Читать книгу Hopes and Fears or, scenes from the life of a spinster - Yonge Charlotte Mary - Страница 6

A June evening shed a slanting light over the greensward of Hiltonbury Holt, and made the western windows glisten like diamonds, as Honora Charlecote slowly walked homewards to her solitary evening meal, alone, except for the nearly blind old pointer who laid his grizzled muzzle upon her knees, gazing wistfully into her face, as seating herself upon the step of the sun-dial, she fondled his smooth, depressed black head.

‘Poor Ponto!’ she said, ‘we are grown old together.  Our young ones are all gone.’

Grown old?  Less old in proportion than Ponto—still in full vigour of mind and body, but old in disenchantment, and not without the traces of her forty-seven years.  The auburn hair was still in rich masses of curl; only on close inspection were silver threads to be detected; the cheek was paler, the brow worn, and the gravely handsome dress was chosen to suit the representative of the Charlecotes, not with regard to lingering youthfulness.  The slow movement, subdued tone, and downcast eye, had an air of habitual dejection and patience, as though disappointment had gone deeper, or solitude were telling more on the spirits, than any past blow had done.

She saw the preparations for her tea going on within the window, but ere going indoors, she took out and re-read two letters.

The first was in the irregular decided characters affected by young ladies in the reaction from their grandmothers’ pointed illegibilities, and bore a scroll at the top, with the word ‘Cilly,’ in old English letters of bright blue.

‘Lowndes Square, June 14th.

‘My dear Honor,—Many thanks for wishing for your will-o’-th’-wisp again, but it is going to dance off in another direction.  Rashe and I are bound to the west of Ireland, as soon as Charles’s inauguration is over at Castle Blanch; an odd jumble of festivities it is to be, but Lolly is just cockney enough to be determinedly rural, and there’s sure to be some fun to be got out of it; besides, I am pacified by having my special darling, Edna Murrell, the lovely schoolmistress at Wrapworth, to sing to them.  How Mr. Calthorp will admire her, as long as he thinks she is Italian!  It will be hard if I can’t get a rise out of some of them!  This being the case, I have not a moment for coming home; but I send some contributions for the prize-giving, some stunning articles from the Lowther Arcade.  The gutta-percha face is for Billy Harrison, whether in disgrace or not.  He deserves compensation for his many weary hours of Sunday School, and it may suggest a new art for beguiling the time.  Mind you tell him it is from me, with my love; and bestow the rest on all the chief reprobates.  I wish I could see them; but you have no loss, you know how unedifying I am.  Kiss Ponto for me, and ask Robin for his commands to Connaught.  I know his sulkiness will transpire through Phœbe.  Love to that dear little Cinderella, and tell her mamma and Juliana, that if she does not come out this winter, Mrs. Fulmort shall have no peace and Juliana no partners.  Please to look in my room for my great nailed boots and hedging-gloves, also for the pig’s wool in the left-hand drawer of the cabinet, and send them to me before the end of next week.  Owen would give his ears to come with us, but gentlemen would only obstruct Irish chivalry; I am only afraid there is no hope of a faction fight.  Mr. Saville called yesterday, so I made him dine here, and sung him into raptures.  What a dear old Don he is!

‘Your affectionate cousin,      Cilly.’

The second letter stood thus:—

‘Farrance’s Hotel, June 14th.

