Old isle and glorious, I have heard
Thy fame across the sea,
And know my fathers' homes are thine,
My fathers rest with thee.--_A Cleveland Lore_
'R. M. Fulmort to Miss Charlecote.--The carriage to meet the 6 P.M.
train.'
That was all the intelligence that reached Woolstone-lane till the
court-gates were opened, and Robert hurried in before the carriage.
'Much better,' he said 'only he is sadly knocked up by the journey. Do
not show yourselves till he is in his room. Which is it?'
Honora and Lucilla hastened to point it out, then drew back, and waited,
Honor supporting herself against the wall, pale and breathless, Lucy
hanging over the balusters, fevered with suspense. She heard the tread,
the quick, muttered question and answer; she saw the heavy, helpless
weight carried in; and as the steps came upwards, she was pulled back
into the sitting-room by Honor, at first almost by force, then with
passive, dejected submission, and held tight to the back of a chair, her
lip between her teeth, as though withholding herself by force from
springing forward as the familiar voice, weak, weary, and uncertain, met
her ear.
At length Robert beckoned; and she flew at first, then slackened her
pace, awestruck. Her brother lay on the bed, with closed eyes. The form
was larger, more manly and robust than what she had known, the powerful
framework rendering the wreck more piteous, and the handsome dark beard
and moustache, and crisp, thick curls of hair made the straight, well-cut
features resemble an old picture of a cavalier; nor had the bright,
sunburnt complexion lost the hue of health; so that the whole gave the
idea of present suffering rather than abiding illness. He seemed to her
like a stranger, till at her step he looked up, and his dark gray eyes
were all himself as he held out his hand and fondly spoke her name. She
hung over him, restraining her exclamations with strong force; and even
in the midst of her embrace he was saying, 'Honor! Is Honor here?'
Trembling with emotion, Honor bent to kiss his brow, and felt his arm
thrown about her neck, and the hairy lips kissing either cheek just as
when, smooth and babyish, they had sought her motherly caress. 'May I
come home?' he asked. 'They brought me without your leave!'
'And you could not feel sure of your Sweet Honey's welcome?'
He smiled his old smile of fondness, but dimmed by pain and languor; and
the heavy lids sank over his eyes, but to be at once raised. 'Lucy!
Home, Honor! It is all I wanted,' he said; 'you will be good to me, such
as I am.'
'We will sit close to you, my dear; only you cannot talk--you must rest.'
'Yes. My head is very bad--my eyes ache,' he said, turning his head from
the light, with closed eyes, and hand over them; but then he added--'One
thing first--where is he?'
'Your little boy?' said Lucilla. 'Do you wish to see him? I will call
him.'
'No, no, I could not;' and his brow contracted with pain. 'No! but did
not I tell you all about him--your cousin, Honor? Do pull the curtain
round, the light hurts me!'
Convinced that his mind was astray, there was no attempt at answering
him; and all were so entirely occupied with his comforts, that Phoebe saw
and heard no one until Robert came down, telling her that Owen had, in
fact, improved much on the voyage, but that the long day's journey by
train had brought on such severe and exhausting pain in the head, that he
could scarcely speak or look up, and fatigue seemed to have confused the
faculties that in the morning had been quite clear. Robert was obliged
to go to his seven o'clock service, and Phoebe would fain have come with
him, but he thought she might be useful at home.
'Miss Charlecote is so much absorbed in Owen,' he said, 'that I do not
think she heard a word about that young Randolf. Mr. Currie is gone to
spend to-morrow and Sunday with his father at Birmingham, but he let me
have this young man to help to bring Owen home. Make Miss Charlecote
understand that he is to sleep at my place. I will come back for him,
and he is not to be in her way. He is such a nice fellow! And, Phoebe,
I have no time, but there is Mrs. Murrell with the child in the study.
Can you make her understand that Owen is far too ill to see them
to-night? Keep them off poor Lucy, that's all.'
'Lucy, that's all!' thought Phoebe, as she moved to obey. 'In spite of
all he says, Lucy will always be his first thought next to St. Matthew's;
nor do I know why I should mind it, considering what a vast space there
is between!'
