gathering, that at first only their hats were discernible—a broad gray one, with drooping feather, and a light Oxford boating straw hat. The merry ring of the clear girlish voice, the deep-toned replies, told him more than his first glance did; and with one inward ejaculation for self-command, he turned aside to the descent.
The rustling among the copsewood caught the ear of Phœbe, who was the highest up, and, springing up like a fawn in the covert, she cried,—‘Robin! dear Robin! how delicious!’ but ere she had made three bounds towards him, his face brought her to a pause, and, in an awe-struck voice, she asked, ‘Robert, what is it?’
‘It does not concern you, dearest; at least, I hope not. I want Owen Sandbrook.’
‘Then it is she. O Robin, can you bear it?’ she whispered, clinging to him, terrified by the agitated fondness of his embrace.
‘I know nothing of her,’ was his answer, interrupted by Owen, who, raising his handsome, ruddy face from beneath, shouted mirthfully—
‘Ha! Phœbe, what interloper have you caught? What, Fulmort, not quite grilled in the Wulstonian oven?’
‘I was in search of you. Wait there, Phœbe,’ said Robert, advancing to meet Owen, with a gravity of countenance that provoked an impatient gesture, and the question—
‘Come, have it out! Do you mean that you have been ferreting out some old scrape of mine?’
‘I mean,’ said Robert, looking steadily at him, ‘that I have been called in to baptize your sick child. Your wife is dying, and you must hasten if you would see her alive.’
‘That won’t do. You know better than that,’ returned Owen, with ill-concealed agitation, partaking of anger. ‘She was quite recovered when last I heard, but she is a famous hand at getting up a scene; and that mother of hers would drive Job out of his senses. They have worked on your weak mind. I was an ass to trust to the old woman’s dissent for hindering them from finding you out, and getting up a scene.’