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

On which neutral ground Phoebe took her stand, and the French style and fashion so impressed Augusta's maid, that she forced her ladyship to accept even simplicity as 'the thing,' and to sink back rebuked for the barbarism of hinting at the enlivenment of pink ribbons or scarlet flowers.

Though thus fortified against shopping on her own account, liberty even to go to see her sisters was denied her, in Augusta's infinite disgust at the locality, and consideration for the horses. She was forced to be contented with the report of Mervyn, who came to dinner and to go to the evening parties, and who spoke of the girls as well and happy; Maria 'in her native element' at the infant school, and both in a perfect rapture at receiving Miss Fennimore, whom their hostess had asked to spend the evening in Woolstone-lane.

Mervyn professed that he came entirely to see Phoebe's debut in her Parisian costume, and amused himself maliciously with endeavouring to delay the start from Lady Jane's till too late for Mrs. Gosling's supper; but Phoebe, who did not wish to enhance the sacrifice, would not abet him, and positively, as he declared, aided Augusta in her wild goose chase.

He contrived to have a good deal of conversation with Phoebe in the course of the evening, and she heard from him that old Crabbe was more crusty than ever, and would not hear of his taking his sisters home, but, said he, that mattered the less, considering that now they would be able to be at the parsonage.

'The parsonage?'

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

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

'Yes—no—at least she has told me of her intentions. Highly proper in the old girl, isn't it? They will settle it to-night, of course. I'll have the grounds laid out, and make quite a pretty modern place of it. It has quite taken a weight off my mind to know he is so well provided for.'

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

'Oh! parsons think nothing of changes. He can appoint his own successor, and I'll not let things die away. And now, Phoebe, is there anything you want to do? I will not have Augusta tie you by the leg. I will look out a lady's horse to-morrow, and come to ride with you; or if you want to do anything, you can have the brougham any day.'

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

'Ha!' said Mervyn, 'a romantic meeting. If I remember right, Mr. Robin used to be much smitten with that little thing. Don't reckon too much on the parsonage, Phoebe.'

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

'Don't talk of that. I should be glad enough to get you in—and I am far enough from the other thing yet.'

So Phoebe obtained the use of the brougham for the next day and set off for her long Essex drive, much against Augusta's will, and greatly wondering what it would produce; compassionate of course for poor Lucilla, yet not entirely able to wish that Robert should resign the charge for which he was so eminently fitted, even for the sake of Hiltonbury and home. Lucy must be altered, indeed, if he would not be happier without her.

Phoebe had written a few lines, saying that hearing that Lucy was so near, she could not help begging to see her. This she sent in with her card, and after a little delay, was invited to come in. Lucilla met her at the top of the stairs, and at first Phoebe only felt herself, clasped, clung to, kissed, fondled with a sudden gasping, tearful eagerness. Then as if striving to recall the ordinary tone, Lucilla exclaimed—'There—I beg your pardon for such an obstreperous greeting, but I am a famished creature here, you see, and I did not expect such kindness. Luckily some of my pupils are driving out with their mamma, and I have sent the others to the nurse. Now then, take off your bonnet, let me see you; I want to look at a home face, and you are as fresh and as innocent as if not a year had passed over you.'

Lucilla fervently kissed her again, and then holding her hand, gazed at her as if unwilling that either should break the happy silence. Meantime Phoebe was shocked to see how completely Robert's alarms were justified by Lucy's appearance. The mere absence of the coquettish ringlets made a considerable difference, and the pale colour of the hair, as it was plainly braided, increased the wanness of her appearance. The transparent complexion had lost the lovely carnation of the cheek, but the meandering veins of the temples and eyelids were painfully apparent; and with the eyes so large and clear as to be more like veronicas than ever, made the effect almost ghastly, together with excessive fragility of the form, and the shadowy thinness of the hand that held Phoebe's. Bertha's fingers, at her weakest, had been more substantial than these small things, which had, however, as much character and force in their grasp as ever.

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

'Well, then, cod-liver oil is a base deception! Never mind that—let me hear of Honor—are you with her?'

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

'Then you do not come from her?'

'No; she does not know.'

'You excellent Phoebe; what have you done to keep that bonny honest face all this time to refresh weary eyes—being a little heroine, too. Well, but the Honor—the old sweet Honey—is she her very self?'

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

'And found subjects in you not too cross-grained for her kindness to be palatable! Ah! a good hard plunge into the world teaches one what one left in the friendly ship! Not that mine has been a hard one. I am not one of the pathetic governesses of fiction. Every one has been kinder to me than I am worth—But, oh! to hear myself called Lucy again!'—and she hid her face on Phoebe's shoulder in another access of emotion.

'You used not to like it.'

'My Cilly days were over long ago. Only one person ever used to call me Cilla;' and she paused, and went on afresh—'So it was for Bertha's sake and Mervyn's that Honor escorted you abroad. So much Robert told me; but I don't understand it yet. It had haunted me the whole winter that Robert was the only Mr. Fulmort she could nurse; and if he told you I was upset, it was that I did not quite know whether he were ghost or body when I saw him there in the old place.'

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

'I could not ask him what concatenation made Honor take Mervyn under her wing, like a hen hovering a vulture.'

'It would be a long story,' said Phoebe; 'but Bertha was very ill, and Mervyn much out of health; and we were in great distress for an escort. I think it was the kindest thing ever done, and the most successful.'

'Has it been a comfort to her? Owen's letters must be, I am sure. He will come home this autumn, as soon as he has done laying out his railway, and then I shall get him to beg leave for me to make a little visit to Hiltonbury before we go out to Canada. I could not go out without a good word from her. She and Mr. Prendergast are all that remains of the old life. I say, Phoebe, did you hear of those cousins of mine!'

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

'You saw them!'

'Miss Charteris called on us at Nice. She—oh, Lucy! you will be surprised—she is a Plymouth sister!'

'Rashe!—old Rashe! We reverse the old transformation, butterflies into grubs!' cried Lucy, with somewhat spasmodic laughter. 'Tell me how the wonder came about.'

'I know little about it,' said Phoebe. 'Miss Charlecote thought most likely it was the first earnest kind of religion that presented itself when she was craving for some such help.'

'Did Honor make such a liberal remark? There, I am sorry I said it; but let me hear of dear old Rashe. Has it made her very grim?'

'You know it is not an embellishing dress, and she did look gaunt and haggard; but still somehow we liked her better than ever before; and she is so very good and charitable.'

'Ha! Nice is a grand place for colporteurs and tracts. She would be a shining specimen there, and dissipation, religious or otherwise, old Rashe must have.'

'Not only in that line,' said Phoebe, suppressing a smile at the truth of the surmise, 'but she is all kindness to sick English—'

'She tried to convert you all!—confess it. Rashe converting dear old Honor! Oh! of all comical conjunctions!'

'Miss Charlecote hushed it down,' said Phoebe; 'and, indeed, nobody could be with her and think that she needed rousing to religious thoughts.'

'By this attempt on Honor, I fear she has not succeeded with Lolly, whom poor Owen used to call an Eastern woman with no soul.'

