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

‘Thank you, Robert, for all,’ was Owen’s farewell.  ‘If you will say anything to Phœbe from me, tell her she is all that is left to comfort poor Honor.’

‘Good-bye,’ was the only answer.

Owen lingered still.  ‘You’ll write?  Tell me of her; Honor, I mean, and the child.’

‘Yes, yes, certainly.’

Unable to find another pretext for delay, Owen again wrung Robert’s hand, and placed himself by his sister, keeping his head out as long as he could see Robert standing with crossed arms on the doorstep.

When, the same afternoon, Mr. Parsons came home, he blamed himself for having yielded to his youngest curate the brunt of the summer work.  Never had he seen a man not unwell look so much jaded and depressed.

Nearly at the same time, Lucilla and her boxes were on the platform of the Southminster station, Owen’s eyes straining after her as the train rushed on, and she feeling positive pain and anger at the sympathy of Dr. Prendergast’s kind voice, as though it would have been a relief to her tumultuous misery to have bitten him, like Uncle Kit long ago.  She clenched her hand tight, when with old-world courtesy he made her take his arm, and with true consideration, conducted her down the hill, through the quieter streets, to the calm, shady precincts of the old cathedral.  He had both a stall and a large town living; and his abode was the gray freestone prebendal house, whose two deep windows under their peaked gables gave it rather a cat-like physiognomy.  Mrs. Prendergast and Sarah were waiting in the hall, each with a kiss of welcome, and the former took the pale girl at once up-stairs, to a room full of subdued sunshine, looking out on a green lawn sloping down to the river.  At that sight and sound, Lucy’s face lightened.  ‘Ah! I know I shall feel at home here.  I hear the water’s voice!’

But she had brought with her a heavy cold, kept in abeyance by a strong will during the days of activity, and ready to have its way at once, when she was beaten down by fatigue, fasting, and disappointment.  She dressed and came down, but could neither eat nor talk, and in her pride was glad to attribute all to the cold, though protesting with over-eagerness that such indisposition was rare with her.

She would not have suffered such nursing from Honor Charlecote as was bestowed upon her.  The last month had made tenderness valuable, and without knowing all, kind Mrs. Prendergast could well believe that there might be more than even was avowed to weigh down the young head, and cause the fingers, when unobserved, to lock together in suppressed agony.

While Sarah only knew that her heroine-looking governess was laid up with severe influenza, her mother more than guessed at the kind of battle wrestled out in solitude, and was sure that more than brother, more than friend, had left her to that lonely suffering, which was being for the first time realized.  But no confidence was given; when Lucilla spoke, it was only of Owen, and Mrs. Prendergast returned kindness and forbearance.

It was soothing to be dreamily in that summer room, the friendly river murmuring, the shadows of the trees lazily dancing on the wall, the cathedral bells chiming, or an occasional deep note of the organ stealing in through the open window.  It suited well with the languor of sensation that succeeded to so much vehemence and excitement.  It was not thought, it was not resignation, but a species of repose and calm, as if all interest, all feeling, were over for her, and as if it mattered little what might further befall her, as long as she could be quiet, and get along from one day to another.  If it had been repentance, a letter would have been written very unlike the cold announcement of her situation, the scanty notices of her brother, with which she wrung the heart that yearned after her at Hiltonbury.  But sorry she was, for one part at least, of her conduct, and she believed herself reduced to that meek and correct state that she had always declared should succeed her days of gaiety, when, recovering from her indisposition, she came down subdued in tone, and anxious to fulfil what she had undertaken.

‘Ah! if Robert could see me now, he would believe in me,’ thought she to herself, as she daily went to the cathedral.  She took classes at school, helped to train the St. Jude’s choir, played Handel for Dr. Prendergast, and felt absolutely without heart or inclination to show that self-satisfied young curate that a governess was not a subject for such distant perplexed courtesy.  Sad at heart, and glad to distract her mind by what was new yet innocent, she took up the duties of her vocation zealously; and quickly found that all her zeal was needed.  Her pupil was a girl of considerable abilities—intellectual, thoughtful, and well taught; and she herself had been always so unwilling a learner, so willing a forgetter, that she needed all the advantages of her grown-up mind and rapidity of perception to keep her sufficiently beforehand with Sarah, whenever subjects went deep or far.  If she pronounced like a native, and knew what was idiomatic, Sarah, with her clumsy pronunciation, had further insight into grammar, and asked perplexing questions; if she played admirably and with facility, Sarah could puzzle her with the science of music; if her drawing were ever so effective and graceful, Sarah’s less sightly productions had correct details that put hers to shame, and, for mere honesty’s sake, and to keep up her dignity, she was obliged to work hard, and recur to the good grounding that against her will she had received at Hiltonbury.  ‘Had her education been as superficial as that of her cousins,’ she wrote to her brother, ‘Sarah would have put her to shame long ago; indeed, nobody but the Fennimore could be thoroughly up to that girl.’

