Hopes and Fears

CHAPTER XXIX

Have you seen but a bright lily grow,

Before rude hands have touched it?

Have you marked but the fall of the snow,

Before the soil hath smutched it?-BEN JONSON

At the end of a week Mervyn made his appearance in a vehement hurry. Cecily's next sister, an officer's wife, was coming home with two little children, for a farewell visit before going to the Cape, and Maria and Bertha must make way for her. So he wanted to take Phoebe home that afternoon to get the Underwood ready for them.

'Mervyn, how can I go? I am not nearly ready.'

'What can you have been doing then?' he exclaimed, with something of his old temper.

'This house has been in such a state.'

'Well, you were not wanted to nurse the sick man, were you? I thought you were one that was to be trusted. What more is there to do?'

Phoebe looked at her list of commissions, and found herself convicted. Those patterns ought to have been sent back two days since. What had she been about? Listening to Mr. Randolf's explanations of the Hiawatha scenery! Why had she not written a note about that hideous hearth-rug? Because Mr. Randolf was looking over Stowe's Survey of London. Methodical Phoebe felt herself in disgrace, and yet, somehow, she could not be sorry enough; she wanted a reprieve from exile at Hiltonbury, alone and away from all that was going on. At least she should hear whether Macbeth, at the Princess's Theatre, fulfilled Mr. Randolf's conceptions of it; and if Mr. Currie approved his grand map of the Newcastle district, with the little trees that she had taught him to draw.

Perhaps it was the first time that Mervyn had been justly angry with her; but he was so much less savage than in his injustice that she was very much ashamed and touched; and finally, deeply grateful for the grace of this one day in which to repair her negligence, provided she would be ready to start by seven o'clock next morning. Hard and diligently she worked, and very late she came home. As she was on her way up-stairs she met Robert coming out of Owen's room.

'Phoebe,' he said, turning with her into her room, 'what is the matter with Lucy?'

'The matter?'

'Do you mean that you have not observed how ill she is looking?'

'No; nothing particular.'

'Phoebe, I cannot imagine what you have been thinking about. I thought you would have saved her, and helped Miss Charlecote, and you absolutely never noticed her looks!'

'I am very sorry. I have been so much engaged.'

'Absorbed, you should call it! Who would have thought you would be so heedless of her?'

He was gone. 'Still crazy about Lucy,' was Phoebe's first thought; her second, 'Another brother finding me heedless and selfish! What can be the matter with me?' And when she looked at Lucilla with observant eyes, she did indeed recognize the justice of Robert's anxiety and amazement. The brilliant prettiness had faded away as if under a blight, the eyes were sinking into purple hollows, the attitude was listless, the whole air full of suffering. Phoebe was dismayed and conscience-stricken, and would fain have offered inquiries and sympathy, but no one had more thoroughly than Lucy the power of repulsion. 'No, nothing was amiss-of course she felt the frost. She would not speak to Honor-there was nothing to speak about;' and she went up to her brother's room.

Mr. Randolf was out with Mr. Currie, and Phoebe, still exceedingly busy writing notes and orders, and packing for her journey, did not know that there was an unconscious resolution in her own mind that her business should not be done till he came home, were it at one o'clock at night! He did come at no unreasonable hour, and found her fastening directions upon the pile of boxes in the hall.

'What are you doing? Miss Charlecote is not going away?'

'No; but I am going to-morrow.'

'You!'

'Yes; I must get into our new house, and receive my sisters there the day after to-morrow.'

'I thought you lived with Miss Charlecote.'

'Is it possible that you did not know what I have been doing all this week?'

'Were you not preparing a house for your brother?'

'Yes, and another for myself. Did you not understand that we set up housekeeping separately upon his marriage?'

'I did not understand,' said Humfrey Randolf, disconsolately. 'You told me you owed everything to Miss Charlecote.'

'I am afraid your colonial education translated that into pounds s. d.'

'Then you are not poor?'

'No, not exactly,' said Phoebe, rather puzzled and amused by his downcast air.

'But,' he exclaimed, 'your brother is in business; and Mr. Fulmort of St. Matthew's-'

'Mr. Fulmort of St. Matthew's is poor because he gave all to St. Matthew's,' said Phoebe; 'but our business is not a small one, and the property in the country is large.'

He pasted on her last direction in disconsolate silence, then reading, 'Miss Fulmort, The Underwood, Hiltonbury, Elverslope Station,' resumed with fresh animation, 'At least you live near Miss Charlecote?'