'She does everything for Mrs. Charteris—dresses her, works for her—I do believe cooks for her. They live a strange, rambling life.'

'I have heard Lolly plays as deeply as Charles, does not she? All Castle Blanch mortgaged—would be sold, but that Uncle Kit is in the entail! It breaks one's heart to hear it! They all live on generous old Ratia, I suppose.'

'I believe she pays the bills when they move. We were told that it was a beautiful thing to see how patiently and resolutely she goes on bearing with them and helping them, always in hopes that at last they may turn to better things.'

Lucy was much touched. 'Poor Rashe!' she said; 'there was something great in her. I have a great mind to write to her.'

They diverged into other subjects, but every minute she became more open and confidential; and as the guarded reserve wore off, Phoebe contrived to lead to the question of her spirits and health, and obtained a fuller answer.

'Till you try, Phoebe, you can't guess the wear of living with minds that have got nothing in them but what you have put in yourself. There seems to be a fur growing over one's intellects for want of something to rub against.'

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

'No, you were older and besides, you have some originality in a sober way; and don't imagine Miss Fennimore had the sore heart at the bottom—the foolishness that took to moaning after home as soon as it had cast it off past recall!'

'Oh, Lucy! not past recall!'

'Not past pardon, I am trying to hope. At least, there are some people who, the more unpardonable one is, pardon the more readily. When Owen comes home, I mean to try.'

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

'No, no, don't charge my looks on sentiment,' said Cilla, hastily; 'there's plenty to account for them besides. One never falls into those foibles when one is quite strong.'

'Then you have been unwell?'

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

'To what point, dear Lucy?'

'To that of feeling as if the entire creation was out of joint—not one child here and there, but everybody was cross; and I could not walk with the children, and my bones ached, and all that sort of thing.'

'You had advice?'

'Yes, I thought it economical to patch myself up in time; so I asked for a holiday to go to the doctor.'

'Well?'

'He did after the nature of doctors; poked me about, and asked if there were decline in the family;' and in spite of the smile, the great blue eyes looked ghastly; 'and he forbade exertion, and ordered good living and cod-liver oil.'

'Then surely you should be taking care.'

'So I am. These are very good-natured people, and I'm a treasure of a governess, you know. I have refections ten times a day, and might swim in port wine, and the little Swiss bonne walks the children, and gives them an awful accent, which their mamma thinks the correct thing.'

'Change—rest—you should have them.'

'I shall, when Owen comes. It is summer-time, and I shall hold on till then, when it will be plenty of time to see whether this is nonsense.'

'Whether what is?'

'About my lungs. Don't look horrified. He could only trace the remains of a stupid old cold, and if it were more, I know of no fact of so little moment to anybody.'

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

'It is your fault; I did not want to have talked of it, and in good time here comes half my flock. Edie, Reggie, Flo, come and show Miss Fulmort what my torments are.'

They ran in, apparently on excellent terms with her, and greeted her guest without shyness; but after a little whispering and shoving the youngest spoke. 'Edie and Reggie want to know if she is the lady that put out the light?'

'Ah! you heroine,' said Lucy, 'you don't know how often I have told of your doughty deeds! Ay, look at her, she is the robber-baffler; though now I look at her I don't quite believe it myself.'

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

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

'Yes; tell us,' said Lucilla. 'I read all your evidence, so like yourself as it was, but I want to know where you were sleeping.'

Phoebe found her present audience strangely more embarrassing than the whole assize court, perhaps because there the solemn purpose swallowed up the sense of admiration; but she laughed at last at the boy's disappointment at the escape of the thieves; 'he would have fired a pistol through the keyhole and shot them!' When she rose to go, the children entreated her to stay and be seen by the others, but this she was glad to escape, though Lucilla clung to her with a sort of anguish of longing, yet stifled affection, that would have been most painful to witness, but for the hopes for her relief.

Phoebe ordered her brother's carriage in time to take her to breakfast in Woolstone-lane the next morning, and before ten o'clock Honor had heard the account of the visit in Essex. Tearfully she thanked the trusty reconnoitrer as for a kindness to herself, dwelling on the tokens of relenting, yet trembling at the tidings of the malady. To write and recall her child to her motherly nursing was the foremost thought in her strange medley of grief and joy, hope and fear.

'Poor Robert,' she said, when she understood that he had organized Phoebe's mission; 'I am glad I told him to give no answer for a week.'

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

'Kind to myself, my dear. It seems like a crime when I look at St. Matthew's; but when I think of you all, and of home, I believe it is right that he should have the alternative. And now, if poor Lucy come, and it be not too late—'

'Did he say anything?' said Phoebe.

'I only wrote to him; I thought he had rather not let me see his first impulse, so I told him to let me hear nothing till Thursday evening. I doubted before, now I feel sure he will take it.'

'Lucy has the oldest claim,' said Phoebe, thoughtfully, wishing she could feel equally desirous of success in this affair as in that of Mervyn and Cecily.

'Yes, she was his first love, before Whittingtonia. Did you mention the vacancy at Hiltonbury?'

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

'That is well; for perhaps if she knew, that spirit of hers might keep her aloof. I feel like Padre Cristoforo dispensing Lucia from her vow! If she will only get well! And a little happiness will do more than all the cods in Hammerfest! Phoebe, we will have a chapel-school at the hamlet, and a model kitchen at the school: and Robert will get hold of all the big boys. His London experience is exactly what we want to brighten Hiltonbury, and all our clergy.'

Hiltonbury had a right to stand first with Honora, and Whittingtonia had sunk into a mere training-school for her pattern parson. If there were a sigh to think that Owen was exactly of the right age to have been ordained to Hiltonbury, she put it away, for this was next best.

Her note to Lucilla was penned with trembling caution, and each word was reconsidered day and night, in case the perverse temper might take umbrage. The answer came.

'MY DEAR HONOR,

'It is beyond my deserts to be so kindly taken home. I have learnt what that means now. I can be spared for a fortnight; and as Mr. Bostock dines in town the day after to-morrow, he will set me down. Your affectionate

L. SANDBROOK.'

'Miss Charlecote is like a person ten years younger,' observed Bertha to Phoebe, when she came with the rest to 'quite a family party,' at Albury-street. Robert alone was absent, it being what Augusta called 'a fast or something;' i.e. a meeting of St. Wulstan's Young Men's Institute. Bertha heartily wished she could call herself a young man, for her morbid sense of disgrace always recurred with those whom she knew to be cognizant of her escapade. However, this evening made a change in her ladyship's views, or rather she had found Phoebe no longer the mere submissive handmaid of schoolroom days, but a young woman accustomed to liberty of action and independence of judgment; and though perfectly obliging and unselfish, never admitting Augusta's claims on her time to the exclusion of those of others of the family, and quietly but decidedly carrying out her intentions. Bertha's shrinking silence and meekness of demeanour persuaded her sister that she would be more comfortable, and her womanly appearance not only rendered the notion of school ridiculous, but inspired the desire of bringing her out. Phoebe might dedicate herself to Maria if she pleased; Bertha should shine through the season under her sister's patronage.

