These are of beauty rare,
In holy calmness growing,
Of minds whose richness might compare
E'en with thy deep tints glowing.
Yet all unconscious of the grace they wear.
Like flowers upon the spray,
All lowliness, not sadness,
Bright are their thoughts, and rich, not gay,
Grave in their very gladness,
Shedding calm summer light over life's changeful day.
_To the Fuchsia_.--S. D.
Phoebe Fulmort sat in her own room. The little round clock on the
mantelpiece pointed to eleven. The fire was low but glowing. The clear
gas shone brightly on the toilette apparatus, and on the central table,
loaded with tokens of occupation, but neat and orderly as the lines in
the clasped volume where Phoebe was dutifully writing her abstract of the
day's reading and observation, in childishly correct miniature
round-hand.
The curtain was looped up, and the moon of a frosty night blanched a
square on the carpet beneath the window, at which she often looked with a
glistening gaze. Her father and brother had been expected at
dinner-time; and though their detention was of frequent occurrence,
Phoebe had deferred undressing till it should be too late for their
arrival by the last train, since they would like her to preside over
their supper, and she might possibly hear of Robert, whose doings her
father had of late seemed to regard with less displeasure, though she had
not been allowed to go with Miss Charlecote to the consecration of his
church, and had not seen him since the Horticultural Show.
She went to the window for a final look. White and crisp lay the path,
chequered by the dark defined shadows of the trees; above was the sky,
pearly with moonlight, allowing only a few larger stars to appear, and
one glorious planet. Fascinated by the silent beauty, she stood gazing,
wishing she could distinguish Jupiter's moons, observing on the
difference between his steady reflected brilliance and the sun-like
glories of Arcturus and Aldebaran, and passing on to the moral Miss
Charlecote loved, of the stars being with us all day unseen, like the
great cloud of witnesses. She hoped Miss Charlecote saw that moon; for
sunrise or set, rainbow, evening gleam, new moon, or shooting star, gave
Phoebe double pleasure by comparing notes with Miss Charlecote, and
though that lady was absent, helping Mrs. Saville to tend her husband's
mortal sickness, it was likely that she might be watching and admiring
this same fair moon. Well that there are many girls who, like Phoebe,
can look forth on the Creator's glorious handiwork as such, in peace and
soothing, 'in maiden meditation fancy free,' instead of linking these
heavenly objects to the feverish fancies of troubled hearts!
Phoebe was just turning from the window, when she heard wheels sounding
on the frosty drive, and presently a carriage appeared, the shadow
spectrally lengthened on the slope of the whitened bank. All at once it
stopped where the roads diverged to the front and back entrances, a black
figure alighted, took out a bag, dismissed the vehicle, and took the path
to the offices. Phoebe's heart throbbed. It was Robert!
As he disappeared, she noiselessly opened her door, guardedly passed the
baize door of the west wing, descended the stairs, and met him in the
hall. Neither spoke till they were in the library, which had been kept
prepared for the travellers. Robert pressed her to him and kissed her
fervently, and she found voice to say, 'What is it? Papa?'
'Yes,' said Robert.
She needed not to ask the extent of the calamity. She stood looking in
his face, while, the beginning once made, he spoke in low, quick accents.
'Paralysis. Last night. He was insensible when Edwards called him this
morning. Nothing could be done. It was over by three this afternoon.'
'Where?' asked Phoebe, understanding, but not yet feeling.
'At his rooms at the office. He had spent the evening there alone. It
was not known till eight this morning. I was there instantly, Mervyn and
Bevil soon after, but he knew none of us. Mervyn thought I had better
come here. Oh, Phoebe, my mother!'
'I will see if she have heard anything,' said Phoebe, moving quietly off,
as though one in a dream, able to act, move, and decide, though not to
think.
She found the household in commotion. Robert had spoken to the butler,
and everywhere were knots of whisperers. Miss Fennimore met Phoebe with
her eyes full of tears, tears as yet far from those of Phoebe herself.
'Your mother has heard nothing,' she said; 'I ascertained that from
Boodle, who only left her dressing-room since your brother's arrival.
You had better let her have her night's rest.'
Robert, who had followed Phoebe, hailed this as a reprieve, and thanked
Miss Fennimore, adding the few particulars he had told his sister. 'I
hope the girls are asleep,' he said.
