My pride, that took
Fully easily all impressions from below,
Would not look up, or half despised the height
To which I could not, or I would not climb.
I thought I could not breathe in that fine air.
_Idylls of the King_
'Can you come and take a turn in the Temple-gardens, Phoebe?' asked
Robert, on the way from church, the day after Owen's visit to
Woolstone-lane.
Phoebe rejoiced, for she had scarcely seen him since his return from
Castle Blanch, and his state of mind was a mystery to her. It was long,
however, before he afforded her any clue. He paced on, grave and
abstracted, and they had many times gone up and down the least frequented
path, before he abruptly said, 'I have asked Mr. Parsons to give me a
title for Holy Orders.'
'I don't quite know what that means.'
'How simple you are, Phoebe,' he said, impatiently; 'it means that St.
Wulstan's should be my first curacy. May my labours be accepted as an
endeavour to atone for some of the evil we cause here.'
'Dear Robin! what did Mr. Parsons say? Was he not very glad?'
'No; there lies the doubt.'
'Doubt?'
'Yes. He told me that he had engaged as many curates as he has means
for. I answered that my stipend need be no consideration, for I only
wished to spend on the parish, but he was not satisfied. Many incumbents
don't like to have curates of independent means; I believe it has an
amateur appearance.'
'Mr. Parsons cannot think you would not be devoted.'
'I hope to convince him that I may be trusted. It is all that is left me
now.'
'It will be very cruel to you, and to the poor people, if he will not,'
said Phoebe, warmly; 'what will papa and Mervyn say?'
'I shall not mention it till all is settled; I have my father's consent
to my choice of a profession, and I do not think myself bound to let him
dictate my course as a minister. I owe a higher duty and if his business
scatters the seeds of vice, surely "obedience in the Lord" should not
prevent me from trying to counteract them.'
It was a case of conscience to be only judged by himself, and where even
a sister like Phoebe could do little but hope for the best, so she
expressed a cheerful hope that her father must know that it was right,
and that he would care less now that he was away, and pleased with
Augusta's prospects.
'Yes,' said Robert, 'he already thinks me such a fool, that it may be
indifferent to him in what particular manner I act it out.'
'And how does it stand with Mr. Parsons?'
'He will give me an answer to-morrow evening, provided I continue in the
same mind. There is no chance of my not doing so. My time of suspense
is over!' and the words absolutely sounded like relief, though the set
stern face, and the long breaths at each pause told another tale.
'I did not think she would really have gone!' said Phoebe.
'This once, and we will mention her no more. It is not merely this
expedition, but all I saw at Wrapworth convinced me that I should risk my
faithfulness to my calling by connecting myself with one who, with all
her loveliness and generosity, lives upon excitement. She is the very
light of poor Prendergast's eyes, and he cannot endure to say a word in
her dispraise; she is constantly doing acts of kindness in his parish,
and is much beloved there, yet he could not conceal how much trouble she
gives him by her want of judgment and wilfulness; patronizing and
forgetting capriciously, and attending to no remonstrance. You saw
yourself the treatment of that schoolmistress. I thought the more of
this, because Prendergast is so fond of her, and does her full justice.
No; her very aspect proves that a parish priest has no business to think
of her.'
Large tears swelled in Phoebe's eyes. The first vision of her youth was
melting away, and she detected no relenting in his grave resolute voice.
'Shall you tell her?' was all she could say.
'That is the question. At one time she gave me reason to think that she
accepted a claim to be considered in my plans, and understood what I
never concealed. Latterly she has appeared to withdraw all
encouragement, to reject every advance, and yet-- Phoebe, tell me
whether she has given you any reason to suppose that she ever was in
earnest with me?'
'I know she respects and likes you better than any one, and speaks of you
like no one else,' said Phoebe; then pausing, and speaking more
diffidently, though with a smile, 'I think she looks up to you so much,
that she is afraid to put herself in your power, for fear she should be
made to give up her odd ways in spite of herself, and yet that she has no
notion of losing you. Did you see her face at the station?'
'I would not! I could not meet her eyes! I snatched my hand from the
little clinging fingers;' and Robert's voice almost became a gasp. 'It
was not fit that the spell should be renewed. She would be miserable, I
under constant temptation, if I endeavoured to make her share my work!
Best as it is! She has so cast me off that my honour is no longer bound
to her; but I cannot tell whether it be due to her to let her know how it
is with me, or whether it would be mere coxcombry.'
'The Sunday that she spent here,' said Phoebe, slowly, 'she had a talk
with me. I wrote it down. Miss Fennimore says it is the safest way--'
'Where is it?' cried Robert.
'I kept it in my pocket-book, for fear any one should see it, and it
should do harm. Here it is, if it will help you. I am afraid I made
things worse, but I did not know what to say.'
It was one of the boldest experiments ever made by a sister; for what man
could brook the sight of an unvarnished statement of his proxy's
pleading, or help imputing the failure to the go-between?
'I would not have had this happen for a thousand pounds!' was his
acknowledgment. 'Child as you are, Phoebe, had you not sense to know,
that no woman could endure to have that said, which should scarcely be
implied? I wonder no longer at her studied avoidance.'
