The afternoon was the time when Miss Young's pupils practised the
mysteries of the needle. Little girls are not usually fond of sewing.
Till they become clever enough to have devices of their own, to cut out
a doll's petticoat, or contrive a pin-cushion to surprise mamma, sewing
is a mere galling of the fingers and strain upon the patience. Every
wry stitch shows, and is pretty sure to be remarked upon: the seam or
hem seems longer the oftener it is measured, till the little work-woman
becomes capable of the enterprise of despatching a whole one at a
sitting; after which the glory is found to ameliorate the toil, and
there is a chance that the girl may become fond of sewing.
Miss Young's pupils had not arrived at this stage. It was a mystery to
them that Miss Young could sit sewing, as fast as her needle could fly,
for the whole afternoon, and during the intervals of their lessons in
the morning. It was in vain that she told them that some of her
pleasantest hours were those which she passed in this employment: and
that she thought they would perhaps grow as fond of work as their sister
Sophia before they were as old as she. With languid steps did the twins
return to the house this afternoon for another pair of shirt-sleeves,
and to show mamma the work they had finished. Hand in hand, as usual,
and carrying up for judgment their last performance, they entered the
house. In a very different mood did they return. Running, skipping,
and jumping, they burst again into the summer-house.
"Miss Young, oh, Miss Young, we are to have a holiday!"
"Mamma sends her compliments to you, Miss Young, and she hopes you will
give us a holiday. It is a fine afternoon, she thinks, and my cousins
have never gathered cowslips; and we are all going into the meadow for a
cowslip-gathering; and Mr Hope will come to us there. He has to go
somewhere now, but he will come to us before we have half done."
Matilda Rowland looked fall of dismay till she was told that Mrs Grey
hoped she would be of the party, and begged that she would, go directly
and ask her mamma's leave.
"What a quantity of cowslips we shall get!" observed Mary, as she took
down Fanny's basket from the nail on which it hung, and then her own.
"We are each to have a basket, mamma says, that we may not quarrel.
What shall we do with such a quantity of cowslips?"
"Make tea of them, to be sure," replied Fanny. "We may dry them in this
window, may not we, Miss Young? And we will give you some of our
cowslip-tea."
Miss Young smiled and thanked them. She did not promise to drink any of
the promised tea. She had a vivid remembrance of the cowslip-drying of
her young days, when the picked flowers lay in a window till they were
laced all over with cobwebs; and when they were at length popped into
the teapot with all speed, to hide the fact that they were mouldy. She
remembered the good-natured attempts of her father and mother to swallow
a doll's cupful of her cowslip-tea, rather than discourage the spirit of
enterprise which, now that she had lost those whom she loved, was all
that she had to trust to.
"Fanny," said Mary, with eyes wide open, "cannot we have a feast here
for my cousins, when we make our cowslip-tea?"
"A feast! Oh, that would be grand!" replied Fanny. "I have a shilling,
and so have you; and we could buy a good many nice things for that: and
Matilda Rowland will lend us her doll's dishes to put with ours. Miss
Young, will you let us have our feast here, one afternoon? We will ask
my cousins, without telling them anything; and they will be so
surprised!"
Miss Young promised everything, engaged not to tell, smoothed their
hair, tied their bonnets, and sent them away quite happy with their
secret.
Such a holiday as this was one of Miss Young's few pleasures. There
were several occasions in the year when she could make sure beforehand
of some hours to herself. Her Sundays were much occupied with the
Sunday-school, and with intercourse with poor neighbours whom she could
not meet on any other day: but Christmas-day, the day of the annual fair
of Deerbrook, and two or three more, were her own. These were, however,
so appropriated, long before, to some object, that they lost much of
their character of holidays. Her true holidays were such as the
afternoon of this day,--hours suddenly set free, little gifts of leisure
to be spent according to the fancy of the moment. Let none pretend to
understand the value of such whose lives are all leisure; who take up a
book to pass the time; who saunter in gardens because there are no
morning visits to make; who exaggerate the writing of a family letter
into important business. Such have their own enjoyments: but they know
nothing of the paroxysm of pleasure of a really hardworking person on
hearing the door shut which excludes the business of life, and leaves
the delight of free thoughts and hands. The worst part of it is the
having to decide how to make the most of liberty. Miss Young was not
long in settling this point. She just glanced up at her shelf of books,
and down upon her drawing-board, and abroad through the south window,
and made up her mind. The acacia with its fresh bunches of blossoms was
waving above the window, casting in flickering shadows upon the floor:
the evergreens of the shrubbery twinkled in the sun, as the light breeze
swept over them: the birds were chirruping all about, and a yellow
butterfly alighted and trembled on the window-sill at the moment. It
was one of the softest and gayest days of spring; and the best thing was
to do nothing but enjoy it. She moved to the south window with her
work, and sewed or let the wind blow upon her face as she looked out.
The landscape was a wide one. Far beyond, and somewhat below the garden
and shrubberies in which the summerhouse stood, flat meadows stretched
to the brink of the river, on the other side of which were the park
woods. All was bathed in the afternoon sunshine, except where a tree
here and there cast a flake of shadow upon the grass of the meadows.
