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

‘I did not want my father to take care of me,’ said the little lady, proudly; ‘I take care of father, I always make his tea and warm his slippers, and bring him his coffee in the morning.  And Uncle Kit never will put his gloves for him and warm his handkerchief!  Oh! what will he do?  I can’t bear it.’

The violent grief so long kept back was coming now, but not freely; the little girl threw herself on the floor, and in a tumult of despair and passion went on, hurrying out her words, ‘It’s very hard!  It’s all Uncle Kit’s doing!  I hate him!  Yes, I do.’  And she rolled over and over in her frenzy of feeling.

‘My dear! my dear!’ cried Honora, kneeling by her, ‘this will never do!  Papa would be very much grieved to see his little girl so naughty.  Don’t you know how your uncle only wants to do him good, and to make him get well?’

‘Then why didn’t he take me?’ said Lucilla, gathering herself up, and speaking sullenly.

‘Perhaps he thought you gave papa trouble, and tired him.’

‘Yes, that’s it, and it’s not fair,’ cried the poor child again; ‘why couldn’t he tell me?  I didn’t know papa was ill! he never told me so, nor Mr. Pendy either; or, how I would have nursed him!  I wanted to do so much for him; I wouldn’t have asked him to tell me stories, nor nothing!  No!  And now they won’t let me take care of him;’ and she cried bitterly.

‘Yes,’ said good, gentle Miss Wells, thinking more of present comfort than of the too possible future; ‘but you will go back to take care of him some day, my dear.  When the spring comes papa will come back to his little girl.’

Spring!  It was a long way off to a mind of six years old, but it made Lucilla look more amiably at Miss Wells.

‘And suppose,’ proceeded that good lady, ‘you were to learn to be as good and helpful a little girl as can be while he is gone, and then nobody will wish to keep you from him.  How surprised he would be!’

‘And then shall we go home?’ said Lucilla.

Miss Wells uttered a somewhat rash assurance to that effect, and the child came near her, pacified and satisfied by the scheme of delightful goodness and progress to be made in order to please her father—as she always called him.  Honor looked on, thankful for the management that was subduing and consoling the poor little maid, and yet unable to participate in it, for though the kind old lady spoke in all sincerity, it was impossible to Honora to stifle a lurking fear that the hopes built on the prospect of his return had but a hollow foundation.

However it attracted Lucilla to Miss Wells, so that Honora did not fear leaving her on going to bring home little Owen.  The carriage which had conveyed the travellers, had brought back news of his sister’s discovery and capture, and Honora found Mrs. Sandbrook much shocked at the enormity of the proceeding, and inclined to pity Honora for having charge of the most outrageous children she had ever seen.  A very long letter had been left for her by their father, rehearsing all he had before given of directions, and dwelling still more on some others, but then apparently repenting of laying down the law, he ended by entreating her to use her own judgment, believe in his perfect confidence, and gratitude beyond expression for most unmerited kindness.

Little Owen, she heard, had made the house resound with cries when his father was nowhere to be found, but his nurse had quieted him, and he came running to Honora with an open, confiding face.  ‘Are you the lady?  And will you take me to Cilly and the sea?  And may I have a whale?’

Though Honora did not venture on promising him a tame whale in the Bristol Channel, she had him clinging to her in a moment, eager to set off, to go to Cilly, and the dove he had seen at her house.  ‘It’s a nasty house here—I want to come away,’ he said, running backwards and forwards between her and the window to look at the horses, while nurse’s interminable boxes were being carried down.

The troubles really seemed quite forgotten; the boy sat on her knee and chattered all the way to Woolstone-lane, and there he and Lucilla flew upon each other with very pretty childish joy; the sister doing the honours of the house in right of having been a little longer an inmate.  Nurse caught her and dressed and combed her, shoed her and sashed her, so that she came down to dinner less picturesque, but more respectable than at her first appearance that morning, and except for the wonderful daintiness of both children, dinner went off very well.

All did go well till night, and then Owen’s woes began.  Oh what a piteous sobbing lamentation was it!  ‘Daddy, daddy!’ not to be consoled, not to be soothed, awakening his sister to the same sad cry, stilled only by exhaustion and sleepiness.

