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

‘Your affectionate sister,‘Juliana Acton.’

When Miss Fennimore entered the room, she found Phœbe sitting like one petrified, only just able to hold out the letter, and murmur—‘What does it mean?’  Imagining that it could only contain something fatal about Robert, Miss Fennimore sprang at the paper, and glanced through it, while Phœbe again faintly asked, ‘What have I done?’

‘Lady Acton is pleased to be mysterious!’ said the governess.  ‘The kind sister she always was!’

‘Don’t say that,’ exclaimed Phœbe, rallying.  ‘It must be something shocking, for Sir Bevil thinks so too,’ and the tears sprang forth.

‘He will never think anything unkind of you, my dear,’ said Miss Fennimore, with emphasis.

‘It must be about Mr. Hastings!’ said Phœbe, gathering recollection and confidence.  ‘I did not like to tell you yesterday, but I had a letter from poor Lucy Sandbrook.  Some friends of that man, Mr. Hastings, have set it about that he is going to be married to me!’ and Phœbe laughed outright.  ‘If Juliana has heard it, I don’t wonder that she is shocked, because you know Miss Charlecote said it would never do for me to associate with those gentlemen, and besides, Lucy says that he is a very bad man.  I shall write to Juliana, and say that I have never had anything to do with him, and he is going away to-morrow, and Mervyn must be told not to have him back again.  That will set it all straight at Acton Manor.’

Phœbe was quite herself again.  She was too well accustomed to gratuitous unkindness and reproaches from Juliana to be much hurt by them, and perceiving, as she thought, where the misconception lay, had no fears that it would not be cleared up.  So when she had carefully written her letter to her sister, she dismissed the subject until she should be able to lay it before Miss Charlecote, dwelling more on Honor’s pleasure on hearing of Lucy than on the more personal matter.

Miss Fennimore, looking over the letter, had deeper misgivings.  It seemed to her rather to be a rebuke for the whole habit of life than a warning against an individual, and she began to doubt whether even the seclusion of the west wing had been a sufficient protection in the eyes of the family from the contamination of such society as Mervyn received.  Or was it a plot of Lady Acton’s malevolence for hunting Phœbe away from her home?  Miss Fennimore fell asleep, uneasy and perplexed, and in her dreams beheld Phœbe as the Lady in Comus, fixed in her chair and resolute against a cup effervescing with carbonic acid gas, proffered by Jack Hastings, who thereupon gave it to Bertha, as she lay back in the dentist’s chair, and both becoming transformed into pterodactyles, flew away while Miss Fennimore was vainly trying to summon the brothers by electric telegraph.

There was a whole bevy of letters for Phœbe the following morning, and first a kind sensible one from her guardian, much regretting to learn that Mr. Fulmort’s guests were undesirable inmates for a house where young ladies resided, so that, though he had full confidence in Miss Fulmort’s discretion, and understood that she had never associated with the persons in question, he thought her residence at home ought to be reconsidered, and should be happy to discuss the point on coming to Beauchamp, so soon as he should have recovered from an unfortunate fit of the gout, which at present detained him in town.  Miss Fulmort might, however, be assured that her wishes should be his chief consideration, and that he would take care not to separate her from Miss Maria.

That promise, and the absence of all mention of Lucilla’s object of dread, gave Phœbe courage to open the missive from her eldest sister.

‘My dear Phœbe,

‘I always told you it would never answer, and you see I was right.  If Mervyn will invite that horrid man, whatever you may do, no one will believe that you do not associate with him, and you may never get over it.  I am telling everybody what children you are, quite in the schoolroom, but nothing will be of any use but your coming away at once, and appearing in society with me, so you had better send the children to Acton Manor, and come to me next week.  If there are any teal in the decoy bring some, and ask Mervyn where he got that Barton’s dry champagne.

‘Your affectionate sister,‘Augusta Bannerman.’

She had kept Robert’s letter to the last, as refreshment after the rest.

‘St. Matthew’s, Dec. 18th.

