The Parvenu Family MMMMtnaMMMMMM BMMSaiMnMMNMMI THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ,r THE PARVENU FAMILY; OR, PHCEBE: GIRL AND WIFE. BY PERCY FITZGERALD, AUTHOR OF "BELLA UONNA," "NEVER FORGOTTEN," ETC. IN THREE VOLUMESc VOL. I. LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, Ipttblislurs in ©vbinarji to gjcr ^^titjcstn the Quctit. 1876. {J// Rig/Us Reserved. ) U.I CONTENTS OF VOL. I. CHAPTEK- I. CHAPONE HOUSE - 11. PHCEBE DAWSON - III. ADELAIDE CROSS - IV. AN ADVENTURE V. A FATAL DISCOVERY VI. AT THE GARDEN GATE VII. PUT TO THE QUESTION VIII. RESCUED - - - IX. THE EXHIBITION DAY X. Adelaide's triumph XI. THE SAM PRINGLES AT HOME XII. GARTERLEY XIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING XIV. TOM DAWSON XV. THE PENNY READING XVI. TRUE LOVE RUNS SMOOTH XVII. GREAT NEWS ! XVIir. SAM JN HIS NEW CAPACITY I 9 30 45 92- 99 113 144 157 167 177 188; 203 '220- 230 244 259 271 THE PARVENU FAMILY; OR, PHfEBE: GIRL AND WIFE. CHAPTER I. CHAPONE HOUSE. Chapone House was the name of an im- portant academy for young ladies, directed by the Misses Cooke. It belonred to the class known as " fin- ishing" — an epithet of terror for parents of contracted means. There were well- accredited instances of fashionable families ' despatching a whole series of daughters to receive the high-class instruction to be imparted at the academy, but who had been themselves " finished," as regards their worldly means, by the enormous bills sent vol.. I. 1 2 rhcebe. in by the presiding ladies. Indeed, as the " Newly-Rich " would put their sons in the (iuards, not with a view of serving their country, but for the j jrpose of contracting intimacies with young men of rank and fashion, so were they equally zealous to receive admission in the household brigade commanded by the Misses Cooke, where opportunities of the same favourable kind were opened to the young ladies. Nat- urally, therefore, the purchase-money was high, the style of living costly, the extras of an appalling kind ; and the Misses Cooke, having always a list of candidates waiting for vacancies, were able to make such demands as they chose. If dissatisfied or grumbling, parents and guardians were at liberty to remove their children, the principals rather plaintively conveying that they had been mistaken in their opinion of the poor and paltry persons who had thus imposed on them ; and, in fine irony, men- tioning other establishments which, they were certain, would be more suited to the class of thing such parents were in search of. Daughters of the nobility then, of leaders of fashion — children of the untitled aris- tocracy, of the great county families, of baro- Phoebe. 3 nets and members of Parliament gliding upwards to the peerage — such were the clients the Misses Cooke sought to "finish," and whose accounts were never submitted to the indignity of audit or vouching^. At Chapone House there was, indeed, «ven a region known as " the office," with a general air of mahogany, like a banking house, where a regular office book-keeper dealt with ledgers, and a store of cash, and to which Miss Cooke sent up or down in a dignified fashion, for accounts or other financial information. The principal herself had been finished at a great academy, and had officiated as governess to the Ladies Clara and Mary Draper, daughters of the Countess of Canonbury, who had, later, been finished -successfully into a duchess and a mar- chioness respectively. This feat at once brought her reputation, and with some savings and borrowings, she founded her well-known establishment, situated close to Sydenham, in fine bracing air. She was, of course, permitted to refer to the august ladies just named, who had a sort of re- gard for her ; also to the Most Noble A., 4 Pho3bc. to her Grace of B., to the Right Hon. C, and to the Hon. and Rev. D. The es- tabHshment was successful to an extraor- dinary degree, if tested by some rather inappropriate fruits which one would have thought had but small connection with scholastic matters, namely the " happy establishment of pupils in life," as Miss Cooke phrased it. In this direction a certain " luck " attended the school ; and, indeed, it often seemed not a little unfair to the prin- cipal, that these indirect matrimonial re- sults should not be regularly affiched in the testimonials, just as lists of honours, prizes in the civil service, etc., are set out proudly by the seminaries for young gentlemen. Still, the fact was well known in the proper quarters, and there was always a long list of candidates waiting until the Misses Cooke should be ready to receive them. The establishment, then, was con- ducted by Miss Cooke, principal. Miss Emma Cooke, an inferior sister, acting as w^hat in an orchestra would be called chef d'attaqiie or leader, only that she took the unusual duty of playing a little on every instrument, on the pupils, on "the parents Phcebc. 5 and guardians " — always spoken of as a vast generality, as one would talk of the " the poor," or " the people," or " the press." She was therefore much more like a chief of the staff, spurring about the field, and scarcely ever out of the saddle-. Miss Cooke herself, tall and meagre, 'correct in manner as well as in that limited amount of skin and flesh that well-worked ladies of fashion display, seemed never to grow older or ill, living behind a cloud, from behind which she only came on oc- casions of solemnity or to meet "the pa- rents," in state. Emma Cooke was in the other extreme in all these points, seen almost too much by everybody ; inclined to be stout, and suggesting a general earthiness. A stout German gentleman came three times a week to teach his language (an extra) ; a French professor to teach French (also extra) ; while the pianoforte, guitar, mathematics of a light kind, writing, history, singing, dancing, calisthenics on " Madame Beyer's elegant drawing-room system," with " taste and the art of dress " by a pupil of a great French man-milliner's 6 Phcede. — all these departments of knowledge were taught by special professors, and all, of course, on " extra" principles. Some of the small-souled, discontented parents, who did not wish that their children should be o^rounded in these costly " ex- tras," might fairly wonder what was the ordinary curriculum of the establishment^ but they might be fairly reminded that it was " tone " that was imparted, and an indefinable air of fashionable grace that was to fit the young ladies for the sphere in which they were to move. One of the most important of the extras was sinsfinof. Who does not know the charm- \^ ing little compositions of Mr. Canova, so graceful and tuneful, so easy, and yet con- veying the idea of dijfificulty. Where could a pair of female voices glide and curl at equally-balanced intervals, like well-trained ponies, through music, as through one of Canova's duets } Every one of good de- cree sang; his songs, and two or three of his more favourite melodies were an ab- solute little income to him. He directed Lady A.'s concerts, and the Duchess of B.'s matinee. He was always glad to call Phoebe. 7 himself " Mi^. Canova," eschewing the vul- garly theatrical " Signor," which was open to any organ fellow in the streets to as- sume. He was petit, but graceful and dignified, with a black silky moustache, and a tender languishing voice. Nearly every young lady In the es- tablishment was, under process of finishing, under the care of this elegant maestro. What made him of special value to Miss Cooke was that he cultivated a rough and harsh manner, sometimes speaking with such a sharp severity that the young- ladies came away from his presence In tears. Several he had absolutely declined to teach, and to one handsome girl he had applied the term '' porca!' There was a commotion in the house when formal com- plaint was made of this language ; but Mr. Canova refused distinctly to retract or make any amende. He offered to resign. All the world was astonished to see how indulgently Miss Cooke treated the erring singing master, the truth being, as observers of human nature might see, that this was a fault in the right cxti'-eme, the danger to establishments where young 8 Phwbe. ladies of condition were educated arising from an undue courtesy. She dealt with him like a mother, nego- tiating impartially between both sides, holding herself out as neutral ; not a very difficult rdle, as she was supported by the pupils, who were all upon his side. Even the young lady herself was not very ob- durate, and owned that she herself had been very provoking. With such disposi- tions on all sides, it was not very diffi- cult to compose matters, and the fascinat- ing Canova maintained his position. Such was Chapone House, a handsome country seat, deserving that common compliment of " standing in its own grounds" (man- sions not usually standing in those belong- ing to other residences), luxuriously ap- pointed with baths, music-rooms, gardens, swings, " appliances for promoting a grace- ful carriage, and moderately expanding the chest " (Madame Beyer's elegant drawing- room system), and offering every advantage for fitting young ladies of position and gentility to adorn " their future station in life." Such, too, was Miss Cooke, her system, and her school. CHAPTER II. P H GE B E DAWSON. There were among the pupils two par- ticular young ladies, to whom the reader may now be introduced, being, as it were, called down to the "visitors' reception- room " for that purpose ; for the whole course of events of this little story is des- tined to circle about these figures. Ade- laide Cross and Phoebe Dawson were their names. They were nearly of the same age, one eighteen and the other sixteen years old. Phoebe was a refined, dainty little creature, with all the piquant dignity of a Chelsea ware shepherdess, and from her earliest appearance before the public had a very finished and complete air in her bearing, her dress, and appearance. T o Phoebe. She was indeed a delicately-wrought piece of workmanship, with dancing eyes, and a lip so sensitive and airy that it played like some magnetic instrument un- der every emotion. Did any one fix their eyes on her even for a moment, her eyes and lips were in motion until a smile or laugh of mischief broke out. Required to look erave — as she often was on occasions when confronted with clergymen and other officials — the most she could assume was a sort of roguish seriousness ; but that so niceh' balanced, that every second it seemed in peril of being overset, and a ereat scandal brous^ht about. In the school annals there were several excesses re- corded, on such awful occasions as when Dean Drinkwater came to give away the prizes, or deliver a lecture on religious morals in Passion Week. She was a high- bred little dame, her father having been an officer of good connection, but who was now dead, fier mother was a lady of condition and fashion, though not " well off," who "knew everybody," and was one of those favoured rovers, who, without any special recommendation, are found a necessary Phcebc. 1 1 evil or blessing, as the case may be, at country houses during festival times. She was indebted for these privileges to a plea- sant air and manner of familiarity and self- confidence, as well as to a surprisingly in- timate knowledge of family details, and circumstances, which she always took care to keep posted up to the latest moment. She was as unaffected by rebuffs as was the ocean by Mrs, Partington's mop ; rather, what was a rebuff for another lost its character when applied to her, and dis- solved into a cloud of spray. Mrs. Dawson, the widow, was, in short, a power in the circle in which she moved, always apparently engaged in des affairesy always in consultation with tall, elderly gentlemen of her connection, whom she amused or interested with her talk or stories, and who somehow respected her. When young she had been considered a clever girl, and secured her husband. Major Dawson, very cleverly. She had been for years foraging skilfully over town and country in her own interest ; and when her daughter was " finished," intended to enter on a new field of operations r 2 Phcebe. suited to her genius, with a view to a good match for " My Phoebe," as she always called her. Indeed, had she been left without any provision, instead of that re- spectable portion— half settlement, half in- surance, which she had warily effected, and caused her husband to keep up during his life-time — she would have somehow con- trived to live in convenience and comfort — resembling one of those vagrant cows, which the artful owner turns out to crop the stray patches of grass along the roadside, under the hedges, &c., and who thus graze at free quarters. Matters where serious outlay was involved did not come within the compass of her arrangements ; it was there- fore suspected — almost known for certain —among her friends, that the outlay for Phoebe's rather costly " finishing " came from some foreign source, or was defrayed in kind — the worthy lady acting like the useful accents to recruitino; sergeants who are known as "brinofers." She was ever loud and importunate in her recommend- ation of the establishment to such families as had candidate daughters, dwelling on par- ticular advantages and blessings, such as Phoibe. 1 3 were not even known to the Misses Cooke themselves, and attracted the parents to an extraordinary degree. Yet, if she succeeded in placing her daughter at the seminary on such terms, she had art enough to make it assume the character of an obligation ; and Phoebe herself always met with an appreciation equal to that enjoyed by any of the young titled maids who received the benefit of all the extras. This bright young girl seemed to reflect in her own person the two curious influences which distineuished her mother's character. As she walked, she unconsciously assumed a sort of patrician state, and, in a perfectly artless way, illustrated for her companions, in her own person, various notes and marks of hieh breeding — such as an arched sole of the foot, under which water might run as though under the arch of a bridge ; a peculiar bone in the arm, "which all the Dawsons had," and the rest. Yet, side by side with this dignity was a truly vagabond element, worthy of a little street Arab, for which pariahs and their antics she had the deepest sympathy and admiration. On this ground Miss Cooke had grave mis- 1 4 Phoebe. givings, and often reproved her pupil for the incurable " lowness " of her tastes. It must be added, also, that for grown-up gentlemen of the scamp description Phoebe had the most good-natured tolerance ; and when a " good " story was related of one of this class "doing " a tradesman by some ingenious trick, Phoebe's mouth and eyes, indifferent to the morality, showed how she sympathized with the cleverness and originality of the device. She no doubt owed this sentiment to her affection for her brother, Tom Dawson, a deplorable specimen of the class — a young- fellow who had " done " everybody, and certainly himself, since he had long since " done " with every shilling he had in the world. He was, however, one of the best, most good-natured fellows in existence, and doted on Phoebe, whom he came to see so often that Miss Cooke had to interpose, Tom, at last, beginning to mingle with the classes, and otherwise impairing disci- pline. This young gentleman used to bewail his condition in never having any money " that he could call his own.'"' And indeed he might fairly be indifferent to the Phcebe. 1 5 enjoyment of any coming; under that des- cription, since he found it more simple to employ that of other people. His sister told her companions many of Tom's exploits : — how he and a friend, being in want of lunch, used to step into a^i eminent upholsterer's, and, with the principal, enter seriously on vast projects for furnishing, from top to bottom, some mansion far down in the country, and, feeling faintish during the discussion of the mag- nificent details, would be invited to partake of lunch. After everything had been ar- ranged, the name and address of the patron would be asked, when that of " The Hon. J ohn Gull " would be given with an air of easy nonchalance, which at once revealed to the infuriated tradesman that he had been " done." These legends were received by the young ladies with interest; and Phoebe, beyond the rest, was inclined to say, "More power to him !" There was a number of young satellites, of inferior talent and spirit, who belonged to Phoebe's party, and whom she had in- fluence enough to lead into any mischief, 1 6 Phoebe. as captain. Long remembered was that awful, particular anniversary of Miss Cooke's birthday — always celebrated as a festival, so far as a genteel distribution of cake and glass of wine to each boarder went — but henceforth recorded in the de- partmental annals of the school as though attended by something akin to the horrors of the commune. It was on that day that the Rev. Mr. Higgins, an obscure curate and connection of Miss Cooke's, who had not risen with her to any greatness, was privileged to come and dine, a duty, or pleasure, in which he never failed— it being assumed that he was to be the heir-general of the principal, after Miss Emma Cooke's life-interest was exhausted. On the morning, then, of this day, just before the young ladies went in to break- fast, Miss Emma Cooke was seen to rush to her greater sister's apartment — " the study " — gasping — " The statue ! the statue, sister ! Oh ! dreadful !" This particular description was alwa)s applied to a tall, full-length model of the goddess Minerva, in plaster, which was Phcebe. 1 7 placed at the top of the first landing, con- spicuous to visitors, holding a gas jet and globe. There being only one specimen of this classic art on the premises, the expres- sions, " At the statue !" " Close to the statue," were understood in the house as a topographical measure — much as one would speak of " the Monument ;" or, in lower circles, of " The Angel," or " The Ele- phant and Castle." Visitors, parents, and guardians always caught sight of the goddess from the hall, and felt somehow impressed ; and the god- dess was moreover regarded with particular veneration by Government, as the ground of influencing, even by material objects, the taste of the pupils — a grand principle in Miss Cooke's curriculum. But what Miss Emma Cooke had to report in such agitation, was that the Mi- nerva had been defaced ! — that a scandalous outrage on the dignity of the statue had been committed. The two ladies at once repaired to the second landing, and there saw but too plainly what had been done. A pair of black whiskers had been daubed on VOL. I. 2 1 8 Phcebc. the figure ; a black calico gown had been fitted to it ; a pair — another pair — of garments — certainly not to be named, at least within the precincts of a correct young ladies' school, without the most deli- cate of circumlocutions — had been cleverly adapted to the limbs of the figure ; while a cap and band, of the proper clerical pattern, made up, not the likeness, but the suggestion, of the Rev. Mr. Higgins! The two ladies were appalled. " This sort of thing" had been hitherto unknown ; it was foreign to the character of the place. Once it got abroad that these — well, vulgar excesses, which might be incident to the lot of common establishments, had infected the select shrine — that anything so "middle- class " had crept in — it was all over with their prestige. The same thought occurred to both the ladies — Send for Miss Dawson at once ! Emma went down among the clus- tered young ladies, who were indeed wait- ing to know how the fun had been received, and walked straight to Phoebe, as a police- man would make for his prisoner — -poiir rempoigner. She said sternly : Pkcede. 1 9, "Miss Cooke desires, to see you in the study." Phoebe tossed her head, though the fine blood flushed into her cheeks, and followed with something of the prompt manner of the habitual offender, who, when he sees. that " the game is up," loyally surrenders, and gives no trouble. Once in the pre- sence, she admitted her sfuilt. " I begin to fear that you are utterl)- abandoned," said Miss Cooke, awfully. " The fate before you makes me tremble. The distinction between riorht and wrono- seems to be effaced in your breast." Phoebe tried to be, or to look, penitent,, and said that she " only did it for a piece of fun." " Fun ! fun !" repeated Miss Cooke, even; more shocked ; " you call ridiculing all that is most reverent fun, do you ? I declare, it frightens me." Miss Cooke uttered these generalities in a hard official manner ; but when she entered on another view of the subject she became more excited. " What am I to do with you ? You are bringing disgrace on the establishment. 20 Phccbc. You don't know how to behave like a lady. You are full of low vulgar middle-class ideas, which you did not learn here." Phoebe's eyes began to sparkle. " I am not vulgar. I am a lady, Miss Cooke ; you know I am, and so is mamma. There are plenty of nice people among the middle-classes, are there not ?" " You have been brought up very badly, I fear." " Not by her, Miss Cooke." " You are not to answer in that free style. For the rest of this holiday confine yourself to your chamber. You may be allowed to take a short walk at three o'clock, under charge of the matron, Mrs. Corbett. Your weekly money will be stopped for three weeks, and given to the Orphans' Home — not to defray the ex- pense of repairing the statue." " Statue !" said Phoebe, scornfully ; " that plaster thing ! Why, it's only a gas-lamp, I wish you could see the real statues we have at Uncle's place I" "This grows very serious," said Miss Cooke, colouring. " I shall write by the next post to your mother." P/icede. 2 1 In a moment Phoebe was penitent and humble. "No, no; don't do that, Miss Cooke," she said, " it will worry her." " I shall write to your mother," repeated the lady principal, with stern emphasis. " I shall tell her that I am altogether unequal to the control of such persons as you, and that your tastes are hopelessly and incurably low." Here Miss Cooke had the satisfaction of repeating, with effect, what had before failed, " And that you seem to have lost all reverence for things human and sacred." Phoebe, not in the least affected by this picture of her degradation, could only beg that her mother would not be written to, promising amendment. " I'll go and put the lamp — the statue, I mean — to rights, and make it quite nice : and, I beg your pardon, indeed I do. Miss Cooke ; and, if you like, put me on my knees during dinner, with the Boeotian medal on me. I won't mind it in the least. But don't — don't write to mamma." Colouring excessively at this unconscious contempt for the severest moral punish- 2 2 Phcebe. ment known to the school, viz., " the Boeotian medal," worn with a brown ribbon round the neck, supposed to enter like iron into the soul, and the stigma from which was supposed to be life-long, Miss Cooke waved her hand, and said hoarsely, " Retire !" Phoebe was at once delivered over to the secular power in the shape of the matron, to be conveyed away to what was known as the infirmary,~where both the sick and the wicked were always confined. Seeing that her submission had produced no effect, she drew herself up, and, with a haughty look that made Miss Cooke a little uncomfort- able, went to her fate. This little incident has been dwelt on with a view to exhibit Phoebe's character. She was, indeed, a sore trouble to the lady principal ; and yet she was not mutinous or insubordinate. She was such a favourite in the house, and very different from the " insubordinate" girl, Crumpe (the young ladies were designated in this manly style, as is done in an academy for young gentle- men), who, by her dogged and secret principles of rebellion, demoralized the Phoebe. 2 3 school, and had to be expelled. Indeed, Phoebe was ever regarded indulgendy in the house, was always " sorry" for her excesses, and promising amendment. There was a dash and adventure in her proceedings which redeemed them, and took them out of the category of school crimes, to say nothing of a pleasant air of comedy impos- sible to resist. For her excesses, therefore, there was a o-eneral tenderness. When a stray donkey was noticed from the windows which overlooked the prison- like walks of the place, repairing regularly each morning to browse upon a choice piece of grass near the gate, who was it that planned a daring scheme for " cutting him out," and bringing him in by the side-gate, to be tied up in the shrubbery until recre- ation hour ? Who, of course, but Phoebe ! And when some vexatious spirit prompted Miss Cooke to take a stroll on the bowling- green — the most sequestered part of the garden — a thing she was never known to do, who was at the head of the procession that met her gaze ? There, on a frisk- ing and kicking donkey, attended by a crowd of screaming, laughing young ladies 24 Phoebe. of the best blood in the peerage, was seated Phoebe — not, it must be said, after the fashion de rigiieur with ladies — controlling him as though he were some highly-mettled racer ; her whole energfies absorbed in the task, hands down, her hair tossing about her neck, and executing, as it were, the task scientifically. So absorbed was she, indeed, that she was unconscious of the sudden desertion of her staff, who suddenly fled, and dived into the shrubberies. It was not until she had all but ridden down the lady principal that Phoebe dis- covered the danger of her situation. What embarrassment followed, how it became dangerous to descend from the donkey's back, and that, too, under the ter- rible frown and speechless anger of Miss Cooke, may be conceived. Still, the want of dignity in the whole transaction, and the difficulty of going through the various ju- dicial processes of solemn examination and severe reproof, without, too, excluding the words " the donkey " (Phoebe speaking of him invariably as " the ass "), made it im- possible to deal with the matter as the high crime and misdemeanour it really was. Plicebc. 2 5 Again. People passing down the road to the west of the school were often puzzled by a large hoarding which rose above the unusually high wall, and which, unadorned by advertisements, seemed quite purposeless. For this unsightly screen, the cause of some expense to the lady principal, Phoebe alone was accountable. A row of high houses ran along the road, known as Maida Villas, from the roofs of which a commanding view of the gardens, bowling-green, etc., where the young ladies took exercise, might be obtained. The mere possibility of such a danger was not of much importance ; un- fortunately, it took concrete shape, the young- ladies discovering that young gentlemen, with short pipes wedged firmly in their mouths, were framed in the windows during the hours of morning pastime, which they surveyed with stolid curiosity, until it was over. This apparition caused quite a flutter among the seminary doves, though nuns, could not have been more demure in their bearing. " He's looking at me ;" " They are looking at you ;" " No, he isn't ;" " Yes, he is ;" for one, more marked in his 26 Phoebe. attentions than the rest, was soon dis- tingiiished. Such was the chatter, scarcely- subdued, that prevailed. This observer, who was good-looking-, was a subject of interest to the young maids ; but the dis- tance was great, and it was scarcely possible to make out a distinct inventory of his charms. His hair was pronounced to be of various conflicting shades ; his eyes hazel, or of a bewitching blue or brown. Mischief was in Phoebe's eyes. " Let us get the old telescope," she cried, " out of the hall !" " Easy to say get it," said one — Bertha, " but you'd be afraid." " I,'' said Phoebe. " Not I ! What fun it would be. How he would stare when he saw it pointed at him. I'd do it in a second. You don't think I am afraid of Tom or Freddy." (The young ladies had already christened him by this name.) The telescope was procured, and put into Phoebe's hand. She recoiled from the rather unmaidenly act she had undertaken, but her spirit would carry her through. Her companions affected to continue their P/ia^bc. 2 7 promenade all the while, stealing sly o-lances. Phoebe stood in the middle, the telescope resting against the trunk of a tree, her cheek beginning to flush. The whisper *' She's afraid !" had caught her ear. The next moment one of the young ladies of Miss Cooke's highly-select academy was seen with her eye to the glass of a heavy astronomical telescope pointed at a young eentleman seated afar off in a window. The glass was only pointed, for Phcebe was too flurried to see anything ; but she carried out the little pantomime effectually. On this account she did not notice the gallant manner in which the compliment was re- ceived, the pipe being withdrawn, and the smoker rising, and indulging in a number of smiles and bows, and even kissing his hand profusely. For this reason also she could not notice the sound of approaching steps, the appa- rition of the lictor of the house — Miss Emma Cooke — who was standing awfully beside her, looking with gasping wonder from the telescope to the attic, and from the attic to the telescope. Without speech or delay the offender was at once arrested, 28 Phoebe. and led away to the presence of the civil power. A hurried court was held. The outrage was too heinous, and went to the very root of the institution. The thing was so unprecedented that the powers knew not how to deal with it. Phoebe's readiness, however, saved her. He was, she urged, perpetually looking down at them. They could not walk in the garden without being stared at. They thought there w^as no harm in looking at him. This naively turning the offence into an act of self-defence puzzled Miss Cooke, and, at the same time, struck her as reason- able, and that there was, after all, some provocation. Another o-irl mio-ht have been dealt with severely the following day, but Phcebe's luck did not desert her this time ; and it was determined that that particular flank of the institution, always considered too much exposed for propriety, should be screened off. And the formidable hoarding was thus set up. This aofain was the source of humiliation to Miss Cooke, who weekly received liberal proposals from advertising agents offering Ph(£be. 29 to farm the same from her, and who could not be convinced that the structure had been erected for any other purpose but for one belonofing- to their Profession. Still, her stoical firmness in declining did not profit her, as lawless persons went to great risks in climbing up for the purpose of affixing notices of a low and even vulgar kind. The travelling circus never missed paying her this compliment, covering the hoarding during the night-time with eques- trian ladies flying round the arena, and whose too gauzy skirts floated nebulously about their head and shoulders. This trial the lady principal had to accept ; and for this trial the lively pupil was indirecdy responsible. Such was Phcebe, the gay, bright " tom- boy" of the house. We now turn to her companion and friend, who was of a dif- ferent nature. -3^iS£SB^. CHAPTER III. ADELAIDE CROSS. Young ladies at seminaries are addicted to friendships of the warmest and most ex- travagant kind, and the cynics of the school are careful to note when two of their companions exhibit this spectacle of affection. Nothing was more notorious in the daily life of the school than the faithful friendship and regard of Phoebe Dawson for Adelaide Cross. The latter was a little taller than Phoebe, with a steady eye, a correctly-outlined face, and intelligent expression. She was not one of the officially cold girls, for she could be aereeable and interested when she chose, and would have been even pretty had she been less personal. At times Phcebe. 3 1 she could be obliging, but still there was a heartiness wanting in her. Observing persons had noted a "yellow smile " that passed over her lips. She sometimes tried to be popular with the other girls. She was subject to no im- pulses, did her duty, and was considered high- principled, and even religious. Of one of the girls she had reported a story which proved to be untrue, and it was recollected how she had entered the recrea- tion-room, and in a hard, stoical way had made public confession of the wrong she had done. The girls wondered at, but did not understand, the transaction. The Misses Cooke had " the highest opinion of her " She was their model girl, up to a certain period of her life. At that period her father, the Rev. Mr. Cross, canon of a cathedral, and whose name was faintly inscribed on the trunk of an aristocratic tree, died suddenly, leaving a son and daughter in a state almost of destitution. This was unpleasant for the select esta- blishment, for Miss Cooke shrank from anything like what the)^ styled " want of 32 Phcebe. means," and the shifts of poverty were out of harmony with a place where scions of the nobihty were entertained. Still, she was a just woman, though worshipping this particular fetish, and did not want compassion, and after many councils it was arranged that Miss Cross's education should be completed at the establishment, and that she should be " finished " with the rest, in view of becoming an assistant or aide-de-camp to Miss Emma Cooke. This the principal, in her stately way, called placing her " on the foundation," yet, strange to say, the pupil was not af- fected by such liberality. She became independent in her manner, and carried her head high. She assumed quite a new tone to Miss Cooke; she was jealous as to the style in which she was treated. The principal saw in her eyes quite a new ex- pression, which somehow had the effect of making her not a little uncomfortable. Once when this kind of bearing was pro- tested against, and a reminder had been given of her position, the obligations she was under, etc., she promptly turned on her patroness. Phoebe. 