An upper and a lower spring
To thee, to all are given:
They mingle not, apart they gleam,
The joys of earth, of heaven on high;
God grant thee grace to choose the spring,
Even before the nether spring is dry.--M.
'One moment, Phoebe, I'll walk a little way with you;' and Honor
Charlecote, throwing on bonnet and scarf, hurried from the drawing-room
where Mrs. Saville was working.
In spite of that youthful run, and girlish escape from 'company' to a
confidante, the last fortnight had left deep traces. Every incipient
furrow had become visible, the cheeks had fallen, the eyes sunk, the
features grown prominent, and the auburn curls were streaked with silver
threads never previously perceptible to a casual eye. While languid,
mechanical talk was passing, Phoebe had been mourning over the change;
but she found her own Miss Charlecote restored in the freer manner, the
long sigh, the tender grasp of the arm, as soon as they were in the open
air.
'Phoebe,' almost in a whisper, 'I have a letter from him.'
Phoebe pressed her arm, and looked her sympathy.
'Such a nice letter,' added Honor. 'Poor fellow! he has suffered so
much. Should you like to see it?'
Owen had not figured to himself what eyes would peruse his letter; but
Honor was in too much need of sympathy to withhold the sight from the
only person who she could still hope would be touched.
'You see he asks nothing, nothing,' she wistfully pleaded. 'Only pardon!
Not to come home; nor anything.'
'Yes; surely, that is real contrition.'
'Surely, surely it is: yet they are not satisfied--Mr. Saville and Sir
John. They say it is not full confession; but you see he does refer to
the rest. He says he has deeply offended in other ways.'
'The rest?'
'You do not know. I thought your brother had told you. No? Ah! Robert
_is_ his friend. Mr. Saville went and found it out. It was very right
of him, I believe. Quite right I should know; but--'
'Dear Miss Charlecote, it has pained you terribly.'
'It is what young men do; but I did not expect it of him. Expensive
habits, debts, I could have borne, especially with the calls for money
his poor wife must have caused; but I don't know how to believe that he
gave himself out as my heir, and obtained credit on that account--a bond
to be paid on my death!'
Phoebe was too much shocked to answer.
'As soon as Mr. Saville heard of these troubles,' continued Honor, 'as,
indeed, I put all into his hands, he thought it right I should know all.
He went to Oxford, found out all that was against poor Owen, and then
proceeded to London, and saw the lawyer in whose hands Captain Charteris
had left those children's affairs. He was very glad to see Mr. Saville,
for he thought Miss Sandbrook's friends ought to know what she was doing.
So it came out that Lucilla had been to him, insisting on selling out
nearly all her fortune, and paying off with part of it this horrible
bond.'
'She is paying his debts, rather than let you hear of them.'
'And _they_ are very angry with him for permitting it; as if he or
anybody else had any power to stop Lucy! I know as well as possible that
it is she who will not let him confess and make it all open with me. And
yet, after this, what right have I to say I _know_? How little I ever
knew that boy! Yes, it is right it should be taken out of my hands--my
blindness has done harm enough already; but if I had not bound myself to
forbear, I could not help it, when I see the Savilles so much set against
him. I do not know that they are more severe in action than--than
perhaps they ought to be, but they will not let me pity him.'
'They ought not to dictate to you,' said Phoebe, indignantly.
'Dictate! Oh, no, my dear. If you could only hear his compliments to my
discretion, you would know he was thinking all the time there is no fool
like an old fool. No, I don't complain. I have been wilful, and weak,
and blind, and these are the fruits! It is right that others should
judge for him, and I deserve that they should come and guard me; though,
when I think of such untruth throughout, I don't feel as if there were
danger of my ever being more than sorry for him.'
'It is worse than the marriage,' said Phoebe, thoughtfully.
'There might have been generous risk in that. This was--oh, very nearly
treachery! No wonder Lucy tries to hide it! I hope never to say a word
to her to show that I am aware of it.'
'She is coming home, then?'
'She must, since she has broken with the Charterises; but she has never
written. Has Robert mentioned her?'
'Never; he writes very little.'
'I long to know how it is with him. Now that he has signed his contract,
and made all his arrangements, he cannot retract; but--but we shall see,'
said Honor, with one gleam of playful hope. 'If she should come home to
me ready to submit and be gentle, there might be a chance yet. I am sure
he is poor Owen's only real friend. If I could only tell you half my
gratitude to him for it! And I will tell you what Mr. Saville has
actually consented to my doing--I may give Owen enough to cover his
premium and outfit; and I hope that may set him at ease in providing for
his child for the present from his own means, as he ought to do.'
'Poor little thing! what will become of it?'
'He and his sister must arrange,' said Honor, hastily, as if silencing a
yearning of her own. 'I do not need the Savilles to tell me I must not
take it off their hands. The responsibility may be a blessing to him,
and it would be wrong to relieve him of a penalty in the natural course
of Providence.'
'There, now you have put it into my head to think what a pleasure it
would be to you--'
'I have done enough for my own pleasure, Phoebe. Had you only seen that
boy when I had him first from his father, and thought him too much of the
angel to live!'
