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

Phœbe rode, as she did everything else, well, quietly and firmly, and she looked very young and fresh, with her rounded rosy cheeks and chin.  Her fair hair was parted back under a round hat, her slenderly plump figure appeared to advantage mounted on her bright bay, and altogether she presented a striking contrast to her brother.  She had not seen him in hunting costume for nearly a year, and she observed with pain how much he had lost his good looks; his well-made youthful air was passing away, and his features were becoming redder and coarser; but he was in his best humour, good-natured, and as nearly gay as he ever was; and Phœbe enjoyed her four-miles’ ride in the beauty of a warm December’s day, the sun shining on dewy hedges, and robins and thrushes trying to treat the weather like spring, as they sang amid the rich stores of coral fruit that hung as yet untouched on every hawthorn or eglantine.

The ladies mustered strong on the smooth turf of the chalk down bordering the copse which was being drawn.  Phœbe looked out for acquaintance, but a few gentlemen coming up to greet her, she did not notice, as Mervyn did, that the girls with whom he had wished to leave her had become intent on some doings in the copse, and had trotted off with their father.  He made his way to the barouche where sat the grande dame of the county, exchanged civilities, and asked leave to introduce his sister.  Phœbe, who had never seen the lady before, thought nothing of the cold distant bow; it was for Mervyn, who knew what her greetings could be, to fume and rage inwardly.  Other acknowledgments passed, but no party had approached or admitted Phœbe, and when the hounds went away, she was still riding alone with her brother and a young officer.  She bade them not to mind her, she would ride home with the servant, and as all were in motion, she had enough to do to hold in her horse, while Mervyn and his friend dashed forward, and soon she found herself alone, except for the groom; the field were well away over the down, the carriages driving off, the mounted maidens following the chase as far as the way was fair and lady-like.

Phœbe had no mind to do so.  Her isolation made her feel forlorn, and brought home Miss Charlecote’s words as to the opinion entertained of her by the world.  Poor child, something like a tear came into her eye and a blush to her cheek, but, ‘never mind,’ she thought, ‘they will believe Miss Charlecote, and she will take care of me.  If only Mervyn will not get angry, and make an uproar!  I shall soon be gone away!  When shall I come back?’

She rode up to the highest part of the down for a take-leave gaze.  There lay Elverslope in its basin-like valley scooped out in the hills, with the purple bloom of autumnal haze veiling its red brick and slate; there, on the other side, the copses and arable fields dipped and rose, and rose and dipped again, till the undulations culminated in the tall fir-trees in the Holt garden, the landmark of the country; and on the bare slope to the west, Beauchamp’s pillars and pediment made a stately speck in the landscape.  ‘Home no longer!’ thought Phœbe; ‘there will be strangers there—and we shall be on the world!  Oh! why cannot Mervyn be like Robert?  How happy we could be!’

Beauchamp had not been a perfect Eden in itself, but still it had all the associations of the paradise of her guileless childhood; and to her the halo around it would always have the radiance of the loving spirit through which she viewed it.  The undefined future was hard to bear, but she thought of Robert, and of the promise that neither her sisters nor Miss Fennimore should be parted from her, and tried to rest thankful on that comfort.

She had left the down for the turnpike road, the sounds of the hunt often reaching her, with glimpses of men and dogs in the distance taking a direction parallel with her own.  Presently a red coat glanced through the hedge of one of the cross lanes, as if coming towards the road, and as she reached the opening at the end, a signal was made to her to stop.  Foreboding some accident, she hastily turned up the narrow white muddy lane, and was met by an elderly gentleman.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he said kindly; ‘only your brother seems rather unwell, and I thought I had best see him under your charge.’

