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

This last communication was dreadful to her, yet she could not but feel that it might be a wholesome warning to avoid giving offence to the jealousy which, when once pointed out to her, she could not prevent herself from tracing in Juliana’s petulance towards herself, and resolve to force her into the background.  Even Bertha was more often brought forward, for in spite of a tongue and temper cast somewhat in a similar mould, she was rather a favourite with Juliana, whom she was not unlikely to resemble, except that her much more elaborate and accurate training might give her both more power and more self-control.

As Mervyn insinuated, Juliana was prudent in not lengthening out the engagement, and the marriage was fixed for Christmas week, but it was not to take place at Hiltonbury.  Sir Bevil was bashful, and dreaded county festivities, and Juliana wished to escape from Maria as a bridesmaid, so they preferred the privacy of an hotel and a London church.  Phœbe could not decently be excluded, and her heart leapt with the hope of seeing Robert, though so unwelcome was his name in the family that she could not make out on what terms he stood, whether proscribed, or only disapproved, and while sure that he would strive to be with her, she foresaw that the pleasure would be at the cost of much pain.  Owen Sandbrook was spending his vacation at the Holt, and Miss Charlecote looked so bright as she walked to church leaning on his arm, that Phœbe had no regrets in leaving her.  Indeed, the damsel greatly preferred the Holt in his absence.  She did not understand his discursive comments on all things in art or nature, and he was in a mood of flighty fitful spirits, which perplexed her alike by their wild, satirical mirth, and their mournful sentiment.  She thought Miss Charlecote was worried and perplexed at times by his tone; but there was no doubt of his affection and attention for his ‘Sweet Honey,’ and Phœbe rejoiced that her own absence should be at so opportune a moment.

Sir Bevil went to make his preparations at home, whence he was to come and join the Fulmorts the day after their arrival in town.  Mrs. Fulmort was dragged out in the morning, and deposited at Farrance’s in time for luncheon, a few minutes before a compact little brougham set down Lady Bannerman, jollier than ever in velvet and sable, and more scientific in cutlets and pale ale.  Her good-nature was full blown.  She was ready to chaperon her sisters anywhere, invited the party to the Christmas dinner, and undertook the grand soirée after the wedding.  She proposed to take Juliana at once out shopping, only lamenting that there was no room for Phœbe, and was so universally benevolent, that in the absence of the bride elect, Phœbe ventured to ask whether she saw anything of Robert.

‘Robert?  Yes, he called when we first came to town, and we asked him to dinner; but he said it was a fast day; and you know Sir Nicholas would never encourage that sort of thing.’

‘How was he?’

‘He looked odder than ever, and so ill and cadaverous.  No wonder! poking himself up in such a horrid place, where one can’t notice him.’

‘Did he seem in tolerable spirits?’

‘I don’t know.  He always was silent and glum; and now he seems wrapped up in nothing but ragged schools and those disgusting City missions; I’m sure we can’t subscribe, so expensive as it is living in town.  Imagine, mamma, what we are giving our cook!’

Juliana returned, and the two sisters went out, leaving Phœbe to extract entertainment for her mother from the scenes passing in the street.

Presently a gentleman’s handsome cabriolet and distinguished-looking horse were affording food for their descriptions, when, to her surprise, Sir Bevil emerged from it, and presently entered the room.  He had come intending to take out his betrothed, and in her absence transferred the offer to her sister.  Phœbe demurred, on more accounts than she could mention, but her mother remembering what a drive in a stylish equipage with a military baronet would once have been to herself, overruled her objections, and hurried her away to prepare.  She quickly returned, a cheery spectacle in her russet dress and brown straw bonnet, and her scarlet neck-tie, the robin redbreast’s livery which she loved.

‘Your cheeks should be a refreshing sight to the Londoners, Phœbe,’ said Sir Bevil, with his rare, but most pleasant smile.  ‘Where shall we go?  You don’t seem much to care for the Park.  I’m at your service wherever you like to go.’  And as Phœbe hesitated, with cheeks trebly beneficial to the Londoners, he kindly added, ‘Well, what is it?  Never mind what!  I’m open to anything—even Madame Tussaud’s.’

‘If I might go to see Robert.  Augusta said he was looking ill.’

‘My dear!’ interposed her mother, ‘you can’t think of it.  Such a dreadful place, and such a distance.’

‘It is only a little way beyond St. Paul’s, and there are no bad streets, dear mamma.  I have been there with Miss Charlecote.  But if it be too far, or you don’t like driving into the City, never mind,’ she continued, turning to Sir Bevil; ‘I ought to have said nothing about it.’

