Hopes and Fears Part 106

'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 embarra.s.sing than the whole a.s.size 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 Ess.e.x. 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, wis.h.i.+ng 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 Inst.i.tute. 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 ladys.h.i.+p'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 s.h.i.+ne 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 a.s.sure 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.'