Hopes and Fears Part 88

'Only now and then to Mr. Hastings. I could not help it after the day he came into the study when I was copying for you.'

'Ah, well! that is nothing--n.o.body minds old Jack. I shall let them all know you were as safe as a Turk's wife in a harem, and maybe old Crabbe will hear reason if we get him down here alone, without a viper at each ear, as he had last time.'

With which words Mervyn departed, and Miss Fennimore exclaimed in some displeasure, 'You can never think of remaining, Phoebe.'

'I am afraid not,' said Phoebe; 'Mervyn does not seem to know what is proper for us, and I am too young to judge, so I suppose we must go. I wish I could make him happy with music, or books, or anything a woman could do! If you please, I think I must go over to the Holt. I cannot settle to anything just yet, and I shall answer my letters better when I have seen Miss Charlecote.'

In fact Phoebe felt herself going to her other guardian; but as she left the room, Bertha came hurriedly in from the garden, with a plaid thrown round her. 'What--what--what's the matter?' she hastily asked, following Phoebe to her room. 'Is there an end of all these mysteries?'

'Yes,' said Phoebe, 'Miss Fennimore is ready for you.'

'As if that were all I wanted to know. Do you think I did not hear Mervyn storming like a lion?'

'I am sorry you did hear,' said Phoebe, 'for it was not pleasant. It seems that it is not thought proper for us to live here while Mervyn has so many gentleman-guests, so,' with a sigh, 'you will have your wish, Bertha. They mean us to go away!'

'It is not my wish now,' said Bertha, pulling pins in and out of Phoebe's pincus.h.i.+on. 'I am not the child I was in the summer. Don't go, Phoebe; I know you can get your way, if you try for it.'

'I must try to be put in the right way, Bertha, that is all I want.'

'And you are going to the Holt for the most precise, narrow-minded way you can get. I wish I were in your place, Phoebe.'

Scarcely had Phoebe driven from the door, before she saw Miss Charlecote crossing the gra.s.s on foot, and after the interchange of a few words, it was agreed to talk while driving on towards Elverslope. Each was laden with the same subject, for not only had Honor heard from Robert, but during her visit to Moorcroft she had become enlightened on the gossip that seldom reached the Holt, and had learnt that the whole neighbourhood was scandalized at the Beauchamp doings, and was therefore shy of taking notice of the young people there. She had been incredulous at first, then extremely shocked and distressed, and though in part convinced that more than she guessed had pa.s.sed beyond the west wing, she had come primed with a representation which she cautiously administered to Phoebe.

The girl was more indignant on her brother's account than alarmed on her own.

'If that is the way the Raymonds talk of Mervyn,' cried she, 'no wonder they made their niece cast him off, and drive him to despair.'

'It was no unkindness of the Raymonds, my dear. They were only sorry for you.'

'I do not want them to be sorry for me; they ought to be sorry for Mervyn,' said Phoebe, almost petulantly.

'Perhaps they are,' said Honor. 'It was only in kindness that they spoke, and they had almost antic.i.p.ated my explanation that you were kept entirely apart. Every gentleman hereabouts who has been at Beauchamp has declared such to be the case.'

'I should think so!' said Phoebe; 'Mervyn knows how to take care of us better than that!'

'But all ladies do not seem willing to believe as much, shame on them,'

said Honor; 'and, tell me, Phoebe, have people called on you?'

'Not many, but I have not called on them since they left their cards of inquiry. I had been thinking whether I ought.'

'We will consider. Perhaps I had better take you round some day, but I have been a very remiss protector, my poor child, if all be true that I am told of some of Mervyn's friends. It was an insult to have them under the same roof with you.'

'Will you look at this letter?' said Phoebe. 'It is very kind--it is from Lucy.'

