Untouched by love, the maiden's breast
Is like the snow on Rona's crest
High seated in the middle sky,
In bright and barren purity;
But by the sunbeam gently kissed,
Scarce by the gazing eye 'tis missed,
Ere down the lonely valley stealing,
Fresh grass and growth its course revealing;
It cheers the flock, revives the flower,
And decks some happy shepherd's bower.--SCOTT
Slow to choose, but decided in her choice, Phoebe had always been, and
her love formed no exception to this rule. She was quite aware that her
heart had been given away, and never concealed it from herself, though
she made it a principle not to indulge in future castle buildings, and
kept a resolute guard over her attention. It was impossible to obviate a
perpetual feeling of restlessness and of tedium in whatever she was
about; but she conquered oftener than she gave way, and there was an
indescribable sense of peace and sweetness in a new and precious
possession, and an undefined hope through all.
Miss Fennimore, who came the day after the girls' return from Sutton, saw
only the fuller development of her favourite pupil, and, in truth, Maria
and Bertha had so ineffably much to narrate, that her attention would
have been sufficiently engrossed to hinder her observation of the
symptoms, even had the good lady been as keen and experienced in love as
in science.
Poor little Phoebe! equable as she was, she was in a great perturbation
when, four days before Christmas, she knew that Miss Charlecote, with
Owen Sandbrook and Humfrey Randolf, had arrived at the Holt. What was so
natural as for her to go at once to talk over the two weddings with her
dear old friend? Yes, but did her dear old friend want her, when these
two young men had put an end to her solitude? Was she only making Miss
Charlecote an excuse? She would wait in hopes that one of the others
would ask if she were going to the Holt! If so, it could not but be
natural and proper--if not-- This provoking throbbing of her heart
showed that it was not only for Honor Charlecote that she wished to go.
That ring at the bell! What an abominable goose she was to find a flush
of expectation in her cheek! And after all it was only Sir John. He had
found that his son had heard nothing from the Holt that morning, and had
come in to ask if she thought a call would be acceptable. 'I knew they
were come home,' he said, 'for I saw them at the station yesterday. I
did not show myself, for I did not know how poor young Sandbrook might
like it. But who have they got with them?'
'Mr. Randolf, Owen Sandbrook's Canadian friend.'
'Did I not hear he was some sort of relation?'
'Yes; his mother was a Charlecote.'
'Ha! that accounts for it. Seeing him with her, I could almost have
thought it was thirty years ago, and that it was my dear old friend.'
Phoebe could have embraced Sir John. She could not conceal her glow of
delight so completely that Bertha did not laugh and say, 'Mr. Charlecote
is what the Germans would call Phoebe's _Bild_. She always blushes and
looks conscious if he is mentioned.'
Sir John laughed, but with some emotion, and Phoebe hastily turned her
still more blushing face away. Certainly, if Phoebe had had any
prevision of her present state of mind, she never would have bought that
chiffonier.
When Sir John had sufficiently admired the details of the choice little
drawing-room, and had been shown by the eager sisters all over the house,
he asked if Phoebe would walk up with him to the Holt. He had hoped his
eldest son, who had ridden over with him, would have come in, and gone up
with them, but he supposed Charlie had seized on him. (Poor Sir John,
his attempt at match-making did not flourish.) However, he had secured
Phoebe's most intense gratitude by his proposal, and down she came, a
very pretty picture, in her dark brown dress, scarlet cloak, and round,
brown felt hat, with the long, curly, brown feather tipped with scarlet,
her favourite winter robin colouring. Her cheeks were brilliant, and her
eyes not only brighter, but with a slight drooping that gave them the
shadiness they sometimes wanted. And it was all from a ridiculous
trepidation which made it well-nigh impossible to bring out what she was
longing to say--'So you think Mr. Randolf like Mr. Charlecote.'
Fortunately he was beforehand with her, for both the likeness and the
path through the pine woods reminded him strongly of his old friend, and
he returned to the subject. 'So you are a great admirer of dear old
Charlecote, Phoebe: you can't remember him?'
