_Mascarille_.--Oh! oh! je ne prenois pas garde;
Tandis que sans songer a mal, je vous regarde
Votre oeil en tapinois me derobe mon coeur,
Au voleur! au voleur! au voleur! au voleur!
_Cathos_.--Ah! voila qui est pousse dans le dernier galant!
_Les Precieuses Ridicules_
The detective arrived, looking so entirely the office clerk as to take in
Mervyn himself at first sight; and the rest of the world understood that
he was to stay till their master could go over the accounts with him. As
housekeeper's room company, his attentions were doubly relished by the
housemaids, and jealousy was not long in prompting the revelation that
Jane Hart had been Smithson's sweetheart, and was supposed to have met
him since his dismissal. Following up this trail, the detective proved
to his own satisfaction that she had been at a ball at a public-house in
the next village the night before the hunt, and had there met both
Smithson and the poacher. This, however, he reserved for Mervyn's
private ear, still watching his victim, in the hope that she might
unconsciously give some clue to the whereabouts of her lover. The
espionage diverted Mervyn, and gave him the occupation for his thoughts
that he sorely needed; but it oppressed Phoebe, and she shrank from the
sight of the housemaid, as though she herself were dealing treacherously
by her.
'Phoebe,' said Mervyn, mysteriously, coming into the library, where his
tardy breakfast was spread, 'that villain Smithson has been taken up at
Liverpool; and here's a letter for you to look at. Fenton has captured a
letter to that woman Hart, who, he found, was always wanting to go to the
post--but he can't make it out; and I thought it was German, so I brought
it to you. It looks as if old Lieschen--
'No! no! it can't be,' cried Phoebe. 'I'll clear it up in a moment.'
But as she glanced at the letter the colour fled from her cheek.
'Well, what is it?' said Mervyn, impatiently.
'Oh, Mervyn!' and she put her hands before her face.
'Come, the fewer words the better. Out with it at once!'
'Mervyn! It is to Bertha!' She stood transfixed.
'What?' cried Mervyn.
'To Bertha,' repeated Phoebe, looking as if she could never shut her
eyes.
'Bertha? What, a billet-doux; the little precocious pussycat!' and he
laughed, to Phoebe's increased horror.
'If it could only be a mistake!' said she; 'but here is her name! It is
not German, only English in German writing. Oh, Bertha! Bertha!'
'Well, but who is the fellow? Let me look,' said Mervyn.
'It is too foolish,' said Phoebe, guarding it, in the midst of her cold
chills of dismay. 'There is no surname--only John. Ah! here's J. H.
Oh! Mervyn, could it be Mr. Hastings?'
'No such thing! John! Why, my name's John--everybody's name is John!
That's nothing.'
'But, Mervyn, I was warned,' said Phoebe, her eyes again dilating with
dismay, 'that Mr. Hastings never was received into a house with women
without there being cause to repent it.'
'Experience might have taught you how much slanderous gossip to believe
by this time! I believe it is some trumpery curate she has been meeting
at Miss Charlecote's school feasts.'
'For shame, Mervyn,' cried Phoebe, in real anger.
'Curates like thirty thousand as much as other men,' said Mervyn,
sulkily.
'After all,' said Phoebe, controlling herself, 'what signifies most is,
that poor Bertha should have been led to do such a dreadful thing.'
'If ever I take charge of a pack of women again! But let's hear what the
rascal says to her.'
'I do not think it is fair to read it all,' said Phoebe, glancing over
the tender passages. 'Poor child, how ashamed she will be! But
listen--' and she read a portion, as if meant to restrain the girl's
impatience, promising to offer a visit to Beauchamp, or, if that were
refused till the captives were carried off, assuring her there would be
ways and means at Acton Manor, where a little coldness from the baronet
always secured the lady's good graces.
Acton Manor was in Mr. Hastings' neighbourhood, and Mervyn struck his own
knee several times.
'Hum! ha! Was not some chaff going on one day about the heiresses boxed
up in the west wing? Some one set you all down at a monstrous figure--a
hundred thousand apiece. I wonder if he were green enough to believe it!
Hastings! No, it can't be! Here, we'll have the impudent child down,
and frighten it out of her. But first, how are we to put off that fellow
Fenton? Make up something to tell him.'
'Making up would be of no use,' said Phoebe; 'he is too clever. Tell him
it is a family matter.'
