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

Owen’s first hearty laugh since his return was at her tidings.  That over, he spoke with brotherly kindness.

‘Yes, Lucy,’ he said, ‘I do think it is the best and happiest thing for you.  He is the only man whom you could not torment to death, or who would have any patience with your antics.’

‘I don’t think I shall try,’ said Lucy.  ‘What are you shaking your head for, Owen?  Have I not had enough to tame me?’

‘I beg your pardon, Cilly.  I was only thinking of the natural companionship of bears and monkeys.  Don’t beat me!’

‘Some day you shall come out and see us perform, that’s all,’ said Lucilla, merrily.  ‘But indeed, Owen, if I know myself at all, unmerited affection and forbearance, with no nonsense about it, is the only way to keep me from flying out.  At any rate, I can’t live without it!’

‘Ah!’ said Owen, gravely, ‘you have suffered too much through me for me to talk to you in this fashion.  Forgive me, Lucy; I am not up to any other, just yet.’

Whatever Lucilla might have said in the first relief of recovering Mr. Prendergast, she could not easily have made up her mind to leave her brother in his present condition, and flattered herself that the ‘at once’ could not possibly be speedy, since Mr. Prendergast must give notice of his intention of leaving Wrapworth.

But when he came the next morning, it proved that things were in a far greater state of forwardness than she had thought possible.  So convinced were both the curate and Robert of the need of her avoiding the winter cold, that the latter had suggested that one of his own curates, who was in need of change and country air, should immediately offer himself as a substitute at Wrapworth, either for a time or permanently, and Lucy was positively required to name a day as early as possible for the marriage, and told, on the authority of the physician, that it might almost be called suicide to linger in the English frosts.

The day which she chose was the 1st of December, the same on which Mervyn was to be married.  There was a purpose in thus rendering it impracticable for any Fulmort to be present; ‘And,’ said Owen, ‘I am glad it should be before I am about.  I could never keep my countenance if I had to give her away to brother Peter!’

‘Keeping his countenance’ might have two meanings, but he was too feeble for agitation, and seemed only able to go through the time of preparation and parting, by keeping himself as lethargic and indifferent as possible, or by turning matters into a jest when necessarily brought before him.  Playing at solitaire, or trifling desultory chat, was all that he could endure as occupation, and the long hours were grievously heavy.  His son, though nearly four years old, was no companion or pleasure to him.  He was, in his helpless and morbid state, afraid of so young a child, and little Owen was equally afraid of him; each dreaded contact with the other, and more than all the being shut into a room together; and the little boy, half shy, half assured, filled by the old woman with notions of his own grandeur, and yet constrained by the different atmosphere of Woolstone-lane, was never at ease or playful enough before him to be pleasant to watch.  And, indeed, his Cockney pronunciation and ungainly vulgar tricks had been so summarily repressed by his aunt, that his fear of both the ladies rendered him particularly unengaging and unchildlike.  Nevertheless, Honora thought it her duty to take him home with her to the Holt, and gratified Robert by engaging a nice little girl of fourteen, whom Lucilla called the crack orphan, to be his attendant when they should leave town.  This was to be about a fortnight after the wedding, since St. Wulstan’s afforded greater opportunities for privacy and exemption from bustle than even Hiltonbury, and Dr. Prendergast and his daughter could attend without being in the house.

The Prendergasts of Southminster were very kind and friendly, sending Lucilla warm greetings, and not appearing at all disconcerted at welcoming their former governess into the family.  The elders professed no surprise, but great gladness; and Sarah, who was surprised, was trebly rejoiced.  Owen accused his sister of selecting her solitary bridesmaid with a view to enhancing her own beauty by force of contrast; but the choice was prompted by real security of the affectionate pleasure it would confer.  Handsome presents were sent both by the Beaumonts and Bostocks, and Lucilla, even while half fretted, half touched by Mrs. Bostock’s patronizing felicitations, could not but be pleased at these evidences that her governess-ship had not been an utter failure.

Her demeanour in the fortnight before her marriage was unlike what her friends had ever seen, and made them augur better for Mr. Prendergast’s venture.  She was happy, but subdued; quiet and womanly, gentle without being sad, grave but not drooping; and though she was cheerful and playful, with an entire absence of those strange effervescences that had once betrayed acidity or fermentation.  She had found the power of being affectionately grateful to Honor, and the sweetness of her tender ways towards her and Owen would have made the parting all the sadder to them if it had not been evident that, as she said, it was happiness that thus enabled her to be good.  The satisfied look of rest that had settled on her fair face made it new.  All her animation and archness had not rendered it half so pleasant to look upon.

