My sister is not so defenceless left
As you imagine. She has a hidden strength
Which you remember not.--_Comus_
Phoebe was left to the vacancy of the orphaned house, to a blank where
her presence had been gladness, and to relief more sad than pain, in
parting with her favourite brother, and seeing him out of danger of
provoking or being provoked.
To have been the cause of strife and object of envy weighed like guilt on
her heart, and the tempest that had tossed her when most needing peace
and soothing, left her sore and suffering. She did not nurse her grief,
and was content that her mother should be freed from the burthen of
existence that had of late been so heavy; but the missing the cherished
recipient of her care was inevitable, and she was not of a nature to
shake off dejection readily, nor to throw sorrow aside in excitement.
Mervyn felt as though he had caught a lark, and found it droop instead of
singing. He was very kind, almost oppressively so; he rode or drove with
her to every ruin or view esteemed worth seeing, ordered books for her,
and consulted her on improvements that pained her by the very fact of
change. She gave her attention sweetly and gratefully, was always at his
call, and amused his evenings with cards or music, but she felt herself
dull and sad, and saw him disappointed in her.
Then she tried bringing in Bertha as entertainment for both, but it was a
downright failure. Bertha was far too sharp and pert for an elder
brother devoid both of wit and temper, and the only consequence was that
she fathomed his shallow acquirements in literature and the natural
sciences, and he pronounced her to be eaten up with conceit, and the most
intolerable child he ever saw--an irremediable insult to a young woman of
fifteen; nor could Bertha be brought forward without disappointing Maria,
whose presence Mervyn would not endure, and thus Phoebe was forced to
yield the point, and keep in the background the appendages only tolerated
for her sake.
Greatly commiserating Bertha's weariness of the schoolroom, she tried to
gratify the governess and please her sisters by resuming her studies; but
the motive of duty and obedience being gone, these were irksome to a mind
naturally meditative and practical, and she found herself triumphed over
by Bertha for forgetting whether Lucca were Guelf or Ghibelline, putting
oolite below red sandstone, or confusing the definition of ozone. She
liked Bertha to surpass her; but inattention she regarded as wrong in
itself, as well as a bad example, and her apologies were so hearty as
quite to affect Miss Fennimore.
Mervyn's attentions wore off with the days of seclusion. By the third
week he was dining out, by the fourth he was starting for Goodwood, half
inviting Phoebe to come with him, and assuring her that it was just what
she wanted to put her into spirits again. Poor Phoebe--when Mr.
Henderson talking to Miss Fennimore, and Bertha at the same time
insisting on Decandolle's system to Miss Charlecote, had seemed to create
a distressing whirl and confusion!
Miss Fennimore smiled, both with pleasure and amusement, as Phoebe asked
her permission to walk to the Holt, and be fetched home by the carriage
at night.
'Don't laugh at me,' said Phoebe. 'I am so glad to have some one's leave
to ask.'
'I will not laugh, my dear, but I will not help you to reverse our
positions. It is better we should both be accustomed to them.'
'It seems selfish to take the carriage for myself,' said Phoebe; 'but I
think I have rather neglected Miss Charlecote for Mervyn, and I believe
she would like to have me alone.'
The solitude of the walk was a great boon, and there was healing in the
power of silence--the repose of not being forced to be lively. Summer
flowers had passed, but bryony mantled the bushes in luxuriant beauty,
and kingly teazles raised their diademed heads, and exultingly stretched
forth their sceptred arms. Purple heather mixed with fragrant thyme,
blue harebells and pale bents of quiver-grass edged the path, and
thistledown, drifting from the chalk uplands, lay like snow in the
hollows, or danced like living things on the path before her. A brood of
goldfinches, with merry twitter and flashing wings, flitted round a tall
milk thistle with variegated leaves and a little farther on, just at the
opening of a glade from the path, she beheld a huge dragon-fly, banded
with green, black, and gold, poised on wings invisible in their rapid
motion, and hawking for insects. She stood to watch, collecting
materials to please Miss Charlecote, and make a story for Maria.
'Stand still. He is upon you.'
She saw Miss Charlecote a few yards off, nearly on all-fours in the thymy
grass.
'Only a grasshopper. I've only once seen such a fellow. He makes
portentous leaps. There! on your flounce!'
'I have him! No! He went right over you!'
'I've got him under my handkerchief. Put your hand in my pocket--take
out a little wide-mouthed bottle. That's it. Get in, sir, it is of no
use to bite. There's an air-hole in the cork. Isn't he a beauty?'
'O, the lovely green! What saws he wears on his thighs! See the
delicate pink lining! What horns! and a quaint face, like a horse's.'
'"The appearance of them is as the appearance of horses." Not that this
is a locust, only a _gryllus_, happily for us.'
'What is the difference?'
'Long or short horns, since Bertha is not here to make me call them
antennae. I must take him home to draw, as soon as I have gathered some
willow for my puss. You are coming home with me?'
'I meant to drink tea with you, and be sent for in the evening.'
'Good child. I was almost coming to you, but I was afraid of Mervyn.
