Close within us we will carry, strong, collected, calm, and brave,
The true panoply of quiet which the bad world never gave;
Very serpents in discretion, yet as guileless as the dove,
Lo! obedience is the watchword, and the countersign is love.
W. G. TUPPER
On the next hunting day, Mervyn took Phoebe with him to the meet, upon a
favourite common towards Elverslope, where on a fine morning ladies were
as apt to be found as hounds and huntsmen, so that she would be at no
loss for companions when he left her.
Phoebe rode, as she did everything else, well, quietly and firmly, and
she looked very young and fresh, with her rounded rosy cheeks and chin.
Her fair hair was parted back under a round hat, her slenderly plump
figure appeared to advantage mounted on her bright bay, and altogether
she presented a striking contrast to her brother. She had not seen him
in hunting costume for nearly a year, and she observed with pain how much
he had lost his good looks; his well-made youthful air was passing away,
and his features were becoming redder and coarser; but he was in his best
humour, good-natured, and as nearly gay as he ever was; and Phoebe
enjoyed her four-miles' ride in the beauty of a warm December's day, the
sun shining on dewy hedges, and robins and thrushes trying to treat the
weather like spring, as they sang amid the rich stores of coral fruit
that hung as yet untouched on every hawthorn or eglantine.
The ladies mustered strong on the smooth turf of the chalk down bordering
the copse which was being drawn. Phoebe looked out for acquaintance, but
a few gentlemen coming up to greet her, she did not notice, as Mervyn
did, that the girls with whom he had wished to leave her had become
intent on some doings in the copse, and had trotted off with their
father. He made his way to the barouche where sat the _grande dame_ of
the county, exchanged civilities, and asked leave to introduce his
sister. Phoebe, who had never seen the lady before, thought nothing of
the cold distant bow; it was for Mervyn, who knew what her greetings
could be, to fume and rage inwardly. Other acknowledgments passed, but
no party had approached or admitted Phoebe, and when the hounds went
away, she was still riding alone with her brother and a young officer.
She bade them not to mind her, she would ride home with the servant, and
as all were in motion, she had enough to do to hold in her horse, while
Mervyn and his friend dashed forward, and soon she found herself alone,
except for the groom; the field were well away over the down, the
carriages driving off, the mounted maidens following the chase as far as
the way was fair and lady-like.
Phoebe had no mind to do so. Her isolation made her feel forlorn, and
brought home Miss Charlecote's words as to the opinion entertained of her
by the world. Poor child, something like a tear came into her eye and a
blush to her cheek, but, 'never mind,' she thought, 'they will believe
Miss Charlecote, and she will take care of me. If only Mervyn will not
get angry, and make an uproar! I shall soon be gone away! When shall I
come back?'
She rode up to the highest part of the down for a take-leave gaze. There
lay Elverslope in its basin-like valley scooped out in the hills, with
the purple bloom of autumnal haze veiling its red brick and slate; there,
on the other side, the copses and arable fields dipped and rose, and rose
and dipped again, till the undulations culminated in the tall fir-trees
in the Holt garden, the landmark of the country; and on the bare slope to
the west, Beauchamp's pillars and pediment made a stately speck in the
landscape. 'Home no longer!' thought Phoebe; 'there will be strangers
there--and we shall be on the world! Oh! why cannot Mervyn be like
Robert? How happy we could be!'
Beauchamp had not been a perfect Eden in itself, but still it had all the
associations of the paradise of her guileless childhood; and to her the
halo around it would always have the radiance of the loving spirit
through which she viewed it. The undefined future was hard to bear, but
she thought of Robert, and of the promise that neither her sisters nor
Miss Fennimore should be parted from her, and tried to rest thankful on
that comfort.
She had left the down for the turnpike road, the sounds of the hunt often
reaching her, with glimpses of men and dogs in the distance taking a
direction parallel with her own. Presently a red coat glanced through
the hedge of one of the cross lanes, as if coming towards the road, and
as she reached the opening at the end, a signal was made to her to stop.