Not since the adventure with the Hyeres peasants had Bertha's tongue been so unmanageable, as when she tried to protest against going into society; and when Mervyn came to her help, Augusta owned that such hesitation was indeed an objection, but it might easily be cured by good management; cordials would prevent nervousness, and, after all, no one would care when a girl had such a fortune. Poor Bertha crept away, feeling as if she could never open her mouth again.

Meanwhile Mervyn and Augusta amicably agreed on the excellence of Hiltonbury parsonage as a home for the girls, the latter only regretting what Robert had sunk on his fancies at Whittingtonia. 'I don't know that,' returned Mervyn; 'all I regret is, that we never took our share. It is a different thing now, I assure you, to see the turn out from the distillery since the lads have come under his teaching! I only hope his successor may do as well!'

'Well, I don't understand about such things,' said Augusta, crossly. 'Poor papa never made such a rout about the hands. It would not have been thought good taste to bring them forward.'

'If you wish to understand,' said Mervyn, maliciously, 'you had better come and see. Robert would be very glad of your advice for the kitchen he is setting going—sick cookery and cheap dinners.'

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

'No; those who eat. It is to be self-supporting. I do nothing but lend the house. You don't remember it. It is the palace at the corner of Richard Alley.'

'It is no concern of mine, I know; but what is to become of the business if you go giving away the houses?'

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

'Ah, well! I am glad my poor father does not see it. He would have said the business was going to the dogs!'

'No; he was fast coming into Robert's views, and I heartily wish I had not hindered him.'

Augusta told her admiral that evening that there was no hope for the family, since Robert had got hold of Mervyn as well as of the rest of them. People in society actually asked her about the schools and playground at Mr. Fulmort's distillery; there had been an educational report about them. Quite disgusting!

There passed a day of conflicting hope and fear, soothed by the pleasure of preparation, and at seven in the evening there came the ring at the house door, and Lucilla was once more in Honora's arms. It was for a moment a convulsive embrace, but it was not the same lingering clinging as when she met Phoebe, nor did she look so much changed as then, for there was a vivid tint of rose on either cheek; she had restored her hair to the familiar fashion, and her eyes were bright with excitement. The presence of Maria and Bertha, which Miss Charlecote had regretted, was probably a relief; for Lucilla, as she threw off her bonnet, and sat down to the 'severe tea' awaiting her, talked much to them, observed upon their growth, noticed the little Maltese dog, and compared her continental experiences with Bertha's. To Honor she scarcely spoke voluntarily, and cast down her eyes as she did so, making brief work of answers to inquiries, and showing herself altogether disappointingly the old Cilly. Robert's absence was also a disappointment to Honor, though she satisfied herself that it was out of consideration.

Lucy would not go up to her room till bed-time; and when Honor, accompanying her thither, asked tender and anxious questions about her health, she answered them, not indeed petulantly, as of old, but with a strange, absent manner, as if it were duty alone that made her speak. Only when Honor spoke of her again seeing the physician whom she had consulted, she at first sharply refused, then, as if recollecting herself, meekly said: 'As you think fit, but I had rather it was not the same.'

'I thought he was your own preference,' said Honor, 'otherwise I should have preferred Dr. F.'

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

The good-nights, the kisses past, and Honor went away, with a heavy load of thwarted hopes and baffled yearning at her heart—yearnings which could be stilled only in one way.

A knock. She started up, and called 'Come in,' and a small, white, ghostly figure glided in, the hands tightly clasped together.

'Lucy, dear child, you are ill!'

'I don't know what is the matter with me,' said a husky, stifled voice; 'I meant it—I wanted it. I longed after it when it was out of reach, but now—'

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

'Your pardon!' and with a pressure of hands and contraction of the brow as of physical agony, she exclaimed, 'Honor, Honor, forgive me!'

Honor held out her arms, she flung herself prone into them, and wept. Tears were with her an affection as violent as rare, and her sobs were fearful, heaving her little fragile frame as though they would rend it, and issuing in short cries and gasps of anguish. Honor held her in her arms all the time, much alarmed, but soothing and caressing, and in the midst, Lucilla had not lost all self-control, and though unable to prevent the paroxysm, restrained it as much as possible, and never attempted to speak; but when her friend laid her down, her whole person still quivering with the long swell of the last uncontrollable sobbing, she looked up with the sweetest smile ever seen by Honor, who could not help thinking that such a sight might have met the eyes of the mother who found the devil gone out and her daughter laid on the bed.

The peace was such that neither could bear to speak for many seconds. At last Lucy said, 'Dear Honor.'

'My dearest'

'Lie down by me; please put your arms round me. There! Oh! it is so comfortable. Why did I never find it out before? I wish I could be a little child, and begin again from the time my father made me over to you.'

'Lucy, we all would begin again if we could. I have come to the perception how often I exasperated you.'

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

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

'My thanklessness has made you feel that.'

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

'A little more I must say before I can sleep under your roof in peace, then I will obey you in all things. Honor, these few years have shown me what your education did for me against my will. What would have become of me if I had been left to the poor Castle Blanch people? Nothing could have saved me but my spirit of contradiction! No; all that saved my father's teaching from dying out in me—all that kept me at my worst from the Charteris standard, all that has served me in my recent life, was what you did for me! There! I have told you only the truth.'

Honor could only kiss her and whisper something of unlooked-for happiness, and Lucilla's tears flowed again at the tenderness for which she had learnt to hunger; but it was a gentle shower this time, and she let herself be hushed into calmness, till she slept peacefully on Honor's bed, in Honor's arms, as she had never done, even as a young child. Honor watched her long, in quiet gladness and thankfulness, then likewise slept; and when awakened at last by a suppressed cough, looked up to see the two stars of blue eyes, soft and gentle under their swollen lids, gazing on her full of affection.

'I have wakened you,' Lucy said.

'Have you been awake long?'

'Not very; but to lie and look at the old windows, and smell the cedar fragrance, and see you, is better than sleep.'

Still the low morning cough and the pallor of the face filled Honor with anxiety; and though Lucilla attributed much to the night's agitation, she was thoroughly languid and unhinged, and fain to lie on the sofa in the cedar parlour, owning that no one but a governess could know the full charm of doing nothing.

The physician was the same who had been consulted by her father, and well remembered the flaxen-haired child whom he had so cruelly detached from his side. He declared her to be in much the same reduced and enfeebled condition as that in which her father brought on his malady by reckless neglect and exposure, and though he found no positive disease in progress, he considered that all would depend upon anxious care, and complete rest for the autumn and winter, and he thought her constitution far too delicate for governess life, positively forbidding her going back to her situation for another day.

Honor had left the room with him. She found Lucilla with her face hidden in the sofa cushions, but the next moment met a tremulous half-spasmodic smile.

'Am I humbled enough?' she said. 'Failed, failed, failed! One by my flirting, two by my temper, three by my health! I can't get my own living, and necessity sends me home, without the grace of voluntary submission.'

'Nay, my child, the very calling it home shows that it need not humble you to return.'