The purchaser of Castle Blanch proved to be no other than Mr. Calthorp!  Lucilla at first was greatly discomfited, and begged that nothing might be said about the picture; but the next time Mr. Prendergast arrived, it was with a request from Mr. Calthorp that Miss Sandbrook would accept the picture as a wedding gift!  There was no refusing it—indeed, the curate had already accepted it; and when Lucilla heard that ‘the Calthorp’ had been two years married to what Mr. Prendergast called ‘a millionairess, exceedingly hideous,’ she still had vanity enough to reflect that the removal of her own resemblance might be an act of charity!  And the sum that Honor had set apart for the purchase was only too much wanted for the setting up housekeeping in Spain, whither the portrait was to accompany her, Mr. Prendergast declared, like the Penates of the pious Æneas!

Robert brought in his gift on the last day of November, just before setting off for Sutton.  It was an unornamented, but exquisitely-bound Bible and Prayer Book, dark-brown, with red-edged leaves.

‘Good-bye, Lucilla,’ he said; ‘you have been the brightest spot to me in this life.  Thank you for all you have done for me.’

‘And for all I never intended to do?’ said Lucilla, smiling, as she returned his pressure of the hand.

He was gone, not trusting her to speak, nor himself to hear a word more.

‘Yes, Robin,’ proceeded Lucy, half aloud, ‘you are the greater man, I know very well; but it is in human nature to prefer flesh and blood to mediæval saints in cast-iron, even if one knows there is a tender spot in them.’

There was a curious sense of humiliation in her full acquiescence in the fact that he was too high, too grand for her, and in her relief, that the affection, that would have lifted her beyond what she was prepared for, had died away, and left her to the more ordinary excellence and half-paternal fondness of the man of her real choice, with whom she could feel perfect ease and repose.  Possibly the admixture of qualities that in her had been called fast is the most contrary to all real aspiration!

But there was no fault to be found with the heartfelt affection with which she loved and honoured her bridegroom, lavishing on him the more marks of deference and submission just because she knew that her will would be law, and that his love was strong enough to have borne with any amount of caprice or seeming neglect.  The sacrifices she made, without his knowledge, for his convenience and comfort, while he imagined hers to be solely consulted, the concessions she made to his slightest wish, the entire absence of all teasing, would not have been granted to a younger man more prepossessing in the sight of others.

It was in this spirit that she rejected all advice to consult health rather than custom in her wedding dress.  Exactly because Mr. Prendergast would have willingly received her in the plainest garb, she was bent on doing him honour by the most exquisite bridal array; and never had she been so lovely—her colour such exquisite carnation, her eyes so softened, and full of such repose and reliance, her grace so perfect in complete freedom from all endeavour at attracting admiration.

The married pair came back from church to Owen’s sitting-room—not bear and monkey, not genie and fairy, as he had expected to see; but as they stood together, looking so indescribably and happily one, that Owen smiled and said, ‘Ah! Honor, if you had only known twenty years ago that this was Mrs. Peter Prendergast, how much trouble it would have saved.’

‘She did not deserve to be Mrs. Peter Prendergast,’ said the bride.

‘See how you deserve it now.’

‘That I never shall!’

Brother and sister parted with light words but full hearts, each trying to believe, though neither crediting Mr. Prendergast’s assurance that the two Owens should come and be at home for ever if they liked in Santa Maria de X–.  Neither could bear to face the truth that henceforth their courses lay apart, and that if the sister’s life were spared, it could only be at the sacrifice of expatriation for many years, in lands where, well or ill, the brother had no call.  Nor would Lucilla break down.  It was due to her husband not to let him think she suffered too much in resigning home for him; and true to her innate hatred of agitation, she guarded herself from realizing anything, and though perfectly kind and respectful to Honora, studiously averted all approaches to effusion of feeling.

Only at the last kiss in the hall, she hung round her friend with a vehement embrace, and whispered, ‘Forgive!  You have forgiven!’

‘Forgive me, Lucilla!’

‘Nay, that I have forgiven you for all your pardon and patience is shown by my enduring to leave Owen to you now.’

Therewith surged up such a flood of passionate emotions that, fleeing from them as it were, the bride tore herself out of Honor’s arms, and sprang hastily into the carriage, nervously and hastily moving about its contents while Mr. Prendergast finished his farewells.

