Hopes and Fears Part 120

Therewith surged up such a flood of pa.s.sionate emotions that, fleeing from them as it were, the bride tore herself out of Honor's arms, and sprang hastily into the carriage, nervously and hastily moving about its contents while Mr. Prendergast finished his farewells.

After all, there was a certain sense of rest, snugness, and freedom from turmoil, when Honor dried her eyes and went back to her convalescent.

The house seemed peaceful, and they both felt themselves entering into the full enjoyment of being all in all to one another.

There was one guest at the Sutton wedding whose spirit was at St.

Wulstan's. In those set eyes, and tightly-closed lips, might be traced abstraction in spite of himself. Were there not thoughts and prayers for another bride, elsewhere kneeling? Was not the solitary man struggling with the last remnants of fancies at war with his life of self-devotion, and crus.h.i.+ng down the few final regrets, that would have looked back to the dreams of his youth. No marvel that his greatest effort was against being harsh and unsympathizing, even while his whole career was an endeavour to work through charities of deed and word into charities of thought and judgment.

CHAPTER x.x.x

Untouched by love, the maiden's breast Is like the snow on Rona's crest High seated in the middle sky, In bright and barren purity; But by the sunbeam gently kissed, Scarce by the gazing eye 'tis missed, Ere down the lonely valley stealing, Fresh gra.s.s and growth its course revealing; It cheers the flock, revives the flower, And decks some happy shepherd's bower.--SCOTT

Slow to choose, but decided in her choice, Phoebe had always been, and her love formed no exception to this rule. She was quite aware that her heart had been given away, and never concealed it from herself, though she made it a principle not to indulge in future castle buildings, and kept a resolute guard over her attention. It was impossible to obviate a perpetual feeling of restlessness and of tedium in whatever she was about; but she conquered oftener than she gave way, and there was an indescribable sense of peace and sweetness in a new and precious possession, and an undefined hope through all.

Miss Fennimore, who came the day after the girls' return from Sutton, saw only the fuller development of her favourite pupil, and, in truth, Maria and Bertha had so ineffably much to narrate, that her attention would have been sufficiently engrossed to hinder her observation of the symptoms, even had the good lady been as keen and experienced in love as in science.

Poor little Phoebe! equable as she was, she was in a great perturbation when, four days before Christmas, she knew that Miss Charlecote, with Owen Sandbrook and Humfrey Randolf, had arrived at the Holt. What was so natural as for her to go at once to talk over the two weddings with her dear old friend? Yes, but did her dear old friend want her, when these two young men had put an end to her solitude? Was she only making Miss Charlecote an excuse? She would wait in hopes that one of the others would ask if she were going to the Holt! If so, it could not but be natural and proper--if not-- This provoking throbbing of her heart showed that it was not only for Honor Charlecote that she wished to go.

That ring at the bell! What an abominable goose she was to find a flush of expectation in her cheek! And after all it was only Sir John. He had found that his son had heard nothing from the Holt that morning, and had come in to ask if she thought a call would be acceptable. 'I knew they were come home,' he said, 'for I saw them at the station yesterday. I did not show myself, for I did not know how poor young Sandbrook might like it. But who have they got with them?'

'Mr. Randolf, Owen Sandbrook's Canadian friend.'

'Did I not hear he was some sort of relation?'

'Yes; his mother was a Charlecote.'

'Ha! that accounts for it. Seeing him with her, I could almost have thought it was thirty years ago, and that it was my dear old friend.'

Phoebe could have embraced Sir John. She could not conceal her glow of delight so completely that Bertha did not laugh and say, 'Mr. Charlecote is what the Germans would call Phoebe's _Bild_. She always blushes and looks conscious if he is mentioned.'

Sir John laughed, but with some emotion, and Phoebe hastily turned her still more blus.h.i.+ng face away. Certainly, if Phoebe had had any prevision of her present state of mind, she never would have bought that chiffonier.

When Sir John had sufficiently admired the details of the choice little drawing-room, and had been shown by the eager sisters all over the house, he asked if Phoebe would walk up with him to the Holt. He had hoped his eldest son, who had ridden over with him, would have come in, and gone up with them, but he supposed Charlie had seized on him. (Poor Sir John, his attempt at match-making did not flourish.) However, he had secured Phoebe's most intense grat.i.tude by his proposal, and down she came, a very pretty picture, in her dark brown dress, scarlet cloak, and round, brown felt hat, with the long, curly, brown feather tipped with scarlet, her favourite winter robin colouring. Her cheeks were brilliant, and her eyes not only brighter, but with a slight drooping that gave them the shadiness they sometimes wanted. And it was all from a ridiculous trepidation which made it well-nigh impossible to bring out what she was longing to say--'So you think Mr. Randolf like Mr. Charlecote.'

Fortunately he was beforehand with her, for both the likeness and the path through the pine woods reminded him strongly of his old friend, and he returned to the subject. 'So you are a great admirer of dear old Charlecote, Phoebe: you can't remember him?'

'No, but Robert does, and I sometimes think I do.' (Then it came.) 'You think Mr. Randolf like him?' Thanks to her hat, she could blush more comfortably now.

'I did not see him near. It was only something in air and figure.

