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

‘Very likely I may,’ said Phœbe; ‘but if you will not speak to him yourself, I shall tell him how you feel.’

‘If you can,’ laughed Lucilla.

‘I mean, how you receive what I have told you of his views; I do not think it would be fair or kind to keep him in ignorance.’

‘Much good may it do him,’ said Lucy; ‘but I fancy you will tell him, whether I give you leave or not, and it can’t make much difference.  I’ll tackle him, as the old women say, when I please, and the madder he may choose to go, the better fun it will be.’

‘I believe you are saying so to tease me’ said Phœbe; ‘but as I know you don’t mean it, I shall wait till after the party; and then, unless you have had it out with him, I shall tell him what you have said.’

‘Thank you,’ said Lucilla, ironically conveying to Phœbe’s mind the conviction that she did not believe that Robert’s attachment could suffer from what had here passed.  Either she meant to grant the decisive interview, or else she was too confident in her own power to believe that he could relinquish her; at all events, Phœbe had sagacity enough to infer that she was not indifferent to him, though as the provoking damsel ran down-stairs, Phœbe’s loyal spirit first admitted a doubt whether the tricksy sprite might not prove as great a torment as a delight to Robin.  ‘However,’ reflected she, ‘I shall make the less mischief if I set it down while I remember it.’

Not much like romance, but practical sense was both native and cultivated in Miss Fennimore’s pupil.  Yet as she recorded the sentences, and read them over bereft of the speaker’s caressing grace, she blamed herself as unkind, and making the worst of gay retorts which had been provoked by her own home thrusts.  ‘At least,’ she thought, ‘he will be glad to see that it was partly my fault, and he need never see it at all if Lucy will let him speak to her himself.’

Meantime, Honora had found from Owen that the young ladies had accepted an invitation to a very gay house in Cheshire, so that their movements would for a fortnight remain doubtful.  She recurred to her view that the only measure to be taken was for him to follow them, so as to be able to interpose in any emergency, and she anxiously pressed on him the funds required.

‘Shouldn’t I catch it if they found me out!’ said Owen, shrugging his shoulders.  ‘No, but indeed, Sweet Honey, I meant to have made up for this naughty girl’s desertion.  You and I would have had such rides and readings together: I want you to put me on good terms with myself.’

‘My dear boy!  But won’t that best be done by minding your sister?  She does want it, Owen; the less she will be prudent for herself, the more we must think for her!’

‘She can do better for herself than you imagine,’ said Owen.  ‘Men say, with all her free ways, they could not go the least bit farther with her than she pleases.  You wouldn’t suppose it, but she can keep out of scrapes better than Rashe can—never has been in one yet, and Rashe in twenty.  Never mind, your Honor, there’s sound stuff in the bonny scapegrace; all the better for being free and unconventional.  The world owes a great deal to those who dare to act for themselves; though, I own, it is a trial when one’s own domestic womankind take thereto.’

‘Or one’s mankind to encouraging it,’ said Honor, smiling, but showing that she was hurt.

‘I don’t encourage it; I am only too wise to give it the zest of opposition.  Was Lucy ever bent upon a naughty trick without being doubly incited by the pleasure of showing that she cared not for her younger brother?’

‘I believe you are only too lazy!  But, will you go?  I don’t think it can be a penance.  You would see new country, and get plenty of sport.’

‘Come with me, Honey,’ said he with the most insinuating manner, which almost moved her.  ‘How jolly it would be!’

‘Nonsense! an elderly spinster,’ she said, really pleased, though knowing it impossible.

‘Stuff!’ he returned in the same tone.  ‘Make it as good as a honeymoon.  Think of Killarney, Honor!’

‘You silly boy, I can’t.  There’s harvest at home; besides, it would only aggravate that mad girl doubly to have me coming after her.’

‘Well, if you will not take care of me on a literal wild-goose chase,’ said Owen, with playful disconsolateness, ‘I’ll not answer for the consequences.’

‘But, you go?’

‘Vacation rambles are too tempting to be resisted; but, mind, I don’t promise to act good genius save at the last extremity, or else shall never get forgiven, and I shall keep some way in the rear.’

So closed the consultation; and after an evening which Lucilla perforce rendered lively, she and her brother took their leave.  The next day they were to accompany the Charterises to Castle Blanch to prepare for the festivities; Honor and her two young friends following on the Wednesday afternoon.