'If it be all my bad management, cannot it be set right?' humbly and
hopefully said Phoebe.
'There is no right!' he said. 'There, take it back. It settles the
question. The security you childishly showed, was treated as offensive
presumption on my part. It would be presuming yet farther to make a
formal withdrawal of what was never accepted.'
'Then is it my doing? Have I made mischief between you, and put you
apart?' said poor Phoebe, in great distress. 'Can't I make up for it?'
'You? No, you were only an over plain-spoken child, and brought about
the crisis that must have come somehow. It is not what you have done, or
not done; it is what Lucy Sandbrook has said and done, shows that I must
have done with her for ever.'
'And yet,' said Phoebe, taking this as forgiveness, 'you see she never
believed that you would give her up. If she did, I am sure she would not
have gone.'
'She thinks her power over me stronger than my principles. She
challenges me--desires you to tell me so. We shall see.'
He spoke as a man whose steadfastness had been defied, and who was piqued
on proving it to the utmost. Such feelings may savour of the wrath of
man, they may need the purifying of chastening, and they often impel far
beyond the bounds of sober judgment; but no doubt they likewise
frequently render that easy which would otherwise have appeared
impossible, and which, if done in haste, may be regretted, but not
repented, at leisure.
Under some circumstances, the harshness of youth is a healthy symptom,
proving force of character and conviction, though that is only when the
foremost victim is self. Robert was far from perfect, and it might be
doubted whether he were entering the right track in the right way, but at
least his heart was sound, and there was a fair hope that his failings,
in working their punishment, might work their cure.
It was in a thorough brotherly and Christian spirit that before entering
the house he compelled himself to say, 'Don't vex yourself, Phoebe, I
know you did the best you could. It made no real difference, and it was
best that she should know the truth.'
'Thank you, dear Robin,' cried Phoebe, grateful for the consolation; 'I
am glad you do not think I misrepresented.'
'You are always accurate,' he answered. 'If you did anything
undesirable, it was representing at all. But that is nothing to the
purpose. It is all over now, and thank you for your constant good-will
and patience, my dear. There! now then it is an understood thing that
her name is never spoken between us.'
Meanwhile, Robert's proposal was under discussion by the elders. Mr.
Parsons had no abstract dread of a wealthy curate, but he hesitated to
accept gratuitous services, and distrusted plans formed under the impulse
of disappointment or of enthusiasm, since in the event of a change, both
parties might be embarrassed. There was danger too of collisions with
his family, and Mr. Parsons took counsel with Miss Charlecote, knowing
indeed that where her affections were concerned, her opinions must be
taken with a qualification, but relying on the good sense formed by
rectitude of purpose.
Honor's affection for Robert Fulmort had always been moderated by Owen's
antagonism; her moderation in superlatives commanded implicit credence,
and Mr. Parsons inferred more, instead of less, than she expressed;
better able as he was to estimate that manly character, gaining force
with growth, and though slow to discern between good and evil, always
firm to the duty when it was once perceived, and thus rising with the
elevation of the standard. The undemonstrative temper and tardiness in
adopting extra habits of religious observance and profession, which had
disappointed Honor, struck the clergyman as evidences both of sincerity
and evenness of development, proving the sterling reality of what had
been attained.
'Not taking, but trusty,' judged the vicar.
But the lad was an angry lover. How tantalizing to be offered a fourth
curate, with a long purse, only to find St. Wulstan's serving as an
outlet for a lover's quarrel, and the youth restless and restive ere the
end of his diaconate!
'How savage you are,' said his wife; 'as if the parish would be hurt by
his help or his presence. If he goes, let him go--some other help will
come.'
'And don't deprive him of the advantage of a good master,' said Honor.
'This wretched cure is not worth flattery,' he said, smiling.
'Nay,' said Mrs. Parsons, 'how often have I heard you rejoice that you
started here.'
'Under Mr. Charlecote--yes.'
'You are the depository of his traditions,' said Honor, 'hand them on to
Robert. I wish nothing better for Owen.'
Mr. Parsons wished something better for himself, and averted a reply, by
speaking of Robert as accepted.
Robert's next request was to be made useful in the parish, while
preparing for his ordination in the autumn Ember week; and though there
were demurs as to unnecessarily anticipating the strain on health and
strength, he obtained his wish in mercy to a state only to be alleviated
by the realities of labour.
So few difficulties were started by his family, that Honora suspected
that Mr. Fulmort, always chiefly occupied by what was immediately before
him, hardly realized that by taking an assistant curacy at St. Wulstan's,
his son became one of the pastors of Whittington-streets, great and
little, Richard-courts, Cicely-row, Alice-lane, Cat-alley, and
Turnagain-corner. Scarcely, however, was this settled, when a despatch
arrived from Dublin, headed, 'The Fast Fly Fishers; or the modern St.
Kevin,' containing in Ingoldsby legend-like rhymes the entire narration
of the Glendalough predicament of the 'Fast and Fair,' and concluding
with a piece of prose, by the same author, assuring his Sweet Honey, that
the poem, though strange, was true, that he had just seen the angelic
anglers on board the steamer, and it would not be for lack of good advice
on his part, if Lucy did not present herself at Woolstone-lane, to
partake of the dish called humble pie, on the derivation whereof
antiquaries were divided.
