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

‘And what is to explain my absence?  No, no, the secret is one no longer, and it has been intolerable enough already,’ said Owen, recklessly.  ‘Poor Honor, it will be a grievous business, and little Phœbe will be a kind messenger.  Won’t you, Phœbe?  I leave my cause in your hands.’

‘But,’ faltered Phœbe, ‘she should hear who—’

‘Simple child, you can’t draw inferences.  Cilla wouldn’t have asked.  Don’t you remember her darling at Wrapworth?  People shouldn’t throw such splendid women in one’s way, especially when they are made of such inflammable materials, and take fire at a civil word.  So ill, poor thing!  Now, Robert, on your honour, has not the mother been working on you?’

‘I tell you not what the mother told me, but what the medical man said.  Low nervous fever set in long ago, and she has never recovered her confinement.  Heat and closeness were already destroying her, when my disclosure that you were not abroad, as she had been led to believe, brought on fainting, and almost immediate delirium.  This was last evening, she was worse this morning.’

‘Poor girl, poor girl!’ muttered Owen, his face almost convulsed with emotion.  ‘There was no helping it.  She would have drowned herself if I had not taken her with me—quite capable of it! after those intolerable women at Wrapworth had opened fire.  I wish women’s tongues were cut out by act of parliament.  So, Phœbe, tell poor Honor that I know I am unpardonable, but I am sincerely sorry for her.  I fell into it, there’s no knowing how, and she would pity me, and so would you, if you knew what I have gone through.  Good-bye, Phœbe.  Most likely I shall never see you again.  Won’t you shake hands, and tell me you are sorry for me?’

‘I should be, if you seemed more sorry for your wife than yourself,’ she said, holding out her hand, but by no means prepared for his not only pressing it with fervour, but carrying it to his lips.

Then, as Robert started forward with an impulse of snatching her from him, he almost threw it from his grasp, and with a long sigh very like bitter regret, and a murmur that resembled ‘That’s a little angel,’ he mounted the bank.  Robert only tarried to say, ‘May I be able to bear with him!  Phœbe, do your best for poor Miss Charlecote.  I will write.’

Phœbe sat down at the foot of a tree, veiled by the waving ferns, to take breath and understand what had passed.  Her first act was to strike one hand across the other, as though to obliterate the kiss, then to draw off her glove, and drop it in the deepest of the fern, never to be worn again.  Hateful!  With that poor neglected wife pining to death in those stifling city streets, to be making sport in those forest glades.  Shame! shame!  But oh! worst of all was his patronizing pity for Miss Charlecote!  Phœbe’s own mission to Miss Charlecote was dreadful enough, and she could have sat for hours deliberating on the mode of carrying grief and dismay to her friend, who had looked so joyous and exulting with her boy by her side as she drove upon the ground; but there was no time to be lost, and rousing herself into action with strong effort, Phœbe left the fern brake, walking like one in a dream, and exchanging civilities with various persons who wondered to see her alone, made her way to the principal marquee, where luncheon had taken place, and which always served as the rendezvous.  Here sat mammas, keeping up talk enough for civility, and peeping out restlessly to cluck their broods together; here gentlemen stood in knots, talking county business; servants congregated in the rear, to call the carriages; stragglers gradually streamed together, and ‘Oh! here you are,’ was the staple exclamation.

It was uttered by Mrs. Fulmort as Phœbe appeared, and was followed by plaintive inquiries for her sisters, and assurances that it would have been better to have stayed in the cool tent, and gone home at once.  Phœbe consoled her by ordering the carriage, and explaining that her sisters were at hand with some other girls, then begged leave to go home with Miss Charlecote for the night.

‘My dear, what shall I do with the others without you?  Maria has such odd tricks, and Bertha is so teasing without you!  You promised they should not tire me!’

‘I will beg them to be good, dear mamma; I am very sorry, but it is only this once.  She will be alone.  Owen Sandbrook is obliged to go away.’

‘I can’t think what she should want of you,’ moaned her mother, ‘so used as she is to be alone.  Did she ask you?’

