Read the book: «Hopes and Fears or, scenes from the life of a spinster», page 16

CHAPTER VI

 
He who sits by haunted well
Is subject to the Nixie’s spell;
He who walks on lonely beach
To the mermaid’s charmed speech;
He who walks round ring of green
Offends the peevish Fairy Queen.
 

—Scott

At the station nearest to Castle Blanch stood the tall form of Owen Sandbrook, telling Honor that he and his sister had brought the boat; the river was the longer way, but they would prefer it to the road; and so indeed they did, for Phœbe herself had had enough of the City to appreciate the cool verdure and calm stillness of the meadow pathway, by which they descended to the majestic river, smoothly sleeping in glassy quiet, or stealing along in complacently dimpling ripples.

On the opposite bank, shading off the sun, an oak copse sloped steeply towards the river, painting upon the surface a still shimmering likeness of the summit of the wood, every mass of foliage, every blushing spray receiving a perfect counterpart, and full in the midst of the magic mirror floated what might have been compared to the roseate queen lily of the waters on her leaf.

There, in the flat, shallow boat reclined the maiden, leaning over the gunwale, gazing into the summer wavelets with which one bare pinkly-tinted hand was toying, and her silken ringlets all but dipping in, from beneath the round black hat, archly looped up on one side by a carnation bow, and encircled by a series of the twin jetty curls of the mallard; while the fresh rose colour of the spreading muslin dress was enhanced by the black scarf that hung carelessly over it.  There was a moment’s pause, as if no one could break the spell; but Owen, striding on from behind, quickly dissolved the enchantment.

‘You monkey, you’ve cast off.  You may float on to Greenwich next!’ he indignantly shouted.

She started, shaking her head saucily.  ‘’Twas so slow there, and so broiling,’ she called back, ‘and I knew I should only drift down to meet you, and could put in when I pleased.’

Therewith she took the sculls and began rowing towards the bank, but without force sufficient to prevent herself from being borne farther down than she intended.

‘I can’t help it,’ she exclaimed, fearlessly laughing as she passed them.

Robert was ready to plunge in to stem her progress, lest she should meet with some perilous eddy, but Owen laid hold on him, saying, ‘Don’t be nervous, she’s all right; only giving trouble, after the nature of women.  There; are you satisfied?’ he called to her, as she came to a stop against a reed bed, with a tall fence interposed between boat and passengers.  ‘A nice ferry-woman you.’

‘Come and get me up again,’ was all her answer.

‘Serve you right if I never picked you up till London-bridge,’ he answered.  ‘Stand clear, Fulmort,’ and with a run and a bound, he vaulted over the high hedge, and went crackling through the nodding bulrushes and reed-maces; while Lucy, having accomplished pulling up one of the latter, was pointing it lancewise at him, singing,

 
‘With a bulrush for his spear, and a thimble for a hat,
Wilt thou fight a traverse with the castle cat.’
 

‘Come, come; ’tis too squashy here for larking,’ he said authoritatively, stepping into the boat, and bringing it up with such absence of effort that when a few minutes after he had brought it to the landing-place, and the freight was seated, Robert had no sooner taken the other oar than he exclaimed at the force of the stream with which Owen had dealt so easily, and Lucilla so coolly.

‘It really was a fearful risk,’ he said reproachfully to her.

‘Oh!’ she said, ‘I know my Thames, and my Thames knows me!’

‘Now’s the time to improve it,’ said Owen; ‘one or other should preach about young ladies getting loose, and not knowing where they may be brought up.’

‘But you see I did know; besides, Phœbe’s news from Paris will be better worth hearing,’ said Lucilla, tickling her friend’s face with the soft long point of her dark velvety mace.

‘My news from Paris?’

‘For shame, Phœbe!  Your face betrays you.’

‘Lucy; how could you know?  I had not even told Miss Charlecote!’

‘It’s true! it’s true!’ cried Lucilla.  ‘That’s just what I wanted to know!’