Half amused, half vexed by his levity, and wholly relieved and hopeful,
Honora could not help showing Owen's performance to Phoebe for the sake
of its cleverness; but she found the child too young and simple to enter
into it, for the whole effect was an entreaty that Robert might not see
it, only hear the facts.
Rather annoyed by this want of appreciation of Owen's wit, Honora saw,
nevertheless, that Phoebe had come to a right conclusion. The breach was
not likely to be diminished by finding that the wilful girl had exposed
herself to ridicule, and the Fulmort nature had so little sense of the
ludicrous, that this good-natured brotherly satire would be taken for
mere derision.
So Honor left it to Phoebe to give her own version, only wishing that the
catastrophe had come to his knowledge before his arrangements had been
made with Mr. Parsons.
Phoebe had some difficulty in telling her story. Robert at first
silenced her peremptorily, but after ten minutes relented, and said,
moodily, 'Well, let me hear!' He listened without relaxing a muscle of
his rigid countenance; and when Phoebe ended by saying that Miss
Charlecote had ordered Lucy's room to be prepared, thinking that she
might present herself at any moment, he said, 'Take care that you warn me
when she comes. I shall leave town that minute.'
'Robert, Robert, if she come home grieved and knowing better--'
'I will not see her!' he repeated. 'I made her taking this journey the
test! The result is nothing to me! Phoebe, I trust to you that no
intended good-nature of Miss Charlecote's should bring us together.
Promise me.'
Phoebe could do nothing but promise, and not another sentence could she
obtain from her brother, indeed his face looked so formidable in its
sternness, that she would have been a bold maiden to have tried.
Honora augured truly, that not only was his stern nature deeply offended,
but that he was quite as much in dread of coming under the power of
Lucy's fascinations, as Cilla had ever been of his strength. Such mutual
aversion was really a token of the force of influence upon each, and
Honor assured Phoebe that all would come right. 'Let her only come home
and be good, and you will see, Phoebe! She will not be the worse for an
alarm, nor even for waiting till after his two years at St. Wulstan's.'
The reception of the travellers at Castle Blanch was certainly not
mortifying by creating any excitement. Charles Charteris said his worst
in the words, 'One week!' and his wife was glad to have some one to write
her notes.
This indifference fretted Lucy. She found herself loathing the perfumy
rooms, the sleepy voice, and hardly able to sit still in her restless
impatience of Lolly's platitudes and Charles's _insouciance_, while Rashe
could never be liked again. Even a lecture from Honor Charlecote would
have been infinitely preferable, and one grim look of Robert's would be
bliss!
No one knew whether Miss Charlecote were still in town, nor whether
Augusta Fulmort were to be married in England or abroad; and as to Miss
Murrell, Lolly languidly wondered what it was that she had heard.
Hungering for some one whom she could trust, Lucilla took an early
breakfast in her own room, and walked to Wrapworth, hoping to catch the
curate lingering over his coffee and letters. From a distance, however,
she espied his form disappearing in the school-porch, and approaching,
heard his voice reading prayers, and the children's chanted response.
Coming to the oriel, she looked in. There were the rows of shiny heads,
fair, brown, and black; there were the long sable back and chopped-hay
locks of the curate; but where a queen-like figure had of old been wont
to preside, she beheld a tallow face, with sandy hair under the most
precise of net caps, and a straight thread-paper shape in scanty gray
stuff and white apron.
Dizzy with wrathful consternation, Cilla threw herself on one of the
seats of the porch, shaking her foot, and biting her lip, frantic to know
the truth, yet too much incensed to enter, even when the hum of united
voices ceased, the rushing sound of rising was over, and measured
footsteps pattered to the classes, where the manly interrogations sounded
alternately with the shrill little answers.
Clump, clump, came the heavy feet of a laggard, her head bent over her
book, her thick lips vainly conning the unlearned task, unaware of the
presence of the young lady, till Lucilla touched her, saying, 'What,
Martha, a ten o'clock scholar?'
She gave a little cry, opened her staring eyes, and dropped a curtsey.
'Whom have you here for mistress?' asked Lucilla.
'Please, ma'am, governess is runned away.'
'What do you mean?'
'Yes, ma'am,' replied the girl, developing powers of volubility such as
scholastic relations with her had left unsuspected. 'She ran away last
Saturday was a week, and there was nobody to open the school when we came
to it a Sunday morning; and we had holidays all last week, ma'am; and
mother was terrified {225} out of her life; and father, he said he
wouldn't have me never go for to do no such thing, and that he didn't
want no fine ladies, as was always spiting of me.'
'Every one will seem to spite you, if you keep no better hours,' said
Lucy, little edified by Martha's virtuous indignation.
The girl had scarcely entered the school before the clergyman stood on
the threshold, and was seized by both hands, with the words, 'Oh, Mr.
Prendergast, what is this?'
'You here, Cilla? What's the matter? What has brought you back?'