Mervyn left the room, and Phoebe hid her face in her hands,
thunderstruck, and endeavouring to disentangle her thoughts, perturbed
between shame, indignation, and the longing to shield and protect her
sister. She had not fully realized her sister's offence, so new to her
imagination, when she was roused by Mervyn's return, saying that he had
sent for Bertha to have it over.
Starting up, she begged to go and prepare her sister, but he peremptorily
detained her, and, 'Oh, be kind to her,' was all that she could say,
before in tripped Bertha, looking restless and amazed, but her
_retrousse_ nose, round features, and wavy hair so childish that the
accusation seemed absurd.
So Mervyn felt it, and in vain drew in his feet, made himself upright,
and tried to look magisterial. 'Bertha,' he began, 'Bertha, I have sent
for you, Bertha--it is not possible--What's that?' pointing to the
letter, as though it had been a stain of ink which she had just
perpetrated.
Alarmed perhaps, but certainly not confounded, Bertha put her hands
before her, and demurely said--'What do you mean?'
'What do you mean, Bertha, by such a correspondence as this?'
'If you know that letter is for me, why did you meddle with it?' she
coolly answered.
'Upon my word, this is assurance,' cried Mervyn.
'Give me my letter,' repeated Bertha, reaching out for it. 'No one else
has a right to touch it.'
'If there be nothing amiss,' said Phoebe, coming to the relief of her
brother, who was almost speechless at this audacity, 'why receive it
under cover to a servant?'
'Because prejudice surrounds me,' stoutly replied Bertha, with barely a
hitch in her speech, as if making a grand stroke; but seeing her brother
smile, she added in an annihilating tone, 'practical tyranny is exercised
in every family until education and intellect effect a moral
emancipation.'
'What?' said Mervyn, 'education teaching you to write letters in German
hand! Fine results! I tell you, if you were older, the disgrace of this
would stick to you for life, but if you will tell the whole truth about
this scoundrel, and put an end to it, we will do the best we can for
you.'
She made up a disdainful mouth, and said, 'Thank you.'
'After all,' said Mervyn, turning to Phoebe, 'it is a joke! Look at her!
She is a baby! You need not have made such a rout. This is only a
toy-letter to a little girl; very good practice in German writing.'
'I am engaged to John Hastings heart and hand,' said Bertha in high
dignity, little knowing that she thus first disclosed the name.
'Yes, people talk of children being their little wives,' said Mervyn,
'but you are getting too old for such nonsense, though he does not think
you so.'
'It is the joint purpose of our lives,' said Bertha.
Mervyn gave his scoffing laugh, and again addressing Phoebe, said, 'If it
were you, now, or any one with whom he was not in sport, it would be a
serious matter. The fellow got himself expelled from Harrow, then was
the proverb of even a German university, ran through his means before he
was five-and-twenty, is as much at home in the Queen's Bench as I am in
this study, has been outlawed, lived on _rouge et noir_ at Baden till he
got whitewashed when his mother died, and since that has lived on
betting, or making himself agreeable to whoever would ask him.'
'Many thanks on the part of your intimate friend,' said Bertha, with
suppressed passion.
Mervyn stamped his foot, and Phoebe defended him with, 'Men may associate
with those who are no companions for their sisters, Bertha.'
'Contracted minds always accept malignant reports,' was the reply.
'Report,' said Mervyn; 'I know it as well as I know myself!' then
recollecting himself, 'but she does not understand, it is of no use to
talk to children. Take her away, Phoebe, and keep her in the nursery
till Mr. Crabbe comes to settle what is to be done with her.'
'I insist on having my letter,' said Bertha, with womanly grandeur.
'Let her have it. It is not worth bothering about a mere joke,' said
Mervyn, leaning back, wearied of the struggle, in which, provoking as he
was, he had received some home thrusts.
Phoebe felt bewildered, and as if she had a perfect stranger on her
hands, though Bertha's high tone was, after all, chiefly from her
extremity, and by way of reply to her brother's scornful incredulity of
her exalted position. She was the first to speak on leaving the library.
'Pray, Phoebe, how came you to tamper with people's letters?'
Phoebe explained.
'From Mervyn and his spy one could expect no delicacy,' said Bertha, 'but
in you it was treachery.'
'No, Bertha,' said Phoebe, 'I was grieved to expose you, but it was my
duty to clear the innocent by examining the letter, and Mervyn had a
right to know what concerned you when you were under his charge. It is
our business to save you, and a letter sent in this way does not stand on
the same ground as one coming openly under your own name. But I did not
read it to him, Bertha--not all.'
