Happy are they that learn in Him,
Though patient suffering teach
The secret of enduring strength,
And praise too deep for speech:
_Peace_ that no pressure from without,
No strife within can reach.--A. L. WARING
Well was it for Phoebe that she had been trained to monotony, for her
life was most uniform after Robert had left home. Her schoolroom
mornings, her afternoons with her mother, her evenings with Mervyn, were
all so much alike that one week could hardly be distinguished from
another. Bertha's vagaries and Mervyn's periodical journeys to London
were the chief varieties, certainly not her mother's plaintiveness, her
brother's discontent, or the sacrifice of her own inclinations, which
were pretty certain to be traversed, but then, as she said, something
else happened that did as well as what she had wished.
One day, when Mervyn had been hunting, and had come home tired, he
desired her to give him some music in the evening. She took the
opportunity of going over some fine old airs, which the exigencies of
drawing-room display had prevented her from practising for some time.
Presently she found him standing by her, his face softer than usual.
'Where did you get that, Phoebe?'
'It is Haydn's. I learnt it just after Miss Fennimore came.'
'Play it again; I have not heard it for years.'
She obeyed, and looked at him. He was shading his face with his hand,
but he hardly spoke again all the rest of the evening.
Phoebe's curiosity was roused, and she tried the effect of the air on her
mother, whose great pleasure was her daughter's music, since a piano had
been moved into her dressing-room. But it awoke no association there,
and 'Thank you, my dear,' was the only requital.
While the next evening she was wondering whether to volunteer it, Mervyn
begged for it, and as she finished, asked, 'What does old Gay say of my
mother now?'
'He thinks her decidedly better, and so I am sure she is. She has more
appetite. She really ate the breast of a partridge to-day!'
'He says nothing of a change?'
'She could not bear the journey.'
'It strikes me that she wants rousing. Shut up in a great lonely house
like this, she has nothing cheerful to look at. She would be much better
off at Brighton, or some of those places where she could see people from
the windows, and have plenty of twaddling old dowager society.'
'I did ask Mr. Gay about the sea, but he thought the fatigue of the
journey, and the vexing her by persuading her to take it, would do more
harm than the change would do good.'
'I did not mean only as a change. I believe she would be much happier
living there, with this great place off her hands. It is enough to
depress any one's spirits to live in a corner like a shrivelled kernel in
a nut.'
'Go away!' exclaimed Phoebe. 'Mervyn! it is her home! It is her own!'
'Well, I never said otherwise,' he answered, rather crossly; 'but you
know very well that it is a farce to talk of her managing the house, or
the estate either. It was bad enough before, but there will be no check
on any one now.'
'I thought you looked after things.'
'Am I to spend my life as a steward? No, if the work is to be in my
hands, I ought to be in possession at once, so as to take my place in the
county as I ought, and cut the City business. The place is a mere
misfortune and encumbrance to her as she is, and she would be ten times
happier at a watering-place.'
'Mervyn, what do you mean? You have all the power and consequence here,
and are fully master of all; but why should not poor mamma live in her
own house?'
'Can't you conceive that a man may have reasons for wishing to be put in
possession of the family place when he can enjoy it, and she can't?
Don't look at me with that ridiculous face. I mean to marry. Now, can't
you see that I may want the house to myself?'
'You are engaged!'
'Not exactly. I am waiting to see my way through the bother.'
'Who is it? Tell me about it, Mervyn.'
'I don't mind telling you, but for your life don't say a word to any one.
I would never forgive you, if you set my Ladies Bannerman and Acton at
me.'
Phoebe was alarmed. She had little hope that their likings would
coincide; his manner indicated defiance of opinion, and she could not but
be averse to a person for whose sake he wished to turn them out. 'Well,'
was all she could say, and he proceeded: 'I suppose you never heard of
Cecily Raymond.'
'Of Moorcroft?' she asked, breathing more freely. 'Sir John's daughter?'
'No, his niece. It is a spooney thing to take up with one's tutor's
daughter, but it can't be helped. I've tried to put her out of my head,
and enter on a more profitable speculation, but it won't work!'
'Is she very pretty--prettier than Lucilla Sandbrook?' asked Phoebe,
unable to believe that any other inducement could attach him.
'Not what you would call pretty at all, except her eyes. Not a bit fit
to make a figure in the world, and a regular little parsoness. That's
the deuce of it. It would be mere misery to her to be taken to London
and made to go into society; so I want to have it settled, for if she
could come here and go poking into cottages and schools, she would want
nothing more.'
'Then she is very good?'
