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

‘But Robert is the oracle! eh?’ he said, kindly and merrily.

‘Robert has been everything to us younger ones,’ she answered.  ‘I am still more glad that you like him.’

His grave face not responding as she expected, she feared that he had been bored, that he thought Robert righteous over much, or disapproved his opinions; but his answer was worth having when it came.  ‘I know nothing about his views; I never looked into the subject; but when I see a young man giving up a lucrative prospect for conscience sake, and devoting himself to work in that sink of iniquity, I see there must be something in him.  I can’t judge if he goes about it in a wrong-headed way, but I should be proud of such a fellow instead of discarding him.’

‘Oh, thank you!’ cried Phœbe, with ecstasy that made him laugh, and quite differently from the made-up laughter she had been used to hear from him.

‘What are you thanking me for?’ he said.  ‘I do not imagine that I shall be able to serve him.  I’ll talk to your father about him, but he must be the best judge of the discipline of his own family.’

‘I was not thinking of your doing anything,’ said Phœbe; ‘but a kind word about Robert does make me very grateful.’

There was a long silence, only diversified by an astonished nod from Mervyn driving back from the office.  Just before setting her down, Sir Bevil said, ‘I wonder whether your brother would let us give something to his church.  Will you find out what it shall be, and let me know?  As a gift from Juliana and myself—you understand.’

It was lucky for Phœbe that she had brought home a good stock of satisfaction to support her, for she found herself in the direst disgrace, and her mother too much cowed to venture on more than a feeble self-defensive murmur that she had told Phœbe it would never do.  Convinced in her own conscience that she had done nothing blameworthy, Phœbe knew that it was the shortest way not to defend herself, and the storm was blowing over when Mervyn came in, charmed to mortify Juliana by compliments to Phœbe on ‘doing it stylishly, careering in Acton’s turn-out,’ but when the elder sister explained where she had been, Mervyn, too, deserted her, and turned away with a fierce imprecation on his brother, such as was misery to Phœbe’s ears.  He was sourly ill-humoured all the evening; Juliana wreaked her displeasure on Sir Bevil in ungraciousness, till such silence and gloom descended on him, that he was like another man from him who had smiled on Phœbe in the afternoon.  Yet, though dismayed at the offence she had given, and grieved at these evidences of Robert’s ill-odour with his family, Phœbe could not regret having seized her single chance of seeing Robert’s dwelling for herself, nor the having made him known to Sir Bevil.  The one had made her satisfied, the other hopeful, even while she recollected, with foreboding, that truth sometimes comes not with peace, but with a sword, to set at variance parent and child, and make foes of them of the same household.

Juliana never forgave that drive.  She continued bitter towards Phœbe, and kept such a watch over her and Sir Bevil, that the jealous surveillance became palpable to both.  Sir Bevil really wanted to tell Phœbe the unsatisfactory result of his pleading for Robert; she wanted to tell him of Robert’s gratitude for his offered gift; but the exchange of any words in private was out of their power, and each silently felt that it was best to make no move towards one another till the unworthy jealousy should have died away.

Though Sir Bevil had elicited nothing but abuse of ‘pigheaded folly,’ his espousal of the young clergyman’s cause was not without effect.  Robert was not treated with more open disfavour than he had often previously endured, and was free to visit the party at Farrance’s, if he chose to run the risk of encountering his father’s blunt coldness, Mervyn’s sulky dislike, and Juliana’s sharp satire, but as he generally came so as to find his mother and Phœbe alone, some precious moments compensated for the various disagreeables.  Nor did these affect him nearly as much as they did his sister.  It was, in fact, one of his remaining unwholesome symptoms that he rather enjoyed persecution, and took no pains to avoid giving offence.  If he meant to be uncompromising, he sometimes was simply provoking, and Phœbe feared that Sir Bevil thought him an unpromising protégé.

He was asked to the Christmas dinner at the Bannermans’, and did not fulfil Augusta’s prediction that he would say it was a fast day, and refuse.  That evening gave Phœbe her best téte-à-téte with him, but she observed that all was about Whittingtonia, not one word of the past summer, not so much as an inquiry for Miss Charlecote.  Evidently that page in his history was closed for ever, and if he should carry out his designs in their present form, a wife at the intended institution would be an impossibility.  How near the dearest may be to one another, and yet how little can they guess at what they would most desire to know.