'No, but Robert does, and I sometimes think I do.' (Then it came.) 'You
think Mr. Randolf like him?' Thanks to her hat, she could blush more
comfortably now.
'I did not see him near. It was only something in air and figure.
People inherit those things wonderfully. Now, my son Charlie sits on
horseback exactly like his grandfather, whom he never saw; and John--'
Oh! was he going to run away on family likenesses? Phoebe would not hear
the 'and John;' and observed, 'Mr. Charlecote was his godfather, was he
not?'
Which self-evident fact brought him back again to 'Yes; and I only wish
he had seen more of him! These are his plantations, I declare, that he
used to make so much of!'
'Yes, that is the reason Miss Charlecote is so fond of them.'
'Miss Charlecote! When I think of him, I have no patience with her. I
do believe he kept single all his life for her sake: and why she never
would have him I never could guess. You ladies are very unreasonable
sometimes, Phoebe.'
Phoebe tried to express a rational amount of wonder at poor Honor's
taste, but grew incoherent in fear lest it should be irrational, and was
rather frightened at finding Sir John looking at her with some amusement;
but he was only thinking of how willingly the poor little heiress of the
Mervyns had once been thrown at Humfrey Charlecote's head. But he went
on to tell her of all that her hero had ever been to him and to the
county, and of the blank his death had left, and never since supplied,
till she felt more and more what a 'wise' man truly was!
No one was in the drawing-room, but Honor came down much more cheerful
and lively than she had been for years, and calling Owen materially
better--the doctors thought the injury to the head infinitely mitigated,
and the first step to recovery fairly taken--there were good accounts of
the Prendergasts, and all things seemed to be looking well. Presently
Sir John, to Phoebe's great satisfaction, spoke of her guest, and his
resemblance, but Honor answered with half-resentful surprise. Some of
the old servants had made the same remark, but she could not understand
it, and was evidently hurt by its recurrence. Phoebe sat on, listening
to the account of Lucilla's letters, and the good spirits and health they
manifested; forcing herself not too obviously to watch door or window,
and when Sir John was gone, she only offered to depart, lest Miss
Charlecote should wish to be with Owen.
'No, my dear, thank you; Mr. Randolf is with him, and he can read a
little now. We are getting above the solitaire board, I assure you. I
have fitted up the little room beyond the study for his bedroom, and he
sits in the study, so there are no stairs, and he is to go out every day
in a chair or the carriage.'
'Does the little boy amuse him?'
'No, not exactly, poor little fellow. They are terribly afraid of each
other, that is the worst of it. And then we left the boy too long with
the old woman. I hear his lessons for a quarter of an hour a day, and he
is a clever child enough; but his pronunciation and habits are an
absolute distress, and he is not happy anywhere but in the housekeeper's
room. I try to civilize him, but as yet I cannot worry poor Owen. You
can't think how comfortable we are together, Phoebe, when we are alone.
Since his sister went we have got on so much better. He was shy before
her; but I must tell you, my dear, he asked me to read my Psalms and
Lessons aloud, as I used to do; and we have had such pleasant evenings,
and he desired that the servants might still come in to prayers in the
study. But then he always was different with me.'
And Phoebe, while assenting, could not silence a misgiving that she
thought very cruel. She would believe Owen sincere if Humfrey Randolf
did. Honor, however, was very happy, and presently begged her to come
and see Owen. She obeyed with alacrity, and was conducted to the study.
No Randolf was there, only pen, ink, paper, and algebra. But as she was
greeting Owen, who looked much better and less oppressed, Honor made an
exclamation, and from the window they saw the young man leaning over the
sundial, partly studying its mysteries, partly playing with little Owen,
who hung on him as an old playmate.
'Yes,' said Owen, 'he has taken pity on the boy--he is very good to
him--has served an apprenticeship.'
Mr. Randolf looked up, saw Phoebe, gave a start of recognition and
pleasure, and sped towards the house.
'Yes, Phoebe, I do see _some_ likeness,' said Honor, as though a good
deal struck and touched.
