Hopes and Fears or, scenes from the life of a spinster

‘He will go to school,’ said Honor, convinced all this was prejudice.

‘Ay, and come home in the holidays, lording it as if he were master and more, like the son and heir.’

‘Indeed, Captain Charteris, you are quite mistaken; I have never allowed Owen to think himself in that position.  He knows perfectly well that there are nearer claims upon me, and that Hiltonbury can never belong to him.  I have always rejoiced that it should be so.  I should not like to have the least suspicion that there could be self-interest in his affection for me in the time to come; and I think it presumptuous to interfere with the course of Providence in the matter of inheritances.’

‘My good Miss Charlecote,’ said the captain, who had looked at her with somewhat of a pitying smile, instead of attending to her last words, ‘do you imagine that you know that boy?’

‘I do not know who else should,’ she answered, quivering between a disposition to tears at the harshness, and to laughter at the assumption of the stranger uncle to see farther than herself into her darling.

‘Ha!’ quoth the sailor, ‘slippery—slippery fellows.’

‘I do not understand you.  You do not mean to imply that I have not his perfect confidence, or do you think I have managed him wrongly?  If you do, pray tell me at once.  I dare say I have.’

‘I couldn’t say so,’ said Captain Charteris.  ‘You are an excellent good woman, Miss Charlecote, and the best friend the poor things have had in the world; and you have taught them more good than I could, I’m sure; but I never yet saw a woman who could be up to a boy, any more than she could sail a ship.’

‘Very likely not,’ said Honor, with a lame attempt at a good-humoured laugh; ‘but I should be very glad to know whether you are speaking from general experience of woman and boy, or from individual observation of the case in point.’

The captain made a very odd, incomprehensible little bow; and after a moment’s thought, said, ‘Plainly speaking, then, I don’t think you do get to the bottom of that lad; but there’s no telling, and I never had any turn for those smooth chaps.  If a fellow begins by being over-precise in what is of no consequence, ten to one but he ends by being reckless in all the rest.’

This last speech entirely reassured Honor, by proving to her that the captain was entirely actuated by prejudice against his nephew’s gentle and courteous manners and her own religious views.  He did not believe in the possibility of the success of such an education, and therefore was of course insensible to Owen’s manifold excellences.

Thenceforth she indignantly avoided the subject, and made no attempt to discover whether the captain’s eye, practised in midshipmen, had made any positive observations on which to found his dissatisfaction.  Wounded by his want of gratitude, and still more hurt by his unkind judgment of her beloved pupil, she transferred her consultations to the more deferential uncle, who was entirely contented with his nephew, transported with admiration of her management, and ready to make her a present of him with all his heart.  So readily did he accede to all that she said of schools, that the choice was virtually left to her.  Eton was rejected as a fitter preparation for the squirearchy than the ministry; Winchester on account of the distaste between Owen and young Fulmort; and her decision was fixed in favour of Westminster, partly for his father’s sake, partly on account of the proximity of St. Wulstan’s—such an infinite advantage, as Mr. Charteris observed.

The sailor declared that he knew nothing of schools, and would take no part in the discussion.  There had, in truth, been high words between the brothers, each accusing the other of going the way to ruin their nephew, ending by the captain’s’ exclaiming, ‘Well, I wash my hands of it!  I can’t flatter a foolish woman into spoiling poor Lucilla’s son.  If I am not to do what I think right by him, I shall get out of sight of it all.’

‘His prospects, Kit; how often I have told you it is our duty to consider his prospects.’

‘Hang his prospects!  A handsome heiress under forty!  How can you be such an ass, Charles?  He ought to be able to make an independent fortune before he could stand in her shoes, if he were ever to do so, which she declares he never will.  Yes, you may look knowing if you will, but she is no such fool in some things; and depend upon it she will make a principle of leaving her property in the right channel; and be that as it may, I warn you that you can’t do this lad a worse mischief than by putting any such notion into his head, if it be not there already.  There’s not a more deplorable condition in the world than to be always dangling after an estate, never knowing if it is to be your own or not, and most likely to be disappointed at last; and, to do Miss Charlecote justice, she is perfectly aware of that; and it will not be her fault if he have any false expectations!  So, if you feed him with them, it will all be your fault; and that’s the last I mean to say about him.’

Captain Charteris was not aware of a colloquy in which Owen had a share.

‘This lucky fellow,’ said the young Life-guardsman, ‘he is as good as an eldest son—famous shooting county—capital, well-timbered estate.’

