Mrs Rowland was mortified that the Greys had been beforehand with her
in the idea of a cowslip-gathering. From the moment of Matilda's asking
leave to accompany them, she resolved to have such an expedition from
her house as her neighbours should not be able to eclipse. Like Lear,
she did not yet know what her deed was to be; but it should be the
wonder and terror of the place: she would do such things as should
strike the strangers with admiration. When she heard an account of it
from her little daughter, she found this had been a very poor
beginning,--a mere walk in the meadows, and home again to tea;--no
boiling the kettle in the woods,--not even a surprise of early
strawberries. She could not call this being forestalled; it could not
give the young ladies any idea of a proper country excursion, with four
or five carriages, or a boat with an awning. As soon as Mr Rowland
came home in the evening, she consulted him about the day, the place,
the mode, and the numbers to be invited. Mr Rowland was so well
pleased to find his lady in the mood to be civil to her neighbours, that
he started no difficulties, and exerted himself to overcome such as
could not be overlooked. All the planning prospered so well, that notes
to the Grey family and to the Miss Ibbotsons lay on Mr Grey's
breakfast-table the next morning, inviting the whole party to dine with
Mrs Rowland in Dingleford woods, that day week--the carriages to be at
the door at ten o'clock.
The whole village rang with the preparations for this excursion; and the
village was destined to ring with other tidings before it took place.
Mrs Rowland often said that she had the worst luck in the world; and it
seemed as if all small events fell out so as to plague her. She had an
unusual fertility in such sensible suppositions and reasonable
complaints; and her whole diversity of expressions of this kind was
called into play about this expedition to Dingleford woods. The hams
were actually boiled, and the chicken-pies baked, when clouds began to
gather in the sky; and on the appointed morning, pattens clinked in the
village street, Miss Young's umbrella was wet through in the mere
transit from the farrier's gate to the schoolroom; the gravel-walk
before Mr Grey's house was full of yellow pools, and the gurgling of
spouts or drips from the trees was heard on every side. The worst of it
was, this rain came after a drought of many weeks, which had perilled
the young crops, and almost destroyed the hopes of hay; the ladies and
children had been far from sufficiently sorry to hear that some of the
poorer wheat lands in the county had been ploughed up, and that there
was no calculating what hay would be a ton the next winter. They were
now to receive the retribution of their indifference; rain had set in,
and the farmers hoped that it might continue for a month. It would not
be wise to fix any country excursion for a few weeks to come. Let the
young people enjoy any fine afternoon that they might be able to turn to
the account of a walk, or a drive, or a sail on the river; but picnic
parties must be deferred till settled weather came. There was every
hope that the middle of the summer would be fine and seasonable, if the
rains came down freely now.
This course of meteorological events involved two great vexations to
Mrs Rowland. One was, that the neighbours, who could pretend to
entertain the strangers only in a quiet way at home, took the
opportunity of the rainy weather to do so, hoping, as they said, not to
interfere with any more agreeable engagements. Mrs Rowland really
never saw anything so dissipated as the Greys; they were out almost
every evening when they had not company at home. It was impossible that
Sophia's studies could go on as they ought to do. What with taking a
quiet cup of tea with one acquaintance, and being at a merry reading
party at another's, and Mrs Enderby's little dance, and dinner at the
Levitts', there were few evenings left; and on those few evenings they
were never content to be alone. They were always giving the young men
encouragement to go in. Mr Hope made quite a home house of Mr Grey's;
and as for Philip, he seemed now to be more at Mr Grey's than even at
his own mother's or sister's. Mrs Grey ought to remember how bad all
this was for a girl of Sophia's age. It would completely spoil the
excursion to Dingleford woods. The young people knew one another so
well by this time, that the novelty was all worn off, and they would
have nothing left to say to each other. It was provoking that Mr
Rowland had promised that the excursion should take place whenever the
weather should be settled enough. It might so fairly have been given
up! and now it must be gone on with, when every one was tired of the
idea, and the young people must almost be weary of one another, from
being always together!
