Read the book: «Hopes and Fears or, scenes from the life of a spinster», page 39

CHAPTER XXI

 
O fy gar ride and fy gar rin
And haste ye to find these traitors agen,
For shees be burnt and hees been slein,
The wearifu gaberlunzie man.
Some rade upon horse, some ran afit,
The wife was wud and out of her wit,
She couldna gang, nor yet could she sit,
But aye did curse and ban.
 

—King James V

Mervyn and Phœbe were playing at billiards, as a means of inducing him to take exercise enough to make him sleep.  The governess and the two girls were gone to the dentist’s at Elverslope.  The winter’s day was closing in, when there was a knock at the door, and they beheld Miss Fennimore, deadly white, and Maria, who flew up to Phœbe, crying—‘Bertha’s gone, Phœbe!’

‘The next up-train stops at Elverslope at 8.30,’ said the governess, staring in Mervyn’s face, as though repeating a lesson.  ‘A carriage will be here by seven.  I will bring her home, or never return.’

‘Gone!’

‘It was inexcusable in me, sir,’ said Miss Fennimore, resting a hand on the table to support herself.  ‘I thought it needlessly galling to let her feel herself watched; and at her request, let her remain in the waiting-room while her sister was in the dentist’s hands.  When, after an hour, Maria was released, she was gone.’

‘Alone?’ cried Phœbe.

‘Alone, I hope.  I went to the station; the train had been ten minutes gone; but a young lady, alone, in mourning, and with no luggage but a little bag, had got in there for London.  Happily, they did not know her; and it was the parliamentary train, which is five hours on the road.  I telegraphed at once to your brother to meet her at the terminus.’

‘I have no hope,’ said Mervyn, doggedly, seating himself on the table, his feet dangling.  ‘He will be in the lowest gutter of Whittingtonia, where no one can find him.  The fellow will meet that miserable child, go off to Ostend this very night, marry her before to-morrow morning.  There’s an end of it!’

‘Where does Mr. Hastings lodge, sir?’

‘Nowhere that I know of.  There will be no end of time lost in tracing him!  No train before 8.30!  I’ll go in at once, and have a special.’

‘They cannot put on one before nine, because of the excursion trains for the cattle-show.  I should not have been in time had I driven to catch the express at W.,’ said Miss Fennimore, in her clear voice of desperation.  ‘The 8.30 reaches town at 11.23.  Will you give me the addresses where I may inquire, sir?’

‘You!  I am going myself.  You would be of no use,’ said Mervyn, in a stunned, mechanical way; and looking at his watch, he went to give orders.

‘He should not go, Phœbe.  In his state the mere journey is a fearful risk.’

‘It can’t be helped,’ said Phœbe.  ‘I shall go with him.  You stay to take care of Maria.  There will be Robert to help us;’ and as the governess would have spoken farther, she held up her hands in entreaty—‘O pray don’t say anything!  I can’t go on if I do anything but act.’

Yet in the endeavour to keep her brother quiet, and to husband his powers, Phœbe’s movements and words had rather an additional gentleness and deliberation; and so free from bustle was her whole demeanour, that he never comprehended her intention of accompanying him till she stepped into the carriage beside him.

‘What’s this?  You coming?’

‘I will give you no trouble.’

‘Well, you may help to manage the girl;’ and he lay back, relieved to be off, but already spent by the hurry of the last two hours.  Phœbe could sit and—no—not think, except that Robert was at the other end of the line.

The drive seemed to have lasted half the night ere the lamps of Elverslope made constellations in the valley, and the green and red lights of the station loomed out on the hill.  They drove into the circle of gaslights, among the vaporous steeds of omnibuses and flies, and entered the station, Phœbe’s veil down, and Mervyn shading his dazzled eyes from the glare.  They were half an hour too soon; and while waiting, it occurred to Phœbe to inquire whether a telegram for Beauchamp had been received.  Even so, and they must have crossed the express; but a duplicate was brought to them.

‘Safe.  We shall be at Elverslope at 10.20, P.M.’

Assuredly Phœbe did not faint, for she stood on her feet; and Mervyn never perceived the suspension of senses, which lasted till she found him for the second time asking whether she would go home or await the travellers at Elverslope.

‘Home,’ she said, instinctively, in her relief forgetting all the distress of what had taken place, so that her sensations were little short of felicity; and as she heard the 8.30 train roaring up, she shed tears of joy at having no concern therewith.  The darkness and Mervyn’s silence were comfortable, for she could wipe unseen her showers of tears at each gust of thankfulness that passed over her; and it was long before she could command her voice even to ask her companion whether he were tired.  ‘No,’ he said; but the tone was more than half-sullen; and at the thought of the meeting between the brothers, poor Phœbe’s heart seemed to die within her.  Against their dark looks and curt sayings to one another she had no courage.