"It is a luxury," thought the gazer, "for one who cannot move about to
sit here and look abroad. I wonder whether I should have been with the
party if I had not been lame. I dare say something would have taken off
from the pleasure if I had. But how well I can remember what the
pleasure is! the jumping stiles--the feel of the turf underfoot,--the
running after every flower,--the going wherever one has a fancy to go,--
how well I remember it all! And yet it gives me a sort of surprise to
see the activity of these children, and how little they are aware of
what their privilege is. I fancy, however, the pleasure is more in the
recollection of all such natural enjoyments than at the moment. It is
so with me, and I believe with everybody. This very landscape is more
beautiful to me in the dark night when I cannot sleep, than at this very
moment, when it looks its best and brightest: and surely this is the
great difference between that sort of pleasures and those which come
altogether from within. The delight of a happy mood of mind is beyond
everything at the time; it sets one above all that can happen; it steeps
one in heaven itself; but one cannot recall it: one can only remember
that it was so. The delight of being in such a place as those woods is
generally more or less spoiled at the time by trifles which are
forgotten afterwards;--one is hungry, or tired, or a little vexed with
somebody, or doubtful whether somebody else is not vexed; but then the
remembrance is purely delicious,--brighter in sunshine, softer in
shade,--wholly tempered to what is genial. The imagination is a better
medium than the eye. This is surely the reason why Byron could not
write poetry on Lake Leman, but found he must wait till he got within
four walls. This is the reason why we are all more moved by the
slightest glimpses of good descriptions in books than by the amplitude
of the same objects before our eyes. I used to wonder how that was,
when, as a child, I read the openings of scenes and books in `Paradise
Lost.' I saw plenty of summer sunrises; but none of them gave me a
feeling like the two lines:--
"`Now morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime
Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl.'
"If all this be so, our lot is more equalised than is commonly thought.
Once having received pictures into our minds, and possessing a clear eye
in the mind to see them with, the going about to obtain more is not of
very great consequence. This comforts one for prisoners suffering
_carcere duro_, and for townspeople who cannot often get out of the
streets; and for lame people like me, who see others tripping over
commons and through fields where we cannot go. I wish there was as much
comfort the other way,--about such as suffer from unhappy moods of mind,
and know little of the joy of the highest. It would be a small gain to
them to fly like birds,--to see like the eagle itself.--Oh, there are
the children! So that is their cowslip meadow! How like children they
all look together, down on the grass!--gathering cowslips, I suppose.
The two in black are more eager about it than Sophia. She sits on the
stile while they are busy. The children are holding forth to their
cousins,--teaching them something, evidently. How I love to overlook
people,--to watch them acting unconsciously, and speculate for them! It
is the most tempting thing in the world to contrast the little affairs
one sees them busy about, with the very serious ones which await them,--
which await every one. There are those two strangers busy gathering
cowslips, and perhaps thinking of nothing beyond the fresh pleasure of
the air and the grass, and the scent of their flowers,--their minds
quite filled with the spirit of the spring, when who knows what may be
awaiting them! Love may be just at hand. The tempest of passion may be
brewing under this soft sunshine. They think themselves now as full of
happiness as possible; and a little while hence, upon a few words
spoken, a glance exchanged, they may be in such a heaven of bliss that
they will smile at their own ignorance in being so well pleased to-day.
Or--but I pray they may escape the other chance. Neither of them knows
anything of that misery yet, I am confident. They both look too young,
too open, too free to have really suffered.--I wonder whether it is
foolish to fancy already that one of them may be settled here. It can
hardly be foolish, when the thought occurs so naturally: and these great
affairs of life lie distinctly under the eye of such as are themselves
cut off from them. I am out of the game, and why should not I look upon
its chances? I am quite alone; and why should I not watch for others?
Every situation has its privileges and its obligations.--What is it to
be alone, and to be let alone, as I am? It is to be put into a post of
observation on others: but the knowledge so gained is anything but a
good if it stops at mere knowledge,--if it does not make me feel and
act. Women who have what I am not to have, a home, an intimate, a
perpetual call out of themselves, may go on more safely, perhaps,
without any thought for themselves, than I with all my best
consideration: but I, with the blessing of a peremptory vocation, which
is to stand me instead of sympathy, ties and spontaneous action,--I may
find out that it is my proper business to keep an intent eye upon the
possible events of other people's lives, that I may use slight occasions
of action which might otherwise pass me by. If one were thoroughly wise
and good, this would be a sort of divine lot. Without being at all
wiser or better than others,--being even as weak in judgment and in
faith as I am,--something may be made of it. Without daring to meddle,
one may stand clear-sighted, ready to help.--How the children are flying
over the meadow towards that gentleman who is fastening his horse to the
gate! Mr Hope, no doubt. He is the oldest cowslip gatherer of them
all, I fancy. If one could overhear the talk in every house along the
village, I dare say some of it is about Mr Hope winning one of these
young ladies. If so, it is only what I am thinking about myself. Every
one wishes to see Mr Hope married,--every one, even to the servants
here, who are always disputing whether he will not have Miss Sophia, or
whether Miss Sophia is not to make a grander match. Sophia will not do
for him; but it is very possible that one of these girls may. And the
other--but I will not think about that to-day.--How yellow the glow is
upon those woods! What heavenly hues hang about the world we live in!
but how strange is the lot of some in it! One would wonder why, when
all are so plainly made to feel and act together, there should be any
one completely solitary. There must be a reason: I would fain know it;
but I can wait till we may know all."
