Harriet Martineau (1802-1876) (continued 6)

“Not at present,” said Matilda: “not till I am married. I shall enjoy doing as I like when I am married.”

“How the child’s head runs upon being married!” said Phoebe. “And to suppose that being ill is doing as one likes, of all odd things!”

“I should often like to fly all over the world,” said Mrs Enderby, “and to get anywhere out of this room—I am so tired of it: but I know I cannot: so I get books, and read about all the strange places, far off, that Mungo Park tells us about, and Gulliver, and Captain Parry. And I should often like to sleep at night when I cannot; and then I get up softly, without waking Phoebe, and look out at the bright stars, and think over all we are told about them—about their being all full of men and women. Did you know that, George?” asked she—George being now at the window.

“Oh, yes,” answered Matilda for him, “we know all about those things.”

“Are falling stars all full of men and women?” asked George.

“There were none on a star that my father saw fall on the Dingleford road,” observed Phoebe. “It wasn’t big enough to hold men and women.”

“Did it fall in the middle of the road?” asked George, turning from the window. “What was it like?”

“It was a round thing, as big as a house, and all bright and crystal like,” said Phoebe, with absolute confidence. “It blocked up the road from the great oak that you may remember, close by the second milestone, to the ditch on the opposite side.”

“Phoebe, are you sure of that?” asked Mrs Enderby, with a face full of anxious doubt.

“Ma’am, my father came straight home after seeing it fall, and he let my brother John and me go the next morning early, to bring home some of the splinters.”

“Oh, well,” said Mrs Enderby, who always preferred believing to doubting; “I have heard of stones falling from the moon.”

“This was a falling star, ma’am.”

“Can you show me any of the splinters?” asked George, eagerly.

“There was nothing whatsoever left of them,” said Phoebe, “by the time John and I went. We could not find a piece of crystal so big as my thimble. My father has often laughed at John and me since, for not having been there in time, before it was all gone.”

“It is a good thing, my dears, depend upon it, as I was saying,” observed Mrs Enderby, “to know all such things about the stars, and so on, against the time when you cannot do as you like, and go where you please. Matilda, my jewel, when you are married, as you were talking about, and can please yourself, you will take great care to be kind to your mamma, my dear, if poor mamma should be old and ill. You will always wish to be tender to your mother, love, I am sure; and that will do her more good than anything.”

“Perhaps mamma won’t be ill,” replied Matilda.

“Then if she is never ill, she will certainly be old, some day; and then you will be as kind to her as ever you can be,—promise me, my love. Your mamma loves you dearly, Matilda.”

“She says I dance better than any girl in Miss Anderson’s school, grandmamma. I heard her tell Mrs Levitt so, yesterday.”

“Here comes mamma,” said George, from the window.

“Your mamma, my dear? Phoebe, sweep up the hearth. Hang that curtain straight. Give me that letter,—no, not that,—the large letter. There! now put it into my knitting-basket. Make haste down, Phoebe, to be ready to open the door for Mrs Rowland. Don’t keep her waiting a moment on the steps.”

“She has not got to the steps yet,” said George. “She is talking to Mrs Grey. Mrs Grey was coming here, and mamma went and spoke to her. Oh, Matilda, come and look how they are nodding their bonnets at each other! I think Mrs Grey is very angry, she wags her head about so. There! now she is going away. There she goes across the road! and mamma is coming up the steps.”

After a minute or two of silent expectation, Mrs Rowland entered her mother’s room. She brought with her a draught of wintry air, which, as she jerked aside her ample silk cloak, on taking her seat on the sofa, seemed to chill the invalid, though there was now a patch of colour on each withered cheek.

“How much better you look, ma’am!” was the daughter’s greeting. “I always thought it would be a pity to disturb Philip about you: and now, if he were to see you, he would not believe that you had been ill. Mr Rowland would be satisfied that I am right, I am sure, if he were to come in.”

“My mistress is noways better,” said Phoebe, bluntly. “She is not the better for that flush she has got now, but the worse.”

“Never mind, Phoebe! I shall do very well, I dare say,” said Mrs Enderby, with a sigh. “Well, my dear, how do you all go on at home?”

“Much as usual, ma’am. But that reminds me—Matilda, my own love, Miss Young must be wanting you for your lesson on objects. Go, my dear.”

“I hoped Matilda was come for the day,” said Mrs Enderby. “I quite expected she was to stay with me to-day. Do let me have her, my dear: it will do me so much good.”

“You are very kind, ma’am, but it is quite impossible. It is totally out of the question, I assure you. Matilda, my love, go this instant. We make a great point of the lessons on objects. Pray, Phoebe, tie Miss Rowland’s bonnet, and make haste.”

Phoebe did so, taking leave to observe that little girls were likely to live long enough to know plenty of things after they had no grandmammas left to be a comfort to.

Mrs Enderby struggled to say, “Hush, Phoebe;” but she found she could not speak. George was desired to go with his sister, and was scarcely allowed time to kiss his grandmamma. While Phoebe was taking the children down stairs, Mrs Rowland wondered that some people allowed their servants to take such liberties as were taken; and gave notice that though she tolerated Phoebe, because Phoebe’s mistress had taken a fancy to her, she could not allow her family plans to be made a subject of remark to her mother’s domestics. Mrs Enderby had not quite decided upon her line of reply, when Phoebe came back, and occupied herself in supplying her mistress, first with a freshly-heated footstool, and then with a cup of arrowroot.

“Where do you get your arrowroot, ma’am?” asked Mrs Rowland. “I want some extremely for my poor dear Anna; and I can procure none that is at all to compare with yours.”

“Mrs Grey was so kind as to send me some, my dear; and it really is excellent. Phoebe, how much of it is there left? I dare say there may be enough for a cup or two for dear little Anna.”

Phoebe replied, that there was very little left—not any more than her mistress would require before she could grow stronger. Mrs Rowland would not take the rest of the arrowroot on any account: she was only wondering where Mrs Grey got it, and how it was that the Greys always contrived to help themselves to the best of everything. Phoebe was going to observe that they helped their neighbours to good things as well as themselves; but a look from her mistress stopped her. Mrs Enderby remarked that she had no doubt she could learn from Mrs Grey or Sophia, the next time she saw either of them, where they procured their arrowroot. “It is a long time since I saw Mrs Grey,” she observed, timidly.

“My dear ma’am, how can you think of seeing any one in your present state?” inquired the daughter. “One need but see the flush in your face, to know that it would be highly improper for you to admit company. I could not take the responsibility of allowing it.”

“But Mrs Grey is not company, my love.”

“Any one is company to an invalid. I assure you I prevented Mr Rowland’s coming for the reason I assign. He was coming yesterday, but I would not let him.”

“I should like to see him, however. And I should like to see Mrs Grey too.”

Under pretence of arranging her mistress’s shawl, Phoebe touched the old lady’s shoulder, in token of intelligence. Mrs Enderby was somewhat flurried at the liberty which she felt her maid had taken with her daughter; but she could not notice it now; and she introduced another subject. Had everybody done calling on the Hopes? Were the wedding visits all over? Oh, yes, Mrs Rowland was thankful to say; that fuss was at an end at last. One would think nobody had ever been married before, by the noise that had been made in Deerbrook about this young couple.

“Mr Hope is such a favourite!” observed Mrs Enderby.

“He has been so; but it won’t last. I never saw a young man so gone off as he is. He has not been like the same man since he connected himself with the Greys so decidedly. Surely, ma’am, you must perceive that.”

“It had not occurred to me, my dear. He comes very often, and he is always extremely kind and very entertaining. He brought his bride with him yesterday, which I thought very attentive, as I could not go and pay my respects to her. And really, Priscilla, whether it was that I had not seen her for some time, or that pretty young ladies look prettiest in an old woman’s sick-room, I thought she was more beautiful than ever.”

“She is handsome,” admitted Mrs Rowland. “Poor thing! it makes one sorry for her, when one thinks what is before her.”

“What is before her?” ask Mrs Enderby, alarmed.

“If she loves her husband at all, she must suffer cruelly in seeing him act as he persists in doing; and she must tremble in looking forward to the consequences. He is quite obstinate about voting for Mr Lowry, though there is not a soul in Deerbrook to keep him in countenance; and everybody knows how strongly Sir William Hunter has expressed himself in favour of Mr Ballinger. It is thought the consequences will be very serious to Mr Hope. There is his almshouse practice at stake, at all events; and I fancy a good many families will have no more to do with him if he defies the Hunters, and goes against the opinions of all his neighbours. His wife must see that he has nobody with him. I do pity the poor young thing!”

“Dear me!” said the old lady, “can nothing be done, I wonder. I declare I am quite concerned. I should hope something may be done. I would take the liberty of speaking to him myself, rather than that any harm should happen to him. He has always been so very kind to me, that I think I could venture to say anything to him. I will turn it over in my mind, and see what can be done.”

“You will not prevail with him, ma’am, I am afraid. If Mr Grey speaks in vain (as I know he has done), it is not likely that any one else will have any influence over him. No, no; the wilful must be left to their own devices. Whatever you do, ma’am, do not speak to the bride about it, or there is no knowing what you may bring upon yourself.”