But Sir Bevil, reading the ardour of the wish in the honest face, pronounced the expedition an excellent idea, and carried her off with her eyes as round and sparkling as those of the children going to Christmas parties.  He stole glances at her as if her fresh innocent looks were an absolute treat to him, and when he talked, it was of Robert in his boyhood.  ‘I remember him at twelve years old, a sturdy young ruffian, with an excellent notion of standing up for himself.’

Phœbe listened with delight to some characteristic anecdotes of Robert’s youth, and wondered whether he would be appreciated now.  She did not think Sir Bevil held the same opinions as Robert or Miss Charlecote; he was an upright, high-minded soldier, with honour and subordination his chief religion, and not likely to enter into Robert’s peculiarities.  She was in some difficulty when she was asked whether her brother were not under some cloud, or had not been taking a line of his own—a gentler form of inquiry, which she could answer with the simple truth.

‘Yes, he would not take a share in the business, because he thought it promoted evil, and he felt it right to do parish work at St. Wulstan’s, because our profits chiefly come from thence.  It does not please at home, because they think he could have done better for himself, and he sometimes is obliged to interfere with Mervyn’s plans.’

Sir Bevil made the less answer because they were in the full current of London traffic, and his proud chestnut was snuffing the hat of an omnibus conductor.  Careful driving was needed, and Phœbe was praised for never even looking frightened, then again for her organ of locality and the skilful pilotage with which she unerringly and unhesitatingly found the way through the Whittingtonian labyrinths; and as the disgusted tiger pealed at the knocker of Turnagain Corner, she was told she would be a useful guide in the South African bush.  ‘At home,’ was the welcome reply, and in another second her arms were round Robert’s neck.  There was a thorough brotherly greeting between him and Sir Bevil; each saw in the other a man to be respected, and Robert could not but be grateful to the man who brought him Phœbe.

Her eyes were on the alert to judge how he had been using himself in the last half-year.  He looked thin, yet that might be owing to his highly clerical coat, and some of his rural ruddiness was gone, but there was no want of health of form or face, only the spareness and vigour of thorough working condition.  His expression was still grave even to sadness, and sternness seemed gathering round his thin lips.  Heavy of heart he doubtless was still, but she was struck by the absence of the undefined restlessness that had for years been habitual to both brothers, and which had lately so increased on Mervyn, that there was a relief in watching a face free from it, and telling not indeed of happiness, but of a mind made up to do without it.

She supposed that his room ought to satisfy her, for though untidy in female eyes, it did not betray ultra self-neglect.  The fire was brisk, there was a respectable luncheon on the table, and he had even treated himself to the Guardian, some new books, and a beautiful photograph of a foreign cathedral.  The room was littered with half-unrolled plans, which had to be cleared before the guests could find seats, and he had evidently been beguiling his luncheon with the perusal of some large MS. sheets, red-taped together at the upper corner.

‘That’s handsome,’ said Sir Bevil.  ‘What is it for?  A school or almshouses.’

‘Something of both,’ said Robert, his colour rising.  ‘We want a place for disposing of the destitute children that swarm in this district.’

‘Oh, show me!’ cried Phœbe.  ‘Is it to be at that place in Cicely Row?’

‘I hope so.’

The stiff sheets were unrolled, the designs explained.  There was to be a range of buildings round a court, consisting of day-schools, a home for orphans, a crèche for infants, a reading-room for adults, and apartments for the clergy of the Church which was to form one side of the quadrangle.  Sir Bevil was much interested, and made useful criticisms.  ‘But,’ he objected, ‘what is the use of building new churches in the City, when there is no filling those you have?’

‘St. Wulstan’s is better filled than formerly,’ said Robert.  ‘The pew system is the chief enemy there; but even without that, it would not hold a tenth part of the Whittingtonian population, would they come to it, which they will not.  The Church must come to them, and with special services at their own times.  They need an absolute mission, on entirely different terms from the Woolstone quarter.’

‘And are you about to head the mission?’

‘To endeavour to take a share in it.’

‘And who is to be at the cost of this?’ pursued Sir Bevil.  ‘Have you a subscription list?’

Robert coloured again as he answered, ‘Why, no; we can do without that so far.’

Phœbe understood, and her face must have revealed the truth to Sir Bevil, for laying his hand on Robert’s arm, he said, ‘My good fellow, you don’t mean that you are answerable for all this?’

‘You know I have something of my own.’

