CHAPTER X

O ye, who never knew the joys

Of friendship, satisfied with noise,

Fandango, ball, and rout,

Blush, when I tell you how a bird

A prison, with a friend, preferred,

To liberty without.--COWPER

Had Lucilla Sandbrook realized the effect of her note, she would never

have dashed it off; but, like all heedless people, pain out of her

immediate ken was nothing to her.

After the loving hopes raised by the curate's report, and after her own

tender and forgiving letter, Honor was pierced to the quick by the

scornful levity of those few lines. Of the ingratitude to herself she

thought but little in comparison with the heartless contempt towards

Robert, and the miserable light-mindedness that it manifested.

'My poor, poor child!' was all she said, as she saw Phoebe looking with

terror at her countenance; 'yes, there is an end of it. Let Robert never

vex himself about her again.'

Phoebe took up the note, read it over and over again, and then said low

and gravely, 'It is very cruel.'

'Poor child, she was born to the Charteris nature, and cannot help it!

Like seeks like, and with Paris before her, she can see and feel nothing

else.'

Phoebe vaguely suspected that there might be a shadow of injustice in

this conclusion. She knew that Miss Charlecote imagined Lucilla to be

more frivolous than was the case, and surmised that there was more

offended pride than mere levity in the letter. Insight into character is

a natural, not an acquired endowment; and many of poor Honor's troubles

had been caused by her deficiency in that which was intuitive to Phoebe,

though far from consciously. That perception made her stand thoughtful,

wondering whether what the letter betrayed were folly or temper, and

whether, like Miss Charlecote, she ought altogether to quench her

indignation in contemptuous pity.

'There, my dear,' said Honor, recovering herself, after having sat with

ashy face and clasped hands for many moments. 'It will not bear to be

spoken or thought of. Let us go to something else. Only, Phoebe, my

child, do not leave her out of your prayers.'

Phoebe clung about her neck, kissed and fondled her, and felt her cheeks

wet with tears, in the passionate tenderness of the returning caress.

The resolve was kept of not going back to the subject, but Honora went

about all day with a soft, tardy step, and subdued voice, like one who

has stood beside a death-bed.

When Phoebe heard those stricken tones striving to be cheerful, she could

not find pardon for the wrong that had not been done to herself. She

dreaded telling Robert that no one was coming whom he need avoid, though

without dwelling on the tone of the refusal. To her surprise, he heard

her short, matter-of-fact communication without any token of anger or of

grief, made no remark, and if he changed countenance at all, it was to

put on an air of gloomy satisfaction, as though another weight even in

the most undesirable scale were preferable to any remnant of balancing,

and compunction for possible injustice were removed.

Could Lucilla but have seen that face, she would have doubted of her

means of reducing him to obedience.

The course he had adopted might indeed be the more excellent way in the

end, but at present even his self-devotion was not in such a spirit as to

afford much consolation to Honor. If good were to arise out of sorrow,

the painful seed-time was not yet over. His looks were stern even to

harshness, and his unhappiness seemed disposed to vent itself in doing

his work after his own fashion, brooking no interference.

He had taken a lodging over a baker's shop at Turnagain Corner. Honor

thought it fair for the locality, and knew something of the people, but

to Phoebe it was horror and dismay. The two small rooms, the painted

cupboard, the cut paper in the grate, the pictures in yellow gauze, with

the flies walking about on them, the round mirror, the pattern of the

carpet, and the close, narrow street, struck her as absolutely shocking,

and she came to Miss Charlecote with tears in her eyes, to entreat her to

remonstrate, and tell Robin it was his duty to live like a gentleman.

'My dear,' said Honor, rather shocked at a speech so like the ordinary

Fulmort mind, 'I have no fears of Robert not living like a gentleman.'

'I know--not in the real sense,' said Phoebe, blushing; 'but surely he

ought not to live in this dismal poky place, with such mean furniture,

when he can afford better.'

'I am afraid the parish affords few better lodgings, Phoebe, and it is

his duty to live where his work lies. You appreciated his self-denial, I

thought? Do you not like him to make a sacrifice?'

'I ought,' said Phoebe, her mind taking little pleasure in those acts of

self-devotion that were the delight of her friend. 'If it be his duty,

it cannot be helped, but I cannot be happy at leaving him to be

uncomfortable--perhaps ill.'

Coming down from the romance of martyrdom which had made her expect

Phoebe to be as willing to see her brother bear hardships in the London

streets, as she had herself been to dismiss Owen the first to his wigwam,

Honor took the more homely view of arguing on the health and quietness of

Turnagain Corner, the excellence of the landlady, and the fact that her

own cockney eyes had far less unreasonable expectations than those

trained to the luxuries of Beauchamp. But by far the most efficient

solace was an expedition for the purchase of various amenities of life,

on which Phoebe expended the last of her father's gift. The next morning

was spent in great secrecy at the lodgings, where Phoebe was so notable

and joyous in her labours, that Honor drew the conclusion that

housewifery was her true element; and science, art, and literature only

acquired, because they had been made her duties, reckoning all the more

on the charming order that would rule in Owen Sandbrook's parsonage.

All troubles and disappointments had faded from the young girl's mind, as

she gazed round exulting on the sacred prints on the walls, the delicate

statuettes, and well-filled spill-holder and match-box on the

mantelshelf, the solid inkstand and appurtenances upon the handsome

table-cover, the comfortable easy-chair, and the book-cases, whose

contents had been reduced to order due, and knew that the bedroom bore

equal testimony to her skill; while the good landlady gazed in

admiration, acknowledging that she hardly knew her own rooms, and

promising with all her heart to take care of her lodger.

Alas! when, on the way to the station, Honor and Phoebe made an

unexpected raid to bring some last improvements, Robert was detected in

the act of undoing their work, and denuding his room of even its original

luxuries. Phoebe spoke not, but her face showed her discomfiture, and

Honora attacked him openly.

'I never meant you to know it,' he said, looking rather foolish.

'Then to ingratitude you added treachery.'

'It is not that I do not feel your kindness--'

'But you are determined not to feel it!'

'No, no! only, this is no position for mere luxuries. My

fellow-curates--'

'Will use such conveniences of life as come to them naturally,' said

Honor, who had lived long enough to be afraid of the freaks of

asceticism. 'Hear me, Robert. You are not wise in thrusting aside all

that brings home to you your little sister's love. You think it cannot

be forgotten, but it is not well to cast away these daily memorials. I

know you have much to make you severe--nay, morose--but if you become so,

you will never do your work efficiently. You may repel, but never

invite; frighten, but not soothe.'

'You want me to think my efficiency dependent on arm-chairs and

table-covers.'

'I know you will be harder to all for living in needless discomfort, and

that you will be gentler to all for constantly meeting tokens of your

sister's affection. Had you sought these comforts for yourself, the case

would be different; but, Robert, candidly, which of you is the

self-pleasing, which the mortified one, at this moment?'

Robert could not but look convicted as his eyes fell on the innocent

face, with the tears just kept back by strong effort, and the struggling

smile of pardon.

