Phoebe thought for a few moments, and then said, 'I see plainly what you ought to do, but I cannot understand that this makes it proper to ask my mother to give up her own house, that she was born to. I suppose you would call it childish to propose your living with us; but we could almost form two establishments.'
'My dear child, Cecily would go and devote herself to my mother. I should never have any good out of her, and she would get saddled for life with Maria.'
'Maria is my charge,' said Phoebe, coldly.
'And what will your husband say to that?'
'He shall never be my husband unless I have the means of making her happy.'
'Ay, there would be a frenzy of mutual generosity, and she would be left to us. No; I'm not going to set up housekeeping with Maria for an ingredient.'
'There is the Underwood.'
'Designed by nature for a dowager-house. That would do very well for you and my mother, though Cheltenham or Brighton might be better. Yes, it might do. You would be half a mile nearer your dear Miss Charlecote.'
'Thank you,' said Phoebe, a little sarcastically; but repenting she added, 'Mervyn, I hope I do not seem unkind and selfish; but I think we ought to consider mamma, as she cannot stand up for herself just now. It is not unlikely that when mamma hears you are engaged, and has seen and grown fond of Miss Raymond, she may think herself of giving up this place; but it ought to begin from her, not from you; and as things are now, I could not think of saying anything about it. From what you tell me of Miss Raymond, I don't think she would be the less likely to take you without Beauchamp than with it; indeed, I think you must want it less for her sake than your own.'
'Upon my word, Mrs. Phoebe, you are a cool hand!' exclaimed Mervyn, laughing; 'but you promise to see what can be done as soon as I've got my hand into the matter.'
'I promise nothing,' said Phoebe; 'I hope it will be settled without me, for I do not know what would be the most right or most kind, but it may be plainer when the time comes, and she, who is so good, will be sure to know. O Mervyn, I am very glad of that!'
Phoebe sought the west wing in such a tingle of emotion that she only gave Miss Fennimore a brief good night instead of lingering to talk over the day. Indignation was foremost. After destroying Robert's hopes for life, here was Mervyn accepting wedded happiness as a right, and after having knowingly trifled with a loving heart for all these years, coolly deigning to pick it up, and making terms to secure his own consequence and freedom from all natural duties, and to thrust his widowed mother from her own home. It was Phoebe's first taste of the lesson so bitter to many, that her parents' home was not her own for life, and the expulsion seemed to her so dreadful that she rebuked herself for personal feeling in her resentment, and it was with a sort of horror that she bethought herself that her mother might possibly prefer a watering-place life, and that it would then be her part to submit cheerfully. Poor Miss Charlecote! would not she miss her little moonbeam? Yes, but if this Cecily were so good, she would make up to her. The pang of suffering and dislike quite startled Phoebe. She knew it for jealousy, and hid her face in prayer.
The next day was Sunday, and Mervyn made the unprecedented exertion of going twice to church, observing that he was getting into training. He spent the evening in dwelling on Cecily Raymond, who seemed to have been the cheerful guardian elder sister of a large family in narrow circumstances, and as great a contrast to Mervyn himself as was poor Lucilla to Robert; her homeliness and seriousness being as great hindrances to the elder brother, as fashion and levity to the younger. It was as if each were attracted by the indefinable essence, apart from all qualities, that constitutes the self; and Haydn's air, learnt long ago by Cecily as a surprise to her father on his birthday, had evoked such a healthy shoot of love within the last twenty-four hours, that Mervyn was quite transformed, though still rather unsuitably sensible of his own sacrifice, and of the favour he was about to confer on Cecily in entering on that inevitable period when he must cease to be a gentleman at large.
On Monday he came down to breakfast ready for a journey, as Phoebe concluded, to London. She asked if he would return by the next hunting day. He answered vaguely, then rousing himself, said, 'I say, Phoebe, you must write her a cordial sisterly sort of letter, you know; and you might make Bertha do it too, for nobody else will.'
'I wrote to Juliana on Friday.'
'Juliana! Are you mad?'