'It is very odd that I should like it so much!' said Lucy; 'and now,' turning away as usual from sentiment, 'what shall I say to Mrs. Bostock? What a wretch she will think me! I must go over and see all those children once more. I hope I shall have a worthy successor, poor little rogues. I must rouse myself to write!'

'Not yet, my dear.'

'Not while you can sit and talk. I have so much to hear of at home! I have never inquired after Mr. Henderson! Not dead?'

'You have not heard? It was a very long, gradual decay. He died on the 12th.'

'Indeed! he was a kind old man, and home will not be itself without his white head in the reading-desk. Have you filled up the living.'

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

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

Honor durst not ask the grounds of this prediction, and the rest of that family were discussed. It was embarrassing to be asked about the reports of last winter, and Lucy's keen penetration soon led to full confidence.

'Ah! I was sure that a great flood had passed over that poor child! I was desperate when I wrote to Phoebe, for it seemed incredible that it should be either of the others, but I might have trusted her. I wonder what will become of her. I have not yet seen the man good enough for her.'

'I have seen one—and so have you—but I could not have spared him to her, even if she had been in his time.'

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

For her sake Honor had regretted that the return dinner to the Albury-street household and the brothers was for this day, but she revived towards evening, and joined the party, looking far less pretty and piquante, and her dress so quiet as to be only just appropriate, but still a fair bright object, and fitting so naturally into her old place, that Lady Bannerman was scandalized at her presumption and Miss Charlecote's weakness. Honor and Phoebe both watched the greeting between her and Robert, but could infer nothing, either from it or from their deportment at dinner, both were so entirely unembarrassed and easy. Afterwards Robert sought out Phoebe, and beguiled her into the window where his affairs had so often been canvassed.

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

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

'I feel deeply your present homeless condition. I wish earnestly that I could make a home for you. But, Phoebe, once you told me you were content to be sacrificed to my foremost duty—'

'I am,' she said.

'Well, then, I love this smoky old black wife of mine, and don't want to leave her even for my sisters.'

'I never thought of your leaving her for your sisters, but—' and as Lucilla's music effectually veiled all words—'I had thought that there might be other considerations.' Her eyes spoke the rest.

'I thought you knew that folly had passed away,' he said, somewhat sternly. 'I trust that no one else has thought of it!' and he indicated Miss Charlecote.

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

'Then I am glad that on other grounds my mind was made up. No,' after a pause, 'there is a great change. She is far superior to what she was in the days of my madness, but it is over, and never could be renewed. She herself does not desire it.'

Phoebe was called to the piano, not sorry that such should be Robert's conviction, and glad that he should not be disturbed in work that suited him so well as did St. Matthew's, but thinking him far too valuable for Lucy not to suffer in losing her power over him.

And did she?

She was alone in the cedar parlour with Honor the next day, when the note was brought in announcing his refusal on the ground that while he found his strength and health equal to the calls of his present cure, and his connection with the Fulmort firm gave him unusual facilities in dealing with the workmen, he did not think he ought to resign his charge for another for which many better men might be found.

'Quite right; I knew it,' said Lucilla, when Honor had with some attempt at preparation shown her the note.

'How could you know it?'

'Because I saw a man in his vocation.'

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

'Please to put that out of your head!' she exclaimed. 'There's no pity, no ill-usage in the case. I wilfully did what I was warned that he would not bear, and there was an end of it.'

'I had hoped not past recall.'

'Well, if you will have the truth, when it was done and not to be helped, we were both very sorry; I can answer at least for one, but he had bound himself heart and soul to his work, and does not care any longer for me. What, you, the preacher of sacrifice, wishing to see your best pupil throw up your pet work for the sake of a little trumpery crushed fire-fly?'

'Convict me out of my own mouth,' said Honor, sadly, 'it will not make me like to see my fire-fly crushed.'

'When the poor fire-fly has lit the lamp of learning for six idle children, no other cause for dimness need be sought. No, I was well and wicked in the height of the pain, and long after it wore out—for wear out it did—and I am glad he is too wise to set it going again. I don't like emotions. I only want to be let alone. Besides, he has got into such a region of goodness, that his wife ought to be super-excellent. I know no one good enough for him unless you would have him!'

As usual, Honor was balked by bestowing sympathy, and could only wonder whether this were reserve, levity, or resignation, and if she must accept it as a fact that in the one the attachment had been lost in the duties of his calling, in the other had died out for want of requital. For the present, in spite of herself, her feeling towards Robert verged more on distant rather piqued admiration than on affection, although he nearly approached the ideal of her own first love, and Owen Sandbrook's teaching was, through her, bearing good fruit in him, even while recoiling on her woman's heart through Owen's daughter.

Mervyn was easily reconciled to the decision, not only because his brother was even more valuable to him in London than in the country, but because Miss Charlecote's next alternative was Charlecote Raymond, Sir John's second son, a fine, open-tempered young man of thirty, who had made proof of vigour and judgment in the curacy that he had just left, and who had the farther recommendation of bearing the name of the former squire, his godfather. Anything called Raymond was at present so welcome to Mervyn that he felt himself under absolute obligations to Robert for having left the field clear. When no longer prejudiced, the sight of Robert's practical labours struck him more and more, and his attachment grew with his admiration.

'I'll tell you what, Phoebe,' he said, when riding with her. 'I have a notion of pleasing the parson. Yesterday we got obstructed by an interminable procession of school children going out for a lark in the country by an excursion train, and he began envying their keepers for being able to give them such a bath of country air. Could we not let him do the same by his lot at Beauchamp?'

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

'Mass of humbug! I only want to please Robin and have no trouble. I shan't come near it. You only tell me what it will cost, carriage, provender, and all, and let me hear no more of it.'

He was destined to hear a good deal more. The proposal caused the utmost gratitude and satisfaction, except that Honor and Robert doubted whether it were a proper moment for merry-making at Hiltonbury. They were in full consultation when in walked Sir John Raymond, who could not help coming to town at once to express his thanks at having his son settled so near him. Ere long, he learnt what was under discussion, and made the amendment that the place should be the Forest, the occasion the Horticultural Show. He knew of a capital spot for the whole troop to dine in, even including the Wulstonians proper, whom Honor, wondering she had never thought of it before, begged to include in the treat at her own expense. But conveyance from the station for nearly two thousand?

'Never mind,' said Sir John; 'I'll undertake for that! We'll make it a county concern, and get the farmers to lend their wagons, borrow all the breaks we can, and I know of some old stage-coaches in dock. If there's not room for all, they must ride and tye. It is only three miles from the little Forest station, and we'll make the train stop there. Only, young ladies, you must work Whittington's cat upon all the banners for your kittens.'

Lucilla clapped her hands, and undertook that the Whittingtonians should be marshalled under such an array of banners as never were seen before. Maria was in ecstasies, and Bertha was, in the excitement, forgetting her dread of confronting the county.

'But where's Miss Phoebe?' asked Sir John, who had sat half an hour waiting in vain for her to appear; and when he heard, he declared his intention of calling on her. And where was Mervyn himself? He was at the office, whither Robert offered to conduct the Baronet, and where Mervyn heard more of his proposal than he had bargained for; though, perhaps, not more than he liked. He was going to an evening party at the Bannermans', and seeing Sir John's inclination to see Phoebe, proposed to call for him and take him there.

