CHAPTER XXV

Turn again, Whittington!--_Bow Bells_

May had come round again before Robert Fulmort stood waiting at the

Waterloo Station to welcome the travellers, who had been prohibited from

putting Bertha's restored health to the test of east winds. It was a

vista of happy faces that he encountered as he looked into the carriage

window, yet the first questions and answers were grave and mournful.

'Is Mr. Henderson still alive?' asked Honora.

'No, he sank rapidly, and died on Sunday week. I was at the funeral on

Saturday.'

'Right; I am glad you went. I am sorry I was away.'

'It was deeply felt. Nearly all the clergy in the archdeaconry, and the

entire parish, were present.'

'Who is taking care of the parish?'

'Charlecote Raymond has been coming over for the Sundays, and giving

great satisfaction.'

'I say, Robert, where's the Bannerman carriage? Phoebe is to be

victimized there--more's the pity,' interposed Mervyn.

'There is their brougham. I meant to drive to Albury-street with her,'

said Robert, gazing at his brother as if he scarcely knew him without the

characteristic knitting of the brow under a grievance, the scowl, or the

half-sneering smile; and with the cleared and lightened air that he had

worn ever since that little spark of hope had been left to burn and shine

undamped by dissipation or worldly policy. Bertha also was changed. She

had grown tall and womanly, her looks beyond her age, and if her childish

vivacity were gone, the softened gravity became her much better. It was

Phoebe's report, however, for which he chiefly longed, and he was soon

seated beside her on the way to Albury-street, while the others betook

themselves Citywards.

'So, Phoebe, it is all right, and you are satisfied?'

'Satisfied, grateful, thankful to the utmost,' said Phoebe, fervently.

'I think I never was so happy as all through the latter part of the

journey.'

'You think well of Bertha?'

'I cannot call her restored, for she is far more than she was before.

That meeting with Cecily Raymond did for her what we could not do, and

she is growing to be more than we knew how to wish for.'

'Her spirits?'

'Never high, and easily shaken. Her nerves are not strong yet, and she

will never, I fear, be quite girlishly careless and merry, but she is

grave and sweet. She does not shrink from people now, and when I saw her

among other girls at Paris, she seemed older, much deeper, and altogether

superior.'

'Does she think seriously?'

'She thinks and reads, but it is not easy to guess what she thinks, for

she keeps silence, and has happily quite left off arguing with Miss

Charlecote. I believe Cecily has great influence over her, and I think

she will talk a great deal to Miss Fennimore. Robin, do you think we

could have dear Miss Fennimore again?'

'I do not know what Mr. Parsons would say to you. As you know, she told

him that she wanted to do the most useful work he could trust to her, so

he has made her second mistress at the day-school for his tradesmen's

daughters; and what they would do without her I cannot think!'

'She must have very insufficient pay.'

'Yes, but I think she is glad of that, and she had saved a good deal.'

'I give you notice that I shall try hard to get her, if Mr. Crabbe will

only let us be as we were before. Do you think there is any hope for

us?'

'I cannot tell. I suspect that he will not consent to your going home

till Mervyn is married; and Augusta wants very much to have you, for the

season at least.'

'Mervyn and Miss Charlecote both say I ought to see a little of the

London world, and she promises to keep Maria and Bertha till we see our

way. I should not like them to be without me anywhere else. You have

not told me of poor Bevil. You must have seen him often.'

'Yes, he clings very much to me, poor fellow, and is nearly as much cast

down as at first. He has persuaded himself that poor Juliana always

continued what he thought her when they met in their youth. Perhaps she

had the germs of it in her, but I sometimes hardly know which way to look

when he is talking about her, and then I take shame to myself for the

hard judgments I cannot put away even now!'

'Poor Juliana!' said Phoebe, saddened by her own sense that the

difficulties of her present position were lessened by the removal of this

sister. 'And little Elizabeth?'

'She is a nice little thing, and her father hardly lets her out of his

sight. I have sometimes speculated whether he might not ask you to keep

house for him, but last time I saw him, I fancied that he was inclined to

hold aloof from you.'

'I had rather he did not ask us,' said Phoebe.

'Why so?'

'Because I am afraid Bertha would not look up to him if she lived with

him,' said Phoebe.

Robert smiled, having himself become conscious of that weakness in his

good brother-in-law which Phoebe felt, but did not name.

'And now, Phoebe,' said Robert, suddenly changing the subject, 'I have

something for you to do; I want you to call on Miss Sandbrook.'

On her astonished look, he explained that he had made it his business

frequently to see Owen Sandbrook's child, and of late to give it some

religious teaching. While thus engaged, he had been surprised by the

entrance of Lucilla, looking wretchedly ill and exhausted, and though she

had rallied her spirits after the first moment, talked of having come up

from Essex for a day's holiday of shopping and seeing her nephew, and had

inquired eagerly and warmly for Miss Charlecote, he had been sufficiently

uneasy about her to go afterwards to Mrs. Murrell, from whom he had

learnt that she had avowed having consulted a physician in the morning,

and had procured her address.

'And now,' said Robert, 'I want you, with whom she has never quarrelled,

to call on her as an old friend just come into her neighbourhood, and

find out what was the doctor's opinion. I am sure she is destroying

herself.'

