Mr Rowland hoped "to see the whole of the present company, from the
oldest to the youngest." This was the best part of his speech to the
ears of the children; it made an impression also upon some others. Two
or three days afterwards, Sydney burst, laughing, into the dining-room,
where his mother and her guests were at work, to tell them that he had
seen Mr Hope riding a pony in the oddest way, in the lane behind his
lodgings. He had a side-saddle, and a horse-cloth put on like a lady's
riding-habit. He rode the pony in and out among the trees, and made it
scramble up the hill behind, and it went as nicely as could be, wherever
he wanted it to go. Mr Hope's new way of riding was easily explained,
the next time he called. Miss Young was certainly included in the
invitation to Dingleford woods: it was a pity she should not go; and she
could not walk in wild places:--the pony was training for her. Mrs
Grey quite agreed that Miss Young ought to go, but thought that Mr Hope
was giving himself much needless trouble; there would be room made for
her in some carriage, of course. No doubt; but no kind of carriage
could make its way in the woods; and, but for this pony, Miss Young
would have to sit in a carriage, or under a tree, the whole time that
the rest of the party were rambling about; whereas, this quiet active
little pony would take care that she was nowhere left behind. It could
do everything but climb trees. It was to be taken over to Dingleford
the evening before, and would be waiting for its rider on the verge of
the woods, when the party should arrive.
Miss Young was touched, and extremely pleased with Mr Hope's attention.
In the days of her prosperity she had been accustomed to ride much, and
was very fond of it; but since her misfortunes she had never once been
in the saddle--lame as she was, and debarred from other exercise. To be
on a horse again, and among the woods, was a delicious prospect; and
when a few misgivings had been reasoned away--misgivings about being
troublesome, about being in the way of somebody's pleasure or
convenience--Maria resigned herself to the full expectation of a most
delightful day, if the weather would only be fine. The children would
be there; and they were always willing to do anything for her. Sydney
would guide her pony in case of need, or show her where she might stay
behind by herself, if the others should exhibit a passion for
impracticable places. She knew that Margaret would enjoy the day all
the more for her being there; and so would Mr Hope, as he had amply
proved. Maria was really delighted to be going, and she and the
children rejoiced together.
This great pleasure involved some minor enjoyments too, in the way of
preparation. On Sunday Mr Hope told her, that he believed the pony was
now fully trained; but he should like that she should try it, especially
as she had been long out of the habit of riding. She must take a ride
with him on Monday and Tuesday afternoons, for practice. The Monday's
ride was charming; through Verdon woods, and home over the heath from
Crossley End. The circuit, which was to have been three miles, had
extended to ten. She must be moderate, she said to herself, the next
day, and not let Mr Hope spend so much of his time upon her; and
besides, the pony had to be sent over to Dingleford in the evening,
after she had done with it, to be in readiness for her on Wednesday
morning.
The ride on Tuesday was happily accomplished, as that of Monday: but it
was much shorter. Mr Hope agreed that it should be short, as he had a
patient to visit on the Dingleford road, so near the hamlet that he
might as well take the pony there himself. It would trot along beside
his horse. Sydney saved him part of the charge. Sydney would at all
times walk back any distance for the sake of a ride out, on whatever
kind of saddle, or almost any kind of quadruped. He was in waiting at
the farrier's gate, when Miss Young returned from her ride; and having
assisted her into the house, he threw himself upon her pony, and rode
three miles and a half on the Dingleford road before he would dismount,
and deliver his bridle into Mr Hope's hand. Tea was over, and the
tea-things removed, before he appeared at home, heated and delighted
with his expedition. He ran to the dairy for a basin of milk, and
declared that his being hot and tired did not matter in the least, as he
had no lessons to do--the next day being a holiday.
It was about two hours after this, when Hester and Margaret were singing
to Sophia's playing, that Mr Grey put his head in at the door, and
beckoned Mrs Grey out of the room. She remained absent a considerable
time; and when she returned, the singers were in the middle of another
duet. She wandered restlessly about the room till the piece was
finished, and then made a sign to Sophia to follow her into the
storeroom, the double door of which the sisters could hear carefully
closed. They were too much accustomed to the appearance of mystery
among the ladies of the Grey family, to be surprised at any number of
secret conferences which might take place in the course of the day. But
evening was not the usual time for these. The family practice was to
transact all private consultations in the morning, and to assemble round
the work-table or piano after tea. The sisters made no remark to each
other on the present occasion, but continued their singing, each
supposing that the store-room conference related to some preparation for
the next day's excursion.