When they reached home, she begged him to go at once to bed, hoping thus to defer the meeting; but he would not hear of doing so; and her only good augury was that his looks were pale, languid, and subdued, rather than flushed and excited.  Miss Fennimore was in the hall, and he went towards her, saying, in a friendly tone, ‘So, Miss Fennimore, you have heard that this unlucky child has given us a fright for nothing.’

The voice in which she assented was hoarse and scarcely audible, and she looked as if twenty years had passed over her head.

‘It was all owing to your promptitude,’ said Mervyn; ‘a capital thought that telegram.’

‘I am glad,’ said Miss Fennimore; ‘but I do not lose sight of my own negligence.  It convinces me that I am utterly unfit for the charge I assumed.  I shall leave your sisters as soon as new plans can be formed.’

‘Why, I’ll be bound none of your pupils ever played you such a trick before!’

Miss Fennimore only looked as if this convinced her the more; but it was no time for the argument, and Phœbe caressingly persuaded her to come into the library and drink coffee with them, judging rightly that she had tasted nothing since morning.

Afterwards Phœbe induced Mervyn to lie on the sofa, and having made every preparation for the travellers, she sat down to wait.  She could not read, she could not work; she felt that tranquillity was needful for her brother, and had learnt already the soothing effect of absolute repose.  Indeed, one of the first tokens by which Miss Fennimore had perceived character in Phœbe was her faculty of being still.  Only that which has substance can be motionless.  There she sat in the lamplight, her head drooping, her hands clasped on her knee, her eyes bent down, not drowsy, not abstracted, not rigid, but peaceful.  Her brother lay in the shade, watching her with a half-fascinated gaze, as though a magnetic spell repressed all inclination to work himself into agitation.

The stillness became an effort at last, but it was resolutely preserved till the frost-bound gravel resounded with wheels.  Phœbe rose, Mervyn started up, caught her hand and squeezed it hard.  ‘Do not let him be hard on me, Phœbe,’ he said.  ‘I could not bear it.’

She had little expected this.  Her answer was a mute caress, and she hurried out, but in a tumult of feeling, retreated behind the shelter of a pillar, and silently put her hand on Robert’s arm as he stepped out of the carriage.

‘Wait,’ he whispered, holding her back.  ‘Hush!  I have promised that she shall see no one.’

Bertha descended, unassisted, her veil down, and neither turning to the right nor the left, crossed the hall and went upstairs.  Robert took off his overcoat and hat, took a light and followed her, signing that Phœbe should remain behind.  She found Mervyn at the library door, like herself rather appalled at the apparition that had swept past them.  She put her hand into his, with a kind of common feeling that they were awaiting a strict judge.

Robert soon reappeared, and in a preoccupied way, kissed the one and shook hands with the other, saying, ‘She has locked her door, and says she wants nothing.  I will try again presently—not you, Phœbe; I could only get her home on condition she should see no one without her own consent.  So you had my telegram?’

‘We met it at the station.  How did you find her?’

‘Had the man been written to?’ asked Robert.

‘No,’ said Mervyn; ‘we thought it best to treat it as childish nonsense, not worth serious notice, or in fact—I was not equal to writing.’

The weary, dejected tone made Robert look up, contrary to the brothers’ usual habit of avoiding one another’s eye, and he exclaimed, ‘I did not know!  You were not going to London to-night?’

‘Worse staying at home,’ murmured Mervyn, as, leaning on a corner of the mantelshelf, he rested his head on his hand.

‘I was coming with him,’ said Phœbe; ‘I thought if he gave directions, you could act.’

Robert continued to cast at him glances of dismay and compunction while pursuing the narrative.  ‘Hastings must have learnt by some means that the speculation was not what he had imagined; for though he met her at Paddington—’

‘He did?’

‘She had telegraphed to him while waiting at Swindon.  He found her out before I did, but he felt himself in a predicament, and I believe I was a welcome sight to him.  He begged me to do him the justice to acquit him of all participation in this rash step, and said he had only met Bertha with a view to replacing her in the hands of her family.  How it would have been without me, I cannot tell, but I am inclined to believe that he did not know how to dispose of her.  She clung to him and turned away from me so decidedly that I was almost grateful for the line he took; and he was obliged to tell her, with many fine speeches, that he could not expose her to share his poverty; and when the poor silly child declared she had enough for both, he told her plainly that it would not be available for six years, and he could not let her—tenderly nurtured, etc., etc.  Then supposing me uninformed, he disclaimed all betrayal of your confidence, and represented all that had passed as sport with a child, which to his surprise she had taken as earnest.’