How has it been, my dear?'
Phoebe's 'he is very kind' was allowed to stand for the present, and
Honora led the way by a favourite path, which was new to Phoebe, making
the circuit of the Holt; sometimes dipping into a hollow, over which the
lesser scabious cast a tint like the gray of a cloud; sometimes rising on
a knoll so as to look down on the rounded tops of the trees, following
the undulations of the grounds; and beyond them the green valley, winding
stream, and harvest fields, melting into the chalk downs on the horizon.
To Phoebe, all had the freshness of novelty, with the charm of
familiarity, and without the fatigue of admiration required by the
show-places to which Mervyn had taken her. Presently Miss Charlecote
opened the wicket leading to an oak coppice. There was hardly any
brushwood. The ground was covered with soft grass and round elastic
cushions of gray lichen. There were a few brackens, and here and there
the crimson midsummer men, but the copsewood consisted of the redundant
shoots of the old, gnarled, knotted stumps, covered with handsome foliage
of the pale sea-green of later summer, and the leaves far exceeding in
size those either of the sapling or the full-sized tree--vigorous
playfulness of the poor old wounded stocks.
'Ah!' said Honor, pausing, 'here I found my purple emperor, sunning
himself, his glorious wings wide open, looking black at first, but
turning out to be of purple-velvet, of the opaque mysterious beauty which
seems nobler than mere lustre.'
'Did you keep him? I thought that was against your principles.'
'I only mocked him by trying to paint him. He was mine because he came
to delight me with the pleasure of having seen him, and the remembrance
of him that pervades the path. It was just where Humfrey always told me
the creatures might be found.'
'Was Mr. Charlecote fond of natural history?' asked Phoebe, shyly.
'Not as natural history, but he knew bird, beast, insect, and tree, with
a friendly hearty intimacy, such as Cockney writers ascribe to peasants,
but which they never have. While he used the homeliest names, a
dish-washer for a wagtail, cuckoo's bread-and-cheese for wood-sorrel
(partly I believe to tease me), he knew them thoroughly, nests, haunts,
and all.'
Phoebe could not help quoting the old lines, 'He prayeth well that loveth
well both man and bird and beast.'
'Yes, and some persons have a curious affinity with the gentle and good
in creation--who can watch and even handle a bird's nest without making
it be deserted, whom bees do not sting, and horses, dogs, and cats love
so as to reveal their best instincts in a way that seems fabulous. In
spite of the Lyra Innocentium, I think this is less often the case with
children than with such grown people as--like your guardian, Phoebe--have
kept something of the majesty and calmness of innocence.'
Phoebe was all in a glow with the pleasure of hearing him so called, but
bashful under that very delight, she said, 'Perhaps part of Solomon's
wisdom was in loving these things, since he knew the plants from the
cedar to the hyssop.'
'And spoke of Nature so beautifully in his Song, but I am afraid as he
grew old he must have lost his healthful pleasure in them when he was
lifted up.'
'Or did he only make them learning and ornament, instead of a joy and
devotion?' said Phoebe, thinking of the difference between Bertha's love
and Miss Charlecote's.
'Nor does he say that he found vanity in them, though he did in his own
gardens and pools of water. No, the longer I live, the more sure I am
that these things are meant for our solace and minor help through the
trials of life. I assure you, Phoebe, that the crimson leaf of a
Herb-Robert in the hedge has broken a strain of fretful repining, and it
is one great blessing in these pleasures that one never can exhaust
them.'
Phoebe saw that Miss Charlecote was right in her own case, when on coming
in, the grasshopper's name and history were sought, and there followed an
exhibition of the 'puss' for whom the willow had been gathered, namely a
grass-green caterpillar, with a kitten's face, a curious upright head and
shoulders, and two purple tails, whence on irritation two pink filaments
protruded,--lashes for the ichneumons, as Honora explained. The lonely
woman's interest in her quaint pet showed how thickly are strewn round us
many a calm and innocent mode of solace and cheerfulness if we knew but
how to avail ourselves of it.
Honora had allowed the conversation to be thus desultory and indifferent,
thinking that it gave greater rest to Phoebe, and it was not till the
evening was advancing, that she began to discharge herself of an urgent
commission from Robert, by saying, 'Phoebe, I want you to do something
for me. There is that little dame's school in your hamlet. It is too
far off for me to look after, I wish you would.'
'Robin has been writing to me about parish work,' said Phoebe, sadly.
'Perhaps I ought, but I don't know how, and I can't bear that any change
in our ways should be observed;' and the tears came more speedily than
Honor had expected.
'Dear child,' she said, 'there is no need for that feeling. Parish work,
at least in a lay family, must depend on the amount of home duty. In the
last years of my dear mother's life I had to let everything go, and I
know it is not easy to resume, still less to begin, but you will be glad
to have done so, and will find it a great comfort.'
'If it be my duty, I must try,' said Phoebe, dejectedly, 'and I suppose
it is. Will you come and show me what to do? I never went into a
cottage in my life.'
