Hopes and Fears Part 113

'No, that you did not,' said Honor, in a cheered voice, as if acquitting her.

'And I am sure if Mr. Prendergast only looked like using me after my deserts, as _he_ did, it would not be only a demi-decline that I should get into,' said Lucilla, her eyes full of tears. 'Oh! Honor, think of his care of my father! Kiss me and wish me joy in my father's name, and like him; for when you know him, you will see he is the only person in the wide world to whom you could safely trust your little torment!'

Honor could not but be carried along to give the hearty kiss and motherly congratulation as they were sought, and she saw that she must believe what Lucy said of her own feelings, incomprehensible though they were.

But she regretted to hear of the waiting for a college living, and at the first impulse wished she had heard of this attachment before Hiltonbury's fate had been fixed.

'For shame, Honor, as if you ought not to respect Hiltonbury too much to tack it to my petticoat! But at least thank you, for if you could once think of committing Hiltonbury to him, you must like it for me.'

'I must like what is so evidently well for you, my child! Will you tell Phoebe?'

'Not till we go home, I think,' said Cilla, with a blush; and, as if to avoid farther discussion, she bade Honora good night. Decidedly, she wished Robert to feel more than she would like to see, or should he betray no feeling, she had rather not be aware of it.

But such news was already in town as to put to flight, for a time at least, the last remnants of coquetry.

Robert was in the house early in the morning, and called Miss Charlecote to speak to him in the study. He had a packet of letters in his hand, of which he gave one to herself, a long one in Owen's writing, but unfinished and undirected.

'Lakeville, Newcastle District, August 14th.

'MY DEAR HONOR,

'There is no saying how much I rejoice that I can write to you and Lucy again under the same roof. I hope soon to see you together again, and revive old times, but we are delayed by the discovery that the swamp lying full in the Grand Ottawa and Superior Line is impracticable, and would not only be the death of all the navvies employed thereon, but would swallow bodily the funds of the G. O. and S. Company. So we are carrying our survey in other directions, before making out our report, after which I hope to be permanently engaged on the construction. This will give me three months to spend at home, in knitting up old links, and considering how to dispose of my poor little enc.u.mbrance till I can set him to make his way here.

You or Lucy would perhaps look out for some lady who takes Indian children, or the like. I am my own man now, and can provide the wherewithal, for my personal expenses are small, and engineering is well paid. Lucy must not think of bringing him out, for even at her fastest the Far West would be no place for her. Let her think of Glendalough, and realize that if she were here she would look back on it as a temple of comfort, civilization, and civility, and this place is the last attempt at social habitation for 200 and odd miles. It stands on a lake of its own, with an Indian name, "which no man can speak and no man can spell." It is colonial to the highest degree, and inhabited by all denominations, chiefly agreed in wors.h.i.+pping us as priests of the G. O. and S. Line, which is to make their fortune; and for their manners, least said soonest mended, though there are some happy exceptions, French Canadian, Lowland Scots, etc. and a wiry hard-working parson, whose parish extends nearly to Lake Superior, and whose remaining aroma of University is refres.h.i.+ng.

There is also a very nice young lad, whose tale may be a moving example of what it is to come out here expecting to find in the backwoods Robinson Crusoe's life and that of the Last of the Mohicans combined. That is, it was not he, but his father, Major Randolf, an English officer, who, knowing nothing of farming, less of Canada, and least of all of speculation, got a grant of land, where he speculated only to lose, and got transferred to this forlorn tract, only to s.h.i.+ver with ague and die of swamp fever. During the twenty-five years of this long agony, he had contrived to have two wives, the first of whom left this son, whom he educated as a scholar, intending to finish him in England when the tide should turn, but whereas it never did, he must needs get a fresh partner into the whirlpool, a Yankee damsel out of a boarding-house. By the time she had had a couple of children, he died, and the whole weight remains bound about young Randolf's neck, tying him down to work for dear life in this doleful spot, without a farthing of capital, no stock, no anything.

I came upon the clearing one day in the course of my surveying, and never did I see _Gone to the Dogs_ more clearly written on any spot; the half-burnt or overthrown trees lying about overgrown with wild vines and raspberries, the snake fence broken down, the log-house looking as if a touch would upset it, and nothing hopeful but a couple of patches of maize and potatoes, and a great pumpkin climbing up a stump. My horse and myself were done up, so I halted, and was amazed at the greeting I received from the youth, who was hard at work on his hay, single-handed, except for the two children tumbling in it. The lady in her rocking-chair was contrast enough to make me heartily glad to find that she was his stepmother, not his wife.