It was too dark to distinguish anything in the room before their hostess
re-entered it. Margaret was playing quadrilles; Hester was standing at
the window, watching the shadows which the risen moon was flinging
across the field, and the lighting up of Mrs Enderby's parlour behind
the blinds; and Sydney was teasing his twin sisters with rough play on
the sofa, when Mrs Grey returned.
"You are all in the dark," said she, in a particularly grave tone.
"Why, did you not ring for lights, my dears?" and she rang immediately.
"Be quiet, children! I will not have you make so much noise."
The little girls seemed to wish to obey; but their brother still forced
them to giggle; and their struggling entreaties were heard--"Now don't,
Sydney; now pray, Sydney, don't!"
"Mary and Fanny, go to bed," said their mother, decidedly, when lights
were brought. "Sydney, bid your cousins good-night, and then come with
me; I want to ask you a question."
"Good-night already, mother! Why, it is not time yet this half-hour."
"It is enough that I choose you to go to bed. Wish your cousins
good-night, and come with me."
Mrs Grey led the way once more into the store-room, followed, rather
sulkily, by Sydney.
"What can all this be about?" whispered Hester to Margaret. "There is
always something going on which we are not to know."
"Some affair of fruit, or wine, or bonbons, perhaps, which are all the
better for making their appearance unexpectedly."
At this moment Sophia and her mother entered by opposite doors.
Sophia's eyes were red; and there was every promise in her face that the
slightest word spoken to her would again open the sluices of her tears.
Mrs Grey's countenance was to the last degree dismal: but she talked--
talked industriously, of everything she could think of. This was the
broadest possible hint to the sisters not to inquire what was the
matter; and they therefore went on sewing and conversing very diligently
till they thought they might relieve Mrs Grey by offering to retire.
They hesitated only because Mr Grey had not come in; and he so
regularly appeared at ten o'clock, that they had never yet retired
without having enjoyed half an hour's chat with him.
"Sophia, my dear," said her mother, "are the night candles there? Light
your cousins' candles.--I am sure they are wishing to go; and it is
getting late. You will not see Mr Grey to-night, my dears. He has
been sent for to a distance."
At this moment, the scrambling of a horse's feet was heard on the gravel
before the front door. Sophia looked at her mother, and each lighted a
candle precipitately, and thrust it into a hand of each cousin.
"There, go, my dears," said Mrs Grey. "Never mind stopping for Mr
Grey. I will deliver your good-night to him. You will have to be
rather early in the morning, you know. Good-night, good-night."
Thus Hester and Margaret were hurried up-stairs, while the front door
was in the act of being unbarred for Mr Grey's entrance. Morris was
despatched after them, with equal speed, by Mrs Grey's orders, and she
reached their chamber-door at the same moment that they did.
Hester set down her candle, bade Morris shut the door, and threw herself
into an armchair with wonderful decision of manner, declaring that she
had never been so treated;--to be amused and sent to bed like a baby, in
a house where she was a guest!
"I am afraid something is the matter," said Margaret.
"What then? they might have told us so, and said plainly that they had
rather be alone."
"People must choose their own ways of managing their own affairs, you
know: and what those ways are cannot matter to us, as long as we are not
offended at them."
"Do you take your own way of viewing their behaviour, then, and leave me
mine," said Hester hastily.
Morris feared there was something amiss; and she believed Alice knew
what it was: but she had not told either cook or housemaid a syllable
about it. By Morris's account, Alice had been playing the mysterious in
the kitchen as her mistress had in the parlour. Mr Grey had been
suddenly sent for, and had saddled his horse himself, as his people were
all gone, and there was no one on the premises to do it for him. A
wine-glass had also been called for, for Miss Sophia, whose weeping had
been overheard. Master Sydney had gone to his room very cross,
complaining of his mother's having questioned him overmuch about his
ride, and then sent him to bed half an hour before his usual time.
A deadly fear seized upon Margaret's heart, when she heard of Sydney's
complaint of being overmuch questioned about his ride,--a deadly fear
for Hester. If her suspicion should prove true, it was out of pure
consideration that they had been "amused and sent to bed like babies."