There was a long pause, and Honor at length exclaimed, 'I see the chief
reason the Savilles came here!'
'Why?'
'To hinder my seeing him before he goes.'
'I am sure it would be sad pain to you,' cried Phoebe, deprecatingly.
'I don't know. He must not come here; but since I have had this letter,
I have longed to go up for one day, see him, and bring Lucy home. Mr.
Saville might go with me. You don't favour it, Phoebe? Would Robert?'
'Robert would like to have Owen comforted,' said Phoebe, slowly; 'but not
if it only made it worse pain for you. Dear Miss Charlecote, don't you
think, if the worst had been the marriage, you would have tried
everything to comfort him? but now that there is this other horrid thing,
this presuming on your kindness, it seems to me as if you could not bear
to see him.'
'When I think of their enmity and his sorrow, I feel drawn thither; but
when this deception comes before me, I had rather not look in his face
again. If he petted me I should think he was taking me in again. He has
Robert, he has his sister, and I have promised to let Mr. Saville judge.
I think Mr. Saville would let me go if Robert said I ought.'
Phoebe fondled her, and left her relieved by the outpouring. Poor thing!
after mistakes which she supposed egregious in proportion to the
consequences, and the more so because she knew her own good intentions,
and could not understand the details of her errors, it was an absolute
rest to delegate her authority, even though her affections revolted
against the severity of the judge to whom she had delivered herself and
her boy.
One comfort was that he had been the adviser chosen for her by Humfrey.
In obeying him, she put herself into Humfrey's hands; and remembering the
doubtful approval with which her cousin had regarded her connection with
the children, and his warnings against her besetting sin, she felt as if
the whole was the continuation of the mistake of her life, her conceited
disregard of his broad homely wisdom, and as if the only atonement in her
power was to submit patiently to Mr. Saville's advice.
And in truth his measures were not harsh. He did not want to make the
young man an outcast, only to prevent advantage being taken of indulgence
which he overrated. It was rather his wife who was oppressive in her
desire to make Miss Charlecote see things in a true light, and teach her,
what she could never learn, to leave off loving and pitying. Even this
was perhaps better for her than a solitude in which she might have preyed
upon herself, and debated over every step in conscious darkness.
Before her letter was received, Owen had signed his agreement with the
engineer, and was preparing to sail in a fortnight. He was disappointed
and humiliated that Honor should have been made aware of what he had
meant to conceal, but he could still see that he was mercifully dealt
with, and was touched by, and thankful for, the warm personal
forgiveness, which he had sense enough to feel, even though it brought no
relaxation of the punishment.
Lucy was positively glad of the non-fulfilment of the condition that
would have taken her back to the Holt; and without seeing the letter, had
satisfaction in her resentment at Honor for turning on Owen vindictively,
after having spoilt him all his life.
He silenced her summarily, and set out for his preparations. She had
already carried out her project of clearing him of his liabilities. Mr.
Prendergast had advised her strongly to content herself with the _post
obit_, leaving the rest to be gradually liquidated as the means should be
obtained; but her wilful determination was beyond reasoning, and by
tyrannical coaxing she bent him to her will, and obliged him to do all in
which she could not be prominent.
Her own debts were a sorer subject, and she grudged the vain expenses
that had left her destitute, without even the power of writing grandly to
Horatia to pay off her share of the foreign expenditure. She had, to Mr.
Prendergast's great horror, told him of her governess plan, but had
proceeded no further in the matter than studying the advertisements,
until finding that Honor only invited her, and not her nephew, home to
the Holt, she proceeded to exhale her feelings by composing a sentence
for the _Times_. 'As Governess, a Lady--'
'Mr. Prendergast.'
Reddening, and abruptly hasty, the curate entered, and sitting down
without a word, applied himself to cutting his throat with an ivory
paper-knife. Lucilla began to speak, but at her first word, as though a
spell were broken, he exclaimed, 'Cilly, are you still thinking of that
ridiculous nonsense?'
'Going out as a governess? Look there;' and she held up her writing.
He groaned, gave himself a slice under each ear, and viciously bit the
end of the paper-knife.
'You are going to recommend me?' she said, with a coaxing look.
'You know I think it a monstrous thing.'
'But you know of a place, and will help me to it!' cried she, clapping
her hands. 'Dear good Mr. Pendy, always a friend in need!'
'Well, if you will have it so. It is not so bad as strangers. There's
George's wife come to town to see a governess for little Sarah, and she
won't do.'
'Shall I do?' asked Lucilla, with a droll shake of her sunny hair. 'Yes.
I know you would vouch for me as tutoress to all the Princesses; able to
teach the physical sciences, the guitar, and Arabic in three lessons; but
if Mrs. Prendergast be the woman I imagine, much she will believe you.
Aren't they inordinately clever?'
'Little Sarah is--let me see--quite a child. Her father did teach her,
but he has less time in his new parish, and they think she ought to have
more accomplishment, polish, and such like.'
'And imagine from the specimen before them that I must be an adept at
polishing Prendergasts.'
