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

‘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!’

Beauchamp had not been a perfect Eden in itself, but still it had all the associations of the paradise of her guileless childhood; and to her the halo around it would always have the radiance of the loving spirit through which she viewed it.  The undefined future was hard to bear, but she thought of Robert, and of the promise that neither her sisters nor Miss Fennimore should be parted from her, and tried to rest thankful on that comfort.

She had left the down for the turnpike road, the sounds of the hunt often reaching her, with glimpses of men and dogs in the distance taking a direction parallel with her own.  Presently a red coat glanced through the hedge of one of the cross lanes, as if coming towards the road, and as she reached the opening at the end, a signal was made to her to stop.  Foreboding some accident, she hastily turned up the narrow white muddy lane, and was met by an elderly gentleman.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he said kindly; ‘only your brother seems rather unwell, and I thought I had best see him under your charge.’

Mervyn was by this time in sight, advancing slowly, and Phœbe with rapid thanks rode on to meet him.  She knew that dull, confused, dazzled eye belonged to his giddy fits, and did not wonder at the half-uttered murmur, rather in the imprecation line, with which he spoke; but the reel in his saddle terrified her greatly, and she was dismayed to see that the gentleman had proceeded into the high road instead of offering further assistance.  She presently perceived that the danger of falling was less real than apparent, and that her brother could still keep his seat, and govern his horse, though nearly unable to look or speak.  She kept close to him, and was much relieved to find that the stranger had not returned to the sport, but was leisurely following at some distance behind the groom.  Never had two miles seemed so long as under her frequent alarms lest Mervyn should become unable to keep the saddle; but at each moment of terror, she heard the pace of the hunter behind quickened to come to her help, and if she looked round she met an encouraging sign.

When the lodge was reached, and Mervyn, somewhat revived, had ridden through the gates, she turned back to give her warm thanks.  A kind, fatherly, friendly face looked at her with a sort of compassion, as putting aside her thanks, the gentleman said, quickly, yet half-reluctantly, ‘Have you ever seen him like this before?’

‘Yes; the giddiness often comes on in the morning, but never so badly as this.  I think it was from the rapid motion.’

‘Has he had advice?’

‘I cannot persuade him to see any one.  Do you think he ought?  I would send at once, at the risk of his being angry.’

‘Does Dr. Martyn attend you?  Shall I leave a message as I go home?’

‘I should be most thankful!’

‘It may be nothing, but you will be happier that it should be ascertained;’ and with another kindly nod, he rode off.

Mervyn had gone to his room, and answered her inquiries at the door with a brief, blunt ‘better,’ to be interpreted that he did not wish to be disturbed.  She did not see him till dinnertime, when he had a sullen headache, and was gruff and gloomy.  She tried to learn who the friend in need had been, but he had been incapable of distinguishing anybody or anything at the moment of the attack, and was annoyed at having been followed.  ‘What a pottering ass to come away from a run on a fool’s errand!’ he said.  ‘Some Elverslope spy, who will set it about the country that I had been drinking, and cast that up to you!’ and then he began to rail against the ladies, singly and collectively, inconsistently declaring it was Phœbe’s own fault for not having called on them, and that he would have Augusta to Beauchamp, give a ball and supper, and show whether Miss Fulmort were a person to be cut.

This mode of vindication not being to Miss Fulmort’s taste, she tried to avert it by doubts whether Augusta could be had; and was told that, show Lady Bannerman a bottle of Barton’s dry champagne, and she would come to the world’s end.  Meantime, Phœbe must come out to-morrow for a round of visits, whereat her heart failed her, as a thrusting of herself where she was not welcome; but he spoke so fiercely and dictatorially, that she reserved her pleading for the morning, when he would probably be too inert not to be glad of the escape.

At last, Dr. Martyn’s presence in the drawing-room was announced to her.  She began her explanation with desperate bravery; and though the first words were met with a scoffing grunt, she found Mervyn less displeased than she had feared—nay, almost glad that the step had been taken, though he would not say so, and made a great favour of letting her send the physician to him in the dining-room.

After a time, Dr. Martyn came to tell her that he had found her brother’s head and pulse in such a state as to need instant relief by cupping; and that the young Union doctor had been sent for from the village for the purpose.  A constitutional fulness of blood in the head had been aggravated by his mode of life, and immediate discipline, severe regimen, and abstinence from business or excitement, were the only means of averting dangerous illness; in fact, his condition might at any time become exceedingly critical, though perseverance in care might possibly prevent all absolute peril.  He himself was thoroughly frightened.  His own sensations and forebodings seconded the sentence too completely for resistance; it was almost a relief to give way; and his own method of driving away discomfort had so signally failed, that he was willing to resign himself to others.

Phœbe assisted at the cupping valorously and handily.  She had a civil speech from young Mr. Jackson, and Mervyn, as she bade him good night, said, ‘I can’t spare you now, Phœbe.’

‘Not till you are better,’ she answered.

And so she told Miss Charlecote, and wrote to Robert; but neither was satisfied.  Honora said it was unlucky.  It might certainly be a duty to nurse Mervyn if he were really ill, and if he made himself fit company for her, but it would not set her straight with the neighbourhood; and Robert wrote in visible displeasure at this complication of the difficulty.  ‘If Mervyn’s habits had disordered his health, it did not render his pursuits more desirable for his sisters.  If he wanted Phœbe’s attendance, let him come to town with her to the Bannermans; but his ailments must not be made an excuse for detaining her in so unsuitable a position as that into which he had brought her.’

It was not so kind a letter as Phœbe would have claimed from Robert, and it was the more trying as Mervyn, deprived of the factitious exhilaration that had kept him up, and lowered by treatment, was dispirited, depressed, incapable of being entertained, cross at her failures, yet exacting of her attendance.  He had business at his office in the City that needed his presence, so he insisted till the last morning upon going, and then owned himself in no state to go farther than the study, where he tried to write, but found his brain so weak and confused that he could hardly complete a letter, and was obliged to push over even the simplest calculation to Phœbe.  In vain she tried to divert his mind from this perilous exertion; he had not taste nor cultivation enough to be interested in anything she could devise, and harping upon some one of the unpleasant topics that occupied his thoughts was his only entertainment when he grew tired of cards or backgammon.