Hopes and Fears

CHAPTER XXVII

When will you marry?

Say the bells of St. Mary.

When I get rich,

Say the bells of Shoreditch.

When will that be?

Say the bells of Stepney.

I do not know,

Says the great bell of Bow.-Nursery Rhyme

There was some truth in Lucilla's view of herself and Honor as belonging to two distinct classes of development. Honor had grown up among those who fed on Scott, Wordsworth, and Fouque, took their theology from the British Critic, and their taste from Pugin; and moulded their opinions and practice on the past. Lucilla and Phoebe were essentially of the new generation, that of Kingsley, Tennyson, Ruskin, and the Saturday Review. Chivalry had given way to common sense, romance to realism, respect for antiquity to pitying patronage, the past to the future. Perhaps the present has lost in reverence and refinement as much as it has gained in clearness and confidence! Lucilla represented reaction, therefore her attitude was antagonistic; Phoebe was the child of the newer system, therefore she loved the elder one, and sought out the likenesses to, rather than the differences from, her own tone of thought. And well was it that she had never let slip her hold on that broad, unchanging thread of truth, the same through all changes, making faith and principle one, though the developments in practice and shades of thought shake off the essential wisdom on which it grew, only to adopt some more fatal aberration of their own!

Thus standing between the two, Phoebe was a great help to both in understanding each other, and they were far more at ease when she was with them. In October, all three went to Woolstone-lane for a brief stay. Honor wished that the physician should see Lucilla before the winter, and Phoebe was glad to avail herself of the opportunity of choosing furniture and hiring servants for her new establishment, free from the interference of Lady Bannerman, who was of course at Brighton.

She had been obliged to let her sisters go to Sutton without her, as the little parsonage had not room for three guests besides Lieschen, who was more indispensable to Maria than even herself, and both the others were earnestly set upon accepting the invitation. Cecily silenced her scruples by begging, as a proof of acceptance as a sister, that she might be intrusted with them, and promising that in her own quiet home, whence most of the family had been launched into life, they should meet with none of the excitements of merry Moorcroft; and Phoebe was obliged to resign her charge for these few weeks, and trust from Bertha's lively letters that all was well.

Another cause which made Honor and Lucy anxious to be in London was the possibility of Owen's arrival. He had last been heard of on the shores of Lake Superior, when he spoke of returning as soon as the survey for a new line of railway should have been completed, and it was not unlikely that he might come even before his letter. News would await him that he would regret as much as did his sister. Uncle Kit's death had enabled Charles Charteris, or rather his creditors, to advertise Castle Blanch for sale, and Lucilla, who had a more genuine affection for the place than had any of the natives, grieved extremely over the family disgrace that was causing it to pass into other hands.

She had an earnest desire to take advantage of the display of the house and grounds to pay the scenes of her youth one last visit. The vehemence of this wish was her first recurrence to her old strength of will, and Honora beheld it as a symptom of recovery, though dreading the long and fatiguing day of emotion. Yet it might be taken as another token of improvement that she had ceased from that instinctive caution of feebleness which had made her shrink from all exertion or agitation.

Her chest was pronounced to be in a satisfactory state, her health greatly improved; and as there was no longer need for extra precaution, the three ladies set forth together on the first fine day.

The Indian summer was in full glory, every wood arrayed in brightness; and as they drove from the Wrapworth Station, the banks of the river were surpassingly lovely, brown, red, and olive, illuminated by sprays of yellow, like fireworks, and contrasting with the vivid green of the meadows and dark blue water. Honor recollected the fairy boat that once had floated there, and glancing at the pale girl beside her, could not but own the truth of the similitude of the crushed fire-fly; yet the fire of those days had scorched, not lighted; and it had been the mirth that tendeth to heaviness.

Cilla was gazing, with all her soul in her eyes, in silence. She was trying to revive the sense of home that once had made her heart bound at the first glimpse of Wrapworth; but her spirit leapt up no more. The familiar scene only impressed the sense of homelessness, and of the severance of the last tie to her father's parish, her mother's native place. Honor asked if she would stop in the village. 'Not yet,' she said; 'let us have the Castle first.'

At the next turn they overtook Mr. Prendergast, and he was instantly at the carriage-door, exacting a willing promise of taking luncheon with him on the way back, a rest for which Honor was thankful, sure as she was that this visit was costing Lucy more than she had anticipated.

