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

(he wouldn’t.’

‘It wasn’t my fault (

(she wouldn’t.’

‘Indeed, I wasn’t a wilful heathen; Mr. Parsons, it was he—’

‘It was she who chose to take the by-ways, and make us late.  Rush into church before a whole congregation, reeking from a six-miles walk!  I’ve more respect for the Establishment.’

‘You walked!’ cried five voices.

‘See her Sabbatarianism!’

‘Nonsense!  I should have driven Charlie’s cab.’

‘Charlie has some common sense where his horse is concerned.’

‘He wanted it himself, you know.’

‘She grew sulky, and victimized me to a walk.’

‘I’m sure it was excellent fun.’

‘Ay, and because poor Calthorp had proffered his cab for her to drive to Jericho, and welcome, she drags me into all sorts of streets of villainous savours, that he might not catch us up.’

‘Horrid hard mouth that horse of his,’ said Lucilla, by way of dashing the satisfaction on Miss Charlecote’s face.

‘I do not wonder you were late.’

‘Oh! that was all Owen’s doing.  He vowed that he had not nerve to face the pew-opener!’

‘The grim female in weeds—no, indeed!’ said Owen.  ‘Indeed, I objected to entering in the guise of flaming meteors both on reverential and sanatory grounds.’

‘Insanatory, methinks,’ said Miss Charlecote; ‘how could you let her sleep, so much heated, in this thorough draught!’

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ said Cilly, quaintly shaking her head; ‘I’m not such a goose as to go and catch cold!  Oh! Phœbe, my salmon-flies are loveliness itself; and I hereby give notice, that a fine of three pairs of thick boots has been proclaimed for every pun upon sisters of the angle and sisters of the angels!  So beware, Robin!’—and the comical audacity with which she turned on him, won a smile from the grave lips that had lately seemed so remote from all peril of complimenting her whimsies.  Even Mr. Parsons said ‘the fun was tempting.’

‘Come and get ready for luncheon,’ said the less fascinated Honora, moving away.

‘Come and catch it!’ cried the elf, skipping up-stairs before her and facing round her ‘Dear old Honeyseed.’  ‘I honour your motives; but wouldn’t it be for the convenience of all parties, if you took Punch’s celebrated advice—“don’t”?’

‘How am I to speak, Lucy,’ said Honora, ‘if you come with the avowed intention of disregarding what I say?’

‘Then hadn’t you better not?’ murmured the girl, in the lowest tone, drooping her head, and peeping under her eyelashes, as she sat with a hand on each elbow of her arm-chair, as though in the stocks.

‘I would not, my child,’ was the mournful answer, ‘if I could help caring for you.’

Lucilla sprang up and kissed her.  ‘Don’t, then; I don’t like anybody to be sorry,’ she said.  ‘I’m sure I’m not worth it.’

‘How can I help it, when I see you throwing away happiness—welfare—the good opinion of all your friends?’

‘My dear Honora, you taught me yourself not to mind Mrs. Grundy!  Come, never mind, the reasonable world has found out that women are less dependent than they used to be.’

‘It is not what the world thinks, but what is really decorous.’

Lucilla laughed—though with some temper—‘I wonder what we are going to do otherwise!’

‘You are going beyond the ordinary restraints of women in your station; and a person who does so, can never tell to what she may expose herself.  Liberties are taken when people come out to meet them.’

‘That’s as they choose!’ cried Lucilla, with such a gesture of her hand, such a flash of her blue eyes, that she seemed trebly the woman, and it would have been boldness indeed to presume with her.

‘Yes; but a person who has even had to protect herself from incivility, to which she has wilfully exposed herself, does not remain what she might be behind her screen.’

‘Omne ignotum pro terribili,’ laughed Lucilla, still not to be made serious.  ‘Now, I don’t believe that the world is so flagrantly bent on annoying every pretty girl.  People call me vain, but I never was so vain as that.  I’ve always found them very civil; and Ireland is the land of civility.  Now, seriously, my good cousin Honor, do you candidly expect any harm to befall us?’

‘I do not think you likely to meet with absolute injury.’  Lucilla clapped her hands, and cried, ‘An admission, an admission!  I told Rashe you were a sincere woman.’  But Miss Charlecote went on, ‘But there is harm to yourself in the affectation of masculine habits; it is a blunting of the delicacy suited to a Christian maiden, and not like the women whom St. Paul and St. Peter describe.  You would find that you had forfeited the esteem, not only of ordinary society, but of persons whose opinions you do value; and in both these respects you would suffer harm.  You, my poor child, who have no one to control you, or claim your obedience as a right, are doubly bound to be circumspect.  I have no power over you; but if you have any regard for her to whom your father confided you—nay, if you consult what you know would have been his wishes—you will give up this project.’