‘Poor Bertha!’ exclaimed Phœbe.

‘Pray where did this scene take place?’ asked Mervyn.

‘On the platform; but it was far too quiet to attract notice.’

‘What! you had no fits nor struggles?’

‘I should think not,’ smiled Phœbe.

‘She stood like a statue, when she understood him; and when he would audaciously have shaken hands with her, she made a distant courtesy, quite dignified.  I took her to the waiting-room, and put back her veil.  She was crimson, and nearly choking, but she repelled me, and never gave way.  I asked if she would sleep at an inn and go home to-morrow; she said “No.”  I told her I could not take her to my place because of the curates.  “I’ll go to a sisterhood,” she said; and when I told her she was in no mood to be received there, she answered, “I don’t care.”  Then I proposed taking her to Augusta, but that was worse; and at last I got her to come home in the dark, on my promise that she should see no one till she chose.  Not a word has she since uttered.’

‘Could he really have meant it all in play?’ said Phœbe; ‘yet there was his letter.’

‘I see it all,’ said Mervyn.  ‘I was an ass to suppose such needy rogues could come near girls of fortune without running up the scent.  As I told Phœbe, I know they had some monstrous ideas of the amount, which I never thought it worth my while to contradict.  I imagine old Jack only intended a promising little flirtation, capable of being brought to bear if occasion served, but otherwise to be cast aside as child’s play.  Nobody could suspect such an inflammable nature with that baby face; but it seems she was ready to eat her fingers with dulness in the school-room, and had prodigious notions of the rights of woman; so she took all he said most seriously, and met him more than half-way.  Then he goes to London, gets better information, looks at the will in Doctors’ Commons, maybe, finds it a slowish speculation, and wants to let her down easy; whereof she has no notion, writes two letters to his one, as we know, gets desperate, and makes this excursion.’

Robert thoughtfully said ‘Yes;’ and Phœbe, though she did not like to betray it, mentally owned that the intercepted letter confirmed Mervyn’s opinion, being evidently meant to pacify what was inconveniently ardent and impassioned, without making tangible promises or professions.

The silence was broken by Mervyn.  ‘There!  I shall go to bed.  Phœbe, when you see that poor child, tell her not to be afraid of me, for the scrape was of my making, so don’t be sharp with her.’

‘I hope not,’ said Robert gravely; ‘I am beginning to learn that severity is injustice, not justice.  Good night, Mervyn; I hope this has not done you harm.’

‘I am glad not to be at Paddington this minute,’ said Mervyn.  ‘You will stay and help us through this business.  It is past us.’

‘I will stay as long as I can, if you wish it.’

Phœbe’s fervent ‘Thank you!’ was for both.  She had never heard such friendly tones between those two, though Mervyn’s were still half sullen, and chiefly softened by dejection and weariness.

‘Why, Phœbe,’ cried Robert, as the door closed, ‘how could you not tell me this?’

‘I thought I had told you that he was very unwell.’

‘Unwell!  I never saw any one so much altered.’

‘He is at his best when he is pale.  The attacks are only kept off by reducing him, and he must be materially better to have no threatening after such a day as this.’

‘Well, I am glad you have not had the letter that I posted only to-day!’

‘I knew you were displeased,’ said Phœbe, ‘and you see you were quite right in not wishing us to stay here; but you forgive us now—Mervyn and me, I mean.’

‘Don’t couple yourself with him, Phœbe!’

‘Yes, I must; for we both equally misjudged, and he blames himself more than any one.’

‘His looks plead for him as effectually as you can do, Phœbe, and rebuke me for having fancied you weak and perverse in remaining after the remonstrance.’

‘I do not wonder at it,’ said Phœbe; ‘but it is over now, and don’t let us talk about it.  I want nothing to spoil the comfort of knowing that I have you here.’

‘I have a multitude of things to say, but you look sleepy.’

‘Yes, I am afraid I am.  I should like to sit up all night to make the most of you, but I could not keep awake.’

Childlike, she no sooner had some one on whom to repose her care than slumber claimed its due, and she went away to her thankful rest, treasuring the thought of Robert’s presence, and resting in the ineffable blessing of being able to overlook the thorns in gratitude for the roses.