33 " It is not your intention, Miss Cooke, that I should be a slave in this house, that I am to forfeit all self-respect, because of the bed and crust you allow me ?" Bed and crust ? This was stranofc language. " It was understood at the time," she went on ; " the matter was put on the foot- inof of business. You would not wish me to be humiliated in your house, to be seen going about bearing your badge and collar ?" " What language is this ?" said the amazed principal. " Nothing was meant but what was kind. You are ungrateful." " I should be if I was to live this life any longer. I wish to be respectful and grateful. I am obliged to you for your kindness, and I want to show myself sensible of it. If I do not express myself in the proper way, allowance should be made, as I have had much to harass me. I have been told I have an unfortunate manner." Miss Cooke did not know what to reply. " Everything has been done for you. VOL. I. 3 34 PIuKbe. o You seem to me not to be sensible of your position." " Do you wish me to leave ?" asked the other, calmly. " Do you ? I only want a word. I shall find some way of supporting myself. A clergyman's daughter will not want friends " Miss Cooke did not seek another inter- view of this character, and the young lady, having thus vindicated her position, con- tinued in the new course she had begun. No further attempts at casting her for the part of drudge or dependent were made. So painful a position, however, secured for her among the girls one ally at least, who championed her " through thick and thin," in the most chivalrous way conceiv- able. This was Phoebe, who admired her genius, her self-restraint, and the spirit she had shown under oppression. This vehe- ment little agitator became a perfect in- cendiary in her cause, harangued clusters of girls on the wrongs of " poor Ada Cross," and during this particular crisis, was eagerly proposing insurrectionary de- monstrations, to prove to the authorities the real feeling of the school. It was Phoebe. 3 5 Phoebe that actually proposed chalking on Miss Cooke's own door, " Too many Cooks spoil^^ etc., " Down with Cookey," or some legend as offensive. She was only dissuaded by the remonstrances of the victim herself. It was she who suggested that every girl should wear a mourning ribbon on Miss Cooke's festival day, offering to defray the whole charges, but she secured very few adhesions to the scheme. The main body of the young ladies were too genteel, too phlegmatic, to enter cordially into such vio- lent measures, having mostly come of good Conservative families. Neither was Phoebe of the stuff suited to be leader of an insur- rectionary movement. Her share in the intended demonstration reached the ears of the authorities, and for the hundredth time the last resort of " sending for her mother " was seriously threatened. Her friend accepted this partisanship in the way she accepted most things, namely, as a matter of course. She thanked Phoebe with formality, and made some exertion to have the air of being grateful. But she knew she had no real feelino- and often lamented within herself that Nature had ■> , 36 Phoebe. not endowed her with those spontaneous emotions which are so useful as springs of action, and so effectually engage the sym- pathies of others. When the news of the canon's death arrived, she could display no grief. Miss Cooke girded herself up for the painful task of breaking the sad intelli- gence to her, but Miss Cross received the news with a calmness that amazed the good lady. Adelaide herself disdained any effort at an emotion which would have been only hypocrisy, and accepted being set down as unfeeling as the fair retribu- tion and punishment for not possessing such emotions. It was noticed, too, that she possessed an amount of worldly wisdom beyond the capacity of her companions, and that by a number of small devices she contrived to gain certain petty advantages that reached even beyond the walls of the school. Thus, when she was selected for " walking days," that is, to attend a newly arrived pupil who "was allowed a couple of days' grace before submitting to the discipline of the place, it was noticed that Adelaide Cross had con- Phcebe. 37 trived an acquaintance with the parents or guardians even during the few hours that they remained with their offspring. They somehow took away with them the im- pression of " having met a most intelligent girl" at Chapone House, when leaving their little Amelia ; so self-possessed, so full of sound sense ; they were really quite sur- prised. Miss Cooke told them she was the daughter of the late Canon Cross, a man who would have risen hi^h in the Church. So they were glad to find that she would be their Amelia's chosen playmate. If there was anything at all congenial in Amelia, Adelaide would make exertions to cement an alliance, and it once or twice happened that the Amelia brought home her friend with her to pass the vacation, say at Dingley Castle, or, better still, at Longlands or Shortlands, a description of seat which Adelaide found represented a more important class of county family than any other. It will be thouc^ht that all this belonors to a vulgar order of artifice, to the trans- parent shifts of some revived Rebecca Sharpe ; but this would be a mistake. As 38 Phcebe. already shown, Adelaide believed that she had prinqiple, though she felt that she was deficient in feeling and emotion, the possession of which, by saving the trouble of deliberation or purpose, makes the general acts of life much easier of execu- tion. She was ever trying to supplement the deficiency by exertion of this kind. Her position became a favourable element in excitingf a certain interest in those about her, which might have been wanting under other conditions, and every one felt that one who was forced to accept the drudgery of a teaching life, or to starve, was truly a victim of destiny that deserved pity. She was " Chained to the oar," to use a favourite phrase of her own. Even Dean Drinkwater, who superintended the reli- gious department, or deportment, of the school, made affable inquiries after her, and often " sent for her to the parlour," a species of honour which always caused a flutter in the young ladies' hearts, and was associated with events of importance. Adelaide Cross accepted this general sympathy, but formed a fixed determina- tion that during the short reprieve some- Phoebe. 39 thing should " turn up" that would " save her from the galleys." This was the one purpose of her life, sunk as it was within the walls of Chapone House. To this all her energies were directed, and with this view she tried to kindle a sort of natural warmth within her, and artificially cultivate the gentler emotions. Time, however, was fast slipping by ; there was as yet no break in the sky — and no prospect of such a break. The " Exhibition Day " was at hand when company came, and " the parents and guardians" were admitted to their children's performance, to see them re- warded with the great Dacier medal ! given annually for "general merit," some par- ticular act of good conduct, much as the Monthyon prize for virtue is conferred — in honour of the learned French lady after whom it was named. Languid prepara- tions were going on for this great cere- monial, the performers in which seemed to be selected more for their showy connec- tions than for their gifts. Interesting young ladies of rank were put forward in some slender act, where even their imperfections would command sympathy. Miss Cross — t(0 Phoebe. whose relations to the Academy were concealed for the occasion — was, however, to be shown as the model pupil — a fine example of the finishing power of the estab- lishment. She might have to recite, sing, play, suffer examination in French, Ger- man, and other departments, and this without any expectation of credit to her- self. Phoebe never aspired to the Dacier medal — indeed, the delicate wheel-work, etc., of her brain would have bent or broken under the strain of serious knowledge ; but she was to exhibit such ornamental smattering as her strength was equal to. Her native grace, with her little stock of agaqerieSy would be brought out on public examina- tion with more profit to the establishment than the successful rendering of Telemachus, or a recitation from the " Deserted Village." While these matters, however, were in train, a little adventure occurred which suddenly imparted a dramatic reality of life into the finishing school. Intimate as Phoebe was with her friend, this relation seemed more admiration on one side, and tolerance on the other. Phoebe. 4 1 ^hoebe felt that only a portion of Miss Cross's being was revealed to her, and that the real life and character of her friend was like some imposing mansion seen afar off through the bars of some heavy iron railing. She was only privileged to know so much as the other graciously allowed, and Phoebe often felt that there was another Adelaide Cross, who, under conditions different from the tame life of a school, would hardly be recognized by her. Nay, even within that dull and uniform life of the place, Phoebe somehow knew that Adelaide had a life of her own, apart, in which she found mate- rials of a more important kind, and where she was engaged in unseen work of a greater dignity. This mystery was felt by the other girls also. Phoebe often wondered what it was that thus enofagred the thoucrhts of her friend, and what were those majestic purposes, which had almost the air of mis- sions, which seemed to be engrossing her. She would have welcomed any confidence, and was only restrained by a sense of awe from attempting to pierce this mystery, which, indeed, to one of her vivacious nature, was highly provocative. But Ade- 42 Phoebe. laide was one on whom no one dared think of spying. One night the young ladies were assem- bled in their recreation room, Phoebe acting as ringleader, and, as usual, showing an extraordinary versatility in devising or in- spiring original games of romps. Her ring- ing- melodious laug^h was heard from the centre of a group as she unfolded some scheme more daring or grotesque than usual. A stick, or branch of a tree, was wanting for some illegal purpose. It could be fetched from the garden. But the police regulations were strict ; after seven o'clock the doors were locked. Indeed, if there was a point which the Miss Cookes con- sidered involved religion and morality, it was this— that any young lady who ven- tured into the open air after dark became compromised for life. This was one of the strictest principles known to the estab- lishment, and might be said to be taught with the catechism. In defiance, however, of law and morality, Phoebe at once volun- teered to go, enjoying the whole as a lark or spree. She was assisted through the school-room window, which was raised Ph(£be. 43 noiselessly, and, wrapping herself in a black cloak, so as not to be seen from the win- dow, hurriedly tripped down the walk to execute her purpose. The walk was straight, and led to a little iron side gate in the wall. Phoebe left the gravel walk, and made her way along the beds, to the grievous damage of the flowers, of which Miss Cooke made formal complaint next day to the chairman of the board of magistrates, demanding justice on the tramps who periodically robbed her garden. All was silent. Our Phoebe had begun her operations, when to her Intense fright she caught the sound of voices, and, shrinking behind a bush, peeped out to see whence the danger came. It was at the gate, where were two misty figures. There Phcebe saw a figure in white — beyond dispute one of Miss Cooke's young ladies — conversing through the gate with a young gentleman — tall — of actual corporal shape and substance ! The amaz- ing peril and excitement of such a situation made her heart beat, not with apprehension, but with curiosity and delight. Who could it be ? There was that sly and much sus- 44 PJioibe. pected Letitia ; but she was too tall for Letitla. There was the handsome and romantic Amelia, whose effects had once been visited under search-warrant signed by Miss Cooke, who was suspected of having *' Paul and Virginia" concealed ; who was saved by the generous presence of mind and devotion of Phoebe, to whom the work had been "passed" in an inspired plunge of agitation. But the back of the white figure did not look like Amelia. The voice — now she heard it clearly, and recoofnized it. Incredible ! — It was that of the sober, unromantic, almost stoical Ade- laide Cross ! at that moment believed by the whole household to be engaged "grind- ing" herself in the various branches, in- different to recreation and relaxation ! CHAPTER IV. AN ADVENTURE. Phcebe was at first inclined to attempt a coup de t/iMtre, and startle the pair by her sudden appearance to the sound of a peal of laughter ; but she felt it would be dangerous to try such an experiment. She quietly found her way back, wondering, certainly, but rather wounded. She would have trusted all to the loyalty of her friend, and was indeed piqued at not being trusted with an adventure in which she would have been enchanted to co-operate. Before she went to bed that night, she was in her friend's room. She disdained — as some would have been inclined to do — to invite the other into a trap by getting her to make excuses, or ambiguously account for her 46 Phoebe. time during the evening, but at once re- proached her. " I thought you always told me every- thing," she said, with a quivering lip. Adelaide turned on her with an almost savage vivacity that scared Phoebe. " So you have been spying on me ? I insist on knowing what you know. If you have " The tender colour came into Phoebe's cheek. Her lip curled as by instinct. " I have never spied on any one — not in a dishonourable way. You should know me better than to say so. But why should I not tell you the truth — I did see you talking to a man at the garden-gate." A look of anger and mortification came into Adelaide's face. Her haughty spirit seemed to be wrung at this discovery. Perhaps she was humiliated at being thus detected, or at the advantage over her given to one who was so inferior. " Surely you are not angry with me. How could I help being in the garden at that time ? Why, I might be angry with you for not trusting me !" The other was looking at her steadily, Phmbe. 47 as if trying to read in her eyes whether this statement was true. Gradually the look of distrust passed away. She was making up her mind to a resolution. " Sometimes there are secrets too dan- gerous to be told. But now that you have my secret," continued Adelaide, " I have told you what you wished to know. But mind you were fairly warned." This serious phrase, and, indeed, all se- rious phrases connected with responsibility, made Phoebe look grave, if not alarmed. " Warned," she repeated. " Why, what is there to be afraid of!" " I mean, you will have to be cautious ; this is not a lark or bit of fun, as you might think. That is what I want you to under- stand." " But you would not think that I would betray you," asked Phoebe gravely. " You know me too well for that." In a matter-of-fact way, the other in- sisted. " I want to put it beyond this understanding, once for all. I did not in- tend that you, or any one in the school, should know of this. I do not wish that any one should be burdened with the re- 48 Phcebe. sponsibility of my secrets. It was your own act recollect, and all I want to be understood now, once for all, is, that there must be no trifling with the matter. It is sport to you, but it may be death to me. There we will leave the subject now." This seemed rather hard and harsh to Phoebe, and for some time afterwards she felt a little wounded. She was puzzled, too, by the rather legal and official fashion in which the matter was defined. How- ever, as nearly always occurred in such difficulties, she seized with welcome upon any solution that would bring back the old cheerful view of things, it having occurred to her that there was much mortifica- tion for Adelaide and her philosophical temper, in being thus detected in the en- tanglement of the soft passion. Phoebe was enchanted, and even felt full of pity and indulgence for her friend. Adelaide, after an interval, felt that she had been almost too stern and geometrical, as it were, with this tender nature, and had compromised her unbending nature, by putting her caution in too harsh a shape. Her character, which disdained Ph(£be. 49 indifferent confidence, was heartily mor- tified at a partnership which accident had forced upon her. She had, among her other plans, decreed that she should carry out her scheme alone and unassisted. If it succeeded, ** well and good," it should come as a coup de thddtrc upon them all. on the Misses Cooke, on the girls, who, at her departure, should cherish the tradition of that woman — girl — who had got among them, and was able, by her strong mind and will, to control events. If it failed, it was ill and bad, and it jarred on her to think how she should be lowered in the estimation of that trusting and admiring soul. Even though she herself were re- moved far away, and she should not know how the news should be received, the notion of that levelling rankled in her heart. Adelaide's feelings to Phcebe were always of a curiously mixed kind; some liking, some suspicion, and some dislike, if not jealousy, of superiority. She was quick enough to detect that superiority of impulse, which was reckless of all calculations of self interest, and would prompt to generous and un- selfish actions that she could not dream VOL. I. 4 50 Phcebe. of. This last, she was conscious, belonged to the earthy nature of her character, and was restrained by the cold touch of duty. It was hard, however, to resist the good spirits and importunity of Phcebe, who, now, in possession of this tremendous se- cret, was tormented by a feverish desire to know all details, and whose free inquiries were not to be restrained even by the cold reserve of her friend. She put questions of the most eager and impulsive kind, and which were not to be put aside. Was he handsome ? (Oh, she was sure he was !) Rich ? had he a fine place in the country — a nice name ? That last touch of the '* nice name," lifted the matter into comedy, and restored to Adelaide her sense of superiority. She could now become communicative. "He is neither rich, nor beautiful, nor has he a nice name," she said. " I am no judge of such matters, as you know, es- pecially of the last two. But he is a gen- tleman, and well connected ; I want no more ; and the tyranny here, the thought of being a school-mistress, becomes more and more odious to me every day." Phoebe. 5 1 " And how was it all managed ? It seems wonderful, shut up here, and with Miss Cooke watching ! Why!" and Phosbe looked with genuine admiration at her friend, for she was thinking at that mo- ment if any gallant and peerless gentleman had offered to whom she could give her heart, how in the wide world she could contrive what the clever Adelaide had done. " He has been about it a long time," went on Adelaide, " but I took no notice, until, as I say, this loathing began rising, rising every day like a tide. These Cooke women have lately wished to treat me as their property, in which they have invested so much, and as the time draws near for payment have grown arrogant. Then I began to think of him." " But how ?" repeated Phoebe, still in- tent on the mechanism of the adventure. " Oh, that was easy," said the other ; " that creature, Canova, would do anything for money or gentility. He carried the letters for me." (" How simple," thought Phoebe, "when once we come to know a thincj." Still would she have thought of Canova ?) 4—2 5 2 Phoebe. " But how did it all come about ?" she asked eagerly. " You didn't tell me that." " You recollect the day I went with Emma Cooke, when she had to go and see the dentist ? He was in the same car- riage, opposite to me. It was only the week before that they had insulted me — these two women I mean — and I had made up my mind for good and all to be a dependent no longer. This was the first chance that offered, and I did not let it pass, I promise you. We were not half an hour in the train, and before he left it, I had made my impression. When I set my mind on a thing, it somehow surely comes about, as you know, Phoebe." " It is indeed most wonderful," said Phoebe, suddenly grave. " I assure you, it has often seemed to me like some kind of magic power." " Nothing of the kind," said the other. " It is simply resolution, which always finds ways and means. The thing was done when he left us. I said he should like me, and, what is more, he shall marry me, too, though he does not intend it now." Plicebe. 53 Phoebe started. In all this there ap- peared to be something brutal, something that trampled through the gossamer net- work of romance that hune about her. The distinction as to loving, with the possibility of not marrying, was bewildering. " Why, if he will marry you } it is what he would wish, when he loves you." " Of course," said Adelaide, carelessly, " but still I shall make it a certainty. I daresay he thinks he can amuse himself with a poor girl like me, who has no one to protect her. ' I love, and then ride away,' like the shabby fellow in the song. It would be a disagreeable surprise to find himself held by the bridle." Phoebe laughed at this picture, and then became grave. "If he were that kind of character, Addy," she said, " he would not be the man to love. I would scorn, hate, and de- test him. I wish I saw him, I would tell him what you were, what a noble, generous nature yours is, and how you have been treated here." Adelaide looked at her sharply. " You would wish to see him ? There is 54 Phccbe. no need of that ; for the present, at least. Perhaps I am too boastful, and it may not come to anything. Now I must go back to the Dacierian humbug, as I call it. For I mean to spring a mine on them there too. They don't mean me to get it, I can see ; they want it for that aristocrat, Clinton, to be given in presence of the mamma and papa, and thus to increase the connection." Miss Cross was unusually bitter this morning ; but there was truth in her specu- lation. The Misses Cooke did not desire that so high an honour should be thrown away on the mere cheap drudges of the school. They were eager that the other candidate, the Honourable Millicent Clinton, who had some cleverness, should, as just pic- tured, in presence of a congenially fashion- able assemblage, receive it from the hands of the amiable Dr. Drinkwater, and thus " increase the connection." Though she had been thus confidential to Phoebe, the latter noticed that she afterwards grew reserved on the grand subject, as though she felt she had been too communicative. Phcebe began at last to think that the Phccbe. 55 affair had " gone off," or that the lover had withdrawn, and was thereupon too delicate to think of paining her friend by questions. It was, however, a great disappointment to her, as she would have " given worlds " to be allowed to discuss this delicious sub- ject in all its bearings and details. Adelaide said that he had gone away, that he would not be back for some weeks, and that then she hardly knew what turn the matter would take. Phoebe was certain " in her own mind " (a locality in which she was fond of laying the scene of a great many little operations) that there had been a quarrel, and was deeply grieved. An important functionary in the estab- lishment was a dry, sour lady, who filled the office of housekeeper, giving out linen, etc., but who acted as sergeant, under her officer. Miss Emma Cooke, and bore the more dignified title of " the matron." This person was styled " Corbett " by the young ladies, with whom she was in perpetual warfare. Her peculiarities were often a fertile source of inspiration, and Phoebe's powers of delineation had a rooted dislike to her. She was of very plain exterior, 56 Phoebe. full of a dry grating precision, on which the young girl used to rally her with a spark- ling but good-natured pleasantry, which it was difficult to resent. Even the decorous Miss Emma used to relax into a smile when complaint was made. The austere matron found her refuge, as such persons often do, in grim prophecy ; bidding people not very distinctly particu- larized " wait and see, and that when that girl had brought ' work ' and scandal on the place her warnings might be remem- bered !" But a freak on the part of Miss Phoebe had developed what was merely dislike and contempt into a deep-seated hatred, and a fixed determination to be " down on her " at the first opportunity. Phoebe had one day noticed that the keys were left in her door, and, at the head of a small band of irregulars, who admired her daring, and were ready to follow, though they could not lead, determined to enter and commit some piratical excess. Enchanted at the opportunity, she made her disposi- tions, posted sentries, and led in her party. The room offered nothing to compensate for the danger of the feat, though it and its Phcebe. 5 7 various objects had a sort of mysterious attraction and even novelty, which at schools, seem to attach to all the objects belonging to persons in authority. They turned everything over in guilty haste. A weak sister proposed the unmeaning ven- geance of upsetting the ink-bottle over the papers, just as Indians might burn a wig- wam, as a memorial of their visit ; but Phcebe, with higher instinct, suggested dressing up a bundle with nightcap, etc., and putting it on the bed. Suddenly a cupboard attracted attention, in which the key was left. It was promptly opened by Phcebe, who thereupon prosecuted a search in person. In an instant she re-appeared, waving triumphantly an article which cer- tainly offered damning evidence in support of an unworthy prejudice that had long obtained among the girls in reference to " Corbett's " habits. This was a slender flask, decorated with one of those flaunting labels which are associated with the stimula- ting districts of Cognac. It proved that with "Corbett's" name must be associated that word " addicted," which seems to be always joined — for better or worse — with 58 Phoebe. an alcoholic sense. This piece of con- viction was received with a scream of delight, and from that moment the matron's character was hopelessly gone ; though, indeed, the poor woman, in adopting this cordial, did not sin much, using it as an addition to other elements which she com- pounded with her tea. Suddenly the sound of steps were heard, and a jDanic ensued. They would all be captured together as in a net. The sentry had proved false, or had been herself sur- prised. Phoebe alone drew up, threw her head back, and prepared for battle ; the rest gathered in a corner, a frightened herd. It was only Adelaide. There was a general cry of relief ; she guessed what was on foot, at once. " Here would be an opportunity," she said, suddenly, " to expose the woman's failing. We all know that she is not quite as perfect as she wants to appear. This is the sort of person Miss Cooke puts over us to set a good example." Without condescending to say more or to wait and see the result of the experiment, Adelaide slowly quitted the room, with the Phoebe. 59 air as though she had suggested what was merely an act of duty. With the quickness of genius the plan flashed upon Phoebe's brain. It would be free from detection, and at the same time inflict the most exquisite mortification upon her enemy, who would know that her secret failing was discovered, and at the same time be compelled to remain silent on the matter. The flask was hurriedly wrapped up in some articles of clothing so as to assume something of the size of a human head, and was then invested with a nightcap, and the whole placed in Mrs. Corbett's bed ; the face, or what answered for the face, turned to the wall. The anticipations of the discovery that would ensue, and the compound emotions to which the victim would become a prey, were exquisite. Strange, sudden bursts of laughter, and eyes too significantly antici- pating mischief, had almost betrayed the members of the little gang during the day. What Mrs. Corbett did experience was never known ; but Phoebe, who almost challenged her gaze, laughed with a good- natured insolence. It was certain, too, 6o Phcebe. that even the principal herself had an Ink- ling of what had taken place. Miss Emma, of course, knew everything that occurred among the girls, just as the sergeant learns what is going on among the men ; and, strange to say, the awful chief of the house was not displeased at discovering this lapse from virtue in her trusted assistant, who' had hitherto presumed on a Spartan Im- munity from all the weaknesses of our na- ture. Mrs. Corbett would have been more than human if she forgave this wrong, or was not eager to have Phoebe " on the hip." Some weeks passed by. The latter had long since forgotten the transaction, and was, indeed, working for some newer and equally piquant mode of annoyance, when this romance of real life in which her friend was concerned, suddenly sprung up and absorbed all her faculties. It was hard to describe the degree to which she revelled in it. She longed to complicate — to elabo- rate — it Into a full-pledged substantial affair. She was never weary of dwelling on it in secret. She laid out a perfect programme. Her uncle had Interest and could get the lover on in the world Phosbe. 6 1 A week or two passed by, and somehow it seemed that the Misses Cooke beean to have some dim foreboding of the impending desertion of the most useful of their pupils, and began at last to be piqued by her hostility. Miss Emma grew sour, " short," and unaccommodating. She seemed to be on the look-out for causes of quarrel ; she was stern, and entered into no discussion, but " required the thing to be done " in an arbitrary autocratic way. Once she said it was time they came to an understanding. The pupil continued to bear herself with the same quiet insolence, and a sarcasm of manner more irritating than sarcasm in words. And on one evening Miss Cross was publicly ordered to her room, into con- finement until further notice, until it should be considered what should be done with her. Whether the Venerable Dean Drink- water should be called to administer his treatment, i.e., the young lady be summoned down to the " stranger's parlour " for an in- terview with this ecclesiastical patron (the Misses Drinkwater had been " finished " at a reduction of premium), or whether she should be sent away. Still, this step could 62 Phcebe. not be profitably taken, as the sisters had ** sunk " too much in the investment. But what really inflamed the resentment of the lady " heads " of the house, was the dis- covery of Adelaide's determination to com- pete seriously for, which was tantamount to winning, the Dacier medal. Their annoy- ance at this resolve was inconceivable, as there was no way of defeating it. For the examination was usually conducted with an ostentatious air of impartiality, Dr. Drink- water and " a Fellow of All Souls' " being specially retained to set papers to the young ladies, that is, to all in the school whq pre- sented themselves. So at a fashionable bazaar some engaging young shopwoman feels a similar vexation when there is " a tie" between an aristocratic patron and some obscure clerk, who have both thrown for her cushion. Interest, inclination, all prompt her to a little hocus pocus in favour of the more desirable candidate. Miss Cooke told her pupil plainly that she should not be allowed to enter for this honour, and was told in reply that if there was any attempt to prevent her obtaining the reward due to her merits, she would ap- Phoebe. 63 peal to the public on the day of exhibition. This bold and terrible speech was properly looked upon as " a burning of her ships " and a plain declaration of war to the knife. On further interchange of sharp language, Miss Cross was ordered to her room — into confinement for the evening. The young- lady gathered up her books and papers and retired. Phoebe was indignant and excited, and all through the afternoon was acting as a little incendiary, trying to inflame the popular passions and stir up something like a riot. If " No tyranny !" or " Too many Cookes spoil the soup," or some other gall- ing reproach were written on a small placard, she would volunteer to affix it, like some petard, to the door of the obnoxious lady's room. But the crowd was not to be stimu- lated to such an outrage ; for the high- bred young ladies had but little sympathy with their persecuted sister, who was looked on as a sort of low Radical, much as their papas looked on the spouting workmen who led the trades union of the district. Phoebe, indeed, was often thought to have compromised herself by her whole- 64 PJi(Ebe. sale alliance with her inappropriate com- panion. She was considered something " plebeian," in her tastes — but the truth was she delighted in a bit of nature or clever- ness or freedom, and this was her way of making protest against the stiff ordinances of fashion, which she flung off as impetu- ously as she did the fashionable straight waistcoat which Madam Jeannette, of Regent Street, who undertook the " shape " of the young ladies, had tried to fit on her. So all that eveninor Phoebe Avas thinkinof ■of the "poor prisoner," and inveighing against her ''jailors." As a matter of course, she had con- trived, through the agency of a maid " who would do anything for Miss Phcebe," a visit to her friend in her dungeon. This gallant attempt, which involved serious risk, was made light of by Phoebe. The other was not a little softened, and kissed her with as much warmth as was consistent with her nature. " It's a shame!" said Phoebe with grlow- ing cheeks ; " such a mean unworthy perse- cution ! Never mind, it can only last a short time. When you are married and Phcebe. 