'You and she will be devoted to each other. And you'll stand up for her,
I know, and then a fig for their two ladyships. You and I can be a match
for Juliana, if she tries to bully my mother. Not that it matters. I am
my own man now; but Cecily is crotchety, and must not be distressed.'
'Then I am sure she would not like to turn mamma out,' said Phoebe,
stoutly.
'Don't you see that is the reason I want to have it settled beforehand.
If she were a party to it, she would never consent; she would be
confoundedly scrupulous, and we should be all worried to death. Come,
you just sound my mother; you can do anything with her, and it will be
better for you all. You will be bored to death here, seeing no one.'
'I do not know whether it be a right proposal to make.'
'Right? If the place had been my father's, it would be a matter of
course.'
'That makes the whole difference. And even so, would not this be very
soon?'
'Of course you know I am proposing nothing at once. It would not be
decent, I suppose, to marry within the half-year; but, poor little thing,
I can't leave her in suspense any longer. You should not have played
that thing.'
'Then you know that she cares for you?'
He laughed consciously at this home question.
'It must be a long time since you were at Mr. Raymond's.'
'Eight years; but I have made flying visits there since, and met her at
her uncle's. Poor little thing, she was horribly gone off last time, and
very ungracious, but we will find a remedy!'
'Then you could not gain consent to it?'
'It never came to that. I never committed myself.'
'But why not? If she was so good, and you liked her, and they all wanted
you to marry, I can't see why you waited, if you knew, too, that she
liked you--I don't think it was kind, Mervyn.'
'Ah! women always hang by one another. See here, Phoebe, it began when I
was as green as yourself, a mere urchin, and she a little unconscious
thing of the same age. Well, when I got away, I saw what a folly it
was--a mere throwing myself away! I might have gone in for rank or
fortune, as I liked; and how did I know that I was such a fool that I
could not forget her? If Charles Charteris had not monopolized the
Jewess, I should have been done for long ago! And apart from that, I
wasn't ready for domestic joys, especially to be Darby to such a pattern
little Joan, who would think me on the highway to perdition if she saw
_Bell's Life_ on the table, or heard me bet a pair of gloves.'
'You can't have any affection for her,' cried Phoebe, indignantly.
'Didn't I tell you she spoilt the taste of every other transaction of the
sort? And what am I going to do now? When she has not a halfpenny, and
I might marry anybody!'
'If you cared for her properly, you would have done it long before.'
'I'm a dutiful son,' he answered, in an indifferent voice, that provoked
Phoebe to say with spirit, 'I hope she does not care for you, after all.'
'Past praying for, kind sister. Sincerely I've been sorry for it; I
would have disbelieved it, but the more she turns away, the better I know
it; so you see, after all, I shall deserve to be ranked with your hero,
Bevil Acton.'
'Mervyn, you make me so angry that I can hardly answer! You boast of
what you think she has suffered for you all this time, and make light of
it!'
'It wasn't my fault if my poor father would send such an amiable youth
into a large family. Men with daughters should not take pupils. I did
my best to cure both her and myself, but I had better have fought it out
at once when she was younger and prettier, and might have been more
conformable, and not so countrified, as you'll grow, Phoebe, if you stay
rusting here, nursing my mother and reading philosophy with Miss
Fennimore. If you set up to scold me, you had better make things easy
for me.'
Phoebe thought for a few moments, and then said, 'I see plainly what you
ought to do, but I cannot understand that this makes it proper to ask my
mother to give up her own house, that she was born to. I suppose you
would call it childish to propose your living with us; but we could
almost form two establishments.'
'My dear child, Cecily would go and devote herself to my mother. I
should never have any good out of her, and she would get saddled for life
with Maria.'
'Maria is my charge,' said Phoebe, coldly.
'And what will your husband say to that?'
'He shall never be my husband unless I have the means of making her
happy.'
'Ay, there would be a frenzy of mutual generosity, and she would be left
to us. No; I'm not going to set up housekeeping with Maria for an
ingredient.'
'There is the Underwood.'
'Designed by nature for a dowager-house. That would do very well for you
and my mother, though Cheltenham or Brighton might be better. Yes, it
might do. You would be half a mile nearer your dear Miss Charlecote.'
'Thank you,' said Phoebe, a little sarcastically; but repenting she
added, 'Mervyn, I hope I do not seem unkind and selfish; but I think we
ought to consider mamma, as she cannot stand up for herself just now. It
is not unlikely that when mamma hears you are engaged, and has seen and
grown fond of Miss Raymond, she may think herself of giving up this
place; but it ought to begin from her, not from you; and as things are
now, I could not think of saying anything about it. From what you tell
me of Miss Raymond, I don't think she would be the less likely to take
you without Beauchamp than with it; indeed, I think you must want it less
for her sake than your own.'