Such were some of Maria Young's natural and unchecked thoughts. There
was not much of common holiday spirit in them: but to Maria, liberty and
peace were holiday, and her mind was not otherwise than peaceful. She
was serious, but not sad. Any one who could at the moment have seen her
face, would have pronounced her cheerful at heart; and so she was. She
had been so long and so far banished from ordinary happiness, that her
own quiet speculations were material enough for cheerfulness. The
subject on which she would not think to-day, was the possibility of one
of the sisters attaching Mr Enderby. Maria Young had not always been
solitary, and lame, and poor. Her father had not been very long dead;
and while he lived, no one supposed that his only child would be poor.
Her youth passed gaily, and her adversity came suddenly. Her father was
wont to drive her out in his gig, almost every summer day. One evening,
the horse took fright, and upset the gig on a heap of stones by the
road-side. Mr Young was taken up dead, and Maria was lamed for life.
She had always known the Enderbys very well; and there had been some
gossip among their mutual acquaintance, about the probability that
Philip would prove to be Maria's lover, when he should be old enough to
think of marrying. It never went further than this,--except in Maria's
own heart. She had, indeed, hoped--even supposed--that in Philip's mind
the affair had at least been entertained thus far. She could never
settle to her own satisfaction whether she had been weak and mistaken,
or whether she had really been in any degree wronged. There had been
words, there had been looks,--but words and looks are so easily
misinterpreted! The probability was that she had no one to blame but
herself--if fault there was. Perhaps there was no fault anywhere: but
there was misery, intense and long. During her illness, no tidings came
of Philip. He was in another part of the country when the accident
happened; and it was not till long after it had been made known that Mr
Young had died insolvent,--not till after Maria had recovered, as far as
recovery was possible,--not till she had fallen into the habit of
earning her bread, that Philip reappeared, and shook hands with her, and
told her with how much concern he had heard of her sufferings. This
interview gave her entire possession of herself:--so she believed. She
got through it calmly, and it left her with one subject at least of
intense thankfulness,--that her mind was known only to herself.
Whatever might be her solitary struggles, she might look without shame
into the face of every human being. She could bear being pitied for her
poverty, for her lameness, for her change of prospects, when the
recollection of this came across any of her acquaintance. If it had
been necessary, she could probably have borne to be pitied for having
loved without return; but she could not be too thankful that it was not
necessary.
Maria was right in her supposition that the village was speculating upon
the newly-arrived young ladies. The parish clerk had for some years,
indeed ever since the death of the late stationer and dispenser of
letters, carried on a flirtation with the widow, notwithstanding the
rumours which were current, as to the cause to which her late husband
owed his death. It was believed that poor Harry Plumstead died of
exhaustion from his wife's voice; for she was no other than the village
scold, of whose existence Margaret had been warned by Mr Enderby. Some
thought that Owen was acting a politic part in protracting this
flirtation,--keeping her temper in check by his hold upon her
expectations; and such had little doubt that the affair would linger on
to the end, without any other result than Owen's exemption meanwhile
from the inflictions of her tongue, to which, in the discharge of his
office, he might otherwise become frequently liable. Others wished to
see them married, believing that in Owen, a Welshman sufficiently
irascible, Mrs Plumstead would at last meet her match. This afternoon,
an observer would have thought the affair was proceeding to this point.
Mrs Plumstead, looking particularly comely and gracious, was putting up
an unclaimed letter at the window for display, when Owen stopped to ask
if she had seen the pretty young ladies who had come to Deerbrook. He
remarked that, to be sure, they might have gone to some place where they
were more wanted, for Deerbrook was not without pretty faces of its own
before: and, as he said so, he smiled hard in the widow's face. He
should not wonder if some work for the rector should rise up before
long, for, where there were pretty faces, weddings might be looked for.
He even asked Mrs Plumstead if she did not think so: and added
something so ambiguous about his own share in the work for the rector
which was to arise, that the widow could not make out whether he spoke
as her admirer or as parish clerk. In the milliner's workroom there was
a spirited conversation between Miss Nares and her assistant, on the
past wedding dresses of Deerbrook, arising out of the topic of the
day,--the Miss Ibbotsons. Mrs Howell, who, with her shopwoman, Miss
Miskin, dispensed the haberdashery of the place, smiled winningly at
every customer who entered her shop, and talked of delightful
acquisitions, and what must be felt about Mr Hope, in the midst of such
charming society, and what it must be hoped would be felt; and how gay
the place was likely to be with riding parties, and boating parties, and
some said, dances on the green at Mrs Enderby's; and how partners in a
dance have been known to become partners for life, as she had been
jocosely told when her poor dear Howell prevailed on her to stand up
with him,--the first time for twenty years,--at his niece's wedding.
Hester's beauty, and what Mrs Grey had said about it to her maid, were
discussed, just at the moment when Hester, passing the shop, was
entreated by Sophia to look at a new pattern of embroidery which had
lately arrived from London, and was suspended at the window. Mrs
Howell and her gossips caught a glimpse of the face of the young lady,
through the drapery of prints and muslins, and the festoons of ribbons;
and when the party proceeded down the street, there was a rush to the
door, in order to obtain a view of her figure. She was pronounced
beautiful; and it was hoped that some gentleman in the village would
find her irresistible. It was only rather strange that no gentleman was
in attendance on her now.
