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

‘Why so?’

‘Because I am afraid Bertha would not look up to him if she lived with him,’ said Phœbe.

Robert smiled, having himself become conscious of that weakness in his good brother-in-law which Phœbe felt, but did not name.

‘And now, Phœbe,’ said Robert, suddenly changing the subject, ‘I have something for you to do; I want you to call on Miss Sandbrook.’

On her astonished look, he explained that he had made it his business frequently to see Owen Sandbrook’s child, and of late to give it some religious teaching.  While thus engaged, he had been surprised by the entrance of Lucilla, looking wretchedly ill and exhausted, and though she had rallied her spirits after the first moment, talked of having come up from Essex for a day’s holiday of shopping and seeing her nephew, and had inquired eagerly and warmly for Miss Charlecote, he had been sufficiently uneasy about her to go afterwards to Mrs. Murrell, from whom he had learnt that she had avowed having consulted a physician in the morning, and had procured her address.

‘And now,’ said Robert, ‘I want you, with whom she has never quarrelled, to call on her as an old friend just come into her neighbourhood, and find out what was the doctor’s opinion.  I am sure she is destroying herself.’

The whole was said with perfect simplicity, without shrinking from Phœbe’s eye, as though he had absolutely forgotten what sentiments he had once entertained; and Phœbe could, neither in kindness nor humanity, refuse to be the means of reopening communication with the voluntary exile.  She proposed to write and offer a call, but Robert, fearing to rouse the old perverse pride, recommended that there should be no preparation.  Indeed, the chances of an independent expedition seemed likely to be scanty, for Lady Bannerman pounced on her sister as a truant bond-slave, who, when captured, was to be useful all day, and go to parties all night.

‘I have told all my friends that I was going to introduce my sister, and what expectations you have,’ she said.  ‘See, here are two cards for to-morrow night, Lady Jane Hewett and Mrs. Gosling, the young widow that I want Mervyn to meet, you know.  Clear £5000 a year, and such a charming house.  Real first-rate suppers; not like Lady Jane’s bread-and-butter and cat-lap, as Sir Nicholas says, just handed round.  We would never go near the place, but as I said to Sir Nicholas, any sacrifice for my sister; and she has a son, you know, a fine young man; and if we manage well, we shall be in time for Carrie Gosling’s supper.  So mind that, Phœbe, and don’t get engaged to too many dances.’

‘Is there to be dancing?’

‘Most likely.  I hope you have something to wear.’

‘I provided myself at Paris, thank you.’

‘Not mourning, I trust!  That will never do!  Nobody thinks of mourning for a sister more than six months, and it makes me so low to think of poor Juliana, and this horrid complaint being in the family.  It is quite a duty to keep one’s spirits up.  But there’s Robert always so lugubrious; and poor Sir Bevil looks as deplorable, and comes up to town with that poor little girl all in crape, and won’t eat any luncheon!  I declare it gave me such a turn that I was obliged to have my little cordial before I could swallow a mouthful!  And now you come in black!  It is quite provoking!  You must and shall get some colours to-morrow.’

‘Thank you, what I have is white and lilac.’

On which neutral ground Phœbe took her stand, and the French style and fashion so impressed Augusta’s maid, that she forced her ladyship to accept even simplicity as ‘the thing,’ and to sink back rebuked for the barbarism of hinting at the enlivenment of pink ribbons or scarlet flowers.

Though thus fortified against shopping on her own account, liberty even to go to see her sisters was denied her, in Augusta’s infinite disgust at the locality, and consideration for the horses.  She was forced to be contented with the report of Mervyn, who came to dinner and to go to the evening parties, and who spoke of the girls as well and happy; Maria ‘in her native element’ at the infant school, and both in a perfect rapture at receiving Miss Fennimore, whom their hostess had asked to spend the evening in Woolstone-lane.

Mervyn professed that he came entirely to see Phœbe’s debut in her Parisian costume, and amused himself maliciously with endeavouring to delay the start from Lady Jane’s till too late for Mrs. Gosling’s supper; but Phœbe, who did not wish to enhance the sacrifice, would not abet him, and positively, as he declared, aided Augusta in her wild goose chase.

He contrived to have a good deal of conversation with Phœbe in the course of the evening, and she heard from him that old Crabbe was more crusty than ever, and would not hear of his taking his sisters home, but, said he, that mattered the less, considering that now they would be able to be at the parsonage.

‘The parsonage?’

‘What! did you not know the living was in Miss Charlecote’s gift?’

‘Do you mean that she has offered it to Robert?’

‘Yes—no—at least she has told me of her intentions.  Highly proper in the old girl, isn’t it?  They will settle it to-night, of course.  I’ll have the grounds laid out, and make quite a pretty modern place of it.  It has quite taken a weight off my mind to know he is so well provided for.’

‘It will make us all very happy; but I think he will be sorry for St. Matthew’s, too.’

‘Oh! parsons think nothing of changes.  He can appoint his own successor, and I’ll not let things die away.  And now, Phœbe, is there anything you want to do?  I will not have Augusta tie you by the leg.  I will look out a lady’s horse to-morrow, and come to ride with you; or if you want to do anything, you can have the brougham any day.’

