But, ah me! she's a heart of stone,
Which Cupid uses for a hone,
I verily believe;
And on it sharpens those eye-darts,
With which he wounds the simple hearts
He bribes her to deceive.--_A Coquette_, by X.
Breakfast was late, and lengthened out by the greater lateness of many of
the guests, and the superlative tardiness of the lady of the house, who
had repudiated the cares of the hostess, and left the tea-equipage to her
sister-in-law. Lucilla had been down-stairs among the first, and hurried
away again after a rapid meal, forbidding any one to follow her, because
she had so much to do, and on entering the drawing-room, she was found
with a wilderness of flowers around her, filling vases and making last
arrangements.
Honora and Phoebe were glad to be occupied, and Phoebe almost hoped to
escape from Rashe. Speaking to Lucilla was not possible, for Eloisa had
been placed by Rashe in a low chair, with a saucer before her, which she
was directed to fill with verbenas, while the other four ladies, with
Owen, whom his cousin had called to their aid, were putting last touches
to wreaths, and giving the final festal air to the rooms.
Presently Robert made his appearance as the bearer of Mr. Prendergast's
flowers, and setting his back against a shutter, in his favourite
attitude, stood looking as if he wanted to help, but knew not how.
Phoebe, at least, was vividly conscious of his presence, but she was
supporting a long festoon with which Owen was adorning a pier-glass, and
could hardly even turn her head to watch him.
'Oh, horrid!' cried Lucilla, retreating backwards to look at Ratia's
performance; 'for love or money a bit of clematis!'
'Where shall I find one?' said Robert, unseeing the masses waving on the
cloister, if, good youth, he even knew what clematis was.
'You there, Mr. Fulmort!' exclaimed Rashe; 'for goodness gracious sake,
go out to tennis or something with the other men. I've ordered them all
out, or there'll be no good to be got out of Cilly.'
Phoebe flashed out in his defence, 'You are letting Owen alone.'
'Ah! by the bye, that wreath of yours has taken an unconscionable time!'
said Miss Charteris, beginning to laugh; but Phoebe's grave
straightforward eyes met her with such a look, as absolutely silenced her
merriment into a mere mutter of 'What a little chit it is!' Honora, who
was about indignantly to assume the protection of her charge, recognized
in her what was fully competent to take care of herself.
'Away with both of you,' said Lucilla; 'here is Edna come for a last
rehearsal, and I won't have you making her nervous. Take away that
Robin, will you, Owen?'
Horatia flew gustily to greet and reassure the schoolmistress as she
entered, trembling, although moving with the dignity that seemed to be
her form of embarrassment. Lucilla meanwhile sped to the others near the
window. 'You must go,' she said, 'or I shall never screw her up; it is a
sudden access of stage fright. She is as pale as death.'
Owen stepped back to judge of the paleness, and Robert contrived to say,
'Cannot you grant me a few words, Lucy?'
'The most impossible thing you could have asked,' she replied. 'There's
Rashe's encouragement quite done for her now!'
She bounded back to the much-overcome Edna, while Phoebe herself,
perceiving how ill-advised an opportunity Robert had chosen, stepped out
with him into the cloister, saying, 'She can't help it, dear Robin; she
cannot think, just now.'
'When can she?' he asked, almost with asperity.
'Think how full her hands are, how much excited she is,' pleaded Phoebe,
feeling that this was no fair moment for the crisis.
'Ireland?' almost groaned Robert, but at the same moment grasped her
roughly to hinder her from replying, for Owen was close upon them, and he
was the person to whom Robert would have been most reluctant to display
his feelings.
Catching intuitively at his meaning, Phoebe directed her attention to
some clematis on the opposite side of the cloister, and called both her
companions to gather it for her, glad to be with Robert and to relieve
Miss Murrell of the presence of another spectator. Charles Charteris
coming up, carried the two young men to inspect some of his doings out of
doors, and Phoebe returned with her wreaths of creepers to find that the
poor schoolmistress had become quite hysterical, and had been take away
by Lucilla.
Rashe summoned her at the same time to the decoration of the music-room,
and on entering, stopped in amusement, and made her a sign in silence to
look into a large pier-glass, which stood so as to reflect through an
open door what was passing in the little fanciful boudoir beyond, a place
fitted like a tent, and full of quaint Dresden china and toys of
_bijouterie_. There was a complete picture within the glass. Lucilla,
her fair face seen in profile, more soft and gentle than she often
allowed it to appear, was kneeling beside the couch where half reclined
the tall, handsome Edna, whose raven hair, and pale, fine features made
her like a heroine, as she nervously held the hands which Lucilla had
placed within her grasp. There was a low murmur of voices, one soothing,
the other half sobbing, but nothing reached the outer room distinctly,
till, as Phoebe was holding a long wreath, which Ratia was tying up, she
heard--'Oh! but it is so different with me from you young ladies who are
used to company and all. I dare say that young lady would not be timid.'
'What young lady, Edna? Not the one with the auburn hair?'
Ratia made an ecstatic face which disgusted Phoebe.
'Oh, no!--the young lady whom Mr. Sandbrook was helping. I dare say she
would not mind singing--or anything,' came amid sobs.
Ratia nodded, looked excessively arch, and formed a word with her lips,
which Phoebe thought was 'jealous,' but could not imagine what she could
mean by it.
'I don't know why you should think poor Phoebe Fulmort so brazen. She is
a mere child, taking a holiday from her strict governess.'
Phoebe laughed back an answer to Rashe's pantomime, which in this case
she understood.
'She has not had half your training in boldness, with your inspectors and
examinations, and all those horrid things. Why, you never thought of
taking fright before, even when you have sung to people here. Why should
you now?'
'It is so different, now--so many more people. Oh, so different! I
shall never be able.'
'Not at all. You will quite forget all about yourself and your fears
when the time comes. You don't know the exhilaration of a room full of
people, all lights and music! That symphony will lift you into another
world, and you will feel quite ready for "Men must work and women must
weep."'
'If I can only begin--but oh! Miss Sandbrook, shall you be far away from
me?'
'No, I promise you not. I will bring you down, if you will come to
Ratia's room when you are dressed. The black silk and the lilac ribbon
Owen and I chose for you; I must see you in it.'
'Dear Miss Sandbrook, you are so kind! What shall I do when you have
left?'