‘You will not leave much of it at this rate.  How about the endowment?’

‘I shall live upon the endowment.’

‘Have you considered?  You will be tied to this place for ever.’

‘That is one of my objects,’ replied Robert, and in reply to a look of astonished interrogation, ‘myself and all that is mine would be far too little to atone for a fraction of the evil that our house is every day perpetrating here.’

‘I should hate the business myself,’ said the baronet; ‘but don’t you see it in a strong light?’

‘Every hour I spend here shows me that I do not see it strongly enough.’

And there followed some appalling instances of the effects of the multiplicity of gin-palaces, things that it well-nigh broke Robert’s heart to witness, absorbed as he was in the novelty of his work, fresh in feeling, and never able to divest himself of a sense of being a sharer in the guilt and ruin.

Sir Bevil listened at first with interest, then tried to lead away from the subject; but it was Robert’s single idea, and he kept them to it till their departure, when Phœbe’s first words were, as they drove from the door, ‘Oh, thank you, you do not know how much happier you have made me.’

Her companion smiled, saying, ‘I need not ask which is the favourite brother.’

‘Mervyn is very kind to me,’ quickly answered Phœbe.

‘But Robert is the oracle! eh?’ he said, kindly and merrily.

‘Robert has been everything to us younger ones,’ she answered.  ‘I am still more glad that you like him.’

His grave face not responding as she expected, she feared that he had been bored, that he thought Robert righteous over much, or disapproved his opinions; but his answer was worth having when it came.  ‘I know nothing about his views; I never looked into the subject; but when I see a young man giving up a lucrative prospect for conscience sake, and devoting himself to work in that sink of iniquity, I see there must be something in him.  I can’t judge if he goes about it in a wrong-headed way, but I should be proud of such a fellow instead of discarding him.’

‘Oh, thank you!’ cried Phœbe, with ecstasy that made him laugh, and quite differently from the made-up laughter she had been used to hear from him.

‘What are you thanking me for?’ he said.  ‘I do not imagine that I shall be able to serve him.  I’ll talk to your father about him, but he must be the best judge of the discipline of his own family.’

‘I was not thinking of your doing anything,’ said Phœbe; ‘but a kind word about Robert does make me very grateful.’

There was a long silence, only diversified by an astonished nod from Mervyn driving back from the office.  Just before setting her down, Sir Bevil said, ‘I wonder whether your brother would let us give something to his church.  Will you find out what it shall be, and let me know?  As a gift from Juliana and myself—you understand.’

It was lucky for Phœbe that she had brought home a good stock of satisfaction to support her, for she found herself in the direst disgrace, and her mother too much cowed to venture on more than a feeble self-defensive murmur that she had told Phœbe it would never do.  Convinced in her own conscience that she had done nothing blameworthy, Phœbe knew that it was the shortest way not to defend herself, and the storm was blowing over when Mervyn came in, charmed to mortify Juliana by compliments to Phœbe on ‘doing it stylishly, careering in Acton’s turn-out,’ but when the elder sister explained where she had been, Mervyn, too, deserted her, and turned away with a fierce imprecation on his brother, such as was misery to Phœbe’s ears.  He was sourly ill-humoured all the evening; Juliana wreaked her displeasure on Sir Bevil in ungraciousness, till such silence and gloom descended on him, that he was like another man from him who had smiled on Phœbe in the afternoon.  Yet, though dismayed at the offence she had given, and grieved at these evidences of Robert’s ill-odour with his family, Phœbe could not regret having seized her single chance of seeing Robert’s dwelling for herself, nor the having made him known to Sir Bevil.  The one had made her satisfied, the other hopeful, even while she recollected, with foreboding, that truth sometimes comes not with peace, but with a sword, to set at variance parent and child, and make foes of them of the same household.

Juliana never forgave that drive.  She continued bitter towards Phœbe, and kept such a watch over her and Sir Bevil, that the jealous surveillance became palpable to both.  Sir Bevil really wanted to tell Phœbe the unsatisfactory result of his pleading for Robert; she wanted to tell him of Robert’s gratitude for his offered gift; but the exchange of any words in private was out of their power, and each silently felt that it was best to make no move towards one another till the unworthy jealousy should have died away.