Perhaps all her endeavours would not have impressed Sarah, had not the damsel been thoroughly imposed on by her own enthusiasm for Miss Sandbrook’s grace, facility, alertness, and beauty.  The power of doing prettily and rapidly whatever she took up dazzled the large and deliberate young person, to whom the right beginning and steady thoroughness were essential, and she regarded her governess as a sort of fairy—toiling after her in admiring hopelessness, and delighted at any small success.

Fully aware of her own plainness, Sarah adored Miss Sandbrook’s beauty, took all admiration of it as personally as if it been paid to her bullfinch, and was never so charmed as when people addressed themselves to the governess as the daughter of the house.  Lucilla, however, shrank into the background.  She was really treated thoroughly as a relation, but she dreaded the remarks and inquiries of strangers, and wished to avoid them.  The society of the cathedral town was not exciting nor tempting, and she made no great sacrifice in preferring her pretty schoolroom to the dinners and evening parties of the Close; but she did so in a very becoming manner, and delighted Sarah with stories of the great world, and of her travels.

There could be no doubt that father, mother, and daughter all liked and valued her extremely, and she loved Mrs. Prendergast as she had never loved woman before, with warm, filial, confiding love.  She was falling into the interests of the cathedral and the parish, and felt them, and her occupations in the morning, satisfying and full of rest after the unsatisfactory whirl of her late life.  She was becoming happier than she knew, and at any rate felt it a delusion to imagine the post of governess an unhappy one.  Three years at Southminster (for Sarah strenuously insisted that she would come out as late as possible) would be all peace, rest, and improvement; and by that time Owen would be ready for her to bring his child out to him, or else—

Little did she reck of the grave, displeased, yet far more sorrowful letter in which Honor wrote, ‘You have chosen your own path in life, may you find it one of improvement and blessing!  But I think it right to say, that though real distress shall of course always make what is past forgotten, yet you must not consider Hiltonbury a refuge if you grow hastily weary of your exertions.  Since you refuse to find a mother in me, and choose to depend on yourself alone, it must be in earnest, not caprice.’

CHAPTER XIV

These are of beauty rare,In holy calmness growing,Of minds whose richness might compareE’en with thy deep tints glowing.Yet all unconscious of the grace they wear.Like flowers upon the spray,All lowliness, not sadness,Bright are their thoughts, and rich, not gay,Grave in their very gladness,Shedding calm summer light over life’s changeful day. To the Fuchsia.—S. D.

Phœbe Fulmort sat in her own room.  The little round clock on the mantelpiece pointed to eleven.  The fire was low but glowing.  The clear gas shone brightly on the toilette apparatus, and on the central table, loaded with tokens of occupation, but neat and orderly as the lines in the clasped volume where Phœbe was dutifully writing her abstract of the day’s reading and observation, in childishly correct miniature round-hand.

The curtain was looped up, and the moon of a frosty night blanched a square on the carpet beneath the window, at which she often looked with a glistening gaze.  Her father and brother had been expected at dinner-time; and though their detention was of frequent occurrence, Phœbe had deferred undressing till it should be too late for their arrival by the last train, since they would like her to preside over their supper, and she might possibly hear of Robert, whose doings her father had of late seemed to regard with less displeasure, though she had not been allowed to go with Miss Charlecote to the consecration of his church, and had not seen him since the Horticultural Show.