“What could I bring upon myself, my dear?”

“Oh, those who do not see the vixen in that pretty face of hers, have not such good eyes as she has herself. For God’s sake, ma’am, do not offend her!”

Mrs Enderby was now full of concern; and being as unhappy as she could be made for the present, her daughter took her leave. The old lady looked into the fire and sighed, for some minutes after she was left alone. When Phoebe re-entered, her mistress declared that she felt quite tired out, and must lie down. Before she closed her eyes, she raised her head again, and said—

“Phoebe, I am surprised at you—”

“Oh, ma’am, you mean about my taking the liberty to make a sign to you. But, ma’am, I trust you will excuse it, because I am sure Mr Hope would have no objection to your seeing Mrs Grey; and, to my thought, there is no occasion to consult with anybody else; and I have no doubt Mrs Grey will be calling again some day soon, just at a time when you are fit to see her. Is not there any book, or anything, ma’am, that I could be carrying over to Mrs Grey’s while you are resting yourself, ma’am?”

“Ah! do so, Phoebe. Carry that book,—it is not quite due, but that does not signify; carry that book over, and give my regards, and beg to know how Mrs Grey and all the family are. And if Mrs Grey should come in this evening,” she continued, in excuse to herself for her devices, “I shall be able to find out, in a quiet way, where she gets her arrowroot; and Priscilla will be glad to know.”

Whatever it might be that Phoebe said to Alice, and that brought Mrs Grey out into the hall to speak herself to Phoebe, the result was that Mrs Grey’s lantern was ordered as soon as it grew dark, and that she arrived in Mrs Enderby’s apartment just as the old lady had waked from her doze, and while the few tears that had escaped from under her eyelids before she slept were yet scarcely dried upon her cheeks.

Chapter Nineteen.

Home at “The Hopes’.”

The evil consequences of Mr Hope’s voting for Lowry had not been exaggerated in the anticipations of his friends and vigilant neighbours; and these consequences were rather aggravated than alleviated by the circumstance that Mr Lowry won the election. First, the inhabitants of Deerbrook were on the watch for any words which might fall from Sir William or Lady Hunter; and when it was reported that Sir William had frowned, and sworn an oath at Mr Hope, on hearing how he had voted, and that Lady Hunter had asked whether it was possible that Mr Hope had forgotten under whose interest he held his appointment to attend the almshouses and the neighbouring hamlet, several persons determined to be beforehand with their great neighbours, and to give the benefit of their family practice to some one of better politics than Mr Hope. In another set of minds, a real fear of Mr Hope, as a dangerous person, sprang up under the heat of the displeasure of the influential members of society. Such were slow to have recourse to another medical attendant, and undertook the management of the health of their own families till they could find an adviser in whom they could perfectly confide. When Mr Lowry gained the contest, the population of Deerbrook was electrified, and the unpleasantness of their surprise was visited upon the only supporter of Mr Lowry whom the place contained. Wise folks were not wanting who talked of the skill which some persons had in keeping on the winning side,—of reasons which time sometimes revealed for persons choosing to be singular,—and some remarkable incidents were reported of conversations between Mr Lowry and Mr Hope in the lanes, and of certain wonderful advantages which had lately fallen to one or another of Mr Hope’s acquaintances, through some strong political interest. Mr Rowland doubted, at his own table, all the news he heard on the subject, and said everywhere that he did not see why a man should not vote as he pleased. Mr Grey was very sorry about the whole affair; he was sorry that there had been any contest at all for the county, as it disturbed the peace of Deerbrook; he was sorry that the candidate he preferred had won, as the fact exasperated the temper of Deerbrook; he was sorry that Hope had voted, to the detriment of his name and rising fortunes; and he was sorry that he himself had been unable at last to vote for Lowry, to keep his young friend in countenance: it was truly unlucky that he should have passed his promise early to Sir William Hunter not to vote. It was a sad business altogether. It was only to be hoped that it would pass out of people’s minds; that things would soon get into their usual train; and that it might be seven years before there was another election.

Hester complained to her husband and sister of the manner in which she was treated by the tradespeople of the place. She had desired to put herself on a footing of acquaintanceship with them, as neighbours, and persons with whom there must be a constant transaction of business for life. She saw at once the difference in the relation between tradespeople and their customers in a large town like Birmingham, and in a village where there is but one baker, where the grocer and hatter are the same personage, and where you cannot fly from your butcher, be he ever so much your foe. Hester therefore made it her business to transact herself all affairs with the village tradesmen. She began her housekeeping energetically, and might be seen in Mr Jones’s open shop in the coldest morning of January, selecting her joint of meat; or deciding among brown sugars at Tucker’s, the grocer’s. After the election, she found some difference in the manner of most of the shop-people towards her; and she fancied more than there was. With some of these persons, there was no more in their minds than the consciousness of having discussed the new family and Mr Hope’s vote, and come to a conclusion against his “principles.” With others, Mrs Rowland’s influence had done deeper mischief. A few words dropped by herself, or reports of her sayings, circulated by her servants, occasioned dislike or alarm which Hester’s sensitiveness apprehended at once, and forthwith exaggerated. She complained to her husband that she could not go to the shops with any comfort, and that she thought she must turn over the housekeeping to Morris. Margaret remonstrated against this; and, by being her sister’s constant companion in her walks of business as well as pleasure, hoped to be able to keep the peace, and to preserve or restore, if need were, a good understanding between parties who could most materially promote or injure each other’s comfort. The leisure hours to which she had looked forward with such transport were all chequered with anxiety on this subject, in the intervals of speculation on another matter, to which she found her mind constantly recurring, in spite of her oft-repeated conviction that it was no concern of hers,—where Mr Enderby was,—what he was doing,—and when he would come. Day by day, as she spread her books before her, or began to write, she wondered at her own listlessness about employments to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness; and when she detected herself gazing into the fire by the half-hour together, or allowing the ink to dry in her suspended pen, she found that she was as far as ever from deciding whether Hester was not now in the way to be less happy than ever, and how it was that, with all her close friendship with Philip Enderby, of which she had spoken so confidently to Maria, she was now in perfect ignorance of his movements and intentions. The whole was very strange, and, in the experience, somewhat dreary.

Her great comfort was Edward: this was a new support and a strong one: but even here she was compelled to own herself somewhat disappointed. This brotherly relation, for which she had longed all her life, did not bring the fulness of satisfaction which she had anticipated. She had not a fault to find with Edward: she was always called upon by his daily conduct for admiration, esteem, and affection; but all this was not of the profit to her which she had expected. He seemed altered: the flow of his spirits was much moderated; but perhaps this was no loss, as his calmness, his gentle seriousness, and domestic benevolence were brought out more strikingly than ever. Margaret’s disappointment lay in the intercourse between themselves. That Edward was reserved—that beneath his remarkable frankness there lay an uncommunicativeness of disposition—no one could before his marriage have made her believe: yet it certainly was so. Though Hester and she never discussed Edward’s character, more or less—though Hester’s love for him, and Margaret’s respect for that love, rendered all such conversation unpossible, Margaret was perfectly well aware that Hester’s conviction on this particular point was the same as her own—that Hester had discovered that she had not fully understood her husband, and that there remained a region of his character into which she had not yet penetrated. Margaret was obliged to conclude that all this was natural and right, and that what she had heard said of men generally was true even of Edward Hope—that there are depths of character where there are not regions of experience, which defy the sympathy and sagacity of women. However natural and right all this might be, she could not but be sorry for it. It brought disappointment to herself, and, as she sadly suspected, to Hester. While continually and delightedly compelled to honour and regard him more and more, and to rely upon him as she had never before relied, she felt that he did not win, and even did not desire, any intimate confidence. She found that she could still say things to Maria which she could not say to him; and that, while their domestic conversation rarely flagged—while it embraced a boundless range of fact, and all that they could ascertain of morals, philosophy, and religion—the greatest psychological events, the most interesting experiences of her life might go forward without express recognition from Edward. Such was her view of the case; and this was the disappointment which, in the early days of her new mode of life, she had to acknowledge to herself, and to conceal from all others.

One fine bright morning towards the end of January, the sisters set out for their walk, willingly quitting the clear crackling fire within for the sharp air and sparkling pathways without.

“Which way shall we go?” asked Margaret.

“Oh, I suppose along the high-road, as usual. How provoking it is that we are prevented, day after day, from getting to the woods by my snow-boots not having arrived! We will go by Mrs Howell’s for the chance of their having come.”

Mrs Howell had two expressions of countenance—the gracious and the prim. Till lately, Hester had been favoured with the first exclusively. She was now to be amused with variety, and the prim was offered to her contemplation. Never did Mrs Howell look more inaccessible than to-day, when she scarcely rose from her stool behind the counter, to learn what was the errand of her customer.

“You guess what I am come for, Mrs Howell, I dare say. Have my boots arrived yet?”

“I am not aware of their having arrived, ma’am. But Miss Miskin is now occupied in that department.”