I have spoken too soon! thought Honor; yet Robert urged me, and besides
the evil of neglecting the poor, the work will do her good; but it breaks
one's heart to see this meek, mournful obedience.
'While we are alone,' continued Phoebe, 'I can fix times, and do as I
please, but I cannot tell what Mervyn may want me to do when he is at
home.'
'Do you expect that he will wish you to go out with him?' asked Honora.
'Not this autumn,' she answered; 'but he finds it so dull at home, that I
fully expect he will have his friends to stay with him.'
'Phoebe, let me strongly advise you to keep aloof from your brother's
friends. When they are in the house, live entirely in the schoolroom.
If you begin at once as a matter of course, he will see the propriety,
and acquiesce. You are not vexed?'
'Thank you, I believe it is all right. Robert will be the more at ease
about us. I only do not like to act as if I distrusted Mervyn.'
'It would not be discreet for any girl so young as you are to be
entertaining her brother's sporting friends. You could hardly do so
without acquiring the same kind of reputation as my poor Lucy's Rashe,
which he would not wish.'
'Thank you,' said Phoebe more heartily. 'You have shown me the way out
of a difficulty. I need not go into company at all this winter, and
after that, only with our old country neighbours.'
Honora was infinitely relieved at having bestowed this piece of advice,
on which she had agreed with Robert as the only means of insuring
Phoebe's being sheltered from society that Mervyn might not esteem so bad
for his sister as they did.
The quietness of Mervyn's absence did much for the restoration of
Phoebe's spirits. The dame's school was not delightful to her; she had
not begun early enough in life for ease, but she did her tasks there as a
duty, and was amply rewarded by the new enjoyment thus afforded to Maria.
The importance of being surrounded by a ring of infants, teaching the
alphabet, guiding them round the gooseberry bush, or leading their songs
and hymns, was felicity indescribable to Maria. She learnt each name,
and, with the reiteration that no one could endure save Phoebe and
faithful Lieschen, rehearsed the individual alphabetical acquirements of
every one; she painted pictures for them, hemmed pinafores, and was
happier than she had ever been in her life, as well as less fretful and
more manageable, and she even began to develop more sense and
intelligence in this direction than she had seemed capable of under the
dreary round of lessons past her comprehension.
It was a great stimulus to Phoebe, and spurred her to personal parish
work, going beyond the soup and subscriptions that might have bounded her
charities for want of knowing better. Of course the worst and most
plausible people took her in, and Miss Charlecote sometimes scolded,
sometimes laughed at her, but the beginning was made, and Robert was
pleased.
Mervyn did bring home some shooting friends, but he made no difficulties
as to the seclusion that Miss Charlecote had recommended for his sister;
accepting it so easily that Phoebe thought he must have intended it from
the first. From that time he was seldom at home without one or more
guests--an arrangement that kept the young ladies chiefly to the west
wing, and always, when in the garden, forced them to be on their guard
against stumbling upon smoking gentlemen. It was a late-houred, noisy
company, and the sounds that reached the sisters made the younger girls
curious, and the governess anxious. Perhaps it was impossible that girls
of seventeen and fifteen should not be excited by the vicinity of
moustaches and beards whom they were bidden to avoid; and even the
alternate French and German which Miss Fennimore enforced on Bertha more
strongly than ever, merely produced the variety of her descanting on
their _knebelbarten_, or on _l'heure a guelle les voix de ces
messieurs-la entonnaient sur le grand escalier_, till Miss Fennimore
declared that she would have Latin and Greek talked if there were no word
for a gentleman in either! There were always stories to be told of
Bertha's narrow escapes of being overtaken by them in garden or corridor,
till Maria, infected by the panic, used to flounder away as if from a
beast of prey, and being as tall as, and considerably stouter than,
Phoebe, with the shuffling gait of the imbecile, would produce a volume
of sound that her sister always feared might attract notice, and irritate
Mervyn.
Honora Charlecote tried to give pleasure to the sisters by having them at
the Holt, and would fain have treated Bertha as one of the inherited
godchildren. But Bertha proved by reference to the brass tablet that she
_could_ not be godchild to a man who died three years before her birth,
and it was then perceived that his sponsorship had been to an elder
Bertha, who had died in infancy, of water on the head, and whom her
parents, in their impatience of sorrow, had absolutely caused to be
forgotten. Such a delusion in the exact Phoebe could only be accounted
for by her tenderness to Mr. Charlecote, and it gave Bertha a subject of
triumph of which she availed herself to the utmost. She had imbibed a
sovereign contempt for Miss Charlecote's capacity, and considered her as
embodying the passive individual who is to be instructed or confuted in a
scientific dialogue. So she lost no occasion of triumphantly denouncing
all 'cataclysms' of the globe, past or future, of resolving all nature
into gases, or arguing upon duality--a subject that fortunately usually
brought on her hesitation of speech, a misfortune of which Miss Fennimore
and Phoebe would unscrupulously avail themselves to change the
conversation. The bad taste and impertinence were quite as apparent to
the governess as to the sister, and though Bertha never admitted a doubt
of having carried the day against the old world prejudices, yet Miss
Fennimore perceived, not only that Miss Charlecote's notions were not of
the contracted and unreasonable order that had been ascribed to her, but
that liberality in her pupil was more uncandid, narrow, and
self-sufficient than was 'credulity' in Miss Charlecote. Honor was more
amused than annoyed at these discussions; she was sorry for the silly,
conceited girl, though not in the least offended nor disturbed, but
Phoebe and Miss Fennimore considered them such an exposure that they were
by no means willing to give Bertha the opportunity of launching herself
at her senior.