The whole was said with perfect simplicity, without shrinking from

Phoebe's eye, as though he had absolutely forgotten what sentiments he

had once entertained; and Phoebe could, neither in kindness nor humanity,

refuse to be the means of reopening communication with the voluntary

exile. She proposed to write and offer a call, but Robert, fearing to

rouse the old perverse pride, recommended that there should be no

preparation. Indeed, the chances of an independent expedition seemed

likely to be scanty, for Lady Bannerman pounced on her sister as a truant

bond-slave, who, when captured, was to be useful all day, and go to

parties all night.

'I have told all my friends that I was going to introduce my sister, and

what expectations you have,' she said. 'See, here are two cards for

to-morrow night, Lady Jane Hewett and Mrs. Gosling, the young widow that

I want Mervyn to meet, you know. Clear 5000 pounds a year, and such a

charming house. Real first-rate suppers; not like Lady Jane's

bread-and-butter and cat-lap, as Sir Nicholas says, just handed round.

We would never go near the place, but as I said to Sir Nicholas, any

sacrifice for my sister; and she has a son, you know, a fine young man;

and if we manage well, we shall be in time for Carrie Gosling's supper.

So mind that, Phoebe, and don't get engaged to too many dances.'

'Is there to be dancing?'

'Most likely. I hope you have something to wear.'

'I provided myself at Paris, thank you.'

'Not mourning, I trust! That will never do! Nobody thinks of mourning

for a sister more than six months, and it makes me so low to think of

poor Juliana, and this horrid complaint being in the family. It is quite

a duty to keep one's spirits up. But there's Robert always so

lugubrious; and poor Sir Bevil looks as deplorable, and comes up to town

with that poor little girl all in crape, and won't eat any luncheon! I

declare it gave me such a turn that I was obliged to have my little

cordial before I could swallow a mouthful! And now you come in black!

It is quite provoking! You must and shall get some colours to-morrow.'

'Thank you, what I have is white and lilac.'

On which neutral ground Phoebe took her stand, and the French style and

fashion so impressed Augusta's maid, that she forced her ladyship to

accept even simplicity as 'the thing,' and to sink back rebuked for the

barbarism of hinting at the enlivenment of pink ribbons or scarlet

flowers.

Though thus fortified against shopping on her own account, liberty even

to go to see her sisters was denied her, in Augusta's infinite disgust at

the locality, and consideration for the horses. She was forced to be

contented with the report of Mervyn, who came to dinner and to go to the

evening parties, and who spoke of the girls as well and happy; Maria 'in

her native element' at the infant school, and both in a perfect rapture

at receiving Miss Fennimore, whom their hostess had asked to spend the

evening in Woolstone-lane.

Mervyn professed that he came entirely to see Phoebe's debut in her

Parisian costume, and amused himself maliciously with endeavouring to

delay the start from Lady Jane's till too late for Mrs. Gosling's supper;

but Phoebe, who did not wish to enhance the sacrifice, would not abet

him, and positively, as he declared, aided Augusta in her wild goose

chase.

He contrived to have a good deal of conversation with Phoebe in the

course of the evening, and she heard from him that old Crabbe was more

crusty than ever, and would not hear of his taking his sisters home, but,

said he, that mattered the less, considering that now they would be able

to be at the parsonage.

'The parsonage?'

'What! did you not know the living was in Miss Charlecote's gift?'

'Do you mean that she has offered it to Robert?'

'Yes--no--at least she has told me of her intentions. Highly proper in

the old girl, isn't it? They will settle it to-night, of course. I'll

have the grounds laid out, and make quite a pretty modern place of it.

It has quite taken a weight off my mind to know he is so well provided

for.'

'It will make us all very happy; but I think he will be sorry for St.

Matthew's, too.'

'Oh! parsons think nothing of changes. He can appoint his own successor,

and I'll not let things die away. And now, Phoebe, is there anything you

want to do? I will not have Augusta tie you by the leg. I will look out

a lady's horse to-morrow, and come to ride with you; or if you want to do

anything, you can have the brougham any day.'

'Thank you; there is one thing I want very much to do,' and she

explained.

'Ha!' said Mervyn, 'a romantic meeting. If I remember right, Mr. Robin

used to be much smitten with that little thing. Don't reckon too much on

the parsonage, Phoebe.'

'What are we to do if both brothers turn us out?' smiled Phoebe.

'Don't talk of that. I should be glad enough to get you in--and I am far

enough from _the other thing_ yet.'

So Phoebe obtained the use of the brougham for the next day and set off

for her long Essex drive, much against Augusta's will, and greatly

wondering what it would produce; compassionate of course for poor

Lucilla, yet not entirely able to wish that Robert should resign the

charge for which he was so eminently fitted, even for the sake of

Hiltonbury and home. Lucy must be altered, indeed, if he would not be

happier without her.

Phoebe had written a few lines, saying that hearing that Lucy was so

near, she could not help begging to see her. This she sent in with her

card, and after a little delay, was invited to come in. Lucilla met her

at the top of the stairs, and at first Phoebe only felt herself, clasped,

clung to, kissed, fondled with a sudden gasping, tearful eagerness. Then

as if striving to recall the ordinary tone, Lucilla exclaimed--'There--I

beg your pardon for such an obstreperous greeting, but I am a famished

creature here, you see, and I did not expect such kindness. Luckily some

of my pupils are driving out with their mamma, and I have sent the others

to the nurse. Now then, take off your bonnet, let me see you; I want to

look at a home face, and you are as fresh and as innocent as if not a

year had passed over you.'

