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

‘Neither,’ said Phœbe, readily.  ‘My home is fixed by Maria’s.’

‘Phœbe, are you crazy?’ broke out the three voices; while Sir Nicholas slowly and sententiously explained that he regretted the unfortunate circumstance, but Maria’s peculiarities made it impossible to produce her in society; and that when her welfare and happiness had been consulted by retirement, Phœbe would find a home in his house, and be treated as Lady Bannerman’s sister, and a young lady of her expectations, deserved.

‘Thank you,’ said Phœbe; then turning to her brother, ‘Mervyn, do you, too, cast off poor Maria?’

‘I told you what I thought of that long ago,’ said Mervyn, carelessly.

‘Very well, then,’ said Phœbe, sadly; ‘perhaps you will let us stay till some lady can be found of whom Mr. Crabbe may approve, with whom Maria and I can live.’

‘Lady Acton!’ Sir Bevil’s voice was low and entreating, but all heard it.

‘I am not going to encumber myself,’ she answered.  ‘I always disliked girls, and I shall certainly not make Acton Manor an idiot asylum.’

‘And mind,’ added Augusta, ‘you won’t cone to me for the season!  I have no notion of your leaving me all the dull part of the year for some gay widow at a watering-place, and then expecting me to go out with you in London.’

‘By Heaven!’ broke out Mervyn, ‘they shall stay here, if only to balk your spite.  My sisters shall not be driven from pillar to post the very day their mother is put under ground.’

‘Some respectable lady,’ began Robert.

‘Some horrid old harridan of a boarding-house keeper,’ shouted Mervyn, the louder for his interference.  ‘Ay, you would like it, and spend all their fortunes on parsons in long coats!  I know better!  Come here, Phœbe, and listen.  You shall live here as you have always done, Maria and all, and keep the Fennimore woman to mind the children.  Answer me, will that content you?  Don’t go looking at Robert, but say yes or no.’

Mervyn’s innuendo had deprived his offer of its grace, but in spite of the pang of indignation, in spite of Robert’s eye of disapproval, poor desolate Phœbe must needs cling to her home, and to the one who alone would take her and her poor companion.  ‘Mervyn, thank you; it is right!’

‘Right!  What does that mean?  If any one has a word to say against my sisters being under my roof, let me hear it openly, not behind my back.  Eh, Juliana, what’s that?’

‘Only that I wonder how long it will last,’ sneered Lady Acton.

‘And,’ added Robert, ‘there should be some guarantee that they should not be introduced to unsuitable acquaintance.’

‘You think me not to be trusted with them.’

‘I do not.’

Mervyn ground his teeth, answering, ‘Very well, sir, I stand indebted to you.  I should have imagined, whatever your opinion of me, you would have considered your favourite sky-blue governess an immaculate guardian, or can you be contented with nothing short of a sisterhood?’

‘Robert,’ said Phœbe, fearing lest worse should follow, ‘Mervyn has always been good to us; I trust to him.’  And her clear eyes were turned on the eldest brother with a grateful confidence that made him catch her hand with something between thanks and triumph, as he said—

‘Well said, little one!  There, sir, are you satisfied?’

‘I must be,’ replied Robert.

Sir Bevil, able to endure no longer, broke in with some intelligence from the newspaper, which he had been perusing ever since his unlucky appeal to his lady.  Every one thankfully accepted this means of ending the discussion.

‘Well, Miss,’ was Juliana’s good night, ‘you have attained your object.  I hope you may find it answer.’

‘Yes,’ added Augusta, ‘when Mervyn brings home that Frenchwoman, you will wish you had been less tenacious.’

‘That’s all an idea of yours,’ said Juliana.  ‘She’ll have punishment enough in Master Mervyn’s own temper.  I wouldn’t keep house for him, no, not for a week.’

‘Stay till you are asked,’ said Augusta.

Phœbe could bear no more, but slipped through the swing-door, reached her room, and sinking into a chair, passively let Lieschen undress her, not attempting to raise her drooping head, nor check the tears that trickled, conscious only of her broken, wounded, oppressed state of dejection, into the details of which she durst not look.  How could she, when her misery had been inflicted by such hands?  The mere fact of the unseemly broil between the brothers and sisters on such an evening was shame and pain enough, and she felt like one bruised and crushed all over, both in herself and Maria, while the one drop of comfort in Mervyn’s kindness was poisoned by the strife between him and Robert, and the doubt whether Robert thought she ought to have accepted it.