'You are going yourself for the holidays, silly puss!'
'Ah! but no one else sympathizes or enters into my feelings.'
'Feelings!' said Lucilla, lightly, yet sadly. 'Don't indulge in them,
Edna; they are no end of a torment.'
'Ah! but if they prey on one, one cannot help it.'
Rashe made a face of great distaste. Phoebe felt as if it were becoming
too confidential to permit of listening, all the more as she heard
Lucilla's reply.
'That's what comes of being tall, and stately, and dignified! There's so
much less of me that I can carry off my troubles twice as well.'
'Oh, dear Miss Sandbrook, you can have no troubles!'
'Haven't I? Oh, Edna, if you knew! You that have a mother can never
know what it is to be like me! I'm keeping it all at bay, lest I should
break down; but I'm in the horridest bother and trouble.'
Not knowing what might come next, ashamed of having listened to so much,
yet with one gleam of renewed hope, Phoebe resolutely disobeyed Ratia's
frowns and gestures, and made her presence known by decided movements and
words spoken aloud.
She saw the immediate effect in Edna Murrell's violent start; but
Lucilla, without moving, at once began to sing, straining her thin though
sweet voice, as though to surmount a certain tremulousness. Edna joined,
and the melody was lovely to hear; but Phoebe was longing all the time
for Robert to be at hand for this softer moment, and she hoped all the
more when, the practising being over, and Edna dismissed, Lucy came
springing towards her, notifying her presence by a caress--to outward
appearance merely playful, but in reality a convulsive clasp of vehement
affection--and Phoebe was sure that there had been tears in those eyes
that seemed to do nothing but laugh.
The security that this wild elf was true at heart was, however, not
enough for Phoebe. There was the knowledge that each moment's delay
would drive Robert farther aloof, and that it was a mere chance whether
he should encounter this creature of impulse at a propitious instant.
Nay, who could tell what was best for him after all? Even Phoebe's
faithful acceptance of her on his word had undergone sundry severe
shocks, and she had rising doubts whether Lucy, such as she saw her,
could be what would make him happy.
If the secrets of every guest at a _fete_ were told, would any be found
unmixedly happy? Would there be no one devoid of cares of their own or
of other people's, or if exempt from these, undisturbed by the absence of
the right individual or by the presence of the wrong one, by mishaps of
deportment, difficulties of dress, or want of notice? Perhaps, after
all, it may be best to have some one abiding anxiety, strong enough to
destroy tedium, and exclude the pettier distresses, which are harder to
contend with, though less dignified; and most wholesome of all is it that
this should be an interest entirely external. So, after all, Phoebe's
enjoyment might hardly have been increased had her thoughts been more
free from Robin's troubles, when she came down dressed for her first
party, so like a lily of the valley in her delicate dress, that Owen
acknowledged that it justified her choice, and murmured something of 'in
vernal green and virgin white, her festal robes, arrayed.' Phoebe was
only distressed at what she thought the profanation of quoting from such
a source in compliment to her. Honora was gratified to find the lines in
his memory upon any terms. Poor dear Honor, in one case at least
believing all things, hoping all things!
Phoebe ought to have made the most of her compliment. It was all she
obtained in that line. Juliana herself could not have taken umbrage at
her success. Nobody imagined her come out, no one attempted to disturb
her from under Miss Charlecote's wing, and she kept close to her the
whole afternoon, sometimes sitting upon a haycock, sometimes walking in
the shrubbery, listening to the band, or looking at the archery, in
company with dignified clergyman, or elderly lady, astonished to meet
Honor Charlecote in so unwonted a scene. Owen Sandbrook was never far
off. He took them to eat ices, conducted them to good points of view,
found seats for them, and told them who every one was, with droll
comments or anecdotes which entertained them so much, that Phoebe almost
wished that Robin had not made her sensible of the grain of irreverence
that seasoned all Owen's most brilliant sallies.
They saw little of the others. Mr. and Mrs. Charteris walked about
together, the one cordial, the other stately and gorgeous, and Miss
Charlecote came in for her due and passing share of their politeness.
Rashe once invited Phoebe to shoot, but had too many on her hands to be
solicitous about one. Flirting no longer herself, Rashe's delight was in
those who did flirt, and in any assembly her extreme and unscrupulous
good-nature made her invaluable to all who wanted to have themselves
taken off their own hands, or pushed into those of others. She ordered
people about, started amusements, hunted gentlemen up, found partners,
and shook up the bashful. Rashe Charteris was the life of everything.
How little was wanting to make her kind-hearted activity admirable!
Lucilla never came in their way at all. She was only seen in full and
eager occupation embellishing the archery, or forcing the 'decidedly
pious' to be fascinated by her gracious self-adaptation. Robert was
equally inaccessible, always watching her, but keeping aloof from his
sister, and only consorting at times with Mr. Prendergast.
It was seven o'clock when this act of the drama was finally over, and the
parties staying in the house met round a hurried meal. Rashe lounging
and yawning, laughing and quizzing, in a way amazing to Phoebe; Lucilla
in the very summit of spirits, rattling and laughing away in full swing.
Thence the party dispersed to dress, but Honora had no sooner reached her
room than she said, 'I must go and find Lucy. I must do my duty by her,
little hope as I have. She has avoided me all day; I must seek her now.'
What a difference time and discipline had made in one formerly so timid
and gentle as to be alarmed at the least encounter, and nervous at
wandering about a strange house. Nervous and frightened, indeed, she
still was, but self-control kept this in check, and her dislike was not
allowed to hold her back from her duty. Humfrey's representative was
seldom permitted to be weak. But there are times when the difference
between man and woman is felt in their dealings with others. Strength
can be mild, but what is strained can seldom be gentle, and when she
knocked at Horatia Charteris's door, her face, from very unhappiness and
effort, was sorrowfully reproachful, as she felt herself an unwelcome
apparition to the two cousins, who lay on their bed still laughing over
the day's events.
Rashe, who was still in her morning dress, at once gave way, saying she
must go and speak to Lolly, and hastened out of the room. Lucy, in her
dishabille, sat crouched upon the bed, her white bare shoulders and
floating hair, together with the defiant glance of the blue eye, and the
hand moodily compressing the lips, reminding Honor of the little creature
who had been summarily carried into her house sixteen years since. She
came towards her, but there was no invitation to give the caress that she
yearned to bestow, and she leant against the bed, trembling, as she said,
'Lucy, my poor child, I am come that you may not throw away your last
chance without knowing it. You do not realize what you are about. If
you cast aside esteem and reliance, how can you expect to retain the
affection you sometimes seem to prize?'