Without a word, she beheld the green space of park, scattered with groups of glowing trees, the elms spangled with gold, the maples blushing themselves away, the parterre a gorgeous patchwork of scarlet, lilac, and orange, the Virginian creeper hanging a crimson mantle on the cloister. There was something inexpressibly painful in the sight of all this beauty, unheeded and cast away by the owners, and displayed as a matter of bargain and sale. Phoebe thought of the strange, uncomfortable dream that it had been to her when she had before looked and wondered at the scene before her. She retraced Robert's restless form in every window, and thought how little she had then augured the fruit of what he had suffered.

The rooms were opened, and set out for inspection. Honor and Phoebe made it their duty to occupy the chattering maid, a stranger to Lucilla, and leave her free to move through the apartments, silent and very white, as if it were a sacred duty to stand wherever she had stood, to gaze at whatever her eyes had once met.

Presently she stood still, in the dining-room, her hand grasping the back of a chair, as she looked up to a large picture of three children, two boys and a girl, fancifully dressed, and playing with flowers. The waxen complexion, fair hair, and blue eyes of the girl were almost her own.

'This to be sold?' she said, turning round, and speaking for the first time.

'O yes, ma'am!-everything, unreservedly. That picture has been much admired-by the late Sir Thomas Lawrence, ma'am-the children of the late General Sir Christopher Charteris.'

Lucilla, whiter than before, walked quickly away. In a few seconds Phoebe followed, and found her leaning on the balustrade of the terrace, her breathing heavily oppressed; but she smiled coldly and sternly, and tightened a stiff, cold grasp on Phoebe's arm as she said-

'Honor has her revenge, Phoebe! These are the kindred for whom I broke from her! Well, if Charles sells his birthright and his own father, I don't know how I can complain of his selling my mother!'

'But, Lucy, listen. Miss Charlecote was asking about the agent. I am sure she means to try to get it for you.'

'I dare say. It is right that I should bear it!'

'And the maid said that there had been a gentleman speaking about it, and trying to secure it. She thought he had written to Mr. Charteris about it.'

'What gentleman?' and Lucy was ready to spring back to inquire.

'Miss Charlecote asked, and I believe it was Mr. Prendergast!'

There was a bright, though strange flickering of pleasure and pain over Cilla's face, and her eyelids quivered as she said, 'Yes-yes-of course; but he must not-he must not do it! He cannot afford it! I cannot let him!'

'Perhaps your cousin only needed to be reminded.'

'I have no hope of him. Besides, he cannot help himself; but at least-I say, Phoebe, tell Honor that it is kindness itself in her; but I can't talk about it to her-'

And Lucilla's steps sprang up-stairs, as desirous to escape the sight and speech of all.

After the melancholy round of deserted bedrooms, full of bitter recollections, Lucilla again descended first, and at the door met the curate. After a few words, she turned, and said, 'Mr. Prendergast would row us down to the vicarage, if you liked.'

'Indeed, my dear,' said Honor, unwillingly, 'I am afraid of the cold on the water for you.'

'Then pray let me walk across the park!' she said imploringly; and Miss Charlecote yielded rather than try her submission too severely, though dreading her over-fatigue, and set off with Phoebe in the fly.

'You are sure it is not too far for you?' asked the curate.

'Quite. You know I always used to fly upon Wrapworth turf.' After some silence-'I know what you have been doing,' she said, with a choking voice.

'About the picture? I am sorry you do.'

'It is of no use for you to know that your cousin has no more heart than a lettuce run to seed.'

'When I knew that before, why may I not know that there are others not in the same case?' she said, with full heart and eyes.

'Because the sale must take place, and the purchaser may be a brute, so it may end in disappointment.'

'It can't end in disappointment.'

'It may be far beyond my means,' continued the curate, as if he had been answering her importunities for a new doll.

'That I know it is,' she said. 'If it can be done at all, the doing of it may be left to Miss Charlecote-it is an expiation I owe to her generous spirit.'

'You would rather she did it than I?' he asked, mortified.

'Nay-didn't I tell you that I let her do it as an expiation. Does not that prove what it costs me?'

'Then why not-' he began.

'Because,' she interrupted, 'in the first place, you have no idea of the price of Lawrence's portraits; and, in the second, it is so natural that you should be kind to me that it costs even my proud spirit-just nothing at all'-and again she looked up to him with beamy, tearful eyes, and quivering, smiling lip.

'What, it is still a bore to live with Miss Charlecote,' cried he, in his rough eagerness.

'Don't use such words,' she answered, smiling. 'She is all kindness and forgiveness, and what can it be but my old vixen spirit that makes this hard to bear?'

'Cilla!' he said.

