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

The letter was dateless, and Phœbe’s amaze grew as she read.

‘Dear Phœbe,

‘You know it is my nature to do odd things, so never mind that, but attend to me, as one who knows too well what it is to be motherless and undirected.  Gossip is long-tongued enough to reach me here, in full venom as I know and trust, but it makes my blood boil, till I can’t help writing a warning that may at least save you pain.  I know you are the snowdrop poor Owen used to call you, and I know you have Honor Charlecote for philosopher, and friend, but she is nearly as unsophisticated as yourself, and if report say true, your brother is getting you into a scrape.  If it is a fact that he has Jack Hastings dangling about Beauchamp, he deserves the lot of my unlucky Charteris cousins!  Mind what you are about, Phœbe, if the man is there.  He is plausible, clever, has no end of amusing resources, and keeps his head above water; but I know that in no place where there are womankind has he been received without there having been cause to repent it!  I hope you may be able to laugh—if not, it may be a wholesome cure to hear that his friends believe him to have secured one of the heiresses at Beauchamp.  There, Phœbe, I have said my say, and I fear it is cutting and wounding, but it came out of the love of a heart that has not got rid of some of its old feelings, and that could not bear to think of sorrow or evil tongues busy about you.  That I write for your sake, not for my own, you may see by my making it impossible to answer.

    ‘Lucilla Sandbrook.

‘If you hold council with Honor over this—as, if you are wise, you will—you may tell her that I am learning gratitude to her.  I would ask her pardon if I could without servility.’

‘Secured one of the heiresses!’ said Phœbe to herself.  ‘I should like to be able to tell Lucy how I can laugh!  Poor Lucy, how very kind in her to write.  I wonder whether Mervyn knows how bad the man is!  Shall I go to Miss Charlecote?  Oh, no; she is spending two days at Moorcroft!  Shall I tell Miss Fennimore?  No, I think not, it will be wiser to talk to Miss Charlecote; I don’t like to tell Miss Fennimore of Lucy.  Poor Lucy—she is always generous!  He will soon be gone, and then I can speak to Mervyn.’

This secret was not a serious burthen to Phœbe, though she could not help smiling to herself at the comical notion of having been secured by a man to whom she had not spoken a dozen times, and then with the utmost coldness and formality.

The next day she approached the letter-bag with some curiosity.  It contained one for her from her sister Juliana, a very unusual correspondent, and Phœbe’s mind misgave her lest it should have any connection with the hints in Lucilla’s note.  But she was little prepared for what she read.

    ‘Acton Manor, Dec. 24th.

‘My dear Phœbe,

‘Although, after what passed in July, I cannot suppose that the opinion of your elders can have any effect on your proceedings, yet for the sake of our relationship, as well as of regard to appearances, I cannot forbear endeavouring to rescue you from the consequences of your own folly and obstinacy.  Nothing better was to be expected from Mervyn; but at your age, with your pretences to religion, you cannot plead simplicity, nor ignorance of the usages of the world.  Neither Sir Bevil nor myself can express our amazement at your recklessness, thus forfeiting the esteem of society, and outraging the opinion of our old friends.  To put an end to the impropriety, we will at once receive you here, overlooking any inconvenience, and we shall expect you all three on Tuesday, under charge of Miss Fennimore, who seems to have been about as fit as Maria to think for you.  It is too late to write to Mervyn to-night, but he shall hear from us to-morrow, as well as from your guardian, to whom Sir Bevil has written, You had better bring my jewels; and the buhl clock from my mother’s mantelshelf, which I was to have.  Mrs. Brisbane will pack them.  Tell Bertha, with my love, that she might have been more explicit in her correspondence.

    ‘Your affectionate sister,
    ‘Juliana Acton.’

When Miss Fennimore entered the room, she found Phœbe sitting like one petrified, only just able to hold out the letter, and murmur—‘What does it mean?’  Imagining that it could only contain something fatal about Robert, Miss Fennimore sprang at the paper, and glanced through it, while Phœbe again faintly asked, ‘What have I done?’

‘Lady Acton is pleased to be mysterious!’ said the governess.  ‘The kind sister she always was!’