The state of the household likewise perplexed Phoebe. She had been bred
up to the sight of waste, ostentation, and extravagance, and they did not
distress her; but her partial authority revealed to her glimpses of
dishonesty; detected falsehoods destroyed her confidence in the
housekeeper; her attempts at charities to the poor were intercepted; her
visits to the hamlet disclosed to her some of the effects on the
villagers of a vicious, disorderly establishment; and she understood why
a careful mother would as soon have sent her daughter to service at the
lowest public-house as at Beauchamp.
Mervyn had detected one of the footmen in a flagrant act of peculation,
and had dismissed him, but Phoebe believed the evil to have extended far
more widely than he supposed, and made up her mind to entreat him to
investigate matters. In vain, however, she sought for a favourable
moment, for he was never alone. The intervals between other visitors
were filled up by a Mr. Hastings, who seemed to have erected himself into
so much of the domesticated friend that he had established a bowing and
speaking acquaintance with Phoebe; Bertha no longer narrated her escapes
of encounters with him; and, being the only one of the gentlemen who ever
went to church, he often joined the young ladies as they walked back from
thence. Phoebe heartily wished him gone, for he made her brother
inaccessible; she only saw Mervyn when he wanted her to find something
for him or to give her a message, and if she ventured to say that she
wanted to speak to him, he promised--'Some time or other'--which always
proved _sine die_. He was looking very ill, his complexion very much
flushed, and his hand heated and unsteady, and she heard through Lieschen
of his having severe morning headaches, and fits of giddiness and
depression, but these seemed to make him more unable to spare Mr.
Hastings, as if life would not be endurable without the billiards that
she sometimes heard knocking about half the night.
However, the anniversary of Mr. Fulmort's death would bring his executor
to clear off one branch of his business, and Mervyn's friends fled before
the coming of the grave old lawyer, all fixing the period of their
departure before Christmas. Nor could Mervyn go with them; he must meet
Mr. Crabbe, and Phoebe's heart quite bounded at the hope of being able to
walk about the house in comfort, and say part of what was on her mind to
her brother.
'Whose writing is this?' said Phoebe to herself, as the letters were
given to her, two days before the clearance of the house. 'I ought to
know it--It is! No! Yes, indeed it is--poor Lucy. Where can she be?
What can she have to say?'
The letter was dateless, and Phoebe's amaze grew as she read.
'DEAR PHOEBE,
'You know it is my nature to do odd things, so never mind that, but
attend to me, as one who knows too well what it is to be motherless
and undirected. Gossip is long-tongued enough to reach me here, in
full venom as I know and trust, but it makes my blood boil, till I
can't help writing a warning that may at least save you pain. I know
you are the snowdrop poor Owen used to call you, and I know you have
Honor Charlecote for philosopher, and friend, but she is nearly as
unsophisticated as yourself, and if report say true, your brother is
getting you into a scrape. If it is a fact that he has Jack Hastings
dangling about Beauchamp, he deserves the lot of my unlucky Charteris
cousins! Mind what you are about, Phoebe, if the man is there. He
is plausible, clever, has no end of amusing resources, and keeps his
head above water; but I _know_ that in no place where there are
womankind has he been received without there having been cause to
repent it! I hope you may be able to laugh--if not, it may be a
wholesome cure to hear that his friends believe him to have secured
one of the heiresses at Beauchamp. There, Phoebe, I have said my
say, and I fear it is cutting and wounding, but it came out of the
love of a heart that has not got rid of some of its old feelings, and
that could not bear to think of sorrow or evil tongues busy about
you. That I write for your sake, not for my own, you may see by my
making it impossible to answer.
'LUCILLA SANDBROOK.
'If you hold council with Honor over this--as, if you are wise, you
will--you may tell her that I am learning gratitude to her. I would ask
her pardon if I could without servility.'
'Secured one of the heiresses!' said Phoebe to herself. 'I should like
to be able to tell Lucy how I can laugh! Poor Lucy, how very kind in her
to write. I wonder whether Mervyn knows how bad the man is! Shall I go
to Miss Charlecote? Oh, no; she is spending two days at Moorcroft!
Shall I tell Miss Fennimore? No, I think not, it will be wiser to talk
to Miss Charlecote; I don't like to tell Miss Fennimore of Lucy. Poor
Lucy--she is always generous! He will soon be gone, and then I can speak
to Mervyn.'