Foreboding some accident, she hastily turned up the narrow white muddy
lane, and was met by an elderly gentleman.
'Don't be alarmed,' he said kindly; 'only your brother seems rather
unwell, and I thought I had best see him under your charge.'
Mervyn was by this time in sight, advancing slowly, and Phoebe with rapid
thanks rode on to meet him. She knew that dull, confused, dazzled eye
belonged to his giddy fits, and did not wonder at the half-uttered
murmur, rather in the imprecation line, with which he spoke; but the reel
in his saddle terrified her greatly, and she was dismayed to see that the
gentleman had proceeded into the high road instead of offering further
assistance. She presently perceived that the danger of falling was less
real than apparent, and that her brother could still keep his seat, and
govern his horse, though nearly unable to look or speak. She kept close
to him, and was much relieved to find that the stranger had not returned
to the sport, but was leisurely following at some distance behind the
groom. Never had two miles seemed so long as under her frequent alarms
lest Mervyn should become unable to keep the saddle; but at each moment
of terror, she heard the pace of the hunter behind quickened to come to
her help, and if she looked round she met an encouraging sign.
When the lodge was reached, and Mervyn, somewhat revived, had ridden
through the gates, she turned back to give her warm thanks. A kind,
fatherly, friendly face looked at her with a sort of compassion, as
putting aside her thanks, the gentleman said, quickly, yet
half-reluctantly, 'Have you ever seen him like this before?'
'Yes; the giddiness often comes on in the morning, but never so badly as
this. I think it was from the rapid motion.'
'Has he had advice?'
'I cannot persuade him to see any one. Do you think he ought? I would
send at once, at the risk of his being angry.'
'Does Dr. Martyn attend you? Shall I leave a message as I go home?'
'I should be most thankful!'
'It may be nothing, but you will be happier that it should be
ascertained;' and with another kindly nod, he rode off.
Mervyn had gone to his room, and answered her inquiries at the door with
a brief, blunt 'better,' to be interpreted that he did not wish to be
disturbed. She did not see him till dinnertime, when he had a sullen
headache, and was gruff and gloomy. She tried to learn who the friend in
need had been, but he had been incapable of distinguishing anybody or
anything at the moment of the attack, and was annoyed at having been
followed. 'What a pottering ass to come away from a run on a fool's
errand!' he said. 'Some Elverslope spy, who will set it about the
country that I had been drinking, and cast that up to you!' and then he
began to rail against the ladies, singly and collectively, inconsistently
declaring it was Phoebe's own fault for not having called on them, and
that he would have Augusta to Beauchamp, give a ball and supper, and show
whether Miss Fulmort were a person to be cut.
This mode of vindication not being to Miss Fulmort's taste, she tried to
avert it by doubts whether Augusta could be had; and was told that, show
Lady Bannerman a bottle of Barton's dry champagne, and she would come to
the world's end. Meantime, Phoebe must come out to-morrow for a round of
visits, whereat her heart failed her, as a thrusting of herself where she
was not welcome; but he spoke so fiercely and dictatorially, that she
reserved her pleading for the morning, when he would probably be too
inert not to be glad of the escape.
At last, Dr. Martyn's presence in the drawing-room was announced to her.
She began her explanation with desperate bravery; and though the first
words were met with a scoffing grunt, she found Mervyn less displeased
than she had feared--nay, almost glad that the step had been taken,
though he would not say so, and made a great favour of letting her send
the physician to him in the dining-room.
After a time, Dr. Martyn came to tell her that he had found her brother's
head and pulse in such a state as to need instant relief by cupping; and
that the young Union doctor had been sent for from the village for the
purpose. A constitutional fulness of blood in the head had been
aggravated by his mode of life, and immediate discipline, severe regimen,
and abstinence from business or excitement, were the only means of
averting dangerous illness; in fact, his condition might at any time
become exceedingly critical, though perseverance in care might possibly
prevent all absolute peril. He himself was thoroughly frightened. His
own sensations and forebodings seconded the sentence too completely for
resistance; it was almost a relief to give way; and his own method of
driving away discomfort had so signally failed, that he was willing to
resign himself to others.
