Kitabı oku: «Hopes and Fears or, scenes from the life of a spinster», sayfa 51
‘Take the pony carriage, and you will get home faster,’ said Bertha, answering what was unspoken.
No; the groom sent in word that the ponies were gone to be rough-shod, and that one of them had a cold.
‘Never mind,’ said Phœbe, cheerfully; ‘I shall be warmer walking.’
And she set off, with a lingering will, but a step brisk under her determination that her personal wishes should never make her neglect duty or kindness. She did not like to think that he would be disappointed, but she had a great trust in his trust in herself, and a confidence, not to be fretted away, that some farewell would come to pass, and that she should know when to look for him again.
Scanty sleety flakes of snow were falling before her half-hour’s walk was over, and she arrived at the house, where anxious maids were putting their last touches of preparation for the mistress. It was strange not to feel more strongly the pang of a lost home; and had not Phœbe been so much preoccupied, perhaps it would have affected her strongly, with all her real joy at Cecily’s installation; but there were new things before her that filled her mind too full for regrets for the rooms where she had grown up. She only did her duty scrupulously by Cecily’s writing-table, piano, and pictures, and then satisfied the housekeeper by a brief inspection of the rooms, more laudatory than particular. She rather pitied Cecily, after her comfortable parsonage, for coming to all those state drawing-rooms. If it had been the west wing, now!
By this time the snow was thicker, and the park beginning to whiten. The housekeeper begged her to wait and order out the carriage, but she disliked giving trouble, and thought that an unexpected summons might be tardy of fulfilment, so she insisted on confronting the elements, confident in her cloak and india-rubber boots, and secretly hoping that the visitor at the cottage might linger on into the twilight.
As she came beyond the pillars of the portico, such a whirl of snow met her that she almost questioned the prudence of her decision, when a voice said, ‘It is only the drift round the corner of the house.’
‘You here?’
‘Your sister gave me leave to come and see you home through the snow-storm.’
‘Oh, thank you! This is the first time you have been here,’ she added, feeling as if her first words had been too eagerly glad.
‘Yes, I have only seen the house from a distance before. I did not know how large it was. Which part did you inhabit?’
‘There—the west wing—shut up now, poor thing!’
‘And where was the window where you saw the horse and cart? Yes, you see I know that story; which was your window?’
‘The nearest to the main body of the house. Ah! it is a dear old window. I have seen many better things from it than that!’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Sunsets and moonsets, and the Holt firs best of all.’
‘Yes, I know better now what you meant by owing all to Miss Charlecote,’ he said, smiling. ‘I owe something to her, too.’
‘Oh, is she going to help you on?’ cried Phœbe.
‘No, I do not need that. What I owe to her is—knowing you.’
It had come, then! The first moment of full assurance of what had gleamed before; and yet the shock, sweet as it was, was almost pain, and Phœbe’s heart beat fast, and her downcast look betrayed that the full force of his words—and still more, of his tone—had reached her.
‘May I go on?’ he said. ‘May I dare to tell you what you are to me? I knew, from the moment we met, that you were what I had dreamt of—different, but better.’
‘I am sure I knew that you were!’ escaped from Phœbe, softly, but making her face burn, as at what she had not meant to say.
‘Then you can bear with me? You do not forbid me to hope.’
‘Oh! I am a great deal too happy!’
There came a great wailing, driving gust of storm at that moment, as if it wanted to sweep them off their feet, but it was a welcome blast, for it was the occasion of a strong arm being flung round Phœbe, to restrain that fluttering cloak. ‘Storms shall only blow us nearer together, dearest,’ he said, with recovered breath, as, with no unwilling hand, she clung to his arm for help.
‘If it be God’s will,’ said Phœbe, earnestly.
‘And indeed,’ he said, fervently, ‘I have thought and debated much whether it were His will; whether it could be right, that I, with my poverty and my burthens, should thrust myself into your wealthy and sheltered life. At first, when I thought you were a poor dependent, I admitted the hope. I saw you spirited, helpful, sensible, and I dared to think that you were of the stuff that would gladly be independent, and would struggle on and up with me, as I have known so many do in my own country.’
‘Oh! would I not?’
‘Then I found how far apart we stand in one kind of social scale, and perhaps that ought to have overthrown all hope; but, Phœbe, it will not do so! I will not ask you to share want and privation, but I will and do ask you to be the point towards which I may work, the best earthly hope set before me.’
