immmmmmmmmm mmtu THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE <■' i*^ i'V '"^' .' t~ ». - A *».;-::^^t.;."4^ f J./ •j?V -^ L-'i' -I. .y '■'*'■'..•"'' ' ,< ■!'■','/ ^^^^>^-y /2_ Ai^^/^ 2 /- ^7 J /f^J- Novels and Tales BY CHAELOTTE M. YONGE VOLUME Til ffioiic^ antr dfrarsl MACMILLAN AND CO. 1883 LONDON : R. CLAV, SONS, AND TAVLOR, TRINTEKS, BKEAD STREET II ILL. HOPES AND FEAES "Slie lelt, r.itlicr tlian s,i\v him wiitchinR her all tiie way from the garden-gate to the wond." — I'age 50.i. Yc M, HOPES AND FEARS OR SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF A SPINSTER ILLUSTRATED BY HERBERT GANDY MACMILLAN AND CO. 1882 The Biglif of Ti1aced on her feet the little maiden, enci'usted witli mud from liead to foot, while the rest of the party were all apparently cased in dark buskins of the same. ' Come to see me and my children V she said. ' I am ashamed you should find us under such circumstances ! though I don't know what would have become of us otherwise. No, Lucy, you are too disobedient for any one to take notice of you yet — you must go straight home, and be cleaned, and not speak to Mr. Charlecote till you are quite good. Little Owen, here he is — he was quite led into it. But how good of you to come, Humfrey : where are you V ' At the hotel —I had a mind to come and see how you were getting on, and I'd had i-ather more than usual to do of late, so I thought I would take a holiday.' They walked on talking for some seconds, when presently as the squire's hand hung down, a little soft one stole into it, and made him exclaim with a start, ' I thought it was Ponto's nose !' But though very fond of children, he took up his hand, and did not make the slightest response to the sly overture of the small coquette, the effect as Honor well knew of opposition quite as much as of her sti-ong turn for gentlemen. She pouted a little, and then mai-ched on with ' don't care' deter- mination, while Humfrey and Honora began to talk over Hil- tonbury affairs, but were soon interrupted by Owen, who, accustomed to all her attention, did not understand her being occupied by any one else. ' Honey, Honey pots,' and a pull at her hand when she did not immediately attend, ' why don't the little crabs get black legs like mine V 46 nOPES AND FEARS. ' Because tliey only go whei'e tliej ought,' was the exti'emely moral reply of the Squire. 'Little boys aren't meant to walk in black mud.' 'The shrimp boys do go in the mud,' shrewdly pleaded Owen, setting Honor off laughing at Humfrey's discomfited look of diversion. 'It wont do to generalize,' she said, merrily. 'Owen must be content to regard crabs and shrimp boys as privileged in- dividuals.' Owen demanded whether when he v,ras big he might be a shrimp boy, and a good deal of fraternization had taken place between him and Mi*. Oharlecote before the cottai^'e was reached. It was a very happy day to Honora ; there was a repose and trust to be felt in Humfrey's company, such as she had not experienced since she had lost her parents, and the home sense of kindred was very precious. Only women whose chief prop is gone, can tell the value of one who is still near enough to disapprove without ceremony. The anxiety that Honor felt to prove to her cousin that it was not a bit of I'omantic folly to have assumed her present charge, was worth more than all the freedom of action in the world. How much she wanted the children to show off to advantage ! how desirous she was that he should not think her injudicious ! yes, and how eager to see him pleased with their pretty looks ! Lucilla came down cleaned, curled, and pai-doned, and cer- tainly a heart must have been much less tender than Hum- frey Charlecote's not, to be touched by the aspect of those two little fair waxen-looking beings in the deej)est mourning of orphanhood. He was not slow in making advances towards them, but the maiden had been affronted, and chose to be slyly shy and retiring, retreating to the other side of Miss Wells, and there becoming intent upon her story-book, though many a gleam through her eyelashes betrayed furtive glances at the stranger whom Owen was mono])()lizing. And then she let herself be, drawn out, with the drollest mixture of arch de- mureness and gracious caprice. Honora had never before seen her with a gentleman, and to be courted was evidently as congenial an element to her as to a reigning beauty. Slie was perfectly in-esistible to manhood, and there was no doubt, ere the evening was over, that Humfrey thought her one of the prettiest little girls he had ever seen. He remained a week at Sandbeach, lodging at the inn. but spending most of his time with Honor. He owned that he had been unwell, and there certainly was a degree of lassitude HOPES ANP FEARS. 47 aloout him, though Ilonor suspected that his real motive in connng was brotherly kindness and desire to see whether she werf, suffering much from the death of Owen Sandbrook. Having come, he seemed not to know how to go away. He waa too fond of children to become weary of their petty exac- tions, and they both had a sort of passion for him ; he built castles for them on the beach, presided over their rides, took them out boating, and made them fabulously happy. Lucilla had not been so good for weeks, and the least symptom of au outbreak was at once put down by his good-natured ' No, no !' The eveniugs at the cottage with Honora and Miss Wells, music and briglit talk, were evidently very refreshing to him, and he put off his departure from day to day, till an inexorable matter of county business forced him off. Not till the day was imminent, did the cousins quit the easy surface of holiday leisure talk. They had been together to the late evening service, and were walking home, when Honora began abruptly, ' Humfrey, I wish you would not object to the children giving me pet names.' ' I did not know that I had shown any objection.' ' As if you did not impressively say Miss Charlecote on every occasion when you mention me to them.' ' Well, and is not it more respectful V ' That's not what I want. Where the natural tie is wanting, one should do everything to make up for it.' ' And you hope to do so by letting yourself be called Honey- pots !' ' More likely than by sittiug up distant and awful to be Miss Ckarlecotecl P ' Whatever you might be called must become an endearment,' said Humfrey, uttering unawares one of the highestcomplimeuts she had ever received, ' and I own I do not like to hear those little chits make so free witli your name.' ' For my sake, or theirs T ' For both. There is an old saying about familiarity, and I think you should recollect that, ior the children's own good, it is quite as needful to strengthen respect as affection.' 'And you tliink I can do that by fortifying myself with Miss Charlecote 1 Perhaps I had better make it Mrs. Honora Charle- cote at once, and get a high cap, a rod, and a pair of spectacles, eh 1 No ! if they wont respect me out of a buckram suit, depend upon it they would find out it was a hollow one.' Humfrey smiled. From her youth up, Honor could generally come off in ai)parent triumph from an argument with him, but the victory was not always where the triumph was. 48 HOPES AND FEARS. 'Well, Humfrey,' she said, after some pause, 'do you think I am fit to be trusted with my two poor children T There was a huskine.ss in his tone as he said, ' I am sincerely glad you have the pleasure and comfort of theni.' ' i suspect there's a reservation there. But really, Humfrey, I don't think I went out searching for the responsibility in the way that makes it dangerous. One uncle did not want them, and th(! other could not have them, and it would have been mere barbarity in me not to offei-. Besides, their father wished ' and her voice faltered with tears. ' No, indeed,' said Humfrey, eagei-ly, ' I did not in the least mean that it is not the kindest, most generous requital,' and there he broke off, eraWarrassed by the sincere word that he had uttered, but before she had spoken an eager negative — to what she knew not — he went on. ' And of course I don't mean that you are not one to manage them very well, and all that — only I hope there may not be pain in store — I should not like those people to use you for their nursery governess, and then take the children away just as you had set your heart upon them. Don't do that. Honor,' he added, with an almost sad earnestness. 'Do what 1 Set my heart on them 1 Do you think I can help loving the creatures ?' she said, with moui-nful playfulness, 'or that my uncertain tenure does not make them the greater darlings V ' There are ways of loving without setting one's heart,' was the somewhat grave reply. He seemed to be taking these words as equivalent to trans- gressing the command that requires c<^^ our heax't, and she began quickly, 'Oh! but I didn't mean ' then a sudden thrill crossed her whether there might not be some truth in the accu- sation. Where had ei st the image of Owen 8andbrook stood ? First or second 1 Where was now the image of the boy t She turned her words into ' Do you think I am doing so — in a wrong wayf ' Honor dear, I could not think of wrong where you are concerned,' he said ; ' I was only afraid of yonr kindness bringing you pain, if you rest your happiness very much u])ou those children.' ' I see,' said Honor, smiling, relieved. 'Thank you, irum- frey ; but you .see I can't weigh out my affection in that fashion. They will get it, the rogues !' ' I'm not afraid, as far as the girl is concerned,' said Humfrey. * You are strict enough with her.' ' But how am I to be strict when poor little Owen never rloea anything wrong V HOPES AKD FEARS. 49 ' Yes, he is a particularly sweet child.' * And not at all wanting in manliness,' cried Honor, eagerly. *So full of spirit, and yet so gentle. Oh ! he is a child wliom it is a privilege to traiu, and 1 don't think I have spoilt him yet, do you V 'No, I don't think you have. He is very ohedient iu generah' ' Oh ! if he could be only brought up as I vvish. And I do think his innocence is too perfect a thiiig not to be guarded. What a perfect clergyman he would make! Just fancy him devoting himself to some parish like poor dear old St. Widstan's — carrying his bright sweetness into the midst of all that black Babel, and spreadmg light round him ! he always says he will be a clergyman like his papa, and I am sure he must be marked out for i't. He likes to look at the sheep on the moors, and talk about the shepherd leading them, and I am sure the mean- ing goes very deep with him.' She was not going quite the way to show Humfrey that her heart was not set on the boy, and she was checked by hearing him sigh. Perhaps it was for the disappointment he foresaw, so she said, ' Whether I bring him up or not, don't you believe there will be a special care over such a child f ' There is a special care over every Christian child, I suppose,' he said ; ' and I hope it may all turn out so as to make you happy. Here is your door, good night, and guod-bye.' 'Why, are not you coming in V ' I think not ; I have my things to put up ; I must go early to-morrow. Thank you for a very happy week. Good-bye, Honor.' There was a shade of disappointment about his tone that she could not quite account for. Dear old Humfrey ! Could he be ageing? Could he be unwell? Did he feel 1dm- self lonely 1 Could she have mortified him, or displeased him 1 Honor was not a wonian of personal vanity, or a solution would sooner have occurred to her. She knew, upon reflection, that it must have been for her sake that Humfrey had continued s.ingle, but it was so inconvenient to think of him in the light of an admirer, when she so much needed him as a brother, that it had hardly ever occurred to her to do so ; but at last it did strike her whether, having patiently waited so long, this might not have been a visit of experiment, and whether he might not be disappointed to find hur wnqped up in new interests — .slightly jealous, in fact, of little Owen. How good he had been ! Where was the heart that could fail of being touched \iy so long a course of forbearance and consideration ? Besides. Honor had been a solitary woman long enough to know what 50 HOPES AND FEARS. it was to stand alone. And then how well he would stand in a father's place towards the orphans. He would never decree her parting with them, and Captain Chai'teris himself must trust him. Yet what a shame it would be to give such a devoted heart nothing better than one worn out, with the power of love, such as he deserved, exhausted for ever. And yet — and yet — something very odd bounded up within her, and ibold her between shame and exultation, that faithful old Hum- frey would not be discontented even with what she had to give. Another time — a little, a very little encouragement, and the pine wood scene would come back again, and then — her heart fainted a little— ythere should be no concealment — but if she could only have been six months married all at once ! Time went on, and Honoi-a more than once bluahed at finding how strong a hold this possibility had taken of her- heart, when once she had begun to think of resting uj)on one so kind, so good, so strong. Every perplexity, every care, eveiy transaction that made her feel her position as a single woman, brought round the yearning to lay them all down upon him, who would only be gi'ateful to her for them. Every time she wanted some one to consult, hope showed her his face beaming sweetly on her, and home seemed to be again opening to her, that home which might have been hers at any time these twelve years. She quite longed to see how glad the dear, kind fellow would be. Perhaps maidenly sliame would have belied her feelings in his actual presence, perhaps she would not have shrunk from him, and been more cold than in her unconsciousness, but he came not ; and his absence fanned the spark so tardily kindled. What if she had delayed till too late 1 He was a man whose duty it was to marry ! he had waited till he was some years past forty — perhaps this had been his last attempt, and he was carrying his addresses elsewhere. Well ! Honora believed she had tried to act rightly, and that must be her comfort — and extremely ashamed of herself she was, to find herself applying such a word to her own sensations in such a case — and very much disliking the notion of any possible lady at Hiltonbury Holt. HOPES AND FEARS. 51 CHAPTER III. There is a reaper, his name is Death, And with his sickle keen, He reaps tlie bearded gntiu at a breath, Aud tlie flowers that grow between. LONGPEILOW. A LETTER from Humfrey ! how Honor's heart fluttererl. Would it announce an engagement, or would it promise a visit on which her t'ate would turn, or would it be only a business letter on her money matters 1 Angry at her own trepidation, she opened it. It was none of all these. It told her that Mr. Saville, his brother-in-law, was staying at the Holt with his second wife, aud that he begged her to take advantage of this opportunity to come to visit the old place, adding, that he had not been well, aud he wished much to see her, if she could spare a few days to him from her children. Little doubt had she as to the acceptance. The mere words 'going to Ililtoubury,' had power by force of association to make her heart bound. She was a little disappointed that he had not included the children ; she feared that it looked as if he were really ill ; but it might be on account of the Savilles, or may be he had that to say to her which — oh, nonsense ! Were that the case, Humfrey would not reverse the order of things, and make her come to him. At any rate, the children should be her first condition. And then she concentrated her anxieties on his most unusual confession of having been unwell. Humfrey's substantial person was ready to meet her at the station, and the first glance dispelled her nervous tremors, and calmed the tossings of her mind in the habitual sense of triist and reliance. He thanked her for coming, handed her into the carriage, looked after her goods, and seated himself beside her in so completely his ordinary fashion of taking care of her, that she forgot all her intentions of rendering their meeting momen- tous. Her first inquiry was for his health, but he put it aside with something about feeling very well now, and he looked so healthy, only perhaps a little more hearty and burly, tliat she did not think any more of the matter, and only talked in liappy desultory scraps, now dwelling on her little Owen's charms, now joyfully recognising familiar objects, or commenting upon the slight changes that had taken place. One thing, however, she observed ; Humfrey did not stop the horse at the foot of the bteep hill where walking had boon a matter of course, when he H it 52 HOPES AND FEARS. had been a less solid weight than now. ' Yes, Honor,' lie said, smiling, ' one grows less merciful as one grows old and short- breatlied.' * Yon growing old ! yon whom I've never left off thinking of as a promising lad, as poor old Mrs. Mervyn \ised to call you.' He turned his face towards her as if about to say something very seriously, but apparently changing his intention, he said. ' Poor old Mrs. Mervyn, I wonder how she would like the changes at Beauchamp.' ' Are the Fulmorts doing a great deal V 'They have qiiite modernized the house, and laid out the garden — what I should call very prettily, if it were not for my love of the old Dutch one. They see a great deal of company, and go on in grand style.' ' How do you get on with them T ' Oil ! very well ; I have dined there two or three times. He is a good-natured fellow enough, and there are some nice children, whom I like to meet with their nurses in the woods. I stood proxy for the last one's sponsor ; 1 could not undertake the office my.self.' 'Good-natured !' exclaimed Nora. 'Why, you know how he behaved at St. Wulstan's. No more than 5^. a year would he e^'er give to any charity, though he was making thousands by those gin-shopp.' ' Probably he thought he was doing very liberally.' ' Ay, thei'e is no hope for St. Wulstan's till people have left off thinking a guinea their duty, and five very liand.some 1 and that Augusta Mervyn should have gone and married oiir bete noire — our lord of gin-palnres — I do think it must be on purpose for you to melt him. I shall set you at him, Hunifrey, next time Mr. Askew writes to me in despair, that something wont go on for lack of means. Only I must be quite sure that you wont give the money yourself, to spare the trouble of dunning.' 'It is not fair to take other people's duties on oneself; besides, as you'll find, Honor, the Holt purse is not bottondess.' As she would find I This was a very odd way of making sure of her beforehand, but she was not cei'tain tliat she did not like it. It was comfortable, and would save much prelimi- nary. The woods were bursting into spring : delicate, deeply creased leaves were joyously emerging to the light on the birches, not yet devoid of the silvery wool where they had been packed, the hazels were fluttering their goslings, the palms were hojiey sweet M'ith yellow tufts, the primroses peeped out in the banks 01 niosa HOPES AND FEARS. i)3 'Oil ! Hnmfrey, this is tlie great desire of my life fulfilled, to see the Holt iu the flush of spring !' ' I have always said you cared for the place more than any one,' said Humfrey, evidently gratified, but with an expression which she did not understand. ' As if I did not ! But how strangely differently from my •\"ision my wish has been fidfilled.' ' How strangely !' he repeated, with even greater seriousness than had been in her voice. T]\e meadow was bright with spring grass, the cattle grazing serenely as in old times, the garden — ah ! not quite so gay — either it was better in autumn than in spring, or it wai.ted poor Sarah's hand ; the dogs, not the same individuals, but with much the same manners, dancing round their master — all like, all home. Nothing wanting, but, alas ! the good-natured, narrow-minded old mistress of the house to fret her, and nota- ble Sarah to make her comfortable, and wonder at her eccentric tastes. Ah ! and how much more was wanting the gentle mother who did all the civility and listening, and the father, so hap]:)y to look at green woods, read poetry, and unbend his weary brow ! How much more precious was the sight of the one living remnant of those days ! They had a cheerful evening. Mr. Saville had a great deal of old-fas1iioned Oxford agreeableness ; lie was very courtly, but a sensible man, with some native fun and many college stories. After many years of donship, his remote parish was somewhat of a solitude to him, and intercoui-se with a cultivated mind was as pleasant to him now as the sight of a lady had been in his college days. Honor liked conversation too ; and Miss Wells, Lucilla, and Owen had been rather barren in that respect, so there was a great deal of liveliness, in which Hum- frey took his full share ; while good Mrs. Saville looked like what she was, her husband's admiring housekeeper. ' Do you take early walks still, Humfrey V asked Honor, as she bade him good night. ' If you do, I shall be quite ready to confront the dew f and therewith came a revulsion of the con- sciousness within. Was this courting him 1 and to her great provocation there arose an uncomfortable l)lush. ' Thank you,' he said, with something of a mournful tone, * I'm afraid I'm past that. Honor. To-morrow, after breakfast —good night.' Honor was a little alarmed by all this, and designed a con- ference with the old housekeeper, Mrs. Stubbs, to inquire into her master's health, but this was not attainable that night, and she could only go to bed in the friendly old wainscoted room. 54? HOPES AND FEARS. whose white and gold carved monsters on the mantelpiece were well nigh as familiar as the dove in Wool.stone lane ; but, oh ! how it made her long for the mother whom she used to kiss there. Humfrey was brisk and cheerful as ever at breakfxst, devising what his guests would like to do for the day, and talking of some friends whom he had asked to meet Mr. Saville, so that all the anxieties with which Honora had risen were dissipated, and she took her part gaily in the talk. Tiiere was something therefore freshly startling to her, when, on rising, Humfrey gravely said, ' Honor, will you come into my study for a little while r The study had always been more of a place for guns and fish- ing-tackle than for books. It was Humfrey's usual living room when alone, and was of course full besides of justice books, agri- «t,'ultural reports, acts of parliament, piles of papers, little bags of samples of wheat, all in the orderly disorder congenial to the male kind. All tliis was as usual, but the change that struck her was, that tlie large red leather lounging chair, hitherto a receptacle for the overflowings of the table, was now wheeled beside the fire, and near it stood a little table with a large print Bible on it, which she well remembered as his mother's. Hum- frey set a chair for her by the fire, and seated himself in the easy one, leaning back a little. She had not spoken. Some- thing in his grave preparation somewhat awed her, and she sat upright, watching him. 'It was very kind of you to come. Honor,' he began; 'more kind than you know.' ' I am sure it could be no other than a treat ' He continued, before she could go farther, 'I wished particu- larly to speak to you. I thought it might perhaps spare you a shock.' She looked at him with a terrified eye. ' Don't be frightened, my dear,' he said, leaning forward, 'there is no occnsion. Such things must come sooner or later, and it is only that I wished to tell you that I liave been having advice for a good many uncomfortable feelings that have troubled me lately.' 'Weill' she asked, breathlessly. ' And Dixon tells rae tliat it is aneurism.' Quick and fast came Honora's breath ; her hands wei'e clasped together ; her eyes cast about with such a piteous, de- PI)airing expression, that he started to his feet in a moment, exclaiming — 'Honor! Honor dear ! don't! there's no need, I did not think you would feel it in this way !' HOPES AND FEARS. 00 'Feel ! wliat should I feel if not for you? Oh! Humfrey ! don't say it ! you ai'e all that is left me — you cannot be spared !' and as he came towards her, she grasped his hand and clung to him, needing the support which he gave in fear of her fainting. ' Dear Honor, do not take it thus. I am veiy well now — I dare say I shall be so to the last, and there is nothing terrible to the imagination. I am very thankful for botli the prepara- tion and the absence of suffering. Will not you be the same f ' Yes, you,' said Honora, sitting up again, and looking up into his sincere, serene face ; ' I cannot doubt that even this is well for you, but it is all selfishness — just as I was beginning to feel what you are to me.' Humfrey "s face lighted up suddenly. * Then, Honor,' he said, evidently putting strong restraint upon his voice, 'you could Lave listened to me now.' She bowed her head — the tears were dropping very fast. 'Thank God !' he said, as again he leant back in his cliair j and when she raised her eyes again, he sat with his hands clas])ed, and a look of heavenly felicity on his face, raised up- wards. ' Oh ! Humfrey ! how thoughtlessly I have trifled away all that might have been the ha])piness of yoxu" life !' ' You never trifled with me,' he said ; ' you have always dealt honestly and straightforwardlj', and it is best as it is. Had we been together all this time, the parting might have been much harder. I am glad there are so few near ties to break.' ' Don't say so ! you, loved by every one, the tower of stiength to all that is good !' ' Hush, hush ! nonsense, Honor !' said he, kindly. ' I think I have tried,' he went on, gi-avely, ' not to fall behind the duties of my station ; but that would be a bad dejjendence, were there not something else to look to. As to missing me, the world did very well without me before I was born ; it will do as well when I am gone ; and as to you, my poor Honor, we have been very little together of late.' ' I had you to lean on.' ' Lean on something stronger,' he said ; and as she could not govern her bitter v/eeping, he went on — ' Ah ! I am the selfish one now, to be glad of what must make it the worse for you ; but if one thing were wanting to make me happy, it was to know that at last you cared for me.' ' I should be a wretch not to do so. So many years of patience and forbearance ! Nobody could be like you.' ' I don't see that,' said Humfrey, simply, ' While you cou- 56 HOPES AND FEARS. tinned the same,! could not well turn my mind to anyone el^c, and I always knew I was much too loutish for you.' ' Now, Humfrey ! ' * Yes, there is no use m dwelling on this,' he said, quietly. * The reason I asked you to be kind enough to come here, is tliiit I do not think it well to be far from home under the cii'- cumstances. There, don't look friglitened — tlu^y say it may very possibly not come for several months or a year. I hope to have time to put tilings a little in order for you, and that is one reason I wished to see you ; I thought I could make the begin- ning easier to you.' But Honora was far too much shaken for such a turn to the convei-sation ; she would not mortify him, but she could neither listen nor understand. He, who was so full of stalwart force, f doomed man, yet calm and ha]:)py under his sentence ; he, only discovered to be so fondly loved in time to give poignancy to the parting, and yet rejoicing himself in the poor, tardy affection that had answered his manly constancy too late ! His very calmness and stillness cut her to the heart, and after some in- effectual attempts to recover herself, she was forced to take refuge in her own room. Weeping, praying, walking restlessly about, she remained there till luncheon time, when Humfrey himself came up to knock at her door. ' Honor dear 1' lie said, ' come down — try to throw it off— Saville does not wish his wife to be made aware of it while she is here, lest she should be nervous. You must not betray me ■ — and indeed there is no reason for beitig overcome. Nothing vexes me but seeing you so. Let iis enjoy your visit, pray.' To be commanded to bear up by a strong, manly character so much loved and trusted was perhaps the chief sup])ort she could receive ; she felt that she must act composure, and coming down in obedience to her cousin, she found the power of doing so. Nay, as she saw him so completely the bright, hospitable liost, talking to Mrs. Saville about her poultry, and carrying on quiet jokes with Mr. Saville, she found liersulf drawn away from the morning's conversation, or remembering it like a dream that had passed away. They all went out together, and he was apparently as much interested in his ynmg wln^at as ever, and even more anxious to make her look at and appreciate crops and cattle, speaking about them in his hearty, simple way, as if his pleasure in them was not fl.igging, perhaps because it had never been excessive. He had always sat loose to them, and thus they covdd plea.se and occupy him even when the touch of the iron hand liad mado itself felt. HOPES AND FEARS. 67 And again she saw him engrossed in arranging some petty matter of bvisiness for one of the poor i)eople ; and when tliey had wandered down to the gate, pelting the turn-out of the hoys' school with a pocket full of apples that he said he had taken up while in conference with the housekeeper, laughing and S]ieaking men-ily as the varlets touched their caps to him, and always turning to her for sympathy in his pleasures of success or of good nature, as though her visit were thorough en- joyment to him. And so it almost was to lier. The influence of the dear old scenes was something, and his cheeriness was a great deal more ; the peaceful pi-esent was not harassed or disturbed, and the foreboding, on which she might not dwell, made it the more precious. That slow wandering about the farm and village, and the desultory remarks, the old pleasant reminiscences, the in- quiries and replies about the villagers and neighbours had a quiet charm about them, as free and happy as when, youth and child, they had frisked through the same paths ; nay, the old scenes so brought back the old habits that she found herself dis- coursing to him in her former eager fashion upon the last his- torical character who had bitten her fancy. ' My old way,' she said, catching herself up ; ' dinning all this into your ears as usual, when you don't care.' ' Don't I f said Humfrey, with his sincere face turned on her in all its sweetness. ' Perhaps I never showed you how much, Honor; and I beg your pardon, but I would not have been without it !' The Savilles came up, while Honor's heart was brimfull at tliis compliment, and then it was all commonplace again, except for that sunset light, that rich radiance of the declining day, that seemed unconsciously to pervade all Humfrey 's cheer- fulness, and to give his mirth and playfulness a solid hajjpiness. Some mutual friends of long standing came to dinner, and the evening was not unlike the last, quite as free from gloom, and Mr. Charlecote as bright as ever, evidently taking his full share in county business, and giving his mind to it. Only Honor noted that he quietly avoided an invitation to a very gay party which was proposed ; and his great ally. Sir John Raymond, seemed rather vexed with him for not taking part in some new and expensive experiment in farming, and asked incredulously whether it were true that he wished to let a farm that he had kept for several years in his own hands. Humfrey agreed that it was so, and said something farther of wishing to come to terms quickly. She guessed that this was for her sake, when she thought all this over in her bedroom. 68 HOPES AND FEARS. Sncli was the effect of his calmness that it had not been a day of agitation. There was more peace tlian tumult in her mind as she lay down to rest, sad, but not analysing her sadness, and lulled by the present into putting aside the future. So she slept quietly, and awoke with a weight at her heart, but softened and sustained by reverent awe and obedience towards her cousin. When they met, he scanned her looks with a briglit, tender glance, and smiled commendation when he detected no air of sleeplessness. He talked and moved as though his secret were one of uutokl bliss, and this was not far from the truth ; for when, after breakfast, he asked her for auotlier interview in the study, they were no sooner alone than he rubbed his hands together with satisiaction, saying — ' So, Honor, you could have had me after all !' looking at her with a broad, undisguised, ex- ulting smile. 'Oh! Humfrey!' * Don't say it if you doji't like it ; but you can't guess the pleasure it gives me. I could hardly tell at first what waa making me so happy when I awoke this morning.' ' I can't see how it should,' said Honor, her eyes swimming with tears, ' never to have met with any gratitude for 1 have used you too ill— never valued, scarcely even believed in what you lavished ou poor silly me — and now, when all is too late, you ai*e glad ^ ' Glad ! of course I am,' returned Humfrey ; * I never wished to obtrude my feelings on you after I knew how it stood with you. It would have beenasliame. Your choice went far above me. For the rest, if to find you disposed towards me at tlie last makes me so happy,' and he looked at her again with beam- ing affection, ' how could I have borne to leave you if all had been as I wished 1 No, no, it is best as it is. You lose nothing in position, and yo;i are free to begin the world again, not knocked down or crushed.' * Don't talk so, Humfrey ! It is brealdng my heart to think that I might have been making you hAp])y all this time.' * Heaven did not will it so,' said Humfrey, reverently, ' and it might not have proved what we fancy. You might not have found such a clodlioppcr all you wanted, and my stupidity might have vexed you, though now you fancy otherwise. And I ];ave hail a very happy life — indeed I have, Honor ; I never knew the time when 1 could not say with all my heart, "The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground, yea, I liave a goodly heritage." Everybody and everything, you and all the rest, have been very kind and friendly, and I have never wanted for happiness. It has been all right. You could fulfil your duty as a daughter HOPES AND FEARS. 59 mulivideclly, and now T trust those children will be your object and comfort — only, Honor, not your idols. Perhaps it was jealousy, but I have sometimes fancied that your tendency with their father ' ' Oh ! how often I must have given you pain.' ' I did not mean tfiat, but, as I shy, perhaps I was no foir judge. One tiling is well, the relations will be much less likely to take them from you when you are living here.' She held u]) her hands in de])recation. ' Honor dear,' he said pleadingly, yet with authority, 'pray let me talk to you. There are things which I wish very much to say ; indeed, without which, I could hardly have asked for this indul^snce. It is for your own sake, and that of the place and people.' ' Poor i)lace, poor people.' He sighed, but then turned his smiling countenance towards her again. ' No one else can care for it or them as you do, Honor. Our " goodly heritage" — it was so when I had it from my father, and I don't think it has got worse under my charge, and I want you to do your duty by it. Honor, and hand it on the same, whoever may come after.' ' For your sake, Humfrey^even if I did not love ib. But ' ' Yes, it is a duty,' proceeded Humfrey, gravely. ' It may seem but a bit of earth after all, but the owner of a property has a dxity to let it do its share in producing food, or maybe iu not lessening the number of pleasant things here below. I mean, it is as much my office to keep my trees and woods fair to look at, as it is not to let my land lie waste.' She had recovered a good deal while he was moralizing, and became interested. * I did not suspect you of the poetical view, Humfrey,' she said. ' It is plain sense, I think,' he said, * that to grub up a fine tree, or a pretty bit of copse without fair reason, only out of eagerness for gain, is a bit of selfishness. But mind. Honor, you must not go and be romantic. You viiist have the timber marked when the trees are injuring each other.' * Ah ! I've often done it with you.' ' I wish you would come out with me to-day. I'm going to the outwood, I could show you.' She agreed readily, almost forgetting the wherefore. ' And above all, Honor, you must not be romantic about wages ! It is not right by other proprietors, nor by the people themselves. No one is ever the better for a fancy price for hi3 labour.' 60 nOPES AND FEAKS. She could almost have smiled ; he was at once so well pleaserl that she and his 'goodly heritage' should belong to eacli other, so coufideut in her love and good intentions towards it, and so doubtfid of her discretion and management. She promised with all her heart to do her utmost to fulfil his wishes. * After all,' he said, thoughtfully, ' the best thing for the place ■ — ay, and for you and every one, would be for you to marry ; but there's little chance of tliat, I suppose, and it is of no use to distress you by mentioning it. I've been trying to put out of my hands things that I don't think you will be able to manage, but I should like ycm to keep up the home farm, and you may pretty well trust to Brooks. I dare say he will take his own way, but if you keep a reasonable check on him, he; will do very well by you. He is as honest as the day, and very intelligent. I don't know that any one could do better for you.' 'Oh, yes ; I will mind all he tells me.' * Don't show that you mind him. That is the way to spoil him. Poor fellow, he has been a good servant to me, and so have they all. It is a thing to be very thaiikful for to have had such a set of fjood servants.' Hcmora thonght, but did not say that they could not help being good with such a master. He went on to tell her that he had made Mr. Saville his executor. Mr. Saville had been for many years before leaving Oxford bursar of his college, and was a thorough man of busi- ness, whom Humfrey had fixed upon as the person best qualified to be an adviser and assistant to Honora, and he only wished to know whether she wished for any other selection, but this was nearly overpowering her again, for since her father's death .she liad leant on no one but Humfrey himself. One thing more he had to say, ' You know, Honor, t'lis place will be entirely your own. You and I seem to be tho last of the Charlecotes, and even if we were not, there is no entail. You may found orphan asylums wilh it, or leave it to poor Sandbrook's children, just as you please.' ' Oh, I could not do that,' cried Honor, with a sudden rcATil- fiion. Love them as she might, Owen Saudbrook's children juustnot step into Humfrey Cliarlecote's place. 'And, besides,' she added, ' 1 want my little Owen to be a clergyman ; I think he can be what his father missed.' ' Well, you can do exactly as you think fit. Only what I wanted to tell you is, that there may be another branch, elder than our own. Not that this need make the least difference, for the Holt is legally ours. It seems that our great grand- father had an elder son — a wild .sort of fellow — the old people HOPES AND FEARS. €1 nsed to tell stories of him. He went on, in sliort, till he was disinherited, and went off to America. What became of him afterwards 1 never could make out ; but I have sometimes questioned how I should receive any of his heirs if they sliould turn up some day. Mind you, you need not have the slightest scruple in holding your own. It was naade over to my grand- father by will, as I have made it sure for you ; but I do think that when you come to think how to dispose of it, the possibi- lity of the existence of these Charlecotes might be taken into consideration.' * Yankee Charlecotes !' she said. ' Never mind ; most likely nothing of the kind will ever come in your way, and they have not the slightest claim on you. I only threw it out, because I thought it right just to speak of it.' After this commencement, Humfrey, on this and the ensuing days, made it his business to make his cousin acquainted with the details of the management of the estate. He took such pleasure in doing so, and was so anxioiis she should comprehend, that she was forced to give her whole attention ; and, putting all else aside, was tranquilly happy in thus gratifying him. Those orderly ranges of conscientious accounts were no small testimony to the steady, earnest maimer in which Humfrey had set himself to his duty from his early youth, and to a degree they were his honest pride too- — he liked to show how good years had made up for bad years, and there was a tenderness in the way he patted their red leather backs to make them even on their shelves, as if they had been good friends to him. No, they must not run into confusion. The farms and the cottages — the friendly terms of his inter- course, and his large-handed Imt wcll-judgiug almsgiving — all revealed to her more of his solid worth ; and the simplicity that regarded all as the merest duty touched her more than all. IMany a time did she think of the royal Norwegian brothers, one of whom went to tie a knot in the willows on the banks of the Jordan, while the other remained at home to be the blessing of his peo})le, and from her broken idol wanderer, she turned to worshi}! her steadfast worker at home, as far as his humility and homeliness made it possible, and valued each hcmr with him as if each moment were of diamond pi-ice. And he was so calmly happy, that there was no grieving in his presence. It had been a sei-ene life of simple fulfilment of duty, going ever higher, and branching wider, as a good man's standard gradually i-ises the haiger he lives, the one great disappointment had been borne without sourues.s or repining, and the aflections, deprive 1 of the 62 HOPES AND FEARS. home channel, had spread in a beneficent flood, and blessed all around. So, thougli, like every sinful son of man, sensible of many an error, many an infirmity, still the open loving spirit was cliildlike enough for that blessed sense ; for that feeling which St. John expresses as ' if our heart condemn us not, then have we confidence towards God;' confidence in the infinite Merits that atone for the errors of weakness, and occasional wanderings of will ; confidence that made the hope a sure and steadfast one, and these sentenced weeks a land of Beulah, where Honora's tardy response to liis constant love could be greeted and valued as the precious fulfilment of long-cherished wishes, not dashed aside as giving bitterness to his departure. The parting was broken by a promise that Honora should again meet the Savilles at the Holt in the autumn. She assured herself that there was no danger before that time, and Humfrey spoke cheerfully of looking forward to it, and seemed to have so much to do, and to be so well equal to doing it, that he would not let them be concerned at leaving him alone. To worship Humfrey was an easier thing at a distance than when beside him. Honora came back to Sandbeach thoroughly restless and wretched, reproaching herself with having wasted such constant, priceless affection, haunted by the constant dread of each morning's ]iost, and longing fervently to be on the spot. She had self-command enough not to visit her dejection on the children, but they missed both her spirits and her vigilance, and were more left to their nurse ; and her chief solace was in long solitai-y walks, or in evening talks with Miss Wells. Kind Miss Wells perhaps guessed how matters stood between the two last Charlecotes, but she hinted not her sus])icions, and was the unweai'ied recipient of all Honora's histories, of his symptoms, of his cheerfulness, and his solicitude for her. Those talks did her good, they set the real Humfrey before her, and braced her to strive against weakness and despondence. And then the thought grew on her, why, since they were so thoroughly each other's, why should they not marry, and be together to the last 1 Why should he be left to liis solitude for this final year 1 why should their meetings be so pruden- tially chaperoned 1 Suppose the disease should be lingering, how hard it was that she should be absent, and he left to ser- vants ! She could well imagine why lie had not proposed it, he was too unselfish to think of exposing her to the shock, or making her a widow, but how came she never to have thought of it ? She stood beyond all ordinary rules — she had nothing worldly to gain nor to lose by being his wife for these few re- Uiaining mouths — it surely was her part, after the way she had HOPES AND FEARS. 63 treated liim, to meet him more than half way — she alone could make the proposal — she would — she must. And oh ! if the doctors should be mistaken ! So spoke the midnight dream — oh ! how many times. But what said cool morning ] Pro- priety had risen up, grave decorum objecting to what would shock Humfrey, ay, and was making Honor's cheeks tingle. Yes, and there came the question whether he would not bo more distressed than gratified — he who wished to detach him- self from all earthly ties — whether he might not be pained and displeased at her thus clinging to him — nay, were he even gra- titied, might not emotion and agitation be fatal 1 Many, many times was all this tossed over in Honor's mind. Often the desperate resolution was definitively taken, and she had seen herself quietly meeting him at dear old Hiltonbury church, with his grave sweet eyes resting satisfied upon her aa his darling. As often had the fear of ofiendiug him, and the instinct of woman's dignity turned her away when her heart was beating high. That autumn visit — then she would decide. One look as if he wished to retain her, the least air of feeble- ness or depression, and she would be determined, even if she liad to waive all feminine reserves, and set tiie matter in hand herself. She thought Mr. Saville would highly approve and assist ; and having settled into this period for her project, she set herself in some degree at rest, and moved and spoke with so much more of her natural ease, that Miss Wells was con- soled about her, and knew not how entirely heart and soul were at Hiltonbury, with such devotion as had never even gone to the back woods. To meet the Savilles at Hiltonbury in the autumn 1 Yes — Honor met IMr. Saville, but not as she had intended. By that time the stroke had fallen, just as she had become habituated to the expectation, just as her promised visit had assumed a degree of proximity, and her heart was beating at the prospect of the results. Humfrey had been scarce^ ailing all the summer, he had gone about his occupations with his usual cheerfulness, and had taken part in all the village festivals as genially as ever. Only close observers could have noticed a slackness towards new un- dertakings, a gradual putting off of old ones, a training of those, dependent on his counsel, to go alone, a preference for being alone in the evening, a greater habit of stillness and con- templation. September had come, and he had merrily sent off two happy boy-sportsmen with the keeper, seeing them over the first field himself, and leaning against the gate, as he sent them away ig Ct HOPES AND FEARS. convulsions of laiTGrbinoj at his droll auo;ui*ies. The second was a Sunday, a lovely day of clear deep blue sky, and rich sun- shine laughing upon the full wealth of harvest fields — part fallen before the hand of the reaper, pait waving in their ripe glowing beauty, to which beloved to liken Houoru's hair — part in noble redundant shocks of corn in full season. Brooks used afterwards to tell how he overtook the squire slowly strolling to church on that beauteous autumnal morning, and how ha paused to remark on the glory of the harvest, and to add, ' Keep the big barn clear, Brooks — let us have all the women and children in for the snpper this time — and I say — send the spotted heifer down to-morrow to old Boycotts, iustead of his cow that died. With such a crop as this, one can stand some- thing. And,' said Brooks, * Thank God for it! was as plaiu written on his face as ever I saw !' It was the first Sunday in the month, and there was full service. Hiltonbury church had one of those old-fashioned altar-rails which form three sides of a square, and where it was the custom that at the words ' Draw near with faith,' the earliest communicants should advance to the rail and remain till their place was wanted by others, and that the last shoiild not return to their seats till the service was concluded. Mr. Charlecote had for many years been always the first parishioner to walk slowly up the matted aisle, aDject to the situation ; or could be lent now and then to a curate ; and she could well afford to kee]) it u]), so she thought herself justified in following her inclination, and went up for three mournful days of settling matters there, and packing books and ornaments till the rooms looked so dismantled that she could not think how to face them asjain. It was the beginning of October when she met Miss Wells, children, and luggage ot the station, and fairly was on her way to her home. She tried to call it so, as a duty to Humfrey, but it gave her a pang every time, and in effect slie felt far less at home than when he and Sarah had stood in the door%vay to greet the arrivals. She had purposely fixed an hour when it would l)e dark, so that she might receive no painful welcome; she wished no one to gx-eet her, she had rather they were mourning for their master. She had more than once shocked !Miss Wells by declaring heiresses to be a mistake; and yet, as she always owned, she could not have borne for any one else to have had the Holt. Fortunately for her, the children were sleepy, and were rather in a mazy state when lifted out and set on their legs in the wainscoted hall, and she sent them at once with nurse to the nor:!:s and fears. €•} cheerful room that Humfrey's little visitors had saved frora becoming disused. Miss Wells's fond vigilance was a little oppressive, but she gently freed herself from it, and opened the study door. She had begged that as little change as possible might be made; and there stood, as she had last seen them, the large leathern chair, the little table, the big Bible, and in it tlie little faded marker she had herself constructed for his twenty- first birthday, when her powers of making presents had not equalled her will. Yet what costly gift could have fulfilled its mission like that one ? She opened the heavy book at the place. It was at the first lesson for the last day of his life, the end of the prophet Hosea, and the first words her eyes fell upon were the glorious prophecy — ' I will redeem them from death, I will ransom them from the power of the grave.' Her heart beat high, and she stood half musing, half reading : ' They that dwell under His shadow shall return ; they shall revive as the corn, and grow as the vine.' How gentle and refreshing the cadence ! A longing rose up in her to apply those latter words more closely, by i)lacing them on his tablet ; she did not think they would shock his humility, a consideration which had withheld her from choosing other passages of which she always thought in connexion with him. Another verse, and she read : ' Ephraim shall say, What have I to do any more with idols f It brought bacV the postscript. Kind Humfrey must have seen strong cause before he gave any reproof, least of all to her, and she could take his word that the fault had been there. She felt certain of it wjien she thought of her early devotion to Owen Sandbrook, and the utter blank caused by his defection. Nay, she believed she had began to idolize Humfrey himself, but now, at her age, chastened, desponding, with nothing before her save the lonely life of an heiress old maid, counting no tie of blood with any being, what had she to engross her affections from the true Object ? Alas ! Honora's heart was not feeling that Object sufficient ! Conscientious, earnest, truly loving goodness, and all connected with it ; striving as a faithful, dutiful woman to walk rightly, still the personal love and trust were not yet come. Spent as they had been upon props of earth, when these were taken away the tendrils iumg down drearily, unemployed, not fastening on the true BUJ )p01't. Not that she did not kneel beside tliat little table, as in a shrine, and entreat earnestly for strength and judgment to do her duty faithfully in her new station, so that Humfrey's charge might be fulfilled, and his ])eople might not suffer ; and this done, and her homage paid to his emi»ty throne, she was better 70 HOPES AND FEARS. able to satisfy her motherly friend by lier deportment for the remainder of the evening, and to reply to the welcome of the •wee])ing Mrs. Stubbs. By one of Hiinifrey's wise acts of fore- sight, his faithful servant. Reeves, had been provided for as the master of the Union, whither it was certain he would carry the siame milk of human kindness as had been so plentiful at Hilton- bury, and the Holt was thus left free for Honoi'a's Mr. Jones, without fear of clashing, thougli he was divided between pride in his young lady's ownership of a 'landed estate,' and his own dislike to a country residence. Honora did not sleep soundly. The place was too new, and yet too familiar, and the rattling of the windows, the roaring of the wind in the chimney, and the creaking of the vane, without absolutely wakening her, kept her hearing alive conti- nually, weaving the noises into some harassing dream that Humfrey's voice was calling to her, and hindrances always keeping her from him ; and then of Lucilla and Owen in some imminent peril, whence she shrieked to him to save them, and then remembered he would stretch out his hand no more. Sounder sleep came at last, towai'rised at this than she was ; for, like all childi'en, to be left behind appeared to him a contingency rather probable than otherwise. He was a fine-looking boy, with dark grey, thoughtful eyes, and a pleasant countenance ; but his nerves had been so niuch shaken that he started, and seemed ready to catch hold of her at every sound. ' What's that T he cried, as a trampling came al'>ug the alley as they entered the garden. ' Only my two little cousins,' said Honora, smiling. * I hope you will be good friends, though pei'haps Owen is too young a playfellow. Here, Lucy, Owen — here is a little friend for you — Robert Fulmort.' The children came eagerly up, and Liicilla, taking her hand, raised her face to kiss the stranger ; but Robert did not approve of the proceeding, and held up his head. Lucilla rose on tip-toe ; Robin did the same. As he had the advantage ot a whole year's height, he fully succeeded in keeping out of her reach ; and very comical was the effect. She gave it iTp at last, and contented hei'self with asking, ' And where do you come from V ' Out of the church,' was Robin's reply. * Then yon are very good and holy, indeed,' said Owen, look- ing at him earnestly, with clas2:)ed hands. ' No !' said Robert, gruffly. ' Poor little man ! he was left behind, and shut up in the church all night, without any supper,' said Honora. ' Shut up in the church like Goody Two-Shoes !' cried Lucilla, dancing about. ' Oh, what fun !' 'Did the angels come and sing to you V asked Owen, * Don't ask sixch stupid questions,' cried his sister. * Oh, I 80 HOPES AND FEARS. know wliat I'd Lave done ! Didn't you get up into tho pulpit V ' No !' ' And I do so want to know if the k^fly and gentleman on the monument have their mils the same on the inside, towards the wall, as outside ; and, oh 1 I do so want to get all the dust out of the fohls of the lady's ruff. 1 wish they'd lock me into the church, and I'd soon get out when I was tired.' Lucilla and Owen decidedly thought Robin had not profited by his opportunities, but he figured better in an examination on his brothers and sisters. There were seven, of whom he was the fourth — Augusta, Juliana, and Mervyn being his elders; Phoebe, Maria, and Bertha, his juniors. The three seniors were under the rule of Mademoiselle, the little ones under that of nurse and Lieschen, and Robert stood on neutral giound, doing lessons with JMadenioiselle, whom, he said, in unjdcked language which astounded little Owen, 'he morally hated,' and at the same time free of the nursery, where, it appeared, that ' Phoebe was the jolliest little fellow in the world,' and Lieschen was the only 'good-natured body going,' and knew no end of Mdhrchen. The boy spoke a very odd mixture of Lieschen's German and of English, pervaded by stable slang, and was altogether a cuiious study of the eflTects of absentee parents ; nevertheless Honoi-a and Lucilla both took a considerable fancy to him, the latter patronizing him to such a degree that she hardly allowed him to eat the much-needed bi'eakfast, which recalled colour to his cheek and substance to his voice. After much thought, Owen delivered himself of the senti- ment that 'people's papas and mammas were very funny,' doubtless philosophizing on the inconsistency of the class in being — some so willing, some so reluctatit, to leave their children behind them. Honor fully agreed with him, but did not think the discussion profitable for llobin, whom she now propo^sed to take home in the pony-carriage. Lucilla, always eager for novelty, and ardent for her new fi-iendship, begged to accom]iaiiy her. Owen was afraid of the strangers, and preferred Miss Wells. Even as they set out, they found that Robert's disa])j)earance had created some sensation, for the clerk's wife was hurrying up to ask if Miss Charlccote had the keys, that she might satisfy the man from Beauchamp that Master Fulmort was not in the church. At the lodge the woman thi'ewup her hands with joy at the sight of the child ; and some way off, on the sward, stood » bigger l)oy, who, with a loud jiurrah, scoured away towards the house as the carriage appeared. * Thai's Mervyn,' said Robert ; ' he is gone to tell them.' nOPES AND FEARS. 81 Beauchamp was many degrees gi'auder since Honor had last visited it. Tlie approach Avas entirely new. Two fresh wings had been added, and the front was all over scaffolds and cement, in all stages of colour, from I'ich brown to permanent white. Ptobert explained that nothing was so nice as to watch the workmen, and showed Lucilla a plasterer on the topmost stage of the scaffolding, who, he said, was the nicest man he knew, and could sincr all manner of songs. Rather nervously Honora drove under the poles to the liall- door, where two girls were seen in the rear of a Frenchwoman ; and Honor felt as if Robin might have grounds for his ' moral hatred' when her voluble transports of gratitude and affection broke forth, and the desolation in which the loss had left them was described. Robert edged back from her at once, and flew to another party at the bottom of the stairs — a very stout nurse and an uncapped, flaxen-haired madchen, who clasped him in her arms, and cried, and sobljed over him. As soon as he could release himself, he caught hold of a fat little bundle, Avhich had been coaxinsr one of his lesfs all through Lieschen's embrace, and dragging it forwards, cried, ' Kere she is — here's Phoebe !' Plioel)e, however, was shy, and cried and fought her way back to hide her face in Lieschen's apron ; and meantime a very odd scene took ]:)lace. School-room and nursery were evidently at most direful war. Each wanted to justify itself lest the lady should write to the parents ; each tried to be too grand to seem to care, and thi'ew all the blame on the other. On the whole, Honor gathered that Mademoiselle believed the boy enfantiii enough to be in the nursery, the nurses that he was in the schoolroom, and he had not been really missed till bed time, when each party recriminated instead of seeking him, and neither would allow itself to be responsible for him. Liescheri, who alone had her suspicions where he might be, abstained from naming them in sheer terror of Koholden, Geistern, corpse- candles, and what not, and had lain conjuring up his miseries till morning. Honora did not much care how they settled it amongst them, but tried to make friends with the young ])eople, who seemed to take their brother's restoration rather cooU}'', and to be chiefly occupied by staring at Lucilla. Augusta and Juliana were self-possessed, and I'ather manierees, acquitting themselves evidently to the satisfaction of the French governess, and Honor, perceiving her to be a necessary infliction, invited her and her pupils, especially Robin, to spend a day in the next week at the Holt. Tlie proposal was graciously accepted, and Lucilla spent the intervening time in a tumult of excitemevit, 82 HOPES AND FEAKS. Nor was the day entirely imsnccessful ; JNTademoiselle beliaved herself with French tact, and Miss Wells took her olf Hoiioia's hands a good deal, leaving them free for the children. Luciila, always aspiring, began a gi-and whii^pering friendship with the two girls, and set her little cap strongly at Mervyn, but that young gentleman was contemptuous and bored when he found no entertainment in Miss Cliarlecote's stud, and was only to be kept placable by the bagatelle-board and the strawberry-bed. Robert followed his lead more than was satisfactory, but witli visible pi'edilections for the Holt ladies, old and young. Honor talked to him about little Phoibe, and he lighted up and began to detail her accomplishments, and to be very communicative about his home vexations and pleasures, and finally, when the children were wishing good night, he bluntly said, ' It would be better fun to bring Lieschen and Phoebe.' Honor thouglit so too, and pi-oposed giving the invitation. * Don't,' said P>obert, 'she'd be cross ; I'll bring them.' And so he did. Two days after, the broad German face and the flaxen head ajipeared, leading that fat ball, Phcebe, and Robin frisking in triumph beside hei*. Henceforth a great friendship arose between the children. Phoebe soon lost all dread of those who petted her, and fovoured them with broad smiles and an incomprehensible ])atois. Owen made very much of her, and pursued and imitated Robert with the devotion of a small boy to a larger one. Luciila devoted herself to him for want of better game, and moreover he plainly told her that she was t!ie prettiest little giil he ever saw, and laid all manner of remark- able treasures at her feet. Miss Charlecote believed that he made some curious confidences to her, for once Owen saiked excessively sullen, and did not come for a week, during which Lucilla was intolerably naughty, and was twice severely punished for using the iden- tical expressions in defiance. Then he came again, and behaved as if nothing had happened, but the offence never recurred. Some time after, when he boasted of having come away with a lesson unlearnt, in flat disobedience to Mademoiselle, Honor sent him straight home, though Lucilla stamped and danced at her in a frenzy. Another time Owen rushed up to her in great agony at some torture that Robin was inflicting upon a live mouse. Upon this, Honor, full of the sj)irit of indignation, fairly struck the offender sharply on the fingers with her riding-whip. He scowled at her, but it was only for a moment. She held him tightly by the hand, while she sent the gardener to put his victim out of its misery, and then she talked to him, not sen- timentally, her feelings were too strongly stirred, but with all her horror of cruelty. He muttered that Mervyn and tlie grooms always did it ; but he did not hold out long — Lucilla was holding alonf, too much horrified to come near — and finally he burst into tears, and owned that he had never tliought ! Every now and then, such outlireaks made Honor wonder why she let him come, perhaps to tempt her ch':-iren ; but she remembered that he and Humfiey had be<^': n;td of one another, and she felt drawn towards him, though in all pru- dence she resolved to lessen the attractions of the Holt by being very strict with all, and I'ather ungracious to him. Yet, strange to say, the more regulations she made, and the more she flashed out at his faults, the more constant was her visitor, the Robin Vv'ho seemed to thrive upon the veriest crumbs of good-nature. Positively, Honoi'a was sometimes amazed to find what a tJiagon she could be upon occasion. Since she had been brougiit g2 84 HOPES AND yEAKS. into sulDordination at six or eiglit years old, she had never had occasion to find out that she had a spiiifc of her own, till she found herself astonishing Jones and Brooks for taliing the liberty of having a deadly feud ; making Brooks understand that cows were not to be sold, nor promises made to tenants, without reference to her ; or showing a determined maraiuler that Humfrey's wood was not to be preyed upon any more than in his own time. They were very feminine explosions to be sure, but they had their „lfcct, and Miss Charlecote's was a real government. The uproar with nurse came at last, through a chance dis- coveiy that she had taken Owen to a certain forbidden house of gossip, where he had been bribed to secrecy with bread and treacle. Hnnora wrote to Mrs. Cliarteris for permission to dismiss the mischievous woman, and obtained full consent, and the most complete expression of confidence and gratitude. So there ensned a month, when every visit to the nursery seemed to be spent in tears. Nurse was really very fond of the children, and cried over them incessantly, only consoling herself by auguring a brilliant future for them, when Master Owen should reign over Hiltonbury, like the gentleman he was. 'But, nurse, Cousin Honor says I never shall — I'm to be a clergynmn, like papa. She says ' Kiirwe winked knowingly at the housemaid. * Yes, yes, my darling, no one likes to hear who is to come after them. Don't you say nothing about it ; it ain't becoming ; hut, by and by, see if it don't come so, and if my boy ain't master here.' * I wish I was, and then nursey would never go.' However, nnrse did go, and after some tears Owen was con- soled by promotion to the habits of an older boy. I.ucilla was very angry, and revenged herself by every variety of opposition in her power, all which were ])ufc down by the strong hand. It was a matter of necessity to keep a tight grasp on this little wilful sprite, the most fiery morsel of engaging cjiprico and naughtiness that a quiet spinster could M-ell h:n i lit upon. It really sometimes seemed to Honora aa if there were scarcely a fault in the range of possibilities that she had not cf)mmitted ; and indeed a bit of good advice gene- rally seemed to act by contraries, and served to suggest mis- chief. Softness and warmth of feeling seemed to have been lost with her father; she did not show any particular affection towards her bi'otheror Honora. Perhajjs she liked Miss Wells, but that might be only o})position ; nay, Honor would liave been almost thankful if she had melted at the departure of the HOPES AND FEARS. 85 unclosiralile nurse, but slie appeared only hard and cross. Tf she liked any oue it was Eobert Fuloiort, but that was too much in the way of flirtation. Vanity was an extremely traceable spring of action. When nurse went, IMiss Lucilla gave the household no peace, because no one could rightly curl the long flaxen tresses uj)on her shoulders, until the worry became so intolerable that Honora, partly as penance, partly because she thought the present mode neither conducive to tidiness nor comfort, took her scissors and trimmed all the ringlets behind, bowl-dish fashion, as her own carrots had figured all the days of her childhood. Lucilla was held by Mrs. IStubbs during the operation. She did not cry or scream after she felt herself conquered by main strength, but her blue eyes gleained with a strange, wild light ; she would not speak to Miss Charlecote all the rest of the day, and Honora doubted whether she were ever foraiven. Another offence was the cutting down her name into Lucy. Honor had avoided Cilly from the first ; Silly Sandbrook would be too dreadful a sobriquet to be allowed to attach to any one, but Lucilla resented the change more deeply than she showed. Lucy was a housemaid's name, she said, and Honor reproved her for vanity, and called her so all the more. She did not love Miss Charlecote well enough to say that Cilly had been her father's name for her, and that he had loved to wind the flaxen curls round his finders. Every new study, every new injunction cost a wai'fare, dis- obedience, and passionate defiance and resistance on the one liand, and steady, good-tempered firmness on the other, gradu- ally growing a little stern. The waves became weary of beat- ing on the rock at last. The fiery child was growing into a girl, and the calm will had the mastery of her ; she succuuibed insensibly ; and owing all her pleasui-es to Cousin Honor, she grew to dej)end upon her, and mind, manners, and opinions were taking their mould from her. CHAPTER Y. Too soon tlie happy child His nook of beavenward thought must change Fur life's seducing wild. Christian Year. ^PHE summer sun peeped through the Venetian blinds greenly •1- shading the breakfast table. Only three sides were occupied. For more than two years 86 HOPES AND FEARS past good Miss Wells had been lying under tlie shade of Hi!- tonbnry Church, taking with her Honora Charlecote's last semblance of the dependence and deference of her young lady- hood. The kind governess had been fondly mourned, but she had not left her child to loneliness, for the brother and sister sat on either side, each with a particular pet — Lucilla's, a large pointer, who kept his nose on her knee, Owen's, a white fan-tailed pigeon, seldom long absent from his shoulder, where it sat quivering and bending backwai'ds its graceful head. Lucilla, now nearly fourteen, looked yonnger from the unusual smalliiess of her stature, and the exceeding delicacy of her features and complexion, and she would never have been imagined to be two years the senior of the handsome-faced, large-limbed young Saxon who had so far outstripped her in height ; and yet there was something in those deep blue eyes, that on a second glance proclaimed a keen intelligence as much above her age as her appearance was below it. * What's the matter T said she, rather suddenly. * Yes, sweetest Honey,' added the boy, ' you look bothered. Is that rascal not paying his rent V ' No 1' she said, ' it is a different matter entirely. What do you think of an invitation to Castle Blanch V ' For us all V asked Owen. ' Yes, all, to meet your uncle Christopher, the last week in August.' ' Why can't he come here V asked Lucilla. ' I believe we must go,' said Honora. ' You ought to know both your uncles, and they should be consulted before Owen goes to school.' ' I wonder if they will examine mc,' said Owen. ' How they will stare to lind Sweet Honey's teaching as good as all their preparatory schools.' ' Conceited boy.' ' I'm not conceited — only in my teacher. I^lr. Henderson said 1 should take as gootl a ])lace as Robert Fulmort did at Winchester, after four years in that humbugging place at Elver- fcilope.' ' We can't go !' cried Lucilla. ' It's the last wt^ek of Kobiu's holidays !' 'Well done, Lucy 1' and both Honor and Owen laughed hi'artily. 'It is nothing to me,' said she, tossing her head, ' only T thought Cousin Honor thought it good for him.' ' You may stay at home to do him good,' laughed Owen ; HOPES AND FEARS. 87 * I'm sure I don't want him. You are very welcome, such a bore as he is.' * Now, Owen.' ' Honey dear, I do take my solemn affidavit that I have tried my utmost to be friends with him,' said Owen ; ' but he is such a i'ellow — never has the least notion beyond Winchester routine — Latin and Greek, cricket and football' ' You'll soon be a schoolboy yourself,' said Lucilla. * Then I shan't make such an ass of myself,' returned Owen. ' Kobin is a very good boy, I believe,' said Honoi-. ' That's the worst of him !' cried Lucilla, running away and clapping the door after her as she went. ' Well, I don't know,' said Owen, very seriously, ' he says ha dofs not care about the Saints' days because he has no one to get him leave out.' ' I remember,' said Honor, with a sweet smile of tender memory, 'when to me the merit of Saints' days was that they were your father's holidays.' ' Yes, you'll send me to Westminster, and be always coming to Woolstone Lane,' said Owen. ' Your uncles must decide,' she said, half mournfully, half proudly ; ' you are getting to be a l)ig boy — past me, Oney.' It brought her a roughly playful cai-ess, and he added, ' You've got the best right, I'm sure.' ' I had thought of Winchester,' she said. ' Robert would be a friend.' Owen made a face, and caused her to laugh, while scandalizing her by humming, ' Not there, not thei*e, my child.' ' Well, be it whei-e it may, you had better look over your Virgil, while I go down to mv practical Geoi'gics with Brooks.' Owen obeyed. He was like a spirited horse in a leash of silk. Strong, fearless, and manly, he was still perfectly amenable to her, and had never shown any impatience of her rule. She had tanght him entirely herself, and both working together with a thni'ough good v^^ill, she had rendered him a better classical scholar, as all judges allowed, than most boys of the same age, and far superior to them in general cultivation ; and she should be proud to convince Captain Charteris tliat she had not made him the mollycoddle that was obviously anticipated. The other relatives, who had seen the children in their yearly visits to London, had always expressed unqualified satisfaction, though not advancing much in the good graces of Lucy and Owen. But Honor thought the public school ought to be left to the selection of the two uucles, though she wished to be answerable for the expense, both there and at the university. The provision 83 HOPES AND FEARS. iiilierited by her charges was very sleDclei-, for, contrary to all ex|)ectation, old Mr. Saudbrook's property had descended in another quarter, and there was barely 5000^. between the two. To preserve this nntouched by the expenses of education was Honora's object, and she hoped to be able to smooth their patli in life by occasional assistance, but on principle she was deter- mined to make them independent of her, and she had always made it known that she regarded it as her duty to Humfrey that her Hiltonbury property should be destiued — if not to the apocry])hal American Oharlecote — to a relation of their mutual great-grandmother. Cold invitations had been given and declined, but this one was evidently in earnest, and the consideration of the Captain decided Honora on accepting it, bi;t not without much mur- muring from Lucilla. Caroline and Horatia were detestable grown-up young ladies, her aunt was horrid, Castle Blanch was the slo\v<3st place in the world ; slie should be shut up in some abominable school-room to do fancy-work, and never to get a bit of fun. Even the being reminded of Wrapworth and its associations only made her more cross. She was of a nature to fly from thought or feeling — she was keen to perceive, but hated reflection, and from the very violence of her feelings, she unconsciously abhorred any awakening of them, and steeled herself by levity. Her distaste only gave way in Robert's presence, when she appeared highly gratified by the change, certain that Castle Blanch would be charming, and her cousin the Lifeguardsmau especially so. The more disconsolate she saw Robert, the higher rose her spirits, and his arrival to see the party oif sent her away in open tnum])h, glorifying her whole cousinhood without a civil word to him ; but when seated in the carriage she launched at him a drawing, the favourite work of her leisure hours, broke into unrestrained giggling at his grateful surprise, and ere the wood was past, was almost strangled with sobs. Castle Blanch was just beyond the suburbs of London, in complete country, but with an immense neighbourhood, and not half-an-hour by train from town. Honora drove all the way, to enjoy the lovely Thames scenery to the full. They passed through Wra])vvorth, and as they did so, Lucilla chattered to the utmost, while Honora stole her hand over Owen's and gently pressed it. He returned the squeeze with interest, and looked up in her face with a loving smile — mother and home were not wanting to him ! About two miles further on, and irot in the same parish, Logan the Castle Blanch demesne. The park sloped down to HOPES AND FEARS. 89 the Tliames, and was handsome, and quite full of timber, and the mansion, as the name imported, had been built in the height of pseudo-Gothic, with a foruiidable keep-looking tower at each corner, but the fortification below consisting of glass ; the sham cloister, likewise glass windows, for drawing-room, music-room, and conservatory ; and jutting out far in advance, a great embattled gateway, with a sham portcullis, and doors fit to defy an army. Three men-servants met the guests in the hall, and ISIrs. Charteiis received them in tlie drawing-room, with the woman- of-the-world tact that Honora particularly hated ; there was always such deference to Miss Charlecote, and such an assump- tion of ajfection for the children, and gratitude for her care of them, and Miss Charlecote had not been an heiress early enough in life for such attentions to seem mattei'S of course. It was explained that there was no school-room at present, and as a girl of Lucilla's age, who was already a guest, joined the rest of the party at dinner, it was proposed that she and her brother should do the same, provided Miss Charlecote did nut object. Honor was really glad of the gratification for Lucilla, and Mrs. Charteris agreed with her before she had time to express her opinion as to girls being kept back or brought forward. Honor found herself lodged in great state, in a world of looking-glass that had perfectly scared her poor little Hilton- bury maiden, and with a large dressing-room, where she hoped to have seen a bed for Lucilla, but she found that the little girl was quartered in another story, near the cousins ; and unwilling to imply distrust, and hating to incite obsequious compliance, she did not ask for any change, but only begged to see the room. It was in a long passage whence doors opened every way, and one being left ajar, sounds of laughter and talking were heard in tones as if the young ladies were above good breeding in their private moments. Mrs. Charteris said something about her daughter's morning room, and was leading the way thither, when an unguarded voice exclaimed — ' Rouge dragon and all,' and a start and suppressed laughter at the entrance of the new comers gave an air of having been caught. Four young ladies, in degaye attitudes, were lounging round their afternoon refection of tea. Two, Caroline and Horatia Charteris, shook hands with Miss Chariecote, and kissed Lucilla, who still looked at them ungraciously, followed Honora's example in refusing their offer of tea, and only waiting to learn Ler own habitation, cam£ down to her room to be dresaetd fur 90 HOPES AND FEARS. dinner, and to criticise cousins, aunt, house and all. The cousins wei-e not striking — both were on a small scale, Caroline the be^c looking in features and complexion, but Horatia the most vivacious and demonstrative, and with an air of dash and fashion th.it was more effective than beauty. Lucilla, not sensible to these advantages, broadly declared both young ladies to be frights, and commented so freely on them to tlie willing ears of Owen, who likewise came in to go down under Sweet Honey s protection, as to call for a reproof from Honora, one of whose chief labours ever was to destroy the little lady's faith in beauty, and complacency in her own. The latter sensation was strong in Honor herself, as she walked into the room between her beautiful pair, and contrasted Lucilla with her contemporary, a formed and finished young lady, all plaits, ribbons, and bracelets — not half so pleasing an oliject as the little maid in her white frock, blue sash, and short wavy hair, though maybe there was something quaint in such simplicity, to eyes trained by fashion instead of by good taste. Here was Captain Charteris, just what he had been when he went away. How different from his stately, dull, wite-ridden elder brother. So brisk, and blunt, and eager, quite lifting his niece off her feet, and almost crushing her in his embrace, telling her she was still but a hop-o'-my-thumb, and shaking hands with his nephew with a look of scrutiny that brought the blood to the boy's cheek. His eyes were never off the children while he was listening to Honora, and she perceived that what she said went for nothing ; he would form his judgment solely by what he observed for himself. At dinner, he was seated between Miss Charlecote and his niece, and Honora was pleased with him for his neglect of her and attention to his smaller neighbour, whose face soon s])arkled with merriment, while his increasing animation proved that the saucy little woman was as usual enchanting him. Much that was very entertaining was passing about tigei'-hunting, wlien at dessert, as he stretched out his arm to reach some water for her, she exclaimed, ' Why, Uncle Kit, you have brought away the marks ! no use to deny it, the tigers did bite you.' The palm of his hand certainly bore in purple, marks resem- bling those of a set of teeth ; and he looked meaningly at Honora, as he qiaietly replied, ' Sometliing rather like a tigress.' * Then it was a bite. Uncle Kit V * Yes,' in a put-an-end-to-it tone, which silenced Lucilla, her fcict being much more ready when concerned with the nobler sex. HOPES AND FEaRS. 91 In the drawing-room Mrs. Chartei'is's civilities kept Hoiiora occupied, while she saw Owen bursting with some request, and when at length he succeeded in claiming her attention, it was to tell her of his cousin's offer to take him out shooting, and his elder uncle's proviso that it must be with her permission. He had gone out with the careful gamekeeper at Hiltonbury, but this was a different matter, more trying to the nerves of those who stayed at home. However, Houora suspected that the uncle's opinion of her competence to be trusted with Owen would be much diminished by any betrayal of womanly terrors, and she made her only conditions that he should mind Uncle Kit, and not go in front of the guns, otherwise he would never bo taken out again, a menace which she judiciously thought more telling than that he would be shot. By and by Mr. Charteris came to discuss subjects so interesting to her as a farmer, that it was past nine o'clock before she looked round for her children. Healthy as Lucilla was, her frame was so slight and unsubstantial, and her spirits so excitable, that overfatigue or irregularity always told upon her strength and temper ; for which reason Honor had issued a decree that she should go to bed at nine, and spend two hours of every morning in quiet employment, as a countei'balance to the excitement of the visit. Looking about to give the siimmons, Honor found that Owen had disappeared. Unnoticed, and wearied by the agricultural dialogue, he had hailed nine o'clock as the moment of release, and crept off with unobtrusive obedience, which Honor doubly jirized when she beheld his sister full of eagerness, among cousins and gentlemen, at the racing game. Strongly impelled to end it at once, Honor waited, however, till the little white horseman had reached the goal, and just as challenges to a fresh race were beginning, she came forward with her needful summons. ' Oh, Miss Charlecote, how cruel !' was the universal cry. ' We can't spare all the life of our game !' said Charles Charteris, ' I solemnly declare we weren't betting,' cried Horatia. ' Come, the first evening — ' ' No,' said Honor, smiling. ' I can't have her lying awake to be good for nothing to-morrow, as she will do if you enter- tain her too much.' ' Another night then, you promise,' said Charles. ' I promise nothing but to do my best to keep her fit to enjoy herself. Come, Lucy.' The habit of obedience was fixed, but not the habit of con- qtiering annoyance, and Lucilla went off" doggedly, Honora 92 HOPES AND FEARS. would liave accompanied her to sootlie away her trouLles, but her cousin Ratia ran after her, and Cajitain Charteris stood in the way, disposed to talk. ' Discipline,' he said, approvingly. ' Harsh discipline, I fear, it seemed to her, poor child,' said Honor ; ' but she is so excitable that I must try to keep her as quiet as possible.' 'Right,' said the Captain ; 'I like to see a child a child stiih You Hiust have had some tussles with that little spirit.' ' A few,' she said, smiling. ' She is a very good girl now, but it has been rather a contrast with her brother.' ' Ha !' quoth the Captain ; and mindful of the milk-sop charge, Houora eagerly continued, ' You will soou see wliat a spirit he has ! He rides very well, and is quite fearless. I have always wished him to be with other boys, and there are some very nice ones near us — they think him a capital cricketer, and yon should see him run and vault.' * He is an active-looking chap,' his uncle granted. * Every one tells me he is quite able to make his way at school ; I am only anxious to know which public school you and your l)rother would prefer.' ' How old is he f ' Only twelve last month, though you would take hiui for fifteen.' 'Twelve; then there would be just time to send him to Portsmouth, get liim prepared for a naval cadetsliiji, tlien. when I go out with Sir David Horfield, I could take him under my own eye, and make a man of him at once.' ' Oh ! Captain Charteris,' cried Honora, aghast, ' his whole bent is towards his father's profession.' The Captain had very nearly whistled, unable to conceivo any lad of spirit preferring study. * Whatever Miss Charlecote'swishesmay be, Kit,' interposed the dii)lomatic elder brothei', 'we only desire to be guided by them. ' Oil no, indeed,' cried Honor ; ' I would not think of such a responsibility, it can lielong only to his nearer connexions ;' then, feeling as if this were casting him oil to be pressed by the sailor the next instant, she added, in haste — ' Only I hojjed it was understood — if you will let me — the expenses of his education need not be considered. And if he luight be with me in the liolidays,' slie proceeded imploringly. ' When Cap- tain Charteris has seen more of him, I am sure he will think it a pity that his talents ......' and there she stopped, shocked at finding herself insulting the navy. * If a boy have no turn that way, it cannot be forced on him,' said the Captain, moodily. i HOPES AND FEARS. 93 Honora pitied his disappointment, wondering whether he ascribed it to her influence, and Mr. Charteris blandly ex- pressed great obligation and nioi-e complete resignation of the boy than she desired ; disclaimers ran into mere civilities, and she was thankful to the Captain for saying, shortly, 'Well leave it till we have seen more of the boy.' Breakfast was very late at Castle Blanch ; and Honora ex- pected a tranquil hour in her dressing-room with her children, but Owen alone appeared, anxious for the shooting, but already wearying to be at home with his own pleasures, and indignant with everything, especially the absence of family prayers. The breakfist was long and desultory, and in t'le midst Lucilla made her appearance with Horatia, who was laughing and saving, ' I fownd this child wandering about the park, and the little pussy-cat wont tell where she has been.' ' Poaching, of course,' res{)onded Charles ; ' it is w-hat pussy- cats always do till they get shot by the keepers.' Et ccetera, et crctera, el ccetera. Lucilla was among all the young people, in the full tide of fun, nonsense, banter, and re- partee of a style new to her, but in which she was formed to excel, and there was snch a black look when Honor summoned her after the meal, as impressed the awkwardness of enforcing authority among nearer relations ; but it was in vain, she was carried off to the dressing room, and reminded of the bargain for two hours' occujjation. She murmured something about Owen going out as he liked. ' He came to me before breakfast ; besides, he is a boy. What made you go out in that strange manner V There was no answer, but Honor had learnt by experience that to insist was apt to end in obtaining nothing but a collision of wills, and she merely put out the Prayer Books for the morn- ing's reading of the Psalms. By the time it was over, Lucilla's ?.x '..f temper had past, and she leant back in her chair. ' \Miat ^re you listening to, Lucy f said Honor, seeing her tixed eye. ' The river,' said Lucilla, pausing with a satisfied look to attend to the deep, regular rush. 'I couldn't think before what it was that always seemed to be wanting, and now I know. It came to me when I went to bed ; it was so nice !' 'The river voice! Yes; it must be one of your oldest friends,' said Honora, gratified at the softening. ' So that carried yon out.' ' I couldn't help it ! I went home,' said Lucilla. ' Home '? To Wrapw^orlh 1 All alone V cried Honor, kindly, but aghast. ' 1 couldn't help it,' again said the girl. ' The river noise y\! HOPES AXD FEARS, was so like every thing — and I knew tlie way — and I fult as if I must go befo)'e any one was up.' ' So you really went, and wliat did you do V ' I got over the jialings our own old way, and there's my throne still in the back of the laurels, and I popped in on old Madge, and oh ! she was so surprised! And then I came on Mr. Prendergast, and he walked all the way Lack with me, till he Siiw llatia coming, and then he would not go on any farther.' ' Well, my dear, 1 can"t blame you this time. I am hoping myself to go to Wrapworth with you and Owen.' ' Ratia is going to take me out riding and in the boat,' said Lucy, without a direct answer. ' You like your cousins better than you expected?' * Eashe is famous,' was the answei-, * and so is Uncle Kit.' *My dear, you noticed the mark on his hand/ said Honora ; ' you do not know the cause V ' No ! Was ic a shark or a mad dog V eagerly asked the child, slightly alarmed by her manner. ' Neither. But do not you remember his carrying yoi; into Woolstone Lane 1 I always believed you did not know wliat your little teeth were doing.' It was not received as Honora expected. Probably the scenes of the girl's infancy had brought back associations m(>'e strongly than she was prepared for — she turned white, gasped, and vindictively said, ' I'm glad of it.' Honora, shocked, had not discovered a reply, when Lucilla, somewhat confused at the sound of her own woi-ds, sai'l, ' I know — not quite that — he meant the best — Vjut, Cousin Huncr, it was cruel, it wus wicked, to part my father and me ! Father — oh, the river is going on still, but not my father !' Tlie excitable girl burst into a flood of passionate tears, as though the death of her father were more present to her than ever before ; and she had never truly missed him till she was brought in contact with her old home. The fatigue and change, the talking evening and restless night, had produced their eftVct ; her very thoughtlessness and ordinary insouciance rendered the rush more overwhelming when it did come, and the weeping was almost hysterical. It was not a propitious circumstance that Caroline knocked at the door with some message as to the afternoon's arrange- ments. Honor answered at haj)hazard, standing so as to inter- cept tlic view, but aware that the long drawn sobs would be set down to the account of lier own tyranny, and nevertheless resolving the more on enforcing the quiescence, the need of which was so evident ; but the creature was volatile as well n.s sensitive, and by the time the door was shut, stood with heaving HOPES AND FEARS. 95 bi'east andundried tears, eagerly demanding whetlier her consius wanted lier. ' Not at all,' said Honora, somewhat annoyed at the snddeu transition ; *it was only to ask if I wonld ride.' ' Charles was to bring the pony for me ; I must go,' cried Lucy, with an eye like that of a greyhound in the leash. ' Not yet,' said Honor. * JMy dear, you promised.' 'I'll never promise anything again,' was the pettish murmur. Poor child, these two morning hours were to her a terrible penance, day after day. Practically, she might have foiind them heavy had they been left to her own disposal, but it was expecting overmuch from human nature to hope that she would believe so without experience, and her lessons were a daily irri- tation, an apparent act of tyranny, hardening her feelings against the exactor, at the same time that the influence of kindred blood drew her closer to her own family, with a revul- sion the stronger fi'om her own former exaggerated dislike. The nursery at Castle Blanch, and the cousins who domi- neered over her as a plaything, had been intoleralde to the little important companion of a grown man, but it was far otherwise to emerge from the calm seclusion and sober restraints of the Holt into the gaieties of a large paity, to be promoted to young ladyhood, and treated on equal terms, save for extra petting and attention. Instead of Robert Fulmort alone, all the gentlemen in the house gave her flattering notice — eye, ear, and helping hand at her disposal, and blunt Uncle Kit himself was ten times moi-e civil to her than to either of her cousins. ^Yhat was the use of trying to disguise from her the witchery of her piquant prettiness 1 Her cousin Horatia had always had a great passion for her as a beautiful little toy, and her affection, once so trying to its object, had taken the far more agreeable form of promoting her pleasures and sympathizing with her vexations. Patronage from two-and-twenty to fourteen, from a daugliter of the house to a guest, was too natural to otlend, and Lucillareqviited it with vehement attachment, running after her at every moment, con- fiding all her grievances, and being made sensible of many more. Ratia, always devising delights for her, took her on the river, rode with her, set her dancing, opened the world to her, and enjoyed her pleasures, amused by her precocious vivacity, foster- ing her sauciness, extolling the wit of her audacious speeches, and exti-emely resenting all poor Honora's attempts to counteract this terrible spoiling, or to put a check upon undesi- rable diversions and absolute pertness. Every conscieutiou.^ interference on her part was regarded as duenna-like harshness, and her restrictic«i§ as a grievous yoke, and Lucilla made no 96 HOPES AND FEARS, secret that it was so, treating lier to almost unvaried ill-humour ar d murmurs. Little did Lucilla know, nor even Horatia, how much of the charms tliat produced so much effect were due to these very restraints, nor how the droll sauciness and womanly airs were enhanced by the simplicity of appeai^ance, which embellished her far more than the most fashionable air set off her C"ra- panions. Once Lucilla had overheard her atnit thus excusing her short locks and simple dress — ' It is Miss Charlecote's doing. Of coi;rse, when so much depends on her, we must give way. Excellent person, rather peculiar, but we are under gi'cat obligations to her. Very good property.' No wonder that sojourn at Castle Blanch was one of the most ii'ksome periods of Honora's life, disappointing, fretting, and tedious. There was a grievous dearth of books and of reasonable conversation, and both she and Owen were exceed- ingly at a loss for occtipation, and iised to sit in the boat on the river, and heartily wish themselves at home. He had no com- panion of his own age, and was just too young and too enter- prising to be welcome to gentlemen bent more on amusing themselves than pleasing him. He was roughly adnionished when he spoilt sjwrt or ran into danger; Iiis cousin Charles was fitfully goodnatured, but generally showed that he was in the way; his uncle Kit was more brief and stern with him than ' Sweet Honey's' pupil could endure ; and Honor was his only refuge. His dreariness was only com])lete when the sedulous civilities of his aunt carried her beyond his reach. She could not attain a visit to Wrapworth till the Sunday. The carriage went in state to the parish church in the mm-ning, and the music and preaching furnished subjects for persiJicKje at luncheon, to her great discomfort, and the horror of Owen ; and she thought she might venture to Wrapworth in the afternoon. She had a longing fin- Owen's church, ' for auld laiig syne' — no more. Even his bark church in the backwoods could not have rivalled Hiltonbury and the brass. Owen, true to his allegiance, joined her in good tinu', but reported that liis sister was gone on with Eatia. Whereas Katia wouhl ])roIiably otherwise not have gone to church at all. Honor was deprived of all satisfaction in lier annoyance, and the compensation of a tete-a-lcte with Owen over his father's memory was lost by the vmwelconie addition of Ca])tain C'liar- teris. The loss signified the less as Owen's reminiscences were never allowed to languish for want of Ix-ing dug up and revived, bnt she could not quite pardon the sailor for the commonplace flir his presence cast over the walk. HOPES AND FEARS. 97 Tlie days were gone by when ]\Ir. Saridbrook's pulpic e\oq\ience had rendered Wrapworth Church a Sunday show to Castle Blanch. His successor was a cathedral dignitary, so con- stantlv absent that the former curate, who had been continued on at Wrapworth, was, in the eyes of every one, the veritable master. Poor Mr. Prendei-gast — whatever were his qualifica- tions as a preacher — had always been regarded as a disajipoint- luant ; people had felt themselves defrauded when the sermon fell to his share instead of that of jNIr. Sandbrook, and odious comparison had so much established the opinion of his defi- ciencies, that Honora was not surprised to see a large-limbed and rather quaint-looking man appear in the desk, but the service was gone through with striking reverence, and the sermon was excellent, though homely and veiy plain-spoken. The church had been cruelly mauled by churchwardens of the last century, and a few Gothic decorations, intended for the beginning of restoration, only made it the more incongruous. The east window, of stained glass, of a qviality left far behind by the advances of the last twenty years, bore an inscription showing that it was a memorial, and there was a really hand- some font. Honor could trace the late rector's predilections in a manner that carried her back twenty years, and showed h(!r, almost to her amusement, how her own notions and sympathies had been carried onwardswith the currentof the world around her. On coming out, she found that there might have been more kindness in Captain Charteris than she had suspected, for he kept Horatia near him, and waited for the curate, so as to leave her at liberty and unobserved. Her first object was that Owen should see his mother's grave. It was beside the parsonage path, a flat stone, fenced by a low iron border, enclosing likewise a small flower-bed, weedy, ruinous, and forlorn. A floriated cross, filled up with green lichen, was engraven above the name, Lucilla Horatia beloved wife of the Reverend Owen Sandbrook Kector of this parish and only daughter of Lieutenant-General Sir Christopher Charteris She died November the iSth 1837 Aged 29 years. Mary Caroline her daughter Born November Tith 1837 Died April 14th 1838 I shall go to them, but they shall not return i^ me. n 98 HOPES AND FEAKS. How likft it was to poor Owen ! that necessity of expression, and the visible presage of weakening health so surely fulfilled ! And his Lncilla ! It was a melancholy work to have brought home a missionary, and secularized a parish prinst ! ' Not a generous rejection,' thought Honora, ' at a rival's grave,' and she turned to the boy, who had stoojjed to jjull at some of the bits of groundsel. ' Shall we come here in the early morning, and set it to riglits V ' I forgot it was Sunday,' said Owen, hastily throwing down the weed he had plucked up. ' You were doing no harm, my dear ; but we will not leave it in this state. Will you come with us, Lucy V Lucilla had escaped, and was standing aloof at the end of tlie path, and when her brother went towards her, she turned away. ' Come, Lucy,' he entreated, ' come into the garden with us. We want you to tell us the old places.' ' I'm not coming,' was all her answer, and she ran back to the partv who stood by the church door, and began to chatter to Mr. Prendergast, over whom she had domineered even before she could speak plain. A silent, shy man, wrapped up in his duties, he was mortally afraid of the Castle Blanch young ladies, and stood ill at ease, talked down by Miss Horatia Cliarteris, but his eye lighted into a smile as the fairy plaything of past years danced up to him, and began her merry chatter, asking after every one in the parish, and showing a perfect memory of names and faces such as amazed him, in a child so young as she had been at the time when she had left the parish. Honora and Owen meantime were retracing recollections in the rectory garden, eking out the boy's four years old memories with imaginations and moralizings, pondering over the border whence Owen declared he had gathered snowdrops for his mothei-'s coffin; and the noble plane tree by the water-side, sacred to the memory of Bible stories told by his father in the summer evenings — 'That tree! !' laughed Lucilla, when he told her that night as they walked upstairs to bed. ' Nobody could sit there because of the mosquitoes. And I should like to see the snow- drops you found in November V ' I know there were some white flowers. Were they lilies ot the valley for little IMary V ' It will do just as well,' said Lucilla. She knew that she could bring either scene before her mind with vivid distinctness, but shrinking from the pain almost with horror, she only said, ' It's a pity you aren't a Roman Catholic, Owen ; ycu would HOPES AND FKARS. 99 Ronn find a hole in a rock, and say it was where a saint, with his head under his arm, had made a footmark.' ' You are very irreverent, Lucy, and very cross besides. If you would not come and tell us, what could we do V ' Let it alone.' ' If you don't care for dear papa and mamma, I do,' snid Owen, the tears coming into his eyes. 'I'm not going to rake it up to please Honora,' returned his sister. ' If you like to go and poke with her over places where things never happened, you may, but she shan't meddle with my real things.' ' You are very unkind,' was the next accusation from Owen, much grieved and distressed, ' when she is so good and dear, and was so fond of our dear father.' ' I know,' said Lucilla, in a tone he did not understand ; then, with an air of eldership, ill-assorting witli their respective sizes, * You are a mere child. It is all very well for you, and you are very welcome to your Sweet Honey.' Owen insisted on hearing her meaning, and on her refusal to explain, used his superior strength to put her to sufficient torture to elicit an answer. Don't, Owen ! Let go ! There, then ! Why, she was in love with our father, and nearly died of it when he married ; and Eashe says of course she bullies me for being like my mother.' 'She never bullies you,' cried Owen, indignantly; 'she's much kinder to you than you deserve, and I hate Eatia for putting it into your head, and teaching you such nasty man's words about my own Honor.' 'Ah ! you'll never be a man while you are under her. She only wants to keep us a couple of babies for ever — sending us to bed, and making such a figure of me ;' and Lucy relieved her feelings by five perpendicular leaps into the air, like an Indian- rubber ball, her hair flying out, and her eyes flashing. Owen was not much astonished, for Lucy's furies often worked off" in this fashion ; but he was very angry on Honor's account, loving her thoroughly, and perceiving no offence in her affection for his father ; and the conversation assumed a highly quarrelsome character. It was much to the credit of masculine discretion that he refrained from reporting it when he joined Honora in the morning's walk to Wrajjworth church- yard. Behold ! some one was beforehand with them — even Lucilla and the curate ! The wearisome visit was drawing to a close when Captain Charteris began — 'Well, Miss Charlecote* have you thought over my proposal V u2 lOO HOPES AND FEARS. ' To take Owen to sea t Indeed, I Loped you were conviuced that it would never auswer.' ' So far from being so, that I see it is his best chance. He will do no good till the priggishness is knocked out of him.' Honor would not trust herself to answer. Any accusation bvit this might have been boi'ne. ' Well, well,' said the Captain, in a tone still more provoking, it was so like hushiug a petulant child, ' we know how kind you were, and that you meant everything good ; but it is not in the nature of things that a lad alone with women should not be cock of the walk, and nothing cures that like a month on board.' ' He will go to school,' said Honor, convinced all this was prej udice. ' Ay, and come home in the holidays, lording it as if he were master and moi"e, like the son and heir.' * Indeed, Captain Charteris, you are quite mistaken ; I have never allowed Owen to think himself in that position. He knows perfectly well that there are nearer claims upon me, and that Hiltonbury can never belong to him. I have always rejoiced that it should be so. I should not like to have the least suspicion that there could be self-interest in his affection for me in the time to come ; and I think it presumptuous to interfere with the course of Providence in the matter of inhe- ritances.' ' My good Miss Charlecote,' said the Captain, who had looked at her with somewhat of a pitying smile, instead of attending to her last words, ' do you imagine that you know that boy V ' I do not know who else shoidd,' she answered, quivering between a disposition to tears at the harshness, and to laughter at the assumption of the stranger uncle to see farther than her- self into her darling. ' Ha V quoth the sailor, 'slippery — slippery fellows.' ' I do not understand you. You do not mean to imply that I have not his ])erfect confidence, or do you think I have managed him wrongly 1 If you do, pray tell me at once. I dare say I have.' ' I couldn't say so,' said Captain Charteris. * Yoii are an excellent good woman, Miss Chailecote, and the best friend tlie poor things have had in the world ; and you have taught them more good than I could, I'm sure ; but I never yet saw a woman who could be up to a boy, any more than she could sail a ship.' ' Veiy likely not,' said Honor, with a lame attempt at a good-humoured laugh ; ' but I should be very glau to know HOPES AND FEARS. 101 ■vrlieiher you are speaking from general experience of woman and boy, or from individual observation of the case in point.' The Captain made a very odd, incomprehensible little bow ; and after a moment's thought, said, ' Plainly speaking, then, I don't think you do get to the bottom of that lad ; but there's no telling, and I never had any turn for those smooth chaps. If a fellow begins by being over-precise in what is of no con- sequence, ten to one but he ends by being reckless in all the rest.' This last speech entirely reassured Honor, by proving to her that the Captain was entirely actuated by prejudice against his nephew's gentle and coiirteous manners and her own religious views. He did not believe in the possibility of the success of such an education, and therefox*e was of course insensible to Owen's manifold excellences. Thenceforth she indignantly avoided the subject, and made no attempt to discover whether the Captain's eye, practised in midshipmen, had made any positive observations on which to found his dissatisfaction. Wounded by his want of gratitude, and still more hurt by his unkind judgment of her beloved pupil, she transferred her consultations to the more deferential uncle, who was entirely contented with his nephew, transported with admiration of her management, and ready to make her a present of him with all his heart. So readily did he accede to all that she said of schools, that the choice was virtually left to her. Eton was rejected as a fitter preparation for the squii-e- ax'chy than the ministry ; Winchester on account of the distaste between Owen and young Fulmort ; and her decision was fixed in favour of Westminster, partly for his father's sake, partly on account of the proximity of St. Wulstan's — such an infinite advantage, as Mr. Charteris observed. The sailor declared that he knew nothing of schools, and would take no jiart in the discussion. There had, in truth, been high words between the brothers, each accusing the other of going the way to ruin their nephew, ending by the Captain's exclaiming, ' Well, I wash my hands of it ! I can't flatter a foolish woman into spoiling poor Lucilla's son. If I am not to do what I think right by him, I shall get out of sight of it all.' ' His prospects, Kit ; how often I have told you it is our duty to consider his prospects.' ' Hang his prospects ! A handsome heiress under forty ! How can tou be such an ass, Charles 1 He ouijht to be able to make an independent fortune befoi-e he could stand in her shoes, if he were ever to do so, which she declax'es he never will. Yes, you may look knowing if you will, but she is no such fool in some things ; and depend upon it she will make a 102 HOPES AND FEARS, principle of leaving her property in the right channel ; and bo that as it may, I warn you tliat you can't do this lad a worse mischief than by putting any such notion into his head, if it be not there ah-eady. There's not a more deplorable condition in the world tban to be always dangling after an estate, never knowing if it be to be your own or not, and most likely to be disappointed at last; and, to do Miss Charlecote justice, she is j)erfectly aware of that ; and it will not be her fault if he have any false expectations ! So, if you feed him with them, it ■will all be your fault ; and that's the last I mean to say about him.' Captain Charteris was not aware of a colloquy in which Oweu had a share. ' This lucky fellow,' said the young Lifeguardsman, 'he is as good as an eldest son — famous shooting county — capital, well- timbered estate.' * No, Charles,' said Owen, 'my cousin Honor always says I am nothing like an eldest son, for there are nearer relations.' 'Oh lia !' said Charles, with a wink of superior wisdom, 'we understand that. She knows how to keep you on your good behaviour. Why, but for cutting you out, I would even make up to her myself — fine-looking, comely woman, and well pre- served — and only the women quari'el with that s[)lendid liair. Never mind, my boy, I don't mean it. I wouldn't stand in your light.' ' As if Honor would have you /' cried Owen, in fierce scorn. Charles Charteris and his companions, with loud laugliter, insisted on the reasons. 'Because,' cried the boy, with flashing looks, 'she wouhl ni>t be I'idiculous ; and you are — ' He paused, but they held hiui fast, and insisted on hearing what Charles was. 'Not a good Churchman,' he finally pronounced. 'Yes, you may laugh at me, but Honor shan't be laughed at.' Possibly Owen's views at j)resent were that ' not to be a good Churchman' was synonymous with all imaginable evil, and that he had put it in a delicate manner. Whether he heard tin; last of it for the rest of his visit may be imagined. And, poor boy, though he was strong and spirited enough with his own contem- ])orarics, there was no dealing with the full-fledged soldier. Nor, when conversation turned to what ' we' did at Ililtonbury, was it possible always to disclaim standing in the same relation to the Holt as did Charles to Castle Blanch ; nay, a certain importanci^ seemed to attach to such an assumption of dignity, (if which Owen was not loth to avail himself in his diaregarded condition. PART 11. CHAPTER T. "We hold our greyhound in our hand, Our falcon on our glove ; But where shall we find leash or band For dame that loves to rove ? Scott. A JUNE evening shed a slanting light over the greensward of Hiltonbury Holt, and made the western windows glisten like diamonds, as Honora Charlecote slowly walked homewards to her solitary evening meal, alone, except for the nearly blind old pointer who laid his grizzled muzzle upon her knees, gazing wistfully into her face, as seating herself upon the step of the sun-dial, she fondled liis smooth, depressed black head. ' Poor Ponto !' she said, ' we are grown old together. Our young ones are all gone !' Grown old 1 Less old in proportion than Ponto — still in full vigour of mind and l)ody, but old in disenchantment, and not without the traces of her forty-seven years. The auburn hair was still in rich masses of curl ; only on close inspection were silver threads to be detected ; the cheek was paler, the brow worn, and the gravely handsome dress was chosen to suit the representative of the Charlecotes, not with regard to linger- ing youthfulness. The slow movement, subdued tone, and downcast eye, had an air of habitual dejection and patience, as though disappointment had gone deeper, or solitude were telling more on the spirits, than any past blow had done. She saw the preparations for her tea going on within the window, but ere going indoors, she took out and re-read two letters. The first was in the irregular decided characters affected by young ladies in the reaction from their grandmothers' pointed illegibilities, and bore a scroll at the top, with the word ' Oiliy,' iu old English letters of bright blue. lOi HOPES AND FEARS. ' Lowndes Square, June r4tli. * My DEA.R Honor, — Many tlianks for wishing for your will-o'-th'-wisp again, but it is going to dance off in another direction. Rashe and I are bound to the west of Ireland, as soon as Charles's inauguration is over at Castle Blanch ; an odd jumble of festivities it is to be, but Lolly is just cockney enough to be detei'minedly rural, and there's sure to be some fun to be got out of it ; besides, I am pacified by having my special darling, Edna Murrell, the lovely schoolmistress at Wrapworth, to sing to them. How Mr. Calthorpe will admire her, as long as he thinks she is Italian ! It will be hard if I can't get a rise out of some of them ! This being the case, I have not a moment for coming home ; but I send some contri- butions for the prize-giving, some stunning articles from the Lowther Arcade. The gutta-percha face is for Billy Harrison, whether in disgrace or not. He deserves compensation for his many weary hours of Sunday School, and it may suggest a new art for beguiling the time. Mind you tell him it is from me, with my love ; and bestow the rest on all the chief reprobates. I wish I could see them ; but you have no loss, you know how unedifying I am. Kiss Ponto for me, and ask Eobiu for his commands to Connautcht. I know his sulkiness will trans- pire through Phoebe. Love to that dear little Cinderella, and tell her mamma and Juliana, that if she does not come out this winter, Mrs. Fulmort sliall have no peace and Juliana no partners. Please to look in my room for my great nailed boots and hedging-gloves, also for the }>ig's wool in the left- hand drawer of the cabinet, and send tliem to me before the end of next week. Owen would give his ears to come with us, but gentlemen would only obstruct Irish chivalry ; I am only afraid there is no hope of a faction fight. Mr. Savillo called yesterday, so I made him dine here, and sung him into raptures. What a dear old Don he is ! ' Your affectionate cousin, Cilly ' The second letter stood thus : — 'Farrance's Hotel, June 14th. 'My dear Miss Charlecotk, — I have seen Lawrence on your business, and he will prepare the leases for your signa- ture. He suggests that it might be more satisfactory to wait, in case you should bo coming to town, so that you might have a personal meeting Avith the parties ; but this will be for you to determine. 1 came up from College on Wednesday, having much enjoyed my visit. Oxford is in many respects a HOPES AND FEARS. 105 clianged place, but as long as our old Head remains to us, I am sure of a gratifying welcome, and I saw many old friends. I exchanged cards with Owen Sandbrook, but only saw him as we met in the street, and a very fine-looking youth he is, a perfect Hercules, and the champion of his college in all feats of strength ; likely, too, to stand well in the class list. His costume was not what we should once have considered acade- mical ; but his is a daring set, intellectual as well as bodily, and the clever young men of the present day are not what they were in my time. It is gratifying to hear how warmly and affectionately he talks of you. I do not know how tar you have undertaken the supplies, but I give you a hint that a warning on that subject might not be inappi-opriate, unless they have come into some great accession of fortune on their uncle's death. I ventured to call upon the young lady in Lowndes Square, and was most graciously received, and asked to dinner by the young Mrs. Charteris. It was a most recherche dinner in the new Italian fashion, which does not quite approve itself to me. " Kegardless of exjjense," seems to be the family motto. Your pupil sings better than ever, and knew how to keep her hold of my heart, though I suspected her of patron- izing the old parson to pique her more brilliant admirers, whom she possesses in plenty ; and no wonder, for she is pretty enough to turn any man's head ; and shows to great advantage beside her cousin, Miss Charteris. I hope yovi will be able to prevent the cousins from really imdertaking the wild plan of travelling alone in Ireland, for the sake, they say, of salmon- fishing, I should have thought them not in earnest, but girls are as much altered as boys from the days of my experience, and brothers, too ; for Mr. Charteris seemed to view the scheme veiy coolly ; but, as I told my friend Lucilla, I hope you will bring her to reason. I hope your hay-crop promises favour- ably. * Yours sincerely, W. Saville.' No wonder that these letters made loneliness more lonely ! ' Oh, that Horatia I' exclaimed she, almost aloud. ' Oh, that Captain Charteris were available ! No one else ever had any real power with Lucy ! It was an unlucky day when he saw that colonial young lady, and settled down in Vancouver's Island I And yet how I used to wish him away, with the surly independence he was always infusing into Owen. Want- ing to take him out there, indeed 1 And yet, and yet — I sometimes doubt whether I did right to set my personal inflti- ence over my dear affectionate boy so much in opposition to his lOG HOPES AND FEARS. uncle — Mr. Chartei'is was on my side, though ! And I always took care to have it clearly understood that it was his educa- tion alone that I undertook. What can Mr. Saville mean 1 — The supplies 1 Owen knows what he has to trust to, but I can talk to him. A daring set? — Yes, everything appears daring to an old-world man like Mr, Saville. I am sure of my Owen ; with our happy home Sundays. I know I am his Sweet Honey still. And yet' — then hastily turning from that dubious 'and yet' — 'Owen is the only chance for his sister. She does care for him ; and he will view tliis mad scheme in the right light. Shall I meet him at the beginning of the vacation, and see what he can do with Lucy? Mr. Saville thinks I ought to be in London, and I think I might be useful to the Parsonses. I siijipose I must ; but it is a heart-ache to be at St. Wulstan's. One is used to it here ; and there are the poor people, and tlie farm, and the garden — yes, and those dear nightingales — and you, poor Ponto ! One is used to it here, but St. Wulstan's is a fi-esh pain, and so is coming back. But, if it be in the way of right, and to save poor Lucy, it must be, and it is what life is made of. It is a * following of the funeral ' of the hopes that sprang up after my spring time. Is it my chastisement, or is it my training? Alas! maybe I took those children more for 7)tyself' ih-dn for duty's sake ! May it all be for their true gnod in the end, whatever it may be with me. And now I vAll not dream. It is of no use save to unr)erve me. Let mo go to my book. It must be a story to-night. I cannot fix my attention yet.' As she rose, however, her face brightened at the sight of two advancing figures, and she went forward to meet them. One was a long, loosely-limbed youth of two-and-twenty, with broad shoulders, a heavy overhanging brow, dark grey serious eyes, and a mouth scarcely curved, and so fast shut as to disclose hardly any lip. The hair was dark and lank ; the air was of ungainly force, that had not yet found its purpose, and therefore was not at ease ; and, but for the educated cast of countenance he would have had a peasant look, in the brown, homely undress garb, which to most youths of his age would have been becoming. With him was a girl, tall, slim, and lightly made, though of nicely rounded figure. Li heightshelooked like seventeen, but her dress was more childish than usual at that age ; and the contour of her smooth cheeks and short rounded chin, her long neck, lu i" liap])y blue eyes, fully opened like those of a child ; her fair rotiy skin and fresh simple air, might almost have belonged to seven vears old : and there waa all the earnestness, inuoceuce, and HOPES AND FEARS. 107 careless ease of childhood in her movements and gestures, as she sprang forward to meet Miss Charlecote, exclaiming, ' Robiu Kaid I might come.' 'And very right of him. You are both come to tea V she added, in affirmative interi'ogatiou, as she shook hands with the young man. 'No, thank you,' he answered; 'at least T only brought Phoebe, having rescued her from Miss Feniiimore's clutches. I must be at dinner. But I will come again for her.' And he yawned wearily. ' I will diive her back ; you are tired.' * No !' he said. ' At least the walk is one of the few tolei-able things there is. I'll come as soon as I can escape, Phoebe. Past seven — I must go !' ' Can't you stay 1 I could find some food for you.' ' No, thank you;' he still said ; ' I do not know whether Mervyn will come home, and there must not be too many empty chairs. GoodV)ye !' and he walked off with long strides, but with stooping shoulders, and an air of dejection almost amounting to discontent. * Poor Eobin !' said Honora, ' I wish he could have stayed.' ' He would have liked it very much,' said Phoebe casting wistful glances toward him. ' What a pity he did not give notice of his intentions at home.' ' He never will. He particularly dislikes * ' What T as Phoebe paused and coloured. ' Saying anything to anybody,' she answered with a little smile. ' He cannot endure remarks.' ' 1 am a very sober old body for a visit to me to be the occasion of remarks !' said Honor, laughing more merrily than perhaps Robert himself could have done ; but Phoebe answered with grave, straightforward sincerity, ' Yes, but he did not know if Lvicy might not be come home.' Honora sighed, but playfully said, ' In which case he would have stayed ]' ' No,' said the still grave girl, ' he would have been still less likely to do so.' 'Ah ! the remarks would have been more pointed ! But he has brought you at any rate, and that is something 1 How did he achieve it V ' Miss Fennimore is really quite ready to be kind,' said Phoebe, earnestly, with an air of defence, ' whenever we have finished all that we have to do.' 'And when is thatf asked Honor, smiling. 103 HOPES AND FEARS. * Now for once,' answered Phoebe, with a bright arch look. • Yes, I sometimes can ; and so does Bertha when she tries ; and, indeed, Miss Charlecote, I do like Miss Fennimore ; she never is hard upon poor Maria. No governess we ever had made her cry so seldom.' Miss Charlecote only said it was a comfort. Within herself she hoped that, for IMaria's peace and that of all concerned, her deficiency might become an acknowledged fact. She saw tliat the sparing Maria's tears was such a boon to Phoebe as to make her forgive all overtaskins: of herself. ' So you get on better,' she said. ' Much better than Robin chooses to believe we do,' said Phoebe, smiling ; ' perhaps it seemed hard at first, bu.t it is comfortable to be made to do everything thoroughly, and to be shown a better best than we had ever tlionght of. I think it ought to be a help in doing the duty of all one's life in a thorough way.' ' All that thou hast to do,' said Honor, smiling, * the weekday side of the fourth commandment.' ' Yes, that is just the reason why I like ifc,' said Phoebe, with bright gladness in her countenance. ' But is that the motive Miss Fennimore puts before you V said Honor, a little ironically. * She does not say so,' answered Phoebe. ' She says that she never interferes with her jmpils' I'eligious tenets. But, indeed, I do not think she teaches us anything wrong, and there is always Robert to ask.' This passed as the two ladies were entering the house and preparing for the evening meal. Tlie table was placed in the bay of the open window, and looked very inviting, the little silver tea-pot steaming beside the two quaint china cups, the small crisp twists of bread, the butter cool in ice-plant leaves, and some fresh fruit blushing in a pretty basket. The Holt was a region of Paradise to Phoebe Fulmort ; and glee shone upon her sweet face, though it was very quiet enjoyment, as the summer breeze played softly round her cheeks and danced with a merry little spiral that had detached itself from her glossy folds of light hair. ' How delicious 1' she said. ' How sweet the honeysuckle is, dear old thing ! You say you have known it all your life, and yet it is fresh as ever.' ' It is a little like you, Phoebe,' said Honor, smiling, * \V!i:it ! because it is not exactly a juetty llowcr ?' 'Partly ; and I could tell you of a few other likenesses, such as } our being Robert's woodbine, yet with a sort of clinging HOPES AND FEAES. ' 109 freedom. Yes, and for the qualities you share with the wilh^yw, ready to give thanks and live on the least that Heaven may give.' ' But T don't live on the least that Heaven may give,' said Phoehe, in such wonder that Honor smiled at the justice of her simile, without impressing it upon Phoebe, only asking — * Is the French journey fixed upon, Phoebe ?' ' Yes ; they start this day fortnight.' * They — not you f * No ; there would be no room for rae,' with a small sigh. 'How can that be? Who is going? Papa, mamma, two sisters !' ' Mervyn,' added Phoebe, ' the courier, and the two maids.' * Tivo maids ! Impossible !' *It is always uncomfortable if mamma and my sisters have only one between them,' said Phoebe, in her tone of perfect acquiescence and conviction ; and as her friend could not restrain a gesture of indignation, she added eagerly — 'But, indeed, it is not only for tliat reason, but Miss Fennimore says I am not formed enough to profit by foreign travel.' 'She wants you to finish Smith's Wealth of Nations, eh V ' It might be a pity to go away and lose so much of her teaching,' said Phoebe, with persevering contentment. ' I dare say they will go abroad again, and perhaps I shall never have so much time for learning. But, Miss Charlecote, is Lucilla conjiug home for the Horticultural Show V ' I am afraid not, my dear. I think I shall go to London to see about her, among other things. The Charterises seem to have quite taken possession of her, ever since she went to be her cousin Caroline's bridesmaid, and I must try to put in my claim.' ' Ah ! Robin so much wished to have seen her,' sighed Phoebe. ' He savs he cannot settle to anvthins.' ' Without seeing her V said Honor, amused, though not with- out pain. ' Yes,' said Phoebe ; ' he has thought so much about Lucilla.' 'And he tells you?' ' Yes,' in a voice expressing of course ; while the frank, clear eyes turned full on I\Iiss Charlecote with such honest serious- ness, that she thought Phoebe's charm as a confidante might be this absence of romantic consciousness ; and she knew of old that when Robert wanted her opinion or counsel, he spared his own embarrassment by seeking it through his favourite sister. Miss Charlecote's influence had done as much for Robert, as he had done for Phoebe, and Phoebe had become his medium of communication with her in all matters of near and delicate 110 HOPES AND FEARS. interest. She was not surprised when the maiden proceeded — ' Papa wants Robin to attend to the office while he is away.' ' Indeed ! Does Robin like it?' ' He would not mind it for a time ; Vjut papa wants him, besides, to take to the business in earnest. You know, my great- uncle, Robert Mervyn, left Robert all his fortune, quite in his own hands ; and papa says that if he were to put that into the distillery it would do the business great good, and that Robert would be one of the richest men in England in ten years' time.' ' But that would be a complete change in his views,' exclaimed Honor, unable to conceal her disapproval and con- sternation. ' Just so,' answered Phoebe ; 'and that is the reason why he wants to see Lucy. She always declared that she could not bear people in business, and we always thought of him as likely to be a clergyman ; but, on the other hand, she has become used to London society, and it is only by his joining iu the distillery that he could give her what she is accustomed to, and that is the reason he is anxious to see her.' ' So Lucy is to decide his fate,' said Honora. * I am almost sorry to hear it. Surely, he has never spoken to her.' ' He never does speak,' said Phoebe, with the calm gravity of simplicity which was like a halo of dignity. ' There is no need of speaking. Lucilla knows how he feels as well as she knows that s])e breathes the air.' And i-egards it as little, perhaps, thought Honor, sadly. 'Poor Rol)in !' she .said ; ' I suppose he had better get his mind settled ; but indeed it is a fearful responsibility for my poor foolish Lucy — ' and but for the fear of grieving Phoebe, she would have added, that such a puri)ose as that of entering Holy Orders ought not to have been made dependent upon the fancy of a girl. Possilily lier expression betrayed her sentiments, for Phoebe answered — ' There can be no doubt that Lucy will .set him at rest. I am certain that she would be shocked at the notion tliat her tastes were making him doubt whether to be a clergyman.' ' I hope so ! I trust so !' said Honoi'a, almost mournfidly. ' It may be very good for her, as I believe it is for every woman of any soundness, to be taught that her follies tell upon man's greater aims and purposes. It may be wholesome for her and a check, but ' Pliccbo wondered that her friend j^auscd nnd looked so .sad. ' Oh ! Phabe,' said Honora, after a moment's silence, sjieaking fervently, ' if you can in any way do so, warn your brother against making an idol ! Let nothing come beUveen him and HOPES AND FEARS. I 1 1 1?ie direct devotion of will and affection to the Higher Service. If he decide on tlie one or the otlier, let it be from duty, not ■with respect to anything else. I do not suppose it is of any use to warn hira.' she added, with the tears in her eyes. ' Every one sets the whole soul upon some one object, not the right, and then comes the shipwreck.' ' Dear Robin !' said Phoebe. ' He is so good ! I am sui'e he always thinks first of what is right. But I think I see what you mean. If he undertake the business, it should be as a matter of obedience to papa, not to keep Lucy in the great woild. And, indeed, I do not think my father does care much, only he would like the additional capital ; and Robert is so much more steady than Mervyn, that he would be more useful. Pei'haps it would make him more important at home ; no one there has any interest in common with him ; and I think that moves him a little; but, after all, those do not seem reasons for not giving himself to God's service,' she finished, reverently and considerately. ' No, indeed !' cried Miss Charlecote. ' Then you think he ought not to change his mind V 'You have thought so all along,' smiled Honor. * I did not like it,' said Phoebe, ' but I did not know if I were right. I did tell him that I really believed Lucy would think the more highly of him if he settled for himself without reference to her.' ' You did 1 You were a capital little adviser, Phoebe ! A woman worthy to be loved at all had always rather be set second instead of first : — I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved 1 not houour more. That is the true spirit, and I am glad you judged Lucy to be capable of it. Keep your brother up to that, and all may be well !' ' I believe Robert knows it all the time,' said Phoebe. ' He always is right at the bottom ; but his feelings get so much tried that he does not know how to bear it ! I hope Lucy will he kind to him if they meet in London, for he has been so much harassed that he wants some comfort from her. If she would only be in earnest !' * Does he go to London, at all events T ' He has jn'omised to attend to the office in Great Whittington- street for a month, by way of experiment.' ' I'll tell you what, Phoebe,' cried Honora, radiantly, ' you and I will go too ! You shall come with me to VVoolstone-lane, and 112 HOPES AND FEARS. Robin shall be witli ns every clay ; and we will try and make this silly Lucy into a rational being.' ' Oil ! Miss Chai-lecote, thank you — thank you.' The quiet gii-l's face and neck were all one crimson glow of delight. * If you can sleep in a little brown cupboard of a room in the very core of the City's heart.' 'Delightful! I have so wished to see that house. Owen has told me such things about it. Oh, thank you, Miss Charle- cote V ' Have yon ever seen anything in London V * jSTever. We hardly ever go with the rest ; and if we do, ■we only walk in the square. What a holiday it will be !' 'We will see everything, and do it justice. I'll get an order for the print-room at the British Museum. I dare say Robin never saw it either ; and what a treat it will be to take you to the Egyptian Gallery !' cried Honora, excited into looking at the expedition in the light of a party of pleasure, as she saw happiness beaming in the young face opposite. They built up their schemes in the open window, pausing to listen to the nightingales, who, having ceased for two hours, apparently for supper, were now in full song, echoing each other in all the woods of Hiltonbury, casting over it a network of sweet melody. Honora was inclined to regret leaving them in their glory ; but Phcebe, with the world before her, was too honest to profess poetiy which she did not feel. Nightingales were all very well in their place, but the first real sight of London was more. The lamp came in, and Phcebe held out her hands for some- thing to do, and was instantly provided with a child's frock, while Miss Chailecote read to her one of Fouqne s shorter tales by way of supplying the element of chivalrous imagination which was wanting in the Beauchamp system of education. So warm was tlie evening, that the window remained open, until Ponto erected his crest as a footfall came steadily along, nearer and nearer. Uplifting one of his i)endant lips, he gave a low growl through his blunted teeth, and listened again ; but apparently satisfied that the step was familiar, he replaced his head on his crossed paws, and ))resent]y Robert Fulmort's liead and the upper part of his ]ierson, in correct evening costume, were thrust in at the window, the moonlight making his face look very wliite, as he said, 'Come, Phcebe, make haste; it is very late.' ' Is it r cried Phoebe, springing up ; * I thought I liad only been here an hour.' ' Three, at least,' said Robert, yawning ; * six by my feelings. HOPES AND FEARS. 113 I could not get away, for Mi*. Crabbe stayed to dinner; Mervyn absented himself, and my father went to sleep.' ' Robin, only think, Miss Cliarlecote is so kind as to say she will take me to Loudon !' ' It is very kind,' said Robert, warmly, his weary face and voice suddenly relieved. ' I shall be delighted to have a companion,' said Honora; 'and I reckon upon you, too, Robin, whenever you can spare time from your work. Come in, and let us talk it over.' ' Thank you, I can't. Tlie dragon will fall on Phoebe if I keep her out too late. Be quick, Phoebe.' While his sister went to letch her hat, he put his elbows on the sill, and leaning into the room, said, ' Thank you again ; it will be a wonderful treat to her, and she has never had one in her life !' ' I was in hopes she would have gone to Germa-ny.' 'It is perfectly abominable ! It is all the others' doing! They know no one would look at them a second time if any- thing so much younger and pleasanter was by ! They think her coming out would make them look older. I know it would make them look Grosser.' Laughing was the only way to treat this tirade, knowing, as Honor did, that there was but too much truth in it. She said, however, ' Yet one could hardly wish Phoebe other than she is. The rosebud keeps its charm longer in the shade.' ' I like justice,' quoth Robert. ' And,' she continued, ' I really think that she is much benefited by this formidable governess. Accuracy and solidity and clearness of head are worth cultivating.' 'Nasty latitudinarian piece of machinery,' said Robert, with his fingers over his mouth, like a sulky child. ' May be so ; but you guard Phoebe, and she guards Bertha ; and whatever your sense of injustice may be, this surely is a better school for her than gaieties as yet.' ' It will be a more intolerable shame than ever if they will not let her go with you.' 'Too intolerable to be expected,' smiled Honora. 'I shall come and beg for her to-morrow, and I do not believe I shall be disappointed.' She spoke with the security of one not in the habit of having her patronage obstructed by relations ; and Phoebe coming down with I'enewed thanks, the brother and sister started on their way home in the moonlight — the one plodding on moodily, the other, unable to repress her glee, bounding on in a succession of little skips, and pirouetting round to clap her hands, and ex- claim, ' Oh ! Robin, is it not delightful V 1 1 1 i HOPES AND FEARS. ' If they will let you go,' said he, too desponding for hope. ' Do you think they will not V said Phoebe, with slower and graver steps. ' Do you really think so 1 But no ! It cant lead to coming out ; and I know they like me to be happy when it intei'feres with nobody.' ' Great generosity,' said Robert, drily. ' Oh, but Robin, you know elder ones come first.' 'A truth we are not likely to forget,' .said Robert. *I wish my uncle had been sensible of it. That legacy of his stands between Mervyn and me, and will never do me any good.' ' I don't understand,' said Phoebe ; 'Mervyn has always been coni]>letely the eldest son.' ' Ay,' returned Robert, ' and with the tastes of an eldest son. His allowance does not suffice for them, and he does not like to see me independent. If my uncle had only been contented to let us share and share alike, then my father would have had no interest in drawing me into the precious gin and brandy manu- facture.' ' You did not think he meant to make it a matter of obe- dience,' said Phoebe. ' No ; he could hardly do that after the way he has brought me up, and what we have been taught all our lives about liberty of the individual, absence of conti'ol, and the like jargon.' ' Then you ai-e not obliged V He made no answer, and they walked on in silence across the silvery lawn, the may thorns shining out like flaked towers of snow in the moonlight, and casting abyss-like shadows, the sky of the most deep and intense blue, and the carols of the night- ingales rincfincr around them. Robert paused when he had ;)assed through the gate leading into the dark path down hill through the wood, and setting his elbows on it, leant over it, nnd looked back at the still and beautiful scene, in all the white mystery of moonlight, enhanced by the wliite-blossomed trees and the soft outlines of sluml)ering sheep. One of the birds, in a bush close to them, began prolonging its drawn-in notes in a continuous prelude, then breaking forth into a varied complex warbling, so wondrous that there was no moving till tiie creature paused. It seemed to have been a song of peace to Robert, for he gave a long but nuich softer sigh, and pushed back his h;it, sjiying, ' All good things dwell on the Holt side of the boun- dary.' ' A sort of Sunday worhl.' said Pho-bc. 'Yes, after this wood one is in another atmosphere.' ' Yet you have canied your cares there, poor Robin.' HOPES AND FEARS. 115 * So one does into Sunday, but to get another lii-lit tin-own. on them. The Holt has been the blessing of my life — of both our lives, Phoebe.' She responded with all her heai't. * Yes, it has made every- thing happier, at home and everywliere else. I never can think why Lucilla is not more fond of it.' ' You are mistaken,' exclaimed Robert ; * she loves no place so well ; but you don't consider what claims her I'elations have upon her. That cousin Horatia, to whom she is so much attached, losing both her parents, how could she do otherwise than be with her V ' Miss Charteris does not seem to be in great trouble now,' said Phoebe. ' You do not consider ; you have never seen grief, and you do not know how much more a sympathizing friend is needed when the world supposes the sorrow to be over, and ordinary habits to be resumed.' Phoebe was willing to believe him right, though considering that Horatia Charteris lived with her brother and his wife, she could hardly be as lonely as Miss Charlecote. * We shall see Lucy in London,' she said. Robert again sighed heavily. ' Then it will be over,' he paid. * Did you say anything there V he pursued, as they plunged into the dark shadows of the woodland path, more congenial to the subject than the light. * Yes, I did,' said Phoebe. ' And she thought me a weak, unworthy wretch for ever dreaming of swerving from my original path.' ' No !' said Phoebe, ' not if it were your duty.' M tell you, Phoebe, it is as much my duty to consult Liicilla's happiness as if any words had passed between us. 1 have never pledged myself to take Orders. It has been only a wish, not a vocation ; and if she have become averse to the prospect of a quiet country life, it would not be treating her fairly not to give her the choice of comparative wealth, though procured by means her family might despise.' ' Yes, I knew you would put right and duty first ; and I suppose by doing so you make it certain to end rightly, one way or other.' ' A veiy few years, and I could realize as much as this Calthorpe, the millionaire, whom they talk of as being so often at the Oharterises.' ' It will not be so,' said Phoebe. ' I know what she will say ;' and as Robert looked anxiously at her, she continued — ' She will say she never dreamt of your being turned from i2 1 ] 6 HOPES AND FEAKS. anything so great by any fancies slie has seemed to have. Slie will say so more strongly, for you know her father was a clergy- man, and Miss Charlecote brought her up.' Phoebe's cei-taiuty made Robert catch something of her hopes, ' In that case,' he said, ' mattei's might be soon settled. This fortune of mine would be no misfortune then ; and probably, Phoebe, my sisters would have no objection to your being happy with us.' * As soon as yon could get a curacy ! Oh, how delightful ! and Maria and Bertha would come too.' Robert held his peace, not certain whether Lucilla would consider INIaria an embellishment to liis ideal parsonage ; but they talked on with cheerful schemes while descending through the wood, unlocking a gate that formed the boundary between, the Holt and the Beauchamp properties, crossing a field or two, and then coming out into the park. Presently they were in siglit of the house, rising darkly before them, with many lights shining in the windows behind tlie blinds. ' They are all gone up stairs !' said Phoebe, dismayed, ' How late it must be !' ' There's a light in the smoking-room,' said Robert ; * we can get in that way,' ' No, no ! Mervyn may have some one with him. Come in quietly by the servants' entrance.' No danger that people would not be on foot there ! As the brother and sister moved along the long stone passage, fringed with labelled bells, one open door showed two weary maidens still toiling over the plates "of the late dinner; and another, standing ajar, revealed various men-servants regaling them- selves ; and words and tones caught Robert's ear making his brow lower with sudden pain, Phoebe was ])roceeding to mount tlie stone stairs, when a rustling and chattering, as of maids descending, caused her and her brother to stand aside to make way, and down came a pair of heads and candles together over a green bandbox, and tlien voices in vulgar tones half sup]n"essed. ' I couldn't venture it, not with Miss Juliana — but Miss Fulmort — she never looks over her bills, nor knows what is in her drawers — I told her it was faded, when she had never worn it once !' And tittering, they passed by the brother and sister, who were still unseen, but Robert lieaved a sigh and murmured, * Miserable work !' soiuewliat to his sister's surprise, for to her the great ill-regnlated household was an unquestioned institu- tion, and she did not expect him to bestow so much compassion FIOl'ES AND FEARS. 117 on Augusta's discarded bonnet. At the top of the steps they opened a door, and entered a great wide hall. All was exceed- ingly still. A gas-light was burning over the fire-place, but the corners were in gloom, and the coats and cloaks looked like human figures in the distance. Phoebe waited while Kobert lighted her caudle for her. Albeit she was not nervous, she started when a door was sharply pushed 02)en, and another figure appeared ; but it was nothing worse than her brother Mervyn, in easy costume, and redolent of tobacco. About three years older than Robert, he was moie neatly though not so strongly made, shorter, and with more regular teatures, but much less countenance. If the younger brother had a worn and dejected aspect, the elder, except in moments of excitement, looked bored. It was as if Robert really had the advantage of liim in knowing what to be out of spirits about. ' Oh ! it's you, is it V said he, coming forward, with a saun- tering, scutfliug movement in his slippers. ' You larking, Phcebe ? What next V ' I have been drinking tea with Miss Charlecote,' explained Phcebe. Mervyn slightly shrugged his slioulders, murmuring some- thing about ' Lively pastime.' ' I could not fetch her soonei%' said Robert, ' for my father went to sleep, and no one chose to be at the pains of entertain- ing Crabbe.' ' Ay — a prevision of his staying to dinner made me stay and dine witli the — th mess. Very sagacious — eh, Phoebe V said he, turning, as if he liked to look into her fresh face. 'Too sagacious,' said she, smiling; 'for you left him all to Robert.' Manner and look expressed that this was a matter of no concern, and he said ungraciously ; ' Nobody detained Robert, it was his own concei'n.' ' Respect to my father and his guests,' said Robert, with downright gravity that gave it the effect of a reproach. Mervyn only raised his shoulders up to his ears in contempt, took up his candle, and wished Phoebe good niglit. Poor Mervyn Fulmort ! Discontent had been his life-long comrade. He detested his father's occupation as galling to family pride, yet was greedy both of the profits and the managw- ment. He hated county business aiid country life, yet cliafVd at not having the control of his motiier's estate, and grumbled at all his father's measures. 'What should an old distiller know of landed property f In fact he saw the same diiiVrjnce be- 118 HOPES AND FEARS. tween himself and his father as did the iin2;i'acious Planta2;enct between the son of a Count and the son of a King : and for want of Provencjal troubadours with whom to rebel, he sni>plied their place by the turf and tlie billiard-table. At present he was expiating some heavy debts by a forced residence with his parents, and unwilling attention to the office, a most distasteful position, which he never attempted to improve, and which per- mitted him both the tedium of idleness and complaints against all tlie em))loyment to which he was necessitated. The ill-managed brothers were just nearly enough of an age for rivalry, and had never loved one another even as children. Hobert's steadiness had been made a reproach to Mervyn, and his grave, rather surly character had never been conciliating. The independence left to the younger brotlier by their mother's relative was grudged by the elder as an injury to liimself, and it was one of the misfortunes of Beauchamp that the two sons had never been upon happy terras together. Indeed, save that Ivobert's right j)i-inci]iles and silent habits hindered him from readily giving or taking offence, there might have been positive outbreaks of a very unbrotlierly nature. CHAPTER II. Enough of science and of art, Close up tliose barren leaves ! Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. Wordsworth. ' TTALF PAST five. Miss Phfebe.' XX ' Tliank you ;' and before her eyes were open, Phoebe was on the floor. Six was the regulation hour. Systematic education had dis- covered that half an hour was tlie maximum allowable for morning toilette, and at half-past six the young ladies must })';p.sent themselves in the school-room. The Bible, Prayer Book, and ' Daily JNIeditations' could have been seldom touched, had not l'ho3be, ever since Robert liad impressed on her the duty of such constant study, made an an-angement for gaining an extra half-hour. Cold mornings and youthful sleepiness had received a daily defeat : and, niay- hap, it was such a course of victory thit made her frank eyes so blithesome, and her steji so free and light. H'^PES AND FEAES. 119 That bright scheme, too, shone before her, as such a secret of glad hope, that, knowing how uncertain were her chances of l^leasure, slie prayed tliat she might not set her heart on it. It was no trifle to her, and her simple spirit ventured to lay her wishes before her loving Father in Heaven, and entreat that she might not be denied, if it were right for her and would be better for Kobert ; or, if not, that she might be good under the disappointment. Her orisons sent her forth all brightness, with her small head raised like that of a young fawn, her fresh lips parted by an incipient smile of hope, and her cheeks in a rosy glow of health, a very Hebe, as Mr. Saville had once called her. Such a morning face as hers was not always met by Miss Fennimore, who, herself able to exist on five hours' sleep, had no mercy on that of her pupils ; and she rewarded Phoebe's smiling good-morrow with ' This is better than I expected, you returned home so late.' ' Robert could not come for me early,' said Phoebe. * How did you spend the evening V ' Miss Cliarlecote read aloud to me. It was a delightful German story.' ' ]\Iiss Cliarlecote is a very well-informed person, and I am glad the time was not absolutely lost. I hope you observed the condensation of the vapours on your way home.' ' Ptobert was talking to me, and the nightingales were singing.' ' It is a pity,' said Miss Fennimore, not unkindly, • that you shoiild not cultivate the habit of observation. Women can seldom theorize, but they should always observe facts, as these are the very groundwork of discovery, and such a rare oj)por- tunity as a walk at night should not be neglected.' It was no use to plead that this was all very well when there was no brother Robert with his destiny in the scales, so Plicebe made a meek assent, and moved to the piano, suppressing a sigh as Miss Fennimore set off on a domiciliary visit to the other sisters. Mr. Fulmort liked his establisliment to prove his consequence, and to the old family mansion ol the Mervyns he had added a whole wing for the educational department. Above, there was a passage, with pretty little bed-rooms opening from it ; below there were two good-sized rooms, with their own door opening into the garden. The elder ones had long ago deserted it, and so completely shut off was it from the rest of the house, that the governess and her pupils were as secluded as though in a separate dwelling. The schoolroom was no repulsive-looking abode ; it was furnished almost well enough fur a drawing-room ; and 120 HOPES AND FEARS. only the easels, globes, and dests, the crayon studies on the walls, and a formidable time-table showed its real destination. The window looked out into a square parterre, shut in with tall laurel hedges, and filled with the gayest and sweetest blossoms. It was Mrs. Fulmort's garden for cut flowers ; supplying the bouquets that decked her tables, or were carried to wither at balls ; and there were thi-ee long, narrow beds, that Phoebe and her younger sisters still called theirs, and loved with the pride of property ; but, indeed, the bright carpeting of the whole garden was sometliing especially their own, rejoic- ing their eyes, and unvalued by the rest of the house. On the like liberal scale wei'e the salaries of the educators. Governesses were judged according to their demands ; and the highest bidder was su])posed to understand her own claims best. Miss Fenni- niore was a finishing govei'ness of the highest order, thinking it an insult to be offered a pupil below her teens, or to lose one till nearly beyond them ; nor was she far from being the treasure that Mrs. Fulmort j^ronounced her, in gratitude for the absence of all the exjjlosions produced by the various imperfec- tions of her predecessors. A highly able woman, and perfectly sincere, she possessed the qualities of a ruler, and had long experience in the art. Her discipline was pei-fect in machinery, and her instructions admi- rably complete. No one could look at her keen, sensible, self- possessed countenance, her decided mouth, ever busy hands, and unpretending but well-chosen style ot dress, without seeing that her energy and intelligence were of a high order ; and there was principle likewise, though no one ever quite penetrated to the foundation of it. Certainly she was not an irreligious person ; she conformed, as slie said, to the habits of each family she lived with, and she higlily estimated moral perfections. Now and then a degree of scorn, for the narrowness of dogma, would appear in reading history, but in general she was understood to have opinions which she did not obtrude. As a teacher she was excellent; but her own strong confor- mation prevented her from understanding that young girls were incapable of such tension of intellect as an enthusiastic scholar of forty-two, and that what was sport to her was toil to a mind unaccustomed to constant attention. Ciiange of labour is not rest, unless it be through gratihcation of the will. Her very best ]>u])il she had killed. Finding a very sharp sword, in a very frail scabhaid, she had whetted the one and worn dowa the other, by every stimulus in her power, till a jury of physi- cians miglit have found her guilty of mansUuighter ; but peri'ectly unconscious of hei own ageucy in causing the atrophy, HOPES AND FEAES. ]21 her dear Anna Webster lived foremost iu lier affections, the model for every subsequent pupil. She seldom remained moi'e than two years in a family. Sometimes the young brains v^^ere over-excited ; more often they fell into a dreary state of drilled dilisrence ; but she was too much absorbed in the studies to look close into the human beings, and marvelled when the fathers and mothers were blind enough to part with her on the plea of health and need of change. On the whole she had never liked any of her charges since the renowned Anna Webster so well as Phoebe Fulmort ; although her abilities did not rise above the * very fair,' and she was apt to be bewildered in metaphysics and political economy ; but then she had none of the eccentricities of will and temper of Miss Fennimore's clever girls, nor was she like most good- humoured ones, recklessly insouciante. Her only drawback, in the governess's eyes, was that she never seemed desirous of going beyond what was daily required of her — each study was a duty, and not a subject of zeal. Presently Miss Fennimore came back, followed by the two sisters, neither of them in the best of tempers. JMaria, a stout, clumsily made girl of fifteen, had the same complexion and open eyes as Phcebe, but her colouring was muddled, the gaze full- orbed and vacant, and the lips, always pouting, were just now swelled with the vexation that filled her prominent eyelids with tears. Bertha, two years younger, looked as if nature had designed her for a boy, and the change into a girl was not yet decided. She, too, was very like Maria ; but Maria's open nostrils were iu her a droll retrousse, puggish little nose ; her chin had a boyish squareness and decision, her round cheeks had two comical dimples, her eyes were either sti'etched iu defiance or narrowed up with fun, and a slight cast in one gave a peculiar archness and character to her fiice ; her skin, face, hands, and all, were uniformly pinky ; her hair in such obsti- nate yellow curls, that it was to be hoped, for her sake, that the fashion of being crepe might continue. The brow lowered in petulance ; and as she kissed Phcebe, she muttered in her ear a vituperation of the governess in schoolroom 2Jatois ; then began tossing the lesson-books in the air and catching them again, as a ]»reliminary to finding the places, thus drawing on herself a reproof in German. French and German wei"e alter- nately spoken in lesson hours by Phoebe and Bertha, who had lived with foreign servants from infancy ; but poor Maria had not the faculty of keeping the tongues distinct, and corrections only terrified her into confusion worse confounded, until Miss Fenni- more had in. despair decided that English was the best alteruativa 122 HOPES AND FEARS. i'lioebe practised vigorously. Aware that nothing pleasant was passing, and that, be it what it might, she could do no good, she was glad to stop her ears with her music, until eight o'clock brought a pause in the sha])e of breakfast. Formerly tlie schoolroom party had joined the family meal, but since the two elder girls had been out, and INIervyn's friends had been often in the house, it liad been decided that the home circle was too numerous ; and what had once been the play-room was allotted to be the eating-room of the younger ones, without passing the red door, on the other side of which lay the world. Breakfast was announced by the schoolroom maid, and Miss Fennimore rose. No sooner was her back turned, than Bertha indulged in a tremendous writhing vawn, wrifj^lins in her chair, and clenching both fat fists, as she threatened with each, at her governess's retreating figure, so ludicrously, that Phcebe smiled while she shook her head, and an explosive giggle came from jNJaria, causing the lady to turn and behold Miss Bertha demure as ever, and a look of disconsolate weariness f;ist settling down on each of the two young faces. The unbroken routine pressed heavily at those fit moments for family greetings and for relaxa- tion, and even Phoebe would gladly have been spared the German account of the Holt and of Miss Charlecote's book, for which she was called upon. Bertha meanwhile, to whom waggishness was existence, was carrying on a silent drama on her j'late, her roll being a quarry, and her knife the workmen attacking it. Now she undermined, now acted an explosion, with uplifted eyebrows and an indicated 'puff!' with her lips, with constant dumb- show directed to Maria, who, without half undeistanding, was in a constant suppressed titter, sometimes concealed by her pocket-handkerchief. Quick as Miss Fennimore was, and often as she frowned on Maria's outbreaks, she never could detect their provocative. Over-restraint and want of sympathy were direct instruction in unscrupulous slyness of anuisement. A sentence of displeasure on Maria's ill-mannered folly was in the act of again filling her eyes with tears, when there was a kuock at tlie door and all the faces beamed with glad expectation. ]t was Robert. This was the time of day wlien lie knew INliss Fennimore could best tolei'ate him, and he seldom failed to make his appearance on his way down-stairs, the only one of the privileged race wlio was a wonted object on this side tlie baize door. Phoebe thought he looked more cheerful, and indeed gravity could hardly have withstood Bertha's face, as she gave a mischievous tweak to his hair behind, under colour oi putting lier arm round his neck. HOPES AND FEARS. 123 '"Well, CurlyloclsS, how much mischief did yon do yesterday?' * I'd no spirits for mischief,' she answered, with mock pitiful- ress, twinkling up her eyes, and rubbing them with her knuckles as if she were ci'ying. ' You barbarous wretch, taking Phojbe to feast on strawberries and cream with Miss Charlecote, and leaving poor me to poke in that stupid drawing-room, with nothing to do but to count the scollops of mamma's flounce !' ' It is your tnrn. Will Miss Feuuimore kindly let you have a walk with me this evening V ' And me,' said Maria. ' You, of course. May I come for them at five o'clock V *I can hardly tell what to say about Maria. I do not like to disappoint her, but she knows that nothing displeases me so much as that ill-mannered habit of giggling,' said Miss Fenni- more, not without concern. Merciful as to Maria's attainments, she was strict as to her manners, and was striving to teach her self-restraint enough to be unobtrusive. Poor Maria's eyes wei-e glassy with tears, her chest heaved with sobs, and she bi'oke out, * O pray. Miss Fennimore, O pray !' while all the others interceded for her ; and Bertha, well knowing that it was all her fault, avoided the humiliation of a confession, by the apparent generosity of exclaiming, ' Take us both to-morrow instead, Robin.' Robert's journey was, however, fixed for that day, and on this plea, licence was given for the walk. Phoebe smiled con- gratulation, but Maria was slow in cheering up ; and when, on returning to the schoolroom, the thi-ee sisters were left alone together for a few moments, she pressed up to Phoebe's side, and B:x\d, ' Phoebe, I've not said my pi-ayers. Do you think anything •will happen to me V Her awfully mysterious tone set Bertha laughing. * Yes, ]\Iaria, all the cows in the park will run at you,' she was beginning, when the grave rebuke of Phoebe's eyes cut her short. ' How was it, my dear V asked Phcebe, tenderly fondling her sister. ' I was so sleepy, and Bertha would blow soap bubbles in her hands while we were washing, and then Miss Fennimore came, and I've been naughty now, and I know I shall go on, and then Robin wont take nie.' ' I will ask Miss Fennimore to let yon go to your room, dearest,' said Phojbe. ' Yon must not play again in dressing time, for there's nothing so sad as to miss our prayers. You are a good girl to care so much. Had you time for yours. Bertha f ' Oh, plenty !' with a toss of her curly head. ' / don't take ages about things, like Maria.' 124 HOPES AND FEARS. ' Prayers cannot be hurried,' said Phoebe, looking distressed, and she was about to remind Bertha to whom she spoke iu prayer, when the child cut her short by the exclamation, * Nonsense, Maria, about being naughty. You know I always make you laugh wlien I please, and that has more to do with it than saying your pi'ayers, I fancy.' ' Perhaps,' said Phcebe, very sadly, ' if you had said yours more in earnest, my poor Bertha, you would either not have made Mai'ia laugh, or would not have left her to bear all the blame.' ' Why do you call me poor V exclaimed Bertha, with a half- offended, half-diverted look. ' Because I wish so much that you knew better, or that I could help you better,' said Phoebe, gently. There Miss Fennimoz-e entered, displeased at the English sounds, and at finding them all, as she thought, loitering. Phoebe explained Maria's omission, and Miss Fennimore allowed her five minutes in her own room, saying that this must not become a precedent, though she did not wish to oppress her conscience. Bertha's eyes glittered with a certain triumph, as she saw that Miss Fennimore was of her mind, and anticipated no conse- quences from the neglect, but only made the concession as to a superstition. Without disbelief, the child trained only to reason, and quick to detect fallacy, was blind to all that was not material. And how was the spiritual to be brought before her? Phosbe might well sigh as she sat down to her abstract of Schlegel's Lectures. ' If any one would but teach them,' she thought ; ' but there is no time at all, and I myself do not know half so much of those things as one of Miss Charlecote's lowest classes.' Phoebe was a little mistaken. An earnest mind taught how to learn, with access to the Bible and Prayer Book, could gain more from these fountain-heads than anv external teachincj could impart ; and she could carry her difficulties to llobert. Still it was out of her power to assist her sisters. Surveillance and driving absolutely left no space free from Miss Fennimore's requirements ; and all that there was to train those young ones in faith, was the manner in which it lived and worked in her. Nor of this efiect could she be conscious. As to dreams or re[)inings, or even listening to her hopes and fears for her project of pleasure, they wore excluded by the con- centrated attention tliat Miss Fennimore's system enforced. Time and capacity were so much on the stretch, that the liabil of doing wluit she was doing, and nothing else, had become second nature to the docile and duteous gii'l ; and she had become little sensible to interruptions ; so she went on with her HOPES AND FEAKS. 125 Gorman, her Greek, and her algebra, scarcely liearing the repetitious of the lessons, or the counting as Miss Fenuiniore presided over Maria's practice, a bit of drudgery detested by the governess, but necessarily persevered in, for Maria loved music, and had just voice and ear sufficient to render this single accomplishment not hopeless, but a certain want of power of sustained effort made her always break down at the moment she seemed to be doing best. Former governesses had lost patience, but Miss Fennimore had early given up the case, and never scolded her for her failures ; she made her attempt less, and she was improving more, and shedding fewer tears than under any former dynasty. Even a stern dominion is better for the subjects than an uncertain and weak one ; regularity gives a sense of reliance, and constant occupation leaves so little time for being naughty, that Bertha herself was getting into training, and on the present day her lessons were exem])laiy, always with a view to the promised walk with her brother, one of the greatest pleasures ever enjoyed by the denizens of the west wing. Phoebe's pleasure was less certain, and less dependent on her merits, yet it invigorated her efforts to do all she had to do with all her might, even into the statement of the pros and cons of customs and free-trade, which she was required to pro- duce as her morning's exercise. In the midst, her ear detected the sound of wheels, and her heart throbbed in the conviction that it was Miss Charlecote's jiony carriage ; nay, she found her pen had indited ' Robin would be so glad,' instead of 'revenue to the government,' and while scratching the words out beyond all legibility, she blamed herself for betraying such want of self-command. No summons came, no tidings, the wheels went away ; her heart sank, and her spirit revolted against an unfeeling, un- utterably wearisome captivity ; but it was only a moment's fluttering against the bars, the tears were driven back with the thought ' After all, the decision is guided from Above. If I stay at home, it must be best for me. Let me try to be good !' and she forced her mind back to her exports and her customs. It was such discipline as few girls could have exercised, but the conscientious effort was no small assistance in being resigned ; and in the precious minutes granted in which to prepare her- self for dinner, she found it the less hard task to part with her anticipations of delight and brace herself to quiet, contented duty. The meal was beginning when, with a very wide expansion of the door, appeared a shot't, consequential looking personage, of such plump, rounded proportions, that she seemed ready to 126 HOPES AND FEARS. burst out of her ridiug habit, and of a broad, complacent visage, somewliat overbloomiug. It was Miss Fulmort, the eldest of the family, a young lady just past thirty, a very awful distance from tlie school-room party, to whom she nodded with good- natured condescension, saying : ' Ah ! I tliought I should fiiul you at dinner ; I'm come for something to sustain nature. The riding party are determined to have me with them, and they wont wait for luncheon. Thank yon, yes, a \neee of mutton, if there were any under side. How it reminds me of old times. I used so to look forward to never seeing a loin of mutton again.' ' As your chief ambition V said Miss Fennimore, who, gover- ness as she was, could not help being a little satirical, esj^ecially when Bertha's eyes twinkled responsively. ' One does get so tired of mutton and rice pudding,' answered the less observant Miss Fulmort. who was but dimly conscious of any one's existence save her own, and could not have credited a governess laughing at her ; ' but really this is not so bad, after all, for a change ; and some pale ale. You don't mean that you exist without pale ale V ' We all drink water by preference,' said Miss Fennimore. ' Indeed ! Miss Watson, our finishing governess, never drank anything but claret, and she always had little pates, or fish, or something, because she said her appetite was to be consulted, she was so delicate. She vvas very thin, I know ; and what a figure you have, Phoebe ! I suppose that is water drinking. Bridger did say it would reduce me to leave off pale ale, but T can't get on without it, I get so horridly low. Don't you think that's a sign. Miss Fennimore V ' 1 ^^o your pardon, a sign of what f ' Tliat one can't go on without it. Miss Charlecote said she thouglit it was all constitution whether one is stout or not, and that nothing made much difi'ereuce, when I asked her about German wines.' ' Oh ! Augusta, has Miss Charlecote been here this morning f exclaimed Bhcebe. ' Yes J she came at twelve o'clock, and there was T actually pinned down to entertain her, for mamma was not come down. bo I asked her about those light foreign Avines, and whetlier they do really make one thinner; you know one always has them at her house.' ' Did mamma see her V asked poor Phoebe, anxiously. ' Oh yes, she was bent u})on it. It was something about you. Oil ! she wants to take you to stay with her ii tliat liorriide hole of hers in the City — very odd of her. What do you HOPES AND FEARS. 127 advise me to do, Miss Feunimore ? Do yoii think tliose foreij;ii wines woukl bring me down a little, or that they would make me low and sinking ]' ' Really, I have no experience on tlie subject !' said Miss Fennimore, loftily. ' What did mamma say V was poor Phoebe's almost breathless question. ' Oh ! it makes no difference to mamma' (Phcebe's heart bounded); but A ugiista went on: 'she always has her sodii- M'ater, yon know ; but of course I should take a hamper from Bass. I hate being unprovided.' ' But about my going to London f humbly murmured Phoebe. ' What did she say V considered the elder sister, aloud. ' I don't know, I'm sure. I was not attending — the heat does make one so sleepy — but I know we all wondered she should want you at yonr age. You know some people take a spoonful of vinegar to fine themselves down, and some of those wines are very acid,' she continued, pressing on with her great sub- ject of consultation. ' If it be an object with yon. Miss Fulraort, I should recom- mend the vinegar,' said Miss Fennimore. ' There is nothing like doing a thing outright !' ' And, oh ! how glorious it would be to see her taking it !' whispered Bertha into Phoebe's ear, unheard by Augusta, \vho, tn her satisfied stolidity, was declaring, * No, I could not under- take that. I am the worst person in the world for taking any- thing disagreeable.' And having completed her meal, which she had conti'ived to make out of the heart of the joint, leaving the others little but fat, she walked off to her ride, believing that she had done a gracious and condescending action in making conversation with her inferiors of the west winsf. Yet Augusta Fulmort might have been good for something, if her mind and her affections had not lain fallow ever since she escaped from a series of governesses who taught her self- indidgence Vjy example. ' I wonder what mamma said !' exclaimed Phoebe, in her strong craving for sympathy in her suspense. ' I am sorry the subject has been brought forward, if it is to unsettle you, Phoebe,' said Miss Fennimore, not unkindly ; * I regret your being twice disappointed ; but, if your mother should refer it to me, as I make no doubt she will, I should say that it would be a great pity to brf ak up our course of studies.' 128 HOPES AND FEARS. ' It would only be for a little while,' sighed Phoebe ; 'and Miss Charlecote is to show me all the museums. I should see more with her than ever I shall when I am come out j and J should be with Robert.' ' I intended asking permission to take you through a syste- matic course of lectures and specimens when the family are next ia town,' said Miss Fennimore. ' Ordinaiy, desultoiy sight- seeing leaves few impressions ; and though Miss Charlecote is a superior pei'son, her mind is not of a sufficiently scientific turn to make her fully able to direct you. I shall trust to your good sense, Phoebe, for again submitting to defer the pleasure till it can be enhanced.' Good sense had a task imposed on it for which it was quite inadequate; but thei'e was something else in Phoebe which could do the work better than her unconvinced reason. Eveu had she been sure of the expediency of being condemned to the schoolroom, no srood sense would have brought that resolute smile, or driven back the dew in her eyes, or enabled her voice to say, with such sweet meekness, 'Very well. Miss Fennimore; I dare say it may be right' Miss Fennimore was far more concerned than if the sub- mission had been grudging. She debated with herself whether she should consider her resolution irrevocable. Ten minutes were allowed after dinner in the parterre, and these could only be spent under the laurel-hedge ; the sun was far too hot everywhere else. Phoebe had here no lack of sympathy, but had to restrain Bertha, who, with angry gestures, was pronouncing the governess a horrid cross-patch, and declaring that no girls ever wei-e used as they were ; while Maria observed, that if Phoebe went to London, she must go too. ' We shall all go some day,' said Phoebe, cheerfully, 'and we shall enjoy it all the more if we are good now. Never mind, Pertha, we shall have some nice walks.' ' Yes, all bothered with botany,' muttered Bertha. ' I thought, at least, you would be glad of me,' said Phoebe, smiling ; 'you who stay at home.' 'To be sure, I am,' said Bertha; 'but it is such a shame! I shall tell Robin, and he'll say so too. 1 shall toll him you nearly cried !' ' Don't vex Robin,' said Phoebe. ' When you go out, you should set yourself to tell liim ])leasant tilings.' 'So I'm to tell him you wouldn't go on any account. You like your political economy much too well !' ' Suppose you say nothing about it,' said Phoebe. * Make HOPES AND FEARS. 129 yo\irself merry with him. That's what you've got to do. He takes you out to entertain you, not to worry about grievances.* ' Do you never talk about grievances V asked Bertha, twink- ]?U2 up her eyes. Phoebe hesitated. * Not my own,' she said, ' because I have not got auy.' * Has Robert, then V asked Bertha. * Nobody has grievances who is out of the school-room,' opined Maria ; and as she uttered this profound sentiment, the tinkle of Miss Fenniuiore's little bell warned the sisters to return to the studies, which in the heat of summer were pursued in the afternoon, that the walk might be taken in the cool of the evening. Reading aloud, drawing, and sensible plain needle- work were the avocations till it was time to learn the mon-ow's lessons. Phoebe being beyond this latter work, drew on, and in the intervals of helping Maria witli her geography, had time to prepare such a bright face as might make Robert think li,:^htly of her disappointment, and not reckon it as another act of tyranny. When he opened the door, however, there was that in his looks which made her spirits leap up like an elastic spring ; and his ' Well, Phcobe !' was almost triumphant. ' Is it am I ' was all she could say. * Has no one thought it worth while to tell you V 'Don't you know,' interposed Bertha, 'you on the other side the red baize door might be all married, or dead and buried, for aught we should hear. But is Phoebe to go V ' I believe so.' * Are you sure f asked Phoebe, afraid yet to hope. * Yes. My father heard the invitation, and said that you were a good girl, and deserved a holiday.' Commendation from that quarter was so rare, that excess of gladness made Phoebe cast down her eyes and colour intensely, a little oppressed by the victory over her governess. But Miss Fennimore spoke warmly. ' He cannot think her more deser- ving than T do. I am rejoiced not to have been consulted, for I could hardly have borne to inflict such a mortification on her, tliough these interruptions are contx'ary to my views. As it is, Phoebe, my dear, I wish you joy.' ' Thank you,' Phoebe managed to say, while the happy teara fairly started. In that chilly land, the least approach to tender- ness was like the gleam in which the hardy woodbine leaflets unfold to sun themselves. Thankful for small mercies, thought Robert, looking at her with fond pity ; but at least the dear child will have one fort- K. 150 HOPES AND iEARS. night of a more genial atmosphere, and f.oon, may be, I sliall transplant her to be Lucilla's darling as well as mine, free from task-work, and doing the labours of love for which she is made ! He was quite in spirits, and able to reply in kind to tlie freaks and jokes of his little sister, as she started, spinning round him like a humming-top, and singing — Will you go to the wood, Robin a Bobbin ? giving safe vent to an ebullition of spii'its that must last her a good while, poor little maiden ! Phoebe took a sober walk with Miss Fennimore, receiving advice on methodically journalizing what she might see, and on the scheme of employments which might prevent her visit from being waste of time. The others would have resented tho interference with the holiday ; but Phoebe, though a little sorry to find that tasks were not to be off her mind, was too grateful for Miss Fenniraore's cordial consent to entertain any thought except of obedience to the best of her power. Miss Fennimore was politely summoned to Mrs. Fulmort's dressing-room for the official communication ; but this day wa:^ no exception to the general custom, that the red baize door was not passed by the young lailies until theu- evening appearance in the di-awing-room. Then the trio descended, all alike in white muislin, made high, and green sashes — a dress carefully distinguishing Phoebe as not introduced, but very becoming to her, with the simple folds and the little net ruche, suiting admirably the tall, rounded slenderness of her shape, her long neck, and short, childi.sh contour of face, where there smiled a j-^y of anticipation almost innppreciable to those who know not what it is to spend day after day with nothing particular to look forward to. Very grand was the drawing-room, all amber coloiu'ed with satin-wood, satin and gold, and with everything useless and costly encumbering tables th.it looked as if nothing could ever be done upon them. Such a room inspired a sense of being in company, and it was no wonder that Mrs. Fulmort and her two elder daughters swept in in as decidedly procession style as iftheyliad formed part of a train of twenty. The star that bestowed three female sovereigns to Euro))e Fcemcd to have had the like influence on Hiltonbury |»aiish, since both its squires were heiresses. Miss Mervyn would have been a ha]>pier woman had she married a ]ilain country gentle- man, like tho.se of her own stock, instead of giving a county position to a man of lower origin and enormous monied wealth. '1 o live up to the claims of that wealth had been her business HOPES AND FEARS. 1^] ever siuce, ard health and enjoyment had been so completely sacrificed to it, that for many years past the greater jiart of her time had been spent in resting and making herself up for her appearance in the evening, when she conducted her elder daughters to their gaieties. Faded and tallowy in complexion, so as to be almost ghastly in her blue brocade and heavy gold ornaments, she reclined languidly on a lai'ge easy-chair, saying with half-closed eyes — ' Well, Phoebe, Miss Fennimoi'e has told you of Misa Charlecote's invitation.' ' Yes, mamma. I am very, ve^'ij much obliged !' 'You know you are not to fancy yourself come out,' said Juliana, the second sister, who had a good tall figure, and features and complexion not far from beauty, but marred by a certain shrewish tone and aii\ ' Oh. no,' answered Phoebe ; ' but with Miss Charlecote thai will make no difference.' ' Probably not,' said Juliana ; ' for of course you will see nobody but a set of old maids and clergymen and their wives.' ' She need not go far for old maids,' whispered Bertha to Maria. ' Pray, in which class do you reckon the Sandbrooks V said Phoebe, smiling : 'for she chiefly goes to meet them.' ' She may go 1' said Juliana, scornfully ; ' but Lucilla Sand- brook is far past attending to her !' * I wonder whether the Charterises will take any notice of Phoebe f exclaimed Augusta. ' My dear,' said Mrs. Fulmort, waking slowly to another idea, ' I will tell Boodle to talk to — ^what's your maid's name ] — about your dresses.' ' Oh, mamma,' interposed Juliana, * it will be only poking about the exhibitions with Miss Charlecote, You may have that ])laid silk of mine that I was going to have worn out abroad, half-price for her.' Bertha fairly made a little stamp at Juliana, and clenched her fist. If Phoebe dreaded anything in the way of dress, it was Juliana's half-price. ' My dear, your papa would not like her not to be well fitted put,' said her mother; 'and Honora Charlecote always has snch handsome things. I wish Boodle could put mine on like hers.' ' Oh, very well !' said Juliana, rather offended ; 'only it shotild be imderstood what is to be done if the Charterises ask her to any of their parties. There will be such mistakes and confu- K 2 132 HOPES AND FEARS. sion if she meets any one we know ; and you particularly objected to having her brought forward.' Phoebe's eye was a little startled, and Bertha set her front teeth together on edge, and looked viciously at Juliana. ' My dear, Honora Charlecote never goes out,' said Mrs. Fulmort. ' If she should, you understand, Phcebe,' said Juliana. Coffee carae in at the moment, and Augusta criticised the strength of it, wliich made a diversion, during which Bertlia slipped out of the room, with a face replete with mischievous exultation. ' Are not you going to play to-night, my dears V asked Mi-s. Fulmort. ' What was that duet I heard you practising 1' ' Come, Juliana,' said the elder sister, ' I meant to go over it again ; I am not satisfied with my part.' ' I have to write a note,' said Juliana, moving off to another table ; whereupon Phcebe ventured to propose herself as a substitute, and was accepted. Maria sat entranced, with her mouth open ; and pi'esently ^Irs. Fulmort looked up from a kind of doze to ask who was playing. For some moments she had no answer. Maria was too much awed for speech in the drawing-room ; and though 35ertha had come back, she had her back to her mother, and did not hear. Mrs. Fulmort exerted herself to sit up and turn her head. * Was that Phoebe T she said. ' You have a clear, good touch, my dear, as they used to say I had when I was at school at Bath. Play another of your pieces, my dear.' ' I am ready now, Augusta,' said Juliana, advancing. Little girls were not allowed at the piano when officers might be coming in from the dining-room, so Maria's face became vacant again, for Juliana's music awoke no echoes within her. Phoebe beckoned her to a remote ottoman, a receptacle for the newspa])ers of the week, and kept her turning over the Illustrated News, an unfailing resource with her, but powerless to occupy Bertha after the first Saturday ; and Bertha, turning a deaf ear to the assurance that there was something very en- tertaining about a tiger-hunt, stood, solely occui)ied by eyeing Juliana, Was she studying ' come-out' life as she watched her sisters surrounded by the gentlemen who presently herded round the ]iiano ? It was nearly the moment when the young ones were bound to withdraw, when Mervyn, coming hastily u^j to their ottoman, had almost stumbled over Mai'ia's foot. HOPES AND FEAES. 1S3 * Beg pardon. Oh, it was only you I What a cow it is !' Riiid he, tossing over the papers. ' What are you looking for, Mervyn ]' asked Phoebe. *Aa advertisement — BelVs Life for the 3rd. Tliat rascal, Mears, must have taken it.' She found it for him, and likewise the advertisement, which he, missing once, was giving uj) in despair. ' I say,' he observed, while she was searching, * so you are to chi]> the shell.' ' I'm only going to London — I'm not coming out.' * Gammon !' he said, with an odd wink. ' You need never go in again, like the what's-his-name in the fair}' tale, or yuu are a sillier child than I take you for. They' — nodding at the piano — 'are getting a terrible pair of old cats, and we want something young and pretty about.' With this unusual compliment, Phoebe, seeing the way clear to the door, rose to depart, most reluctantly followed by Bertlia, and more willingly by Maria, who began, the moment they were iu the hall — ■ ' Phoebe, why do they get a couple of terrible old cats % I don't like them. I shall be afraid.' * Mervyn didn't mean ' began perplexed Phoebe, cut short by Bertha's boisterous laughter, ' Oh, Maria, what a goose you are ! You'll be the death of me, some day ! Why, Juliana and Augusta are the cats themselves. Oh, dear ! I wanted to kiss Mervyn for saying so. Oli, wasn't it fun ! And now, Maria — oh ! if I could have stayed a moment longer !' ' Bertha, Bertha, not such a noise in the hall. Come, Maria ; mind, you must not tell anybody. Bertha, come,' exjiostulated Phoebe, trying to drag her sister to the red biizedoor; but Bertha stood, bending nearly double, exaggerating the helpless- ness of her paroxysms of laughter. ' Well, at least the cat will have something to scratch her,' she gasped out. ' Oh, I did so want to stay and see !' ' Have you been playing any tricks 1' exclaimed Phoebe, with consternation, as Bertlia's deportment recurred to her. ' Tricks % — I couldn't help it. Oh, listen, Phoebe !' cried Bertha, with her wicked look of triumph. ' I brought home such a lovely sting-nettle for Miss Feunimore's peacock catex*- pillar ; and when I heard how kind dear Juliana was to you about your visit to London, I thought she really must have it lor a reward ; so I ran away, and slily tucked it into her bouquet ; and I did so hope she would take it u]) to fiddle with •when the gentlemen talk to her,' said the elf, with an irre- sistibly comic imitation of Juliana's manner towards gentlemeu. ioi HOPES AND FEA11S. jertlia, Uiis is beyond ' begau Pliocbe. * Didn't you sting your fingers T asked INIaria. Bertlia stuck oat her fat pink paws, embellished with sundry whit'j lumps. 'All pleasure,' said she, ' thinking of the jump Juliana will give, and how nicely it serves her.' Phoebe was already on her way back to the drawing-rooms ; Bertha sj)rang after, but in vain. Never would she have risked the success of her trick, could she have guessed that Phoebe would have the temerity to return to the company ! Phoebe glided in without waiting for the sense of awkward- ness, though she knew she should have to cross the whole i-oom, tind she durst not ask any one to bring the dangerous bouquet to lier — not even Robert — ^be must not be stung in her Ecrvice. She met her mother's astonished eye as she threaded her way; she wound round a group of gentlemen, and spied tlie article of which she was in quest, where Juliana had laid it down with her gloves on going to the piano. Actually she had it! She had seized it unperceived ! Good little thief; it was a most innocent robbery ; she crept away with a sense of guilt and desire to elude observation, positively starting when she encountered her fatlier's portly figure in the ante-room. He stopped her with ' Going to bed, eh ? So Miss Charlecote has taken a fancy to you, ha.s she t It docs you credit. What shall yon want for the journey V ' Boodle is going to see,' began Phoebe, but he interrupted. ' Will fifty do ? I will have my daughters well turned out. All to be S]!en upon yourself, mind. Why, you've not a bit of jewellery on ! Have you a watch V 'No, papa.' ' Bobert shall choose one for you, tlien. Come to my room any time for the cash ; and if Miss Charlecote takes you any- where among her set — good connexions she has — and ynu want to be rigged out extra, send me in the bill — anything rather than be shabby.' ' Thank you, papa ! Then, if I am asked out anywhere, may I go r ' Why, wliat does the child mean ? Anywhere that Miss Charlecote likts to take you, of course.' ' Only becau.se I am not come ont.' ' Stuff about coming out ! I don't like my girls to be shy end backward. They've a right to show themselves anywhere ; find you should be going out with us now, but somehow your ])oor mother doesn't like the trouble of such a lot of girls. So dou't be shy, but make the most of yourself, for you wont meet HOPES AND FEARS ]?J;3 many better endowed, nor more highly accomplished. Goou night, and enjoy yourself.' Palpitating with wonder and pleasui'e, Phoebe escaped. Such j)erniission, over-riding all Juliana's injunctions, was worth a few nettle stings and a great fright ; for Phoebe was not pliilo- sopher enough, in spite of Miss Fennimore — ay, and of Robert — not to have a keen desire to see a great party. Her delay liad so much convinced the sisters that her expe- dition had had some fearful consequences, that Maria was already crying lest dear Phoebe should be in disgrace ; and Bertha had seated herself on the balusters, debating with her- self whether, if Phoebe were suspected of the trick (a likely story) and condemned to lose her visit to London, she would confess herself the guilty person. And when Phoebe came back, too much overcome with delight to do anything but communicate papa's goodness, and rejoice in the unlimited power of making pi-esents. Bertha triumphantly insisted on her confessing that it had been a capital thing that the nettles wei'e in Juliana's nosegay ! Phoebe shook her head; too happy to scold, too humble to draw the moral that the surest way to gratification is to x-emove the thorns from the j^iath of others. CHAPTER III. She gives thee a garland woven fair, Take care ! It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, Beware ! Beware ! Trust her not, She is fooling thee I Longfellow, from Muller. BEHOLD Phoebe Fulmort seated in a train on the way to London. She was a very pleasant spectacle to Miss Charle- cote opposite to her, so peacefull}' joyous was her face, as she fiat with the wind breathing in on her, in the calm luxury of contemplating tlie landscape gliding past the windows in all its summer charms, and the repose of having no one to hunt her into unvaried rationality. Her eye was the first to detect Robert in waiting at the terminus, but he looked more depressed than ever, and scarcely gmiled as he handed them to the carriage. 136 HOPES AND FEARS. * Get in, Robert, you are coming home with ns,' said Honor. ' You have so much to take, I should encumber you.' ' No, the sundries go in cabs, with the maids. Jump in.' ' Do your friends arrive to-night V 'Yes; but that is no reason you should look so rueful! Make the most of Phoebe beforehand. Besides, Mr. Parsons is a Wykehamist.* Robert took his place on the back seat, but still as if he would have preferred walking home. Neither liis sister nor his friend dared to ask whether he had seen Lucilla. Could she have refused him 1 or was her frivolity preying on his spirits 1 Phoebe tried to interest him by the account of the family migration, and of Miss Fennimore's promise tliat Maria and Bertha should have two half hours of real play in the garden on each day when the lessons had been proj:)erly done ; and how- she had been so kind as to let Maria leave off trying to read a French book that had proved too hard for her, not perceiving why this instance of good-nature was not cheering to her brother. Miss Charlecote's hoiise was a deliGjlitful marvel to Phoebe from the moment when she rattled into the paved court, entered upon the fragrant odour of the cedar hall, and saw the Queen of Sheba's golden locks beaming with the evening light. She entered the drawing-room, pleasant-looking already, under the judicious arrangement of the housekeeper, who had set out the Holt flowers and arranged the books, so that it seemed full of welcome. Phoebe ran from window to mantelpiece, enchanted with the quaint mixture of old and new, admiring carving and stained glass, and declaring that Owen had not prepared her for any- thing equal to this, until Miss Charlecote, going to arrange matters with her housekeeper, left the brother and sister together. ' Well, Robin!' said Phoebe, coming up to him anxiously. He Duly crossed his arms on the mantelpiece, rested his head on them, and sighed. ' Have you seen her V * Not to speak to her.' * Have you called V 'No.' ' Tlien where did you see her T ' She was riding in the Park. I was on foot.' *She could not have seen you !' exclaimed Phoebe. 'She did,' replied Robert ; *I was going to tell you. Sho jjave me one of her sweetest, brightest smiles, such as only she HOPES AND FEARS. 137 can give. You know them, Phoebe. No assumed welcome, but a sudden flash and sparkle of real gladness.' ' But why — what do you mean V asked Phoebe ; ' wliy have you not been to her? I thought from your manner that she had been neglecting you, but it seems to me all the other way.' ' I cannot, Phoebe ; I cannot put my poor pretensions foi-ward in the set she is with. I know they would influence her, and that her decision would not be calm and mature.' ' Her decLsioa of what you are to be V ' That is fixed,' said Robert, sighing. ' Indeed ! With papa.' • No, in my own mind. I have seen enough of the business to find that I could in ten years quadruple my capital, and in the meantime maintain her in the manner she prefers.' ' You are quite sure she prefers it V ' She has done so ever since she could exercise a choice. I should feel myself doing her an injustice if I were to take advantage of any preference she may entertain for me to con- demn her to what would be to her a dreary banishment.' * Not with you,' cried Phoebe. ' You know nothing about it, Phoebe. You have never led such a life, and you it would not hurt — attract, I mean ; l.uit lovely, fascinating, formed for admiration, and craving for excitement as she is, she is a being that can only exist in society. She would be miserable in homely retirement — I mean she would prey on herself. I could not ask it of her. If she consented, it would be without knowing her own tastes. No ; all that remains is to find out whether she can submit to owe her wealth to our business.* ' And shall you V ' I could not but defer it till I should meet her here,' said Robert. ' I shrink from seeius her witli those cousins, or hearing her name with theirs. Phoebe, imagine my feelings wlien, going into Mervyn's club with him, I heard " Rashe Cliarteris and Cilly Saudbrook" contemptuously discussed by those very names, and jests passing on their independent ways. I know how it is. Those people work on her spirit of enter- ])rise, and she — too guileless and innocent to heed appearances. Phoebe, you do not wonder that I am nearly mad !' ' Poor Robin !' said Phoebe aSectionately. * But, indeed, I am sure, if Lucy once had a hint — no, one could not tell her, it would shock her too much ; but if she had the least idea that people could be so impertinent.' and Phosbe's cheeks glowed with shame and indignation, • she would only wish to go away 138 HOPES AND FEARS. as fur as slie could for fear of seeing any of them again. I am Bure tliey were not gentlemen, Rubin.' *.A man mxist be supereminently a gentleman to respect a woman who does not tnake him do so,' said Robert, niourn- fvdl}^ ' That Miss Charteris ! Oh ! that she were banished to Siberia !' Plioebe meditated a few moments ; then looking up, said, ' I beg your pardon, Rubin, but it does strike me that, if you think that this kind of life is uot good for Lucilla, it cannot be right to sacrifice your own higher prospects to enable her to continue it; ' I tell you, Phcebe,' said he with some impatience, ' I never was pledged. 1 may be of much more use and infiuence, and able to efiect more extended good as a partner in a concern like this than as an obscure clergyman. Don't you see V Phcebe had only time to utter a somewhat melancholy ' Very likely,' before Miss Charlecote returned to take her to her I'oom, the promised brown cupboard, all wainscoted with delicious cedar, so deeply and uniformly panelled, that when shut, the door was not obvious ; and it was like being in a box, for there were no wai'drobes, only shelves shut by doors into the wall, which the old usage of the household tradition called awrnries {armoires). The furniture was reasonably modern, but not obtrusively so. There was a delicious recess in the deep window, with a seat and a table in it, and a box of mignionette along the sill. It looked out into the little high-walled entrance court, and beyond to the wall of the warehouse opposite ; and the I'oar of the great city thuroughfare came like the distant s\irging of the ocean. Seldom had young maiden's bower given more satisfaction. Phoebe looked about her as if she hardly knew how to believe in anything so unlike her ordinary life, and she thanked her friend again and again with such enthu- siasm, that Miss Charlecote laughed as she told lier she liked the old house to be appreciated, since it had, like Pompeii, been potted for posterity. 'And thank you, my deai',' she added with a sigh, ' for making my coming home so pleasant. May you never know how I dreaded the finding it fvdl of emptiness.' ' Dear Miss Cliarlecote !' cried Phoebe, venturing upon a warm kiss, and thrilled with sad pleasui'e as she was pressed in a warm, clinging embrace, and felt tears on her cheek. ' You have been so happy here l' ' It is not the past, my dear,' said Honora ; ' I coidd live peacefully on the thought of that. The shadows that people this Louse are very gentle ones. It is the present !' HOPES AND FEARS. IVyJ She broke off, for the gates of the court were opening to admit a detachment of cabs, containing the persons and pioperties of t!ie new incumbent and his wife. He had been a curate of Mr. Cliarlecote, since whose death he had led a very hard-working life in various towns; and on his recent presentation to the living of St. Wulstan's, Honora had begged him and his wife to make her house their home while determining on the repairs of tlie parsonage. She rau down to meet them with gladsome steps. She had never entirely dropped her intercourse with Mr. Parsons, though seldom meeting ; and he was a relic of the past, one of the very few who still called her by her Christian name, and regarded her more as the clergyman's daughter of St. Wulstan's than as lady of the Holt. Mrs. Parsons was a thorough clergyman's wife, as active as himself, and much loved and esteemed by Honora, with whom, in their few meetings, she had 'got on' to admiration. There they were, looking after luggage, and paying cabs so Leedfully as not to remark their hostess standing on the stairs ; and she had time to survey them with the affectionate curiosity of meeting after long absence, and witli pleasure in remarking that there was little change. Perhaps they were rather more gray, and had grown more alike by force of living and thinking together ; but they both looked equally alert and cheerful, and as if 50 and 55 were the very prime of years for substantial work. Their first glances at her were full of tlie same anxiety for her health and strength, as they heartily shook hands, and accom- j)anied her into the drawing-room, she exijlaiuing that Mr. Parsons was to have the study all to himself, and never be dis- turbed tliere ; then inquiring after the tliree children, two daughters, who were married, and a son lately ordained. ' I thought you would have brought William to see about the curacy,' she said. ' He is not strong enough,' said his mother, ' He wished it, but he is better where he is ; he could not bear the work here.' ' No ; I told him the utmost I should allow would be an exchange now and then when my curates were overdone,' said Mr. Par-sons. 'And so you are quite deserted,' said Honor, feeling the more drawn towards her friends. ' Starting afresh, with a sort of honeymoon, as I tell Anne,' replied Mr. Parsons; and such a bright look passed between them, as though they were quite sufficient for each other, that Honor felt there was no parallel between their case and her own. ' Ah ! you have not lost your children yet,' said Mrs. Paraojis. 140 HOPES AND FEARS. ' They are not with me,' said Honor, quickly. * Lucy is with her cousins, and Owen — I don't exactly know how lie means to dispose of himself this vacation ; but we were all to meet here.' Guessing, pei-haps, that Mr. Parsons saw into her dis- satisfaction, she then assumed their defence. ' There is to be a grand affair at Castle Blanch, a celebration of young Charles Charteris's marriage, and Owen and Lucy will be wanted for it.' ' Whom has he married ?' 'A Miss Mendoza, an immense fortune — something in the stockbroker line. He had spent a good deal, and wanted to repair it ; but they tell me she is a very handsome person, very ladylike and agreeable ; and Lucy likes her greatly. I am to go to luncheon at their house to-moiTow, so I shall treat you as if you were at home.' ' 1 should hoj)e so,' quoth Mr. Parsons. ' Yes, or I know you would not stay hei'e propei'ly. I'm not alone, either. Why, where's the boy gone 1 I thought he was here. I have two young Fulmorts, one staying here, the other looking in from the office.' 'Fulmort !' exclaimed Mr. Parsons, with three notes of admi- ration at least in his voice. ' What ! the distiller V ' The enemy himself, the identical lord of gin-shops — at least his children. Did you not know that he man-ied my next neighbour, Augusta Mervyn, and that our properties touch ? He is not so bad by way of squire as he is here ; and I have known his wife all my life, so we keep up all habits of good neighbourhood ; and though they have brought u]) the elder ones very ill, they have not succeeded in spoiling this son and daughter. She is one of the very nicest girls I ever knew, and he, poor fellow, has a great deal of good in him.' ' I think I have heard William speak of a Pulmort,' said Mrs. Parsons. ' Was he at Winchester 1' ' Yes ; and an infinite help the influence there has been to him. I never saw any one more anxious to do right, oftcu under great disadvantages. I shall be very glad for him to be with you. He was always intended for a clergyman, but now I am afraid there is a notion of putting him into the business ; and he is here attending to it for the present, while his father and bi'other are abroad. I am sorry he is gune. I suppose he was seized with a fit of shyness.' However, when all the party had been to their rooms and })r<'pared for dinner, llobert reapijcared, and was asked wheio he had been. ' I went to dress,' he answered. HOPES AND FEARS. 141 * Ah ! where do you lodge 1 I asked Phoebe, but she said your letters went to Whittington-street.' ' There are two very good rooms at the office which my father sometimes uses.' Phoebe and Miss Charlecote glanced at each other, aware that Mervyn would never have condescended to sleep in Great Whittington-street. Mr. Parsons likewise perceived a straight- forwardness in the manner, which made him ready to acknow- ledo-e his fellow-Wykehamist and his son's acquaintance ; and they quickly became good friends over recollections of Oxford and Winchester, tolerably strong in Mr. Parsons himself, and all the fresher on 'William's' account. Phoebe, whose expe- rience of social intercourse was confined to the stately evening hoiir in the drawing-room, had never listened to anything approaching to this style of conversation, nor seen her brother to so much advantage in society. Hitherto she had only beheld him neglected in his uncongenial home circle, contemning and contemned, or else subjected to the fretting torment of Lucilla's caprice. She had never known what he could be, at his ease, among persons of the same way of thinking. Speaking scarcely ever herself, and her fingers busy with her needle, she ■was receiving a better lesson than Miss Fennimore had ever yet been able to give. The acquiring of knowledge is one thing, the putting it out to profit another. Gradually, from general topics, the conversation contracted to the parish and its aflT'urs, known intimately to Mr. Parsons a quarter of a century ago, but in which Honora was now the best informed ; while Robei-t listened as one who felt as if he might have a considerable stake therein, and indeed looked upon usefulness there as compensation for the schemes he was resigning. The changes since Mr. Parsons's time had not been cheering. The late incumbent had been a man whose trust lay chiefly iu preaching, and who, as his health failed, and he became more unable to cope with the crying evils around, had grown despair- ing, and given way to a sort of dismal, callous indifi'erence ; not doing a little, because he could not do much, and quashing the plans of others with a nervous dread of innovation. The class of superior persons in trade, and families of professional men, who in Mr. Chai'lecote's time had filled many a massively-built pew, had migrated to the suburbs, and preserved only an office or shop in the parish, an empty pew in the church, whei-e the congregation was to be counted by tens instead of hundreds. Kot that the population had fallen offi Ceitain streets which Lad been a grief and pain to Mr. Charlecote, but over which he I'ii HOPES AND FEARS. had never entirely lost his hold, had become intolerably worse. Improvements in other parts of London, dislodging the inha- bitants, had heaped them in festering masses of corruption in these untouched byways and lanes, places where honest men dared not penetrate without a policeman j and report spoke of rooms shai'ed by six families at once. Mr. Parsons had not talcen the cure unknovving of what he should find in it ; he said nothing, and looked as simple and cheerful as if his life wei'e not to be a daily course of hei-oisra. His wife gave one long, stifled sigh, and looked furtively upon him with her loving eyes, in something of anxious fear, but with far more of exultation. Yet it was in no dispirited tone that she asked after the respectable poor — there surely must be some employed in small trades, or about the warehouses. She was answered that these were not many in proj)ortion, and that not only had pew-rents kept them out of church, but that they had little disposition to go there. They did send their children to the old endowed charity schools, but as these children grew up, wave after wave lapsed into a smooth, respectable heathen life of Sunday plea- suring. The more religious became dissenters, because the earnest inner life did not approve itself to them in Church teaching as presented to thim ; the worse sort, by far the most numerous, ft:ll lower and lower, and hovered scarcely above the de[)ths of sin and misery. Diiuking was the universal vice, and di-agged many a seemingly steady character into every stage of degradation. Men and women alike fell under the temptation, and soon hastened down the descent of corruption and crime. ' Ah !' said Mrs. Parsons, ' I observed gin j)alaces at the corner of every street.' There was a pause. Neither her husband nor PTonor made any reply. If they had done so, neither of the young Fulmorts wotild have perceived any connexion between the gin palaces and their father s ])rofession ; but the silence caused both to raise their eyes. Phojbe, judging by her sistor.s' code of the becoming, fancied that their friends supposed their feelings might be hurt by allu ling to the distillery, as a trade, and cast about for some cheerful observations, which she could not find. Robert liad received a new idea, one that must be put aside till he had time to look at it. There was a ring at the door. Honor's face lighted up at the tread on the marltle pavement of the hall, and without other announcement, a young man entered the room, and as she •prang up to meet him, bent down his lofty head, and kissed her with half-filial, half-coaxing tenderness. HOPES AND FEARS. 143 ' Yes, here I am. They told me I should find yoii here. Ah ! Plio3be, I'm glad to see you. Fulmort, how are you V and a well-bi ed shake of the hand to Mr. and Mrs. Parsons, with the ease and air of the young master, returning to his mother's house. ' When did you come T ' Only to-day. I got away sooner thau T expected. I went to Lowndes Square, and tliey told me I should tind you here, so I came away as soon as dinner was over. They were di'essing for some grand affaii", and wanted me to come with them, but of course I must come to see if you had really achieved bring- ing bright Phoebe from her orbit.' His simile conveyed the astronomical compliment at once to Honora and Phoebe, who were content to share it. Honoi-a was in a condition of subdued excitement and anxiety, com- pared to which all other sensations were tame, chequered as was her felicity, a state well-known to mothers and sisters. In- tensely gratified at her darling's arrival, gladdened by his presence, rejoicing in his endowments, she yet dreaded every phrase lest some dim misgiving should be deepened, and watched for the impression he made on her friends, as though her own depended upon it. Admiration could not but come foremost. It was pleasant to look upon such a fine specimen of manly beauty and vigour. Of unusual height, his form was so well moulded, that his superior stature was only perceived by comjmrison with others, and the proportions were those of great strength. The small well-set head, i)roudly carried, the short, straiglit features, aiu' the form of the free massive curls, might have been a model foi the bust of a Greek athlete ; the colouring was the fresh, healthy bronzed ruddiness of English youth, and the expression had a certain boldness of good-humoured freedom, agreeing with the quiet power of the whole figure. Those bright grey eyes could never have been daunted, those curling, mei'ry lip^i never at a loss, that smooth brow never been unwelcome, th{isc easy movements never cramped, nor the manners restrained by bashfulness The C( n'rast was not favourable to Robert The fair pro- portions of the one brouglit out the irregular build of the other ; the classical face made the plain one more homely, the erect bearing made the t be rather tiresome,' said Honor ; ' she cannot be much of a companion.' * I don't fancy she gets much satisfaction,' said Owen, laugh- ing ; ' Bashe never uses much " soft sawder." It's an easy-going place, where you may do just as you choose, and the young ladies appreciate liberty. By the by, what do you think of this Irish scheme?' Honora was so much ashamed of it, that she had never men- tioned it even to Phoebe, and she was the more sorry that it had been thus adverted to, as she saw Robert intent on what Owen let fall. She answered shortly, that she could not suppose it serious. 'Serious as a churchyard,' was Owen's answer. *I dare say they will ask Phoebe to join the party. For my own part, I never believed in it till 1 came up to-day, and found the place full of salmon-flies, and the start fixed for Wednesday the 24th.' ' Who T came a voice from the dark mantelshelf. * Who 1 Why, t'hat's the best of it. Who but my wise sister and Rashe ? Not a soul besides,' cried Owen, giving way to laugliter, which no one was disposed to echo. 'They vow that they will fish all the best streams, and do more than any crack fisherman going, and they would like to see who will venture to warn them off. They've tried that already. Last summer what did Liicy do, but go and fish Sir Harry Puller's water. You know he's a veiy tiger about preserving. Well, she fished coolly on in the face of all his keepers ; they stood aghast, didn't know what manner of Nixie it was, I sujipose ; and when Sir Harry came down, foaming at the mouth, she just L 146 HOPES AND FEARS. Bliook hei curls, and made Lini wade in up to his knees to get her fly out of a bramble !' ' That must be exaggerated,' said Robert. ' Exaggerated ! Not a word ! It's not possible to exaggerate Cilly's coolness. I did say something about going with them.' ' You must, if they go at all !' exclaimed Honora. ' Out of the question, Sweet Honey. They i-eject me with disdain, declare that I should only render them commonplace, and that " rich and rai-e were the gems she wore," would never have got across Ireland safe if she had a great strapping brother to hamper her. And really, as Charles says, I don't suppose any damage can well happen to them.' Honora would not talk of it, and turned the conversation to what was to be done on the following day. Owen eagerly prof- fered himself as escort, and suggested all manner of plans, evidently assuming the entire diiection and protection of the two ladies, who were to meet him at luncheon in Lowndes Square, and go with him to the Royal Academy, which, as he and Honora agreed, must necessarily be the earliest object for the sake of providing innocent conversation. As soon as the cluck struck ten, Robert took leave, and Owen rose, but instead of going, lingered, talking Oxford with Mr. Pai'sons, and telling good stories, much to the ladies' amusement, though increasing Houora's trepidation by the fear that some- thing in his tone about the authorities, or the slang of his manner, might not give her friends a very good idea of his set. The constant fear of wliat might come next, absolutely made lier impatient for his departure, and at last she drove him away, by begging to know iiow he was going all that distance, and offering to send Henry to call a cab, a thing he was too good- natured to permit. He bade good night and departed, while Mr, Parsons, in answer to her eager eyes, gratified her by pro- nouncing him a very fine young man, ' He is vei-y full of spirit,' she said. ' You must let me tell yt)U a story of him. They liave a young new schoolmistress at AV'rajjworth, his father's former living, you know, close to Castle Blanch, This jjoor thing was obliged to punish a schoolchild, the daughter of one of the bargemen on the Thames, a huge rulTianly man. Well, a day or two after, Owen came upon him iji a narrow lane, bullying the poor girl almost out of her life, threatening her, and daring her to lay a finger on his children. What do you think Owen did V 'Fought him, I sup])ose,' said Mr. Parsons, 'judging by the peculiar delight ladies take in such exploits. Besides, he has mfficic^ntly the air of a hero to make it incumbent on him to " kill some giant."' HOPES AND FEARS. 147 'We Tiaay be content with something short of his killing the giant,' said Honor, 'but he really did gain the victory. That lad, under nineteen, positively beat this great monster of a man, and made him ask the girl's pardon, knocked liim down, and thoroughly mastered him ! 1 should have known nothing of it, though, if Owen had not got a black eye, which made him un- presentable for the Castle Blanch gaieties, so he came down to the Holt to me, knowing I should not mind wounds gained in a good cause.' They wished her good night in her triumph. The recei])t of aletter was rare and supreme felicity to Maria; therefore to indite one was Phoebe's first task on the morrow; after which she took up her book, and was deeply engaged, when the door flew back, and the voice of Owen Sandbrook exclaimed, ' Goddess of the silver bow ! what, alone V ' Miss Charlecote is with her lawyer, and Kobertat the office.' ' The parson and parsoness parsonically gone to study par- sonages, schools, and dilapidations, I suppose. What a bore it is having them here ; I'd have taken up my quarters here, otherwise, but I can't stand parish politics.' 'I like them very much,' said Phoebe, 'and Miss Charlecote seems to be happy with them.' ' Just her cut, dear old thing ; the same honest, illogical, prac- tical sincerity,' said Owen, in a tone of somewhat superior melancholy ; but seeing Phoebe about to resent his words as a disrespectful imputation on their friend, he turned the subject, addressing Phoebe in the manner between teasing and flattering, habitual to a big schoolboy towards a younger child, phases of existence which each had not so long outgrown as to have left ofi" the mutual habits thereto belongina'. 'And what is briirht Cynthia doing ? Writing verses, I declare ! — worthy sister of Phoebus Apollo.' ' Only notes,' said Phoebe, relinquishing her paper, in testi- mony. ' When found make a note of — Summoned by writ — temp. Ed. III. — burgesses — knights of shire. It reads like an act of I>arliament. Hallam's English Constitution. My eyes ! By way of lighter study. It is quite appalling. Pray what may be the occupation of your more serious moments ?' ' You see the worst I have with me.' ' Holiday recreation, to which you can just condescend. I say, Phoebe, I have a great curiosity to understand the Zend. I wish you would explain it to me.' ' If I ever read it,' began Phoebe, laughing. L 2 148 HOPES AND FEARS. ' What, you pretend to deny 1 You wont put me off tliat way. A lady who can only unbend so far as to the Englid£i Constitution by way of recreation, must ' ' But it is not by way of recreation.' ' Come, I know my respected cousin too well to imagine she would have imposed siich a task. That wont do, Phoebe.' ' I never said she had, but Miss Fennimore desired me.' * I shall appeal. There's no act of tyranny a woman in authority will not commit. But this is a free country, Phoebe, as may be you have gathered from your author, and unless her trammels have reached to your soul ' and he laid his hand on the book to take it away. ' Perhaps tliey have,' said Phoebe, smiling, but holding it fast, ' for I shall be much moi*e comfortable in doing as I wa3 told.' * Indeed !' said Owen, pretending to scrutinize her as if she were something extraordinary (really as an excuse for a good gaze upon her imve comjJexion and limpid eyes, so steady, cliildlike, and unabashed, free from all such consciousness as would make them shrink from the playful look). ' Indeed ! Now, in my experience the comfort would be in the noi doing as you were told.' * Ah ! but you know I have no spirit.' ' I wish to heaven other people had none 1' cried Owen, sud- denly changing his tone, and sitting down opposite to Plicebe, liis elbow on the table, and speaking earnestly. ' I would give the world tliat my sister were like yo\i. Did you ever hear of anything so preposterous as this Irish business V 'She cannot think of it, wjien Miss Charlecote has told her of all the objections,' said Phoebe. ' She will go the more,' returned Owen ; * T say to you, Phoebo, what I would say to no one else. Lucilla's treatment of Honora Charlecote is abominable — vexes me more tlnn I can say. They say some nations have no words for gratitude. One would think she had come of them.' Phoebe looked much shocked, but said, ' Perhaps Miss Charle- cote's kindness has seemed to her like a matter of course, not as it does to us, who have no claim at all.' ' We had no claim,' said Owen ; *the connexion is nothing, absolutely nothing. I believe, poor dear, the attraction was that she had once been attached to my father, and he was too j)Oinilar a preacher to keep well as a lover. Well, there were we, a couple of orphans, a nuisance to all our kith and kin — nobody with a bit of mercy for us but that queer old coon. Kit Chartcris, when she takes us home, treats us like her own chil- HOPES AND FEARS. 149 Oven, feels for us as much as the best mother living could ; under- takes to provide for us. Now, I put it to you, Phcebe, has she any right to be cast off in this fashion V ' I don't know in what fashion you mean.' ' Don't you. Haven't you seen how Cilly has run restive from babyhood 1 A pretty termagant she was, as even I can remember. And how my poor father spoilt her! Anyone but Honor would have given her up, rather than have gone through what she did, so firmly and patiently, till she had broken her in fairly well. But then come in these Charterises, and Cilly runs frantic after them, her own dear relations. Much they had cared for us when we were troublesome little pests. But it's all the force of blood. Stuff ! The whole truth is that they are gay, and Honora quiet ; they encourage Ler to run riot. Honora keeps her in order.' * Have you spoken to her T ' As well speak to the wind. She thinks it a great favour to run down to Hiltonbury for the Horticultural Show, turn everything topsy-turvy, keep poor dear Sweet Honey in a per- petual ferment, then come away to Castle Blanch, as if she were rid of a troublesome duty.' * I thought Miss Charlecote sent Lucy to enjoy herself 1 "We always said how kind and self-denying she was.' ' Denied, rather,' said Owen ; ' only that's her way of carry- ing it off. A month or two in the season might be very well ; see the world, and get the tone of it ; but to racket about with Ratia, and leave Honor alone for months together, is too strong for me,' Honora came in, delighted at her boy's visit, and well pleased at the manner in which he was engrossed. Two such children needed no chaperon, and if that sweet crescent moon were to be his guiding light, so much the better. ' Capital girl, that,' he said, as she left the room, ' This is a noble achievement of yours.' ' In getting my youngest princess out of the castle. Ay ! I ■io feel in a beneficent enchanter's position.' ' She has grown up much prettier than she promised to be.' ' And far too good for a Fulmort. But that is Eobert's doing.' ' Poor Robert ! how he shows the old distiller in grain. So he is taking to the old shop ? — best thing for him.' ' Only by way of experiment.' ' Pleasant expeiiment to make as much as old Fulmort ! I wish he'd take me into partnership.' ' You, Owen V 150 HOPES AND PEAKS. 'T am not proud. These aren't the days when it matters how a man gets his tin, so he knows what to do with it. Ay ! tlie workl gets beyond the dear old Hiltonbuiy views, after all, Sweet Hnney, and you see what City atmosphere does to me.' ' You know I never wished to press any choice on you,' slie faltered. * What !' with a good-humoured air of affront, ' you thought me serious 1 Don't you know I'm the ninth, instead of the nineteenth-century man, under your wing 1 I'd proniise you to be a bishop, only, you see, I'm afraid I couldn't be mediocre enough.' ' For shame, Owen !' and yet she smiled. That boy's presence and caressinof sweetness towards herself were the greatest bliss to her, almost beyond that of a mother with a sou, because more uncertain, less her right by nature. Phoebe came down as the carriage was at the door, and they called in Whittington Street for her brother, but he only came out to say he was very busy, and would not intrude on Mrs. Charteris — bashfulness for which he was well abused on the way to Lowndes Square. Owen, with liis air of being at home, piit aside the servants as they entered the magnificent house, replete with a display of state and luxury analogous to that of Beauchamp, but with better taste and crreater ease. The Fulmorts wei'e in bondage to ostentation ; the Charterises were lavish for their own enjoy- ment, and heedless alike of cost and of appearance. The great drawing-room was crowded with furiiitui'e, and the splendid marqueterie tables and criui.sou ottomans were piled with a wild confusion of books, pi'ints, periodicals, papei's, and caricatures, heaped over ornaments and bijouterie, and beyond, at the doorway of a second room, even more miscellaneou.sly filled, a small creature .'sprang to meet them, kis.-ing Honora, and exclaiming, ' Here you are ! Have you brouglit the pig's wool? Ah! but you've brought something el.se ! No — what's become of that Redbreast !' as she embraced Phoebe. ' He was so busy that he could not come.' ' Ill-behaved bird ; a whole month without coming near me.' ' Only a week,' said Phoebe, sjieaking less freely, as she per- ceived two strangers in the room, a gentleman in moustaches, who shook hands with Owen, aiul a lady, whom from her greet- ing to Miss Charh'cote (for introductions were not the way of the house), she concluded to be the formidable Rashe, and there- fore regarded with some curiosity. Phoebe had expected her to lie a large masculine woman, and was surprised at her dapper proportions and not ungraceful HOPES AND FEARS. l5l manner. Her face, neither haudsome nor the reverse, was one tliat neither in features nor complexion revealed her age, and her voice was pitched to the tones of good society, so that V)iit for a certain ' don't care' sound in her words, and a defiant freedom of address, Phoebe would have set down all she had heard as a mistake, in spite of the table covered with the bril- liant appliances of flj-uiaking, over which both she and Lucilla were engaged. It was at the period when ladies affected coats and waistcoats, and both cousins followed the fashion to the utmost ; wearing tightly- fit ting black coats, plain linen collars, and shirt-like under-sleeves, with black ties round the neck. Horatia was still in mourning for her mother, and wore a black skirt, but Lucilla's was of rich deep gentianella- coloured silk, and the buttons of her white vest were of beauti- ful coral. The want of drapery gave a harshness to Miss Charteris's appearance, but the little masculine affectations only rendered Lucy's miniature style of feminine beauty still more piquant. Less tall than many girls of fourteen, she was ex- quisitely formed ; the close-fitting dress became her taper waist, the ivory fairness of the throat and hands shone out in their boyish setting, and the soft delicacy of feature and complexion were enhanced by the vivid sparkling of tliose porcelain blue eyes, under the long lashes, still so fair and glossy as to glisten in the light, like her profiise flaxen tresses, arranged in a cun- ning wilderness of plaits and natural ringlets. The great charm was the minuteness and refinement of the mould containing the energetic spirit that glanced in her eyes, quivered on her lips, and ]iervaded every movement of the elastic feet and hands, childlike in size, statnelike in symmetry, elfin in quickness and dexterity. 'Lucile la Fee,' she might well have been called, as she sat manipulating the gorgeous silk and feathei's with an essential strength and firmness of Lands such as could hatdly have been expected from such small members, and producing such lovely specimens that nothing seemed wanting but a touch of her wand to endow them w^ith life. It was fit fairy work, and be it failher known, that few women ai'e caj^able of it ; they seldom have sufficient accuracy of sustained attention and firmness of finger combined, to produce anything artistic f.r durable, and the accomplishment was therefore Lucilla's pride. Her cousin could prepare materials, but could not finish. ' Have you brought the pig's wool V rej)eatcd Lucy, as they sat down. ' No 1 That is a cruel way of testifying. I can't find a scrap of that shade, though I've neai'ly broke my heart in the tackle shops. Here's my last fragment, and this butcher will be a wreck for want of it.' 162 HOPES AND FEARS. ' Let me see,' quoth the gentleman, bending over with an air of intimacy. * You may see,' retiirned Lucilla, ' but that will do no good. Owen got this at a little shop at Elveivlope, and we can only conclude that the father of orange pigs is dead, for we've tried eveiy maker, and can't hit off the tint.' ' I've seen it in a shop in the Strand,' he said, with an air of depreciation, such as set both ladies off with an ardour inex- plicable to mere spectators, both vehemently defending the peculiarity of their favourite hue, and little personalities passing, exceedingly diverting apparently to both parties, but whicli vexed Honora and dismayed Plioebe by the coolness of the gentleman, and the ease with which he was treated bv the ladies. Luncheon was announced in the midst, and in the dining- room they found Mrs. Charteris, a dark, aquiline beauty, of highly-coloured complexion, snch as permitted the glowing hues of dress and ornament in which she delighted, and large languid dark eyes of Oriental appearance. In the scarlet and gold net confining her sable locks, her ponderous eari-ings, her massive chains and bracelets, and gorgeous silk, she was a splendid ornament at the head of the table ; but she looked sleejnly out from under her black-fringed eyelids, txirned over the carving as a matter of course to Owen, and evidently regarded the two young ladies as bound to take all trouble off her hands in talking, arranging, or settling what she should do with herself or her carriage. ' Lolly shall take you there,' or ' Lolly shall call for that,' passed between the cousins without the smallest reference to Lolly herself (otherwise Eloi'sa), who looked serenely indifferent through all the plans proposed for her, only once exerting her will sufficiently to say, ' Very well, Rashe, dear, you'll tell the coachman — only don't forget that I must go to Storr and JVIortimer's.' Honora expressed a hope that Lucilla would come with her party to the Exhibition, and was not pleased that Mr. Calthorp exclaimed that there was another plan. 'No, no, Mr. Calthorp, I never said any such thing i' ' Miss Charteris, is not that a little too strong T 'You told me of the Dorking,' cried Lucilla, 'and you snid you w-ould not miss the sight for anything ; but I never said you should have it.' Rashe meanwhile clapped her hands with exultation, and there was a regular clatter of eager A'oices — *I shoidd like to know how you would get the hackles out of a suburban poultry fancier.' HOPES AND FEARS. 153 ' Out of him ? — no, out of his best Dorking. Priced at 120?. last exhibition — two years old — wouldn't take 200^. for him now.' ' You don't mean that you've seen him V ' Hurrah !' Lucilla opened a paper, and waved triumphantly five of the long tippet-plumes of chanticleer. ' You don't meaa ' ' IMean ! I more than mean ! Didn't you tell us that you had been to see the old party on business, and had spied the hackles walking about in his yard V ' And I had hoped to introduce you.' * As if we needed that ! No, no. Rashe and I started off at six o'clock this morning, to shake off the remains of the ball, rode down to Brompton, and did our work. No, it was not like the macaw business, I declare. The old gentleman held the bird for us himself, and I promised him a dried salmon.' ' Well, I had flattered myself — it was an unfair advantage, Miss Sandbi-ook.' 'Not in the least. Had you gone, it wovild have cast a general clumsiness over the whole transaction, and not left the worthy old owner half so well satisfied. I believe you had so little originality as to expect to engage him in convei-sation while I captured the bird ; but once was enough of that.' Pncebe could not help asking what was meant ; and it was explained that, while a call was being made on a certain old lady with a blue and yellow macaw, Lucilla had contrived to abstract the prime glory of the creature's tail — a blue feather lined with yellow — an irresistible charm to a fisherwoman. But here even the tranquil Eloisa murmured that Cilly must never do so again when she went out with her. ' No, Lolly, indeed I wont. I prefer honesty, I assure you, except when it is too commonplace. I'll meddle with nothing at Madame Sonniui's this afternoon.' ' Then you cannot come with us V * Why, you see, Honor, here have Rashe and I been appointed band-masters. Lord Chamberlains, masters of the ceremonies, major-domos, and I don't know what, to all the Castle Blanch concern ; and as Rashe neither knows nor cares about music, I've got all that on my hands ; and I must take Lolly to look on while I manage the programme.' 'Ai-e you too busy to find a day to spend with us at St. Wulstan's V A discussion of engagements took place, apparently at the rite of five per day ; but Mrs. Charteris interposed an invitation to dinner for the next evening, including Robert 3 and farther 1'.4 HOPES AND FEARS. it appeared that all the three were expected to take part in the Castle Blanch festivities. Lolly had evideutly been told of them as settled certainties among the gnests, and Lucilla, Owen, and Eashe vied with each other in declaring that they had imagined Honor to have brought Phoebe to London with no other intent, and that all was fixed for the ladies to sleep at Castle Blanch the night before, and Robert Fulmort to come down in the morning by train. JSTothing coidd have been farther from Houora's predilections than such gaieties, but Phoebe's eyes wei'e growing round with eagerness, and there would be unkindness in denying her the pleasure, as well as churlishness in disappointing Lucy and Owen, who had reckoned on her in so gratifying a manner. Witliout decidedly accepting or refusing, she let the talk go on. 'Miss Frdmort,' said Ratia, ' I hope you are not too re- ligious to dance.' Much surprised, Phoebe made some reply in the negative. ' Oh, I forgot, that's not your sisters' line ; but I thought. . . .' and she gave an expressive glance to indicate Miss Charlecote. ' Oh, no,' again said Phoebe, decidedly. * \ es, I understand. Never mind, 1 ought to have remem- bered ; but when people are gone in, one is apt to forget wheLliei- they think " promiscuous dancing" immoral or praise- worthy. Well, you must know some of my brother's consti- tuents are alarmingly excellent — fat, suburban, and retired ; and we have hatched a juvenile hay-making, where they may eat and flirt without detriment to decided [liety ; and when they go off, we dress for a second instalment for an evening party.' To Phoebe it sounded like opening Paradise, and she listened anxiously for the decision ; but nothing appeared certain except the morrow's dinner, and that Lucilla was to come to spend the Sunday at Miss Charlecote's ; and this being fixed, the luncheon pai'ty Inoke up, with Mich pretty briglit affection on Lucilla's ])art, such merry coaxing of Honor, and such orders to Phoebe to ' catch that Robin to-morrow,' that there was no room left for the sense of disappointment that no rational word had passed. ' Where V asked Owen, getting into the carriage. ' Henry knows — the Royal Academy.' 'Ha! no alteration in consequence of the invitation? no finery required? you must nob carry Hiltonbuiy philoso])hy too far.' ' r have not accepted it.' 'ihat is not required; it is your fate, Phoebe; why dont' HOPES AND FEARS. lf>5 Toii spealc, or are you under an embargo from any of the wicked enchanters? Even if so, you might be got off among the pions juveniles.' ' Papa was so kind as to say I might go wherever Miss Cbarlecote liked,' said Phoebe; ' but, indeed, I liad rather do exactly what suits her ; I dare say the morning party will suit her best ' 'The oily popular preachers !' 'Thank you, Owen,' laughed Honor. 'No, now you must accept the whole. There's room to give the preachers a wide berth, even should they insist on " con- cluding with prayer," and it will be a pretty sight. They have the Guards' band coming." ' I never heard a military band,' ejaculated Phcebe. ' And there are to be sports for the village children, I believe,' added Owen ; 'besides, you will like to meet some of the lions — the Archdeacon and his wife will be there.' 'But how can I think of filling up Mrs. Charteris's house, without the least acquaintance V ' Honey-sweet philosopher, EloTsa heeds as little how her house is filled, so it be tilled, as Jessica did her father's ring. Five dresses a day, with accoiitrements to match, and for the rest she is sublimely indifferent. Fortune played her a cruel trick in preventing her from being born a fair sultana.' ' 'Not to be a Mahometan V said Phoebe. ' I don't imagine she is far removed from one ;' then, as Phoebe's horror made her look like Maria, he added—' I dont mean that she was not bred a Christian, but the Oriental mind never distinctly embraces tenets contrary to its constitution.' 'Miss Charlecote, is he talking in earnest?' ' I hope not,' Honora said, a little severely, * for lie would be giving a grievous account of the poor lady's faith ' ' Faith ! no, my dear, she has not I'eflection enough for faith. All that enters into the Eastern female mind is a little obser- vance.' ' And you are not going to lead Phoebe to believe that you think it indifferent whether those observances be Christian or Pagan ?' said Honora, earnestly. ' There was a little pause, and then Owen rather hesitatingly said — 'It is a hard thing to jn-cmounce that three-fifths of one's fellow-creatures are on the high i-oad to Erebus, esi)ecially when ethuologically we find that certain aspects of doctrine never have approved themselves to certain races, and that climate is stronger than creed. Am I not talking Fennimorically, Phoebe ?' 156 HOPES AND FEARS. * Much more Fennimorically than I wish her to hear, or you to speak,' said Honora ; ' you talk as if there were no such thing as truth.' ' Ah ! now comes the question of subjective and objective, and I was as innocent as possible of any intention of plunging into such a sea, or bringing those furrows into your forehead, dear Honor! See what it is to talk to you and Miss Fenni- luore's pupil. All things, human and divine, have arisen out of my simple endeavour to show you that yoii must come to Castle Blanch, the planners of the feast having so ordained, and it being good for all parties, due from the fairy godmother to the third princess, and seriously giving Cilly another chance of returning within the bounds of disci'etion.' Honora thought as much. She hoped that Robert would by that time have assumed his right to plead with Lucilla, and that in such a case she should be a welcome refuge, and Phoebe still more indispensable ; so her lips opened in a yielding smile, and Phoebe thanked her rapturously, vague hopes of Robert's bliss adding zest to the anticipation of the lifting of the curtain which hid the world of brightness. 'There's still time,' said Owen, with his hand on the check- string ; 'which do you patronize? Redmayne or ' 'Nonsense,' smiled Honor, 'we can't waste our escoi't upon women's work.' ' Ladies never want a gentleman more than when their taste is to be directed.' ' He is afraid to trust us, Phoebe.' 'Conscience has sj)oken,' said Owen ^ 'she knows how she •would go and disguise herself in an old dowager's gown to try to look like sixty !' ' As for silk gowns ' ' I positively forbid it,' he cried, cutting her short ; ' it is five years old !' ' A reason why I should not have another too gi'and to wear out.' ' And you never ought to have had it. Phoebe, it was bought ■when Lucy was seventeen, on purpose to look as if she was of a fit age for a wall-flower, and so well has the poor tiling done its duty, that Lucy hears herself designated as tho pretty girl who belongs to the violet and white ! If she liad known that was coming after her, I wont answer for the consecjuence.' ' If it does annoy Lucy — we do not so often go out together ■ don't, Owen, I never said it was to be now, I am bent on L.iud.seer ' HOPES AND FEAPvS. 157 * But I said so,' retui-ueil Owen, ' for Miss Cliarlecote regards the distressed dress-makers — four dresses — think of the fingers that must ache over them.' ' Well, he does what he pleases,' sighed Honor ; ' there's no lielp for it, you see, Phoebe. Shall you dislike lookiug on V For she doubted whether Phoebe had been provided with means for her equipment, and might not require delay and corre- spondence, but the frank answer was, ' Thank you, I shall be glad of the oi)i)ortunity. Papa told me I might tit myself out in case of need.' ' And suppose we are too late for the Exhibition.' * I never bought a dress before,' quoth Phojbe. Owen laughed. ' That's right, Phoebe ! Be strongminded and original enough to own that some decox-atious surpass •* JFlaflTaelles, Correggios, and stuff" ' ' No,' said Phoebe, simply, and with no affectation of scorn, * they only interest me more at this moment.' Honor smiled to Owen her love for the honesty that never spoke for effect, uor took what it believed it ought to feel, for what it really felt. Withal, Owen gained his purpose, and conducted the two ladies into one of the great shops of ladies' apparel. Phoebe followed Miss Cliarlecote with eyes of lively anticipa- tion. Miss Fennimore had taught her to be real when she could not be philosophical, and scrujiles as to the ' vain pomp and glory of the world' had not presented themselves ; she only found herself admitted to privileges hitherto so jealously withheld as to endow them with a factitious value, and in a scene of real beauty. The textures, patterns, and tints were, as Owen observed, such as approved themselves to the aesthetic sense, the miniature emliroidery of the brocades was absolute art, and no contemptible taste was displayed in the apparently fortuitous yet really elaborate groupings of rich and delicate hues, fine folds, or ponderous draperies. ' Far from it,' said Honor ; ' the only doubt is whether such be a worthy apj)lication of sesthetics. Were they not given u.s for better uses V ' To diffuse the widest amount of happiness V 'That is one purpose.' ' And a fair woman well dressed is the sight most delightful to the greatest number of beholders.' Honor made a playful face of utter repudiatioi] of the maxim, but meeting him on his own gi'ound emphasized ' Fair and WELL dressed — that is, appropriately.' ' That is what brings me here,' said Owen, turning round, as ]58 HOPES AND FEARS. the changeful silks, already asked for, were laid oa the counter before them. It was an amusing shopping. The gentleman's object wag to direct the taste of both ladies, but his success was not the sauie. Honora's first affections fell upon a handsome bhick, enlivened by beautiful blue flowers in the flounces ; but her tji'ant scouted it as a ' dingy dowager,' and overruled her into choosing a delicate lavender, insisting that if it were less durable, so much the better for her friends, and domineering over the black lace accompaniments with a solemn tenderness that made her warn him in a whisper that peo[ile were taking her for his ancient bride, thus making him some degrees more drolly attentive ; settling her headgear with the lady of the shop, without reference to her. Afier all, it was very charming to be so affectionately made a fool of, and it was better for her children as well as due to the house of Charlecote that she should not be a dowdy country cousin. Meantime, Phosl^e stood by amused, admiring, assisting, but not at all bewildered. Miss Ferniimore had impressed the }uaxim : 'Always know what you mean to do, and do it.' She liad never chosen a dress before, but that did not hinder lier from liaviug a mind and knowing it ; she had a reply for each silk that Owen suggested, and the moment her turn came, she desired to see a green glace. In vain he exclaimed, and drew his favourites in front of her, in vaia apjjeciled to Miss Charle- cute and the shopman ; she laughed him off, took but a moment to reject each proffered green which did not please her, and in as brief a space had recognised the true delicate jiale tint of ocean. It was one that few complexions could have borne, but their connoisseur, with one glance from it to her fresh cheek, owned her right, though much de))ended on the garniture, and he again brought forward his beloved lilac, insinuating that he should regard her selection of it as a personal attention. No ; she laughed, and said she had made up her mind and would not change ; and wliilo he was presiding over Honora's black lace, she was beforehand with him, and her bill was being made out for her white muslin worked mantle, white bonnet vvitli a tuft of lady grass, white evening dress, and wreatli of lilies of the valley. ' Gi-ecn and white, forsaken quite,' was the best revenge that occurred to him, and Miss Charlecote declared herself ashamed that the old lady's dress had caused so much more fuss than the young lady's. It was of course too late for the Exhibition, so tbey applied themselves to further shopping, until Owen had come to the HOPES AND FEARS. 159 faiibest point wlieuce he could conveniently walk back to dine with his cousins, and go with them to the opera, and he ex- pended some vituperation upon Ratia for an invitation which had prevented Plioebe from being asked to join the party. Phoebe was hajipy enough without it, and though not mor- bidly bashful, felt that at present it was more comfortable to be under Miss Charlecote's wing than that of Lucilla, and that the quiet evening was more composing than fresh scenes of novelty. The Woolstone Lane world was truly very different from that of which she had had a glimpse, and quite as new to her, Mr. Parsons, after his partial survey, was considering of j^fossi- bilities, or more truly of endeavours at impossibilities, a mission to that dreadful population, means of discovering their sick, of reclaiming their children, of causing the true Light to shine in that frightful gross darkness that covered the people. She had never heard anything yet discussed save on the princi])le of self- ])leasing or self-aggrandizement; here, self-spending was the axiom on which all the problems were worked. After dinner, jNIr. Parsons retired into the study, and while his wife and INIiss Charlecote sat down for a friendly gossij) over the marriages of the two daughters, Phoebe welcomed an un- restrained teie-a-tele with her brother. They were one on either seat of the old oriel window, she, with her work on her lap, full of pleasant things to tell him, but pausing as she looked up. and saw his eyes far far away, as he knelt on the cushion, his elbows on the sill of the open lattice, one hand supporting his chin, the other slowly erecting his hair into the likeness of the fretful poi*- ci'.pine. He had heard of, but barely assented to, the morrow's dinner, or the fete at Castle Blanch ; he had not even asked her how Lucilla looked ; and after waiting for some time, she said, as a feeler — ' You go with us to morrow ?' ' I suppose I must.' ' Lucy said so nuich in her pretty wa}' about catching the robin, that I am sure she was vexed at your not having called.' No answer : his eyes had not come home. Presently he mumbled something so much distorted by the compression of his chin, and by his face being out of window, that his sister could not make it out. In answer to her sound of inquiry, he took down one hand, removed the other from his temple, and emitting a modicum more voice from between his teeth, said, ' It is plain — it can't be ' ' What can't be 1 Not — Lucy f gasped Phoebe. * I can't take shares in the business.' Her look of relief moved him to explain, and drawing himself 160 HOPES AND FEARS. in, he sat down on his own window-seat, stretching a leg across, and resting one foot upon that where she was placed, so a3 to form a sort of barriei-. shutting themselves into a sense of privacy. ' I can't do it,' he repeated, ' not if my bread depended on it.' ' What is the matter T 'I have looked into the books, I have gone over it with Iiflwlins.' * You don't mean that we are going to be ruined f ' Better that we were than to go on as we do ! PhoDbe, it is wickedness.' There was a long jiause. Robert rested his brow on his hand, Phoebe gazed intently at him, tryhig to anravel the idea so suddenly presented. She had reasoned it out before he looked up, and she roused him by softly saying, ' You mean that you do not like the manufacture of spirits because they produce so much evil.' Though he did not raise his head, she understood his affir- mation, and went on with her quiet logic, for, poor girl, hers was not the happy maiden's defence — ' What my father does cannot be wrong.' Without condemning her fathei', she in- stinctively knew that weapon was not in her armoury, and could only betake herself to the merits of the case. ' You know how- much rather I would see you a clergyman, dear Robin,' she said; 'but I do not understand why you change your mind. AVe always knew that spirits were improperly used, but that is no reason why none should be made, and they are often neces- sary.' ' Yes,' he answered ; ' but, Phoebe, I have learnt to-day that our trade is not supported by the lawful use of spirits. It is the ministry of hell.' Phoebe raised her startled eyes in astonished inquiry. ' I would have credited nothing short of the books, but there I find that not above a fifth part of our manufacture goes to respectable houses, where it is applied properly. The profitable traffic, which it is the object to extend, is the supjjly of the gin p;daces of the city. The leases of most of those you see about here belong to the firm, it supplies them, and gains enormously on their receipts. It is to extend the dealings in this way that my legacy is demanded.' The enormity only gradually beginning to dawn upon Phrebe, all she said was a meditative — ' You would not like that.' ' You did not realize it,' he said, nettled at her quiet tone. * Do not you understand 1 You and I, and all of us, have eaten and drunk, been taught more than we could learn, lived in a fine house, aud been made into ladies and gcutlemeu, all HOPES AND FEARS. 161 oy battening ou tl^e vice and misery of tliis wretched popula- tion. Those unhappy men and women are lured into the gaudy palaces at the corners of the streets to pip-chase a mo- ment's oblivion of conscience, by stinting their children of bread, that we may wear tine clothes, and call ourselves county people.' ' Do not talk so, Robert,' she exclaimed, trembling ; ' it cannot be right to say such things ' ' It is only the bare fact ! it is no pleasure to me to accuse my own father, I assure you, Pho3ue, bub I cannot blind myself to the simple truth.' ' He cannot see it in that light.' ' He will not.' ' Surely,' faltered Phcebe, ' it cannot be so bad when one does not know it is ' * So far true. The conscience does not waken quickly to evils with which our lives have been long familiar.' ' And Mervyn was brouglit up to it ' ' That is not my concern,' said Robert, too much in the tone of ' Am I my brother's keeper V ' You will at least tell your reasons for refusing.' * Yes, and much I shall be heeded ! However, my own hands shall be pure from the wages of iniquity. I am thankful that all I have comes fi-om the JMervyu^-' ' It is a comfort, at least, that you see your way.' * I suppose it is ;' but he sighed heavily, with a sense that it was almost profanation to have set such a profession iu the balance against the sacred ministiy. ' I know she will like it b°.st.' Dear Phcebe ! iu spite of Miss Fennimore, faith must still have been much stronger than reason if she could detect the model parsoness in yonder firefly. Poor child, she went to bed, pondering over her brother's terrible discoveries, and feeling as though she had suddenly awakened to find herself implicated in a web of iniquity ; her delightful parcel of purchases lost their charms, and oppressed her as she thought of them in connexion with the rags of the squalid children the Rector had described, and she felt as if there were no escape, and she could never be ha])py again under the knowledge of the price of her luxuries, and the dread of judgment. ' Much good had their wealth done them,' as Robert truly said. The house of Beauchamp had never been nearly so happy as if their means had been moderate. Always Jiayiug court to their own station, or they were disunited among them- Belves, and not yet amalgamated with the society to which tliey M 162 HOPES AND FEARS. had attained, the younger ones passing tlieir elders in cultiva- tion, and every discomfort of change of position felt, though not acknowledged. Even the mother, lady as she was by birth, had only belonged to the second-rate class of gentry, and while elevated by wealth, was lowered by connexion, and not having either mind or strength enough to stand on her own ground, trod with an ill-assured foot on that to which, she as]jii-ed. Not that all this crossed Ph(jel)e's mind. There was merely a dreai-y sense of depression, and of living in the midst of a grievous mistake, from which Kobert alone had the power of disentangling himself, and she fell asleep sadly enough ; but, fortunately, sins, committed neither by ourselves, nor by those for whom we are resi)onsible, have not a lasting power of pain- ing ; and she rose up in due time to her own calm snushiny spirit of anticipation of the evening's meeting between, Robiu and Lucy — to say nothing of her own first dinnev party. CHAfTEK lY. And instead of 'dearest Miss,' Jewel, honey, sweetheart, bliss, And those forms of old admiring', Call her cockatrice and siren. C. Lamb. THE ladies of the house were going to a ball, and were i}i full costume : Elo'isa a study for the Arabian nights, and Lucilla in an azure gossamer-like texture suri-ounding her like a cloud, turquoises on her arms, and blue and silver ribbona mingled with her blonde tx'esses. Very like the clergyman's wife ! sage Honor, were you not ]n-ovolcod with yourself for being so old as to regard that bewitching sjjrite, and marvel whence comes the cost of those robes of the woof of Faerie 1 Let Oberon pay Titania's bills. That must du|iund on who Olieron is to be. riiajbe, to whom a doubt on that score would have ap]icared high treason, nevertheless hated the presence of Mr. Calthorp as much as she could hate anything, and was in restless anxiety as to Titania's behaviour. She herself had no cause to complain, for she was at once singled out and led away from Miss Charlecote, to be shown some photographic performances, iu which Lucv and her cousin had been dabbliufr. HOPES AND FEARS. 163 * There, that horrid monster is Owen — he never will come out respectable. Mr. Prendergast, he is better, because you don't see his face. There's our school, Edna Murrell and all ; I flatter myself that is a work of art ; only this little wretch fidgeted, and muddled himself.' ' Is that tlie mistress 1 She does not look like one.' ' Not like Sally Page 1 No ; she would bewilder the Hilton- bury mind. I mean you to see her ; I would not miss the shock to Honor. No, don't show it to her ! I wont have any preparation.' ' Do you call that preparation V said Owen, coming up, and taking vip tlie photograph indignantly. ' You should not do such things, Cilly !' ' 'Tisn't I that do them — it's Phoebe's brother — the one in the sky I mean, Dan Phoebus, and if he wont flatter, I can't help it. No, no, I'll not have it broken ; it is an exact likeness of all the children's spotted frocks, and if it be not of Edna, it ought to be.' ' Look, Robert,' said Phoebe, as she saw him standing shy, grave, and monumental, with nervous hands clasped over the hack of a chair, neither advancing nor retreating, 'what a beautiful place this is !' ' Oh ! that's from a print — Glendalough ! I mean to bring you plenty of the real place.' ' Kathleen's Cave,' said the im welcome millionaire. 'Yes, with a comment on Kathleen's awkwardness ! I should like to see the hermit who could push me down.' ' You ! You'll never tread in Kathleen's steps !' 'Because I shan't find a hermit in the cave.' ' Talk of skylarking on " the lake whose gloomy shore !" ' They all laughed except the two Fulmorts. ' There's a simpler reason,' said one of the Guardsmen, * namely, that neither party will be there at all.' ' No, not the saint ' ' Nor the lady. Miss Charteris tells me all the maiden aunts are come up from the country.' (How angry Phcebe was !) ' Happiljr it is an article I don't possess.' 'Well, we will not differ about technicalities, as long as the fact is the same. You'll remember my words when you are kept on a diet of Hannah More and Miss Edgeworth till you shall have abjured hounds, balls, and salmon-fiies.' ' The woman lives not who has the power !' ' What bet will you take. Miss Sandbrook V 'What bet will you take. Lord William, that, maiden aunts and all, I appear on the 3rd, in a dress of salmon-flies V M 2 164) HOPES AND FEARS. ' A hat trimmed with goose feathers to a pocket-handkerchief, that by that time you are iu the family mansion, repenting of your sins.' Phoebe looked on like one in a dream, while the terms of the wager were arranged with playful preciwiou. She did not know that dinner had been announced, till she found people moving, and in spite of her antipathy to Mr. Calthorp, she rejoiced to find him assigned to herself — dear, good Lucy must have done it to keep Robin to herself, and dear, good Lucy she shall be, in spite of the salmon, since in the ijrogress downstairs she has cleared the cloud from his brow. It was done by a contiding cai'essing clas]) on his arm, and the few words, 'Now for old friends! How charming little Phcebe looks !' How different were his massive brow and deep-set eyes with- out their usual load, and how sweet his gratified smile ! ' Where have you been, you Robin 1 If I had not passed you in the Park, I should never have guessed there was such a bird in London. I began to change my mind, like Christiana — " I thought Robins were harmless and gentle birds, wont to liop about men's doors, and feed on crumbs, and such like harmless food." ' * And have you seen me eating worms V * I've not seen you at all.' *I did not think you had leisure — I did not believe I should be welcome.' ' The cruellest cut of all ? positive irony ' * No, indeed ! I am not so conceited as ' ' As what V * As to suppose you could want me.' 'And there was I longing to hear about Phoebe ? If you had only come, I could have contrived her going to the Zaubeijlote with us last night, but I didn't know the length of her tether.' 'I did not know you were so kind.' 'Be kinder youi-self another time. Don't I know how \ liave been torn to pieces at Hiltonbury, Avithout a friend to say one word for the jooor little morsel !' she said, piteously. He was impelled to an eager ' No, no !' but recalling facts, he modified his replj' into, ' Friends enough, but very aiixious !' ' There, I knew none of you trusted me,' she said, pretending to pout. ' When I'lay is so like earnest ' ' Slow people are taken in ! That's the fun ! I like to show t}iat I can walk alone sometimes, and not be snatched up the moment I pop my head fi*om under my leading-strings.' HOPES AND FKARS. 1(55 Her pretf-.y gay toss of the head prevented Kohert from tliinkiug whether womau is meant to be witliout leadin^- striugs. ' Aud it was to avoid conntenaucing my vagaries that you stayed away V she said, with a look of injured innocence. ' I was very much occupied,' answered Robert, feeling him- self in the wrong. ' Tiiat horrid office ! You aren't thinking of becoming s Clarence, to drown yourself in brandy — that would never do.' ' No, I have given up all thoughts of that !' * You thought, you wretched Redbreast ! I tliougld you knew better.' ' So I ought,' said Robert, gravely, ' but my father wished me to make the experiment, and I must own, that before I looked into the details, there were considerations which — • which ' * Such considerations as £ s. d.? For shame !' * For shame, indeed,' said the happy Robert. ' Phoebe judged you truly. I did not know what miglit be the effect of liabit ' and he became embarrassed, doubtful whether she would accept the assumption on which he spoke ; but she went beyond his hopes. ' The only place I ever cared for is a very small old parson- age,' she said, with feeling in her tone. ' Wrapworth? that is near Castle BUmch.' * Yes ! I must show it you. You shall come with Honor and Phoebe on Monday, aud I will sliow you everything.' ' 1 should be deliglited — but is it not arranged V ' I'll take care of tliat. Mr. Pi-endergast shall take yoii in, as he would a newly arrived rhinoceros, if I told him. He was our curate, and used to live in tlie house even in our time. Don't say a word, Robin ; it is to be. I must have you see my river, and the stile where my father used to sit when he was tired. I've never told any one which that is.' Ordinarily Lucilla never seemed to tliink of her father, never named him. and her outpouring was doubly prized by Robert, wJiose listening face drew her on. * I was too much of a child to understand how fearfully weak he must have been, for he could not come home from the castle without a rest on that stile, and we used to play round him, and briu* him flowers. My best recollections are all of that last summer — it seems like my whole life at home, and much longer than it could really have been. We were all in all to one another. How different it would have been if he had lived 1 I think no one has believed iu ma siuca' IGG HOPES AND FEAES, Ther > was sometbing ineffaVily soft and sad in the last word??, as the beautiful, petted, but still louely orphan, cast down her. eyelids with a low long sigh, as though owning hei- errors, but pleading this extenuation. Robert, much moved, was mur- muring something incoherent, but she went on. ' Rashe does, perhaps. Can't you see how it is a part of the general disbelife in me to siippose that I come here only for London seasons, and such like 1 I must live where I have what the dear old soul there has not got to give.' ' Yon cannot doubt of her affection. I am sure there is nothing .she would not do for you.' ' " Do !" that is not what I want. It can't be done, it mxist be felt, and tliat it never will be. When tliere's a mutual antagonism, gratitude becomes a fetter, intolerable when it is strained.' ' I cannot bear to hear you talk so ; revering Miss Charle- cote as [ do, and feeling thiit I owe everything to her notice.' ' Oh, I find no fault, I reverence her too ! It was only the natui'e of things, not her intentions, nor her kindness, that was to blame. She meant to be justice and mercy com.bined to- wai'ds us, but I had all the one, and Owen all the other. Not that I am jealous ! Oli, no ! Not that she could help it; but no woman can help being hard on her rival's daughter.' Notliing but the sweet tone and sad arch smile could have made this speech endurable to Robert, even though he remem- bered many times when the trembling of the scale in Miss Charlecote's hands had filled him with indignation. 'You allow that it was justice,' he said, smiling. ' No doubt of that,' she laughed. ' Poor Honor ! I must have been a giievous visitation, but I am very good now ; I shall come and spend Sunday as gravely as a judge, and when yon come to Wrapworth, you shall see how I can go to the school when it is not forced down my tln-oat — no merit either, for our mistress is ])erfectly charming, with such a voice ! If I were Phcebe I wouhl look out, for Owen is desperately smitten.' ' Phoebe !' reiieated Robert, with a startled look. * Owen and Plioehe ! I considered it une affaire arranges as much as ' She had almost said you and me : Robert could sup])ly the omission, but he was only blind of one eye, and gravely said, ' It is well there is plenty of time before Owen to tame him down.' * Oney,' laughed Lucilla ; ' yes, he has a good deal to do in that line, with his opinions in such a mess that I really don't know what he does believe.' Though the iuformation was not new to Robert, her levity HOPES AND FEAKS. 167 disraayerl him, and lie gi-avely began, ' If you have such fears ' but she cut hiin off short. ' Did you ever play at bagatelle V He stared in displeased surprise. ' Did you never see the ball go joggling about before it could settle into its hole, and yet abiding tiiere very steadily at last ? Look on quietly, and you will see the poor fellow as sober a parish priest as yourself.' ' You are a very philosophical spectator of the process,' Robert said, still displeased. * Just consider what a capacious swallow the poor boy had in his tender infancy, and how hard it was crammed with legends, hymns, and allegories, with so many scruples bound down on his poor little conscience, that no wonder, when the time of expansion came, the whole concern should give way with a jerk.' ' I thought Miss Charlecote's education had been most anxiously admii-able.' ' Precisely so ! Don't you see? Why, how dull you are for a man who has been to Oxford !' ' I should seriously be glad to hear your view, for Owen's course has always been inexplicable to me.' ' To you, poor Robin, who lived gratefully on the crumbs of our advantages ! The point was that to you they were crumbs, while we had a surfeit.' ' Owen never seemed overdone. I used i-nther to hate him for his faultlessness, and his familiarity with what awed my ignoi'ance.' 'The worse for him ! He was too apt a scholar, and received all unresisting, unsifting— Anglo-Catholicism, slightly touched with sentiment, enthusiasm for the Crusades, };assive obedience — acted faithfully up to it j imagined that to be "not a gtod Churchman," as he told Charle.=;, expressed the seven deadly sins, and that reasoning was the deadliest of all !' ' As far as I understand yon, you mean that thei'e was not sufficient distinction between proven and non-proven — important and unimportant.' ' You begin to perceive. If Faith be overworked. Reason kicks ; and, of course, when Owen fomid the Holt was not the v^'orld ; that thinking was not the exclusive privilege of demons ; that habits he considered as imperative duties were incon- venient, not to say impracticable ; that his articles of faith included much of the apocryphal, — why, there was a general downfall !' ' Poor Miss Charlecote,' sighed Robert, ' it is a disheartening effect of so much care.' 1G8 HOPES AND FEAKS. ' She stioiilcl liaVe let him alone, then, for Uncle Ki*^ to make a sailor of. Then he would have had something better to do than to think /' ' Then you are distressed about him V said Robert, wist- fully. ' Thank you,' said she, laugliing ; * but ydu sde I am too wise ever to think or disti'ess myself. He'll think himself straiglit in time, and begin a reconstruction from his scattered materials, 1 suppose, and meantime he is a very comfortable brother, as sucli things go ; but it is one of the grudges I can't help owing to Honora, that such a fine fellovv as that is not an independent sailor or soldier, able to have some fun, and not looked on as a mere dangler after the Holt.' ' I thought the reverse was clearly understood f 'She ouglit to have "acted as sich." How my relatives, and yours, too, would laugh if you told them so ! Not that I think, like them, that it is Elizabethan dislike to naming a successor, nor to keep him on his good behaviour ; she is far above that, but it is plain how it will be. The only other relation she knows in the world is farther off than we are — not a bit more of a Charlecote, and twice her age ; and when she has waited twenty or thirty years longer for the auburn-haired lady my fatlier saw in a chapel at Toronto, she will bethink herself that Owen, or Owen's eldest son, had better have it than the Queen. That's the sense of it ; but I hate the haliger-ou posi- tion it keeps him in.' 'It is a misfortune,' said Robei-t. ' People treat him as a man of expectations, and at Jiis age it would not be easy to dis- own tliem, even to himself He has an eldest son air al)out him, which makes i)eople impose on him the belief that he is one ; and yet, who could have guarded agaiiist the notion more carefully tlian Miss Charlecote f * I'm of Uncle Kit's mind,' said L\icilla, 'that children should be left to tlieir natural guardians. What ! is Lolly really moving before I have softened down the edge of my ingrati- tude V ' So !' said Miss Charterig, as she brought up the rear of the procession of ladies on the stairs. Lucilla faced about on the step above, with a face where in- terrogation was mingled with merry defiance. ' So that is why the Calthorp could not get a word all the livelong dinner-time !" 'Ah! I used you ill; I promised you an opportunity of studying " Cock Robin," but you see I could not help keeping hiin myself — I liad not seen him for so long.' ■ HOPES AND FEARS, 1G9 * "Von were very welcome ! It is the very creature that baffles me. I can talk to any animal in the world except an iucipieut parson.' ' Owen, for instance V ' Oh ! if people choose to put a force on nature, there can be no genei'al rules. But, Cilly, you know I've always said you should marry whoever you liked ; but I require another assurance — on your word and honour — that you are not irre- vocably Jenny Wren as yet !' ' Did you not see the currant wine?' said Cilly, pulling leaves off a myrtle in a tub on the stairs, and scattering them over her cousin. ' Seriously, Cilly ! Ah, I see now — your exclusive attention to him entirely reassures me. You would never have served him so, if you had meant it.' ' It was commonplace in me,' said Lucilla, gravely, ' but I could not help it j he made me feel so good—or so bad — tliat I believe I shall ' 'Not give up the salmon,' cried Horatia. ' Cilly, you will drive me to commit matrimony on the spot.' 'Do,' said Lucilla, running lightly up, and dancing into the drawing-room, where the ladies wei'e so much at their ease, on low couches and ottomans, that Phoebe stood transfixed by the novelty of a drawing-room treated with stich freedom as was seldom permitted in even the schoolroom at Beauchamp, when Miss Fennimore was in presence. ' Phcebe, bright Phoebe !' cried Lucilla, pouncing on both her hands, and drawing her towards the other room, ' it is ten ages since I saw you, and you must bring your taste to aid my choice of the fly costume. Did you hear, Rashe 1 I've a bet with Lord William that I appear at the ball all in flies. Isn't it fun r ' Oh, jolly !' cried Horatia. ' Make yourself a pike-fly.' 'No, no I not a guy for any one. Only wear a trimming of Balmon-flies, which will be lovely.' 'You do not really mean it?' said Phcebe. 'Mean it? With all ray heart, in spite of the tremendous sacrifice of srood flies. Where honour is concerned ' ' There, I knew you would not shirk.' ' Did I ever say so ?' — in a whisper, not unheard by Phoebe, and affording her so much satisfaction that she only said, in a grave, puzzled voice, ' The hooks V ' Hooks and all,' was the answer. ' I do nothing by halves.' ' What a state of mind the fishermen will be in !' proceeded Horatia. 'You'll have every one of them at your feet.' 1*70 HOPES AND FEARS. ' I shall tell them that two of a trade never agree. Come, and let us choose.' And opening a drawei", Lncilla took out her long parchment book, and was soon eloquent on the merits of the doctor, the butcher, the duchess, and all her other radiant fabrications of gold pheasants' feathers, parrot plumes, jays' wings, and the like. Phoebe could not hel^) admiring their beauty, tliough she was perplexed all the while, uncomfortable on Robert's account, and yet not enough assured of the usages of the London world to be certain whether this were unsuitable. The Charteris family, though not of the most elite circles of all, were in one to which tlie Fulmorts liad barely the entree, and the ease and dash of the young ladies, Lucilla's superior age, and caressing patronage, all made Phoebe in her own eyes too young and ignorant to pass an opinion. She would have known more about the properties of a rectangle or the dangers of a paper currency. Longing to know what Miss Chai'lecote thought, she stood, answering as little as possible, until Rashe had been summoned to the party in the outer room, and Cilly said, laughing, ' Well, dees she astonish your infant mind?' ' I do not quite enter into her,' said Phoebe, doubtfully. ' The best-natured, and most unappreciated girl in the world. Up to anything, and only a victim to prejudice. You, v.-ho have a strong-minded governess, ought to be superior to the delusion that it is interesting to be stupid and helpless ' ' I never thought so,' said Phoebe, feeling for a moment in the wrong, as Lucilla always managed to make her antagonists do. ' Yes, you do, or why look at me in that pleading, perplexed fashion, save that you have become possessed with the general prejudice. Weigh it, by the light of Whately's logic, and own candidly wherefore Rashe and I should be more liable to come to grief, travelling alone, than two men of the same ages.' 'I have not grounds enough to judge,' said Phoebe, beginning as though Miss Fennimore were giving an exercise to her reasoning powers ; then, continuing with her girlish eagerness of entreaty ; ' I only know that it cannot be right, since it grieves Robin and Miss bharlecote so much.' ' And all that grieves Robin and Miss Charlecote must be sViocking, eh 1 Oh, Plioebe, what very women all the Miss Fen ni mores in the world leave us, and how lucky it is !' ' But I don't think you arc going to grieve them,' said Phoebe, earnestly. < I hate the word !' said Lucilla. ' Plaguing is only fun, but grieving, that is serious.' HOPES AND FEARS. 171 '1 do believe this is only jjlaguing !' cried Phoebe, 'and that this is your way of disposing of all the flies. I shall tell Robin so !' 'To spoil all my fun,' exclaimed Lucilla. ' No, indeed !' Phoebe only gave a nod and smile of supreme .satisfaction. ' Ah ! but Phoebe, if I'm to grieve nobody, what's to become of poor Raslie, you little selfish woman V ' Selfish, no V sturdily said Phoebe. ' If it be wrong for you, it must be equally wrong for her ; and perhaps,' she added, slowly, 'you would both be glad of some good reason forgiving it up. Lucy, dear, do tell me whether you really like it, for I cannot tancy you do.' 'Like if? Well, yes ! I like the salmons, and l dote on the fun and the fuss. I say, Phoebe, can you bear the burden of a secret t Well — only mind, if you tell Robin or Honor, I shall certainly go ; we never would have taken it up in earnest if such a rout had not been made about it, that we were driven to show we did not care, and could be trusted with ourselves.' ' Then you don't mean it V 'That's as people behave themselves. Hush ! Here comes Honor. Look here, sweet Honej^, I am in a process of selection. I am pledged to come out at the ball in a unique trimming of salmon-flie.s.' ' My dear !' cried poor Honor, in consternation, 'you can't be so absurd.' ' It is so slow not to be absurd.' * At fit times, yes ; but to make yourself so conspicuous !' ' They say I can't help that,' I'eturned Lucy, in a tone of comical melancholy. ' Well, my dear, we will talk it over on Sunday, when I hope you may be in a rational mood.' ' Don't say so,' implored Lucilla, ' or I shan't have the courage to come. A rational mood I It is enough to frighten one away ; and really I do want very much to come. I've not heard a word yet ab'^ut the Holt. How is the old dame, this summer?' And Lucy went on with unceasing interest about all Hilton- bury matters, great and small, bewitching Honora more than would have seemed possible under the circumstances. She was such a winning fairy that it was hai-dly possible to treat her seriously, or to recollect causes of displeasure, when under the spell of her caressing vivacity, and unruffled, audacious fun. So impregnable was her gracious good-humour, so untameable her high spirits, that it was only by remembering the little spitfire of twelve or fourteen years ago that it was credible that 172 HOPES AND FEARF5. she had a temper at all ; the temper ersfc wonfc to exhale ia chamois bounds and dervish pirouettes, had ajiparently left not a trace behind, and the sullen ungi'aciousness to those who offended her had become the sunniest sweetness, imjjossible to disturb. Was it real improvement ? Concealment it was not, for Lucilla had always been transparently tnie. Was it not more ])rohably connected with that strange levity, almost in- sensibility, that had apparently indurated feelings which in early childhood had seemed sensitive even to the extent of violence. Was she only good humoured because nothing touched her 1 Had that agony of parting with her gentle father seared her affections, till she had become like a polished gem, all bright glancing beauty, but utterly unfeeling. CHAPTER V. Reproof falleth on the saucy as water. Feejee PROVEaB. CONSIDERATE of the slender purses of her children, Honora had devoted her carriage to fetch them to St. Wulstan's on the Sunday morning, but her offer had been de- clined, on the ground that the Charteris conveyances were free to them, and that it was better to make use of an establishment to which Stmday was no object, than to cloud the honest face of the Hiltonbury coachman by depriving his horses of their day of rest. Owen would far rather take a cab than so affront Grey ! Pleased with his bright manner, Honora had yet reason to fear that exjiense was too indifferent to both brother and sister, and that the Charteris household only encouraged reck- lessness. Wherever she went she heard of the extra vugance of the family, and in the shops the most costly wares were recom- mended as the choice of Mrs. Charteris. Formerly, though Honor had eqv;ipped Lucilla handsomely for visits to Castle Blanch, she had always found her wardrobe increased by the gifts of her uncle and aunt. The girl had been of age more than a year, and in the present state of the family, it was impossible that her dress could be still provided at their expense, yet it was manifestly far beyond her means, and what could be the result? She would certainly brook no interference, and would cast advice to the winds. Poor Honor could only hope for a crash that would bring her to reason, and devise schemes for forcing her from the effects of her own imprudence without bivak- HOPES AND FEARS. 173 injC into her small portion. The great fear was lest false pride, and Charteris influence, should lead her to pay her debts at the cost of a marriage with the millionaire ; and Honor could take little comfort in Owen's assurance that the Calthorp had too much sense to think of Cilly Sandbrook, and only promoted and watched her vagaries for the sake of amusement and cuiiosity. There was small satisfaction to her well-wishers in heariug that no sensible man could think seriously of her. Anxiously was that Sunday awaited in Woolstone Lane, the whole party feeling that this was the best chance of seeing Lucilla in a reasonable light, and coming to an understanding with hei-. Owen was often enough visible in the interim, and always extremely agreeable ; but Lucilla never, and he only brought an account of her gaieties, shrugging his shoulders over them. The day came; the bells began, they chimed, they changed, but still no Sandbrooks appeared. Mr. Parsons set off, and Ivobert made an exciu'sion to the corner of the street. In vain Miss Charlecote still lingered ; Mrs. Parsons, in despair, called Phoebe on with her as the single bell rang, and Honor and Robert presently started with heads turned over their shouldei-s, and lips laying all blame on Charteris' delays of breakfast. A last wistful look, and the church porch engulfed them ; but even when enclosed in the polished square pew, they could not i-esign hope at every tread on the matted floor, and finally sub- sided into a trust that the truants might after service emerge from a seat near the door. There were only too many to choose from. That hope bafiled, Honora still manufactured excuses which Phoebe greedily seized and offered to her brother, but she read his rejection of them in his face, and to her conviction that it was all accident, he answeretl, as she took his arm, ' A small accident would suffice for Sandbrook.' ' You don't think he is hindering his sister !' ' I can't tell. I only know ihat he is one of the many stumbling-blocks in her way. He can do no good to any one with whom he associates intimately. I hate to see him reading j)oetry with you.' 'Why did you never tell me so?' asked the startled Phoebe. * You are so much taken up with him that I can never get at you, when I am not devoured by that office.' ' 1 am sure I did not know it,' humbly answered Phoebe. *He is very kind and amusing,' and Miss Charlecote is so fond of him that, of course, we must be together ; but I never meant to neglect you, Kobin, dear.' 171 HOPES AND FEARS. 'No, no, nonsense, it is no paltry jealonsy ; only now I can speak to you, I must,' said Robert, who had been in vain craving for this op])ovtunity of getting his sister alone, ever since the alarm excited by Lncilla's words. ' What is this harm, Robin V ' Say nut a v/ord of it. Miss Charlecote's heart must not be broken before its time, and at any rate it shall not come through me.' ' Wliat, Kobert V ' The knowledge of what he is. Don't say it is prejudice. I know I never liked him, but you shall hear why. You ought now- Robert's mind had often of late glanced back to the childish days when, with their present opinions reversed, he thought Owen a muff, and Owen thought him a reprobate. To his own blunt and reserved nature, the expressions, so charming to poor Miss Charlecote, had been jjainfully distasteful. Sentiment, prcifession, obtrusive reverence, and fault-finding scruples had revolted him, even when he thought it a proof of his own irre- ligion to be provoked. Afterwards, when both were schoolboys, Robert had yearly increased in conscientiousness under good discipline and training, but, in their holiday meetings, had found Owen's standard receding as his own advanced, and heard the once-deficient manly spirit asserted by boasts of exploits and de- ceptions re]-)ugnant to a well-conditioned lad. He saw Miss Char- lecote's perfect confidence abused and trifled with, and the more he crew in a sense of honour, the more he disliked Oweu Sandbrook. At the University, where Robert's career had been re- spectable and commonplace, Owen was at once a man of mark. INIental and physical powers alike rendered him foremost among his compeers; he could compete with the fast, and surpass the slow on their own ground ; and his talents, ready celerity, good- humoured audacity, and quick resource, had always borne him through with the authorities, though thei-e was scax'cely an excess or irregulaiity in which he was not a partaker ; and stories of Sandbrook's daring were always circulating among the undergraduates. But though Robert could have scared Phcebe with many a history of lawless pranks, yet these were not his chief cause for dreading Owen's intimacy with her. It was that he was one of the youths on whom the spirit of the day had most influence, one of the most adventurous thinkers and boldest talkers : wild in habits, not merely from ebullition of Kj)irits, but from want of faith in the restraining power. All this Robert briefly expressed in the words, ' Phcebe, it is HOPES AND FEAKS. 17 '^ not that his habits are irregular and uusteady ; many ai'e so whose hearts are sound. But he is not sound — his opinions are loose, and he only resi)ects and patronizes Divine Truth as what has ap|)roved itself to so many good, great, and beloved human creatures. It is not denial — it is patronage. It is the common- sense heresy ' 'I thought we all ought to learn common sense.' ' Ye.s, in things human, but in things Divine it is tlie subtle English form of rationalism. This is no time to explain, Phoebe ; but human sense and intellect are made the test, and what surpasses them is only admired as long as its stringent rules do not fetter the practice.' 'I am sorry you told me,' said Phoebe, thoughtfully, 'for I always liked him ; he is so kind so me.' Had not Robert been full of his own troubles he would have been reassured, but he only gave a contemptuous groan. ' Does Lucy know this V she asked. ' She told me herself what I well knew before. She does not reflect enough to take it serioiisly, an([ contrives to lay the blame upon the narrowness of Miss Charlecote's training.' ' Oh, Robin ! When all our best knowledge came from the Holt !' 'She says, perhaps not unjustly, that Miss Charlecote overdid ihings with him, and that this is reaction. She observes keenly. If she would only think ! She would have been perfect had her father lived, to work on her by affection.' ' The time for that is coming ' Robert checked her, saying, ' Stay, Phoebe. The other night I was fooled by her engaging ways, but each day since I have become more convinced that I must learn whether she be only using me like the rest. I want you to be a witness of my reso- lution, lest I should be tempted to fail. I came to town, hesi- tating whether to enter the business for her sake. I found that this could not be done without a great sin, I look on myself as dedicated to the ministry, and thus bound to have a household suited to my vocation. All must turn on her willingness to conform to this standard. 1 shall lay it before her. I can bear the suspense no longer. My temper and resolution are going, and I am good for nothing. Let the touchstone be, whether she will resign her expedition to Ireland, and go quietly home \nt\i Miss Charlecote. If she will so do, there is surely that within her that will shine out brighter when removed from irritation on the one side, or folly on the other. If she will not, I have no weight with her ; and it is due to the service I am to undertake, to foi'ce myself away from a pursuit that could only )?6 HOPES AND FEARS. flistract me. I have no right to be a clergyman and choose a hindrance not a help — one whose tastes would lead back to the world, instead of to my work !' As he spoke, in stern, rigid resolution — only allowing him- self one long, deep, heavy sigh at the end — he stood still at the gates of the court, which were opened as tiie rest of the party came up ; and, as they crossed and entered the hall, they be- held, through the open door of the drawing-room, two figui'es in the window — one, a dark torso, perched ontside on the sill; the other, in blue skirt and boy-like bodice, negligently re- })0sing on one side of the window-seat, her dainty little boots on the other; her coarse straw bonnet, crossed with white, npon the floor ; the wind playing tricks with the silky glory of her flaxen ringlets ; her cheek flushed with lovely carnq,- tion, declining on her shoulder ; her eyes veiled by their fair fringes. ' Hallo !' she cried, springing up, 'almost caught asleep !' And Owen, i^ocketing his pipe, spun his legs over the window-sill, while both began, in rattling, playful vindication and recrimi- nation — T, ,, /. 1, f he wouldn't.' It wasn t my fault •{ , i i ^ » '' ( she wouldn t. ' Indeed, I wasu't a wilful heathen ; Mr. Parsons, it was he ' ' It was she who chose to take the by-ways, and make us late. Rush into church before a whole congregation, reeking from a six-miles walk ! I've more respect for the Establish- ment.' ' You walked !' cried five voices. ' See her Sabbatarianism !' * Nonsense ! I should haye driven Charlie's cab.' ' Charlie has some common sense where his horse is coor cerned.' ' He wanted it himself, you hnow^ ' She grew sulky, and victimized me to a walk.' ' I'm sure it was excellent fun.' ' Ay, and because poor Calthorp had proffered his cab for her to drive to Jericho, and welcome, she drags me into all sorts of streets of villauous savours, that he might not catch us up.' ' Horrid iiard mouth that horse of his.' said Lucilla, by way of dashing the satisfaction on JNliss Charlecote's face. ' I do not wonder you were late.' * Oil ! that was all Owen's doing. He vowed that he had Jiot nerve to face the pew-opener f * The grim female in weeds — no, indeed !' said O wen. * In- HOPES AND FEARS. l/« deed, I objected to entering in the gviise of flaming meteors both on reverential and sanatory grounds.' ' Insanatory, methinks,' said Miss Cliarlecote ; ' how could you let her sleep, so much heated, in this thorough draught !' ' Don't flatter yourself,' said Cilly, quaintly shaking her head; ' I'm not such a goo.se as to go and catch cold ! Oh ! Phoebe, my salmon-flies are loveliness itself ; and I hereby give notice, that a fine of three pairs of thick boots has been ])roclaime(l for every j)un upon sisters of the angle and sisters of the ungels ! So beware, Robin !' — and the comical audacity with which ahe turned on hini, won a smile from the grave lips that had lately seemed so remote from all peril of complimentiug her whimsies. Even Mr. Parsons said ' the fun was tempting.' ' Come and get ready for luncheon,' said the less fascinated Houora, moving away. ' Come and catch it !' cried the elf, skipping upstairs before her, and facing round her ' Dear old Honeyseed.' ' I honour your motives ; but wouldn't it be for the convenience of all parties, if you took FuncKs celebrated advice — " don't" V ' How am I to speak, Lucy,' said Honora, ' if you come with the avowed intention of disregarding what I say V ' Then hadn't you better not,' murmured the girl, in the lowest tone, drooping her head, and peeping under her eye- lashes, as she sat with a hand on each elbow of her arm-chair, as though in the stocks. 'I v/ould not, my child,' was the mournful answer, 'if I could help caring for you.' Lucilla sprang up and kissed her. 'Don't, then; T don't like anybody to be sorry,' she said. ' I'm sure I'm not worth it.' ' How can I help it, when I see you throwing away happi- ness — -welfare — the good opinion of all your friends !' ' My dear Honora, you taught me yourself not to mind Mrs. Grimdy ! Come, never mind, the reasonable world has found out tliat women are less dependent than they used to be.' ' It is not what the world thinks, but what is really de- corous.' Lucilla laughed— though with some temper — ' I wonder what we are going to do otherwise !' ' You are going beyoml the ordinary restx'aints of women m your station ; and a person who does so, can never tell to v/hat she may expose herself. Liberties are taken when people come out to meet them.' ' That's as they choose !' cried Lucilla, with such a gestui« of her hand, such a flash of her blue eyes, th.at she reenjt i 178 HOPES AND FEARS. trebly the woman, and it would have been boldness indeed to presume with her. ' Yes ; but a person who has even had to protect herself from incivility, to which she has wilfully exposed herself, does nub remain what she might be behind her screen.' ' Onine ignotum pro terribili,' laughed Lucilla, still not to bo made sei-inus. ' Now, I don't believe that the world is so flagrantly bent on annoying eveiy pretty giid. People call me vain, but I never was so vain as that. I've always found them very civil ; and Ireland is the land of civility. Now, seriously, my good cousin Honor, do you candidly expect any harm to befal us f ' I do not think you likely to meet with absolute injury.' Lucilla clapped her hands, and cried, 'An admission, an admis- sion ! I told Rashe you were a sincere woman.' But Miss Charlecote went on, ' But there is harm to yourself in the affec- tation of masculine habits ; it is a blunting of the delicacy suited to a Chi'istian maiden, and not like the women whom St. Paul and St. Peter describe. You would find that you had forfeited the esteem — not only of ordinary society — but of persons whose opinions you do value ; and in both these respects you would suffer harm. You, my ])Oor child, who have no one to control you, or claim your obedience as a right, are doubly bound to be cii^cumspect. I have no power over you ; but if you have any regard for her to whom your fatlier confided you — nay, if you consult what you know would have been his wishes — you will give up this project.' The luncheon-bell had already rung, and consideration for tlie busy clergyman compelled her to go down with these last words, feeling as if there were a leaden weight at her heart. Lucilla remained standing before the glass, arranging her wind-tossed hair ; and, in her vehemence, tearing out conib- fuls, as she jmlled petulantly against the tangled curls. ' Her ohl way — to come over me witli my father ! Ha ! — I love him too Avell, to let him be Miss Chai-lecote's engine for managing me ! — her dernier ressort to play on my feelings. Nor will 1 have liobin set at me ! Whether I go or not, shall be as I please, not as !iny one else docs ; and if I stay at home, Rashe shall own it is not for the sake of the conclave here. I told her she might trust me.' Down she went, and at luncheon devoted herself to the cap- tivation of Mr. Parsons ; afterwards insisting on going to the schools —she, whose aversion to them was Honora's vexation at home. Strangers to make a sensation were contrarv to the views of the Parsouses; but the wife found her huiband incou- HOPES AND FEARS. 179 sistent — ' one lady, more or less, could make no difference on this first Sunday ;' and, by and by, Mrs. Parsons found a seC of little formal white-capped faces, so beaming with entertain- ment at the young lady's stories, and the young lady herself looking so charming, that she, too, fell under the enchantment. Aftei' church, Miss Charlecote proposed a few tui-ns in the garden ; dingy enough, but a marvel for the situation : and here the tacit object of herself and Plioebe was to afford Robert an ojjportunity for the interview on which so much depended, liut it was like trying to catch a butterfly ; Lucilla v/as here, there, everywhere ; and an excuse was hardly made for leav- ing her beside the grave, silent young man, ere her merry tones were heard chattering to some one else. Perhaps Robert, heart-sick and oppressed with the importance of what trembled on his tongue, was not ready in seizing the moment ; perhaps she would not let him speak ; at any rate, she was aware of some design ; since, baffling Phoebe's last attempt, she danced tip to her bedroom after her, and throwing herself into a chair, in a paroxysm of laugliter, cried, ' You abominable little pussy- cat of a manoeuvrer ; I thought you were in a better school for the proprieties ! No, don't make your round eyes, and look so dismayed, or you'll kill me with laughing ! Cooking tete-h-tetes, Phcebe — I thonglit better of you. Oh, tie !' and holding up her fin *)een married before. I thought he was such an excellent mar.. !' said Phffibe, in a voice that set others besides Lucilla off into irresistible mirth. ' Once, twice, thiice !' cried Lucilla. ' Catch her. Honor, before she sinks into the river in disgust with this treacherous world.' ' Do you know him, Lucy V earnestly said Phcebe. * Yes, and two of the wives ; we used to visit them because he was an old captain of Uncle Kit's.' ' I would not believe in number three, Phoebe, if I were you,' said Owen, consolingly ; 'she wants confirmation.' ' Two are as bad as three,' sighed Phoebe ; ' and Augusta did not even call him a widower.' ' Cupid bandaged ! It was a case of love at first sight. Met at the IVuid Freres Provenqaux, heard each other's critical re- marks, sought an introduction, compared notes ; he discovered her foresight with regard to pale ale ; each felt that here was a kindred soul !' ' That could not have been telegraphed !' said Phcebe, i-e- covering spirit and incredulity. 'No; the telegraph was sim])ly "Bannerman, Fulmort. 8.30 p.m., July loth." The other particulars followed by letter this morning.' ' How old is he V asked Phoebe, with resignation. ' Any age above sixty. What, Phoebe taking it to heart ? I was prepared with congratulations. It is only second best, to be sure ; but don't you see your own emancipation V ' I believe that had never occurred to Phoebe,' said Owen. 'I beg your pardon, Lucy,' said Phoebe, thinking that she had appeared out of temper ; ' only it had sounded so nice in Augusta's letter, and she was so kind, and somehow it jars that there should have been that sort of talk.' Cilly was checked. In her utter want of thought it had not occurred to her that Augusta Fulmort could be other than a laughing-stock, or that any bright anticii)atious could have been spent by any reasonable person on her marriage. Perhaps the companionship of Rashe, and the autirical outspoken tone of her associates, had somewhat blunted her perception of what might be ollensive to the .sensitive delicacy of a young sister ; HOPES AND FEARS. 