When some dear scheme
Of our life doth seem
Shivered at once like a broken dream
And our hearts to reel
Like ships that feel
A sharp rock grating against their keel.--C. F. A.
It was high summer; and in spite of cholera-averting thunderstorms, the
close streets and the odour of the Thames were becoming insufferable.
Mr. Parsons arranged a series of breathing times for his clerical staff,
but could make Robert Fulmort accept none. He was strong and healthy,
ravenous of work, impervious to disgusts, and rejected holidays as
burdensome and hateful. Where should he go? What could he do? What
would become of his wild scholars without him, and who would superintend
his buildings?
Mr. Parsons was fain to let him have his own way, as had happened in some
previous instances, specially the edifice in Cicely Row, where the
incumbent would have paused, but the curate rushed on with resolute zeal
and impetuosity, taking measures so decidedly ere his intentions were
revealed, that neither remonstrance nor prevention were easy, and a
species of annoyed, doubtful admiration alone was possible. It was
sometimes a gratifying reflection to the vicar, that when the buildings
were finished, Whittingtonia would become a district, and its busy curate
be no longer under his jurisdiction.
Meantime Robert was left with a companion in priest's orders, but newer
to the parish than himself, to conduct the services at St. Wulstan's,
while the other curates were taking holiday, and the vicar at his son's
country-house. To see how contentedly, nay, pleasurably, 'Fulmort'
endured perpetual broiling, passing from frying school to grilling
pavement, and seething human hive, was constant edification to his
colleague, who, fresh from the calm university, felt such a life to be a
slow martyrdom, and wished his liking for the deacon were in better
proportion to his esteem.
'A child to be baptized at 8, Little Whittington-street,' he said, with
resigned despair, as at the vestry door he received a message from a
small maid, one afternoon, when the air looked lucid yellow with sultry
fire.
'I'll go,' replied Robert, with the alacrity that sometimes almost
irritated his fellows; and off he sped, with alert steps, at which his
friend gazed with the sensation of watching a salamander.
Little Whittington-street, where it was not warehouses, was chiefly
occupied by small tradesfolk, or by lodging-houses for the numerous
'young men' employed in the City. It was one of the most respectable
parts of that quarter, but being much given to dissent, was little
frequented by the clergy, who had too much immorality to contend with, to
have leisure to speak against schism.
When he rang at No. 8, the little maid ushered him down a narrow, dark
staircase, and announcing, 'Please, ma'am, here's the minister,' admitted
him into a small room, feeling like a cellar, the window opening into an
area. It was crowded with gay and substantial furniture, and contained
two women, one lying on a couch, partially hidden by a screen, the other
an elderly person, in a widow's cap, with an infant in her arms.
'Good morning, sir; we were sorry to trouble you, but I felt certain, as
I told my daughter, that a minister of the Gospel would not tarry in time
of need. Not that I put my trust in ordinances, sir; I have been blest
with the enlightenment of the new birth, but my daughter, sir, she
follows the Church. Yes, sir, the poor little lamb is a sad sufferer in
this vale of tears. So wasted away, you see; you would not think he was
nine weeks old. We would have brought him to church before, sir, only my
daughter's hillness, and her 'usband's habsence. It was always her wish,
sir, and I was not against it, for many true Christians have found grace
in the Church, sir.'
Robert considered whether to address himself to the young mother, whose
averted face and uneasy movements seemed to show that this stream of
words was distressing to her. He thought silence would be best procured
by his assumption of his office, and quietly made his preparations,
opened his book, and took his place.
The young woman, raising herself with difficulty, said in a low, sweet
voice, 'The gentleman is ready, mother.'
As there was no pressing danger, he read the previous collects, the elder
female responding with devout groans, the younger sinking on her knees,
her face hidden in her wasted hands. He took the little feeble being in
his arms, and demanded the name.
'Hoeing Charterhouse,' replied the grandmother.
He looked interrogative, and Hoeing Charterhouse was repeated.
'Owen Charteris,' said the low, sweet voice.
A thrill shot over his whole frame, as his look met a large, full, liquid
pair of dark eyes, such as once seen could never be forgotten, though
dropped again instantly, while a burning blush arose, instantly veiled by
the hands, which hid all up to the dark hair.
Recalling himself by an effort, he repeated the too familiar name, and
baptized the child, bending his head over it afterwards in deep
compassion and mental entreaty both for its welfare, and his own guidance
in the tissue of wrongdoing thus disclosed. A hasty, stealthy glance at
the hands covering the mother's face, showed him the ring on her fourth
finger, and as they rose from their knees, he said, 'I am to register
this child as Owen Charteris Sandbrook.'
With a look of deadly terror, she faintly exclaimed, 'I have done it!
You know him, sir; you will not betray him!'
'I know you, too,' said Robert, sternly. 'You were the schoolmistress at
Wrapworth!'
