could not easily have made up her mind to leave her brother in his present condition, and flattered herself that the ‘at once’ could not possibly be speedy, since Mr. Prendergast must give notice of his intention of leaving Wrapworth.
But when he came the next morning, it proved that things were in a far greater state of forwardness than she had thought possible. So convinced were both the curate and Robert of the need of her avoiding the winter cold, that the latter had suggested that one of his own curates, who was in need of change and country air, should immediately offer himself as a substitute at Wrapworth, either for a time or permanently, and Lucy was positively required to name a day as early as possible for the marriage, and told, on the authority of the physician, that it might almost be called suicide to linger in the English frosts.
The day which she chose was the 1st of December, the same on which Mervyn was to be married. There was a purpose in thus rendering it impracticable for any Fulmort to be present; ‘And,’ said Owen, ‘I am glad it should be before I am about. I could never keep my countenance if I had to give her away to brother Peter!’
‘Keeping his countenance’ might have two meanings, but he was too feeble for agitation, and seemed only able to go through the time of preparation and parting, by keeping himself as lethargic and indifferent as possible, or by turning matters into a jest when necessarily brought before him. Playing at solitaire, or trifling desultory chat, was all that he could endure as occupation, and the long hours were grievously heavy. His son, though nearly four years old, was no companion or pleasure to him. He was, in his helpless and morbid state, afraid of so young a child, and little Owen was equally afraid of him; each dreaded contact with the other, and more than all the being shut into a room together; and the little boy, half shy, half assured, filled by the old woman with notions of his own grandeur, and yet constrained by the different atmosphere of Woolstone-lane, was never at ease or playful enough before him to be pleasant to watch. And, indeed, his Cockney pronunciation and ungainly vulgar tricks had been so summarily
repressed by his aunt, that his fear of both the ladies rendered him particularly unengaging and unchildlike. Nevertheless, Honora thought it her duty to take him home with her to the Holt, and gratified Robert by engaging a nice little girl of fourteen, whom Lucilla called the crack orphan, to be his attendant when they should leave town. This was to be about a fortnight after the wedding, since St. Wulstan’s afforded greater opportunities for privacy and exemption from bustle than even Hiltonbury, and Dr. Prendergast and his daughter could attend without being in the house.
The Prendergasts of Southminster were very kind and friendly, sending Lucilla warm greetings, and not appearing at all disconcerted at welcoming their former governess into the family. The elders professed no surprise, but great gladness; and Sarah, who was surprised, was trebly rejoiced. Owen accused his sister of selecting her solitary bridesmaid with a view to enhancing her own beauty by force of contrast; but the choice was prompted by real security of the affectionate pleasure it would confer. Handsome presents were sent both by the Beaumonts and Bostocks, and Lucilla, even while half fretted, half touched by Mrs. Bostock’s patronizing felicitations, could not but be pleased at these evidences that her governess-ship had not been an utter failure.
Her demeanour in the fortnight before her marriage was unlike what her friends had ever seen, and made them augur better for Mr. Prendergast’s venture. She was happy, but subdued; quiet and womanly, gentle without being sad, grave but not drooping; and though she was cheerful and playful, with an entire absence of those strange effervescences that had once betrayed acidity or fermentation. She had found the power of being affectionately grateful to Honor, and the sweetness of her tender ways towards her and Owen would have made the parting all the sadder to them if it had not been evident that, as she said, it was happiness that thus enabled her to be good. The satisfied look of rest that had settled on her fair face made it new. All her animation and archness had not rendered it half so pleasant to look upon.
The purchaser of Castle Blanch proved to be no other than Mr. Calthorp! Lucilla at first was greatly discomfited, and begged that nothing might be said about the picture; but the next time Mr. Prendergast arrived, it was with a request from Mr. Calthorp that Miss Sandbrook would accept the picture as a wedding gift! There was no refusing it—indeed, the curate had already accepted it; and when Lucilla heard that ‘the Calthorp’ had been two years married to what Mr. Prendergast called ‘a millionairess, exceedingly hideous,’ she still had vanity enough to reflect that the removal of her own resemblance might be an act of charity! And the sum that Honor had set apart for the purchase was only too much wanted for the setting up housekeeping in Spain, whither the portrait was to accompany
her, Mr. Prendergast declared, like the Penates of the pious Æneas!
Robert brought in his gift on the last day of November, just before setting off for Sutton. It was an unornamented, but exquisitely-bound Bible and Prayer Book, dark-brown, with red-edged leaves.
‘Good-bye, Lucilla,’ he said; ‘you have been the brightest spot to me in this life. Thank you for all you have done for me.’
‘And for all I never intended to do?’ said Lucilla, smiling, as she returned his pressure of the hand.
He was gone, not trusting her to speak, nor himself to hear a word more.
‘Yes, Robin,’ proceeded Lucy, half aloud, ‘you are the greater man, I know very well; but it is in human nature to prefer flesh and blood to mediæval saints in cast-iron, even if one knows there is a tender spot in them.’
