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

‘Pray where did this scene take place?’ asked Mervyn.

‘On the platform; but it was far too quiet to attract notice.’

‘What! you had no fits nor struggles?’

‘I should think not,’ smiled Phœbe.

‘She stood like a statue, when she understood him; and when he would audaciously have shaken hands with her, she made a distant courtesy, quite dignified.  I took her to the waiting-room, and put back her veil.  She was crimson, and nearly choking, but she repelled me, and never gave way.  I asked if she would sleep at an inn and go home to-morrow; she said “No.”  I told her I could not take her to my place because of the curates.  “I’ll go to a sisterhood,” she said; and when I told her she was in no mood to be received there, she answered, “I don’t care.”  Then I proposed taking her to Augusta, but that was worse; and at last I got her to come home in the dark, on my promise that she should see no one till she chose.  Not a word has she since uttered.’

‘Could he really have meant it all in play?’ said Phœbe; ‘yet there was his letter.’

‘I see it all,’ said Mervyn.  ‘I was an ass to suppose such needy rogues could come near girls of fortune without running up the scent.  As I told Phœbe, I know they had some monstrous ideas of the amount, which I never thought it worth my while to contradict.  I imagine old Jack only intended a promising little flirtation, capable of being brought to bear if occasion served, but otherwise to be cast aside as child’s play.  Nobody could suspect such an inflammable nature with that baby face; but it seems she was ready to eat her fingers with dulness in the school-room, and had prodigious notions of the rights of woman; so she took all he said most seriously, and met him more than half-way.  Then he goes to London, gets better information, looks at the will in Doctors’ Commons, maybe, finds it a slowish speculation, and wants to let her down easy; whereof she has no notion, writes two letters to his one, as we know, gets desperate, and makes this excursion.’

Robert thoughtfully said ‘Yes;’ and Phœbe, though she did not like to betray it, mentally owned that the intercepted letter confirmed Mervyn’s opinion, being evidently meant to pacify what was inconveniently ardent and impassioned, without making tangible promises or professions.

The silence was broken by Mervyn.  ‘There!  I shall go to bed.  Phœbe, when you see that poor child, tell her not to be afraid of me, for the scrape was of my making, so don’t be sharp with her.’

‘I hope not,’ said Robert gravely; ‘I am beginning to learn that severity is injustice, not justice.  Good night, Mervyn; I hope this has not done you harm.’

‘I am glad not to be at Paddington this minute,’ said Mervyn.  ‘You will stay and help us through this business.  It is past us.’

‘I will stay as long as I can, if you wish it.’

Phœbe’s fervent ‘Thank you!’ was for both.  She had never heard such friendly tones between those two, though Mervyn’s were still half sullen, and chiefly softened by dejection and weariness.

‘Why, Phœbe,’ cried Robert, as the door closed, ‘how could you not tell me this?’

‘I thought I had told you that he was very unwell.’

‘Unwell!  I never saw any one so much altered.’

‘He is at his best when he is pale.  The attacks are only kept off by reducing him, and he must be materially better to have no threatening after such a day as this.’

‘Well, I am glad you have not had the letter that I posted only to-day!’

‘I knew you were displeased,’ said Phœbe, ‘and you see you were quite right in not wishing us to stay here; but you forgive us now—Mervyn and me, I mean.’

‘Don’t couple yourself with him, Phœbe!’

‘Yes, I must; for we both equally misjudged, and he blames himself more than any one.’

‘His looks plead for him as effectually as you can do, Phœbe, and rebuke me for having fancied you weak and perverse in remaining after the remonstrance.’

‘I do not wonder at it,’ said Phœbe; ‘but it is over now, and don’t let us talk about it.  I want nothing to spoil the comfort of knowing that I have you here.’

‘I have a multitude of things to say, but you look sleepy.’

‘Yes, I am afraid I am.  I should like to sit up all night to make the most of you, but I could not keep awake.’

Childlike, she no sooner had some one on whom to repose her care than slumber claimed its due, and she went away to her thankful rest, treasuring the thought of Robert’s presence, and resting in the ineffable blessing of being able to overlook the thorns in gratitude for the roses.

Bertha did not appear in the morning.  Robert went to her door, and was told that she would see no one; and Phœbe’s entreaties for admission were met with silence, till he forbade their repetition.  ‘It only hardens her,’ he said; ‘we must leave her to herself.’

‘She will not eat, she will be ill!’

‘If she do not yield at dinner-time, Lieschen shall carry food to her, but she shall not have the pleasure of disappointing you.  Sullenness must be left to weary itself out.’

‘Is not this more shame than sullenness?’

‘True shame hides its face and confesses—sullen shame hides like Adam.  If hers had not been stubborn, it would have melted at your voice.  She must wait to hear it again, till she have learnt to crave for it.’

He looked so resolute that Phœbe durst plead no longer, but her heart sank at the thought of the obstinate force of poor Bertha’s nature.  Persistence was innate in the Fulmorts, and it was likely to be a severe and lasting trial whether Robert or Bertha would hold out the longest.  Since he had captured her, however, all were relieved tacitly to give her up to his management; and at dinner-time, on his stern assurance that unless she would accept food, the door would be forced, she admitted some sandwiches and tea, and desired to have her firing replenished, but would allow no one to enter.

Robert, at Mervyn’s earnest entreaty, arranged to remain over the Sunday.  The two brothers met shyly at first, using Phœbe as a medium of communication; but they drew nearer after a time, in the discussion of the robbery, and Robert presently found means of helping Mervyn, by letter-writing, and taking business off his hands to which Phœbe was unequal.  Both concurred in insisting that Phœbe should keep her engagement to the Raymonds for the morrow, as the only means of preventing Bertha’s escapade from making a sensation; and by night she became satisfied that not only would the brothers keep the peace in her absence, but that a day’s téte-à-téte might rather promote their good understanding.

