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

Bertha was somewhat like the wren, who, rising on the eagle’s head, thought itself the monarch of the birds, but Honor was by no means convinced that she was not merely blindfolded on the back of Clavileno Aligero.  There was neither love nor admiration wasted between Honor and Miss Fennimore, and Phœbe preferred their being apart.  She enjoyed her Sunday afternoons, short enough, for school must not be neglected, but Honor shyly acceded to Phœbe’s entreaty to be allowed to sit by her class and learn by her teaching.

It was an effort.  Honor shrank from exposing her own misty metaphors, hesitating repetitions, and trivial queries to so clear a head, trained in distinct reasoning, but it was the very teaching that the scientific young lady most desired, and she treasured up every hint, afterwards pursuing the subject with the resolution to complete the chain of evidence, and asking questions sometimes rather perplexing to Honor, accustomed as she was to take everything for granted.  Out came authorities, and Honor found herself examining into the grounds of her own half-knowledge, gaining fresh ideas, correcting old ones, and obtaining subjects of interest for many an hour after her young friend had left her.

While, at home, Phœbe, after running the gauntlet of Bertha’s diversion at her putting herself to school, when Scripture lessons were long ago done with, would delight Maria with long murmuring discourses, often stories about the scholars, but always conveying some point of religious instruction.  It was a subject to which Maria was less impervious than to any other; she readily learned to croon over the simple hymns that Phœbe brought home, and when once a Scripture story had found entrance to her mind, would beg to have it marked in her Bible, and recur to it frequently.

Miss Fennimore left her entirely to Phœbe at these times, keeping Bertha from molesting her by sarcastic queries, or by remarks on the sing-song hymns, such as made Phœbe sometimes suspect that Maria’s love for these topics rendered them the more distasteful to the younger girl.  She tried to keep them as much sheltered as possible, but was still sometimes disconcerted by Bertha’s mischievous laugh, or by finding Miss Fennimore’s eyes fixed in attention.

Phœbe’s last hour on these evenings was spent in laying up her new lore in her diligently kept note-book, weighing it and endeavouring to range it in logical sequence, which she had been duly trained to consider the test of reasoning.  If she sometimes became bewildered, and detected insufficient premises for true conclusions, if she could not think allegory or analogy the evidence it was made at the Sunday-school, and which Miss Charlecote esteemed as absolute proof, her sound heart and loving faith always decided her that she should discover the link in time; and the doctrine had too strong a hold on her convictions and affections for her to doubt that the chain of argument existed, though she had not yet found it.  It was not the work for which so young a head was intended, and perhaps it was well that she was interrupted by the arrival at home of the heads of the family.

Augusta and her husband were to spend the winter abroad; Juliana had met some friends, whom she had accompanied to their home, and though she had exacted that Phœbe should not come out, yet the eldest daughter at home was necessarily brought somewhat forward.  Phœbe was summoned to the family meals, and went out driving with her mother, or riding with her father, but was at other times in the schoolroom, where indeed she was the most happy.

The life down-stairs was new to her, and she had not been trained to the talk there expected of her.  The one event of her life, her visit to London, gave evident dissatisfaction.  There were growls whenever Robert was mentioned, and Phœbe found that though permission had been given for his taking the curacy, it had been without understanding his true intentions with regard to Whittingtonia.  Something had evidently passed between him and his father and brother, while on their way through London, which had caused them to regard him as likely to be a thorn in their side; and Phœbe could not but fear that he would meet them in no spirit of conciliation, would rather prefer a little persecution, and would lean to the side of pastoral rather than filial duty, whenever they might clash.  Even if he should refrain from speaking his full mind to his father, he was likely to use no precautions with his brother, and Phœbe was uneasy whenever either went up for their weekly visit of inspection at the office.

Her mother gently complained.  ‘Honora Charlecote’s doing, I suppose.  He should have considered more!  Such a wretched place, no genteel family near!  Your papa would never let me go near it.  But he must buy an excellent living soon, where no one will know his connection with the trade.’

The only sympathy Phœbe met with at home on Robert’s ordination, was in an unexpected quarter.  ‘Then your brother has kept his resolution,’ said Miss Fennimore.  ‘Under his reserve there is the temper that formed the active ascetics of the middle ages.  His doctrine has a strong mediæval tinge, and with sufficient strength of purpose, may lead to like results.’