‘Lucy, then it was not fair,’ said Phœbe, much discomposed.  ‘I was desired to tell no one, and you should not have betrayed me into doing so.’

‘Phœbe, you always were a green oasis in a wicked world!’

‘And now, let me hear,’ said Miss Charlecote.  ‘I can’t flatter you, Phœbe; I thought you were labouring under a suppressed secret.’

‘Only since this morning,’ pleaded Phœbe, earnestly; ‘and we were expressly forbidden to mention it; I cannot imagine how Lucy knows.’

‘By telegraph!’

Phœbe’s face assumed an expression of immeasurable wonder.

‘I almost hope to find you at cross purposes, after all,’ said Honora.

‘No such good luck,’ laughed Lucilla.  ‘Cinderella’s seniors never could go off two at a time.  Ah! there’s the name.  I beg your pardon, Phœbe.’

‘But, Lucy, what can you mean?  Who can have telegraphed about Augusta?’

‘Ah! you knew not the important interests involved, nor Augusta how much depended on her keeping the worthy admiral in play.  It was the nearest thing—had she only consented at the end of the evening instead of the beginning, poor Lord William would have had the five guineas that he wants so much more than Mr. Calthorp!’

‘Lucy!’

‘It was a bet that Sir Nicholas would take six calendar months to supply the place of Lady Bannerman.  It was the very last day.  If Augusta had only waited till twelve!’

‘You don’t mean that he has been married before.  I thought he was such an excellent man!’ said Phœbe, in a voice that set others besides Lucilla off into irresistible mirth.

‘Once, twice, thrice!’ cried Lucilla.  ‘Catch her, Honor, before she sinks into the river in disgust with this treacherous world.’

‘Do you know him, Lucy?’ earnestly said Phœbe.

‘Yes, and two of the wives; we used to visit them because he was an old captain of Uncle Kit’s.’

‘I would not believe in number three, Phœbe, if I were you,’ said Owen, consolingly; ‘she wants confirmation.’

‘Two are as bad as three,’ sighed Phœbe; ‘and Augusta did not even call him a widower.’

‘Cupid bandaged!  It was a case of love at first sight.  Met at the Trois Frères Provençaux, heard each other’s critical remarks, sought an introduction, compared notes; he discovered her foresight with regard to pale ale; each felt that here was a kindred soul!’

‘That could not have been telegraphed!’ said Phœbe, recovering spirit and incredulity.

‘No; the telegram was simply “Bannerman, Fulmort.  8.30 p.m., July 10th.”  The other particulars followed by letter this morning.’

‘How old is he?’ asked Phœbe, with resignation.

‘Any age above sixty.  What, Phœbe, taking it to heart?  I was prepared with congratulations.  It is only second best, to be sure; but don’t you see your own emancipation?’

‘I believe that had never occurred to Phœbe,’ said Owen.

‘I beg your pardon, Lucy,’ said Phœbe, thinking that she had appeared out of temper; ‘only it had sounded so nice in Augusta’s letter, and she was so kind, and somehow it jars that there should have been that sort of talk.’

Cilly was checked.  In her utter want of thought it had not occurred to her that Augusta Fulmort could be other than a laughing-stock, or that any bright anticipations could have been spent by any reasonable person on her marriage.  Perhaps the companionship of Rashe, and the satirical outspoken tone of her associates, had somewhat blunted her perception of what might be offensive to the sensitive delicacy of a young sister; but she instantly perceived her mistake, and the carnation deepened in her cheek, at having distressed Phœbe, and . . .  Not that she had deigned any notice of Robert after the first cold shake of the hand, and he sat rowing with vigorous strokes, and a countenance of set gravity, more as if he were a boatman than one of the party; Lucilla could not even meet his eye when she peeped under her eyelashes to recover defiance by the sight of his displeasure.

It was a relief to all when Honora exclaimed, ‘Wrapworth! how pretty it looks.’

It was, indeed, pretty, seen through the archway of the handsome stone bridge.  The church tower and picturesque village were set off by the frame that closed them in; and though they lost somewhat of the enchantment when the boat shot from under the arch, they were still a fair and goodly English scene.