‘Dear Phœbe,

‘I am afraid this may not be your first intimation of what may vex and grieve you greatly, and what calls for much cool and anxious judgment.  In you we have implicit confidence, and your adherence to Miss Charlecote’s kind advice has spared you all imputation, though not, I fear, all pain.  You may, perhaps, not know how disgraceful are the characters of some of the persons whom Mervyn has collected about him.  I do him the justice to believe that he would shelter you from all intercourse with them as carefully as I should; but I cannot forgive his having brought them beneath the same roof with you.  I fear the fact has done harm in our own neighbourhood.  People imagine you to be associating with Mervyn’s crew, and a monstrous report is abroad which has caused Bevil Acton to write to me and to Crabbe.  We all agree that this is a betrayal of the confidence that you expressed in Mervyn, and that while he chooses to make his house a scene of dissipation, no seclusion can render it a fit residence for women or girls.  I fear you will suffer much in learning this decision, for Mervyn’s sake as well as your own.  Poor fellow! if he will bring evil spirits about him, good angels must depart.  I would come myself, but that my presence would embitter Mervyn, and I could not meet him properly.  I am writing to Miss Charlecote.  If she should propose to receive you all at the Holt immediately, until Crabbe’s most inopportune gout is over, you had better go thither at once.  It would be the most complete vindication of your conduct that could be offered to the county, and would give time for considering of establishing you elsewhere, and still under Miss Fennimore’s care.  For Bertha’s sake as well as your own, you must be prepared to leave home and resign yourself to be passive in the decision of those bound to think for you, by which means you may avoid being included in Mervyn’s anger.  Do not distress yourself by the fear that any blame can attach to you or to Miss Fennimore; I copy Bevil’s expressions—“Assure Phœbe that though her generous confidence may have caused her difficulties, no one can entertain a doubt of her guileless intention and maidenly discretion.  If it would not make further mischief, I would hasten to fetch her, but if she will do me the honour to accept her sister’s invitation, I hope to do all in my power to make her happy and mark my esteem for her.”  These are his words; but I suppose you will hardly prefer Acton Manor, though, should the Holt fail us, you might send the other two to the Manor, and come to Albury-street as Augusta wishes, when we could consult together on some means of keeping you united, and retaining Miss Fennimore, who must not be thrown over, as it would be an injury to her prospects.  Tell her from me that I look to her for getting you through this unpleasant business.

‘Your ever affectionate‘R. M. Fulmort.’

Phœbe never spoke, but handed each sheet as she finished it to her governess.

‘Promise me, Phœbe,’ said Miss Fennimore, as she came to Robert’s last sentence, ‘that none of these considerations shall bias you.  Make no struggle for me, but use me as I may be most serviceable to you.’

Phœbe, instead of answering, kissed and clung to her.

‘What do you think of doing?’ asked the governess.

‘Nothing,’ said Phœbe.

‘You looked as if a thought had occurred to you.’

‘I only recollected the words, “your strength is to sit still,” said Phœbe, ‘and thought how well they agreed with Robert’s advice to be passive.  Mr. Crabbe has promised not to separate us, and I will trust to that.  Mervyn was very kind in letting us stay here, but he does not want us, and will not miss us,’—and with those words, quiet as they were, came a gush of irrepressible tears, just as a step resounded outside, the door was burst open, and Mervyn hurried in, purple with passion, and holding a bundle of letters crushed together in his hand.

‘I say,’ he hoarsely cried, ‘what’s all this?  Who has been telling infamous tales of my house?’

‘We cannot tell—’ began Phœbe.

‘Do you know anything of this?’ he interrupted, fiercely turning on Miss Fennimore.

‘Nothing, sir.  The letters which your sister has received have equally surprised and distressed me.’

‘Then they have set on you, Phœbe!  The whole pack in full cry, as if it mattered to them whether I chose to have the Old Gentleman in the house, so long as he did not meddle with you!’

‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Fulmort,’ interposed the governess, ‘the remonstrance is quite just.  Had I been aware of the character of some of your late guests, I could not have wished your sisters to remain in the house with them.’

‘Are these your sentiments, Phœbe?’ he asked, sternly.

‘I am afraid they ought to be,’ she sadly answered.

‘Silly child; so this pack of censorious women and parsons have frightened you into giving me up.’

‘Sisters do not give up brothers, Mervyn.  You know how I thank you for having me here, but I could not amuse you, or make it pleasant to you, so there must be an end of it.’

‘So they hunt you out to be bullied by Juliana, or slaved to death by Augusta, which is it to be?  Or maybe Robert has got his sisterhood cut and dried for you; only mind, he shan’t make away with your £30,000 while I live to expose those popish tricks.’