There was a curious sense of humiliation in her full acquiescence in the fact that he was too high, too grand for her, and in her relief, that the affection, that would have lifted her beyond what she was prepared for, had died away, and left her to the more ordinary excellence and half-paternal fondness of the man of her real choice, with whom she could feel perfect ease and repose. Possibly the admixture of qualities that in her had been called fast is the most contrary to all real aspiration!
But there was no fault to be found with the heartfelt affection with which she loved and honoured her bridegroom, lavishing on him the more marks of deference and submission just because she knew that her will would be law, and that his love was strong enough to have borne with any amount of caprice or seeming neglect. The sacrifices she made, without his knowledge, for his convenience and comfort, while he imagined hers to be solely consulted, the concessions she made to his slightest wish, the entire absence of all teasing, would not have been granted to a younger man more prepossessing in the sight of others.
It was in this spirit that she rejected all advice to consult health rather than custom in her wedding dress. Exactly because Mr. Prendergast would have willingly received her in the plainest garb, she was bent on doing him honour by the most exquisite bridal array; and never had she been so lovely—her colour such exquisite carnation, her eyes so softened, and full of such repose and reliance, her grace so perfect in complete freedom from all endeavour at attracting admiration.
The married pair came back from church to Owen’s sitting-room—not bear and monkey, not genie and fairy, as he had expected to see; but as they stood together, looking so indescribably and happily one, that Owen smiled and said, ‘Ah! Honor, if you had only known twenty years ago that this was Mrs. Peter Prendergast, how much trouble it would have saved.’
‘She did not deserve to be Mrs. Peter Prendergast,’ said the bride.
‘See how you deserve it now.’
‘That I never shall!’
Brother and sister parted with light words but full hearts, each trying to believe, though neither crediting Mr. Prendergast’s assurance that the two Owens should come and be at home for ever if they liked in Santa Maria de X---. Neither could bear to face the truth that henceforth their courses lay apart, and that if the sister’s life were spared, it could only be at the sacrifice of expatriation for many years, in lands where, well or ill, the brother had no call. Nor would Lucilla break down. It was due to her husband not to let him think she suffered too much in resigning home for him; and true to her innate hatred of agitation, she guarded herself from realizing anything, and though perfectly kind and respectful to Honora, studiously averted all approaches to effusion of feeling.
Only at the last kiss in the hall, she hung round her friend with a vehement embrace, and whispered, ‘Forgive! You have forgiven!’
‘Forgive me, Lucilla!’
‘Nay, that I have forgiven you for all your pardon and patience is shown by my enduring to leave Owen to you now.’
Therewith surged up such a flood of passionate emotions that, fleeing from them as it were, the bride tore herself out of Honor’s arms, and sprang hastily into the carriage, nervously and hastily moving about its contents while Mr. Prendergast finished his farewells.
After all, there was a certain sense of rest, snugness, and freedom from turmoil, when Honor dried her eyes and went back to her convalescent. The house seemed peaceful, and they both felt themselves entering into the full enjoyment of being all in all to one another.
There was one guest at the Sutton wedding whose spirit was at St. Wulstan’s. In those set eyes, and tightly-closed lips, might be traced abstraction in spite of himself. Were there not thoughts and prayers for another bride, elsewhere kneeling? Was not the solitary man struggling with the last remnants of fancies at war with his life of self-devotion, and crushing down the few final regrets, that would have looked back to the dreams of his youth. No marvel that his greatest effort was against being harsh and unsympathizing, even while his whole career was an endeavour to work through charities of deed and word into charities of thought and judgment.
CHAPTER XXX
Untouched by love, the maiden’s breast
Is like the snow on Rona’s crest
High seated in the middle sky,
In bright and barren purity;
But by the sunbeam gently kissed,
Scarce by the gazing eye ’tis missed,
Ere down the lonely valley stealing,
Fresh grass and growth its course revealing;
It cheers the flock, revives the flower,
And decks some happy shepherd’s bower.—Scott
Slow to choose, but decided in her choice, Phœbe had always been, and her love formed no exception to this rule. She was quite aware that her heart had been given away, and never concealed it from herself, though she made it a principle not to indulge in future castle buildings, and kept a resolute guard over her attention. It was impossible to obviate a perpetual feeling of restlessness and of tedium in whatever she was about; but she conquered oftener than she gave way, and there was an indescribable sense of peace and sweetness in a new and precious possession, and an undefined hope through all.
Miss Fennimore, who came the day after the girls’ return from Sutton, saw only the fuller development of her favourite pupil, and, in truth, Maria and Bertha had so ineffably much to narrate, that her attention would have been sufficiently engrossed to hinder her observation of the symptoms, even had the good lady been as keen and experienced in love as in science.
Poor little Phœbe! equable as she was, she was in a great perturbation when, four days before Christmas, she knew that Miss Charlecote, with Owen Sandbrook and Humfrey Randolf, had arrived at the Holt. What was so natural as for her to go at once to talk over the two weddings with her dear old friend? Yes, but did her dear old friend want her, when these two young men had put an end to her solitude? Was she only making Miss Charlecote an excuse? She would wait in hopes that one of the others would ask if she were going to the Holt! If so, it could not but be natural and proper—if not— This provoking throbbing of her heart showed that it was not only for Honor Charlecote that she wished to go.