'Well?'

'Cilla!'

'Well?'

'I have a great mind to tell you why I came to Southminster.'

'To look at a living?'

'To look at you. If I had found you pining and oppressed, I had thought of asking if you could put up with your father's old friend.'

She looked with eyes of wonder, drew her arm away, and stood still, partly bewildered. 'You didn't?' she said, half in interrogation.

'I saw my mistake; you were too young and gay. But, Cilla,' he added, more tremulously, 'if you do wish for a home-'

'Don't, don't!' she cried; 'I can't have you talk as if I only wanted a home!'

'And indeed I have none as yet,' he said. 'But do you indeed mean that you could think of it?'-and he came nearer.

'It! Nonsense! Of you!' she vehemently exclaimed. 'How could you think of anything else?'

'Cilla,' he said, in great agitation, 'let me know what you are saying. Don't drive me crazy when it is not in the nature of things you should mean it!'

'Why not?' asked Lucilla. 'It is only too good for me.'

'Is it true, then?' he said, as he took both her hands in his. 'Is it true that you understand me, and are willing to be-to be my own-darling charge?'

'Oh, it would be such rest!'

It was as if the storm-tossed bird was folding its weary wing in perfect calm and confidence. Nor could he contain his sudden joy, but spoke incoherent words, and well-nigh wept over her.

'How did you come to think of it?' exclaimed she, as, the first gush of feeling over, they walked on arm-in-arm.

'I thought of it from the moment when I hoped I might be a resource, a comforter at least.'

'Not before?' was the rather odd question.

'No. The place was forlorn enough without you; but I was not such a fool as to think of a young beauty, and all that.'

'All that meaning my wickedness,' said Lucilla. 'Tell me again. You always did like the sprite even when it was wicked, only you were too good and right-minded.'

'Too old and too poor.'

'She is old and poor now,' said Cilla; 'worn out and washed out into a mere rag. And you like her the better?'

'Not washed out!' he said, as her countenance flushed into more than its wonted loveliness. 'I used to wish you hadn't such a face when those insolent fellows talked of you-but you will get up your looks again when I have the care of you. The first college living-there are some that can't choose but drop before long! The worst is, I am growing no younger!'

'Ah! but I am growing older!' she cried, triumphantly. 'All women from twenty-five to forty are of the same age as all men from thirty to fifty. We are of just the same standing, you see!'

'Seventeen years between us!'

'Nothing at all, as you will see when I put on my cap, and look staid.'

'No, no; I can't spare all that yellow hair.'

'Yellow indeed! if you don't know better what to call it, the sooner it is out of sight the better.'

'Why, what do you call it?'

'Flaxen, to be sure-blonde cendree, if you like it better-that is the colour of tow and ashes!'

She was like a playful kitten for the next quarter of a mile, her prettiest sauciness returning in the exuberant, confiding gladness with which she clung to the affection that at length satisfied her spirit; but gravity came back to her as they entered the village.

'Poor Wrapworth!' she said, 'you will soon pass to strangers! It is strange to know that, yet to feel the old days returning for which I have pined ever since we were carried away from home and Mr. Pendy.'

'Yes, nothing is wanting but that we could remain here.'

'Never mind! We will make a better Wrapworth for one another, free from the stains of my Castle Blanch errors and sorrows! I am even glad of the delay. I want a little time to be good with poor dear Honor, now that I have heart and spirit to be good.'

'And I grudge every week to her! I declare, Cilla, you make me wish evil to my neighbour.'

'Then follow my example, and be content with this present gladness.'

'Ha! ha! I wonder what they'll say at Southminster. Didn't I row them for using you so abominably? I have not been near them since!'

'More shame for you! Sarah is my best correspondent, and no one ever did me so much good as Mrs. Prendergast.'

'I didn't ask her to do you good!'

'You ought to have done so then; for I should not be the happy woman I am now if she had not done me good because she could not help it! I hope they won't take it to heart.'

'I hope they will!'

'What?'

'Turning you out?'

'Oh, I meant your throwing yourself away on a broken-down governess! There-let us have done with nonsense. Come in this way.'

It was through the churchyard, past the three graves, which were as trim as if Lucilla had daily tended them. 'Thank you,' she said; then gazed in silence, till with a sigh she exclaimed:-

'Poor Edna! Monument of my faults! What perverse determination of mine it was that laid her here!'

'It was your generous feeling.'

'Do not miscall and embellish my perverse tyranny, as much to defy the Charterises as to do her justice. I am more ashamed now that I have the secret of your yielding!' she added, with downcast eyes, yet a sudden smile at the end.