A glance at Hester showed that the same apprehension had crossed her
mind. Her eyes were closed for a moment, and her face was white as
ashes. It was not for long, however. She presently said, with
decision, that whatever was the matter, it must be some entirely private
affair of the Greys'. If any accident had happened to any one in the
village,--if bad news had arrived of any common friend,--there would be
no occasion for secrecy. In such a case, Mrs Grey would have given
herself the comfort of speaking of it to her guests. It must certainly
be some entirely private, some family affair.--Hester was sincere in
what she said. She knew so little of the state of her own heart, that
she could not conceive how some things in it could be divined or
speculated upon by others. Still only on the brink of the discovery
that she loved Mr Hope, she could never have imagined that any one else
could dream of such a thing,--much less act upon it. She was angry with
herself for letting her fears now point for a moment to Mr Hope; for,
if this bad news had related to him, her sister and she would, of
course, have heard of it the next moment after the Greys. Margaret
caught her sister's meaning, and strove to the utmost to think as she
did; but Sydney's complaint of being "overmuch questioned about his
ride" was fatal to the attempt. It returned upon her incessantly during
the night; and when, towards morning, she slept a little, these words
seemed to be sounding in her ear all the while. Before undressing, both
she and Hester had been unable to resist stepping out upon the stairs to
watch for signs whether it was the intention of the family to sit up or
go to rest. All had retired to their rooms some time before midnight;
and then it was certain that nothing more could be learned before
morning.
Each sister believed that the other slept; but neither could be sure.
It was an utterly wretched night to both, and the first which they had
ever passed in misery, without speaking to each other. Margaret's
suffering was all from apprehension. Hester was little alarmed in
comparison; but she this night underwent the discovery which her sister
had made some little time ago. She discovered that nothing could happen
to her so dreadful as any evil befalling Mr Hope. She discovered that
he was more to her than the sister whom she could have declared, but a
few hours before, to be the dearest on earth to her. She discovered
that she was for ever humbled in her own eyes; that her self-respect had
received an incurable wound: for Mr Hope had never given her reason to
regard him as more than a friend. During the weary hours of this night,
she revolved every conversation, every act of intercourse, which she
could recall; and from all that she could remember, the same impression
resulted--that Mr Hope was a friend, a kind and sympathising friend--
interested in her views and opinions, in her tastes and feelings;--that
he was this kind friend, and nothing more. He had in no case
distinguished her from her sister. She had even thought, at times, that
Margaret had been the more important of the two to him. That might be
from her own jealous temper, which, she knew, was apt to make her fancy
every one preferred to herself: but she _had_ thought that he liked
Margaret best, as she was sure Mr Enderby did. Whichever way she
looked at the case, it was all wretchedness. She had lost her
self-sufficiency and self-respect, and she was miserable.
The first rays of morning have a wonderful power of putting to flight
the terrors of the darkness, whether their causes lie without us or
within. When the first beam of the midsummer sunshine darted into the
chamber, through the leafy limes which shaded one side of the apartment,
Hester's mood transiently changed. There was a brief reaction in her
spirits. She thought she had been making herself miserable far too
readily. The mystery of the preceding evening might turn out a trifle:
she had been thinking too seriously about her own fancies. If she had
really been discovering a great and sad secret about herself, no one
else knew it, nor need ever know it. She could command herself; and, in
the strength of pride and duty, she would do so. All was not lost.
Before this mood had passed away, she fell asleep, with prayer in her
heart, and quiet tears upon her cheek. Both sisters were roused from
their brief slumbers by a loud tapping at their door. All in readiness
to be alarmed, Margaret sprang up, and was at the door to know who was
there.
"It is us--it is we, Fanny and Mary, cousin Margaret," answered the
twins, "come to call you. It is such a fine morning, you can't think.
Papa does not believe we shall have a drop of rain to-day. The baker's
boy has just carried the rolls,--such a basket-full!--to Mrs Rowland's:
so you must get up. Mamma is getting up already."
The sisters were vexed to have been thrown into a terror for nothing;
but it was a great relief to find Mr Grey prophesying fine weather for
the excursion. Nothing could have happened to cast a doubt over it.
Margaret, too, now began to think that the mystery might turn out a
trifle; and she threw up the sash, to let in the fresh air, with a
gaiety of spirits she had little expected to feel.
Another tap at the door. It was Morris, with the news that it was a
fine morning, that the whole house was astir, and that she had no
further news to tell.
Another tap before they were half-dressed. It was Mrs Grey, with a
face quite as sorrowful as on the preceding evening, and the peculiar
nervous expression about the mouth--which served her instead of tears.
"Have you done with Morris yet, my dears?"
"Morris, you may go," said Hester, steadily.
Mrs Grey gazed at her with a mournful inquisitiveness, while she spoke;
and kept her eyes fixed on Hester throughout, though what she said
seemed addressed to both sisters.