Though Sir Bevil had elicited nothing but abuse of ‘pigheaded folly,’ his espousal of the young clergyman’s cause was not without effect.  Robert was not treated with more open disfavour than he had often previously endured, and was free to visit the party at Farrance’s, if he chose to run the risk of encountering his father’s blunt coldness, Mervyn’s sulky dislike, and Juliana’s sharp satire, but as he generally came so as to find his mother and Phœbe alone, some precious moments compensated for the various disagreeables.  Nor did these affect him nearly as much as they did his sister.  It was, in fact, one of his remaining unwholesome symptoms that he rather enjoyed persecution, and took no pains to avoid giving offence.  If he meant to be uncompromising, he sometimes was simply provoking, and Phœbe feared that Sir Bevil thought him an unpromising protégé.

He was asked to the Christmas dinner at the Bannermans’, and did not fulfil Augusta’s prediction that he would say it was a fast day, and refuse.  That evening gave Phœbe her best téte-à-téte with him, but she observed that all was about Whittingtonia, not one word of the past summer, not so much as an inquiry for Miss Charlecote.  Evidently that page in his history was closed for ever, and if he should carry out his designs in their present form, a wife at the intended institution would be an impossibility.  How near the dearest may be to one another, and yet how little can they guess at what they would most desire to know.

Sir Bevil had insisted on his being asked to perform the ceremony, and she longed to understand whether his refusal were really on the score of his being a deacon, or if he had any further motive.  His own family were affronted, though glad to be left free to request the services of the greatest dignitary of their acquaintance, and Sir Bevil’s blunt ‘No, no, poor fellow! say no more about it,’ made her suppose that he suspected that Robert’s vehemence in his parish was meant to work off a disappointment.

It was a dreary wedding, in spite of London grandeur.  In all her success, Juliana could not help looking pinched and ill at ease, her wreath and veil hardening instead of softening her features, and her bridegroom’s studious cheerfulness and forced laughs became him less than his usual silent dejection.  The Admiral was useful in getting up stock wedding-wit, but Phœbe wondered how any one could laugh at it; and her fellow-bridesmaids, all her seniors, seemed to her, as perhaps she might to them, like thoughtless children, playing with the surface of things.  She pitied Sir Bevil, and saw little chance of happiness for either, yet heard only congratulations, and had to be bright, busy, and helpful, under a broad, stiff, white watered silk scarf, beneath which Juliana had endeavoured to extinguish her, but in which her tall rounded shape looked to great advantage.  Indeed, that young rosy face, and the innocently pensive wondering eyes were so sweet, that the bride had to endure hearing admiration of her sister from all quarters, and the Acton bridemaidens whispered rather like those at Netherby Hall.

It was over, and Phœbe was the reigning Miss Fulmort.  Her friends were delighted for her and for themselves, and her mother entered on the full enjoyment of the little brougham.

CHAPTER XI

When some dear schemeOf our life doth seemShivered at once like a broken dreamAnd our hearts to reelLike ships that feelA sharp rock grating against their keel.—C. F. A.

It was high summer; and in spite of cholera-averting thunderstorms, the close streets and the odour of the Thames were becoming insufferable.  Mr. Parsons arranged a series of breathing times for his clerical staff, but could make Robert Fulmort accept none.  He was strong and healthy, ravenous of work, impervious to disgusts, and rejected holidays as burdensome and hateful.  Where should he go?  What could he do?  What would become of his wild scholars without him, and who would superintend his buildings?

Mr. Parsons was fain to let him have his own way, as had happened in some previous instances, specially the edifice in Cicely Row, where the incumbent would have paused, but the curate rushed on with resolute zeal and impetuosity, taking measures so decidedly ere his intentions were revealed, that neither remonstrance nor prevention were easy, and a species of annoyed, doubtful admiration alone was possible.  It was sometimes a gratifying reflection to the vicar, that when the buildings were finished, Whittingtonia would become a district, and its busy curate be no longer under his jurisdiction.

Meantime Robert was left with a companion in priest’s orders, but newer to the parish than himself, to conduct the services at St. Wulstan’s, while the other curates were taking holiday, and the vicar at his son’s country-house.  To see how contentedly, nay, pleasurably, ‘Fulmort’ endured perpetual broiling, passing from frying school to grilling pavement, and seething human hive, was constant edification to his colleague, who, fresh from the calm university, felt such a life to be a slow martyrdom, and wished his liking for the deacon were in better proportion to his esteem.

‘A child to be baptized at 8, Little Whittington-street,’ he said, with resigned despair, as at the vestry door he received a message from a small maid, one afternoon, when the air looked lucid yellow with sultry fire.

‘I’ll go,’ replied Robert, with the alacrity that sometimes almost irritated his fellows; and off he sped, with alert steps, at which his friend gazed with the sensation of watching a salamander.