'We will take that child home and bring him up,' said Mr. Prendergast.

'If his father wishes it, it will be right; not as if it were the pleasantest of charges. Thank you,' said Cilla. 'Three o'clock! Poor Honor, she must be starving!'

'What about her?' stammered Mr. Prendergast, hanging back shyly. 'Must she be told?'

'Not now,' said Lucilla, with all her alert readiness. 'I will tell her to-night. You will come in the first day you can!'

'To-morrow! Every possible day.'

Honor had truly been uneasy, fearing that Lucilla was walking, sitting down, or fasting imprudently; but the brilliant colour, the joyous eyes, and lively manner spoke wonderfully for the effects of native air. Mr. Prendergast had become more absent and awkward than ever, but his extra shyness passed unremarked, and Lucilla's tact and grace supplied all deficiencies without obtrusiveness. Always at home in the vicarage, she made none of her former bantering display of familiarity, but only employed it quietly to secure the guests having what they wanted, and to awaken the host to his duties, when he forgot that any one save herself needed attention.

She was carried off before the river fog should arise, and her abstracted silence all the way home was not wondered at; although Phoebe, sitting opposite to her, was at a loss to read the furtive smiles that sometimes unclosed her lips, or the calm, pensive look of perfect satisfaction on her features; and Honor could not comprehend her entire absence of fatigue after so trying a day, and wondered whether it were really the old complaint-want of feeling.

At night, Honor came to her room, and began-'My dear, I want to make a little explanation to you, if you are not tired.'

'Oh! no-I had a little explanation to make to you,' she answered, with a flush and a smile.

'Perhaps it may be on the same subject,' and as Cilla half laughed, and shook her head, she added-'I meant to tell you that long ago-from the time I had the Holt-I resolved that what remained of my income after the duties of my property were fulfilled, should make a fund for you and Owen. It is not much, but I think you would like to have the option of anticipating a part, in case it should be possible to rescue that picture.'

'Dear, dear Honor,' exclaimed Cilla; 'how very kindly you are doing it! Little did I think that Charles's heartlessness would have brought me so much joy and kindness.'

'Then you would like it to be done,' said Honor, delighted to find that she had been able so to administer a benefit as to excite neither offence nor resignation. 'We will take care that the purchaser learns the circumstances, and he can hardly help letting you have it at a fair valuation.'

'Thanks, thanks, dear Honor,' repeated Lucy; 'and now for my explanation. Mr. Prendergast has asked me to marry him.'

Had it been herself, Honor could not have been more astounded.

'My child! impossible! Why, he might be your father! Is it that you want a home, Lucy? Can you not stay with me?'

'I can and I will for the present, Sweetest Honey,' said Cilly, caressingly drawing her arm round her. 'I want to have been good and happy with you; but indeed, indeed I can't help his being more to me!'

'He is a very excellent man,' began bewildered Honor; 'but I cannot understand-'

'His oddity? That's the very thing which makes him my own, and nobody else's, Mr. Pendy! Listen, Honor. Sit down, you don't half know him, nor did I know my own heart till now. He came to us, you know, when my father's health began to break after my mother's death. He was quite young, only a deacon; he lived in our house, and he was, with all his dear clumsiness, a daughter to my father, a nurse to us. I could tell you of such beautiful awkward tendernesses! How he used to help me with my sums-and tie Owen's shoes, and mince his dinner for him-and spare my father all that was possible! I am sure you know how we grieved after him.'

'Yes, but-'

'And now I know that it was he that I cared for at Wrapworth. With him I never was wild and naughty as I was with others, though I did not know-oh! Honor, if I had but known-that he always cared for the horrid little thing I was, I could not have gone on so; but he was too good and wise, even while he did love me, to think of this, till I had been tamed and come back to you! I am sure I can't be so naughty now, since he has thought of me!'

'Lucy, dearest, I am glad to see you so happy, but it is very strange to me. It is such a sudden change,' said Honor.

'No change! I never cared for any one half as much!'

'Lucy!' confounded at her apparent oblivion.

'It is true,' said Lucy, sitting down by her. 'Perhaps I thought I did, but if the other had ever been as much to me, I could never have used him as I did! Oh, Honor, when a person is made of the stuff I am, it is very hard to tell which is one's heart, and which is one's flirting-machine! for the other thing does simulate all the motions, and feel real true pain! But I know now that Mr. Pendy was safe in my rear heart of hearts all the time, though I never guessed it, and thought he was only a sort of father; but you see that was why I was always in awe of getting under Robert's dominion, and why I survived his turning me off, and didn't at all wish him to bring it on again.'

