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

‘Then you don’t mean it?’

‘That’s as people behave themselves.  Hush!  Here comes Honor.  Look here, Sweet Honey, I am in a process of selection.  I am pledged to come out at the ball in a unique trimming of salmon-flies.’

‘My dear!’ cried poor Honor, in consternation, ‘you can’t be so absurd.’

‘It is so slow not to be absurd.’

‘At fit times, yes; but to make yourself so conspicuous!’

‘They say I can’t help that,’ returned Lucy, in a tone of comical melancholy.

‘Well, my dear, we will talk it over on Sunday, when I hope you may be in a rational mood.’

‘Don’t say so,’ implored Lucilla, ‘or I shan’t have the courage to come.  A rational mood!  It is enough to frighten one away; and really I do want very much to come.  I’ve not heard a word yet about the Holt.  How is the old dame, this summer?’

And Lucy went on with unceasing interest about all Hiltonbury matters, great and small, bewitching Honora more than would have seemed possible under the circumstances.  She was such a winning fairy that it was hardly possible to treat her seriously, or to recollect causes of displeasure, when under the spell of her caressing vivacity, and unruffled, audacious fun.

So impregnable was her gracious good-humour, so untameable her high spirits, that it was only by remembering the little spitfire of twelve or fourteen years ago that it was credible that she had a temper at all; the temper erst wont to exhale in chamois bounds and dervish pirouettes, had apparently left not a trace behind, and the sullen ungraciousness to those who offended her had become the sunniest sweetness, impossible to disturb.  Was it real improvement?  Concealment it was not, for Lucilla had always been transparently true.  Was it not more probably connected with that strange levity, almost insensibility, that had apparently indurated feelings which in early childhood had seemed sensitive even to the extent of violence?  Was she only good-humoured because nothing touched her?  Had that agony of parting with her gentle father seared her affections, till she had become like a polished gem, all bright glancing beauty, but utterly unfeeling?

CHAPTER V

Reproof falleth on the saucy as water.

—Feejee Proverb

Considerate of the slender purses of her children, Honora had devoted her carriage to fetch them to St. Wulstan’s on the Sunday morning, but her offer had been declined, on the ground that the Charteris conveyances were free to them, and that it was better to make use of an establishment to which Sunday was no object, than to cloud the honest face of the Hiltonbury coachman by depriving his horses of their day of rest.  Owen would far rather take a cab than so affront Grey!  Pleased with his bright manner, Honora had yet reason to fear that expense was too indifferent to both brother and sister, and that the Charteris household only encouraged recklessness.  Wherever she went she heard of the extravagance of the family, and in the shops the most costly wares were recommended as the choice of Mrs. Charteris.  Formerly, though Honor had equipped Lucilla handsomely for visits to Castle Blanch, she had always found her wardrobe increased by the gifts of her uncle and aunt.  The girl had been of age more than a year, and in the present state of the family, it was impossible that her dress could be still provided at their expense, yet it was manifestly far beyond her means; and what could be the result?  She would certainly brook no interference, and would cast advice to the winds.  Poor Honor could only hope for a crash that would bring her to reason, and devise schemes for forcing her from the effects of her own imprudence without breaking into her small portion.  The great fear was lost false pride, and Charteris influence, should lead her to pay her debts at the cost of a marriage with the millionaire; and Honor could take little comfort in Owen’s assurance that the Calthorp had too much sense to think of Cilly Sandbrook, and only promoted and watched her vagaries for the sake of amusement and curiosity.  There was small satisfaction to her well-wishers in hearing that no sensible man could think seriously of her.

Anxiously was that Sunday awaited in Woolstone-lane, the whole party feeling that this was the best chance of seeing Lucilla in a reasonable light, and coming to an understanding with her.  Owen was often enough visible in the interim, and always extremely agreeable; but Lucilla never, and he only brought an account of her gaieties, shrugging his shoulders over them.

The day came; the bells began, they chimed, they changed, but still no Sandbrooks appeared.  Mr. Parsons set off, and Robert made an excursion to the corner of the street.  In vain Miss Charlecote still lingered; Mrs. Parsons, in despair, called Phœbe on with her as the single bell rang, and Honor and Robert presently started with heads turned over their shoulders, and lips laying all blame on Charteris’ delays of breakfast.  A last wistful look, and the church porch engulfed them; but even when enclosed in the polished square pew, they could not resign hope at every tread on the matted floor, and finally subsided into a trust that the truants might after service emerge from a seat near the door.  There were only too many to choose from.