‘I am glad,’ said Phœbe, ‘that you knew too well to think there was any real difference. Indeed, the superiority is all yours, except in mere money. And mine, I am sure, need not stand in the way, but there is one thing that does.’
‘What? Your brothers?’
‘I do not know. It is my sister Maria. I promised long ago that nothing should make me desert her;’ and, with a voice faltering a little, but endeavouring to be firm, ‘a promise to fulfil a duty appointed by Providence must not he repented of when the cost is felt.’
‘But why should you think of deserting her?’ he said. ‘Surely I may help to bear your cares; and there is something so good, so gentle and lovable about her, that she need be no grievance. I shall have to bring my little brothers about you, too, so we shall be even,’ he added, smiling.
‘Then,’ she said, looking in his face as beginning to take counsel with him, ‘you think it is right to assume a new tie that must have higher claims than the prior one that Heaven sent me.’
‘Nay, dearest, is not the new one instituted by Heaven? If I promise that I will be as entirely Maria’s brother as you are her sister, and will reverence her affliction, or more truly her innocence, in the same way, will you not trust her, as well as yourself, with me?’
‘Trust, oh! indeed I do, and am thankful. But I am thinking of you! Poor dear Maria might be a drag, where I should not! And I cannot leave her to any of the others. She could not be long without me.’
‘Well, faithless one, we may have to wait the longer; though I feel that you alone would be happiest fighting up the hill with me.’
‘Oh, thank you for knowing that so well.’
‘But as we both have these ties, and as, besides, I should be a shabby adventurer to address you but on equal terms, we must be content to wait till—as with God’s blessing I trust to do—I have made a home smooth enough for Maria as well as for you! Will that do, Phœbe?’
‘Somehow it seems too much,’ murmured Phœbe; ‘and yet I knew it of you.’
‘And as you both have means of your own, it may bring the time nearer,’ he said. ‘There, you see I can calculate on your fortune, though I still wish it were out of the way.’
‘If it were not for Maria, I should.’
‘And now with this hope and promise, I feel as if, even if it were seven years, they would be like so many days,’ said Humfrey. ‘You will not be of those, my Phœbe, who suffer and are worn by a long engagement?’
‘One cannot tell without a trial,’ said Phœbe; ‘but indeed I do not see why security and rest, or even hope deferred, should hurt me. Surely, having a right to think about you cannot do so?’
And her look out of those honest clear gray eyes was one of the most perfect reliance and gladness.
‘May I be worthy of those thoughts!’ he fervently said. ‘And you will write to me—even when I go back to the Ottawa?’
‘I shall be so glad to tell you everything, and have your letters! Oh! no, with them I am not going to pine’—and her strong young nature laughed at the folly.
‘And while God gives me strength, we will not be afraid,’ he answered. ‘Phœbe, I looked at the last chapter of Proverbs last night, and thought you were like that woman of strength and skill on whose “lips is the law of kindness.” And “you are not afraid of the snow,” as if to complete the likeness.’
‘I did not quite know it was snowing. I like it, for it suits your country.’
‘I like it, because you are as clear, firm, and pure as my own clear crystal ice,’ he said; ‘only not quite so cold! And now, what remains? Must your brothers be consulted?’ he added, reluctantly.
‘It will be right that I should tell them,’ said Phœbe. ‘From Robert I could not keep such a thing, and Mervyn has a right to know. I cannot tell how he may take it, but I do not think that I owe him such implicit obedience as if he were my father. And by the time you really ask for me, you know you are to be such a rising engineer that they are all to be almost as proud of you as I am!’
‘God helping me,’ he gravely answered, his eyes raised upwards, and as it were carrying with them the glance that had sought them in almost playful confidence.
And thus they looked forth upon this life. Neither was so young as not to be aware of its trials. She knew the sorrows of suspense, bereavement, and family disunion; and he, before his twenty-fourth year, had made experience of adversity, uncongeniality, disappointment, and severe—almost hopeless—everyday labour. It was not in the spirit of those who had not braced on their armour, but of those who had made proof of it, that they looked bravely and cheerfully upon the battle, feeling their strength doubled as faithful companions-in-arms, and willing in that strength and trust to bear patiently with the severest trial of all—the delay of their hopes. The cold but bracing wind, the snow driving and whirling round them in gusts, could not daunt nor quench their spirits—nay, rather gave them additional vigour and enjoyment, while even the tokens of the tempest that they bore away were of perfect dazzling whiteness.
