have upon her. That cousin Horatia, to whom she is so much attached, losing both her parents, how could she do otherwise than be with her?’
‘Miss Charteris does not seem to be in great trouble now,’ said Phœbe.
‘You do not consider; you have never seen grief, and you do not know how much more a sympathizing friend is needed when the world supposes the sorrow to be over, and ordinary habits to be resumed.’
Phœbe was willing to believe him right, though considering that Horatia Charteris lived with her brother and his wife, she could hardly be as lonely as Miss Charlecote.
‘We shall see Lucy in London,’ she said.
Robert again sighed heavily. ‘Then it will be over,’ he said. ‘Did you say anything there?’ he pursued, as they plunged into the dark shadows of the woodland path, more congenial to the subject than the light.
‘Yes, I did,’ said Phœbe.
‘And she thought me a weak, unworthy wretch for ever dreaming of swerving from my original path.’
‘No!’ said Phœbe, ‘not if it were your duty.’
‘I tell you, Phœbe, it is as much my duty to consult Lucilla’s happiness as if any words had passed between us. I have never pledged myself to take Orders. It has been only a wish, not a vocation; and if she have become averse to the prospect of a quiet country life, it would not be treating her fairly not to give her the choice of comparative wealth, though procured by means her family might despise.’
‘Yes, I knew you would put right and duty first; and I suppose by doing so you make it certain to end rightly, one way or other.’
‘A very few years, and I could realize as much as this Calthorp, the millionaire, whom they talk of as being so often at the Charterises.’
‘It will not be so,’ said Phœbe. ‘I know what she will say;’ and as Robert looked anxiously at her, she continued—
‘She will say she never dreamt of your being turned from anything so great by any fancies she has seemed to have. She will say so more strongly, for you know her father was a clergyman, and Miss Charlecote brought her up.’
Phœbe’s certainty made Robert catch something of her hopes.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘matters might be soon settled. This fortune of mine would be no misfortune then; and probably, Phœbe, my sisters would have no objection to your being happy with us.’
‘As soon as you could get a curacy! Oh, how delightful! and Maria and Bertha would come too.’
Robert held his peace, not certain whether Lucilla would consider Maria an embellishment to his ideal parsonage; but they talked on with cheerful schemes while descending through the wood, unlocking a gate that formed the boundary between the Holt and the Beauchamp properties, crossing a field or two, and then coming out into the park. Presently they were in sight of the house, rising darkly before them, with many lights shining in the windows behind the blinds.
‘They are all gone up-stairs!’ said Phœbe, dismayed. ‘How late it must be!’
‘There’s a light in the smoking-room,’ said Robert; ‘we can get in that way.’
‘No, no! Mervyn may have some one with him. Come in quietly by the servants’ entrance.’
No danger that people would not be on foot there! As the brother and sister moved along the long stone passage, fringed with labelled bells, one open door showed two weary maidens still toiling over the plates of the late dinner; and another, standing ajar, revealed various men-servants regaling themselves; and words and tones caught Robert’s ear making his brow lower with sudden pain.
Phœbe was proceeding to mount the stone stairs, when a rustling and chattering, as of maids descending, caused her and her brother to stand aside to make way, and down came a pair of heads and candles together over a green bandbox, and then voices in vulgar tones half suppressed. ‘I couldn’t venture it, not with Miss Juliana—but Miss Fulmort—she never looks over her bills, nor knows what is in her drawers—I told her it was faded, when she had never worn it once!’
And tittering, they passed by the brother and sister, who were still unseen, but Robert heaved a sigh and murmured, ‘Miserable work!’ somewhat to his sister’s surprise, for to her the great ill-regulated household was an unquestioned institution, and she did not expect him to bestow so much compassion on Augusta’s discarded bonnet. At the top of the steps they opened a door, and entered a great wide hall. All was exceedingly still. A gas-light was burning over the fire-place, but the corners were in gloom, and the coats and cloaks looked like human figures in the distance. Phœbe waited while Robert lighted her candle for her. Albeit she was not nervous, she started when a door was sharply pushed open, and another figure appeared; but it was nothing worse than her brother Mervyn, in easy costume, and redolent of tobacco.
About three years older than Robert, he was more neatly though not so strongly made, shorter, and with more regular features, but much less countenance. If the younger brother had a worn and dejected aspect, the elder, except in moments of excitement, looked bored. It was as if Robert really had the advantage of him in knowing what to be out of spirits about.
‘Oh! it’s you, is it?’ said he, coming forward, with a sauntering, scuffling movement in his slippers. ‘You larking, Phœbe? What next?’
‘I have been drinking tea with Miss Charlecote,’ explained Phœbe.
Mervyn slightly shrugged his shoulders, murmuring something about ‘Lively pastime.’
‘I could not fetch her sooner,’ said Robert, ‘for my father went to sleep, and no one chose to be at the pains of entertaining Crabbe.’
‘Ay—a prevision of his staying to dinner made me stay and dine with the --th mess. Very sagacious—eh, Pheebe?’ said he, turning, as if he liked to look into her fresh face.
‘Too sagacious,’ said she, smiling; ‘for you left him all to Robert.’
Manner and look expressed that this was a matter of no concern, and he said ungraciously: ‘Nobody detained Robert, it was his own concern.’
‘Respect to my father and his guests,’ said Robert, with downright gravity that gave it the effect of a reproach.
Mervyn only raised his shoulders up to his ears in contempt, took up his candle, and wished Phœbe good night.
Poor Mervyn Fulmort! Discontent had been his life-long comrade. He detested his father’s occupation as galling to family pride, yet was greedy both of the profits and the management. He hated country business and country life, yet chafed at not having the control of his mother’s estate, and grumbled at all his father’s measures. ‘What should an old distiller know of landed property?’ In fact he saw the same difference between himself and his father as did the ungracious Plantagenet between the son of a Count and the son of a King: and for want of Provençal troubadours with whom to rebel, he supplied their place by the turf and the billiard-table. At present he was expiating some heavy debts by a forced residence with his parents, and unwilling attention to the office, a most distasteful position, which he never attempted to improve, and which permitted him both the tedium of idleness and complaints against all the employment to