Bertha did not appear in the morning.  Robert went to her door, and was told that she would see no one; and Phœbe’s entreaties for admission were met with silence, till he forbade their repetition.  ‘It only hardens her,’ he said; ‘we must leave her to herself.’

‘She will not eat, she will be ill!’

‘If she do not yield at dinner-time, Lieschen shall carry food to her, but she shall not have the pleasure of disappointing you.  Sullenness must be left to weary itself out.’

‘Is not this more shame than sullenness?’

‘True shame hides its face and confesses—sullen shame hides like Adam.  If hers had not been stubborn, it would have melted at your voice.  She must wait to hear it again, till she have learnt to crave for it.’

He looked so resolute that Phœbe durst plead no longer, but her heart sank at the thought of the obstinate force of poor Bertha’s nature.  Persistence was innate in the Fulmorts, and it was likely to be a severe and lasting trial whether Robert or Bertha would hold out the longest.  Since he had captured her, however, all were relieved tacitly to give her up to his management; and at dinner-time, on his stern assurance that unless she would accept food, the door would be forced, she admitted some sandwiches and tea, and desired to have her firing replenished, but would allow no one to enter.

Robert, at Mervyn’s earnest entreaty, arranged to remain over the Sunday.  The two brothers met shyly at first, using Phœbe as a medium of communication; but they drew nearer after a time, in the discussion of the robbery, and Robert presently found means of helping Mervyn, by letter-writing, and taking business off his hands to which Phœbe was unequal.  Both concurred in insisting that Phœbe should keep her engagement to the Raymonds for the morrow, as the only means of preventing Bertha’s escapade from making a sensation; and by night she became satisfied that not only would the brothers keep the peace in her absence, but that a day’s téte-à-téte might rather promote their good understanding.

Still, she was in no mood to enjoy, when she had to leave Bertha’s door still unopened, and the only comfort she could look to was in the conversation with Miss Charlecote on the way.  From her, there was no concealing what had happened, and, to Phœbe’s surprise, she was encouraging.  From an external point of view, she could judge better than those more nearly concerned, and her elder years made her more conscious what time could do.  She would not let the adventure be regarded as a lasting blight on Bertha’s life.  Had the girl been a few years older, she could never have held up her head again; but as it was, Honor foretold that, by the time she was twenty, the adventure would appear incredible.  It was not to be lightly passed over, but she must not be allowed to lose her self-respect, nor despair of regaining a place in the family esteem.

Phœbe could not imagine her ever recovering the being thus cast off by her first love.

‘My dear, believe me, it was not love at all, only mystery and the rights of woman.  Her very demonstrativeness shows that it was not the heart, but the vanity.’

Phœbe tried to believe, and at least was refreshed by the sympathy, so as to be able, to her own surprise, to be pleased and happy at Moorcroft, where Sir John and his wife were full of kindness, and the bright household mirth of the sons and daughters showed Phœbe some of the benefit Miss Fennimore expected for Bertha from girl friends.  One of the younger ones showed her a present in preparation for ‘cousin Cecily,’ and embarked in a list of the names of the cousinhood at Sutton; and though an elder sister decidedly closed young Harriet’s mouth, yet afterwards Phœbe was favoured with a sight of a photograph of the dear cousin, and inferred from it that the young lady’s looks were quite severe enough to account for her cruelty.

The having been plunged into a new atmosphere was good for Phœbe, and she brought home so cheerful a face, that even the news of Bertha’s continued obstinacy could not long sadden it, in the enjoyment of the sight of Robert making himself necessary to Mervyn, and Mervyn accepting his services as if there had never been anything but brotherly love between them.  She could have blessed Bertha for having thus brought them together, and felt as if it were a dream too happy to last.

‘What an accountant Robert is!’ said Mervyn.  ‘It is a real sacrifice not to have him in the business!  What a thing we should have made of it, and he would have taken all the bother!’

‘We have done very well to-day,’ was Robert’s account; ‘I don’t know what can have been the matter before, except my propensity for making myself disagreeable.’

Phœbe went to bed revolving plans for softening Bertha, and was fast asleep when the lock of her door was turned.  As she awoke, the terrors of the robbery were upon her far more strongly than at the actual moment of its occurrence; but the voice was familiar, though thin, weak, and gasping.  ‘O Phœbe, I’ve done it!  I’ve starved myself.  I am dying;’ and the sound became a shrill cry.  ‘The dark!  O save me!’ There was a heavy fall, and Phœbe, springing to the spot where the white vision had sunk down, strove to lift a weight, cold as marble, without pulse or motion.  She contrived to raise it, and drag it with her into her own bed, though in deadly terror at the icy touch and prone helplessness, and she was feeling in desperation for the bell-rope, when to her great relief, light and steps approached, and Robert spoke.  Alas! his candle only served to show the ghastly, senseless face.