After all, there was a certain sense of rest, snugness, and freedom from turmoil, when Honor dried her eyes and went back to her convalescent.  The house seemed peaceful, and they both felt themselves entering into the full enjoyment of being all in all to one another.

There was one guest at the Sutton wedding whose spirit was at St. Wulstan’s.  In those set eyes, and tightly-closed lips, might be traced abstraction in spite of himself.  Were there not thoughts and prayers for another bride, elsewhere kneeling?  Was not the solitary man struggling with the last remnants of fancies at war with his life of self-devotion, and crushing down the few final regrets, that would have looked back to the dreams of his youth.  No marvel that his greatest effort was against being harsh and unsympathizing, even while his whole career was an endeavour to work through charities of deed and word into charities of thought and judgment.

CHAPTER XXX

Untouched by love, the maiden’s breast
Is like the snow on Rona’s crest
High seated in the middle sky,
In bright and barren purity;
But by the sunbeam gently kissed,
Scarce by the gazing eye ’tis missed,
Ere down the lonely valley stealing,
Fresh grass and growth its course revealing;
It cheers the flock, revives the flower,
And decks some happy shepherd’s bower.

    —Scott

Slow to choose, but decided in her choice, Phœbe had always been, and her love formed no exception to this rule.  She was quite aware that her heart had been given away, and never concealed it from herself, though she made it a principle not to indulge in future castle buildings, and kept a resolute guard over her attention.  It was impossible to obviate a perpetual feeling of restlessness and of tedium in whatever she was about; but she conquered oftener than she gave way, and there was an indescribable sense of peace and sweetness in a new and precious possession, and an undefined hope through all.

Miss Fennimore, who came the day after the girls’ return from Sutton, saw only the fuller development of her favourite pupil, and, in truth, Maria and Bertha had so ineffably much to narrate, that her attention would have been sufficiently engrossed to hinder her observation of the symptoms, even had the good lady been as keen and experienced in love as in science.

Poor little Phœbe! equable as she was, she was in a great perturbation when, four days before Christmas, she knew that Miss Charlecote, with Owen Sandbrook and Humfrey Randolf, had arrived at the Holt.  What was so natural as for her to go at once to talk over the two weddings with her dear old friend?  Yes, but did her dear old friend want her, when these two young men had put an end to her solitude?  Was she only making Miss Charlecote an excuse?  She would wait in hopes that one of the others would ask if she were going to the Holt!  If so, it could not but be natural and proper—if not—  This provoking throbbing of her heart showed that it was not only for Honor Charlecote that she wished to go.

That ring at the bell!  What an abominable goose she was to find a flush of expectation in her cheek!  And after all it was only Sir John.  He had found that his son had heard nothing from the Holt that morning, and had come in to ask if she thought a call would be acceptable.  ‘I knew they were come home,’ he said, ‘for I saw them at the station yesterday.  I did not show myself, for I did not know how poor young Sandbrook might like it.  But who have they got with them?’

‘Mr. Randolf, Owen Sandbrook’s Canadian friend.’

‘Did I not hear he was some sort of relation?’

‘Yes; his mother was a Charlecote.’

‘Ha! that accounts for it.  Seeing him with her, I could almost have thought it was thirty years ago, and that it was my dear old friend.’

Phœbe could have embraced Sir John.  She could not conceal her glow of delight so completely that Bertha did not laugh and say, ‘Mr. Charlecote is what the Germans would call Phœbe’s Bild.  She always blushes and looks conscious if he is mentioned.’

Sir John laughed, but with some emotion, and Phœbe hastily turned her still more blushing face away.  Certainly, if Phœbe had had any prevision of her present state of mind, she never would have bought that chiffonier.

When Sir John had sufficiently admired the details of the choice little drawing-room, and had been shown by the eager sisters all over the house, he asked if Phœbe would walk up with him to the Holt.  He had hoped his eldest son, who had ridden over with him, would have come in, and gone up with them, but he supposed Charlie had seized on him.  (Poor Sir John, his attempt at match-making did not flourish.)  However, he had secured Phœbe’s most intense gratitude by his proposal, and down she came, a very pretty picture, in her dark brown dress, scarlet cloak, and round, brown felt hat, with the long, curly, brown feather tipped with scarlet, her favourite winter robin colouring.  Her cheeks were brilliant, and her eyes not only brighter, but with a slight drooping that gave them the shadiness they sometimes wanted.  And it was all from a ridiculous trepidation which made it well-nigh impossible to bring out what she was longing to say—‘So you think Mr. Randolf like Mr. Charlecote.’