Lucilla steered towards the steps leading to a smooth shaven lawn, shaded by a weeping willow, well known to Honor.

‘Here we land you and your bag, Robert,’ said Owen, as he put in.  ‘Cilly, have a little sense, do.’

But Lucilla, to the alarm of all, was already on her feet, skipped like a chamois to the steps, and flew dancing up the sward.  Ere Owen and Robert had helped the other two ladies to land in a more rational manner, she was shaking her mischievous head at a window, and thrusting in her sceptral reed-mace.

‘Neighbour, oh, neighbour, I’m come to torment you!  Yes, here we are in full force, ladies and all, and you must come out and behave pretty.  Never mind your slippers; you ought to be proud of the only thing I ever worked.  Come out, I say; here’s your guest, and you must be civil to him.’

‘I am very glad to see Mr. Fulmort,’ said Mr. Prendergast, his only answer in words to all this, though while it was going on, as if she were pulling him by wires, as she imperiously waved her bulrush, he had stuck his pen into the inkstand, run his fingers in desperation through his hair, risen from his seat, gazed about in vain for his boots, and felt as fruitlessly on the back of the door for a coat to replace the loose alpaca article that hung on his shoulders.

‘There.  You’ve gone through all the motions,’ said Cilly; ‘that’ll do; now, come out and receive them.’

Accordingly, he issued from the door, shy and slouching; rusty where he wore cloth, shiny where he wore alpaca, wild as to his hair, gay as to his feet, but, withal, the scholarly gentleman complete, and not a day older or younger, apparently, than when Honor had last seen him, nine years since, in bondage then to the child playing at coquetry, as now to the coquette playing at childhood.  It was curious, Honor thought, to see how, though so much more uncouth and negligent than Robert, the indefinable signs of good blood made themselves visible, while they were wanting in one as truly the Christian gentleman in spirit and in education.

Mr. Prendergast bowed to Miss Charlecote, and shook hands with his guest, welcoming him kindly; but the two shy men grew more bashful by contact, and Honor found herself, Owen, and Lucilla sustaining the chief of the conversation, the curate apparently looking to the young lady to protect him and do the honours, as she did by making him pull down a cluster of his roses for her companions, and conducting them to eat his strawberries, which she treated as her own, flitting, butterfly like, over the beds, selecting the largest and ruddiest specimens, while her slave plodded diligently to fill cabbage leaves, and present them to the party in due gradation.

Owen stood by amused, and silencing the scruples of his companions.

‘He is in Elysium,’ he said; ‘he had rather be plagued by Cilly than receive a mitre!  Don’t hinder him, Honey; it is his pride to treat us as if we were at home and he our guest.’

‘Wrapworth has not been seen without Edna Murrell,’ said Lucilla, flinging the stem of her last strawberry at her brother, ‘and Miss Charlecote is a woman of schools.  What, aren’t we to go, Mr. Prendergast?’

‘I beg your pardon.  I did not know.’

‘Well; what is it?’

‘I do sometimes wish Miss Murrell were not such an attraction.’

‘You did not think that of yourself.’

‘Well, I don’t know; Miss Murrell is a very nice young woman,’ he hesitated, as Cilly seemed about to thrust him through with her reed; ‘but couldn’t you, Cilla, now, give her a hint that it would be better if she would associate more with Mrs. Jenkyns, and—’

‘Couldn’t Mr. Prendergast; I’ve more regard for doing as I would be done by.  When you see Edna, Honor—’

‘They are very respectable women,’ said the curate, standing his ground; ‘and it would be much better for her than letting it be said she gives herself airs.’

‘That’s all because we have had her up to the castle to sing.’

‘Well, so it is, I believe.  They do say, too—I don’t know whether it is so—that the work has not been so well attended to, nor the children so orderly.’

‘Spite, spite, Mr. Prendergast; I had a better opinion of you than to think you could be taken in by the tongues of Wrapworth.’