‘No, Charles,’ said Owen, ‘my cousin Honor always says I am nothing like an eldest son, for there are nearer relations.’

‘Oh ha!’ said Charles, with a wink of superior wisdom, ‘we understand that.  She knows how to keep you on your good behaviour.  Why, but for cutting you out, I would even make up to her myself—fine-looking, comely woman, and well-preserved—and only the women quarrel with that splendid hair.  Never mind, my boy, I don’t mean it.  I wouldn’t stand in your light.’

‘As if Honor would have you!’ cried Owen, in fierce scorn.  Charles Charteris and his companions, with loud laughter, insisted on the reasons.

‘Because,’ cried the boy, with flashing looks, ‘she would not be ridiculous; and you are—’  He paused, but they held him fast, and insisted on hearing what Charles was.

‘Not a good Churchman,’ he finally pronounced.  ‘Yes, you may laugh at me, but Honor shan’t be laughed at.’

Possibly Owen’s views at present were that ‘not to be a good Churchman’ was synonymous with all imaginable evil, and that he had put it in a delicate manner.  Whether he heard the last of it for the rest of his visit may be imagined.  And, poor boy, though he was strong and spirited enough with his own contemporaries, there was no dealing with the full-fledged soldier.  Nor, when conversation turned to what ‘we’ did at Hiltonbury, was it possible always to disclaim standing in the same relation to the Holt as did Charles to Castle Blanch; nay, a certain importance seemed to attach to such an assumption of dignity, of which Owen was not loth to avail himself in his disregarded condition.

PART II

CHAPTER I

We hold our greyhound in our hand,Our falcon on our glove;But where shall we find leash or bandFor dame that loves to rove?—Scott

A June evening shed a slanting light over the greensward of Hiltonbury Holt, and made the western windows glisten like diamonds, as Honora Charlecote slowly walked homewards to her solitary evening meal, alone, except for the nearly blind old pointer who laid his grizzled muzzle upon her knees, gazing wistfully into her face, as seating herself upon the step of the sun-dial, she fondled his smooth, depressed black head.

‘Poor Ponto!’ she said, ‘we are grown old together.  Our young ones are all gone.’

Grown old?  Less old in proportion than Ponto—still in full vigour of mind and body, but old in disenchantment, and not without the traces of her forty-seven years.  The auburn hair was still in rich masses of curl; only on close inspection were silver threads to be detected; the cheek was paler, the brow worn, and the gravely handsome dress was chosen to suit the representative of the Charlecotes, not with regard to lingering youthfulness.  The slow movement, subdued tone, and downcast eye, had an air of habitual dejection and patience, as though disappointment had gone deeper, or solitude were telling more on the spirits, than any past blow had done.

She saw the preparations for her tea going on within the window, but ere going indoors, she took out and re-read two letters.

The first was in the irregular decided characters affected by young ladies in the reaction from their grandmothers’ pointed illegibilities, and bore a scroll at the top, with the word ‘Cilly,’ in old English letters of bright blue.

‘Lowndes Square, June 14th.

‘My dear Honor,—Many thanks for wishing for your will-o’-th’-wisp again, but it is going to dance off in another direction.  Rashe and I are bound to the west of Ireland, as soon as Charles’s inauguration is over at Castle Blanch; an odd jumble of festivities it is to be, but Lolly is just cockney enough to be determinedly rural, and there’s sure to be some fun to be got out of it; besides, I am pacified by having my special darling, Edna Murrell, the lovely schoolmistress at Wrapworth, to sing to them.  How Mr. Calthorp will admire her, as long as he thinks she is Italian!  It will be hard if I can’t get a rise out of some of them!  This being the case, I have not a moment for coming home; but I send some contributions for the prize-giving, some stunning articles from the Lowther Arcade.  The gutta-percha face is for Billy Harrison, whether in disgrace or not.  He deserves compensation for his many weary hours of Sunday School, and it may suggest a new art for beguiling the time.  Mind you tell him it is from me, with my love; and bestow the rest on all the chief reprobates.  I wish I could see them; but you have no loss, you know how unedifying I am.  Kiss Ponto for me, and ask Robin for his commands to Connaught.  I know his sulkiness will transpire through Phœbe.  Love to that dear little Cinderella, and tell her mamma and Juliana, that if she does not come out this winter, Mrs. Fulmort shall have no peace and Juliana no partners.  Please to look in my room for my great nailed boots and hedging-gloves, also for the pig’s wool in the left-hand drawer of the cabinet, and send them to me before the end of next week.  Owen would give his ears to come with us, but gentlemen would only obstruct Irish chivalry; I am only afraid there is no hope of a faction fight.  Mr. Saville called yesterday, so I made him dine here, and sung him into raptures.  What a dear old Don he is!

