‘Poor Lucy! it is one misfortune of pretty people, that they can seldom do what is taken amiss. She is small and feminine too, and essentially refined, whatever she can do. But I was very sorry for you to-day, Phœbe. Tell me all about your sister, my dear.’
‘They knew more than I did, if all that is true,’ said Phœbe. ‘Augusta wrote—oh! so kindly—and seemed so glad, that it made me very happy. And papa gave his consent readily to Robert’s doing as he pleased, and almost said something about his taking me to the wedding at Paris. If Lucy should—should accept Robin, I wonder if she would go too, and be bridesmaid!’
So they comforted themselves with a few pretty auguries, dressed, and went down to dinner, where Phœbe had made sure that, as before, Lucy would sit next Robin, and be subdued. Alas, no! Ladies were far too scarce articles for even the last but one to be the prize of a mere B.A. To know who were Phœbe’s own neighbours would have been distraction to Juliana, but they were lost on one in whom the art of conversation was yet undeveloped, and who was chiefly intent on reading her brother’s face, and catching what Lucy was saying. She had nearly given up listening in despair, when she heard, ‘Pistols? oh, of course. Rashe has gone to the expense of a revolver, but I extracted grandpapa’s from the family armoury—such little darlings. I’m strongly tempted to send a challenge, just to keep them in use—that’s because you despise me—I’m a crack shot—we practised every day last winter—women shoot much better than men, because they don’t make their hands unsteady—what can be better than the guidance of Ratia, the feminine of Ratio, reason, isn’t it?’
It is not quite certain that this horrible Latinity did not shock Miss Fennimore’s discreet pupil more than all the rest, as a wilful insult to Miss Charlecote’s education!
She herself was not to escape ‘the guidance of Ratia,’ after dinner. Her silence had been an additional proof to the good-natured Rashe that she was a child to be protected and entertained, so she paraded her through the rooms, coaxed her to play when no one was listening, showed her illustrated books and new-fashioned puzzles, and domineered over her so closely, that she had not a moment in which to speak a word to her brother, whom she saw disconsolately watching the hedge of
gentlemen round Lucy. Was it wrong to feel so ungrateful to a person exclusively devoted to her entertainment for that entire evening?
Phœbe had never known a room-mate nor the solace of a bed-time gossip, and by the time Miss Charlecote began to think of opening the door between their rooms, and discussing the disgusts of the day, the sounds of moving about had ceased. Honor looked in, and could not help advancing to the bedside to enjoy the sight of the rosy face in the sound healthful sleep, the lips unclosed, and the silken brown hair wound plainly across the round brow, the childish outline and expression of the features even sweeter in sleep than awake. It rested Honora’s wearied anxious spirit to watch the perfect repose of that innocent young face, and she stood still for some minutes, breathing an ejaculation that the child might ever be as guileless and peaceful as now, and then sighing at the thought of other young sleepers, beside whose couches even fonder prayers had been uttered, only, as it seemed, to be blown aside.
She was turning away, when Phœbe suddenly awoke, and was for a moment startled, half rising, asking if anything were the matter.
‘No, my dear; only I did not think you would have been in bed so quickly. I came to wish you good night, and found you asleep.’ And with the strong tender impulse of a gentle wounded spirit, Honor hung over the maiden, recomposing the clothes, and fondling her, with a murmured blessing.
‘Dear Miss Charlecote,’ whispered Phœbe, ‘how nice it is! I have so often wondered what it would be like, if any one came in to pet us at night, as they do in books; and oh! it is so nice! Say that again, please.’