A little grain of conscience made him sour.
TENNYSON
'A penny for your thoughts, Cilly,' said Horatia, sliding in on the
slippery boards of a great bare room of a lodging-house at the celebrated
Spa of Spitzwasserfitzung.
'My thoughts? I was trying to recollect the third line of
"Sated at home, of wife and children tired,
Sated abroad, all seen and naught admired."'
'Bless me, how grand! Worth twopence. So good how Shakspeare, as the
Princess Ottilie would say!'
'Twopence for its sincerity! It is not for your sake that I am not in
Old England.'
'Nor for that of the three flaxen-haired princesses, with religious
opinions to be accommodated to those of the crowned heads they may
marry?'
'I'm sick of the three, and their raptures. I wish I was as ignorant as
you, and that Shakspeare had never been read at the Holt.'
'This is a sudden change. I thought Spitzwasserfitzung and its
princesses had brought halcyon days.'
'Halcyon days will never come till we get home.'
'Which Lolly will never do. She passes for somebody here, and will never
endure Castle Blanch again.'
'I'll make Owen come and take me home.'
'No,' said Rashe, seriously, 'don't bring Owen here. If Lolly likes to
keep Charles where gaming is man's sole resource, don't run Owen into
that scrape.'
'What a despicable set you are!' sighed Lucilla. 'I wonder why I stay
with you.'
'You might almost as well be gone,' said Ratia. 'You aren't half so
useful in keeping things going as you were once; and you won't be
ornamental long, if you let your spirits be so uncertain.'
'And pray how is that to be helped? No, don't come out with that stupid
thing.'
'Commonplace because it is reasonable. You would have plenty of
excitement in the engagement, and then no end of change, and settle down
into a blooming little matron, with all the business of the world on your
hands. You have got him into excellent training by keeping him dangling
so long; and it is the only chance of keeping your looks or your temper.
By the time I come and stay with you, you'll be so agreeable you won't
know yourself--'
'Blessings on that hideous post-horn for stopping your mouth!' cried
Lucilla, springing up. 'Not that letters ever come to me.'
Letters and Mr. and Mrs. Charteris all entered together, and Rashe was
busy with her own share, when Lucilla came forward with a determined
face, unlike her recent listless look, and said, 'I am wanted at home. I
shall start by the diligence to-night.'
'How now?' said Charles. 'The old lady wanting you to make her will?'
'No,' said Lucilla, with dignity. 'My brother's wife is very ill. I
must go to her.'
'Is she demented?' asked Charles, looking at his sister.
'Raving,' was the answer. 'She has been so the whole morning. I shall
cut off her hair, and get ice for her head.'
'I tell simple truth,' returned Cilla. 'Here is a letter from Honor
Charlecote, solving the two mysteries of last summer. Owen's companion,
who Rashe would have it was Jack Hastings--'
'Ha! married, then! The cool hand! And verily, but that Cilly takes it
so easily, I should imagine it was her singing prodigy--eh? It was,
then?'
'Absurd idiot!' exclaimed Charles. 'There, he is done for now!'
'Yes,' drawled Eloisa; 'one never could notice a low person like that.'
'She is my sister, remember!' cried Lucilla, with stamping foot and
flashing eye.
'Cunning rogue!' continued Horatia. 'How did he manage to give no
suspicion? Oh! what fun! No wonder she looked green and yellow when he
was flirting with the little Fulmort! Let's hear all, Cilly--how, when,
and where?'
'At the Registrar's, at R---, July 14th, 1854,' returned Lucilla, with
defiant gravity.
'Last July!' said Charles. 'Ha! the young donkey was under age--hadn't
consent of guardian. I don't believe the marriage will hold water. I'll
write to Stevens this minute.'
'Well, that would be luck!' exclaimed Rashe.
'Much better than he deserves,' added Charles, 'to be such a fool as to
run into the noose and marry the girl.'
Lucilla was trembling from head to foot, and a light gleamed in her eyes;
but she spoke so quietly that her cousins did not apprehend her intention
in the question--
'You mean what you say?'
'Of course I do,' said Charles. 'I'm not sure of the law, and some of
the big-wigs are very cantankerous about declaring an affair of this sort
null; but I imagine there is a fair chance of his getting quit for some
annual allowance to her; and I'll do my best, even if I had to go to
London about it. A man is never ruined till he is married.'
'Thank you,' returned Lucilla, her lips trembling with bitter irony.
'Now I know what you all are made of. We are obliged for your offered
exertion, but we are not inclined to become traitors.'
'Cilly! I thought you had more sense! You are no child!'
'I am a woman--I feel for womanhood. I am a sister--I feel for my
brother's honour.'
Charles burst into a laugh. Eloisa remonstrated--'My dear, consider the
disgrace to the whole family--a village schoolmistress!'
'Our ideas differ as to disgrace,' said Lucilla. 'Let me go, Ratia; I
must pack for the diligence.'
The brother and sister threw themselves between her and the door. 'Are
you insane, Cilly? What do you mean should become of you? Are you going
to join the _menage_, and teach the A B C?'
'I am going to own my sister while yet there is time,' said Lucilla.
'While you are meditating how to make her a deserted outcast, death is
more merciful. Pining under the miseries of an unowned marriage, she is
fast dying of pressure on the brain. I am going in the hope of hearing
her call me sister. I am going to take charge of her child, and stand by
my brother.'
'Dying, poor thing! Why did you not tell us before?' said Horatia,
sobered.
'I did not know it was to save Charles so much _kind trouble_,' said
Lucilla. 'Let me go, Rashe; you cannot detain me.'
'I do believe she is delighted,' said Horatia, releasing her.
In truth, she was inspirited by perceiving any door of escape. Any vivid
sensation was welcome in the irksome vacancy that pursued her in the
absence of immediate excitement. Devoid of the interest of opposition,
and of the bracing changes to the Holt, her intercourse with the
Charterises had become a weariness and vexation of spirit. Idle foreign
life deteriorated them, and her principle and delicacy suffered frequent
offences; but like all living wilfully in temptation, she seemed under a
spell, only to be broken by an act of self-humiliation to which she would
not bend. Longing for the wholesome atmosphere of Hiltonbury, she could
not brook to purchase her entrance there by permitting herself to be
pardoned. There was one whom she fully intended should come and entreat
her return, and the terms of her capitulation had many a time been
arranged with herself; but when he came not, though her heart ached after
him, pride still forbade one homeward step, lest it should seem to be in
quest of him, or in compliance with his wishes.
Here, then, was a summons to England--nay, into his very parish--without
compromising her pride or forcing her to show deference to rejected
counsel. Nay, in contrast with her cousins, she felt her sentiments so
lofty and generous that she was filled with the gladness of conscious
goodness, so like the days of her early childhood, that a happy dew
suffused her eyes, and she seemed to hear the voice of old Thames. Her
loathing for the views of her cousins had borne down all resentment at
her brother's folly and Edna's presumption; and relieved that it was not
worse, and full of pity for the girl she had really loved, Honor's
grieved displeasure and Charles's kind project together made her the
ardent partisan of the young wife. Because Honor intimated that the girl
had been artful, and had forced herself on Owen, Lucilla was resolved
that her favourite had been the most perfect of heroines; and that
circumstance alone should bear such blame as could not be thrown on Honor
herself and the Wrapworth gossipry. Poor circumstances!
The journey gave her no concern. The way was direct to Ostend, and
Spitzwasserfitzung contained a '_pension_,' which was a great resort of
incipient English governesses, so that there were no difficulties such as
to give her enterprising spirit the least concern. She refused the
escort that Rashe would have pressed upon her, and made her farewells
with quiet resolution. No further remonstrance was offered; and though
each party knew that what had passed would be a barrier for ever, good
breeding preferred an indifferent parting. There were light, cheery
words, but under the full consciousness that the friendship begun in
perverseness had ended in contempt.