'Never mind, Robin,' said Phoebe, as she saw his air of vexation; 'I know

you never meant unkindness. Do as you think right, only pray think of

what Miss Charlecote says.'

'She has one thing more to say,' added Honor. 'Do you think that

throwing aside Phoebe's little services will make you fitter to go among

the little children?'

There was no answer, but a reluctant approach to a smile gave Phoebe

courage to effect her restorations, and her whispered 'You will not

disturb them?' met with an affirmative satisfactory to herself.

Perhaps he felt as of old, when the lady of the Holt had struck him for

his cruelty to the mouse, or expelled him for his bad language. The same

temper remained, although self-revenge had become the only outlet. He

knew what it was that he had taken for devoted self-denial.

'Yes, Robin,' were Miss Charlecote's parting words, as she went back to

days of her own long past. 'Wilful doing right seldom tends to good,

above all when it begins by exaggeration of duty.'

And Robert was left with thoughts such as perchance might render him a

more tractable subordinate for Mr. Parsons, instead of getting into

training for the Order of St. Dominic.

Phoebe had to return less joyfully than she had gone forth. Her first

bright star of anticipation had faded, and she had partaken deeply of the

griefs of the two whom she loved so well. Not only had she to leave the

one to his gloomy lodgings in the City, and the toil that was to deaden

suffering, but the other must be parted with at the station, to return to

the lonely house, where not even old Ponto would meet her--his last hour

having, to every one's grief, come in her absence.

Phoebe could not bear the thought of that solitary return, and even at

the peril of great disappointment to her sisters, begged to sleep that

first night at the Holt, but Honor thanked her, and laughed it off: 'No,

no! my dear, I am used to be alone, and depend upon it, there will be

such an arrear of farm business for me, that I should hardly have time to

speak to you. You need not be uneasy for me, dear one, there is always

relief in having a great deal to do, and I shall know you are near, to

come if I want you. There's a great deal in that knowledge, Phoebe.'

'If I were of any use--'

'Yes, Phoebe, this visit has made you my friend instead of my

playfellow.'

Phoebe's deepening colour showed her intense gratification. 'And there

are the Sundays,' added Honor. 'I trust Miss Fennimore will let you come

to luncheon, and to the second service with me.'

'I will try very hard!'

For Phoebe could not help feeling like the canary, who sees his owner's

hand held out to catch him after his flight, or the pony who marks his

groom at the gate of the paddock. Cage and rein were not grievous, but

liberty was over, and free-will began to sink into submission, as the

chimneys of home came nearer, even though the anticipation of her

sister's happiness grew more and more on her, and compensated for all.

Shrieks of ecstasy greeted her; she was held as fast as though her

sisters feared to lose her again, and Miss Fennimore showed absolute

warmth of welcome. Foreign tongues were dispensed with, and it was a

festival evening of chatter, and display of purchases, presents, and

commissions. The evidences of Phoebe's industry were approved. Her

abstracts of her reading, her notes of museums and exhibitions, her

drawing, needlework, and new pieces of music, exceeded Miss Fennimore's

hopes, and appalled her sisters.

'You did all that,' cried Bertha, profiting by Miss Fennimore's absence;

'I hope to goodness she won't make it a precedent.'

'Wasn't it very tiresome?' asked Maria.

'Sometimes; but it made me comfortable, as if I had a backbone for my

day.'

'But didn't you want to feel like a lady?'

'I don't think I felt otherwise, Maria.'

'Like a grown-up lady, like mamma and my sisters?'

'O examples!' cried Bertha. 'No wonder Maria thinks doing nothing the

great thing to grow up for. But, Phoebe, how could you be so stupid as

to go and do all this heap? You might as well have stayed at home.'

'Miss Fennimore desired me!'

'The very reason why I'd have read stories, and made pictures out of

them, just to feel myself beyond her talons.'

'Talents, not talons,' said Maria. 'Cats have talons, people have

talents.'

'Sometimes both, sometimes neither,' observed Bertha. 'No explanation,

Phoebe; what's the use? I want to know if Owen Sandbrook didn't call you

little Miss Precision?'

'Something like it.'

'And you went on when he was there?'

'Generally.'

'Oh! what opportunities are wasted on some people. Wouldn't I have had

fun! But of course he saw you were a poor little not-come-out thing, and

never spoke to you. Oh! if Miss Charlecote would ask me to London!'

'And me!' chimed in Maria.

'Well, what would you do?'

'Not act like a goose, and bring home dry abstracts. I'd make Miss

Charlecote take me everywhere, and quite forget all my science, unless I

wanted to amaze some wonderful genius. Oh dear! won't I make Augusta

look foolish some of these days! She really thinks that steel attracts

lightning! Do you think Miss Charlecote's society will appreciate me,

Phoebe?'

'And me?' again asked Maria.

Phoebe laughed heartily, but did not like Bertha's scoffing mirth at

Maria's question. Glad as she was to be at home, her glimpse of the

outer world had so enlarged her perceptions, she could not help remarking

the unchildlike acuteness of the younger girl, and the obtuse

comprehension of the elder; and she feared that she had become

discontented and fault-finding after her visit. Moreover, when Bertha

spoke much English, a certain hesitation occurred in her speech which was

apt to pass unnoticed in her foreign tongues, but which jarred

unpleasantly on her sister's ear, and only increased when noticed.

At nine, when Phoebe rose as usual to wish good night, Miss Fennimore

told her that she need not for the future retire before ten, the hour to

which she had of late become accustomed. It was a great boon, especially

as she was assured that the additional hour should be at her own

disposal.

'You have shown that you can be trusted with your time, my dear. But not

to-night,' as Phoebe was turning to her desk; 'remember how long I have

suffered a famine of conversation. What! were you not sensible of your

own value in that respect?'

'I thought you instructed me; I did not know you conversed with me.'

'There's a difference between one susceptible of instruction, and

anything so flippant and volatile as Bertha,' said Miss Fennimore,

smiling. 'And poor Maria!'

'She is so good and kind! If she could only see a few things, and

people, and learn to talk!'

'Silence and unobtrusiveness are the only useful lessons for her, poor

girl!' then observing Phoebe's bewildered looks, 'My dear, I was forced

to speak to Bertha because she was growing jealous of Maria's exemptions;

but you, who have been constantly shielding and supplying her

deficiencies, you do not tell me that you were not aware of them?'

'I always knew she was not clever,' said Phoebe, her looks of alarmed

surprise puzzling Miss Fennimore, who in all her philosophy had never

dreamt of the unconscious instinct of affection.

'I could not have thought it,' she said.

'Thought what? Pray tell me! O what is the matter with poor Maria?'

'Then, my dear, you really had never perceived that poor Maria is

not--has not the usual amount of capacity--that she cannot be treated as

otherwise than deficient.'

'Does mamma know it?' faintly asked Phoebe, tears slowly filling her

eyes.