The other vexation was, that there were frequent short intervals of fine
weather, which were immediately taken advantage of for a drive, or a
walk, or a sail; and it came out one day from the children, who had
learned it in the schoolroom, that the Miss Ibbotsons had been in
Dingleford woods. There had been no such intention when the party set
out; they had not designed to go nearly so far; but they had been
tempted on by the beauty of the evening and of the scenery, till they
had found it the shortest way to come home through the Dingleford woods.
Mrs Rowland pronounced this abominable; and she was not appeased by
hearing that her brother had been the proposer of this mode of return,
and the guide of the party. Philip forgot everything, she declared, in
his fancy for these girls; it was always his fault that he was carried
away by the people he was with: he had got the name of a flirt by it,
and a flirt he was; but she had never known him so possessed as he
seemed to be by these strangers. She must speak to Mr Rowland about
it; the matter might really become serious; and if he should ever be
entrapped into marrying into the Grey connections, among people so
decidedly objectionable, it would be a terrible self-reproach to her as
long as she lived, that she had not interfered in time. She should
speak to Mr Rowland.
Meanwhile she kept a watchful eye on her brother's proceedings. She
found from the children that their Uncle Philip had fulfilled his
promise of going to see the schoolroom, and had been so much better than
his word, that he had been there very often. When he went, it was
always when the Miss Ibbotsons were there, learning German, or drawing,
or talking with Miss Young. It was impossible to pick a quarrel with
Miss Young about this; for she always sent her visitors away the moment
the clock struck the school hour. The summer-house was Mr Grey's
property, too; so that Mrs Rowland could only be angry at the studies
which went on in it, and had no power to close the doors against any of
the parties.
The rainy weather had indeed been very propitious to the study of
German. For a fortnight Margaret had spent some hours of each day with
Miss Young; and over their books they had learned so much of one
another's heart and mind, that a strong regard had sprung up between
them. This new friendship was a great event to Miss Young;--how great,
she herself could scarcely have believed beforehand. Her pupils found
that Miss Young was now very merry sometimes. Mr Grey observed to his
wife that the warmer weather seemed to agree with the poor young woman,
as she had some little colour in her cheeks at last; and Margaret
herself observed a change in the tone of the philosophy she had admired
from the beginning. There was somewhat less of reasoning in it, and
more of impulse; it was as sound as ever, but more genial. While never
forgetting the constancy of change in human affairs, she was heartily
willing to enjoy the good that befell her, while it lasted. It was well
that she could do so; for the good of this new friendship was presently
alloyed.
She was not aware, and it was well that she was not, that Hester was
jealous of her, almost from the hour of Margaret's learning what a vast
number of irregular verbs there is in the German. Each sister
remembered the conversation by the open window, on the night of their
arrival at Deerbrook. Remembering it, Margaret made Hester a partaker
in all her feelings about Maria Young; her admiration, her pity, her
esteem. Reserving to herself any confidence which Maria placed in her
(in which, however, no mention of Mr Enderby ever occurred), she kept
not a thought or feeling of her own from her sister. The consequence
was, that Hester found that Maria filled a large space in Margaret's
mind, and that a new interest had risen up in which she had little
share. She, too, remembered the conversation, but had not strength to
act up to the spirit of it. She had then owned her weakness, and called
it wickedness, and fancied that she could never mistrust her sister
again. She was now so ashamed of her own consciousness of being once
more jealous, that she strove to hide the fact from herself; and was not
therefore likely to tell it to Margaret. She struggled hourly with
herself, rebuking her own temper, and making appeals to her own
generosity. She sat drawing in the little blue parlour, morning after
morning, during Sophia's reading or practising, telling herself that
Margaret and Miss Young had no secrets, no desire to be always
_tete-a-tete_; that they had properly invited her to learn German; and
that she had only to go at any moment, and offer to join them, to be
joyfully received. She argued with herself,--how mean it would be to do
so; to agree to study at last, in order to be a sort of spy upon them,
to watch over her own interests; as if Margaret--the most sincere and
faithful of living beings--were not to be trusted with them. She had
often vowed that she would cure the jealousy of her temper; now was the
occasion, and she would meet it; she would steadily sit beside Sophia or
Mrs Grey every morning, when Margaret was not with her, and never let
her sister know how selfish she could be.