'Now my pa is come, shan't I be a gentleman, and ride in a carriage?'
were the sounds that greeted Phoebe's ears as she opened the door of the
study, and beheld the small, lean child dressed in all his best; not one
of the gray linen frocks that Lucilla was constantly making for him, but
in a radiant tartan, of such huge pattern that his little tunic barely
contained a sample of one of each portentous check, made up crosswise, so
as to give a most comical, harlequin effect to his spare limbs and weird,
black eyes. The disappointment that Phoebe had to inflict was severe,
and unwittingly she was the messenger whom Mrs. Murrell was likely to
regard with the most suspicion and dislike. 'Come home along with me,
Hoing, my dear,' she said; 'you'll always find poor granny your friend,
even if your pa's 'art is like the nether millstone, as it was to your
poor ma, and as others may find it yet.'
'I have no doubt Mr. Sandbrook will see him when he is a little recovered
after his journey,' said Phoebe.
'No doubt, ma'am. I don't make a doubt, so long as there is no one to
put between them. I have 'eard how the sight of an 'opeful son was as
balm to the eyes of his father; but if I could see Mr. Fulmort--'
'My brother is gone to church. It was he who sent me to you.'
Mrs. Murrell had real confidence in Robert, whose friendliness had long
been proved, and it was less impossible to persuade her to leave the
house when she learnt that it was by his wish; but Phoebe did not wonder
at the dread with which an interview with her was universally regarded.
In returning from this mission, Phoebe encountered the stranger in the
lamp-light of the hall, intently examining the balustrade of the stairs.
'This is the drawing-room,' she courteously said, seeing that he seemed
not to know where to go.
'Thank you,' he said, following her. 'I was looking at the wood. What
is it? We have none like it.'
'It is Irish bog oak, and much admired.'
'I suppose all English houses can scarcely be like this?' said he,
looking round at the carved wainscot.
'Oh, no, this house is a curiosity. Part was built before 1500.'
'In the time of the Indians?' Then smiling, 'I had forgotten. It is
hard to realize that I am where I have so long wished to be. Am I
actually in a room 360 years old?'
'No; this room is less ancient. Here is the date, 1605, on the panel.'
'Then this is such a house as Milton might have grown up in. It looks on
the Thames?'
'How could you tell that?'
'My father had a map of London that I knew by heart, and after we came
under Temple Bar, I marked the bearings of the streets. Before that I
was not clear. Perhaps there have been changes since 1830, the date of
his map.'
Phoebe opened a map, and he eagerly traced his route, pronouncing the
names of the historical localities with a relish that made her almost
sorry for their present associations. She liked his looks. He seemed to
be about two or three and twenty, tall and well-made, with somewhat of
the bearing of his soldier-father, but broad-shouldered and athletic, as
though his strength had been exercised in actual bodily labour. His
clear, light hazel eye was candid and well opened, with that peculiar
prompt vigilance acquired by living in a wild country, both steady to
observe and keen to keep watch. The dark chestnut hair covered a rather
square brow, very fair, though the rest of the face was browned by sun
and weather; the nose was straight and sensible, the chin short and firm;
the lips, though somewhat compressed when shut, had a look of good-humour
and cheerful intelligence peculiarly pleasant to behold. Altogether, it
was a face that inspired trust.
Presently the entrance of the tea-things obliged the map to be cleared
away; and Phoebe, while measuring out the tea, said that she supposed
Miss Charlecote would soon come down.
'Then are not you a Charlecote?' he asked, with a tone of disappointment.
'Oh, no! I am Phoebe Fulmort. There is no Charlecote left but herself.'
'It was my mother's name; and mine, Humfrey Charlecote Randolf.
Sandbrook thought there was some connection between the families.'
Phoebe absolutely started, hurt for a moment that a stranger should
presume to claim a name of such associations; yet as she met the bright,
honest eyes, feeling glad that it should still be a living name, worthily
borne. 'It is an old family name at Hiltonbury, and one very much
honoured,' she said.
'That is well,' he said. 'It is good to have a name that calls one to
live up to it! And what is more strange, I am sure Miss Charlecote once
had my mother's hair.'