Mervyn was by this time in sight, advancing slowly, and Phœbe with rapid thanks rode on to meet him.  She knew that dull, confused, dazzled eye belonged to his giddy fits, and did not wonder at the half-uttered murmur, rather in the imprecation line, with which he spoke; but the reel in his saddle terrified her greatly, and she was dismayed to see that the gentleman had proceeded into the high road instead of offering further assistance.  She presently perceived that the danger of falling was less real than apparent, and that her brother could still keep his seat, and govern his horse, though nearly unable to look or speak.  She kept close to him, and was much relieved to find that the stranger had not returned to the sport, but was leisurely following at some distance behind the groom.  Never had two miles seemed so long as under her frequent alarms lest Mervyn should become unable to keep the saddle; but at each moment of terror, she heard the pace of the hunter behind quickened to come to her help, and if she looked round she met an encouraging sign.

When the lodge was reached, and Mervyn, somewhat revived, had ridden through the gates, she turned back to give her warm thanks.  A kind, fatherly, friendly face looked at her with a sort of compassion, as putting aside her thanks, the gentleman said, quickly, yet half-reluctantly, ‘Have you ever seen him like this before?’

‘Yes; the giddiness often comes on in the morning, but never so badly as this.  I think it was from the rapid motion.’

‘Has he had advice?’

‘I cannot persuade him to see any one.  Do you think he ought?  I would send at once, at the risk of his being angry.’

‘Does Dr. Martyn attend you?  Shall I leave a message as I go home?’

‘I should be most thankful!’

‘It may be nothing, but you will be happier that it should be ascertained;’ and with another kindly nod, he rode off.

Mervyn had gone to his room, and answered her inquiries at the door with a brief, blunt ‘better,’ to be interpreted that he did not wish to be disturbed.  She did not see him till dinnertime, when he had a sullen headache, and was gruff and gloomy.  She tried to learn who the friend in need had been, but he had been incapable of distinguishing anybody or anything at the moment of the attack, and was annoyed at having been followed.  ‘What a pottering ass to come away from a run on a fool’s errand!’ he said.  ‘Some Elverslope spy, who will set it about the country that I had been drinking, and cast that up to you!’ and then he began to rail against the ladies, singly and collectively, inconsistently declaring it was Phœbe’s own fault for not having called on them, and that he would have Augusta to Beauchamp, give a ball and supper, and show whether Miss Fulmort were a person to be cut.

This mode of vindication not being to Miss Fulmort’s taste, she tried to avert it by doubts whether Augusta could be had; and was told that, show Lady Bannerman a bottle of Barton’s dry champagne, and she would come to the world’s end.  Meantime, Phœbe must come out to-morrow for a round of visits, whereat her heart failed her, as a thrusting of herself where she was not welcome; but he spoke so fiercely and dictatorially, that she reserved her pleading for the morning, when he would probably be too inert not to be glad of the escape.

At last, Dr. Martyn’s presence in the drawing-room was announced to her.  She began her explanation with desperate bravery; and though the first words were met with a scoffing grunt, she found Mervyn less displeased than she had feared—nay, almost glad that the step had been taken, though he would not say so, and made a great favour of letting her send the physician to him in the dining-room.

After a time, Dr. Martyn came to tell her that he had found her brother’s head and pulse in such a state as to need instant relief by cupping; and that the young Union doctor had been sent for from the village for the purpose.  A constitutional fulness of blood in the head had been aggravated by his mode of life, and immediate discipline, severe regimen, and abstinence from business or excitement, were the only means of averting dangerous illness; in fact, his condition might at any time become exceedingly critical, though perseverance in care might possibly prevent all absolute peril.  He himself was thoroughly frightened.  His own sensations and forebodings seconded the sentence too completely for resistance; it was almost a relief to give way; and his own method of driving away discomfort had so signally failed, that he was willing to resign himself to others.

Phœbe assisted at the cupping valorously and handily.  She had a civil speech from young Mr. Jackson, and Mervyn, as she bade him good night, said, ‘I can’t spare you now, Phœbe.’

‘Not till you are better,’ she answered.

