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

‘I like it, because you are as clear, firm, and pure as my own clear crystal ice,’ he said; ‘only not quite so cold!  And now, what remains?  Must your brothers be consulted?’ he added, reluctantly.

‘It will be right that I should tell them,’ said Phœbe.  ‘From Robert I could not keep such a thing, and Mervyn has a right to know.  I cannot tell how he may take it, but I do not think that I owe him such implicit obedience as if he were my father.  And by the time you really ask for me, you know you are to be such a rising engineer that they are all to be almost as proud of you as I am!’

‘God helping me,’ he gravely answered, his eyes raised upwards, and as it were carrying with them the glance that had sought them in almost playful confidence.

And thus they looked forth upon this life.  Neither was so young as not to be aware of its trials.  She knew the sorrows of suspense, bereavement, and family disunion; and he, before his twenty-fourth year, had made experience of adversity, uncongeniality, disappointment, and severe—almost hopeless—everyday labour.  It was not in the spirit of those who had not braced on their armour, but of those who had made proof of it, that they looked bravely and cheerfully upon the battle, feeling their strength doubled as faithful companions-in-arms, and willing in that strength and trust to bear patiently with the severest trial of all—the delay of their hopes.  The cold but bracing wind, the snow driving and whirling round them in gusts, could not daunt nor quench their spirits—nay, rather gave them additional vigour and enjoyment, while even the tokens of the tempest that they bore away were of perfect dazzling whiteness.

Never was shelter less willingly attained than when the park wicket of the Underwood was reached, just as the early twilight was becoming darkness.  It was like a foretaste for Phœbe of seeing him go his own way in the storm while she waited safely housed; but they parted with grave sweet smiles, and a promise that he would snatch a moment’s farewell on the morrow.  Phœbe would rather not have been met by Bertha, at the front door, in some solicitude—‘You are come at last!  Are you wet? are you cold?’

‘Oh, no, thank you!  Don’t stand in the draught,’ said Phœbe, anxious to shake her off; but it was not to be done.  Bertha preceded her up-stairs, talking all the way in something of her old mischievous whisper.  ‘Am I in disgrace with you, too, Phœbe?  Miss Fennimore says I have committed an awful breach of propriety; but really I could not leave you to the beating of the pitiless storm alone.  I am afraid Malta’s sagacity and little paws would hardly have sufficed to dig you out of a snowdrift before life was extinct.  Are you greatly displeased with me, Phœbe?’  And being by this time in the bedroom, she faced about, shut the door, and looked full at her sister.

‘No—no—dear Bertha, not displeased in the least; only if you would go—’

‘Now, Phœbe, indeed that is not kind of you,’ said Bertha, pleadingly, but preparing to obey.

‘No, Bertha, it is not,’ said Phœbe, recovering herself in a moment.  ‘I am sorry for it; but oh! don’t you know the feeling of wanting to have one’s treasure all to oneself for a little moment before showing it?  No, don’t go;’ and the two sisters flung their arms round one another.  ‘You shall hear now.’

‘No, no,’ said Bertha, kissing her; ‘my time for obtrusive, childish curiosity is over!  I only was so anxious;’ and she looked up with tearful eyes, and almost the air of an elder sister.  Phœbe might well requite the look with full-hearted tenderness and caresses, as she said, calmly, ‘Yes, Bertha, I am very happy.’

‘You ought to be,’ said Bertha, seriously.

‘Yes,’ said Phœbe, taking the ought in a different sense from what she meant; ‘he is all, and more, than I ever thought a man wise in true wisdom should be.’

‘And a man of progress, full of the dignity of labour,’ said Bertha.  ‘I am glad he is not an old bit of county soil like John Raymond!  My dear Phœbe, Sir John will tear his hair!’

‘For shame, Bertha!’

‘Well, I will not tease you with my nonsense; but you know it is the only thing that keeps tears out of one’s eyes.  I see you want to be alone.  Dear Phœbe!’ and she clung to her neck for a moment.

‘An instant more, Bertha.  You see everything, I know; but has Miss Fennimore guessed?’

‘No, my dear, I do not think any such syllogism has ever occurred to her as, Lover’s look conscious; Phœbe looks conscious; therefore Phœbe is in love!  It is defective in the major, you see, so it could not enter her brain.’

‘Then, Bertha, do not let any one guess it.  I shall speak to Mervyn to-morrow, and write to Robin.  It is their due, but no one else must know it—no, not for a long time—years perhaps.’

‘You do not mean to wait for years?’

‘We must.’

‘Then what’s the use of having thirty thousand pounds?’

‘No, Bertha, it would not be like him to be content with owing all to my fortune, and beginning life in idleness.  It would be just enough to live on, with none of the duties of property, and that would never do!  I could not wish it for him, and he has his brothers to provide for.’

‘Well, let him work for them, and have your money to make capital!  Really, Phœbe, I would not lose such a chance of going out and seeing those glorious Lakes!’

‘I have Maria to consider.’

‘Maria!  And why are you to be saddled with Maria?’

‘Because I promised my mother—I promised myself—I promised Mervyn, that she should be my care.  I have told him of that promise, and he accepts it most kindly.’