When Phœbe proudly told Miss Charlecote of this remark, they agreed that it was a valuable testimony, both to the doctrines and the results.  Honor had had a letter from Robert, that made her feel by force of contrast that Owen was more than three years from a like conception of clerical duty.

The storm came at last.  By order of the Court of Chancery, there was put up for sale a dreary section of Whittingtonia, in dire decay, and remote from civilization.  The firm of Fulmort and Son had long had their eyes on it, as an eligible spot for a palace for the supply of their commodity; and what was their rage when their agent was out-bidden, and the tenements knocked down to an unknown customer for a fancy price!  After much alarm lest a rival distiller should be invading their territory, their wrath came to a height when it finally appeared that the new owner of the six ruinous houses in Cicely Row was no other than the Reverend Robert Mervyn Fulmort, with the purpose of building a church and schools for Whittingtonia at his own expense.

Mervyn came home furious.  High words had passed between the brothers, and his report of them so inflamed Mr. Fulmort, that he inveighed violently against the malice and treachery that scrupled not to undermine a father.  Never speaking to Robert again, casting him off, and exposing the vicar for upholding filial insolence and undutifulness, were the mildest of his threats.  They seemed to imagine that Robert was making this outlay, supposing that he would yet be made equal in fortune by his father to the others, and there was constant repetition that he was to expect not a farthing—he had had his share and should have no more.  There was only a scoff at Phœbe’s innocence, when she expressed her certainty that he looked for no compensation, knowing that he had been provided for, and was to have nothing from his father; and Phœbe trembled under such abuse of her favourite brother, till she could bear it no longer, and seizing the moment of Mervyn’s absence, she came up to her father, and said, in as coaxing a tone as she could, ‘Papa, should not every one work to the utmost in his trade?’

‘What of that, little one?’

‘Then pray don’t be angry with Robert for acting up to his,’ said Phœbe, clasping her hands, and resting them fondly on his shoulder.

‘Act up to a fool’s head!  Parsons should mind their business and not fly in their fathers’ faces.’

‘Isn’t it their work to make people more good?’ continued Phœbe, with an unconscious wiliness, looking more simple than her wont.

‘Let him begin with himself then!  Learn his duty to his father!  A jackanapes; trying to damage my business under my very nose.’

‘If those poor people are in such need of having good done to them—’

‘Scum of the earth!  Much use trying to do good to them!’

‘Ah! but if it be his work to try? and if he wanted a place to build a school—’

‘You’re in league with him, I suppose.’

‘No, papa!  It surprised me very much.  Even Mr. Parsons knew nothing of his plans, Robert only wrote to me when it was done, that now he hoped to save a few of the children that are turned out in the streets to steal.’

‘Steal!  They’ll steal all his property!  A proper fool your uncle was to leave it all to a lad like that.  The sure way to spoil him!  I could have trebled all your fortunes if that capital had been in my hands, and now to see him throw it to the dogs!  Phœbe, I can’t stand it.  Conscience?  I hate such coxcombry!  As if men would not make beasts of themselves whether his worship were in the business or not.’

‘Yes!’ ventured Phœbe, ‘but at least he has no part in their doing so.’

‘Much you know about it,’ said her father, again shielding himself with his newspaper, but so much less angrily than she had dared to expect, that even while flushed and trembling, she felt grateful to him as more placable than Mervyn.  She knew not the power of her own sweet face and gently honest manner, nor of the novelty of an attentive daughter.

When the neighbours remarked on Mrs. Fulmort’s improved looks and spirits, and wondered whether they were the effect of the Rhine or of ‘getting off’ her eldest daughter, they knew not how many fewer dull hours she had to spend.  Phœbe visited her in her bedroom, talked at luncheon, amused her drives, coaxed her into the garden, read to her when she rested before dinner, and sang to her afterwards.  Phœbe likewise brought her sister’s attainments more into notice, though at the expense of Bertha’s contempt for mamma’s preference for Maria’s staring fuchsias and feeble singing, above her own bold chalks from models and scientific music, and indignation at Phœbe’s constantly bringing Maria forward rather than her own clever self.

Droning narrative, long drawn out, had as much charm for Mrs. Fulmort as for Maria.  If she did not always listen, she liked the voice, and she sometimes awoke into descriptions of the dresses, parties, and acquaintance of her youth, before trifling had sunk into dreary insipidity under the weight of too much wealth, too little health, and ‘nothing to do.’

‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I am glad you are not out.  Quiet evenings are so good for my nerves; but you are a fine girl, and will soon want society.’

‘Not at all, mamma; I like being at home with you.’

‘No, my dear!  I shall like to take you out and see you dressed.  You must have advantages, or how are you to marry?’

‘There’s no hurry,’ said Phœbe, smiling.

‘Yes, my dear, girls always get soured if they do not marry!’

‘Not Miss Charlecote, mamma.’

‘Ah! but Honor Charlecote was an heiress, and could have had plenty of offers.  Don’t talk of not marrying, Phœbe, I beg.’

‘No,’ said Phœbe, gravely.  ‘I should like to marry some one very good and wise, who could help me out of all my difficulties.’

‘Bless me, Phœbe!  I hope you did not meet any poor curate at that place of Honor Charlecote’s.  Your papa would never consent.’

‘I never met anybody, mamma,’ said Phœbe, smiling.  ‘I was only thinking what he should be like.’

‘Well, what?’ said Mrs. Fulmort, with girlish curiosity.  ‘Not that it’s any use settling.  I always thought I would marry a marquis’s younger son, because it is such a pretty title, and that he should play on the guitar.  But he must not be an officer, Phœbe; we have had trouble enough about that.’

‘I don’t know what he is to be, mamma,’ said Phœbe, earnestly, ‘except that he should be as sensible as Miss Fennimore, and as good as Miss Charlecote.  Perhaps a man could put both into one, and then he could lead me, and always show me the reason of what is right.’

‘Phœbe, Phœbe! you will never get married if you wait for a philosopher.  Your papa would never like a very clever genius or an author.’

‘I don’t want him to be a genius, but he must be wise.’

‘Oh, my dear!  That comes of the way young ladies are brought up.  What would the Miss Berrilees have said, where I was at school at Bath, if one of their young ladies had talked of wanting to marry a wise man?’

Phœbe gave a faint smile, and said, ‘What was Mr. Charlecote like, mamma, whose brass was put up the day Robert was locked into the church?’

‘Humfrey Charlecote, my dear?  The dearest, most good-hearted man that ever lived.  Everybody liked him.  There was no one that did not feel as if they had lost a brother when he was taken off in that sudden way.’

‘And was not he very wise, mamma?’

‘Bless me, Phœbe, what could have put that into your head?  Humfrey Charlecote a wise man?  He was just a common, old-fashioned, hearty country squire.  It was only that he was so friendly and kind-hearted that made every one trust him, and ask his advice.’

‘I should like to have known him,’ said Phœbe, with a sigh.

‘Ah, if you married any one like that!  But there’s no use waiting!  There’s nobody left like him, and I won’t have you an old maid!  You are prettier than either of your sisters—more like me when I came away from Miss Berrilees, and had a gold-sprigged muslin for the Assize Ball, and Humfrey Charlecote danced with me.’

Phœbe fell into speculations on the wisdom whose counsel all asked, and which had left such an impression of affectionate honour.  She would gladly lean on such an one, but if no one of the like mould remained, she thought she could never bear the responsibilities of marriage.

Meantime she erected Humfrey Charlecote’s image into a species of judge, laying before this vision of a wise man all her perplexities between Miss Charlecote’s religion and Miss Fennimore’s reason, and all her practical doubts between Robert’s conflicting duties.  Strangely enough, the question, ‘What would Mr. Charlecote have thought?’ often aided her to cast the balance.  Though it was still Phœbe who decided, it was Phœbe drawn out of herself, and strengthened by her mask.

With vivid interest, such as for a living man would have amounted to love, she seized and hoarded each particle of intelligence that she could gain respecting the object of her admiration.  Honora herself, though far more naturally enthusiastic, had, with her dreamy nature and diffused raptures, never been capable of thus reverencing him, nor of the intensity of feeling of one whose restrained imagination and unromantic education gave force to all her sensations.  Yet this deep individual regard was a more wholesome tribute than Honor had ever paid to him, or to her other idol, for to Phœbe it was a step, lifting her to things above and beyond, a guide on the road, never a vision obscuring the true object.

Six weeks had quietly passed, when, like a domestic thunderbolt, came Juliana’s notification of her intention to return home at the end of a week.  Mrs. Fulmort, clinging to her single thread of comfort, hoped that Phœbe might still be allowed to come to her boudoir, but the gentlemen more boldly declared that they wanted Phœbe, and would not have her driven back into the schoolroom; to which the mother only replied with fears that Juliana would be in a dreadful temper, whereon Mervyn responded, ‘Let her!  Never mind her, Phœbe.  Stick up for yourself, and we’ll put her down.’