'If I am not trusted, what's the good of affection?'
'How can you expect trust when you go beyond the bounds of discretion?'
said Honor, with voice scarcely steadied into her desired firmness.
'I can, I do!'
'Lucy, listen to me.' She gave way to her natural piteous, pleading
tone: 'I verily believe that this is the very turn. Remember how often a
moment has decided the fate of a life!' She saw the expression relax
into some alarm, and continued: 'The Fulmorts do not say so, but I see by
their manner that his final decision will be influenced by your present
proceedings. You have trifled with him too long, and with his mind made
up to the ministry, he cannot continue to think of one who persists in
outraging decorum.'
Those words were effort enough, and had better have been unsaid. 'That
is as people may think,' was all the answer.
'As he thinks?'
'How do I know what he thinks?'
Heartsick at such mere fencing, Honor was silent at first, then said, 'I,
for one, shall rate your good opinion by your endeavour to deserve it.
Who can suppose that you value what you are willing to risk for an
unladylike bet, or an unfeminine sporting expedition!'
'You may tell him so,' said Lucilla, her voice quivering with passion.
'You think a look will bring him back, but you may find that a true man
is no slave. Prove his affection misplaced, and he will tear it away.'
Had Honora been discreet as she was good, she would have left those words
to settle down; but, woman that she was, she knew not when to stop, and
coaxingly coming to the small bundle of perverseness, she touched the
shoulder, and said, 'Now you won't make an object of yourself to-night?'
The shoulder shook in the old fashion.
'At least you will not go to Ireland.'
'Yes, I shall.'
'Miss Charlecote, I beg your pardon--' cried Rashe, bursting in--(oh!
that she had been five seconds earlier)--'but dressing is imperative.
People are beginning to come.'
Honora retreated in utter discomfiture.
'Rashe! Rashe! I'm in for it!' cried Lucilla, as the door shut,
springing up with a look of terror.
'Proposed by deputy?' exclaimed Horatia, aghast.
'No, no!' gasped Lucilla; 'it's this Ireland of yours--that--that--' and
she well-nigh sobbed.
'My bonny bell! I knew you would not be bullied into deserting.'
'Oh! Rashe, she was very hard on me. Every one is but you!' and Lucilla
threw herself into her cousin's arms in a paroxysm of feeling; but their
maid's knock brought her back to composure sooner than poor Honora, who
shed many a tear over this last defeat, as, looking mournfully to Phoebe,
she said, 'I have done, Phoebe. I can say no more to her. She will not
hear anything from me. Oh! what have I done that my child should be
hardened against me!'
Phoebe could offer nothing but caresses full of indignant sorrow, and
there was evidently soothing in them, for Miss Charlecote's tears became
softer, and she fondly smoothed Phoebe's fair hair, saying, as she drew
the clinging arms closer round her: 'My little woodbine, you must twine
round your brother and comfort him, but you can spare some sweetness for
me too. There, I will dress. I will not keep you from the party.'
'I do not care for that; only to see Robin.'
'We must take our place in the crowd,' sighed Honora, beginning her
toilet; 'and you will enjoy it when you are there. Your first quadrille
is promised to Owen, is it not?'
'Yes,' said Phoebe, dreamily, and she would have gone back to Robin's
sorrows, but Honora had learnt that there were subjects to be set aside
when it was incumbent on her to be presentable, and directed the talk to
speculations whether the poor schoolmistress would have nerve to sing;
and somehow she talked up Phoebe's spirits to such a hopeful pitch, that
the little maiden absolutely was crossed by a gleam of satisfaction from
the ungrateful recollection that poor Miss Charlecote had done with the
affair. Against her will, she had detected the antagonism between the
two, and bad as it was of Lucy, was certain that she was more likely to
be amenable where there was no interference from her best friend.
The music-room was already crowded when the two made their way into it,
and Honora's inclination was to deposit herself on the nearest seat, but
she owed something otherwise to her young charge, and Phoebe's eyes had
already found a lonely black figure with arms crossed, and lowering brow.
Simultaneously they moved towards him, and he towards them. 'Is she come
down?' he asked.
Phoebe shook her head, but at the same moment another door near the
orchestra admitted a small white butterfly figure, leading in a tall
queenly apparition in black, whom she placed in a chair adjacent to the
bejewelled prima donna of the night--a great contrast with her
dust-coloured German hair and complexion, and good-natured plain face.
Robert's face cleared with relief; he evidently detected nothing _outre_
in Lucilla's aspect, and was rejoicing in the concession. Woman's eyes
saw further; a sigh from Honora, an amused murmur around him, caused him
to bend his looks on Phoebe. She knew his eyes were interrogating her,
but could not bear to let her own reply, and kept them on the ground.
He was moving towards Lucilla, who, having consigned her _protegee_ to
the good-humoured German, had come more among the guests, and was
exchanging greetings and answering comments with all her most brilliant
airs of saucy animation.
And who could quarrel with that fairy vision? Her rich double-skirted
watered silk was bordered with exquisitely made and coloured flies,
radiant with the hues of the peacock, the gold pheasant, the jay, parrots
of all tints, everything rich and rare in plumage. A coronal of the same
encircled her glossy hair, the tiny plumes contrasting with the blonde
ringlets, and the _bona fide_ hooks ostentatiously displayed; lesser and
more innocuous flies edged the sleeves, corsage, shoes, and gloves; and
her fan, which she used as skilfully as Jenny Wren, presented a
Watteau-like picture of an angling scene. Anything more daintily,
quaintly pretty could not be imagined, and the male part of the assembly
would have unanimously concurred in Sir Harry Buller's 'three cheers for
the queen of the anglers.'
But towards the party most concerned in her movements, Lucilla came not;
and Phoebe, understanding a desire to keep as near as might be to Miss
Murrell, tried to suggest it as the cause, and looking round, saw Owen
standing by Miss Charlecote, with somewhat of an uneasy countenance.
'Terribly hot here,' he said, restlessly; 'suffocating, aren't you,
Honor? Come and take a turn in the cloister; the fountain is stunning by
moonlight.'