'Upon my word, Mrs. Phoebe, you are a cool hand!' exclaimed Mervyn,
laughing; 'but you promise to see what can be done as soon as I've got my
hand into the matter.'
'I promise nothing,' said Phoebe; 'I hope it will be settled without me,
for I do not know what would be the most right or most kind, but it may
be plainer when the time comes, and she, who is so good, will be sure to
know. O Mervyn, I am very glad of that!'
Phoebe sought the west wing in such a tingle of emotion that she only
gave Miss Fennimore a brief good night instead of lingering to talk over
the day. Indignation was foremost. After destroying Robert's hopes for
life, here was Mervyn accepting wedded happiness as a right, and after
having knowingly trifled with a loving heart for all these years, coolly
deigning to pick it up, and making terms to secure his own consequence
and freedom from all natural duties, and to thrust his widowed mother
from her own home. It was Phoebe's first taste of the lesson so bitter
to many, that her parents' home was not her own for life, and the
expulsion seemed to her so dreadful that she rebuked herself for personal
feeling in her resentment, and it was with a sort of horror that she
bethought herself that her mother might possibly prefer a watering-place
life, and that it would then be her part to submit cheerfully. Poor Miss
Charlecote! would not she miss her little moonbeam? Yes, but if this
Cecily were so good, she would make up to her. The pang of suffering and
dislike quite startled Phoebe. She knew it for jealousy, and hid her
face in prayer.
The next day was Sunday, and Mervyn made the unprecedented exertion of
going twice to church, observing that he was getting into training. He
spent the evening in dwelling on Cecily Raymond, who seemed to have been
the cheerful guardian elder sister of a large family in narrow
circumstances, and as great a contrast to Mervyn himself as was poor
Lucilla to Robert; her homeliness and seriousness being as great
hindrances to the elder brother, as fashion and levity to the younger.
It was as if each were attracted by the indefinable essence, apart from
all qualities, that constitutes the self; and Haydn's air, learnt long
ago by Cecily as a surprise to her father on his birthday, had evoked
such a healthy shoot of love within the last twenty-four hours, that
Mervyn was quite transformed, though still rather unsuitably sensible of
his own sacrifice, and of the favour he was about to confer on Cecily in
entering on that inevitable period when he must cease to be a gentleman
at large.
On Monday he came down to breakfast ready for a journey, as Phoebe
concluded, to London. She asked if he would return by the next hunting
day. He answered vaguely, then rousing himself, said, 'I say, Phoebe,
you must write her a cordial sisterly sort of letter, you know; and you
might make Bertha do it too, for nobody else will.'
'I wrote to Juliana on Friday.'
'Juliana! Are you mad?'
'Oh! Miss Raymond! But you told me you had said nothing! You have not
had time since Friday night to get an answer.'
'Foolish child, no; but I shall be there to-night or to-morrow.'
'You are going to Sutton?'
'Yes; and, as I told you, I trust to you to write such a letter as to
make her feel comfortable. Well, what's the use of having a governess,
if you don't know how to write a letter?'
'Yes, Mervyn, I'll write, only I must hear from you first.'
'I hate writing. I tell you, if you write--let me see, on Wednesday, you
may be sure it is all over.'
'No, Mervyn, I will not be so impertinent,' said Phoebe, and the colour
rushed into her face as she recollected the offence that she had once
given by manifesting a brother's security of being beloved. 'It would be
insulting her to assume that she had accepted you, and write before I
knew, especially after the way you have been using her.'
'Pshaw! she will only want a word of kindness; but if you are so
fanciful, will it do if I put a cover in the post? There! and when you
get it on Wednesday morning, you write straight off to Cecily, and when
you have got the notion into my mother's understanding, you may write to
me, and tell me what chance there is of Beauchamp.'
What chance of Beauchamp! The words made Phoebe's honest brow contract
as she stood by the chimney-piece, while her brother went out into the
hall. 'That's all he cares for,' she thought. 'Poor mamma! But, oh!
how unkind. I am sending him away without one kind wish, and she must be
good--so much better than I could have hoped!'
Out she ran, and as he paused to kiss her bright cheek, she whispered,
'Good-bye, Mervyn; good speed. I shall watch for your cover.'
She received another kiss for those words, and they had been an effort,
for those designs on Beauchamp weighed heavily on her, and the two tasks
that were left to her were not congenial. She did not know how to
welcome a strange sister, for whose sake the last of the Mervyns was
grudged her own inheritance, and still less did she feel disposed to
harass her mother with a new idea, which would involve her in
bewilderment and discussion. She could only hope that there would be
inspiration in Mervyn's blank cover, and suppress her fever for suspense.
