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

Phœbe could not but think it rather hard when, on the last afternoon of Humfrey Randolf’s visit, there came a note from Mervyn ordering her up to Beauchamp to arrange some special contrivances of his for Cecily’s morning-room—her mother’s, which gave it an additional pang.  It was a severe, threatening, bitterly cold day, not at all fit for sliding, even had not both the young ladies and Miss Fennimore picked up a suspicion of cold; but Phœbe had no doubt that there would be a farewell visit, and did not like to lose it.

‘Take the pony carriage, and you will get home faster,’ said Bertha, answering what was unspoken.

No; the groom sent in word that the ponies were gone to be rough-shod, and that one of them had a cold.

‘Never mind,’ said Phœbe, cheerfully; ‘I shall be warmer walking.’

And she set off, with a lingering will, but a step brisk under her determination that her personal wishes should never make her neglect duty or kindness.  She did not like to think that he would be disappointed, but she had a great trust in his trust in herself, and a confidence, not to be fretted away, that some farewell would come to pass, and that she should know when to look for him again.

Scanty sleety flakes of snow were falling before her half-hour’s walk was over, and she arrived at the house, where anxious maids were putting their last touches of preparation for the mistress.  It was strange not to feel more strongly the pang of a lost home; and had not Phœbe been so much preoccupied, perhaps it would have affected her strongly, with all her real joy at Cecily’s installation; but there were new things before her that filled her mind too full for regrets for the rooms where she had grown up.  She only did her duty scrupulously by Cecily’s writing-table, piano, and pictures, and then satisfied the housekeeper by a brief inspection of the rooms, more laudatory than particular.  She rather pitied Cecily, after her comfortable parsonage, for coming to all those state drawing-rooms.  If it had been the west wing, now!

By this time the snow was thicker, and the park beginning to whiten.  The housekeeper begged her to wait and order out the carriage, but she disliked giving trouble, and thought that an unexpected summons might be tardy of fulfilment, so she insisted on confronting the elements, confident in her cloak and india-rubber boots, and secretly hoping that the visitor at the cottage might linger on into the twilight.

As she came beyond the pillars of the portico, such a whirl of snow met her that she almost questioned the prudence of her decision, when a voice said, ‘It is only the drift round the corner of the house.’

‘You here?’

‘Your sister gave me leave to come and see you home through the snow-storm.’

‘Oh, thank you!  This is the first time you have been here,’ she added, feeling as if her first words had been too eagerly glad.

‘Yes, I have only seen the house from a distance before.  I did not know how large it was.  Which part did you inhabit?’

‘There—the west wing—shut up now, poor thing!’

‘And where was the window where you saw the horse and cart?  Yes, you see I know that story; which was your window?’

‘The nearest to the main body of the house.  Ah! it is a dear old window.  I have seen many better things from it than that!’

‘What kind of things?’

‘Sunsets and moonsets, and the Holt firs best of all.’

‘Yes, I know better now what you meant by owing all to Miss Charlecote,’ he said, smiling.  ‘I owe something to her, too.’

‘Oh, is she going to help you on?’ cried Phœbe.

‘No, I do not need that.  What I owe to her is—knowing you.’

It had come, then!  The first moment of full assurance of what had gleamed before; and yet the shock, sweet as it was, was almost pain, and Phœbe’s heart beat fast, and her downcast look betrayed that the full force of his words—and still more, of his tone—had reached her.

‘May I go on?’ he said.  ‘May I dare to tell you what you are to me?  I knew, from the moment we met, that you were what I had dreamt of—different, but better.’

‘I am sure I knew that you were!’ escaped from Phœbe, softly, but making her face burn, as at what she had not meant to say.

‘Then you can bear with me?  You do not forbid me to hope.’

‘Oh! I am a great deal too happy!’

There came a great wailing, driving gust of storm at that moment, as if it wanted to sweep them off their feet, but it was a welcome blast, for it was the occasion of a strong arm being flung round Phœbe, to restrain that fluttering cloak.  ‘Storms shall only blow us nearer together, dearest,’ he said, with recovered breath, as, with no unwilling hand, she clung to his arm for help.

