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

Her solitude continued till half-past ten, when she heard the welcome sound of Robert’s voice, and flew to meet him, but was again checked by his irresponsive manner as he asked for Owen.

‘I have not seen him.  I do not know whether to knock, lest he should be asleep.’

‘I hope he is.  He has not been in bed for three nights.  I will go and see.’

He was moving to the door without lingering for a word more.  She stopped him by saying, ‘Pray hear first what I have settled with Mrs. Murrell.’

‘She told me,’ said Robert.  ‘Is it Owen’s wish?’

‘It ought to be.  It must.  Every public justice must be paid now.’

‘Is it quite well judged, unless it were his strong desire?  Have you considered the feelings of Mr. Prendergast or your relations?’

‘There is nothing I consider more.  If Charles thinks it more disgraceful to marry a Christian for love than a Jewess for money, he shall see that we are not of the same opinion.’

‘I never pretend to judge of your motives.’

‘Mercy, what have I gone and said?’ ejaculated Lucilla, as the door closed after him.  ‘Why did I let it out, and make him think me a vixen?  Better than a hypocrite though!  I always professed to show my worst.  What’s come to me, that I can’t go on so contentedly?  He must hear the Charteris’ sentiments, though, that he may not think mine a gratuitous affront.’

Her explanation was at her tongue’s end, but Robert only reappeared with her brother, whom he had found dressing.  Owen just greeted his sister, but asked no questions, only dropping heavily into a chair, and let her bring him his breakfast.  So young was he, still wanting six weeks to years of discretion; so youthful his appearance in spite of his size and strength, that it was almost absurd to regard him as a widower, and expect him to act as a man of mature age and feeling.  There was much of the boy in his excessive and freely-indulged lassitude, and his half-sullen, half-shy reserve towards his sister.  Knowing he had been in conversation with Robert, she felt it hard that before her he only leant his elbows on the table, yawned, and talked of his stiffness, until his friend rising to leave them, he exerted himself to say, ‘Don’t go, Fulmort.’

‘I am afraid I must.  I leave you to your sister.’  (She noted that it was not ‘Lucy.’)

‘But, I say, Fulmort, there are things to settle—funeral, and all that,’ he said in a helpless voice, like a sulky schoolboy.

‘Your sister has been arranging with Mrs. Murrell.’

‘Yes, Owen,’ said Lucilla, tears glistening in her eyes, and her voice thrilling with emotion; ‘it is right and just that she should be with our mother and little Mary at home; so I have written to Mr. Prendergast.’

‘Very well,’ he languidly answered.  ‘Settle it as you will; only deliver me from the old woman!’

He was in no state for reproaches; but Lucilla was obliged to bite her lip to restrain a torrent of angry weeping.

At his urgent instance, Robert engaged to return to dinner, and went, leaving Lucilla with nothing to do but to watch those heavy slumberings on the sofa and proffer attentions that were received with the surliness of one too miserable to know what to do with himself.  She yearned over him with a new awakening of tenderness, longing, yet unable, to console or soothe.  The light surface-intercourse of the brother and sister, each selfishly refraining from stirring the depths of the other’s mind, rendered them mere strangers in the time of trouble; and vainly did Lucy gaze wistfully at the swollen eyelids and flushed cheeks, watch every peevish gesture, and tend each sullen wish, with pitying sweetness; she could not reach the inner man, nor touch the aching wound.

Towards evening, Mrs. Murrell’s name was brought in, provoking a fretful injunction from Owen not to let him be molested with her cant.  Lucilla sighed compliance, though vexed at his egotism, and went to the study, where she found that Mrs. Murrell had brought her grandson, her own most precious comforter, whom she feared she must resign ‘to be bred up as a gentleman as he was, and despise his poor old granny; and she would say not a word, only if his papa would let her keep him till he had cut his first teeth, for he had always been tender, and she could not be easy to think that any one else had the charge of him.’  She devoured him with kisses as she spoke, taking every precaution to keep her profuse tears from falling on him; and Lucilla, much moved, answered, ‘Oh! for the present, no one could wish to part him from you.  Poor little fellow!  May I take him for a little while to my brother?  It may do him good.’

