‘My father had a map of London that I knew by heart, and after we came under Temple Bar, I marked the bearings of the streets. Before that I was not clear. Perhaps there have been changes since 1830, the date of his map.’
Phœbe opened a map, and he eagerly traced his route, pronouncing the names of the historical localities with a relish that made her almost sorry for their present associations. She liked his looks. He seemed to be about two or three and twenty, tall and well-made, with somewhat of the bearing of his soldier-father, but broad-shouldered and athletic, as though his strength had been exercised in actual bodily labour. His clear, light hazel eye was candid and well opened, with that peculiar prompt vigilance acquired by living in a wild country, both steady to observe and keen to keep watch. The dark chestnut hair covered a rather square brow, very fair, though the rest of the face was browned by sun and weather; the nose was straight and sensible, the chin short and firm; the lips, though somewhat compressed when shut, had a look of good-humour and cheerful intelligence peculiarly pleasant to behold. Altogether, it was a face that inspired trust.
Presently the entrance of the tea-things obliged the map to be cleared away; and Phœbe, while measuring out the tea, said that she supposed Miss Charlecote would soon come down.
‘Then are not you a Charlecote?’ he asked, with a tone of disappointment.
‘Oh, no! I am Phœbe Fulmort. There is no Charlecote left but herself.’
‘It was my mother’s name; and mine, Humfrey Charlecote Randolf. Sandbrook thought there was some connection between the families.’
Phœbe absolutely started, hurt for a moment that a stranger should presume to claim a name of such associations; yet as she met the bright, honest eyes, feeling glad that it should still be a living name, worthily borne. ‘It is an old family name at Hiltonbury, and one very much honoured,’ she said.
‘That is well,’ he said. ‘It is good to have a name that calls one to live up to it! And what is more strange, I am sure Miss Charlecote once had my mother’s hair.’
‘Beautiful ruddy gold?’
‘Yes, yes; like no one else. I was wanting to do like poor Sandbrook.’ He looked up in her face, and stroked her hair as she was leaning over him, and said, ‘I don’t like to miss my own curls.’