Poor little fellow!  Night after night it was the same.  Morning found him a happy, bright child, full of engaging ways and innocent sayings, and quite satisfied with ‘Cousin Honor,’ but bed-time always brought back the same wailing.  Nurse, a tidy, brisk personage, with a sensible, deferential tone to her superiors, and a caressing one to the children, tried in vain assurances of papa’s soon coming back; nay, it might be feared that she held out that going to sleep would bring the morrow when he was to come; but even this delusive promise failed; the present was all; and Cousin Honor herself was only not daddy, though she nursed him, and rocked him in her arms, and fondled him, and told stories or sung his lullaby with nightly tenderness, till the last sobs had quivered into the smooth heavings of sleep.

Might only sea air and exercise act as a soporific!  That was a better chance than the new promise which Honora was vexed to find nurse holding out to poor little Owen, that if he would be a good boy, he was going to papa.  She was puzzled how to act towards a person not exactly under her authority, but she took courage to speak about these false promises, and found the remonstrance received in good part; indeed nurse used to talk at much length of the children in a manner that implied great affection for them, coupled with a sense that it would be an excellent thing for them to be in such judicious hands.  Honor always came away from nurse in good humour with herself.

The locality she had chosen was a sheltered village on the north coast of Somerset, just where Exmoor began to give grandeur to the outline in the rear, and in front the Welsh hills wore different tints of purple or gray, according to the promise of weather, Lundy Isle and the two lesser ones serving as the most prominent objects, as they rose from—Well, well! Honor counted herself as a Somersetshire woman, and could not brook hearing much about the hue of the Bristol Channel.  At any rate, just here it had been so kind as to wash up a small strip of pure white sand, fit for any amount of digging for her children; and though Sandbeach was watering-place enough to have the lodging-houses, butchers and bakers, so indispensable to the London mind, it was not so much in vogue as to be overrun by fine ladies, spoiling the children by admiring their beauty.  So said Miss Charlecote in her prudence—but was not she just as jealous as nurse that people should turn round a second time to look at those lovely little faces?

That was a very happy charge to her and her good old governess, with some drawbacks, indeed, but not such as to distress her over much.  The chief was at first Owen’s nightly sorrows, his daily idleness over lessons, Lucilla’s pride, and the exceeding daintiness of both children, which made their meals a constant vexation and trouble.  But what was this compared with the charm of their dependence on her, and of hearing that newly-invented pet name, ‘Sweet Honey,’ invoked in every little concern that touched them?

It was little Owen’s name for her.  He was her special favourite—there was no concealing it.  Lucilla did not need her as much, and was of a vigorous, independent nature, that would stand alone to the utmost.  Owen gave his affection spontaneously; if Lucilla’s was won, it must be at unawares.  She was living in and for her absent father now, and had nothing to spare for any one else, or if she had, Miss Wells, who had the less claim on her was preferred to Cousin Honor.  ‘Father’ was almost her religion; though well taught, and unusually forward in religious knowledge, as far as Honora dared to augur, no motive save her love for him had a substantive existence, as touching her feelings or ruling her actions.  For him she said her prayers and learnt her hymns; for him she consented to learn to hem handkerchiefs; for him were those crooked letters for ever being written; nay, at the thought of his displeasure alone could her tears be made to flow when she was naughty; and for him she endeavoured to be less fanciful at dinner, as soon as her mind had grasped the perception that her not eating what was set before her might really hinder him from always having her with him.  She was fairly manageable, with very high spirits, and not at all a silly or helpless child; but though she obeyed Miss Charlecote, it was only as obeying her father through her, and his constant letters kept up the strong influence.  In her most gracious moods, she was always telling her little brother histories of what they should do when they got home to father and Mr. Prendergast; but to Owen, absence made a much greater difference.  Though he still cried at night, his ‘Sweet Honey’ was what he wanted, and with her caressing him, he only dreaded her leaving him.  He lavished his pretty endearments upon her, and missed no one when he held her hand or sat in her lap, stroking her curls, and exchanging a good deal of fondling.  He liked his hymns, and enjoyed Scripture stories, making remarks that caused her to reverence him; and though backward, idle, and sometimes very passionate, his was exactly the legitimate character for a child, such as she could deal with and love.  She was as complete a slave to the two little ones as their father could have been; all her habits were made to conform to their welfare and pleasure, and very happy she was, but the discipline was more decided than they had been used to; there were habits to be formed, and others to be broken, and she was not weak enough not to act up to her duty in this respect, even though her heart was winding round that sunny-faced boy as fast as it had ever clung to his father.  The new Owen Sandbrook, with his innocent earnestness, and the spiritual light in his eyes, should fulfil all her dreams!

