She gives thee a garland woven fair,
Take care!
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!--LONGFELLOW, from MULLER
Behold Phoebe Fulmort seated in a train on the way to London. She was a
very pleasant spectacle to Miss Charlecote opposite to her, so peacefully
joyous was her face, as she sat with the wind breathing in on her, in the
calm luxury of contemplating the landscape gliding past the windows in
all its summer charms, and the repose of having no one to hunt her into
unvaried rationality.
Her eye was the first to detect Robert in waiting at the terminus, but he
looked more depressed than ever, and scarcely smiled as he handed them to
the carriage.
'Get in, Robert, you are coming home with us,' said Honor.
'You have so much to take, I should encumber you.'
'No, the sundries go in cabs, with the maids. Jump in.'
'Do your friends arrive to-night?'
'Yes; but that is no reason you should look so rueful! Make the most of
Phoebe beforehand. Besides, Mr. Parsons is a Wykehamist.'
Robert took his place on the back seat, but still as if he would have
preferred walking home. Neither his sister nor his friend dared to ask
whether he had seen Lucilla. Could she have refused him? or was her
frivolity preying on his spirits?
Phoebe tried to interest him by the account of the family migration, and
of Miss Fennimore's promise that Maria and Bertha should have two
half-hours of real play in the garden on each day when the lessons had
been properly done; and how she had been so kind as to let Maria leave
off trying to read a French book that had proved too hard for her, not
perceiving why this instance of good-nature was not cheering to her
brother.
Miss Charlecote's house was a delightful marvel to Phoebe from the moment
when she rattled into the paved court, entered upon the fragrant odour of
the cedar hall, and saw the Queen of Sheba's golden locks beaming with
the evening light. She entered the drawing-room, pleasant-looking
already, under the judicious arrangement of the housekeeper, who had set
out the Holt flowers and arranged the books, so that it seemed full of
welcome.
Phoebe ran from window to mantelpiece, enchanted with the quaint mixture
of old and new, admiring carving and stained glass, and declaring that
Owen had not prepared her for anything equal to this, until Miss
Charlecote, going to arrange matters with her housekeeper, left the
brother and sister together.
'Well, Robin!' said Phoebe, coming up to him anxiously.
He only crossed his arms on the mantelpiece, rested his head on them, and
sighed.
'Have you seen her?'
'Not to speak to her.'
'Have you called?'
'No.'
'Then where did you see her?'
'She was riding in the Park. I was on foot.'
'She could not have seen you!' exclaimed Phoebe.
'She did,' replied Robert; 'I was going to tell you. She gave me one of
her sweetest, brightest smiles, such as only she can give. You know
them, Phoebe. No assumed welcome, but a sudden flash and sparkle of real
gladness.'
'But why--what do you mean?' asked Phoebe; 'why have you not been to her?
I thought from your manner that she had been neglecting you, but it seems
to me all the other way.'
'I cannot, Phoebe; I cannot put my poor pretensions forward in the set
she is with. I know they would influence her, and that her decision
would not be calm and mature.'
'Her decision of what you are to be?'
'That is fixed,' said Robert, sighing.
'Indeed! With papa.'
'No, in my own mind. I have seen enough of the business to find that I
could in ten years quadruple my capital, and in the meantime maintain her
in the manner she prefers.'
'You are quite sure she prefers it?'
'She has done so ever since she could exercise a choice. I should feel
myself doing her an injustice if I were to take advantage of any
preference she may entertain for me to condemn her to what would be to
her a dreary banishment.'
'Not with you,' cried Phoebe.
'You know nothing about it, Phoebe. You have never led such a life, and
you it would not hurt--attract, I mean; but lovely, fascinating, formed
for admiration, and craving for excitement as she is, she is a being that
can only exist in society. She would be miserable in homely
retirement--I mean she would prey on herself. I could not ask it of her.
If she consented, it would be without knowing her own tastes. No; all
that remains is to find out whether she can submit to owe her wealth to
our business.'
'And shall you?'
'I could not but defer it till I should meet her here,' said Robert. 'I
shrink from seeing her with those cousins, or hearing her name with
theirs. Phoebe, imagine my feelings when, going into Mervyn's club with
him, I heard "Rashe Charteris and Cilly Sandbrook" contemptuously
discussed by those very names, and jests passing on their independent
ways. I know how it is. Those people work on her spirit of enterprise,
and she--too guileless and innocent to heed appearances. Phoebe, you do
not wonder that I am nearly mad!'
'Poor Robin!' said Phoebe affectionately. 'But, indeed, I am sure, if
Lucy once had a hint--no, one could not tell her, it would shock her too
much; but if she had the least idea that people could be so impertinent,'
and Phoebe's cheeks glowed with shame and indignation, 'she would only
wish to go away as far as she could for fear of seeing any of them again.
I am sure they were not gentlemen, Robin.'
'A man must be supereminently a gentleman to respect a woman who does not
_make_ him do so,' said Robert mournfully. 'That Miss Charteris! Oh!
that she were banished to Siberia!'
Phoebe meditated a few moments; then looking up, said, 'I beg your
pardon, Robin, but it does strike me that, if you think that this kind of
life is not good for Lucilla, it cannot be right to sacrifice your own
higher prospects to enable her to continue it.'
'I tell you, Phoebe,' said he, with some impatience, 'I never was
pledged. I may be of much more use and influence, and able to effect
more extended good as a partner in a concern like this than as an obscure
clergyman. Don't you see?'
Phoebe had only time to utter a somewhat melancholy 'Very likely,' before
Miss Charlecote returned to take her to her room, the promised brown
cupboard, all wainscoted with delicious cedar, so deeply and uniformly
panelled, that when shut, the door was not obvious; and it was like being
in a box, for there were no wardrobes, only shelves shut by doors into
the wall, which the old usage of the household tradition called awmries
(_armoires_). The furniture was reasonably modern, but not obtrusively
so. There was a delicious recess in the deep window, with a seat and a
table in it, and a box of mignonette along the sill. It looked out into
the little high-walled entrance court, and beyond to the wall of the
warehouse opposite; and the roar of the great city thoroughfare came like
the distant surging of the ocean. Seldom had young maiden's bower given
more satisfaction. Phoebe looked about her as if she hardly knew how to
believe in anything so unlike her ordinary life, and she thanked her
friend again and again with such enthusiasm, that Miss Charlecote laughed
as she told her she liked the old house to be appreciated, since it had,
like Pompeii, been potted for posterity.
'And thank you, my dear,' she added with a sigh, 'for making my coming
home so pleasant. May you never know how I dreaded the finding it full
of emptiness.'
'Dear Miss Charlecote!' cried Phoebe, venturing upon a warm kiss, and
thrilled with sad pleasure as she was pressed in a warm, clinging
embrace, and felt tears on her cheek. 'You have been so happy here!'
'It is not the past, my dear,' said Honora; 'I could live peacefully on
the thought of that. The shadows that people this house are very gentle
ones. It is the present!'
She broke off, for the gates of the court were opening to admit a
detachment of cabs, containing the persons and properties of the new
incumbent and his wife. He had been a curate of Mr. Charlecote, since
whose death he had led a very hard-working life in various towns; and on
his recent presentation to the living of St. Wulstan's, Honora had begged
him and his wife to make her house their home while determining on the
repairs of the parsonage. She ran down to meet them with gladsome steps.