Lucilla fervently kissed her again, and then holding her hand, gazed at

her as if unwilling that either should break the happy silence. Meantime

Phoebe was shocked to see how completely Robert's alarms were justified

by Lucy's appearance. The mere absence of the coquettish ringlets made a

considerable difference, and the pale colour of the hair, as it was

plainly braided, increased the wanness of her appearance. The

transparent complexion had lost the lovely carnation of the cheek, but

the meandering veins of the temples and eyelids were painfully apparent;

and with the eyes so large and clear as to be more like veronicas than

ever, made the effect almost ghastly, together with excessive fragility

of the form, and the shadowy thinness of the hand that held Phoebe's.

Bertha's fingers, at her weakest, had been more substantial than these

small things, which had, however, as much character and force in their

grasp as ever.

'Lucy, I am sure you are ill! How thin you are!'

'Well, then, cod-liver oil is a base deception! Never mind that--let me

hear of Honor--are you with her?'

'No, my sisters are, but I am with Augusta.'

'Then you do not come from her?'

'No; she does not know.'

'You excellent Phoebe; what have you done to keep that bonny honest face

all this time to refresh weary eyes--being a little heroine, too. Well,

but the Honor--the old sweet Honey--is she her very self?'

'Indeed, I hope so; she has been so very kind to us.'

'And found subjects in you not too cross-grained for her kindness to be

palatable! Ah! a good hard plunge into the world teaches one what one

left in the friendly ship! Not that mine has been a hard one. I am not

one of the pathetic governesses of fiction. Every one has been kinder to

me than I am worth--But, oh! to hear myself called Lucy again!'--and she

hid her face on Phoebe's shoulder in another access of emotion.

'You used not to like it.'

'My Cilly days were over long ago. Only one person ever used to call me

Cilla;' and she paused, and went on afresh--'So it was for Bertha's sake

and Mervyn's that Honor escorted you abroad. So much Robert told me; but

I don't understand it yet. It had haunted me the whole winter that

Robert was the only Mr. Fulmort _she_ could nurse; and if he told you I

was upset, it was that I did not quite know whether he were ghost or body

when I saw him there in the old place.'

'No, he only told me you were looking very ill; and indeed--'

'I could not ask him what concatenation made Honor take Mervyn under her

wing, like a hen hovering a vulture.'

'It would be a long story,' said Phoebe; 'but Bertha was very ill, and

Mervyn much out of health; and we were in great distress for an escort.

I think it was the kindest thing ever done, and the most successful.'

'Has it been a comfort to her? Owen's letters must be, I am sure. He

will come home this autumn, as soon as he has done laying out his

railway, and then I shall get him to beg leave for me to make a little

visit to Hiltonbury before we go out to Canada. I could not go out

without a good word from her. She and Mr. Prendergast are all that

remains of the old life. I say, Phoebe, did you hear of those cousins of

mine!'

'It was one of the reasons I wished to see you. I thought you might like

to hear of them.'

'You saw them!'

'Miss Charteris called on us at Nice. She--oh, Lucy! you will be

surprised--she is a Plymouth sister!'

'Rashe!--old Rashe! We reverse the old transformation, butterflies into

grubs!' cried Lucy, with somewhat spasmodic laughter. 'Tell me how the

wonder came about.'

'I know little about it,' said Phoebe. 'Miss Charlecote thought most

likely it was the first earnest kind of religion that presented itself

when she was craving for some such help.'

'Did Honor make such a liberal remark? There, I am sorry I said it; but

let me hear of dear old Rashe. Has it made her very grim?'

'You know it is not an embellishing dress, and she did look gaunt and

haggard; but still somehow we liked her better than ever before; and she

is so very good and charitable.'

'Ha! Nice is a grand place for colporteurs and tracts. She would be a

shining specimen there, and dissipation, religious or otherwise, old

Rashe _must_ have.'

'Not only in that line,' said Phoebe, suppressing a smile at the truth of

the surmise, 'but she is all kindness to sick English--'

'She tried to convert you all!--confess it. Rashe converting dear old

Honor! Oh! of all comical conjunctions!'

'Miss Charlecote hushed it down,' said Phoebe; 'and, indeed, nobody could

be with her and think that she needed rousing to religious thoughts.'

'By this attempt on Honor, I fear she has not succeeded with Lolly, whom

poor Owen used to call an Eastern woman with no soul.'

'She does everything for Mrs. Charteris--dresses her, works for her--I do

believe cooks for her. They live a strange, rambling life.'

'I have heard Lolly plays as deeply as Charles, does not she? All Castle

Blanch mortgaged--would be sold, but that Uncle Kit is in the entail! It

breaks one's heart to hear it! They all live on generous old Ratia, I

suppose.'

'I believe she pays the bills when they move. We were told that it was a

beautiful thing to see how patiently and resolutely she goes on bearing

with them and helping them, always in hopes that at last they may turn to

better things.'

Lucy was much touched. 'Poor Rashe!' she said; 'there was something

great in her. I have a great mind to write to her.'

They diverged into other subjects, but every minute she became more open

and confidential; and as the guarded reserve wore off, Phoebe contrived

to lead to the question of her spirits and health, and obtained a fuller

answer.

'Till you try, Phoebe, you can't guess the wear of living with minds that

have got nothing in them but what you have put in yourself. There seems

to be a fur growing over one's intellects for want of something to rub

against.'

'Miss Fennimore must often have felt that with us.'

'No, you were older and besides, you have some originality in a sober

way; and don't imagine Miss Fennimore had the sore heart at the

bottom--the foolishness that took to moaning after home as soon as it had

cast it off past recall!'

'Oh, Lucy! not past recall!'

