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

It was wonderful how much freshened Lucy was by this brief contact with Phœbe’s clear, practical mind; but only for the time.  Ever since her arrival at the Holt she had sadly flagged, though making every effort against her depression.  There was something almost piteous in her obedience and submission.  All the employments once pressed upon her and then spurned, were solicitously resumed; or if Honor remonstrated against them as over-fatiguing, were relinquished in the same spirit of resigned meekness.  Her too visible desire to make an onerous atonement pressed with equal weight on both, and the essential want of sympathy rendered the confidences of the one mysteries to the other.

Honora was grieved that her child had only returned to pine and droop, charging much of her melancholy lassitude upon Robert, and waiting on her with solicitude and tenderness that were unhappily only an additional oppression; and all Lucilla’s aversion to solitude did not prevent her friend’s absence from being a relief.  It was all that she could at present desire to be released from the effort of being companionable, and be able to indulge her languor without remark, her wayward appetite without causing distress, and her dejection without caresses, commiseration, or secret imputations on Robert.

Tidings came from Vancouver’s Land of her uncle’s death by an accident.  Long as it was since she had seen him, the loss was deeply felt.  She better appreciated what his care of her father had been, and knew better what gratitude he deserved, and it was a sore disappointment that he should not live to see her prove her repentance for all her flightiness and self-will.  Moreover, his death, without a son, would enable his nephew to alienate the family estate; and Lucy looked on this as direful shame and humiliation.  Still there was something soothing in having a sorrow that could be shared with Miss Charlecote; and the tangible cause for depression and retirement was a positive comfort.

‘Trouble’ was the chief dread of her wearied spirit; and though she had exerted herself to devise and work the banners, she could not attempt being present at the grand Forest show, and marvelled to see Honor set off, with twice her years and more than twice her sorrows, yet full of the fresh eagerness of youthful anticipation, and youthful regrets at leaving her behind, and at having nothing to figure at the show!

But vegetables were not the order of that day, the most memorable the Forest had perhaps ever known, since six bold Lancastrian outlaws had there been hung, on the very knoll where the flag of England was always hoisted, superior to the flags of all the villages.

The country population and the exhibitors were all early in the field, and on the watch for the great feature of the day—the Londoners.  What cheering rent the air as the first vehicle from the little Forest station appeared, an old stage-coach, clustered within and without by white bibs, tippets, and caps, blue frocks, and grave, demure faces, uncertain whether to be charmed or frightened at their elevation and reception, and almost dazzled by the bright sunshine and pure air, to their perception absolutely thin, though heavy laden with the scents of new-mown hay and trodden ferns.

The horses are stopped, down springs Mr. Parsons from the box, releases the staid mistress from within, lifts or jumps down the twenty girls, and watches them form in well-accustomed file, their banner at their head, just pausing to be joined by the freight of a rattling omnibus, the very roof laden with the like little Puritan damsels.  The conveyances turn back for another load, the procession is conducted slowly away, through the road lined by troops of country children, regarding the costume as the latest London fashion, and holding out many an eager gift of nosegays of foxgloves, marigolds, southernwood, and white pinks.  Meanwhile break, cart, fly, van, barouche, gig, cart, and wagon continue in turn to discharge successive loads, twenty children to each responsible keeper.  White caps are over!  Behold the parish school of St. Wulstan’s.  Here is fashion!  Here are hats, polkas, and full short skirts, but pale faces and small limbs.  The country mothers cry ‘Oh!’ and ‘Poor little dears, they look very tuly,’ and complacently regard their own sturdy, sunburnt offspring, at whose staring eyes and ponderous boots the city mice glance with disdain.

Endless stream!  Here waves a proud blue banner, wrought with a noble tortoiseshell cat; and behind it, each class led by a cat-flag, marches the Whittingtonian line, for once no ragged regiment, but arrayed by their incumbent’s three sisters in lilac cotton and straw bonnets, not concealing, however, the pinched and squalid looks of the denizens of the over-crowded lanes and alleys.

