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

‘Education seems to me to have little to do with what people turn out,’ said Phœbe.  ‘Look at poor Miss Charlecote and the Sandbrooks.’

‘Depend upon it, Phœbe, that whatever harm may have ensued from her errors in detail, those young people will yet bless her for the principle she worked on.  You can none of you bless me, for having guided the hands of the watch, and having left the mainspring untouched.’

Miss Fennimore had been, like Helvetius and the better class of encyclopædists, enamoured of the moral virtues, but unable to perceive that they could not be separated from the Christian faith, and she learnt like them that, when doctrine ceased to be prominent, practice went after it.  Bertha was her Jacobin—and seemed doubly so the next morning, when an interview took place, in which the young lady gave her to understand that she, like Phœbe, was devoid of the experience that would enable them to comprehend the sacred mutual duty of souls that once had spoken.  Woman was no longer the captive of the seraglio, nor the chronicler of small beer.  Intellectual training conferred rights of choice superior to conventional ties; and, as to the infallible discernment of that fifteen year old judgment, had not she the sole premises to go upon, she who alone had been admitted to the innermost of that manly existence?

‘I always knew Jack to be a clever dog,’ said Mervyn, when this was reported to him, ‘but his soft sawder to a priggish metaphysical baby must have been the best fun in the world?’

Mervyn’s great desire was to keep Bertha’s folly as great a secret as possible; and, by his decision, she was told that grace should be granted her till Mr. Crabbe’s arrival, when, unless she had renounced what he called her silly child’s fancy, stringent measures would be taken, and she would be exposed to the family censure.

‘So,’ said Bertha, ‘you expect to destroy the attraction of souls by physical force!’

And Phœbe wrote to Robert a sorrowful letter, chiefly consisting of the utmost pleadings for Mervyn and Bertha that her loving heart could frame.  She was happier when she had poured out her troubles, but grieved when no answer came by the next post.  Robert’s displeasure must be great—and indeed but too justly so—since all this mischief was the consequence of the disregard of his wishes.  Yet justice was hard between brothers and sisters, especially when Mervyn was in such a suffering state, threatened constantly by attacks of his complaint, which were only warded off by severe and weakening treatment.  Phœbe was so necessary to his comfort in waiting on him, and trying to while away his tedious hours of inaction and oppression, that she had little time to bestow upon Bertha, nor, indeed, was talking of any use, as it only gave the young lady an occasion for pouring forth magniloquent sentiments, utterly heedless of the answers.  Sad, lonely, and helpless were Phœbe’s feelings, but she was patient, and still went on step by step through the strange tangle, attending to Mervyn hour by hour, always with a gentle cheerful word and smile, and never trusting herself, even when alone, to think of the turmoil and break up that must ensue on her guardian’s arrival.

All was darkness and perplexity before her, but submission and trust were her refuge, and each day of waiting before the crisis was to her feelings a gain.

CHAPTER XXI

O fy gar ride and fy gar rinAnd haste ye to find these traitors agen,For shees be burnt and hees been slein,The wearifu gaberlunzie man.Some rade upon horse, some ran afit,The wife was wud and out of her wit,She couldna gang, nor yet could she sit,But aye did curse and ban.—King James V

Mervyn and Phœbe were playing at billiards, as a means of inducing him to take exercise enough to make him sleep.  The governess and the two girls were gone to the dentist’s at Elverslope.  The winter’s day was closing in, when there was a knock at the door, and they beheld Miss Fennimore, deadly white, and Maria, who flew up to Phœbe, crying—‘Bertha’s gone, Phœbe!’

‘The next up-train stops at Elverslope at 8.30,’ said the governess, staring in Mervyn’s face, as though repeating a lesson.  ‘A carriage will be here by seven.  I will bring her home, or never return.’

‘Gone!’

‘It was inexcusable in me, sir,’ said Miss Fennimore, resting a hand on the table to support herself.  ‘I thought it needlessly galling to let her feel herself watched; and at her request, let her remain in the waiting-room while her sister was in the dentist’s hands.  When, after an hour, Maria was released, she was gone.’

‘Alone?’ cried Phœbe.

‘Alone, I hope.  I went to the station; the train had been ten minutes gone; but a young lady, alone, in mourning, and with no luggage but a little bag, had got in there for London.  Happily, they did not know her; and it was the parliamentary train, which is five hours on the road.  I telegraphed at once to your brother to meet her at the terminus.’