She went to the window for a final look.  White and crisp lay the path, chequered by the dark defined shadows of the trees; above was the sky, pearly with moonlight, allowing only a few larger stars to appear, and one glorious planet.  Fascinated by the silent beauty, she stood gazing, wishing she could distinguish Jupiter’s moons, observing on the difference between his steady reflected brilliance and the sun-like glories of Arcturus and Aldebaran, and passing on to the moral Miss Charlecote loved, of the stars being with us all day unseen, like the great cloud of witnesses.  She hoped Miss Charlecote saw that moon; for sunrise or set, rainbow, evening gleam, new moon, or shooting star, gave Phœbe double pleasure by comparing notes with Miss Charlecote, and though that lady was absent, helping Mrs. Saville to tend her husband’s mortal sickness, it was likely that she might be watching and admiring this same fair moon.  Well that there are many girls who, like Phœbe, can look forth on the Creator’s glorious handiwork as such, in peace and soothing, ‘in maiden meditation fancy free,’ instead of linking these heavenly objects to the feverish fancies of troubled hearts!

Phœbe was just turning from the window, when she heard wheels sounding on the frosty drive, and presently a carriage appeared, the shadow spectrally lengthened on the slope of the whitened bank.  All at once it stopped where the roads diverged to the front and back entrances, a black figure alighted, took out a bag, dismissed the vehicle, and took the path to the offices.  Phœbe’s heart throbbed.  It was Robert!

As he disappeared, she noiselessly opened her door, guardedly passed the baize door of the west wing, descended the stairs, and met him in the hall.  Neither spoke till they were in the library, which had been kept prepared for the travellers.  Robert pressed her to him and kissed her fervently, and she found voice to say, ‘What is it?  Papa?’

‘Yes,’ said Robert.

She needed not to ask the extent of the calamity.  She stood looking in his face, while, the beginning once made, he spoke in low, quick accents.  ‘Paralysis.  Last night.  He was insensible when Edwards called him this morning.  Nothing could be done.  It was over by three this afternoon.’

‘Where?’ asked Phœbe, understanding, but not yet feeling.

‘At his rooms at the office.  He had spent the evening there alone.  It was not known till eight this morning.  I was there instantly, Mervyn and Bevil soon after, but he knew none of us.  Mervyn thought I had better come here.  Oh, Phœbe, my mother!’

‘I will see if she have heard anything,’ said Phœbe, moving quietly off, as though one in a dream, able to act, move, and decide, though not to think.

She found the household in commotion.  Robert had spoken to the butler, and everywhere were knots of whisperers.  Miss Fennimore met Phœbe with her eyes full of tears, tears as yet far from those of Phœbe herself.  ‘Your mother has heard nothing,’ she said; ‘I ascertained that from Boodle, who only left her dressing-room since your brother’s arrival.  You had better let her have her night’s rest.’

Robert, who had followed Phœbe, hailed this as a reprieve, and thanked Miss Fennimore, adding the few particulars he had told his sister.  ‘I hope the girls are asleep,’ he said.

‘Sound asleep, I trust,’ said Miss Fennimore.  ‘I will take care of them,’ and laying her hand on Phœbe’s shoulder, she suggested to her that her brother had probably not eaten all day, then left them to return to the library together.  There had been more time for Robert to look the thought in the face than his sister.  He was no longer freshly stunned.  He really needed food, and ate in silence, while she mechanically waited on him.  At last he looked up, saying, ‘I am thankful.  A few months ago, how could I have borne it?’

‘I have been sure he understood you better of late,’ said Phœbe.

‘Sunday week was one of the happiest days I have spent for years.  Imagine my surprise at seeing him and Acton in the church.  They took luncheon with us, looked into the schools, went to evening service, and saw the whole concern.  He was kinder than ever I knew him, and Acton says he expressed himself as much pleased.  I owe a great deal to Bevil Acton, and, I know, to you.  Now I know that he had forgiven me.’

‘You, Robin!  There was nothing to forgive.  I can fancy poor Mervyn feeling dreadfully, but you, always dutiful except for the higher duty!’

‘Hush, Phœbe!  Mine was grudging service.  I loved opposition, and there was an evil triumph in the annoyance I gave.’

‘You are not regretting your work.  O no!’

‘Not the work, but the manner!  Oh! that the gift of the self-willed son be not Corban.’

‘Robert! indeed you had his approval.  You told me so.  He was seeing things differently.  It was so new to him that his business could be thought hurtful, that he was displeased at first, or, rather, Mervyn made him seem more displeased than he was.’

‘You only make me the more repent!  Had I been what I ought at home, my principles would have been very differently received!’

‘I don’t know,’ said Phœbe; ‘there was little opportunity.  We have been so little with them.’

