her perplexities between Miss Charlecote’s religion and Miss Fennimore’s reason, and all her practical doubts between Robert’s conflicting duties. Strangely enough, the question, ‘What would Mr. Charlecote have thought?’ often aided her to cast the balance. Though it was still Phœbe who decided, it was Phœbe drawn out of herself, and strengthened by her mask.
With vivid interest, such as for a living man would have amounted to love, she seized and hoarded each particle of intelligence that she could gain respecting the object of her admiration. Honora herself, though far more naturally enthusiastic, had, with her dreamy nature and diffused raptures, never been capable of thus reverencing him, nor of the intensity of feeling of one whose restrained imagination and unromantic education gave force to all her sensations. Yet this deep individual regard was a more wholesome tribute than Honor had ever paid to him, or to her other idol, for to Phœbe it was a step, lifting her to things above and beyond, a guide on the road, never a vision obscuring the true object.
Six weeks had quietly passed, when, like a domestic thunderbolt, came Juliana’s notification of her intention to return home at the end of a week. Mrs. Fulmort, clinging to her single thread of comfort, hoped that Phœbe might still be allowed to come to her boudoir, but the gentlemen more boldly declared that they wanted Phœbe, and would not have her driven back into the schoolroom; to which the mother only replied with fears that Juliana would be in a dreadful temper, whereon Mervyn responded, ‘Let her! Never mind her, Phœbe. Stick up for yourself, and we’ll put her down.’
Except for knowing that she was useful to her mother, Phœbe would have thankfully retired into the west wing, rather than have given umbrage. Mervyn’s partisanship was particularly alarming, and, endeavour as she might to hope that Juliana would be amiable enough to be disarmed by her own humility and unobtrusiveness, she lived under the impression of disagreeables impending.
One morning at breakfast, Mr. Fulmort, after grumbling out his wonder at Juliana’s writing to him, suddenly changed his tone into, ‘Hollo! what’s this? “My engagement—”’
‘By Jove!’ shouted Mervyn; ‘too good to be true. So she’s done it. I didn’t think he’d been such an ass, having had one escape.’
‘Who?’ continued Mr. Fulmort, puzzling, as he held the letter far off—‘engagement to dear—dear Devil, does she say?’
‘The only fit match,’ muttered Mervyn, laughing. ‘No, no, sir! Bevil—Sir Bevil Acton.’
‘What! not the fellow that gave us so much trouble! He had not a sixpence; but she must please herself now.’
‘You don’t mean that you didn’t know what she went with the Merivales for?—five thousand a year and a baronetcy, eh?’