That ring at the bell! What an abominable goose she was to find a flush of expectation in her cheek! And after all it was only Sir John. He had found that his son had heard nothing from the Holt that morning, and had come in to ask if she thought a call would be acceptable. ‘I knew they were come home,’ he said, ‘for I saw them at the station yesterday. I did not show myself, for I did not know how poor young Sandbrook might like it. But who have they got with them?’
‘Mr. Randolf, Owen Sandbrook’s Canadian friend.’
‘Did I not hear he was some sort of relation?’
‘Yes; his mother was a Charlecote.’
‘Ha! that accounts for it. Seeing him with her, I could almost have thought it was thirty years ago, and that it was my dear old friend.’
Phœbe could have embraced Sir John. She could not conceal her glow of delight so completely that Bertha did not laugh and say, ‘Mr. Charlecote is what the Germans would call Phœbe’s Bild. She always blushes and looks conscious if he is mentioned.’
Sir John laughed, but with some emotion, and Phœbe hastily turned her still more blushing face away. Certainly, if Phœbe had had any prevision of her present state of mind, she never would have bought that chiffonier.
When Sir John had sufficiently admired the details of the choice little drawing-room, and had been shown by the eager sisters all over the house, he asked if Phœbe would walk up with him to the Holt. He had hoped his eldest son, who had ridden over with him, would have come in, and gone up with them, but he supposed Charlie had seized on him. (Poor Sir John, his attempt at match-making did not flourish.) However, he had secured Phœbe’s most intense gratitude by his proposal, and down she came, a very pretty picture, in her dark brown dress, scarlet cloak, and round, brown felt hat, with the long, curly, brown feather tipped with scarlet, her favourite winter robin colouring. Her cheeks were brilliant, and her eyes not only brighter, but with a slight drooping that gave them the shadiness they sometimes wanted. And it was all from a ridiculous trepidation which made it well-nigh impossible to bring out what she was longing to say—‘So you think Mr. Randolf like Mr. Charlecote.’
Fortunately he was beforehand with her, for both the likeness and the path through the pine woods reminded him strongly of his old friend, and he returned to the subject. ‘So you are a great admirer of dear old Charlecote, Phœbe: you can’t remember him?’
‘No, but Robert does, and I sometimes think I do.’ (Then it came.) ‘You think Mr. Randolf like him?’ Thanks to her hat, she could blush more comfortably now.
‘I did not see him near. It was only something in air and figure. People inherit those things wonderfully. Now, my son Charlie sits on horseback exactly like his grandfather, whom he never saw; and John—’
Oh! was he going to run away on family likenesses? Phœbe would not hear the ‘and John;’ and observed, ‘Mr. Charlecote was his godfather, was he not?’
Which self-evident fact brought him back again to ‘Yes; and I only wish he had seen more of him! These are his plantations, I declare, that he used to make so much of!’
‘Yes, that is the reason Miss Charlecote is so fond of them.’
‘Miss Charlecote! When I think of him, I have no patience with her. I do believe he kept single all his life for her sake:
and why she never would have him I never could guess. You ladies are very unreasonable sometimes, Phœbe.’
Phœbe tried to express a rational amount of wonder at poor Honor’s taste, but grew incoherent in fear lest it should be irrational, and was rather frightened at finding Sir John looking at her with some amusement; but he was only thinking of how willingly the poor little heiress of the Mervyns had once been thrown at Humfrey Charlecote’s head. But he went on to tell her of all that her hero had ever been to him and to the county, and of the blank his death had left, and never since supplied, till she felt more and more what a ‘wise’ man truly was!
No one was in the drawing-room, but Honor came down much more cheerful and lively than she had been for years, and calling Owen materially better—the doctors thought the injury to the head infinitely mitigated, and the first step to recovery fairly taken—there were good accounts of the Prendergasts, and all things seemed to be looking well. Presently Sir John, to Phœbe’s great satisfaction, spoke of her guest, and his resemblance, but Honor answered with half-resentful surprise. Some of the old servants had made the same remark, but she could not understand it, and was evidently hurt by its recurrence. Phœbe sat on, listening to the account of Lucilla’s letters, and the good spirits and health they manifested; forcing herself not too obviously to watch door or window, and when Sir John was gone, she only offered to depart, lest Miss Charlecote should wish to be with Owen.
‘No, my dear, thank you; Mr. Randolf is with him, and he can read a little now. We are getting above the solitaire board, I assure you. I have fitted up the little room beyond the study for his bedroom, and he sits in the study, so there are no stairs, and he is to go out every day in a chair or the carriage.’
‘Does the little boy amuse him?’