This secret was not a serious burthen to Phoebe, though she could not
help smiling to herself at the comical notion of having been secured by a
man to whom she had not spoken a dozen times, and then with the utmost
coldness and formality.
The next day she approached the letter-bag with some curiosity. It
contained one for her from her sister Juliana, a very unusual
correspondent, and Phoebe's mind misgave her lest it should have any
connection with the hints in Lucilla's note. But she was little prepared
for what she read.
'Acton Manor, Dec. 24th.
'MY DEAR PHOEBE,
'Although, after what passed in July, I cannot suppose that the
opinion of your elders can have any effect on your proceedings, yet
for the sake of our relationship, as well as of regard to
appearances, I cannot forbear endeavouring to rescue you from the
consequences of your own folly and obstinacy. Nothing better was to
be expected from Mervyn; but at your age, with your pretences to
religion, you cannot plead simplicity, nor ignorance of the usages of
the world. Neither Sir Bevil nor myself can express our amazement at
your recklessness, thus forfeiting the esteem of society, and
outraging the opinion of our old friends. To put an end to the
impropriety, we will at once receive you here, overlooking any
inconvenience, and we shall expect you all three on Tuesday, under
charge of Miss Fennimore, who seems to have been about as fit as
Maria to think for you. It is too late to write to Mervyn to-night,
but he shall hear from us to-morrow, as well as from your guardian,
to whom Sir Bevil has written, You had better bring my jewels; and
the buhl clock from my mother's mantelshelf, which I was to have.
Mrs. Brisbane will pack them. Tell Bertha, with my love, that she
might have been more explicit in her correspondence.
'Your affectionate sister,
'JULIANA ACTON.'
When Miss Fennimore entered the room, she found Phoebe sitting like one
petrified, only just able to hold out the letter, and murmur--'What does
it mean?' Imagining that it could only contain something fatal about
Robert, Miss Fennimore sprang at the paper, and glanced through it, while
Phoebe again faintly asked, 'What have I done?'
'Lady Acton is pleased to be mysterious!' said the governess. 'The kind
sister she always was!'
'Don't say that,' exclaimed Phoebe, rallying. 'It must be something
shocking, for Sir Bevil thinks so too,' and the tears sprang forth.
'He will never think anything unkind of you, my dear,' said Miss
Fennimore, with emphasis.
'It must be about Mr. Hastings!' said Phoebe, gathering recollection and
confidence. 'I did not like to tell you yesterday, but I had a letter
from poor Lucy Sandbrook. Some friends of that man, Mr. Hastings, have
set it about that he is going to be married to me!' and Phoebe laughed
outright. 'If Juliana has heard it, I don't wonder that she is shocked,
because you know Miss Charlecote said it would never do for me to
associate with those gentlemen, and besides, Lucy says that he is a very
bad man. I shall write to Juliana, and say that I have never had
anything to do with him, and he is going away to-morrow, and Mervyn must
be told not to have him back again. That will set it all straight at
Acton Manor.'
Phoebe was quite herself again. She was too well accustomed to
gratuitous unkindness and reproaches from Juliana to be much hurt by
them, and perceiving, as she thought, where the misconception lay, had no
fears that it would not be cleared up. So when she had carefully written
her letter to her sister, she dismissed the subject until she should be
able to lay it before Miss Charlecote, dwelling more on Honor's pleasure
on hearing of Lucy than on the more personal matter.
Miss Fennimore, looking over the letter, had deeper misgivings. It
seemed to her rather to be a rebuke for the whole habit of life than a
warning against an individual, and she began to doubt whether even the
seclusion of the west wing had been a sufficient protection in the eyes
of the family from the contamination of such society as Mervyn received.
Or was it a plot of Lady Acton's malevolence for hunting Phoebe away from
her home? Miss Fennimore fell asleep, uneasy and perplexed, and in her
dreams beheld Phoebe as the Lady in Comus, fixed in her chair and
resolute against a cup effervescing with carbonic acid gas, proffered by
Jack Hastings, who thereupon gave it to Bertha, as she lay back in the
dentist's chair, and both becoming transformed into pterodactyles, flew
away while Miss Fennimore was vainly trying to summon the brothers by
electric telegraph.
There was a whole bevy of letters for Phoebe the following morning, and
first a kind sensible one from her guardian, much regretting to learn
that Mr. Fulmort's guests were undesirable inmates for a house where
young ladies resided, so that, though he had full confidence in Miss
Fulmort's discretion, and understood that she had never associated with
the persons in question, he thought her residence at home ought to be
reconsidered, and should be happy to discuss the point on coming to
Beauchamp, so soon as he should have recovered from an unfortunate fit of
the gout, which at present detained him in town. Miss Fulmort might,
however, be assured that her wishes should be his chief consideration,
and that he would take care not to separate her from Miss Maria.
That promise, and the absence of all mention of Lucilla's object of
dread, gave Phoebe courage to open the missive from her eldest sister.
'MY DEAR PHOEBE,
'I always told you it would never answer, and you see I was right.
