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

‘Lucy is just as unrestrained as her cousin,’ said Phœbe, ‘but she never seems like her.  She offends one’s judgment sometimes, but never one’s taste—at least hardly ever;’ and Phœbe blushed as she thought of what had passed about her sister that day.

‘Poor Lucy! it is one misfortune of pretty people, that they can seldom do what is taken amiss.  She is small and feminine too, and essentially refined, whatever she can do.  But I was very sorry for you to-day, Phœbe.  Tell me all about your sister, my dear.’

‘They knew more than I did, if all that is true,’ said Phœbe.  ‘Augusta wrote—oh! so kindly—and seemed so glad, that it made me very happy.  And papa gave his consent readily to Robert’s doing as he pleased, and almost said something about his taking me to the wedding at Paris.  If Lucy should—should accept Robin, I wonder if she would go too, and be bridesmaid!’

So they comforted themselves with a few pretty auguries, dressed, and went down to dinner, where Phœbe had made sure that, as before, Lucy would sit next Robin, and be subdued.  Alas, no!  Ladies were far too scarce articles for even the last but one to be the prize of a mere B.A.  To know who were Phœbe’s own neighbours would have been distraction to Juliana, but they were lost on one in whom the art of conversation was yet undeveloped, and who was chiefly intent on reading her brother’s face, and catching what Lucy was saying.  She had nearly given up listening in despair, when she heard, ‘Pistols? oh, of course.  Rashe has gone to the expense of a revolver, but I extracted grandpapa’s from the family armoury—such little darlings.  I’m strongly tempted to send a challenge, just to keep them in use—that’s because you despise me—I’m a crack shot—we practised every day last winter—women shoot much better than men, because they don’t make their hands unsteady—what can be better than the guidance of Ratia, the feminine of Ratio, reason, isn’t it?’

It is not quite certain that this horrible Latinity did not shock Miss Fennimore’s discreet pupil more than all the rest, as a wilful insult to Miss Charlecote’s education!

She herself was not to escape ‘the guidance of Ratia,’ after dinner.  Her silence had been an additional proof to the good-natured Rashe that she was a child to be protected and entertained, so she paraded her through the rooms, coaxed her to play when no one was listening, showed her illustrated books and new-fashioned puzzles, and domineered over her so closely, that she had not a moment in which to speak a word to her brother, whom she saw disconsolately watching the hedge of gentlemen round Lucy.  Was it wrong to feel so ungrateful to a person exclusively devoted to her entertainment for that entire evening?

Phœbe had never known a room-mate nor the solace of a bed-time gossip, and by the time Miss Charlecote began to think of opening the door between their rooms, and discussing the disgusts of the day, the sounds of moving about had ceased.  Honor looked in, and could not help advancing to the bedside to enjoy the sight of the rosy face in the sound healthful sleep, the lips unclosed, and the silken brown hair wound plainly across the round brow, the childish outline and expression of the features even sweeter in sleep than awake.  It rested Honora’s wearied anxious spirit to watch the perfect repose of that innocent young face, and she stood still for some minutes, breathing an ejaculation that the child might ever be as guileless and peaceful as now, and then sighing at the thought of other young sleepers, beside whose couches even fonder prayers had been uttered, only, as it seemed, to be blown aside.

She was turning away, when Phœbe suddenly awoke, and was for a moment startled, half rising, asking if anything were the matter.

‘No, my dear; only I did not think you would have been in bed so quickly.  I came to wish you good night, and found you asleep.’  And with the strong tender impulse of a gentle wounded spirit, Honor hung over the maiden, recomposing the clothes, and fondling her, with a murmured blessing.

‘Dear Miss Charlecote,’ whispered Phœbe, ‘how nice it is!  I have so often wondered what it would be like, if any one came in to pet us at night, as they do in books; and oh! it is so nice!  Say that again, please.’

That was the blessing which would have made Lucilla in angry reserve hide her head in the clothes!

CHAPTER VII

But, ah me! she’s a heart of stone,
Which Cupid uses for a hone,
I verily believe;
And on it sharpens those eye-darts,
With which he wounds the simple hearts
He bribes her to deceive.

    —A Coquette, by X.

Breakfast was late, and lengthened out by the greater lateness of many of the guests, and the superlative tardiness of the lady of the house, who had repudiated the cares of the hostess, and left the tea-equipage to her sister-in-law.  Lucilla had been down-stairs among the first, and hurried away again after a rapid meal, forbidding any one to follow her, because she had so much to do, and on entering the drawing-room, she was found with a wilderness of flowers around her, filling vases and making last arrangements.

Honora and Phœbe were glad to be occupied, and Phœbe almost hoped to escape from Rashe.  Speaking to Lucilla was not possible, for Eloïsa had been placed by Rashe in a low chair, with a saucer before her, which she was directed to fill with verbenas, while the other four ladies, with Owen, whom his cousin had called to their aid, were putting last touches to wreaths, and giving the final festal air to the rooms.

Presently Robert made his appearance as the bearer of Mr. Prendergast’s flowers, and setting his back against a shutter, in his favourite attitude, stood looking as if he wanted to help, but knew not how.  Phœbe, at least, was vividly conscious of his presence, but she was supporting a long festoon with which Owen was adorning a pier-glass, and could hardly even turn her head to watch him.

