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

‘There is a special care over every Christian child, I suppose,’ he said; ‘and I hope it may all turn out so as to make you happy.  Here is your door; good night, and good-bye.’

‘Why, are not you coming in?’

‘I think not; I have my things to put up; I must go early to-morrow.  Thank you for a very happy week.  Good-bye, Honor.’  There was a shade of disappointment about his tone that she could not quite account for.  Dear old Humfrey!  Could he be ageing?  Could he be unwell?  Did he feel himself lonely?  Could she have mortified him, or displeased him?  Honor was not a woman of personal vanity, or a solution would sooner have occurred to her.  She knew, upon reflection, that it must have been for her sake that Humfrey had continued single, but it was so inconvenient to think of him in the light of an admirer, when she so much needed him as a brother, that it had hardly ever occurred to her to do so; but at last it did strike her whether, having patiently waited so long, this might not have been a visit of experiment, and whether he might not be disappointed to find her wrapped up in new interests—slightly jealous, in fact, of little Owen.  How good he had been!  Where was the heart that could fail of being touched by so long a course of forbearance and consideration?  Besides Honor had been a solitary woman long enough to know what it was to stand alone.  And then how well he would stand in a father’s place towards the orphans.  He would never decree her parting with them, and Captain Charteris himself must trust him.  Yet what a shame it would be to give such a devoted heart nothing better than one worn out, with the power of love such as he deserved, exhausted for ever.  And yet—and yet—something very odd bounded up within her, and told her between shame and exultation, that faithful old Humfrey would not be discontented even with what she had to give.  Another time—a little, a very little encouragement, and the pine wood scene would come back again, and then—her heart fainted a little—there should be no concealment—but if she could only have been six months married all at once!

Time went on, and Honora more than once blushed at finding how strong a hold this possibility had taken of her heart, when once she had begun to think of resting upon one so kind, so good, so strong.  Every perplexity, every care, every transaction that made her feel her position as a single woman, brought round the yearning to lay them all down upon him, who would only be grateful to her for them.  Every time she wanted some one to consult, hope showed her his face beaming sweetly on her, and home seemed to be again opening to her, that home which might have been hers at any time these twelve years.  She quite longed to see how glad the dear, kind fellow would be.

Perhaps maidenly shame would have belied her feelings in his actual presence, perhaps she would not have shrunk from him, and been more cold than in her unconsciousness, but he came not; and his absence fanned the spark so tardily kindled.  What if she had delayed till too late?  He was a man whose duty it was to marry! he had waited till he was some years past forty—perhaps this had been his last attempt, and he was carrying his addresses elsewhere.

Well! Honora believed she had tried to act rightly, and that must be her comfort—and extremely ashamed of herself she was, to find herself applying such a word to her own sensations in such a case—and very much disliking the notion of any possible lady at Hiltonbury Holt.

CHAPTER III

There is a reaper, his name is Death,
And with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

    —Longfellow

A letter from Humfrey! how Honor’s heart fluttered.  Would it announce an engagement, or would it promise a visit on which her fate would turn, or would it be only a business letter on her money matters?

Angry at her own trepidation, she opened it.  It was none of all these.  It told her that Mr. Saville, his brother-in-law, was staying at the Holt with his second wife, and that he begged her to take advantage of this opportunity to come to visit the old place, adding, that he had not been well, and he wished much to see her, if she could spare a few days to him from her children.

Little doubt had she as to the acceptance.  The mere words ‘going to Hiltonbury,’ had power by force of association to make her heart bound.  She was a little disappointed that he had not included the children; she feared that it looked as if he were really ill; but it might be on account of the Savilles, or maybe he had that to say to her which—oh, nonsense!  Were that the case, Humfrey would not reverse the order of things, and make her come to him.  At any rate, the children should be her first condition.  And then she concentrated her anxieties on his most unusual confession of having been unwell.