Never was shelter less willingly attained than when the park wicket of the Underwood was reached, just as the early twilight was becoming darkness. It was like a foretaste for Phœbe of seeing him go his own way in the storm while she waited safely housed; but they parted with grave sweet smiles, and a promise that he would snatch a moment’s farewell on the morrow. Phœbe would rather not have been met by Bertha, at the front door, in some solicitude—‘You are come at last! Are you wet? are you cold?’
‘Oh, no, thank you! Don’t stand in the draught,’ said Phœbe, anxious to shake her off; but it was not to be done. Bertha preceded her up-stairs, talking all the way in something of her old mischievous whisper. ‘Am I in disgrace with you, too, Phœbe? Miss Fennimore says I have committed an awful breach of propriety; but really I could not leave you to the beating of the pitiless storm alone. I am afraid Malta’s sagacity and little paws would hardly have sufficed to dig you out of a snowdrift before life was extinct. Are you greatly displeased with me, Phœbe?’ And being by this time in the bedroom, she faced about, shut the door, and looked full at her sister.
‘No—no—dear Bertha, not displeased in the least; only if you would go—’
‘Now, Phœbe, indeed that is not kind of you,’ said Bertha, pleadingly, but preparing to obey.
‘No, Bertha, it is not,’ said Phœbe, recovering herself in a moment. ‘I am sorry for it; but oh! don’t you know the feeling of wanting to have one’s treasure all to oneself for a little moment before showing it? No, don’t go;’ and the two sisters flung their arms round one another. ‘You shall hear now.’
‘No, no,’ said Bertha, kissing her; ‘my time for obtrusive, childish curiosity is over! I only was so anxious;’ and she looked up with tearful eyes, and almost the air of an elder sister. Phœbe might well requite the look with full-hearted tenderness and caresses, as she said, calmly, ‘Yes, Bertha, I am very happy.’
‘You ought to be,’ said Bertha, seriously.
‘Yes,’ said Phœbe, taking the ought in a different sense from what she meant; ‘he is all, and more, than I ever thought a man wise in true wisdom should be.’
‘And a man of progress, full of the dignity of labour,’ said Bertha. ‘I am glad he is not an old bit of county soil like John Raymond! My dear Phœbe, Sir John will tear his hair!’
‘For shame, Bertha!’
‘Well, I will not tease you with my nonsense; but you know it is the only thing that keeps tears out of one’s eyes. I see you want to be alone. Dear Phœbe!’ and she clung to her neck for a moment.
‘An instant more, Bertha. You see everything, I know; but has Miss Fennimore guessed?’
‘No, my dear, I do not think any such syllogism has ever occurred to her as, Lover’s look conscious; Phœbe looks conscious; therefore Phœbe is in love! It is defective in the major, you see, so it could not enter her brain.’
‘Then, Bertha, do not let any one guess it. I shall speak to Mervyn to-morrow, and write to Robin. It is their due, but no one else must know it—no, not for a long time—years perhaps.’
‘You do not mean to wait for years?’
‘We must.’
‘Then what’s the use of having thirty thousand pounds?’
‘No, Bertha, it would not be like him to be content with owing all to my fortune, and beginning life in idleness. It would be just enough to live on, with none of the duties of property, and that would never do! I could not wish it for him, and he has his brothers to provide for.’
‘Well, let him work for them, and have your money to make capital! Really, Phœbe, I would not lose such a chance of going out and seeing those glorious Lakes!’
‘I have Maria to consider.’
‘Maria! And why are you to be saddled with Maria?’
‘Because I promised my mother—I promised myself—I promised Mervyn, that she should be my care. I have told him of that promise, and he accepts it most kindly.’
‘You cannot leave her to me? Oh! Phœbe, do you still think me as hateful as I used to be?’
‘Dear, dear Bertha, I have full trust in your affection for her; but I undertook the charge, and I cannot thrust it on to another, who might—’
‘Don’t say that, Phœbe,’ cried Bertha, impetuously; ‘I am the one to have her! I who certainly never can, never shall, marry—I who am good for nothing but to look after her. Say you do not think me unworthy of her, Phœbe.’
‘I say no such thing,’ said Phœbe, affectionately, ‘but there is no use in discussing the matter. Dear Bertha, leave me, and compose yourself.’
Truly, during that evening Bertha was the agitated one, her speech much affected, and her gestures restless, while Phœbe sat over her work, her needle going swiftly and evenly, and her eyes beaming with her quiet depth of thankful bliss.