Miss Fennimore paused, inwardly rating Mrs. Fulmort's powers little above

those of her daughter. 'I am not sure,' she said; 'your sister Juliana

certainly does, and in spite of the present pain, I believe it best that

your eyes should be opened.'

'That I may take care of her.'

'Yes, you can do much in developing her faculties, as well as in

sheltering her from being thrust into positions to which she would be

unequal. You do so already. Though her weakness was apparent to me the

first week I was in the house, yet, owing to your kind guardianship, I

never perceived its extent till you were absent. I could not have

imagined so much tact and vigilance could have been unconscious. Nay,

dear child, it is no cause for tears. Her life may perhaps be happier

than that of many of more complete intellect.'

'I ought not to cry,' owned Phoebe, the tears quietly flowing all the

time. 'Such people cannot do wrong in the same way as we can.'

'Ah! Phoebe, till we come to the infinite, how shall the finite pronounce

what is wrong?'

Phoebe did not understand, but felt that she was not in Miss Charlecote's

atmosphere, and from the heavenly, 'from him to whom little is given,

little will be required,' came to the earthly, and said, imploring, 'And

you will never be hard on her again!'

'I trust I have not been hard on her. I shall task her less, and only

endeavour to give her habits of quiet occupation, and make her manners

retiring. It was this relaxation of discipline, together with Bertha's

sad habit of teasing, which was intolerable in your absence, that induced

me to explain to her the state of the case.'

'How shocked she must have been.'

'Not quite as you were. Her first remark was that it was as if she were

next in age to you.'

'She is not old enough to understand.'

The governess shook her head. 'Nay, when I found her teasing again, she

told me it was a psychological experiment. Little monkey, she laid hold

of some books of mine, and will never rest till she has come to some

conclusion as to what is wanting in Maria.'

'Too young to feel what it means,' repeated Phoebe.

She was no great acquisition as a companion, for she neither spoke nor

stirred, so that the governess would have thought her drowsy, but for the

uprightness of the straight back, and the steady fold of the fingers on

the knee. Much as Miss Fennimore detested the sight of inaction, she

respected the reverie consequent on the blow she had given. It was a

refreshing contrast with Bertha's levity; and she meditated why her

system had made the one sister only accurate and methodical, while the

other seemed to be losing heart in mind, and becoming hard and shrewd.

There was a fresh element in Phoebe's life. The native respect for 'the

innocent' had sprung up within her, and her spirit seemed to expand into

protecting wings with which to hover over her sister as a charge

peculiarly her own. Here was the new impulse needed to help her when

subsiding into the monotony and task-work of the schoolroom, and to

occupy her in the stead of the more exciting hopes and fears that she had

partaken in London.

Miss Fennimore wisely relaxed her rule over Phoebe, since she had shown

that liberty was regarded as no motive for idleness; so though the maiden

still scrupulously accomplished a considerable amount of study, she was

allowed to portion it out as suited her inclination, and was no longer

forbidden to interrupt herself for the sake of her sisters. It was

infinite comfort to be no longer obliged to deafen her ears to the

piteous whine of fretful incapacity, and to witness the sullen heaviness

of faculties overtasked, and temper goaded into torpor. The fact once

faced, the result was relief; Maria was spared and considered, and Phoebe

found the governess much kinder, not only to her sister but to herself.

Absence had taught the value of the elder pupil, and friendly terms of

equality were beginning to be established.

Phoebe's freedom did not include solitary walks, and on weekdays she

seldom saw Miss Charlecote, and then only to hear natural history, the

only moderately safe ground between the two elder ladies. What was

natural science with the one, was natural history with the other. One

went deep in systems and classifications, and thrust Linnaeus into the

dark ages; the other had observed, collected, and drawn specimens with

the enthusiasm of a Londoner for the country, till she had a valuable

little museum of her own gathering, and was a handbook for the county

curiosities. Star, bird, flower, and insect, were more than resources,

they were the friends of her lonely life, and awoke many a keen feeling

of interest, many an aspiration of admiring adoration that carried her

through her dreary hours. And though Miss Fennimore thought her science

puerile, her credulity extensive, and her observations inaccurate, yet

she deemed even this ladylike dabbling worthy of respect as an element of

rational pleasure and self-training, and tried to make Bertha respect it,

and abstain from inundating Miss Charlecote with sesquipedalian names for

systems and families, and, above all, from her principal delight, setting

the two ladies together by the ears, by appealing to her governess to

support her abuse of Linnaeus as an old 'dictionary-maker,' or for some

bold geological theory that poor Honor was utterly unprepared to swallow.

Bertha was somewhat like the wren, who, rising on the eagle's head,

thought itself the monarch of the birds, but Honor was by no means

convinced that she was not merely blindfolded on the back of Clavileno

Aligero. There was neither love nor admiration wasted between Honor and

Miss Fennimore, and Phoebe preferred their being apart. She enjoyed her

Sunday afternoons, short enough, for school must not be neglected, but

Honor shyly acceded to Phoebe's entreaty to be allowed to sit by her

class and learn by her teaching.

It was an effort. Honor shrank from exposing her own misty metaphors,

hesitating repetitions, and trivial queries to so clear a head, trained

in distinct reasoning, but it was the very teaching that the scientific

young lady most desired, and she treasured up every hint, afterwards

pursuing the subject with the resolution to complete the chain of

evidence, and asking questions sometimes rather perplexing to Honor,

accustomed as she was to take everything for granted. Out came

authorities, and Honor found herself examining into the grounds of her

own half-knowledge, gaining fresh ideas, correcting old ones, and

obtaining subjects of interest for many an hour after her young friend

had left her.

While, at home, Phoebe, after running the gauntlet of Bertha's diversion

at her putting herself to school, when Scripture lessons were long ago

done with, would delight Maria with long murmuring discourses, often

stories about the scholars, but always conveying some point of religious

instruction. It was a subject to which Maria was less impervious than to

any other; she readily learned to croon over the simple hymns that Phoebe

brought home, and when once a Scripture story had found entrance to her

mind, would beg to have it marked in her Bible, and recur to it

frequently.

Miss Fennimore left her entirely to Phoebe at these times, keeping Bertha

from molesting her by sarcastic queries, or by remarks on the sing-song

hymns, such as made Phoebe sometimes suspect that Maria's love for these

topics rendered them the more distasteful to the younger girl. She tried

to keep them as much sheltered as possible, but was still sometimes

disconcerted by Bertha's mischievous laugh, or by finding Miss

Fennimore's eyes fixed in attention.

Phoebe's last hour on these evenings was spent in laying up her new lore

in her diligently kept note-book, weighing it and endeavouring to range

it in logical sequence, which she had been duly trained to consider the

test of reasoning. If she sometimes became bewildered, and detected

insufficient premises for true conclusions, if she could not think

allegory or analogy the evidence it was made at the Sunday-school, and

which Miss Charlecote esteemed as absolute proof, her sound heart and

loving faith always decided her that she should discover the link in

time; and the doctrine had too strong a hold on her convictions and

affections for her to doubt that the chain of argument existed, though

she had not yet found it. It was not the work for which so young a head

was intended, and perhaps it was well that she was interrupted by the

arrival at home of the heads of the family.