This was all very well; but it could not make Margaret suppose her
sister happy when she was not. She could not be certain what was the
matter, but she saw that something was wrong. At times, Hester's manner
was so unboundedly affectionate, that it was impossible to suppose that
unkind feelings existed towards herself; though a few pettish words were
at other times let drop. Hester's moods of magnanimity and jealousy
were accounted for in other ways by her sister. Margaret believed,
after a course of very close observation, that she had discovered, in
investigating the cause of Hester's discomposure, a secret which was
unknown to her sister herself. Margaret was not experienced in love,
nor in watching the signs of it; but here was the mind she understood
best, discomposed without apparent cause--more fond, more generous to
herself than ever, yet not reposing its usual confidence in her--and
subject to those starts of delight and disappointment which she had
heard and could understand to be the moods of love. She was confirmed
in her suspicion by observing that the merits of Mr Hope were becoming
daily a less common subject of conversation between them, while it was
certain that he had in no degree lost favour with either. They had been
charmed with him from the beginning, and had expressed to each other the
freest admiration of his truth, his gaiety, his accomplishments, and
great superiority to the people amidst whom he lived. He was now spoken
of less every day, while his visits grew more frequent, longer, and,
Margaret could not but think, more welcome to her sister. The hours
when he was sure not to come happened to be those which she spent with
Miss Young--the hours in which gentlemen are devoted to their business.
Margaret thus witnessed all that passed; and if her conjecture about
Hester was right, she could have wished to see Mr Hope's manner rather
different from what it was. He was evidently strongly attracted to the
house; and there was some reason to think that Mrs Grey believed that
Hester was the attraction. But Margaret had no such impression. She
saw that Mr Hope admired her sister's beauty, listened to her
conversation with interest, and was moved at times by the generosity of
her tone of moral feeling; but this, though much, was not enough for the
anxious sister's full satisfaction; and the one thing besides which she
would fain have discerned she could not perceive. These were early days
yet, however; so early that, in the case of any one whom she knew,
except her sister, she should have supposed her own conjectures wild and
almost improper; but Hester's was one of those natures to which time and
circumstance minister more speedily and more abundantly than to the
generality. By the strength of her feelings, and the activity of her
affections, time was made more comprehensive, and circumstance more
weighty than to others. A day would produce changes in her which the
impressions of a week would not effect in less passionate natures; and
what were trifling incidents to the minds about her, were great events
to her.
Margaret began to consider what was to be done. The more she thought,
the more plainly she perceived that there was nothing to be done but to
occupy Hester, simply and naturally, with as many interests as possible.
This was safe practice, be the cause of her occasional discomposure
what it might. It was particularly desirable that she should not
continue the habit of sitting in silence for a considerable part of
every morning.
One day, just after the voices of the children had been heard in the
hall, giving token that school was over, Hester, sitting in the little
blue parlour alone, with her head on her hand, was apparently
contemplating the drawing on her board, but really considering that
Margaret was now beginning to be happy with her friend, and asking why
Margaret should not be happy with her friend, when Margaret herself
entered.
"Do you want Sophia?" said Hester. "She is up-stairs."
"No; I want you."
"Indeed!"
There was an ironical tone of surprise in the one word she spoke, which
let fall a weight upon Margaret's heart;--an old feeling, but one to
which she had made no progress towards being reconciled.