'I was, sir. It was all my fault. Oh! promise me, sir, never to betray
him; it would be the ruin of his prospects for ever!' And she came
towards him, her hands clasped in entreaty, her large eyes shining with
feverish lustre, her face wasted but still lovely, a piteous contrast to
the queenly being of a year ago in her pretty schoolroom.
'Compose yourself,' said Robert, gravely; 'I hope never to betray any
one. I confess that I am shocked, but I will endeavour to act rightly.'
'I am sure, sir,' broke in Mrs. Murrell, with double volume, after her
interval of quiescence, 'it is not to be expected but what a gentleman's
friends would be offended. It was none of my wish, sir, being that I
never knew a word of it till she was married, and it was too late, or I
would have warned her against broken cisterns. But as for her, sir, she
is as innocent as a miserable sinner can be in a fallen world. It was
the young gentleman as sought her out. I always misdoubted the ladies
noticing her, and making her take part with men-singers and
women-singers, and such vanities as is pleasing to the unregenerate
heart. Ah! sir, without grace, where are we? Not that he was ever other
than most honourable with her, or she would never have listened to him
not for a moment, but she was over-persuaded, sir, and folks said what
they hadn't no right to say, and the minister, he was 'ard on her, and
so, you see, sir, she took fright and married him out of 'and, trusting
to a harm of flesh, and went to Hireland with him. She just writ me a
note, which filled my 'art with fear and trembling, a 'nonymous note,
with only Hedna signed to it; and I waited, with failing eyes and sorrow
of heart, till one day in autumn he brings her back to me, and here she
has been ever since, dwining away in a nervous fever, as the doctors call
it, as it's a misery to see her, and he never coming nigh her.'
'Once,' murmured Edna, who had several times tried to interrupt.
'Once, ay, for one hour at Christmas.'
'He is known here; he can't venture often,' interposed the wife; and
there was a further whisper, 'he couldn't stay, he couldn't bear it.'
But the dejected accents were lost in the old woman's voice,--'Now, sir,
if you know him or his family, I wouldn't be wishing to do him no
hinjury, nor to ruinate his prospects, being, as he says, that the rich
lady will make him her hare; but, sir, if you have any power with him as
a godly minister or the friend of his youth maybe--'
'He is only waiting till he has a curacy--a house of his own--mother!'
'No, Edna, hold your peace. It is not fit that I should see my only
child cut down as the grass of the field, and left a burthen upon me, a
lone woman, while he is eating of the fat of the land. I say it is
scandalous that he should leave her here, and take no notice; not coming
near her since one hour at Christmas, and only just sending her a few
pounds now and then; not once coming to see his own child!'
'He could not; he is abroad!' pleaded Edna.
'He tells you he is abroad!' exclaimed Robert.
'He went to Paris at Easter. He promised to come when he comes home.'
'You poor thing!' burst out Robert. 'He is deceiving you! He came back
at the end of three weeks. I heard from my sister that she saw him on
Sunday.'
Robert heartily rued his abruptness, as the poor young wife sank back in
a deadly swoon. The grandmother hurried to apply remedies, insisting
that the gentleman should not go, and continuing all the time her version
of her daughter's wrongs. Her last remnant of patience had vanished on
learning this deception, and she only wanted to publish her daughter's
claims, proceeding to establish them by hastening in search of the
marriage certificate as soon as Edna had begun to revive, but sooner than
Robert was satisfied to be left alone with the inanimate, helpless form
on the couch.
He was startled when Edna raised her hand, and strove to speak,--'Sir, do
not tell--do not tell my mother where he is. She must not fret him--she
must not tell his friends--he would be angry.'
She ceased as her mother returned with the certificate of the marriage,
contracted last July before the registrar of the huge suburban Union to
which Wrapworth belonged, the centre of which was so remote, that the
pseudo-banns of Owen Charteris Sandbrook and Edna Murrell had attracted
no attention.
'It was very wrong,' feebly said Edna; 'I drew him into it! I loved him
so much; and they all talked so after I went in the boat with him, that I
thought my character was gone, and I begged him to save me from them. It
was my fault, sir; and I've the punishment. You'll not betray him, sir;
only don't let that young lady, your sister, trust to him. Not yet. My
baby and I shall soon be out of her way.'
The calm languor of her tone was almost fearful, and even as she spoke a
shuddering seized her, making her tremble convulsively, her teeth
knocking together, and the couch shaking under her.
'You must have instant advice,' cried Robert. 'I will fetch some one.'
'You won't betray him,' almost shrieked Edna. 'A little while--stay a
little while--he will be free of me.'
There was delirium in look and voice, and he was compelled to pause and
assure her that he was only going for the doctor, and would come again
before taking any other step.
It was not till the medical man had been summoned that his mind recurred
to the words about his sister. He might have dismissed them as merely
the jealous suspicion of the deserted wife, but that he remembered
Lucilla's hint as to an attachment between Owen and Phoebe, and he knew
that such would have been most welcome to Miss Charlecote.