She had never entirely dropped her intercourse with Mr. Parsons, though
seldom meeting; and he was a relic of the past, one of the very few who
still called her by her Christian name, and regarded her more as the
clergyman's daughter of St. Wulstan's than as lady of the Holt. Mrs.
Parsons was a thorough clergyman's wife, as active as himself, and much
loved and esteemed by Honora, with whom, in their few meetings, she had
'got on' to admiration.
There they were, looking after luggage, and paying cabs so heedfully as
not to remark their hostess standing on the stairs; and she had time to
survey them with the affectionate curiosity of meeting after long
absence, and with pleasure in remarking that there was little change.
Perhaps they were rather more gray, and had grown more alike by force of
living and thinking together; but they both looked equally alert and
cheerful, and as if fifty and fifty-five were the very prime of years for
substantial work.
Their first glances at her were full of the same anxiety for her health
and strength, as they heartily shook hands, and accompanied her into the
drawing-room, she explaining that Mr. Parsons was to have the study all
to himself, and never be disturbed there; then inquiring after the three
children, two daughters, who were married, and a son lately ordained.
'I thought you would have brought William to see about the curacy,' she
said.
'He is not strong enough,' said his mother. 'He wished it, but he is
better where he is; he could not bear the work here.'
'No; I told him the utmost I should allow would be an exchange now and
then when my curates were overdone,' said Mr. Parsons.
'And so you are quite deserted,' said Honor, feeling the more drawn
towards her friends.
'Starting afresh, with a sort of honeymoon, as I tell Anne,' replied Mr.
Parsons; and such a bright look passed between them, as though they were
quite sufficient for each other, that Honor felt there was no parallel
between their case and her own.
'Ah! you have not lost your children yet,' said Mrs. Parsons.
'They are not with me,' said Honor, quickly. 'Lucy is with her cousins,
and Owen--I don't exactly know how he means to dispose of himself this
vacation; but we were all to meet here.' Guessing, perhaps, that Mr.
Parsons saw into her dissatisfaction, she then assumed their defence.
'There is to be a grand affair at Castle Blanch, a celebration of young
Charles Charteris's marriage, and Owen and Lucy will be wanted for it.'
'Whom has he married?'
'A Miss Mendoza, an immense fortune--something in the stockbroker line.
He had spent a good deal, and wanted to repair it; but they tell me she
is a very handsome person, very ladylike and agreeable; and Lucy likes
her greatly. I am to go to luncheon at their house to-morrow, so I shall
treat you as if you were at home.'
'I should hope so,' quoth Mr. Parsons.
'Yes, or I know you would not stay here properly. I'm not alone, either.
Why, where's the boy gone? I thought he was here. I have two young
Fulmorts, one staying here, the other looking in from the office.'
'Fulmort!' exclaimed Mr. Parsons, with three notes of admiration at least
in his voice. 'What! the distiller?'
'The enemy himself, the identical lord of gin-shops--at least his
children. Did you not know that he married my next neighbour, Augusta
Mervyn, and that our properties touch? He is not so bad by way of squire
as he is here; and I have known his wife all my life, so we keep up all
habits of good neighbourhood; and though they have brought up the elder
ones very ill, they have not succeeded in spoiling this son and daughter.
She is one of the very nicest girls I ever knew, and he, poor fellow, has
a great deal of good in him.'
'I think I have heard William speak of a Fulmort,' said Mrs. Parsons.
'Was he at Winchester?'
'Yes; and an infinite help the influence there has been to him. I never
saw any one more anxious to do right, often under great disadvantages. I
shall be very glad for him to be with you. He was always intended for a
clergyman, but now I am afraid there is a notion of putting him into the
business; and he is here attending to it for the present, while his
father and brother are abroad. I am sorry he is gone. I suppose he was
seized with a fit of shyness.'
However, when all the party had been to their rooms and prepared for
dinner, Robert reappeared, and was asked where he had been.
'I went to dress,' he answered.
'Ah! where do you lodge? I asked Phoebe, but she said your letters went
to Whittington-street.'
'There are two very good rooms at the office which my father sometimes
uses.'
Phoebe and Miss Charlecote glanced at each other, aware that Mervyn would
never have condescended to sleep in Great Whittington-street. Mr.
Parsons likewise perceived a straight-forwardness in the manner, which
made him ready to acknowledge his fellow-Wykehamist and his son's
acquaintance; and they quickly became good friends over recollections of
Oxford and Winchester, tolerably strong in Mr. Parsons himself, and all
the fresher on 'William's' account. Phoebe, whose experience of social
intercourse was confined to the stately evening hour in the drawing-room,
had never listened to anything approaching to this style of conversation,
nor seen her brother to so much advantage in society. Hitherto she had
only beheld him neglected in his uncongenial home circle, contemning and
contemned, or else subjected to the fretting torment of Lucilla's
caprice. She had never known what he could be, at his ease, among
persons of the same way of thinking. Speaking scarcely ever herself, and
her fingers busy with her needle, she was receiving a better lesson than
Miss Fennimore had ever yet been able to give. The acquiring of
knowledge is one thing, the putting it out to profit another.
Gradually, from general topics, the conversation contracted to the parish
and its affairs, known intimately to Mr. Parsons a quarter of a century
ago, but in which Honora was now the best informed; while Robert listened
as one who felt as if he might have a considerable stake therein, and
indeed looked upon usefulness there as compensation for the schemes he
was resigning.
The changes since Mr. Parsons's time had not been cheering. The late
incumbent had been a man whose trust lay chiefly in preaching, and who,
as his health failed, and he became more unable to cope with the crying
evils around, had grown despairing, and given way to a sort of dismal,
callous indifference; not doing a little, because he could not do much,
and quashing the plans of others with a nervous dread of innovation. The
class of superior persons in trade, and families of professional men, who
in Mr. Charlecote's time had filled many a massively-built pew, had
migrated to the suburbs, and preserved only an office or shop in the
parish, an empty pew in the church, where the congregation was to be
counted by tens instead of hundreds. Not that the population had fallen
off. Certain streets which had been a grief and pain to Mr. Charlecote,
but over which he had never entirely lost his hold, had become
intolerably worse. Improvements in other parts of London, dislodging the
inhabitants, had heaped them in festering masses of corruption in these
untouched byways and lanes, places where honest men dared not penetrate
without a policeman; and report spoke of rooms shared by six families at
once.
Mr. Parsons had not taken the cue unknowing of what he should find in it;
he said nothing, and looked as simple and cheerful as if his life were
not to be a daily course of heroism. His wife gave one long, stifled
sigh, and looked furtively upon him with her loving eyes, in something of
anxious fear, but with far more of exultation.
Yet it was in no dispirited tone that she asked after the respectable
poor--there surely must be some employed in small trades, or about the
warehouses. She was answered that these were not many in proportion, and
that not only had pew-rents kept them out of church, but that they had
little disposition to go there. They did send their children to the old
endowed charity schools, but as these children grew up, wave after wave
lapsed into a smooth, respectable heathen life of Sunday pleasuring. The
more religious became dissenters, because the earnest inner life did not
approve itself to them in Church teaching as presented to them; the worse
sort, by far the most numerous, fell lower and lower, and hovered
scarcely above the depths of sin and misery. Drinking was the universal
vice, and dragged many a seemingly steady character into every stage of
degradation. Men and women alike fell under the temptation, and soon
hastened down the descent of corruption and crime.