‘Your affectionate cousin,      Cilly.’

The second letter stood thus:—

‘Farrance’s Hotel, June 14th.

‘My dear miss Charlecote,—I have seen Lawrence on your business, and he will prepare the leases for your signature.  He suggests that it might be more satisfactory to wait, in case you should be coming to town, so that you might have a personal meeting with the parties; but this will be for you to determine.  I came up from – College on Wednesday, having much enjoyed my visit.  Oxford is in many respects a changed place, but as long as our old Head remains to us, I am sure of a gratifying welcome, and I saw many old friends.  I exchanged cards with Owen Sandbrook, but only saw him as we met in the street, and a very fine-looking youth he is, a perfect Hercules, and the champion of his college in all feats of strength; likely, too, to stand well in the class list.  His costume was not what we should once have considered academical; but his is a daring set, intellectual as well as bodily, and the clever young men of the present day are not what they were in my time.  It is gratifying to hear how warmly and affectionately he talks of you.  I do not know how far you have undertaken the supplies, but I give you a hint that a warning on that subject might not be inappropriate, unless they have come into some great accession of fortune on their uncle’s death.  I ventured to call upon the young lady in Lowndes Square, and was most graciously received, and asked to dinner by the young Mrs. Charteris.  It was a most récherché dinner in the new Italian fashion, which does not quite approve itself to me.  “Regardless of expense,” seems to be the family motto.  Your pupil sings better than ever, and knew how to keep her hold of my heart, though I suspected her of patronizing the old parson to pique her more brilliant admirers, whom she possesses in plenty; and no wonder, for she is pretty enough to turn any man’s head and shows to great advantage beside her cousin, Miss Charteris.  I hope you will be able to prevent the cousins from really undertaking the wild plan of travelling alone in Ireland, for the sake, they say, of salmon-fishing.  I should have thought them not in earnest, but girls are as much altered as boys from the days of my experience, and brothers, too; for Mr. Charteris seemed to view the scheme very coolly; but, as I told my friend Lucilla, I hope you will bring her to reason.  I hope your hay-crop promises favourably.

‘Yours sincerely,      W. Saville.’

No wonder that these letters made loneliness more lonely!

‘Oh, that Horatia!’ exclaimed she, almost aloud.  ‘Oh, that Captain Charteris were available!  No one else ever had any real power with Lucy!  It was an unlucky day when he saw that colonial young lady, and settled down in Vancouver’s Island!  And yet how I used to wish him away, with the surly independence he was always infusing into Owen.  Wanting to take him out there, indeed!  And yet, and yet—I sometimes doubt whether I did right to set my personal influence over my dear affectionate boy so much in opposition to his uncle—Mr. Charteris was on my side, though!  And I always took care to have it clearly understood that it was his education alone that I undertook.  What can Mr. Saville mean?—The supplies?  Owen knows what he has to trust to, but I can talk to him.  A daring set!—Yes, everything appears daring to an old-world man like Mr. Saville.  I am sure of my Owen; with our happy home Sundays.  I know I am his Sweet Honey still.  And yet’—then hastily turning from that dubious ‘and yet’—‘Owen is the only chance for his sister.  She does care for him; and he will view this mad scheme in the right light.  Shall I meet him at the beginning of the vacation, and see what he can do with Lucy?  Mr. Saville thinks I ought to be in London, and I think I might be useful to the Parsonses.  I suppose I must; but it is a heart-ache to be at St. Wulstan’s.  One is used to it here; and there are the poor people, and the farm, and the garden—yes, and those dear nightingales—and you, poor Ponto!  One is used to it here, but St. Wulstan’s is a fresh pain, and so is coming back.  But, if it be in the way of right, and to save poor Lucy, it must be, and it is what life is made of.  It is a “following of the funeral” of the hopes that sprang up after my spring-time.  Is it my chastisement, or is it my training?  Alas! maybe I took those children more for myself than for duty’s sake!  May it all be for their true good in the end, whatever it may be with me.  And now I will not dream.  It is of no use save to unnerve me.  Let me go to my book.  It must be a story to-night.  I cannot fix my attention yet.’

