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

Honor’s affection for Robert Fulmort had always been moderated by Owen’s antagonism; her moderation in superlatives commanded implicit credence, and Mr. Parsons inferred more, instead of less, than she expressed; better able as he was to estimate that manly character, gaining force with growth, and though slow to discern between good and evil, always firm to the duty when it was once perceived, and thus rising with the elevation of the standard.  The undemonstrative temper and tardiness in adopting extra habits of religious observance and profession, which had disappointed Honor, struck the clergyman as evidences both of sincerity and evenness of development, proving the sterling reality of what had been attained.

‘Not taking, but trusty,’ judged the vicar.

But the lad was an angry lover.  How tantalizing to be offered a fourth curate, with a long purse, only to find St. Wulstan’s serving as an outlet for a lover’s quarrel, and the youth restless and restive ere the end of his diaconate!

‘How savage you are,’ said his wife; ‘as if the parish would be hurt by his help or his presence.  If he goes, let him go—some other help will come.’

‘And don’t deprive him of the advantage of a good master,’ said Honor.

‘This wretched cure is not worth flattery,’ he said, smiling.

‘Nay,’ said Mrs. Parsons, ‘how often have I heard you rejoice that you started here.’

‘Under Mr. Charlecote—yes.’

‘You are the depository of his traditions,’ said Honor, ‘hand them on to Robert.  I wish nothing better for Owen.’

Mr. Parsons wished something better for himself, and averted a reply, by speaking of Robert as accepted.

Robert’s next request was to be made useful in the parish, while preparing for his ordination in the autumn Ember week; and though there were demurs as to unnecessarily anticipating the strain on health and strength, he obtained his wish in mercy to a state only to be alleviated by the realities of labour.

So few difficulties were started by his family, that Honora suspected that Mr. Fulmort, always chiefly occupied by what was immediately before him, hardly realized that by taking an assistant curacy at St. Wulstan’s, his son became one of the pastors of Whittington-streets, great and little, Richard-courts, Cicely-row, Alice-lane, Cat-alley, and Turnagain-corner.  Scarcely, however, was this settled, when a despatch arrived from Dublin, headed, ‘The Fast Fly Fishers; or the modern St. Kevin,’ containing in Ingoldsby legend-like rhymes the entire narration of the Glendalough predicament of the ‘Fast and Fair,’ and concluding with a piece of prose, by the same author, assuring his Sweet Honey, that the poem, though strange, was true, that he had just seen the angelic anglers on board the steamer, and it would not be for lack of good advice on his part, if Lucy did not present herself at Woolstone-lane, to partake of the dish called humble pie, on the derivation whereof antiquaries were divided.

Half amused, half vexed by his levity, and wholly relieved and hopeful, Honora could not help showing Owen’s performance to Phœbe for the sake of its cleverness; but she found the child too young and simple to enter into it, for the whole effect was an entreaty that Robert might not see it, only hear the facts.

Rather annoyed by this want of appreciation of Owen’s wit, Honora saw, nevertheless, that Phœbe had come to a right conclusion.  The breach was not likely to be diminished by finding that the wilful girl had exposed herself to ridicule, and the Fulmort nature had so little sense of the ludicrous, that this good-natured brotherly satire would be taken for mere derision.

So Honor left it to Phœbe to give her own version, only wishing that the catastrophe had come to his knowledge before his arrangements had been made with Mr. Parsons.

Phœbe had some difficulty in telling her story.  Robert at first silenced her peremptorily, but after ten minutes relented, and said, moodily, ‘Well, let me hear!’  He listened without relaxing a muscle of his rigid countenance; and when Phœbe ended by saying that Miss Charlecote had ordered Lucy’s room to be prepared, thinking that she might present herself at any moment, he said, ‘Take care that you warn me when she comes.  I shall leave town that minute.’

‘Robert, Robert, if she come home grieved and knowing better—’

‘I will not see her!’ he repeated.  ‘I made her taking this journey the test!  The result is nothing to me!  Phœbe, I trust to you that no intended good-nature of Miss Charlecote’s should bring us together.  Promise me.’

Phœbe could do nothing but promise, and not another sentence could she obtain from her brother, indeed his face looked so formidable in its sternness, that she would have been a bold maiden to have tried.

Honora augured truly, that not only was his stern nature deeply offended, but that he was quite as much in dread of coming under the power of Lucy’s fascinations, as Cilla had ever been of his strength.  Such mutual aversion was really a token of the force of influence upon each, and Honor assured Phœbe that all would come right.  ‘Let her only come home and be good, and you will see, Phœbe!  She will not be the worse for an alarm, nor even for waiting till after his two years at St. Wulstan’s.’

The reception of the travellers at Castle Blanch was certainly not mortifying by creating any excitement.  Charles Charteris said his worst in the words, ‘One week!’ and his wife was glad to have some one to write her notes.