No proposal could have been more agreeable to Honora; and Phoebe was
afraid of losing her chaperon, though she would rather have adhered to
her brother, and the barbs of that wicked little angler were tearing him
far too deeply to permit him to move out of sight of his tormentor.
But for this, the change would have been delicious. The white lights and
deep shadows from the calm, grave moon contrasted with the long gleams of
lamp-light from every window, reddened by the curtains within; the
flowers shone out with a strange whiteness, the taller ones almost like
spiritual shapes; the burnished orange leaves glistened, the water rose
high in silvery spray, and fell back into the blackness of the basin made
more visible by one trembling, shimmering reflection; the dark blue sky
above seemed shut into a vault by the enclosing buildings, and one
solitary planet shone out in the lustrous neighbourhood of the moon. So
still, so solemn, so cool! Honora felt it as repose, and pensively began
to admire--Owen chimed in with her. Feverish thoughts and perturbations
were always gladly soothed away in her company. Phoebe alone stood
barely confessing the beauty, and suppressing impatience at their making
so much of it; not yet knowing enough of care or passion to seek repose,
and much more absorbed in human than in any other form of nature.
The music was her first hope of deliverance from her namesake in the sky;
but, behold, her companions chose to prefer hearing that grand
instrumental piece softened by distance; and even Madame Hedwig's
quivering notes did not bring them in. However, at the first sounds of
the accompaniment to the 'Three Fishers' Wives,' Owen pulled back the
curtain, and handed the two ladies back into the room, by a window much
nearer to the orchestra than that by which they had gone out, not far
from where Edna Murrell had just risen, her hands nervously clasped
together, her colour rapidly varying, and her eyes roaming about as
though in quest of something. Indeed, through all the music, the slight
sounds of the entrance at the window did not escape her, and at the
instant when she should have begun to sing, Phoebe felt those black eyes
levelled on herself with a look that startled her; they were at once
removed, the head turned away; there was an attempt at the first words,
but they died away on her lips; there was a sudden whiteness, Lucilla and
the German both tried to reseat her; but with readier judgment Owen made
two long steps, gathered her up in his strong arms, and bore her through
the curtains and out at the open window like a mere infant.
'Don't come, don't--it will only make more fuss--nobody has seen. Go to
Madame Hedwig; tell her from me to go on to her next, and cover her
retreat,' said Lucilla, as fast as the words would come, signing back
Honora, and hastily disappearing between the curtains.
There was a command in Lucilla's gestures which always made obedience the
first instinct even with Honora, and her impulse to assist thus
counteracted, she had time to recollect that Lucy might be supposed to
know best what to do with the schoolmistress, and that to dispose of her
among her ladies' maid friends was doubtless the kindest measure.
'I must say I am glad,' she said; 'the poor thing cannot be quite so much
spoilt as they wished.'
The concert proceeded, and in the next pause Honor fell into conversation
with a pleasant lady who had brought one pair of young daughters in the
morning, and now was doing the same duty by an elder pair.
Phoebe was standing near the window when a touch on her arm and a
whispered 'Help! hush!' made her look round. Holding the curtain apart,
so as to form the least possible aperture, and with one finger on her
lip, was Lucy's face, the eyes brimming over with laughter, as she
pointed to her head--three of the hooks had set their barbs deep into the
crimson satin curtain, and held her a prisoner!
'Hush! I'll never forgive you if you betray me,' she whispered, drawing
Phoebe by the arm behind the curtain; 'I should expire on the spot to be
found in Absalom's case. All that little goose's fault--I never reckoned
on having to rush about this way. Can't you do it? Don't spare
scissors,' and Lucilla produced a pair from under her skirt. 'Rashe and
I always go provided.'
'How is she?--where is she?' asked Phoebe.
'That's exactly what I can't tell. He took her out to the fountain; she
was quite like a dead thing. Water wouldn't make her come to, and I ran
for some salts; I wouldn't call anybody, for it was too romantic a
condition to have Owen discovered in, with a fainting maiden in his arms.
Such a rummage as I had. My own things are all jumbled up, I don't know
how, and Rashe keeps nothing bigger than globules, only fit for fainting
lady-birds, so I went to Lolly's, but her bottles have all gold heads,
and are full of uncanny-looking compounds, and I made a raid at last on
Sweet Honey's rational old dressing-case, poked out her keys from her
pocket, and got in; wasting interminable time. Well, when I got back to
my fainting damsel, _non est inventus_.'
'_Inventa_,' murmured the spirit of Miss Fennimore within Phoebe. 'But
what? had she got well?'
'So I suppose. Gone off to the servants' rooms, no doubt; as there is no
White Lady in the fountain to spirit them both away. What, haven't you
done that, yet?'
'Oh! Lucy, stand still, please, or you'll get another hook in.'
'Give me the scissors; I know I could do it quicker. Never mind the
curtain, I say; nobody will care.'
She put up her hand, and shook head and feet to the entanglement of a
third hook; but Phoebe, decided damsel that she was, used her superior
height to keep her mastery, held up the scissors, pressed the fidgety
shoulder into quiescence, and kept her down while she extricated her,
without fatal detriment to the satin, though with scanty thanks, for the
liberation was no sooner accomplished than the sprite was off, throwing
out a word about Rashe wanting her.
Phoebe emerged to find that she had not been missed, and presently the
concert was over, and tea coming round, there was a change of places.
Robert came towards her. 'I am going,' he said.
'Oh! Robert, when dancing would be one chance?'
'She does not mean to give me that chance; I would not ask it while she
is in that dress. It is answer sufficient. Good night, Phoebe; enjoy
yourself.'
Enjoy herself! A fine injunction, when her brother was going away in
such a mood! Yet who would have suspected that rosy, honest apple face
of any grievance, save that her partner was missing?
Honora was vexed and concerned at his neglect, but Phoebe appeased her by
reporting what Lucy had said. 'Thoughtless! reckless!' sighed Honora;
'if Lucy _would_ leave the poor girl on his hands, of course he is
obliged to make some arrangement for getting her home! I never knew such
people as they are here! Well, Phoebe, you _shall_ have a partner next
time!'
Phoebe had one, thanks chiefly to Rashe, and somehow the rapid motion
shook her out of her troubles, and made her care much less for Robin's
sorrows than she had done two minutes before. She was much more absorbed
in hopes for another partner.