Augusta and her husband were to spend the winter abroad; Juliana had met

some friends, whom she had accompanied to their home, and though she had

exacted that Phoebe should not come out, yet the eldest daughter at home

was necessarily brought somewhat forward. Phoebe was summoned to the

family meals, and went out driving with her mother, or riding with her

father, but was at other times in the schoolroom, where indeed she was

the most happy.

The life down-stairs was new to her, and she had not been trained to the

talk there expected of her. The one event of her life, her visit to

London, gave evident dissatisfaction. There were growls whenever Robert

was mentioned, and Phoebe found that though permission had been given for

his taking the curacy, it had been without understanding his true

intentions with regard to Whittingtonia. Something had evidently passed

between him and his father and brother, while on their way through

London, which had caused them to regard him as likely to be a thorn in

their side; and Phoebe could not but fear that he would meet them in no

spirit of conciliation, would rather prefer a little persecution, and

would lean to the side of pastoral rather than filial duty, whenever they

might clash. Even if he should refrain from speaking his full mind to

his father, he was likely to use no precautions with his brother, and

Phoebe was uneasy whenever either went up for their weekly visit of

inspection at the office.

Her mother gently complained. 'Honora Charlecote's doing, I suppose. He

should have considered more! Such a wretched place, no genteel family

near! Your papa would never let me go near it. But he must buy an

excellent living soon, where no one will know his connection with the

trade.'

The only sympathy Phoebe met with at home on Robert's ordination, was in

an unexpected quarter. 'Then your brother has kept his resolution,' said

Miss Fennimore. 'Under his reserve there is the temper that formed the

active ascetics of the middle ages. His doctrine has a strong mediaeval

tinge, and with sufficient strength of purpose, may lead to like

results.'

When Phoebe proudly told Miss Charlecote of this remark, they agreed that

it was a valuable testimony, both to the doctrines and the results.

Honor had had a letter from Robert, that made her feel by force of

contrast that Owen was more than three years from a like conception of

clerical duty.

The storm came at last. By order of the Court of Chancery, there was put

up for sale a dreary section of Whittingtonia, in dire decay, and remote

from civilization. The firm of Fulmort and Son had long had their eyes

on it, as an eligible spot for a palace for the supply of their

commodity; and what was their rage when their agent was out-bidden, and

the tenements knocked down to an unknown customer for a fancy price!

After much alarm lest a rival distiller should be invading their

territory, their wrath came to a height when it finally appeared that the

new owner of the six ruinous houses in Cicely Row was no other than the

Reverend Robert Mervyn Fulmort, with the purpose of building a church and

schools for Whittingtonia at his own expense.

Mervyn came home furious. High words had passed between the brothers,

and his report of them so inflamed Mr. Fulmort, that he inveighed

violently against the malice and treachery that scrupled not to undermine

a father. Never speaking to Robert again, casting him off, and exposing

the vicar for upholding filial insolence and undutifulness, were the

mildest of his threats. They seemed to imagine that Robert was making

this outlay, supposing that he would yet be made equal in fortune by his

father to the others, and there was constant repetition that he was to

expect not a farthing--he had had his share and should have no more.

There was only a scoff at Phoebe's innocence, when she expressed her

certainty that he looked for no compensation, knowing that he had been

provided for, and was to have nothing from his father; and Phoebe

trembled under such abuse of her favourite brother, till she could bear

it no longer, and seizing the moment of Mervyn's absence, she came up to

her father, and said, in as coaxing a tone as she could, 'Papa, should

not every one work to the utmost in his trade?'

'What of that, little one?'

'Then pray don't be angry with Robert for acting up to his,' said Phoebe,

clasping her hands, and resting them fondly on his shoulder.

'Act up to a fool's head! Parsons should mind their business and not fly

in their fathers' faces.'

'Isn't it their work to make people more good?' continued Phoebe, with an

unconscious wiliness, looking more simple than her wont.

'Let him begin with himself then! Learn his duty to his father! A

jackanapes; trying to damage my business under my very nose.'

'If those poor people are in such need of having good done to them--'

'Scum of the earth! Much use trying to do good to them!'

'Ah! but if it be his work to try? and if he wanted a place to build a

school--'

'You're in league with him, I suppose.'

'No, papa! It surprised me very much. Even Mr. Parsons knew nothing of

his plans, Robert only wrote to me when it was done, that now he hoped to

save a few of the children that are turned out in the streets to steal.'

'Steal! They'll steal all his property! A proper fool your uncle was to

leave it all to a lad like that. The sure way to spoil him! I could

have trebled all your fortunes if that capital had been in my hands, and

now to see him throw it to the dogs! Phoebe, I can't stand it.

Conscience? I hate such coxcombry! As if men would not make beasts of

themselves whether his worship were in the business or not.'

'Yes!' ventured Phoebe, 'but at least he has no part in their doing so.'

'Much you know about it,' said her father, again shielding himself with

his newspaper, but so much less angrily than she had dared to expect,

that even while flushed and trembling, she felt grateful to him as more

placable than Mervyn. She knew not the power of her own sweet face and

gently honest manner, nor of the novelty of an attentive daughter.

When the neighbours remarked on Mrs. Fulmort's improved looks and

spirits, and wondered whether they were the effect of the Rhine or of

'getting off' her eldest daughter, they knew not how many fewer dull

hours she had to spend. Phoebe visited her in her bedroom, talked at

luncheon, amused her drives, coaxed her into the garden, read to her when

she rested before dinner, and sang to her afterwards. Phoebe likewise

brought her sister's attainments more into notice, though at the expense

of Bertha's contempt for mamma's preference for Maria's staring fuchsias

and feeble singing, above her own bold chalks from models and scientific

music, and indignation at Phoebe's constantly bringing Maria forward

rather than her own clever self.

Droning narrative, long drawn out, had as much charm for Mrs. Fulmort as

for Maria. If she did not always listen, she liked the voice, and she

sometimes awoke into descriptions of the dresses, parties, and

acquaintance of her youth, before trifling had sunk into dreary

insipidity under the weight of too much wealth, too little health, and

'nothing to do.'

'My dear,' she said, 'I am glad you are not out. Quiet evenings are so

good for my nerves; but you are a fine girl, and will soon want society.'

'Not at all, mamma; I like being at home with you.'

'No, my dear! I shall like to take you out and see you dressed. You

must have advantages, or how are you to marry?'

'There's no hurry,' said Phoebe, smiling.

'Yes, my dear, girls always get soured if they do not marry!'

'Not Miss Charlecote, mamma.'

'Ah! but Honor Charlecote was an heiress, and could have had plenty of

offers. Don't talk of not marrying, Phoebe, I beg.'

'No,' said Phoebe, gravely. 'I should like to marry some one very good

and wise, who could help me out of all my difficulties.'

'Bless me, Phoebe! I hope you did not meet any poor curate at that place

of Honor Charlecote's. Your papa would never consent.'