That hope baffled, Honora still manufactured excuses which Phœbe greedily seized and offered to her brother, but she read his rejection of them in his face, and to her conviction that it was all accident, he answered, as she took his arm, ‘A small accident would suffice for Sandbrook.’

‘You don’t think he is hindering his sister!’

‘I can’t tell.  I only know that he is one of the many stumbling-blocks in her way.  He can do no good to any one with whom he associates intimately.  I hate to see him reading poetry with you.’

‘Why did you never tell me so?’ asked the startled Phœbe.

‘You are so much taken up with him that I can never get at you, when I am not devoured by that office.’

‘I am sure I did not know it,’ humbly answered Phœbe.  ‘He is very kind and amusing, and Miss Charlecote is so fond of him that, of course, we must be together; but I never meant to neglect you, Robin, dear.’

‘No, no, nonsense, it is no paltry jealousy; only now I can speak to you, I must,’ said Robert, who had been in vain craving for this opportunity of getting his sister alone, ever since the alarm excited by Lucilla’s words.

‘What is this harm, Robin?’

‘Say not a word of it.  Miss Charlecote’s heart must not be broken before its time, and at any rate it shall not come through me.’

‘What, Robert?’

‘The knowledge of what he is.  Don’t say it is prejudice.  I know I never liked him, but you shall hear why.  You ought now—’

Robert’s mind had often of late glanced back to the childish days when, with their present opinions reversed, he thought Owen a muff, and Owen thought him a reprobate.  To his own blunt and reserved nature, the expressions, so charming to poor Miss Charlecote, had been painfully distasteful.  Sentiment, profession, obtrusive reverence, and fault-finding scruples had revolted him, even when he thought it a proof of his own irreligion to be provoked.  Afterwards, when both were schoolboys, Robert had yearly increased in conscientiousness under good discipline and training, but, in their holiday meetings, had found Owen’s standard receding as his own advanced, and heard the once-deficient manly spirit asserted by boasts of exploits and deceptions repugnant to a well-conditioned lad.  He saw Miss Charlecote’s perfect confidence abused and trifled with, and the more he grew in a sense of honour, the more he disliked Owen Sandbrook.

At the University, where Robert’s career had been respectable and commonplace, Owen was at once a man of mark.  Mental and physical powers alike rendered him foremost among his compeers; he could compete with the fast, and surpass the slow on their own ground; and his talents, ready celerity, good-humoured audacity, and quick resource, had always borne him through with the authorities, though there was scarcely an excess or irregularity in which he was not a partaker; and stories of Sandbrook’s daring were always circulating among the undergraduates.  But though Robert could have scared Phœbe with many a history of lawless pranks, yet these were not his chief cause for dreading Owen’s intimacy with her.  It was that he was one of the youths on whom the spirit of the day had most influence, one of the most adventurous thinkers and boldest talkers: wild in habits, not merely from ebullition of spirits, but from want of faith in the restraining power.

All this Robert briefly expressed in the words, ‘Phœbe, it is not that his habits are irregular and unsteady; many are so whose hearts are sound.  But he is not sound—his opinions are loose, and he only respects and patronizes Divine Truth as what has approved itself to so many good, great, and beloved human creatures.  It is not denial—it is patronage.  It is the commonsense heresy—’

‘I thought we all ought to learn common sense.’

‘Yes, in things human, but in things Divine it is the subtle English form of rationalism.  This is no time to explain, Phœbe; but human sense and intellect are made the test, and what surpasses them is only admired as long as its stringent rules do not fetter the practice.’

‘I am sorry you told me,’ said Phœbe, thoughtfully, ‘for I always liked him; he is so kind to me.’

Had not Robert been full of his own troubles he would have been reassured, but he only gave a contemptuous groan.

‘Does Lucy know this?’ she asked.

‘She told me herself what I well knew before.  She does not reflect enough to take it seriously, and contrives to lay the blame upon the narrowness of Miss Charlecote’s training.’

‘Oh, Robin!  When all our best knowledge came from the Holt!’

‘She says, perhaps not unjustly, that Miss Charlecote overdid things with him, and that this is reaction.  She observes keenly.  If she would only think!  She would have been perfect had her father lived, to work on her by affection.’