Alas! he did not come; neither then nor for the ensuing. Owen's value
began to rise.
Miss Charlecote did not again bestir herself in the cause, partly from
abstract hatred of waltzes, partly from the constant expectation of
Owen's reappearance, and latterly from being occupied in a discussion
with the excellent mother upon young girls reading novels.
At last, after a _galoppe_, at which Phoebe had looked on with wishful
eyes, Lucilla dropped breathless into the chair which she relinquished to
her.
'Well, Phoebe, how do you like it?'
'Oh! very much,' rather ruefully; 'at least it would be if--'
'If you had any partners, eh, poor child? Hasn't Owen turned up?
'It's that billiard-room; I tried to make Charlie shut it up. But we'll
disinter him; I'll rush in like a sky-rocket, and scatter the gentlemen
to all quarters.'
'No, no, don't!' cried Phoebe, alarmed, and catching hold of her. 'It is
not that, but Robin is gone.'
'Atrocious,' returned Cilly, disconcerted, but resolved that Phoebe
should not perceive it; 'so we are both under a severe infliction,--both
ashamed of our brothers.'
'I am not ashamed of mine,' said Phoebe, in a tone of gravity.
'Ah! there's the truant,' said Lucilla, turning aside. 'Owen, where have
you hidden yourself? I hope you are ready to sink into the earth with
shame at hearing you have rubbed off the bloom from a young lady's first
ball.'
'No! it was not he who did so,' stoutly replied Phoebe.
'Ah! it was all the consequence of the green and white; I told you it was
a sinister omen,' said Owen, chasing away a shade of perplexity from his
brow, and assuming a certain air that Phoebe had never seen before, and
did not like. 'At least you will be merciful, and allow me to retrieve
my character.'
'You had nothing to retrieve,' said Phoebe, in the most straightforward
manner; 'it was very good in you to take care of poor Miss Murrell. What
became of her? Lucy said you would know.'
'I--I?' he exclaimed, so vehemently as to startle her by the fear of
having ignorantly committed some egregious blunder; 'I'm the last person
to know.'
'The last to be seen with the murdered always falls under suspicion,'
said Lucilla.
'Drowned in the fountain?' cried Owen, affecting horror.
'Then you must have done it,' said his sister, 'for when I came back,
after ransacking the house for salts, you had both disappeared. Have you
been washing your hands all this time after the murder?'
'Nothing can clear me but an appeal to the fountain,' said Owen; 'will
you come and look in, Phoebe? It is more delicious than ever.'
But Phoebe had had enough of the moonlight, did not relish the subject,
and was not pleased with Owen's manner; so she refused by a most decided
'No, thank you,' causing Lucy to laugh at her for thinking Owen
dangerous.
'At least you will vouchsafe to trust yourself with me for the Lancers,'
said Owen, as Cilla's partner came to claim her, and Phoebe rejoiced in
anything to change the tone of the conversation; still, however, asking,
as he led her off, what had become of the poor schoolmistress.
'Gone home, very sensibly,' said Owen; 'if she is wise she will know how
to trust to Cilly's invitations! People that do everything at once never
do anything well. It is quite a rest to turn to any one like you,
Phoebe, who are content with one thing at a time! I wish--'
'Well, then, let us dance,' said Phoebe, abruptly; 'I can't do that well
enough to talk too.'
It was not that Owen had not said the like things to her many times
before; it was his eagerness and fervour that gave her an uncomfortable
feeling. She was not sure that he was not laughing at her by putting on
these devoted airs, and she felt herself grown up enough to put an end to
being treated as a child. He made her a profound bow in a mockery of
acquiescence, and preserved absolute silence during the first figures,
but she caught his eye several times gazing on her with looks such as
another might have interpreted into mingled regret and admiration, but
which were to her simply discomfiting and disagreeable, and when he spoke
again, it was not in banter, but half in sadness. 'Phoebe, how do you
like all this?'
'I think I could like it very much.'
'I am almost sorry to hear you say so; anything that should tend to make
you resemble others is detestable.'
'I should be very sorry not to be like other people.'
'Phoebe, you do not know how much of the pleasure of my life would be
lost if you were to become a mere conventional young lady.'
Phoebe had no notion of being the pleasure of any one's life except
Robin's and Maria's, and was rather affronted that Owen should profess to
enjoy her childish ignorance and _naivete_.
'I believe,' she said, 'I was rude just now when I told you not to talk.
I am sorry for it; I shall know better next time.'
'Your knowing better is exactly what I deprecate. But there it is;
unconsciousness is the charm of simplicity. It is the very thing aimed
at by Rashe and Cilly, and all their crew, with their eccentricities.'
'I am sorry for it,' seriously returned Phoebe, who had by this time, by
quiet resistance, caused him to land her under the lee of Miss
Charlecote, instead of promenading with her about the room. He wanted
her to dance with him again, saying she owed it to him for having
sacrificed the first to common humanity, but great as was the pleasure of
a polka, she shrank from him in this complimentary mood, and declared she
should dance no more that evening. He appealed to Honora, who, disliking
to have her boy balked of even a polka, asked Phoebe if she were _very_
tired, and considering her 'rather not' as equivalent to such a
confession, proposed a retreat to their own room.
Phoebe was sorry to leave the brilliant scene, and no longer to be able
to watch Lucilla, but she wanted to shake Owen off, and readily
consented. She shut her door after one good night. She was too much
grieved and disappointed to converse, and could not bear to discuss
whether the last hope were indeed gone, and whether Lucilla had decided
her lot without choosing to know it. Alas! how many turning-points may
be missed by those who never watch!
How little did Phoebe herself perceive the shoal past which her
self-respect had just safely guided her!
'I wonder if those were ball-room manners? What a pity if they were, for
then I shall not like balls,' was all the thought that she had leisure to
bestow on her own share in the night's diversions, as through the
subsequent hours she dozed and dreamt, and mused and slept again, with
the feverish limbs and cramp-tormented feet of one new to balls;
sometimes teased by entangling fishing flies, sometimes interminably
detained in the moonlight, sometimes with Miss Fennimore waiting for an
exercise, and the words not to be found in the dictionary; and even this
unpleasant counterfeit of sleep deserting her after her usual time for
waking, and leaving her to construct various fabrics of possibilities for
Robin and Lucy.