‘My dear miss Charlecote,—I have seen Lawrence on your business, and he will prepare the leases for your signature.  He suggests that it might be more satisfactory to wait, in case you should be coming to town, so that you might have a personal meeting with the parties; but this will be for you to determine.  I came up from – College on Wednesday, having much enjoyed my visit.  Oxford is in many respects a changed place, but as long as our old Head remains to us, I am sure of a gratifying welcome, and I saw many old friends.  I exchanged cards with Owen Sandbrook, but only saw him as we met in the street, and a very fine-looking youth he is, a perfect Hercules, and the champion of his college in all feats of strength; likely, too, to stand well in the class list.  His costume was not what we should once have considered academical; but his is a daring set, intellectual as well as bodily, and the clever young men of the present day are not what they were in my time.  It is gratifying to hear how warmly and affectionately he talks of you.  I do not know how far you have undertaken the supplies, but I give you a hint that a warning on that subject might not be inappropriate, unless they have come into some great accession of fortune on their uncle’s death.  I ventured to call upon the young lady in Lowndes Square, and was most graciously received, and asked to dinner by the young Mrs. Charteris.  It was a most récherché dinner in the new Italian fashion, which does not quite approve itself to me.  “Regardless of expense,” seems to be the family motto.  Your pupil sings better than ever, and knew how to keep her hold of my heart, though I suspected her of patronizing the old parson to pique her more brilliant admirers, whom she possesses in plenty; and no wonder, for she is pretty enough to turn any man’s head and shows to great advantage beside her cousin, Miss Charteris.  I hope you will be able to prevent the cousins from really undertaking the wild plan of travelling alone in Ireland, for the sake, they say, of salmon-fishing.  I should have thought them not in earnest, but girls are as much altered as boys from the days of my experience, and brothers, too; for Mr. Charteris seemed to view the scheme very coolly; but, as I told my friend Lucilla, I hope you will bring her to reason.  I hope your hay-crop promises favourably.

‘Yours sincerely,      W. Saville.’

No wonder that these letters made loneliness more lonely!

‘Oh, that Horatia!’ exclaimed she, almost aloud.  ‘Oh, that Captain Charteris were available!  No one else ever had any real power with Lucy!  It was an unlucky day when he saw that colonial young lady, and settled down in Vancouver’s Island!  And yet how I used to wish him away, with the surly independence he was always infusing into Owen.  Wanting to take him out there, indeed!  And yet, and yet—I sometimes doubt whether I did right to set my personal influence over my dear affectionate boy so much in opposition to his uncle—Mr. Charteris was on my side, though!  And I always took care to have it clearly understood that it was his education alone that I undertook.  What can Mr. Saville mean?—The supplies?  Owen knows what he has to trust to, but I can talk to him.  A daring set!—Yes, everything appears daring to an old-world man like Mr. Saville.  I am sure of my Owen; with our happy home Sundays.  I know I am his Sweet Honey still.  And yet’—then hastily turning from that dubious ‘and yet’—‘Owen is the only chance for his sister.  She does care for him; and he will view this mad scheme in the right light.  Shall I meet him at the beginning of the vacation, and see what he can do with Lucy?  Mr. Saville thinks I ought to be in London, and I think I might be useful to the Parsonses.  I suppose I must; but it is a heart-ache to be at St. Wulstan’s.  One is used to it here; and there are the poor people, and the farm, and the garden—yes, and those dear nightingales—and you, poor Ponto!  One is used to it here, but St. Wulstan’s is a fresh pain, and so is coming back.  But, if it be in the way of right, and to save poor Lucy, it must be, and it is what life is made of.  It is a “following of the funeral” of the hopes that sprang up after my spring-time.  Is it my chastisement, or is it my training?  Alas! maybe I took those children more for myself than for duty’s sake!  May it all be for their true good in the end, whatever it may be with me.  And now I will not dream.  It is of no use save to unnerve me.  Let me go to my book.  It must be a story to-night.  I cannot fix my attention yet.’

As she rose, however, her face brightened at the sight of two advancing figures, and she went forward to meet them.

One was a long, loosely-limbed youth of two-and-twenty, with broad shoulders, a heavy overhanging brow, dark gray serious eyes, and a mouth scarcely curved, and so fast shut as to disclose hardly any lip.  The hair was dark and lank; the air was of ungainly force, that had not yet found its purpose, and therefore was not at ease; and but for the educated cast of countenance he would have had a peasant look, in the brown, homely undress garb, which to most youths of his age would have been becoming.

With him was a girl, tall, slim, and lightly made, though of nicely rounded figure.  In height she looked like seventeen, but her dress was more childish than usual at that age; and the contour of her smooth cheeks and short rounded chin, her long neck, her happy blue eyes, fully opened like those of a child, her fair rosy skin and fresh simple air, might almost have belonged to seven years old: and there was all the earnestness, innocence, and careless ease of childhood in her movements and gestures, as she sprang forward to meet Miss Charlecote, exclaiming, ‘Robin said I might come.’

