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

‘I’m glad if it was all my blundering,’ said Phœbe.  ‘Dear Lucy, I was very wrong, but you see I always was so happy in believing it was understood!’

‘How stupid,’ cried Lucilla; ‘one would never have any fun; no, you haven’t tasted the sweets yet, or you would know one has no notion of being made sure of till one chooses!  Yes, yes, I saw he was primed and cocked, but I’m not going to let him go off.’

‘Lucy, have you no pity?’

‘Not a bit!  Don’t talk commonplaces, my dear.’

‘If you knew how much depends upon it.’

‘My dear, I know that,’ with an arch smile.

‘No, you do not,’ said Phœbe, so stoutly that Lucilla looked at her in some suspense.

‘You think,’ said honest Phœbe, in her extremity, ‘that he only wants to make—to propose to you!  Now, it is not only that, Lucilla,’ and her voice sank, as she could hardly keep from crying; ‘he will never do that if you go on as you are doing now; he does not think it would be right for a clergyman.’

‘Oh! I dare say!’ quoth Lucilla, and then a silence.  ‘Did Honor tell him so, Phœbe?’

‘Never, never!’ cried Phœbe; ‘no one has said a word against you! only don’t you know how quiet and good any one belonging to a clergyman should be?’

‘Well, I’ve heard a great deal of news to-day, and it is all my own fault, for indulging in sentiment on Wednesday.  I shall know better another time.’

‘Then you don’t care!’ cried Phœbe, turning round, with eyes flashing as Lucilla did not know they could lighten.  ‘Very well!  If you don’t think Robert worth it, I suppose I ought not to grieve, for you can’t be what I used to think you and it will be better for him when he once has settled his mind—than if—if afterwards you disappointed him and were a fine lady—but oh! he will be so unhappy,’ her tears were coming fast; ‘and, Lucy, I did like you so much!’

‘Well, this is the funniest thing of all,’ cried Lucilla, by way of braving her own emotion; ‘little Miss Phœbe gone into the heroics!’ and she caught her two hands, and holding her fast, kissed her on both cheeks; ‘a gone coon, am I, Phœbe, no better than one of the wicked; and Robin, he grew angry, hopped upon a twig, did he!  I beg your pardon, my dear, but it makes me laugh to think of his dignified settling of his mind.  Oh! how soon it could be unsettled again!  Come, I won’t have any more of this; let it alone, Phœbe, and trust me that things will adjust themselves all the better for letting them have their swing.  Don’t you look prematurely uneasy, and don’t go and make Robin think that I have immolated him at the altar of the salmon.  Say nothing of all this; you will only make a mess in narrating it.’

‘Very likely I may,’ said Phœbe; ‘but if you will not speak to him yourself, I shall tell him how you feel.’

‘If you can,’ laughed Lucilla.

‘I mean, how you receive what I have told you of his views; I do not think it would be fair or kind to keep him in ignorance.’

‘Much good may it do him,’ said Lucy; ‘but I fancy you will tell him, whether I give you leave or not, and it can’t make much difference.  I’ll tackle him, as the old women say, when I please, and the madder he may choose to go, the better fun it will be.’

‘I believe you are saying so to tease me’ said Phœbe; ‘but as I know you don’t mean it, I shall wait till after the party; and then, unless you have had it out with him, I shall tell him what you have said.’

‘Thank you,’ said Lucilla, ironically conveying to Phœbe’s mind the conviction that she did not believe that Robert’s attachment could suffer from what had here passed.  Either she meant to grant the decisive interview, or else she was too confident in her own power to believe that he could relinquish her; at all events, Phœbe had sagacity enough to infer that she was not indifferent to him, though as the provoking damsel ran down-stairs, Phœbe’s loyal spirit first admitted a doubt whether the tricksy sprite might not prove as great a torment as a delight to Robin.  ‘However,’ reflected she, ‘I shall make the less mischief if I set it down while I remember it.’

Not much like romance, but practical sense was both native and cultivated in Miss Fennimore’s pupil.  Yet as she recorded the sentences, and read them over bereft of the speaker’s caressing grace, she blamed herself as unkind, and making the worst of gay retorts which had been provoked by her own home thrusts.  ‘At least,’ she thought, ‘he will be glad to see that it was partly my fault, and he need never see it at all if Lucy will let him speak to her himself.’

Meantime, Honora had found from Owen that the young ladies had accepted an invitation to a very gay house in Cheshire, so that their movements would for a fortnight remain doubtful.  She recurred to her view that the only measure to be taken was for him to follow them, so as to be able to interpose in any emergency, and she anxiously pressed on him the funds required.