CHAPTER VI

He who sits by haunted wellIs subject to the Nixie’s spell;He who walks on lonely beachTo the mermaid’s charmed speech;He who walks round ring of greenOffends the peevish Fairy Queen.—Scott

At the station nearest to Castle Blanch stood the tall form of Owen Sandbrook, telling Honor that he and his sister had brought the boat; the river was the longer way, but they would prefer it to the road; and so indeed they did, for Phœbe herself had had enough of the City to appreciate the cool verdure and calm stillness of the meadow pathway, by which they descended to the majestic river, smoothly sleeping in glassy quiet, or stealing along in complacently dimpling ripples.

On the opposite bank, shading off the sun, an oak copse sloped steeply towards the river, painting upon the surface a still shimmering likeness of the summit of the wood, every mass of foliage, every blushing spray receiving a perfect counterpart, and full in the midst of the magic mirror floated what might have been compared to the roseate queen lily of the waters on her leaf.

There, in the flat, shallow boat reclined the maiden, leaning over the gunwale, gazing into the summer wavelets with which one bare pinkly-tinted hand was toying, and her silken ringlets all but dipping in, from beneath the round black hat, archly looped up on one side by a carnation bow, and encircled by a series of the twin jetty curls of the mallard; while the fresh rose colour of the spreading muslin dress was enhanced by the black scarf that hung carelessly over it.  There was a moment’s pause, as if no one could break the spell; but Owen, striding on from behind, quickly dissolved the enchantment.

‘You monkey, you’ve cast off.  You may float on to Greenwich next!’ he indignantly shouted.

She started, shaking her head saucily.  ‘’Twas so slow there, and so broiling,’ she called back, ‘and I knew I should only drift down to meet you, and could put in when I pleased.’

Therewith she took the sculls and began rowing towards the bank, but without force sufficient to prevent herself from being borne farther down than she intended.

‘I can’t help it,’ she exclaimed, fearlessly laughing as she passed them.

Robert was ready to plunge in to stem her progress, lest she should meet with some perilous eddy, but Owen laid hold on him, saying, ‘Don’t be nervous, she’s all right; only giving trouble, after the nature of women.  There; are you satisfied?’ he called to her, as she came to a stop against a reed bed, with a tall fence interposed between boat and passengers.  ‘A nice ferry-woman you.’

‘Come and get me up again,’ was all her answer.

‘Serve you right if I never picked you up till London-bridge,’ he answered.  ‘Stand clear, Fulmort,’ and with a run and a bound, he vaulted over the high hedge, and went crackling through the nodding bulrushes and reed-maces; while Lucy, having accomplished pulling up one of the latter, was pointing it lancewise at him, singing,

‘With a bulrush for his spear, and a thimble for a hat,Wilt thou fight a traverse with the castle cat.’

‘Come, come; ’tis too squashy here for larking,’ he said authoritatively, stepping into the boat, and bringing it up with such absence of effort that when a few minutes after he had brought it to the landing-place, and the freight was seated, Robert had no sooner taken the other oar than he exclaimed at the force of the stream with which Owen had dealt so easily, and Lucilla so coolly.

‘It really was a fearful risk,’ he said reproachfully to her.

‘Oh!’ she said, ‘I know my Thames, and my Thames knows me!’

‘Now’s the time to improve it,’ said Owen; ‘one or other should preach about young ladies getting loose, and not knowing where they may be brought up.’

‘But you see I did know; besides, Phœbe’s news from Paris will be better worth hearing,’ said Lucilla, tickling her friend’s face with the soft long point of her dark velvety mace.

‘My news from Paris?’

‘For shame, Phœbe!  Your face betrays you.’

‘Lucy; how could you know?  I had not even told Miss Charlecote!’

‘It’s true! it’s true!’ cried Lucilla.  ‘That’s just what I wanted to know!’

‘Lucy, then it was not fair,’ said Phœbe, much discomposed.  ‘I was desired to tell no one, and you should not have betrayed me into doing so.’

‘Phœbe, you always were a green oasis in a wicked world!’

‘And now, let me hear,’ said Miss Charlecote.  ‘I can’t flatter you, Phœbe; I thought you were labouring under a suppressed secret.’

‘Only since this morning,’ pleaded Phœbe, earnestly; ‘and we were expressly forbidden to mention it; I cannot imagine how Lucy knows.’

‘By telegraph!’

Phœbe’s face assumed an expression of immeasurable wonder.

‘I almost hope to find you at cross purposes, after all,’ said Honora.

‘No such good luck,’ laughed Lucilla.  ‘Cinderella’s seniors never could go off two at a time.  Ah! there’s the name.  I beg your pardon, Phœbe.’