‘No, not exactly, poor little fellow. They are terribly afraid of each other, that is the worst of it. And then we left the boy too long with the old woman. I hear his lessons for a quarter of an hour a day, and he is a clever child enough; but his pronunciation and habits are an absolute distress, and he is not happy anywhere but in the housekeeper’s room. I try to civilize him, but as yet I cannot worry poor Owen. You can’t think how comfortable we are together, Phœbe, when we are alone. Since his sister went we have got on so much better. He was shy before her; but I must tell you, my dear, he asked me to read my Psalms and Lessons aloud, as I used to do; and we have had such pleasant evenings, and he desired that the servants might still come in to prayers in the study. But then he always was different with me.’
And Phœbe, while assenting, could not silence a misgiving that she thought very cruel. She would believe Owen sincere if Humfrey Randolf did. Honor, however, was very happy, and presently begged her to come and see Owen. She obeyed with
alacrity, and was conducted to the study. No Randolf was there, only pen, ink, paper, and algebra. But as she was greeting Owen, who looked much better and less oppressed, Honor made an exclamation, and from the window they saw the young man leaning over the sundial, partly studying its mysteries, partly playing with little Owen, who hung on him as an old playmate.
‘Yes,’ said Owen, ‘he has taken pity on the boy—he is very good to him—has served an apprenticeship.’
Mr. Randolf looked up, saw Phœbe, gave a start of recognition and pleasure, and sped towards the house.
‘Yes, Phœbe, I do see some likeness,’ said Honor, as though a good deal struck and touched.
All the ridiculous and troublesome confusion was so good as to be driven away in the contentment of Humfrey Randolf’s presence, and the wondrous magnetic conviction that he was equally glad to be with her. She lost all restlessness, and was quite ready to amuse Owen by a lively discussion and comparison of the two weddings, but she so well knew that she should like to stay too long, that she cut her time rather over short, and would not stay to luncheon. This was not like the evenings that began with Hiawatha and ended at Lakeville, or on Lake Ontario; but one pleasure was in store for Phœbe. While she was finding her umbrella, and putting on her clogs, Humfrey Randolf ran down-stairs to her, and said, ‘I wanted to tell you something. My stepmother is going to be married.’
‘You are glad?’
‘Very glad. It is to a merchant whom she met at Buffalo, well off, and speaking most kindly of the little boys.’
‘That must be a great load off your mind.’
‘Indeed it is, though the children must still chiefly look to me. I should like to have little George at a good school. However, now their immediate maintenance is off my hands, I have more to spend in educating myself. I can get evening lessons now, when my day’s work is over.’
‘Oh! do not overstrain your head,’ said Phœbe, thinking of Bertha.
‘Heads can bear a good deal when they are full of hope,’ he said, smiling.
‘Still after your out-of-doors life of bodily exercise, do you not find it hard to be always shut up in London?’
‘Perhaps the novelty has not worn off. It is as if life had only begun since I came into the city.’
‘A new set of faculties called into play?’
‘Faculties—yes, and everything else.’
‘I must go now, or my sisters will be waiting for me, and I see your dinner coming in. Good-bye.’
‘May I come to see you?’
‘O yes, pray let me show you our cottage.’
‘When may I come?’
She felt, rather than saw him watching her all the way from the garden-gate to the wood. That little colloquy was the sunshiny point in her day. Had the tidings been communicated in the full circle, it would have been as nothing compared with their reservation for her private ear, with the marked ‘I wanted to tell you.’ Then she came home, looked at Maria threading holly-berries, and her heart fainted within her. There were moments when poor Maria would rise before her as a hardship and an infliction, and then she became terrified, prayed against such feelings as a crime, and devoted herself to her sister with even more than her wonted patient tenderness.
The certainty that the visit would take place kept her from all flutterings and self-debate, and in due time Mr. Randolf arrived. Anxiously did Phœbe watch for his look at Maria, for Bertha’s look at him, and she was pleased with both. His manner to Maria was full of gentleness, and Bertha’s quick eyes detected his intellect. He stood an excellent examination from her and Miss Fennimore upon the worn channel of Niagara, which had so often been used as a knockdown argument against Miss Charlecote’s cosmogony; and his bright terse powers of description gave them, as they agreed, a better idea of his woods than any travels which they had read.
It was no less interesting to observe his impression of the English village-life at Hiltonbury. To him, the aspect of the country had an air of exquisite miniature finish, wanting indeed in breadth and freedom, but he had suffered too much from vain struggling single-handed with Nature in her might, not to value the bounds set upon her; and a man who knew by personal experience what it was to seek his whole live stock in an interminable forest, did not complain of the confinement of hedges and banks. Nay, the ‘hedgerow elms and hillocks green’ were to him as classical as Whitehall; he treated Maria’s tame robins with as much respect as if they had been Howards or Percies; holly and mistletoe were handled by him with reverential curiosity; and the church and home of his ancestors filled him with a sweet loyal enthusiasm, more eager than in those to whom these things were familiar.