‘The time for that is coming—’

Robert checked her, saying, ‘Stay, Phœbe.  The other night I was fooled by her engaging ways, but each day since I have become more convinced that I must learn whether she be only using me like the rest.  I want you to be a witness of my resolution, lest I should be tempted to fail.  I came to town, hesitating whether to enter the business for her sake.  I found that this could not be done without a great sin.  I look on myself as dedicated to the ministry, and thus bound to have a household suited to my vocation.  All must turn on her willingness to conform to this standard.  I shall lay it before her.  I can bear the suspense no longer.  My temper and resolution are going, and I am good for nothing.  Let the touchstone be, whether she will resign her expedition to Ireland, and go quietly home with Miss Charlecote.  If she will so do, there is surely that within her that will shine out brighter when removed from irritation on the one side, or folly on the other.  If she will not, I have no weight with her; and it is due to the service I am to undertake, to force myself away from a pursuit that could only distract me.  I have no right to be a clergyman and choose a hindrance not a help—one whose tastes would lead back to the world, instead of to my work!’

As he spoke, in stern, rigid resolution—only allowing himself one long, deep, heavy sigh at the end—he stood still at the gates of the court, which were opened as the rest of the party came up; and, as they crossed and entered the hall, they beheld, through the open door of the drawing-room, two figures in the window—one, a dark torso, perched outside on the sill; the other, in blue skirt and boy-like bodice, negligently reposing on one side of the window-seat, her dainty little boots on the other; her coarse straw bonnet, crossed with white, upon the floor; the wind playing tricks with the silky glory of her flaxen ringlets; her cheek flushed with lovely carnation, declining on her shoulder; her eyes veiled by their fair fringes.

‘Hallo!’ she cried, springing up, ‘almost caught asleep!’  And Owen, pocketing his pipe, spun his legs over the windowsill, while both began, in rattling, playful vindication and recrimination—

(he wouldn’t.’

‘It wasn’t my fault (

(she wouldn’t.’

‘Indeed, I wasn’t a wilful heathen; Mr. Parsons, it was he—’

‘It was she who chose to take the by-ways, and make us late.  Rush into church before a whole congregation, reeking from a six-miles walk!  I’ve more respect for the Establishment.’

‘You walked!’ cried five voices.

‘See her Sabbatarianism!’

‘Nonsense!  I should have driven Charlie’s cab.’

‘Charlie has some common sense where his horse is concerned.’

‘He wanted it himself, you know.’

‘She grew sulky, and victimized me to a walk.’

‘I’m sure it was excellent fun.’

‘Ay, and because poor Calthorp had proffered his cab for her to drive to Jericho, and welcome, she drags me into all sorts of streets of villainous savours, that he might not catch us up.’

‘Horrid hard mouth that horse of his,’ said Lucilla, by way of dashing the satisfaction on Miss Charlecote’s face.

‘I do not wonder you were late.’

‘Oh! that was all Owen’s doing.  He vowed that he had not nerve to face the pew-opener!’

‘The grim female in weeds—no, indeed!’ said Owen.  ‘Indeed, I objected to entering in the guise of flaming meteors both on reverential and sanatory grounds.’

‘Insanatory, methinks,’ said Miss Charlecote; ‘how could you let her sleep, so much heated, in this thorough draught!’

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ said Cilly, quaintly shaking her head; ‘I’m not such a goose as to go and catch cold!  Oh! Phœbe, my salmon-flies are loveliness itself; and I hereby give notice, that a fine of three pairs of thick boots has been proclaimed for every pun upon sisters of the angle and sisters of the angels!  So beware, Robin!’—and the comical audacity with which she turned on him, won a smile from the grave lips that had lately seemed so remote from all peril of complimenting her whimsies.  Even Mr. Parsons said ‘the fun was tempting.’

‘Come and get ready for luncheon,’ said the less fascinated Honora, moving away.

‘Come and catch it!’ cried the elf, skipping up-stairs before her and facing round her ‘Dear old Honeyseed.’  ‘I honour your motives; but wouldn’t it be for the convenience of all parties, if you took Punch’s celebrated advice—“don’t”?’

‘How am I to speak, Lucy,’ said Honora, ‘if you come with the avowed intention of disregarding what I say?’

‘Then hadn’t you better not?’ murmured the girl, in the lowest tone, drooping her head, and peeping under her eyelashes, as she sat with a hand on each elbow of her arm-chair, as though in the stocks.

‘I would not, my child,’ was the mournful answer, ‘if I could help caring for you.’

Lucilla sprang up and kissed her.  ‘Don’t, then; I don’t like anybody to be sorry,’ she said.  ‘I’m sure I’m not worth it.’

‘How can I help it, when I see you throwing away happiness—welfare—the good opinion of all your friends?’