'I never met anybody, mamma,' said Phoebe, smiling. 'I was only thinking

what he should be like.'

'Well, what?' said Mrs. Fulmort, with girlish curiosity. 'Not that it's

any use settling. I always thought I would marry a marquis's younger

son, because it is such a pretty title, and that he should play on the

guitar. But he must not be an officer, Phoebe; we have had trouble

enough about that.'

'I don't know what he is to be, mamma,' said Phoebe, earnestly, 'except

that he should be as sensible as Miss Fennimore, and as good as Miss

Charlecote. Perhaps a man could put both into one, and then he could

lead me, and always show me the reason of what is right.'

'Phoebe, Phoebe! you will never get married if you wait for a

philosopher. Your papa would never like a very clever genius or an

author.'

'I don't want him to be a genius, but he must be wise.'

'Oh, my dear! That comes of the way young ladies are brought up. What

would the Miss Berrilees have said, where I was at school at Bath, if one

of their young ladies had talked of wanting to marry a wise man?'

Phoebe gave a faint smile, and said, 'What was Mr. Charlecote like,

mamma, whose brass was put up the day Robert was locked into the church?'

'Humfrey Charlecote, my dear? The dearest, most good-hearted man that

ever lived. Everybody liked him. There was no one that did not feel as

if they had lost a brother when he was taken off in that sudden way.'

'And was not he very wise, mamma?'

'Bless me, Phoebe, what could have put that into your head? Humfrey

Charlecote a wise man? He was just a common, old-fashioned, hearty

country squire. It was only that he was so friendly and kind-hearted

that made every one trust him, and ask his advice.'

'I should like to have known him,' said Phoebe, with a sigh.

'Ah, if you married any one like that! But there's no use waiting!

There's nobody left like him, and I won't have you an old maid! You are

prettier than either of your sisters--more like me when I came away from

Miss Berrilees, and had a gold-sprigged muslin for the Assize Ball, and

Humfrey Charlecote danced with me.'

Phoebe fell into speculations on the wisdom whose counsel all asked, and

which had left such an impression of affectionate honour. She would

gladly lean on such an one, but if no one of the like mould remained, she

thought she could never bear the responsibilities of marriage.

Meantime she erected Humfrey Charlecote's image into a species of judge,

laying before this vision of a wise man all her perplexities between Miss

Charlecote's religion and Miss Fennimore's reason, and all her practical

doubts between Robert's conflicting duties. Strangely enough, the

question, 'What would Mr. Charlecote have thought?' often aided her to

cast the balance. Though it was still Phoebe who decided, it was Phoebe

drawn out of herself, and strengthened by her mask.

With vivid interest, such as for a living man would have amounted to

love, she seized and hoarded each particle of intelligence that she could

gain respecting the object of her admiration. Honora herself, though far

more naturally enthusiastic, had, with her dreamy nature and diffused

raptures, never been capable of thus reverencing him, nor of the

intensity of feeling of one whose restrained imagination and unromantic

education gave force to all her sensations. Yet this deep individual

regard was a more wholesome tribute than Honor had ever paid to him, or

to her other idol, for to Phoebe it was a step, lifting her to things

above and beyond, a guide on the road, never a vision obscuring the true

object.

Six weeks had quietly passed, when, like a domestic thunderbolt, came

Juliana's notification of her intention to return home at the end of a

week. Mrs. Fulmort, clinging to her single thread of comfort, hoped that

Phoebe might still be allowed to come to her boudoir, but the gentlemen

more boldly declared that they wanted Phoebe, and would not have her

driven back into the schoolroom; to which the mother only replied with

fears that Juliana would be in a dreadful temper, whereon Mervyn

responded, 'Let her! Never mind her, Phoebe. Stick up for yourself, and

we'll put her down.'

Except for knowing that she was useful to her mother, Phoebe would have

thankfully retired into the west wing, rather than have given umbrage.

Mervyn's partisanship was particularly alarming, and, endeavour as she

might to hope that Juliana would be amiable enough to be disarmed by her

own humility and unobtrusiveness, she lived under the impression of

disagreeables impending.

One morning at breakfast, Mr. Fulmort, after grumbling out his wonder at

Juliana's writing to him, suddenly changed his tone into, 'Hollo! what's

this? "My engagement--"'

'By Jove!' shouted Mervyn; 'too good to be true. So she's done it. I

didn't think he'd been such an ass, having had one escape.'

'Who?' continued Mr. Fulmort, puzzling, as he held the letter far

off--'engagement to dear--dear Devil, does she say?'

'The only fit match,' muttered Mervyn, laughing. 'No, no, sir!

Bevil--Sir Bevil Acton.'

'What! not the fellow that gave us so much trouble! He had not a

sixpence; but she must please herself now.'

'You don't mean that you didn't know what she went with the Merivales

for?--five thousand a year and a baronetcy, eh?'

'The deuce! If I had known that, he might have had her long ago.'

'It's quite recent,' said Mervyn. 'A mere chance; and he has been

knocking about in the colonies these ten years--might have cut his wisdom

teeth.'

'Ten years--not half-a-dozen!' said Mr. Fulmort.

'Ten!' reiterated Mervyn. 'It was just before I went to old Raymond's.

Acton took me to dine at the mess. He was a nice fellow then, and

deserved better luck.'

'Ten years' constancy!' said Phoebe, who had been looking from one to the

other in wonder, trying to collect intelligence. 'Do tell me.'

'Whew!' whistled Mervyn. 'Juliana hadn't her sharp nose nor her sharp

tongue when first she came out. Acton was quartered at Elverslope, and

got smitten. She flirted with him all the winter; but I fancy she didn't

give you much trouble when he came to the point, eh, sir?'

'I thought him an impudent young dog for thinking of a girl of her

prospects; but if he had this to look to!--I was sorry for him, too! Ten

years ago,' mused Mr. Fulmort.

'And she has liked no one since?'

'Or no one has liked her, which comes to the same,' said Mervyn. 'The

regiment went to the Cape, and there was an end of it, till we fell in

with the Merivales on board the steamer; and they mentioned their

neighbour, Sir Bevil Acton, come into his property, and been settled near

them a year or two. Fine sport it was, to see Juliana angling for an

invitation, brushing up her friendship with Minnie Merivale--amiable to

the last degree! My stars! what work she must have had to play good

temper all these six weeks, and how we shall have to pay for it!'

'Or Acton will,' said Mr. Fulmort, with a hearty chuckle of triumphant

good-humour.

Was it a misfortune to Phoebe to have been so much refined by education

as to be grated on by the vulgar tone of those nearest to her? It was

well for her that she could still put it aside as their way, even while

following her own instinct. Mervyn and Juliana had been on cat and dog

terms all their lives; he was certain to sneer at all that concerned her,

and Phoebe reserved her belief that an attachment, nipped in the bud, was

ready to blossom in sunshine. She ran up with the news to her mother.

'Juliana going to be married! Well, my dear, you may be introduced at

once! How comfortable you and I shall be in the little brougham.'

