Then Robin Hood took them both by the hands,
And danced about the oak tree,
For three merry men, and three merry men,
And three merry men we be.--_Old Ballad_
The case of the three sisters remained a difficulty. The Bannermans
professed to have 'washed their hands of them,' their advice not being
taken, and Mr. Crabbe could not think himself justified in letting them
return to the protection that had so egregiously failed. Bertha was
fretted by the uncertainty, and became nervous, and annoyed with Phoebe
for not showing more distress--but going on from day to day in the
confidence that matters would arrange themselves.
Phoebe, who had come of age during her foreign tour, had a long
conference with her guardian when he put her property into her hands.
The result was that she obtained his permission to inhabit with her
sisters the Underwood, a sort of dowager-house belonging to Beauchamp,
provided some elderly lady could be found to chaperon them--Miss
Fennimore, if they preferred her.
Miss Fennimore was greatly touched with the earnestness of the united
entreaties of her pupils, and though regretting the field of usefulness
in which she had begun to work, could not resist the pleasure of keeping
house with Phoebe, and resuming her studies with Bertha on safer ground.
She could not, however, quit her employment without a half-year's notice,
and when Mervyn went down for a day to Beauchamp, he found the Underwood
in such a woful state of disrepair, that turn in as many masons,
carpenters, and paperers as he would, there was no hope of its being
habitable before Martinmas. Therefore the intermediate time must be
spent in visiting, and though the head-quarters were at the Holt, the
Raymonds of Moorcroft claimed the first month, and the promise of
Cecily's presence allured Bertha thither, though the Fulmort mind had
always imagined the house highly religious and dull. Little had she
expected to find it ringing with the wild noise and nonsense of a joyous
home party of all ages, full of freaks and frolics, laughter and
merriment. Her ready wit would have made her shine brilliantly if her
speech had been constantly at command, but she often broke down in the
midst of a repartee, and was always in danger of suffering from
over-excitement. Maria, too, needed much watching and tenderness. Every
one was very kind to her, but not exactly knowing the boundary of her
powers, the young people would sometimes have brought her into situations
to which she was unequal, if Phoebe had not been constantly watching over
her.
Between the two sisters, Phoebe's visit was no sinecure. She was always
keeping a motherly eye and hand over one or the other, sometimes over
both, and not unseldom incurring Bertha's resistance under the petulance
of overwrought spirits, or anger at troublesome precautions. After
Cecily's arrival, however, the task became easier. Cecily took Bertha
off her hands, soothing and repressing those variable spirits, and making
a wise and gentle use of the adoration that Bertha lavished on her,
keeping her cousins in order, and obviating the fast and furious fun that
was too great a change for girls brought up like the Fulmorts. Maria was
safe whenever Cecily was in the room, and Phoebe was able to relax her
care and enjoy herself doubly for feeling all the value of the future
sister.
She thought Miss Charlecote and Lucilla both looked worn and dispirited,
when one day she rode with Sir John to see them and inspect the
Underwood, as well as to make arrangements for the Forest Show. Poor
Honora was seriously discomposed at having nothing to show there. It was
the first time that the Holt had failed to shine in its produce, but old
Brooks had allowed the whole country round to excel so palpably in all
farm crops, and the gardener had taken things so easily in her absence,
that everything was mediocre, and she was displeased and ashamed.
Moreover, Brooks had controverted her strictest instructions against
harbouring tenants of bad character; he had mismanaged the cattle, and
his accounts were in confusion. He was a thoroughly faithful servant,
but like Ponto and the pony, he had grown masterful with age. Honor
found that her presiding eye had certainly done some good, since going
away had made things so much worse, and she took Sir John with her to the
study to consult him on her difficulties. Phoebe and Lucilla were left
together.
'I am afraid you are not much better,' said Phoebe, looking at the
languid fragile little being, and her depressed air.
'Yes, I am,' she answered, 'in essentials--but, oh! Phoebe, if you could
only teach me to get on with Honor.'
'Oh,' said Phoebe, with a tone of disappointment, 'I hoped all was
comfortable now.'
'So it ought to be! I am a wretch that it is not; but somehow I get
tired to death. I should like it to be my own fault, but with her I
always have a sense of _fluffiness_. There is so much figurativeness and
dreamy sentiment that one never gets to the firm, clear surface.'
