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

that she did not kneel beside that little table, as in a shrine, and entreat earnestly for strength and judgment to do her duty faithfully in her new station, so that Humfrey’s charge might be fulfilled, and his people might not suffer; and this done, and her homage paid to his empty throne, she was better able to satisfy her motherly friend by her deportment for the remainder of the evening, and to reply to the welcome of the weeping Mrs. Stubbs.  By one of Humfrey’s wise acts of foresight, his faithful servant, Reeves, had been provided for as the master of the Union, whither it was certain he would carry the same milk of human kindness as had been so plentiful at Hiltonbury, and the Holt was thus left free for Honora’s Mr. Jones, without fear of clashing, though he was divided between pride in his young lady’s ownership of a ‘landed estate,’ and his own dislike to a country residence.

      Honora did not sleep soundly.  The place was too new, and yet too familiar, and the rattling of the windows, the roaring of the wind in the chimney, and the creaking of the vane, without absolutely wakening her, kept her hearing alive continually, weaving the noises into some harassing dream that Humfrey’s voice was calling to her, and hindrances always keeping her from him; and then of Lucilla and Owen in some imminent peril, whence she shrieked to him to save them, and then remembered he would stretch out his hand no more.

      Sounder sleep came at last, towards morning, and far later than her usual hour she was wakened by a drumming upon her door, and the boy and girl dashed in, radiant with excitement at the novelty of the place.  ‘Sweet Honey!  Sweet Honey dear, do get up and see.  There’s a rocking-horse at the end of the passage.’  ‘And there’s a real pony out in the field.’  ‘There are cows.’  ‘There’s a goat and a little kid, and I want to play with it, and I may, for it is all mine and yours.’

      ‘All yours!  Owen, boy,’ repeated Honora, sitting up in surprise.

      ‘Nursey said it was all to be Owen’s,’ said Lucilla.

      ‘And she said I should be as grand a gentleman as poor Mr. Charlecote or Uncle Charteris,’ proceeded Owen, ‘and that I should go out hunting in a red coat, on a beautiful horse; but I want to have the kid now, please, Sweet Honey.’

      ‘Nurse does not know anything about it,’ said Honora, much annoyed that such an idea should have been suggested in such a manner.  ‘I thought my little Owen wished for better things—I thought he was to be like his papa, and try to be a good shepherd, praising God and helping people to do right.’

      ‘But can’t I wear a red coat too?’ said Owen, wistfully.

      ‘No, my dear; clergymen don’t go out hunting; or how could they teach the poor little children?’

      ‘Then I won’t be a clergyman.’

      This was an inconvenient and most undesirable turn; but Honor’s first object must be to put the right of heirship out of the little head, and she at once began—‘Nurse must have made a mistake, my dear; this place is your home, and will be always so, I hope, while it is mine, but it must not be your own, and you must not think it will.  My little boy must work for himself and other people, and that’s better than having houses and lands given to him.’

      Those words touched the pride in Lucilla’s composition, and she exclaimed—‘I’ll work too;’ but the self-consequence of proprietorship had affected her brother more strongly, and he repeated, meditatively, ‘Jones said, not mine while she was alive.  Jones was cross.’

      There might not be much in the words, child as he was, but there was something in his manner of eyeing her which gave her acute unbearable pain—a look as if she stood in his way and crossed his importance.  It was but a baby fit of temper, but she was in no frame to regard it calmly, and with an alteration of countenance that went to his heart, she exclaimed—‘Can that be my little Owen, talking as if he wanted his Cousin Honor dead and out of the way?  We had better never have come here if you are to leave off loving me.’

      Quick to be infected by emotion, the child’s arms were at once round her neck, and he was sobbing out that he loved his Sweet Honey better than anything; nurse was naughty; Jones was naughty; he wouldn’t hunt, he wouldn’t wear a red coat, he would teach little children just like lambs, he would be like dear papa; anything the poor little fellow could think of he poured out with kisses and entreaties to know if he were naughty still; while his sister, after her usual fashion on such occasions, began to race up and down the room with paroxysms, sometimes of stamping, sometimes of something like laughter.

      Some minutes passed before Honora could compose herself, or soothe the boy, by her assurances that he was not to blame, only those who put things in his head that he could not understand; and it was not till after much tender fondling that she had calmed him enough for his morning devotions.  No sooner were these over than he looked up and said, while the tears still glazed his cheeks, ‘Sweet Honey, I’ll tell nurse and Mr. Jones that I’m on pilgrimage to the Eastern land, and I’ll not turn into by-ways after red coats and little kids to vex you.’

      Whether Owen quite separated fact from allegory might have been doubtful to a more prosaic mind than Honora’s, but he had brought this dreamy strain with him from his father, and she thought it one of his great charms.  She had been obliged to leave him to himself much more than usual of late, and she fervently resolved to devote herself with double energy to watching over him, and eradicating any weeds that might have been sown during her temporary inattention.  He clung so fast to her hand, and was so much delighted to have her with him again, so often repeating that she must not go away again, that the genuineness of his affection could not be doubted, and probably he would only retain an impression of having been led to say something very shocking, and the alarm to his sensitive conscience would hinder him from ever even trying to remember what it was.

      She spoke, however, to nurse, telling her that the subject must never be mentioned to the children, since it was by no means desirable for them, and besides, she had no intention of the kind.  She wished it to be distinctly understood that Master Owen was not to be looked upon as her heir.

      ‘Very true, ma’am, it is too soon to be talking of such things yet, and I must say, I was as sorry as possible to find that the child had had it named to him.  People will talk, you see, Miss Charlecote, though I am sure so young a lady as you are . . . ’

      ‘That has nothing to do with it,’ said Honora; ‘I consider nothing so bad for a child as to be brought up to expectations to which he has no right, when he is sure to have to provide for himself.  I beg that if you hear the subject entered on again, in the children’s presence, you will put a stop to it.’

      ‘Certainly, ma’am; their poor dear papa never would have wished them to be occupied with earthly things of that sort.  As I often said, there never was such an unworldly gentleman; he never would have known if there were a sixpence in the house, nor a joint in the larder, if there had not been cook and me to care for him.  I often said to cook—“Well for him that he has honest people about him.”’

      Honora likewise spoke to Jones, her private retainer.  He smiled scorn of the accusation, and answered her as the child he had known in frocks.  ‘Yes, ma’am, I did tell the young gentleman to hold his tongue, for it never would be his in your lifetime, nor after, in my judgment.’

      ‘Why, certainly, it does seem early days to speak of such a matter,’ said Honora, sadly.

      ‘It is unaccountable what people will not put in children’s heads,’ said Jones, sagely; ‘not but what he is a nice quiet young gentleman, and gives very little trouble, but they might let that alone.  Miss Honora, when will it be convenient to you to take my account of the plate?’

      She felt pretty well convinced that Jones had only resented the whole on her account, and that it was not he who had put the notion into the boy’s head.  As to nurse, she was far from equally clear.  Doubts of nurse’s sincerity had long been growing upon her, and she was in the uncomfortable position of being able to bear neither to think of the children’s intercourse with any one tainted with falsehood, nor to dismiss a person implicitly trusted by their father.  She could only decide that the first detected act of untruth should be the turning-point.

      Meantime,