'Not past pardon, I am trying to hope. At least, there are some people

who, the more unpardonable one is, pardon the more readily. When Owen

comes home, I mean to try.'

'Ah! I saw you had been going through a great deal.'

'No, no, don't charge my looks on sentiment,' said Cilla, hastily;

'there's plenty to account for them besides. One never falls into those

foibles when one is quite strong.'

'Then you have been unwell?'

'Not to the point of giving in. Oh, no! "Never say die" was always my

motto, you know.'

'To what point, dear Lucy?'

'To that of feeling as if the entire creation was out of joint--not one

child here and there, but everybody was cross; and I could not walk with

the children, and my bones ached, and all that sort of thing.'

'You had advice?'

'Yes, I thought it economical to patch myself up in time; so I asked for

a holiday to go to the doctor.'

'Well?'

'He did after the nature of doctors; poked me about, and asked if there

were decline in the family;' and in spite of the smile, the great blue

eyes looked ghastly; 'and he forbade exertion, and ordered good living

and cod-liver oil.'

'Then surely you should be taking care.'

'So I am. These are very good-natured people, and I'm a treasure of a

governess, you know. I have refections ten times a day, and might swim

in port wine, and the little Swiss _bonne_ walks the children, and gives

them an awful accent, which their mamma thinks the correct thing.'

'Change--rest--you should have them.'

'I shall, when Owen comes. It is summer-time, and I shall hold on till

then, when it will be plenty of time to see whether this is nonsense.'

'Whether what is?'

'About my lungs. Don't look horrified. He could only trace the remains

of a stupid old cold, and if it were more, I know of no fact of so little

moment to anybody.'

'You should not say that, Lucy; it is wrong and cruel.'

'It is your fault; I did not want to have talked of it, and in good time

here comes half my flock. Edie, Reggie, Flo, come and show Miss Fulmort

what my torments are.'

They ran in, apparently on excellent terms with her, and greeted her

guest without shyness; but after a little whispering and shoving the

youngest spoke. 'Edie and Reggie want to know if she is the lady that

put out the light?'

'Ah! you heroine,' said Lucy, 'you don't know how often I have told of

your doughty deeds! Ay, look at her, she is the robber-baffler; though

now I look at her I don't quite believe it myself.'

'But it is true?' asked the little girl, puzzled.

'Tell us all the story,' added the boy.

'Yes; tell us,' said Lucilla. 'I read all your evidence, so like

yourself as it was, but I want to know where you were sleeping.'

Phoebe found her present audience strangely more embarrassing than the

whole assize court, perhaps because there the solemn purpose swallowed up

the sense of admiration; but she laughed at last at the boy's

disappointment at the escape of the thieves; 'he would have fired a

pistol through the keyhole and shot them!' When she rose to go, the

children entreated her to stay and be seen by the others, but this she

was glad to escape, though Lucilla clung to her with a sort of anguish of

longing, yet stifled affection, that would have been most painful to

witness, but for the hopes for her relief.

Phoebe ordered her brother's carriage in time to take her to breakfast in

Woolstone-lane the next morning, and before ten o'clock Honor had heard

the account of the visit in Essex. Tearfully she thanked the trusty

reconnoitrer as for a kindness to herself, dwelling on the tokens of

relenting, yet trembling at the tidings of the malady. To write and

recall her child to her motherly nursing was the foremost thought in her

strange medley of grief and joy, hope and fear.

'Poor Robert,' she said, when she understood that he had organized

Phoebe's mission; 'I am glad I told him to give no answer for a week.'

'Mervyn told me how kind you were about Hiltonbury.'

'Kind to myself, my dear. It seems like a crime when I look at St.

Matthew's; but when I think of you all, and of home, I believe it is

right that he should have the alternative. And now, if poor Lucy come,

and it be not too late--'

'Did he say anything?' said Phoebe.

'I only wrote to him; I thought he had rather not let me see his first

impulse, so I told him to let me hear nothing till Thursday evening. I

doubted before, now I feel sure he will take it.'

'Lucy has the oldest claim,' said Phoebe, thoughtfully, wishing she could

feel equally desirous of success in this affair as in that of Mervyn and

Cecily.

'Yes, she was his first love, before Whittingtonia. Did you mention the

vacancy at Hiltonbury?'

'No; there was so much besides to talk of.'

'That is well; for perhaps if she knew, that spirit of hers might keep

her aloof. I feel like Padre Cristoforo dispensing Lucia from her vow!

If she will only get well! And a little happiness will do more than all

the cods in Hammerfest! Phoebe, we will have a chapel-school at the

hamlet, and a model kitchen at the school: and Robert will get hold of

all the big boys. His London experience is exactly what we want to

brighten Hiltonbury, and all our clergy.'

Hiltonbury had a right to stand first with Honora, and Whittingtonia had

sunk into a mere training-school for her pattern parson. If there were a

sigh to think that Owen was exactly of the right age to have been

ordained to Hiltonbury, she put it away, for this was next best.

Her note to Lucilla was penned with trembling caution, and each word was

reconsidered day and night, in case the perverse temper might take

umbrage. The answer came.

'MY DEAR HONOR,

'It is beyond my deserts to be so kindly taken home. I have learnt

what that means now. I can be spared for a fortnight; and as Mr.

Bostock dines in town the day after to-morrow, he will set me down.