'No, that you did not,' said Honor, in a cheered voice, as if acquitting her.

'And I am sure if Mr. Prendergast only looked like using me after my deserts, as he did, it would not be only a demi-decline that I should get into,' said Lucilla, her eyes full of tears. 'Oh! Honor, think of his care of my father! Kiss me and wish me joy in my father's name, and like him; for when you know him, you will see he is the only person in the wide world to whom you could safely trust your little torment!'

Honor could not but be carried along to give the hearty kiss and motherly congratulation as they were sought, and she saw that she must believe what Lucy said of her own feelings, incomprehensible though they were. But she regretted to hear of the waiting for a college living, and at the first impulse wished she had heard of this attachment before Hiltonbury's fate had been fixed.

'For shame, Honor, as if you ought not to respect Hiltonbury too much to tack it to my petticoat! But at least thank you, for if you could once think of committing Hiltonbury to him, you must like it for me.'

'I must like what is so evidently well for you, my child! Will you tell Phoebe?'

'Not till we go home, I think,' said Cilla, with a blush; and, as if to avoid farther discussion, she bade Honora good night. Decidedly, she wished Robert to feel more than she would like to see, or should he betray no feeling, she had rather not be aware of it.

But such news was already in town as to put to flight, for a time at least, the last remnants of coquetry.

Robert was in the house early in the morning, and called Miss Charlecote to speak to him in the study. He had a packet of letters in his hand, of which he gave one to herself, a long one in Owen's writing, but unfinished and undirected.

'Lakeville, Newcastle District, August 14th.

'MY DEAR HONOR,

'There is no saying how much I rejoice that I can write to you and

Lucy again under the same roof. I hope soon to see you together

again, and revive old times, but we are delayed by the discovery that

the swamp lying full in the Grand Ottawa and Superior Line is

impracticable, and would not only be the death of all the navvies

employed thereon, but would swallow bodily the funds of the G. O. and

S. Company. So we are carrying our survey in other directions,

before making out our report, after which I hope to be permanently

engaged on the construction. This will give me three months to spend

at home, in knitting up old links, and considering how to dispose of

my poor little encumbrance till I can set him to make his way here.

You or Lucy would perhaps look out for some lady who takes Indian

children, or the like. I am my own man now, and can provide the

wherewithal, for my personal expenses are small, and engineering is

well paid. Lucy must not think of bringing him out, for even at her

fastest the Far West would be no place for her. Let her think of

Glendalough, and realize that if she were here she would look back on

it as a temple of comfort, civilization, and civility, and this place

is the last attempt at social habitation for 200 and odd miles. It

stands on a lake of its own, with an Indian name, "which no man can

speak and no man can spell." It is colonial to the highest degree,

and inhabited by all denominations, chiefly agreed in worshipping us

as priests of the G. O. and S. Line, which is to make their fortune;

and for their manners, least said soonest mended, though there are

some happy exceptions, French Canadian, Lowland Scots, etc. and a

wiry hard-working parson, whose parish extends nearly to Lake

Superior, and whose remaining aroma of University is refreshing.

There is also a very nice young lad, whose tale may be a moving

example of what it is to come out here expecting to find in the

backwoods Robinson Crusoe's life and that of the Last of the Mohicans

combined. That is, it was not he, but his father, Major Randolf, an

English officer, who, knowing nothing of farming, less of Canada, and

least of all of speculation, got a grant of land, where he speculated

only to lose, and got transferred to this forlorn tract, only to

shiver with ague and die of swamp fever. During the twenty-five

years of this long agony, he had contrived to have two wives, the

first of whom left this son, whom he educated as a scholar, intending

to finish him in England when the tide should turn, but whereas it

never did, he must needs get a fresh partner into the whirlpool, a

Yankee damsel out of a boarding-house. By the time she had had a

couple of children, he died, and the whole weight remains bound about

young Randolf's neck, tying him down to work for dear life in this

doleful spot, without a farthing of capital, no stock, no anything.

I came upon the clearing one day in the course of my surveying, and

never did I see Gone to the Dogs more clearly written on any spot;

the half-burnt or overthrown trees lying about overgrown with wild

vines and raspberries, the snake fence broken down, the log-house

looking as if a touch would upset it, and nothing hopeful but a

couple of patches of maize and potatoes, and a great pumpkin climbing

up a stump. My horse and myself were done up, so I halted, and was

amazed at the greeting I received from the youth, who was hard at

work on his hay, single-handed, except for the two children tumbling

in it. The lady in her rocking-chair was contrast enough to make me

heartily glad to find that she was his stepmother, not his wife.