Sir Bevil had insisted on his being asked to perform the ceremony, and she longed to understand whether his refusal were really on the score of his being a deacon, or if he had any further motive.  His own family were affronted, though glad to be left free to request the services of the greatest dignitary of their acquaintance, and Sir Bevil’s blunt ‘No, no, poor fellow! say no more about it,’ made her suppose that he suspected that Robert’s vehemence in his parish was meant to work off a disappointment.

It was a dreary wedding, in spite of London grandeur.  In all her success, Juliana could not help looking pinched and ill at ease, her wreath and veil hardening instead of softening her features, and her bridegroom’s studious cheerfulness and forced laughs became him less than his usual silent dejection.  The Admiral was useful in getting up stock wedding-wit, but Phœbe wondered how any one could laugh at it; and her fellow-bridesmaids, all her seniors, seemed to her, as perhaps she might to them, like thoughtless children, playing with the surface of things.  She pitied Sir Bevil, and saw little chance of happiness for either, yet heard only congratulations, and had to be bright, busy, and helpful, under a broad, stiff, white watered silk scarf, beneath which Juliana had endeavoured to extinguish her, but in which her tall rounded shape looked to great advantage.  Indeed, that young rosy face, and the innocently pensive wondering eyes were so sweet, that the bride had to endure hearing admiration of her sister from all quarters, and the Acton bridemaidens whispered rather like those at Netherby Hall.

It was over, and Phœbe was the reigning Miss Fulmort.  Her friends were delighted for her and for themselves, and her mother entered on the full enjoyment of the little brougham.

CHAPTER XI

When some dear scheme
Of our life doth seem
Shivered at once like a broken dream
And our hearts to reel
Like ships that feel
A sharp rock grating against their keel.

    —C. F. A.

It was high summer; and in spite of cholera-averting thunderstorms, the close streets and the odour of the Thames were becoming insufferable.  Mr. Parsons arranged a series of breathing times for his clerical staff, but could make Robert Fulmort accept none.  He was strong and healthy, ravenous of work, impervious to disgusts, and rejected holidays as burdensome and hateful.  Where should he go?  What could he do?  What would become of his wild scholars without him, and who would superintend his buildings?

Mr. Parsons was fain to let him have his own way, as had happened in some previous instances, specially the edifice in Cicely Row, where the incumbent would have paused, but the curate rushed on with resolute zeal and impetuosity, taking measures so decidedly ere his intentions were revealed, that neither remonstrance nor prevention were easy, and a species of annoyed, doubtful admiration alone was possible.  It was sometimes a gratifying reflection to the vicar, that when the buildings were finished, Whittingtonia would become a district, and its busy curate be no longer under his jurisdiction.

Meantime Robert was left with a companion in priest’s orders, but newer to the parish than himself, to conduct the services at St. Wulstan’s, while the other curates were taking holiday, and the vicar at his son’s country-house.  To see how contentedly, nay, pleasurably, ‘Fulmort’ endured perpetual broiling, passing from frying school to grilling pavement, and seething human hive, was constant edification to his colleague, who, fresh from the calm university, felt such a life to be a slow martyrdom, and wished his liking for the deacon were in better proportion to his esteem.

‘A child to be baptized at 8, Little Whittington-street,’ he said, with resigned despair, as at the vestry door he received a message from a small maid, one afternoon, when the air looked lucid yellow with sultry fire.

‘I’ll go,’ replied Robert, with the alacrity that sometimes almost irritated his fellows; and off he sped, with alert steps, at which his friend gazed with the sensation of watching a salamander.

Little Whittington-street, where it was not warehouses, was chiefly occupied by small tradesfolk, or by lodging-houses for the numerous ‘young men’ employed in the City.  It was one of the most respectable parts of that quarter, but being much given to dissent, was little frequented by the clergy, who had too much immorality to contend with, to have leisure to speak against schism.

When he rang at No. 8, the little maid ushered him down a narrow, dark staircase, and announcing, ‘Please, ma’am, here’s the minister,’ admitted him into a small room, feeling like a cellar, the window opening into an area.  It was crowded with gay and substantial furniture, and contained two women, one lying on a couch, partially hidden by a screen, the other an elderly person, in a widow’s cap, with an infant in her arms.

‘Good morning, sir; we were sorry to trouble you, but I felt certain, as I told my daughter, that a minister of the Gospel would not tarry in time of need.  Not that I put my trust in ordinances, sir; I have been blest with the enlightenment of the new birth, but my daughter, sir, she follows the Church.  Yes, sir, the poor little lamb is a sad sufferer in this vale of tears.  So wasted away, you see; you would not think he was nine weeks old.  We would have brought him to church before, sir, only my daughter’s hillness, and her ‘usband’s habsence.  It was always her wish, sir, and I was not against it, for many true Christians have found grace in the Church, sir.’