'I thought that her great charm,' said Phoebe. 'It is a pity to be so
dull and unimaginative as I am.'
'I like you best as you are! I know what to be at.'
'Besides, her sensibility and poetry are a fund of happy youthfulness.
Abroad, her enjoyment was multiplied, because every place was full of
associations, lighted up by her fancy.
'Made unsubstantial by her fluff! No, I cannot like mutton with the wool
on! It is a shame, though, good creature as she is! I only wanted to
make out the philosophy of the wearied, worried condition that her
conversation is so apt to bring on in me. I can't think it pure
wickedness on my own part, for I esteem, and love, and venerate the good
soul with all my heart. I say, Phoebe, were you never in an inward rage
when she would say she would not _let_ some fact be true, for the sake of
some mythical, romantic figment? You smile. Own that you have felt it.'
'I have thought of Miss Fennimore's theory, that legends are more
veritable exponents of human nature than bare facts.'
'Say it again, Phoebe. It sounds very grand. Whipped cream is a truer
exponent of milk than cheese, especially when it tastes of soap-suds. Is
that it?'
'It is a much prettier thing, and not near so hard and dry,' said Phoebe;
'but, you see, you are talking in figures after all.'
'The effect of example. Look here, my dear, the last generation was that
of mediaevalism, ecclesiology, chivalry, symbolism, whatever you may call
it. Married women have worked out of it. It is the middle-aged maids
that monopolize it. Ours is that of common sense.'
'I don't know that it is better or prettier,' said Phoebe.
'And it may be worse! But how are the two to live together when there is
no natural conformity--only undeserved benefits on one side and gratitude
on the other?'
'You will be more at ease when you are stronger and better,' said Phoebe.
'Your brother will make you feel more natural with her.'
'Don't talk of it, Phoebe. Think of the scene those two will get up!
And the showing him that terrible little Cockney, Hoeing, as the old
woman calls him. If I could only break the neck of his h's before poor
Owen hears them.'
'Miss Charlecote did say something of having him here, but she thought
you were not strong enough.'
'Justly judged! I shall have enough of him by and by, if I take him out
to Canada. Once I used to think that would be deliverance; now it has
become nothing but a gigantic trouble!'
'If you are really equal to it, you will not feel it so, when the time
comes. Bertha was miserable at the thought of moving, till just when she
had come to the right point, and then she grew eager for it.'
It was wonderful how much freshened Lucy was by this brief contact with
Phoebe's clear, practical mind; but only for the time. Ever since her
arrival at the Holt she had sadly flagged, though making every effort
against her depression. There was something almost piteous in her
obedience and submission. All the employments once pressed upon her and
then spurned, were solicitously resumed; or if Honor remonstrated against
them as over-fatiguing, were relinquished in the same spirit of resigned
meekness. Her too visible desire to make an onerous atonement pressed
with equal weight on both, and the essential want of sympathy rendered
the confidences of the one mysteries to the other.
Honora was grieved that her child had only returned to pine and droop,
charging much of her melancholy lassitude upon Robert, and waiting on her
with solicitude and tenderness that were unhappily only an additional
oppression; and all Lucilla's aversion to solitude did not prevent her
friend's absence from being a relief. It was all that she could at
present desire to be released from the effort of being companionable, and
be able to indulge her languor without remark, her wayward appetite
without causing distress, and her dejection without caresses,
commiseration, or secret imputations on Robert.
Tidings came from Vancouver's Land of her uncle's death by an accident.
Long as it was since she had seen him, the loss was deeply felt. She
better appreciated what his care of her father had been, and knew better
what gratitude he deserved, and it was a sore disappointment that he
should not live to see her prove her repentance for all her flightiness
and self-will. Moreover, his death, without a son, would enable his
nephew to alienate the family estate; and Lucy looked on this as direful
shame and humiliation. Still there was something soothing in having a
sorrow that could be shared with Miss Charlecote; and the tangible cause
for depression and retirement was a positive comfort.
'Trouble' was the chief dread of her wearied spirit; and though she had
exerted herself to devise and work the banners, she could not attempt
being present at the grand Forest show, and marvelled to see Honor set
off, with twice her years and more than twice her sorrows, yet full of
the fresh eagerness of youthful anticipation, and youthful regrets at
leaving her behind, and at having nothing to figure at the show!