Wednesday came--no cover, blank or unblank. Had he been taken with a fit
of diffidence, and been less precipitate than he intended? Womanhood
hoped so, and rather enjoyed the possibility of his being kept a little
in suspense. Or suppose he had forgotten his cover, and then should
think the absence of a letter her fault? Thursday--still no tidings.
Should she venture a letter to him? No; lovers were inexplicable people,
and after all, what could she say? Perhaps he was only waiting for an
opportunity, and if Cecily had been ungracious at the last meeting, she
might not afford one. Day after day wore on, and still the post-bag was
emptied in vain, and Phoebe's patience was kept on tenterhooks, till,
when a full fortnight had passed, she learnt through the servants that
Mr. Mervyn's wardrobe and valet, grooms and horses, had been sent for to
London.
So he had been refused, and could not bear to tell her so! And here she
was disappointed and pitying, and as vexed with Miss Raymond as if it had
not been no more than he deserved. But poor Mervyn! he had expected it
so little, and had been so really attached, that Phoebe was heartily
grieved for him, and longed to know how he bore it. Nay, with all the
danger of removal, the flatness of the balked excitement was personally
felt, and Phoebe would have been glad, in her monotonous life, of
something to hope or to fear.
Her greatest pleasure was in Miss Charlecote's return. The long watch
over her old friend was over. Honor had shared his wife's cares,
comforted and supported her in her sorrow, and had not left her till the
move from her parsonage was made, and she was settled among her own
relations. Much as Honor had longed to be with Phoebe, the Savilles had
nearer claims, and she could not part with them while there was any need
of her. Indeed, Mr. Saville, as once the husband of Sarah Charlecote,
the brother-in-law of Humfrey, and her own friend and adviser, was much
esteemed and greatly missed. She felt as if her own generation were
passing away, when she returned to see the hatchment upon Beauchamp, and
to hear of the widow's failing health. Knowing how closely Phoebe was
attending her mother, Honor drove to Beauchamp the first day after her
return, and had not crossed the hall before the slender black figure was
in her arms.
Friends seem as though they must meet to know one another again, and
begin afresh, after one of the great sorrows of life has fallen on either
side, and especially when it is a first grief, a first taste of that cup
of which all must drink. As much of the child as could pass from
Phoebe's sweet, simple nature had passed in those hours that had made her
the protector and nurse of her mother, and though her open eyes were
limpid and happy as before, and the contour of the rounded cheek and lip
as youthful and innocent, yet the soft gravity of the countenance was
deepened, and there was a pensiveness on the brow, as though life had
begun to unfold more difficulties than pleasures.
And Honor Charlecote? That ruddy golden hair, once Owen's pride, was
mingled with many a silvery thread, and folded smoothly on a forehead
paler, older, but calmer than once it had been. Sorrow and desertion had
cut deeply, and worn down the fair comeliness of heathful middle age; but
something of compensation there was in the less anxious eye, from which
had passed a certain restless, strained expression; and if the face were
more habitually sad, it was more peaceful. She did not love less those
whom she 'had seen,' but He whom she 'had not seen' had become her rest
and her reliance, and in her year of loneliness and darkness, a trust, a
support, a confiding joy had sprung up, such as she had before believed
in, but never experienced. 'Her Best, her All;' those had been words of
devotional aspiration before, they were realities at last. And it was
that peace that breathed into her fresh energy to work and love on,
unwearied by disappointment, but with renewed willingness to spend and be
spent, to rejoice with those who rejoiced, to weep with them that wept,
to pray and hope for those who had wrung her heart.
Her tears were flowing as she tenderly embraced Phoebe, and the girl
clung fast to her, not weeping, but full of warm, sweet emotion. 'Dear
Miss Charlecote, now you are come, I have help and comfort!'
'Dear one, I have grieved to be away, but I could not leave poor Mrs.
Saville.'
'Indeed, I know you could not; and it is better to have you now than even
at the time. It is a new, fresh pleasure, when I can enjoy it better.
And I feel as if we had a right to you now--since you know what I told
you,' said Phoebe, with her pretty, shy, lover-like colouring.
'That you are Humfrey's ward?--my legacy from him? Good!' said Honora,
ratifying the inheritance with a caress, doubly precious to one so seldom
fondled. 'Though I am afraid,' she added, 'that Mr. Crabbe would not
exactly recognize my claim.'