'Yes, we are wedged in between her park and our own-my brother's, I mean.'

'That is all right then! She has asked me for Christmas.'

'I am very glad of it,' said Phoebe. 'There, thank you, good night.'

'Is there nothing more that I can do for you?'

'Nothing-no, no, don't hammer that down, you will wake Owen. Good night, good-bye; I shall be gone by half-past six.'

Though Phoebe said good-bye, she knew perfectly well that the hours of the morning were as nothing to the backwoodsman, and with spirits greatly exhilarated by the Christmas invitation, she went to bed, much too sleepy to make out why her wealth seemed so severe a shock to Humfrey Randolf.

The six o'clock breakfast was well attended, for Miss Charlecote was there herself, as well as the Canadian, Phoebe, and Mervyn, who was wonderfully amiable considering the hour in the morning. Phoebe felt in some slight degree less unfeeling when she found that Lucilla's fading looks had been no more noticed by Miss Charlecote than by herself; but Honor thought Owen's illness accounted for all, and only promised that the doctor should inspect her.

A day of exceeding occupation ensued. Mervyn talked the whole way of Cecily, his plans and his prospects; and Phoebe had to draw her mind out of one world and immerse it into another, straining ears and voice all the time to hear and be heard through the roar of the train. He left her at the cottage: and then began the work of the day, presiding over upholsterers, hanging pictures, arranging books, settling cabinets of collections, disposing of ornaments, snatching meals at odd times, in odder places, and never daring to rest till long after dark, when, with fingers freshly purified from dust, limbs stiff with running up and down stairs, and arms tired with heavy weights, she sat finally down before the drawing-room fire with her solitary cup of coffee, and a book that she was far too weary to open.

Had she never been tired before, that her heart should sink in this unaccountable way? Why could she not be more glad that her sisters were coming home, and dear Miss Fennimore? What made every one seem so dull and stupid, and the comings and goings so oppressive, as if everything would be hateful till Christmas? Why had she belied all her previous good character for method and punctuality of late, and felt as if existence only began when-one person was in the room?

Oh! can this be falling in love?

There was a chiffonier with a looking-glass back just opposite to her, and, raising her eyes, poor Phoebe beheld a young lady with brow, cheeks, and neck perfectly glowing with crimson!

'You shan't stand there long at any rate,' said she, almost vindictively, getting up and pushing the table with its deep cover between her and the answering witness.

'Love! Nonsense! Yet I don't see why I should be ashamed! Yes! He is my wise man, he is the real Humfrey Charlecote! His is the very nature I always thought some one must still have-the exact judgment I longed to meet with. Not stern like Robin's, not sharp like Mervyn's, nor high-flying like dear Miss Charlecote's, nor soft like Bevil's, nor light like Lucy's, nor clear and clever like Miss Fennimore's-no, but considerate and solid, tender and true-such as one can lean upon! I know why he has the steadfast eyes that I liked so much the first evening. And there is so much more in him than I can measure or understand. Yes, though I have known him but ten days, I have seen much more of him than of most men in a year. And he has been so much tried, and has had such a life, that he may well be called a real hero in a quiet way. Yes, I well may like him! And I am sure he likes me!' said another whisper of the heart, which, veiled as was the lady in the mirror, made Phoebe put both hands over her face, in a shamefaced ecstatic consciousness. 'Nay-I was the first lady he had seen, the only person to speak to. No, no; I know it was not that-I feel it was not! Why, otherwise, did he seem so sorry I was not poor? Oh! how nice it would be if I were! We could work for each other in his glorious new land of hope! I, who love work, was made for work! I don't care for this mere young lady life! And must my trumpery thousand a year stand in the way? As to birth, I suppose he is as well or better born than I-and, oh! so far superior in tone and breeding to what ours used to be! He ought to know better than to think me a fine young lady, and himself only an engineer's assistant! But he won't! Of course he will be honourable about it-and-and perhaps never dare to say another word till he has made his fortune-and when will that ever be? It will be right-' 'But' (and a very different but it was this time) 'what am I thinking about? How can I be wishing such things when I have promised to devote myself to Maria? If I could rough it gladly, she could not; and what a shameful thing it is of me to have run into all this long day dream and leave her out. No, I know my lot! I am to live on here, and take care of Maria, and grow to be an old maid! I shall hear about him, when he comes to be a great man, and know that the Humfrey Charlecote I dreamt about is still alive! There, I won't have any more nonsense!'

