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

‘There! I’ve got Lolly out!’ cried Horatia, advancing with her vehement cordiality, and grasping their hands with all her might; ‘I would have come and pulled you up the river, Miss Charlecote, but for imperative claims.  Here’s some tea for you; I know you must be parched.’

And while Mrs. Charteris, scarcely rising, held out her ring encrusted fingers, and murmured a greeting, Ratia settled them all, pushed a chair behind Miss Charlecote, almost threw Phœbe on a cushion, handed tea, scolded Owen, and rattled away to Lucilla with an impetus that kept Phœbe in increased wonder.  It was all about the arrangements for the morrow, full of the utmost good-nature and desire to secure every one’s pleasure, but all discussed in a broad out-spoken way, with a liberal use of slang phrases, and of unprefaced surnames, a freedom of manner and jovial carelessness of voice that specially marked Rashe Charteris at home.

Phœbe had a good deal of opportunity for these observations, for as soon as her stream of information was exhausted, Rashe jumped up and insisted on conducting the guests round the hothouses and pleasure-grounds.  She knew Miss Charlecote was a famous hand at such things.  Lucilla remained on the grass, softly teasing Lolly about the exertions of the morrow, and Owen applying himself to the care of Honor, Rashe took possession of Phœbe with all the tyrannous good-nature that had in baby days rendered her hateful to Lucilla.  She showed off the parrots and gold fish as to a child, she teased the sensitive plant, and explained curiosities down to the level of the youthful intellect; and Phœbe, scientific enough to know if she went wrong in botany or locality, began a word or two of modest suggestion, only to be patronizingly enlightened, and stopped short, in the fear of pedantry.  Phœbe had yet to learn the ignorance of the world.

At last, with a huge torrent of explanations and excuses, Ratia consigned the two guests to share the same bedroom and dressing-room.  The number of gentlemen visitors had necessitated close packing, and Cilly, she said, had come to sleep in her room.  Another hope had failed!  But at the moment when the door was shut, Phœbe could only sink into a chair, untie her bonnet, and fan herself.  Such oppressive good-nature was more fatiguing than a ten miles’ walk, or than the toughest lesson in political economy.

‘If nature have her own ladies,’ was Honora’s comment on her young friend’s exhaustion, ‘she likewise has her own dairy-maids!’

‘Miss Charteris is a lady,’ said Phœbe, her sense of the intended kindness of her hostess calling her to speak in vindication.

‘Yes,’ said Honor, hesitating; ‘it is station that emboldens her.  If she had been a dairy-maid, she would have been a bouncing rude girl; if a farmer’s daughter, she would be hearty and useful; if one of the boasters of gentility, she would think it worth while to restrain herself; as she is, her acknowledged birth and breeding enable her to follow her inclinations without fear of opinion.’

‘I thought refinement was one great characteristic of a lady,’ said Phœbe.

‘So it is, but affectation and false shame are the contrary.  Refinement was rather overworked, and there has been a reaction of late; simplicity and unconstraint have been the fashion, but unfortunately some dispositions are not made to be unconstrained.’

‘Lucy is just as unrestrained as her cousin,’ said Phœbe, ‘but she never seems like her.  She offends one’s judgment sometimes, but never one’s taste—at least hardly ever;’ and Phœbe blushed as she thought of what had passed about her sister that day.

‘Poor Lucy! it is one misfortune of pretty people, that they can seldom do what is taken amiss.  She is small and feminine too, and essentially refined, whatever she can do.  But I was very sorry for you to-day, Phœbe.  Tell me all about your sister, my dear.’

‘They knew more than I did, if all that is true,’ said Phœbe.  ‘Augusta wrote—oh! so kindly—and seemed so glad, that it made me very happy.  And papa gave his consent readily to Robert’s doing as he pleased, and almost said something about his taking me to the wedding at Paris.  If Lucy should—should accept Robin, I wonder if she would go too, and be bridesmaid!’