‘Don’t say that,’ exclaimed Phœbe, rallying.  ‘It must be something shocking, for Sir Bevil thinks so too,’ and the tears sprang forth.

‘He will never think anything unkind of you, my dear,’ said Miss Fennimore, with emphasis.

‘It must be about Mr. Hastings!’ said Phœbe, gathering recollection and confidence.  ‘I did not like to tell you yesterday, but I had a letter from poor Lucy Sandbrook.  Some friends of that man, Mr. Hastings, have set it about that he is going to be married to me!’ and Phœbe laughed outright.  ‘If Juliana has heard it, I don’t wonder that she is shocked, because you know Miss Charlecote said it would never do for me to associate with those gentlemen, and besides, Lucy says that he is a very bad man.  I shall write to Juliana, and say that I have never had anything to do with him, and he is going away to-morrow, and Mervyn must be told not to have him back again.  That will set it all straight at Acton Manor.’

Phœbe was quite herself again.  She was too well accustomed to gratuitous unkindness and reproaches from Juliana to be much hurt by them, and perceiving, as she thought, where the misconception lay, had no fears that it would not be cleared up.  So when she had carefully written her letter to her sister, she dismissed the subject until she should be able to lay it before Miss Charlecote, dwelling more on Honor’s pleasure on hearing of Lucy than on the more personal matter.

Miss Fennimore, looking over the letter, had deeper misgivings.  It seemed to her rather to be a rebuke for the whole habit of life than a warning against an individual, and she began to doubt whether even the seclusion of the west wing had been a sufficient protection in the eyes of the family from the contamination of such society as Mervyn received.  Or was it a plot of Lady Acton’s malevolence for hunting Phœbe away from her home?  Miss Fennimore fell asleep, uneasy and perplexed, and in her dreams beheld Phœbe as the Lady in Comus, fixed in her chair and resolute against a cup effervescing with carbonic acid gas, proffered by Jack Hastings, who thereupon gave it to Bertha, as she lay back in the dentist’s chair, and both becoming transformed into pterodactyles, flew away while Miss Fennimore was vainly trying to summon the brothers by electric telegraph.

There was a whole bevy of letters for Phœbe the following morning, and first a kind sensible one from her guardian, much regretting to learn that Mr. Fulmort’s guests were undesirable inmates for a house where young ladies resided, so that, though he had full confidence in Miss Fulmort’s discretion, and understood that she had never associated with the persons in question, he thought her residence at home ought to be reconsidered, and should be happy to discuss the point on coming to Beauchamp, so soon as he should have recovered from an unfortunate fit of the gout, which at present detained him in town.  Miss Fulmort might, however, be assured that her wishes should be his chief consideration, and that he would take care not to separate her from Miss Maria.

That promise, and the absence of all mention of Lucilla’s object of dread, gave Phœbe courage to open the missive from her eldest sister.

‘My dear Phœbe,

‘I always told you it would never answer, and you see I was right.  If Mervyn will invite that horrid man, whatever you may do, no one will believe that you do not associate with him, and you may never get over it.  I am telling everybody what children you are, quite in the schoolroom, but nothing will be of any use but your coming away at once, and appearing in society with me, so you had better send the children to Acton Manor, and come to me next week.  If there are any teal in the decoy bring some, and ask Mervyn where he got that Barton’s dry champagne.

    ‘Your affectionate sister,
    ‘Augusta Bannerman.’

She had kept Robert’s letter to the last, as refreshment after the rest.

    ‘St. Matthew’s, Dec. 18th.