Miss Charlecote herself came in for some of these feelings. He admired her greatly in her Christmas aspect of Lady Bountiful, in which she well fulfilled old visions of the mistress of an English home, but still more did he dwell upon her gentleness, and on that shadowy resemblance to his mother, which made him long for some of that tenderness which she lavished upon Owen. He looked for no more than her uniformly kind civility and hospitality, but he was always wishing to know her better; and any touch of warmth and affection in her manner towards him was so delightful that he could not help telling Phœbe of it, in their next brief tête-à-tête.
He was able to render a great service to Miss Charlecote.
Mr. Brooks’s understanding had not cleared with time, and the accounts that had been tangled in summer were by the end of the year in confusion worse confounded. He was a faithful servant, but his accounts had always been audited every month, and in his old age, his arithmetic would not carry him farther, so that his mistress’s long absence abroad had occasioned such a hopeless chaos, that but for his long services, his honesty might have been in question. Honora put this idea away with angry horror. Not only did she love and trust the old man, but he was a legacy from Humfrey, and she would have torn the page from her receipts rather than rouse the least suspicion against him. Yet she could not bear to leave any flaw in Humfrey’s farm books, and she toiled and perplexed herself in vain; till Owen, finding out what distressed her, and grieving at his own incapacity, begged that Randolf might help her; when behold! the confused accounts arranged themselves in comprehensible columns, and poor old Brooks was proved to have cheated himself so much more than his lady as to be entirely exonerated from all but puzzle-headedness. The young man’s farmer life qualified him to be highly popular at the Holt. He was curious about English husbandry, talked to the labourers, and tried their tools with no unpractised hand, even the flail which Honor’s hatred of steam still kept as the winter’s employment in the barn; he appreciated the bullocks, criticized the sheep, and admired the pigs, till the farming men agreed ‘there had not been such an one about the place since the Squire himself.’
Honora might be excused for not having detected a likeness between the two Humfreys. Scarcely a feature was in the same mould, the complexion was different, and the heavily-built, easy-going Squire, somewhat behind his own century, had apparently had nothing in common with the brisk modern colonial engineer; yet still there was something curiously recalling the expression of open honesty, and the whole cast of countenance, as well as the individuality of voice, air, and gestures, and the perception grew upon her so much in the haunts of her cousin, where she saw his attitudes and habits unconsciously repeated, that she was almost ready to accept Bertha’s explanation that it was owing to the influence of the Christian name that both shared. But as it had likewise been borne by the wicked disinherited son who ran away, the theory was somewhat halting.
Phœbe’s intercourse with Humfrey the younger was much more fragmentary than in town, and therefore, perhaps, the more delicious. She saw him on most of the days of his fortnight’s stay, either in the mutual calls of the two houses, in chance meetings in the village, or in walks to or from the holy-day services at the church, and these afforded many a moment in which she was let into the deeper feelings that his first English Christmas excited. It was not conventional Christmas weather, but warm and moist, thus rendering the contrast still
stronger with the sleighing of his prosperous days, the snowshoe walk of his poorer ones. A frost hard enough for skating was the prime desire of Maria and Bertha, who both wanted to see the art practised by one to whom it was familiar. The frost came at last, and became reasonably hard in the first week of the new year, one day when Phœbe, to her regret, was forced to drive to Elverslope to fulfil some commissions for Mervyn and Cecily, who were expected at home on the 8th of January, after a Christmas at Sutton.
However, she had a reward. ‘I do think,’ said Miss Fennimore to her, as she entered the drawing-room, ‘that Mr. Randolf is the most good-natured man in the world! For full three-quarters of an hour this afternoon did he hand Maria up and down a slide on the pond at the Holt!’
‘You went up to see him skate?’
‘Yes; he was to teach Bertha. We found him helping the little Sandbrook to slide, but when we came he sent him in with the little maid, and gave Bertha a lesson, which did not last long, for she grew nervous. Really her nerves will never be what they were! Then Maria begged for a slide, and you know what any sort of monotonous bodily motion is to her; there is no getting her to leave off, and I never saw anything like the spirit and good-nature with which he complied.’
‘He is very kind to Maria,’ said Phœbe.
‘He seems to have that sort of pitying respect which you first put into my mind towards her.’
‘Oh, are you come home, Phœbe?’ said Maria, running into the room. ‘I did not hear you. I have been sliding on the ice all the afternoon with Mr. Randolf. It is so nice, and he says we will do it again to-morrow.’
‘Ha, Phœbe!’ said Bertha, meeting her on the stairs, ‘do you know what you missed?’
‘Three children sliding on the ice,’ quoted Phœbe.
‘Seeing how a man that is called Humfrey can bear with your two sisters making themselves ridiculous. Really I should set the backwoods down as the best school of courtesy, but that I believe some people have that school within themselves. Hollo!’
For Phœbe absolutely kissed Bertha as she went up-stairs.
‘Ha?’ said Bertha, interrogatively; then went into the drawing-room, and looked very grave, almost sad.
Phœbe could not but think it rather hard when, on the last afternoon of Humfrey Randolf’s visit, there came a note from Mervyn ordering her up to Beauchamp to arrange some special contrivances of his for Cecily’s morning-room—her mother’s, which gave it an additional pang. It was a severe, threatening, bitterly cold day, not at all fit for sliding, even had not both the young ladies and Miss Fennimore picked up a suspicion of cold; but Phœbe had no doubt that there would be a farewell visit, and did not like to lose it.