If Mervyn will invite that horrid man, whatever you may do, no one
will believe that you do not associate with him, and you may never
get over it. I am telling everybody what children you are, quite in
the schoolroom, but nothing will be of any use but your coming away
at once, and appearing in society with me, so you had better send the
children to Acton Manor, and come to me next week. If there are any
teal in the decoy bring some, and ask Mervyn where he got that
Barton's dry champagne.
'Your affectionate sister,
'AUGUSTA BANNERMAN.'
She had kept Robert's letter to the last, as refreshment after the rest.
'St. Matthew's, Dec. 18th.
'DEAR PHOEBE,
'I am afraid this may not be your first intimation of what may vex
and grieve you greatly, and what calls for much cool and anxious
judgment. In you we have implicit confidence, and your adherence to
Miss Charlecote's kind advice has spared you all imputation, though
not, I fear, all pain. You may, perhaps, not know how disgraceful
are the characters of some of the persons whom Mervyn has collected
about him. I do him the justice to believe that he would shelter you
from all intercourse with them as carefully as I should; but I cannot
forgive his having brought them beneath the same roof with you. I
fear the fact has done harm in our own neighbourhood. People imagine
you to be associating with Mervyn's crew, and a monstrous report is
abroad which has caused Bevil Acton to write to me and to Crabbe. We
all agree that this is a betrayal of the confidence that you
expressed in Mervyn, and that while he chooses to make his house a
scene of dissipation, no seclusion can render it a fit residence for
women or girls. I fear you will suffer much in learning this
decision, for Mervyn's sake as well as your own. Poor fellow! if he
will bring evil spirits about him, good angels must depart. I would
come myself, but that my presence would embitter Mervyn, and I could
not meet him properly. I am writing to Miss Charlecote. If she
should propose to receive you all at the Holt immediately, until
Crabbe's most inopportune gout is over, you had better go thither at
once. It would be the most complete vindication of your conduct that
could be offered to the county, and would give time for considering
of establishing you elsewhere, and still under Miss Fennimore's care.
For Bertha's sake as well as your own, you must be prepared to leave
home and resign yourself to be passive in the decision of those bound
to think for you, by which means you may avoid being included in
Mervyn's anger. Do not distress yourself by the fear that any blame
can attach to you or to Miss Fennimore; I copy Bevil's
expressions--"Assure Phoebe that though her generous confidence may
have caused her difficulties, no one can entertain a doubt of her
guileless intention and maidenly discretion. If it would not make
further mischief, I would hasten to fetch her, but if she will do me
the honour to accept her sister's invitation, I hope to do all in my
power to make her happy and mark my esteem for her." These are his
words; but I suppose you will hardly prefer Acton Manor, though,
should the Holt fail us, you might send the other two to the Manor,
and come to Albury-street as Augusta wishes, when we could consult
together on some means of keeping you united, and retaining Miss
Fennimore, who must not be thrown over, as it would be an injury to
her prospects. Tell her from me that I look to her for getting you
through this unpleasant business.
'Your ever affectionate
'R. M. FULMORT.'
Phoebe never spoke, but handed each sheet as she finished it to her
governess.
'Promise me, Phoebe,' said Miss Fennimore, as she came to Robert's last
sentence, 'that none of these considerations shall bias you. Make no
struggle for me, but use me as I may be most serviceable to you.'
Phoebe, instead of answering, kissed and clung to her.
'What do you think of doing?' asked the governess.
'Nothing,' said Phoebe.
'You looked as if a thought had occurred to you.'
'I only recollected the words, "your strength is to sit still," said
Phoebe, 'and thought how well they agreed with Robert's advice to be
passive. Mr. Crabbe has promised not to separate us, and I will trust to
that. Mervyn was very kind in letting us stay here, but he does not want
us, and will not miss us,'--and with those words, quiet as they were,
came a gush of irrepressible tears, just as a step resounded outside, the
door was burst open, and Mervyn hurried in, purple with passion, and
holding a bundle of letters crushed together in his hand.
'I say,' he hoarsely cried, 'what's all this? Who has been telling
infamous tales of my house?'
'We cannot tell--' began Phoebe.
'Do you know anything of this?' he interrupted, fiercely turning on Miss
Fennimore.
'Nothing, sir. The letters which your sister has received have equally
surprised and distressed me.'
'Then they have set on you, Phoebe! The whole pack in full cry, as if it
mattered to them whether I chose to have the Old Gentleman in the house,
so long as he did not meddle with you!'
'I beg your pardon, Mr. Fulmort,' interposed the governess, 'the
remonstrance is quite just. Had I been aware of the character of some of
your late guests, I could not have wished your sisters to remain in the
house with them.'
'Are these your sentiments, Phoebe?' he asked, sternly.
'I am afraid they ought to be,' she sadly answered.
'Silly child; so this pack of censorious women and parsons have
frightened you into giving me up.'
'Sisters do not give up brothers, Mervyn. You know how I thank you for
having me here, but I could not amuse you, or make it pleasant to you, so
there must be an end of it.'