Horatia turned aside with a good-natured 'Poor child! she will soon wish
herself back.' Lucilla, taking her last glance, sighed as she thought,
'My father did not like them. But for Honor, I would never have taken up
with them.'
Without misadventure, Lucilla arrived at London Bridge, and took a cab
for Woolstone-lane, where she must seek more exact intelligence of the
locality of those she sought. So long had her eye been weary of novelty,
while her mind was ill at ease, that even Holborn in the August sun was
refreshingly homelike; and begrimed Queen Anne, 'sitting in the sun'
before St. Paul's, wore a benignant aspect to glances full of hope and
self-approval. An effort was necessary to recall how melancholy was the
occasion of her journey, and all mournful anticipation was lost in the
spirit of partisanship and patronage--yes, and in that pervading
consciousness that each moment brought her nearer to Whittingtonia.
Great was the amaze of good Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper, at the arrival
of Miss Lucy, and equal disappointment that she would neither eat nor
rest, nor accept a convoy to No. 8, Little Whittington-street. She
tripped off thither the instant she had ascertained the number of the
house, and heard that her brother was there, and his wife still living.
She had formed to herself no image of the scenes before her, and was
entirely unprepared by reflection when she rang at the door. As soon as
she mentioned her name, the little maid conducted her down-stairs, and
she found herself in the sitting-room, face to face with Robert Fulmort.
Without showing surprise or emotion, or relaxing his grave, listening
air, he merely bowed his head, and held out his hand. There was an
atmosphere of awe about the room, as though she had interrupted a
religious office; and she stood still in the solemn hush, her lips
parted, her bosom heaving. The opposite door was ajar, and from within
came a kind of sobbing moan, and a low, feeble, faltering voice faintly
singing--
'For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep.'
The choking thrill of unwonted tears rushed over Lucilla, and she
shuddered. Robert looked disappointed as he caught the notes; then
placing a seat for Lucilla, said, very low, 'We hoped she would waken
sensible. Her mother begged me to be at hand.'
'Has she never been sensible?'
'They hoped so, at one time, last night. She seemed to know him.'
'Is he there?'
Robert only sighed assent, for again the voice was heard--'I must get up.
Miss Sandbrook wants me. She says I shan't be afraid when the time
comes; but oh!--so many, many faces--all their eyes looking; and where is
he?--why doesn't he look? Oh! Miss Sandbrook, don't bring that young
lady here--I know--I know it is why he never comes--keep her away--'
The voice turned to shrieking sobs. There were sounds of feet and
hurried movements, and Owen came out, gasping for breath, and his face
flushed. 'I can't bear it,' he said, with his hands over his face.
'Can I be of use?' asked Robert.
'No; the nurse can hold her;' and he leant his arms on the mantelpiece,
his frame shaken with long-drawn sobs. He had never even seen his
sister, and she was too much appalled to speak or move.
When the sounds ceased, Owen looked up to listen, and Robert said, 'Still
no consciousness?'
'No, better not. What would she gain by it?'
'It must be better not, if so ordained,' said Robert.
'Pshaw! what are last feelings and words? As if a blighted life and such
suffering were not sure of compensation. There's more justice in Heaven
than in your system!'
He was gone; and Robert with a deep sigh said, 'I am not judging. I
trust there were tokens of repentance and forgiveness; but it is painful,
as her mother feels it, to hear how her mind runs on light songs and
poetry.'
'Mechanically!'
'True; and delirium is no criterion of the state of mind. But it is very
mournful. In her occupation, one would have thought habit alone would
have made her ear catch other chimes.'
Lucilla remembered with a pang that she had sympathized with Edna's
weariness of the monotony of hymn and catechism. Thinking poetry rather
dull and tiresome, she had little guessed at the effect of sentimental
songs and volumes of L. E. L. and the like, on an inflammable mind, when
once taught to slake her thirsty imagination beyond the S.P.C.K. She did
not marvel at the set look of pain with which Robert heard passionate
verses of Shelley and Byron fall from those dying lips. They must have
been conned by heart, and have been the favourite study, or they could
hardly thus recur.
'I must go,' said Robert, after a time; 'I am doing no good here. You
will take care of your brother, if it is over before I return. Where are
you?'
'My things are in Woolstone-lane.'
'I meant to get him there. I will come back by seven o'clock; but I must
go to the school.'
'May I go in there?'
'You had better not. It is a fearful sight, and you cannot be of use. I
wish you could be out of hearing; but the house is full.'
'One moment, Robert--the child?'
'Sent to a nurse, when every sound was agony.'
He stepped into the sick room, and brought out Mrs. Murrell, who began
with a curtsey, but eagerly pressed Lucilla's offered hand. Subdued by
sorrow and watching, she was touchingly meek and resigned, enduring with
the patience of real faith, and only speaking to entreat that Mr. Fulmort
would pray with her for her poor child. Never had Lucilla so prayed; and
ere she had suppressed her tears, ere rising from her knees, Robert was
gone.
She spent the ensuing hours of that summer evening, seated in the
arm-chair, barely moving, listening to the ticking of the clock, and the
thunder of the streets, and at times hearkening to the sounds in the
inner chamber, the wanderings feebler and more rare, but the fearful
convulsions more frequent, seeming, as it were, to be tearing away the
last remnant of life. These moments of horror-struck suspense were the
only breaks, save when Owen rushed out unable to bear the sight, and
stood, with hidden face, in such absorption of distress as to be
unconscious of her awe-struck attempts to obtain his attention, or when
Mrs. Murrell came to fetch something, order her maid, or relieve herself
by a few sad words to her guest. Gratified by the eager sisterly
acknowledgment of poor Edna, she touched Lucilla deeply by speaking of
her daughter's fondness for Miss Sandbrook, grief at having given cause
for being thought ungrateful, and assurances that the secret never could
have been kept had they met the day after the _soiree_. Many had been
the poor thing's speculations how Miss Sandbrook would receive her
marriage, but always with confidence in her final mercy and justice: and
when Lucilla heard of the prolonged wretchedness, the hope deferred, the
evil reports and suspicions of neighbours and lodgers, the failing
health, and cruel disappointment, and looked round at the dismal little
stifling dungeon where this fair and gifted being had pined and sunk
beneath slander and desertion, hot tears of indignation filled her eyes,
and with fingers clenching together, she said, 'Oh that I had known it
sooner! Edna was right. I will be the person to see justice done to
her!'
And when left alone she cast about for the most open mode of proclaiming
Edna Murrell her brother's honoured wife, and her own beloved sister.
The more it mortified the Charterises the better!
By the time Robert came back, the sole change was in the failing
strength, and he insisted on conducting Lucilla to Woolstone-lane, Mrs.
Murrell enforcing his advice so decidedly that there was no choice. She
would not be denied one look at the sufferer, but what she saw was so
miserably unlike the beautiful creature whom she remembered, that she
recoiled, feeling the kindness that had forbidden her the spectacle, and
passively left the house, still under the chill influence of the shock.
She had tasted nothing since breakfasting on board the steamer, and on
coming into the street the comparative coolness seemed to strike her
through; she shivered, felt her knees give way, and grasped Robert's arm
for support. He treated her with watchful, considerate solicitude,
though with few words, and did not leave her till he had seen her safe
under the charge of the housekeeper; when, in return for his assurance
that he would watch over her brother, she promised to take food, and go
at once to rest.
Too weary at first to undress, and still thinking that Owen might be
brought to her, she lay back on the couch in her own familiar little
cedar room, feeling as if she recalled the day through the hazy medium of
a dream, and as if she had not been in contact with Edna, nor Owen, nor
Robert, but only with pale phantoms called by those names.