So they comforted themselves with a few pretty auguries, dressed, and went down to dinner, where Phœbe had made sure that, as before, Lucy would sit next Robin, and be subdued.  Alas, no!  Ladies were far too scarce articles for even the last but one to be the prize of a mere B.A.  To know who were Phœbe’s own neighbours would have been distraction to Juliana, but they were lost on one in whom the art of conversation was yet undeveloped, and who was chiefly intent on reading her brother’s face, and catching what Lucy was saying.  She had nearly given up listening in despair, when she heard, ‘Pistols? oh, of course.  Rashe has gone to the expense of a revolver, but I extracted grandpapa’s from the family armoury—such little darlings.  I’m strongly tempted to send a challenge, just to keep them in use—that’s because you despise me—I’m a crack shot—we practised every day last winter—women shoot much better than men, because they don’t make their hands unsteady—what can be better than the guidance of Ratia, the feminine of Ratio, reason, isn’t it?’

It is not quite certain that this horrible Latinity did not shock Miss Fennimore’s discreet pupil more than all the rest, as a wilful insult to Miss Charlecote’s education!

She herself was not to escape ‘the guidance of Ratia,’ after dinner.  Her silence had been an additional proof to the good-natured Rashe that she was a child to be protected and entertained, so she paraded her through the rooms, coaxed her to play when no one was listening, showed her illustrated books and new-fashioned puzzles, and domineered over her so closely, that she had not a moment in which to speak a word to her brother, whom she saw disconsolately watching the hedge of gentlemen round Lucy.  Was it wrong to feel so ungrateful to a person exclusively devoted to her entertainment for that entire evening?

Phœbe had never known a room-mate nor the solace of a bed-time gossip, and by the time Miss Charlecote began to think of opening the door between their rooms, and discussing the disgusts of the day, the sounds of moving about had ceased.  Honor looked in, and could not help advancing to the bedside to enjoy the sight of the rosy face in the sound healthful sleep, the lips unclosed, and the silken brown hair wound plainly across the round brow, the childish outline and expression of the features even sweeter in sleep than awake.  It rested Honora’s wearied anxious spirit to watch the perfect repose of that innocent young face, and she stood still for some minutes, breathing an ejaculation that the child might ever be as guileless and peaceful as now, and then sighing at the thought of other young sleepers, beside whose couches even fonder prayers had been uttered, only, as it seemed, to be blown aside.

She was turning away, when Phœbe suddenly awoke, and was for a moment startled, half rising, asking if anything were the matter.

‘No, my dear; only I did not think you would have been in bed so quickly.  I came to wish you good night, and found you asleep.’  And with the strong tender impulse of a gentle wounded spirit, Honor hung over the maiden, recomposing the clothes, and fondling her, with a murmured blessing.

‘Dear Miss Charlecote,’ whispered Phœbe, ‘how nice it is!  I have so often wondered what it would be like, if any one came in to pet us at night, as they do in books; and oh! it is so nice!  Say that again, please.’

That was the blessing which would have made Lucilla in angry reserve hide her head in the clothes!

CHAPTER VII

But, ah me! she’s a heart of stone,Which Cupid uses for a hone,I verily believe;And on it sharpens those eye-darts,With which he wounds the simple heartsHe bribes her to deceive.—A Coquette, by X.

Breakfast was late, and lengthened out by the greater lateness of many of the guests, and the superlative tardiness of the lady of the house, who had repudiated the cares of the hostess, and left the tea-equipage to her sister-in-law.  Lucilla had been down-stairs among the first, and hurried away again after a rapid meal, forbidding any one to follow her, because she had so much to do, and on entering the drawing-room, she was found with a wilderness of flowers around her, filling vases and making last arrangements.

Honora and Phœbe were glad to be occupied, and Phœbe almost hoped to escape from Rashe.  Speaking to Lucilla was not possible, for Eloïsa had been placed by Rashe in a low chair, with a saucer before her, which she was directed to fill with verbenas, while the other four ladies, with Owen, whom his cousin had called to their aid, were putting last touches to wreaths, and giving the final festal air to the rooms.

Presently Robert made his appearance as the bearer of Mr. Prendergast’s flowers, and setting his back against a shutter, in his favourite attitude, stood looking as if he wanted to help, but knew not how.  Phœbe, at least, was vividly conscious of his presence, but she was supporting a long festoon with which Owen was adorning a pier-glass, and could hardly even turn her head to watch him.

‘Oh, horrid!’ cried Lucilla, retreating backwards to look at Ratia’s performance; ‘for love or money a bit of clematis!’

‘Where shall I find one?’ said Robert, unseeing the masses waving on the cloister, if, good youth, he even knew what clematis was.

‘You there, Mr. Fulmort!’ exclaimed Rashe; ‘for goodness gracious sake, go out to tennis or something with the other men.  I’ve ordered them all out, or there’ll be no good to be got out of Cilly.’