Since that, I have seen a good deal of him; he comes to Lakeville,

five miles across the bush and seven across the lake, to church on

Sunday, and spends the day with the parson, and Mr. Currie has given

him work in our press of business, and finds him so effective, that

he wants to take him on for good; but this can't be while he has got

these three stones about his neck, for whom he works harder and lives

worse than any day-labourer at Hiltonbury; regular hand to mouth, no

chance of making a start, unless the Company will fortunately decide

on the line I am drawing through the heart of his house, which will

force them to buy him out of it. I go out to-morrow to mark the said

line for Mr. Currie to report upon, and will finish my letter to

travel with said report.

'Aug. 21_st.-Thanks to the Fire-King, he has done for the ancient

log-house, though next time he mounts his "hot-copper filly," I do

not desire a second neck-and-neck race with him. A sprain of the

leg, and contusion (or confusion) of the head, are the extent of the

damage received, and you will say that it is cheap, considering all

things. I had done my 203 miles of marking, and was coming back on

my last day's journey, debating whether to push on to Lakeville that

night, camp out, or get a shake-down at Randolf's, bringing my own

provender, for they live on hominy and milk, except for what he can

shoot or catch. It was so dark that I had nearly fixed on sleeping

in the bush, when it struck me that there must be an uncommonly fine

aurora, but getting up a little rising ground where the trees were

thinner, I observed it was to the south-west, not the north. That

way there lies prairie land, at this season one ocean of dry bents,

fit to burn like tinder, so that one spark would set fifty square

miles alight at once. All the sky in that quarter was the colour of

glowing copper, but the distance was so enormous that danger never

occurred to me till I saw the deer scampering headlong, the birds

awake and flying, and my horse trembling and wild to be off. Then I

remembered that the wind was full from that direction, and not a bit

of water between, nor all the way to the Lakeville lake. I never

knew my beast's pace on the Kingston road what it was through that

track, all the rustling and scuttling of the beasts and birds

sounding round us, the glare gaining on us, and the scent of smoke

beginning to taint the wind. There was Randolf's clearing at last,

lonesome and still as ever, and a light in the window. Never was it

so hard to pull in a horse; however, I did so. He was still up,

reading by a pine torch, and in five minutes more the woman and her

children were upon the horse, making for the lake. Randolf took his

axe, and pocketed a book or two, and we dashed off together for a

long arm of swamp that he knew of, running out from the lake. When

we got to the other end of the clearing, I thought it was all up with

us. The wall of red roaring flame had reached the other side, and

the flame was leaping from the top of one pine to another, making

them one shape of quivering red, like Christmas evergreens in the

fire, a huge tree perhaps standing up all black against the lurid

light, another crashing down like thunder, the ribbon of flame

darting up like a demon, the whole at once standing forth a sheet of

blazing light. I verily believe I should have stood on, fascinated

with the horror and majesty of the sight, and feeling it vain to try

to escape, when the burning wings were spreading to enclose the

clearing and us with it, but Randolf urged me on, and we plunged

through the bush at the best speed we could make, the smoke rolling

after us, and the heat glowing like a furnace, so as to consume all

power out of us. It was hell itself pursuing after us, and roaring

for his prey, the trees coming crashing down, and shaking the earth

under our feet, the flame absolutely running on before us upon the

dry grass and scrub, and the scorching withering every drop of

moisture from us, though not ten minutes before, we had been

streaming at every pore.

'I saw green reeds before us, heard Randolf cry out, "Thank God," and

thought I was plunging after him, when I found myself on the ground,

and the branches of a hemlock covering me. Happily they were but the

lesser boughs, and not yet alight; and at his own desperate peril,

Randolf came back with his axe, and cut them off, then dragged me

after him into the mud. Never bath more welcome! We had to dispute

it with buffaloes, deer, all the beasts of the wood, tame and cowed

with terror, and through them we floundered on, the cold of the water

to our bodies making the burning atmosphere the more intolerable

round our heads. At last we came to an island, where we fell upon

the reeds so much spent that it was long before we found that our

refuge was shared by a bear and by Randolf's old cow, to the infinite

amaze of the bull-frogs. The Fire King was a hundred yards off; and

a fierce shower, brought from other parts by his unwarrantable

doings, began to descend, and finally quenched him in such smoke that

we had to lie on our faces to avoid stifling. When the sun arose,

there was Lakeville in its woods on one side, on the other the

blackest desolation conceivable. The population were all astir.