She was up in fair time, and had written a long and particular account to
Bertha of everything in the festivities not recorded in this narrative,
before Miss Charlecote awoke from the compensating morning slumber that
had succeeded a sad and unrestful night. Late as they were, they were
down-stairs before any one but the well-seasoned Rashe, who sat beguiling
the time with a Bradshaw, and who did _not_ tell them how intolerably
cross Cilly had been all the morning.
Nor would any one have suspected it who had seen her, last of all, come
down at a quarter to eleven, in the most exultant spirits, talking the
height of rodomontade with the gentlemen guests, and dallying with her
breakfast, while Phoebe's heart was throbbing at the sight of two grave
figures, her brother and the curate, slowly marching up and down the
cloister, in waiting till this was over.
And there sat Lucilla inventing adventures for an imaginary tour to be
brought out on her return by the name of 'Girls in Galway'--'From the
Soiree to the Salmon'--'Flirts and Fools-heads,' as Owen and Charles
discontentedly muttered to each other, or, as Mr. Calthorp proposed, 'The
Angels and the Anglers.' The ball was to be the opening chapter. Lord
William entreated for her costume as the frontispiece, and Mr. Calthorp
begged her to re-assume it, and let her cousin photograph her on the
spot.
Lucilla objected to the impracticability of white silk, the inconvenience
of unpacking the apparatus, the nuisance of dressing, the lack of time;
but Rashe was delighted with the idea, and made light of all, and the
gentlemen pressed her strongly, till with rather more of a consent than a
refusal, she rose from her nearly untasted breakfast, and began to move
away.
'Cilla,' said Mr. Prendergast, at the window, 'can I have a word with
you?'
'At your service,' she answered, as she came out to him, and saw that
Robert had left him. 'Only be quick; they want to photograph me in my
ball-dress.'
'You won't let them do it, though,' said the curate.
'White comes out hideous,' said Lucilla; 'I suppose you would not have a
copy, if I took one off for you?'
'No; I don't like those visitors of yours well enough to see you turned
into a merry-andrew to please them.'
'So that's what Robert Fulmort told you I did last night,' said Lucilla,
blushing at last, and thoroughly.
'No, indeed; you didn't?' he said, regarding her with an astonished
glance.
'I _did_ wear a dress trimmed with salmon-flies, because of a bet with
Lord William,' said Lucilla, the suffusion deepening on brow, cheek, and
throat, as the confiding esteem of her fatherly friend effected what
nothing else could accomplish. She would have given the world to have
justified his opinion of his late rector's little daughter, and her
spirits seemed gone, though the worst he did was to shake his head at
her.
'If you did not know it, why did you call me _that_?' she asked.
'A merry-andrew?' he answered; 'I never meant that you had been one. No;
only an old friend like me doesn't like the notion of your going and
dressing up in the morning to amuse a lot of scamps.'
'I won't,' said Lucilla, very low.
'Well, then,' began Mr. Prendergast, as in haste to proceed to his own
subject; but she cut him short.
'It is not about Ireland?'
'No; I know nothing about young ladies; and if Mr. Charteris and your
excellent friend there have nothing to say against it, I can't.'
'My excellent friend had so much to say against it, that I was pestered
into vowing I would go! Tell me not, Mr. Prendergast,--I should not mind
giving up to you;' and she looked full of hope.
'That would be beginning at the wrong end, Cilla; you are not my charge.'
'You are my clergyman,' she said, pettishly.
'You are not my parishioner,' he answered.
'Pish!' she said; 'when you know I want you to tell me.'
'Why, you say you have made the engagement.'
'So what I said when she fretted me past endurance must bind me!'
Be it observed that, like all who only knew Hiltonbury through Lucilla,
Mr. Prendergast attributed any blemishes which he might detect in her to
the injudicious training of an old maid; so he sympathized. 'Ah! ladies
of a certain age never get on with young ones! But I thought it was all
settled before with Miss Charteris.'
'I never quite said I would go, only we got ready for the sake of the fun
of talking of it, and now Rashe has grown horridly eager about it. She
did not care at first--only to please me.'
'Then wouldn't it be using her ill to disappoint her now? You couldn't
do it, Cilla. Why, you have given your word, and she is quite old enough
for anything. Wouldn't Miss Charlecote see it so?'
To regard Ratia as a mature personage robbed the project of romance, and
to find herself bound in honour by her inconsiderate rattle was one of
the rude shocks which often occur to the indiscriminate of tongue; but
the curate had too much on his mind to dwell on what concerned him more
remotely, and proceeded, 'I came to see whether you could help me about
poor Miss Murrell. You made no arrangement for her getting home last
night?'
'No!'
'Ah, you young people! But it is my fault; I should have recollected
young heads. Then I am afraid it must have been--'
'What?'
'She was seen on the river very late last night with a stranger. He went
up to the school with her, remained about a quarter of an hour, and then
rowed up the river again. I am afraid it is not the first time she has
been seen with him.'
'But, Mr. Prendergast, she was here till at least ten! She fainted away
just as she was to have sung, and we carried her out into the cloister.
When she recovered she went away to the housekeeper's room--' (a bold
assertion, built on Owen's partially heard reply to Phoebe). 'I'll ask
the maids.'
'It is of no use, Cilla; she allows it herself.'
'And pray,' cried Lucilla, rallying her sauciness, 'how do you propose
ever to have banns to publish, if young men and maidens are never to meet
by water nor by land?'
'Then you do know something?'
'No; only that such matters are not commonly blazoned in the
commencement.'
'I don't wish her to blazon it, but if she would only act openly by me,'
said the distressed curate. 'I wish nothing more than that she was safe
married; and then if you ladies appoint another beauty, I'll give up the
place, and live at --- college.'
'We'll advertise for the female Chimpanzee, and depend upon it she will
marry at the end of six weeks. So you have attacked her in person. What
did she say?'
'Nothing that she could help. She stood with those great eyes cast down,
looking like a statue, and sometimes vouchsafing "yes, sir," or "no,
sir." It was "no, sir," when I asked if her mother knew. I am afraid it
must be something very unsatisfactory, Cilla; but she might say more to
you if you were not going away.'
'Oh! Mr. Prendergast, why did you not come sooner?'
'I did come an hour ago, but you were not come down.'
'I'll walk on at once; the carriage can pick me up. I'll fetch my hat.