"There is something the matter, Mrs Grey," continued Hester, calmly.
"Say what it is. You had better have told us last night."
"I thought it best not to break your sleep, my dears. We always think
bad news is best told in the morning."
"Tell us," said Margaret. Hester quietly seated herself on the bed.
"It concerns our valued friend, Mr Hope," said Mrs Grey. Hester's
colour had been going from the moment Mrs Grey entered the room: it was
now quite gone; but she preserved her calmness.
"He was safe when Sydney lost sight of him, on the ridge of the hill, on
the Dingleford road; but he afterwards had an accident."
"What kind of accident?" inquired Margaret.
"Is he killed?" asked Hester.
"No, not killed. He was found insensible in the road. The miller's boy
observed his horse, without a rider, plunge into the river below the
dam, and swim across; and another person saw the pony Sydney had been
riding, grazing with a side-saddle on, on the common. This made them
search, and they found Mr Hope lying in the road insensible, as I told
you."
"What is thought of his state?" asked Margaret.
"Two medical men were called immediately from the nearest places, and
Mr Grey saw them last night; for the news reached us while you were at
the piano, and we thought--"
"Yes but what do the medical men say?"
"They do not speak very favourably. It is a concussion of the brain.
They declare the case is not hopeless, and that is all they can say. He
has not spoken yet; only just opened his eyes: but we are assured the
case is not quite desperate; so we must hope for the best."
"I am glad the case is not desperate," said Hester. "He would be a
great loss to you all."
Mrs Grey looked at her in amazement, and then at Margaret. Margaret's
eyes were full of tears. She comprehended and respected the effort her
sister was making.
"Oh, Mrs Grey!" said Margaret, "must we go to-day? Surely it is no
time for an excursion of pleasure."
"That must be as you feel disposed, my dears. It would annoy Mrs
Rowland very much to have the party broken up; so much so, that some of
us must go: but my young people will do their best to fill your places,
if you feel yourselves unequal to the exertion." She looked at Hester
as she spoke.
"Oh, if anybody goes, we go, of course," said Hester. "I think you are
quite right in supposing that the business of the day must proceed. If
there was anything to be done by staying at home,--if you could make us
of any use, Mrs Grey, it would be a different thing: but--"
"Well, if there is nothing in your feelings which--if you believe
yourselves equal to the exertion--"
Margaret now interposed. "One had rather stay at home and be quiet,
when one is anxious about one's friends: but other people must be
considered, as we seem to be agreed,--Mr and Mrs Rowland, and all the
children. So we will proceed with our dressing, Mrs Grey. But can you
tell us, before you go, how soon--How soon we shall know;--when this
case will probably be decided?"
It might be a few hours, or it might be many days, Mrs Grey said. She
should stay at home to-day, in case of anything being sent for from the
farmhouse where Mr Hope was lying. He was well attended--in the hands
of good nurses--former patients of his own: but something might be
wanted; and orders had been left by Mr Grey that application should be
made to his house for whatever could be of service: so Mrs Grey could
not think of leaving home. Mr Grey would make inquiry at the farmhouse
as the party went by to the woods: and he would just turn his horse back
in the middle of the day, to inquire again: and thus the Rowlands' party
would know more of Mr Hope's state than those who remained at home.
Having explained, Mrs Grey quitted the room, somewhat disappointed that
Hester had received the disclosure so well.
The moment the door was closed, Hester sank forward on the bed, her face
hidden, but her trembling betraying her emotion.
"I feared this," said Margaret, looking mournfully at her sister.
"You feared what?" asked Hester, quickly, looking up.
"I feared that some accident had happened to Mr Hope."
"So did I."
"And if," said Margaret, "I feared something else--Nay, Hester, you must
let me speak. We must have no concealments, Hester. You and I are
alone in the world, and we must comfort each other. We agreed to this.
Why should you be ashamed of what you feel? I believe that you have a
stronger interest in this misfortune than any one in the world; and
why--"
"How do you mean, a stronger interest?" asked Hester, trying to command
her voice. "Tell me what you mean, Margaret."
"I mean," said Margaret, steadily, "that no one is so much attached to
Mr Hope as you are."
"I think," said Margaret, after a pause, "that Mr Hope has a high
respect and strong regard for you." She paused again, and then added,
"If I believed anything more, I would tell you."
When Hester could speak again, she said, gently and humbly, "I assure
you, Margaret, I never knew the state of my own mind till this last
night. If I had been aware--"
"If you had been aware, you would have been unlike all who ever really
loved, if people say true. Now that you have become aware, you will act
as you _can_ act--nobly--righteously. You will struggle with your
feelings till your mind grows calm. Peace will come in time."