Robert especially! Engrossed and awe-stricken as she had been, still it
came on her that something was gone that to her had constituted Robert
Fulmort. Neither the change of dress, nor even the older and more
settled expression of countenance, made the difference; but the want of
that nameless, hesitating deference which in each word or action formerly
seemed to implore her favour, or even when he dared to censure, did so
under appeal to her mercy. Had he avoided her, she could have understood
it; but his calm, authoritative self-possession was beyond her, though as
yet she was not alarmed, for her mind was too much confused to perceive
that her influence was lost; but it was uncomfortable, and part of this
strange, unnatural world, as though the wax which she had been used to
mould had suddenly lost its yielding nature and become marble.
Tired out, she at last went to bed, and slept soundly, but awoke early,
and on coming down, found from the housekeeper that her brother had been
brought home at two o'clock by Mr. Fulmort, and had gone to his room at
once. All was over. Lucilla, longing to hear more, set out to see Mrs.
Murrell, before he should come down-stairs.
While the good woman was forced to bestir herself for her lodgers'
breakfasts, Lucilla could steal a solitary moment to gaze on the pallid
face to which death had restored much of its beauty. She pressed her
lips on the regal brow, and spoke half aloud, 'Edna, Edna Sandbrook,
sister Edna, you should have trusted me. You knew I would see justice
done to you, and I will. You shall lie by my mother's side in our own
churchyard, and Wrapworth shall know that she, whom they envied and
maligned, was Owen Sandbrook's wife and my cherished sister.'
Poor Mrs. Murrell, with her swimming eyes and stock phrases, brought far
more Christian sentiments to the bed of death. 'Poor, dear love, her
father and I little thought it would end in this, when we used to be so
proud of her. We should have minded that pride is not made for sinners.
"Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain;" and the Lord saw it well that
we should be cast down and slanderous lips opened against us, that so we
might feel our trust is in Him alone! Oh, it is good that even thus she
was brought to turn to Him! But I thank--oh, I thank Him that her father
never lived to see this day!'
She wept such tears of true thankfulness and resignation, that Lucilla,
almost abashed by the sight of piety beyond her comprehension, stood
silent, till, with a change to the practical, Mrs. Murrell recovered
herself, saying, 'If you please, ma'am, when had I best come and speak to
the young gentleman? I ought to know what would be pleasing to him about
the funeral.'
'We will arrange,' said Lucilla; 'she shall be buried with my mother and
sister in Wrapworth churchyard.'
Though gratified, Mrs. Murrell demurred, lest it might be taken ill by
the 'family' and by that godly minister whose kindness and sympathy at
the time of Edna's evasion had made a deep impression; but Lucilla boldly
undertook that the family _must_ like it, and she would take care of the
minister. Nor was the good woman insensible to the posthumous triumph
over calumny, although still with a certain hankering after Kensal Green
as a sweet place, with pious monuments, where she should herself be laid,
and the Company that did things so reasonable and so handsome.
Lucilla hurried back to fulfil the mission of Nemesis to the Charterises,
which she called justice to Edna, and by the nine o'clock post despatched
three notes. One containing the notice for the _Times_--'On the 17th
instant, at 8, Little Whittington-street, St. Wulstan's, Edna, the
beloved wife of Owen Charteris Sandbrook, Esq.;' another was to order a
complete array of mourning from her dressmaker; and the third was to the
Reverend Peter Prendergast, in the most simple manner requesting him to
arrange for the burial of her sister-in-law, at 5 P.M. on the ensuing
Saturday, indicating the labourers who should act as bearers, and ending
with, 'You will be relieved by hearing that she was no other than our
dear Edna, married on the 14th of July, last year.'
She then beguiled the time with designs for gravestones, until she became
uneasy at Owen's non-appearance, and longed to go and see after him; but
she fancied he might have spent nights of watching, and thought sleep
would be the best means of getting through the interval which appalled
her mind, unused to contact with grief. Still his delay began to wear
her spirits and expectation, so long wrought up to the meeting; and she
was at least equally restless for the appearance of Robert, wanting to
hear more from him, and above all certain that all her dreary cravings
and vacancy would be appeased by one dialogue with him, on whatever topic
it might be. She wished that she had obeyed that morning bell at St.
Wulstan's. It would have disposed of half-an-hour, and she would have
met him. 'For shame,' quoth the haughty spirit, 'now that has come into
my head, I can't go at all.'
Her solitude continued till half-past ten, when she heard the welcome
sound of Robert's voice, and flew to meet him, but was again checked by
his irresponsive manner as he asked for Owen.
'I have not seen him. I do not know whether to knock, lest he should be
asleep.'
'I hope he is. He has not been in bed for three nights. I will go and
see.'
He was moving to the door without lingering for a word more. She stopped
him by saying, 'Pray hear first what I have settled with Mrs. Murrell.'
'She told me,' said Robert. 'Is it Owen's wish?'
'It ought to be. It must. Every public justice must be paid now.'
'Is it quite well judged, unless it were his strong desire? Have you
considered the feelings of Mr. Prendergast or your relations?'
'There is nothing I consider more. If Charles thinks it more disgraceful
to marry a Christian for love than a Jewess for money, he shall see that
we are not of the same opinion.'
'I never pretend to judge of your motives.'
'Mercy, what have I gone and said?' ejaculated Lucilla, as the door
closed after him. 'Why did I let it out, and make him think me a vixen?
Better than a hypocrite though! I always professed to show my worst.
What's come to me, that I can't go on so contentedly? He must hear the
Charteris' sentiments, though, that he may not think mine a gratuitous
affront.'
Her explanation was at her tongue's end, but Robert only reappeared with
her brother, whom he had found dressing. Owen just greeted his sister,
but asked no questions, only dropping heavily into a chair, and let her
bring him his breakfast. So young was he, still wanting six weeks to
years of discretion; so youthful his appearance in spite of his size and
strength, that it was almost absurd to regard him as a widower, and
expect him to act as a man of mature age and feeling. There was much of
the boy in his excessive and freely-indulged lassitude, and his
half-sullen, half-shy reserve towards his sister. Knowing he had been in
conversation with Robert, she felt it hard that before her he only leant
his elbows on the table, yawned, and talked of his stiffness, until his
friend rising to leave them, he exerted himself to say, 'Don't go,
Fulmort.'
'I am afraid I must. I leave you to your sister.' (She noted that it
was not 'Lucy.')
'But, I say, Fulmort, there are things to settle--funeral, and all that,'
he said in a helpless voice, like a sulky schoolboy.
'Your sister has been arranging with Mrs. Murrell.'
'Yes, Owen,' said Lucilla, tears glistening in her eyes, and her voice
thrilling with emotion; 'it is right and just that she should be with our
mother and little Mary at home; so I have written to Mr. Prendergast.'
'Very well,' he languidly answered. 'Settle it as you will; only deliver
me from the old woman!'
He was in no state for reproaches; but Lucilla was obliged to bite her
lip to restrain a torrent of angry weeping.
At his urgent instance, Robert engaged to return to dinner, and went,
leaving Lucilla with nothing to do but to watch those heavy slumberings
on the sofa and proffer attentions that were received with the surliness
of one too miserable to know what to do with himself. She yearned over
him with a new awakening of tenderness, longing, yet unable, to console
or soothe. The light surface-intercourse of the brother and sister, each
selfishly refraining from stirring the depths of the other's mind,
rendered them mere strangers in the time of trouble; and vainly did Lucy
gaze wistfully at the swollen eyelids and flushed cheeks, watch every
peevish gesture, and tend each sullen wish, with pitying sweetness; she
could not reach the inner man, nor touch the aching wound.