Your affectionate

L. SANDBROOK.'

'Miss Charlecote is like a person ten years younger,' observed Bertha to

Phoebe, when she came with the rest to 'quite a family party,' at

Albury-street. Robert alone was absent, it being what Augusta called 'a

fast or something;' _i.e._ a meeting of St. Wulstan's Young Men's

Institute. Bertha heartily wished she could call herself a young man,

for her morbid sense of disgrace always recurred with those whom she knew

to be cognizant of her escapade. However, this evening made a change in

her ladyship's views, or rather she had found Phoebe no longer the mere

submissive handmaid of schoolroom days, but a young woman accustomed to

liberty of action and independence of judgment; and though perfectly

obliging and unselfish, never admitting Augusta's claims on her time to

the exclusion of those of others of the family, and quietly but decidedly

carrying out her intentions. Bertha's shrinking silence and meekness of

demeanour persuaded her sister that she would be more comfortable, and

her womanly appearance not only rendered the notion of school ridiculous,

but inspired the desire of bringing her out. Phoebe might dedicate

herself to Maria if she pleased; Bertha should shine through the season

under her sister's patronage.

Not since the adventure with the Hyeres peasants had Bertha's tongue been

so unmanageable, as when she tried to protest against going into society;

and when Mervyn came to her help, Augusta owned that such hesitation was

indeed an objection, but it might easily be cured by good management;

cordials would prevent nervousness, and, after all, no one would care

when a girl had such a fortune. Poor Bertha crept away, feeling as if

she could never open her mouth again.

Meanwhile Mervyn and Augusta amicably agreed on the excellence of

Hiltonbury parsonage as a home for the girls, the latter only regretting

what Robert had sunk on his fancies at Whittingtonia. 'I don't know

that,' returned Mervyn; 'all I regret is, that we never took our share.

It is a different thing now, I assure you, to see the turn out from the

distillery since the lads have come under his teaching! I only hope his

successor may do as well!'

'Well, I don't understand about such things,' said Augusta, crossly.

'Poor papa never made such a rout about the hands. It would not have

been thought good taste to bring them forward.'

'If you wish to understand,' said Mervyn, maliciously, 'you had better

come and see. Robert would be very glad of your advice for the kitchen

he is setting going--sick cookery and cheap dinners.'

'And pray who pays for them? Robert has made himself a beggar. Is it

you?'

'No; those who eat. It is to be self-supporting. I do nothing but lend

the house. You don't remember it. It is the palace at the corner of

Richard Alley.'

'It is no concern of mine, I know; but what is to become of the business

if you go giving away the houses?'

'Oh! I am getting into the foreign and exportation line. It is

infinitely less bother.'

'Ah, well! I am glad my poor father does not see it. He would have said

the business was going to the dogs!'

'No; he was fast coming into Robert's views, and I heartily wish I had

not hindered him.'

Augusta told her admiral that evening that there was no hope for the

family, since Robert had got hold of Mervyn as well as of the rest of

them. People in society actually asked her about the schools and

playground at Mr. Fulmort's distillery; there had been an educational

report about them. Quite disgusting!

There passed a day of conflicting hope and fear, soothed by the pleasure

of preparation, and at seven in the evening there came the ring at the

house door, and Lucilla was once more in Honora's arms. It was for a

moment a convulsive embrace, but it was not the same lingering clinging

as when she met Phoebe, nor did she look so much changed as then, for

there was a vivid tint of rose on either cheek; she had restored her hair

to the familiar fashion, and her eyes were bright with excitement. The

presence of Maria and Bertha, which Miss Charlecote had regretted, was

probably a relief; for Lucilla, as she threw off her bonnet, and sat down

to the 'severe tea' awaiting her, talked much to them, observed upon

their growth, noticed the little Maltese dog, and compared her

continental experiences with Bertha's. To Honor she scarcely spoke

voluntarily, and cast down her eyes as she did so, making brief work of

answers to inquiries, and showing herself altogether disappointingly the

old Cilly. Robert's absence was also a disappointment to Honor, though

she satisfied herself that it was out of consideration.

Lucy would not go up to her room till bed-time; and when Honor,

accompanying her thither, asked tender and anxious questions about her

health, she answered them, not indeed petulantly, as of old, but with a

strange, absent manner, as if it were duty alone that made her speak.

Only when Honor spoke of her again seeing the physician whom she had

consulted, she at first sharply refused, then, as if recollecting

herself, meekly said: 'As you think fit, but I had rather it was not the

same.'

'I thought he was your own preference,' said Honor, 'otherwise I should

have preferred Dr. F.'

'Very well, let it be,' said Lucy, hastily.

The good-nights, the kisses past, and Honor went away, with a heavy load

of thwarted hopes and baffled yearning at her heart--yearnings which

could be stilled only in one way.

A knock. She started up, and called 'Come in,' and a small, white,

ghostly figure glided in, the hands tightly clasped together.

'Lucy, dear child, you are ill!'

'I don't know what is the matter with me,' said a husky, stifled voice;

'I meant it--I wanted it. I longed after it when it was out of reach,

but now--'

'What, my dear?' asked Honor, appalled at the effort with which she

spoke.

'Your pardon!' and with a pressure of hands and contraction of the brow

as of physical agony, she exclaimed, 'Honor, Honor, forgive me!'

Honor held out her arms, she flung herself prone into them, and wept.