Humfrey’s substantial person was ready to meet her at the station, and the first glance dispelled her nervous tremors, and calmed the tossings of her mind in the habitual sense of trust and reliance.  He thanked her for coming, handed her into the carriage, looked after her goods, and seated himself beside her in so completely his ordinary fashion of taking care of her, that she forgot all her intentions of rendering their meeting momentous.  Her first inquiry was for his health, but he put it aside with something about feeling very well now, and he looked so healthy, only perhaps a little more hearty and burly, that she did not think any more of the matter, and only talked in happy desultory scraps, now dwelling on her little Owen’s charms, now joyfully recognizing familiar objects, or commenting upon the slight changes that had taken place.  One thing, however, she observed; Humfrey did not stop the horse at the foot of the steep hill where walking had been a matter of course, when he had been a less solid weight than now.  ‘Yes, Honor,’ he said, smiling, ‘one grows less merciful as one grows old and short-breathed.’

‘You growing old! you whom I’ve never left off thinking of as a promising lad, as poor old Mrs. Mervyn used to call you.’

He turned his face towards her as if about to say something very seriously, but apparently changing his intention, he said, ‘Poor old Mrs. Mervyn, I wonder how she would like the changes at Beauchamp.’

‘Are the Fulmorts doing a great deal?’

‘They have quite modernized the house, and laid out the garden—what I should call very prettily, if it were not for my love of the old Dutch one.  They see a great deal of company, and go on in grand style.’

‘How do you get on with them?’

‘Oh! very well; I have dined there two or three times.  He is a good-natured fellow enough, and there are some nice children, whom I like to meet with their nurses in the woods.  I stood proxy for the last one’s sponsor; I could not undertake the office myself.’

‘Good-natured!’ exclaimed Nora.  ‘Why, you know how he behaved at St. Wulstan’s.  No more than £5 a year would he ever give to any charity, though he was making thousands by those gin-shops.’

‘Probably he thought he was doing very liberally.’

‘Ay, there is no hope for St. Wulstan’s till people have left off thinking a guinea their duty, and five very handsome! and that Augusta Mervyn should have gone and married our bête noire—our lord of gin-palaces—I do think it must be on purpose for you to melt him.  I shall set you at him, Humfrey, next time Mr. Askew writes to me in despair, that something won’t go on for lack of means.  Only I must be quite sure that you won’t give the money yourself, to spare the trouble of dunning.’

‘It is not fair to take other people’s duties on oneself; besides, as you’ll find, Honor, the Holt purse is not bottomless.’

As she would find!  This was a very odd way of making sure of her beforehand, but she was not certain that she did not like it.  It was comfortable, and would save much preliminary.

The woods were bursting into spring: delicate, deeply creased leaves were joyously emerging to the light on the birches, not yet devoid of the silvery wool where they had been packed, the hazels were fluttering their goslings, the palms were honey sweet with yellow tufts, the primroses peeped out in the banks of moss.

‘Oh! Humfrey, this is the great desire of my life fulfilled, to see the Holt in the flush of spring!’

‘I have always said you cared for the place more than any one,’ said Humfrey, evidently gratified, but with an expression which she did not understand.

‘As if I did not!  But how strangely differently from my vision my wish has been fulfilled.’

‘How strangely!’ he repeated, with even greater seriousness than had been in her voice.

The meadow was bright with spring grass, the cattle grazing serenely as in old times, the garden—ah! not quite so gay—either it was better in autumn than in spring, or it wanted poor Sarah’s hand; the dogs, not the same individuals, but with much the same manners, dancing round their master—all like, all home.  Nothing wanting, but, alas! the good-natured, narrow-minded old mistress of the house to fret her, and notable Sarah to make her comfortable, and wonder at her eccentric tastes.  Ah! and how much more was wanting the gentle mother who did all the civility and listening, and the father, so happy to look at green woods, read poetry, and unbend his weary brow!  How much more precious was the sight of the one living remnant of those days!