'Oh, I don't want you for what Mr. Crabbe can do for us, but it does make
me feel right and at ease in telling you of what might otherwise seem too
near home. But he was intended to have taken care of us all, and you
always seem to me one with him--'
Phoebe stopped short, startled at the deep, bright, girlish blush on her
friend's cheek, and fearing to have said what she ought not; but Honor,
recovering in a moment, gave a strange bright smile and tightly squeezed
her hand. 'One with him! Dear Phoebe, thank you. It was the most
undeserved, unrequited honour of my life that he would have had it so.
Yes, I see how you look at me in wonder, but it was my misfortune not to
know on whom or what to set my affections till too late. No; don't try
to repent of your words. They are a great pleasure to me, and I delight
to include you in the charges I had from him--the nice children he liked
to meet in the woods.'
'Ah! I wish I could remember those meetings. Robert does, and I do
believe Robert's first beginning of love and respect for what was good
was connected with his fondness for Mr. Charlecote.'
'I always regard Bertha as a godchild inherited from him, like Charlecote
Raymond, whom I saw ordained last week. I could not help going out of my
way when I found I might be present, and take his sister Susan with me.'
'You went.'
'Yes, Susan had been staying with her uncle at Sutton, and met me at
Oxford. I am glad we were able to go. There was nothing that I more
wished to have seen.'
Irrepressible curiosity could not but cause Phoebe to ask how lately Miss
Raymond had been at Sutton, and as Miss Charlecote answered the question
she looked inquisitively at her young friend, and each felt that the
other was initiated. Whether the cousin ought to have confided to Miss
Charlecote what she had witnessed at Sutton was an open question, but at
least Honor knew what Phoebe burnt to learn, and was ready to detail it.
It was the old story of the parish priest taking pupils, and by dire
necessity only half fulfilling conflicting duties, to the sacrifice of
the good of all. Overworked between pupils and flock, while his wife was
fully engrossed by children and household cares, the moment had not been
perceived when their daughter became a woman, and the pupil's sport grew
to earnest. Not till Mervyn Fulmort had left Sutton for the University
were they aware that he had treated Cecily as the object of his
affection, and had promised to seek her as soon as he should be his own
master. How much was in his power they knew not, but his way of life
soon proved him careless of deserving her, and it was then that she
became staid and careworn, and her youth had lost its bloom, while forced
in conscience to condemn the companion of her girlhood, yet unable to
take back the heart once bestowed, though so long neglected.
But when Mervyn, declaring himself only set at liberty by his father's
death, appeared at Sutton, Cecily did not waver, and her parents upheld
her decision, that it would be a sin to unite herself to an irreligious
man, and that the absence of principle which he had shown made it
impossible for her to accept him.
Susan described her as going about the next morning looking as though
some one had been killing her, but going through her duties as calmly and
gently as ever, though preyed on by the misery of the parting in anger,
and the threat that if he were not good enough for her, he would give her
reason to think so! Honor had pity on the sister, and spared her those
words, but Phoebe had well-nigh guessed them, and though she might esteem
Cecily Raymond, could not but say mournfully that it was a last chance
flung away.
'Not so, my dear. What is right comes right. A regular life without
repentance is sometimes a more hopeless state than a wilder course, and
this rejection may do him more good than acceptance.'
'It is right, I know,' said Phoebe. 'I could advise no one to take poor
Mervyn; but surely it is not wrong to be sorry for him.'
'No, indeed, dear child. It is only the angels who do not mourn, though
they rejoice. I sometimes wonder whether those who are forgiven, yet
have left evil behind them on earth, are purified by being shown their
own errors reduplicating with time and numbers.'
'Dear Miss Charlecote, do not say so. Once pardoned, surely fully
sheltered, and with no more punishment!'
'Vain speculation, indeed,' answered Honor. 'Yet I cannot help thinking
of the welcome there must be when those who have been left in doubt and
fear or shipwreck come safely into haven; above all, for those who here
may not have been able to "fetch home their banished."'
Phoebe pressed her hand, and spoke of trying whether mamma would see her.
'Ah!' thought Honora, 'neither of us can give perfect sympathy. And it
is well. Had my short-sighted wish taken effect, that sweet face might
be clouded by such grief as poor Cecily Raymond's.'
Mrs. Fulmort did see Miss Charlecote, and though speaking little herself,
was gratified by the visit, and the voices talking before her gave her a
sense of sociability. This preference enabled Phoebe to enjoy a good
deal of quiet conversation with her friend, and Honora made a point of
being at Beauchamp twice or three times a week, as giving the only
variety that could there be enjoyed. Of Mervyn nothing was heard, and
house and property wanted a head. Matters came to poor Mrs. Fulmort for
decision which were unheard-of mysteries and distresses to her, even when
Phoebe, instructed by the steward, did her utmost to explain, and tell
her what to do. It would end by feeble, bewildered looks, and tears
starting on the pale cheeks, and 'I don't know, my dear. It goes through
my head. Your poor papa attended to those things. I wish your brother
would come home. Tell them to write to him.'