“Only consider how the winter is getting on, Mrs Howell! and I can walk nowhere but in the high-road, for want of my boot.”

Mrs Howell curtsied.

“Can you not hasten your agent, or help me to my boots, one way or another? Is there no one in Deerbrook whom you could employ to make me a pair?”

Mrs Howell cast up her hands and eyes.

“How do other ladies manage to obtain their boots before the snow comes, instead of after it has melted?”

“Perhaps you will ask them yourself ma’am: I conceive you know all the ladies in Deerbrook. You will find Miss Miskin in that department, ladies, if you wish to investigate.”

Hester invaded the domain of Miss Miskin—the shoe-shop behind the other counter—in the hope of finding something to put on her feet, which should enable her to walk where she pleased. While engaged in turning over the stock, without any help from Miss Miskin, who was imitating Mrs Howell’s distant manner with considerable success, a carriage drove up to the door, which could be no other than Sir William Hunter’s; and Lady Hunter’s voice was accordingly heard, the next minute, asking for green sewing-silk. The gentle drawl of Mrs Howell’s tone conveyed that her countenance had resumed its primary expression. She observed upon the horrors of the fire which had happened at Blickley the night before. Lady Hunter had not heard of it; and the relation therefore followed of: the burning down of a house and shop in Blickley, when a nursemaid and baby were lost in the flames.

“I should hope it is not true,” observed Lady Hunter. “Last night, did you say?—Early this morning? There has scarcely been time for the news to arrive of a fire at Blickley early this morning.”

“It is certainly true, however, my lady. No doubt whatever of the catastrophe, I am grieved to say.” And Mrs Howell’s sighs were sympathetically responded to by Miss Miskin in the back shop.

“But how did you hear it?” asked Lady Hunter.

There was no audible answer. There were probably signs and intimations of something; for Lady Hunter made a circuit round the shop, on some pretence, and stared in at the door of the shoe-parlour, just at the right moment for perceiving, if she so pleased, the beautiful smallness of Hester’s foot. Some low, murmuring, conversation then passed at Mrs Howell’s counter, when the words “black servant” alone met Margaret’s ear.

Hester found nothing that she could wear. The more she pressed for information and assistance about obtaining boots, the more provokingly cool Miss Miskin grew. At last Hester turned to her sister with a hasty inquiry what was to be done.

“We must hope for better fortune before next winter, I suppose,” said Margaret, smiling.

“And wet my feet every day this winter,” said Hester; “for I will not be confined to the high-road for any such reason as this.”

“Dear me, ma’am, you are warm!” simpered Miss Miskin.

“I warm! What do you mean, Miss Miskin?”

“You are warm, ma’am:— not that it is of any consequence; but you are a little warm at present.”

“Nobody can charge that upon you, Miss Miskin, I must say,” observed Margaret, laughing.

“No, ma’am, that they cannot, nor ever will. I am not apt to be warm, and I hope I can excuse... Good morning, ladies.”

Mrs Howell treated her customers with a swimming curtsey as they went out, glancing at her shop-woman the while. Lady Hunter favoured them with a full stare.

“What excessive impertinence!” exclaimed Hester. “To tell me that I was warm, and she hoped she could excuse! My husband will hardly believe it.”

“Oh, yes, he will. He knows them for two ignorant, silly women; worth observing, perhaps, but not worth minding. Have you any other shop to go to?”

Yes, the tinman’s, for a saucepan or two of a size not yet supplied, for which Morris had petitioned.

The tinman was either unable or not very anxious to understand Hester’s requisitions. He brought out everything but what was wanted; and was so extremely interested in observing something that was going on over the way, that he was every moment casting glances abroad between the dutch-ovens and fenders that half-darkened his window. The ladies at last looked over the way too, and saw a gig containing a black footman standing before the opposite house.

“A stranger in Deerbrook!” observed Margaret, as they issued from the shop. “I do not wonder that Mr Hill had so little attention to spare for us.”

The sisters had been so accustomed, during all the years of their Birmingham life, to see faces that they did not know, that they could not yet sympathise with the emotions caused in Deerbrook by the appearance of a stranger. They walked on, forgetting in conversation all about the gig and black servant. Hester had not been pleased by the insufficient attention she had met with in both the shops she had visited, and she did not enjoy her walk as was her wont. As they trod the crisp and glittering snow, Margaret hoped the little Rowlands and Greys were happy in making the snow-man which had been the vision of their imaginations since the winter set in: but Hester cast longing eyes on the dark woods which sprang from the sheeted meadows, and thought nothing could be so delightful as to wander among them, and gather icicles from the boughs, even though the paths should be ankle-deep in snow.

Just when they were proposing to turn back, a horseman appeared on the ridge of the rising ground over which the road passed. “It is Edward!” cried Hester. “I had no idea we should meet him on this road.” And she quickened her pace, and her countenance brightened as if she had not seen him for a month. Before they met him, however, the gig with the black footman, now containing also a gentleman driving, overtook and slowly passed them—the gentleman looking round him, as if in search of some dwelling hereabouts. On approaching Hope, the stranger drew up, touched his hat, and asked a question; and on receiving the answer, bowed, turned round, and repassed Hester and Margaret. Hope joined his wife and sister, and walked his horse beside the path.

“Who is that gentleman, Edward?”

“I believe it is Mr Foster, the surgeon at Blickley.”

“What did he want with you?”

“He wanted to know whether he was in the right road to the Russell Taylors.”

“The Russell Taylors! Your patients!”

“Once my patients, but no longer so. It seems they are Mr Foster’s patients now.”

Hester made no reply.

“Can you see from your pathway what is going on below there in the meadow? I see the skaters very busy on the ponds. Why do not you go there, instead of walking here every day?”

Margaret had to explain the case about the snow-boots, for Hester’s face was bathed in tears. Edward rallied her gently; but it would not do. She motioned to him to ride on, and he thought it best to do so. The sisters proceeded in silence, Hester’s tears flowing faster and faster. Instead of walking through Deerbrook, she took a back road homewards, and drew down her veil. As ill luck would have it, however, they met Sophia Grey and her sisters, and Sophia would stop. She was about to turn back with them, when she saw that something was the matter, and then she checked herself awkwardly, and wished her cousins good morning, while Fanny and Mary were staring at Hester.

“One ought not to mind,” said Margaret, half laughing: “there are so many causes for grown people’s tears! but I always feel now as I did when I was a child—a shame at being seen in tears, and an excessive desire to tell people that I have not been naughty.”

“You could not have told Sophia so of me, I am sure,” said Hester.

“Yes, I could; you are not crying because you have been naughty, but you are naughty because you cry; and that may be cured presently.”

It was not presently cured, however. During the whole of dinner-time, Hester’s tears continued to flow; and she could not eat, though she made efforts to do so. Edward and Margaret talked a great deal about skating and snow-men, and about the fire at Blickley; but they came to a stand at last. The foot-boy went about on tiptoe, and shut the door as if he had been in a sick-room; and this made Hester’s short sobs only the more audible. It was a relief when the oranges were on the table at last, and the door closed behind the dinner and the boy. Margaret began to peel an orange for her sister, and Edward poured out a glass of wine; he placed it before her, and then drew his chair to her side, saying—

“Now, my dear, let us get to the bottom of all this distress.”

“No, do not try, Edward. Never mind me! I shall get the better of this, by-and-by: only let me alone.”

“Thank you!” said Hope, smiling. “I like to see people reasonable! I am to see you sorrowing in this way, and for very sufficient cause, and I am neither to mind your troubles nor my own, but to be as merry as if nothing had happened! Is not this reasonable, Margaret?”

“For very sufficient cause!” said Hester, eagerly.

“Yes, indeed; for very sufficient cause. It must be a painful thing to you to find my neighbours beginning to dislike me; to have the tradespeople impertinent to you on my account; to see my patients leave me, and call in somebody from a distance, in the face of all Deerbrook. It must make you anxious to think what is to become of us, if the discontent continues and spreads: and it must be a bitter disappointment to you to find that to be my wife is not to be so happy as we expected. Here is cause enough for tears.”

In the midst of her grief, Hester looked up at her husband with an expression of gratitude and tenderness which consoled him for her.

“I will not answer for it,” he continued, “but that we may all three sit down to weep together, one of these days.”

“And then,” said Margaret, “Hester will be the first to cheer up and comfort us.”

“I have no doubt of it,” replied Hope. “Meantime, is there anything that you would have had done otherwise by me? Was I right or not to vote? and was there anything wrong in my manner of doing it? Is there any cause whatever for repentance?”

“None, none,” cried Hester. “You have been right throughout. I glory in all you do.”

“To me it seems that you could not have done otherwise,” observed Margaret. “It was a simple, unavoidable act, done with the simplicity of affairs which happen in natural course. I neither repent it for you, nor glory in it.”

“That is just my view of it, Margaret. And it follows that the consequences are to be taken as coming in natural course too. Does not this again simplify the affair, Hester?”