And she opened her book; but finding that Humfrey Randolf's remarks would come between her and the sense, she decided that she was too tired to read, and put herself to bed. But there the sense of wrong towards Maria filled her with remorse that she had accepted her rights of seniority, and let the maids place her in the prettiest room, with the best bay window, and most snug fireplace; nor could she rest till she had pacified her self-reproach, by deciding that all her own goods should move next day into the chamber that did not look at the Holt firs, but only at the wall of the back yard.

'Yes,' said Phoebe, stoutly in her honest dealing with herself in her fresh, untried morning senses. 'I do love Humfrey Charlecote Randolf, and I think he loves me! Whether anything more may come of it, will be ordered for me; but whether it do so or not, it is a blessing to have known one like him, and now that I am warned, and can try to get back self-control, I will begin to be the better for it. Even if I am not quite so happy, this is something more beautiful than I ever knew before. I will be content!'

And when Bertha and Maria arrived, brimful of importance at having come home with no escort but a man and maid, and voluble with histories of Sutton, and wedding schemes, they did not find an absent nor inattentive listener. Yet the keen Bertha made the remark, 'Something has come over you, Phoebe. You have more countenance than ever you had before.'

Whereat Phoebe's colour rushed into her cheeks, but she demanded the meaning of countenance, and embarked Bertha in a dissertation.

When Phoebe was gone, Robert found it less difficult to force Lucilla to the extremity of a tete-a-tete. Young Randolf was less in the house, and, when there, more with Owen than before, and Lucilla was necessarily sometimes to be caught alone in the drawing-room.

'Lucy,' said Robert, the first time this occurred, 'I have a question to ask you.'

'Well!'-she turned round half defiant.

'A correspondent of Mervyn, on the Spanish coast, has written to ask him to find a chaplain for the place, guaranteeing a handsome stipend.'

'Well,' said Lucilla, in a cold voice this time.

'I wished to ask whether you thought it would be acceptable to Mr. Prendergast.'

'I neither know nor care.'

'I beg your pardon,' said Robert, after a pause; 'but though I believe I learnt it sooner than I ought, I was sincerely glad to hear-'

'Then unhear!' said Lucilla, pettishly. 'You, at least, ought to be glad of that.'

'By no means,' returned Robert, gravely. 'I have far too great a regard for you not to be most deeply concerned at what I see is making you unhappy.'

'May not I be unhappy if I like, with my brother in this state?'

'That is not all, Lucilla.'

'Then never mind! You are the only one who never pitied me, and so I like you. Don't spoil it now!'

'You need not be afraid of my pitying you if you have brought on this misunderstanding by your old spirit!'

'Not a bit of it! I tell you he pitied me. I found it out in time, so I set him free. That's all.'

'And that was the offence?'

'Offence! What are you talking of? He didn't offend-No, but when I said I could not bring so many upon him, and could not have Owen teased about the thing, he said he would bother me no more, that I had Owen, and did not want him. And then he walked off.'

'Taking you at your word?'

'Just as if one might not say what one does not mean when one wants a little comforting,' said Lucy, pouting; 'but, after all, it is a very good thing-he is saved a great plague for a very little time, and if it were all pity, so much the better. I say, Robin, shall you be man enough to read the service over me, just where we stood at poor Edna's funeral?'

'I don't think that concerns you much,' said Robert.

'Well, the lady in Madge Wildfire's song was gratified at the "six brave gentlemen" who "kirkward should carry her." Why should you deprive me of that satisfaction? Really, Robin, it is quite true. A little happiness might have patched me up, but-'

'The symptoms are recurring? Have you seen F--?'

'Yes. Let me alone, Robin. It is the truest mercy to let me wither up with as little trouble as possible to those who don't want me. Now that you know it, I am glad I can talk to you, and you will help me to think of what has never been enough before my eyes.'

Robert made no answer but a hasty good-bye, and was gone.

Lucilla gave a heavy sigh, and then exclaimed, half-aloud-

'Oh, the horrid little monster that I am. Why can't I help it? I verily believe I shall flirt in my shroud, and if I were canonized my first miracle would be like St. Philomena's, to make my own relics presentable!'

Wherewith she fell a laughing, with a laughter that soon turned to tears, and the exclamation, 'Why can I make nobody care for me but those I can't care for? I can't help disgusting all that is good, and it will be well when I am dead and gone. There's only one that will shed tears good for anything, and he is well quit of me!'