‘I have no hope,’ said Mervyn, doggedly, seating himself on the table, his feet dangling.  ‘He will be in the lowest gutter of Whittingtonia, where no one can find him.  The fellow will meet that miserable child, go off to Ostend this very night, marry her before to-morrow morning.  There’s an end of it!’

‘Where does Mr. Hastings lodge, sir?’

‘Nowhere that I know of.  There will be no end of time lost in tracing him!  No train before 8.30!  I’ll go in at once, and have a special.’

‘They cannot put on one before nine, because of the excursion trains for the cattle-show.  I should not have been in time had I driven to catch the express at W.,’ said Miss Fennimore, in her clear voice of desperation.  ‘The 8.30 reaches town at 11.23.  Will you give me the addresses where I may inquire, sir?’

‘You!  I am going myself.  You would be of no use,’ said Mervyn, in a stunned, mechanical way; and looking at his watch, he went to give orders.

‘He should not go, Phœbe.  In his state the mere journey is a fearful risk.’

‘It can’t be helped,’ said Phœbe.  ‘I shall go with him.  You stay to take care of Maria.  There will be Robert to help us;’ and as the governess would have spoken farther, she held up her hands in entreaty—‘O pray don’t say anything!  I can’t go on if I do anything but act.’

Yet in the endeavour to keep her brother quiet, and to husband his powers, Phœbe’s movements and words had rather an additional gentleness and deliberation; and so free from bustle was her whole demeanour, that he never comprehended her intention of accompanying him till she stepped into the carriage beside him.

‘What’s this?  You coming?’

‘I will give you no trouble.’

‘Well, you may help to manage the girl;’ and he lay back, relieved to be off, but already spent by the hurry of the last two hours.  Phœbe could sit and—no—not think, except that Robert was at the other end of the line.

The drive seemed to have lasted half the night ere the lamps of Elverslope made constellations in the valley, and the green and red lights of the station loomed out on the hill.  They drove into the circle of gaslights, among the vaporous steeds of omnibuses and flies, and entered the station, Phœbe’s veil down, and Mervyn shading his dazzled eyes from the glare.  They were half an hour too soon; and while waiting, it occurred to Phœbe to inquire whether a telegram for Beauchamp had been received.  Even so, and they must have crossed the express; but a duplicate was brought to them.

‘Safe.  We shall be at Elverslope at 10.20, P.M.’

Assuredly Phœbe did not faint, for she stood on her feet; and Mervyn never perceived the suspension of senses, which lasted till she found him for the second time asking whether she would go home or await the travellers at Elverslope.

‘Home,’ she said, instinctively, in her relief forgetting all the distress of what had taken place, so that her sensations were little short of felicity; and as she heard the 8.30 train roaring up, she shed tears of joy at having no concern therewith.  The darkness and Mervyn’s silence were comfortable, for she could wipe unseen her showers of tears at each gust of thankfulness that passed over her; and it was long before she could command her voice even to ask her companion whether he were tired.  ‘No,’ he said; but the tone was more than half-sullen; and at the thought of the meeting between the brothers, poor Phœbe’s heart seemed to die within her.  Against their dark looks and curt sayings to one another she had no courage.

When they reached home, she begged him to go at once to bed, hoping thus to defer the meeting; but he would not hear of doing so; and her only good augury was that his looks were pale, languid, and subdued, rather than flushed and excited.  Miss Fennimore was in the hall, and he went towards her, saying, in a friendly tone, ‘So, Miss Fennimore, you have heard that this unlucky child has given us a fright for nothing.’

The voice in which she assented was hoarse and scarcely audible, and she looked as if twenty years had passed over her head.

‘It was all owing to your promptitude,’ said Mervyn; ‘a capital thought that telegram.’

‘I am glad,’ said Miss Fennimore; ‘but I do not lose sight of my own negligence.  It convinces me that I am utterly unfit for the charge I assumed.  I shall leave your sisters as soon as new plans can be formed.’

‘Why, I’ll be bound none of your pupils ever played you such a trick before!’

Miss Fennimore only looked as if this convinced her the more; but it was no time for the argument, and Phœbe caressingly persuaded her to come into the library and drink coffee with them, judging rightly that she had tasted nothing since morning.