Except for knowing that she was useful to her mother, Phœbe would have thankfully retired into the west wing, rather than have given umbrage.  Mervyn’s partisanship was particularly alarming, and, endeavour as she might to hope that Juliana would be amiable enough to be disarmed by her own humility and unobtrusiveness, she lived under the impression of disagreeables impending.

One morning at breakfast, Mr. Fulmort, after grumbling out his wonder at Juliana’s writing to him, suddenly changed his tone into, ‘Hollo! what’s this?  “My engagement—”’

‘By Jove!’ shouted Mervyn; ‘too good to be true.  So she’s done it.  I didn’t think he’d been such an ass, having had one escape.’

‘Who?’ continued Mr. Fulmort, puzzling, as he held the letter far off—‘engagement to dear—dear Devil, does she say?’

‘The only fit match,’ muttered Mervyn, laughing.  ‘No, no, sir!  Bevil—Sir Bevil Acton.’

‘What! not the fellow that gave us so much trouble!  He had not a sixpence; but she must please herself now.’

‘You don’t mean that you didn’t know what she went with the Merivales for?—five thousand a year and a baronetcy, eh?’

‘The deuce!  If I had known that, he might have had her long ago.’

‘It’s quite recent,’ said Mervyn.  ‘A mere chance; and he has been knocking about in the colonies these ten years—might have cut his wisdom teeth.’

‘Ten years—not half-a-dozen!’ said Mr. Fulmort.

‘Ten!’ reiterated Mervyn.  ‘It was just before I went to old Raymond’s.  Acton took me to dine at the mess.  He was a nice fellow then, and deserved better luck.’

‘Ten years’ constancy!’ said Phœbe, who had been looking from one to the other in wonder, trying to collect intelligence.  ‘Do tell me.’

‘Whew!’ whistled Mervyn.  ‘Juliana hadn’t her sharp nose nor her sharp tongue when first she came out.  Acton was quartered at Elverslope, and got smitten.  She flirted with him all the winter; but I fancy she didn’t give you much trouble when he came to the point, eh, sir?’

‘I thought him an impudent young dog for thinking of a girl of her prospects; but if he had this to look to!—I was sorry for him, too!  Ten years ago,’ mused Mr. Fulmort.

‘And she has liked no one since?’

‘Or no one has liked her, which comes to the same,’ said Mervyn.  ‘The regiment went to the Cape, and there was an end of it, till we fell in with the Merivales on board the steamer; and they mentioned their neighbour, Sir Bevil Acton, come into his property, and been settled near them a year or two.  Fine sport it was, to see Juliana angling for an invitation, brushing up her friendship with Minnie Merivale—amiable to the last degree!  My stars! what work she must have had to play good temper all these six weeks, and how we shall have to pay for it!’

‘Or Acton will,’ said Mr. Fulmort, with a hearty chuckle of triumphant good-humour.

Was it a misfortune to Phœbe to have been so much refined by education as to be grated on by the vulgar tone of those nearest to her?  It was well for her that she could still put it aside as their way, even while following her own instinct.  Mervyn and Juliana had been on cat and dog terms all their lives; he was certain to sneer at all that concerned her, and Phœbe reserved her belief that an attachment, nipped in the bud, was ready to blossom in sunshine.  She ran up with the news to her mother.

‘Juliana going to be married!  Well, my dear, you may be introduced at once!  How comfortable you and I shall be in the little brougham.’

Phœbe begged to be told what the intended was like.

‘Let me see—was he the one that won the steeple-chase?  No; that was the one that Augusta liked.  We knew so many young men, that I could never tell which was which; and your sisters were always talking about them till it quite ran through my poor head, such merry girls as they were!’

‘And poor Juliana never was so merry after he was gone.’

‘I don’t remember,’ replied this careful mother; ‘but you know she never could have meant anything, for he had nothing, and you with your fortunes are a match for anybody!  Phœbe, my dear, we must go to London next spring, and you shall marry a nobleman.  I must see you a titled lady as well as your sisters.’

‘I’ve no objection, provided he is my wise man,’ said Phœbe.