‘For shame, Mervyn,’ cried Phœbe, all in a glow; ‘I will not hear Robert so spoken of: he is always kind and good, and has taught me every right thing I know!’

‘Oh, very well; and pray when does he summon you from among the ungodly?  Will the next train be soon enough?’

‘Don’t, Mervyn!  Your friends go to-day, don’t they?  Mr. Crabbe does not desire any change to be made before he comes to see about it.  May we not stay till that time, and spend our Christmas together?’

‘You must ask Robert and Juliana, since you prefer them.’

‘No,’ said Phœbe, with spirit; ‘it is right to attend to my elder sisters, and Robert has always helped and taught me, and I must trust his guidance, as I always have done.  And I trust you too, Mervyn.  You never thought you were doing us any harm.  I may trust you still,’ she added, with so sweet and imploring a look that Mervyn gave an odd laugh, with some feeling in it.

‘Harm?  Great harm I have done this creature, eh?’ he said, with his hand on her shoulder.

‘Few could do her harm, Mr. Fulmort,’ said the governess, ‘but report may have done some mischief.

‘Who cares for report!  I say, Phœbe, we will laugh at them all.  You pluck up a spirit, stay with me, and we’ll entertain all the county, and then get some great swell to bring you out in town, and see what Juliana will say!’

‘I will stay with you while you are alone, and Mr. Crabbe lets me,’ said Phœbe.

‘Old fool of a fellow!  Why couldn’t my father have made me your guardian, and then there would have been none of this row!  One would think I had had her down to act barmaid to the fellows.  And you never spoke to one, did you, Phœbe?’

‘Only now and then to Mr. Hastings.  I could not help it after the day he came into the study when I was copying for you.’

‘Ah, well! that is nothing—nobody minds old Jack.  I shall let them all know you were as safe as a Turk’s wife in a harem, and maybe old Crabbe will hear reason if we get him down here alone, without a viper at each ear, as he had last time.’

With which words Mervyn departed, and Miss Fennimore exclaimed in some displeasure, ‘You can never think of remaining, Phœbe.’

‘I am afraid not,’ said Phœbe; ‘Mervyn does not seem to know what is proper for us, and I am too young to judge, so I suppose we must go.  I wish I could make him happy with music, or books, or anything a woman could do!  If you please, I think I must go over to the Holt.  I cannot settle to anything just yet, and I shall answer my letters better when I have seen Miss Charlecote.’

In fact Phœbe felt herself going to her other guardian; but as she left the room, Bertha came hurriedly in from the garden, with a plaid thrown round her.  ‘What—what—what’s the matter?’ she hastily asked, following Phœbe to her room.  ‘Is there an end of all these mysteries?’

‘Yes,’ said Phœbe, ‘Miss Fennimore is ready for you.’

‘As if that were all I wanted to know.  Do you think I did not hear Mervyn storming like a lion?’

‘I am sorry you did hear,’ said Phœbe, ‘for it was not pleasant.  It seems that it is not thought proper for us to live here while Mervyn has so many gentleman-guests, so,’ with a sigh, ‘you will have your wish, Bertha.  They mean us to go away!’

‘It is not my wish now,’ said Bertha, pulling pins in and out of Phœbe’s pincushion.  ‘I am not the child I was in the summer.  Don’t go, Phœbe; I know you can get your way, if you try for it.’

‘I must try to be put in the right way, Bertha, that is all I want.’

‘And you are going to the Holt for the most precise, narrow-minded way you can get.  I wish I were in your place, Phœbe.’

Scarcely had Phœbe driven from the door, before she saw Miss Charlecote crossing the grass on foot, and after the interchange of a few words, it was agreed to talk while driving on towards Elverslope.  Each was laden with the same subject, for not only had Honor heard from Robert, but during her visit to Moorcroft she had become enlightened on the gossip that seldom reached the Holt, and had learnt that the whole neighbourhood was scandalized at the Beauchamp doings, and was therefore shy of taking notice of the young people there.  She had been incredulous at first, then extremely shocked and distressed, and though in part convinced that more than she guessed had passed beyond the west wing, she had come primed with a representation which she cautiously administered to Phœbe.  The girl was more indignant on her brother’s account than alarmed on her own.

‘If that is the way the Raymonds talk of Mervyn,’ cried she, ‘no wonder they made their niece cast him off, and drive him to despair.’

‘It was no unkindness of the Raymonds, my dear.  They were only sorry for you.’