Towards evening, Mrs. Murrell's name was brought in, provoking a fretful
injunction from Owen not to let him be molested with her cant. Lucilla
sighed compliance, though vexed at his egotism, and went to the study,
where she found that Mrs. Murrell had brought her grandson, her own most
precious comforter, whom she feared she must resign 'to be bred up as a
gentleman as he was, and despise his poor old granny; and she would say
not a word, only if his papa would let her keep him till he had cut his
first teeth, for he had always been tender, and she could not be easy to
think that any one else had the charge of him.' She devoured him with
kisses as she spoke, taking every precaution to keep her profuse tears
from falling on him; and Lucilla, much moved, answered, 'Oh! for the
present, no one could wish to part him from you. Poor little fellow!
May I take him for a little while to my brother? It may do him good.'
Cilly had rather have ridden a kicking horse than handled an infant. She
did not think this a prepossessing specimen, but it was passive. She had
always understood from books that this was the sure means of 'opening the
sealed fountains of grief.' She remembered what little Mary had been to
her father, and in hopes that parental instinct would make Owen know
better what to do with her burden than she did, she entered the
drawing-room, where a little murmuring sound caused Owen to start up on
his elbow, exclaiming, 'What are you at? Don't bring _that_ here!'
'I thought you might wish to see him.'
'What should I do with him?' asked Owen, in the same glum, childish tone,
turning his face inwards as he lay down. 'Take it away. Ain't I
wretched enough already to please you?'
She gave up the point, much grieved and strongly drawn to the little
helpless one, rejected by his father, misused and cast off like his
mother. Would no one stand up for him? Yes, it must be her part. She
was his champion! She would set him forth in the world, by her own toil
if need were!
Sealing the promise with a kiss, she returned him to his grandmother, and
talked of him as so entirely her personal concern, that the good woman
went home to report to her inquiring friends that the young lady was
ready to 'hact very feeling, and very 'andsome.' Probably desirous to
avoid further reference to his unwelcome son and heir, Owen had betaken
himself to the solace of his pipe, and was pacing the garden with steps
now sauntering with depression, now impetuous with impatience, always
moving too much like a caged wild beast to invite approach. She was
disconsolately watching him from the window, when Mr. Fulmort was
admitted. A year ago, what would he not have given for that unfeigned,
simple welcome, as she looked up with eyes full of tears, saying, 'Oh,
Robert, it is so grievous to see him!'
'Very sad,' was the mournful answer.
'You may be able to help him. He asks for you, but turns from me.'
'He has been obliged to rely on me, since we came to town,' said Robert.
'You must have been very kind!' she warmly exclaimed.
But he drew back from the effusion, saying, 'I did no more than was
absolutely necessary. He does not lay himself open to true comfort.'
'Death never seemed half so miserable before!' cried Lucilla. 'Yet this
poor thing had little to live for! Was it all poor Honor's tender
softening that took off the edge to our imaginations?'
'It is not always so mournful!' shortly said Robert.
'No; even the mother bears it better, and not for want of heart.'
'She _is_ a Christian,' said Robert.
'Poor Owen! It makes me remorseful. I wonder if I made too light of the
line he took; yet what difference could I have made? Sisters go for so
little; and as to influence, Honor overdid it.' Then, as he made no
reply, 'Tell me, do you think my acquiescence did harm?'
'I cannot say. Your conscience must decide. It is not a case for me. I
must go to him.'
It was deep mortification. Used to have the least hint of dawning
seriousness thankfully cherished and fostered, it was a rude shock, when
most in need of _epanchement du coeur_ after her dreary day, to be thrown
back on that incomprehensible process of self-examination; and by Robert,
too!
She absolutely did not feel as if she were the same Lucilla. It was the
sensation of doubt on her personal identity awakened in the good woman of
the ballad when her little dog began to bark and wail at her.
She strove to enliven the dinner by talking of Hiltonbury, and of
Juliana's marriage, thus awakening Owen into life and talkativeness so
much in his light ordinary humour, as to startle them both. Lucilla
would have encouraged it as preferable to his gloom, but it was decidedly
repressed by Robert.
She had to repair to solitary restlessness in the drawing-room, and was
left alone there till so late that Robert departed after a single cup of
tea, cutting short a captious argument of Owen's about impossibility of
proof, and truth being only true in a sense.
Owen's temper was, however, less morose; and when his sister was lighting
his candle for him at night, kindly said, 'What a bore I've been all day,
Lucy.'
'I am glad to be with you, dear Owen; I have no one else.'
'Eh? What's become of Rashe?'
'Never mention her again!'
'What? They've cut you?'
'I have cut them.'
She related what had passed.
Owen set his face into a frown. 'Even so, Charlie; doltishness less
pardonable than villainy! You were right to cut the connection, Lucy; it
has been our curse. So now you will back to poor Honor, and try to make
it up to her.'
'I'm not going near Honor till she forgives you, and receives your
child.'
'Then you will be very ridiculous,' said Owen, impatiently. 'She has no
such rancour against me as you have against her, poor dear; but it is not
in the nature of things that she should pass over this unlucky
performance.'
'If it had been such a performance as Charles desired, I should have said
so.'
'Pshaw! I hadn't the chance; and gloss it as you will, Lucy, there's no
disguising it, she _would_ have it, and I could not help it, but she was
neglected, and it killed her!' He brought his hand down on the table
with a heavy thump, which together with the words made his sister recoil.
'Could Honor treat me the same after that? And she not my mother,
either! Why had not my father the sense to have married her? Then I
could go to her and get rid of this intolerable weight!' and he groaned
aloud.
'A mother could hardly love you more,' said Lucy, to her own surprise.
'If you will but go to here,--when she sees you so unhappy.'
'Out of the question,' broke in Owen; 'I can't stay here! I would have
gone this very night, but I can't be off till that poor thing--'
'Off!'
'Ay, to the diggings, somewhere, anywhere, to get away from it all!'
'Oh, Owen, do nothing mad!'
'I'm not going to do anything just now, I tell you. Don't be in a
fright. I shan't take French leave of you. You'll find me to-morrow
morning, worse luck. Good night.'
Lucilla was doubly glad to have come. Her pride approved his proposal,
though her sisterly love would suffer, and she was anxious about the
child; but dawning confidence was at the least a relief.
Next morning, he was better, and talked much too like his ordinary self,
but relapsed afterwards for want of employment; and when a letter was
brought to him, left by his wife to be read after her death, he broke
down, and fell into a paroxysm of grief and despair, which still
prevailed when a message came in to ask admission for Mr. Prendergast.
Relieved to be out of sight of depression that her consolations only
aggravated, and hoping for sympathy and counsel, Lucy hastened to the
study with outstretched hands, and was met with the warmth for which she
had longed.
Still there was disappointment. In participation with Owen's grief, she
had lost sight of his offences, and was not prepared for any
commencement. 'Well, Cilla, I came up to talk to you. A terrible
business this of Master Owen's.'
'It breaks one's heart to see him so wretched.'
'I hope he is. He ought to be.'
'Now, Mr. Prendergast.'
The curate held up both his hands, deprecating her coaxing piteous look,
and used his voice rather loudly to overpower hers, and say what he had
prepared as a duty.
'Yes, yes, he is your brother, and all that. You may feel for him what
you like. But I must say this: it was a shameful thing, and a betrayal
of confidence, such as it grieves me to think of in his father's son. I
am sorry for her, poor thing! whom I should have looked after better; and
I am very sorry indeed for you, Cilla; but I must tell you that to bury
the poor girl next to Mrs. Sandbrook, as your brother's wife, would be a
scandal.'
'Don't speak so loud; he will hear.'
His mild face was unwontedly impatient as he said, 'I can see how you
gave in to the wish; I don't blame you, but if you consider the example
to the parish.'