'What is the use, Phoebe,' demanded Lady Bannerman, after the party was over, 'of my getting all these young men on purpose to dance with you, if you get up in a corner all the evening to talk to nobody but Mervyn and old Sir John? It can be nothing but perverseness, for you are not a bit shy, and you are looking as delighted as possible to have put me out.'

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

'Well, at what?'

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

'Stupid place. No wines, no dinners,' said Augusta; 'and so ridiculous as you are! If the son is at home you'll do nothing but talk to Sir John. And if ever a girl ought to get married off I am sure it is you.'

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

Phoebe positively danced up-stairs, and indulged in a private polka round her bedroom. She had been told not only of the Forest plan, but that Sir John was going to 'run down' to his brother's at Sutton the next day, and that he had asked Mervyn to come with him.

Mervyn had not this time promised to send her a blank cover. He thought he had very little present hope, for the talk had been of a year's probation—of his showing himself a changed character, etc. And not only was this only half that space, but less than a month had been spent in England. This time he was not setting off as one about to confer a favour.

Phoebe heard no more for two days. At last, as she was finishing her toilette to go out with Augusta, a hasty knock came to her door, and Mervyn entreated to be let in. His face told more than his tongue could utter. He had little guessed the intensity of the happiness of which he had so long deprived himself, and Cecily's acceptance had filled him with a flood of bliss, tinctured, however, by the sense of his own unworthiness of her constant affection, and increasing compunction for what he had made her endure.

'I don't know how she could do it, or why she cared for such a miserable scamp, breaking her heart all this time!' he exclaimed.

'You will make up for it now.'

'I wish I may; but, bless me, Phoebe, she is a perfect little nun, and what is she to do with a graceless dog like me?'

'You will see,' said Phoebe, smiling.

'What do you think, then?' he demanded, in some alarm. 'You know I can't take to the pious tack. Will nothing else satisfy her?'

'You are not the same as you were. You don't know what will happen to you yet,' said Phoebe, playfully.

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

'I say,' quoth Mervyn, intercepting her, 'not a word to my lady. It is all conditional, you understand—only that I may ask again, in a year, or some such infernal time, if I am I don't know what—but they do, I suppose.'

'Perhaps you will by that time. Dear Mervyn, I am sorry, but I must go, or Augusta will be coming here.'

He made a ludicrous gesture of shrinking horror, but still detained her to whisper, 'You'll meet her at Moorcroft; they will have her for the Forest to-do.'

Phoebe signed her extreme satisfaction, and ran away.

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

'Some young ladies do worse,' said the Admiral, who was very fond of her; 'and her time was not lost. I never saw her look better.'

'I don't like such a pair of milkmaid's cheeks, looking so ridiculously delighted, too,' said Lady Bannerman, crossly. 'Really, Phoebe, one would think you were but just come up from the country, and had never been to a concert before. Those stupid little white marabouts in your hair again, too!'

'Well,' said Sir Nicholas, 'I take them as a compliment—Phoebe knows I think they become her.'

'I don't say they are amiss in themselves, but it is all obstinacy, because I desire her to buy that magnificent ruby bandeau! How is any one to believe in her fortune if she dresses in that twopenny-halfpenny fashion? I declare I have a great mind to leave her behind.'

Phoebe could almost have said 'pray do,' so much did she long to join the party in Woolstone-lane, where the only alloy was, that poor Maria's incapacity for secrecy forbade her hearing the good news.

Miss Charlecote, likewise, was secretly a little scandalized at the facility with which the Raymonds had consented to the match; she thought Mervyn improved, but neither religious nor repentant, and could not think Cecily or her family justified in accepting him. Something of the kind became perceptible to Robert when they first talked over the matter together.

'It may be so,' he said, 'but I really believe that Mervyn will be more susceptible of real repentance when he has imperceptibly been led to different habits and ways of thinking. In many cases, I have seen that the mind has to clear itself, and leave old things behind before it has the capacity of perceiving its errors.'

'Repentance must precede amendment.'

'Some repentance must, but even the sense of the inexpedience and inconvenience of evil habits may be the first step above them, and in time the power of genuine repentance may be attained.'

'Still, glad as I am for all your sakes, I cannot understand it on Cecily's part, or how a girl of her tone of mind can marry where there can as yet be no communion of the highest kind. You would be sorry to see Phoebe do so.'

'Very sorry. It is no example, but there may be claims from the mere length of the attachment, which seems to mark her as the appointed instrument for his good. Besides, she has not fully accepted him; and after such change as he has made, she might not have been justified in denying all encouragement.'

'She did not seek such justification,' said Honor laughing, but surprised to find Robert thus lenient in his brother's case, after having acted so stern a part in his own.



CHAPTER XXVI

Then Robin Hood took them both by the hands, And danced about the oak tree, For three merry men, and three merry men, And three merry men we be.—Old Ballad

The case of the three sisters remained a difficulty. The Bannermans professed to have 'washed their hands of them,' their advice not being taken, and Mr. Crabbe could not think himself justified in letting them return to the protection that had so egregiously failed. Bertha was fretted by the uncertainty, and became nervous, and annoyed with Phoebe for not showing more distress—but going on from day to day in the confidence that matters would arrange themselves.

Phoebe, who had come of age during her foreign tour, had a long conference with her guardian when he put her property into her hands. The result was that she obtained his permission to inhabit with her sisters the Underwood, a sort of dowager-house belonging to Beauchamp, provided some elderly lady could be found to chaperon them—Miss Fennimore, if they preferred her.

Miss Fennimore was greatly touched with the earnestness of the united entreaties of her pupils, and though regretting the field of usefulness in which she had begun to work, could not resist the pleasure of keeping house with Phoebe, and resuming her studies with Bertha on safer ground. She could not, however, quit her employment without a half-year's notice, and when Mervyn went down for a day to Beauchamp, he found the Underwood in such a woful state of disrepair, that turn in as many masons, carpenters, and paperers as he would, there was no hope of its being habitable before Martinmas. Therefore the intermediate time must be spent in visiting, and though the head-quarters were at the Holt, the Raymonds of Moorcroft claimed the first month, and the promise of Cecily's presence allured Bertha thither, though the Fulmort mind had always imagined the house highly religious and dull. Little had she expected to find it ringing with the wild noise and nonsense of a joyous home party of all ages, full of freaks and frolics, laughter and merriment. Her ready wit would have made her shine brilliantly if her speech had been constantly at command, but she often broke down in the midst of a repartee, and was always in danger of suffering from over-excitement. Maria, too, needed much watching and tenderness. Every one was very kind to her, but not exactly knowing the boundary of her powers, the young people would sometimes have brought her into situations to which she was unequal, if Phoebe had not been constantly watching over her.