Juliana had found the means of making herself welcome, and her marriage a cause of unmixed jubilation in her family.  Prosperity made her affable, and instead of suppressing Phœbe, she made her useful, and treated her as a confidante, telling her of all the previous intimacy, and all the secret sufferings in dear Bevil’s absence, but passing lightly over the last happy meeting, which Phœbe respected as too sacred to be talked of.

The little maiden’s hopes of a perfect brother in the constant knight rose high, and his appearance and demeanour did not disappoint them.  He had a fine soldierly figure, and that air of a thorough gentleman which Phœbe’s Holt experience had taught her to appreciate; his manners were peculiarly gentle and kind, especially to Mrs. Fulmort; and Phœbe did not like him the less for showing traces of the effects of wounds and climate, and a grave, subdued air, almost amounting to melancholy.  But before he had been three days at Beauchamp, Juliana made a virulent attack on the privileges of her younger sisters.  Perhaps it was the consequence of poor Maria’s volunteer to Sir Bevil—‘I am glad Juliana is going with you, for now no one will be cross to me;’ but it seemed to verify the poor girl’s words, that she should be hunted like a strange cat if she were found beyond her own precincts, and that the other two should be treated much in the same manner.  Bertha stood up for her rights, declaring that what mamma and Miss Fennimore allowed, she would not give up for Juliana; but the only result was an admonition to the governess, and a fierce remonstrance to the poor meek mother.  Phœbe, who only wished to retire from the stage in peace, had a more difficult part to play.

‘What’s the matter now?’ demanded Mervyn, making his way up to her as she sat in a remote corner of the drawing-room, in the evening.  ‘Why were you not at dinner?’

‘There was no room, I believe.’

‘Nonsense! our table dines eight-and-twenty, and there were not twenty.’

‘That was a large party, and you know I am not out.’

‘You don’t look like it in that long-sleeved white affair, and nothing on your head either.  Where are those ivy-leaves you had yesterday—real, weren’t they?’

‘They were not liked.’

‘Not liked! they were the prettiest things I have seen for a long time.  Acton said they made you look like a nymph—the green suits that shiny light hair of yours, and makes you like a picture.’

‘Yes, they made me look forward and affected.’

‘Now who told you that?  Has the Fennimore got to her old tricks?’

‘Oh no, no!’

‘I see! a jealous toad!  I heard him telling her that you reminded him of her in old times.  The spiteful vixen!  Well, Phœbe, if you cut her out, I bargain for board and lodging at Acton Manor.  This will be no place for a quiet, meek soul like me!’

Phœbe tried to laugh, but looked distressed, uncomprehending, and far from wishing to comprehend.  She could not escape, for Mervyn had penned her up, and went on: ‘You don’t pretend that you don’t see how it is!  That unlucky fellow is heartily sick of his bargain, but you see he was too soft to withstand her throwing herself right at his head, and doing the “worm in the bud,” and the cruel father, green and yellow melancholy, &c., ever since they were inhumanly parted.’

‘For shame, Mervyn.  You don’t really believe it is all out of honour.’

‘I should never have believed a man of his years could be so green; but some men get crotchets about honour in the army, especially if they get elderly there.’

‘It is very noble, if it be right, and he can take those vows from his heart,’ moralized Phœbe.  ‘But no, Mervyn, she cannot think so.  No woman could take any one on such terms.’

‘Wouldn’t she, though?’ sneered her brother.  ‘She’d have him if grim death were hanging on to his other hand.  People aren’t particular, when they are nigh upon their third ten.’

‘Don’t tell me such things!  I don’t believe them; but they ought never to be suggested.’

‘You ought to thank me for teaching you knowledge of the world.’

He was called off, but heavy at her heart lay the text, ‘The knowledge of wickedness is not wisdom.’

Mervyn’s confidences were serious troubles to Phœbe.  Gratifying as it was to be singled out by his favour, it was distressing to be the repository of what she knew ought never to have been spoken, prompted by a coarse tone of mind, and couched in language that, though he meant it to be restrained, sometimes seemed to her like the hobgoblins’ whispers to Christian.  Oh! how unlike her other brother!  Robert had troubles, Mervyn grievances, and she saw which were the worst to bear.  It was a pleasing novelty to find a patient listener, and he used it to the utmost, while she often doubted whether to hear without remonstrance were not undutiful, yet found opposition rather increased the evil by the storm of ill-temper that it provoked.