'Had you not heard? A sprain of Ratia's, and other things. Never mind.
What's all this?'
'Ah! I knew you would be sadly grieved!'
'So you did frighten her away!'
'I never meant it. I tried to act for the best. She was spoken to, by
myself and others, but nobody could make any impression, and we could
only give her notice to go at the harvest holidays. She took it with her
usual grand air--'
'Which is really misery and despair. Oh, why did I go? Go on!'
'I wrote to the mother, advising her, if possible, to come and be with
the girl till the holidays. That was on Thursday week, and the old woman
promised to come on the Monday--wrote a very proper letter, allowing for
the Methodistical phrases--but on the Saturday it was observed that the
house was not opened, and on Sunday morning I got a note--if you'll come
in I'll show it to you.'
He presently discovered it among multitudinous other papers on his
chimney-piece. Within a lady-like envelope was a thick satin-paper,
queen's-sized note, containing these words:
'REVEREND SIR,--It is with the deepest feelings of regret for the
unsatisfactory appearance of my late conduct that I venture to
address you, but time will enable me to account for all, and I can at
the present moment only entreat you to pardon any inconvenience I may
have occasioned by the precipitancy of my departure. Credit me,
reverend and dear sir, it was only the law of necessity that could
have compelled me to act in a manner that may appear questionable.
Your feeling heart will excuse my reserve when you are informed of
the whole. In the meantime, I am only permitted to mention that this
morning I became a happy wife. With heartfelt thanks for all the
kindness I have received, I remain,
'Reverend sir,
'Your obedient servant,
'EDNA.'
'Not one message to me?' exclaimed Lucilla.
'Her not having had the impudence is the only redeeming thing!'
'I did not think she would have left no word for me,' said Lucy, who knew
she had been kinder than her wont, and was really wounded. 'Happy wife!
Who can it be?'
'Happy wife?' repeated the curate. 'It is miserable fool, most likely,
by this time.'
'No surname signed! What's the post-mark? Only Charing-cross. Could
you find out nothing, or did you not think it worth while to look?'
'What do you take me for, Cilla? I inquired at the station, but she had
not been there, and on the Monday I went to London and saw the mother,
who was in great distress, for she had had a letter much like mine, only
more unsatisfactory, throwing out absurd hints about grandeur and
prosperity--poor deluded simpleton!'
'She distinctly says she is married.'
'Yes, but she gives no name nor place. What's that worth? After such
duplicity as she has been practising so long, I don't know how to take
her statement. Those people are pleased to talk of a marriage in the
sight of heaven, when they mean the devil's own work!'
'No, no! I will not think it!'
'Then don't, my dear. You were very young and innocent, and thought no
harm.'
'I'm not young--I'm not innocent!' furiously said Cilly. 'Tell me
downright all you suspect.'
'I'm not given to suspecting,' said the poor clergyman, half in
deprecation, half in reproof; 'but I am afraid it is a bad business. If
she had married a servant or any one in her own rank, there would have
been no need of concealing the name, at least from her mother. I feared
at first that it was one of your cousin Charles's friends, but there
seems more reason to suppose that one of the musical people at your
concert at the castle may have thought her voice a good speculation for
the stage.'
'He would marry her to secure her gains.'
'If so, why the secrecy?'
'Mrs. Jenkins has taught you to make it as bad as possible,' burst out
Lucy. 'O, why was not I at home? Is it too late to trace her and
proclaim her innocence!'
'I was wishing for your help. I went to Mr. Charteris to ask who the
performers were, but he knew nothing about them, and said you and his
sister had managed it all.'
'The director was Derval. He is fairly respectable, at least I know
nothing to the contrary. I'll make Charlie write. There was an Italian,
with a black beard and a bass voice, whom we have had several times. I
saw him looking at her. Just tell me what sort of woman is the mother.
She lets lodgings, does not she?'
'Yes, in Little Whittington-street.'
'Dear me! I trust she is no friend of Honor Charlecote's.'
'Out of her beat, I should think. She dissents.'
'What a blessing! I beg your pardon, but if anything could be an
aggravation, it would be Honor Charlecote's moralities.'
'So you were not aware of the dissent?'
'And you are going to set that down as more deceit, as if it were the
poor thing's business to denounce her mother. Now, to show you that I
can be sure that Edna was brought up to the Church, I will tell you her
antecedents. Her father was Sir Thomas Deane's butler; they lived in the
village, and she was very much in the nursery with the Miss Deanes--had
some lessons from the governess. There was some notion of making her a
nursery governess, but Sir Thomas died, the ladies went abroad, taking
her father with them; Edna was sent to a training school, and the mother
went to live in the City with a relation who let lodgings, and who has
since died, leaving the concern to Mrs. Murrell, whose husband was killed
by an upset of the carriage on the Alps.'
'I heard all that, and plenty besides! Poor woman, she was in such
distress that one could not but let her pour it all out, but I declare
the din rang in my ears the whole night after. A very nice,
respectable-looking body she was, with jet-black eyes like diamonds, and
a rosy, countrified complexion, quite a treat to see in that grimy place,
her widow's cap as white as snow, but oh, such a tongue! She would give
me all her spiritual experiences--how she was converted by an awakening
minister in Cat-alley, and yet had a great respect for such ministers of
the Church as fed their flocks with sincere milk, mixed up with the
biography of all the shopmen and clerks who ever lodged there, and to
whom she acted as a mother!'