‘Oh, horrid!’ cried Lucilla, retreating backwards to look at Ratia’s performance; ‘for love or money a bit of clematis!’

‘Where shall I find one?’ said Robert, unseeing the masses waving on the cloister, if, good youth, he even knew what clematis was.

‘You there, Mr. Fulmort!’ exclaimed Rashe; ‘for goodness gracious sake, go out to tennis or something with the other men.  I’ve ordered them all out, or there’ll be no good to be got out of Cilly.’

Phœbe flashed out in his defence, ‘You are letting Owen alone.’

‘Ah! by the bye, that wreath of yours has taken an unconscionable time!’ said Miss Charteris, beginning to laugh; but Phœbe’s grave straightforward eyes met her with such a look, as absolutely silenced her merriment into a mere mutter of ‘What a little chit it is!’  Honora, who was about indignantly to assume the protection of her charge, recognized in her what was fully competent to take care of herself.

‘Away with both of you,’ said Lucilla; ‘here is Edna come for a last rehearsal, and I won’t have you making her nervous.  Take away that Robin, will you, Owen?’

Horatia flew gustily to greet and reassure the schoolmistress as she entered, trembling, although moving with the dignity that seemed to be her form of embarrassment.  Lucilla meanwhile sped to the others near the window.  ‘You must go,’ she said, ‘or I shall never screw her up; it is a sudden access of stage fright.  She is as pale as death.’

Owen stepped back to judge of the paleness, and Robert contrived to say, ‘Cannot you grant me a few words, Lucy?’

‘The most impossible thing you could have asked,’ she replied.  ‘There’s Rashe’s encouragement quite done for her now!’

She bounded back to the much-overcome Edna, while Phœbe herself, perceiving how ill-advised an opportunity Robert had chosen, stepped out with him into the cloister, saying, ‘She can’t help it, dear Robin; she cannot think, just now.’

‘When can she?’ he asked, almost with asperity.

‘Think how full her hands are, how much excited she is,’ pleaded Phœbe, feeling that this was no fair moment for the crisis.

‘Ireland?’ almost groaned Robert, but at the same moment grasped her roughly to hinder her from replying, for Owen was close upon them, and he was the person to whom Robert would have been most reluctant to display his feelings.

Catching intuitively at his meaning, Phœbe directed her attention to some clematis on the opposite side of the cloister, and called both her companions to gather it for her, glad to be with Robert and to relieve Miss Murrell of the presence of another spectator.  Charles Charteris coming up, carried the two young men to inspect some of his doings out of doors, and Phœbe returned with her wreaths of creepers to find that the poor schoolmistress had become quite hysterical, and had been take away by Lucilla.

Rashe summoned her at the same time to the decoration of the music-room, and on entering, stopped in amusement, and made her a sign in silence to look into a large pier-glass, which stood so as to reflect through an open door what was passing in the little fanciful boudoir beyond, a place fitted like a tent, and full of quaint Dresden china and toys of bijouterie.  There was a complete picture within the glass.  Lucilla, her fair face seen in profile, more soft and gentle than she often allowed it to appear, was kneeling beside the couch where half reclined the tall, handsome Edna, whose raven hair, and pale, fine features made her like a heroine, as she nervously held the hands which Lucilla had placed within her grasp.  There was a low murmur of voices, one soothing, the other half sobbing, but nothing reached the outer room distinctly, till, as Phœbe was holding a long wreath, which Ratia was tying up, she heard—‘Oh! but it is so different with me from you young ladies who are used to company and all.  I dare say that young lady would not be timid.’

‘What young lady, Edna?  Not the one with the auburn hair?’

Ratia made an ecstatic face which disgusted Phœbe.

‘Oh, no!—the young lady whom Mr. Sandbrook was helping.  I dare say she would not mind singing—or anything,’ came amid sobs.

Ratia nodded, looked excessively arch, and formed a word with her lips, which Phœbe thought was ‘jealous,’ but could not imagine what she could mean by it.

‘I don’t know why you should think poor Phœbe Fulmort so brazen.  She is a mere child, taking a holiday from her strict governess.’

Phœbe laughed back an answer to Rashe’s pantomime, which in this case she understood.

‘She has not had half your training in boldness, with your inspectors and examinations, and all those horrid things.  Why, you never thought of taking fright before, even when you have sung to people here.  Why should you now?’

‘It is so different, now—so many more people.  Oh, so different!  I shall never be able.’

‘Not at all.  You will quite forget all about yourself and your fears when the time comes.  You don’t know the exhilaration of a room full of people, all lights and music!  That symphony will lift you into another world, and you will feel quite ready for “Men must work and women must weep.”’

‘If I can only begin—but oh! Miss Sandbrook, shall you be far away from me?’

‘No, I promise you not.  I will bring you down, if you will come to Ratia’s room when you are dressed.  The black silk and the lilac ribbon Owen and I chose for you; I must see you in it.’

‘Dear Miss Sandbrook, you are so kind!  What shall I do when you have left?’

‘You are going yourself for the holidays, silly puss!’

‘Ah! but no one else sympathizes or enters into my feelings.’

‘Feelings!’ said Lucilla, lightly, yet sadly.  ‘Don’t indulge in them, Edna; they are no end of a torment.’