Phoebe assisted at the cupping valorously and handily. She had a civil
speech from young Mr. Jackson, and Mervyn, as she bade him good night,
said, 'I can't spare you now, Phoebe.'
'Not till you are better,' she answered.
And so she told Miss Charlecote, and wrote to Robert; but neither was
satisfied. Honora said it was unlucky. It might certainly be a duty to
nurse Mervyn if he were really ill, and if he made himself fit company
for her, but it would not set her straight with the neighbourhood; and
Robert wrote in visible displeasure at this complication of the
difficulty. 'If Mervyn's habits had disordered his health, it did not
render his pursuits more desirable for his sisters. If he wanted
Phoebe's attendance, let him come to town with her to the Bannermans; but
his ailments must not be made an excuse for detaining her in so
unsuitable a position as that into which he had brought her.'
It was not so kind a letter as Phoebe would have claimed from Robert, and
it was the more trying as Mervyn, deprived of the factitious exhilaration
that had kept him up, and lowered by treatment, was dispirited,
depressed, incapable of being entertained, cross at her failures, yet
exacting of her attendance. He had business at his office in the City
that needed his presence, so he insisted till the last morning upon
going, and then owned himself in no state to go farther than the study,
where he tried to write, but found his brain so weak and confused that he
could hardly complete a letter, and was obliged to push over even the
simplest calculation to Phoebe. In vain she tried to divert his mind
from this perilous exertion; he had not taste nor cultivation enough to
be interested in anything she could devise, and harping upon some one of
the unpleasant topics that occupied his thoughts was his only
entertainment when he grew tired of cards or backgammon.
Phoebe sat up late writing to Robert a more minute account of Mervyn's
illness, which she thought must plead for him; and rather sad at heart,
she had gone to bed and fallen asleep, when far on in the night a noise
startled her. She did not suspect her own imagination of being to blame,
except so far as the associations with illness in the house might have
recalled the sounds that once had been wont to summon her to her mother's
room. The fear that her brother might be worse made her listen, till the
sounds became matters of certainty. Springing to the window, her eyes
seemed to stiffen with amaze as she beheld in the clear, full moonlight,
on the frosty sward, the distinctly-traced shadow of a horse and cart.
The objects themselves were concealed by a clump of young trees, but
their forms were distinctly pictured on the turf, and the conviction
flashed over her that a robbery must be going forward.
'Perils and dangers of this night, indeed!' One prayer, one thought.
She remembered the great house-bell, above the attic stairs in the
opposite wing, at the other end of the gallery, which led from the top of
the grand staircase, where the chief bedroom doors opened, and a jet of
gas burnt all night on the balustrade. Throwing on her dressing-gown,
she sped along the passage, and pushing open the swing-door, beheld
Mervyn at the door of his own room, and at the head of the stairs a man,
in whom she recognized the discarded footman, raising a pistol. One
swift bound--her hand was on the gas-pipe. All was darkness, save a dim
stripe from within the open door of her mother's former dressing-room,
close to where she stood. She seized the lock, drew it close, and had
turned the key before the hand within had time to wrench round the inner
handle. That same instant, the flash and report of a pistol made her cry
out her brother's name.
'Hollo! what did you put out the light for?' he angrily answered; and as
she could just distinguish his white shirt sleeves, she sprang to him.
Steps went hurriedly down the stairs. 'Gone!' they both cried at once;
Mervyn, with an imprecation on the darkness, adding, 'Go and ring the
bell. I'll watch here.'
She obeyed, but the alarm had been given, and the house was astir.
Candle-light gleamed above--cries, steps, and exclamations were heard,
and she was obliged to hurry down, to save herself from being run over.
Two figures had joined Mervyn, the voice of one proclaiming her as
Bertha, quivering with excitement. 'In there? My emeralds are in there!
Open the door, or he will make off with my--my emeralds!'
