Hopes and Fears Part 79

'I went alone. No doubt your brother found me a great infliction; but he was most kind, and showed me everything. I consider that establishment a great fact.'

Phoebe showed her gratification.

'I heard him preach,' continued Miss Fennimore. 'His was a careful and able composition, but it was his sermon in brick and stone that most impressed me. Such actions only arise out of strong conviction. Now, the work of a conviction may be only a proof of the force of the will that held it; and thus the effect should not establish the cause. But when I see a young man, brought up as your brother has been, throwing himself with such energy, self-denial, and courage into a task so laborious and obscure, I must own that, such is the construction of the human mind, I am led to reconsider the train of reasoning that has led to such results.'

And Miss Fennimore's sincere admiration of Robert was Phoebe's one item of comfort.

Gladly she shared it with Miss Charlecote, who, on her side, knew more than she told Phoebe of the persecution that Robert was undergoing from a vestry notoriously under the influence of the Fulmort firm, whose interest it was to promote the vice that he came to withstand. Even the lads employed in the distillery knew that they gratified their employer by outrages on the clergy and their adherents, and there had been moments when Robert had been exposed to absolute personal danger, by mobs stimulated in the gin-shops; their violence against his attacks on their vicious practices being veiled by a furious party outcry against his religious opinions. He meanwhile set his face like a rock, and strong, resolute, and brave, went his own way, so unmoved as apparently almost to prefer his own antagonistic att.i.tude, and bidding fair to weary out his enemies by his coolness, or to disarm them by the charities of which St.

Matthew's was the centre.

As Phoebe never read the papers, and was secluded from the world's gossip, it was needless to distress her with the knowledge of the malignity of the one brother, or the trials of the other; so Honor obeyed Robert by absolute silence on this head. She herself gave her influence, her counsel, her encouragement, and, above all, her prayers, to uphold the youth who was realizing the dreams of her girlhood.

It might be that the impress of those very dreams had formed the character she was admiring. Many a weak and fragile substance, moulded in its softness to a n.o.ble shape, has given a clear and lasting impress to a firm and durable material, either in the heat of the furnace, or the ductility of growth. So Robert and Phoebe, children of the heart that had lost those of her adoption, cheered these lonely days by their need of her advice and sympathy.

Nor was she without tasks at home. Mr. Henderson, the vicar, was a very old man, and was constantly growing more feeble and unequal to exertion.

He had been appointed by the squire before last, and had the indolent conservative orthodoxy of the old school, regarding activity as a perilous innovation, and resisting all Miss Charlecote's endeavours at progress in the parish. She had had long patience, till, when his strength failed, she ventured to entreat him to allow her to undertake the stipend of a curate, but this was rejected with displeasure, and she was forced to redouble her own exertions; but neither reading to the sick, visiting the cottages, teaching at school, nor even setting up a night-school in her own hall, availed to supply the want of an active pastor and of a resident magistrate.

Hiltonbury was in danger of losing its reputation as a pattern parish, which it had retained long after the death of him who had made it so.

The younger race who had since grown up were not such as their fathers had been, and the disorderly household at Beauchamp had done mischief.

The primitive manners, the simplicity, and feudal feeling were wearing off, and poor Honor found the whole charge laid to her few modern steps in education! If Hiltonbury were better than many of the neighbouring places, yet it was not what it had been when she first had known it, and she vexed herself in the attempt to understand whether the times or herself were the cause.

Even her old bailiff, Brooks, did not second her. He had more than come to the term of service at which the servant becomes a master, and had no idea of obeying her, when he thought he knew best. Backward as were her notions of modern farming, they were too advanced for him, and either he would not act on them at all, or was resolved against their success when coerced. There was no dismissing him, and without Mr. Saville to come and enforce her authority, Honor found the old man so stubborn that she had nearly given up the contest, except where the welfare of men, not of crops, was concerned.

A maiden's reign is a dreary thing, when she tends towards age. And Honor often felt what it would have been to have had Owen to back her up, and infuse new spirit and vigour.

The surly ploughboy, who omitted to touch his cap to the lady, little imagined the train of painful reflections roused by this small indication of the altering spirit of the place!

CHAPTER XVI

Even in our ashes glow the wonted fires.--GRAY

'My dear, I did not like the voice that I heard just now.'