Mrs. Randolf had arrived safely, and Mr. Currie was about to set

forth in search of my roasted remains, when they perceived the

signals of distress that we were making, after Randolf had done

gallant battle with the bear in defence of the old cow. He is a

first-rate hunter, and despatched the fellow with such little aid as

I could give, with a leg not fit to stand upon; and when the canoes

came off to fetch us, he would not leave the place till he had

skinned the beast. My leg is unserviceable at present, and all my

bones feel the effect of the night in the swamp, so I am to lay by,

make the drawings, and draw up the report, while Mr. Currie and

Randolf do my work over again, all my marks having been effaced by

his majesty the Fire King, and the clearing done to our hand. If I

could only get rid of the intolerable parching and thirst, and the

burning of my brains! I should not wonder if I were in for a touch

of swamp fever.'

Here Owen's letter broke off; and Honor begged in alarm for what Robert evidently had in reserve. He had received this letter to her enclosed in one from Mr. Currie, desiring him to inform poor young Sandbrook's friends of his state. By his account, Owen's delay and surrender of his horse had been an act of gallant self-devotion, placing him in frightfully imminent danger, whence only the cool readiness of young Randolf had brought him off, apparently with but slight hurts from the fall of the tree, and exposure to the night air of the heated swamp. He had been left at Lakeville in full confidence of restoration after a week's rest, but on returning from Lake Superior, Mr. Currie found him insensible, under what was at first taken for an aggravated access of the local fever, until, as consciousness returned, it became evident that the limbs on the left side were powerless. Between a litter and water transport, the sufferer was conveyed to Montreal, where the evil was traced to concussion of the brain from the blow from the tree, the more dangerous because unfelt at first, and increased by application to business. The injury of the head had deprived the limbs of motion and sensation, and the medical men thought the case hopeless, though likely to linger through many stages of feebleness of mind and body. Under these circumstances, Mr. Currie, being obliged to return home himself, and unable to leave the poor young man in such a condition among strangers, had decided on bringing him to England, according to his own most eager desire, as the doctors declared that the voyage could do no harm, and might be beneficial. Mr. Currie wrote from Quebec, where he had taken his passage by a steamer that would follow his letter in four days' time, and he begged Robert to write to him at Liverpool stating what should be done with the patient, should he be then alive. His mind, he said, was clear, but weak, and his memory, from the moment of his fall till nearly the present time, a blank. He had begged Mr. Currie to write to his sister or to Miss Charlecote, but the engineer had preferred to devolve the communication upon Mr. Fulmort. Of poor Owen he spoke with much feeling, in high terms of commendation, saying that he was a valuable friend and companion as well as a very right hand in his business, and that his friends might be assured that he (Mr. Currie) would watch over him as if he were his own son, and that his temporary assistant, Mr. Randolf, was devoted to him, and had nursed him most tenderly from the first.

'Four days' time,' said Honor, when she had taken in the sense of these appalling tidings. 'We can be at Liverpool to meet him. Do not object, Robert. Nothing else will be bearable to either his sister or me.'

'It was of his sister that I was thinking,' said Robert. 'Do you think her strong enough for the risks of a hurried journey, with perhaps a worse shock awaiting her when the steamer comes in? Will you let me go alone? I have sent orders to be telegraphed for as soon as the Asia is signalled, and if I go at once, I can either send for you if needful, or bring him to you. Will you not let me?'

He spoke with persuasive authority, and Honora half yielded. 'It may be better,' she said, 'it may. A man may do more for him there than we could, but I do not know whether poor Lucy will let you, or-' (as a sudden recollection recurred to her) 'whether she ought.'

'Poor Owen is my friend, my charge,' said Robert.

'I believe you are right, you kind Robin,' said Honor. 'The journey might be a great danger for Lucy, and if I went, I know she would not stay behind. But I still think she will insist on seeing him.'

'I believe not,' said Robert; 'at least, if she regard submission as a duty.'

'Oh, Robin, you do not know. Poor child, how am I to tell her?'

'Would you like for me to do so?' said Robert, in the quiet matter-of-course way of one to whom painful offices had become well-nigh natural.

'You? O Robin, if you-' she said, in some confusion, but at the moment the sound of the visitor's bell startled her, and she was about to take measures for their exclusion, when looking from the window, she saw that the curate of Wrapworth had already been admitted into the court. The next moment she had met him in the hall, and seizing his hand, exclaimed in a hurried whisper, 'I know! I know! But there is a terrible stroke hanging over my poor child. Come in and help us to tell her!'