187 but she instantly perceived her mistake, and the carnation deepened in her cheek, at having distressed Phrebe, and.... Not that she had deigned any notice of Robert after the first cokl shake of the hand, and he sat rowing with vigorous strokes, and a countenance of set gravity, more as if he were a boatman than one of the party ; Lucilla coukl not even meet his eye when she peeped under her eyelashes to I'ecover defiance by tlie sight of his displeasure. It was a relief to all when Honora exclaimed, 'Wrap worth ! how pretty it looks.' It was, indeed, pretty, seen thi-ongh the archway of the hand- some stone bridge. Tlie church tower and picturescpie village were set off by the frame that closed them in ; and though they lost somewhat of the enchantment when the boat shot from under the arch, they were still a fair and goodly English scene. Lucilla steered towards the steps leading to a smooth shaven lawn, shaded by a weeping willow, well known to Honor. ' Here we land you and your bag, Robert,' said Owen, as he put in. ' Cilly, have a little sense, do.' But Lucilla, to the alarm of all, was already on her feet, skipped like a chamois to the steps, and flew dancing up tlie sward. Ere Owen and Robert had helped the other two ladies to land in a more rational manner, she was shaking her mis- chievous head at a window, and thrusting in her sceptral reed- mace. 'Neighbour, oh, neighbour, I'm come to torment you ! Yes, here we are in full force, ladies and all, and you must come out and behave pretty. Never mind your slippers ; you ought to be proud of the only thing I ever worked. Come out, 1 say ; here's your guest, and you must be civil to him.' ' 1 am very glad to see Mr. Fulmort,' said Mr. Prendergast, his only answer in words to all this, though while it was going on, as if she were pulling him by wires, as she imperiously waved her bulrush, he had stuck his pen into the inkstand, run his fingers in desperation through liis hair, risen from his seat, gazed about in vain for his boots, and felt as fruitlessly on the back of the door for a coat to replace the loose alpaca article that hung on his shoulders. ' There. You've gone through all the motions,' said Cilly; ' that'll do ; now, come out and receive them.' Accordingly, he issued from the dooi-, shy and slouching ; rusty where he wore cloth, sliiny where he wore alpaca, wild as to his hair, gay as to his feet, but, withal, the scholarly gentle- man complete, and not a day older or younger, apparently, than 188 HOPES AND FEARS. when Honor had last seen liira, nine years since, in bondage then to the child playing at coquetry, as now to the coquette playing at childhood. It was curious, Honor thought, to see how, though so much more uncouth and negligent than Robert, the indefinable signs of good blood made themselves visible, while they were wanting in one as truly the Christian gentleman in spirit and in education. Mr. Prendergast bowed to Miss Charlecote, and shook hands with his guest, welcoming him kindly ; but the two shy men grew more bashful by contact, and Honor found herself, Owen, and Lucilla sustaining the chief of the conversation, the curate apparently looking to the young lady to protect him and do the honours, as she did by making him pull down a cluster of his roses for her companions, and conducting them to eat his strawberries, which she ti"ea,ted as lier own, flitting, butterfly like, OA'er the beds, selecting the lai-gest and ruddiest specimens, while her slave i)lodded diligently to fill cabbage leaves, and present them to the })arty in due gradation. Owen stood by amused, and silencing the scruples of his companions. ' He is in Elysium,' he said ; ' he had rather be plagued by Cilly than x'eceive a mitre! Don't hinder him, Honey; it is his pride to treat us as if we were at home and he our guest.' ' Wrapworth has not been seen without Edna Murrell,' said Lucilla, flinging the stem of her last strawberry at her brother, 'and Miss Charlecote is a woman of schools. What, aren't we to go, Mr. Prendergast f ' I beg your pardon. I did not know.' ' Well ; what is it f * I do sometimes wish Miss Murrell were not such an attrac- tion.' ' You did not think that of yourself.' 'Well, I don't know; INIiss Murrell is a very nice young woman,' he hesitated, as Cilly seemed about to thrust him through with her reed ; 'but couldn't you, Cilia, now, give her a hint that it would be better if she would associate moi-e with Mrs. Jenkyns, and ' ' Couldn't, Mr. Prendergast ; I've more regard for doing as I would be done by. When you see Edna, Honor ' 'They are very respectable women,' said the curate, standing his ground ; ' and it would be much better for her than letting it be said she gives herself airs.' ' That's all because we have had her up to the Castle to tin",' HOPES AND FEARS. 189 * "Well, so it is, I believe. They do say, too — I don't know wliether it is so — that the work has not been so well attended to, nor the children so orderly.' ' S|)ite, spite, Mr. Prendeigast ; I had a better opinion of you than to think you could be taken in by the tongues of Wrap worth.' ' Well, certainly I did hear a great noise the other day,' * I see how it is ! This is a systematic attem})t to destroy the impression I wished to produce.' He tried to argue that he thought very well of Miss IMurrell, but she would not hear ; and she went on with her pretty, saucy abuse, in her gayest tones, as she tripped along thecliurch- yard path, now, doubtless, too familiar to renew the associa- tions that might have tamed her spirits. Perhaps the shock her vivacity gave to the feelings of her friends was hardly reason- able, but it was not the less real ; though, even in passing, ilonora could not but note the improved condition of the two graves, now carefully tended, and with a lovely while rose budding between them. A few more steps, and from the open window of the school- house thei'e was heard a Inizz and hum, not outrageous, but which might have caused the item of discipline not to figure well in an inspector's report ; but Mr. Prendergast and Lucilla ap])eared habituated to the like, for they proceeded without apology. It was a handsome gable-ended building, Elizabethan enough to testify to the taste that had designed it, and with a deep porch, where Honor had advanced, under Lucilla's guidance, so as to have a moment's view of the whole scene before their arrival had disturbed it. The cliildren's backs wei-e towards the door, as they sat oq their forms at work. Close to the oriel windov/, the only person facing the door, with a table in front of hei', there sat, in a slightly reclining attitude, a figure sucli as all reports of the new lace of schoolmistresses had hardly led Honor to iaiagiue to be the bund fide mistress. Yet the dress was per- fectly quiet, merely lilac cotton, with no ornament save the small bow of the saviie colour at the throat, and the hair was simply folded round the head, but it was magnificent raven hair ; the head and neck were grandly made ; the form finely proportioned, on a large scale ; the face really beautiful, in a pale, dark, Italian style ; the complexion of the clearest olive, but as she became aware of the presence of th'^ visitors it became over- spread with a lovely hue of red ; while the eyelids revealed a superb pair of eyes, liquid de^iths of rich brown, soft and langxiid, 190 HOPES A1S*D FEARS. and befitting the calm dignity with whicli she rose, curtseyed, and signed to her scliolars to do the same ; the deepening colour alone betraying any sense of being taken by surprise. Lucilla danced up to her, chattering with her usual familiar, airy giace. ' Well, Edna, how are you getting on 1 Have I brought a tremendous host to invade you? I wanted Miss Charlecote to see you, for she is a perfect connoisseur in schools.' Edna's blush grew moi"e carnation, and the fingers shook so visibly with which she held the v/ork, that Honora v/as provoked with Lucy for embarrassing the poor young thing by treating her as an exhibition, especially as the two young gentlemen were present, Robert with his back against the door-post in a state of resignation, Owen drawing Phoebe's attention to the little ones whom he was puzzling with incomprehensible re- marks and questions. Hoping to end the scene. Honor made a few commonplace inquiries as to the numbers and the habits of the school ; but the mistress, through preserving her dignity of attitude, seemed hardly able to speak, and the curate replied for her. 'I see,' said Lucilla, 'your eye keeps roaming to tlie mischief my naughty brother is doing among the fry down there.' * Oh, no ! ma'am. I beg your pardon ' ' Never mind, I'll remove the whole concern in a moment, only we must have some singing first.' ' Don't, Lucy !' whispered Honoi-, looking up from an inspec- tion of some not first-rate needlework ; 'it is distressing her, and displays are contrary to all rules of discipline.' ' Oh ! but you must,' cried Cilly. ' You have not seen Wrapworth without. Come, Edna, my bonnie-bell,' and she held out her hand in that semi-imperious, semi-caressing manner which very few had ever withstood. ' One song,' echoed Owen, turning towards the elder girls. 'I know you'll oblige me; eh, Fanny Blake f To the scholars the request was evidently not distasteful ; the more tuneful wei-e gathering together, and the mistress took her station among them, all as if the exhibition were no novelty. Lucilla, laying her hand on the victim's arm, said, ' Come, don't be nervous, or what will you do to-morrow ? Come.' ' " Goddess of the Silver Bow,"' suggested Owen. 'Wasn't it that which your mother disapproved, Fanny, because it was worshipping idols to sing about great Diana of tlie Ej)hesiansf ' Yes, sir,' said rather a conceited voice from the prettiest HOPES AND FEARS. 11)1 of the elder girls ; ' and jou told lis it was about Phoebe Bright, and gave her the blue and silver ribbon,' ' And please, sir,' said anotlier less prepossessing damsel, ' Mrs. Jenkyns took it away, and I said I'd tell you.' Owen shmigged up his shoulders with a comical look, saying, as he threw her a shilling, ' Never mind ; thei'e's a silver circle instead of a bow — that will do as well. Here's a rival goddess for you, Phoebe ; two moons in a system.' The girls were in a universal titter, the mistre.ss with her eyes cast down, blushing more than ever. Lucilla muttered an amused but indignant, ' For shame, Owen !' and herself gave the key-note. The performance was not above the average of National School melody, but no sooner was it over, than Owen named, in an under tone, another song, which was instantly commenced, and in which there joined a voice that had been still during the first, but which soon completely took the lead. And such a voice, coming as easily as the notes of the niglitiu- gale from the nobly formed throat, and seeming to hll the room with its sweet power ! Lucilla's tiiuniph was complete ; Honor's scruples were silenced by the admiring enjoyment, and Phoebe was in a state of rapture. The nervous reluctance had given way to the artistic delieht in her own power, and she readily sang all that was asked for, latterly such pieces as needed little or no support from the children — the 'Three Fishers' Wives' coming last, and thrilling every one with the wondrous pathos and sadness of the tones that seemed to come from her very heart. It seemed as if they would never have come away, had not Mr. Prendergast had pity on the restless movements of some of th.e younglings, who, taking no part in the display, had leisure to perceive that the clock had struck their hour of release, and at the close of ' The Fishers' Wives,' he signed to Lucilla to look at the hour. ' Poor little things !' said she, turning round to the gaping and discontented collection, ' have we used you so ill ? Never mind.' Again usino; her bulrush to tickle the faces that looked most injured, and waken them into smiles — 'Heie's the prison house oj)en,' and she sprang out. 'Now— come with a whoop and come with a call — 111 give my club to anybody that can catch me before I set down to the vicarage garden.' Light as the wind, she went bounding flying across the churchyai"d like a butterfly, ever and anon pausing to look round, nod, and shake her sceptre, as the urchins tumbled confusedly after, far behind, till closing the gate, she turned, poised tliP reed javelin-wise in the air, and launched it among them. 192 HOPES AND FEARS. ' It is vain to try to collect them again,' sighed Mr. Pren'lftr- gast, ' we must shut up. Good night, MissMurrell ; and there- with he turned back to his garden, wliere the freakish sprite, feigning flight, took refuge in the boat, cowering down, and t)]ayfully hiding her face in deprecation of rebuke, but all she received was a meekly melancholy, ' O Cilia ! prayers.' ' One day's less loathing of compulsory devotion,' was her answer in saucy defiance. ' I owed it to them for the weariness of listening for ten minutes to the " Three Fisliers' Wives," which they appreciated as little as their pastor did !' ' I know nothing about songs, but when one wants them — poor things — to look to something better than sleep.' * Oh, hush ! Here are Miss Charlecote and Mr. Fulmort on your side, and I can't be crushed with vxnited morality in revenge for the tears Edna caused you all to shed. There, help Miss Charlecote in ; where can Owen be dawdling? You can't pull, Phoebe, or we would put olf without him. Ah, there !' as he came bounding down, ' you intolerable loiterer, I was just going to leave you behind.' * The train starting without the engine,' he said, getting into his place ; ' yes, take an oar if you like, little gnat, and fancy yourself helping.' The gay warfare, accompanied by .a few perilous tricks on Lucilla's part, lasted through the further voyage. Honora guessed at a purpose of staving off graver remonstrance, but, Phoebe looked on in astonishment. Seventeen is often a more serious time of life than two-and-tvventy, and the damsel could not comprehend the possibility of thoughtlessness when there was anytliing to think about. The ass's bridge was nothing compared with Lucy ! Moreover the habits of persiflage of a lively family often are confusing to one not used to the tone of jest and repartee, and Phoebe had as little power as will to take part in what was passing between the brotlior and sister ; she sat like the spect;itor of a farce in a foi-eign tongue, till the boat had ariived at the broad open extent of park gently sweeping down towards the river, the masses of ti-ees kept on either side so as to leave the space open whei-e tlie castle towered in pre- tentious grandeur, with a Hag slowly swaying in the summer wind on the top of the tallest turret. The frees made cool reaches of shade, varied by intervals of hot stinshiue, and much longer did the way appear, creoi)ing onward in the heat, than it had looked when the eye only took in the simple exjjanse of turf, from river to castle. Phoebe looked to her ai-rival there, and to berlroom conferences, as the moment of recovering a reasonable Lucy, but as they neaied HOPES AND FEARS. 193 the Jiouse, there was a shout from the wire fence enclosing the slir ibbery on the eastern side, and Horatia was seen standing at the gate calling them to come into the cloisters and have some sustenance. Passing the screen of shrubs, a scene lay before them, almost fit for the gardens of Seville. Tliree sides of an extensive square were enclosed by the semi-gothic buildings, floridly deco- rated with stone carving ; one consisted of the main edifice, the lower windows tented with striped projecting blinds ; a second of the wing containing the reception rooms, fronted by the imi- tative cloister, which was continued and faced with glass on the third side — eacli supporting column covered witli climbing plants, the passion flower, the tropsetdum, the trumpet honey- suckle, or even the pomegranate, opening their gay blooms ou every side. The close-shaven turf was broken by small patches of gorgeously-tinted flower beds, diversified by vases filled with trailing plants, and lines of orange trees and fuchsias, with here and there a deep-belled datura, all converging towards tlie central mai'ble fountain, where the water played high, and tinkled coolly in sparkling jets. Between it and the house, there were placed in the shade some brightly-tinted cushions aud draperies, lounging chairs, and a low table, bearing an oriental-looking service of tiny cups of all kinds of bright and fantastic hues, no two alike. Near it reclined on her cushions a figure in perfect keeping with the scene, her jetty hair con- trasting with her gold and coral net, her scarlet gold-embroidered sliji[)er peeping out from her pale buft'-coloured dress, deeply edgf.d with rich purple, and partly concealed by a mantle of the unapproachable pink which suggests Persia, all as goi-geous in ajiparel as the blue and yellow macaw on his pole, and the green and scarlet lories in their cage. Owen made a motion of smoking with Honor's parasol, whispering, ' Fair Fatima ! what mors is wanting V ' There ! I've got Lolly out !' cried Horatia, advancing with her vehement cordiality, and grasping their hands with all her might ; ' 1 would have come and pulled you up tlie river, Miss Charlecote, but for imperative claims. Hei'e's some tea fur you; I know you must be parched.' Aud while Mrs. Charteris, scarcely rising, held out her ring- encrusted fingers, and murmured a greeting, Ratia settled theui all, {)ushed a chair behind Miss Charlecote, almost threw Phcebi; on a cushion, handed tea, scolded Owen, aud rattled away to Lucilla with an impetus that kept Phcebe in increased wonder. it was all about the ai'raugements for the morrow, full of the utmost good-nature aud desire to secure every one's pleasure, o 194 HOPES AND FEARS. but all discussed iu a broad, out-spoken way, with a liberal use of slang phi-ases, and of unprefoced surnames, a freedom of manner and jovial carelessness of voice that specially mai'ked Rashe Cliarteris at home, Phoebe had a good deal of opportunity for these observations, for as soon as her stream of information was exhausted, Rasho jumped up and insisted on conducting the guests round the hot- houses and pleasure-grounds. She knew Miss Charlecote was a famous hand at such things. Lucilla remained on the grass, Boftly teasing Lolly about the exertions of the morrow, and Owen applying himself to the care of Honor, Rashe took posses- sion of Phcebe with all the tyrannous good-nature that had in baby days rendered her hateful to Lucilla. She showed oft' the parrots and gold fish as to a child, she teased the sensitive plant, and explained curiosities down to the level of the ycnitliful in- tellect ; and Phoebe, scientific enough to know if she went wrong in botany or locality, began a word or two of modest suggestion, only to be patronizingly enlightened, and stopt short, in the fear of pedantry. Phoebe had yet to learn the ignorance of the wox'ld. At last, with a huge torrent of explanations and excuses, Ratia consigned the two guests to share the same bedroom and dressing-room. The number of gentlemen visitors had necessitated close p»acking, and Cilly, she said, had come to sleep in her room. Another hope had failed ! But at tlie moment when the door was shut, Phoebe could only sink into a chair, untie her bonnet, and fan herself. Such oppre.-sive goodnatui'e was more fatiguing than a ten miles' walk, or than the toughest lesson in political economy. ' If nature have her own ladies,' was Honora's comment on her young friend's exhaustion, ' she likewise has her own dairy- maids !' ' Miss Charteris is a lady,' said Phoebe, her sense of the in- tended kindness of her hostess calling her to sj)eak in vindi- cation, ' Yes,' said Honox*, hesitating ; ' it is station that emboldena her. If she had been a dairy-maid, slie would have been a bouncing rude girl ; if a farmer s daugliter, she would be hearty and useful ; if one of the boasters of gentility, she would think it worth while to restrain herself; as she is, her acknowledged birtli and breeding enable her to follow her inclinations with- out fear of opinion.' ' I tiiought refinement was one great characteristic of a lady,' Kiid irhoebe. ' So it is, but affectation and false shame are the contrary. nOPRS AND FKABS. IH^ Iii:fi lemem was rather overworked, and there ha3 been a re- action of late ; simplicity and unconstraint have been the fashion, but unfortunately some dispositions are not made to Ije uncua- stniined.' ' Lucy is just as unrestrained as her cousin,' said Phoebe, 'but she never seems like her. She offends one's judgment sometimes, but never one's taste — at least hardly ever ;' and Ph(Bbe blushed as she thought of what had passed about her sister that day. ' Poor Lucy ! it is one misfoi-tune of pretty people, that they can seldom do what is taken amiss. She is small and feminine too, and essentially refisied, whatever she can do. But T was very sorry for you to-day, Phcebe. Tell me all about your sister, my dear.' ' They knew more than I did, if all that is true,' said Plioibe. 'Augusta wrote — oh ! so kindly — and seemed so glad, that it made me very happy. And papa gave his consent readily to Robert's doing as he pleased, and almost said something about his taking me to the v/edding at Paris. If Lucy sliould — should accept Robin, I wonder if she would go, too, and be bridesmaid !' So they comforted themselves with a few pretty auguries, dressed, and went down to dinner, where Phoebe had made sure that, as before, Lucy would .sit next Robin, and be subdued. Alas, no I Ladies were far too scarce articles for even the last but one to be the prize of a mere B.A, To know who wei'e Pljcebe's own neighbours would have been distraction to Juliana, but they wei'e lost on one in whom the art of conversation was yet undeveloped, and who was chiefly intent on reading herVjrotlier's face, and catching what Lucy was saying. She had nearly given up listening in despair, when she heard, ' Pistols 1 oh, of course. Rashe has gone to the expense of a revolver, but I extracted grandpapa's from the family armoury — such little darlings. I'm strongly tempted to send a challenge, just to keep them in use — that's because you despise me — I'm a crack shot — we practised every day last winter — women shoot much better than men, because they don't make their hands unsteady — what can be better than the guidance of Patia, the feminine of Ratio, reason, isn't it V It is not quite certain that this horrible Latinity did not shock TNIiss Feiinimore's discreet pupil more than all the rest, as a wilful insult to Miss Charlecote's education ! She herself was not to escape ' the guidance of Ratia,' after dinner. Her siieuce had been an additional ])roof to the good- natured Rashe that she was a child to be protected and enter o 2 196 HOPES AND FEARS. • tained, so she paraded her through the rooms, coaxed her to pky when no one was listening, showed her ilhistiated books and new-fashioned puzzles, and domineered over her so closely, that she had not a moment in which to speak a word to her brother, whom she saw disconsolately watching the hedge of gentlemen round Lucy. Was it wrong to feel so ungrateful to a person exclusively devoted to her entertainment for that entire evening ? Phoebe had never known a room-mate nor the solace of a bed-time gossip, and by the time Miss Cbarlecote began to think of opening the door between their rooms, and discussing the disgusts of the day, the sounds of moving about had ceased. Honor looked in, and could not help advancing to the bedside to enjoy the sight of the rosy face in the sound healthful sleep, the lips unclosed, and the silken brown hair wound plainly across the round brow, the childish outline and expression of the features even sweeter in sleep than awake. It rested Honora's wearied anxious spirit to watch the perfect repose of that innocent young face, and she stood still for some minutes, breathing an ejaculation that the child might ever be as guile- less and peaceful as now, and then sighing at the thought of other young sleepers, beside whose couches even fonder prayers had been uttei-ed, only, as it seemed, to be blow aside. She was turning away, when Phogbe suddenly awoke, and was for a moment startled, half rising, asking if anything were the matter. ' No, my dear ; only I did not think you would have been in bed so quickly. I came to wish you good night, and found you asleep.' And with the strong tender impulse of a gentle wounded spirit. Honor hung over the maiden, i-ecomposiug the clothes, and fondling her. with a murmured blessing. 'Dear Miss Charhcote,' whispered Phoebe, 'how nice it is ! I have so often wondered what it would be like, if any one came in to pet us at night, as they do in books ; and oh ! it is so nice ! Say that again, jjlease.' That was the blessing whiclt wonld have made Lucilla in angry reserve hide her head in the clothes i HOPES AND FEARS. 197 CHAPTER VII. But, ah me ! she's a heart of stone, Which Cupid uses foi- a hone, I verily beUeve ; And on it sharpens those eye- darts, With which he wounds the simple hearts He bribes her to deceive. A Coquette, hy X. BREAKFAST was late, and lengthened out by the greater lateness of many of the gnests, and the superlative tardi- ness of the lady of the house, who had repudiated the cares of the hostess, and left the tea-equij^age to her sistei'-in-law. Lucilla had been downstairs anionsf the first, and hurried away acjuin after a rapid meal, forbidding anyone to follow her, because slie had so much to do, and oia entering the drawing-room, she was found with a wilderness of flowers around her, tilling vases and makinfj last arransrements. Honora and Plioebe were glad to be occupied, and Phcebe almost hoped to escape from Rashe. Speaking to Lucilla was not possible, for Eloisa had been placed by Raslie in a low chair, with a saucer before her, which she was directed to fill with verbenas, while the other four ladies, with Owen, whom his cousin had called to their aid, were putting last touches to wreaths, and giving the filial festal air to the rooms. Presently Robert made his appearance as the bearer of Mr. Prendergast's flowers, and setting his back against a shutter, in his favourite attitude, stood looking as if he wanted to help, but knew not how. Phoebe, at least, was vividly conscious of his presence, but she was supporting a long festoon with which Owen was adorning a pier-glass, and could hardly even turn her head to watch him. ' Oh, hon-id !' cried Lucilla, retreating backwards to look at Ratia's performance ; 'for love or money a bit of clematis !' ' Where shall I find one V said Robert, unseeing the masses waving on the cloister, ifj good youth, he even knew what clematis was. ' You there, Mr. Eulmort !' exclaimed Rashe ; 'for goodness gracious sake, go out to tennis or something with the other men. Pve ordered them all out, or tliere'll be no good to be got out of Cilly.' Phoebe flashed out in his defence, ' You are letting Owen alone.' 198 HOPES AKD FEARS. ' Ah ! by tlie bye, that wreath of yours has taken au nn- conscionalile time T said Miss Charteris, beginning to laugh ; but Plicebe's grave straiglitforwaid eyes met her with such a look, as a:bsohitely silenced lier merriment into a mere mutter of ' Wliat a little chit it is !' Honora, who was about indignantly to assume the protection of her charge, recognised in her what was fully competent to take of care herself. 'Away with both of you,' said Liicilla ; 'here is Edna come for a last rehearsal, and I wont have you making her nervous. Take away that Rubin, will you, Owen V Horatia flew gustily to greet and reassure the schoolmistress as she entered, trembling, although moving with the dignity that seemed to be her form of embarrassment. Lucilla mean- wliile sped to the others near the window. 'You must go,' she said, 'or I shall never screw her up ; it is a sudden access of stage fright. She is as pale as deatli.' Owen stepjied back to judge of the paleness, and Robert contrived to say, 'Cannot you grant me a few words, Lucy T ' The most impossible thing you could have asked,' she replied. 'There's Rashe's encouragement quite done for her now !' She bounded back to the much-oveicome Edna, while Phcebe herself, perceiving how ill-advised an opportunity Robert had chosen, stepped out with him into the chnster, saying, * She can't help it, dear Robin ; she cannot tliink, just now.' ' When can she T he asked, almost with asperity. ' Think how full her hands are, how much excited she is,' ]>leaded rhoebe, feeling that this was no fair moujent for the crisis. ' Ireland?' almost groaned Robert, but at the same moment grasped her rouglily to hinder from her replying, for Owen was close upon them, and he was the person to whom Robert would have been most reluctant to display his feelings. Catching intuitively at his meaning, Phoehe directed her at- tention to some clematis on the opposite side of the cloister, and called both her companions to gather it for her, glad to be with Robert and to relieve Miss Murrell of the presence of another spectator. Charles Charteris coming up, carried the two young meji to ins]iect some of his doings out of doors, and Phcehe returned with her wreaths of creepers to find that the poor schoolmistress had become quite hysterical, and had been taken away by Lucilla. Rashe summoned her at the same time to the decoration of the music-room, and on entering, stopped in amusement, and made her a sign in silence to look into a large pier-glass, which stood so as to reflect through an open door what was passiijg iu HOPES AND FEARS. 199 tlie little ianciful boudoir beyond, a place fitted like a tent, and fiiil of quaint Dresden china and toys of bijouterie. There was a complete picture within the glass. Lucilla, her fair face seen in profile, more soft and gentle than she often allowed it to appear, was kneeling beside the couch where half reclined the tall, handsome Edna, whose raven hair, and pale, fine features made her like a heroine, as she nervously held the hands which Lucilla had placed within her grasp. There was a low murmur of voices, one soothing, the other half sobbing, but nothing reached the outer room distinctly, till, as Phoebe was holding a long wreath, which Ratia was tying up, she heard — ' Oh ! but it is so different with me from you young ladies who ai'e used to company and all. 1 dare say that young lady would not be tiuiid.' ' What young lady, Edna? Not the one with the auburn hair V Ratia made an ecstatic face which disgusted Phoebe. 'Oh, no ! — the young lady whom Mr. Sandbrook was helpincf. I dare say she would not mind singing — or anything,' came amid sobs. Ratia nodded, looked excessively arch, and formed a word with her lips, which Phoebe thought was 'jealous,' but could not imagine what .she could mean by it. ' I don't know why you should think poor Phoebe Fulmort so brazen. She is a mere child, taking a holiday from her strict governess.' Phoebe laughed back an answer to Rashes pantomime, which in this case she understood. ' She has not had half your training in boldness, with your inspectors and examinations, and all tiiose horrid things. Why, you never thought of taking fright before, even when you have sung to people here. Why should you now V 'It is so different, now — so many more people. Oh, so different ! I shall never be able.' ' Not at all. You will quite forget all about yourself and your fears when the time comes. You don't know the ex- hilaration of a room full of people, all lights and music ! That symphony will lift you into another world, and you will feel quite ready for " Men must work and women must weep." ' ' If 1 can only begin— but oh ! Miss Sandbrook, shall you be far away from me ?' ' No, I promise you not. I will bring you down, if you will come to Ratia's room when you are dressed. The black silk and the lilac ribbon Owen and I chose for you ; I must see y<.u iu it' 20) HOPES AND FEAES. ' Dear Miss Sandbrook, you are so kind ! What sliall I do ■when you have leftf 'You are going yourself for the holidays, silly puss !' ' Ah ! but no one else sympathizes or enters into my feelings.' ' Feelings !' said Lucilla, lightly, yet sadly. 'Don't indulge in them, Edna ; they are no end of a torment.' ' Ah ! but if they prey on one, one cannot help it.' Rashe made a face of great distaste. Phoebe felt as if it were becoming too confidential to permit of listening, all the more as she heard Lucilla's reply. 'That's what comes of being tall, and stately, and dignified ! There's so much less of me that I can cari-y off my troubles twice as welL' ' Oh, dear Miss Sandbrook, you can have no troubles !' ' Havn't II Oh, Edna, if you knew! You that have a mother can never know what it is to be like me ! I'm keeping it all at bay, lest I should break down ; but I'm in the horridest bother and trouble.' Not knowing what might come next, ashamed of having listened to so much, yet with one gleam of renewed hope, Phoebe resolutely disobeyed Ratia's frowns and gestures, and made her presence known by decided movements and words spoken aloud. She saw the immediate effect in EdnaMurrell's violent start; but Lucilla, without moving, at once began to sing, straining her thin though sweet voice, as though to surmount a certain tremulousness. Edna joined, and the melody was lovely to hear ; biit Phoebe was longing all the time for Robert to be at hand for t])is softer moment, and she hoped all the more wlien, the practising being over, and Edna dismissed, Lucy came springing towards her, notifying her presence by a caress — to outward ap]>earance merely playful, but in reality a convulsive clasp of vehement affection — and Phoebe was sure that there had been tears in those eyes that seemed to do nothing but laugh. The security that this wild elf was true at heart was, how- ever, not enoucrh fur Phoebe. There was the knowledge that each moment's delay would drive Robert fixrther aloof, and that it was a mere chance whether he should encounter this crea- ture of impulse at a propitious instant. Nay, who could tell what was best for him after all 1 Even Plioebe's faithful ac- ceptance of her on his word had undoi'gone sundry severe si locks, and she had rising doul)ts whether Lucy, such as she Baw her, could be what would make him happy. If the secrets of every guest at ajcle were told, would any be HOPES AND FEARS. 201 fonnd unmixedly happy 1 WouM there be no one devoid of cares of their own or of other people's, or if exempt from these, un- disturbed \>y the absence of the right individual or by the presence of the wrong one, by mishaps of deportment, diffi- culties of dress, or want of notice 1 Perhaps, after all, it may be best to have some one abidinc; anxietv, strong enough to destroy tedium, and exclude the pettier distresses, which are harder to contend with, though less dignified ; and most whole- some of all is it that this should be an interest entirely external. So, after all, Phoebe's enjoyment might hardly have been in- creased had her thoughts been more free from Kobin's troubles, when she came down dressed for her first party, so like a lily of the valley in her delicate dress, that Owen acknowledged that it justified her choice, and murmured something of 'in vernal green and virgin white, her festal robes, ai-rayed.' Phcebe was only distressed at what she thought the profanation of quoting from such a source in compliment to her. Honora was gratified to find the lines in his memory upon any terms. Poor dear Honor, in one case at least believing all things, hoping all things ! Phoebe ought to have made the most of her compliment. It was all she obtained in tliat line. Juliana herself could not have taken unibi'age at her success. Nobody imagined her come out, no one attempted to disturb her from under Miss Charlecote's wing, and she kept close to her the whole after- noon, sometimes sitting upon a haycock, sometimes walking in the shrubbery, listening to the band, or looking at the archery, in company with dignified clergyman, or elderly lady, astonished to meet Honor Charlecote in so unwonted a scene. Owen Saudbrook was never far oflf. He took them to eat ices, con- ducted them to good points of view, found seats for them, and told them who every one was, with droll comments or anecdotes which entertained them so much, that Phoebe almost wished that Robin had not made her sensible of the grain of irreverence that seasoned all Owen's most brilliant sallies. They saw little of the others. Mr. and Mrs. Charteris walked about together, the one cordial, the other stately and gorgeous, and Miss Charlecote came in for her due and passing share of their politeness. Rashe once invited Phoebe to shoot, but had too many on her hands to be solicitous about one. Flirting no longer herself, Rashe's delight was in those who did flirt, and in any assembly her extreme and i;nscrupulous good-nature made her invaluable to all who wanted to have themselves taken off their own hands, or pushed into those of others. She ordered people about, started amusements, hunted gentlemen up, found 202 HOPES AND FEATIS partners, and sliook up the bashful. Rashe Charteris was the life of everything. How little was wanting to make her kind- hearted activity admirable ! Lucilla never came in their way at all. She was only seen in full and eager occupation enibelli-shing the archery, or forcing the ' decidedly pious' to be fascinated by her gracious self- adaptation. Robert was equally inaccessible, always watching her, but' keeping aloof from his sister, and only consorting at times with Mr. Prendergast. It was seven o'clock when this act of the drama was finally over, and the parties staying in the house met round a hurried meal. Rashe lounging and yawning, laughing and quizzing, in a way amazing to Phoebe ; Lucilla in the very summit of spirits, rattling and laughing away in full swing. Thence the party dispersed to dress, but Honora had no sooner reached her room than she said, 'I must go and find Lucy. I must do my dnty by her, little hope as I have. She has avoided me all day ; I must seek her now.' What a difference time and discipline had made in one foi'- merly so timid and gentle as to be alarmed at the least encounter, and nervous at wandering about a strange house. Nervous, and frightened, indeed, she still was, but self-control kept this in check, and her dislike was not allowed to hold her back from her duty. Humfrey's representative was seldom ])ermitted to be weak. But there are times wlien the diiierence between man and woman is felt in their dealings with others. Strength can be mild, but what is strained can seldom be gentle, and •when she knocked at Horatie, Charteris's door, her face, from very unhappiuess and effort, was sorrowfully reproachfnl, as she felt herself an unwelcome apparition to the tvvo cousins, who lay on their bed still laughing over the day's events. Rashe, who was still in her morning dress, at once gave way. saying she must go and speak to Lolly, and hastened out of the room. Lucy, in her dishabille, sat crouched upon the bed, her white bare shoulders and floating hair, togetlier with the defiaxit glance of the blue eye, and the hand moodily compressing the lips, reminding Honor of the little creatui-e who had been summarily carried into her house sixteen years since. She came towards her, but there was no invitation to give the caress that she yearned to bestow, and she leant against the bed, trembling, as she said, ' Lucy, my poor child, I am come that you may not throw away your last chance without knowing it. You do not realize what you are about. If you cast aside esteem and re- liance, how can you expect to retain the afiection you soraetimea seem to prize V HOPES AND FEARS. 203 ' If I am not trusted, what's the good of aflfoction V ' How cau you expect trust when you go beyond the bounds of discretion T said Honor, with voice scarcely steadied into Iier desired firniness. ' I can, I do !' ' Lucy, listen to me.' She gave way to her natural piteous, pleading tone : ' I verily believe that this is the very turn. Ilumeuiber how often a moment has decided the fate of a life !' She saw the expression rehix into some alarm, and continued : ' The Fulmorts do not say so, but I see by their manner that his final decision will be influenced by your present proceedings. You have trifled witli him too long, and with his mind made up to the ministry, he cannot continue to think of one who persists in outraging decorum.' Those woids were effort enough, and had better have been unsaid. ' That is as people may think,' was all the answer. ' As he thinks V ' How do I know what he thinks Y Heartsick at such mere fencing. Honor was silent at first, then said, ' I, for one, shall rate your good opinion by your endeavour to deserve it. Who can suppose that you value what you are willing to risk for an unladylike bet, or an unfeminine sporting expedition !' ' You may tell him so,' said Lucilla, her voice quivering with passion. ' You think a look will bring him back, but you may find that a true man is no slave. Prove his affection misplaced, and he will tear it away.' Had Houora been discreet as she was good, she would have left those words to settle down ; but, woman that she was, ^he knew not when to stop, and coaxingly coming to the small bundle of perverseness, she touched the shoulder, and said, ' Ni»\v you wont make an object of yourself to-night V The shoulder shook in the old fashion. ' At least you will not go to Ireland.' ' Yes, I shall.' ' Miss Cliarlecote, I beg your pardon ' cried Rashe, burst- ing in — (oh ! that she had been five seconds earlier) — ' but dressing is imperative. Peojde are beginning to come.' Honora retreated in utter discomfiture. ' Eashe ! Rashe ! I'm in for it !' cried Lucilla, as the door shut, springing up with a look of terror. • Proposed by deputy V exclaimed Horatia, aghast. ' ISTo, no !' gasped Lucilla ; ' it's this Ireland of yours — that — that ' and she well-nigh subbed. SOI HOPES AND FEARS. ' My bonny bell ! I kuew you would not Be bullied into deserting.' ' Oh ! Raslie, she was very hard on me. Every one is but you !' and Lucilla threw herself into lier cousin's arms in a paroxysm of feeling ; but their maid's knock brought her back to composure sooner than poor Honora, who shed many a tear over this last defeat, as, looking mournfully to Phojbe, she said, 'I have done, Phoebe. I can say no more to her. She will not hear anything from me. Oh ! what have I done that my child should be hardened against me !' Phoebe could offer nothing but caresses full of indignant sorrow, and there was evidently soothing in them, for JNliss Charlecote's tears became softer, and she fondly smoothed Phoebe's fair hair, saying, as she drew the clinging arms closer round her : ' My little woodbine, you must twine round your brother and comfort him, but you can spare some sweetness for nie too. There, I will dress. I will not keep you from the party.' * 1 do not care for that ; only to see Eobin.' 'We must take our ]>lace in the crowd,' sighed Honora, be- ginning her toilet ; ' and you will enjoy it when you are there. Your first quadrille is promised to Owen, is it not V ' Yes,' said Plioebe, dreamily, and she would have gone back to Robin's sorrows, but Honora had learnt that there were subjects to be set aside wlien it was incumbent on her to be presentable, and directed the talk to speculations whether tlie I'oor schoolmistress would have nerve to sing ; and somehow she talked up Phoebe's spirits to such a hopeful pitch, that the little maiden absolutely was crossed by a gleam of satisfaction from the ungrateful recollection that poor Miss Charlecote had done with the affair. Against her will, she bad detected the anta- gonism between the two, and bad as it was of Lucy, was certain that she was more likely to be amenable where there was no interference from her best friend. The music-room was already crowded when the two made their way into it, and Honora's inclination was to deposit herself on the nearest seat, but she owed something otherwise to her young charge, and Phoebe's eyes had already found a lonely black fiifure with arms crossed, and lowerinjj brow. Simul- taneously they moved towards him, and he towards them. ' Is she come down !' he asked. Phoebe shook her head, but at the same moment another door near the orchestra admitted a small wliite butterfly figure, leading in a tall queenly apparition in black, whom she placed in a oiiaii- adjacent to the be-jewelled prima donna of the night HOPES AND FEAES, 205 — a frreat contrast with her dust-coloured German hair and complexion, and good-natured plain face. Robert's fece cleared with relief; he evidently detected nothing outre in Lvacilla's aspect, and was rejoicing in the con- cession. Woman's eyes saw further ; a sigh from Honora, an amused murmur around him, caused him to bend his looks on Phoebe. She knew his eyes were interrogating her, but could not bear to let her own reply, and kept them on the ground. He was moving towards Lucilla, who, having consigned her protegee to the good-humoured German, had come more among the guests, and was exchanging greetings and answering comments with all her most brilliant airs of saucy animation. And who could quarrel with that fairy vision 1 Her rich double-skiited watered silk was bordered withexcpiisitely made and coloured flies, radiant with tlie hues of the peacock, the gold pheasant, the jay, parrots of all tints, everything rich and rai'e in plumage. A coronal of the same encircled her glossy liair, the tiny plumes contrasting with the blonde ringlets, and the bond fide hooks ostentatiously displayed ; lesser and more inno- cuous flies edged the sleeves, corsage, shoes, and gloves ; and her fan, which she used as skilfully as Jenny Wren, presented a Watteau-like picture of an angling scene. Anything more daintily, quaintly pretty, could not be imagined, and the male part of the assembly would have nnanimously concurred in Sir Harry Buller's ' three cheers for the queen of the anglers.' But towards the party most concerned in her movements, Lucilla came not ; and Phoebe, understanding a desire to keep as near as might be to Miss Murrell, tried to suggest it as the canse, and looking round, saw Owen standing by Miss Charlecote, with somewhat of an imeasy countenance. 'Tei-ribly hot here,' he said, restlessly ; ' suffocating, aren't yon, Honor V Come and take a turn in the cloister ; the fountain is stunning by moonlight.' No j)roposal could have been more agreeable to Honora ; and Phoebe was afraid of losing her chaperon, though she would rather have adhered to her brother, and the barbs of that wicked little angler were tearing him far too deeply to permit him to move out of sight of his tormentor. But for this, tlie change would have been delicious. The white lights and deep shadows from the calm, grave moon con- trasted with the long gleams of lamp-light from every window, reddened by the curtains within ; the flowers shone out with a strange whiteness, the taller ones almost like spiritual shapes ; the burnished orange leaves glistened, the water rose high in silvery spray, and fell back into the blackness of the basin madu 20S HOPES AND FEARS. more visible by one trembling, shimmering reflection ; the dark blue sky above seemed shut into a vault by the enclosing build- ings, and one solitary planet shone out in the lustrous neigh- bourhood of the moon. So still, so solemn, so cool ! Honora felt it as repose, and pensively began to admire — Owen chimed in with her. Feverish thoughts and pei"turbations were always gladly soothed away in her company. Phoebe alone stood barely confessing the beauty, and suppressing impatience at their making so much of it ; not yet knowing enough of care or passion to seek repose, and much more absorbed in human, than in any other form of nature. The music was her first hope of deliverance from her name- sake in the sky ; but, beliold, her companions chose to prefer hearing that grand instrumental piece softened by distance ; and even INladame Hedwigs nuiverinfr notes did not bring them in. However, at the first sounds of the accompaniment to tho ' Three Fishers' Wives,' Owen pulled back the curtain, and handed the two ladies back into the room, by a window much nearer to the orchestra than that by which they had gone out, not far from where Edna Murrell hud just risen, her hands ner- vously clasped together, her colour ra])idly varying, and her eyes roaming about as though in quest of something. Indeed, through all the music, the sliy^lit sounds of the entrance at the window did not escape her, and at the instant when she should have begun to sii g, Phoebe felt those black eyes levelled on herself with a look that startled her ; they were at once removed, the head turned away ; there was an attempt at the first words, but they died away on her lips ; there was a sudden whiteness, Lucilla and the German both tried to i-eseat her; but with readier judgment Owen made two long steps, gathered her u[) in his strong ai'ms, and bore her through the curtains and out at the open window like a mere inhmt. ' Don't come, don't — it will only make more fuss — nobody lias seen. Go to Madame Hedwig ; tell her from me to go on to her next, and cover her retreat,' said Lucilla, as fast as the words would come, signing back Honora, and hastily disappear- ing between the curtains. Tliere was a command in Lucilla's gestures which always made obedience the first instinct even with Honora, and her impulse to assist thus counteracted, she had time to recollect that Lucy might be su|)posed to know best what to do with the schoolmistress, and that to dispose of her among her ladies' maid friends was doulitloss the kindest measure. ' I must say T am glad,' she said ; ' the poor thing cani ot be quite so much spoilt as they wished.' HOPES AND FEARS. 207 The concert proceeded, and in tlie next pause Honor fell into cuuversatiou with a ])leasaut lady who had l)roug1it one pair of young daughters in the morning, and now was doing the same duty l>y an elder j)uir. Phcehe was standing near the window when a touch on her arm and a whispered ' Help ! hush !' made her look roiiud. Holding the curtain apart, so as to form the least possible aper- ture, and with one finger on her lip, was Lucy's face, the eyes brimming over with laughter, as she pointed to her head — tlireeofthe hooks had set their barbs deep into the crimson sulin curtain, and held her a i)risoner ! ' Hush ! I'll never forgive you if you betray me,' she whis- ])tred, drawing Phoebe by the arm behind the curtain ; ' I siionld expire on the spot to be found in Absalom's case. All that little goose's fault — I never reckoned on having to ru^h about this way. Can't you do it ? Don't sjjare scissors,' and Lncilla produced a pair from under her skirt. ' liashe and I always go provided.' ' How is she ? — where is she V asked Phcebe. ' Tliat's exactly what I can't tell. He took her out to the f )untain ; she was quite like a dead thing. Water wouldn't make her come to, and I ran for some salts ; I wouldn't call anybody, for it was too romantic a condition to have Owen dis- covered in, with a fainting maiden in his amns. Such a rum- mage as I had. My own things are all jumbled up, I don't know how, and Rasiie keeps nothing bigger than globules, only fit for fainting lady-birds, so I went to Lolly's, but her bottles have all gold heads, and are full of uncannj'-looking compounds, and I made a raid at last on Sweet Honey's rational old dress- ing case, poked out her keys from her pocket, and got in ; wasting interminable time. Well, when I got back to my fainting damsel, non est inventus.^ ' Inventa,' murmured the spirit of Miss Fenuimore within Phcebe. ' But what ? had she got well V ' So I suppose. Gone off to the servants' rooms, no doubt ; as there is no White Lady in the fountain to spirit them both away. What, haven't you done that, yet ?' ' Oh ! Lucy, stand still, please, or you'll get another hook in.' ' Give me the scissors ; I know I could do it quicker. Never mind the curtain, I say ; nobody will care.' She put up her hand, and shook head and feet to the entangle- ment of a third hook ; but Phcebe, decided damsel that she was, used her superior height to keep her mastery, held up the scissors, pressed the fidgety shoulder into quiescence, and kept her down while she extricated her, without fatal detriment to to 208 HOPES AND FEARS. the satiu, though with scanty thanks, for the liberation was no sooner accomjilished than the sprite was off, throwing out a word about Rashe wanting her. Plicebe emerged to find that she had not been missed, and presently the concert was over, and tea coming round, thin'o was a change of places. Robert came towards her. ' I am going,' he said. ' Oh ! Robert, when dancing would be one chance V ' She does not mean to give me that chance ; 1 would not ask it while she is in that dress. It is answer sufficient. Good night, Phoebe ; enjoy yourself.' Enjoy herself! A tine injunction, when her bi'other was going away in such a mood ! Yet who would have suspected tliat rosy, honest apple face of any grievance, save that her partner was missing ? Honora was vexed and concer-ned at his neglect, but Phcebe appeased her by reporting what Lucy had said. ' Thoughtless ! reckless !' sighed Honora ; ' if Lucy woukl leave the poor girl on his hands, of course he is obliged to make some arrangement for getting her home ! I never knew sucli people as they are here ! Well, Phoebe, you shall have a partner next time !' Phoebe had one, thanks chiefly to Rashe, and somehow the rapid motion shook her out of her troubles, and made her care much less for Robin's sorrows than she had done two minutes before. She wasmuch more absorbed in hopes for another jiartner. Alas ! he did not come ; neither then nor for the ensuing. Owen's value began to rise. Miss Charlecote did not again bestir herself in the cause, partly from abstract hatred of waltzes, partly from the constant expectation of Owen's re-appearance, and latterly from being occupied in a discussion with the excellent mother upon young ofirls reading novels. At last, after a galoppe, at which Phoebe had looked on with wishful eyes, LuciUa dropped breathless into the chair which she relinquished to her. * Well, Phoebe, how do you like it !' ' Oh ! very much,' rather ruefully ; * at least it would bo if ■ ' If you had any partners, eh, poor child 1 Hasn't Owen turned up 1 ' It's that billiard-room ; I tried to make Cliarlie shut it up. But we'll disinter him ; I'll rusli in like a sky-rocket, and scatter the gentlemen to all quarters.' ' No, no, don't!' cried Phoebe, alarmed, and catching hold of ber. It is not tliat, but Robin is gone.' HOPES AND FEARS. 209 * Atrocious,' returned Cilly, disconcerted, but resolved that Phcelie sliould not ])erceive it ; 'so we are botli under a severe infliction, — both ashamed of our brothers.' ' I am not ashamed of mine,' said Phoebe, in a tone of gravity. ' All ! there's the truant,' said Lucilla, turning aside. ' Owen, whei'e have you hidden yourself? I hope you are i-eady to sink into the earth with shame at hearing you have rubbed oflf the bloom from a young lady's first ball.' ' No ! it was not he who did so,' stoutly replied Plicebe. ' Ah ! it was all the consequence of the green and white ; I told you it was a sinister omen,' said Owen, chasing away a shade of perplexity from his brow, and assiiming a certain air that Plirebe had never seen before, and did not like. 'At least you will be merciful, and allow me to retrieve my charactei'.' ' You had nothing to retrieve,' said Phoebe, in the most •straightforward manner ; * it was very good Iti you to take care of poor Miss Murrell. What became of her 1 Lucy said you would know.' 'I — If he exclaimed, so vehemently as to startle her by the fear of having ignorantly committed some egregious blunder ; * Pni the last person to know.' 'The last to be seen with tbe murdered always falls under suspicion,' said Lucilla. ' Drowned in the fountain V cried Owen, affecting horror. ' Then you must have done it,' said his sister, ' for when T came back, after ransacking the house for salts, you had both disappeared. Have you been washing your hands all this time after the murder V ' Nothing can clear me but an appeal to the fountain,' said Owen ; ' will you come and look in, Phoebe 1 It is more deli- cious than ever.' But Phcebe had had enough of the moonlight, did not relish the suliject, and was not pleased with Owen's manner ; so she refused by a most decided ' No, thank you,' causing Lucy to lauo;h at her for thinkinu; Owen daniirei'ous. 'At least you will vouchsafe to trust yourself with me for the Lancers,' said Owen, as Cilia's ])artner came to claim her, and Phoebe rejoiced in anything to change the tone of the con- versation ; still, however, asking, as he led her off, what had become of the poor schoolmistress. 'Gone home, very sensibly,' said Owen; 'if she is wise she will know how to trust to Cilly's invitations 1 People that do everything at once never do anything well. It is quite a rest to turn to any one like you, Plioebe, who are content with or.e thing at a time 1 I wish ' P £]0 HOPES AND FEARS. ' Well then, let us fiance,' said Phoebe, abruptly ; ' I caii't do, that well enough to talk, too.' It was not that Owen had iiot said the like things to her many times before ; it was his <ose you would not have a copy, if I took one off for you V ' No ; I don't like those visitors of yours well enough to see you turned into a meri-y-andrew to please them.' ' So that's what Robert Fulmort told you I did last night,' said Lucilla, blushing at last, and thoroughly. ' No, indeed ; you didn't V he said, regarding her with an astonished glance. 'I did wear a dress trimmed with salmon-flies, because of a bet with Lord William,' said Lucilla, the suffusion deepening on brow, cheek, and throat, as the confiding esteem of her fatherly friend effected what nothing else could accomplish. She would have given the world to have justified his opinion of his late rector's little daughter, and her spirits seemed gone, though tlie worst he did was to shake his head at her. ' If you did not know it, why did you call me that T she asked. 'A men-y-andrewf he answered ; 'I never meant that you had been one. No ; only an old friend like me doesn't like the notion of your going and dressing up in the morning to amuse a lot of scamps. * I wont,' said Lucilla, very low. * Well, then,' began INIr. Prendergast, as in haste to proceed to his own subject ; but she cut him short. ' It is not about Ireland X * No ; I know nothing about young ladies ; and if Mr. Char- tei'is and your excellent friend there have nothing to say against it, I can t.' ' My excellent friend had so much to say against it, that I was pestered into vowing I would go ! Tell me not, Mr. Pren- dergast, — T .should not mind giving up to you ;' and she locked full of hope. ' That would be. beginning at the wrong end, Cilia; you are not my charge.' HOPES AND FEARS. 213 • You are my ;leigyman,' she said, pettishly. ' You are not my parishioner,' he answered. ' Pish !' she said ; ' when you know I want you to tell me.' ' Why, you say you have made the engagement.' 'So wliat I said when she fretted me past endurance, must bind me !' Be it ohserved that, like all who only knew Hiltonbury througli Lncilla, Mr. Prendevgast attributed any blemishes wliich he might detect in her to the injudicious training of an old maid ; so he sympathized. ' Ah ! ladies of a certain age never get on with young ones ! But I thought it was all settled before with Miss Chartei'is.' ' I never quite said I would go, only we got ready for the sake of the fun of talking of it, and now Eashe has grown horridly eager about it. She did not care at first — only to please me.' ' Then wouldn't it be using her ill to disappoint her now 1 You couldn't do it, Cilia. Why, you have given your word, and she is quite old enough for anything. Wouldn't Miss Charle- cote see it so V To regard Ratia as a mature personage robbed the project of romance, and to find herself bound in honour by her inconsi- derate rattle was one of the rude shocks which often occur to the indiscriminate of tongue ; but the curate had too much on his mind to dwell on what concerned hini more remotely, and proceeded, ' I came to see whether you could help me about poor Miss MurrelL You made no arrangement for her getting home last night V ' No !' ' Ah, you young people ! But it is my fault ; I should have recollected young heads. Then I am afraid it must have been ' ' What r ' She was seen on the river very late last night witTi a stranger. He went up to the school with her, remained about a quarter of an hour, and then rowed up the river again. I am alraid it is not the first time she has been seen with him.' ' But, Mr. Prendei'gast, she was here till at least ten ! She fainted away just as she was to have sung, and we carried her out into the cloister. When she recovered she went away to the housekeeper s room — ' (a bold assertion, built on Owen's partially heard rei)ly to Phoiije). ' Pll ask the maids.' ' It is of no use, Cilia ; she allows it herself.' « And pray,' cried Lucilla, rallying her sauciness, ' how do you propose ever to have banns to piiblish, if young men and maidens arc never to meet by water nor by land C 214 nOPES AND FEARS. * Then yoti do know something'!' ' No ; only tliat such matters are not commonly blazoned in the commencement.' ' I don't wish her to hlazon it, hut if she would only act openly by me,' said tlie distressed curate. ' I wi^h nothing more than that she was safe married ; and then if you ladies ai:)point another beauty, I'll give up the place, and live at college.' ' We'll advertise for the female Chimpanzee, and depend upon it she will marry at the end of six weeks. So you have attacked her in person. What did she say V ' Nothing that she could help. She stood with those great eyes cast down, looking like a statue, and sometimes vouchsaf- ing " yes, sir," or " no, sir." It was " no, sir," when I asked if her mother knew. I am afraid it must be something very un- satisfactory, Cilia ; but she might say more to you if you were not going away.' * Oh ! Mr. Prendergast, why did you not come sooner V ' I did come an hour ago, bixt you wei'e not come down.' * I'll walk on at once ; the carriage can jjick me up. I'll fetch my hat. Poor Edna ! I'll soon make her satisfy your mind. Has any one surmised who it can be V ' The notion is that it is one of your musicians — very dan- gerous, I am afraid ; and I say, Cilia, did you ever do sucli a thing — you couldn't, I suppose — as lend her Shelley's poems f ' I 1 No ; certainly not.' * There was a copy lying on the table in her little parlour, as if she had been writing something out from it It is very odd, but it was iu that peculiar olive-green morocco that some of the books in your father's library were bound in.' ' Not mine, certainly,' said Lucilla. ' Good Honor Charlecote would liave run crazy if she thought I had touched a Shelley ; a very odd study for Edna. But as to the olive green, of course it was bound under the same star as ours.' ' Cilly, Cilly, now or never! photograph or not?' screamed Eashe, from behind her three-legged camera. ' Not !' was Lucilla's cavalier answer. ' Pack up ; have done with it, Rashe. Pick me up at the school.' Away she flew headlong, the patient and disconcerted Horatia following her to her room to extract hurried explanations, and worse than no answers as to the sundries to be packed at the last moment, while she hastily put on hat and mantle, and was flying down again, when her brother, with outspread arms, nearly cauglit her in her spring. ' Hollo ! wlint's upf * Don't stop me, Owen ! I'm going to walk on with Mr. HOPES AND FEARS. 215 Prendergast and bt; picked up. I ruust speak to Edua Mur- i-uil.' ' Nonsense ! The can-iage will be out in five minutes.' * I must CO, Owen. There's some storv of a demon in human shape on the water with her last night, and Mr. Prendergast can't get a word out of her.' ' Is that any reason you should go ramping about, prying into people's affairs'?' ' But, Owen, they will send her away. They will take away her character.' ' The — the — the more reason you shoiild have nothing to do with it,' he exclaimed. ' It is no business for vou, and I wont have you meddle in it.' Such a strong and sudden assumption of fraternal authority took away her breath ; and then, in terror lest he should know cause for this detention, sh^e said — ' Owen ! you don't guess who it was V ' How should I f he roughly answered. * Some villanoua slander, of course, there is, but it is no business of yours to be straking otf to make it worse.' ' I should not make it worse.' * Women always make things worse. Are you satisfied now V as the carriage was seen coming round. ' That is only to be packed.' ' Packed with folly, yes 1 Look here I 11.20, and the train at 12.5 r ' I will miss the train, go up later, and sleep in London.' ' Stuff and nonsense 1 Who is going to take you ? Not L' In Lucilla's desperation in the cause of her favourite Edna, she went through a rapid self-debate. Honor would gladly wait for her for such a cause ; she could sleep at Woolstone Lane, and thence go on to join Horatia in Derbyshire, escorted by a Hiltonbury servant. But what would that entail 1 She would be at their mercy. Robert would obtain his advantage — it would be all over with her! Pride arose; Edna's cause sank. How many destinies were fixed in the few seconds while she stood with one foot forward, spinning her black hat by the elastic band ! ' Too late, Mr. Prendergast ; I cannot go,' she said, as she saw him waiting for her at the door. ' Don't be angry with me, und don't let the womankind prejudice you against poor Edna. You forgive me 1 It is really too late.' ' Forgive you f smiled Mr. Prendergast, pressing her caress- ing hand in his great, lank grasp ; ' what for V ' Oh, because it is too late ; and I can't help it. But don't be hard with her. Good-bye.' 23 6 HOPES AND FEARS, Too late ! "Why did Lvicilla repeat those words so often 1 Was it a relief to that irreflective nature to believe the die irrevocably cast, and the responsibility of decision over ? Or why did she ask forgiveness of the only one whom she was not olfeuding, but because there was a sense of need of pardon where she would not stoop to ask it. Miss Charlecote and the Fulmorts, Ilashe and Cilly, were to be transported to London by the same tiain, leaving Owen behind. to help Charles Charteris entertain some guests still remaining, Honora promising him to wait in town until Lucilla should absolutely have started for Ireland, when she would supply him with the means of pui'suit. Lucilla's delay and change of mind made the final departure so late that it was needful to drive excessively fast, and the train was barely caught in time. The l)arty were obliged to separate, and Robert took Phoebe into a difierent carriage from that where the other three found places. In the ten minutes' transit by railway, Lucy, always softened by parting, was like another being towards Honor, and talked eagerly of 'coming home' for Christmas, sent messages to Hilton- bury friends, and did everything short of retractation to efface the painful impression she had left. ' Sweetest Honey !' she whispered, as they moved on after the tickets had been taken, thrusting her pretty head over into Honor's place. * Nobody's looking, give me a kiss, and say you don't bear malice, though your kitten has been in a scratching humour.' * Malice ! no, indeed !' said Honor, fondly ; ' but, oh ! remem- ber, dear child, that fiolics may be at too dear a price.' She longed to say more, but the final stop was mode, and their roads diverged. Honor thought that Lucy looked white and tren)bling, with an uneasy eye, as though she would have given much to have been going home with her. Nor Avas the consoling fancy unfounded. Lucilla's nerves were not at their usual pitch, and an undefined sense of loss of a safi^guard was coming over her. Moreover, the desire for a lasi word to Robert was growing every moment, and he would keep on liunting out those boxes, as if they mattered to anybody. She turned round on his sulxstitute, and said, ' I've not siioken to Robin all this time. No wonder his feathers are ruffled. IMake my peace with him, Phoebe dear.' On the very platform, in that moment of bustle, Phoebe con- scientiously and reasfouably began, 'Will you tell me how much you mean by that V ' Cilly — King's-cross — 1.15,' cried Ratia, snatching at her arm. HOPES AND FEARS. 217 'Oil ! the slave one is ! Next time we meet, Phoebe, the red- breast will be in a white tie, I shall ' Hurty ard agitation were making her flippant, and Ilobert was nearer than she deemed. He was assisting her to her seat, and then held out his hand, but never i-aised his eyes. ' Good- bye, Robin,' she said ; ' Keasou herself shall meet you at the Holt at Christmas.' ' Good-bye,' he said, but without a word of augury, and loosed her hand. Her fingers clung one moment, Imt he drew his away, called ' Kings-cross' to the coachman, and slie was whirled off. Angler as she was, she no longer felt her prey answer her pull. Had the line snapped 1 When Owen next appeared in Woolstone-lane he looked fagged and harassed, but talked of all things in sky, eartli. or air, politics, literature, or gossiji, took the bottom of the table, and treated the Parsonses as his guests. Honora, however, felt that something was amiss ; perhaps Lucilla engaged to Lord William ; and when, after luncheon, he followed her to the cedar room, she began with a desponding ' Well T 'Well, she is off!' * Alone with Raslie V * Alone with Rashe. Why, Sweet Honey, you look gratified !' ' I had begun to fear some fresh news,' said Honor, smiling with effort. 'I am sure that something is wrong. You do not look well, my dear. How flushed you are, and your forehead is so hot I' as she put her hand on his brow. ' Oh, nothing !' he said, cai'essingly, holding it there 'I'm glad to have got away from the Castle ; Charlie and his set drink an intolerable lot of wine. Ill not be there again in a hurry.' 'I am glad of that. I wish you had come away with us.' *I wish to heaven I had !' cried Owen ; ' but it could not be helped ! So now for my wild goose chase. Cross to-morrow night ; only you were good enough to say you would find ways and means.' 'There, that is what I intended, including your Midsummer quarter. Don't you think it enough T as she detected a look of dissatisfaction. ' You are veiy good. It is a treme^idous shame ; but yon see. Honor deai-, when one is across the water, one may as well go the whole animal. If this wise sister of mine does not get into a mess, there is a good deal I could do — plenty of spoi-t. Little Henniker and some Westminster fellows in tho — th are at Kilkenny.' ' You would like to spend the vacation in Ireland,' said Honor, 21 S HOPES AND FEAHS. with some disappointment. * Well, if you go fc^r my pleasure, it is but fair you slioulJ have your own. Shall I advance your September allowance V ' Thank you. You do spoil one abominably, you concoction of honey and all things sweet. But the fact is, I've got uncom- monly hard-np of late ; no one would believe how ruinous it is being with the Chavterises. I believe money evaporates in the atmosphere.' ' Betting V asked Honor, gasping and aghast. ' On my honour, I assure you not there^ cried Owen, eagerly. 'I never did bet there but once, and that was Lolly's doing; and I could not get out of it. Jew that she is ! I wonder what Uncle Kit would sav to that house now.' ' You are out of it, and I shall not regret the purchase of your disgust at their ways, Owen. It may be better for you to be in Ireland than to be tempted to go to them for the shooting season. How much do you want ? You know, my dear, if there be anytliing else, I had rather pay anything that is right than have you in debt.' ' You were always the sweetest, best Honey living I' cried Owen, with much agitation ; 'and it is a shame ' but there he stopped, and ended in a more ordinary tone — 'shame to prey on you, as we both do, and with no better return.' 'Never mind, dear Owen,' she said, with moisture in her eye; •your real happiness is the only return I waniu. Come, tell me your difficulty ; most likely I can help you.' ' I've nothing to tell,' said Owen, with alarmed impetuosity; ' only that I'm a fool, like every one else, and — and — if you would only double that ' ' Double that ! Owen, things cannot be right.' *I told you they were not right,' was the impatient answer, * or I should not be vexing you and myself ; and,' as thougli to smooth away his rough couimencemeat, ' what a comfort to have a Honey that will have patience !' She shook her head, i)er|ilexed. 'Owen, I wish you could tell me more. I do not like debts. You know, dear boy, I grudge nothing I can do for you in mv lifetime ; but for your own sake, you must learn not to sjiend more than you will be able to afford. Indulgence now will be a penance to you by and by.' Honora dreaded overdoing lectures to Owen. She knew that an old maid's advice to a young man was dangerous work, and her boy's submissive patience always excited her gratitude and forbearance, so she desisted, in hopes of a confession, looking at him with such tenderness that he was moved to exclaim— HOPES AND FKATIS. 219 * TTonor dear, you are the best and worst-used woman on earth ! Would to Heaven tliat we had I'equited you better !' 'I have no cause of compUiint against yoii, Owen,' she said, fondly; 'you have always been the joy and comfort of my heart;' and as he turned aside, as though stricken by the words, 'what- ever you may have to rejjroach yourself with, it is not with hurting me ; I only wish to remind you of higher and more stringent duties than those to myself. If you have erred, as I cannot but fear, will you not let me try and smooth the way back V ' Impossible,' murmured Owen; 'there are things that can never be undone.' ' Not undone, but repented,' said Honor, convinced that he had been led astray by his cousin Charles, and felt bound not to expose him ; ' so repented as to become stepping-stones in our jtrogress.' He only shook his head with a groan. ' The more sorrow, the better hope,' she began ; but theimpa- tipnt movement of his foot warned her that .she was only torturing him, and she proceeded, — ' Well, I trust you implicitly ; I can understand that there may be confidences that ought not to pass between ns, and will give you what you reqnire to help you out of your difBculty. I wish you had a father, or anyone who could be of more use to you, my poor boy !' and she began to till up the cheque to the utmost of his demand. ' It is too much — too much,' cried Owen. ' Honor, I must toll you at all costs. What will you think when ' ' I do not wibh to pinxhase a confession, Owen,' slie said ; * you know best whether it be a fit one to make to me, or whether for the sake of others you onght to withhold it.' He was checked, and did not answer. ' I see how it is,' continued Honor ; 'my boy, as far as I am concerned, I look on your confession as made. You will be much alone while thus hovering near your sister among tlie mountains and by the streams. Let it be a time of reflection, and of making your peace with Another. You may do so the more earnestlv for not having cast off the burthen on me. You are no child now, to whom your poor Honey's pardon almost seems an absolution. I sometimes think we went on with that too long.' ' No fear of my ever being a boy again,' said Owen, heavily, as he put the draft into his purse, and then bent his tall person to kiss her with the caressing fondness of his childhood, almost coiupensating for what his sister caused her to undergo. Then, at the door, he turned to say, ' llemember, you would 220 HOPES AND FEAKS. not heai'.' He was gone, having left a tliorn witli Honor, in tlie doul)t whether she ought not to have accepted his confidence ; but her abstinence had been such a mortification both of curiosity and of hostility to the Charterises tluit she couhl not but commend herself for it. She had strong faith in the efficacy of trust upon an honourable mind, and though it was evident that Owen had, in his own eyes, greatly transgressed, she reserved the hope that his error was magnified by his own consciousness, and admired the generosity that refused to betray anotlicr. She believed his pi-esent suffering to be the beginning of that growth in true religion which is often founded on some shock leading to self- distrust. Alas ! how many falls have been counted by mothers as the preludes to rising again, like the clearing showers of a stormy day. CHAPTER VIII. Fearless she had tracked his feet To this rocky, wild retreat. And when morning met l)is view, Her mild ghuices met it too. Ah ! your saints have cruel hearts, Sternly from his bed he starts, And with rude, repulsive shock, Hurls her from the beetling rock. — T. MoORE. ri'^HE deed was done. Conventionalities were defied, >aunt3 _L fulfilled, and Lucilla sat on a camp stool on the deck of a steamer, watching the Welsh mountains rise, grow dim, and vanish gradually. Horatia, in common with all the rest of the womankind, was prostrate on the cabin floor, treating Ciliy's smiles and roses as aggravations of her misery. Had tliere boen a sharer in her exultation, the gay pitching and dancing of the steamer would have been charming to Lucy, but when she retreated from the scene of wretchedness below, she felt herself lonely, ami was conscious of some surprise among the surviving gentlemen at her re-appearance. She took out a book as a ])rotection, aud read more con tinuously than she had done since Vanitij Fair had come to the Holt, aud she had been pleased to mark Honora's annoyance at every I)age she turned. But July light faded, and only left hor the poor amusement of looking over the side for the phosphorescence of the water, HOPES AND FEARS. 221 and watching tlie smoke of the funnel lose itself overhead. The silent stars and sparkling waves would have set Phoebe's dutiful science on the alert, or transported Honor's inward ear by the chant of creation, but to her they were of moderate interest, and her imagination fell a prey to the memory of the eyes averted, and hand withdrawn. ' I'll be exemplary when this is over,' said slie to herself, and at lengtli her head nodded till she dropped into a giddy doze, whence with a chilly start she awoke, as the monotonous jog and boimce of the steamer were exchanged for a snort of arrival, among mysterious lanes of sparkling liglits apparently rising from the waters. She had slept just long enough to lose the lovely entrance of Dublin Bay, stiffen her limbs, and confuse her brains, and she stood still as the stream of passengers began to rush ti'ami)ling liy her, feeling bewildered and forlorn. Her cousin's voice was welcome, though overloud and somewhat piteous. ' Wliere are you, stewardess 1 where's the young lady 1 Oh ! Cilly, there you are. To leave me alone all this time, and here's the stewardess saying we must go ashore at once, or lose the train. (3h ! the luggage, and I've lost my plaid,' and ghastly in the lamplight, limp and tottering, Kashe Charteris clasped her arm for support, and made her feel doubly savage and bewildered. Her first movement was to enjoin silence, then to gaze about for the goods. A gentleman took pity on the two ladies, and told them not to be dtluded into trying to catch the train ; there would be another in an hour's time, and if they had any one to meet thtm, they would most easily be found where they were. ' We have no one — we are alone,' said Lucilla ; and his chivalry was so far awakened that he handed them to the pier, and undertook to find their boxes. Rashe was absolutely sub- dued, and hung shivering and helpless on her cousin, who felt as though dreaming in the strange scene of darkness made visible by the Vjright circles round the lamps, across which rapidly flitted the cloaked forms of travellers ])residing over queer, wild, caricature-like shapes, each bending low under the weight of trunk or bag, in a procession like a magic lantern, save for the Babel of shrieks, cries, and expostulations every- where in light or gloom. A bell rans:, an engine roared and rattled off. ' The train !' sighed Hoi-atia ; ' we shall have lo stay here all night.' ' Nonsense,' said Liicy, ready to shake her ; ' there is another in an hour. Stay quiet, do, or he will never find us.' ' Porter, ma'am — porrterr ' ' No, no, thank you,' cried Lucilla, darting on her rod-case 222 HOPES AND FEAES. and carriage-bao; to rescue tliein fiom a freckled couutenarica with claws attached. ' We shall lose everything, Cilia ; that's your trusting to a stranger !' ' All right ; thank you !' as she recognised her possessions, borne on various backs towards the station, whither the traveller escorted them, and where things looked more civilized. Ratia began to resume her senses though weak and hungry. She was sorely discomfited at having to wait, and could not, like the seasoned voyagers, settle herself to repose on the long leathern couches of the waiting-room, but wandered, wobegone and ini- l)atient, scolding her cousin for choosing such an hour for their passage, for her desertion and general bad management. TIkj merry, good-natured Rashe had disappeared in the sea-sick, cross, and weai-y wight, whose sole solace was gi'umbling, but her dolefulness only made Lucilla more mirthful. Here they were, and haj)pen what would, it should only be ' such fun.' Re- covered from the moment's bewilderment, Lucy announced that she felt as if she were at a ball, and whispered a proposal of astonishing the natives by a polka in the great empty boarded space. ' The suggestion would immortalize us ; come !' And she threatened mischievously to seize the waist of the still giddy and aching-headed Horatia, who re})ulsed her v/ith sufficient roughness and alarm to set her off laughing at having been BU])})Osed to be in earnest. The hurry of the train came at last ; they hastened down- staii's and found the train awaiting tliem, were told their luggage was safe, and after sitting till they were tired, shot onwards watching the beautiful glinijises of the lights in the ships oiF Kingstown. They would gladly have gone on all night witliout another disembarkation a)jd scramble, but the Dunlin station came only too soon ; they were disgorged, and hastened after goods. Forth came trunk and portmanteau. Alas ! none of theirs 1 Nothing with them but two carriage-bags and two rod-cases ! 'It seems to be a common predicament,' said Lucilla ; 'here are at least half-a-dozen in the same case.' ' Hoi-rible management. We shall never see it more.' ' Nay, take comfort in the general lot. It will turn up to- morrow ; and meantime sleep is not packed up in our boxes. Comic, let's be off. What noises ! TTow do these drivers kei'p from running over one another. Each seems ready to whip every one's l)east but his own. Don't you feel yourself in Ireland, Rashe'? Arrah ! 1 shall begin to scream, too, if 1 stand here much longer.' HOPES AND FEARS. 2 ' We cau't go in that thing — a fly !' ' Don't exist here, Rashe — vermin is unknown. Submit to your fate ' and ere another olijection could be uttered, Cilly threw bags and rods into an inside car, and pushed her cousin after them, chattering all the time, to poor Horatia's distraction. ' Oh ! (h'licious ! A ci'Oss between a baker's cart and a Van Amburgh. A little more and it would overbalance and carry the horse head over heels ! Take cax'e, liashe ; you'll pound me into dust if you slip down over me.' ' I can't help it ! Oh ! the vilest thing in creation.' ' Such fun ! To be taken when well shaken. Here we go xip, up, up ; and here we go down, down, down ! Ila ! ware fishing-rod ! This is what it is to travel. iSTo one ever descriljed the exi)eriences of an inside car !' ' Because no one in their senses would undergo such misery !' ' But you don't regard the beauties, Eashe, beauties of nature and art combined — see the lights reflected in the river — what a width. Oh ! why don't they treat the Thames as they do the Liff'ey V ' I can't see, I shall soon be dead ! and getting to an inn without luggage, it's not respectable.' ' If you depart this life on the way, the want of luggage will concern me the most, my dear. Depend on it, other people have driven up in inside cars, minus luggage, in the memory ot man, in this City of Dublin. Are you such a worldling la^-.e as to depend for your respectability on a paltry leathen*. trunk r Lucilla's confidence did not appear misplaced, for neither waiters nor chambermaids seemed surprised, but assured them that people usually missed their luggage by that train, and asseverated that it would appear next morning. Lucilla awoke determined to be full of frolic and enjoyment, and Horatia, refreshed by her night's rest, was more easily able to detect ' such fun' than on the previous night ; st) the two cousins sat down amicably to breakfast on the Sunday morning, and inquired about church-services. 'My mallard's tail bat is odd " go to meeting" headgear,' said Cilia, ' but one cannot lapse into heathenism ; so where, Rashe r ' Wouldn't it be fun to look into a Roman Catholic aflfair V ' No,' said Cilly, decidedly ; ' where I go it sliall be the genuine article. 1 dun't like curiosities in religion.' ' It's a curiosity to go to church at twelve o'clock ! li you are so orthodox, let us wait for St. Patrick's this afun-- noon.' 2fJi HOPES AND FEARS. * And in the mean time 1 It is but eleven this minnte, antl St. Patrick's is not till three. There's nothing to be done but to watch Irish nature in the street. Oh ! I never before knew the perfection of Carleton's illustration. See that woman and her cap, and the man's round eyebrows and projecting lips with shilleladi written on them. Would it be Sabbath-break- ing to perpetrate a sketch T Bat as Ratia was advancing to the window, Lncj suddenly started back, seized her and whirled lier away, crying, * The wretch ! I know him now ! I could not make him out last night.' ' Who V exclaimed Rashe, stai'ting determinedly to the window, but detained by the two small but resolute hands clasped round her waist. 'Tliat black-whiskered valet of Mr. Calthorp's. If that man has tlie insolence to dog me and spy me, I'll not stay in Ireland another day.' ' Oh what fun !' burst out Horatia. 'It becomes romantic !' ' Atrocious impertinence !' said Lucilla, passionately. ' Wliy do you stand tliere laugliing V ' At you, my dear,' gasped Ratia, sinking on the sofa in her spasm of mirth. ' At your reception of chivalroiis devotion.' ' Pretty chivalry to come and spy and beset ladies alone.' ' He has not beset us yet. Don't flatter yourself!' ' What do you mean by that, Horatia V ' Do you want to try your pistols on me 1 The waiter could show us the way to the Fifteen Acres, only you see it is Sunday.' ' I want,' said Lucy, all tragedy and no comedy, ' to know- why you talk of my Jlaitering myself that I am insulted, and my plans upset.' 'Why f said Rashe, a little sneeringly. 'Why, a little pro- fessed beauty like you wovdd be so disappointed not to be ])ur- Bued, that she is obliged to be always seeing pliantums that give her no peace.' ' Thank you,' coolly returned Cilly. ' Very well, I'll say no more about it, but if I find that man to be in Ireland, the same day I go home !' Horatia gave a loud, long, provoking laugh. Lucilla felt it was for her dignity to let the subject drop, and betook herselt to the only volumes attainaV)le, P>radsha\v and her liook of flies ; while Miss C'liartcris I'cpaired to the window to investigate for iu'iself tlie quest inn of the pursuer, and madi; enlivening re- marks on the two congregations, the one returning from mass, tlie other going to church, but these were not appreciated. It HOPES AND FEARS. £25 seemed as though the young Ladies had but one set of spiiita between them, which were gained by the one as soon as lost by the other. It was rather a dull day. Fast as thej'' were, the two girlg shrank from rambling alune in streets tlironged with figure3 that they associated with ruffianly destitution. Sunday had brought all to light, and the large handsome streets were beset with barefooted children, elf-locked women, and lounging, beetle-browed men, such as Lucy had only seen in the purlieus of Whittingtouia, in alleys looked into, but never entered by the civilized. In reality 'rich and rare' was so true that they might have walked there more secure from insult, than m many better regulated regions, but it was difficult to believe so, especially in attire then so novel as to be very remarkable, and the absence of protection lost its charm when there was no one to admire the bravado. She did her best to embalm it for future appreciation by journalizing, making the voyage out a far better joke than she had found it, and describing the inside car in the true style of the facetious traveller. Nothing so drives away fun as the desire to be funny, and she began to grow weary of her work, and disgusted at her own lumbering attem[)ts at pen and-ink mirth ; but they sufficed to make Rashe laugh, they would be quite good enough for Lord William, would grievously annoy Honoi'a Charleoote, would be mentioned in all the periodicals, and give them th& name of the Angel Anglers all the next season. "Was not that enough to go to Ireland and write a witty tour for ] The outside car took them to St. Patrick's, and they had their first real enjoyment in the lazy liveliness of the vehicle, and the droll ciceroneship of the driver, who contrived to convey such compliments to their pi-etty faces as only an Irishman could have given without offence. Lucilla sjirang down with exhilarated spirits, and even wished for Honor to share her indignation at the slovenliness around the cathedral, and the absence of close or cloister ; nay, thougli she had taken an aversion to Straffi^rd as a hero of Honor's, she forgave him, and resolved to belabour the House of Cork handsomely in her journal, when she beheld the six-storied monument, and imagined it, as he liad found it, in the Altar's very place. ' Would that he had created an absolute Boy loan vacuum !' What a grand hon mot for her journal ! However, either the spirit of indignation at the sight of the unkneelinsr consecration, or else the familiar words of the beautiful musical service, made her more than usually devoixt, Q £56 HOPES AND FEARS. and stirred up something within her that could only be ai>- peasied by the resolution that the singing in Robert Fuliuort's parish should be super-excellent. After the service, the carman persuaded them to drive in the Phoenix Park, where they enjoyed tlie beautiful broken ground, the picturesque thickets, tlie grass whose colour reminded them that they were in the Emerald Isle, the ])urple outlines of the Wicklow hills, whence they thought tliey detected a fresh mountain breeze. Tliey only wondered to find this delightful place so little frequented. In England, a Sunday would have tilled it with holitlay strollers, whereas here, they only encountered a very few, and those chiefly gentlefolks. The populace preferred sitting on the doorsteps, or lounging against the houses, as if they were making studies of themselves for caricatures ; and were evidently so much struck with the young ladies' attire, that the shelter of the hotel was gladly welcomed. Lucilla was alone in the sitting-room when the waiter came to lay the cloth. He looked round, as if to secure secresy, and then remarked in a low confidential voice, ' There's been a gen- tleman inquiring for you, ma'am.' * Who was it V said Lucy, with feigned coolness. ' It was when you were at church, ma'am ; he wished to know whether two ladies had arrived here, Miss Charteris and Miss Sandbrook.' 'Did he leave his card?' 'He did not, ma'am, his call was to be a secret ; he said it was only to be sure whether you had arrived.' ' Then he did not give his name f ' He did, ma'am, for lie desired to be let know what route the young ladies took when they left,' quoth the man, with a comical look, as though he were imparting a most delightful secret. ' Was he Mr. Calthorp V 'I said I'd not mention his name,' said the waiter, with, however, such decided assent, that, as at the same moment he quilted the room and Ik)ratia entered it, Cilly exclaimed, ' There, Rashe, what do you say now to the phantom of my vanity ? Here has he been asking for us, and what route we meant taking.' 'He! Who? 'Who?— why, who should it be? The waiter has just told tne.' ' You absurd girl !' ' Well, ask him youi-seltl* HOPES AND FEARS. 227 So when tlie waiter came up, Miss Cliavteris demanded, * Has Mr. Cal thorp been calling here V * WJiat was the name, ma'am, if you please T ' Cal thorp. Has Mr. Calthorp been calling here?' ' Cawthorne 1 Was it Colonel Cawthorne, of the Royal Hussars, ma'am? He was here yesterday, but not to-day.' ' I said Calthorp. Has a Mr. Calthorp been inquiring for us to-day ?' ' I have not heard, ma'am, I'll inquire,' said he, looking alert, and again disappearing, while Horatia looked as proud of her- self as Cilly had done just before. He came back again while Lucilla was repeating his commu- nication, and assured Miss Charteris that no such person had called. ' Then, what gentleman has been here, making inquiries about us V ' Gentleman ! Indeed, ma'am, I don't understand your meaning.' 'Have you not been telling this young lady that a gentleman has been asking after us, and desiring to be informed what route we intended to take ?' ' Ah, sure !' said the waiter, as if recollecting himself, * I did mention it. Some gentleman did just ask me in a careless sort of way who the two beautiful young ladies might be, and where they were going. Such young ladies always create a sensation, us you must be aware, ma'am, and I own I did speak of it to the young lady, because I thought she had seen the attraction of the gentleman's eyes.' So peifectly assured did he look, that Lucilla felt a moment's doubt whether her memory served her as to his former words, but just as she raised her eyes and opened her lips in refutation, siie met a glance from him full of ludicrous reassurance, evidently meaning that he was guarding his own secret and hers. He was gone the next moment, and Horatia turned upon her with exultant merriment. ' 1 always heard that Ii'elaud was a mendacious country,' said caiy. ' And a country where people lose the use of their eyes and ears,' lavighed Rashe. ' what a foundation for the secoiid act of the drama !' ' Of which the third will be my going home by the next steamer.' ' Because a stranger asked who we were ?' Each had her own interpretation of the double-faced waiter's assertion, and it served them to dispute upon ail the evening. 3 2 228 HOrES AND FEARS. Liicilla was persuaded that lieimag:ned her an injured beauty, reft from lier faithful adorer by her stern aunt or duenna, and that he considered himself to be doing her a kindness by keejnng her informed of her hero's vicinity, wliile he denied it to her companion ; but she scorned to enter into an explanation, or make any disavowal, and found the few displeased words she spoke were received with compassion, as at the dictation of the stern monitress. Horatia, on the other hand, could not easily I'esigu the comical vtn'sion that Lucilla's inordinate opinion of her own attractions had made her imagine Mr. Calthorp's valet in tlie street, and discover his master in the chance inquirer whom the waiter had mentioned ; and as Cilly could not aver that the man had actually told her in so many words that it was Mr. Calthorp, Horatia had a right to her opinion, and though she knew slie liad been a young lady a good many years, she could not easily adopt the suggestion that she could pass for Cilly's cruel duenna. Lucilla grew siillen, and talked of going home by the next steamer ; Rashe, far from ready for another sea voyage, called herself ill used, and represented the absurdity of returning on a false alarm. Cilia was staggei'cd, and thought what it would be, if Mr. Calthorji, smoking his cigar at his club, heard tiiat she had fled from his imaginary pursuit. Besides, the luggage must be I'ecovered, so she let Horatia go on arranging for au excur.-ion for the Monday, only observing that it must not be in I)ublin. ' No, bonnets are needful there. What do you think of ITowth and Ireland's Eye, the place where Kirwan murdered his wife f said Rashe, with great gusto, for she liad a strong turn for the horrid murders in tlie newspaper. * Too near, and too smart,' sulked Lucy. 'Well, then, Glendalough, that is wild, and far off enough, and may be done in a day from Dublin. I'll ring and tind out.' 'Not from that man.' * Oh ! we shall see Cal thorps peopling the hill-sides ! Well, let us have the landlord.' It was found that both the Devil's Glen and the Seven Churches might be visited if they started liy the seven o'clock train, and returned late at night, and Lucilla agreeing, the evening went off as best it might, the cousins being glad to get out of each other'.s company at nine, that they might be uj) early the next morning. Lucy had not liked Ratia so littld since the days of her infantine tyranny. HOPES AND FEARS. 229 The morning, however, raised tlieir spirits, and sent them off ill a more friendly humour, enjoying the bustle and excitement that was meat and drink to them, and exclaiming at the exquisite views of sea and rugged coast along beautiful Ivihncaiy Bay. When they left the train, they were deliglited with their outside car, and reclined on their opposite sides in enchantment v/ith the fern-bordered lanes, winding between noble trees, between which came inviting glimpses of exquisitely green meadows and hill-sides. They stopped at a park-looking gate, leading to the Devil's Glen, which they were to traverse on foot, meeting the car at the other end. Here there was just enough life and adventure to charm them, as they gaily trod the path, winding picturesquely beside the dashing, dancing, foaming stream, now between bare salient Ijlufis of dark rock, now between glades of verdant thicket, or bold shouldering slopes of purple heath and soft bent grass. They were constantly crying out with delight, as they bounded from one point of view to another, sometimes climbing among loose stones, leading between ferns and hazel stems to a well- planted hermitage, sometimes springing across the streamlet upon stepping-stones. At the end of the wood another lodge- gate brouglit them beyond the private grounds, that showed care, even in their rusticity, and they came out on the open hill-side in true mountain air, soft turf beneath their feet, the stream rushing away at the bottom of the slope, and the view closed in with blue mountains, on which the clouds marked purple shadows. This was freedom ! this was enjoyment ! this was worth the journey ! and Cilia's elastic feet sprang along as if she had been a young kid. How much was delight in the ecenery, how much in the scramble, need not be analysed. There was plenty of scrambling before it was over. A woman who had been lying in wait for tourists at the gate, guided them to the bend of the glen, where they were to climb up to \ydy their respects to the waterfall. The ascent was not far from })erpendicular, only rendered accessible by the slope of fallen debris at the base, and a few steps cut out from one projecting rock to another, up to a narrow shelf, whence the cascade was to be looked down on. The more adventurous spirits went on to a rock overhanging the fall, and with a curious chink or cranny, forming a window with a seat, and called King O'Toole's chair. Each girl i)erched herself there, and was complimented on her strong head and active limbs, and all their powers were needed in the long breathless i)ull up craggy stepping-stou'^, then over steep slippery turf, ere they gained the summit of t'ie bank. Spent, though still gasping out, ' such fun !' they £30 HOPES AND FEARS. threw themselves on tlieix* backs upon the thy my grass, and lay still for several seconds ere they sat np to look back at the thickly wooded ravine, winding crevice-like in and out between the ovei'lapping skirts of the hills, whose rugged heads cut off the horizon. Then merrily sharing tlie first instalment of luncheun with their barefooted guide, they turned their faces onwai'ds, where all their way seemed one bai*e gray moor, rising far off into the outline of Luggela, a peak overhanging the semblance of a crater. Nothing afforded them much more mirth than a rude bridge, consisting of a single row of square-headed unconnected posts, along the heads of which Cilia three times hopped backwards and forwards for the mere drollery of the thing, with vigour unabated by the long walk over the dreary moorland fields with their stone walls. By the side of the guide's cabin the car awaited them, and mile after mile they drove on through treeless wastes, the few houses with their thatch anchored down by stones, showing what winds must sweep along those unsheltered tracts. The desolate solitude began to weary the volatile pair into silence ; ere the mountains rose closer to them, they crossed a bridge over a stony stream begirt with meadows, and following its course came into sight of their goal. Here was Glendalough, a cul de sac between the mountains, that shelved down, enclosing it on all sides save the entrance, through which the river issued. Their summits were bare, of the gray stone that lay in fragments everywhere, but their sides wez'e clotlied with the lovely Irish green pastureland, inter- mixed with brushwood and trees, and a beauteous meadow sur- rounded the white ring- like beach of piu'e white sand and pebbles bordering the outer lake, whose gray waters sparkled in the sun. Its twin lake, divided from it by so narrow a belt of ground, that the white beaches lay on their green setting, like the outline of a figure of 8, had a more wild and gloomy aspect, lying deeper within the hollow, and the hills coming sheer down on it at the further end in all their grayncss unsoftened by any verdure. The gray was that of absolute black and white inter- minghd in the grain of the stone, and this was peculiarly gloomy, but in tlie summer sunshine it served but to set off the bril- liance of the verdure, and the whole air of the valley was so bright that Cilly declared that it had been traduced, and that no skylark of sense need object thereto. Losing sight of the lakes as they entered the shabby little town, they sprang off the car before a small inn, and ere tJieir feet were on the ground were appropriited by one of a shwa,! HOPES AND FEARS. 2S1 of guides, ill dress and spefcli an ultra Irishman, exaggerating liis part as a sort of bufToon for the travellers. Raslie was diverted by his humours, Cilia thought them in bad taste, and would fain have escaped from his brogue and his antics, with some perception that the scene ought to be left to make its impression in peace. iSmall peace, however, was there among the scores of men, women, and children, within the rude walls containing the most noted relics ; all beset the visitors with offers of stockings, lace, or stones from the hills ; aud the chatter of the guide was a lesser nuisance for which she was forced to compound for the sake of his pi-otection. When he had cleared away his coin- patriots, she was able to see the remains of two of the Seven Churches, the Cathedral, and St. Kevin's Kitchen, both of enduring gray stone, covered with yellow lichen, which gave a remarkable golden tint to their extreme old age. Architecture there was next to none. St. Kevin's so-called kitchen had a cylindrical tower, crowned by an extinguisher, and within the roofless walls was a flat stone, once the altar, and still a station for pilgrims ; and the cathedral contained two broken cofRn-lids with floriated crosses, but it was merely four rude roofless walls, enclosing less space than a cottage kitchen, and less ornamental than many a barn. The whole space was encumbered with regular modern headstones, ugly as the worst that English graveyards could show, and alternating between the names of Byrne and 0"Toole, families who, as the guide said, would come * hundreds of miles to lie there.' It was a grand thought, that those two lines, in wealth or in poverty, had been constant to that one wild mountain burying-place, in splendour or in ruin, for more than twelve centuries. Here, some steps from the cathedral on the top of the slope, was tlie chief grandeur of the view. A noble old carved granite cross, eight or ten feet high, stood upon the brow, bend- ing slightly to one side, and beyond lay the valley cherishing its treasure of the twin lakelets, girt in by the band across them, nestled in the soft lining of copsewood and meadow, and j)rotected by the lofty massive hills above. In front, but below, and somewliat to the right, lay another enclosure, containing the ivied gable of St. Mary's Church, and the tall column- like Round Tower, both with the same peculiar golden hoariness The sight struck Lucilla with admiration and wonder, but the next moment she heard the guide exhorting Rashe to embrace the stem of the cress, telling her that if she could clasj) her arms round it, she would be sure of a handsome aud rich husband within the year. £32 HOPES AND FEARS. Half superstitious, and always eager for fun, Horatia spi'ead her arms iu the eudeavour, but her hands could not have met ■witliout the aid of the guide, wlio dragged them together, and celel abated the exploit with a hurrah of congratulation, while she laughed triumphantly, and called on her companion to try her luck. But Lucy was disgusted, and bluntly refused, knovv- ing her grasp to be far too small, unable to endure the touch of the guide, and may be shrinking from the failure of the augury. ' Ah ! to be shure, an' it's not such a ])urty young lady as yourself that need he taking the trouble,' did not fall pleasantly on her ears, and still less Eatia's laugh and exclamation, ' You make too sure, do you 1 Have a care. There were black looks at parting ! But you need not be afraid, if handsome be apart of the spell.' There was no answer, and Horatia saw that the outspoken raillery that Cilly had once courted now gave offence. She guessed that something was amiss, but did not know that what had once been secure had been wilfully inijierilled, and that suspense was awakening new feelings of delicacy and ten- derness. The light words and vulgar forecasting had, in spite of her- self, transported Lucilla from the rocky thicket where she was walking, even to the cedar room at Woolstone I^ane, and con- jured up before her that grave, massive brow, and the eye that would not meet her. She had hui^-ied to these wilds to escape that influence, and it was holding her tighter than ever. To hasten home on account of Mr Calthorp's pursuit would be the most effectual vindication of the feminine dignity that she might have impaired in Robert's eyes, but to do this on what llatia insisted on believing a false alarm would be the heiglit of absurdity. She was determined on extracting proofs sufB- cient to justify her return, and every moment seemed an hour until she could feel herself free to set her face homewards. A strange impatience seized her at evci-y spot where the guide sto])ped them to admire, and Ratia's encouragement of his witticisms provoked her excessively. With a kind of des])air she found herself required, befoi'e taking boat for St. Kevin's Cave, to mount into a wood to admire another waterfall. ' See two waterfalls,' she muttered, ' and you have seen them all. There are only two kinds, one a bucket of water thiown down from the roof of a house, the other over a staircase. ]']ither the water was a fiction, or you can't get at them for tho wet !' ' That was a sjilendid fellow at the Devil's Glen.' KOPES ainD fears. 233 'There's as good a one any clay at the lock ou the canal at home ! only we do not delude people into coming to see it. Up such ])laces, too !' ' Cilly, for shame. What, tired and giving inl' ' ISTot tire-l in the least j only this place is not worth getting late for the train.' ' Will the young lady take my hand ; I'd he proud to have the honour of lielping lier up,' said the guide. But Lurilla dis- dainfully rejected his aid, and climbed among the stones and brushwood aloof from the others, Ratia talkin"; in hiirh 2:lee to the Irishman, and adventurously scrambling. ' Cilly, here it is,' she cried, from beneath a projecting elbow of rock ; ' you look down on it. It's a delicious fall. I de- clare one can get into it ;' and, by the aid of a tree, she lowered herself down on a flat stone, whence she could see the cascade better than above. ' This is stunning. I vow one can got right into the bed of the stream right ficross. Don't be slow, Cilly ; this is the prime fun of all !' ' Yon care for the romp and nothing else,' grumbled Lucilla. That boisterous merriment was hateful to her, when feeling that tlie demeanour of gentlewomen must be their protection, and with all her high spirit, she was terrified lest insult or remark should be occasioned. Her signs of remonstrance were only received with a derisive outbui'st, as Rashe climbed down into the midst of the bed of the stream. ' Come, Cilia, or I shall indite a page in the diary, headed Faint heai't — Ah !' as her foot slipped on the stones, and she fell backwards, but with instant efi"orts at rising, such as assured her cousin that no harm wasdone,'Nay, Nonsensical clambering will be the word,' she said. ' Serves you right for getting into such places 1 What ! hurt V as Horatia, after resting in a sitting ])Osture, tried to get up, but paused, with a cry. 'Nothing,' she said, 'I'll ' but another attempt ended ia the same way. Cilia sprang to her, followed by the guide, im- precating bad luck to the slippery stones. Herself standing in the water, Lucilla drew her cousin upright, and with a good deal of help from the guide, and much suffering, brought her u]) the high bank, and down the rough steep descent through the woud. She had given her back and side a severe twist, but she moved less painfully on more level ground, and, supported be- tween Lucilla and the guide, whom the mischance had con- verted trom a comedy clown to a delicately considerate assis- tant, she set out for the inn where the car had been left. The progress lasted for two doleful hours, evex'y step worse than the 231) HOPES AND FEAP.S. lasv, and, ixiucli exhausted, she at length sank upon the sofa iu the little sitting-room of the inn. The landlady was urgent that the wet clothes should be taken off, and the back rubbed with whiskey, but Cilia stood agitating her small soaked foot, and insisting that the car should come round at once, since the wet had dried on them, and they had best lose no time in returning to Dublin, or at least to Bray. But Rashe cried out that the car would be the death of her ; she could not stir without a night's rest. ' And be all the stiffer to-morrow 1 Once on the car, yo'a will be very comfortable ' ' Oh, no ! I can't ! This is a horrid place. Of all the un- lucky things that could have happened ' 'Then,' said Cilia, fancying a little coercion would be whole- some, ' don't be faint-hearted. You will be glad to-morrow that I had the sense to make you move to-day. I shall order the car.' ' Indeed !' cried Horatia, her temper yielding to pain and annoyance ; ' you seem to forget that this expedition is mine ! I am paymaster, and have the only right to decide.' Lucilla felt the taunt base, as recalling to her the dependent position into which she had careles>ly rushed, relying on the family feeling that had hitherto made all things as one. * Hence- forth,' said she, ' I take my share of all that we spend. I will not sell my free will.' ' So you mean to leave me here alone V said Horatia, with positive tears of pain, weariness, and vexation, at the cruel un- friendliness of the girl she had petted. ' Nonsense ! I must abide by your fate. I only hate to see people chicken-hearted, and thought you wanted shaking up. 1 stay so long as you own me an independent agent.' The discussion was given up, when it was announced that a room was ready ; and Rashe underwent so much in climbing the stairs, that Cilly thought she could not have been worse ou the car. The apartment was not much behind that at the village inn at Ililtonbury. In fact, it had gay curtains and a grand figured Idind, but the door at the Charlecote Arms had no such inde- j)endent habi+s of opening, the carpet would have been whole, nnd the chairs would not have creaked beneath Lucy's grass- hopper weight ; when down she sat in doleful resignation, having undressed her cousin, sent her chaussure to dry, and dismissed the car, with a sense f)f bidding farewell to the civi- lized world, and entering a desert island, devoid of the zest of Robinson Crusoe. HOPES AND FEARS. 235 What an endless evening it was, and liow the ladies detested each other ! There lay Hoi'atia, not hurt enough for alarm, but quite cross enough to .silence pity, suffering at every move, and sore at Cilly's want of conij^assion ; and here sat Lucilla, thoroughly disgusted with her cousin, her situation, and her expedition. Believing the strain a trifle, she not unjustly despised the want of resolution that had shrunk from so expe- dient an exertion as the journey, and fi It injured by the seltish want of consideration that had condemned her to this awkward position in tliis forlorn little inn, without even the few toilette necessaries that they had with them at Dublin, and with no place to sit in, for the sitting-room below stairs served as a coifee-room, where sundry male tourists were imbibing whiskey, the fumes of which ascended to the young ladies above, long before they could obtain their own meal. The chops were curiosities ; and as to the tea, the grounds, apparently the peat of the valley, fdled up nearly an eighth of tlie cup, causing Lucilla in lugubrious mirth to talk of ' That lake Vv'hose gloomy tea, ne'er saw Hyson nor Bohea,' when Rashe fretfully retorted, ' It is very unkind in you to grumble at everything, when you know I can't help it !' ' I was not grumbling, I only wanted to enliven you.' ' Queer enlivenment !' Nor did Lucilla's attempts at body curing succeed better Her rubbing only evoked screeches, and her advice was scorn- fully i-ejected. Horatia was a determined homoeopath, and sighed for the globules in her wandering box, and as whiskey and tobacco both became increasingly fragrant, averred agaia and again that nothing should induce her to stay here another night. Nothing? Lucilla found her in the morning in all the aches and flushes of a feverish cold, her sprain severely painful, her eyes swollen, her throat so sore, that in alarm Cilly besought her to send for advice; but Bashe regarded a murderous allo- patliist as near akin to an executioner, and only bewailed the want of her minikin doses. Giving up the ho]ie of an immediate departure, Lucilla despatched a messenger to Bray, thence to telegraph for tii« luggage ; and the day was spent in fears lest their landlord at Dublin might detain their goods as those of suspicious cha- racters. Other excitement there was none, not even in quarrelling, for Bashe was in a sleepy state, only roused by interludes of gloomy tea and greasy broth ; and outside, the clouds had closed down, such clouds as she had never seen, blotting out lake and 2:^6 HOPES AXD FLARS. mouuLuin with an impervious gray curtain, seeming to batlie rather than to rain on the place. She longed to dash out into it, but Ratia's example warned her agaii.st drenching her only garments, though indoors the dryness was only comparative. Everything she touched, herself included, seemed pervaded by a damp, limp rawness, that she vainly tried to dispel by ordering a fire. The turf smouldered, the smoke came into tlie room, and made their eyes water, and Rashe insisted that the fii-e should be put out. Cilia almost envied her sleep, as she sat disconsolate in the Avindow, watching the comparative density of the rain, and listening to the extraordinary howls and shrieks in the town, which kept her constantly expecting that a murder or a rebellion would come to relieve the monotoi;y of the day, till she found that nothing ensued, and no one took any notice. She tried to sketch from memory, but nothing would hinder that least pleasant of occupations — thought. Either she imagined every unpleasant chance of detention, she worried herself about Robert Fulmort, or marvelled what Mr. Prendergast and the censorious ladies would do with Edna Murrell, Many a time did she hold her watch to her ear, suspecting it of having stopped, BO slowly did it loiter through the weary hours. Eleven o'clock when she hoped it was one — half-past two when it felt like five. By real five, the mist was thinner, showing first nearer, then remoter olijects ; the coarse slates of the I'oofs opposite emerged polished and dripping, aiii the cloud finally took its leave, some heavy flakes, like cotton wool, hanging on the hill-side, and every rock shining, every leaf glistening. Verdure and rosy cheeks both resulted from a perpetual vapour-bath, Lncilla rejoiced in her liberty, and hurried out of doors, but leaning out of the coff^ee-i'oom window, loungers wrn-e seen who made her sensible of the awkwardness of her position, and she looked about for yesterday's guide as a friend, but he was not at hand, and her uneasy gaze brought round her numbers, begging or offering guidance. She wished to retreat, but would not, and walked briskly along the side of the valley opposite to that she bad yesterday visited, in search of the other four churches. Two fragments were at the junction of the lakes, aiiother was entirely destroyed, but the last, called the Abbey, stofxl in ruins within the same wall as the Round Tower, wliich rose straight, round, mysterious, defying inquiry, as it cau'dit the evenini' liirht on its summit, even as it had done for bO many centuries past. Not "that Cilia thought of the riddles of that tower, far less HOPES AND FEAHS. 237 of tlie early Christianity of the isle of saints, of which these ruins and their wild legend were the only vestiges, nor of the mysticism that planted clusters of churclies in sevens as analo- gous to tlie seven stars of the Apocalypse. Even tlie rugged glories of the landscape chiefly addressed themselves to her as good to sketch, her highest flight in admiration of the pictu- resque. In the state of mind ascriljed to the ancients, she only felt the weird unhomelikeness of the place, as though she were at the ends of the earth, unable to reUirn, and always depressed hy solitude ; she could have wept. Was it for this that she had risked the love that had been her own from childhood, and broken with the friend to whom her father had commended her 1 Was it worth while to defy tlieir censures for tliis dreary spot, this weak-spirited, exacting, unreflned companion, and the insult of Mr. Calthorp's pursuit l Naturally shrewd, well knowing the world, and guarded by a real attachment, Lucilla had never regarded the millionaire's attentions as more than idle amusement in watching the frolics of a beauty, and had suflfered them as adding to her own diver- sion ; but his secretly following her, no doubt to derive mirth from her proceedings, revealed to her that woman could not permit such terras without loss of dignity, and her clieek burnt at the thought of the ludicrous light in which he might place her present predicament before a conclave of gentlemen. The thought was intolerable. To escape it by rapid motion, she turned hastily to leave the enclosure. A figure was climb- ing over the steps in the wall with outstretched hand, as if he expected her to cling to Jiim, and Mr. Calthorp, springing for- ward, eagerly exclaimed in familiar, patronizing tones, ' Miss Sandbrook I They told me you were gone this way.' Then, in a very different voice at the unexpected look and bow tliafc he encountered : ' I hope JNIiss Charteris's accident is not serious.' ' Thank you, not serious,' was the freezing reply. *I am glad. How did it occur?' *It was a fall.' He should have no good story wherewith to regale his friends. ' Going on well, I trust 1 Chancing to be at Dublin, I heard by accident you were here, and fearing that there might be a ditSculty, I ran down in the hope of being of service to you.' ' Thank you,' in the least thankful of tones. ' Is there nothing I can do for you V * Thank you, nothing.' * Could I not obtain some advice for Miss Charteris V ' Thank you, she wishes for none.' * I am sure' — he spoke eagerly — ' that in some way I could 233 HOVES AND FEAES. be uf use to you. I shall remain at hand. I cannot bear that you should be alone in this remote place.' ' Thank you, we will not put you to inconvenience. We in- tended to be alone.' * I see you esteem it a great liberty,' said poor Mr. Calthorp ; ' but you must forgive my impulse to see whether I could be of any assistance to you. I will do as you desire, but at least you will let me leave Stefano with you ; he is a fellow full of re- sources, who would make you comfortable here, and me easy about you.' * Thank you, we require no one.' Those ' thank you's' were intolerable, but her defensive re- serve and dignity attracted the gentleman niox'e than all her dasliing brilliancy, and he became more urgent. * You cannot ask me to leave you entirely to yourselves under such cii*- ciim stances.' * I more than ask it, I insist upon it. Good morning.' ' Miss Sandbrook, do not go till you have heard and for- given me.' ' I will not hear you, INIr. Calthorp. This is neither the time nor place,' said Lucilla, inly moi-e and more perturbed, but nioving along with slow, quiet steps, and betraying no emo- tion. ' The object of our journey was totally defeated by meeting any of our ordinary acquaintance, and but for this mischance I should have been on my way home to-day.' ' Oh ! Miss Sandbrook, do you class me among your ordinary acquaintance V It was all she could do to hinder her walk from losins: its calm slowness, and Ijefore she could divest her intendetl re|)ly of undignified shai-pness, he continued: * Who could have be- trayed my presence 1 But for this, I meant that you should never have been aware that I was hovering near to watch over o you. ' Yes, to collect good stories for your club.' ' This is injustice ! Flagrant injustice, Miss f?andbrook ! Will you not credit the anxiety that irresistibly impelled me to be ever at hand in case you should need a protector T ' No,' was the point-blank reply. ' How shall I convince you'?' he cried, vehemently. ' What liave I done that you should refuse to believe in the feelings that prompted me?' ' What have you done V said Lucilla, whose blood was up. * You have taken a liberty, which is the best proof of what your feelings are, and every moment that j'ou force your presence en rae adds to the ofTeuce 1' HOPES AND rE\£is. 239 She saw that she had succeeded. He stood still, bowed, and answered not, possibly deeming this the most effective means of lecalling her ; but from fii'st to last he had not known Lucilla Sandbrook. The eager, protecting familiarity of his first address had given her such a shock tliat she felt certain that she had no guard but herself from positively insulting advances ; and though abstaining from all quickening of pace, her heart throbbed violently in the fear of hearing him following hei-, and the inn was a haven of refuge. She flew up to her bed-room to tear about like a panther, as if by violence to work down the tumult in her breast. She had proved the truth of Honora's warning, that beyond the pale of ordinary convenances, a woman is ex[)0sed to insult, and however sufiicient she may be for her own protection, the very fact of having to defend herself is well nigh degradation. It was not owning the error. It was the agony of humiliation, not the meekness of humility, and she was as angry with Miss Charle- cote for the prediction as with Mr. Calthorp for having fulfilled it, enraged with Horatia, and desperate at her present im- prisoned condition, unable to escape, and liable to be still haunted by her enemy. At last she saw the discomfited swain re-enter the inn, his car come round, and finally drive off with him ; and then she felt what a blank was her victory. If she breathed freely, it was at the cost of an increased sense of solitude and severance from the habitable world. Hitherto she had kept away from her cousin, trusting that the visit might remain a secret, too mortifying to both parties to be divulged, but she found Horatia in a state of eager antici- ] ation, awakened fi'om the torpor to watch for tidings of a happy conclusion to their difficulties, and pre] )aring jests on the pettish ingratitude with which she expected Lucilla to requite the services that would be nevertheless acce]:)ted. Gone ! Sent away ! Not even commissioned to find tht boxes. Horatia's consternation and irritation knew no bounds. Lucilla was no less indignant that she covdd imagine it possible to become dependent on his good offices, orto permit him to remain in the neighbourhood. Rashe angrily scoffed at her new-boru scruples, and complained of her want of consideration for herself. Cilia reproached her cousin with utter absence of any sense of propriety and decorum. Rashe talked of ingratitude, and her sore throat being by this time past conversation, she came to tears. Cilia, who could not bear to see any one unhappy, tried niany a ' never mind,' many a ' didn't mean,' many a fair 240 HOPES AND FEARS. auffury for the morrow, but all in vain, and niglit carae down upon the Angel Anglers more forlorn and less friendly than ever ! and, with all tlie invalid's discomforts so much aggravated by the tears and the altercation that escape from this gloomy shore appeared infinitely remote. There was an essential difference of tone of mind between those brought up at Hiltonbury or at Castle Blanch, and though high spirits had long concealed the unlikeness, it had now been made bare, and Lucy could not conquer her disgust and disap- pointment. Sunshine was on Luggela,and Horatia's ailments were abating, so, as her temper was not alleviated, Lucilla thought peace would be best preserved by sallying out to sketch. A drawing from behind the cross became so engrossing that she was sorry to find it time for the early dinner, and her artistic piide was only allayed by the conviction that she should always hate what recalled Glendalough. Rashe was better, and was up and dressed. Hopes of de- parture produced amity, and they were almost lively over their veal broth, when sounds of arrival made Lucilla groan at the pros{)ect of cockney tourists obstructing the completion of her drawing. * There's a gentleman asking to see you, Miss.' * I can see no one.' ' Cilia, now do.' * Tell him I cannot see him,' repeated Lucy, imperiously. * How can you be so silly 1 he may have heard of our boxes.' ' I would toss them into the lake rather than take them from him.' ' Eh ! pray let me be present when you perform the cere- mony I Cilia in the heroics ! Whom is she expecting V said a voice outside the door, ever ajar, a voice that made Lucilla clasp her hands in ecstasy. ' You, Owen ! come in,' cried IToratia, writhing herself up. * Owen, old Owen I that's right,' burst from Cilia, as she sprang to him. ' Right ! Ah ! that is not the greeting I expected ; I was thinking how to guard my eyes. So, you have had enough of the unjirotected dodge ! What has Rashe been doing to herself? A desperate leap down the Falls of Niagara.' Horatia was difhise in the narration ; but, after the first, Lucy did not sj)eak. She began by arming herself again-t her brother's derision, but ])resently felt ))erplexed bj' detecting on his countenance something unwontedly grave and preoccupied. nOPES AND FEARS. 241 She was sure tliat his attention was fer away from Eashe's lon» story, and she abruptly interrupted it with, 'How came you here, Owen V He did not seem to hear, and she demanded, ' Is anything the matter'^ Are you come to fetcli us because any one is ill V Starting, he said, * No, oh no !' ' Then what brought you here '? a family council, or Honor Chai-lecote Y ' Honor Charlecote,' he repeated mistily : then making an effort, 'Yes, good old soul, she gave me a vacation tour on condition that I should keep an eye on you. Go on, Eashe ; "wiiat were you saying V 'Didn't you hear me, Owen? Why, Calthorp, the great Calthorp, is in our wake. Cilly is frantic' ' Calthorp about !' exclaimed Owen, with a start of dismay. 'Where?' 'I've disposed of him,' quoth Lucilla ; ' he^ll not trouble us acraiu.' ' Which way is he gone V * I would not tell you if I knew.' 'Don't be such an idiot,' he petulantly answered; 'I want nothing of the fellow, only to know whether he is clean gone. Are you sure whether he went by Bray ?' * I told you I neither knew nor cared.' 'Could you have believed, Owen,' said Eashe, plaintively, ' that she was so absurd as never even to tell him to inquire for our boxes V 'Owen knows better ;' but Lucilla stopped, surprised to see that his thoughts were again astray. Giving a constrained bmile, he asked, ' Well, what next ?' ' To find our boxes,' they answered in a breath. * Your boxes? Didn't I tell you I've got them here?' * Owen, you're a trumj),' cried Eashe. * How on earth did you know about them ?' inquired his sister. ' Very simply ; crossed from Liverpool yesterday, reconnoitred st your hotel, was shown your telegram, went to the luggage office, routed out that the things were taking a gentle tour to Limerick, got them back this morning, and came on. And what are you after next V 'Home,' jerked out Lucy, without looking up, thinking how welcome he would have been yesterday, without the goods. ' Yes, home,' said Horatia. ' This abominable sprain will hinder my throwing a line, or jolting on Irish roads, and if B 24-2 HOPES AND FEARS. Cilia is to be in agonies when slie sees a man on the hoi*izon, we micrht as well never have come.' 'Will you help me to carry home this poor invalid warrior, Owenf said Lucilla ; 'she will permit you.' ' I'll put you into the steamer,' said Owen ; ' but you see, I have made my ari-angements for doing Killarney and the rest of it.' ' I declare,' said Rashe, recovering benevolence with comfort, ' if they would send Scott from the Castle to meet me at Holy- head, Cilly might as well go on with you. You would be sufficient to keep off the Calthorps.' Toi afraid that's no go,' hesitated Owen. 'You see I had made my plans, trusting to your bold assertions that you would suffer no one to ap|)roach.' ' Oh ! never mind. It was no proposal of mine. I've had enough of Ireland,' returned Lucy, somewhat aggrieved. ' How soon shall you be sutiiciently repaiied for a start, Ratia f asked Owen, turning quickly round to her. ' I'o-morrowl No ! Well, I'll come over and see.' ' Going away V cried the ladies, by no means willing to part with their guardian. * Yes, I must. Expecting that we should be parallels never meeting, I had to pi'ovide for myself.' * I see,' said Rashe ; ' he has a meny party at ISTewragh Bridge, and will sit up over whist and punch till midnight !' ' You don't pi'etend to put yourselves in competition,' said he, snatching at the idea hastil3\ ' Oh ! no,' said his sister, with an annoyed gesture. * I never expect you to prefer me and my comfort to any one.' ' Indeed, Cilia, I'm sori-y,' he answered gently, but in per- plexity, ' but I never reckoned on being wanted, and en- gagements are engagements.' ' I'm sure I don't want you when anything pleasanter is going forward,' she answered, with vexation in her tone. ' I'll be here by eleven or twelve,' he replied, avoiding the altercation ; ' but I must get back now. I shall be waited for.' * Who is it that can't wait]' asked Rashe. 'Oh! just an English acquaintance of mine. There, good- bye. I wish I had come in time to surprise the modern St. Kevin ! Are you sure there was no drowning in the lake V ' You know it was blessed to drown no one after Kathleen.' ' Reassuring ! Only mind you put a chapter about it into the tour.' Under the cover of these words he was gone. ' I declare there's some mystery about his com])anioa!' ex- claimed Horatia. ' Suppose it were Calthorp himself T HOPES AXD FEARS. 2^3 'Owfin is not so lost to respect for his sister.' ' But did you not see Low little he was surprised, and how much pre-occupied ]' ' Very likely ; but no one but you could imagine him capable of such an outrage.' 'You have been crazy ever since you entered Ireland^ and expect every one else to be the same. Seriously, what damao'e did you anticipate from a little civility V ' If you begin upon tliat, I sliali go out and finish my sketch, and not unpack one of the boxes.' Nevertheless, Lucilla spent much fretting guesswork on her cousin's surmise. Slie relied too much on Owen's sense of pro- priety to entertain the idea that he could be forwarding a pursuit so obviously ii^solent, but a still wilder conjecture had been set- afloat in her mind. Could the nameless one be Robert Ful- raort ? Though aware of the anonymous nature of brother's friends, the secresy struck her as unusually guarded ; and to one so used to devotion, it seemed no extraordinary homage that another admirer should be drawn along at a respectful distance, a satellite to her erratic course; nay, probabl}'- all had been concerted in Woolstone Lane, and therewith the naughty girl crested her head, and prepared to take offence. After all, it could not be, or why should Owen have been bent on re- turning, and be so independent of her 1 Far more probably he had met a college friend or a Westminster schoolfellow, some of whom were in regiments cp.iartered in Ireland, and on the morrow would bring him to do the lions of Glendalough, amou" which might be reckoned the Angel Anglers ! That possibility might have added some grains to the satis- faction of making a respectable toilette next day. Certain it is that Miss Sandbrook's mountain costume was an exquisite feat of elaborate simplicity, and that the completion of her sketch was interrupted by many a backward lonk down the pass, and many a contradictory mood, sometimes boding almost as harsh a reception for Robert as for Mr. Calthorp, sometimes relenting in the thrill of hope, sometimes accusing lierself of arrant folly, and expecting as a |)is allei- the diversion of dazzling and tor- menting an Oxonian, or a soldier or two ! Be the meeting what it might, she preferred that it should be out of Horatia's sight, and so drew on and on to the detriment of her distances. Positively it was past twelve, and the desire to be surprised unconcernedly occupied could no longer obviate her restlessness, so she packed up her haii'-pencil, and, walking back to the inn, found Rashe in solitary possession of the coffee-room. ' You have missed him, Cilly." ii 2 244 HOPES AND FEARS. * Oweu ? No one else V ' No, uot the Calthorp ; I am sorry for you.' 'But who was here 1 tell me, Rashe.' * Owen, I tell you,' repeated Horatia, playing with her impatience. ' Tell me ; I will know whether he has any one with him.' ' Alack for your disappointment, for the waste of that blue bow ; not a soul came here but himself * And where is he 1 how did I miss him V said Lucilla, forcibly repressing the mortification for which her cousin was watching. ' Gone. As I was not in travelling trim, and you not forth- coming, he could not wait j but we are to be oil" to-mori-ow at ten o'clock.' * Why did he not come out to find me 1 Did you tell him I was close by V 'He had to join his friend, and go to the Vale of Avoca. I've found out the man, Cilia. No, don't look so much on the q7M v'lve ; it's only Jack Hastings.' ' Jack Hastings !' said Lucilla, her looks fallen. * No wonder he would not bring him here.' * Why not, poor fellow 1 I iised to know him very well before he was up the spout.' ' I wish Oweu had not fallen in with him,' said the sister, gravely. ' Are you certain it is so, Rashe Y ' I taxed liim with it, and he did not deny it ; only put it from him, laughing. What's tlie liavm ? Poor Jack was always a good-natured, honourable fellow, uncommonly clever and amusing — a well-read man, too ; and Oweu is safe enough — no one could try to borrow of him.' ' What would Honor's feelings be V said Lucilla, with more fellow-feeling for her than for months past. Lax as was the sister's tolerance, she was startled at his becoming the associate of an avowedly loose character under the stigma of the world, and with [lerilous abilities and agreeableness ; and it was another of Horatia's offences against ])roper feeling, not only to regard such evil communications with indiffi-rence, but ab- solutely to wish to be brought into contract with a person of this descriptidii in their ]iresent isolated state. Displeased and uneasy, Lucilla assumed the role of ]H'tuIance and quarrelsome- ness for the rest of the day, and revenged herself to the best of her abiliticB upon Rashe and Owen, by refusing to go to inspect the scene of Kathleen's fatal repulse. True to liis appointment, Owen arrived alone on a car chosen ■with all regard to Horatia's comfoi't, and was most actively HOPES AND FEARS, 2+.'> attentive in settliug on it the ladies and theii' luggage, stretch- ing himself out on the 0])posite side, his face raised to tlie clouds, as he whistled an air ; but his eye was still restless, and his sister resolved on questioning him. Opportunities were, however, rare ; whether or not with the design of warding off a tete-h-lete, he devoted himself to his cousin's service in a manner rare to her since she had laid herself out to he treated as though her name were Horace instead of H'oratia. However, Lucilla was not the woman to be balked of a settled purpose ; and at their hotel, at Dublin, she nailed him fast by turning back on him when Horatia bade them good night. ' Well, what do you want V he asked, annoyed. ' I want to speak to you.' * I hope it is to beg me to write to ask Honor to receive you at home, and promise to behave like a decent and respect- able person.' ' I want neither a judge nor an intercessor in you.' ' Come, Lucy, it really would be for eveiy one's good if you would go and take care of poor Honor. You have been using her vilely, and I should think you'd had enough of Rashe fur one while.' ' If I have used her vilely, at least I have dealt openly by her,' said Lucilla. ' She has always seen the worst of me ou the surface. Can you bear to talk of her when you know how you are treating herf He coloured violently, and his fvirious gesture would have intimidated most sisters ; but she stood her ground, and answered his stammering demand what she dared to imply. * You may go into a jmssion, but you cannot hinder me from esteeming it shameful to make her mission a cover for asso- ciating with one whom she would regard with so much horror as Jack Hastings.' ' Jack Hastings !' cried Owen, to her amazement, bursting into a fit of laughter, loud, long, and explosive. ' Well done, Rashe 1' ' You told her so.' ' She told me so, and one does not contradict a lady.' ' Something must have put it into her head.' ' Only to be accounted for by an unrequited attachment,' laughed Owen; 'depend on it, a comparison of dates would show Hastings's incarceration to have been the epoch of Eashe'a taking to the high masculine line — * " If e'er she loved, 'twas him alone Who lived within the jug of stone.'" ' 246 HOPES AND FEARS. ' For shame, Owen ; Rashe never was in love.' But lie went on laiigliiug at Rashe's disappointment at his solitary arrival till she said, tartly, ' You cannot wonder at our thinking you must have some reason for neither mention- ing your companion's name nor bringing him with you.' ' In fact, no man not under a cloud could abstain from paying homage to the queen of the anglers.' It was so true as to raise an angry spot on her cheek, and provoke the hasty excuse, ' It would have been obvious to have brought your friend to see your cousin and sister.' ' One bi'oken-backed, both unwashed ! O, the sincerity of the resistance I overheard ! No gentleman admitted, forsooth ! O, for a lodge in some vast wilderness ! Yes ; St. Anthony would have found it a wilderness indeed without his temptations. "What would St. Dunstan have been minus the black gentle- man's nose, or St. Kevin but for Kathleen ? It was a fortunate interposition that Calthorp turned up the day before I came, or I might have had to drag the lake for you.' This personal attack only made her persist. ' It was very different when we were alone or with you ; you know vexy well that there could have been no objection.' 'No objection on your side, certainly, so I perceive ; but sup])ose there wex*e no desire on the other V ' Oh !' in a piqxied voice, * I know many men don't care for ladies' society, but T don't see why tliey should be nameless.' ' I thought you would deem such a name unworthy to be mentioned.' ' Well, but who is the shy man 1 Is it the little Henniker, who used to look as if he would dive under the table when you brought him from Westminster V ' If I told you, you would remember it against the poor crea- ture for life, as a deliberate insult and want of taste. Good niglit.' He took his hat, and went out, leaving Lucy balancing her guesses between Ensign Henniker and him whom she could not mention. Her rejection of Mr. Calthorp might have occa- sioned the present secrecy, and she was content to leave herself the j)leasant mystery, in the hope of having it disjjelled by her last glance of Kingstown quay. In that hope, she rocked herself to sleep, and next morning was so extra vivacious as to be a sore trial to poor Rashe, in the anticipation of the peine forte et dure of St. George's Channel. Owen was also in high spii-its, but a pattern of con- sideration and kind attention, as he saw the ladies on board, and provided for their comfort, not leaving them till the last momeut. HOPES AND FEAKS. 217 Lucilia's heart had beaten fast from the moment slie had reached Kingstown ; she was keeping her hand free to wave a most eucoui'aging kiss, and as her eye roamed over the heads upon the quay witliout a recognition, she felt absolutely batfled and cheated; and gloriously as the Bay of Dublin spread itself before her, she was conscious only of wrath and mortification, and of a bitter sense of dreariness and desertion. Nobody cared for her, not even her brt)ther ! CHAPTER IX. My pride, that took Fully easily all impressions from below, Would not look up, or half despised the height To which I could not, or I would not climb. I thought I could not breathe in that fine air. Idylls of the King. * /^\AN you come and take a turn in the Temple-gardens, \J Phoibe V asked Robert, on the way from church, the day after Owen's visit to Woolstone Lane. Phoebe rejoiced, for she had scarcely seen him since his return from Castle Blanch, and his state of mind was a mystery to her. It was long, however, before he afforded her any clue. He paced on, grave and abstracted, and they had many times gone up and down the least frequented path, before he abruptly said, ' I have asked Mr. Parsons to give me a title for Holy Orders.' ' I don't quite know what that means.' * How simple you are, Phoebe,' he said, impatiently ; 'it means that St. Wulstan's should be ray first curacy. May my labours be accepted as an endeavour to atone for some of the evil we cause liere.' ' Dear Robin ! what did Mr. Parsons say 1 Was he not very glad r ' No ; there lies the doubt.' ' Doubt f * Yes. He told me that he had engaged as many curates as he has means for. I answered that my stipend need be nc consideration, for I only wished to spend on the parish, but lit was not satisfied. Many incumbents don't like to have curates of independent means ; I believe it has an amateur appear- ance.' ' Mr, Parsons cannot think you would not be devoted.' £48 HOPES AND FEARS. ' I hope to convince him that I may be trusted. It is all that is Ivft me now.' ' It will be very cruel to you, and to the poor people, if he ■will not/ said Phcjebe, warmly ; ' what will papa and Mervyu say V < I shall not mention it till all is settled ; I have my father's consent to my choice of a profession, and I do not thiuk myself bound to let him dictate my course as a minister. I owe a higher duty, and if his business scatters the seeds of vice, surely " obedience in the Lord" should not prevent me from trying to counteract them.' It was a case of conscience to be only judged by himself, and where even a sister like Phoebe could do little but hope for the best, so she expressed a cheerful hope that her father must know that it was right, and that he would care less now that he was away, and pleaseil with Augusta's prospects.' ' Yes,' said Robert, ' he already thinks me such a fool, that it may be indifferent to him in what particular manner I act it out,' ' And how does it stand with Mr. Parsons V * He will give me an answer to-morrow evening, provided I continue in the same mind. Ihere is no chance of my not doing so. My time of suspense is over !' and the words abso- lutely sounded like relief, though the set stern face, and the hmg breaths at each |jause told another tale. ' I did not think she would really have gone !' said Plioebe. ' Tliis once, and we will mention her no more. It is not merely this expedition, but all I saw at Wrapworth convinced me that I should risk my faithfulness to my calling by connect- ing myself with one who, with all her loveliness and generosity, lives upon excitement. She is the very light ot poor Prender- gast's eyes, and he cannot endure to sa^ a word in her dispraise; she is constantly doing acts of kindness in his parish, and is much beloved there, yet he could not conceal how much trouble she gives him by her want of judgment and wilfulness; j)atronizing and forgetting capriciously, and attending to no remonstrance. You saw yourself the treatment of that school- mistress. I thought the more of this, because Prendergast is so fond of lier, and does her full justice. No; her very aspect proves that a parish jiriest has no business to think of her.' Large tears swelled in Plioibe's eyes. The first vision of her youth was melting away, and she detected no relenting iu his grave resolute voice. ' Shall you tell herf was all she could say. * That is the question. At oue time she gave me reason to HOPES AND FEAKS. 