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

‘I don’t want him to be a genius, but he must be wise.’

‘Oh, my dear!  That comes of the way young ladies are brought up.  What would the Miss Berrilees have said, where I was at school at Bath, if one of their young ladies had talked of wanting to marry a wise man?’

Phœbe gave a faint smile, and said, ‘What was Mr. Charlecote like, mamma, whose brass was put up the day Robert was locked into the church?’

‘Humfrey Charlecote, my dear?  The dearest, most good-hearted man that ever lived.  Everybody liked him.  There was no one that did not feel as if they had lost a brother when he was taken off in that sudden way.’

‘And was not he very wise, mamma?’

‘Bless me, Phœbe, what could have put that into your head?  Humfrey Charlecote a wise man?  He was just a common, old-fashioned, hearty country squire.  It was only that he was so friendly and kind-hearted that made every one trust him, and ask his advice.’

‘I should like to have known him,’ said Phœbe, with a sigh.

‘Ah, if you married any one like that!  But there’s no use waiting!  There’s nobody left like him, and I won’t have you an old maid!  You are prettier than either of your sisters—more like me when I came away from Miss Berrilees, and had a gold-sprigged muslin for the Assize Ball, and Humfrey Charlecote danced with me.’

Phœbe fell into speculations on the wisdom whose counsel all asked, and which had left such an impression of affectionate honour.  She would gladly lean on such an one, but if no one of the like mould remained, she thought she could never bear the responsibilities of marriage.

Meantime she erected Humfrey Charlecote’s image into a species of judge, laying before this vision of a wise man all her perplexities between Miss Charlecote’s religion and Miss Fennimore’s reason, and all her practical doubts between Robert’s conflicting duties.  Strangely enough, the question, ‘What would Mr. Charlecote have thought?’ often aided her to cast the balance.  Though it was still Phœbe who decided, it was Phœbe drawn out of herself, and strengthened by her mask.

With vivid interest, such as for a living man would have amounted to love, she seized and hoarded each particle of intelligence that she could gain respecting the object of her admiration.  Honora herself, though far more naturally enthusiastic, had, with her dreamy nature and diffused raptures, never been capable of thus reverencing him, nor of the intensity of feeling of one whose restrained imagination and unromantic education gave force to all her sensations.  Yet this deep individual regard was a more wholesome tribute than Honor had ever paid to him, or to her other idol, for to Phœbe it was a step, lifting her to things above and beyond, a guide on the road, never a vision obscuring the true object.

Six weeks had quietly passed, when, like a domestic thunderbolt, came Juliana’s notification of her intention to return home at the end of a week.  Mrs. Fulmort, clinging to her single thread of comfort, hoped that Phœbe might still be allowed to come to her boudoir, but the gentlemen more boldly declared that they wanted Phœbe, and would not have her driven back into the schoolroom; to which the mother only replied with fears that Juliana would be in a dreadful temper, whereon Mervyn responded, ‘Let her!  Never mind her, Phœbe.  Stick up for yourself, and we’ll put her down.’

Except for knowing that she was useful to her mother, Phœbe would have thankfully retired into the west wing, rather than have given umbrage.  Mervyn’s partisanship was particularly alarming, and, endeavour as she might to hope that Juliana would be amiable enough to be disarmed by her own humility and unobtrusiveness, she lived under the impression of disagreeables impending.

One morning at breakfast, Mr. Fulmort, after grumbling out his wonder at Juliana’s writing to him, suddenly changed his tone into, ‘Hollo! what’s this?  “My engagement—”’

‘By Jove!’ shouted Mervyn; ‘too good to be true.  So she’s done it.  I didn’t think he’d been such an ass, having had one escape.’

‘Who?’ continued Mr. Fulmort, puzzling, as he held the letter far off—‘engagement to dear—dear Devil, does she say?’

‘The only fit match,’ muttered Mervyn, laughing.  ‘No, no, sir!  Bevil—Sir Bevil Acton.’

‘What! not the fellow that gave us so much trouble!  He had not a sixpence; but she must please herself now.’

‘You don’t mean that you didn’t know what she went with the Merivales for?—five thousand a year and a baronetcy, eh?’

‘The deuce!  If I had known that, he might have had her long ago.’

‘It’s quite recent,’ said Mervyn.  ‘A mere chance; and he has been knocking about in the colonies these ten years—might have cut his wisdom teeth.’

‘Ten years—not half-a-dozen!’ said Mr. Fulmort.

‘Ten!’ reiterated Mervyn.  ‘It was just before I went to old Raymond’s.  Acton took me to dine at the mess.  He was a nice fellow then, and deserved better luck.’

‘Ten years’ constancy!’ said Phœbe, who had been looking from one to the other in wonder, trying to collect intelligence.  ‘Do tell me.’

‘Whew!’ whistled Mervyn.  ‘Juliana hadn’t her sharp nose nor her sharp tongue when first she came out.  Acton was quartered at Elverslope, and got smitten.  She flirted with him all the winter; but I fancy she didn’t give you much trouble when he came to the point, eh, sir?’