But vegetables were not the order of that day, the most memorable the
Forest had perhaps ever known, since six bold Lancastrian outlaws had
there been hung, on the very knoll where the flag of England was always
hoisted, superior to the flags of all the villages.
The country population and the exhibitors were all early in the field,
and on the watch for the great feature of the day--the Londoners. What
cheering rent the air as the first vehicle from the little Forest station
appeared, an old stage-coach, clustered within and without by white bibs,
tippets, and caps, blue frocks, and grave, demure faces, uncertain
whether to be charmed or frightened at their elevation and reception, and
almost dazzled by the bright sunshine and pure air, to their perception
absolutely thin, though heavy laden with the scents of new-mown hay and
trodden ferns.
The horses are stopped, down springs Mr. Parsons from the box, releases
the staid mistress from within, lifts or jumps down the twenty girls, and
watches them form in well-accustomed file, their banner at their head,
just pausing to be joined by the freight of a rattling omnibus, the very
roof laden with the like little Puritan damsels. The conveyances turn
back for another load, the procession is conducted slowly away, through
the road lined by troops of country children, regarding the costume as
the latest London fashion, and holding out many an eager gift of nosegays
of foxgloves, marigolds, southernwood, and white pinks. Meanwhile break,
cart, fly, van, barouche, gig, cart, and wagon continue in turn to
discharge successive loads, twenty children to each responsible keeper.
White caps are over! Behold the parish school of St. Wulstan's. Here
_is_ fashion! Here are hats, polkas, and full short skirts, but pale
faces and small limbs. The country mothers cry 'Oh!' and 'Poor little
dears, they look very tuly,' and complacently regard their own sturdy,
sunburnt offspring, at whose staring eyes and ponderous boots the city
mice glance with disdain.
Endless stream! Here waves a proud blue banner, wrought with a noble
tortoiseshell cat; and behind it, each class led by a cat-flag, marches
the Whittingtonian line, for once no ragged regiment, but arrayed by
their incumbent's three sisters in lilac cotton and straw bonnets, not
concealing, however, the pinched and squalid looks of the denizens of the
over-crowded lanes and alleys.
That complaint cannot be made of these sixteen wearers of gray frocks and
checked jackets. Stunted indeed they are, several with the
expressionless, almost featureless, visages of hereditary misery, others
with fearfully refined loveliness, but all are plump, well-fed, and at
ease. They come from the orphanage of St. Matthew's, under the charge of
the two ladies who walk with them, leading two lesser younglings, all but
too small to be brought to the festival. Yes, these are the waifs and
strays, of home and parents absolutely unknown, whom Robert Fulmort has
gathered from the streets--his most hopeful conquest from the realm of
darkness.
Here, all neatly, some stylishly dressed, are the St. Wulstan's Young
Women's Association, girls from fifteen upwards, who earn their own
livelihood in service or by their handiwork, but meet on Sunday
afternoons to read, sing, and go to church together, have books lent out
for the week, or questions set for those who like them. It is Miss
Fennimore who is the nucleus of the band; she sits with them in church,
she keeps the books, writes the questions, and leads the singing; and she
is walking between her two chief friends, answering their eager and
intelligent questions about trees and flowers, and directing their
observation.
Boys! boys! boys! Objects in flat caps and little round buttons atop,
knee-breeches, and short-tailed coats, funnier to look at than their
white-capped sisters, gentlemanly choristers, tidy sons of artisans and
warehousemen, ragged half-tamed little street vagabonds, all file past,
under curate, schoolmaster or pupil teacher, till the whole multitude is
safely deposited in a large mead running into the heart of the Forest,
and belonging to the ranger, Sir John Raymond, who has been busy there,
with all his family, for the last three days.
Policemen guard the gates from intruders, but all can look over the low
hedge at the tents at either end, the cord dividing boy from girl, and
the scattered hay, on which the strangers move about, mostly mazed by the
strange sights, sounds, and smells, and only the petted orphans venturing
to tumble about that curious article upon the ground. Two little
sisters, however, evidently transplanted country children, sit up in a
corner where they have found some flowers, fondling them and hugging them
with ecstasy.
The band strikes up, and, at the appointed signal, grace is said by the
archdeacon from the centre, the children are seated on the grass, and
'the nobility, clergy, and gentry' rush to the tents, and emerge with
baskets of sandwiches of the largest dimensions, or cans full of Sir
John's beer. The Whittingtonians devour as those that have eaten nothing
this morning, the Wulstonites as though country air gave great keenness
of appetite; the subdued silence of awe passes off, and voices, laughing,
and play begin to betray some real enjoyment and familiarity.