65 have your carriage — they will die of spite and vexation. And would I not orlve worlds to be by when they hear the news !" Thinking this the best comfort she could offer, Phoebe was astonished to see her friend rise and walk impatiently over to the window. " That will be all at an end after to-night," she said. " He is to be at the garden gate to-night, at nine o'clock. Now, he will never come again." " How dreadful," said Phoebe. " Still he will know that something has prevented you " " No," said the other quite calmly ; *' he is so sensitive and vain, that he will prefer to take offence, as he did a short time ago." " Then he is not worth having," said Phoebe impetuously. " Perhaps not, for himself," said Adelaide. " But I cannot afford to be nice in my se- lection. There is a class you have heard of who are not allowed to be choosers. I may tell you that not long ago, he was taking airs, and patronizing a poor girl at the school, and I spoke my mind to him. He was VOL. I. 5 66 Phosbe. affronted and left me. Then I thought, as I said, that I was not a person entitled to the luxury of quarrelling or taking offence, so it cost me infinite trouble to bring him back. He is fickle and touchy ; his vanity will be wounded at what he will consider dis- respect — I can't help it. It is another little item of the debt to Miss Cooke." She saw a plan lighting up in Phoebe's eyes. "Write him a note," said the latter, "and I shall be postman !" "No, no," said the other ; " I want to bring no one in my difficulties. The matter must take its chance." " And have all your happiness in life sac- rificed ! It shan't be. I'll steal out into the garden when it gets dark and shall tell him that you are in prison, and can't get out — and that he must come again to-morrow night, at the same hour. If he's cross I'll talk him over, and tell him all about you, and how worthy he must try to make him- self of you. Oh, leave it all to me." Adelaide grew hard in a moment. " I never leave anything to any one else. But I am obliged to you all the same. As Phoebe. 67 I say, the thing must take its chance now. Understand me, I wish no one to inter- fere in the matter." " Oh, certainly," said Phoebe, her enthu- siasm at once checked. " I thouofht I mio-ht help you. Is there anything else that I can do ?" " Nothing. You will understand me ; and I really thank you for what you pro- pose, but in this sort of thing I prefer to perhaps depend upon myself" Phoibe retired with a sort of uncomfort- able feeling, as though she had been re- proved. However, when she was alone, the image of the young gentleman waiting at the garden-gate for the girl he loved — wondering, feverish with hope and anxiety — kept rising before her. What would he think of the apparent neglect, the cruel de- sertion, by one whom he had travelled miles and miles to see ? How harshly would he judge the innocent Adelaide — and, after his long wait, go away in a pet, perhaps never to return ! From this interesting picture, it was not far to the daring scheme which arose, ready complete, in Phoebe's mind. Adelaide's 5—2 68 Phcebe. peremptory refusal of assistance was but coquetry, and that pride which made her disdain assistance. She was now helpless, and her friends must act for her. She (Phoebe) would go in her stead — go at all risks, and without lettinp; Adelaide know of the matter. Apart from the friendly cha- racter of the act, it would be a delightful and exciting " lark." At eiofht o'clock the doors of the esta- blishment were closed, and the keys distri- buted among the various officers ; that of the great gate being carried up solemnly and laid on Miss Cooke's table, as the Tower gate-key is placed in the hands of the officer of the watch ; that of the hall and back doors being given over to the patrol for the night, which was constituted by Miss Emma Cooke, or by the matron, Mrs. Corbett, or one of her resident mistresses. These solemnities were time-honoured and inflexible; and it was understood that, once locked, nothing short of what was analagous to an act of Parliament passed for the pur- pose could unlock them until seven the fol- lowing morning. Miss Cooke, in fact, in herself was a sort of lady abbess, account- Phosbe. 69 able for all her fair novices ; and, as though there were numbers of unlicensed Bois Guilberts prowling about, eager to break in, €xit from the house by the regular mode was simply impossible ; but Phoebe recol- lected that at the end of one of the corri- dors was a low window, through which it would be easy to scramble. The corridor at this time was deserted, and in compara- tive darkness, the gas being " down," and burning with a little blue speck. She got her hat and cloak with a little hood, making her toilet in much agitation. All was still and silent. With the sagacity of all school- boys and school-girls, she could account for the position of those in authority over her at any given moment — when they would be absent, and when expected to return. The period after night prayers — which Miss Cooke in person recited, with a bear- ing and unction almost ecclesiastical, having a gift, too, of extempore interpellation — was always reckoned the season for strata- gems and spoils. There was then, always a sort of lull, Miss Emma Cooke and the rest of the police being engaged with their grateful tea. 70 Phcedc. Phoebe climbed lightly through the win- dow, and tripped down the walk. Once in the open air, with the dark trees over her, for the first time the danger, and even impropriety, of the step occurred to her. That going to meet a person — one of the other sex — ^whom she had never seen be- fore — what should she say? What would he say ? What would he think of her ? But she recalled the imprisoned Adelaide, who was now helpless, and whose future interest might be at stake. Nay, she would take up her friend's cause, praise, magnify her to the skies. Who knew her perfec- tions so well as she did ? What Adelaide could not speak for herself, she (Phoebe) could speak for her. There was some- thing gallant and chivalrous in the idea, and it filled her little soul. She was even eager to meet him. She glanced timorously at the house. There shone the light in the greater Miss Cooke's window, who was then going to bed with almost reijal solemnities. She hurried to the gate. It was a clear night, and she saw through the rail a figure of Ph(rbe. 7 1 a young and good-looking gentleman — but who instantly disappeared. There was something inexpressibly ro- mantic, if not pleasing, in the situation. Here was a hero, a knight, a cavalier — such as she had read of in the story-book. There were the bars of the gate between — he was, as it were, in a cage ; that intro- duced prose again. She recollected that she was shorter than her friend. No doubt he took her for one of the mistresses. She said softly, " Don't be afraid ; I am only Adelaide's friend." The orentleman came out of the dark- ness again, and stood before her. He was tall, brown-haired, and about three or four and twenty years old. The moon was just coming out, and he saw the face of the messenger as it peeped from the hood with a shy, sly expression. " She can't come," went on Phcebe, ner- vously ; " indeed she can't ! They have shut her up in prison " " In prison !" he repeated. " Adelaide in a prison !" " I mean," said Phoebe, " a room, more exactly. But it is as bad as a prison to 7 2 Phoebe. one of her spirit ; and, what was worse, she was sufferincf so much at the thoupfht of not being able to meet you, and what you must think of her. And she was so distressed, — I can assure you she was " " So you came to bring me the message. We are both obHged to you. And cer- tainly the messenger she chose " " Oh ! there was nothing in that," went on Phoebe, every now and again looking round. " We have always been such dear friends — all the school knows it. And I like her so much I would not have her disap- pointed in anything." "And you did not care for this danger?" said he. " That was very courageous of you !" " Oh ! it's no matter about me," said Phoebe. " I was delighted to come ; for I wanted to tell you that you must like her so much. She is worthy of any one's love. You can have no idea what a grand, clever creature she is, and how much she suffers here. They don't treat her kindly. Meet- ing her in this way," added Phoebe, laying her hand on the gate, "you can't know half her merits. But I do ; for I know her better than any one in the world." Phcebe. 73 " I am sure she is everything you say. I am convinced of it, Miss — -Miss — I think I ought to know the name of Adelaide's friend ?" " Phoebe," she said, demurely ; " Phoebe Dawson. You have heard Adelaide speak of me, of course ?" " So Adelaide is your friend," he an- swered, without replying to her question. "Phoebe Dawson ! what a charming name!" Phoebe glanced back at the house — the .compliment alarmed her. " Now," she said, recollecting the pur- pose for which she came, and putting on her wise manner, as though she was say- ing, " let us come to business " — " now, I want you to promise to like Adelaide very much. You don't know how much she de- serves to be liked, nor what a treasure she will be — so wise, so clever — quite like a person that is grown up and in the world." At this praise the gentleman remained silent. " Her all depends on you," went on Phoebe, growing quite eloquent. "Her whole heart is set upon you ; so you must marry her as quickly as possible." 74 ■ Phccbe. " How warmly you plead the cause she has entrusted you with." " She knows nothing of my being here," said Phoebe; "she would be very, very angry if she did." " And it was your own idea," he said,, astonished. " You are a very spirited young lady. But as for the marriage, that is going rather fast. There are many thinors to be considered before takino^ such a serious step. We must look about us." " Look about you !" Phoebe repeated, in- dignantly. "If you were really attached to her, and prepared to give up all the world for her sake, you would not speak in that way." The young gentleman laughed. "Don't •think very badly of me," he said, " but — " "Mind this," said Phoebe, much disturbed at finding she was compromising her friend; *' I have no command of language as she has, and cannot say what I want to say. O ! there goes the school-clock !" she added, suddenly becoming alarmed at the situa- tion. " I oucjht not to have come here. Oh, I should not be here at all !" "It was a most generous and loyal act Phcebe. 75 on your part," said he, warmly ; " and I'm sure if you had not come, I should not have returned — I should have thought it all at an end." " Oh, I am so glad of that!" said Phoebe, enthusiastically. " Then you promise me to think everything good of Adelaide — which, of course, you do already, don't you .'' " As you say so, of course I do — that is, have almost convinced me." " Almost!" said Phoebe, with a reproving air. " After all I have said ! But I have not told you half what I wanted." " No," he said ; " there has been no time. And I, too, have such a crowd of things to ask you. You could tell me so much about her. Perhaps you would — no, I could not venture to ask you to run such a risk again " " Risk I I don't care for the risk," said she gallantly, " if that be all." " I mean, if you could finish all you have to tell on some other nio-ht ?" Phoebe looked grave. " No ; that can't be. Next night she will 76 Phoebe. come herself ; and perhaps I may come too, and keep watch." " What a true friend you are !" he said. ^' I seem to know her better now, through all that you have been saying, than I ever did before." " I am so glad!" said Phoebe. " It makes me quite happy to hear you say that. Now I must really go." " Just one moment," he answered. "You said that Adelaide did not know of your coming to-night ?" " No," said Phoebe ; " and it will be such a surprise for her when she hears it." " Exactly," he said, slowly. " I was thinking how she would receive the news. You know she has her own ideas about these things — wishes matters to be done in her own way." " Oh, I see !" said Phoebe, thoughtfully. " Perhaps, after all, it might be better to keep this as our own little secret. Next time you shall tell me more about her ; and how amazed she will be to find that we have been old friends all the time ! Is it a bargain ?" Again the clock struck, which made Phcebe. "jj Phoebe start, as though Miss Cooke had suddenly called to her. Without answer- ing his question, she said, hurriedly, " Oh, I must go ! Good-night ! good- night !" " What !" he cried, " you won't ?" His hand was waivinq- throucrh the bars in a manner that seemed comic, or at least grotesque, to Phoebe. After a second's irresolution, she came back and shook it, then fluttered away like a bird. She got through the window, having rather a narrow escape — " squeak " the girls would call it — of being detected, as gendarme Corbett was going her rounds, in listen slippers, dark lantern in hand. Alas ! a flash detected Phoebe at the open window, but with her back to it. To the interrogatory, "What are you doing here, miss ?" the reply was a gay laugh, and a declaration that she wanted to run away from the school, and that her clothes would be found tied up in a bundle on the grass under the window. There was no bringing logic to bear ; she was as 78 Phoebe. " incompressible a fellow " as the late Mr, Foote. " This shall be reported to Miss Cooke in the morning," said the matron, more in- dignant at being gibed than at the culprit's offence. " Catch me first," was the answer, and Phoebe bounded away to her room, leaving the matron much disturbed, and with a cer- tainty that there was some prepared trick or Fieschi explosive laid, which gave her half an hour's trouble to search for. There was not much sleep for Phoebe that night, for it was long before she could shut out that exciting and romantic scene. Here was a new and undiscovered element in the life of the finishing school. The garden, a gallant young prince, the gate, and she herself playing the part of the good fairy. The only thing that was uncertain was, how would she deal with her dear friend, Adelaide ? She had an instinct that the advice given by the young prince was not exactly to be followed, and something told her that a secret or mystery in such matters was scarcely proper. But had he not Phoebe. 79 shown such deference, such complete loyahy, such sense, too, as a perfect man of the world, who knew much more than a little boardinor-school miss like herself ? Above all, how admirably he had hit off Adelaide's character : she was fearful of committing a mistake. Besides, "they two, thus laying their heads together," would act more in the interest of Adelaide, who, to say the truth, was likely to injure her own interests, by the rather too practical tone which she was inclined to impart into all matters, romantic or otherwise. Phoebe lay awake long, her pulses all in a flutter, think ing of this enchanter, and being a young lady not in the least familiar with such elements as " decision," or " making up one's mind," and the rest, was content to leave the matter in a delicious mist of un- certainty. In the morning, about the first person she met was Adelaide, now released from confinement. Unprepared, and doubtful what to do, Phoebe thought that she would put off the revelation till later in the day, especially as she fancied the eyes of Ade- laide were resting on her with an air of 8o Phcebe. inquiry. Very eagerly she poured out her sympathy on her friend, yet she felt she was a little hypocritical. But at the next recreation, when she had time to turn the great business over, she must tell her the whole. . "You must have suffered dreadfully," said Phoebe. " How cruel they have been to you, and " here she hesitated, " the dreadful disappointment, too." " Not at all," said Adelaide, bluntly, " it was part of my plan. I intend that it shall be a test for him, so that he can now have the opportunity of showing whether he can be true and constant. He is a little vola- tile, but I myself believe that he will stand this trial. Not for the world would I have sent him a message or excuse, and so I told you last night." Phoebe murmured " ye-es," in a rather faltering fashion. She was full of courage of a certain sort, and would have " faced a battery," as the phrase runs, when brought to bay, but the sort of courage that can face a mental battery — the guns of the stronger mind — she had not. She was then always Phoebe. 8 1 inclined to temporize, to " put off" the evil hour. " Ye-es," she faltered. Should she — -It was no longer " tell," she felt, but " confess." At that moment appeared Miss Emma Cooke, to take proces verbal of the open- window business last night, and Phoebe went with alacrity, accepting present relief from the situation at the price of future em- barrassment. This was our Phoebe " all over," and all through the little transactions of her school life. She had the young spendthrift's eagerness to draw or renew bills. Anything that would put off the present inconvenience, were it only for a few hours, was equivalent to a full deliver- ance. Dismissed with a warning from the bench, delivered with uplifted finger, Phoebe would congratulate herself on having so cheaply escaped from her interview with Adelaide. When she joined the girls again, at " second recreation," she found the diffi- culty recur again ; but she felt now that it was too late, and that she should have spoken after Adelaide's speech, if at all. She was in part glad to put it aside alto- gether on that excuse, for the doctrine of VOL. I. 6 82 Phoebe. " getting it over," by going through present pain, though often preached, had always something Hke terror for her. Finally, a little worried by the " mess " she had got into, she said to herself that the thing would end there, and was only a bit of fun. She was before the grlass as she thouo-ht this — the rather attenuated measure allowed by the establishment to the young ladies — and a roguish smile was playing over her face. Was she so sure that it would end there ? He was certainly distinguished-looking and handsome, as far as he could be made out in the shadow, and had such a musical voice and power of language ! Thus it was that Phoebe was impelled to say nothing of the adventure ; but she in- tended to act in the most delightful and satisfactory way for her friend, as soon as she had the matter well in hand. That she would thus control, and bring it to the issue, was next to a certainty, from what was perhaps not the least disagreeable element in the case, and the thought of which made Phoebe smile, toss her head, and say, " What nonsense !" an expression in the mouth of every Phoebe, meaning the direct Phcebe. 83 opposite. This was that the young gentle- man would not be disinclined to submit to the influence of the friend of his Adelaide. Phoebe soon came to be wondering what would be the next step in the business, and was eager that some new opportunity should offer. A few days later Miss Emma Cooke was coming round in the capacity of general postman — a duty she fulfilled with a Douanier-like severity, for she carried a penknife, with which she used to cut open each envelope on its delivery to, and in presence of, the recipient — with a view that no coin, note, cheque, or other shape of funds, should be concealed within. Such presents came rarely to Phoebe, " mamma " not being able to offer many tokens of the kind. On this occasion there were two letters submitted to the postman's operating knife. " Thafs mamma !" cried Phcebe, who, when eager and enthusiastic, uttered her thoughts aloud. " But I don't know this one, it's not Tom !" thus unconsciously^illus- trating the figure of " personification," on which Miss Emma Cooke often lectured. She opened it, then started, and walked 6—2 84 Phwbe. away. No wonder, for Miss Emma would have required some explanation of those glowing blushes which dyed her two sensi- tive cheeks — a language which has but one meaning for even the most unsophisticated. As it was, Miss Emma noticed some con- fusion, and set it down to the account of bad pecuniary news from home. Adelaide was standing by, not waiting for letters, which rarely came to her, but about to speak to Miss Cooke on some business. Here, perhaps, was the cause of the flush on Phoebe's cheek. She had crumpled up the letter and put it in her pocket. "No bad news ?" said her friend, now beside her. Phoebe started, and had to look up. " Why, what's the matter ?" went on Adelaide, deliberately. " Nothing," said Phoebe. " Nothing !" said the other. " Your cheeks are the colour of blood !" Phoebe was a little rebellious in temper. To " patting," or any kind of invitation, she would respond with eagerness, but not to " driving." The slightest attempt at Phoebe. 85 the latter, and she tossed her head, and began, in the language of the steam-boat, " to back." " You don't want to see all my letters, Adelaide," said she, mischievously, " do you r " No," said the other, coldly. " Only the whole school could read the contents in your face." " I don't care," said Phoebe. '' let them, they are welcome." " Let all the world be welcome, by all means, only understand this, you can hide very little from the world, or from me." A moment before Phoebe was hesitating. Adelaide, she thought, of all persons. skotdd see this letter, for it was from the lover, but no one should dragoon her. " She was not a childl' — a favourite protest of Phoebe's. — She belonged to that class of the community who have to assure people what they are, and what they are not ; that they are clever ; that they are making money, getting on, etc., or that they are not stupid, or like our Phoebe, " won't be treated like a child." The orenuine class make no such declarations — their actions speak. 86 PhcBbe. The world sees for itself that they are getting on, are clever, and not children. The letter which Phoebe, once out of sight, flew along the corridor to read in her room, was as follows : " \Prwate7\ " Dear Miss Dawson, " I do hope you got back without risk. How courageous and gallant it was of you. I felt ashamed of myself, I can assure you, I, who ran no risk in the world, and was quite safe outside the bars of the gate ; and to think of your devoting your- self in that way for your friend. I have been thinking over all you so admirably urged about Adelaide, and which you were urging when we were interrupted. You almost convinced me, but still I doubt. I am, as I dare say you have guessed, a rather uncertain and sceptical creature. If I give my heart, what shall I get in return ? Do I really know the brilliant creature after all ? This is what I ask myself often. You are her friend, and know her much better than I do. There are a thousand things I would wish to be told, but who is to tell Phoebe. 87 me ? What you have said already, has done much to reassure me, so I must only be content with that, and trust, as Mr. Micawber says, ' that something will turn up.' At least you will be my friend. "• Forgive my being so bold as to write to you, but I know you love Adelaide, and will be interested in any one that is inte- rested in her. You see that I do all this openly, and without any attempt at subter- fuge. I am staying at the ' Red Lion.' May I hope for a line ? " Believe me, " Yours truly, " Henry Pringle." This last point, of being "open," had already struck Phoebe as something noble and chivalrous. It did not occur to her that the gentleman need not fear being compromised. What impressed her also was the respectful tone of his letter. It was that of a " perfect gentleman," and it re- moved all the scruples which had hitherto disturbed her. A number of plans and speculations went dancing through her litde brain. She was eager to be at work again. 88 Phoebe. She thought pleasantly she was not so simple, after all, and could be a little clever, like other people. But what was she to do next ? Things could not remain in their present state, and delay would be dangerous and embarras- sing. The difficulty was Adelaide, from whom she could not keep this secret, and to whom she yet could not impart it. Now she began to feel the inconvenience of the first concealment ; but the idea of oroinof to Adelaide and making confession of what she had done, was an act for which she had not courage. Besides, Adelaide's tone^ On several occasions the cold gaze of her friend had settled on her in a manner that made her uncomfortable. She deter- mined that she would "put it off "^ — Phoebe's grand resource and remedy in case of debts or other inconveniences— put it off until — and here her spirits came back again — the grand crisis, when she had arranged every- thing for dear Adelaide, far better than dear Adelaide would do it herself, and had brought the young Lochinvar to offer his hand in the most satisfactory way. Having thus found a favourable issue, Phcebe. S^ Phoebe's spirits returned; she saw the whole picture before her — the whole transaction completed — and meeting Adelaide a few minutes later, she ran up and kissed her heartily, as though to congratulate her, leaving the impression that she was in pos- session of some joyful news. Before the day was over, Phoebe, who at first had " shied " timorously at the bare idea, had actually brought herself to the serious step of writing a letter directed to her correspondent at the "Red Lion Hotel." She tore up half a dozen attempts. She had tried to begin with " Dear Sir," " Miss Dawson presents her compliments," and she finally determined to commence abruptly, without any fashion of address, or " dear." " I received your letter. It is very plea- sant to think that anything I said could have had so good an effect. I would give the world to convince you that Adelaide really loves you ; and I think I could per- suade you of it. I know it is not right for me to see you in that way and that man- ner, and Miss Cooke would not approve of 90 PJicebe. my doing so ; still, for Adelaide's sake, I think there could not be any harm in my seeing you once more, when you mw^X. pro- mise to listen to what I shall tell you about her." This letter was conveyed, not without difficulty, to the letter-box, which was a short distance from the o"ate. Until the answer came she found herself rather shun- ning her friend, as she felt she could not trust herself before that interrogative glance and searching eye, which, with a question or two, would extract her whole secret from her. In her room she often prepared herself for the interview — rehearsing, as it were. The hero was so " nice," so charmingly de- ferential to her, that she flattered herself she had orained a sort of influence over him already, and he could not refuse her. Yes ; the poor persecuted Adelaide should have an unseen friend working secretly for her, and never know of the obligation. She was not in the least nervous, and went about among the girls in a flurry of mis- chief, and in the most boisterous spirits, Phcebe. 9 1 and with the Httle harmless " devil," that always lay in a corner of her soul, released and ready for mischief. She had made up her mind that the handsome young hero should not leave the orate till he had gfiven his solemn promise, and even named a day for his nuptials with her friend. Days went by, however, and no answer came. Phoebe's lip began to curl and quiver a little at the mortification. He could not have been " amusing himself !" and her eyes flashed at the idea of such a liberty being taken with " a Dawson " — a liberty which, on a single word to Tom, would be chastised with exemplary severity. But no ; it was impossible that so nice a creature could behave in such a manner. Still no answer came from the " Red Lion." Days, and even weeks passed by, and Phoebe orrew not a little anxious under the double responsibility. CHAPTER V. A FATAL DISCOVERY. Meanwhile, the school was approaching that wished-for period when " finishing " was suspended for the vacation ; and the young ladies — save, of course, a few casuals with officious guardians, or whose parents lived about the Equator or the Antipodes -were to g-o home. Now began those processes which were to convince " the parents " that their money and affectionate interest had been well invested. The drawing-master had gathered up all those laboured pencil-scratchings — the crooked trees, whose boughs and foliage were as solid and heavy as the houses beside them, and houses which were as crooked and crazy as the trees, the smirched water-colour drawings, awful medley of tones and spots Phcebe. 93 — and had taken them home with him. On the great day, they would all lie on the table, clean and beautiful, the crooked por- tions made straight, the trees blooming with airy foliage, the houses miraculously straightened, and relieved with bold bits of colour dashed in with a free touch, and all charmingly trimmed and mounted on snowy Bristol board. At first the pupil might rub her eyes, and scarcely recognize her production ; but time and praise would accustom her to accept it, and when sumptuously framed and hung up, Mademoiselle, having given up the " accomplishment " altogether, gra- dually begins to confound her own touches with those of the master, and complacentK" accept praises for those early works. " What a pity, Georgina, you did not keep up your painting," was often the speech of an affectionate mamma, as her eye settled on the red cloak of the peasant in the foreground, which was entirely Mr. Stippler's work, splashed in desperately to save the whole. So, too, with the music. Mr. Canova had a number of easy pieces in what might 94 PJicebe. be called the " Ba-ba black-sheep " style, "The Maiden's Prayer," "Trickling Drops," etc., in the key of C or G, which he ham- mered painfully into the fingers of his pupils. Through them they contrived to pick their steps. But he devised more ambitious displays for the day of exhibi- tion, when the strangers were present, by, as it were, touching up the pieces with his own hands, just as the drawing-master did in his department. These were the com- pound performances of two pianofortes, or four, duetts on a single one, in all of which Canova officiated, and took the burden on himself. So with the elocution teachers, Mr. and Mrs. Siddons-Smith, and the French and other masters, and the Oxford B.A., who looked after the Latin and Greek, or the little scraps of those languages. All was with a view to " finishing." If a hand- some display was but secured on that day, when so many distinguished people were assembled, the parents, as Miss Cooke knew, would be content. Now, too, the examinations were in, and the few " hot-house " girls, who were to support the reputation of the establishment, PJuvbe. 95 were already marked out for prizes. Thus, the daughter of Mr. and Lady JuHana Mann^ — he was in the diplomacy — was of rather a pedantic turn ; and it was surely natural that she should bear off the history premium. Mr. Mann had promised to at- tend, and it would really be interesting that a father should see a child receive a pre- mium from the Hon. and Very Rev. the Dean Drinkwater. The young lady was encouraged to make exertion, and the B.A. clergyman who examined, though he did not literally '' receive the office " to that effect, made everything very smooth for the young postulant. So with French for Miss Mantower, Lady Mantower's niece; so with elocution, where the Siddons-Smiths de- clared that Miss Hutton, the member's daughter, showed almost oratorical genius, and that her recitation of Mr. Longfellow's " Excelsior" suggested Miss Faucet. Mr. Hutton, the member, would take the honour as a compliment to himself Such was the system of Miss Cooke's establishment, which was not directly open to a charge of partiality, which Miss Cooke would have repelled with indignation ; but the ground was certainly smoothed in that •96 Phoebe. direction, and the policy of the administra- tion certainly favoured selection rather than competition. But that this suspicion of favouritism might, once for all, be dis- pelled, it should be stated that nearly every pupil of consideration received a reward of some kind; and it was contrived that even the poor drudges, who were not recommended .by wealth or connection, should go away 'distinguished in so comparatively humble a 'department as the Catechism. What, there- fore, were by courtesy called the competi- tive examinations were now beginning, and the " B. A. Oxon."- — -which the lively Phoebe insisted was but another name for " sheep and beef" — with Dean Drinkwater and the other professors, had actually arrived, and were already " setting papers " to the young ladies. Very soon the great class room — formerly a ball-room, when the house had, erst, been a family seat — would be cleared. The upholsterer's men came to lay down " the dais," where was to be the apo- theosis of Dean Drinkwater, who was to sit surrounded by smiling parents and guardians, and where, too, a quantity of PhcEbe. 