This indifference fretted Lucy.  She found herself loathing the perfumy rooms, the sleepy voice, and hardly able to sit still in her restless impatience of Lolly’s platitudes and Charles’s insouciance, while Rashe could never be liked again.  Even a lecture from Honor Charlecote would have been infinitely preferable, and one grim look of Robert’s would be bliss!

No one knew whether Miss Charlecote were still in town, nor whether Augusta Fulmort were to be married in England or abroad; and as to Miss Murrell, Lolly languidly wondered what it was that she had heard.

Hungering for some one whom she could trust, Lucilla took an early breakfast in her own room, and walked to Wrapworth, hoping to catch the curate lingering over his coffee and letters.  From a distance, however, she espied his form disappearing in the school-porch, and approaching, heard his voice reading prayers, and the children’s chanted response.  Coming to the oriel, she looked in.  There were the rows of shiny heads, fair, brown, and black; there were the long sable back and chopped-hay locks of the curate; but where a queen-like figure had of old been wont to preside, she beheld a tallow face, with sandy hair under the most precise of net caps, and a straight thread-paper shape in scanty gray stuff and white apron.

Dizzy with wrathful consternation, Cilla threw herself on one of the seats of the porch, shaking her foot, and biting her lip, frantic to know the truth, yet too much incensed to enter, even when the hum of united voices ceased, the rushing sound of rising was over, and measured footsteps pattered to the classes, where the manly interrogations sounded alternately with the shrill little answers.

Clump, clump, came the heavy feet of a laggard, her head bent over her book, her thick lips vainly conning the unlearned task, unaware of the presence of the young lady, till Lucilla touched her, saying, ‘What, Martha, a ten o’clock scholar?’

She gave a little cry, opened her staring eyes, and dropped a curtsey.

‘Whom have you here for mistress?’ asked Lucilla.

‘Please, ma’am, governess is runned away.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied the girl, developing powers of volubility such as scholastic relations with her had left unsuspected.  ‘She ran away last Saturday was a week, and there was nobody to open the school when we came to it a Sunday morning; and we had holidays all last week, ma’am; and mother was terrified [1 - Terrify, to tease or worry.] out of her life; and father, he said he wouldn’t have me never go for to do no such thing, and that he didn’t want no fine ladies, as was always spiting of me.’

‘Every one will seem to spite you, if you keep no better hours,’ said Lucy, little edified by Martha’s virtuous indignation.

The girl had scarcely entered the school before the clergyman stood on the threshold, and was seized by both hands, with the words, ‘Oh, Mr. Prendergast, what is this?’

‘You here, Cilla?  What’s the matter?  What has brought you back?’

‘Had you not heard?  A sprain of Ratia’s, and other things.  Never mind.  What’s all this?’

‘Ah! I knew you would be sadly grieved!’

‘So you did frighten her away!’

‘I never meant it.  I tried to act for the best.  She was spoken to, by myself and others, but nobody could make any impression, and we could only give her notice to go at the harvest holidays.  She took it with her usual grand air—’

‘Which is really misery and despair.  Oh, why did I go?  Go on!’

‘I wrote to the mother, advising her, if possible, to come and be with the girl till the holidays.  That was on Thursday week, and the old woman promised to come on the Monday—wrote a very proper letter, allowing for the Methodistical phrases—but on the Saturday it was observed that the house was not opened, and on Sunday morning I got a note—if you’ll come in I’ll show it to you.’

He presently discovered it among multitudinous other papers on his chimney-piece.  Within a lady-like envelope was a thick satin-paper, queen’s-sized note, containing these words:

‘Reverend Sir,—It is with the deepest feelings of regret for the unsatisfactory appearance of my late conduct that I venture to address you, but time will enable me to account for all, and I can at the present moment only entreat you to pardon any inconvenience I may have occasioned by the precipitancy of my departure.  Credit me, reverend and dear sir, it was only the law of necessity that could have compelled me to act in a manner that may appear questionable.  Your feeling heart will excuse my reserve when you are informed of the whole.  In the meantime, I am only permitted to mention that this morning I became a happy wife.  With heartfelt thanks for all the kindness I have received, I remain,

    ‘Reverend sir,
    ‘Your obedient servant,
    ‘Edna.’

‘Not one message to me?’ exclaimed Lucilla.

‘Her not having had the impudence is the only redeeming thing!’

‘I did not think she would have left no word for me,’ said Lucy, who knew she had been kinder than her wont, and was really wounded.  ‘Happy wife!  Who can it be?’

‘Happy wife?’ repeated the curate.  ‘It is miserable fool, most likely, by this time.’

‘No surname signed!  What’s the post-mark?  Only Charing-cross.  Could you find out nothing, or did you not think it worth while to look?’

‘What do you take me for, Cilla?  I inquired at the station, but she had not been there, and on the Monday I went to London and saw the mother, who was in great distress, for she had had a letter much like mine, only more unsatisfactory, throwing out absurd hints about grandeur and prosperity—poor deluded simpleton!’