They had a cheerful evening.  Mr. Saville had a great deal of old-fashioned Oxford agreeableness; he was very courtly, but a sensible man, with some native fun and many college stories.  After many years of donship, his remote parish was somewhat of a solitude to him, and intercourse with a cultivated mind was as pleasant to him now as the sight of a lady had been in his college days.  Honor liked conversation too; and Miss Wells, Lucilla, and Owen had been rather barren in that respect, so there was a great deal of liveliness, in which Humfrey took his full share; while good Mrs. Saville looked like what she was, her husband’s admiring housekeeper.

‘Do you take early walks still, Humfrey?’ asked Honor, as she bade him good night.  ‘If you do, I shall be quite ready to confront the dew;’ and therewith came a revulsion of the consciousness within.  Was this courting him? and to her great provocation there arose an uncomfortable blush.

‘Thank you,’ he said, with something of a mournful tone, ‘I’m afraid I’m past that, Honor.  To-morrow, after breakfast—good night.’

Honor was a little alarmed by all this, and designed a conference with the old housekeeper, Mrs. Stubbs, to inquire into her master’s health, but this was not attainable that night, and she could only go to bed in the friendly old wainscoted room, whose white and gold carved monsters on the mantelpiece were well-nigh as familiar as the dove in Woolstone-lane; but, oh! how it made her long for the mother whom she used to kiss there.

Humfrey was brisk and cheerful as ever at breakfast, devising what his guests would like to do for the day, and talking of some friends whom he had asked to meet Mr. Saville, so that all the anxieties with which Honora had risen were dissipated, and she took her part gaily in the talk.  There was something therefore freshly startling to her, when, on rising, Humfrey gravely said, ‘Honor, will you come into my study for a little while?’

The study had always been more of a place for guns and fishing-tackle than for books.  It was Humfrey’s usual living room when alone, and was of course full besides of justice books, agricultural reports, acts of parliament, piles of papers, little bags of samples of wheat, all in the orderly disorder congenial to the male kind.  All this was as usual, but the change that struck her was, that the large red leather lounging chair, hitherto a receptacle for the overflowings of the table, was now wheeled beside the fire, and near it stood a little table with a large print Bible on it, which she well remembered as his mother’s.  Humfrey set a chair for her by the fire, and seated himself in the easy one, leaning back a little.  She had not spoken.  Something in his grave preparation somewhat awed her, and she sat upright, watching him.

‘It was very kind of you to come, Honor,’ he began; ‘more kind than you know.’

‘I am sure it could be no other than a treat—’

He continued, before she could go farther, ‘I wished particularly to speak to you.  I thought it might perhaps spare you a shock.’

She looked at him with a terrified eye.

‘Don’t be frightened, my dear,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘there is no occasion.  Such things must come sooner or later, and it is only that I wished to tell you that I have been having advice for a good many uncomfortable feelings that have troubled me lately.’

‘Well?’ she asked, breathlessly.

‘And Dixon tells me that it is aneurism.’

Quick and fast came Honora’s breath; her hands were clasped together; her eyes cast about with such a piteous, despairing expression, that he started to his feet in a moment, exclaiming—‘Honor!  Honor dear! don’t! there’s no need.  I did not think you would feel it in this way!’

‘Feel! what should I feel if not for you?  Oh! Humfrey! don’t say it! you are all that is left me—you cannot be spared!’ and as he came towards her, she grasped his hand and clung to him, needing the support which he gave in fear of her fainting.

‘Dear Honor, do not take it thus.  I am very well now—I dare say I shall be so to the last, and there is nothing terrible to the imagination.  I am very thankful for both the preparation and the absence of suffering.  Will not you be the same?’

‘Yes, you,’ said Honora, sitting up again, and looking up into his sincere, serene face; ‘I cannot doubt that even this is well for you, but it is all selfishness—just as I was beginning to feel what you are to me.’

Humfrey’s face lighted up suddenly.  ‘Then, Honor,’ he said, evidently putting strong restraint upon his voice, ‘you could have listened to me now!’