'Ah!' said Mrs. Parsons, 'I observed gin palaces at the corner of every
street.'
There was a pause. Neither her husband nor Honor made any reply. If
they had done so, neither of the young Fulmorts would have perceived any
connection between the gin palaces and their father's profession; but the
silence caused both to raise their eyes. Phoebe, judging by her sisters'
code of the becoming, fancied that their friends supposed their feelings
might be hurt by alluding to the distillery, as a trade, and cast about
for some cheerful observations, which she could not find.
Robert had received a new idea, one that must be put aside till he had
time to look at it.
There was a ring at the door. Honor's face lighted up at the tread on
the marble pavement of the hall, and without other announcement, a young
man entered the room, and as she sprang up to meet him, bent down his
lofty head, and kissed her with half-filial, half-coaxing tenderness.
'Yes, here I am. They told me I should find you here. Ah! Phoebe, I'm
glad to see you. Fulmort, how are you?' and a well-bred shake of the
hand to Mr. and Mrs. Parsons, with the ease and air of the young master,
returning to his mother's house.
'When did you come?'
'Only to-day. I got away sooner than I expected. I went to Lowndes
Square, and they told me I should find you here, so I came away as soon
as dinner was over. They were dressing for some grand affair, and wanted
me to come with them, but of course I must come to see if you had really
achieved bringing bright Phoebe from her orbit.'
His simile conveyed the astronomical compliment at once to Honora and
Phoebe, who were content to share it. Honora was in a condition of
subdued excitement and anxiety, compared to which all other sensations
were tame, chequered as was her felicity, a state well known to mothers
and sisters. Intensely gratified at her darling's arrival, gladdened by
his presence, rejoicing in his endowments, she yet dreaded every phrase
lest some dim misgiving should be deepened, and watched for the
impression he made on her friends, as though her own depended upon it.
Admiration could not but come foremost. It was pleasant to look upon
such a fine specimen of manly beauty and vigour. Of unusual height, his
form was so well moulded, that his superior stature was only perceived by
comparison with others, and the proportions were those of great strength.
The small, well-set head, proudly carried, the short, straight features,
and the form of the free massive curls, might have been a model for the
bust of a Greek athlete; the colouring was the fresh, healthy bronzed
ruddiness of English youth, and the expression had a certain boldness of
good-humoured freedom, agreeing with the quiet power of the whole figure.
Those bright gray eyes could never have been daunted, those curling,
merry lips never at a loss, that smooth brow never been unwelcome, those
easy movements never cramped, nor the manners restrained by bashfulness.
The contrast was not favourable to Robert. The fair proportions of the
one brought out the irregular build of the other; the classical face made
the plain one more homely, the erect bearing made the eye turn to the
slouching carriage, and the readiness of address provoked comparison with
the awkward diffidence of one disregarded at home. Bashfulness and
depression had regained their hold of the elder lad almost as the younger
one entered, and in the changes of position consequent upon the new
arrival, he fell into the background, and stood leaning, caryatid
fashion, against the mantelshelf, without uttering a word, while Owen, in
a half-recumbent position on an ottoman, a little in the rear of Miss
Charlecote and her tea equipage, and close to Phoebe, indulged in the
blithe loquacity of a return home, in a tone of caressing banter towards
the first lady, of something between good-nature and attention to the
latter, yet without any such exclusiveness as would have been disregard
to the other guests.
'Ponto well! Poor old Pon! how does he get on? Was it a very affecting
parting, Phoebe?'
'I didn't see. I met Miss Charlecote at the station.'
'Not even your eyes might intrude on the sacredness of grief! Well, at
least you dried them? But who dried Ponto's?' solemnly turning on
Honora.
'Jones, I hope,' said she, smiling.
'I knew it! Says I to myself, when Henry opened the door, Jones remains
at home for the consolation of Ponto.'
'Not entirely--' began Honora, laughing; but the boy shook his head,
cutting her short with a playful frown.
'Cousin Honor, it grieves me to see a woman of your age and
responsibility making false excuses. Mr. Parsons, I appeal to you, as a
clergyman of the Church of England, is it not painful to hear her putting
forward Jones's asthma, when we all know the true fact is that Ponto's
tastes are so aristocratic that he can't take exercise with an under
servant, and the housekeeper is too fat to waddle. By the bye, how is
the old thing?'
'Much more effective than might be supposed by your account, sir, and
probably wishing to know whether to get your room ready.'
'My room. Thank you; no, not to-night. I've got nothing with me. What
are you going to do to-morrow? I know you are to be at Charteris's to
luncheon; his Jewess told me so.'
'For shame, Owen.'
'I don't see any shame, if Charles doesn't,' said Owen; 'only if you
don't think yourselves at a stall of cheap jewellery at a fair--that's
all! Phoebe, take care. You're a learned young lady.'
'No; I'm very backward.'
'Ah! it's the fashion to deny it, but mind you don't mention
Shakespeare.'
'Why not?'
'Did you never hear of the _Merchant of Venice_?'
Phoebe, a little startled, wanted to hear whether Mrs. Charteris were
really Jewish, and after a little more in this style, which Honor
reasonably feared the Parsonses might not consider in good taste, it was
explained that her riches were Jewish, though her grandfather had been
nothing, and his family Christian. Owen adding, that but for her origin,
she would be very good-looking; not that he cared for that style, and his
manner indicated that such rosy, childish charms as were before him had
his preference. But though this was evident enough to all the rest of
the world, Phoebe did not appear to have the least perception of his
personal meaning, and freely, simply answered, that she admired dark-eyed
people, and should be glad to see Mrs. Charteris.
'You will see her in her glory,' said Owen; 'Tuesday week, the great
concern is to come off, at Castle Blanch, and a rare sight she'll be!
Cilly tells me she is rehearsing her dresses with different sets of
jewels all the morning, and for ever coming in to consult her and Rashe!'
'That must be rather tiresome,' said Honor; 'she cannot be much of a
companion.'
'I don't fancy she gets much satisfaction,' said Owen, laughing; 'Rashe
never uses much "soft sawder." It's an easy-going place, where you may
do just as you choose, and the young ladies appreciate liberty. By the
bye, what do you think of this Irish scheme?'
Honora was so much ashamed of it, that she had never mentioned it even to
Phoebe, and she was the more sorry that it had been thus adverted to, as
she saw Robert intent on what Owen let fall. She answered shortly, that
she could not suppose it serious.
'Serious as a churchyard,' was Owen's answer. 'I dare say they will ask
Phoebe to join the party. For my own part, I never believed in it till I
came up to-day, and found the place full of salmon-flies, and the start
fixed for Wednesday the 24th.'
'Who?' came a voice from the dark mantelshelf.
'Who? Why, that's the best of it. Who but my wise sister and Rashe?