‘And very right of him.  You are both come to tea?’ she added, in affirmative interrogation, as she shook hands with the young man.

‘No, thank you,’ he answered; ‘at least I only brought Phœbe, having rescued her from Miss Fennimore’s clutches.  I must be at dinner.  But I will come again for her.’  And he yawned wearily.

‘I will drive her back; you are tired.’

‘No!’ he said.  ‘At least the walk is one of the few tolerable things there is.  I’ll come as soon as I can escape, Phœbe.  Past seven—I must go!’

‘Can’t you stay?  I could find some food for you.’

‘No, thank you,’ he still said; ‘I do not know whether Mervyn will come home, and there must not be too many empty chairs.  Good-bye!’ and he walked off with long strides, but with stooping shoulders, and an air of dejection almost amounting to discontent.

‘Poor Robin!’ said Honora, ‘I wish he could have stayed.’

‘He would have liked it very much,’ said Phœbe, casting wistful glances toward him.

‘What a pity he did not give notice of his intentions at home!’

‘He never will.  He particularly dislikes—’

‘What?’ as Phoebe paused and coloured.

‘Saying anything to anybody,’ she answered with a little smile.  ‘He cannot endure remarks.’

‘I am a very sober old body for a visit to me to be the occasion of remarks!’ said Honor, laughing more merrily than perhaps Robert himself could have done; but Phœbe answered with grave, straightforward sincerity, ‘Yes, but he did not know if Lucy might not be come home.’

Honora sighed, but playfully said, ‘In which case he would have stayed?’

‘No,’ said the still grave girl, ‘he would have been still less likely to do so.’

‘Ah! the remarks would have been more pointed!  But he has brought you at any rate, and that is something!  How did he achieve it?’

‘Miss Fennimore is really quite ready to be kind,’ said Phœbe, earnestly, with an air of defence, ‘whenever we have finished all that we have to do.’

‘And when is that?’ asked Honor, smiling.

‘Now for once,’ answered Phœbe, with a bright arch look.  ‘Yes, I sometimes can; and so does Bertha when she tries; and, indeed, Miss Charlecote, I do like Miss Fennimore; she never is hard upon poor Maria.  No governess we ever had made her cry so seldom.’

Miss Charlecote only said it was a comfort.  Within herself she hoped that, for Maria’s peace and that of all concerned, her deficiency might become an acknowledged fact.  She saw that the sparing Maria’s tears was such a boon to Phœbe as to make her forgive all overtasking of herself.

‘So you get on better,’ she said.

‘Much better than Robin chooses to believe we do,’ said Phœbe, smiling; ‘perhaps it seemed hard at first, but it is comfortable to be made to do everything thoroughly, and to be shown a better best than we had ever thought of.  I think it ought to be a help in doing the duty of all one’s life in a thorough way.’

‘All that thou hast to do,’ said Honor, smiling, ‘the week-day side of the fourth commandment.’

‘Yes, that is just the reason why I like it,’ said Phœbe, with bright gladness in her countenance.

‘But is that the motive Miss Fennimore puts before you?’ said Honor, a little ironically.

‘She does not say so,’ answered Phœbe.  ‘She says that she never interferes with her pupils’ religious tenets.  But, indeed, I do not think she teaches us anything wrong, and there is always Robert to ask.’

This passed as the two ladies were entering the house and preparing for the evening meal.  The table was placed in the bay of the open window, and looked very inviting, the little silver tea-pot steaming beside the two quaint china cups, the small crisp twists of bread, the butter cool in ice-plant leaves, and some fresh fruit blushing in a pretty basket.  The Holt was a region of Paradise to Phœbe Fulmort; and glee shone upon her sweet face, though it was very quiet enjoyment, as the summer breeze played softly round her cheeks and danced with a merry little spiral that had detached itself from her glossy folds of light hair.

‘How delicious!’ she said.  ‘How sweet the honeysuckle is, dear old thing!  You say you have known it all your life, and yet it is fresh as ever.’