The poor little lonely thing wept again, and after her many sleepless nights, she fairly cried herself to sleep. She awoke with a start, at some one being admitted into the room.

'My dear, am I disturbing you?'

It was the well-known voice, and she sprang up.

'Mr. Pendy, Mr. Pendy, I was very naughty! I didn't mean it. Oh, will you bear with me again, though I don't deserve it?'

She clung to him like a child wearied with its own naughtiness.

'I was too hasty,' he said; 'I forgot how wrapped up you were in your brother, and how little attention you could spare, and then I thought that in him you had found all you wanted, and that I was only in your way.'

'How could you? Didn't you know better than to think that people put their brothers before their-Mr. Pendys?'

'You seemed to wish to do so.'

'Ah! but you should have known it was only for the sake of being coaxed!' said Lucilla, hanging her head on one side.

'You should have told me so.'

'But how was I to know it?' And she broke out into a very different kind of laughter. 'I'm sure I thought it was all magnanimity, but it is of no use to die of one's own magnanimity, you see.'

'You are not going to die; you are coming to this Spanish place, which will give you lungs of brass.'

'Spanish place? How do you know? I have not slept into to-morrow, have I? That Robin has not flown to Wrapworth and back since three o'clock?'

'No, I was only inquiring at Mrs. Murrell's.'

'Oh, you silly, silly person, why couldn't you come here?'

'I did not want to bother you.'

'For shame, for shame; if you say that again I shall know you have not forgiven me. It is a moral against using words too strong for the occasion! So Robert carried you the offer of the chaplaincy, and you mean to have it!'

'I could not help coming, as he desired, to see what you thought of it.'

'I only know,' she said, half crying, yet laughing, 'that you had better marry me out of hand before I get into any more mischief.'

The chaplaincy was promising. The place was on the lovely coast of Andalusia. There was a small colony of English engaged in trade, and the place was getting into favour with invalids. Mervyn's correspondent was anxious to secure the services of a good man, and the society of a lady-like wife, and offered to guarantee a handsome salary, such as justified the curate in giving up his chance of a college living; and though it was improbable that he would ever learn a word of Spanish, or even get so far as the pronunciation of the name of the place, the advantages that the appointment offered were too great to be rejected, when Lucilla's health needed a southern climate.

'Oh! yes, yes, let us go,' she cried. 'It will be a great deal better than anything at home can be.'

'Then you venture on telling Owen, now!'

'Oh, yes! It was a mere delusion of mine that it would cost him anything. Honor is all that he wants, I am rather in their way than otherwise. He rests on her down-pillow-ship, and she sees, hears, knows nothing but him!'

'Is Miss Charlecote aware of-what has been going wrong?'

'Not she! I told her before that I should take my own time for the communication, and I verily believe she has forgotten all about it! Then little demure Phoebe fell over head and ears in love with the backwoodsman on the spot, and walked about in a dream such as ought to have been good fun to watch, if I had had the spirit for it; and if Robert had not been sufficiently disengaged to keep his eyes open, I don't know whether anything would have roused them short of breaking a blood-vessel or two.'

'I shall never rest till you are in my keeping! I will go to Fulmort at once, and tell him that I accept.'

'And I will go to Owen, and break the news to him. When are you coming again?'

'To-morrow, as soon as I have opened school.'

'Ah! the sooner we are gone the better! Much good you can be to poor Wrapworth! Just tell me, please, that I may know how badly I served you, how often you have inquired at Mrs. Murrell's.'

'Why-I believe-each day except Saturday and Sunday; but I never met him there till just now.'

Lucilla's eyes swam with tears; she laid her head on his shoulder, and, in a broken voice of deep emotion, she said, 'Indeed, I did not deserve it! But I think I shall be good now, for I can't tell why I should be so much loved!'

Mr. Prendergast was vainly endeavouring to tell her why, when Humfrey Randolf's ring was heard, and she rushed out of the room.

Owen's first hearty laugh since his return was at her tidings. That over, he spoke with brotherly kindness.

'Yes, Lucy,' he said, 'I do think it is the best and happiest thing for you. He is the only man whom you could not torment to death, or who would have any patience with your antics.'

'I don't think I shall try,' said Lucy. 'What are you shaking your head for, Owen? Have I not had enough to tame me?'

'I beg your pardon, Cilly. I was only thinking of the natural companionship of bears and monkeys. Don't beat me!'