‘Take the pony carriage, and you will get home faster,’ said Bertha, answering what was unspoken.
No; the groom sent in word that the ponies were gone to be rough-shod, and that one of them had a cold.
‘Never mind,’ said Phœbe, cheerfully; ‘I shall be warmer walking.’
And she set off, with a lingering will, but a step brisk under her determination that her personal wishes should never make her neglect duty or kindness. She did not like to think that he would be disappointed, but she had a great trust in his trust in herself, and a confidence, not to be fretted away, that some farewell would come to pass, and that she should know when to look for him again.
Scanty sleety flakes of snow were falling before her half-hour’s walk was over, and she arrived at the house, where anxious maids were putting their last touches of preparation for the mistress. It was strange not to feel more strongly the pang of a lost home; and had not Phœbe been so much preoccupied, perhaps it would have affected her strongly, with all her real joy at Cecily’s installation; but there were new things before her that filled her mind too full for regrets for the rooms where she had grown up. She only did her duty scrupulously by Cecily’s writing-table, piano, and pictures, and then satisfied the housekeeper by a brief inspection of the rooms, more laudatory than particular. She rather pitied Cecily, after her comfortable parsonage, for coming to all those state drawing-rooms. If it had been the west wing, now!
By this time the snow was thicker, and the park beginning to whiten. The housekeeper begged her to wait and order out the carriage, but she disliked giving trouble, and thought that an unexpected summons might be tardy of fulfilment, so she insisted on confronting the elements, confident in her cloak and india-rubber boots, and secretly hoping that the visitor at the cottage might linger on into the twilight.
As she came beyond the pillars of the portico, such a whirl of snow met her that she almost questioned the prudence of her decision, when a voice said, ‘It is only the drift round the corner of the house.’
‘You here?’
‘Your sister gave me leave to come and see you home through the snow-storm.’
‘Oh, thank you! This is the first time you have been here,’ she added, feeling as if her first words had been too eagerly glad.
‘Yes, I have only seen the house from a distance before. I did not know how large it was. Which part did you inhabit?’
‘There—the west wing—shut up now, poor thing!’
‘And where was the window where you saw the horse and cart? Yes, you see I know that story; which was your window?’
‘The nearest to the main body of the house. Ah! it is a
dear old window. I have seen many better things from it than that!’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Sunsets and moonsets, and the Holt firs best of all.’
‘Yes, I know better now what you meant by owing all to Miss Charlecote,’ he said, smiling. ‘I owe something to her, too.’
‘Oh, is she going to help you on?’ cried Phœbe.
‘No, I do not need that. What I owe to her is—knowing you.’
It had come, then! The first moment of full assurance of what had gleamed before; and yet the shock, sweet as it was, was almost pain, and Phœbe’s heart beat fast, and her downcast look betrayed that the full force of his words—and still more, of his tone—had reached her.
‘May I go on?’ he said. ‘May I dare to tell you what you are to me? I knew, from the moment we met, that you were what I had dreamt of—different, but better.’
‘I am sure I knew that you were!’ escaped from Phœbe, softly, but making her face burn, as at what she had not meant to say.
‘Then you can bear with me? You do not forbid me to hope.’
‘Oh! I am a great deal too happy!’
There came a great wailing, driving gust of storm at that moment, as if it wanted to sweep them off their feet, but it was a welcome blast, for it was the occasion of a strong arm being flung round Phœbe, to restrain that fluttering cloak. ‘Storms shall only blow us nearer together, dearest,’ he said, with recovered breath, as, with no unwilling hand, she clung to his arm for help.
‘If it be God’s will,’ said Phœbe, earnestly.
‘And indeed,’ he said, fervently, ‘I have thought and debated much whether it were His will; whether it could be right, that I, with my poverty and my burthens, should thrust myself into your wealthy and sheltered life. At first, when I thought you were a poor dependent, I admitted the hope. I saw you spirited, helpful, sensible, and I dared to think that you were of the stuff that would gladly be independent, and would struggle on and up with me, as I have known so many do in my own country.’
‘Oh! would I not?’
‘Then I found how far apart we stand in one kind of social scale, and perhaps that ought to have overthrown all hope; but, Phœbe, it will not do so! I will not ask you to share want and privation, but I will and do ask you to be the point towards which I may work, the best earthly hope set before me.’
‘I am glad,’ said Phœbe, ‘that you knew too well to think there was any real difference. Indeed, the superiority is all yours, except in mere money. And mine, I am sure, need not stand in the way, but there is one thing that does.’
‘What? Your brothers?’
‘I do not know. It is my sister Maria. I promised long ago that nothing should make me desert her;’ and, with a voice faltering a little, but endeavouring to be firm, ‘a promise to fulfil a duty appointed by Providence must not he repented of when the cost is felt.’