‘It is a little like you, Phœbe,’ said Honor, smiling.

‘What! because it is not exactly a pretty flower?’

‘Partly; and I could tell you of a few other likenesses, such as your being Robert’s woodbine, yet with a sort of clinging freedom.  Yes, and for the qualities you share with the willow, ready to give thanks and live on the least that Heaven may give.’

‘But I don’t live on the least that Heaven may give,’ said Phœbe, in such wonder that Honor smiled at the justice of her simile, without impressing it upon Phœbe, only asking—

‘Is the French journey fixed upon, Phœbe?’

‘Yes; they start this day fortnight.’

‘They—not you?’

‘No; there would be no room for me,’ with a small sigh.

‘How can that be?  Who is going?  Papa, mamma, two sisters!’

‘Mervyn,’ added Phœbe, ‘the courier, and the two maids.’

‘Two maids!  Impossible!’

‘It is always uncomfortable if mamma and my sisters have only one between them,’ said Phœbe, in her tone of perfect acquiescence and conviction; and as her friend could not restrain a gesture of indignation, she added eagerly—‘But, indeed, it is not only for that reason, but Miss Fennimore says I am not formed enough to profit by foreign travel.’

‘She wants you to finish Smith’s Wealth of Nations, eh?’

‘It might be a pity to go away and lose so much of her teaching,’ said Phœbe, with persevering contentment.  ‘I dare say they will go abroad again, and perhaps I shall never have so much time for learning.  But, Miss Charlecote, is Lucilla coming home for the Horticultural Show?’

‘I am afraid not, my dear.  I think I shall go to London to see about her, among other things.  The Charterises seem to have quite taken possession of her, ever since she went to be her cousin Caroline’s bridesmaid, and I must try to put in my claim.’

‘Ah!  Robin so much wished to have seen her,’ sighed Phœbe.  ‘He says he cannot settle to anything.’

‘Without seeing her?’ said Honor, amused, though not without pain.

‘Yes,’ said Phœbe; ‘he has thought so much about Lucilla.’

‘And he tells you?’

‘Yes,’ in a voice expressing of course; while the frank, clear eyes turned full on Miss Charlecote with such honest seriousness, that she thought Phœbe’s charm as a confidante might be this absence of romantic consciousness; and she knew of old that when Robert wanted her opinion or counsel, he spared his own embarrassment by seeking it through his favourite sister.  Miss Charlecote’s influence had done as much for Robert as he had done for Phœbe, and Phœbe had become his medium of communication with her in all matters of near and delicate interest.  She was not surprised when the maiden proceeded—‘Papa wants Robin to attend to the office while he is away.’

‘Indeed!  Does Robin like it?’

‘He would not mind it for a time; but papa wants him, besides, to take to the business in earnest.  You know, my great-uncle, Robert Mervyn, left Robert all his fortune, quite in his own hands; and papa says that if he were to put that into the distillery it would do the business great good, and that Robert would be one of the richest men in England in ten years’ time.’

‘But that would be a complete change in his views,’ exclaimed Honor, unable to conceal her disapproval and consternation.

‘Just so,’ answered Phœbe; ‘and that is the reason why he wants to see Lucy.  She always declared that she could not bear people in business, and we always thought of him as likely to be a clergyman; but, on the other hand, she has become used to London society, and it is only by his joining in the distillery that he could give her what she is accustomed to, and that is the reason he is anxious to see her.’

‘So Lucy is to decide his fate,’ said Honora.  ‘I am almost sorry to hear it.  Surely, he has never spoken to her.’

‘He never does speak,’ said Phœbe, with the calm gravity of simplicity which was like a halo of dignity.  ‘There is no need of speaking.  Lucilla knows how he feels as well as she knows that she breathes the air.’

And regards it as little, perhaps, thought Honor, sadly.  ‘Poor Robin!’ she said; ‘I suppose he had better get his mind settled; but indeed it is a fearful responsibility for my poor foolish Lucy—’ and but for the fear of grieving Phœbe, she would have added, that such a purpose as that of entering Holy Orders ought not to have been made dependent upon the fancy of a girl.  Possibly her expression betrayed her sentiments, for Phœbe answered—‘There can be no doubt that Lucy will set him at rest.  I am certain that she would be shocked at the notion that her tastes were making him doubt whether to be a clergyman.’