Between the two sisters, Phoebe's visit was no sinecure. She was always keeping a motherly eye and hand over one or the other, sometimes over both, and not unseldom incurring Bertha's resistance under the petulance of overwrought spirits, or anger at troublesome precautions. After Cecily's arrival, however, the task became easier. Cecily took Bertha off her hands, soothing and repressing those variable spirits, and making a wise and gentle use of the adoration that Bertha lavished on her, keeping her cousins in order, and obviating the fast and furious fun that was too great a change for girls brought up like the Fulmorts. Maria was safe whenever Cecily was in the room, and Phoebe was able to relax her care and enjoy herself doubly for feeling all the value of the future sister.

She thought Miss Charlecote and Lucilla both looked worn and dispirited, when one day she rode with Sir John to see them and inspect the Underwood, as well as to make arrangements for the Forest Show. Poor Honora was seriously discomposed at having nothing to show there. It was the first time that the Holt had failed to shine in its produce, but old Brooks had allowed the whole country round to excel so palpably in all farm crops, and the gardener had taken things so easily in her absence, that everything was mediocre, and she was displeased and ashamed. Moreover, Brooks had controverted her strictest instructions against harbouring tenants of bad character; he had mismanaged the cattle, and his accounts were in confusion. He was a thoroughly faithful servant, but like Ponto and the pony, he had grown masterful with age. Honor found that her presiding eye had certainly done some good, since going away had made things so much worse, and she took Sir John with her to the study to consult him on her difficulties. Phoebe and Lucilla were left together.

'I am afraid you are not much better,' said Phoebe, looking at the languid fragile little being, and her depressed air.

'Yes, I am,' she answered, 'in essentials—but, oh! Phoebe, if you could only teach me to get on with Honor.'

'Oh,' said Phoebe, with a tone of disappointment, 'I hoped all was comfortable now.'

'So it ought to be! I am a wretch that it is not; but somehow I get tired to death. I should like it to be my own fault, but with her I always have a sense of fluffiness. There is so much figurativeness and dreamy sentiment that one never gets to the firm, clear surface.'

'I thought that her great charm,' said Phoebe. 'It is a pity to be so dull and unimaginative as I am.'

'I like you best as you are! I know what to be at.'

'Besides, her sensibility and poetry are a fund of happy youthfulness. Abroad, her enjoyment was multiplied, because every place was full of associations, lighted up by her fancy.

'Made unsubstantial by her fluff! No, I cannot like mutton with the wool on! It is a shame, though, good creature as she is! I only wanted to make out the philosophy of the wearied, worried condition that her conversation is so apt to bring on in me. I can't think it pure wickedness on my own part, for I esteem, and love, and venerate the good soul with all my heart. I say, Phoebe, were you never in an inward rage when she would say she would not let some fact be true, for the sake of some mythical, romantic figment? You smile. Own that you have felt it.'

'I have thought of Miss Fennimore's theory, that legends are more veritable exponents of human nature than bare facts.'

'Say it again, Phoebe. It sounds very grand. Whipped cream is a truer exponent of milk than cheese, especially when it tastes of soap-suds. Is that it?'

'It is a much prettier thing, and not near so hard and dry,' said Phoebe; 'but, you see, you are talking in figures after all.'

'The effect of example. Look here, my dear, the last generation was that of mediaevalism, ecclesiology, chivalry, symbolism, whatever you may call it. Married women have worked out of it. It is the middle-aged maids that monopolize it. Ours is that of common sense.'

'I don't know that it is better or prettier,' said Phoebe.

'And it may be worse! But how are the two to live together when there is no natural conformity—only undeserved benefits on one side and gratitude on the other?'

'You will be more at ease when you are stronger and better,' said Phoebe. 'Your brother will make you feel more natural with her.'

'Don't talk of it, Phoebe. Think of the scene those two will get up! And the showing him that terrible little Cockney, Hoeing, as the old woman calls him. If I could only break the neck of his h's before poor Owen hears them.'

'Miss Charlecote did say something of having him here, but she thought you were not strong enough.'

'Justly judged! I shall have enough of him by and by, if I take him out to Canada. Once I used to think that would be deliverance; now it has become nothing but a gigantic trouble!'

'If you are really equal to it, you will not feel it so, when the time comes. Bertha was miserable at the thought of moving, till just when she had come to the right point, and then she grew eager for it.'

It was wonderful how much freshened Lucy was by this brief contact with Phoebe's clear, practical mind; but only for the time. Ever since her arrival at the Holt she had sadly flagged, though making every effort against her depression. There was something almost piteous in her obedience and submission. All the employments once pressed upon her and then spurned, were solicitously resumed; or if Honor remonstrated against them as over-fatiguing, were relinquished in the same spirit of resigned meekness. Her too visible desire to make an onerous atonement pressed with equal weight on both, and the essential want of sympathy rendered the confidences of the one mysteries to the other.

Honora was grieved that her child had only returned to pine and droop, charging much of her melancholy lassitude upon Robert, and waiting on her with solicitude and tenderness that were unhappily only an additional oppression; and all Lucilla's aversion to solitude did not prevent her friend's absence from being a relief. It was all that she could at present desire to be released from the effort of being companionable, and be able to indulge her languor without remark, her wayward appetite without causing distress, and her dejection without caresses, commiseration, or secret imputations on Robert.

Tidings came from Vancouver's Land of her uncle's death by an accident. Long as it was since she had seen him, the loss was deeply felt. She better appreciated what his care of her father had been, and knew better what gratitude he deserved, and it was a sore disappointment that he should not live to see her prove her repentance for all her flightiness and self-will. Moreover, his death, without a son, would enable his nephew to alienate the family estate; and Lucy looked on this as direful shame and humiliation. Still there was something soothing in having a sorrow that could be shared with Miss Charlecote; and the tangible cause for depression and retirement was a positive comfort.

'Trouble' was the chief dread of her wearied spirit; and though she had exerted herself to devise and work the banners, she could not attempt being present at the grand Forest show, and marvelled to see Honor set off, with twice her years and more than twice her sorrows, yet full of the fresh eagerness of youthful anticipation, and youthful regrets at leaving her behind, and at having nothing to figure at the show!

But vegetables were not the order of that day, the most memorable the Forest had perhaps ever known, since six bold Lancastrian outlaws had there been hung, on the very knoll where the flag of England was always hoisted, superior to the flags of all the villages.

The country population and the exhibitors were all early in the field, and on the watch for the great feature of the day—the Londoners. What cheering rent the air as the first vehicle from the little Forest station appeared, an old stage-coach, clustered within and without by white bibs, tippets, and caps, blue frocks, and grave, demure faces, uncertain whether to be charmed or frightened at their elevation and reception, and almost dazzled by the bright sunshine and pure air, to their perception absolutely thin, though heavy laden with the scents of new-mown hay and trodden ferns.