Afterwards Phœbe induced Mervyn to lie on the sofa, and having made every preparation for the travellers, she sat down to wait.  She could not read, she could not work; she felt that tranquillity was needful for her brother, and had learnt already the soothing effect of absolute repose.  Indeed, one of the first tokens by which Miss Fennimore had perceived character in Phœbe was her faculty of being still.  Only that which has substance can be motionless.  There she sat in the lamplight, her head drooping, her hands clasped on her knee, her eyes bent down, not drowsy, not abstracted, not rigid, but peaceful.  Her brother lay in the shade, watching her with a half-fascinated gaze, as though a magnetic spell repressed all inclination to work himself into agitation.

The stillness became an effort at last, but it was resolutely preserved till the frost-bound gravel resounded with wheels.  Phœbe rose, Mervyn started up, caught her hand and squeezed it hard.  ‘Do not let him be hard on me, Phœbe,’ he said.  ‘I could not bear it.’

She had little expected this.  Her answer was a mute caress, and she hurried out, but in a tumult of feeling, retreated behind the shelter of a pillar, and silently put her hand on Robert’s arm as he stepped out of the carriage.

‘Wait,’ he whispered, holding her back.  ‘Hush!  I have promised that she shall see no one.’

Bertha descended, unassisted, her veil down, and neither turning to the right nor the left, crossed the hall and went upstairs.  Robert took off his overcoat and hat, took a light and followed her, signing that Phœbe should remain behind.  She found Mervyn at the library door, like herself rather appalled at the apparition that had swept past them.  She put her hand into his, with a kind of common feeling that they were awaiting a strict judge.

Robert soon reappeared, and in a preoccupied way, kissed the one and shook hands with the other, saying, ‘She has locked her door, and says she wants nothing.  I will try again presently—not you, Phœbe; I could only get her home on condition she should see no one without her own consent.  So you had my telegram?’

‘We met it at the station.  How did you find her?’

‘Had the man been written to?’ asked Robert.

‘No,’ said Mervyn; ‘we thought it best to treat it as childish nonsense, not worth serious notice, or in fact—I was not equal to writing.’

The weary, dejected tone made Robert look up, contrary to the brothers’ usual habit of avoiding one another’s eye, and he exclaimed, ‘I did not know!  You were not going to London to-night?’

‘Worse staying at home,’ murmured Mervyn, as, leaning on a corner of the mantelshelf, he rested his head on his hand.

‘I was coming with him,’ said Phœbe; ‘I thought if he gave directions, you could act.’

Robert continued to cast at him glances of dismay and compunction while pursuing the narrative.  ‘Hastings must have learnt by some means that the speculation was not what he had imagined; for though he met her at Paddington—’

‘He did?’

‘She had telegraphed to him while waiting at Swindon.  He found her out before I did, but he felt himself in a predicament, and I believe I was a welcome sight to him.  He begged me to do him the justice to acquit him of all participation in this rash step, and said he had only met Bertha with a view to replacing her in the hands of her family.  How it would have been without me, I cannot tell, but I am inclined to believe that he did not know how to dispose of her.  She clung to him and turned away from me so decidedly that I was almost grateful for the line he took; and he was obliged to tell her, with many fine speeches, that he could not expose her to share his poverty; and when the poor silly child declared she had enough for both, he told her plainly that it would not be available for six years, and he could not let her—tenderly nurtured, etc., etc.  Then supposing me uninformed, he disclaimed all betrayal of your confidence, and represented all that had passed as sport with a child, which to his surprise she had taken as earnest.’

‘Poor Bertha!’ exclaimed Phœbe.

‘Pray where did this scene take place?’ asked Mervyn.

‘On the platform; but it was far too quiet to attract notice.’

‘What! you had no fits nor struggles?’

‘I should think not,’ smiled Phœbe.

‘She stood like a statue, when she understood him; and when he would audaciously have shaken hands with her, she made a distant courtesy, quite dignified.  I took her to the waiting-room, and put back her veil.  She was crimson, and nearly choking, but she repelled me, and never gave way.  I asked if she would sleep at an inn and go home to-morrow; she said “No.”  I told her I could not take her to my place because of the curates.  “I’ll go to a sisterhood,” she said; and when I told her she was in no mood to be received there, she answered, “I don’t care.”  Then I proposed taking her to Augusta, but that was worse; and at last I got her to come home in the dark, on my promise that she should see no one till she chose.  Not a word has she since uttered.’

‘Could he really have meant it all in play?’ said Phœbe; ‘yet there was his letter.’