‘I hope so!  I trust so!’ said Honora, almost mournfully.  ‘It may be very good for her, as I believe it is for every woman of any soundness, to be taught that her follies tell upon man’s greater aims and purposes.  It may be wholesome for her and a check, but—’

Phœbe wondered that her friend paused and looked so sad.

‘Oh! Phœbe,’ said Honora, after a moment’s silence, speaking fervently, ‘if you can in any way do so, warn your brother against making an idol!  Let nothing come between him and the direct devotion of will and affection to the Higher Service.  If he decide on the one or the other, let it be from duty, not with respect to anything else.  I do not suppose it is of any use to warn him,’ she added, with the tears in her eyes.  ‘Every one sets the whole soul upon some one object, not the right, and then comes the shipwreck.’

‘Dear Robin!’ said Phœbe.  ‘He is so good!  I am sure he always thinks first of what is right.  But I think I see what you mean.  If he undertake the business, it should be as a matter of obedience to papa, not to keep Lucy in the great world.  And, indeed, I do not think my father does care much, only he would like the additional capital; and Robert is so much more steady than Mervyn, that he would be more useful.  Perhaps it would make him more important at home; no one there has any interest in common with him; and I think that moves him a little; but, after all, those do not seem reasons for not giving himself to God’s service,’ she finished, reverently and considerately.

‘No, indeed!’ cried Miss Charlecote.

‘Then you think he ought not to change his mind?’

‘You have thought so all along,’ smiled Honor.

‘I did not like it,’ said Phœbe, ‘but I did not know if I were right.  I did tell him that I really believed Lucy would think the more highly of him if he settled for himself without reference to her.’

‘You did!  You were a capital little adviser, Phœbe!  A woman worthy to be loved at all had always rather be set second instead of first:—

That is the true spirit, and I am glad you judged Lucy to be capable of it.  Keep your brother up to that, and all may be well!’

‘I believe Robert knows it all the time,’ said Phœbe.  ‘He always is right at the bottom; but his feelings get so much tried that he does not know how to bear it!  I hope Lucy will be kind to him if they meet in London, for he has been so much harassed that he wants some comfort from her.  If she would only be in earnest!’

‘Does he go to London, at all events?’

‘He has promised to attend to the office in Great Whittington-street for a month, by way of experiment.’

‘I’ll tell you what, Phœbe,’ cried Honora, radiantly, ‘you and I will go too!  You shall come with me to Woolstone-lane, and Robin shall be with us every day; and we will try and make this silly Lucy into a rational being.’

‘Oh! Miss Charlecote, thank you—thank you.’  The quiet girl’s face and neck were all one crimson glow of delight.

‘If you can sleep in a little brown cupboard of a room in the very core of the City’s heart.’

‘Delightful!  I have so wished to see that house.  Owen has told me such things about it.  Oh, thank you, Miss Charlecote!’

‘Have you ever seen anything in London?’

‘Never.  We hardly ever go with the rest; and if we do, we only walk in the square.  What a holiday it will be!’

‘We will see everything, and do it justice.  I’ll get an order for the print-room at the British Museum.  I day say Robin never saw it either; and what a treat it will be to take you to the Egyptian Gallery!’ cried Honora, excited into looking at the expedition in the light of a party of pleasure, as she saw happiness beaming in the young face opposite.

They built up their schemes in the open window, pausing to listen to the nightingales, who, having ceased for two hours, apparently for supper, were now in full song, echoing each other in all the woods of Hiltonbury, casting over it a network of sweet melody.  Honora was inclined to regret leaving them in their glory; but Phœbe, with the world before her, was too honest to profess poetry which she did not feel.  Nightingales were all very well in their place, but the first real sight of London was more.

The lamp came in, and Phœbe held out her hands for something to do, and was instantly provided with a child’s frock, while Miss Charlecote read to her one of Fouqué’s shorter tales by way of supplying the element of chivalrous imagination which was wanting in the Beauchamp system of education.