If the gossips could have followed the party with their eyes into the
meadow, they would soon have been satisfied; for it was not long before
Mr Hope joined them there. On leaving Mr Grey's table, he was as
little disposed to go and visit his patient, as medical men are when
they are called away from the merriest company, or at the most
interesting moment of a conversation. The liability to this kind of
interruption is one of the great drawbacks of the profession, to which
Mr Hope belonged; another is, the impossibility of travelling,--the
being fixed to one place for life, without any but the shortest
intervals of journeying. Mr Hope had been settled for five years at
Deerbrook; and, during that time, he had scarcely been out of sight of
its steeple. His own active and gladsome mind had kept him happy among
his occupations. There was no one in the place with whom he could hold
equal converse; but, while he had it not, he did not feel the pressing
want of it. He loved his profession, and it kept him busy. His kind
heart was ever full of interest for his poorer patients. Seeing the
best side of everybody, he could be entertained, though sometimes vexed,
by his intercourse with the Greys and Rowlands. Then there was the
kindly-tempered and gentlemanly rector; and Philip Enderby often came
down for a few weeks; and Mr Hope had the chief management of the Book
Society, and could thus see the best new books; and his professional
rides lay through a remarkably pretty country.
He kept up a punctual and copious correspondence with the members of his
own family,--with his married sisters, and with his only brother, now
with his regiment in India,--relating to them every important
circumstance of his lot, and almost every interesting feeling of his
heart. With this variety of resources, life had passed away cheerily,
on the whole, with Mr Hope, for the five years of his residence at
Deerbrook; though there were times when he wondered whether it was to be
always thus,--whether he was to pass to his grave without any higher or
deeper human intercourses than he had here. If it had been possible, he
might, like other men as wise as himself, have invested some one of the
young ladies of Deerbrook with imaginary attributes, and have fallen in
love with a creature of his own fancy. But it really was not possible.
There was no one of the young ladies of Deerbrook who was not so far
inferior to the women of Hope's own family,--to the mother he had lost,
and the sisters who were settled far away,--as to render this commonest
of all delusions impossible to him.
To such a man, so circumstanced, it may be imagined how great an event
was the meeting with Hester and Margaret. He could not be in their
presence ten minutes without becoming aware of their superiority to
every woman he had seen for five years past. The beauty of the one, the
sincerity and unconsciousness of the other, and the general elevation of
both, struck him forcibly the first evening. His earliest thought the
next morning was of some great event having taken place; and when he
left Mr Grey's door after dinner, it was with an unwillingness which
made him spur himself and his horse on to their business, that he might
the sooner return to his new-found pleasure. His thoughts already
darted forward to the time when the Miss Ibbotsons would be leaving
Deerbrook. It was already a heavy thought how dull Deerbrook would be
without them. He was already unconsciously looking at every object in
and around the familiar place with the eyes of the strangers,
speculating on how the whole would appear to them. In short, his mind
was full of them. There are, perhaps, none who do not know what this
kind of impression is. All have felt it, at some time or other,--many
have felt it often,--about strangers whom they have been predisposed to
like, or with whom they have been struck at meeting. Nine times out of
ten, perhaps, the impression is fleeting; and when it is gone, there is
an unwillingness to return to it, from a sense of absurdity in having
been so much interested about one who so soon became indifferent: but
the fact is not the less real and general for this. When it happens
between two young people who are previously fancy-free, and
circumstances favour the impression till it sinks deeper than the fancy,
it takes the name of love at first sight. Otherwise it passes away
without a name, without a record:--for the hour it is a secret: in an
after time it is forgotten.
Possessed unconsciously with this secret, Hope threw himself from his
horse at the entrance of the meadow where the cowslip-gatherers were
busy, fastened his steed to the gate, and joined the party. The
children ran to him with the gleanings of intelligence which they had
acquired since he saw them last, half an hour before:--that it was well
they did not put off their gathering any longer, for some of the flowers
were beginning to dry up already: that cousins had never tasted
cowslip-tea;--(was not this _very_ odd?)--that cousin Hester would not
help to pick the flowers for drying,--she thought it such a pity to pull
the blossom out of the calyx: that Sophia would not help either, because
it was warm: that cousin Margaret had gathered a great many, but she had
been ever so long watching a spider's nest,--a nasty large spider's nest
that Matilda was just going to break into, when cousin Margaret asked
her not to spoil it?
Margaret was indeed on her knees, prying into the spider's nest. When
duly laughed at, she owned to having seen cobwebs before, but maintained
that cobwebs in a closet were a very different affair from a spider's
nest in a field.
"I rather think, however," said she, "the word `nest' itself has
something to do with my liking, for what I have been looking at. Some
of your commonest country words have a charm to the ear and imagination
of townspeople that you could not understand."
"But," said Mr Hope, "I thought nests were very common in Birmingham.
Have you not nests of boxes, and nests of work-tables?"
"Yes, and so we have stacks of chimneys; but yet we do not think of
hay-making when we see the smoke of the town.--I rather think country
words are only captivating as relating to the country; but then you
cannot think how bewitching they are to people who live in streets."
"The children might have found you a prettier sort of nest to indulge
your fancy with, I should think. There must be plenty of creatures
besides spiders in this wide meadow."