‘No, she does not know yet.  I am to tell her, and that is why I want you to be so kind as to spare me, dear mamma.’

‘My dear, it will not do for you to be carrying young men’s secrets, at least not Owen Sandbrook’s.  Your papa would not like it, my dear, until she had acknowledged him for her heir.  You have lost your glove, too, Phœbe, and you look so heated, you had better come back with me,’ said Mrs. Fulmort, who would not have withstood for a moment a decree from either of her other daughters.

‘Indeed,’ said Phœbe, ‘you need not fear, mamma.  It is nothing of that sort, quite the contrary.’

‘Quite the contrary!  You don’t tell me that he has formed another attachment, just when I made sure of your settling at last at the Holt, and you such a favourite with Honor Charlecote.  Not one of those plain Miss Raymonds, I hope.’

‘I must not tell, till she has heard,’ said Phœbe, ‘so please say nothing about it.  It will vex poor Miss Charlecote sadly, so pray let no one suspect, and I will come back and tell you to-morrow, by the time you are dressed.’

Mrs. Fulmort was so much uplifted by the promise of the grand secret that she made no more opposition, and Maria and Bertha hurried in with Phœbe’s glove, which, with the peculiar fidelity of property wilfully lost, had fallen into their hands while searching for Robert.  Both declared they had seen him on the hill, and clamorously demanded him of Phœbe.  Her answer, ‘he is not in the forest, you will not find him,’ was too conscious fully to have satisfied the shrewd Bertha, but for the pleasure of discoursing to the other girls upon double gangers, of whom she had stealthily read in some prohibited German literature of her governess’s.

Leaving her to astonish them, Phœbe took up a position near Miss Charlecote, who was talking to the good matronly-looking Lady Raymond, and on the first opportunity offered herself as a companion.  On the way home, Honor, much pleased, was proposing to find Owen, and walk through a beautiful and less frequented forest path, when she saw her own carriage coming up with that from Beauchamp, and lamented the mistake which must take her away as soon as Owen could be found.

‘I ventured to order it,’ said Phœbe; ‘I thought you might prefer it.  Owen is gone.  He left a message with me for you.’

Experience of former blows taught Honora to ask no questions, and to go through the offices of politeness as usual.  But Lady Raymond, long a friend of hers, though barely acquainted with Mrs. Fulmort, and never having seen Phœbe before, living as she did on the opposite side of the county, took a moment for turning round to the young girl, and saying with a friendly motherly warmth, far from mere curiosity, ‘I am sure you have bad news for Miss Charlecote.  I see you cannot speak of it now, but you must promise me to send to Moorcroft, if Sir John or I can be of any use.’

Phœbe could only give a thankful grasp of the kind hand.  The Raymonds were rather despised at home for plain habits, strong religious opinions, and scanty fortunes, but she knew they were Miss Charlecote’s great friends and advisers.

Not till the gay crowd had been left behind did Honor turn to Phœbe, and say gently, ‘My dear, if he is gone off in any foolish way, you had better tell me at once, that something may be done.’

‘He is gone with Robert,’ said Phœbe.  ‘Bertha did really see Robert.  He had made a sad discovery, and came for Owen.  Do you remember that pretty schoolmistress at Wrapworth!’

Never had Phœbe seen such a blanched face and dilated eyes as were turned on her, with the gasping words, ‘Impossible! they would not have told you.’

‘They were obliged,’ said Phœbe; ‘they had to hurry for the train, for she is very ill indeed.’

Honor leant back with folded hands and closed eyes, so that Phœbe almost felt as if she had killed her.  ‘I suppose Robert was right to fetch him,’ she said; ‘but their telling you!’

‘Owen told me he fancied Robert had done so,’ said Phœbe, ‘and called out to me something about family claims, and a married man.’

‘Married!’ cried Honora, starting forward.  ‘You are sure!’