‘Oh! Phœbe, it is a miserable thing to have always lived at such a distance from them, that I should better know how to tell such tidings to any old woman in my district than to my mother!’

Their consultations were broken by Miss Fennimore coming to insist on Phœbe’s sleeping, in preparation for the trying morrow.  Robert was thankful for her heedfulness, and owned himself tired, dismissing his sister with a blessing that had in it a tone of protection.

How changed was Phœbe’s peaceful chamber in her eyes!  Nothing had altered, but a fresh act in her life had begun—the first sorrow had fallen on her.

She would have knelt on for hours, leaning dreamily on the new sense of the habitual words, ‘Our Father,’ had not Miss Fennimore come kindly and tenderly to undress her, insisting on her saving herself, and promising not to let her oversleep herself, treating her with wise and soothing affection, and authority that was most comfortable.

Little danger was there of her sleeping too late.  All night long she lay, with dry and open eyes, while the fire, groaning, sank together, and faded into darkness, and the moonbeams retreated slowly from floor to wall, and were lost as gray cold dawn began to light the window.  Phœbe had less to reproach herself with than any one of Mr. Fulmort’s children, save the poor innocent, Maria; but many a shortcoming, many a moment of impatience or discontent, many a silent impulse of blame, were grieved over, and every kindness she had received shot through her heart with mournful gladness and warmth, filling her with yearning for another embrace, another word, or even that she had known that the last good-bye had been the last, that she might have prized it—oh, how intensely!

Then came anxious imaginings for the future, such as would not be stilled by the knowledge that all would settle itself over her head.  There were misgivings whether her mother would be properly considered, fears of the mutual relations between her brothers, a sense that the family bond was loosed, and confusion and jarring might ensue; but, as her mind recoiled from the shoals and the gloom, the thought revived of the Pilot amid the waves of this troublesome world.  She closed her eyes for prayer, but not for sleep.  Repose even more precious and soothing than slumber was granted—the repose of confidence in the Everlasting Arms, and of confiding to them all the feeble and sorrowful with whom she was linked.  It was as though (in the words of her own clasped book) her God were more to her than ever, truly a very present Help in trouble; and, as the dawn brightened for a day so unlike all others, her heart trembled less, and she rose up with eyes heavy and limbs weary, but better prepared for the morning’s ordeal than even by sleep ending in a wakening to the sudden shock.

When Miss Fennimore vigilantly met her on leaving her room, and surveyed her anxiously, to judge of her health and powers, there was a serious, sweet collectedness in air and face that struck the governess with loving awe and surprise.

The younger girls had known their father too little to be much affected by the loss.  Maria stared in round-eyed amaze, and Bertha, though subdued and shocked for a short space, revived into asking a torrent of questions, culminating in ‘Should they do any lessons?’  Whereto Miss Fennimore replied with a decided affirmative, and, though Phœbe’s taste disapproved, she saw that it was wiser not to interfere.

Much fatigued, Robert slept late, but joined his sister long before the dreaded moment of hearing their mother’s bell.  They need not have been fearful of the immediate effect; Mrs. Fulmort’s perceptions were tardy, and the endeavours at preparation were misunderstood, till it was needful to be explicit.  A long stillness followed, broken at last by Phœbe’s question, whether she would not see Robert.  ‘Not till I am up, my dear,’ she answered, in an injured voice; ‘do, pray, see whether Boodle is coming with my warm water.’

Her mind was not yet awake to the stroke, and was lapsing into its ordinary mechanical routine; her two breakfasts, and protracted dressing, occupied her for nearly two hours, after which she did not refuse to see her son, but showed far less emotion than he did, while he gave the details of the past day.  Her dull, apathetic gaze was a contrast with the young man’s gush of tears, and the caresses that Phœbe lavished on her listless hand.  Phœbe proposed that Robert should read to her—she assented, and soon dozed, awaking to ask plaintively for Boodle and her afternoon cup of tea.

