Hopes and Fears Part 74

'At his rooms at the office. He had spent the evening there alone. It was not known till eight this morning. I was there instantly, Mervyn and Bevil soon after, but he knew none of us. Mervyn thought I had better come here. Oh, Phoebe, my mother!'

'I will see if she have heard anything,' said Phoebe, moving quietly off, as though one in a dream, able to act, move, and decide, though not to think.

She found the household in commotion. Robert had spoken to the butler, and everywhere were knots of whisperers. Miss Fennimore met Phoebe with her eyes full of tears, tears as yet far from those of Phoebe herself.

'Your mother has heard nothing,' she said; 'I ascertained that from Boodle, who only left her dressing-room since your brother's arrival.

You had better let her have her night's rest.'

Robert, who had followed Phoebe, hailed this as a reprieve, and thanked Miss Fennimore, adding the few particulars he had told his sister. 'I hope the girls are asleep,' he said.

'Sound asleep, I trust,' said Miss Fennimore. 'I will take care of them,' and laying her hand on Phoebe's shoulder, she suggested to her that her brother had probably not eaten all day, then left them to return to the library together. There had been more time for Robert to look the thought in the face than his sister. He was no longer freshly stunned.

He really needed food, and ate in silence, while she mechanically waited on him. At last he looked up, saying, 'I am thankful. A few months ago, how could I have borne it?'

'I have been sure he understood you better of late,' said Phoebe.

'Sunday week was one of the happiest days I have spent for years.

Imagine my surprise at seeing him and Acton in the church. They took luncheon with us, looked into the schools, went to evening service, and saw the whole concern. He was kinder than ever I knew him, and Acton says he expressed himself as much pleased. I owe a great deal to Bevil Acton, and, I know, to you. Now I know that he had forgiven me.'

'You, Robin! There was nothing to forgive. I can fancy poor Mervyn feeling dreadfully, but you, always dutiful except for the higher duty!'

'Hush, Phoebe! Mine was grudging service. I loved opposition, and there was an evil triumph in the annoyance I gave.'

'You are not regretting your work. O no!'

'Not the work, but the manner! Oh! that the gift of the self-willed son be not Corban.'

'Robert! indeed you had his approval. You told me so. He was seeing things differently. It was so new to him that his business could be thought hurtful, that he was displeased at first, or, rather, Mervyn made him seem more displeased than he was.'

'You only make me the more repent! Had I been what I ought at home, my principles would have been very differently received!'

'I don't know,' said Phoebe; 'there was little opportunity. We have been so little with them.'

'Oh! Phoebe, it is a miserable thing to have always lived at such a distance from them, that I should better know how to tell such tidings to any old woman in my district than to my mother!'

Their consultations were broken by Miss Fennimore coming to insist on Phoebe's sleeping, in preparation for the trying morrow. Robert was thankful for her heedfulness, and owned himself tired, dismissing his sister with a blessing that had in it a tone of protection.

How changed was Phoebe's peaceful chamber in her eyes! Nothing had altered, but a fresh act in her life had begun--the first sorrow had fallen on her.

She would have knelt on for hours, leaning dreamily on the new sense of the habitual words, 'Our Father,' had not Miss Fennimore come kindly and tenderly to undress her, insisting on her saving herself, and promising not to let her oversleep herself, treating her with wise and soothing affection, and authority that was most comfortable.

Little danger was there of her sleeping too late. All night long she lay, with dry and open eyes, while the fire, groaning, sank together, and faded into darkness, and the moonbeams retreated slowly from floor to wall, and were lost as gray cold dawn began to light the window. Phoebe had less to reproach herself with than any one of Mr. Fulmort's children, save the poor innocent, Maria; but many a shortcoming, many a moment of impatience or discontent, many a silent impulse of blame, were grieved over, and every kindness she had received shot through her heart with mournful gladness and warmth, filling her with yearning for another embrace, another word, or even that she had known that the last good-bye had been the last, that she might have prized it--oh, how intensely!

Then came anxious imaginings for the future, such as would not be stilled by the knowledge that all would settle itself over her head. There were misgivings whether her mother would be properly considered, fears of the mutual relations between her brothers, a sense that the family bond was loosed, and confusion and jarring might ensue; but, as her mind recoiled from the shoals and the gloom, the thought revived of the Pilot amid the waves of this troublesome world. She closed her eyes for prayer, but not for sleep. Repose even more precious and soothing than slumber was granted--the repose of confidence in the Everlasting Arms, and of confiding to them all the feeble and sorrowful with whom she was linked.

It was as though (in the words of her own clasped book) her G.o.d were _more_ to her than ever, truly a very _present_ Help in trouble; and, as the dawn brightened for a day so unlike all others, her heart trembled less, and she rose up with eyes heavy and limbs weary, but better prepared for the morning's ordeal than even by sleep ending in a wakening to the sudden shock.

