Hopes and Fears

Phoebe's hands were pressed together as though in preparation for a religious rite. She was not dismayed, but from her strict truth at all times, she was the more sensible of the sacredness and solemnity of the great appeal.

An offence on so large a scale had brought a throng of loiterers to the door of the town-hall, and Honor felt nervous and out of place as way was made for the two ladies to mount the stairs to the justice-room; but there she was welcomed by several of the magistrates, and could watch Phoebe's demeanour, and the impression it made on persons accustomed to connect many strange stories with the name of Miss Fulmort. That air of maidenly innocence, the girlish form in deep mourning, the gentle seriousness and grave composure of the young face, the simple, self-possessed manner, and the steady, distinct tones of the clear, soft voice were, as Honor felt, producing an effect that was shown in the mood of addressing her, always considerate and courteous, but increasing in respect and confidence.

And as Phoebe raised her eyes, the chairman's face-the first to meet her glance-was the kind ruddy one, set in iron gray hair, that she remembered as belonging to the hunter who had sacrificed the run to see Mervyn safely home. The mutual recognition, and the tone of concern for his illness, made her feel in the presence of a friend, and she was the more at ease in performing her part.

To her great relief, the man in custody was unknown to her. James Smithson, she said, was taller, and had a longer face, and she had not seen him whom she had locked into the dressing-room. However, she identified a gold and turquoise letter-weight; and the setting of a seal, whence the stone with the crest had been extracted, both of which had been found in the man's pocket, together with some pawnbroker's tickets, which represented a buhl- clock and other articles from Beauchamp. She was made to give an account of the robbery. Honor had never felt prouder of any of her favourites than of her, while listening to the modest, simple, but clear and circumstantial recital, and watching how much struck the country gentlemen were by the girl who had been of late everywhere pitied or censured.

The statement over, she was desired to answer a few questions from Captain Morden, the chief of the constabulary force, who had come from the county town to investigate the affair. Taking her aside, he minutely examined her on the appearance of some of the articles mentioned in the inventory, on the form of the shadow of the horse and cart, on the thieves themselves, and chiefly on Smithson, and how she could be so secure of the identity of the robber in the pea-jacket with the footman in powder and livery.

'I can hardly tell,' said Phoebe; 'but I have no doubt in my own mind.'

'Was he like this?' asked Captain Morden, showing her a photograph.

'Certainly not.'

'Nor this?'

'No.'

'Nor this?'

'Yes, that is Smithson in plain clothes.'

'Right, Miss Fulmort. You have an eye for a likeness. These fellows have such a turn for having their portraits done, that in these affairs we always try if the shilling photographers have duplicates. This will be sent to town by the next train.'

'I am not sure that I should have known it if I had not seen it before.'

'Indeed! Should you object to tell me under what circumstances?'

'At the photographer's, at the time he was at Hiltonbury,' said Phoebe. 'I went to him with one of my sisters, and we were amused by finding many of the likenesses of our servants. Smithson and another came in to be taken while we were there, and we afterwards saw this portrait when calling for my sister's.'

'Another-another servant?' said the keen captain.

'Yes, one of the maids.'

'Her name, if you please.'

'Indeed,' said Phoebe, distressed, as she saw this jotted down. 'I cannot bring suspicion and trouble on any one.'

'You will do no such thing, Miss Fulmort. We will only keep our eye on her. Neither she, nor any one else, shall have any ground for supposing her under suspicion, but it is our duty to miss no possible indication. Will you oblige me with her name?'

'She is called Jane, but I do not know her real name,' said Phoebe, with much reluctance, and in little need of the injunction to secrecy on this head. The general eagerness to hunt down the criminals saddened her, and she was glad to be released, with thanks for her distinct evidence. The kind old chairman then met her, quite with an air of fatherly protection, such as elderly men often wear towards orphaned maidens, and inquired more particularly for her brother's health. She was glad to thank him again for having sent the physician, when his aid was so needful, and she was in so much difficulty. 'A bold stroke,' he, said, smiling; 'I thought you might throw all the blame on me if it were needless.'

'Needless-oh! it may have saved him. Is that the carriage? I must get home as soon as I can.'

'Yes, I am sure you must be anxious, but I hope to see more of you another time. Lady Raymond must come and see if you cannot find a day to spend with my girls.'

Lady Raymond! So this was Sir John! Mervyn's foe and maligner! Was he repenting at the sight of what he had done? Yet he really looked like a very good, kind old man, and seemed satisfied with the very shabby answer he obtained to a speech that filled Honor with a sense of her young friend's victory. There was Phoebe, re-established in the good graces of the neighbourhood, favoured by the very elite of the county for goodness, sought by those who had never visited at Beauchamp in the days of its gaiety and ostentation! Ungrateful child, not to be better pleased-only saying that she supposed she should go away when her brother should be well again, and not seeing her way to any day for Moorcroft! Was she still unforgiving for Mervyn's rejection, or had she a feeling against visiting those who had not taken notice of her family before?

Mervyn met Phoebe in the hall, still looking very ill, with his purple paleness, his heavy eyes, and uncertain steps, and though he called himself all right, since his sleep, it was with a weary gasp that he sank into his chair, and called on her for an account of what she had done. His excitement seemed to have burnt itself out, for he listened languidly, and asked questions by jerks, dozing half-way through the answer, and wakening to some fresh inquiry; once it was-'And did the old sinner take any notice of you?'

'The prisoner?'

'Nonsense. Old Raymond. Of course he was in the chair.'

'He was very kind. It was he who came home from the hunt with us the other day.'

'Ha! I said it was some old woman of a spy, wanting to get up a story against me!'

'Nay, I think he felt kindly, for he talked of Lady Raymond calling, and my spending a day at Moorcroft.'

'Oh! so the godly mean to rescue you, do they?'

'I did not accept. Perhaps they will never think of it again.'

'No; his ladies will not let him!' sneered Mervyn.

Nevertheless, his last words that night were, 'So the Raymonds have asked you!'

He was in a more satisfactory state the next day; feeble, but tamed into endurance of medical treatment, and almost indifferent about the robbery; as though his passion were spent, and he were tired of the subject. However, the police were alert. The man whom they had taken up was a squatter in the forest, notorious as a poacher and thief, and his horse and cart answered to Phoebe's description of the shadow. He had been arrested when returning with them from the small seaport on the other side of the forest in the next county, and on communicating with the authorities there, search at a dealer's in marine stores had revealed hampers filled with the Beauchamp plate, as yet unmelted. The spoils of lesser bulk had disappeared with Smithson and the other criminal.

CHAPTER XX

Mascarille.-Oh! oh! je ne prenois pas garde;

Tandis que sans songer a mal, je vous regarde

Votre oeil en tapinois me derobe mon coeur,

Au voleur! au voleur! au voleur! au voleur!