Tears were with her an affection as violent as rare, and her sobs were

fearful, heaving her little fragile frame as though they would rend it,

and issuing in short cries and gasps of anguish. Honor held her in her

arms all the time, much alarmed, but soothing and caressing, and in the

midst, Lucilla had not lost all self-control, and though unable to

prevent the paroxysm, restrained it as much as possible, and never

attempted to speak; but when her friend laid her down, her whole person

still quivering with the long swell of the last uncontrollable sobbing,

she looked up with the sweetest smile ever seen by Honor, who could not

help thinking that such a sight might have met the eyes of the mother who

found the devil gone out and her daughter laid on the bed.

The peace was such that neither could bear to speak for many seconds. At

last Lucy said, 'Dear Honor.'

'My dearest'

'Lie down by me; please put your arms round me. There! Oh! it is so

comfortable. Why did I never find it out before? I wish I could be a

little child, and begin again from the time my father made me over to

you.'

'Lucy, we all would begin again if we could. I have come to the

perception how often I exasperated you.'

'An angel who did his duty by me would have exasperated me in your

place.'

'Yes, that was one error of mine. I thrust myself in against the wishes

of your nearest relative.'

'My thanklessness has made you feel that.'

'Don't talk on, dear one--you are exhausting yourself.'

'A little more I must say before I can sleep under your roof in peace,

then I will obey you in all things. Honor, these few years have shown me

what your education did for me against my will. What would have become

of me if I had been left to the poor Castle Blanch people? Nothing could

have saved me but my spirit of contradiction! No; all that saved my

father's teaching from dying out in me--all that kept me at my worst from

the Charteris standard, all that has served me in my recent life, was

what you did for me! There! I have told you only the truth.'

Honor could only kiss her and whisper something of unlooked-for

happiness, and Lucilla's tears flowed again at the tenderness for which

she had learnt to hunger; but it was a gentle shower this time, and she

let herself be hushed into calmness, till she slept peacefully on Honor's

bed, in Honor's arms, as she had never done, even as a young child.

Honor watched her long, in quiet gladness and thankfulness, then likewise

slept; and when awakened at last by a suppressed cough, looked up to see

the two stars of blue eyes, soft and gentle under their swollen lids,

gazing on her full of affection.

'I have wakened you,' Lucy said.

'Have you been awake long?'

'Not very; but to lie and look at the old windows, and smell the cedar

fragrance, and see you, is better than sleep.'

Still the low morning cough and the pallor of the face filled Honor with

anxiety; and though Lucilla attributed much to the night's agitation, she

was thoroughly languid and unhinged, and fain to lie on the sofa in the

cedar parlour, owning that no one but a governess could know the full

charm of doing nothing.

The physician was the same who had been consulted by her father, and well

remembered the flaxen-haired child whom he had so cruelly detached from

his side. He declared her to be in much the same reduced and enfeebled

condition as that in which her father brought on his malady by reckless

neglect and exposure, and though he found no positive disease in

progress, he considered that all would depend upon anxious care, and

complete rest for the autumn and winter, and he thought her constitution

far too delicate for governess life, positively forbidding her going back

to her situation for another day.

Honor had left the room with him. She found Lucilla with her face hidden

in the sofa cushions, but the next moment met a tremulous half-spasmodic

smile.

'Am I humbled enough?' she said. 'Failed, failed, failed! One by my

flirting, two by my temper, three by my health! I can't get my own

living, and necessity sends me home, without the grace of voluntary

submission.'

'Nay, my child, the very calling it home shows that it need not humble

you to return.'

'It is very odd that I should like it so much!' said Lucy; 'and now,'

turning away as usual from sentiment, 'what shall I say to Mrs. Bostock?

What a wretch she will think me! I must go over and see all those

children once more. I hope I shall have a worthy successor, poor little

rogues. I must rouse myself to write!'

'Not yet, my dear.'

'Not while you can sit and talk. I have so much to hear of at home! I

have never inquired after Mr. Henderson! Not dead?'

'You have not heard? It was a very long, gradual decay. He died on the

12th.'

'Indeed! he was a kind old man, and home will not be itself without his

white head in the reading-desk. Have you filled up the living.'

'I have offered it'--and there was a pause--'to Robert Fulmort.'

'I thought so! He won't have it.'

Honor durst not ask the grounds of this prediction, and the rest of that

family were discussed. It was embarrassing to be asked about the reports

of last winter, and Lucy's keen penetration soon led to full confidence.

'Ah! I was sure that a great flood had passed over that poor child! I

was desperate when I wrote to Phoebe, for it seemed incredible that it

should be either of the others, but I might have trusted her. I wonder

what will become of her. I have not yet seen the man good enough for

her.'

'I have seen one--and so have you--but I could not have spared him to

her, even if she had been in his time.'

Truly Lucilla was taken home when Honor was moved to speak thus.

For her sake Honor had regretted that the return dinner to the

Albury-street household and the brothers was for this day, but she

revived towards evening, and joined the party, looking far less pretty

and piquante, and her dress so quiet as to be only just appropriate, but

still a fair bright object, and fitting so naturally into her old place,

that Lady Bannerman was scandalized at her presumption and Miss

Charlecote's weakness. Honor and Phoebe both watched the greeting

between her and Robert, but could infer nothing, either from it or from

their deportment at dinner, both were so entirely unembarrassed and easy.

Afterwards Robert sought out Phoebe, and beguiled her into the window

where his affairs had so often been canvassed.

'Phoebe,' he said, 'I must do what I fear will distress you, and I want

to prepare you.'

Was it coming? But how could he have guessed that she had rather not?

'I feel deeply your present homeless condition. I wish earnestly that I

could make a home for you. But, Phoebe, once you told me you were

content to be sacrificed to my foremost duty--'

'I am,' she said.