Mr Hope called out to the little girls, that whoever should find any
sort of a nest in the meadow, for Miss Margaret Ibbotson, should have a
ride on his horse. Away flew the children; and Hester and Sophia came
from the water-side to know what all the bustle was about. Fanny
returned to inquire whether the nests must be _in_ the meadow; whether
just outside would not do. She knew there was an ants' nest in the
bank, just on the other side of the hedge. The decision was that the
ants' nest would do only in case of her not being able to find any other
within bounds. Sophia looked on languidly, probably thinking all this
very silly. It put her in mind of an old schoolfellow of hers who had
been called very clever before she came to school at nine years old.
Till she saw her, Sophia had believed that town children were always
clever: but no later than the very first day, this little girl had got
into disgrace with the governess. Her task was to learn by heart
Goldsmith's Country Clergyman, in the `Deserted Village.' She said it
quite perfectly, but, when questioned about the meaning, stopped short
at the first line,--"Near yonder copse where once a garden smiled." She
persisted that she did not know what a copse was: the governess said she
was obstinate, and shut her up in the play hours between morning and
afternoon school. Sophia never could make out whether the girl was
foolish or obstinate in persisting that she did not know what a copse
was: but her cousin Margaret now put her in mind of this girl, with all
her town feelings, and her fuss about spiders' nests.
"How is old Mr Smithson to-day?" Sophia inquired of Mr Hope, by way
of introducing something more rational.
"Not better: it is scarcely possible that he should be," was the reply.
"Papa thought last night he must be dying."
"He is dying."
"Have you just come from a patient who is dying?" asked Hester, with a
look of anxiety, with which was mixed some surprise.
"Yes: from one who cannot live many days."
Sophia observed that Mr James had been sent for early this morning--no
doubt to put the finish to the will: but nobody seemed to know whether
the old gentleman would leave his money to his nephew or his step-son,
or whether he would divide it between them. Hester and Margaret showed
no anxiety on this point, but seemed so ready to be interested about
some others as to make Mr Hope think that they were only restrained by
delicacy from asking all that he could tell about his patient's state.
They knew enough of the profession, however, to be aware that this kind
of inquiry is the last which should be addressed to a medical man.
"You are surprised," said he, "that I am come from a dying patient to
play with the children in the fields. Come, acknowledge that this is in
your minds."
"If it is, it is an unreasonable thought," said Margaret. "You must see
so many dying people, it would be hard that in every case you should be
put out of the reach of pleasure."
"Never mind the hardship, if it be fitting," said Hope. "Hard or not
hard, is it natural,--is it possible?"
"I suppose witnessing death so often does lessen the feelings about it,"
observed Hester. "Yet I cannot fancy that one's mind could be at
liberty for small concerns immediately after leaving a house full of
mourners, and the sight of one in pain. There must be something
distasteful in everything that meets one's eyes,--in the sunshine
itself."
"True. That is the feeling in such cases: but such cases seldom occur.
Yes: I mean what I say. Such cases are very rare. The dying person is
commonly old, or so worn out by illness as to make death at last no
evil. When the illness is shorter, it is usually found that a few hours
in the sick room do the work of months of common life, in reconciling
the minds of survivors."
"I am sure that is true," observed Margaret.
"It is so generally the case that I know no set of circumstances in
which I should more confidently reckon on the calmness, forethought, and
composure of the persons I have to deal with than in the family of a
dying person. The news comes suddenly to the neighbours: all the
circumstances rush at once into their imaginations: all their
recollections and feelings about the sufferer agitate them in quick
succession; and they naturally suppose the near friends must be more
agitated, in proportion to their nearness."
"The watchers, meanwhile," said Hester, "have had time in the long night
to go over the past and the future, again and again; and by morning all
seems so familiar, that they think they can never be surprised into
grief again."
"So familiar," said Mr Hope, "that their minds are at liberty for the
smallest particulars of their duty. I usually find them ready for the
minutest directions I may have to give."
"Yes: the time for surprise,--for consternation,--is long afterwards,"
said Hester, with some emotion. "When the whole has become settled and
finished in other minds, the nearest mourners begin to wake up to their
mourning."
"And thus," said Margaret, "the strongest agitation is happily not
witnessed."
"Happily not," said Mr Hope. "I doubt whether anybody's strongest
agitations ever are witnessed. I doubt whether the sufferer himself is
often aware of what are really his greatest sufferings; and he is so
ashamed of them that he hides them from himself when it is possible. I
cannot but think that any grief which reveals itself is very endurable."
"Is not that rather hard?" asked Margaret.
"How does it seem to you hard? Is it not merciful that we can keep our
worst sorrows,--that we are disposed, as it were forced, to keep them
from afflicting our friends?"
"But is it not saying that bereavement of friends is not the greatest of
sorrows, while all seem to agree that it is?"
"Is it, generally speaking, the greatest of sorrows? I think not, for
my own part. There are cases in which the loss is too heavy to bear
being the subject of any speculation, almost of observation; for
instance, when the happiest married people are separated, or when a
first or only child dies: but I think there are many sorrows greater
than a separation by death of those who have faith enough to live
independently of each other, and mutual love enough to deserve, as they
hope, to meet again hereafter. I assure you I have sometimes come away
from houses unvisited, and unlikely to be visited by death, with a heart
so heavy as I have rarely or never brought from a deathbed."