‘She has starved herself!’ said Phœbe, with affright.

‘A swoon, don’t be afraid,’ said Robert, who was dressed, and had evidently been watching.  ‘Try to warm her; I will fetch something for her; we shall soon bring her round.’

‘A swoon, only a swoon,’ Phœbe was forced to reiterate to herself to keep her senses and check the sobbing screams that swelled in her throat during the hour-like moments of his absence.  She rose, and partly dressed herself in haste, then strove to chafe the limbs; but her efforts only struck the deathly chill more deeply into her own heart.

He brought some brandy, with which they moistened her lips, but still in vain, and Phœbe’s dismay was redoubled as she saw his terror.  ‘It must be fainting,’ he repeated, ‘but I had better send for Jackson.  May God have mercy on us all—this is my fault!’

‘Her lips move,’ gasped Phœbe, as she rubbed the temples with the stimulant.

‘Thank God!’ and again they put the spoon to her lips, as the nostrils expanded, the eyes opened, and she seemed to crave for the cordial.  But vainly Robert raised her in his arms, and Phœbe steadied her own trembling hand to administer it, there were only choking, sobbing efforts for words, resulting in hoarse shrieks of anguish.

Mervyn and Miss Fennimore, entering nearly at the same moment, found Phœbe pale as death, urging composure with a voice of despair; and Robert with looks of horror that he could no longer control, holding up the sinking child, her face livid, her eyes strained.  ‘I can’t, I can’t,’ she cried, with frightful catches of her breath; ‘I shall die—’ and the screams recurred.

Mervyn could not bear the spectacle for an instant, and fled only to return to listen outside.  Miss Fennimore brought authority and presence of mind.  ‘Hysterical,’ she said.  ‘There, lay her down; don’t try again yet.’

‘It is hunger,’ whispered the trembling Phœbe; but Miss Fennimore only signed to be obeyed, and decidedly saying, ‘Be quiet, Bertha, don’t speak,’ the habit of submission silenced all but the choking sobs.  She sent Robert to warm a shawl, ordered away the frightened maids, and enforced stillness, which lasted till Bertha had recovered breath, when she sobbed out again, ‘Robert!  Where is he!  I shall die!  He must pray!  I can’t die!’

Miss Fennimore bade Robert compose his voice to pray aloud, and what he read tranquillized all except Mervyn, who understood this to mean the worst, and burst away to sit cowering in suspense over his fire.  Miss Fennimore then offered Bertha a morsel of roll dipped in port wine, but fasting and agitation had really produced a contraction of the muscles of the throat, and the attempt failed.  Bertha was dreadfully terrified, and Phœbe could hardly control herself, but she was the only person unbanished by Miss Fennimore.  Even Robert’s distress became too visible for the absolute calm by which the governess hoped to exhaust the hysteria while keeping up vitality by outward applications of warmth and stimulants, and from time to time renewing the endeavour to administer nourishment.

It was not till two terrible hours had passed that Phœbe came to the school-room, and announced to her brothers that after ten minutes’ doze, Bertha had waked, and swallowed a spoonful of arrowroot and wine without choking.  She could not restrain her sobs, and wept uncontrollably as Mervyn put his arm round her.  He was the most composed of the three, for her powers had been sorely strained, and Robert had suffered most of all.

He had on this day suspected that Bertha was burning the provisions forced on her, but he had kept silence, believing that she would thus reduce herself to a more amenable state than if she were angered by compulsion, and long before serious harm could ensue.  Used to the sight of famine, he thought inanition would break the spirit without injuring the health.  Many a time had he beheld those who professed to have tasted nothing for two days, trudge off tottering but cheerful, with a soup-ticket, and he had not calculated on the difference between the children of want and the delicately nurtured girl, full of overwrought feeling.  Though he had been watching in loving intercession for the unhappy child, and had resolved on forcing his way to her in the morning, he felt as if he had played the part of the Archbishop of Pisa, and that, had she perished in her fearful determination, her blood would have been on himself.  He was quite overcome, and forced to hurry to his own room to compose himself, ere he could return to inquire further; but there was little more to hear.  Miss Fennimore desired to be alone with the patient; Phœbe allowed herself to be laid on the sofa and covered with shawls; Mervyn returned to his bed, and Robert still watched.