'Well, then, I love this smoky old black wife of mine, and don't want to

leave her even for my sisters.'

'I never thought of your leaving her for your sisters, but--' and as

Lucilla's music effectually veiled all words--'I had thought that there

might be other considerations.' Her eyes spoke the rest.

'I thought you knew that folly had passed away,' he said, somewhat

sternly. 'I trust that no one else has thought of it!' and he indicated

Miss Charlecote.

'Not when the offer was made to you, but since she heard of my mission.'

'Then I am glad that on other grounds my mind was made up. No,' after a

pause, 'there is a great change. She is far superior to what she was in

the days of my madness, but it is over, and never could be renewed. She

herself does not desire it.'

Phoebe was called to the piano, not sorry that such should be Robert's

conviction, and glad that he should not be disturbed in work that suited

him so well as did St. Matthew's, but thinking him far too valuable for

Lucy not to suffer in losing her power over him.

And did she?

She was alone in the cedar parlour with Honor the next day, when the note

was brought in announcing his refusal on the ground that while he found

his strength and health equal to the calls of his present cure, and his

connection with the Fulmort firm gave him unusual facilities in dealing

with the workmen, he did not think he ought to resign his charge for

another for which many better men might be found.

'Quite right; I knew it,' said Lucilla, when Honor had with some attempt

at preparation shown her the note.

'How could you know it?'

'Because I saw a man in his vocation.'

A long silence, during which Cilly caught a pitying glance.

'Please to put that out of your head!' she exclaimed. 'There's no pity,

no ill-usage in the case. I wilfully did what I was warned that he would

not bear, and there was an end of it.'

'I had hoped not past recall.'

'Well, if you will have the truth, when it was done and not to be helped,

we were both very sorry; I can answer at least for one, but he had bound

himself heart and soul to his work, and does not care any longer for me.

What, you, the preacher of sacrifice, wishing to see your best pupil

throw up your pet work for the sake of a little trumpery crushed

fire-fly?'

'Convict me out of my own mouth,' said Honor, sadly, 'it will not make me

like to see my fire-fly crushed.'

'When the poor fire-fly has lit the lamp of learning for six idle

children, no other cause for dimness need be sought. No, I was well and

wicked in the height of the pain, and long after it wore out--for wear

out it did--and I am glad he is too wise to set it going again. I don't

like emotions. I only want to be let alone. Besides, he has got into

such a region of goodness, that his wife ought to be super-excellent. I

know no one good enough for him unless you would have him!'

As usual, Honor was balked by bestowing sympathy, and could only wonder

whether this were reserve, levity, or resignation, and if she must accept

it as a fact that in the one the attachment had been lost in the duties

of his calling, in the other had died out for want of requital. For the

present, in spite of herself, her feeling towards Robert verged more on

distant rather piqued admiration than on affection, although he nearly

approached the ideal of her own first love, and Owen Sandbrook's teaching

was, through her, bearing good fruit in him, even while recoiling on her

woman's heart through Owen's daughter.

Mervyn was easily reconciled to the decision, not only because his

brother was even more valuable to him in London than in the country, but

because Miss Charlecote's next alternative was Charlecote Raymond, Sir

John's second son, a fine, open-tempered young man of thirty, who had

made proof of vigour and judgment in the curacy that he had just left,

and who had the farther recommendation of bearing the name of the former

squire, his godfather. Anything called Raymond was at present so welcome

to Mervyn that he felt himself under absolute obligations to Robert for

having left the field clear. When no longer prejudiced, the sight of

Robert's practical labours struck him more and more, and his attachment

grew with his admiration.

'I'll tell you what, Phoebe,' he said, when riding with her. 'I have a

notion of pleasing the parson. Yesterday we got obstructed by an

interminable procession of school children going out for a lark in the

country by an excursion train, and he began envying their keepers for

being able to give them such a bath of country air. Could we not let him

do the same by his lot at Beauchamp?'

'Oh, Mervyn, what a mass of happiness you would produce!'

'Mass of humbug! I only want to please Robin and have no trouble. I

shan't come near it. You only tell me what it will cost, carriage,

provender, and all, and let me hear no more of it.'

He was destined to hear a good deal more. The proposal caused the utmost

gratitude and satisfaction, except that Honor and Robert doubted whether

it were a proper moment for merry-making at Hiltonbury. They were in

full consultation when in walked Sir John Raymond, who could not help

coming to town at once to express his thanks at having his son settled so

near him. Ere long, he learnt what was under discussion, and made the

amendment that the place should be the Forest, the occasion the

Horticultural Show. He knew of a capital spot for the whole troop to

dine in, even including the Wulstonians proper, whom Honor, wondering she

had never thought of it before, begged to include in the treat at her own

expense. But conveyance from the station for nearly two thousand?

'Never mind,' said Sir John; 'I'll undertake for that! We'll make it a

county concern, and get the farmers to lend their wagons, borrow all the

breaks we can, and I know of some old stage-coaches in dock. If there's

not room for all, they must ride and tye. It is only three miles from

the little Forest station, and we'll make the train stop there. Only,

young ladies, you must work Whittington's cat upon all the banners for

your kittens.'

Lucilla clapped her hands, and undertook that the Whittingtonians should

be marshalled under such an array of banners as never were seen before.

Maria was in ecstasies, and Bertha was, in the excitement, forgetting her

dread of confronting the county.