'Safe, my child? Don't stand before that door,' cried Miss Fennimore,
pulling Phoebe back with a fond, eager grasp.
'Here, some of you,' shouted Mervyn to the men, whose heads appeared
behind the herd of maids, 'come and lay hold of the fellow when I unlock
the door.'
The women fell back with suppressed screams, and readily made way for the
men, but they shuffled, backed, and talked of pistols, and the butler
suggested the policeman.
'The policeman--he lives two miles off,' cried Bertha. 'He'll go out of
window with my emeralds! Unlock the door, Mervyn.'
'Unlock it yourself,' said Mervyn, with an impatient stamp of his foot.
'Pshaw! but thank you,' as Miss Fennimore put into his hand his
double-barrelled gun, the first weapon she had found--unloaded, indeed,
but even as a club formidable enough to give him confidence to unlock the
door, and call to the man to give himself up. The servants huddled
together like sheep, but there was no answer. He called for a light. It
was put into his hand by Phoebe, and as he opened the door, was blown out
by a stream of cold air from the open window.
The thief was gone. Everybody was ready to press in and look for him in
every impossible place, but he had evidently escaped by the leads of the
portico beneath; not, however, with 'my emeralds'--he had only attempted
the lock of the jewel cabinet.
Phoebe hurried to see whether Maria had been frightened, and finding her
happily asleep, followed the rest of the world down-stairs, where the
servants seemed to be vying with each other in the magnitude of the
losses they announced, while Mervyn was shouting himself hoarse with
passionate orders that everything should be left alone--doors, windows,
plate-chests, and all--for the inspection of the police; and human nature
could not resist lifting up and displaying signs of the robbery every
moment, in the midst of the storm of vituperation thus excited.
Mervyn could hardly attend to Phoebe's mention of the cart, but as soon
as it reached his senses, he redoubled his hot commands to keepers and
stablemen to set off in pursuit, and called for his horse to ride to
Elverslope, to give information at the police station and telegraph
office. Phoebe implored him to rest and send a messenger, but he roughly
bade her not to be so absurd, commanded again that nothing should be
disturbed, or, if she _would_ be busy, that she should make out a list of
all that was missing.
'Grateful!' indignantly thought Miss Fennimore, as Phoebe was left
leaning on a pillar in the portico, watching him ride away, the pale
light of the yellow setting moon giving an almost ghostly appearance to
her white drapery and wistful attitude. Putting an arm round her, the
governess found her shivering from head to foot, and pale and cold as
marble; her knees knocked together when she walked, and her teeth
chattered as she strove to smile, but her quietness still showed itself
in all her movements, as she returned into the hall, and reached the
welcome support of a chair beside the rekindled fire.
Miss Fennimore chafed her hands, and she looked up, smiled, and said,
'Thank you.'
'Then you were frightened, after all, Phoebe,' cried Bertha,
triumphantly.
'Was I?--I don't know,' said Phoebe, as in a dream.
'What, when you don't know what you are talking of, and are still
trembling all over?'
'I can't tell. I think what came on me then was thankfulness.'
'I am sure we may be thankful that our jewels are the only things safe!'
'Oh! Bertha, you don't know, then, that the man was taking aim at
Mervyn!' and the shudder returned.
'There, Phoebe, for the sake of candour and psychology, confess your
terror.'
'Indeed, Bertha,' said Phoebe, with a smile on her tremulous lip, 'it is
very odd, but I don't think I was afraid; there was a feeling of
shadowing Wings that left no room for terror.'
'That enabled you to think and act?' asked Miss Fennimore.
'I didn't think; it came to me,' said Phoebe. 'Pray, let me go; Bertha
dear, you had better go to bed. Pray lie down, Miss Fennimore.'
She moved slowly away, her steps still unsteady and her cheeks
colourless, but the sweet light of thankfulness on her face; while Bertha
said, in her moralizing tone, 'It is a curious study to see Phoebe taking
her own steady nerves and power of resource for something external to
herself, and being pious about it.'
