descended the stairs, and met him in the hall. Neither spoke till they were in the library, which had been kept prepared for the travellers. Robert pressed her to him and kissed her fervently, and she found voice to say, 'What is it? Papa?'
'Yes,' said Robert.
She needed not to ask the extent of the calamity. She stood looking in his face, while, the beginning once made, he spoke in low, quick accents. 'Paralysis. Last night. He was insensible when Edwards called him this morning. Nothing could be done. It was over by three this afternoon.'
'Where?' asked Phoebe, understanding, but not yet feeling.
'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 God were
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 space, 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 assented, and soon dozed, awaking to ask plaintively for Boodle and her afternoon cup of tea.
So passed 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