Such as are not too perfectly happy in the revelry of tumbling on the
grass are then paraded through the show, to gaze at peas, currants, and
potatoes, pyramids of geraniums, and roses peeping through white paper.
Thence the younger ones return to play in the field; such of the elder
ones as prefer walking are conducted through forest paths to gather
flowers, and to obtain a closer view of that oft-described sight, a
corn-field. Some of the elder Wulstonians get up a dance, tall girls
dancing together with the utmost enjoyment; but at four o'clock the band
plays _Dulce Domum_, the captains of twenties count heads and hunt up
stragglers, all gather together in their places, plum buns and tea are
administered till even these thirsty souls can drink no more. Again the
files are marshalled, the banners displayed, and the procession moves
towards the little Forest church, a small, low-walled, high-roofed
building, enclosed by stately beeches, making a sort of outer cathedral
around the little elevation where it stood in its railed-in churchyard.
Two thousand children besides spectators in a building meant for three
hundred! How came it to be devised? There is a consultation among the
clergy. They go from one portion to another of the well-generalled army,
and each division takes up a position on the ground strewn with dry beech
leaves; hassocks and mats are brought to the ladies, a desk set at the
gate, and a chair for the archdeacon; the choristers are brought near,
and the short out-door service is begun.
How glorious and full the responses, 'as the voice of many waters,' and
the chanted Psalms, the beautiful songs of degrees of the 27th of the
month, rise with new fulness and vividness of meaning among the tall
trees and sunlit foliage. One lesson alone is read, in Charlecote
Raymond's fine, powerful voice, and many an eye is filled with tears at
the words, 'One Lord, one Faith, one Baptism, one God and Father of us
all,' as he gazes on the troops on troops of young and old, rich and
poor, strangers and homeborn, all held together in that great unity,
typified by the overshadowing sky, and evidenced by the burst of the
Creed from every voice and every heart.
Then follow the Versicles, the Collects, the Thanksgiving, and the
Blessing, and in a few warm, kind words the archdeacon calls on all to
keep the bond of peace and brotherly love, and bade the strangers bear
home with them the thought of the wonderful works of God. Then--
All people that on earth do dwell,
Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice,
arises from the congregation in all its simple exultant majesty, forcing,
as it were, every voice to break forth into singing unless it be choked
by heart-swelling.
The last note has died away, but there is a sweet hush, as though
lingering still, ere breaking the sense that this is none other than the
gate of heaven.
Rattle and rumble, the vehicles are coming! The children rise, and
somewhere begins the indispensable cheer. The gentlemen take the lead.
'Three times three for Mr. Fulmort!' 'Three cheers for Sir John
Raymond!' 'Three for the Forest show!' Shouting and waving of hats will
never cease, the gentlemen are as crazy as the boys, and what will become
of the train?
Tumble them in--hoist up the girls while mankind is still vociferous.
What's all this, coming in at the omnibus windows? Stand back, child,
you don't want to be set down in London! Your nosegay, is it? Here are
the prize nosegays, prize potatoes, prize currants, prize everything
showering in on the Londoners to display or feast on at home. Many a
family will have a first taste of fresh country green meat to-morrow, of
such freshness, that is, as it may retain after eight hours of show and
five of train. But all is compared! How the little girls hug their
flowers. If any nosegays reach London alive, they will be cherished to
their last hour, and maybe the leaves will live in prayer-books for many
a year.
Poor little things! It has been to them apparently a rather weary and
oppressive pleasure, too strange for the most part to be thoroughly
enjoyed; but it will live in their memories for many a day, and as time
goes on, will clear itself from the bewilderment, till it become one of
the precious days that make gems on the thread of life.
Mervyn! Where has he been all this time? True, he once said he would
see nothing of it, and seems to have kept his word. He did not even
acknowledge the cheers for Mr. Fulmort.
Is not something visible behind the broad smooth bole of yonder beech
tree? Have Mervyn and Cecily been there all the time of the evening
service?
It is a remarkable fact, that though nobody has told anybody, every
person who is curious, and many who are not, know who is to be Mrs.
Fulmort of Beauchamp.