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

‘Very hard,’ he said, ‘that when there are but two women in the world that that poor child likes, she can have neither!’ and then, gaining hope from something in her face, he exclaimed, ‘After all, I do believe you will take pity on her!’

‘I thought you in joke yesterday.’

‘I thought it too good to be true!  I am not so cool as Phœbe thought me.  But really,’ he said, assuming an earnest, rational, gentlemanly manner, ‘you have done so much for us that perhaps it makes us presume, and though I know it is preposterous, yet if it were possible to you to be long enough with poor Bertha to bring her round again, I do believe it would make an infinite difference.’

‘What does Phœbe say?’ asked Honor.

‘Phœbe, poor child, she does not know I am come.  She looks as white as death, and got up a smile that was enough to make one cry, but she told me not to mind, for something would be sure to bring it right; and so it will, if you will come.’

‘But, Mervyn, you don’t consider what a nuisance I shall be to you.’

Mervyn looked more gallant than Robert ever could have done, and said something rather foolish; but anxiety quickly made him natural again, and he proceeded, ‘After all, they need not bother you much.  Phœbe is of your own sort, and Maria is inoffensive, and Bertha will have Lieschen, and I—I’ll take my own line, and be as little of a bore as I can.  You’ll go?’

‘If—if it will do.’

That odd answer was enough.  Mervyn, already leaning forward with his arms on his knees, held out one hand, and shaded his eyes with the other, as, half with a sob, he said, ‘There, then, it is all right!  Miss Charlecote, you can’t guess what it is to a man not to be trusted with his own sisters!’

These words made that bête noire, John Mervyn Fulmort, nearly as much a child of her own as his brother and sister; for they were in a tone of self-blame—not of resentment.

She was sufficiently afraid of him to respect his reserve; moreover, he looked so ill and harassed that she dreaded his having an attack, and heartily wished for Phœbe, so she only begged him to rest till after her early dinner, when she would convey him back to Beauchamp; and then left him alone, while she went to look her undertaking in the face, rather amused to find herself his last resource, and surprised to find her spirit of enterprise rising, her memories of Alps, lakes, cathedrals, and pictures fast assuming the old charm that had erst made her long to see them again.  And with Phœbe!  Really it would be almost a disappointment if the scheme failed.

When she again met her unwonted guest he plunged into plans, routes, and couriers, treating her as far more completely pledged than she chose to allow; and eating as heartily as he dared, and more so than she thought Phœbe would approve.  She was glad to have him safe at his own door, where Phœbe ran to meet them, greatly relieved, for she had been much disturbed by his absence at luncheon.

‘Miss Charlecote!  Did you meet him?’

‘I went after her’—and Mervyn boyishly caught his sister round the waist, and pushed her down into a curtsey—‘make your obedience; she is going to look after you all.’

‘Going with us!’ cried Phœbe, with clasped hands.

‘To see about it,’ began Honor, but the words were strangled in a transported embrace.

‘Dearest, dearest Miss Charlecote!  Oh, I knew it would all come right if we were patient; but, oh! that it should be so right!  Oh! Mervyn, how could you?’

‘Ah! you see what it is not to be faint-hearted.’  And Phœbe, whose fault was certainly not a faint heart, laughed at this poor jest, as she had seldom laughed before, with an abandon of gaiety and joyousness.  The quiet girl was absolutely thrown off her balance, laughed and cried, thanked and exclaimed, moved restlessly, and spoke incoherently.

‘Oh! may I tell Bertha?’ she asked.

‘No, I’ll do that,’ said Mervyn.  ‘It is all my doing.’

‘Run after him, Phœbe,’ said Honor.  ‘Don’t let Bertha think it settled!’

And Bertha was, of course, disappointingly indifferent.

Lady Bannerman’s nature was not capable of great surprise, but Miss Charlecote’s proposal was not unwelcome.  ‘I did not want to go,’ she said; ‘though dear Sir Nicholas would have made any sacrifice, and it would have looked so for them to have gone alone.  Travelling with an invalid is so trying, and Phœbe made such a rout about Maria, that Mr. Crabbe insisted on her going.  But you like the kind of thing.’

Honor undertook for her own taste for the kind of thing, and her ladyship continued, ‘Yes, you must find it uncommonly dull to be so much alone.  Where did Juliana tell me she had heard of Lucy Sandbrook?’

‘She is in Staffordshire,’ answered Honor, gravely.

‘Ah, yes, with Mrs. Willis Beaumont; I remember.  Juliana made a point of letting her know all about it, and how you were obliged to give her up.’