'Beautiful ruddy gold?'
'Yes, yes; like no one else. I was wanting to do like poor Sandbrook.'
He looked up in her face, and stroked her hair as she was leaning over
him, and said, 'I don't like to miss my own curls.'
'Ah!' said Phoebe, half indignantly, 'he should know when those curls
were hidden away and grew silvery.'
'He told me those things in part,' said the young man. 'He has felt the
return very deeply, and I think it accounts for his being so much worse
to-night--worse than I have seen him since we were at Montreal.'
'Is he quite sensible?'
'Perfectly. I see the ladies do not think him so to-night; but he has
been himself from the first, except that over-fatigue or extra weakness
affect his memory for the time; and he cannot read or exert his
mind--scarcely be read to. And he is sadly depressed in spirits.'
'And no wonder, poor man,' said Phoebe.
'But I cannot think it is as they told us at Montreal.'
'What?'
'That the brain would go on weakening, and he become more childish. Now
I am sure, as he has grown stronger, he has recovered intellect and
intelligence. No one could doubt it who heard him three days ago
advising me what branch of mathematics to work up!'
'We shall hear to-morrow what Dr. F--- says. Miss Charlecote wrote to
him as soon as we had my brother's telegram. I hope you are right!'
'For you see,' continued the Canadian, eagerly, 'injury from an external
cause cannot be like original organic disease. I hope and trust he may
recover. He is the best friend I ever had, except Mr. Henley, our
clergyman at Lakeville. You know how he saved all our lives; and he
persuaded Mr. Currie to try me, and give me a chance of providing for my
little brothers and their mother better than by our poor old farm.'
'Where are they?' asked Phoebe.
'She is gone to her sister at Buffalo. The price of the land will help
them on for a little while there, and if I can get on in engineering, I
shall be able to keep them in some comfort. I began to think the poor
boys were doomed to have no education at all.'
'Did you always live at Lakeville?'
'No; I grew up in a much more civilized part of the world. We had a
beautiful farm upon Lake Ontario, and raised the best crops in the
neighbourhood. It was not till we got entangled in the Land Company,
five years ago, that we were sold up; and we have been sinking deeper
ever since--till the old cow and I had the farm all to ourselves.'
'How could you bear it?' asked Phoebe.
'Well! it was rather dreary to see one thing going after another. But
somehow, after I lost my own black mare, poor Minnehaha, I never cared so
much for any of the other things. Once for all, I got ashamed of my own
childish selfishness. And then, you see, the worse things were, the
stronger the call for exertion. That was the great help.'
'Oh, yes, I can quite imagine that--I know it,' said Phoebe, thinking how
exertion had helped her through her winter of trial. 'You never were
without some one to work for.'
'No; even when my father was gone'--and his voice was less clear--'there
was the less time to feel the change, when the boys and their mother had
nothing but me between them and want.'
'And you worked for them.'
'After a fashion,' he said, smiling. 'Spade-husbandry alone is very poor
earth-scratching; and I don't really know whether, between that and my
gun, we could have got through this winter.'
'What a life!' exclaimed Phoebe. 'Realities, indeed!'
'It is only what many colonists undergo,' he answered; 'if they do not
prosper, it is a very hard life, and the shifting hopes render it the
more trying to those who are not bred to it.'
'And to those that are?' she asked.
'To those that are there are many compensations. It is a free
out-of-doors life, and the glorious sense of extent and magnificence in
our woods, the sport one has there, the beauty of our autumns, and our
white, grand, silent winters, make it a life _well_ worth living.'
'And would these have made you content to be a backwoodsman all your
life?'
'I cannot tell,' he said. 'They--and the boys--were my delight when I
was one. And, after all, I used to recollect it was a place where there
was a clear duty to do, and so, perhaps, safer than what fancy or choice
would point at.'
'But you are very glad not to be still condemned to it.'
'Heartily glad not to be left to try to prop up a tumble-down log-hut
with my own shoulder,' he laughed. 'This journey to England has been the
great desire of my life, and I am very thankful to have had it brought
about.'