So warm was the evening, that the window remained open, until Ponto erected his crest as a footfall came steadily along, nearer and nearer.  Uplifting one of his pendant lips, he gave a low growl through his blunted teeth, and listened again; but apparently satisfied that the step was familiar, he replaced his head on his crossed paws, and presently Robert Fulmort’s head and the upper part of his person, in correct evening costume, were thrust in at the window, the moonlight making his face look very white, as he said, ‘Come, Phœbe, make haste; it is very late.’

‘Is it?’ cried Phœbe, springing up; ‘I thought I had only been here an hour.’

‘Three, at least,’ said Robert, yawning; ‘six by my feelings.  I could not get away, for Mr. Crabbe stayed to dinner; Mervyn absented himself, and my father went to sleep.’

‘Robin, only think, Miss Charlecote is so kind as to say she will take me to London!’

‘It is very kind,’ said Robert, warmly, his weary face and voice suddenly relieved.

‘I shall be delighted to have a companion,’ said Honora; ‘and I reckon upon you too, Robin, whenever you can spare time from your work.  Come in, and let us talk it over.’

‘Thank you, I can’t.  The dragon will fall on Phœbe if I keep her out too late.  Be quick, Phœbe.’

While his sister went to fetch her hat, he put his elbows on the sill, and leaning into the room, said, ‘Thank you again; it will be a wonderful treat to her, and she has never had one in her life!’

‘I was in hopes she would have gone to Germany.’

‘It is perfectly abominable!  It is all the others’ doing!  They know no one would look at them a second time if anything so much younger and pleasanter was by!  They think her coming out would make them look older.  I know it would make them look crosser.’

Laughing was the only way to treat this tirade, knowing, as Honor did, that there was but too much truth in it.  She said, however, ‘Yet one could hardly wish Phœbe other than she is.  The rosebud keeps its charm longer in the shade.’

‘I like justice,’ quoth Robert.

‘And,’ she continued, ‘I really think that she is much benefited by this formidable governess.  Accuracy and solidity and clearness of head are worth cultivating.’

‘Nasty latitudinarian piece of machinery,’ said Robert, with his fingers over his mouth, like a sulky child.

‘Maybe so; but you guard Phœbe, and she guards Bertha; and whatever your sense of injustice may be, this surely is a better school for her than gaieties as yet.’

‘It will be a more intolerable shame than ever if they will not let her go with you.’

‘Too intolerable to be expected,’ smiled Honora.  ‘I shall come and beg for her to-morrow, and I do not believe I shall be disappointed.’

She spoke with the security of one not in the habit of having her patronage obstructed by relations; and Phœbe coming down with renewed thanks, the brother and sister started on their way home in the moonlight—the one plodding on moodily, the other, unable to repress her glee, bounding on in a succession of little skips, and pirouetting round to clap her hands, and exclaim, ‘Oh! Robin, is it not delightful?’

‘If they will let you go,’ said he, too desponding for hope.

‘Do you think they will not?’ said Phœbe, with slower and graver steps.  ‘Do you really think so?  But no!  It can’t lead to coming out; and I know they like me to be happy when it interferes with nobody.’

‘Great generosity,’ said Robert, dryly.

‘Oh, but, Robin, you know elder ones come first.’

‘A truth we are not likely to forget,’ said Robert.  ‘I wish my uncle had been sensible of it.  That legacy of his stands between Mervyn and me, and will never do me any good.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Phœbe; ‘Mervyn has always been completely the eldest son.’

‘Ay,’ returned Robert, ‘and with the tastes of an eldest son.  His allowance does not suffice for them, and he does not like to see me independent.  If my uncle had only been contented to let us share and share alike, then my father would have had no interest in drawing me into the precious gin and brandy manufacture.’

‘You did not think he meant to make it a matter of obedience,’ said Phœbe.

‘No; he could hardly do that after the way he has brought me up, and what we have been taught all our lives about liberty of the individual, absence of control, and the like jargon.’

‘Then you are not obliged?’