‘I hope not,’ exclaimed Honor, alarmed.  ‘I never gave her up!  There is no cause but her own spirit of independence that she should not return to me to-morrow.’

‘Oh, indeed,’ said Augusta, carelessly letting the subject drop, after having implanted anxiety too painful to be quelled by the hope that Lady Acton’s neighbourhood might have learnt how to rate her words.

Mr. Crabbe was satisfied and complimentary; Robert, rejoiced and grateful; and Bertha, for the first time, set her will upon recovering, and made daily experiments on her strength, thus quickly amending, though still her weakness and petulance needed the tenderest management, and once when a doubt arose as to Miss Charlecote’s being able to leave home, she suddenly withered up again, with such a recurrence of unfavourable symptoms as proved how precarious was her state.

It was this evidence of the necessity of the arrangement that chiefly contributed to bring it to pass.  When the pressure of difficulty lessened, Mervyn was half ashamed of his own conquest, disliked the obligation, and expected to be bored by ‘the old girl,’ as, to Phœbe’s intense disgust, he would speak of Miss Charlecote.  Still, in essentials he was civil and considerate, and Honor carefully made it evident that she did not mean to obtrude herself, and expected him to sit loose to the female part of the company.  Divining that he would prefer the start from home not to be simultaneous, and also favouring poor Bertha’s shuddering horror of the direct line of railway to London, she proposed that the ladies should work their way by easy journeys on cross lines to Southampton, whilst Mervyn settled his affairs at the office, and then should come to them with Robert, who had made it possible to take an Easter holiday in which to see them safe to their destination in Switzerland.

Phœbe tried to acquiesce in Miss Charlecote’s advice to trust Mervyn’s head to Robert’s charge, and not tease him with solicitude; but the being debarred from going to London was a great disappointment.  She longed for a sight of St. Matthew’s; and what would it not have been to see the two brothers there like brothers indeed?  But she must be content with knowing that so it was.  Mervyn’s opposition was entirely withdrawn, and though he did not in the least comprehend and was far from admiring his brother’s aims, still his name and his means were no longer withheld from supporting Robert’s purposes, ‘because he was such a good fellow, it was a shame to stand in his way.’  She knew, too, rather by implication than confession, that Mervyn imagined his chief regrets for the enormous extravagance of the former year, were because he had thus deprived himself of the power of buying a living for his brother, as compensation for having kept him out of his father’s will.  Whether Mervyn would ever have made the purchase, and still more whether Robert would have accepted it, was highly doubtful, but the intention was a step for which to be thankful; and Phœbe watched the growing friendliness of the long estranged pair with constantly new delight, and anticipated much from Mervyn’s sight of St. Matthew’s with eyes no longer jaundiced.

She would gladly, too, have delayed the parting with Miss Fennimore, who had made all her arrangements for a short stay with her relatives in London, and then for giving lessons at a school.  To Phœbe’s loyal spirit, it seemed hard that even Miss Charlecote’s care should be regarded as compensating for the loss of the home friend of the last seven years, and the closer, dearer link was made known as she sat late over the fire with the governess on Easter Sunday evening, their last at Beauchamp.  Silent hitherto, Miss Fennimore held her peace no longer, but begged Phœbe to think of one who on another Sunday would no longer turn aside from the Altar.  Phœbe lifted her eyes, full of hope and inquiry, and as she understood, exclaimed, ‘O, I am glad!  I knew you must have some deep earnest reason for not being with us.’

‘You never guessed?’

‘I never tried.  I saw that Robert knew, so I hoped.’

‘And prayed?’

‘Yes, you belonged to me.’

‘Do I belong to you now?’

‘Nay, more than ever now.’

‘Then, my child, you never traced my unsettled faith?—my habit of testing mystery by reason never perplexed you?’

Phœbe thought a moment, and said, ‘I knew that Robert distrusted, though I never asked why.  There was a time when I used to try to sift the evidence and logic of all I learnt, and I was puzzled where faith’s province began and reasoning ended.  But when our first sorrow came, all the puzzles melted, and it was not worth while to argue on realities that I felt.  Since that, I have read more, and seen where my own ignorance made my difficulties, and I have prized—yes, adored, the truths all the more because you had taught me to appreciate in some degree their perfect foundation on reasoning.’

‘Strange,’ said Miss Fennimore, ‘that we should have lived together so long, acting on each other, yet each unconscious of the other’s thoughts.  I see now.  What to you was not doubt, but desire for a reason for your hope, became in poor Bertha, not disbelief, but contempt and carelessness of what she did not feel.  I shall never have a sense of rest, till you can tell me that she enters into your faith.  I am chiefly reconciled to leaving her, because I trust that in her enfeebled, dependent state, she may become influenced by Miss Charlecote and by you.’