Phœbe flashed out in his defence, ‘You are letting Owen alone.’

‘Ah! by the bye, that wreath of yours has taken an unconscionable time!’ said Miss Charteris, beginning to laugh; but Phœbe’s grave straightforward eyes met her with such a look, as absolutely silenced her merriment into a mere mutter of ‘What a little chit it is!’  Honora, who was about indignantly to assume the protection of her charge, recognized in her what was fully competent to take care of herself.

‘Away with both of you,’ said Lucilla; ‘here is Edna come for a last rehearsal, and I won’t have you making her nervous.  Take away that Robin, will you, Owen?’

Horatia flew gustily to greet and reassure the schoolmistress as she entered, trembling, although moving with the dignity that seemed to be her form of embarrassment.  Lucilla meanwhile sped to the others near the window.  ‘You must go,’ she said, ‘or I shall never screw her up; it is a sudden access of stage fright.  She is as pale as death.’

Owen stepped back to judge of the paleness, and Robert contrived to say, ‘Cannot you grant me a few words, Lucy?’

‘The most impossible thing you could have asked,’ she replied.  ‘There’s Rashe’s encouragement quite done for her now!’

She bounded back to the much-overcome Edna, while Phœbe herself, perceiving how ill-advised an opportunity Robert had chosen, stepped out with him into the cloister, saying, ‘She can’t help it, dear Robin; she cannot think, just now.’

‘When can she?’ he asked, almost with asperity.

‘Think how full her hands are, how much excited she is,’ pleaded Phœbe, feeling that this was no fair moment for the crisis.

‘Ireland?’ almost groaned Robert, but at the same moment grasped her roughly to hinder her from replying, for Owen was close upon them, and he was the person to whom Robert would have been most reluctant to display his feelings.

Catching intuitively at his meaning, Phœbe directed her attention to some clematis on the opposite side of the cloister, and called both her companions to gather it for her, glad to be with Robert and to relieve Miss Murrell of the presence of another spectator.  Charles Charteris coming up, carried the two young men to inspect some of his doings out of doors, and Phœbe returned with her wreaths of creepers to find that the poor schoolmistress had become quite hysterical, and had been take away by Lucilla.

Rashe summoned her at the same time to the decoration of the music-room, and on entering, stopped in amusement, and made her a sign in silence to look into a large pier-glass, which stood so as to reflect through an open door what was passing in the little fanciful boudoir beyond, a place fitted like a tent, and full of quaint Dresden china and toys of bijouterie.  There was a complete picture within the glass.  Lucilla, her fair face seen in profile, more soft and gentle than she often allowed it to appear, was kneeling beside the couch where half reclined the tall, handsome Edna, whose raven hair, and pale, fine features made her like a heroine, as she nervously held the hands which Lucilla had placed within her grasp.  There was a low murmur of voices, one soothing, the other half sobbing, but nothing reached the outer room distinctly, till, as Phœbe was holding a long wreath, which Ratia was tying up, she heard—‘Oh! but it is so different with me from you young ladies who are used to company and all.  I dare say that young lady would not be timid.’

‘What young lady, Edna?  Not the one with the auburn hair?’

Ratia made an ecstatic face which disgusted Phœbe.

‘Oh, no!—the young lady whom Mr. Sandbrook was helping.  I dare say she would not mind singing—or anything,’ came amid sobs.

Ratia nodded, looked excessively arch, and formed a word with her lips, which Phœbe thought was ‘jealous,’ but could not imagine what she could mean by it.

‘I don’t know why you should think poor Phœbe Fulmort so brazen.  She is a mere child, taking a holiday from her strict governess.’

Phœbe laughed back an answer to Rashe’s pantomime, which in this case she understood.

‘She has not had half your training in boldness, with your inspectors and examinations, and all those horrid things.  Why, you never thought of taking fright before, even when you have sung to people here.  Why should you now?’

‘It is so different, now—so many more people.  Oh, so different!  I shall never be able.’

‘Not at all.  You will quite forget all about yourself and your fears when the time comes.  You don’t know the exhilaration of a room full of people, all lights and music!  That symphony will lift you into another world, and you will feel quite ready for “Men must work and women must weep.”’

‘If I can only begin—but oh! Miss Sandbrook, shall you be far away from me?’