In the morning, again, it was Bertha who betrayed an uneasy restlessness, and irrepressible desire to banish Miss Fennimore and Maria from the drawing-room, till the governess, in perplexity, began to think of consulting Phœbe whether a Jack Hastings affair could be coming over again.
Phœbe simply trusted to the promise, and went about her morning’s avocations with a heart at rest, and when at last Humfrey Randolf did hurry in for a few moments, before he must rush back to the Holt, her greeting was so full of reliance and composure that Miss Fennimore perceived nothing. Bertha, however, rested not. As well as she could, under a fearful access of stammering, she insisted that Mr. Randolf should come into the dining-room to look at a—a—a—a—a—’
‘Ah, well!’ thought Miss Fennimore, ‘Phœbe is gone, too, so she will keep guard.’
If Miss Fennimore could have looked through the door, she would have seen the astonished Maria pounced upon, as if in sport, pulled up-stairs, and desired by Bertha to find her book of dried flowers to show Mr. Randolf. Naughty Bertha, who really did not believe the dried flowers had ever been brought home from Woolstone-lane! It served the manœuvrer right, that Maria, after one look at the shelves, began to cry out for Phœbe to come and find them. But it signified the less since the lovers had not left the hall, and had exchanged all the words that there was time for before Bertha, at the sound of the re-opening door, flew down to put her hand into Humfrey’s and grasp it tightly, looking in his face instead of speaking. ‘Thank you,’ he said, returning the pressure, and was gone. ‘We improve as we go on. Number three is the best of my brothers-in-law, Phœbe,’ said Bertha, lightly. Then leaving Phœbe to pacify Maria about the flowers, she went into her own room, and cried bitterly and overpoweringly.
CHAPTER XXXI
Thekla. I should love thee.
Whate’er thou hadst chosen, thou wouldst still have acted
Nobly and worthy of thee; but repentance
Shall ne’er disturb thy soul’s fair peace.
Max. Then I must leave thee; must part from thee!
Thekla. Being faithful
To thine own self, thou art faithful too to me.
—Wallenstein
Phœbe and Maria went alone to the Park to receive the bridal pair, for poor Bertha was so nervous and unhinged as not even to wish to leave the fireside. It was plain that she must not be deprived of an elder sister’s care, and that it would be unlikely that she would ever have nerve enough to undertake the charge of Maria, even if Phœbe could think of shifting the responsibility, or if a feeble intellect could be expected to yield the same deference to a younger sister as came naturally to an elder one.
Thus Phœbe’s heart was somewhat heavy as she braced herself for her communication to Mervyn, doubtful as to the extent of his probable displeasure, but for that very cause resolved on dealing openly from the first, while satisfied that, at her age, his right was rather to deference than to surrender of judgment. Maria roamed through the house, exclaiming at the alterations, and Phœbe sat still in the concentrated, resolute stillness that was her form of suspense.
They came! The peals of the Hiltonbury bells rung merrily in the cold air, the snow sparkled bridally, the icicles glittered in the sunset light, the workpeople stood round the house to cheer the arrival, and the sisters hurried out.
It was no more the pale, patient face! The cheeks were rounded, the brown eyes smiled, the haggard air, that even as a bride Cecily had worn, was entirely gone, and Mervyn watched exultingly Phœbe’s surprise at what he had made of the wan, worn girl they had met at Hyères. The only disappointment was Bertha’s absence, and there was much regret that the new-comers had not heard of her cold so as to have seen her at the Underwood on their way. They had spent the previous day in town in going over the distillery, by Cecily’s particular wish, and had afterwards assisted at a grand impromptu entertainment of all the workpeople, at their own expense and Robert’s trouble. Mervyn did certainly seem carried out of his own knowledge of himself, and his wife had transgressed every precedent left by his mother, who had never beheld Whittingtonia in her life!
Phœbe found their eager talk so mazy and indistinct to her perception that she became resolved to speak and clear her mind at the first opportunity; so she tarried behind, when Cecily went up, under Maria’s delighted guidance, to take off her bonnet, and accosted Mervyn with the ominous words, ‘I want to speak to you.’
‘Make haste, then; there is Cecily left to Maria.’
‘I wanted to tell you that I am engaged.’
‘The deuce you are!’
‘To Mr. Randolf, Miss Charlecote’s Canadian cousin.’