When her maid left her, she only moved to extinguish her light, and then cowered down again as if to hide in the darkness; but the soft summer twilight gloom seemed to soothe and restore her, and with a longing for air to refresh her throbbing brow, she leant out into the cool, still night, looking into the northern sky, still pearly with the last reminiscence of the late sunset, and with the pale large stars beaming calmly down.

‘Oh mother, mother!  Well might you long to take your poor Maria with you—there where the weary are at rest—where there is mercy for the weak and slow!  Home! home! we have none but with you!’

Nay, had she not a home with Him whose love was more than mother’s love; whose soft stars were smiling on her now; whose gentle breezes fanned her burning cheeks, even as a still softer breath of comfort was stilling her troubled spirit!  She leant out till she could compose herself to kneel in prayer, and from prayer rose up quietly, weary, and able to rest beneath the Fatherly Wings spread over the orphan.

She was early astir, though with heavy, swollen eyelids; and anxious to avoid Bertha’s inquiries till all should be more fully settled, she betook herself to the garden, to cool her brow and eyes.  She was bathing them in the dewy fragrant heart of a full-blown rose, that had seemed to look at her with a tearful smile of sympathy, when a step approached, and an arm was thrown round her, and Robert stood beside her.

‘My Phœbe,’ he said tenderly, ‘how are you?  It was a frightful evening!’

‘Oh! Robert, were you displeased with me?’

‘No, indeed.  You put us all to shame.  I grieved that you had no more preparation, but some of the guests stayed late, afterwards I was hindered by business, and then Bevil laid hands on me to advise me privately against this establishment for poor Maria.’

‘I thought it was Juliana who pressed it!’

‘Have you not learnt that whatever he dislikes she forwards?’

‘Oh! Robert, you can hinder that scheme from ever being thought of again!’

‘Yes,’ said Robert; ‘there she should never have been, even had you not made resistance.’

‘And, Robert, may we stay here?’ asked Phœbe, trembling.

‘Crabbe sees no objection,’ he answered.

‘Do you, Robert?  If you think we ought not, I will try to change; but Mervyn is kind, and it is home!  I saw you thought me wrong, but I could not help being glad he relented to Maria.’

‘You were right.  Your eldest brother is the right person to give you a home.  I cannot.  It would have shown an evil, suspicious temper if you had refused him.’

‘Yet you do not like it.’

‘Perhaps I am unjust.  I own that I had imagined you all happier and better in such a home as Mrs. Parsons or Miss Charlecote could find for you; and though Mervyn would scarcely wilfully take advantage of your innocence, I do not trust to his always knowing what would be hurtful to you or Bertha.  It is a charge that I grudge to him, for I do not think he perceives what it is.’

‘I could make you think better of him.  I wonder whether I may.’

‘Anything—anything to make me think better of him,’ cried Robert eagerly.

‘I do not know it from him alone, so it cannot be a breach of confidence,’ said Phœbe.  ‘He has been deeply attached, not to a pretty person, nor a rich nor grand one, but she was very good and religious—so much so that she would not accept him.’

‘How recently?’

‘The attachment has been long; the rejection this spring.’

‘My poor Phœbe, I could not tell you how his time has been passed since early spring.’

‘I know in part,’ she said, looking down; ‘but, Robin, that arose from despair.  Oh, how I longed for him to come and let me try to comfort him!’

‘And how is this to change my opinion,’ asked Robert, ‘except by showing me that no right-minded woman could trust herself with him?’

‘Oh, Robert, no!  Sisters need not change, though others ought, perhaps.  I meant you to see that he does love and honour goodness for itself, and so that he will guard his sisters.’

‘I will think so, Phœbe.  You deserve to be believed, for you draw out his best points.  For my own part, the miserable habits of our boyhood have left a habit of acrimony, of which, repent as I will, I cannot free myself.  I gave way to it last night.  I can be cool, but I cannot help being contemptuous.  I make him worse, and I aggravated your difficulties by insulting him.’

‘He insulted you,’ said Phœbe.  ‘When I think of those words I don’t know how I can stay with him.’

‘They fell short!  They were nothing,’ said Robert.  ‘But it was the more unbefitting in me to frame my warning as I did.  Oh, Phœbe, your prayers and influence have done much for me.  Help me now to treat my brother so as not to disgrace my calling.’