Phoebe begged to be told what the intended was like.

'Let me see--was he the one that won the steeple-chase? No; that was the

one that Augusta liked. We knew so many young men, that I could never

tell which was which; and your sisters were always talking about them

till it quite ran through my poor head, such merry girls as they were!'

'And poor Juliana never was so merry after he was gone.'

'I don't remember,' replied this careful mother; 'but you know she never

could have meant anything, for he had nothing, and you with your fortunes

are a match for anybody! Phoebe, my dear, we must go to London next

spring, and you shall marry a nobleman. I must see you a titled lady as

well as your sisters.'

'I've no objection, provided he is my wise man,' said Phoebe.

Juliana had found the means of making herself welcome, and her marriage a

cause of unmixed jubilation in her family. Prosperity made her affable,

and instead of suppressing Phoebe, she made her useful, and treated her

as a confidante, telling her of all the previous intimacy, and all the

secret sufferings in dear Bevil's absence, but passing lightly over the

last happy meeting, which Phoebe respected as too sacred to be talked of.

The little maiden's hopes of a perfect brother in the constant knight

rose high, and his appearance and demeanour did not disappoint them. He

had a fine soldierly figure, and that air of a thorough gentleman which

Phoebe's Holt experience had taught her to appreciate; his manners were

peculiarly gentle and kind, especially to Mrs. Fulmort; and Phoebe did

not like him the less for showing traces of the effects of wounds and

climate, and a grave, subdued air, almost amounting to melancholy. But

before he had been three days at Beauchamp, Juliana made a virulent

attack on the privileges of her younger sisters. Perhaps it was the

consequence of poor Maria's volunteer to Sir Bevil--'I am glad Juliana is

going with you, for now no one will be cross to me;' but it seemed to

verify the poor girl's words, that she should be hunted like a strange

cat if she were found beyond her own precincts, and that the other two

should be treated much in the same manner. Bertha stood up for her

rights, declaring that what mamma and Miss Fennimore allowed, she would

not give up for Juliana; but the only result was an admonition to the

governess, and a fierce remonstrance to the poor meek mother. Phoebe,

who only wished to retire from the stage in peace, had a more difficult

part to play.

'What's the matter now?' demanded Mervyn, making his way up to her as she

sat in a remote corner of the drawing-room, in the evening. 'Why were

you not at dinner?'

'There was no room, I believe.'

'Nonsense! our table dines eight-and-twenty, and there were not twenty.'

'That was a large party, and you know I am not out.'

'You don't look like it in that long-sleeved white affair, and nothing on

your head either. Where are those ivy-leaves you had yesterday--real,

weren't they?'

'They were not liked.'

'Not liked! they were the prettiest things I have seen for a long time.

Acton said they made you look like a nymph--the green suits that shiny

light hair of yours, and makes you like a picture.'

'Yes, they made me look forward and affected.'

'Now who told you that? Has the Fennimore got to her old tricks?'

'Oh no, no!'

'I see! a jealous toad! I heard him telling her that you reminded him of

her in old times. The spiteful vixen! Well, Phoebe, if you cut her out,

I bargain for board and lodging at Acton Manor. This will be no place

for a quiet, meek soul like me!'

Phoebe tried to laugh, but looked distressed, uncomprehending, and far

from wishing to comprehend. She could not escape, for Mervyn had penned

her up, and went on: 'You don't pretend that you don't see how it is!

That unlucky fellow is heartily sick of his bargain, but you see he was

too soft to withstand her throwing herself right at his head, and doing

the "worm in the bud," and the cruel father, green and yellow melancholy,

&c., ever since they were inhumanly parted.'

'For shame, Mervyn. You don't really believe it is all out of honour.'

'I should never have believed a man of his years could be so green; but

some men get crotchets about honour in the army, especially if they get

elderly there.'

'It is very noble, if it be right, and he can take those vows from his

heart,' moralized Phoebe. 'But no, Mervyn, she cannot think so. No

woman could take any one on such terms.'

'Wouldn't she, though?' sneered her brother. 'She'd have him if grim

death were hanging on to his other hand. People aren't particular, when

they are nigh upon their third ten.'

'Don't tell me such things! I don't believe them; but they ought never

to be suggested.'

'You ought to thank me for teaching you knowledge of the world.'

He was called off, but heavy at her heart lay the text, 'The knowledge of

wickedness is not wisdom.'

Mervyn's confidences were serious troubles to Phoebe. Gratifying as it

was to be singled out by his favour, it was distressing to be the

repository of what she knew ought never to have been spoken, prompted by

a coarse tone of mind, and couched in language that, though he meant it

to be restrained, sometimes seemed to her like the hobgoblins' whispers

to Christian. Oh! how unlike her other brother! Robert had troubles,

Mervyn grievances, and she saw which were the worst to bear. It was a

pleasing novelty to find a patient listener, and he used it to the

utmost, while she often doubted whether to hear without remonstrance were

not undutiful, yet found opposition rather increased the evil by the

storm of ill-temper that it provoked.

This last communication was dreadful to her, yet she could not but feel

that it might be a wholesome warning to avoid giving offence to the

jealousy which, when once pointed out to her, she could not prevent

herself from tracing in Juliana's petulance towards herself, and resolve

to force her into the background. Even Bertha was more often brought

forward, for in spite of a tongue and temper cast somewhat in a similar

mould, she was rather a favourite with Juliana, whom she was not unlikely

to resemble, except that her much more elaborate and accurate training

might give her both more power and more self-control.

As Mervyn insinuated, Juliana was prudent in not lengthening out the

engagement, and the marriage was fixed for Christmas week, but it was not

to take place at Hiltonbury. Sir Bevil was bashful, and dreaded county

festivities, and Juliana wished to escape from Maria as a bridesmaid, so

they preferred the privacy of an hotel and a London church. Phoebe could

not decently be excluded, and her heart leapt with the hope of seeing

Robert, though so unwelcome was his name in the family that she could not

make out on what terms he stood, whether proscribed, or only disapproved,

and while sure that he would strive to be with her, she foresaw that the

pleasure would be at the cost of much pain. Owen Sandbrook was spending

his vacation at the Holt, and Miss Charlecote looked so bright as she

walked to church leaning on his arm, that Phoebe had no regrets in

leaving her. Indeed, the damsel greatly preferred the Holt in his

absence. She did not understand his discursive comments on all things in

art or nature, and he was in a mood of flighty fitful spirits, which

perplexed her alike by their wild, satirical mirth, and their mournful

sentiment. She thought Miss Charlecote was worried and perplexed at

times by his tone; but there was no doubt of his affection and attention

for his 'Sweet Honey,' and Phoebe rejoiced that her own absence should be

at so opportune a moment.