All the ridiculous and troublesome confusion was so good as to be driven
away in the contentment of Humfrey Randolf's presence, and the wondrous
magnetic conviction that he was equally glad to be with her. She lost
all restlessness, and was quite ready to amuse Owen by a lively
discussion and comparison of the two weddings, but she so well knew that
she should like to stay too long, that she cut her time rather over
short, and would not stay to luncheon. This was not like the evenings
that began with Hiawatha and ended at Lakeville, or on Lake Ontario; but
one pleasure was in store for Phoebe. While she was finding her
umbrella, and putting on her clogs, Humfrey Randolf ran down-stairs to
her, and said, 'I wanted to tell you something. My stepmother is going
to be married.'
'You are glad?'
'Very glad. It is to a merchant whom she met at Buffalo, well off, and
speaking most kindly of the little boys.'
'That must be a great load off your mind.'
'Indeed it is, though the children must still chiefly look to me. I
should like to have little George at a good school. However, now their
immediate maintenance is off my hands, I have more to spend in educating
myself. I can get evening lessons now, when my day's work is over.'
'Oh! do not overstrain your head,' said Phoebe, thinking of Bertha.
'Heads can bear a good deal when they are full of hope,' he said,
smiling.
'Still after your out-of-doors life of bodily exercise, do you not find
it hard to be always shut up in London?'
'Perhaps the novelty has not worn off. It is as if life had only begun
since I came into the city.'
'A new set of faculties called into play?'
'Faculties--yes, and everything else.'
'I must go now, or my sisters will be waiting for me, and I see your
dinner coming in. Good-bye.'
'May I come to see you?'
'O yes, pray let me show you our cottage.'
'When may I come?'
'To-morrow, I suppose.'
She felt, rather than saw him watching her all the way from the
garden-gate to the wood. That little colloquy was the sunshiny point in
her day. Had the tidings been communicated in the full circle, it would
have been as nothing compared with their reservation for her private ear,
with the marked 'I wanted to tell _you_.' Then she came home, looked at
Maria threading holly-berries, and her heart fainted within her. There
were moments when poor Maria would rise before her as a hardship and an
infliction, and then she became terrified, prayed against such feelings
as a crime, and devoted herself to her sister with even more than her
wonted patient tenderness.
The certainty that the visit would take place kept her from all
flutterings and self-debate, and in due time Mr. Randolf arrived.
Anxiously did Phoebe watch for his look at Maria, for Bertha's look at
him, and she was pleased with both. His manner to Maria was full of
gentleness, and Bertha's quick eyes detected his intellect. He stood an
excellent examination from her and Miss Fennimore upon the worn channel
of Niagara, which had so often been used as a knockdown argument against
Miss Charlecote's cosmogony; and his bright terse powers of description
gave them, as they agreed, a better idea of his woods than any travels
which they had read.
It was no less interesting to observe his impression of the English
village-life at Hiltonbury. To him, the aspect of the country had an air
of exquisite miniature finish, wanting indeed in breadth and freedom, but
he had suffered too much from vain struggling single-handed with Nature
in her might, not to value the bounds set upon her; and a man who knew by
personal experience what it was to seek his whole live stock in an
interminable forest, did not complain of the confinement of hedges and
banks. Nay, the 'hedgerow elms and hillocks green' were to him as
classical as Whitehall; he treated Maria's tame robins with as much
respect as if they had been Howards or Percies; holly and mistletoe were
handled by him with reverential curiosity; and the church and home of his
ancestors filled him with a sweet loyal enthusiasm, more eager than in
those to whom these things were familiar.
Miss Charlecote herself came in for some of these feelings. He admired
her greatly in her Christmas aspect of Lady Bountiful, in which she well
fulfilled old visions of the mistress of an English home, but still more
did he dwell upon her gentleness, and on that shadowy resemblance to his
mother, which made him long for some of that tenderness which she
lavished upon Owen. He looked for no more than her uniformly kind
civility and hospitality, but he was always wishing to know her better;
and any touch of warmth and affection in her manner towards him was so
delightful that he could not help telling Phoebe of it, in their next
brief _tete-a-tete_.