'My Phoebe, my one bright spot!' was his inward cry, 'must your guileless
happiness be quenched! O, I would rather have it all over again myself
than that one pang should come near you, in your sweetness and innocence,
the blessing of us all! And I not near to guard nor warn! What may not
be passing even now? Unprincipled, hard-hearted deceiver, walking at
large among those gentle, unsuspicious women--trading on their innocent
trust! Would that I had disclosed the villainy I knew of!'
His hand clenched, his brow lowered, and his mouth was set so savagely,
that the passing policeman looked in wonder from the dangerous face to
the clerical dress.
Early next morning he was at No. 8, and learnt that Mrs. Brook, as the
maid called her, had been very ill all night, and that the doctor was
still with her. Begging to see the doctor, Robert found that high fever
had set in, an aggravation of the low nervous fever that had been
consuming her strength all the spring, and her condition was already such
that there was little hope of her surviving the present attack. She had
been raving all night about the young lady with whom Mr. Sandbrook had
been walking by moonlight, and when the door of the little adjoining
bedroom was open, her moans and broken words were plainly audible.
Robert asked whether he should fetch her husband, and Mrs. Murrell caught
at the offer. Owen's presence was the single hope of restoring her, and
at least he ought to behold the wreck that he had wrought. Mrs. Murrell
gave a terrible thrust by saying, 'that the young lady at least ought to
be let know, that she might not be trusting to him.'
'Do not fear, Mrs. Murrell,' he said, almost under his breath. 'My only
doubt is, whether I can meet Owen Sandbrook as a Christian should.'
Cutting off her counsels on the unconverted nature, he strode off to find
his colleague, whom he perplexed by a few rapid words on the necessity of
going into the country for the day. His impatient condition required
vehement action; and with a sense of hurrying to rescue Phoebe, he could
scarcely brook the slightest delay till he was on his way to Hiltonbury,
nor till the train spared him all action could he pause to collect his
strength, guard his resentment, or adjust his measures for warning, but
not betraying. He could think of no honourable mode of dealing, save
carrying off Owen to London with him at once, sacrificing the sight of
his sister for the present, and either writing or going to her
afterwards, when the mode of dealing the blow should be more evident. It
cost him keen suffering to believe that this was the sole right course,
but he had bound himself to it by his promise to the poor suffering wife,
blaming himself for continually putting his sister before her in his
plans.
At Elverslope, on his demand for a fly for Hiltonbury, he was answered
that all were engaged for the Horticultural Show in the Forest; but the
people at the station, knowing him well, made willing exertions to
procure a vehicle for him, and a taxed cart soon making its appearance,
he desired to be taken, not to the Holt, but to the Forest, where he had
no doubt that he should find the object of his search.
This Horticultural Show was the great gaiety of the year. The society
had originated with Humfrey Charlecote, for the benefit of the poor as
well as the rich; and the summer exhibition always took place under the
trees of a fragment of the old Forest, which still survived at about five
miles from Hiltonbury. The day was a county holiday. The delicate
orchid and the crowned pine were there, with the hairy gooseberry, the
cabbage and potato, and the homely cottage-garden nosegay from many a
woodland hamlet. The young ladies competed in collections of dried
flowers for a prize botany book; and the subscriptions were so arranged
that on this festival each poorer member might, with two companions, be
provided with a hearty meal; while grandees and farmers had a
luncheon-tent of their own, and regarded the day as a county picnic.
It was a favourite affair with all, intensely enjoyed, and full of good
neighbourhood. Humfrey Charlecote's spirit never seemed to have deserted
it; it was a gathering of distant friends, a delight of children as of
the full grown; and while the young were frantic for its gipsying fun,
their elders seldom failed to attend, if only in remembrance of poor Mr.
Charlecote, 'who had begged one and all not to let it drop.'
Above all, Honora felt it due to Humfrey to have prize-roots and fruits
from the Holt, and would have thought herself fallen, indeed, had the
hardest rain kept her from the rendezvous, with one wagon carrying the
cottagers' articles, and another a troop of school-children. No doubt
the Forest would be the place to find Owen Sandbrook, but for the rest--
From the very extremity of his perplexity, Robert's mind sought relief in
external objects. So joyous were the associations with the Forest road
on a horticultural day, that the familiar spots could not but revive
them. Those green glades, where the graceful beeches retreated, making
cool green galleries with their slender gleaming stems, reminded him of
his putting his new pony to speed to come up with the Holt carriage; that
scathed oak had a tradition of lightning connected with it; yonder was
the spot where he had shown Lucilla a herd of deer; here the rising
ground whence the whole scene could be viewed, and from force of habit he
felt exhilarated as he gazed down the slope of heather, where the fine
old oaks and beeches, receding, had left an open space, now covered with
the well-known tents; there the large one, broadly striped with green,
containing the show; there the white marquees for the eaters; the Union
Jack's gay colours floating lazily from a pole in the Outlaw's Knoll; the
dark, full foliage of the forest, and purple tints of the heather setting
off the bright female groups in their delicate summer gaieties. Vehicles
of all degrees--smart barouche, lengthy britzschka, light gig, dashing
pony-carriage, rattling shanderadan, and gorgeous wagon--were drawn up in
treble file, minus their steeds; the sounds of well-known tunes from the
band were wafted on the wind, and such an air of jocund peace and
festivity pervaded the whole, that for a moment he had a sense of
holiday-making ere he sighed at the shade that he was bringing on that
scene of merriment.