'Now, Cilla, do be serious. Tell me if all this meant nothing, and I
shall be very glad. If you were in earnest, I could not be so well
satisfied to see you anywhere else. You would find Mrs. Prendergast
quite a mother to you.'
'Only one girl! I wanted a lot of riotous boys, but beggars must not be
choosers. This is just right--people out of the way of those who knew me
in my palmy days, yet not absolute strangers.'
'That was what induced me--they are so much interested about you, Cilla.'
'And you have made a fine heroic story. I should not wonder if it all
broke down when the parties met. When am I to be trotted out for
inspection?'
'Why, I told her if I found you really intended it, and had time, I would
ask you to drive to her with me this morning, and then no one need know
anything about it,' he said, almost with tears in his eyes.
'That's right,' cried Lucilla. 'It will be settled before Owen turns up.
I'll get ready this instant. I say,' she added at the door, 'housemaids
always come to be hired minus crinoline and flowers, is it the same with
governesses?'
'Cilla, how can you?' said her friend, excessively distressed at the
inferior position, but his depression only inspired her with a
reactionary spirit of mischief.
'Crape is inoffensive, but my hair! What shall I do with it? Does Mrs.
Prendergast hold the prejudice against pretty governesses?'
'She would take Venus herself if she talked no nonsense; but I don't
believe you are in earnest,' growled the curate, angry at last.
'That is encouragement!' cried Lucilla, flying off laughing that she
might hide from herself her own nervousness and dismay at this sudden
step into the hard verity of self-dependence.
She could not stop to consider what to say or do, her refuge was always
in the impromptu, and she was far more bent on forcing Mr. Prendergast to
smile, and distracting herself from her one aching desire that the Irish
journey had never been, than of forming any plan of action. In walking
to the cabstand they met Robert, and exchanged greetings; a sick
faintness came over her, but she talked it down, and her laugh sounded in
his ears when they had passed on.
Yet when the lodgings were reached, the sensation recurred, her breath
came short, and she could hardly conceal her trembling. No one was in
the room but a lady who would have had far to seek for a governess less
beautiful than herself. Insignificance was the first idea she inspired,
motherliness the second, the third that she was a perfect lady, and a
sensible woman. After shaking Lucilla kindly by the hand, and seating
her on the sofa, she turned to her cousin, saying, 'Sarah and her papa
are at the National Gallery, I wish you would look for them, or they will
never be in time for luncheon.'
'Luncheon is not for an hour and a half.'
'But it is twenty minutes' walk, and they will forget food and everything
else unless you keep them in order.'
'I'll go presently;' but he did not move, only looking piteous while Mrs.
Prendergast began talking to Lucilla about the pictures, until she,
recovering, detected the state of affairs, and exclaimed with her ready
grace and abruptness, 'Now, Mr. Prendergast, don't you see how much you
are in the way?'
'A plain truth, Peter,' said his cousin, laughing.
Lucy stepped forward to him, saying affectionately, 'Please go; you can't
help me, and I am sure you may trust me with Mrs. Prendergast;' and she
stretched out a hand to the lady with an irresistible child-like gesture
of confidence.
'Don't you think you may, Peter?' asked Mrs. Prendergast, holding the
hand; 'you shall find her here at luncheon. I won't do anything to her.'
The good curate groaned himself off, and Lucy felt so much restored that
she had almost forgotten that it was not an ordinary call. Indeed she
had never yet heard a woman's voice that thus attracted and softened her.
Mrs. Prendergast needed not to be jealous of Venus, while she had such
tenderness in her manner, such winning force in her tone.
'That was well done,' she said. 'Talking would have been impossible
while he sat looking on!'
'I am afraid he has given far too good an account of me,' said Lucy, in a
low and trembling voice.
'His account comes from one who has known you from babyhood.'
'And spoilt me from babyhood!'
'Yes, Sarah knows what Cousin Peter can do in that line. He had little
that was new to tell us, and what he had was of a kind--' She broke off,
choked by tears. What she had heard of the girl's self-devotion touched
her trebly at the sight of one so small, young, and soft-looking. And if
she had ever been dubious of 'Peter's pet,' she was completely
fascinated.
'I must not be taken on his word,' said Cilla, smiling.
'No, that would not be right by any of us.'
'Then pray be very hard with me--as a thorough stranger.'
'But I am so inexperienced, I have only had one interview with a
governess.'
'And what did she do?' asked Lucilla, as both recovered from a laugh.
'She gave so voluble an account of her _ac_quirements and _re_quirements,
that I was quite alarmed.'
'I'm sure I can't do that. I don't know what I can do.'
A pause, broken by Lucy, who began to feel that she had more of the cool
readiness of the great world. 'How old is your daughter?'
'Nearly fifteen. While we had our small parish in Sussex we taught her
ourselves, and her father brought her on in Latin and Euclid. Do you
know anything of those, Miss Sandbrook? not that it signifies.'
'Miss Charlecote used to teach me with my brother. I have forgotten, but
I could soon get them up again.'
