there the solemn purpose swallowed up the sense of admiration; but she laughed at last at the boy's disappointment at the escape of the thieves; 'he would have fired a pistol through the keyhole and shot them!' When she rose to go, the children entreated her to stay and be seen by the others, but this she was glad to escape, though Lucilla clung to her with a sort of anguish of longing, yet stifled affection, that would have been most painful to witness, but for the hopes for her relief.
Phoebe ordered her brother's carriage in time to take her to breakfast in Woolstone-lane the next morning, and before ten o'clock Honor had heard the account of the visit in Essex. Tearfully she thanked the trusty reconnoitrer as for a kindness to herself, dwelling on the tokens of relenting, yet trembling at the tidings of the malady. To write and recall her child to her motherly nursing was the foremost thought in her strange medley of grief and joy, hope and fear.
'Poor Robert,' she said, when she understood that he had organized Phoebe's mission; 'I am glad I told him to give no answer for a week.'
'Mervyn told me how kind you were about Hiltonbury.'
'Kind to myself, my dear. It seems like a crime when I look at St. Matthew's; but when I think of you all, and of home, I believe it is right that he should have the alternative. And now, if poor Lucy come, and it be not too late-'
'Did he say anything?' said Phoebe.
'I only wrote to him; I thought he had rather not let me see his first impulse, so I told him to let me hear nothing till Thursday evening. I doubted before, now I feel sure he will take it.'
'Lucy has the oldest claim,' said Phoebe, thoughtfully, wishing she could feel equally desirous of success in this affair as in that of Mervyn and Cecily.
'Yes, she was his first love, before Whittingtonia. Did you mention the vacancy at Hiltonbury?'
'No; there was so much besides to talk of.'
'That is well; for perhaps if she knew, that spirit of hers might keep her aloof. I feel like Padre Cristoforo dispensing Lucia from her vow! If she will only get well! And a little happiness will do more than all the cods in Hammerfest! Phoebe, we will have a chapel-school at the hamlet, and a model kitchen at the school: and Robert will get hold of all the big boys. His London experience is exactly what we want to brighten Hiltonbury, and all our clergy.'
Hiltonbury had a right to stand first with Honora, and Whittingtonia had sunk into a mere training-school for her pattern parson. If there were a sigh to think that Owen was exactly of the right age to have been ordained to Hiltonbury, she put it away, for this was next best.
Her note to Lucilla was penned with trembling caution, and each word was reconsidered day and night, in case the perverse temper might take umbrage. The answer came.
'MY DEAR HONOR,
'It is beyond my deserts to be so kindly taken home. I have learnt
what that means now. I can be spared for a fortnight; and as Mr.
Bostock dines in town the day after to-morrow, he will set me down.
Your affectionate
L. SANDBROOK.'
'Miss Charlecote is like a person ten years younger,' observed Bertha to Phoebe, when she came with the rest to 'quite a family party,' at Albury-street. Robert alone was absent, it being what Augusta called 'a fast or something;'
Not since the adventure with the Hyeres peasants had Bertha's tongue been so unmanageable, as when she tried to protest against going into society; and when Mervyn came to her help, Augusta owned that such hesitation was indeed an objection, but it might easily be cured by good management; cordials would prevent nervousness, and, after all, no one would care when a girl had such a fortune. Poor Bertha crept away, feeling as if she could never open her mouth again.
Meanwhile Mervyn and Augusta amicably agreed on the excellence of Hiltonbury parsonage as a home for the girls, the latter only regretting what Robert had sunk on his fancies at Whittingtonia. 'I don't know that,' returned Mervyn; 'all I regret is, that we never took our share. It is a different thing now, I assure you, to see the turn out from the distillery since the lads have come under his teaching! I only hope his successor may do as well!'
'Well, I don't understand about such things,' said Augusta, crossly. 'Poor papa never made such a rout about the hands. It would not have been thought good taste to bring them forward.'
'If you wish to understand,' said Mervyn, maliciously, 'you had better come and see. Robert would be very glad of your advice for the kitchen he is setting going-sick cookery and cheap dinners.'
'And pray who pays for them? Robert has made himself a beggar. Is it you?'
'No; those who eat. It is to be self-supporting. I do nothing but lend the house. You don't remember it. It is the palace at the corner of Richard Alley.'
'It is no concern of mine, I know; but what is to become of the business if you go giving away the houses?'
'Oh! I am getting into the foreign and exportation line. It is infinitely less bother.'
'Ah, well! I am glad my poor father does not see it. He would have said the business was going to the dogs!'
'No; he was fast coming into Robert's views, and I heartily wish I had not hindered him.'
Augusta told her admiral that evening that there was no hope for the family, since Robert had got hold of Mervyn as well as of the rest of them. People in society actually asked her about the schools and playground at Mr. Fulmort's distillery; there had been an educational report about them. Quite disgusting!
There passed a day of conflicting hope and fear, soothed by the pleasure of preparation, and at seven in the evening there came the ring at the house door, and Lucilla was once more in Honora's arms. It was for a moment a convulsive embrace, but it was not the same lingering clinging as when she met Phoebe, nor did she look so much changed as then, for there was a vivid tint of rose on either cheek; she had restored her hair to the familiar fashion, and her eyes were bright with excitement. The presence of Maria and Bertha, which Miss Charlecote had regretted, was probably a relief; for Lucilla, as she threw off her bonnet, and sat down to the 'severe tea' awaiting her, talked much to them, observed upon their growth, noticed the little Maltese dog, and compared her continental experiences with Bertha's. To Honor she scarcely spoke voluntarily, and cast down her eyes as she did so, making brief work of answers to inquiries, and showing herself altogether disappointingly the old Cilly. Robert's absence was also a disappointment to Honor, though she satisfied herself that it was out of consideration.
Lucy would not go up to her room till bed-time; and when Honor, accompanying her thither, asked tender and anxious questions about her health, she answered them, not indeed petulantly, as of old, but with a strange, absent manner, as if it were duty alone that made her speak. Only when Honor spoke of her again seeing the physician whom she had consulted, she at first sharply refused, then, as if recollecting herself, meekly said: 'As you think fit, but I had rather it was not the same.'
'I thought he was your own preference,' said Honor, 'otherwise I should have preferred Dr. F.'
'Very well, let it be,' said Lucy, hastily.
The good-nights, the kisses past, and Honor went away, with a heavy load of thwarted hopes and baffled yearning at her heart-yearnings which could be stilled only in one way.
A knock. She started up, and called 'Come in,' and a small, white, ghostly figure glided in, the hands tightly clasped together.
'Lucy, dear child, you are ill!'
'I don't know what is the matter with me,' said a husky, stifled voice; 'I meant it-I wanted it. I longed after it