97 hired caned-bottomed chairs were to be discharoed. Above all, the Cooke dove- cote was being fluttered by the news, now authentic, that Adelaide Cross had deter- mined to claim the Dacier Medal ! In her case it was felt that no shifts or ingenious manipulation would avail. Such devices would be dangerous, the young lady having spoken out plainly, and the visiting ex- aminers understood the matter in the same way. Miss Cross was exactly the person to make a public appeal in presence of the distinguished assembly. It was alto- gether annoying. Her abilities were too well known, and nothing in the shape of so convenient an arrangement could be at- tempted. Phoebe — never studious, and positively idle, and whose small cranium seemed of too slender and delicate a material to bear the working of such machinery as memory, getting by heart, working sums, and the like — had, however, a department of an ornamental kind reserved for her — "Botany AND Ladies' Gardening." This went no higher or no deeper than the names of fashionable flowers — azaleas, camellias, etc. VOL, I. 7 98 Phoebe. — and the knowledge required was of a very simple and unscientific kind. Calix and pistils were too rugged for Phoebe's brain, though she could gossip prettily about petals, which she had met with in books of poetry. CHAPTER VI. AT THE GARDEN GATE. With all these exciting matters draw- ing on, and keeping Phoebe and her com- panions in a flutter, she had scarcely time to think of what had promised to be an exciting adventure ; and she was, indeed, somewhat piqued at its rather pusillanimous abandonment by the hero. Unsophisti- cated as she was, Phoebe's instinct told her that literal and strict fulfilment of young ladies' commands in such cases was not ex- actly required, even by the most rigid ; and she owned to herself that the young Loch- invar was a little dull. However, it quite relieved her from the dread of encounter- ing Adelaide with so awful a secret in her keeping, and she could now look her friend gaily in the face. 7—2 1 oo Phcebc. Adelaide, however, never alluded to the subject, until one evening, when, in answer to a request of Phoebe's, " Won't you tell me f — is it a secret ?" she said abruptly, " No ! I have done with secrets for ever I This last one turned out so beautifully !" Phoebe orew nervous. " You mean — " " It ended there and then ! On the very day that I was confiding it to you, it had ended! Could you have believed it ?" Phoebe felt that some mysterious power — which was no other than the weakness of her nature — compelled her to be a little deceitful. How could she make confes- sion, having then been so hypocritical t So she had to put some little astonishment into her face. "Never been heard of since!" she faltered, " Never has made a sign," Adelaide re- peated. " I suppose he has discovered some other woman. It is a lesson for me never to be so stupid as to tell any- thing until it is a certainty. But I shall fmd it all out one day. One day I may have to give all the parties concerned a little chastisement for what they have done tome — ^just enough to satisfy justice with- Phcebc. loi out verging on vindictiveness. Meanwhile, you must promise me this : never alkide to the matter again, unless you want to humi- hate me, which I suppose you don't." Now was a sort of opportunity, Phcebe felt ; yet how could she tell her ? " But," she began. " What ! you won't promise ?" said Ade- laide, almost fiercely. " You wish to keep this advantage over me for my superior cleverness, as you think ?" " I do — I promise !" said Phoebe hur- riedly ; and did actually promise. " There, she won't let me," said Phoebe to herself desperately. "It is not my fault. However, there's an end of it, as she says. Poor fellow ! Yet I am sure there is some mistake." And she did promise. As she thought this, she went to the play-ground, where w^as the usual crowd of girls clustered about the energetic school- mistress. "One for you, Miss Dawson," said the postman, Miss E. Cooke, who on these occasions gave each recipient their full style, as being more official, and more in harmony with the direction on the letter. I02 Phcebe. When tlic penknife had performed its. functions, Phoebe saw the writing and re- cognised it. How mysterious, she thought, were the coincidences of hfe ! As be- fore, she flew away to a private room, tO' read it. '' Dear Miss Dawson, " What will you have thought of my silence ? I was called away suddenly by the illness of my mother. The agita- tion of this matter has prevented my at- tending to anything else ; but I heard by accident that the school is breaking up, and that you are all going away. So here I am, at the ' Red Lion,' once more. Do me one favour, and I promise it shall be the last time that I shall worry you. All our little plans depend upon my seeing you once again. I know you are too unselfish to refuse ; and depending on this, I shall be at the garden-gate to-night- — in any case — Whether you come or not I shall be there." Phoebe smiled as she read. She was- really delighted. Phoebe. lo^ o " Oh, how unjust Ave were to him !" she said. " It was too cruel. And his poor mother ! How nice of him !" She was full of enthusiasm and interest, and felt also not a little pride, because her judgment had been a little superior after all — this studiously moderate self-praise being in favour with young ladies — to Ade- laide's well-known sagacity. This enthusi- asm prompted her to agree at once, or at least " to see," or " wait and see," which was nearly the same thing. Again the magnificent scheme darted, fully formed, into her head ; it was all to be settled, " clenched," as it were, that night. She would behave with a cold, stiff dignity, as though he had displeased her, and taken a liberty. She would, categorically — though the word itself was not known to her, she could apply its meaning well — bring him to the point. He should say yes or no, and the interview should there end or proceed accordingly. The gate was between, and she should at once see him receding into the darkness ; then what a surprise, when she should rush for Adelaide, and tell her all, bring her to the gate, and be a witness 1 04 Phoebe. to their solemn betrothal ! She was already impatient for the moment to come. Now, well skilled in the method of escap- ing through the window, she readily found her way into the garden. She tripped down the long walk, having wrapped a black shawl about her, and was now at the gate where the dark fio-ure could be made out already waiting. Already the old nervous- ness of the situation had passed away ; she was going to meet a friend whom she knew, and over whom she had influence. " How good of you," he exclaimed, through the gate, " though indeed I don't deserve it. But you are always charming. To think of your running such a risk to come and meet a person like me." Phoebe was confused at this opening compliment. His voice and manner were charminof. " Indeed you have not behaved well," she answered. " I thought you had de- serted us altogether." It then suddenly occurred to her that it was as Adelaide's agent she was there, and yet she was beginning to speak as though she were the principal. Phoebe. 105 " Now, this won't do," she said. " We have come to-nicrht about business — ^about Adelaide's business, and nothing else." " Oh, that of course," he answered, less enthusiastically ; " but you must let me set myself right in your eyes first." " Oh, never mind that," said she, in her most coquettish way, and not displeased. " We must setde all to-night, for there is really no time to be lost. You see, we are all going away in a few days, and Dean Drinkwater is coming." " What is his business ? Is he the begin- ning of the end } Is he to marry any of the young ladies ?" Phoebe laughed gaily at the joke — -so it seemed to her — then not unskilfully turned his allusion to profit. " No ; but I do wish we could ask him to marry you and Adelaide. That is what I have set my heart on." He started ; then laughed. " Dear me. This is going veryfast. Don't you know that marriage is a very serious step, not to be arranged at a garden-gate ?" " Serious !" said Phoebe, scornfully, " not for people that really love each other ; be- T 06 Phcebc. sides, it is not so difficult as you would think. Listen ! you must come here to- morrow and meet Adelaide. I shall keep watch, so that you can have a long, long talk together. We can settle everything then, the day, and all the particulars. I can write to my brother Tom, who will da anything for me, and will help in every way. He will be invaluable," continued Phoebe, growing quite eloquent, " though,'"' she con- tinued, suddenly checking herself, " though as to Adelaide, I should tell you she is dread- fully angry with you, and says she will never see you again." This news did not shock the visitor so much as Phoebe intended that it should. " Then how will she come to-morrow night ?" " Well, I mean I am sure she will. I will get her to come. Oh, you must, you must think of this seriously, and fulfil your promises. You don't know how much de- pends on this. She has nowhere to go, no one but you to turn to. She is my friend, too, and I like her so much ; so, for my sake, promise me that you will do what I want." Phoebe. 107 It was a bright night, and just at this moment the moon came from behind the tall, dark old trees of the garden, which had formerly belonged to a lord of importance. The light fell on Phoebe's appealing face, from which the shawl had fallen back, and which pleaded more irresistibly than her words. " For your sake ?" said the gentleman. " That would indeed be a temptation !" To Phoebe's wondering astonishment, the gate on which his hand rested began to open inwards. In another instant he was in the garden, and standing beside her. She gave a little cry, and turned to go. He caught her hand. " Do stay! Forgive me," he said. " I knew that you would leave when you came to hear what I had to say, so I ventured on this," holding up a key. " You must stay and hear me now." " Indeed I cannot," said Phoebe, alarmed. " Let me go — do." " It is about her, about Adelaide. You think I wish to marry her, that I would give the world for her. Nothing of the kind. It is you, and you alone !" It was, as might be supposed, the first loS Phosbe. declaration of love ever made to her, and the feeling was as delicious as it was novel. The youth was handsome. The truth was, Phoebe had before now owned to herself that he was the most cap- tivating being that she had ever even dreamed of. It was a supernatural music. The garden, the trees, the gate, even the indistinct outline of the House of Correc- tion at the back, seemed to dissolve away ; and all the time she heard him eagerly, ardently pouring out the same celestial notes into her ear. But at his last words, when he was saying, " I cannot say more now ; it seems fickle, but I do not care. We cannot help these things. I did love her, but since I saw you, and saw that you were not altogether indifferent, and seemed to encourage me " at this point Phoebe came back to prose. " No, no, never !" she said. " I never did that ; at least never intended it. You must not say nor think such a thing." " But you did," he went on. " I saw it at the beeinninof. You would not have come here again if you did not like me a little. No. Adelaide is very grand, and Phcebc. r 09 noble, and resolute, and all that, and I did admire, her, but now it is you, 3.\\ yo2L You have driven her image out altogether." But Phcebe, now recovered, was not a little shocked at this faithlessness, and at her own apparent disloyalty. She now wished she had never come on this perilous, foolish errand, especially as she knew not what to say or do. In her hand she felt that there was a letter, though she knew not how it came there. Retreat, flight, was the only course. She turned to go, and as she did so gave a short cry. Two figures confronted her, a hand caught her arm, and snatched away the letter. The officers of justice were on her — Cooke and Cor- bett- — and the delinquent was captured red-handed. With a voice that trembled with alarm. Miss Emma Cooke turned to the intruder I " Assistance has been sent for; the police are coming, so you had better go at once ! " I assure you madam — — " he began. " The gardener will be here as soon as he has put on his clothes," said the intrepid lady, advancing. She put her own key into no Phoebe. the lock, and held the gate open for him to depart. " Now." " I am going," he said, " but you will let me say this much " " Not a word, until you have left the garden. Miss Dawson, retire into the house." " Indeed it is not his fault," said Phoebe eagerly. " Take her in !" said the " exempt " to her follower, and Phoebe was seized in- continently, and hurried away. Under the spell of Miss Cooke's eye, the lover felt himself forced to retire, when the gate was closed with a vigorous clash, and the bolt smartly shot home. " I assure you," he said, in the most appealing and soothing tones he could as- sume, " she is not to blame, on my word and honour as a gentleman." " A gentleman !" repeated Miss Cooke, with infinite scorn, through the bars. " A pretty gentleman. But you shall hear more of this. We'll summon you ! Its dis- graceful ! We'll summon you for trespass- ing and — house-breaking. You have been Phoebe. 1 1 1 suspected for some time. Your doings at „- the ' Red Lion ' have been watched." He was still pleading in the softest and most dulcet tones, for he felt it was his only- opportunity, and that Phoebe would after that night be helpless, when the dragon turned abruptly, and walked away to the house. To pursue the interview under such circumstances was, of course, impossible. Near the house she overtook Phcebe and her guard. Phoebe had already relieved her mind by addressing Corbett as " Spy !" "You awful, awful girl!" said Miss Cooke as she entered. " You are not fit to sleep under this roof with the other girls. You should be put by yourself in an out-house. It contaminates me to talk to you." " Pooh, nonsense !" said Phoebe, almost with squared arms. She was ready to do battle with the world — with any one. In her room — there was no out-house prepared or suitable for that class of crimi- nal — she was inclined to laugh at the whole as " a lark " of the first magnitude. A few words would explain it all. In fact, she did not think of the peril. The sweet I r 2 Phcebe. delicious music that she had never heard before, came back on her, filHng her soul. So that charming being loved her ! How strange ! How wonderful ! She forgot everything else, even Adelaide, and as she fell asleep, it was still in her ears. CHAPTER VII. PUT TO THE QUESTION. In the annals of Chapone House, there was never known a day Hke to the one that followed. On the elder Miss Cooke, to whom the news was gradually broken, like "a death," it nearly brought back that " attack " which she had had many years before, and which was of an obscure and mysterious character. The agitation nearly ujpset her wits. The highly-connected, the prudish Chapone House, the grand finishing school of England, ducal and almost con- ventional in the scrupulousness of its management, to be so disgraced — '* A man foiuid at midnight in the grounds f The enormity of the thing could scarcely be realised by the three spinster heads VOL. I. 8 1 1 4 Phoebe. bent together in anxious council. It was as in the instance of some notoriously highly correct " own maid," whose catas- trophe takes the shape of an escapade, the clatter of which arouses the attention of the w^hole district. Disguise it as you would, Chapone House was contaminated, and had lost its character. After an awful morning in council, a lictor was despatched for Phoebe ; she was led before the sanhedrim. Already she was missed from the classes, and strange rumours of some terrible unmentionable crime had permeated the ranks of the girls. In presence of the doge the trembling Phoebe was told that she was to be sent away. She was to be expelled ! " She had brought disgrace, if not ruin, on the esta- blishment," added the elder Miss Cooke, in a faltering voice, "and she hoped that Heaven- would forgive her. But that was not the worst part. It was that one so young, and supposed to be so pure and innocent, should have sunk so low — " Phoebe was touched by the genuine agi- tation of the old lady, though shocked at this awful description of her offence. The Phoebe. 115 real peril of her situation began to dawn on her. " Oh ! I am not so bad, dearest Miss Cooke," she began. "It was all a spree" — ■ Miss Cooke winced at this forbidden word — " I did not think there was any harm in it — indeed I did not. It was nothing but an " accident, Phoebe was going to add : when she recollected that it was nothing of the kind, but a serious, regularly-organised arrangement. She, therefore, checked her- self. *' Ah ! I thought so," said the principal, after waiting a little time. " You had bet- ter confess the whole truth from the be- ginning. There may be something that will excuse you. You have been always so giddy, and don't seem to know the dis- tinction between right and wrong. How did you first become acquainted with this — man .'' Phoebe bit her lip : then hung her head. How co2dd she tell ? What in the wide world was she to do ? She was utterly unsuited to such a crisis, or to dangers like the present. Everything had been made smooth for her ; or, rather, there had never "6 — 2 ii6 Pkccde. been difficulties of any kind in her path. Others had always stood between her and them. It was a young- creature suddenly thrust out upon the world to shift for her- self. " Corne, my poor child," said the prin- cipal of the finishing school, kindly, " con- fide in me. Tell the whole story from the beginning. It may not be so bad, after all." Phoebe looked at her despairingly. " I can't — no, I can't. You mustn't ask me. Indeed, no — " The doge and exempt exchanged glances. The effect upon their unrefined minds was that the whole business was far more dreadful than they had imagined, and some- thing too terrible to be confessed. They gave up Phoebe from that moment. " Alas ! she is lost to all shame," said Miss Emma. " What have I done to be treated in this way ? Won't you take my word ? Did you ever find me out in a falsehood ? In- deed, and indeed, Miss Cooke, I thought it was no harm. If I could only tell you — " Again looks Avere interchanged. Then Phcebc. 1 1 7 the prisoner was remanded. She gave the jailer a look of scornful defiance. They would not tame her In that way. As she stood In the middle of the room, her hair roughened by frequent tossing It back, and two fiercely glowing spots on her cheeks, her delicate nose curled in rebellion, she looked a perfect " little pickle." When she was alone, however, all this resolution for- sook her, and a feeling of despair came suddenly on her. Her situation was the most helpless conceivable. What If they would " expel " her — awful word — like penal servitude for life to the professional criminal — from the school ! And though her mother had been sent for, who would protect and save her, how should she dare to face her! — a woman so eager to "get on " in the world, who would be so keenly alive to such a disgrace. No matter. Nothing In the world should get her to betray her friend ! That was as fixed and eternal as the laws and decrees of those Medes and Persians which Miss Emma Cooke had so often prosed about. The gallant little creature was, however, comfortinfj" herself with this self-sacrifice 1 1 8 Pha:be. when the door was thrown open and her friend stood before her. In an instant Phoebe was in her arms and pouring out a whole torrent of protestations as to the op- pressions she was subjected to, and her firm. resoKition " never, never to betray her friend. They are going to send me away, and expel me. Let them, if they like — not a word shall they extract from jne !" She listened calmly. *' You must not suffer for any one else," she said, " or for me. I never could allow that where the fault has been mine. But how did they find all this out ?" She feigned to have the air of knowing to what Phoebe was alluding. " By their infamous and dishonourable spy system," said Phoebe indignantly. ** That mean Corbett was watching. She has never forgiven or forgotten her being dis covered with the brandy-bottle. She foil owed me into the garden, and heard every word." " I see," said the other. " When you went to meet him in the garden ?" " Yes," said Phoebe, whose misfortunes now made this secret arrangement appear Phcebc, ,119 very trifling indeed. " I was setding it all -with him for you. And he had all but promised me — and " " But you forget," said Adelaide, " I know nothing of this." " Oh, it is no matter now," said Phoebe excitedly. "It is all at an end now. He tried to defend me, and to take it all on himself. If you only heard the way Emma Cooke attacked him, and the gentlemanly way in w^hich he took it. He is a perfect hero — charming !" " This, of course, was not the first time," said Adelaide, as if speculating on the matter. " Oh, no," answered Phoebe eagerly. " I met him before of course, and contrived it all myself Wasn't it courageous of me ? So provoking, too. Just a little more and I should have persuaded him " " Persuaded him to do what ?" " Oh, to — well, you must know, he hesi- tated — and his position is a little difficult, dearest Adelaide. As he says, marriage is a very serious thing. But what I said seemed to make an impression on him. Oh, yes." 1 20 PJia'be. "No doubt," said Adelaide slowly. " You are in a very serious position, I fear, and I am sorry for you." " But, you know," said Phoebe, a little taken back, " it was all for you — " "For me!" said Adelaide. "You can- not, and you must not say that, I never asked your interference. You know me well enoueh to believe that I am not afraid of the responsibility. But you must see yourself that I am out of the business. You have been carrying on the affair with- out my knowledge." " But it was all for you ; indeed it was," said Phoebe, with all her old eager affec- tion returnino". " I thought I would see o o him without telling you ; make him pro- mise to fulfil his engagement, and then come to you wdth the news as a little sur- prise. I thought it would make you so happy, and I saw that I had some influence over him. And this is the return you make me ?" The cold lines of Adelaide's face relaxed. There was nature and truth in w^hat Phoebe said. " Fors^ive me," said she. " You know PJicebc. 121 what I am — a matter-of-fact, logical being. I do believe that you did it for the best. Tell me, then, all about it." She was exerting herself to put a con- straint upon her disposition, and banish that permanent cloud of suspicion of human nature in which she lived. Delio-hted at this chancre, for coldness was lil^e physical pain to our Phoebe, she was about to begin an animated history of all her proceedings, when suddenly the awkward turn of the last scene rose before her. She had no fertility or dex- terity of resource, and she had an instinct that her explanations would only make her appear guilty or disloyal. She began to falter — her eyes drooped. Adelaide waited a few moments. The old hard look returned. There had been some false play. " No matter," she said at length, " I have no wish to know what only concerns yourself. As you will have to suffer the penalty, you are entitled to keep up any reserve you please. As I said, this part of the affair is entirely your own." Such a tone always made Phoebe hostile. 12 2 PJiccbe. " Well, if I were to tell you," she said, a little maliciously, '' perhaps you might not be so much pleased as you think you would." " Perhaps not," said Adelaide. " But I am not thinking of being pleased— that is not a luxury for poor people like me. I must go now. Seriously, you need not feel much anxiety. You have friends, you know. Good-bye." She left Phoebe sufferino; from a sense of wrong, and believing that she had been treated unkindly by the most faithless of friends. " To treat me in such a way, after the way I have behaved — another girl would not have acted so generously, and with such self-denial After getting into such a scrape all for her, to meet with such a return !" Phoebe remained in strict duress, gallant, unsubdued, always wearing the same de- fiant air — " hardened," they called it — when any " jailer " presented herself. But, in secret, she was pining and wearing her heart out. A letter had been written to Mrs. Dawson, in which the offence had Phosbe. 1 2 been described as a sort of fearful crime, and they were daily expecting advices from her. That lady, however, was on one of her many junketings in a remote part of the country, and this letter was following her about. Phoebe could have given pre- cise information as to the locality, and thus have saved some posts ; but as may be conceived she was not likely to aid in such researches. Meanwhile, this pretty flower, deserted — secluded — hung its head, and drooped every day more and more. There w^as yet another influence on which the governing powers of the school relied at a crisis. What could be done without Dean Drinkwater ? who was always sent for, "express," on any outbreak, just as some eminent physician would be called in. Final decision was put off until he was possessed of the case. But he was on a visit to " the Palace,'' where of course he could not be disturbed. He was expected, however, for the day of the " academical exercises," to perform the ornamental office of distributing the premiums to the young ladies, with appropriate little speeches, and, in a manner, take the chair among the 124 Phoebe. guests. He had written that if he could " get away from the Palace," and It was only from such great houses that he could " get away,"' — those of less pretension he left with ease — he would try and arrive a day or two before, to investigate this most painful case. Thus matters remained in a very painful state of suspense for all parties concerned. A cloud seemed to have descended on the house. The time dragged by slowly, until at last it came to the eventful day or so before breaking up. This under ordinary circumstances would have been a true gala time for Phoebe. She would have led the dance, as it were, and have been seen fluttering from the top to the bottom of the house, her ringing laugh stimulat- ing the delightful labours of packing up. The oirls indeed were in a rather sel- fish excitement, thinking of the joys of going home ; though It was well known that Phoebe had committed " something dreadful," that Dean Drinkwater was on the premises, and that she was about to be expelled. Of course there was plenty of curiosity as to the nature of the offence. Phoebe. 125 and even some instinct as to the truth ; for this awful severity was of the same family as the austerity assumed by the governing ladies when warning their pupils against the snares of the wicked men they would meet in the world. Towards evening, on this momentous day, news went though the house that Dean Drinkwater had arrived and was closeted in the parlour with the two Miss Cookes. Dean Drinkwater was a tall full-blown dignitary of the emollient kind, and whose skin when visible was of a yielding blanc- mange-like texture, and of the pink colour of a recent burn. His composition was rich and juicy, and his voice seemed to ooze upwards through a well-oiled pipe. He mixed with the best ; his manners were soft and courtly, and it was thought certain that he would one day bear a mitre on his carriage panel. The two ladies attended on him with awful countenances, and related the terrible business. He did not, to Miss Cooke's surprise, start from his seat or cover his face with his hands. " Such a blow to fall on me, Mr. Dean," 126 Phoebe. said Miss Cooke, "at my age. It Is ruin ! the school diso^raced !" " Oh dear no," said Dean Drinkwater, " not at all. I suppose you haven't made the affair pubHc." "PubHc, sir! No." " So much the better. I am afraid she is giddy — a pity she's not more steady^ eh ? Foohsh tomboy, I think." Rather astonished. Miss Cooke rephed : " But what are we to do with her, Dean Drinkwater ? She must be sent away ; we owe it to the other girls not to have them contaminated." The Dean waved his hand, as one would do when asking the people to keep seated at a meeting. " Nonsense ! don't do it at all," he said ;. " let there be no fuss. This is a thing eminently to be hushed up. I'd just pen- ance her, and say no more about it." " But it wants a day to the holidays. As a matter of conscience, could we let her be with the other girls ?" " Well^ — eh ?— not exactly," said the Dean, a little puzzled — a puzzle, too, which his answer did not resolve. " But there is a Phcebe. ii-j way of doing- these things. Her mother will be here — a sensible proper woman of the world — one of the Digges family, who I know very well. I shall see her myself^ and we can all talk it over together, and settle something-. What sort is the young man — made out anything about him and his connections ?" " WcT said Miss Cooke. " No, indeed, Mr. Dean. But the fjirl is so hardened, she will confess nothing." " Oh, I must talk to her. It may very likely turn out only a school-girl's frolic." " Emma," said Miss Cooke austerely, " show the Dean the letter. When I tell you, Dean Drinkwater, that this shocking letter was snatched from her hand, that a false key to our garden gate was made and procured, and that there are reasons to sus- pect that this clandestine intercourse has been ofoins;; on for m^onths " The Dean looked grave at this accumu- lation, then began to read the letter. " This is rather awkward," he said ; " still the young man may turn out to be very proper, you know. I wouldn't make too much of it. If we could only get some ■^i 128 Phoebe. information. You had better send the girl to me at once. I must talk to her." Now came the lictor with a summons to the parlour for the imprisoned Phoebe, who, as she heard the step outside, brushed away her tears, though she could not drive back to its coral cave the delicate flush that had coloured her face. She followed proudly, and entered haughtily. The Dean, whose eye was always being exercised in such matters, thought what a refined " clean- bred" air she had, and that by-and-by she ought to make a "very fair match." He wished that some of his own ponderous slow-movine crirls would offer the same promise. The door was closed on Phoebe, and she •was left alone with the judge, who received her vv^ith a plaintive air, as though all was over, the fingers of both hands joined together with great nicety, his favourite pose when dealing with clergy, servants, etc. Phoebe knew it well, as she had often " taken it off" to the life, for the girls. "Well, child, this is all sad work," he said, " very sad — eh ?" an Interrogative that seemed to Phoebe either to invite con- Pkcede. 129 tradiction, or, perhaps, discussion, of the statement. "I fear this is eoinof to end badly. You must see that you have brought disgrace on the school of these good ladies, and ruined yourself for life — eh ?" " I haven't done anything disgraceful," said Phoebe excitedly, " Let them prove it — let them try me; give me fair play." " Oh ! childish," said the Dean im- patiently ; " there is proof enough. But come here. Now, sit down there, and tell me all about this unfortunate business. There may be something extenuating." Phoebe met this advance with the warmest impulse. " Indeed, yes, Mr. Dean," she said ; " it v/as only a little bit of fun after all, and " " To be sure ; yes. And tell me, now, liow was it that you met this young man } what is he at all ?" " Oh, the nicest, most charmino;— " then darting a suspicious look at the emollient clergyman, now suffused with oil like a bulky moderator lamp, she drew her chair away. " No, I can't tell you anything," VOL. r. 9 i^o Phoebe. o she said decidedly ; " I have done no harm." " Some friend, then, of the other girls ?" insinuated the Dean — "eh ?" " I won't tell you anything," said Phoebe defiantly. " Oh, but you must be made to tell, my good girl. You have behaved scandalously, and, for one of your tender age, most dis- reputably." Phoibe was biting her lips, but would not answer a word. " You must know it comes to this, that you are not fit to be allowed to associate with respectable girls. Admitting a strange, low fellow into the garden of this respect- able Iiouse — it's perfectly scandalous !" " He wasn't strange or low, or anything- of the kind," said the bold Phoebe. " I believe you are a blinded girl — lost to a sense of shame. Go to your room — go back to your room." "If my poor dear father was alive, no one would dare say such things to me. If only Tom were here." But here her voice fal- tered ; and the lictor, waiting at hand and listening, led her away sobbing. Phoebe. 131 Much astonished and put out at his faikire — who was Tom? — the Dean was now found to have completely changed his opinions. " You should not keep the girl here to corrupt her companions. You owe it, in con- science, to the other pupils to send her off." He thus, with an air of originality, made use of arguments that had been pressed on himself before. " We feared it," said Miss Cooke the elder, tremulously. " Yet she could not have learned it here, where it is our aim to inculcate " " Yes, of course," said the Dean, rather roughly, and not inclined to listen to the school prospectus. " But the hardened way she addressed me — threatened me with some one she called Tom. Such im- pertinence ! Who is Tom ?" " A wild, abandoned fellow, her brother," struck in Miss Emma. " Has she any confidantes — bosom friends — or anything of that sort 1" " Oh yes," said the two ladies together ; " Adelaide Cross." •' What ! that stiff-necked, ill-regulated young person I saw before ? Well, she 9—2 132 Phcebe. micrht know somethlnof, or be made to tell somethinor " " Perhaps so," said Miss Cooke, doubt- fully. " Would you wish to see her ?" Adelaide Cross was accordincrly sent for, and marshalled to the presence of Dean Drinkwater. " You know about this unfortunate girl," said the Dean, coming to the point at once. He did not feel quite comfortable, however, under Adelaide's cold, inquiring gaze. " Now, from your knowledge of her, — eh ? — would you suppose— um ! — that there was some one else, with more capacity and cleverness, making use of her ? what would you say now ? You are her intimate friend, I am given to understand ;" and the Dean, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, brought his outstretched palms together, as though he were clashing cymbals in an orchestra. There was a knowlnor alance in the Dean's €ye, as though he had shown his sagacity in this speculation ; but he did not notice the sort of half-amused, half-contemptuous look of Adelaide, who may have been en- joying the picture of self-sufficiency before Phosbe. 133 her, and which could get no further in its conclusions. " Now, what would you say ?" he re- peated. " I should say," answered she slowly, " that it is probable." "As her friend you think so ?" " Pardon me, that is a mistake. I can scarcely be called her friend. But I believe, from her impulsive, volatile, and, I may say, from " here she paused — "from her affectionate disposition, that she may have been drawn into this business from a wish to help another. I say, drawn into this business." " Help another! But do you know this of your own knowledge ?" " You have asked me my opinion," said Adelaide. " You must speak out, then ; we can't have the innocent punished." " I did not say she was innocent. I know nothino- about that view. You should be sure that the guilty party is before you." " I suppose," he said, " you wish to screen her. What guilty party are you talking of ?" 134 Pkcede. " I am telling you the truth — what I believe to be the truth, and to save you from a mistake. She does not deserve harsh treatment." The Dean was a cunning person, and delighted In little Investigations of this kind, to which he was fond of submittino- his wife, servants, and children at home. He felt that he was on the scent, as it were, and vexed that he should be opposed in this fashion. " This is very childish," he said ; " you don't know what you are talking of We can't allow it. Speak out." Adelaide had her eyes fixed on a letter which the Dean was carelessly turning over in his hand. " First, have you any positive proof against her .''" she asked abruptly. " I tell you it has gone to great lengths." " What is that letter ?" *' Well, I see no objection to your looking at it," and the Dean placed it in her hand. Adelaide read It aloud, and read it very slowly. Phcebc. 