Mervyn, who had expected no less than John Raymond, whirled round in indignant surprise, and looked incredulously at her, but was confronted by her two open, unabashed eyes, as she stood firm on both her feet, and continued: ‘I have been thrown a good deal with him, so as to learn his goodness and superiority. I know you will think it a very bad match, for he has nothing but his hands and head; but we mean to wait till he can offer what are considered as equal terms. We thought it right you should know.’
‘Upon my word, that’s a clever fellow!’
Phœbe knew very well that this was ironical, but would not so reply. ‘He has abilities,’ she said, ‘and we are ready to wait till he has made proof of them.’
‘Well, what now?’ he cried in despair. ‘I did think you the sensible one of the lot.’
‘When you know him,’ she said, with her fearless smile, ‘you will own that I was sensible there.’
‘Really, the child looks so complacent that she would outface me that this mad notion was a fine thing! I declare it is worse than Bertha’s business; and you so much older! At least Hastings was a man of family, and this is a Yankee adventurer picked out of the back of a ditch by that young dog, Sandbrook. Only a Yankee could have had the impudence! I declare you are laughing all the time. What have you to say for yourself?’
‘His father was major in the –th dragoons, and was one of the Randolfs of –shire. His mother was a Charlecote. His birth is as good as our own, and you saw that he is a gentleman. His character and talents have gained his present situation, and it is a profession that gives every opening for ability; nor does he ask for me till his fortune is made.’
‘But hinders you from doing better! Pray, what would Augusta say to you?’ he added, jocosely, for even while lashing himself up, his tone had been placable.
‘He shall satisfy her.’
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘We only spoke of it yesterday. Bertha found it out; but I wish no one else to know it except Robert.’
‘Somehow she looks so cool, and she is so entirely the last girl I expected to go crazy, that I can’t laugh at the thing as I ought! I say, what’s this about Miss Charlecote; will she do anything for him?’
‘I believe not.’
‘And pray who vouches for his antecedents, such as they are.’
‘Mr. Currie and Owen Sandbrook both know the whole.’
‘Is Sandbrook at the Holt?’
‘Yes,’ answered Phœbe, suppressing her strong distaste against bringing him into the affair.
‘Well, I shall make inquiries, and—and—it is a horrid unlucky business, and the old girl should be scarified for putting you in his way. The end will be that you’ll marry on your own means, and be pinched for life. Now, look here, you are no fool at the bottom; you will give it up if I find that he is no go.’
‘If it be proved that I ought,’ said Phœbe. ‘And if you find him what I have told you, you will make no opposition. Thank you, Mervyn.’
‘Stay,’ said he, laughing, and letting her kiss him, ‘I have made no promises, mind!’
The confidence that Phœbe had earned had stood her in good stead. Mervyn had great trust in her judgment, and was too happy besides for severity on other people’s love. Nor were her perfect openness, and fearless though modest independence, without effect. She was not one who invited tyranny, but truly ‘queen o’er herself,’ she ruled herself too well to leave the reins loose for others to seize.
The result of the interview had surpassed her hopes, and she had nothing to regret but her brother’s implied purpose of consulting Owen Sandbrook. Friend of Humfrey though he were, she could not feel secure of his generosity, and wished the engineer had been the nearer referee; but she did not say so, as much for shame at her own uncharitableness, as for fear of rousing Mervyn’s distrust; and she was afraid that her injunctions to secrecy would be disregarded. Fully aware that all would be in common between the husband and wife, she was still taken by surprise when Cecily, coming early next day to the Underwood to see Bertha, took her aside to say, ‘Dearest, I hope this is all right, and for your happiness.’
‘You will soon know that it is,’ said Phœbe, brightly.
‘Only, my dear, it must not be a long engagement. Ah! you think that nothing now, but I could not bear to think that you were to go through a long attachment.’
Was this forgiving Cecily really fancying that her sorrows had been nothing worse than those incidental to a long attachment?
‘Ah!’ thought Phœbe, ‘if she could ever have felt the full reliance on which I can venture, she need never have drooped! What is time to trust?’
Mervyn kept his word, and waiving ceremony, took his wife at once to the Holt, and leaving her with Miss Charlecote, made a visit to Owen in the study, wishing, in the first place, to satisfy himself of the young man’s competence to reply to his questions. On this he had no doubt; Owen had made steady progress ever since he had been in England, and especially during the quiet time that had succeeded his sister’s marriage. His mental powers had fully regained their keenness and balance, and though still incapable of sustained exertion of his faculties, he could talk as well as ever, and the first ten minutes convinced Mervyn that he was conversing with a shrewd sensible observer, who had seen a good deal of life, and of the world. He then led to the question about young Randolf, endeavouring so to frame it as not to betray the occasion of it.