‘You—when you freely forgive all the injuries he has done you!’

‘If I freely forgave, I suppose I should love;’ and he murmured sadly, ‘He that hateth his brother is a murderer.’

Phœbe shrank, but could not help thinking that if the spirit of Cain existed among them, it was not with the younger brother.

When she next spoke, it was to express her fear lest Miss Fennimore should refuse to remain, since the position would be uncomfortable.  Her talent was thrown away on poor Maria, and Bertha had been very vexing and provoking of late.  Phœbe greatly dreaded a change, both from her love for her governess, and alarm lest a new duenna might be yet more unwelcome to Mervyn, and she was disappointed to see that Robert caught at the hope that the whole scheme might be baffled on this score.

Phœbe thought a repetition of the dinner-table offence would be best obviated by taking her place as tea-maker at once.  Mervyn first came down, and greeted her like something especially his own.  He detected the red blistered spot on her cheek, and exclaimed, ‘Eh! did they make you cry?  Never mind; the house will soon be clear of them, and you my little queen.  You have nothing to say against it.  Has any one been putting things in your head?’ and he looked fiercely at his brother.

‘No, Mervyn; Robert and I both think you very kind, and that it is the right thing.’

‘Yes,’ said Robert, ‘no arrangement could be more proper.  I am sorry, Mervyn, if my manner was offensive last night.’

‘I never take offence, it is not my way,’ said Mervyn, indifferently, almost annoyed that his brother had not spirit to persevere in the quarrel.

After the breakfast, where the elder sisters were cold and distant, and Sir Bevil as friendly as he durst, Mervyn’s first move was to go, in conjunction with Mr. Crabbe, to explain the arrangement to Miss Fennimore, and request her to continue her services.  They came away surprised and angry: Miss Fennimore would ‘consider of it.’  Even when Mervyn, to spare himself from ‘some stranger who might prove a greater nuisance,’ had offered a hundred in addition to her present exorbitant salary, she courteously declined, and repeated that her reply should be given in the evening.

Mervyn’s wrath would have been doubled had he known the cause of her delay.  She sent Maria to beg Robert to spare her half an hour, and on his entrance, dismissing her pupils, she said, ‘Mr. Fulmort, I should be glad if you would candidly tell me your opinion of the proposed arrangement.  I mean,’ seeing his hesitation, ‘of that part which relates to myself.’

‘I do not quite understand you,’ he said.

‘I mean, whether, as the person whose decision has the most worth in this family, you are satisfied to leave your sisters under my charge?  If not, whatever it may cost me to part with that sweet and admirable Phœbe,’ and her voice showed unwonted emotion, ‘I would not think of remaining with them.’

‘You put me in a very strange position, Miss Fennimore; I have no authority to decide.  They could have no friend more sincerely anxious for their welfare or so welcome to Phœbe’s present wishes.’

‘Perhaps not; but the question is not of my feelings nor theirs, but whether you consider my influence pernicious to their religious principles.  If so, I decline their guardian’s terms at once.’  After a pause, she added, pleased at his deliberation, ‘It may assist you if I lay before you the state of my own mind.’

She proceeded to explain that her parents had been professed Unitarians, her mother, loving and devout to the hereditary faith, beyond which she had never looked—‘Mr. Fulmort,’ she said, ‘nothing will approve itself to me that condemns my mother!’

He began to say that often where there was no wilful rejection of truth, saving grace and faith might be vouchsafed.

‘You are charitable,’ she answered, in a tone like sarcasm, and went on.  Her father, a literary man of high ability, set aside from work by ill-health, thought himself above creeds.  He had given his daughter a man’s education, had read many argumentative books with her, and died, leaving her liberally and devoutly inclined in the spirit of Pope’s universal prayer—‘Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.’  It was all aspiration to the Lord of nature, the forms, adaptations to humanity, kaleidoscope shapes of half-comprehended fragments, each with its own beauty, and only becoming worthy of reprobation where they permitted moral vices, among which she counted intolerance.

What she thought reasonable—Christianity, modified by the world’s progress—was her tenet, and she had no scruple in partaking in any act of worship; while naturally conscientious, and loving all the virtues, she viewed the terrors of religion as the scourge of the grovelling and superstitious; or if suffering existed at all, it could be only as expiation, conducting to a condition of high intellect and perfect morality.  No other view, least of all that of a vicarious atonement, seemed to her worthy of the beneficence of the God whom she had set up for herself.