249 tliiuk that she accepted a claim to be considered in my plans, and understood wliat I never concealed. Latterly slie haa appeared to withdraw all encouragement, to reject every ad- vance, and yet Phoebe, tell me whether she lias given you any reason to suppose that she ever was in earnest with me ? ' I know she respects and likes you better than any one, and speaks of you like uo one else,' said Phoebe ; then pausing, and speaking more diffidently, though with a smile, ' I tliink she looks up to you so much, that she is afraid to put herself in your power, lor fear she should be made to give n\} her odd ways in spite oi herself, and yet that she has no notion of losing you. L>id you see her face at the station V ' I would not ! I coiild not meet her eyes! I snatched my hand Irom the little clinging fingers ;' and Ptobert's voice al- most became a gasp. ' It was not fit that the spell should be renewed. She would be miserable, I under constant tempta- tion, if I endeavoured to make her share my work ! Best as it is ! She has so cast me off tliat my honour is no longer bound to her ; but I cannot tell whether it be due to her to let her know how it is with me, or whether it would be mere cox- combry.' ' The Sunday that she spent here,' said Phoebe, slowly, ' slie had a talk with me. I wrote it down. Miss Fennimore says it is the safest way ' * Where is it V cried Robert, ' I kept it in my pocket-book, for fear any one should see it, and it should do harm. Here it is, if it will help you. I am afraid I made things worse, but I did not know what to say.' It was one of the boldest experiments ever made by a sister ; for what man could brook the sight of an unvarnished state- ment of his proxy's pleading, or help imputing the failure to the go-between 1 ' I would not have had this happen for a thousand pounds V was his acknowledgment. ' Child as you are, Phoebe, had you not sense to know, that no woman could endure to have tliat said, which should scarcely be implied ] I wonder no longer at her studied avoidance.' ' If it be all my bad management, cannot it be set riglit?' humbly and hopefully said Phoebe. ' There is no I'iglit !' he said. * There, take it back. It settles the question. The secui'ity you childishly sho\^ ed, was treated as otlensive presumption on my part. It would be presuming yet farther to make a formal withdrawal of what was never accepted.' ' Then is it my doing 1 Have I made mischief betweeu 250 HOPES AND FEARS. you, and put you apart ]' said poor Phoebe, in great diotress. Can't I make up for it V ' You 1 No, you wei'e only an over plain-spoken child, and brourrht aboiit the crisis that must have come somehow. It is not what you have done, or not done ; it is what Lucy Sandbrook has said and done, that shows that I must have done with her for ever.' ' And yet.' said Phoebe, taking this as forgiveness, * you see she never believed that you would give her up. If she did, I am sure she would not have gone.' ' She thinks her power over me stronger than my principles. She cliallenges me — desires you to tell me so. We sliall see.' He spoke as a man whose steadfastness had been defied, and who was piqued on proving it to the utmost. Such feelings may savour of tlie wratli of man, they may need the purifying of chastening, and they often impel far beyond the bounds of sober judgment ; but no doubt they likewise frequently render that easy which would otJuTwise have appeai-ed impossible, and which, if done in haste, may be regi-etted, but not repented, at leisure. Under some circumstances, the harshness of youth is a healthy symptom, proving force of character and conviction, though that is only when the foremost victim is self Robert was far from perfect, and it might be doubted whether he were entering the right track in the right way, but at least his heai't was sound, and there was a fair hope that his failings, in working their punishment, might work their cure. It was in a thorough brotherly and Christian si)irit tliat before entering the house he compelled himself to say, * Don't vex yourself, Phoebe, I know you did the best you could. It made no real difierence, and it was best that she should know tlie truth.' ' Thank you, dear Robin,' cried Phoebe, grateful for the con- solation ; ' I am glad you do not think I misrepresented.' * Yoii are always accurate,' he answered. * If you did any- thing undesirable, it was representing at all. But that is nothing to the purpose. It is all over now, and thank you for your constant good will and patience, my dear. There ! now then it is an understood tiling that her name is never spoken between us.' Meanwhile, Robert's proposal was iinder discussion by the elders. Mr. Parsons had no abstract dread of a wealthy curate, but he hesitated to accept gratuitous services, and distrusted ])lans formed under the impulse of disappointment or of enthu- uiu.^m, since in the event of a change, both parties might be HOPES AND FEAI^S. 2o) embarrassed. There was danger too of collisions with his family, and Mr. Parsons took counsel with Miss Charlecote, knowing indeed that where her affections were concerned, her opinions must be taken with a qualification, but I'elyingon the good senso formed by rectitude of purpose. Honor's affection for Robert Fulraort had always been moderated by Owen's antagonism ; her moderation in super- latives commanded implicit credence, and Mr. Parsons inferred more, instead of less, than she expressed ; better able as he w;i.s to estimate that manly character, gaining force with growtli, and though slow to discern between good and evil, always finu to the duty when it was once perceived, and thus rising with the elevation of the standard. The undemonstrative temper and tardiness in adopting extra habits of religious observau(;e and profession, which had disappointed Honor, struck tlie clergyman as evidences both of sincerity and evenness of de\elopment, proving the sterling reality of what had been attained. ' jSTot taking, but trusty,' judged the vicar. But the lad was an angry lover. How tantalizing to be ofTered a fourth curate, with a long purse, only to find St. Wulstan'a serving as an outlet for a lover's quarrel, and the youth restless and restive ere the end of his diaconate ! * How savage you are,' said his wife ; ' as if the parish would be hurt by his help or his presence. If he goes, let him go — some other help will come.' ' A nd don't deprive him of the advantage of a good master,' s;iid Honor. ' This wretched cure is not worth flattery,' he said smiling. ' Nay,' said Mrs. Parsons, ' how often have I heard you rejoice that you started here. ' Under Mr. Charlecote — yes.' * You are the depository of his traditions,' said Honor, ' hand them on to Robert. I wish nothing better for Owen.' Mr. Parsons wished something better for himself, and averted a reply, by speaking of Robert as accejited. Robert's next request was to be made useful in the parish, ■while preparing for his ordination in the autumn Ember week ; and though there were demurs as to unnecessarily anticipating ike strain on health and strength, he obtained his wish in mercy to a state only to be alleviated by the realities of labour. So few difficulties were started by his family, tliat Honora suspected that Mr. Fulmort, always cliietly occvipied by what was immediately before him, hardly realized that by taking an assistant ciu-acy at St. Wulstan's, his sou became one of the 252 HOPES AND FEARS. pastors of Wluttiugton-streets, great and little, Kichard-courts, Cicely-row, Alice-lane, Cat-alley, and Turnagain-corner. Scai'cely, however, was this settled, when a despatch arrived from Dublin, headed, ' The Fast Fly Fisliers ; or the modern St. Kevin,' containing in Ingoldsby legend-like rhymes, the entire narration of the Glendalough predicament of the ' Fast and Fair,' and concluding with a piece of prose, by the same author, as.suring his sweet Honey, that the i^oeni, though strange, was true, that he had just seen the angelic anglers on board the steamer, and it would not be for lack of good advice on his part, if Lucy did not present herself at Woolstone Lane, to partake of the dish called humble pie, on the derivation whereof antiquaries were divided. Half amuseJ, half vexed by his levity, and wholly relieved and hopeful, Honora could not help showing Owen's performance to Phoebe for the sake of its cleverness ; but she found the child too young and simple to enter into it, for the whole effect was an entreaty that Hubert might not see it, only hear the facts. Rather annoyed by this want of appreciation of Owen's wit, Honora saw, nevertheless, that Phffibe had come to a right couclusi(m. The breach was not likely to be diminished by finding that* the wilful girl had exposed herself to ridicule, and the Fulmort nature had so little sense of the ludicrous, that this good-natured brotherly satire would be taken for mere derision. So Honor left it to Phoebe to give her own version, only wishing that the catastrophe had come to his knowledge before his arrangements had been made with Mr. Parsons. Phcebe had some difficulty in telling her story. Piobert at first silenced her peremptorily, but after ten minutes relented, and said, moodily, ' Well, let me hear !' He listened without relaxing a muscle of his rigid countenance ; and when Phoebe ended by saying that Miss Charlecote had ordered Lucy's room to be prepared, thinking that she might present herself at any moment, he said, 'Take care that you warn me when she conies. I shall leave town that minute.' ' Pobert, Robert, if she come liome grieved and knowing better ' * I \s ill not see her 1' he repeated. ' I made her taking this journey the test 1 The result is nothing to me ! Phujbe, I trust to you that no intended goodnature of Miss Charlecote's bhould bring us together. Promise me.' Phcebe could do nothing but promise, and not another sen- tence could she obtain from her brothci', indeed his face looked HOPES AND FEAllS. 253 SO formidable iu its sternness, that she would have been a bold maiden to have tried. Houora augured truly, that not only was his stern nature deeply offended, but that he was quite as much in dread of coraiug under the power of Lucy's fascinations, as Cilia had ever been of his strength. Such mutual aversion was really a tolcen of the force of influence upon each, and Honor assured Pli 031)6 that all would come right. ' Let her only come home and be good, and you will see, Phojbe !' She will not be the worse for an alarm, nor even for waiting till after his two years at St. Wulstan's.' The reception of the travellers at Castle Blanch was certainly not mortifying by creating any excitement. Charles Charteris paid his worst in the words, ' One week !' and his wife was glad to have some one to write her notes. This indiiTerence fretted Lucy. She found herself loathing the perfumy rooms, the sleepy voice, and hardly aV)le to sit still in her restless impatience of Lolly's platitudes and Charles's insouciance, while Rashe could never be liked again. Even a lecture from Honor Cliarlecote would have been infinitely pre- ferable, and one grim look of Robert's would be bliss ! JSTo one knew whether Miss Charlecote were still in town, nor whether Augusta Fulraort were to be married in England or abroad ; and as to Miss Murrell Lolly languidly wondered what it was that she had heard. Hungering for some one whom she could trust, Lucilla took an early breakfast in her own room, and walked to Wrapworth, hoping to catch the curate lingering over his coffee and letters. From a distance, however, she espied his form disappearing in the school-porch, and approaching, heard his voice reading prayers, and the children's chanted response. Coming to the oriel, she looked in. There were the rows of shiny heads, fair, brown, and black ; there were the long sable back and chopi)ed- hay locks of the curate ; but where a queen-like figure had of old been wont to preside, she beheld a tallow face, with sandy hair under the most precise of net caps, and a straight thread- j)aper shape in scanty gray stuff, aiid white apron. Dizzy with wrathful consternation, Cilia threw herself on one of the seats of the porch, shaking her foot, and biting her lip, fiantic to know the truth, yet too much incensed to enter, even when the hum of united voices ceased, the rushing sound of rising was over, and measured footsteps pattered to the classes, where the manly interrogations sounded alternately with the shrill little answers. Clump, clump, came the heavy feet of a laggard, her head bent over her book, her thick lips vainly conning the unlearned task, 254) nOPES AND FEARS. iiiiawai'e of the presence of tlie youug lady, till Lucilla touclicd her, sayiug, ' What, Martha, a ten o'clock scholar V She gave a little cry, opeued her staring eyes, and dropped a curtsey. ' Whom have you here for mistress V asked Lucilla. ' Please, ma'am, governess is ruuued away.' ' What do you mean V ' Yes, ma'am,' replied the girl, developing powers of voluhi- lity such as scholastic relations with her had left unsuspected. ' She ran away last Saturday was a week, and there was nobody to open the school when we came to it a Sunday morning ; and we had holidays all last week, ma'am ; and mother was terrified* out of her life ; and fathei', he said he wouldn't have me never so for to do no such thing, and that he didn't want no fine ladies, as was always spiting of me.' ' Every one will seem to spite you, if you keep no better hours,' said Lucy, little edified by Martha's virtuous indignation. Tlie girl had scarcely entered the school before the clergyman stood on the threshold, and was seized by both hands, with the words, ' Oh, Mr. Prendergast, what is this Y ' You here, Cilia? What's the matter? What has brought you back ]' ' Had you not heard 1 A sprain of Ptatia's, and other things. Never mind. What's all this V ' Ah ! I knew you would be sadly grieved !' ' So you did frighten her away !' ' I never meant it. I tried to act for the best. She was spoken to, by myself and others, but nobody could make any impression, and we could only give her notice to go at tlie harvest holidays. She took it with her usual grand air ' ' Which is really misery and despair. Oh, why did I go 1 Go on !' ' I wrote to the mother, advising her, if possible, to come and be with the girl till the holidays. That was on Thursday week, and the old woman ])romised to come on the Monday — wrote a very proper letter, allowing for the Methodistical phrases — bat on the Satuiday it was observed that the house was not opened, and on Sunday morning I got a note — if you'll come in I'll show \t to you.' He presently discovered it among multitudinous other papers on his chimney-piece. Within a lady-like envelope was a thick Batin-pai>er, queen's-sized note, containing these words : Terrify, to tease or worry. HOPES AND FEARS. 2)0 'Eeverend Sir, — It is with the deepest feelings of regret for the unsatisfactoi-y appearance of my late conduct that I venture to address you, but time will enable me to account for all, and I can at the present moment only entreat you to pardon. any inconvenience I may have occasioned by the precipitancy of my departure. Credit me, reverend and dear sir, it was only tlie law of necessity that could have com])elled me to act in a manner that may appear questionable. Your feeling heart will excuse my reserve when you are informed of the whole. In the mean time, I am only permitted to mention that this morning I became a happy wife. With heartfelt thanks for all the kindness I have received, I remain, 'Heverend sir, ' Your obedient servant, ' Edna.' * ISTot one message to me V exclaimed Lucilla. * Her not having had the impudence is the only redeeming thing !' ' 1 did not think she would have left no word for me,' said JjWCJ, wlio knew she had been kinder thaii her wont, and was really wounded. ' Happy wife ! Who can it be f ' Happy wife 1' repeated the curate. ' It is miserable fool, most likely,' by this time.' ' No surname signed ! What's the post-mark ? Only Charing cross. Could you find out nothing, or did you not think it worth while to lookf ' What do you take me for. Cilia 1 I inquired at the station, but she had not been there, and on the jMonday I went to London and saw the mother, who was in great distress, for she had had a letter much like mine, only more unsatisfactory, throwing out absurd hints about grandeur and prosperity — poor deluded simpleton 1' ' She distinctly says she is married.' ' Y"es, but she gives no name nor place. What's that worth ? After such duplicity as she hajs been practising so long, I don't know how to take her statement. Those people are pleased to talk of a marriage in the sight of heaven, when they mean the devil's own work !' ' No, no ! I will not think it 1' * Then don't, my dear. You were very young and innocent, and thought no harm.' * I'm not young — I'm not innocent !' furiously said Cilly. • Tell me downright all you suspect.' £'R HOPES AND FEAP.S. ' I'm not given to suspecting,' said the poor clergyman, lialf in deprecation, half in reproof ; 'but I am afraid it is a bad business. If she had married a servant or any one in lier own rank, there would have been no need of concealing the name, at least from her mother. I feared at first that it was one of y(mr cousin Charles's friends, but there seems more reason to suppose that one of the musical people at your concert at the Castle may have thought her voice a good speculation for the stage.' ' He would marry her to secure her gains.' ' If so, why the secrecy f * Mrs. Jenkins has taught jon to make it as bad as possible,' burst out Lucy. ' O, why was not I at home 1 Is it too late to trace her and proclaim her innocence !' ' I was wishing for your help. I went to Mr. Charteris to ask who the performers were, but he knew nothing about them, and said you and his sister had managed it all.' ' The director was DervaL He is fairly respectable, at least I know nothing to the contrary. I'll make Charlie write. There was an Italian, with a black beard and a bass voice, whom we have had several times. I saw him looking at her. Just tell me what sort of woman is the mother. She lets lodgings, doea not she V ' Yes, in Little Whittington-street.' 'Dear me ! I trust she is no friend of Honor Charlec-ote's.' * Out of her beat, I should think. She dissents.' * What a blessing ! I beg your pardon, but if anything could be an aggravation, it would be Honor Charlecote's moralities.' * So you wei*e not aware of the dissent V ' And you are going to set that down as more deceit, as if it were the poor thing's business to denounce her mother. No%v, to show you that 1 can be sure that Edna was brought up to the Church, I will tell you her antecedents. Her father was Sir Thomas Doane's butler ; they lived in the village, and she was very much in the nursery with the Miss Deanes — had some lessons from the governess. There was some notion of making lier a inu'sory governess, but Sir Thomas died, the ladies went abtoad, taking her father with them ; Edna was sent to a training school, and the mother went to live in the City with a relation who let lodgings, and who has since died, leaving the coi>cern to Mrs. INIuri-ell, whose luisl)and was killed by an upset of tlie carriage on the Alps.' * I heard all that, and plenty besides ! Poor woman, she was in such distress that one could not but let her pour it all out- HOPES AND FEAES, 2')'1 but I declai'e the din rang in my ears the whole night after. A very nice, respectable-looking body she was, with jet-black eves like diamonds, and a rosy, countryfied complexion, quite a treat to see in that grimy place, her widow's cap as white as snow, but oh, such a tongue ! She would give me all her spiritual experiences — how she was converted by an awakening minister in Cat-alley, and yet had a great respect for such ministers of the Church as fed their flocks with sincere milk, mixed up with the biography of all the shopmen and clerks who ever lodged there, and to whom she acted as a mother !' 'It was not their fault that she did not act as a mother-in-law. Edna has told me of the unpleasantness of being at home on account of the young men.' ' Exactly ! I was spared none of the chances she might haA'e had, but the only thing worthy of note was about a cashier who surreptitiously brought a friend from the "hopera," to overhear her singing hymns on the Sunday evening, and thus led to an ofier on his part to have her brought out on the stage.' ' Ha ! could that have come to anything T ' No. Mrs. Murrell's suspicions took that direction, and we hunted down tlie cashier and the friend, but they were quite exonerated. It only proves that her voice has an unfortuniit(j value.' ' If she be gone off with the Italian bass, I can't say I think it a fatal sign that she was slow to present him to her domestic ]\Iause Headrigg, who no doubt would deliberately prefer the boards of her coffin to the boards of the theatre. Well, come along — we will get a letter from Charles, and rescue her — I mean, clear her.' 'Wont you look into school, and see how we go on ? The women complained so much of having their children on their hands, tiiough I am sure they had sent them to school sehlon enough of late, that I got this young w^oman from Mrs. Stuart's asylum till the holidays. I think we shall let her stay on, she has a good deal of method, and all seem pleased with the change.' ' You have your wish of a fright. No, I thank you ! I'm not so glad as the rest of ycu to get rid of refinement and superiority.' There was no answer, and more touched by silence than reply, she hastily said, 'Never mind ! I dare say she may do better for the children, but you know, I, who am hard of caring for any one, did care for poor Edna, and I can't stand peeans over your new broom.' INIr. Prendergast gave a smile such as was only evoked by his late rector's little daughter, and answered, ' No one can be more & 25S HOPES AND PEARS. concerned than I. She was not in her place here, that was certain, and I ought to have minded that she was not thrust into temptation. I shall remember it wilh shame to my dying day.' * Which means to say that so should I.' *No, you did not know so much of tlie evils of the world.' ' I told you before, Mr. Pendy, that I am twenty times more sophisticated than you are. You talk of knowing the world! I wisli 1 didn't. I'm tired of everybody.' And on the way home she described her expedition, and had the jjleasure of the curate's symi)athy, if not his entire approval. Perhaps there was no other being whom she so thoroughly treated as a friend, actually like a woman friend, chiefly because he thoroughly believed in her, and was very blind to her faults. Robert would have given worlds to have found her once, what Mr. Piendergast found her always. She left him to wait in the drawing-room, while she went on her mission, but presently rushed back in a fury. Nobody cared a straw for the catastrophe. Lolly begged her not to be so excited about a trifle, it made her quite nervous ; and the others laughed at her; JRashe pretended to think it a tiue chance to have changed 'the life of an early Cliristian,' for the triumphs of the stage ; and Charles scouted the idea of writing to the man's employer. ' flo call Derval to account for all the tricks of his fiddlers and singers'? Much obliged !' Mr. Premier (fast decided on going to town by the next train, to make inquiries of Derval himself, without further loss of time, and Cilly declared that she would go with him and force the conceited professor to attend ; but the curate, who had never found any difficulty in enforcing his own dignity, and thought it no business for a young lady, declined her company, unless, he said, she were going to spend the day with Miss Charlecote. ' Pve a great mind to go to her for good and all. Let her fall upon me for all and sundiy. It will do me good to hear a decent woman speak again ! besides, poor old soul, she will be so higlily gratitied, that she will be quite meek' (and so will some one else, quoth the perverse little heart) ; ' PU put w]) u few things, and not delay you.' * This is very sudden !' said tlie curate, wishing to keep tlie peace between her and her friends, and not willing that iiis Bunbeara should fleet 'so like the Borealis race 1' ' Will it not annoy your cousins V ' They ought to be annoyed !' 'And are you certain that you would find Miss Charlecote in town ] I thought her stay was to be short.' HOPES AND FEARS. 253 * I'm certain of nothing, but that every phice is detestahle.' 'What would you do if you did not find her T ' Go on to Euston-square. Do you think I don't know my way to Hiltonbury, or tliat I should not get welcome enough — ay, and too much — there T ' Then if you are so uncertain of her movements, do you not think you had better let me learn them before you start. Shg might not even be gone home, and you would not like to come back here again ; if ' ' Like a dog that has been out hunting,' said Lucilla, who could bear opposition from this quarter as from no other. ' You wont take the responsibility, that's the fact. Well, you may go and reconnoitre, if you will ; but mind, if you say one word of what brings you to town, I shall never go near the Holt at all. To hear — whenever the Raymonds, or any other of the godly school keeping sort come to dinner — of the direful effects of certificated schoolmistresses, would drive me to such distraction that I cannot answer for the consequences.' * I am sure it is not a fact to pi-oclaim.' * Ah ! but if you run against Mr. Parsons, you'll nev;er abstain from telling him of his stray lamb, nor from condoling with him upon the wolf in Cat-alley. Now there's a fair hope of his having more on his hands than to get his fingers scratched by meddling with the cats, and so that this may remain unknown. So consider yourself sworn to secresy.' Mr. Pi'endergast promised. The good man was a bit of a gossip, so perhaps her precavxtion was not thrown away, for he could hai-dly have helped seeking the sympathy of a brother pastor, especially of him to whose fold the wanderer primarily belonged. Nor did Lucy feel certain of not telling the whole herself in some unguarded moment of confidence. All she cai-ed for was, that the story should not transpire through some other source, and be brandished over her head as an illustration of all the maxims that she had so often spurned. Slie ran after Mr. Prendergast after he had taken leave, to warn him against calliug in Woolstone Lane, and desired him instead to go to Masters's shop, where it was sure to be known whether Miss Charlecote •were in town or not. Mr. Prendergast secretly did grateful h.onour to the considera- tion that would not let him plod all the weary way into the City. Little did he guess that it was one part mistrust of his silence, and three parts reviving pride, which forbade that Honora should know that he had received any such commission. The day was spent in pleasant anticipations of the gratitude and satisfaction that would be excited by her magnanimous c 260 HOPES AND FEARS. return, and her pardon to Honor and to Robert for having been in the riglit. She knew she could own it so graciously tliab Tloliert would be overpowered with compunction, and for ever beholden to lier ; and now that the Charterises were so ua- mitigatedly hateful, it was time to lay herself out for goodness, and fling him the rein, with only now and then a jerk to remind him that she was a free agent. A long- talked-of journey on the Continent was to come to pass as soon as lloratia's strain was well. In spite of wealth and splendour, Eloisa had found hersell disappointed in the step that she had hoped her marriage woukl give lier into the most elite circles. Languid and indolent as her mind was, she could not but perceive that where Ratia was intimate and at ease, she continued on terms of form and ceremony, and her liusband felt more keenly that the society in his house was not what it had been in his mother's time. They both became restless, and Lolly, who had already lived much abroad, dreaded the dulness of an English winter in the country ; while Charles knew that he had already sj)ent more than he liked to recollect, and that the only means of keeping her contented at Castle Llanch, would be to continue most ruinous expenses. With all these secret motives, the tour was projected as a scheme of amusement, and the details were discussed between Charles and Rashe with grea.t animation, making the soberness of Hiltonbury appear both tedious and sombre, though all the time Lucy felt that there she should again meet that which her heart both feax-ed and yearned fjr, and without which these pleasures would be but shadows of enjovmeut. Yet that they were not including her in their party, gave her a sense of angiy neglect and impatience. She wanted to reject their invitation indignantly, and make a merit of the sacritice. The aftei'-dinner discussion was in full progress when she was called out to speak to Mr. Prendergast. Heated, wearied, and choking with tlust, he would not come beyond the hall, but before going home he had walked all this distance to tell her the result of bis expedition, Derval had not been uncivil, but evidently thought the suspicion an affront to his corps, which at present was dispersed by the end of the season. Tiie Italian bass was a married man, and had returned to his own country. The clue had failed. The poor leaf must be left to drift upon unknown winds. ' But,' said the curate, by way of compensation, 'at Masters'a I found jMiss Cliarlecote herself, and gave your message.' ' T gave no message.' ' No, no, because you would not send me up into the City j HOPES AND FEARS. 261 Lilt I told her all you would have had me say, and how nearly you had coine up with me, only I would not let you, for fear she should have left town.' Cilia's face did not conceal her annoyance, but not under- standing her in the least, he continued, ' I'ni sure no one could speak more kindly or considerately than she did. Her eyes filled with tears, and she must be heartily fond of you at the bottom, though maybe rather injudicious and strict; but after what I told her, you need have no fears.' ' Did you ever know nie have any T 'Ah, well ! you don't like the word; but at any rate she thinks you behaved with great spirit and discretion under the circumstances, and quite overlooks any little imprudence. She hopes to see you the day after to-morrow, and will write and tell you so.' Perhaps no intentional slander ever gave the object greater annoyance than Cilly experienced on learning that the good curate had, in the innocence of his heart, represented her as in a state of proper feeling, and interceded for her ; and it was all the worse because it was impossible to her to damp his kind satisfaction, otherwise than by a brief ' Thank you,' the tone of which he did not comprehend. * Was she alone f she asked. * Didn't I tell you the young lady was with her, and the brother V 'Eobert Fulmort !' and Cilia's heart sank at finding that it could not have been lie who had been with Owen. ' Ay, the young fellow that slept at my house. He has taken a cuiacy at St. Wulstan's.' ' Did he tell you so V with an ill-concealed start of conster- nation. ' Not he ; lads have strange manners. I should have thought after the terms we were upon here, he need not have been quite so nuich absorbed in his book as never to speak !' ' He has plenty in him instead of manners,' said Lucilla ; 'but I'll take him in hand for it.' Though Lucilla's instinct of defence had spoken tip for Robert, she felt hurt at his treatment of her old friend, and could only excuse it by a strong fit of conscious moodiness. His taking the curacy was only explicable, she thought, as a mode of showing his dis])leasure with herself, since he could not ask her to marry into Whittingtonia ; but ' That must be all nonsense,' thought she ; ' I will soon have him down off" his high horse, and Mr. Parsons will never keep him to his engage- ment — silly fellow to have made it — or if he does, I shall only £62 HOPES AND FEARS. have the longer to plague him. It will do him good. Let me see ! he will come down to-morrow with Honora's note. I'll put on my lilac muslin with the innocent little frill, and do my hair under his favourite net, and look like such a horrid little meek ringdove that he will he perfectly disgusted with himself for having ever taken me for a fishing eagle. He will be ahject, and I'll be generous, and not give another peck till it has grown intolerably stupid to go on being good, or till he presumes V For the first time for many days, Lucilla awoke with the impression that something pleasant was about to befall her, and her wild heart was in a state of glad flutter as she donned the quiet dress, and foui;d that the subdued colouring and graver style rendered her more softly lovely than she had ever seen herself. The letters were on the breakftist table when she came down, the earliest as usual, and one was from Honor Charlecote, the first sight striking her with vexation, as discomfiting her h()]>e3 that it would come by a welcome beai-er. Yet that might be no reason why he should not yet run down. She tore it open. * My dearest Lucy, — Until I met Mr. Prendergast yester- day, I was not sure that you had actually returned, or I would not have delayed an hour in assuring you, if you could dovibt it, that my pardon is ever ready for you.' (' Many thanks,' was the muttered comment. ' Oh that poor, dear, stupid man ! would that I had stopped his mouth !') ' I never doubted that your i-efinement and sense of propriety would be revolted at the consequences of what I always saw fcc be mere thoughtlessness ' (' Dearly beloved of an old maid is, I told you so !') ' but I am delighted to hear that my dear child showed so much true delicacy and dignity in her trying predica- ment ' (' Delighted to find her dear child not absolutely lost to decorum ! Thanks again.') * and I console myself for the pain it has given by the trust that experience has ])roved a better teacher than precept.' (' Where did she find that grand sentence V) * So that good may result from past evil and present suffer- ing, and that you may have learnt to distrust those who would lead j^ou to disregard the dictates of your own better sense.' (' Meaning her own self!') ' 1 have said all this by letter that we may cast aside all that HOPES AND FEARS. 2(13 is jiainful wlion wc meet, and only to feel that I am welcominy my child, doubly dear, because she comes owning her error.' (' I dare say ! We like to.be magnanimous, don't we? Oh, Mr. Prendergast, I could beat you !') ' Our first kiss shall seal your pardon, dearest, and not a word shall pass to remind you of this distressing page in your history.' (' Distressing ! Excellent fun it was. I shall make her hear my diary, if I. persuade myself to encounter this intolerable kiss of peace. It will be a mercy if I don't serve her as the thief in the fable did his mother when he was sfoina; to be hanged.') * I will meet you at the station by any train on Saturday that you like to appoint, and early next week we will go down to what I am sure you have felt is your only true home.' ('Have 11 Oh 1 she has heard of their journey, and thinks this my only alternative. As if I could not go with them if I chose — I wish they would ask me, though. They shall ! I'll not be driven up to the Holt as my last resource, and live there under a system of mild browbeating, because I can't help it. No, no ! Robin shall find it takes a vast deal of per- suasion to bend me to swallow so much pardon in milk and water. I wonder if there's time to change the spooney simpli- city, and come out in something spicy, with a dash of the Bloomer. But, maybe, there's some news of him in the other sheet, now she has delivei'ed her conscience of her rigmarole. Oh ! here it is — ') ' Phoebe will go home with us, as she is, according to the family sj'stem, not summoned to her sister's wedding. Robert leaves London on Saturday morning, to fetch his books, &c., from Oxford, Mr. Parsons having consented to give him a title for Holy Orders, and to let him assist in the parish until the next Ember week. I think, dear girl, that it should not be concealed from you that this step was taken as soon as he heard that you had actually sailed for Ireland, and that he does not intend to return until we are in the country.' (' Does he not 1 Another act of coercion I I suppose you put him up to this, madam, as a pleasing course of discipline. You think you have the whip hand of me, do you 1 Puoh ! See if he'll stay at Oxford !') ' I feel for the grief I'm inflicting ' (* Oh, so you complacently think " now I have made her sorry !"' ') ' but I believe uncei'tainty, waiting, and heart sickness would cost you far mor^. Trust me, as one who has ftlt it. that £6-t HOPES AND f'tARS. it is far better to feel oneself unworthy than to leai'n to doubt or distrust the worthiness or constancy of another.' (' My father to wit ! A pretty thing to say to his daughter ! "What right has she to be pining f.nd complaining after him 1 He, the unworthy one 1 I'll never forgive that conceited infe- rence ! Just because he could not stand sentiment ! Master Eobert gone ! Won't I soon have him repenting of his out- break T) ' I have no doubt that his feelings are unchanged, and that he is solely influenced by principle. He is evidently exceedingly uuliappy under all his reserve ' (' He shall be more so, till he behaves himself, and comes back humble ! I've no notion of his flying out in this way.') ' and though I have not exchanged a word with him on the subject, I am certain that his good opinion will be re- trieved, with infinite joy to himself, as soon as you make it possible for his judgment to be satisfied with your conduct and sentiments. Grieved as I am, it is with a hopeful sorrow, for I am sure that nothing is wanting on your part but that con- sistency and sobriety of behaviour of which you have newly learnt the necessity on other grounds. The Parsonses have gone to their own house, so you will not find any one hei'e but two who will leel for yovi in silence, and we shall soon be in the quiet of the Holt, where you shall have all that can give you peace or comfort from your ever-loving old H. C ' Feel for me ! Never ! Don't you wish you may get it 1 Teach the catechism and feed caterpillars till such time as it pleases Mrs. Honor to write up and say "the specimen is tame 1" How nice ! No, no. I'll not be frightened into their lording it over me ! I know a better way ! Let Mr. Eobert find out how little I care, and get himself heartily sick of St. WuLstan's, till it is "turn again Whittington indeed !" Poor fellow, I hate it, biit he must be cured of his airs, and have a good fright. Why don't they ask me to go to Paris with them 1 Where can I go, if they don't. To Mary Cranford's? Stupid place, but I wifl show that I'm not so hard up as to have no jilace but the Holt to go to ! If it were only ])ossible to stay with Mr. Prenderjiast, it would be best of all ! Can't I tell him to catch a chaperon for me 1 Then he would think Honor a regular dragon, which would be a .shame, for it was nobody's fiuit but his ! I shall tell him I'm like the Christian religion, for which people are always making apologies that it doesn't want ! Two years ! Patience ! It will be very good for Kobin, and four-aud- twenty is quite soon enough to bite off HOPES AND FEARS. 265 one's wings, and found an ant-hill. As to being bullied into being kissed, pitied, pardoned, and trained by Honoi", I'll never sink so low ! No, at no price.' Poor Mr. Prendergast ! Did over a more innocent miscliief- niaker exist ? Poor Honora ! Little did she guess that the letter written in such love, such sympathy, such longing hope, would only excite fierce rebellion. Yet it was at the words of Moses that the king's heart was hardened ; and what was the end ? He was taken at his word. * Tliou shalt see my face no more.' To be asked to join the party on their tour had become Lucilla's prime desire, if only that she might not feel neglected, or driven back to Hiltonbury by absolute necessity ; and when the husband and wife came down, the wish was uppermost in her mind. Eloi'sa remarked on her quiet style of dress, and observed that it would be quite the thing in Paris, where people were so much less outre than here. ' I have nothing to do with Paris.' * Oh 1 surely you go with us !' said Elo'isa ; ' I like to take you out, because you are in so different a style of beauty, and you talk and save one trouble ! Will not she go, Charles ?' ' You see, Lolly wants you for effect !' he said, sneeringly. ' But you are always welcome, Cilly ; we are wofully slow when you aint there to keep us going, and I should like to show you a thing or two. I only did not ask you, because I tliought you had not hit it off with Rashe, or have you made it up V ' Oh ! Piashe and I understand each other,' said Cilly, secure that though she would never treat Rashe with her former con- fidence, yet as long as they travelled en grand seigneicr, there was no fear of collisions of temper. ' Rashe is a good creature,' said Lolly, ' but she is so fast and so eccentric that I like to have you, Cilly ; you look so much younger, and more ladylike' ' One thing more,' said Charles, in his character of head of the family; 'shouldn't you look up Miss Charlecote, Cilly? There's Owen straining the leash pretty hard, and you must look about you, that she does not take up with these new pets of hei's and cheat you.' ' The Fnlmortsi Stuff! They have more already than they know what to do with.' ' The very reason she will leave them the more. I declare Cilly,' he added, half in jest, half in earnest, 'the only secm-ity 2G6 HOPES AND FEARS. for you and Owen is in a doiiVile marriage. Perhaps she projects it. You fire up as if she had !' 'If she had, do you think that 1 should go back?' said Cilly, trying to answer liglitl}'-, though her clieeks were in a flame. * No, no, I am not going to let slip a chance of Paris.' She stopped short, dismayed at having committed herself, and Horatiacoming down, was told by acclamation that Cilly was going. ' Of course she is,' said forgiving and foi'getting Pashe. * Little Cilly left behind, to serve for food to the Rouge Dragon 1 No, no ! I should have no fun in life without her.' Rashe forgot the past far more easily than Cilia could ever do. There was a certain guilty delight in writing — ' My dear Honor, — Many thanks for your letter, and in- tended kindnesses. The scene must, however, be deferred, as my cousins mean to winter at Paris, and I can't resist the chance of hooking a Marshal, or a Prince or two. Rashe's strain was a great sell, but we had capital fu i, and shall hope for more success another season. I would send you my diary if it were written out fair. We go so soon that I can't run up to London, so I hope no one will be disturbed on my account. ' Your aSectionate Cilly.' No need to say how often Lucilla would have liked to have recalled that note for addition or diminution, how many mis- givings she suffered on her peculiar mode of catching Robins, how frequent were her disgusts with her cousin, and how often she felt like a captive — the captive of her own self-will. ' That's right !' said Horatia to Lolly. ' I was mortally afraid she would stay at home to fall a prey to the inci]uent parson, but now he is choked off, and Calthorp is really iu earnest, we shall have the dear little morsel doing well yet.* CHAPTER X. O ye, who never knew the joya Of frk'tidship, satisfied with noisG, Fandango, ball, and rout, Blush, when I tell you how a bird A ])ri»ject, but Honora went about all day with a soft, tardy step, and subdued voice, like one who has stood beside a death-bed. When Phoebe heard those stricken tones striving to be cheerful, she could not find pardon for the wrong tliat had not been done to herself. She dreaded telling Robert that no one was coming whom he need avoid, though without dwelling on the tone of the refusal. To her surj^rise, he heard her short, matter-of-fact communication without any token of anger or of grief, made no remark, and if he changed countenance at all, it was to put on an air of gloomy satisfaction, as though another weight even 268 HOPES AND FEARS. ill tlio most undesirable scale were preferable to any remnant of balancing, and compunction for possible injustice were re- moved. Could Lucilla but have seen that face, she would have doubted of her means of reducing him to obedience. The course he had adopted might indeed be the more excel- lent way in the end, but at present even his self-devotion was not in such a spirit as to afford much consolation to Honor. If good were to arise out of sorrow, the painful seed-time was not yet over. His looks were stern even to harshness, and his uuhappiuess seemed disposed to vent itself in doing his work after his own fashion, brooking no interference. He had taken a lodging over a baker's shop at Turnagaiu Corner. Honor thought it fair for the locality, and knew something of the people, but to Phojbe it was horror and dismay. The two small rooms, the painted cupboard, the cut paper in the grate, the pictures in yellow gauze, with tiie flies walking about on them, the round mirror, the pattern of tiie carpet, and the close, narrow street, struck her as absolutely shocking, and she came to Miss Charlecote with tears in her eyes, to entreat her to remonstrate, and tell Kobin it was his duty to live like a gentleman. ' My dear,' said Honor, rather shocked at a speech so like the ordinary Fulmort mind, ' I have no fears of Robert not living like a gentleman.' ' I know — not in the real sense,' said Phoebe, blushing, ' but Burely he ought not to live in this dismal poky place, with such mean furniture, when he can afford better.' ' I am afraid the parish affords few better lodgings, Phoebe, and it is his duty to live where his work lies. You appreciated liis self-denial, I thought ] Do you not like him to make a eacrifice V ' I ought,' sai.l Phoebe, her mind taking little pleasure in tho.se acts of self-devotion that were the delight of her friend. • If it be his duty, it cannot be helped, but I cannot be happy at leaving him to V)e uncomfortable — perhaps ill.' Coming down from the romance of martyrdom which had made her expect Pha3l)e to be as willing to see her brother bear luu-dships in the London streets, as she had herself been to dismiss Owen the first to his wigwam, Honor took the more li-omely view of arguing on the health and quietness of Turu- ag.iiu Corner, the excellence of the landlady, and the fact that lier own cockney eyes had far less unreiusonable expectations than those trained to the luxuries of Beauchamp. But by far the most eiiicient solace was au expedition for the purchase of HOPES AND FEARS. 269 various amenities of life, on which Phcebe expended the last of her father's gift. The next morning was spent in great secresy at the lodgings, where Phcebe was so notable and joyous in her labours, that Honor drew the conclusion that housewifery was her true element ; and science, art, and literature only acquired, because they had been made her duties, reckoning all the more on the chai-miug order that would rule in Owen Saudbrook's parsonage. All troubles and disappointments had faded from the young girl's mind, as she gazed round exulting on the sacred prints on the walls, the delicate statuettes, and well-tilled spill-holder and match-box on the mantelshelf, the solid inkstand and appurtenances upon the handsome table-cover, the comfortable easy-chair, and the book-cases, whose contents had been reduced to order due, and knew that the bedroom bore equal testimony to her skill ; while the good landlady gazed in admiration, acknowledging that she hardly knew her own rooms, and pro- mising with all her heait to take care of her lodger. Alas ! when, on the way to the station. Honor and Phcebe made an unexpected raid to bring some last improvements, Robert was detected in the act of undoing theii' work, and denuding his room of even its original luxuries. Phoebe spoke not, but her face showed her discomfiture, and Honora attacked him openly. ' I never meant you to know it,' he said, looking rather foolish, ' Then to iiigi^atitude you added ticachery.' 'It is not that I do not feel your kindness ' * But you are determined not to feel it !' ' No, no ! only, this is no position for mere luxuries. My fellow-curates ' ' Will use such conveniences of life as come to them naturally,' said Honor, who had lived long enough to be afraid of the freaka of asceticism. 'Hear me, Robert. You are not wise in thrusting aside all that brings home to you your little sister's love. You think it cannot be forgottten, but it is not well to cast away these daily memorials. I know you have much to make you severe — nay, morose — but if you become so, you will never do your work efficiently. You may repe], but never invite ; frighten, but not soothe.' ' You want me to think my efficiency dependent on arm- chairs and table-covers.' 'I know you will be harder to all for living in needless discomfort, and that you will be gentler to all for constantly meeting tokens of your sister's affection. Had you sought 270 - HOPES AND FEARS. these comforts for yourself, the case would he different ; but, Kobert, candidly, which of you is the self-pleasing, which the tnoi'tified one, at this moment ]' Robert could not but look convicted as his eyes fell on the innocent face, with the tears just kept back by strong effort, and the strugglinjj smile of ])ardon. ' Never mind, Robin,' said Phoebe, as she saw his air of vexa- tion ; * 1 know you never meant unkindness. Do as you think right, only pray think of what Miss Charlecote says.' ' She has one thing more to say,' added Honor. ' Do you think that throwing aside Phoebe'ss little services will make you fitter to go among the little children V There was no answer, but a reluctant approach to a smile gave Plicebe courage to effect her restorations, and her whispered ' You will not disturb them V met with an affirmative satis- factory to herself Perha]is he felt as of old, when the lady of the Holt had struck liiin for his cruelty to the mouse, or expelled him for his biid language. The same temper remained, although self- revenge had become the only outlet. He knew what it was that he had taken for devoted self-denial. ' Yes, Robin,' were Miss Clmrlecote's parting words, as she went back to days of her own long past. ' Wilful doing right seldom tends to good, above all when it begins by exaggeration of duty.' And Robert was left with thoughts such as perchance might i-ender him a more tractable subordinate for IMr. Parsons, instead of getting into training for the Order of St. Dominic. Phoebe had to return less joyfnlly than she had gone foi'th. Her first bright st;ir of anticijiatiou had faded, and she had partaken deeply of the griefs of the two whom she loved so well. Not only had she to leave the one to his gloomy lodgings in the City, and the toil that was to deaden suffering, but the other must be parted with at the station, to return to the lonely house, where not even old Pouto would meet her — his last hour having, to every one's grief come in her absence. Phoelje could not bear the thought of that solitary return, and even at the ])eril of great disappointment to her sisters, begged to sleep that first night at the Holt, but Honor thanked her, and laughed it off. ' No, no ! my dear, I am used to be alone, and depend ni)Oii it, there will he such an arrear of farm business for me, that I shf)uld hardly have time to speak to you. Yfiu need not be uneasy for me, dear one, there is always relief in having a great deal to do, and I shall know you are HOPES AND FEARS. 271 near, to come if I want you. There's a great deal iu that knowledge, Phcebe,' * If I were of any use * ' Yes, Phoebe, this viait has made you my friend instead of my playfellow.' Phoebe's deepening colour showed her intense gratification. * And there are the Sundays,' a hokling filial insolence and undutifulness, were the mildest of his threats. They seemed to imagine that Robert was making this outlay, sui»posing that he would yet be made equal in foi-tune by his father to the others, and there was constant repetition that he was to expect not a farthing — he bad had his share and should have no more. There was only a scoff at Phoebe's in- nocence, when she expressed her certainty that he looked for no compensation, knowing that he had been provided for, and was to liave notliing from his fiither ; and Phoebe trembled under such abuse of her favourite brother, till she could bear it no longer, and seizing the moment of Mervyn's absence, she came up to her father, and said, in as coaxing a tone as she could, 'Papa, should not every one work to the utmost in his trade 1' ' What of that, little one V 'Then pray don't be angry with Robert for acting up to his,' said Phoebe, clasping her hands, and resting them fondly on his shoulder, ' Act up to a fool's head ! Parsons should mind their business and not fly in their fathers' faces.' ' Isn't it their work to make people more good V continued Phoebe, with an unconsciousness wiliness, looking more simple than her wont. 'Let him begin with himself then ! Learn his duty to his father ! A jackanapes ; trying to damage my business under my very nose.' ' If those poor people are in such need of having good done to them ' ' Scum of the earth ! INIuch use trying to do good to them f ' Ah ! but if it be his work to try 1 and if he wanted a place to build a school ' ' You're in league with him, I suppose.' ' No, pai)a ! It surprised me very much. Even Mr. Parsons knew nothing of his plans. Robert only wrote to me wlien it was done, tliat now he hoped to save a few of the children that are turned out in the streets to steal.' 'Steal! They'll steal all his property! A proper fool your uncle was to leave it all to a lad like that. Tlie sure way to spoil him ! I could have trebled all your fortunes it that ca])ital had been in my hands, and now to see him tlirow it to the dogs ! Phoebe, I can't stand it. Conscience 1 I liato such coxcombry! As if men would not make beasts of themselves whetlier his woi'ship were in tlie busiriess or not.' ' Yes !' ventured, Phoebe, ' but at least he has no part in their ioing .so.' HOPES AND FEARS. 279 * Much you know about it,' said her father, again shielding himself with his newsjxiper, but so much less angrily than she liad dared to expect, that even Aphile flushed and trembling, she telt grateful to him as more placable than Mervyu. Slie knew not the power of her own sweet face and gently honest manner, nor of the novelty of an attentive daughter. When the neiglibours remarked on Mrs. Fulmort's improved looks and spirits, and wondered whether they were the effect of the Rhine or of 'getting off" her eldest daughter, they knew not liow many fewer dull hours she had to spend. Phoebe visited lier in her bedroom, talked at luucheon, amused her drives, coaxed her into the garden, read to her wlien she rested before dinner, and sang to her afterwards. Phcebe likewise brought her sister's attainments more into notice, though at the expense of Bertha's contempt for mamma's preference for Maria's staring fuchsias and feeble singing, above her own bold chalks from models and scientific music, and indignation at Phoebe's con- stantly bringing Maria forward rather than her own clever .self. Droning narrative, long drawn out, had as mucli charm for Mrs. Fulmort as for Maria. If she did not always listen, she liked the voice, and she sometimes awoke into descriptions of the dresses, parties, and acquaintance of her youth, before trifling had sunk into dreary insipidity under tlie weight of too much wealth, too little health, and ' nothing to do.' ' My dear,' she said, ' I am glad you are not out. Quiet even- ings are so good for my nerves ; but you are a fine girl, and will soon want society.' 'Not at all, mamma ; I like being at home with you.' 'No, my dear ! I shall like to take you out and see you dressed. You must have advantages, or how are you to marry V ' There's no hurry,' said Phoebe, smiling. * Yes, my dear, girls always get soured if they do not marry 1' * Not Miss Charlecote, mamma.' ' Ah ! but Houor Charlecote was an heiress, and could have had plenty of ofiPers. Don't talk of not marrying, Phoebe, I beg.' ' No,' said Phoelie, gravely. ' I should like to marry some one very good and wise, who could help me out of all my difl[i- culties.' ' Bless me, Phoebe ! I hope you did not meet any poor curate at that place of Honor Cliariecote's. Your papa would never consent.' ' I never met anybody, raamrna,' s^iid Phoebe, smiling. ' I was only thinking what lie should be like.' 2S0 HOPES AND FEARS. 'Well, -what?' said Mrs. Fulraorfc, with girlish curiositv. 'Not that it's any use settling. 1 always thought I would mai-ry a marquis's younger son, because it is such a })retty title, and tiiat lie should play on the guitar. But he must not be aa officer, Phcebe ; we have had trouble enough about that.' ' 1 don t know what he is to be, mamma,' said Phoebe, earnestly, ' except that he should be as sensible as INIiss Fennimore, and as good as Miss Charlecote. Perhajis a man could put both into one, and then he could lead me, and always show me the reason of what is right.' ' Phoebe, Piioebe ! you will never get married if you wait for a ])hilos()pher. Your papa would never like a very clever geniu< or an author.' ' I don't want him to be a genius, but he must be wise.' ' Oh, my dear ! That comes of the way young ladies are brought up. What would the INIiss Berrilees have said, where I was at school at Bath, if one of their young ladies had talked of wanting to m-arry a wise man V Phcebe gave a faint smile, and said, ' What was ]\Ir. Charle- cote like, mamma, whose brass was put up the day Kobert was locked into the church V ' Humfrey Charlecote, my dear 1 The dearest, most good- hearted man that ever lived. Everborly liked him. There was no one that did not feel as if they had lost a brother when he was taken off in that sudden way.' 'And was not he very wise, mamma]' ' Bless me, Phcebe, what could have put that into your head ? Humfrey Charlecote a wise man 1 He was just a conmion old- tashioned, hearty country squire. It was only that he was so friendly aTid kind-hearted that made every one trust him, and ask his advice.* ' I should like to have known him,' said Phoebe, with a sigh. * Ah, if you married any one like that ! But there's no use waiting ! There's nobody left like him, and I wont have you an old maid 1 You are prettier than either of your sisters — more like me when I came away from Miss Berrilees, and had a gold-sprigged muslin for the Assize Ball, and Humfrey Charle- cote danced with me.' Phoebe fell into speculations on the wisdom whose counsel all asked, and which had left such an impression of affectionate honour. She would gladly lean on such an one, but if no one of the like mould remained, she thought she could never bear the responsibilities of marriage. !M cant! me she erected Humfrey Charlecote's image into a species of judge, laying before this vision of a wise mau all HOPES AND FEARS. 281 lier ]ierplexities between Miss Charlecote's religion and Miss Feunimore's reason, and all her practical doubts between Robert's conflicting duties. Strangely enough, the question, ' What would Mr. Charlecote have thought V often aided her to cast the balance. Though it was still Phoebe who decided, it was Phoel)e drawn out of herself, and strengthened by her mask. With vivid interest, such as for a living man would have amounted to love, she seized and hoarded each particle of in- telligence that she could gain res[)ecting the object of her ad- miration. Honora herself, though far more naturally enthusiastic, had, with her dreamy nature and dift\ised raptures, never been capable of thus reverencing him, nor of the intensity of feel- ing of one whose restrained imagination and unromantic educa- tion gave force to all her sensations. Yet this deep individual regard was a more wholesome tribute th;in Honor had ever paid to him, or to her other idol, for to Phoebe it was a step, lifting her to things above and beyond, a guide on the road, never a vision obscuring the true object. Six weeks had quietly passed, when, like a domestic thunder- bolt, came Juliana's notification of her intention to return home at the end of a week. Mrs. Fulmort, clinging to her single thread of comfort, hoped that Phoebe might still be allowed to come to her boudoir, but the gentlemen more boldly declared that they wanted Phcebe, and would not have her driven back into the school-room ; to which the mother only replied with fears that Juliana would be in a dreadful temper, whereon IMervyn responded, ' Let her ! Never mind her, Phoebe. Stick up for yourself, and we'll put her down.' Except for knowing that she was useful to her mother, Phcebe would have thankfully retired into the west wing, rather than have given umbrage. Mervyn's partisanship was jiarticularly alarming, and, endeavour as she might to hope that Juliana would be amiable enough to be disarmed by her own humility and unobtrusivencss, she lived under the impression of disagree- ables impending. One morning at breakfast, Mr. Fulmort, after grumbling out his wonder at Juliana's writing to him, suddenly changed his tone into, *' Hollo ! what's this ? 'My engagement' ' ' By Jove !' shouted Mervyn ; * too good to be true. So she's done it. 1 didn't think he'd been such an ass, having had one escape .' ' Who V continued Mr. Fulmort, puzzling, as he held the letter fai- off — ' engagement to dear — dear Devil, does she say V ' The only fit match,' muttered Mervyn, laughing. ' No, no, sir ! Bevil— Sir Bevil Acton.' 282 I10PE3 AND FEARS. ' What ! not the fellow that gave us so mucli trouble ! He had not a sixpence ; but she must please herself now.' ' You^ don't mean that you didn't know what she went with the Meri vales for 1 — five thousand a year and a baronetcy, eh V ' The deuce ! If I had known that, he might have had her long ago.' ' It's quite recent,' said Mervyn. * A mere chance ; and he has been knocking about in the colonies these ten years — might have cut his wisdom teeth.' ' Ten years — not half a dozen !' said Mr. Fulmort. * Ten !' reiterated Mervyn. ' It was just before I went to old Raymond's. Acton took me to dine at the mess. He was a nice fellow then, and deserved better luck.' ' Ten years' constancy !' said Phcebe, who had been looking from one to the other in wonder, trying to collect iutelligeuce. « Do tell me.' 'Whew !' whistled Mervyn. 'Juliana hadn't her sharp nose nor her shai'p tongue when first she came out. Acton was quar- tered at Elverslope, and got smitten. She flirted with him all the winter ; but I fancy slie didn't give you much trouble when he came to the point, eh, sir V ' I thought him an impudent young dog for thinking of a girl of her prospects ; but if lie had this to look to ! — I was sorry lor him, too ! Ten years ago,' mused Mr. Fulmort. ' And she has liked no one since V ' Or no one has liked her, which comes to the same,' said Mervyn. ' The regiment went to the Cape, and there was an end of it, till we fell in with the Merivales on board the steamer ; and they mentioned their neighbour. Sir Bevil Acton, come into his pro[)erty, and been settled near them a year or two. Fine sport it was, to see Juliana angling for an invitation, brushing up her friendship with IMinuie Merivale — amiable to the last degree 1 My stars ! what work she must have had to play good temper all these six weeks, and how we shall have to pay ior it !' ' Or Acton will,' said Mr. Fulmort, with a hearty chuckle of triumi)hant good humour. Was it a misfortune to Phcebe to have been so much refined by education as to be grated on by the vulgar tone of tliose nearest to her ? It was well for her that she coulil still put it aside as their way, even while following her own instinct. INIervyn and Juliana had been on cat and dog terms all their lives ; he was certain to sneer at all that concerned her, and Phoebe reserved her belief that an attachment, nipped in the bud, was ready to blossom in sunshine. She ran up with tho news to her mother. HOPES AND FEARS. 2S3 'Juliana going to be married ! Well, my dear, you may be introduced at once ! How comfortable you and I shall be in the little brougham.' Phoebe becired to be told what the intended was like. * Let me see — was he the one that won the steeple-chase ? No ; that was the one that Augusta liked. We knew so many young men, that I could never tell which was which ; and your sisters were always talking about them till it quite ran through my poor head, such merry girls as they were !' ' And poor Juliana never was so merry after he was gone.' * I don't remember,' rej)lied this careful mother ; ' but you know she never coulil have meant anything, for he had nothing, and you with your fortunes are a match for anybody ! Phoebe, my dear, we must go to London next spring, and you shall marry a nobleman. I must see you a titled lady as well as your sisters.' 'I've no objection, provided he is my wise man,' said Phoebe. Juliana had found the means of making herself welcome, and her marriafre a cause of unmixed iuldlation in her familv. Prosperity made her affable, and instead of suppressing Phoebe, she made her useful, and treated her as a confidante, telling her of all the previous intimacy, and all the secret sufferings in dear Bevil's absence, but passing lightly over the last happy meeting, which Phoebe respected as too sacred to be talked of The little maiden's hopes of a perfect brother in the constant knight rose high, and his api)earance and demeanour did not disappoint them. He had a fine soldierly figure, and that air of a thorough gentleman which Phoebe's Holt experience had taught her to appreciate ; his manners were peculiarly gentle and kind, especially to Mrs. Fulmort ; and Phoebe did not like him the less for sli owing traces of the effects of wounds and climate, and a grave, subdued air, almost amounting to melancholy. But before he had been three days at Beauchamp, Julinna made a virulent attack on the privileges of her younger sisters. Perhaps it was the consequence of poor ]\Iaria's volunteer to Sir Bevil — 'I am glad Juliana is going with you, for now no one will be cross to me ;' but it seemed to verify the poor girl's words, that she should be hunted like a strange cat if she were found beyond her own precincts, and that the other two should be treated much in the same manner. Bertha stood up for her rights, declaring that what mamma and Miss Fennimore allowed, she would not give up for Juliana ; but the only result was an admonition to the governess, and a fierce remonstrance to the poor meek mother. Phoebe, who 284 HOPES AND FEARS. only wished to retire from the stage iu peace, had a more difficult part to play. 'Wliat's the matter now?' demanded Mervyn, making hia •way up to her as she sat in a remote corner of the drawiug- room, iu the evening. ' Why were you not at dinner?' ' Tliei'e was no room, I believe.' ' Nonsense ! our table dines eight and-twenty, and there were not twenty.' ' That was a large party, and you know T am not out.' ' You don't look like it in that long-sleeved white affair, and nothing on your head either. Where are those ivy-lives you hud yesterday — real, weren't they V ' They were not liked.' ' Mot liked ! they were the prettiest things I have seen for a long time. Acton said they made you look like a nymph— the green suits that shiny light hair of yours, and makes you like a picture.' ' Yes, they made me look forward and affected.' ' Now wlio told you that 1 Has the Fennimore got to her old tricks T ' Oh no, no !' ' 1 see ! a jealous toad ! I heard him telling her that you reminded him of her in old times. The spiteful vixen ! Well, Phoebe, if you cut her cut, I bargain for board and lodging at Acton Manor. This will be no place for a quiet, meek soul like me !' Phcebe tried to laugh, but looked distressed, uncomprehending, and far from wishing to comprehend. She could not escape, tor Mervyn had penned her up, and went on. ' You don't j^retend that you don't see how it is ! That unlucky fellow is heartily sick of his bargain, but you see he was too soft to withstand lier throwing herself riglit at his head, and doing the " worm in the bud," and the cruel father, green and yellow melancholy, &c., ever since they were inhumanly parted.' ' For shame, Mervyn. You don't really believe it is all out of honour.' ' I should never have believed a man of his years could be so green ; but some men get crotchets about honour in the army, especially if they get elderly there.' 'It is very noble, if it be right, and he can take those vows from his heart,' moralized Plioebe. 'But no, Mervyn, she cannot think so. No woman could take any one on such terms.' ' Won hi n't she, though?' sneered her brother. 'She'd have him, if grim death were hanging on to his other hand. People aren't jiuiicular, when they are nigh upon their third ten.' nOPES AND FEARS. 28-5 * Don't tell me such things ! I don't believe them ; but they oiii,lit never to be suggested.' ' You ought to thank nie for teaching you knowledge of the woi-ld.' He was called off*, but heavy at her heart lay the text, * The kiiOwledge of wickedness is not wisdom.' Mervyii's confidences were serious troubles to Pliosbe. Grati- fying as it was to be singled out by his favour, it was distressing to be the repository of what she knew ought never to have been s])oken, prompted by a coarse tone of mind, and couclied in language that, tliough he meant it. to be restrained, sometimes seemed to her like the hoV>gc something in him. I can't judge if he goes about it in a wrong- headed way, but I should be proud of such a fellow instead of discarding him.' ' Oh, thank you !' cried Phoebe, with ecstasy that made him laugh, and quite diflferently from the made-up laughter she h;id been used to hear from him. ' What are you thanking me for?' he said. ' I do not ima- gine that I shall be able to serve him. I'll talk to your father about him, but he must be the best judge of the discipline of his own family.' ' I was not thinking of your doing anything,' said Phoebe ; * but a kind word about Robert does make me very grateful.' Thei'e was a long silence, only diversified by an astonished nod from Mervvn drivinc; back from the office. Just before setting her down. Sir Bevil said, ' I wonder whether your brother would let us give something to his church. Will you find out what it shall be, and let me know? As a gift from Juliana and my.self — you understand.' It was lucky for Phoebe that she had brought home a good stock of satisfaction to support her, for she found herself in the direst disgrace, and her mother too much cowed to venture on more than a feeble self-defensive murmur that she had told Phoebe it would never do. Convinced in her own conscience that she had done nothing blameworthy, Phcebe knew that it "was the shortest way not to defend herself, and the storm was blowing over when Mervyn came in, charmed to mortify Juliana by compliments to Phoebe on 'doing it stylishly, careering in Acton's turn-out,' but when the elder sister ex])lained whero Bhc had been, Mervyn, too, deserted her, and turned away with HOPES AND FEAllS. 2'Ji a fierce imprecation on his brother, such as was misery to Phoebe's ears. He was sourly ill-humoui'ed all the evening ; Juliana wreaked her displeasure on Sir Bevil in ungraciousness, till such silence and gloom descended on him, that he was like another man from him who had smiled on Phoebe in the after- noon. Yet, though dismayed at the oifence she had given, and grieved at these evidences of Robert's ill-odour with his family, Phoebe could not regret having seized her single* chance of seeing Robert's dwelling for herself, nor the having made him known to Sir Bevil. The one had made her satisfied, the other hopeful, even wliile she recollected, with foi-eboding, that truth sometimes comes not with peace, but with a sword, to set at variance parent and child, and make foes of them of the same household. Juliana never forgave that drive. She continued bitter to- wards Phoebe, and kept such a watch over her and Sir Bevil, that the jealous surveillance became palpable to both. Sir Bevil really wanted to tell Phoebe the unsatisfactory result o? his pleading for Robert; she wanted to tell him of Robert's gratitude for his oftered gift ; but the exchange of any words in private was out of their power, and eacli silently felt that it was best to make no move towards one anuther till the un- worthy jealousy should have died away. Though Sir Bevil had elicited nothing but abuse of 'pig- headed folly,' his espousal of the young clei'gy man's cause was not without effect. Robert was not treated with more open disfavour than he had often previously endured, and was free to visit the party at Parrance's, if he chose to run the risk of encountering his father's blunt coldness, Mervyn's sulky dislike, and Juliana's sharp satire, but as he generally came so as to find his mother and Phoebe alone, some precious moments com- pensated for the various disagreeables. Nor did these affect hirn nearly as much as they did his sister. It was, in fact, ono of his remaining unwholesome symptoms that he rather enjoyeil pei'secution, antl took no pains to avoid giving offence. If he meant to be uncompromising, lie sometimes was simply pro- voking, and Phoebe feared that Sir Bevil thought him an un- promising protege. He was asked to the Christmas dinner at the Bannerman's, and did not fulfil Augusta's prediction that he would say it was a fast day, and refuse. That evening gave Phoebe her best tete-a-tete with him, but she observed that all was about Wliit- tingtonia, not one word of the past summer, not so much as an inquiry for Miss Charlecote. Evidently that page in his hi&- u 2 292 HOPES AND FEARS. toty was closed for ever, and if he should carry out his design i in their pi'esent form, a wife at the intended institution would be an impossibility. TTow near the dearest may be to one another, and yet how little can they guess at what they would most desire to know Sir Bevil had insisted on his being asked to perform the ceremony, and she longed to understand whether his refusal wei'e really on the score of his being a deacon, or if he had any further motive. His own family were aftVonted, though glad to be left free to request the services of the greatest dignitary of their acquaintance, and Sir Bevil's blunt ' No, no, poor fellow ! say no more about it,' made her sujipose that he sus- pected that Robert's vehemence in his jmiish was meant to work off a disappointment. It was a dreary wedding, in spite of London grandeur. In all her success, Juliana could not help looking pinched and ill at ease, her wreath and veil hardening instead of softening her features, and lier bridesfroom's studious clieei'fulness and forced lauo;hs became him less than his usual silent dejection. The Admiral was useful in getting up stock wedding-wit, but Phcebe wondered how any one could laugh at it ; and her fellow-bridesmaids, all her seniors, seemed to her, as perhaps she might to them, like thoughtless children, playing with the surface of things. She pitied Sir Bevil, and saw little chance of happiness for either, yet heard only congratulations, and had to be bright, busy, and helpful, under a broad, stiff, white watered silk scarf, beneath which Juliana had endeavoui-ed to extinguish her, but in which her tall rounded shape looked to great advantage. Indeed, that young rosy face, and the innocently pensive wondering eyes were so sweet, that the bride had to endure hearing admiration of her sister from all quarters, and the Actou bridemaidens whispered rather like those at ISTetherby Hall. It was over, and Phoebe was the reioning INIiss Fulmort. ITer fiieuds were delighted for her and for Ihomsolves, and her mother entered on the full enjoyment of the little brougham. HOPES AND FEARS. 293 CHAPTER XL When some dear scheme Of our life doth seem Shivered at once like a broken dream ; And our hearts to reel Like ships that feel A sharp rock grating against their keel. — C. F. A. IT was high summer ; and in spite of cholera-averting tliimdcr- storms, the ckise streets, and the odour of the Thames were becoming insufferable, Mr. Parsons arranged a series of breath- ing times for his clerical staff, but could make Robert Fulmort accept none. He was strong and healthy, ravenous of work, impervious to disgusts, and rejected holidays as burden-:ome and hateful. Wliere should he go 1 What could he do 1 What would become of his wild scholars without him, and who would superintend his buildings ? Mr. Parsons was fuin to let him have his own way, as had liappeiied in some previous instances, specially the edifice in Cicely Row, where the incumbent would have paused, but the curate rushed on with resolute zeal and impetuosity, taking measures so decidedly ere his intentions were revealed, that neither remonstrance nor prevention were easy, and a species of annoyed, doubtful admiration alone was possible. It was sometimes a gratifying reflection to the vicar, that when the buildings were finished, Whittingtonia would become a dis- tx'ict, and its busy curate be no longer under his jurisdiction. Meantime Robert was left with a companion in jiriest's orders, but newer to tlie parish than himself, to conduct the services at St. Wulstan's, while the other curates were taking holiday, and the vicar at his son's country-house. To see how contentedly, nay, pleasiirably, ' Fulmort' endured perpetual broiling, passing from frying school to grilling pavement, and seething human hive, w^as constant edification to his colleague, who, fresh from the calm univei'sity, felt such a life to be a slow martyrdom, and wished his liking for the deacon were in better proportion to his esteem. ' A child to be baptized at 8, Little Whittington-sti-eet,' he said, with resigned despair, as at the vestry door he received a message from a small maid, one afternoon, when the air looked kicid yellow with sultiy fire. I'll go,' replied Robert, with the alacrity that sometimes al- mott irritated his fellows ; and off he sped, with alert steps. 29 i HOPES AND FEARS. at which liis friend gazetl with the sensation of watching u sahmiander. Little Whittington-street, whei'e it was not warehouses, was chiefly occupied by small tradesfolk, or by lodging-houses for the numerous 'young men' employed in the City. It was one of the most respectable parts of that quarter, but being much given to dissent, was little frequented by the clergy, who had ■t-oo much immorality to contend with, to have leisure to speak against schism. When he rang at No. 8, the little maid ushered him down a narrow, dark staircase, and announcing, ' Please, ma'am, here's tlie minister,' admitted him into a small room, feeling like a cellar, the window opening into an ai'ea. It was crowded with gay and substantial furniture, and contained two women, one lying on a couch, partially hidden by a screen, the other an elderly pei\son, in a widcnv's cap, with an infant in her arms. 'Good morning, sir ; we were soiTy to trouble you, but I felt certain, as I told my daughter, tliat a minister of the Gospel would not tarry in time of need. Not that I put my trust in ordinances, sir; I have been blest with the enlightenment of the new birth, but my dangliter, sir, she follows the Church. Yes, sir, the poor little lamb is a sad suff"erer in this vale of tears. So wasted away, you see ; you would not think he was nine weeks old. We would have brought him to church before, sir, only my daughter's hillness, and her 'usband's habsence. It was always her wish, sir, and I was not against it, for many ti-ue Christians have found grace in the Church, sir.' Robert considered whether to address himself to the young mother, whose averted face and uneasy movements seemed to sliow that this stream of words was distressing to her. He thought silence would be best procui-ed by his assumption of his office, and quietly made his preparations, opened his book, and took his place. The young woman, raising herself with difficulty, said in alow sweet voice, ' The gentleman is ready, mothei'.' As there was no pressing danger, he read the previous collects, the elder female responding with devout groans, the younger sinking on her knees, her face hidden in her wasted hands. He took the little feeble being in his arms, and de- manded the name. ' Hoeing Cliartei'house,' rej)lied the grandmother. He looked interrogative, and Hoeing Charterhouse was re- peated. 'Owen Charteris,' said the low, sweet voice. A thrill shot over his whole frame, as his look met a large, HOPES AND FEARS, 295 full, liquid pair of dark eyes, such as once seen could never be; forgotten, though dropped again instantly, while a burning blush iirose, instantly veiled by the hands, which hid all up to the dark haii*. Recalling himself by an efTort, he repeated the too familiar name, and baptized the child, bending his head over it afterwards in deep compassion and mental entreaty both for its welfare, and his own guidance in the tissue of wrongdoing thus disclosed. A hasty, stealthy glance at the hands covering the mother's face, showed him the ring on her fourth finger, and as they rose from their knees, he said, ' I am to register this child as Owen Charteris Sandbrook.' With a look of deadly terror, she faintly exclaimed, 'I have done it ! You know him, sir ; you will not betray him !' * I know you, too,' said Robert, sternly. ' You were the schoolmistress at Wrapworth !' ' I was, sir. It was all my fault. Oh ! promise me, sir, never to betray him ; it would be the ruin of his prospects for ever !' And she came towards him, her hands clasped in entreaty, her large eyes shining with feverish lustre, her face wasted but still lovely, a piteous contrast to the queenly being of a year ago in her pretty schoolroom. ' Compose yourself,' said Robert, gravely ; * T hope never to V^tray any one, I confess that I am shocked, but I will en- deavour to act rightly.' ' I am sure, sir,' broke in Mrs. Murrell, with double volume, after her interval of quiescence, 'it is not to be expected but what a gentleman's friends would be oflfeuded. It was none of my wish, sir, being that I never knew a word of it till she was married, and it was too late, or I would have warned her against broken cisterns. But as for her, sir, she is as innocent as a miserable sinner can be in a fallen world. It was the young gentleman as sought her out. I always misdoubted the ladios noticing her, and making her take part with men-singers and women-singers, and such vanities as is pleasing to the unre- generate heart. Ah ! sir, without grace, where are we 1 Not that he was ever other than most honourable with her, or she would never have listened to him not for a moment, but she was over-persuaded, sir, and folks said what they hadn't no right to say, and the minister, he was 'ard on her, and so, you see, sir, she took fright and married him out of 'and, trusting to a harm of flesh, and went to Hireland with him. She just writ me a note, which filled my 'art with fear and trembling, a 'r.onymous note, with only Hedna signed to it ; and I waited, with failing eyes and sorrow of heai't, till one day in autumn he 296 HOPES AND FEARS. brings her back to me, and here she lias been ever since, dvvining away in a nervous fever, as the doctors call it, as its a misery to see her, and he never coming nigh her.' ' Once,' murmured Edna, who had sevei'al times tried to in- teiTiipt. ' Once, ay, for one hour at Christmas.' ' He is known here ; he can't venture often,' interposed the wife ; and there was a further whisper, ' he couldn't stay, he couhhi't hear it.' Ihit the dejected accents were lost in the old woman's voice, — * Now, sir, if you know him or his faniily, I wouldn't bo wishing to do him no hinjury, nor to niinate his prospects, being, as he says, that the rich lady will make him her hare ; but, sir, if you have any power with him as a godly minister or the friend of his youth, may be ' ' He is only waiting till he has a curacy-^a house of his own — mother 1' ' No, Edna, hold your peace. It is not fit that I should see my only child cut down as the grass of the field, and left a bur- then upon me, a lone woman, while he is eating of the fat of the land. I say it is scandalous that he should leave her here, and take no notice; not coming near her since one hour at Chiistmas, and only just sending her a few pounds now and then j not once coming to see his own child !' ' He could not ; he is abroad !' pleaded Edna. 'He tells you he is abroad !' exclaimed Robert. * He went to Paris at Easter. He promised to come when he comes home.' ' You poor thing !' bui'st out Robert. ' He is deceiving you ! He came hack at the end of three weeks. I heard from my sister that she saw him on Sunday.' Robert heartily rued his abruptness, as the poor young wife Bank back in a deadly swoon. The grandmother hurried to api)ly remedies, insisting that the gentleman should not go, and continuini' all the time her version of her dano-hter's wrongs. Her last remnant of patience had vanished on learning this de- ception, and she only wanted to publish her daughter's claims, proceeding to establish them by hastening in soarcli of the mar- riage certificate as soon as Edna had begun to i-evive, but sooner than Robert was satisfied to be left aloue with the inanimate, heli)less form on the couch. He was startled when Edna raised her hand, and strove to speak, — ' Sir, do not tell — do not tell my mother where he is. She must not fret him — she must not tell his friends — he would be angi-y.' HOPES AND FEARS. 29? Slie ceased as liei' mother retiu-ned with the certificate of the niarriago, contracted last July before the registrar of the huge suburban Union to which Wrapworth belonged, the centre of which was so remote, that the pseudo-banns of Owen Charteria Sandbrook and Edna Murrell had attracted no attention. ' It was very wrong,' feebly said Edna ; 'I drew him into it ! I loved him so much ; and they all talked so after I went in tlie boat with him, that I thought my character was gone, and 3 begged him to save me from them. It was my fault, sir ; and I've the punishment. You'll not betray him, sir ; only don't let tliat young lady, your sister, trust to him. Nut yet. My baby and I shall soon be out of her way.' The calm languor of her tone was almost fearful, and even as she spoke a shuddering seized her, making her tremble con- vulsively, her teeth knocking together, and the couch shaking under her. ' You must have instant advice,' cried Eobert. ' I will fetch some one.' 'You wont betray him,' almost shrieked Edna. 'A little while — stay a little while — he will be free of me.' There was delirium in look and voice, and he was compelled to pause and assure her that he was only going for the doctoi-, and would come again before taking any other step. It was not till the medical man had been summoned that his mind recurred to the words about his sister. He might have dismissed them as merely the jealous suspicion of the deserted wife, but that he remembered Lucilla's hint as to an attach- ment between Owen and Phoebe, and he knew that such would liave been most welcome to Miss Charlecote. * My Phoebe, my one bright spot !' was his inward cry, ' must your guileless happiness be quenched ! O, I would rather have it all over again myself than that one pang should come near you, in your sweetness and innocence, the blessing of us all ! And I not near to guard nor warn ! What may not be passing even nowl V npriucipled, hard-hearted deceiver, walking at large among those gentle, unsuspicious Avomen — tradi\ig on their inno- cent trust ! Would that I had disclosed the villany I knew of !' His hand clenched, his brow lowered, and his mouth was set so savagely, that the passing policeman looked in wonder from the dangerous face to the clerical dress. Early next morning he was at No. 8, and learnt that Mrs. Brook, as the maid called her, had been very ill all night, and that the doctor was still with her. Begging to see the doctor, Eobert found that high fever had set in, an aggravation of the low nervous fever that had been consuming her strength 298 HOPES AND FEARS. all the spring, and her condition was already snch that there was little hope of her surviving the present attack. She liad been raving all night about the young lady with whom Mr. Sandbrook had been walking by moonlight, and when the dot)r of the little adjoining bed-room was open, her moans and broken words were plaining audible. Robert asked whether he should fetch her husband, and TMrs. Murrell caught at the ofler. Owen's presence was the single hope of restoring her, and at least he ought to behold the ■wreck that he had wrought. ]\Irs. Murrell gave a terrible thrust by saying, ' that the young lady at least ought to be let know, that she might not be trusting to him.' ' Do not fear, Mrs. Murrell,' he said, almost under his breath, * My only doubt is, whether I can meet Owen Sandbrook as a Christian should.' Cutting off her counsels on the unconverted nature, he strode off to find his colleague, whom he perplexed by a few rapid words on the necessity of going into the country for the day. His impatient condition required vehement action ; and with a sense of hurrying to rescue Phoebe, he could scarcely brook the slightest delay till he was on his way to Hilton- bury, nor till the train spai'ed him all action, could he pause to collect his strength, guard his resentment, or adjust his measures for warning, but not betraying. He could think of no honoui-able mode of dealing, save carrying off Owen to London with him at once, sacrificing the sight of his sister for the present, aTid either writing or going to her afterwards, when the mode of dealing the blow should be more evident. It cost him keen suffering to believe that this was the sole right course, but he had bound himself to it by his promise to the poor suffering wife, blaming himself for continually putting his sister before her in his plans. At Elverslope, on his demand for a fly for Hiltonbury, he was answered that all were engaged for the Horticultural Show in the Forest ; but the people at the station, knowing him well, made willing exertions to procure a vehicle for him, and a taxed cart soon making its ap])earance, he desired to be taken, not to the Holt, but to the Forest, where he had no doubt that he should find the object of his search. 'i'his Horticultural Show was the great gaiety of the year. The .society had originated with Humfrey Charlecote, for the l)enefit of the poor as well as the rich ; and the summer exhi- hition always took place under the trees of a fragment of the <^i1d Forest, which still survived at about five miles from Hilton- bury. Tlie day was a county holiday. The delicate orchid and HOPES AND FEARS. 299 tlie crowned pine were there, with the hairy gooseberry, tlie cabbage and potato, and the homely cottage-garden nosegay from many a woodland hamlet. The young ladies competed in collections of dried flowers for a prize botany book ; and the subscriptions were so arranged that on this festival each poorer member might, with two companions, be provided with a hearty meal ; while grandees and farmers had a luncheon-tent of their own, and regarded the day as a county pic-nic. It was a favourite affair with all, intensely enjoyed, and full of good neighbourhood. Humfrey Charlecote's spirit never seemed to have deserted it ; it was a gathering of distant friends, a delight of children as of the full grown ; and while the young were frantic for its gipsyiug fan, their elders seldom failed to attend, if only in remembrance of poor Mr. Charlecote, ' who had begged one and all not to let it di-op.' Above all, Honora felt it due to Humfrey to have prize- loots and fruits from the Holt, and would have thought herself fallen, indeed, had the hardest rain kept her from the rendezvous, with one wagon carrying the cottagers' articles, and another a troop of school children. No doubt the Forest would be the place to find Owen Sandbrook, but for the rest From the very extremity of his perplexity, Robert's mind sought relief in external objects. So joyous were the associa- tions with the Forest road on a horticultural day, that the familiar spots could not but revive them. Those green glades, where the graceful beeches retreated, making cool green gal- leries with their slender gleaming stems, i-eminded him of his jmtting his new pony to speed to come u]i with the Holt car- riage ; that scathed oak had a tradition of liglitning connected with it ; yonder was the spot where he had shown Lucilla a herd of deer ; here the risiiig ground whence the whole scene could be viewed, and from force of habit he felt exhilarated as he gazed down tlie slojje of heather, where the fine old oaks and beeches, receding, had left an open space, now covered with the well known tents ; there che large one, broadly striped with green, containing the show ; there the white marquees for the eaters ; the union jack's gay colours float'ng lazily from a })ole in the Outlav/s Knoll ; the dark, full fd'age of the forest, and purple tints of the heather setting oif the Ijright female groups in their delicate summer gaieties. Vehicles of all degrees- smart barouche, lengthy britzschka, light gig, dashing pony carriage, rattling shanderadan, and gorgeous wagon — wei-e drawn up in treble file, minus their steeds ; the sounds of well-known tunes from the band were wafted on the wind, and such an air of jocund peace and festivity pervaded the whole, that for a 300 HOPES AND FEARS. moment he had a sense of holiday-making ere he sighed at the shade tliat he was briniring on that scene of merriment. Reaching the barrier, he paid his entrance-money, and de- siring tlie carriage to wait, walked rapidly down the hill. On one side of the road was the gradual sweep of open heath, on the other was a rapid slope, shaded by trees, and covered with fern, growing tall and grand as it approached the inoist ground in the hollow below. Voices made him turn his head in that direction. Aloof from the rest of the throng he beheld two figures half-way down the bank, so nearly hidden among the luxuriant, wing-like fronds of the Osmond royal which they were gathei'ing, that at iirst only their hats were discernible — a broad grey one, with drooping feather, and a light Oxford boating straw hat. The merry ring of the clear girlish voice, the deep-toned replies, told him more than his first glance did ; and with one inward ejaculation for self-command, he turned aside to the descent. The rustling among the copsewood caught the ear of Phcebe, who was the highest up, and, springing up like a fawn in tlie covert, she cried, — ' flobin ! dear Robin ! how delicious !' but ere she had made three bounds towards him, his face brought her to a pause, and, in an awe-struck voice, she asked, ' Robert, what is it V ' It does not concern you, dearest ; at least, I hope not. I want Owen Sandbrook.' ' Then it is she. O Robin, can you bear it V she whispered, clinging to him, terrified by the agitated fondness of his embrace. ' I know nothing of her,'' was his answer, interrupted by Osven, who, raising his handsome, ruddy face from beneath, shouted mirthfully — ' Ha ! Phoebe, what interloper have you caught 1 What, Fulmoi't, not quite grilled in the Wulstonian oven V ' I was in search of you. Wait thei-e, Pha3be,' said Robert, advancing to meet Owen, with a gravity of countenance that provoked an impatient gestui-e, and the question — ' Come, have it out ! Do you mean that you have been ferreting out some old scrape of mine V * I mean,' said Robert, looking steadily at him, 'that I liave been called in to baptize your sick child. Your wife is dying, and you must hasten if you would see her alive.' ' That wont do. You know better than that,' i^eturned Owen, with ill-concealed agitation, partaking of anger. ' She was quite recovered when last I heard, but she is a famous hand at gutting up a scene ; and that mother of hers would drive HOPES AND FEARS. 301 Job out of his senses. They have worked on your weak mind. I wap an ass to trust to tlie okl woman's dissent for hindering them from finding you out, and getting up a scene.' ' They did not. It was by accident that I was the person who answered the summons. They knew neither me nor my name, so you may acquit them of any pre])aration. I i-ecognised your name, which I was desired to give to the child ; and then, in spite of wasting, terror, and deadly sickness, I knew the mother. She has been pining under low iiervous fever, still believing you on the Continent ; and the discovery that she had been deceived, was such a shock as to bring on a violent attack, which she is not likely to have strength to survive.' 'I never told her I was still abroad,' said Owen, in a fretful tone of self-defence. ' I onl}" had my letters forwarded through rey scout ; for I knew I should have no i)eace nor safety if the old woman knew where to find me, and preach me crazy ; and [ could not be going to see after her, for, thanks to Honor Charlecote and her schools, every child in Whittingtonia knows me by sight. I told her to be patient till I had. a curacy, and was independent ; but it seems she could not be. I'll run up as soon as I can get some plea for getting away from the Holt.' ' Death will leave no time for your excuses,' said Robert. * By setting off at once, you may catch the five o'clock express at W .' * Well, it is your object to have a grand explosion ! When I am cut out, ycu and Cilly may make a good thing of it. I wish you joy ! Ha ! by Jove !' he muttered, as he saw Phoebe waiting out of eai-shot. And then, turning from Robert, who was dumb in the effoi't to control a passionate }-eply, he called out, ' Good bye, Phoebe ; I beg your pardon, but you see I am summoned. Family claims are imperative 1' ' What is the matter V said the maiden, terrified not only at his tone, but at the gestures of her brother of fierce, suppressed menace towards him, despairing protection towards her. ' Why, he has told you ! Matter enough, isn't it 1 I'm a married man. I ask your compassion !' with a bitter laugh. 'It is you who have told her,' said llo her t, who, after a desperate efft)rt, had forced all violence from his voice and language. 'Traitor as you consider me, your secret had not crossed my li))S, But no — there is no time to waste on disputes. Your wife is sinking under neglect ; and her seeing you once moi'e may depend on your not loitering away these moments.' ' I don't believe it. Canting and tragedy queening. Taking him in! I know better!' muttered Ovvou, sullenly, as he moved up the bank. 3U2 HOPES AND FEARS. ' O Kobin, how can he be so hard T whispered Phoebe, as she met her brother's eyes wistfully tixed on her face. ' He is altogether selfish and heartless,' returned Robert, in tlie same inaudible voice. ' My Phoebe, give me this one com- fort. You never listened to him.' ' There was nothing to listen to,' said Pluiebe, turning her clear, surprised eyes on him. ' You couldn't think, him so bad as that. O Robin, how silly !' ' What were you doing here ?' he asked, holding her arm tight. ' Only Miss Fennimore wanted some Osniunda, and Miss Charlecote sent him to show me where it grew ; because she was talking to Lady Raymond.' The free simplicity of her look made Robert breathe freely. Charity was coming back to him. At the same moment Owen turned, his face flushed, and full of emotion, but the obduracy gone. ' I may take a long leave! When you see Honor Charle- cote, Fulmort ' ' I shall not see her. I am going back with you,' said Roljcrt, instantly deciding, now that he felt that he could both leave Phoebe, and trust himself with the offender. * Yovi tiiink I want to escape !' 'No ; but T have duties to return to. Be.'^ides, you will find a scene for which you are little prepared ; and which will cost you the more for your present mood. I may be of use there. Your secret is safe with Phoebe and me. I promised your wife to keep it, and we will not rob you of the benetit of free con- fession.' ' And what is to explain my absence? No, no, the .secret is one no longer, and it has been intfderable enough already,' said Owen, recklessly. 'Poor Honor, it will be a grievous busines.s, and little Phoebe will be a kind messenger. Wont you, Phoebe ? 1 leave my cause in your hands.' * But,' faltered Phoebe, ' .she should hear who ' 'Simple child, you can't draw inferences. Cilia wouldn't have asked. Don't you remember her darling at W rapworth 1 Peoi)le shouldn't throw such s[)lendid women in one's way, esi)ecially when they are made of such inflammable materials, and take (ire at a civil word. So ill, poor thing ! Now, Robert, on your honour, has not the luother been working on you r ' I tell you not what the mother told nie, but what the medical man said. Low nervous f«;ver set in lonj: n^o, and she iiaa never recovered her confinement. Heat and closeness were HOPES AND FEAilS. 303 already destroying lier, when my disclosure that you were not abroad, as she had been led to believe, brought on fainting, and almost immediate delirium. This was last evening, she was worse this morning.' ' Poor girl, poor girl !' muttered Owen, his face almost con- vulsed with emotion. ' There was no helping it. She would have drowned herself if I had not taken her with me — quite capable of it! after those intolerable women at Wrapworth had opened fire. I wish women's tongues were cut out by act of parliament. So, Phoebe, tell poor Honor that I know I am unpardonable, but I am sincerely sorry for her. I fell into it, there's no knowing how, and she would pity me, and so would you, if you knew what I have gone tiirough. Good-bye, Phoebe. Most likely I shall never see you again. Wont you shake hands, and tell me you are sorry for me V ' I should be, if you seemed more sorry for your wife than yourself,' she said, holding out her hand, but by no means pre- pared for his not only pressing it with fervour, but carrying it to his lips. Then, as Robert started forward with an impulse of snatching her from him, he almost threw it from his grasp, and with a long sigh very like bitter I'egret, and a murmur that resembled * That's a little angel,' he mounted the bank. Robert only tarried to say, ' May I be able to bear with him ! Phoebe, do your best for poor Miss Charlecote. I will write.' Phcebe sat down at the foot of a tree, veiled by the waving ferns, to take breath and understand what had passed. Her first act was to strike one hand across the other, as though to obliterate the kiss, then to draw off her glove, and drop it in the deepest of the fern, never to be worn again. Hateful ! With that poor neglected wife pining to death in those stifling city streets, to be making sport in those forest glades. Shame ! shame ! But oh ! worst of all was his patronizing pity for Miss Charlecote ! Phoebe's own mission to Miss Cliarlecote was dreadful enough, and she could have sat for hours delibe- rating on the mode of carrying grief and dismay to her friend, who had looked so joyous and exulting with her boy by her side as she drove upon the ground ; but there was no time to be lost, and rousing herself into action with strong effort, Phcebe left the fern brake, walking like one in a dream, and exchanging civilities with various persons who wondered to see her alone, made her way to the priacipal marquee, where lun- cheon had taken place, and which always served as the rendez- vous. Here sat mammas, kee|)ing up talk enough for civility, and peeping out restlessly to cluck their broods together ; here 804 HOPES AND FEAR3. gentlemen stood in knots, talking county business ; servants congregated in the rear, to call the carriages ; stragglers gra- dually streamed together, and ' Oh ! here you are,' was the staple exclamation. It was uttered by Mrs. Fulmort as Phoebe appeared, and was followed by plaintive inquiries for her sisters, and assurances that it would have been better to have stayed in the cool tent, and gone home at once. Phoebe consoled her by ordering the carriage, and explaining that her sisters were at hand with some other girls^ then begged leave to go home with Miss Charlccote for the night. ' My dear, what shall I do with the others without yon ? Maria has such odd tricks, and Bei'tha is so teasing without you ! You promised they should not tire me !' ' I will beg them to be good, dear mamma ; I am very sorry, but it is only this once. She will be alone. Owen Sandbrouk is obliged to go away.' ' I can't think what she should want of you,' moaned her mother, ' so used as she is to be alone. Did she ask you f ' No, she does not know yet. I am to tell her, and that is why I want you to be so kind as to spare me, dear mamma.' * My dear, it will not do for you to be carrying young men's secrets, at least not Owen S.mdbrook's. Your papa would not like it, my dear, nutil she had acknowledged him for her heir. You have lost your glove, too, Phoebe, and you look so heated, you had better come back with me,' said Mrs. Fulmort, who would not have withstood for a moment a deci-ee from either of her other daughters. ' Indeed,' said Phoebe, * you need not fear, mamma. It is nothing of tJiat sort, quite the contrary.' ' Quite tlie contrar}' ! You don't tell me that he has formed another attachment, just when I made sure of your settling at last at the Holt, and you such a favourite with Honor Charle- cote. Not one of those plain INIiss Kaymonds, I hojie.' ' I must not tell, till she has heard,' said Phoebe, ' so please say nothing about it. It will vex poor Miss Charlecote sadly, so pray let no one suspect, and I will come back and tell you to-nujrrow, by the time you are dressed.' Mrs. Fulmort was so much uplifted by the promise of the grand secret tlnit she made no moi-e opposition, and Maria and Uertha hurried in with Phoebe's glove, wliich, with the peculiar fidelity of property wilfully lost, had fallen into their hands while searching for Robert. Both declared they had seen him on the liill, and clamorously deniiimled liim of Phoebe. Her unswer, * he is not in the forest, you will not find him,' was too HOPES AND FEAES. 805 conscious fully to have satisfied the shrewd Bertha, bv;t for the pleasure of discoursing to the other girls upon double gangers, of whom she had stealthily read in some prohibited German literature of her govei'ness's. Leaving her to astonish them, Phoebe took up a position near Miss Charlecote, who was talking to the good matronly-looking Lady Raymond, and on the first opportunity offered herself as a companion. On the way home, Honor, much pleased, was proposing to find Owen, and walk through a beautiful and less frequented forest path, when she saw her own carriage coming up with that from Beauchamp, and lamented the mistake which must take her away as soon as Owen could be found. ' I ventured to order it,' said Phoebe ; ' I thought you might pi-efer it. Owen is gone. He left a message with me for you.' Experience of former blows taught Honora to ask no ques- tions, and to go through the offices of politeness as usual. But Lady Raymond, long a friend of hers, though barely acquainted with Mrs. Fulmort, and never having seen Phoebe before, living as .she did on the opposite side of the county, took a moment for turning round to the young girl, and saying with a friendly motherly warmth, far from mere curiosity, ' I am sure you have bad news for Miss Charlecote. I see you cannot s])eak of it now, but you must proiTiise me to send to Moorcroft, if Sir John or I can be of any use.' Phoebe could only give a thankful grasp of the kind hand. The Raymonds were rather despised at home for plain habits, strong religious opinions, and scanty fortunes, but she knew they were Miss Charlecote's great friends and advisers. jSTot till the gay crowd had been left behind did Honor turn to Phoebe, and say gently, ' My dear, if he is gone off in any foolish way, you had better tell me at once, that something may be done.' ' He is gone with Robei-t,' said Phoebe. ' Bertha did really see Robert. He had made a sad discovery, and came for Owen. Do you remember that pretty schoolmistress at Wrajiworth !' Never had Phoebe seen such a blanched face and dilated eyea as were tm-ned on her, with the gasping words, ' Impossible ! they would not have told you.' ' They were obliged,' said Phoebe ; ' they had to hurry lor th« train, for she is very ill indeed.' Honor leant back with folded hands and closed eyes, so that Phoebe almost felt as if she had killed hei'. ' I suppose Robert was right to fetch him,' she said ; ' but their telling yon !' ' Owen told me he fancied Robert had done so,' said Phoebe, X SCt) HOPES AND FEARS. ' and called out to me something about family claims, and a married man.' ' Married !' cried Honoi-a, starting forward. * You are sure !' ' Quite sure,' repeated Phoebe ; 'lie desired me to tell you I was to bay he knew he was unpardonable, but he had suffered a gieat deal, and he was grieved at the sorrow you would feel.' Having faithfully discharged her message, Plioebe could not lielp being vexed at the relenting ' Poor fellow !' Honor was no longer confounded, as at the first sentences, and tliough still cast down, was more relieved than her young friend could understand, asking all that had passed between the young jiien, and when all had been told, leaning back in silence until, when almost at home, she laid her hand on Phoebe's arm, and said, ' My child, never think yourself safe from idols.' She then sought her own room, and Phoebe feared that her presence was intrusive, for she saw her hostess no more till tea-time, when the wan face and placid smile almost made her weep at first, then wonder at the calm unconstrained manner in which her amusement was provided for, and feel ready to beg not to be treated like a child or a stranger. When parting for tlie night, however. Honor tenderly said, ' Thanks, my dear, for giving up the evening to me.* * I have only been an oppression to you.' 'You did me the greatest good. I did not want discussion ; I only wanted kindness. I wish I had you always, but it is better not. Their uncle was right. I spoil every one.' * Piay do not say so. You have been our great blessing. If you knew how we wish to comfort you.' ' You do comfort me. 1 can watch Eobei't realizing my visions for others, and you, my twilight moon, my autumn flower. But I must not love you too much, Phoebe. They all suft'er for my inordinate aftection. But it is too late to talk. Good night, sweet one.' ' Shall you sleep f said Phoebe, wistfully lingei'ing. ' Yes; I don't enter into it enough to be haunted. Ah ! you have never learnt wliat it is to feel heavy with trouble. 1 be- lieve 1 shall not dwell on it till I know more. There may be luucL excuse ; she may have been artful, and at least Owen dealt fairly by her in one rcs])ect. 1 can better suppose her unworthy, than hini cruelly neglectful' In that h(i])e Honor slept, and was not moi'e depressed than Pluebe had seen her under Lucilla's desertion. She put off her judgment till she should hear more, wont about her usual occu- jiatious, and sent Phoebe home till letters should come, when tliey would meet again. HOPES AND FEARS. 307 Both heard from Robert by the next post, and his letter to Miss Charlecote related all tha,t he had been able to collect from Mrs. Murrell, or from Owen himself. The narrative is here given more fully than he was able to make it. Edna Muri'ell, born with the susceptible organization of a musical temperament, had in her earliest childhood been so treated as to foster refined tastes and aspirations, such as disgusted her with tlie respectable vulgarity of her home. The pet of the nui'sery and school -room looked down on the lodge kitchen and parlour, and her discontent was a matter of vanity with her parents, as a sign of her superiority, while plausibility and caution were coutiuually enjoined on her rather by example than by precept, and she was often aware of her mother's indulgence of erratic jiropensities in religion, unknown either to her father or his employers. Unexceptionable as had been her training-school education, the high cultivation and soundness of doctrine had so acted on her as to keep her farther aloof from her mother, whose far more heartfelt religion appeared to her both distasteful and con- temptible, and whose advice was thus cast aside as prejudiced and sectarian. Such was the preparation for the unprotected life of a school- mistress in a hoi|5e by herself. Servants and small tradesfolk were no companions to her, and were ofiended by her ladylike demeanour ; and her refuge was in books that served but to in- crease the perils of sham romance, and in enthusiastic adoi'ation of the young lady, whose manners apparently placed her on an equality, although her beauty and musical talents were in truth only serving as a toy. Her face and voice had already been thrust on Owen's notice before the adventure with the bargeman had constituted the young gentleman the hero of her grateful imagination, and commenced an intercourse for which his sister's inconsiderate patronage gave ample opportunities. His head was full of the theory of fusion of classes, and of the innate refinement, fresh- ness of intellect, and vigour of perception of the unsophisticated, at least so he thought, and when he lent her books, commenting on favourite passages, and talked poetry or popular science to her, he imagined himself walking in the steps of those who were asserting the claims of intelligence to cultivation, and sowing broadcast the seeds of art, literature, and emancipation. Perhap; he knew not hcjw often he was betrayed into tnkens of admira- tion, suflicieut to inflame such a disposition as he had to deal with, and if he were aware of his influence, and her adoration, X 2 808 HOPES AND FEARS. it idly flattered and amused him, without thought of the con- sequences. On the night when she liad fninted at the sight of his atten- tion to Phcebe, she was left on his hands in a state when all caution and reserve gave way, and her violent agitation fully awakened him to the perception of the expectations he had caused, tlie force of the feelings he had aroused. A mixture of pity, vanity, aiul affection towards the beautiful creature before him had led to a response such as did not disappoint hei', and there matters might have rested for the present, but that their interview had been observed. Edna, terror-stricken, believing herself irretrievably disgraced, had thrown herself on his mercy in a frantic condition, such as made him dread exposure for him- self, as well as suspense for her tempestuous nature. With all his faults, the pure atmosphere in which he had grown up, together with the tone of his associates, conjparatively fi-ee from the grosser and more hard-hearted forms of vice, had concurred with poor Edna's real modesty and princijile in obtain- ing the sanction of marriage, for her fliglit with him from the cen- sure of Wrapworth, and the rebukes of her mother. Through- out, his feeling had been chiefly stirred uj) by the actual sight of her beavity, and excited by her fervid passion. When absent frnni her, thei'e had been always regrets and hesitaticuis, such as would have prevailed, save for his compassion, and dread of the effects of her desperation, both for her and for himself. The unpardonable manner in which he knew himself to have acted, made it needful to plunge deeper for the very sake of conceal- ment. Yet, once married, he would have been far safer if he had confessed the fact to his only true friend, since it must surely come to light some time or other, but he had bred himself up in the habit of schoolboy shuffling, hiding everything to the last moment, and he could not bear to be cast off by the Charterises, be pitied and laughed at by his Oxford friends, nor to risk Honor Charlecote's favour, perha])S her inheritance. Return to Oxford the victim of an attachment to a village schoolmistress ! Better never return thither at all, as would be but too jjrobably the case ! No ! the secrtt must be kept till his first start in life should be secure ; and he talked to Edna of his future curacy, while she fed her fancy with visions of lovely parsonages and 'clergymen's ladies' in a world of pensive bliss, and after the honeymoon in Ireland, promised to wait patiently, ])rovided her mother might know all. Owen had not i-ealized the liome to which he was obliged to resign his wife, nor hLs mother-in-law's powers of tongue. There HOPES AND FEARS. §09 were real difficulties in the way of his visiting her. It w^as the one neighbourhood in London where his person might be known, and if he avoided daylight, he became the object of espial to tlie disappointed lodgers, who would have been delighted to identify the ' Mr. Brook,' who had monopolized the object of their ad- miration. These perils, tlie various disagreeables, and especially Mrs. Murrell's complaints and demands for money, had so much annoyed Owen, who felt himself the injured party in the con- nexion, that he had not only avoided the place, but endeavoured to dismiss the whole humiliating affair from his mind, trying to hinder himself from being harassed by letters, and when forced to attend to the representations of the women, sending a few kind words and promises, with such money as he could spare, alway backed, however, by threats of the consequences of a dis- closure, which lie vaguely intimated would ruin his prospects for life. Little did the thoughtless boy 'comprehend the cruelty of his neglect. In the underground rooms of the City lodging house, the voli;ntary prison of the shamefaced, half-owned wife, the overwrought headache, incidental to her former profession, made her its prey ; nervous fever came on as the suspense became more trying, and morbid excitement alternated with torpor and depression. Medical advice was long deferred, and fcliat which was at last sought was not equal to her needs. It remained for the physician, summoned by Ovren, in his horror at her delii-ium, to discover that her brain had long been in a Btate of irritation, which had become aggravated to sucli a degree that death was even to be desired. Could she yet survive, it could hardly be to the use of her intellect. Robert described poor Owen's impetuous misery, and the cares which he lavished on the iinconscious sufferer, mentioning him with warmth and tenderness that amazed Honor, from one so stern of judgment. ISTay, Robert was more alive to the palliations of Owen's conduct than she was herself She grieved over the complicated deceit, and resented the cruelty to the wife with the keen severity of secluded womanhood, unable to realize the temptations of young- manhood. 'Why could he not have told me f she said. *I could so easily have forgiven him for generous love, if I alone had been offended, and there had been no falsehood ; but after the way he has used us all, and chiefly that poor young thing, I can never feel that he is the same.' And, though the heart that knew no guile had been saved from suffering, the thought of the intimacy that she had en- couraged, and the wishes she had entertained for Phoebe, filled SIO HOPES AND FEARS. her with such dismay, that it required the sight of the innocent, iserene face, and the sound of the ha|)iiy, unembarrassed voice, to reassure her that her darling's peace had not been wrecked. For, thono'h Owen had never overpassed the bounds of the familiar intercourse of childhood, there had been an implication of pre- forence in his look and tone; nor had there been error in tiie iatuitiou of poor Edna's jealous passion. Something there was of involuntaty reverence that had never been commanded by the far more beautiful and gifted girl who had taken him captive. So great was the shock that Honora moved about me- chanically, hardly able to think. She knew that in time she should pardon her boy ; but she could not yearn to do so till she had seen him repent. He had sinned too deeply against others to be taken home at once to her heart, even though she grieved over him with deep, loving pity, and sought to tiud the original germs of error rather in herself than in him. Had she encouraged deceit by credulous trust 1 Alas ! alas ! that should but have taught him generosity. It was the old story. Fond affection had led her to put herself into a positicm to which Providence did not call her, and to which she was, therefore, unequal. Fou 1 affection had blinded her eyes, and fostered in its oI)ject the very faults most hateful to her. She could only humble herself before her Maker for the recurring sin, and entreat fur her own ])ardon,and for that of theofieuder with whose sins she charged herself And to man she humbled herself by her confession to Captain Charteris, and by throwing herself unreservedly on the advice of Mr. Saville and Sir John Raymond, for her future conduct towards the culprit. If he were suffering now for her rejection of the counsel of manhood and experience, it was right that they should deal with him now, and she would try to bear it. And she also tried as much as possible to soften the blow to Lucilla, who was still abroad with her cousins. CHAPTER XTT. A little grain of conscience made liim sour. TENNTSON. ' A PENNY for your thoughts, Cilly,' said Horatia, sliding in iV on the slippery boards of a great bare room of a lodging- hoube at the celebrated Spa of Spitzwassertitzung. HOPES AND FEARS. 311 »Mj thoughts ? I was tryiug to recollect the third line of ' Sated at home, of wife and children tired, Sated abroad, all seen and naught admired.' 'Bless me, how grand! Worth twopence. So good how Shakspeare, as the Princess Ottilie would say 1' ' Twopence for its sincerity ! It is not for your sake that 1 am not in Old England.' ' Nor for that of the three flaxen-haired princesses, with re- ligious opinions to be accommodated to those of the crowned heads they may marry V 'I'm sick of the three, and their raptures. I wish I was ns ignorant as you, and that Shakspeai-e had never been read at the Holt.' ' This is a sudden change. I thought Spitzwasserfitzung and its princesses had brought halcyon days.' ' Halcyon days will never come till we get home.' 'Which Lolly will never do. She passes for somebody here, and will never endure Castle Blanch again.' ' I'll make Owen come and take me home.' 'No,' said Rashe, seriously, 'don't briug Owen here. If Lolly likes to keep Charles where gaming is man's sole resource, don't run Owen into that scrape.' ' What a despicable set you are !' sighed Lucilla. * I wonder why I stay with you.' 'You might almost as well be gone,' said Ratia. 'You aren't half so useful in keeping things going as you were once ; and you wont be oi'nameutal long, if you let your spirits be so uncei'tain.' ' And pray how is that to be helped 1 No, don't come out ■with that stupid thing.' ' Commonplace because it is reasonable. You would have plenty of excitement in the engagement, and then no end of change, and settle down into, a blooming little matron, with all the business of the world on your hands. You have got him into excellent training by keeping him dangling so long ; and it is the only chance of keeping your looks or your temper. By the time I come and stay with you, you'll be so agreeable you wont know yourself- ' ' Blessings on that hideous post-horn for stopping your mouth !' cried Lucilla, springing up, ' Not that letters ever come to me.' Letters and Mr. and Mrs Charteris all entered together, and Rashe was busy with her own share, when Lucilla came for- ward with a determined face, unlike her recent listless look, 312 HOPES AND FEARS. and said, ' I am wanted at home. I shall start by the diligenco to-night.' 'How nowT said Charles. 'The old lady wanting you to make her will V ' No,' said Lucilla, with dignity. * My brother's wife is very ill. I must go to her.' ' Is she demeuted V asked Charles, looking at his sister. ' Raving,' was the answer. ' She has been so the whole morning. I shall cut off her hair, and get ice for her head.' ' I tell simple truth,' returned Cilia. ' Here is a letter from Honor Charlecote, solving the two mysteries of last summer. Owen's companion, who Eashe would have it was Jack Hastings ' ' Ha ! married, then ! The cool hand ! And verily, but that Cilly takes it so easily, I should imagine it was her singing prodigy — eh ? It was, then T ' Absurd idiot !' exclaimed Charles. ' There, he is done for now !' ' Yes,' drawled Elo'isa ; ' one never could notice a low person like that.' ' She is my sister, remember 1' cried Lucilla, with stamping foot and flashing eye. ' Cunning rogue !' continued Horatia. ' How did he manage to give no suspicion 1 Oh ! what fun ! No wonder she looked green and yellow when he was flirting with the little Fulmort ! Let's hear all, Cilly — how, when, and where V 'At the Registrar's, at R , July 14th, 1854,' returned Lucilla, with defiant gravity. ' Last July !' said Charles. ' Ha ! the young donkey was under age — hadn't consent of guardian. I don't believe the marriage will hold water. I'll write to Stevens this minute.' ' Well, that would be luck !' exclaimed Rashe. ' Much better than he deserves,' added Charles, 'to be such a fool as to run into the noose and marry the girl.' Lucilla was trembling from head to foot, and a light gleamed in her eyes ; but she spoke so quietly that her cousins did not ai)preheud her intention in the question — ' You mean what you say V ' Of course I do,' said Charles. ' I'm not sure of the law, and some of the big-wigs are very cantankerous about declaring an affair of this sort null ; but I imagine there is a fair chance of his getting quit for some annual allowance to lier ; and I'll do my best, even if I had to go to London about it. A man is never ruined till he is married.' 'Thank you,' returned Lucilla, her lips trembling with bitter HOPES AND FEARS. SIS frony. 'Now I know what you all are made of. We are obliged for your offered exertion, but we are not inclined to become traitors.' ' Cilly ! I thought you had more sense ! You ai'e no child !' 'I am a woman — I feel for womanhood. I am a sister — I feel for my brother's honour.' Charles burst into a laugh. Eloisa remonstrated — ' My dear, consider the disgrace to the whole family — a village school- mistress !' ' Our ideas differ as to disgrace,' said Lucilla. ' Let me go, Eatia ; I must pack for the diligence.' The brother and sister threw themselves between her and the door. 'Are you insane, Cilly'? What do you mean sliould become of you 1 Are you going to join the oneaaye, and teach the ABC?' ' I am going to own my sister while yet there is time,' said Lucilla. ' While you are meditating how to make her a de- serted outcast, death is more merciful. Pining under the miseries of an unowned marriage, she is fast dying of pressure on the brain. I am going in tiie hope of hearing her call me sister. I am going to take charge of her child, and stand by my brother.' ' Dying, poor thing 1 Why did you not tell us before f said Horatia, sobered. ' I did not know it was to save Charles so much kind trouble,* said Lucilla. ' Let me go, Rashe ; you cannot detain me.' ' I do believe she is delighted,' said Horatia, releasing her. In truth, she was insjiirited by perceiving any door of escape. Any vivid sensation was welcome in the irksome vacancy that pursued her in the absence of immediate excitement. Devoid of the interest of opposition, and of the bracing changes to the Holt, her intercourse with the Charterises had become a weariness and vexation of spirit. Idle foreign life deteriorated them, and her principle and delicacy suffered frequent offences ; but like all living wilfully in temptation, she seemed under a spell, only to be broken by an act of self-humiliation to which she would not bend. Longing for the wholesome atmosphere of Hiltonbury, she could not brook to purchase her entrance there by permitting herself to be pardoned. There was one who she fully intended should come and entreat her return, and the terms of her capitulation had many a time been arranged with herself; but when he came not, though her heart ached after him, pride still forbade one homeward step, lest it should seem to be in quest of him, or in compliance with his wishes. 314 HOPES AND FEARS. Here, then, was a summons to England — uay, into his ver\ parish — without conipi'oraising her pride or forcing her to show deference to rejected counsel. Nay, in contrast with her cousins, she felt her sentiments so lofty and genei*ous that she was Clled with the gladness of conscious goodness, so like the days of her early childhood, that a ha])py dew suffused her eyes, and she seemed to hear the voice of old Thames. Her loathing for the views of her cousins had borne down all resentment at her brother's folly and Edna's presumption ; and relieved that it was not worse, and full of pity for the girl she had really loved. Honor's grieved displeasure and Charles's kind project together made her the ardent partisan of the young wile. Because Honor intimated that the girl had been artful, and had forced herself on Owen, Lucilla was resolved that her favourite had been the most perfect of heroines ; and thiit circumstance alone should bear such blame as could not be thrown on Honor herself and the Wrajjworth gossipry. Poor circumstance ! The journey gave her no concern. The way was direct to Ostend, and Spitzwasserfitzung contained a 'pension' which was a great resort of incipient English governesses, so that there were no difficulties such as to give her enterprising spirit the least concern. She refused the escort that Rashe would have pressed upon her, and made her fai'ewells with quiet resolution. No further remonstrance was offered ; and tliough each pai ty knew that what had passed would be a barrier for ever, good breeding pi'eferred an indifferent parting. TI\ere were light, cheery words, but under the full consciousness that the friend- ship begun in perverseness had ended in contempt. Horatia turned aside with a good-natured ' Poor child ! she will soon wish herself back.' Lucilla, taking her last glance, sighed as she thought, ' My father did not like them. But for Honor, I would never have taken up with them.' Without' misadventure, Liicilla arrived at London Bridge, and took a cab for Woolstoue Lane, where slie must seek more exact intelligence of the locality of those she sought. So long had her eye been weary of novelty, while her mind was ill at ease, that even Holborn in the August sun was refreshingly homelike; and begrimed Queen Anne, 'sitting in the sun' before St. Paul's, wore a benignant aspect to glances full of ho[ie and !seIf-ai)pi'oval. An effort was necessary to recal how melau- choly was the occasion of her journey, and all mournful antici- pation was lost in the spirit of jiartisan.ship and patronage — yes, anle to bear the sight, and stood, with hidden face, in such absorption of distress as to be un- conscious of her awe-struck attempts to obtain his attention, or when Mrs. IMurrell came to fetch something, order her maid, or relieve herself by a few sad words to her guest. Gratified by the eager sisterly acknowledgment of poor Edna, she touched Lucilla deeply by speaking of her daughter s fondness for Miss Sandbrook, grief at having given cause for being thought un- grateful, and assurances that the secret never could have been kept had they met the day after the soiree. Many had been the poor thing's speculations how Miss Sandbrook would receive her marriage, but always with confidence in her final mei-cy and justice : and when Lucilla heard of the prolonged wretched- ness, the hope deferred, the evil reports and suspicions of neigh- bours and lodgers, the failing health, and cruel disappointment, and looked round at the dismal little stifling dungeon where this fair and gifted being had pined and sunk beneath slander and desertion, hot tears of indignation filled her eyes, and with fingers clenching together, she said, ' Oh that I had known it sooner ! Edna was right. I will be the person to see justice done to her !' And when left alone she cast about for the most open mode of proclaiming Edna Murrell her brother's honoured wife, and her own beloved sister. The more it mortified the Charterises the better ! By the time Robert came back, the sole change was in the failing strength, and he insisted on conducting Lucilla to Wool- stone Ihantoms called by those names. Robert especially ! Engrossed and awe-stricken as she had been, still it came on her that something was gone that to her liad constituted Robert Fulmort. Neither the change of dress, nor even the older and more settled expression of countenance, made the difference ; but the want of that nameless, hesitating deference whicli in each word or action formerly seemed to im))]ore her favour, or even when he dared to censure, did so under appeal to her mercy. Had he avoided her, she could have understood it ; but his calm, authoritative self-possession was beyond her, though as yet she was not alarmed, for her mind was too much confused to pei'ceive that lier influence was lost ; but it was uncomfortable, and part of this strange, unnatural world, as thougli the wax which she had been used to mould had suddenly lost its yielding nature and become marble. Tired out, she at last went to bed, and slept soundly, but awoke early, and on coming down, found from the housekeeper tliat her brother had been brought home at two o'clock by IMr. Fulmort, and had gone to his room at once. All was over. J-ucilla, longing to hear more, set out to see Mrs. Murrell, before lie should come downstairs. While the good woman was forced to bestir herself for her lodgers' breakfasts, Lucilla could steal a solitary moment to gaze on the pallid face to which death had restored much of its beauty. She ]>ressed lier lips on the regal brow, and spoke half aloud, •' Edna, Edna Sandbrook, sister Edna, you should have trusted me. You knew I would see justice done to you, and 1 will. You shall lie by my mother's side in our own churchyard, and W'l-apwortli shall know that she, whom they envied and maligned, was Owen Saudbrook's wife and my cherished sister.' Poor Mrs. Murrell, with herswimn^ing eyes and stock phrases, brought far more Christian sentiments to the bed of death. HOPE?! AND FEARS. SI 9 ' Poor, dear love, her father and I little thought it would end in this, when we used to be so proud of her. We should have minded that pride is not made for sinners. * Favour is deceit- ful and beauty is vain ;' and the Lord saw it well that we should be cast down and slanderous lips opened against us, that so we might feel our trust is in Him alone ! Oh, it is good that even thus she was brought to turn to Him ! But I thank — oh, I thank Him, that her father never lived to see this day !' She wept such tears of true thankfulness and resignation, that Lucilla, almost abashed by the sight of piety beyond her comprehension, stood silent, till, with a change to the practical, Mrs. Murrell recovered herself, saying, ' If you please, ma'am, when had I best come and speak to the young gentleman ? I ought to know what would be jjleasing to him about the funeral.' 'We will arrange,' said Lucilla; 'she shall be buried with ii\y mother and sister in Wrapworth churchyard.' Though gratified, ]\L-s. Murrell demurred, lest it might be taken ill by the ' family' and by that godly minister whose kindness and sympathy at the time of Edna's evasion had made a deep imj^-ession : but Lucilla boldly undertook that the family must like it, and she would take care of the minister. Nor was the good woman insensible to the posthumous triumph over calumny, although still with a certain hankering after Kensal Green as a sweet place, with pious monuments, where she should herself be laid, and the Company that did things so i-easonable and so handsome. Lucilla hurried back to fulfil the mission of Nemesis to the Charterises, which she called justice to Edna, and by the nine oY-lock post despatched three notes. One containing the notice fir the Times — 'On the 17th instant, at 8, Little Whittington- street, St. Wulstan's, Edna, the beloved wife of Owen Charteris Sandbrook, Esq. ;' another was to order a complete array of mourning from her dressmaker ; and the third was to the Eeverend Peter Prendergast, in the most simple manner re- questing him to arrange for the burial of her sister-in-law, at 5 P.M. on the ensuing Saturday, indicating the labourers who should act as bearers, and ending with, ' You will be relieved by hearing that .she was no other than our dear Edna, married on the T4th of July, last year.' She then beguiled the time with designs for gravestones, until she became uneasy at Owen's non-appearance, and longed to go and see after him ; but she fancied he might have spent I'ightsof w^atching, and thought sleep would be the best meana 01 getting through the interval which appalled her mind, uu- 820 HOPES AND FEARS. used to contact with grief. Still his delay began to wear her spirits and expectation, so long wrought up to the meeting ; and she was at least equally restless for the appearance of Robert, wanting to hear more from liiai, and above all certaia that all her dreary cravings and vacancy would be appeased by one dialogue with him, on whatever topic it might be. She Avished that she had obeyed that morning bell at St. Wulstau's. It would have disposed of half an hour, and she would have met him. ' For shame,' quoth the haughty spirit, ' now that has come into my head, I can't go at all.' Her solitude continued till half-past ten, when she heard the welcome sound of Robert's voice, and flew to meet him, but was again checked by his irresponsive manner as ho asked fur Owen. ' I have not seen him. I do not know whether to knock, lest lie should be asleep.' ' I hope lie is. He has not been in bed for three nights. I will go and see.' He was moving to the door, without lingering for a word more. She stopjied him by saying, ' Pray hear first what I have settled with Mrs. MurrelL' ' She told me,' said Robert. * Is it Owen's wish ?' ' It ought to be. It must. Every public justice must be paid now.' 'Is it quite well judged, vmless it were his sti'ong desire? Have you considered the feelings of Mr. Prendergast or your relations V ' There is nothing I consider more. If Charles thinks it more disgraceful to marry a Christian for love than a Jewess lor money, he shall see that we ai'e not of the same opinion.' 'I never pretend to judge of your motives.' 'Mercy, what have I gone and said?' ejaculated Lucilla, as the door closed after him. ' Why did I let it out, and make him think me a vixen ? Better than a hypocrite, though ! I always professed to show my worst. What's come to me, that I can't go on so contentedly % He must hear the Charteris' sentiments, though, that he may not think mine a gratuitous all'ront.' Her explanation was at her tongue's end, but Robert only reappeared with her brothei', whom he had found dressing. Owen just greeted his sister, but asked no questions, only dropping heavily into a chair, and let her bring him his break- fast. So young was he, still wanting six weeks to years of discretion ; so youthful his a])pearance in spite of his size and strength, that it was almost absurd to regard him as a widower, HOPES AND FEARS. 321 and expect him to act as a mau of mature age and fcchrig. There was much of tlie boy in liis excessive and freely-indulged lassitude, and his half sullen, half-shy reserve towards his sister. Knowing he had been in conversation with Robert, she felt it hard that before her he only leant his elbows on the table, 3'^awned, and talked of his stiffness, until his friend, rising to leave them, he exerted himself to say, ' Don't go, Fulmort.' * I am afraid I must. I leave you to your sister.' (Sh«> noted that it was not ' Lucy.') * But, I say, Fulmort, there are things to settle — funeral, and all that,' he said in a helpless voice, like a sulky school- boy. ' Your sister has been arranging with Mrs. Murrell.' * Yes, Owen,' said Lucilla, tears glistening in her eyes, and lier A^oice thrilling with emotion ; ' it is right and just that she should be with our mother and little Mary at home ; so I have written to Mr. Prendergast.' ' Very well,' he languidly answered. * Settle it as you will ; only deliver me from the old woman !' He was in no state for reproaclies ; but Lucilla *was obliged to bite her lip to restrain a torrent of angry weeping. At his urgent instance, Robert engaged to return to dinner, and went, leaving Lucilla with nothing to do but to watch those heavy slumberings on the sofa and proffer attentions that were received with the surliness of one too miserable to know what to do with himself. She yearned over him with a new awakening of tenderness, longing, yet unable, to console or soothe. The light surface-intercourse of the brother and sister, each selfishly refraining fiom stirring the depths of the others mind, rendered them mere strangers in the time of trouble ; and vainly did Lucy gaze wistfully at the swollen eyelids and flushed cheeks, watch every peevish gesture, and tend each sullen wish, with pitying sweetness ; she could not reacli the inner man, nor touch the aching wound. Towards evening, Mrs. Murrell's name was brouglit in, ])ro- voking a fretful injunction from Owen not to let him be molested with her cant. Lucilla sighed compliance, though vexed at bis egotism, and went to the study, where she found that Mrs. Murrell had brought her grandson, her own most precious comforter, whom she feared she must resign ' to be bred up as a gentleman as he was, and despise his poor old granny ; and slie would say not a word, only if his papa would let her keep him till he had cut his first teeth, for he had always been tender, and she could not be easy to think that any one else had the charge of hiai.' She devoured him with 822 HOPES Aj>ri> FEARS. kisses as she spoke, taking every precaution to keep her profuse tears from falling on him ; and Lucilla, much moved, answered * Oh ! for the present, no one could wish to j:)art him from yoiL Pour little fellow ! May I take him for a little while to my broiher ? It may do him good.' Cilly had rather have ridden a kicking horse than handled an infant. She did not think this a prepossessing specimen, but it was passive. She had always understood from books that tliis was the sure means of ' opening the sealed fountains of grief.' She remembered what little Mary had been to her father, and in hopes that paiental instinct would make Owen know better what to do with her burden than she did, .she entered the drawing-room, where a little murmuring sound caused Owen to start up on his elbow, exclaiming, ' What are you at 1 Don't bring that here !' ' I thought you might wish to see him V ' What should I do with him T asked Owen, in the same glum, childish tone, turning his face inwards as he lay down. ' Take it away. Aint I v/retched enough already to please you T She gave up the point, much grieved and strongly drawn to the little helpless one, rejected by his father, misused and cast oft' like his mother. Would no one stand \ip for him? Yes, it must be her part. Slie was his champion ! She would set him forth in the world, by her own toil if need were ! Sealing the promise with a kiss, she returned him to his grandmother, and talked of him as so entirely her personal concern, that the good woman went home to report to her inquiring friends that the young lady was ready to ' hact very feeling, and very 'andsome.' Probably desirous to avoid further reference to his unwelcome son and heir, Owen had betaken himself to the solace of his pipe, and was pacing the garden with steps now .sauntering with depression, now impetuous witli impatience, always moving too much like a caged wild beast to invite ai>))roach. She was disconsolately watching him from the window, when Mr. Fulmort was admitted. A year ago, what would he not have given for that unfeigned, simple \\ elcome, as she looked up with eyes full of tears, saying, ' Oh ftobert, it is so grievous to see him !' 'Very .sad,' was the mournful answer. ' You may be able to help him. He asks for you, but turns from me.' ' He has been obliged to rely on me, since we came to town,' sal J IJobert. ' Tou must have been very kind !' she warmly exclaimed. HOPES AND FEARS. 323 But he drew back from the effusion, saying, ' I did no more than was absolutely necessary. He does not lay himself open to true comfort,' ' Deaths never seemed half so miserable before,' cried Lucilla. •Yet this poor thing had little to live for ! Was it all poor Honor's tender softening that took off the edge to our imagina- tions ]' ' It is not always so mournful !' shortly said Robert. ' No ; even the mother bears it better, and not for want of lieart.' ' She is a Christian,' said Robert. * Poor Owen ! It makes me remorseful. I wonder if I made too light of the line he took ; yet what difference could I have made 1 Sisters go for so little ; and as to influence, Honor overdid it.' Then, as he made no reply, ' Tell me, do you think my acquiescence did harm V ' I cannot say. Your conscience must decide. It is not a case for me. I must go to him.' It was deep mortification. Used to have the least hint of dawning seriousness thankfully cherislied and fostered, it was a rude shock, when most in need of epancJiement du coeur after her dreary day, to be thrown back on that incomprehensible process of self-examination ; and by Robert, too ! She absolutely did not feel as if she were the same Lucilla. It was the sensation of doubt on her personal identity awakened in the good woman of the ballad when her little dog began to bark and wail at her. She strove to enliven the dinner by talking of Hiltonbury, and of Juliana's marriage, thus awakening Owen into life and talkativeness so much in his light ordinary humour, as to startle them both. Lucilla would have encouraged it as preferable to his gloom, but it was decidedly repressed by Robert. She had to repair to solitary restlessness in the drawing-room, and was left alone there till so late that Robert departed after a single cup of tea, cutting short a captious argument of Owen's aliout impossibility of proof, and truth being only true in a sense. Owen's temper was, however, less morose ; and when his sister was lighting his candle for him at night, kindly said, ' What a bore I've been all day, Lucy.' ' I am glad to be with you, dear Owen ; I have no one else.* « Eh ? What's become of Rashe V ' Never mention her again !' « What % They've cut you V ' ] iiave cut them.' s A r» 24, HOPES AND FEAPvS. She related what had passed. Owen set his face into a frown. ' Even so, Charlie ; doltish- ness ]?KS pardonable than villauy ! Yon were right to cut the conne.Tiou, Lucy ; it has been our curse. So now you will go back to poor Honor, and try to make it up to her.' ' I'm not going near Honor till slie forgives you, and receives your child.' ' Thtai you will be very ridiculous,' said Owen, impatiently. ' Shft has no such rancour against me as you have against lier, poor dear ; but it is not in tlie nature of things that she should pass over this unlucky performance.' ' If it had been such a performance as Charles desired, I should Lave said so.' ' Pshaw ! I hadn't the chance ; and gloss it as you will, Lucy, there's no disguising it, she would have it, and I could not help it, but she was neglected, and it killed her I' He brought his hand down on the table with a heavy thump, which together with the words made his sister recoil. * Could Honor treat me the same after that 1 And she not my mother, either! Why had not my father the sense to have married her? Then I could go to her and get rid of this intolerable weight !' and he groaned aloud. 'A mother could hardly love you more,' said Lucy, to her own surprise. ' If you will but go to her, — when she sees you so imhappy.' * Out of the question,' broke in Owen ; ' I can't stay here ! I would have gone this very night, but I can't be off till that poor thing — ' 'Off!' * Ay, to the diggings, somewhere, anywhere, to get away from ii all !' *0h, Owen, do nothing m>id !' 'I'm not going to do anything just now, I tell you. Don't be in a fright. I shan't take French leave of you. You'll Hnd me to-morrow morning, worse luck. Good night.' Lucilla was doubly glad to have come. Her pride approved his proposal, though her sisterly love would suffer, and she was anxious about the child ; but dawning confidence was at the least a relief. Next morning, he was better, and talked much too like his ordinary self, but relajtsed afterwards for want of employment ; and when a letter was brought to him, left by his wife to be read after her death, he broke down, and fell into a paroxysm of grief and despair, which still ])revailed when a nuissage came in to ask admission for Mr. Preudergast. Relieved to be out of sight HOPES AND FEAKS. S25 of depression that her consolations only aggravated, and hoping for sympathy and counsel, Lucy hastened to the study with out- stretched hands, and was met with the warmth for which she had longed. Still there was disappointment. In participation with Owen's grief, she had lost sight of his offences, and was not jn'epared for any commencement. * Well, Cilia, I came up to talk to you. A terrible business this of Master Owen's.' * It breaks one's heart to see him so wretched.' ' I hope he is. He ought to be.' 