'After what I told you in my letter, I don't see the evil of the example;
unless it be your _esprit de corps_ about the registrar, and they could
not well have requested you to officiate.'
'Cilla, you were always saucy, but this is no time for nonsense. You
can't defend them.'
'Perhaps you are of your Squire's opinion--that the bad example was in
the marrying her at all.'
Mr. Prendergast looked so much shocked that Lucilla felt a blush rising,
conscious that the tone of the society she had of late lived with had
rendered her tongue less guarded, her cheek less shamefaced than erst,
but she galloped on to hide her confusion. 'You were their great cause.
If you had not gone and frightened her, they might have philandered on
all this time, till the whole affair died of its own silliness.'
'Yes, no one was so much to blame as I. I will trust no living creature
again. My carelessness opened the way to temptation, and Heaven knows,
Lucilla, I have been infinitely more displeased with myself than with
them.'
'Well, so am I with myself, for putting her in his way. Don't let us
torment ourselves with playing the game backwards again--I hate it.
Let's see to the next.'
'That is what I came for. Now, Cilla, though I would gladly do what I
could for poor Owen, just think what work it will make with the girls at
Wrapworth, who are nonsensical enough already, to have this poor runaway
brought back to be buried as the wife of a fine young gentleman.'
'Poor Edna's history is no encouragement to look out for fine young
gentlemen.'
'They will know the fact, and sink the circumstances.'
'So you are so innocent as to think they don't know! Depend upon it,
every house in Wrapworth rings with it; and won't it be more improving to
have the poor thing's grave to point the moral?'
'Cilla, you are a little witch. You always have your way, but I don't
like it. It is not the right one.'
'Not right for Owen to make full compensation? Mind, it is not Edna
Murrell, the eloped schoolmistress, but Mrs. Sandbrook, whom her husband
wishes to bury among his family.'
'Poor lad, is he much cut up?'
'So much that I should hardly dare tell him if you had refused. He could
not bear another indignity heaped on her, and a wound from you would cut
deeper than from any one else. You should remember in judging him that
he had no parent to disobey, and there was generosity in taking on him
the risk rather than leave her to a broken heart and your tender mercy.'
'I fear his tender mercy has turned out worse than mine; but I am sorry
for all he has brought on himself, poor lad!'
'Shall I try whether he can see you?'
'No, no; I had rather not. You say young Fulmort attends to him, and I
could not speak to him with patience. Five o'clock, Saturday?'
'Yes; but that is not all. That poor child--Robert Fulmort, you, and I
must be sponsors.'
'Cilla, Cilla, how can I answer how it will be brought up?'
'Some one must. Its father talks of leaving England, and it will be my
charge. Will you not help me? you who always have helped me. My
father's grandson; you cannot refuse him, Mr. Pendy,' said she, using
their old childish name for him.
He yielded to the united influence of his rector's daughter and the
memory of his rector. Though no weak man, those two appeals always
swayed him; and Lucilla's air, spirited when she defended, soft when she
grieved, was quite irresistible; so she gained her point, and felt
restored to herself by the exercise of power, and by making her wonted
impression. Since one little dog had wagged his little tail, she no
longer doubted 'If I be I;' yet this only rendered her more nervously
desirous of obtaining the like recognition from the other, and she
positively wearied after one of Robert's old wistful looks.
A _tete-a-tete_ with him was necessary on many accounts, and she lay in
wait to obtain a few moments alone with him in the study. He complied
neither eagerly nor reluctantly, bowed his head without remark when she
told him about the funeral, and took the sponsorship as a matter of
course. 'Very well; I suppose there is no one else to be found. Is it
your brother's thought?'
'I told him.'
'So I feared.'
'Oh! Robert, we must take double care for the poor little thing.'
'I will do my best,' he answered.
'Do you know what Owen intends?' said Lucilla, in low, alarmed accents.
'He has told you? It is a wild purpose; but I doubt whether to dissuade
him, except for your sake,' he added, with his first softening towards
her, like balm to the sore spot in her heart.
'Never mind me, I can take care of myself,' she said, while the muscles
of her throat ached and quivered with emotion. 'I would not detain him
to be pitied and forgiven.'
'Do not send him away in pride,' said Robert, sadly.
'Am I not humbled enough?' she said; and her drooping head and eye seemed
to thrill him with their wonted power.
One step he made towards her, but checked himself, and said in a
matter-of-fact tone, 'Currie, the architect, has a brother, a civil
engineer, just going out to Canada to lay out a railway. It might be an
opening for Owen to go as his assistant--unless you thought it beneath
him.'
These last words were caused by an uncontrollable look of disappointment.
But it was not the proposal: no; but the change of manner that struck
her. The quiet indifferent voice was like water quenching a struggling
spark, but in a moment she recovered her powers. 'Beneath him! Oh, no.
I told you we were humbled. I always longed for his independence, and I
am glad that he should not go alone.'
'The work would suit his mathematical and scientific turn. Then, since
you do not object, I will see whether he would like it, or if it be
practicable in case Miss Charlecote should approve.'
Robert seized this opportunity of concluding the interview. Lucy ran
up-stairs for the fierce quarter-deck walking that served her instead of
tears, as an ebullition that tired down her feelings by exhaustion.
Some of her misery was for Owen, but would the sting have been so acute
had Robert Fulmort been more than the true friend?
Phoebe's warning, given in that very room, seemed engraven on each panel.
'If you go on as you are doing now, he does not think it would be right
for a clergyman.'
Could Lucilla have looked through the floor, she would have seen Robert
with elbows on the window-sill, and hands locked over his knitted brows;
and could she have interpreted his short-drawn sighs, she would have
heard, 'Poor child! poor child! It is not coquetry. That was injustice.
She loves me. She loves me still! Why do I believe it only too late?
Why is this trial sent me, since I am bound to the scheme that precludes
my marriage? What use is it to see her as undisciplined--as unfit as
ever? I know it! I always knew it. But I feel still a traitor to her!
She had warning! She trusted the power of my attachment in spite of my
judgment! Fickle to her, or a falterer to my higher pledge? Never! I
must let her see the position--crush any hope--otherwise I cannot trust
myself, nor deal fairly by her. Heaven help us both!'
When they next met, Robert had propounded his Canadian project, and Owen
had caught at it. Idleness had never been his fault, and he wanted
severe engrossing labour to stun pain and expel thought. He was urgent
to know what standard of attainments would be needful, and finding Robert
ignorant on this head, seized his hat, and dashed out in the gaslight to
the nearest bookseller's for a treatise on surveying.
Robert was taken by surprise, or he might have gone too. He looked as if
he meditated a move, but paused as Lucy said, 'Poor fellow, how glad he
is of an object!'
'May it not be to his better feelings like sunshine to morning dew?' said
Robert, sighing. 'I hear a very high character of Mr. Currie, and a
right-minded, practical, scientific man may tell more on a disposition
like his--'
'Than parsons and women,' said Lucilla, with a gleam of her old archness.
'Exactly so. He must see religion in the world, not out of it.'
'After all, I have not heard who is this Mr. Currie, and how you know
him.'
'I know him through his brother, who is building the church in Cecily
Row.'
'A church in Cecily Row! St. Cecilia's? Who is doing it? Honor
Charlecote?'
'No; I am.'
'You! Tell me all about it,' said Lucilla, leaning forward to listen
with the eager air of interest which, when not half so earnest, had been
always bewitching.
Poor Robert looked away, and tried to think himself explaining his scheme
to the Archdeacon. 'The place is in frightful disorder, filled with
indescribable vice and misery, but there is a shadow of hope that a few
may be worked on if something like a mission can be organized.