‘I see it all,’ said Mervyn.  ‘I was an ass to suppose such needy rogues could come near girls of fortune without running up the scent.  As I told Phœbe, I know they had some monstrous ideas of the amount, which I never thought it worth my while to contradict.  I imagine old Jack only intended a promising little flirtation, capable of being brought to bear if occasion served, but otherwise to be cast aside as child’s play.  Nobody could suspect such an inflammable nature with that baby face; but it seems she was ready to eat her fingers with dulness in the school-room, and had prodigious notions of the rights of woman; so she took all he said most seriously, and met him more than half-way.  Then he goes to London, gets better information, looks at the will in Doctors’ Commons, maybe, finds it a slowish speculation, and wants to let her down easy; whereof she has no notion, writes two letters to his one, as we know, gets desperate, and makes this excursion.’

Robert thoughtfully said ‘Yes;’ and Phœbe, though she did not like to betray it, mentally owned that the intercepted letter confirmed Mervyn’s opinion, being evidently meant to pacify what was inconveniently ardent and impassioned, without making tangible promises or professions.

The silence was broken by Mervyn.  ‘There!  I shall go to bed.  Phœbe, when you see that poor child, tell her not to be afraid of me, for the scrape was of my making, so don’t be sharp with her.’

‘I hope not,’ said Robert gravely; ‘I am beginning to learn that severity is injustice, not justice.  Good night, Mervyn; I hope this has not done you harm.’

‘I am glad not to be at Paddington this minute,’ said Mervyn.  ‘You will stay and help us through this business.  It is past us.’

‘I will stay as long as I can, if you wish it.’

Phœbe’s fervent ‘Thank you!’ was for both.  She had never heard such friendly tones between those two, though Mervyn’s were still half sullen, and chiefly softened by dejection and weariness.

‘Why, Phœbe,’ cried Robert, as the door closed, ‘how could you not tell me this?’

‘I thought I had told you that he was very unwell.’

‘Unwell!  I never saw any one so much altered.’

‘He is at his best when he is pale.  The attacks are only kept off by reducing him, and he must be materially better to have no threatening after such a day as this.’

‘Well, I am glad you have not had the letter that I posted only to-day!’

‘I knew you were displeased,’ said Phœbe, ‘and you see you were quite right in not wishing us to stay here; but you forgive us now—Mervyn and me, I mean.’

‘Don’t couple yourself with him, Phœbe!’

‘Yes, I must; for we both equally misjudged, and he blames himself more than any one.’

‘His looks plead for him as effectually as you can do, Phœbe, and rebuke me for having fancied you weak and perverse in remaining after the remonstrance.’

‘I do not wonder at it,’ said Phœbe; ‘but it is over now, and don’t let us talk about it.  I want nothing to spoil the comfort of knowing that I have you here.’

‘I have a multitude of things to say, but you look sleepy.’

‘Yes, I am afraid I am.  I should like to sit up all night to make the most of you, but I could not keep awake.’

Childlike, she no sooner had some one on whom to repose her care than slumber claimed its due, and she went away to her thankful rest, treasuring the thought of Robert’s presence, and resting in the ineffable blessing of being able to overlook the thorns in gratitude for the roses.

Bertha did not appear in the morning.  Robert went to her door, and was told that she would see no one; and Phœbe’s entreaties for admission were met with silence, till he forbade their repetition.  ‘It only hardens her,’ he said; ‘we must leave her to herself.’

‘She will not eat, she will be ill!’

‘If she do not yield at dinner-time, Lieschen shall carry food to her, but she shall not have the pleasure of disappointing you.  Sullenness must be left to weary itself out.’

‘Is not this more shame than sullenness?’

‘True shame hides its face and confesses—sullen shame hides like Adam.  If hers had not been stubborn, it would have melted at your voice.  She must wait to hear it again, till she have learnt to crave for it.’

He looked so resolute that Phœbe durst plead no longer, but her heart sank at the thought of the obstinate force of poor Bertha’s nature.  Persistence was innate in the Fulmorts, and it was likely to be a severe and lasting trial whether Robert or Bertha would hold out the longest.  Since he had captured her, however, all were relieved tacitly to give her up to his management; and at dinner-time, on his stern assurance that unless she would accept food, the door would be forced, she admitted some sandwiches and tea, and desired to have her firing replenished, but would allow no one to enter.