1 3 5 " Dear Miss Phcebe, " Durino- that most delio;htful in- terview " Adelaide paused. " I have not had courage to tell you what has been in my thoughts. We talked of many other matters ; but all the while you must have guessed what I longed to say, and what I dared not speak. I can no longer help to carry on the delusion, which has been the cause of our meeting. I am cer- tain that from the first moment we met, you saw the change that took place in me. It may seem fickle, heartless, if you will — I cannot help it. Nothing can be called heartless of which you have been the cause. Had I not met you, I should have re- mained faithful to what I fancied was my first love. But I know you can be indul- gent, for, as I said, you must have seen, from the first moment, that it was to you all my thoughts turned " Here Adelaide paused again. " I may not tell you this at our meeting, for fear that you might be offended, or think that I have taken advantage of the •confidence you so generously placed in 136 Phoebe. me. Still you know that I love you. I shall not rest until I hear from you to say that you are not offended with me, and that I may look forward to another de- lightful meeting when you will tell me that you are not offended with me, and believe me to be ever your faithful and unchanging admirer, " Francis Pringle." The Dean listened with quite a new in- terest to this recital, for Adelaide read it with a power and emphasis that made it quite dramatic. " Now," he said, " we must know who- the friend was she has treated in this way." " Is it not clear enouo:h ?" said Adelaide. " This paper speaks for itself, does it not?" " Well, it does in a certain measure," said the Dean, mystified at being addressed in this strain, " to a certain extent." " It speaks for itself then. Recollect it cannot be said that I have betrayed a companion. That letter is as sacred as a confession. What I can add to it is simply this : I know that the affair began by her volunteering to aid a friend in the Phcebc. 1 3 7 business ; it has ended as you have seen," and she held up the letter, "with treachery." " Oh, I see," said the Dean. " This is taking an ugly complexion, indeed. Rather treacherous, eh ? The oirl oug^ht to be sent away at once. She should not be under the roof when the stranwrs come here to-morrow. You can cro now." Adelaide retired. Aofain the council assembled, and once more and for the last time, the hapless Phoebe was brought before them. Under this agitating pro- cess the poor child, whose nerves were so delicately strung, was giving way. Un- consciously the authorities were pursuing the course which is so much in favour in foreign countries, of enfeebling the prisoner by the moral torture of suspense and per- tinacious questioning-. Phoebe was all egaree, helpless, and her pretty eyes a little wild. It seemed cruel, this unequal struggle between these three stern and awful elders, and this mere child. The Dean at once " took up the word." " I have seen your companion, Adelaide Cross," — here Phoebe anxiously raised her head, and her face brightened — "who has, J 38 Phcebe. I must say, attempted to put the best construction on your conduct." Phoebe's eyes lighted up. " I knew she would be true to me." "Oh, hush, hush!" said the Dean, waving off this obnoxious piece of Jacobinism ; *' no more of that, please. You are not conscious of the very serious, I may say awful position in which you stand. Miss Cooke owes it to her conscience, and to her establishment, not to keep you an hour longer here." Phoebe gave a little cry, then bursting into a torrent of sobs, said passionately : " Going to expel me! what have I done? ■Oh, mamma, mamma ! Help me !" The elder Miss Cooke was affected, and said in a not unkindly way : " My poor child, what can we do ? You have committed a sin terrible for one so young as you are. I would keep you if I could, but I owe it to the rest to make an example. The only thing you can do is to tell the whole truth, every word of it. Who has led you into all this ? come, con- fess — tell us ever^/thing. It may not turn out so badly after all." Phoebe. 139 At this appeal the hapless Phoebe drew herself up ; a sort of chivalrous glow came into her face. What ! betray the one who, at the pinch, had so bravely defended her — never ! " Not if you were to cut me into bits !" "It is idle, then, saying more," said the Dean. " She is hopelessly hardened ; she must be sent away at once." Miss Emma Cooke advanced, and took Phoebe by the arm, much as the warders do to a prisoner in the dock after sentence, then led her away. " You must pack up your things as quickly as you can," she said. " A car- riaofe is comincr from tlie Red Lion, and Mrs. Corbett is to take you home." With all this weight of trouble, the allu- sion to this name brought the colour to her cheeks. She walked with a greater pride, but when she was left alone this de- serted her, and a sort of despair filled her. She sat there stupefied, and when the matron came in a few minutes after to see that she was packing up, Phoebe said dis- tractedly : 1 40 Phcebc. " I can't do It. Do it yourselves. You may all kill me, if you like. What have I done to be treated in this way ?" A friendly maid came with some rough comfort to help to "get her things to- gether." The unhappy Phoebe could only fling herself on the bed, and weep and sob : " They have all left me as if I was a thing infected." " Don't take on so. Miss Phoebe," said the maid. " The missus said no one was to be let to see you, but Pll fetch Miss Cross to you, if they were to turn me out the next moment." "Oh! do, do!" cried Phoebe. "You are a good dear soul ! Fetch her quick. I must see her before they send me out on the world." But just as the girl turned to leave,. Adelaide herself stood in the doorway. Phoebe flew to her like some trembling, wounded pigeon. She was too exhausted to speak, and could only flutter, flutter on that friendly bosom as it seemed to her,, uttering some faint notes of suffering and exhaustion. The other did not shake her Ph(£be. 1 4 1 off, but, as it were, endured this affectionate ofreetino-. "So they are sending you away, expelling you," said Adelaide, and she dwelt on the word. " Yes," said Phoebe, with a surprisingly loving confidence. " But I would not speak. "Not if they killed me. No, no ; they could not get me to tell a single thing." Adelaide almost pushed her from her, o-ivinof her a look that Phoebe often thoup;ht of afterwards. Still she spoke calmly. " Tell ! what have you to tell ? Have done with all this acting. It is high time to have done with these trickeries." " Why, what do you mean ?" said Phoebe, retreatingf in wonder from her. "You have behaved treacherously, ruined all my hopes. But I want no airs of sacri- fice for me. Dry your eyes, you shall not be expelled — yes, expelled. You knew there was no fear of it (though you wished to make capital out of it), and that at the last the disclosure would have to be made !" She is mad, thought Phoebe. " YoiL never supposed," continued Ade- laide, resuming her old calm manner, "that 142 Phcebe. I would allow you to enjoy the heroic feeling of thinking that you were punished for me ? You never seriously fancied that ?" " Thinking that I would be punished for you," repeated the bewildered Phoebe. "Surely I have suffered all this for you, and would do so again, that is if you were only like your old self But something has changed you." " You will understand it by-and-by, when you have thought it over. It is enough that I shall have to take your i^lace in that carriage which is now driving up." " But I don't see," said Phoebe wildly. " You have become so cruel and so hostile to me. What have I done to you ? What more could I do ?" "What do I care if you think me changed or cruel or unkind, and the rest of it ? I merely say this last word at parting, and take care that you understand me. Recollect we 7iow are quits. You can't say you have been punished for me. There is to be no more of that farce of beine a victim. Do you hear me T' She quitted the room. Phoebe was Phoebe. 1 4 1 scarcely listening. Looking from the win- dow, she had seen with a thrill the fatal carriage from the " Red Lion " drive up. Her heart sank ; it was the prison van come to bear her away, for she had but little faith in her late friend's promises of rescue. She was so cowed, her nerves so shattered by the events of these few days, that she had beoun to entertain neither hope nor faith in anything. CHAPTER VIII. RESCUED. A QUARTER of an hour went by ; then half an hour ; then an hour. The carriage still waited. Phoebe wept and wept again. Suddenly she was roused by the matron touchinof her. " You are to come at once to the study ; they want you." This going to and coming from the study was the part of this probation that most of all chilled Phoebe's heart. It was more awful than the being placed in the dock itself. But she was now so stunned and bewildered by repeated strokes that she felt but little. The matron added carelessly : " Your mother has arrived !" That roused her like a trumpet. All her Phcebe. 145 troubles were forgotten In the prospect of seeing- her dear, darhng mamma. Here was rescue, hght, comfort. She was no longer the poor, unfriended, persecuted outcast. " Where is she } Take me to her. Do take me to mamma !" she cried. " She'll protect me !" Space became, as it were, annihilated. She never knew how she traversed those long gaunt corridors and passages, which in public institutions lead to the tribunals and seats of authority. But the next scene was the room itself, filled with what seemed to be a crowd, with many faces — the Dean's, Miss Cooke's, and, above all, the dear familiar one of her mother. In an instant she was on her neck. Apart from the crowd, and in the centre of the room, stood Adelaide, cold and statue- like. Phoebe's entrance had, it seemed, in- terrupted her. " Now," she was saying, '' I have told you the whole, so far as it concerns myself. Let her deny it if she can." Here she paused, and the Dean, with some embarrassment, took up the discourse. VOL. I. 10 146 Phcebe. " It seems," he said, addressing" Phoebe, " that Miss Cross was the one who oriei- nally entered into this clandestine rela- tion. She has come forward, I must say, fairly enough, when she found that another was likely to be punished. She adds, however, what gives a new turn to this painful business, that you, while affecting to aid her in these scandalous and most improper proceedings, succeeded in di- verting this gentleman's attention to your- self; and that, secretly and unknown to her, you have been carrying on these clandestine communications for a lonp- time." Here Mrs. Dawson interposed. " Well, and after all, my dear sir, what if she did ? No harm has been done. Girls will be girls, you know." "My good madam — " began the Dean, much shocked. " My dear, good Miss Cooke," again in- terrupted the lady, "it is foolish of you to magnify these things into mountains. If it gets known, you will ruin your establishment. Mr. Dean here, who is a man of the world, will see that in a moment." Phoebe. 147 " But this has gone too far, madam," he replied, "quite too far, to be treated in that way. You see there is a certain responsi- bility for Miss Cooke here — " "Oh, nonsense," said the lady. ^'' I'm sure Lady Mary Brixton — whom Mrs. Drink- water knows very well — would be dread- fully put out about it, and take away her girls the first thing. It's a foolish lark, as they call it. Better say no more about it, you know." The Dean seemed a little irresolute, but Miss Cooke had a good deal of the Puritan in the cause of propriety and decorum. She would saw off the branch, even though she herself were seated upon it. " It cannot be compromised," she said, tremblinof with ao^itation, " even thouo^h I have to shut up my school. As the matter stands, Miss Cross seems to be guilty, but Miss Phoebe Dawson infinitely more guilty. If there is any indulgence to be extended, it should be to Miss Cross, who has come forward honourably to prevent another being punished." Here Mrs. Dawson cfathered her lace shawl about her, and said angrily : " I could 10 — 2 14S Phoebe. not believe you would be so ridiculous. If you will not hear common sense, you must put up with the consequences. I shall take care not to have my child disgraced before the world. To-morrow is your field-day, or your exhibition-day, or what- ever you call it — " " We can't help parents being offended," said Miss Cooke, now beginning to take the matter into her own hands ; " I must do my duty. For the last time, you have now an opportunity of clearing yourself, Miss Dawson. I conjure you, in Heaven's name, speak out and tell the truth !" " I did it all for her," said Phoebe. " That's all I can say, if you kill me. Oh, it is shocking to accuse me in this way ! How could I help his turning over to me ? I so pitied her ; and she was so anxious to get away from this place ; and this was the only opportunity that offered." The Dean shook his head. '^ Oh, worse and worse ! Now you throw it on tht school ! The letter, you see, un- fortunately, does not fit with your explan- ation. There is no use trying these subterfuges. I fear it is too plain that, Phcebe. 149 with your volatile character, you could not resist the foolish satisfaction of drawing away an admirer from another. I think we had better end the matter at once, and save further prevarication or falsehood." Thus it was that Phcebe was tried and found guilty before an overwhelming weight of evidence. There stood her former friend Adelaide, with a cold and hostile look in her face. Phoebe waited helplessly for sentence, when the gaze of Adelaide, fixed on her with what seemed cold satisfaction, suddenly inspired her. She cried out : " I see it now ! I see it all ! This is her revenge ! I am sure of it. I have offended her in some way, and she has confessed all this, only to put me more in the wrong, and she knows that I cannot explain it. If there was only some one to ask her questions — to take my part — I can't do it myself " At this unexpected dramatic burst, every one looked at each other. Even Adelaide was discomposed. Phoebe's mother, faithful as a gallant hen defendmg her chicken, fluttered forward : 1 50 Pluvbc. "Yes, yes, my child," she cried, "you are right. Just look at that girl's face ; she has some spite or grudge against her. Any one can see it. Suppose the man did desert hei", who can blame him } It's only natural. I leave it to any one : which of the two is most attractive T So blunt a way of resolving the matter might have caused less excited bystanders to smile. The Dean shook his head. That sort of judgment of Paris would hardly do. Adelaide glanced from one to the other with scorn and defiance. The more she was thus baited, the more some lurking, almost devilish, spirit of no surrender was asserting itself. " The innocent ! the poor innocent !" she said. " She is welcome to that help of being prettier and, perhaps, more artful. You may make the best of it for hen You, sir, will do me justice .^ I say, again, here are the facts : the letter, and her ways, and tricks — all underhand, mind,. and unknown to me. Keep steadily to that, sir. You are judge here, and I call on you to do justice, as a minister of the Phoebe. 1 5 i Church, of which you are a deserving" pillar." This phrase of Shylock's might almost seem to have been a sneer ; but Adelaide spoke with gravity and earnestness. The Dean was never so perplexed, and even harassed, in his life, not even at the memorable period when he had a turbu- lent and defiant curate, called Bolton, before him, who had nearly been his death. " I declare," he said, " I don't know what to do among them all." At this moment entered the lictor Cor- bett, with a card, which she laid down before the Dean : " He's come in a chaise from the Red Lion, and says he wants to see Miss Cooke particularly." " Oh, she can't see people now !" said the Dean impatiently. " We're busy here. Who is he ? Prinale— " " That's he !" almost screamed Phoebe. " Let him come up. He'll tell the truth. He's a gentleman. Now, we shall know everything ; only let him come up ! 152 Phccbc. More and yet more bewildered, Adelaide turned pale and red, her lips trembling-. '' Well, let him. I believe still we shall know the truth in that way." " Oh, this is the person, then ?" said the Dean, adding, half to himself, " fons et origo — hem ! Well, I see no objec- tion. Anything that will help us to an issue." " Mind, though," said Adelaide, " that even if he support what she says, that is not conclusive. They were both engaged in this double dealing, and are likely to support each other. You must consider that." " Oh, nonsense !" said the Dean. " Why, you black-hearted girl," said Mrs. Dawson, " you are full of venom, and spite, and hatred, and ill-will. I tell you what," added the sensible lady, " you go and talk to him, Mr. Dean, and see what he has to say. You know the world. He'd only laugh at us, if he was brought into a room full of women like this." " A very proper suggestion," said the Dean ; and he rose up and left the room. Adelaide Cross remained standing in the PlKxbe. 153 same attitude, but looking with some dis- quietude to the door. The absence was not long-. In two or three minutes the Dean returned, entering hurriedly. " It is all cleared up," he said, resuming his seat ; " this unexpected testimony has helped us. The young man has spoken to m.e with very great propriety. He en- tirely exculpates Miss Dawson; he declares that she was all through actinor for her friend. He confessed to me, with the greatest frankness, that he found himself attracted by Miss Phoebe, but that it was not until the last moment that she learned that she was the object of his attentions. He has fairly enough admitted to me that he has done very, very wrong. I am glad, very glad, that this painful case has taken such a turn." Adelaide was still unmoved. But she said slowly, and with her old scorn : " A lawyer would tell you that this evidence is of no value. It is merely the statement of one guilty person trying to screen the other." " Oh ! for shame ! " said the Dean, rising. " I can't listen to this sort of 1 54 Phcebc. thing-. I declare you are too bad. I'm afraid that you \vill turn out discredit- ably—" " I !" said Adelaide, with infinite scorn. " Who gave you leave, pray, to utter pro- phecies about my life ? What authority have you over me, or, for that matter, any one here ? You dare not speak tha£ way to your parsons — or even to your wiie — " God bless me ! Is she mad ?" gasped the Dean, clutching the handles of his arm-chair. " But, of course," went on Adelaide, " to a poor friendless, outcast girl like me, you can be overbearinof enouorh. Your feeble mind is well fitted to settle thinsfs of this kind among women. Men laugh at you !" "Stop, stop!" said Miss Cooke, in horror; " take her out of the room." The Dean, perfectly aghast, could only murmur, " Take her away — she is mad I Where are we ? God bless me !" And Miss Emma Cooke and the other lictor advanced and removed the prisoner. " I fear that wretched girl will come to a bad end," said he, after a pause. *' Well, Phcebe. 155. let me see ; we have done with this busi- ness now. Miss Cooke, I think you may now be satisfied, and act accordingly. Miss Dawson has been indiscreet, but she is entirely acquitted of the serious charo-e." O " It is too shocking," said the head of the house, much moved. " We were near committing a terrible injustice. Oh ! that girl, on whom we have lavished such motherly kindness, to behave in such a fashion ! But Phoebe, my child, you have been very foolish and indiscreet, and I hope it will be a lesson to you." " Indeed, indeed it will," said Phoebe, all in a flutter, like a prisoner whom the jury has just acquitted. " I'll do anything — everything " " My poor Phoebe," said her mother fondly ; " such a way to treat you. There is not an ounce of harm in her. She has too much spirit, that is all." " Very well, very well," said the Dean, who was much put out by the insults he had received, " that will do now. Yes, you must take care in future. Then, there is nothing more to be done." 156 Phcebe. So the court broke up. But he never forgave either Miss Cooke, or the school, or Phoebe ; the former he always spoke of as " a foolish, indiscreet old woman, that didn't know how to manage oirls." Adelaide was ordered into confinement for the day, until it was settled what could be done with her. A most embarrassing question — for it was easy to send for a chaise from the Red Lion, and put her and her trunks in it, but where that carriage was to take her was the question. She had no friends or relations that were known. CHAPTER IX. THE EXHIBITION DAY. The agitation consequent on these dread- ful scenes had well-nigh incapacitated the principal from receiving the company on the great day that followed. The appal- ling effrontery of the girl — who had defied not merely her authority, but the Church itself — had shaken her to the centre. Yet there were awful duties to be faced on the morrow — the company, including a lord's political brother ; great ladies ; the cour- tesies of hospitality, the graciousness and easy manners expected from the head of a fashionable establishment ; and the lunch, most serious of all. Then that captured Tartar, Adelaide, whom they trembled to retain, and dared 158 Phoebe. not let loose, lay on her mind like an awful nightmare. The poor agitated spinster had a terrible night of it. It was, however, a night of delightful anticipation for all the girls in the estab- lishment, for most of whom their mammas or other relations were to arrive, and who were to receive ^clat from a flattering exhibition before a distinguished and bril- liant audience. There was a restless flutter in every one of their gentle breasts ; no pleasure, indeed, can be compared to that of the anticipated " breaking-up " and going home for the holidays, whether in the case of boys or girls. Here it had at last come round — a fine bright morning — the sun shining in on the gay decorations of the exhibition-room, where a scarlet canopy had been fitted up, and a "dais" has been arranged, which was no more than a small ledge, on which a few chairs, including the great gilt one of the establishment, had been dis- posed. But the Misses Cooke, like other *' principals," relished the words " on the dais," or " being brought up to the dais," as sounding majestically in the ear. The Phcebe. 159 lunch was laid out ; the strangers were beeinningf to arrive ; and the Red Lion's carriages were all at work. It was a busy scene in the reception- room, where the parents and guardians were assembled — including the lord's brother, the Hon. Mr. Crowsfoot, and various clergymen, excepting Dean Drink- water, who was too much disgusted with yesterday's proceedings to attend. There was also the political father of the well- connected young lady who was to get the political economy prize, and others. Among the guests was a certain spinster, reputed to be of wealth, who was staying with a personage in the neighbourhood, and whom Miss Cooke had asked on commer- cial orrounds. This'was Miss Cubitt, a tall lady of decided manners and opinions, an uncompromising enemy of what she called " nonsense." Nearly everything that she encountered proved to be " nonsense," and .she plainly told Miss Cooke, to the as- tonishment of that lady, that she looked on boarding and finishing schools as pre- eminently entitled to be so described ; •exhibiting girls, too, in this way was also 1 60 Phoebe. " nonsense." She handsomely added that she did not hold Miss Cooke accountable, because she was only following the custom of the time ; but the system was bad, radically bad. Miss Cooke could say nothing in reply, and was glad to turn to the lord's brother. It mieht have been thougrht that here would have been found the various young ladies dressed in their new home-going apparel ; but there was an inflexible rule as to this point, that had always been observed from time immemorial, during the hour of reception, and, indeed, until the exhibition was over. The theory was, that the school discipline was still maintained, and it was not until the ceremony was over that creneral saturnalia set in. As the procession moved on to the great room, Miss Cooke leaning on the arm of the lord's brother, and making for the dais, the orchestra — led by Canova, and consist- incr of two pianofortes, with two young ladies at each — struck up a triumphal march, which continued while there was a pleasant flutter occasioned by finding seats. All the young ladies were ranged on chairs in Phoebe. 1 6 1 front, a space being left open in the centre. A table covered with regulation orreen baize Avas in the middle, on which were arranged the pupils' drawings and water- colours, carelessly strewn about, and doing infinite credit to the ingenuity of the draw- ing-master, who showed marvellous power in making the best of the worst. There were rows of books bound in red and ereen morocco ; while on a conspicuous sort of little platform reposed the great Dacier medal with its blue ribbon attached, which the lord's brother was to throw over the shoulders, not of the unhappy Adelaide, now at last disqualified, to the satisfaction of Miss Cooke. Then, a young lady, timid and fluttering — no other, indeed, than our Phoebe — approached and distributed the programmes, in a graceful way enough. After which there was a pause. Then a young lady came forward to recite a " pro- logue " — some lines of welcome to the illustrious guests, from Miss Emma Cooke's pen. Then examination in English gram- mar by one of the gentlemen present, who was much embarrassed at beinsf asked to perform, and who, it must be confessed, VOL. T. I I t62 Phoebe. was not very certain whether the right answers had been supphed. However, he soon brouoht it to a close, and with a smile of relief said, " Thank you ; very good indeed." Now a pair of enormous globes were set forward in the middle of the room, while Miss Cooke put on her spectacles and took two 3^oung ladies through the zenith, and latitude and longitude, the meridian and azimuth, and the rest ; the answers being o^iven with a readiness that was not sur- prising — to her at least, or the pupils. Not so satisfactory, however, was it when a lady, professor of another boarding school, and who could not be passed over, took the political gentleman's daughter in hand on the subject of English history. It was the courtesy, on such occasions, that this compliment should be paid to a visitor of the kind. She was an uncom- promising woman with spectacles, never ac- customed to give or accept quarter, and she sternly grappled with the pupil as though she had her in her class. As might be expected, this led to sad confusion and break-down, until Miss Emma Cooke Phcebc. 163 adroitly interposed to shield the girl, in- sinuating that the question was scarcely fair. This led — as it was, perhaps, in- tended, Miss Emma being well versed in all such devices — to a controversy between the two professors of rather a heated kind, under cover of which the culprit was for- gotten. Miss Cooke finally interposed a few questions of a safe sort, which were an- swered brilliantly, and under shelter of which the pupil was enabled to retreat with credit. Then came a song called "Art's Whis- pers," sung by one of Mr. Can ova's pupils in a very loud contralto, accompanied and cooiposed by that gentleman, and dedicated by him " to his pupils at Chapone House ;" Miss Cooke having given permission, on the terms that there should be nothino- dealing with the enervating and demoral- ising subject of love in the words. Then followed a recitation from Racine, delivered with the true accent of Stratford-atte-Bow — or rather with that which is familiar at Boulogne. Then there was a pianoforte duet, and then came the prize essay on " Education," written and spoken by the Member's daughter — according to the pro- 1 1 — 2 164 PJiosbe. gramme — but which that young- lady, in a court of justice, would have shrunk from adopting on oath. Phoebe had a small share in the day's proceedings, having to deliver a portion of the dialogue in a fable. She could hardly compose her mouth to seriousness, and her eyes danced about to the faces of the guests in anything but the grave and com- posed way the principal desired. However, the result was quite as effective, and the guests were smiling and looking down at their programmes for the name of this pleasant little performer. In the middle she " forgot her part," and without being discomposed, looked round, with an en- couraofine lauofh, at Miss Emma Cooke for aid, that lady acting as prompter. The principal looked grave and shook her head, and Miss Cubitt said, in an audible whisper,, that " the eirl had a fair stock of cool- ness." At the close Phoebe was greeted with a round of applause, and, instead of returnine to the ranks, ran over to her mother, still laughing, and asked, " Mamma, how did I do it ?" " Now the prizes were to be delivered by Phoebe. 165 the lord's brother, Miss Emma appearing with an enormous official sheet, from which she read the names and qualifications, also selecting the right premiums, and handing them to the lord's brother for presentation. This gentleman, with many smiles and much graciousness, added some words, which, at the beginning, were appropriate enough, but, after a few prizes had been presented, began to fail in originality. Thus, for history : ''It is with great pleasure that I put this volume in your hands. In after life you will find few things so important as history." Then with French : " I have to congratulate you on your superiority in this language, which you will find of incalculable use." After a time, however, he had to fall back on his first formula : as in the case of geography and the use of the globes : " In after life you will find few things so important as a knowledge of geography, etc." Now came Phoebe, who received a little, a very little, volume for her success in botany. Again smiles and dancing eyes ; and she put out her hand to take the volume before the lord's brother had begun his charge. " Oh, i66 Phccbe. thank you, sir," she said. Every one laughed good-naturedly ; and the lord's brother said spontaneously, " I am sure I need not tell you to retain your fondness for flowers." CHAPTER X. ADELAIDES TRIUMPH. But now came the last and most important award. Miss Emma Cooke girded herself up (metaphorically) for the announcement, first solemnly taking the Dacier medal and ribbon from its bed, and holding it out in her right hand, while she read from the sheet in the other : " The Dacier medal. Awarded for oreneral excellence and merit in all the branches " She did not notice that all the girls were looking to the back, where a figure was entering ; neither did she see the sudden agitation in the principal, who was seated in front of her. The apparition was that of Adelaide, who walked in steadily till she came close behind Miss Emma Cooke. 1 68 Phoebe. The sudden and jerky entry at the door of jailer Corbett's head, as suddenly with- drawn, was no less perplexing to the visitors. The reader, however, went on to proclaim : " The Dacier medal awarded to Miss " To the amazement of all, the voice of Adelaide was now heard. She laid her hand on the astonished Miss Cooke's wrist and said firmly : " I protest against this. That medal is mine by right." In much agitation the principal could only murmur : " Take her away, take her out of the room." " I was examined for it. I answered the best. I appeal to the gentleman whom I see sitting there. I tell the company of ladies and gentlemen here that I have been cheated out of it." Miss Emma Cooke answered in aei- tated tones : " You forfeited it by your behaviour." "What behaviour?" murmured the other quickly. " Tell them, I challenge you to do it. Or shall I } Come, it will give your school a good reputation." Phcebe. 1 69 There seemed no cause for this painful scene, but the lord's brother, who felt that he was in the capacity of a sort of chairman, said with some tact to his neighbour, the principal : " I think, Miss Cooke, we may now adjourn the proceedings, and leave this point to be settled by you in private. There is nothins: more to be done, I believe.'"' All the oruests rose. Adelaide laughed o o scornfully. " I have made my protest — all I wished. I care little what you do with this trumpery decoration. It is a farce, like everything else in the place." The incident was a serious one for the establishment, fashionable people liking everything to go on quietly and decorously. However, Adelaide retired with a scornful dignity, and the guests adjourned to lunch. The principal could not be present, her unstrung nerves had given way under these shocks. Such a disgrace — so shock- ing and vulgar — an outrage against all de- cency — had never been heard of in the long annals of the school ! The worst was, the r 70 PJicebe. guests were not a little excited by the episode, and as the young ladies were now allowed to join their relations, questions were naturally put and answered with over- powering eagerness. Miss Cubitt exhibited a singular curiosity, and plied Miss Emma Cooke with many questions. " That cfirl has character, and will make her way. Right or wrong, she showed spirit. " I fear, I fear, madam," said the other, "she will turn out ill." " Oh, nonsense ! you magnify things at these schools. I like her. I declare it was refreshincr to hear her." All this was delivered in a loud uncom- promising voice, much to the annoyance of Miss Cooke. *' I assume that statement of hers to be perfectly true.. Of course it is. She is the cleverest one you have, that I can see." Miss Cooke tried in vain to turn off this most disagreeable subject. Meanwhile the lunch went forward, the chatter and hum of voices rose, and the lord's brother made an agreeable and even touching speech, alluding to the absence " of the amiable Phoebe. 