The conversation was broken off by Robert's entrance. Finding that it
was nearly nine o'clock, he went up-stairs to remind Miss Charlecote that
tea had long been awaiting her, and presently brought her back from the
silent watch by Owen's side that had hitherto seemed to be rest and
comfort to all the three.
Owen had begged that his cup might be sent up by his friend, on whom he
was very dependent, and it was agreed that Mr. Randolf should sleep in
his room, and remain as a guest at Woolstone-lane until Mr. Currie should
come to town. Indeed, Miss Charlecote relied on him for giving the
physician an account of the illness which Owen, at his best, could not
himself describe; and she cordially thanked him for his evidently devoted
attendance, going over every particular with him, but still so completely
absorbed in her patient as to regard him in no light but as an appendage
necessary to her boy.
'How did you get on with the backwoodsman, Phoebe?' asked Lucilla, when
she came down to tea.
'I think he is a sterling character,' said Phoebe, in a tone of grave,
deep thought, not quite as if answering the question, and with an
observable deepening of the red of her cheek.
'You quaint goose!' said Lucy, with a laugh that jarred upon Honor, who
turned round at her with a look of reproachful surprise.
'Indeed, Honor dear,' she said, in self-vindication, 'I am not
hard-hearted! I am only very much relieved! I don't think half so badly
of poor Owen as I expected to do; and if we can keep Mrs. Murrell from
driving him distracted, I expect to see him mend fast.'
Robert confirmed her cheerful opinion, but their younger and better
prognostications fell sadly upon Honora's ear. She had been too much
grieved and shocked to look for recovery, and all that she dared to
expect was to tend her darling's feebleness, her best desire was that his
mind might yet have power to embrace the hope of everlasting Life ere he
should pass away from her. Let this be granted, and she was prepared to
be thankful, be his decay never so painful to witness and attend.
She could not let Robert leave her that night without a trembling
question whether he had learnt how it was with Owen on this point. He
had not failed to inquire of the engineer, but he could tell her very
little. Owen's conduct had been unexceptionable, but he had made
scarcely any demonstration or profession, and on the few occasions when
opinions were discussed, spoke not irreverently, but in a tone of one who
regretted and respected the tenets that he no longer held. Since his
accident, he had been too weak and confused to dwell on any subjects but
those of the moment; but he had appeared to take pleasure in the
unobtrusive, though decided religious habits of young Randolf.
There she must rest for the present, and trust to the influence of home,
perhaps to that of the shadow of death. At least he was the child of
many prayers, and had not Lucilla returned to her changed beyond her
hopes? Let it be as it would, she could not but sleep in gratitude that
both her children were again beneath her roof.
She was early dressed, and wishing the backwoodsman were anywhere but in
Owen's room. However, to her joy, the door was open, and Owen called her
in, looking so handsome as he lay partly raised by pillows, that she
could hardly believe in his condition, except for his weak, subdued
voice.
'Yes, I am much better this morning. I have slept off the headache, and
have been enjoying the old sounds!'
'Where is your friend?'
'Rushed off to look at St. Paul's through the shaking of doormats, and
pay his respects to the Thames. He has none of the colonial _nil
admirari_ spirit, but looks at England as a Greek colonist would have
looked at Athens. I only regret that the reality must tame his raptures.
I told him to come back by breakfast-time.'
'He will lose his way.'
'Not he! You little know the backwood's power of topography! Even I
could nearly rival some of the Arab stories, and he could guide you
anywhere--or after any given beast in the Newcastle district. Honor, you
must know and like him. He really is the New World Charlecote whom you
always held over our heads.'
'I thought you called him Randolf?'
'That is his surname, but his Christian name is Humfrey Charlecote, from
his grandfather. His mother was the lady my father told you of. He
saved an old Bible out of the fire, with it all in the fly-leaf. He
shall show it to you, and it can be easily confirmed by writing to the
places. I would have gone myself, if I had not been the poor creature I
am.'
'Yes, my dear,' said Honora, 'I dare say it is so. I am very glad you
found so attentive a friend. I am most thankful to him for his care of
you.'
'And you accept him as a relation,' said Owen, anxiously.
'Yes, oh, yes,' said Honor. 'Would you like anything before breakfast?'