He was able to render a great service to Miss Charlecote. Mr. Brooks's
understanding had not cleared with time, and the accounts that had been
tangled in summer were by the end of the year in confusion worse
confounded. He was a faithful servant, but his accounts had always been
audited every month, and in his old age, his arithmetic would not carry
him farther, so that his mistress's long absence abroad had occasioned
such a hopeless chaos, that but for his long services, his honesty might
have been in question. Honora put this idea away with angry horror. Not
only did she love and trust the old man, but he was a legacy from
Humfrey, and she would have torn the page from her receipts rather than
rouse the least suspicion against him. Yet she could not bear to leave
any flaw in Humfrey's farm books, and she toiled and perplexed herself in
vain; till Owen, finding out what distressed her, and grieving at his own
incapacity, begged that Randolf might help her; when behold! the confused
accounts arranged themselves in comprehensible columns, and poor old
Brooks was proved to have cheated himself so much more than his lady as
to be entirely exonerated from all but puzzle-headedness. The young
man's farmer life qualified him to be highly popular at the Holt. He was
curious about English husbandry, talked to the labourers, and tried their
tools with no unpractised hand, even the flail which Honor's hatred of
steam still kept as the winter's employment in the barn; he appreciated
the bullocks, criticized the sheep, and admired the pigs, till the
farming men agreed 'there had not been such an one about the place since
the Squire himself.'
Honora might be excused for not having detected a likeness between the
two Humfreys. Scarcely a feature was in the same mould, the complexion
was different, and the heavily-built, easy-going Squire, somewhat behind
his own century, had apparently had nothing in common with the brisk
modern colonial engineer; yet still there was something curiously
recalling the expression of open honesty, and the whole cast of
countenance, as well as the individuality of voice, air, and gestures,
and the perception grew upon her so much in the haunts of her cousin,
where she saw his attitudes and habits unconsciously repeated, that she
was almost ready to accept Bertha's explanation that it was owing to the
influence of the Christian name that both shared. But as it had likewise
been borne by the wicked disinherited son who ran away, the theory was
somewhat halting.
Phoebe's intercourse with Humfrey the younger was much more fragmentary
than in town, and therefore, perhaps, the more delicious. She saw him on
most of the days of his fortnight's stay, either in the mutual calls of
the two houses, in chance meetings in the village, or in walks to or from
the holy-day services at the church, and these afforded many a moment in
which she was let into the deeper feelings that his first English
Christmas excited. It was not conventional Christmas weather, but warm
and moist, thus rendering the contrast still stronger with the sleighing
of his prosperous days, the snowshoe walk of his poorer ones. A frost
hard enough for skating was the prime desire of Maria and Bertha, who
both wanted to see the art practised by one to whom it was familiar. The
frost came at last, and became reasonably hard in the first week of the
new year, one day when Phoebe, to her regret, was forced to drive to
Elverslope to fulfil some commissions for Mervyn and Cecily, who were
expected at home on the 8th of January, after a Christmas at Sutton.
However, she had a reward. 'I do think,' said Miss Fennimore to her, as
she entered the drawing-room, 'that Mr. Randolf is the most good-natured
man in the world! For full three-quarters of an hour this afternoon did
he hand Maria up and down a slide on the pond at the Holt!'
'You went up to see him skate?'
'Yes; he was to teach Bertha. We found him helping the little Sandbrook
to slide, but when we came he sent him in with the little maid, and gave
Bertha a lesson, which did not last long, for she grew nervous. Really
her nerves will never be what they were! Then Maria begged for a slide,
and you know what any sort of monotonous bodily motion is to her; there
is no getting her to leave off, and I never saw anything like the spirit
and good-nature with which he complied.'
'He is _very_ kind to Maria,' said Phoebe.
'He seems to have that sort of pitying respect which you first put into
my mind towards her.'
'Oh, are you come home, Phoebe?' said Maria, running into the room. 'I
did not hear you. I have been sliding on the ice all the afternoon with
Mr. Randolf. It is so nice, and he says we will do it again to-morrow.'