Little Whittington-street, where it was not warehouses, was chiefly occupied by small tradesfolk, or by lodging-houses for the numerous ‘young men’ employed in the City.  It was one of the most respectable parts of that quarter, but being much given to dissent, was little frequented by the clergy, who had too much immorality to contend with, to have leisure to speak against schism.

When he rang at No. 8, the little maid ushered him down a narrow, dark staircase, and announcing, ‘Please, ma’am, here’s the minister,’ admitted him into a small room, feeling like a cellar, the window opening into an area.  It was crowded with gay and substantial furniture, and contained two women, one lying on a couch, partially hidden by a screen, the other an elderly person, in a widow’s cap, with an infant in her arms.

‘Good morning, sir; we were sorry to trouble you, but I felt certain, as I told my daughter, that a minister of the Gospel would not tarry in time of need.  Not that I put my trust in ordinances, sir; I have been blest with the enlightenment of the new birth, but my daughter, sir, she follows the Church.  Yes, sir, the poor little lamb is a sad sufferer in this vale of tears.  So wasted away, you see; you would not think he was nine weeks old.  We would have brought him to church before, sir, only my daughter’s hillness, and her ‘usband’s habsence.  It was always her wish, sir, and I was not against it, for many true Christians have found grace in the Church, sir.’

Robert considered whether to address himself to the young mother, whose averted face and uneasy movements seemed to show that this stream of words was distressing to her.  He thought silence would be best procured by his assumption of his office, and quietly made his preparations, opened his book, and took his place.

The young woman, raising herself with difficulty, said in a low, sweet voice, ‘The gentleman is ready, mother.’

As there was no pressing danger, he read the previous collects, the elder female responding with devout groans, the younger sinking on her knees, her face hidden in her wasted hands.  He took the little feeble being in his arms, and demanded the name.

‘Hoeing Charterhouse,’ replied the grandmother.

He looked interrogative, and Hoeing Charterhouse was repeated.

‘Owen Charteris,’ said the low, sweet voice.

A thrill shot over his whole frame, as his look met a large, full, liquid pair of dark eyes, such as once seen could never be forgotten, though dropped again instantly, while a burning blush arose, instantly veiled by the hands, which hid all up to the dark hair.

Recalling himself by an effort, he repeated the too familiar name, and baptized the child, bending his head over it afterwards in deep compassion and mental entreaty both for its welfare, and his own guidance in the tissue of wrongdoing thus disclosed.  A hasty, stealthy glance at the hands covering the mother’s face, showed him the ring on her fourth finger, and as they rose from their knees, he said, ‘I am to register this child as Owen Charteris Sandbrook.’

With a look of deadly terror, she faintly exclaimed, ‘I have done it!  You know him, sir; you will not betray him!’

‘I know you, too,’ said Robert, sternly.  ‘You were the schoolmistress at Wrapworth!’

‘I was, sir.  It was all my fault.  Oh! promise me, sir, never to betray him; it would be the ruin of his prospects for ever!’  And she came towards him, her hands clasped in entreaty, her large eyes shining with feverish lustre, her face wasted but still lovely, a piteous contrast to the queenly being of a year ago in her pretty schoolroom.

‘Compose yourself,’ said Robert, gravely; ‘I hope never to betray any one.  I confess that I am shocked, but I will endeavour to act rightly.’

‘I am sure, sir,’ broke in Mrs. Murrell, with double volume, after her interval of quiescence, ‘it is not to be expected but what a gentleman’s friends would be offended.  It was none of my wish, sir, being that I never knew a word of it till she was married, and it was too late, or I would have warned her against broken cisterns.  But as for her, sir, she is as innocent as a miserable sinner can be in a fallen world.  It was the young gentleman as sought her out.  I always misdoubted the ladies noticing her, and making her take part with men-singers and women-singers, and such vanities as is pleasing to the unregenerate heart.  Ah! sir, without grace, where are we?  Not that he was ever other than most honourable with her, or she would never have listened to him not for a moment, but she was over-persuaded, sir, and folks said what they hadn’t no right to say, and the minister, he was ‘ard on her, and so, you see, sir, she took fright and married him out of ‘and, trusting to a harm of flesh, and went to Hireland with him.  She just writ me a note, which filled my ‘art with fear and trembling, a ‘nonymous note, with only Hedna signed to it; and I waited, with failing eyes and sorrow of heart, till one day in autumn he brings her back to me, and here she has been ever since, dwining away in a nervous fever, as the doctors call it, as it’s a misery to see her, and he never coming nigh her.’