'Sound asleep, I trust,' said Miss Fennimore. 'I will take care of
them,' and laying her hand on Phoebe's shoulder, she suggested to her
that her brother had probably not eaten all day, then left them to return
to the library together. There had been more time for Robert to look the
thought in the face than his sister. He was no longer freshly stunned.
He really needed food, and ate in silence, while she mechanically waited
on him. At last he looked up, saying, 'I am thankful. A few months ago,
how could I have borne it?'
'I have been sure he understood you better of late,' said Phoebe.
'Sunday week was one of the happiest days I have spent for years.
Imagine my surprise at seeing him and Acton in the church. They took
luncheon with us, looked into the schools, went to evening service, and
saw the whole concern. He was kinder than ever I knew him, and Acton
says he expressed himself as much pleased. I owe a great deal to Bevil
Acton, and, I know, to you. Now I know that he had forgiven me.'
'You, Robin! There was nothing to forgive. I can fancy poor Mervyn
feeling dreadfully, but you, always dutiful except for the higher duty!'
'Hush, Phoebe! Mine was grudging service. I loved opposition, and there
was an evil triumph in the annoyance I gave.'
'You are not regretting your work. O no!'
'Not the work, but the manner! Oh! that the gift of the self-willed son
be not Corban.'
'Robert! indeed you had his approval. You told me so. He was seeing
things differently. It was so new to him that his business could be
thought hurtful, that he was displeased at first, or, rather, Mervyn made
him seem more displeased than he was.'
'You only make me the more repent! Had I been what I ought at home, my
principles would have been very differently received!'
'I don't know,' said Phoebe; 'there was little opportunity. We have been
so little with them.'
'Oh! Phoebe, it is a miserable thing to have always lived at such a
distance from them, that I should better know how to tell such tidings to
any old woman in my district than to my mother!'
Their consultations were broken by Miss Fennimore coming to insist on
Phoebe's sleeping, in preparation for the trying morrow. Robert was
thankful for her heedfulness, and owned himself tired, dismissing his
sister with a blessing that had in it a tone of protection.
How changed was Phoebe's peaceful chamber in her eyes! Nothing had
altered, but a fresh act in her life had begun--the first sorrow had
fallen on her.
She would have knelt on for hours, leaning dreamily on the new sense of
the habitual words, 'Our Father,' had not Miss Fennimore come kindly and
tenderly to undress her, insisting on her saving herself, and promising
not to let her oversleep herself, treating her with wise and soothing
affection, and authority that was most comfortable.
Little danger was there of her sleeping too late. All night long she
lay, with dry and open eyes, while the fire, groaning, sank together, and
faded into darkness, and the moonbeams retreated slowly from floor to
wall, and were lost as gray cold dawn began to light the window. Phoebe
had less to reproach herself with than any one of Mr. Fulmort's children,
save the poor innocent, Maria; but many a shortcoming, many a moment of
impatience or discontent, many a silent impulse of blame, were grieved
over, and every kindness she had received shot through her heart with
mournful gladness and warmth, filling her with yearning for another
embrace, another word, or even that she had known that the last good-bye
had been the last, that she might have prized it--oh, how intensely!
Then came anxious imaginings for the future, such as would not be stilled
by the knowledge that all would settle itself over her head. There were
misgivings whether her mother would be properly considered, fears of the
mutual relations between her brothers, a sense that the family bond was
loosed, and confusion and jarring might ensue; but, as her mind recoiled
from the shoals and the gloom, the thought revived of the Pilot amid the
waves of this troublesome world. She closed her eyes for prayer, but not
for sleep. Repose even more precious and soothing than slumber was
granted--the repose of confidence in the Everlasting Arms, and of
confiding to them all the feeble and sorrowful with whom she was linked.
It was as though (in the words of her own clasped book) her God were
_more_ to her than ever, truly a very _present_ Help in trouble; and, as
the dawn brightened for a day so unlike all others, her heart trembled
less, and she rose up with eyes heavy and limbs weary, but better
prepared for the morning's ordeal than even by sleep ending in a wakening
to the sudden shock.
When Miss Fennimore vigilantly met her on leaving her room, and surveyed
her anxiously, to judge of her health and powers, there was a serious,
sweet collectedness in air and face that struck the governess with loving
awe and surprise.