He made no answer, and they walked on in silence across the silvery lawn, the maythorns shining out like flaked towers of snow in the moonlight, and casting abyss-like shadows, the sky of the most deep and intense blue, and the carols of the nightingales ringing around them.  Robert paused when he had passed through the gate leading into the dark path down-hill through the wood, and setting his elbows on it, leant over it, and looked back at the still and beautiful scene, in all the white mystery of moonlight, enhanced by the white-blossomed trees and the soft outlines of slumbering sheep.  One of the birds, in a bush close to them, began prolonging its drawn-in notes in a continuous prelude, then breaking forth into a varied complex warbling, so wondrous that there was no moving till the creature paused.

It seemed to have been a song of peace to Robert, for he gave a long but much softer sigh, and pushed back his hat, saying, ‘All good things dwell on the Holt side of the boundary.’

‘A sort of Sunday world,’ said Phœbe.

‘Yes; after this wood one is in another atmosphere.’

‘Yet you have carried your cares there, poor Robin.’

‘So one does into Sunday, but to get another light thrown on them.  The Holt has been the blessing of my life—of both our lives, Phœbe.’

She responded with all her heart.  ‘Yes, it has made everything happier, at home and everywhere else.  I never can think why Lucilla is not more fond of it.’

‘You are mistaken,’ exclaimed Robert; ‘she loves no place so well; but you don’t consider what claims her relations have upon her.  That cousin Horatia, to whom she is so much attached, losing both her parents, how could she do otherwise than be with her?’

‘Miss Charteris does not seem to be in great trouble now,’ said Phœbe.

‘You do not consider; you have never seen grief, and you do not know how much more a sympathizing friend is needed when the world supposes the sorrow to be over, and ordinary habits to be resumed.’

Phœbe was willing to believe him right, though considering that Horatia Charteris lived with her brother and his wife, she could hardly be as lonely as Miss Charlecote.

‘We shall see Lucy in London,’ she said.

Robert again sighed heavily.  ‘Then it will be over,’ he said.  ‘Did you say anything there?’ he pursued, as they plunged into the dark shadows of the woodland path, more congenial to the subject than the light.

‘Yes, I did,’ said Phœbe.

‘And she thought me a weak, unworthy wretch for ever dreaming of swerving from my original path.’

‘No!’ said Phœbe, ‘not if it were your duty.’

‘I tell you, Phœbe, it is as much my duty to consult Lucilla’s happiness as if any words had passed between us.  I have never pledged myself to take Orders.  It has been only a wish, not a vocation; and if she have become averse to the prospect of a quiet country life, it would not be treating her fairly not to give her the choice of comparative wealth, though procured by means her family might despise.’

‘Yes, I knew you would put right and duty first; and I suppose by doing so you make it certain to end rightly, one way or other.’

‘A very few years, and I could realize as much as this Calthorp, the millionaire, whom they talk of as being so often at the Charterises.’

‘It will not be so,’ said Phœbe.  ‘I know what she will say;’ and as Robert looked anxiously at her, she continued—

‘She will say she never dreamt of your being turned from anything so great by any fancies she has seemed to have.  She will say so more strongly, for you know her father was a clergyman, and Miss Charlecote brought her up.’

Phœbe’s certainty made Robert catch something of her hopes.

‘In that case,’ he said, ‘matters might be soon settled.  This fortune of mine would be no misfortune then; and probably, Phœbe, my sisters would have no objection to your being happy with us.’

‘As soon as you could get a curacy!  Oh, how delightful! and Maria and Bertha would come too.’

Robert held his peace, not certain whether Lucilla would consider Maria an embellishment to his ideal parsonage; but they talked on with cheerful schemes while descending through the wood, unlocking a gate that formed the boundary between the Holt and the Beauchamp properties, crossing a field or two, and then coming out into the park.  Presently they were in sight of the house, rising darkly before them, with many lights shining in the windows behind the blinds.

‘They are all gone up-stairs!’ said Phœbe, dismayed.  ‘How late it must be!’

‘There’s a light in the smoking-room,’ said Robert; ‘we can get in that way.’

