Hopes and Fears

'If it be right,' said Cecily, with tearful eyes, but her mouth set into a steadfast expression, as resolute as sweetly sad.

'You know better what is right than I do,' said Phoebe; 'I who feel for him and Bertha. But if you have not heard from him for so long, I think there are things you ought to know.'

'At home, at home,' said Cecily; 'there it may be right to listen. Here I am trusted alone, and I have only to keep my promise. Tell me when I am at home, and it will make me happy. Though, nonsense! my wizened old face is enough to cure him,' and she tried to laugh. Phoebe regretted what she had said of Bertha's impression, and believed that the gentle, worn face ought to be far more touching than the most radiant charms, but when she strove to say that it was not beauty that Mervyn loved, she was hushed at once, and by the same mild authority turned out of the room.

Well for her that she could tell her story to Miss Charlecote without breach of confidence! Honor's first impulse was displeasure with the aunt, who she was sure had let her speak of, though not to, Miss Holmby without correcting her, and must purposely have kept the whole Raymond connection out of sight. 'Depend upon it, Phoebe,' she said, 'she will keep her niece here.'

'Poor Cecily, what will she do? I wish they would go, for I feel sure that she will think it her duty to hold out against him, till she has her father's sanction; she will seem hard, and he-'

'Do not reckon too much on him, Phoebe. Yes, it is a hard saying, but men care so much for youth and beauty, that he may find her less attractive. He may not understand how superior she must have become to what she was when he first knew her. Take care how you plead his cause without being sure of his sentiments.'

In fact, Honor thought Cecily Raymond so infinitely above Mervyn Fulmort, at his very best, that she could not regard the affair as hopeful under any aspect; and the parties concerned being just at the time of life when a woman becomes much the elder of a man of the same years, she fully expected that Cecily's loss of bloom would entirely take away his desire to pursue his courtship.

The next event was a diplomatic call from Mrs. Holmby, to sound Miss Charlecote, whose name she knew as a friend both of the Fulmorts and Moorcroft Raymonds, and who, she had feared, would use her influence against so unequal a match for the wealthy young squire. When convinced of her admiration of Cecily, the good aunt proceeded to condemn the Raymond pride. They called it religion, but she was not so taken in. What reasonable person heeded what a young man might have done when he was sowing his wild oats? No, it was only that the Baronet blood disdained the distillery, whereas the Fulmorts represented that good old family, the Mervyns, and it was a very fine estate, was not it? She had no patience with such nonsense, not she! All Sir John's doing; for, between themselves, poor dear George Raymond had no spirit at all, and was quite under his brother's thumb. Such a family, and such a thing as it would be for them to have that girl so well married. She would not take her away. The place agreed with the Major, and she had told Cecily she could not think of leaving it.

Phoebe saw how close a guard Cecily must have learnt to keep on herself, for not a tone nor look betrayed that she was suffering unusual emotion. She occupied herself quietly, and was most tenderly kind to Bertha and Maria, exerting herself to converse with Bertha, and to enter into her pursuits as cheerfully as if her mind was disengaged. Sometimes Phoebe fancied that the exceeding gentleness of her voice indicated when she was most tried, but she attempted no more tete-a-tetes, and Miss Charlecote's conjecture that in the recesses of her heart she was rejoiced to be detained by no fault of her own, remained unverified. Phoebe resigned Cecily for the present to Bertha's exclusive friendship. Competition would have been unwise, even if the forbidden subject had not been a restraint where the secret was known, while to soothe and cherish Bertha and settle her mind to begin life again was a welcome and fitting mission for Cecily, and inclination as well as discretion therefore held Phoebe aloof, preventing Maria from interfering, and trusting that Cecily was becoming Bertha's Mr. Charlecote.

Mervyn came back sooner than she had expected him, having soon tired of Corsica. His year of ill-health and of her attendance had made him dependent on her; he did not enter into novelty or beauty without Bertha; and his old restless demon of discontent made him impatient to return to his ladies. So he took Phoebe by surprise, walking in as she was finishing a letter to Augusta before joining the others in the olivettes.