The younger girls had known their father too little to be much affected
by the loss. Maria stared in round-eyed amaze, and Bertha, though
subdued and shocked for a short space, revived into asking a torrent of
questions, culminating in 'Should they do any lessons?' Whereto Miss
Fennimore replied with a decided affirmative, and, though Phoebe's taste
disapproved, she saw that it was wiser not to interfere.
Much fatigued, Robert slept late, but joined his sister long before the
dreaded moment of hearing their mother's bell. They need not have been
fearful of the immediate effect; Mrs. Fulmort's perceptions were tardy,
and the endeavours at preparation were misunderstood, till it was needful
to be explicit. A long stillness followed, broken at last by Phoebe's
question, whether she would not see Robert. 'Not till I am up, my dear,'
she answered, in an injured voice; 'do, pray, see whether Boodle is
coming with my warm water.'
Her mind was not yet awake to the stroke, and was lapsing into its
ordinary mechanical routine; her two breakfasts, and protracted dressing,
occupied her for nearly two hours, after which she did not refuse to see
her son, but showed far less emotion than he did, while he gave the
details of the past day. Her dull, apathetic gaze was a contrast with
the young man's gush of tears, and the caresses that Phoebe lavished on
her listless hand. Phoebe proposed that Robert should read to her--she
assented, and soon dozed, awaking to ask plaintively for Boodle and her
afternoon cup of tea.
So passed the following days, her state nearly the same, and her interest
apparently feebly roused by the mourning, but by nothing else. She did
not like that Phoebe should leave her, but was more at ease with her maid
than her son, and, though he daily came to sit with her and read to her,
he was grieved to be unable to be of greater use, while he could seldom
have Phoebe to himself. Sorely missing Miss Charlecote, he took his
meals in the west wing, where his presence was highly appreciated, though
he was often pained by Bertha's levity and Maria's imbecility. The
governess treated him with marked esteem and consideration, strikingly
dissimilar to the punctilious, but almost contemptuous, courtesy of her
behaviour to the other gentlemen of the family, and, after her pupils
were gone to bed, would fasten upon him for a discussion such as her soul
delighted in, and his detested. Secure of his ground, he was not sure of
his powers of reasoning with an able lady of nearly double his years, and
more than double his reading and readiness of speech, yet he durst not
retreat from argument, lest he should seem to yield the cause that he was
sworn to maintain, 'in season and out of season.' It was hard that his
own troubles and other people's should alike bring him in for controversy
on all the things that end in 'ism.'
He learnt by letter from Sir Bevil Acton that his father had been much
struck by what he had seen in Cecily-row, and had strongly expressed his
concern that Robert had been allowed to strip himself for the sake of a
duty, which, if it were such at all, belonged more to others. There
might have been wrongheaded haste in the action, but if such new-fangled
arrangements had become requisite, it was unfair that one member of the
family alone should bear the whole burthen. Sir Bevil strongly supported
this view, and Mr. Fulmort had declared himself confirmed in his
intention of making provision for his son in his will, as well as of
giving him a fair allowance at present. There must have been warnings of
failing health of which none had been made aware, for Mr. Fulmort had
come to town partly to arrange for the safe guardianship of poor Maria
and her fortune. An alteration in his will upon the death of one of the
trustees had been too long neglected, and perhaps some foreboding of the
impending malady had urged him at last to undertake what had been thus
deferred. Each of the daughters was to have 10,000 pounds, the overplus
being divided between them and their eldest brother, who would succeed
both to the business, and on his mother's death to the Beauchamp estate,
while the younger had already received an ample portion as heir to his
uncle. Mr. Fulmort, however, had proposed to place Robert on the same
footing with his sisters, and Sir Bevil had reason to think he had at
once acted on his design. Such thorough forgiveness and approval went to
Robert's heart, and he could scarcely speak as he gave Phoebe the letter
to read.
When she could discuss it with him after her mother had fallen asleep for
the night, she found that his thoughts had taken a fresh turn.
'If it should be as Bevil supposes,' he said, 'it would make an infinite
difference.' And after waiting for an answer only given by inquiring
looks, he continued--'As she is now, it would not be a violent change; I
do not think she would object to my present situation.'
'Oh, Robert, you will not expose yourself to be treated as before.'
'That would not be. There was no want of attachment; merely
over-confidence in her own power.'
'Not _over_ confidence, it seems,' murmured Phoebe, not greatly charmed.