'If you had,' said Bertha, more piqued than obliged by this reserve, 'he
would have known it was in earnest and not childish nonsense. You saw
that it was earnest, Phoebe?' and her defiant voice betrayed a
semi-distrust.
'I am afraid it looked very much so,' said Phoebe; 'but, Bertha, that
would be saddest of all. I am afraid he might be wicked enough to be
trying to get your fortune, for indeed--don't be very much vexed,
dearest, I am only saying it for your good--you are not old enough, nor
formed, nor pretty enough, really to please a man that has seen so much
of the world.'
'He never met so fresh, or original, or so highly cultivated a mind,'
said Bertha; 'besides, as to features, there may be different opinions!'
'But, Bertha, how could you ever see him or speak to him?'
'Hearts can find more ways than you dream of,' said Bertha, with a touch
of sentiment; 'we had only to meet for the magnetism of mind to be felt!'
Argument was heartless work. Flattery and the glory of her conquest had
entirely filled the child's mind, and she despised Mervyn and Phoebe far
too much for the representations of the one or the persuasions of the
other to have the smallest weight with her. Evidently, weariness of her
studies, and impatience of discipline had led her to lend a willing ear
to any distraction, and to give in to the intercourse that both gratified
and amused herself and outwitted her governess, and thence the belief in
the power of her own charms, and preference for their admirer, were steps
easier than appeared credible to Phoebe. From listening in helpless
amaze to a miserable round of pertness and philosophy, Phoebe was called
down-stairs to hear that Mervyn had been examining Jane Hart, and had
elicited from her that after having once surprised Mr. Hastings and Miss
Bertha in conversation, she had several times conveyed notes between
them, and since he had left Beauchamp, she had posted two letters to him
from the young lady, but this was the first answer received, directed to
herself, to be left at the post-office to be called for.
'Earnest enough on his part,' said Mervyn; 'a regular speculation to
patch up his fortunes. Well, I knew enough of him, as I told you, but I
was fool enough to pity him!'
He became silent, and so did Phoebe. She had been too much overset to
look the subject fairly in the face, and his very calmness of voice and
the absence of abusive epithets were a token that he was perfectly
appalled at what he had brought on his sisters. They both sat still some
minutes, when she saw him lean back with his hand to his head, and his
eyes closed. 'There's a steeple chase!' he said, as Phoebe laid her cool
hand on his burning brow, and felt the throbbing of the swollen veins of
his temples. Both knew that this meant cupping, and they sent in haste
for the Hiltonbury doctor, but he was out for the day, and would not
return till evening. Phoebe felt dull and stunned, as if her decision
had caused all the mischief, and more and more were following on, and her
spirit almost died within her at Mervyn's interjection of rage and
suffering.
'Though they curse, yet bless thou,' had of necessity been her rule while
clinging to this brother; a mental ejaculation had become habitual, and
this time it brought reaction from her forlorn despondency. She could do
something. Twice she had assisted in cupping, and she believed she could
perform the operation. No failure could be as hurtful as delay, and she
offered to make the attempt. Mervyn growled at her folly, yawned,
groaned, looked at his watch, counted the heavy hours, and supposed she
must do as she chose.
Her heart rivalled his temples in palpitation, but happily without
affecting eye, voice, or hand, and with Lieschen's help the deed was
successfully done, almost with equal benefit to the operator and the
patient.
Success had put new life into her; the troubles had been forgotten for
the moment, and recurred not as a shameful burthen, caused by her own
imprudence, but as a possible turning-point, a subject for action, not
for despair, and Phoebe was herself again.
'What's that you are writing?' asked Mervyn, starting from a doze on the
sofa.
'A letter to Robert,' she answered reluctantly.
'I suppose you will put it in the _Times_. No woman can keep a thing to
herself.'
'I would tell no one else, but I wanted his advice.'
'Oh, I dare say.'
Phoebe saw that to persist in her letter would utterly destroy the repose
that was essential in Mervyn's state, and she laid aside her pen.
'Going to do it out of sight?' he petulantly said.
'No; but at any rate I will wait till Miss Fennimore has talked to
Bertha. She will be more willing to listen to her.'
'Because this is the result of her emancipating education. Ha!'
'No; but Bertha will attend to her, and cannot say her notions are
servile and contracted.'