"I cannot help you with your German, you know. How can you pretend to
want me?"
"It is not about the German at all that I want you. Maria has found a
Spenser at last, and I am going to read her the `Hymn of Heavenly
Beauty,' I know you never can hear that often enough; so come!"
"Perhaps Miss Young had rather not. I should be sorry to intrude myself
upon her. But, however," continued she, observing Margaret's look of
surprise, "I will come. Do not wait for me, dear. I will come the
moment I have put up my drawing."
Margaret did wait, running over the keys of the open piano meanwhile.
"Shall I call Sophia too?" asked Hester, as she took up her work-bag.
"I dare say she never read any of Spenser."
"I dare say not," replied Margaret; "and she would not care about it
now. If you think we ought, we will call her. If not--"
Hester smiled, nodded, and led the way to the schoolroom without calling
Sophia. She had not been two minutes in the cordial presence of her
sister and Maria, before she felt the full absurdity of the feelings
which had occupied her so lately, and was angry with herself to her own
satisfaction. Her companions looked at each other with a smile as they
observed at the same moment the downcast attitude of her moistened eyes,
the beautiful blush on her cheek, and the expression of meek emotion on
her lips. They thought that it was the image of heavenly beauty which
moved her thus.
Before they had quite finished the Hymn, the door was burst open, and
the children entered, dragging in Mr Enderby. Mr Enderby rebuked
them, good-naturedly, for introducing him with so little ceremony, and
declared to the ladies that Matilda had promised to knock before she
opened the door. Hester advised Mary and Fanny to be more quiet in
their mode of entrance, observing that they had made Miss Young start
with their hurry.
Matilda was glad her uncle remembered to come sometimes. He had
promised it several weeks before he came at all; even when he said he
was going away in a fortnight.
"And if I had gone away in a fortnight," said he, "I should not have
seen your schoolroom. But this is not the first time I have seen it, as
you remember very well. I have been here often lately."
"But you never attend to me here, uncle! And I want so to show you my
desk, where I keep my copy-book, and the work-box you gave me on my
birthday."
"Well, you can show me now, cannot you? So, this is your desk! It
seems convenient enough, whatever we may think of its beauty. I suppose
it will hold all the knowledge you will want to have put into your head
for some time to come. Now show me which is George's desk, and which
Fanny's; and now Mary's,--a nice row of desks! Now," whispering to her,
"can you show me which is Miss Margaret's desk?"
The little girl giggled as she answered, that Miss Margaret was too old
to be a school-girl.
"So she is: but she learns of Miss Young, and I know she keeps some of
her books here. Can you show me where?"
There was a desk rather larger than the rest, the lid of which now
happened to be standing open. Matilda slyly pointed to it. While the
ladies were engaged with the other children, Mr Enderby cast a glance
into this desk, saw a book which he knew to be Margaret's, laid
something upon it from his pocket, and softly closed the lid; the whole
passing, if it was observed at all, as a survey of the children's desks.
He then pretended to look round for the rod.
"No rod!" said he to the laughing children. "Oh, I should like to learn
here very much, if there is no rod. Miss Margaret, do you not find it
very pleasant learning here?"
The children were shouting, "Miss Young, Miss Young, do let uncle Philip
come and learn with us. He says he will be a very good boy,--won't you,
uncle Philip? Miss Young, when may uncle Philip come and learn his
lessons?"
Margaret saw that there was constraint in the smile with which Maria
answered the children. Little as she knew, it struck her that in his
fun with the children, Mr Enderby was relying quite sufficiently on the
philosophy he had professed to admire in Miss Young. Mr Enderby drew a
chair to the window round which the ladies were sitting, and took up the
volume Margaret had just laid down.
"Go, go, children!" said he; "run away to your gardens! I cannot spare
you any more play to-day."
"Oh, but uncle, we want to ask you a question."
"Well, ask it."