Sir Bevil went to make his preparations at home, whence he was to come

and join the Fulmorts the day after their arrival in town. Mrs. Fulmort

was dragged out in the morning, and deposited at Farrance's in time for

luncheon, a few minutes before a compact little brougham set down Lady

Bannerman, jollier than ever in velvet and sable, and more scientific in

cutlets and pale ale. Her good-nature was full blown. She was ready to

chaperon her sisters anywhere, invited the party to the Christmas dinner,

and undertook the grand _soiree_ after the wedding. She proposed to take

Juliana at once out shopping, only lamenting that there was no room for

Phoebe, and was so universally benevolent, that in the absence of the

bride elect, Phoebe ventured to ask whether she saw anything of Robert.

'Robert? Yes, he called when we first came to town, and we asked him to

dinner; but he said it was a fast day; and you know Sir Nicholas would

never encourage that sort of thing.'

'How was he?'

'He looked odder than ever, and so ill and cadaverous. No wonder! poking

himself up in such a horrid place, where one can't notice him.'

'Did he seem in tolerable spirits?'

'I don't know. He always was silent and glum; and now he seems wrapped

up in nothing but ragged schools and those disgusting City missions; I'm

sure we can't subscribe, so expensive as it is living in town. Imagine,

mamma, what we are giving our cook!'

Juliana returned, and the two sisters went out, leaving Phoebe to extract

entertainment for her mother from the scenes passing in the street.

Presently a gentleman's handsome cabriolet and distinguished-looking

horse were affording food for their descriptions, when, to her surprise,

Sir Bevil emerged from it, and presently entered the room. He had come

intending to take out his betrothed, and in her absence transferred the

offer to her sister. Phoebe demurred, on more accounts than she could

mention, but her mother remembering what a drive in a stylish equipage

with a military baronet would once have been to herself, overruled her

objections, and hurried her away to prepare. She quickly returned, a

cheery spectacle in her russet dress and brown straw bonnet, and her

scarlet neck-tie, the robin redbreast's livery which she loved.

'Your cheeks should be a refreshing sight to the Londoners, Phoebe,' said

Sir Bevil, with his rare, but most pleasant smile. 'Where shall we go?

You don't seem much to care for the Park. I'm at your service wherever

you like to go.' And as Phoebe hesitated, with cheeks trebly beneficial

to the Londoners, he kindly added, 'Well, what is it? Never mind what!

I'm open to anything--even Madame Tussaud's.'

'If I might go to see Robert. Augusta said he was looking ill.'

'My dear!' interposed her mother, 'you can't think of it. Such a

dreadful place, and such a distance.'

'It is only a little way beyond St. Paul's, and there are no bad streets,

dear mamma. I have been there with Miss Charlecote. But if it be too

far, or you don't like driving into the City, never mind,' she continued,

turning to Sir Bevil; 'I ought to have said nothing about it.'

But Sir Bevil, reading the ardour of the wish in the honest face,

pronounced the expedition an excellent idea, and carried her off with her

eyes as round and sparkling as those of the children going to Christmas

parties. He stole glances at her as if her fresh innocent looks were an

absolute treat to him, and when he talked, it was of Robert in his

boyhood. 'I remember him at twelve years old, a sturdy young ruffian,

with an excellent notion of standing up for himself.'

Phoebe listened with delight to some characteristic anecdotes of Robert's

youth, and wondered whether he would be appreciated now. She did not

think Sir Bevil held the same opinions as Robert or Miss Charlecote; he

was an upright, high-minded soldier, with honour and subordination his

chief religion, and not likely to enter into Robert's peculiarities. She

was in some difficulty when she was asked whether her brother were not

under some cloud, or had not been taking a line of his own--a gentler

form of inquiry, which she could answer with the simple truth.

'Yes, he would not take a share in the business, because he thought it

promoted evil, and he felt it right to do parish work at St. Wulstan's,

because our profits chiefly come from thence. It does not please at

home, because they think he could have done better for himself, and he

sometimes is obliged to interfere with Mervyn's plans.'

Sir Bevil made the less answer because they were in the full current of

London traffic, and his proud chestnut was snuffing the hat of an omnibus

conductor. Careful driving was needed, and Phoebe was praised for never

even looking frightened, then again for her organ of locality and the

skilful pilotage with which she unerringly and unhesitatingly found the

way through the Whittingtonian labyrinths; and as the disgusted tiger

pealed at the knocker of Turnagain Corner, she was told she would be a

useful guide in the South African bush. 'At home,' was the welcome

reply, and in another second her arms were round Robert's neck. There

was a thorough brotherly greeting between him and Sir Bevil; each saw in

the other a man to be respected, and Robert could not but be grateful to

the man who brought him Phoebe.

Her eyes were on the alert to judge how he had been using himself in the

last half-year. He looked thin, yet that might be owing to his highly

clerical coat, and some of his rural ruddiness was gone, but there was no

want of health of form or face, only the spareness and vigour of thorough

working condition. His expression was still grave even to sadness, and

sternness seemed gathering round his thin lips. Heavy of heart he

doubtless was still, but she was struck by the absence of the undefined

restlessness that had for years been habitual to both brothers, and which

had lately so increased on Mervyn, that there was a relief in watching a

face free from it, and telling not indeed of happiness, but of a mind

made up to do without it.

She supposed that his room ought to satisfy her, for though untidy in

female eyes, it did not betray ultra self-neglect. The fire was brisk,

there was a respectable luncheon on the table, and he had even treated

himself to the _Guardian_, some new books, and a beautiful photograph of

a foreign cathedral. The room was littered with half-unrolled plans,

which had to be cleared before the guests could find seats, and he had

evidently been beguiling his luncheon with the perusal of some large MS.

sheets, red-taped together at the upper corner.

'That's handsome,' said Sir Bevil. 'What is it for? A school or

almshouses.'

'Something of both,' said Robert, his colour rising. 'We want a place

for disposing of the destitute children that swarm in this district.'

'Oh, show me!' cried Phoebe. 'Is it to be at that place in Cicely Row?'

'I hope so.'

The stiff sheets were unrolled, the designs explained. There was to be a

range of buildings round a court, consisting of day-schools, a home for

orphans, a _creche_ for infants, a reading-room for adults, and

apartments for the clergy of the Church which was to form one side of the

quadrangle. Sir Bevil was much interested, and made useful criticisms.

'But,' he objected, 'what is the use of building new churches in the

City, when there is no filling those you have?'

'St. Wulstan's is better filled than formerly,' said Robert. 'The pew

system is the chief enemy there; but even without that, it would not hold

a tenth part of the Whittingtonian population, would they come to it,

which they will not. The Church must come to them, and with special

services at their own times. They need an absolute mission, on entirely

different terms from the Woolstone quarter.'

'And are you about to head the mission?'

'To endeavour to take a share in it.'

'And who is to be at the cost of this?' pursued Sir Bevil. 'Have you a

subscription list?'

Robert coloured again as he answered, 'Why, no; we can do without that so

far.'

Phoebe understood, and her face must have revealed the truth to Sir

Bevil, for laying his hand on Robert's arm, he said, 'My good fellow, you

don't mean that you are answerable for all this?'

'You know I have something of my own.'

'You will not leave much of it at this rate. How about the endowment?'