‘Well, certainly I did hear a great noise the other day.’

‘I see how it is!  This is a systematic attempt to destroy the impression I wished to produce.’

He tried to argue that he thought very well of Miss Murrell, but she would not hear; and she went on with her pretty, saucy abuse, in her gayest tones, as she tripped along the churchyard path, now, doubtless, too familiar to renew the associations that might have tamed her spirits.  Perhaps the shock her vivacity gave to the feeling of her friends was hardly reasonable, but it was not the less real; though, even in passing, Honora could not but note the improved condition of the two graves, now carefully tended, and with a lovely white rose budding between them.

A few more steps, and from the open window of the schoolhouse there was heard a buzz and hum, not outrageous, but which might have caused the item of discipline not to figure well in an inspector’s report; but Mr. Prendergast and Lucilla appeared habituated to the like, for they proceeded without apology.

It was a handsome gable-ended building, Elizabethan enough to testify to the taste that had designed it, and with a deep porch, where Honor had advanced, under Lucilla’s guidance, so as to have a moment’s view of the whole scene before their arrival had disturbed it.

The children’s backs were towards the door, as they sat on their forms at work.  Close to the oriel window, the only person facing the door, with a table in front of her, there sat, in a slightly reclining attitude, a figure such as all reports of the new race of schoolmistresses had hardly led Honor to imagine to be the bonâ fide mistress.  Yet the dress was perfectly quiet, merely lilac cotton, with no ornament save the small bow of the same colour at the throat, and the hair was simply folded round the head, but it was magnificent raven hair; the head and neck were grandly made; the form finely proportioned, on a large scale; the face really beautiful, in a pale, dark, Italian style; the complexion of the clearest olive, but as she became aware of the presence of the visitors it became overspread with a lovely hue of red; while the eyelids revealed a superb pair of eyes, liquid depths of rich brown, soft and languid, and befitting the calm dignity with which she rose, curtseyed, and signed to her scholars to do the same; the deepening colour alone betraying any sense of being taken by surprise.

Lucilla danced up to her, chattering with her usual familiar, airy grace.  ‘Well, Edna, how are you getting on?  Have I brought a tremendous host to invade you?  I wanted Miss Charlecote to see you, for she is a perfect connoisseur in schools.’

Edna’s blush grew more carnation, and the fingers shook so visibly with which she held the work, that Honora was provoked with Lucy for embarrassing the poor young thing by treating her as an exhibition, especially as the two young gentlemen were present, Robert with his back against the door-post in a state of resignation, Owen drawing Phœbe’s attention to the little ones whom he was puzzling with incomprehensible remarks and questions.  Hoping to end the scene, Honor made a few commonplace inquiries as to the numbers and the habits of the school; but the mistress, though preserving her dignity of attitude, seemed hardly able to speak, and the curate replied for her.

‘I see,’ said Lucilla, ‘your eye keeps roaming to the mischief my naughty brother is doing among the fry down there.’

‘Oh, no! ma’am.  I beg your pardon—’

‘Never mind, I’ll remove the whole concern in a moment, only we must have some singing first.’

‘Don’t, Lucy!’ whispered Honor, looking up from an inspection of some not first-rate needlework; ‘it is distressing her, and displays are contrary to all rules of discipline.’

‘Oh! but you must,’ cried Cilly.  ‘You have not seen Wrapworth without.  Come, Edna, my bonnie-bell,’ and she held out her hand in that semi-imperious, semi-caressing manner which very few had ever withstood.

‘One song,’ echoed Owen, turning towards the elder girls.  ‘I know you’ll oblige me; eh, Fanny Blake?’

To the scholars the request was evidently not distasteful; the more tuneful were gathering together, and the mistress took her station among them, all as if the exhibition were no novelty.  Lucilla, laying her hand on the victim’s arm, said, ‘Come, don’t be nervous, or what will you do to-morrow?  Come.’