'But where's Miss Phoebe?' asked Sir John, who had sat half an hour

waiting in vain for her to appear; and when he heard, he declared his

intention of calling on her. And where was Mervyn himself? He was at

the office, whither Robert offered to conduct the Baronet, and where

Mervyn heard more of his proposal than he had bargained for; though,

perhaps, not more than he liked. He was going to an evening party at the

Bannermans', and seeing Sir John's inclination to see Phoebe, proposed to

call for him and take him there.

'What is the use, Phoebe,' demanded Lady Bannerman, after the party was

over, 'of my getting all these young men on purpose to dance with you, if

you get up in a corner all the evening to talk to nobody but Mervyn and

old Sir John? It can be nothing but perverseness, for you are not a bit

shy, and you are looking as delighted as possible to have put me out.'

'Not to have put you out, Augusta, but I am delighted.'

'Well, at what?'

'We are asked to stay at Moorcroft, that's one thing.'

'Stupid place. No wines, no dinners,' said Augusta; 'and so ridiculous

as you are! If the son is at home you'll do nothing but talk to Sir

John. And if ever a girl ought to get married off I am sure it is you.'

'How do you know what good use I may make of my opportunities?'

Phoebe positively danced up-stairs, and indulged in a private polka round

her bedroom. She had been told not only of the Forest plan, but that Sir

John was going to 'run down' to his brother's at Sutton the next day, and

that he had asked Mervyn to come with him.

Mervyn had not this time promised to send her a blank cover. He thought

he had very little present hope, for the talk had been of a year's

probation--of his showing himself a changed character, etc. And not only

was this only half that space, but less than a month had been spent in

England. This time he was not setting off as one about to confer a

favour.

Phoebe heard no more for two days. At last, as she was finishing her

toilette to go out with Augusta, a hasty knock came to her door, and

Mervyn entreated to be let in. His face told more than his tongue could

utter. He had little guessed the intensity of the happiness of which he

had so long deprived himself, and Cecily's acceptance had filled him with

a flood of bliss, tinctured, however, by the sense of his own

unworthiness of her constant affection, and increasing compunction for

what he had made her endure.

'I don't know how she could do it, or why she cared for such a miserable

scamp, breaking her heart all this time!' he exclaimed.

'You will make up for it now.'

'I wish I may; but, bless me, Phoebe, she is a perfect little nun, and

what is she to do with a graceless dog like me?'

'You will see,' said Phoebe, smiling.

'What do you think, then?' he demanded, in some alarm. 'You know I can't

take to the pious tack. Will nothing else satisfy her?'

'You are not the same as you were. You don't know what will happen to

you yet,' said Phoebe, playfully.

'The carriage is ready, ma'am; my lady is waiting,' said a warning voice.

'I say,' quoth Mervyn, intercepting her, 'not a word to my lady. It is

all conditional, you understand--only that I may ask again, in a year, or

some such infernal time, if I am I don't know what--but they do, I

suppose.'

'Perhaps you will by that time. Dear Mervyn, I am sorry, but I must go,

or Augusta will be coming here.'

He made a ludicrous gesture of shrinking horror, but still detained her

to whisper, 'You'll meet her at Moorcroft; they will have her for the

Forest to-do.'

Phoebe signed her extreme satisfaction, and ran away.

'I am surprised at you, Phoebe; you have kept me five minutes.'

'Some young ladies do worse,' said the Admiral, who was very fond of her;

'and her time was not lost. I never saw her look better.'

'I don't like such a pair of milkmaid's cheeks, looking so ridiculously

delighted, too,' said Lady Bannerman, crossly. 'Really, Phoebe, one

would think you were but just come up from the country, and had never

been to a concert before. Those stupid little white marabouts in your

hair again, too!'

'Well,' said Sir Nicholas, 'I take them as a compliment--Phoebe knows I

think they become her.'

'I don't say they are amiss in themselves, but it is all obstinacy,

because I desire her to buy that magnificent ruby bandeau! How is any

one to believe in her fortune if she dresses in that twopenny-halfpenny

fashion? I declare I have a great mind to leave her behind.'

Phoebe could almost have said 'pray do,' so much did she long to join the

party in Woolstone-lane, where the only alloy was, that poor Maria's

incapacity for secrecy forbade her hearing the good news.

Miss Charlecote, likewise, was secretly a little scandalized at the

facility with which the Raymonds had consented to the match; she thought

Mervyn improved, but neither religious nor repentant, and could not think

Cecily or her family justified in accepting him. Something of the kind

became perceptible to Robert when they first talked over the matter

together.

'It may be so,' he said, 'but I really believe that Mervyn will be more

susceptible of real repentance when he has imperceptibly been led to

different habits and ways of thinking. In many cases, I have seen that

the mind has to clear itself, and leave old things behind before it has

the capacity of perceiving its errors.'

'Repentance must precede amendment.'

'_Some_ repentance must, but even the sense of the inexpedience and

inconvenience of evil habits may be the first step above them, and in

time the power of genuine repentance may be attained.'

'Still, glad as I am for all your sakes, I cannot understand it on

Cecily's part, or how a girl of her tone of mind can marry where there

can as yet be no communion of the highest kind. You would be sorry to

see Phoebe do so.'

'Very sorry. It is no example, but there may be claims from the mere

length of the attachment, which seems to mark her as the appointed

instrument for his good. Besides, she has not fully accepted him; and

after such change as he has made, she might not have been justified in

denying all encouragement.'

'She did not seek such justification,' said Honor laughing, but surprised

to find Robert thus lenient in his brother's case, after having acted so

stern a part in his own.