As she rose, however, her face brightened at the sight of two advancing figures, and she went forward to meet them.

One was a long, loosely-limbed youth of two-and-twenty, with broad shoulders, a heavy overhanging brow, dark gray serious eyes, and a mouth scarcely curved, and so fast shut as to disclose hardly any lip.  The hair was dark and lank; the air was of ungainly force, that had not yet found its purpose, and therefore was not at ease; and but for the educated cast of countenance he would have had a peasant look, in the brown, homely undress garb, which to most youths of his age would have been becoming.

With him was a girl, tall, slim, and lightly made, though of nicely rounded figure.  In height she looked like seventeen, but her dress was more childish than usual at that age; and the contour of her smooth cheeks and short rounded chin, her long neck, her happy blue eyes, fully opened like those of a child, her fair rosy skin and fresh simple air, might almost have belonged to seven years old: and there was all the earnestness, innocence, and careless ease of childhood in her movements and gestures, as she sprang forward to meet Miss Charlecote, exclaiming, ‘Robin said I might come.’

‘And very right of him.  You are both come to tea?’ she added, in affirmative interrogation, as she shook hands with the young man.

‘No, thank you,’ he answered; ‘at least I only brought Phœbe, having rescued her from Miss Fennimore’s clutches.  I must be at dinner.  But I will come again for her.’  And he yawned wearily.

‘I will drive her back; you are tired.’

‘No!’ he said.  ‘At least the walk is one of the few tolerable things there is.  I’ll come as soon as I can escape, Phœbe.  Past seven—I must go!’

‘Can’t you stay?  I could find some food for you.’

‘No, thank you,’ he still said; ‘I do not know whether Mervyn will come home, and there must not be too many empty chairs.  Good-bye!’ and he walked off with long strides, but with stooping shoulders, and an air of dejection almost amounting to discontent.

‘Poor Robin!’ said Honora, ‘I wish he could have stayed.’

‘He would have liked it very much,’ said Phœbe, casting wistful glances toward him.

‘What a pity he did not give notice of his intentions at home!’

‘He never will.  He particularly dislikes—’

‘What?’ as Phoebe paused and coloured.

‘Saying anything to anybody,’ she answered with a little smile.  ‘He cannot endure remarks.’

‘I am a very sober old body for a visit to me to be the occasion of remarks!’ said Honor, laughing more merrily than perhaps Robert himself could have done; but Phœbe answered with grave, straightforward sincerity, ‘Yes, but he did not know if Lucy might not be come home.’

Honora sighed, but playfully said, ‘In which case he would have stayed?’

‘No,’ said the still grave girl, ‘he would have been still less likely to do so.’

‘Ah! the remarks would have been more pointed!  But he has brought you at any rate, and that is something!  How did he achieve it?’

‘Miss Fennimore is really quite ready to be kind,’ said Phœbe, earnestly, with an air of defence, ‘whenever we have finished all that we have to do.’

‘And when is that?’ asked Honor, smiling.

‘Now for once,’ answered Phœbe, with a bright arch look.  ‘Yes, I sometimes can; and so does Bertha when she tries; and, indeed, Miss Charlecote, I do like Miss Fennimore; she never is hard upon poor Maria.  No governess we ever had made her cry so seldom.’

Miss Charlecote only said it was a comfort.  Within herself she hoped that, for Maria’s peace and that of all concerned, her deficiency might become an acknowledged fact.  She saw that the sparing Maria’s tears was such a boon to Phœbe as to make her forgive all overtasking of herself.

‘So you get on better,’ she said.

‘Much better than Robin chooses to believe we do,’ said Phœbe, smiling; ‘perhaps it seemed hard at first, but it is comfortable to be made to do everything thoroughly, and to be shown a better best than we had ever thought of.  I think it ought to be a help in doing the duty of all one’s life in a thorough way.’

‘All that thou hast to do,’ said Honor, smiling, ‘the week-day side of the fourth commandment.’

‘Yes, that is just the reason why I like it,’ said Phœbe, with bright gladness in her countenance.

‘But is that the motive Miss Fennimore puts before you?’ said Honor, a little ironically.

‘She does not say so,’ answered Phœbe.  ‘She says that she never interferes with her pupils’ religious tenets.  But, indeed, I do not think she teaches us anything wrong, and there is always Robert to ask.’