‘But, Lucy, what can you mean?  Who can have telegraphed about Augusta?’

‘Ah! you knew not the important interests involved, nor Augusta how much depended on her keeping the worthy admiral in play.  It was the nearest thing—had she only consented at the end of the evening instead of the beginning, poor Lord William would have had the five guineas that he wants so much more than Mr. Calthorp!’

‘Lucy!’

‘It was a bet that Sir Nicholas would take six calendar months to supply the place of Lady Bannerman.  It was the very last day.  If Augusta had only waited till twelve!’

‘You don’t mean that he has been married before.  I thought he was such an excellent man!’ said Phœbe, in a voice that set others besides Lucilla off into irresistible mirth.

‘Once, twice, thrice!’ cried Lucilla.  ‘Catch her, Honor, before she sinks into the river in disgust with this treacherous world.’

‘Do you know him, Lucy?’ earnestly said Phœbe.

‘Yes, and two of the wives; we used to visit them because he was an old captain of Uncle Kit’s.’

‘I would not believe in number three, Phœbe, if I were you,’ said Owen, consolingly; ‘she wants confirmation.’

‘Two are as bad as three,’ sighed Phœbe; ‘and Augusta did not even call him a widower.’

‘Cupid bandaged!  It was a case of love at first sight.  Met at the Trois Frères Provençaux, heard each other’s critical remarks, sought an introduction, compared notes; he discovered her foresight with regard to pale ale; each felt that here was a kindred soul!’

‘That could not have been telegraphed!’ said Phœbe, recovering spirit and incredulity.

‘No; the telegram was simply “Bannerman, Fulmort.  8.30 p.m., July 10th.”  The other particulars followed by letter this morning.’

‘How old is he?’ asked Phœbe, with resignation.

‘Any age above sixty.  What, Phœbe, taking it to heart?  I was prepared with congratulations.  It is only second best, to be sure; but don’t you see your own emancipation?’

‘I believe that had never occurred to Phœbe,’ said Owen.

‘I beg your pardon, Lucy,’ said Phœbe, thinking that she had appeared out of temper; ‘only it had sounded so nice in Augusta’s letter, and she was so kind, and somehow it jars that there should have been that sort of talk.’

Cilly was checked.  In her utter want of thought it had not occurred to her that Augusta Fulmort could be other than a laughing-stock, or that any bright anticipations could have been spent by any reasonable person on her marriage.  Perhaps the companionship of Rashe, and the satirical outspoken tone of her associates, had somewhat blunted her perception of what might be offensive to the sensitive delicacy of a young sister; but she instantly perceived her mistake, and the carnation deepened in her cheek, at having distressed Phœbe, and . . .  Not that she had deigned any notice of Robert after the first cold shake of the hand, and he sat rowing with vigorous strokes, and a countenance of set gravity, more as if he were a boatman than one of the party; Lucilla could not even meet his eye when she peeped under her eyelashes to recover defiance by the sight of his displeasure.

It was a relief to all when Honora exclaimed, ‘Wrapworth! how pretty it looks.’

It was, indeed, pretty, seen through the archway of the handsome stone bridge.  The church tower and picturesque village were set off by the frame that closed them in; and though they lost somewhat of the enchantment when the boat shot from under the arch, they were still a fair and goodly English scene.

Lucilla steered towards the steps leading to a smooth shaven lawn, shaded by a weeping willow, well known to Honor.

‘Here we land you and your bag, Robert,’ said Owen, as he put in.  ‘Cilly, have a little sense, do.’

But Lucilla, to the alarm of all, was already on her feet, skipped like a chamois to the steps, and flew dancing up the sward.  Ere Owen and Robert had helped the other two ladies to land in a more rational manner, she was shaking her mischievous head at a window, and thrusting in her sceptral reed-mace.

‘Neighbour, oh, neighbour, I’m come to torment you!  Yes, here we are in full force, ladies and all, and you must come out and behave pretty.  Never mind your slippers; you ought to be proud of the only thing I ever worked.  Come out, I say; here’s your guest, and you must be civil to him.’

‘I am very glad to see Mr. Fulmort,’ said Mr. Prendergast, his only answer in words to all this, though while it was going on, as if she were pulling him by wires, as she imperiously waved her bulrush, he had stuck his pen into the inkstand, run his fingers in desperation through his hair, risen from his seat, gazed about in vain for his boots, and felt as fruitlessly on the back of the door for a coat to replace the loose alpaca article that hung on his shoulders.

‘There.  You’ve gone through all the motions,’ said Cilly; ‘that’ll do; now, come out and receive them.’