'They' wrote, and Phoebe wrote, but in vain, no answer came; and when she
wrote to Robert for tidings of Mervyn's movements, entreating that he
would extract a reply, he answered that he could tell nothing
satisfactory of his brother, and did not know whether he were in town or
not; while as to advising his mother on business, he should only make
mischief by so doing.
Nothing satisfactory! What could that imply? Phoebe expected soon to
hear something positive, for Bertha's teeth required a visit to London,
and Miss Fennimore was to take her to Lady Bannerman's for a week, during
which the governess would be with some relations of her own.
Phoebe talked of the snugness of being alone with her mother and Maria,
and she succeeded in keeping both pleased with one another. The sisters
walked in the park, and brought home primroses and periwinkles, which
their mother tenderly handled, naming the copses they came from, well
known to her in childhood, though since her marriage she had been too
grand to be allowed the sight of a wild periwinkle. In the evening
Phoebe gave them music, sang infant-school hymns with Maria, tried to
teach her piquet; and perceived the difference that the absence of
Bertha's teasing made in the poor girl's temper. All was very quiet, but
when good night was said, Phoebe felt wearied out, and chid herself for
her accesses of yawning, nay, she was shocked at her feeling of
disappointment and tedium when the return of the travellers was delayed
for a couple of days.
When at length they came, the variety brightened even Mrs. Fulmort, and
she was almost loquacious about some mourning pocket-handkerchiefs with
chess-board borders, that they were to bring. The girls all drank tea
with her, Bertha pouring out a whole flood of chatter in unrestraint, for
she regarded her mother as nobody, and loved to astonish her sisters, so
on she went, a slight hitch in her speech giving a sort of piquancy to
her manner.
She had dined late every day, she had ridden with Sir Bevil in the Park,
her curly hair had been thought to be _crepe_, she had drunk champagne,
she would have gone to the Opera, but the Actons were particular, and
said it was too soon--so tiresome, one couldn't do anything for this
mourning. Phoebe, in an admonitory tone, suggested that she had seen the
British Museum.
'Oh yes, I have it all in my note-book. Only imagine, Phoebe, Sir
Nicholas had been at Athens, and knew nothing about the Parthenon! And,
gourmet as he is, and so long in the Mediterranean, he had no idea
whether the Spartan black broth was made with sepia.'
'My dear,' began her mother, 'young ladies do not talk learning in
society.'
'Such a simple thing as this, mamma, every one must know. But they are
all so unintellectual! Not a book about the Bannermans' house except
Soyer and the London Directory, and even Bevil had never read the _Old
Red Sandstone_ nor Sir Charles Lyell. I have no opinion of the science
of soldiers or sailors.'
'You have told us nothing of Juliana's baby,' interposed Phoebe.
'She's exactly like the Goddess Pasht, in the Sydenham Palace! Juliana
does not like her a bit, because she is only a girl, and Bevil quite
worships her. Everything one of them likes, the other hates. They are a
study of the science of antipathies.'
'You should not fancy things, Bertha.'
'It is no fancy; every one is observing it. Augusta says she has only
twice found them together in their own house since Christmas, and Mervyn
says it is a warning against virulent constancy.'
'Then you saw Mervyn?' anxiously asked Phoebe.
'Only twice. He is at deadly feud with the Actons, because Bevil takes
Robert's part, and has been lecturing him about the withdrawing all the
subscriptions!'
'What?' asked Phoebe again.
'Oh! I thought Robert told you all, but there has been such a row! I
believe poor papa said something about letting Robert have an evening
school for the boys and young men at the distillery, but when he claimed
it, Mervyn said he knew nothing about it, and wouldn't hear of it, and
got affronted, so he withdrew all the subscriptions from the charities
and everything else, and the boys have been mobbing the clergy, and
Juliana says it is all Robert's fault.'
'And did you see Robert?'
'Very little. No one would come to such an old fogy's as Sir Nicholas,
that could help it.'
'Bertha, my dear, young ladies do not use such words,' observed her
mother.
'Oh, mamma, you are quite behindhand. Slang is the thing. I see my line
when I come out. It would not do for you, Phoebe--not your style--but I
shall sport it when I come out and go to the Actons. I shall go out with
them. Augusta is too slow, and lives with nothing but old admirals and
_gourmands_; but I'll always go to Juliana for the season, Phoebe, wear
my hair in the Eugenie style, and be piquante.'