The horses are stopped, down springs Mr. Parsons from the box, releases the staid mistress from within, lifts or jumps down the twenty girls, and watches them form in well-accustomed file, their banner at their head, just pausing to be joined by the freight of a rattling omnibus, the very roof laden with the like little Puritan damsels. The conveyances turn back for another load, the procession is conducted slowly away, through the road lined by troops of country children, regarding the costume as the latest London fashion, and holding out many an eager gift of nosegays of foxgloves, marigolds, southernwood, and white pinks. Meanwhile break, cart, fly, van, barouche, gig, cart, and wagon continue in turn to discharge successive loads, twenty children to each responsible keeper. White caps are over! Behold the parish school of St. Wulstan's. Here is fashion! Here are hats, polkas, and full short skirts, but pale faces and small limbs. The country mothers cry 'Oh!' and 'Poor little dears, they look very tuly,' and complacently regard their own sturdy, sunburnt offspring, at whose staring eyes and ponderous boots the city mice glance with disdain.

Endless stream! Here waves a proud blue banner, wrought with a noble tortoiseshell cat; and behind it, each class led by a cat-flag, marches the Whittingtonian line, for once no ragged regiment, but arrayed by their incumbent's three sisters in lilac cotton and straw bonnets, not concealing, however, the pinched and squalid looks of the denizens of the over-crowded lanes and alleys.

That complaint cannot be made of these sixteen wearers of gray frocks and checked jackets. Stunted indeed they are, several with the expressionless, almost featureless, visages of hereditary misery, others with fearfully refined loveliness, but all are plump, well-fed, and at ease. They come from the orphanage of St. Matthew's, under the charge of the two ladies who walk with them, leading two lesser younglings, all but too small to be brought to the festival. Yes, these are the waifs and strays, of home and parents absolutely unknown, whom Robert Fulmort has gathered from the streets—his most hopeful conquest from the realm of darkness.

Here, all neatly, some stylishly dressed, are the St. Wulstan's Young Women's Association, girls from fifteen upwards, who earn their own livelihood in service or by their handiwork, but meet on Sunday afternoons to read, sing, and go to church together, have books lent out for the week, or questions set for those who like them. It is Miss Fennimore who is the nucleus of the band; she sits with them in church, she keeps the books, writes the questions, and leads the singing; and she is walking between her two chief friends, answering their eager and intelligent questions about trees and flowers, and directing their observation.

Boys! boys! boys! Objects in flat caps and little round buttons atop, knee-breeches, and short-tailed coats, funnier to look at than their white-capped sisters, gentlemanly choristers, tidy sons of artisans and warehousemen, ragged half-tamed little street vagabonds, all file past, under curate, schoolmaster or pupil teacher, till the whole multitude is safely deposited in a large mead running into the heart of the Forest, and belonging to the ranger, Sir John Raymond, who has been busy there, with all his family, for the last three days.

Policemen guard the gates from intruders, but all can look over the low hedge at the tents at either end, the cord dividing boy from girl, and the scattered hay, on which the strangers move about, mostly mazed by the strange sights, sounds, and smells, and only the petted orphans venturing to tumble about that curious article upon the ground. Two little sisters, however, evidently transplanted country children, sit up in a corner where they have found some flowers, fondling them and hugging them with ecstasy.

The band strikes up, and, at the appointed signal, grace is said by the archdeacon from the centre, the children are seated on the grass, and 'the nobility, clergy, and gentry' rush to the tents, and emerge with baskets of sandwiches of the largest dimensions, or cans full of Sir John's beer. The Whittingtonians devour as those that have eaten nothing this morning, the Wulstonites as though country air gave great keenness of appetite; the subdued silence of awe passes off, and voices, laughing, and play begin to betray some real enjoyment and familiarity.

Such as are not too perfectly happy in the revelry of tumbling on the grass are then paraded through the show, to gaze at peas, currants, and potatoes, pyramids of geraniums, and roses peeping through white paper. Thence the younger ones return to play in the field; such of the elder ones as prefer walking are conducted through forest paths to gather flowers, and to obtain a closer view of that oft-described sight, a corn-field. Some of the elder Wulstonians get up a dance, tall girls dancing together with the utmost enjoyment; but at four o'clock the band plays Dulce Domum, the captains of twenties count heads and hunt up stragglers, all gather together in their places, plum buns and tea are administered till even these thirsty souls can drink no more. Again the files are marshalled, the banners displayed, and the procession moves towards the little Forest church, a small, low-walled, high-roofed building, enclosed by stately beeches, making a sort of outer cathedral around the little elevation where it stood in its railed-in churchyard.

Two thousand children besides spectators in a building meant for three hundred! How came it to be devised? There is a consultation among the clergy. They go from one portion to another of the well-generalled army, and each division takes up a position on the ground strewn with dry beech leaves; hassocks and mats are brought to the ladies, a desk set at the gate, and a chair for the archdeacon; the choristers are brought near, and the short out-door service is begun.

How glorious and full the responses, 'as the voice of many waters,' and the chanted Psalms, the beautiful songs of degrees of the 27th of the month, rise with new fulness and vividness of meaning among the tall trees and sunlit foliage. One lesson alone is read, in Charlecote Raymond's fine, powerful voice, and many an eye is filled with tears at the words, 'One Lord, one Faith, one Baptism, one God and Father of us all,' as he gazes on the troops on troops of young and old, rich and poor, strangers and homeborn, all held together in that great unity, typified by the overshadowing sky, and evidenced by the burst of the Creed from every voice and every heart.

Then follow the Versicles, the Collects, the Thanksgiving, and the Blessing, and in a few warm, kind words the archdeacon calls on all to keep the bond of peace and brotherly love, and bade the strangers bear home with them the thought of the wonderful works of God. Then—

All people that on earth do dwell, Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice,

arises from the congregation in all its simple exultant majesty, forcing, as it were, every voice to break forth into singing unless it be choked by heart-swelling.

The last note has died away, but there is a sweet hush, as though lingering still, ere breaking the sense that this is none other than the gate of heaven.

Rattle and rumble, the vehicles are coming! The children rise, and somewhere begins the indispensable cheer. The gentlemen take the lead. 'Three times three for Mr. Fulmort!' 'Three cheers for Sir John Raymond!' 'Three for the Forest show!' Shouting and waving of hats will never cease, the gentlemen are as crazy as the boys, and what will become of the train?

Tumble them in—hoist up the girls while mankind is still vociferous. What's all this, coming in at the omnibus windows? Stand back, child, you don't want to be set down in London! Your nosegay, is it? Here are the prize nosegays, prize potatoes, prize currants, prize everything showering in on the Londoners to display or feast on at home. Many a family will have a first taste of fresh country green meat to-morrow, of such freshness, that is, as it may retain after eight hours of show and five of train. But all is compared! How the little girls hug their flowers. If any nosegays reach London alive, they will be cherished to their last hour, and maybe the leaves will live in prayer-books for many a year.

Poor little things! It has been to them apparently a rather weary and oppressive pleasure, too strange for the most part to be thoroughly enjoyed; but it will live in their memories for many a day, and as time goes on, will clear itself from the bewilderment, till it become one of the precious days that make gems on the thread of life.

Mervyn! Where has he been all this time? True, he once said he would see nothing of it, and seems to have kept his word. He did not even acknowledge the cheers for Mr. Fulmort.

Is not something visible behind the broad smooth bole of yonder beech tree? Have Mervyn and Cecily been there all the time of the evening service?

