Hopes and Fears or, scenes from the life of a spinster. Yonge Charlotte Mary

Чтение книги онлайн.

      ‘My dear, you noticed the mark on his hand,’ said Honora; ‘you do not know the cause?’

      ‘No!  Was it a shark or a mad dog?’ eagerly asked the child, slightly alarmed by her manner.

      ‘Neither.  But do not you remember his carrying you into Woolstone-lane?  I always believed you did not know what your little teeth were doing.’

      It was not received as Honora expected.  Probably the scenes of the girl’s infancy had brought back associations more strongly than she was prepared for—she turned white, gasped, and vindictively said, ‘I’m glad of it.’

      Honora, shocked, had not discovered a reply, when Lucilla, somewhat confused at the sound of her own words, said, ‘I know—not quite that—he meant the best—but, Cousin Honor, it was cruel, it was wicked, to part my father and me!  Father—oh, the river is going on still, but not my father!’

      The excitable girl burst into a flood of passionate tears, as though the death of her father were more present to her than ever before; and she had never truly missed him till she was brought in contact with her old home.  The fatigue and change, the talking evening and restless night, had produced their effect; her very thoughtlessness and ordinary insouciance rendered the rush more overwhelming when it did come, and the weeping was almost hysterical.

      It was not a propitious circumstance that Caroline knocked at the door with some message as to the afternoon’s arrangements.  Honor answered at haphazard, standing so as to intercept the view, but aware that the long-drawn sobs would be set down to the account of her own tyranny, and nevertheless resolving the more on enforcing the quiescence, the need of which was so evident; but the creature was volatile as well as sensitive, and by the time the door was shut, stood with heaving breast and undried tears, eagerly demanding whether her cousins wanted her.

      ‘Not at all,’ said Honora, somewhat annoyed at the sudden transition; ‘it was only to ask if I would ride.’

      ‘Charles was to bring the pony for me; I must go,’ cried Lucy, with an eye like that of a greyhound in the leash.

      ‘Not yet,’ said Honor.  ‘My dear, you promised.’

      ‘I’ll never promise anything again,’ was the pettish murmur.

      Poor child, these two morning hours were to her a terrible penance, day after day.  Practically, she might have found them heavy had they been left to her own disposal, but it was expecting overmuch from human nature to hope that she would believe so without experience, and her lessons were a daily irritation, an apparent act of tyranny, hardening her feelings against the exactor, at the same time that the influence of kindred blood drew her closer to her own family, with a revulsion the stronger from her own former exaggerated dislike.

      The nursery at Castle Blanch, and the cousins who domineered over her as a plaything, had been intolerable to the little important companion of a grown man, but it was far otherwise to emerge from the calm seclusion and sober restraints of the Holt into the gaieties of a large party, to be promoted to young ladyhood, and treated on equal terms, save for extra petting and attention.  Instead of Robert Fulmort alone, all the gentlemen in the house gave her flattering notice—eye, ear, and helping hand at her disposal, and blunt Uncle Kit himself was ten times more civil to her than to either of her cousins.  What was the use of trying to disguise from her the witchery of her piquant prettiness?

      Her cousin Horatia had always had a great passion for her as a beautiful little toy, and her affection, once so trying to its object, had taken the far more agreeable form of promoting her pleasures and sympathizing with her vexations.  Patronage from two-and-twenty to fourteen, from a daughter of the house to a guest, was too natural to offend, and Lucilla requited it with vehement attachment, running after her at every moment, confiding all her grievances, and being made sensible of many more.  Ratia, always devising delights for her, took her on the river, rode with her, set her dancing, opened the world to her, and enjoyed her pleasures, amused by her precocious vivacity, fostering her sauciness, extolling the wit of her audacious speeches, and extremely resenting all poor Honora’s attempts to counteract this terrible spoiling, or to put a check upon undesirable diversions and absolute pertness.  Every conscientious interference on her part was regarded as duenna-like harshness, and her restrictions as a grievous yoke, and Lucilla made no secret that it was so, treating her to almost unvaried ill-humour and murmurs.

      Little did Lucilla know, nor even Horatia, how much of the charms that produced so much effect were due to these very restraints, nor how the droll sauciness and womanly airs were enhanced by the simplicity of appearance, which embellished her far more than the most fashionable air set off her companions.  Once Lucilla had overheard her aunt thus excusing her short locks and simple dress—‘It is Miss Charlecote’s doing.  Of course, when so much depends on her, we must give way.  Excellent person, rather peculiar, but we are under great obligations to her.  Very good property.’

      No wonder that sojourn at Castle Blanch was one of the most irksome periods of Honora’s life, disappointing, fretting, and tedious.  There was a grievous dearth of books and of reasonable conversation, and both she and Owen were exceedingly at a loss for occupation, and used to sit in the boat on the river, and heartily wish themselves at home.  He had no companion of his own age, and was just too young and too enterprising to be welcome to gentlemen bent more on amusing themselves than pleasing him.  He was roughly admonished when he spoilt sport or ran into danger; his cousin Charles was fitfully good-natured, but generally showed that he was in the way; his uncle Kit was more brief and stern with him than ‘Sweet Honey’s’ pupil could endure; and Honor was his only refuge.  His dreariness was only complete when the sedulous civilities of his aunt carried her beyond his reach.

      She could not attain a visit to Wrapworth till the Sunday.  The carriage went in state to the parish church in the morning, and the music and preaching furnished subjects for persiflage at luncheon, to her great discomfort, and the horror of Owen; and she thought she might venture to Wrapworth in the afternoon.  She had a longing for Owen’s church, ‘for auld lang syne’—no more.  Even his bark church in the backwoods could not have rivalled Hiltonbury and the brass.

      Owen, true to his allegiance, joined her in good time, but reported that his sister was gone on with Ratia.  Whereas Ratia would probably otherwise not have gone to church at all, Honor was deprived of all satisfaction in her annoyance, and the compensation of a tête-à-tête with Owen over his father’s memory was lost by the unwelcome addition of Captain Charteris.  The loss signified the less as Owen’s reminiscences were never allowed to languish for want of being dug up and revived, but she could not quite pardon the sailor for the commonplace air his presence cast over the walk.

      The days were gone by when Mr. Sandbrook’s pulpit eloquence had rendered Wrapworth Church a Sunday show to Castle Blanch.  His successor was a cathedral dignitary, so constantly absent that the former curate, who had been continued on at Wrapworth, was, in the eyes of every one, the veritable master.  Poor Mr. Prendergast—whatever were his qualifications as a preacher—had always been regarded as a disappointment; people had felt themselves defrauded when the sermon fell to his share instead of that of Mr. Sandbrook, and odious comparison had so much established the opinion of his deficiencies, that Honora was not surprised to see a large-limbed and rather quaint-looking man appear in the desk, but the service was gone through with striking reverence, and the sermon was excellent, though homely and very plain-spoken.  The church had been cruelly mauled by churchwardens of the last century, and a few Gothic decorations, intended for the beginning of restoration, only made it the more incongruous.  The east window, of stained glass, of a quality left far behind by the advances of the last twenty years, bore an inscription showing that it was a memorial, and there was a really handsome font.  Honor could trace the late rector’s predilections in a manner СКАЧАТЬ