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

‘And you worked for them.’

‘After a fashion,’ he said, smiling.  ‘Spade-husbandry alone is very poor earth-scratching; and I don’t really know whether, between that and my gun, we could have got through this winter.’

‘What a life!’ exclaimed Phœbe.  ‘Realities, indeed!’

‘It is only what many colonists undergo,’ he answered; ‘if they do not prosper, it is a very hard life, and the shifting hopes render it the more trying to those who are not bred to it.’

‘And to those that are?’ she asked.

‘To those that are there are many compensations.  It is a free out-of-doors life, and the glorious sense of extent and magnificence in our woods, the sport one has there, the beauty of our autumns, and our white, grand, silent winters, make it a life well worth living.’

‘And would these have made you content to be a backwoodsman all your life?’

‘I cannot tell,’ he said.  ‘They—and the boys—were my delight when I was one.  And, after all, I used to recollect it was a place where there was a clear duty to do, and so, perhaps, safer than what fancy or choice would point at.’

‘But you are very glad not to be still condemned to it.’

‘Heartily glad not to be left to try to prop up a tumble-down log-hut with my own shoulder,’ he laughed.  ‘This journey to England has been the great desire of my life, and I am very thankful to have had it brought about.’

The conversation was broken off by Robert’s entrance.  Finding that it was nearly nine o’clock, he went up-stairs to remind Miss Charlecote that tea had long been awaiting her, and presently brought her back from the silent watch by Owen’s side that had hitherto seemed to be rest and comfort to all the three.

Owen had begged that his cup might be sent up by his friend, on whom he was very dependent, and it was agreed that Mr. Randolf should sleep in his room, and remain as a guest at Woolstone-lane until Mr. Currie should come to town.  Indeed, Miss Charlecote relied on him for giving the physician an account of the illness which Owen, at his best, could not himself describe; and she cordially thanked him for his evidently devoted attendance, going over every particular with him, but still so completely absorbed in her patient as to regard him in no light but as an appendage necessary to her boy.

‘How did you get on with the backwoodsman, Phœbe?’ asked Lucilla, when she came down to tea.

‘I think he is a sterling character,’ said Phœbe, in a tone of grave, deep thought, not quite as if answering the question, and with an observable deepening of the red of her cheek.

‘You quaint goose!’ said Lucy, with a laugh that jarred upon Honor, who turned round at her with a look of reproachful surprise.

‘Indeed, Honor dear,’ she said, in self-vindication, ‘I am not hard-hearted!  I am only very much relieved!  I don’t think half so badly of poor Owen as I expected to do; and if we can keep Mrs. Murrell from driving him distracted, I expect to see him mend fast.’

Robert confirmed her cheerful opinion, but their younger and better prognostications fell sadly upon Honora’s ear.  She had been too much grieved and shocked to look for recovery, and all that she dared to expect was to tend her darling’s feebleness, her best desire was that his mind might yet have power to embrace the hope of everlasting Life ere he should pass away from her.  Let this be granted, and she was prepared to be thankful, be his decay never so painful to witness and attend.

She could not let Robert leave her that night without a trembling question whether he had learnt how it was with Owen on this point.  He had not failed to inquire of the engineer, but he could tell her very little.  Owen’s conduct had been unexceptionable, but he had made scarcely any demonstration or profession, and on the few occasions when opinions were discussed, spoke not irreverently, but in a tone of one who regretted and respected the tenets that he no longer held.  Since his accident, he had been too weak and confused to dwell on any subjects but those of the moment; but he had appeared to take pleasure in the unobtrusive, though decided religious habits of young Randolf.

There she must rest for the present, and trust to the influence of home, perhaps to that of the shadow of death.  At least he was the child of many prayers, and had not Lucilla returned to her changed beyond her hopes?  Let it be as it would, she could not but sleep in gratitude that both her children were again beneath her roof.

She was early dressed, and wishing the backwoodsman were anywhere but in Owen’s room.  However, to her joy, the door was open, and Owen called her in, looking so handsome as he lay partly raised by pillows, that she could hardly believe in his condition, except for his weak, subdued voice.

‘Yes, I am much better this morning.  I have slept off the headache, and have been enjoying the old sounds!’

‘Where is your friend?’

‘Rushed off to look at St. Paul’s through the shaking of doormats, and pay his respects to the Thames.  He has none of the colonial nil admirari spirit, but looks at England as a Greek colonist would have looked at Athens.  I only regret that the reality must tame his raptures.  I told him to come back by breakfast-time.’

‘He will lose his way.’