‘Quite sure,’ repeated Phœbe; ‘he desired me to tell you I was to say he knew he was unpardonable, but he had suffered a great deal, and he was grieved at the sorrow you would feel.’

Having faithfully discharged her message, Phœbe could not help being vexed at the relenting ‘Poor fellow!’

Honor was no longer confounded, as at the first sentences, and though still cast down, was more relieved than her young friend could understand, asking all that had passed between the young men, and when all had been told, leaning back in silence until, when almost at home, she laid her hand on Phœbe’s arm, and said, ‘My child, never think yourself safe from idols.’

She then sought her own room, and Phœbe feared that her presence was intrusive, for she saw her hostess no more till teatime, when the wan face and placid smile almost made her weep at first, then wonder at the calm unconstrained manner in which her amusement was provided for, and feel ready to beg not to be treated like a child or a stranger.  When parting for the night, however, Honor tenderly said, ‘Thanks, my dear, for giving up the evening to me.’

‘I have only been an oppression to you.’

‘You did me the greatest good.  I did not want discussion; I only wanted kindness.  I wish I had you always, but it is better not.  Their uncle was right.  I spoil every one.’

‘Pray do not say so.  You have been our great blessing.  If you knew how we wish to comfort you.’

‘You do comfort me.  I can watch Robert realizing my visions for others, and you, my twilight moon, my autumn flower.  But I must not love you too much, Phœbe.  They all suffer for my inordinate affection.  But it is too late to talk.  Good night, sweet one.’

‘Shall you sleep?’ said Phœbe, wistfully lingering.

‘Yes; I don’t enter into it enough to be haunted.  Ah! you have never learnt what it is to feel heavy with trouble.  I believe I shall not dwell on it till I know more.  There may be much excuse; she may have been artful, and at least Owen dealt fairly by her in one respect.  I can better suppose her unworthy than him cruelly neglectful.’

In that hope Honor slept, and was not more depressed than Phœbe had seen her under Lucilla’s desertion.  She put off herjudgment till she should hear more, went about her usual occupations, and sent Phœbe home till letters should come, when they would meet again.

Both heard from Robert by the next post, and his letter to Miss Charlecote related all that he had been able to collect from Mrs. Murrell, or from Owen himself.  The narrative is here given more fully than he was able to make it.  Edna Murrell, born with the susceptible organization of a musical temperament, had in her earliest childhood been so treated as to foster refined tastes and aspirations, such as disgusted her with the respectable vulgarity of her home.  The pet of the nursery and school-room looked down on the lodge kitchen and parlour, and her discontent was a matter of vanity with her parents, as a sign of her superiority, while plausibility and caution were continually enjoined on her rather by example than by precept, and she was often aware of her mother’s indulgence of erratic propensities in religion, unknown either to her father or his employers.

Unexceptionable as had been her training-school education, the high cultivation and soundness of doctrine had so acted on her as to keep her farther aloof from her mother, whose far more heartfelt religion appeared to her both distasteful and contemptible, and whose advice was thus cast aside as prejudiced and sectarian.

Such was the preparation for the unprotected life of a schoolmistress in a house by herself.  Servants and small tradesfolk were no companions to her, and were offended by her ladylike demeanour; and her refuge was in books that served but to increase the perils of sham romance, and in enthusiastic adoration of the young lady, whose manners apparently placed her on an equality, although her beauty and musical talents were in truth only serving as a toy.

Her face and voice had already been thrust on Owen’s notice before the adventure with the bargeman had constituted the young gentleman the hero of her grateful imagination, and commenced an intercourse for which his sister’s inconsiderate patronage gave ample opportunities.  His head was full of the theory of fusion of classes, and of the innate refinement, freshness of intellect, and vigour of perception of the unsophisticated, at least so he thought, and when he lent her books, commenting on favourite passages, and talked poetry or popular science to her, he imagined himself walking in the steps of those who were asserting the claims of intelligence to cultivation, and sowing broadcast the seeds of art, literature, and emancipation.  Perhaps he knew not how often he was betrayed into tokens of admiration, sufficient to inflame such a disposition as he had to deal with, and if he were aware of his influence, and her adoration, it idly flattered and amused him, without thought of the consequences.