People inherit those things wonderfully. Now, my son Charlie sits on horseback exactly like his grandfather, whom he never saw; and John--'

Oh! was he going to run away on family likenesses? Phoebe would not hear the 'and John;' and observed, 'Mr. Charlecote was his G.o.dfather, was he not?'

Which self-evident fact brought him back again to 'Yes; and I only wish he had seen more of him! These are his plantations, I declare, that he used to make so much of!'

'Yes, that is the reason Miss Charlecote is so fond of them.'

'Miss Charlecote! When I think of him, I have no patience with her. I do believe he kept single all his life for her sake: and why she never would have him I never could guess. You ladies are very unreasonable sometimes, Phoebe.'

Phoebe tried to express a rational amount of wonder at poor Honor's taste, but grew incoherent in fear lest it should be irrational, and was rather frightened at finding Sir John looking at her with some amus.e.m.e.nt; but he was only thinking of how willingly the poor little heiress of the Mervyns had once been thrown at Humfrey Charlecote's head. But he went on to tell her of all that her hero had ever been to him and to the county, and of the blank his death had left, and never since supplied, till she felt more and more what a 'wise' man truly was!

No one was in the drawing-room, but Honor came down much more cheerful and lively than she had been for years, and calling Owen materially better--the doctors thought the injury to the head infinitely mitigated, and the first step to recovery fairly taken--there were good accounts of the Prendergasts, and all things seemed to be looking well. Presently Sir John, to Phoebe's great satisfaction, spoke of her guest, and his resemblance, but Honor answered with half-resentful surprise. Some of the old servants had made the same remark, but she could not understand it, and was evidently hurt by its recurrence. Phoebe sat on, listening to the account of Lucilla's letters, and the good spirits and health they manifested; forcing herself not too obviously to watch door or window, and when Sir John was gone, she only offered to depart, lest Miss Charlecote should wish to be with Owen.

'No, my dear, thank you; Mr. Randolf is with him, and he can read a little now. We are getting above the solitaire board, I a.s.sure you. I have fitted up the little room beyond the study for his bedroom, and he sits in the study, so there are no stairs, and he is to go out every day in a chair or the carriage.'

'Does the little boy amuse him?'

'No, not exactly, poor little fellow. They are terribly afraid of each other, that is the worst of it. And then we left the boy too long with the old woman. I hear his lessons for a quarter of an hour a day, and he is a clever child enough; but his p.r.o.nunciation and habits are an absolute distress, and he is not happy anywhere but in the housekeeper's room. I try to civilize him, but as yet I cannot worry poor Owen. You can't think how comfortable we are together, Phoebe, when we are alone.

Since his sister went we have got on so much better. He was shy before her; but I must tell you, my dear, he asked me to read my Psalms and Lessons aloud, as I used to do; and we have had such pleasant evenings, and he desired that the servants might still come in to prayers in the study. But then he always was different with me.'

And Phoebe, while a.s.senting, could not silence a misgiving that she thought very cruel. She would believe Owen sincere if Humfrey Randolf did. Honor, however, was very happy, and presently begged her to come and see Owen. She obeyed with alacrity, and was conducted to the study.

No Randolf was there, only pen, ink, paper, and algebra. But as she was greeting Owen, who looked much better and less oppressed, Honor made an exclamation, and from the window they saw the young man leaning over the sundial, partly studying its mysteries, partly playing with little Owen, who hung on him as an old playmate.

'Yes,' said Owen, 'he has taken pity on the boy--he is very good to him--has served an apprentices.h.i.+p.'

Mr. Randolf looked up, saw Phoebe, gave a start of recognition and pleasure, and sped towards the house.

'Yes, Phoebe, I do see _some_ likeness,' said Honor, as though a good deal struck and touched.

All the ridiculous and troublesome confusion was so good as to be driven away in the contentment of Humfrey Randolf's presence, and the wondrous magnetic conviction that he was equally glad to be with her. She lost all restlessness, and was quite ready to amuse Owen by a lively discussion and comparison of the two weddings, but she so well knew that she should like to stay too long, that she cut her time rather over short, and would not stay to luncheon. This was not like the evenings that began with Hiawatha and ended at Lakeville, or on Lake Ontario; but one pleasure was in store for Phoebe. While she was finding her umbrella, and putting on her clogs, Humfrey Randolf ran down-stairs to her, and said, 'I wanted to tell you something. My stepmother is going to be married.'

'You are glad?'

'Very glad. It is to a merchant whom she met at Buffalo, well off, and speaking most kindly of the little boys.'

'That must be a great load off your mind.'

'Indeed it is, though the children must still chiefly look to me. I should like to have little George at a good school. However, now their immediate maintenance is off my hands, I have more to spend in educating myself. I can get evening lessons now, when my day's work is over.'

'Oh! do not overstrain your head,' said Phoebe, thinking of Bertha.

'Heads can bear a good deal when they are full of hope,' he said, smiling.

'Still after your out-of-doors life of bodily exercise, do you not find it hard to be always shut up in London?'

'Perhaps the novelty has not worn off. It is as if life had only begun since I came into the city.'

'A new set of faculties called into play?'

'Faculties--yes, and everything else.'

'I must go now, or my sisters will be waiting for me, and I see your dinner coming in. Good-bye.'

'May I come to see you?'

'O yes, pray let me show you our cottage.'