Circumstances seemed to mark me out as the person to be at the cost of
setting it on foot, my father's connection with the parish giving it a
claim on me. So I purchased the first site that was in the market, and
the buildings are in progress, chapel, schools, orphanage, and rooms for
myself and two other clergy. When all the rest is provided for, there
will remain about two hundred and fifty pounds a year--just enough for
three of us, living together.'
He durst not glance towards her, or he would have seen her cheek white as
wax, and her eye seeking his in dismayed inquiry. There was a pause;
then she forced herself to falter--'Yes. I suppose it is very
right--very grand. It is settled?'
'The Archdeacon has seen the plans, the Bishop has consented.'
Long and deep was the silence that fell on both.
Lucilla knew her fate as well as if his long coat had been a cowl. She
would not, could not feel it yet. She must keep up appearances, so she
fixed her eyes steadily on the drawing her idle hands were perpetrating
on the back of a letter, and appeared absorbed in shading a Turk's head.
If Robert's motives had not been unmixed, if his zeal had been alloyed by
temper, or his self-devotion by undutifulness; if his haste had been
self-willed, or his judgment one-sided, this was an hour of retribution.
Let her have all her faults, she was still the Lucy who had flown home to
him for comfort. He felt as if he had dashed away the little bird that
had sought refuge in his bosom.
Fain would he have implored her pardon, but for the stern resolution to
abstain from any needless word or look, such as might serve to rivet the
affection that ought to be withdrawn; and he was too manly and unselfish
to indulge in discussion or regret, too late as it was to change the
course to which he had offered himself and his means. To retract would
have been a breach of promise--a hasty one, perhaps, but still an
absolute vow publicly made; and in all his wretchedness he had at least
the comfort of knowing the present duty.
Afraid of last words, he would not even take leave until Owen came in
upon their silence, full of animation and eagerness to see how far his
knowledge would serve him with the book that he had brought home. Robert
then rose, and on Owen's pressing to know when he might see the engineer,
promised to go in search of him the next day, but added that they must
not expect to see himself till evening, since it would be a busy day.
Lucilla stood up, but speech was impossible. She was in no mood to
affect indifference, yet she could neither be angry nor magnanimous. She
seemed to have passed into a fresh stage of existence where she was not
yet at home; and in the same dreamy way she went on drawing Red Indians,
till by a sudden impulse she looked up and said, 'Owen, why should not I
come out with you?'
He was intent on a problem, and did not hear.
'Owen, take me with you; I will make a home for you.'
'Eh?'
'Owen, let me come to Canada, and take care of you and your child.'
He burst out laughing. 'Well done, Cilly; that beats all!'
'Am I likely to be in play?'
'If not, you are crazy. As if a man could go surveying in the backwoods
with a woman and a brat at his heels!'
Lucy's heart seemed to die within her. Nothing was left to her: hopes
and fears were alike extinct, and life a waste before her. Still and
indifferent, she laid her down at night, and awoke in the morning,
wishing still to prolong the oblivion of sleep. Anger with Robert would
have been a solace, but his dejection forbade this; nor could she resent
his high-flown notions of duty, and deem herself their victim, since she
had slighted fair warning, and repelled his attempts to address her. She
saw no resource save the Holt, now more hopelessly dreary and distasteful
than ever, and she shrank both from writing to Honor, or ending her
tantalizing intercourse with Robert. To watch over her brother was her
only comfort, and one that must soon end.
He remained immersed in trigonometry, and she was glad he should be too
much engrossed for the outbreaks of remorseful sorrow that were so
terrible to witness, and carefully guarded him from all that could excite
them.
Mrs. Murrell brought several letters that had been addressed to him at
her house, and as Lucilla conveyed them to him, she thought their Oxford
post-marks looked suspicious, especially as he thrust them aside with the
back of his hand, returning without remark to A B and C D.
Presently a person asked to speak with Mr. Sandbrook; and supposing it
was on business connected with the funeral, Lucilla went to him, and was
surprised at recognizing the valet of one of the gentlemen who had stayed
at Castle Blanch. He was urgent to see Mr. Sandbrook himself; but she,
resolved to avert all annoyances, refused to admit him, offering to take
a message. 'Was it from his master?'
'Why, no, ma'am. In fact, I have left his lordship's service,' he said,
hesitating. 'In point of fact I am the principal. There was a little
business to be settled with the young gentleman when he came into his
fortune; and understanding that such was the case, since I heard of him
as settled in life, I have brought my account.'
'You mistake the person. My brother has come into no fortune, and has no
expectation of any.'
'Indeed, ma'am!' exclaimed the man. 'I always understood that Mr. Owen
Charteris Sandbrook was heir to a considerable property.'
'What of that?'
'Only this, ma'am,--that I hold a bond from that gentleman for the
payment of 600 pounds upon the death of Miss Honora Charlecote, of the
Holt, Hiltonbury, whose property I understood was entailed on him.' His
tone was still respectful, but his hand shook with suppressed rage, and
his eye was full of passion.
'Miss Charlecote is not dead,' steadily answered Lucilla. 'She is in
perfect health, not fifty years old, and her property is entirely at her
own disposal.'
Either the man's wrath was beyond control, or he thought it his interest
to terrify the lady, for he broke into angry complaints of being
swindled, with menaces of exposure; but Lucilla, never deficient in
courage, preserved ready thought and firm demeanour.
'You had better take care,' she said. 'My brother is under age, and not
liable. If you should recover what you have lent him, it can only be
from our sense of honesty. Leave me your address and a copy of the bond,
and I give you my word that you shall receive your due.'
The valet, grown rich in the service of a careless master, and richer by
money-lending transactions with his master's friends, knew Miss
Sandbrook, and was aware that a lady's word might be safer than a
spendthrift's bond. He tried swaggering, in the hope of alarming her
into a promise to fulfil his demand uninvestigated; but she was on her
guard; and he, reflecting that she must probably apply to others for the
means of paying, gave her the papers, and freed her from his presence.
Freed her from his presence! Yes, but only to leave her to the
consciousness of the burthen of shame he had brought her. She saw why
Owen thought himself past pardon. Speculation on the death of his
benefactress! Borrowing on an inheritance that he had been forbidden to
expect. Double-dyed deceit and baseness! Yesterday, she had said they
were humbled enough. This was not humiliation, it was degradation! It
was far too intolerable for standing still and feeling it. Lucilla's
impetuous impulses always became her obstinate resolutions, and her pride
rebounded to its height in the determination that Owen should leave
England in debt to no man, were it at the cost of all she possessed.
Re-entering the drawing-room, she had found that Owen had thrust the
obnoxious letters into the waste-basket, each unopened envelope, with the
contents, rent down the middle. She sat down on the floor, and took them
out, saying, as she met his eye, 'I shall take these. I know what they
are. They are my concern.'
'Folly!' he muttered. 'Don't you know I have the good luck to be a
minor?'
'That is no excuse for dishonesty.'
'Look at home before you call names,' said Owen, growing enraged.
'Before you act spy on me, I should like to know who paid for your fine
salmon-fly gown, and all the rest of it?'
'I never contracted debts in the trust that my age would enable me to
defraud my creditors.'
'Who told you that I did? I tell you, Lucilla, I'll endure no such
conduct from you. No sister has a right to say such things!' and
starting up, his furious stamp shook the floor she sat upon, so close to
her that it was as if the next would demolish her.
She did not move, except to look up all the length of the tall figure
over her into the passion-flushed face. 'I should neither have said nor
thought so, Owen,' she replied. 'I should have imputed these debts to
mere heedless extravagance, like other people's--like my own, if you
please--save for your own words, and for finding you capable of such
treachery as borrowing on a _post-obit_.'
He walked about furiously, stammering interrogations on the mode of her
discovery, and, as she explained, storming at her for having brought this
down on him by the folly of putting 'that thing into the _Times_.' Why
could she not have stayed away, instead of meddling where she was not
wanted?