'Ha, Phoebe!' said Bertha, meeting her on the stairs, 'do you know what
you missed?'
'Three children sliding on the ice,' quoted Phoebe.
'Seeing how a man that is called Humfrey can bear with your two sisters
making themselves ridiculous. Really I should set the backwoods down as
the best school of courtesy, but that I believe some people have that
school within themselves. Hollo!'
For Phoebe absolutely kissed Bertha as she went up-stairs.
'Ha?' said Bertha, interrogatively; then went into the drawing-room, and
looked very grave, almost sad.
Phoebe could not but think it rather hard when, on the last afternoon of
Humfrey Randolf's visit, there came a note from Mervyn ordering her up to
Beauchamp to arrange some special contrivances of his for Cecily's
morning-room--her mother's, which gave it an additional pang. It was a
severe, threatening, bitterly cold day, not at all fit for sliding, even
had not both the young ladies and Miss Fennimore picked up a suspicion of
cold; but Phoebe had no doubt that there would be a farewell visit, and
did not like to lose it.
'Take the pony carriage, and you will get home faster,' said Bertha,
answering what was unspoken.
No; the groom sent in word that the ponies were gone to be rough-shod,
and that one of them had a cold.
'Never mind,' said Phoebe, cheerfully; 'I shall be warmer walking.'
And she set off, with a lingering will, but a step brisk under her
determination that her personal wishes should never make her neglect duty
or kindness. She did not like to think that he would be disappointed,
but she had a great trust in _his_ trust in herself, and a confidence,
not to be fretted away, that some farewell would come to pass, and that
she should know when to look for him again.
Scanty sleety flakes of snow were falling before her half-hour's walk was
over, and she arrived at the house, where anxious maids were putting
their last touches of preparation for the mistress. It was strange not
to feel more strongly the pang of a lost home; and had not Phoebe been so
much preoccupied, perhaps it would have affected her strongly, with all
her real joy at Cecily's installation; but there were new things before
her that filled her mind too full for regrets for the rooms where she had
grown up. She only did her duty scrupulously by Cecily's writing-table,
piano, and pictures, and then satisfied the housekeeper by a brief
inspection of the rooms, more laudatory than particular. She rather
pitied Cecily, after her comfortable parsonage, for coming to all those
state drawing-rooms. If it had been the west wing, now!
By this time the snow was thicker, and the park beginning to whiten. The
housekeeper begged her to wait and order out the carriage, but she
disliked giving trouble, and thought that an unexpected summons might be
tardy of fulfilment, so she insisted on confronting the elements,
confident in her cloak and india-rubber boots, and secretly hoping that
the visitor at the cottage might linger on into the twilight.
As she came beyond the pillars of the portico, such a whirl of snow met
her that she almost questioned the prudence of her decision, when a voice
said, 'It is only the drift round the corner of the house.'
'You here?'
'Your sister gave me leave to come and see you home through the
snow-storm.'
'Oh, thank you! This is the first time you have been here,' she added,
feeling as if her first words had been too eagerly glad.
'Yes, I have only seen the house from a distance before. I did not know
how large it was. Which part did you inhabit?'
'There--the west wing--shut up now, poor thing!'
'And where was the window where you saw the horse and cart? Yes, you see
I know that story; which was your window?'
'The nearest to the main body of the house. Ah! it is a dear old window.
I have seen many better things from it than that!'
'What kind of things?'
'Sunsets and moonsets, and the Holt firs best of all.'
'Yes, I know better now what you meant by owing all to Miss Charlecote,'
he said, smiling. 'I owe something to her, too.'
'Oh, is she going to help you on?' cried Phoebe.
'No, I do not need that. What I owe to her is--knowing you.'
It had come, then! The first moment of full assurance of what had
gleamed before; and yet the shock, sweet as it was, was almost pain, and
Phoebe's heart beat fast, and her downcast look betrayed that the full
force of his words--and still more, of his tone--had reached her.