There was a great calm after the storm, and Phœbe did not wake till the dim wintry dawn was struggling with the yellow candlelight, and a consultation was going on in low tones between Robert and the governess, both wan and haggard in the uncomfortable light, and their words not more cheering than their looks.  Bertha had become feverish, passing from restless, talking sleep to startled, painful wakening, and Miss Fennimore wished Dr. Martyn to be sent for.  Phœbe shivered with a cold chill of disappointment as she gathered their meaning, and coming forward, entreated the watchers to lie down to rest, while she relieved guard; but nothing would persuade Miss Fennimore to relinquish her post; and soon Phœbe had enough to do elsewhere; for her own peculiar patient, Mervyn, was so ill throughout the morning, that she was constantly employed in his room, and Robert looking on and trying to aid her, hated himself doubly for his hasty judgments.

Maria alone could go to church on that Sunday morning, and her version of the state of affairs brought Miss Charlecote to Beauchamp to offer her assistance.  She saw Dr. Martyn, and undertook the painful preliminary explanation, and she saw him again after his inspection of Bertha.

‘That’s a first-rate governess!  Exactly so!  An educational hot-bed.  Why can’t people let girls dress dolls and trundle hoops, as they used to do?’

‘I have never thought Bertha oppressed by her lessons.’

‘So much the worse!  Those who can’t learn, or won’t learn, take care of themselves.  Those who have a brain and use it are those that suffer!  To hear that poor child blundering algebra in her sleep might be a caution to mothers!’

‘Did you ever see her before, so as to observe the little hesitation in her speech?’

‘No, they should have mentioned that.’

‘It is generally very slight; but one of them—I think, Maria—told me that she always stammered more after lessons—’

‘The blindness of people!  As if that had not been a sufficient thermometer to show when they were overworking her brain!  Why, not one of these Fulmorts has a head that will bear liberties being taken with it!’

‘Can you let us hope that this whole affair came from an affection of the brain?’

‘The elopement!  No; I can’t flatter you that health or sanity were in fault there.  Nor is it delirium now; the rambling is only in sleep.  But the three days’ fast—’

‘Two days, was it not?’

‘Three.  She took nothing since breakfast on Thursday.’

‘Have you made out how she passed the last two days?’

‘I wrung out some account.  I believe this would never have occurred to her if her brother had given her a sandwich at Paddington; but she came home exhausted into a distaste for food, which other feelings exaggerated into a fancy to die rather than face the family.  She burnt the provisions in a rage at their being forced on her, and she slept most of the time—torpor without acute suffering.  Last night in sleep she lost her hold of her resolution, and woke to the sense of self-preservation.’

‘An infinite mercy!’

‘Not that the spirit is broken; all her strength goes to sullenness, and I never saw a case needing greater judgment.  Now that she is reduced, the previous overwork tells on her, and it will be a critical matter to bring her round.  Who can be of use here?  Not the married sisters, I suppose?  Miss Fulmort is all that a girl can be at nineteen or twenty, but she wants age.’

‘You think it will be a bad illness?’

‘It may not assume an acute form, but it may last a good while; and if they wish her to have any health again, they must mind what they are about.’

Honora felt a task set to her.  She must be Phœbe’s experience as far as her fifty years could teach her to deal with a little precocious rationalist in a wild travestie of Thekla.  Ich habe geliebt und gelebet was the farewell laid on Bertha’s table.  What a Thekla and what a Max!  O profanation!  But Honor felt Bertha a charge of her own, and her aid was the more thankfully accepted that the patient was quite beyond Phœbe.  She had too long rebelled against her sister to find rest in her guardianship.  Phœbe’s voice disposed her to resistance, her advice to wrangling, and Miss Fennimore alone had power to enforce what was needful; and so devoted was she, that Honor could scarcely persuade her to lie down to rest for a few hours.

Honor was dismayed at the change from the childish espiègle roundness of feature to a withered, scathed countenance, singularly old, and mournfully contrasting with the mischievous-looking waves and rings of curly hair upon the brow.  Premature playing at passion had been sport with edged tools.  Sleeping, the talk was less, however, of the supposed love, than of science and metaphysics; waking, there was silence between weakness and sullenness.

Thus passed day after day, always in the same feverish lethargic oppression which baffled medical skill, and kept the sick mind beyond the reach of human aid; and so uniform were the days, that her illness seemed to last for months instead of weeks.