The luncheon-bell had already rung, and consideration for the busy clergyman compelled her to go down with these last words, feeling as if there were a leaden weight at her heart.

Lucilla remained standing before the glass, arranging her wind-tossed hair; and, in her vehemence, tearing out combfuls, as she pulled petulantly against the tangled curls.  ‘Her old way—to come over me with my father!  Ha!—I love him too well to let him be Miss Charlecote’s engine for managing me!—her dernier ressort to play on my feelings.  Nor will I have Robin set at me!  Whether I go or not, shall be as I please, not as any one else does; and if I stay at home, Rashe shall own it is not for the sake of the conclave here.  I told her she might trust me.’

Down she went, and at luncheon devoted herself to the captivation of Mr. Parsons; afterwards insisting on going to the schools—she, whose aversion to them was Honora’s vexation at home.  Strangers to make a sensation were contrary to the views of the Parsonses; but the wife found her husband inconsistent—‘one lady, more or less, could make no difference on this first Sunday;’ and, by and by, Mrs. Parsons found a set of little formal white-capped faces, so beaming with entertainment, at the young lady’s stories, and the young lady herself looking so charming, that she, too, fell under the enchantment.

After church, Miss Charlecote proposed a few turns in the garden; dingy enough, but a marvel for the situation: and here the tacit object of herself and Phœbe was to afford Robert an opportunity for the interview on which so much depended.  But it was like trying to catch a butterfly; Lucilla was here, there, everywhere; and an excuse was hardly made for leaving her beside the grave, silent young man, ere her merry tones were heard chattering to some one else.  Perhaps Robert, heart-sick and oppressed with the importance of what trembled on his tongue, was not ready in seizing the moment; perhaps she would not let him speak; at any rate, she was aware of some design; since, baffling Phœbe’s last attempt, she danced up to her bedroom after her, and throwing herself into a chair, in a paroxysm of laughter, cried, ‘You abominable little pussycat of a manœuvrer; I thought you were in a better school for the proprieties!  No, don’t make your round eyes, and look so dismayed, or you’ll kill me with laughing!  Cooking téte-à-tétes, Phœbe—I thought better of you.  Oh, fie!’ and holding up her finger, as if in displeasure, she hid her face in ecstasies of mirth at Phœbe’s bewildered simplicity.

‘Robert wanted to speak to you,’ she said, with puzzled gravity.

‘And you would have set us together by the ears!  No, no, thank you, I’ve had enough of that sort of thing for one day.  And what shallow excuses.  Oh! what fun to hear your pretexts.  Wanting to see what Mrs. Parsons was doing, when you knew perfectly well she was deep in a sermon, and wished you at the antipodes.  And blushing all the time, like a full-blown poppy,’ and off she went on a fresh score—but Phœbe, though disconcerted for a moment, was not to be put out of countenance when she understood her ground, and she continued with earnestness, undesired by her companion—‘Very likely I managed badly, but I know you do not really think it improper to see Robert alone, and it is very important that you should do so.  Indeed it is, Lucy,’ she added—the youthful candour and seriousness of her pleading, in strong contrast to the flighty, mocking carelessness of Lucilla’s manners; ‘do pray see him; I know he would make you listen.  Will you be so very kind?  If you would go into the little cedar room, I could call him at once.’

‘Point blank!  Sitting in my cedar parlour!  Phœbe, you’ll be the death of me,’ cried Cilly, between peals of merriment.  ‘Do you think I have nerves of brass?’

‘You would not laugh, if you knew how much he feels.’

‘A very good thing for people to feel!  It saves them from torpor.’

‘Lucy, it is not kind to laugh when I tell you he is miserable.’

‘That’s only proper, my dear,’ said Lucilla, entertained by teasing.

‘Not miserable from doubt,’ answered Phœbe, disconcerting in her turn.  ‘We know you too well for that;’ and as an expression, amused, indignant, but far from favourable, came over the fair face she was watching, she added in haste, ‘It is this project, he thought you had said it was given up.’

‘I am much indebted,’ said Lucilla, haughtily, but again relapsing into laughter; ‘but to find myself so easily disposed of . . .  Oh! Phœbe, there’s no scolding such a baby as you; but if it were not so absurd—’

‘Lucy, Lucy, I beg your pardon; is it all a mistake, or have I said what was wrong?  Poor Robin will be so unhappy.’

Phœbe’s distress touched Lucilla.

‘Nonsense, you little goose; aren’t you woman enough yet to know that one flashes out at finding oneself labelled, and made over before one’s time?’