'May I go on?' he said. 'May I dare to tell you what you are to me? I
knew, from the moment we met, that you were what I had dreamt
of--different, but better.'
'I am sure I knew that you were!' escaped from Phoebe, softly, but making
her face burn, as at what she had not meant to say.
'Then you can bear with me? You do not forbid me to hope.'
'Oh! I am a great deal too happy!'
There came a great wailing, driving gust of storm at that moment, as if
it wanted to sweep them off their feet, but it was a welcome blast, for
it was the occasion of a strong arm being flung round Phoebe, to restrain
that fluttering cloak. 'Storms shall only blow us nearer together,
dearest,' he said, with recovered breath, as, with no unwilling hand, she
clung to his arm for help.
'If it be God's will,' said Phoebe, earnestly.
'And indeed,' he said, fervently, 'I have thought and debated much
whether it were His will; whether it could be right, that I, with my
poverty and my burthens, should thrust myself into your wealthy and
sheltered life. At first, when I thought you were a poor dependent, I
admitted the hope. I saw you spirited, helpful, sensible, and I dared to
think that you were of the stuff that would gladly be independent, and
would struggle on and up with me, as I have known so many do in my own
country.'
'Oh! would I not?'
'Then I found how far apart we stand in one kind of social scale, and
perhaps that ought to have overthrown all hope; but, Phoebe, it will not
do so! I will not ask you to share want and privation, but I will and do
ask you to be the point towards which I may work, the best earthly hope
set before me.'
'I am glad,' said Phoebe, 'that you knew too well to think there was any
real difference. Indeed, the superiority is all yours, except in mere
money. And mine, I am sure, need not stand in the way, but there is one
thing that does.'
'What? Your brothers?'
'I do not know. It is my sister Maria. I promised long ago that nothing
should make me desert her;' and, with a voice faltering a little, but
endeavouring to be firm, 'a promise to fulfil a duty appointed by
Providence must not he repented of when the cost is felt.'
'But why should you think of deserting her?' he said. 'Surely I may help
to bear your cares; and there is something so good, so gentle and lovable
about her, that she need be no grievance. I shall have to bring my
little brothers about you, too, so we shall be even,' he added, smiling.
'Then,' she said, looking in his face as beginning to take counsel with
him, 'you think it is right to assume a new tie that must have higher
claims than the prior one that Heaven sent me.'
'Nay, dearest, is not the new one instituted by Heaven? If I promise
that I will be as entirely Maria's brother as you are her sister, and
will reverence her affliction, or more truly her innocence, in the same
way, will you not trust her, as well as yourself, with me?'
'Trust, oh! indeed I do, and am thankful. But I am thinking of you!
Poor dear Maria might be a drag, where I should not! And I cannot leave
her to any of the others. She could not be long without me.'
'Well, faithless one, we may have to wait the longer; though I feel that
you alone would be happiest fighting up the hill with me.'
'Oh, thank you for knowing that so well.'
'But as we both have these ties, and as, besides, I should be a shabby
adventurer to address you but on equal terms, we must be content to wait
till--as with God's blessing I trust to do--I have made a home smooth
enough for Maria as well as for you! Will that do, Phoebe?'
'Somehow it seems too much,' murmured Phoebe; 'and yet I knew it of you.'
'And as you both have means of your own, it may bring the time nearer,'
he said. 'There, you see I can calculate on your fortune, though I still
wish it were out of the way.'
'If it were not for Maria, I should.'
'And now with this hope and promise, I feel as if, even if it were seven
years, they would be like so many days,' said Humfrey. 'You will not be
of those, my Phoebe, who suffer and are worn by a long engagement?'
'One cannot tell without a trial,' said Phoebe; 'but indeed I do not see
why security and rest, or even hope deferred, should hurt me. Surely,
having a right to think about you cannot do so?'
And her look out of those honest clear gray eyes was one of the most
perfect reliance and gladness.
'May I be worthy of those thoughts!' he fervently said. 'And you will
write to me--even when I go back to the Ottawa?'