Not a soul besides,' cried Owen, giving way to laughter, which no one was
disposed to echo. 'They vow that they will fish all the best streams,
and do more than any crack fisherman going, and they would like to see
who will venture to warn them off. They've tried that already. Last
summer what did Lucy do, but go and fish Sir Harry Buller's water. You
know he's a very tiger about preserving. Well, she fished coolly on in
the face of all his keepers; they stood aghast, didn't know what manner
of Nixie it was, I suppose; and when Sir Harry came down, foaming at the
mouth, she just shook her curls, and made him wade in up to his knees to
get her fly out of a bramble!'
'That must be exaggerated,' said Robert.
'Exaggerated! Not a word! It's not possible to exaggerate Cilly's
coolness. I did say something about going with them.'
'You must, if they go at all!' exclaimed Honora.
'Out of the question, Sweet Honey. They reject me with disdain, declare
that I should only render them commonplace, and that "rich and rare were
the gems she wore" would never have got across Ireland safe if she had a
great strapping brother to hamper her. And really, as Charles says, I
don't suppose any damage can well happen to them.'
Honora would not talk of it, and turned the conversation to what was to
be done on the following day. Owen eagerly proffered himself as escort,
and suggested all manner of plans, evidently assuming the entire
direction and protection of the two ladies, who were to meet him at
luncheon in Lowndes Square, and go with him to the Royal Academy, which,
as he and Honora agreed, must necessarily be the earliest object for the
sake of providing innocent conversation.
As soon as the clock struck ten, Robert took leave, and Owen rose, but
instead of going, lingered, talking Oxford with Mr. Parsons, and telling
good stories, much to the ladies' amusement, though increasing Honora's
trepidation by the fear that something in his tone about the authorities,
or the slang of his manner, might not give her friends a very good idea
of his set. The constant fear of what might come next, absolutely made
her impatient for his departure, and at last she drove him away, by
begging to know how he was going all that distance, and offering to send
Henry to call a cab, a thing he was too good-natured to permit. He bade
good night and departed, while Mr. Parsons, in answer to her eager eyes,
gratified her by pronouncing him a very fine young man.
'He is very full of spirit,' she said. 'You must let me tell you a story
of him. They have a young new schoolmistress at Wrapworth, his father's
former living, you know, close to Castle Blanch. This poor thing was
obliged to punish a school-child, the daughter of one of the bargemen on
the Thames, a huge ruffianly man. Well, a day or two after, Owen came
upon him in a narrow lane, bullying the poor girl almost out of her life,
threatening her, and daring her to lay a finger on his children. What do
you think Owen did?'
'Fought him, I suppose,' said Mr. Parsons, judging by the peculiar
delight ladies take in such exploits. 'Besides, he has sufficiently the
air of a hero to make it incumbent on him to "kill some giant."'
'We may be content with something short of his killing the giant,' said
Honor, 'but he really did gain the victory. That lad, under nineteen,
positively beat this great monster of a man, and made him ask the girl's
pardon, knocked him down, and thoroughly mastered him! I should have
known nothing of it, though, if Owen had not got a black eye, which made
him unpresentable for the Castle Blanch gaieties, so he came down to the
Holt to me, knowing I should not mind wounds gained in a good cause.'
They wished her good night in her triumph.
The receipt of a letter was rare and supreme felicity to Maria; therefore
to indite one was Phoebe's first task on the morrow; after which she took
up her book, and was deeply engaged, when the door flew back, and the
voice of Owen Sandbrook exclaimed, 'Goddess of the silver bow! what,
alone?'
'Miss Charlecote is with her lawyer, and Robert at the office.'
'The parson and parsoness parsonically gone to study parsonages, schools,
and dilapidations, I suppose. What a bore it is having them here; I'd
have taken up my quarters here, otherwise, but I can't stand parish
politics.'
'I like them very much,' said Phoebe, 'and Miss Charlecote seems to be
happy with them.'
'Just her cut, dear old thing; the same honest, illogical, practical
sincerity,' said Owen, in a tone of somewhat superior melancholy; but
seeing Phoebe about to resent his words as a disrespectful imputation on
their friend, he turned the subject, addressing Phoebe in the manner
between teasing and flattering, habitual to a big schoolboy towards a
younger child, phases of existence which each had not so long outgrown as
to have left off the mutual habits thereto belonging. 'And what is
bright Cynthia doing? Writing verses, I declare!--worthy sister of
Phoebus Apollo.'
'Only notes,' said Phoebe, relinquishing her paper, in testimony.
'When found make a note of--Summoned by writ--temp. Ed.
III.--burgesses--knights of shire. It reads like an act of parliament.
Hallam's English Constitution. My eyes! By way of lighter study. It is
quite appalling. Pray what may be the occupation of your more serious
moments?'
'You see the worst I have with me.'
'Holiday recreation, to which you can just condescend. I say, Phoebe, I
have a great curiosity to understand the Zend. I wish you would explain
it to me.'
'If I ever read it,' began Phoebe, laughing.
'What, you pretend to deny? You won't put me off that way. A lady who
can only unbend so far as to the English Constitution by way of
recreation, must--'
'But it is not by way of recreation.'
'Come, I know my respected cousin too well to imagine she would have
imposed such a task. That won't do, Phoebe.'
'I never said she had, but Miss Fennimore desired me.'
'I shall appeal. There's no act of tyranny a woman in authority will not
commit. But this is a free country, Phoebe, as maybe you have gathered
from your author, and unless her trammels have reached to your soul--'
and he laid his hand on the book to take it away.
'Perhaps they have,' said Phoebe, smiling, but holding it fast, 'for I
shall be much more comfortable in doing as I was told.'
'Indeed!' said Owen, pretending to scrutinize her as if she were
something extraordinary (really as an excuse for a good gaze upon her
pure complexion and limpid eyes, so steady, childlike, and unabashed,
free from all such consciousness as would make them shrink from the
playful look). 'Indeed! Now, in my experience the comfort would be in
the _not_ doing as you were told.'
'Ah! but you know I have no spirit.'
'I wish to heaven other people had none!' cried Owen, suddenly changing
his tone, and sitting down opposite to Phoebe, his elbow on the table,
and speaking earnestly. 'I would give the world that my sister were like
you. Did you ever hear of anything so preposterous as this Irish
business?'
'She cannot think of it, when Miss Charlecote has told her of all the
objections,' said Phoebe.
'She will go the more,' returned Owen. 'I say to you, Phoebe, what I
would say to no one else. Lucilla's treatment of Honora Charlecote is
abominable--vexes me more than I can say. They say some nations have no
words for gratitude. One would think she had come of them.'
Phoebe looked much shocked, but said, 'Perhaps Miss Charlecote's kindness
has seemed to her like a matter of course, not as it does to us, who have
no claim at all.'
'We had no claim,' said Owen; 'the connection is nothing, absolutely
nothing. I believe, poor dear, the attraction was that she had once been
attached to my father, and he was too popular a preacher to _keep_ well
as a lover. Well, there were we, a couple of orphans, a nuisance to all
our kith and kin--nobody with a bit of mercy for us but that queer old
coon, Kit Charteris, when she takes us home, treats us like her own
children, feels for us as much as the best mother living could;
undertakes to provide for us. Now, I put it to you, Phoebe, has she any
right to be cast off in this fashion?'