On the night when she had fainted at the sight of his attention to Phœbe, she was left on his hands in a state when all caution and reserve gave way, and her violent agitation fully awakened him to the perception of the expectations he had caused, the force of the feelings he had aroused.  A mixture of pity, vanity, and affection towards the beautiful creature before him had led to a response such as did not disappoint her, and there matters might have rested for the present, but that their interview had been observed.  Edna, terror-stricken, believing herself irretrievably disgraced, had thrown herself on his mercy in a frantic condition, such as made him dread exposure for himself, as well as suspense for her tempestuous nature.

With all his faults, the pure atmosphere in which he had grown up, together with the tone of his associates, comparatively free from the grosser and more hard-hearted forms of vice, had concurred with poor Edna’s real modesty and principle in obtaining the sanction of marriage, for her flight with him from the censure of Wrapworth, and the rebukes of her mother.  Throughout, his feeling had been chiefly stirred up by the actual sight of her beauty, and excited by her fervent passion.  When absent from her, there had been always regrets and hesitations, such as would have prevailed, save for his compassion, and dread of the effects of her desperation, both for her and for himself.  The unpardonable manner in which he knew himself to have acted, made it needful to plunge deeper for the very sake of concealment.

Yet, once married, he would have been far safer if he had confessed the fact to his only true friend, since it must surely come to light some time or other, but he had bred himself up in the habit of schoolboy shuffling, hiding everything to the last moment, and he could not bear to be cast off by the Charterises, be pitied and laughed at by his Oxford friends, nor to risk Honor Charlecote’s favour, perhaps her inheritance.  Return to Oxford the victim of an attachment to a village schoolmistress!  Better never return thither at all, as would be but too probably the case!  No! the secret must be kept till his first start in life should be secure; and he talked to Edna of his future curacy, while she fed her fancy with visions of lovely parsonages and ‘clergymen’s ladies’ in a world of pensive bliss, and after the honeymoon in Ireland, promised to wait patiently, provided her mother might know all.

Owen had not realized the home to which he was obliged to resign his wife, nor his mother-in-law’s powers of tongue.  There were real difficulties in the way of his visiting her.  It was the one neighbourhood in London where his person might be known, and if he avoided daylight, he became the object of espial to the disappointed lodgers, who would have been delighted to identify the ‘Mr. Brook’ who had monopolized the object of their admiration.  These perils, the various disagreeables, and especially Mrs. Murrell’s complaints and demands for money, had so much annoyed Owen, who felt himself the injured party in the connection, that he had not only avoided the place, but endeavoured to dismiss the whole humiliating affair from his mind, trying to hinder himself from being harassed by letters, and when forced to attend to the representations of the women, sending a few kind words and promises, with such money as he could spare, always backed, however, by threats of the consequences of a disclosure, which he vaguely intimated would ruin his prospects for life.

Little did the thoughtless boy comprehend the cruelty of his neglect.  In the underground rooms of the City lodging-house, the voluntary prison of the shame-faced, half-owned wife, the overwrought headache, incidental to her former profession, made her its prey; nervous fever came on as the suspense became more trying, and morbid excitement alternated with torpor and depression.  Medical advice was long deferred, and that which was at last sought was not equal to her needs.  It remained for the physician, summoned by Robert, in his horror at her delirium, to discover that her brain had long been in a state of irritation, which had become aggravated to such a degree that death was even to be desired.  Could she yet survive, it could hardly be to the use of her intellect.

Robert described poor Owen’s impetuous misery, and the cares which he lavished on the unconscious sufferer, mentioning him with warmth and tenderness that amazed Honor, from one so stern of judgment.  Nay, Robert was more alive to the palliations of Owen’s conduct than she was herself.  She grieved over the complicated deceit, and resented the cruelty to the wife with the keen severity of secluded womanhood, unable to realize the temptations of young-manhood.