'I thought myself wanted when my brother was in trouble,' said Lucilla,
mournfully, raising her face, which she had bent between her hands at the
first swoop of the tempest. 'Heaven knows, I had no thought of spying.
I came to stand by your wife, and comfort you. I only learnt all this in
trying to shield you from intrusion. Oh, would that I knew it not!
Would that I could think of you as I did an hour ago! Oh, Owen, though I
have never shared your fondness for Honor Charlecote, I thought it
genuine; I did not scorn it as fortune-hunting.'
'It was not! It never was!' cried the poor boy. 'Honor! Poor Honor!
Lucy, I doubt if I could have felt for my mother as I do for her. Oh, if
you could guess how I long for her dear voice in my ears, her soft hand
on my head--' and he sank into his chair, hiding his face and sobbing
aloud.
'Am I to believe that, when--' began Lucilla, slowly.
'The last resource of desperation,' cried Owen. 'What could I do with
such a drain upon me; the old woman for ever clamouring for money, and
threatening exposure? My allowance? Poor Honor meant well, but she gave
me just enough to promote expensive habits without supplying them. There
was nothing to fall back on--except the ways of the Castle Blanch folk.'
'Betting?'
He nodded. 'So when it went against me, and people would have it that I
had expectations, it was not for me to contradict them. It was their
business, not mine, to look out for themselves, and pretty handsomely
they have done so. It would have been a very different percentage if I
had been an eldest son. As it is, my bond is--what is it for, Lucy?'
'Six hundred.'
'How much do you think I have touched of that? Not two! Of that,
three-fourths went to the harpies I fell in with at Paris, under
Charles's auspices--and five-and-twenty there'--pointing in the direction
of Whittington-street.
'Will the man be satisfied with the two hundred?'
'Don't he wish he may get it? But, Lucy, you are not to make a mess of
it. I give you warning I shall go, and never be heard of more, if Honor
is applied to.'
'I had rather die than do so.'
'You are not frantic enough to want to do it out of your own money? I
say, give me those papers.'
He stooped and stretched out the powerful hand and arm, which when only
half-grown had been giant-like in struggles with his tiny sister but she
only laid her two hands on the paper, with just sufficient resistance to
make it a matter of strength on his side. They were man and woman, and
what availed his muscles against her will? It came to parley. 'Now,
Lucy, I have a right to think for you. As your brother, I cannot permit
you to throw your substance to the dogs.'
'As your sister, I cannot allow you to rest dishonoured.'
'Not a whit more than any of your chosen friends. Every man leaves debts
at Oxford. The extortion is framed on a scale to be unpaid.'
'Let it be! There shall be no stain on the name that once was my
father's, if there be on the whole world beside.'
'Then,' with some sulkiness, 'you won't be content without beggaring me
of my trumpery twenty-five hundred as soon as I am of age?'
'Not at all. Your child must live on that. Only one person can pay your
debts without dishonouring you, and that is your elder sister.'
'Elder donkey,' was the ungrateful answer. 'Why, what would become of
you? You'd have to be beholden to Honor for the clothes on your back!'
'I shall not go back to Honor; I shall earn my own livelihood.'
'Lucilla, are you distracted, or is it your object to make me so?'
'Only on one condition could I return to the Holt,' said Lucilla,
resolutely. 'If Honor would freely offer to receive your son, I would go
to take care of him. Except for his sake, I had rather she would not. I
will not go to be crushed with pardon and obligation, while you are
proscribed. I will be independent, and help to support the boy.'
'Sure,' muttered Owen to himself, 'Lucifer is her patron saint. If I
looked forward to anything, it was to her going home tame enough to make
some amends to poor, dear Sweet Honey, but I might as well have hoped it
of the panther of the wilderness! I declare I'll write to Honor this
minute.'
He drew the paper before him. Lucilla started to her feet, looking more
disgusted and discomfited than by any former shock. However, she managed
to restrain any dissuasion, knowing that it was the only right and proper
step in his power, and that she could never have looked Robert in the
face again had she prevented the confession; but it was a bitter pill;
above all, that it should be made for her sake. She rushed away, as
usual, to fly up and down her room.
She might have spared herself that agony. Owen's resolution failed him.
He could not bring himself to make the beginning, nor to couple the
avowal of his offence with such presumption as an entreaty for his
child's adoption, though he knew his sister's impulsive obstinacy well
enough to be convinced that she would adhere pertinaciously to this
condition. Faltering after the first line, he recurred to his former
plan of postponing his letter till his plans should be so far matured
that he could show that he would no longer be a pensioner on the bounty
of his benefactress, and that he sought pardon for the sake of no
material advantage. He knew that Robert had intimated his intention of
writing after the funeral, and by this he would abide.
Late in the evening Robert brought the engineer's answer, that he had no
objection to take out a pupil, and would provide board, lodging, and
travelling expenses; but he required a considerable premium, and for
three years would offer no salary. His standard of acquirements was
high, but such as rather stimulated than discouraged Owen, who was
delighted to find that an appointment had been made for a personal
interview on the ensuing Monday.
[Picture: He drew the paper before him. Lucilla started to her feet]
It was evident that if these terms were accepted, the debts, if paid at
all, must come out of Lucilla's fortune. Owen's own portion would barely
clothe him and afford the merest pittance for his child until he should
be able to earn something after his three years' apprenticeship. She
trusted that he was convinced, and went up-stairs some degrees less
forlorn for having a decided plan; but a farther discovery awaited her,
and one that concerned herself.
On her bed lay the mourning for which she had sent, tasteful and
expensive, in her usual complete style, and near it an envelope. It
flashed on her that her order had been dangerously unlimited, and she
opened the cover in trepidation, but what was her dismay at the double,
treble, quadruple foolscap? The present articles were but a fraction to
the dreadful aggregate--the sum total numbered hundreds! In a dim hope
of error she looked back at the items, 'Black lace dress: Dec. 2nd,
1852.'--She understood all. It dated from the death of her aunt.
Previously, her wardrobe had been replenished as though she had been a
daughter of the house, and nothing had marked the difference; indeed, the
amply provided Horatia had probably intended that things were to go on as
usual. Lucilla had been allowed to forget the existence of accounts, in
a family which habitually ignored them. Things had gone smoothly; the
beautiful little Miss Sandbrook was an advertisement to her milliners,
and living among wealthy people, and reported to be on the verge of
marriage with a millionaire, there had been no hesitation in allowing her
unlimited credit.
Probably the dressmaker had been alarmed by the long absence of the
family, and might have learnt from the servants how Lucilla had quitted
them, therefore thinking it expedient to remind her of her liabilities.
And not only did the present spectacle make her giddy, but she knew there
was worse beyond. The Frenchwoman who supplied all extra adornments,
among them the ball-dress whose far bitterer price she was paying, could
make more appalling demands; and there must be other debts elsewhere,
such that she doubted whether her entire fortune would clear both her
brother and herself. What was the use of thinking? It must be done, and
the sooner she knew the worst the better. She felt very ill-used,
certain that her difficulties were caused by Horatia's inattention, and
yet glad to be quit of an obligation that would have galled her as soon
as she had become sensible of it. It was more than ever clear that she
must work for herself, instead of returning to the Holt, as a dependent
instead of a guest. Was she humbled enough?
The funeral day began by her writing notes to claim her bills, and to
take steps to get her capital into her own hands. Owen drowned
reflection in geometry, till it was time to go by the train to Wrapworth.
There Mr. Prendergast fancied he had secured secrecy by eluding questions
and giving orders at the latest possible moment. The concourse in the
church and churchyard was no welcome sight to him, since he could not
hope that the tall figure of the chief mourner could remain unrecognized.