‘Dear Phœbe,

‘I am afraid this may not be your first intimation of what may vex and grieve you greatly, and what calls for much cool and anxious judgment.  In you we have implicit confidence, and your adherence to Miss Charlecote’s kind advice has spared you all imputation, though not, I fear, all pain.  You may, perhaps, not know how disgraceful are the characters of some of the persons whom Mervyn has collected about him.  I do him the justice to believe that he would shelter you from all intercourse with them as carefully as I should; but I cannot forgive his having brought them beneath the same roof with you.  I fear the fact has done harm in our own neighbourhood.  People imagine you to be associating with Mervyn’s crew, and a monstrous report is abroad which has caused Bevil Acton to write to me and to Crabbe.  We all agree that this is a betrayal of the confidence that you expressed in Mervyn, and that while he chooses to make his house a scene of dissipation, no seclusion can render it a fit residence for women or girls.  I fear you will suffer much in learning this decision, for Mervyn’s sake as well as your own.  Poor fellow! if he will bring evil spirits about him, good angels must depart.  I would come myself, but that my presence would embitter Mervyn, and I could not meet him properly.  I am writing to Miss Charlecote.  If she should propose to receive you all at the Holt immediately, until Crabbe’s most inopportune gout is over, you had better go thither at once.  It would be the most complete vindication of your conduct that could be offered to the county, and would give time for considering of establishing you elsewhere, and still under Miss Fennimore’s care.  For Bertha’s sake as well as your own, you must be prepared to leave home and resign yourself to be passive in the decision of those bound to think for you, by which means you may avoid being included in Mervyn’s anger.  Do not distress yourself by the fear that any blame can attach to you or to Miss Fennimore; I copy Bevil’s expressions—“Assure Phœbe that though her generous confidence may have caused her difficulties, no one can entertain a doubt of her guileless intention and maidenly discretion.  If it would not make further mischief, I would hasten to fetch her, but if she will do me the honour to accept her sister’s invitation, I hope to do all in my power to make her happy and mark my esteem for her.”  These are his words; but I suppose you will hardly prefer Acton Manor, though, should the Holt fail us, you might send the other two to the Manor, and come to Albury-street as Augusta wishes, when we could consult together on some means of keeping you united, and retaining Miss Fennimore, who must not be thrown over, as it would be an injury to her prospects.  Tell her from me that I look to her for getting you through this unpleasant business.

    ‘Your ever affectionate
    ‘R. M. Fulmort.’

Phœbe never spoke, but handed each sheet as she finished it to her governess.

‘Promise me, Phœbe,’ said Miss Fennimore, as she came to Robert’s last sentence, ‘that none of these considerations shall bias you.  Make no struggle for me, but use me as I may be most serviceable to you.’

Phœbe, instead of answering, kissed and clung to her.

‘What do you think of doing?’ asked the governess.

‘Nothing,’ said Phœbe.

‘You looked as if a thought had occurred to you.’

‘I only recollected the words, “your strength is to sit still,” said Phœbe, ‘and thought how well they agreed with Robert’s advice to be passive.  Mr. Crabbe has promised not to separate us, and I will trust to that.  Mervyn was very kind in letting us stay here, but he does not want us, and will not miss us,’—and with those words, quiet as they were, came a gush of irrepressible tears, just as a step resounded outside, the door was burst open, and Mervyn hurried in, purple with passion, and holding a bundle of letters crushed together in his hand.

‘I say,’ he hoarsely cried, ‘what’s all this?  Who has been telling infamous tales of my house?’

‘We cannot tell—’ began Phœbe.

‘Do you know anything of this?’ he interrupted, fiercely turning on Miss Fennimore.

‘Nothing, sir.  The letters which your sister has received have equally surprised and distressed me.’

‘Then they have set on you, Phœbe!  The whole pack in full cry, as if it mattered to them whether I chose to have the Old Gentleman in the house, so long as he did not meddle with you!’

‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Fulmort,’ interposed the governess, ‘the remonstrance is quite just.  Had I been aware of the character of some of your late guests, I could not have wished your sisters to remain in the house with them.’

‘Are these your sentiments, Phœbe?’ he asked, sternly.

‘I am afraid they ought to be,’ she sadly answered.

‘Silly child; so this pack of censorious women and parsons have frightened you into giving me up.’

‘Sisters do not give up brothers, Mervyn.  You know how I thank you for having me here, but I could not amuse you, or make it pleasant to you, so there must be an end of it.’

‘So they hunt you out to be bullied by Juliana, or slaved to death by Augusta, which is it to be?  Or maybe Robert has got his sisterhood cut and dried for you; only mind, he shan’t make away with your £30,000 while I live to expose those popish tricks.’

‘For shame, Mervyn,’ cried Phœbe, all in a glow; ‘I will not hear Robert so spoken of: he is always kind and good, and has taught me every right thing I know!’