‘I cannot argue with her,’ said Phœbe.  ‘When she is well, she can always puzzle me; I lose her when she gets to her ego.  You are the only one who can cope with that.’

‘The very reason for keeping away.  Don’t argue.  Live and act.  That was your lesson to me.’

Phœbe did not perceive, and Miss Fennimore loved her freedom from self-consciousness too well even for gratitude’s sake to molest her belief that the conversion was solely owing to Robert’s powers of controversy.

That one fleeting glimpse of inner life was the true farewell.  The actual parting was a practical matter of hurry of trains, and separation of parcels, with Maria too busy with the Maltese dog to shed tears, or even to perceive that this was a final leave-taking with one of those whom she best loved.

CHAPTER XXIII

Tak down, tak down the mast of gowd,Set up the mast of tree,It sets not a forsaken ladyTo sail so gallantly.—Annie of Lochroyan

‘Quaint little white-capped objects!  The St. Wulstan’s girls marching to St. Paul’s!  Ah! the banner I helped to work!  How well I remember the contriving that crozier upon it!  How well it has worn!  Sweet Honey must be in London; it was the sight she most grudged missing!’

So thought Lucilla Sandbrook as a cab conveyed her through the Whittingtonian intricacies.

Her residence with Mrs. Willis Beaumont was not a passage in her life on which she loved to dwell.  Neither party had been well content with the other, though deference to Mrs. Prendergast had held them together.  The lady herself was worthy and kind-hearted, but dull and tedious; and Lucilla, used to animation and intellect, had wearied excessively of the platitudes which were meant as friendly conversation, while her keen remarks and power of drollery and repartee were just sufficiently perceived to be dreaded and disliked.  The children were like their mother, and were frightened and distressed by her quickness and unreasonable expectations.  Their meek, demure heaviness and complacency, even at their sports, made her positively dislike them, all but one scapegrace boy, in favour with no one, and whom she liked more from perverseness and compassion than from any merits of his own.  Lady Acton’s good offices gave the widow a tangible cause, such as was an absolute satisfaction, for her antipathy, and shook the implicit trust in Mrs. Prendergast’s recommendation that had hitherto overridden her private sentiments; yet still, habitual awe of her sister-in-law, and her own easiness and dread of change, left things in the same state until a crisis caused by a grand disturbance among the children.  In the nice matter of meting out blame, mamma’s partiality and the children’s ungenerosity left an undue share upon the scapegrace; his indignant partisan fought his battles ‘not wisely but too well,’ lost temper, and uttered sarcastic home truths which startled and stung the lady into the request for which she could hardly have nerved herself in cooler moments, namely, that they might part.

This settled, each secretly felt that there was something to be regretted, and both equally wished that a new engagement should be made before the termination of the present should be made known at Southminster.  For this purpose, every facility had been given for Miss Sandbrook’s coming to town personally to answer two ladies to whom she had been mentioned.  A family in the neighbourhood had already been tried, but had declined her, and Mrs. Beaumont had shown her the note; ‘so stylish, such strange stories afloat.’  Lucilla felt it best to break upon new ground, and wounded and depressed, had yet resentment enough to bear her through boldly.  She wished to inspect Owen’s child, and wrote to ask Mrs. Murrell to give her a bed for a couple of nights, venturing on this measure because, in the old woman’s monthly report, she had mentioned that Mr. Fulmort had gone abroad for a fortnight.

It had not been an exhilarating evening.  Small children were not much to Lucilla’s taste, and her nephew was not a flattering specimen.  He had the whitened drawn-up appearance of a child who had spent most of his life in a London cellar, with a pinched little visage and preternatural-looking black eyes, a squeaky little fretful voice, and all the language he had yet acquired decidedly cockney.  Moreover, he had the habits of a spoilt child, and that a vulgar one, and his grandmother expected his aunt to think him a prodigy.  There was a vacant room where Lucilla passed as much of her time as she could without an assumption of superiority, but she was obliged to spend the evening in the small furniture-encumbered parlour, and hear by turns of her nephew’s traits of genius, of the merits of the preachers in Cat-alley, and the histories of the lodgers.  The motherly Mrs. Murrell had invited any of the young men whose ‘hearts might be touched’ to attend her ‘simple family worship;’ and to Lucilla’s discomfiture and her triumph, a youth appeared in the evening, and the young lady had her doubts whether the expounding were the attraction.