‘No, I promise you not.  I will bring you down, if you will come to Ratia’s room when you are dressed.  The black silk and the lilac ribbon Owen and I chose for you; I must see you in it.’

‘Dear Miss Sandbrook, you are so kind!  What shall I do when you have left?’

‘You are going yourself for the holidays, silly puss!’

‘Ah! but no one else sympathizes or enters into my feelings.’

‘Feelings!’ said Lucilla, lightly, yet sadly.  ‘Don’t indulge in them, Edna; they are no end of a torment.’

‘Ah! but if they prey on one, one cannot help it.’

Rashe made a face of great distaste.  Phœbe felt as if it were becoming too confidential to permit of listening, all the more as she heard Lucilla’s reply.

‘That’s what comes of being tall, and stately, and dignified!  There’s so much less of me that I can carry off my troubles twice as well.’

‘Oh, dear Miss Sandbrook, you can have no troubles!’

‘Haven’t I?  Oh, Edna, if you knew!  You that have a mother can never know what it is to be like me!  I’m keeping it all at bay, lest I should break down; but I’m in the horridest bother and trouble.’

Not knowing what might come next, ashamed of having listened to so much, yet with one gleam of renewed hope, Phœbe resolutely disobeyed Ratia’s frowns and gestures, and made her presence known by decided movements and words spoken aloud.

She saw the immediate effect in Edna Murrell’s violent start; but Lucilla, without moving, at once began to sing, straining her thin though sweet voice, as though to surmount a certain tremulousness.  Edna joined, and the melody was lovely to hear; but Phœbe was longing all the time for Robert to be at hand for this softer moment, and she hoped all the more when, the practising being over, and Edna dismissed, Lucy came springing towards her, notifying her presence by a caress—to outward appearance merely playful, but in reality a convulsive clasp of vehement affection—and Phœbe was sure that there had been tears in those eyes that seemed to do nothing but laugh.

The security that this wild elf was true at heart was, however, not enough for Phœbe.  There was the knowledge that each moment’s delay would drive Robert farther aloof, and that it was a mere chance whether he should encounter this creature of impulse at a propitious instant.  Nay, who could tell what was best for him after all?  Even Phœbe’s faithful acceptance of her on his word had undergone sundry severe shocks, and she had rising doubts whether Lucy, such as she saw her, could be what would make him happy.

If the secrets of every guest at a fête were told, would any be found unmixedly happy?  Would there be no one devoid of cares of their own or of other people’s, or if exempt from these, undisturbed by the absence of the right individual or by the presence of the wrong one, by mishaps of deportment, difficulties of dress, or want of notice?  Perhaps, after all, it may be best to have some one abiding anxiety, strong enough to destroy tedium, and exclude the pettier distresses, which are harder to contend with, though less dignified; and most wholesome of all is it that this should be an interest entirely external.  So, after all, Phœbe’s enjoyment might hardly have been increased had her thoughts been more free from Robin’s troubles, when she came down dressed for her first party, so like a lily of the valley in her delicate dress, that Owen acknowledged that it justified her choice, and murmured something of ‘in vernal green and virgin white, her festal robes, arrayed.’  Phœbe was only distressed at what she thought the profanation of quoting from such a source in compliment to her.  Honora was gratified to find the lines in his memory upon any terms.  Poor dear Honor, in one case at least believing all things, hoping all things!

Phœbe ought to have made the most of her compliment.  It was all she obtained in that line.  Juliana herself could not have taken umbrage at her success.  Nobody imagined her come out, no one attempted to disturb her from under Miss Charlecote’s wing, and she kept close to her the whole afternoon, sometimes sitting upon a haycock, sometimes walking in the shrubbery, listening to the band, or looking at the archery, in company with dignified clergyman, or elderly lady, astonished to meet Honor Charlecote in so unwonted a scene.  Owen Sandbrook was never far off.  He took them to eat ices, conducted them to good points of view, found seats for them, and told them who every one was, with droll comments or anecdotes which entertained them so much, that Phœbe almost wished that Robin had not made her sensible of the grain of irreverence that seasoned all Owen’s most brilliant sallies.