'They will hardly be wanted, but Sarah will respect you for them. Now,
at Southminster, our time is so taken up that poor Sarah gets neglected,
and it is very trying to an eager, diligent girl to prepare lessons, and
have them continually put off, so we thought of indulging her with a
governess, to bring her on in some of the modern languages and
accomplishments that have grown rusty with us.'
'I think I could do that,' said Lucilla. 'I believe I know what other
people do, and my languages are fresh from the Continent. Ought I to
give you a specimen of my pronunciation?'
'Pray don't,' laughed Mrs. Prendergast. 'You know better than I what is
right, and must prepare to be horrified by the sounds you will hear.'
'I ought to have brought my sketches. I had two years of lessons from
S---.'
'Sarah is burning for teaching in that line. Music? Dr. Prendergast
likes the grand old pieces, and hardly cares for modern ones.'
'I hardly played anything newer than Mozart at Hiltonbury. Miss
Charlecote taught me very well, I believe, and I had lessons from the
organist from Elverslope, besides a good deal in the fashionable line
since. I have kept that up. One wants it.'
There was another shy pause, and Lucilla growing more scrupulous and more
confidential, volunteered,--'Mine has been an idle life since I came out.
I am three-and-twenty now, and have been diligently forgetting for the
last six years. Did you know that I had been a fast young lady?'
But things had come to such a pass, that say what she would, all passed
for ingenuous candour and humility, and the answer was,--
'I know that you have led a very trying life, but to have passed through
such unscathed is no disadvantage.'
'If I have,' said Lucy, sadly.
Mrs. Prendergast, who had learned all the facts of Lucilla's history
through the Wrapworth medium, knew only the heroic side of her character,
and admired her the more for her diffidence. So when terms were spoken
of, the only fear on the one side was, that such a treasure must be
beyond her means; on the other, lest what she needed for her nephew's
sake might deprive her of such a home. However, seventy pounds a year
proved to be in the thoughts of both, and the preliminaries ended with,
'I hope you will find my little Sarah a pleasant companion. She is a
good girl, and intelligent, but you must be prepared for a few angles.'
'I like angles. I don't care for commonplace people.'
'I am afraid that you will find many such at Southminster. We cannot
promise you the society you have been used to.'
'I am tired of society. I have had six years of it!' and she sighed.
'You must fix your own time,' said Mrs. Prendergast; 'and indeed we will
try to make you at home.'
'My brother will be gone in a fortnight,' said Lucilla. 'After that I
should like to come straight to you.'
Her tone and look made those two last words not merely _chez vous_, but
to _you_, individually--to you, kind one, who will comfort me after the
cruel parting. Mrs. Prendergast put her arm round her and kissed her.
'Don't,' said Lucilla, with the sweetest April face. 'I can't bear being
made foolish.'
Nevertheless Mrs. Prendergast showed such warm interest in all her
concerns, that she felt only that she had acquired a dear friend by the
time the others came in, father and daughter complaining, the one gaily,
the other dolefully, that Cousin Peter had so hunted them that they could
look at nothing in peace. Indeed he was in such a state of restless
misery, that Mrs. Prendergast, in compassion to him, sent her daughter to
dress, called her husband away, and left the place clear for him to say,
in a tone of the deepest commiseration, 'Well, my poor child?'
'O, Mr. Pendy, you have found me a true home. Be the others what they
may, there must be rest in hearing _her_ voice!'
'It is settled, then?'
'Yes. I only hope you have not taken them in. I did my best to let her
know the worst of me, but it would make no impression. Seventy pounds a
year. I hope that is not wicked.'
'O, Cilla, what would your father feel?'
'Come, we won't fight that over again. I thought I had convinced you of
the dignity of labour, and I do feel as if at last I had lit on some one
whom I could allow to do me good.'
She could not console him; he grieved over her changed circumstances with
far more regret than she felt, and though glad for her sake that she
should be with those whom he could trust, yet his connection with her
employers seemed to him undutiful towards his late rector. All that she
saw of them reassured her. The family manners were full of well-bred
good-humour, full of fun, with high intelligence, much real refinement,
and no pretension. The father was the most polished, with the scholarly
courtesy of the dignified clergyman; the mother was the most simple and
caressing; the daughter somewhat uncouth, readily betraying both her
feelings and her cleverness and drollery in the style of the old friend
whom Lucilla was amused to see treated as a youth and almost a
contemporary of her pupil. What chiefly diverted her was the grotesque
aspect of Dr. Prendergast and his daughter. Both were on a large scale,
with immense mouths, noses turned up to display wide nostrils, great gray
eyes, angularly set, yellow hair and eyebrows, red complexions, and big
bones. The Doctor had the advantage of having outgrown the bloom of his
ugliness; his forehead was bald and dignified, his locks softened by
grizzling, and his fine expression and clerical figure would have carried
off all the quaintness of his features if they had not been so comically
caricatured in his daughter; yet she looked so full of life and character
that Lucilla was attracted, and sure of getting on well with her.
Moreover, the little elf felt the impression she was creating in this
land of Brobdignag. Sarah was looking at her as a terra-cotta pitcher
might regard a cup of egg-shell china, and Lucy had never been lovelier.