'Oh! Miss Raymond! But you told me you had said nothing! You have not had time since Friday night to get an answer.'
'Foolish child, no; but I shall be there to-night or to-morrow.'
'You are going to Sutton?'
'Yes; and, as I told you, I trust to you to write such a letter as to make her feel comfortable. Well, what's the use of having a governess, if you don't know how to write a letter?'
'Yes, Mervyn, I'll write, only I must hear from you first.'
'I hate writing. I tell you, if you write-let me see, on Wednesday, you may be sure it is all over.'
'No, Mervyn, I will not be so impertinent,' said Phoebe, and the colour rushed into her face as she recollected the offence that she had once given by manifesting a brother's security of being beloved. 'It would be insulting her to assume that she had accepted you, and write before I knew, especially after the way you have been using her.'
'Pshaw! she will only want a word of kindness; but if you are so fanciful, will it do if I put a cover in the post? There! and when you get it on Wednesday morning, you write straight off to Cecily, and when you have got the notion into my mother's understanding, you may write to me, and tell me what chance there is of Beauchamp.'
What chance of Beauchamp! The words made Phoebe's honest brow contract as she stood by the chimney- piece, while her brother went out into the hall. 'That's all he cares for,' she thought. 'Poor mamma! But, oh! how unkind. I am sending him away without one kind wish, and she must be good-so much better than I could have hoped!'
Out she ran, and as he paused to kiss her bright cheek, she whispered, 'Good-bye, Mervyn; good speed. I shall watch for your cover.'
She received another kiss for those words, and they had been an effort, for those designs on Beauchamp weighed heavily on her, and the two tasks that were left to her were not congenial. She did not know how to welcome a strange sister, for whose sake the last of the Mervyns was grudged her own inheritance, and still less did she feel disposed to harass her mother with a new idea, which would involve her in bewilderment and discussion. She could only hope that there would be inspiration in Mervyn's blank cover, and suppress her fever for suspense.
Wednesday came-no cover, blank or unblank. Had he been taken with a fit of diffidence, and been less precipitate than he intended? Womanhood hoped so, and rather enjoyed the possibility of his being kept a little in suspense. Or suppose he had forgotten his cover, and then should think the absence of a letter her fault? Thursday-still no tidings. Should she venture a letter to him? No; lovers were inexplicable people, and after all, what could she say? Perhaps he was only waiting for an opportunity, and if Cecily had been ungracious at the last meeting, she might not afford one. Day after day wore on, and still the post-bag was emptied in vain, and Phoebe's patience was kept on tenterhooks, till, when a full fortnight had passed, she learnt through the servants that Mr. Mervyn's wardrobe and valet, grooms and horses, had been sent for to London.
So he had been refused, and could not bear to tell her so! And here she was disappointed and pitying, and as vexed with Miss Raymond as if it had not been no more than he deserved. But poor Mervyn! he had expected it so little, and had been so really attached, that Phoebe was heartily grieved for him, and longed to know how he bore it. Nay, with all the danger of removal, the flatness of the balked excitement was personally felt, and Phoebe would have been glad, in her monotonous life, of something to hope or to fear.
Her greatest pleasure was in Miss Charlecote's return. The long watch over her old friend was over. Honor had shared his wife's cares, comforted and supported her in her sorrow, and had not left her till the move from her parsonage was made, and she was settled among her own relations. Much as Honor had longed to be with Phoebe, the Savilles had nearer claims, and she could not part with them while there was any need of her. Indeed, Mr. Saville, as once the husband of Sarah Charlecote, the brother-in-law of Humfrey, and her own friend and adviser, was much esteemed and greatly missed. She felt as if her own generation were passing away, when she returned to see the hatchment upon Beauchamp, and to hear of the widow's failing health. Knowing how closely Phoebe was attending her mother, Honor drove to Beauchamp the first day after her return, and had not crossed the hall before the slender black figure was in her arms.
Friends seem as though they must meet to know one another again, and begin afresh, after one of the great