It is a remarkable fact, that though nobody has told anybody, every person who is curious, and many who are not, know who is to be Mrs. Fulmort of Beauchamp.



CHAPTER XXVII

When will you marry? Say the bells of St. Mary. When I get rich, Say the bells of Shoreditch. When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney. I do not know, Says the great bell of Bow.—Nursery Rhyme

There was some truth in Lucilla's view of herself and Honor as belonging to two distinct classes of development. Honor had grown up among those who fed on Scott, Wordsworth, and Fouque, took their theology from the British Critic, and their taste from Pugin; and moulded their opinions and practice on the past. Lucilla and Phoebe were essentially of the new generation, that of Kingsley, Tennyson, Ruskin, and the Saturday Review. 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 refinement as much as it has gained in clearness and confidence! Lucilla represented reaction, therefore her attitude was antagonistic; Phoebe was the child of the newer system, therefore she loved the elder one, and sought out the likenesses to, rather than the differences from, her own tone of thought. And well was it that she had never let slip her hold on that broad, unchanging thread of truth, the same through all changes, making faith and principle 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 understanding each other, and they were far more at ease when she was with them. In October, all three went to Woolstone-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 without her, as the little parsonage had not room for three guests besides Lieschen, who was more indispensable to Maria than even herself, and both the others were earnestly set upon accepting the invitation. Cecily silenced her scruples by begging, as a proof of acceptance as a sister, that she might be intrusted with them, and promising that in her own quiet home, 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 returning as soon as the survey for a new line of railway should have been completed, and it was not unlikely 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 extremely 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 wish 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 shrink 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 glory, every wood arrayed in brightness; and as they drove from the Wrapworth Station, the banks of the river were surpassingly lovely, brown, red, and olive, illuminated by sprays of yellow, like fireworks, and contrasting 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 the similitude of the crushed fire-fly; yet the fire of those days had scorched, not lighted; and it had been the mirth that tendeth to heaviness.

Cilla 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 impressed 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 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-door, 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 gold, the maples blushing themselves away, the parterre a gorgeous patchwork of scarlet, lilac, and orange, the Virginian creeper hanging 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. Phoebe thought of the strange, uncomfortable dream that it had been to her when she had before looked and wondered 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 suffered.

The rooms were opened, and set out for inspection. Honor and Phoebe 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 grasping the back of a chair, as she looked up to a large picture of three children, two boys and a girl, fancifully dressed, and playing with flowers. The waxen complexion, fair hair, and blue eyes of the girl were almost her own.

'This to be sold?' 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 oppressed; but she smiled coldly and sternly, and tightened a stiff, cold grasp on Phoebe's 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 his own father, I don't know how I can complain of his selling my mother!'

'But, Lucy, listen. Miss Charlecote was asking about the agent. I am sure she means to try to get it for you.'

'I dare say. It is right that 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 Mr. Charteris about it.'

'What gentleman?' and Lucy was ready to spring back to inquire.

'Miss Charlecote asked, and I believe it was Mr. Prendergast!'

There was a bright, though strange flickering of pleasure and pain over Cilla's face, and her eyelids quivered as she said, 'Yes—yes—of course; but he must not—he must not do it! 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 kindness itself in her; but I can'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 recollections, Lucilla again descended first, and at the door met 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?' 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 picture? I am sorry you do.'

'It is of no use for you to know that your 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?' she said, with full heart and eyes.

'Because the sale must take place, and the purchaser may be a brute, so it may end in disappointment.'

'It can't end in disappointment.'

'It may be far beyond my means,' continued the curate, as if he had been answering her importunities for a new doll.

'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?' he asked, mortified.

'Nay—didn't I tell you that I let her do it as an expiation. Does not that prove what it costs me?'

'Then why not—' he began.

'Because,' she interrupted, 'in the first place, you have no idea of the price 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.

'Don'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?'

'Cilla!' he said.

'Well?'

'Cilla!'

'Well?'

'I have a great mind to tell you why I came to Southminster.'

'To look at a living?'

'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 wonder, drew her arm away, and stood still, partly bewildered. 'You didn't?' she said, half in interrogation.

'I saw my mistake; you were too young and gay. But, Cilla,' 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?'—and he came nearer.

'It! Nonsense! Of you!' she vehemently exclaimed. 'How could you think of anything else?'

'Cilla,' 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!'

'Why not?' asked Lucilla. 'It is only too good for me.'

'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—darling charge?'

'Oh, it would be such rest!'

It was as if the storm-tossed bird was folding its weary wing in perfect calm and confidence. Nor could he contain his sudden joy, but spoke incoherent words, and well-nigh wept over her.

'How did you come to think of it?' exclaimed she, as, the first gush of feeling over, they walked on arm-in-arm.

'I thought of it from the moment when I hoped I might be a resource, a comforter at least.'

'Not before?' was the rather odd question.

'No. The place was forlorn enough without you; but I was not such a fool as to think of a young beauty, and all that.'

'All that meaning my wickedness,' said Lucilla. 'Tell me again. You always did like the 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 Cilla; 'worn out and washed out into a mere rag. And you like her the better?'

'Not washed out!' he said, as her countenance flushed into more 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. The 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 all 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 staid.'

'No, no; I can't spare all that yellow hair.'

'Yellow indeed! if you don't know better what to call it, the sooner it is out of sight the better.'

'Why, what do you call it?'

'Flaxen, 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 length satisfied her spirit; but gravity came back to her as they 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 for 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 little time to be good with poor dear Honor, now that I have heart and spirit to be good.'

'And I grudge every week to her! I declare, Cilla, you make me wish evil to my neighbour.'

'Then follow 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? I have not been near them since!'

'More shame for you! Sarah 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 won't take it to heart.'

'I hope they will!'

'What?'

'Turning you out?'

'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 exclaimed:—

'Poor Edna! Monument of my faults! What perverse determination of mine it was that laid her 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 ashamed 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 pleasantest of charges. Thank you,' said Cilla. 'Three o'clock! Poor Honor, she must be starving!'

'What about her?' stammered Mr. Prendergast, hanging back shyly. 'Must she be told?'

'Not now,' said Lucilla, with all her alert readiness. 'I will tell her to-night. You will come in the first day you can!'

'To-morrow! Every possible day.'

Honor had truly been uneasy, fearing that Lucilla was walking, sitting down, or fasting imprudently; 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 deficiencies without obtrusiveness. Always at home in the vicarage, she made none of her former bantering 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 attention.

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 lips, 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 complaint—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 Cilla half laughed, and shook her head, she added—'I meant to tell you that long ago—from the time I 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 Cilla; 'how very kindly you are doing it! Little did I think that Charles's heartlessness would have brought me so much joy and kindness.'

'Then you would like it to be done,' said Honor, delighted to 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 my explanation. Mr. Prendergast 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 half know him, nor did I 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 Wrapworth. 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 I 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, I 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 heart, and which is one's flirting-machine! for the other thing does simulate all the motions, and feel real true pain! But I 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 I survived his turning me off, and didn't at all wish him to bring it on again.'