‘I do not want them to be sorry for me; they ought to be sorry for Mervyn,’ said Phœbe, almost petulantly.

‘Perhaps they are,’ said Honor.  ‘It was only in kindness that they spoke, and they had almost anticipated my explanation that you were kept entirely apart.  Every gentleman hereabouts who has been at Beauchamp has declared such to be the case.’

‘I should think so!’ said Phœbe; ‘Mervyn knows how to take care of us better than that!’

‘But all ladies do not seem willing to believe as much, shame on them,’ said Honor; ‘and, tell me, Phœbe, have people called on you?’

‘Not many, but I have not called on them since they left their cards of inquiry.  I had been thinking whether I ought.’

‘We will consider.  Perhaps I had better take you round some day, but I have been a very remiss protector, my poor child, if all be true that I am told of some of Mervyn’s friends.  It was an insult to have them under the same roof with you.’

‘Will you look at this letter?’ said Phœbe.  ‘It is very kind—it is from Lucy.’

These plain words alone occurred to Phœbe as a preparation for a letter that was sure to move Miss Charlecote greatly, if only by the slight of not having written to her, the most obvious person.  But the flighty generosity, and deep though inconsistent feeling were precious, and the proud relenting of the message at the end touched Honor with hope.  They laughed at the report that had elicited Lucilla’s letter, but the reserve of the warning about Mr. Hastings, coming from the once unscrupulous girl, startled Honor even more than what she had heard at Moorcroft.  Was the letter to be answered?  Yes, by all means, cried Honor, catching at any link of communication.  She could discover Lucilla’s address, and was sure that even brief thanks and explanations from Phœbe would be good for Lucy.

Like Miss Fennimore, Honor was surprised by Phœbe’s composure under her share of the evil report.  The strictures which would have been dreadful to an older person seemed to fly over her innocent head, their force either uncomprehended or unfelt.  She yielded implicitly to the propriety of the change, but her grief was at the family quarrel, the leaving home, and the unmerited degree of blame cast on Mervyn, not the aspersions on herself; although, as Honor became vexed at her calmness, she withheld none of them in the desire to convince her of the expediency of leaving Beauchamp at once for the Holt.  No, even though this was Robert’s wish, Phœbe could still not see the necessity, as long as Mervyn should be alone.  If he should bring any of his discreditable friends, she promised at once to come to Miss Charlecote, but otherwise she could perceive no reason for grieving him, and astonishing the world, by implying that his sisters could not stay in his house.  She thought him unwell, too, and wished to watch him, and, on the whole, did not regret her guardian’s gout, which would give her a little more time at home, and put off the discussion till there should be less anger.

Is this weak? is it childish indifference? thought Honor, or is it a spirit superior to the selfish personal dread that would proclaim its own injured innocence by a vehement commotion.

Phœbe rejoiced that she had secured her interview with her friend, for when the guests were gone, Mervyn claimed her whole attention, and was vexed if she were not continually at his back.  After their téte-à-téte dinner, he kept her sitting over the dessert while he drank his wine.  She tried this opportunity of calling his attention to the frauds of the servants, but he merely laughed his mocking laugh at her simplicity in supposing that everybody’s servants did not cheat.

‘Miss Charlecote’s don’t.’

‘Don’t they?  Ha—ha!  Why, she’s the very mark for imposition, and hypocrisy into the bargain.’

Phœbe did not believe it, but would not argue the point, returning to that nearer home.  ‘Nonsense, Phœbe,’ he said; ‘it’s only a choice who shall prey upon one, and if I have a set that will do it with a civil countenance, and let me live out of the spoil, I’ll not be bothered.’

‘I cannot think it need go on so.’

‘Well, it won’t; I shall break up the concern, and let the house, or something.’

‘Let the house?  Oh, Mervyn! I thought you meant to be a county man.’

‘Let those look to that who have hindered me,’ said Mervyn, fiercely swallowing one glassful, and pouring out another.

‘Should you live in London?’

‘At Jericho, for aught I care, or any one else.’

Her attempt to controvert this remark brought on a tirade against the whole family, which she would not keep up by reply, and which ended in moody silence.  Again she tried to rise, but he asked why she could not stay with him five minutes, and went on absently pouring out wine and drinking it, till, as the clock struck nine, the bottom of the decanter was reached, when he let her lead the way to the drawing-room, and there taking up the paper, soon fell asleep, then awoke at ten at the sound of her moving to go to bed, and kept her playing piquet for an hour and a half.