'Now, Mr. Prendergast.' The curate held up both his hands, deprecating her coaxing piteous look, and used his voice rather loudly to overpower hers, and say wliat lie had prepared as a di;ty. ' Yes, yes, he is your brother, and all that. You may feel for him what you like. But I must say this : it was a shameful tiling, and a betrayal of confidence, such as it grieies me to tliink of in his father's son. I am sorry for her, [rjor thing ! whom I should have looked after better ; and I am very sorry indeed for you, Cilia ; but I must tell yon that to bury the poor girl next to j\Irs. Sandbrook, as your brother's wife, would be a Bcandal.' ' Don't speak so loud ; he will hear,' His mild face was nnwontedly impatient as he said, ' I can see how you gave in to the wish ; I don't blame you, but if yoa consider the example to the parish.' ' After what I told you in my letter, I don't see the evil of the example ; unless it be your esjirit de co7'ps about the registrar, and they could not well have requested you to officiate.' ' Cilia, you were always saucy, but this is no time for nonsense. You can't defend them.' ' Perhaps you are of your Squire's opinion — that the bad ex- ample was in the marrying her at all.' Mn Prendergast looked so much shocked that Lucilla felt a blusli rising, conscious that the tone of the society she liad of late lived with had rendered her tongue less guarded, her cheek less shamefaced than ei"st, but she galloped on to hide her con- fusion. ' Yon were their great cause. If you had not gone and frightened her, they might have philandered on all this time, till the whole aff;^ir died of its own silliness.' ' Yes, no one was so much to blame as I, I will trust no living creature again. My carelessness opened the way to temptation, and Heaven knows, Lucilla, I ha\e been infinitely more displeased with myself than with tliem.' ' Well, so am I with myself, for putting her in his way. Don t S2d hopes and feaks. let Tis torment ourselves with jdaying the game backwards again — 1 hate it. Let's see to the next.' ' That is what I came for. Now, Cilia, though I would gladly do what I could for poor Owen, just think what work it will make with the girls at Wrapworth, who are nonsensical enough already, to have this poor runaway brought back to be buried as the wife of a fine young gentleman.' ' Poor Edna's history is no encouragement to look out for fine young gentlemen.' ' They will know the fact, and sink the circumstances.' ' So you are so innocent as to think they don't know ! Depend upon it, every house in Wrapworth rings with it ; and wont it be more improving to have the poor thing's grave to point the moral ¥ ' Cilia, you are a little witch. You always have your way, but I don't like it. It is not the right one.' 'Not right for Owen to make full compensation? IMind, it is not Edna Murrell, the eloped schoolmistress, but Mrs. Sand- brook, whom her husband wishes to bury among his family.' * Poor lad, is he much cut up V * So much that I should hardly dare tell him if you had refused. He could not bear another indignity heaped on her, and a wound from you would cut deeper than from any one else. You should remember in judging him that he had no parent to disobey, and there was generosity in taking on him the risk rather than leave her to a broken heart and your tender mercy.' * I fear his tender mercy has turned oiit worse than mine ; but 1 am sorry for all he has brought on himself, poor lad 1' ' Shall I tiy whether he can see you V 'No, no; 1 had rather not. You say yonng Fulmort attends to him, and I could not speak to him with patience. Five o'clock, Saturday V ' Yea ; but that is not all. That poor child — Robert Ful- mort, you. and 1 must be sponsors.' ' Cilia, Cilia, how can I answer how it will be brought up V ' Some one must. Its father talks of leaving England, and it will be my charge. Will you not help me ? you who always luive helped me. My father's grandson ; you cannot refuse him, Mr. Pendy,' said she, using their old childish name for him. He yielded to the united influence of his rectoi''s daughter and the memory of his rector. Though no weak man, those two ajipeals always swayed him ; and Lucilla's air, spirited when she defended, soft when she grieved, was quite irresistible ; HOPES AND FEARS. 32? SO she gained her point, and felt restored td herself by the ex- ercise of power, and by making her wonted impression. Since one little dog had wagged his little tail, she 20 longer doubted ' If I be I ;' yet this only rendered her move nei'vously desirous of obtaining the like recognition from the other, and she posi- tively wearied after one of Robei't's old wistful looks. A tete-a-tete with him was necessary on many accounts, and she lay in wait to obtain a few moments alone with him in the study. He complied neither eagerly nor reluctantly, bowed his head without remark when she told him about the funeral, and took the sponsorship as a matter of course. ' Very well ; I suppose there is no one else to be found. Is it your brother's thought V ' I told him.' * So I feared.' * Oh ! Robert, we must takiB double cai'e for the poor little thing.' ' I will do my best,' he answered. Do you know what Owen intends V said Lucilla, in low, alarmed accents. ' He has told you 1 It is a wild jiurpose ] but I doubt whether to dissuade him, except for your sake,' he added, with his first softening towards her, like balm to the sore spot in her heart. * Never mind me, I can take care of myself,' she said, while the muscles of her throat ached and quivered with emotion. ' I would not detain him to be pitied and forgiven.' ' Do not send him away in pride,' said Robert, sadly. 'Am I not humbled enough?' she said ; and her drooping head and eye seemed to thrill him with their wonted power. One step he made towards her, but checked hiraj^elf, and said in a mattei*-of fact tone, ' Currie, the architect, has a brother, a civil engineer, just going out to Canada to lay out a railsvay. It might be an opening for Owen to go as his assistant^^unless you thought it beneath him.' These last words were caused by an uncontrollable look of disappointment. But it was not the proposal : no ; but the change of manner that struck her. The quiet indifferent voice was like water quenching a struggling spark, but in a moment she recovered her powers. ' Beneath him ! Oh, no. I told you we were humbled. I always longed for his independence, and I am glad that he should not go alone.' ' The work would siiit his mathematical and scientific tui-n. Then, since yon do not object, I will see whether he would like it, or if it be practicable in case Miss Charlecote should approve.' 323 HOPES AND FEARS. Robert seized this opportunity of concluding the interview. Lucy ran upstairs for the fierce quarter-deck walking that served her instead of tears, as an ebullition that tired down her feelings by exhaustion. Some of her misery was for Owen, but would the sting have been so acute had Robert Fultnort been more than the true friend 1 Phoebe's warning, given in that very room, seemed engraven on each ))anel. ' If you go on as you are doing now, he does not think it would be riwht for a clergyman.' Could Lucilla have looked through tlie floor, she would have seen Robert with elbows on the window-sill, and hands locktd over his knitted brows ; and could she have interpreted his short-drawn sighs, she v/ould have heard, ' Poor child ! poor child ! It is not coquetry. That was injustice. She loves me. She loves me still ! Why do I believe it only too late ? Why is this trial sent me, since I am bound to the scheme that pre- cludes my marriage 1 What use is it to see her as undisciplined — as unfit as ever 1 I know it ! I always knew it. But I feel still a traitor to her ! She had warning ! She trusted the power of my attachment in spite of my judgment ! Fickle to her, or a falterer to my higher pledge 1 Never ! I must let her see the position — crusli any hope — otherwise I cannot trust myself, nor deal fairly by her. Heaven help us both !' When they next met, Robert had |)ropounded his Canadian project, and Owen had caught at it. Idleness had never been his fault, and he wanted severe engrossing labour to stun pain and expel thought. He was urgent to know what standard of attainments would be needful, and finding Robert iirnorant on this head, seized his hat, and dashed out iu the casliaht to the nearest bookseller a lor a treatise on surveying. Robert was taken by surprise, or he might have gone too. He looked as if he meditated a move, but paused as Lucy said, 'Poor fellow, how glad he is of an object !' ' May it not be to his better feelings like sunshine to morning dew V said Robert, sigliing. ' I hear a very liigli character of Mr. Currie, and a right-minded, practical, scientiflc man may tell more on a dis])osition like his ' ' TJian parsons and women,' said Lucilla, with a gleam of her old arclmess. ' Exactly so. He must see religion iu the world, not out of it.' ' After all, I have not heard who is this Mr. Currie, and how vou know him.' HOPES AND FEARS. 829 'I know him through his brother, who is buikliug the church ill Cecily Row.' ' A church in Cecily Row ! St. Cecilia's 1 Who is doiug \l 1 Houor Cliai-lecote V ' No ] I am.' ' You ! Tell me all about it,' said Lucilla, leaning forward to listen with the eager air of interest which, when not half so earuest, had been always bewitchiug. Poor Robert looked away, and tried to think himself ex- plaining his scheme to the Archdeacon. ' The place is iu frightful disorder, fiUed with indescribable vice and misery, but there is a shadow of hope that a few may be worked on if sometliins: like a mission can be oriranized. Circumstances seemed to mark me out as the ]:)erson to be at the cost of setting it on foot, my fathers connexion witk the parish giving it a claim on me. So I purchased the first site that was in the market, and the buildings are in progress, chapel, schools, orphanage, and rooms for myself and two otlier clergy. When all the rest is provided for, there will remain about two hundred and fifty pounds a year — just enough for three of us, living together.' He durst not glance towards her, or he would have seen her cheek white as wax, and her eye seeking his in dismayed inquiry. There was a pause ; then she forced herself to falter — ' Yes. I suppose it is very right — vei'y grand. It is settled 1' * The Archdeacon has seen the plans, the Bishop has consented.' Long and deep was the silence that fell on both. Lucilla knew her fate as well as if his long coat had been a cowl. She would not, could not feel it yet. She must keep up appearances, so she fixed her eyes steadily on the drawing her idle hands were pei-petrating on the back of a letter, and appeared absorbed in shading a Turk's head. If Robert's motives had not been unmixed, if his zeal had been alloyed by temper, or his self-devotion by undutifulness ', if his haste had been self willed, or his judgment one-sided, this was an hour of retribution. Let her have all her faults, she was still the Lucy who had flown home to him for comfort. Ho felt as if he had dashed away the little bird that had sought refuge in his bosom. Fain would he have implored her pardon, but for the stern resolution to abstain from any needless word or look, such aa might serve to rivet the aflfection that ought to be withdrawn ; and he was too manly and unselfish to indulge in discussion or regret, too late as it was to change the course to which he had 8oO HOPES AND FEARS. offered himself and his means. To retract would have been a breach of promise — a hasty one, perhaps, but still an absolute vow publicly made ; aud in all his wretchedness he had at least the comfort of knov/ing the present duty. Afraid of last words, he would not even take leave until Owen came in upon their silence, full of animation and eager- ness to see how far his knowledge would serve him with the book that he had brouo;ht home. Robert then rose, and on Owen's pressing to know when he might see the engineer, promised to go in search of him the next day, but added that they must not expect to see himself till evening, since it would be a busy day. Lucilla stood up, but speech was impossible. She was in no mood to affect indifference, yet she could neither be angry nor magnanimous. She seemed to have parsed into a fresh stage of existence where she was not yet at home ; and in the same dreamy way she went on drawing Red Indians, till by a sudden impulse she looked up and said, ' Owen, why should not I come out with you V He was intent on a problem, and did not hear. ' Owen, take me with you ; I will make a home for you.' ' Eh V ' Owen, let me come to Canada, and take care of you and your child.' He burst out laughing. ' "Well done, Cilly ; that beats all !' * Am I likely to be in play V ' If not, you are crazy. As if a man could go surveying in the backwoods with a woman and a brat at his heels !' Lucy's heart seemed to die within her. Nothing was left to her : hopes and fears were alike extinct, and life a waste befoi-e her. Still and indifferent, she laid her do'mi at night, and awoke in the morning, wishing still to prolong the oblivion ot sleep. Anger with Robert would have been a solace, but his dejection forbade this ; nor could she resent his high-flown notions of duty, and deem herself their victim, since slie had Blighted fair warning, and repelled his attempts to address her. She saw no resource save the Holt, now more hopelessly dreary and distasteful tl-an ever, and she shrank both from writing to Honor, or ending her tantalizing intercourse with Robert. To watch over her brother was her only comfort, and one that must soon end. He remained immersed in trigonometry, and she was glad ho should be too much engrossed for the outbreaks of remorsefnl Borrow that were so terrible to witness, and carefully guarded him from all that could excite them. I HOPES AND FEARS. £31 Mrs. Mtirrell brought several letters that had been addressed to him at her house, and as Lucilla conveyed them to him, she thought their Oxford post-marks looked suspicious, especially as he thrust them aside with the back of his hand, returning without remark to A B and C D. Pi-esently a person asked to speak with Mr. Sandbrook ; and supposing it was on business connected with the funeral, Lucilla went to him, and was surprised at recognising tlie valet of one of the gentlemen who had stayed at Castle Blanch. He was urgent to see Mr. Sandbrook himself: bub she, resolved to avert all annoyances, refused to admit him, offering to take amesssage. * Was it from his master V 'Why, no, ma'am. In fact, I have left his lordship's service,' he said, hesitating. 'In point of fact, 1 am the principal. There was a little business to be settled with the young gentle- man when he came into his fortune ; and understanding that such was the case, since I heard of him as settled in life, I have brought my account.' ' You mistake the person. My brother has come into no fortune, and has no expectation of any.' 'Indeed, ma'am !' exclaimed the man. 'I always understood that Mr. Owen Charteris Sandbrook was heir to a considerable property.' ' What of that V ' Only this, ma'am, — that I hold a bond from that gentleman for the payment of 600?. upon the death of Miss Honora Charle- cote, of the Holt, Hiltonbury, whose property I understood was entailed on him.' His tone was still respectful, but his hand shook with suppressed rage, and his eye was full of pas- sion. 'Miss Charlecote is not dead,' steadily answered Lucilla. 'She is in perfect health, not fifty years old, and her pro- perty is entirely at her own disposal.' Either the man's wrath was beyond control, or he thought it his interest to terrify the lady, for he broke into angry com- plaints of being swindled, with menaces of exposure ; but Lucilla, never deficient in courage, preserved ready thought and firm demeanour. ' You had better take care,' she said. * My brother is under age, and not liable. If you should recover what you have lent him, it can only be from our sense of honesty. Leave me your address and a copy of the bond, and I give you my word that you shall receive your due.' The valet, grown rich in the service of a careless master, and richer by money-lending ti'ansactions with his master's friends. S.'>2 HOPES AND FEARS. knew Miss Sanrlbrook, and was aware that a lady's word miglifc be safer than a spendthrift's bond. He tried swaggering, iu tlie hope of alarming her into a jiromise to fulfil his demand unin- vestigated ; but she was on her guard ; and lie, reflecting that she must probably apply to others for the means of paying, gave her the papers, and freed her from his [>resence. Freed lier from his presence ! Yes, but oidy to leave her to the consciousness of the burthen of shame he had brought her. Slie saw why Owen thought himself past pardon. Speculation on the death of his benefactress ! Borrowing on an iidieritance that he had been forbidden to expect. Double-dyed deceit and baseness ! Yesterday, she had said they were humbled enough. This was not humiliation, it was degradation ! It was far too intolerable for standing still and feeling it. Lucilla's impetuous impulses always became her obstinate resolutions, and herpi'ide rebounded to its height in the determination that Owen should leave England in debt to no man, were it at the cost of all she possessed. Pie-enterinsf the drawinor room, she had found that Owen had thrust the obnoxious letters into the waste-basket, each un- opened envelope, with the contents, rent down the middle. She sat down on the floor, and took them out, saying, as she met his eye, ' I .shall take these. I know what they are. They are my concern.' ' Folly !' he muttered. ' Don't you know I have the good luck to be a minor V ' That is no excuse for dishonesty.' 'Look at home before you call names,' .said Owen, growing enraged. 'Before you act spy on me, I should like to know who jiaid for your fine salmon-fly gown, and all the rest of it V ' I never contracted debts in the trust that my age would enable me to defraud my creditor^.' ' Who told you that I did ! I tell you, Lucilla, I'll endure HO such conduct ft-om you. No sister has a right to say such things !' and starting uj), his furious stamp shook the floor she sat u[)on, so close to her that it was as if the next would demolish her. She did not move, except to look up all the length of the tall figure over her into the passion-flushed face. 'I should neither have .said nor thought so, Owen,' she replied. ' I should have imputed these debts to mere heedless extravagance, like other peojjle's — like my own, if you please — save for your own words, and for finding you capalde of such treachery as borrow- ing on a posi-oblt.'' JIo walked about furiously, stammering interrogations ou HOPES AND FEARS. 833 t1ie mode of her discovery, and, as she exphiined, storming at her for having brought tliis dovrn on him by the folly of putting * that thing into the Times.'' Why could she not have stayed away, instead of meddling where she was not wanted ? ' I thought myself wanted when my brother was in trouble,' said Lucilla, mournfully, raising her face, which she had bent between her hands at the first swoop of the tempest. 'Heaven knows, I had no thought of spying, I came to stand by your wife, and comfort you. I only learnt all this in trying to shield you from intrusion. Oh, would that I knew it not ! Would that 1 could think of you as I did an hour ago ! Oh, Owen, though 1 have never shared your fondness for Honor Charlecote, I thought it genuine ; I did not scorn it as fortune-hunting.' ' It was not ! It never was !' cried the poor boy. * Honor ! Poor Honor ! Lucy, I doubt if I could have felt for my mother as I do for her. Oh, if you could guess how I long for her dear voice in my ears, her soft hand on my head — ' and he sank into his chair, hiding his face and sobbing aloud. 'Am I to believe that, when — ' began Lucilla, slowly. ' The last resoui-ce of desperation,' cried Owen. ' What could I do with such a drain upon me ; the old woman for ever clamouring for money, and threatening exposure 1 IMy allowance ? Poor Honor meant well, but she gave ras just enough to promote exjjensive habits without su]»plying them. There was nothing to fall back on — except the ways of the Castle Blanch folk.' ' Betting ? He nodded. 'So when it weiat against me, and people would have it that I had expectations, it was not for me to contradict them. It was their business, not mine, to look out for them- tielves, and pretty handsomely they have done so. It would have been a very different percentage if I had been an eldest son. As it is, my bond is — what is it for, Lucy V ' Six hundred.' * How much do you think I have touched of that 1 Not two ! Of that, three-fourths went to the harpies I fell in with at Paris, under Charles's ausj)ices — and five-and-twenty there' — pointing in the direction of Whittington Street. ' Will the man be satisfied with the two hundred V ' Don't he wish he may get it ? But, Lucy, you are not to make a mess of it. 1 give you v/arning I shall go, and never be heard of more, if Honor is applied to.' I had rather die than do so.' ' You are not frantic enough to want to do it out of your ov/u iiioney 1 I say, give me those papers.' 334! HOPES AND FEARS. He stooped and stretched out the powerful hand and arm, which when only half-grown had been giant-like in struggles with his tiny sister ; but she only laid her two hands on the paper, with just sufficient resistance to make it a matter of strength on his side. They were man and woman, and what availed his muscles against her will 1 It came to parley. * iSTow, Lucy, I have a right to tliiuk for you. As your biother, I cannot permit you to throw your substance to the dogs.' ' As your sister, I cannot allow you to rest dishonoured.' ' Not a whit more than any of your chosen friends. Every man leaves debts at Oxford. The extortion is framed on a soale to be unpaid.' ' Let it be ! There shall be no stain on the name that once was my father's, if there be on the whole world beside.' ' Then,' with some sulkiuess, 'you wont be content without beggaring me of my trumpery twenty-five hundred as soon as I am of age V ' Not at all. Your child mnst live on that. Only one person can pay your debts without dishonouring you, and that is your elder sister.' ' Ekler donkey,' was the ungrateful answer. * Why, what would become of you 1 You'd have to be beholden to Honor for the clothes on your back !' ' I shall not go back to Honor ; I shall earn my own live- lihood.' ' Lucilla, are you distracted, or is it your object to make me sol' ' Oidy on one condition could I return to the Holt,' said Lucilla, resolutely. ' If Honor would freely offer to receive your son, I would go to take care of him. Except for his sake, I had rather slie would not. I will not go to be crushed with ])ardou and obligation, while you are proscribed. I will be independent, and help to support the boy.' ' Sure,' muttered Owen to himself, * Lucifer is her patron saint. If I looked forward to anything, it was to her going home tame enough to make some amends to poor, dear Sweet Honey, but I might as well have hoped it of the i)anther of the wilderness ! I declare I'll write to Honor this minute.' He drew the paper before him. Lucilla started to her feet, looking more disgusted and discomfited than by any former shock. However, she managed to restrain any dissuasion, knowing that it was the only right and proper step in his power, and that she could never have looked Robert in the face a^'aiu hud she prevented the confession j but it was a bitter pill ; " He drew the paiier before liira. Lucilla .started to her feet."— rage 384. HOPES AND FEARS. 335 ftbove all, that it should be made for her sake. She rushed away, as usual, to fly up aud down her room. She might have spared herself that agony. Owen's resolu- tion failed him. He could not bring himself to make the beginning, nor to couple the avowal of his offence with such pre- sumption as an entreaty for his child's adoption, though he knew his sister's impulsive obstinacy well enough to be convinced that she would adliei'e pertinaciously to this condition. Faltering after the first line, he recuix-ed to his former plan of postponing his letter till his plans should be so far matured that he could show that he would no longer be a pensioner on the bounty of his benefactress, and that he sought pardon for the sake of no matei'ial advautasre. He knew that Kobert had intimated his intention of writing after the funeral, and by this he would abide. Late in the evening Robert brought the engineer's answer, that he had no objection to take out a pupil, and would pro- vide board, lodging, and travelling expenses ; but he required a considerable premium, and for three years would offer no salary. His standard of acquirements was high, but such as rather stimulated than discouraged Owen, who was delighted to find that an appointment had been made for a personal interview on the ensuing Monday. It was evident that if these tei'ms were accepted, the debts, if paid at all, must come out of Lucilla's fortune. Owen's own portion would barely clothe him and afford the merest pittance for his child until he should be able to earn something after his three years' apprenticeship. She trusted that he was convinced, and went upstairs some degrees less forlorn for having a de- cided plan ; but a farther discovery awaited her, and one that concerned herself Ou her bed lay the mourning for which she had sent, tasteful and expensive, in her usual complete style, and near it an enve- lope. It flashed on her that her order had been dangerously un- limited, and she opened the cover in trejudation, but what was her dismay at the double, treble, quadruple foolscap 1 The present articles were but a fraction to the dreadful aggregate — the sum total numbered hundreds I In a dim hope of error she looked back at the items, 'Black lace dress : Dec. 2nd, 1852.' — She understood all. It dated from the death of her aunt. Pre- viously, her wardi'obe had been replenished as though she had been a daughter of the house, aud nothing had marked the difference ; indeed, the amply pi'ovided Horatia had probably intended that thin£;s were to so on as usual. Lucilla had been allowed co forget the existence of accounts, in a family which SS6 HOPES AND FEA1?S. habitually ignored them. Things had gone smoothly ; the beau- tiful little Miss Sandbrook was an advertisement to her milliners, and living among wealthy people, and reportrd to be on the verge of rasxriage with a millionaire, there had been no hesitation iu allowing her unlimited credit. Probably tlie dressmaker had been alarmed by the long absence of the family, and might have learnt from the servants how Lucilla had quitted them, therefore thinking it expedient to remind lier of her liabilities. And not only did the present spectacle make her giddy, but she knew there was worse beyond. The Frenchwoman who supplied all extra adornments, among them the ball-dress whose far bitterer price she was paying, could make more appalling demands ; and there must be other debts elsewhere, such that she doubted whether her entire fortune would clear both her brother and herself. What was the use of thinking 1 It must be done, and the sooner she knew the worst the better. She felt very ill-used, certain that her difficulties were caused by Iloratia's inattention, aiid yet glad to be quit of an obligation that would have galled her as soon as she had become sensible of it. It was more than ev^er clear that she must work for herself, instead of returning to the Holt, as a dependent instead of a guest. Was she humbled enough ? The funeral day began by her writing notes to claim her bills, and to take steps to get her capital into lier own hands. Owen drowned reflection in geometry, till it was time to go by the train to W^rapworth. There Mr. Prendergast fancied he had secured secresy by eluding questions and giving orders at the latest possible moment. The concourse in the church and churchyard was no welcome .•^iglit to him, since he could not hope that the tall figure of the chief mourner could reniain unrecognised. Worthy man, did he think that Wrapworth needed that sight to assure them of what each tongue had wagged about fi>r many a day 1 Owen behaved very properly and with much feeling. When not driving it out by other things, the fact was paljjable to him that he had brought this feir young creature to her grave ; and in the very scenes where her beauty and enthusiastic atTectiou had captivated him, association revived his earlier admiration, and swept away his futile apoh\gy that she had brought the whole upon herself. A gust of ]»ity, love, and remorse convulsed ])is frame, and though too jn-oud to give way, his restrained anguish touched every heai't, and almost earned him Mr. Pren- deryast's forgiveness. Before going away, Lucilla privately begged j\Ir. Prendergast HOPES AND FEARS. 8:17 to come to town on Monday, to help her in some business. It happened to suit him particulai'ly well, as he was to be in London lor the greater part of the week, to raei-t some country cousins, and the appointment was made without her committing herself by saying for what she wanted him, lest I'eflecLion should convert him into an obstacle ins lead of an assistant. The intervening Sunday, with Ov/en on her hands, was for- midable to her imagination, but it turned out better than she expected. He asked her to walk to Westminster Abbey with him, the time and distance being an object to both, and he treated her with such gentle kindness, that she began to feel that something more svveet and precious than she had yet known from him might spring up, if they were not forced to separate. Once, on rising from kneeling, she saw him stealthily brushing oft' his tears, and his eyes wei-e heavy and swollen, but, softened as she lelt, his tone of feelings was a riddle beyond her power, between their keenness and their petulance, their manly depth and boyish levity, their remorse and their recklessness ; and when he tried to throw them off, she could not but follow his lead. * I suppose,' he said, late in the day, ' we shall mortify Fulmort if we don't go once to his shop. Otherwise, I like the article in style.' *I am glad you should like it at all,' said Lucy, anxiously. * I envy those who, like poor dear Honor, or that little Phoebe, can find life in the driest form,' said Owen. ' They would say it is our fault that we cannot find it.' ' Honor would think it her duty to say so. Phoebe has a wider range, and would be more logical. Is it our fault or mis- fortune that our ailments can't be cured by a paring of St. Bridget's thumb-nail, or by any nostrum, sacred or profane, that really cures their votaries 1 I regard it as a misfortune. Those are happiest who believe the most, and are eternally in a state in which their faiih is working out its effects upon them mentally and physically. Happy people !' 'Eeally I think, unless you were one of those happy people, ifc is no more consistent in you to go to chui'ch than it would be in mc to set up Rashe's globules.' ' No, don't tell me so, Lucy. There lie all my best associa- tions. I venerate what the great, the good, the beloved receive as their blessing and inspiration. Sometimes I can assimilate myself, and catch an echo of what was happiness when I was a child at Honor's knee.' The tears had welled into his eyes again, and he hurried away. z 838 HOPES AND FEARS. Lucilla had faitli (or rather acquiescence) without feeling. Feeling without faith was a mystery to her. How much Oweji believed or disbelieved she knew not, probably he could not liimself have told. It was more uncertainty than denial, rather dislike to technical dogma than positive unbelief; and yet, with his predilections all ou the side of faith, she could not, woman-like, understand why they did not bring his reason with them. After all, she decided, in her ofi'hand fashion, that there was quite enough that was distressing and perplexing without concerning herself about them ! Style, as Owen called it, was more attended to than formerly at St. Wulstan's, but was not in perfection. Robert, whose ear was not his strong point, did not shine in intoning, and the other curate preached. The impression seemed only to have weakened that of the morning, for Owen's remarks on coming out were on the English habit of having overmuch of every- thing, and on the superior sense of foreigners in holiday-making, instead of making a conscience of stultifying themselves with double and ti;iple church-going. Cilia agreed in part, but owned that she was glad to have done •with Continental Sundays that had left her feeling good for nothing all the week, just as she had felt when once, as a child, to spite Honor, she had come down without saying her prayers. 'The burthen bound on her conscience by English prejudice,' said her brother, adding 'that this was the one oppressive edict of popular theology. It was mere self-defence to say that the dulness was Pui-itanical, since the best Anglican had a cut-and- dried pattern for all others.' ' But surely as a fact, Sunday observance is the great safeguard. All goes to the winds when that is given up.' * The gr-eater error to have rendered it grievous.' Lucilla had no reply. She had not learnt the joy of the week's Easter-day. It had an habitual awe for her, not sacred delight; and she could not see that because it was one point where religion taught the world that it had laws of its own, besides those of mere experience and morality, therefore the world com^^jlained, and would fain shake off the thraldom. Owen relieved her by a voluntary proijosal to turn down Whittington-street, and see the child. Perhaps he had an inkling that the chapel in Cat-alley would be in full jjlay, and that the small maid would be in charge ; besides it was gas-light, and the lodgers would be out. At any rate softening was growing on him. He looked long and sorrowfully at the babe in its cradle, and at last, — HOPES AND FEAKS. S33 * He will never be like her.' ' No ; and I tlo not thiuk him like yon.' *In fact, it is an ugly little mortal,' said Owen, after another investigation. ' Yet, it's very odd, Lucy, I should like him to live.' ' Very odd, indeed !' she said, nearly laughing. ' Well, I own, before ever I saw him, when they said he would die, I did think it was best for hinaself, and every one else. So, may be, it would ; biit you see I shouldn't like it. He will be a horrible expense, and it will be a great bore to know what to do with him : so absurd to have a son only twenty years j^ounger than oneself : but I think I like him, after all. It is something to work for, to make up to him for what she suftered. And I say, Lucy,' his eye brightened, 'perhaps Honor will take to Mm ! What a thing it would be if he turned out all she hoped of me, poor thing ! I would be banished for life, if he could be in ray place, and make it up to her. He might yet have the Holt !' ' You have not proposed sending him to her f ' No, I am not so cool,' he sadly answered ; * but she is capable of anything in an impulse of forgiveness.' He spent the evening over his letter ; and, in spite of his sitting with his back towards his sister, she saw more than one sheet spoilt by large tears ixnperceived till they dropped, and felt a jealous pang in recognising the force of his affection for Honor. That love and compassion seemed contemptible to hei", they were so inconsistent with his deception and disobedience ; and she was impatient of seeing that, so far as he felt his errors at all, it was in their aspect towards his benefactress. His ingratitude towards her touched him in a more tender paittlian his far greater errors towards his wife. The last was so shocking and appalling, that he only half realized it, and, boy-like, threw it from him ; the other came home to the fondness that had been with him all his life, and which he missed every hour in his grief Lucy positively dreaded his making such subniission or betraying such sorrow as might bring Honora down on them full of pardon and beneficence. At least, she had the satisfac- tion of hearing ' I've said nothing about you, Cilia.' ' That's right !' ... 'Nor the child,' he continued, brushing up his hair from his brow. ' When I came to go over it, I did hate myself to such a degree that I could not say a word like asking a favour.' Lucy was gi-eatly relieved. He looked like himself when he came down to breakfast exhi- larated by the restoration to activity, and the o}>euing of a new z -I y 840 HOPE'S AND FEARS. path, though there was a subdued, grave look on his young brow not unsuited to his deep mourning. He took up his last evening's production, looked at it with some satisfaction, and observed, ' Sweet old Honey ! I do hope that letter may be a little comfort to her good old heart !' Then he told that he had been dreaming of her looking into the cradle, and he could not tell whether it were liimself or the bo}' that he had seen sitting on a haycock at Hiltonbury. ' Who knows bxit it may be a good omen,' said he in his sanguine state. ' You said you would go to her, if she took the child.' ' 1 did not say I would not.' ' Well, don't make difficulties ; pray don't, Lucilla. I want nothing for myself; but if I could see you and the child at the Holt, and hear her dear voice say one word of kindness, I could go out happy. Imagine if she should come to town !' Lucilla had no mind to imagine any such thing. CHAPTER XIII. An upper and a lower spiiug To thee, to all are given : They mingle not, apart they gleam, Tlie joys of earth, of heaven on high ; God grant thee grace to choose the spring, Even before the nether spring is dry. M. ^/^NE moment, Phoebe, I'll walk a little way with you ;' and \J Honor Charlecote, tlirowing on bonnet and scarf, hurried from the drawing-room whei-e Mrs. Saville was woikiug. In spite of that youthful run, and girlish escape from 'com- pany' to a confidante, the last fortnight had left deep traces. Every iucii)ient furrow had become visible, the cheeks had fallen, the eyes sunk, the features grown prominent, and the aubui-n curls were streaked with silver threads never previously per- ce])tible to a casual eye. While languid, mechanical talk was passing, Phoebe, had been mourning over the change ; but she found her own Miss Charlecote restoi'ed in the freer manner, the long sigh, the tender grasp of the arm, as soon as they were in the open air. ' PliOibe,' almost in a whisper, ' I have a letter from him.' Phoebe pressed her arm, and looked her symi)athy. ' Sucli a nice letter,' ndded Honor. ' I'oor fellow! he has Buflerud so much. Should you like to see it V HOPES AND FEARS. 341 Owen had not figured to himself what e3'es -would peruse his letter ; but Honor was in too much need of sympathy to with- hold the sight from the only person who she could still hope would be touched. ' You see he asks nothing, nothing,' she wistfully pleaded. * Only pardon ! Not to come home ; nor anything.' * Yes ; surely, that is real contrition.' ' Surely, surely it is : yet they are not satisfied — Mr. Saville and Sir John. They say it is not full confession ; but you .see he does refer to the rest. He says he has deeply offended in other ways.' ' The rest V ' You do not know. I thought your brother had told you. No? Ah ! Robert is his friend. Mr. Saville went and found it out. It was very right of him, I believe. Quite right I should know : but ' ' Dear Miss Chai'lecote, it has pained you terribly.' ' It is what young men do ; but I did not expect it of him. Expensive habits, debts, I could have borne, especially with the calls for money his poor wife must have caused ; but I don't know how to believe that he gave himself out as my heir, and obtained credit on that account — a bond to be paid on my death!' Phoebe was too much shocked to answer. ' As soon as Mr. Saville heard of these troubles,' continited Honor, 'as, indeed, I put all into his hands, he thought it right I should know all. He went to Oxford, found out all that was against poor Owen, and then proceeded to London, and saw the lawj'er in whose hands Captain Charteris had left those children's affairs. He was very glad to see Sir. Saville, for he thought Miss Sandbrook's friends ought to know what she was doing. So it came out thatLucilla had been to him, insisting on selling out nearly all her fortune, and paying off with part of it this horrible bond.' 'She is paying his debts, rather than let you hear of them.' * And they are very angry with him for permitting it ; as if he or anybody else had any power to stop J-iUcy ! I know as well as possible that it is she who will not let him confess and make it all open with me. And yet, after this, what right have I to say I know ? How little I ever knew that boy ! Yes, it is right it should be taken out of my hands— my blindness has done harm enough already ; but if I had not bound myself to forbear, I could not help it, when I see the Saviiles so much set against him. I do not know that they are more severe in action than — than perhaps they ought to be, but they will not \et me pity him.' 842 HOPES AND FEARS. ' Tlicy ought not to dictate to you,' said Phoebe, indignantly. * Dictate [ Oh, no, my dear. If you covild only hear his com- pliments to my discretion, you would know he was thinking all the time there is no fool like an old fool. No, 1 don't complain. I have been wilful, and weak, and blind, and these are the fruits 1 It is right that others should judge for him, and I deserve that they should come and guard me ; though, when I think of such untruth throughout, I don't feel as if there were danger of my ever being more than sorry for him.' * It is worse than the marriage,' said Phojbe, thoughtfully. * There micht have been generous risk in that. This was — oh, very nearly treachery ! No wonder Lucy tries to hide it ! I hope never to say a word to her to show that I am aware of it.' ' She is coming home, then V * She must, since she has broken with the Charterises ; but she has never written. Has Robert mentioned \\evV ' Never ; he writes veiy little.' ' I long to know how it is with him. Now that he has signed his contract, and made all his arrangements, he cannot retract; but — but we shall see,' said Honor, with one gleam of playful hope. • If she should come home to me ready to submit and be gentle, there might be a chance yet. I am sure he is poor Owen's only real friend. If I could only tell you half my gratitude to him for it ! And I will tell you what Mr. Saville has actually consented to my doing — I may give Owen enough to cover his premium and outfit ; and I hope that may set him at ease in providing for his child for the pre- sent from his own means, as he ought to do.' * Poor little thing ! what will become of it V ' He and his sister must arrange,' said Honor, hastily, as if silencing a yearning of her own. ' I do not need the Savilles to tell me I must not take it off their hands. The responsibility may be a blessing to him, and it would be wrong to I'elieve him of a penalty in the natural course of Providence.' 'There, now you have put it into my head to think what a pleasure it would be to you ' ' I have done enough for my own pleasure, Phoebe. Had you only seen that boy when I had him first from his father, and tliought him too much of the angel to live !' There was a long pause, and Htuior at length exclaimed, ' 1 see the chief reason the Savilles came here !' ' Why V ' To hinder my seeing him before he goes.' * I am sure it would be sad pain to you,' cvied Phoebe, de- precatingly. HOPES AND FEAES. 843 'l don't know. He must not come here ; but since I Lave had this letter, 1 have longed to go up for one day, see him, and bring Lucy home. Mr. Saville might go with me. You don't favour it, Phcebe 1 Would Robert f ' Robert would like to have Owen comforted,' said Phcebe, slowly J ' but not if it only made it worse pain for you. Dear Miss Charlecote, don't you think, if the worst had been the marriage, you would have tried everything to comfort him, but now that there is this ot"her horrid thing, this presuming on yoar kindness, it seems to me as if you could not bear to see him T ' When I think of their enmity and his sorrow, I feel drawn thither ; but when this deception comes before me, I had rather not look in his face again. If he petted me I should think he was taking me in again. He has Robert, he has his sister, and I have promised to let Mr. Saville judge. I think JNIr. Saville would let me go if Robert said I ought.' Phcebe fondled her, and left her relieved by the outpouring. Poor thing ! after mistakes which she supposed egregious in proportion to the consequences, and the more so because she knew her own good intentions, and could nqt understand the details of her errors, it was an absolute rest to delegate her authority, even tliough her affections revolted against the severity of the judge to whom she had delivered herself and her boy. One comfort was that he had been the adviser chosen for her by Humfrey. In obeying him, she put herself into Humfrey's hands ; and remembering the doubtful ai)proval with which her cousin had regarded her connexion with the children, and his warnings against her besetting sin, she felt as if the whole was the continuation of the mistake of her li!e, her conceited dis- regard of liis broad homely wisdom, and as if the only atone- ment in her power was to submit patiently to Mr. Saville'a advice. And in truth his measures were not harsh. He did not want to make the young man an outcast, only to prevent advantage beiu.g taken of indulgence which he overrated. It was rather his wife wlio was oppressive in her desire to make Miss Charle- cote see things in a true light, and teach her, what she could never learn, to leave off" loving and pitying. Even this was perhaps better for her than a solitude in which she might have preyed upon herself, and debated over every step in conscious darkness. Before her letter was received, Owen had signed his agree- ment with the engineer, and was preparing to sail in a fort- o4i HOPES AND FEARS. niglifc. He w.is disappointed and humiliated that Honor shonhl have been made aware of what he liad meant to conceal, but lie could still see that he was mercifully dealt with, and was touched by, and thankful for, the warm personal forgiveness, whicli he liad sense enough to feel, even though it brought no relaxation of the punishment. Lucy was positively glad of the non-fufilment of the condition that would have taken her back to the Holt ; and without seeing the letter, had satisfaction in her resentment at Honor for turning on Owen vindictively, after having spoilt him all his life. He silenced her summarily, and set out for his preparations. She had already carried out her project of clearing him of his liabilities. Mr. Prendergast had advised her strongly to con- tent herself with the 2}ost obit, leaving the rest to be gradually liquidated as the means should be obtained ; but her wilful determination was beyond reasoning, and by tyrannical coaxing she bent him to her will, and obliged him to do all in which she could not be prominent. Her own debts were a sorer subject, and she grudged the vain expenses that had left her destitute, without even the power of writing grandly to Horatia to pay off her share of the foreign ex2:)enditure. She had, to Mr. Prendergast's great horror, told him of her governess plan, but had proceeded no further in the matter than studying the advertisements, until finding that Honor only invited her, and not her nephew, home to the Holt, she proceeded to exhale her feelings by composing a sentence for the Times. ' As Governess, a Lady ' * Mr. Prendergast.' Reddening, and abruptly hasty, the curate entered, and sitting down without a word, applied himself to cutting his throat with an ivory paper-knife. Lucilla began to s]ieak, but at her first word, as though a spell were broken, he exclaimed, * Cilly, ai'e you still thinking of that ridiculous nonsense?' ' Going out as a governess 1 Look there ;' and she held up her writing. He groaned, gave himself a slice under each ear, and viciously bit the end of the paper-knife. ' You are going to recommend me V she said, with a coaxing look. 'You know I think it a monstrous thing.' ' But you know of a place, and will help me to it !' cried she, cla|iping her hands. 'Dear goo;l ]Mr. Pendy, always a friend in need !' 'Well, if you will have it so. It is not so bad as strangers. HOPES AND FEARS. 845 There's George's wife come to town to see a governess for little fearali, and she wont do.' ' Shall I do V asked Lncilla, with a droll shake of her sunny hair. 'Yes. I know you would vouch for me as tixtoress to all Llie Princesses ; able to teach the physical sciences, the guitar, and Ai'abic in three lessons ; but if Mrs. Prendergast be the woman I imagine, much she will believe you. Aren't they inordinately clever V ' Little Sarah is — let me see — quite a child. Her father did teach her, but he has less time in his new parish, and they think she ought to have more accomplishment, polish, and such like.' 'And imagine from the specimen before them that I must be an adept at polishing Prendergas-ts.' 'Now, Cilia, do be serious. Tell me if all this meant nothing, and I shall be very glad. If you were in earnest, I could not be so well satisfied to see you anywhere else. You would find Mrs. Prendergast quite a mother to you.' ' Only one girl ! I wanted a lot of riotous boys, but beggai's must not be choosers. This is just right — people out of the way of those who knew me in my palmy days, yet not absolute strangers.' ' That was what induced me — they are so much interested about you, Cilia.' ' And you have made a fine heroic story. I should not wonder if it all broke down when the parties met. When am I to be trotted out for inspection V ' Why, I told her if I found you i-eally intended it, and had time. I would ask you to drive to her with me this morning, and then no one need know anything about it,' he said, almost with tears in his eyes. ' That's right,' cried Lucilla. * It will be settled before Owen turns up. I'll get ready this instant. I say,' she added at the door, ' housemaids always come to be hired minus crinoline and flowers, is it the same with governesses V ' Cilia, how can you V said her friend, excessively distressed at the inferior position, but his depression only inspired her with a reactionary spirit of mischief. ' Crape is inoffensive, but my hair ! What shall I do with it 1 Does Mrs. Prendergast hold the prejudice against pretty governesses V ' She would take Venus herself if she talked no nonsense ; but I don't believe you are in earnest,' growled the curate, angry at last. ' That is encouragement !' cried Lucilla, flying off laughing 846 HOPES AND FEARS. that sLe might hide from herself her own nervousness and dismay at this sudden step into the hard verity of self-de- pendence. She could not stop to consider what to say or do, her refuge was always in the impromptu, and she was far more bent on forcing Mr. Prendei'gast to smile, and distracting herself from her one aching desire that the Irish journey had never been, tlian of forming any plan of action. In walking to the cab stand they met Robert, and exchanged greetings ; a sick faint- ness came over her, but she talked it down, and her laugh sounded in his ears when they had passed on. Yet when the lodgings were reached, the sensation recurred, her breath came short, and she could hardly conceal her trembling. No one was in the room bixt a lady who would have had far to seek for a governess less beavitiful than herself. In- significance was the first idea she inspired, motherliness the second, the third that she was a perfect lady, and a sensible woman. After shaking Lucilla kindly by the hand, and seating her on the sofa, she turned to her cousin, saying, ' Sarah and her papa are at the National Gallery, I wish you would look for them, or they will never be in time for luncheon.' ' Luncheon is not for an hour and a half.' ' But it is twenty minutes' walk, and they will forget food and overytliing else unless you keep them in order.' ' I'll go presently ;' but he did uot.move, only looking piteous while Mrs. Prendergast began talking to Lucilla about the pictures, until she, recovering, detected the state of affairs, and exclaimed with her ready grace and abruptness, 'Now, Mr. Prendergast, don't you see how much you are in the way'?' * A plain truth, Peter,' said his cousin, laughing. Lucy stept forward to him, saying affectionately, ' Please go ; you can't help me, and I am sure you may trust me witli Mrs. Prendergast ;' and she stretched out a hand to the lady with an irresistible child-like gesture of confidence.' ' Dt)n't you think you may, Peter V asked Mrs. Prendergast, holding tlie hand ; * you shall find her here at luncheon. I wont do anyt};ing to her.' The good curate groaned himself off, and Lucy felt so much restored that slie had almost forgotten that it was not an ordi- nary call. Indeed she had never yet heard a woman's voice that thus attracted and softened her. Mrs. Prendergast needed not to be jealous of Venus, while she had such tenderness in her manner, such winning force in her tone. ' Tliat was well done,' she said. ' Talking would have been impossible, while he sat looking on 1' HOPES AND FEARS. S4-7 * 1 am afraid lie has given far too good an account of me,' said Lncy, in a low and ti-embling voice. ' His account comes from one wlio has known you from baby- hood.' ' And spoilt me from babyhood !' ' Yes, Sarah knows what Cousin Peter can do in that line. He had little that was new to tell us, and what he had was of 4 kind •' She broke off, choked by tears. What she liad heard of the girl's self-devotion touched her trebly at the sight of one so small, young, and soft-looking. And if she had ever been dubious of ' Peter's pet,' she was completely fascinated. ' I must not be taken on his word,' said Cilia, smiling. * No, that would not be right by any of us.' * Then pray be very hard with me — as a thorough sti-anger.' * But I am so inexperienced. I have only had one interview with a governess.' 'And what did she do?' asked Lucilla, as both recovered from a laugh. ' She gave so voluble an account of her acquirements and re- quirements, that I was quite alarmed.' ' Pm sure I can't do that. I don't know what I can do.' A pause, broken by Lucy, wlio began to feel that she had more of the cool readiness of the great world. 'How old is your daughter T ' Nearly fifteen. While we had our small parish in Sussex we taught her ourselves, and her father brought her on in Latin and Euclid. Do you know anything of those. Miss Sand- brook 1 not that it signifies.' ' Miss Charlecote used to teach me with my brother. I have forgotten, but I could soon get them up again.' ' They will hardly be wanted, but Sarah will respect you for them. Now, at Southmiuster, our time is so taken up that l)Oor Sarah gets neglected, and it is very trying to an eager, diligent girl to prepare lessons, and have them continually put off, so we thouglit of indulging her with a governess, to bring her on in some of the modern languages and accomplishments that have grown rusty with us.' ' I think I could do that,' said Lucilla. ' I believe I know what other people do, and my languages are fresh from the Con- tinent. Ought I to give you a specimen of my pronunciation V ' Pray don't,' laughed Mrs. Prendergast. ' You know Ijctter than I what is right, and must prepare to be horrified by the Bounds you will hear.' ' I ought to have brought my sketches I had two years of lessons from S .' 3-iS HOPES AND FEARS. ' Sarali is burning for teacliiug iu that line. Music 1 Dr. Prendergast likes the grand old pieces, and hardly cares for modern ones.' ' I hardly played anything newer than Mozart at Hiltonbury. Miss Charlecote taught me very well, I believe, and I had lessons from the organist from Elverslope, besides a good deal in the fashionable line since. I have kept that up. One wants it.' There was another shy pause, and Lucilla growing more scrupulous and more confidential, volunteered, — 'Mine has been an idle life since I came out. I am three-and-twenty now, and have been diligently forgetting for tlie last six years. Did you know that I had been a fast young lady !' But things had come to such a pass, that say what she would, all passed for ingenuous candour and humility, and the answer was, — ' I know that you have led a very trying life, but to have passed through such unscathed, is no disadvantage.' ' If I have,' said Lucy, sadly. Mrs. Prendergast, who had learned all the facts of Lucilla's history through the Wrapworth medium, knew only the heroic Bide of her character, and admired her the more for her diffi- dence. So when terras were spoken of, the only fear on the one side was, that such a treasure must be beyond her raeans ; on the other, lest what she needed for her nephew's sake might deprive her of such a home. However, seventy pounds a year proved to be in the thoughts of both, and the preliminaries ended with, ' I hope you will find my little Sarah a pleasant companion. She is a good girl, and intelligent, but you must be pi-(!pared for a few angles.' ' I like angles. I don't care for commonplace people.' ' I am afraid that you will find many such at Southminster. "We cannot promise you the society you have been used to.' 'I am tired of society. I have had six years of it !' and she sighed. ' You nuTst fix your own time,' said Mrs. Prendergast ; 'and indeed we will try to make you at home.' 'My brother will be gone in a fortnight,' said Lucilla. * After that 1 should like to come straight to you.' Her tone and look made those two last words not merely chez vous, but to ^ou, individually — to you, kind one, who will comfort me after the crmsl parting. J\lrs. Prendei-gast put her arm round her and kissed her. ' Don't,' said Lucilla, with the sweetest April face. * I can't bear being made foolish.' HOPES AND FEARS. S49 Nevertheless Mrs. Prendergast showed such warm interest in all her concerns, that she felt only that she had acquired a dear friend by the time the others came in, father and daughter comjolaining, tlie one gaily, the other dolefully, that Cousin Peter had so hunted them that they could look at nothing in peace. Indeed lie was in such a state of rewtlcss misery, tliafc Mrs. Prendergast, in compassion to him, sent her daughter to dress, called her husband away, and left the i)lace clear for hira to say, in a tone of the deepest commiseration, ' Well, my poor child V ' 0, Mr. Pendy, you have found me a true home. Be the others what they may, there must be rest in hearing her voice !' ' It is settled, then ]' * Yes. I only hope you have not taken them in. I did my best to let her know the worst of me, but it would make no impression. Seventy pounds a year. I hope that is not wicked.' ' O, Cilia, what would your father feel V ' Come, we wont fight that over again. I thought I had convinced you of the dignity of labour, and I do feel as if at last I had lit on some one whom I could allow to do me good.' She could not console him ; he grieved over her changed cir- cumstances with far more regret than she felt, and though glad for her sake that she should be with those whom he could trust, yet his connexion with her employers seemed to him undutiful towards his late rector. All that she saw of tliem reassured lier. The family manners were full of well bi-ed good-humour, full of fun, with liigh intelligence, mucli real refinement, and no pretension. The father was the most polislied, with the schohxrly courtesy of the dignified clergyman ; the mother was the most simple and caressing; the daughter somewhat uncouth, readily betraying both her feelings and her cleverness and drolleiy in the style of the old friend whom Lucilla was amused to see treated as a youth and almost a contemporary of her pupil. M'liac chiefly diverted her was the grotesque aspect of Dr. Prendergast and his daughter. Both were on a large scale, with immense mouths, noses turned up to display wide nostrils, great grey eyes, angularly set, yellow hair and eyebrows, I'ed complexions, and big bones. The Doctor had the advantage of havino; outgrown the bloom of his ugliness ; his forehead was bald and dignified, his locks softened by grizzling, and his fine expression and clerical figure would have carried off all the quaintness of his features if they hiul not been so comically caricaliired in his dax^ghter ; yet she looked so full of life and character that Lucilla was attracted, and sure of getting on S50 HOPES AND FEARS. well with her. Moreover, the little elf felt the impression she was creating in this land of Brobdignag. Sarah was looking at her as a terra-cotta pitcher might regard a cup of egg-shell china, and Lucy had never been lovelier. Her mourning enhanced the purity of her white skin, and marked her slender faultless shape, her flaxen hair hung in careless wreaths of ringlet and braid ; her countenance, if pale, had greater sweet- ness in its dejection, now and then brightened by gleams of her courageous spirit. Sarah gazed with untiring wonder, pardon- ing Cousin Peter for disturbing the contemplation of Domeni- chiao's art, since here was a witness that heroines of romance were no mere myths, but that beings of ivory and rose, sapphire eyes and golden hair, might actually walk the earth. The Doctor was i)leasant and friendly, and after luncheon the whole party started together to ' do' St. Paul's, v/hence Mr. Prendergast undertook to take Cilia home, but in no haste to return to the lonely house. She joined in the lionizing, and made a great impression by her familiarity with London, old and new. Little store as she had set by Honor's ecclesiology and antiquarianism, she had not failed to imbibe a tincture sufii- cient to go a long way by the help of ready wit, and she en- chanted the Doctor by her odd bits of information on the localities, and by guiding him to out-of-the-way curiosities. She even carried the party to Woolstoue Lane, disi>layed the Queen of Sheba, the cedar carving, the merchant's mark, and had lifted out Stow's Survey, where Sarah was delighted with Ranelagh, when the door opened, and Owen stood, surprised and blank. Poor fellow, the voices had filled him with hope that he should find Honor tliere. The visitors, startled at thus intruding on his trouble, and knowing him to be in profound disgrace, would have gone, but he, undtsrstanding them to be Mr. Prenderga.st"s friends, and glad of variety, was eagerly courteous and hos- pitable, detaining thenr by displaying fresh curiosities, and talking with so much knowledge and brilliance, that they were too well entertained to be in haste. Lucilla, accepting Mrs. Prendergast as a friend, was rejoiced that she should have such demonstration that lier brother was a thorough gentleman ; and in truth Owen did and said everything so well that no one could ikil to be pleased, and only as an after-thought could come the perception that his ease hardly befitted the circumstances, and that he comjiortcd himself more like the master of the house than as a protege under a cloud. No sooner had he handed them into their vehicle than he sank into a chair, and burst into one of the prolonged, vehement lits of laughter that are the reaction of early youth unwontedl> I HOPES AND FEARS. Sal depressed. Never had he seen such visages ! They ought at once to be sketched — would be worth any money to Currie the architect, for gurgoyles. ' For shame,' said Lucilla, glad, however, once more to hear the merry peal ; ' for shame, to laugh at my iDaster !' ' I'm not laughing at old Pendy, his orifice is a mere crevico comparatively. The charm is in seeing it classified — the recent sloth accounted for by the ancient megatherium.' ' The megatherium is my master. Yes, I'm governess to Glumdalclitch !' ' You've done it V ' Yes, I have. Seventy pounds a year.' He made a gesture of angry despair, crying, ' Worse luck than I thought.' ' Better luck than I did.' 'Old Pendy thrusting in his oar ! I'd have put a stop to your absurdity at once, if I had not been sui'e no one would be deluded enough to engage you, and that you would be tired of looking out, and glad to go back to your proper place at tho Holt before I sailed.' * My proper place is where I can be independent.' ' Faugh 1 If I had known it, they should never have seen the Roman coins ! There ! it is a lesson that nothiug is too chime- rical to be worth opposing !' ' Your opposition would have made no diffei'ence.' He looked at her silently, but with a half smile in lip and eye that showed her that the moment was coming when the man's will might be stronger than the woman's. Indeed, he was so thoroughly displeased and annoyed that she durst not discuss the subject with him, lest she should rouso him to take some strong authoritative measures against it. He had always trusted to the improbability of her meeting with a situation befox'e his departure, when, between entreaty and command, he had reckoned on inducing her to go home ; and this engagement came as a fresh blow, making him realize what he had brought on those nearest and dearest to him. Even praise of Mrs. Prendergast provoked him, as if implying Lucilla's preference for her above the tried friend of their childhood ; he was in his lowest spirits, hardly speaking to his sister all dinner time, and hurried off afterwards to pour out his vexation to Robert Fulmort. Poor Robert ! what an infliction ! To hear of such a step, and be unable to interfere ; to admire, yet not approve ; to dread the consequences, and perceive so much alloy as to dull the glitter of the gold, as well as to believe his own stern prwciintation as much the cause is 352 HOPES AND FEAHS. Owen's errors : yet all the time to be the friend and coraiorler to the wounded spii'it of the brother ! It was a severe task ; and when Owen left him, he felfc spent and wearied as by bodily f xertion, as he hid his face in prayer for one for whom he could do no more than jjray. Feelings softened during the fortnight tliat the brother and sister spent together. Cliildishly as Owen had undergone the relations and troubles of more advanced life, pefctisldy as he had striven against feeling and responsibility, the storm had taken effect. Hard as he had struggled to remain a boy, man- hood had suddenly grown on him ; and probably his exclusion from Hiltonbuiy did more to stamp the impression of his gui't than did its actual eifects. He was eager for his new life, and pleased with his employer, promising himself all success, and full of enterprise. But his banishment from liome and from Honor clouded everything; and, as the time drew nearer, his efforts to forget and be reckless gi-adually ceased. Far from shunning Lucilla, as at first, he was unwilling to lose sight of her, and they went about together wherever hig pre|mrations called him, so that she could hardly make time for stitching, marking, and ari'anging his purchases. One good sign was, that, though hitherto fkstidiously expen- sive in dress and appointments, he now grndged liimself all that was not absolutely necessary, in the endeavour to leave as lai'go a sum as possible with Mrs. JNiurrell. Even in the tempting article of mathematical instruments he was provident, though the polished brass, shining steel, and i)ure ivory, in their per- fection of exactitude, were as alluring to him as ever gem or plume had been to his sister. That busy fortnight of chasing after the ' reasonable and good,' speeding about till they were footsore, discussing, purchasing, packing, and contriving, united the brother and sister more than all their previous lives. It was over but too soon. The last evening was come ; the hall was full of tin cases and leathern portmanteaus, marked O. C. S., and of piles of black boxes large enough to contain the little lady whose name they bore. Southminster lay in the Trent Valley, so the travellers would start together, and Lucilla would be dropped on the way. In the cedar parlour, Owen's l)lack knapsack lay open on the floor, and Lucilla was doing the last office in her power for him, and that a sad one, furnish- ing the Russia-leather housewife with the needles, silk, thread, and worsted for his own mendings when he should be beyond the reach of the womankind who careil for him. He sat resting his head on his hand, watching her in silence, till she was concluding her work. Then he said, ' Give me a bit HOPES AND FEARS. 353 of silk,' turned his back on her, and stood np, doing something by the light of the lamp. She was kneeling over the knapsack, and did not see what he was about, till slie found his hand oa her head, and heard the scissors close, when she perceived that he had cut off one of her pale, bright ringlets, and saw hia pocket-book open, and within it a thick, jet-black tress, and one scanty, downy tuft of baby hair. She made no remark ; but the tears came dropping, as she packed ; and, with a sudden impulse to give him the thing above all others precious to her, she pulled from her bosom a locket, hung from a slender gold chain, and held it to him — 'Owen, will you have thisf 'Whose? My father's?' ' And my mothei-'s. He gave it to me when he went to Nice.' Owen took it and looked at it thoughtfully, 'No, ]jucy,' he said ; 'I would not take it from you on any account. You have always been his faithful cliild.' ' Mind you tell me if any one remembei-s him in Canada,' said Lucilla, between relief and disappointment, restoring her treasure to the place it had never left before. 'You will find out whether he is recollected at his mission.' ' Certainly. But I do not expect it. The place is a gi'eat town now. I say, Lucy, if you had one bit of poor Honor's hair !' ' No : you will never forgive me. T had some once, made up in a little cross, with gold ends ; but one day, when she would not let me go to Castle Blanch, I shied it into the river, in a rage.' She "was touched at his being so spiritless as not even to say that she ought to have been thrown in after it. * I wonder,' she said, by way of enlivening him, * whether yon will fall in with the auburn-haired Charlecote.' ' Whereas Canada is a bigger j)lacethan England, the disaster may be averted, I hope. A colonial heir-at-law might be a monstrous bore. Moreover, it would cancel all that 1 can't but ho])e for that child.' ' You might hope better things for him than expectations.' ' He shall never have any ! But it might come without. Why, Lucy, a few years in that country, and I shall be able to give him the best of educations and release you from drudgery; and when independent, we could go back to the Holt on terms to suit even your proud stomach, and might make the dear old thing happy in her old age,' ' If that Holt were but out of your head.' A A 83 i HOPES AND FEARS. 'If I knew it willed to the County Hos])ital, shouldn't I wish as much to be with her as befofe? I mean to bring up my son as a gentleman, with no one's help 1 But you see, Lucy, it is impossible not to wish for one's child what one has failed in oneself — to wish him to be a better edition.' ' I suppose not.' ' For these first few years the old woman will do well enough for him, poor child. Robert has promised to look in on him.' * And Mrs. Mui-rell is to write to me once a month. I shall make a point of seeing him at least twice a year.' 'Thank you ; and by the time he is of any size I shall have a salary. I may come back, and we would keep house together, or you might bring him out to me.' * That will be the hope of my life.' * I'll not be deluded into reckoning on young ladies. You will be disposed of long belbre !' ' Don't, Owen ! No, never.' ' Never Y ' Never.' *I always wanted to know,' continued Owen, 'what became of Caltborp.' ' I left him behind at Spitzwassei-fitzung, with a message that ends it for ever.' * I am afraid that defection is to be laid to my door, like all the rest.' ' If so, I am heartily obliged to you for it ! The shock was welcome that brought me home. A governess ? Oh I I had rather be a scullery-maid, than go on as I was doing there !' * Then you did not care for him V ' Never ! But he pestered me, Eashe pestered me ; nobody ared for me — I — I ' and she sobbed a long, tearless sob. ' Ha !' said Owen, gravely and kindly, ' then there was some- thing in the Fulmort afiair after all. Liicy, I am going away; let me hear it for once. If I ever come back, I will not be so heedless of you as I have been. If he have been using you ill 1' 'I used him ill,' said Lucy, in an inward voice. 'Nothing more likely !' muttered Owen, in soliloquy. 'But how is it. Cilia ; can't you make him forgive V ' He does, but as Honor forgives you. You know it was no engagement. I worked him up to desperation last year. Through Phoebe, I whs warned that he would not stand my going to Ireland. I answered that it was no concern of liis ; I defied him to be able to break with me. They bothered me so that 1 was forced to go to spite them. He thought — I can't wonder HOPES AND FEARS. S56 at it — that I was irreclaimable ; he wai? staying here, was worked on by the sight of this hoi-rible district, aud, between pique and goodness run mad, has devoted self antl fortune. He gave me to understand that he has made away with every far- thing. I don't know if he would wish it undone.' iShe spoke into the knapsack, jerking out brief sentences. * He didn't tell you he had taken a vow of celibacy V *I should noj think it worth while.' ' Then it is all I'ight !' exclaimed Owen, joyously. ' Do you think old Fulmort, wallowing in gold, could see a son of his living with his curates, as in the old Sussex rhyme 1 — There were three ghostisses Sitting on three postisses, Eating of three crustissea. No, depend on it, the first alarm of Robert becoming a ghost, there will be a famous good fat living bought for him ; and then ' ' No, I shall have been a governess. They wont consent.' * Pshaw ! What are the Fulmorts? He would honour you the more ! No,. Lucy,' and he drew her up from the floor, and put his arm round her, ' girls who stick to one as you have done to me are worth something, and so is Robert Fulmort. You don"t know what he has been to me ever since he came to fetch me. I didn't believe it was in his cloth or his nature to be so for- bearing. No worrying with preachments ; not a bit of " What a good boy am I ;" always doing the very thing that was com- fortable and considerate, and making the best of it at Hilton- bury. I didn't know how he could be capable of it, but now I see, it was for your sake. Cheer up, Lucy, you will find it right yet.' Li;cilla had no conviction that he was right ; but she was willing to believe for the time, and was glad to lay her head on his shoidder and feel, while she coidd, that sl>6 had something entirely her own. Too soon it would be over. Lengthen tlio evening as they would, morning must come at last. It came ; the hurried breakfast, pale looks, and trivial words, Robert arrived to watch them off ; Mrs. Murrell brought the child. Owen took him in his arms, and called her to the study. Robert sat still, and said — 'I will do what I can. I think, in case I had to write about the child, you had better leave me your addi'ess.' Lucilla wrote it on a card. The tone quashed all hope. ' We trust to you,' she said. * Mr. Currie has promised to let me hear of Owen,' snid Robei't j Ijut no more passed. Owen came back hasty auJ A a2 356 HOPES AND FEAllS. flushed, -wanting to be gone and have it over. The cabs were called, and he was piling tlieni with luggage ; Robert was glad to be actively helpful. All were iu the hall ; Owen turned back for one more solitary gaze round the familiar room j llobert .shook Lucilla's hand. ' O bid me good speed,' broke from her ; ' or I cannot bear it.' 'God be with you 1 God bless you !' he said. No more ! He had not approved, he had not blamed. He would interfere no more in her fate. She seated herself, and drew down her black veil, a chill creeping over hei\ ' Thank you, Rol)ert, for all,' was Owen's farewell. * If you will say anything to Phoebe from me, tell her she is all that is left to comfort poor Honor.' ' Good-bye/ was the only answer. Owen lingered still. 'You'll write? Tall me of her; Honor, I mean, and the child.' ' Yes, yes, certainly.' Unaltle to find another pretext for delay, Owen agaiii wrung R'-bert's hand, and jilaced himself by his sister, keeping his head out as long as he could see R,obert standing with crossed ai'ms on the doorstep. When, the same aftei'nnon, INIr. Parsons came home, he blamed himself for having yielded to his youngest curate the brunt of the summer work. Never had he seen a man not un- well look so much jaded and depressed. Nearly at the same time, Lucilla and her boxes were on the platfoi-m of the Southminster station, Owen's eyes straining after her as the train rushed on, and she feeling positive pain and anger at the sympathy of Dr. Prendergast's kind voice, as though it would have been a relief to her tumultuous misery to have bitten him, like Uncle Kit long ago. She clenched her hand tij'lit, when with old- world courtesv he made her take his arm, and with true consideration, conducted her down the Jiill, through the quieter streets, to the calm, shady precincts of the old cathedral He had both a stall and a large town living ; and his abode was the grey freestone prebL'udal house, whose two deep windows under their peaked gables gave it rather a cat-like physiognomy. Mrs. Prendergast and Sarah wei'e wait- ing in the hall, each with a kiss of welcome, and the former took the ])ale girl at once upstairs, to a room full of subdued sunshine, looking out on a green lawn slojiingdown to the river. At that sight and sound, Lucy's face lightened. ' Ah ! 1 know I shall feel at home here. I hear the water's voice 1' But .she had brought with her a heavy cold, kept in abeyance by a strong will during the days of activity, and ready to have HOPES AND FEARS. 357 »> its way at once, when she was beaten down by fatigue, fasting, and disappointment. She dressed and came down, but could neither eat nor talk, and in her pride was ghid to attribute all to the cold, though protesting with over-eagerness that such in- disposition was rare with her. She would not have suffered such nursing from Honor Cliarlecote as was bestowed upon her. The last month had made tenderness valuable, and without knowing all, kind Mrs. Prendergast could well believe that there might be more than even was avowed to weigh down the young head, and cause the fingers, when unobserved, to lock together in suppressed agony. While Sarah only knew that her heroine looking governess was laid up with severe influenza, her mother more than guessed at the kind of battle wrestled out in solitude, and was sure that more than brother, more than friend, had left her to that lonely suffering, which was being for the first time realized. But no confidence was given; when Lucilla spoke, it was only of Owen, and JMrs Prendergast returned kindness and forbearance. It was soothing to be dreamily in that summer room, the friendly river murmuring, the shadows of the trees lazily danc- ing on the wall, the cathedral bells chiming, or an occasional deep note of the organ stealing in through the open window. It suited well with the languor of sensation that succeeded to so much vehemence and excitement. It was not thought, it was not i-esignation, but a species of rejiose and calm, as if all interest, all feeling, were over for her, and as if it mattered little what might farther befall her, as long as she could be quiet, and get along from one day to another. If it had been re[)entance, a letter would have been written very unlike the cold announce- ment of her situation, the scanty notices of her brother, with which she wrung the heart tliat yearned after her at Hiltonbnry ! But sorry she was, for one part at least, of her conduct, and she believed herself reduced to that meek and correct state that she had always declared should succeed her days of gaiety, when, recovering from her indisposition, she came down subdued in tone, and anxious to fulfil what she had undertaken. * Ah ! if Robert could see me now, he would believe in me,' thought she to herself, as she daily went to the catliedral. She took classes at school, helped to train the St. Jude's choir, played Handel for i)r. Prendergast, and felt absolutely without heart or inclination to show that self-satisfied young curate that a governess was not a subject for such distant perplexed courtesy. Sad at heart, and glad to distract her mind by what was new yet innocent, she took up the duties of her vocatior zealously 3 and quickly found that all her zeal was needed. Hoi (?5?' HOPKS AND FEARS. pupil was a girl of considevible abilities — intelleciual, thouglit- ful, and well tauglit ; aud she herself had been always so uu- Avilling a learner, so willing a forgetter, that she needed all the advantages of her grown-up mind and rapidity of perception to keep her sufficiently beforeliand with Sarah, whenever subjects went deep or far. If she pronounced like a native, and knew what was idiomatic, Sarah, with her clumsy pronunciation, had further insight into grammar, and asked perplexing questions ; if she played admirably and with facility, Sarah could puzzle her with the science of music ; if her drawing were ever so effective and graceful, Sarah's less sightly productions had coi'- rect details that put hers to shame, and, for mere honesty's sake, and to keep up her dignity, she was obliged to work hard, and recur to the good grounding that against her will she had received at Hiltonbury. ' Had her education been as superficial as that of her cousins,' she wrote to her brother, ' Sarah would have put her to shame long ago ; indeed, nobody but the Fenni- more coidd be thoroughly up to that girl.' Perhnps all her endeavours would not have impressed Sarah, had not the damsel been thoroughly imposed on by her own enthusiasm for Miss Sandbrook's grace, facility, alertness, and beauty. The power of doing prettily and rapidly whatever she took up dazzled the large and deliberate young person, to whom the right beginning and steady thoroughness were essential, and she regarded her governess as a sort of fairy — toiling after her in admiring hopelessness, and delighted at any small success. Fully aware of her own plainness, Sarah adored Miss Sand- brook's beauty, took all admiration of it as personally as if it had been piid to her bullfinch, and was never so charmed as when people addressed themselves to the governess as the tla' ghter of the house. Lucilla, however, shrank into the background. She was really treated thoroughly as a relation, but she dreaded the remarks and inquiries of strangers, and wi, bed to avoid them. The society of the cathedral town was not exciting nor tempting, and she made no great sacrifice iu pr ferring lier pretty schoolroom to the dinners and evening parties oftlie Close ; but she did so in a very becoming manner, aud delighted Sarah with stories of the great world, and of herj tiavels. There could be no doubt that father, mother, and daughter all liked and valued her extremely, and she loved Mrs. Pren- dergast as she bad never loved woman before, with warm, fili;d, confidinfr love. She was falling into the interests of the cathe- dral and the parisli, and felt them, and her occupations in the moiuing, satisfying and full of rest after the unsatisfactory I HOPES AND FEARS. S59 wliirl of her late life. She was becoming hapjner than she knew, and at any rate felt it a delusion to imas^ine the post of governess an unhappy one. Three years at South minster (for Sarah strenuously insisted that she would come out as late as possible) would be all peace, rest, and improvement ; anil by that time Owen would be ready for her to bring his child out to him or else Little did she reck of the grave, displeased, yet far more sorrowful letter in which Honor wrote, ' You have chosen your own ])ath in life, may you find it one of improvement and blessing ! But I think it right to say, that though real disti'ess shall of course always make what is past forgotten, yet yot must not consider Hiltoubury a refuge if you grow hastilj weary of your exertions. Since you refuse to find a motlier in me, and choose to depend on yourself alone, it must be in earnest, not caprice.' HA PIER XIV. These are of beauty rare. In holy oaininess growing. Of minds wliose ricliness might compare E'en with thy deep tints glowing. Yet all unconscious of the grace they wear. Like flowers upon the spray, AU lowliness, not sadness, Blight are their thoughts, and rich, not gay, Grave in their very gladness, Shedding calm summer light over life's changeful day. To the Fuchsia, — S. D. 1])Hai:BE FULMORT sat in her own room. The little round clock on the mantelpiece pointed to eleven. The tire was low but glowing. The clear gas shone brightly on the toilette apparatus, and on the central table, loaded with tokens of occupation, but neat and orderly as the lines in the clasped volume where Phoebe was dutifully writing her abstract of the day's reading and observation, in childishly correct miniature round-hand. The curtain was looped up, and the moon of a frosty night blanched a square on the carpet beneath the window, at which she often looked with a listening gaze. Her father and brother had been expected at dinner- time ; and though their detention was of frequent occurrence, Phoebe had deferred undressing till 860 HOPES AND FEARS. it sliould be too late for their arrival by the last train, since they would like her to preside over their supper, and she might possibly hear of Eobert, whose doings her father had of late seemed to regard with less displeasure, though she liad not been allowed to go with Miss Cliarlecote to the consecration of his church, and had not seen him since the Horticultural Show. She went to the window for a final look. White and crisp lay the path, chequered by the dark defined shadows of the trees ; above was the sky, pearly with moonliglit, allowing only a few larger stars to appear, and one glorious planet. Fasci- nated by the silent beauty, she stood gazing, wishing she could distinguish Jupitei-'s moons, observing on the difference between his steady reflected brilliance and the sun-like glories of A returns and Aldebaran, and passing on to the moral Miss Cliarlecote loved, of the stars being with us all day unseen, like the great cloud of witnesses. She hojied Miss Ohai-lecote saw that moon ; for sunrise or set, rainbow, evening gleam, new- moon, or shooting star, gave Phoebe double ])leasure by com- paring notes with Miss Charlecote, and though that lady was absent, helping Mrs. Saville to tend her husband's mortal sickness, it was likely that she might be watching and admiring this same foir moon. Well that there are many girls who, like Phoebe, can look forth on the Creator's glorious liandiwork as Buch, in peace and soothing, ' in maiden meditation fancy fiee,' instead of linking these heavenly objects to the feverish fancies of troubled hearts ! Phoebe was just turning from the window, when she heard wheels sounding on the frosty drive, and presently a carriage appeared, the shadow spectrally lengthened on the slope of the whitened bank. All at once it stopped where the roads diverged to the front and back entrances, a black figure alighted, took out a bag, dismissed the veliicle, and took the })ath to the cIEces. Phoebe's heart throbbed. It was Robert ! As he disappeared, she noiselessly opened her door, guardedly passed the baize door of the west wing, descended tlie stairs, and met him in the hall. Neither spoke till they weie in the library, which had been kept prepared for the travellers. Pt()I)ert pressed her to him and kissed her fervently, and she found voice to say, ' What is it 1 Papal' * Yes,' said Robert. She needed not to ask the extent of the calamity. She stood lo(jking in his face, while, the beginning once made, lie sjjoke in low, qni(;k accents. 'Paralysis. Last night. lie was in- sensible when Edwards called him this morning. ISIothii.g could be done. It was over by three this afternoon.' HOPES AND FEARS. 361 'Where T asked Phoebe, understand ino;, but not yet feeling. ' At his rooms at the office. He had sj)ent the evening there alone. It was not known till eight this morning. I was there instantly, Mervyn and Bevil soon after, but he knew none of us. INIervyn thought I had better come here. Oh, Phoebe, my mother !' ' I will see if she have heard anything,' said Phoebe, moving quietly oQ] as though one in a dream, able to act, move, and decide, though not to think. She found the household in commotion. Robert had spoken to the butler, and everywhere were knots of whisperers. Miss Fenuimore met Phoebe with her eyes full of tears, tears as yet far from those of Phoebe herself. ' Your motlier has heard nothing,' she said ; * I ascertained that from Boodle, who only left her dressing room since your brothei''s arrival You had better let her have her night's rest.' Robert, who had followed Phoebe, hailed this as a reprieve, and thanked Miss Fennimore, adding the few particulars he had told his sister. ' I hope the girls are asleep,' he said. 'Sound asleep, I trust,' said Miss Fennimore. 'I will take care of them/ and laying her hand on Phoebe's shoulder, she suggested to her that her brother had probably not eaten all day, then left them to return to the library together. There had been more time for Robert to look the thought in the face than his sister. He was no longer freshly stunned. He really needed food, and ate in silence, while she mechanically waited on him. At last he looked up, saying, ' I am thankful. A few months ago, how could I have borne it V ' I have been sure he understood you better of late,' said Phoebe. ' Sunday week was one of the ha]ipiest days I have spent for years. Imagine my surprise at seeing him and Acton in the church. They took luncheon with us, looked into the schools, went to evening service, and saw the whole concern. He was kinder than ever I knew him, and Acton says he ex- pressed himself as much pleased. I owe a great deal to Bevil Acton, and, I know, to you. Now I know that he had for- given me.' ' You, Robin ! There was nothing to forgive. I can fancy poor Mervyn feeling dreadfully, but you, always dutiful except for the higher duty l' 'Hush, Plioebe ! Mine was grudging service. I loved opposition, and there was an evil triumph in the annoyance I gave.' ' You are not regretting your work. O no !' S62 HOPES AND FEARS. ' Not tlie work, but the manner ! Oli ! that the gift of the self-willed sou be not Corban.' ' Robert ! iudeed you had his a})proval ! You told me so. He was seeing things differently. It was so new to him that his business could be thought hurtful, that he was displeased at first, or, rather, Mervyn made him seem more displeased than he was.' ' You only make me the more repent 1 Had I been what I ought at home, my principles would have been very differently received !' 'I don't know,' said Phoebe; 'there was little opportunity. We have been so little with them.' ' Oh ! Phoebe, it is a miserable thing to have always lived at Buch a distance from them, that I should better know how to tcdl such tidings to any old woman in my district than to my mother !' Their consultations were broken hj Miss Fennimore coming to insist on Phcebe s sleeping, in j.reparatiou for the trying morrow. Robert was thankful for her heedfulness, and owned himself tired, dismissing his sister with a blessing that had in it a tone of protection. How changed was Phcebe's peaceful chamber in her eyes. Notliing liad altered, but a fresh act in her life had begun — the first sorrow had fallen on her. She would have knelt on for hours, leaning dreamily on the new sense of the habitual words, ' Our Father,' had not Miss Fennimore come kindly and tenderly to undress her, insisting on her saving herself, and promising not to let her oversleep herself, treating her with wise and soothing affection, and authority that was most comfortable. Little danger was there of her sleeping too late. All night long she lay, with dry and open eyes, while the fire, groaning, sank together, and faded into darkness, and the mooubean)3 retreated slowly from floor to wall, and were lost as grey cold dawn began to light the window. Phcebe had less to reproacli herself with than any one of J\Ir. Fuhnort's children, save tlie poor innocent, Maria ; but many a shortcoming, many a moment of impatience or discontent, many a silent impulse of blame, were grieved over, and every kindness she had received shot through her heart with mournful gladness and warmth, filling her with yeai-ning for another embrace, another word, or even that she had known that the last good-bye had been the last, that she might have prized it — oh, how intensely ! Then came anxious imaginings for the future, such as would HOPES AND FEARS. S53 not be stilled by the knowledge tliat all would settle itself over her head. There were misgivings whether her mother would be properly considered, fears of the mutual relations between her brothers, a sense that the lamily bond was loosed, and con- fusion and iai-ring might ensue ; but, as her mind recoiled from the shoals and the gloom, the thought revived of the Pilot amid the waves of this troublesome world. She closed her eyes for prayer, but not for sl< ep. Repose even more precious and soothing than slumber was granted — the repose of confidence in the Everlasting Arms, and of confiding to them all the feeble and sorrowful with whom she was linked. It was as though (in the words of her own clasped book) her God were more to her than ever, truly a very present Help in trouble ; and, as the dawn brightened for a day so unlike all others, her heart trembled less, and she rose up with eyes heavy and limbs weary, but better prepared for the nioi'ning's ordeal than even by sleep ending in a wakening to the sudden shock. When Miss Fennimore vigilantly met her on leaving her room, and surveyed her anxiously, to judge of her health and powers, there was a serious, sweet collectedness in air and face that struck the governess with loving awe and surprise. The vounfrer girls had known their father too little to be much affected by the loss. Maria stared in round-eyed amaze, and Bertha, though subdued and shocked for a short space, revived into asking a torrent of questions, culminating in ' Should they do any lessons V Whereto Miss Fennimoi'e re- plied with a decided affirmative, and, though Phoebe's taste disappi'oved, she saw that it was wiser not to interfere. Much fatigued, Robert slept late, but joined his sister long before the dreaded moment of hearing their mother's bell. They need not have been fearful of the immediate effect ; Mrs, Fulmort's perceptions were tardy, and the endeavours at prepa- ration were misunderstood, till it was needful to be explicit. A long stillness followed, broken at last by Phoebe's question, whether she would not see Robert. ' Not till I am up, my dear,' she answered, in an injured voice; 'do, pray, see whe- ther Boodle is coming with my warm water.' Her mind was not yet awake to the stroke, aud was lapsing into its ordinary mechanical routine ; her two breakfasts, and protracted dressing, occupied her for nearly two hours, after which she did not refuse to see her son, but showed far less emotion than he did, while he gave the details of the past day. Her dull, apatlietic gaze was a contrast with the young man's gush of tears, and the caresses that Phoebe lavished 364 HOPES AND FEATIS. on her listless hand. Phoebe proposed that Robert should read to her — she assented, and soon dozed, awaking to ask plaintively for Boodle and her afternoon cup of tea. So pasiug time, the novelty of her position liad awed her, and what lilrs. Prendergast truly called the reaction had been so tardy in coming on that it was a surprise even to herself. Sensible that she had given cause for displeasure, she courted the leU-a-tete, and herself began thus — ' I beg your pardon for my idleness. It is a fatal thing to be recalled to the two passions of my youth — fishing and photography.' ' My husband will give Francis employment in the morning,' said Mrs. Prendergast. 'It will not do to give Sarah's natural in itability too many excuses for outbreaks.' ' She never accepts excuses,' said Lucilla, ' though I am sure she might. I have been a sore trial to her diligence arid methodicalness ; and her soul is too much bent on her work foi us to drag her out to be foolish, as woidd be best for her.' • So it might be for her ; but, my dear, pardon me, I am not speaking only for Sarah's sake.' With an odd jerk of head and hand, Cilly exclaimed, * Oh ! the old story — the other f — flirting, is it 1' ' I never said tliat ! I never thought tliat,' cried Mrs. Pren- dersast, shocked at the word and idea that had never crossed her mind, 'If not,' said Cilia, 'it is because yon are too innocent to know flirting when you see it ! Dear Mrs. Prendergast, I didn't, think you would have looked so grave.' ' I did not think yon would have spoken so lightly ; but it is plain tliat we do not mean the same thing.' ' In fiict, you in your quietness, think awfrdly of that which for years was to me like breathing ! I thought tlie taste was gone for ever, but, you see' — and her sad sweet expression pleaded for her — ' you have made me so happy tliat the old self is come back.' There was a silence, broken by this strange girl saying, ' Well, what are you going to do to me T * Only,' said the lady, in her sweet, full, impressive voice, ' to beg you will indeed be happy in giving yourself no cause for self-reproach.' ' I'm past that,' said Lucilla, with a smile on her lip and a tear in her eye. * I've not known that sensation since my father died. My chief hapi.iness since that has lain in being provoking, but you have taken away tliat pleasure. I couldn't j)nrpose]y vex you, even if I were y^mv adopted child !' Without precisely knowing the full amount of these words, Mrs. Prendergast understood pust bitterness and present warmth, ftud, gratified to find that at least there was no galling at their HOPES AND FEARS. 305 mutual relations, respoudeJ with a smile and a caress tbafc led Lucilla to continue — ' As for the word that dismayed you, I only meant to acknowledge an unlucky propensity to be excited about any nonsense, in which any man kind is mixed up. If Sarah would take to it, I could more easily abstain, but you see her coquetries are with nobody more recent than Horace and Dante.' ' I cannot wish it to be otherwise with her,' said Mrs. Pren- dergast, gravely. ' No ! It is a bad speculation,' said Lucilla, sadly. ' She will never wish half lier life could be pulled out like defective crochet ! nor wear out good people's forbearance with her antics. I did think they were outgrown and beat out of me, and that your nephew was too young ; but I suppose it is ingrain, and that I should be flattered by the attentions of a he-baby of six months old ! But 111 do my best, Mrs. Prendergast : 1 i>romise you ni not be the schoolmistress abroad in the morning, and you shall see what terms I will keep with Mr. Beaumont.' Mrs. Prendergast was less pleased after than before this promise. It was again that freedom of expression that the giil had learnt among the Charterises, and the ideas that she accepted as mere matters of course, that jarred upon the matron, whose secluded life had preserved her in fiir truer refinement. She did not know how to reply, and, as a means of ending the dis- cussion, gave her Mr. Prendergast's letter, but was amazed at her reception of it. ' Passed tne living ! Famous ! He will stick to Wrap worth to the last gasp ! That is fidelity ! Pray tell him so from me.' ' Yoii had better send your message thi'ough Dr. Prendergast. We cannot but be disappointed, though I understand your feeling for Wrapworth, and we are sorry for the dispirited tone about tlie letter.' ' Well he may be, all alone there, and seeing poor Castle Blanch croinir to rack and ruin. I could cry about it whenever I think of it ; but how much wor.se would it have been it he had deserted too I As long as he is in the old vicarage there is a home spot to me in the world 1 Oh, I thank him, I do thank him for standing by the old place to the last.' ' It is preposterous,' thought JMrs. Prendergast. ' I wont tell the Doctor. He would think it so foolish in him, and im- jn'oper in her : but I verily believe it is her influence that keeps him at Wrapworth ! He cannot bear to cross her wi.shes nor give her pain. Well, I am thankful that Sarah is neither beautiful nor attractive.' Sincere was Lucilla's intention to resume her regular habits, S06 HOPES AND FEARS. and put a stop to Francis Beaumont's attentions, but the at- traction had already gone so far that repression rendered him the more assiduous, and often boi'e the aspect (if it were not absokxtely the coyness) of coquetiy. While deprecating from her heart any attachment on his part, her vanity was fanned at finding herself in her present position as irresistible as ever, and his eagerness to obtain a smile or word from her was such an agreeable titillation, that everything else became flat, and her hours in the schoolroom an imprisonment. Sarah's methodical earnestness in study bored her, and she was sick of restraint and application. Nor Was this likely to be merely a passing evil, for Francis's parents were in India, and South- niinster was his only English home. Nay, even when he had returned to his tutor, Lucilla was not restored to her better self Her craving for excitement had been awakened, and her repugnance to mental exertion had been yielded to. The routine of lessons had become bondage, and she sought every occasion of variety, seeking to outshine and dazzle the ladies of Soutliminster, playing off Castle Blanch fascinations on curutes and minor canons, and sometimes flying at higher game, even beguiling the Dean himself into turning over her music when she sang. She had at first, by the use of all her full-grown faculties, been just able to keep sufficiently ahead of her pupil ; but her growing indolence soon caused her to slip back, and not only did she let Sai-ah shoot ahead of her, but she became impatient of tlie girl's habits of accuracy and research ; she would give careless and vexatious answers, insist petulantly on correcting by the ear, make light of Sarah and her grammar, and hastily reject or hurry from the maps, dictionaries, and cyclopsedias with which Sarah's training had taught her to read and learn. But her dislike of trouble in supporting an opinion did not make her the less pertinacious in upholding it, and there wex'e times when she was wrathful and petulant at Sarah's presump- tion in maintaining the conti-ary, even with all the authorities in the bookshelves to back her. Sarah's temper was not her prime quality, and altercations began to run high. Each disjjute that took place only pre- pared the way for another, and Mrs. Prendergast, having taken a governess cliiefly to save her daughter from being fretted by interruptions, found that her annoyances were tenfold increased, and irritations were almost habitual. They were the more dis- appointing because the girl preserved through them all such a passionate admiration for her beautiful and charming little governess, that, except in the very height of a squabble, she HOPES AND FEARS. 307 Btill believed her perfection, and was her most vehement par- tisan, even when the wrong had been chiefly on the side of the teacher. On the whole, in spite of this return to old faults, Lucilla was improved by her residence at Southmiuster. Defiance had fallen into disuse, and the habit of respect and affection had softened her and lessened her pride ; there was more devotional temper, and a greater desire after a religious way of life. It might be that her fretfulness was the effect of an uneasiness of mind, which was more hopeful than her previous fierce self- satisfaction, and that her aberrations were the last efforts of old evil habits to re-establish their grasp by custom, when her heart was becoming detached from tliem. Be that as it might, Mrs. Prendergast's first duty was to her child, her second to the nephew entrusted to her, and love and pity as she might, she felt that to retain Lucilla was leading all into temptation. Her husband was slow to see the verification of her reluctant opinion, but he trusted to her, and it only re- mained to part as little harshly or injuriously as might be. An opening was aflx)rded when, in October, Mrs. Preudergast was entreated by the widow of one of her brothers to find her a governess for two girls of twelve and ten, and two boys younger. It was at a country-house, so much secluded that such temptations as at South minster were out of reach, and the younger pn|)ils were not likely to try her temper in the same way as Sarah had done. So Mrs. Prendergast tenderly explained that Sarah, being old enough to jiursue her studies alone, and her sister, Mrs. Willis Beaumont, being in distress for a governess, it would be best to transfer Miss Sandbrook to her. Lucilla turned a little pale, but gave no other sign, only answering, ' Thank you,' and ' Yes,' at fit moments, and acceding to everything, even to her speedy departure at the end of a week. She left the room in silence, more stunned than even by Robert's announcement, and with less fictitious strength to brave the blow that she had brought on herself She repaired to the schooh'oom, and leaning her brow against the window-pane, tried to gather her thoughts, but scai-cely five minutes had passed before the door was thrown back, and in rushed Sarah, passionately exclaiming — ' It's my fault ! It's all my fault ! Oh, Miss Sandbrook, dearest Miss Sandbrook, forgive me ! Oh ! my temper ! my temper ! I never thought — I'll go to papa ! I'll tell him it ia my doing ! He will never — never be so unjust and cruel !' * Sarah, stand up ; let me go, please,' said Lucy, unclasping S98 HOPES AND FEARS. the hands from her waist. ' This is not right. Your father and mother both think the same, and so do I. It is just that I shouhl go — ' ' You slian't say so ! It is my crossness ! I wont let you go. I'll write to Peter ! He wont let you go !' Sarah was really beside herself with despair, and as her mother advanced, and would have sjioken, turned round sharply, ' Don't, don't, mamma; I wont come away unless you promise not to punish her for my temper. Ynu have minded those horrid, wicked, gossiping ladies. I didn't think you would.' 'Sarah,' said Lucilla, resolutely, 'going mad in this way just shows that I am doing you no good. You are not behaving propeily to your mother.' ' She never acted anjustly before.' 'That is not for you to judge, in the first place; and in the next, she acts justly. I feel it. Yes, Sarah, I do ; I have not done my duty by you, and have quarrelled with you when your industry shamed me. All my old bad habits are come back, and your mother is right to part with me.' ' There I there, mamma ; do you hear that V sobbed Sarah, imploringly. 'When she speaks in that way, can you still — ? Oh ! I kniiw I was disrespectful, but you can't — you can't think that was her fault !' 'It was,' said Lucilla, looking at Mrs. Prendergast. 'I know she has lost the self-control she once had. Sarah, this is of no use. I would go now, if your mother bogged me to stay — and that,' she added, with her firm smile, 'she is too wise to do. If you do not wish to pain me, and put me to shame, do not let me have any more such exhibitions.' Pale, ashamed, discomfited, Sai-ah turned away, and not yet able to govern herself, rushed into her room. ' Poor Sarah I' said her mother. ' You have rare powers of making your pupils love you, Miss Sandbrook.' ' If it wure for their good,' sighed Lucilla. * It has been much for her good ; she is far less uncouth, and less exclusive. And it will be more so, 1 hope. You will still be her friend, and we sliall often see you here.' Lucilla's tears were dro])]iing fast; and looking up, she said with ditiicutty — ' Don't mind this ; I know it is right ; I have rot deserved the hapjiy home you have given me here. Where I am less liMppy, I hope I niay keej) a better guard on myself. I thought the old ways had been destioyed, but they are too strong still, and I ought to suflfer for them.' Kever in all her days had Lucilla spoken so humbly I HOPES AND FEAES. S'JS CHAPTEK XVII. lliough she's as like to this one as a crab is like to an apple, I can tell what I can tell. — A'inc/ Lear. OFTEN a first grief, where sorrow lias hitlierto been a stranger, is but the foretaste to many anotlier, like the first hail- storm, after long sunshine, preluding a succession of showers, the clouds returning after the rain, and obscuring the sky of life for many a day. Those who daily saw Mrs. Fulmort scarcely knew whether to attribute her increasing invalidism to debility or want of spirits; and hopes were built on summer heat, till, when it came, it prostrated her strength, and at last, when some casual ailment had confined her to bed, there was no rally. All took alarm ; a physician was called in, and the truth was disclosed. There was no formed disease ; but her husband's death, though appa- rently hardly comprehended, had taken away the spring of life, and she was withei'ing like a branch severed from the stem. Remedies did but disturb her torpor by feverish symptoms tliat hastened her decline, and Dr. Martyn privately tuld IMiss Charlecote that the alsent sons and daughters ought to be warned that the end might be very near. Honor, as lovingly and gently as possible, spoke to Phoebe. The girl's eyes filled with tears, but it was in an almost well- pleased tone that she said, ' Dear mamma, I always knew she felt it.' *Ah ! little did we think how deeply went the stroke that showed no wound !" ' Yes ! Slie felt that she was going to him. We could never have made her hajipy here.' * You are content, my unselfish one V 'Don't talk to me about myself, please !' implored Phcehe. 'I have too much to do for that. What did he say? That the others should be written to ? I will take my case and write in mamma's room.' Immediate duty was her refuge from anticipation, gentle tendance from the sense of misery, and, though her mother's restless feebleness needed constant waiting on, her four notes wei-e completed before post-time. Augusta was eating red mullet in Guernsey, Jiiliana was on a round of visits in Scotland, Mervyn was supposed to be at Paris, Robert alone was near at Land. 400 HOPES AND FEARS. At iiiglit, Plicebe sent Boodle to bed ; but Miss Fennimore insisted ou sharing her pupil's watch. At first there was nothing to do ; the patient had fallen into a heavy slumber, and the daughter sat by the bed, tlie governess at the window, unoccu- pied save by their books. Phoebe was reading Miss Maurice's invalnaljle counsels to the inirses of the dying. Miss Fennimore liad the Bil)le. It was not from a sense of appropriateness, as in pursuance of her system of re-examination. Always admirini' the Scripture in a patronizing temper, she had gloried in critical inquiry, and regarded plenary inspiration as a superstition, covering weak ptoints by pretensions to infallibility. But since her discussicnis with Robert, and her readings of Butler with Bertha, she had begun to weigh for herself the internal, intrinsic evidence of Divine origin, above all, in the Gospels, which, to her surprise, enchained her attention and investigation, as she would have tho^^ght beyond the power of such simple words. Pilate's question, ' What is truth T was before her. To her it was a link of evidence. Without even granting that the writer was the tisliernian he professed to be, what, short of Shakesperiau intuition, could thus have depicted the Roman of the early Empire in equal dread of Caesar and of the populace, at once unscrupulous and timid, contemning Jewish pr^^judice, yet, with lingering mythological superstition, trembling at the hint of a i)resent Deity in human form ; and, lost in the bewilder- ment of the later Greek philosophy, greeting the woi-d truth with the startled inquiry, what it might be. What is truth 1 It had been the question oi Miss Fennimore's life, and she felt a l)lank and a disajipointment as it stood unanswered. A move- ment made her look up. Phoebe was raising her mother, and Miss Fennimore was needed to support the pillows. ' Phoebe, my dear, are you here V ' Yes, dear mamma, I always am.' ' Phoebe, my dear I think I am soon going. You have been a good child, my dear ; I wish I had done moi'e for you all.' 'Dear mamma, you have always been so kind.' * They didn't teach me like Honora Charlecote,' she faltered ou ; ' but I always did as your jjoor pajia told me. Nobody ever told me how to be religious, and your poor papa would not liave liked it. Phoebe, you know more than I do. You don't think (xod will be hard with me, do you I I am such a poor creature ; but there is the Blood that takes away sin.' 'Dear mother, that is the blessed trust.' 'The IVuth,' Qdshad upon Miss Fennimore, as she watched th"ir fices. ' Will He give me his own goodness V said Mrs. Fulmort, HOPES AND FEARS. 401 wistfully. * I never did know how to think abont Him — I wisli I liad cared more. What do you think, Phoebe V ' I cannot tell how to answer fully, dear mamma,' said Phoebe ; ' but indeed it is safe to think of His great loving-kindness and mercy. Robert will be here to-morrow. He will tell you be-fter.' ' He -will give me the Holy Sacrament,' said Mrs. Fulmort, *and then 1 sliall go ' Pi-esently she moved uneasily. * Oh, Phoebe, I am so tired. Nothing rests me.' ' Tiiere remaineth a rest,' gently whispered Phoebe — and Miss Fennimore thought the young face had something of the angel in it — ' no more weariness there.' • They wont think what a poor dull thing T am there,' added her mother. * T wish I could take poor Maria with me ? They don't like her here, and she will be teased and put about.' ' No, mother, never while I can take care of her !' 'I know you will, Phoebe, if you say so. Phoebe, love, when I see God, I shall thank Him for having made you so good and dear, and letting me have some comfort in one of my children.' Phoebe tried to make her tliink of Robert, but she was exhausted, dozed, and was never able to speak so much again. Miss Fennimore tliought instead of reading. Was it the mere effect on her sympathies that bore in on her mind that Truth existed, and was grasped by the motJier and daughter ? What was there in those faltering accents that impressed her with reality? Why, of all her many instructors, had none touched her like poor, ignorant, feeble-minded Mrs. Fulmort? Robert arrived the next day. His mother knew him and was roused sufficiently to accept his offices as a clei-gyman; Then, as if she thought it was expected of her, she asked for her younger daughters, but when they came, she looked distressed and perplexed. ' Bless them, mother,' said Robert, bending over her, and she evidently accepted this as what she wanted ; but ' How — what V she added ; and taking the uncertain hand, he guided it to the head of each of liis three sisters, and prompted the words of blessing from the failing tongue. Then as Bertha rose, he sank on his knees in her place, ' Bless me, bless me, too, mother ; bless me, and pardon my many acts of self- will.' ' You are good — you — you are a clergyman,' she hesitated, bewildered. ' The more reason, mamma ; it will comfort him.' And it D D 402 30PES AND FEARS. was riicelie who won for her brotlier the blessing needed as balm to a bleediiisf heart. ' The others are away,' said the dyinc; woman ; ' may be, if I had made them good when they were little, they would not have left me now.' While striving to join in prayer for them, she slumbered, and in the course of the night she slept herself tranquilly away from the world where even prosperity had been but a troubled maze to her. Augusta arrived, weeping profusely, but with all her wita about her, so as to assume the command, and to j)rovide for her own, and her Admiral's, comfort. Plicebe was left to the mournful repose of having no one to whom to attend, since Miss Fennimore provided for the younger ones ; and in the lassitude of bodily fatigue and sorrovv, she shrank from IMaria's babyish questions and Bertha's levity and curiosity, spending her time cliiefly alone. Even Robert could not often be with her, since Mervyn's absence and silence threw much on him and Mr. Cnibbe, the executor and guardian ; and the Bannermans were both exactitig and self-important. The Actons, having been pursued by tlieir letters from place to place in tlie Higldands, at length arrived, and Mervyn last of all, only just in time for the funeral. Plicel>e did not see him till the evening after it, when having spent the day nearly alone, slie descended to the late diunei*, fli'd after the quietness in whicli she had lately lived, and with 11 tlie tenderness from fresh suffei'ing, it seemed to her that she was entering on a distracting turmoil of voices. IMervyn, how- ever, came forward at once to meet her, threw his arm round her, and kissed her rather demonstratively, saying, ' My little Phrobe, I wondered where you were ;' then putting her into a chair, and bending over her, ' We are in for the funeral games. Stand iq) for yourself!' She did not know in the least what he could mean, but she was too sick at heart to ask ; she ordy thought he looked un- well, jaded, and fagged, and with a heated complexion. He handed Lady Acton into the dining-room ; Augusta, following with Sir Bevil, was going to the head of the table, when he called out, ' That's Phoebe's place !' • Not before my elders,' Phoebe answered, trying to seat herseli at the side. ' Tlie sister at home is mistress of the house,' he sternly an* ewcred. ' 'J'ake your proper place. Pluxibe.' In much discomfort she obeyed, and tried to attend civilly to Sir Nicholas's observations on the viands, hoping to in* HOPES AND FEARS, 403 fercept a few, as slie perceived how they chafed her eldest brother. At last ; on Mervyn's himself roundly abusing the flavour of the ice-]>uddin FEARS. you out, and take you evei-ywhere. The Admiral is so generous !' ' Biit the others V said Phoebe. ' I don't mind undertaking Bertha,' said Lady Acton. ' I know of a good sjhool for her, and I shall deposit Maria at Dr. Graham's as soon as I can get an answer.' ' Really,' continued Augusta, * Phcebe will look very creditable by-and-by, when she has more colour and not all this crape. Perhaps 1 t>hall get her married by the end of the season ; only you must learn better manners first, Phcebe — not to rush out of the dining-room in this way. I don't know what I shall do without my oilier glass of wine — when I am so low, too !' 'A fine mistress of the house, indeed,' said Lady Acton. * It is well Mervyn's absurd notion is impossible.' ' What was that 1 To keep us all V asked Phcebe, catching at the hope. ' Not Maria nor the governess. You need not flatter your- self,' said Juliana; 'he said he wouldn't have them at any price ; and as to keeping house alone with a man of his cha- racter, even you may have sense to see it couldn't be for a moment.' ' Did Robert consent to Maria's going to Hampstead !' asked Phcebe. ' Robert — what lias he to do with it 1 He has no voice V 'He said something about gettin.g the three boarded with some clergyman's widow,' said Augusta ; 'buried in some hole, 1 suppose, to make them like himself — go to church every day, and eat cold dinnei's on Sunday.' ♦ I should like to see Bertha doing that,' said Juliana, laughing. But the agony of helplessness that had oppressed Phoebe was relieved. She saw an outlet, and could form a resolution. Home might have to be given up, but there was a means of faltilling her mothei's charge, and saving Maria from the private idiot asylum ; and for that object Phoebe was ready to embrace perpetual seclusion with the dullest of widows. She found her sisters discussing their favourite subject — Mervyn's misconduct and extravagance— and she was able to sit a])art, working, and thinking of her line of action. Only two days ! She must be prompt, and not wait for privacy or for counsel. So when the gentlemen came in, and j\Ir. Crabbe came towards her, she took him into the window, and asked him if any choice were per- mitted her as to her residence. ' Certainly ; so nearly of age as you are. But I naturally considered that you would wisli to be with Lady Bannermaii, with all the advantages of London society.* HOPES AND FEARS. 405 *But she will not receive Maria. I promised tliat Maria should be my charge. You have not couseiited to this Hamp- stead sclieme V ' Her Ladyship is precipitate,' half whispered the lawyer. * l certainly would not, till I had seen the establishment, and judged for myself.' ' No, nor then.' said Phoebe. ' Come to-morrow, and see her. She is no subject for an establishment. And I beg you will let me be with her ; 1 would much prefer being with any laily who would receive us both.' ' Very amiable,' said Mr. Crabbe. ' Ha !' interrupted Mervyn, ' you are not afraid I shall let Augusta carry you off, Phoebe. She would give the world to get you, but I don't mean to part with you.' ' It is of no use to talk to her, Mervyu,' cried Augusta's loud voice from the other end of the room. ' She knows that she cannot remain with you. Kobert himself would tell her so.' 'Eobert knows better than to interfere,' said Mervyn, with one of his scowls. 'Now then, Phoebe, settle it for yourself. Will you stay and keep house for me at home, or be Augusta's companion 1 There ! the choice of Hercules. Virtue or vice V he added, trying to laugh. ' Neither,' said Phoebe, readily. ' My home is fixed by Maria's. ' Phoebe, are you crazy ]' broke out the three voices ; while Sir Nicholas slowly and senteutiously explained that he re- gretted the unfortunate circumstance, but Maria's peculiarities made it impossible to produce her in society j and that when iier welfare and happiness had been consulted by retirement, Phoebe would find a home in his house, and be treated as l-ady Bannermau's sister, and a young lady of her expectations deserved. ' Thank you,' said Phoebe ; then turning to her brother, 'Mervyn, do you, too, cast oli i)Oor Maria?' ' I told you what I thought of that long ago,' said Mervyn, carelessly. ' Very well, then,' said Phoebe, sadly ; * perhaps you will let us stay till some lady can be found of whom Mr. Crabbe may approve, with whom Maria and I can live.' ' Lady Acton 1' Sir Bevil's voice was low and entreating, but all heai'd it. '1 am not going to encumber myself,' she answered. I always disliked girls, and I shall certainly not make Acton Manor an idiot asylum.' * And mind,' added Augusta, 'you wont come to me for the season 1 I have no notion of your leaving me all the dull part 406 HOPES AND FEARS. of the year for some gay widow at a watering-place, and then expecting me to go out with you in London.' ' By Heaven !' broke out INIervyn, ' they shall stay liere, if only to balk your spite. My sisters shall not be driven from pillar to post the very day their mother is put under ground.' 'Some respectable lady,' began Robert. ♦Some horrid old harridan of a boarding-house keeper,' shouted Mervyn, the louder for his interference. 'Ay, you would like it, and spend all their fortunes on parsons in long coats ! I know better ! Come here, Phoebe, and listen. You shall live here as you have always done, Maria and all, and keep the Fennimore woman to mind the children. Answei me, will that content you ] Don't go looking at Robert, but say yes or no.' Mervyn's inuendo had deprived his offer of its grace, but in sjiite of the pang of indignation, in spite of Robert's eye of disaj.proval, poor desolate Phoebe must needs cling to her home, and to the one who alone would take her and her poor compa- nion. * Mervyn, thank you ; it is right !' ' Right ! What does that mean ? If anyone has a word to say against my sisters being under my roof, let me hear il openly, not behind my back. Eh, Juliana, what's that V ' Only that I wonder how long it will last,' sneered Lady Acton. ' And,' added Robert, ' there should be some guarantee that they should not be introduced to unsuitable acquaintance.' ' Von think me not to be trusted with them.' ' I do not.' ]\iervyn ground his teeth, answering, ' Very well, sir, I stand indebted to you. I should have imagined, whatever youi opinion of me, you would have considered your favourite sky- blue governess an immaculate guardian, or can you be contented with nothing short of a sisterhood?' ' Roljci-t,' .said Phoebe, fearing lest worse should follow, •Mervyn has always been good to us j I trust to h.im.' And her clear eyes were turned on the eldest brother with a gratetul confidence that made him catch her hand with something between thanks and truunph, as he said — * Well said, little one? Tliere, sir, are you satisfied V ' I must be,' i-e plied Robert. Sir Bevil, able to endure no longer, broke in with soiue intelligt^nce from the newspaper, which he had been jjerusing ever since his unlucky appeal to his lady. Every one thank- fully accepted this means of ending the discussion. HOPES AND FEARS. 407 ' Well, Miss,' was Juliana's good night, ' you have attained your object. I hope you may liuJ it answer.' ' Yes,' added Augusta, ' when Mervyn brings home that Frenchwoman, you will wish you had been less tenacious.' ' Tliat's all au idea of yours,' said Juliana. ' She'll have punishment enough in Master Mervyn's own temper. I wouldn't keej) house for him, no, not for a week.' ' Stay till you are asked,' said Augusta. Phoebe could bear no more, but slii)ped thi'ougli the swing- door, reached her room, and sinking into a chair, passively let Lieschen undress her, not attempting to raise her drooping head, nor check the tears that trickled, conscious only of her broken, wounded, oppressed state of dejection, into the details of which she durst not look. How could she, when her misei-y had been inflicted by such hands 1 The mere fact of the un- seemly broil between the brothers and sisters on such an evening was sliame and pain enough, and she felt like one bruised and crushed all over, both in herself and Maria, while the one drop of comfort in Mervyn's kindness was poisoned by the strife between him and Robert, and the doubt whether Robert thought she ought to have accepted it. Wlien her maid left hei-, she only moved to extinguish her light, and then cowered down again as if to hide in the dark- ness ; but the soft summer twilight gloom seemed to soothe and restore her, and with a longing for air to refresh her throbbing brow, she leant out into the cool, still night, looking into che northern sky, still ])early with the last reminiscence of the late sunset, and with the pide large stars beaming calmly down. ' Oh, mother, mother ! Well might you long to take your poor Maria with you — there wliere the weary are at rest — where there is mercy for the weak and slow ! Home ! home ! we have none but with you !' Nay, had she not a home with Him Whose love was more than mother's love ; Whose soft stars were smiling on her now ; Vv jiose gentle breezes fanned her burning cheeks, even as a still softer breath of comfort was stilling her troubled spirit ! She leant out till she could compose herself to kneel in prayer, and from prayer rose up quietly, weary, and able to rest beneath the Fatherly Wings spread over the orphan. She was early astir, though with heavy, swollen eyelids ; and anxious to avoid Bertha's inquiries till all should be more fully settled, she betook herself to the garden, to cool her brow and eyes. She was bathing them in the dewy fragrant heart of a full-blown rose, that had seemed to look at her with a tearful 408 HOPES AND FEAES. smile of sympathy, when a step approached and an arm waa thrown round her, and Robert stood beside her. ' My Phcebe,' he said tenderly, ' how are you 1 It was a frightful eveninsr !' * Oh ! Eobert, were you displeased with me f * No, indeed. You put us all to shame. I grieved that you had no more preparation, but some of the guests stayed late, afterwards I was hindered by business, and then Bevil laid hands on me to advise me privately against this establishment for poor Maria.' ' T thought it was Jidiana who pressed it !' * Have you not learnt that whatever he dislikes she forwards f ' Oh ! Robert, j'ou can hinder that scheme from ever being thought of again !' ' Yes,' said Robert ; ' there she should never have been, even had you not made resistance.' ' And, Robert, may we stay here T asked Phoebe, trembling. 'Crabbe sees no objection,' he answered. * Do you, Robert 1 If you think we ought not, I will try to change ; but Mervyn is kind, and it ?s home ! I saw you thought me wi'oug, but I could not help being glad he I'elented to Maria.' ' You were right. Your eldest brother is the right person to give you a home. I cannot. It would have shown au evil, sus])icious temper if you had refused him.' ' Yet you do not like it.' 'Perhaps I am unjust. I own that I had imagined you all hap])ier and better in such a home as Mrs. Parsons or Miss" Charlecote could find for you ; and though Mervyn would scarcely wilfully take advantage of your innocence, I do not trust to his always knowing what would be hurtful to you or Bertha. Jt is a cliarge that I grudge to him, for I do not think he perceives what it is.' ' I could make you think better of him. I wonder whether I may.' * Anything — anything to make me think better of him,' cried Robert eagerly. ' I do not know it from him alone, so it cannot be a bi'eadi of confidence,' said Phoebe. ' He has been deeply attached, not to a ])retty person, nor a rich nor grand one, but she was very good and religious — so much so that she vvould nor acce2)t him.' * How recently T * The attachment has been long ; the rejection this spring.* * ]\Iy poor Phoebe, I could not tell you how his time has been parsed since early spring.' HOPES AND FEARS. 409 *I know in part,' she said, looking down; 'but, Roliin, that arose from despair. Oh, how I longed for him to come and let me try to comfort him !' ' And how is this to change my opinion,' asked Robert, ' except by showing me that no riglit-minded woman could ti'ust herself with him V ' Oh, Eobert, no ! Sisters need not change, though others ought, perhaps. I meant you to see that he does love and honour goodness for itself, and so that he will guard his sisters.' ' I will think so, Phcebe. You deserve to be believed twice hf.ve thus missed a situation. But these things are usually taken for granted ; ?nd I never imagined it my duty to volunteer my religious sentiments, since I never obtruded them. I gave no scandal by objecting to any form of worship, and concerned myself with the moral and intellectual, not the religious being.' ' Could you reach the moral without the religious V ' I should tell you that I have seldom reared a pupil from childhood. Mine have been chiefly from fifteen to eighteen, whose parents required their instruction, not education, from me ; and till I came here, I never fully beheld the growth and develo]jment of character. I found that whereas all I could do for Pbcebe was to give her method and information, leaving alone the higher graces elsewhere derived, with Bertha, my eff"«irts were inadequate to supply any motive for overcoming her natural defects ; and 1 believe that association with a person of my scei)tical habit has tended to prevent Phcebe's religion from influencing her sister.' ' This is the reason you tell me V 'Partly ; and likewise because I esteem you very differently from my former emjtloyers, and know that your views for your sisters are not like those of the persons with whom I have been accustomed to deal.' ' You know that I have no power. It rests entirely with my brother and Mr. Crabbe.' ' I am perfectly aware of it ; but I could not allow myself to be forced on your sisters by any family arrangement contrary to the wishes of that member of it who is most qualifled to judge for them.' ' Thank you, Miss Fennimore ; I will treat you as openly as you have treated me. I have often felt indignant that my sisters should be exposed to any risk of having their faith shaken ; and this morning I almost ho])ed to hear that you did not consent to Mervyn's scheme. But what you have said convinces me that, whatever you may have been previously, you are n}ore likely to strengthen and confirm them in all that is good than half the people they would meet. I know that it would be a lieavy affliction to Phoebe to lose so kind a friend ; it might drive her from the home to which she clings, and separate Bertha, at least, from her ; and under the circumstances, I cannot wish you to leave the poor girls at present.' He spoke rather confusedly, but there was more consent in manner than wurdti. HOPES AND FEARS. 413 ' Tliauk you,' she replied, fervently. ' I cannot tell you what it would cost me to part with Phoebe, my living lesson.' * Only let the lesson be still unconscious.' ' I would not liave it otherwise for worlds. The calm reliance that makes her a ministering spirit is far too lovely to bo ruffled by a hint of the controversies that weary my brain. If it be effect of credulity, the effects ai'e more beauteous than those of clear eyesight.' ' You will not always think it ci'ednlity.' 'There would be great rest in being able to accept all that you and she do,' Miss JFenniuiore answered with a sigli ; ' iu finding an unchanging answer to "What is truth T Yet even your Gospel leaves that question unanswered.' ' Unanswered to Pilate ; but those who are true find the truth ; I verily trust that your eyes will become cleared to find it. Miss Fenuiuiore, you know that I am unready and weak in argument, and you have often left me no refuge but my positive conviction ; but I can refer you to those who are strong. If I can help you by cai'rying your difficulties to others, or by pointing out books, I should rejoice ' ' You cannot argue — you can only act,' said Miss Fennimore, smiling, as a message called him away. The schoolroom had been left imdisturbed, for the sisters were otherwise occupied. By Mr. Fulmort's will, the jewels, except- ing certain Mervyn heirlooms, were to be divided between the daughters, and their two ladyships thought this the best time for their choice, though as yet they could not take possession. Phoebe would have given the world that the sets had been appropriated, so that Mervyn and JNlr. Crabbe should not have had to make her miserable by fighting her battles, insisting on her choosing, and then overruling her choice as not of sufficiently valuable articles, while Bertha profited by the lesson in harpy- hood, and regarded all claimed by the others as so much taken from herself; and poor Maria clasped on every bracelet one by one, threaded every ring on her fingers, and caught the same lustre on every diamouil, delighting in the grand exhibition, and in her own share, which by general consent included all that was clumsy and ill-set. No one had the heart to disturb her, but Phoebe felt that the poor thing was an eyesoi-e to them all, and was hardly able to endure Augusta's compliment, 'After all, Phoebe, she is not so bad ; you may make her tolerably present- able for the country.' Lady Acton patronized Bortha, in opposition to Phoebe ; and Sir Bevil was glad to have one sister to whom he could be good- natured wiLhout molestation. The young lady, heartily weary 414 HOPES AND FEARS. of the monotony of home, was much disappointed at the present arrangement ; Phoebe had become the envied elder sister instead of the companion in misfortune, and Juliana was looked on as the sympathizing friend who would fain have opened the prison doors tliat Phoebe closed against her by making all that dis- turbance about Maria. ' It is all humbug about Maria,' said Juliana. ' Much Plicebe will let her stand in her way when she wants to come to London for tlie season — but I'll not take her out, I promise her.' * But you will take me,' cried Bertha, ' You'll not leave me in this dismal hole always.' ' Never fear, Bertha. This plan wont last six months. Mervyn and Phoebe will get sick of one another, and Augusta will be ready to take her in — she is pining for an errand girl.' ' I'll not go there to read cookery books and meet old fogies. You will have me, Juliana, and we will have such fun together.' 'When you are come out, perhaps — and you must cure tluit stammer.' ' I shall die of dulness before then ! If I could only go to school ! ' I wouldn't be you with Maria for your most lively com- panion.' * It is much worse than when we used to go down into the drawing-room. Now we never see any one but Miss Charle- cote, and Phoebe is getting exactly like her !' * What, all her sanctimonious ways 1 I tliought so.' 'And to make it more aggravating, Miss Fennimore is going to get religious too. She made me read all Butler's AnaUxjy, and wants to put me into Foley , and fjhe is always running after Robert.' ' Middle-aged governesses always do run after young clergymen — especially the most oulres.'' ' And now she snaps me up if I say anything the least com- prehensive or speculative, or if I laugh at the conventionalities Phoebe learns at the Holt. Yesterday I said that the progress of common sense would soon make people cease to connect dulness with mortality, or to think a serious mistiness the sole evidence of respect, and I was caught up as if it were high treason.' ' You must not get out of bounds in your talk. Bertha, or uound unteeling.' * I can't help being original,' said Bertha. *I must evolve my ideas out of my individual consciousness, and assert my inde[)eu- dence of thought.' HOPES AND FEARS. 4l5 Juliana laughed, not quite following; her sisters metaphysical tone, but sati.stied that it was auti-Phoebe, she answered by observiug, ' An intolerable fuss they do make about that girl !' ' And she is not a bit clever,' continued Bertha. ' I can do a translation in half the time she takes, and have got far beyond her in all kinds of natural ijhiloso[)hy !' 'She flatters Mervyn, that's the thing; but she will soon have enough of that. I hope he wont get her into some dreadful scrape, that's all !' ' What sort of scrape V asked Bertha, gathering from the smack of the hope that it was something exciting. ' Oh, you are too much of a chit to know — but I say, Bert i. a, write to me, and let me know whom Mervyn brings to the house.' With somewhat the like injunction, only directed to a different quarter, Robert likewise left Beauchamp. As he well knew would be the case, nothing in his own cir- cumstances was chanL;ed by his moth^'r's deatli, save that he no longer could call her inheritance his home. She had made > no will, and her entire estate passed to her eldest son, from whom Robert parted on terms of defiance, rather understood than expressed. He took leave of his birthplace as one never expect- ing to return thither, and going for his last hour at Hiltonbury to Miss Charlecote, ])0ured out to her as many of his troubles as he could bt;ar to utter. 'And,' said he, 'I have given my a})proval to the two schemes that I most disapproved before- hand — to Mervyn's givingmy sisters a home, and to Miss Feuui- more's continuing their governess ! What will come of it Y ' Do not repent, Robert,' was the answer. ' Depend upon it, the great danger is in rashly meddling with existing arrange- ments, especially by a strain of influence. It is what the young are slow to learn, but experience brings it home.' ' With you to watch them, I will fear the less.' Miss Charlecote wondered whether any disappointment of his own added to his depression, and if he thought of Lucilla. 4)16 HOPES AND FEAR3. CHAPTER XVIII. My sister is not so tlefenceless left As you imagine. She has a liidtlen strength Which you remember not. — Comus. PHQi^BE was left to the vacancy of the orphaned house, to a blank where her presence had been ghidiiess, and to relief more sad than {)ain, in parting with her favourite brother, and seeing him out of danger of provoking or being provoked. To have been the cause of strife and object of envy weighed like guilt on her heart, and the tempest that had tossed her when most needing peace and soothing, left her sore and suffer- ing. She did not nurse her grief, and was content that her mother should be freed from the burthen of existence that had of late been so heavy ; but the missing the cherished reci])ietit of her care was inevitable, and she was not of a nature to sliake off dejection readily, nor to throw soirow aside in excitement. Mervyn felt as though he had caught a lark, and found it droop instead of singing. He was very kind, almost oppressively so ; ho rode or diove with her to every ruin or view esteemed worth seeing, ordered books for her, and consulted her on im- provements that pained her by the very fact of change. She gave her attention sweetly and gratefully, was always at his call, and amused his evenings with cards or music, but she felt herself dull and sad, and saw him disappointed in her. Then she tried bringing in Bertha as entertainment for both, but it was a downright failure. Bertha was fir too sharp and pert for an elder brother devoid both of wit and temper, and the only consequence was that she fathomed his shallow ar admitted a doubt of having carried the day against the old ■world ])rejudiccs, yet Miss Fennimore perceived, not only that Miss Charlecote's notions were not of the contracted and un- reasonable order that had been ascribed to her, but that libe- rality in her pupil was moreuucandid, narrow, and self-sufficient than was 'credulity' in Miss Charlecote. Honor was more amused than annoyed at these discussions ; she was sorry for the silly, conceited girl, though not in the least offended nor disturbed, but Phoebe and Miss Fennimore considered them Buch an exposure that they were by no means willing to HOPES AND FEAT^S. 423 gWe Bevtlia the opportunity of launching herself at her senior. The ptate of the househohl likewise perplexed Phoehe. Slie hail been bred up to the sight of waste, ostentation, and ex- travagance, and they did not distress her; but her pai-tial fiiithority revealed to her glimpses of dishonesty ; detected falselioods destroyed her confidence in the housekeeper ; Jier attempts at char-ities to the poor were intercejited ; her visits to the hamlet disclosed to her some of the effects on the A^lla- gers of a vicions, disorderly establishment ; and she understood why a careful mother would as soon have sent her daughter to service at the lowest public-house as at Eeauchamp. Mervyn had detected one of tlie footmen in a flagrant act of peculation, and had dismis.■^ed him, but Plicebe believed the evil to have extended f;\r more widely than he supposed, and made \ip her mind to entreat him to investigate matters. In vain, however, she sought for a favourable moment, for he was never {ilone. The intervals between other visitors were filled up by a Mr, Hastings, v.'ho seemed to have erected himself into so much of the domesticated friend that he had established a bowing and S[ieaking acquaintance with Plioebe ; Bertha no longer nari'ated her escapes of encounters with him ; and, being the only one of the gentlemen who ever went to church, he often joined the young ladies as they walked back from thence. Phcebe heai'tily wished him gone, for he made her bi'other inaccessible ; she only saw Mervyn when he wanted her to find something for him or to give her a message, and if she ventured to say that she wanted to speak to him, he promised — ' Some time or other' — which always proved sine die. He was looking very ill, his complexion very much flushed, and his hand heated and un- steady, and she heard through Jjiesclien of his having severe morning headaches, and fits of giddiness and depression, but tliese seemed to make him more unable to spare Mr. Hastings, as if life would not be endurable without the billiards that she sometimes heard knocking about hoJf the night. However, the anniversary of Mr. Fulmort's death would brina his executor to clear off" one branch of his business, and Mervyn's friends fled before the coming of the grave old lawyer, all fixing the period of their departure before Christmas. Nor could Mervyn go with them ; he must meet Mr. Crabbe, and Phoebe's heart quite bounded at the hope of being able to walk about the house in comfort, and say part of what was on her mind to her brother. ' Whose writing is thisf said Phcebe to hei'self, as the letterg were given to her, two days before the clearance of the house. 424< HOPES AND FEARS. 'I ought to know it — It is ! ISTo ! Yes, indeed it is — poor Lucy. Where can she be? VVliat can she have to say f The letter was dateless, and Phoebe's amaze grew as she read. *Deak Phcebe, * You know it is my nature to do odd things, so never mind that, but attend to me, as one who knows too well what it is to be motherless and undii'ected. Gossip is long-tongued enough to reach me here, in full venom as I know and trust, but it makes my blood boil, till I can't help writing a warning that may at least save jon pain. T know you are the snowdrop poor Owen used to call you, and I know you have Honor Charlecote for philosopher and friend, but she is nearly as un- sophisticated as yourself, and if report say true, your brf»ther is getting you into a scrape. If it is a fact that he has Jack Hastings dangling about Beaucharap, he deserves the lot of my imlucky Charteris cousins ! Mind what you are about, Phoebe, if the man is there. He is plaiisible, clever, has no end of amusing resources, and keeps his head above water ; but I know that in no place where there are womankind has he been received without there having been cause to repent it ! I hope you may be able to laugh — if not, it maybe a wholesome cure to hear that his friends believe him to have secured one of the heiresses at BeaucJiamp. Tliere, Phoebe, I have said my say, and I fear it is cutting and wounding, but it came out of the love of a heart that has not got rid of some of its old feelings, and that could not bear to think of sorrow or evil tongues busy about you. That I write for your sake, not for my own, you may see by my making it impos>.ible to answer. * LUCILLA SaXDBROOK. 'If you hold council with Honor over this — as, if you are wise, you will — you may tell her that I am learning gratitude to her. I would ask her pardon if I could without servility.' 'Secured one of the heiresses!' said Phoebe to herself. 'I should like to be able to tell Lucy how I can laugh ! Poor Lucy, how veiy kind in her to write. I wonder whetiier Mervyn knows how bad the man is! Shall I go to Miss Cliarlecote ? Oh. no ; she is spending two days at Moorcroft ! Shall I tell Miss Peunimore? No, I think not, it will be wiser to talk to ]\liss Charlecote ; I don't like to tell Miss Fennimore of Lucy, Poor Lucy — she is always generous ! He will soon be gone, nud then I can speak to M(r\-yn.' This secret was not a serious burthen to Phoebe, though she HOPES AND FEARS. 425 could not help smiling to herself at the comical notion of having been secured by a man to whom she had not spoken a dozen times, and then with the utmost coldness and I'orniality. The next day she appi'oached the letter bag with some curiosity. It contained one for her from her sister Juliana, a very unusual correspondent, and Phoebe's miiul misgave In rlest it should have any connexion with the hints in Lucillas note. But she was little prepared for what she read. ' Acton Manor, Dec. 24th. *My deab Phcebe, ' Although, after what passed in July, T cannot suppose that the opinion of your elders can have any effect on your pro- ceedings, yet for the sake of our relationship, as well as of regard to appearances, I cannot forbear endeavouring to rescue you from the consequences of your o^vn folly and obstinacy. Nothing better was to be expected from Mervyn ; but at your age, with your pretences to religion, you cannot plead simplicity, nor ignorance of the usages of the world. Neither Sir Bevil nor myself can express our amazement at your recklessness, thus forfeiting the esteem of society, and outraging the opinion of our old friends. To put an end to the impropriety, we will at once receive you here, overlooking any inconvenience, and we sliall expect you all three on Tuesday, under charge of Miss Fennimore, who seems to have been about as fit as Maria to think for you. It is too late to write to Mervyn to-night, but he shall hear from us to-morrow, as well as from your guardian, to whom Sir Bevil has written. You had better bring my jewels, and the buhl clock from my mother's mantelshelf, which I was to have. Mrs. Brisbane will ])ack them. Tell Bertha, with my love, that she might have beeu more explicit in her cori-espundence. 'Your affectionate sister, 'Julian A Acton.' When Miss Fennimore entered the room, she found Phoebe sitting like one petrified, only just able to hold out the letter, and murmur — ' What does it mean Y Imagining that it could only contain something fatal about Robert, Miss Fennimore sprang at the paper, and glanced through it, while Phcebe again faintly asked, ' What have I done V ' Lady Acton is pleased to be mysterious !' said the governess. The kind sister she always was !' ' Don't say that,' exclaimed Phcebe, rallying. ' It must bo 426 HOPES AND FEARS. something shocking, for Sir Bevil thinks so, too,' and the tears sprang forth. ' He will never think anything unkind of you, my dear,' said Miss Fennimore, with emphasis. 