‘But why should you think of deserting her?’ he said. ‘Surely I may help to bear your cares; and there is something so good, so gentle and lovable about her, that she need be no grievance. I shall have to bring my little brothers about you, too, so we shall be even,’ he added, smiling.
‘Then,’ she said, looking in his face as beginning to take counsel with him, ‘you think it is right to assume a new tie that must have higher claims than the prior one that Heaven sent me.’
‘Nay, dearest, is not the new one instituted by Heaven? If I promise that I will be as entirely Maria’s brother as you are her sister, and will reverence her affliction, or more truly her innocence, in the same way, will you not trust her, as well as yourself, with me?’
‘Trust, oh! indeed I do, and am thankful. But I am thinking of you! Poor dear Maria might be a drag, where I should not! And I cannot leave her to any of the others. She could not be long without me.’
‘Well, faithless one, we may have to wait the longer; though I feel that you alone would be happiest fighting up the hill with me.’
‘Oh, thank you for knowing that so well.’
‘But as we both have these ties, and as, besides, I should be a shabby adventurer to address you but on equal terms, we must be content to wait till—as with God’s blessing I trust to do—I have made a home smooth enough for Maria as well as for you! Will that do, Phœbe?’
‘Somehow it seems too much,’ murmured Phœbe; ‘and yet I knew it of you.’
‘And as you both have means of your own, it may bring the time nearer,’ he said. ‘There, you see I can calculate on your fortune, though I still wish it were out of the way.’
‘If it were not for Maria, I should.’
‘And now with this hope and promise, I feel as if, even if it were seven years, they would be like so many days,’ said Humfrey. ‘You will not be of those, my Phœbe, who suffer and are worn by a long engagement?’
‘One cannot tell without a trial,’ said Phœbe; ‘but indeed I do not see why security and rest, or even hope deferred, should hurt me. Surely, having a right to think about you cannot do so?’
And her look out of those honest clear gray eyes was one of the most perfect reliance and gladness.
‘May I be worthy of those thoughts!’ he fervently said. ‘And you will write to me—even when I go back to the Ottawa?’
‘I shall be so glad to tell you everything, and have your letters! Oh! no, with them I am not going to pine’—and her strong young nature laughed at the folly.
‘And while God gives me strength, we will not be afraid,’ he answered. ‘Phœbe, I looked at the last chapter of Proverbs last night, and thought you were like that woman of strength and skill on whose “lips is the law of kindness.” And “you are not afraid of the snow,” as if to complete the likeness.’
‘I did not quite know it was snowing. I like it, for it suits your country.’
‘I like it, because you are as clear, firm, and pure as my own clear crystal ice,’ he said; ‘only not quite so cold! And now, what remains? Must your brothers be consulted?’ he added, reluctantly.
‘It will be right that I should tell them,’ said Phœbe. ‘From Robert I could not keep such a thing, and Mervyn has a right to know. I cannot tell how he may take it, but I do not think that I owe him such implicit obedience as if he were my father. And by the time you really ask for me, you know you are to be such a rising engineer that they are all to be almost as proud of you as I am!’
‘God helping me,’ he gravely answered, his eyes raised upwards, and as it were carrying with them the glance that had sought them in almost playful confidence.
And thus they looked forth upon this life. Neither was so young as not to be aware of its trials. She knew the sorrows of suspense, bereavement, and family disunion; and he, before his twenty-fourth year, had made experience of adversity, uncongeniality, disappointment, and severe—almost hopeless—everyday labour. It was not in the spirit of those who had not braced on their armour, but of those who had made proof of it, that they looked bravely and cheerfully upon the battle, feeling their strength doubled as faithful companions-in-arms, and willing in that strength and trust to bear patiently with the severest trial of all—the delay of their hopes. The cold but bracing wind, the snow driving and whirling round them in gusts, could not daunt nor quench their spirits—nay, rather gave them additional vigour and enjoyment, while even the tokens of the tempest that they bore away were of perfect dazzling whiteness.
Never was shelter less willingly attained than when the park wicket of the Underwood was reached, just as the early twilight was becoming darkness. It was like a foretaste for Phœbe of seeing him go his own way in the storm while she waited safely housed; but they parted with grave sweet smiles, and a promise that he would snatch a moment’s farewell on the morrow. Phœbe would rather not have been met by Bertha, at the front door, in some solicitude—‘You are come at last! Are you wet? are you cold?’
‘Oh, no, thank you! Don’t stand in the draught,’ said Phœbe,
anxious to shake her off; but it was not to be done. Bertha preceded her up-stairs, talking all the way in something of her old mischievous whisper. ‘Am I in disgrace with you, too, Phœbe? Miss Fennimore says I have committed an awful breach of propriety; but really I could not leave you to the beating of the pitiless storm alone. I am afraid Malta’s sagacity and little paws would hardly have sufficed to dig you out of a snowdrift before life was extinct. Are you greatly displeased with me, Phœbe?’ And being by this time in the bedroom, she faced about, shut the door, and looked full at her sister.