Accordingly, he issued from the door, shy and slouching; rusty where he wore cloth, shiny where he wore alpaca, wild as to his hair, gay as to his feet, but, withal, the scholarly gentleman complete, and not a day older or younger, apparently, than when Honor had last seen him, nine years since, in bondage then to the child playing at coquetry, as now to the coquette playing at childhood.  It was curious, Honor thought, to see how, though so much more uncouth and negligent than Robert, the indefinable signs of good blood made themselves visible, while they were wanting in one as truly the Christian gentleman in spirit and in education.

Mr. Prendergast bowed to Miss Charlecote, and shook hands with his guest, welcoming him kindly; but the two shy men grew more bashful by contact, and Honor found herself, Owen, and Lucilla sustaining the chief of the conversation, the curate apparently looking to the young lady to protect him and do the honours, as she did by making him pull down a cluster of his roses for her companions, and conducting them to eat his strawberries, which she treated as her own, flitting, butterfly like, over the beds, selecting the largest and ruddiest specimens, while her slave plodded diligently to fill cabbage leaves, and present them to the party in due gradation.

Owen stood by amused, and silencing the scruples of his companions.

‘He is in Elysium,’ he said; ‘he had rather be plagued by Cilly than receive a mitre!  Don’t hinder him, Honey; it is his pride to treat us as if we were at home and he our guest.’

‘Wrapworth has not been seen without Edna Murrell,’ said Lucilla, flinging the stem of her last strawberry at her brother, ‘and Miss Charlecote is a woman of schools.  What, aren’t we to go, Mr. Prendergast?’

‘I beg your pardon.  I did not know.’

‘Well; what is it?’

‘I do sometimes wish Miss Murrell were not such an attraction.’

‘You did not think that of yourself.’

‘Well, I don’t know; Miss Murrell is a very nice young woman,’ he hesitated, as Cilly seemed about to thrust him through with her reed; ‘but couldn’t you, Cilla, now, give her a hint that it would be better if she would associate more with Mrs. Jenkyns, and—’

‘Couldn’t Mr. Prendergast; I’ve more regard for doing as I would be done by.  When you see Edna, Honor—’

‘They are very respectable women,’ said the curate, standing his ground; ‘and it would be much better for her than letting it be said she gives herself airs.’

‘That’s all because we have had her up to the castle to sing.’

‘Well, so it is, I believe.  They do say, too—I don’t know whether it is so—that the work has not been so well attended to, nor the children so orderly.’

‘Spite, spite, Mr. Prendergast; I had a better opinion of you than to think you could be taken in by the tongues of Wrapworth.’

‘Well, certainly I did hear a great noise the other day.’

‘I see how it is!  This is a systematic attempt to destroy the impression I wished to produce.’

He tried to argue that he thought very well of Miss Murrell, but she would not hear; and she went on with her pretty, saucy abuse, in her gayest tones, as she tripped along the churchyard path, now, doubtless, too familiar to renew the associations that might have tamed her spirits.  Perhaps the shock her vivacity gave to the feeling of her friends was hardly reasonable, but it was not the less real; though, even in passing, Honora could not but note the improved condition of the two graves, now carefully tended, and with a lovely white rose budding between them.

A few more steps, and from the open window of the schoolhouse there was heard a buzz and hum, not outrageous, but which might have caused the item of discipline not to figure well in an inspector’s report; but Mr. Prendergast and Lucilla appeared habituated to the like, for they proceeded without apology.

It was a handsome gable-ended building, Elizabethan enough to testify to the taste that had designed it, and with a deep porch, where Honor had advanced, under Lucilla’s guidance, so as to have a moment’s view of the whole scene before their arrival had disturbed it.

The children’s backs were towards the door, as they sat on their forms at work.  Close to the oriel window, the only person facing the door, with a table in front of her, there sat, in a slightly reclining attitude, a figure such as all reports of the new race of schoolmistresses had hardly led Honor to imagine to be the bonâ fide mistress.  Yet the dress was perfectly quiet, merely lilac cotton, with no ornament save the small bow of the same colour at the throat, and the hair was simply folded round the head, but it was magnificent raven hair; the head and neck were grandly made; the form finely proportioned, on a large scale; the face really beautiful, in a pale, dark, Italian style; the complexion of the clearest olive, but as she became aware of the presence of the visitors it became overspread with a lovely hue of red; while the eyelids revealed a superb pair of eyes, liquid depths of rich brown, soft and languid, and befitting the calm dignity with which she rose, curtseyed, and signed to her scholars to do the same; the deepening colour alone betraying any sense of being taken by surprise.