'So they hunt you out to be bullied by Juliana, or slaved to death by
Augusta, which is it to be? Or maybe Robert has got his sisterhood cut
and dried for you; only mind, he shan't make away with your 30,000 pounds
while I live to expose those popish tricks.'
'For shame, Mervyn,' cried Phoebe, all in a glow; 'I will not hear Robert
so spoken of: he is always kind and good, and has taught me every right
thing I know!'
'Oh, very well; and pray when does he summon you from among the ungodly?
Will the next train be soon enough?'
'Don't, Mervyn! Your friends go to-day, don't they? Mr. Crabbe does not
desire any change to be made before he comes to see about it. May we not
stay till that time, and spend our Christmas together?'
'You must ask Robert and Juliana, since you prefer them.'
'No,' said Phoebe, with spirit; 'it is right to attend to my elder
sisters, and Robert has always helped and taught me, and I must trust his
guidance, as I always have done. And I trust you too, Mervyn. You never
thought you were doing us any harm. I may trust you still,' she added,
with so sweet and imploring a look that Mervyn gave an odd laugh, with
some feeling in it.
'Harm? Great harm I have done this creature, eh?' he said, with his hand
on her shoulder.
'Few could do _her_ harm, Mr. Fulmort,' said the governess, 'but report
may have done some mischief.
'Who cares for report! I say, Phoebe, we will laugh at them all. You
pluck up a spirit, stay with me, and we'll entertain all the county, and
then get some great swell to bring you out in town, and see what Juliana
will say!'
'I will stay with you while you are alone, and Mr. Crabbe lets me,' said
Phoebe.
'Old fool of a fellow! Why couldn't my father have made me your
guardian, and then there would have been none of this row! One would
think I had had her down to act barmaid to the fellows. And you never
spoke to one, did you, Phoebe?'
'Only now and then to Mr. Hastings. I could not help it after the day he
came into the study when I was copying for you.'
'Ah, well! that is nothing--nobody minds old Jack. I shall let them all
know you were as safe as a Turk's wife in a harem, and maybe old Crabbe
will hear reason if we get him down here alone, without a viper at each
ear, as he had last time.'
With which words Mervyn departed, and Miss Fennimore exclaimed in some
displeasure, 'You can never think of remaining, Phoebe.'
'I am afraid not,' said Phoebe; 'Mervyn does not seem to know what is
proper for us, and I am too young to judge, so I suppose we must go. I
wish I could make him happy with music, or books, or anything a woman
could do! If you please, I think I must go over to the Holt. I cannot
settle to anything just yet, and I shall answer my letters better when I
have seen Miss Charlecote.'
In fact Phoebe felt herself going to her other guardian; but as she left
the room, Bertha came hurriedly in from the garden, with a plaid thrown
round her. 'What--what--what's the matter?' she hastily asked, following
Phoebe to her room. 'Is there an end of all these mysteries?'
'Yes,' said Phoebe, 'Miss Fennimore is ready for you.'
'As if that were all I wanted to know. Do you think I did not hear
Mervyn storming like a lion?'
'I am sorry you did hear,' said Phoebe, 'for it was not pleasant. It
seems that it is not thought proper for us to live here while Mervyn has
so many gentleman-guests, so,' with a sigh, 'you will have your wish,
Bertha. They mean us to go away!'
'It is not my wish now,' said Bertha, pulling pins in and out of Phoebe's
pincushion. 'I am not the child I was in the summer. Don't go, Phoebe;
I know you can get your way, if you try for it.'
'I must try to be put in the right way, Bertha, that is all I want.'
'And you are going to the Holt for the most precise, narrow-minded way
you can get. I wish I were in your place, Phoebe.'
Scarcely had Phoebe driven from the door, before she saw Miss Charlecote
crossing the grass on foot, and after the interchange of a few words, it
was agreed to talk while driving on towards Elverslope. Each was laden
with the same subject, for not only had Honor heard from Robert, but
during her visit to Moorcroft she had become enlightened on the gossip
that seldom reached the Holt, and had learnt that the whole neighbourhood
was scandalized at the Beauchamp doings, and was therefore shy of taking
notice of the young people there. She had been incredulous at first,
then extremely shocked and distressed, and though in part convinced that
more than she guessed had passed beyond the west wing, she had come
primed with a representation which she cautiously administered to Phoebe.
The girl was more indignant on her brother's account than alarmed on her
own.
'If that is the way the Raymonds talk of Mervyn,' cried she, 'no wonder
they made their niece cast him off, and drive him to despair.'
'It was no unkindness of the Raymonds, my dear. They were only sorry for
you.'
'I do not want them to be sorry for me; they ought to be sorry for
Mervyn,' said Phoebe, almost petulantly.
'Perhaps they are,' said Honor. 'It was only in kindness that they
spoke, and they had almost anticipated my explanation that you were kept
entirely apart. Every gentleman hereabouts who has been at Beauchamp has
declared such to be the case.'
'I should think so!' said Phoebe; 'Mervyn knows how to take care of us
better than that!'