‘Thank you; there is one thing I want very much to do,’ and she explained.

‘Ha!’ said Mervyn, ‘a romantic meeting.  If I remember right, Mr. Robin used to be much smitten with that little thing.  Don’t reckon too much on the parsonage, Phœbe.’

‘What are we to do if both brothers turn us out?’ smiled Phœbe.

‘Don’t talk of that.  I should be glad enough to get you in—and I am far enough from the other thing yet.’

So Phœbe obtained the use of the brougham for the next day and set off for her long Essex drive, much against Augusta’s will, and greatly wondering what it would produce; compassionate of course for poor Lucilla, yet not entirely able to wish that Robert should resign the charge for which he was so eminently fitted, even for the sake of Hiltonbury and home.  Lucy must be altered, indeed, if he would not be happier without her.

Phœbe had written a few lines, saying that hearing that Lucy was so near, she could not help begging to see her.  This she sent in with her card, and after a little delay, was invited to come in.  Lucilla met her at the top of the stairs, and at first Phœbe only felt herself, clasped, clung to, kissed, fondled with a sudden gasping, tearful eagerness.  Then as if striving to recall the ordinary tone, Lucilla exclaimed—‘There—I beg your pardon for such an obstreperous greeting, but I am a famished creature here, you see, and I did not expect such kindness.  Luckily some of my pupils are driving out with their mamma, and I have sent the others to the nurse.  Now then, take off your bonnet, let me see you; I want to look at a home face, and you are as fresh and as innocent as if not a year had passed over you.’

Lucilla fervently kissed her again, and then holding her hand, gazed at her as if unwilling that either should break the happy silence.  Meantime Phœbe was shocked to see how completely Robert’s alarms were justified by Lucy’s appearance.  The mere absence of the coquettish ringlets made a considerable difference, and the pale colour of the hair, as it was plainly braided, increased the wanness of her appearance.  The transparent complexion had lost the lovely carnation of the cheek, but the meandering veins of the temples and eyelids were painfully apparent; and with the eyes so large and clear as to be more like veronicas than ever, made the effect almost ghastly, together with excessive fragility of the form, and the shadowy thinness of the hand that held Phœbe’s.  Bertha’s fingers, at her weakest, had been more substantial than these small things, which had, however, as much character and force in their grasp as ever.

‘Lucy, I am sure you are ill!  How thin you are!’

‘Well, then, cod-liver oil is a base deception!  Never mind that—let me hear of Honor—are you with her?’

‘No, my sisters are, but I am with Augusta.’

‘Then you do not come from her?’

‘No; she does not know.’

‘You excellent Phœbe; what have you done to keep that bonny honest face all this time to refresh weary eyes—being a little heroine, too.  Well, but the Honor—the old sweet Honey—is she her very self?’

‘Indeed, I hope so; she has been so very kind to us.’

‘And found subjects in you not too cross-grained for her kindness to be palatable!  Ah! a good hard plunge into the world teaches one what one left in the friendly ship!  Not that mine has been a hard one.  I am not one of the pathetic governesses of fiction.  Every one has been kinder to me than I am worth—But, oh! to hear myself called Lucy again!’—and she hid her face on Phœbe’s shoulder in another access of emotion.

‘You used not to like it.’

‘My Cilly days were over long ago.  Only one person ever used to call me Cilla;’ and she paused, and went on afresh—‘So it was for Bertha’s sake and Mervyn’s that Honor escorted you abroad.  So much Robert told me; but I don’t understand it yet.  It had haunted me the whole winter that Robert was the only Mr. Fulmort she could nurse; and if he told you I was upset, it was that I did not quite know whether he were ghost or body when I saw him there in the old place.’

‘No, he only told me you were looking very ill; and indeed—’

‘I could not ask him what concatenation made Honor take Mervyn under her wing, like a hen hovering a vulture.’

‘It would be a long story,’ said Phœbe; ‘but Bertha was very ill, and Mervyn much out of health; and we were in great distress for an escort.  I think it was the kindest thing ever done, and the most successful.’

‘Has it been a comfort to her?  Owen’s letters must be, I am sure.  He will come home this autumn, as soon as he has done laying out his railway, and then I shall get him to beg leave for me to make a little visit to Hiltonbury before we go out to Canada.  I could not go out without a good word from her.  She and Mr. Prendergast are all that remains of the old life.  I say, Phœbe, did you hear of those cousins of mine!’

‘It was one of the reasons I wished to see you.  I thought you might like to hear of them.’

‘You saw them!’

‘Miss Charteris called on us at Nice.  She—oh, Lucy! you will be surprised—she is a Plymouth sister!’

‘Rashe!—old Rashe!  We reverse the old transformation, butterflies into grubs!’ cried Lucy, with somewhat spasmodic laughter.  ‘Tell me how the wonder came about.’

‘I know little about it,’ said Phœbe.  ‘Miss Charlecote thought most likely it was the first earnest kind of religion that presented itself when she was craving for some such help.’

‘Did Honor make such a liberal remark?  There, I am sorry I said it; but let me hear of dear old Rashe.  Has it made her very grim?’