Poor Edna! I'll soon make her satisfy your mind. Has any one surmised
who it can be?'
'The notion is that it is one of your musicians--very dangerous, I am
afraid; and I say, Cilla, did you ever do such a thing--you couldn't, I
suppose--as lend her Shelley's poems?'
'I? No; certainly not.'
'There was a copy lying on the table in her little parlour, as if she had
been writing something out from it. It is very odd, but it was in that
peculiar olive-green morocco that some of the books in your father's
library were bound in.'
'Not mine, certainly,' said Lucilla. 'Good Honor Charlecote would have
run crazy if she thought I had touched a Shelley; a very odd study for
Edna. But as to the olive-green, of course it was bound under the same
star as ours.'
'Cilly, Cilly, now or never! photograph or not?' screamed Rashe, from
behind her three-legged camera.
'Not!' was Lucilla's cavalier answer. 'Pack up; have done with it,
Rashe. Pick me up at the school.'
Away she flew headlong, the patient and disconcerted Horatia following
her to her room to extract hurried explanations, and worse than no
answers as to the sundries to be packed at the last moment, while she
hastily put on hat and mantle, and was flying down again, when her
brother, with outspread arms, nearly caught her in her spring. 'Hollo!
what's up?'
'Don't stop me, Owen! I'm going to walk on with Mr. Prendergast and be
picked up. I must speak to Edna Murrell.'
'Nonsense! The carriage will be out in five minutes.'
'I must go, Owen. There's some story of a demon in human shape on the
water with her last night, and Mr. Prendergast can't get a word out of
her.'
'Is that any reason you should go ramping about, prying into people's
affairs?'
'But, Owen, they will send her away. They will take away her character.'
'The--the--the more reason you should have nothing to do with it,' he
exclaimed. 'It is no business for you, and I won't have you meddle in
it.'
Such a strong and sudden assumption of fraternal authority took away her
breath; and then, in terror lest he should know cause for this detention,
she said--
'Owen! you don't guess who it was?'
'How should I?' he roughly answered. 'Some villainous slander, of
course, there is, but it is no business of yours to be straking off to
make it worse.'
'I should not make it worse.'
'Women always make things worse. Are you satisfied now?' as the carriage
was seen coming round.
'That is only to be packed.'
'Packed with folly, yes! Look here! 11.20, and the train at 12.5!'
'I will miss the train, go up later, and sleep in London.'
'Stuff and nonsense! Who is going to take you? Not I.'
In Lucilla's desperation in the cause of her favourite Edna, she went
through a rapid self-debate. Honor would gladly wait for her for such a
cause; she could sleep at Woolstone-lane, and thence go on to join
Horatia in Derbyshire, escorted by a Hiltonbury servant. But what would
that entail? She would be at their mercy. Robert would obtain his
advantage--it would be all over with her! Pride arose; Edna's cause
sank. How many destinies were fixed in the few seconds while she stood
with one foot forward, spinning her black hat by the elastic band!
'Too late, Mr. Prendergast; I cannot go,' she said, as she saw him
waiting for her at the door. 'Don't be angry with me, and don't let the
womankind prejudice you against poor Edna. You forgive me! It is really
too late.'
'Forgive _you_?' smiled Mr. Prendergast, pressing her caressing hand in
his great, lank grasp; 'what for?'
'Oh, because it is too late; and I can't help it. But don't be hard with
her. Good-bye.'
Too late! Why did Lucilla repeat those words so often? Was it a relief
to that irreflective nature to believe the die irrevocably cast, and the
responsibility of decision over? Or why did she ask forgiveness of the
only one whom she was not offending, but because there was a sense of
need of pardon where she would not stoop to ask it.
Miss Charlecote and the Fulmorts, Rashe and Cilly, were to be transported
to London by the same train, leaving Owen behind to help Charles
Charteris entertain some guests still remaining, Honora promising him to
wait in town until Lucilla should absolutely have started for Ireland,
when she would supply him with the means of pursuit.
Lucilla's delay and change of mind made the final departure so late that
it was needful to drive excessively fast, and the train was barely caught
in time. The party were obliged to separate, and Robert took Phoebe into
a different carriage from that where the other three found places.
In the ten minutes' transit by railway, Lucy, always softened by parting,
was like another being towards Honor, and talked eagerly of 'coming home'
for Christmas, sent messages to Hiltonbury friends, and did everything
short of retractation to efface the painful impression she had left.
'Sweetest Honey!' she whispered, as they moved on after the tickets had
been taken, thrusting her pretty head over into Honor's place. 'Nobody's
looking, give me a kiss, and say you don't bear malice, though your
kitten has been in a scratching humour.'
'Malice! no indeed!' said Honor, fondly; 'but, oh! remember, dear child,
that frolics may be at too dear a price.'
She longed to say more, but the final stop was made, and their roads
diverged. Honor thought that Lucy looked white and trembling, with an
uneasy eye, as though she would have given much to have been going home
with her.
Nor was the consoling fancy unfounded. Lucilla's nerves were not at
their usual pitch, and an undefined sense of loss of a safeguard was
coming over her. Moreover, the desire for a last word to Robert was
growing every moment, and he _would_ keep on hunting out those boxes, as
if they mattered to anybody.
She turned round on his substitute, and said, 'I've not spoken to Robin
all this time. No wonder his feathers are ruffled. Make my peace with
him, Phoebe dear.'
On the very platform, in that moment of bustle, Phoebe conscientiously
and reasonably began, 'Will you tell me how much you mean by that?'
'Cilly--King's-cross--1.15,' cried Ratia, snatching at her arm.
'Oh! the slave one is! Next time we meet, Phoebe, the redbreast will be
in a white tie, I shall--'
Hurry and agitation were making her flippant, and Robert was nearer than
she deemed. He was assisting her to her seat, and then held out his
hand, but never raised his eyes. 'Goodbye, Robin,' she said; 'Reason
herself shall meet you at the Holt at Christmas.'
'Good-bye,' he said, but without a word of augury, and loosed her hand.
Her fingers clung one moment, but he drew his away, called 'King's-cross'
to the coachman, and she was whirled off. Angler as she was, she no
longer felt her prey answer her pull. Had the line snapped?