The reply fully confirmed all that Phœbe had averred. The single efforts of a mere youth, not eighteen at the time of his father’s failure, without capital, and set down in a wild uncleared part of the bush, had of course been inadequate to retrieve the ruined fortunes of the family; but he had shown wonderful spirit, patience, and perseverance, and the duteous temper in which he had borne the sacrifice of his prospects by his father’s foolish speculations and unsuitable marriage, his affectionate treatment of the wife and children when left on his hands, and his cheerful endurance of the severest and most hopeless drudgery for the bare support of life, had all been such as to inspire the utmost confidence in his character. Of his future prospects, Owen spoke with a sigh almost of envy. His talent and industry had already made him a valuable assistant to Mr. Currie, and an able engineer had an almost certain career of prosperity open to him. Lastly Mervyn asked what was the connection with Miss Charlecote, and what possibilities it held out. Owen winced for a moment, then explained the second cousinship, adding, however, that there was no entail, that the disposal of Miss Charlecote’s property was entirely in her own power, and that she had manifested no intention of treating the young man with more than ordinary civility, in fact that she had rather shrunk from acknowledging his likeness to the family. His father’s English relatives had, in like manner, owned him as a kinsman; but had shown no alacrity in making friends with him. The only way to be noticed, as the two gentlemen agreed, when glad to close their conference in a laugh, is to need no notice.
‘Uncommon hard on a fellow,’ soliloquized Owen, when left alone. ‘Is it not enough to have one’s throat cut, but must one do it with one’s own hands? It is a fine thing to be magnanimous when one thinks one is going off the stage, but quite another thing when one is to remain there. I’m no twelfth century saint, only a nineteenth century beggar, with an unlucky child on my hands! Am I to give away girl, land, and all to the fellow I raked out of his swamps? Better have let him grill and saved my limbs! And pray what more am I to do? I’ve introduced him, made no secret of his parentage, puffed him off, and brought him here, and pretty good care he takes of himself! Am I to pester poor Honey if she does prefer the child she bred up to a stranger? No, no, I’ve done my part: let him look out for himself!’
Mervyn allowed to Phœbe that Randolf was no impostor, but warned her against assuming his consent. She suspected that Owen at least guessed the cause of these inquiries, and it kept her aloof from the Holt. When Miss Charlecote spoke of poor Owen’s want of spirits, discretion told her that she was not the person to enliven him; and the consciousness of her secret made her less desirous of confidences with her kind old friend, so that her good offices chiefly consisted in having little Owen to the Underwood to play with Maria, who delighted in his society, and unconsciously did much for his improvement.
Honor herself perceived that Phœbe’s visits only saddened her convalescent, and that in his present state he was happiest with no one but her, who was more than ever a mother to him. They were perfectly at ease together, as she amused him with the familiar books, which did not strain his powers like new ones, the quiet household talk, the little playful exchanges of tender wit, and the fresh arrangement of all her museum on the natural system, he having all the entertainment, and she all the trouble, till her conversion astonished Bertha. The old religious habits of the Holt likewise seemed to soothe and give him pleasure; but whether by force of old association, or from their hold on his heart, was as yet unknown to Honora, and perhaps to himself. It was as if he were deferring all demonstration till he should be able again to examine the subject with concentrated attention. Or it might be that, while he shrank from exerting himself upon Randolf’s behalf, he was not ready for repentance, and therefore distrusted, and hung back from, the impulses that would otherwise have drawn him to renew all that he had once cast aside. He was never left alone without becoming deeply melancholy, yet no companionship save Honor’s seemed to suit him for many minutes together. His brain was fast recovering the injury, but it was a trying convalescence; and with returning health, his perfect helplessness fretted him under all the difficulties of so tall and heavy a man being carried from bed to sofa, from sofa to carriage.
‘Poor Owen!’ said Phœbe to herself, one day when she had not been able to avoid witnessing this pitiable spectacle of infirmity; ‘I can’t think why I am always fancying he is doing Humfrey and me some injustice, and that he knows it. He, who brought Humfrey home, and has praised him to Mervyn! It is very uncharitable of me, but why will he look at me as if he were asking my pardon? Well, we shall see the result of Mervyn’s inspection!’