‘Shouldn’t I catch it if they found me out!’ said Owen, shrugging his shoulders.  ‘No, but indeed, Sweet Honey, I meant to have made up for this naughty girl’s desertion.  You and I would have had such rides and readings together: I want you to put me on good terms with myself.’

‘My dear boy!  But won’t that best be done by minding your sister?  She does want it, Owen; the less she will be prudent for herself, the more we must think for her!’

‘She can do better for herself than you imagine,’ said Owen.  ‘Men say, with all her free ways, they could not go the least bit farther with her than she pleases.  You wouldn’t suppose it, but she can keep out of scrapes better than Rashe can—never has been in one yet, and Rashe in twenty.  Never mind, your Honor, there’s sound stuff in the bonny scapegrace; all the better for being free and unconventional.  The world owes a great deal to those who dare to act for themselves; though, I own, it is a trial when one’s own domestic womankind take thereto.’

‘Or one’s mankind to encouraging it,’ said Honor, smiling, but showing that she was hurt.

‘I don’t encourage it; I am only too wise to give it the zest of opposition.  Was Lucy ever bent upon a naughty trick without being doubly incited by the pleasure of showing that she cared not for her younger brother?’

‘I believe you are only too lazy!  But, will you go?  I don’t think it can be a penance.  You would see new country, and get plenty of sport.’

‘Come with me, Honey,’ said he with the most insinuating manner, which almost moved her.  ‘How jolly it would be!’

‘Nonsense! an elderly spinster,’ she said, really pleased, though knowing it impossible.

‘Stuff!’ he returned in the same tone.  ‘Make it as good as a honeymoon.  Think of Killarney, Honor!’

‘You silly boy, I can’t.  There’s harvest at home; besides, it would only aggravate that mad girl doubly to have me coming after her.’

‘Well, if you will not take care of me on a literal wild-goose chase,’ said Owen, with playful disconsolateness, ‘I’ll not answer for the consequences.’

‘But, you go?’

‘Vacation rambles are too tempting to be resisted; but, mind, I don’t promise to act good genius save at the last extremity, or else shall never get forgiven, and I shall keep some way in the rear.’

So closed the consultation; and after an evening which Lucilla perforce rendered lively, she and her brother took their leave.  The next day they were to accompany the Charterises to Castle Blanch to prepare for the festivities; Honor and her two young friends following on the Wednesday afternoon.

CHAPTER VI

He who sits by haunted well
Is subject to the Nixie’s spell;
He who walks on lonely beach
To the mermaid’s charmed speech;
He who walks round ring of green
Offends the peevish Fairy Queen.

    —Scott

At the station nearest to Castle Blanch stood the tall form of Owen Sandbrook, telling Honor that he and his sister had brought the boat; the river was the longer way, but they would prefer it to the road; and so indeed they did, for Phœbe herself had had enough of the City to appreciate the cool verdure and calm stillness of the meadow pathway, by which they descended to the majestic river, smoothly sleeping in glassy quiet, or stealing along in complacently dimpling ripples.

On the opposite bank, shading off the sun, an oak copse sloped steeply towards the river, painting upon the surface a still shimmering likeness of the summit of the wood, every mass of foliage, every blushing spray receiving a perfect counterpart, and full in the midst of the magic mirror floated what might have been compared to the roseate queen lily of the waters on her leaf.

There, in the flat, shallow boat reclined the maiden, leaning over the gunwale, gazing into the summer wavelets with which one bare pinkly-tinted hand was toying, and her silken ringlets all but dipping in, from beneath the round black hat, archly looped up on one side by a carnation bow, and encircled by a series of the twin jetty curls of the mallard; while the fresh rose colour of the spreading muslin dress was enhanced by the black scarf that hung carelessly over it.  There was a moment’s pause, as if no one could break the spell; but Owen, striding on from behind, quickly dissolved the enchantment.

‘You monkey, you’ve cast off.  You may float on to Greenwich next!’ he indignantly shouted.

She started, shaking her head saucily.  ‘’Twas so slow there, and so broiling,’ she called back, ‘and I knew I should only drift down to meet you, and could put in when I pleased.’

Therewith she took the sculls and began rowing towards the bank, but without force sufficient to prevent herself from being borne farther down than she intended.

‘I can’t help it,’ she exclaimed, fearlessly laughing as she passed them.

Robert was ready to plunge in to stem her progress, lest she should meet with some perilous eddy, but Owen laid hold on him, saying, ‘Don’t be nervous, she’s all right; only giving trouble, after the nature of women.  There; are you satisfied?’ he called to her, as she came to a stop against a reed bed, with a tall fence interposed between boat and passengers.  ‘A nice ferry-woman you.’

‘Come and get me up again,’ was all her answer.