'I shall be so glad to tell you everything, and have your letters! Oh!
no, with them I am not going to pine'--and her strong young nature
laughed at the folly.
'And while God gives me strength, we will not be afraid,' he answered.
'Phoebe, I looked at the last chapter of Proverbs last night, and thought
you were like that woman of strength and skill on whose "lips is the law
of kindness." And "you are not afraid of the snow," as if to complete
the likeness.'
'I did not quite know it was snowing. I like it, for it suits your
country.'
'I like it, because you are as clear, firm, and pure as my own clear
crystal ice,' he said; 'only not quite so cold! And now, what remains?
Must your brothers be consulted?' he added, reluctantly.
'It will be right that I should tell them,' said Phoebe. 'From Robert I
could not keep such a thing, and Mervyn has a right to know. I cannot
tell how he may take it, but I do not think that I owe him such implicit
obedience as if he were my father. And by the time you really ask for
me, you know you are to be such a rising engineer that they are all to be
almost as proud of you as I am!'
'God helping me,' he gravely answered, his eyes raised upwards, and as it
were carrying with them the glance that had sought them in almost playful
confidence.
And thus they looked forth upon this life. Neither was so young as not
to be aware of its trials. She knew the sorrows of suspense,
bereavement, and family disunion; and he, before his twenty-fourth year,
had made experience of adversity, uncongeniality, disappointment, and
severe--almost hopeless--everyday labour. It was not in the spirit of
those who had not braced on their armour, but of those who had made proof
of it, that they looked bravely and cheerfully upon the battle, feeling
their strength doubled as faithful companions-in-arms, and willing in
that strength and trust to bear patiently with the severest trial of
all--the delay of their hopes. The cold but bracing wind, the snow
driving and whirling round them in gusts, could not daunt nor quench
their spirits--nay, rather gave them additional vigour and enjoyment,
while even the tokens of the tempest that they bore away were of perfect
dazzling whiteness.
Never was shelter less willingly attained than when the park wicket of
the Underwood was reached, just as the early twilight was becoming
darkness. It was like a foretaste for Phoebe of seeing him go his own
way in the storm while she waited safely housed; but they parted with
grave sweet smiles, and a promise that he would snatch a moment's
farewell on the morrow. Phoebe would rather not have been met by Bertha,
at the front door, in some solicitude--'You are come at last! Are you
wet? are you cold?'
'Oh, no, thank you! Don't stand in the draught,' said Phoebe, anxious to
shake her off; but it was not to be done. Bertha preceded her up-stairs,
talking all the way in something of her old mischievous whisper. 'Am I
in disgrace with you, too, Phoebe? Miss Fennimore says I have committed
an awful breach of propriety; but really I could not leave you to the
beating of the pitiless storm alone. I am afraid Malta's sagacity and
little paws would hardly have sufficed to dig you out of a snowdrift
before life was extinct. Are you greatly displeased with me, Phoebe?'
And being by this time in the bedroom, she faced about, shut the door,
and looked full at her sister.
'No--no--dear Bertha, not displeased in the least; only if you would
go--'
'Now, Phoebe, indeed that is not kind of you,' said Bertha, pleadingly,
but preparing to obey.
'No, Bertha, it is not,' said Phoebe, recovering herself in a moment. 'I
am sorry for it; but oh! don't you know the feeling of wanting to have
one's treasure all to oneself for a little moment before showing it? No,
don't go;' and the two sisters flung their arms round one another. 'You
shall hear now.'
'No, no,' said Bertha, kissing her; 'my time for obtrusive, childish
curiosity is over! I only was so anxious;' and she looked up with
tearful eyes, and almost the air of an elder sister. Phoebe might well
requite the look with full-hearted tenderness and caresses, as she said,
calmly, 'Yes, Bertha, I am very happy.'
'You ought to be,' said Bertha, seriously.
'Yes,' said Phoebe, taking the _ought_ in a different sense from what she
meant; 'he is all, and more, than I ever thought a man wise in true
wisdom should be.'
'And a man of progress, full of the dignity of labour,' said Bertha. 'I
am glad he is not an old bit of county soil like John Raymond! My dear
Phoebe, Sir John will tear his hair!'
