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

‘I promised that Maria should not be separated from me,’ said Phœbe.

‘Nonsense, my dear,’ said Augusta; ‘we could not receive her; she can never be made presentable.’

‘You?’ said Phœbe.

‘Yes, my dear; did you not know?  You go home with us the day after to-morrow; and next spring I mean to bring you out, and take you everywhere.  The Admiral is so generous!’

‘But the others?’ said Phœbe.

‘I don’t mind undertaking Bertha,’ said Lady Acton.  ‘I know of a good school for her, and I shall deposit Maria at Dr. Graham’s as soon as I can get an answer.’

‘Really,’ continued Augusta, ‘Phœbe will look very creditable by and by, when she has more colour and not all this crape.  Perhaps I shall get her married by the end of the season; only you must learn better manners first, Phœbe—not to rush out of the dining-room in this way.  I don’t know what I shall do without my other glass of wine—when I am so low, too!’

‘A fine mistress of the house, indeed,’ said Lady Acton.  ‘It is well Mervyn’s absurd notion is impossible.’

‘What was that?  To keep us all?’ asked Phœbe, catching at the hope.

‘Not Maria nor the governess.  You need not flatter yourself,’ said Juliana; ‘he said he wouldn’t have them at any price; and as to keeping house alone with a man of his character, even you may have sense to see it couldn’t be for a moment.’

‘Did Robert consent to Maria’s going to Hampstead?’ asked Phœbe.

‘Robert—what has he to do with it?  He has no voice.’

‘He said something about getting the three boarded with some clergyman’s widow,’ said Augusta; ‘buried in some hole, I suppose, to make them like himself—go to church every day, and eat cold dinners on Sunday.’

‘I should like to see Bertha doing that,’ said Juliana, laughing.

But the agony of helplessness that had oppressed Phœbe was relieved.  She saw an outlet, and could form a resolution.  Home might have to be given up, but there was a means of fulfilling her mother’s charge, and saving Maria from the private idiot asylum; and for that object Phœbe was ready to embrace perpetual seclusion with the dullest of widows.  She found her sisters discussing their favourite subject—Mervyn’s misconduct and extravagance—and she was able to sit apart, working, and thinking of her line of action.  Only two days!  She must be prompt, and not wait for privacy or for counsel.  So when the gentlemen came in, and Mr. Crabbe came towards her, she took him into the window, and asked him if any choice were permitted her as to her residence.

‘Certainly; so nearly of age as you are.  But I naturally considered that you would wish to be with Lady Bannerman, with all the advantages of London society.’

‘But she will not receive Maria.  I promised that Maria should be my charge.  You have not consented to this Hampstead scheme?’

‘Her ladyship is precipitate,’ half whispered the lawyer.  ‘I certainly would not, till I had seen the establishment, and judged for myself.’

‘No, nor then,’ said Phœbe.  ‘Come to-morrow, and see her.  She is no subject for an establishment.  And I beg you will let me be with her; I would much prefer being with any lady who would receive us both.’

‘Very amiable,’ said Mr. Crabbe.

‘Ha!’ interrupted Mervyn, ‘you are not afraid I shall let Augusta carry you off, Phœbe.  She would give the world to get you, but I don’t mean to part with you.’

‘It is of no use to talk to her, Mervyn,’ cried Augusta’s loud voice from the other end of the room.  ‘She knows that she cannot remain with you.  Robert himself would tell her so.’

‘Robert knows better than to interfere,’ said Mervyn, with one of his scowls.  ‘Now then, Phœbe, settle it for yourself.  Will you stay and keep house for me at home, or be Augusta’s companion?  There! the choice of Hercules.  Virtue or vice?’ he added, trying to laugh.

‘Neither,’ said Phœbe, readily.  ‘My home is fixed by Maria’s.’

‘Phœbe, are you crazy?’ broke out the three voices; while Sir Nicholas slowly and sententiously explained that he regretted the unfortunate circumstance, but Maria’s peculiarities made it impossible to produce her in society; and that when her welfare and happiness had been consulted by retirement, Phœbe would find a home in his house, and be treated as Lady Bannerman’s sister, and a young lady of her expectations, deserved.