‘If it be God’s will,’ said Phœbe, earnestly.

‘And indeed,’ he said, fervently, ‘I have thought and debated much whether it were His will; whether it could be right, that I, with my poverty and my burthens, should thrust myself into your wealthy and sheltered life.  At first, when I thought you were a poor dependent, I admitted the hope.  I saw you spirited, helpful, sensible, and I dared to think that you were of the stuff that would gladly be independent, and would struggle on and up with me, as I have known so many do in my own country.’

‘Oh! would I not?’

‘Then I found how far apart we stand in one kind of social scale, and perhaps that ought to have overthrown all hope; but, Phœbe, it will not do so!  I will not ask you to share want and privation, but I will and do ask you to be the point towards which I may work, the best earthly hope set before me.’

‘I am glad,’ said Phœbe, ‘that you knew too well to think there was any real difference.  Indeed, the superiority is all yours, except in mere money.  And mine, I am sure, need not stand in the way, but there is one thing that does.’

‘What?  Your brothers?’

‘I do not know.  It is my sister Maria.  I promised long ago that nothing should make me desert her;’ and, with a voice faltering a little, but endeavouring to be firm, ‘a promise to fulfil a duty appointed by Providence must not he repented of when the cost is felt.’

‘But why should you think of deserting her?’ he said.  ‘Surely I may help to bear your cares; and there is something so good, so gentle and lovable about her, that she need be no grievance.  I shall have to bring my little brothers about you, too, so we shall be even,’ he added, smiling.

‘Then,’ she said, looking in his face as beginning to take counsel with him, ‘you think it is right to assume a new tie that must have higher claims than the prior one that Heaven sent me.’

‘Nay, dearest, is not the new one instituted by Heaven?  If I promise that I will be as entirely Maria’s brother as you are her sister, and will reverence her affliction, or more truly her innocence, in the same way, will you not trust her, as well as yourself, with me?’

‘Trust, oh! indeed I do, and am thankful.  But I am thinking of you!  Poor dear Maria might be a drag, where I should not!  And I cannot leave her to any of the others.  She could not be long without me.’

‘Well, faithless one, we may have to wait the longer; though I feel that you alone would be happiest fighting up the hill with me.’

‘Oh, thank you for knowing that so well.’

‘But as we both have these ties, and as, besides, I should be a shabby adventurer to address you but on equal terms, we must be content to wait till—as with God’s blessing I trust to do—I have made a home smooth enough for Maria as well as for you!  Will that do, Phœbe?’

‘Somehow it seems too much,’ murmured Phœbe; ‘and yet I knew it of you.’

‘And as you both have means of your own, it may bring the time nearer,’ he said.  ‘There, you see I can calculate on your fortune, though I still wish it were out of the way.’

‘If it were not for Maria, I should.’

‘And now with this hope and promise, I feel as if, even if it were seven years, they would be like so many days,’ said Humfrey.  ‘You will not be of those, my Phœbe, who suffer and are worn by a long engagement?’

‘One cannot tell without a trial,’ said Phœbe; ‘but indeed I do not see why security and rest, or even hope deferred, should hurt me.  Surely, having a right to think about you cannot do so?’

And her look out of those honest clear gray eyes was one of the most perfect reliance and gladness.

‘May I be worthy of those thoughts!’ he fervently said.  ‘And you will write to me—even when I go back to the Ottawa?’

‘I shall be so glad to tell you everything, and have your letters!  Oh! no, with them I am not going to pine’—and her strong young nature laughed at the folly.

‘And while God gives me strength, we will not be afraid,’ he answered.  ‘Phœbe, I looked at the last chapter of Proverbs last night, and thought you were like that woman of strength and skill on whose “lips is the law of kindness.”  And “you are not afraid of the snow,” as if to complete the likeness.’

‘I did not quite know it was snowing.  I like it, for it suits your country.’