Reaching the barrier, he paid his entrance-money, and desiring the
carriage to wait, walked rapidly down the hill. On one side of the road
was the gradual sweep of open heath, on the other was a rapid slope,
shaded by trees, and covered with fern, growing tall and grand as it
approached the moist ground in the hollow below. Voices made him turn
his head in that direction. Aloof from the rest of the throng he beheld
two figures half-way down the bank, so nearly hidden among the luxuriant,
wing-like fronds of the Osmond royal which they were gathering, that at
first only their hats were discernible--a broad gray one, with drooping
feather, and a light Oxford boating straw hat. The merry ring of the
clear girlish voice, the deep-toned replies, told him more than his first
glance did; and with one inward ejaculation for self-command, he turned
aside to the descent.
The rustling among the copsewood caught the ear of Phoebe, who was the
highest up, and, springing up like a fawn in the covert, she
cried,--'Robin! dear Robin! how delicious!' but ere she had made three
bounds towards him, his face brought her to a pause, and, in an
awe-struck voice, she asked, 'Robert, what is it?'
'It does not concern you, dearest; at least, I hope not. I want Owen
Sandbrook.'
'Then it is _she_. O Robin, can you bear it?' she whispered, clinging to
him, terrified by the agitated fondness of his embrace.
'I know nothing of _her_,' was his answer, interrupted by Owen, who,
raising his handsome, ruddy face from beneath, shouted mirthfully--
'Ha! Phoebe, what interloper have you caught? What, Fulmort, not quite
grilled in the Wulstonian oven?'
'I was in search of you. Wait there, Phoebe,' said Robert, advancing to
meet Owen, with a gravity of countenance that provoked an impatient
gesture, and the question--
'Come, have it out! Do you mean that you have been ferreting out some
old scrape of mine?'
'I mean,' said Robert, looking steadily at him, 'that I have been called
in to baptize your sick child. Your wife is dying, and you must hasten
if you would see her alive.'
'That won't do. You know better than that,' returned Owen, with
ill-concealed agitation, partaking of anger. 'She was quite recovered
when last I heard, but she is a famous hand at getting up a scene; and
that mother of hers would drive Job out of his senses. They have worked
on your weak mind. I was an ass to trust to the old woman's dissent for
hindering them from finding you out, and getting up a scene.'
'They did not. It was by accident that I was the person who answered the
summons. They knew neither me nor my name, so you may acquit them of any
preparation. I recognized your name, which I was desired to give to the
child; and then, in spite of wasting, terror, and deadly sickness, I knew
the mother. She has been pining under low nervous fever, still believing
you on the Continent; and the discovery that she had been deceived, was
such a shock as to bring on a violent attack, which she is not likely to
have strength to survive.'
'I never told her I was still abroad,' said Owen, in a fretful tone of
self-defence. 'I only had my letters forwarded through my scout; for I
knew I should have no peace nor safety if the old woman knew where to
find me, and preach me crazy; and I could not be going to see after her,
for, thanks to Honor Charlecote and her schools, every child in
Whittingtonia knows me by sight. I told her to be patient till I had a
curacy, and was independent; but it seems she could not be. I'll run up
as soon as I can get some plea for getting away from the Holt.'
'Death will leave no time for your excuses,' said Robert. 'By setting
off at once, you may catch the five o'clock express at W---'
'Well, it is your object to have a grand explosion! When I am cut out,
you and Cilly may make a good thing of it. I wish you joy! Ha! by
Jove!' he muttered, as he saw Phoebe waiting out of earshot. And then,
turning from Robert, who was dumb in the effort to control a passionate
reply, he called out, 'Good-bye, Phoebe; I beg your pardon, but you see I
am summoned. Family claims are imperative!'
'What is the matter?' said the maiden, terrified not only at his tone,
but at the gestures of her brother of fierce, suppressed menace towards
him, despairing protection towards her.
'Why, he has told you! Matter enough, isn't it? I'm a married man. I
ask your compassion!' with a bitter laugh.
'It is you who have told her,' said Robert, who, after a desperate
effort, had forced all violence from his voice and language. 'Traitor as
you consider me, your secret had not crossed my lips. But no--there is
no time to waste on disputes. Your wife is sinking under neglect; and
her seeing you once more may depend on your not loitering away these
moments.'