'I shall live upon the endowment.'

'Have you considered? You will be tied to this place for ever.'

'That is one of my objects,' replied Robert, and in reply to a look of

astonished interrogation, 'myself and all that is mine would be far too

little to atone for a fraction of the evil that our house is every day

perpetrating here.'

'I should hate the business myself,' said the baronet; 'but don't you see

it in a strong light?'

'Every hour I spend here shows me that I do not see it strongly enough.'

And there followed some appalling instances of the effects of the

multiplicity of gin-palaces, things that it well-nigh broke Robert's

heart to witness, absorbed as he was in the novelty of his work, fresh in

feeling, and never able to divest himself of a sense of being a sharer in

the guilt and ruin.

Sir Bevil listened at first with interest, then tried to lead away from

the subject; but it was Robert's single idea, and he kept them to it till

their departure, when Phoebe's first words were, as they drove from the

door, 'Oh, thank you, you do not know how much happier you have made me.'

Her companion smiled, saying, 'I need not ask which is the favourite

brother.'

'Mervyn is very kind to me,' quickly answered Phoebe.

'But Robert is the oracle! eh?' he said, kindly and merrily.

'Robert has been everything to us younger ones,' she answered. 'I am

still more glad that you like him.'

His grave face not responding as she expected, she feared that he had

been bored, that he thought Robert righteous over much, or disapproved

his opinions; but his answer was worth having when it came. 'I know

nothing about his views; I never looked into the subject; but when I see

a young man giving up a lucrative prospect for conscience sake, and

devoting himself to work in that sink of iniquity, I see there must be

something in him. I can't judge if he goes about it in a wrong-headed

way, but I should be proud of such a fellow instead of discarding him.'

'Oh, thank you!' cried Phoebe, with ecstasy that made him laugh, and

quite differently from the made-up laughter she had been used to hear

from him.

'What are you thanking me for?' he said. 'I do not imagine that I shall

be able to serve him. I'll talk to your father about him, but he must be

the best judge of the discipline of his own family.'

'I was not thinking of your doing anything,' said Phoebe; 'but a kind

word about Robert does make me very grateful.'

There was a long silence, only diversified by an astonished nod from

Mervyn driving back from the office. Just before setting her down, Sir

Bevil said, 'I wonder whether your brother would let us give something to

his church. Will you find out what it shall be, and let me know? As a

gift from Juliana and myself--you understand.'

It was lucky for Phoebe that she had brought home a good stock of

satisfaction to support her, for she found herself in the direst

disgrace, and her mother too much cowed to venture on more than a feeble

self-defensive murmur that she had told Phoebe it would never do.

Convinced in her own conscience that she had done nothing blameworthy,

Phoebe knew that it was the shortest way not to defend herself, and the

storm was blowing over when Mervyn came in, charmed to mortify Juliana by

compliments to Phoebe on 'doing it stylishly, careering in Acton's

turn-out,' but when the elder sister explained where she had been,

Mervyn, too, deserted her, and turned away with a fierce imprecation on

his brother, such as was misery to Phoebe's ears. He was sourly

ill-humoured all the evening; Juliana wreaked her displeasure on Sir

Bevil in ungraciousness, till such silence and gloom descended on him,

that he was like another man from him who had smiled on Phoebe in the

afternoon. Yet, though dismayed at the offence she had given, and

grieved at these evidences of Robert's ill-odour with his family, Phoebe

could not regret having seized her single chance of seeing Robert's

dwelling for herself, nor the having made him known to Sir Bevil. The

one had made her satisfied, the other hopeful, even while she

recollected, with foreboding, that truth sometimes comes not with peace,

but with a sword, to set at variance parent and child, and make foes of

them of the same household.

Juliana never forgave that drive. She continued bitter towards Phoebe,

and kept such a watch over her and Sir Bevil, that the jealous

surveillance became palpable to both. Sir Bevil really wanted to tell

Phoebe the unsatisfactory result of his pleading for Robert; she wanted

to tell him of Robert's gratitude for his offered gift; but the exchange

of any words in private was out of their power, and each silently felt

that it was best to make no move towards one another till the unworthy

jealousy should have died away.

Though Sir Bevil had elicited nothing but abuse of 'pigheaded folly,' his

espousal of the young clergyman's cause was not without effect. Robert

was not treated with more open disfavour than he had often previously

endured, and was free to visit the party at Farrance's, if he chose to

run the risk of encountering his father's blunt coldness, Mervyn's sulky

dislike, and Juliana's sharp satire, but as he generally came so as to

find his mother and Phoebe alone, some precious moments compensated for

the various disagreeables. Nor did these affect him nearly as much as

they did his sister. It was, in fact, one of his remaining unwholesome

symptoms that he rather enjoyed persecution, and took no pains to avoid

giving offence. If he meant to be uncompromising, he sometimes was

simply provoking, and Phoebe feared that Sir Bevil thought him an

unpromising _protege_.

He was asked to the Christmas dinner at the Bannermans', and did not

fulfil Augusta's prediction that he would say it was a fast day, and

refuse. That evening gave Phoebe her best _tete-a-tete_ with him, but

she observed that all was about Whittingtonia, not one word of the past

summer, not so much as an inquiry for Miss Charlecote. Evidently that

page in his history was closed for ever, and if he should carry out his

designs in their present form, a wife at the intended institution would

be an impossibility. How near the dearest may be to one another, and yet

how little can they guess at what they would most desire to know.

Sir Bevil had insisted on his being asked to perform the ceremony, and

she longed to understand whether his refusal were really on the score of

his being a deacon, or if he had any further motive. His own family were

affronted, though glad to be left free to request the services of the

greatest dignitary of their acquaintance, and Sir Bevil's blunt 'No, no,

poor fellow! say no more about it,' made her suppose that he suspected

that Robert's vehemence in his parish was meant to work off a

disappointment.

It was a dreary wedding, in spite of London grandeur. In all her

success, Juliana could not help looking pinched and ill at ease, her

wreath and veil hardening instead of softening her features, and her

bridegroom's studious cheerfulness and forced laughs became him less than

his usual silent dejection. The Admiral was useful in getting up stock

wedding-wit, but Phoebe wondered how any one could laugh at it; and her

fellow-bridesmaids, all her seniors, seemed to her, as perhaps she might

to them, like thoughtless children, playing with the surface of things.

She pitied Sir Bevil, and saw little chance of happiness for either, yet

heard only congratulations, and had to be bright, busy, and helpful,

under a broad, stiff, white watered silk scarf, beneath which Juliana had

endeavoured to extinguish her, but in which her tall rounded shape looked

to great advantage. Indeed, that young rosy face, and the innocently

pensive wondering eyes were so sweet, that the bride had to endure

hearing admiration of her sister from all quarters, and the Acton

bridemaidens whispered rather like those at Netherby Hall.

It was over, and Phoebe was the reigning Miss Fulmort. Her friends were

delighted for her and for themselves, and her mother entered on the full

enjoyment of the little brougham.