"I should have thought that would be left for the rector to say,"
observed Hester. "I should have supposed you meant cases of guilt or
remorse."
"Cases of guilt or remorse," continued Mr Hope, "and also of infirmity.
People may say what they will, but I am persuaded that there is
immeasurably more suffering endured, both in paroxysms and for a
continuance, from infirmity, tendency to a particular fault, or the
privation of a sense, than from the loss of any friend upon earth,
except the very nearest and dearest; and even that case is no exception,
when there is the faith of meeting again, which almost every mourner
has, so natural and welcome as it is."
"Do you tell your infirm friends the high opinion you have of their
sufferings?" asked Margaret.
"Why, not exactly; that would not be the kindest thing to do, would it?
What they want is, to have their trouble lightened to them, not made the
worst of;--lightened, not by using any deceit, of course, but by simply
treating their case as a matter of fact."
"Then surely you should make light of the case of the dying too: make
light of it even to the survivors. Do you do this?"
"In one sense I do; in another sense no one can do it. Not regarding
death as a misfortune, I cannot affect to consider it so. Regarding the
change of existence as a very serious one, I cannot, of course, make
light of it."
"That way of looking at it regards only the dying person; you have not
said how you speak of it to survivors."
"As I speak of it to you now, or to myself when I see any one die; with
the added consideration of what the survivors are about to lose. That
is a large consideration certainly; but should not one give them credit
for viewing death as it is, and for being willing to bear their own loss
cheerfully, as they would desire to bear any other kind of loss?
especially if, as they say, they believe it to be only for a time."
"This as looking on the bright side," observed Hester, in a low voice;
but she was overheard by Mr Hope.
"I trust you do not object to the bright side of things," said he,
smiling, "as long as there is so much about us that is really very
dark?"
"What can religion be for," said Margaret, "or reason, or philosophy,
whichever name you may call your faith by, but to show us the bright
side of everything--of death among the rest? I have often wondered why
we seem to try to make the most of that evil (if evil it be), while we
think it a duty to make the least of every other. I had some such
feeling, I suppose, when I was surprised to hear that you had come
hither straight from a deathbed: I do not wonder at all now."
"Mr Smithson will not be much missed," observed Sophia, who felt
herself relieved from the solemnity of the occasion, by what had passed,
and at liberty to speak of him as freely as if he was no nearer death
than ever. "He has never been a sociable neighbour. I always thought
him an odd old man, from the earliest time I can remember."
"Some few will miss him," said Mr Hope. "He is a simple-hearted, shy
man, who never did himself justice, except with two or three who saw
most of him. Their affection has been enough for him--enough to make
him think now that his life has been a very happy one. There!" cried
Hope, as a lark sprang up almost from under the feet of the
party--"There is another member of Deerbrook society, ladies, who is
anxious to make your acquaintance." There were two or three larks
hovering above the meadow at this moment, and others were soaring
further off. The air was full of lark music. The party stood still and
listened. Looking up into the sunny sky, they watched one little
warbler, wheeling round, falling, rising again, still warbling, till it
seemed as if it could never be exhausted. Sophia said it made her head
ache to look up so long; and she seemed impatient for the bird to have
done. It then struck her that she also might find a nest, like her
sisters; and she examined the place whence the lark had sprung. Under a
thick tuft of grass, in a little hollow, she found a family of infant
larks huddled together, and pointed them out to her cousins.
The children came upon being called. They were damped in spirits. They
did not see how they were to find any nests, if the ants' nest would not
do; unless, indeed, Mr Hope would hold them up into the trees or hedges
to look; but they could not climb trees, Mr Hope knew. They were
somewhat further mortified by perceiving that they might have found a
nest by examining the ground, if they had happened to think of it.
Margaret begged they would not be distressed at not finding nests for
her; and Mr Hope proposed to try his luck, saying, that if he
succeeded, every one who wished should have a ride on his horse.
To the surprise of the children, he turned towards the water, and walked
along the bank. The brimming river was smooth as glass; and where it
stood in among the rushes, and in every tiny inlet, it was as clear as
the air, and alive with small fish, which darted at the flies that
dimpled the surface. A swan, which had been quietly sailing in the
middle of the stream, changed its deportment as the party proceeded
along the bank. It ruffled its breast feathers, arched back its neck
till the head rested between the erect wings, and drove through the
water with a speed which shivered the pictures in it as a sweeping gale
would have done.
"What is the matter with the creature?" asked Margaret; "I never saw a
swan behave so."
The children seemed rather afraid that the bird would come on shore and
attack them. Mr Hope took the opportunity of its being at some little
distance, to open the rushes, and show where a fine milk-white egg lay
in a large round nest.
"Oh, Mr Hope, you knew!" cried the children, "you knew there was a
swan's nest near."
"Yes; and did not you, when you saw how the swan behaved? But I was
aware of this nest before. Tom Creach has the care of the park swans;
he made this nest, and he told me where it was. Let your cousins have a
peep; and then we will go, before the poor swan grows too much
frightened. And now, who will have a ride on my horse?"
All the children chose to ride; and, while Mr Hope was coursing with
them in turn, round and round the meadow, the young ladies proceeded
along the bank. A quarter of a mile further on, they fell in with
Sydney Grey and his friend Mr Philip. They had been successful in
their sport. Mr Enderby had had enough of it, and was stretched on the
grass reading, while Sydney stood on the roots of an old oak, casting
his line into the pool beneath its shadow.