It was a relief to quit the close, underground atmosphere even for a cab; and ‘an inspecting lady must be better than that old woman,’ thought poor Lucy, as, heartily weary of Mrs. Murrell’s tongue and her own graciousness, she rattled through the streets.  Those long ranks of charity children renewed many an association of old.  The festival which had been the annual event of Honor Charlecote’s youth, she had made the same to her children, and Cilla had not despised it till recently.  Thoughts of better days, of home-feelings, of tenderness, began to soften her.  She had spent nearly two years without the touch of a kindred hand, and for many months past had been learning what it was to be looked at by no loving eye.  She was on her way to still greater strangers!  No wonder her heart yearned to the gentle voice that she had once spurned, and well-nigh in spite of herself, she muttered,

‘Really I do think a kiss of poor Honor’s would do me good!  I have a great mind to go to her when I come back from Kensington.  If I have taken a situation she cannot suppose that I want anything from her.  It would be very comfortable; I should hear of Owen!  I will go!  Even if she be not in town, I could talk to Mrs. Jones, and sit a quarter of an hour in the cedar room!  It would be like meeting Owen; it would be rest and home!’

She felt quite happy and pleased with herself under this resolution, but it was late before she could put it in practice.  The lady at Kensington rather started on entering the room where she had been waiting nearly an hour.  ‘I thought—’ she said, apologetically, ‘Did my servant say Miss Sandbrook?’

Lucilla assented, and the lady, a little discomposed, asked a few questions, furtively surveying her all the time, seemed confused, then begged her to take some luncheon.  It was so long since Mrs. Murrell’s not very tempting breakfast, that the invitation was welcome, even though the presence of a gentleman and an elderly lady showed that it was a pretext for a family inspection, and again she detected the same start of surprise, and a glance passing round the circle, such as made her glad when afterwards an excuse was made for leaving her alone, that she might apply to the glass to see whether anything were amiss in her dress.

Then first she remarked that hers was not the governess air.  She had long felt very virtuous for having spent almost nothing on her clothes, eking out her former wardrobe to the utmost; and the loose, dove-coloured jacket over her black silk skirt betrayed Parisian make, as did the exquisite rose, once worn in her hair, and now enlivening the white ribbon and black lace of the cheap straw bonnet, far back upon the rippling hair turned back from her temples, and falling in profuse ringlets.  It was her ordinary unpremeditated appearance, but she perceived that to these good people it was startlingly stylish, and she was prepared for the confused intimation that there was no need for entering upon the discussion of terms.

She had been detained too late to make her other call, and the processions of tired children showed her that the service at St. Paul’s was over.  The depression of disappointment inclined her the more to the loving old face; and she caused herself to be set down at the end of Woolstone-lane, feeling as if drawn by a magnet as she passed the well known warehouse walls, and as if it were home indeed when she reached the court door.

It would not yield to her intimate manipulation of the old latch—a bad sign, and the bell re-echoed in vacancy.  Again and again she rang, each moment of exclusion awakening a fresh yearning towards the cedar fragrance, every stare of passer-by making her long for the safe shelter of the bay-windowed parlour.  At last a step approached, and a greeting for the friendly old servant was on her tongue’s end.  Alas! a strange face met her eye, elderly, respectable, but guarded.  Miss Charlecote was not at home, not in town, not at Hiltonbury—gone abroad, whither was not known.  Mrs. Jones?  Dead more than a year ago.  Every reply was followed by an attempt to close the door, and it needed all Lucy’s native hardihood, all her ardent craving for her former home, to venture on an entreaty to be admitted for a few minutes.  She was answered, that the house might be shown to no one without orders from Mr. Parsons.

Her heart absolutely fainted within her, as the heavy door was closed on her, making her thoroughly realize her voluntary renunciation of home and protection, and the dreariness of the world on which she had cast herself.  Anxiety on Honor’s behalf began to awaken.  Nothing but illness could have induced her to leave her beloved Holt, and in the thought of her sick, lonely, and untended by the children she had fostered, Cilla forgave her adoption, forgave her forgiveness, forgave everything, in the impulse to hasten to her to requite the obligation by the tenderest care.

She had actually set off to the parsonage in quest of intelligence, when she recollected that she might appear there as a discarded governess in quest of her offended patroness; and her pride impelled her to turn back, but she despatched Mrs. Murrell’s little maid with a note, saying that, being in town for a day, and hearing of Miss Charlecote’s absence on the continent, she could not help begging to be certified that illness was not the cause.  The reply was brief and formal, and it only altered Lucilla’s uneasiness, for Mrs. Parsons merely assured her of Miss Charlecote’s perfect health, and said she was gone abroad with the Fulmort family, where there had been a good deal of illness.

