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

‘But I don’t think you are going to grieve them,’ said Phœbe, earnestly.

‘I hate the word!’ said Lucilla.  ‘Plaguing is only fun, but grieving, that is serious.’

‘I do believe this is only plaguing!’ cried Phœbe, ‘and that this is your way of disposing of all the flies.  I shall tell Robin so!’

‘To spoil all my fun,’ exclaimed Lucilla.  ‘No, indeed!’

Phœbe only gave a nod and smile of supreme satisfaction.

‘Ah! but, Phœbe, if I’m to grieve nobody, what’s to become of poor Rashe, you little selfish woman?’

‘Selfish, no!’ sturdily said Phœbe.  ‘If it be wrong for you, it must be equally wrong for her; and perhaps’ she added, slowly, ‘you would both be glad of some good reason for giving it up.  Lucy, dear, do tell me whether you really like it, for I cannot fancy you so.’

‘Like it?  Well, yes!  I like the salmons, and I dote on the fun and the fuss.  I say, Phœbe, can you bear the burden of a secret?  Well—only mind, if you tell Robin or Honor, I shall certainly go; we never would have taken it up in earnest if such a rout had not been made about it, that we were driven to show we did not care, and could be trusted with ourselves.’

‘Then you don’t mean it?’

‘That’s as people behave themselves.  Hush!  Here comes Honor.  Look here, Sweet Honey, I am in a process of selection.  I am pledged to come out at the ball in a unique trimming of salmon-flies.’

‘My dear!’ cried poor Honor, in consternation, ‘you can’t be so absurd.’

‘It is so slow not to be absurd.’

‘At fit times, yes; but to make yourself so conspicuous!’

‘They say I can’t help that,’ returned Lucy, in a tone of comical melancholy.

‘Well, my dear, we will talk it over on Sunday, when I hope you may be in a rational mood.’

‘Don’t say so,’ implored Lucilla, ‘or I shan’t have the courage to come.  A rational mood!  It is enough to frighten one away; and really I do want very much to come.  I’ve not heard a word yet about the Holt.  How is the old dame, this summer?’

And Lucy went on with unceasing interest about all Hiltonbury matters, great and small, bewitching Honora more than would have seemed possible under the circumstances.  She was such a winning fairy that it was hardly possible to treat her seriously, or to recollect causes of displeasure, when under the spell of her caressing vivacity, and unruffled, audacious fun.

So impregnable was her gracious good-humour, so untameable her high spirits, that it was only by remembering the little spitfire of twelve or fourteen years ago that it was credible that she had a temper at all; the temper erst wont to exhale in chamois bounds and dervish pirouettes, had apparently left not a trace behind, and the sullen ungraciousness to those who offended her had become the sunniest sweetness, impossible to disturb.  Was it real improvement?  Concealment it was not, for Lucilla had always been transparently true.  Was it not more probably connected with that strange levity, almost insensibility, that had apparently indurated feelings which in early childhood had seemed sensitive even to the extent of violence?  Was she only good-humoured because nothing touched her?  Had that agony of parting with her gentle father seared her affections, till she had become like a polished gem, all bright glancing beauty, but utterly unfeeling?

CHAPTER V

Reproof falleth on the saucy as water.