Since that, I have seen a good deal of him; he comes to Lakeville, five miles across the bush and seven across the lake, to church on Sunday, and spends the day with the parson, and Mr. Currie has given him work in our press of business, and finds him so effective, that he wants to take him on for good; but this can't be while he has got these three stones about his neck, for whom he works harder and lives worse than any day-labourer at Hiltonbury; regular hand to mouth, no chance of making a start, unless the Company will fortunately decide on the line I am drawing through the heart of his house, which will force them to buy him out of it. I go out to-morrow to mark the said line for Mr. Currie to report upon, and will finish my letter to travel with said report.

'_Aug._ 21_st._--Thanks to the Fire-King, he has done for the ancient log-house, though next time he mounts his "hot-copper filly," I do not desire a second neck-and-neck race with him. A sprain of the leg, and contusion (or confusion) of the head, are the extent of the damage received, and you will say that it is cheap, considering all things. I had done my 203 miles of marking, and was coming back on my last day's journey, debating whether to push on to Lakeville that night, camp out, or get a shake-down at Randolf's, bringing my own provender, for they live on hominy and milk, except for what he can shoot or catch. It was so dark that I had nearly fixed on sleeping in the bush, when it struck me that there must be an uncommonly fine aurora, but getting up a little rising ground where the trees were thinner, I observed it was to the south-west, not the north. That way there lies prairie land, at this season one ocean of dry bents, fit to burn like tinder, so that one spark would set fifty square miles alight at once. All the sky in that quarter was the colour of glowing copper, but the distance was so enormous that danger never occurred to me till I saw the deer scampering headlong, the birds awake and flying, and my horse trembling and wild to be off. Then I remembered that the wind was full from that direction, and not a bit of water between, nor all the way to the Lakeville lake. I never knew my beast's pace on the Kingston road what it was through that track, all the rustling and scuttling of the beasts and birds sounding round us, the glare gaining on us, and the scent of smoke beginning to taint the wind. There was Randolf's clearing at last, lonesome and still as ever, and a light in the window. Never was it so hard to pull in a horse; however, I did so. He was still up, reading by a pine torch, and in five minutes more the woman and her children were upon the horse, making for the lake. Randolf took his axe, and pocketed a book or two, and we dashed off together for a long arm of swamp that he knew of, running out from the lake. When we got to the other end of the clearing, I thought it was all up with us. The wall of red roaring flame had reached the other side, and the flame was leaping from the top of one pine to another, making them one shape of quivering red, like Christmas evergreens in the fire, a huge tree perhaps standing up all black against the lurid light, another cras.h.i.+ng down like thunder, the ribbon of flame darting up like a demon, the whole at once standing forth a sheet of blazing light. I verily believe I should have stood on, fascinated with the horror and majesty of the sight, and feeling it vain to try to escape, when the burning wings were spreading to enclose the clearing and us with it, but Randolf urged me on, and we plunged through the bush at the best speed we could make, the smoke rolling after us, and the heat glowing like a furnace, so as to consume all power out of us. It was h.e.l.l itself pursuing after us, and roaring for his prey, the trees coming cras.h.i.+ng down, and shaking the earth under our feet, the flame absolutely running on before us upon the dry gra.s.s and scrub, and the scorching withering every drop of moisture from us, though not ten minutes before, we had been streaming at every pore.

'I saw green reeds before us, heard Randolf cry out, "Thank G.o.d," and thought I was plunging after him, when I found myself on the ground, and the branches of a hemlock covering me. Happily they were but the lesser boughs, and not yet alight; and at his own desperate peril, Randolf came back with his axe, and cut them off, then dragged me after him into the mud. Never bath more welcome! We had to dispute it with buffaloes, deer, all the beasts of the wood, tame and cowed with terror, and through them we floundered on, the cold of the water to our bodies making the burning atmosphere the more intolerable round our heads. At last we came to an island, where we fell upon the reeds so much spent that it was long before we found that our refuge was shared by a bear and by Randolf's old cow, to the infinite amaze of the bull-frogs. The Fire King was a hundred yards off; and a fierce shower, brought from other parts by his unwarrantable doings, began to descend, and finally quenched him in such smoke that we had to lie on our faces to avoid stifling. When the sun arose, there was Lakeville in its woods on one side, on the other the blackest desolation conceivable. The population were all astir.