She drew him into the study, and shut the door. The poor man's sallowness had become almost livid, and in half-sobbing words he exclaimed-'Is it so? Then give her to me at once. I will nurse her to the last, or save her! I knew it was only her being driven out to that miserable governess life that has been destroying her!' and he quite glared upon poor innocent Honor as a murderess.

'Mr. Prendergast, I do not know what you mean. Lucilla is nearly well again. It is only that we fear to give her some bad news of her brother.'

'Her brother! Is that all?' said the curate, in a tone of absolute satisfaction. 'I beg your pardon, Miss Charlecote; I thought I saw a doctor here, and you were going to sentence my darling.'

'You do see Robert Fulmort, whom I thought you knew.'

'So I do,' said Mr. Prendergast, holding out his hand. 'I beg your pardon for having made such a fool of myself; but you see, since I came to an understanding with that dear child, I have not thought of anything else, nor known what I was about.'

Robert could not but look inquiringly at Miss Charlecote.

'Yes,' she faltered, 'Mr. Prendergast has told you-what I could not-what I had not leave to say.'

'Yes,' put in Mr. Prendergast, in his overflowing felicity, 'I see you think it a shocking match for such a little gem of beauty as that; but you young men should have been sharper. There's no accounting for tastes;' and he laughed awkwardly.

'I am heartily glad,' said Robert-and voice, look, and grasp of the hand conveyed the fullest earnestness-'I am exceedingly rejoiced that the dear little friend of all my life should be in such keeping! I congratulate you most sincerely, Mr. Prendergast. I never saw any one so well able to appreciate her.'

That is over, thought Honor; how well he has stood it! And now she ventured to recall them to the subject in hand, which might well hang more heavily on her heart than the sister's fate! It was agreed that Lucilla would bear the intelligence best from Mr. Prendergast, and that he could most easily restrain her desire for going to Liverpool. He offered himself to go to meet Owen, but Honor could not quite forgive the 'Is that all?' and Robert remained constant to his former view, that he, as friend both of Owen and Mr. Currie, would be the most effective. So therefore it stood, and Lucilla was called out of the drawing-room to Mr. Prendergast, as Honor and Robert entered it. It was almost in one burst that Phoebe learnt the brother's accident and the sister's engagement, and it took her several moments to disentangle two such extraordinary events.

'I am very glad,' repeated Robert, as he felt rather than saw that both ladies were regarding him with concealed anxiety; 'it is by far the happiest and safest thing for her! It is an infinite relief to my mind.'

'I can't but be glad,' said Honor; 'but I don't know how to forgive her!'

'That I can do very easily,' said Robert, with a smile on his thin lips that was very reassuring, 'not only as a Christian, but as I believe nothing ever did me so much good. My fancy for her was an incentive which drew me on to get under better influences, and when we threw each other overboard, I could do without it. She has been my best friend, not even excepting you, Miss Charlecote; and as such I hope always to be allowed to regard her. There, Phoebe, you have had an exposition of my sentiments once for all, and I hope I may henceforth receive credit for sincerity.'

Miss Charlecote felt that, under the name of Phoebe, this last reproof was chiefly addressed to her; and perhaps Phoebe understood the same, for there was the slightest of all arch smiles about her full lip and downcast eye; and though she said nothing, her complete faith in her brother's explanation, and her Christian forgiveness of Lucilla, did not quench a strong reserve of wondering indignation at the mixed preferences that had thus strangely settled down upon the old curate.

She followed her brother from the room, to ask whether she had better not leave Woolstone-lane in the present juncture. But there was nowhere for her to go; Beauchamp was shut up, the cottage being painted, Sutton barely held the three present guests, and her elder sister from home. 'You cannot go without making a disturbance,' said Robert; 'besides, I think you ought to stay with Miss Charlecote. Lucilla is of no use to her; and this unlucky Owen is more to her than all the world besides. You may comfort her.'

Phoebe had no more to urge. She could not tell her brother that looks and words of Owen Sandbrook, and in especial his last farewell, which she was at that time too young and simple to understand, had, with her greater experience, risen upon her in an aspect that made her desirous of avoiding him. But, besides the awkwardness of such recollections at all, they seemed cruel and selfish when the poor young man was coming home crippled and shattered, only to die, so she dismissed them entirely, and set herself to listen and sympathize.