‘No—no—dear Bertha, not displeased in the least; only if you would go—’
‘Now, Phœbe, indeed that is not kind of you,’ said Bertha, pleadingly, but preparing to obey.
‘No, Bertha, it is not,’ said Phœbe, recovering herself in a moment. ‘I am sorry for it; but oh! don’t you know the feeling of wanting to have one’s treasure all to oneself for a little moment before showing it? No, don’t go;’ and the two sisters flung their arms round one another. ‘You shall hear now.’
‘No, no,’ said Bertha, kissing her; ‘my time for obtrusive, childish curiosity is over! I only was so anxious;’ and she looked up with tearful eyes, and almost the air of an elder sister. Phœbe might well requite the look with full-hearted tenderness and caresses, as she said, calmly, ‘Yes, Bertha, I am very happy.’
‘You ought to be,’ said Bertha, seriously.
‘Yes,’ said Phœbe, taking the ought in a different sense from what she meant; ‘he is all, and more, than I ever thought a man wise in true wisdom should be.’
‘And a man of progress, full of the dignity of labour,’ said Bertha. ‘I am glad he is not an old bit of county soil like John Raymond! My dear Phœbe, Sir John will tear his hair!’
‘For shame, Bertha!’
‘Well, I will not tease you with my nonsense; but you know it is the only thing that keeps tears out of one’s eyes. I see you want to be alone. Dear Phœbe!’ and she clung to her neck for a moment.
‘An instant more, Bertha. You see everything, I know; but has Miss Fennimore guessed?’
‘No, my dear, I do not think any such syllogism has ever occurred to her as, Lover’s look conscious; Phœbe looks conscious; therefore Phœbe is in love! It is defective in the major, you see, so it could not enter her brain.’
‘Then, Bertha, do not let any one guess it. I shall speak to Mervyn to-morrow, and write to Robin. It is their due, but no one else must know it—no, not for a long time—years perhaps.’
‘You do not mean to wait for years?’
‘We must.’
‘Then what’s the use of having thirty thousand pounds?’
‘No, Bertha, it would not be like him to be content with
owing all to my fortune, and beginning life in idleness. It would be just enough to live on, with none of the duties of property, and that would never do! I could not wish it for him, and he has his brothers to provide for.’
‘Well, let him work for them, and have your money to make capital! Really, Phœbe, I would not lose such a chance of going out and seeing those glorious Lakes!’
‘I have Maria to consider.’
‘Maria! And why are you to be saddled with Maria?’
‘Because I promised my mother—I promised myself—I promised Mervyn, that she should be my care. I have told him of that promise, and he accepts it most kindly.’
‘You cannot leave her to me? Oh! Phœbe, do you still think me as hateful as I used to be?’
‘Dear, dear Bertha, I have full trust in your affection for her; but I undertook the charge, and I cannot thrust it on to another, who might—’
‘Don’t say that, Phœbe,’ cried Bertha, impetuously; ‘I am the one to have her! I who certainly never can, never shall, marry—I who am good for nothing but to look after her. Say you do not think me unworthy of her, Phœbe.’
‘I say no such thing,’ said Phœbe, affectionately, ‘but there is no use in discussing the matter. Dear Bertha, leave me, and compose yourself.’
Truly, during that evening Bertha was the agitated one, her speech much affected, and her gestures restless, while Phœbe sat over her work, her needle going swiftly and evenly, and her eyes beaming with her quiet depth of thankful bliss.
In the morning, again, it was Bertha who betrayed an uneasy restlessness, and irrepressible desire to banish Miss Fennimore and Maria from the drawing-room, till the governess, in perplexity, began to think of consulting Phœbe whether a Jack Hastings affair could be coming over again.
Phœbe simply trusted to the promise, and went about her morning’s avocations with a heart at rest, and when at last Humfrey Randolf did hurry in for a few moments, before he must rush back to the Holt, her greeting was so full of reliance and composure that Miss Fennimore perceived nothing. Bertha, however, rested not. As well as she could, under a fearful access of stammering, she insisted that Mr. Randolf should come into the dining-room to look at a—a—a—a—a—’
‘Ah, well!’ thought Miss Fennimore, ‘Phœbe is gone, too, so she will keep guard.’
If Miss Fennimore could have looked through the door, she would have seen the astonished Maria pounced upon, as if in sport, pulled up-stairs, and desired by Bertha to find her book of dried flowers to show Mr. Randolf. Naughty Bertha, who really did not believe the dried flowers had ever been brought home from Woolstone-lane! It served the manœuvrer right, that Maria, after one look at the shelves, began to cry out for
Phœbe to come and find them. But it signified the less since the lovers had not left the hall, and had exchanged all the words that there was time for before Bertha, at the sound of the re-opening door, flew down to put her hand into Humfrey’s and grasp it tightly, looking in his face instead of speaking. ‘Thank you,’ he said, returning the pressure, and was gone. ‘We improve as we go on. Number three is the best of my brothers-in-law, Phœbe,’ said Bertha, lightly. Then leaving Phœbe to pacify Maria about the flowers, she went into her own room, and cried bitterly and overpoweringly.