'It was not their fault that she did not act as a mother-in-law. Edna
has told me of the unpleasantness of being at home on account of the
young men.'
'Exactly! I was spared none of the chances she might have had, but the
only thing worthy of note was about a cashier who surreptitiously brought
a friend from the "hopera," to overhear her singing hymns on the Sunday
evening, and thus led to an offer on his part to have her brought out on
the stage.'
'Ha! could that have come to anything?'
'No. Mrs. Murrell's suspicions took that direction, and we hunted down
the cashier and the friend, but they were quite exonerated. It only
proves that her voice has an unfortunate value.'
'If she be gone off with the Italian bass, I can't say I think it a fatal
sign that she was slow to present him to her domestic Mause Headrigg, who
no doubt would deliberately prefer the boards of her coffin to the boards
of the theatre. Well, come along--we will get a letter from Charles, and
rescue her--I mean, clear her.'
'Won't you look into school, and see how we go on? The women complained
so much of having their children on their hands, though I am sure they
had sent them to school seldom enough of late, that I got this young
woman from Mrs. Stuart's asylum till the holidays. I think we shall let
her stay on, she has a good deal of method, and all seem pleased with the
change.'
'You have your wish of a fright. No, I thank you! I'm not so glad as
the rest of you to get rid of refinement and superiority.'
There was no answer, and more touched by silence than reply, she hastily
said, 'Never mind! I dare say she may do better for the children, but
you know, I, who am hard of caring for any one, did care for poor Edna,
and I can't stand paeans over your new broom.'
Mr. Prendergast gave a smile such as was only evoked by his late rector's
little daughter, and answered, 'No one can be more concerned than I. She
was not in her place here, that was certain, and I ought to have minded
that she was not thrust into temptation. I shall remember it with shame
to my dying day.'
'Which means to say that so should I.'
'No, you did not know so much of the evils of the world.'
'I told you before, Mr. Pendy, that I am twenty times more sophisticated
than you are. You talk of knowing the world! I wish I didn't. I'm
tired of everybody.'
And on the way home she described her expedition, and had the pleasure of
the curate's sympathy, if not his entire approval. Perhaps there was no
other being whom she so thoroughly treated as a friend, actually like a
woman friend, chiefly because he thoroughly believed in her, and was very
blind to her faults. Robert would have given worlds to have found her
_once_ what Mr. Prendergast found her _always_.
She left him to wait in the drawing-room, while she went on her mission,
but presently rushed back in a fury. Nobody cared a straw for the
catastrophe. Lolly begged her not to be so excited about a trifle, it
made her quite nervous; and the others laughed at her; Rashe pretended to
think it a fine chance to have changed 'the life of an early Christian'
for the triumphs of the stage; and Charles scouted the idea of writing to
the man's employer. 'He call Derval to account for all the tricks of his
fiddlers and singers? Much obliged!'
Mr. Prendergast decided on going to town by the next train, to make
inquiries of Derval himself, without further loss of time, and Cilly
declared that she would go with him and force the conceited professor to
attend; but the curate, who had never found any difficulty in enforcing
his own dignity, and thought it no business for a young lady, declined
her company, unless, he said, she were to spend the day with Miss
Charlecote.
'I've a great mind to go to her for good and all. Let her fall upon me
for all and sundry. It will do me good to hear a decent woman speak
again! besides, poor old soul, she will be so highly gratified, that she
will be quite meek' (and so will some one else, quoth the perverse little
heart); 'I'll put up a few things, and not delay you.'
'This is very sudden!' said the curate, wishing to keep the peace between
her and her friends, and not willing that his sunbeam should fleet 'so
like the Borealis race!' 'Will it not annoy your cousins?'
'They ought to be annoyed!'
'And are you certain that you would find Miss Charlecote in town? I
thought her stay was to be short.'
'I'm certain of nothing, but that every place is detestable.'
'What would you do if you did not find her?'
'Go on to Euston-square. Do you think I don't know my way to Hiltonbury,
or that I should not get welcome enough--ay, and too much--there?'
'Then if you are so uncertain of her movements, do you not think you had
better let me learn them before you start? She might not even be gone
home, and you would not like to come back here again; if--'
'Like a dog that has been out hunting,' said Lucilla, who could bear
opposition from this quarter as from no other. 'You won't take the
responsibility, that's the fact. Well, you may go and reconnoitre, if
you will; but mind, if you say one word of what brings you to town, I
shall never go near the Holt at all. To hear--whenever the Raymonds, or
any other of the godly school-keeping sort come to dinner--of the direful
effects of certificated schoolmistresses, would drive me to such
distraction that I cannot answer for the consequences.'
'I am sure it is not a fact to proclaim.'
'Ah! but if you run against Mr. Parsons, you'll never abstain from
telling him of his stray lamb, nor from condoling with him upon the wolf
in Cat-alley. Now there's a fair hope of his having more on his hands
than to get his fingers scratched by meddling with the cats, and so that
this may remain unknown. So consider yourself sworn to secrecy.'