‘You cannot leave her to me?  Oh! Phœbe, do you still think me as hateful as I used to be?’

‘Dear, dear Bertha, I have full trust in your affection for her; but I undertook the charge, and I cannot thrust it on to another, who might—’

‘Don’t say that, Phœbe,’ cried Bertha, impetuously; ‘I am the one to have her!  I who certainly never can, never shall, marry—I who am good for nothing but to look after her.  Say you do not think me unworthy of her, Phœbe.’

‘I say no such thing,’ said Phœbe, affectionately, ‘but there is no use in discussing the matter.  Dear Bertha, leave me, and compose yourself.’

Truly, during that evening Bertha was the agitated one, her speech much affected, and her gestures restless, while Phœbe sat over her work, her needle going swiftly and evenly, and her eyes beaming with her quiet depth of thankful bliss.

In the morning, again, it was Bertha who betrayed an uneasy restlessness, and irrepressible desire to banish Miss Fennimore and Maria from the drawing-room, till the governess, in perplexity, began to think of consulting Phœbe whether a Jack Hastings affair could be coming over again.

Phœbe simply trusted to the promise, and went about her morning’s avocations with a heart at rest, and when at last Humfrey Randolf did hurry in for a few moments, before he must rush back to the Holt, her greeting was so full of reliance and composure that Miss Fennimore perceived nothing.  Bertha, however, rested not.  As well as she could, under a fearful access of stammering, she insisted that Mr. Randolf should come into the dining-room to look at a—a—a—a—a—’

‘Ah, well!’ thought Miss Fennimore, ‘Phœbe is gone, too, so she will keep guard.’

If Miss Fennimore could have looked through the door, she would have seen the astonished Maria pounced upon, as if in sport, pulled up-stairs, and desired by Bertha to find her book of dried flowers to show Mr. Randolf.  Naughty Bertha, who really did not believe the dried flowers had ever been brought home from Woolstone-lane!  It served the manœuvrer right, that Maria, after one look at the shelves, began to cry out for Phœbe to come and find them.  But it signified the less since the lovers had not left the hall, and had exchanged all the words that there was time for before Bertha, at the sound of the re-opening door, flew down to put her hand into Humfrey’s and grasp it tightly, looking in his face instead of speaking.  ‘Thank you,’ he said, returning the pressure, and was gone.  ‘We improve as we go on.  Number three is the best of my brothers-in-law, Phœbe,’ said Bertha, lightly.  Then leaving Phœbe to pacify Maria about the flowers, she went into her own room, and cried bitterly and overpoweringly.

CHAPTER XXXI

Thekla.  I should love thee.
Whate’er thou hadst chosen, thou wouldst still have acted
Nobly and worthy of thee; but repentance
Shall ne’er disturb thy soul’s fair peace.

Max.     Then I must leave thee; must part from thee!

Thekla.                     Being faithful
To thine own self, thou art faithful too to me.

    —Wallenstein

Phœbe and Maria went alone to the Park to receive the bridal pair, for poor Bertha was so nervous and unhinged as not even to wish to leave the fireside.  It was plain that she must not be deprived of an elder sister’s care, and that it would be unlikely that she would ever have nerve enough to undertake the charge of Maria, even if Phœbe could think of shifting the responsibility, or if a feeble intellect could be expected to yield the same deference to a younger sister as came naturally to an elder one.

Thus Phœbe’s heart was somewhat heavy as she braced herself for her communication to Mervyn, doubtful as to the extent of his probable displeasure, but for that very cause resolved on dealing openly from the first, while satisfied that, at her age, his right was rather to deference than to surrender of judgment.  Maria roamed through the house, exclaiming at the alterations, and Phœbe sat still in the concentrated, resolute stillness that was her form of suspense.

They came!  The peals of the Hiltonbury bells rung merrily in the cold air, the snow sparkled bridally, the icicles glittered in the sunset light, the workpeople stood round the house to cheer the arrival, and the sisters hurried out.

It was no more the pale, patient face!  The cheeks were rounded, the brown eyes smiled, the haggard air, that even as a bride Cecily had worn, was entirely gone, and Mervyn watched exultingly Phœbe’s surprise at what he had made of the wan, worn girl they had met at Hyères.  The only disappointment was Bertha’s absence, and there was much regret that the new-comers had not heard of her cold so as to have seen her at the Underwood on their way.  They had spent the previous day in town in going over the distillery, by Cecily’s particular wish, and had afterwards assisted at a grand impromptu entertainment of all the workpeople, at their own expense and Robert’s trouble.  Mervyn did certainly seem carried out of his own knowledge of himself, and his wife had transgressed every precedent left by his mother, who had never beheld Whittingtonia in her life!

Phœbe found their eager talk so mazy and indistinct to her perception that she became resolved to speak and clear her mind at the first opportunity; so she tarried behind, when Cecily went up, under Maria’s delighted guidance, to take off her bonnet, and accosted Mervyn with the ominous words, ‘I want to speak to you.’

‘Make haste, then; there is Cecily left to Maria.’

‘I wanted to tell you that I am engaged.’

‘The deuce you are!’