Her mourning enhanced the purity of her white skin, and marked her
slender faultless shape; her flaxen hair hung in careless wreaths of
ringlet and braid; her countenance, if pale, had greater sweetness in its
dejection, now and then brightened by gleams of her courageous spirit.
Sarah gazed with untiring wonder, pardoning Cousin Peter for disturbing
the contemplation of Domenichino's art, since here was a witness that
heroines of romance were no mere myths, but that beings of ivory and
rose, sapphire eyes and golden hair, might actually walk the earth.
The Doctor was pleasant and friendly, and after luncheon the whole party
started together to 'do' St. Paul's, whence Mr. Prendergast undertook to
take Cilla home, but in no haste to return to the lonely house. She
joined in the lionizing, and made a great impression by her familiarity
with London, old and new. Little store as she had set by Honor's
ecclesiology and antiquarianism, she had not failed to imbibe a tincture
sufficient to go a long way by the help of ready wit, and she enchanted
the Doctor by her odd bits of information on the localities, and by
guiding him to out-of-the-way curiosities. She even carried the party to
Woolstone-lane, displayed the Queen of Sheba, the cedar carving, the
merchant's mark, and had lifted out Stow's _Survey_, where Sarah was
delighted with Ranelagh, when the door opened, and Owen stood, surprised
and blank. Poor fellow, the voices had filled him with hope that he
should find Honor there. The visitors, startled at thus intruding on his
trouble, and knowing him to be in profound disgrace, would have gone, but
he, understanding them to be Mr. Prendergast's friends, and glad of
variety, was eagerly courteous and hospitable, detaining them by
displaying fresh curiosities, and talking with so much knowledge and
brilliance, that they were too well entertained to be in haste. Lucilla,
accepting Mrs. Prendergast as a friend, was rejoiced that she should have
such demonstration that her brother was a thorough gentleman; and in
truth Owen did and said everything so well that no one could fail to be
pleased, and only as an after-thought could come the perception that his
ease hardly befitted the circumstances, and that he comported himself
more like the master of the house than as a _protege_ under a cloud.
No sooner had he handed them into their vehicle than he sank into a
chair, and burst into one of the prolonged, vehement fits of laughter
that are the reaction of early youth unwontedly depressed. Never had he
seen such visages! They ought at once to be sketched--would be worth any
money to Currie the architect, for gurgoyles.
'For shame,' said Lucilla, glad, however, once more to hear the merry
peal; 'for shame, to laugh at my master!'
'I'm not laughing at old Pendy, his orifice is a mere crevice
comparatively. The charm is in seeing it classified--the recent sloth
accounted for by the ancient megatherium.'
'The megatherium is my master. Yes, I'm governess to Glumdalclitch!'
'You've done it?'
'Yes, I have. Seventy pounds a year.'
He made a gesture of angry despair, crying, 'Worse luck than I thought.'
'Better luck than I did.'
'Old Pendy thrusting in his oar! I'd have put a stop to your absurdity
at once, if I had not been sure no one would be deluded enough to engage
you, and that you would be tired of looking out, and glad to go back to
your proper place at the Holt before I sailed.'
'My proper place is where I can be independent.'
'Faugh! If I had known it, they should never have seen the Roman coins!
There! it is a lesson that nothing is too chimerical to be worth
opposing!'
'Your opposition would have made no difference.'
He looked at her silently, but with a half smile in lip and eye that
showed her that the moment was coming when the man's will might be
stronger than the woman's.
Indeed, he was so thoroughly displeased and annoyed that she durst not
discuss the subject with him, lest she should rouse him to take some
strong authoritative measures against it. He had always trusted to the
improbability of her meeting with a situation before his departure, when,
between entreaty and command, he had reckoned on inducing her to go home;
and this engagement came as a fresh blow, making him realize what he had
brought on those nearest and dearest to him. Even praise of Mrs.
Prendergast provoked him, as if implying Lucilla's preference for her
above the tried friend of their childhood; he was in his lowest spirits,
hardly speaking to his sister all dinner-time, and hurried off afterwards
to pour out his vexation to Robert Fulmort. Poor Robert! what an
infliction! To hear of such a step, and be unable to interfere; to
admire, yet not approve; to dread the consequences, and perceive so much
alloy as to dull the glitter of the gold, as well as to believe his own
stern precipitation as much the cause as Owen's errors; yet all the time
to be the friend and comforter to the wounded spirit of the brother! It
was a severe task; and when Owen left him, he felt spent and wearied as
by bodily exertion, as he hid his face in prayer for one for whom he
could do no more than pray.
Feelings softened during the fortnight that the brother and sister spent
together. Childishly as Owen had undergone the relations and troubles of
more advanced life, pettishly as he had striven against feeling and
responsibility, the storm had taken effect. Hard as he had struggled to
remain a boy, manhood had suddenly grown on him; and probably his
exclusion from Hiltonbury did more to stamp the impression of his guilt
than did its actual effects. He was eager for his new life, and pleased
with his employer, promising himself all success, and full of enterprise.