Mr. Prendergast promised. The good man was a bit of a gossip, so perhaps
her precaution was not thrown away, for he could hardly have helped
seeking the sympathy of a brother pastor, especially of him to whose fold
the wanderer primarily belonged. Nor did Lucy feel certain of not
telling the whole herself in some unguarded moment of confidence. All
she cared for was, that the story should not transpire through some other
source, and be brandished over her head as an illustration of all the
maxims that she had so often spurned. She ran after Mr. Prendergast
after he had taken leave, to warn him against calling in Woolstone-lane,
and desired him instead to go to Masters's shop, where it was sure to be
known whether Miss Charlecote were in town or not.
Mr. Prendergast secretly did grateful honour to the consideration that
would not let him plod all the weary way into the City. Little did he
guess that it was one part mistrust of his silence, and three parts
reviving pride, which forbade that Honora should know that he had
received any such commission.
The day was spent in pleasant anticipations of the gratitude and
satisfaction that would be excited by her magnanimous return, and her
pardon to Honor and to Robert for having been in the right. She knew she
could own it so graciously that Robert would be overpowered with
compunction, and for ever beholden to her; and now that the Charterises
were so unmitigatedly hateful, it was time to lay herself out for
goodness, and fling him the rein, with only now and then a jerk to remind
him that she was a free agent.
A long-talked-of journey on the Continent was to come to pass as soon as
Horatia's strain was well. In spite of wealth and splendour, Eloisa had
found herself disappointed in the step that she had hoped her marriage
would give her into the most _elite_ circles. Languid and indolent as
her mind was, she could not but perceive that where Ratia was intimate
and at ease, she continued on terms of form and ceremony, and her husband
felt more keenly that the society in his house was not what it had been
in his mother's time. They both became restless, and Lolly, who had
already lived much abroad, dreaded the dulness of an English winter in
the country; while Charles knew that he had already spent more than he
liked to recollect, and that the only means of keeping her contented at
Castle Blanch, would be to continue most ruinous expenses.
With all these secret motives, the tour was projected as a scheme of
amusement, and the details were discussed between Charles and Rashe with
great animation, making the soberness of Hiltonbury appear both tedious
and sombre, though all the time Lucy felt that there she should again
meet that which her heart both feared and yearned for, and without which
these pleasures would be but shadows of enjoyment. Yet that they were
not including her in their party, gave her a sense of angry neglect and
impatience. She wanted to reject their invitation indignantly, and make
a merit of the sacrifice.
The after-dinner discussion was in full progress when she was called out
to speak to Mr. Prendergast. Heated, wearied, and choking with dust, he
would not come beyond the hall, but before going home he had walked all
this distance to tell her the result of his expedition. Derval had not
been uncivil, but evidently thought the suspicion an affront to his
_corps_, which at present was dispersed by the end of the season. The
Italian bass was a married man, and had returned to his own country. The
clue had failed. The poor leaf must be left to drift upon unknown winds.
'But,' said the curate, by way of compensation, 'at Masters's I found
Miss Charlecote herself, and gave your message.'
'I gave no message.'
'No, no, because you would not send me up into the City; but I told her
all you would have had me say, and how nearly you had come up with me,
only I would not let you, for fear she should have left town.'
Cilla's face did not conceal her annoyance, but not understanding her in
the least, he continued, 'I'm sure no one could speak more kindly or
considerately than she did. Her eyes filled with tears, and she must be
heartily fond of you at the bottom, though maybe rather injudicious and
strict; but after what I told her, you need have no fears.'
'Did you ever know me have any?'
'Ah well! you don't like the word; but at any rate she thinks you behaved
with great spirit and discretion under the circumstances, and quite
overlooks any little imprudence. She hopes to see you the day after
to-morrow, and will write and tell you so.'
Perhaps no intentional slander ever gave the object greater annoyance
than Cilly experienced on learning that the good curate had, in the
innocence of his heart, represented her as in a state of proper feeling,
and interceded for her; and it was all the worse because it was
impossible to her to damp his kind satisfaction, otherwise than by a
brief 'Thank you,' the tone of which he did not comprehend.
'Was she alone?' she asked.
'Didn't I tell you the young lady was with her, and the brother?'
'Robert Fulmort!' and Cilla's heart sank at finding that it could not
have been he who had been with Owen.
'Ay, the young fellow that slept at my house. He has taken a curacy at
St. Wulstan's.'
'Did he tell you so?' with an ill-concealed start of consternation.
'Not he; lads have strange manners. I should have thought after the
terms we were upon here, he need not have been quite so much absorbed in
his book as never to speak!'
'He has plenty in him instead of manners,' said Lucilla; 'but I'll take
him in hand for it.'