Miss Fennimore was not gratified by her apt pupil's remark. 'If Phoebe's
conduct do not fill you with reverence, both for her and that which
actuates her, I can only stand astonished,' she said.
Bertha turned away, and erected her eyebrows.
No one could go to bed, and before five o'clock Phoebe came down, dressed
for the day, and set to work with the butler and the inventory of the
plate to draw up an account of the losses. Not merely the plate in
common use was gone, but the costly services and ornaments that had been
the glory of old Mr. Fulmort's heart; and the locks had not been broken
but opened with a key; the drawing-rooms had been rifled of their
expensive bijouterie, and the foray would have been completely successful
had it included the jewels. There were no marks of a violent entrance;
windows and doors were all fastened as usual, with the single exception
of the back door, which was found ajar, but with no traces of having been
opened in an unusual manner, though the heavy bolts and bars would have
precluded an entrance from the outside even with a false key.
Early in the day, Mervyn returned with the superintendent of police. He
was still too much excited to rest, and his heavy tread re-echoed from
floor to floor, as he showed the superintendent round the house, calling
his sister or the servants to corroborate his statements, or help out his
account of what he had hardly seen or comprehended. Thus he came to
Phoebe for her version of the affair in the gallery, of which he only
knew his own share--the noise that had roused him, the sight of the
burglar, the sudden darkness, the report of the pistol; and the witness
of his danger--the bullet--was in the wall nearly where his head had
been. When Phoebe had answered his questions, he gazed at her, and
exclaimed--'Hallo! why, Phoebe, it seems that but for you, Parson Robert
would be in possession here!' and burst into a strange nervous laugh,
ending by coming to her and giving a hearty kiss to her forehead, ere
hurrying away to report her evidence to the policeman.
When all measures had been taken, intelligence sent back to the station,
and a search instituted in every direction, Mervyn consented to sit down
to breakfast, but talked instead of eating, telling Phoebe that even
without her recognition of James Smithson, the former footman, the
superintendent would have attributed the burglary to a person familiar
with the house, provided with facsimiles of all the keys, except those of
the jewels, as well as sufficiently aware of the habits of the family to
make the attempt just before the jewels were to be removed, and when the
master was likely to be absent. The appearance of the back door had led
to the conclusion that the thieves had been admitted from within; a
London detective had therefore been sent for, who was to come in the
guise of a clerk from the distillery, bringing down the books to Mr.
Fulmort, and Phoebe was forbidden to reveal his true character to any one
but Miss Fennimore. So virulently did Mervyn talk of Smithson, that
Phoebe was sorry she had recognized him, and became first compassionate,
then disconcerted and shocked. She rose to leave the room as the only
means of silencing him; he got up to come after her, abusing the law
because house-breaking was not a hanging matter, his face growing more
purple with passion every moment; but his steps suddenly failed, his
exclamation transferred his fury to his own giddiness, and Phoebe, flying
to his side, was only just in time to support him to a couch. It was the
worst attack he had yet had, and his doctors coming in the midst of it,
used prompt measures to relieve him, and impressed on both him and his
sister that everything would depend on perfect quiet and absence from all
disturbance; and he was so much exhausted by the reaction of his
excitement, loss of blood, and confusion of head, that he attempted
little but long fretful sighs when at length he was left to her. After
much weariness and discomfort he fell asleep, and Phoebe ventured to
creep quietly out of the library to see Miss Charlecote, who was hearing
the night's adventures in the schoolroom. Scarcely, however, had Honor
had time to embrace the little heroine, whose conduct had lost nothing in
Miss Fennimore's narration, when a message came from Elverslope. It was
the day of the petty sessions, and a notable bad character having been
taken up with some suspicious articles upon him, the magistrates were
waiting for Mr. Fulmort to make out the committal on his evidence.
'I must go instead,' said Phoebe, after considering for a moment.
'My dear,' exclaimed Honor, 'you do not know how unpleasant it will be!'