Christmas had passed; Mr. Sandbrook had begun to write to his children about seeing them soon; Lucilla’s slow hemming was stimulated by the hope of soon making her present; and Honora was marvelling at her own selfishness in dreading the moment when the little ones would be no longer hers; when a hurried note of preparation came from Captain Charteris.  A slight imprudence had renewed all the mischief, and his patient was lying speechless under a violent attack of inflammation.  Another letter, and all was over.

A shock indeed! but in Honora’s eyes, Owen Sandbrook had become chiefly the children’s father, and their future was what concerned her most.  How should she bear to part with his darlings for ever, and to know them brought up in the way that was not good, and which their father dreaded, and when their orphanhood made her doubly tender over them?

To little Owen it was chiefly that papa was gone ‘up there’ whither all his hymns and allegories pointed, and at his age, all that he did not actually see was much on a par; the hope of meeting had been too distant for the extinction of it to affect him very nearly, and he only understood enough to prompt the prettiest and most touching sayings, wondering about the doings of papa, mamma, and little baby among the angels, with as much reality as he had formerly talked of papa among the French.

Lucilla heard with more comprehension, but her gay temper seemed to revolt against having sorrow forced on her.  She would not listen and would not think; her spirits seemed higher than ever, and Honora almost concluded that either she did not feel at all, or that the moment of separation had exhausted all.  Her character made Honora especially regret her destiny; it was one only too congenial to the weeds that were more likely to be implanted, than plucked up, at Castle Blanch.  Captain Charteris had written to say that he, and probably his brother, should come to Sandbeach to relieve Miss Charlecote from the care of the children, and she prized each day while she still had those dear little voices about the house.

‘Sweet Honey,’ said Lucilla, who had been standing by the window, apparently watching the rain, ‘do Uncle Charteris and Uncle Kit want us to go away from you?’

‘I am very much afraid they do, my dear.’

‘Nurse said, if you would ask them, we might stay,’ said Lucilla, tracing the course of a drop with her finger.

‘If asking would do any good, my dear,’ sighed Honor; ‘but I don’t think nurse knows.  You see, you belong to your uncles now.’

‘I won’t belong to Uncle Charteris!’ cried Lucilla, passionately.  ‘I won’t go to Castle Blanch!  They were all cross to me; Ratia teased me, and father said it was all their fault I was naughty, and he would never take me there again!  Don’t let Uncle Kit go and take me there!’ and she clung to her friend, as if the recollection of Uncle Kit’s victory by main force hung about her still.

‘I won’t, I won’t, my child, if I can help it; but it will all be as your dear father may have fixed it, and whatever he wishes I know that his little girl will do.’

Many a dim hope did Honora revolve, and more than ever did she feel as if a piece of her heart would be taken away, for the orphans fastened themselves upon her, and little Owen stroked her face, and said naughty Uncle Kit should not take them away.  She found from the children and nurse that about a year ago, just after the loss of the baby, there had been a most unsuccessful visit at Castle Blanch; father and little ones had been equally miserable there in the separation of the large establishment, and Lucilla had been domineeringly petted by her youngest cousin, Horatia, who chose to regard her as a baby, and coerced her by bodily force, such as was intolerable to so high-spirited a child, who was a little woman at home.  She had resisted, and fallen into dire disgrace, and it was almost with horror that she regarded the place and the cousinhood.  Nurse appeared to have some private disgust of her own, as well as to have much resented her children’s being convicted of naughtiness, and she spoke strongly in confidence to Honora of the ungodly ways of the whole household, declaring that after the advantages she had enjoyed with her dear master, she could not bear to live there, though she might—yes, she must be with the dear children just at first, and she ventured to express strong wishes for their remaining in their present home, where they had been so much improved.

