Hopes and Fears or, scenes from the life of a spinster. Yonge Charlotte MaryЧитать онлайн книгу.
killed. Finding a very sharp sword, in a very frail scabbard, she had whetted the one and worn down the other, by every stimulus in her power, till a jury of physicians might have found her guilty of manslaughter; but perfectly unconscious of her own agency in causing the atrophy, her dear Anna Webster lived foremost in her affections, the model for every subsequent pupil. She seldom remained more than two years in a family. Sometimes the young brains were over-excited; more often they fell into a dreary state of drilled diligence; but she was too much absorbed in the studies to look close into the human beings, and marvelled when the fathers and mothers were blind enough to part with her on the plea of health and need of change.
On the whole she had never liked any of her charges since the renowned Anna Webster so well as Phœbe Fulmort; although her abilities did not rise above the ‘very fair,’ and she was apt to be bewildered in metaphysics and political economy; but then she had none of the eccentricities of will and temper of Miss Fennimore’s clever girls, nor was she like most good-humoured ones, recklessly insouciante. Her only drawback, in the governess’s eyes, was that she never seemed desirous of going beyond what was daily required of her—each study was a duty, and not a subject of zeal.
Presently Miss Fennimore came back, followed by the two sisters, neither of them in the best of tempers. Maria, a stout, clumsily-made girl of fifteen, had the same complexion and open eyes as Phœbe, but her colouring was muddled, the gaze full-orbed and vacant, and the lips, always pouting, were just now swelled with the vexation that filled her prominent eyelids with tears. Bertha, two years younger, looked as if nature had designed her for a boy, and the change into a girl was not yet decided. She, too, was very like Maria; but Maria’s open nostrils were in her a droll retroussé, puggish little nose; her chin had a boyish squareness and decision, her round cheeks had two comical dimples, her eyes were either stretched in defiance or narrowed up with fun, and a slight cast in one gave a peculiar archness and character to her face; her skin, face, hands, and all, were uniformly pinky; her hair in such obstinate yellow curls, that it was to be hoped, for her sake, that the fashion of being crépé might continue. The brow lowered in petulance; and as she kissed Phœbe, she muttered in her ear a vituperation of the governess in schoolroom patois; then began tossing the lesson-books in the air and catching them again, as a preliminary to finding the places, thus drawing on herself a reproof in German. French and German were alternately spoken in lesson hours by Phœbe and Bertha, who had lived with foreign servants from infancy; but poor Maria had not the faculty of keeping the tongues distinct, and corrections only terrified her into confusion worse confounded, until Miss Fennimore had in despair decided that English was the best alternative.
Phœbe practised vigorously. Aware that nothing pleasant was passing, and that, be it what it might, she could do no good, she was glad to stop her ears with her music, until eight o’clock brought a pause in the shape of breakfast. Formerly the schoolroom party had joined the family meal, but since the two elder girls had been out, and Mervyn’s friends had been often in the house, it had been decided that the home circle was too numerous; and what had once been the play-room was allotted to be the eating-room of the younger ones, without passing the red door, on the other side of which lay the world.
Breakfast was announced by the schoolroom maid, and Miss Fennimore rose. No sooner was her back turned, than Bertha indulged in a tremendous writhing yawn, wriggling in her chair, and clenching both fat fists, as she threatened with each, at her governess’s retreating figure, so ludicrously, that Phœbe smiled while she shook her head, and an explosive giggle came from Maria, causing the lady to turn and behold Miss Bertha demure as ever, and a look of disconsolate weariness fast settling down on each of the two young faces. The unbroken routine pressed heavily at those fit moments for family greetings and for relaxation, and even Phœbe would gladly have been spared the German account of the Holt and of Miss Charlecote’s book, for which she was called upon. Bertha meanwhile, to whom waggishness was existence, was carrying on a silent drama on her plate, her roll being a quarry, and her knife the workmen attacking it. Now she undermined, now acted an explosion, with uplifted eyebrows and an indicated ‘puff!’ with her lips, with constant dumb-show directed to Maria, who, without half understanding, was in a constant suppressed titter, sometimes concealed by her pocket-handkerchief.
