Hopes and Fears

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 anticipate hurricanes for his wedded life, and to demonstrate that he was swayed by justice and not by passion; 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 compassionate 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 baluster with an iron-like grip.

'The use! To mark my detestation of such conduct! I did my best to show him what I thought of it; and I believe even Bannerman was astounded at his coolness. I'll take care the thing is made public! I'll move heaven and earth but I'll get you preferment that shall show how such treatment is looked upon.'

'I beg you will do nothing of the kind!' exclaimed Robert. 'I am heartily obliged to you, Acton. You gained me the certainty of forgiveness, without which I should have felt a curse on my work. For the rest, I complain of nothing. I have had larger means than the others. I knew I was to look for no more. I prefer my own cure to any other; and reflection will show you that our family affairs are not to be made public.'

'At any rate, your mother might do something. Let me speak to her. What, not now? Then I will come down whenever Phoebe will summon me.'

'Not now, nor ever,' said Robert. 'Even if anything were in her power, she could not understand; and she must not be harassed.'

'We will talk that over on our way to town,' said Sir Bevil. 'I start at once. I will not see that fellow again, nor, I should think, would you.'