‘“Goddess of the Silver Bow,”’ suggested Owen.  ‘Wasn’t it that which your mother disapproved, Fanny, because it was worshipping idols to sing about great Diana of the Ephesians?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said rather a conceited voice from the prettiest of the elder girls; ‘and you told us it was about Phœbe Bright, and gave her the blue and silver ribbon.’

‘And please, sir,’ said another less prepossessing damsel, ‘Mrs. Jenkyns took it away, and I said I’d tell you.’

Owen shrugged up his shoulders with a comical look, saying, as he threw her a shilling, ‘Never mind; there’s a silver circle instead of a bow—that will do as well.  Here’s a rival goddess for you, Phœbe; two moons in a system.’

The girls were in a universal titter, the mistress with her eyes cast down, blushing more than ever.  Lucilla muttered an amused but indignant, ‘For shame, Owen!’ and herself gave the key-note.  The performance was not above the average of National School melody, but no sooner was it over, than Owen named, in an under-tone, another song, which was instantly commenced, and in which there joined a voice that had been still during the first, but which soon completely took the lead.  And such a voice, coming as easily as the notes of the nightingale from the nobly-formed throat, and seeming to fill the room with its sweet power!  Lucilla’s triumph was complete; Honor’s scruples were silenced by the admiring enjoyment, and Phœbe was in a state of rapture.  The nervous reluctance had given way to the artistic delight in her own power, and she readily sang all that was asked for, latterly such pieces as needed little or no support from the children—the ‘Three Fishers’ Wives’ coming last, and thrilling every one with the wondrous pathos and sadness of the tones that seemed to come from her very heart.

It seemed as if they would never have come away, had not Mr. Prendergast had pity on the restless movements of some of the younglings, who, taking no part in the display, had leisure to perceive that the clock had struck their hour of release, and at the close of ‘The Fishers’ Wives,’ he signed to Lucilla to look at the hour.

‘Poor little things!’ said she, turning round to the gaping and discontented collection, ‘have we used you so ill?  Never mind.’  Again using her bulrush to tickle the faces that looked most injured, and waken them into smiles—‘Here’s the prison house open,’ and she sprang out.  ‘Now—come with a whoop and come with a call—I’ll give my club to anybody that can catch me before I get down to the vicarage garden.’

Light as the wind, she went bounding flying across the churchyard like a butterfly, ever and anon pausing to look round, nod, and shake her sceptre, as the urchins tumbled confusedly after, far behind, till closing the gate, she turned, poised the reed javelin-wise in the air, and launched it among them.

‘It is vain to try to collect them again,’ sighed Mr. Prendergast; ‘we must shut up.  Good night, Miss Murrell;’ and therewith he turned back to his garden, where the freakish sprite, feigning flight, took refuge in the boat, cowering down, and playfully hiding her face in deprecation of rebuke, but all she received was a meekly melancholy, ‘O Cilla! prayers.’

‘One day’s less loathing of compulsory devotion,’ was her answer in saucy defiance.  ‘I owed it to them for the weariness of listening for ten minutes to the “Three Fishers’ Wives,” which they appreciated as little as their pastor did!’

‘I know nothing about songs, but when one wants them—poor things—to look to something better than sleep.’

‘Oh, hush!  Here are Miss Charlecote and Mr. Fulmort on your side, and I can’t be crushed with united morality in revenge for the tears Edna caused you all to shed.  There, help Miss Charlecote in; where can Owen be dawdling?  You can’t pull, Phœbe, or we would put off without him.  Ah, there!’ as he came bounding down, ‘you intolerable loiterer, I was just going to leave you behind.’

‘The train starting without the engine,’ he said, getting into his place; ‘yes, take an oar if you like, little gnat, and fancy yourself helping.’

