Hopes and Fears Part 107

'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 pa.s.sed 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 p.r.o.ne 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 const.i.tution 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 cus.h.i.+ons, 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 embarra.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 unembarra.s.sed and easy.

Afterwards Robert sought out Phoebe, and beguiled her into the window where his affairs had so often been canva.s.sed.

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