'I don't believe it. Canting and tragedy queening. Taking him in! I
know better!' muttered Owen, sullenly, as he moved up the bank.
'O Robin, how can he be so hard?' whispered Phoebe, as she met her
brother's eyes wistfully fixed on her face.
'He is altogether selfish and heartless,' returned Robert, in the same
inaudible voice. 'My Phoebe, give me this one comfort. You never
listened to him?'
'There was nothing to listen to,' said Phoebe, turning her clear,
surprised eyes on him. 'You couldn't think him so bad as that. O Robin,
how silly!'
'What were you doing here?' he asked, holding her arm tight.
'Only Miss Fennimore wanted some Osmunda, and Miss Charlecote sent him to
show me where it grew; because she was talking to Lady Raymond.'
The free simplicity of her look made Robert breathe freely. Charity was
coming back to him.
At the same moment Owen turned, his face flushed, and full of emotion,
but the obduracy gone.
'I may take a long leave! When you see Honor Charlecote, Fulmort--'
'I shall not see her. I am going back with you,' said Robert, instantly
deciding, now that he felt that he could both leave Phoebe, and trust
himself with the offender.
'You think I want to escape!'
'No; but I have duties to return to. Besides, you will find a scene for
which you are little prepared; and which will cost you the more for your
present mood. I may be of use there. Your secret is safe with Phoebe
and me. I promised your wife to keep it, and we will not rob you of the
benefit of free confession.'
'And what is to explain my absence? No, no, the secret is one no longer,
and it has been intolerable enough already,' said Owen, recklessly.
'Poor Honor, it will be a grievous business, and little Phoebe will be a
kind messenger. Won't you, Phoebe? I leave my cause in your hands.'
'But,' faltered Phoebe, 'she should hear who--'
'Simple child, you can't draw inferences. Cilla wouldn't have asked.
Don't you remember her darling at Wrapworth? People shouldn't throw such
splendid women in one's way, especially when they are made of such
inflammable materials, and take fire at a civil word. So ill, poor
thing! Now, Robert, on your honour, has not the mother been working on
you?'
'I tell you not what the mother told me, but what the medical man said.
Low nervous fever set in long ago, and she has never recovered her
confinement. Heat and closeness were already destroying her, when my
disclosure that you were not abroad, as she had been led to believe,
brought on fainting, and almost immediate delirium. This was last
evening, she was worse this morning.'
'Poor girl, poor girl!' muttered Owen, his face almost convulsed with
emotion. 'There was no helping it. She would have drowned herself if I
had not taken her with me--quite capable of it! after those intolerable
women at Wrapworth had opened fire. I wish women's tongues were cut out
by act of parliament. So, Phoebe, tell poor Honor that I know I am
unpardonable, but I am sincerely sorry for her. I fell into it, there's
no knowing how, and she would pity me, and so would you, if you knew what
I have gone through. Good-bye, Phoebe. Most likely I shall never see
you again. Won't you shake hands, and tell me you are sorry for me?'
'I should be, if you seemed more sorry for your wife than yourself,' she
said, holding out her hand, but by no means prepared for his not only
pressing it with fervour, but carrying it to his lips.
Then, as Robert started forward with an impulse of snatching her from
him, he almost threw it from his grasp, and with a long sigh very like
bitter regret, and a murmur that resembled 'That's a little angel,' he
mounted the bank. Robert only tarried to say, 'May I be able to bear
with him! Phoebe, do your best for poor Miss Charlecote. I will write.'
Phoebe sat down at the foot of a tree, veiled by the waving ferns, to
take breath and understand what had passed. Her first act was to strike
one hand across the other, as though to obliterate the kiss, then to draw
off her glove, and drop it in the deepest of the fern, never to be worn
again. Hateful! With that poor neglected wife pining to death in those
stifling city streets, to be making sport in those forest glades. Shame!
shame! But oh! worst of all was his patronizing pity for Miss
Charlecote! Phoebe's own mission to Miss Charlecote was dreadful enough,
and she could have sat for hours deliberating on the mode of carrying
grief and dismay to her friend, who had looked so joyous and exulting
with her boy by her side as she drove upon the ground; but there was no
time to be lost, and rousing herself into action with strong effort,
Phoebe left the fern brake, walking like one in a dream, and exchanging
civilities with various persons who wondered to see her alone, made her
way to the principal marquee, where luncheon had taken place, and which
always served as the rendezvous. Here sat mammas, keeping up talk enough
for civility, and peeping out restlessly to cluck their broods together;
here gentlemen stood in knots, talking county business; servants
congregated in the rear, to call the carriages; stragglers gradually
streamed together, and 'Oh! here you are,' was the staple exclamation.
