will see everything, and do it justice. I’ll get an order for the print-room at the British Museum. I day say Robin never saw it either; and what a treat it will be to take you to the Egyptian Gallery!’ cried Honora, excited into looking at the expedition in the light of a party of pleasure, as she saw happiness beaming in the young face opposite.
They built up their schemes in the open window, pausing to listen to the nightingales, who, having ceased for two hours, apparently for supper, were now in full song, echoing each other in all the woods of Hiltonbury, casting over it a network of sweet melody. Honora was inclined to regret leaving them in their glory; but Phœbe, with the world before her, was too honest to profess poetry which she did not feel. Nightingales were all very well in their place, but the first real sight of London was more.
The lamp came in, and Phœbe held out her hands for something to do, and was instantly provided with a child’s frock, while Miss Charlecote read to her one of Fouqué’s shorter tales by way of supplying the element of chivalrous imagination which was wanting in the Beauchamp system of education.
So warm was the evening, that the window remained open, until Ponto erected his crest as a footfall came steadily along, nearer and nearer. Uplifting one of his pendant lips, he gave a low growl through his blunted teeth, and listened again; but apparently satisfied that the step was familiar, he replaced his head on his crossed paws, and presently Robert Fulmort’s head and the upper part of his person, in correct evening costume, were thrust in at the window, the moonlight making his face look very white, as he said, ‘Come, Phœbe, make haste; it is very late.’
‘Is it?’ cried Phœbe, springing up; ‘I thought I had only been here an hour.’
‘Three, at least,’ said Robert, yawning; ‘six by my feelings. I could not get away, for Mr. Crabbe stayed to dinner; Mervyn absented himself, and my father went to sleep.’
‘Robin, only think, Miss Charlecote is so kind as to say she will take me to London!’
‘It is very kind,’ said Robert, warmly, his weary face and voice suddenly relieved.
‘I shall be delighted to have a companion,’ said Honora; ‘and I reckon upon you too, Robin, whenever you can spare time from your work. Come in, and let us talk it over.’
‘Thank you, I can’t. The dragon will fall on Phœbe if I keep her out too late. Be quick, Phœbe.’
While his sister went to fetch her hat, he put his elbows on the sill, and leaning into the room, said, ‘Thank you again; it will be a wonderful treat to her, and she has never had one in her life!’
‘I was in hopes she would have gone to Germany.’
‘It is perfectly abominable! It is all the others’ doing! They know no one would look at them a second time if anything so much younger and pleasanter was by! They think her coming out would make them look older. I know it would make them look crosser.’
Laughing was the only way to treat this tirade, knowing, as Honor did, that there was but too much truth in it. She said, however, ‘Yet one could hardly wish Phœbe other than she is. The rosebud keeps its charm longer in the shade.’
‘I like justice,’ quoth Robert.
‘And,’ she continued, ‘I really think that she is much benefited by this formidable governess. Accuracy and solidity and clearness of head are worth cultivating.’
‘Nasty latitudinarian piece of machinery,’ said Robert, with his fingers over his mouth, like a sulky child.
‘Maybe so; but you guard Phœbe, and she guards Bertha; and whatever your sense of injustice may be, this surely is a better school for her than gaieties as yet.’
‘It will be a more intolerable shame than ever if they will not let her go with you.’
‘Too intolerable to be expected,’ smiled Honora. ‘I shall come and beg for her to-morrow, and I do not believe I shall be disappointed.’
She spoke with the security of one not in the habit of having her patronage obstructed by relations; and Phœbe coming down with renewed thanks, the brother and sister started on their way home in the moonlight—the one plodding on moodily, the other, unable to repress her glee, bounding on in a succession of little skips, and pirouetting round to clap her hands, and exclaim, ‘Oh! Robin, is it not delightful?’
‘If they will let you go,’ said he, too desponding for hope.
‘Do you think they will not?’ said Phœbe, with slower and graver steps. ‘Do you really think so? But no! It can’t lead to coming out; and I know they like me to be happy when it interferes with nobody.’
‘Great generosity,’ said Robert, dryly.
‘Oh, but, Robin, you know elder ones come first.’
‘A truth we are not likely to forget,’ said Robert. ‘I wish my uncle had been sensible of it. That legacy of his stands between Mervyn and me, and will never do me any good.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Phœbe; ‘Mervyn has always been completely the eldest son.’
‘Ay,’ returned Robert, ‘and with the tastes of an eldest son. His allowance does not suffice for them, and he does not like to see me independent. If my uncle had only been contented to let us share and share alike, then my father would have had no interest in drawing me into the precious gin and brandy manufacture.’
‘You did not think he meant to make it a matter of obedience,’ said Phœbe.
‘No; he could hardly do that after the way he has brought me up, and what we have been taught all our lives about liberty of the individual, absence of control, and the like jargon.’
‘Then you are not obliged?’
He made no answer, and they walked on in silence across the silvery lawn, the maythorns shining out like flaked towers of snow in the moonlight, and casting abyss-like shadows, the sky of the most deep and intense blue, and the carols of the nightingales ringing around them. Robert paused when he had passed through the gate leading into the dark path down-hill through the wood, and setting his elbows on it, leant over it, and looked back at the still and beautiful scene, in all the white mystery of moonlight, enhanced by the white-blossomed trees and the soft outlines of slumbering sheep. One of the birds, in a bush close to them, began prolonging its drawn-in notes in a continuous prelude, then breaking forth into a varied complex warbling, so wondrous that there was no moving till the creature paused.
It seemed to have been a song of peace to Robert, for he gave a long but much softer sigh, and pushed back his hat, saying, ‘All good things dwell on the Holt side of the boundary.’
‘A sort of Sunday world,’ said Phœbe.
‘Yes; after this wood one is in another atmosphere.’
‘Yet you have carried your cares there, poor Robin.’
‘So one does into Sunday, but to get another light thrown on them. The Holt has been the blessing of my life—of both our lives, Phœbe.’
She responded with all her heart. ‘Yes, it has made everything happier, at home and everywhere else. I never can think why Lucilla is not