Owen answered with a little plaintiveness. Perhaps he was disappointed
at this cold acquiescence; but it was not a moment at which Honor could
face the thought of a colonial claimant of the Holt. With Owen helpless
upon her hands, she needed both a home and ample means to provide for him
and his sister and child; and the American heir, an unwelcome idea twenty
years previously, when only a vague possibility, was doubly undesirable
when long possession had endeared her inheritance to her, when he proved
not even to be a true Charlecote, and when her own adopted children were
in sore want of all that she could do for them. The evident
relinquishment of poor Owen's own selfish views on the Holt made her the
less willing to admit a rival, and she was sufficiently on the borders of
age to be pained by having the question of heirship brought forward. And
she knew, what Owen did not, that, if this youth's descent were indeed
what it was said to be, he represented the elder line, and that even
Humfrey had wondered what would be his duty in the present contingency.
'Nonsense!' said she to herself. 'There is no need as yet to think of
it! The place is my own by every right! Humfrey told me so! I will
take time to see what this youth may be, and make sure of his
relationship. Then, if it be right and just, he shall come after me.
But I _will_ not raise expectations, nor notice him more than as Owen's
friend and a distant kinsman. It would be fatally unsettling to do
more.'
Owen urged her no farther. Either he had not energy to enforce any point
for long together, or he felt that the succession might be a delicate
subject, for he let her lead to his personal affairs, and he was invalid
enough to find them fully engrossing.
The Canadian came in punctually, full of animation and excitement, of
which Phoebe had the full benefit, till he was called to help Owen to
dress. While this was going on, Robert came into the drawing-room to
breathe, after the hard task of pacifying Mrs. Murrell.
'What are you going to do to-day, Phoebe?' he asked. 'Have you got
through your shopping?'
'Some of it. Do you mean that you could come out with me?'
'Yes; you will never get through business otherwise.'
'Then if you have an afternoon to spare, could not we take Mr. Randolf to
the Tower?'
'Why, Phoebe!'
'He has only to-day at liberty, and is so full of eagerness about all the
grand old historical places, that it seems hard that he should have to
find his way about alone, with no one to sympathize with him--half the
day cut up, too, with nursing Owen.'
'He seems to have no difficulty in finding his way.'
'No; but I really should enjoy showing him the old armour. He was asking
me about it this morning. I think he knows nearly as much of it as we
do.'
'Very well. I say, Phoebe, would you object to my taking Brown and
Clay--my two head boys? I owe them a treat, and they would just enter
into this.'
Phoebe was perfectly willing to accept the two head boys, and the
appointment had just been made when the doctor arrived. Again he brought
good hope. From his own examination of Owen, and from Mr. Randolf's
report, he was convinced that a considerable amelioration had taken
place, and saw every reason to hope that in so young and vigorous a
nature the injury to the brain might be completely repaired, and the use
of the limbs might in part, at least, return, though full recovery could
not be expected. He wished to observe his patient for a month or six
weeks in town, that the course of treatment might be decided, after which
he had better be taken to the Holt, to enjoy the pure air, and be out of
doors as much as the season would permit.
To Honor this opinion was the cause of the deepest, most thankful
gladness; but on coming back to Owen she found him sitting in his
easy-chair, with his hand over his eyes, and his look full of
inexpressible dejection and despondency. He did not, however, advert to
the subject, only saying, 'Now then! let us have in the young pauper to
see the old one.'
'My dear Owen, you had better rest.'
'No, no; let us do the thing. The grandmother, too!' he said
impatiently.
'I will fetch little Owen; but you really are not fit for Mrs. Murrell.'
'Yes, I am; what am I good for but such things? It will make no
difference, and it must be done.'
'My boy, you do not know to what you expose yourself.'
'Don't I,' said Owen, sadly.
Lucilla, even though Mr. Prendergast had just come to share her
anxieties, caught her nephew on his way, and popped her last newly
completed pinafore over his harlequinism, persuading him that it was most
beautiful and new.