'I understood how it had been, when we were thrown together again,' he
pursued. 'There was no explanation, but it was far worse to bear than if
there had been. I felt myself a perfect brute.'
'I beg your pardon if I can't be pleased just yet,' said Phoebe. 'You
know I did not see her, and I can't think she deserves it after so
wantonly grieving you, and still choosing to forsake Miss Charlecote.'
'For that I feel accountable,' said Robert, sadly. 'I cannot forget that
her determination coincided with the evening I made her aware of my
position. I saw that in her face that has haunted me ever since. I had
almost rather it had been resentment.'
'I hope she will make you happy,' said Phoebe, dolefully, thinking it a
pity he should be disturbed when settled in to his work, and forced by
experience to fear that Lucy would torment him.
'I do not do it for the sake of happiness,' he returned. 'I am not blind
to her faults; but she has a grand, generous character that deserves
patience and forbearance. Besides, the past can never be cancelled, and
it is due to her to offer her whatever may be mine. There may be storms,
but she has been disciplined, poor dear, and I am more sure of myself
than I was. She _should_ conform, and my work should not be impeded.'
Grimly he continued to anticipate hurricanes for his wedded life, and to
demonstrate that he was swayed by justice and not by passion; but it was
suspicious that he recurred constantly to the topic, and seemed able to
dwell on no other. If Phoebe could have been displeased with him, it
would have been for these reiterations at such a time. Not having been
personally injured, she pardoned less than did either Robert or Miss
Charlecote; she could not foresee peace for her brother; and though she
might pity him for the compulsion of honour and generosity, she found
that his auguries were not intended to excite compassionate acquiescence,
but cheerful contradiction, such as both her good sense and her oppressed
spirits refused. If he could talk about nothing better than Lucy when
alone with her, she could the less regret the rarity of these
opportunities.
The gentlemen of the family alone attended the funeral, the two elder
sisters remaining in town, whither their husbands were to return at
night. Mrs. Fulmort remained in the same dreary state of heaviness, but
with some languid heed to the details, and interest in hearing from Maria
and Bertha, from behind the blinds, what carriages were at the door, and
who got into them. Phoebe, with strong effort, then controlled her voice
to read aloud till her mother dozed as usual, and she could sit and think
until Robert knocked, to summon her to the reading of the will. 'You
must come,' he said; 'I know it jars, but it is Mervyn's wish, and he is
right.' On the stairs Mervyn met her, took her from Robert, and led her
into the drawing-room, where she was kindly greeted by the
brothers-in-law, and seated beside her eldest brother. As a duty, she
gave her attention, and was rewarded by finding that had he been living,
her hero, Mr. Charlecote, would have been her guardian. The will, dated
fifteen years back, made Humfrey Charlecote, Esquire, trustee and
executor, jointly with James Crabbe, Esquire, the elderly lawyer at
present reading it aloud. The intended codicil had never been executed.
Had any one looked at the downcast face, it would have been with wonder
at the glow of shy pleasure thrilling over cheeks and brow.
Beauchamp of course remained with the heiress, Mrs. Fulmort, to whom all
thereto appertaining was left; the distillery and all connected with it
descended to the eldest son, John Mervyn Fulmort; the younger children
received 10,000 pounds apiece, and the residue was to be equally divided
among all except the second son, Robert Mervyn Fulmort, who, having been
fully provided for, was only to receive some pictures and plate that had
belonged to his great uncle.
The lawyer ceased. Sir Bevil leant towards him, and made an inquiry
which was answered by a sign in the negative. Then taking up some
memoranda, Mr. Crabbe announced that as far as he could yet discover, the
brother and five sisters would divide about 120,000 pounds between them,
so that each of the ladies had 30,000 pounds of her own; and, bowing to
Phoebe, he requested her to consider him as her guardian. The Admiral,
highly pleased, offered her his congratulations, and as soon as she could
escape she hastened away, followed by Robert.
'Never mind, Phoebe,' he said; taking her hand; 'the kindness and pardon
were the same, the intention as good as the deed, as far as _he_ was
concerned. Perhaps you were right. The other way might have proved a
stumbling-block.' Speak as he would, he could not govern the tone of his
voice nor the quivering of his entire frame under the downfall of his
hopes. Phoebe linked her arm in his, and took several turns in the
gallery with him.