Still, she was in no mood to enjoy, when she had to leave Bertha’s door still unopened, and the only comfort she could look to was in the conversation with Miss Charlecote on the way.  From her, there was no concealing what had happened, and, to Phœbe’s surprise, she was encouraging.  From an external point of view, she could judge better than those more nearly concerned, and her elder years made her more conscious what time could do.  She would not let the adventure be regarded as a lasting blight on Bertha’s life.  Had the girl been a few years older, she could never have held up her head again; but as it was, Honor foretold that, by the time she was twenty, the adventure would appear incredible.  It was not to be lightly passed over, but she must not be allowed to lose her self-respect, nor despair of regaining a place in the family esteem.

Phœbe could not imagine her ever recovering the being thus cast off by her first love.

‘My dear, believe me, it was not love at all, only mystery and the rights of woman.  Her very demonstrativeness shows that it was not the heart, but the vanity.’

Phœbe tried to believe, and at least was refreshed by the sympathy, so as to be able, to her own surprise, to be pleased and happy at Moorcroft, where Sir John and his wife were full of kindness, and the bright household mirth of the sons and daughters showed Phœbe some of the benefit Miss Fennimore expected for Bertha from girl friends.  One of the younger ones showed her a present in preparation for ‘cousin Cecily,’ and embarked in a list of the names of the cousinhood at Sutton; and though an elder sister decidedly closed young Harriet’s mouth, yet afterwards Phœbe was favoured with a sight of a photograph of the dear cousin, and inferred from it that the young lady’s looks were quite severe enough to account for her cruelty.

The having been plunged into a new atmosphere was good for Phœbe, and she brought home so cheerful a face, that even the news of Bertha’s continued obstinacy could not long sadden it, in the enjoyment of the sight of Robert making himself necessary to Mervyn, and Mervyn accepting his services as if there had never been anything but brotherly love between them.  She could have blessed Bertha for having thus brought them together, and felt as if it were a dream too happy to last.

‘What an accountant Robert is!’ said Mervyn.  ‘It is a real sacrifice not to have him in the business!  What a thing we should have made of it, and he would have taken all the bother!’

‘We have done very well to-day,’ was Robert’s account; ‘I don’t know what can have been the matter before, except my propensity for making myself disagreeable.’

Phœbe went to bed revolving plans for softening Bertha, and was fast asleep when the lock of her door was turned.  As she awoke, the terrors of the robbery were upon her far more strongly than at the actual moment of its occurrence; but the voice was familiar, though thin, weak, and gasping.  ‘O Phœbe, I’ve done it!  I’ve starved myself.  I am dying;’ and the sound became a shrill cry.  ‘The dark!  O save me!’ There was a heavy fall, and Phœbe, springing to the spot where the white vision had sunk down, strove to lift a weight, cold as marble, without pulse or motion.  She contrived to raise it, and drag it with her into her own bed, though in deadly terror at the icy touch and prone helplessness, and she was feeling in desperation for the bell-rope, when to her great relief, light and steps approached, and Robert spoke.  Alas! his candle only served to show the ghastly, senseless face.

‘She has starved herself!’ said Phœbe, with affright.

‘A swoon, don’t be afraid,’ said Robert, who was dressed, and had evidently been watching.  ‘Try to warm her; I will fetch something for her; we shall soon bring her round.’

‘A swoon, only a swoon,’ Phœbe was forced to reiterate to herself to keep her senses and check the sobbing screams that swelled in her throat during the hour-like moments of his absence.  She rose, and partly dressed herself in haste, then strove to chafe the limbs; but her efforts only struck the deathly chill more deeply into her own heart.

He brought some brandy, with which they moistened her lips, but still in vain, and Phœbe’s dismay was redoubled as she saw his terror.  ‘It must be fainting,’ he repeated, ‘but I had better send for Jackson.  May God have mercy on us all—this is my fault!’

‘Her lips move,’ gasped Phœbe, as she rubbed the temples with the stimulant.

‘Thank God!’ and again they put the spoon to her lips, as the nostrils expanded, the eyes opened, and she seemed to crave for the cordial.  But vainly Robert raised her in his arms, and Phœbe steadied her own trembling hand to administer it, there were only choking, sobbing efforts for words, resulting in hoarse shrieks of anguish.

Mervyn and Miss Fennimore, entering nearly at the same moment, found Phœbe pale as death, urging composure with a voice of despair; and Robert with looks of horror that he could no longer control, holding up the sinking child, her face livid, her eyes strained.  ‘I can’t, I can’t,’ she cried, with frightful catches of her breath; ‘I shall die—’ and the screams recurred.

Mervyn could not bear the spectacle for an instant, and fled only to return to listen outside.  Miss Fennimore brought authority and presence of mind.  ‘Hysterical,’ she said.  ‘There, lay her down; don’t try again yet.’

‘It is hunger,’ whispered the trembling Phœbe; but Miss Fennimore only signed to be obeyed, and decidedly saying, ‘Be quiet, Bertha, don’t speak,’ the habit of submission silenced all but the choking sobs.  She sent Robert to warm a shawl, ordered away the frightened maids, and enforced stillness, which lasted till Bertha had recovered breath, when she sobbed out again, ‘Robert!  Where is he!  I shall die!  He must pray!  I can’t die!’