This passed as the two ladies were entering the house and preparing for the evening meal.  The table was placed in the bay of the open window, and looked very inviting, the little silver tea-pot steaming beside the two quaint china cups, the small crisp twists of bread, the butter cool in ice-plant leaves, and some fresh fruit blushing in a pretty basket.  The Holt was a region of Paradise to Phœbe Fulmort; and glee shone upon her sweet face, though it was very quiet enjoyment, as the summer breeze played softly round her cheeks and danced with a merry little spiral that had detached itself from her glossy folds of light hair.

‘How delicious!’ she said.  ‘How sweet the honeysuckle is, dear old thing!  You say you have known it all your life, and yet it is fresh as ever.’

‘It is a little like you, Phœbe,’ said Honor, smiling.

‘What! because it is not exactly a pretty flower?’

‘Partly; and I could tell you of a few other likenesses, such as your being Robert’s woodbine, yet with a sort of clinging freedom.  Yes, and for the qualities you share with the willow, ready to give thanks and live on the least that Heaven may give.’

‘But I don’t live on the least that Heaven may give,’ said Phœbe, in such wonder that Honor smiled at the justice of her simile, without impressing it upon Phœbe, only asking—

‘Is the French journey fixed upon, Phœbe?’

‘Yes; they start this day fortnight.’

‘They—not you?’

‘No; there would be no room for me,’ with a small sigh.

‘How can that be?  Who is going?  Papa, mamma, two sisters!’

‘Mervyn,’ added Phœbe, ‘the courier, and the two maids.’

‘Two maids!  Impossible!’

‘It is always uncomfortable if mamma and my sisters have only one between them,’ said Phœbe, in her tone of perfect acquiescence and conviction; and as her friend could not restrain a gesture of indignation, she added eagerly—‘But, indeed, it is not only for that reason, but Miss Fennimore says I am not formed enough to profit by foreign travel.’

‘She wants you to finish Smith’s Wealth of Nations, eh?’

‘It might be a pity to go away and lose so much of her teaching,’ said Phœbe, with persevering contentment.  ‘I dare say they will go abroad again, and perhaps I shall never have so much time for learning.  But, Miss Charlecote, is Lucilla coming home for the Horticultural Show?’

‘I am afraid not, my dear.  I think I shall go to London to see about her, among other things.  The Charterises seem to have quite taken possession of her, ever since she went to be her cousin Caroline’s bridesmaid, and I must try to put in my claim.’

‘Ah!  Robin so much wished to have seen her,’ sighed Phœbe.  ‘He says he cannot settle to anything.’

‘Without seeing her?’ said Honor, amused, though not without pain.

‘Yes,’ said Phœbe; ‘he has thought so much about Lucilla.’

‘And he tells you?’

‘Yes,’ in a voice expressing of course; while the frank, clear eyes turned full on Miss Charlecote with such honest seriousness, that she thought Phœbe’s charm as a confidante might be this absence of romantic consciousness; and she knew of old that when Robert wanted her opinion or counsel, he spared his own embarrassment by seeking it through his favourite sister.  Miss Charlecote’s influence had done as much for Robert as he had done for Phœbe, and Phœbe had become his medium of communication with her in all matters of near and delicate interest.  She was not surprised when the maiden proceeded—‘Papa wants Robin to attend to the office while he is away.’

‘Indeed!  Does Robin like it?’

‘He would not mind it for a time; but papa wants him, besides, to take to the business in earnest.  You know, my great-uncle, Robert Mervyn, left Robert all his fortune, quite in his own hands; and papa says that if he were to put that into the distillery it would do the business great good, and that Robert would be one of the richest men in England in ten years’ time.’

‘But that would be a complete change in his views,’ exclaimed Honor, unable to conceal her disapproval and consternation.

‘Just so,’ answered Phœbe; ‘and that is the reason why he wants to see Lucy.  She always declared that she could not bear people in business, and we always thought of him as likely to be a clergyman; but, on the other hand, she has become used to London society, and it is only by his joining in the distillery that he could give her what she is accustomed to, and that is the reason he is anxious to see her.’

‘So Lucy is to decide his fate,’ said Honora.  ‘I am almost sorry to hear it.  Surely, he has never spoken to her.’

‘He never does speak,’ said Phœbe, with the calm gravity of simplicity which was like a halo of dignity.  ‘There is no need of speaking.  Lucilla knows how he feels as well as she knows that she breathes the air.’