Presently a gentleman’s handsome cabriolet and distinguished-looking horse were affording food for their descriptions, when, to her surprise, Sir Bevil emerged from it, and presently entered the room. He had come intending to take out his betrothed, and in her absence transferred the offer to her sister. Phœbe demurred, on more accounts than she could mention, but her mother remembering what a drive in a stylish equipage with a military baronet would once have been to herself, overruled her objections, and hurried her away to prepare. She quickly returned, a cheery spectacle in her russet dress and brown straw bonnet, and her scarlet neck-tie, the robin redbreast’s livery which she loved.
‘Your cheeks should be a refreshing sight to the Londoners, Phœbe,’ said Sir Bevil, with his rare, but most pleasant smile. ‘Where shall we go? You don’t seem much to care for the Park. I’m at your service wherever you like to go.’ And as Phœbe hesitated, with cheeks trebly beneficial to the Londoners, he kindly added, ‘Well, what is it? Never mind what! I’m open to anything—even Madame Tussaud’s.’
‘If I might go to see Robert. Augusta said he was looking ill.’
‘My dear!’ interposed her mother, ‘you can’t think of it. Such a dreadful place, and such a distance.’
‘It is only a little way beyond St. Paul’s, and there are no bad streets, dear mamma. I have been there with Miss Charlecote. But if it be too far, or you don’t like driving into the City, never mind,’ she continued, turning to Sir Bevil; ‘I ought to have said nothing about it.’
But Sir Bevil, reading the ardour of the wish in the honest face, pronounced the expedition an excellent idea, and carried her off with her eyes as round and sparkling as those of the children going to Christmas parties. He stole glances at her as if her fresh innocent looks were an absolute treat to him, and when he talked, it was of Robert in his boyhood. ‘I remember him at twelve years old, a sturdy young ruffian, with an excellent notion of standing up for himself.’
Phœbe listened with delight to some characteristic anecdotes of Robert’s youth, and wondered whether he would be appreciated now. She did not think Sir Bevil held the same opinions as Robert or Miss Charlecote; he was an upright, high-minded soldier, with honour and subordination his chief religion, and not likely to enter into Robert’s peculiarities. She was in some difficulty when she was asked whether her brother were not
under some cloud, or had not been taking a line of his own—a gentler form of inquiry, which she could answer with the simple truth.
‘Yes, he would not take a share in the business, because he thought it promoted evil, and he felt it right to do parish work at St. Wulstan’s, because our profits chiefly come from thence. It does not please at home, because they think he could have done better for himself, and he sometimes is obliged to interfere with Mervyn’s plans.’
Sir Bevil made the less answer because they were in the full current of London traffic, and his proud chestnut was snuffing the hat of an omnibus conductor. Careful driving was needed, and Phœbe was praised for never even looking frightened, then again for her organ of locality and the skilful pilotage with which she unerringly and unhesitatingly found the way through the Whittingtonian labyrinths; and as the disgusted tiger pealed at the knocker of Turnagain Corner, she was told she would be a useful guide in the South African bush. ‘At home,’ was the welcome reply, and in another second her arms were round Robert’s neck. There was a thorough brotherly greeting between him and Sir Bevil; each saw in the other a man to be respected, and Robert could not but be grateful to the man who brought him Phœbe.