When Miss Fennimore vigilantly met her on leaving her room, and surveyed her anxiously, to judge of her health and powers, there was a serious, sweet collectedness in air and face that struck the governess with loving awe and surprise.

The younger girls had known their father too little to be much affected by the loss. Maria stared in round-eyed amaze, and Bertha, though subdued and shocked for a short s.p.a.ce, revived into asking a torrent of questions, culminating in 'Should they do any lessons?' Whereto Miss Fennimore replied with a decided affirmative, and, though Phoebe's taste disapproved, she saw that it was wiser not to interfere.

Much fatigued, Robert slept late, but joined his sister long before the dreaded moment of hearing their mother's bell. They need not have been fearful of the immediate effect; Mrs. Fulmort's perceptions were tardy, and the endeavours at preparation were misunderstood, till it was needful to be explicit. A long stillness followed, broken at last by Phoebe's question, whether she would not see Robert. 'Not till I am up, my dear,'

she answered, in an injured voice; 'do, pray, see whether Boodle is coming with my warm water.'

Her mind was not yet awake to the stroke, and was lapsing into its ordinary mechanical routine; her two breakfasts, and protracted dressing, occupied her for nearly two hours, after which she did not refuse to see her son, but showed far less emotion than he did, while he gave the details of the past day. Her dull, apathetic gaze was a contrast with the young man's gush of tears, and the caresses that Phoebe lavished on her listless hand. Phoebe proposed that Robert should read to her--she a.s.sented, and soon dozed, awaking to ask plaintively for Boodle and her afternoon cup of tea.

So pa.s.sed the following days, her state nearly the same, and her interest apparently feebly roused by the mourning, but by nothing else. She did not like that Phoebe should leave her, but was more at ease with her maid than her son, and, though he daily came to sit with her and read to her, he was grieved to be unable to be of greater use, while he could seldom have Phoebe to himself. Sorely missing Miss Charlecote, he took his meals in the west wing, where his presence was highly appreciated, though he was often pained by Bertha's levity and Maria's imbecility. The governess treated him with marked esteem and consideration, strikingly dissimilar to the punctilious, but almost contemptuous, courtesy of her behaviour to the other gentlemen of the family, and, after her pupils were gone to bed, would fasten upon him for a discussion such as her soul delighted in, and his detested. Secure of his ground, he was not sure of his powers of reasoning with an able lady of nearly double his years, and more than double his reading and readiness of speech, yet he durst not retreat from argument, lest he should seem to yield the cause that he was sworn to maintain, 'in season and out of season.' It was hard that his own troubles and other people's should alike bring him in for controversy on all the things that end in 'ism.'

He learnt by letter from Sir Bevil Acton that his father had been much struck by what he had seen in Cecily-row, and had strongly expressed his concern that Robert had been allowed to strip himself for the sake of a duty, which, if it were such at all, belonged more to others. There might have been wrongheaded haste in the action, but if such new-fangled arrangements had become requisite, it was unfair that one member of the family alone should bear the whole burthen. Sir Bevil strongly supported this view, and Mr. Fulmort had declared himself confirmed in his intention of making provision for his son in his will, as well as of giving him a fair allowance at present. There must have been warnings of failing health of which none had been made aware, for Mr. Fulmort had come to town partly to arrange for the safe guardianship of poor Maria and her fortune. An alteration in his will upon the death of one of the trustees had been too long neglected, and perhaps some foreboding of the impending malady had urged him at last to undertake what had been thus deferred. Each of the daughters was to have 10,000 pounds, the overplus being divided between them and their eldest brother, who would succeed both to the business, and on his mother's death to the Beauchamp estate, while the younger had already received an ample portion as heir to his uncle. Mr. Fulmort, however, had proposed to place Robert on the same footing with his sisters, and Sir Bevil had reason to think he had at once acted on his design. Such thorough forgiveness and approval went to Robert's heart, and he could scarcely speak as he gave Phoebe the letter to read.

When she could discuss it with him after her mother had fallen asleep for the night, she found that his thoughts had taken a fresh turn.

'If it should be as Bevil supposes,' he said, 'it would make an infinite difference.' And after waiting for an answer only given by inquiring looks, he continued--'As she is now, it would not be a violent change; I do not think she would object to my present situation.'

'Oh, Robert, you will not expose yourself to be treated as before.'

'That would not be. There was no want of attachment; merely over-confidence in her own power.'

'Not _over_ confidence, it seems,' murmured Phoebe, not greatly charmed.

'I understood how it had been, when we were thrown together again,' he pursued. 'There was no explanation, but it was far worse to bear than if there had been. I felt myself a perfect brute.'

'I beg your pardon if I can't be pleased just yet,' said Phoebe. 'You know I did not see her, and I can't think she deserves it after so wantonly grieving you, and still choosing to forsake Miss Charlecote.'