Mrs. Randolf had arrived safely, and Mr. Currie was about to set forth in search of my roasted remains, when they perceived the signals of distress that we were making, after Randolf had done gallant battle with the bear in defence of the old cow. He is a first-rate hunter, and despatched the fellow with such little aid as I could give, with a leg not fit to stand upon; and when the canoes came off to fetch us, he would not leave the place till he had skinned the beast. My leg is unserviceable at present, and all my bones feel the effect of the night in the swamp, so I am to lay by, make the drawings, and draw up the report, while Mr. Currie and Randolf do my work over again, all my marks having been effaced by his majesty the Fire King, and the clearing done to our hand. If I could only get rid of the intolerable parching and thirst, and the burning of my brains! I should not wonder if I were in for a touch of swamp fever.'

Here Owen's letter broke off; and Honor begged in alarm for what Robert evidently had in reserve. He had received this letter to her enclosed in one from Mr. Currie, desiring him to inform poor young Sandbrook's friends of his state. By his account, Owen's delay and surrender of his horse had been an act of gallant self-devotion, placing him in frightfully imminent danger, whence only the cool readiness of young Randolf had brought him off, apparently with but slight hurts from the fall of the tree, and exposure to the night air of the heated swamp. He had been left at Lakeville in full confidence of restoration after a week's rest, but on returning from Lake Superior, Mr. Currie found him insensible, under what was at first taken for an aggravated access of the local fever, until, as consciousness returned, it became evident that the limbs on the left side were powerless. Between a litter and water transport, the sufferer was conveyed to Montreal, where the evil was traced to concussion of the brain from the blow from the tree, the more dangerous because unfelt at first, and increased by application to business. The injury of the head had deprived the limbs of motion and sensation, and the medical men thought the case hopeless, though likely to linger through many stages of feebleness of mind and body. Under these circ.u.mstances, Mr. Currie, being obliged to return home himself, and unable to leave the poor young man in such a condition among strangers, had decided on bringing him to England, according to his own most eager desire, as the doctors declared that the voyage could do no harm, and might be beneficial. Mr. Currie wrote from Quebec, where he had taken his pa.s.sage by a steamer that would follow his letter in four days' time, and he begged Robert to write to him at Liverpool stating what should be done with the patient, should he be then alive. His mind, he said, was clear, but weak, and his memory, from the moment of his fall till nearly the present time, a blank. He had begged Mr. Currie to write to his sister or to Miss Charlecote, but the engineer had preferred to devolve the communication upon Mr. Fulmort. Of poor Owen he spoke with much feeling, in high terms of commendation, saying that he was a valuable friend and companion as well as a very right hand in his business, and that his friends might be a.s.sured that he (Mr. Currie) would watch over him as if he were his own son, and that his temporary a.s.sistant, Mr. Randolf, was devoted to him, and had nursed him most tenderly from the first.

'Four days' time,' said Honor, when she had taken in the sense of these appalling tidings. 'We can be at Liverpool to meet him. Do not object, Robert. Nothing else will be bearable to either his sister or me.'

'It was of his sister that I was thinking,' said Robert. 'Do you think her strong enough for the risks of a hurried journey, with perhaps a worse shock awaiting her when the steamer comes in? Will you let me go alone? I have sent orders to be telegraphed for as soon as the _Asia_ is signalled, and if I go at once, I can either send for you if needful, or bring him to you. Will you not let me?'

He spoke with persuasive authority, and Honora half yielded. 'It may be better,' she said, 'it _may_. A man may do more for him there than we could, but I do not know whether poor Lucy will let you, or--' (as a sudden recollection recurred to her) 'whether she ought.'

'Poor Owen is my friend, my charge,' said Robert.

'I believe you are right, you kind Robin,' said Honor. 'The journey might be a great danger for Lucy, and if I went, I know she would not stay behind. But I still think she will insist on seeing him.'

'I believe not,' said Robert; 'at least, if she regard submission as a duty.'

'Oh, Robin, you do not know. Poor child, how am I to tell her?'

'Would you like for me to do so?' said Robert, in the quiet matter-of-course way of one to whom painful offices had become well-nigh natural.

'You? O Robin, if you--' she said, in some confusion, but at the moment the sound of the visitor's bell startled her, and she was about to take measures for their exclusion, when looking from the window, she saw that the curate of Wrapworth had already been admitted into the court. The next moment she had met him in the hall, and seizing his hand, exclaimed in a hurried whisper, 'I know! I know! But there is a terrible stroke hanging over my poor child. Come in and help us to tell her!'

She drew him into the study, and shut the door. The poor man's sallowness had become almost livid, and in half-sobbing words he exclaimed--'Is it so? Then give her to me at once. I will nurse her to the last, or save her! I knew it was only her being driven out to that miserable governess life that has been destroying her!' and he quite glared upon poor innocent Honor as a murderess.