The interview passed off better than could have been hoped. The
full-grown, grave-looking man was so different from the mere youth whom
Mrs. Murrell had been used to scold and preach at, that her own awe
seconded the lectures upon quietness that had been strenuously impressed
on her; and she could not complain of his reception of his ''opeful son,'
in form at least. Owen held out his hand to her, and bent to kiss his
boy, signed to her to sit down, and patiently answered her inquiries and
regrets, asking a few civil questions in his turn.
Then he exerted himself to say, 'I hope to do my best for him and for
you, Mrs. Murrell, but I can make no promises; I am entirely dependent at
present, and I do not know whether I may not be so for life.'
Whereat, and at the settled mournful look with which it was spoken, Mrs.
Murrell burst out crying, and little Owen hung on her, almost crying too.
Honor, who had been lying in wait for Owen's protection, came hastily in
and made a clearance, Owen again reaching out his hand, which he laid on
the child's head, so as to turn up the face towards him for a moment.
Then releasing it almost immediately, he rested his chin on his hand, and
Honor heard him mutter under his moustache, 'Flibbertigibbet!'
'When we go home, we will take little Owen with us,' said Honor, kindly.
'It is high time he was taken from Little Whittington-street. Country
air will soon make a different-looking child of him.'
'Thank you,' he answered, despondingly. 'It is very good in you; but
have you not troubles enough already?
'He shall not be a trouble, but a pleasure.'
'Poor little wretch! He must grow up to work, and to know that he must
work while he can;' and Owen passed his hand over those useless fingers
of his as though the longing to be able to work were strong on him.
Honor had agreed with Lucilla that father and son ought to be together,
and that little 'Hoeing's' education ought to commence. Cilla insisted
that all care of him should fall to her. She was in a vehement,
passionate mood of self-devotion, more overset by hearing that her
brother would be a cripple for life than by what appeared to her the less
melancholy doom of an early death. She had allowed herself to hope so
much from his improvement on the voyage, that what to Honor was
unexpected gladness was to her grievous disappointment. Mr. Prendergast
arrived to find her half captious, half desperate.
See Owen! Oh, no! he must not think of it. Owen had seen quite people
enough to-day; besides, he would be letting all out to him as he had done
the other day.
Poor Mr. Prendergast humbly apologized for his betrayal; but had not Owen
been told of the engagement?
Oh, dear, no! He was in no state for fresh agitations. Indeed, with
him, a miserable, helpless cripple, Lucy did not see how she could go on
as before. She could not desert him--oh, no!--she must work for him and
his child.
'Work! Why, Cilla, you have not strength for it.'
'I am quite well. I have strength for anything now I have some one to
work for. Nothing hurts me but loneliness.'
'Folly, child! The same home that receives you will receive them.'
'Nonsense! As if I could throw such a dead weight on any one's hands!'
'Not on _any one's_,' said Mr. Prendergast. 'But I see how it is, Cilla;
you have changed your mind.'
'No,' said Lucilla, with an outbreak of her old impatience; 'but you men
are so selfish! Bothering me about proclaiming all this nonsense, just
when my brother is come home in this wretched state! After all, he was
my brother before anything else, and I have a right to consider him
first!'
'Then, Cilla, you shall be bothered no more,' said Mr. Prendergast,
rising. 'If you want me, well and good--you know where to find your old
friend; if not, and you can't make up your mind to it, why, then we are
as we were in old times. Good-bye, my dear; I won't fret you any more.'
'No,' said he to himself, as he paused in the Court, and was busy wiping
from the sleeve of his coat two broad dashes of wet that had certainly
not proceeded from the clouds, 'the dear child's whole heart is with her
brother now she has got him back again. I'll not torment her any more.
What a fool I was to think that anything but loneliness could have made
her accept me--poor darling! I think I'll go out to the Bishop of Sierra
Leone!'
'What can have happened to him?' thought Phoebe, as he strode past the
little party on their walk to the Tower. 'Can that wretched little Cilly
have been teasing him? I am glad Robert has escaped from her clutches!'