"Do you think there is no hope?"
"Consider his state."
"But if he should recover? Oh, Margaret, how wicked all this is! While
he lies there, we are grieving about me! What a selfish wretch I am!"
Margaret had nothing to reply, there seemed so much truth in this. Even
she reproached herself with being exclusively anxious about her sister,
when such a friend might be dying; when a life of such importance to
many was in jeopardy.
"I could do anything, I could bear anything," said Hester, "if I could
be sure that nobody knew. But you found me out, Margaret, and
perhaps--"
"I assure you, I believe you are safe," said Margaret. "You can hide
nothing from me. But, Mrs Grey--and nobody except myself, has watched
you like Mrs Grey--has gone away, I am certain, completely deceived.
But, Hester! my own precious sister, bear with one word from me! Do not
trust too much to your pride."
"I do trust to _my_ pride, and I will," replied Hester, her cheeks in a
glow. "Do you suppose I will allow all in this house, all in the
village, to be pitying me, to be watching how I suffer, when no one
supposes that he gave me cause? It is not to be endured, even in the
bare thought. No. If you do not betray me--"
"I betray you?"
"Well, well! I know you will not: and then I am safe. _My_ pride I can
trust to, and I will."
"It will betray you," sighed Margaret. "I do not want you to parade
your sorrow, God knows! It will be better borne in quiet and secrecy.
What I wish for you is, that you should receive this otherwise than as a
punishment, a disgrace in your own eyes for something wrong. You have
done nothing wrong, nothing that you may not appeal to God to help you
to endure. Take it as a sorrow sent by Him, to be meekly borne, as what
no earthly person has any concern with. Be superior to the opinions of
the people about us, instead of defying them. Pride will give you no
peace: resignation will."
"I am too selfish for this," sighed Hester. "I hate myself, Margaret.
I have not even the grace to love _him_, except for my own sake; and
while he is dying, I am planning to save my pride! I do not care what
becomes of me. Come, Margaret, let us dress and go down. Do not
trouble your kind heart about me: I am not worth it."
This mood gave way a little to Margaret's grief and endearments; but
Hester issued from her chamber for the day in a state of towering pride,
secretly alternating with the anguish of self-contempt.
It was a miserable day, as wretched a party of pleasure as could be
imagined. Mrs Rowland was occupied in thinking, and occasionally
saying, how strangely everything fell out to torment her, how something
always occurred to cross every plan of hers. She talked about this to
her mother, Sophia, and Hester, who were in the barouche with her, till
the whole cavalcade stopped, just before reaching the farmhouse where
Mr Hope lay, and to which Mr Grey rode on to make inquiries. Margaret
was with Mr Rowland in his gig. It was a breathless three minutes till
Mr Grey brought the news. Margaret wondered how Hester was bearing it:
it would have pleased her to have known that Mrs Rowland was holding
forth so strenuously upon her disappointment about a dress at the last
Buckley ball, and about her children having had the measles on the only
occasion when Mr Rowland could have taken her to the races in the next
county, that Hester might sit in silence, and bear the suspense
unobserved. Mr Grey reappeared, quite as soon as he could be looked
for. There might have been worse news. Mr Hope was no longer in a
stupor: he was delirious. His medical attendants could not pronounce
any judgment upon the case further than that it was not hopeless. They
had known recovery in similar cases. As Mr Grey bore his report from
carriage to carriage, every one strove to speak cheerfully, and to make
the best of the case; and those who were not the most interested really
satisfied themselves with the truth that the tidings were better than
they might have been.
The damp upon the spirits of the party was most evident, when all had
descended from the carriages, and were collected in the woods. There
was a general tremor about accidents. If one of the gentlemen had gone
forward to explore, or the children had lagged behind for play, there
was a shouting, and a general stop, till the missing party appeared.