'Mervyn must sleep,' said Phoebe; 'and if this be an innocent man, he
ought to be cleared at once. If it be not improper, I think I ought to
go. May I?' looking at the governess, who suggested her speaking to the
superintendent, and learning whether her brother had been absolutely
summoned.
It proved to be only a verbal message, and the superintendent urged her
going, telling her that her evidence would suffice for the present, and
that she would be the most important witness at the assizes--which he
evidently considered as a great compliment.
Miss Charlecote undertook to go and take care of her young friend, and
they set off in silence, Phoebe leaning back with her veil down, and
Honor, perceiving that she needed this interval of quiet repose, watching
her with wonder. Had it been Honor's own case, she would have hung back
out of dislike to pursuing an enemy, and from dread of publicity, but
these objections had apparently not occurred to the more simple mind,
only devising how to spare her brother; and while Honor would have been
wretched from distrust of her own accuracy, and her habits of imperfect
observation would have made her doubt her own senses and memory, she
honoured Phoebe's careful training in seeing what she saw, and hearing
what she heard, without cross lights or counter sounds from imagination.
Once Phoebe inquired in a low, awe-struck voice, 'Shall I be put on
oath?'
'Most likely, my dear.'
Phoebe's hands were pressed together as though in preparation for a
religious rite. She was not dismayed, but from her strict truth at all
times, she was the more sensible of the sacredness and solemnity of the
great appeal.
An offence on so large a scale had brought a throng of loiterers to the
door of the town-hall, and Honor felt nervous and out of place as way was
made for the two ladies to mount the stairs to the justice-room; but
there she was welcomed by several of the magistrates, and could watch
Phoebe's demeanour, and the impression it made on persons accustomed to
connect many strange stories with the name of Miss Fulmort. That air of
maidenly innocence, the girlish form in deep mourning, the gentle
seriousness and grave composure of the young face, the simple,
self-possessed manner, and the steady, distinct tones of the clear, soft
voice were, as Honor felt, producing an effect that was shown in the mood
of addressing her, always considerate and courteous, but increasing in
respect and confidence.
And as Phoebe raised her eyes, the chairman's face--the first to meet her
glance--was the kind ruddy one, set in iron gray hair, that she
remembered as belonging to the hunter who had sacrificed the run to see
Mervyn safely home. The mutual recognition, and the tone of concern for
his illness, made her feel in the presence of a friend, and she was the
more at ease in performing her part.
To her great relief, the man in custody was unknown to her. James
Smithson, she said, was taller, and had a longer face, and she had not
seen him whom she had locked into the dressing-room. However, she
identified a gold and turquoise letter-weight; and the setting of a seal,
whence the stone with the crest had been extracted, both of which had
been found in the man's pocket, together with some pawnbroker's tickets,
which represented a buhl-clock and other articles from Beauchamp. She
was made to give an account of the robbery. Honor had never felt prouder
of any of her favourites than of her, while listening to the modest,
simple, but clear and circumstantial recital, and watching how much
struck the country gentlemen were by the girl who had been of late
everywhere pitied or censured.
The statement over, she was desired to answer a few questions from
Captain Morden, the chief of the constabulary force, who had come from
the county town to investigate the affair. Taking her aside, he minutely
examined her on the appearance of some of the articles mentioned in the
inventory, on the form of the shadow of the horse and cart, on the
thieves themselves, and chiefly on Smithson, and how she could be so
secure of the identity of the robber in the pea-jacket with the footman
in powder and livery.
'I can hardly tell,' said Phoebe; 'but I have no doubt in my own mind.'
'Was he like this?' asked Captain Morden, showing her a photograph.
'Certainly not.'
'Nor this?'
'No.'
'Nor this?'
'Yes, that is Smithson in plain clothes.'
'Right, Miss Fulmort. You have an eye for a likeness. These fellows
have such a turn for having their portraits done, that in these affairs
we always try if the shilling photographers have duplicates. This will
be sent to town by the next train.'
'I am not sure that I should have known it if I had not seen it before.'
'Indeed! Should you object to tell me under what circumstances?'