‘Not he!  You little know the backwood’s power of topography!  Even I could nearly rival some of the Arab stories, and he could guide you anywhere—or after any given beast in the Newcastle district.  Honor, you must know and like him.  He really is the New World Charlecote whom you always held over our heads.’

‘I thought you called him Randolf?’

‘That is his surname, but his Christian name is Humfrey Charlecote, from his grandfather.  His mother was the lady my father told you of.  He saved an old Bible out of the fire, with it all in the fly-leaf.  He shall show it to you, and it can be easily confirmed by writing to the places.  I would have gone myself, if I had not been the poor creature I am.’

‘Yes, my dear,’ said Honora, ‘I dare say it is so.  I am very glad you found so attentive a friend.  I am most thankful to him for his care of you.’

‘And you accept him as a relation,’ said Owen, anxiously.

‘Yes, oh, yes,’ said Honor.  ‘Would you like anything before breakfast?’

Owen answered with a little plaintiveness.  Perhaps he was disappointed at this cold acquiescence; but it was not a moment at which Honor could face the thought of a colonial claimant of the Holt.  With Owen helpless upon her hands, she needed both a home and ample means to provide for him and his sister and child; and the American heir, an unwelcome idea twenty years previously, when only a vague possibility, was doubly undesirable when long possession had endeared her inheritance to her, when he proved not even to be a true Charlecote, and when her own adopted children were in sore want of all that she could do for them.  The evident relinquishment of poor Owen’s own selfish views on the Holt made her the less willing to admit a rival, and she was sufficiently on the borders of age to be pained by having the question of heirship brought forward.  And she knew, what Owen did not, that, if this youth’s descent were indeed what it was said to be, he represented the elder line, and that even Humfrey had wondered what would be his duty in the present contingency.

‘Nonsense!’ said she to herself.  ‘There is no need as yet to think of it!  The place is my own by every right!  Humfrey told me so!  I will take time to see what this youth may be, and make sure of his relationship.  Then, if it be right and just, he shall come after me.  But I will not raise expectations, nor notice him more than as Owen’s friend and a distant kinsman.  It would be fatally unsettling to do more.’

Owen urged her no farther.  Either he had not energy to enforce any point for long together, or he felt that the succession might be a delicate subject, for he let her lead to his personal affairs, and he was invalid enough to find them fully engrossing.

The Canadian came in punctually, full of animation and excitement, of which Phœbe had the full benefit, till he was called to help Owen to dress.  While this was going on, Robert came into the drawing-room to breathe, after the hard task of pacifying Mrs. Murrell.

‘What are you going to do to-day, Phœbe?’ he asked.  ‘Have you got through your shopping?’

‘Some of it.  Do you mean that you could come out with me?’

‘Yes; you will never get through business otherwise.’

‘Then if you have an afternoon to spare, could not we take Mr. Randolf to the Tower?’

‘Why, Phœbe!’

‘He has only to-day at liberty, and is so full of eagerness about all the grand old historical places, that it seems hard that he should have to find his way about alone, with no one to sympathize with him—half the day cut up, too, with nursing Owen.’

‘He seems to have no difficulty in finding his way.’

‘No; but I really should enjoy showing him the old armour.  He was asking me about it this morning.  I think he knows nearly as much of it as we do.’

‘Very well.  I say, Phœbe, would you object to my taking Brown and Clay—my two head boys?  I owe them a treat, and they would just enter into this.’

Phœbe was perfectly willing to accept the two head boys, and the appointment had just been made when the doctor arrived.  Again he brought good hope.  From his own examination of Owen, and from Mr. Randolf’s report, he was convinced that a considerable amelioration had taken place, and saw every reason to hope that in so young and vigorous a nature the injury to the brain might be completely repaired, and the use of the limbs might in part, at least, return, though full recovery could not be expected.  He wished to observe his patient for a month or six weeks in town, that the course of treatment might be decided, after which he had better be taken to the Holt, to enjoy the pure air, and be out of doors as much as the season would permit.

To Honor this opinion was the cause of the deepest, most thankful gladness; but on coming back to Owen she found him sitting in his easy-chair, with his hand over his eyes, and his look full of inexpressible dejection and despondency.  He did not, however, advert to the subject, only saying, ‘Now then! let us have in the young pauper to see the old one.’

‘My dear Owen, you had better rest.’

‘No, no; let us do the thing.  The grandmother, too!’ he said impatiently.

‘I will fetch little Owen; but you really are not fit for Mrs. Murrell.’

‘Yes, I am; what am I good for but such things?  It will make no difference, and it must be done.’

‘My boy, you do not know to what you expose yourself.’