Lucilla danced up to her, chattering with her usual familiar, airy grace.  ‘Well, Edna, how are you getting on?  Have I brought a tremendous host to invade you?  I wanted Miss Charlecote to see you, for she is a perfect connoisseur in schools.’

Edna’s blush grew more carnation, and the fingers shook so visibly with which she held the work, that Honora was provoked with Lucy for embarrassing the poor young thing by treating her as an exhibition, especially as the two young gentlemen were present, Robert with his back against the door-post in a state of resignation, Owen drawing Phœbe’s attention to the little ones whom he was puzzling with incomprehensible remarks and questions.  Hoping to end the scene, Honor made a few commonplace inquiries as to the numbers and the habits of the school; but the mistress, though preserving her dignity of attitude, seemed hardly able to speak, and the curate replied for her.

‘I see,’ said Lucilla, ‘your eye keeps roaming to the mischief my naughty brother is doing among the fry down there.’

‘Oh, no! ma’am.  I beg your pardon—’

‘Never mind, I’ll remove the whole concern in a moment, only we must have some singing first.’

‘Don’t, Lucy!’ whispered Honor, looking up from an inspection of some not first-rate needlework; ‘it is distressing her, and displays are contrary to all rules of discipline.’

‘Oh! but you must,’ cried Cilly.  ‘You have not seen Wrapworth without.  Come, Edna, my bonnie-bell,’ and she held out her hand in that semi-imperious, semi-caressing manner which very few had ever withstood.

‘One song,’ echoed Owen, turning towards the elder girls.  ‘I know you’ll oblige me; eh, Fanny Blake?’

To the scholars the request was evidently not distasteful; the more tuneful were gathering together, and the mistress took her station among them, all as if the exhibition were no novelty.  Lucilla, laying her hand on the victim’s arm, said, ‘Come, don’t be nervous, or what will you do to-morrow?  Come.’

‘“Goddess of the Silver Bow,”’ suggested Owen.  ‘Wasn’t it that which your mother disapproved, Fanny, because it was worshipping idols to sing about great Diana of the Ephesians?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said rather a conceited voice from the prettiest of the elder girls; ‘and you told us it was about Phœbe Bright, and gave her the blue and silver ribbon.’

‘And please, sir,’ said another less prepossessing damsel, ‘Mrs. Jenkyns took it away, and I said I’d tell you.’

Owen shrugged up his shoulders with a comical look, saying, as he threw her a shilling, ‘Never mind; there’s a silver circle instead of a bow—that will do as well.  Here’s a rival goddess for you, Phœbe; two moons in a system.’

The girls were in a universal titter, the mistress with her eyes cast down, blushing more than ever.  Lucilla muttered an amused but indignant, ‘For shame, Owen!’ and herself gave the key-note.  The performance was not above the average of National School melody, but no sooner was it over, than Owen named, in an under-tone, another song, which was instantly commenced, and in which there joined a voice that had been still during the first, but which soon completely took the lead.  And such a voice, coming as easily as the notes of the nightingale from the nobly-formed throat, and seeming to fill the room with its sweet power!  Lucilla’s triumph was complete; Honor’s scruples were silenced by the admiring enjoyment, and Phœbe was in a state of rapture.  The nervous reluctance had given way to the artistic delight in her own power, and she readily sang all that was asked for, latterly such pieces as needed little or no support from the children—the ‘Three Fishers’ Wives’ coming last, and thrilling every one with the wondrous pathos and sadness of the tones that seemed to come from her very heart.

It seemed as if they would never have come away, had not Mr. Prendergast had pity on the restless movements of some of the younglings, who, taking no part in the display, had leisure to perceive that the clock had struck their hour of release, and at the close of ‘The Fishers’ Wives,’ he signed to Lucilla to look at the hour.

‘Poor little things!’ said she, turning round to the gaping and discontented collection, ‘have we used you so ill?  Never mind.’  Again using her bulrush to tickle the faces that looked most injured, and waken them into smiles—‘Here’s the prison house open,’ and she sprang out.  ‘Now—come with a whoop and come with a call—I’ll give my club to anybody that can catch me before I get down to the vicarage garden.’

Light as the wind, she went bounding flying across the churchyard like a butterfly, ever and anon pausing to look round, nod, and shake her sceptre, as the urchins tumbled confusedly after, far behind, till closing the gate, she turned, poised the reed javelin-wise in the air, and launched it among them.