'I don't know in what fashion you mean.'
'Don't you. Haven't you seen how Cilly has run restive from babyhood? A
pretty termagant she was, as even I can remember. And how my poor father
spoilt her! Any one but Honor would have given her up, rather than have
gone through what she did, so firmly and patiently, till she had broken
her in fairly well. But then come in these Charterises, and Cilly runs
frantic after them, her own _dear_ relations. Much they had cared for us
when we were troublesome little pests. But it's all the force of blood.
Stuff! The whole truth is that they are gay, and Honora quiet; they
encourage her to run riot. Honora keeps her in order.'
'Have you spoken to her?'
'As well speak to the wind. She thinks it a great favour to run down to
Hiltonbury for the Horticultural Show, turn everything topsy-turvy, keep
poor dear Sweet Honey in a perpetual ferment, then come away to Castle
Blanch, as if she were rid of a troublesome duty.'
'I thought Miss Charlecote sent Lucy to enjoy herself! We always said
how kind and self-denying she was.'
'Denied, rather,' said Owen; 'only that's her way of carrying it off. A
month or two in the season might be very well; see the world, and get the
tone of it; but to racket about with Ratia, and leave Honor alone for
months together, is too strong for me.'
Honora came in, delighted at her boy's visit, and well pleased at the
manner in which he was engrossed. Two such children needed no chaperon,
and if that sweet crescent moon were to be his guiding light, so much the
better.
'Capital girl, that,' he said, as she left the room. 'This is a noble
achievement of yours.'
'In getting my youngest princess out of the castle. Ay! I do feel in a
beneficent enchanter's position.'
'She has grown up much prettier than she promised to be.'
'And far too good for a Fulmort. But that is Robert's doing.'
'Poor Robert! how he shows the old distiller in grain. So he is taking
to the old shop?--best thing for him.'
'Only by way of experiment.'
'Pleasant experiment to make as much as old Fulmort! I wish he'd take me
into partnership.'
'You, Owen?'
'I am not proud. These aren't the days when it matters how a man gets
his tin, so he knows what to do with it. Ay! the world gets beyond the
dear old Hiltonbury views, after all, Sweet Honey, and you see what City
atmosphere does to me.'
'You know I never wished to press any choice on you,' she faltered.
'What!' with a good-humoured air of affront, 'you thought me serious?
Don't you know I'm the ninth, instead of the nineteenth-century man,
under your wing? I'd promise you to be a bishop, only, you see, I'm
afraid I couldn't be mediocre enough.'
'For shame, Owen!' and yet she smiled. That boy's presence and caressing
sweetness towards herself were the greatest bliss to her, almost beyond
that of a mother with a son, because more uncertain, less her right by
nature.
Phoebe came down as the carriage was at the door, and they called in
Whittington Street for her brother, but he only came out to say he was
very busy, and would not intrude on Mrs. Charteris--bashfulness for which
he was well abused on the way to Lowndes Square.
Owen, with his air of being at home, put aside the servants as they
entered the magnificent house, replete with a display of state and luxury
analogous to that of Beauchamp, but with better taste and greater ease.
The Fulmorts were in bondage to ostentation; the Charterises were lavish
for their own enjoyment, and heedless alike of cost and of appearance.
The great drawing-room was crowded with furniture, and the splendid
marqueterie tables and crimson ottomans were piled with a wild confusion
of books, prints, periodicals, papers, and caricatures, heaped over
ornaments and bijouterie, and beyond, at the doorway of a second room,
even more miscellaneously filled, a small creature sprang to meet them,
kissing Honora, and exclaiming, 'Here you are! Have you brought the
pig's wool? Ah! but you've brought something else! No--what's become of
that Redbreast!' as she embraced Phoebe.
'He was so busy that he could not come.'
'Ill-behaved bird; a whole month without coming near me.'
'Only a week,' said Phoebe, speaking less freely, as she perceived two
strangers in the room, a gentleman in moustaches, who shook hands with
Owen, and a lady, whom from her greeting to Miss Charlecote (for
introductions were not the way of the house) she concluded to be the
formidable Rashe, and therefore regarded with some curiosity.
Phoebe had expected her to be a large masculine woman, and was surprised
at her dapper proportions and not ungraceful manner. Her face, neither
handsome nor the reverse, was one that neither in features nor complexion
revealed her age, and her voice was pitched to the tones of good society,
so that but for a certain 'don't care' sound in her words, and a defiant
freedom of address, Phoebe would have set down all she had heard as a
mistake, in spite of the table covered with the brilliant appliances of
fly-making, over which both she and Lucilla were engaged. It was at the
period when ladies affected coats and waistcoats, and both cousins
followed the fashion to the utmost; wearing tightly-fitting black coats,
plain linen collars, and shirt-like under-sleeves, with black ties round
the neck. Horatia was still in mourning for her mother, and wore a black
skirt, but Lucilla's was of rich deep gentianella-coloured silk, and the
buttons of her white vest were of beautiful coral. The want of drapery
gave a harshness to Miss Charteris's appearance, but the little masculine
affectations only rendered Lucy's miniature style of feminine beauty
still more piquant. Less tall than many girls of fourteen, she was
exquisitely formed; the close-fitting dress became her taper waist, the
ivory fairness of the throat and hands shone out in their boyish setting,
and the soft delicacy of feature and complexion were enhanced by the
vivid sparkling of those porcelain blue eyes, under the long lashes,
still so fair and glossy as to glisten in the light, like her profuse
flaxen tresses, arranged in a cunning wilderness of plaits and natural
ringlets. The great charm was the minuteness and refinement of the mould
containing the energetic spirit that glanced in her eyes, quivered on her
lips, and pervaded every movement of the elastic feet and hands,
childlike in size, statue-like in symmetry, elfin in quickness and
dexterity. 'Lucile la Fee,' she might well have been called, as she sat
manipulating the gorgeous silk and feathers with an essential strength
and firmness of hands such as could hardly have been expected from such
small members, and producing such lovely specimens that nothing seemed
wanting but a touch of her wand to endow them with life. It was fit
fairy work, and be it farther known, that few women are capable of it;
they seldom have sufficient accuracy of sustained attention and firmness
of finger combined, to produce anything artistic or durable, and the
accomplishment was therefore Lucilla's pride. Her cousin could prepare
materials, but could not finish. 'Have you brought the pig's wool?'
repeated Lucy, as they sat down. 'No? That _is_ a cruel way of
testifying. I can't find a scrap of that shade, though I've nearly broke
my heart in the tackle shops. Here's my last fragment, and this butcher
will be a wreck for want of it.'
'Let me see,' quoth the gentleman, bending over with an air of intimacy.
'You may see,' returned Lucilla, 'but that will do no good. Owen got
this at a little shop at Elverslope, and we can only conclude that the
father of orange pigs is dead, for we've tried every maker, and can't hit
off the tint.'
'I've seen it in a shop in the Strand,' he said, with an air of
depreciation, such as set both ladies off with an ardour inexplicable to
mere spectators, both vehemently defending the peculiarity of their
favourite hue, and little personalities passing, exceedingly diverting
apparently to both parties, but which vexed Honora and dismayed Phoebe by
the coolness of the gentleman, and the ease with which he was treated by
the ladies.