    —Feejee Proverb

Considerate of the slender purses of her children, Honora had devoted her carriage to fetch them to St. Wulstan’s on the Sunday morning, but her offer had been declined, on the ground that the Charteris conveyances were free to them, and that it was better to make use of an establishment to which Sunday was no object, than to cloud the honest face of the Hiltonbury coachman by depriving his horses of their day of rest.  Owen would far rather take a cab than so affront Grey!  Pleased with his bright manner, Honora had yet reason to fear that expense was too indifferent to both brother and sister, and that the Charteris household only encouraged recklessness.  Wherever she went she heard of the extravagance of the family, and in the shops the most costly wares were recommended as the choice of Mrs. Charteris.  Formerly, though Honor had equipped Lucilla handsomely for visits to Castle Blanch, she had always found her wardrobe increased by the gifts of her uncle and aunt.  The girl had been of age more than a year, and in the present state of the family, it was impossible that her dress could be still provided at their expense, yet it was manifestly far beyond her means; and what could be the result?  She would certainly brook no interference, and would cast advice to the winds.  Poor Honor could only hope for a crash that would bring her to reason, and devise schemes for forcing her from the effects of her own imprudence without breaking into her small portion.  The great fear was lost false pride, and Charteris influence, should lead her to pay her debts at the cost of a marriage with the millionaire; and Honor could take little comfort in Owen’s assurance that the Calthorp had too much sense to think of Cilly Sandbrook, and only promoted and watched her vagaries for the sake of amusement and curiosity.  There was small satisfaction to her well-wishers in hearing that no sensible man could think seriously of her.

Anxiously was that Sunday awaited in Woolstone-lane, the whole party feeling that this was the best chance of seeing Lucilla in a reasonable light, and coming to an understanding with her.  Owen was often enough visible in the interim, and always extremely agreeable; but Lucilla never, and he only brought an account of her gaieties, shrugging his shoulders over them.

The day came; the bells began, they chimed, they changed, but still no Sandbrooks appeared.  Mr. Parsons set off, and Robert made an excursion to the corner of the street.  In vain Miss Charlecote still lingered; Mrs. Parsons, in despair, called Phœbe on with her as the single bell rang, and Honor and Robert presently started with heads turned over their shoulders, and lips laying all blame on Charteris’ delays of breakfast.  A last wistful look, and the church porch engulfed them; but even when enclosed in the polished square pew, they could not resign hope at every tread on the matted floor, and finally subsided into a trust that the truants might after service emerge from a seat near the door.  There were only too many to choose from.

That hope baffled, Honora still manufactured excuses which Phœbe greedily seized and offered to her brother, but she read his rejection of them in his face, and to her conviction that it was all accident, he answered, as she took his arm, ‘A small accident would suffice for Sandbrook.’

‘You don’t think he is hindering his sister!’

‘I can’t tell.  I only know that he is one of the many stumbling-blocks in her way.  He can do no good to any one with whom he associates intimately.  I hate to see him reading poetry with you.’

‘Why did you never tell me so?’ asked the startled Phœbe.

‘You are so much taken up with him that I can never get at you, when I am not devoured by that office.’

‘I am sure I did not know it,’ humbly answered Phœbe.  ‘He is very kind and amusing, and Miss Charlecote is so fond of him that, of course, we must be together; but I never meant to neglect you, Robin, dear.’

‘No, no, nonsense, it is no paltry jealousy; only now I can speak to you, I must,’ said Robert, who had been in vain craving for this opportunity of getting his sister alone, ever since the alarm excited by Lucilla’s words.

‘What is this harm, Robin?’

‘Say not a word of it.  Miss Charlecote’s heart must not be broken before its time, and at any rate it shall not come through me.’

‘What, Robert?’

‘The knowledge of what he is.  Don’t say it is prejudice.  I know I never liked him, but you shall hear why.  You ought now—’

Robert’s mind had often of late glanced back to the childish days when, with their present opinions reversed, he thought Owen a muff, and Owen thought him a reprobate.  To his own blunt and reserved nature, the expressions, so charming to poor Miss Charlecote, had been painfully distasteful.  Sentiment, profession, obtrusive reverence, and fault-finding scruples had revolted him, even when he thought it a proof of his own irreligion to be provoked.  Afterwards, when both were schoolboys, Robert had yearly increased in conscientiousness under good discipline and training, but, in their holiday meetings, had found Owen’s standard receding as his own advanced, and heard the once-deficient manly spirit asserted by boasts of exploits and deceptions repugnant to a well-conditioned lad.  He saw Miss Charlecote’s perfect confidence abused and trifled with, and the more he grew in a sense of honour, the more he disliked Owen Sandbrook.