Robert considered whether to address himself to the young mother, whose averted face and uneasy movements seemed to show that this stream of words was distressing to her.  He thought silence would be best procured by his assumption of his office, and quietly made his preparations, opened his book, and took his place.

The young woman, raising herself with difficulty, said in a low, sweet voice, ‘The gentleman is ready, mother.’

As there was no pressing danger, he read the previous collects, the elder female responding with devout groans, the younger sinking on her knees, her face hidden in her wasted hands.  He took the little feeble being in his arms, and demanded the name.

‘Hoeing Charterhouse,’ replied the grandmother.

He looked interrogative, and Hoeing Charterhouse was repeated.

‘Owen Charteris,’ said the low, sweet voice.

A thrill shot over his whole frame, as his look met a large, full, liquid pair of dark eyes, such as once seen could never be forgotten, though dropped again instantly, while a burning blush arose, instantly veiled by the hands, which hid all up to the dark hair.

Recalling himself by an effort, he repeated the too familiar name, and baptized the child, bending his head over it afterwards in deep compassion and mental entreaty both for its welfare, and his own guidance in the tissue of wrongdoing thus disclosed.  A hasty, stealthy glance at the hands covering the mother’s face, showed him the ring on her fourth finger, and as they rose from their knees, he said, ‘I am to register this child as Owen Charteris Sandbrook.’

With a look of deadly terror, she faintly exclaimed, ‘I have done it!  You know him, sir; you will not betray him!’

‘I know you, too,’ said Robert, sternly.  ‘You were the schoolmistress at Wrapworth!’

‘I was, sir.  It was all my fault.  Oh! promise me, sir, never to betray him; it would be the ruin of his prospects for ever!’  And she came towards him, her hands clasped in entreaty, her large eyes shining with feverish lustre, her face wasted but still lovely, a piteous contrast to the queenly being of a year ago in her pretty schoolroom.

‘Compose yourself,’ said Robert, gravely; ‘I hope never to betray any one.  I confess that I am shocked, but I will endeavour to act rightly.’

‘I am sure, sir,’ broke in Mrs. Murrell, with double volume, after her interval of quiescence, ‘it is not to be expected but what a gentleman’s friends would be offended.  It was none of my wish, sir, being that I never knew a word of it till she was married, and it was too late, or I would have warned her against broken cisterns.  But as for her, sir, she is as innocent as a miserable sinner can be in a fallen world.  It was the young gentleman as sought her out.  I always misdoubted the ladies noticing her, and making her take part with men-singers and women-singers, and such vanities as is pleasing to the unregenerate heart.  Ah! sir, without grace, where are we?  Not that he was ever other than most honourable with her, or she would never have listened to him not for a moment, but she was over-persuaded, sir, and folks said what they hadn’t no right to say, and the minister, he was ‘ard on her, and so, you see, sir, she took fright and married him out of ‘and, trusting to a harm of flesh, and went to Hireland with him.  She just writ me a note, which filled my ‘art with fear and trembling, a ‘nonymous note, with only Hedna signed to it; and I waited, with failing eyes and sorrow of heart, till one day in autumn he brings her back to me, and here she has been ever since, dwining away in a nervous fever, as the doctors call it, as it’s a misery to see her, and he never coming nigh her.’

‘Once,’ murmured Edna, who had several times tried to interrupt.

‘Once, ay, for one hour at Christmas.’

‘He is known here; he can’t venture often,’ interposed the wife; and there was a further whisper, ‘he couldn’t stay, he couldn’t bear it.’

But the dejected accents were lost in the old woman’s voice,—‘Now, sir, if you know him or his family, I wouldn’t be wishing to do him no hinjury, nor to ruinate his prospects, being, as he says, that the rich lady will make him her hare; but, sir, if you have any power with him as a godly minister or the friend of his youth maybe—’

‘He is only waiting till he has a curacy—a house of his own—mother!’

‘No, Edna, hold your peace.  It is not fit that I should see my only child cut down as the grass of the field, and left a burthen upon me, a lone woman, while he is eating of the fat of the land.  I say it is scandalous that he should leave her here, and take no notice; not coming near her since one hour at Christmas, and only just sending her a few pounds now and then; not once coming to see his own child!’

‘He could not; he is abroad!’ pleaded Edna.

‘He tells you he is abroad!’ exclaimed Robert.

‘He went to Paris at Easter.  He promised to come when he comes home.’