However, Phoebe had little leisure for such speculations in the
entertainment of witnessing her companion's intelligent interest in all
that he saw. The walk itself--for which she had begged--was full of
wonder; and the Tower, which Robert's slight knowledge of one of the
officials enabled them to see in perfection, received the fullest
justice, both historically and loyally. The incumbent of St. Matthew's
was so much occupied with explanations to his boys, that Phoebe had the
stranger all to herself, and thus entered to the full into that
unfashionable but most heart-stirring of London sights, 'the Towers of
Julius,' from the Traitors' Gate, where Elizabeth sat in her lion-like
desolation, to her effigy in her glory upon Tilbury Heath--the axe that
severed her mother's 'slender neck'--the pistol-crowned stick of her
father--the dark cage where her favourite Raleigh was mewed--and the
whole series of the relics of the disgraces and the glories of England's
royal line--well fitted, indeed, to strike the imagination of one who had
grown up in the New World without antiquity.
If it were a satisfaction to be praised and thanked for this expedition,
Phoebe had it; for on her return she was called into Owen's room, where
his first words to her were of thanks for her good-nature to his friend.
'I am sure it was nothing but a pleasure,' she said. 'It happened that
Robert had some boys whom he wanted to take.' Somehow she did not wish
Owen to think she had done it on his own account.
'And you liked him?' asked Owen.
'Yes, very much indeed,' she heartily said.
'Ah! I knew you would;' and he lay back as if fatigued. Then, as Phoebe
was about to leave him, he added--'I can't get my ladies to heed anything
but me. You and Robert must take pity on him, if you please. Get him to
Westminster Abbey, or the Temple Church, or somewhere worth seeing
to-morrow. Don't let them be extortionate of his waiting on me. I must
learn to do without him.'
Phoebe promised, and went.
'Phoebe is grown what one calls a fine young woman instead of a sweet
girl,' said Owen to his sister, when she next came into the room; 'but
she has managed to keep her innocent, half-wondering look, just as she
has the freshness of her colour.'
'Well, why not, when she has not had one _real_ experience?' said
Lucilla, a little bitterly.
'None?' he asked, with a marked tone.
'None,' she answered, and he let his hand drop with a sigh; but as if
repenting of any half betrayal of feeling, added, 'she has had all her
brothers and sisters at sixes and sevens, has not she?'
'Do you call that a real experience?' said Lucilla, almost with disdain,
and the conversation dropped.
Owen's designs for his friend's Sunday fell to the ground. The
backwoodsman fenced off the proposals for his pleasure, by his wish to be
useful in the sick-room; and when told of Owen's desire, was driven to
confess that he did not wish for fancy church-going on his first English
Sunday. There was enough novelty without that; the cathedral service was
too new for him to wish to hear it for the first time when there was so
much that was unsettling.
Honor, and even Robert, were a little disappointed. They thought
eagerness for musical service almost necessarily went with church
feeling; and Phoebe was the least in the world out of favour for the
confession, that though it was well that choirs should offer the most
exquisite and ornate praise, yet that her own country-bred associations
with the plain unadorned service at Hiltonbury rendered her more at home
where the prayers were read, and the responses congregational, not
choral. To her it was more devotional, though she fully believed that
the other way was the best for those who had begun with it.
So they went as usual to the full service of the parish church, where the
customs were scrupulously rubrical without being ornate. The rest and
calm of that Sunday were a boon, coming as they did after a bustling
week.
All the ensuing days Phoebe was going about choosing curtains and
carpets, or hiring servants for herself or Mervyn. She was obliged to
act alone, for Miss Charlecote, on whom she had relied for aid, was
engrossed in attending on Owen, and endeavouring to wile away the hours
that hung heavily on one incapable of employment or even attention for
more than a few minutes together. So constantly were Honor and Lucy
engaged with him, that Phoebe hardly saw them morning, noon, or night;
and after being out for many hours, it generally fell to her lot to
entertain the young Canadian for the chief part of the evening. Mr.
Currie had arrived in town on the Monday, and came at once to see Owen.
His lodgings were in the City, where he would be occupied for some time
in more formally mapping out and reporting on the various lines proposed
for the G. O. and S. line; and finding how necessary young Randolf still
was to the invalid, he willingly agreed to the proposal that while Miss
Charlecote continued in London, the young man should continue to sleep
and spend his evenings in Woolstone-lane.