'Oh, Robin, if I were but of age to divide with you!'
'No, Phoebe, that would be unfit for you and for me. I am only where I
was before. I knew I had had my portion. I ought not to have
entertained hopes so unbefitting. But oh, Phoebe! that she should be
cast about the world, fragile, sensitive as she is--'
Phoebe could have said that a home at the Holt was open to Lucilla; but
this might seem an unkind suggestion, and the same moment, Sir Bevil was
heard impetuously bounding up the stairs. 'Robert, where are you?' he
called from the end of the gallery. 'I never believed you could have
been so infamously treated.'
'Hush!' said Robert, shocked; 'I cannot hear this said. You know it was
only want of time.'
'I am not talking of your father. He would have done his best if he had
been allowed. It is your brother!--his own confession, mind! He boasted
just now that his father would have done it on the spot, but for his
interference, and expected thanks from all the rest of us for his care of
our interests.'
'What is the use of telling such things, Acton?' said Robert, forcing his
voice to calm rebuke, and grasping the baluster with an iron-like grip.
'The use! To mark my detestation of such conduct! I did my best to show
him what I thought of it; and I believe even Bannerman was astounded at
his coolness. I'll take care the thing is made public! I'll move heaven
and earth but I'll get you preferment that shall show how such treatment
is looked upon.'
'I beg you will do nothing of the kind!' exclaimed Robert. 'I am
heartily obliged to you, Acton. You gained me the certainty of
forgiveness, without which I should have felt a curse on my work. For
the rest, I complain of nothing. I have had larger means than the
others. I knew I was to look for no more. I prefer my own cure to any
other; and reflection will show you that our family affairs are not to be
made public.'
'At any rate, your mother might do something. Let me speak to her.
What, not now? Then I will come down whenever Phoebe will summon me.'
'Not now, nor ever,' said Robert. 'Even if anything were in her power,
she could not understand; and she must not be harassed.'
'We will talk that over on our way to town,' said Sir Bevil. 'I start at
once. I will not see that fellow again, nor, I should think, would you.'
'I stay till Saturday week.'
'You had better not. You have been abominably treated; but this is no
time for collisions. You agree with me, Phoebe; his absence would be the
wisest course.'
'Phoebe knows that annoyance between Mervyn and me is unhappily no
novelty. We shall not revert to the subject, and I have reasons for
staying.'
'You need not fear,' said Phoebe; 'Robert always keeps his temper.'
'Or rather we have the safeguard of being both sullen, not hot,' said
Robert. 'Besides, Mervyn was right. I have had my share, and have not
even the dignity of being injured.'
The need of cooling his partisan was the most effective means of blunting
the sharp edge of his own vexation. Hearing Mervyn cross the hall, he
called to offer to take his share in some business which they had to
transact together. 'Wait a moment,' was the answer; and as Sir Bevil
muttered a vituperation of Mervyn's assurance, he said, decidedly, 'Now,
once for all, I desire that this matter be never again named between any
of us. Let no one know what has taken place, and let us forget all but
that my father was in charity with me.'
It was more than Sir Bevil was with almost any one, and he continued to
pace the gallery with Phoebe, devising impossible schemes of compensation
until the moment of his departure for London.
Robert had not relied too much on his own forbearance. Phoebe met her
two brothers at dinner--one gloomy, the other melancholy; but neither
altering his usual tone towards the other. Unaware that Robert knew of
his father's designs, nor of their prevention, Mervyn was totally exempt
from compunction, thinking, indeed, that he had saved his father from
committing an injustice on the rest of the family, for the sake of a
fanatical tormentor, who had already had and thrown away more than his
share. Subdued and saddened for the time, Mervyn was kind to Phoebe and
fairly civil to Robert, so that there were no disturbances to interfere
with the tranquil intercourse of the brother and sister in their walks in
the woods, their pacings of the gallery, or low-voiced conferences while
their mother dozed.
True to his resolve, Robert permitted no reference to his late hopes, but
recurred the more vigorously to his parish interests, as though he had
never thought of any wife save St. Matthew's Church.