Though Lucilla's instinct of defence had spoken up for Robert, she felt
hurt at his treatment of her old friend, and could only excuse it by a
strong fit of conscious moodiness. His taking the curacy was only
explicable, she thought, as a mode of showing his displeasure with
herself, since he could not ask her to marry into Whittingtonia; but
'That must be all nonsense,' thought she; 'I will soon have him down off
his high horse, and Mr. Parsons will never keep him to his
engagement--silly fellow to have made it--or if he does, I shall only
have the longer to plague him. It will do him good. Let me see! he will
come down to-morrow with Honora's note. I'll put on my lilac muslin with
the innocent little frill, and do my hair under his favourite net, and
look like such a horrid little meek ringdove that he will be perfectly
disgusted with himself for having ever taken me for a fishing eagle. He
will be abject, and I'll be generous, and not give another peck till it
has grown intolerably stupid to go on being good, or till he presumes.'
For the first time for many days, Lucilla awoke with the impression that
something pleasant was about to befall her, and her wild heart was in a
state of glad flutter as she donned the quiet dress, and found that the
subdued colouring and graver style rendered her more softly lovely than
she had ever seen herself.
The letters were on the breakfast-table when she came down, the earliest
as usual, and one was from Honor Charlecote, the first sight striking her
with vexation, as discomfiting her hopes that it would come by a welcome
bearer. Yet that might be no reason why he should not yet run down.
She tore it open.
'MY DEAREST LUCY,--Until I met Mr. Prendergast yesterday, I was not
sure that you had actually returned, or I would not have delayed an
hour in assuring you, if you could doubt it, that my pardon is ever
ready for you.'
('Many thanks,' was the muttered comment. 'Oh that poor, dear,
stupid man! would that I had stopped his mouth!')
'I never doubted that your refinement and sense of propriety would be
revolted at the consequences of what I always saw to be mere
thoughtlessness--'
('Dearly beloved of an old maid is, I told you so!')
'--but I am delighted to hear that my dear child showed so much true
delicacy and dignity in her trying predicament--'
('Delighted to find her dear child not absolutely lost to decorum!
Thanks again.')
'--and I console myself for the pain it has given by the trust that
experience has proved a better teacher than precept.'
('Where did she find that grand sentence?')
'So that good may result from past evil and present suffering, and
that you may have learnt to distrust those who would lead you to
disregard the dictates of your own better sense.'
('Meaning her own self!')
'I have said all this by letter that we may cast aside all that is
painful when we meet, and only to feel that I am welcoming my child,
doubly dear, because she comes owning her error.'
('I dare say! We like to be magnanimous, don't we? Oh, Mr.
Prendergast, I could beat you!')
'Our first kiss shall seal your pardon, dearest, and not a word shall
pass to remind you of this distressing page in your history.'
('Distressing! Excellent fun it was. I shall make her hear my
diary, if I persuade myself to encounter this intolerable kiss of
peace. It will be a mercy if I don't serve her as the thief in the
fable did his mother when he was going to be hanged.')
'I will meet you at the station by any train on Saturday that you
like to appoint, and early next week we will go down to what I am
sure you have felt is your only true home.'
('Have I? Oh! she has heard of their journey, and thinks this my
only alternative. As if I could not go with them if I chose--I wish
they would ask me, though. They shall! I'll not be driven up to the
Holt as my last resource, and live there under a system of mild
browbeating, because I can't help it. No, no! Robin shall find it
takes a vast deal of persuasion to bend me to swallow so much pardon
in milk and water. I wonder if there's time to change the spooney
simplicity, and come out in something spicy, with a dash of the
Bloomer. But, maybe, there's some news of him in the other sheet,
now she has delivered her conscience of her rigmarole. Oh! here it
is--')
'Phoebe will go home with us, as she is, according to the family
system, not summoned to her sister's wedding. Robert leaves London
on Saturday morning, to fetch his books, &c., from Oxford, Mr.
Parsons having consented to give him a title for Holy Orders, and to
let him assist in the parish until the next Ember week. I think,
dear girl, that it should not be concealed from you that this step
was taken as soon as he heard that you had actually sailed for
Ireland, and that he does not intend to return until we are in the
country.'
('Does he not? Another act of coercion! I suppose you put him up to
this, madam, as a pleasing course of discipline. You think you have
the whip-hand of me, do you? Pooh! See if he'll stay at Oxford!')
'I feel for the grief I'm inflicting--'
('Oh, so you complacently think, "now I have made her sorry!"')
'--but I believe uncertainty, waiting, and heart sickness would cost
you far more. Trust me, as one who has felt it, that it is far
better to feel oneself unworthy than to learn to doubt or distrust
the worthiness or constancy of another.'
('My father to wit! A pretty thing to say to his daughter! What
right has she to be pining and complaining after him? He, the
unworthy one? I'll never forgive that conceited inference! Just
because he could not stand sentiment! Master Robert gone! Won't I
soon have him repenting of his outbreak?')
'I have no doubt that his feelings are unchanged, and that he is
solely influenced by principle. He is evidently exceedingly unhappy
under all his reserve--'
('He shall be more so, till he behaves himself, and comes back
humble! I've no notion of his flying out in this way.')