“It lights it up,” replied Hester. “It reminds me how all would have been if you had acted otherwise than as you did. It is, to be sure, scarcely possible to conceive of such a thing,—but if you had not voted, I should have—not despised you in any degree,—but lost confidence in you a little.”

“That is a very mild way of putting it,” said Hope, laughing.

“Thank Heaven, we are spared that!” exclaimed Margaret. “But, brother, tell us the worst that you think can come of this displeasure against you. I rather suspect, however, that we have suffered the worst already, in discovering that people can be displeased with you.”

“That being so extremely rare a lot in this world, and especially in the world of a village,” replied Hope, “I really do not know what to expect as the last result of this affair, nor am I anxious to foresee. I never liked the sort of attachment that most of my neighbours have testified for me. It was to their honour in as far as it showed kindness of heart, but it was unreasonable: so unreasonable that I imagine the opposite feelings which are now succeeding may be just as much in excess. Suppose it should be so, Hester?”

“Well, what then?” she asked, sighing.

“Suppose our neighbours should send me to Coventry, and my patients should leave me so far as that we should not have enough to live on?”

“That would be persecution,” cried Hester, brightening. “I could bear persecution,—downright persecution.”

“You could bear seeing your husband torn by lions in the amphitheatre,” said Margaret, smiling, “but...”

“But a toss of Mrs Howell’s head is unendurable,” said Hope, with solemnity.

Hester looked down, blushing like a chidden child.

“But about this persecution,” said she. “What made you ask those questions just now?”

“I find my neighbours more angry with me than I could have supposed possible, my dear. I have been treated with great and growing rudeness for some days. In a place like this, you know, offences seldom come alone. If you do a thing which a village public does not approve, there will be offence in whatever else you say and do for some time after. And I suspect that is my case now. I may be mistaken, however; and whatever happens, I hope, my love, we shall all be to the last degree careful not to see offence where it is not intended.”

“Not to do the very thing we are suffering under ourselves,” observed Margaret.

“We will not watch our neighbours, and canvass their opinions of us by our own fireside,” said Hope. “We will conclude them all to be our friends till they give us clear evidence to the contrary. Shall it not be so, love?”

“I know what you mean,” said Hester, with some resentment in her voice and manner. “You cannot trust my temper in your affairs: and you are perfectly right. My temper is not to be trusted.”

“Very few are, in the first agonies of unpopularity; and such faith in one’s neighbours as shall supersede watching them ought hardly to be looked for in the atmosphere of Deerbrook. We must all look to ourselves.”

“I understand you,” said Hester. “I take the lesson home, I assure you. It is clear to me through your cautious phrase,—the ‘we,’ and ‘all of us,’ and ‘ourselves.’ But remember this,—that people are not made alike, and are not able, and not intended to feel alike; and if some have less power than others over their sorrow, at least over their tears, it does not follow that they cannot bear as well what they have to bear. If I cannot sit looking as Margaret does, peeling oranges and philosophising, it may not be that I have less strength at my heart, but that I have more at stake,—more—”

Hope started from her side, and leaned against the mantelpiece, covering his face with his hands. At this moment, the boy entered with a message from a patient in the next street, who wanted Mr Hope.

“Oh, do not leave me, Edward! Do not leave me at this moment!” cried Hester. “Come back for five minutes!”

Hope quietly said that he should return presently, and went out. When the hall door was heard to close behind him, Hester flung herself down on the sofa. Whatever momentary resentment Margaret might have felt at her sister’s words, it vanished at the sight of Hester’s attitude of wretchedness. She sat on a footstool beside the sofa, and took her sister’s hand in hers.

“You are kinder to me than I deserve,” murmured Hester: “but, Margaret, mind what I say! never marry, Margaret! Never love, and never marry, Margaret!”

Margaret laid her hand on her sister’s shoulder, saying,—“Stop here, Hester! While I was the only friend you had, it was right and kind to tell me all that was in your heart. But now that there is one nearer and dearer, and far, far worthier than I, I can hear nothing like this. Nor are you fit just now to speak of these serious things: you are discomposed—”

“One would think you were echoing Miss Miskin, Margaret,—‘You are warm, ma’am.’ But you must hear this much. I insist upon it. If you would have heard me, you would have found that I was not going to say a word about my husband inconsistent with all the love and honour you would have him enjoy. I assure you, you might trust me not to complain of my husband. I have no words in which to say how noble he is. But, oh! it is all true about the wretchedness of married life! I am wretched, Margaret.”

“So I see,” said Margaret, in deep sorrow.

“Life is a blank to me. I have no hope left. I am neither wiser, nor better, nor happier for God having given me all that should make a woman what I meant to be. What can God give me more than I have?”

“I was just thinking so,” replied Margaret, mournfully.

“What follows then?”

“Not that all married people are unhappy because you are.”

“Yes, oh, yes! all who are capable of happiness: all who can love. The truth is, there is no perfect confidence in the world: there is no rest for one’s heart. I believed there was, and I am disappointed: and if you believe there is, you will be disappointed too, I warn you.”

“I shall not neglect your warning; but I do believe there is rest for rational affections—I am confident there is, if the primary condition is fulfilled—if there is repose in God together with human love.”

“You think that trust in God is wanting in me?”

“Do let us speak of something else,” said Margaret. “We are wrong to think and talk of ourselves as we do. There is something sickly about our state while we do so, and we deserve to be suffering as we are. Come! let us be up and doing. Let me read to you; or will you practise with me till Edward comes back?”

“Not till you have answered my question, Margaret. Do you believe that my wretchedness is from want of trust in God?”

“I believe,” said Margaret, seriously, “that all restless and passionate suffering is from that cause. And now, Hester, no more.”

Hester allowed Margaret to read to her; but it would not do. She was too highly wrought up for common interests. The reading was broken off by her hysterical sobs; and it was clear that the best thing to be done was to get her to bed, under Morris’s care, that all agitating conversation might be avoided. When Mr Hope returned, he found Margaret sitting alone at the tea-table. If she had had no greater power of self-control than her sister, Edward might have been made wretched enough, for her heart was full of dismay: but she felt the importance of the duty of supporting him, and he found her, though serious, apparently cheerful.

“I have sent Hester to bed,” said she, as he entered. “She was worn out. Yes: just go and speak to her; but do not give her the opportunity of any more conversation till she has slept. Tell her that I am going to send her some tea; and by that time yours will be ready.”

“Just one word upon the events of to-day,” said Hope, as he took his seat at the tea-table, after having reported that Hester was tolerably composed:— “just one word, and no more. We must avoid bringing emotions to a point—giving occasion for—”

“I entirely agree with you,” said Margaret. “She requires to be drawn out of herself. She cannot bear that opening of the sluices, which is a benefit and comfort to some people. Let us keep them shut, and when it comes to acting, see how she will act!”

“Bless you for that!” was on Hope’s lips; but he did not say it. Tea was soon dismissed, and he then took up the newspaper; and when that was finished, he found he could not read to Margaret—he must write:— he had a case to report for a medical journal.

“I hope I have not spoiled your evening,” said Hester, languidly, when her sister went to bid her good-night. “I have been listening; but I could not hear you either laughing or talking.”

“Because we have been neither laughing nor talking. My brother has been writing—”

“Writing! To whom? To Emily, or to Anne?”

“To a far more redoubtable person than either: to the editor of some one of those green and blue periodicals that he devours, as if they were poetry. And I have been copying music.”

“How tired you look!”

“Well, then, good-night!”

Margaret might well look tired; but she did not go to rest for long. How should she rest, while her soul was sick with dismay, her heart weighed down with disappointment, her sister’s sobs still sounding in her ear, her sister’s agonised countenance rising up from moment to moment, as often as she closed her eyes? And all this within the sacred enclosure of home, in the very sanctuary of peace! All this where love had guided the suffering one to marriage—where there was present neither sickness, nor calamity, nor guilt, but the very opposites of all these! Could it then be true, that the only sanctuary of peace is in the heart? that while love is the master passion of humanity, the main-spring of human action, the crowning interest of human life—while it is ordained, natural, inevitable, it should issue as if it were discountenanced by Providence, unnatural, and to be repelled? Could it be so? Was Hester’s warning against love, against marriage, reasonable, and to be regarded? That warning Margaret thought she could never put aside, so heavily had it sunk upon her heart, crushing—she knew not what there. If it was not a reasonable warning, whither should she turn for consolation for Hester? If this misery arose out of an incapacity in Hester herself for happiness in domestic life, then farewell sisterly comfort—farewell all the bright visions she had ever indulged on behalf of the one who had always been her nearest and dearest? Instead of these, there must be struggle and grief, far deeper than in the anxious years that were gone; struggle with an evil which must grow if it does not diminish, and grief for an added sufferer—for one who deserved blessing where he was destined to receive torture. This was not the first time by a hundred that Hester had kept Margaret from her pillow, and then driven rest from it; but never had the trial been so great as now. There had been anxiety formerly; now there was something like despair, after an interval of hope and comparative ease.