'For that I feel accountable,' said Robert, sadly. 'I cannot forget that her determination coincided with the evening I made her aware of my position. I saw that in her face that has haunted me ever since. I had almost rather it had been resentment.'

'I hope she will make you happy,' said Phoebe, dolefully, thinking it a pity he should be disturbed when settled in to his work, and forced by experience to fear that Lucy would torment him.

'I do not do it for the sake of happiness,' he returned. 'I am not blind to her faults; but she has a grand, generous character that deserves patience and forbearance. Besides, the past can never be cancelled, and it is due to her to offer her whatever may be mine. There may be storms, but she has been disciplined, poor dear, and I am more sure of myself than I was. She _should_ conform, and my work should not be impeded.'

Grimly he continued to antic.i.p.ate hurricanes for his wedded life, and to demonstrate that he was swayed by justice and not by pa.s.sion; but it was suspicious that he recurred constantly to the topic, and seemed able to dwell on no other. If Phoebe could have been displeased with him, it would have been for these reiterations at such a time. Not having been personally injured, she pardoned less than did either Robert or Miss Charlecote; she could not foresee peace for her brother; and though she might pity him for the compulsion of honour and generosity, she found that his auguries were not intended to excite compa.s.sionate acquiescence, but cheerful contradiction, such as both her good sense and her oppressed spirits refused. If he could talk about nothing better than Lucy when alone with her, she could the less regret the rarity of these opportunities.

The gentlemen of the family alone attended the funeral, the two elder sisters remaining in town, whither their husbands were to return at night. Mrs. Fulmort remained in the same dreary state of heaviness, but with some languid heed to the details, and interest in hearing from Maria and Bertha, from behind the blinds, what carriages were at the door, and who got into them. Phoebe, with strong effort, then controlled her voice to read aloud till her mother dozed as usual, and she could sit and think until Robert knocked, to summon her to the reading of the will. 'You must come,' he said; 'I know it jars, but it is Mervyn's wish, and he is right.' On the stairs Mervyn met her, took her from Robert, and led her into the drawing-room, where she was kindly greeted by the brothers-in-law, and seated beside her eldest brother. As a duty, she gave her attention, and was rewarded by finding that had he been living, her hero, Mr. Charlecote, would have been her guardian. The will, dated fifteen years back, made Humfrey Charlecote, Esquire, trustee and executor, jointly with James Crabbe, Esquire, the elderly lawyer at present reading it aloud. The intended codicil had never been executed.

Had any one looked at the downcast face, it would have been with wonder at the glow of shy pleasure thrilling over cheeks and brow.

Beauchamp of course remained with the heiress, Mrs. Fulmort, to whom all thereto appertaining was left; the distillery and all connected with it descended to the eldest son, John Mervyn Fulmort; the younger children received 10,000 pounds apiece, and the residue was to be equally divided among all except the second son, Robert Mervyn Fulmort, who, having been fully provided for, was only to receive some pictures and plate that had belonged to his great uncle.

The lawyer ceased. Sir Bevil leant towards him, and made an inquiry which was answered by a sign in the negative. Then taking up some memoranda, Mr. Crabbe announced that as far as he could yet discover, the brother and five sisters would divide about 120,000 pounds between them, so that each of the ladies had 30,000 pounds of her own; and, bowing to Phoebe, he requested her to consider him as her guardian. The Admiral, highly pleased, offered her his congratulations, and as soon as she could escape she hastened away, followed by Robert.

'Never mind, Phoebe,' he said; taking her hand; 'the kindness and pardon were the same, the intention as good as the deed, as far as _he_ was concerned. Perhaps you were right. The other way might have proved a stumbling-block.' Speak as he would, he could not govern the tone of his voice nor the quivering of his entire frame under the downfall of his hopes. Phoebe linked her arm in his, and took several turns in the gallery with him.

'Oh, Robin, if I were but of age to divide with you!'

'No, Phoebe, that would be unfit for you and for me. I am only where I was before. I knew I had had my portion. I ought not to have entertained hopes so unbefitting. But oh, Phoebe! that she should be cast about the world, fragile, sensitive as she is--'

Phoebe could have said that a home at the Holt was open to Lucilla; but this might seem an unkind suggestion, and the same moment, Sir Bevil was heard impetuously bounding up the stairs. 'Robert, where are you?' he called from the end of the gallery. 'I never believed you could have been so infamously treated.'

'Hush!' said Robert, shocked; 'I cannot hear this said. You know it was only want of time.'

'I am not talking of your father. He would have done his best if he had been allowed. It is your brother!--his own confession, mind! He boasted just now that his father would have done it on the spot, but for his interference, and expected thanks from all the rest of us for his care of our interests.'

'What is the use of telling such things, Acton?' said Robert, forcing his voice to calm rebuke, and grasping the bal.u.s.ter with an iron-like grip.