‘My dear Honora, you taught me yourself not to mind Mrs. Grundy!  Come, never mind, the reasonable world has found out that women are less dependent than they used to be.’

‘It is not what the world thinks, but what is really decorous.’

Lucilla laughed—though with some temper—‘I wonder what we are going to do otherwise!’

‘You are going beyond the ordinary restraints of women in your station; and a person who does so, can never tell to what she may expose herself.  Liberties are taken when people come out to meet them.’

‘That’s as they choose!’ cried Lucilla, with such a gesture of her hand, such a flash of her blue eyes, that she seemed trebly the woman, and it would have been boldness indeed to presume with her.

‘Yes; but a person who has even had to protect herself from incivility, to which she has wilfully exposed herself, does not remain what she might be behind her screen.’

‘Omne ignotum pro terribili,’ laughed Lucilla, still not to be made serious.  ‘Now, I don’t believe that the world is so flagrantly bent on annoying every pretty girl.  People call me vain, but I never was so vain as that.  I’ve always found them very civil; and Ireland is the land of civility.  Now, seriously, my good cousin Honor, do you candidly expect any harm to befall us?’

‘I do not think you likely to meet with absolute injury.’  Lucilla clapped her hands, and cried, ‘An admission, an admission!  I told Rashe you were a sincere woman.’  But Miss Charlecote went on, ‘But there is harm to yourself in the affectation of masculine habits; it is a blunting of the delicacy suited to a Christian maiden, and not like the women whom St. Paul and St. Peter describe.  You would find that you had forfeited the esteem, not only of ordinary society, but of persons whose opinions you do value; and in both these respects you would suffer harm.  You, my poor child, who have no one to control you, or claim your obedience as a right, are doubly bound to be circumspect.  I have no power over you; but if you have any regard for her to whom your father confided you—nay, if you consult what you know would have been his wishes—you will give up this project.’

The luncheon-bell had already rung, and consideration for the busy clergyman compelled her to go down with these last words, feeling as if there were a leaden weight at her heart.

Lucilla remained standing before the glass, arranging her wind-tossed hair; and, in her vehemence, tearing out combfuls, as she pulled petulantly against the tangled curls.  ‘Her old way—to come over me with my father!  Ha!—I love him too well to let him be Miss Charlecote’s engine for managing me!—her dernier ressort to play on my feelings.  Nor will I have Robin set at me!  Whether I go or not, shall be as I please, not as any one else does; and if I stay at home, Rashe shall own it is not for the sake of the conclave here.  I told her she might trust me.’

Down she went, and at luncheon devoted herself to the captivation of Mr. Parsons; afterwards insisting on going to the schools—she, whose aversion to them was Honora’s vexation at home.  Strangers to make a sensation were contrary to the views of the Parsonses; but the wife found her husband inconsistent—‘one lady, more or less, could make no difference on this first Sunday;’ and, by and by, Mrs. Parsons found a set of little formal white-capped faces, so beaming with entertainment, at the young lady’s stories, and the young lady herself looking so charming, that she, too, fell under the enchantment.

After church, Miss Charlecote proposed a few turns in the garden; dingy enough, but a marvel for the situation: and here the tacit object of herself and Phœbe was to afford Robert an opportunity for the interview on which so much depended.  But it was like trying to catch a butterfly; Lucilla was here, there, everywhere; and an excuse was hardly made for leaving her beside the grave, silent young man, ere her merry tones were heard chattering to some one else.  Perhaps Robert, heart-sick and oppressed with the importance of what trembled on his tongue, was not ready in seizing the moment; perhaps she would not let him speak; at any rate, she was aware of some design; since, baffling Phœbe’s last attempt, she danced up to her bedroom after her, and throwing herself into a chair, in a paroxysm of laughter, cried, ‘You abominable little pussycat of a manœuvrer; I thought you were in a better school for the proprieties!  No, don’t make your round eyes, and look so dismayed, or you’ll kill me with laughing!  Cooking téte-à-tétes, Phœbe—I thought better of you.  Oh, fie!’ and holding up her finger, as if in displeasure, she hid her face in ecstasies of mirth at Phœbe’s bewildered simplicity.

‘Robert wanted to speak to you,’ she said, with puzzled gravity.