‘Thank you,’ said Phœbe; then turning to her brother, ‘Mervyn, do you, too, cast off poor Maria?’

‘I told you what I thought of that long ago,’ said Mervyn, carelessly.

‘Very well, then,’ said Phœbe, sadly; ‘perhaps you will let us stay till some lady can be found of whom Mr. Crabbe may approve, with whom Maria and I can live.’

‘Lady Acton!’ Sir Bevil’s voice was low and entreating, but all heard it.

‘I am not going to encumber myself,’ she answered.  ‘I always disliked girls, and I shall certainly not make Acton Manor an idiot asylum.’

‘And mind,’ added Augusta, ‘you won’t cone to me for the season!  I have no notion of your leaving me all the dull part of the year for some gay widow at a watering-place, and then expecting me to go out with you in London.’

‘By Heaven!’ broke out Mervyn, ‘they shall stay here, if only to balk your spite.  My sisters shall not be driven from pillar to post the very day their mother is put under ground.’

‘Some respectable lady,’ began Robert.

‘Some horrid old harridan of a boarding-house keeper,’ shouted Mervyn, the louder for his interference.  ‘Ay, you would like it, and spend all their fortunes on parsons in long coats!  I know better!  Come here, Phœbe, and listen.  You shall live here as you have always done, Maria and all, and keep the Fennimore woman to mind the children.  Answer me, will that content you?  Don’t go looking at Robert, but say yes or no.’

Mervyn’s innuendo had deprived his offer of its grace, but in spite of the pang of indignation, in spite of Robert’s eye of disapproval, poor desolate Phœbe must needs cling to her home, and to the one who alone would take her and her poor companion.  ‘Mervyn, thank you; it is right!’

‘Right!  What does that mean?  If any one has a word to say against my sisters being under my roof, let me hear it openly, not behind my back.  Eh, Juliana, what’s that?’

‘Only that I wonder how long it will last,’ sneered Lady Acton.

‘And,’ added Robert, ‘there should be some guarantee that they should not be introduced to unsuitable acquaintance.’

‘You think me not to be trusted with them.’

‘I do not.’

Mervyn ground his teeth, answering, ‘Very well, sir, I stand indebted to you.  I should have imagined, whatever your opinion of me, you would have considered your favourite sky-blue governess an immaculate guardian, or can you be contented with nothing short of a sisterhood?’

‘Robert,’ said Phœbe, fearing lest worse should follow, ‘Mervyn has always been good to us; I trust to him.’  And her clear eyes were turned on the eldest brother with a grateful confidence that made him catch her hand with something between thanks and triumph, as he said—

‘Well said, little one!  There, sir, are you satisfied?’

‘I must be,’ replied Robert.

Sir Bevil, able to endure no longer, broke in with some intelligence from the newspaper, which he had been perusing ever since his unlucky appeal to his lady.  Every one thankfully accepted this means of ending the discussion.

‘Well, Miss,’ was Juliana’s good night, ‘you have attained your object.  I hope you may find it answer.’

‘Yes,’ added Augusta, ‘when Mervyn brings home that Frenchwoman, you will wish you had been less tenacious.’

‘That’s all an idea of yours,’ said Juliana.  ‘She’ll have punishment enough in Master Mervyn’s own temper.  I wouldn’t keep house for him, no, not for a week.’

‘Stay till you are asked,’ said Augusta.

Phœbe could bear no more, but slipped through the swing-door, reached her room, and sinking into a chair, passively let Lieschen undress her, not attempting to raise her drooping head, nor check the tears that trickled, conscious only of her broken, wounded, oppressed state of dejection, into the details of which she durst not look.  How could she, when her misery had been inflicted by such hands?  The mere fact of the unseemly broil between the brothers and sisters on such an evening was shame and pain enough, and she felt like one bruised and crushed all over, both in herself and Maria, while the one drop of comfort in Mervyn’s kindness was poisoned by the strife between him and Robert, and the doubt whether Robert thought she ought to have accepted it.