Luncheon was announced in the midst, and in the dining-room they found
Miss Charteris, a dark, aquiline beauty, of highly-coloured complexion,
such as permitted the glowing hues of dress and ornament in which she
delighted, and large languid dark eyes of Oriental appearance.
In the scarlet and gold net confining her sable locks, her ponderous
earrings, her massive chains and bracelets, and gorgeous silk, she was a
splendid ornament at the head of the table; but she looked sleepily out
from under her black-fringed eyelids, turned over the carving as a matter
of course to Owen, and evidently regarded the two young ladies as bound
to take all trouble off her hands in talking, arranging, or settling what
she should do with herself or her carriage.
'Lolly shall take you there,' or 'Lolly shall call for that,' passed
between the cousins without the smallest reference to Lolly herself
(otherwise Eloisa), who looked serenely indifferent through all the plans
proposed for her, only once exerting her will sufficiently to say, 'Very
well, Rashe, dear, you'll tell the coachman--only don't forget that I
must go to Storr and Mortimer's.'
Honora expressed a hope that Lucilla would come with her party to the
Exhibition, and was not pleased that Mr. Calthorp exclaimed that there
was another plan.
'No, no, Mr. Calthorp, I never said any such thing!'
'Miss Charteris, is not that a little too strong?'
'You told me of the Dorking,' cried Lucilla, 'and you said you would not
miss the sight for anything; but I never said you should have it.'
Rashe meanwhile clapped her hands with exultation, and there was a
regular chatter of eager voices--'I should like to know how you would get
the hackles out of a suburban poultry fancier.'
'Out of him?--no, out of his best Dorking. Priced at 120 pounds last
exhibition--two years old--wouldn't take 200 pounds for him now.'
'You don't mean that you've seen him?'
'Hurrah!' Lucilla opened a paper, and waved triumphantly five of the
long tippet-plumes of chanticleer.
'You don't mean--'
'Mean! I more than mean! Didn't you tell us that you had been to see
the old party on business, and had spied the hackles walking about in his
yard?'
'And I had hoped to introduce you.'
'As if we needed that! No, no. Rashe, and I started off at six o'clock
this morning, to shake off the remains of the ball, rode down to
Brompton, and did our work. No, it was not like the macaw business, I
declare. The old gentleman held the bird for us himself, and I promised
him a dried salmon.'
'Well, I had flattered myself--it was an unfair advantage, Miss
Sandbrook.'
'Not in the least. Had you gone, it would have cast a general clumsiness
over the whole transaction, and not left the worthy old owner half so
well satisfied. I believe you had so little originality as to expect to
engage him in conversation while I captured the bird; but once was enough
of that.'
Phoebe could not help asking what was meant; and it was explained that,
while a call was being made on a certain old lady with a blue and yellow
macaw, Lucilla had contrived to abstract the prime glory of the
creature's tail--a blue feather lined with yellow--an irresistible charm
to a fisherwoman. But here even the tranquil Eloisa murmured that Cilly
must never do so again when she went out with HER.
'No, Lolly, indeed I won't. I prefer honesty, I assure you, except when
it is too commonplace. I'll meddle with nothing at Madame Sonnini's this
afternoon.'
'Then you cannot come with us?'
'Why, you see, Honor, here have Rashe and I been appointed band-masters,
Lord Chamberlains, masters of the ceremonies, major-domos, and I don't
know what, to all the Castle Blanch concern; and as Rashe neither knows
nor cares about music, I've got all that on my hands; and I must take
Lolly to look on while I manage the programme.'
'Are you too busy to find a day to spend with us at St. Wulstan's?'
A discussion of engagements took place, apparently at the rate of five
per day; but Mrs. Charteris interposed an invitation to dinner for the
next evening, including Robert; and farther it appeared that all the
three were expected to take part in the Castle Blanch festivities. Lolly
had evidently been told of them as settled certainties among the guests,
and Lucilla, Owen, and Rashe vied with each other in declaring that they
had imagined Honor to have brought Phoebe to London with no other intent,
and that all was fixed for the ladies to sleep at Castle Blanch the night
before, and Robert Fulmort to come down in the morning by train.
Nothing could have been farther from Honora's predilections than such
gaieties, but Phoebe's eyes were growing round with eagerness, and there
would be unkindness in denying her the pleasure, as well as churlishness
in disappointing Lucy and Owen, who had reckoned on her in so gratifying
a manner. Without decidedly accepting or refusing, she let the talk go
on.
'Miss Fulmort,' said Ratia, 'I hope you are not too religious to dance.'
Much surprised, Phoebe made some reply in the negative.
'Oh, I forgot, that's not your sisters' line; but I thought . . . ' and
she gave an expressive glance to indicate Miss Charlecote.
'Oh, no,' again said Phoebe, decidedly.
'Yes, I understand. Never mind, I ought to have remembered; but when
people are _gone in_, one is apt to forget whether they think
"promiscuous dancing" immoral or praiseworthy. Well, you must know some
of my brother's constituents are alarmingly excellent--fat, suburban, and
retired; and we have hatched a juvenile hay-making, where they may eat
and flirt without detriment to decided piety; and when they go off, we
dress for a second instalment for an evening party.'
To Phoebe it sounded like opening Paradise, and she listened anxiously
for the decision; but nothing appeared certain except the morrow's
dinner, and that Lucilla was to come to spend the Sunday at Miss
Charlecote's; and this being fixed, the luncheon party broke up, with
such pretty bright affection on Lucilla's part, such merry coaxing of
Honor, and such orders to Phoebe to 'catch that Robin to-morrow,' that
there was no room left for the sense of disappointment that no rational
word had passed.
'Where?' asked Owen, getting into the carriage.
'Henry knows--the Royal Academy.'
'Ha! no alteration in consequence of the invitation? no finery required?
you must not carry Hiltonbury philosophy _too_ far.'
'I have not accepted it.'
'That is not required; it is your fate, Phoebe; why don't you speak, or
are you under an embargo from any of the wicked enchanters? Even if so,
you might be got off among the pious juveniles.'
'Papa was so kind as to say I might go wherever Miss Charlecote liked,'
said Phoebe; 'but, indeed, I had rather do exactly what suits her; I dare
say the morning party will suit her best--'
'The oily popular preachers!'
'Thank you, Owen,' laughed Honor.
'No, now you must accept the whole. There's room to give the preachers a
wide berth, even should they insist on "concluding with prayer," and it
will be a pretty sight. They have the Guards' band coming.'
'I never heard a military band,' ejaculated Phoebe.
'And there are to be sports for the village children, I believe,' added
Owen; 'besides, you will like to meet some of the lions--the Archdeacon
and his wife will be there.'
'But how can I think of filling up Mrs. Charteris's house, without the
least acquaintance?'
'Honey-sweet philosopher, Eloisa heeds as little how her house is filled,
so it _be_ filled, as Jessica did her father's ring. Five dresses a day,
with accoutrements to match, and for the rest she is sublimely
indifferent. Fortune played her a cruel trick in preventing her from
being born a fair sultana.'
'Not to be a Mahometan?' said Phoebe.