‘And you would have set us together by the ears!  No, no, thank you, I’ve had enough of that sort of thing for one day.  And what shallow excuses.  Oh! what fun to hear your pretexts.  Wanting to see what Mrs. Parsons was doing, when you knew perfectly well she was deep in a sermon, and wished you at the antipodes.  And blushing all the time, like a full-blown poppy,’ and off she went on a fresh score—but Phœbe, though disconcerted for a moment, was not to be put out of countenance when she understood her ground, and she continued with earnestness, undesired by her companion—‘Very likely I managed badly, but I know you do not really think it improper to see Robert alone, and it is very important that you should do so.  Indeed it is, Lucy,’ she added—the youthful candour and seriousness of her pleading, in strong contrast to the flighty, mocking carelessness of Lucilla’s manners; ‘do pray see him; I know he would make you listen.  Will you be so very kind?  If you would go into the little cedar room, I could call him at once.’

‘Point blank!  Sitting in my cedar parlour!  Phœbe, you’ll be the death of me,’ cried Cilly, between peals of merriment.  ‘Do you think I have nerves of brass?’

‘You would not laugh, if you knew how much he feels.’

‘A very good thing for people to feel!  It saves them from torpor.’

‘Lucy, it is not kind to laugh when I tell you he is miserable.’

‘That’s only proper, my dear,’ said Lucilla, entertained by teasing.

‘Not miserable from doubt,’ answered Phœbe, disconcerting in her turn.  ‘We know you too well for that;’ and as an expression, amused, indignant, but far from favourable, came over the fair face she was watching, she added in haste, ‘It is this project, he thought you had said it was given up.’

‘I am much indebted,’ said Lucilla, haughtily, but again relapsing into laughter; ‘but to find myself so easily disposed of . . .  Oh! Phœbe, there’s no scolding such a baby as you; but if it were not so absurd—’

‘Lucy, Lucy, I beg your pardon; is it all a mistake, or have I said what was wrong?  Poor Robin will be so unhappy.’

Phœbe’s distress touched Lucilla.

‘Nonsense, you little goose; aren’t you woman enough yet to know that one flashes out at finding oneself labelled, and made over before one’s time?’

‘I’m glad if it was all my blundering,’ said Phœbe.  ‘Dear Lucy, I was very wrong, but you see I always was so happy in believing it was understood!’

‘How stupid,’ cried Lucilla; ‘one would never have any fun; no, you haven’t tasted the sweets yet, or you would know one has no notion of being made sure of till one chooses!  Yes, yes, I saw he was primed and cocked, but I’m not going to let him go off.’

‘Lucy, have you no pity?’

‘Not a bit!  Don’t talk commonplaces, my dear.’

‘If you knew how much depends upon it.’

‘My dear, I know that,’ with an arch smile.

‘No, you do not,’ said Phœbe, so stoutly that Lucilla looked at her in some suspense.

‘You think,’ said honest Phœbe, in her extremity, ‘that he only wants to make—to propose to you!  Now, it is not only that, Lucilla,’ and her voice sank, as she could hardly keep from crying; ‘he will never do that if you go on as you are doing now; he does not think it would be right for a clergyman.’

‘Oh! I dare say!’ quoth Lucilla, and then a silence.  ‘Did Honor tell him so, Phœbe?’

‘Never, never!’ cried Phœbe; ‘no one has said a word against you! only don’t you know how quiet and good any one belonging to a clergyman should be?’

‘Well, I’ve heard a great deal of news to-day, and it is all my own fault, for indulging in sentiment on Wednesday.  I shall know better another time.’

‘Then you don’t care!’ cried Phœbe, turning round, with eyes flashing as Lucilla did not know they could lighten.  ‘Very well!  If you don’t think Robert worth it, I suppose I ought not to grieve, for you can’t be what I used to think you and it will be better for him when he once has settled his mind—than if—if afterwards you disappointed him and were a fine lady—but oh! he will be so unhappy,’ her tears were coming fast; ‘and, Lucy, I did like you so much!’

‘Well, this is the funniest thing of all,’ cried Lucilla, by way of braving her own emotion; ‘little Miss Phœbe gone into the heroics!’ and she caught her two hands, and holding her fast, kissed her on both cheeks; ‘a gone coon, am I, Phœbe, no better than one of the wicked; and Robin, he grew angry, hopped upon a twig, did he!  I beg your pardon, my dear, but it makes me laugh to think of his dignified settling of his mind.  Oh! how soon it could be unsettled again!  Come, I won’t have any more of this; let it alone, Phœbe, and trust me that things will adjust themselves all the better for letting them have their swing.  Don’t you look prematurely uneasy, and don’t go and make Robin think that I have immolated him at the altar of the salmon.  Say nothing of all this; you will only make a mess in narrating it.’