That complaint cannot be made of these sixteen wearers of gray frocks and checked jackets.  Stunted indeed they are, several with the expressionless, almost featureless, visages of hereditary misery, others with fearfully refined loveliness, but all are plump, well-fed, and at ease.  They come from the orphanage of St. Matthew’s, under the charge of the two ladies who walk with them, leading two lesser younglings, all but too small to be brought to the festival.  Yes, these are the waifs and strays, of home and parents absolutely unknown, whom Robert Fulmort has gathered from the streets—his most hopeful conquest from the realm of darkness.

Here, all neatly, some stylishly dressed, are the St. Wulstan’s Young Women’s Association, girls from fifteen upwards, who earn their own livelihood in service or by their handiwork, but meet on Sunday afternoons to read, sing, and go to church together, have books lent out for the week, or questions set for those who like them.  It is Miss Fennimore who is the nucleus of the band; she sits with them in church, she keeps the books, writes the questions, and leads the singing; and she is walking between her two chief friends, answering their eager and intelligent questions about trees and flowers, and directing their observation.

Boys! boys! boys!  Objects in flat caps and little round buttons atop, knee-breeches, and short-tailed coats, funnier to look at than their white-capped sisters, gentlemanly choristers, tidy sons of artisans and warehousemen, ragged half-tamed little street vagabonds, all file past, under curate, schoolmaster or pupil teacher, till the whole multitude is safely deposited in a large mead running into the heart of the Forest, and belonging to the ranger, Sir John Raymond, who has been busy there, with all his family, for the last three days.

Policemen guard the gates from intruders, but all can look over the low hedge at the tents at either end, the cord dividing boy from girl, and the scattered hay, on which the strangers move about, mostly mazed by the strange sights, sounds, and smells, and only the petted orphans venturing to tumble about that curious article upon the ground.  Two little sisters, however, evidently transplanted country children, sit up in a corner where they have found some flowers, fondling them and hugging them with ecstasy.

The band strikes up, and, at the appointed signal, grace is said by the archdeacon from the centre, the children are seated on the grass, and ‘the nobility, clergy, and gentry’ rush to the tents, and emerge with baskets of sandwiches of the largest dimensions, or cans full of Sir John’s beer.  The Whittingtonians devour as those that have eaten nothing this morning, the Wulstonites as though country air gave great keenness of appetite; the subdued silence of awe passes off, and voices, laughing, and play begin to betray some real enjoyment and familiarity.

Such as are not too perfectly happy in the revelry of tumbling on the grass are then paraded through the show, to gaze at peas, currants, and potatoes, pyramids of geraniums, and roses peeping through white paper.  Thence the younger ones return to play in the field; such of the elder ones as prefer walking are conducted through forest paths to gather flowers, and to obtain a closer view of that oft-described sight, a corn-field.  Some of the elder Wulstonians get up a dance, tall girls dancing together with the utmost enjoyment; but at four o’clock the band plays Dulce Domum, the captains of twenties count heads and hunt up stragglers, all gather together in their places, plum buns and tea are administered till even these thirsty souls can drink no more.  Again the files are marshalled, the banners displayed, and the procession moves towards the little Forest church, a small, low-walled, high-roofed building, enclosed by stately beeches, making a sort of outer cathedral around the little elevation where it stood in its railed-in churchyard.

Two thousand children besides spectators in a building meant for three hundred!  How came it to be devised?  There is a consultation among the clergy.  They go from one portion to another of the well-generalled army, and each division takes up a position on the ground strewn with dry beech leaves; hassocks and mats are brought to the ladies, a desk set at the gate, and a chair for the archdeacon; the choristers are brought near, and the short out-door service is begun.

How glorious and full the responses, ‘as the voice of many waters,’ and the chanted Psalms, the beautiful songs of degrees of the 27th of the month, rise with new fulness and vividness of meaning among the tall trees and sunlit foliage.  One lesson alone is read, in Charlecote Raymond’s fine, powerful voice, and many an eye is filled with tears at the words, ‘One Lord, one Faith, one Baptism, one God and Father of us all,’ as he gazes on the troops on troops of young and old, rich and poor, strangers and homeborn, all held together in that great unity, typified by the overshadowing sky, and evidenced by the burst of the Creed from every voice and every heart.