‘No, no!  Mervyn may have some one with him.  Come in quietly by the servants’ entrance.’

No danger that people would not be on foot there!  As the brother and sister moved along the long stone passage, fringed with labelled bells, one open door showed two weary maidens still toiling over the plates of the late dinner; and another, standing ajar, revealed various men-servants regaling themselves; and words and tones caught Robert’s ear making his brow lower with sudden pain.

Phœbe was proceeding to mount the stone stairs, when a rustling and chattering, as of maids descending, caused her and her brother to stand aside to make way, and down came a pair of heads and candles together over a green bandbox, and then voices in vulgar tones half suppressed.  ‘I couldn’t venture it, not with Miss Juliana—but Miss Fulmort—she never looks over her bills, nor knows what is in her drawers—I told her it was faded, when she had never worn it once!’

And tittering, they passed by the brother and sister, who were still unseen, but Robert heaved a sigh and murmured, ‘Miserable work!’ somewhat to his sister’s surprise, for to her the great ill-regulated household was an unquestioned institution, and she did not expect him to bestow so much compassion on Augusta’s discarded bonnet.  At the top of the steps they opened a door, and entered a great wide hall.  All was exceedingly still.  A gas-light was burning over the fire-place, but the corners were in gloom, and the coats and cloaks looked like human figures in the distance.  Phœbe waited while Robert lighted her candle for her.  Albeit she was not nervous, she started when a door was sharply pushed open, and another figure appeared; but it was nothing worse than her brother Mervyn, in easy costume, and redolent of tobacco.

About three years older than Robert, he was more neatly though not so strongly made, shorter, and with more regular features, but much less countenance.  If the younger brother had a worn and dejected aspect, the elder, except in moments of excitement, looked bored.  It was as if Robert really had the advantage of him in knowing what to be out of spirits about.

‘Oh! it’s you, is it?’ said he, coming forward, with a sauntering, scuffling movement in his slippers.  ‘You larking, Phœbe?  What next?’

‘I have been drinking tea with Miss Charlecote,’ explained Phœbe.

Mervyn slightly shrugged his shoulders, murmuring something about ‘Lively pastime.’

‘I could not fetch her sooner,’ said Robert, ‘for my father went to sleep, and no one chose to be at the pains of entertaining Crabbe.’

‘Ay—a prevision of his staying to dinner made me stay and dine with the –th mess.  Very sagacious—eh, Pheebe?’ said he, turning, as if he liked to look into her fresh face.

‘Too sagacious,’ said she, smiling; ‘for you left him all to Robert.’

Manner and look expressed that this was a matter of no concern, and he said ungraciously: ‘Nobody detained Robert, it was his own concern.’

‘Respect to my father and his guests,’ said Robert, with downright gravity that gave it the effect of a reproach.

Mervyn only raised his shoulders up to his ears in contempt, took up his candle, and wished Phœbe good night.

Poor Mervyn Fulmort!  Discontent had been his life-long comrade.  He detested his father’s occupation as galling to family pride, yet was greedy both of the profits and the management.  He hated country business and country life, yet chafed at not having the control of his mother’s estate, and grumbled at all his father’s measures.  ‘What should an old distiller know of landed property?’  In fact he saw the same difference between himself and his father as did the ungracious Plantagenet between the son of a Count and the son of a King: and for want of Provençal troubadours with whom to rebel, he supplied their place by the turf and the billiard-table.  At present he was expiating some heavy debts by a forced residence with his parents, and unwilling attention to the office, a most distasteful position, which he never attempted to improve, and which permitted him both the tedium of idleness and complaints against all the employment to which he was necessitated.

The ill-managed brothers were just nearly enough of an age for rivalry, and had never loved one another even as children.  Robert’s steadiness had been made a reproach to Mervyn, and his grave, rather surly character had never been conciliating.  The independence left to the younger brother by their mother’s relative was grudged by the elder as an injury to himself, and it was one of the misfortunes of Beauchamp that the two sons had never been upon happy terms together.  Indeed, save that Robert’s right principles and silent habits hindered him from readily giving or taking offence, there might have been positive outbreaks of a very unbrotherly nature.