1 7 E lady" to whom they were all so indebted for that delightful day's entertainment. Then the party began to break up ; the girls to get their " things" and make ready to depart. Happy day; happy breaking- up ! Miss Cooke had determined on making a supreme effort to master her nerves, and see some of the departing pupils ; but she was oppressed by the terrible and revenge- ful creature that was under her roof. What was to be done with her ? Again and again the thought recurred. She could not be turned loose on the world ; that would be certain ruin for her ; neither could she be kept there. And then the disgrace of her awful intrusion. As she thought and thought again, a message came from Miss Cubitt to bee a few moments' conversation.' " I want to know," she said, " about that girl that stood up for her rights so gallantly." Aghast, Miss Cooke faltered, " Gallantly — rights !" " Yes, yes," said the other, " there is no- time to discuss that. I speak as the thing i ']2 Phoebe, strikes me. Of course you think differ- ently, as she opposed you. But to come to the point now. What are you going- to do with her ?" " I cannot tell ; indeed I cannot. It is .an awful trial and responsibility." " Pooh !" said the other, " I don't follow you. Then she has no friends, I suppose? I should like to take her myself I am o^oing to travel, and I want some one of that stamp as a companion, reader, dame de compagnie, and all the rest. Send for her and ask her, or let me go and speak to her." Miss Cooke felt that it was hardly equit- able that the dreadful scandal should turn to the profit of the offender. Still the offer was so tempting, and the solution of all difficulties so convenient, that she could not resist. She led the way, and in a few moments the lady was sitting with Adelaide Cross in her cell, opening the matter to her. A very few minutes sufficed to arrange the whole. Adelaide was grateful and even dignified. " You have rescued me from a wretched situation, and rescued me with credit. You will find that I shall never forget it." Phcebe. 1 73 " I like your spirit," said the lady. " At any rate, we can try each other fairly for a short time. If we do not suit each other we must only part. Now get your things together, and I shall take you away in my own carriaoe." Miss Emma Cooke was nervously press- ing on the visitor that this packing would take a long time, and that she had better wait until the guests went away. She, no doubt, felt the awkwardness of the de- parture in triumph before all the guests ; and it was awkward certainly. But this humiliation Adelaide was determined should be undergone. She was ready in a few minutes ; and, descending the stairs Avith her new friend, encountered all the departing strangers. The voluble patroness, who always spoke loud, took care to an- nounce the new arranofement. In the hall they were waiting for the private carriages and the chaises from the Red Lion to come up. And here was our delighted Phoebe, under shelter of her bust- ling mamma. No one was so astonished as was Phoebe when she saw Adelaide, and heard of the fortunate chanije. The natural ,174 Phosbc. impulse could not be restrained ; for all marks of injuries made on Phcebe's deli- cate soul healed up in a very short while ; and, after a moment's hesitation, she ran forward and said : " O ! Adelaide, I am so delighted !" The other drew her hand away. "It will be time enough," she said, in a low voice, " to congratulate me when we meet again. We certainly shall. I shall take care of that if our lives be lonsf enough." " Now," said her patroness, " here is the carriao^e." " Adieu, Miss Emma," said Adelaide, turning round with the most composed air in the world, the waitino- o-uests looking at her with wonder. '* Remember me to Miss Cooke. I do hope this little escapade won't do your school any harm." " Extraordinary girl !" " Singular per- son !" were the remarks amid which Adelaide passed out and took her seat in the carriage on her way to beginning a new life. " Oh, I have no patience with it," said Mrs. Dawson aloud. " Mark my words, that girl will turn out badly." Phcebe. 1 75 Then her chaise came round, and our emancipated Phoebe set out on her Httle journey through the world, which was to be chequered enough. The story spread, much distorted. " Young men found in the garden every night." " Not a fit place, you know." And then the unseemly display on the exhibition-day showed that discipline was faulty. Poor Miss Cooke was too old— - too old-fashioned to hold the reins. Dean Drinkwater characteristically declared she was " a foolish old woman, and would take no advice ;" and, possibly. If she had hushed It up, as he recommended, no harm might have come of it. In short, the pupils fell off, and when the vacation had passed by, more than a third of the ofirls did not return. Then followed a struggle to keep the establishment going till better days ; but it was no use ; and within a couple of years a still more un- seemly scandal followed. In the seizure, under a bill of sale, of all the furniture and effects of that first-class Ladies' Semi- nary, Chapone House. Miss Emma went to seek her fortune at another young ladies' 1 76 Phoebe. school, where she made an excellent female usher, and poor Miss Cooke, who was taken in, heartbroken, by a relative, survived the blow but a short time. In her last illness she was often heard to pronounce, with a sort of feeble terror, the name of Adelaide Cross : " She destroyed me ! God forgive her !" she would say. CHAPTER XI. THE SAM PRINGLES AT HOME. Some months later than the breaking up at Miss Cooke's academy, we find our- selves at a white-washed house, close to the entrance to a* country town. This residence had a meagre lawn in front, and a hutch beside the gate which bore the honourable title of •' lodge ;' " Spring View " was on the pillars of the gate ; and it was the abode of the Samuel, or Sam, Pringle family — of that young Mr. Prinele who had fio^ured at the o-arden- gate in the adventures just detailed. They were of that class of country folk, who, not important enough to be country squires, were always striving and struggling to maintain themselves among the genteel. VOL. I. 12 1 7S Phoebe. This aim, it must be admitted, was chiefly pursued by Mrs. Pringle, whose restless Hfe was consumed in such efforts, Mr. Sam Pringle taking it easy, much as he took the world. They drew their subsis- tence from his beinor aofent to various gentlemen, an occupation which was a perpetual thorn in the lady's side ; one of the labours of her life beingf to varnish over the character of this hideous calling, either by discovering precedent ■ — as where noblemen's nephews had actually held the office — or by trying to persuade herself that it was in itself a calling as honourable, and as much pursued, as that of the Bar or the Church. The family consisted of three — the son Pringle and two rather diminutive girls, who seemed to be driven about by their mamma like a pair of Shet- land ponies. They had such singleness of purpose in the Great Cause — viz., of settling and of getting established in life by means of the ordinary but difficult- to-be-acquired article, a husband — that they would say or do anything to secure that end. But the district they worked Phcebe. 179 seemed likely to be as unprofitable as an American mine. With none of these pains, however, was Sam Prinofle troubled. He was a man close on sixty, and had spent nearly all those sixty years in buffooning at life. In his youth he had always been what is called a joker, and as he grew old he gradually developed into a kind of social clown. His round face was always in a grin, and at all times and seasons he would indulge in his " sells." All this was to the despair of his family, who might cloak the agency, but, alas ! could not disguise this irrepressible joker and his "vulgar" jests. Any attempts at repression they soon found only recoiled upon their heads, as he had all the malice of a monkey, and would, on such oc- casions, explode some startling piece of vulgarity, or, worse still, make some awkward revelation of household economy. " Old Sam," as he was always called, more in allusion to his clowning than to his age, was, in short, a dreadful trial to his family; and they, perhaps not unreasonably, im- puted the up-hill struggle they had to 12 — 2 i8o Pkcede. maintain, and the failure in " placing the girls," to this sore impediment. We now find Mrs. Pringle seated, with her daughters, one afternoon just before dinner, by an unpretending fire, for they were forced to be economical. The three were working and talkinor over the head of the house. " You know it comes to this — what gentleman would marry into this family, when he sees he must have such a father- in-law ? He's ruining us ; that's what it's all coming to. If he could be got to restrain his low manners ; but that's hope- less." The sound of wheels was heard out- side, signifying the return of a rather rusty- headed one-horse phaeton, in which Mr. Pringle drove about the country on busi- ness. There was a brougham of corre- sponding "shakiness " in the coach-house, for the use of the ladies. An ancient grey did for both. Now enters Sam Pringle, making grotesque bows and affect- ing to be reverential. " Oh, my lady, will you let in a poor vulgar fellow like me ?" Phcebe. 1 8 1 He was fond of thus addresslnof his wife, in allusion to her taste for orood society. " Now, please, no nonsense, Mr. Pringle. Did you bring' me the things I asked you to get from Hubbard's ?" " Oh, of course !" said he. " It's not for the like of a plebeian like me to forget. Well, pony number one, what's the best news with you }" The girls were too accustomed to the clowninof to answer. But their unabashed parent went on : "If you knew the news I have got you'd all be at my feet. What d'ye say to my Lord Garterley's compliments — hopes to have the pleasure — and all that ?" Six matches seemed to have flashed in the eyes of the three ladies. " What ! he asked us T they all said together. " Where's the letter ? Where did you meet him ?" added Mrs. Pringle eagerly. " Well, if the truth must be told — I was just — saving your presence, my lady — coming out — " " Oh, I know," said the lady despair 1 82 Phoebe. ingly ; " you needn't tell me. Something low, of course — " " Coming out of The Bull, after as good a glass of ale as I have had for a long time. Ah ! sold again, my lady." " For goodness' sake stop this buffoonery, and give Lord Garterley's message." Having had his joke, this malicious elderly gentleman now proceeded to com- municate his news. " Great doings, girls, and my lady. Garterley's coming out : great party ; fiery cross sent out ; highest of the high jinks. Wonderful times ! You're asked, my lady, and the two ponies, and the poor fellow that cleans the boots. It was very nice of them asking me, I think." " Who are to be there ? What day is it for ?" said the lady calmly, and knowing that the only way to obtain information was to be patient. On which Sam Pringle produced the invitation, and the delighted ladies found that they really were duly and formally bidden to attend at Garterley, the seat of Lord Garterley, and remain for one week to enjoy the festivities there provided. The delight and the ecstasy of ascertaining Phcebc. 1 83 that this joyful news was Indeed true, and that what the three had sighed and pined for — and, what was more, had toiled and struggled for, for months and years — was at last secured, made the sensation of that moment truly exquisite. As in the case of Mrs. Shandy's maid, and the reversion of the green gown, the three minds darted away simultaneously in the direction of certain wardrobes and receptacles where were laid up in ordinary various millinery crafts that had seen rough weather enough in ball-rooms. These the skilful work- women saw already refitted and shaped, altered and made ready for sea ; new sails, and laces, and rigging would do wonders ! " Your brother is asked too," said she ; " but the foolish idle fellow will be potter- ing about after some shop-girl. He is ridiculous." " I'll write to him to morrow, ma." " Puppy !" said Mr. Pringle, dropping the clown manner and assuming a savage de- portment ; "regular puppy! How dare he go on as he does I Wasting my money, hanging about boarding-schools. Look at 1 84 Phcebe. the bill I had to pay for him at that Red Lion. Such a scrape to get into !" " And then the expense of my going to London to save him from losing his place ! Heaven help us !" " Oh yes, my lady ; your hairystocratic influence saved him, of course." " I am always in terror," continued the lady, addressing herself to her daughters, '' of hearing of some low match, of his having married a refreshment girl, or something of the kind." " Then I can tell you he wouldn't show such bad taste, after all ; some of the said girls are uncommonly — " " He has no steadiness — can't fix on any- thing," she went on, taking no notice. " Even in that affair at the school — to pick out one of the dependents of the place !" " That's what I said," said her husband, now serious. "Why, he had a grand opportunity, a grand one. There are girls in those places with fifty and a hundred thousand apiece ; and, once over into the garden, and his arms round — " Phcobe. 185 " Hush ! hush, Mr. Pringle, Your daughters are present. I beg really — " Thus reproved, Mr. Pringle abruptly- changed his tone. " I was thinking, my lovely peeress," he said, " we must send for that fellow at once, and let him fly at any game that's going. They've always a bevy of en- dowed and established young w^omen." " I was thinking so too," said his lady, in a business-like way. " It will cost money ; but we must do something, if we don't want to be in the poor-house. Even high connection, without money, would do ; it gives a back — " " Yes ; for a jump at le'p-frog." " Leap ! leap ! Mr. Pringle. Do be cautious. These are the thingrs that ruin the girls. If you'd only keep quiet and let us work — What young men, with real-bona fide intentions, that heard you speak in that way ; why, they'd — " *' Oh, papa, indeed you are dreadful sometimes," observed the ponies. Sam Pringle became vicious. " So you want to lay it on me, my lady. I can tell you what a young fellow don't 1 86 PhcEbe. like ; and that is to be gobbled up by three mouths, all quacking after him like geese on a common. Get along ! I'm not going to be taken about like an idiot, with a pad- lock on my jaw, as if you were ashamed of me." Thus warned, the ladies sighed and remained silent with a resigned air. Scenes of this pattern were of ordinary occurrence ; neither party lost temper, all being well accustomed to it. They were most frequent, however, on the eve of opening a campaign, such as was now at hand. Having achieved this success, Mr. Prin- gle gave his family a little bit of news that would please them. " I heard of old Joliffe to-day, from a fellow that met him at dinner. Never was in better health or spirits, and absolutely doting on those Aliens." " That's no news," said the lady with a sigh. " There's that foolish boy, again. Had he gone and stopped only a month every year, as the old man wished, he'd have kept him from being the victim of those people. Now, there's no chance." Phoebe. 187 " The puppy ! the stuck-up puppy ! It bored him, forsooth. It will bore him more, when he has to go begging and bor- rowing five shillings to get his dinner ; or when his tailor and bootmaker want to be paid. He must pay his debts somehow — for I shan't, because I can't — or go to jail, or run out of the country." " The only thing is to get him a wife, and at once." In these agreeable speculations the even- ing- closed. We now see what the Sam Prino^les were like. o CHAPTER XII. GARTERLEY. Garterley was a very grand house, stately and spreading, like the old trees about it, and Inspiring tourist visitors with a certain awe. One day in the week was set apart for these, when they were haughtily re- quired by a grim old housekeeper to wipe their shoes, and not " to touch the family's things ;" and were not even allowed to have their fill of staring, being hurried on in a herd, as is not unfrequently the custom in such great houses. Lord Garterley was an elderly bachelor, with a white head, a pleasant eye, and an open mouth — kept open a little too much for a reputation of good sense which he un- doubtedly enjoyed. He was very wealthy. Phccbe. 1 89 enjoyed life and society ; had an artistic turn; and, above all, encouraged everything that would amuse him. Thus, some of his good-natured friends insisted that if he met " a clever Punch-and-Judy man," he would be certain to ask him to stay at Garterley. Above all, he liked to be sur- rounded by agreeable ladies, one or two of whom were generally installed as favourites, though his lordship was fickle enough. This was all harmless and Platonic, and amusing to lookers-on. Such a personage was naturally mucli sought ; and agreeable, but perhaps schem- ing, people often strove to obtain supreme direction, and establish themselves on a more permanent footing. This manoeuvre had always failed, until, at some dinner or ball, his lordship had fallen in with some " charming people " — " the Charles Web- bers," Mr. and Mrs., the lady half of which influence had a strange, half- Jewish, half- Spanish look, which quite captivated him. They must, of course, come down to Gar- terley, and at once. Mr. Webber was " something in a bank," and his lady could not be traced very clearly in any of the 1 90 Phcebe. books, red or blue ; yet, at the end of a fortnight, when his lordship had found he had been mistaken as to the Jewish or Spanish "look," and that Mrs. Charles Webber was a more than ordinarily insipid person, the Charles Webbers did not go away. Mr. Webber had given some morn- ings to the accounts, and had found out that the steward was plundering ; he had interposed between the dreary bishop, who always sent Lord Garterley to sleep before dessert, and had taken the episcopal weight on himself, and without offending the pre- late. He had done other "odd jobs ;" and Mrs. Charles Webber, though in her oriei- nal claim discovered to be an impostor, had made herself useful with prosy ladies. In short, the Charles Webbers actually got the vacant place, and Lord Garterley took them. They did everything, arranged everything ; and now, after ten years' ser- vice, had become indispensable. They certainly lived six months of each year at Garterley. On the occasion of the present festivities, the Charles Webbers had arranged every- thing, and asked everybody, that was de- Phcede. 191 sirable. The Sam Pringles; Pratt-Hawkins; Mrs. Maclvor, the younCT wife of a striig- gHng doctor, whom Lord Garterley had heard sing; the droll and "side-splitting" Shakerley ; the young law student, with a heavenly voice ; the handsome, dashing Mrs. Trotter, and her more handsome but less dashing daughters ; old Phipps, the grey and rather wizened epicure, so slim and spare about the back, so grey and wiry about the hair and whiskers, and given to good stories, and a certain amount of wit, which was like some of the old port, rather thin and colourless from keeping too long. There was also Madame Grazielli, the famous lyric singer of the operas, who had sung twenty years ago, and turned the heads of all the fashionable " bucks " of the time. In addition, there -was Sturges, the wealthy young man from the City, whose father had bought an estate, and kept hounds, not far from Garterley ; with a few " pawns," as they might be termed, who, at their visits at great houses, come on like the supers of a stage army, no one troubling themselves about their names or behaviour, save that the stage-manager sees that they 192 Phcebe. make a satisfactory show in return for their eno-agement. On the day that the festivities opened, Garterley, from being- a stately and de- serted mansion, all swathed and hooded in muslin and holland, now revealed itself in all its splendour. There was great state ; the grand drawing-room — that with the silver chairs, ordered for the Prince Recent — had been thrown open ; the twenty ser- vants or so in their state liveries resplen- dent in gold, like the band on a levee-day, were posturing about with trays — embar- rassing some of the guests not a litde ; not the least the young Doctor Maclvor and his wife, who were cowed and wretched, and looked out uneasily from an ambuscade near the curtains. "Who," said Pratt-Hawkins, a full, portly man, with a decided yet mild manner, "who are those Mac Ivors ?" " A doctor," said the young Shakerley. " Picked 'em up at the last fair, outside Richardson's show ; secured 'em reason- able." Pratt-Hawkins was a little shocked. '^ Dear me," he said, "pity he is so indis- Phcebe. 193 criminate. You see it's cruelty to these poor things to bring them in here. They're suf- ferinof torture at this moment. This sort of people never will amalgamate." Yet it was wonderful how Pratt-Hawkins refuted his own theory, and had himself amalgamated ; it being known to many that he was the son of a most respectable grocer in a country town. The more credit to him, the good-natured people said who repeated the story, to have raised himself. Perhaps this was the reason that Pratt- Hawkins held the lower ranks in horror, and worshipped idols in the shape of dukes and barons and peeresses, to whom he was a sort of " handy man," invaluable in every way. If people had asked to what pro- fession Pratt- Hawkins belonged, it might have been answered fairly that this of following the Peerage, like following the Bar, was the one. At this he really toiled, sat up of nights, and almost injured his health, until he, as it were, got into "great business," and at the head of his profes- sion. Pratt- Hawkins was not pleased with the complexion of the present party ; it was not " leavened," as he complained, VOL. I. 13 194 Phcebe. and though there was young Fazakerley, son of the peer of tliat name, and a few more of the same kind, still it was like a circuit town, to which he had been brought down on pretence of business, and where there was none. Now came Charles Webber, spurring up like an aide-de-camp to the disturbed and scared Maclvors. " Now, if you please," he said, with a sort of dictatorial air, " Lord Garterley would wish 3^ou to favour the company." And the unhappy creatures, who had been studying photographic albums, were led off to perform their favourite song. This was of a very unpre- tending, and, it must be said, unmeritorious kind. His lordship had heard them at a school-feast, or school-treat, when the young doctor and his wife had come forward, for the amusement of the children, to sing a sort of musical quarrel and reconcilement, in alternate verses, and Vx^hich was entitled " Jockie and Jeannie." This they did with some spirit under the circumstances, and the eaeer lord was so delighted that at the close he introduced himself, and insisted on their coming at once to Garterley. Alas! Phcebe. 195 It now sounded very different ; they wanted the freedom which the presence of the children gave. Here the simple wrang- lings of Jockie and Jeannie sounded flat. The performers were overawed by the company, who really did not follow the humour of the thing such as it was. And though the young doctor did his best, with desperation almost, still his lady — a good- humoured unsophisticated country person, in a rich blue silk purchased for the occa- sion, and a cameo brooch — -divided between the piano and the cold, amused looks of the guests, made no success. A cloud came over the face of the host, who had gone round announcing what a remarkable display of native humour and poignancy they were about to witness, and who had remained leaninof on his elbows at the end •of the piano, and staring into their faces. At the end he said in a loud voice, " You didn't sing that in the way I first heard you ; it's not the same thing." Much abashed and sinking under the reproof, the unhappy pair found their way back to their corner, discredited, and feeling like impostors. His lordship, indeed, thought 13—2 1 96 Phwbe. as much, and was petulant — with himself chiefly. " What is over them, Webber ? Why do they keep in that corner ?" Webber at once galloped across the field, brought them out, put Mrs. Maclvor beside the parson, and conversed a few moments with the doctor. Something must be done to redeem the mistake, and keep his lordship in good, humour. Here was the young law-student, a natural young fellow enough, who at once volun- teered ; and gave out, certainly in a charm- ing tenor, the old ballad of " She wore a Wreath of Roses," Vvhich touched every- body present. Even the Grazielli, a stately^ full-blown personage, quite at her ease, signified her approbation. This was the sort of thing that usually went on at Garterley, and was to go on for some ten days, which made the time very difficult to get through. Indeed, but for the sense of duty towards daughters, and the chance of its offering opportunities which no conscientious matron would feel justified in putting aside, the place would have been held but in ill odour. Every- Phoebe. 197 one knew, and was rather tired of, the in- discriminate Lord Garterley, whose poems, written when he was the Hon. Huo-h Chevron, had been before the pubhc since the days of the pink-silk annuals. The adroit Charles Webbers knew per- fectly well that a sort of variety must be imported ; and, by way of " refresher," had distributed the guests so that they should arrive in succession. Accordingly, it was not till a couple of days later that the ancient vehicles of the Pringle family drove up, containing five persons — the mother and father, the two ponies, and our hero of the garden-gate, Alfred. This irruption, which took place a short time before dinner, made a considerable diversion, as Sam Pringle was considered to be " such a prime old card." He was, indeed, in such good spirits, that, as they drove up the avenue^ Mrs. Pringle turned to him and said, " Now, I conjure you, Mr. Pringle, do show some respect for yourself and your family, and don't make us ridiculous " — ■ an appeal he was in much too good a humour to resent, and to which his only answer was a most sio-nificant wink, o igS Phoebe. These were holidays for him ; he hked good wines and rich fare. His hope- ful son, who had a contempt for the paternal anticS that was not to be ex- pressed, was reserved and moody. He was still thinking of the apparition at the garden-gate, and of that most romantic adventure. He felt he was thrown away in the world generally, and not in the mood for festivity. They had hardly made their entry into the drawing-room, at the general assembly before going into dinner, when the incorriorible Sam Pringrle beo^an. The host, who was amused by him, received him with alacrity. " Ha ! Pringle, how de do ? Brought all your jokes, I hope — the old ones as well as some new — eh ?" " Well, indeed, my lord, I have had 'em done up, and altered, and re-lined ; like my lady and her girls, who have been hard at work, cutting up, and ironing, and clear- starching for the last week, all in honour of this most illustrious event." " Ha, ha ! very good," said his lordship. Then came the state banquet, when Sam grew more and more exuberant, talk- Phoebe. 199 Ing with half-a-dozen people at a tune, while loud laughter, each burst of which made Mrs. Pringle wince, saluted his sallies. What delighted them was his mode of dealing with Pratt-Hawkins, his vis-a-vis, who had been talking of a " dear duchess " in a plaintive way. " She sent for me. Of course I went at once. When I arrived, I simply said, ' Now, duchess, you must let me speak to you as an old friend. This won't do — you must make an exertion ;' and she did." " Phew !" said Sam Pringle, with a twinkle and a grin ; " think of that now. Being able to say all that to a duchess ! And how did she take it now, if it wouldn't be impertinent to ask ? So she made the exertion ?" " Yes ; nerved herself and got through ! I have some little influence with her." " Only think of that," said Sam, looking round. " Why, I and my lady here would just do anything to get within call of a real Grace." " My lady !" said Pratt-Hawkins, look- ing up the table, nervous lest he should 200 Phccbe. have overlooked some person of high degree. " Who do you mean ?" " A Httle pet name for my missuig rib, who has the same feehngrs to the aristo- cracy that you have, sir. She adores 'em all." Mrs. PrinMe o-foaned. " Now, really, Mr. Pringle, I implore you, do not make yourself ridiculous." But Sam, who was drinking champagne, and being " drawn out " on the right and left, had reached the irrepressible stage. It was ao;-reed as^ain and as^ain that he was certainly " a great card." After dinner the drawinof-room scenes of the nights previous were repeated ; the servants promenading, and the Maclvors at the album (how they longed to be home again !) One of the dashing Miss Trotters had taken Mr. Pringle, jun., in hand, while her sister was engrossed with the young Fazakerley. The host was eagerly dart- ing about the room, wishing some one to "do something;" for he assumed that no one had any business to cumber the earth, without qualification to exhibit in some way. It was on this night that his " Diva," Pkcebe. 20 1 as she was called, volunteered — "so nice of her," everybod}^ says — to give one of her old "bravura" triumphs, such as she used to intoxicate the audiences with In the old opera days. This she did with great lyric power ; and at the conclusion the host advanced in a transport, and kissed her. Every one thought this so natural and appropriate, and it was saluted by a round of applause, led by the Charles Webbers, who were hurrying about afterwards, art- fully impressing it on the company. " You saw the compliment his lordship paid the Diva ? She was quite flattered by It ; she says she values it more than the ring the Czar gave her." It was, however, a little after the great lady had concluded her performance that two new arrivals had entered the room. The ear of the wary Charles Webber had, indeed, caught the sound of wheels about half an hour before, and " Harris," a ser- vant who was always in his confidence, had come to whisper him ; to whom Mr. Webber said : " Very well, Harris ; you know the rooms." The doors, as we said, opened, and the host, who had been hovering 202 Phoobe. round the Diva, talking Italian volubly to- her, suddenly interrupted himself and sprang towards the new-comers. " My dear Mrs. Dawson, how do you do ? And Miss Phoebe !" CHAPTER XIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. The young man of the garden-gate, on whom Miss Trotter was practising, started. He could hardly believe his senses. Yes> it was Phoebe ; with her bustling mother, who treated the host with an unceremonious familiarity, and behind whom tripped the airy girl, her merry eyes glancing at every- body. Fresh from school, she was a little bewildered. " So glad you've come," said the host, " and that you have brought Miss Phoebe." " She's no longer a school-girl now," said her mother ; " she's a young lady. This is her first appearance." " I never was at a party before," said Phoebe. " How beautiful all this is !" 204 Ph(Bbe. " These are fine rooms ; but I'll show you the Castle regularly to-morrow. Now- let me ; I must introduce you." And he put her arm in his, patting her hand, for she was a favourite of his. The very first person on his left was the young man who had half risen, and was behaving in so unaccountable and mysterious a way, as to provoke and even disgust the Miss Trotter who had him in hand. " Here, Pringle, come here," the host said imperatively. Now it was Phoebe's turn to start and colour ; but she was so natural that she did not attempt to conceal her delight. " You here !" she cried. " Dear me, to think we should meet again so soon." " Why, when did you meet last ?" said Lord Garterley, amused at her exuberance. Phoebe had no way out of a difficulty but to laugh — laugh both with her eyes and lips. She innocently thought it was as satisfactory an extrication as any. " Not at the boarding-school, I hope," said the host, quite innocently. " I sup- pose you couldn't have met anywhere since." Phcebe. 205 Both parties were covered with con- fusion. But here Mrs. Dawson inter- vened. She was much displeased at Phoebe's manner and showed it. ''Come here, Phoebe. Sit here." Phoebe obeyed with miHtary promptness. Some sharp whispering followed. She had pre- sently handed Phoebe over to Mrs. Trotter, and went to receive homaofe from Mr. Pratt- Hawkins, who, almost as soon as she had come in, had ascertained that she was cousin to Lord Mount-Dawson, and, of course, through " them," connected with the best noble families right and left. Phoebe was soon at home, relating their adventures on the road, to the supercilious smilings of the dashing Misses Trotter, but to the interest of the older persons. Still her eyes glanced in the direction of her hero. It made her thrill, the romance of the idea, and to-night, in his evening dress, he looked charming. And she thought, too, what a mysterious arrange- ment it was that had brought them both under the same roof ! She was greatly delighted with old Sam Pringle, who began a course of his antics 2o6 Phcebe. for her special edification. One of the young ladles wished that a new dance could be invented, or that they could revive the old minuet. "Delightful!" said old Sam. ''Only think of the gliding and sliding w^e should have. But It must be done with Qfrace — grace, my dear madam." In a moment he had given out the air In a quavering voice, and was standing up, " doing the steps," twisting his stout form in an absurd affectation of cere- monious grace. He went gravely through it before the liveried menials who were taking away coffee-cups, and to one of whom he said, with elaborate polite- ness : " My dear, good sir, would It Incon- venience you to stand a little farther back r He proceeded to perform the whole dance, till he came to the second part, or gavotte, when he broke Into springs and leaps forward, the character of the measure having changed. Here every one exhibited much mirth, but his own family were in- finitely distressed at the ridiculous exhibi- Phoebe. 