'It must be about Mr. Hastings !' said Phcebe, gathering re- collection and confidence. ' I did not like to tell you yesterday, but I had a letter from poor Lucy Sandbrook. Some friends of that man, Mr. Hastings, have set it about that he is going to be married to me !' and Phoebe laughed outright. ' If Juliana has heard it, I don't wonder that she is sliocked, because you know Miss Chai-lecote said it would never do for me to associate with those gentlemen, and besides Lucy says, tliat he is a very bad man. I shall write to Juliana, and say that I have never had anything to do with him, and he is going away to-morrow, and Mervyn must be told not to have him back again. That will set it all straight at Acton Manor.' Phoebe was quite herself again. She was too well accustomed to gratuitous uukindness and reproaches from Juliana to be much hurt by them, and perceiving, as she thought, where the mis- conception lay, had no fears that it would not be cleared up. So when she had carefidly written her letter to her sister, she dismissed the subject until she should be able to lay it bef ire Miss Charlecote, dwelling more on Honor's pleasure on hearing of Lucy than on the more personal matter. Miss Fennimore, looking over the letter, had deeper mis- civinfifs. It seemed to her ratlier to be a rebuke for the whole habit of life than a warninij against an individual, and she began to doubt whether even the seclusion of the west wing had been a sufficient protection in the eyes of the family from the contamination of such society as Mervyn I'eceivcd. Or was it a plot of Lady Acton's malevolence for hunting Phoebe away from her home? Miss Fennimore fell asleep, une.asy and perplexed, and in her dreams beheld Phoebe as the Lady in Comus, fixed in her chair and i-esolute against a cup effervescing witli ci'rbonic acid gas, proffered by Jack Hastings, who thereu])on gave it to Bertha, as she lay back in the dentist's chair, and both becoming transformed into pterodactyles, flew away while Miss Fennimore was vainly trying to summon the brothers by electric telegraph. There was a whole bevy of letters for Phoebe the following morning, and first a kind sensible one from her guardian, much regretting to learn that Mr. Fulmort's guests were undesirable inmates for a hou.se where young ladies resided, so that, though he had fall confidence in Miss Fulmort's discretion, and under- stood that she had never associated with the persons in question, be thought her residence at home ought to be reconsidered, and HOPES AND FEARS. 427 filiould be happy to discuss the point on coming to Beaucliamp, fjo soon as he should have recovered from an unfortunate fit of the gout, which at present detained him in town. Miss Fulmorfc might, however, be assui-ed that her wislies should be his chief consideration, and that he would take care not to separate her from Miss Maria. That promise, and the absence of all mention of Lucilla's object of dread gave Phoebe courage to open the missive from her eldest sister. * My dear Piicebe, * I always told you it would never answer, and yon see I was right. If Mervyn will invite that horrid man, whatever you may do, no one will believe that you do not associate with liim, and you may never get over it. I am telling everybody what children you are, quite in the schooh'oom, but nothing will he of any use but your coming away at once, and appearing in society with me, so you had better send the children to Acton Manor, and come to me next week. If there are any teal in the decoy bring some, and ask Mervyn where he got that Barton's dry champagne. ' Your affectionate sister, 'Augusta Bannerman.' She had kept Robert's letter to the last, as refreshment after the rest. •St. Matthew's, Dec. i6th. 'Dear PiicEnK, ' I am airaid this may not be your first intimation of what may vex and grieve you greatly, and what calls for much cool and anxious judgment. In you we have imjilicit confidence, and your adherence to Miss Charlecote's kind advice has spared you all imputation, though not, I fear, all pain. You may, perhaps, not know how disgraceful are the characters of some of the persons whom Mervyn has collected alwut him. I do liim the justice to believe that he would shelter you from all inter- course with them as carefully as I shoiild ; but I cannot forgive his having brought them lieneath the same roof with you. I fear the fact has done harm in our own neighbourhood. People imagine you to be associating with Mervyn's crew, and a mon- strous report is abroad which has caused Bevil Acton to write to me and to Crabbe. We all agree that this is a betrayal of the confidence that yon expressed in Mervyn, and that while he chooses to njake his house a scene of dissipation, no seclusion 428 HOPES AND FEARS. can render it a fit residence for women or crirls. I fear vou will sulfLir ijiucli in learning this decision, for Mervyn's sake as well as your own. Poor fellow ! if he will bring evil spirits about hiin, good angels must depart. 1 would come myself, Ijut that my presence would embitter Mervyn, and I could not meet him properly. I am writing to Miss Cliarlecote. If she should ]jro]jose to receive you all at the Holt immediately, until Crabbe's most inopportune gout is over, you had better go thither at once. It would be the most complete vindication of your conduct that could be offered to the county, and would give time for consi- dering of establishing you elsewhere, and still under Miss Fen- nimore's care. For Bertha's sake as well as your own, you must be prepared to leave home and I'esign yourself to be passive iu the decision of those bound to think for you, by which means you may avoid being included iu Mervyu's anger. Do not distress yourself by the fear that any blame can attach to you or to Miss Fennimore ; I copy Bevil's expressions — '' Assure Phoebe that though her generous confidence may have caused her difiiculties, no one can entertain a doubt of her guileless intention and maidenly discretion. If it would not make further mischief, I would hasten to fetch her, but if she will do me the honour to accept her sister's invitation, I hope to do all in my power to make her ha]ipy and mark my esteem for her." These are his words ; but I suj^pose you will hardly prefer Acton Manor, though, should the Holt fail us, you might send the other two to the Manor, and come to Albury-street as Augusta wishes, when we could consult together on some means of keeping you united, and retaining Miss Fennimore, who must not be thrown over, as it would be an injury to her prospects. Tell her from me that I look to her for getting you through this unpleasant business. * Your ever affectionate, ' R M. FULMORT.' Phcebe never spoke, but handed each sheet as she finished it to her governess. 'Promise me, Plicebe,' said Miss Fennimoi'e, as she came to Robert's last sentence, ' that none of these considei'ations shall bias you. Make no struggle for me, but use me as i may be most serviceable to you.' Plioebe, instead of answering, kissed and clung to her. ' What do you think of doing V asked the governess. ' Nothing,' .said Phcebe. ' You looked as if a thought had occurred to you.' ' i only recollected the words, " your strength is to sit ttill, HOPES AND FEARS. 429 said Phoebe, 'aud tlionght how well they agreed with Robert's advice to be passive. Mr. Crabbe has jjroiiiised not to separate us, and I will trust to that. Mervyn was very kind in letting us stay here, but he does not want us, and will not miss us,' — and with those words, quiet as th(;y were, came a gush of irre- pressible tears, just as a step resounded outside, the door was burst oi)en, and Mei-vyn hurried in, purple with passion, and holding a bundle of letters crushed together in his hand. ' I say,' he hoarsely cried, ' what's all this? Who has been telling infamous tales of my house T ' We cannot tell — ' began Phoebe. ' Do you know anything of this V he interrupted, fiercely turning on IMiss Fennimore. ' Nothing, sir. The letters which your sister has received have equally surprised and distressed me.' ' Then they have set on you, Phoebe ! The whole pack in full cry, as if it mattered to them whether I chose to have the Old Gentleman in the house, so long as he did not meddle with you !' * I beg your pardon, Mr. Fulmort,' interposed the governess, 'the remonstrance is quite just. Had I been aware of the character of some of your late guests, I could not have wished your sisters to remain in the house with them.' 'Are these your sentiments, Phcebe V he asked, sternly, * I am afraid they ought to be,' she sadly answered. ' Silly child ; so this pack of censorious women and parsons have frightened you into giving me up.' ' Sisters do not give up brothers, Mervyn. You know how I thank you for having me here, bxit 1 could not amuse you, or make it pleasant to you, so there must be an end of it.' ' So they hunt you out to be bullied by Juliana, or slaved to death by Augusta, which is it to be 1 Or may be Pobert has gut his sisterhood cut aud dried for you ; only mind, he shan't make away with your £30,000 while I live to expose those pupish tricks.' 'For shame, Mervyn,' cried Plicebo, all in a glow; * I will not hear Ptobert so spoken of : he is always kind and good, and has taught me every right thing I know f 'Oh, very well ; and pray when does he summon you from among tlie ungodly It Will the next train be soon enougli V ' Don't, Mervyn ! Your friends go to-day, don't they 1 Mr. Crabbe does not desire any change to be made before he comes to see about it. May we not stay till that time, and spend our Christmas together V ' You must ask Robert and Juliana, since you prefer them.' iOO HOPES AND FEARS. 'No,' said Phoebe, with spirit; 'it is right to attend to my elder sisters, atid Robert has always helped and taught me, and I must trust his guidance, as I always have done. And 1 trust you too, Mervyn. You never thought you were doing us any harm. I may trust you still,' she added, with so sweet and imploring a look that Mervyn gave an odd laugh, with some feeliui; in it. ' Harm 1 Great harm I have done this creature, eh V he said, with his hand on her shoulder. ' Few could do he)- harm, Mr. Fulmort,' said the governess, * but re})ort may have done some miscluef'.' ' Who cares for report ! I say, Piioebe, we will laugh at them all. You pluck up a spirit, stay with me, and we'll entertaiu all the county, and then get some great swell to bring you cub in town, and see what Juliana will say !' ' I will stay with you while you are alone, and Mr. Crabbe lets me,' said Phoebe. ' Old fool of a fellow ! Why couldn't my father have made me your guai'dian, and then there would have been none of this row ! One would think I had had her down to act barmaid to the fellows. And you never spoke to one, did you, Phcebe V ' Only now and then to Mr. Hastings. I could not help it after the day he came into the study when I was copying for you.' 'Ah, well! that is nothing — nobody minds old Jack. I shall let them all know you were as safe as a Turk's wife in a harem, and may be old Crabbe will hear reason if we get him down here alone, without a viper at each ear, as he had last time.' With which words Mervyu departed, and Miss Fennimoi-e exclaimed iu some displeasure, ' You can never think of remain- in". Phoebe.' O- ' I am afraid not,' said Phcebe ; ' Mervyn does not seem to know what is proper for us, and I am too young to judge, so I 8U])pose we must go. I u ish I could make him happy witli music, or books, or anything a woman could do ! It you please, I think I must go over to the Holt. I cannot settle to any- thing just yet, and I shall answer my letters better when 1 have seen Miss Charlecote.' In fact Phoebe felt herself going to her other guardian ; but as she left the room. Bertha came hurriedly in from the garden, witli a plaid thrown round her. ' What — wliat — what's the matter 1' she hastily asked, following Phcebe to her room. 'Is there an end of all these mystciries V ' Yes,' said Phoebe, ' JMiss Feuuimore is ready for you.' * As if that were all I wanted to know. Do you think I did not hear Mervyu storming like a lion V HOPES AND FEARS. 431 * I am sorry you did hear,' said Phcebe, ' for it was not pleasaut. It seems that it is not thunglit proper for us to live liere while Mervyn has so many gentleman-guests, so,' with a sigh, * you will have your wish, Bertha. They mean us to go away !' ' It is not my wish now,' said Bertha, pulling pins in and out of Phojbe's pincushion. 'I am not the child I was iu the bummer. Don't go. Phoebe j I know you can get your way, if you try for it.' ' I must try to be put in the right way, Bertha, that is all I want.' ' And you are going to the Holt for the most precise, narrow- minded way you can get. I wish I were in your \)\ace, Phcebe.' Scarcely had Phoebe driven from the door, before she saw Miss Charlecote crossing the grass on foot, and after the inter- change of a few words, it was agreed to talk while driving ^la towards Elverslope. Each was laden with the same subject, for not only had Honor heard from Robert, but during her visit to jMoorcroft she had become enlightened on the gossip that seldom reached the Holt, and hrod learnt that the whole neigh- bourhood was scandalized at the Beauchamp doings, and was therefore shy of taking notice of the young jteople there. She had been incredulous at tii-st, then extremely shocked and distressed, and thougli in part convinced that more than she guessed had passed beyond the west wing, she had come primed with a re])resentation which she cautiously admiuii?tered to Phcebe. The girl was more indignant on her brothers account than alarmed on her own. ' If that is the way the Raymonds talk of ]\Iervyn,' cried she, ' no wonder they made their niece cast him off, and drive him to despair.' ' It was no unkinduess of the Raymonds, my dear. They were only sorry for you.' * I do not want them to be sorry for me ; they ought to be sorry for Mervyn,' said Piicebe, almost petulantly. ' Perhaps they are,' said Honor. ' It was only in kindness that they spoke, and they had almost antici[)ated my explanation that you were kept entirely apart. Every gentleman here- abouts who has been at Beauchamp has declared such to be the case.' ' I should think so !' said Phoebe ; ' INIervyn knows how to take care of us butter than that !' ' But all ladies do not seem willing to believe as much, shame on them,' said Honor j ' and, tell me, Phcebe, have people called on you V 4S2 HOPES AND FEARS. ' Not many, but I have not called on them since they left their cards of inquiry. I had been thinking whether I ought.' ' We will consider. Perhaps I had better take you round some day, but I have been a very remiss protector, my poor child,, if all be true that I am told of some of JMervyn's friends. It was an insult to have them under the same roof with you.' * Will you look at this letter V said Phoebe. ' It is very kind •^it is from Lucy.' These plain words alone occurred to Plicebe as a preparation for a letter that was sure to move ]Miss Charlecote greatly, if only by the slight of Dot having written to her, the most obvious person. But the flighty generosity, and deep though incon- sistent feeling were precious, and the proud relenting of the message at the end touched Honor with hope. They laughed at the I'eport that had elicited Lucilla's letter, but the reserve of the warning about Mr. Hastings, coming from the once un- scrupulous girl, startled Honor even more than what she had heard at Moorcroft. Was the letter to be answered 1 Yes, by all means, cried Honor, catching at any link of communication. She could discover Lucilla's address, and was sure that e\eu brief thanks and explanations from Phoibe would be good for Lucy, Like JNliss Fennimore, Honor was surprised by Phcebe's com- posure under her share of the evil repoi't. The strictures which would have been dreadful to an older pei'son seemed to fly over her innocent head, their force either uucompreheuded or unfelt. She yielded implicitly to the propriety of the change, but her grief was at the family quarrel, the leaving home, and the un- merited degree of blame cast on Mervyn, not the asjjersious on hei\self ; altlio\igh, as Himor became vexed at her calmness, she v/ithheld none of them in the de.sire to convince her of the ex- ])ediency of leaving Beauchamp at once for the Holt. No, even though this was Robert's wish, Plicebe could still not see the necessity, as long as Mervyn should be alone. If he should bring any of his discreditable friends, she promised at once to come to ]\Iiss Charlecote, but otherwise she could perceive no reason for grieving him, and astonishing the world, by im- plying that his sisters could not stay in his house. She thought him utnvell, too, and wished to watch him, and, on the whole, did not regret her guardian's gout, which would give her a little more time at home, and put oflf the discussion till there should be less anger. Is this weak? is it childish indifi'erence ? thought H(mor, or is it a S])irit sujierior to the selfish personal dread that would |. reclaim its own injured innocence by a vehement commotion. HOPES AND FEARS. 433 Phoelje rejoiced that she had secured her interview with lier friend, for when the guests were gone, IMervyn claimed her whole attention, and was vexed if she were not continually at his beck. After their tUe-htete dinner, he kept her sitting over the dessert while he drank his wine. She tried this onportunity of calling his attention to the frauds of the servants, but he merely laughed his mocking laugh at her Bim]>licity in supposing that everybody's servants did not cheat. ' Miss Charlecote's don't.' * Don't they % Ha — ha ! Why, she's the very mark for im- position, and hypocrisy into the bargain.' Phoebe did not believe it, but would pot argue the point, returning to that neai-er home. ' Nonsense, Phoei)e,' he said ; ' it's only a choice who shall prey upon one, and if I have a set that will do it with a civil countenance, and let me live out of the spoil, I'll not be bothered.' ' I cannot think it need go on so.' ' Well, it wont ; I shall break up the concern, and let the house, or something.' ' Let the house ? Oh, Mervyn ! I thought you meant to be a cuunty man.' ' Let those look to that who have hindered me,' said Mervyn, fiercely swallowing one glassful, and pouring out another. * Should you live in London f ' At Jericho, for aught I care, or any one else.' Her attempt to controvert this remark brought on a tirade against the whole family, which she would not keep up by reply, and which ended in moody silence. Again she tried to rise, but he asked why slie could not stay with him five minutes, and went on absently pouring out wine and drinking it, till, as the clock strixck nine, the bottom of the decanter was reached, when he let her lead the way to the drawing-room, and there taking up the paper, soon fell asleep, then awoke at ten at the sound of her moving to go to bed, and kept her playing piquet for an hour and a half. An evening or two of this kind convinced Phoebe that eveu with Mervyn alone it was not a desirable life. She was lebi shocked than a girl used to a higher standard at home might Lave been, but that daily bottle and perpetual cards weighed on her imagination, and she felt that her younger sisters ought not to grow up to such a spectacle. Still her loving hoart yearned over Mervyn, who was very fond of her, and consulted her pleasure continually in his own peculiar and selfish way, although often exceedingly cross to her as well as to every one else j but this ill-temper was so visibly the effect of low spirits £ F 4^1- HOPES AND FFAKS. that slic euKi'ly enrlnretl and forgave it. She .saw that he was hoth unwell and unhappy. She could not think wliat would become of him when the present ari-angement should be broken up ; but could only cling to him, as long as she could pity him. It was no wonder that on the Sunday, Honora seeing her enter the church, could only help being reminded of the expression of that child-saint of Raflfaelle, wandering alone through the dragon-haunted wood, wistful and disti'est, yet so confident in the Unseen Guide and Guardian that she treads down evils and perils in innocence, unconscious of her full danger and of their full blackness. CHAPTER XIX. Close witliin iis we will c.-irry, strong, collected, calm, and brave, The true i)ano;>ly ot quiet which the bad world never gave; Very serpents in discretion, yet as guileless as the dove, Lo ! obedience is the watchword, and the countersign is love. W. G. Topper, jN the next hunting day, Mervyn took Phoebe with him to the meet, upon a fav^ourite common towards Elverslope, where on a fine morning ladies were as apt to be found as hounds and hinitsmen, so that she would be at no loss for companions when he left her. Plicebe rode, as she did everything else, well, quietly and firmly, and she looked very young and fresh, with her rounded rosy clieeks and chin. Her fair hair was parted back under a round hat, her slenderly plump figure appeared to advantage mounted on lier bright bay, and altogether she presented a strikincr contrast to her brother. Slie had not seen him in hunting costume for nearly a year, and she observed with pam how much he had lost his good looks ; his well-made youthful air was passing away, and liis features were becoming redder and coarser ; but he was in his best humour, good-natured, and as nearly gay as he ever was ; and Phoebe enjoyed her four-miles' ride in the beauty of a warm December's day. the sun shining on dewy hedges, and robins and thrushes trying to treat the weather like s])ring, as they sang amid the rich stores of coral fruit that hung as yet untouched on every hawthorn or eglantine. The ladies mustered strong on the smooth turf of the chalk down bordering the copse which was being drawn. Phoebe looked out for acquaintance, but a few gentlemen coming up to greet her, she did not notice, as Mervyn did, that the girls with HOPES AND FEAKS. 435 wliom lie liad wished to leave her had become intent on some doings in the copse, and had trotted oft' with their father. He made his way to the baroiiche where sat the grande dame of the county, exchanged civilities, and asked leave to introduce his sister. Phosbe, who had never seen the lady before, thought nothing of the cold distant bow ; it was tor JNIervyn, who knew what her greetings conld be, to fume and rage inwardly. Other acknowledgments passed, but no party had appi'oached or admitted Phoebe, and when the hounds went away, she was still i-iding alone with her bi-other and a young officer. She bade them not to mind her, she would ride home with the servant, and as all were in motion, she had enough to do to hold in her horse, while Mervyn and his friend dashed forward, and soon she found herself alone, except for the groom ; the field wei'e well away over tlie down, the carriages driving off', the mounted maidens following the chase as far as the way was fair and lady- like. Phoebe had no mind to do so. Her isolation made her feel forlorn, and In-ought home Miss Charlecote's words as to the opinion entertained of her by the world. Poor child, something like a tear came into her eye and a blush to her cheek, bub 'never mind,' she thought, ' they will believe Miss Charlecote, and she will take care of me. If only jNTervyn will not get angry, and make an uproar ! I shall soon be gone away ! When shall I come back V She rode up to the highest part of the down for a take-leave gaze. There lay Elverslope in its bason-like valley scooped out in the hills, with the purple bloom of autumnal haze veiling its red brick and slate* there, on the other side, the copses and arable fields dipped and rose, an,d rose and dipped again, till the undulations culminated in the tall fir-trees in the Holt garden, the landmark of the country ; and on the bare slope to the west, Beauchamp's pillars and pediment made a stately speck in the landscape. * Home no longer !' thought Phoebe ; 'there will },e strangers there — and we shall be on the world ! Oh ! why cannot Mervyn be like Ptobert? How happy we could be !' Beauchamp had not been a perf:;ct Eden in itself, but still it had all the associations of the paradise of her guileless child- hood ; and to her the halo around it would alwaj's have the radiance of the loving spirit through which she viewed it. The undefined future was hard to beai-, but she thought of Pobert, and of the promise that neither her sisters nor Miss Fennimore should be parted from her, and tried to rest thankful on that comfort. She bad left the down for the turnpike-road, the sounds of the F F :2 4;S6 HOPES AND FEARS. hunt often reaching her, with glimpses of men and dogs in the distance taliing a direction parallel with her own. Presently a red coat glanced through the hedge of one of tlie cross lanes, as if coining towards the road, and as she reached the opening at the end, a signal was made to her to stop. Foreboding some accident, she hastily turned up the narrow white muddy lane, and was met by an elderly gentleman. ' Don't be alarmed,' he said, kindly ; ' only your brother seems rather unwell, and I thought I had best see him under your charge.' Mervyn was by this time in sight, advancing slowly, and Phoebe with rapid thanks rode on to meet him. She knew that dull, confused, dazzled eye belonged to his giddy fits, and did not wonder at the half-nttered murniur, rather in the impreca- tion line, with wliich he spoke ; but the reel in his saddle terrified her greatly, and she was dismayed to see that the gentleman had proceeded into the high road instead of offering further assistance. She presently perceived that the danger of falling was less real than apparent, and that her brotlier could still keep his seat, and govern his horse, though nearly unable to look or speak. She kept close to liim, and was mucli relieved to find that the stranger had not returned to the sport, but wag leisurely following at some distance behind tlie groom. Never liad two miles seemed so long as under her frequent alarms lest Mervyn should become unable to keep the saddle ; but at each moment of terror, she heard the pace of the hunter behind quickened to come to her help, and if she looked round she met an encouraging sign. When the lodge was reached, and Mervyn, somewhat revived, had ridden through the gates, she turned back to give her warm thanks. A kind, fatherly, friendly face looked at her with a sort of con.passion, as putting aside her thanks, the gentleman said, quickly, yet half-reluctantly, ' Have you ever seen him like tliis before V 'Yes; the giddiness often comes on in the morning, but never so badly as this. I think it was from the rai)id motion.' * Has he had advice V ' T cannot persuade him to see any one. Do you think he OU'dit 1 I would send at once, at the risk of his being angry.' ' Does Dr. Martyn attend you 1 Shall I leave a message as I go home?' ' I should be most thankful 1' ' It may be nothing, l)ut you will be happier that it should be ascertained ;' and with another kindly nod, he rode off. Mervyn had gone to his room, and answered her inquiries at HOPES AND FEARS. 487 tlie door witli a brief, blunt * better,' to be interpreted that he did not wish to be disturbed. She did not see liini till dinner- time, when he had a sullen heailache, and was gruff and gloomy. She tried to learn who the friend in need had been, but he had been incapable of distinguishing anybody or anything at the moment of the attack, and was annoyed at having been followed. ' What a pottering ass to come away from a run on a fool's errand !' he said. ' Some Elverslope spy, who will set it about the country that I had been drinking, and cast that up to you !' and then he began to rail against the ladies, singly and collec- tively, inconsistently declaring it was Phoebe's own fault for not having called on them, and that he would have Augusta to Beauchamp, give a ball and supper, and show whether Miss Fulmort were a person to be cut. This mode of vindication not being to Miss Fulmort's taste, she tried to avert it by doubts whetlier Augusta could be had ; and was told that, show Lady Bannerman a bottle of Bavton'a dry champagne, and she would come to the world's end. Mean- time, Phcebe must come out to-morrow for a round of visits, whereat her lieart failed her, as a thrusting of herself where she was not welcome; but he sjioke so fiercely and dictatorial! y, that she reserved her pleading for the morning, when he would probably be too inert not to be glad of the escape. At hist, Dr. Martyn's presence in the drawing-room was announced to her. She began her exjilanation v/ith desperate bravery ; and though the iirst words were met witli a scofEng grunt, she found INIervyn less displeased than she had feared — nay, almost glad that the step had been taken, though he would not say so, and made a great favour of letting her send the phy- sician to him in the dinuig-room. After a time, Dr. Martyn came to tell her that he had found her brother's head and puLse in such a state as to need instant relief by cupinng ; and that the young Union doctor had l)een sent for from the village for the purpose. A constitutional fulness of blood in the head had been aggravated by his mode of life, and immediate discipline, severe regimen, and abstinence from business or excitement, were the only means of averting , and lowered by treatment, was disi)irited, depressed, incapable of being entertained, cross at her failures, yet exacting of her attendance. He had business at his office in the City that needed his presence, so he insisted till the last morning upon going, and then owned himself in no state to go farther than tlie study, where he tried to write, but found his brain so weak and con- fused that he could hardly complete a letter^ and was obliged to push over even the simplest calculation to Phosbe. In vain she tried to divert his mind from this perilous exertion ; he had not taste nor cultivation enough to be interested in anything she could devise, a.nd harping u])on sonie one of the unpleasant topics that occu])ied his thoughts Was his only entertainment wlien he grew tired of cards or backgammon. Phcebe sat up late writing to Robert a more minUte account of Mervyn's illness, which she thought must plead for him; and rather sad at heart, she had gone to bed and ftillen asleep, when fiir on in the night a noise startled her. She did not suspect her own imagination of bei-ig to blame, except so far as the associations with illness in the house might have recalled the sounds that once had been wont to summon her to her mother's room. I'lie fear that her brother might be vvorse made her listen, till the sounds became matters of certainty. S{)ringiug to the window, her eyes seemed to stiffi^n with amaze as she beheld in the clear, full moonlight, on the frosty sward, the distinctly-traced shadow of a liorse and cart. The objects themselves were concealed by a clump of young trees, but their forms were distinctly pictured on the turf, and the convictim flushed over her that a robbery must be going forward. HOPES AXD FEARS. 439 ' Perils and dangers of this night, indeed !' One prayer, cue thought. She remembered the great house-bell, above the attic btairs in the opposite wing, at the other end of the gallery, which led from the top of the grand staircase, wliere the cliief bedroom doors opened, and a jet of gas burnt all night on the balustrade. Throwing on her dressing-gown, she sped along the passage, and pushiug open the swing dooi', beheld Merv\n at the door of his own room, and at the head of the stairs a man, in whom she recognised the discarded footman, raising a pistol. One swift bound — her liand was on the gas-pij)e. All was darkness, save a dim strij)e from within the open door of her mothers former dressing-room, close to where she stood. She seized the lock, drew it close, and had turned the key before the hand within had time to wrencii round the inner handle. That same instant, the flash and report of a pistol made her cry out her brother's name. * Hollo ! what did you ])ut out, the light for V he angrily answered ; and as she could just distinguish his white shirt eleeves, she sprang to him. Steps went huri-iedly down the stairs. ' Gone !' they both cried at once ; ilervyn, with an imprecation on the darkness, adding, 'Go and ring the bell. I'll watch here.' She obeyed, but the alarm had been given, and the house was astir. Candle-light gleamed above — cries, steps, and ex- clamations were heai'd, and she was obliged to hurry down, to Save herself from being run over. Two figures had joined !Mervyn, the voice of one proclaiming her as Bertha, quivering with excitement. 'In there? My emeralds are in there! Open the door, or he will make off with my — my emeralds !' * Safe, my child ? Don't stand before that door,' cried Miss Eennimore, pulling Phcebe back wdth a fond, eager grasp. ' Here, some of you,' shouted Mervyu to the men, whose heads appeared behind the herd of maids, ' come and lay hold of tlie fellow when I vinlock the door.' The women fell back with suppressed screams, and readily made way for the men, but they shufHed, backed, and talked of pistols, and the butler suggested the policeman. ' The policeman — he lives two miles off,' cried Bei-tha. ' He'll go out of window with my emeralds ! Unlock the door, IMervyn.' ' Unlock it yourself,' said Mervyn, with an impatient stamp of his foot. ' Pshaw ! but thank you,' as Miss Pennimore put into his hand his double-barrelled gun, the first weapon she had found — unloaded, indeed, but even as a club foimidable enough to give him confidence to unlock the door, and call to 440 HOPES AND FEARS. the man to give liimself up. The servants huclilled together like sheep, but there was no answer. He called for a light, li was put into his hand by Phrebe, and as he opened the door, was blown out by a stream of cold air from the open window. The thief was gone. Everybody was ready to pvens in and look for him in every impossible place, but he had evidently escaped by the leads of the j^ortico beneath, not, however, with *ray emei-alas — he had only attempted the lock of the jewel cabinet. Phoebe hurried to see whether Maria had been frigh.tened, and finding her happily asleep, followed the rest of the world downstairs, where the servants seemed to be vying with each other in the magnitude of the losses they announced, while Mervyn was shouting himself hoai'se with passionate orders that everything should be left alone — doors, windows, plate- chests, and all — for the inspection of the police ; and human nature could not resist lifting up and displaying signs of the robbery every moment, in the midst of the storm of vitupera- tion thus excited. Mervyn could hardly attend to Phoebe's mention of the cart, but as soon as it reached his senses, he redoubled his hot commands to keepers and stablemen to set oif in pursuit, and called for his horse to ride to Elverslope, to give information at the police station and telegi-aph office. Phoel)e implored him to rest and send a messenger, but he roughly bade her not to be so absurd, commanded again that nothing shoiild be dis- turbed, or, if she would be busy, that she should make out a list of all that was missiriw. ' Grateful !' indignantly thought Miss Fennimore, as Phoebe ■was left leaning on a pillar in the portico, watching him ride away, the pale light of the yellow setting moon giving an almost ghostly appearance to her white dnijjery and wistful attitude. Putting an arm round her, the governess found her shivering from head to foot, and pale and cold as marble ; her knees knocked together when she walked, and her teeth chattered as Bhe strove to .smilo, but her quietness still showed itself in all her movements, as she returned into the hall, and reached the welcome support of a chair beside the rekindled fire. Miss Fennimore chafed her hands, and she looked up, smiled, and said, * Thank you.' ' Then you were frightened, after all, Phoebe,' cried Bertha, triumphantly. 'Was 1 1 — I don't know,' said Phoebe, as in a di-eara. * What, when you don't know what you are talking of, and are still tremlding all overV HOPES AND FEARS. 441 'T can't tell. I think what came on me then was tliankful- ness.' ' I am sure we may be thankful that our jewels are the only things safe !' 'Oh ! Bertha, yon don't know, then, that the man was taking aim at Mervyn !' and the shudder returned. 'There, Phcebe, for the sake of candovir and psychology, confess your terror.' 'Indeed, Bertha,' said Phoebe, with a smile on her tremuln-ia lip, *itis very odd, bub I don't think I was afraid ; there was a feeling of shadowing Wings that left no room for terror.' * That enabled you to tliink and act V asked Miss Fennimore. *I didn't think; it came to me,' said Phoebe. 'Pray let me go ; Bertha dear, you had better go to bed. Pray lie down. Miss Fennimore.' She moved slowly away, her steps still unsteady and her cheeks colourless, but the sweet light of thankfiduess on her face ; while Bertha said, in her moralizing tone, ' It is a curile — What's that?' pointing to the letter, as though it had been a stain of ink wjiich she had just perpetrated. Alarmed perhaps, but certainly not confounded, Bertha put her hands before her, and demurely said — ■' What do you mean?' ' What do you mean. Bertha, by such a correspondence aa this ?' ' Jf you know that letter is for ine, why did you meddle with it ?' she coolly answered. * Upon niy woixl, this is assurawoe,' cried Mervyn. * Give me ray letter,' repeated Bertha, reaching out for it. ' No one else has a right to touch it.' * If there be nothing amiss,' said Phoebe, coming to the relief of her brother, who was almost speechless at this audacity, ' why receive it under cover to a servant ?' ' Becaiise prejudice surrounds me,' stoutly replied Bertha, with barely a hitch in her speech, as if making a grand stroke ; but seeing her brother smile, she aJded in an annihilating tone, * practical tyranny is exercised in every family until education and intellect effect a moral emancipation.' ' What ?' said Mervyn, 'education teaching you to write letters in German hand ! Fine results ! I tell you, if you were older, the disgrace of this would stick to you for life, but if you will tell the whole truth about this scoundrel, and put an end to it, we will do the best we can for you.' She made up a disdainful mouth, and said, 'Thank you.* G G 450 HOPES AND FRAES. 'After all,' said Mervyn, turning to Phoebe, 'it ia a joke! Look at hei" ! She is a baby ! You need not have made such a rout. This is only a toy-letter to a little girl ; very good practice in Gei'man writing.' ' I am engaged to John Hastings heart and hand,' said Bertha in high dignity, little knowing that she thus first disclosed the name. ' Yes, people talk of children being their little wives,' said Mervyn, ' but you are getting too old for such nonsense, though be does not think you so.' ' It is the joint purpose of our lives,' said Bertha. ]\Iervyn gave his scoffing laugh, and again addressing Phoebe, said, ' If it were you, now, or any one with whom he was not in sport, it would be a serious matter. The fellow got himself ex- pelled from Harrow, then was the proverb of even a German university, ran through his means before he was five-and-twenty, is as much at home in the Queen's Bench as I am in this study, has been outlawed, lived on rouge et noil' at Baden till he got whitewashed when his mother died, and since that has lived on betting, or making; himself asfreeable to whoever would ask hirn.' ' IMany thanks on the part of your intimate friend,' said Bertha, with suppressed passion. Mervyn stamped his foot, and Phoebe defended him with, "Men may associate with those who are no companions for their sisters, Bertha,' ' Contracted minds always accept malignant reports,' was the reply. ' Beport,' said Mervyn ; I know it as well as I know myself !' then recollecting himself, ' but she does not understand, it is of no use to talk to children. Take her away, Phoebe, and keep her in the nursery till Mr. Crabbe comes to settle what is to be done with her.' ' I insist on having my letter,' said Bertha, with womanly grandeur. ' Let her have it. It is not worth bothering about a mere joke,' said Mervyn, leaning back, wearied of the strr.ggle, in wdiich, provoking as he was, he had received some home thrnsts. Phoebe felt bewildered, and as if she had a perfect stranger on her hands, though Bertha's high tone was, after all, chiefly from her extremity, and by way of reply to her brother's scorii- fnl incredulity of her exalted position. She was the first to s])eak on leaving the liljrary. ' Pray, Phoebe, how came you to tamper wiih people's letters?' Phoebe explained. HOPES AND FEARS. 45) '!From Mervyn and his spy one could expect no delicacy,' said Bertha, ' but in you it was treachery.' ' No, Bertha,' said Phoebe, * I was grieved to expose you, but it was my duty to clear the innocent by examining the letter, and Mervyn had a right to know what concerned you when you were under his charge. It is our business to save you, and a letter sent in this way does not stand on the same grouni as one coming openly under your own name. But I did not read it to him, Bertha — not all.' ' If you had,' said Bertha, more piqued than obliged by this reserve, ' he would have known it was in earnest and not childish nonsense. You saw that it was earnest, Phoebe V and her defiant voice betr-ayed a semi-distrust. ' I am afraid it looked very much so,' said Phoebe ; ' but, Bertha, that would be saddest of all. I am afraid he might be wicked enough to be trying to get your fortune, for indeed — • don't be very much vexed, dearest, I am only saying it for your good — you are not old enough, nor formed, nor ]«'etty enough, really to please a man that has seen so much of the world.' ' He never met so fresh, or original, or so highly cultivated a mind,' said Bertha ; ' besides, as to features, there may be ditldi'ent opinions !' ' But, Bertha, how could you ever see him or speak to him?' ' Hearts can find more ways than you dream of,' said Bertha, ■with a touch of sentiment ; ' we had only to meet for the mag- netism ot mind to be felt !' Argument was heartless work. Flattery and the gloiy of her conquest had entirely filled the cliild's mind, and she de- spised Mervyn and Phoebe far too much for the representations of the one or the persuasions of the other to have the smallest weight with her. Evidently, weariness of her studies, and imjiatience of discipline had led her to lend a willing ear to any distraction, and to give in to the intercourse that both gratified and amused herself and outwitted her governess, and thence the belief in the power of her own charms, and preference for their admirer, were steps easier than appeared credible to Phoebe. From listening in helpless amaze to a miserable round of pertness and philosophy, Phoebe was called downstairs to hear that Mervyn had been examining Jane Hart, and had elicited from her that after having once surprised Mr. Hastings and Miss Bertha in conversation, she had several times conveyed notos between them, and since he had left Beauchamp, she had posted two letters to him from the young lady, but this was the fir;:t answer received, directed to herself, to be left at the post-office to be called for. ftG 2 452 HOPES AND FEARS. ' Earnest eiaough on his part,' said Mervyn ; 'a regular spe- culation to patch up his fortuuo. Well, I knew ill enough of Lini, as I told you, but I was fool enough to pity him !' He became silent, and so did Phojbe. She had been too much overset to look the subject fairly in the face, and his very calm- ness of voice and the absence of abusive epithets were a token that he was perfectly api)alled at what he had brought on his sisters. They both sat still some minutes, when she saw him lean back with his hand to his head, and his eyes closed. * There's a steeple chase !' he said, as Phoebe laid her cool hand on his burning brow, and felt tlie throbbing of the swollen veins of his temples. Both knew that this meant cupping, and they sent in haste for the Hiltonbury doctoi-, but he was out for the day, and would not return till evening. Phoebe felt dull and stunned, as if her decision had caused all the mischief, and more and more were following on, and her spirit almost died within her at Mervyn's interjection of rage and suffering. 'Though they curse, yet bless thou,' had of necessity been her rule while clinging to this brother ; a mental ejaculation had become habitual, and this time it brought reaction from her forlorn despondency. She could do something. Twice she had assisted in cupping, and she believed she could perform the ojieration. No faHure could be as hurtful as delay, and slie offered to make the attempt. Mervyn growled at her folly, yawned, groaned, looked at his watch, counted the heavy hours, and s>ipposed she must do as she chose. Her heart rivalled his temples in palpitation, but happily without affecting eye, voice, or hand, and with Lieschen's help tlie deed was successfully done, almost with equal benefit to the operator and the patient. Success had put new life into her ; the ti'oubles had been forgotten for the moment, and recurred not as a shameful burtlien, caused by her own imprudence, but as a possible turning-point, a subject for action, not for despair, and Phoebe was herself again. ' What's that you are writing V asked Mervyn, starting from a doze on the sofa. 'A letter to Robert,' she answered reluctantly. ' I suppose you will put it in the 2wies. No woman can keo)) a thing to lierself.' ' I would tell no one else, but I wanted his advice.' ' Oh, I dare say.' I'lioibe saw that to persist in her letter would utterly destroy the repose that was essential in Mervyn's state, and she laid aside her pen. HOPES AND FEARS. 4o3 'Going to do it out of sight ■?' lie petulantly sairl. ' No ; but at auy i-ate I will wait till Miss Feuni more has talked to Bertha. She will be more willing to listen to her.' ' Because this is the result of her emancipating education. Ha!' ' No ; but Bertha will attend to her, and cannot say her notions are servile and contracted.' ' If you say any more, I shall get up and flog them both.' *Miss Fennimore is very wise,' said Phojbe. 'Why, what has she tauglit you but theologies and the Pdghts of Women.' ' The chief thing she teaches,' said Phoebe, 'is to attend to what we are doing.' Mervyn laughed, but did not perceive how those words were the key of Phoebe's character. ' Sir Joliu and Lady Raymond and Miss Raymond in the drawing-room.' Unaj^preciating the benefit of changing the current of thought, Phoebe lamented their admission, and moved reluctantly to the gieat rooms, where the guests looked as if they belonged to a more eiisy and friendly region than to that world of min-ors, damask, and fjilding. Sir John shook hands like an old friend, but his wife Avas one of those homely ladies who never appear to advantage in strange houses, and Phoebe had not learnt the art of ' lady of the house' talk, besides feeling a certain chilliness towards Mervyu's detractors, which rendered her stift" and formal. To her amaze, liowever, the languishing talk was interrupted by his entrance ; he who regarded Sir John as the cause of his disappointment ; he who had last met Susan Raymond at the time of his rejec- tion ; he whom she had left prostrate among the sofa cushions ; he had absolutely exerted himself to brush his hair and put on coat and boots, yet how horribly ill and nervous he looked, totally devoid of his usual cool assurance, uncertain whether to shake hands with the two ladies, and showing a strange restless eagerness as though entirely shaken off his balance. Matters w-ere mended by his entrance. Phoebe liked Lady Raymond from the moment she detected a sign to the vehement Sir John not to keeji his host standing during the discussion of the robbery, and she ventured on expressing her gratitude for his escort on the day of the hunt. Tiien arose an entreaty to view the scene of the midnight adventure, and the guests were conducted to the gallery, shown where each party had stood, the gas-pipe, the mark of the pistol-sliot, and the dressing-room door was opened to display the cabinet, and the window ot the escape. 454 HOPES AND FEARS. To the intense surprise of her brother and sister, Bertha waa examining lier emeralds. She came forvvarl quite at her ease, and if she had been ten years a woman coukl not more naturally have assumed the entertainment of Lady Raymond, talking so veidily thatPhcebe would have believed the morning's transactions a delusion, but for Mervyn's telegraph of astonishment. The visitors had been at the Holt, and obtained a promise from Miss Charlecote to spend the ensuing Saturday week at Moorcroft. They begged the sisters to accompany her. Phoebe drew back, though Mervyn hurried out declarations of his not wanting her, and. the others never going out, till she hardly knew how it had been decided ; bvit as the guests departed she heard Mervyn severely observing to Bertlia — ' no, certainly I shoidd not send you to keep company with any well-behaved young ladies.' ' Thank you, I have no desii-e to associate with commonplace girls,' said Bertha, marching off to the west wing. ' You will go, PhcBbe,' said Mervyn. ' Indeed, if I did it would be partly for the sake of giving change to Bertha, and letting hei' see what nice people really are.' ' Are you crazy, Phcebe 1 I would not have Bertha with her impudence and her pedantry go among the Raymonds — no, not for the Bank of Ensjland.' Those words darted into Phcebe's mind the perception why Mervyn was, in his strange way, promoting her intercourse with Moorcroft, not only as stam ping her conduct with a})provul of people of their worth and weigiit, but as affording him some slight glimmering of hope. She could not but recollect that the extra recklessness of language which had pained her ever since his rejection had diminished ever since her report of Sir John's notice of her at the justice room. Sister like, she pitied and ho])ed j but the more immediate care extin- guished all the rest, and she was longing for Miss Fennimore's sympathy, though grieving at the pain the disclosure must inflict. It could not be made till the girls were gone to bed, and at h;df-past nine, Phoebe sought the schoolroom, and told her tale. There was no answei', but an almost convulsive shudder ; her hand was seized, and her finger guided to the lino which Miss Fennimore had been reading in the Greek Testament — ' By their fruits ye shall know them.' Rallying before Phoebe could trace what was passing in her mind, she shut the book, turned her chair to the fire, invited Phoebe to another, and was at once the clear-headed, mcta- l^hysical governess, read*y to discuss this gi-ievous marvel. Sho HOPES AND FEARSi, 455 was too generous by natitre not to have treated her pupils \rith implicit trust, and this trust had been abused. Looking back, she and Phoebe could recollect moments when Bertha had been unaccounted for, aud must have held interviews with IMr. Hastings. She had professed a turn for twilight walks in the garden, and remained out of doois when the autumn evenings had sent the others in, and on the Sunday afternoons, when Phoebe aud Maria had been at church. Miss Fennimore re- proached herself exceedingly with having been too much absorbed in her own readings to concern herself about the pro- ceedings of a pupil, whose time on that day was at her own disi)osal. She also thought that there had been communications by look and sign across the pew at church ; and she had re- marked, though Phoebe had been too much occupied with her brother to perceive, the restlessness that had settled on Bertha from the time of the departure of Mervyn's guests, and had once reproved her for lingering, as she thought, to gossip with Jane Hart in her bedi'oom. ' And now,' said Miss Fennimore, * t^he should have a thorough change. Send her to school, calling it punishment, if you please, but chiefly for the sake of placing her among laughing girlish girls of the same age, and, above all, under a thorougldy i-eligious mistress of wide intelli- gence, and who has never doubted.' ' But we were all to keep together, dear Miss Fennimore— you ' ' One whose mind has always been balancing between aspects of truth may instruct, but cannot educate. Few minds can embrace the moral virtues unless they are based on an un- doubted foundation, connected with present devotional warmth, and future hopes and fears. I see this now ; I once thought excellence would a]iprove itself, for its own sake, to others, as it did to myself. I regarded Bertha as a fair subject for a full ex])eriment of my system, with good disposition, good abilities, and fevv counter influences. I meant to cultivate self-relyiug, unprejudiced, eliective good sense, and see — with prejudices have been rooted up restraints !' ' Education seems to me to have little to do with what people turn out/ said Phoebe. ' Look at poor Miss Charlecote and the Sandbrooks.' ' Depend upon it, Phoebe, that whatever harm may have ensued from her eiTors in detail, those young people will yet bless her for the principle she worked on. You can none of you bless me, for having guided the hands of the watch, and having left the mainspring Untouched.' Miss Fennimore hatl been, like Helvetius and the better 456 HOPES AND FEARS. class of ©ncyclopoedists, enamoured of the moral virtues, hut unable to perceive that they conld not Vie separated from the Cliristian faith, and she learnt like them that, when doctrine ceased to be prominent, practice went after it. Bertha waa her Jacohin — and seemed donldy so the next morning, when an interview took place, in which the young lady gave her to understand tliat she, like Phffibe, was devoid of the experience that would enable them to coniprehend the sacred mutual duty of souls that once had spoken. Woman was no longer the captive of tlie seraglio, nor the chz'onicler of small beer. In- tellectual training conferred rights of choice superior to con- ventional ties ; and, as to the infallible discernment of that fifteen year old judgment, had not she the sole pretnises to go upon, she who alone had been admitted to the innermost of that manly existence 1 ' I always knew Jack to be a clever dog,' said Mervyn, when this was reported to him, ' biit liis soft sawder to a priggish metaphysical baby must have been the best fun in the world V Mervyn's great desire was to keep Bertha's fully as great a secret as possible ; and, by his decision, she was told that grace should be granted her till Mr. Crabbe's arrival, when, unless she had renounced what he called her silly child's fancy, stringent measures would be taken, and she would be exposed to the family censure. ' So,' said Bertha, * you expect to destroy the attraction of souls by physical force !' And Plitebe wrote to Robert a sorrowful letter, chiefly con- sisting of the utmost pleadings for Mervyn and Beriha that her loving heart could frame. She was happier when she had poured out her troubles, but grieved when no answer came by the next post. Bobert's displeasure must be great— and indeed but too justly so — since all this mischief was the consequence of the disregard of his wishes. Yet justice was hard between brothers and sistei's, especially wlien Mervyn was in such a suffering state, threatened constantly by attacks of his complaint, which were only warded off by severe and weakening treatment. Phoebe was so necessaiy to his comfort in waiting on him, and trying to while away his tedious hours of inaction and oppres, sion, that she had little time to bestow upon Bertha, nor- indeed, wat> talking of any use, as it only gave the 3'oung lady an occasion for pouring forth magniloquent sentiments, utterly heedless of the answers. Sad, lonely, and helpless were Phoebe'a feelings, but she was patient, and still went on step by step tlirough the strange tangle, attending to Mervyn hour by hour, always with a gentle cheerful word and smile, and never HOPES AND FEARS. 457 trusting herself, even when alone, to think of the turmoil and hreak vip that must ensue on her guardian's arrival. All was darkness and perplexity befoi'e her, but submission nnd trust were her refuge, and tach day of wailing before the srisis was to her feelings a gain. CHAPTER XXL O fy gar ride and fy gar riii And liaste ye to find these traitors apeii. For sLees be burnt and bees been slein. The wearifu gaberlunzie man. Some rade upon horse, some ran afit, The wife was wud and out of her wit, She couldna gang, nor yet could she sit, But aye did curse and ban. King James V. MERVYN and Phoebe were playing at billiards, as a mean: of inducing him to take exercise enough to make him sleep. The governess and the two girls were gone to the dentists at Elverslope. The winter's day was closing in, when there was i knock at the door, and they beheld ]\liss Fennimore, deadly white, and Maria, who flew up to Phoebe, crying — 'Bertha's gone, Phoebe !' ' The next up-train stops at Elverslope at 8.30,' said the governess, staring in Mervyn's face, as though rejieating a lesson. ' A carriage will be here by seven. I will bring her home, or never return.' ' Gone !' *It was inexcusable in me, sir,' said Miss Fennimore, resting a hand on the table to support herself ' 1 thought it needlessly galling to let her feel herself watched ; and at her request, let her remain in the waiting-room while her sister was in the dentist's hands. When, after an hour, Maria was releabed, she was gone.' ' A lone T cried Phoebe. Alone, I hope. I went to the station ; the train had been tpu minutes gone; but a young lady, alone, in mourning, and with no luggage but a little bag, had got in there tor London. Happily, they did not know her; and it was the ])arliamentavy ti-ain, which is five hours on the road. I telegraphed at once to }our brother to meet her at the terminus.' ' 1 have no hope,' said Mervyu, doggedly, seating himself on 458 HOPES AND FEARS. the table, his feet dangling. ' He will be iu the lowest gutter of Whittingtonia, where no one can find him. The fellow will meet that miserable child, go off to Oscend this very night, marry her before to morrow morning. There's an end of it!' ' Where does Mr. Hastings lodge, sir?' ' Nowhere that I know of. There will be no end of time lost in tracing him ! No train before 8.30 ! I'll go in at once, and have a special.' 'They cannot put on one before nine, because of the excur- sion trains for the cattle show. I should not have been in time had I driven to catch the expi-ess at W.,' said Miss Fennimore, in her clear voice of desperation. 'The 8.30 reaches town at 11.23. Will you give me the addresses where I may inquire, sir?' ' You ! 1 am going myself You would be of no use,' said Mervyn, in a stunned, mechanical way; and looking at his watch, he went to give orders. • He should not go, Phoebe. In his state the mere journey is a fe-arful risk.' 'It can't be helped,' said Phoebe. 'I shall go with him. You stay to take care of Maria. There will be Robert to help lis ;' and as the governess would have spoken farther, she held up her hands in entreaty — ' pray don't say anything 1 I can't go on if I do anything but act.' Yet in the endeavour to keep her brother quiet, and to husband his powers, Phoebe's movements and words had rather an additional gentleness and deliberation ; and so free from bustle was her whole demeanour, that he never comprehended her intention of accompanying him till she stepped into the carriage beside him. ' What's this ? You coming ?' * I will give you no trouble.' ' Well, you may help to manage the girl ;' and he lay back, relieved to be off", but already spent by the huri-y of the hist two hours. Phoebe could sit and — no — not think, except that Kobert was at the other end of the line. The drive seemed to have lasted half the night ere the lami>s of Elverslope made constellations in the valley, and the green and red lights of the station loomed out on the hill. They drove into the circle of gaslights, among the vaporous steeds of omnibuses and flies, and entered the station, Phoebe's veil down, and Mervyn shading his dazzled eyes from the glare. They were half an hour too soon ; and while waiting, it occurred to riioebe to inquire whether a telegram for Beauchamp had HOPES AND FEARS. 459 lieen received. Even so, and they must have crc?sed the express ; but a duplicate was brought to them. 'Safe. We shall be at Elverslope at 10.20, p.m.' Assuredly Phoebe did not faiut, for she stood on her feefc ; and Mervyn never perceived the suspension of senses, which lasted till she found him for the second time asking whether she would go home or await the travellers at Elverslope. ' Home,' she said, instinctively, in her relief forgetting all the distress of what had taken place, so that her sensations wei-e little short of felicity ; and as she heard the 8.30 train roaring np. she shed tears of joy at having no concern therewith. The darkness and Mervyn's silence were comfortable, for she could wipe unseen her showers of tears at each gust of thank- I'ulness that passed over her ; and it was long before she could command her voice even to ask her companion whether he were tired. * Ko,' he said ; but the tone was more than half-sullen ; and at the thought of the meeting between the brothers, poor Phoebe's heart seemed to die within her. Against their dark looks and curt sayings to one another she had no courage. When they reached home, slie begged him to go at once to bed, hoping thus to deier the meeting; but he would not hear of doing so ; and her only good augury was that his looks were pale, languid, and subdued, rather than flushed and excited. Miss Fennimore was in the hall, and he went towards her, saying, in a fi-iendly tone, ' So, Miss Fennimore, yo\i have heard that this unlucky child has given us a fright for nothing.' The voice in which she assented was hoarse and scarcely audible, and she looked as if twenty years had passed over her head. ' It was all owing to your promptitude,' said Mervyn ; ' a capital thought that telegraph.' ' I am glad,' said Miss Fennimore ; ' but I do not lose sight of my own negligence. It convinces me that I am utterly unfit fcir the charge I assumed. I shall leave your sisters as soon as new plans can be formed.' ' Why, I'll be bound none of your pupils ever played you such R trick before !' Miss Fennimore only looked as if this convinced her the more ; but it was no time for the argument, and Phoebe caressingly persuaded her to come into the library and drink cntfee with them, judging rightly that she had tasted nothing since morning. Afterwards Phoebe induced Mervyn to lie on the sofa, and having made every preparation for the travellers, she sat down to wait. She could not read, she could not work ; she felt that 460 nOPES AND FEARS. tranquillity was needful for her brother, and had learnt already the soothing effect of absolute repose. Indeed, one of the first tokens by which Miss Fenuiniore had pei-ceived character in Phcebe was her faculty of being still. Ouly that which has substance can be motionless. There she sat in the lamplight, her head drooping, her hands clasped on her knee, her eyes bent down, not drowsy, not abstracted, not rigid, but peaceful. Her brother lay in the shade, watching her with a half-fascinated gaze, as though a magnetic spell repressed all iuclination to work himself into agitation. The stillness became an effort at last, but it was resolutely preserved till the frost-bound gravel resounded with wheels. Phcebe rose, Mervyn started up, caught her hand and squeezed it hard. ' Do not let him be hard on me, Phoebe,' he said. ' I could not bear it.' She had little expected this. Her answer was a mute cai-ess, and she hurried out, but in a tumult of feeling, retreated behind the shelter of a |)illar, and silently put her hand on Robert's arm as he stepped out of the carriage. 'Wait,' he whispered, hi'lding her back. 'Hush! T have promised that she shall see no one.' Bertha descended, unassisted, her veil down, and neither turning to the right nor the left, crossed the hall and went upstairs. Robert took off his ovei'coat and hat, took a light and followed hei-, signing that Phcebe should remain behind. She found Mervyn at the library door, like herself rather appalled at the apparition that had swept past them. She i)ut her hand into his, with a kind of common feeling that they were awaiting a strict judge. Robert soon reappeared, and in a preoccupied way, kissed the one and shook hands with the other, saying, 'She has locked her door, and says she wants nothing. I will try again |)resently — not you, Phoebe ; I could only get her home on condition she should see no one without her own consent. So you had my telegram ?' ' We met it at the station. How did you find her f ' Had the man been written to V asked Robert. ' No,' said Mervyn j ' we thought it best to treat it as childish nonsense, not worth serious notice, or in fact — I was not equal to writing.' The weary, dejected tone made Robert look up, contrary to the brothers' usual habit of avoiding one another's eye, and ho exclaimed, ' I did not know ! You were not going to London to-night T ' Worse staying at home,' murmured Mervyn, as, kau- HOPES AND FKARS. 461 ing on a corner of tlie mantelshelf, he rested his head on his hand. ' I was coming with him,' said Phoebe ; ' I thought if he gave directions, you could act.' Robert continued to cast at him glances of dismay and com- punction while pursiiing the narrative. ' Hastings must have leaint by some moans that the speculation was not what he hatJ imagined ; for though he met her at Paddington ' ' He did V ' She had telegraphed to him while waiting at Swindon. He found her out before 1 did, but he felt himself in & predicament, and I believe I was a welcome sight to him. He begged me to flo him the justice to acquit him of all participation in this rash step, and said he had only met Bei'tha with a view to replacing her in the hands of her family. How it would have been without me, I cannot tell, but I am inclined to believe that he did not know how to dispose of her. She clung to him and turned away from me so decidedly that I was almcst grateful for the line he took ; and he was obliged to tell her, with many fine speeches, that he could not expose her to share his poverty; and when the poor silly child declared slie had enougli for both, he told her plainly that it would not be available for sis years, and he could not let her — tenderly nurtured, &c. &c. Then supposing me uninformed, he disclaimed all betraj^al of your confidence, and represented all that had passed as sport with a child, which to his sui-prise she had taken as earnest.' 'Poor Bertha !' exclaimed Phoebe. * Pray where did this scene take place V asked Mervyn. ' On the platform ; but it was far too quiet to attract notice.' 'What ! you had no fits nor struggles V ' I should think not,' smiled Phoebe. ' She stood like a statue, when she understood him ; and when he would audaciously have shaken hands with her, she made a distant courtesy, quite dignified. I took her to the waiting-room, and put back her veil. She was ci'imson, and nearly choking, but she repelled me, and never gave way. I asked if she would sleep at an inn and go home to-morrow ; she said " No." I told her I could not take her to my place because of the curates. " ril go to a sisterhood," she said ; and when I told her she was m no mood to be received there, she answered, " I don't care." Then I proposed taking her to Augusta, but that was worse ; and at last 1 got her to come home in the dark, on my promipo that she should see no one till she chose. Not a word has slie since uttered.' 4G2 HOPES AND FEARS. ' Could he I'eally have meant it all in play?' said Phoebe ; 'yet there was his letter.' ' I see it all,' said Mervyn. ' I was an ass to suppose such needy rogues could come near girls of fortune without running up the scent. As I told Phoebe, I know they had some mon- strous ideas of tlie amount, which I never thought it worth my while to contradict. I imagine old Jack only intended a promising little flirtation, capable of being brought to bear if occasion served, but otherwise to be cast aside as child's play. Nobody could susjoect such an inflammable nature with that baby face; but it seems she was ready to eat her fingers with dulness in the school-room, and had prodigious notions of the rights of woman ; so she took all he said most seriously, and met him more than half-way. Then he goes to London, gets better information, looks at the will in Doctors' Commons, maybe, finds it a slowish speculation, and wants to let her down easy ; whereof she has no notion, writes two letters to his one, as we know, gets desperate, and makes this excursion.' Robert thoughtfully said ' Yes ;' and Phoebe, though she did not like to betray it, inentally owned that the intercepted letter confirmed Mervyn's opinion, being evidently meant to pacify what was inconveniently ardent and impassioned, without making tangible promises or professions. The silence was broken by Mervyn. ' There ! I shall go to bed. Phoebe, when you see that poor child, tell her not to be afraid of me, for the scrape was of my making, so don't be sharp with her.' ' I hope not,' said Robert gravely ; ' I am beginning to leani that severity is injustice, not justice. Good night, Mervyn; I hope this has not done you harm.' ' I am glad not to be at Paddington this minute,' said Mervyn. ' You will stay and help us through this business. It is past us.' 'I will stay as long as I can, if you wish it.' Phoebe's fervent ' Thank you !' was for both. She had never heard such friendly tones between those two, though Mervyn's were still half sullen, and chiefly softened by dejection and weariness. ' Why, Phoebe,' cried Robert, as the door closed, ' liow could you not tell me this V ' I thought I had told yoxi that he was very unwell.' 'Unwell ! I never saw any one so much altered.' * He is at his best when he is pale. The attacks are only kept off by reducing him, and he must be materially better to have no tlireateuiug after such a day as this.' HOPES AND FEAES. 4f).'J ' Well, I am glad you have not had the lettex- that I posted only to-day !' '1 knew you were displeased,' said Plicebe, 'and you see you were quite right in not wishing us to stay here ; but you forgive us now — Mervyn and me, I mean,' ' Don't couple youreelf with him, Phoebe !' 'Yes, I must; for we both equally misjudged, and he blames himself more than anv one.' ' His looks plead for him as effpchially as you can do, Phoebe, and rebuke me for having fancied you weak and perverse iu remaining after the remonsti'ance.' ' I do not wonder at it,' said Phcebe ; 'but it is over now, and don't let lis talk about it. I want nothing to spoil the comfort of knowing that I have you here.' ' I have a multitude of things to say, but you look sleepy.' ' Yes, I am afraid I am. I should like to sit up all night to make the most of you, but T could not keep awake.' Childlike, she no sooner had some one on whom to repose her care than slumber claimed its due, and she went away to her thankful rest, treasuring the thought of Robert's presence, and resting in the ineffable blessing of being able to overlook the thorns in gratitude for the I'oses. Bertha did not appear in the morning. Robert went to her door, and was told that she would see no one ; and Phoebe's entreaties for admission were met with silence, till he furbade their i-epetit'on. ' It only hardens her,' he said ; ' we must leave her to herself.' ' She will not eat, she will be ill 1' ' If she do not yield at dinner-time, Lieschen shall carry food to her, but she shall not have the pleasure of disappointing you. Sullenness must be left to weary itself out.' 'Is not this more shame than sullenness?' ' True shame hides its face and confesses — sullen shame hides like Adam. If hers had not been stubborn, it would have melted at your voice. She must wait to hear it again, till she have learnt to crave for it.' He looked so resolute that Phoebe durst plead no longer, but her heart sank at the thought of the obstinate force of poor Bertha's natui'e. Persistence was innate in the Fuhnorts, and it was likely to be a severe and lasting trial wheth.er Robert or Bertha would hold out the longest. Since he had captured her. however, all were relieved tacitly to give her up to his manage- ment ; and at dinner-time, on his stern assurance that unless she would accept food, the door would be forced, she admitted 4(:)4 HOPES AND FEARS. some sandwiches and tea, annj desired to have her firing re- plenislied, but would allow no one to enter. Rol)ert, at Mervyn's earnest entreaty, arranged to remain over the Sunday. The two brothers met shyly at first, using Phcebe as a medium of communication ; biit they drew nearer after a time, in the discussion of the robbery, and Robert pre- sently found means of helping Mervyn, by letter writing, and taking business off his hands to which Phoebe was unequal. Both concurred in insisting that Phoebe should keep her en- gagement to the Raymonds for the morrow, as the only means of preventing Bertha's escapade from making a sensation ; and by night she became satisfied that not only would the brothers keep the peace in her absence, but that 3, day's tete-d-(H& might rather promote their good understanding. Still, she was in no mood to enjoy, wherj she had to leave Bertha's door still unopened, and the only comfort she could look to was in the conversation with Miss Cliarlecote on the way. From her, there was no concealing what had happened, and, to Phoebe's surprise, she was encouraging. From an ex- ternal point of view, she could judge better than those more nearly concerned, and her elder years made her more conscious what time could do. She would not let the adventure be regarded as a lasting blight on Bertha's life. Had the girl been a few years older, she could never have held up her head again ; but as it was, Honor foretold that, by the time slie was twenty, the adventure would appear incredible. It was not to be lightly passed over, but she must not be allowed to lose her self-respect, nor despair of regaining a place in the family esteeiji. Phoebe could not imagine her ever recovering the being thus cast off by her first love. ' My dear, believe me, it was not love at all, only mystery and tie rights of woman. Her very demonstrativeness shows that it WuS not the heart, but the vanity.' Phcebe tried to believe, and at least was refreshed by the sympathy, so as to be able, to her own surprise, to be pleased and hapjiy at Moorcroft, where Sir John and bis wife were full of kindness, and the bright household mirth of the sons and (laiicrhters showed Phoibe some of the benefit Miss Fennimore expected for Bertha from girl friends. One of the younger ones showed her a ]-)reseut in })reparation for ' cousin Cecily,' and embarked in a list of the names of the cousiuhood at Sutton ; and though an elder sister decidedly closed young Harriet's mouth, yet afterwards Phcebe was favoured with a sight of a photograi)h of the dear cousin, and inferred from it that the nOPES AND FEARS. 465 young lady's looks were quite severe enough to account for her cruelty. The having been plunged into a new atmosphere was good for Phoebe, and slie brought home so cheerful a face, that even the news ot Bertha's continued obstinacy could not long sadden it, in the eujoynieut of the sight of Robert making himself necessary to Mervyu, and Merv^'n acce])tiug his services as if there had never been anything but brotherly love between them. She could have blessed Bertha fur having thus brought them together, and felt as if it were a dream too happy to last. ' What an accountant Robert is !' said Mervyn. ' It is a real sacrifice nut to have him in the business ! Wliat a thing we s.hould have made of it, and he would have taken all the Luther r ' We have done very well to-day,' was Robert's accoant ; ' I don't know what can have been the matter before, except my 2)ropensity for making myself disagreeable.' Phoebe went to bed revolving jjlans for softening Bertha, and was fast asleep when the lock of her door M^as turned. As she awoke, the terrors of the robbery were upon her far more strongly than at the actual moment of its occui"rence ; but the voice was familiar, though thin, weak, and gasping. ' O Phoebe, I've done it ! I've starved myself. I am dying ;' and the sound became a shrill cry. ' The dark ! O save me !' There was a heavy fall, and Phoebe, springing to the s})ot where the white visiou had sunk down, strove to lift a weight, cold as marble, without pulse or motion. She contiived to raise it, and drag it with her into her own bed, though in deadly terror at the icy touch and prone helplessness, and she was feeling m desperation i'or the bell-rope, when to her great relief, light and steps approached, and Robert spoke. Alas ! lus caudle only served to show the ghastly, senseless face. ' She has starved herself !' said Phoebe, with affright. ' A swoon, don't be afraid,' said Robert, who was dressed, and liad evidently been watching. 'Try to warm her j I will fetch sometiiing for her ; we shall soon bring her round.' ' A swoon, only a swoon,' Phoebe was forced to reiterate to lierself to keeji her senses and check the sobbing screams that swelled in her throat during the hour-like niumtjutb of his absence. She rose, and partly dressed herself in haste, tlien strove to chafe tiie limbs ; but her efforts only struck the deathly chill more deeply into her own heart. He brought some brandy, with which tiiey moistened her lips, but still in vain, and Phtebe's dismay was redoubled as siie s-iiw his terror. 'It launt be fainting,' he repeated, 'but I ha<^ K U /iGo HOPES AND FEARS. belter send for Jiickson. May God have meiry on ns all — tliia is my fault !' ' Her lips move,' gasped Plioebe, aa she rubbed the temples with the stimulant. 'Tliank God!' and again they put the spoon to her lips, as the nostrils expanded, the eyes opened, and she seemed to crave for the cordial. But vainly Kobert raised her in his arms, and riioebe steadied her own trembling hand to administer it, there were only choking, sobbing efforts for words, resulting in hoarse shrieks of anguish. Mervyn and Mis>^ Fennimore, entering nearly at the same nKuneut, found Phcebe pale as death, urging composure with a voice of despair ; and Robert with looks of horror that he could no longer control, holding up the sinking child, her face livid, her eyes strained. ' 1 can't, I can't,' she cried, with fri"-htfal catches of her breath : * I shall die ' and the screams recurred. Mervyn could not bear the spectacle for an instant, and fled only to return to listen outside. Miss Fennimoi^e brought au- thority and presence of mind. ' Hysterical/ she said. ' There, lay her down ; don't try again yet.' ' It is hunger,' whispered tlie trembling Phoebe ; but Miss Fennimore only signed to be obeyed, and decidedly saying, ' Be quiet, Bertha, don'-t speak,' the habit of submission silenced all but the choking sobs. She sent Robert to warm a sliawl, ordered away the frightened maids, and enforced stillness, which lasted till Bertha had recovered breath, when she sobbed out a sain, 'Robert ! Where is he ! I shall die ! He must pray 1 1 can't die !' Miss Fennimore bade Robert compose his voice to pray aloud, and what he read tranquillized all except Mervyn, who understood this to mean the worst, and burst away to sit cowering in suspense over his fire. Miss Fennimore then offered Bertha a morsel of roll dipped in port wine, but fasting and agitation had really produced a contraction of the muscles of the throat, nnd the attempt failed. Bertha was dreadfully terrified, and Phcebe could hardly control herself, but she was the only person unbanished by Miss Fennimore. Even Robert's distress became too visible for the absolute calm by which the governess hoped to exhaust the hysteria while keejjing up vitality by outward applications of warmth and stimulants, and from time to time renewing the endeavour to administei nourishment. It was not till two terrible hours had passed that Phcebe came to the schoolroom, and announced to her brother.s that HOPES AND FEARS. 467 nfter ten minutes' doze, Bertlia had waked, and swallowed a sitoonful of arrowroot and wine without choking. She could not restrain her sobs, and wept uncontrollably as Mervjn put his arm round her. He was the most composed of the three, for her powers had been sorely strained, and Robert had suffered most of all. He had on this day suspected that Bertha was burning the provisions forced on her, but he had kept silence, believing that she would thus reduce herself to a more amenable state than if she were angered by compulsion, and long before serious harm could ensue. Used to the sight of famine, he thought inanition Avould break the spirit without injuring the health. Many a time had he beheld those who professed to have tasted nothing for two days, trudge off tottering but cheerful, with a soup- ticket, and he had not calculated on tlie difference between the children of want and the delicately nurtured girl, full of over- wrought feeling. Though he had been watching in loving intercession for the unhappy child, and had resolved on forcing his way to her in the morning, he felt as if he had played the part of the Archbishop of Pisa, and that, had she perished in her fearful detennination, her blood v/ould have been on himself. He was quite overcome, and forced to huri-y to his own room to compose himself, ere he could return to inquire further ; but tliere was little more to hear. Miss Fennimore desired to be alone with the patient ; Plioebe allowed herself to be laid on the sofa and covered with shawls ; Mervyn returned to his bed, and Robert still watched. There was a great calm after the storm, and Phoebe did not wake till the dim wintry dawn was struggling with the yellow candlelight, and a consultation was going on in low tones between Robert and the governess, both wan and haggard in the uncomfortable light, and their words not more cheering than their looks. Bertha had become feverish, passing from restless, talking sleep to startled, painful wakening, and Miss Fennimore wished Dr. Martyu to be sent for. Phoebe shivered with a cold chill of disappointment as she gathered their meaning, and coming forward, entreated the watchers to lie down to rest, while she relieved guard ; but nothing would persuade Miss Fennimore to relinquisliher post j and soon Plicebe had enough to do elsewhere ; for her own peculiar patient, Mervyn, was so ill throughout the morning, that she was con- stantly emplo/ed in his room, and Robert looking on and trying t.o aid her, hatud himself doubly for his hasty judgments. Maria alone could go to church on that Sunday morning, and her version of the state of affairs brought Miss Charlecote io H u 2 468 HOPES AND FEARS. Beaiichamp to offer her assistance. She saw Dr. Martyn, and iindertook the painful preliminary exj)lanatiou, and she saw him again after his inspection of Bertha. ' That's a first-rate governess ! Exactly so ! An educational liot-bed. Why can't people let girls dress dolls and trundle hoops, as they used to do V ' I liave never thought Bertha oppressed by her lessons.' ' So much the worse ! Those who can't k-aru, or wont learn, take care of themselves. Those who have a brain and use it are tliose that suffer ! To hear that poor child bluuderhig algebra in her sleep might be a caution to mothe* s !' ' Did you ever see her before, so as to observe the little hesitation in her speech V ' No, they should have mentioned that.' ' It is generally very slight ; but one of them — I think, Maria —told me that she always stammered more after lessons' * The blindness of people ! As if that had not been a sufficient thermometer to show when they were overworking her biain ! Why, not one of these Fulmorts has a head that will bear liberties being taken with it !' ' Can you let us hope that this whole affair came from an affection of the brain T 'The elopement! No; I can't flatter you that health or sanity were in fault there. Nor is it delirium now; the rambling is only in sleep. But the three da}s' fast ' ' Two days, was it not Y * Three. She took nothing since breakfast on Thursday.* * Have you made out how she passed the last two days V * 1 wrung out some account. I believe this would never have occurred to her if her brother had given her a sandwich at Paddington ; but she came home exhausted into a distaste for food, which other feelings exaggerated into a fancy to die rather than face tlie family. She burnt the provisions in a rage at iheh' being forced on her, and she slept most of the time — torpor without acute suffering. Last night in sleep slie lost her hold of her resolution, and woke to the sense of self- preservation.' ' An infinite mercy !' * Not that the spirit is broken ; all her strength goes to Bullenness, aud I never saw a case needing greater judgment. Now that she is reduced, the previous overwork tells on her, and it will be a critical matter to bring her round. Who cau be of use here? I>ot the married sisters, 1 supjiose ? Miss Fulmort is all that a girl cau be at liincteeu or twenty, but she wants age.' HOPES AND FEAP.S. 169 ' Yon think it will be a bad illness V * it may not assume an acute form, but it may last a good while ; and if they wish her to have any health again, they must mind what they are about.' Honora felt a task set to her. She must be P]ia3be's expe- rience as far as her fifty years could teacli her to deal with a little precocious rationalist in a wild travestie of Tliekla. Ich habe gelieht unci gelehet was the farewell laid on Bertha's table. What a Thekla and what a Max ! O pi'ofanation ! But Honor felt Bertha a charge of her own, and her aid was the more thankfully accepted that the patient was quite beyond Plicebe. She had too long rebelled against her sister to find rest in her guardianship. Phoebe's voice disposed her to resistance, her advice to wrangling, and Miss Fennimore alone had power to enforce what was needful ; and so devoted was she, that Honor could scarcely persuade her to lie down to rest for a few hours. Honor was dismayed at the change from the childish esjnegle roundness of feature to a withei-ed, scathed coi;ntenance, sin- gularly old, and mournfully contrasting with the mischievous- looking waves and rings of curly hair upon the brow. Prema- ture playing at passion had been S})ort with edged tools. Sleeping, the talk was less, however, of the supposed love, than of science and metaphysics; waking, there was silence between weakness and sullenness. Thus passed day after day, always in the same feverish lethargic oppression which baffled medical skill, and kept the sick mind beyond the reach of human aid ; and so uniform were the days, that her illness seemed to last for months instead of weeks. Miss Fennimore insisted on the night- watching for her share. Phoebe divided with her and Lieschen the morning cares ; and Miss Charlecote came in the forenoon and stayed till night, but slept at home, whither Maria was kindly invited ; but Phoebe did not like to send her away without herself or Lies- chen, and Robei't undertook for her being inoffensive to Mervyn. In fact, she was obliging and iTnobtrusive, only speaking when addressed, and a willing messenger. Mervyn first forgot her presence, then tolei^ated her saucer eyes, then fonnd her capable of running his errands, and lastly began to care to please her. Honora had devised employment for her, by putting a drawer of patchwork at her disposal, and suggesting that she should make a work bag for each of Robert's 139 school girls ; and the occupation this aff'orded her was such a public benefit, that Pobert was content to pay the tax of telling her the destina- tion of each individual bag, and being always corrected if he 470 HOPES AND FEARS. twice mentioned the same name. When Mervyn dozed in his chair, she would require from Robert ' stories' of his scholars ; and it even came to pass that Mervyn would recur to what had then passed, as though he had not been wholly asleep. Mervyn was chiefly dependent on his brother for conversa- tion, entertainment, and assistance in his affaii's ; and though not a wor^l passed upon their differences and no professions were made, the common anxiety, and Mervyn's great need of lielp, had swept away all traces of unfriendliness. Not even wlien children in the nursery had they been so free from variance or bitterness as while waiting the issue of their sister's illness; both humbled, both feeling themselves in part the cause, each anxious to cheer and console the other — one, weak, subdued, dependent — the other, considerate, helpful, and eager to atone for past harshness. Strange for brothers to wait till the ages of twenty-nine and twenty-seven to find out tlnit they really did prefer each other to every one else, in spite of the immense differences between their characters and habits ! 'I say,' asked Mervyn, one day, when resting after having brought on giddiness and confusion by directing Rol)ert how to answer a letter from the ofiice, ' what would you do with this bore of a business, if it came to you f ' Get rid of it,' said Robert, surveying him with startled eyes. ' Aye — sell it, and get the devilry, as you call it, multiplied to all infinity.' ' Close it.' 'Boil soup in the coppers, bake loaves in the furnaces? Tt makes you look at me perilously — and a ])frilous game you would find it, most likely to swallow this place and all the rest. Why, you, who had the making of a man of business in you, might reflect that you can't annihilate property without damage to other folks.' ' I did not reflect,' said Robert, gravely ; ' the matter never occurred to me.' * WJiat is the result of your reflection nowf 'Nothing at all,' was the somewhat impatient reply. 'I trust never to have to consider. Get it out of my hands at any sacrifice, so as it may do the least harm to others. Had I no other objection to that business, I should have no choice.' ' Your cloth 1 Well, that's a pity, for I see how it could be mitigated, so as to satii^fy your scruples/ and Mervyn, whose head could work when it was not necessary, detailed a scheiue for gradually contracting the most objectionable traflic, and adopting another branch of the trade. HOPES AND FEARS. 471 Excellent,' said Ivoberfc, assenting with delight at each pause. ' You will carry it out.' ' 1 1 I'm only a reprobate distiller.' There it ended, and Robert must have patience. The guardian, Mr. Crabbe, came as soon as his gout would permit, and hemmed and gi'unted in reply to the strange narra- tive into which he had come to inquire. Acting was as yet impossible ; iVIervyn was forbidden to transact business, and Bertha was far too ill for the removal of the young ladies to be attempted. Miss Fenniniore did indeed formally give in her resignation of her situation, but she was too necessary as a nurse for the time of her departure to be fixed, and Mr. Crabbe was unable to settle anything definitively. He found Robert — who i)reviously had s])urred him to strong measures — ■ bent on pei\suading him to lenity, and especially on keej)ing Plioebe with Mervyn ; and after a day and night of perplexity, the old gentleman took his leave, promising to come again on Bertha's recovery, and to pacify the two elder sisters by repre- senting the condition of Beauchamp, and that for the present the Incumbent of St. Matthew's and Miss Charlecote might be considered as suflicient guardians for the inmates. 'Or if their Ladyships thought otherwise,' he said, with a twinkle in his eye, ' why did they not come down themselves V Mervyn made a gesture of horror, but all knew that there was little danger. Augusta was always ' so low' at the sight of illness, and unless Phoebe had been the patient out of sight, Juliana would not have brought her husband ; obvious as would have been the coming of an elder sister when the sickness of the younger dragged on so slowly and wearily. No one went through so much as Miss Eennimore. Each hour of her attendance on Bertha stamped the sense of her own failure, and of the fallacies to which her life had been dedi- cated. The siucei'ity, honour, and modesty that she had incul- cated, had been founded on self-esteem alone ; and wheii they had proved inadequate to prevent their breach, their outraged relics had prompted the victim to despair and die. Intellectual development and reasoning power.', had not availed one moment against inclination and self-will, and only survived in the in- voluntary murmurs of a disordered nervous system. All thia had utterly overthrown that satisfaction iu herself and her own moral qualities in which Miss Fennimore had always lived ; she had become sensible of the deep flaws in all that she had admii'ed in her own conduct ; and her reason being already prepared by her long and eai-nest study to accept the faith ia its fulness, she had begun to crave after the Atoning Mercy 472 HOPES AND FEARS. of wjiicli she sorely felt the need. Bub if it be hard for ono who has never questioned to take home individually the efficacy of the great Sacrifice, how much harder for one taught to deny the Godhead whicli rendered the Victim worthy to satisfy Eternal Justice? She accepted the truth, but the gracious wi rds would not reach her spirit ; they were to her as a feast in a hungry man's dream. Robert alone was aware of the struggles through which slie was passing, and he could do little in direct aid of her ; the books — even the passages of Scripture that he found for her — seemed to fall short ; it was as tliotigh the sufterer in the wilderness lay in sight of the brazen serpent, but his eyes were holden that he could not see it. Only the governess's sti^cmg and untaxed health could have carried her through her distress and fatigue, for she continued to" engross the most trying share of the nursing, anxious to shield Phoebe from even the knowledge of ali the miseries of Bertha's nights, when the poor child would start on her pillow with a shriek, gaze wildly round, trembling in every limb, the dew starting on her brow, face well-nigh convulsed, teeth chat- tering, and strange, incoherent words — ' A dream, only a dream !' she murmured, recovering con- sciousness. 'What was only a dream?' asked Miss Fennimore, one night. ' Oh, nothing !' but she still shivered ; then striving to catch hold of the broken threads of her philosophy, 'How one's imagination is a prey to — to — what is it 1 To — to old impres- sions — when one is weak.' ' What kind of impressions V asked Miss Fennimore, resolved to probe the matter. Bertha, whose defect of sj)eech was greatly increased by weakness, was long in making her answer com})rehensiljle ; but Miss Fennimore gathered it at last, and it made her spirit quake, for it referred to the terrors beyond the grave. Yet she firmly answered — * Such impressions may not always result from weakness.' ' I thought,' cried Bertha, rising on her elbow, ' I thought that an advanced state of civilization dispenses with sectarian — 1 mean superstitious — literal threats.' * ISTo civilization can change those deci'ees, nor make them onmerited,' said Miss Fennimore, sadly. ' How V repeated Bertha, frowning. * You, too 1 You don't mean that 1 You are not one of the narrow minds that want to doom their fellow-creatures for ever.' Her eyes had grown lai-ge, round, and bright, and she clutched Miss Fennimore'a hand, gasping, * Say, not for ever 1' i HOPES AND FEARS. 473 ' M}' poor cliild ! did I ever teach you it was not ? ' You thought so !' cried Bertha ; 'enlightened people think so. say — only say it does not last i' ' Bertha, I cannot. God forgive me for the falsehoods to which 1 led you, the realities I put aside from you.' Bertha gave a cry of anguish, and sank hack exhausted, damps of terror on her brow ; but she presently cried out, ' If it would not last ! I can't bear the thought ! I can't bear to live, but I can't die ! Oh ! who will save me Y To Miss Fennimore's lips rose the words of St. Paul to tho jailer. ' Believe ! believe !' cried Bertha, petulantly, 'believe what V 'Believe that He gave His Life to purchase your safety and mine through that Eternity.' And Miss Fennimore sank on her knees, weeping and hiding her face. The words which she had gazed at, and listened to, in vain longing, had — even as she imparted them — touched her- self in their fulness. She had seen the face of Truth, when, at Mrs. Fulmort's death-bed, she had heard Plicebe speak of the Blood that cleanseth from all sin. Then it had been a moment's glimpse. She had sought it earnestly ever since, and at length it had come to nestle within her own bosom. It was not sight, it was touch — it was embracing and holdins; fast. Alas ! the sight was hidden from Bertha. She moodily turned aside in vexation, as though her last trust had failed her. In vain did Miss Fennimore, feelinsc that she had led her to the brink of an abyss of deptli unknown, till she was tottering on the verge, lavish on her the most tender cares. They were re- quited with resentful gloom, that the governess felt to be so just towards herself that she would hardly have been able to lift up her head but for the new reliance that gave peace to deepening contrition. That was a bad night, and the day was worse. Bertha had more strength, but moi'e fever ; and the much-enduring Phcebe could hardly be persitaded to leave her to Miss Charlecote at dusk, and air herself with her brothers in the garden. The weatlier was close and iuist\^, and Honora set f)pen the door to almit the ai»' from the open passage window. A low, soft, lulling sound come in, so much softened by distance that tho tune alone showed that it was an infant school ditty sung by Maria, while rocking herself in her low chair over the school- room tire. Turning to discover whether the invalid were annoyed by it, Honor beheld the hard, keen little eyes intently fixed, until presently they filled with tears ; and with a heavy sigli, the words broke forth, * Oh 1 to be as siUy as she is l' 474 HOPES AND FEARF?. ' As selig, you mean,' said Honor, kindly. ' It is the same tiling,' she said, with a bitter i*ing in her poor worn voice. * No, it is not weakness that makes your sister happy. She was far less happy before she learnt to use her powers lovingly.' With such earnestness that her stuttering was very painful to hear, she exclaimed, ' Miss Charlecote, I can't recollect things • — I get puzzled — I don't say what I want to say. Tell me, is not my bi'ain softening or weakening? You know Maria had water on the head once !' and her accents were pitiably full of hope. ' Indeed, my dear, you are not becoming like Maria.' ' If I were,' said Bertha, certainly showing no such resem- blance, * I suppose I should not know it. I wonder whether Maria be ever conscious of her /cA,' said she, with a weary sigh, as if this were a companion whence she could not escape. ' Dear child, your Ich would be set aside by living to others, who only seek to make you hapiuer.' ' I wish they would let me alone. If they had, there would have been an end of it.' ' An end — no indeed, my poor child !' 'There!' cried Bertha; 'that's what it is to live! To be shuddered at !' ' No, Bertha, I did not shudder at the wild deluslmi and in- discretion, which may be lived down and redeemed, but at the fearful act that would have cut you off from all hope, and chained you to yourself, and such a self, for ever, never to part from the shame whence you sought to escape. Yes, surely there must iiave been pleading in Heaven to win for you that instant's relentinw. Rescued twice over, there must be some work for you to do, something to cast into shade all that has passed. 'It will not destroy memory!' she said, wiLh hopeless indifference. ' No ; but you may be so occupied with it as to rise above your present pain and humiliation, and remember them only to gather new force from your thankfulness.' ' What, that I was made a fool of?' cried Bertha, with sharp- ness in her thin voice. ' That you were brought back to the new life that is before you.' Though Bertha made no answer, Honor trusted that a beginning had been made, but only to be disappointed, for the fever was liigher the next day, and Bertlia was too much op])ressed for speech. The only good sign was that in the dusk Khe desire/i that the door should be left open, in case Maria HOPES AND FFARS. 475 plimild be singing. It was the first jireference she had evinced. The brothers were i-eady to crown Maria, and she sang witli such good-will that Phoebe was forced to take precautions, fearing lest the harmony should lose * the modest charm of not too much.' There ensued a decided liking for Maria's company, partly no doubt from her envied deficiency, and her ignorance of the extent of Bertha's misdemeanour, partly because there was less effort of mind in intercourse with her. Her pleasure in waiting on her sister was likewise so warm and grateful, that Bevtha felt herself conferring a favour, and took everything from her in a spirit very different from the dull submission towards Miss Fennimore or the peevish tyranny over Phrebe. Towards no one else save Miss Charlecote did she show any favour, for though their conversation was never even alluded to, it had jn-obably left a pleasant impression, and possibly she v/as enter- tained by Honor's systematic habit of talking of the world beyond to the other nurses in her presence. But these likings were far more scantily shown than her dislikes, and it was hard for her attendants to acquiesce in the physician's exhortations to be patient till her s}nrits and nerves should have recovered the shock. Even the entrance of a new housemaid threw her into a trepidation which she was long in recovering, and any proposal of seeing any ])erson beyond the few who had beeu with her from the first, occasioned trembling, entreaties, and ttjars. Phosbe, after her brief heroineship, had lapsed into quite a secondary jtosition. In the reaction of the brothers' feeling towards each other, they almost left her out. Both were too sure of her to be eager for her; and besides, as Bertha slowly improved, Mervyn s prime attention was lavished on the endea- vour to find what would give her pleasure. And in the sick room, Miss Fennimore and Miss Charlecote could better rule ; while Maria was preferred as a companion. Honor often admired to see how content Phcebe was to forego the privilege of waiting on her sister, preparing pleasures and comforts for her in tlie background, and committing them to the hands whence they would be most welcome, without a moments grudge at her own distastefuluess to the patient. She seemed to think it the natural consequence of the superiority of all the rewt, and fully acquiesced. Sometimes a tear would rise for a moment at Bertha's rude petulance, but it was dashed off for a resolute smile, as if with the feeling of a child against tears, and she as plainly felt the background her natural position, as if she had never been promiuout from circumstances. Whatever was 476 HOPES AND FEARS. to Le (Inne, she ilid it, and she was for more grateful to Mervyn for loving Robert and enduring Maria, than for any preference to herself. Always fin.ling cause for thanks, she rejoiced even in the delay caused by Bertha's illness, and in Robert's stay in his brother's home, where she had scarcely dared to hope ever to have seen him again. Week after week he remained, constantly pressed by Mervyn to delay his departure, and not unwillingly yielding, since he felt that there was a long arrear of fraternal kindness to be made up, and that while St. Matthew's was in safe hands, he might justly consider that his paramount duty was to his brother and sisters in their present need. At length, however, the Lent services claimed him in London, and affairs at Beau champ were so much mended, that Phcebe owned that they ought no longer to detain him from his parish, although Bertha was only able to be lifted to a couch, took little notice of any endeavour to intei'est her, and when he bade her farewell, hardly raised eye or hand in return. CHAPTER XXTL When all is done or said, In til' end this shall you find. He most of all doth bathe in bliss That hath a quiet mind. Lord Vaux. ROBERT had promised to return in the end of March to bo present at the Assizes, when the burglars would be tried, and he did not come alone. Mr. Crabbe judged it time to in- spect Beauchamp and decide for his wai'ds ; and Lady Banner- man, between Juliana's instigations, her own pride in being connected with a trial, and her desire to ap])ropriate Phcebe, decided on coming down with the Admiral to see how matters stood, and to give her vote in the family councih Commissions from Mervyn had pursued Robert since his arrival in town, all for Bertha's amusement, and he bi'onght down, by special orders, a musical-box, all Leech's illustrations, and a small Maltese dog, like a spun-glass lion, which Augusta had in vain proposed to him to exchange for her pug, which was getting fat and wheezy, and 'would amuse Bertha just as well.' Lady Baunerman hardly contained her surprise when Maria, as well as Mervyn and PhoeV)e, met her in the hall, seemingly quite tame and at her ease. Mervyn looked better, and in answer to inquiries for Bertha, answered, 'Oh, getting on, decidedly ; we HOPES AND FEARS. 477 have her in the garden. She might di-ive out, only she has such a horror of meeting any one ; but her spirits ai'e better, I really thought she would have laughed yesterday when Maria was phiyiug with the kitten. Ha ! the dog, have you got him, Eobert 1 Well, if this does not amuse her, I do not know what will.' And at the first possible moment, Mervyn, Maria, and the Maltese were off through the open window. Hobert asked what Plioibe thought of Mervyn. She said he was much stronger, but the doctor was not satisfied that tlie mischief was removed, and feared that a little want of care or any excitement might bring on another attack. She dreaded the morrow on his account. ' Yes,' said the elder sister, ' I don't wonder 1 A most atro- cious attemjjt ! I declare 1 could hardly make up my mind to fileep in the house 1 Mind you swear to them all, my deai\' ' I only saw Smithson clearly.' ' Oh, never mind ; if they have not done that, they have done something quite as bad ; and I should never sleep a night again in jieace if they got off. Was it true that they had packed up all the liqueurs V Phoebe exonei-ated them from this aggravated guilt. ' I say, my dear, would you tell the butler to bring up some of the claret tliat was bought at Mr. Rollewtoue's auction. I told Sir Nicholas that he should taste it, and I don't like to mention it to poor Mervyn, as he must not drink wine.' * Tliere is some up,' said Phoebe ; ' Mervyn fancied that Bertha liked it.' ' My dear, you don't give Bertha that claret ! you don't know what poor jjapa gave for it.' ' If ]5ertha would only enjoy anything, Mervyn would be overjo3ed.' * Yes, it is as Juliana says ; it is nothing but spoiling that ails her,' said Augusta. ' Did you say she was in the garden ? 1 may as well go and see her.' This Phoebe withstood with entreating looks, and represen- tations that Bertha had as yet seen no fresh face, and was easily Btartlcd ; but her sister insisted that she was no stranger, and could do no harm, till Phoebe had no choice but to i-un on and announce her, in the hope that surprise might lessen the period oi agitation. In the simniest and most sheltered walk was a wheeled chair over which Miss Fennimore held a parasol, while Mervyn and Maria were anxiously trying io win some token of pleasure from tihe languid, inanimate occupant to whom they were display iiig 478 HOPES AND FEARS. tlie little clog. As tlie velvet-boi'dered silk, crimson shawl, and purple bonnet neared the dark group, a nervous tremor shot through the sick girl's frame, and partly starting up, she made a gesture of scared entreaty ; but Lady Baiinerman's portly embrace and kind inquiries were not to be averted. She assured the patient that all was well since she could get out of doors, the air would give her a famous appetite, and if she was able to drink claret, she would be strong enough in a day or two to come up to Juliana in London, where change and variety would set her up at once. Beitha scarcely answered, but made an imperious sign to be drawn to the west wing, and as Phoebe succeeded in turning Augusta's attention to the hothouses, Mervyn beckoned to Robei-t, rather injudiciously, for his patient was still tremulous from the first greeting. Her face had still the strangely old appearance, her complexion was nearly white, lier hair thin and scanty, the almost imperceptible cast of the eye wliich had for- merly only served to give character to her arch expression, liad increased to a decided blemish ; and her figure which had shot up to woman's height, seemed to bend like a reed as Mervyn supported her to the sofa in the schoolroom. With nervous fright she retained his hand, speaking with such long, helpless hesitation that Robert caught only the words ' Juliana — never — ' * Never, never,' answered ?>Iervyn ; ' don't fear ! We'll prevent that, Robert ; tell her that she shall not fixll into Juliana's hands — no, nor do anything against her will.' Only after repeated ass\irances from both brothers that Augusta should not carry her otf in her present state, did she I'est tranquilly on the sofa, while Mervyn after waiting on her assiduously, with touching tenderness, as if constantly imploring her to be pleased, applied himself to playing with the dog, watching her face for some vestige of interest, and with so much gratification at the slightest sign of amusement as to show how molanclioly mu.st have been the state compared with which this was improvement. After slowly attaining her present amoimt of convalescence, she liad there stop{)ed short, without progress in strength or spirits, and alarms constantly varying for her head, spine, and lungs, as if the slightest accidental cause might fix permanent disease in either quarter ; and to those who daily watched her, and knew the miserable effects produced by the merest trifles, it was terrible to think that her destination was in the hands of a compaiative stranger, urged on by the dull Augusta and the acid Juliana. Mervyn needed no severer penalty for having HOPES AND FEARS. 479 forfeited his right to protect liis sisters ; attached to them and devoted to Bertha as the anxieties of tlie spring had rendered liim. The sight of Bertha had so far modified Lady Banner- man's scheme, that she proposed herself to conduct the three to Brighton, and there remain till the London season, when the two younger could be disposed of in some boarding school, and Phojbe conducted to Albui-y-street. Mr. Crabbe did not appear averse to this offer, and there was a correctness about it which rendered it appalling to those who had not Phoebe's quiet trust that no part of it would be allowed to happen unless it were good for them. And she found her eldest brother so much sub- dued and less vituperative, that she thought him quite obliged by her experienced counsel on his housekeeping and cookery, breaking up his present establishment and letting the house for a year, daring v/hich she promised him all facilities for meeting a young widow, the wealth of whose stockbroking husband would be exactly what his business and estate required, aud would pay off all his debts. Phoebe saw indications on Mervyn's countenance which made it no suri^rise that he was in such a condition in the morning tiiat only copious loss of blood and the most absolute I'est to the last moment enabled him to go to W for the trial. Miss Charlecote had undertaken the care of Bertha, that IMiss Fen- nimore might take charge of Maria, who was exceedingly eager to see her brother and sister give evidence. There is no need to dwell on the proceedings. It was to Phoebe on a larger scale what she had previously gone through. She was too much occupied with tlie act before God and her neighbour to be self-conscious, or to think of the multitudes eagerly watching her young simple face, or listening to her grave clear tones. A dim perception crossed Lady Banuerman's mind that thei'e really might be something in little Phoebe wlien she found the sheriff's wife, the grande dame of the h anting field, actually shedding tears of emotion. As soon as Mervyn's own evidence had been given he had been obliged to go to the inn aud lie down ; and Phoebe wished to join him there and go home at once. Both Robert and Sir John Bavmond were waitin" for her at the door of the witness- box, and the latter begged to introduce the sheriff, who pressed her to let him take her back into court to Lady Bannerman, his wife wished so much to see her there and at luncheon. And when Phcebe declared that she must return to her brother, she v/as told that it had been settled that she was to come with Sir Nicholas and Lady Bannerman to dine and sleep at the sheriii"8 next day, after the assize was over, to meet the judges. 430 HOPES AND FEARS. Phoebe was almost desperate in her refusals, and was so little believed after all, that she charged Robert — when the sheriff Lad taken leave — to assure Augusta of the impossibility of her accepting the invitation. Sir John smiled, saying, ' ]^ady Caroliiie scarcely deserved her, and added, ' Here is another who wishes to shake hands witii you, and this time 1 promise that you shall not be persecuted — my brotlier.' He was a thin, spare man, who might have been taken for the elder brother, with a gentle, dreamy expression and soft, tender voice, such as she could not iniagine being able to cope with pupils. He asked after her brother's health, and she ollei'ed to ascertain whether Mervyn felt well enough to see him, but he thanked her, saying it was better not. ' It could not have been his doing,' thought Phoebe, as she went upstairs. ' How strong-minded Cecily must be ! 1 wonder whether she would have done Bertha good.' ' Whose voice v/as that V exclaimed Mervyn, at his door ftbove. ' Sii- John Raymond and his brother,' ' Are they coming in V ' No ; they thought it might disturb you. Pliffibe was glad that these ansvv^ers fell to the share of the Mnconscious Robert, Mervyn sat down, and did not revert to the Raymonds through all the homeward journey. Indeed, lie seemed unequal to speaking at all, went to his room imme- diately, and did not appear again when the others came home, bringing tidings that the verdict was guilty, and the sentence penal servitude. Lady Bannerman had further made a positive ena;aij;emeut with the sheriif's la iv,and vvas at lirst incredulous, tlieu highly displeased, at Piioebe's refusal to be included in it. She was sure it was only that Phoebe was bent on her own way, and thought she shoidd get it when lefo at home with her guardian and her brothers. Poor Phojbe, she did not so much as know Avhat her own way was ! She had never so much wished for \ierwi.ie guardian, but in the meantime the only wisdom she could sue was to wait patiently, and embrace whatever proposal would seem best for the other.s, though with little hope that any would not entail pain and separation from those who could spare her as ill as she could s[)are them. Dr. Martyn was to come over in the course of the ensuing day to examine Bertha, and give her gu;u-diau his opinion of her state. There was little d;inger of its being favoural>le to violent changes, for Augusta made a descent on the school- roo' a after dinner, and thu morbid agitation thus occasioned obliged HOPES AND FEARS. 48 1 Miss Fenniinore to sit up with tlie patient till one o'clock. In the inoniing the languoi' was extreme, and the cough so frequent that the fear for the lungs was in the ascendant. But Augusta, knowing of all this, believed her visit to have been most important, and immediately after breakfast sum- moned Robert to a conference, that he might be convinced tliat there must be no delay in taking measures for breaking up the present system. * We must hear what Dr. Martyn says.' *I never thought anything of Dr. Martyn since he advised me to leave off wine at supper. As Juliana says, a physician can always be taken in by an artful woman, and he is playing into her hands.' ' Into whose V said Robert, unable to suppose it could be Phoebe's. ' Come, Robert, you ought not to let yourself be so blinded. I am sure it is more for your interest than my own, but I see you are as simple as ever. Juliana said any one could hoodwink you by talking ot altar-cloths and Anglo-Saxons.' 'Anglo-Catliolics, possibly.' * Well, it is all the same ! It is those nonsensical distinc- tions, rather than your own interests ; but when you are cut out, and depend upon it, she will lose no time in his state of health ' ' Of whom or what are you talking f ' I never thought well of her, pretending to drink nothing but water ; and with that short, dry way, that I call imperti- nence ; but I never thought slie could be so lost till last night ! Why, when I thought I would just go and see how the cliild was — there, after calling himself too ill to come in to dinner, there sat Mervyn, actually drinking tea. I promise you they looked disconcerted !' ' Well they might be ! Bertha suffered half the night from that sudden visit.' ' And you believe that, Robert ! Well ! it is a convenient blind ! But if you wont, we shall do our best to shame them, and if she dares it, we shall never visit her ! That's all !' Her drift here becoming revealed to Robert, his uncontroll- able smile caused Augusta to swell with resentment. ' Aye ! nothing on earth will make you own yourself mistaken, or take the advice of your elders, though you might have had enough of upliolding Phoebe's wilfulness.' ' Well, what do you want me to do?' * To join us all in seeing that Miss Fennimore leaves the house before us. Then I will take the girls to Brighton, auti I I 4«2 HOPES AND FEARS. you and the Actons might keep watch over him, and if he should persist in his infatuation — why, in the state of his head, It would ahnost come to a commission of lunacy. Juliana said so !' ' I have no doubt of it,' said Robei-t, gravely. * I am obliged to you both, Augusta. As you observe, I am the party chieily concerned, therefore I have a right to request that you will leave me to defend my interests as I shall see best, and that you will confide your surmise to no one else.' Robert was not easily gainsaid when he spoke in that tone, and besides, Augusta really was uncertain whether he did not seriously adopt her a.dvice ; but though silenced towards him, she did not abstain from lamenting herself to Miss Charlecote, who had come by particular request to consult with Dr. Martyn, and enforce his opinion on Mr. Crabbe. Honora settled the question by a laugh, and an assurance that Mervyn had views in anotlier direction ; but Augusta knew of so many abortive schemes for him, and believed him to be the object of so many reports, that slie treated this with disdain, and much amused Honora by lier matronly superiority and London pati'ouage. Dr. Martyn came to luncheon, and she endeavoured to extort from him that indulgence hurt Bertha, and that Mervyn needed variety. Failing in this, she remembered his anti-supper advice, and privately warned Mr. Crabbe against him. His advice threw a new light on the matter. He thought that in a few weeks' time. Bertha ought to be taken to Switzer- land, and perhaps spend the winter in the south of France. Travelling gave the best hope of rousing her spirits or bracing her shattered constitution, but the utmost caution against fatigue and excitement would be requisite ; she needed to be at once humoured and controlled, and her morbid i-epugnance to uew attendants must be respected till it should wear otF of its own accord. Surely this miglit be contrived between sister, governess, and German nurse, an,d if Mr. Fuimort himself would go too, it would be the best thing for his health, which needed exemption from business and excitement. Here was playing into the governess's hands ! Mindful of Juliana's injunctions, I^ady Bannernian announced her iuteu- tiou of calling heaven and earth together rather than sanction the iiiipr()i)ri(!ty, and set off fn- her pai'ty at the slieriff's in a mood which made Phoebe tremble lest the attractions of ortolans and Burgundy should instigate the ' tremendous sacrifice' of be- coming cliapei'on. Mervyn tluMight the doctor's sentence conclusive as to Misa HOPES AND FEARS. 4«^ Fennimore's plans, but to his consteruation it made no chany-e in them, except that she fixed the deparLure of the family as the moment of parting. Though her manner towards him had become open and friendly, she was deaf to all that he could urge, declaring that it was her duty to leave his sisters, and that the change, when once made, would be beneficial to Bertha, by removing old associations. In despair, he came to Miss Charlecote, begging her to try her powers of persuasion for the sake of poor Bertha, now his primary object, whoni he treated with spoiling aflfection. He was quite powerless to withstand any fancy of Bertha in her present state, and not only hel})less without Miss Fennimore, but having become so far used to her that for his own sake he could not endure the notion of a sub- stitute. ' Find out the olijection,' he said, ' that at least I may know whether to punch Augusta's head.' Honora gratified hiui by seeking an interview with the governess, thovigh not clear herself as to the riglit course, and believing that her advice, had she any to give, would go for very little with the learned governess. Miss Fennimore was soft and sad, but decided, and begging to be spared useless argu- ments. Whetlier Lady Bannerman had insulted her by hinting her suspicions, Honor could not divine, for she was firmly en- trenched within her previous motive, namely, that it would be wrong to remain in a family where first her system, and then her want of vigilance, had produced such results. And to the representation that for her own sake the present conjuncture was the worst in which she could depart, she replied that it mattei'ed not, since she saw her own deficiencies too ])lainly ever to undertake again the charge of young ladies, and only intended to find emj)loyment as a teacher in a school. * Say no more,' she entreated ; 'and above all do not let Phoebe persuade me,' and there were tears on either cheek. * Indeed, I believe her not having done so is a most unselfish act of deference to your judgment.' * I know it for a sign of true aflfection ! You, who know what she is, can guess what it costs me to leave her above all, now that I am one in faith with her, and could talk to her Uiore openly than I ever dared to do ; she whose example first showed me that faith is a living substance ! Yes, Miss Charlecote, lam to be received into the Church at St. Wulstan's, where I shall be staying, as soon as I have left Beauchamp.' Overcome with feeling, Honora hastily rose and kissed the governess's forehead, her tears choking her utterance. ' But — but,' she presently said, ' that removes all possible doubt. Does not Bobert say so V II 2 484 HOPES AND FEARS. ' He does,' said Miss Fennimore ; 'but I cannot think so. After liaviijg miserably infused my own temper of rationalism, liow could 1, as a novice and learner, fitly train that poor child? Besides, others of the family justly complain of me, and I will not be forced on them. No, nor let my newly-won blessing be alloyed by bringing me any present advantage.' ' I honour you — I agree with you,' said Miss Charlecote, sadly; *but it makes me the more sorry for those poor girls. 1 do not see what is to be done ! A stranger will be worse than no one to both the invalids ; Lieschen has neither head nor nerve ; and though I do not believe Phoebe will ever give way, Bertha behaves very ill to her, and the strain of anxiety may be too much for such a mei-e girl, barely twenty ! She may suffer for it afterwaids, if not at the time.' ' I feel it all,' sighed Miss Fennimore ; * but it would not justify me in letting myself be thrust on a family whose confi- dence in me has been deceived. Nobody could go with them but you. Miss Chai-lecote.' ' Me ! how much obliged Mervyn would be,' laughed Honora. * It was a wild wish, such as crosses tlie mind in moments of perplexity and distress ; but no one else could be so welcome to my ])Oor Bertha, nor be the motherly friend they all require. Forgive me, Miss Charlecote ; but I have seen what you made of Phcebe, in spite of me and my system.' So Honor returned to announce the ill-success of her mission. * There !' said Mervyn ; * goodness knows what will become of us ! Bertha would go into fits at the siglit of any stranger ; and such a hideous old catamaran as Juliana will be sure to have in pickle, will be the death of her outright. I think Miss Charle- cote had better take pity on us !' ' Oh, Mervyn, impossible !' cried Phrebe, shocked at hia audacity. ' I protest,' said Mervyn, * nothing else can save you from some nasty, half-bred companion ! Faugh ! Now, Miss Charle- cote would enjoy the trip, put ISIaria and Bertha to bed, and take you to operas, ^xid pictures, and churches, and you would all be oflT my hands !' * For shame, Mervyn,' cried Phoebe, crimson at his cavalier manner. ' It is the second such compliment I have received, Phcebe,' Baid Honor. ' Miss Fennimore does me the honour to tell me to be her svd)stitute.' ' Tlion if slie says so,' said Mervyn, ' it is our only rescue !' If Honor lau^rlied it was not tliat she did not think. As she crossed the park, .she felt that each bud of spring beauty, each HOPES AND FEARS. 485 proniised crop, each lamb, each village child, made tlie proposal the more unwelcome ; yet that the sense of being rooted, and hating to move, ought to be combated. It might hardly be treating Humfrey's ' goodly heritage ' aright, to make it an excuse for abstaining from an act of love ; and since Brooks attended to her so little when at home, he could very well go on without her. Not that she believed that she should be called on to decide. She did not think Mervyn in earnest, nor suppose that he would encumber himself with a co.'Hpaniou who could not be set aside like a governess, and was of an age more 'proper' and efficient than agreeable. His unceremonious manner proved sufficiently that it was a mere joke, and he would probably laugh his loud, scoffing laugh at the old maid taking him in earnest. Yet she could not rid herself of the thought of Phoebe's difficulties, and in poor Bertha, she had the keen interest of niirso towards patient. 'Once before,' she thought, 'have I gone out of the beaten track upon impulse. Cruel consequences! Yet do I repent? Not of the act, but of the error that ensued. Then I was eager, young, romantic. Now I would rather abstain : I am old and sluggish. If it is to be, it will be made plain. I do not distrust my feeling for Phoebe — it is not the jealous, hungering love of old ; and I hope to be able to discern whether this be an act of charity ! At least, I will not take the initiative. I did so last time.' Houoi-'s thoughts and speculations were all at Beauchamp throughout the evening and the early morning, till her avocations di'ove it out of her mind. She was busy, trying hard to get her own way with her bailiff as to the crops, when she was inter- rupted by tidings that Mr. Eulmort was in the drawing-room ; and concluding it to be Robert, she did not hurry her argument upon guano. On entering the room, however, she was amazed at beholding not Hobert, but his brother, cast down in an arm- chair, and looking thoroughly tired out. ' Mervyn. ! I did not expect to see you !' ' Yes, I just walked over. I thought I would report progress I had no notion it was so far.' And in fact he had not been at the Holt since, as a pert boy, he had found it 'slow.' Honor was rather alarmed at his fatigue, and offered varieties of sustenance, which he declined, returning with eager nervousness to the subject in hand. The Bannermans, he said, had offered to go with Bertha and Phoebe, but only on condition that JMaria was left at a boarding- house, and a responsible governess taken for Bertha. Moreover, Augusta had told Bertha herself what was impending, and the 486 HOPES AND FEARS. poor child had 1-aid a clinging, trembling grasp on his arm, and hoarsely whispered that if a stranger came to hear her story, she would die. Alas ! it might be easier than before. He had promised never to consent. ' But what can I do V he said, with a hand upon either temple ; * they heed me no more than Maria!' Robert had absolutely half consented to leave his cure in the chai'ge oi another, and conduct his brother and sisters, but this plan did not satisfy the guardian, who could not send out his wards without some reliable female. H- swung the tassel of the sofa-cushion violently as he spoke, and looked imploringly at Honora, but she, though much moved, felt obliged to keep her resolution of not beginning. ' Very hard,' he said, ' that when tliere are but two women in the woild that that poor child likes, she can have neither 1' and then, gaining hope fioin something in her face, he exclaimed, * After all, 1 do believe you will take pity on her !' 'I thought you in joke yesterday.' ' I thought it too good to be true ! I am not so cool as Phoebe thought me. But really,' he said, assuming an earnest, rational, gentlemanly manner, ' you have done so much for us that perhap3 it makes us presume, and though 1 know it is preposterous, yet if it were possible to you to be long enough with poor Bertha to bring her round again, I do believe it would make an infinite difference.' 'What does Phoebe say?' asked Honor. 'Phoebe, poor child, she does not know I am come. She looks as white as death, and got up a smile that was enough to make one cry, but she told me not to mind, for something would be sure to bring it right ; and so it will, if you will come.' ' But, Mervyn, you don't consider what a nuisance I shall be to you.' Mervyn looked more gallant than Kobert ever could have done, and said something rather foolish ; but anxiety quickly made him natural again, and he proceeded, ' After all, they need not bother you much. Phcebe is of your own sort, and Maria is inoffensive, and Bertha will have Lieschen, and I — I'll take my own line, and be as little of a bore as I can. You'll gor 'If— if it will do.' That odd answer was enough. Mervyn, already leaning forward with his arms on his knees, held o\it one hand, and shaded his eyes with the other, as, half with a sob, he said, ' There, then, it is all right ! Miss Charlecote, you can't guess tvhat it is to a man not to be trusted with his own sisters !' The.se words made that bete noire, John Mervyn Fulmorfc, HOPES AND FEARS. 4^7 nearly as miTch a child of her own as his brother and sister; for they were in a tone of se]f-l)hime — not of resentment. She was sufficiently afraid of him to resjiect his reserve ; moreover, he looked so ill and harassed that she dreaded his having an attack, and heartily wished for Phoebe, so she only begged him to rest till after her eai'ly dinner, when she would convey him back to Beauchanip ; and then left him alone, while she went to look her undertaking in the face, rather amused to find herself his last resource, and surprised to find her spirit of enterprise rising, her memories of Alps, lakes, cathedrals, and riictures fast assuming; the old charm that had erst made her lonj? to see them again. And with Phoebe ! Really it would be almost a disa))pointment if the scheme failed. When she again met her unwonted guest he plunged into plans, routes, and couriers, treating her as far more completely pledged than she chose to allow ; and eating as heartily as he dared, and more so than she thought Phcelie would approve. She vv^as glad to have him safe at his own door, where Phoebe ran to meet them, greatly relieved, for she had been much dis' turbed by his absence at luncheon. ' Miss Charlecote ! Did you meet him V * I went after her ' — and Mervyn boyishly caught his sistei round the waist, and pushed her down into a curtsey — ' make your obedience ; she is going to look after you all.' ' Going with us !' cried Phoebe, with clasped hands. ' To see about it,' began Honor, but the words were strangled in a transported embrace. ' Dearest, dearest Miss Charlecote ! Oh, I knew it would all come right if we were patient ; but, oh ! that it should be so right ! Oh ! jNIervyn, how could you V ' Ah ! you see what it is not to be faint-hearted.' And Phoebe, whose fault was certainly not a faint heart, laughed at this poor jest, as she had seldom laughed before, with an abandon of gaiety and joyousness. The quiet girl was absolutely thrown off her balance, laughed and cried, thanked and exclaimed, moved restlessly, and spoke incoherently. * Oh ! may I tell Bertha V she asked. * No, I'll "do that,' said Mervyn. ' It is all my doing,* 'Pam after him, Phoebe,' said Honor. 'Don't let Bertha think it settled 1' And Bertha was, of course, disappointingly indifferent. Lady Baunerman's nature was not capable of great surprise, but Miss Charlecote's proposal was not unwelcome. ' I did not want to go,' she said ; ' though dear Sir Nicholas would have made any sacrifice, and it would have looked so for thera ic 488 HOPES AND FEARS. have gone alone. Travelling with an invalid is so trying, and Phoebe made such a rout about Maria, that Mr. Crabbe insisted on her going. But you like the kind of thing.' Honor xmdertook for her own taste for the kind of thing, and her ladyship continued, * Yes, you must find it uncommonly dull to be so much alone. Where did Juliana tell me she had heard of Lucy Sandbrook ]' ' She is in Staffoixlshire,' answered Honor, gravely. * Ah, yes, with Mrs. Willis Beaumont; I remember. Juliana made a point of letting her know all about it, and how you were obliged to give her up.' ' I hope not,' exclaimed Honor, alarmed. *I never gave her up ! There is no cause but her own spirit of independence that she should not return to me to-morrow.' ' Oh, indeed,' said Augusta, carelessly letting the subject drop, after having implanted anxiety too painful to be quelled by the hope that Lady Acton's neighbourhood might have learnt how to rate her words. Mr. Crabbe was satisfied and complimentary ; Robert, re- joiced and grateful ; and Bertha, for the first time, set her will upon recovering, and made daily experiments on her strength, thus quickly amending, though still her weakness and petulance needed the tenderest management, and once when a doubt arose as to Miss Charlecote's being able to leave home, she suddenly withered up again, with such a recurrence of unfavourable symptoms as proved how precarious was her state. It was this evidence of the necessity of the arrangement that chiefly contributed to bring it to pass. When the j^ressure of difficulty lessened, Mervyn was half ashamed of his owu conquest, disliked the obligation, and expected to be bored by ' the old girl,' as, to Phoebe's intense disgust, he laotdd speak of Miss Charlecote. Still, in essentials he was civil and con- siderate, and Honor carefully made it evident that she did not mean to obtrude herself, and expected him to sit loose to the female jiart of the company. Divining that he would prefer the start fi'om home not to be simultaneous, and also favoui-injr poor Bertha's shuddering horror of the direct line of railway to London, she proposed that the ladies should work their way by easy journeys on cross lines to Southampton, whilst Mervyn settled his aflJairs at the office, and then should come to them with Robert, who had made it possible to take an Easter holiday in which to see them safe to their destination iu Switzerland. Plicebe tried to acquiesce in Miss Charlecote's advice to trust IMervyn's head to Robert's charge, and not tease him witii HOPES AND FEARS. 489 Bolicitude ; but the being debarred from going to London was a great disappointment. She longed for a sight of St. JMatthevv's ; and what would it not have been to see the two brothers there like brothers indeed 1 But she must be content with knowinj; that so it was. Mervyn's opposition was entirely withdrawn, and though he did not in the least comprehend and was fur from admiring his brother's aims, still his name and his means were no longer withheld from supporting Robert's purposes, * because he was such a good fellow, it was a shame to stand in his way,' She knew, too, rather by implicatioii than conffssimi, that Mervyn imagined his chief regrets for tLe enormous ex- travagance of the former year, were because he had thus deprived himself of the power of buying a living for his brother, as compensation for having kept him out of his fiither's wilL Whether Mervyn would ever have made tlie purchase, and still more whether Robert would have accejjted it, was highly doubtful, but the intention was a step fur which to be thank- ful; and Phcebe watched the growing friendliness of the long estranged pair with constantly new delight, and anticipated much from Mervyn's sight of St. Matthew's with eyes no longer jaundiced. She would gladly, too, have delayed the parting with Miss Fennimore, who had made all her arrangements for a shm-t stay with her relatives in Loudon, and then for giving lessons at a schooL To Phoebe's loyal s^pirit, it seemed hard that even Miss Charlecote's care should be regarded as compensating for the loss of the home friend of the last seven years, and the closer, dearer link was made known as she sat late over the fire vvith the governess on Easter Sunday evening, their last at Beauchamp. Silent hitherto, Miss Fennimore held her peace no longer, but begged Phoebe to think of one who on another Sunday would no longer turn aside from the Altar. Phcebe lifted her eyes, full of hope and inquiry, and as she understood, exclaimed, ' O, I am glad ! I knew you must have some deep earnest reason for not being with us.' ' You never guessed f * I never tried. I saw that Robert knew, so I hoped.' ^And prayed V 'Yes, you belonged to me.' * Do I belong to you now V *!Nay, more than ever now.' 'Then, my child, you never traced my unsettled faith ? — my habit of testing mystery by reason never perplexed you V Phoebe thought a moment, and said, ' I knev/ that Robert distrusted, though I never asked why. There was a time when 4 JO HOPES AIS^D FEARS. I used to try to sift the evidence and logic of all I learnt, and I was puzzled where faith's province began and reasoning ended. But when our first sorrow came, all the puzzles melted, and it was not worth while to argue on realities tliat I felt. Since that, I have read more, and seen where my own ignorance made my difficulties, and I have prized — yes, adored, the truths all the more because you had taught me to appreciate in some degree their perfect foundation on reasoning.' ' Strange,' said Miss Fennimore, ' that we should have lived togetlier so long, acting on each otliei', yet each unconscious of the other's thoughts. I see now. What to you was not doubt, but desire for a reason for your hope, became in poor Bertha, not disbelief, but contempt and carelessness of what slie did not feel. I shall never have a sense of X'est, till you can tell me that she enters into your faith. I am chiefly reconciled to leaving her, because I trust that in her enfeebled, dependent state, she may become influenced by Miss Charlecote and by you.' ' I cannot argue with her,' said Phoebe. ' When she is well, she can always puzzle me ; I lose her when she gets to her ego. You are the only one who can cope with that.' ' The very reason for keeping away. Don"t argue. Live and act. Tliat was your lesson to me.' Phoebe did not perceive, and Miss Fennimore loved her freedom from self-consciousness too well even for gratitude's sake to molest her belief that the conversion was solely owing to Robert's powers of controversy. That one fleeting glimpse of inner life was the true farewell. The actual parting was a practical matter of hurry of trains, and separation of parcels, with Maria too busy with the Maltese dog to shed tears, or even to perceive that this was a final leave- taking with one of those whom she best loved. CHAPTER XXIII. Tak down, tal? down the mast of gowd. Set u[) tlie mast of tiee, It sets not a fonsaken lady To sail so gallantly. Annie of Lochroyan. * A'CAINT little white-capped objects ! The St. Wulstan'g 'r^ girls marcmng to St. Paul's ! Ah ! the banner I helped to work ! Hovy well 1 remember the contriving that crozier upoa HOPES AND FEARS. 491 it ! How well it has worn ! Sweet Honey must be in London ; it was the sight she most grudged missing !' So thought Lucilla Sandbrook as a cab conveyed her through the Whittiiigtoniau intricacies. Her residence with Mrs. Willis Beaumont was not a passage in her life on which she loved to dwell. Neither party had been well content with the other, though deference to Mrs. Prender- gast had held tliem together. The lady herself was worthy and kind-hearted, but dull and tedious ; and Lucilla, used to anima- tion and intellect, had wearied excessively of the jilatitudes whicli were meant as friendly conversation, while her kern remarks and power of drollery and repartee were just suffi- ciently perceived to be dreaded and disliked. The children were like their mother, and were frightened and distressed by her quickness and unreasonable expectations. Their meek, demure heaviness and complacency, even at their sports, made her positively dislike them, all but one scai)egrace boy, in favour with no one, and whom she liked more from perverseness and compassion than from any merits of his own. Lady Acton's good offices gave the widow a tangible cause, such as was an absolute satisfaction, for her antijmthy, and shook the implicit trust in Mrs. Prendergast's recommendation that had hitherto overridden her private sentiments ; yet still, habitual awe of her sister-in-law, and her own easiness and dread of change, left things in the same state until a crisis caused by a grand dis- turbance among the children. In the nice matter of meting out blame, mamma's partiality and the children's ungenerosity left an undue share upon the scapegrace; his indignant jjartisan fought his battles 'not wisely but too well,' lost temper, and uttered sarcastic home truths which startled and stung the lady into the request fur which she could liardly have nerved herself in cooler nuiments, namely, that they might part. This settled, each secretly felt that there was something to be regretted, and b")th equally wished that a new engagement should be made before the termination of the present should be made known at Southminster. For this purpose, every facility had been given for Miss Sandbrook's coming to town personally to answer two ladies to whom she had been mentioned. A family in the neighbourhood had already been tried, but had declined her, and Mrs. Beaumont had shown her the note , ' so stylish, such strange stories afloat.' Lucilla felt it best to break upon new ground, and wounded and depressed, had yet resentment enough to bear her thi-ough boldly. She wished to inspect Owen's child, and wrote to ask Mrs. Murrell to give her a bed for a couple of nights, venturing on this measure because. 492 HOPES AND FEARS. in the old woman's monthly report, she had mentioned that Mr. Fulniovt had gone abroad for a fortnight. It had not been an exhilarating evening. Small children were not much to Lucilla's taste, and her nephew was not a flattering specimen. He had the wliitened di-awn-up appearance of a child who had spent most of his life in a London cellar, with a pinched little visage and preternatural-looking black eyes, a sqxieaky little fretful voice, and all the language he had yet acquired decidedly cockney. Moreover, he had the habits of a spoilt child, and that a vulgar one, and his grandmother expected his aunt to think him a prodigy. There was a vacant room where Lucilla passed as much of her time as she could without an assumption of superiority, but she was obliged to spend the evening in the small furniture-encumbered parlour, and hear by turns of her nephew's traits of genius, of the merits of the preacliers in Cat-alley, and the histories of the lodgers. The motherly Mrs. JMurrell had invited any of the young men whose ' hearts might be touched' to attend her ' simple family worship ;' and to Lucilla's discomfiture and her triumph, a youth appeared in the evening, and the young lady had her doubts whether the exj)0unding were the attraction. It was a relief to quit tlie close, underground atmosphere even for a cab ; and 'an inspecting lady must be better than that old woman,' thouglit poor Lucy, as, heartily weary of Mrs. Murrell's tongue and her own graciousuess, she rattled tlirougli the streets. Those long ranks of charity children renewed many an association of old. The festival which had been the annual event of Honor Charlecote's youth, she had made the same to her children, and Cilia had not despised it till recently. Thoughts of better days, of home-feelings, of tenderness, began to soften her. She had spent nearly two years without the touch of a kindred hand, and for many months past had been learning what it was to be looked at by no loving eye. She was on her way to still greater strangers ! No wonder her heart yearned to the gentle voice that she had once spurned, and well-nigh iii spite of herself, she muttered, ' Really I do thiidi a kiss of poor Honor's would do me good ! I have a srreat mind to "o to her when I come back from Kcn- sington. If I have taken a situation she cannot suppose that I want anything from her. It would be very comfortable ; I should hear of Owen ! I will go ! Even if she be not in town, I could talk to Mrs. Jones, and sit a quarter of an hour in the cedar room ! It would be like meeting Owen ; it would be rest and home !' She felt quite happy and pleased with herself under this HOPES AND FEARS. 493 resolution, but it was late before slie could put it in practice. The lady at Kensington rather started on entering the room whore she had been waiting nearly an hour. ' I thought — ' she said, apologetically, ' Did my servant say Miss Sandbrook V Lucilla assented, and the lady, a little discomposed, asked a few questions, furtively surveying her all the time, seemed con- fused, then begged her to take some luncheon. It was so long since Mrs. Murrell's not very tempting breakfost, that the invitation was welcome, even though the presence of a gentle- man and an elderly lady showed that it was a pretext for a family inspection, and again she detected the same start of surprise, and a glance passing round the circle, such as made her glad when afterwards an excuse was made for leaving her alone, that she might apply to the glass to see whether anything were amiss in her dress. Then first she remarked that hers was not the governess air. She had long felt very virtuous for having spent almost nothing on her clothes, eking out her former wardrobe to the utmost ; and the loose, dove-coloured jacket over her black silk skirt betrayed Parisian make, as did the exquisite rose, once worn in her hair, and now enlivening the white ribbon and lilack lace of the cheap straw bonnet, far back upon the rippling hair turned back from her temples, and falling in profuse ringlets. It was her ordinary unpremeditated appearance, but she perceived that to these good people it was startlingly stylish, and she was pre- pared for the confused intimation that there was no need for entering u|ion the discussion of terms. She had been detained too late to make her other call, and the processions of tired children showed her that the service at St. Paul's was over. The depression of disappointment inclined her the more to the loving old face, and she caused herself to be Bet down at the end of Woolstone Lane, feeling as if di-awn by a magnet as she passed the well known warehouse walls, and as if it were home indeed when she reached the court dooi'. It would not yield to her intimate manipulation of the old latch — a bad sign, and the bell re-echoed in vacancy. Again and again she rang, each moment of exclusion awakening a fresh yearning towards the cedar fragrance, every stare of pasaer-by making her long for the safe shelter of the bay- windowed parlour. At last a step approached, and a greeting for the friendly old servant was on her tongue's end. Alas ! a strange face met her eye, elderly, respectable, but guarded. Miss Charlecote was not at home, not in town, not at Hilton- bury — gone abroad, whither was not known. Mrs. Jones 1 Dead more than a year ago. Every reply was followed by an 494 HOPES AND FEARS. attempt to close the door, and it needed all Lucy's native hardi- hood, all her ardent craving for her former home, to venture on an entreaty to be admitted for a few minutes. She was answered, that the house might be shown to no one without orders from Mr. Parsons. Her heart absolutely fainted within her, as the heavy dcor was closed on her, making her thoroughly realize her volun- tary renunciation of home and protection, and the dreariness of the world on which she had cast herself Anxiety ou Honor's behalf began to awaken. Nothing but illness could have induced her to leave her beloved Holt, and in the thought of her sick, lonely, and untended by the children she had fos- tered, Cilia forgave her ado])tion, forgave her forgiveness, for- gave everything, in the impulse to hasten to her to requite the obligation by the tenderest care. She had actually set off to the parsonage in quest of intel- ligence, when she recollected that she might ap^iear there as a discarded governess in quest of her oftended patroness ; and her pride impelled her to turn back, but she despatched Mrs. Murrell's little maid with a note, saying that, being in town for a day, and hearing of Miss Charlecote's absence on the continent, she could not help begging to be certified that illness was not the cause. The reply was brief and formal, and it only altered Lucilla's uneasiness, for Mrs. Parsons merely assured her of Miss Cliarlecote's perfect health, and said she was gone abroad with the Pulmoii family, where there had been a good deal of illness. In her displeasure and desire to guard Honora from becoming a prey to the unworthy San J brooks, ]\Irs. Parsons never guessed at the cruelty of her own words, and at the conclu-ion drawn from thein. Robert Fuhiiort likewise absent ! ISIo doubt his health had broken down, and Honor was taking Phoibe to be with him! She examined Mrs. Murrell, and heard of his activity, indeed, but of his recent absences from his parish, and by and by the good woman bethought her of a roj^ort that Mr. Fnlmort was from home on account of his health. Oh, the misery of not daring to make direct inquiry I But the hard ))ractical w( rid was before her, and the new situation was no longer a matter of wilful choice, but of dire necessity. She would not be hastily thrust from her present post, and would be lovingly received at Soulhminster in case of need, but she had no dependence save on her own exertions, and ])erverse romance had died away into desolateness. With Btrange, desperate vehemence, atid determination not again to fail, she bought the plainest of cap fronts, reduced her bonnet HOPES AND FEARS. 