It was uttered by Mrs. Fulmort as Phoebe appeared, and was followed by
plaintive inquiries for her sisters, and assurances that it would have
been better to have stayed in the cool tent, and gone home at once.
Phoebe consoled her by ordering the carriage, and explaining that her
sisters were at hand with some other girls, then begged leave to go home
with Miss Charlecote for the night.
'My dear, what shall I do with the others without you? Maria has such
odd tricks, and Bertha is so teasing without you! You promised they
should not tire me!'
'I will beg them to be good, dear mamma; I am very sorry, but it is only
this once. She will be alone. Owen Sandbrook is obliged to go away.'
'I can't think what she should want of you,' moaned her mother, 'so used
as she is to be alone. Did she ask you?'
'No, she does not know yet. I am to tell her, and that is why I want you
to be so kind as to spare me, dear mamma.'
'My dear, it will not do for you to be carrying young men's secrets, at
least not Owen Sandbrook's. Your papa would not like it, my dear, until
she had acknowledged him for her heir. You have lost your glove, too,
Phoebe, and you look so heated, you had better come back with me,' said
Mrs. Fulmort, who would not have withstood for a moment a decree from
either of her other daughters.
'Indeed,' said Phoebe, 'you need not fear, mamma. It is nothing of that
sort, quite the contrary.'
'Quite the contrary! You don't tell me that he has formed another
attachment, just when I made sure of your settling at last at the Holt,
and you such a favourite with Honor Charlecote. Not one of those plain
Miss Raymonds, I hope.'
'I must not tell, till she has heard,' said Phoebe, 'so please say
nothing about it. It will vex poor Miss Charlecote sadly, so pray let no
one suspect, and I will come back and tell you to-morrow, by the time you
are dressed.'
Mrs. Fulmort was so much uplifted by the promise of the grand secret that
she made no more opposition, and Maria and Bertha hurried in with
Phoebe's glove, which, with the peculiar fidelity of property wilfully
lost, had fallen into their hands while searching for Robert. Both
declared they had seen him on the hill, and clamorously demanded him of
Phoebe. Her answer, 'he is not in the forest, you will not find him,'
was too conscious fully to have satisfied the shrewd Bertha, but for the
pleasure of discoursing to the other girls upon double gangers, of whom
she had stealthily read in some prohibited German literature of her
governess's.
Leaving her to astonish them, Phoebe took up a position near Miss
Charlecote, who was talking to the good matronly-looking Lady Raymond,
and on the first opportunity offered herself as a companion. On the way
home, Honor, much pleased, was proposing to find Owen, and walk through a
beautiful and less frequented forest path, when she saw her own carriage
coming up with that from Beauchamp, and lamented the mistake which must
take her away as soon as Owen could be found.
'I ventured to order it,' said Phoebe; 'I thought you might prefer it.
Owen is gone. He left a message with me for you.'
Experience of former blows taught Honora to ask no questions, and to go
through the offices of politeness as usual. But Lady Raymond, long a
friend of hers, though barely acquainted with Mrs. Fulmort, and never
having seen Phoebe before, living as she did on the opposite side of the
county, took a moment for turning round to the young girl, and saying
with a friendly motherly warmth, far from mere curiosity, 'I am sure you
have bad news for Miss Charlecote. I see you cannot speak of it now, but
you must promise me to send to Moorcroft, if Sir John or I can be of any
use.'
Phoebe could only give a thankful grasp of the kind hand. The Raymonds
were rather despised at home for plain habits, strong religious opinions,
and scanty fortunes, but she knew they were Miss Charlecote's great
friends and advisers.
Not till the gay crowd had been left behind did Honor turn to Phoebe, and
say gently, 'My dear, if he is gone off in any foolish way, you had
better tell me at once, that something may be done.'
'He is gone with Robert,' said Phoebe. 'Bertha did really see Robert.
He had made a sad discovery, and came for Owen. Do you remember that
pretty schoolmistress at Wrapworth!'
Never had Phoebe seen such a blanched face and dilated eyes as were
turned on her, with the gasping words, 'Impossible! they would not have
told you.'
'They were obliged,' said Phoebe; 'they had to hurry for the train, for
she is very ill indeed.'
Honor leant back with folded hands and closed eyes, so that Phoebe almost
felt as if she had killed her. 'I suppose Robert was right to fetch
him,' she said; 'but their telling you!'
'Owen told me he fancied Robert had done so,' said Phoebe, 'and called
out to me something about family claims, and a married man.'
'Married!' cried Honora, starting forward. 'You are sure!'
'Quite sure,' repeated Phoebe; 'he desired me to tell you I was to say he
knew he was unpardonable, but he had suffered a great deal, and he was
grieved at the sorrow you would feel.'
Having faithfully discharged her message, Phoebe could not help being
vexed at the relenting 'Poor fellow!'