They saw little of the others.  Mr. and Mrs. Charteris walked about together, the one cordial, the other stately and gorgeous, and Miss Charlecote came in for her due and passing share of their politeness.  Rashe once invited Phœbe to shoot, but had too many on her hands to be solicitous about one.  Flirting no longer herself, Rashe’s delight was in those who did flirt, and in any assembly her extreme and unscrupulous good-nature made her invaluable to all who wanted to have themselves taken off their own hands, or pushed into those of others.  She ordered people about, started amusements, hunted gentlemen up, found partners, and shook up the bashful.  Rashe Charteris was the life of everything.  How little was wanting to make her kind-hearted activity admirable!

Lucilla never came in their way at all.  She was only seen in full and eager occupation embellishing the archery, or forcing the ‘decidedly pious’ to be fascinated by her gracious self-adaptation.  Robert was equally inaccessible, always watching her, but keeping aloof from his sister, and only consorting at times with Mr. Prendergast.

It was seven o’clock when this act of the drama was finally over, and the parties staying in the house met round a hurried meal.  Rashe lounging and yawning, laughing and quizzing, in a way amazing to Phœbe; Lucilla in the very summit of spirits, rattling and laughing away in full swing.  Thence the party dispersed to dress, but Honora had no sooner reached her room than she said, ‘I must go and find Lucy.  I must do my duty by her, little hope as I have.  She has avoided me all day; I must seek her now.’

What a difference time and discipline had made in one formerly so timid and gentle as to be alarmed at the least encounter, and nervous at wandering about a strange house.  Nervous and frightened, indeed, she still was, but self-control kept this in check, and her dislike was not allowed to hold her back from her duty.  Humfrey’s representative was seldom permitted to be weak.  But there are times when the difference between man and woman is felt in their dealings with others.  Strength can be mild, but what is strained can seldom be gentle, and when she knocked at Horatia Charteris’s door, her face, from very unhappiness and effort, was sorrowfully reproachful, as she felt herself an unwelcome apparition to the two cousins, who lay on their bed still laughing over the day’s events.

Rashe, who was still in her morning dress, at once gave way, saying she must go and speak to Lolly, and hastened out of the room.  Lucy, in her dishabille, sat crouched upon the bed, her white bare shoulders and floating hair, together with the defiant glance of the blue eye, and the hand moodily compressing the lips, reminding Honor of the little creature who had been summarily carried into her house sixteen years since.  She came towards her, but there was no invitation to give the caress that she yearned to bestow, and she leant against the bed, trembling, as she said, ‘Lucy, my poor child, I am come that you may not throw away your last chance without knowing it.  You do not realize what you are about.  If you cast aside esteem and reliance, how can you expect to retain the affection you sometimes seem to prize?’

‘If I am not trusted, what’s the good of affection?’

‘How can you expect trust when you go beyond the bounds of discretion?’ said Honor, with voice scarcely steadied into her desired firmness.

‘I can, I do!’

‘Lucy, listen to me.’  She gave way to her natural piteous, pleading tone: ‘I verily believe that this is the very turn.  Remember how often a moment has decided the fate of a life!’  She saw the expression relax into some alarm, and continued: ‘The Fulmorts do not say so, but I see by their manner that his final decision will be influenced by your present proceedings.  You have trifled with him too long, and with his mind made up to the ministry, he cannot continue to think of one who persists in outraging decorum.’

Those words were effort enough, and had better have been unsaid.  ‘That is as people may think,’ was all the answer.

‘As he thinks?’

‘How do I know what he thinks?’

Heartsick at such mere fencing, Honor was silent at first, then said, ‘I, for one, shall rate your good opinion by your endeavour to deserve it.  Who can suppose that you value what you are willing to risk for an unladylike bet, or an unfeminine sporting expedition!’

‘You may tell him so,’ said Lucilla, her voice quivering with passion.

‘You think a look will bring him back, but you may find that a true man is no slave.  Prove his affection misplaced, and he will tear it away.’

Had Honora been discreet as she was good, she would have left those words to settle down; but, woman that she was, she knew not when to stop, and coaxingly coming to the small bundle of perverseness, she touched the shoulder, and said, ‘Now you won’t make an object of yourself to-night?’

The shoulder shook in the old fashion.

‘At least you will not go to Ireland.’

‘Yes, I shall.’

‘Miss Charlecote, I beg your pardon—’ cried Rashe, bursting in—(oh! that she had been five seconds earlier)—‘but dressing is imperative.  People are beginning to come.’

Honora retreated in utter discomfiture.

‘Rashe!  Rashe!  I’m in for it!’ cried Lucilla, as the door shut, springing up with a look of terror.