These plain words alone occurred to Phoebe as a preparation for a letter that was sure to move Miss Charlecote greatly, if only by the slight of not having written to her, the most obvious person. But the flighty generosity, and deep though inconsistent feeling were precious, and the proud relenting of the message at the end touched Honor with hope. They laughed at the report that had elicited Lucilla's letter, but the reserve of the warning about Mr. Hastings, coming from the once unscrupulous girl, startled Honor even more than what she had heard at Moorcroft. Was the letter to be answered? Yes, by all means, cried Honor, catching at any link of communication. She could discover Lucilla's address, and was sure that even brief thanks and explanations from Phoebe would be good for Lucy.

Like Miss Fennimore, Honor was surprised by Phoebe's composure under her share of the evil report. The strictures which would have been dreadful to an older person seemed to fly over her innocent head, their force either uncomprehended or unfelt. She yielded implicitly to the propriety of the change, but her grief was at the family quarrel, the leaving home, and the unmerited degree of blame cast on Mervyn, not the aspersions on herself; although, as Honor became vexed at her calmness, she withheld none of them in the desire to convince her of the expediency of leaving Beauchamp at once for the Holt. No, even though this was Robert's wish, Phoebe could still not see the necessity, as long as Mervyn should be alone. If he should bring any of his discreditable friends, she promised at once to come to Miss Charlecote, but otherwise she could perceive no reason for grieving him, and astonis.h.i.+ng the world, by implying that his sisters could not stay in his house. She thought him unwell, too, and wished to watch him, and, on the whole, did not regret her guardian's gout, which would give her a little more time at home, and put off the discussion till there should be less anger.

Is this weak? is it childish indifference? thought Honor, or is it a spirit superior to the selfish personal dread that would proclaim its own injured innocence by a vehement commotion.

Phoebe rejoiced that she had secured her interview with her friend, for when the guests were gone, Mervyn claimed her whole attention, and was vexed if she were not continually at his back. After their _tete-a-tete_ dinner, he kept her sitting over the dessert while he drank his wine.

She tried this opportunity of calling his attention to the frauds of the servants, but he merely laughed his mocking laugh at her simplicity in supposing that everybody's servants did not cheat.

'Miss Charlecote's don't.'

'Don't they? Ha--ha! Why, she's the very mark for imposition, and hypocrisy into the bargain.'

Phoebe did not believe it, but would not argue the point, returning to that nearer home. 'Nonsense, Phoebe,' he said; 'it's only a choice who shall prey upon one, and if I have a set that will do it with a civil countenance, and let me live out of the spoil, I'll not be bothered.'

'I cannot think it need go on so.'

'Well, it won't; I shall break up the concern, and let the house, or something.'

'Let the house? Oh, Mervyn! I thought you meant to be a county man.'

'Let those look to that who have hindered me,' said Mervyn, fiercely swallowing one gla.s.sful, and pouring out another.

'Should you live in London?'

'At Jericho, for aught I care, or any one else.'

Her attempt to controvert this remark brought on a tirade against the whole family, which she would not keep up by reply, and which ended in moody silence. Again she tried to rise, but he asked why she could not stay with him five minutes, and went on absently pouring out wine and drinking it, till, as the clock struck nine, the bottom of the decanter was reached, when he let her lead the way to the drawing-room, and there taking up the paper, soon fell asleep, then awoke at ten at the sound of her moving to go to bed, and kept her playing piquet for an hour and a half.

An evening or two of this kind convinced Phoebe that even with Mervyn alone it was not a desirable life. She was less shocked than a girl used to a higher standard at home might have been, but that daily bottle and perpetual cards weighed on her imagination, and she felt that her younger sisters ought not to grow up to such a spectacle. Still her loving heart yearned over Mervyn, who was very fond of her, and consulted her pleasure continually in his own peculiar and selfish way, although often exceedingly cross to her as well as to every one else; but this ill-temper was so visibly the effect of low spirits that she easily endured and forgave it. She saw that he was both unwell and unhappy.