'If you say any more, I shall get up and flog them both.'
'Miss Fennimore is very wise,' said Phoebe.
'Why, what has she taught you but the ologies and the Rights of Women?'
'The chief thing she teaches,' said Phoebe, 'is to attend to what we are
doing.'
Mervyn laughed, but did not perceive how those words were the key of
Phoebe's character.
'Sir John and Lady Raymond and Miss Raymond in the drawing-room.'
Unappreciating the benefit of changing the current of thought, Phoebe
lamented their admission, and moved reluctantly to the great rooms, where
the guests looked as if they belonged to a more easy and friendly region
than to that world of mirrors, damask, and gilding.
Sir John shook hands like an old friend, but his wife was one of those
homely ladies who never appear to advantage in strange houses, and Phoebe
had not learnt the art of 'lady of the house' talk, besides feeling a
certain chilliness towards Mervyn's detractors, which rendered her stiff
and formal. To her amaze, however, the languishing talk was interrupted
by his entrance; he who regarded Sir John as the cause of his
disappointment; he who had last met Susan Raymond at the time of his
rejection; he whom she had left prostrate among the sofa cushions; he had
absolutely exerted himself to brush his hair and put on coat and boots,
yet how horribly ill and nervous he looked, totally devoid of his usual
cool assurance, uncertain whether to shake hands with the two ladies, and
showing a strange restless eagerness as though entirely shaken off his
balance.
Matters were mended by his entrance. Phoebe liked Lady Raymond from the
moment she detected a sign to the vehement Sir John not to keep his host
standing during the discussion of the robbery, and she ventured on
expressing her gratitude for his escort on the day of the hunt. Then
arose an entreaty to view the scene of the midnight adventure, and the
guests were conducted to the gallery, shown where each party had stood,
the gas-pipe, the mark of the pistol-shot, and the door was opened to
display the cabinet, and the window of the escape. To the intense
surprise of her brother and sister, Bertha was examining her emeralds.
She came forward quite at her ease, and if she had been ten years a woman
could not more naturally have assumed the entertainment of Lady Raymond,
talking so readily that Phoebe would have believed the morning's
transactions a delusion, but for Mervyn's telegraph of astonishment.
The visitors had been at the Holt, and obtained a promise from Miss
Charlecote to spend the ensuing Saturday week at Moorcroft. They begged
the sisters to accompany her. Phoebe drew back, though Mervyn hurried
out declarations of his not wanting her, and the others never going out,
till she hardly knew how it had been decided; but as the guests departed
she heard Mervyn severely observing to Bertha--'no, certainly I should
not send you to keep company with any well-behaved young ladies.'
'Thank you, I have no desire to associate with commonplace girls,' said
Bertha, marching off to the west wing.
'You will go, Phoebe,' said Mervyn.
'Indeed, if I did it would be partly for the sake of giving change to
Bertha, and letting her see what nice people really are.'
'Are you crazy, Phoebe? I would not have Bertha with her impudence and
her pedantry go among the Raymonds--no, not for the Bank of England.'
Those words darted into Phoebe's mind the perception why Mervyn was, in
his strange way, promoting her intercourse with Moorcroft, not only as
stamping her conduct with approval of people of their worth and weight,
but as affording him some slight glimmering of hope. She could not but
recollect that the extra recklessness of language which had pained her,
ever since his rejection had diminished ever since her report of Sir
John's notice of her at the justice room. Sister-like, she pitied and
hoped; but the more immediate care extinguished all the rest, and she was
longing for Miss Fennimore's sympathy, though grieving at the pain the
disclosure must inflict. It could not be made till the girls were gone
to bed, and at half-past nine, Phoebe sought the schoolroom, and told her
tale. There was no answer, but an almost convulsive shudder; her hand
was seized, and her finger guided to the line which Miss Fennimore had
been reading in the Greek Testament--'By their fruits ye shall know
them.'