'At the photographer's, at the time he was at Hiltonbury,' said Phoebe.
'I went to him with one of my sisters, and we were amused by finding many
of the likenesses of our servants. Smithson and another came in to be
taken while we were there, and we afterwards saw this portrait when
calling for my sister's.'
'Another--another servant?' said the keen captain.
'Yes, one of the maids.'
'Her name, if you please.'
'Indeed,' said Phoebe, distressed, as she saw this jotted down. 'I
cannot bring suspicion and trouble on any one.'
'You will do no such thing, Miss Fulmort. We will only keep our eye on
her. Neither she, nor any one else, shall have any ground for supposing
her under suspicion, but it is our duty to miss no possible indication.
Will you oblige me with her name?'
'She is called Jane, but I do not know her real name,' said Phoebe, with
much reluctance, and in little need of the injunction to secrecy on this
head. The general eagerness to hunt down the criminals saddened her, and
she was glad to be released, with thanks for her distinct evidence. The
kind old chairman then met her, quite with an air of fatherly protection,
such as elderly men often wear towards orphaned maidens, and inquired
more particularly for her brother's health. She was glad to thank him
again for having sent the physician, when his aid was so needful, and she
was in so much difficulty. 'A bold stroke,' he, said, smiling; 'I
thought you might throw all the blame on me if it were needless.'
'Needless--oh! it may have saved him. Is that the carriage? I must get
home as soon as I can.'
'Yes, I am sure you must be anxious, but I hope to see more of you
another time. Lady Raymond must come and see if you cannot find a day to
spend with my girls.'
Lady Raymond! So this was Sir John! Mervyn's foe and maligner! Was he
repenting at the sight of what he had done? Yet he really looked like a
very good, kind old man, and seemed satisfied with the very shabby answer
he obtained to a speech that filled Honor with a sense of her young
friend's victory. There was Phoebe, re-established in the good graces of
the neighbourhood, favoured by the very _elite_ of the county for
goodness, sought by those who had never visited at Beauchamp in the days
of its gaiety and ostentation! Ungrateful child, not to be better
pleased--only saying that she supposed she should go away when her
brother should be well again, and not seeing her way to any day for
Moorcroft! Was she still unforgiving for Mervyn's rejection, or had she
a feeling against visiting those who had not taken notice of her family
before?
Mervyn met Phoebe in the hall, still looking very ill, with his purple
paleness, his heavy eyes, and uncertain steps, and though he called
himself all right, since his sleep, it was with a weary gasp that he sank
into his chair, and called on her for an account of what she had done.
His excitement seemed to have burnt itself out, for he listened
languidly, and asked questions by jerks, dozing half-way through the
answer, and wakening to some fresh inquiry; once it was--'And did the old
sinner take any notice of you?'
'The prisoner?'
'Nonsense. Old Raymond. Of course he was in the chair.'
'He was very kind. It was he who came home from the hunt with us the
other day.'
'Ha! I said it was some old woman of a spy, wanting to get up a story
against me!'
'Nay, I think he felt kindly, for he talked of Lady Raymond calling, and
my spending a day at Moorcroft.'
'Oh! so the godly mean to rescue you, do they?'
'I did not accept. Perhaps they will never think of it again.'
'No; his ladies will not let him!' sneered Mervyn.
Nevertheless, his last words that night were, 'So the Raymonds have asked
you!'
He was in a more satisfactory state the next day; feeble, but tamed into
endurance of medical treatment, and almost indifferent about the robbery;
as though his passion were spent, and he were tired of the subject.
However, the police were alert. The man whom they had taken up was a
squatter in the forest, notorious as a poacher and thief, and his horse
and cart answered to Phoebe's description of the shadow. He had been
arrested when returning with them from the small seaport on the other
side of the forest in the next county, and on communicating with the
authorities there, search at a dealer's in marine stores had revealed
hampers filled with the Beauchamp plate, as yet unmelted. The spoils of
lesser bulk had disappeared with Smithson and the other criminal.