Honor was no longer confounded, as at the first sentences, and though
still cast down, was more relieved than her young friend could
understand, asking all that had passed between the young men, and when
all had been told, leaning back in silence until, when almost at home,
she laid her hand on Phoebe's arm, and said, 'My child, never think
yourself safe from idols.'
She then sought her own room, and Phoebe feared that her presence was
intrusive, for she saw her hostess no more till teatime, when the wan
face and placid smile almost made her weep at first, then wonder at the
calm unconstrained manner in which her amusement was provided for, and
feel ready to beg not to be treated like a child or a stranger. When
parting for the night, however, Honor tenderly said, 'Thanks, my dear,
for giving up the evening to me.'
'I have only been an oppression to you.'
'You did me the greatest good. I did not want discussion; I only wanted
kindness. I wish I had you always, but it is better not. Their uncle
was right. I spoil every one.'
'Pray do not say so. You have been our great blessing. If you knew how
we wish to comfort you.'
'You do comfort me. I can watch Robert realizing my visions for others,
and you, my twilight moon, my autumn flower. But I must not love you too
much, Phoebe. They all suffer for my inordinate affection. But it is
too late to talk. Good night, sweet one.'
'Shall you sleep?' said Phoebe, wistfully lingering.
'Yes; I don't enter into it enough to be haunted. Ah! you have never
learnt what it is to feel heavy with trouble. I believe I shall not
dwell on it till I know more. There may be much excuse; she may have
been artful, and at least Owen dealt fairly by her in one respect. I can
better suppose her unworthy than him cruelly neglectful.'
In that hope Honor slept, and was not more depressed than Phoebe had seen
her under Lucilla's desertion. She put off herjudgment till she should
hear more, went about her usual occupations, and sent Phoebe home till
letters should come, when they would meet again.
Both heard from Robert by the next post, and his letter to Miss
Charlecote related all that he had been able to collect from Mrs.
Murrell, or from Owen himself. The narrative is here given more fully
than he was able to make it. Edna Murrell, born with the susceptible
organization of a musical temperament, had in her earliest childhood been
so treated as to foster refined tastes and aspirations, such as disgusted
her with the respectable vulgarity of her home. The pet of the nursery
and school-room looked down on the lodge kitchen and parlour, and her
discontent was a matter of vanity with her parents, as a sign of her
superiority, while plausibility and caution were continually enjoined on
her rather by example than by precept, and she was often aware of her
mother's indulgence of erratic propensities in religion, unknown either
to her father or his employers.
Unexceptionable as had been her training-school education, the high
cultivation and soundness of doctrine had so acted on her as to keep her
farther aloof from her mother, whose far more heartfelt religion appeared
to her both distasteful and contemptible, and whose advice was thus cast
aside as prejudiced and sectarian.
Such was the preparation for the unprotected life of a schoolmistress in
a house by herself. Servants and small tradesfolk were no companions to
her, and were offended by her ladylike demeanour; and her refuge was in
books that served but to increase the perils of sham romance, and in
enthusiastic adoration of the young lady, whose manners apparently placed
her on an equality, although her beauty and musical talents were in truth
only serving as a toy.
Her face and voice had already been thrust on Owen's notice before the
adventure with the bargeman had constituted the young gentleman the hero
of her grateful imagination, and commenced an intercourse for which his
sister's inconsiderate patronage gave ample opportunities. His head was
full of the theory of fusion of classes, and of the innate refinement,
freshness of intellect, and vigour of perception of the unsophisticated,
at least so he thought, and when he lent her books, commenting on
favourite passages, and talked poetry or popular science to her, he
imagined himself walking in the steps of those who were asserting the
claims of intelligence to cultivation, and sowing broadcast the seeds of
art, literature, and emancipation. Perhaps he knew not how often he was
betrayed into tokens of admiration, sufficient to inflame such a
disposition as he had to deal with, and if he were aware of his
influence, and her adoration, it idly flattered and amused him, without
thought of the consequences.
On the night when she had fainted at the sight of his attention to
Phoebe, she was left on his hands in a state when all caution and reserve
gave way, and her violent agitation fully awakened him to the perception
of the expectations he had caused, the force of the feelings he had
aroused. A mixture of pity, vanity, and affection towards the beautiful
creature before him had led to a response such as did not disappoint her,
and there matters might have rested for the present, but that their
interview had been observed. Edna, terror-stricken, believing herself
irretrievably disgraced, had thrown herself on his mercy in a frantic
condition, such as made him dread exposure for himself, as well as
suspense for her tempestuous nature.
With all his faults, the pure atmosphere in which he had grown up,
together with the tone of his associates, comparatively free from the
grosser and more hard-hearted forms of vice, had concurred with poor
Edna's real modesty and principle in obtaining the sanction of marriage,
for her flight with him from the censure of Wrapworth, and the rebukes of
her mother. Throughout, his feeling had been chiefly stirred up by the
actual sight of her beauty, and excited by her fervent passion. When
absent from her, there had been always regrets and hesitations, such as
would have prevailed, save for his compassion, and dread of the effects
of her desperation, both for her and for himself. The unpardonable
manner in which he knew himself to have acted, made it needful to plunge
deeper for the very sake of concealment.