Cilly had rather have ridden a kicking horse than handled an infant.  She did not think this a prepossessing specimen, but it was passive.  She had always understood from books that this was the sure means of ‘opening the sealed fountains of grief.’  She remembered what little Mary had been to her father, and in hopes that parental instinct would make Owen know better what to do with her burden than she did, she entered the drawing-room, where a little murmuring sound caused Owen to start up on his elbow, exclaiming, ‘What are you at?  Don’t bring that here!’

‘I thought you might wish to see him.’

‘What should I do with him?’ asked Owen, in the same glum, childish tone, turning his face inwards as he lay down.  ‘Take it away.  Ain’t I wretched enough already to please you?’

She gave up the point, much grieved and strongly drawn to the little helpless one, rejected by his father, misused and cast off like his mother.  Would no one stand up for him?  Yes, it must be her part.  She was his champion!  She would set him forth in the world, by her own toil if need were!

Sealing the promise with a kiss, she returned him to his grandmother, and talked of him as so entirely her personal concern, that the good woman went home to report to her inquiring friends that the young lady was ready to ‘hact very feeling, and very ‘andsome.’  Probably desirous to avoid further reference to his unwelcome son and heir, Owen had betaken himself to the solace of his pipe, and was pacing the garden with steps now sauntering with depression, now impetuous with impatience, always moving too much like a caged wild beast to invite approach.  She was disconsolately watching him from the window, when Mr. Fulmort was admitted.  A year ago, what would he not have given for that unfeigned, simple welcome, as she looked up with eyes full of tears, saying, ‘Oh, Robert, it is so grievous to see him!’

‘Very sad,’ was the mournful answer.

‘You may be able to help him.  He asks for you, but turns from me.’

‘He has been obliged to rely on me, since we came to town,’ said Robert.

‘You must have been very kind!’ she warmly exclaimed.

But he drew back from the effusion, saying, ‘I did no more than was absolutely necessary.  He does not lay himself open to true comfort.’

‘Death never seemed half so miserable before!’ cried Lucilla.  ‘Yet this poor thing had little to live for!  Was it all poor Honor’s tender softening that took off the edge to our imaginations?’

‘It is not always so mournful!’ shortly said Robert.

‘No; even the mother bears it better, and not for want of heart.’

‘She is a Christian,’ said Robert.

‘Poor Owen!  It makes me remorseful.  I wonder if I made too light of the line he took; yet what difference could I have made?  Sisters go for so little; and as to influence, Honor overdid it.’  Then, as he made no reply, ‘Tell me, do you think my acquiescence did harm?’

‘I cannot say.  Your conscience must decide.  It is not a case for me.  I must go to him.’

It was deep mortification.  Used to have the least hint of dawning seriousness thankfully cherished and fostered, it was a rude shock, when most in need of épanchement du cœur after her dreary day, to be thrown back on that incomprehensible process of self-examination; and by Robert, too!

She absolutely did not feel as if she were the same Lucilla.  It was the sensation of doubt on her personal identity awakened in the good woman of the ballad when her little dog began to bark and wail at her.

She strove to enliven the dinner by talking of Hiltonbury, and of Juliana’s marriage, thus awakening Owen into life and talkativeness so much in his light ordinary humour, as to startle them both.  Lucilla would have encouraged it as preferable to his gloom, but it was decidedly repressed by Robert.

She had to repair to solitary restlessness in the drawing-room, and was left alone there till so late that Robert departed after a single cup of tea, cutting short a captious argument of Owen’s about impossibility of proof, and truth being only true in a sense.

Owen’s temper was, however, less morose; and when his sister was lighting his candle for him at night, kindly said, ‘What a bore I’ve been all day, Lucy.’

‘I am glad to be with you, dear Owen; I have no one else.’

‘Eh?  What’s become of Rashe?’

‘Never mention her again!’

‘What?  They’ve cut you?’

‘I have cut them.’

She related what had passed.

Owen set his face into a frown.  ‘Even so, Charlie; doltishness less pardonable than villainy!  You were right to cut the connection, Lucy; it has been our curse.  So now you will back to poor Honor, and try to make it up to her.’

‘I’m not going near Honor till she forgives you, and receives your child.’

‘Then you will be very ridiculous,’ said Owen, impatiently.  ‘She has no such rancour against me as you have against her, poor dear; but it is not in the nature of things that she should pass over this unlucky performance.’

‘If it had been such a performance as Charles desired, I should have said so.’