Rallying before Phoebe could trace what was passing in her mind, she shut
the book, turned her chair to the fire, invited Phoebe to another, and
was at once the clear-headed, metaphysical governess, ready to discuss
this grievous marvel. She was too generous by nature not to have treated
her pupils with implicit trust, and this trust had been abused. Looking
back, she and Phoebe could recollect moments when Bertha had been
unaccounted for, and must have held interviews with Mr. Hastings. She
had professed a turn for twilight walks in the garden, and remained out
of doors when the autumn evenings had sent the others in, and on the
Sunday afternoons, when Phoebe and Maria had been at church, Miss
Fennimore reproached herself exceedingly with having been too much
absorbed in her own readings to concern herself about the proceedings of
a pupil, whose time on that day was at her own disposal. She also
thought that there had been communications by look and sign across the
pew at church; and she had remarked, though Phoebe had been too much
occupied with her brother to perceive the restlessness that had settled
on Bertha from the time of the departure of Mervyn's guests, and had once
reproved her for lingering, as she thought, to gossip with Jane Hart in
her bedroom. 'And now,' said Miss Fennimore, 'she should have a thorough
change. Send her to school, calling it punishment, if you please, but
chiefly for the sake of placing her among laughing girlish girls of the
same age, and, above all, under a thoroughly religious mistress of wide
intelligence, and who has never doubted.'
'But we were all to keep together, dear Miss Fennimore--you--'
'One whose mind has always been balancing between aspects of truth may
instruct, but cannot educate. Few minds can embrace the moral virtues
unless they are based on an undoubted foundation, connected with present
devotional warmth, and future hopes and fears. I see this now; I once
thought excellence would approve itself, for its own sake, to others, as
it did to myself. I regarded Bertha as a fair subject for a full
experiment of my system, with good disposition, good abilities, and few
counter influences. I meant to cultivate self-relying, unprejudiced,
effective good sense, and see--with prejudices have been rooted up
restraints!'
'Education seems to me to have little to do with what people turn out,'
said Phoebe. 'Look at poor Miss Charlecote and the Sandbrooks.'
'Depend upon it, Phoebe, that whatever harm may have ensued from her
errors in detail, those young people will yet bless her for the principle
she worked on. You can none of you bless me, for having guided the hands
of the watch, and having left the mainspring untouched.'
Miss Fennimore had been, like Helvetius and the better class of
encyclopaedists, enamoured of the moral virtues, but unable to perceive
that they could not be separated from the Christian faith, and she learnt
like them that, when doctrine ceased to be prominent, practice went after
it. Bertha was her Jacobin--and seemed doubly so the next morning, when
an interview took place, in which the young lady gave her to understand
that she, like Phoebe, was devoid of the experience that would enable
them to comprehend the sacred mutual duty of souls that once had spoken.
Woman was no longer the captive of the seraglio, nor the chronicler of
small beer. Intellectual training conferred rights of choice superior to
conventional ties; and, as to the infallible discernment of that fifteen
year old judgment, had not she the sole premises to go upon, she who
alone had been admitted to the innermost of that manly existence?
'I always knew Jack to be a clever dog,' said Mervyn, when this was
reported to him, 'but his soft sawder to a priggish metaphysical baby
must have been the best fun in the world?'
Mervyn's great desire was to keep Bertha's folly as great a secret as
possible; and, by his decision, she was told that grace should be granted
her till Mr. Crabbe's arrival, when, unless she had renounced what he
called her silly child's fancy, stringent measures would be taken, and
she would be exposed to the family censure.
'So,' said Bertha, 'you expect to destroy the attraction of souls by
physical force!'
And Phoebe wrote to Robert a sorrowful letter, chiefly consisting of the
utmost pleadings for Mervyn and Bertha that her loving heart could frame.
She was happier when she had poured out her troubles, but grieved when no
answer came by the next post. Robert's displeasure must be great--and
indeed but too justly so--since all this mischief was the consequence of
the disregard of his wishes. Yet justice was hard between brothers and
sisters, especially when Mervyn was in such a suffering state, threatened
constantly by attacks of his complaint, which were only warded off by
severe and weakening treatment. Phoebe was so necessary to his comfort
in waiting on him, and trying to while away his tedious hours of inaction
and oppression, that she had little time to bestow upon Bertha, nor,
indeed, was talking of any use, as it only gave the young lady an
occasion for pouring forth magniloquent sentiments, utterly heedless of
the answers. Sad, lonely, and helpless were Phoebe's feelings, but she
was patient, and still went on step by step through the strange tangle,
attending to Mervyn hour by hour, always with a gentle cheerful word and
smile, and never trusting herself, even when alone, to think of the
turmoil and break up that must ensue on her guardian's arrival.
All was darkness and perplexity before her, but submission and trust were
her refuge, and each day of waiting before the crisis was to her feelings
a gain.