The captain came alone.  He walked in from the inn just before luncheon, with a wearied, sad look about him, as if he had suffered a good deal; he spoke quietly and slowly, and when the children came in, he took them up in his arms and kissed them very tenderly.  Lucilla submitted more placably than Honor expected, but the moment they were set down they sprang to their friend, and held by her dress.  Then came the meal, which passed off with small efforts at making talk, but with nothing memorable except the captain’s exclamation at the end—‘Well, that’s the first time I ever dined with you children without a fuss about the meat.  Why, Cilly, I hardly know you.’

‘I think the appetites are better for the sea air,’ said Honor, not that she did not think it a great achievement.

‘I’m afraid it has been a troublesome charge,’ said the captain, laying his hand on his niece’s shoulder, which she at once removed, as disavowing his right in her.

‘Oh! it has made me so happy,’ said Honor, hardly trusting her voice; ‘I don’t know how to yield it up.’

Those understanding eyes of Lucilla’s were drinking in each word, but Uncle Kit ruthlessly said—‘There, it’s your walking time, children; you go out now.’

Honora followed up his words with her orders, and Lucille obeyed, only casting another wistful look, as if she knew her fate hung in the scales.  It was showing tact such as could hardly have been expected from the little impetuous termagant, and was the best pleading for her cause, for her uncle’s first observation was—‘A wonder!  Six months back, there would have been an explosion!’

‘I am glad you think them improved.’

‘Civilized beings, not plagues.  You have been very good to them;’ and as she intimated her own pleasure in them, he continued—‘It will be better for them at Castle Blanch to have been a little broken in; the change from his indulgence would have been terrible.’

‘If it were possible to leave them with me, I should be so happy,’ at length gasped Honora, meeting an inquiring dart from the captain’s eyes, as he only made an interrogative sound as though to give himself time to think, and she proceeded it broken sentences—‘If their uncle and aunt did not so very much wish for them—perhaps—I could—’

‘Well,’ said Captain Charteris, apparently so little aided by his thoughts as to see no hope of overcoming his perplexity without expressing it, ‘the truth is that, though I had not meant to say anything of it, for I think relations should come first, I believe poor Sandbrook would have preferred it.’  And while her colour deepened, and she locked her trembling fingers together to keep them still, he went on.  ‘Yes! you can’t think how often I called myself a dozen fools for having parted him from his children!  Never held up his head again!  I could get him to take interest in nothing—every child he saw he was only comparing to one or other of them.  After the year turned, and he talked of coming home, he was more cheerful; but strangely enough, for those last days at Hyères, though he seemed better, his spirits sank unaccountably, and he would talk more of the poor little thing that he lost than of these!  Then he had a letter from you which set him sighing, and wishing they could always have such care!  Altogether, I thought to divert him by taking him on that expedition, but—  Well, I’ve been provoked with him many a time, but there was more of the real thing in him than in the rest of us, and I feel as if the best part of our family were gone.’

‘And this was all?  He was too ill to say much afterwards?’

‘Couldn’t speak when he rang in the morning!  Was gone by that time next day.  Now,’ added the captain, after a silence, ‘I tell you candidly that my feeling is that the ordinary course is right.  I think Charles ought to take the children, and the children ought to be with Charles.’

‘If you think so,’ began Honor, with failing hopes.

‘At the same time,’ continued he, ‘I don’t think they’ll be so happy or so well cared for as by you, and knowing poor Owen’s wishes, I should not feel justified in taking them away, since you are so good as to offer to keep them.’

Honor eagerly declared herself much obliged, then thought it sounded ironical.

‘Unless,’ he proceeded, ‘Charles should strongly feel it his duty to take them home, in which case—’

‘Oh, of course I could say nothing.’

‘Very well, then we’ll leave it to his decision.’