Mankind are ignorant enough, Heaven knows, both in the mass, about general interests, and individually, about the things which belong to their peace: but of all mortals, none perhaps are so awfully self-deluded as the unamiable. They do not, any more than others, sin for the sake of sinning; but the amount of woe caused by their selfish unconsciousness is such as may well make their weakness an equivalent for other men’s gravest crimes. There is a great diversity of hiding-places for their consciences—many mansions in the dim prison of discontent: but it may be doubted whether, in the hour when all shall be uncovered to the eternal day, there will be revealed a lower deep than the hell which they have made. They, perhaps, are the only order of evil ones who suffer hell without seeing and knowing that it is hell. But they are under a heavier curse even than this; they inflict torments, second only to their own, with an unconsciousness almost worthy of spirits of light. While they complacently conclude themselves the victims of others, or pronounce, inwardly or aloud, that they are too singular, or too refined, for common appreciation, they are putting in motion an enginery of torture whose aspect will one day blast their minds’ sight. The dumb groans of their victims will sooner or later return upon their ears from the depths of the heaven to which the sorrows of men daily ascend. The spirit sinks under the prospect of the retribution of the unamiable, if all that happens be indeed for eternity, if there be indeed a record—an impress on some one or other human spirit—of every chilling frown, of every querulous tone, of every bitter jest, of every insulting word—of all abuses of that tremendous power which mind has over mind. The throbbing pulses, the quivering nerves, the wrung hearts, that surround the unamiable—what a cloud of witnesses is here! and what plea shall avail against them? The terror of innocents who should know no fear—the vindictive emotions of dependants who dare not complain—the faintness of heart of life-long companions—the anguish of those who love—the unholy exultation of those who hate,—what an array of judges is here! and where can appeal be lodged against their sentence? Is pride of singularity a rational plea? Is super-refinement, or circumstance of God, or uncongeniality in man, a sufficient ground of appeal, when the refinement of one is a grace granted for the luxury of all, when circumstance is given to be conquered, and uncongeniality is appointed for discipline? The sensualist has brutified the seraphic nature with which he was endowed. The depredator has intercepted the rewards of toil, and marred the image of justice, and dimmed the lustre of faith in men’s minds. The imperial tyrant has invoked a whirlwind, to lay waste, for an hour of God’s eternal year, some region of society. But the unamiable—the domestic torturer—has heaped wrong upon wrong, and woe upon woe, through the whole portion of time which was given into his power, till it would be rash to say that any others are more guilty than he. If there be hope or solace for such, it is that there may have been tempers about him the opposite of his own. It is matter of humiliating gratitude that there were some which he could not ruin; and that he was the medium of discipline by which they were exercised in forbearance, in divine forgiveness and love. If there be solace in such an occasional result, let it be made the most of by those who need it; for it is the only possible alleviation to their remorse. Let them accept it as the free gift of a mercy which they have insulted, and a long-suffering which they have defied.

Not thus, however, did Margaret regard the case of her sister. She had but of late ceased to suppose herself in the wrong when Hester was unhappy: and though she was now relieved from the responsibility of her sister’s peace, she was slow to blame—reluctant to class the case lower than as one of infirmity. Her last waking thoughts (and they were very late) were of pity and of prayer.

As the door closed behind Margaret, Hope had flung down his pen. In one moment she had returned for a book; and she found him by the fireside, leaning his head upon his arms against the wall. There was something in his attitude which startled her out of her wish for her book, and she quietly withdrew without it. He turned, and spoke, but she was gone.

“So this is home!” thought he, as he surveyed the room, filled as it was with tokens of occupation, and appliances of domestic life. “It is home to be more lonely than ever before—and yet never to be alone with my secret! At my own table, by my own hearth, I cannot look up into the faces around me, nor say what I am thinking. In every act and every word I am in danger of disturbing the innocent—even of sullying the pure, and of breaking the bruised reed. Would to God I had never seen them! How have I abhorred bondage all my life! and I am in bondage every hour that I spend at home. I have always insisted that there was no bondage but in guilt. Is it so? If it be so, then I am either guilty, or in reality free. I have settled this before. I am guilty; or rather, I have been guilty; and this is my retribution. Not guilty towards Margaret. Thank God, I have done her no wrong! Thank God, I have never been in her eyes—what I must not think of! Nor could I ever have been, if... She loves Enderby, I am certain, though she does not know it herself. It is a blessing that she loves him, if I could but always feel it so. I am not guilty towards her, nor towards Hester, except in the weakness of declining to inflict that suffering upon her which, fearful as it must have been, might perhaps have proved less than, with all my care, she must undergo now. There was my fault. I did not, I declare, seek to attach her. I did nothing wrong so far. But I dared to measure suffering—to calculate consequences presumptuously and vainly: and this is my retribution. How would it have been, if I had allowed them to go back to Birmingham, and had been haunted with the image of her there? But why go over this again, when my very soul is weary of it all? It lies behind, and let it be forgotten. The present is what I have to do with, and it is quite enough. I have injured, cruelly injured myself; and I must bear with myself. Here I am, charged with the duty of not casting my shadow over the innocent, and of strengthening the infirm. I have a clear duty before me—that is one blessing. The innocent will soon be taken from under my shadow—I trust so—for my duty there is almost too hard. How she would confide in me, and I must not let her, and must continually disappoint her, and suffer in her affection. I cannot even be to her what our relation warrants. And all the while her thoughts are my thoughts; her... But this will never do. It is enough that she trusts me, and that I deserve that she should. This is all that I can ever have or hope for; but I have won thus much; and I shall keep it. Not a doubt or fear, not a moment’s ruffle of spirits, shall she ever experience from me. As for my own poor sufferer—what months and years are before us both! What a discipline before she can be at peace! If she were to look forward as I do, her heart would sink as mine does, and perhaps she would try... But we must not look forward: her heart must not sink. I must keep it up. She has strength under her weakness, and I must help her to bring it out and use it. There ought to be, there must be, peace in store for such generosity of spirit as lies under the jealousy, for such devotedness, for such power. Margaret says, ‘When it comes to acting, see how she will act.’ Oh, that it might please Heaven to send such adversity as would prove to herself how nobly she can act! If some strong call on her power would come in aid of what I would fain do for her, I care not what it is. If I can only witness my own wrong repaired—if I can but see her blessed from within, let all other things be as they may! The very thought frees me, and I breathe again!”

Chapter Twenty.

Enderby News.

“Mamma, what do you think Fanny and Mary Grey say?” asked Matilda of her mother.

“My dear, I wish you would not tease me with what the Greys say. They say very little that is worth repeating.”

“Well, but you must hear this, mamma. Fanny and Mary were walking with Sophia yesterday, and they met Mrs Hope and Miss Ibbotson in Turn-stile Lane; and Mrs Hope was crying so, you can’t think.”

“Indeed! Crying! What, in the middle of the day?”

“Yes; just before dinner. She had her veil down, and she did not want to stop, evidently, mamma. She—.”

“I should wonder if she did,” observed Mr Rowland from the other side of the newspaper he was reading. “If Dr and Mrs Levitt were to come in the next time you cry, Matilda, you would not want to stay in the parlour, evidently, I should think. For my part, I never show my face when I am crying.”

“You cry, papa!” cried little Anna. “Do you ever cry?”

“Have you never found me behind the deals, or among the sacks in the granary, with my finger in my eye?”

“No, papa. Do show us how you look when you cry.”

Mr Rowland’s face, all dolefulness, emerged from behind the newspaper, and the children shouted.

“But,” said Matilda, observing that her mother’s brow began to lower, “I think it is very odd that Mrs Hope did not stay at home if she wanted to cry. It is so very odd to go crying about the streets!”

“I dare say Deerbrook is very much obliged to her,” said papa. “It will be something to talk about for a week.”

“But what could she be crying for, papa?”

“Suppose you ask her, my dear? Had you not better put on your bonnet, and go directly to Mr Hope’s, and ask, with our compliments, what Mrs Hope was crying for at four o’clock yesterday afternoon? Of course she can tell better than anybody else.”

“Nonsense, Mr Rowland,” observed his lady. “Go, children, it is very near school-time.”

“No, mamma; not by—”

“Go, I insist upon it, Matilda. I will have you do as you are bid. Go, George: go, Anna.—Now, my love, did I not tell you so, long ago? Do not you remember my observing to you, how coldly Mr Hope took our congratulations on his engagement in the summer? I was sure there was something wrong. They are not happy, depend upon it.”

“What a charming discovery that would be!”

“You are very provoking, Mr Rowland! I do believe you try to imitate Mr Grey’s dry way of talking to his wife.”

“I thought I had heard you admire that way, my dear.”

“For her, yes: it does very well for a woman like her: but I beg you will not try it upon me, Mr Rowland.”

“Well, then, Mrs Rowland, I am going to be as serious as ever I was in my life, when I warn you how you breathe such a suspicion as that the Hopes are not happy. Remember you have no evidence whatever about the matter. When you offered Mr Hope your congratulations, he was feeble from illness, and probably too much exhausted at the moment to show any feeling, one way or another. And as for this crying fit of Mrs Hope’s, no one is better able than you, my dear, to tell how many causes there may be for ladies’ tears besides being unhappily married.”