Robert, at Mervyn’s earnest entreaty, arranged to remain over the Sunday.  The two brothers met shyly at first, using Phœbe as a medium of communication; but they drew nearer after a time, in the discussion of the robbery, and Robert presently found means of helping Mervyn, by letter-writing, and taking business off his hands to which Phœbe was unequal.  Both concurred in insisting that Phœbe should keep her engagement to the Raymonds for the morrow, as the only means of preventing Bertha’s escapade from making a sensation; and by night she became satisfied that not only would the brothers keep the peace in her absence, but that a day’s téte-à-téte might rather promote their good understanding.

Still, she was in no mood to enjoy, when she had to leave Bertha’s door still unopened, and the only comfort she could look to was in the conversation with Miss Charlecote on the way.  From her, there was no concealing what had happened, and, to Phœbe’s surprise, she was encouraging.  From an external point of view, she could judge better than those more nearly concerned, and her elder years made her more conscious what time could do.  She would not let the adventure be regarded as a lasting blight on Bertha’s life.  Had the girl been a few years older, she could never have held up her head again; but as it was, Honor foretold that, by the time she was twenty, the adventure would appear incredible.  It was not to be lightly passed over, but she must not be allowed to lose her self-respect, nor despair of regaining a place in the family esteem.

Phœbe could not imagine her ever recovering the being thus cast off by her first love.

‘My dear, believe me, it was not love at all, only mystery and the rights of woman.  Her very demonstrativeness shows that it was not the heart, but the vanity.’

Phœbe tried to believe, and at least was refreshed by the sympathy, so as to be able, to her own surprise, to be pleased and happy at Moorcroft, where Sir John and his wife were full of kindness, and the bright household mirth of the sons and daughters showed Phœbe some of the benefit Miss Fennimore expected for Bertha from girl friends.  One of the younger ones showed her a present in preparation for ‘cousin Cecily,’ and embarked in a list of the names of the cousinhood at Sutton; and though an elder sister decidedly closed young Harriet’s mouth, yet afterwards Phœbe was favoured with a sight of a photograph of the dear cousin, and inferred from it that the young lady’s looks were quite severe enough to account for her cruelty.

The having been plunged into a new atmosphere was good for Phœbe, and she brought home so cheerful a face, that even the news of Bertha’s continued obstinacy could not long sadden it, in the enjoyment of the sight of Robert making himself necessary to Mervyn, and Mervyn accepting his services as if there had never been anything but brotherly love between them.  She could have blessed Bertha for having thus brought them together, and felt as if it were a dream too happy to last.

‘What an accountant Robert is!’ said Mervyn.  ‘It is a real sacrifice not to have him in the business!  What a thing we should have made of it, and he would have taken all the bother!’

‘We have done very well to-day,’ was Robert’s account; ‘I don’t know what can have been the matter before, except my propensity for making myself disagreeable.’

Phœbe went to bed revolving plans for softening Bertha, and was fast asleep when the lock of her door was turned.  As she awoke, the terrors of the robbery were upon her far more strongly than at the actual moment of its occurrence; but the voice was familiar, though thin, weak, and gasping.  ‘O Phœbe, I’ve done it!  I’ve starved myself.  I am dying;’ and the sound became a shrill cry.  ‘The dark!  O save me!’ There was a heavy fall, and Phœbe, springing to the spot where the white vision had sunk down, strove to lift a weight, cold as marble, without pulse or motion.  She contrived to raise it, and drag it with her into her own bed, though in deadly terror at the icy touch and prone helplessness, and she was feeling in desperation for the bell-rope, when to her great relief, light and steps approached, and Robert spoke.  Alas! his candle only served to show the ghastly, senseless face.

‘She has starved herself!’ said Phœbe, with affright.

‘A swoon, don’t be afraid,’ said Robert, who was dressed, and had evidently been watching.  ‘Try to warm her; I will fetch something for her; we shall soon bring her round.’

‘A swoon, only a swoon,’ Phœbe was forced to reiterate to herself to keep her senses and check the sobbing screams that swelled in her throat during the hour-like moments of his absence.  She rose, and partly dressed herself in haste, then strove to chafe the limbs; but her efforts only struck the deathly chill more deeply into her own heart.

He brought some brandy, with which they moistened her lips, but still in vain, and Phœbe’s dismay was redoubled as she saw his terror.  ‘It must be fainting,’ he repeated, ‘but I had better send for Jackson.  May God have mercy on us all—this is my fault!’