But his banishment from home and from Honor clouded everything; and, as
the time drew nearer, his efforts to forget and be reckless gradually
ceased. Far from shunning Lucilla, as at first, he was unwilling to lose
sight of her, and they went about together wherever his preparations
called him, so that she could hardly make time for stitching, marking,
and arranging his purchases.
One good sign was, that, though hitherto fastidiously expensive in dress
and appointments, he now grudged himself all that was not absolutely
necessary, in the endeavour to leave as large a sum as possible with Mrs.
Murrell. Even in the tempting article of mathematical instruments he was
provident, though the polished brass, shining steel, and pure ivory, in
their perfection of exactitude, were as alluring to him as ever gem or
plume had been to his sister. That busy fortnight of chasing after the
'reasonable and good,' speeding about till they were foot-sore,
discussing, purchasing, packing, and contriving, united the brother and
sister more than all their previous lives.
It was over but too soon. The last evening was come; the hall was full
of tin cases and leathern portmanteaus, marked O. C. S., and of piles of
black boxes large enough to contain the little lady whose name they bore.
Southminster lay in the Trent Valley, so the travellers would start
together, and Lucilla would be dropped on the way. In the cedar parlour,
Owen's black knapsack lay open on the floor, and Lucilla was doing the
last office in her power for him, and that a sad one, furnishing the
Russia-leather housewife with the needles, silk, thread, and worsted for
his own mendings when he should be beyond the reach of the womankind who
cared for him.
He sat resting his head on his hand, watching her in silence, till she
was concluding her work. Then he said, 'Give me a bit of silk,' turned
his back on her, and stood up, doing something by the light of the lamp.
She was kneeling over the knapsack, and did not see what he was about,
till she found his hand on her head, and heard the scissors close, when
she perceived that he had cut off one of her pale, bright ringlets, and
saw his pocket-book open, and within it a thick, jet-black tress, and one
scanty, downy tuft of baby hair. She made no remark; but the tears came
dropping, as she packed; and, with a sudden impulse to give him the thing
above all others precious to her, she pulled from her bosom a locket,
hung from a slender gold chain, and held it to him--
'Owen, will you have this?'
'Whose? My father's?'
'And my mother's. He gave it to me when he went to Nice.'
Owen took it and looked at it thoughtfully.
'No, Lucy,' he said; 'I would not take it from you on any account. You
have always been his faithful child.'
'Mind you tell me if any one remembers him in Canada,' said Lucilla,
between relief and disappointment, restoring her treasure to the place it
had never left before. 'You will find out whether he is recollected at
his mission.'
'Certainly. But I do not expect it. The place is a great town now. I
say, Lucy, if you had one bit of poor Honor's hair!'
'No: you will never forgive me. I had some once, made up in a little
cross, with gold ends; but one day, when she would not let me go to
Castle Blanch, I shied it into the river, in a rage.'
She was touched at his being so spiritless as not even to say that she
ought to have been thrown in after it.
'I wonder,' she said, by way of enlivening him, 'whether you will fall in
with the auburn-haired Charlecote.'
'Whereas Canada is a bigger place than England, the disaster may be
averted, I hope. A colonial heir-at-law might be a monstrous bore.
Moreover, it would cancel all that I can't but hope for that child.'
'You might hope better things for him than expectations.'
'He shall never have any! But it might come without. Why, Lucy, a few
years in that country, and I shall be able to give him the best of
educations and release you from drudgery; and when independent, we could
go back to the Holt on terms to suit even your proud stomach, and might
make the dear old thing happy in her old age.'
'If that Holt were but out of your head.'
'If I knew it willed to the County Hospital, shouldn't I wish as much to
be with her as before? I mean to bring up my son as a gentleman, with no
one's help! But you see, Lucy, it is impossible not to wish for one's
child what one has failed in oneself--to wish him to be a better
edition.'
'I suppose not.'
'For these first few years the old woman will do well enough for him,
poor child. Robert has promised to look in on him.'
'And Mrs. Murrell is to write to me once a month. I shall make a point
of seeing him at least twice a year.'
'Thank you; and by the time he is of any size I shall have a salary. I
may come back, and we would keep house together, or you might bring him
out to me.'
'That will be the hope of my life.'
'I'll not be deluded into reckoning on young ladies. You will be
disposed of long before!'
'Don't, Owen! No, never.'
'Never?'
'Never.'
'I always wanted to know,' continued Owen, 'what became of Calthorp.'
'I left him behind at Spitzwasserfitzung, with a message that ends it for
ever.'
'I am afraid that defection is to be laid to my door, like all the rest.'
'If so, I am heartily obliged to you for it! The shock was welcome that
brought me home. A governess? Oh! I had rather be a scullery-maid, than
go on as I was doing there!'
'Then you did not care for him?'
'Never! But he pestered me, Rashe pestered me; nobody cared for
me--I--I--' and she sobbed a long, tearless sob.
'Ha!' said Owen, gravely and kindly, 'then there was something in the
Fulmort affair after all. Lucy, I am going away; let me hear it for
once. If I ever come back, I will not be so heedless of you as I have
been. If he have been using you ill!'