"But it is a secret. You must come into the corner with Fanny, and
Mary, and me."
For peace and quiet he went into the corner with them, and they
whispered into each ear a question, how many burnt almonds and
gingerbread-buttons, and how much barley-sugar, two shillings and
threepence halfpenny would buy? The cowslips were now ready to make tea
of, and the feast on the dolls' dishes might be served any day. Mr
Enderby promised to inquire at the confectioner's, and not to tell
anybody else; and at last the children were got rid of.
"Now that we have done with mysteries," said he, as he resumed his seat
by the window, "that is, with children's mysteries that we can see to
the bottom of, let us look a little into the poet's mysteries. What
were you reading? Show me, and I will be your reader. Who or what is
this Heavenly Beauty? We have not done with mysteries yet, I see."
"I was wondering," said Margaret smiling, "whether you take up Spenser
because you are tired of mysteries. In such a case, some other poet
might suit you better."
"What other?"
"Some one less allegorical, at least."
"I do not know that," said Hester. "The most cunning allegory that ever
was devised is plain and easy in comparison with the simplest true
story,--fully told: and a man is a poet in proportion as he fully tells
a simple true story."
"A story of the mind, you mean," said Mr Enderby, "not of the mere
events of life?"
"Of the mind, of course, I mean. Without the mind the mere life is
nothing."
"Is not allegory a very pretty way of telling such a story of the mind,
under the appearance of telling a story of a life?"
"Yes," said Margaret; "and that is the reason why so many like allegory.
There is a pleasure in making one's way about a grotto in a garden; but
I think there is a much higher one in exploring a cave on the sea-shore,
dim and winding, where you never know that you have come to the end,--a
much higher pleasure in exploring a life than following out an
allegory."
"You are a true lover of mystery, Miss Margaret. You should have lived
a thousand years ago."
"Thank you: I am very glad I did not. But why so long ago? Are there
not mysteries enough left?"
"And will there not be enough a thousand years hence?" said Hester.
"I am afraid not. You and I cannot venture to speak upon what the
Germans may be doing. But these two ladies can tell us, perhaps,
whether they are not clearing everything up very fast;--making windows
in your cave, Miss Margaret, till nobody will be afraid to look into
every cranny of it."
"And then our complaint," said Miss Young, "will be like Mrs Howell's,
when somebody told her that we were to have the Drummond light on every
church steeple. `Oh dear, ma'am!' said she, `we shall not know how in
the world to get any darkness.'"
"You speak as if you agreed that the Germans really are the makers of
windows that Mr Enderby supposes them," observed Margaret; "but you do
not think we are any nearer the end of mysteries than ever, do you?"
"Oh, no; not till we have struck our stone to the bottom of the
universe, and walked round it: and I am not aware that the Germans
pretend to be able to do that, any more than other people. Indeed, I
think there are as many makers of grottoes as explorers of caves among
them. What do you want, my dear?"
This last was addressed to George, whose round face, red with exertion,
appeared at a back window. The little girls were hoisting him up, that
he might call out once more, "Uncle Philip, be sure you remember not to
tell."
"It would be a pity that mysteries should come to an end," observed Mr
Enderby, "when they seem to please our human tastes so well. See there,
how early the love of mystery begins! and who can tell where it ends?
Is there one of your pupils, Miss Young, in whom you do not find it?"
"Not one; but is there not a wide difference between the love of making
mysteries, and a taste for finding them out?"
"Do you not find both in children, and up into old age?"
"In children, one usually finds both: but I think the love of
mystery-making and surprises goes off as people grow wiser. Fanny and
Mary were plotting all last week how to take their sister Sophia by
surprise with a piece of India-rubber, a token of fraternal affection,
as they were pleased to call it; and you see George has a secret to-day:
but they will have fewer hidings and devices every year: and, if they
grow really wise, they will find that, amidst the actual business of
life, there is so much more safety, and ease, and blessing in perfect
frankness than in any kind of concealment, that they will give
themselves the liberty and peace of being open as the daylight. Such is
my hope for them. But all this need not prevent their delighting in the
mysteries which are not of man's making."