'For shame, Bertha!'
'Well, I will not tease you with my nonsense; but you know it is the only
thing that keeps tears out of one's eyes. I see you want to be alone.
Dear Phoebe!' and she clung to her neck for a moment.
'An instant more, Bertha. You see everything, I know; but has Miss
Fennimore guessed?'
'No, my dear, I do not think any such syllogism has ever occurred to her
as, Lover's look conscious; Phoebe looks conscious; therefore Phoebe is
in love! It is defective in the major, you see, so it could not enter
her brain.'
'Then, Bertha, do not let any one guess it. I shall speak to Mervyn
to-morrow, and write to Robin. It is their due, but no one else must
know it--no, not for a long time--years perhaps.'
'You do not mean to wait for years?'
'We must.'
'Then what's the use of having thirty thousand pounds?'
'No, Bertha, it would not be like him to be content with owing all to my
fortune, and beginning life in idleness. It would be just enough to live
on, with none of the duties of property, and that would never do! I
could not wish it for him, and he has his brothers to provide for.'
'Well, let him work for them, and have your money to make capital!
Really, Phoebe, I would not lose such a chance of going out and seeing
those glorious Lakes!'
'I have Maria to consider.'
'Maria! And why are you to be saddled with Maria?'
'Because I promised my mother--I promised myself--I promised Mervyn, that
she should be my care. I have told him of that promise, and he accepts
it most kindly.'
'You cannot leave her to me? Oh! Phoebe, do you still think me as
hateful as I used to be?'
'Dear, dear Bertha, I have full trust in your affection for her; but I
undertook the charge, and I cannot thrust it on to another, who might--'
'Don't say that, Phoebe,' cried Bertha, impetuously; 'I am the one to
have her! I who certainly never can, never shall, marry--I who am good
for nothing but to look after her. Say you do not think me unworthy of
her, Phoebe.'
'I say no such thing,' said Phoebe, affectionately, 'but there is no use
in discussing the matter. Dear Bertha, leave me, and compose yourself.'
Truly, during that evening Bertha was the agitated one, her speech much
affected, and her gestures restless, while Phoebe sat over her work, her
needle going swiftly and evenly, and her eyes beaming with her quiet
depth of thankful bliss.
In the morning, again, it was Bertha who betrayed an uneasy restlessness,
and irrepressible desire to banish Miss Fennimore and Maria from the
drawing-room, till the governess, in perplexity, began to think of
consulting Phoebe whether a Jack Hastings affair could be coming over
again.
Phoebe simply trusted to the promise, and went about her morning's
avocations with a heart at rest, and when at last Humfrey Randolf did
hurry in for a few moments, before he must rush back to the Holt, her
greeting was so full of reliance and composure that Miss Fennimore
perceived nothing. Bertha, however, rested not. As well as she could,
under a fearful access of stammering, she insisted that Mr. Randolf
should come into the dining-room to look at a--a--a--a--a--'
'Ah, well!' thought Miss Fennimore, 'Phoebe is gone, too, so she will
keep guard.'
If Miss Fennimore could have looked through the door, she would have seen
the astonished Maria pounced upon, as if in sport, pulled up-stairs, and
desired by Bertha to find her book of dried flowers to show Mr. Randolf.
Naughty Bertha, who really did not believe the dried flowers had ever
been brought home from Woolstone-lane! It served the manoeuvrer right,
that Maria, after one look at the shelves, began to cry out for Phoebe to
come and find them. But it signified the less since the lovers had not
left the hall, and had exchanged all the words that there was time for
before Bertha, at the sound of the re-opening door, flew down to put her
hand into Humfrey's and grasp it tightly, looking in his face instead of
speaking. 'Thank you,' he said, returning the pressure, and was gone.
'We improve as we go on. Number three is the best of my brothers-in-law,
Phoebe,' said Bertha, lightly. Then leaving Phoebe to pacify Maria about
the flowers, she went into her own room, and cried bitterly and
overpoweringly.