'--and though I have not exchanged a word with him on the subject, I
am certain that his good opinion will be retrieved, with infinite joy
to himself, as soon as you make it possible for his judgment to be
satisfied with your conduct and sentiments. Grieved as I am, it is
with a hopeful sorrow, for I am sure that nothing is wanting on your
part but that consistency and sobriety of behaviour of which you have
newly learnt the necessity on other grounds. The Parsonses have gone
to their own house, so you will not find any one here but two who
will feel for you in silence, and we shall soon be in the quiet of
the Holt, where you shall have all that can give you peace or comfort
from your ever-loving old H. C.'
'Feel for me! Never! Don't you wish you may get it? Teach the
catechism and feed caterpillars till such time as it pleases Mrs. Honor
to write up and say "the specimen is tame"? How nice! No, no. I'll not
be frightened into their lording it over me! I know a better way! Let
Mr. Robert find out how little I care, and get himself heartily sick of
St. Wulstan's, till it is "turn again Whittington indeed!" Poor fellow,
I hate it, but he must be cured of his airs, and have a good fright. Why
don't they ask me to go to Paris with them? Where can I go, if they
don't. To Mary Cranford's? Stupid place, but I _will_ show that I'm not
so hard up as to have no place but the Holt to go to! If it were only
possible to stay with Mr. Prendergast, it would be best of all! Can't I
tell him to catch a chaperon for me? Then he would think Honor a regular
dragon, which would be a shame, for it was nobody's fault but his! I
shall tell him I'm like the Christian religion, for which people are
always making apologies that it doesn't want! Two years! Patience! It
will be very good for Robin, and four-and-twenty is quite soon enough to
bite off one's wings, and found an ant-hill. As to being bullied into
being kissed, pitied, pardoned, and trained by Honor, I'll never sink so
low! No, at _no_ price.'
Poor Mr. Prendergast! Did ever a more innocent mischief-maker exist?
Poor Honora! Little did she guess that the letter written in such love,
such sympathy, such longing hope, would only excite fierce rebellion.
Yet it was at the words of Moses that the king's heart was hardened; and
what was the end? He was taken at his word. 'Thou shalt see my face no
more.'
To be asked to join the party on their tour had become Lucilla's prime
desire, if only that she might not feel neglected, or driven back to
Hiltonbury by absolute necessity; and when the husband and wife came
down, the wish was uppermost in her mind.
Eloisa remarked on her quiet style of dress, and observed that it would
be quite the thing in Paris, where people were so much less _outre_ than
here.
'I have nothing to do with Paris.'
'Oh! surely you go with us!' said Eloisa; 'I like to take you out,
because you are in so different a style of beauty, and you talk and save
one trouble! Will not she go, Charles?'
'You see, Lolly wants you for effect!' he said, sneeringly. 'But you are
always welcome, Cilly; we are woefully slow when you ain't there to keep
us going, and I should like to show you a thing or two. I only did not
ask you, because I thought you had not hit it off with Rashe, or have you
made it up?'
'Oh! Rashe and I understand each other,' said Cilly, secure that though
she would never treat Rashe with her former confidence, yet as long as
they travelled _en grand seigneur_, there was no fear of collisions of
temper.
'Rashe is a good creature,' said Lolly, 'but she is so fast and so
eccentric that I like to have you, Cilly; you look so much younger, and
more ladylike.'
'One thing more,' said Charles, in his character of head of the family;
'shouldn't you look up Miss Charlecote, Cilly? There's Owen straining
the leash pretty hard, and you must look about you, that she does not
take up with these new pets of hers and cheat you.'
'The Fulmorts? Stuff! They have more already than they know what to do
with.'
'The very reason she will leave them the more. I declare, Cilly,' he
added, half in jest, half in earnest, 'the only security for you and Owen
is in a double marriage. Perhaps she projects it. You fire up as if she
had!'
'If she had, do you think that I should go back?' said Cilly, trying to
answer lightly, though her cheeks were in a flame. 'No, no, I am not
going to let slip a chance of Paris.'
She stopped short, dismayed at having committed herself, and Horatia
coming down, was told by acclamation that Cilly was going.
'Of course she is,' said forgiving and forgetting Rashe. 'Little Cilly
left behind, to serve for food to the Rouge Dragon? No, no! I should
have no fun in life without her.'
Rashe forgot the past far more easily that Cilla could ever do. There
was a certain guilty delight in writing--
'MY DEAR HONOR,--Many thanks for your letter, and intended
kindnesses. The scene must, however, be deferred, as my cousins mean
to winter at Paris, and I can't resist the chance of hooking a
Marshal, or a Prince or two. Rashe's strain was a great sell but we
had capital fun, and shall hope for more success another season. I
would send you my diary if it were written out fair. We go so soon
that I can't run up to London, so I hope no one will be disturbed on
my account.
'Your affectionate CILLY.'
No need to say how often Lucilla would have liked to have recalled that
note for addition or diminution, how many misgivings she suffered on her
peculiar mode of catching Robins, how frequent were her disgusts with her
cousin, and how often she felt like a captive--the captive of her own
self-will.
'That's right!' said Horatia to Lolly. 'I was mortally afraid she would
stay at home to fall a prey to the incipient parson, but now he is choked
off, and Calthorp is really in earnest, we shall have the dear little
morsel doing well yet.'