“Pray, Mr Rowland, make yourself easy, I beg. Whom do you suppose I should mention such a thing to?”

“You have already mentioned it to yourself and me, my dear, which is just two persons too many. Not a word more on the subject, if you please.”

Mrs Rowland saw that this was one of her husband’s authority days;—rare days, when she could not have her own way, and her quiet husband was really formidable. She buckled on her armour, therefore, forthwith. That armour was—silence. Mr Rowland was sufficiently aware of the process now to be gone through, to avoid speaking, when he knew he should obtain no reply. He finished his newspaper without further remark, looked out a book from the shelves, half-whistling all the while, and left the room.

Meantime, the children had gone to the schoolroom, disturbing Miss Young nearly an hour too soon. Miss Young told them she was not at liberty; and when she heard that their mamma had sent them away from the drawing-room, she asked why they could not play as usual. It was so cold! How did George manage to play? George had not come in with the rest. If he could play, so could they. The little girls had no doubt George would present himself soon: they did not know where he had run; but he would soon have enough of the cold abroad, or of the dullness of the nursery. In another moment Miss Young was informed of the fact of Hester’s tears of yesterday; and, much as she wanted the time she was deprived of; she was glad the children had come to her, that this piece of gossip might be stopped. She went somewhat at length with them into the subject of tears, showing that it is very hasty to conclude that any one has been doing wrong, even in the case of a child’s weeping; and much more with regard to grown people. When they had arrived at wondering whether some poor person had been begging of Mrs Hope, or whether one of Mr Hope’s patients that she cared about was very ill, or whether anybody had been telling her an affecting story, Miss Young brought them to see that they ought not to wish to know;—that they should no more desire to read Mrs Hope’s thoughts than to look over her shoulder while she was writing a letter. She was just telling them a story of a friend of hers who called on an old gentleman, and found him in very low spirits, with his eyes all red and swollen; and how her friend did not know whether to take any notice; and how the truth came out,—that the old gentleman had been reading a touching story:— she was just coming to the end of this anecdote, when the door opened and Margaret entered, holding George by the hand. Margaret looked rather grave, and said—

“I thought I had better come to you first, Maria, for an explanation which you may be able to give. Do you know who sent little George with a message to my sister just now? I concluded you did not. George has been calling at my brother’s door, with his papa’s and mamma’s compliments, and a request to know what Mrs Hope was crying for yesterday, at four o’clock.”

Maria covered her face with her hands, with as much shame as if she had been in fault, while “Oh, George!” was reproachfully uttered by the little girls.

“Matilda,” said Miss Young, “I trust you to go straight to your papa, without saying a word of this to any one else, and to ask him to come here this moment. I trust you, my dear.”

Matilda discharged her trust. She peeped into the drawing-room, and popped out again without speaking, when she saw papa was no longer there. She found him in the office, and brought him, without giving any hint of what had happened. He was full of concern, of course; said that he could not blame George, though he was certainly much surprised; that it would be a lesson to him not to use irony with children, since even the broadest might be thus misunderstood; and that a little family scene had thus been laid open, which he should hardly regret if it duly impressed his children with the folly and unkindness of village gossip. He declared he could not be satisfied without apologising,—well, then, without explaining, to Mrs Hope how it had happened; and he would do it through the medium of Mr Hope; for, to say the truth, he was ashamed to face Mrs Hope till his peace was made. Margaret laughed at this, and begged him to go home with her; but he preferred stepping over to Mrs Enderby’s, where Mr Hope had just been seen to enter. Mr Rowland concluded by saying, that he should accept it as a favour in Miss Ibbotson, as well as Miss Young, if she would steadily refuse to gratify any impertinent curiosity shown by his children, in whatever direction it might show itself. They were exposed to great danger from example in Deerbrook, like most children brought up in small villages, he supposed: and he owned he dreaded the idea of his children growing up the scourges to society that he considered foolish and malignant gossips to be.

“Do sit down, Margaret,” said Maria. “I shall feel uncomfortable when you are gone, if you do not stay a minute to turn our thoughts to something pleasanter than this terrible mistake of poor George’s.”

“I cannot stay now, however,” said Margaret, smiling. “You know I must go and turn my sister’s thoughts to something pleasanter. There she is, sitting at home, waiting to know how all this has happened.”

“Whether she has not been insulted? You are right, Margaret. Make haste back to her, and beg her pardon for us all. Shall she not, children, if she will be so kind?”

Margaret was overwhelmed with the petitions for pardon she had to carry; and not one of the children asked what Mrs Hope had been crying for, after all.

Hester looked up anxiously as Margaret entered the drawing-room at home.

“It is all a trifle,” said Margaret, gaily.

“How can it be a trifle?”

“The little Greys told what they saw yesterday, of course; and one of the little Rowlands wondered what was the reason;—(children can never understand what grown people, who have no lessons to learn, can cry for, you know); and Mr Rowland, to make their gossip ridiculous to themselves, told them they had better come and ask; and poor George, who cannot take a joke, came without any one knowing where he was gone. They were all in great consternation when I told them, and there is an ample apology coming to you through Edward. That is the whole story, except that Mr Rowland would have come himself to you, instead of going to your husband, but that he was ashamed of his joke. So there is an end of that silly matter, unless it be to make George always ask henceforth whether people are in joke or in earnest.”

“I think Mr Rowland might have come to me,” observed Hester. “Are you sure Mrs Rowland had nothing to do with it?”

“I neither saw her nor heard of her. You had better not go out to-day, it is so like snow. I shall be back soon; but as I have my bonnet on, I shall go and see Johnny Rye and his mother. Can I do anything for you?”

“Oh, my snow-boots! But I would not have you go to Mrs Howell’s while she is in such a mood as she was in yesterday. I would not go myself.”

“Oh! I will go. I am not afraid of Mrs Howell; and we shall have to encounter her again, sooner or later. I will buy something, and then see what my diplomacy will effect about the boots.”

Mr Hope presently came in, and found his wife prepared for the apology he brought from Mr Rowland. But it was obvious that Hope’s mind was far more occupied with something else.

“Where is Margaret?”

“She is gone out to Widow Rye’s, and to Mrs Howell’s.”

“No matter where, as long as she is out. I want to consult you about something.” And he drew a chair to the fire, and told that he had visited Mrs Enderby, whom he found very poorly, apparently from agitation of spirits. She had shed a few tears on reporting her health, and had dropped something which he could not understand, about this being almost the last time she should be able to speak freely to him. Hester anxiously hoped that the good old lady was not really going to die. There was no near probability of this, her husband assured her. He thought Mrs Enderby referred to some other change than dying; but what, she did not explain. She had gone on talking in rather an excited way, and at last hinted that she supposed she should not see her son for some time, as Mrs Rowland had intimated that he was fully occupied with the young lady he was going to be married to. Mrs Enderby plainly said that she had not heard this from Philip himself; but she seemed to entertain no doubt of the truth of the information she had received. She appeared to be struggling to be glad at the news; but it was clear that the uppermost feeling was disappointment at having no immediate prospect of seeing her son.

“Now, what are we to think and do?” said Hope.

“This agrees with what Mrs Rowland told me in Dingleford woods, six months ago,” said Hester; “and I suppose what she then said may have been true all this time.”

“How does that agree with his conduct to Margaret? Or am I mistaken in what I have told you I thought about that? Seriously—very seriously—how do you suppose the case stands with Margaret?”

“I know no more than you. I think he went further than he ought, if he was thinking of another; and, but for his conduct since, I should have quite concluded, from some observations that I made, that he was attached to Margaret.”

“And she—?”

“And she certainly likes him very well; but I can hardly fancy her happiness at stake. I have thought her spirit rather flat of late.”

Hope sighed deeply.

“Ah! you may well sigh,” said Hester, sighing herself, and sinking back in her chair. “You know what I am going to say. I thought I might be the cause of her being less gay than she should be. I have disappointed her expectations, I know. But let us talk only of her.”

“Yes: let us talk only of her, till we have settled what is our duty to her. Ought we to tell her of this or not?”

Both considered long. At length Hester said—

“I think she ought to hear it quietly at home first (whether it be true or not), to prepare her for anything that may be reported abroad. Perhaps, if you were to drop, as we sit together here, what Mrs Enderby said—”

“No, no; not I,” said Hope, quickly. He went on more calmly: “Her sister and bosom friend is the only person to do this—if, indeed, it ought to be done. But the news may be untrue; and then she need perhaps never hear it. Do not let us be in a hurry.”

Hester thought that if Margaret felt nothing more than friendship for Enderby, she would still consider herself ill-used; for the friendship had been so close an one that she might reasonably expect that she should not be left to learn such an event as this from common report. But was it certain, Hope asked, that she had anything new to learn? Was it certain that she was not in his confidence all this time—that she had not known ten times as much as Mrs Rowland from the beginning? Certainly not from the beginning, Hester said; and she had a strong persuasion that Margaret was as ignorant as themselves of Enderby’s present proceedings and intentions.