And so she told Miss Charlecote, and wrote to Robert; but neither was satisfied.  Honora said it was unlucky.  It might certainly be a duty to nurse Mervyn if he were really ill, and if he made himself fit company for her, but it would not set her straight with the neighbourhood; and Robert wrote in visible displeasure at this complication of the difficulty.  ‘If Mervyn’s habits had disordered his health, it did not render his pursuits more desirable for his sisters.  If he wanted Phœbe’s attendance, let him come to town with her to the Bannermans; but his ailments must not be made an excuse for detaining her in so unsuitable a position as that into which he had brought her.’

It was not so kind a letter as Phœbe would have claimed from Robert, and it was the more trying as Mervyn, deprived of the factitious exhilaration that had kept him up, and lowered by treatment, was dispirited, depressed, incapable of being entertained, cross at her failures, yet exacting of her attendance.  He had business at his office in the City that needed his presence, so he insisted till the last morning upon going, and then owned himself in no state to go farther than the study, where he tried to write, but found his brain so weak and confused that he could hardly complete a letter, and was obliged to push over even the simplest calculation to Phœbe.  In vain she tried to divert his mind from this perilous exertion; he had not taste nor cultivation enough to be interested in anything she could devise, and harping upon some one of the unpleasant topics that occupied his thoughts was his only entertainment when he grew tired of cards or backgammon.

Phœbe sat up late writing to Robert a more minute account of Mervyn’s illness, which she thought must plead for him; and rather sad at heart, she had gone to bed and fallen asleep, when far on in the night a noise startled her.  She did not suspect her own imagination of being to blame, except so far as the associations with illness in the house might have recalled the sounds that once had been wont to summon her to her mother’s room.  The fear that her brother might be worse made her listen, till the sounds became matters of certainty.  Springing to the window, her eyes seemed to stiffen with amaze as she beheld in the clear, full moonlight, on the frosty sward, the distinctly-traced shadow of a horse and cart.  The objects themselves were concealed by a clump of young trees, but their forms were distinctly pictured on the turf, and the conviction flashed over her that a robbery must be going forward.

‘Perils and dangers of this night, indeed!’  One prayer, one thought.  She remembered the great house-bell, above the attic stairs in the opposite wing, at the other end of the gallery, which led from the top of the grand staircase, where the chief bedroom doors opened, and a jet of gas burnt all night on the balustrade.  Throwing on her dressing-gown, she sped along the passage, and pushing open the swing-door, beheld Mervyn at the door of his own room, and at the head of the stairs a man, in whom she recognized the discarded footman, raising a pistol.  One swift bound—her hand was on the gas-pipe.  All was darkness, save a dim stripe from within the open door of her mother’s former dressing-room, close to where she stood.  She seized the lock, drew it close, and had turned the key before the hand within had time to wrench round the inner handle.  That same instant, the flash and report of a pistol made her cry out her brother’s name.

‘Hollo! what did you put out the light for?’ he angrily answered; and as she could just distinguish his white shirt sleeves, she sprang to him.  Steps went hurriedly down the stairs.  ‘Gone!’ they both cried at once; Mervyn, with an imprecation on the darkness, adding, ‘Go and ring the bell.  I’ll watch here.’

She obeyed, but the alarm had been given, and the house was astir.  Candle-light gleamed above—cries, steps, and exclamations were heard, and she was obliged to hurry down, to save herself from being run over.  Two figures had joined Mervyn, the voice of one proclaiming her as Bertha, quivering with excitement.  ‘In there?  My emeralds are in there!  Open the door, or he will make off with my—my emeralds!’

‘Safe, my child?  Don’t stand before that door,’ cried Miss Fennimore, pulling Phœbe back with a fond, eager grasp.

‘Here, some of you,’ shouted Mervyn to the men, whose heads appeared behind the herd of maids, ‘come and lay hold of the fellow when I unlock the door.’