Yet, once married, he would have been far safer if he had confessed the
fact to his only true friend, since it must surely come to light some
time or other, but he had bred himself up in the habit of schoolboy
shuffling, hiding everything to the last moment, and he could not bear to
be cast off by the Charterises, be pitied and laughed at by his Oxford
friends, nor to risk Honor Charlecote's favour, perhaps her inheritance.
Return to Oxford the victim of an attachment to a village schoolmistress!
Better never return thither at all, as would be but too probably the
case! No! the secret must be kept till his first start in life should be
secure; and he talked to Edna of his future curacy, while she fed her
fancy with visions of lovely parsonages and 'clergymen's ladies' in a
world of pensive bliss, and after the honeymoon in Ireland, promised to
wait patiently, provided her mother might know all.
Owen had not realized the home to which he was obliged to resign his
wife, nor his mother-in-law's powers of tongue. There were real
difficulties in the way of his visiting her. It was the one
neighbourhood in London where his person might be known, and if he
avoided daylight, he became the object of espial to the disappointed
lodgers, who would have been delighted to identify the 'Mr. Brook' who
had monopolized the object of their admiration. These perils, the
various disagreeables, and especially Mrs. Murrell's complaints and
demands for money, had so much annoyed Owen, who felt himself the injured
party in the connection, that he had not only avoided the place, but
endeavoured to dismiss the whole humiliating affair from his mind, trying
to hinder himself from being harassed by letters, and when forced to
attend to the representations of the women, sending a few kind words and
promises, with such money as he could spare, always backed, however, by
threats of the consequences of a disclosure, which he vaguely intimated
would ruin his prospects for life.
Little did the thoughtless boy comprehend the cruelty of his neglect. In
the underground rooms of the City lodging-house, the voluntary prison of
the shame-faced, half-owned wife, the overwrought headache, incidental to
her former profession, made her its prey; nervous fever came on as the
suspense became more trying, and morbid excitement alternated with torpor
and depression. Medical advice was long deferred, and that which was at
last sought was not equal to her needs. It remained for the physician,
summoned by Robert, in his horror at her delirium, to discover that her
brain had long been in a state of irritation, which had become aggravated
to such a degree that death was even to be desired. Could she yet
survive, it could hardly be to the use of her intellect.
Robert described poor Owen's impetuous misery, and the cares which he
lavished on the unconscious sufferer, mentioning him with warmth and
tenderness that amazed Honor, from one so stern of judgment. Nay, Robert
was more alive to the palliations of Owen's conduct than she was herself.
She grieved over the complicated deceit, and resented the cruelty to the
wife with the keen severity of secluded womanhood, unable to realize the
temptations of young-manhood.
'Why could he not have told me?' she said. 'I could so easily have
forgiven him for generous love, if I alone had been offended, and there
had been no falsehood; but after the way he has used us all, and chiefly
that poor young thing, I can never feel that he is the same.'
And, though the heart that knew no guile had been saved from suffering,
the thought of the intimacy that she had encouraged, and the wishes she
had entertained for Phoebe, filled her with such dismay, that it required
the sight of the innocent, serene face, and the sound of the happy,
unembarrassed voice, to reassure her that her darling's peace had not
been wrecked. For, though Owen had never overpassed the bounds of the
familiar intercourse of childhood, there had been an implication of
preference in his look and tone; nor had there been error in the
intuition of poor Edna's jealous passion. Something there was of
involuntary reverence that had never been commanded by the far more
beautiful and gifted girl who had taken him captive.
So great was the shock that Honora moved about mechanically, hardly able
to think. She knew that in time she should pardon her boy; but she could
not yearn to do so till she had seen him repent. He had sinned too
deeply against others to be taken home at once to her heart, even though
she grieved over him with deep, loving pity, and sought to find the
original germs of error rather in herself than in him.
Had she encouraged deceit by credulous trust? Alas! alas! that should
but have taught him generosity. It was the old story. Fond affection
had led her to put herself into a position to which Providence did not
call her, and to which she was, therefore, unequal. Fond affection had
blinded her eyes, and fostered in its object the very faults most hateful
to her. She could only humble herself before her Maker for the recurring
sin, and entreat for her own pardon, and for that of the offender with
whose sins she charged herself.
And to man she humbled herself by her confession to Captain Charteris,
and by throwing herself unreservedly on the advice of Mr. Saville and Sir
John Raymond, for her future conduct towards the culprit. If he were
suffering now for her rejection of the counsel of manhood and experience,
it was right that they should deal with him now, and she would try to
bear it. And she also tried as much as possible to soften the blow to
Lucilla, who was still abroad with her cousins.