'Mr. Prendergast, I do not know what you mean. Lucilla is nearly well again. It is only that we fear to give her some bad news of her brother.'

'Her brother! Is that all?' said the curate, in a tone of absolute satisfaction. 'I beg your pardon, Miss Charlecote; I thought I saw a doctor here, and you were going to sentence my darling.'

'You do see Robert Fulmort, whom I thought you knew.'

'So I do,' said Mr. Prendergast, holding out his hand. 'I beg your pardon for having made such a fool of myself; but you see, since I came to an understanding with that dear child, I have not thought of anything else, nor known what I was about.'

Robert could not but look inquiringly at Miss Charlecote.

'Yes,' she faltered, 'Mr. Prendergast has told you--what I could not--what I had not leave to say.'

'Yes,' put in Mr. Prendergast, in his overflowing felicity, 'I see you think it a shocking match for such a little gem of beauty as that; but you young men should have been sharper. There's no accounting for tastes;' and he laughed awkwardly.

'I am heartily glad,' said Robert--and voice, look, and grasp of the hand conveyed the fullest earnestness--'I am exceedingly rejoiced that the dear little friend of all my life should be in such keeping! I congratulate you most sincerely, Mr. Prendergast. I never saw any one so well able to appreciate her.'

That is over, thought Honor; how well he has stood it! And now she ventured to recall them to the subject in hand, which might well hang more heavily on her heart than the sister's fate! It was agreed that Lucilla would bear the intelligence best from Mr. Prendergast, and that he could most easily restrain her desire for going to Liverpool. He offered himself to go to meet Owen, but Honor could not quite forgive the '_Is that all_?' and Robert remained constant to his former view, that he, as friend both of Owen and Mr. Currie, would be the most effective.

So therefore it stood, and Lucilla was called out of the drawing-room to Mr. Prendergast, as Honor and Robert entered it. It was almost in one burst that Phoebe learnt the brother's accident and the sister's engagement, and it took her several moments to disentangle two such extraordinary events.

'I am very glad,' repeated Robert, as he felt rather than saw that both ladies were regarding him with concealed anxiety; 'it is by far the happiest and safest thing for her! It is an infinite relief to my mind.'

'I can't but be glad,' said Honor; 'but I don't know how to forgive her!'

'That I can do very easily,' said Robert, with a smile on his thin lips that was very rea.s.suring, 'not only as a Christian, but as I believe nothing ever did me so much good. My fancy for her was an incentive which drew me on to get under better influences, and when we threw each other overboard, I could do without it. She has been my best friend, not even excepting you, Miss Charlecote; and as such I hope always to be allowed to regard her. There, Phoebe, you have had an exposition of my sentiments once for all, and I hope I may henceforth receive credit for sincerity.'

Miss Charlecote felt that, under the name of Phoebe, this last reproof was chiefly addressed to her; and perhaps Phoebe understood the same, for there was the slightest of all arch smiles about her full lip and downcast eye; and though she said nothing, her complete faith in her brother's explanation, and her Christian forgiveness of Lucilla, did not quench a strong reserve of wondering indignation at the mixed preferences that had thus strangely settled down upon the old curate.

She followed her brother from the room, to ask whether she had better not leave Woolstone-lane in the present juncture. But there was nowhere for her to go; Beauchamp was shut up, the cottage being painted, Sutton barely held the three present guests, and her elder sister from home.

'You cannot go without making a disturbance,' said Robert; 'besides, I think you ought to stay with Miss Charlecote. Lucilla is of no use to her; and this unlucky Owen is more to her than all the world besides.

You may comfort her.'

Phoebe had no more to urge. She could not tell her brother that looks and words of Owen Sandbrook, and in especial his last farewell, which she was at that time too young and simple to understand, had, with her greater experience, risen upon her in an aspect that made her desirous of avoiding him. But, besides the awkwardness of such recollections at all, they seemed cruel and selfish when the poor young man was coming home crippled and shattered, only to die, so she dismissed them entirely, and set herself to listen and sympathize.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Old isle and glorious, I have heard Thy fame across the sea, And know my fathers' homes are thine, My fathers rest with thee.--_A Cleveland Lore_

'R. M. Fulmort to Miss Charlecote.--The carriage to meet the 6 P.M.

train.'

That was all the intelligence that reached Woolstone-lane till the court-gates were opened, and Robert hurried in before the carriage.

'Much better,' he said 'only he is sadly knocked up by the journey. Do not show yourselves till he is in his room. Which is it?'