'I don't imagine she is far removed from one;' then, as Phoebe's horror
made her look like Maria, he added--'don't mean that she was not bred a
Christian, but the Oriental mind never distinctly embraces tenets
contrary to its constitution.'
'Miss Charlecote, is he talking in earnest?'
'I hope not,' Honora said, a little severely, 'for he would be giving a
grievous account of the poor lady's faith--'
'Faith! no, my dear, she has not reflection enough for faith. All that
enters into the Eastern female mind is a little observance.'
'And you are not going to lead Phoebe to believe that you think it
indifferent whether those observances be Christian or Pagan?' said
Honora, earnestly.
There was a little pause, and then Owen rather hesitatingly said--'It is
a hard thing to pronounce that three-fifths of one's fellow-creatures are
on the high road to Erebus, especially when ethnologically we find that
certain aspects of doctrine never have approved themselves to certain
races, and that climate is stronger than creed. Am I not talking
Fennimorically, Phoebe?'
'Much more Fennimorically than I wish her to hear, or you to speak,' said
Honora; 'you talk as if there were no such thing as truth.'
'Ah! now comes the question of subjective and objective, and I was as
innocent as possible of any intention of plunging into such a sea, or
bringing those furrows into your forehead, dear Honor! See what it is to
talk to you and Miss Fennimore's pupil. All things, human and divine,
have arisen out of my simple endeavour to show you that you must come to
Castle Blanch, the planners of the feast having so ordained, and it being
good for all parties, due from the fairy godmother to the third princess,
and seriously giving Cilly another chance of returning within the bounds
of discretion.'
Honora thought as much. She hoped that Robert would by that time have
assumed his right to plead with Lucilla, and that in such a case she
should be a welcome refuge, and Phoebe still more indispensable; so her
lips opened in a yielding smile, and Phoebe thanked her rapturously,
vague hopes of Robert's bliss adding zest to the anticipation of the
lifting of the curtain which hid the world of brightness.
'There's still time,' said Owen, with his hand on the check-string;
'which do you patronize? Redmayne or--'
'Nonsense,' smiled Honor, 'we can't waste our escort upon women's work.'
'Ladies never want a gentleman more than when their taste is to be
directed.'
'He is afraid to trust us, Phoebe.'
'Conscience has spoken,' said Owen; 'she knows how she would go and
disguise herself in an old dowager's gown to try to look like sixty!'
'As for silk gowns--'
'I positively forbid it,' he cried, cutting her short; 'it is five years
old!'
'A reason why I should not have another too grand to wear out.'
'And you never ought to have had it. Phoebe, it was bought when Lucy was
seventeen, on purpose to look as if she was of a fit age for a
wall-flower, and so well has the poor thing done its duty, that Lucy
hears herself designated as the pretty girl who belongs to the violet and
white! If she had known _that_ was coming after her, I won't answer for
the consequence.'
'If it _does_ annoy Lucy--we do not so often go out together--don't,
Owen, I never said it was to be now, I am bent on Landseer.'
'But I said so,' returned Owen, 'for Miss Charlecote regards the
distressed dressmakers--four dresses--think of the fingers that must ache
over them.'
'Well, he does what he pleases,' sighed Honor; 'there's no help for it,
you see, Phoebe. Shall you dislike looking on?' For she doubted whether
Phoebe had been provided with means for her equipment, and might not
require delay and correspondence but the frank answer was, 'Thank you, I
shall be glad of the opportunity. Papa told me I might fit myself out in
case of need.'
'And suppose we are too late for the Exhibition.'
'I never bought a dress before,' quoth Phoebe.
Owen laughed. 'That's right, Phoebe! Be strong-minded and original
enough to own that some decorations surpass "Raffaelles, Correggios, and
stuff"--'
'No,' said Phoebe, simply, and with no affectation of scorn, 'they only
interest me more at this moment.'
Honor smiled to Owen her love for the honesty that never spoke for
effect, nor took what it believed it ought to feel, for what it really
felt. Withal, Owen gained his purpose, and conducted the two ladies into
one of the great shops of ladies apparel.
Phoebe followed Miss Charlecote with eyes of lively anticipation. Miss
Fennimore had taught her to be _real_ when she could not be
philosophical, and scruples as to the 'vain pomp and glory of the world'
had not presented themselves; she only found herself admitted to
privileges hitherto so jealously withheld as to endow them with a
factitious value, and in a scene of real beauty. The textures, patterns,
and tints were, as Owen observed, such as approved themselves to the
aesthetic sense, the miniature embroidery of the brocades was absolute
art, and no contemptible taste was displayed in the apparently fortuitous
yet really elaborate groupings of rich and delicate hues, fine folds, or
ponderous draperies.
'Far from it,' said Honor; 'the only doubt is whether such be a worthy
application of aesthetics. Were they not given us for better uses?'
'To diffuse the widest amount of happiness?'
'That is one purpose.'
'And a fair woman well dressed is the sight most delightful to the
greatest number of beholders.'
Honor made a playful face of utter repudiation of the maxim, but meeting
him on his own ground emphasized 'FAIR and WELL dressed--that is,
appropriately.'
'That is what brings me here, said Owen, turning round, as the changeful
silks, already asked for, were laid on the counter before them.
It was an amusing shopping. The gentleman's object was to direct the
taste of both ladies, but his success was not the same. Honora's first
affections fell upon a handsome black, enlivened by beautiful blue
flowers in the flounces; but her tyrant scouted it as a 'dingy dowager,'
and overruled her into choosing a delicate lavender, insisting that if it
were less durable, so much the better for her friends, and domineering
over the black lace accompaniments with a solemn tenderness that made her
warn him in a whisper that people were taking her for his ancient bride,
thus making him some degrees more drolly attentive; settling her
head-gear with the lady of the shop, without reference to her. After
all, it was very charming to be so affectionately made a fool of, and it
was better for her children as well as due to the house of Charlecote
that she should not be a dowdy country cousin.
Meantime, Phoebe stood by amused, admiring, assisting, but not at all
bewildered. Miss Fennimore had impressed the maxim; 'Always know what
you mean to do, and do it.' She had never chosen a dress before, but
that did not hinder her from having a mind and knowing it; she had a
reply for each silk that Owen suggested, and the moment her turn came,
she desired to see a green glace. In vain he exclaimed, and drew his
favourites in front of her, in vain appealed to Miss Charlecote and the
shopman; she laughed him off, took but a moment to reject each proffered
green which did not please her, and in as brief a space had recognized
the true delicate pale tint of ocean. It was one that few complexions
could have borne, but their connoisseur, with one glance from it to her
fresh cheek, owned her right, though much depended on the garniture, and
he again brought forward his beloved lilac, insinuating that he should
regard her selection of it as a personal attention. No; she laughed, and
said she had made up her mind and would not change; and while he was
presiding over Honora's black lace, she was beforehand with him, and her
bill was being made out for her white muslin worked mantle, white bonnet
with a tuft of lady grass, white evening dress, and wreath of lilies of
the valley.
'Green and white, forsaken quite,' was the best revenge that occurred to
him, and Miss Charlecote declared herself ashamed that the old lady's
dress had caused so much more fuss than the young lady's.