‘I thought him an impudent young dog for thinking of a girl of her prospects; but if he had this to look to!—I was sorry for him, too!  Ten years ago,’ mused Mr. Fulmort.

‘And she has liked no one since?’

‘Or no one has liked her, which comes to the same,’ said Mervyn.  ‘The regiment went to the Cape, and there was an end of it, till we fell in with the Merivales on board the steamer; and they mentioned their neighbour, Sir Bevil Acton, come into his property, and been settled near them a year or two.  Fine sport it was, to see Juliana angling for an invitation, brushing up her friendship with Minnie Merivale—amiable to the last degree!  My stars! what work she must have had to play good temper all these six weeks, and how we shall have to pay for it!’

‘Or Acton will,’ said Mr. Fulmort, with a hearty chuckle of triumphant good-humour.

Was it a misfortune to Phœbe to have been so much refined by education as to be grated on by the vulgar tone of those nearest to her?  It was well for her that she could still put it aside as their way, even while following her own instinct.  Mervyn and Juliana had been on cat and dog terms all their lives; he was certain to sneer at all that concerned her, and Phœbe reserved her belief that an attachment, nipped in the bud, was ready to blossom in sunshine.  She ran up with the news to her mother.

‘Juliana going to be married!  Well, my dear, you may be introduced at once!  How comfortable you and I shall be in the little brougham.’

Phœbe begged to be told what the intended was like.

‘Let me see—was he the one that won the steeple-chase?  No; that was the one that Augusta liked.  We knew so many young men, that I could never tell which was which; and your sisters were always talking about them till it quite ran through my poor head, such merry girls as they were!’

‘And poor Juliana never was so merry after he was gone.’

‘I don’t remember,’ replied this careful mother; ‘but you know she never could have meant anything, for he had nothing, and you with your fortunes are a match for anybody!  Phœbe, my dear, we must go to London next spring, and you shall marry a nobleman.  I must see you a titled lady as well as your sisters.’

‘I’ve no objection, provided he is my wise man,’ said Phœbe.

Juliana had found the means of making herself welcome, and her marriage a cause of unmixed jubilation in her family.  Prosperity made her affable, and instead of suppressing Phœbe, she made her useful, and treated her as a confidante, telling her of all the previous intimacy, and all the secret sufferings in dear Bevil’s absence, but passing lightly over the last happy meeting, which Phœbe respected as too sacred to be talked of.

The little maiden’s hopes of a perfect brother in the constant knight rose high, and his appearance and demeanour did not disappoint them.  He had a fine soldierly figure, and that air of a thorough gentleman which Phœbe’s Holt experience had taught her to appreciate; his manners were peculiarly gentle and kind, especially to Mrs. Fulmort; and Phœbe did not like him the less for showing traces of the effects of wounds and climate, and a grave, subdued air, almost amounting to melancholy.  But before he had been three days at Beauchamp, Juliana made a virulent attack on the privileges of her younger sisters.  Perhaps it was the consequence of poor Maria’s volunteer to Sir Bevil—‘I am glad Juliana is going with you, for now no one will be cross to me;’ but it seemed to verify the poor girl’s words, that she should be hunted like a strange cat if she were found beyond her own precincts, and that the other two should be treated much in the same manner.  Bertha stood up for her rights, declaring that what mamma and Miss Fennimore allowed, she would not give up for Juliana; but the only result was an admonition to the governess, and a fierce remonstrance to the poor meek mother.  Phœbe, who only wished to retire from the stage in peace, had a more difficult part to play.

‘What’s the matter now?’ demanded Mervyn, making his way up to her as she sat in a remote corner of the drawing-room, in the evening.  ‘Why were you not at dinner?’

‘There was no room, I believe.’

‘Nonsense! our table dines eight-and-twenty, and there were not twenty.’

‘That was a large party, and you know I am not out.’

‘You don’t look like it in that long-sleeved white affair, and nothing on your head either.  Where are those ivy-leaves you had yesterday—real, weren’t they?’

‘They were not liked.’

‘Not liked! they were the prettiest things I have seen for a long time.  Acton said they made you look like a nymph—the green suits that shiny light hair of yours, and makes you like a picture.’

‘Yes, they made me look forward and affected.’

‘Now who told you that?  Has the Fennimore got to her old tricks?’

‘Oh no, no!’

‘I see! a jealous toad!  I heard him telling her that you reminded him of her in old times.  The spiteful vixen!  Well, Phœbe, if you cut her out, I bargain for board and lodging at Acton Manor.  This will be no place for a quiet, meek soul like me!’

Phœbe tried to laugh, but looked distressed, uncomprehending, and far from wishing to comprehend.  She could not escape, for Mervyn had penned her up, and went on: ‘You don’t pretend that you don’t see how it is!  That unlucky fellow is heartily sick of his bargain, but you see he was too soft to withstand her throwing herself right at his head, and doing the “worm in the bud,” and the cruel father, green and yellow melancholy, &c., ever since they were inhumanly parted.’