The women fell back with suppressed screams, and readily made way for the men, but they shuffled, backed, and talked of pistols, and the butler suggested the policeman.

‘The policeman—he lives two miles off,’ cried Bertha.  ‘He’ll go out of window with my emeralds!  Unlock the door, Mervyn.’

‘Unlock it yourself,’ said Mervyn, with an impatient stamp of his foot.  ‘Pshaw! but thank you,’ as Miss Fennimore put into his hand his double-barrelled gun, the first weapon she had found—unloaded, indeed, but even as a club formidable enough to give him confidence to unlock the door, and call to the man to give himself up.  The servants huddled together like sheep, but there was no answer.  He called for a light.  It was put into his hand by Phœbe, and as he opened the door, was blown out by a stream of cold air from the open window.

The thief was gone.  Everybody was ready to press in and look for him in every impossible place, but he had evidently escaped by the leads of the portico beneath; not, however, with ‘my emeralds’—he had only attempted the lock of the jewel cabinet.

Phœbe hurried to see whether Maria had been frightened, and finding her happily asleep, followed the rest of the world down-stairs, where the servants seemed to be vying with each other in the magnitude of the losses they announced, while Mervyn was shouting himself hoarse with passionate orders that everything should be left alone—doors, windows, plate-chests, and all—for the inspection of the police; and human nature could not resist lifting up and displaying signs of the robbery every moment, in the midst of the storm of vituperation thus excited.

Mervyn could hardly attend to Phœbe’s mention of the cart, but as soon as it reached his senses, he redoubled his hot commands to keepers and stablemen to set off in pursuit, and called for his horse to ride to Elverslope, to give information at the police station and telegraph office.  Phœbe implored him to rest and send a messenger, but he roughly bade her not to be so absurd, commanded again that nothing should be disturbed, or, if she would be busy, that she should make out a list of all that was missing.

‘Grateful!’ indignantly thought Miss Fennimore, as Phœbe was left leaning on a pillar in the portico, watching him ride away, the pale light of the yellow setting moon giving an almost ghostly appearance to her white drapery and wistful attitude.  Putting an arm round her, the governess found her shivering from head to foot, and pale and cold as marble; her knees knocked together when she walked, and her teeth chattered as she strove to smile, but her quietness still showed itself in all her movements, as she returned into the hall, and reached the welcome support of a chair beside the rekindled fire.

Miss Fennimore chafed her hands, and she looked up, smiled, and said, ‘Thank you.’

‘Then you were frightened, after all, Phœbe,’ cried Bertha, triumphantly.

‘Was I?—I don’t know,’ said Phœbe, as in a dream.

‘What, when you don’t know what you are talking of, and are still trembling all over?’

‘I can’t tell.  I think what came on me then was thankfulness.’

‘I am sure we may be thankful that our jewels are the only things safe!’

‘Oh! Bertha, you don’t know, then, that the man was taking aim at Mervyn!’ and the shudder returned.

‘There, Phœbe, for the sake of candour and psychology, confess your terror.’

‘Indeed, Bertha,’ said Phœbe, with a smile on her tremulous lip, ‘it is very odd, but I don’t think I was afraid; there was a feeling of shadowing Wings that left no room for terror.’

‘That enabled you to think and act?’ asked Miss Fennimore.

‘I didn’t think; it came to me,’ said Phœbe.  ‘Pray, let me go; Bertha dear, you had better go to bed.  Pray lie down, Miss Fennimore.’

She moved slowly away, her steps still unsteady and her cheeks colourless, but the sweet light of thankfulness on her face; while Bertha said, in her moralizing tone, ‘It is a curious study to see Phœbe taking her own steady nerves and power of resource for something external to herself, and being pious about it.’

Miss Fennimore was not gratified by her apt pupil’s remark.  ‘If Phœbe’s conduct do not fill you with reverence, both for her and that which actuates her, I can only stand astonished,’ she said.

Bertha turned away, and erected her eyebrows.