Home affairs, too, were matters of anxious concern. Without much sign of
sorrow, or even of comprehension of her loss, it had suddenly rendered
the widow an aged invalid. The stimulus to exertion removed, there was
nothing to rouse her from the languid torpor of her nature, mental and
physical. Invalid habits gave her sufficient occupation, and she showed
no preference for the company of any one except Phoebe or her maid, to
whose control her passive nature succumbed. At Boodle's bidding, she
rose, dressed, ate, drank, and went to bed; at Phoebe's she saw her other
children, heard Robert read, or signed papers for Mervyn. But each fresh
exertion cost much previous coaxing and subsequent plaintiveness; and
when Phoebe, anxious to rouse her, persuaded her to come down-stairs, her
tottering steps proved her feebleness; and though her sons showed her
every attention, she had not been in the drawing-room ten minutes before
a nervous trembling and faintness obliged them to carry her back to her
room.
The family apothecary, a kind old man, declared that there was nothing
seriously amiss, and that she would soon 'recover her tone.' But it was
plain that much would fall on Phoebe, and Robert was uneasy at leaving
her with so little assistance or comfort at hand. He even wrote to beg
his eldest sister to come for a few weeks till his mother's health should
be improved; but Sir Nicholas did not love the country in the winter, and
Augusta only talked of a visit in the spring.
Another vexation to Robert was the schoolroom. During the last few
months Bertha had outgrown her childish distaste to study, and had
exerted her mind with as much eagerness as governess could desire; her
translations and compositions were wonders of ease and acuteness; she had
plunged into science, had no objection to mathematics, and by way of
recreation wandered in German metaphysics. Miss Fennimore rather
discouraged this line, knowing how little useful brain exercise she
herself had derived from Kant and his compeers, but this check was all
that was wanting to give Bertha double zest, and she stunned Robert with
demonstrations about her 'I' and her 'not I,' and despised him for his
contempt of her grand discoveries.
He begged for a prohibition of the study, but Miss Fennimore thought this
would only lend it additional charms, and added that it was a field which
the intellect must explore for itself, and not take on the authority of
others. When this answer was reported through Phoebe, Robert shrugged
his shoulders, alarmed at the hot-bed nurture of intellect and these
concessions to mental independence, only balanced by such loose and
speculative opinions as Miss Fennimore had lately manifested to him.
Decidedly, he said, there ought to be a change of governess and system.
But Phoebe, tears springing into her eyes, implored him not to press it.
She thoroughly loved her kind, clear-headed, conscientious friend, who
had assisted her so wisely and considerately through this time of
trouble, and knew how to manage Maria. It was no time for a fresh
parting, and her mother was in no state to be harassed by alterations.
This Robert allowed with a sigh, though delay did not suit with his
stern, uncompromising youthfulness, and he went on to say, 'You will bear
it in mind, Phoebe. There and elsewhere great changes are needed. This
great, disorderly household is a heavy charge. Acting for my mother, as
you will have to do, how are you to deal with the servants?'
'None of them come in my way, except dear old Lieschen, and Boodle, and
Mrs. Brisbane, and they are all kind and thoughtful.'
'Surface work, Phoebe. Taking my mother's place, as you do now, you
will, or ought to, become aware of the great mischiefs below stairs, and
I trust you will be able to achieve a great reformation.'
'I hope--' Phoebe looked startled, and hesitated. 'Surely, Robert, you
do not think I ought to search after such things. Would it be dutiful,
so young as I am?'
'Perhaps you are right,' said Robert; 'only, Phoebe, Phoebe, never let
toleration harden you to be indifferent to evil.'
'I hope not,' said Phoebe, gravely.
'My poor child, you are in for a world of perplexities! I wish I had not
to leave you to them.'
'Every labyrinth has a clue,' said Phoebe, smiling; 'as Miss Fennimore
says when she gives us problems to work. Only you know the terms of the
problem must be stated before the solution can be made out; so it is of
no use to put cases till we know all the terms.'
'Right, Phoebe. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'
'I cannot see the evil yet,' said Phoebe; 'the trouble has brought so
much comfort. That happy Sunday with you, and my own year of being with
them both, have been such blessings! Last year, how much worse it would
have been for us all, when I scarcely knew mamma or Mervyn, and could not
go about alone nor to church! And Miss Charlecote will soon come home.
There is so much cause for thankfulness, that I can't be afraid.'
Robert said no more, but felt that innocent buoyancy a mystery to his
lower-pitched spirit. Never very gay or merry, Phoebe had a fund of
happiness and a power of finding and turning outwards the bright side,
which made her a most comfortable companion.