It was of course too late for the Exhibition, so they applied themselves
to further shopping, until Owen had come to the farthest point whence he
could conveniently walk back to dine with his cousins, and go with them
to the opera, and he expended some vituperation upon Ratia for an
invitation which had prevented Phoebe from being asked to join the party.
Phoebe was happy enough without it, and though not morbidly bashful, felt
that at present it was more comfortable to be under Miss Charlecote's
wing than that of Lucilla, and that the quiet evening was more composing
than fresh scenes of novelty.
The Woolstone-lane world was truly very different from that of which she
had had a glimpse, and quite as new to her. Mr. Parsons, after his
partial survey, was considering of possibilities, or more truly of
endeavours at impossibilities, a mission to that dreadful population,
means of discovering their sick, of reclaiming their children, of causing
the true Light to shine in that frightful gross darkness that covered the
people. She had never heard anything yet discussed save on the principle
of self-pleasing or self-aggrandizement; here, self-spending was the
axiom on which all the problems were worked.
After dinner, Mr. Parsons retired into the study, and while his wife and
Miss Charlecote sat down for a friendly gossip over the marriages of the
two daughters, Phoebe welcomed an unrestrained _tete-a-tete_ with her
brother. They were one on either seat of the old oriel window, she, with
her work on her lap, full of pleasant things to tell him, but pausing as
she looked up, and saw his eyes far far away, as he knelt on the cushion,
his elbows on the sill of the open lattice, one hand supporting his chin,
the other slowly erecting his hair into the likeness of the fretful
porcupine. He had heard of, but barely assented to, the morrow's dinner,
or the _fete_ at Castle Blanch; he had not even asked her how Lucilla
looked; and after waiting for some time, she said, as a feeler--'You go
with us to-morrow?'
'I suppose I must.'
'Lucy said so much in her pretty way about catching the robin, that I am
sure she was vexed at your not having called.'
No answer: his eyes had not come home.
Presently he mumbled something so much distorted by the compression of
his chin, and by his face being out of window, that his sister could not
make it out. In answer to her sound of inquiry, he took down one hand,
removed the other from his temple, and emitting a modicum more voice from
between his teeth, said, 'It is plain--it can't be--'
'What can't be? Not--Lucy?' gasped Phoebe.
'I can't take shares in the business.'
Her look of relief moved him to explain, and drawing himself in, he sat
down on his own window-seat, stretching a leg across, and resting one
foot upon that where she was placed, so as to form a sort of barrier,
shutting themselves into a sense of privacy.
'I can't do it,' he repeated, 'not if my bread depended on it.'
'What is the matter?'
'I have looked into the books, I have gone over it with Rawlins.'
'You don't mean that we are going to be ruined?'
'Better that we were than to go on as we do! Phoebe, it is wickedness.'
There was a long pause. Robert rested his brow on his hand, Phoebe gazed
intently at him, trying to unravel the idea so suddenly presented. She
had reasoned it out before he looked up, and she roused him by softly
saying, 'You mean that you do not like the manufacture of spirits because
they produce so much evil.'
Though he did not raise his head, she understood his affirmation, and
went on with her quiet logic, for, poor girl, hers was not the happy
maiden's defence--'What my father does cannot be wrong.' Without
condemning her father, she instinctively knew that weapon was not in her
armoury, and could only betake herself to the merits of the case. 'You
know how much rather I would see you a clergyman, dear Robin,' she said;
'but I do not understand why you change your mind. We always knew that
spirits were improperly used, but that is no reason why none should be
made, and they are often necessary.'
'Yes,' he answered; 'but, Phoebe, I have learnt to-day that our trade is
not supported by the lawful use of spirits. It is the ministry of hell.'
Phoebe raised her startled eyes in astonished inquiry.
'I would have credited nothing short of the books, but there I find that
not above a fifth part of our manufacture goes to respectable houses,
where it is applied properly. The profitable traffic, which it is the
object to extend, is the supply of the gin palaces of the city. The
leases of most of those you see about here belong to the firm, it
supplies them, and gains enormously on their receipts. It is to extend
the dealings in this way that my legacy is demanded.'
The enormity only gradually beginning to dawn upon Phoebe, all she said
was a meditative--'You would not like that.'
'You did not realize it,' he said, nettled at her quiet tone. 'Do not
you understand? You and I, and all of us, have eaten and drunk, been
taught more than we could learn, lived in a fine house, and been made
into ladies and gentlemen, all by battening on the vice and misery of
this wretched population. Those unhappy men and women are lured into the
gaudy palaces at the corners of the streets to purchase a moment's
oblivion of conscience, by stinting their children of bread, that we may
wear fine clothes, and call ourselves county people.'
'Do not talk so, Robert,' she exclaimed, trembling; 'it cannot be right
to say such things--'
'It is only the bare fact! it is no pleasure to me to accuse my own
father, I assure you, Phoebe, but I cannot blind myself to the simple
truth.'
'He cannot see it in that light.'
'He _will_ not.'
'Surely,' faltered Phoebe, 'it cannot be so bad when one does not know it
is--'
'So far true. The conscience does not waken quickly to evils with which
our lives have been long familiar.'
'And Mervyn was brought up to it--'
'That is not my concern,' said Robert, too much in the tone of 'Am I my
brother's keeper?'
'You will at least tell your reasons for refusing.'
'Yes, and much I shall be heeded! However, my own hands shall be pure
from the wages of iniquity. I am thankful that all I have comes from the
Mervyns.'
'It is a comfort, at least, that you see your way.'
'I suppose it is;' but he sighed heavily, with a sense that it was almost
profanation to have set such a profession in the balance against the
sacred ministry.
'I know _she_ will like it best.'
Dear Phoebe! in spite of Miss Fennimore, faith must still have been much
stronger than reason if she could detect the model parsoness in yonder
firefly.
Poor child, she went to bed, pondering over her brother's terrible
discoveries, and feeling as though she had suddenly awakened to find
herself implicated in a web of iniquity; her delightful parcel of
purchases lost their charms, and oppressed her as she thought of them in
connection with the rags of the squalid children the rector had
described, and she felt as if there were no escape, and she could never
be happy again under the knowledge of the price of her luxuries, and the
dread of judgment. 'Much good had their wealth done them,' as Robert
truly said. The house of Beauchamp had never been nearly so happy as if
their means had been moderate. Always paying court to their own station,
or they were disunited among themselves, and not yet amalgamated with the
society to which they had attained, the younger ones passing their elders
in cultivation, and every discomfort of change of position felt, though
not acknowledged. Even the mother, lady as she was by birth, had only
belonged to the second-rate class of gentry, and while elevated by
wealth, was lowered by connection, and not having either mind or strength
enough to stand on her own ground, trod with an ill-assured foot on that
to which she aspired.
Not that all this crossed Phoebe's mind. There was merely a dreary sense
of depression, and of living in the midst of a grievous mistake, from
which Robert alone had the power of disentangling himself, and she fell
asleep sadly enough; but, fortunately, sins, committed neither by
ourselves, nor by those for whom we are responsible, have not a lasting
power of paining; and she rose up in due time to her own calm sunshiny
spirit of anticipation of the evening's meeting between Robin and
Lucy--to say nothing of her own first dinner-party.