When Owen next appeared in Woolstone-lane he looked fagged and harassed,
but talked of all things in sky, earth, or air, politics, literature, or
gossip, took the bottom of the table, and treated the Parsonses as his
guests. Honora, however, felt that something was amiss; perhaps Lucilla
engaged to Lord William; and when, after luncheon, he followed her to the
cedar room, she began with a desponding 'Well?'
'Well, she is off!'
'Alone with Rashe?'
'Alone with Rashe. Why, Sweet Honey, you look gratified!'
'I had begun to fear some fresh news,' said Honor, smiling with effort.
'I am sure that something is wrong. You do not look well, my dear. How
flushed you are, and your forehead is so hot!' as she put her hand on his
brow.
'Oh, nothing!' he said, caressingly, holding it there. 'I'm glad to have
got away from the castle; Charlie and his set drink an intolerable lot of
wine. I'll not be there again in a hurry.'
'I am glad of that. I wish you had come away with us.'
'I wish to heaven I had!' cried Owen; 'but it could not be helped! So
now for my wild-goose chase. Cross to-morrow night; only you were good
enough to say you would find ways and means.'
'There, that is what I intended, including your Midsummer quarter. Don't
you think it enough?' as she detected a look of dissatisfaction.
'You are very good. It is a tremendous shame; but you see, Honor dear,
when one is across the water, one may as well go the whole animal. If
this wise sister of mine does not get into a mess, there is a good deal I
could do--plenty of sport. Little Henniker and some Westminster fellows
in the ---th are at Kilkenny.'
'You would like to spend the vacation in Ireland,' said Honor, with some
disappointment. 'Well, if you go for my pleasure, it is but fair you
should have your own. Shall I advance your September allowance?'
'Thank you. You do spoil one abominably, you concoction of honey and all
things sweet. But the fact is, I've got uncommonly hard-up of late; no
one would believe how ruinous it is being with the Charterises. I
believe money evaporates in the atmosphere.'
'Betting?' asked Honor, gasping and aghast.
'On my honour, I assure you not _there_,' cried Owen, eagerly, 'I never
did bet there but once, and that was Lolly's doing; and I could not get
out of it. Jew that she is! I wonder what Uncle Kit would say to that
house now.'
'You are out of it, and I shall not regret the purchase of your disgust
at their ways, Owen. It may be better for you to be in Ireland than to
be tempted to go to them for the shooting season. How much do you want?
You know, my dear, if there be anything else, I had rather pay anything
that is right than have you in debt.'
'You were always the sweetest, best Honey living!' cried Owen, with much
agitation; 'and it is a shame--' but there he stopped, and ended in a
more ordinary tone--'shame to prey on you, as we both do, and with no
better return.'
'Never mind, dear Owen,' she said, with moisture in her eye; 'your real
happiness is the only return I want. Come, tell me your difficulty; most
likely I can help you.'
'I've nothing to tell,' said Owen, with alarmed impetuosity; 'only that
I'm a fool, like every one else, and--and--if you would only double
that--'
'Double that! Owen, things cannot be right.'
'I told you they were not right,' was the impatient answer, 'or I should
not be vexing you and myself; and,' as though to smooth away his rough
commencement, 'what a comfort to have a Honey that will have patience!'
She shook her head, perplexed. 'Owen, I wish you could tell me more. I
do not like debts. You know, dear boy, I grudge nothing I can do for you
in my lifetime; but for your own sake you must learn not to spend more
than you will be able to afford. Indulgence now will be a penance to you
by and by.'
Honora dreaded overdoing lectures to Owen. She knew that an old maid's
advice to a young man was dangerous work, and her boy's submissive
patience always excited her gratitude and forbearance, so she desisted,
in hopes of a confession, looking at him with such tenderness that he was
moved to exclaim--'Honor dear, you are the best and worst-used woman on
earth! Would to heaven that we had requited you better!'
'I have no cause of complaint against you, Owen,' she said, fondly; 'you
have always been the joy and comfort of my heart;' and as he turned
aside, as though stricken by the words, 'whatever you may have to
reproach yourself with, it is not with hurting me; I only wish to remind
you of higher and more stringent duties than those to myself. If you
have erred, as I cannot but fear, will you not let me try and smooth the
way back?'
'Impossible,' murmured Owen; 'there are things that can never be undone.'
'Not undone, but repented,' said Honor, convinced that he had been led
astray by his cousin Charles, and felt bound not to expose him; 'so
repented as to become stepping-stones in our progress.'
He only shook his head with a groan.
'The more sorrow, the better hope,' she began; but the impatient movement
of his foot warned her that she was only torturing him, and she
proceeded,--'Well, I trust you implicitly; I can understand that there
may be confidences that ought not to pass between us, and will give you
what you require to help you out of your difficulty. I wish you had a
father, or any one who could be of more use to you, my poor boy!' and she
began to fill up the cheque to the utmost of his demand.
'It is too much--too much,' cried Owen. 'Honor, I must tell you at all
costs. What will you think when--'
'I do not wish to purchase a confession, Owen,' she said; 'you know best
whether it be a fit one to make to me, or whether for the sake of others
you ought to withhold it.'
He was checked, and did not answer.
'I see how it is,' continued Honor; 'my boy, as far as I am concerned, I
look on your confession as made. You will be much alone while thus
hovering near your sister among the mountains and by the streams. Let it
be a time of reflection, and of making your peace with Another. You may
do so the more earnestly for not having cast off the burthen on me. You
are no child now, to whom your poor Honey's pardon almost seems an
absolution. I sometimes think we went on with that too long.'
'No fear of my ever being a boy again,' said Owen, heavily, as he put the
draft into his purse, and then bent his tall person to kiss her with the
caressing fondness of his childhood, almost compensating for what his
sister caused her to undergo.
Then, at the door, he turned to say, 'Remember, you would not hear.' He
was gone, having left a thorn with Honor, in the doubt whether she ought
not to have accepted his confidence; but her abstinence had been such a
mortification both of curiosity and of hostility to the Charterises that
she could not but commend herself for it. She had strong faith in the
efficacy of trust upon an honourable mind, and though it was evident that
Owen had, in his own eyes, greatly transgressed, she reserved the hope
that his error was magnified by his own consciousness, and admired the
generosity that refused to betray another. She believed his present
suffering to be the beginning of that growth in true religion which is
often founded on some shock leading to self-distrust.
Alas! how many falls have been counted by mothers as the preludes to
rising again, like the clearing showers of a stormy day.