'But all ladies do not seem willing to believe as much, shame on them,'
said Honor; 'and, tell me, Phoebe, have people called on you?'
'Not many, but I have not called on them since they left their cards of
inquiry. I had been thinking whether I ought.'
'We will consider. Perhaps I had better take you round some day, but I
have been a very remiss protector, my poor child, if all be true that I
am told of some of Mervyn's friends. It was an insult to have them under
the same roof with you.'
'Will you look at this letter?' said Phoebe. 'It is very kind--it is
from Lucy.'
These plain words alone occurred to Phoebe as a preparation for a letter
that was sure to move Miss Charlecote greatly, if only by the slight of
not having written to her, the most obvious person. But the flighty
generosity, and deep though inconsistent feeling were precious, and the
proud relenting of the message at the end touched Honor with hope. They
laughed at the report that had elicited Lucilla's letter, but the reserve
of the warning about Mr. Hastings, coming from the once unscrupulous
girl, startled Honor even more than what she had heard at Moorcroft. Was
the letter to be answered? Yes, by all means, cried Honor, catching at
any link of communication. She could discover Lucilla's address, and was
sure that even brief thanks and explanations from Phoebe would be good
for Lucy.
Like Miss Fennimore, Honor was surprised by Phoebe's composure under her
share of the evil report. The strictures which would have been dreadful
to an older person seemed to fly over her innocent head, their force
either uncomprehended or unfelt. She yielded implicitly to the propriety
of the change, but her grief was at the family quarrel, the leaving home,
and the unmerited degree of blame cast on Mervyn, not the aspersions on
herself; although, as Honor became vexed at her calmness, she withheld
none of them in the desire to convince her of the expediency of leaving
Beauchamp at once for the Holt. No, even though this was Robert's wish,
Phoebe could still not see the necessity, as long as Mervyn should be
alone. If he should bring any of his discreditable friends, she promised
at once to come to Miss Charlecote, but otherwise she could perceive no
reason for grieving him, and astonishing the world, by implying that his
sisters could not stay in his house. She thought him unwell, too, and
wished to watch him, and, on the whole, did not regret her guardian's
gout, which would give her a little more time at home, and put off the
discussion till there should be less anger.
Is this weak? is it childish indifference? thought Honor, or is it a
spirit superior to the selfish personal dread that would proclaim its own
injured innocence by a vehement commotion.
Phoebe rejoiced that she had secured her interview with her friend, for
when the guests were gone, Mervyn claimed her whole attention, and was
vexed if she were not continually at his back. After their _tete-a-tete_
dinner, he kept her sitting over the dessert while he drank his wine.
She tried this opportunity of calling his attention to the frauds of the
servants, but he merely laughed his mocking laugh at her simplicity in
supposing that everybody's servants did not cheat.
'Miss Charlecote's don't.'
'Don't they? Ha--ha! Why, she's the very mark for imposition, and
hypocrisy into the bargain.'
Phoebe did not believe it, but would not argue the point, returning to
that nearer home. 'Nonsense, Phoebe,' he said; 'it's only a choice who
shall prey upon one, and if I have a set that will do it with a civil
countenance, and let me live out of the spoil, I'll not be bothered.'
'I cannot think it need go on so.'
'Well, it won't; I shall break up the concern, and let the house, or
something.'
'Let the house? Oh, Mervyn! I thought you meant to be a county man.'
'Let those look to that who have hindered me,' said Mervyn, fiercely
swallowing one glassful, and pouring out another.
'Should you live in London?'
'At Jericho, for aught I care, or any one else.'
Her attempt to controvert this remark brought on a tirade against the
whole family, which she would not keep up by reply, and which ended in
moody silence. Again she tried to rise, but he asked why she could not
stay with him five minutes, and went on absently pouring out wine and
drinking it, till, as the clock struck nine, the bottom of the decanter
was reached, when he let her lead the way to the drawing-room, and there
taking up the paper, soon fell asleep, then awoke at ten at the sound of
her moving to go to bed, and kept her playing piquet for an hour and a
half.
An evening or two of this kind convinced Phoebe that even with Mervyn
alone it was not a desirable life. She was less shocked than a girl used
to a higher standard at home might have been, but that daily bottle and
perpetual cards weighed on her imagination, and she felt that her younger
sisters ought not to grow up to such a spectacle. Still her loving heart
yearned over Mervyn, who was very fond of her, and consulted her pleasure
continually in his own peculiar and selfish way, although often
exceedingly cross to her as well as to every one else; but this
ill-temper was so visibly the effect of low spirits that she easily
endured and forgave it. She saw that he was both unwell and unhappy.
She could not think what would become of him when the present arrangement
should be broken up; but could only cling to him, as long as she could
pity him. It was no wonder that on the Sunday, Honora seeing her enter
the church, could only help being reminded of the expression of that
child-saint of Raffaelle, wandering alone through the dragon-haunted
wood, wistful and distressed, yet so confident in the Unseen Guide and
Guardian that she treads down evils and perils in innocence, unconscious
of her full danger and of their full blackness.