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

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plantation was fir, and firs were pines, and it was a lonely musing place, and so on one of the stillest, clearest days of ‘St. Luke’s little summer,’ the last afternoon of her visit at the Holt, there stood Honora, leaning against a tree stem, deep, very deep in a vision of the primeval woodlands of the West, their red inhabitants, and the white man who should carry the true, glad tidings westward, westward, ever from east to west.  Did she know how completely her whole spirit and soul were surrendered to the worship of that devotion?  Worship?  Yes, the word is advisedly used; Honora had once given her spirit in homage to Schiller’s self-sacrificing Max; the same heart-whole veneration was now rendered to the young missionary, multiplied tenfold by the hero being in a tangible, visible shape, and not by any means inclined to thwart or disdain the allegiance of the golden-haired girl.  Nay, as family connections frequently meeting, they had acted upon each other’s minds more than either knew, even when the hour of parting had come, and words had been spoken which gave Honora something more to cherish in the image of Owen Sandbrook than even the hero and saint.  There then she stood and dreamt, pensive and saddened indeed, but with a melancholy trenching very nearly on happiness in the intensity of its admiration, and the vague ennobling future of devoted usefulness in which her heart already claimed to share, as her person might in some far away period on which she could not dwell.

      A sound approached, a firm footstep, falling with strong elasticity and such regular cadences, that it seemed to chime in with the pine-tree music, and did not startle her till it came so near that there was distinctive character to be discerned in the tread, and then with a strange, new shyness, she would have slipped away, but she had been seen, and Humfrey, with his timber race in his hand, appeared on the path, exclaiming, ‘Ah, Honor, is it you come out to meet me, like old times?  You have been so much taken up with your friend Master Owen that I have scarcely seen you of late.’

      Honor did not move away, but she blushed deeply as she said, ‘I am afraid I did not come to meet you, Humfrey.’

      ‘No?  What, you came for the sake of a brown study?  I wish I had known you were not busy, for I have been round all the woods marking timber.’

      ‘Ah!’ said she, rousing herself with some effort, ‘I wonder how many trees I should have saved from the slaughter.  Did you go and condemn any of my pets?’

      ‘Not that I know of,’ said Humfrey.  ‘I have touched nothing near the house.’

      ‘Not even the old beech that was scathed with lightning?  You know papa says that is the touchstone of influence; Sarah and Mr. West both against me,’ laughed Honora, quite restored to her natural manner and confiding ease.

      ‘The beech is likely to stand as long as you wish it,’ said Humfrey, with an unaccustomed sort of matter-of-fact gravity, which surprised and startled her, so as to make her bethink herself whether she could have behaved ill about it, been saucy to Sarah, or the like.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said; ‘have I made a fuss—?’

      ‘No, Honor,’ he said, with deliberate kindness, shutting up his knife, and putting it into his pocket; ‘only I believe it is time we should come to an understanding.’

      More than ever did she expect one of his kind remonstrances, and she looked up at him in expectation, and ready for defence, but his broad, sunburnt countenance looked marvellously heated, and he paused ere he spoke.

      ‘I find I can’t spare you, Honora; you had better stay at the Holt for good.’  Her cheeks flamed, and her heart galloped, but she could not let herself understand.

      ‘Honor, you are old enough now, and I do not think you need fear.  It is almost your home already, and I believe I can make you happy, with the blessing of God—’  He paused, but as she could not frame an answer in her consternation, continued, ‘Perhaps I should not have spoken so suddenly, but I thought you would not mind me; I should like to have had one word from my little Honor before I go to your father, but don’t if you had rather not.’

      ‘Oh, don’t go to papa, please don’t,’ she cried, ‘it would only make him sorry.’

      Humfrey stood as if under an unexpected shock.

      ‘Oh! how came you to think of it?’ she said in her distress; ‘I never did, and it can never be—I am so sorry!’

      ‘Very well, my dear, do not grieve about it,’ said Humfrey, only bent on soothing her; ‘I dare say you are quite right, you are used to people in London much more suitable to you than a stupid homely fellow like me, and it was a foolish fancy to think it might be otherwise.  Don’t cry, Honor dear, I can’t bear that!’

      ‘Oh, Humfrey, only understand, please!  You are the very dearest person in the world to me after papa and mamma; and as to fine London people, oh no, indeed!  But—’

      ‘It is Owen Sandbrook; I understand,’ said Humfrey, gravely.

      She made no denial.

      ‘But, Honor,’ he anxiously exclaimed, ‘you are not going out in this wild way among the backwoods, it would break your mother’s heart; and he is not fit to take care of you.  I mean he cannot think of it now.’

      ‘O no, no, I could not leave papa and mamma; but some time or other—’

      ‘Is this arranged?  Does your father know it?’

      ‘Oh, Humfrey, of course!’

      ‘Then it is an engagement?’

      ‘No,’ said Honora, sadly; ‘papa said I was too young, and he wished I had heard nothing about it.  We are to go on as if nothing had happened, and I know they think we shall forget all about it!  As if we could!  Not that I wish it to be different.  I know it would be wicked to desert papa and mamma while she is so unwell.  The truth is, Humfrey,’ and her voice sank, ‘that it cannot be while they live.’

      ‘My poor little Honor!’ he said, in a tone of the most unselfish compassion.

      She had entirely forgotten his novel aspect, and only thought of him as the kindest friend to whom she could open her heart.

      ‘Don’t pity me,’ she said in exultation; ‘think what it is to be his choice.  Would I have him give up his aims, and settle down in the loveliest village in England?  No, indeed, for then it would not be Owen!  I am happier in the thought of him than I could be with everything present to enjoy.’

      ‘I hope you will continue to find it so,’ he said, repressing a sigh.

      ‘I should be ashamed of myself if I did not,’ she continued with glistening eyes.  ‘Should not I have patience to wait while he is at his real glorious labour?  And as to home, that’s not altered, only better and brighter for the definite hope and aim that will go through everything, and make me feel all I do a preparation.’

      ‘Yes, you know him well,’ said Humfrey; ‘you saw him constantly when he was at Westminster.’

      ‘O yes, and always!  Why, Humfrey, it is my great glory and pleasure to feel that he formed me!  When he went to Oxford, he brought me home all the thoughts that have been my better life.  All my dearest books we read together, and what used to look dry and cold, gained light and life after he touched it.’

      ‘Yes, I see.’

      His tone reminded her of what had passed, and she said, timidly, ‘I forgot!  I ought not!  I have vexed you, Humfrey.’

      ‘No,’ he said, in his full tender voice; ‘I see that it was vain to think of competing with one of so much higher claims.  If he goes on in the course he has chosen, yours will have been a noble choice, Honor; and I believe,’ he added, with a sweetness of smile that almost made her forgive the if, ‘that you are one to be better pleased so than with more ordinary happiness.  I have no doubt it is all right.’

      ‘Dear Humfrey, you are so good!’ she said, struck with his kind resignation, and utter absence of acerbity in his disappointment.

      ‘Forget this, Honora,’ he

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