Hopes and Fears or, scenes from the life of a spinster. Yonge Charlotte MaryЧитать онлайн книгу.
like me to be happy when it interferes with nobody.’
‘Great generosity,’ said Robert, dryly.
‘Oh, but, Robin, you know elder ones come first.’
‘A truth we are not likely to forget,’ said Robert. ‘I wish my uncle had been sensible of it. That legacy of his stands between Mervyn and me, and will never do me any good.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Phœbe; ‘Mervyn has always been completely the eldest son.’
‘Ay,’ returned Robert, ‘and with the tastes of an eldest son. His allowance does not suffice for them, and he does not like to see me independent. If my uncle had only been contented to let us share and share alike, then my father would have had no interest in drawing me into the precious gin and brandy manufacture.’
‘You did not think he meant to make it a matter of obedience,’ said Phœbe.
‘No; he could hardly do that after the way he has brought me up, and what we have been taught all our lives about liberty of the individual, absence of control, and the like jargon.’
‘Then you are not obliged?’
He made no answer, and they walked on in silence across the silvery lawn, the maythorns shining out like flaked towers of snow in the moonlight, and casting abyss-like shadows, the sky of the most deep and intense blue, and the carols of the nightingales ringing around them. Robert paused when he had passed through the gate leading into the dark path down-hill through the wood, and setting his elbows on it, leant over it, and looked back at the still and beautiful scene, in all the white mystery of moonlight, enhanced by the white-blossomed trees and the soft outlines of slumbering sheep. One of the birds, in a bush close to them, began prolonging its drawn-in notes in a continuous prelude, then breaking forth into a varied complex warbling, so wondrous that there was no moving till the creature paused.
It seemed to have been a song of peace to Robert, for he gave a long but much softer sigh, and pushed back his hat, saying, ‘All good things dwell on the Holt side of the boundary.’
‘A sort of Sunday world,’ said Phœbe.
‘Yes; after this wood one is in another atmosphere.’
‘Yet you have carried your cares there, poor Robin.’
‘So one does into Sunday, but to get another light thrown on them. The Holt has been the blessing of my life—of both our lives, Phœbe.’
She responded with all her heart. ‘Yes, it has made everything happier, at home and everywhere else. I never can think why Lucilla is not more fond of it.’
‘You are mistaken,’ exclaimed Robert; ‘she loves no place so well; but you don’t consider what claims her relations have upon her. That cousin Horatia, to whom she is so much attached, losing both her parents, how could she do otherwise than be with her?’
‘Miss Charteris does not seem to be in great trouble now,’ said Phœbe.
‘You do not consider; you have never seen grief, and you do not know how much more a sympathizing friend is needed when the world supposes the sorrow to be over, and ordinary habits to be resumed.’
Phœbe was willing to believe him right, though considering that Horatia Charteris lived with her brother and his wife, she could hardly be as lonely as Miss Charlecote.
‘We shall see Lucy in London,’ she said.
Robert again sighed heavily. ‘Then it will be over,’ he said. ‘Did you say anything there?’ he pursued, as they plunged into the dark shadows of the woodland path, more congenial to the subject than the light.
‘Yes, I did,’ said Phœbe.
‘And she thought me a weak, unworthy wretch for ever dreaming of swerving from my original path.’
‘No!’ said Phœbe, ‘not if it were your duty.’
‘I tell you, Phœbe, it is as much my duty to consult Lucilla’s happiness as if any words had passed between us. I have never pledged myself to take Orders. It has been only a wish, not a vocation; and if she have become averse to the prospect of a quiet country life, it would not be treating her fairly not to give her the choice of comparative wealth, though procured by means her family might despise.’
‘Yes, I knew you would put right and duty first; and I suppose by doing so you make it certain to end rightly, one way or other.’
‘A very few years, and I could realize as much as this Calthorp, the millionaire, whom they talk of as being so often at the Charterises.’
‘It will not be so,’ said Phœbe. ‘I know what she will say;’ and as Robert looked anxiously at her, she continued—
‘She will say she never dreamt of your being turned from anything so great by any fancies she has seemed to have. She will say so more strongly, for you know her father was a clergyman, and Miss Charlecote brought her up.’
Phœbe’s certainty made Robert catch something of her hopes.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘matters might be soon settled. This fortune of mine would be no misfortune then; and probably, Phœbe, my sisters would have no objection to your being happy with us.’
‘As soon as you could get a curacy! Oh, how delightful! and Maria and Bertha would come too.’
Robert held his peace, not certain whether Lucilla would consider Maria an embellishment to his ideal parsonage; but they talked on with cheerful schemes while descending through the wood, unlocking a gate that formed the boundary between the Holt and the Beauchamp properties, crossing a field or two, and then coming out into the park. Presently they were in sight of the house, rising darkly before them, with many lights shining in the windows behind the blinds.
‘They are all gone up-stairs!’ said Phœbe, dismayed. ‘How late it must be!’
‘There’s a light in the smoking-room,’ said Robert; ‘we can get in that way.’
‘No, no! Mervyn may have some one with him. Come in quietly by the servants’ entrance.’
No danger that people would not be on foot there! As the brother and sister moved along the long stone passage, fringed with labelled bells, one open door showed two weary maidens still toiling over the plates of the late dinner; and another, standing ajar, revealed various men-servants regaling themselves; and words and tones caught Robert’s ear making his brow lower with sudden pain.
Phœbe was proceeding to mount the stone stairs, when a rustling and chattering, as of maids descending, caused her and her brother to stand aside to make way, and down came a pair of heads and candles together over a green bandbox, and then voices in vulgar tones half suppressed. ‘I couldn’t venture it, not with Miss Juliana—but Miss Fulmort—she never looks over her bills, nor knows what is in her drawers—I told her it was faded, when she had never worn it once!’
And tittering, they passed by the brother and sister, who were still unseen, but Robert heaved a sigh and murmured, ‘Miserable work!’ somewhat to his sister’s surprise, for to her the great ill-regulated household was an unquestioned institution, and she did not expect him to bestow so much compassion on Augusta’s discarded bonnet. At the top of the steps they opened a door, and entered a great wide hall. All was exceedingly still. A gas-light was burning over the fire-place, but the corners were in gloom, and the coats and cloaks looked like human figures in the distance. Phœbe waited while Robert lighted her candle for her. Albeit she was not nervous, she started when a door was sharply pushed open, and another figure appeared; but it was nothing worse than her brother Mervyn, in easy costume, and redolent of tobacco.
About three years older than Robert, he was more neatly though not so strongly made, shorter, and with more regular features, but much less countenance. If the younger brother had a worn and dejected aspect, the elder, except in moments of excitement, looked bored. It was as if Robert really had the advantage of him in knowing what to be out of spirits about.
‘Oh!