Quick as Miss Fennimore was, and often as she frowned on Maria’s outbreaks, she never could detect their provocative. Over-restraint and want of sympathy were direct instruction in unscrupulous slyness of amusement. A sentence of displeasure on Maria’s ill-mannered folly was in the act of again filling her eyes with tears, when there was a knock at the door, and all the faces beamed with glad expectation.
It was Robert. This was the time of day when he knew Miss Fennimore could best tolerate him, and he seldom failed to make his appearance on his way down-stairs, the only one of the privileged race who was a wonted object on this side the baize door. Phœbe thought he looked more cheerful, and indeed gravity could hardly have withstood Bertha’s face, as she gave a mischievous tweak to his hair behind, under colour of putting her arm round his neck.
‘Well, Curlylocks, how much mischief did you do yesterday?’
‘I’d no spirits for mischief,’ she answered, with mock pitifulness, twinkling up her eyes, and rubbing them with her knuckles as if she were crying. ‘You barbarous wretch, taking Phœbe to feast on strawberries and cream with Miss Charlecote, and leaving poor me to poke in that stupid drawing-room, with nothing to do but to count the scollops of mamma’s flounce!’
‘It is your turn. Will Miss Fennimore kindly let you have a walk with me this evening?’
‘And me,’ said Maria.
‘You, of course. May I come for them at five o’clock?’
‘I can hardly tell what to say about Maria. I do not like to disappoint her, but she knows that nothing displeases me so much as that ill-mannered habit of giggling,’ said Miss Fennimore, not without concern. Merciful as to Maria’s attainments, she was strict as to her manners, and was striving to teach her self-restraint enough to be unobtrusive.
Poor Maria’s eyes were glassy with tears, her chest heaved with sobs, and she broke out, ‘O pray, Miss Fennimore, O pray!’ while all the others interceded for her; and Bertha, well knowing that it was all her fault, avoided the humiliation of a confession, by the apparent generosity of exclaiming, ‘Take us both to-morrow instead, Robin.’
Robert’s journey was, however, fixed for that day, and on this plea, licence was given for the walk. Phœbe smiled congratulation, but Maria was slow in cheering up; and when, on returning to the schoolroom, the three sisters were left alone together for a few moments, she pressed up to Phœbe’s side, and said, ‘Phœbe, I’ve not said my prayers. Do you think anything will happen to me?’
Her awfully mysterious tone set Bertha laughing. ‘Yes, Maria, all the cows in the park will run at you,’ she was beginning, when the grave rebuke of Phœbe’s eyes cut her short.
‘How was it, my dear?’ asked Phœbe, tenderly fondling her sister.
‘I was so sleepy, and Bertha would blow soap-bubbles in her hands while we were washing, and then Miss Fennimore came, and I’ve been naughty now, and I know I shall go on, and then Robin won’t take me.’
‘I will ask Miss Fennimore to let you go to your room, dearest,’ said Phœbe. ‘You must not play again in dressing time, for there’s nothing so sad as to miss our prayers. You are a good girl to care so much. Had you time for yours, Bertha?’
‘Oh, plenty!’ with a toss of her curly head. ‘I don’t take ages about things, like Maria.’
‘Prayers cannot be hurried,’ said Phœbe, looking distressed, and she was about to remind Bertha to whom she spoke in prayer, when the child cut her short by the exclamation, ‘Nonsense, Maria, about being naughty. You know I always make you laugh when I please, and that has more to do with it than saying your prayers, I fancy.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Phœbe, very sadly, ‘if you had said yours more in earnest, my poor Bertha, you would either not have made Maria laugh, or would not have left her to bear all the blame.’
‘Why