An evening or two of this kind convinced Phœbe that even with Mervyn alone it was not a desirable life.  She was less shocked than a girl used to a higher standard at home might have been, but that daily bottle and perpetual cards weighed on her imagination, and she felt that her younger sisters ought not to grow up to such a spectacle.  Still her loving heart yearned over Mervyn, who was very fond of her, and consulted her pleasure continually in his own peculiar and selfish way, although often exceedingly cross to her as well as to every one else; but this ill-temper was so visibly the effect of low spirits that she easily endured and forgave it.  She saw that he was both unwell and unhappy.  She could not think what would become of him when the present arrangement should be broken up; but could only cling to him, as long as she could pity him.  It was no wonder that on the Sunday, Honora seeing her enter the church, could only help being reminded of the expression of that child-saint of Raffaelle, wandering alone through the dragon-haunted wood, wistful and distressed, yet so confident in the Unseen Guide and Guardian that she treads down evils and perils in innocence, unconscious of her full danger and of their full blackness.

CHAPTER XIX

Close within us we will carry, strong, collected, calm, and brave,The true panoply of quiet which the bad world never gave;Very serpents in discretion, yet as guileless as the dove,Lo! obedience is the watchword, and the countersign is love.W. G. Tupper

On the next hunting day, Mervyn took Phœbe with him to the meet, upon a favourite common towards Elverslope, where on a fine morning ladies were as apt to be found as hounds and huntsmen, so that she would be at no loss for companions when he left her.

Phœbe rode, as she did everything else, well, quietly and firmly, and she looked very young and fresh, with her rounded rosy cheeks and chin.  Her fair hair was parted back under a round hat, her slenderly plump figure appeared to advantage mounted on her bright bay, and altogether she presented a striking contrast to her brother.  She had not seen him in hunting costume for nearly a year, and she observed with pain how much he had lost his good looks; his well-made youthful air was passing away, and his features were becoming redder and coarser; but he was in his best humour, good-natured, and as nearly gay as he ever was; and Phœbe enjoyed her four-miles’ ride in the beauty of a warm December’s day, the sun shining on dewy hedges, and robins and thrushes trying to treat the weather like spring, as they sang amid the rich stores of coral fruit that hung as yet untouched on every hawthorn or eglantine.

The ladies mustered strong on the smooth turf of the chalk down bordering the copse which was being drawn.  Phœbe looked out for acquaintance, but a few gentlemen coming up to greet her, she did not notice, as Mervyn did, that the girls with whom he had wished to leave her had become intent on some doings in the copse, and had trotted off with their father.  He made his way to the barouche where sat the grande dame of the county, exchanged civilities, and asked leave to introduce his sister.  Phœbe, who had never seen the lady before, thought nothing of the cold distant bow; it was for Mervyn, who knew what her greetings could be, to fume and rage inwardly.  Other acknowledgments passed, but no party had approached or admitted Phœbe, and when the hounds went away, she was still riding alone with her brother and a young officer.  She bade them not to mind her, she would ride home with the servant, and as all were in motion, she had enough to do to hold in her horse, while Mervyn and his friend dashed forward, and soon she found herself alone, except for the groom; the field were well away over the down, the carriages driving off, the mounted maidens following the chase as far as the way was fair and lady-like.

Phœbe had no mind to do so.  Her isolation made her feel forlorn, and brought home Miss Charlecote’s words as to the opinion entertained of her by the world.  Poor child, something like a tear came into her eye and a blush to her cheek, but, ‘never mind,’ she thought, ‘they will believe Miss Charlecote, and she will take care of me.  If only Mervyn will not get angry, and make an uproar!  I shall soon be gone away!  When shall I come back?’

She rode up to the highest part of the down for a take-leave gaze.  There lay Elverslope in its basin-like valley scooped out in the hills, with the purple bloom of autumnal haze veiling its red brick and slate; there, on the other side, the copses and arable fields dipped and rose, and rose and dipped again, till the undulations culminated in the tall fir-trees in the Holt garden, the landmark of the country; and on the bare slope to the west, Beauchamp’s pillars and pediment made a stately speck in the landscape.  ‘Home no longer!’ thought Phœbe; ‘there will be strangers there—and we shall be on the world!  Oh! why cannot Mervyn be like Robert?  How happy we could be!’