207 tlon. Phoebe laughed in perfect hysterical screams to see a stout gentleman taking bounds in the air. No wonder people said old Sam Pringle was a great card. " Oh ! you are so funny," she said ; " I shall die of laughter." His wife could not contain her vexation. " Making yourself so ridiculous," she said, aloud ; " you don't see that every one is laughing at you." " Come, you are too bad," said Mr. Webber, seeing matters were going too far. "We must keep you in order." Phoebe, in the pauses of her merriment, was glancing slyly and shyly at her admirer, wondering that he did not come over, for thoueh she had noted her mother's hurried address to him, she did not guess Vv^hat its purport had been. She even gave him an encouragfino- o;lance or two, but he seemed confused and troubled. She presently was tossing her pretty head, as though to show she was perfectly indifferent ; and indeed she was able to notice that a tall, heavily- built, brown-haired young man, who was standing against the door, had his eyes constantly fixed upon her. Nor was she 2o8 Phoebe. surprised when the good-natured host, bringing this young man with him, came towards her : " I want to introduce a very good, honest fellow, whose only fault is that he has got too much money." In which fashion Mr. Sturges was presented to Phoebe. He had not much to say, this gentleman, but he was earnest when he did say any- thing ; and Phoebe saw at once that here was a conquest. Our heroine had a certain volatile flightiness, which made her " run away with " any notion that took her fancy. If she found herself tempted to be agreeable, she made herself as agreeable as she could. Now the notion in her head at this moment was to pique and torture the reserved swain ; and without having as yet learned to conjugate the verb " to flirt," she actually did so, as effectively and out- rageously as though she had passed the degrees of bachelor or master. Accord- ingly, when the host said, " Take Miss Dawson down and show her the silver sofa and the conservatory," Phoebe took Mr. Sturges' arm, and sallied forth on this unchaperoned expedition. This cicerone Phcede. 209 •showed her everything, and Phoebe was delighted with everything. Mrs. Dawson was not at all disturbed at the absence of her " child," as she always •called her. She herself was busily en- gaged with the host, who delighted in the curious basket of odds and ends which she carried about like a raa--oratherer. All the while the younger Pringle sat moody, and in the lowest spirits. That nigfht Phcebe was taken into council by her mother, and directed in that grave, prompt, overpowering way which was no more to be opposed than an Act of Parlia- ment that has received the royal assent. "See here, Phoebe," she said, "this will do exactly for you. An immense estate, and a good, stead}^ sensible young man. He told Garterley he wants a nice wife, well connected, and doesn't care for money. He's completely taken with you." Phoebe's heart sank. " But I don't like him, mamma." " Fiddlededee and nonsense ! as if that mattered. None of your fancies out of novels, Phoebe ; it's time to begin to be sensible. It will do splendidly. You'll VOL. I. 14 2 1 o Phosbc. have your carriage and diamonds, and go to court, and be In the best set ; and get your dresses from Eh'se and Wordi ; have your house in town and opera-box ; and give your balls, and have all the nice people at your parties." This dazzling prospect was artfully set before Phoebe, so that she might dream and ruminate on it with the best effect. But though she smiled, and even laughed, she had too much romance to be attracted. Her gold, and jewels, and dresses were all* in romance. All she was dreading was this her mother should suspect the truth, that the young Pringle and the hero of the p^arden-orate' were the same. Strano-e to say, though Mrs, Dawson had heard his name in the course of the judicial proceed- ings before the Dean, it had completely passed from her memory, as being too trifling a matter to deserve a thought. Phoebe was always early, loving the garden and flowers, and an early greeting of the sun in the fresh morning air, when she liked to run and even gambol over the grass and clown the walks. Here were enchanting gardens, laid out a century Phoebe. 2 i r before. She was very happy ; hfe was opening before her Hke the sunshiny day of which the morning gave such promise. There were two admirers at her feet. It was dehghtful, charming. But still, one was a true knight, and the other a prosy, earthy kind of being enougli. Suddenly, as if by enchantment, the Ar- thurian knight was before her. The young man, when he saw her, stopped irresolutely ; but Phoebe came running towards him, her face bright as the mornincr sun itself. " How early you are !" she cried. " Isn't it pleasant to be out ? Though, perhaps, 3^ou don't think so ; for, indeed, you were very cold and cross last night." " I did not intend to be so," said he, quite assumingf his old manner. " Of course I was delighted to see you." " You were — really ? As glad, now, as you were in that — garden ?" said she hesi- tatingly. This allusion made both a little confused. And it was not, in truth, an injudicious one on the young lady's side ; for it brought back at once, and most vividly, that highly- romantic scene and the emotions it had 14 — 2 2 12 Phcebe. kindled. Here, too, was a orarden-scene most appropriate ; and it was scarcely- wonderful that this youthful and impulsive pair should, in a few moments, have become absorbed in the subject, and have wandered away — not in thought merely, but over a good extentof walks — through the charming o-ardens and terraces. What confidences were there interchanged ! How enchanted Phoebe was with her knight; what an almost Arthurian prince he appeared in the light ; how gallant his air; how low and insinuating his voice, may be conceived. It must be owned that, as a matter of absolute fact, our hero had none of these gifts but youth ; he was agreeable, and showed a wish to please and a devotion which, to the other sex, is always acceptable. But an impartial judge would have noted a certain feminine triviality about him and a want of manliness. A gloomy seer, or one of the stone gods that occupied the pedestals In Garterley eardens, might have auo^ured 111 from the union of such a person with the light-souled Phoebe, who certainly stood In need of some- thine more oak-like to sustain her. But such forecastings would surely be premature Phcebe. 2 1 3 at this stage of a flirtation at a country house. What if Mrs. Dawson had been looking from one of the windows of the ofreat facade — one of Chambers's finest works ? She would have been much put out at such a spectacle, and have, perhaps, rushed down with a design to interrupt these indecorous wanderings. But the noble owner had, for some time back, been straining his head out of one of the tall French windows— first, in speculation as to who the party could be, and next, in pleased wonder as to what they could be saying. He was one of the most curious and gossiping of mortals ; and one of the duties of the Charles Webbers was to furnish him with daily provender of amusing tit-bits of news of what was going forward. It was some time before the truth dawned upon him, and he at first assumed that Phoebe's companion was Mr. Sturges; but on this point he soon set himself right. He saw the pair wandering backwards and forwards along the bosquets and terraces, their heads down and close together ; while — infallible sign — Phoebe was pulling some of his flowers to pieces. 2 1 4 Phoebe. When the party assembled at breakfast, Mrs. Dawson noted Phoebe's absence, and immediately looked down the table for Mr. Sturges, whom to her disappointment she saw seated far down, and eating his break- fast in the slow devoted manner which he seemed to think so important a meal re- quired. When, however, Phoebe came in, flushed and healthful-looking after her walk, while the swain followed with a sort of smirk on his features, she was looked at with curiosity. Her mother summoned her to her side imperiously, and Phoebe danced round full of excitement, and quite indifferent to the impending scolding. Lord Garterley was more alarming, for he looked at her significantly, and called out, " I saw you taking your walk in the garden this morninof." He had indeed the subject on his mind, for he said to Mrs, Dawson, in an under- tone, stretching over eagerly, after his way : " Of course you know our young friend, Pringle — eh ?" Mrs. Dawson said she had never seen him before ; adding, that the Pringles were "poor as Job," and could hardly make both ends meet. Phcebe. 215 " Not so rich as Sturges, there," said he, with a loud laugh. " That's a good idea, isn't it ? All mine, you know." After breakfast, Phcebe found herself seized upon. " Come with me," he said, putting her arm in his, and taking his ereat white hat. " I want to show you my flowers — and to give you some too." Phoebe doted on flowers, and joyfully attended him. As soon as they were in the garden, he said, rather abruptly : " Now, you rogue ! Don't think I didn't see you this morning. I was watching you ever so long. What are you about ?" Phcebe looked at him slyly, though at first alarmed, then began to laugh. "If I'm not let into the secret, I tell. Now, you've met this young man before — on the sly too ; for when I asked your mother, she seemed never to have heard of him." Phoebe was, like most people, deep in love, only eager for publicity. She felt a pride in the devotion of her hero and knight, and wanted no hiding under bushels. She was willing to court mortification, reproach, 2 1 6 Phwbc. and persecution in the cause. Moreover, she never could keep a secret, the deHght and pride of possessing one being too much for her. Accordingly, merely as a " piece of fun," she proceeded to tell her friend the whole of the adventure at Miss Cooke's ; the garden -gate affair ; and of the supplant- ing of " poor dear Adelaide." " Tm sure it wasn't my fault," she added. " I was only acting as her best friend, and in her interest." " Oh, you shameless little flirt," said he ; " how disloyal of you ! But," he continued, getting grave, " I would take care of that girl, if I were you ; she may do you an evil turn one of these days." '' Oh, nonsense," laughed Phoebe. "What harm can she do me ? And I don't care, I' J) m sure. " But, dear me, who'd have thought of that young fellow having all that in him ! I never gave him credit for spirit of that kind." Phoebe tossed her head. "Oh, you don't know him." " And now, do you think him superior to Sturges ?" Phoebe. 217 " Oh, poor Mr. Sturges !" and it would be hard to describe the cadence of contempt thrown into this remark. " But mamma thinks a good deal of him, and he thinks a good deal of you. He is a very good, worthy fellow, and has quan- tities of money," " If he was stuck over with diamonds," said Phoebe impatiently, " I wouldn't " Then she stopped and coloured. Lord Garterley laughed heartily. " That's what we wish. Well, young ladies' inclinations must not be forced. We must only wait. But treat poor Sturges well ; don't wound his feelings unneces- sarily." There was, in truth, no fear of that. But before the walk ended, the good natured lord promised that he would not " put it very much in mamma's head." Accordingly, young Mr. Pringle was greatly surprised to find himself noticed with an extraordinary interest by his host, who put his arm round his shoulders in an affectionate way, and led him into the window to ask him if he was enjoying himself. 2 1 8 Phwbe. " Not as much, though, as at a certain garden-gate. Ha ! ha! ha! You see I'm behind the scenes, I found it all out. Never mind ; you can trust me, both of you. I won't spoil sport ; don't be afraid. In fact, I may help to make it, eh ? She's a nice little thing, eh ?" " Charming !" said the young man in great excitement. " But how kind of you, Lord Garterley, to take all this interest." " Not a bit of it. But see here. No trifling. No loving and riding away. I can't have it — " " Oh, you don't suppose — " " You see, here is a man, well off, that would make her very happy and comfort- able—" " Never !" said Mr. Prino^le. " Ouite unsuited. She w^ould pine away in such companionship." " Well, you know her better. But if you mean seriously," went on the good- natured lord, " go in at once boldly ; strike while the iron's hot. I'll manage your father and mother. You may leave them to me ; or, if the worst comes to the worst, you can run off together, as was Phoebe. 2 1 9 common enough when I was a young fellow." " How kind of you — " began the young man. " And don't be afraid about prospects. I'll get you something. Miss Phoebe is a , pet of mine ; so you may depend on me. I can manage a small place up to, say three hundred a year. It will carry you on very w'ell for some time." Mr. Pringle was overcome with gratitude. He was really in love with Phoebe. And from that time the good-natured peer set himself seriously to work to forward the interests of the lovers in every possible way ; and took as much enjoyment in the matter as a child would in a story-book or a toy. CHAPTER XIV. TOM DAWSON. That morning there was shooting for the gentlemen and driving out for the ladies ; the host, in his quality of pasha, doing neither, but going about all day in his white hat. One or two of the gentlemen did not go out and shoot, among whom were young Pringle and his father — a pair that were on rather unpaternal and most unfilial terms, the former feeling ashamed of his progenitor's antics, the latter looking on his son as "a puppy" and "stuck-up fellow." He had taken a special dislike to him since he had noted the preference for Phoebe, and the young lady had tried all her little arts, and exerted herself to pro- pitiate one who she fondly dreamed might Plicebe. 2 2 1 be, some day, united to her in a near and dear relation. Phoebe, it will have been seen, was of the most sanguine tempera- ment, and assumed that to propose was to dispose ; in the process annihilating time, space, and possibility. The morning seemed to fly by in a sort of dream. To Phoebe it seemed a few minutes, one of the most entrancing periods she had ever enjoyed. This to other people might seem surprising enough ; for, as was before hinted, Mr. Pringle, jun., was an ordinary young gentleman enough, such as men would pronounce a feeble sort of fellow. But he had a power of words, and an artful vein of compliment ; finally, he was bent on pleasing, and delighted in flirtation. Phoebe was a little flower just opening its leaves to the sun, and thought the eenial warmth of this kind of homao^e perfectly exquisite ; and here she was now ready to give up her whole little heart, overflowing with love and gratitude for the preference, to her admirer. She was so entranced, indeed, that she had forgotten what now seemed a prosy element in the domestic life — viz., the expected arrival of 22 2 Phoebe. " Tom," her brother ; the same with whom she had threatened Dean Drinkvvater, and who was due about lunch-hour. A brother now seemed an insipid idea. At lunch-time, when Phoebe, with flushed cheeks, attended by the squire, entered the great dining-room rather behind time — • secretly pleased to be able to exhibit her conquest — there was a blunt, well-set, wiry- haired, fair-looking young man, with a terrier-like moustache, already eating his lunch in a sober, steady fashion. His cheeks had each a litde pink flush, and his eyes had a slight glare or wateriness ; but there was a bluff and solid composure about him that impressed. This was Tom Dawson, who had been in the army, and had "left ;'' who " had no money," and yet lived " anyhow and everyhow," as he him- self frankly said — and did a vast number of other expensive things, which only people who have money do. Such was this eminently good fellow, Tom Dawson, who rode like an Arab, and who had given up a race-meeting somewhere to come and see his Phoebe, on whom he literally doted. Phoebe, in return, loved Phcebc. 225 Tom with her whole heart, and nothing could be done without Tom's aid, or, at least, advice. Tom's life, as we have said, was almost a mystery. He had not a farthing, having run through a small patrimony of about fifteen hundred pounds years before. Yet he lived like a gentleman — comfortably and luxuriously ; kept his horses ; went on long visits ; shot, hunted, and was always in demand, as a good fellow. The truth was, he earned his living very hardly and laboriously — he was a dead shot at a pigeon ; and at Hurlingham and Monaco generally contrived to land a good stake. In all the great races he generally con- trived to be " put on " with " the party " at some great house, and, in this way, made money. Should these things fail him, he had plenty of friends, and might end as secretary to a gun club. In short, he had his wits to live upon, and very good wits they were. Phoebe flew to Tom, and the latter took her in his arms and kissed her heartily be- fore the whole room, as unconcernedly as though he were booking a bet. Phoebe 2 24 Phcebe. was in great excitement from her morning's performance, and said eagerly : " Tom, you must know Mr. Pringle, a friend of ours that we met — " " All right," said Tom, giving the person alluded to a nod ; but it was plain that he did not think much of him, deeming him rather " a finical kind of fellow." Lord Garterley liked Tom, as being so sagacious in county matters ; and often thought what a much better adjutant for the house he would be than the Charles Webbers, who, to say the ^ truth, were now growing rather stale after their ten years' service. But he dared not discharge those worthy assistants ; and he had, besides, some feeling of gratitude towards them for all their hard and useful toil. They felt their power, and were not to be readily dislodged. Tom Dawson, still making his lunch the first consideration, was giving out, for the entertainment of the company, an account of some hunt or race, in which he had some hair-breadth 'scape, and which he re- counted with a modest indifference that gained him many admirers. Such charac- Phcebe. 225 ters as Tom's are really more successful than far more pretentious people, possibly on account of the high claims of sporting matters, which seem to level all distinc- tions, and to be a subject that is a passe- partout. Sam Pringle was in a very vicious humour all this morning, having displayed antics at breakfast that drew on him the bitter reproaches of his family. In fact, Mrs. Prinele had announced as an ultima- tum that she would leave at once on the next display of anything like what had occurred. Sam Pringle declared that she " and the ponies " were welcome to set off whenever they pleased, but that he intended remaining, and would find it just as agree- able. " And when I say ' just,' you'll un- derstand me to mean a good deal more J) so. At dinner the malicious Sam Pringle found an opportunity to revenge him.self, and at the first opening perpetrated the following wanton outrage : " You'd never suppose, Mrs. Trotter, that I was married for my beauty ? Then VOL. I. ' 5 2 26 Phosbe. I can tell you that I was. Ask Mrs. P. there. She succumbed to my charms." " Now, Mr. Pnngle, do please — " began his lady, with an angry frown. " And more than that. When the biddings for me were mounting, and comine in from riQht and left, sooner than let me go, she made the best offer,. and of course — I was knocked down to her." " Mr. Pringle !" " I don't believe a word of it," said Mrs. Trotter bluntl)-. " That's your vanity, Mr, Pringle." " Ask her. Look at her, and the colour in her cheeks. I was a lady-killer then. I don't see anything to blush for in pro- posing for a good-looking young fellow. Aren't the two ' ponies ' there the happy result ?" " Come, dears," said Mrs. Pringle. half risino;, " it is time for us to eo to our rooms." " You are too bad, Pringle," said old Phipps. " You've routed and dispersed your wife and family." " I shouldn't mind dispersing my daugh- Phoebe. 227 ters," said he, with a grin ; " but I'd want some nice young fellow to help me." " Really, to say such things !" said Mrs. Trotter, " You're uncivilised. I know, if it was my case, I'd never open my lips to you again." " Oh !" said old Sam, getting up and capering round the back of Mrs. Trotter's chair ; " then, in that case, I'd pine and languish away. Fancy me pining and languishing at your feet !" '* Besides, it's not true ; you know it's not. And if it were, you ought to be ashamed to say so." Mrs, Trotter was a rattling, dashing woman, and said what she thought. " Go back to your seat. You really are a great old goose," This rebuke had some effect, and old Sam saw that the feeling of the com- pany was against him, and he began to re- tract. " Well, when I say that about proposing, you know how friends interfere, to forward a thing of that kind. Of course the thing was settled much in the usual humdrum, old-fashioned way." 15—2 2 28 Phosbe. " Of course it was ; we knew that. So you'd better say no more about it." Sam Pringle was more quiet after this "snub." It did him good, every one said ; and he was certainly a httle abashed at the reception of his "joke." ' Among- the new guests on that day appointed to refresh the host were Mr. and Lady Cecilia Shortlands — a charmingly sounding combination for Pratt- Hawkins, who, within five minutes of arrival, had got himself introduced, and, by the mien- tion of " the dear duchess," had cemented ties of acquaintanceship with Lady Cecilia. Ouite a chanfje came over Pratt- Hawkins in consequence. He had now got the air suitable for his breathing. Lady Cecilia was a person of what might be called rapturous tastes ; loving all the arts — poetry, drama, etc.— with a devotion that was exactly in proportion to her deficiency in the actual accomplishments. She worshipped actors, adored singers ; and herself, in a private way, " read " and recited at extraordinary lengths. She had been specially invited for that night, as there was to be in the great hall a " penny Phoebe. 229 reading," given for the benefit of the villagers and genteeler rustics — i.e., doctor, solicitor, parsons' wives and daughters, superior farmers, etc., who were collected, as it were, by sound of drum, and ordered to come in, fill the benches, and be amused. The entertairmient had been planned by the indefatigable Charles Webbers, with a view to the entertainment of his lordship, and to " keeping everything going." Lord Garterley, as we have said, was an elegant poet of the old school, with a genuine taste for literature. He was much pleased with the notion, and was himself oroinQ^ to take a large share in the entertainment. CHAPTER XV. THE PENNY READING. In due course the whole distinguished party, after some waiting and much ex- pectation, proceeded to the grand hall, where the rural company were already assembled in a fever of anticipated enjoy- ment. The entrance of Lord Garterley, when he appeared leading the Diva, was the signal for a round of applause. Pratt- Haw- kins again contrived to find the only air that he could breathe, and not only led, but sat beside " Lady Cecilia :" while Phoebe was greatly excited, her eyes and pretty head in perpetual motion, scattering light and enjoyment. She, however, modestly sought the remoter seats, where the op- portunities for seeing and hearing the per- ' Phoobe. 2 X I J formance were not so good, but where her swain presently came up softly and esta- blished himself, not to be removed or cease whispering during the whole evening. What that entranced pair really heard of the " reading," or saw, in the way of his- trionics, from the beeinninof to the end of the night, it would be hard to say. Such entertainments they sought not, nor did they bewail their deprivation. But here now comes a universal " Hush !" as director Charles Webber comes forward with a pleasant and suitable little speech to set things going. It began with " Jockie and Jeannie " from those hopeless failures, the doctor and wife, who had been sinking and sinking deeper with every hour. Charles Webber had been obliged to send them away by a regular dismissal ; " he feared he would want the rooms," However, this last chance was afforded to them ; as they were there, they could fill up a vacant space. Grown desperate and even reck- less, and inspirited at the prospect of release from the terrible Nessus shirt they had been wearing in agony for several ^32 Phcebe. days, encouraged too by the familiar air of the audience, hke their own rural one, our doctor and his lady "came out" with a spirit of dramatic effect that astounded every one, and extorted a burst of applause and irrepressible encore. The good-natured lord leaped forward, as his manner was, wrung both their hands, and declared that " they must not think of going away to- morrow." But the pair had their own pride, and with some stiffness and dignity declared that they must return home. Next appeared upon the platform, after due whisperings with the Charles Webbers, the grey face of old Phipps, with a roguish twinkle of good-humoured greeting in the corner of his eye. Old Phipps had made ve7's dc soaeie to his mistress's eyebrows, as well as to the eyebrows of those of other persons : and had often written political squibs " in the days of Fon- blanque " and Hookham Frere. Some bitter lines on All the Talents, called New Brewings, had gone all over England, and been in every one's mouth. Alas ! the New Brewings had gone to decay and forgetfulness ; and here was "old Phoebe. 2 ^ ^ oo Phipps " left behind like " the mouldy bis- cuit," overlooked at the bottom of the cask. However, on this occasion he was spruce in his velvet collar and blue coat ; and, coming forward, told his hearers, with a pleasant confidence, that he was going to recite for them a little trifle of his own, made on a person they all knew to be their bitterest enemy, whom they hated with a cordial detestation, and who was the worst of men. He need not describe that person. He referred to their host, Lord Garterley, at which little jest a roar of laughter uprose to the ceiling. " It was," said old Phipps, " an unpre- tending parody on our dear old friend^. Cock Robin : " ' Who killed dull care ?' ' I,' said Lord Garterley, So kindly and heartily ; ' I killed dull care.' " ' Who gives good dinners ?' ' I,' says Lord Garterley, ' Weekly and quarterly, To saints and sinners.' " ' Who sees his neighbours ?' * I,' says Lord Garterley, ' Not grudging nor tartarly, With pipes and with tabors.' 234 Phoebe. And so on through many verses, which every one set down as true London wit. Old Phipps, who had no vanity, and only Avanted to amuse, retired, having made friends of the whole audience, particularly at the last verse, where he had to refer to his manuscript, and after puzzling over it a moment, declared aloud : " I vow to goodness I can't read my own writing !" Now is our host bending and bowing before the portly and majestic Diva, who shakes her head amiably, but seems to give a reluctant consent. Then Lord Garterley turns to the audience, and in a loud tone proclaims : " We are favoured to-night by the presence of one of the most consummate artists, who now kindly consents to con- tribute to the pleasure of the evening, by one of those magnificent performances which have brought kings and emperors to her feet !" The Diva gave him a tap of her fan, and went to the piano, while the crowd applauded rapturously, having never even heard the name of this personage, but beinof under a general idea that she must be "somebody." She accordingly gave Phcebe. 235 out " Casta Diva," in that horny, rather whooping-cough manner, which retired Divas, who have only their style left, affect. She travelled up and down what are called " runs '' with a desperate energy, and wound up with a sort of " cry for help," that in a crowded city would at least have brought the police, and, possibly, the fire-engines, to her aid. All the time Lord Garterley leant enraptured on the grand piano, and stared, open-mouthed, as though he wished to gulp down the notes themselves. At the close, his "Brava! bravissima !" and clappings were obstre- perous, and the faithful Charles Webbers took care to make the audience under- stand that they must support the applause heartily. Next came that " comique," young Sha- kerley, who, strange to say, recognised jester as he was, fell flat. He strained too affectedly at applause ; but he afterwards declared that " a more pig-headed au- dience " it was impossible to find. Then, to the horror and agony of his family, old Sam must step out to buffoon, and what did the man select, but a " Curtain Lecture 2p,6 Phwbe. of Mrs. Caudle !" When he capered to the centres, and stood smihng at them, there was a roar of dehghted anticipa- tion, " We all know Mrs. Caudle," he began ; " every married man of us at least. Now, I think I see some of the young girls in the corner there looking away ; but to that complexion, my dears, we must all come sooner or later — at least all of us as have good looks. That's the reason / came to it. Well, now for Mrs. Caudle." And here, amid hardly-suppressed laughter from his friends, he read out a portion of one of the most amusing dialogues. Then he stopped. " Well, that's very funny so far. The best is I can endorse every word of it. True to nature, my lord, and ladies, and gentlemen. Why, I myself have lain there, hearing the hours strike, while on it went nag, nag, nagging." Here the host rose, finding it was time to check this too familiar mimic, and said, " Thank you, Pringle, that will do now. Lady Cecilia Shortlands will do us the favour of recitinof the ' Ancient Mariner.' " And accordingly Plioobe. 237 the Lady Cecilia, " squired " by the as- siduous Pratt- Hawk ins, who had already secured an invitation to Shordands, stood forward, and with rolling- eyes and the true husky " ossuary" voice, modelled on that of Rachel's, imparted a " creeping " feeling- to all listeners. The piece being of great length, and being delivered with a uniform charnel-house manner from beginning to end, much wearied the audience. The lady was then led back to her seat by the host, and finally, to the de- light of all, Lord Garterley himself came forward in a dramatic scene, from " The Good-natured Man," in which he himself performed Croaker, and Mr, Charles Webber, Honeywood. It was done with great naturalness and spirit, and was cer- tainly the most satisfactory and enjoyable event of the evening. It would have been awkward to have asked the opinion of two of the company in reference to this point. They may have heard, but they certainly heeded not. These were Phoebe and her admirer. It had all come to a point in these few hours. 238 Phccbe. Each was enchanting- to the other, and the minutes seemed of gold and silver. The confidence was delicious and increasing- every moment. Speeches of the most interestinof sort were interchano^ed. Phoebe- seemed to be in Paradise. It was during these ecstatic proceed- ing's they were rather startled to find the heavy Mr. Sturges beside them, with his smiling beaming face. Unfortunately, a gentleman who had been sitting next to Phoebe had left his place, and Mr. Sturges installed himself in the vacancy. He did not seem the least jealous, as Phoebe ex- pected he would, but was good-humoured and pleasant. Neither was he a man that could be " snubbed off," or made a butt of, being too grave and weighty for such liberties. Phoebe tossed her head, and was short in her answers, and Mr. Pringle looked sour and important ; but nothing could ruffle the intruder. " I was so glad to see this seat vacant : not because I have been standinof most of the night, but because it was beside you." " Oh, a compliment !" said Phoebe spite- Phcede. 239. fully. " Listen, Mr. Pringle ; he Is paying compliments." " Let him listen," said the other. " Or let us both try and see who can do the best in that line." " Oh, what nonsense," said Phoebe. " No, no," said he significantly ; " not a bit. I know what is going on." Phoebe coloured. Mr. Pringle, who overheard him, was confused, " I don't understand you," said she. " Come and have some refreshment," he said, rising. " I shall tell you. I am sure you must be tired." " Thank you, no," said Phoebe curdy. " Pd really rather not." " Do come," said he, in a still more pressing way. " I really wish to speak to 3) vou. Was it to be a proposal ? Were it another occasion, Phcebe would have sim- pered, and tittered, and looked in this and that direction, and finally have taken his arm and gone off to revel on that most daintiest of dishes to set before a young girl — a proposal of marriage, whether ac- ceptable or not. But now she was full 240 PIuEbc. of exultation, and wished to make him feel, not that he was distasteful to her, but that another was preferred to him. So she said, rather pertly : " Mr. Sturges, I don't want to go with you. Can't you see that I'm engaged .'*" He coloured, made a bow, and went his way. Phoebe turned to her neighbour with a look of triumph, as who should say, " I did that for you." Having thus got rid of the intruder, Phoebe, for whom that garden adventure had all the fascination of a romance, now began to recall it by putting artful ques- tions in self-depreciation as to " What he must have thought of her," and kept still returning to that same fascinating subject of "poor Adelaide's!" mistake; though Phoebe was a little surprised to find in what a tone her admirer repeated the words, " poor Adelaide !" with an interest and curiosity that surprised her. " What has become of her ?" he said. " There was something strangely interest- ing about her. A most curious fascina- tion." " Oh, you thought so ?" said Phoebe, Phoebe. 241 tossing her head. " Of course you must, or you would not have made appointments with her in that way at the gate." Mr. Princde coloured. He was such an ingrained philanderer that this view had never occurred to him — viz., that he had been as devoted to Phoebe's predecessor as he was now to herself. " Oh," he said, with hesitation, *' that was only a little adventure. You know she is quite a different sort of person ; whereas you " and he paused. Phoebe coloured in her turn. Perhaps the crisis was approaching. " Well," she said sofdy, " what am I ? You are going to tell me something dis- aofreeable, I know." The most practised coquette could not have given a more suitable invitation. Yet Phoebe spoke only from nature. There was a real coquette jDresent, but of another sex ; though he was for the time as genuine as genial. The luxury of captivating was to him the highest pleasure. It was breaking on him that he had won this little tender heart ; but he must play with it a little first. " Why should you be VOL. I. 16 242 Pkcede. interested," he asked, " or like to know what I think of you ?" Phoebe repeated these words with a flutter of affected surprise. " Oh, I can't say ; that is, I don't know " " Would you be sorry that I liked any one else ?" " Ye — s — but you do. You know you do. I was your confidante, recollect." " I don't now," he said eagerly ; " upon my word and honour." " And I can believe you, really ?" "Really and truly." " Oh !" said Phoebe, obeying an impulse that she could not resist ; then, turning away her head, in a low voice, said, " I am so grlad to hear it." All the rest, as might be expected, fol- lowed, and by the time the Lady Cecilia had concluded her " Ancient Mariner," Phoebe Dawson and Francis Pringle were afihanced lovers — he, perhaps, for the third or fourth time in his short life. Alas ! with Phoebe it was very different ; she had never " thrown " before, and had now staked her whole little property of affections on the cast. If she lost, she could never Phcebe. 