So passed the following days, her state nearly the same, and her interest apparently feebly roused by the mourning, but by nothing else.  She did not like that Phœbe should leave her, but was more at ease with her maid than her son, and, though he daily came to sit with her and read to her, he was grieved to be unable to be of greater use, while he could seldom have Phœbe to himself.  Sorely missing Miss Charlecote, he took his meals in the west wing, where his presence was highly appreciated, though he was often pained by Bertha’s levity and Maria’s imbecility.  The governess treated him with marked esteem and consideration, strikingly dissimilar to the punctilious, but almost contemptuous, courtesy of her behaviour to the other gentlemen of the family, and, after her pupils were gone to bed, would fasten upon him for a discussion such as her soul delighted in, and his detested.  Secure of his ground, he was not sure of his powers of reasoning with an able lady of nearly double his years, and more than double his reading and readiness of speech, yet he durst not retreat from argument, lest he should seem to yield the cause that he was sworn to maintain, ‘in season and out of season.’  It was hard that his own troubles and other people’s should alike bring him in for controversy on all the things that end in ‘ism.’

He learnt by letter from Sir Bevil Acton that his father had been much struck by what he had seen in Cecily-row, and had strongly expressed his concern that Robert had been allowed to strip himself for the sake of a duty, which, if it were such at all, belonged more to others.  There might have been wrongheaded haste in the action, but if such new-fangled arrangements had become requisite, it was unfair that one member of the family alone should bear the whole burthen.  Sir Bevil strongly supported this view, and Mr. Fulmort had declared himself confirmed in his intention of making provision for his son in his will, as well as of giving him a fair allowance at present.  There must have been warnings of failing health of which none had been made aware, for Mr. Fulmort had come to town partly to arrange for the safe guardianship of poor Maria and her fortune.  An alteration in his will upon the death of one of the trustees had been too long neglected, and perhaps some foreboding of the impending malady had urged him at last to undertake what had been thus deferred.  Each of the daughters was to have £10,000, the overplus being divided between them and their eldest brother, who would succeed both to the business, and on his mother’s death to the Beauchamp estate, while the younger had already received an ample portion as heir to his uncle.  Mr. Fulmort, however, had proposed to place Robert on the same footing with his sisters, and Sir Bevil had reason to think he had at once acted on his design.  Such thorough forgiveness and approval went to Robert’s heart, and he could scarcely speak as he gave Phœbe the letter to read.

When she could discuss it with him after her mother had fallen asleep for the night, she found that his thoughts had taken a fresh turn.

‘If it should be as Bevil supposes,’ he said, ‘it would make an infinite difference.’  And after waiting for an answer only given by inquiring looks, he continued—‘As she is now, it would not be a violent change; I do not think she would object to my present situation.’

‘Oh, Robert, you will not expose yourself to be treated as before.’

‘That would not be.  There was no want of attachment; merely over-confidence in her own power.’

‘Not over confidence, it seems,’ murmured Phœbe, not greatly charmed.

‘I understood how it had been, when we were thrown together again,’ he pursued.  ‘There was no explanation, but it was far worse to bear than if there had been.  I felt myself a perfect brute.’

‘I beg your pardon if I can’t be pleased just yet,’ said Phœbe.  ‘You know I did not see her, and I can’t think she deserves it after so wantonly grieving you, and still choosing to forsake Miss Charlecote.’

‘For that I feel accountable,’ said Robert, sadly.  ‘I cannot forget that her determination coincided with the evening I made her aware of my position.  I saw that in her face that has haunted me ever since.  I had almost rather it had been resentment.’

‘I hope she will make you happy,’ said Phœbe, dolefully, thinking it a pity he should be disturbed when settled in to his work, and forced by experience to fear that Lucy would torment him.

‘I do not do it for the sake of happiness,’ he returned.  ‘I am not blind to her faults; but she has a grand, generous character that deserves patience and forbearance.  Besides, the past can never be cancelled, and it is due to her to offer her whatever may be mine.  There may be storms, but she has been disciplined, poor dear, and I am more sure of myself than I was.  She should conform, and my work should not be impeded.’

Grimly he continued to anticipate hurricanes for his wedded life, and to demonstrate that he was swayed by justice and not by passion; but it was suspicious that he recurred constantly to the topic, and seemed able to dwell on no other.  If Phœbe could have been displeased with him, it would have been for these reiterations at such a time.  Not having been personally injured, she pardoned less than did either Robert or Miss Charlecote; she could not foresee peace for her brother; and though she might pity him for the compulsion of honour and generosity, she found that his auguries were not intended to excite compassionate acquiescence, but cheerful contradiction, such as both her good sense and her oppressed spirits refused.  If he could talk about nothing better than Lucy when alone with her, she could the less regret the rarity of these opportunities.