"So, here you are, quite safe!" said Sophia; "George Rowland might have
come after all. Poor boy! I am glad he is not with us, he would be so
mortified to see all the fish you have caught without him!"
"How many times have we been in the river, Sydney? Can you remember?"
asked Mr Enderby.
"I have seen no fish big enough to pull us in," said Sydney; "and I do
not know any other way of getting a wetting at this sport. Mrs Rowland
should have seen George and me climbing the old oak at the two-mile
turning. I dared George to it, and there he hung over the water, at the
end of the branch, riding up and down like a see-saw. She would think
nothing of letting him go fishing after that."
"If the branch had broken," said Mr Enderby, "what would you have done
then?"
"Oh, it is not often that a branch breaks."
"Old oaks are apt to break, sooner or later; and, the next time you dare
George to see-saw over the river, I would advise you to consider
beforehand how you would get him out, in case of his dropping in."
"Oh, he is not afraid. One day lately, when the water was low, he
offered to cross the weir at Dingleford. I did not persuade him to
that; but he pulled off his shoes and stockings, and got over and back,
safe enough."
"Indeed! and you tried it too, I suppose?"
"Yes; it would be a shame if I could not do what George can. It was
almost as easy as walking along this bank."
"I shall talk to Master George, however, before he goes to Dingleford
again, or he may chance to find it easier some day to miss his footing
than to hold it."
"I wonder Mrs Rowland is afraid to let George go out with you," said
Sophia, "considering what things he does when you are not with him."
"She does not know of these pranks, or she would feel as you do; and I
hope every one here will be kind enough not to tell her. It would only
be making her anxious to no purpose, whenever the boy is out of her
sight. It would be a pity to make a coward of him; and I think I can
teach him what is mischief, and what is not, without disturbing her.
Come, ladies, suppose you rest yourselves here; you will find a pleasant
seat on this bank: at least, I fell asleep on it just now, as if I had
been on a sofa."
"I wish you would all go to sleep, or else walk off," said Sydney. "You
make so much noise I shall never catch any fish."
"Suppose you were to go somewhere else," said Mr Enderby. "Would not
that be rather more civil than sending us all away?"
Sydney thought he would find another place: there were plenty along the
bank. He gathered up bait and basket, and trudged off. There was an
amusement, however, which he liked better even than fishing; and for
which he now surrendered it. He was presently seen cantering round the
meadow on Mr Hope's horse.
Mr Enderby hoped the Miss Ibbotsons were able to say "No" with
decision. If not, he did not envy them their supper this evening; for
Sydney would certainly ask them to eat all the fish he had caught--bream
and dace and all. The first pleasure of young anglers is to catch these
small fry; and the next is, to make their sisters and cousins eat them.
Sophia solemnly assured her cousins that mamma never allowed Sydney's
fish to come to table, at least in the house. If the children liked to
get the cook to boil them for their dolls' feasts in the schoolroom,
they might.
"And then Miss Young is favoured with a share, I suppose?" said
Margaret.
"Have you made acquaintance with Miss Young yet?" inquired Mr Enderby.
"Oh, yes! I had the pleasure of knowing Miss Young long before I knew
you."
"Long! how long? I was not aware that you had ever met. Where did you
meet?"
"In the schoolroom, before breakfast,--full four hours before you called
this morning."
"Oh, that is all you mean! I wondered how you should know her."
Sophia asked whether Margaret and Miss Young were not going to study
together: Margaret assented. Miss Young was kind enough to promise to
help her to read German.
"And you?" said Mr Enderby to Hester.
"Why, no; I am rather afraid of the undertaking."
"And you, Miss Grey?"
"No. Mamma says, I have enough to do with my history and my music;
especially while my cousins are here. I began German once, but mamma
thought I was growing awry, and so I left it off. I find Mrs Rowland
means Matilda to learn German."
"We are all disposed to have my little nieces learn whatever Miss Young
will be kind enough to teach them; they will gain nothing but good from
her."
"She is very learned, to be sure," observed Sophia.
"And something more than learned, I should think," said Hester; "I fancy
she is wise."
"How can you have discovered that already?" asked Mr Enderby, whose
fingers were busy dissecting a stalk of flowering grass.
"I hardly know; I have nothing to quote for my opinion. Her
conversation leaves a general impression of her being very sensible."
"Sensible, as she is a woman," observed Margaret; "if she were a man,
she would be called philosophical."
"She _is_ very superior," observed Sophia. "It was mamma's doing that
she is the children's governess."
"Philosophical!" repeated Mr Enderby. "It is a happy thing that she is
philosophical in her circumstances, poor thing!"
"As she happens to be unprosperous," said Margaret, smiling. "If she
were rich, and strong, and admired, her philosophy would be laughed at;
it would only be in the way."
Mr Enderby sighed, and made no answer. Before any one spoke again, Mr
Hope and his little companions came up.
"How quiet you all are!" exclaimed Sydney. "I've a good mind to come
and fish here again, if you will only go on to be so drowsy."
Sophia declared that they had been talking, up to the last minute, about
Miss Young, and learning German, and being philosophical.
"And which of the party have you made out to be the most philosophical?"
inquired Mr Hope.