'Perhaps things will be altered by that time.'
'Oh no. There will be no retrograde movement. Highly educated women
have acquired such a footing that they may do what they please.'
'Are we highly educated women?' asked Maria.
'I am sure you ought to be, my dear. Nothing was grudged for your
education,' said her mother.
'Well, then, I'll always play at bagatelle, and have a German band at the
door,' quoth Maria, conclusively.
'Did you go to St. Matthew's?' again interrupted Phoebe.
'Yes, Bevil took me. It is the oddest place. A white brick wall with a
red cross built into it over the gate, and the threshold is just a step
back four or five hundred years. A court with buildings all round,
church, schools, and the curates' rooms. Such a sitting-room; the floor
matted, and a great oak table, with benches, where they all dine,
schoolmaster, and orphan boys, and all, and the best boy out of each
class.'
'It is a common room, like one at a college,' explained Phoebe. 'Robert
has his own rooms besides.'
'Such a hole!' continued Bertha. 'It is the worst of all the curates'
sitting-rooms, looking out into the nastiest little alley. It was a
shame he did not have the first choice, when it is all his own.'
'Perhaps that is the reason he took the worst,' said Phoebe.
'A study in extremes,' said Bertha. 'Their dinner was our luncheon--the
very plainest boiled beef, the liquor given away and at dinner, at the
Bannermans', there were more fine things than Bevil said he could
appreciate, and Augusta looking like a full-blown dahlia. I was always
wanting to stick pins into her arms, to see how far in the bones are. I
am sure I could bury the heads.'
Here, seeing her mother look exhausted, Phoebe thought it wise to clear
the room; and after waiting a few minutes to soothe her, left her to her
maid. Bertha had waited for her sister, and clinging round her, said,
'Well, Phoebe, aren't you glad of us? Have you seen a living creature?'
'Miss Charlecote twice, Mr. Henderson once, besides all the congregation
on Sunday.'
'Matter-of-fact Phoebe! Perhaps you can bear it, but does not your mind
ache, as if it had been held down all this time?'
'So that it can't expand to your grand intellect?' said Phoebe.
'It is no great self-conceit to hope one is better company than Maria!
But come, before we fall under the dominion of the Queen of the West
Wing, I have a secret for you.' Then, after a longer stammer than usual,
'How should you like a French sister-in-law?'
'Nonsense, Bertha!'
'Ah! you've not had my opportunities. I've seen her--both of them.
Juliana says the mother is his object; Augusta, the daughter. The mother
is much the most brilliant; but then she has a husband--a mere matter of
faith, for no one ever sees him. Mervyn is going to follow them to
Paris, that's certain, as soon as the Epsom day is over.'
'You saw them!'
'Only in the Park--oh, no! not in a room! Their ladyships would never
call on Madame la Marquise; she is not received, you know. I heard the
sisters talk it all over when they fancied me reading, and wonder what
they should do if it should turn out to be the daughter. But then
Juliana thinks Mervyn might never bring her home, for he is going on at
such a tremendous rate, that it is the luckiest thing our fortunes do not
depend on the business.'
Phoebe looked quite appalled as she entered the schoolroom, not only at
Mervyn's fulfilment of his threat, but at Bertha's flippancy and
shrewdness. Hitherto she had been kept ignorant of evil, save what
history and her own heart could tell her. But these ten days had been
spent in so eagerly studying the world, that her girlish chatter was
fearfully precocious.
'A little edged tool,' said Miss Fennimore, when she talked her over
afterwards with Phoebe. 'I wish I could have been with her at Lady
Bannerman's. It is an unsafe age for a glimpse of the world.'
'I hope it may soon be forgotten.'
'It will never be forgotten' said Miss Fennimore. 'With so strong a
relish for society, such keen satire, and reasoning power so much
developed, I believe nothing but the devotional principle could subdue
her enough to make her a well-balanced woman. How is that to be
infused?--that is the question.'
'It is, indeed.'
'I believe,' pursued the governess, 'that devotional temper is in most
cases dependent upon uncomprising, exclusive faith. I have sometimes
wondered whether Bertha, coming into my hands so young as she did, can
have imbibed my distaste to dogma; though, as you know, I have made a
point of non-interference.'
'I should shudder to think of any doubts in poor little Bertha's mind,'
said Phoebe. 'I believe it is rather that she does not think about the
matter.'
'I will read Butler's _Analogy_ with her,' exclaimed Miss Fennimore. 'I
read it long ago, and shall be glad to satisfy my own mind by going over
it again. It is full time to endeavour to form and deepen Bertha's
convictions.'