"They will be all the more at leisure for them," said Margaret, "from
having their minds free from plots and secrets."
"Surely you are rather hard upon arts and devices," said Philip.
"Without more or fewer of them, we should make our world into a Palace
of Truth,--see the Veillees du Chateau, which Matilda is reading with
Miss Young. Who ever read it, that did not think the Palace of Truth
the most disagreeable place in the world?"
"And why?" asked Margaret. "Not because the people in it spoke truth;
but because the truth which they spoke was hatred, and malice, and
selfishness."
"And how much better," inquired Hester, "is the truth that we should
speak, if we were as true as the daylight? I hope we shall always be
allowed to make mysteries of our own selfish and unkind fancies. There
would be little mutual respect left if these things were told."
"I think there would be more than ever," said Margaret, carefully
avoiding to meet her sister's eye. "I think so many mistakes would be
explained, so many false impressions set right, on the instant of their
being made, that our mutual relations would go on more harmoniously than
now."
"And what would you do with the affairs now dedicated to mystery?" asked
Mr Enderby. "How would you deal with diplomacy, and government, and
with courtship? You surely would not overthrow the whole art of wooing?
You would not doom lovers' plots and devices?"
The ladies were all silent. Mr Enderby, however, was determined to
have an answer. He addressed himself particularly to Margaret.
"You do not disapprove of the little hidden tokens with which a man may
make his feelings secretly known where he wishes them to be
understood;--tokens which may meet the eye of one alone, and carry no
meaning to any other! You do not disapprove of a more gentle and
mysterious way of saying, `I love you,' than looking full in one
another's face, and declaiming it like a Quaker upon affirmation? You
do not disapprove--"
"As for disapproving," said Margaret, who chanced to perceive that
Maria's hand shook so that she could not guide her needle, and that she
was therefore apparently searching for something in her work-box,--"as
for disapproving, I do not pretend to judge for other people--"
She stopped short, struck with the blunder she had made. Mr Enderby
hastened to take advantage of it. He said, laughing:
"Well, then, speak for yourself. Never mind other people's case."
"What I mean," said Margaret, with grave simplicity, "is, that all
depends upon the person whose regard is to be won. There are silly
girls, and weak women, who, liking mysteries in other affairs, are best
pleased to be wooed with small artifices;--with having their vanity and
their curiosity piqued with sly compliments--"
"Sly compliments! What an expression!"
"Such women agree, as a matter of course, in the old notion,--suitable
enough five centuries ago,--that the life of courtship should be as
unlike as possible to married life. But I certainly think those much
the wisest and the happiest, who look upon the whole affair as the
solemn matter that it really is, and who desire to be treated, from the
beginning, with the sincerity and seriousness which they will require
after they are married."
"If the same simplicity and seriousness were common in this as are
required in other grave transactions," said Hester, "there would be less
of the treachery, delusion, and heart-breaking, which lie heavy upon the
souls of many a man and many a woman."
Mr Enderby, happening to be looking out of the window here, as if for
something to say, caught the eye of his sister, who was walking in her
garden. She beckoned to him, but he took no notice, not desiring to be
disturbed at present. Turning again to Margaret, he said:
"But you would destroy all the graces of courtship: you would--"
"Nay," said Hester, "what is so graceful as the simplicity of entire
mutual trust?--the more entire the more graceful."
"I wish you had left out the word `trust.' You have spoiled something
that I was going on to say about the simplicity of drawing lots like the
Moravians,--the most sincere courtship of all: but that word `trust'
puts my illustration aside. You need not protest. I assure you I am
not so dull as not to understand that you think love necessary to the
wooing which seems graceful in your eyes;--Oh, yes: love, and mutual
knowledge, and mutual reverence, and perfect trust! Oh, yes, I
understand it all."