Worthy man, did he think that Wrapworth needed that sight to assure them
of what each tongue had wagged about for many a day?
Owen behaved very properly and with much feeling. When not driving it
out by other things, the fact was palpable to him that he had brought
this fair young creature to her grave; and in the very scenes where her
beauty and enthusiastic affection had captivated him, association revived
his earlier admiration, and swept away his futile apology that she had
brought the whole upon herself. A gust of pity, love, and remorse
convulsed his frame, and though too proud to give way, his restrained
anguish touched every heart, and almost earned him Mr. Prendergast's
forgiveness.
Before going away, Lucilla privately begged Mr. Prendergast to come to
town on Monday, to help her in some business. It happened to suit him
particularly well, as he was to be in London for the greater part of the
week, to meet some country cousins, and the appointment was made without
her committing herself by saying for what she wanted him, lest reflection
should convert him into an obstacle instead of an assistant.
The intervening Sunday, with Owen on her hands, was formidable to her
imagination, but it turned out better than she expected. He asked her to
walk to Westminster Abbey with him, the time and distance being an object
to both, and he treated her with such gentle kindness, that she began to
feel that something more sweet and precious than she had yet known from
him might spring up, if they were not forced to separate. Once, on
rising from kneeling, she saw him stealthily brushing off his tears, and
his eyes were heavy and swollen, but, softened as she felt, his tone of
feelings was a riddle beyond her power, between their keenness and their
petulance, their manly depth and boyish levity, their remorse and their
recklessness; and when he tried to throw them off, she could not but
follow his lead.
'I suppose,' he said, late in the day, 'we shall mortify Fulmort if we
don't go once to his shop. Otherwise, I like the article in style.'
'I am glad you should like it at all,' said Lucy, anxiously.
'I envy those who, like poor dear Honor, or that little Phoebe, can find
life in the driest form,' said Owen.
'They would say it is our fault that we cannot find it.'
'Honor would think it her duty to say so. Phoebe has a wider range, and
would be more logical. Is it our fault or misfortune that our ailments
can't be cured by a paring of St. Bridget's thumb-nail, or by any
nostrum, sacred or profane, that really cures their votaries? I regard
it as a misfortune. Those are happiest who believe the most, and are
eternally in a state in which their faith is working out its effects upon
them mentally and physically. Happy people!'
'Really I think, unless you were one of those happy people, it is no more
consistent in you to go to church than it would be in me to set up
Rashe's globules.'
'No, don't tell me so, Lucy. There lie all my best associations. I
venerate what the great, the good, the beloved receive as their blessing
and inspiration. Sometimes I can assimilate myself, and catch an echo of
what was happiness when I was a child at Honor's knee.'
The tears had welled into his eyes again, and he hurried away. Lucilla
had faith (or rather acquiescence) without feeling. Feeling without
faith was a mystery to her. How much Owen believed or disbelieved she
knew not, probably he could not himself have told. It was more
uncertainty than denial, rather dislike to technical dogma than positive
unbelief; and yet, with his predilections all on the side of faith, she
could not, womanlike, understand why they did not bring his reason with
them. After all, she decided, in her off-hand fashion, that there was
quite enough that was distressing and perplexing without concerning
herself about them!
Style, as Owen called it, was more attended to than formerly at St.
Wulstan's, but was not in perfection. Robert, whose ear was not his
strong point, did not shine in intoning, and the other curate preached.
The impression seemed only to have weakened that of the morning, for
Owen's remarks on coming out were on the English habit of having overmuch
of everything, and on the superior sense of foreigners in holiday-making,
instead of making a conscience of stultifying themselves with double and
triple church-going.
Cilla agreed in part, but owned that she was glad to have done with
Continental Sundays that had left her feeling good for nothing all the
week, just as she had felt when once, as a child, to spite Honor, she had
come down without saying her prayers.
'The burthen bound on her conscience by English prejudice,' said her
brother, adding 'that this was the one oppressive edict of popular
theology. It was mere self-defence to say that the dulness was
Puritanical, since the best Anglican had a cut-and-dried pattern for all
others.'
'But surely as a fact, Sunday observance is the great safeguard. All
goes to the winds when that is given up.'
'The greater error to have rendered it grievous.'
Lucilla had no reply. She had not learnt the joy of the week's
Easter-day. It had an habitual awe for her, not sacred delight; and she
could not see that because it was one point where religion taught the
world that it had laws of its own, besides those of mere experience and
morality, therefore the world complained, and would fain shake off the
thraldom.
Owen relieved her by a voluntary proposal to turn down
Whittington-street, and see the child. Perhaps he had an inkling that
the chapel in Cat-alley would be in full play, and that the small maid
would be in charge; besides, it was gas-light, and the lodgers would be
out. At any rate softening was growing on him. He looked long and
sorrowfully at the babe in its cradle, and at last,--
'He will never be like her.'
'No; and I do not think him like you.'
'In fact, it is an ugly little mortal,' said Owen, after another
investigation. 'Yet, it's very odd, Lucy, I should like him to live.'
'Very odd, indeed!' she said, nearly laughing.
'Well, I own, before ever I saw him, when they said he would die, I did
think it was best for himself, and every one else. So, maybe, it would;
but you see I shouldn't like it. He will be a horrible expense, and it
will be a great bore to know what to do with him: so absurd to have a son
only twenty years younger than oneself: but I think I like him, after
all. It is something to work for, to make up to him for what _she_
suffered. And I say, Lucy,' his eye brightened, 'perhaps Honor will take
to him! What a thing it would be if he turned out all she hoped of me,
poor thing! I would be banished for life, if he could be in my place,
and make it up to her. He might yet have the Holt!'
'You have not proposed sending him to her?'
'No, I am not so cool,' he sadly answered; 'but she is capable of
anything in an impulse of forgiveness.'
He spent the evening over his letter; and, in spite of his sitting with
his back towards his sister, she saw more than one sheet spoilt by large
tears unperceived till they dropped, and felt a jealous pang in
recognizing the force of his affection for Honor. That love and
compassion seemed contemptible to her, they were so inconsistent with his
deception and disobedience; and she was impatient of seeing that, so far
as he felt his errors at all, it was in their aspect towards his
benefactress. His ingratitude towards her touched him in a more tender
part than his far greater errors towards his wife. The last was so
shocking and appalling, that he only half realized it, and, boy-like,
threw it from him; the other came home to the fondness that had been with
him all his life, and which he missed every hour in his grief. Lucy
positively dreaded his making such submission or betraying such sorrow as
might bring Honora down on them full of pardon and beneficence. At
least, she had the satisfaction of hearing 'I've said nothing about you,
Cilla.'
'That's right!'
'Nor the child,' he continued, brushing up his hair from his brow. 'When
I came to go over it, I did hate myself to such a degree that I could not
say a word like asking a favour.'
Lucy was greatly relieved.
He looked like himself when he came down to breakfast exhilarated by the
restoration to activity, and the opening of a new path, though there was
a subdued, grave look on his young brow not unsuited to his deep
mourning.
He took up his last evening's production, looked at it with some
satisfaction, and observed, 'Sweet old honey! I do hope that letter may
be a little comfort to her good old heart!'
Then he told that he had been dreaming of her looking into the cradle,
and he could not tell whether it were himself or the boy that he had seen
sitting on a haycock at Hiltonbury.
'Who knows but it may be a good omen,' said he in his sanguine state.
'You said you would go to her, if she took the child.'
'I did not say I would not.'
'Well, don't make difficulties; pray don't, Lucilla. I want nothing for
myself; but if I could see you and the child at the Holt, and hear her
dear voice say one word of kindness, I could go out happy. Imagine if
she should come to town!'
Lucilla had no mind to imagine any such thing.