'I am sure I was not out of temper.'

'Indeed?'

'Well, I am sure any one would be vexed.'

'Cannot you tell me what was the matter without being sure so often?'

'I am sure--there, mamma, I beg your pardon--I am sure I did not mean to complain.'

'Only, Sarah, neither your voice has such a ring, nor are you so sure, when nothing has gone wrong. What was it?'

'It is that photography, mamma. Miss Sandbrook is so busy with it! I could not copy in my translation that I did yesterday, because she had not looked over it, and when she said she was coming presently, I am afraid I said it was always presently and never present. I believe I did say it crossly, and I am sorry I denied it,' and poor Sarah's voice was low and meek enough.

'Coming? Where is she?'

'In the dark chamber, doing a positive of the Cathedral.'

Mrs. Prendergast entered the schoolroom, outside which she had been holding this colloquy. The powerful sun of high summer was filling the room with barred light through the Venetian blinds, and revealing a rather confused ma.s.s of the appliances of study, interspersed with saucers of water in which were bathing paper photographs, and every shelf of books had a fringe of others on gla.s.s set up to dry. On the table lay a paper of hooks, a three-tailed artificial minnow, and another partly clothed with silver twist, a fly-book, and a quant.i.ty of feathers and silks.

'I must tell Francis that the schoolroom is no place for his fis.h.i.+ng-tackle!' exclaimed Mrs. Prendergast.

'O, mamma, it is Miss Sandbrook's. She is teaching him to dress flies, because she says he can't be a real fisherman without, and the trout always rise at hers. It is quite beautiful to see her throw. That delicate little hand is so strong and ready.'

A door was opened, and out of the housemaid's closet, defended from light by a yellow blind at every crevice, came eager exclamations of 'Famous,'

'Capital,' 'The tower comes out to perfection;' and in another moment Lucilla Sandbrook, in all her bloom and animation, was in the room, followed by a youth of some eighteen years, Francis Beaumont, an Indian nephew of Mrs. Prendergast.

'Hit off at last, isn't it, aunt? Those dog-tooth mouldings will satisfy even the uncle.'

'Really it is very good,' said Mrs. Prendergast, as it was held up to the light for her inspection.

'Miss Sandbrook has bewitched the camera,' continued he. 'Do you remember the hideous muddles of last summer? But, oh! Miss Sandbrook, we must have one more; the sun will be off by and by.'

'Only ten minutes,' said Lucilla, in a deprecating tone. 'You must not keep me a second more, let the sun be in ever such good humour. Come, Sarah, come and show us the place you said would be so good.'

'It is too hot,' said Sarah, bluntly, 'and I can't waste the morning.'

'Well, you pattern-pupil, I'll come presently. Indeed I will, Mrs.

Prendergast.'

'Let me see this translation, Sarah,' said Mrs. Prendergast, as the photographers ran down-stairs.

She looked over it carefully, and as the ten minutes had pa.s.sed without sign of the governess's return, asked what naturally followed in the morning's employment.

'Italian reading, mamma; but never mind.'

'Find the place, my dear.'

'It is only while Francis is at home. Oh, I wish I had not been cross.'

And though Sarah usually loved to read to her mother, she was uneasy all the time, watching the door, and pausing to listen at the most moving pa.s.sages. It was full half an hour before the voices were heard returning, and then there was a call, 'Directly, Sarah!' the dark chamber was shut up, and all subsided.

Mrs. Prendergast stayed on, in spite of an imploring glance from her daughter, and after an interval of the mysterious manipulations in the closet, the photograph was borne forth in triumph.

Lucilla looked a little abashed at finding Mrs. Prendergast in presence, and began immediately, 'There, Mr. Beaumont, you see! I hope Mrs.

Prendergast is going to banish you forthwith; you make us shamefully idle.'

'Yes,' said Mrs. Prendergast, gravely, 'I am going to carry him off at once, and make a law against future invasions.'

Francis attempted loud appeals, but his aunt quashed them with demeanour that showed that she was in earnest, and drove him away before her.

'Indeed, Miss Sandbrook,' said Sarah, with affectionate compunction, 'I did not mean to speak so loud and so crossly.'