Then follow the Versicles, the Collects, the Thanksgiving, and the Blessing, and in a few warm, kind words the archdeacon calls on all to keep the bond of peace and brotherly love, and bade the strangers bear home with them the thought of the wonderful works of God.  Then—

All people that on earth do dwell,
Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice,

arises from the congregation in all its simple exultant majesty, forcing, as it were, every voice to break forth into singing unless it be choked by heart-swelling.

The last note has died away, but there is a sweet hush, as though lingering still, ere breaking the sense that this is none other than the gate of heaven.

Rattle and rumble, the vehicles are coming!  The children rise, and somewhere begins the indispensable cheer.  The gentlemen take the lead.  ‘Three times three for Mr. Fulmort!’  ‘Three cheers for Sir John Raymond!’  ‘Three for the Forest show!’  Shouting and waving of hats will never cease, the gentlemen are as crazy as the boys, and what will become of the train?

Tumble them in—hoist up the girls while mankind is still vociferous.  What’s all this, coming in at the omnibus windows?  Stand back, child, you don’t want to be set down in London!  Your nosegay, is it?  Here are the prize nosegays, prize potatoes, prize currants, prize everything showering in on the Londoners to display or feast on at home.  Many a family will have a first taste of fresh country green meat to-morrow, of such freshness, that is, as it may retain after eight hours of show and five of train.  But all is compared!  How the little girls hug their flowers.  If any nosegays reach London alive, they will be cherished to their last hour, and maybe the leaves will live in prayer-books for many a year.

Poor little things!  It has been to them apparently a rather weary and oppressive pleasure, too strange for the most part to be thoroughly enjoyed; but it will live in their memories for many a day, and as time goes on, will clear itself from the bewilderment, till it become one of the precious days that make gems on the thread of life.

Mervyn!  Where has he been all this time?  True, he once said he would see nothing of it, and seems to have kept his word.  He did not even acknowledge the cheers for Mr. Fulmort.

Is not something visible behind the broad smooth bole of yonder beech tree?  Have Mervyn and Cecily been there all the time of the evening service?

It is a remarkable fact, that though nobody has told anybody, every person who is curious, and many who are not, know who is to be Mrs. Fulmort of Beauchamp.

CHAPTER XXVII

When will you marry?
Say the bells of St. Mary.
When I get rich,
Say the bells of Shoreditch.
When will that be?
Say the bells of Stepney.
I do not know,
Says the great bell of Bow.

    —Nursery Rhyme

There was some truth in Lucilla’s view of herself and Honor as belonging to two distinct classes of development.  Honor had grown up among those who fed on Scott, Wordsworth, and Fouqué, took their theology from the British Critic, and their taste from Pugin; and moulded their opinions and practice on the past.  Lucilla and Phœbe were essentially of the new generation, that of Kingsley, Tennyson, Ruskin, and the Saturday Review.  Chivalry had given way to common sense, romance to realism, respect for antiquity to pitying patronage, the past to the future.  Perhaps the present has lost in reverence and refinement as much as it has gained in clearness and confidence!  Lucilla represented reaction, therefore her attitude was antagonistic; Phœbe was the child of the newer system, therefore she loved the elder one, and sought out the likenesses to, rather than the differences from, her own tone of thought.  And well was it that she had never let slip her hold on that broad, unchanging thread of truth, the same through all changes, making faith and principle one, though the developments in practice and shades of thought shake off the essential wisdom on which it grew, only to adopt some more fatal aberration of their own!

Thus standing between the two, Phœbe was a great help to both in understanding each other, and they were far more at ease when she was with them.  In October, all three went to Woolstone-lane for a brief stay.  Honor wished that the physician should see Lucilla before the winter, and Phœbe was glad to avail herself of the opportunity of choosing furniture and hiring servants for her new establishment, free from the interference of Lady Bannerman, who was of course at Brighton.

She had been obliged to let her sisters go to Sutton without her, as the little parsonage had not room for three guests besides Lieschen, who was more indispensable to Maria than even herself, and both the others were earnestly set upon accepting the invitation.  Cecily silenced her scruples by begging, as a proof of acceptance as a sister, that she might be intrusted with them, and promising that in her own quiet home, whence most of the family had been launched into life, they should meet with none of the excitements of merry Moorcroft; and Phœbe was obliged to resign her charge for these few weeks, and trust from Bertha’s lively letters that all was well.