'I used him ill,' said Lucy, in an inward voice.
'Nothing more likely!' muttered Owen, in soliloquy. 'But how is it,
Cilla: can't you make him forgive?'
'He does, but as Honor forgives you. You know it was no engagement. I
worked him up to desperation last year. Through Phoebe, I was warned
that he would not stand my going to Ireland. I answered that it was no
concern of his; I defied him to be able to break with me. They bothered
me so that I was forced to go to spite them. He thought--I can't wonder
at it--that I was irreclaimable; he was staying here, was worked on by
the sight of this horrible district, and, between pique and goodness run
mad, has devoted self and fortune. He gave me to understand that he has
made away with every farthing. I don't know if he would wish it undone.'
She spoke into the knapsack, jerking out brief sentences.
'He didn't tell you he had taken a vow of celibacy?'
'I should not think it worth while.'
'Then it is all right!' exclaimed Owen, joyously. 'Do you think old
Fulmort, wallowing in gold, could see a son of his living with his
curates, as in the old Sussex rhyme?--
There were three ghostisses
Sitting on three postisses,
Eating of three crustisses.
No, depend on it, the first alarm of Robert becoming a ghost, there will
be a famous good fat living bought for him; and then--'
'No, I shall have been a governess. They won't consent.'
'Pshaw! What are the Fulmorts? He would honour you the more! No,
Lucy,' and he drew her up from the floor, and put his arm round her,
'girls who stick to one as you have done to me are worth something, and
so is Robert Fulmort. You don't know what he has been to me ever since
he came to fetch me. I didn't believe it was in his cloth or his nature
to be so forbearing. No worrying with preachments; not a bit of "What a
good boy am I;" always doing the very thing that was comfortable and
considerate, and making the best of it at Hiltonbury. I didn't know how
he could be capable of it, but now I see, it was for your sake. Cheer
up, Lucy, you will find it right yet.'
Lucilla had no conviction that he was right; but she was willing to
believe for the time, and was glad to lay her head on his shoulder and
feel, while she could, that she had something entirely her own. Too soon
it would be over. Lengthen the evening as they would, morning must come
at last.
It came; the hurried breakfast, pale looks, and trivial words. Robert
arrived to watch them off; Mrs. Murrell brought the child. Owen took him
in his arms, and called her to the study. Robert sat still, and said--
'I will do what I can. I think, in case I had to write about the child,
you had better leave me your address.'
Lucilla wrote it on a card. The tone quashed all hope.
'We trust to you,' she said.
'Mr. Currie has promised to let me hear of Owen,' said Robert; but no
more passed. Owen came back hasty and flushed, wanting to be gone and
have it over. The cabs were called, and he was piling them with luggage;
Robert was glad to be actively helpful. All were in the hall; Owen
turned back for one more solitary gaze round the familiar room; Robert
shook Lucilla's hand.
'O bid me good speed,' broke from her; 'or I cannot bear it.'
'God be with you. God bless you!' he said.
No more! He had not approved, he had not blamed. He would interfere no
more in her fate. She seated herself, and drew down her black veil, a
chill creeping over her.
'Thank you, Robert, for all,' was Owen's farewell. 'If you will say
anything to Phoebe from me, tell her she is all that is left to comfort
poor Honor.'
'Good-bye,' was the only answer.
Owen lingered still. 'You'll write? Tell me of her; Honor, I mean, and
the child.'
'Yes, yes, certainly.'
Unable to find another pretext for delay, Owen again wrung Robert's hand,
and placed himself by his sister, keeping his head out as long as he
could see Robert standing with crossed arms on the doorstep.
When, the same afternoon, Mr. Parsons came home, he blamed himself for
having yielded to his youngest curate the brunt of the summer work.
Never had he seen a man not unwell look so much jaded and depressed.
Nearly at the same time, Lucilla and her boxes were on the platform of
the Southminster station, Owen's eyes straining after her as the train
rushed on, and she feeling positive pain and anger at the sympathy of Dr.
Prendergast's kind voice, as though it would have been a relief to her
tumultuous misery to have bitten him, like Uncle Kit long ago. She
clenched her hand tight, when with old-world courtesy he made her take
his arm, and with true consideration, conducted her down the hill,
through the quieter streets, to the calm, shady precincts of the old
cathedral. He had both a stall and a large town living; and his abode
was the gray freestone prebendal house, whose two deep windows under
their peaked gables gave it rather a cat-like physiognomy. Mrs.
Prendergast and Sarah were waiting in the hall, each with a kiss of
welcome, and the former took the pale girl at once up-stairs, to a room
full of subdued sunshine, looking out on a green lawn sloping down to the
river. At that sight and sound, Lucy's face lightened. 'Ah! I know I
shall feel at home here. I hear the water's voice!'
But she had brought with her a heavy cold, kept in abeyance by a strong
will during the days of activity, and ready to have its way at once, when
she was beaten down by fatigue, fasting, and disappointment. She dressed
and came down, but could neither eat nor talk, and in her pride was glad
to attribute all to the cold, though protesting with over-eagerness that
such indisposition was rare with her.
