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

‘I dare say.  It is right that I should bear it!’

‘And the maid said that there had been a gentleman speaking about it, and trying to secure it.  She thought he had written to Mr. Charteris about it.’

‘What gentleman?’ and Lucy was ready to spring back to inquire.

‘Miss Charlecote asked, and I believe it was Mr. Prendergast!’

There was a bright, though strange flickering of pleasure and pain over Cilla’s face, and her eyelids quivered as she said, ‘Yes—yes—of course; but he must not—he must not do it!  He cannot afford it!  I cannot let him!’

‘Perhaps your cousin only needed to be reminded.’

‘I have no hope of him.  Besides, he cannot help himself; but at least—I say, Phœbe, tell Honor that it is kindness itself in her; but I can’t talk about it to her—’

And Lucilla’s steps sprang up-stairs, as desirous to escape the sight and speech of all.

After the melancholy round of deserted bedrooms, full of bitter recollections, Lucilla again descended first, and at the door met the curate.  After a few words, she turned, and said, ‘Mr. Prendergast would row us down to the vicarage, if you liked.’

‘Indeed, my dear,’ said Honor, unwillingly, ‘I am afraid of the cold on the water for you.’

‘Then pray let me walk across the park!’ she said imploringly; and Miss Charlecote yielded rather than try her submission too severely, though dreading her over-fatigue, and set off with Phœbe in the fly.

‘You are sure it is not too far for you?’ asked the curate.

‘Quite.  You know I always used to fly upon Wrapworth turf.’  After some silence—‘I know what you have been doing,’ she said, with a choking voice.

‘About the picture?  I am sorry you do.’

‘It is of no use for you to know that your cousin has no more heart than a lettuce run to seed.’

‘When I knew that before, why may I not know that there are others not in the same case?’ she said, with full heart and eyes.

‘Because the sale must take place, and the purchaser may be a brute, so it may end in disappointment.’

‘It can’t end in disappointment.’

‘It may be far beyond my means,’ continued the curate, as if he had been answering her importunities for a new doll.

‘That I know it is,’ she said.  ‘If it can be done at all, the doing of it may be left to Miss Charlecote—it is an expiation I owe to her generous spirit.’

‘You would rather she did it than I?’ he asked, mortified.

‘Nay—didn’t I tell you that I let her do it as an expiation.  Does not that prove what it costs me?’

‘Then why not—’ he began.

‘Because,’ she interrupted, ‘in the first place, you have no idea of the price of Lawrence’s portraits; and, in the second, it is so natural that you should be kind to me that it costs even my proud spirit—just nothing at all’—and again she looked up to him with beamy, tearful eyes, and quivering, smiling lip.

‘What, it is still a bore to live with Miss Charlecote,’ cried he, in his rough eagerness.

‘Don’t use such words,’ she answered, smiling.  ‘She is all kindness and forgiveness, and what can it be but my old vixen spirit that makes this hard to bear?’

‘Cilla!’ he said.

‘Well?’

‘Cilla!’

‘Well?’

‘I have a great mind to tell you why I came to Southminster.’

‘To look at a living?’

‘To look at you.  If I had found you pining and oppressed, I had thought of asking if you could put up with your father’s old friend.’

She looked with eyes of wonder, drew her arm away, and stood still, partly bewildered.  ‘You didn’t?’ she said, half in interrogation.

‘I saw my mistake; you were too young and gay.  But, Cilla,’ he added, more tremulously, ‘if you do wish for a home—’

‘Don’t, don’t!’ she cried; ‘I can’t have you talk as if I only wanted a home!’

‘And indeed I have none as yet,’ he said.  ‘But do you indeed mean that you could think of it?’—and he came nearer.

‘It!  Nonsense!  Of you!’ she vehemently exclaimed.  ‘How could you think of anything else?’

‘Cilla,’ he said, in great agitation, ‘let me know what you are saying.  Don’t drive me crazy when it is not in the nature of things you should mean it!’

‘Why not?’ asked Lucilla.  ‘It is only too good for me.’

‘Is it true, then?’ he said, as he took both her hands in his.  ‘Is it true that you understand me, and are willing to be—to be my own—darling charge?’

‘Oh, it would be such rest!’

It was as if the storm-tossed bird was folding its weary wing in perfect calm and confidence.  Nor could he contain his sudden joy, but spoke incoherent words, and well-nigh wept over her.

‘How did you come to think of it?’ exclaimed she, as, the first gush of feeling over, they walked on arm-in-arm.

‘I thought of it from the moment when I hoped I might be a resource, a comforter at least.’

‘Not before?’ was the rather odd question.

‘No.  The place was forlorn enough without you; but I was not such a fool as to think of a young beauty, and all that.’

‘All that meaning my wickedness,’ said Lucilla.  ‘Tell me again.  You always did like the sprite even when it was wicked, only you were too good and right-minded.’

‘Too old and too poor.’

‘She is old and poor now,’ said Cilla; ‘worn out and washed out into a mere rag.  And you like her the better?’