At the University, where Robert’s career had been respectable and commonplace, Owen was at once a man of mark.  Mental and physical powers alike rendered him foremost among his compeers; he could compete with the fast, and surpass the slow on their own ground; and his talents, ready celerity, good-humoured audacity, and quick resource, had always borne him through with the authorities, though there was scarcely an excess or irregularity in which he was not a partaker; and stories of Sandbrook’s daring were always circulating among the undergraduates.  But though Robert could have scared Phœbe with many a history of lawless pranks, yet these were not his chief cause for dreading Owen’s intimacy with her.  It was that he was one of the youths on whom the spirit of the day had most influence, one of the most adventurous thinkers and boldest talkers: wild in habits, not merely from ebullition of spirits, but from want of faith in the restraining power.

All this Robert briefly expressed in the words, ‘Phœbe, it is not that his habits are irregular and unsteady; many are so whose hearts are sound.  But he is not sound—his opinions are loose, and he only respects and patronizes Divine Truth as what has approved itself to so many good, great, and beloved human creatures.  It is not denial—it is patronage.  It is the commonsense heresy—’

‘I thought we all ought to learn common sense.’

‘Yes, in things human, but in things Divine it is the subtle English form of rationalism.  This is no time to explain, Phœbe; but human sense and intellect are made the test, and what surpasses them is only admired as long as its stringent rules do not fetter the practice.’

‘I am sorry you told me,’ said Phœbe, thoughtfully, ‘for I always liked him; he is so kind to me.’

Had not Robert been full of his own troubles he would have been reassured, but he only gave a contemptuous groan.

‘Does Lucy know this?’ she asked.

‘She told me herself what I well knew before.  She does not reflect enough to take it seriously, and contrives to lay the blame upon the narrowness of Miss Charlecote’s training.’

‘Oh, Robin!  When all our best knowledge came from the Holt!’

‘She says, perhaps not unjustly, that Miss Charlecote overdid things with him, and that this is reaction.  She observes keenly.  If she would only think!  She would have been perfect had her father lived, to work on her by affection.’

‘The time for that is coming—’

Robert checked her, saying, ‘Stay, Phœbe.  The other night I was fooled by her engaging ways, but each day since I have become more convinced that I must learn whether she be only using me like the rest.  I want you to be a witness of my resolution, lest I should be tempted to fail.  I came to town, hesitating whether to enter the business for her sake.  I found that this could not be done without a great sin.  I look on myself as dedicated to the ministry, and thus bound to have a household suited to my vocation.  All must turn on her willingness to conform to this standard.  I shall lay it before her.  I can bear the suspense no longer.  My temper and resolution are going, and I am good for nothing.  Let the touchstone be, whether she will resign her expedition to Ireland, and go quietly home with Miss Charlecote.  If she will so do, there is surely that within her that will shine out brighter when removed from irritation on the one side, or folly on the other.  If she will not, I have no weight with her; and it is due to the service I am to undertake, to force myself away from a pursuit that could only distract me.  I have no right to be a clergyman and choose a hindrance not a help—one whose tastes would lead back to the world, instead of to my work!’

As he spoke, in stern, rigid resolution—only allowing himself one long, deep, heavy sigh at the end—he stood still at the gates of the court, which were opened as the rest of the party came up; and, as they crossed and entered the hall, they beheld, through the open door of the drawing-room, two figures in the window—one, a dark torso, perched outside on the sill; the other, in blue skirt and boy-like bodice, negligently reposing on one side of the window-seat, her dainty little boots on the other; her coarse straw bonnet, crossed with white, upon the floor; the wind playing tricks with the silky glory of her flaxen ringlets; her cheek flushed with lovely carnation, declining on her shoulder; her eyes veiled by their fair fringes.

‘Hallo!’ she cried, springing up, ‘almost caught asleep!’  And Owen, pocketing his pipe, spun his legs over the windowsill, while both began, in rattling, playful vindication and recrimination—