At this moment, a note was brought in. It was from Mrs Enderby to Mr Hope, written hurriedly, and blistered with tears. It told that she had been extremely wrong in mentioning to him prematurely what was uppermost in her mind about a certain family affair, and begged the great favour of him to keep to himself what she had divulged, and, if possible, to forget it. Once more, Mr Hope unconsciously sighed. It was at the idea that he could forget such a piece of intelligence.

“Poor old lady!” said Hester; “she has been taken to task, I suppose, for relieving her mind to you. But, Edward, this looks more and more as if the news were true. My darling Margaret! How will it be with her? Does it not look too like being true, love?”

“It looks as if Enderby’s family all believed it, certainly. This note settles the matter of our duty, however. If the affair is so private that Mrs Enderby is to be punished for telling me, it is hardly likely that Margaret will hear it by out-door chance. You are spared the task for the present at least, my dear!”

“I should like to be sure that Margaret does not love—that she might pass through life without loving,” said Hester, sighing, “But here she comes! Burn the note!”

The note curled in the flames, was consumed, and its ashes fluttered up the chimney, and Margaret did not enter. She had gone straight up-stairs. She did not come down till dinner was on the table. She was then prepared with the announcement that the snow-boots might be looked for very soon. She told of her visit to Widow Rye’s, and had something to say of the probability of snow; but she was rather absent, and she took wine. These were all the circumstances that her anxious sister could fix upon, during dinner, for silent comment. After dinner, having eaten an orange with something like avidity, Margaret withdrew for a very few minutes. As the door closed behind her, Hester whispered—

“She has heard. She knows. Is it not so?”

“There is no question about it,” replied Hope, examining the screen he held in his hand.

“I wonder who can have told her.”

“Tellers of bad news are never wanting, especially in Deerbrook,” said Hope, with a bitterness of tone which Hester had never heard from him before.

Margaret took up the other screen when she returned, and played with it till the table was cleared, so that she could have the use of her work-box. It was Morris who removed the dessert.

“Morris,” said Mr Hope, as she was leaving the room, “I want Charles: pray send him.”

“Charles is out, sir.”

“Out! when will he be back?”

“He will be back presently,” said Margaret. “I sent him with a note to Maria.”

As she leant over her work again, Hester and her husband exchanged glances.

An answer from Maria soon arrived. Margaret read it as she sat, her brother and sister carefully withdrawing their observation from her. Whatever else might be in the note, she read aloud the latter part—two or three lines relating to the incident of the morning. Her voice was husky, but her manner was gay. During the whole evening she was gay. She insisted on making tea, and was too quick with the kettle for Edward to help her. She proposed music, and she sang—song after song. Hester was completely relieved about her; and even Edward gave himself up to the hope that all was well with her. From music they got to dancing. Margaret had learned, by sitting with Maria during the children’s dancing-lesson, a new dance which had struck her fancy, and they must be ready with it next week at Dr Levitt’s. Alternately playing the dance and teaching it, she ran from the piano to them, and from them to the piano, till they were perfect, and her face was as flushed as it could possibly be at Mrs Levitt’s dance next week. But in the midst of this flush, Hope saw a shiver: and Hester remarked, that during the teaching, Margaret had, evidently without being aware of it, squeezed her hand with a force which could not have been supposed to be in her. These things made Hope still doubt.

Chapter Twenty One.

Consciousness to the Unconscious.

Mr Hope might well doubt. Margaret was not gay but desperate. Yes, even the innocent may be desperate under circumstances of education and custom, by which feelings natural and inevitable are made occasions of shame; while others, which are wrong and against the better nature of man, bask in daylight and impunity. There was not a famishing wretch prowling about a baker’s door, more desperate than Margaret this day. There was not a gambler setting his teeth while watching the last turn of the die, more desperate than Margaret this day. If there was a criminal standing above a sea of faces with the abominable executioner’s hands about his throat, Margaret was, for the time, as wretched as he.

If any asked why—why it should be thus with one who has done no wrong, the answer is—Why is there pride in the human heart?—why is there a particular nurture of this pride into womanly reserve?—Why is it that love is the chief experience, and almost the only object, of a woman’s life? Why is it that it is painful to beings who look before and after to have the one hope of existence dashed away—the generous faith outraged—all self-confidence overthrown—life in one moment made dreary as the desert—Heaven itself overclouded—and death all the while standing at such a weary distance that there is no refuge within the horizon of endurance? Be these things right or wrong, they are: and while they are, will the woman who loves, unrequited, feel desperate on the discovery of her loneliness—and, the more pure and proud, innocent and humble, the more lonely.

For some little time past, Margaret had been in a state of great tranquillity about Philip—a tranquillity which she now much wondered at—now that it was all over. She had had an unconscious faith in him; and, living in this faith, she had forgotten herself, she had not thought of the future, she had not felt impatient for any change. Often as she wished for his presence, irksome as she had sometimes felt it to know nothing of him from week to week, she had been tacitly satisfied that she was in his thoughts as he was in hers; and this had been enough for the time. What an awakening from this quiescent state was hers this day!

It was from no other than Dr Levitt that she had heard in the morning that Mr Enderby was shortly going to be married to Miss Mary Bruce. Dr Levitt was at Widow Rye’s when Margaret went, and had walked part of the way home with her. During the walk, this piece of news had dropped out, while they were talking of Mrs Enderby’s health. All that Dr Levitt knew of Miss Mary Bruce was, that she was of sufficiently good family and fortune to make the Rowlands extremely well satisfied with the match; that Mrs Enderby had never seen her, and that it would be some time before she could see her, as the whole family of the Bruces was at Rome for the winter. When Dr Levitt parted from Margaret at the gate of the churchyard, these last words contained the hope she clung to—a hope which might turn into the deepest reason for despair. Philip had certainly not been abroad. Was it likely that he should lately have become engaged to any young lady who had been some time in Rome? It was not likely: but then, if it was true, he must have been long engaged: he must have been engaged at the time of his last visit of six days, when he had talked over his views of life with Margaret, and been so anxious to obtain hers:— he must surely have been engaged in the summer, when she found Tieck in the desk, and when he used to spend so many evenings at the Greys’—certainly not on Hester’s account. At one moment she was confident all this could not be; she was relieved; she stepped lightly. The next moment, a misgiving came that it was all too true; the weight fell again upon her heart, she lost breath, and it was intolerable to have to curtesy to Mrs James, and to answer the butcher’s inquiry about the meat that had been ordered. If these people would only go on with their own business, and take no notice of her! Then, again, the thought occurred, that she knew Philip better than any,—than even his own family; and that, say what they might, he was all her own. In these changes of mood, she had got through dinner; the dominant idea was then that she must, by some means or other, obtain certainty. She thought of Maria. Maria was likely to know the facts, from her constant intercourse with the Rowlands, and besides, there was certainly a something in Maria’s mind in relation to Philip,—a keen insight, which might be owing to the philosophical habit of her mind, or to something else,—but which issued in information about him, which it was surprising that she could obtain. She seldom spoke of him; but when she did, it was wonderfully to the purpose. Margaret thought she could learn from Maria, in a very simple and natural way, that which she so much wished to know: and when she left the room after dinner, it was to write the note which might bring certainty.

“Dear Friend,—I saw Dr Levitt this morning while I was out, and he told me, with all possible assurance, that Mr Enderby is going to be married very shortly to a young lady at Rome,—Miss Mary Bruce. Now, this is true or it is not. If true, you are as well aware as we are that we are entitled to have known it otherwise and earlier than by common report. If not true, the rumour should not be allowed to spread. If you know anything certainly, one way or the other, pray tell us.

“Yours affectionately,

“Margaret Ibbotson.”

The “we” and “us” were not quite honest; but Margaret meant to make them as nearly so as possible by ex-post-facto communication with her brother and sister: a resolution so easily made, that it did not occur to her how difficult it might be to execute. While her messenger was gone, she wrought herself up to a resolution to bear the answer, whatever it might be, with the same quietness with which she must bear the whole of her future life, if Dr Levitt’s news should prove to be founded in fact. The door opening seemed to prick the nerves of her ears: her heart heaved to her throat at the sight of the white paper: yet it was with neatness that she broke the seal, and with a steady hand that she held the note to read it. The handwriting was only too distinct: it seemed to burn itself in upon her brain. All was over.

“Dear Margaret,—I do not know where Dr Levitt got his news; but I believe it is true. Mrs Rowland pretends to absolute certainty about her brother’s engagement to Miss Bruce; and it is from this that others speak so positively about it. Whatever are the grounds that Mrs R. goes upon, there are others which afford a strong presumption that she is right. Some of these may be known to you. They leave no doubt in my mind that the report is true. As to the failure of confidence in his friends,—what can be said?—unless by way of reminder of the old truth that, by the blessing of Heaven, wrongs—be they but deep enough—may chasten a human temper into something divine.

“George has been very grave for the last three hours, pandering, I fancy, what irony can be for. Your sister will not grudge him his lesson, though afforded at her expense.

“Yours affectionately,

“Maria Young.”