She would not have suffered such nursing from Honor Charlecote as was
bestowed upon her. The last month had made tenderness valuable, and
without knowing all, kind Mrs. Prendergast could well believe that there
might be more than even was avowed to weigh down the young head, and
cause the fingers, when unobserved, to lock together in suppressed agony.
While Sarah only knew that her heroine-looking governess was laid up with
severe influenza, her mother more than guessed at the kind of battle
wrestled out in solitude, and was sure that more than brother, more than
friend, had left her to that lonely suffering, which was being for the
first time realized. But no confidence was given; when Lucilla spoke, it
was only of Owen, and Mrs. Prendergast returned kindness and forbearance.
It was soothing to be dreamily in that summer room, the friendly river
murmuring, the shadows of the trees lazily dancing on the wall, the
cathedral bells chiming, or an occasional deep note of the organ stealing
in through the open window. It suited well with the languor of sensation
that succeeded to so much vehemence and excitement. It was not thought,
it was not resignation, but a species of repose and calm, as if all
interest, all feeling, were over for her, and as if it mattered little
what might further befall her, as long as she could be quiet, and get
along from one day to another. If it had been repentance, a letter would
have been written very unlike the cold announcement of her situation, the
scanty notices of her brother, with which she wrung the heart that
yearned after her at Hiltonbury. But sorry she was, for one part at
least, of her conduct, and she believed herself reduced to that meek and
correct state that she had always declared should succeed her days of
gaiety, when, recovering from her indisposition, she came down subdued in
tone, and anxious to fulfil what she had undertaken.
'Ah! if Robert could see me now, he would believe in me,' thought she to
herself, as she daily went to the cathedral. She took classes at school,
helped to train the St. Jude's choir, played Handel for Dr. Prendergast,
and felt absolutely without heart or inclination to show that
self-satisfied young curate that a governess was not a subject for such
distant perplexed courtesy. Sad at heart, and glad to distract her mind
by what was new yet innocent, she took up the duties of her vocation
zealously; and quickly found that all her zeal was needed. Her pupil was
a girl of considerable abilities--intellectual, thoughtful, and well
taught; and she herself had been always so unwilling a learner, so
willing a forgetter, that she needed all the advantages of her grown-up
mind and rapidity of perception to keep her sufficiently beforehand with
Sarah, whenever subjects went deep or far. If she pronounced like a
native, and knew what was idiomatic, Sarah, with her clumsy
pronunciation, had further insight into grammar, and asked perplexing
questions; if she played admirably and with facility, Sarah could puzzle
her with the science of music; if her drawing were ever so effective and
graceful, Sarah's less sightly productions had correct details that put
hers to shame, and, for mere honesty's sake, and to keep up her dignity,
she was obliged to work hard, and recur to the good grounding that
against her will she had received at Hiltonbury. 'Had her education been
as superficial as that of her cousins,' she wrote to her brother, 'Sarah
would have put her to shame long ago; indeed, nobody but the Fennimore
could be thoroughly up to that girl.'
Perhaps all her endeavours would not have impressed Sarah, had not the
damsel been thoroughly imposed on by her own enthusiasm for Miss
Sandbrook's grace, facility, alertness, and beauty. The power of doing
prettily and rapidly whatever she took up dazzled the large and
deliberate young person, to whom the right beginning and steady
thoroughness were essential, and she regarded her governess as a sort of
fairy--toiling after her in admiring hopelessness, and delighted at any
small success.
Fully aware of her own plainness, Sarah adored Miss Sandbrook's beauty,
took all admiration of it as personally as if it been paid to her
bullfinch, and was never so charmed as when people addressed themselves
to the governess as the daughter of the house. Lucilla, however, shrank
into the background. She was really treated thoroughly as a relation,
but she dreaded the remarks and inquiries of strangers, and wished to
avoid them. The society of the cathedral town was not exciting nor
tempting, and she made no great sacrifice in preferring her pretty
schoolroom to the dinners and evening parties of the Close; but she did
so in a very becoming manner, and delighted Sarah with stories of the
great world, and of her travels.
There could be no doubt that father, mother, and daughter all liked and
valued her extremely, and she loved Mrs. Prendergast as she had never
loved woman before, with warm, filial, confiding love. She was falling
into the interests of the cathedral and the parish, and felt them, and
her occupations in the morning, satisfying and full of rest after the
unsatisfactory whirl of her late life. She was becoming happier than she
knew, and at any rate felt it a delusion to imagine the post of governess
an unhappy one. Three years at Southminster (for Sarah strenuously
insisted that she would come out as late as possible) would be all peace,
rest, and improvement; and by that time Owen would be ready for her to
bring his child out to him, or else--
Little did she reck of the grave, displeased, yet far more sorrowful
letter in which Honor wrote, 'You have chosen your own path in life, may
you find it one of improvement and blessing! But I think it right to
say, that though real distress shall of course always make what is past
forgotten, yet you must not consider Hiltonbury a refuge if you grow
hastily weary of your exertions. Since you refuse to find a mother in
me, and choose to depend on yourself alone, it must be in earnest, not
caprice.'