'Well, Phoebe, how's Bertha? Ready to leave this hot-vapour-bath of a hole?'

'I don't know what you will say to it now,' she answered looking down, and a little tremulous. 'Who do you think is here?'

'Not Hastings? If he dares to show his nose here, I'll get him hissed out of the place.'

'No, no, something very different.'

'Well, make haste,' he said, in the grim voice of a tired man.

'She is here-Cecily Raymond.'

'What of that?' He sat down, folded his arms, and crossed his ankles, the picture of dogged indifference.

'Mervyn!'

'What does it matter to me who comes or goes? Don't stop to rehearse arrivals, but ring for something to eat. An atrocious mistral! My throat is like a turnpike road? Call it January? It is a mockery!'

Phoebe obeyed him; but she was in a ferment of wrath and consternation, and clear of nothing save that Cecily must be prepared for his appearance. She was leaving the room when he called her to ask what she was doing.

'I am going to tell the others that you are come.'

'Where are they?'

'In the olive yards behind the hotel.'

'Don't be in such a hurry, and I'll come.'

'Thank you, but I had better go on before. Miss Raymond is with them.'

'It makes no odds to her. Stop a minute, I tell you. What is the matter with her?' (Said with some uneasiness, hidden by gruffness.)

'She is not here for her own health, but Major Holmby is rheumatic.'

'Oh! that intolerable woman is here, is she? Then you may give Miss Charlecote notice to pack up her traps, and we'll set off to-morrow!'

If a desire to box a man's ears ever tingled in Phoebe's fingers, it was at that moment. Not trusting herself to utter a word, she went up-stairs, put on her hat, and walked forth, feeling as if the earth had suddenly turned topsy-turvy with her, and as if she could look no one in the face. Set off to-morrow! He might tell Miss Charlecote himself, she would not! Yet, after all, he had been rejected. His departure might not torture Cecily like the sight of his indifference. But what despair for Bertha, thought Phoebe, as she saw the friends pacing the paths between the rows of olives, while Miss Charlecote and Maria were gathering magnificent blue violets. At the first hint, Miss Charlecote called to Bertha, who came reluctantly, while Phoebe, with almost sickening pity, murmured her tidings to Cecily-adding, 'I do not think he is coming out. He is having something to eat,' in hopes that this tardiness might be a preparation. She was relieved that Bertha rushed back again to monopolize Miss Raymond, and overwhelm her with schemes for walks under Mervyn's escort. Cecily let her talk, but made no promises, and the soft gentleness of those replies thrilled as pangs of pain on Phoebe's pitying heart.

As they walked homewards, Mervyn himself appeared, slowly sauntering towards them. The younger sisters sprang to meet him, Cecily fell back to Miss Charlecote. Phoebe held her breath, and scarcely durst look. There was a touch of the hand, a greeting, then Bertha pounced on her brother to tell the adventure of the ravine; and Cecily began to set Maria off about the flowers in her nosegay. Phoebe could only come close to Miss Charlecote and squeeze her hand vehemently.

The inn-door was reached, and Mervyn waiting till Cecily came up, said with grave formality, 'I hear my sisters are indebted to you for your assistance in a very unpleasant predicament.

She bowed, and he bowed. That was all, and they were in their several apartments. Phoebe had never felt in such a fever. She could discern character, but love was but an external experience to her, and she could not read the riddle of Mervyn's repudiation of intercourse with their fellow-inmates, and his restlessness through the evening, checking Bertha for boring about her friend, and then encouraging her to go on with what she had been saying. At last, however, Bertha voluntarily ceased her communications and could be drawn out no farther; and when the candle was put out at night, she electrified Phoebe with the remark, 'It is Mervyn, and you know it; so you may as well tell me all about it.'

Phoebe had no choice but compliance; advising Bertha not to betray her knowledge, and anxious to know the