She could not think what would become of him when the present arrangement should be broken up; but could only cling to him, as long as she could pity him. It was no wonder that on the Sunday, Honora seeing her enter the church, could only help being reminded of the expression of that child-saint of Raffaelle, wandering alone through the dragon-haunted wood, wistful and distressed, yet so confident in the Unseen Guide and Guardian that she treads down evils and perils in innocence, unconscious of her full danger and of their full blackness.

CHAPTER XIX

Close within us we will carry, strong, collected, calm, and brave, The true panoply of quiet which the bad world never gave; Very serpents in discretion, yet as guileless as the dove, Lo! obedience is the watchword, and the countersign is love.

W. G. TUPPER

On the next hunting day, Mervyn took Phoebe with him to the meet, upon a favourite common towards Elverslope, where on a fine morning ladies were as apt to be found as hounds and huntsmen, so that she would be at no loss for companions when he left her.

Phoebe rode, as she did everything else, well, quietly and firmly, and she looked very young and fresh, with her rounded rosy cheeks and chin.

Her fair hair was parted back under a round hat, her slenderly plump figure appeared to advantage mounted on her bright bay, and altogether she presented a striking contrast to her brother. She had not seen him in hunting costume for nearly a year, and she observed with pain how much he had lost his good looks; his well-made youthful air was pa.s.sing away, and his features were becoming redder and coa.r.s.er; but he was in his best humour, good-natured, and as nearly gay as he ever was; and Phoebe enjoyed her four-miles' ride in the beauty of a warm December's day, the sun s.h.i.+ning on dewy hedges, and robins and thrushes trying to treat the weather like spring, as they sang amid the rich stores of coral fruit that hung as yet untouched on every hawthorn or eglantine.

The ladies mustered strong on the smooth turf of the chalk down bordering the copse which was being drawn. Phoebe looked out for acquaintance, but a few gentlemen coming up to greet her, she did not notice, as Mervyn did, that the girls with whom he had wished to leave her had become intent on some doings in the copse, and had trotted off with their father. He made his way to the barouche where sat the _grande dame_ of the county, exchanged civilities, and asked leave to introduce his sister. Phoebe, who had never seen the lady before, thought nothing of the cold distant bow; it was for Mervyn, who knew what her greetings could be, to fume and rage inwardly. Other acknowledgments pa.s.sed, but no party had approached or admitted Phoebe, and when the hounds went away, she was still riding alone with her brother and a young officer.

She bade them not to mind her, she would ride home with the servant, and as all were in motion, she had enough to do to hold in her horse, while Mervyn and his friend dashed forward, and soon she found herself alone, except for the groom; the field were well away over the down, the carriages driving off, the mounted maidens following the chase as far as the way was fair and lady-like.

Phoebe had no mind to do so. Her isolation made her feel forlorn, and brought home Miss Charlecote's words as to the opinion entertained of her by the world. Poor child, something like a tear came into her eye and a blush to her cheek, but, 'never mind,' she thought, 'they will believe Miss Charlecote, and she will take care of me. If only Mervyn will not get angry, and make an uproar! I shall soon be gone away! When shall I come back?'

She rode up to the highest part of the down for a take-leave gaze. There lay Elverslope in its basin-like valley scooped out in the hills, with the purple bloom of autumnal haze veiling its red brick and slate; there, on the other side, the copses and arable fields dipped and rose, and rose and dipped again, till the undulations culminated in the tall fir-trees in the Holt garden, the landmark of the country; and on the bare slope to the west, Beauchamp's pillars and pediment made a stately speck in the landscape. 'Home no longer!' thought Phoebe; 'there will be strangers there--and we shall be on the world! Oh! why cannot Mervyn be like Robert? How happy we could be!'

Beauchamp had not been a perfect Eden in itself, but still it had all the a.s.sociations of the paradise of her guileless childhood; and to her the halo around it would always have the radiance of the loving spirit through which she viewed it. The undefined future was hard to bear, but she thought of Robert, and of the promise that neither her sisters nor Miss Fennimore should be parted from her, and tried to rest thankful on that comfort.