405 to the sereresfc dowdiness, hid, straightened, tighteued tlio ■waving pale gold of her hair, folded her traveiliug-shawl old- womani-shly, cast aside all the merely ornamental, and glat^cing at herself muttered, ' I did not know I conld be so iusiguili- cant !' Little Owen stared as if his beautiful aunt had lost her identity, and IMrs. Murrell was ready to embrace her as a con- vert to last night's exposition. Perhajjs the trouble vi^as wasted, for the lady, Mrs. Bostock, did not seem to be particular. She was qnite young, easily satisfied, and only eager to be rid of an embarrassing interview of a kind new to her ; the terms were fixed, and before many weeks had passed Lucilla was settled at a cottage of gentility, in sight of her Thames, but on the Essex side, where he was not the same river to her, and she found herself as often think- ing that those tainted waters had passed the garden in Wool- stone I>ane as that they had sparkled under Wrapworth Bridge. It was the greatest change she had yet undergone. She was entirely the governess, never the companion of the elders. Her employers v/ere mei'cantile, wrapped up in each otlier, busy, and gay. The husband was all day in London, and, when the evenings were not given to society, preferred spending them alone with his wife and children. In his absence, the nursery absorbed nearly all the time the mother could s}>are from her company and her household. The children, who were too old for playthings, were consigned to the first-rate governess, and only appeared in the evening. Lucilla never left her school- room but for a walk, or on a formal request to appear in the di'awing-room at a party ; a solitude which she at first thought prefei'aV)le to Mrs. Willis Beaumont's continued small chatter, especially as the children were pleasant, brisk, and loveable, having been well broken in by their Swiss bonne. Necessity had trained Cilly in self-restraint, and the want of surveillance made her generous nature the more scrnjmlous in her treatment of her pupils ; she taught them diligently, kejjt good order, won their affection and gave them some of her own, but nothing could obviate her growing weariness of hold- ing intercourse with no mind above eleven years old. Trouble and anxiety she had known before, and even the terrible heart- ache that she carried about with her might have failed to wear down a being constituted as she was, without the long solitary evenings, and the total want of companionship. The first shock had been borne by the help of bustle and change, and it was only as weeks passed on, that care and depression grew ui)on her. Lessons, walks, children's games were oppressive in turn, and though the lust good-night was a welcome sound, yet 496 HOPES AND FEARS. the solitude that ensued was unspeakably forlorn. Reading she had never loved, even had this been a house of books; the children were too young to need exertion on her part to keep in advance of them, and their routine lessons wore out her energies too much for her to turn to her own resources. She did little but repair her wardrobe, work for the boy in Whittington-street, and let thoughts drift through her mind. That death-bed scene at Hyeres, which had so often risen un- bidden to her mind as she lay on her crib, was revived again, but it was not her father whose ebbing life she watched. It was one for whom she durst not. ask, save by an inquiry from her brother, wlio had never dropped his correspondence with Honora; but Owen was actively employed, and his locality and habits were so uncertain that his letters were often astray for long together. His third year of apprenticeship had begun, and Lucilla's sole hope of a change trom her present dreary captivity was in his either returning with Mr. Currie, or tiud- ing employment and sending for her and his child to Canada. ' By that time,' she thought, ' Europe will contain nothing to me. Nay, what does it contain that I have a right to care for now] 1 don't delude myself I know his look and manner. His last thought will be for his flock at St. Mattliew's, not for her who drove liim to the work that has been killing him. Oh, no, he wont even forgive me, for he will think it tlie greatest service I could have done him.' Her eyes were hot and dry ; what a relief would tears have been I CHAPTER XXIV. Enid, my early and my only love, I thought, but that your father came between, In former days you saw me favourably. And if it were so, do not keep it back. Make me a little happier, let me know it. Tennyson. THE foreign tour proved a great success. The summer in the Alps was delightful. The complete change gave Bertlia new life, bodily strength first returning, and then mental activity. The glacier system was a happy exchange for her ego, and she observed and enjoyed witli all the force of her acute intelligence and spirit of inquiry, while Phoebe was happy in doing her duty by i^rofiung by all oii])ortunities of observa- tion, in taking care of Maria and listening to Mervyn, and jVIisa HOPES AND FEARS. 407 Cliarlecote enjoyed scenery, poetry, art, and natural oTijects with relish keener than even that of her young friends, who were less impressible to beauty iu every shape. Mervyu beliaved very well to her, knowing himself bound to make the journey agreeable to her ; he was constantly kind to Bertha, and in the pleasure of her revival submitted to a wonderful amount of history and science. All his grumbling was reserved for the private ear of Phoebe, whose privilege it always was to be his murmuring block, and who was only too thankful to keep to herself his discontents whenever his route was not chosen (and often when it was), his disgusts with inns, railroads, and sights, and his impatience of all pursuits save Bertha's. Many a time she was permitted to see and hear nothing but how much he was bored, but on the whole the growls were so mitigated compared with what she had known, that it was almost contentment ; and that he did not absolutely dislike their habits was plain from his adherence to the ladies, though he might have been quite independent of them. Bertha's distortion of eye and hesitation of speech, though much modified, always recurred from fatigue, excitement, or meeting with strangers, or — still worse — with acquaintance. The diiiiculty of utterance distressed her far more than if she had been subject thereto from infancy, and increased her exceed- ing repugnance to any sort of society beyond her own party. The question whether she were fit to return home for the winter was under debate, when at Geneva, early in Septembei', tidings reached the travellers that produced such a shuck as to settle the point. Juliana Acton was dead I It had been a very short attack of actual illness, but disease had long been secretly preying oa her — and her asperity of disposition might be accounted for by constant unavowed suffering. It was a great blow. Her un- pleasant qualities were all forgiven in the dismay of learning what their excuse had been ; for those who have so lived as to make themselves least missed, are perhaps at the first moment the more mourned by good hearts for that very cause. Augusta was so much terrified on her own account, that she might almost have been made a hydropathist on the spot ; and Robert wrote that poor Sir Bevil was perfectly overwhelmed with grief and self-reproach, giving himself no credit for his exemplary patience and forbearance, but bitterly accusing himself of hardness and neglect. These feelings were shared iu some degree by all the others, and Mervyn was especially affected. There had been much to soften him since his parents' death, and the sudden loss of the sister with whom he had K K 49 S HOPES AND FEARS. always been on toims of scorn and dislike, shocked him exces- sively, and drew him closer to the survivors, sobering him, and sileiiciag his murmurs for the time in real grief and awe. Bertha likewise was thoroughly overcome, not so much by these feelings, as by the mere effect of the sudden tidings on her nervous tempei*ament, and the ovei^clouding of the cheerfulness that had hitherto surrounded her. Tliis, added to a day of over-fatigue aud exposure, brought back sxich a recurrence of unfavourable symptoms, that a return to an English winter wa^ not to be thought of. The south of France was decided iipon at once, aud as Lucilla had truly divined, Honor Cliarle- cote's impulse led them to Hyere.s, that she might cast at least one look at the grave in the Stranger's corner of the cypress- grown burial-ground, where rested the beloved of her eai-ly days, the father of tlie darlings of her widowed heart — loved and lost. She endured her absence from home far better than she had expected, so much easier was it to stay away than to set off, and so com])letely was she bound up with her companions, loving Phrebe like a parent, and the other two like a nurse, and really liking the In-other. All took delight in the winter paradise of Hyeres, that fragment of tlie East set down u|)on the French coast, and periodically peopled with a motley multi- tude of visitors from all the lands of Europe, all invalids, or else attendants on invalids. Bertha still shrank from all contact with society, and the ladies, for her sake, lived entirely apart ; but Mervyn made acquaintance, and sometimes went out on short expeditions with other gentlemen, or to visit his mercantile correspondents at Marseilles, or other places on the coast. It was while he was thus absent that the three sisters stood one afternoon on the paved tei'i'ace of the Hotel des Isles (TOr, which I'ose behind them, in light coloured stone, of a kind of Italian-looking architecture, commanding a lovely prospect, the mountains on the Toulon side, tliough near, melting into vivid blue, and white cloud wreaths hanging on their slopes. In front lay the plain, covered with the peculiar grey-tinted olive foliage, overto|)ped l)y date palms, and sloping \ip into rounded hills covered with dark pines, the nearest to the sea bearing on its crest the Church de V Ermitage. The sea itself was visible beyond the olives, bordered by a line of etangs or pools, and white heaps of salt, and broken by a peninsula and the three Isles d'Or. It was a view of which Bertha seemed never able to have enough, and she was always to be found gazing at it when the first ready for a walk. HOPES AND FEAES. 499 'What are you going to sketch, Phoebe f she said, as the sisters joined her. ' How can you, on such a day as this, with the air, as it were, loaded with cheiranthus smell 1 It makes one lazy to think of it !' ' It seems to be a duty to preserve some remembrance of this beautiful place.' *It may be a pity to miss it, but as for the duty !' ' What, not to give pleasui'e at home, and profit by oppor- tunities T ' It is too hard to carry about an embodiment of Miss Fenni- more's rules ! VVliy, have you no individuality, Phoebe V ' Must I uot sketch, then V snid Plioebe, smiling. * You are very welcome, if you would do it for your pleasure, not as an act of bondage.' * Not as bondage,' said Phoebe ; ' it is only because I ought that I care to do so at all.' ' And that's the reason you only make ma])s of the landscape.' It was quite true that Phoebe had no accomplished turn, and what had been taught her she only practised as a duty to the care and cost expended on it, and those were things where ' all her might' was no equivalent for a spark of talent. * Ought' alone gave her the zest that Bertha would still have found in * ought not.' ' It is all I can do,' she said, ' and Miss Fennimore may like to see them ; so, Bertha, I shall continue to carry the sketch- book by which the English woman is known like the man by hi.« " Mun-ay." Miss Charlecote has letters to write, so we must go out by ourselves.' The Proven9al natives of Hyeres had little liking for the foreigners who thronged their town, but did not molest them, and ladies walked about freel3" in the lovely neighbourhood, so that Honor had no scrviple in sending out her charges, unac- companied except by Lieschen, in case the two others might wish to dispose of ]\Iaria, while they engaged in some pursuit beyond her powers. Poor Lieschen, a plump Prussian, grown portly on Beauchamp good living, had little sympathy with the mountain tastes of her frauleins, and would have wished all Hyeres like the shelf on the side of the hill where stood their hotel, whence the party set ; forth for the Place des Palmiers, so called from six actual palms j bearing, but not often I'ipening, dates. Two sides were enclosed i by houses, on a third an oiange garden sloped down the descent ; j the fourth, where the old town climbed straight up the hill, was 1 regarded by poor Lieschen with dread, and she vainly persuaded I Maria at least to content herself with joining the collection of I KK.2 5U0 HOPES AND FEARS. natives resting on the benches beneath the palms. How wil- lingly would the good German have produced her knitting, and sought a compatriot among the nurses who sat gossiping and embroidering, while Maria might have played among their charges, who were shovelling about, or pelting each other with the tiny white sea-washed pebbles that thickly strewed the place. But Maria, with the little Maltese dog in her arms, to guard him from a hailstorm of the pebbles, was inexorably bent on follow- ing her sisters; and Bertha had hurried nervously across from the strangers, so that Lieschen must pursue those light steps through tlie winding staircase streets, sometimes consisting of broad shallow steps, sometimes of actual flights of steep stairs hewn out in the rock, leading to a length of level terrace, where, through garden gates, orange trees looked out, dividing the vantage ground with houses and rocks — up farther, past the almost desolate old church of St. Paul — farther again — till, beyond all the houses, they came forth on the open mountain- side, with a crest of i-ock far above, surmounted by the ruins of a castle, said to have been fortihed by the Saracens, and taken from them by Charles Martel. It was to this castle that Phoebe's sketching duty was to be paid, and Maria and Bertha expressed their determination of climbing up to it, in hopes, as the latter said, of finding Charles Martel's original hammer. Lieschen, puffing and panting already, looked horrified, and laughingly they bade her sit down and knit, whilst they set out on their adventure. Phoebe smiled as she looked up, and uttered a prognostic that made Bertha the more defiant, exhilarated as she was by the delicious compound of sea and mountain breeze, and by the exquisite view, the roofs of the town sloping rapidly down, and the hills stretching round, clothed in pine woods, into which the grey olivettes came stealing up, while beyond lay the sea. intensely blue, and bearing on its bosom the three Isles d Or flushed with radiant colour'. The sisters bravely set themselves to scramble among the 7-ocks, each surface turned to the sea-breeze exquisitely and fantastically tinted by coloured lichens, and all interspersed with the classical acanthus' noble leaves, the juniper, and the wormwood. Oa they went, winding upwards as Bertha hojied, but also sideways, and their circuit had lasted a weary while, and made them exhausted and breathless, when looking round for their bearings, they found themselves in an enchanted maze of grey rocks, half hidden in myrtle, beset by the bristly battledores of prickly pear, and shaded by cork trees. Above was the castle, perched up, and apparently as high above them as when they began their enter- HOPES AND FEARS. 501 prise ; below was a steep descent, clothed with pines and adorned with white heaths. The place was altogether strange ; they had lost themselves ; Bertha began to repeut of her adventure, and Maria was much disposed to cry. ' Never mind, Maria/ said Bertha, ' we will not try to go any higher. See, here is the dry bed of a torrent that will make a famous path down. There, that's right. What a picture it is ! what an exquisite peep of the sea between the bouglis ! What now. what frightens you V ' The old woman, she looks so horrid.' ' The witch for the lost children 1 No, no, Maria, she is only gathering fir cones, and completing the picture in her red has- quine, brown jacket, and great hat. I would ask her the way, but that we could not understand her Proveu9al.' ' Oh, dear ! I wish Plicebe was here ! I wish we were safe !' ' If I ever come mountain-climbing again with you at my heels ! Take cai-e, there's no danger if you mind your feet, and we must come out somewhere.' The somewhere, when the slope became less violent, was among vineyards and olivettes, no vestige of a path through them, only a very small cottage, picturesquely planted among the rocks, whence proceeded the sounds of a cornet- d, -piston. As Bertha stood considering which way to take, a dog flew out of the house and began barking. This brought out a man, who rudely shouted to the terrified pair that they were trespassing. Tiiey would have fled at once up tlie torrent-bed, bad as it was for ascent, but there was a derisive exclamation and laugh, and half-a-dozen men, half-tipsy, came |x»uring out of the cottage, bawling to Colibri, the rough, shaggy white dog, that seemed disposed to spring at the Maltese in Bertha's arms. The foremost, shouting in French for the sisters to stop, pointed to what he called the way, and Bertha drew Maria in that direction, trusting that they should escape by submission, but after going a little distance, she found herself at the edge of a bare, deep, dry ravine, steep on each side, almost so as to be im]iassable. Tiie path only ran on the other side. There was another shout of exultation and laughter at the English girls' consternation. At this evident trick of the surly peasants, Maria shook all over, and burst into tears, and Bertha, gathering courage, turned to expostulate and offer a rewai-d, but her hor- rible stammer coming on worse than ever, produced nothing but inarticulate sounds. ' Monsieur, there is surely some mistake,' said a clear voice in good French from the path on the other side, and looking across. Ihe sisters were cheered by an unmistakeable English brown hac. 502 HOPES AND FEARS. The peasants drew back a little, believing that the young ladiea were not so nnprotected as they had supposed, and the first sj)eaker, with something like apology, declared that this was really the path, and descending where the sides were least steep, held out his hand to help Bertha. The lady, whose bank was more practicable, came down to meet them, saying in French, with much emphasis, that she would summon 'those gentlemen' to their assistance if desired ; words that had considerable effect upon the enemy. Poor Maria was in such terror that she conld hardly keep her footing, and the hands both of Bertha and the unknown friend were needed to keep her from affording still more diver- sion to the peasants by falling prostrate. Tlie lady seemed intuitively to understand what was best for both, and between them they contrived to hush her sobs, and repress her inclination to scream for Phoebe, and thus to lead her on, each holding a hand till they were at a safe distance ; and Bertha, whose terror had been far greater than at the robbery at home, felt that she could let herself speak, when she quivered out an agony of ti'embling thanks. ' I am glad you are safe from these vile men,' said the lady, kindly, ' though they could hardly have done any- thing really to hurt you.' ' Frenchmen should not laugh p.t English girls,' cried Bertha. * Oh, I wish my brothers were here,' and she turned round with a fierce gesture. ' Phoebe, Phoebe ; I want Phoebe and Lieschen !' was Maria's cry. ' Can I help you find your party V was the next question ; and the voice had a gentle, winning tone that i*eassured Maria, who clung tight to her hand, exclaiming, ' Don't go away ;' and though for months past the bare proposal of encountering a stranger would have made Bertha almost speechless, she felt a soothing influence that enabled her to reply with scarcely a hesitation. On comparing notes, it was discovered that the girls had wandered so far away from their sister that they could only rejoin her by re-entering the town and mounting again ; and their new friend, seeing how nervous and agitatpd both still were, offered to escort them, only giving notice to her own party what had become of her. She had come up with some sketching acquaintance, and not drawing herself, had, like the sisters, been exploring amoni,' the rocks, when she had suddenly come on them in the distress which had so much shaken them, that, reluctant to lose sight of their guardian, they accompanied her till she saw one of her fi'ieuds, and then waited while she ran down with the announce- HOPES AND FEARS. 503 ment. ' How ridiculous it is in me,' muttei'ed Bertha to herself, discontentedly ; ' she will think us wild creatures. I wish we were not both so tall.' And embarrassment, together with the desire to explain, deprived her so entirely of utterance, that Maria volunteered, ' Bertlia always speaks so funnily since she was ill.' Rather a peri)lexiiig speech for the lady to hear ; but instead of replying, she asked which was their hotel ; and Bertha answering, she turned with a start of surprise and interest, as if to see their faces better, adding, ' I have not seen you at the table dliote ;' and under the strange influence of her voice and face, Bertha was able to answei-, 'No. As Maria says, I have been very silly since my illness in the winter, and — and they have given way to me, and let me see no one.' ' But we shall see you ; you are in our hotel,' cried Maria. * Do come and let me show you all my Swiss costumes.' ' Thank you ; if ' and she paused, perhaps a little perplexed by Maria ; and Bertha added, in the most womanly voice that she could muster, ' My sister and Miss Charlecote will be very glad to see you — very much obliged to you.' Then Maria, who was unusually demonstrative, put another question — * Are you ill ? Bertha says everybody here is ill. I hope you are not.' ' No, thank you,' was the reply. * I am here with my uncle and aunt. It is my uncle who has been unwell.' Bertha, afraid that Maria might blunder into a history of her malady, began to talk fast of the landscape and its beauties. The stranger seemed to understand her desii'e to lead away from herself, and readily responded, with a manner that gave sweetness to all she said. She was not very young-looking, and Maria's notion miglit be justified that she was at Hyeres on her own account, for there was liai'dly a tint of colour on her cheek ; she was exceedingly spare and slender, and there was a wasted, worn look about the lower part of her face, and some- thing subdued in her expression, as if some great, lasting sorrow had passed over her. Her eyes were large, brown, soft, and fall of the same tender, pensive kindness as her voice and smile ; and perhaps it was this air of patient sufleriiig that above all attracted Bertha, in the soreness of her wounded s]>irit, just as the afiectionateness gained Maria, with the instinct of a child. However it might be, Phcebe, who had become nneasy at their absence, and only did not go to seek them from the con- viction that nothing vvould set them so completely astray as not 604 HOPES AND FEAr.S. finding her at her post, was exceedingly amazed to be hailed by them from beneath instead of above, and to see them so amicably accompanied by a stranger, Maria went on in advance to greet tlie newly-i*ecovered sister, and tell thfir adventure ; and Bertha, as she saw Phoebe's pretty, grateful, self-possessed greeting, rejoiced that their friend should see that one of the three, at least, knew what to say, and could say it. As they all crept down together through the rugged streets, Phoebe felt the same strange attraction as her sisters, accompanied by a puzzling idea that she had seen the young lady before, or some one very like her. Phoebe was famovis for seeing likenesses ; and never forgetting a face she had once seen, her recognitions were rather a proverb in the family ; and she felt her ci'edit almost at stake in making out the counte- nance before her; but it was all in vain, and she was obliged to resign herself to discuss the Pyrenees, where it appeared that their new fi-iend had been spending the summer. At tlie inn-door they parted, she going along a corridor to her aunt's rooms, and the three Fulmorts hurrying simulta- neously to Miss Charlecote to narrate their adventure. She was as eager as they to know the name of their rescuer, and to go to thank her ; and ringing for the courier, sent him to make inquiries. ' Major and Mrs. Holmby, and their niece,' was the result ; and the next measure was Miss Charlecote's setting forth to call on them in their apai'tments, and all the three young ladies wishing to accompany her — even Bertha ! What could this encounter have done to her? Phoebe withdrew her claim at once, and persuaded Maria to remain, with the pi-oniise that her new friend should be invited to enjoy the exhibition of the book of Swiss costumes ; and very soon she was admiring tliem, after having received an explanation sufficient to sliow her how to deal with Maria's ])eculiarities. Mrs. Holmby, a commonplace, good-natured woman, evidently knew wdio all the other party wei-e, and readily made acquaintance with Miss Chailecote, who had, on her side, the same strange im- pression of knowing the name as Phoebe had of knowing the face. Bertha, who slp]»t in the same room with Phoebe, awoke her in the morning with the question, ' What do you think is Miss Ilolmby's name V 'I did not hear it mentioned.' 'No, but you ought to guess. Do you not see how name.«> impress their own individuality? You need not laugh ; I know they do. Could you possibly have been called Aiigusta, and did Dot Katherine quite pei'vade Misis Fennimore ?' HOPES AND FEARS. 50.S * Well, according to your theory, what is her name V ' It is either Eleanor or Cecily.' ' Indeed !' cried Phoebe ; ' what put that into your head V * Her expression — no, her entire IVesen. Something honieU simple, a little old-fasliioned, and yet refined.' ' It is odd,' said Phoebe, pausing. ' What is odd f ' You have explained the likeness I could not make out. T once saw a photograph of a Cecily, with exactly the character vou mention. It was that of which she reminded me.' ' Cecily 1 Who could it have been V * One of the Eaymond cousinhood. What o'clock is it?' 'Oh, don't get up yet, Phrebe ; I want to tell you Miss Ilolmby's history, as I make it out. She said she was not ill, but I am convinced that her uncle and aunt took her abroad to give her change, not after illness, but sorrow.' ' Yes, I am sure she has known trouble.' ' And,' said Bertha, stifling her voice, so that her sister could hardly hear, ' that sorrow could have been only of one kind. Patient waiting is stamped on her brow. She is trying to lift up her head after cruel disappointment. Oh, I hope he is dead I ' And, to Phoebe's surprise and alarm, the poor little fortune- teller burst into tears, and sobbed violently. There could be no doubt that her ovvu disappointment, rather than that which she ascribed to a stranger, prompted this gush of feeling ; but it was strange, for in all the past months the poor child's sorrow and shame had been coldly, hardly, silently borne. The new scenes had thrust it into abeyance, and spirits and strength had forced trouble aside, but this was the only allusion to it since her conversation with Miss Charlecote on her sick bed, and the first sign of softening. Phoebe durst not enter into the subject, but soothed and composed her by caresses and cheerful- ness ; but either the tears, or perhaps their original cause — the fatigue and terror of the previous day — had entirely unhinged her, and she was in such a nervous, trembling state, and had so severe a headache, that she was left lying down, under Lieschen's charge, when the others went to the English chapel. Her urgent entreaty was that they would bring Miss Holmby to her on their return. She had conceived almost a passion for this young lady. Secluded as she had been, no intercourse beyond her own family had made known to her the pleasure of a friendship ; and her mind, in its revival from its long exhaus- tion, was full of ardour, in the enthusiasm of a girl's adoration of a full-grown woman. The new and softening sensation was 506 HOPES AND FEARS. infinite gain, even by merely lessening her horror of society ; and when the three churchgoers joined the Holrnby party on their way back from the cliapel, they begged, as a kindness to an invalid, for a visit to Bertha. It was granted most readily, as if equally pleasant to the giver of the kindness and to the receiver, and the two young maidens walked home together. Phoebe could not but explain their gratitude to any one who could rouse Bertha, saying that her spirits bad received a great shock, and that the effects of her illness on her speech and her eyes had made her painfully bashful. ' I am so glad,' was the hurried, rather quivering answer. 'I am glad if I can be of any use.' Phoebe was surprised, while gratified, by the eager tenderness of lier meeting with Bertha, who, quite revived, was in the fiitting-room to greet her, and seemed to expand like a plant in the sunshine, under the influence of those sweet ]>rown eyes. Her liveliness and drollery awoke, and her sister was proud that her new friend should see her cleverness and intelligence ; but all the time the likeness to that photograph continued to haunt Phojbe's mind, as she continued to discover more resemblances, and to decide that if such were impressed by the Christian name, Bertha was a little witch to detect it. Afternoon -Jame, and as usual they all walked seawards. As Bertha said, they had had enough of the heights, and tried going towards the sea, as their new friend wished, although warned by the Fulmorts that it was a long walk, the etangs, or great salt-])ools, s])oiling the coast as a beach. But all were brave walkers, and exercise always did Bertha good. They had lovely views of the town as they wound about the hills, and admired its old streets creeping up the hill, and the two long wings stretcliing on either side. An iron cross stood uj) before the old church, relieved by the exquisite radiance of the sunset sky, ' Ah !' said Honor, ' I always choose to believe that is tlie cross to which the legend belongs.' ' Tell it, please, Miss Charlecote,' cried Maria. And Honor told a veritable legend of Hyeres : — A Moorish princess, who had been secretly baptized and educated as a Christian by her nurse, a Christian slave, was beloved by a genie. She regarded him with horror, pined away, and grew thin and pale. Her father thought to raise her spirits by marrying her, and bestowed her on the son of a neighbouring king, sending her oil' in full procession to his dominions. On the way, however, lay a desert, where the genie had power to raise a sand-storm, with which he overwhelmed the suite, and flew away with the HOPES AND FEARS. 507 princess. But he could not approach her ; she kept hiin at bay with tlie sie;n of the cross, until, enraged, he drove her about ou a whirlwind for three days, and finally dashed her dead upon this coast. There she lay, fair as an almond blossom, and royally robed, and the people of Hyeres took her up and gave her honourable burial. When the king her father heard of it, he offered to reward them with a cross of gold of the same weight as his daughter ; but, said the townsmen, ' Oh, king, if we have a cross of gold, the Moors will come and slay us for its sake, therefore give us the gold in coin, and let the cross be of ii'on.' 'And there it stands,' said the guest, looking up. * I hope it does,' said Honor, confronting, as usual, the common-sense led pupils of Miss Fenuimore, with her willing demi-credulity. ' It is a beautiful story !' was the comment ; ' and, like other traditions, full of unconscious meaning,' A speech this, as if it had been made to delight Honor, whose eyes were met by a congratulary glance from Phoebe. At the farther words, ' It is very striking — the evil spirit's power ending with the slaying the body, never harming the soul, nor bending the will ' ' Bending the will is harming the soul,' said Phcebe. ' ISTay,' was her companion's answer, ' the fatal evil is, when both wills are bent.' Phoebe was too single-minded, too single-willed, at once to understand this, till Miss Charlecote whispered a reference to St, Paul's words of deep experience, ' To will is present with me.' ' I see,' she said ; ' she might even have preferred the genie, but as long as her principle and better will resisted, she was safe from herself as well as from him.' * Liked tlie nasty genie Y said Maria, who had listened only as to a fairy tale. ' Why, Phoebe, genies come out of bottles, aLd go away in smoke, Lieschen told me.' ' No, indeed,' said Bertha, in a low voice of feeling, piteous in one of her years, ' if so, it needed no outward whirlwind to fling her dead on the coast !' ' And there she found peace,' answered the guest, with a suppressed, but still visible sigh of weariness. ' Oh ! it was worth the whirlwind !' Phcebe was forced to attend to Maria, whose imagination had been a good deal impressed, and who was anxious to make another atteni])t on a pilgrimage to castle and cross. ' ^Yheu Mervyn comes back, Maria, we may try.' The guest, who was speaking, stopped !?hort in the midst. 508 HOPES AND FEARS. Had slie been infected by Bertha's hesitation 1 She began again, and seemed to have forgotten what she meant to have said. However, slie recovered herself; and there was nothing remark- able through the rest of the walk, but, on coming indoors, she managed to detain Phcebe behind the others, saying, lightly, 'Miss Fulmort, you have not seen the view from my window.' Phoebe followed to her little bed-room, and gazed out at the lovely isles, bathed in light so as to be almost transparent, and the ship of war in the bay, all shadowy and phantom-like. She spoke her admiration warmly, but met with but a half assent. The owner of the room was leaning her head against the glass, and, with an efibrt for indifference said, ' Did I hear that — that you were expecting your l)rother T ' You are Cecily !' exclaimed Phcebe, instead of answering. And Cecily, turning away from the window, leant against the wall for support, and her pale face crimsoning, said, ' I thought you did not know.' ' My sisters do not,' said Phoebe ; ' but he told me, when — when he hoped ' ' And now you will help me V said Cecily, hurrying out her words, as if ovei'powering one of her wills. 'You will, I know ! I have promised my father and uncle to have nothing to do with him. Do not let me be taken by surprise. Give me notice, that I may get Aunt Holmby away before he comes.' ' Oh ! must it be so T cried Phcebe. * He is not like what he used to be.' ' I have promised,' repeated Cecily ; and grasping Phoebe's wrist, she added, 'you will help me to keep my promise.' ' I will,' said Phoebe, in her grave, reliable voice, and Cecily drew a long breath. There were five minutes of silence, while Phoebe stood study- ing Cecily, and thinking how much injustice she had done to her, how little she had expected a being so soft and feeling in her firmness, and grieving the more at Mervyu's loss. Cecily at last spoke, ' When will he come V ' We cannot tell ; most likely not for a week, perhaps not for a fortnight. It depends on how he likes Corsica.' ' I think my aunt will be willing to go,' said Cecily. ' My nncle has been talking of Nice.' 'Then must we lose you,' said Phoebe, 'when you are doing Bertha so much good V ' I should like to be with you while I can, if I may,' said Cecily, her eyes full of tears. ' Did you know us at first T said Phoebe. ' 1 knew you were in this hotel ', and after your sisters had HOPES AND FEAHS. 509 spoken, and I saw Bertha's face, I was sure who she was. I thought no one was with you but Miss Charlecote, and that no one knew, so that 1 might safely indulge myself The word was out before she could recall it, and trying, as it were, to hide it, she said, * But how, if you knew what had passed, did you not sooner know it was I V ' Because we thought your name was Holmby.' ' Did you, indeed 1 You did not know that my aunt Holmby is my mother's sister 1 She kindly took me when my uncle was ordered to spend this winter abroad 1 ' You were ill and tried. Bertha read that in your face. Oh ! when you see how much difierence ' * I must not see. Do not talk of it, or we must not be together ; and indeed it is very precious to me.' She rested her head on Phoebe's shoulder, and put an arm round her \vai.st. ' Only one thing I must ask,' she said, presently ; ' is he well V ' Quite well,' said Phoebe. ' He has been getting better ever since we left home. Then you did not know he was with usr ' No. It is not right for me to dwell on those things, and they never mention any of you to me.' ' But you will write to us now? You will not desert Bertha? You do not know how much you are doing for her.' ' Dear child ! She is so like what he was when first he came.' ' If you could guess what she has suffered, and how fond ho is of her, you would not turn away from her. You will let her be your friend V ' If it be right,' said Cecily, with tearful eyes, but her moutli set into a steadfast expression, as resolute as sweetly sad. ' You know better what is right than I do,' said Phoebe ; * I who feel for him and Bertha. But if you have not heard fi-ora him for so long. I think there are things you ought to know.' 'At home, at home,' said Cecily ; 'there it may be right to listen. Here I am trusted alone, and I have only to keep my promise. Tell me when I am at home, and it will make me hap])y. Though, nonsense ! my wizened old face is enough to cure him,' and she tried to laugh. Phoebe regretted what she had said of Bertha's impression, and believed that the gentle, worn face ought to be far more touching than the most radiant charms, but when she strove to say that it was not beauty that Mervyn loved, she was hushed at once, and by the same mild autl'iority turned out of the room. Well for her that she could tell her story to Miss Chai'leoote without breach of confidence ! Honor's first impulse was dis- [tleasure with the aunt, who she was sure had let her speak o/, 510 HOPES AND FEARS. though not to, Miss Holmby without correcting her, and must purposely have kept the whole Eayniond connexion out of sight. ' Depend upon it, Plicebe,' she said, ' she will keep her niece here.' ' Poor Cecily, what will she do ? I wish they would go, for T feel sure that she will think it her duty to hold out against him, till she has her father's sanction ; she will seem hard, and he ' * Do not reckon too much on him, Phoebe. Yes, it is a hard saying, but men care so much for youth and beauty, that he may tind her less attractive. He may not understand how superior she must have become to what she was when he first knew her. Take care how you plead his cause without being sure of his sentiments.' In fact. Honor thought Cecily Raymond so infinitely above Mervyn Fulmort, at his very best, that she could not regard the affair as hopeful i;nder any aspect ; and the pai-ties concerned being just at the time of life when a woman becomes much the elder cf a man of the same years, she fully expected that Cecily's loss of bloom would entirely take away his desire to jmrsue his courtship. The next event was a diplomatic call from Mrs. Holmby. to sound Miss Charlecote, whose name she knew as a friend both of the Fulmorts and Moorcroft Raymonds, and who, she had feared, would use her influence against so unequal a match for the wealthy young squire. When convinced of her admiration of Cecily, the good aunt proceeded to condemn the Raymond pride. They called it religion, but she was not so taken in. What reasonable person heeded what a young man might have done when he was sowing his wild oats ? No, it was only that the Baronet blood disdained the distillery, whereas the Fulmoi'ts represented that good old family, the Mervyns, and it was a very fine estate, was not it? She had no patience with such nonsense, not she! All Sir John's doing; for, between them- selves, poor dear George Raymond had no sj)int at all, and was quite under his brother's thumb. Such a family, and such a thing as it would be for them to have that girl so well married. She would not take her away. The place agreed with the Major, and she had told Cecily she could not think of leaving it. Phoebe saw how close a guard Cecily must have leai-nt to keep on herself, for not a tone nor look betrayed that she was suffering uiuisual emotion. She occupied herself quietly, and was most tenderly kind to Bertha and Maria, exerting herself to converse with Bei'tiia, and to enter into lier pursuits as cheerfully as if her mind was disengaged. Sometimes Phoebe HOPES AND FEARS. 511 fancied that the exceeding gentleness of her voice indicated when she was most tried, but slie attempted no more tete-cb-tetes, and Miss Charlecote's conjecture that in the recesses of her heart she was rejoiced to be detained by no fault of her own, remained unveritied. Phcebe resigned Cecily for the present to Bertha's exclusive friendship. Competition would have been unwise, even if the forbidden subject had not been a restraint where the secret was known, while to soothe and cherish Bertha and settle her mind to begin life again was a welcome and tittiiig mission for Cecily, and inclination as well as discretion therefore held Phoebe aloof, preventing Maria from interfering, and trusting that Cecily was becoming Bertha's Mr. Charlecote. Mervyu came back sooner than she had expected him, having soon tired of Corsica. His year of ill-health and of her atten- dance had made him dependent on her ; he did not enter into novelty or beauty without Bertha ; and his old restless demon of discontent made him impatient to return to his ladies. So he took Phcebe by surprise, walking in as she was finishing a letter to Augusta before joining the others in the olivettes. * Well, Piicebe, how's Bertha 1 Beady to leave this hot- vapour- bath of a hole V ' I don't know wliat you will say to it now,' she answered, looking down, and a little tremulous, ' Who do you think is here f ' Not Hastings 1 If he dares to show his nose here, I'll get him hissed out of the place.' 'No, no, something vei-y different.' * Well, make haste,' he said, in the grim voice of a tired man. ' She is here — Cecily Raymond.' 'What of that V He sat down, folded his arms, and crossed his ankles, the picture of dogged indifierence. ' JNIervyu !' 'What does it matter to me who comes or goes? Don't stop to rehearse arrivals, but ring for something to eat. An atrocious mistral ! My throat is like a turnpike road 1 Call it January? It is a mockery !' Phcebe obeyed him ; but she was in a ferment of wrath and consternation, and clear of nothing save that Cecily must bo prepared for his appearance. She was leaving the room wheu he called her to ask what she was doing. ' I am going to tell the others that you are come.' * Where ai'e they ?' * In the olive yards behind the hotel.' 'Don't be in such a hurry, and I'll come.' 512 HOPES AND FEARS. 'Thank you, but I had better go on before. Miss Kaymond is with them.' ' It makes no odds to her. Stop a minute, I tell you. Wliat is the matter with her V (Said with some uneasiness, hidden by gruffness.) 'She is not Here for her own health, but Major Holmby is rheumatic' ' Oil ! that intolerable woman is here, is she 1 Then you may give Miss Charlecote notice to pack up her traps, and we'll set off to-morrow !' If a desire to box a man's ears ever tingled in Phoebe's fingers, it was at that mon\ent. Not trusting herself to utter a word, she went upstairs, put on her hat, and walked forth, feeling as if the earth had suddenly tui-ned topsy-turvy with hei-, and as if she could look no one in the face. Set off to-morrow ! He might tell Miss Charlecote himself, she would not ! Yet, after all, he had been rejected. His departure might not torture Cecily like the sight of his indifference. But what despair for Bertha, thought Phoebe, as she saw the friends pacing the paths between the rows of olives, while Miss Charlecote and Maria were gathering magnificent blue violets. At the first hint, IMiss Chai'lecote called to Bertha, who came reluctantly, while Phoebe, with almost sickening pity, murmured her tidings to Cecily- adding, ' I do not think he is coming out. He is having some- thing to eat,' in hopes that tliis tardiness might be a prepara- tion. She was relieved that Bertha rushed back again to mo- nopolize Miss Raymond, and overwhelm her with schemes for walks under Mei'vyn's escort.- Cecily let her talk, biit made no promises, and the soft gentleness of those replies thrilled as pangs of pain on Phoebe's pitying heart. As they walked homewards, Mervyn himself appeared, slowly sauntering towards them. The younger sisters sprang to meet him, Cecily fell back to Miss Charlecote. Phoebe held her breath, and scarcely durst look. There was a touch of the hand, a greeting, then Bertha pounced on her brother to tell the adventure of the ravine ; and Cecily began to set Maria off about the flowers in her nosegay. Phoebe could only come close to Miss Charlecote and squeeze her hand vehemently. The inn-door was reached, and Mervyn waiting till Cecily came up, said with grave formality, ' I hear my sisters ai'e in- debted to you for your assistance in a very unpleasant predica- ment. She bowed, and he bowed. That was all, and they were in their several apartments. Phoebe had never felt in such a fever. She could discern character, but love was but an external ex- HOPES AND FEARS. 513 perience to her, and she could not read the riddle of Mervyn's repudiation of intercourse with their fellow -in mates, and his restlessness through the evening, checking Bertha for boring aijout her friend, and then encouraging her to go on with what she had been saying. At last, liowcve;-. Bertha voluntarily ceased her communications and could be drawn out no farther ; and when the candle was put out at night, she electrified Phoebe with the remark, ' It is Mervyu, and you know it ; so you may as well tell me all about it.' Phoebe had no choice but compliance ; advising Bertha not to betray her knowledge, and anxious to know the conclusioua which this acute young woman would draw fi-om the present conjuncture. But Bertha was too fond of both parties not to be lull of unmitigated hope. ' Oh, Phcebe !' she said, ' with Cecily there, I shall not mind going home, I shall not mind anything.' * If only she will be there.' * Stuff, Phoebe ! The more Mervyn sulks, the more it shows that he cares for her ; and if she cares for him, of course it will come right.' ' Do you remember what she said about the two wills con- tending V ' Well, if she ever did think Mervyn the genie, she has crossed him once, twice, thrice, till she may turn him frum Urgau into Ethert Brand.' * She thinks it her duty not to hear that she has.' * Oh, oh ! from you who know all about it ; but didn't I tell her plenty about Mervyn's kindness to me 1 Yes, indeed I did. I couldn't help it, you know. It did not seem true to let any- body begin to be my friend unless she knew — cdl that. So I told her — and oh ! Phcebe, she was so dear and nice, better than ever after that,' continued Bertha, with what sounded like sobs, ' and then you know she could not help hearing how good and patient he was with me — only growing kinder and kinder the more tiresome I was. She must feel that, Phcebe, must not she? And then she asked about Robert, and I told her how Mervyn has let him get a chaplain to look after the distillery people, and the Institute that that old gin-palace is to be made into.' ' Those were just the things I was longing to tell her.' 'She could not stop me, you know, because I knew nothing,* cried Bertha, triumphantly. ' Are not you satisfied, Phcebe V I ought to be, if I were sure of his feeliug.s. Don't plungo about so. Bertha,— and I am not sure either that she will believe him yet to be a religious man.* ' Don't say that, Phoebe. I was just going to begin to likft religion, and think it the only true key to metaphysics and ex- L L 514 HOPES AND FEARS. planation of existence, but if it sticks between those two, I shall only see it as a weak, rigid superstition, parting those who were meant for one another.' Phoebe was strongly tempted to answer, but the little travel- ling clock struck, and thus acted as a warning that to let Bertha pursue an exciting discussion at this time of night would be ruinous to her nerves the next day. So with a good-night, the elder sister closed her ears, and lay pondering on the newly disclosed stage in Berthas mind, which touched her almost as closely as the fate of her brother's attachment. The ensuing were days of suppressed excitement, chiefly manifested by the yawning fits that seized on Bertha whenever no scene in the drama was passing before her. In fact, the scenes presented little. Cecily was not allowed to shut herself up, and did nothing remarkable, though avoiding the walks that she would otherwise have taken with the Fulmort party; and when she found that Bertha was aware of her position, firmly making silence on that head the condition of their inter- views. Mervyn let her alone, and might have seemed absolutely indiff'erent, but for the cessation of all complaints of Hyeres, and for the noteworthy brightness, obligingness, and good humour of his manners. Even in her absence, tliough often restless and strangely watchfid, he was always i)lacable and good-tempered, never even scolding Phoebe ; and in her presence, though he might not exchange three words, or ofi"er the smallest service, there was a repose and content on his countenance that gave his whole exjiression a new reading. He was looking parti' cularly well, fined down into alertness by his disciplined life and hill climbing, his complexion cleared and tanned by mountain air, and the habits and society of the last year leaving an uncon- scious impress tinlike that which he used to bring from his former haunts. Phoebe wondered if Cecily i-emarked it. She was not aware that Cecily did not know him without that restful look. Phoebe came to the conclusion that Cecily was persuaded of the cessation of his attachment, and was endeavourirg to be thankful, and to accustom herself to it. After the first, she did not hide herself to any marked degree ; and, jjrobably to silence her aunt, allowed that lady to take her on one of the grand Monday expeditions, when all the tolerably sound visiting population of Hyeres were wont to meet, to the number of thirty or forty, and explore the scenery. Exquisite as were the views, these were not romantic excursions, the numbers conducing to gossip and chatter, but there were some who enjoyed them the more in consequence j and Mervyn, who had IIOPKS AND FEARS. 516 })eon loudest in vituperation of his first, found the present poiectly delightful, although the chief of his time was spent ill preventing Mrs. Holmby's cross-grained donkey from lying down to roll, and administering to the lady the chocolate drops that he carried for Bertha's sustenance ; Cecily, meantime, being far before with his sisters, where INfrs, Holmby would gladly have sent him if bodily terror would have permitted her to dismiss her cavalier. Miss Charlecote and Phoebe, being among the best and briskest of the female walkers, were the first to enter the town, and there, in the Flace des Palvtiers, looking about him as if he were greatly amazed at himself, they beheld no other than tVie well-known figure of Sir John Raymond, standing beside the Major, who was sunning himself under the palm-trees. ' Miss Charlecote, how are you? How d'ye do, Miss Fulmort? Is your sistt^r quite well again 1 Where's my little niece V ' Only a little way behind with Bertha.' 'Well, we never thought to meet in such a place, did we? What a country of stones I have come over to-day, enough to break the heart of a farmer ; and the very sheep are no better than goats i Vineyards? What they call vineyards are old black stumps that ought to be grubbed up for firewood !' ' Nay, I was struck by the wonderful cultivation of every available inch of ground. It speaks well for the ProvenQ ils, if we judge by the proverb, " Autaut vaut lliomme que vaut sa terrer ' ' Ah ? there she comes ;' and he hastened to join Cecily, while the deserted Beitha, coming up to her sister, muttered, * Wretched girl I I hear she had written to him to fetch her home. That was what made her stay so quietly, was it V No one could accuse Mervyn of indifierence who saw the blank look that overspread his face on hearing of Sir John's arrival, but he said not a word, only hurried away to dress for the table cVhdte. The first notice the anxious ladies had that the tedious dinner was broken up, was a knock at their door, and Cecily's entrance, looking exceedingly white, and speaking very low. 'I am come to wish you good-bye,' she said. 'Uncle John has been so kind as to come for me, and I believe we shall set out to-morrow.' Maria alone could dare to shriek out, ' Oh ! but you promised to show me how to make a crown of my pink heaths, and I have been out with Lieschen, and gathered such beauties !' 'If you will come with me to my room I will show you wJiile T pack up,' said Cecily, reducing Bertha to despair by this most effectual barrier to confidence ; but she entreated leave to follow, L 1 2 516 HOPES AND FEAES. since seeing Cecily playing with Maria was better than not seeing her at all. After some time, Mervyn came in, flushed and breathless, and Honor kindly made an excuse for leaving him alone with Phoebe. After diligently tossing a book from one hand to the other for some minutes, he observed, sotto voce, ' That's a more decent old fellow than I gave him credit fox\' ' Who, Sir John V And that was the whole result of the tete-ct-tete. He was in no mood for questions, and marched out of the room for a moonlight cigar. Phoebe OJily remained with the conviction that something had happened. Miss Charlecote was more fortunate. She had met the Earonet in the passage, and was accosted by him with, • Do you ever do such a thing as take a turn on that terrace V It was a welcome invitation, and in no more time than it took to fetch a shawl, the two old friends were pacing the paved terrace together. ' Well, what do you think of him V began Sir John. * There must be more good in him than I thought.' ' Much more thaai I thought.' * He has been speaking to me, and I can't say but that I was sorry for him, though why it should have gone so hard with so sensible and good a girl as Cecily to give up such a scamp, I never could guess ! I told George that seeing what I saw of him, and knowing what I knew, I could think it nothing better than a sacrifice to give her to him 1' * Exactly what 1 thought !' ' After the way he had used her, too — talking nonsense to her, and then playing fast and loose, trying his luck with half the young ladies in London, and then foucying she would be thankful to him as sion as he wanted a wife to keep house! Poor child, that would not have weightid with her a moment tliongh — it puts me out of patience to know how fond she is of him — but for his scampishncss, which made it a clear duty to refuse him. Very well she behaved, poor thing, but you see how she pined away — though her mother tells me that not a fretful word was ever heard from her, as active and patient and cheerful as ever. Then the Holmbys took her abroad, the only thing to save her health, but I never trusted the woman, and when by and by she writes to her father that Fulmort waa coining, and her aunt would not take her away, " George," I said, "never mind; Pll go at once, and bring her home — she Khali not be kept there to be torn to pieces between her feelings HOPES AND FEAES. 517 and lier duty." And now I am come, T declare I don't know what to be at — f should think nothing of it if the lad only talked of reiorming — but he looks so downcast, and owns so honestly that we were quite right, and then that excellent little sister of his is so fond of him, and you have stood his comjiany this whole year — that I declare I ihink he must be good for something ! Now you who have looked on all his life, just say what you think of him — such a way as he went ou in last year, too — the crew that he got about him ■' 'Phoebe thinks that was the consequence of his disappoint- ment.' ' A man that could bring such a lot into the same house with that sister of his, had no business to think of Cecily.' ' He has suftered for it, and pretty severely, and I do think it has done him good. You must remember tliat he had great disadvantages.' ' WJiich didn't hinder his brother from turniusr out well.' * Kobert went to a public school ' and tliere she perceived she was saying something awkward, but Sir John half laughed, and assented. ' Quite right, Miss Chai'lecote ; piivate pupils are a delusion ? George never had one witliout a screw loose about him. Parish priests were never meant for tutors — and I've told my boy, Charlie, that the one thing I'll never consent to is his marrying on pupils — and doing two good things by halves. It has ■v'oll nigh worried his uncle to death, and Cecily into the bargain.' ' Robert was younger, and the elders were all worse managed. Besides, Mervyn's position, as it was treated, made him discon- tented and uncomfortable ; and this' attacliment, which he wag too — too — I can find no word for it but contemptible — to avow, must have preyed on his temper and si)irits all the time he •was trying to shake it off. He was brought up to selfishness, and nothing but what he imderwent last year could have shaken him out of it.' * Then you think he is shaken out of it f 'Where Bertha is concerned I see that be is — therefore I should liope it with his wife.' * Well, well, I suppose what must be mnst be. Not that I have the least authority to say anything, but I could not help telling the poor fellow thus much — that if he went on steadily tor a year or so, and continued in the same mind, I did not see why he should not ask my brother and Cecily to reconsider it. Then it will be for them to decide, you know.' For them ! As if Sir John were not in character as well aa name th,e guiding head of the family. 518 HOPES AND FEARS. 'And now,' he added, 'you will let me come to your rooms this evening, for Mrs. Hohnby is in such displeasure with me, that I shall get nothing but black looks. Besides, I want to see a little more of that nice girl, his sister,' 'Ah ! Sir John, if ever you do consent, it will be more than half for love of Phoebe !' ' Well, for a girl like that to be so devoted to him — her brother though he be— shows there must be more in him than meets the eye. That's just the girl that I would not miud John's marrying.' CHAPTER XXV. Turn again, Whittington ! — Bow Bells, AY had come round again before Kobert Fulmort stood -LtX waiting at the Waterloo Station to welcome the travellers, who has 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 hrst questions and answers wei'e grave and mournful. ' Is Mr, Henderson still alive V asked Ilonora. ' No, he sank rapidly, and died on Sunday week. I was at the funeral on Saturday.' ' Right ; I am glad you went. I am soi-ry T was away.' 'It was deeply felt. Nearly all the clergy in the arch- deaconry, and the entire parish, wei'e present.' ' Who is taking care of the parish V ' 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 tlie pity,' interposed Mervyn. ' There is their bi'ougham, 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 grievence, 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 nincli better. It was Phoebe's report, how- ever, for vhich he chiefly longed, and he was soon seated beside HOPES AND FEARS. 519 hei on the way to Albury-street, while the otliers betook them- selves Citywards. ' So, Phojbe, it is all right, and you are satisfied V ' Satisfied, grateful, thankful to the ntinost,' said Phoebe, fervently. ' I think I never was so happy as all through the latter part of the journey.' ' You think well of Bertha V 'I cannot call her restored, for she is far more than she was before. That meeting with Cecily Raymond did for her vvliab we could not do, and she is growing to be more than we knew how to wisli for.' ♦ Her spirits T ' Never high, and easily shaken. Her nerves are not strong yefc, and she will nevei', I fear, be quite girlishly careless and merry, but she is grave and sweet. She does not shrink from peo])le now, and when I saw her among other girls at Paris, she seemed older, much deeper, and altogether su])erior.' ' Does she think seriously T '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 deai Miss Fennimore again f '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 M'ork he could trust to her, so he has made her second mistress at the day-school for his tradesmen's daughtex's ; 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 hei", if Mr. Ci-abbe will only let us be as we were before. Do you think there is any hope for us V ' 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 with- out 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 muck cast down as at first. He has persuaded himself that 520 HOPES AND FEARS. 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 Y ' 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 liim, 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 Phcebe. Robert smiled, havinsf himself become conscious of that weakness in his good brother-in-law which Phcebe felt, but did not name. ' And now, Phoebe,' said Kobert, suddenly changing the subject, 'I have something for yoii 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 s))irits after the first moment, talked of having come up from Essex for a day's holiday of shopping and seeiwg her nejihew, and had inquired eagerly and warmly for Miss Charlecote ; he had been sufficiently uneasy about her to go afterwards to IMrs. Murrell, from whom he had learnt that she had avowed having con- sulted 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, siu'e 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 Phrebe could, neither in kindness nor hunumity, 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 j)erverse pride, recommended that there should be no prepara- HOPES AND FEARS. 521 tion. 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 tormurrow night. Lady Jane Hewett and Mrs. Gosling, the young widow that I want Mervyn to meet, you know. Clear 5000^. a year, and such a charming house. Real Brst-i'ate sup})ers ; 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 j 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 V * Most likely. I hope you have something to wear.' ' I })rovided 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 com- j)laint being in the family. It is quite a duty to keep one's spirits u]). 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 wont 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 imjiressed Augusta's maid, that she forced her ladyship to accept even simplicity as ' the tiling,' and to sink back rebuked for the barbarism of hintinsjatthe enliven- ment of pink ribbons or scai'let flowers. Though thus fortified against shop])ing 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 hoi'ses. 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 hajjjjy ; 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. •522 HOPES AND FEARS. 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 V 'What! did you not know the living was in Miss Charle- cote's gift?' ' Do you mean that she has offered it to Robert V ' Yes — no — at least she has told me of her intentiims. Highly proper in the old girl, i?n't if? They will settle it to-niglit, of course. Pll have the grounds laid out, and make quite a pretty modern place of it. It has quite taken a vveiglit 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 Pll not let things die away. And now, Plioebe, 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 any- thing, you can have the brougham any day.' ' Thank you ; there is one thing I want very much to do,' and she explained. ' Ila !' said Mervyn, 'a romantic meeting. If I remember fight, Mr. Pobin used to he 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 V smiled Phoebe. ' Don't talk of that. I should be glad enough to get you in — • and 1 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 v.'ish that Robert should resign the charge for which he was so eminently fitted, even for the sake of Hiltonbury and home. Lnoy must be altered, indeed, if he would not be happier without Ler. HOPES AND FEAIIS. 523 Plioebe had written a few lines, saying tliat 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 stall's, and at first Phoebe only felt lierseU" clasped, clung to, kissed, fondled with a sudden gasping, tearful eagerness Then as if striving to recal the ordinary tone, Lucilla exclaimed — ' There — I beg your pardon for such an obstreporous 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 witli 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 ai'e 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 eitlier should break the happy silence. Meantime Phosbe 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. Tlie trans- parent complexion had lost the lovely carnation of the cheek, but the meandering veins of the temples and eyelids were pain- fully a]>parent ; 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 Phcebe'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 V * 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 Avorld teaches one what one left in the friendly ship ! Not that mine has been a hard one. I am not one of the pathetic 524 HOPES AND FEARS. governesses of fiction. Every one has been kinder to m.e 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 Cilia ;' 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; biit 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 1 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 wei-e looking very ill ; and indeed ' ' I could not ask him what concatenation made Honor take Mei'vyn under her wing, like a hen hovering a vulture.' ' It would be a long story,' said Phcebe ; ' 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 betore we go out to Canada. I could not go out without a good word Irora her. She and Mr. Prendergast are all that remains of the old life. 1 say, Phcebe, did you hear of those cousins of mine V * It was one of the reasons I wished to see you. I thought you might like to hear of them.' ' You saw them !' ' ]\Iiss Charteris called on us at Nice. She — oh, Lucy ! you will be surprised — she is a Plymouth sister 1' ' 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 Phcebe. ' Miss Charlecote thought mrst likely it was the first eai'nest 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 ot dear old Rashe. Has it made her very grim V ' You know it is not an embellishing dress, and she did look {raunt and hafjijard : but still somehow we liked her better thaa ever before ; and she is so very good and charitable. HOPES AND FEAES. 525 ' TTa ! Nice is a gi-aiid place for colporteurs and tracts. She would be a sliiniug specimen there, and dissipation, religious or otherwise, old Kashe must have.' * Not only in that line,' said Phcebe, 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. Eashe convert- ing dear old Honor ! Oh ! of all comical conjunctions !' * Miss Charlecote hushed it down,' s:\id Phcebe ; ' 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, woi-ks 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 1 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.' * 1 believe she pays the bills when they niove. 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 iu hopes that at last they may turn to better things.' Lucy was miich 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 re- serve wore off, Phcebe 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 iutel- lects for want of something to rub against.' * Mih^s Fennimore must often have felt that with ns.' * No, you were older ; and besides, you have some originality in a sober way; and I 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 recal !' ' Oh, Lucy ! not past recal !' * Not past pardon, T am trying to hope. At least, there are some peoj^le who, the more unpardonable one is, paixlon tha more readily. When Owen comes home, I mean to try.' * Ah ! I saw you had been going through a great deal,' 526 HOPES AND FEARS. 'No, no, don't charge my looks on sentiment,' said Cilia, hastily; 'there's plenty to account for theui besides. One never falls into those foibles wlien one is quite strong.' ' Then you have been unwell T ' Not to the point of giving in. Oh, no ! " Never say die" was always my motto, you know.' * To what point, dear Lucy V * 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 tliat sort of thing.' ' You had advice V 'Yes, I thought it economical to patch myself up in time; BO I asked for a holiday to go to the doctor.' ' Well V ' 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 corr(!ct 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.' * Whetlier 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.' ' Yon 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 ; Edi(!, Reggie, Flo, come and show Miss Fulmort what my torments are.' They ran in, ap])arently on excellent terms with her, and greeted her guest without shyness ; but altera little whispering and shoving the youngest spoke. ' Edie and Keggie 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 douglity deeds ! Ay, look at her, she is the robber-bafller ; though now 1 look at her I don't quite believe it myself.' HOPES AND FEARS. 527 ' But it is true V 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 M'autto know where you were sleeping.' Phoebe found her present audience strangely more embarrass- ing than the whole assize court, perhaps because there the solemn purjwse 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 otlters, but this she was glad to escape, though Lucilla clung to her with a sort of angiiish of longing, yet stilled 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 ti-usty reconnoitrer as for a kindness to herself, dwelling on tlie tokens of relenting, yet trembling at the tidings of the malady. To write and recal 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 liad organized Phoebe's mission ; ' 1 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. IMatthew's ; but when I think of you all, and of home, I believe it is right that he should have tlie alternative. And now, if poor Lucy come, and it be not too late ' 'Did he say anything f said Phoebe. 'I only wrote to him ; I thought he had rather not let me see his fii'st 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, wish- ing 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 V ' 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 dis])ensing Lucia from her vow ! If she will only get well ! And a little happiness will do more than all the cor hair to the familiar fashion, and her eyes were briglit witli excitement. The presence of Maria and Bertha, which Miss Oharlecote had regretted, wan 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 expei'iences wilh Bertha's. To Honor she scarcely spoke volun- tarily, and cast down her eyes as she did so, making brief work of answers to inquiries, and showing herself altogether disappoint- ingly the old Cilly. Eobort's absence was also a disappointment to Honm-, though she satisfied herself that it was out of con- sideration. 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 petu- lantly, as of okl, 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, * other- wise 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 lo id of thwarted hopes and baffled yearning at her heart — yearnings which couhl 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 V asked Honor, appalled at the efTort with ■which she spoke. ' Your pai-don !' and with a pressui-e of hands and contraction of the brow as of physical agony, she exclaimed, ' Honor, Honor, forgive me V Jlonor held out her arms, she flung herself prone into them, and wept. Tears w<>re 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 ci-ies and gasps of anguish. Honor held her in her arms all the time, HOPES AND FEARS. 531 mncli alarmed, but soothing and caressing, and in the rnidsit, Lucilla liad 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 e3^es of the mother who foujid 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.' ' Mj dearest.' 'Lie down by me ; please put your arms round me. Tliere ! Oh ! it is so comfortable. W!iy did I never find it out before? I wish I could be a little child, and begin again from tiie time my father made me over to you.' 'Ah ! Lucy, we all wouLl begin again if we could. I have come to the perception how ( Iten I exasperated you.' ' An angel who did his duty by me would have exasj^erated me in your place.' ' Yes, that was one error of mine. 1 thrust myself in against the wishes of your nearest relative.' ' My thauklessness has made you feel that.' * Don't talk on, dear one — you are exhausting yourself.' 'A little more 1 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 ci-uld have saved me but my spirit of cojitradiction ! No ; all that saved my fathers 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 1 There ! I have told you only the truth.' Honor could only kiss her, and whisper something of un- looked-for happiness, and Lucilla's tears flowed again at the ten- derness 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 arras, 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 tiio two stars of blue eyes, soft and gentle under their swollen lids, gazing on her full of affection. ' I have wakened you,' Lucy said. M M 2 532 HOPES AND FEARS. ' Have yoTi been awake long V ' Not very ; but to lie and look at the old windows, and smell the cedar fragrance, and see you, is bettor tliati 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 fiither, and well-remembered the flaxen-haii'ed child whom he had so cruelly detached from his side. He declared her to be in much the same reauced 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 for too delicate for governess life, })ositively for- bidding 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 V she said. 'Failed, foiled, foiled ! 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, ray 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 1' snid Lucy ; ' and now,' turning away as usual from sentiment, ' wliat shall 1 say to Mrs. Bostock ? What a wretch she will think me ! I must go over and see all those children once more. I ho|ie I phall liave 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 V ' You have not hcnrd 1 It was a very long, gradual decay. He died on the I2tli.' ' 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 Fulniort.' HOPES AND FEARS. 533 * I thought so ! He wont 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 ot last winter, and Lucy's keen penetra- tion 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 Phoabe, for it see:iied 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 Alljury-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 Baunerman was scan- dalized 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 can- vassed. ' Phoebe,' he said, ' I must do what I fear will distress you, and T want to prepare you.' Was it coming 1 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 fui-e- most 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 eyt-s 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 i' and he indicated Miss Charlecote. 53 i HOPES AND FEARS. ' Not when the offer was uiade to you, but since she heard of my missiou.' * Then I am ghid that on other grounds my mind was made up. No,' after a pause, 'thei-e is a great change. She is far sui)erior 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. JNIatthew's, but thinking him far too valuable for Lucy not to suffer in losing her power over him. And did she 1 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 connexion M'ith tlie Fulmort firm gave him unusual lacilities in dealing with the workmen, he did not think he ought to resign his charge for another for wliich 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 V 'Because 1 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 ])ast recal.' ' Well, if you will have the truth, when it was done and not to be helped, we were botli very sorry ; I can answer at least for one, but he had bound himself heart and soul to his work, and does not cave any longer for me. What, you, the preacher of sacrifice, wishing to see your best pupil throw up your pet woik for the sake of alittle trumjiery cruslied fire-fly V ' Convict n.e out of my own mouth,' said Honor, sadly, 'it will not make me like to see my tire-fly crushed.' 'When the poor fii-e fly has lit tlie lamp of leaining for six idle children, no other cause for dimness need be sought,. No, J was well and wicked in the height of the pain, and long after it wore out — for wear out it did — and I am rotectiou that had so egregiously failed. Bertlia was fretted by the un- certainty, and became nervous, and ainioyed with Phoibe 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 jjroperty into her hands. The result was that she obtained his permis- sion 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 Eennimore, if they prefei-red her. Miss Fenuimore was greatly touched with the earnestness of the united entreated of her jaipils, and though regretting the field of uf^efulness in which she had begun to work, could not resist the pleasure of keeping house with Phrebe, and resuming her studies with Bertha ou safer ground. She could not, how- ever, 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 disrei)air, that turn in as many masons, carpenters, and paperers as lie would, there was no hope of its being habitable before Martinmas. There- fore the intermediate time must be spent in visiting, and though the head-quarters were at the Holt, the Raymonds of JMoorcroft claimed the first month, and the promise of Cecily's ])resence 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 sliiue brilliantly if her speech had been constantly at command, but she often broke down in the midst of a repartee, and was always iu danger of suffering from over-excitement. Mai'ia, too, needed mucli watching and tenderness. Every one was very kind to her, but not 510 HOPES AND FEAKS*. exactly knowing the boundaiy of her powei's, the young people would sometimes have brought her into situations to which she wa? 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 hand?, soothing and repressing those variable spirits, and making a wise and gentle use of the adoration that Bortha 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 disj)irited, when one day she rode with Sir John to see them and inspect the Underwood, as well as to make arrange- ments for the Forest Show. Poor Honora was seriously dis- composed at haviug 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 pal- pably 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 wei*e 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 tault, but with her I always have a sense oi JluJJiness. There is so much figurativeness and dreamy sentiment that one never gets to the firm, clear surface.' HOPES AND FEAF.S. 541 * I thought that her great charm/ said Phoebe. * It is a jjity 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 hapjiy youthfuluess. Abroad, her enjoyment was multi})lied, 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 iu 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, Phcebe, were you never in an inward rage when slie 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 tliought of Miss Fennimore's theory, that legends are more veritable exponents of human nature than bai'e facts.' * Say it again, Phoebe. It sounds very grand 1 Whi])ped cream is a truer exponent of milk than cheese, especially when it tastes of soap-suds 1 Is that it ?' ' It is a much prettier thing, and not near so hai*d and dry,* Baid Phoebe ; * bi;t, you see, you are talking in figures after all. ' The effect of example. Look here, my dear, the last gene- ration was that of medisevalism, ecclesiology, chivalry, symbolism, whatever you may call it. Man'ied 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 togethee, when there is no natural conformity — only undeserved benefits on one side, and gratitude on. the other V * 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, Phcebe. 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 jow were not strong enough.' 'Justly judged I I shall have enough of him by and bye, 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 542 HOPES AND FKAKS. the time comes. Bertha was mii?eval)k! at the thotiirht of movincr, till just when she had come to the right point, and then she grew eager for it.' It was wondei-ful how mxich 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 I'elinquished in the same spirit of re- signed 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. Honoi'a was grieved that her child had only returned to pino and droop, charging much of her melancholy lassitude ujioii Eobert, and waiting on her with solicitnde 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 Avas all that she coiild 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 deei)ly felt. iShe 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 sou, would enable his nephew to alienate the family estate ; and Lucy looked on this as direful shame and humiliation. Still there was sometliing soothing in having a sorrow that could be shared with Miss Charlecote ; and the tangible cause fur 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 woi'k 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 bavins: nothing to figure at the show ! But vegetables were not the order of that day, the most HOPES AND FEARS. 64^ memorable the Forest had perhaps ever known, since six boM 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 tlieir 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 chikh'en, regarding the costume as the latest London fashion, and holding out many an eager gift of nosegays of foxgloves, marigolds, southernwood, and white l)inks. JNIeanwhile 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 fasliion ! Here are hats, polkas, and full short skirts, but pale flxces and small limbs. The country mothei-s cry 'Oh !' and 'Poor littlo dears, they look very tuly,' and complacently regard their own sturdy, sunburnt oftspring, 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 cafc-flag, marches the Whittingtonian line, for once no lagged regiment, but arraved bv their incumbent's three sisters in lilac " I'll cotton and straw bonnets, not concealing, however, the pmclied and squalid looks of the denizens of the over-crowded lanes and alleys. That complaint cannot be made of these sixteen weai-ei's of grey frocks and checked jackets. Stunted indeed they are, seveial 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 544 HOPES AND FEARS. orfhanage of St. Matthew's, under the charge of the two ladio* who walk with them, leading two lesser younglings, all but too Bmall to be brought to the festival. Yes, these are the waifs and sti'ays, of home and parents absolutely unknown, whom Robert Fulmort has gathered from the sti'eets — his most hopeful conquest from the realm of darkness. Her-e, 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 Fenniraore 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 ai'tisans and warehousemen, ragged half-tamed little street vagabonds, all file past, under curate, schoolmaster or pupil teacher, till the whole multitude is safely de])0sited in a large mead running into the heart of the Forest, and belong- ing to the ranger, Sir John Eaymond, 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 or])hans ventui-ing to tumble about that curious article ujion the ground. Two little sisters, how- ever, evidently transplanted countiy children, sit up in a corner \\here they have found some flowers, fondling them and lugging them with ecstasy. The band strikes up, and, at the appointed signal, grace is said by the archdeacon from the centre, the child len are seated on the grass, and 'the nobility, clei-gy, 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 Whitting- tonians 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 ofi", and voices, huighing, and play begin to betray some real enjoyment and familiarity. HOPES AND FEARS. 5t.5 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, cun-ants, and potatoes, pyramids of geraniums, and roses peeping through white paper. Thence the younger ones return to phiy in the field ; such of the elder ones as prefer walking are con- ducted through forest paths to gather flowers, and to obtain a closer view of that oft-described sight, a corn-field. Some of the elder Wulstcmians get up a dance, tall girls dancing together with the utmost enjoyment ; but at four o'clock the band jilays 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, lowwalled, high-roofed building, enclosed by stately beeches, makino: a sort of outer cathedral around the little eleva- tion 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 gatt, 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 homebom, all held together in that great unity, typified by the overshadowing sky, and evidenced by the burst of the Creed fi-om every voice and every heart. Then follow the Versicles, the Collects, the Thanksgiving, and the blessing, and in a few warm, kind words the archdea- con calls on all to keep the bond of peace and brotherly love, and liade 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, 546 HOPES AND FEARS. forcing, as it were, every voice to break forth into singing unless it be clioked by heart-swelling. The last note has died away, l)ut 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 gen- tlemen take the lead. 'Three times three for Mr. Fuhnort !' * 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 1 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 1 Here are the prize nosegays, prize pota- toes, prize currants, prize everything showering in on the Lon- doners 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 afte»- 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 liovxr, and may be the leaves will live in prayer-books for many a year. Poor little things ! It has been to them apparently a rather weaiy and oppressive pleasure, too strange for the most part to be thoroughly enjoyed ; but it will live in tlieir memories for many a day, and as time goes on, will clear itself from the bewil- derment, till it become one of the precious days that make gems on the thread of life. Mervyn I Where has lie been all this time? True, he once said he would see nothing of it, and seems to have kep< his word. He did not even acknowledge the cheers for Mr. Fuhnort ! Is not something visible behind the broad smooth bole of yonder beech tree t Have Mervyn and Cecily been there all the time of the evening service? It is a remarkable fact, that tho\igh nobody has told anybody, every person who is curious, and many who are not, know who is to be Mrs. Fulmort of Beauchamp. HOPES AND FEARS. 647 CHAPTER XXVIT. When will you marry ? Suy the bells of St. Mary. When I get rich, Say the bells of Shoreditch. When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney. j I do not know, Says the great bell of Bow. Nursery Rhyme, THERE was some truth in Lucilla's view of herself and Houor as belonging to two distinct classes of developiiieut. Honor had grown up among those who fed on Scott, Wordsworth, and Fouqu6, took their theology from the British Critic, and their taste from Pugin ; and moulded their opinions and practice on the past. Liicilla and Phoebe wei'e essentially of the new gene- ration, that of Kingsley, Tennyson, Ruskin, and the Saturday Heview. Chivalry had given way to common sense, romance to realism, respect for antiquity to pitying patronage, the past to the future. Perhaps the present has lost in reverence and re- finement as much as it has gained in clearness and confidence ! Lucilla represented reaction, therefore her attitude was anta- gonistic ; Phoebe was the child of the newer system, therefore she loved the elder one, and sought out the likenesses to, rather than the diffex-ences from, her own tone of thought. And well was it that she had never let slip her hold on that broad, un- changing thread of truth, the same through all changes, making faith and princijile one, though the developments in practice and shades of thought shake off the essential wisdom on which it grew, only to adopt some more fatal aberration of their own ! Thus standing between the two, Phoebe was a great help to both in iinderstanding each other, and they were far more at ease when she was with them. In October, all three went to Wool- stone Lane for a brief stay. Honor wished that the physician should see Lucilla before the winter, and Phoebe was glad to avail herself of the opportunity of choosing furniture and hiring servants for her new establishment, free from the interference of Lady Bannerman, who was of course at Brighton. She had been obliged to let her sisters go to Sutton withonj her, as the little Parsonage had not room for three guests beside* Lieschen, who was more indispensable to Maria than even her- self, and both the others were earnestly set upon accepting tho invitation. Cecily silenced her scruples by begging, as a proof of acceptance as a sister, that she might be entrusted with WN 2 548 HOPES AND FEARS. tbem, and promising that in lier own quiet liome, whence most of the family had been launched into life, they should meet with none of the excitements of merry Moorcroft ; and Phoebe was obliged to resign her charge for these few weeks, and trust from Bertha's lively letters that all was well. Another cause which made Honor and Lucy anxious to be in London was the possibility of Owen's arrival. He had last been heard of on the shores of Lake Superior, when he spoke of re- turning as soon as the survey for a new line of railway should have been completed, and it was not imlikely that he might come even before his letter. News would await him that he would regret as much as did his sister. Uncle Kit's death had enabled Charles Charteris, or rather his creditors, to advertise Castle Blanch for sale, and Lucilla, who had a more genuine affection for the place than had any of the natives, grieved ex- tremely over the family disgrace that was causing it to pass into other hands. She had an earnest desire to take advantage of the display of the house and grounds to pay the scenes of her youth one last visit. The vehemence of this wisli was her first recurrence to her old strength of will, and Honora beheld it as a symptom of recovery, though dreading the long and fatiguing day of emotion. Yet it might be taken as another token of improvement that she had ceased from that instinctive caution of feebleness which had made her shi-ink from all exertion or agitation. Her chest was pronounced to be in a satisfactory state, her health greatly improved ; and as there was no longer need for extra precaution, the three ladies set forth together on the first fine day. The Indian summer was in full gloiy, every wood arrayed in brightness ; and as they drove from the Wrajnvorth Station, the banks of the river were surpassingly lovely, brown, red, and olive, illuminated by sprays of yellow, like fireworks, and con- trasting with the vivid green of the meadows and dark blue water. Honor recollected the fairy boat that once had floated there, and glancing at the pale girl beside her could not but own the truth of tlie similitude of tlie crushed fire fly; yet the fire of those days had scorched, not lighted ; and it had been the mirth that tendeth to heaviness. Cilia was gazing, with all her soul in her eyes, in silence. She "Was trying to revive the sense of home that once had made her heart bound at the first glimpse of Wrapworth ; but her spirit leapt up no more. The familiar scene only im))ressed the sense of homelessness, and of the severance of the last tie to her father's parish, her mother's native place. Honor asked if she would HOPES AND FEARS. 549 stop in the village. ' Not yet,' she said ; * let us have the Castle first.' At the next turn they overtook Mr. Prendergast, and he was instantly at the carriage-dooi', exacting a willing promise of taking luncheon with him on the way back, a rest for which Honor was thankful, sure as she was that this visit was costing Lucy more than she had anticipated. Without a word, she beheld the green space of park, scattered with groups of glowing trees, the elms spangled with gokl, the maples blushing themselves away, the parterre, a gorgeous patchwork of scarlet, lilac, and orange, the Virginian creeper hanguig a crimson mantle on the cloister. There was something inexpressibly painful in the sight of all this beauty, unheeded and cast away by the owners, and displayed as a matter of bargain and sale. Phcebe thought of the strange, uncomfortable dream that it had been to her when she had before looked and won- dered at the scene before her. She retraced Robert's restless form in every window, and thought how little she had then augured the fruit of what he had sufl'ered. The rooms were opened, and set out for inspection. Honor and Phffibe made it their duty to occupy the chattering maid, a stranger to Lucilla, and leave her free to move through the apartments, silent and very white, as if it were a sacred duty to stand wherever she had stood, to gaze at whatever her eyes had once met. Presently she stood still, in the dining-room, her hand grasp- ing the back of a chair, as she looked i;p to a large picture of three children, two boys and a girl, fancifully dressed, and play- ing with flowers. The waxen complexion, fair hair, and blue eyes of the girl were almost her own. ' This to be sold V she said, turning round, and speaking for the first time. ' O yes, ma'am ! — everything, unreservedly. That picture has been much admired — by the late Sir Thomas Lawrence, ma'am — the children of the late General Sir Christopher Charteris.' Lucilla, whiter than before, walked quickly away. In a few seconds Phoebe followed, and found her leaning on the balustrade of the terrace, her breathing heavily o])pressed ; but she smiled coldly and sternly, and tightened a stifl:', cold grasp on Phcebe'a arm as she said — ' Honor has her revenge, Phoebe ! These are the kindred for whom I broke from her ! Well, if Charles sells his birthright and bis own father, I don't know how I can complain of hia selling my mother !' 650 HOPES AND FEARS. 'But, Lucy, listen. Miss Charlecote was asking about tbe agent. I am sure she means to try to get it for you.' ' I dare say. It is right tliat I should bear it !' ' And the maid said that there had been a gentleman speaking about it, and trying to secure it. She thought he had written to jMr. Charteris about it.' ' What gentleman V and Lucy was ready to spring back to inquire. ' Miss Charlecote asked, and I believe it was Mr. Prender- gast !' There was a bright, though strange flickering of pleasure and pain over Cilia's face, and her eyelids quivered as she said, ' Yes — yes — of course ; but he must not — he must not do it 1 He cannot afford it ! I cannot let him !' ' Perhaps your cousin only needed to be reminded.' 'I have no hope of him. Besides, he cannot help himself; but at least — I say, Phoebe, tell Honor that it is kiudaess itself in her ; but I caii't talk about it to her ' And Lucilla's steps sprang up-stairs, as desirous to escape the sight and speech of all. After the melancholy round of deserted bedrooms, full of bitter I'ecollections, Lucilla again descended first, and at the door meet the curate. After a few words, she turned, and said, ' Mr. Prendergast would row us down to the Vicarage, if you liked.' ' Indeed, my dear,' said Honor, unwillingly, ' I am afraid of the cold on the water for you.' ' Then pray let me walk across the Park !' she said imploringly; and Miss Charlecote yielded rather than try her submission too severely, though dreading her over-fatigue, and set off with Phoebe in the fly. ' You are sure it is not too far for you T asked the curate. 'Quite. You know I always used to fly upon Wrapworth turf.' After some silence — ' I know what you have been doing,' she said, with a choking voice. ' About the jncture 1 I am sorry you do.' ' Why r ' It is of no use for you to know that y our cousin has no more heart than a lettuce run to seed.' ' When I knew that before, why may I not know that there are others not in the same case V she said, with full heart and eyes. ' Because the sale must take place, and fhe pui'chaser may be a brute, so it may end in disappointmenc' ' It can't end in disappoiutuicut.' HOPES AND FEARS. 651 * It may be far beyond my means,' continued the curate, as if he liad been answering her iniportuuities for a new dull. ' That I know it is,' she said. * If it can be done at all, the doing of it may be left to Miss Charlecote — it is an expiation I owe to her generous spirit.' ' You would rather she did it than I V he asked mortified, 'Nay — didn't I tell you that I let her do it as au expiation? Doe^s not that prove what it costs me T ' Then why not ' he began. * Because,' she intelTupted, ' in the first place, you hare no idea of the jn-ice of Lawrence's portraits : and, in the second, it is so natural that you should be kind to me that it costs even my proud spirit — just nothing at all' — and again she looked up to him with beamy, tearful eyes, and quivering, smiling lip. * What, it is still a bore to live with Miss Charlecote,' cried he, in his rough eagerness. * Dou't use such words,' she answered, smiling. ' She is all kindness and forgiveness, and what can it be but my old vixen spirit that makes this hard to bear V ' Cilia !' he said. * Well r 'Cilia!' ' Well V 'I have a great mind to tell you why I came to South- minster.' ' To look at a living V ' To look at you. If I had found you pining and oppressed, I had thought of asking if you could put up with your father's old friend.' She looked with eyes of wondei% drew her arm away, and stood still, partly bewildered. ' You didn't V she said, half in nterrogation. ' I saw my mistake ; ycu were too young and gay. But, Cilia,' he added, more tremulously, 'if you do wish for a home ' ' Don't, don't !' she cried ; ' I can't have you talk as if I only ■wanted a home !' ' And indeed I have none as yet,' he said. ' But do you indeed mean that you could think of it V — and he came nearer. ' It ! Nonsense ! Of you V she vehemently exclaimed. * How could you think of anything else V ' Cilia,' he said, in great agitation, ' let me know what you are saying. ' Don't drive me crazy when it is not in the nature of things you should mean it J' 6. J 2 HOPES AND FEARS. ' Why not T asked Luciila. ' It is only too good for nie.' *Is it true, then?' he said, as he took both her hands in his. ' Is it true that you understand me, and are willing to be — to be my own — dai'Iing charge !' ' Oh, it would be such rest !' It was as if the storm-tossed bird was folding its weary wing in perfect calui and confidence. Nor could he contain his sudden joy, but spoke incoherent words, a.nd well nigli wept -"er her. ' How did you come to think of it V exclaimed she, as the first gush of feeling over, they walked on arni-in-arin. ' I thought of it from the moment when I hoped I might be a resource, a comforter at least.' * Not before V was the rather odd question. ' No. The j)lace was forlorn enough without you ; but I was nofc such a fool as to think of a young beauty, and alJ that.' ' All that meaning my wickedness,' said Luciila. ' Tell nie again. You always did like tlie sprite even when it was wicked, only you were too good and right-minded.' ' Too old and too poor.' ' She is old and poor now,' said Cilia ; * worn out and washed out into a mere rag. And you like her the better V ' Not washed out !' he said, as her countenance flushed into moi'e than its wonted loveliness. ' I used to wish you hadn't such a face when those insolent fellows talked of you — but you will get up your looks again when I have the care of you. Tlie first college living — there are some that can't choose but drop before long ! The worst is, I am growing no younger !' ' Ah ! but I am growing older !' she cried, triumphantly. 'All women from twenty-five to forty are of the same age as ad men from thirty to fifty. We are of just the same standing, you see !' ' Seventeen years between us !' ' Nothing at all, as you will see when I put on my cap, and look sttiid.' ' N(., no ; I can't spare all that yellow hair.' ' Ysillow indeed ! if you don't know better what to call it, the booujJ" it is out of sight the better.' ' Why, what do you call it ]' ' i'liixen, to be sure — blonde cendree, if you like it better — that is the colour of tow and ashes !' She was like a playful kitten for the next quarter of a mile, her prettiest sauciness returning in the exuberant, confiding; gladness with which she clung to the affection that at lengtli HOrES AND FEARS. 553 satisfied her spirit ; but gravity came bacli. to lier as tbey entered the village. ' Poor Wrapworth !' she said, ' you will soon pass to strangers ? It is strange to know that, yet to feel the old days returning fir which I have pined ever since we were carried away from home and Mr. Pendy.' ' Yes, nothing is wanting but that we could remain here.' ' Never mind ! We will make a better Wrapworth for one another, free from the stains of my Castle Blanch errors and sorrows ! I am even glad of the delay. I want a liltle time to be good with poor dear Honor, now that I have heart and sjiii-it to be good.' ' And I grudge every week to her ! I declare, Cilia, you make me wish evil to my neighbour,' ' Then folluw my example, and be content with this present gladness.' ' Ha ! ha ! I wonder what they'll say at Southminster. Didn't I row them for using you so abominably 1 I have not been near them since !' ' More shame for you ! Sai^ah is my best correspondent, and no one ever did me so much good as Mrs. Prendergast.' ' I didn't ask her to do you good !' ' You ought to have done so then ; for I should not be the happy woman I am now if she had not done me good because she could not help it ! I hope they wont take it to heart.' ' I hope they will !' ' What V ' Turning you outf ' Oh, I meant your throwing yourself away on a broken-down governess ! There — let us have done with nonsense. Come in this way.' It was through the churchyard, past the three graves, which ■were as trim as if Lucilla had daily tended them. ' Thank you,' she said; then gazed in silence, till with a sigh she ex- claimed : — ' Poor Edna ! Monument of my faults ! What perverse determination of mine it was that laid lier here !' ' It was your generous feeling.' ' Do not miscall and embellish my perverse tyranny, as much to defy the Charterises as to do her justice. I am more a.shamed now that I have the secret of your yielding !' she added, with downcast eyes, yet a sudden smile at the end. 'We will take that child home and bring him up,' said Mr. Prendergast. ' If his father wishes it, it will be right ; not as if it were the 55^< HOPES AND FEARS. plcasantest of chai'ges. Thank you,' said Cilia. 'Three o'clock ! Poor Honor, she must be starving !' ' What about her V stammei'ed Mr. Prendergast, hanging back shyly. ' Must she be told V ' Not now,' said Lucilla, with all her alert readiness. ' I will tell her to-night. You will come in the iirst day you can !' ' To-morrow ! Every possible day.' Honor had truly been uneasy, fearing that Lucilla was walk- ing, sitting down, or fasting im]irudent.ly ; but the brilliant colour, the joyous eyes, and lively manner spoke wonderfully for the effects of native air. Mr. Prendergast had become more absent and awkward than ever, but his extra shyness passed unremarked, and Lucilla's tact and grace supplied all defi- ciencies withoub obtrusiveness. Always at home in the vicar- age, she made none of her former })antering display of familiarity, but only employed it quietly to secure the guests having what they wanted, and to awaken the host to his duties, when he forgot that any one save herself needed atten- tion. She was carried off before the river fog should arise, and her abstracted silence all the way home was not wondered at ; although Phoebe, sitting opposite to her, was at a loss to read the furtive smiles that sometimes unclosed her lip.s, or the calm, pensive look of perfect satisfaction on her features ; and Honor could not comprehend her entire absence of fatigue after so trying a day, and wondered whether it were really the old com- plaint — want of feeling. At night. Honor came to her room, and began — ' My dear, I want to make a little explanation to you, if you are not tired.' ' Oh ! no — I had a little explanation to make to you,' she answered, with a flush and a smile, 'Perhaps it may be on the same subject,' and as Uilla half laughed, and shook her head, she added — ' 1 meant to tell you that long ago — from the time 1 had the Holt — I resolved that what remained of my income after the duties of my property were fulfilled, should make a fund for you and Owen. It is not much, but I think you would like to have the option of anticipating a part, in case it should be possible to rescue that picture.' ' Dear, dear Honor,' exclaimed Cilia ; ' how very kindly you are doing it 1 Little did I think that Charles's heartlessne.ss ^ould liave brouglit me so much joy and kindness.' * Then you would like it to be done,' said Honor, delighted HOPES AND FEARS. 655 fco find that she had been able so to administer a benefit as to excite neither offence nor resignation. ' We will take care that the purchaser learns the circumstances, and he can hardly help letting you have it at a fair valuation.' ' Thanks, thanks, dear Honor,' repeated Lucy ; ' and now for iny explanation. JMr. Piendergast has asked me to marry him.' Had it been herself. Honor could not have been more astounded. ' My child ! impossible ! Why, he might be your father ! Is it that you want a home, Lucy % Can you not stay with me ?' ' I can and I will for the present-, sweetest Honey,' said Cilly, caressingly drawing her arm round her-. 'I want to have been good and happy with you ; but indeed, indeed I can't help his being more to me !' * He is a very excellent man,^ began bewildered Honor ; ' but I cannot understand ' ' His oddity % That's the very thing which makes him my own, and nobody else's, Mr. Pendy ! Listen, Honor. Sit down, you don't laalf know him, nor did T know my own heart till now. He came to us, you know, when my father's health began to break after my mother's death. He was quite young, only a deacon ; he lived in our house, and he was, with all his dear clumsiness, a daughter to my father, a nurse to us. I could tell you of such beautiful awkward tendernesses ! How he used to help me with my sums — and tie Owen's shoes, and mince his dinner for him — and spare my father all that was possible ! I am sure you know how we grieved after him.' ' Yes, but ' * And now I know that it was he that I cared for at Wrap- worth. With him I never was wild and naughty as I was with others, though I did not know — oh ! Honor, if I had but known — that he always cared for the horrid little thing 1 was, I could not have gone on so ; but he was too good and wise, even while he did love me, to think of this, till I had been tamed and come back to you ! I am sure I can't be so naughty now, since he has thought of me !' ' Lucy, dearest, T am glad to see you so happy, but it is very strange to me. It is such a sudden change,' said Honor. ' No change ! I never cared for any one half as much !' 'Lucy !' confounded at her apparent oblivion. ' It is true,' said Lucy, sitting down by her. ' Perhaps I thought I did, but if the other had ever been as much to me, I could never have used him as I did ! Oh, Honor, when a person is made of the stuff I am, it is very hard to tell which is one's 556 HOPES AND FEARS. heart, and which is one's fiirting-niachiue ! for the other *jhing does simulate all the motions, and feel real true pain ! But 1 know now that Mr. Pendy was safe in my rear heart of hearts all the time, though I never guessed it, and thought he was only a sort of father ; but you see that was why I was always in awe of getting under Robert's dominion, and why 1 survived his turning me ofi", and didn't at all wish him to bring it on again.' ' No, that you did not,' said Honor, in a cheered voice, as if acquitting her. 'And I am sure if Mr. Prendergast only looked like using me after my deserts, as he did, it would not be only a demi- decline that I should get into,' said Lucilla, her eyes full of tears. ' Oh ! Honor, think of his care of my father ! Kiss me and wish me joy in my fatlier's name, and like him; for when you know him, you will see he is the only person in tlie wide world to whom you could safely trust your little torment !' Honor could not but be carried along to give the hearty kiss and motherly congratulation as they were sought, and she saw that she must believe what Lucy said of her own feelings, in- comprehensible thoiigh they were. But she regretted to hear of the waiting for a college living, and at the first impulse wished she had heard of this attachment befoi'e Hiltonbury's fate had been fixed, ' For shame. Honor, as if you ought not to respect Hilton- bury too much to tack it to my petticoat ! Bat at least thank you, for if you could once think of coiumitting Hiltonbury to him, you must like it for me.' ' I must like what is so evidently well for you, my child ! Will you tell Phobbe X ' Not till we go home, I think,' said Cilia, with a blush ; and, as if to avoid farther discussion, she bade Houora good night. Decidedly, she wished Robert to feel more than she would like to see, or should he betray no feeling, she had rather not be aware of it. But such news was already in town as to put to flight, for a time at least, the last n-mnants of coquetry. Robert was in the house early in the morning, and called Miss Charlecote to speak to him in the study. He had a ])acket of letters in his hand, of which he gave one to herself, a long one in Owen's writing, but unfinished and undirected. Lakeville, Newcastle District, August 14th. * My dear Honor, ' There is no saying how much I rejoice that I can write to you and Lucy again under the same roof. 1 hope soon to Bopils and fears. 557 pee you together again, and revive old times, but we are delayed bv the discovery that tlie swamp lying full in the Grand Ottawa and Superior Line is impracticable, and would not only be the death of all the nayvies emp'ioyed thereon, but would swallow bodily the funds of the G. 6. and S. Company. So we are carrying our survey in other directions, before making out our report, after which I hope to be pei-manently engagetl on the construction. This will give me three mouths to spend at home, in knitting up old links, and considering how to dispose of my poor little encumbrance till I can set him to make his way here. You or Lucy would perhaps look out for some lady who takes Indian children, or the like. I am my own man now, and can provide the wherewithal, for my personal expenses are small, and engineering is well paid. Lucy must not think of bringing him out, for even at her fastest the Far West would be no place for her. Let her think of Gleudalough, and realize that if she were here she would look back on it as a temple of comfort, civilization, and civility, and this place is the last attemjjt at social habitation for 200 and odd miles. It stands on a lake of its own, with an Indian name, '* which no man can speak and no man can spell." It is colonial to the highest degree, and inhabited by all denominations, chiefly agreed in worshipping us as priests of the G. O. and S. Line, which is to make their fortune ; and for their manners, least said soonest mended, though there are some hnppy exceptions, French Canadian, Lowland Scots, &c., and a wiry hard-working parson, whose parish extends nearly to Lake Superior, and whose remaining aroma of University is refreshing. Thei-e is also a very nice young lad, whose tale may be a moving example of what it is to come out here expecting vo find in the backwoods Pvobinson Crusoe's life and that of the Last of the Mohicans combined. That is, it was not he, but his f\^ther, Majcv Ptandolf, an English officer, who, knowing nothing of farp:;ing, less of Canada, and least of all of specidation, got a grant of land, where he speculated only to lose, and got transferred to this forlorn tract, only to shiver with ague and die of swamp fever. During the twenty-fiA'e years of this long agony, he had contrived to have two wives, the first of whom left this son, whom he educated as a scholar, intending to finish him in England when the tide should turn, but whereas it never did, be must needs get a fresh partner into the whirlpool, a Yankee damsel out of a boarding-house. By the time she had had a couple of children, he died, aud the whole weight remains bound about young Randolf's neck, tying him down to work for dear life in this doleful spot, without a farthing of capital, no stock, uc 558 HOPES AND FEARS. anything. 1 came upon tlie clearing one day in the course of my surveying, and never did I see Gone to the Dogs uxoyq oleaxlj wi'itten on any spot ; the half-burnt or overthi'own trees lying about ovei'grown with wild vines and rasj:)berries, the snake fence broken down, the log -house looking as if a touch would upset it, and nothing hopeful but a couple of patches of maize and ])otatoes, and a great pumpkin climbing up a stump. J\Iy horse and myself were done up, so 1 halted, and was amazed at the greeting I received from the youth, who was hard at work on his hay, .single-handed, except for the two children tumbling in it. The lady in her rocking chair was contrast enough to make me heartily glad to find that she was his stepmother, not his wife. Since that, I have seen a good deal of him ; he comes to Lakeville, five miles across the bush and seven across the lake, to church on Sunday, and sjiends the day with the parson, and Mr. Currie has given him work in our press of business, and finds him so effective, that he wants to take him on for good ; but this can't be while he has got these three stones about his neck, for whom he works harder and lives worse than any day-labourer at Hiltonbnry ; regular hand to mouth, no chance of making a start, unless the Company will fortunately decide on the line I am drawing through the heart of his house, which "will force them to buy him out of it. I go out to-morrow to mark the said line for Mr. Currie to report upon, and will finish my letter to travel with said report.' ^ Aug 2ist. — Thanks to the Fire-King, he has done for the ancient log-house, though next time he mounts his " hot copper filly," I do not desire a second neck-and-neck race with him. A riprain of the leg, and contusion (or confusion) of the head, are the extent of the damage received, and you will say that it is cheap, considering all things. I had done my 203 miles of marking, and was coming back on my last day's journey, debating whether to push on to Lakeville that night, camp out, or get a shake down at Eandolfs, bringing my own provender, for they live on hominy and milk, excej)t for what he can shoot or catch. It was so dark that I had nearly fixed on sleeping in the bush, when it struck me that there must be an uncommonly fine aurora, but getting up a little rising ground where the trees were thinner, I observed it was to the south-west, not the north. That way there lies })rairie land, at this season one ocean of dry bents, fit to burn like tinder, so that one spai'k ■would set fifty square miles alight at once. All the sky in that quarter was the colour of glowing copper, but the distance Avas so enormous that danger never occurred to me till 1 saw the deer scampering headlong, the birds awake and flying, and my HOPES AND FEARS. 659 Iiorse trembling and wild to be off. Then I remembered that the wind was full from that direction, and not a bit of water between, nor all the way to the Lakeville lake. I never knew my beast'.s pace on the Kingston road what it was through that track, all the rustling and scuttling of the beasts and birds sounding round us, the glare gaining on us, and the scent of smoke beginning to taint the wind. There was Randolfs clearing at last, lonesome and still as ever, and a light in the window. Never was it so hard to pull in a horse ; however, I did so. He was still up, reading by a pine torch, and in five minutes more the woman and her children were upon the horse, making for the lake. Eandolf took his axe, and pocketed a book or two, and we dashed off together for a long arm or swamp that he knew of, running out from the lake. When we got to the other end of the clearing, I thought it was all up with us. The wall of red roaring flame had reached the other side, and the flame was leaj)ing from the top of one pine to another, making them one shape of quivering red, like Christmas evergreens in the fire, a huge tree perhaps standing up all black against the lurid light, another crashing down like thunder, the ribbon of flame darting up like a demon, tlie whole at once standing forth a sheet of blazing light. I verily believe I should liave stood on, fascinated with the horror and majesty of the sight, and feeling it vain to try to escape, when the burning wings were spreading to enclose the clearing and us with it, but Randolf urged me on, and we plunged through the bush at the best speed we could make, the smoke rolling after us, and the heat glowing like a furnace, so as to consume all power out of us. It was hell itself pursuing after us, and roaring for his prey, the trees coming crashing down, and shaking the earth under our feet, the flame absolutely running on before us upon the dry grass and scrub, and the scorching withering every drop of moisture from us, though not ten minutes before, we had been streaming at every pore. ' I saw green reeds before us, heard Randolf cry out, " Thank God," and thought I was plunging after him, when I found myself on the ground, and the branches of a hemlock covering me. Happily they were but the lesser boughs, and not yet alight ; and at his own desperate peril, Raudolf came back with his axe, and cut them off, then dragged me after hira into the mud. Never bath more welcome ! We had to dispute it with buffaloes, deer, all the beasts of the wood, tame and cowed with terror, and through them we floundered on, the cold of the water to our bodies making the burning atjnosphere the more intolerable round our heads. At last we caTue to an 560 HOPES AND FEARS. island, where we fell upon the reeds so much ppeiit that it wag long before we found that our refuge was shared by a bear and by Eandolf's old cow, to the infinite amaze of the bull-frogs. The Fire King was a hundred yards off, and a fiei'ce shower, brought from other parts by his unwariantable doings, began to descend, and finally quenched him in such smoke that we had to lie on our faces to avoid stifling. WheL the sun arose, there was Lakeville in its woods on one side, on the other the blackest desolation conceivable. The population were all astir, Mrs. EaTidolf had arrived safely, and Mr. Cunie was about to set forth in search of my roasted remains, when they perceived the signals of distress that we were making, after Eandolf had done gallant battle with the bear in defence of the old cow. He is a first-rate hunter, and despatched the fellow with such little aid as I could give, with a leg not fit to stand upon ; and when the canoes came off to fetch us, he would not leave the place till he had skinned the beast. ]\Iy leg is unserviceable at present, and all ray bones feel the efiect of the night in the swamp, so I am to lay by, make the drawings, and draw up the report, while Mr. Currie and Eandolf do my work over again, all my marks having been effaced by his majesty the Fire King, and the clearing done to our hand. If I could only get rid of the intolerable parching and thirst, and the bui-ning of my brains ! I should not wonder if I were in for a touch of swamp fever.' Here Owen's letter broke off, and Honor begged in alarm, for what Robert evidently had in reserve. He bad received this letter to her enclosed in one from Mr. Currie, desiring him to inform poor young Sandbrook's friend;i of his state. By his account, Owen's delay and surrender of his horse had been an act of gallant self-devotion, placing him in frightfully imminent danger, whence only the cool readiness of young Randolf had brought him off", apj)arently with but slight hurts from the fall of the tree, and exposure to the night air of the heated swamp. He had been left at Lakeville in full confidence of restoi-ation after a week's rest, but on returning from Lake Superior, Mr. Currie found him insensible, under what was at first taken for an aggravated access of the local fever, until, as consciousness returned, it became evident that the limbs on the left side were powerless. Between a litter and water transport, the sufferer was conveyed to IMonti-eal, where the evil was traced to con- cussion of the brain from the blow from the tree, the more dangerous because unfelt at first, and increased by application to business. The injury of the head had deprived the limbs of (uoLion and sensation, and the medical men thought the case HOPES AND FEARS. 501 hopeless, though likely to linger through many stages of feeble- ness of niiml and body. Under these circumstances, Mr. Currie, being obliged to return home himself, and unable to leave the poor young man in such a condition among strangers, had tlecided on bringing him to England, according to his own most eager desire, as tlie doctors declared that the voyage coukl do no harm, and might be beneficial. Mr. Carrie wrote from Quebec, where he had taken his passage by a steamer tliat would follow his letter in four days' time, and he begged Robert to write to him at Liverpool stating what should be done with the patient, should he be then alive. His mind, he said, was clear, but w eak, and his memory, from the moment of his fall till nearly the present time, a blank. He had bogged Mr. Currie to write to his sister or to Miss Charlecote, but the engineer had preferred to devolve the communication upon Mr. Fulmort. Of poor Ovven he spoke with much feeling, in high terms of commendation, saying that he was a valuable friend audconii)anion as well as a very right hcind in his business, and that his friends might be assixred that he (Mr. Currie) would watch over him as if he were his own son, and that his tem- jiorary assistant, Mr. Randolf, was devoted to him, and had nursed him most tenderly from the first. ' Four days' time !' said Honor, when she had taken in the sense of these appalling tidings. ' We can be at Liver[)o<)l to meet him. Do not object, Robert. Nothing else will be bearable to either his sister or me.' ' It was of his sister that I was thinking,' said Robert. ' Do you think her strong enough for the risks of a hurried journey, with perhaps a worse shock awaiting her when the steamer comes in ? Will you let me go alone? I have sent orders to be telegraphed for as soon as the Asia is signalled, and if I go at once, I can either send for you if needful, or bring him to you. Will you not let me V He spoke with persiiasive authority, and Honora half yielded. ' It may be better,' she said, 'it mat/. A man may do more for him there than we could, but I do not know whether poor Lucy will let you, or — ' (as a sudden recollection recurred to her) ' whether she ought.' 'Poor Owen is my friend, my charge,' said Robert. * I believe you are right, you kind Robin,' said Honor. 'Tho journey might be a great danger for Lucy, and if I went, I know she would not stay behind. But I still think she will insist on seeing him.' ' I believe not,' said Robert ; *at least, if she regard submis- sion as a duty.' c c 562 HOPES AND FEARS. ' Oh, Robin, you do not know. Poor cliild, liow am I to tell lier r * Would you like for me to do so T said Robert, in the quiet matter of course way of one to whom painful offices had become well-nigli naturah ' You 1 O Robin, if you ' she said, in some confusion, but at the moment the sound of the visitors' bell startled her, and she was about to take measures for their exclusion, when looking from the window, she saw that the curate of Wrapworth had already been admitted into the ccnirt. The next moment Bhe had met liim in the hall, and seizing his hand, exclaimed in a hurried whisper, ' I know ! I know ! But there is a terrible stroke hanging over my poor child. Come in and help us to tell her !' She drew him into the study, and shut the door. The ])oor man's sallowness had become almost livid, and in half-sobbing words he exclaimed — ' Is it so 1 Then give her to me at once. I will nurse her to the last, or save her ! I knew it was only her being driven out to that misei'able governess life that has been destroying her !' and he quite glared upon poor innocent Honor as a murderess. ' Mr. Pi'endergast, I do not know what you mean. Lucilla is nearly well again. It is only that we fear to give her some bad news of her brother.' ' Her brotlier ! Is that all V said the curate, in a tone of absolute satisfaction. ' I beg your pardon. Miss Charlecote ; I thought I saw a doctor here, and you were going to sentence my darling.' ' You do see Robert Fulmort, whom I thought you knew.' ' So I do,' said Mr. Prendergast, holding out his hand. * 1 beg your pardon for having made such a fool of myself; but you see, since I came to an imderstanding with that dear cliild, I have not thought of anything else, nor known what I was about.' Robert could not but look inquiringly at Miss Charlecote. * Yes,' she faltered, ' Mr. Prendergast has told you — what I could not — what I had not leave to say.' * Yes,' put in Mr. Prendergast, in his overflowing felicity, * I see you think it a shocking match for such a little gem of beauty as that ; but you young men should have been sharper. There's no accounting for tastes ;' and he laughed awkwardly. ' I am heartily glad,' said Robert — and voice, look, and gras[) of the hand conveyed the fullest earnestness — * I am exceed- ingly rejoiced that the dear little fiieud of all my life should be iu such keeping! I congratulate you most sincerely, 1V3 r. HOPES AND FEARS. 568 Prendergast. I never saw auy one so well able to appreciate her.' That is over, thought Honor ; how well he has stood it i And now she ventured to recal them to the subject in hand, which might well hang more heavily on her heart than the sister's fate ! It was agi-eed that Lucilla would bear the intelli- gence best from Mr. Prendergast, and that he could most easily restrain her desire for going to Liverpool. He offered himself to go to meet Owen, but Honor could not quite forgive the ' Is that all T and Kobert remained constaiit to his former view, that he, as friend both of Owen and Mr. Currie, would be the most effective. So therefore it stood, and Lucilla was called out of the drawing-room to Mr. Prendergast, as Honor and Robert entered it. It was almost in one burst that Phoebe learnt the brother's accident and tlie sistei''s engagement, and it tofik her several moments to disentangle two such exti'aordinary events. ' I am very glad,' repeated Robert, as he felt rather than saw that both ladies were regarding him with concealed anxiety ; ' it is by far the haj)piest and safest thing for her ! It is an infinite '•elief to my mind.' ' I can't but be glad,' said Honor ; 'but I don't know how to forgive her !' ' That I can do very easily,' said Robei"t, with a smile on his thin lips that was very reassuring, 'not only as a Christian, but as I believe nothing ever did me so much good. My fancy for her was an incentive which drew me on to get under better influences, and when we threw each other overboard, I could do without it. She has been my best friend, not even excepting you Miss Charlecote ; and as such I hope always to be allowed to regard her. There, Phoebe, you have had an ex]>osition of my sentiments once for all, and I hope I may henceforth receive credit for sincerity.' Miss Charlecote felt that, under the name of Phoebe, this last reproof was chiefly addressed to her ; and perhaps Plicebe under- stood the same, for there was the slightest of all arch smiles about her full lip and downcast eye ; and though she said nothing, her complete faith in her brother's explanation, and her Christian foi'giveness of Lucilla, did not quench a strong reserve of wondering indignation at the mixed preferences that had thus strangely settled down upon the old curate. She followed her bi-other from the room, to ask whether she had better not leave Woolstone Lane in the present juncture. But there was newhere for her to go ; Beauchamp was shut up, the cottage being painted, Sutton barely held the three present o o 2 gg^ HOPES AND FEARS. guests, and her elder sister from home. ' You cannot go without malviug a disturbance,' said Robert ; 'besides, I think you ought to stay with Miss Charlecote. Lucilla is of no use to her ; and tliis uuhicky Owen is more to her than all tlie world besides. You may comfort her.' Phoebe had no more to urge. She could not tell her brother that looks and words of Owen Sandbrook, and in especial his last farewell, which she was at that time too young and simple to understand, had, with her greater experience, risen upon her \n an aspect that made her desirous of avoiding him. But, Desides the awkwardness of such recollections at all, they seemed cruel and selfish when the poor young man was coming home crippled and shattered, only to die, so she dismissed thetu entirely, and set herself to listen and sympathize. CHAPTER XXVIII. Old isle and glorious, I bave heard Tliy fame across the sea, And know my father's homes are thine, My fathers rest with thee. A Cleveland Lore. ' T) M. FULMORT to Miss Charlecote. — The carriage to meet XV* 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 tdl he is in his room. Which is it V 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 ])rtssive, 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, \veary, and uncertain, met her ear. At length Robert beckoned; and she flew at first, then blackened her pace, awestruck. Her brother lay on the bed, with closed eyea. The form was larger, more manly and I HOPES AND FEARS. 505 robust than what she had kuown, the powerful franie%^ork renderiug the wi'eck nioi'e piteous, and the handsome dark beard and moustache, and crisp, thick curls of hair made the straight, well-cut features i-esemble an ohl pictui-e 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 dai'k gi'ey 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 f 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 hadsouGjht 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 V 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 ; 'if 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 V 'Your little boy f 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, tlie 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 Eobert 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 566 HOPES AND FEARS. Randolf. Mr. Currie is gone to spend to-morrow and Sunday with his father at Birmingliam, but lie let me have this young man to help to bi'ing Owen home. Make Miss Charlecote un- derstand that he is to sleep at ray 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 1 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 1' ' Now my pa is come, shan't I be a gentleman, and ride in a carriage f 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 grey 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 Phojbe 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.' ' 1 have no doubt Mr. Sandbrook will see him when he is a little recovered after his journey,' said Phcebe. ' No doubt, ma'am. I don't make a dovibt, 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. Fulniort ' ' My brother is gone to church. It was he who sent me to you.' Mrs. Murrell had real confidence in Robert, whose fViendliness 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 returningfrom 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. HOPES AND FEARS. 667 * Thank you,' he said, following her. ' I was looking at the wood. What is it 1 We have none like it.' * It is Irish bog oak, and much admired.' ' I suppose all English houses can scarcely be like this V 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 V 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 Y '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 \ip in, It looks on the Thames V ' How could you tell that?' * My father had a map of London that T knew by heart, and after we came under Temple Bar, I marked the bearings of tbe 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, pro- nouncing 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 v/ild country, both steady to observe and keen to keep watch. The dark chestnut hair covered a rather squai-e 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 Phcebe, while measuring out the tea, said that she supposed Miss Charlecote would soon come down. ' Then are not you a Charlecote V 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 connexion between the families.' 5C8 HOPES AND FErVRS. Phoehe absolutely started, hurt for a monieiit tliat a strancjer should presume to claim a name of such associations ; yet as she met the bright, honest eyes, feelino; 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 Cliarlecote once had my mother's liair.' ' Beavitiful ruddy gold V ' Yes, yes ; like no one else. I was wanting to do like poor Sand brook.' He looked up in her face, and stroked her hair as Bhe 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 account!-: fur his being so much worse to-night — worse than I have seen him since we were at Montreal.' ' Is he quite sensible f 'Perfectly. I see the ladies do not think him so to-night ; but he has been himself from the first, except that over-futigue or extra weakness aft'ecb 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 Phoabe. * But I cannot think it is as they told us at Montreal.' ' What V ' That the brain would go on weakening, avd he become more childish. Now I am sure, as he has gi'own 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 Chai-lecote wrote to him as soon as we had my brothei^'s tele- gram. I hope you are right 1' ' For j'ou see,' continued the Canadian, eagerly, 'injury from an external caiise cannot be like original organic disease. I lio})e 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 mo, and give me a chance of jiroviding for my little brothers and their mother better than by our poor old farm.' * Where are they ?' asked Phoebe. ' iShe is gone to her sister at Buffalo. The price of the land HOPES AND FEARS. 569 will lielp them on for a little while there, and if I can get on in engineering, I shall be able to keej) tlieni in some comfort. I began to think the poor boys were doomed to have no education at all.' ' Did you always live at Lakeville V * No ;' I grew up in a much more civilized part of the world. We had a beautiful form upon Lake Ontario, and raised the best crops in the neighbourhood. It was not till we got en- tangled 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 T asked Phoebe. ' Well ! it was i-ather 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 asliamed 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. ' Yoii 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. ' Pvealities, indeed !' 'It is only what many colonists undergo,' he answered ; 'if they do not })rosper, it is a very hard life, and the sliifting hopes render it the more trying to those who are not bred to it.' ' And to those that are T 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 mag- nificence 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 backwoods- man all your life f 'I cannot tell,' he said ' They— and the boys— were mj delight when I was one. And, after all, I used to recollect it 570 HOPES AND FEARS. 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 vvas broken off by Robert's entrance. Find- ing 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 sentxip 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 tlie physician an account of the illness which Owen, at his best, could not himself describe; and she cordially thanked him for his evidently devoted atten- dance, going over every particular with him, but still so com- pletely absorbed in her patient as to regard him in no light but a-s an appendage necessary to her boy. ' How did you get on with the backwoodsman, Phoebef asked Lucilla, when she came down to tea. ' I think he is a sterling character,' said Phcebe, in a tone of grave, deep thought, not quite as if answering the question, aiid 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.' llobert 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 hex\ Let this be granted, and she was prepared to be thaTikful, be his decay never so painful to witness and attend. She could not let Robert leave her that night without a HOPES AND FEARS. 571 tembling question whether he had learnt how it was with Oxen on this point. He had not foiled to inquii-e of the engi- neer, but he could tell her very little. Owen's conduct liad been imexceptionable, but he had made scarcely any demonstra- tion 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 lie hud appeared to take pleasure in the unobtrusive, though decided religious habits of young Raudolf. 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 Lucllla returned to her changed beyond her hopes 1 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 neadache, and have been enjoying the old sounds !' * Where is your friend V ' Rushed off to look at St. Paxil's through the shaking of door- mats, and pay his respects to the Thames. He has none of the colonial nil adniirari 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 topo- graphy ! Even 1 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 f ' That is his surname, but his Christian name is Humfrey Charlecote, from his grandfather. His mother was the lady rny 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 1 had not been the poor creature 1 am.' 672 HOPES AND FFATvS. ' 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 V 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 un- desirable 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 seltish 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 wondei'ed 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 ! Humfi'ey 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 loili not raise expectations, nor notice him more than as Owen's friend and a distant kins- man. It would be fatally unsettling to do more.' Owen urged her no farther. Eitlier he had not energy to enforce any point for long together, or he felt that the sncces- sion might be a delicate subject, for he let her lead to his personal affairs, and he was invalid enough to find them fidly engrossing. The Canadian came in punctually, full of animation and ex- citement, of which Phojbe had the full benefit, till he was called to help Owen to di-ess. While this was going on, Piobert came into the drawing-room to breathe, after the hard task of pacify- ing Mrs. Murrell. ' What are you going to do to-day, Phcebe V he asked. ' Have you got through your shopping V ' Some of it. Do you mean that you could come out with me r HOPES AND FEAKS. 573 * Yes ; yoit will never get through business otherwise.' ' 'J'hen if you have an afteruoon to spare, could not wc take Mr. Randolf to the Tower V ' ^\ hy Phcebe !' ' 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 e\ inpathize with him — half the day cut up, too, with nursing Owen.' ' He seeras 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.' ' Veiy well. I say, Phoebe, would you object to my taking Erown and Clay — my two head boys 1 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 tlie doctor arrived. Again he brought good hope. From his own examination of Osven, and from Mr. Randolf's re])ort, 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 fidl recovery could not be expected. He wished to observe his patient for a month or six weeks in town, that tne course of treatment might be decided, after which lie 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 tit for Mrs. Murrelh' ' 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 574 HOPES AND FEARS. her anxieties, canglit her nephew on his way, and popped her last newly completed piuafoie ever his harlequinism, pei'suad- ing 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 quiet- ness 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 lier 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 pjresent, and I do not know whether I may not be so for life.' Whereat, and at the settled mournful look witli 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 ti'ovibles enough already V ' He shall not be a trouble, but a pleasure.' ' Poor little wretch ! He must grow up to work, and to know that he must woik while he can ;' and Owen passed liis hand over those useless hngcrs 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 ' Hocings' education ouglit to com- mence. Cilia 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 crij)ple for Jife 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 unex- HOPES AND FEARS. 575 pected gladness was to her grievous disappointment. Mr. Preu- dergast arrived to find lier lialf captious, lialf despex-ate. 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 1 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, Cilia, you have not strength for it,' 'I am quite well. I have strength for anything now I have some one to work for. Nothing hurt 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 ones^ said Mr. Prendergast. ' But I see how it is, Cilia ; you have changed your mind.' 'No,' said Lucilla, with an outbreak of her old impatience ; 'but you men are so selfish! Bothering me about proclaim- ing 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, Cilia, you shall be bothered no more,' said Mr. Pren- dergast, 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 wont fret you any more.' 'No,' said lie 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 f thought Phoebe, as he strode past the little party on their walk to tlie 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 specixlations in the entertainment of witnessing her companion's intelligent interest in all that he saw. The walk itself — for which she 576 HOPES AND FEARS. 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 histoi-ically 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 Loudon sights, 'the Towers of Julius,' from the Traitors' Gate, wliere Elizabeth nat in her lion-like desolation, to her effigy in her glory upon Tilbury Heatlr — the axe that severed her mothei-'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 imagina- tion of one who had grown up in the New World without antiquity. If it were a satisfaction to be praised and thanked for this exi)editiou, 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 V 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 tliem be extortionate of his waiting on me. I must learn to do without him.' Phoebe promised, and went, ' Phcebe 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 mannged 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 V 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 iiixes and sevens, has not she ]' nOPES AND FEARS. 577 * Do you call that a real experience T said Lucilla, almost with disdain, and the conversation di-opped. Owen's dehigns for liis 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'a desire, was driven to confess that he did not wish for fancy church-goiug on his first English Sunday. There was enough novelty without that ; the cathedral service was too new for liim 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 tlie confession, that though it was well that choirs should offer tlie most exquisite and ornate praise, yet that her own country-bred associations with the phiiu unadorned service at Hiltonbury rendered her more at home where the prayers were read, and the responses congregational, not choi'al. To her it was more devotional, tliougli she fully believed that the other Wciy was the best for those who had begun with it. So they went as usual to tlie full service of the parish church, •where the customs were scrupulously rubrical without being ornate. The rest and calm of tliat Sunday were a boon, coming as they did after a bustling week. All the ensuing days Phoebe was going about choosing cur- tains and carpets, or hiring servants for herself or Mervyn. Slie 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 togetlier. So constantly were Honor and Lucy engaged with him, that Phoebe hardly saw them morning, noon, or night ; and after being out for manj^ hours, it generally fell to her lot to entertain the young Canadian for the chief part of the even- ing. Mr. Currie had arrived in town on the Monday, and came at once to see Owen. His lod^inajs were in the Citv, where he would be occupied for some time in more formally mapping out Luid reporting on the various lines proposed for the G. O. and S. line ; and finding liow necessary young Eandolf 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 Wooistone Lane. p V 57b HOPES AND FEARS. CHAPTER XXIX. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touched it ? Have you marked but the fall of the snow, Before the soil hath smutched it ? Ben Jonson. AT the eud of a week Mervyu made his appearance in a vehement hurry. Cecily's next sister, an officer's wife, was coming home with two little children, for a farewell visit before going to the Cape, and Maria and Bertha must make way for her. So he wanted to take Phoebe home that afternoon to get the Underwood ready for them. ' Mervyn, how can I go ? I am not nearly ready.' ' What can you have been doing then f he exclaimed, with something of his old temper, ' This house has been in such a state.' ' Well, you were not wanted to nurse the sick man, were you ? I thought you were one that was to be trusted. What more is there to do V Phoebe looked at her list of commissions, and found herself convicted. Those patterns ought to have been sent back two days since. What had she been about 1 Listening to Mr. Eandolf 's explanations of the Hiawatha scenery ! Why had she not written a note about that hideous hearth-rug 1 Because Mr. Randolf was looking over Stowe's Survey of London. Methodical Phoebe felt herself in disgrace, and yet, somehow, she could not be sorry enough ; she wanted a reprieve from exile at Hilton- bury, alone and away from all that was going on. At least she should hear whether Ilacbeth, at the Princess's Theatre, fulfilled Mr. Pvandolf's conceptions of it ; and if Mr. Currie approved his grand map of the Newcastle district, with the little trees that she had taught him to draw. Perhaps it was the first time that Mervyn had been justly anf'ry with her; but he was so much less savage than in his injustice that she was very much ashamed and touched ; and finally, deeply grateful for the grace of this one day in which to repair her negligence, provided she would be ready to start by seven o'clock next morning. Hard and diligently she worked, and very late she came home. As she was on her way upstairs she met Robert coming out of Owen's room. 'Phoebe,' he said, turning with her into her room, 'what is the matter with Lucy Y 'The matter r (< HOPES AND FEARS. 579 * Do you mean that you have not observed how ill she is looking V ' No ; nothing particular.' 'Really, Phoebe, I caimot imagine what you have been thinking about. I thought you would have saved her, and helped Miss Charlecote, and you absolutely never noticed her looks !' * I am very sorry. I have been so much engaged.' * Absorbed, you should call it ! Who would have thought you would be so heedless of her V He was gone. ' Still crazy about Lucy,' was Phoebe's first thought j her second, ' Another brother tindiug me heedless and selfish ! What can be the matter with me T And when she looked at Lucilla with observant eyes, she did indeed recognise the justice of Robert's anxiety and amazement. The brilliant prettiuess had faded away as if under a bliglit, the eyes were sinking into purple hollows, the attitude was listless, tlie whole air full of suffering. Phoebe was dismaj^ed and conscience- stricken, and would fain have ofl'ered inquiries and symi)atliy, but no one had more thoroughly than Lucy the power of repulsion. ' No, nothing was amiss — of course she felt the frost. She would not speak to Honor — there was nothing to speak about j' and she went up to her brother's room. Mr. Randolf was out with Mr. Currie, and Phoebe, still exceedingly busy writing notes and orders, and packing for her journey, did not know tliat there was an unconscious resolution in her own mind that her business should not be done till lie came home, were it at one o'clock at night ! He did come at no uni-easonable hour, and found her fastening directions upon the pile of boxes in the hall. ' What are you doing 1 Miss Charlecote is not going away f ' No ; but I am going to-morrow.' * You !' * Yes ; I must get into our new house, and receive my sisters there the day after to-morrow.' ' I thought you lived with M iss Charlecote.' ' Is it possible that you did not know what I have been doing all this week f ' Were you not preparing a house for your brother V * Yes, and another for myself. Did you not understand that we set up housekeeping separately upon his marriage '?' ' I did not understand,' said Humfrey Randolf, disconsolately. You told me you owed everything to Miss Charlecote.' < I am afraid your colonial education translated that into £ s. d.' ' Then you are not poor V i 1 2 680 HOPES AND FEARS. ' No, not exactly,' said Phoebe, rather imzzlod and amused by his downcast air. 'But,' he exclaimed, 'your brother is iu business; and Mr. Fulmoit of St. Matthew's ' ' J\Ir. Fulniort ot St. IVIatthew's is poor because he gave all to St. Matthew's' said Phoebe ; ' tint our business is not a small one, and the property in the country is large.' He pasted on her last direction in disconsolate silence, then reading, ' Miss Fulnjort, The Underwood, Hiltonbur^^, Elver- slope Station,' resumed with fresh animation, 'At least you live near Miss Charlecote V ' Yes, we are wedged in between her park and our own — my brother's, I mean.' ' That is all right then ! She has asked me for Christmas.' ' I am very glad of it,' said Phoebe. ' There, thank you, good night.' ' Is there nothing more that I can do for you V * Nothing — no, no, don't hammer that down, you will wake Owen. Good night, good bye ; I shall be gone by half-past six.' Though Phoebe said good-bye, she knew perfectly well that the hours of the morning were as nothing to the backwoods- man, and with spirits greatly exhilarated by the Christmas invitation, she went to bed, much too sleepy to make out why lier wealth seemed so severe a shock to Humfrey Pvaiidolf. The six o'clock breakfast was well attended, for ]\Liss Charle- cote was there herself, as well as the Canadian, Phoebe, and Mervyn, who was wonderfully amiable considering the hour iu tlie morning. Phoebe felt in some slight degree less unfeeling when she found that Lucilla's fading looks had been no moi e nuticed by Miss Charlecote than by herself; but Honor thought Owen's illness accounted for all, and only promised tliat the doctor should inspect her. A day of exceeding occupation ensued, INIervyn talked the whole way of Cecily, his plans and his prospects ; and Phojbe had to draw her mind out of one world and immerse it into another, straining ears and voice all the time to hear and bo heard through the roar of the train. He left her at the cottage : and then began the work of the day, presiding over upholsterers, lianging pictures, arranging books, settling cabinets of collec- tions, disposing of ornaments, snatching meals at odd times, iu odder places, and never daring to rest till long after dark, when, with fingers freshly purified from dust, limbs stiff' with running up and down stairs, and arms tired with heavy weights, she safe finally down before the drawing-room fire with her solitary cup of coffee, and a book that she was far too weary to open. HOPES AND FEAT^S. 581 Had she never been tired before, that her heart shonhl sink in this unaccountable way i Wliy could she not be more glad that her sisters were coming home, and dear Miss Fennimore 1 What made every one seem so dull and stupid, and the cominsfs and goings so oppressive, as if everything would be hateful till Christmas 1 Why had she belied all her previous good character for method and p\inctuality of late, and felt as if existence only began when — one person was in the I'oom I Oh ! can this be falling in love 1 There was a chiffonier with a looking-glass back just opposite to hei", and, raising her eyes, poor Phoebe beheld a young lady with brow, cheeks, and neck perfectly glowing with crimson ! ' You shan't stand there long, at any rate,' said she, almost vindictively, getting up and pushing the table with its deep cover between lier and the answering witness. ' Love ! Nonsense ! Yet I don't -see why I should be ashamed ! Yes ! He is my wise man, be is the real Humfrey Charlecote ! His is the very nature I always thought some one must still have — the exact judgment I longed to meet wi*h. Not stern like Robin's, not sharp like Mervyn's, nor high-flying like dear Miss Charlecote's, nor soft like Bevil's, nor light like Lucy's, nor clear and clever like Miss Fennimore's — no, but considerate and solid, tender and true — such as one can lean upon ! I know why he has the steadfest eyes that I liked so much the first evening. And there is so much more in him than I can measure or understand. Yes, though 1 have known him but ten days, I have seen much mose of him than of most men in a year. And he has been so much tried, and has had such a life, that he may well be called a real hero in a quiet way. Yes, I well may like him ! And I am sure he likes me !' said another whisper of the heart, which, veiled as was the lady in the mirror, made Phcebe put both hands over her face, in a shamefaced ecstatic consciousness. ' Nay — T was the first lady he had seen, the only peison to speak to. No, no ; I know it was not that ! — I feel it was not ! Why, otherwise, did he seem so sorry I was not poor? Oh ! bow nice it would be if I were 1 We could work for each other in his glorious new land of hope ! I, who love work, was made for woi'k ! I don't care lor this mere young lady life ! And must my triimpery thousand a year stand in the way 1 As to birth, I suppose he is as well or better born than I — and, oh ! so far superior in tone and breeding to what ours used to be ! He ought to know better 'than to think me a fine young lady, and himself only an engi- neer's assistant ! But he wont ! Of course he will be honour- able about it — and — and perhaps never dare to say another word 5S2 HOPES AND FEARS. till he has rnade his fortune — and when will that ever be 1 It will be right ' ' But,' (and a very different but it was this time) 'what am I thinking about? How can I be wishing such things when I have promised to devote myself to Maria? If I could rough it gladly, she could not ; and what a shameful thing it is of me to have run into all this long day dream and leave her out. No, I know my lot ! I am to live on here, and take care of Maria, and grow to be an old maid ! I shall hear about him, when he comes to be a great man, and know that the Humfrey Charlecote I dreamt about is still alive ! There, I wont have any more nonsense !' And she opened her book ; but finding that Humfrey Haudolf's remarks would come between her and the sense, she decided that she was too tired to read, and put herself to bed. But there the sense of wrong towards Maria filled her with remorse that she had accepted her rights of seniority, and let the maids place her in the prettiest room, with the best bay window, and most snug fire])lace ; nor could she rest till she had pacified her self-reproach, by deciding that all her own goods should move next day into the chamber that did not look at the Holt firs, biit only at the wall of the back yard. * Yes,' said Phoebe, stoutly, in her honest dealing with herself in her fresh, untried morning senses. ' I do love Humfrey Charlecote Raudolf, and I think he loves me ! Whether any- thing more may come of it, will be ordered for me ; but whether it do so or not, it is a blessing to have known one like him, and now that I am waT'ned, and can try to get back self-control, I will begin to be the better for it. Even if I am not quite so happy, this is something more beautiful than I ever knew beiwe. I will be content !' And when Bertha and Maria arrived, brimful of importance at having come home with no escort but a man and maid, and voluble with histories of Sutton, and wedding .schemes, they did not find an absent nor inattentive listener. Yet the keen Bortlia made the remark, ' Something has come over you, Phoebe. Yon have more countenance than ever you had befoi-e.' Whereat Phoebe's colour rushed into her cheeks, but she demanded the meaning of countenance, and embarked Bertha in a dissertation. When Phoebe was gone, Robert found it less difficult to force Lucilla to the extremity of a tete-cl-tete. Young Eandolf waa less in the house, and, when there, more with Owen than before," and Lucilla was necessarily sometimes to be caught alone in the drawing-room. HOPES AND FEARS. 583 * Lucy,' said Robert, the first time this occurred, ' I have a question to ask you.' 'Well !' — she turned round half defiant. 'A correspondent of Mervyn, on the Spanish coast, has written to ask him to find a chajilain for the place, guaranteeing a liandsome stipend.' ' Well,' said Lucilla, in a cold voice this time. ' I wished to ask whether you thought it would be acceptable to Mr. Prendergast.' ' I neither know nor care.' * I beg your pardon,' said Robert, after a pause ; 'but though I believe 1 learnt it sooner than I ought, I was sincerely glad to hear ' ' Then unhear !' said Lucilla, pettishly. * You, at least, ought to be glad of that.' ' By no means,' returned Robert, gravely. ' I have far too great a regard for you not to be most deeply concerned at what I see is making you unhappy.' *May not I be unhappy if I like, with my brother in this state ?' * That is not all, Lucilla.' 'Then never mind ! You are the only one who never pitied me, and so I like you. Don't spoil it now !' ' You need not be afraid of my pitying you if you have brought on this misunderstanding by your old spirit !' ' Not a bit of it ! I tell you he pitied me. I found it out in time, so I set him free. That's all.' ' And that was the offence V 'Offence! What are you talking of? He didn't offend — No, but when I said I could not bring so many upon him, and could not have Owen teased about the thing, he said he would bother me no more, that I had Owen, and did not want him. And then he walked off.' ' Taking you at your word 1' ' Just as if one might not say what one does not mean when one wants a little comforting,' said Lucy, pouting ; ' but, aftei all, it is a very good thing — he is saved a great plague for a very little time, and if it were all pity, so much the better. I say, Robin, shall you be man enough to read the service over me, just where we stood at poor Edna's funeral ?' 'I don't think that concerns you much,' said Robert. 'Well, the lady in Madge Wildfire's song was gratified at the "six braw gentlemen" who "kirkwavd should carry her." Why should you deprive me of that satisf\iction. Really, Robin, it is quite true. A little happiness might have patched me up, but ' 58 t HOPES AND FEARS. ' TLe symptoms are recurring 1 Have you seen F V ' Yes. Let nie alone, Robin. It is the truest mercy to let me wither up with as little trouble as po.s.sible to those Avho don't want me. Now that you know it, I am glad I can talk to you, and you will help me to think of what lias never been enough before my eyes.' R(jbert made no answer but a hasty good-bye, and was gone. Lucilla gave a heavy sigh, and then exclaimed, half-aloud — ' Oh, the horrid little monster that I am. Why can't I help it? I vei'ily believe I shall flirt in my shroud, and if I were canonized my first miracle would be like St. Philomena's, to make my own relics presentable !' Wherewith she fell a laxighing. with a laughter that soon turned to tears, and the exclamation. ' Why can I make nobody care for me but those I can't care for 1 I can't help disgusting all that is good, and it will be well when I am dead and gone. There's only one tiiat will shed tears good for anything, and he is well quit of me !' The poor little lonely thing wept again, and after her many sleepless nights, she fairly cried herself to sleep. She awoke with a start, at some one being admitted into the room. ' My dear, am I disturbing you T It was the well-known voice, and she sprang up. ' Mr. Pendy, Mr. Pendy, I was very naughty ! I didn't mean it. Ok, will you bear with me again, though I don't deserve itf She clung to him like a child wearied with its own naughti- ness. ' I was too hasty,' he said ; ' T forgot how wrapped up you were in your brotlier, and how little attention you could spare, and tlien I thought that in him you had found all you wanted, aud that I was oidy in your way.' ' How could you ? Didn't you know better than to think that people put their brothers before their — Mr. Pendys Y ' You seemed to wish to do so.' ' Ah ! but you should have known it was only for the sake of being coaxed !' .said Lucilla, hanging her head on one side. ' You should have told me so.' 'But how was I to know it?' And she broke out into a very different kind of laughter. 'I'm sure I thought it was all magnanimity, but it is of no use to die of one's own magnanimity, you see.' ' You are not going to die ; you are coming to this Spanish place, which will give you lungs of brass.' 'Spanish place ? How do ynu know 1 1 have not slept into HorES AND FEARS. 585 tr.-niorrow. have T ? Tliat Robin has not flown to Wrapworth and back since three o'clock V 'No, I was only inquiring at Mrs. MiutpH's.' ' Oh, you silly, silly person, why couldn't you come here ? * I did not want to bother you.' 'For shanie, for shame; if you say that again I shall know you have not forgiven me. It is a moral against using words too strong for the occasion ! So Robert carried you the ofi'er of the chajilaincy, and you mean to have it !' ' I could not help coming, as he desired, to see what you thought of it.' ' I only know,' she said, half crying, yet laughing, 'that yon had better marry me out of hand before I get into any more mischief.' The chaplaincy was promising. The place was on the lovely coast of Andalusia. There was a small colony of Euglisli engaged in trade, and the place was getting into favour with invalids. Mervyn's correspondent was anxious to secure the services of a good man, and the society of a lady-like wife, and offered to guarantee a handsome salary^ such as justified the curate in giving up his chance of a college living ; and though it was improbable that he would ever learn a word of Spanish, or even get so far as the pronunciation of the name of the place, the advantages that the appointment offered were too great to be i-ejccted, when Lucilk's health needed a southern climate. ' Oh ! yes, yes, let us go,' she cried. ' It will be a great deal better than anything at home can be.' ' Then yoii venture on telling Owen, now !' ' Oh, yes 1 It was a mere delusion of mine that it would cost him anything. Honor is all that he wants, I am rather in their way than otherwise. He rests on her down pillow-ship, and she sees, hears, knows nothing but him !' ' Is Miss Charlecote aware of^what has been going wrong V 'Not she! I told her before that I shoixld take my own time for the communication, and I verily believe she has forgotten all about it ! Then little demure Phcebe fell over head and ears in love with the backwoodsman on the spot, and walked about in a dream such as ought to have been good fuu to watch, if I had had the spirit for it ; and if Robert had not been sufficiently disengaged to keep his eyes open, I don't know whether anything would have roused them short of breaking a blood-vessel or two.' ' I shall never rest till you are in my keeping ! I will go to Fulmort at once, and tell him that I accejjfc.' 586 HOPES AND FEARS. ■ And I will go to Owen, and break the news to him. Whea are you coming ag;iin ]' ' To-niorrow, as soon as I have opened school,' 'Ah ! the sooner we are gone the better ! Much good you can be to poor Wi*apworth ! Just tell rae, please, that I may know how badly I served you, how often you have inquired at Mrs. Murrell's.' ' Why — I believe — each day except Saturday and Sunday ; but I never met him there till just now.' Lucilla's eyes swam with tears ; she laid her head on his shoulder, and, in a broken voice of deep emotion, she said, ' Indeed, I did not deserve it ! But I think I shall be good now, for I can't tell why I should be so much loved !' Mr. Prendergast was vainly endeavouring to tell her why, when Humfrey Randolf's ring was heard, and she rushed out of the room. Owen's first hearty laugh since his return was at her tidings. That over, he spoke with brotherly kindness. 'Yes, Lucy,' he said, 'I do think it is the best and happiest thing for you. He is the only man whom you could not torment to death, or who would have any patience with your antics.' ' I don't think I shall try,' said Lucy. ' What are you shakins; vour head for, Owen 1 Have I not had enough to tame me T ' I beg your pardon, Cilly. I was only thinking of the natural companionship of bears and monkeys. Don't beat me !' ' Some day you shall come out and see us pei-forra, that's all,' said Lucilla, merrily. ' But indeed, Owen, if I know myself at all, unmerited affection and foi'bearance, with no nonsense about it, is the only way to keep me from flying out. At any rate, I can't live without it 1' ' Ah !' said Owen, gravely, ' you have suffered too much through rae for me to talk to you in this fashion. Forgive me, Lncy ; I am not up to any other, just yet.' Whatever Lucilla might have said in the first relief of recovering Mr. Prendergast, she could not easily have made up her mind to leave her brother in his present condition, and flattered herself that the 'at once' could not ])ossibly be speedy, since Mr. Prendergast must give notice of hi.« intention of leaving Wrap worth. But when he came the next morning, it proved that things were in a far greater state of forwardness than she had thought possible. So convinced were both tlie curate and Robert of tli : need of her avoiding the winter cold, that the latter bad HOPES AND FEARS. 587 snii^jTcsted tliat one of his own curates, "wlio was in need of change and coi;utry air, should immediately offer himself as a substitute at Wrapworth, either for a time or permanently, and Lucy was positively required to name a day as eai-ly as possible for the marriage, and told, on the authority of the physician, that it might almost be called suicide to linger in the English frosts. The day which she chose was the ist of December, the same on which Mervyn was to be married. There was a purpose in thus rendering it impracticable for any Fulmort to be present; ' And,' said Owen, 'I am glad it should be before I am about. I could never keep my countenance if I had to give her away to brother Peter !' ' Keeping his countenance' might have two meanings, but he was too feeble lor agitation, and seemed only able to go through the time of preparation and parting, by keeping himself as lethargic and indifferent as possible, or by turning matters into a jest when necessarily brought before him. Playing at solitaire, or trifling desultory chat, was all that he could endure as occupation, and the long hours were grievously heavy. His son, though nearly four years old, was no companion or pleasure to him. Ke was, in his helpless and morbid state, afraid of so young a child, and little Owen was equally afraid of him ; each di-eaded contact with the other, and more than all the being shut into a room together ; and the little boy, half shy, half assured, filled by the old woman with notions of his own grandeur, and yet constrained by the different atmosphere of Woolstone Lane, was never at ease or playful enough before him to be pleasant to watch. And, indeed, his Cockney pro- nunciation and ungainly vulgar tricks had been so summarily repressed by his aunt, that his fear of both the ladies rendered him particularly unengaging and unchildlike. Nevertheless, Honora thought it her duty to take him home with her to the Kolt, and gratified Eobert by engaging a nice little girl of fourteen, whom Lucilla called the crack orphan, to be his attendant when they sho\ild leave town. This was to be about a fortuidat after the wedding, since St. Wialstan's afforded greater opportunities for privacy and exemption from bustle than even Hiltonbury, and Dr. Prendergast and his daughter could attend without being in the house. The Prendergasts of Southminster were very kind and friendly, sending Lucilla warm greetings, and not appearing at all disconcerted at welcoming their former governess into the family. The elders professed no surprise, but great gladness ; and Sarah, who was surprised, was trebly rejoiced. Owen 588 HOPES AND FEAR9. accused his sister of selecting her solitai-y bridesmaid with a view to enhancing her own beauty by force of contrast • but the choice was prompted by real security of the affectionate- pleasure it would confer. Handsome presents were sent both l»y the Beaumouts and Bostocks, and Lucilla, even while half- fretted, half-touched by Mrs. Bostock's patronizing felicitations, could not biit be pleased at these evidt'nces that her governess- ship had not been an utter failure. Her demeanour in the fortnight before her marriage was un- like what her friends had ever seen, and made them argur better for My. Prendei-gast's venture. She was happy, but siibdued ; quiet and womanly, gentle without being sad, grave but not drooping ; and though she was cheerful and playful, with an entire absence of those strange effervescences that had once betrayed acidity or fermentation. She had found the power of being affectionately gi-ateful to Honor, and the sweet- ness of her tender ways towai'ds her and Owen would have made the parting all the sadder to them if it had not been evident that, as she said, it was happiness that thus enabled her to be good. The satisfied look of rest that had settled on her fair face made it new. All her animation and archness had not rendered it half so pleasant to look upon. The purchaser of Castle Blanch proved to be no other than Air. Calthorp ! Lucilla at fii'st was greatly discomfited, and begged that nothing might be said about the picture ; but the next time Mr. Prendergast arrived, it was with a request from Mr. Calthorp that Miss Sandbrook would accept the picture as a weddmg gift ! There was no refusing it — indeed, the curate had already accepted it; and when Lucilla heard that 'the Calthorp' had been two years married to what Mr. Prendergast called 'a millionairess, exceedingly hideous,' she still had vanity e-nough to reflect that the removal of her own reseml)lance might be an act of charity ! And the sum that Honor had set apart for the purchase was only too much wanted for the setting up housekeeping in Spain, whither the portrait was to accompany her, ]Mr. Prendergast declared, like the Penates of the pious yEueas ! Kobert brought in his gift on the last day of November, just before setting off for Sutton. It was an unornamented, but exquisitely-bound Bible and Prayer Book, dark-brown, with red-edged leaves. ' Good-bye, Lucilla,' he said ; ' you have been the brightest spot to me in this life. Tliank you for all you have done for me.' ' And for all I never intended to do?' said Lucilla, smiling, as she returned his pressui'e of the hand. I HOPES AND FEARS. 589 He was gone, not trusting lier to speak, nor hims(.-lf to liear a woni more. ' Yes, Robin/ proceeded Lucy, half-aJoud, 'you are the greater man, 1 know very well ; but it is in human uature to jirefer iiesli and blood to mediaeval saints in cast-irou, even if one knows there is a tender spot in them.' There was a curious sense of humiliation in her full acquies- cence in the fact that he was too high, too grand for her, ai.d in her relief, that the affection, that would have lifted her beyond what she was prepared for, had died away, and left her to the more ordinary excellence and half-paternal fondness of the man of her real choice, with whom she could feel perfect ease and repose. Possibly the admixtiu'e of qualities that in her had been called ytts^ is the most contrary to all real aspiration ! But there was no fault to be found with the heartfelt affection with which she loved and honoured her bridegroom, lavishing on him the more marks of deference and submission just because she knew that her will would be law, and that his love was strong enough to have borne with any amount of caprice or seeming neglect. The sacrilices she made, without his knowledge, for his convenience and comfort, while he ima- gined hers to be solely consulted, the concessions she made to his slightest wish, the entire absence of all teasing, would not have been granted to a younger man more prepossessing iu the sight of others. It was in this spirit that she rejected all advice to consult health rather than custom in her wedding dress. Exactly liecause Mr. Prendergast would have willingly received her in the plainest garb, she was bent on doing him honour by the most exquisite bridal array ; and never had she been so lovely — her colour such exquisite carnation, her eyes so softened, and full of such repose and reliance, her grace so perfect in complete freedom from all endeavour at attracting adinh-ation. The married pair came back from church to Owen's sitting- room — not bear and monkey, not genie and fairy, as he had expected to see ; but as they stood together, looking so inde- scribably and happily one, that Osv en smiled and said, 'Ah! Honoi", if you had only known twenty years ago that this was Airs. Peter Prendergast, how much trouble it would have saved.' ' She did not deserve to be Mrs. Peter Prendergast/ said the bride. ' See how you deserve it now.' ' That I never shall !' Brother and sister par-ted with light wordi* but full heart's, SyO HOPES AND FEA.RS. eacli trying to believe, though neither crediting Mr. Prender- gast's assurance that the tv/o Owens should come and be at home for ever if they liked in Santa Maria de X , Neither could bear to face the truth that henceforth their courses lay apart, and that if the sisters life were spared, it could only be at the sacrifice of expatriation for many years, in lands where, well or ill, the brother had no call. Nor would Lucilla break down. It was due to her husband not to let him think she suffered too much in resigning home for him ; and true to her innate hatred of agitation, she guarded herself from realizing anytliiug, and though perfectly kind and respectful to Honora, studiously averted all approaches to effusion of feeling. Only at the last kiss in the hall, she hung round her friend with a vehement embrace, and whispered, ' Forgive ! You have forgiven !' ' Forgive me, Lucilla !' ' Nay, that I have forgiven you for all your pardon and patience is shown by my enduring to leave Owen to you now.' Therewith surged up such a flood of passionate emotions that^ fleeing from them as it were, the bride tore hei-self out ot Honor's arms, and sprang hastily into the carriage, nervously and hastily moving about its contents while Mi". Preudergtist finished his farewells. After all, there was a certain sense of rest, snuguess, and freedom from turmoil, when Honor dried her eyes and went back to her convalescent. The house seemed peaceful, and they both felt themselves entering into the full enjoyment of being all in all to one another. There was one guest at the Sutton wedding, whose spirit was at St. Wulstan's. In those set eyes, and tightly closed lijjs, might be traced abstraction in spite of himself Were there not thoughts and prayers for another bride, elsewliere kneeling 1 Was not the solitaiy man struggling with the last remnants of fancies at war with liis life of sell-devotion, and crushing down the few final regrets, that would liave looked back to the dreams of his youth. No marvel that his greatest effort was against being harsh and unsympatliizing, even while his whole career was an endeavour to work through charities of deed and word into charitiea of thought and judgmtjut. HOPES AND FEAUS. o'3\ CHAPTER XXX. Untouched by love, the maiden's breast Is like the snow on Eona'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 tlie flower, And decks some happy shepherd's bower. Scott. SLOW to choose, but decided in her choice, Phoebe had always beeu, 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 feelino; 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 develojjment 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 oldfriendl 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 1 She would wait in hopes that one of the otliers would ask if she were going to the Hult ! If so, it could not but be natural and jiroper — 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 b^ll ! 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 592 HOPES AND FEARS. thought a call would be acceptable. ' I knew they were como liorae,' he said, ' for I saw them at the station yesterday. 1 did not show myself, for I did not know how jioor young Saudbrook might like it. But who have they got with thein f ' Mr. Randolf, Owen Sandbrook's Canadian friend.' ' Did I not hear he was some sort of relation V ' 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.' Phtebe could have embraced Sir John. She could not conceal her glow of delight so completely that Bertha did not laugh and say, ' IMr. Charlecote is what the Germans would call Phoebe's HikL 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 Phcebe had had any prevision of her present state of ujind, she never would have bought that chiftbuier. When Sir John had sufficiently admired the details of the choice little drawing-room, and had been showii 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 proi)osal,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 rol)in colouring. Her cheeks were brilliant, and her eyes not only brighter, but with a slight drooping that gave them the shadiness they some- times wanted. And it was all from a ridiculous trepidatioa which made it well-nigli impossible to bring out what she was longing to say — ' So you think Mr. Pvandolf like Mr. Charlecote.' Fortunately he was beforehand with her, for both the like- ness and the path through the i>i)ie woods ren)inded him strongly of his old friend, and he returned to the suliject. ' So you are a great admirer of dear old Charlecote, Phoebe : you can't remember him V ' No, but Robert does, and I sometimes think I do.' (Then it came.) ' You think Mr. Pvandolf like him T Thanks to her hat, bhe could blush more comfortably now. ' I did not see him near. It was only something in air and IIOPFS AND FEARS. f>M'i figure. People inherit those things wonderfully. Now, ray son Charlie sits on liovset)aek exactly like his grandfather, whuju he never saw ; and John ' Oh ! was he going to run away on family likenesses ? Pha'bo would not hear the ' and John ;' and observed, ' Mr. Charlecote was his godfather, was he not V 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 I'ational amount of wonder at poor ITonor's taste, bub grew incoherent in fear lest it should be irrational, and was i-ather 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 Hurafrey 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 s-as ! No one was in the drawing-room, but Honor came down much more cheerfid and lively than she had been for years, and calling Owen materially better — the doctors thought the injuiy to tlie head infinitely mitigated, and the first step to i-ecovery fairly taken — there were good accounts of the Prendergasts, and all things seemed to be looking well. Presently Sir John, to Phosbe 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 undei-- stand it, and was evidently hurt by its recurrence. Phcebe sat on, listening to the account of Lucilla's letters, and the good spirits and health they manifested ; forcing herself not too v)bviously 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 jow ; Mr. Eandolf 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 staii-s, and he is to go out every day in a chair or the carriage.' * Does the little boy amuse )iim V QQ 6i)4 HOPES AND FEARS. .' No, not exactly, poor little fellow. They arc terribly afraid of each other, that is the worst of it. And then we left the boy too long with the old woman. 1 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 comfoi-table we are together, Phoebe, when we are alone. Since his sister went we have got on so much better. He was phy 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 into 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 Huiiifrey 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 Kandolf 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, 'lie has taken pity on the boy — he is very good to him — has served an apprenticeship.' Mr. Raudolf looked up, saw Phoebe, gave a start of recogni- tion 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, an 1 tlie wondrous magnetic conviction that he was equally glad to be with her. She lost all restlessness, and was quite i-eady to amuse Owen by a lively discussion and compari- son 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 Kandolf ran downstairs to her, and said, ' I wanted to tell you something. My stepmother is going to be married.' * You are glad V HOPES AND FEAltS. 595 ' Very glad. It is to a merchaut 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, wlien 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 hai-d 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 f * Faculties — yes, and everything else.' * I must go now, or my sistei's will be waiting for me, and ] Bee vour dinner cominsr in. Good-bve.' ' May I come to see you V * O yes, pi'ay let me show you our cottage.' * When may I come V ' To-morrow, I suppose.' She felt, ratlier than saw him watching her all the way from the garden gate to the wood. That little colloquy was the sun- shiny point in lier diiy. Had the tidings been communicated ia the full circle, it would have been as nothing compared with their reservation for her private ear, with the marked 'I wanted to tell yoM.' Then she came home, looked at jNIaria thread- ing holly-berries, and her heai't 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 tender- ness. The certainty that the visit would take place kept her from all flutterings and self-debate, and in due time 'Mr. Eandolf ' 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 Irom her and Miss Fennimore upon the worn channel of Niagara, which had so often been used as a knockdown argu- ment against Miss Charlecote's cosmogony; and his bright terse Q(j2 696 HOPKS AND FEARS. powers of description gave them, as they agreed, a better idea of his woods than any ti-avels 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 miniatui^e 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 pei'sonal 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 tliose to whom these things were familiar. Miss Charlecote lierself came in for f^ome of these feelings. He admired her greatly in her Christmas aspect of Lady Bountiful, in whicb she well fulfilled old visions of the mistress of an English home, but still more did he dwell upon her gentle- ness, and on that shadowy resemblance to his mother, which inade him long for some of that tenderness which she lavisherl uiion Owen. He looked for no moi-e than her uniformly kind civility and hosjdtality, 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-cb-tete. He was able to render a great service to Miss Chai-lecotc. Mr. Brooks's understanding had not cleared with time, and the accounts that had been tangled in summer were by the eud <'f tlie year in confusion worse confounded. He was a faithful .servant, but his accounts had always been ai'dited 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 hoiieless chaos, that but for his long services, his honesty might have been in question, llonora put this idea away with angry horror. Not only did she love and trust the old man, but he M'as a legacy fiom Humfrey, and she would have toi-n 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 Kandolf uiiglit lieip her ; when behold ! the confused accounts arranged themselves in comprehensible HOPES AND FEAHS, 597 colamns, and poor old Brooks was proved to have cheated hiiii- self so much more thau liis lady as to be entirely exonerated from all but piizzle-headedness. The young mau'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, criticised the sheep, and admired the pigs, till the farming men agreed ' there had not been such an one about the place since the Squii-e himself.' Honora might be excused for not having detected a likeness lietween the two Humfi'eys. Scarcely a feature was in tlie same mould, the comp'lexion was different, and the heavily Viuilt, easy-going Squire, somewhat behind his own centui-y, had apparently had notliiug in common with the brisk modern colonial engineer ; yet still there was something curiously recall- ing the expression of open honesty, and the whole cast of coun- tenance, 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 accej)t Bertha's ex- planation that it was owing to the infltience of the Chiistiau name that both shai-ed. 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 mncli more fragmentary than in town, and therefore, perhaps, the more delicious. She saw him on most of the days of his fort- night'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 lee 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 prosy)erous days, the snow- shoe walk of his poorer ones. A frost hard enough for skating was the prime desire of Maria and Birtha, who both wanted to see the art practised by one to whom it was familiar. Tlie frost came at last, and became reasonably hard in the fii-st week of the new year, one day when Plioebe, 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 Januaj-y, after a Christmas at Sutton. However, she had a reward. 'I do think,' said Miss Fonni- more to her, as she entered the drawing-room, ' that Mr. I 598 irOPES AND FEARS. Kandolf is fhe most good-natured man in tlie world ! For i'ull three-quarters of an hour this afternoon did he hand Maria up and down a slide on the pond at the Holt 1' ' You went up to see him skate V * Yes ; he was to teach Bertha. We found him helping tho little Sandhrook to slide, but when we came he sent him in with the little maid, and gave Bertha a lesson, whieh did not last long, for she grew nervous. Really her nerves will never be what they were 1 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 fifst put into my mind towai-ds her.' ' Oh, are you come home, Phoebe V said Maiia, running into the room. ' I did not hear you. I have been slidiug on the ice all the afternoon with Mr. Eandolf. It is so nice, and he Bays we will do it again to-morrow.' ' Ha, Phoebe !' said Bertha, meeting her on the stairs, ' do you know what you missed V ' Thrise 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 Bet the backwoods down as the best school of courtesy, bxit that I believe some people have that school within themselves. Hollo !' For Phoebe absolutely kissed Bertha as she went upstairs. 'HaT said Bertha, interrogatively; then went into the drawing-room, and looked very grave, almost sad. Phoebe could not but think it rathet* 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 tit 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 j ' I sliall be warmc: v/alking.' HOPES AND FEAUS. 599 Aud she set off, witli 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, aud 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 pre- occupied, 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 lauda- tory than particular. She rather pitied Cecily, after her com- fortable 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 aud India-rubber boots, and secretly hojnng 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 V ' 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 ghid. ' Yes, I have only seen the house from a distance before. I did not know how large it v/as. Which part did you inhabit V ' There — the west wing — shut up now, poor thing 1' ' And where was the window where you saw the horse and cart? Yes, jo-j see I know that story; which was your window V ' The nearest to the main body of the house. Ah ! it ia a (JOO HOPES AND FEAPi3. dear old window. I liave seen many better tilings from it tn.iti that !' ' What kind of things V 'Sunsets and moonsets, and the Holt firs best of all.' * Yes, I know better now what jou meant l>y owing all to Mis;s Charlecote,' he said, smiling. ' I owe something to hez*, too.' ' Oh, is she going to help you on ?' cried Phoebe, ' No, I do not need that. What 1 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 V lie said. ' May I dare to tell you wliai you are to me 1 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 1 You do not forbid me to hoj^e.' ' Oh ! I am a great deal too happy !' There came a great wailin,i(. driving gust of storm at that moment, as if it wanted to sweep them oft' their feet, but it ■was a welcome blast, for it was the occasion of a strong arm being flung round Plicebe, to restrain that fluttering cloak. 'Storms shall only blow us nearer together, dearest,' he saici, 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, Avith n)y poverty and my burthens, should thrust myself into your wealthy and sheltered life. At fii-st, when I thought yo\i were a |)oor dependent, I admitted the hope. I saw you i^pirited, helj)ful, 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 1 have known so many do iu my own country.' «0h! would I not?' ' Then I found how far apart we staiid in one kind of social scale, and perhaps that ought to Imvc* overtlirown all hope ; but. Phoebe, it will not do so i I will not ask you to share wauS HOPES AND FEARS. 601 rtfid privation, l)ul I will and do ask you to be the point towards whicti 1 may work, the best earthly ho])e set before me.' ' I am giad,' 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 nut stand in the wav, but there is one thing that does.' 'What? YJur brothers?' *I do not know. Jt is niy sister Maria. I promised long ogo 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 be repented of when the cost is felt.' ' But why sliould you think of deserting her V lie said. * Surely I may help to bear your cares ; and there is something so good, so fjentle and loveable 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, ' vou think it is right to assume a new tie that must have higher claims than the prior one that Heaven fcent me.' ' Nay, dearest, is not the new one institiited by Heaven 1 If I promise that I will be as entii'ely ^laria'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 V ' Trust, oh ! indeed I do, and am thankful. But I am think- ing of you ! Poor dear Maria might be a drag, whei'e T should not ! And I cannot leave her to any of the others. She could uot 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 I Will that do, Phoebe V ' 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 youi fortune, though J still wish it were out of the way.' ' If it were not for Maria, I should.' 602 HOPES AND FEARS. 'And now wiih tliis hope and promise, I feel as if, even if it wf^re seven years, they would be like so many days,' said Hum^ frey. ' You will not be of those, my Phoebe, who suffer and are worn by a long engagement V ' One cannot tell withuufc a tiial,' said Phoebe ; ' but indeed 1 do not see why security and rest, or even hope deferred, should liurt me. Surely, having a right to think about you cannot do so r And her look out of those honest clear grey 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 V ' 1 shall be so glad to tell you everything, and have your lettez's ! Oh ! no, with them I am not going to pine' — and her strong young nature laughed at the folly. ' And while God gives me strengtli, we will not be afraid,' he answered. ' Phoebe, I looked at the last cha})ter 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 knov/ 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 1 Must your brothers be consulted V he added, reluctantly. ' It will be right that I should tell them,' said Phoebe. * From Robert I could not keep sucli a thing, and Mervyn has a right 10 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 kiiow you are to be such a rising engineer that they are all to be almost as proud of you as I am !' ' God hel|)ing 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 liis twenty-fourth year, had made experience of adversity, un- congeniality, 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, tiiat they looked bravely and cheerfully upon the battle, feeling HOPES AND FEAKS. 603 fiLeir strength Juubled as faithful compaiiionrf-in-arms,and willing iu that sti-ength 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 addi- tional vigour and enjoyment, while even the tokens of the tempest that they bore away were of perfect dazzling white- ness. Never was shelter less willingly attained than when the park •wicket of the Underwood was reached, just as the early twilight was becomiu" darkness. It was like a foretaste for Phoebe ol seeing him go his own way in the storm while she waited salely 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 wetl — are you cold V ' Oh, no, thank you 1 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 1 Miss Fennimore says I liave 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 saga- city and little paws would hardly have sufficed to dig you out of a snowdiift before life was extinct. Ai-e you greatly dis- pleased with me, Phoebe?' And being by this time in the bedroom, she faced about, shut the door, and looked full at hei* 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 flunor theii* arms round one another. ' You shall hear now.' ' No, no,' said Bertha, kissing her ; * ray time for obtrusive, childish curiosity is ovet- ! 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.' 604- HOPES AKD FEARS. * You oiighfc to be,' said Bertha, seriously. ' Ye?,' said Phcebe, taking the ouyht in a diffei'ent 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 yovi 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 Phosbe !' and she clung to her neck for a moment. * An instant more, Bertha. You see everything, I know ; but has Miss Fenuimore guessed V ■' No, my dear, I do not think any such syllogism has ever occurred to her as. Lovers 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 pei'haps,' ' You do not mean to wait for years f * We must.' * Then what's the use of having thirty thousand pounds V ' 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 propei-ty, 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 ca])ital ! Really, Pljcebe, I would not lose such a chance of going otife and seeing those glorious Lakes !' ' I have Maria to consider.' * Maria ! And why are you to be saddled with INTai'ia T ' Because I promised my mother — I pi-omised myself — I promised Mervyn, that she should be my care. I have told him of that promise, and he accejrts it most kindly.' ' You cannot leave her to me '/ Oh ! Phoebe, do you still think me as hateful as I used to bo V ' Dear, dear Bertha, I have full trust in your affection for her ; but I undertook the charge, and I cannot tlirust it on to another, who might ' ' Don't say that, Phoebe,' cried Bertha, impetuously, ' T am the one to have her ! I who certainly never can, never shall, HOPES AND FEARS. C05 n>;i!ry — I wlio am good for notliing but to look aftei' her. Say ^ou do not thiuk nie uuwortliy of her, Phoebe.' ' I say no such tiling,' said Phoebe, affectionately, ' but there is no use in discussing the matter. Dear Bertha, leave me, and compose youiself,' Truly, during that evening Bertha was the agitated one, her speech much affected, and her gestures restless, while I'hcebe 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 Fonnimoi'e and Maria from the drawing-room, till the governess, in per- ])iexity, began to think of consulting Phoebe whether a Jack Hastings affair could be cominsc over aaain. Phoebe simply tx'usted to the promise, and went about her morning's avocations with a heart at rest, and when at last Plumfrey Paudolf 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, ho\vever, rested not. As well as she could, under a feai'ful access of stammering, she insisted that Mr. Randolf sliould 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 upstairs, and desired by Bertha to find her book of dried flowers to show Mi'. Kiuidolf. Naughty Bertha, who really did not believe the dried flowers had ever been brought home from Woolstone Lane I It served tlie 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 befoi-e 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. '\A^e improve as we goon. Number three is the best of my brotliers- in-law, Phoebe,' .said Bertha, liglitly. Then leaving Piioebe to pacify Maria about the flowers, she went into her own room, and cried bitterly and overpoweriugly. 000 HOPES AND FEARS. CHAPTER XXXI. Thelda. T shoum love thee. Whate'er thou hadsfc chosen, thou wonldst still have acted Nobly and worthy of thee ; but repentance Shall ne'er disturb thy soul's fair peace. Mux. Then I must leave thee ; must part from thee I Thekla. Being faithful To thine owp aelf, thou art faithful too to me. Wallenstein. PIICEBE and Maria «^ent alone to the Park to receive the bridal pair, for poor Bertha was so nervous and unhinged as not even to wish to leave the fireside. It was jjlain that she nuist not be dejjrived of an ekier sister's care, and that it would be unlikely that she would ever have nerve enough to under- take the charge of Maria, even if Phoebe could think of shifting the responsibility, or if a feeble intellect could be expected to yield tlie same deference to a younger sister as came naturally to an elder one. Thus Phoebe's heart was somewhat heavy as she braced her- self for her communication to Mervyn, doubtful as to the extent of his probable displeasure, but for that very cause resolved on dealing openly from the first, while satisfied that, at her age, his right was rather to deference than to surrender of judgment. Maria roamed through the house, exclaiming at the alterations, and Phoebe sat still in the concentrated, resolute stillness tluit was lier form of suspense. They came ! The peals of the Ililtonbury bells rung merrily in the cold air, the snow sparkled bridally, the icicles glittered in the sunset light, the work-people stood round the house to cheer the arrival, and the sisters hurried out. It was no more the pale, patient face 1 The cheeks wei'e rounded, the brown eyes smiled, the haggard air, that even as a brid.e Cecily had worn, was entirely gone, and Mervyn watched exultingly PhcBbe's surjirise at what he had made of the wan, worn girl they had met at Hyeres. The only disappointment was Bertha's absence, and there was much regi'et that the new-comers had not heard of her cold so as to have seen her at the Underwood on their way. Tliey had spent the previous day in town in going over the distillery, by Cecily's particiilar wish, and had afterwards assisted at a grand impromptu entertainment of all the workpeople, at tlieir own expense and Robert's trouble. Mervyn did certainly seem carried out of his own knowledge of himself, and his wife had HOPES AND FEARS. CO? trarsgresRed every precedent left by his mother, who had never beheld Whittingtonia in her life ! Phoebe found their eager talk so mazy and indistinct to her perception that she became resolved to speak and clear her mind at the first opportunity ; so she tarried behind, when Cecily went up, under JMaria's delighted guidance, to take of! her bonnet, and accosted Mervyn with the ominous words, ' I want to speak to you." ' Make haste, then ; there is Cecily left to Maria.' * I wanted to tell yoix that I am engaged.' 'The deuce you are !' 'To Mr. Randolf, Miss Charlecote's Canadian cousin.* Mervyn, who had expected no less than John Raymond, whirled round in indignant surprise, and looked incredulously at her, but was confronted by her two open, unabashed eyes, as she stood firm on both lier feet, and continued : ' I have been thrown a good deal with him, so as to learn his goodness and superiority. I know you will think it a very bad match, for he has nothing bu|; his hands and head ; but we mean to wait till he can ofier what are considered as equal terms. We thought it right you should know.' ' Upon my word, that's a clever fellow !' Phcebe knew very well that this was ironical, but would not so reply. ' He has abilities,' she said, ' and we are ready to wait till he has made proof of them.' ' Well, what now ]' he cried in despair. '1 did thmk you the sensible one of the lot.' ' When you know him,' she said, with her fearless smile, 'you will own that I was sensible there.' 'Pieally, the child looks so complacent that shg would outface me that this mad notion was a fine thing ! I declare it is worse than Bertha's business; and you so much older! At least Hastings was a man of family, and this is a Yankee adventurer ] licked out of the back of a ditch by that young dog, Sandbrook. Only a Yankee could have had the im})udence ! I declare you are laughing all the time. What have you to say for yourself f ' His father was major in the — th dragoons, and was one of the Ptaudolfs of shire. His mother was a Charlecote. His birth is as good as our own, and you saw that he is a gentleman. His character and talents have gained his present situation, and it is a profession that gives every opening for ability ; nor does he ask for me till his fortune is made.' ' But hinders you from doing better ! Pray, what would Augusta say to you T he added, jocosely, for even while lashing himself up, his tone had been placable. * He shall satisfy her.' 608 Bx)PES AND FEARS. * How long has this been goiug on f * We only spoke of it yesterday. Bertha found it ont ; Imt 1 wish no one else to know it except Robert.' ' Somehow she looks so cool, and she is so entirely the last girl I expected to go crazy, that I can't laugh at the thing as i ouglit! J say, what's this about Miss Ohaiiecote ; will she do anything for him V ' I believe not.' * And pray who vouches for his antecedents, such as they are.' * Mr. Currieand Owen Sandbrook both know tlie whole.' * Is Sandbrook at the Holt V ' Yes,' answered Phoebe, suppressing herstroug distaste against bringing him into the atlair. ' Well, I shall make inquiries, and — and — it is a horrid unlucky business, and the old girl should be scarified for putting you in his way. The end will be that you'll marry on your own means, and be pinched for life. Now, look here, you are no fool at the bottom ; you will give it up if I find that he is no go.' ' If it be proved that I ought,' said Phoe1)e. ' And if you find him what I have told you, you will make no opposition. Tliauk you, Mervyn.' ' Stay,' said he, laughing, and letting her kiss him, ' I have made no promises, mind !' The confidence that Phoebe had earned had stood her in good stead. Mervyn had great trust in her judgraeuc, and was too ha]>py besides for severity on other peo]:)le's love. Nor were her ])erfect openness, and fearless though modest independence, without effect. She was not one who invited tyranny, but trnly ' queen o'er herself,' she ruled herself too well to leave the reins loose for others to seize. The result of the interview had surpassed her hopes, and she had nothing to regret but her brother's implied ])nrpose of con- sulting Owen Sandbrook. Friend of Hunifrey though he were, she could not feel secure of his generosity, and wished the engineer had been the nearer referee ; but she did not say so, as much for shame at her own uncharitableuess, as for fear of roiising Mervyn's di-ti ust j and she was afraid that her injunc- tions to secrecy would be disregarded. Fully awai-e that all would be in common between the husband and wife, she was still taken by surprise when Cecily, coming early next day to the Underwood to see Bertha, took her aside to say, ' De'irest, I hope this is all right, and for your happiness.' ' You will soon know that it is,' said Phoobe, brightly. HOPES AND FEARS. 609 * Ouly, ruy dear, it ijiust not be a loug engagement. Ah ! you think that nothing now, but I could not bear to think that ^ou were to go through a long attachment.' Was this forgiving Cecily really fancying that her sori-ows had been nothing worse than those incidental to a long attach- ment. ' Ah !' thought Phoebe, ' if she could ever have felt the full reliance on which I can venture, she need never have drooped! What is time to trust V Mervyn kept his word, and waiving ceremony, took his wife at once to the Holt, and leaving her with Miss Charlecote, made a visit to Owen in the study, wishing, in the first place, to satisfy himself of the young man's competence to reply to his questions. On this he had no doubt ; Owen had made steady l)rogress ever since he had been in England, and especially during the quiet time that had succeeded his sister's marriage. His mental powers had fully regained their keenness and balance, and though still incapable of sustained exertion of his faculties, he could talk as well as ever, and the first ten minutes con- vinced Mervyn that he was conversing with a shrewd sensible observer, who had seen a good deal of life, and of the world. He then led to the question about young Kandolf, endeavouring so to fi'ame it as not to betray the occasion of it. The reply fully confirmed all that Phoebe had averred. The single efforts of a mere youth, not eighteen at the time of his father's failure, without capital, and set down in a wild uncleared part of the bush, had of course been inadequate to retrieve the ruined fortunes of the family; but he had shown wonderful spirit, patience, and perseverance, and the duteous temper in v/hich he had borne the sacrifice of his prospects by his father's foolish speculations and unsuitable marriage, his affectionate treatment of the wife and children when left on his hands, and his cheerful endurance of the severest and most hopeless drudgery for the bare suppoi-t of life, had all been such as to inspii-e the utmost confidence in his character. Of his futiire prospects, Owen spoke with a sigh almost of envy. His talent and industry had already made him a valuable assistant to Mr. Currie, and an able engineer had an almost certain career of prosperity open to him. Lastly Mervyn asked what was the connexion with Miss Chax'lecote, and what possibilities it held out. Owen winced for a moment, then explained the second cousinsliip, adding, however, that there was no entail, that the disposal of Miss Charlecote's jiroperty was entirely in her own power, and tliat she had manifested no intention of treating the young man with more than ordinary civility, in fact that she had i-ather B R GIO HOPES AND FEARS. Bhrunk from acknowledging liis likeness to the family. Hia father's English relatives had, in like manner, owned him as a kinsmap ; but had shown no alacrity in making friends with him. The only way to be noticed, as the two gentlemen agreed, when glad to close their couferenco in a laugh, is to need no notice. ' Uncommon hard on a fellew,' soliloquized Owen, when left alone. ' Is it not enough to have one's throat cut, but must one do it with one's own hands? It is a fine thing to be magnani- mous when one thinks one is going off the stage, but quite another thing when one is to remain there. I'm no twelltU century saint, only a nineteenth century beggar, with an un- lucky child on my hands ! Am I to give away girl, land, and all to the fellow I raked out of his swamps? Better have let him grill and saved my limbs ! And pray what more am I to do? I've introduced him, made no secret of his parentage, puffed him off, and brought him here, and pretty good care he takes of himself ! Am I to pester poor Honey if she does prefer the child she bred up to a stranger ? No, no, I've done my part ; let him look out for himself !' Mervyn allowed to Phoebe that Kandolfwas no impostor, but warned her against assuming his consent. She suspected that Owen at least guessed the cause of these inquiries, and it ke])t her aloof from the Holt. When Miss Charlecote spoke of poor Owen's want of spirits, discretion told her that she was not the person to enliven him ; and the consciousness of her secret made her less desirous of confidences with her kind old friend, so that her good offices chiefly consisted in having little Owen to the Underwood to play with Maria, who delighted in his society, and unconsciously did much for his improvement. Honor herself perceived that Phoebe's visits only saddened her convalescent, and that in his present state he was hapjiiest with no one but her, who was more than ever a mother to him. They were perfectly at ease together, as she amused him with the familiar books, which did not strain his powers like new ones, the quiet household talk, the little playful exchanges of tender wit, and the fresh arrangement of all her museum on the natural system, he having all the entertain.n\ent, and she all the trouble, till her conversion astonished Bertha. The old religious habits of the Holt likewise seemed to soothe and give him pleasure ; but whether by force of old association, or from theii' hold on his heart, was as yet unknown to Honora, and perhaps to himself It was as if he were deferring all demonstration till he should be aljle again to examine the subject with con- centrated attention. Or it miglit be that, while he shrank HOPES AND FEARS. 611 from exerting himself upon Randolf s behalf, he was not ready tor repentance, and therefore distrusted, and Imng back from, the impulses that would otherwise have drawn him to renew all that he had once cast aside. He was never left alone witliout becoming deeply melancholy, yet no companionship save Honor'a seemed to suit him for many minutes together. His brain waa fast recovering the injury, but it was a trying convalescence; and with returning health, his perfect helplessness fretted him under all the difficulties of so tall and heavy a man being carried from bed to sola, from sofa to carriage. 'Poor Owen !' said Phoebe to herself, one day when she had not been able to avoid witnessing this pitiable spectacle of in- firmity ; ' I can't think why I am always flmcying he is doing Humfrey and me some injustice, and that he knows it. He, who brought Humfrey home, and has praised him to Mervyn ! It is very uncharitable of me, but ^hy will he look at me as if he were asking my pardon 1 Well, we shall see the result of Mervyn's inspection !' Mervyn and his wife were going for two nights to the rooms at the office, in the first lull of the bridal invitations, which were infinitely more awful to Cecily than to Phuibe. After twenty-nine years of quiet clerical life, Cecily neither under- stood nor liked the gaieties even of the county, had very little to say, and, unless lier aunt were present, made Phoebe into a protector, and retired behind her, till Fhoebe sometimes feared that Mervyn would be quite provoked, and remember his old dread lest Cecily should be too homily and bashful for her position. Poor dear Cecily ! She was as good and kind -is possible ; but in the present close intercourse it sometimes would suggest itself to Phoebe, ' was she quite as wise as she was good V And Miss Fennimoi^e, with still clearer eyes, inwardly decided that, though religion should above all form the morals, yet the morality of common sense and judgment should be cultivated with an equal growth. Cecily returned from London radiant with sisterly congratu- lation, in a flutter of delight with Mr. Eandolf, and intimating a glorious project in the background, devised between herself and Mervyn, then guarding against possible disappointment by declaring it might be all her own fancy. The meaning of these prognostics appeared the next raornifig. Mervyn had been much impressed by Humfrey Randolf 's keen business-like appearance and sensible conversation, as well as by Mr. Currie's opinion of him ; and, always detesting the trouble of his own distillery, it had occurred to him that to secure an active working partner, and throw his sieiei a B B 2 (ii2 HOPES AND FEARS. fortune into the business, would be a most convenient, generous, and brotherly means of smoothing the course of true love ; and Cecily had been so enchanted at the hapinness he would thus confer, that he came to the Underwood quite elevated with hia own kindness. Phoebe heard his offer with warm thankfulness, but could not answer for Humfrey. ' He has too much sense not to take a good offer,' said Mervyn, ' otherwise, it is all humbug his pretending to care for you. As to Piobert's folly, have not I given up all that any rational being could stick at. I tell you, it is the giving up those houses that makes me in want of capital, so you are bound to make it up to me.' Mervyn and Phcebe wrote by the same post. ' I will be satisfied with whatever you decide upon as right, were Phoebe's words j but she refrained from expressing any wish. What was the use of a wise man, if he were not to be let alone to make up his mind ? She would trust to him to divine what it would be to her to be thus one with hei- own family, and to gain him without losing her sisters. The balance must not be weighted by a woman's hand, when ready enough to incline to herside ; and why should she add to his pain, if he must refuse ? How ardently she wished, however, can be imagined. She could not hide from herself pictures of herself and Humfrey, sometimes in London, sometimes at the Underwood, working with Robert, and carrying out tlie projects which Mervyn but half acted on, and a quarter understood. The letter came, and the first line was decisive. In spite of earnest wishes and great regrets, Humfrey could not reconcile the trade to his sense of right, lie knew that as Mervyn con- ducted it, it was as unobjectionable as was possible, and that the works were admirably regulated ; but it was in going over the distillery as a curiosity he had seen enough to ])erceive that it was a line in which enterprise and exertion could only find sco]>e by extending tlie demoralizing sale of spirits, and ho trusted to Plioebe's agreeing with him, that when he already had a jjrofession fairly free from temptation, it was his duty not to ]nit himself into "one that might prove more full of danger to him than to one who had been always used to it. He liad not consulted Ptobert, feeling clear in his own mind, and thiidcing that he had probably rather not interfere. Kind Humfrey ! 'J'liat bit of consideration filled Phoebe's heart with grateful relief It gave her sjjirits to be comforted by the tender and cheering words with which the edge of the disappointment wuh softened, and herself thanked for her absti- HOPES AND FEAHS. 613 nence from persuasion. ' Oh, Ijetter to wait seven years, with such a Humfrey as this in reserve, than to let him war]) aside one inch of his sense of duty ! As high minded as dear Robert, without his ruggedness and harshness,' she tliought as she read the manly, warm-hearted letter to Mervyn, which he liad en- closed, and which she could not help showing to Bertha. It was lost on Bertha. She tliought it dall and poor-spirited not to accept, and manage the distillery just as he pleased. Any one could manage JVIervyn, she said, not estimating the difFerenco between a petted sister and a junior partner, and it was a new light to her that the trade — involving so much chemistry and mechanic ingenuity — was not good enough for anybody, unle.s3 they were peacocks too stujud to a]ipreciate the dignity of labour ! For the fii'st time Phoebe wi.shed her secret known to Miss Charlecote, for the sake of her appreciation of his triumph of principle. ' This is Robert's doing !' was Mervyn's first exclamation, when Phoebe gave him the letter. ' If there be an intolerable plague in the world, it is tlie having a fanatical fellow like that in the family. Nice requital for all I have thrown away for the sake of his maggots ! I declare I'll resume every house I ve let him have for his tomfooleries, and have a gin bottle blown as bisc as an ox as a sio-n for each of them.' Phoebe had a certain kn-king satisfaction in observing, when his malediction liad run itself down, ' He never consulted Robert.' ' Don't tell me that I As if Robert had not run about with his mouth open, reviling his father's trade, and pliiioing himself on keeping out of it.' ' Mervyn, j^ou know better ! Robert had said no word against you 1 It is the facts that speak for themselves.' ' The facts 1 You little simpleton, do you imagine that we distil the juices of little babies V Phoebe laughed, and he added kindly, ' Come, little one, I know this is no doing of yours. You have stuck by this wicked distiller of vile liquids through thick and thin. Don't let the parson lead you nor Randolf l>y the nose ; he is far too fine a fellow for that ; but come up to town with me and Cecily, as soon as Lady Caroline's bear fight is over, and make him hear reason.' ' I should be very glad to go and see him, but I caniiot persuade him.' * Why not V 'When a man has made up his mind, it would be wrong to f.ry to over-persuade him, even it' I believed that I could.' ' You know the alternative V 614 HOPES AXD FEARS. ' What ?' ' Ji;st breaking with him a little.' She smiled. ' We shall see what Ci'abbe, and Augusta, and Acton will say to your taking up with a dumpy leveller. We shall have another row. And you'll be broken uj) again !' That was by far the most alarming of his threats ; but she did not greatly believe that he would bring it to pass, or that an engagement, however imprudent, conducted as hers had been, could be made a plea for accusing Miss Fennimore or depriving her of her sistei's. She tried to express her thank- Idlness for the kindness that had prompted the original proposal, and her sympathy with his natui-al vexation at finding that a traffic which he had really ameliorated at considerable loss of profit, was still considei'ed objectionable ; but he silenced this at once as palaver, and went off to fetch his wife to try her arguments. This was worse than Phoebe had expected ! Cecily was too thoi'ough a wife not to have adopted all her husband's interests, and had totally forgotten all the objections current in her own family against the manufacture of spirits. She knew that great opportunities of gain had been yielded up, and such im- provements made as had converted the distillery into a model of its kind ; she was very proud of it, wished every one to bo happy, and Mervyn to be saved trouble, and thought the scriiples injurious and overstrained. Phoebe would not contest them with her. What the daughter had learnt by degrees, might not be forced on the wife ; and Phoebe would only protest against trying to shake a fixed purpose, instead of maintaining its grounds. So Cecily continued afi'ectionately hurt, and unneces- sarily compassionate, showing that a woman can hardly marry a ])erson of tone inferior to her own without some deterioration of judgment, beneficial and elevating as her influence maybe in the main. Poor Cecily ! she did the very thing that those acquainted with the ins and outs of the family had most deprecated ! She dragged Kobert into the afFaii', wiiting a letter, very pretty in wifely and sisterly goodwill, to entreat him to take Mr. Rahdolf in hand, and persuade him of the desirableness of the spirit maiuifacture in general, and that of the Fulmort house in par- ticular. The letter she received in return was intended to be very kind, but wa'j severely grave, in simply observing that what ho had not thought fit to do himselt^ he could not persuade another to do. HOPES AND FEARS. 015 Those ■words sotnehow acted upon Mervyn as bitter and un- grateful irony; and working himself up hy an account, in bis own colouring, of Robert's behaviour at the time of the foun- dation of St. Matthew's, he went thundering off to assure Phoebe that he viust take an active partner, at all events ; and that if she and Robert did not look out, he should find a moneyed maa who knew what he was about, would clear off Robert's waste, and restore the place to what it had once been, ' What is your letter, Phoebe V he asked, seeing an envelope in Robert's handwriting on her table. Phoebe coloui'ed a little. ' He has not said one word to Huni- fi'ey,' she said. ' And what has lie said to you 1 The traitor, insulting me to my wife f Phoebe thought for one second, then i-esolved to take the risk of reading all aloud, considering that whatever might be the effect, it could not be worse than that of his surmises. ' Cecily has written to me, greatly to my surprise, begging for my influence with Randolf to induce him to become partner in the house. I nnderstand by this that he has already refused, and that you are aware of his determination ; therefore I have no scru]ile in writing to tell yon that he is perfectly right. It is true that the trade, as Mervyn conducts it, is free from the most flagrant evils that deterred me from taking a share in it ; and I am most thankful for the changes he had made.' * You show it, don't you f interjected Mervyn. 'I had rather see it in his hands than those of any other person, and there is nothing blameworthy in his continuance in it. Bub it is of questionable expedience, and thei-e are still hereditary practices carried on, the harm of which he has not hitherto perceived, but which would assuredly shock a new comer such as Randolf. You can guess what would be the difficulty of obtaining alteration, and acquiescence would be even more fatal. I do not tell yon this as complaining of Mervyn, who has done and is doing infinite good, but to warn you against the least endeavour to influence Randolf. Depend upon it, even the accelerating your marriage would not secure your happiness if you* saw your husband and brother at continual variance in the details of the business, and opposition might at any moment lead Mervyn to undo ail the good he has effected.' ' Right enough there / and JNIervyn, who had looked furious at several sentences, laughed at last, 'I must get another partner, then, who can and will manage ; and when all the gin- palaces are more splendiferous than ever, what will you and tha 2)arson say f til 6 HOPES AND FEARS. ' That to do a little wrong in hopes of hindering another from doing worse, never yet succeeded !' said Phoebe, bravely. She saw that the worst was over when he had come to that jangh, and that the danger of a qnarrel between the brothers was averted. She did not know from how much terror and self- re])roach poor Cecily was suffering, nor her multitudinous reso- lutions against kindly interferences upon terra incognita. That fit of wrath suVisided, and Mervyn neither looked out for his moneyed partner, nor fulfilled his threat of bringing the united forces of the family displeasure upon his sister. Still there was a cloud ovei'shadowing the enjoyment, though not lessening the outward harmony of those early bridal days. The long, dark drives to the county gaieties, shut up with Mervyn and Cecily, were formidable by the mei-e existence of a topic, never mentioned, but always secretly dwelt on. And in spite of thi'ee letters a week, Phcebe was beginning to learn that trust does not fully make up to the heart for absence, by the distance of London to estimate that of Canada, and by the weariness of one mouth, the tediinn of seven years ! ' Yet,' said Bertha to Cecily, ' Phoebe is so stupidly like herself now she is engaged, that it is no fun at all. Nobody would guess her to be in love ! If thej cared for each otlier one rush, would not they have floated to bliss even on streams of gin V Cecily would not dispute their mutual love, but she was not one of those who could fully understand the double force of that love which is second to love of principle. Obedience, not judg- ment, had been her safeguard, and, like most women, she was carried along, not by the abstract idea, but by its upholdei'. Intuition, rather than what had actually passed before her, showed Phcebe more than once that Cecily was sorely j)erplexrfl by the difference between the standard of Sutton and that 'if Beauchamp. Strict, scrupulous, and dee])ly devout, the clergy- man's daughter suffered at every deviation from the practices '.f the Pai'sonage, made her stand in the wrong places, and while conscientiously and painfully fretting Mervyn about petty 'details, would be utdcnowingly carried over far greater stumbling- blocks. In her ignorance she would be distressed at habits which wei'e comparatively innocent, and then fear to put forth her influence at the right moment. There was hearty affection on either side, and Mervyn was exceedingly improved, but more than once Phoebe saw in poor Cecily's harassed, puzzled, wisttnl fnce, and heaixl in her faltering remonstrances, what it waa to have loved and married without perfect esteem and trust. HOPES AND FEAnS. tH? CHAPTER XXXlt. Get thee an ape, .iTid trudge the Land The leadsr of a juggling baud. Scott. MASTJCR HOWEN, Master Howen, you must not go np the best stairs.' ' But I will go up the best staii's. I don't like the nasty, dark, back stairs !' * Let me take off your boots, then, sir ; Mrs. Stubbs said she could not have such dirty marks ' 'I don't care for Mrs. Stubbs! I wont take my boots off ! Get off — I'll kick you if you toucli them ! I shall go where I like ! I'm a gentleman. I shall ave hall the Olt for my very hown r * Master Howen ! Oh my 1' For Flibbertigibliet's teeth were in the crack orphan's neck, and the foot that she had not seized kicking like a vicious colt, when a large hand seized him by the collar, and lifted him in mid-air; and the crack orphan, looking up as though the oft- invoked 'ugly man' of her infancy had really come to bear off naughty children, beheld for a moment, propped agninst the dnor-post, the tall figure and bearded head hitherto only seen on the sofa. The next instant the child had been swung into the study, and the apparition, stumbling with one hand and foot to the couch, said breathlessly to the frightened girl, ' 1 am soiry for my little boy's shameful behaviour ! Leave him here. Owen, stay.' The child was indeed standing, as if powei-less to move or even to cry, stunned by his flight in the air, and dismayed at the terrific presence in which he was for the first time left alone. Completely roused and excited, the elder Owen sat upright, speaking not loud, but in tones forcible from vehement feeling. ' Owen, you boast of being a gentleman I T>o you know what we are ? We are beggars 1 I can neither work for myself nor for you. We live on charity. That girl earns her bread — we do not 1 We are beggars ! Who told you otherwise V Instead of an answer, he only evoked a passion of frightened tears, so piteous, that he spoke more gently, and stretched out his hand ; but his sou shook his frock at him in terror, and f)]H HOPES AND FEARS. retreated out of reach, backwards into a corner, replying to liis calls and assui'ances with violent sobs, and broken entreaties to go back to ' granma.' At last, in despair, Owen lowered himself to the floor, and made the whole length of his person available ; but the child in the exti-emity of terror at the giant crawling after him, shrieked wildly and made a rush at the door, but was caught and at once drawn within the grasp of the sweeping arm. All was still. He was gathered up to the broad bi-east ; the hairy cheek was gently pressed against his wet one. It was a great ])Owerful, encii'cling cai'ess that held him. There was a strange thrill in this contact between the father and son — a new sensation of intense loving j)ity in the one, a great but soothing awe in the other, as struggling and crying no more, he clung ever closer and closer, and drew the arm tighter round him. ' My poor little fellow !' And never had there been such sweetness in those deep full tones. The boy responded with both arms round his neck, and face, laid on his shoulder. Poor child ! it was the affection that his little heart had hungered for ever since he had left his grand- mother, and which he had inspired in no one. A few more seconds, and he was sitting on the floor, resting egainst his father, listening without alarm to his question — ' Now, Owen, what were you saying V ' I'll never do it again, pa — never !' * No, never be disobedient, nor tight with gii-ls. But what were you saying about the Holt V ' 1 shall live here — I shall have it for my own.' 'Who told you sof ' Granma.' ' Grandmamma knows nothing about it.' * Sha'n't I, then T * Never ! Listen, Owen. This is Miss Charlecote's house as long as she lives — I trust till long after you are a man. It will be Mr. Randolf's afterwards, and neither you nor I have any- thing to do with it.' The two great black eyes looked up in inquiring, disappointed intelligence. Then he said, in a so.tisfied tone — * We aint beggars — we don't carry rabbit-skins and lucifers !* 'We do nothing so useful or profitable,' sighed poor Owen, striving to pull hini'-^elf up by the table, but desisting on finding that it was more likely to overbalance than to l)e a support. * My poor boy, you will have to work for me!' and he sadly Btroked down the light hair. HOPES AND FEARS. 610 ' Shall I V said tlie little fellow. ' May T have some white mice 1 I'll bring you all the halfpence, pa !' ' Bring me a "footstool, first of all. There — at this rate I shall be able to hop about on one leg, and be a more taking spectacle V said Owen, as dragging himself up by the force of hand and arm, he resettled himself on his couch, as much pleased as amazed at his first personal act of locomotion after seven months, and at the discovery of recovered strength in the sound limbs. Although with the reserve of convalescence, he kept his exploit secret, his spirits visibly I'ose ; and whenever he was left alone, or only with his little boy, he repeated hig expei-iraents, launching himself fi^om one piece of furniture to another ; and in spite of the continued deadness of the left aide, feeling life, vigour, and hope returning on him. His morbid shyness of his child had given way to genuine affection, and Owen soon found that he liked to be left to the society of Flibbertigibbet, or as he called him for short, Giblet-^, exacting in return the title of father, instead of the terrible 'pa.' Little Owen thought this a preparation for the itinerant white-mouse exhibition, wliich he was permitted to believe was only delayed till the daily gymnastic exertions should have resulted in the use of crutches, and till he could safely pro- nounce the names of the future mice, Hannibal, and Annabella, and other traps for aspirates ! Nay, his father was going to set up an exhibition of his own, as it appeared ; for after a vast amount of meditation, he begged for pen and jiaper, ruler and compasses, drew, wrote, and figured, and finally took to card- board a!id penknife, begging the aid of Miss Charlecote, greatly to the distress of the little boy, who had thought the whole atiair private and confidential, and looked forward to a secret departure early in the morning, with crutches, mice, and model. Miss Charlecote did her best with needle and gum, but could not understand ; and between her fears of trying Owen's patience and letting him overstrain his brain, wa.s so much distressed that he gave it up ; but it preyed on him, till one day Phoebe came in, and he could not help explaining it to her, and claiming her assistance, as he saw her ready comprehension. For two afternoons she came and worked under him ; and between card, wire, gum, aiid watch-spring, such a beauteous little model locomotive engine and train wore produced, that Owen archly assui-ed her that 'she would be a fortune in herself to a rising engineer,' and Honor was struck by the Hudden crimson evoked by the compliment. Little Owen thought their fortune made, and was rather 620 HOPES AND FEARS. disappointed at the delay, when his father, confirming his idea that their livelihood might depend on the model, insisted that it should be carried out in brass and wood, and caused his chair to be frequently wheeled down to the blacksmith's and carpentei-'s, whose comprehension so much more resembled their lady's than that of Miss Fulmort, and who made such intolerable blunders, that he bestowed on them more vitupera- tion than, in their opinion, ' he had any call to ;' and looked in a passion of despair at the numb, nerveless fingers, once his dexterous servants. Still his spirits wei'e immensely improved, since resolution, hope, and independence had returned. His mental faculties had recovered their force, and with the removal of the disease, the healthfulness and elasticity of his twenty-five years were beginning to compensate for the lost powers of liis limbs. As he accomplished more, lie grew more enterprising and less disinclined to show oflP his recovered powers. He first alarmed, then delighted Honor ; begged for crutches, and made such good use of them, that Dr. Martin held out fair hopes of progress, though advising a course of rubbing and sea-air at Brighton. Perhaps Honor had never been happier than during these weeks of im]H"ovement, with her boy so completely her own, and more than she had ever known him ; his dejection lessen- ing, his health returning, his playfulness brilliant, his filial fondness most engaging. She did not know the fixed resolu- tion that actuated him, and revived the entire man ! She did not know what was kept in reseiwe till confidence in his efii- ciency should dispose her to listen favourably. Meantime the present was so delightful to her that she trembled and watched lest she should be relapsing into the old idolatry. The tost would be whether she would put Owen above or below a clear duty. The audit of farm-accounts before going to Brighton was as unsatisfactory as the last. Though not beyond her own powers of unravelling, they made it clear that Brooks was superan- nuated. It was piteous to see the old man seated in the study, racking his brains to recollect the transaction with Farmer Hodnet about seed-wheat and working oxen ; to ex])laiii for what the three extra labourers had been 2:)ut on, and to discover his own meaning in charging twice over for the repairs of Joe Littledale's cottage ; angered and overset by his misttress's gentle cross-exan)ination, and enraged into absolute disrespect when that old object of dislike, INFr. Sandbrook, looked over tho books, and muttered suggestions under his moustache. HOPES AND FEARS. 6*21 'Poor old man !' both exclaimed, as lie left the room, and Honor siglied deeply over this failure of the last of the supports left her by Humfrey. ' I must pension him off,' she said. ' I hope it will not hurt his feelings much !' and then she turned away to her old-lashioned bureau, and applied herself to her entries in her farming-books, while Owen sat in his chair, dreamily caressing his beard, and revolving the proposition that had long been in his mind. At last the tall, red book was shut, the pen wiped, the bureau locked, and Honor came back to her place by the table, and resumed her needlework. Still there was silence, till she began : ' Tliis settles it ! I have been thinking about it ever since you have been so much better. Owen, what should you think of managing the property for me V He only answered by a quick interrogative glance. ' You see,' she continued, ' by the help of Brooks, who knew his master's ways, I have pottered on, to my own wonderment; but Brooks is past work, my downhill-time is coming, high fai-ming has outrun us both, and I know that we are not doing as Humfrey would wish by his inheritance. Now I believe that nothing could be of greater use to me, the people, or the place, than that you should be in charge. We could put some deputy under your control, and contrive for your getting about the fields. I would give you so much a year, so that your boy's education would be your own doing, and we should be so com- fortable.' Owen leant back, much moved, smiled and said, ' Thanks, dear Honor ; you are much too good to us.' * Think about it, and tell me what would be right. Brooks has lool. a year, but you will be worth much more, for you will develop all the resources, you know.' * Best Honor, sweetest Honey,' said Owen, hastily, the tears rising to his eyes, ' I cannot bear to frustrate such kind plans, nor seem moi-e ungrateful than I have been already. I will not live on you for nothing longer than I can help ; but indeed, this must not be.' ' Not V 'No. There are many reasons against it. In the first place, I know nothing of farming.' ' You would soon leai-n.' * And vex your dear old spirit with steam-ploughs and hay- making machines.' She smiled, as if from him she could endure even steam. 'Next, sucii an administration would be highly distasteful here. My overweening airs as & boy havti not been forgotteUj 622 HOPES AND FEARS. and I have always been looked ou as an interloper. Depend on it, poor old Brooks fancies the muddle in his accounts wax a suggestion of my malice ! Imagine the feelings of Hiltou- bury, when I, his supi)lanter, begin to tighten the reins.' ' If it be so, it can be got over,' said Honor, a little aghast. 'If it ought to be attempted,' said Owen; 'but you have not heard my personal grounds for refusing your kindness. All } our goodness and kind teaching cannot preven t the undesir- ableuess of letting my child grow up here, in a half-and-half jiosition, engendering domineering airs and imreasonable expec- tations. Yen know how, in spite of your care and warnings, it worked on me, though I had more advantages than that poor little man. Dear Honor, it is not you, but myself that I blame. You did your utmost to disabuse me, and it is only the belief that my absurd folly is in human nature that makes me thus vmgracious.' 'But,' said Honora, murmuring, as if in shame, 'you know you, and therefore your child, must be my especial chai-ge, and always stand first with me.' ' First in your affection, dearest Honey,' he said, fondly ; ' I trust I have been in that place these twenty years ; I'll never give that up ; but if I get as well as I hope to do, I mean to be no charge on any one.' ' You cannot return to your profession T ' My riding and surveying days are over, but there's plenty of work in me still ; and I see my way to a connexion that will find me in enough of writing, calculating, and drawing, to keep mj'self and Owen, and I exj)ect to make something of my invention too, when I am settled in London.' ' In London V * Yes ; the poor old woman in Wliittington-street is breaking — pining for her gi-andchild, I believe, and losing her lodgers, from not being able to make them comfortable ; and without what she had for the child, she cannot keep an efl'ective servant. I think of going to help her out.' ' That woman ¥ ' Well, I do owe her a duty ! I robbed her of her own child, and it is cruel to deprive her of mine when she has had all the trouble of his babyhood. Money would not do the thing, even if I had it. I have brought it on myselt, and it is the only atonement in my jiower ; so I mean to occupy two or three of her rooms, work there, and let her have the satisfaction of " doing for me." When you are in town, I shall hop into Woolstone-lane. You will give me' holidays here, wont you ? And whenever you want me, let me be your son I To that HOPES AND FEARS. 623 you know I reserve my right,' and he beut towards her afleo- tionately. ' It is very right — very noble,' she was faltering forth. Ho turned quickly, the tears, ready to fall, springing quite forth. ' Honor ! you have not been able to say that siuce 1 was a child ! Do not spoil it. If this be right, leave it so.' ' Only one thing, Owen, are you sufficiently considei-iug your son's good in taking him thei-e, out of tlie way of a good educa- tion.' ' A working education is the good one for him,' said Owen, * not the being sent at the cost of others — not even covertly at yours, sweet Honey — to an expensive school. He is a working man's son, and must so feel himself. I mean to face my own penalties in him, and if 1 see him in a grade inferior to what was mine by birth, I shall know that though I brought it ou him, it is more for his real good and hap])iness to be a man of the people, than a poor half-acknowledged gentleman. So much for my Americanisms, Honor !' * But the dissent — the cant !' ' Not so much cant as real piety obtrusively expressed. Poor old thing ! I have no fear but that little Giljlets will go my "way ! he worships me, and I shall not leave his lis nor more important matters to her mercy. He is nearly big enough tor tlie day school ]\Ir. Parsons is setting ou foot. It is a great consideration that the place is in the St. Matthew's district !' ' Well, Owen, I cannot but see that it may be your I'ightest course ; I hojje you may find yourself equal to it,' said Uonoi*, struggling with a fresh sense of desertion, though with admira- tion and esteem returning, such as were well worth the disa]^>- pointment. 'If not,' said Owen, smiling, to hide deeper feelings, 'I re- serve to you the pleasure of maintaining me, nursing me, or what not 1 If my carcase be good for nothing, I hereby make it over to you. And now, Honor, I have not beeu witiiout thought for you. I can tell you of a better successor for Brooks.' ' Well !' she said, almost crossly. 'Humfrey Charlecote Ptandolf,' said Owen, slowly, giving full eflect to the two Christian names. Honor started, gasjjed, and snatching at the first that occurred of her objections, exclaimed, ' But, my deai% he is as much an engineer as yourself.' ' From necessity, not choice. He farmed till last August.' ' Canadian farming ! Besides, what nonsense to oflfer a young man, with all the world before him, to be bailifi" of this little place.' 624 HOPES AND FEARS. ' It would, were he only to staad iu Brooks's position ; but if he were the acknowledged heir, as he ought to be — yes, I know I am saying a dreadful thing — but, my good Queen Elizabeth, your Grace would be far wiser to accept Jamie at once than to keep your subjects fi-etting over your partialities. He will be a worthy Humfrey Charlecote if you catch and pin him down young. He will be worthy any way, bub if you let him go levelling and roaming over the world for the best half of his life, tliis same Holt will lose its charms for him and his heirs for evei".' * But — but how can you tell that he would be caught and pinned?' ' Tliere is a very sufficient piu at the Underwood.' * My dear Owen, impossible !' * Mind, no one has told me in so many words, but Mervyn Fulmort gave me such an examination on Randolf as men used to do when matrimony is in the wind; and since that, he infei-red the engagement, when he came to me in no end of a rage, because my backwoodsman had conscientiovis scruples against partaking in their concoction of evil spirits.' ' Do you mean that Mervyn wants to employ him V ' To take him into partnex'ship, on the consideration of a certain thirty thousand. You may judge whence that was to come ! And he, like Robert, declined to live by murdering bodies and souls. I am afraid Mervyn has been persecuting them ever since.' * Ever since when V ' This last conversation was some three weeks ago. I suspect the principal parties settled it on that snowy Twelfth- day ' ' But which of them, Owen V 'Which?' exclaimed Owen, laughing. 'The goggle or the squint V ' For shame, Owen. But I cannot believe that Phoebe would not have* told me !' ' Having a sister like Lady Bannerman may hinder confidences to friends.' ' Now, Owen, are you sure V * As sure as I was that it was a moonstruck man that slept in my room in Woolstone Lane. I knew that Cynthia's darts had been as effective as though he had been a son of Niobe !' ' I don't believe it yet,' cried Honor ; ' an honourable man — a sensible girl ! Such a wild thing !' 'Ah ! Queen Elizabeth! Queen Elizabeth! shut up an honour- able man and a sensible girl iu a cedar parlour every evening HOPES AND FEAIIS. 6/i3 for ten days, and tlien talk of wild tliiugs ! Have you forgotten what it is to be under twenty-five?' ' I hate Queen Elizabeth,' said Honor, somewhat tartly. He muttei-ed something of an apology, and resumed his book. She worked on in silence, then looking up said, rather as if re- joicing in a valid objection, ' How am I to know that this man is first in the succession'? I am not suspecting him of imi)osi- tion. I believe that, as you say, his mother was a Charle- cote, but how do 1 know that she had not half-a-dozcn brothers. There is no obligation on me to leave the place to any one, but this youth ought not to come before others.' 'That is soon answered,' said Owen. 'The runaway, your gi-andfather's brother, led a wild, Leather-Stocking life, till he was getting on in years, then married, luckily not a squaw, and died at the end of the first yeai-, leaving one daughter, who married Major Randolf, and had this only son.' 'The same relation to me as Humfrey ! Impossible ! And pray how do you prove this T • I got Currie to make notes for me which I can get at in my room,' said Owen. ' You can set your lawyer to write to the ]^laces, and satisfy yourself without letting him know anything abotit it.' ' Has he any expectations V ' I imairine not. I think he has never found oiat that oui relationship is not on the Charlecote side. ' Then it is the more — impertinent, I I'eally must say, in him to pay his addresses to Phcebe, if he have done so.' ' I can't a^ree with you. What was her father but an old distiller, who made his fortune and married an heiress. xou sophisticated old Honey, to expect him to be dazzled with her fortune, and look at her from a respectfid distance ! T thought you believed that " a man's a man for a' that," and would esteem the bold spirit of the man of progress.' ' Progress, indeed !' said Honor, ironically. 'Listen, Honor,' said Owen, 'you had better accuse me of this fortune-hunting which offends you. I have only obeyed Fate, and so will you. From the moment I met him, he seemed as one I had known of old. It was Charlecotism, of course ; and his signature filled me with presentiment. Nay, though the tire and the swamp have become mere hearsay to me now, I still retain the recollection of the impression throughout my illness that he was to be all that I might have been. His straightforward good sense and manly innocence brought Phojbe before me, and Currie tells me that I had fits of hatred to him as my supplanter, necessary as his care was to me.' 626 HOPES AND FEARS. Honor just stopped herself from exclaiming, 'Never!' and changed it into ' My own dear, generous boy !' 'You forget that I thought it was all over with me ! The first sensations I distinctly remember were as I lay on my bed at Montreal, one Sunday evening, and saw him sitting in tliR window, his profile clearly cut against the light, and retracing all those old silhouettes over the mantelshelf. Then I remem- bered that it had been no sick delusion, but truth and verity, that he was the missing Charlecote ! And feeling far more like death than life, I was glad that you should have some one to lean on of your own sort ; for. Honor, it was his Bible that he was reading ! — one that he had saved out of the fire. I thought it was a lucid interval allowed me for the sake of giving you a better son and su'pport than I had been, and looked forward to your being happy with him. As soon as I could get Currie alone, I told him how it stood, and made him take notes of the evidence of his identity, and promise to make you understand it if I were dead or childish. My best hope was to see him accepted as my expiation ; but when I got back, and you wouldn't have him at any price, and I found myself living and lifelike, and had seen her again ' ' Her ? Phoebe 1 My poor boy, you do not mean- ' I do mean that I was a greater fool than you even took me for,' said Owen, with rising colour. 'First and last, that pure chikl's face and honest, plain words had an effect on me whicli nothing else had. The other aftair was a mere fever by com- parison, and half against my will V 'Owen!' ' Yes, it was. When I was with that poor thing, her fervour carried me along ; and as to the marriage, it was out of short- sighted dread of the ujtroar that would liave followed if I had not done it. Either she would have drowned herself, or her mother would have prosecuted me for breach of promise, or slie would have proclaimed all to Lucy or Mr. Prendergast. I hadn't courage for either ; though. Honor, I had nearly told you the day I went to Ireland, when I felt myself done for.' ' You were married then V ' Half an hour !' said Owen, with something of a smile, and a deep sigh. 'If I had spoken, it would have saved a lil'e ! but I could not bear to lose my place with you, nor to see that sweet face turned from me.' ' You must have known that it would come out in tinxi, Owen. I never could undei-stand your concealment.' ' I hardly can,' said Owen, ' except that one slmffles off un- pleasant subjects 1 I did fancy I could stave it off till Oxfoid HOPES AND FEARS. 627 was over, and I was free of the men there ; hnt that notion might have been a mere excuse to myself for putting off the evil clay. I was too much in debt, too, for an oi)en ruptui'o with you ; and as to her, I can truly say that my sole shadow of an excuse is that I was too youug and selfish to understand what I was inflicting !' He passed his hand over his face, and groaned, as he added — ' Well, that is over now ; and at last I can bear to look at her child !' Then recurring iu haste to the former subject — ' You were asking about Phoebe ! Yes, when I saw the fresh face, ennobled, but as simple as ever, the dog in the manger seemed to me a reasonable beast ! Randolf's admi- ration was a bitter pill. If I were to be nailed here for evei*, I could not well spare the moonbeams fiom my prison ! But that's over now — it was a diseased fancy ! I have got my boy now, and can move about ; and when I get into harness, and am in the way of seeing people, and maturing my invention, I shall never think of it again.' ' ^h ! I am afraid that is all I can wish for you !' ' Don't wish it so pitifully, then,' said Owen, smiling. * After having had no hope of her for five years, and being the poor object I am, this is no such great blow ; and I am come to the mood of benevolence in which I really desire nothing so much as to see them hapjDy.' ' I will think about it,' said Honor. And though she was bewildered and disappointed, the inter- view had, on the whole, made her happier, by restoring the power of admiring as much as she loved. Yet it was liard to be required to sacrifice the interests of one whom she adored, her darling, who might need help so much, to do justice to a comparative stranger ; and the more noble and worthy Owen showed himself, the less willing was she to decide on connnitting herself to his unconscious rival. Still, did the test of idolatry lie here 1 She perceived how light-hearted this conversation had rendered Owen, as though he had thrown off a weight that had long been oppi'essing him. He was overflowing with fun and drollery throughout the journey ; and though still needing a good deal of assistance at all clianges of carriage, showed positive boyish glee in every feat he could accomplish for himself; and instead of shyly shrinking from the observation and casual he!]) of fellow-travellers, gave ready smiles and thanks. Exhilarated instead of wearied by the journey, he was full of enjoyment of the lodgings, the window, and the view ; a new spring of youthfulness seemed to have come bnck to him, and his animation and enterprise carried Honor along with him. s s 2 G2S HOPES AND FEARS. Assuredly she had never known more thorough preseut pleasure than in his mirthful, affectionate talk, and in the sight of his daily progress towards recovery ; and a still greater happiness was in store for her. On the second day, he bei:gcd to accom- ];aiiy her to the week-day service at the neighbouiing church, previously sen'ding in a request for the ofiering of the thanks of Owen Charteris Sandbrook for preservation in great danger, and recovery from severe illness. ' Dearest,' she said, * were I to recount my causes of thanks- giving, I should not soon have done ! This is best of all.' ' Not fully best yet, is it V said Owen, looking up to her with eyes like those of his childhood. ' No ; but it soon will be.' ' Not yet,' said Owen ; ' I must think first ; perhaps write or talk to liobert Fuluiort. I feel as if 1 could now.' ' You long for it V ' Yes, as I never even thouc/ht I did,' said Owen, with much emotion. ' It was strange. Honor, as soon as I came home to the old places, how the old feelings, that had bei-n set aside so long, came back again. I would have given the world to recover them in Canada, but could only envy Randolf. till they woke up ar;ain of themselves at the sight of the study, and the big Bible we used to read with you.' ' Yet you never spoke.' * No ; I could not till I had proved to myself that there was no time-serving in them, if you must know the truth 1' said Owen, colouring a little. ' Besides, having been told my wits would go, how did I know but that they were a symptom of my second childhood V ' How could any one have been so cruel as to utter such a horrible presage V * One overhears and understands more than people imagine, when one has nothing to do but to lie on tlio broad of ones back and count the flies,' said Owen. ' So, when I was convinced that my machine was as good as ever, but only would not stanil application, I put off the profession, just to be sure what I should think of it when I could think.^ ' Well !' was all Honor could say, gazing throiigh glad tears. ' And now, Honor dear,' said lie, with a smile, * I don't know how it is. I've tried experiments on my brains. I have gone through half-a-dozen tough calciihitions. I have read over a Greek play, and made out a problem or two in mechanics, without being the worse for it ; but, somehow, I can't for the life of me hark back to the opinions that had such power over HOPES AND FEARS. 629 nie at Oxford. I can't even recollect the lialf of them. It is as if that hemlock spruce had buttered them out of my head.' • Even like as a dream when one awaketh.' ' Something like it ! Why, even unknownst to you, sweet Tloney, I got at one or two of the books I used to swear by, aud somehow I could not see the force of what they advanced. There's a futility about it all, compared with the substance.' 'Before, you did not believe with your heart, so your under- standing failed to be convinced.' ' Partly so,' said Owen, thoughtfully. ' The f;ict is, that religion is so much jiroved to the individual by personal expe- rience and actual sensation, that those who reason from without are on different ground, and the avocato del diavolo has often ajipareutly the advantage, because the other party's security is that witness in liis own breast which CJinnot be brought to light.' ' Only apparently.' 'Really, sometimes, with the lookei's-on who have accepted the doctrines without feeling them. They, having no experience, feel the failure of evidence, where the tangible ends.' 'Do you mean tosay that this was the case with yourself, my dear] I should have thought, if ever child were good ' ' So did I,' said Owen, smiling. ' I simulated the motions to myself and every one else : and thei-e was a grain of reality, after all ; but neither you nor I ever knew how much was mere imitation and personal influence. When I outgrew implicit faith iu you, I am afraid my higher faith went with it — first through recklessness, then through questioning. After believing mf)re than enough, the transition is easy to doubting what is worthy of ci'edit at all.' ' From supei'Stition to rationalism.' ' Yes ; overdoing articles of faith and observances, while the mind and conscience are young and tender, brings a dangerous reaction when liberty and independent reflection begin.' ' But, Owen, I may have overdone observances, yet I did not teach superstitious,' said Honor. ' Not conscioiTsly,' said Owen. ' You meant to teach me dog- matically only what yon absokitely believed yovirself. But you did not know how boundless is a child's readiness to accept what comes as from a spiritual authority, or you would have drawn the line more strongly between doctrine and opinion, fact and allegory, the ti-ue and the edifying.' ' In effect, I treated you as the Komish Church began by doing to the populace.' ' Exactly so. Like the mediseval populace, I took legend for CSO UOPES AND FEARS. tact ; and like the modern populace, doubted of the whole together, instead of sifting. Tliere is my confession, Honor dear. I know you are happier for hearing it in full ; but remember, my errors are not chargeable upon you. If I had ever been true towards myself or you, and acted out what I thought I felt, I sliould have had the personal experience that wouhl have protected the truth when the pretty superstructure began to pass away.' ' What you have undertaken now is an acting out !' 'I hope it is. Therefore it is the hrwt time tliat I have ever trusted myself to be in earnest. And after all, Honor, though it is a terrible jiast to look back on^ it is so very pleasant to be coming home, and to realize mercy and pardon, and hopes of doing better, that 1 can't feel half the broken-down sorrow that ])frhaps ought to be mine. It wont stay with me, when I have you before me.' Honor could not be uneasy. She was far too glad at heart for that. The rej^entance was proving itself true by its fruits, and who could be anxious because the gladness of forgiveness overpowered the pain of contrition 1 Her inordinate affection had made her blind and credulous where her favourite was concerned, so as to lead to his seeming ruin, yet when the idol throne was overturned, she had learnt to find sufficiency in her Maker, and to do offices of love without excess. Then after her time of loneliness, the very darling oi her heart had been restored, when it was safe for her to have him once more ; biat so changed that he himself guarded against any recurrence to the old exclusive worship. CHAPTER XXX III, But the pine woods waved, And the white streams raved. They told me iji niy need, That softness and feeling. Were not soul-healing; And so it was decreed — That the marvellous llovveis of woman's duty, Should grov/ on the grave of buiied beauiy. Fabkr. EASTER was at hand, and immediately after it Mr. Curi-ie was to return to Canada to superintend the formation of the Grand Ottawa and Superior line. He and his assistants were hard at work on the specifications, when a heavy tap and tramp came ud the stairs, and Owen Sandbrook stood HOPES AND FEARS. 6"1 Itefore them, leauiug on his crutch, and was greeted with joyful congratuhitions ou being on his legs again. '"Randoll",' he said, hastily, 'Miss Charlecote is waiting in the carriage to speak to you. Give me your pen.' ' I shall be back in an instant.' ' Time will show. Where are you 1 — " such sleepers to be — " I see. Down with you.' ' Yes ; never mind hurrying back,' said the engineer ; ' we can get this done without you' — and as the door closed — ' and a good deal beside. I hear you have put it in train.' ' I have every reason to hope so. Does he guess V 'JSTot a whit, as far as I can tell. He has been working hard, and improving himself in his leisure. He would have made a first-rate engineer. It is really hard to be robbed of two such assistants one after the other.' Meanwhile Honor had spent those few moments in trepida- tion. She had brouglit herself to it at last ! The lurking sense of injustice had persuaded her that it was crossing her conscience to withhold the recognition of her heir, so soon as she had received full evidence of his claims and his worthiness. Though she had the power, she felt that she had not the right to dispose of her property otherwise ; and such being the case, it was a duty to make him aware of his prospects, and offer him such a course as should best enable him to take his future place in the county. Still it was a severe struggle. Even with her sense of insufficiency, it was hard to resign any part of the power that she had so long exercised ; she felt that it was a risk to put her happiness into unknown hands, and perhaps because she had had this young man well-nigh thrust on her, and had heard him so much lauded, she almost felt antagonistic to him as rival of Owen, and could have been glad if any cause for repudiating liim would have arisen 1 Even the favour that he had met with in Phoebe's eyes was no recommendation. She was still sore at Phoebe's want of confidence in her ; she took Mervyn's view of his presumption, and moreover it was another prize borne off from Owen. Poor dear Honor, she never made a greater sacrifice to principle than when she sent her William off to Normandy to summon her Edgar Atheling. She did rot imagine that she had it in her to have hated any one so much. Yet, somehow, when the bright, open face appeared, it had the kindred, familiar air, and the look of eagerness so visibly fell at the sight of her alone in the carriage, that she could not defend herself from a certain amusement and interest, while sh« graciously desired him to get in, and drive with her round the 632 HOPES AND FEARS, Park, since she had something to tell hiin that could not he said in a hnriy. Then as he looked up in inquiry, susjiecting, perhaps, that she had heard of his engagement, she rushed at once to tlie point. * I believe you know,' she said, ' that I have no neai'er relation than yourself?' ' Not Sandbrook V he asked, in surprise. ' He is oii my mothei-'s side. I speak of my own family. When the Holt came to me, it was as a trust for my lifetime to do my best for it, and to find out to whom afterwards it should belong. I was told that the direct heir was probably iu America. Owen Sandbrook has couviuced me that you are that person. ' Thank you,' began young Eandolf, somewhat embarrassed ; ' but I hope that this will make little difi'ereuce to me for many years !' Did he undei-rate the Holt, the wretch, or was it civility. She spoke a little severely. ' It is not a considerable property, but it gives a certain position, and it sliould make a diflerence to you to know what your prospects are.' The colour flushed into his cheeks as he said, * True ! It may have a considerable effect in my favour. Thank you for telling me;' and then paused, as tliough considering whether to volunteer more, but as yet her manner was not encouraging, but had all the dryness of effort. 'I have another reason for speaking,' she continued. 'It is due to you to warn you that the estate wants looking after. I am unequal to the requirements of modern agriculture, and my faithful old bailiff, who was left to me by my dear cousin, is past his work. Neither the land nor the people are receiving full justice.' * Surely Sandbrook could find a trustworthy steward,' returned the young man. * Nay, had you not better, according to his suggestion, come and live on the estate yourself, and undertake the manage- ment, with an allowance in proportion to your position as the heir V Her heart beat high with the crisis, and she saw his colour deepen from scarlet to crimson as he said, ' My engagement with Mr. Currie ' ' Mr. Currie knows the state of things. Owen Sandbrook has been in communication with him, and he does not expect to take you back with him, unless you prefer the variety and enterjirise of your profession to becoming a country gentlemiin of moderate means.' Slie almost hoped that he would, as she HOPES AND FEARS. 635 named the rental and the proposed allowance, adding, ' Tlio estate must eventually come to you, but it is for you to consider whether it may not be better worth having if, iu the interim, it be under your superintendence.' He had had time to grow more familiar with the idea, and spoke readily and frankly. ' Indeed, Miss Charlecote, I need no inducement. It is the life I should prefer beyond all others, and I can only hope to do my duty by you, and whatever you may think fit to entrust to me.' And, almost against her will, the straightforward honesty of his look brought back to her the countenance where she had always sought for help. ' Then your past misfortunes have not given you a distaste to farming V ' They did not come from farming, but speculation. I was brought up to farm work, and am more at home in it than in anything else, so that I hope I could be useful to you.' She was silent. Oh, no ; she had not the satisfaction of being displeased. He was ready enough, but not grasping ; and she found herself seeing more of the Charlecote in him, and liking him better than she was ready to grant. ' Miss Charlecote,' he said after a few moments' thought, ' in the relations you ai-e establishing between us, it is right that you should know the full extent of the benefits you are con- ferring.' It was true, then ? Well, it was better than a Kew World lady, and Honoi-a contrived to look pleasantly expectant. ' I know it was very ])resuinptuous,' he said ; ' but I could not help making my feelings known to one who is very dear to you — Miss Fnlmort.' ' Indeed she is,' said Honor ; though maybe poor Phoebe had of late been a shade less dear to her. ' And with your consent,' said he, perliaps a little disconcerted by her want of warmth, ' I hope this kindness of yours may abridge the term of waiting to which we looked forward.' ' What were you waiting for V •Until such time as I could provide a home to which she could take her sister Maria. So you see what you have done for us.' ' Maria !' 'Yes. She promised her mother, on her deathbed, that Maria should be her charge, and no one could wish her to lay it aside.' 'And the family are aware of the attachment?' 'The brothers are, and have been kinder than I dared to 634 HOPES AND FEARS. expect. It was thought better to tell no one else until we could see our way ; but you have a right to kuow now, and I have the more hope thnt you will find comfort in the arrangement> since I know how warmly and gratefully she feels towards you. I may tell her V he added, with a good deal of affirmation in his question. ' What would you do if I told you not V she asked, thawing for the first time out of her set speeches. * I should feel very guilty and uncomfortable in writing.' 'Then come home with me to-morrow, and let us talk it over,' she said, acting on a mandate of Owen's which she had strenuously refused to promise to obey. ' You may leave your work in Owen's hands. He wants to stay a few days in town, to arrange his plans, and, T do believe, to have the pleasure of in- dependence ; but he will come back on Saturday, and we will spend Easter together.' ' Miss Charlecote,' said Humfrey, suddenly, ' I have no right to ask, but I cannot but fear that my haviug turned u\> is an injury to Sandbrook.' ' I can only tell you that he has been exceedingly anxious for the recognition of your rights.' ' I understand now !' exclaimed Humfrey, turning towards her quickly ; he betrayed it when his mind was astray. I am thrusting him out of what would have been his !' * It cannot be helped,' began Honor ; ' he never expected ' *I can say nothing against it,' said the young man, with much emotion. 'It is too generous to be talked of, and these are not matters of choice, but duty ; but is it not possible to make some compensation V ' I have done my best to lay up for those children,' said Honor ; ' but his sister will need her full half, and my City property has other claimants. I own I should be glad to secure that, after me, he should not be entirely dependent upon health which, I fear, will never be sound again.' ' I know you would be happier in arranging it yourself, though he has every claim on my gratitude. Could not the estate be charged with an annuity to him V ' Thank you !' said Honor, warmly. ' Such a provision will suit him best. I see that London is his element ; indeed, he is so much incapacitated for a country life that the estate would liave been a burthen to him, could he have rightly inherited it. He is bent on self-maintenance ; and all I wish is, that when I am gone, he should have something to fall back upon.' ' i do not think that I can thank you more heartily for any of your benefits than for making me a party to this !' he warmly HOPES AND FEARS. 635 8:u(l. * But there is no thanking you j I must try to v:lo so by deeds.' She was forced to allow that her Atheling was winning uijon her ! ' Two points I liked,' she said to Robert, who spent the evening with her, M'hile Owen was dining witli Mr. Carrie — ' one that he accepted the Holt as a charge, not a gift — the other that he never professed to be marrying for mij sake.' ' Yes, he is as true as Phoebe,' said Eobert. ' Both have real power of truth from never deceiving themselves. They per- fectly suit one another.' ' High praise Irom you, Eobin. Yet how could you forgive his declaration from so unequal a position T ' I thought it part of his consistently honest dealing. Had she been a mere child, knowing nothing of the world, and sub- ject to parents, it might have been otherwise; but independent and formed as she is, it was but just to avow his sentiments, and give her the choice of waiting.' 'In spite of the obloquy of a poor man paying court to wealth V ' I fancy he was too single-minded for that idea, and that it was not wealth which he courted was proved by his rejer^tioa of Mervyn's ofier. Do you know, I think his refusal will do Mervyn a great deal of good. He is very restless to find out the remaining objections to his management, and Randolf will have more influence with him than I ever could, while he con- biders parsons as a peculiar species.' ' Tf people would only believe the good of not compro- mising !' ' They must often wait a good while to see the good !' * But, oh ! the fruit is worth waiting for ! Robin,' she added, after a pause, ' you have been in correspondence with my boy.' ' Yes,' said Robert ; * and there, indeed, you may be satisfied The seed you sowed in the moi-ning is bearing its increase !' ' / sowed ! Ah, Robert ! what I sowed was a false crop, that had almost caused the good seed to be rooted up togethei with it !' ' Not altogether,' said Robert. ' If you made any mistakes that led to a confusion of real and unreal in his mind, still, the real good you did to him is incalculable.' *So he tells me, dear boy ! But when I think what he waa as a child, and what he has been as a youth, I cannot but charge it on myself.' ' Then think what he is, and will be, I trust, as a man,' said G36 HOPES ANT) FEARS. Hobert. 'Even at the v/orst, the higher, purer standard that had been impressed on him saved him from lower depths ; and when " he came to himself," it was not as if he had neither known his Fatlier's house nor the way to it. Oh, Miss Charle- cote ! yon must not come to me to assure you that your train- ing of him was in vain ! I, who am always feeling the diffe- rence between trying to pull him and poor Mervyn xip wards ! There may be moi'e excuse for Mervyn, but Owen knows where he is going, and springs towards it ; while Mervyu wonders at himself at every stage, and always fancies the next some delusion of my straitlaced imaginatiun.' ' Ah ! once I spurned, and afterwards gi'ieved over, the Baying that very religious little boys either die or belie their promise.' ' There is some truth in it,' said Robert. ' Precocious piety is so beautiful tliat it is apt to be fostered so as to make it in- sensibly imitative and unreal, or depend upon some individual l)ersona] influence ; and there is a certain reaction at one stage of growth against what has been overworked.' ' Then what could you do with such a child as my Owen it it wei'e all to come over again ? His aspirations were often so beautiful that I could not but reverence them greatly ; and I cannot now believe that they were prompted by aught but innocence and baptismal grace !' ' Looking back,' said Robert, ' I believe they were genuine, and came from his heai-t. No; such a devotional turn should be treated with dee}) reverence and tenderness ; but the expres- sion had better be almost rei)ressed, and the test of conduct enforced, though witliout loading the conscience with details not of general application, and sometimes impracticable under other circumstances.' ' It is the practicalness of dear Owen's x'eformation that makes it so thoroughly satisfactory,' said Honora ; ' though I must say that I dread the experiment. You will look after him, for this week, Robert; 1 fear he is overdoing himself in his deliijht at moving about and workino; amiin.' ' I will see how he gets on. It will be a good essay for the future.' ' I cannot think how he is ever to bear living with Mrs. Murrell.' ' She is a good deal broken and subdued, and is more easily rei)ressed than one imagines at her tirst onset. Besides, she is very i)roud, and rather afraid, of him, and will not molest him much. Indeed, it is a good arrangement for him ; he ought to have care above that of the average landlady.' HOPES AND FEARS. Go? ' Will he get it r * I trust so. She has the ways of a respectable servant ; and her religious principle is real, though we do not uiucli admire its manifestation. She will be hone.st and careful of liis wants, and look after his child, and nurse him tenderly if he require it!' ' As if any one but myself would do that ! But it is right, and he will be all the better and happier for accepting his duty to her while she lives, if he can bear it.' ' As he says, it is his only expiation.' * Well ! I should not wonder if you saw more of me here than hitherto. A born Cockney like me gets inclined to tlie haunts of men as she grows old, and if your sisters and Charle- cnte Raymond suffice for the parish, I shall be glad to be out of sight of the improvements he will make.' ' Not without your consent V ' I shall have to consent in my conscience to what I hate in my heart.' ' I am not the man to argi;e you away from here,' said Robert, eagerly. ' If you would take up the Young Women's Associa- tion, it would be the only thing to make up for the loss of Miss Fenniraore. Then the St. Wulstan's Asylum wants a lady visitor.' ' My father's foundation, whence his successor ousted me, in a general sweep of troublesome ladies,' said Honor. ' How sore 1 was, and how things come round.' ' We'll find work for you,' cried Robert, higlily exhilai-ated. ' I should like to make out that we can't do without you.' * Why, Robin, you of all men taking to compliments 1' * It is out of self-interest. Nothing makes so much difference to me as having this house inhabited,' 'Indeed,' she said, highly gratified; 'I thought you wanted nothing but St. Matthew's.' ' Nay,' said Robert, as a bright colour came over his usually set and impassive countenance. 'You do not want me to say what you have always been to me, and how better things have been fostered by your presence, ever since the day you let me out of Hiltonbury Church. I have often since thought it was no vain imagination that you were a good spirit sent to my rescue by Mr. Charlecote.' ' Poor Robin,' said Honor, her lip quivering ; ' it was less what 1 gave than what you gathered up. I barely tolerated you.' ' Which served me right,' said Robert, ' and made me respect you. There are so few to blame me now that I need you all Iho 638 HOPES AND FEARS. more. I can hardly cede to Owen the privilege of being your only son.' 'You are my autumn-singing Eobin,' said Honor, too time to let him think that he could stand beside Owen in her affections, but with intense pleasure at such unwonted warmth from one so stern and reserved ; it was as if he was investing her witli some of the tenderness that the loss of Lucilla had left vacant, and bestowing on her the confidences to which new i-elations might render Phoebe less open. It was no slight pi-eferment to be Jlobert Fulmort's motherly friend ; and far beyond her as he had soared, she might still be the softening element in his life, as once she had been the ennobling one. If she had formed Robert, or even given one impulse such as to lead to his becom- ing what he was, the old maid had not lived in vain. She was not selfish enoiigh to be grieved at Owen's ecstasy in emancipation ; and trusting to being near enough to watch over him without being in his way, she could enjoy his overflowing spirits, and detect almost a jocund sound in the thump of his crutch across the hall, as he hurried in, elated with hopes of the success of his invention, eager about the Canadian railway, delighted with the society of his congeners, and pouring out on her all sorts of information that she could not understand. The certainty that her decision was for his happiness ought surely to reconcile her to carrying home his rival in his stead. Going down by an early train, she resolved, by Robert's advice, to visit Beauchamp at once, and give Mervyn a distinct explanation of her intentions. He was tardy in taking them in. then exclaimed — ' Phoebe's teetotaller 1 Well, he is a sharp fellow ! The luck that some men have !' ' Dear Phoebe,' cried Cecily, ' I am so thankful that she is spared a long attachment. It was telling on her ali-eadj' !' ' Oh, we should have put a stop to the affair if he had gone out to Canada,' i-oundly asserted Mervyn ; ' but of course he knew better ' * Not at all — this was quite a surprise.' Mervyn recollected in time that it was best that Misg Charlecote should so imagine, and reserved for his wife's private ear his conviction that the young fellow had had this hope in his eye when refusing the partnership. Such smartness and foresight commanded his respect as a man of the world, though maybe the women would not understand it. For Phoebe'a interest, he must encourage the lady in her excellent inten- tions. * It is very handsome in you, Miss Charlecote — very hand- some — and I am perfectly unprejudiced in assuring you that you HOPES AND FEAIIS. 639 have done the very best thing for yourself. Phcebe is a good girl, and devoted to you already.' ' Indeed she is,' said Cecily. * She looks up to you so much !' Somehow Honor did not want Mrs. Fulmort to assure her of this. * And as to the place,' continued INIei-vyn, 'you could not put it into better hands to get your people out of their old world ways. A young man like that, used to farming, and with steam and mechanics at his fingers' ends, will make us all look about us.' ' Perhaps,' murmured poor Honor, with, quailing heart. * John Raymond and I were looking about the Holt the other day,' said Mervyn, ' and agreeing how much inore could be maile of it. Clear away some of those hedgerows — grub up a bit of copse or two — try chemical manures — drain that terrible old marsh beyond the plantation — and have up a good engine-house where you have those old ramshackle buildings at the Home Farm 1 Why, the place will bring in as much again, and you've hit on the very man to carry it out. He shall try all the experi- ments before I adopt them.' Honora felt as if she must flee ! If she were to hear any more she should be ready to banish young Randolf to Canada, were he ten times her heir. Had she lived to hear Humfrey's new barn, with the verge boards conceded to her taste, called ramshackle 1 And she had given her word ! As she left Beauchamp, and looked at her scraggy pine-ti-ees cresting the hill, she felt as though they were her own no longer, and as if she had given them up to an enemy. She assured her- self that nothing could be done without her free will, and con- sidered of the limitations that must be imposed on this frightful reformer, but her heart grew sick at the couviction that either she would have to yield, or be regarded as a mere incubus and obstruction. With almost a passionate sense of defence of Humfrey's trees, and Humfrey's barns, she undid the gate of the fir plantations — his special favourites. The bright April sun shed clear gleams athwart the russet boles of the trees, candied by their white gum, the shadows were sharply defined, and darkened by the dense silvered green canopy, relieved by fresh light young shoots, culminating in white powdery clusters, or little soft crimson conelets, all i-edolent of fresh resinous fragrance. The wind whispered like the sound of ocean in the summit of the trees, and a nightingale was singing gloriously in the distance. All recalled Humfrey, and the day, thirty years back, when 640 HOPES AND FEARS. slie ha4 given him such sore pain in those very woods, grasping the shadow instead of the substance, and taking the sunshine out of liis life as well as from her own. Never had she felt such a pang in thinking of that day, or in the vain imagination of how it might have been ! * Yet 1 believe I am doing right,' she thought. ' Humfrey himself might say that old things must pass away, and the jiast give place to the present ! Let me stand once more under the tree where I gave him that answer ! Shall I feel as if he would laugh at me for my shrinking, or approve me for my resolution V The tree was a pinastei', of lengthy foliage and ponderous cones, standing in a little shooting-path, leading from the main walk. She tui'ned towards it and stood breathless for a moment. There stood the familiar figure — youthful, well-knit, firm, with the open, steadfast, kindly face, but with the look of ci'owned exultant love that she had only once beheld, and that when his feet were already within the waters of the dark river. It was his very voice that exclaimed, ' Here she is !' Had her imagination indeed called up Humfrey before her, or was he come to upbraid her with her surrender of his charge to modern innovation ! But the spell was broken, for a woodland nymph in soft grey, edged with gi'eeu, was instantly beside him, and that calmly-glad face was no reflection of what Honora's had ever been. ' Dear, dear Miss Charlecote,' cried Phoebe, springing to her; *we thought you would come home this way, so we came to meet you, and were watching both the paths.' • Thank you, my dear,' said Honor. Could that man, who looked so like Humfrey, be thinking how those firs would cut up into sleepers 1 'Do you know,' said Phoebe, eagerly, 'he says this wood is a little likeness of his favourite place in his old home.' ' I am afraid,' he added, .as if ai)ologizing, ' I shall always feel most at home in the smell of pine-trees.' Mervyn's predictions began to lose their force, and Honor smiled. ' But,' said Phoebe, turning to her, ' I was longing to beg your pardon. I did not like to have any secret from you.' ' Ah ! you cunning children,' said Honor, finding surface work easiest ; 'you stole a march upon us all.' ' I could not help it,' said PhceV>e. They both laughed, and tiu'ning to him, she said, ' Now, could 1 1 When you spoke to me, I could only tell the truth.' HOPES AND FEARS. H H * And I suppose he could not help it,' said Honor. *0f course not, if there was no reason for helping it,' he said. There could be no dwelling on the horrihle things that ho would perpetrate, while he looked so like the rightful squii-e, and while botli were so fair a sight in their glad gratitude ; and she found herself saying, 'You will bear our na'-.ne.' There might be a pang in setting aside that of his father, but lie looked at the glowing cheeks and glistening eyes beside him, and said, 'Answer for me.' 'It is what 1 should like best of all,' PhcBbe said, fervently. ' If we can deserve to bear it,' lie gravely added. And something in his tone made Honora feel confident that, even if he should set up an engine-ho'use, it would be only if Humfrey would have done sn in his place. 'It will be belonging to you all the more,' said Phoebe. 'It is one great pleasure that now I shall have a right to you !' ' Yes, Phoebe, the old woman will depend on you, her "Eastern moon brightening as day's wild lights decline." But she will trouble you no longer. Finish your walk with Hunifrey.' It was the first time she had called him by that name. ' No,' they said, with one voice, ' we were waiting to walk liome with you, if we may.' Tliei'e was something in that walk, in the tender, respectful kindness with which she was treated, in the intelligent interest that Humfrey showed in the estate, his clearheaded truthful' ness on the need of change, and his delicate deference in pro- posing alteration, that set her heart at rest, made her feel that the ' goodly heritage' was in safe hands, and that she had £ staff in her hands for the ni"st cime since that Sunday in harvest. Before the next harvest, Hiltoniiury bells I'ang out, and the church was ci'owded with glad faces ; but there was none more deeply joyful than that of the lonely woman with silvery hair, who quietly knelt beside the gi-ey slab, lettered H. C, 1840, convinced that the home and j^eople of him who lay tliere would be in trusty hands, when she should join him in his true inhe- ritance. Her idols set aside, she could witli clcana- eyes look to that hope, though in no weariness of earth, no haste to depart, but still in full strength, ready to work for man's good and Gpd's glory. Beside her, as usual, was Owen, leaning on his crutch, but eminent in face and figure as the hand.somest man ]»resent, and full of animation, betraying neither pain or regret, but T T 642 HOPES AND FEARS. throughout the wedding festivities showing himself the foremost in mirth, and spurring Hiltonbury on to rejoicings that made the villagers alnmst oblivious of the Forest Show. The saddest face in cliurch was that of the head bridesmaid. Even though Phcebe was only going as far as the Holt, and Hunifrej' was much loved, Bertha's heart was sore with unde- fined regi-et for her own blotted past, and with the feeling of present loss in the si.ster whos^e motherly kindness she had never sufficiently recognihed. Bertha knew not how much gentler and more loveable she herself was gi'owing in that very struggle with her own sadness, and in her endeavours to be sutlicient protectress for Maria. The two sisters were to remain at the Underwood with Miss Fennimure, and in her kindness, and in daily intercourse with Phcebe and Cecily, could hardly fail to be happy. Maria was radiar^tly glad, in all the delight of her bridesmaid's adornments and of the school feasting, and above all in patronizing her pretty little niece, Elizabeth, Acton, the baby bride.-maid. It was as if allegiance to poor Juliana's dislikes had hitherto kept Sir Eevil aloof from Phcebe, and deterred him from mani- festing his good will ; but the marriage brought him at last to Beuuchamp, kind, giave, military, and melancholy as ever, and BO much wrapped ujj in his little girl and his fancied memory of her mother, that Cecily's dislike of long attachments was con- firmed by his aspect; and only her sanguine benevolence was bold enough to augur his finding a comforter in her cousin Susan. Poor man ! Lady Bannerman had been tormenting him all the morning with ap|)ea]s to his own wedding as jjrecedents fol Cecily's benefit ! Her instructions to Cecily were so over- whelming as to reduce tliac meek little lady to something ap- proaching to annihilation ; and the simple advice given by Bertlia, and backed by Phcebe herself, ' never to mind,' appeared the summit of audacity ! Long since having ceased to tiouble herself as to the danger of growing too stout, Lady Bannerman, in her brocades and laces, was such a mruntain of a woman that she was forced to siiil uj) the aisle of Hiltonbury church alone in her glory, without sjiace for a cavalier beside her ? The bridt'groom's fiiend was his little seven year's old biother, whom he had sent for to place at a good school, and who frater- nized with little Owen, a brisk little fellow, his /is and his manners alike doing credit to the paternal training, and prepar- ing in due time to become a blue gowned and yellow-legged Christ's Hos])ital scholar — a nomination having been already promised througli the Fulmort City influence. HOPES AND FEARS. 643 Kobert assisted Cliarlecote Eayrnond in the rite wliich joined together tlie young pair. They were goodly to look ujwn, in their grave, glad modesty and self-possession, and their youthful strength and fairness — which, to Honor's mind, gave the idea of the beauty of simple strength and completeness, such as befits a well-built vessel at her launch, in all her quiet force, whether to glide over smooth waters or to battle with the tempest. Peaceful as those two feces were, there was in them spirit and resolution suflicient for either storm or calm, for it was stead- fastness based upon the only strong foundation. For the last time was signed, and with no unsteady hand, the clear, well-made letters of the maiden Phoebe Fulmort, and as, above it, the bride read the words, ' Humfrey Charlecote Eandolf Charlecote,' she looked up to her husband with a sweet, half-smile of content and exultation, as tliough his name were doubly endeared, as recalling her 'wise man,' the revered guardian of her imagination in her orjihaned girlhood. There are years when the buds of spring are nipped by frost or blight, and when summer blossoms are rent by hail and storm, till autumn sets in without one relenting pause. Then, even at the commencement of decline, comes an interval, a renewal of all that former seasons had proffered of fair and sweet; the very tokens of decay are lovely — the skies are deep calm blue, the sunsets soft gold, and the exquisite serenity and tranquil enjoyment are beyond even the bright, fitful hopes of spring. There i? a tinge of melancholy, for this is a farewell, though a lingering farewell; and for that very cause the endur- ing fiowei-s, the brilliant eaves, the persevering singing birds, are even more prized than those which, in earlier months, come less as present boons than foretastes of the future. Such an Indian summer may be Honor Charlecote's present life. It is not old age, for she has still the strength and hedtb of her best days, but it is the later stage of middle life, \\nth experiejice added to energy. Her girlhood suffered from a great though high-minded mistake, her womanhood was care- worn and sorrow-stricken. As first the beloved of her youth, so again the darling of her after-age was a disappointment ; but she was patient, and patience has met with a reward, even in this life. Desolateness taught her to rely no longer on things of earth, but to satisfy her soul with that Love which is indi- vidual as well as Infinite; and that lesson loirnt, the human affection that once failed her is come back upon her in full measure. She is no longer forlorn ; the children whom she bred up, and those whom she led by her influence, ilike vie with one another in their love and gratitude. 644) HOPES AND FEARS. ■ The old house in Woolstone Lane is her home for the greater pait of tlie winter and spring, and her cliief work lies in her father's former parish, directed by Mr. Parsons and Robert, and enjoying especially the Sunday evenings that Owen constantly spends with her in the cedar parloui% in such converse, whether grave or g;iy, as men rarely seek save with a mother, or one who has been as a mother. But she is still the lady of the Holt. There she still spends Autumn and Christmas, resuming her old habits, without feeling them a burthen ; bemoaning a little, but approving all the while, Humfrey's moderate and successful alterations, and loving and delighting above all in Phcebe's sweet wisdom in her hap})y household rule. It is well worth all the past to return to the Holt with the holiday feeling uf her girlhootL TtlE EXD. London: k. clav, sons, and tavlok, isuead stkeet hill. MACMILLAN AND CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. THE ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF THE NOVELS AND TALES OF CHARLOTTE M. YONGE, In Crown Zvo, price Sj. each, THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE. Illustrated by Miss Kate GKiENAVVAY. HEARTSEASE. Illustrated by Miss Kate Greenawav. HOPES AND FEARS. Illustrated by Hekbert Candy. DYNEVOR TERRACE. Illustrated by Adrian Stokes. THE DAISY CHAIN. Illustrated by J. Priestman Atkinson. THE TRIAL : More Links of the Daisy Chain. Illustrated by J. Priestjian Atkinson. PILLARS OF THE HcUSE, Yol. I. Illustrated by Herbert Gandv. PILLARS UF THE HuUSE, Vol. IL Illustrated by Herbert Gandy. THE YUUNG STEPMOTHER. Illustrated by Marian Huxley. CLEVER WOMAN OF THE FAMILY. Illustrated bv Adrian STriKES. THE THREE BRIDES. Illustrated bv Adrian Stokes. MY YOUNG ALCIDES. Illustrated by Adrian Stokes. THE CAGED LION. Illustrated by \V. J. Hennessy. THE DOVE IN THE EAGLE'S NEST. Illustrated by W. J. Hennessy. THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. Illustrated by W. J. Hennessy. LADY HESTER and THE DANVERS PAPERS. Illustrated by Jane E. Cook. MAGNUM BUNUM ; or, Mother Carey's Brood. Illustrated by W. J. Hennessy. LOVE AND LIFE : an old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume.; Illustrated by W. J. Hennessy. UNKNOWN TO HISTO RY. A N ovel. In preparation. Illustrated by W. J. Hennessy. STRAY PEARLS : Memoirs of Margaret de Ribaumont, Viscountess of Bellaise. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 9^. BYEWORDS : A Collection of Tales New and Old. Crown 8vo. 6.f. MACMILLAN & CO., LONDON..^ MACMILLAN AND CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. WORKS BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE {continued). THE PRINCE AND THE PAGE: A Tale of the last CrusaJe. Illustrated. New Edition. Globe 8vo. 4.?, dd. LITTLE LUCY'S WONDERFUL GLOBE. With Twenty-four Illustrations by Frolich. New Edition. Globe 8vo. i,s. 6(i. A BOOK OF GOLDEN DEEDS. iSaio. 4^-. 6d. Cheap Edition, is. Globe Readings Edition for Schools. 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