"We have not so much as made out what philosophy is for," said Hester;
"can you tell us?"
As she looked up at Mr Hope, who was standing behind her, Sydney
thought her question was addressed to him. Swinging his fishing-rod
round, he replied doubtfully that he thought philosophy was good to know
how to do things. What sort of things? Why, to make phosphorus lights,
and electrify people, as Dr Levitt did, when he made Sophia jump off
the stool with glass legs. Sophia was sure that any one else would have
jumped off the stool as she did. She should take good care never to
jump on it again. But she wondered Sydney did not know any better than
that what philosophy was for. Her cousins said Miss Young was
philosophical, and she had nothing to do with phosphorus or electrical
machines.
Mr Enderby explained to Mr Hope that he had said what he was ready to
maintain; that it was a happy thing for any one who, like Miss Young,
was not so prosperous as she had been, to be supported by philosophy.
"And, granting this," said Margaret, "it was next inquired whether this
same philosophy would have been considered equally admirable, equally a
matter of congratulation, if Miss Young had not wanted it for solace."
"A question as old as the brigg at Stirling," replied Mr Hope; "older,
older than any bridges of man's making."
"Why Stirling brigg? What do you mean?"
"I mean--do not you know the story?--that an old woman wanted to cross
the Forth, and some ferrymen would have persuaded her to go in their
boat when she was confident that a tempest was coming on, which would
have made the ferry unsafe. They told her at last that she must trust
to Providence. `Na, na,' said she, `I will ne'er trust to Providence
while there is a brigg at Stirling.' The common practice is, you know,
with the old woman.--We will not trust to the highest support we profess
to have, till nothing else is left us. We worship philosophy, but never
think of making use of it while we have prosperity as well."
"The question is whether such practice is wise," said Margaret: "we all
know it is common."
"For my part," said Mr Enderby, "I think the old Scotchwoman was right;
Providence helps those that help themselves, and takes care of those who
take care of themselves."
"Just so," said Hope. "Her error was in supposing that the one course
was an alternative from the other,--that she would not be trusting in
Providence as much in going by the bridge as in braving the tempest. I
think we are in the same error when we set up philosophy and prosperity
in opposition to each other, taking up with the one when we cannot get
the other, as if philosophy were not over all, compassing our life as
the blue sky overarches the earth, brightening, vivifying, harmonising
all, whether we look up to see whence the light comes or not."
"You think it a mistake, then," said Margaret, "not to look up to it
till all is night below, and there is no light to be seen but by gazing
overhead?"
"I do not see why we should miss seeing the white clouds and blue depths
at noon because we may reckon upon moon and stars at midnight. Then
again, what is life at its best without philosophy?"
"I can tell you, as well as anybody," said Mr Enderby, "for I never had
any philosophy,--no, neither wisdom, nor the love of wisdom, nor
patience, nor any of the things that philosophy is understood to mean."
"Oh, Mr Enderby!" cried Sydney, "what pains you took to teach me to
fish, and to make me wait patiently for a bite! _You_ say you are not
patient!"
"My account of life without philosophy," said Mr Enderby, proceeding as
if he did not hear the children testifying to his patience with
them,--"my account of life without philosophy is, that it slips away
mighty easily, till it is gone, you scarcely know where or how."
"And when you call upon philosophy at last to give an account of it,
what does she say?" asked Margaret.
"I do not understand how life can slip away so," said Hester. "Is there
ever a day without its sting?--without doubt of somebody, disappointment
in oneself or another, dread of some evil, or weariness of spirit?
Prosperity is no more of a cure for these than for sickness and death.
If philosophy is--"
"Well!" exclaimed Mr Hope, with strong interest, "if philosophy is--"
"Happy they that have her, for all need her."
"Hear a testimony at least as candid as your own, Enderby. If you
really find life steal away as easily as you now fancy, depend upon it
you are more of a philosopher than you are aware of."
"What is philosophy?" asked Matilda of Sydney in a loud whisper, which
the boy was not in any hurry to take notice of, so little was there in
the conversation which seemed to bear upon phosphorus and electricity.
"A good question," observed Mr Enderby. "Hope, will you tell us
children what we are talking about,--what philosophy is all this while?"
"You gave us a few meanings just now, which I should put into one. Call
it enlargement of views, and you have wisdom, and the love of wisdom,
and patience, all at once: ay, Sydney, and your kind of philosophy
too:--It was by looking far and deep into nature that men found
electricity."
"Did Dr Levitt find it out?" asked Matilda: "he is so very
short-sighted! I don't believe he would see those fish snapping up the
flies, if he sat where I do. What was that that fell on my bonnet? Is
it raining?"
Sydney, tired of fishing, had climbed into the oak, and was sending down
twigs and leaves upon the heads of the party. Sophia desired him to
come down, and even assured him that if he did not, she should be angry.
He replied, that he would only stay to see whether she would be angry
or not. The experiment was cut short by the whole party rising, and
moving homewards. The sun was setting, and the picked cowslips must not
have any dew upon them.
As the group passed up the street, Sydney in advance, with his rod and
basket, on Mr Hope's horse, Mr Hope himself following with Hester, and
the tall Mr Enderby, with Sophia and Margaret on either arm, all, like
the little girls, laden with cowslips, the gossips of Deerbrook were
satisfied that the stranger ladies must have enjoyed their walk in the
meadows.