The gay warfare, accompanied by a few perilous tricks on Lucilla’s part, lasted through the further voyage.  Honora guessed at a purpose of staving off graver remonstrance, but Phœbe looked on in astonishment.  Seventeen is often a more serious time of life than two-and twenty, and the damsel could not comprehend the possibility of thoughtlessness when there was anything to think about.  The ass’s bridge was nothing compared with Lucy!  Moreover the habits of persiflage of a lively family often are confusing to one not used to the tone of jest and repartee, and Phœbe had as little power as will to take part in what was passing between the brother and sister; she sat like the spectator of a farce in a foreign tongue, till the boat had arrived at the broad open extent of park gently sweeping down towards the river, the masses of trees kept on either side so as to leave the space open where the castle towered in pretentious grandeur, with a flag slowly swaying in the summer wind on the top of the tallest turret.

The trees made cool reaches of shade, varied by intervals of hot sunshine, and much longer did the way appear, creeping onward in the heat, than it had looked when the eye only took in the simple expanse of turf, from river to castle.  Phœbe looked to her arrival there, and to bedroom conferences, as the moment of recovering a reasonable Lucy, but as they neared the house, there was a shout from the wire fence enclosing the shrubbery on the eastern side, and Horatia was seen standing at the gate calling them to come into the cloisters and have some sustenance.

Passing the screen of shrubs, a scene lay before them almost fit for the gardens of Seville.  Three sides of an extensive square were enclosed by the semi-gothic buildings, floridly decorated with stone carving; one consisted of the main edifice, the lower windows tented with striped projecting blinds; a second of the wing containing the reception rooms, fronted by the imitative cloister, which was continued and faced with glass on the third side—each supporting column covered with climbing plants, the passion-flower, the tropæolum, the trumpet honeysuckle, or even the pomegranate, opening their gay blooms on every side.  The close-shaven turf was broken by small patches of gorgeously-tinted flower-beds, diversified by vases filled with trailing plants, and lines of orange trees and fuchsias, with here and there a deep-belled datura, all converging towards the central marble fountain, where the water played high, and tinkled coolly in sparkling jets.  Between it and the house, there were placed in the shade some brightly-tinted cushions and draperies, lounging chairs, and a low table, bearing an oriental-looking service of tiny cups, of all kinds of bright and fantastic hues, no two alike.  Near it reclined on her cushions a figure in perfect keeping with the scene, her jetty hair contrasting with her gold and coral net, her scarlet gold-embroidered slipper peeping out from her pale buff-coloured dress, deeply edged with rich purple, and partly concealed by a mantle of the unapproachable pink which suggests Persia, all as gorgeous in apparel as the blue and yellow macaw on his pole, and the green and scarlet lories in their cage.  Owen made a motion of smoking with Honor’s parasol, whispering, ‘Fair Fatima! what more is wanting?’

‘There! I’ve got Lolly out!’ cried Horatia, advancing with her vehement cordiality, and grasping their hands with all her might; ‘I would have come and pulled you up the river, Miss Charlecote, but for imperative claims.  Here’s some tea for you; I know you must be parched.’

And while Mrs. Charteris, scarcely rising, held out her ring encrusted fingers, and murmured a greeting, Ratia settled them all, pushed a chair behind Miss Charlecote, almost threw Phœbe on a cushion, handed tea, scolded Owen, and rattled away to Lucilla with an impetus that kept Phœbe in increased wonder.  It was all about the arrangements for the morrow, full of the utmost good-nature and desire to secure every one’s pleasure, but all discussed in a broad out-spoken way, with a liberal use of slang phrases, and of unprefaced surnames, a freedom of manner and jovial carelessness of voice that specially marked Rashe Charteris at home.

Phœbe had a good deal of opportunity for these observations, for as soon as her stream of information was exhausted, Rashe jumped up and insisted on conducting the guests round the hothouses and pleasure-grounds.  She knew Miss Charlecote was a famous hand at such things.  Lucilla remained on the grass, softly teasing Lolly about the exertions of the morrow, and Owen applying himself to the care of Honor, Rashe took possession of Phœbe with all the tyrannous good-nature that had in baby days rendered her hateful to Lucilla.  She showed off the parrots and gold fish as to a child, she teased the sensitive plant, and explained curiosities down to the level of the youthful intellect; and Phœbe, scientific enough to know if she went wrong in botany or locality, began a word or two of modest suggestion, only to be patronizingly enlightened, and stopped short, in the fear of pedantry.  Phœbe had yet to learn the ignorance of the world.