'Some day you shall come out and see us perform, that's all,' said Lucilla, merrily. 'But indeed, Owen, if I know myself at all, unmerited affection and forbearance, with no nonsense about it, is the only way to keep me from flying out. At any rate, I can't live without it!'

'Ah!' said Owen, gravely, 'you have suffered too much through me for me to talk to you in this fashion. Forgive me, Lucy; I am not up to any other, just yet.'

Whatever Lucilla might have said in the first relief of recovering Mr. Prendergast, she could not easily have made up her mind to leave her brother in his present condition, and flattered herself that the 'at once' could not possibly be speedy, since Mr. Prendergast must give notice of his intention of leaving Wrapworth.

But when he came the next morning, it proved that things were in a far greater state of forwardness than she had thought possible. So convinced were both the curate and Robert of the need of her avoiding the winter cold, that the latter had suggested that one of his own curates, who was in need of change and country air, should immediately offer himself as a substitute at Wrapworth, either for a time or permanently, and Lucy was positively required to name a day as early as possible for the marriage, and told, on the authority of the physician, that it might almost be called suicide to linger in the English frosts.

The day which she chose was the 1st of December, the same on which Mervyn was to be married. There was a purpose in thus rendering it impracticable for any Fulmort to be present; 'And,' said Owen, 'I am glad it should be before I am about. I could never keep my countenance if I had to give her away to brother Peter!'

'Keeping his countenance' might have two meanings, but he was too feeble for agitation, and seemed only able to go through the time of preparation and parting, by keeping himself as lethargic and indifferent as possible, or by turning matters into a jest when necessarily brought before him. Playing at solitaire, or trifling desultory chat, was all that he could endure as occupation, and the long hours were grievously heavy. His son, though nearly four years old, was no companion or pleasure to him. He was, in his helpless and morbid state, afraid of so young a child, and little Owen was equally afraid of him; each dreaded contact with the other, and more than all the being shut into a room together; and the little boy, half shy, half assured, filled by the old woman with notions of his own grandeur, and yet constrained by the different atmosphere of Woolstone-lane, was never at ease or playful enough before him to be pleasant to watch. And, indeed, his Cockney pronunciation and ungainly vulgar tricks had been so summarily repressed by his aunt, that his fear of both the ladies rendered him particularly unengaging and unchildlike. Nevertheless, Honora thought it her duty to take him home with her to the Holt, and gratified Robert by engaging a nice little girl of fourteen, whom Lucilla called the crack orphan, to be his attendant when they should leave town. This was to be about a fortnight after the wedding, since St. Wulstan's afforded greater opportunities for privacy and exemption from bustle than even Hiltonbury, and Dr. Prendergast and his daughter could attend without being in the house.

The Prendergasts of Southminster were very kind and friendly, sending Lucilla warm greetings, and not appearing at all disconcerted at welcoming their former governess into the family. The elders professed no surprise, but great gladness; and Sarah, who was surprised, was trebly rejoiced. Owen accused his sister of selecting her solitary bridesmaid with a view to enhancing her own beauty by force of contrast; but the choice was prompted by real security of the affectionate pleasure it would confer. Handsome presents were sent both by the Beaumonts and Bostocks, and Lucilla, even while half fretted, half touched by Mrs. Bostock's patronizing felicitations, could not but be pleased at these evidences that her governess-ship had not been an utter failure.

Her demeanour in the fortnight before her marriage was unlike what her friends had ever seen, and made them augur better for Mr. Prendergast's venture. She was happy, but subdued; quiet and womanly, gentle without being sad, grave but not drooping; and though she was cheerful and playful, with an entire absence of those strange effervescences that had once betrayed acidity or fermentation. She had found the power of being affectionately grateful to Honor, and the sweetness of her tender ways towards her and Owen would have made the parting all the sadder to them if it had not been evident that, as she said, it was happiness that thus enabled her to be good. The satisfied look of rest that had settled on her fair face made it new. All her animation and archness had not rendered it half so pleasant to look upon.

The purchaser of Castle Blanch proved to be no other than Mr. Calthorp! Lucilla at first was greatly discomfited, and begged that nothing might be said about the picture; but the next time Mr. Prendergast arrived, it was with a request from Mr. Calthorp that Miss Sandbrook would accept the picture as a wedding gift! There was no refusing it-indeed, the curate had already accepted it; and when Lucilla heard that 'the Calthorp' had been two years married to what Mr. Prendergast called 'a millionairess, exceedingly hideous,' she still had vanity enough to reflect that the removal of her own resemblance might be an act of charity! And the sum that Honor had set apart for the purchase was only too much wanted for the setting up housekeeping in Spain, whither the portrait was to accompany her, Mr. Prendergast declared, like the Penates of the pious AEneas!