"Philip!" cried a soft, sentimental voice under the window:
"Brother, I want your arm for a turn in the shrubbery."
Mrs Rowland's bonnet was visible as she looked up to the window. She
saw the braids of the hair of the young ladies, and her voice was rather
less soft as she called again, "Philip, do you hear? I want you."
It was impossible to seem not to hear. Mr Enderby was obliged to go:
but he left his hat behind him, as a sort of pledge that he meant to
limit himself to the single turn proposed.
For various reasons, the young ladies were all disinclined to speak
after he had left them. Miss Young was the first to move. She rose to
go to her desk for something,--the desk in which Margaret kept the books
she used in this place. Ever on the watch to save Maria the trouble of
moving about, which was actual pain to her, Margaret flew to see if she
could not fetch what was wanted: but Miss Young was already looking into
the desk. Her eye caught the pretty new little volume which lay there.
She took it up, found it was a volume of Tieck, and saw on the fly-leaf,
in the well-known handwriting, "From PE." One warm beam of hope shot
through her heart:--how could it be otherwise,--the book lying in her
desk, and thus addressed? But it was only one moment's joy. The next
instant's reflection, and the sight of Margaret's German exercise, on
which the book had lain, revealed the real case to her. In sickness of
heart, she would, upon impulse, have put back the book, and concealed
the incident: but she was not sure but that Margaret had seen the
volume, and she _was_ sure of what her own duty was. With a smile and a
steady voice she held out the book to Margaret, and said:
"Here is something for you, Margaret, which looks a little like one of
the hidden, and gentle, and mysterious tokens Mr Enderby has been
talking about. Here it is, lying among your books; and I think it was
not with them when you last left your seat."
Margaret blushed with an emotion which seemed to the one who knew her
best to be too strong to be mere surprise. She looked doubtful for a
moment about the book being meant for her. Its German aspect was
conclusive against its being designed for Hester: but Miss Young,--was
it certain that the volume was not hers? She asked this; but Maria
replied, as her head was bent over her desk:
"There is no doubt about it. I am sure. It is nobody's but yours."
Some one proposed to resume the reading. The `Hymn to Heavenly Beauty'
was finished, but no remark followed. Each was thinking of something
else. More common subjects suited their present mood better. It was
urged upon Hester that she should be one of the daily party; and, her
lonely fancies being for the hour dispersed, she agreed.
"But," she observed, "other people's visits alter the case entirely. I
do not see how study is to go on if any one may come in from either
house, as Mr Enderby did to-day. It is depriving Miss Young of her
leisure, too, and making use of her apartment in a way that she may well
object to."
"I am here, out of school hours, only upon sufferance," replied Miss
Young. "I never call the room mine without this explanation."
"Besides," said Margaret, "it is a mere accident Mr Enderby's coming in
to-day. If he makes a habit of it, we have only to tell him that we
want our time to ourselves."
Miss Young knew better. She made no reply; but she felt in her inmost
soul that her new-born pleasures were, from this moment, to be turned
into pains. She knew Mr Enderby; and knowing him, foresaw that she was
to be a witness of his wooings of another, whom she had just begun to
take to her heart. This was to be her fate if she was strong enough for
it,--strong enough to be generous in allowing to Margaret opportunities
which could not without her be enjoyed, of fixing the heart of one whom
she could not pronounce to have been faulty towards herself. His
conversation today had gone far to make her suppose him blameless, and
herself alone in fault; so complete had seemed his unconsciousness with
regard to her. Her duty then was clearly to give them up to each other,
with such spirit of self-sacrifice as she might be capable of. If not
strong enough for this, the alternative was a daily painful retreat to
her lodging, whence she might look out on the heaps of cinders in the
farrier's yard, her spirit abased the while with the experience of her
own weakness. Neither alternative was very cheering.