At last, with a huge torrent of explanations and excuses, Ratia consigned the two guests to share the same bedroom and dressing-room.  The number of gentlemen visitors had necessitated close packing, and Cilly, she said, had come to sleep in her room.  Another hope had failed!  But at the moment when the door was shut, Phœbe could only sink into a chair, untie her bonnet, and fan herself.  Such oppressive good-nature was more fatiguing than a ten miles’ walk, or than the toughest lesson in political economy.

‘If nature have her own ladies,’ was Honora’s comment on her young friend’s exhaustion, ‘she likewise has her own dairy-maids!’

‘Miss Charteris is a lady,’ said Phœbe, her sense of the intended kindness of her hostess calling her to speak in vindication.

‘Yes,’ said Honor, hesitating; ‘it is station that emboldens her.  If she had been a dairy-maid, she would have been a bouncing rude girl; if a farmer’s daughter, she would be hearty and useful; if one of the boasters of gentility, she would think it worth while to restrain herself; as she is, her acknowledged birth and breeding enable her to follow her inclinations without fear of opinion.’

‘I thought refinement was one great characteristic of a lady,’ said Phœbe.

‘So it is, but affectation and false shame are the contrary.  Refinement was rather overworked, and there has been a reaction of late; simplicity and unconstraint have been the fashion, but unfortunately some dispositions are not made to be unconstrained.’

‘Lucy is just as unrestrained as her cousin,’ said Phœbe, ‘but she never seems like her.  She offends one’s judgment sometimes, but never one’s taste—at least hardly ever;’ and Phœbe blushed as she thought of what had passed about her sister that day.

‘Poor Lucy! it is one misfortune of pretty people, that they can seldom do what is taken amiss.  She is small and feminine too, and essentially refined, whatever she can do.  But I was very sorry for you to-day, Phœbe.  Tell me all about your sister, my dear.’

‘They knew more than I did, if all that is true,’ said Phœbe.  ‘Augusta wrote—oh! so kindly—and seemed so glad, that it made me very happy.  And papa gave his consent readily to Robert’s doing as he pleased, and almost said something about his taking me to the wedding at Paris.  If Lucy should—should accept Robin, I wonder if she would go too, and be bridesmaid!’

So they comforted themselves with a few pretty auguries, dressed, and went down to dinner, where Phœbe had made sure that, as before, Lucy would sit next Robin, and be subdued.  Alas, no!  Ladies were far too scarce articles for even the last but one to be the prize of a mere B.A.  To know who were Phœbe’s own neighbours would have been distraction to Juliana, but they were lost on one in whom the art of conversation was yet undeveloped, and who was chiefly intent on reading her brother’s face, and catching what Lucy was saying.  She had nearly given up listening in despair, when she heard, ‘Pistols? oh, of course.  Rashe has gone to the expense of a revolver, but I extracted grandpapa’s from the family armoury—such little darlings.  I’m strongly tempted to send a challenge, just to keep them in use—that’s because you despise me—I’m a crack shot—we practised every day last winter—women shoot much better than men, because they don’t make their hands unsteady—what can be better than the guidance of Ratia, the feminine of Ratio, reason, isn’t it?’

It is not quite certain that this horrible Latinity did not shock Miss Fennimore’s discreet pupil more than all the rest, as a wilful insult to Miss Charlecote’s education!

She herself was not to escape ‘the guidance of Ratia,’ after dinner.  Her silence had been an additional proof to the good-natured Rashe that she was a child to be protected and entertained, so she paraded her through the rooms, coaxed her to play when no one was listening, showed her illustrated books and new-fashioned puzzles, and domineered over her so closely, that she had not a moment in which to speak a word to her brother, whom she saw disconsolately watching the hedge of gentlemen round Lucy.  Was it wrong to feel so ungrateful to a person exclusively devoted to her entertainment for that entire evening?