Robert brought in his gift on the last day of November, just before setting off for Sutton. It was an unornamented, but exquisitely-bound Bible and Prayer Book, dark-brown, with red-edged leaves.

'Good-bye, Lucilla,' he said; 'you have been the brightest spot to me in this life. Thank you for all you have done for me.'

'And for all I never intended to do?' said Lucilla, smiling, as she returned his pressure of the hand.

He was gone, not trusting her to speak, nor himself to hear a word more.

'Yes, Robin,' proceeded Lucy, half aloud, 'you are the greater man, I know very well; but it is in human nature to prefer flesh and blood to mediaeval saints in cast-iron, even if one knows there is a tender spot in them.'

There was a curious sense of humiliation in her full acquiescence in the fact that he was too high, too grand for her, and in her relief, that the affection, that would have lifted her beyond what she was prepared for, had died away, and left her to the more ordinary excellence and half-paternal fondness of the man of her real choice, with whom she could feel perfect ease and repose. Possibly the admixture of qualities that in her had been called fast is the most contrary to all real aspiration!

But there was no fault to be found with the heartfelt affection with which she loved and honoured her bridegroom, lavishing on him the more marks of deference and submission just because she knew that her will would be law, and that his love was strong enough to have borne with any amount of caprice or seeming neglect. The sacrifices she made, without his knowledge, for his convenience and comfort, while he imagined hers to be solely consulted, the concessions she made to his slightest wish, the entire absence of all teasing, would not have been granted to a younger man more prepossessing in the sight of others.

It was in this spirit that she rejected all advice to consult health rather than custom in her wedding dress. Exactly because Mr. Prendergast would have willingly received her in the plainest garb, she was bent on doing him honour by the most exquisite bridal array; and never had she been so lovely-her colour such exquisite carnation, her eyes so softened, and full of such repose and reliance, her grace so perfect in complete freedom from all endeavour at attracting admiration.

The married pair came back from church to Owen's sitting-room-not bear and monkey, not genie and fairy, as he had expected to see; but as they stood together, looking so indescribably and happily one, that Owen smiled and said, 'Ah! Honor, if you had only known twenty years ago that this was Mrs. Peter Prendergast, how much trouble it would have saved.'

'She did not deserve to be Mrs. Peter Prendergast,' said the bride.

'See how you deserve it now.'

'That I never shall!'

Brother and sister parted with light words but full hearts, each trying to believe, though neither crediting Mr. Prendergast's assurance that the two Owens should come and be at home for ever if they liked in Santa Maria de X--. Neither could bear to face the truth that henceforth their courses lay apart, and that if the sister's life were spared, it could only be at the sacrifice of expatriation for many years, in lands where, well or ill, the brother had no call. Nor would Lucilla break down. It was due to her husband not to let him think she suffered too much in resigning home for him; and true to her innate hatred of agitation, she guarded herself from realizing anything, and though perfectly kind and respectful to Honora, studiously averted all approaches to effusion of feeling.

Only at the last kiss in the hall, she hung round her friend with a vehement embrace, and whispered, 'Forgive! You have forgiven!'

'Forgive me, Lucilla!'

'Nay, that I have forgiven you for all your pardon and patience is shown by my enduring to leave Owen to you now.'

Therewith surged up such a flood of passionate emotions that, fleeing from them as it were, the bride tore herself out of Honor's arms, and sprang hastily into the carriage, nervously and hastily moving about its contents while Mr. Prendergast finished his farewells.

After all, there was a certain sense of rest, snugness, and freedom from turmoil, when Honor dried her eyes and went back to her convalescent. The house seemed peaceful, and they both felt themselves entering into the full enjoyment of being all in all to one another.

There was one guest at the Sutton wedding whose spirit was at St. Wulstan's. In those set eyes, and tightly-closed lips, might be traced abstraction in spite of himself. Were there not thoughts and prayers for another bride, elsewhere kneeling? Was not the solitary man struggling with the last remnants of fancies at war with his life of self-devotion, and crushing down the few final regrets, that would have looked back to the dreams of his youth. No marvel that his greatest effort was against being harsh and unsympathizing, even while his whole career was an endeavour to work through charities of deed and word into charities of thought and judgment.