Thus had she rested for twenty years; but of late she had been dissatisfied.  Living with Phœbe, ‘though the child was not naturally intellectual,’ there was no avoiding the impression that what she acted and rested on was substantial truth.  ‘The same with others,’ said Miss Fennimore, meaning her auditor himself.  ‘And, again, I cannot but feel that devotion to any system of faith is the restraint that Bertha is deficient in, and that this is probably owing to my own tone.  These examples have led me to go over the former ground in the course of the present spring; and it has struck me that, if the Divine Being be not the mere abstraction I once supposed, it is consistent to believe that He has a character and will—individuality, in short—so that there might be one single revelation of absolute truth.  I have not thoroughly gone through the subject, but I hope to do so; and when I mark what I can only call a supernatural influence on an individual character, I view it as an evidence in favour of the system that produced it.  My exposition of my opinions shocks you; I knew it would.  But knowing this, and thinking it possible that an undoubting believer might have influenced Bertha, are you willing to trust your sisters to me?’

‘Let me ask one question—why was this explanation never offered before to those who had more right to decide?’

‘My tenets have seldom been the subject of inquiry.  When they have, I have concealed nothing; and twice have thus missed a situation.  But these things are usually taken for granted; and I never imagined it my duty to volunteer my religious sentiments, since I never obtruded them.  I gave no scandal by objecting to any form of worship, and concerned myself with the moral and intellectual, not the religious being.’

‘Could you reach the moral without the religious?’

‘I should tell you that I have seldom reared a pupil from childhood.  Mine have been chiefly from fifteen to eighteen, whose parents required their instruction, not education, from me; and till I came here, I never fully beheld the growth and development of character.  I found that whereas all I could do for Phœbe was to give her method and information, leaving alone the higher graces elsewhere derived, with Bertha, my efforts were inadequate to supply any motive for overcoming her natural defects; and I believe that association with a person of my sceptical habit has tended to prevent Phœbe’s religion from influencing her sister.’

‘This is the reason you tell me?’

‘Partly; and likewise because I esteem you very differently from my former employers, and know that your views for your sisters are not like those of the persons with whom I have been accustomed to deal.’

‘You know that I have no power.  It rests entirely with my brother and Mr. Crabbe.’

‘I am perfectly aware of it; but I could not allow myself to be forced on your sisters by any family arrangement contrary to the wishes of that member of it who is most qualified to judge for them.’

‘Thank you, Miss Fennimore; I will treat you as openly as you have treated me.  I have often felt indignant that my sisters should be exposed to any risk of having their faith shaken; and this morning I almost hoped to hear that you did not consent to Mervyn’s scheme.  But what you have said convinces me that, whatever you may have been previously, you are more likely to strengthen and confirm them in all that is good than half the people they would meet.  I know that it would be a heavy affliction to Phœbe to lose so kind a friend; it might drive her from the home to which she clings, and separate Bertha, at least, from her; and under the circumstances, I cannot wish you to leave the poor girls at present.’  He spoke rather confusedly, but there was more consent in manner than words.

‘Thank you,’ she replied, fervently.  ‘I cannot tell you what it would cost me to part with Phœbe, my living lesson.’

‘Only let the lesson be still unconscious.’

‘I would not have it otherwise for worlds.  The calm reliance that makes her a ministering spirit is far too lovely to be ruffled by a hint of the controversies that weary my brain.  If it be effect of credulity, the effects are more beauteous than those of clear eyesight.’

‘You will not always think it credulity.’

‘There would be great rest in being able to accept all that you and she do,’ Miss Fennimore answered with a sigh; ‘in finding an unchanging answer to “What is truth?”  Yet even your Gospel leaves that question unanswered.’

‘Unanswered to Pilate; but those who are true find the truth; I verily trust that your eyes will become cleared to find it.  Miss Fennimore, you know that I am unready and weak in argument, and you have often left me no refuge but my positive conviction; but I can refer you to those who are strong.  If I can help you by carrying your difficulties to others, or by pointing out books, I should rejoice—’

‘You cannot argue—you can only act,’ said Miss Fennimore, smiling, as a message called him away.