In her displeasure and desire to guard Honora from becoming a prey to the unworthy Sandbrooks, Mrs. Parsons never guessed at the cruelty of her own words, and at the conclusion drawn from them.  Robert Fulmort likewise absent!  No doubt his health had broken down, and Honor was taking Phœbe to be with him!  She examined Mrs. Murrell, and heard of his activity, indeed, but of his recent absences from his parish, and by and by the good woman bethought her of a report that Mr. Fulmort was from home on account of his health.  Oh, the misery of not daring to make direct inquiry!

But the hard practical world was before her, and the new situation was no longer a matter of wilful choice, but of dire necessity.  She would not be hastily thrust from her present post, and would be lovingly received at Southminster in case of need, but she had no dependence save on her own exertions, and perverse romance had died away into desolateness.  With strange, desperate vehemence, and determination not again to fail, she bought the plainest of cap-fronts, reduced her bonnet to the severest dowdiness, hid, straightened, tightened the waving pale gold of her hair, folded her travelling-shawl old-womanishly, cast aside all the merely ornamental, and glancing at herself, muttered, ‘I did not know I could be so insignificant!’  Little Owen stared as if his beautiful aunt had lost her identity, and Mrs. Murrell was ready to embrace her as a convert to last night’s exposition.

Perhaps the trouble was wasted, for the lady, Mrs. Bostock, did not seem to be particular.  She was quite young, easily satisfied, and only eager to be rid of an embarrassing interview of a kind new to her; the terms were fixed, and before many weeks had passed Lucilla was settled at a cottage of gentility, in sight of her Thames, but on the Essex side, where he was not the same river to her, and she found herself as often thinking that those tainted waters had passed the garden in Woolstone-lane as that they had sparkled under Wrapworth Bridge.

It was the greatest change she had yet undergone.  She was entirely the governess, never the companion of the elders.  Her employers were mercantile, wrapped up in each other, busy, and gay.  The husband was all day in London, and, when the evenings were not given to society, preferred spending them alone with his wife and children.  In his absence, the nursery absorbed nearly all the time the mother could spare from her company and her household.  The children, who were too old for playthings, were consigned to the first-rate governess, and only appeared in the evening.  Lucilla never left her schoolroom but for a walk, or on a formal request to appear in the drawing-room at a party; a solitude which she at first thought preferable to Mrs. Willis Beaumont’s continued small chatter, especially as the children were pleasant, brisk, and lovable, having been well broken in by their Swiss bonne.

Necessity had trained Cilly in self-restraint, and the want of surveillance made her generous nature the more scrupulous in her treatment of her pupils; she taught them diligently, kept good order, won their affection and gave them some of her own, but nothing could obviate her growing weariness of holding intercourse with no mind above eleven years old.  Trouble and anxiety she had known before, and even the terrible heartache that she carried about with her might have failed to wear down a being constituted as she was, without the long solitary evenings, and the total want of companionship.  The first shock had been borne by the help of bustle and change, and it was only as weeks passed on, that care and depression grew upon her.  Lessons, walks, children’s games were oppressive in turn, and though the last good-night was a welcome sound, yet the solitude that ensued was unspeakably forlorn.  Reading she had never loved, even had this been a house of books; the children were too young to need exertion on her part to keep in advance of them, and their routine lessons wore out her energies too much for her to turn to her own resources.  She did little but repair her wardrobe, work for the boy in Whittington-street, and let thoughts drift through her mind.  That death-bed scene at Hyères, which had so often risen unbidden to her mind as she lay on her crib, was revived again, but it was not her father whose ebbing life she watched.  It was one for whom she durst not ask, save by an inquiry from her brother, who had never dropped his correspondence with Honora; but Owen was actively employed, and his locality and habits were so uncertain that his letters were often astray for long together.  His third year of apprenticeship had begun, and Lucilla’s sole hope of a change from her present dreary captivity was in his either returning with Mr. Currie, or finding employment and sending for her and his child to Canada.  ‘By that time,’ she thought, ‘Europe will contain nothing to me.  Nay, what does it contain that I have a right to care for now?  I don’t delude myself.  I know his look and manner.  His last thought will be for his flock at St. Matthew’s, not for her who drove him to the work that has been killing him.  Oh, no, he won’t even forgive me, for he will think it the greatest service I could have done him.’  Her eyes were hot and dry; what a relief would tears have been!