“Wrongs!” thought she;—“Maria goes too far when she speaks of wrongs. There was nothing in my note to bring such an expression in answer. It is going too far.”

This was but the irritability of a racked soul, needing to spend its agony somewhere. The remembrance of the conversation with Maria, held so lately, and of Maria’s views of Philip’s relation to her, returned upon her, and her soul melted within her. She, felt that Maria had understood her better than she did herself; and was justified in the words she had used. Under severe calamity, to be endured alone, evil thoughts sometimes come before good ones. Margaret was, for an hour or two, possessed with the bad spirit of defiance. Her mind sank back into what it had been in her childhood, when she had hidden herself in the lumber-room, or behind the water-tub, for many hours, to make the family uneasy, because she had been punished,—in the days when she bore every infliction that her father dared to try, with apparent unconcern, rather than show to watchful eyes that she was moved,—in the days when the slightest concession would dissolve her stubbornness in an instant, but when, to get rid of a life of contradiction, she had had serious thoughts of cutting her throat, had gone to the kitchen door to get the carving-knife, and had been much disappointed to find the servants at dinner, and the knife-tray out of reach. This spirit, so long ago driven out by the genial influences of family love, by the religion of an expanding intellect, and the solace of appreciation, now came back to inhabit the purified bosom which had been kept carefully swept and garnished. It was the motion of this spirit, uneasy in its unfit abode, that showed itself by the shiver, the flushed cheek, the clenching hand, and the flashing eye. It kept whispering wicked things,—“I will baffle and deceive Maria: she shall withdraw her pity, and laugh at it with me.” “I defy Edward and Hester: they shall wonder how it is that my fancy alone is free, that my heart alone is untouched, that the storms of life pass high over my head, and dare not lower.” “I will humble Philip, and convince him...” But, no; it would not do. The abode was too lowly and too pure for the evil spirit of defiance: the demon did not wait to be cast out; but as Margaret sat down in her chamber, alone with her lot, to face it as she might, the strange inmate escaped, and left her at least herself.

Margaret was in agonised amazement at the newness of the misery she was suffering. She really fancied she had sympathised with Hester that dreadful night of Hope’s accident: she had then actually believed that she was entering into her sister’s feelings. It had been as much like it as seeing a picture of one on the rack is like being racked. But Hester had not had so much cause for misery, for she never had to believe Edward unworthy. Her pride had been wounded at finding that her peace was no longer in her own power; but she had not been trifled with—duped. Here again Margaret refused to believe. The fault was all her own. She had been full of herself, full of vanity; fancying, without cause, that she was much to another when she was little. She was humbled now, and she no doubt deserved it. But how ineffably weak and mean did she appear in her own eyes! It was this which clouded Heaven to her at the moment that earth had become a desert. She felt so debased, that she durst not ask for strength where she was wont to find it. If she had done one single wrong thing, she thought she could bear the consequences cheerfully, and seek support, and vigorously set about repairing the causes of her fault; but here it seemed to her that her whole state of mind had been low and selfish. It must be this sort of blindness which had led her so far in so fearful a delusion. And if the whole condition of her mind had been low and selfish, while her conscience had given her no hint of anything being amiss, where was she to begin to rectify her being? She felt wholly degraded.

And then what a set of pictures rose up before her excited fancy! Philip going forth for a walk with her and Hester, after having just sealed a letter to Miss Bruce, carrying the consciousness of what he had been saying to the mistress of his heart, while she, Margaret, had supposed herself the chief object of his thought and care! Again, Philip discussing her mind and character with Miss Bruce, as those of a friend for whom he had a regard! or bestowing a passing imagination on how she would receive the intelligence of his engagement! Perhaps he reserved the news till he could come down to Deerbrook, and call and tell her himself, as one whose friendship deserved that he should be the bearer of his own tidings. That footstep, whose spring she had strangely considered her own signal of joy, was not hers but another’s. That laugh, the recollection of which made her smile even in these dreadful moments, was to echo in another’s home. She was stripped of all her heart’s treasure, of his tones, his ways, his thoughts,—a treasure which she had lived upon without knowing it; she was stripped of it all—cast out—left alone—and he and all others would go on their ways, unaware that anything had happened! Let them do so. It was hard to bear up in solitude when self-respect was gone with all the rest; but it must be possible to live on—no matter how—if to live on was appointed. If not, there was death, which was better.

These thoughts were not beneath one like Margaret—one who was religious as she. It requires time for religion to avail anything when self-respect is utterly broken-down. A devout sufferer may surmount the pangs of persecution at the first onset, and wrestle with bodily pain, and calmly endure bereavement by death; but there is no power of faith by which a woman can attain resignation under the agony of unrequited passion otherwise than by conflict, long and terrible.

Margaret laid down at last, because her eyes were weary of seeing; and she would fain have shut out all sounds. The occasional flicker of a tiny blaze, however, and the fall of a cinder in the hearth, served to lull her senses, and it was not long before she slept. But, oh, the horrors of that sleep! The lines of Maria’s note stared her in the face—glaring, glowing, gigantic. Sometimes she was trying to read them, and could not, though her life depended on them. Now Mrs Rowland had got hold of them; and now they were thrown into the flames, but would not burn, and the letters grew red-hot. Then came the image of Philip; and that horror was mixed up with whatever was most ludicrous. Once she was struggling for voice to speak to him, and he mocked her useless efforts. Oh, how she struggled! till some strong arm raised her, and some other voice murmured gently in her throbbing ear.

“Wake, my dear! Wake up, Margaret! What is it, dear? Wake!”

“Mother! is it you? Oh, mother! have you come at last?” murmured Margaret, sinking her head on Morris’ shoulder.

It was some moments before Margaret felt a warm tear fall upon her cheek, and heard Morris say:

“No, my dear: not yet. Your mother is in a better place than this, where we shall all rest with her at last, Miss Margaret.”

“What is all this?” said Margaret, raising herself, and looking round her. “What did I mean about my mother? Oh, Morris, my head is all confused, and I think I have been frightened. They were laughing at me, and when somebody came to help me, I thought it must be my mother. Oh, Morris, it is a long while—I wish I was with her.”

Morris did not desire to hear what Margaret’s dream had been. The immediate cause of Margaret’s distress she did not know; but she had for some time suspected that which only one person in the world was aware of besides herself. The terrible secret of this household was no secret to her. She was experienced enough in love and its signs to know, without being told where love was absent, and where it rested. She had not doubted, up to the return from the wedding-trip, that all was right; but she had never been quite happy since. She had perceived no sign that either sister was aware of the truth; the continuance of their sisterly friendship was a proof that neither of them was: but she wished to avoid hearing the particulars of Margaret’s dream, and all revelations which, in the weakness and confusion of an hour like this, she might be tempted to make. Morris withdrew from Margaret’s clasp, moved softly across the room, gently put the red embers together in the grate, and lighted the lamp which stood on the table.

“I hope,” whispered Margaret, trying to still her shivering, “that nobody heard me but you. How came you to think of coming to me?”

“My room being over this, you know, it was easy to hear the voice of a person in an uneasy sleep. I am glad I happened to be awake: so I put on my cloak and came.”

Morris did not say that Edward had heard the stifled cry also, and that she had met him on the stairs coming to beg that she would see what could be done. Hester having slept through it, Margaret need never know that other ears than Morris’ had heard her. Thus had Hope and Morris tacitly agreed.

“Now, my dear, when I have warmed this flannel, to put about your feet, you must go to sleep again. I will not leave you till daylight—till the house is near being astir: so you may sleep without being afraid of bad dreams. I will rouse you if I see you disturbed. Now, no more talking, or we shall have the house up; and all this had better be between you and me.”

To satisfy Margaret, Morris lay down on the outside of the bed, warmly covered; and the nurse once more, as in old days, felt her favourite child breathing quietly against her shoulder: once more she wiped away the standing tears, and prayed in her heart for the object of her care. If her prayer had had words, it would have been this:—

“Thou hast been pleased to take to thyself the parents of these dear children; and surely thou wilt be therefore pleased to be to them as father and mother, or to raise up or spare to them such as may be so. This is what I would ask for myself; that I may be that comfort to them. Thou knowest that a strange trouble hath entered this house—thou knowest, for thine eye seeth beneath the face into the heart, as the sun shines into a locked chamber at noon. Thou knowest what these young creatures know not. Make holy to them what thou knowest. Let thy silence rest upon that which must not be spoken. Let thy strength be supplied where temptation is hardest. Let the innocence which has come forth from thine own hand be kept fit to appear in all the light of thy countenance. Oh! let them never be seen sinking with shame before thee. Father, if thou hast made thy children to love one another for their good, let not love be a grief and a snare to such as these. Thou canst turn the hearts even of the wicked: turn the hearts of these thy dutiful children to love, where love may be all honour and no shame, so that they may have no more mysteries from each other, as I am sure they have none from thee. All who know them have doubtless asked thy blessing on their house, their health, their basket and store: let me ask it also on the workings of their hearts, since, if their hearts be right, all is well—or will be in thine own best time.”