'I suppose,' said Phoebe, almost to herself, 'that all naughtiness is the
want of living faith--'
But Miss Fennimore, instead of answering, had gone to another subject.
'I have seen St. Matthew's, Phoebe.'
'And Robert?' cried Phoebe. 'Bertha did not say you were with her.'
'I went alone. No doubt your brother found me a great infliction; but he
was most kind, and showed me everything. I consider that establishment a
great fact.'
Phoebe showed her gratification.
'I heard him preach,' continued Miss Fennimore. 'His was a careful and
able composition, but it was his sermon in brick and stone that most
impressed me. Such actions only arise out of strong conviction. Now,
the work of a conviction may be only a proof of the force of the will
that held it; and thus the effect should not establish the cause. But
when I see a young man, brought up as your brother has been, throwing
himself with such energy, self-denial, and courage into a task so
laborious and obscure, I must own that, such is the construction of the
human mind, I am led to reconsider the train of reasoning that has led to
such results.'
And Miss Fennimore's sincere admiration of Robert was Phoebe's one item
of comfort.
Gladly she shared it with Miss Charlecote, who, on her side, knew more
than she told Phoebe of the persecution that Robert was undergoing from a
vestry notoriously under the influence of the Fulmort firm, whose
interest it was to promote the vice that he came to withstand. Even the
lads employed in the distillery knew that they gratified their employer
by outrages on the clergy and their adherents, and there had been moments
when Robert had been exposed to absolute personal danger, by mobs
stimulated in the gin-shops; their violence against his attacks on their
vicious practices being veiled by a furious party outcry against his
religious opinions. He meanwhile set his face like a rock, and strong,
resolute, and brave, went his own way, so unmoved as apparently almost to
prefer his own antagonistic attitude, and bidding fair to weary out his
enemies by his coolness, or to disarm them by the charities of which St.
Matthew's was the centre.
As Phoebe never read the papers, and was secluded from the world's
gossip, it was needless to distress her with the knowledge of the
malignity of the one brother, or the trials of the other; so Honor obeyed
Robert by absolute silence on this head. She herself gave her influence,
her counsel, her encouragement, and, above all, her prayers, to uphold
the youth who was realizing the dreams of her girlhood.
It might be that the impress of those very dreams had formed the
character she was admiring. Many a weak and fragile substance, moulded
in its softness to a noble shape, has given a clear and lasting impress
to a firm and durable material, either in the heat of the furnace, or the
ductility of growth. So Robert and Phoebe, children of the heart that
had lost those of her adoption, cheered these lonely days by their need
of her advice and sympathy.
Nor was she without tasks at home. Mr. Henderson, the vicar, was a very
old man, and was constantly growing more feeble and unequal to exertion.
He had been appointed by the squire before last, and had the indolent
conservative orthodoxy of the old school, regarding activity as a
perilous innovation, and resisting all Miss Charlecote's endeavours at
progress in the parish. She had had long patience, till, when his
strength failed, she ventured to entreat him to allow her to undertake
the stipend of a curate, but this was rejected with displeasure, and she
was forced to redouble her own exertions; but neither reading to the
sick, visiting the cottages, teaching at school, nor even setting up a
night-school in her own hall, availed to supply the want of an active
pastor and of a resident magistrate.
Hiltonbury was in danger of losing its reputation as a pattern parish,
which it had retained long after the death of him who had made it so.
The younger race who had since grown up were not such as their fathers
had been, and the disorderly household at Beauchamp had done mischief.
The primitive manners, the simplicity, and feudal feeling were wearing
off, and poor Honor found the whole charge laid to her few modern steps
in education! If Hiltonbury were better than many of the neighbouring
places, yet it was not what it had been when she first had known it, and
she vexed herself in the attempt to understand whether the times or
herself were the cause.
Even her old bailiff, Brooks, did not second her. He had more than come
to the term of service at which the servant becomes a master, and had no
idea of obeying her, when he thought he knew best. Backward as were her
notions of modern farming, they were too advanced for him, and either he
would not act on them at all, or was resolved against their success when
coerced. There was no dismissing him, and without Mr. Saville to come
and enforce her authority, Honor found the old man so stubborn that she
had nearly given up the contest, except where the welfare of men, not of
crops, was concerned.
A maiden's reign is a dreary thing, when she tends towards age. And
Honor often felt what it would have been to have had Owen to back her up,
and infuse new spirit and vigour.
The surly ploughboy, who omitted to touch his cap to the lady, little
imagined the train of painful reflections roused by this small indication
of the altering spirit of the place!