Another cause which made Honor and Lucy anxious to be in London was the possibility of Owen’s arrival.  He had last been heard of on the shores of Lake Superior, when he spoke of returning as soon as the survey for a new line of railway should have been completed, and it was not unlikely that he might come even before his letter.  News would await him that he would regret as much as did his sister.  Uncle Kit’s death had enabled Charles Charteris, or rather his creditors, to advertise Castle Blanch for sale, and Lucilla, who had a more genuine affection for the place than had any of the natives, grieved extremely over the family disgrace that was causing it to pass into other hands.

She had an earnest desire to take advantage of the display of the house and grounds to pay the scenes of her youth one last visit.  The vehemence of this wish was her first recurrence to her old strength of will, and Honora beheld it as a symptom of recovery, though dreading the long and fatiguing day of emotion.  Yet it might be taken as another token of improvement that she had ceased from that instinctive caution of feebleness which had made her shrink from all exertion or agitation.

Her chest was pronounced to be in a satisfactory state, her health greatly improved; and as there was no longer need for extra precaution, the three ladies set forth together on the first fine day.

The Indian summer was in full glory, every wood arrayed in brightness; and as they drove from the Wrapworth Station, the banks of the river were surpassingly lovely, brown, red, and olive, illuminated by sprays of yellow, like fireworks, and contrasting with the vivid green of the meadows and dark blue water.  Honor recollected the fairy boat that once had floated there, and glancing at the pale girl beside her, could not but own the truth of the similitude of the crushed fire-fly; yet the fire of those days had scorched, not lighted; and it had been the mirth that tendeth to heaviness.

Cilla was gazing, with all her soul in her eyes, in silence.  She was trying to revive the sense of home that once had made her heart bound at the first glimpse of Wrapworth; but her spirit leapt up no more.  The familiar scene only impressed the sense of homelessness, and of the severance of the last tie to her father’s parish, her mother’s native place.  Honor asked if she would stop in the village.  ‘Not yet,’ she said; ‘let us have the Castle first.’

At the next turn they overtook Mr. Prendergast, and he was instantly at the carriage-door, exacting a willing promise of taking luncheon with him on the way back, a rest for which Honor was thankful, sure as she was that this visit was costing Lucy more than she had anticipated.

Without a word, she beheld the green space of park, scattered with groups of glowing trees, the elms spangled with gold, the maples blushing themselves away, the parterre a gorgeous patchwork of scarlet, lilac, and orange, the Virginian creeper hanging a crimson mantle on the cloister.  There was something inexpressibly painful in the sight of all this beauty, unheeded and cast away by the owners, and displayed as a matter of bargain and sale.  Phœbe thought of the strange, uncomfortable dream that it had been to her when she had before looked and wondered at the scene before her.  She retraced Robert’s restless form in every window, and thought how little she had then augured the fruit of what he had suffered.

The rooms were opened, and set out for inspection.  Honor and Phœbe made it their duty to occupy the chattering maid, a stranger to Lucilla, and leave her free to move through the apartments, silent and very white, as if it were a sacred duty to stand wherever she had stood, to gaze at whatever her eyes had once met.

Presently she stood still, in the dining-room, her hand grasping the back of a chair, as she looked up to a large picture of three children, two boys and a girl, fancifully dressed, and playing with flowers.  The waxen complexion, fair hair, and blue eyes of the girl were almost her own.

‘This to be sold?’ she said, turning round, and speaking for the first time.

‘O yes, ma’am!—everything, unreservedly.  That picture has been much admired—by the late Sir Thomas Lawrence, ma’am—the children of the late General Sir Christopher Charteris.’

Lucilla, whiter than before, walked quickly away.  In a few seconds Phœbe followed, and found her leaning on the balustrade of the terrace, her breathing heavily oppressed; but she smiled coldly and sternly, and tightened a stiff, cold grasp on Phœbe’s arm as she said—

‘Honor has her revenge, Phœbe!  These are the kindred for whom I broke from her!  Well, if Charles sells his birthright and his own father, I don’t know how I can complain of his selling my mother!’

‘But, Lucy, listen.  Miss Charlecote was asking about the agent.  I am sure she means to try to get it for you.’