243 throw again ; for she had lost all. So far, then, there was the issue of her whole life involved ; and here was it to be decided in this trifling, off-hand way — at a penny .reading ! 16- CHAPTER XVI. TRUE LOVE RUNS SMOOTH. It was wonderful what a chanore this, brought of a sudden. Hitherto all had been airy comedy ; life had seemed a jest, with Phoebe. Now, a sense of responsi- bility and seriousness came upon her. Any shrewd observer, or one not wholly taken up with his own concerns, must have noted the change. She was proud of the conquest — a man's love, all given to her,, laid at her feet. She had an idea that she must be the envy of the world, at least of the little world that was in contact with her ; and that the triumph of love was worth all the wealih and jewels in the uni- verse, not merely in her eyes, and that all others must think so too. Accordingly, Pha^be. 245 that ni'eht, when she was alone with her mother, she could not refrain from tellhig her of the Qr-rand event. The latter was in a very ill-humour at the " child's play " Phoebe had been going on with, and the neglect she had shown of a useful and serviceable match. " I can do nothing with you or for you, wasting your time with that pauper jacka- napes ! Why didn't you speak to Mr. Sturores ?" " I don't like him, mamma, and never shall," replied Phoebe, ready for battle. " Don't like him ! Are you a fool, child ? What are you talking about ?" Phoebe felt herself called upon to be a heroine ; to encounter persecution, cruelty, if need be, for the sake of her love. It was grand, noble ; and the sooner it began the better. So she prepared at once to disclose all. " I did not think it right to encourage him, mamma, because " she began in her heroine voice. " Because what, child ? Don't begin any nonsense ! We are too poor, in the first place, for that sort of thing." 246 Ph(Bbe. '' Because — I love another, mamma/' said Phoebe, blurting it out. " Rubbish," said her mamma. " There, don't let me hear any more about it, you little foolish oroose and — idiot." Whether this contempt nettled Phoebe or whether she was annoyed at finding the matter not made so much of (heroically) as she had expected, it stimulated her to a yet bolder display. " It is no rubbish, mamma, but a life-long engagement, for better or worse. He has pledged himself to me, and I to him. We can't go back, even if we wished it." " The child is losing her wits. Why, you are onl}/ out of the nursery or out of your school — I won't listen to you." " And yet, ma, you wanted me to marry that Mr. Sturges. But I never will." " Oh, I see. Very well ; I'll soon stop this. We leave this place to-morrow. Not a word more about it. Now, go to your bed, and don't speak to me. I wonder you are not ashamed ; disgracing yourself with such a pauper marriage ! Just put it out of your head, for it can't be, and it mustn't be, and it shan't be !" Phoebe. 247 Poor Phoebe, thus harshly addressed, began to play all the great fountains of tears and sobs. But, before she had sent herself to sleep under this process, she had vowed, solemnly, that " no power on earth " should divert her attachment from her " gallant young Pringle." He was hers — • she was his — for life and death. What dreams she had that night — the first night of her heroineship ! What noble attitudes of giving up friends, relatives, country, all, for him — the man she loved ! As can now be seen, Phoebe was the most vehement, impulsive, uncontrollable creature when her emotions were aroused, that could be conceived. And this did not come, as it does in most cases, from reading romances with which she was scarcely acquainted, but from her nature and character, and was therefore all the more powerful. As for Mrs. Dawson, she slept the sleep, if not of the just, the satisfactory slumber of the easy-going woman of the world. With the morning, the matron, who had matured her plans before rising, bade Phoebe not to say any more on the subject, and put the thing out of her head for good 248 riiccbe. and all, an order her daughter received in heroine-like — that is rebellions — silence. Mrs. Dawson at once sought the lover. The young man met her with a guilty air. He was really in dread of this plain-spoken lady. " Come with me into the morning-room," she said. It was like a visit to the dentist : " Sit down in that chair, please." She led the way in silence, and he followed. The door was closed and she began : " Now, I must tell you, plainly, that I am totally opposed to this business. Neither of you have a farthing." " I have my place," he said eagerly, *'and Lord Garterley has promised us — ." " Your place !" said the lady, contemp- tuously ; "■ why, it would not keep a girl like Phcebe in her winter's dresses ; and if you wait for Lord Garterley 's promises " This was true enough, his lordship being perfectly sincere in his intention at the time of promise, but notorious for failure in performance. " And I must say," continued the lady, ** that I look on it as most unfair of you to P/urbe. 249 have taken such an advantage over a mere child, such as Phcebe Is. I had perfect confidence that no one would attempt an underhand proceeding of the kind. How- ever, you will give me your word that this childish business will stop here, or I must take Phcebe away at once." " Really," said the young man, much embarrassed, '' it has gone so far, I can t — *' I only want to hear what you intend. Yes or no. Then I shall know what course to take." Again the young man stammered. He knew not what to reply. " You seem a very undecided sort of person," said the lady scornfully. "' I can only warn you of this — you had better not be found hanging about our premises by my son, Tom Dawson. He is not a man to be trifled with. However, I have now told you my opinion plainly, which is, that I will not tolerate this matter for a moment. So you understand." With which the interview being ended, she left the lover much in confusion. A confidential interview with Phoebe 250 Phoebe. followed, delightfully secret and mysterious. She was full of excitement. " Let us consult Lord Garterley," she said ; " he is our friend — I know that he is." And it was agreed that on the first opportunity the good-natured lord should be told the whole story. But there was very little time to spare. Already Mrs, Dawson had sought him, and announced that they must leave at once, or to-morrow at farthest. He was astonished. " What ! take away Miss Phoebe ? Not to be thought of And the servants' ball coming on ? Oh, I won't have it." Mrs. Dawson, who was an impulsive lad}^ was soon led on to disclose her reason for this abrupt departure, on which his lordship began to plead gravely for the young pair. But when so much was at stake, Mrs. Dawson was not inclined "to mince matters," and spoke very blundy indeed. " It's perfect folly, Lord Garterley, as you'd admit if you had a child of your own. Where are they to get bread and cheese, I should like to know ; and how are they to keep a family on a hundred a Phcebe. 2 5 1 year ? Why, it's absurd. I beg, indeed, you'll speak to Phoebe sericusly,'^and get her to put the matter out of her foolish head." " Indeed, I'll do nothing of the kind, Mrs. Dawson. The young pair are in love with each other, and I'll not cross them. I give you fair notice, Mrs. D.," he added in his favourite joking way. " You know I'm a poet, and have written love-songs." Mrs. Dawson was not the best diploma- tist in the world, and, as we have seen,, acted too much upon impulse. She had great faith in '' good letters," as she called them ; and felt such satisfaction in this composition that she was often deluded into confoundingr this satisfaction with the expected result — the means with the end : the two being very different things. She was accordingly at her desk, writing the following "good letter," to her candidate son-in-law : " Dear Mr. Pringle, " I am sorry to find that you have tried to engage my daughter Phoebe's affections in a way which I can consider scarcely fair to her or to me. She is 252 P/icebe. quite a child, having only just left school. And I must now tell you plainly that I can never give my consent to such a marriage. I am totally opposed to it on all grounds. " Isabella Dawson." This letter was despatched to Mr. Pringle's room by the hands of one of the maids of the household, much to the latter's astonishment. Mr. Pringle read it, and it was, unhappily, all that was wanting to rouse that rather self-willed tone of his disposition. He was about to tear it up, but, instead, tossed it into his open port- manteau. Phoebe, who saw his bold defiance of her parent, thought it fine and heroic. The situation was working up rapidly, and was really exciting. But what was it to the sensation in the course of the same day, when Lord Garterley, who had noted Phoebe's restlessness and depression, drew her aside, and received her version of the highly romantic story ? He was really good-natured and fatherly, and comforted her as much as he could. P/icsbe. 253 " Recollect that I am on your side," he said ; "I always am with the young- people, so you may depend upon me. Mamma oucrht to recollect that she was O once young- herself. Never mind, have hope, and all will turn out well. I like to see a bit of romance. There was plenty of it in my day, though now every- body seems so mercenary, and not to care for it." "I fear," said Phoebe, piteously, "mamma will never consent ; and what are we to do then ? But I shall never, never give him up" " Ouite riorht. I was thinkins^ if it were done at once, without troubling her, there would then be no help for it, and then she would have to consent. You see there's no time to be lost ; she says she will go to- morrow. Ton my word, I believe the only way would be for both of you to run off." Phoebe started back, and gave a little cry ; then laughed. " What an idea !" she said. " Not a bad one," he said. " There's a registrar in every town. All you have to 2 54 Phoebe. do is to get your bonnet, some morning" before lunch, and walk In and have the business settled. Your mother is angry at first — very angry, of course — but by-and-by comes round." To Phoebe this seemed delightfully simple, and removed every difficulty. The idea actually flattered into her little head, why not at once — that morning even ? " I'll give you a bit of advice. I tell you what, take your brother Tom into con- fidence. He's a ready fellow that can be dejDended on." Phoebe lost no time in seekine Tom. " Tom, dear, you must help us. Tell me what to do." " The governess has been talking to me all the morning," he said, in his stolid way ; " and I tell you what, Phib " — such was the pet name he had for his sister — " I go with the mother altogether. That chap is not fit for you." " On the contrary, Tom, I am unworthy of him. He is far above me in every way ! " I don't know about that," said Tom Phmbe. o :)0 gravely; "but I'd bet five to one that he don't mean bushiess ; not a bit of him." Phoebe understood this phrase perfectly, " Ah ! he does, Tom," she said eagerly ; " you don't understand," " I know that class of chap well," he went on ; " we had plenty of them in the regiment. It was all very well so long as it was love, and devotion, and kissing, and all that—" " Oh, Tom, you can't think — " " But when it came to naming a day, there was no crettinor the bridle over their heads. He's not genuine, that fellow, I'd take my oath of it ! and, take my advice, have nothing to do with him. Now, Phib, say the word, and I'll get rid of him in a trice." " No, no, Tom, not for the world. You are all wrong. But we want you to help us so, and Lord Garterley says you are the person to do it." And Phoebe proceeded to unfold the new plan, and then begged of him to manage the whole for them. Who would have thought that tliis was the gentle, timid Phoube, now transformed into 256 Phoebe. the bold, eager girl ? She was ready to dare anything, to face the world, in behalf of her love. Tom, seeing her bent on it, like a good fellow as he was, determined that what she wished should be done, and that in the most effectual way. At once he went in search of the lover. Tom accosted him with due gravity. " Phib has told me all this, and she seems to have set her heart on it." " She is charming, and I am most deeply attached to her." " Oh, of course," said Tom. " It's the same as settled now, in fact — as if the , parson had said his say." " We are not inclined to hurry the matter on," said the other. " We shall have to look about a good deal first. It's a serious thing, you know, marrying." " Well, but you know," said Tom gravely, " delay in this case may stop the whole business ; in fact, I know it will ; and the only chance Is to marry right off Besides, there's no use discussing it, as that's what Phib wishes herself." " I really fear it would be very diffi- cult " Plicebe. 257 " Lord Garterley says you ought both to run off, and that's the only way to cut the knot. I'll settle it all. You two put yourselves in my hands. It will have to be done, you know ; so the sooner it's done the better. Now I tell you what, you come with me, and we'll both go into the town and make all inquiries, and settle this matter off hand." There was something very decided in the young man's manner, and unpleasantly decided too ; and Mr. Pringle somehow felt that there was no resistance to be made. The other was what is called '•Tookino- him throuo-h and throuoh," with also somethino^ of contempt, which Mr. Pringle did not i-elish. In fact, Tom did not wait to hear his view, and, assuming the whole matter to be settled, quitted the room, leaving the other rather bewildered. However, as we have seen, he was really fond of Phoebe ; and there was something so ex- citinor and dramatic in the situation — something so pleasing to human vanity in this attracting of universal interest — that he was inclined to <70 forward to the full lenorth. VOL. I. 17 258 Pliccbe. Accordingly he and Tom Dawson set off on their rather mysterious errand ; and Phoebe learned that something- not very clearly defined was to depend on their exer- tions ; and that late that night they would return, when all would be settled. Nor was she sorry for the joint expedition, as it would give Tom an opportunity of be- coming better acquainted with her lover. But it was to be a long weary day for her. CHAPTER XVII. GREAT NEWS That evening there was to be a servants' ball in the great hall. Time was — only twenty-four hours ago — when Phoebe would have looked to this as " the greatest fun in the world," delighting in the pros- pect of dancing with the large fat butler. Now she was in a sort of dream, grave, sober, and perhaps a little frightened. Every- bodv remarked it. Poor little soul ! she had already found care. Yet she would not have given up her present nervous state of happiness for the world, for happi- ness it was, enhanced by the delightful element of persecution. Meanwhile, where •was Tom ? Why had he not returned ? He had not been at dinner. 17 — 2 26o Phoebe. These servants' balls at a great house are always amushig- to the spectators— they have somethinof of the air of a theatrical show. Perhaps the best portion is to see the touches of human character, and, per- haps, weaknesses, exhibited, not by the menials, who are generally natural, and comport themselves in a genuine and un- affected way, but by certain of the guests, who perform before the public, and fancy that all are watching them. Hence their airs of overwhelminor condescension to the female servants, to whom they plainly con- vey that they are graciously adapting their conversation and manners to the class with which they are mixing. It was thus with Pratt-Hawkins, who danced with Perkins, one of the ladies'-maids, whom this first- rate toady had discovered to belong to Lady Cecilia. He artfully spoke the whole time of the mistress, whose praises he sang with a view, no doubt, to have them repeated over the hair-dressing that night. But it would not have gratified Pratt- Hawkins to have heard Perkins's report. "He were so redik'lus, mum !" A much more pleasant spectacle was it to see the host figuring Pha'be. 261 away in the good old style with stout Mrs. White, the housekeeper, from whom her partner would set off at full speed to the other end of the room, performing his prancings before another pair, only to return at full speed to meet Mrs. White, who was performing graceful settings like a witch in a pantomime. His white head was all the while busy, turning and search- ing the room actively to see that all were at work, and that none shirked their dancino^ duties. The Charles Webbers performed prodigies, flying about here, there, and every where — he with a friendly bonhomie and benevolence performing now with the cook, now with the housemaid ; and, indeed, by all below, he was con- sidered a " charmin', nice-spoken gent." Phoebe, in due course, was led out by a grave and almost sad footman, who attracted the ladies' admiration by the dignified fashion in which he performed his steps. On another occasion Phoebe herself would have found prodigious entertainment in making him speak, and in slyly glancing with malicious eyes at all her friends as she passed them, leaning on her liveried cava- 262 Phcebe. Her's arm. But to-nio^ht she was as ^rave as he was. In truth, she had a weight on her young heart. Her mother's eye — a stern one — was on her, as, indeed, were those of all the guests, for by this time every one knew her little love-story. Sternly, too, had Mrs. Dawson announced that she had fixed to go away early in the morning ; and the modest trunks of the two ladies were already packed. There had, indeed, been a slight disagreement between the noble host and his guest ; the latter, who " always spoke her mind," say- ing that he had hardly acted fairly, that she believed it was owingf to his encouras^e- ment that Phoebe was showing: such obsti- nacy. This tone he resented, though he declared that he wished heartily to see the pair united, and that " they were made for each other." " Made for each other !" repeated she scornfully ; " that fribble made for my Phoebe ? Wasn't he after another girl a few months ago } I am surprised, Lord Garterley, to hear you talk in that way — you that have seen so much of the world." As was natural, the discussion grew Phoebe. 26 J a little acrimonious; but the parties, though speaking thus plainly, were too old friends to quarrel. Towards midnio-ht the hos: was sud- denly attracted by roars of laughter, pro- ceeding from the part of the room where a crowd was slathered. He soon found his way across, and discovered that the attrac- tion was old Sam Pringle, who in his most rampant and irrepressible stage of humour was paying his addresses to Milliss, Mrs. Trotter's pretty maid ; he was carrying on a mock contest with the young lord. " Go away, sir !" he was saying ; " this fair one will have none of you. You won't, my dear ? Hear me swear to be true to ye. " Bravo, Sam !" was the encouragement that met him ; while the young maid tittered, and was overcome with confusion. " I swear that I do love thee !" con- tinued old Sam, standing out in the centre, and gesticulating in the most absurd way. " Perdition catch my soul, an' I do not, thou matchless creature — thou cynosure ! Angels are painted fair to look like thee." Here the young lord, who stood a good 264 Phoebe. deal on his dignity, and did not understand these freedoms, said a Httle pettishly : " Here, I say, do be quiet. The quad- rille's beginning-, and Miss Milliss is en- gaged to me. Come, Miss — er — Milliss." " Not so, good my lord," went on old Sam, getting between him and the lady's- maid. " I dispute your claim to this lady's hand. Back, my lord, or draw and de- fend yourself!" And he put himself into a comically burlesque attitude of fighting. Of course his lady and daughters were looking on during this absurd contest, and felt the accustomed shame and degradation, with the uncomfortable feelino- of never knowinsf to what excess he v/ould next proceed. However, they were destined to see old Sam going to even farther lengths, for he insisted on carrying off the pretty maid, to her own vexation, and promenad- ing with her round and round. There were many other odd scenes dur- ing the course of the night, and diverting humours, and it was decreed to be one of the most deligfhtful niMits conceivable. It was drawing on to supper, which the Charles Webbers had spurred away to Ph(xbe. 265 arrange, and it was just at this point that Tom Dawson entered and made at once for Phoebe. Our heroine had been expecting him lor long : indeed, he was " due " fully a couple of hours before. So, when she saw his welcome face, she flew to meet him. " Well, Tom ! Where is he ?" " Well, Phib ; here's news indeed ! He has not come back with me." Phoebe almost gave a cry. "It's all right," he went on; "there is good reason for it. At the hotel we met a lawyer's clerk coming on here, with a letter for Sam. Their relation, old Joliffe, is dead at last, and they are left everything. So now I think mother can have no further objection. Hasn't it turned out splendidly ?" Somehow Phoebe's face did not brighten at this wonderful news. Tom found it impossible to draw old Sam aside from his antics, he being now in the full swing of his burlesque. " I can't attend to you, my good sir. I am at present in Capua — the fair wreathing garlands for my brows," etc., etc. 266 Phccbe. So Tom went and sought Mrs. Prlngle, told her the great news, and gave her the letter. Her almost deh'ohted scream broiieht the host to her side. In a moment the intelhgence was known. The Prindes had come In for a splendid fortune. Old Joliffe was dead ; it seemed by the letter he had " fought " with the Aliens but a week before, and in vexatious spite had named the Pringles his heirs, as indeed he had a dozen times before, for the pleasure of annoying these Aliens. They were amused, and were biding their time, as- they had done before, a change usually taking place within a few days, the Pringles being disinherited in their turn, when the old testator died suddenly be- tween his two testamentary operations. Fifteen thousand a year, an old mansion, a park, a cellar, pictures, horses, carriages, etc., all for these fortunate Prindes ! No o more privations ; no jogging about in the old vehicles with the hoods ; no patching of old dresses. The only letters, indeed, that had followed them from their own house, during this visit, had been that of Phcebe. 267 pressing and threatening duns. No won- der that the poor, overworked Mrs. Pringle gave that scream of dehght. Even as it was, it was difficult to get old Sam into a serious mood for reception of the news. He persisted in considering it a joke. It was characteristic, however, that, when he found it was quite true and beyond mistake, his gravity returned ; and a sort of arrogant dignity came over him. The pretty maid, to whom he had been so troublesome all the night, and who had been treated with such intimate familiarity, ventured on a little cono-ratulation : *' So glad, sir, I'm sure ;" when she was repelled by a prompt — " Ah ! you'd like to be remembered, as you call it. I understand you, my dear girl. It won't do, though." People at once noticed his important strut, and the fussy style in which he announced to his grood-natured host that " they must be off the first thing in the morning ;" that he must aslv for the carriages to take them to the station. Lord Garterley saw the change at once, and " took him down " a little. 268 PhcBbe. " That will be half-past seven ; but I can't let you have the horses at that hour. Except for the Diva, I never take 'em out then ; but I'll take care you'll have a chaise from the Bull in orood time." " Well," said Sam pettishly, " I hope it will be in good time, for it is important." No wonder, it was said, that old Sam had lost his head already. Bidding good- night and good-bye to the guests — it was then close on two o'clock — they came to Mrs. Dawson and Phoebe and took a care- less leave of them. " We shall meet again, I suppose, some time or other," said Mrs. Pringle, sweetly. Those who heard this speech pronounced judgment on poor Phoebe's case — that now there was not a chance of its coming to anything, and that these low people would throw her over the very first thing. Mrs. Dawson, strange to say, took quite a different view of the matter, and, when closeted with her daughter that night, was in obstreperous spirits. " What a capital match !" she said. " Now, I can have no objection. The one thing is, we must be a little cautious at Phcebe. 269 first, until we know for certain ; they may- be setting aside the will — undue influence, and all that. But I think it will all eo well, and I congratulate you, you little sly-boots !" Mrs. Dawson was a very sanguine per- son, and was readily guided by these sudden impulses, often forming the most brilliant hopes and visions on rather slender foundations, and, on other occa- sions, being as unreasonably depressed. By degrees she succeeded in imparting her own favourable view of their prospects to her child ; and Phcebe went to sleep smiling, and full of hope for the future. During the days that followed, until their visit was concluded, the same idea was industriously encouraged by every one in the house ; until Phcebe began to smile and simper as a little heroine, the wife- elect, the happy selection of the new heir. Here, too, was romance in abundance ; for the story of the proposed elopement had got out, and it was thought highly interesting that both love and " brute wealth" should have been combined in so agreeable a fashion. None of the world- 2 70 Pluvbe. lings present had the heart to cause dis- ilkislon ; and so, when the party broke up, Phoebe and her mamma took their way to London with an assured and complacent confidence, and that probably the latter's next visit to Garterley would be in the interesting character of the recently-made bride. CHAPTER XVIII. SAAI IN HIS NEW CAPACITY. " Old Joliffe," as he was called, had been a wealthy eccentric old bachelor, of a rather vicious turn, such as those often are who have a vast deal of money to dispose of. He seemed to look on those about him as so many bandits, waiting- eagerly to despoil him, and he delighted in giving the various expectants, who were solicitous about his health, sundry coarse checks and repulses ; by this means appearing to proclaim his own freedom, and springing many disagreeable surprises on those dependent on him. His way of life was almost penurious. When a young man he had embarrassed himself by his extravagance, and it had taken many years to recover from these difficulties ; he 272 PJiccbe. had then fallen into the extreme of extrava- gant saving, and saved everything— saved even his noble pictures, statues, china, and other objects, from being looked at, as though there were some waste or expendi- ture in the process. Joliffe Court had once been well known as a show place. By the economies of a number of years, a vast sum of ready money had been accu- mulated ; the estate had been improved, while its rental had been screwed up to the hiohest. So it had ©one on to the time of the Aliens, a father and mother and a daughter, who had acquired a most powerful influence over him, which had actually lasted for some twenty years. When it began, Mr. Allen was a man of about five-and-thirty, Mrs. Allen some years younger, while the little daughter was an interesting, prattling "thing" of eight or ten years old. By the time their servitude ended, Mr. Allen was an elderly man, and the prattling thing- had grown up into a handsome woman, whom it was actually believed they in- tended that old Joliffe should marry. It may be conceived what was the rage Phcebe. 273 and fury of the disappointed Aliens when the trick which the vindictive old testator had played became known. The outlay in money, labour, and time, spread over a period of twenty years, was all lost. Here was a whole life wasted. It was too bad, and certainly a little hard, for literally nothing was left to them. They had staked everything on this long game, and now they had lost everything. When our friend, Samuel Turner Pringle, no longer " old Sam," had posted to Joliffe's Court for the funeral, it may be conceived what an ecstasy of delight he felt, as he drove up to the handsome castle, along the sweeping avenue. The change from his meagre and really poverty-stricken life seemed like a dream. This change, indeed, had brought with it another change, for Mr, Pringle stepped from his chaise and strode into the hall with a haughty and almost arrogant air, " I am Mr, Pringle," he said to the old butler, who was looking at him with in- quiry — " the — that is — the person to whom it has all been left." VOL, I. 18 2 74 . Pha'be. " Mr. Allen would see you in the study, sir. " Who's Mr. Allen ? What have I to do with Mr. Allen ? Show me into the library !" After a few minutes, when Mr. Pringle — we, however, shall still call him Sam Pringle, being too intimate with him to be affected by the change of fortune— was sitting at the fire, the door was opened, and a person entered abruptly, and spoke in a very excited manner, " Now, look here, Mr. Pringle, what are you going to do with me ? You don't suppose I am to be disposed of so easily." "Oh, come," said Sam, "what is all this ? Who are you ? Wliat does this mean i " Who are you, more likely ? I'm the proper heir of this place. Don't suppose I'm to be bamboozled — turned out on the roads after my twenty years' slavery. There'll be law — law — law, I tell you, and years of law, too. So you had better mind what you are about." " Oh, fudge !" said Sam. " You know that won't do here, or with me. Go to my Phcebc. 275 solicitor, if you have anything to say ; he'll talk to you." " Talk to me !" said the other in a rasfe. " How dare you ! Do you attempt to speak to me in that way ! Why, you super- annuated clown, you " Much nettled at this insolent freedom, and at the further insult of being styled a superannuated clown, Sam Pringle rose and tried to assume dignity. " Leave the room, sir," he said ; " and if you .do not conduct yourself properly, I'll have you turned out of the house." " That's good," said the other, " you ordering me out of the house that I have directed for twenty years ! You think you are cock-sure of it all. But I tell you you shan't have it without law — ^long, ruinous law — kept up for years. I have solicitors too." The person presently retired, and Sam felt very uncomfortable till he had done so. He had a certain idea that this was one of those amazingly vicious natures that know how to make themselves very troublesome. Sam himself was not a little skilled in this art. There was something 18—2 276 Phoobe. persevering, something of the bull-dog in the air of the man, and the idea of him and his possible proceedings rather em- bittered our Sam's triumph. However, Smith, Cooper, and Co., " our family solicitors," had declared the thing was unassailable, and that he need not give it a thought. Accordingly, after a few days' interval, there was a handsome funeral, where there was but a slender attendance of mourners, and where Samuel Turner Pringle, Esq., and his son, with the doctor and clergy- man, and Messrs. Smith, Cooper, and Co., were distributed through various mourn- ing-coaches, and where the luckless Allen appeared at the grave, and seemed to glare vindictively at the coffin, as though he would be glad to call up the lifeless tenant to account to him personally for his treachery. Everything went very well indeed. Much deference and respect was paid to Samuel Turner Pringle, Esq., and his son — a very pleasing and unaffected young man — and the obsequies being con- cluded, the heir felt that he was now fairly in possession. Phcebe, 277 It was with a curious feeline that he walked over the grounds and surveyed his property for the first time — fine old timber, beautiful gardens, well - stocked green- houses, and long stretches of ripe-red brick-wall covered with pear and plum. Pictures, as we have said, statues, books, and, pleasant to think of for old Sam, a good cellar of old wines. No wonder that his grotesque old soul swelled with de- lighted anticipation. His son was with him on this pro- menade. Being now at a greater height above him than he was before, he regarded him still more in the " puppy " view. " Don't let me hear a word now, sir, about your foolish philanderings ; attracted by every little chit you see. It's mere folly, and can't be." " I'm afraid it's not to be so easily dis- posed of as you think. Phoebe has attached herself to me, I can see." " That's her own affair. You must marry suitably, sir. You don't suppose I'm going to bring paupers into a j^lace like this, or to rear them either. You can have your pick of the Peerage now, if you 278 Phoebe. don't behave like a fool. Otherwise, I cut you off, sir, with a sixpence ; and you may go to Australia, you and your Phoebe — a poor little shop-girl, without half an ounce of wit or sense in her noddle. She can just simper and smirk, that's all." Mr. Pringle, junior, was silent under this contemptuous description of his lady-love. It waa no use, he perhaps felt, arguing on a question of feeling with his arrogant sire. END OF VOL. I. BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, SURREY. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. w\^^ x^ 1953 ^PR 2 2 nm Form L9-'J5m-9,'47(A5618)444 THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNLi A -m. T y~i "¥^ IT T71tf~t PR Fitzgerald • 4705 The parvenu -iP5p f amily, v.l Mf^ ^~^L PR 4705 F3p v.l UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 373 748 3