The schoolroom had been left undisturbed, for the sisters were otherwise occupied.  By Mr. Fulmort’s will, the jewels, excepting certain Mervyn heirlooms, were to be divided between the daughters, and their two ladyships thought this the best time for their choice, though as yet they could not take possession.  Phœbe would have given the world that the sets had been appropriated, so that Mervyn and Mr. Crabbe should not have had to make her miserable by fighting her battles, insisting on her choosing, and then overruling her choice as not of sufficiently valuable articles, while Bertha profited by the lesson in harpy-hood, and regarded all claimed by the others as so much taken from herself; and poor Maria clasped on every bracelet one by one, threaded every ring on her fingers, and caught the same lustre on every diamond, delighting in the grand exhibition, and in her own share, which by general consent included all that was clumsy and ill-set.  No one had the heart to disturb her, but Phœbe felt that the poor thing was an eyesore to them all, and was hardly able to endure Augusta’s compliment, ‘After all, Phœbe, she is not so bad; you may make her tolerably presentable for the country.’

Lady Acton patronized Bertha, in opposition to Phœbe; and Sir Bevil was glad to have one sister to whom he could be good-natured without molestation.  The young lady, heartily weary of the monotony of home, was much disappointed at the present arrangement; Phœbe had become the envied elder sister instead of the companion in misfortune, and Juliana was looked on as the sympathizing friend who would fain have opened the prison doors that Phœbe closed against her by making all that disturbance about Maria.

‘It is all humbug about Maria,’ said Juliana.  ‘Much Phœbe will let her stand in her way when she wants to come to London for the season—but I’ll not take her out, I promise her.’

‘But you will take me,’ cried Bertha.  ‘You’ll not leave me in this dismal hole always.’

‘Never fear, Bertha.  This plan won’t last six months.  Mervyn and Phœbe will get sick of one another, and Augusta will be ready to take her in—she is pining for an errand girl.’

‘I’ll not go there to read cookery books and meet old fogies.  You will have me, Juliana, and we will have such fun together.’

‘When you are come out, perhaps—and you must cure that stammer.’

‘I shall die of dulness before then!  If I could only go to school!’

‘I wouldn’t be you with Maria for your most lively companion.’

‘It is much worse than when we used to go down into the drawing-room.  Now we never see any one but Miss Charlecote, and Phœbe is getting exactly like her!’

‘What, all her sanctimonious ways?  I thought so.’

‘And to make it more aggravating, Miss Fennimore is going to get religious too.  She made me read all Butler’s Analogy, and wants to put me into Paley, and she is always running after Robert.’

‘Middle-aged governesses always do run after young clergymen—especially the most outré’s.’

‘And now she snaps me up if I say anything the least comprehensive or speculative, or if I laugh at the conventionalities Phœbe learns at the Holt.  Yesterday I said that the progress of common sense would soon make people cease to connect dulness with mortality, or to think a serious mistiness the sole evidence of respect, and I was caught up as if it were high treason.’

‘You must not get out of bounds in your talk, Bertha, or sound unfeeling.’

‘I can’t help being original,’ said Bertha.  ‘I must evolve my ideas out of my individual consciousness, and assert my independence of thought.’

Juliana laughed, not quite following her sister’s metaphysical tone, but satisfied that it was anti-Phœbe, she answered by observing, ‘An intolerable fuss they do make about that girl!’

‘And she is not a bit clever,’ continued Bertha.  ‘I can do a translation in half the time she takes, and have got far beyond her in all kinds of natural philosophy!’

‘She flatters Mervyn, that’s the thing; but she will soon have enough of that.  I hope he won’t get her into some dreadful scrape, that’s all!’

‘What sort of scrape?’ asked Bertha, gathering from the smack of the hope that it was something exciting.

‘Oh, you are too much of a chit to know—but I say, Bertha, write to me, and let me know whom Mervyn brings to the house.’

With somewhat the like injunction, only directed to a different quarter, Robert likewise left Beauchamp.

As he well knew would be the case, nothing in his own circumstances was changed by his mother’s death, save that he no longer could call her inheritance his home.  She had made no will, and her entire estate passed to her eldest son, from whom Robert parted on terms of defiance, rather understood than expressed.  He took leave of his birthplace as one never expecting to return thither, and going for his last hour at Hiltonbury to Miss Charlecote, poured out to her as many of his troubles as he could bear to utter.  ‘And,’ said he, ‘I have given my approval to the two schemes that I most disapproved beforehand—to Mervyn’s giving my sisters a home, and to Miss Fennimore’s continuing their governess!  What will come of it?’