Miss Young would fain have declined her pony, which was duly in waiting
for her. It was only because she felt that no individual could well be
spared from the party that she mounted at all. Mr Hope was to have had
the charge of her; and though she had requested Sydney to take his
place, as far as was necessary, Mr Enderby insisted on doing so; a
circumstance which did not add to her satisfaction. She was not
altogether so heart-sick as her friends, the Ibbotsons; but even to her,
everything was weariness of spirit:--the landscape seemed dull; the
splendid dinner on the grass tiresome; the sunshine sickly; and even the
children, with their laughter and practical jokes, fatiguing and
troublesome. Even she could easily have spoken sharply to each and all
of the little ones. If she felt so, what must the day have been to
Hester? She bore up well under any observation that she might suppose
herself the object of; but Margaret saw how laboriously she strove, and
in vain, to eat; how welcome was the glass of wine; how mechanical her
singing after dinner; and how impatient she was of sitting still. The
strangest thing was to see her walking in a dim glade, in the afternoon,
arm-in-arm with Mrs Rowland,--as if in the most confidential
conversation,--Mrs Rowland apparently offering the confidence, and
Hester receiving it.
"Look at them!" said Mr Enderby. "Who would believe that my sister
prohibited solitary walks and _tete-a-tetes_, only three hours ago, on
the ground that every one ought to be sociable to-day? I shall go and
break up the conference."
"Pray do not," said Margaret. "Let them forget rules, and pass their
time as they like best."
"Oh! but here is news of Hope. Mr Grey has now brought word that he is
no worse. I begin to think he may get through, which, God knows I had
no idea of this morning."
"Do you really think so? But do not tell other people, unless you are
quite confident that you really mean what you say."
"I may be wrong, of course: but I do think the chances improve with
every hour that he does not get worse; and he is certainly not worse. I
have a strong presentiment that he will struggle through."
"Go, then; and tell as many people as you choose: only make them
understand how much is presentiment."
The _tete-a-tete_ between the ladies, being broken off by Mr Enderby
with his tidings, was not renewed. Hester walked beside Miss Young's
pony, her cheek flushed, and her eye bright. Margaret thought there was
pride underneath, and not merely the excitement of renewed hope, so
feeble as that hope must yet be, and so nearly crushed by suspense.
Before the hour fixed for the carriages to be in readiness, the party
had given up all pretence of amusing themselves and each other. They
sat on a ridge, watching the spot where the vehicles were to assemble;
and message after message was sent to the servants, to desire them to
make haste. The general wish seemed to be, to be getting home, though
the sun was yet some way from its setting. When the first sound of
wheels was heard, Hester whispered to her sister--"I cannot be in the
same carriage with that woman. No; you must not either. I cannot now
tell you why. I dare say Miss Young would take my place, and let me go
with the children in the waggon."
"I will do that; and you shall return in Mr Rowland's gig. You can
talk or not as you please with him; and he is very kind. He is no more
to be blamed for his wife's behaviour, you know, than her mother or her
brother. It shall be so. I will manage it."
Margaret could manage what she pleased, with Maria and Mr Enderby both
devoted to her. Hester was off with Mr Rowland, and Margaret with one
child on her lap, and the others rejoicing at having possession of her,
before Mrs Rowland discovered the shifting of parties which had taken
place. Often during the ride she wanted to speak to her brother: three
times out of four he was not to be had, so busy was he joking with the
children, as he trotted his horse beside the waggon; and when he did
hear his sister's call he merely answered her questions, said something
to make his mother laugh, and dropped into his place beside the waggon
again. It struck Maria that the waggon had not been such an attraction
in going, though the flowers with which it was canopied had then been
fresh, and the children more merry and good-humoured than now.
The report to be carried home to Deerbrook was, that Mr Hope was still
no worse: it was thought that his delirium was somewhat quieter. Mrs
Grey was out on the steps to hear the news, when the carriage
approached. As it happened, the gig arrived first, and Hester had to
give the relation. She spoke even cheerfully, declaring Mr Enderby's
opinion, that the case was going on favourably, and that recovery was
very possible. Mrs Grey, who had had a wretchedly anxious day by
herself, not having enjoyed even the satisfaction of being useful,
nothing having been sent for from the farmhouse, was truly cheered by
seeing her family about her again.
"I have been watching for you this hour," said she; "and yet I hardly
expected you so soon. As it grew late, I began to fancy all manner of
accidents that might befall you. When one accident happens, it makes
one fancy so many more! I could not help thinking about Mr Grey's
horse. Does that horse seem to you perfectly steady, Hester? Well, I
am glad of it: but I once saw it shy from some linen on a hedge, and it
was in my mind all this afternoon. Here you are, all safe, however: and
I trust we may feel more cheerfully now about our good friend. If he
goes on to grow better, I shall get Mr Grey to drive me over soon to
see him. But, my dears, what will you have after your ride? Shall I
order tea, or will you have something more substantial?"
"Tea, if you please," said Hester. Her tongue was parched: and when
Margaret followed her up-stairs, she found her drinking water, as if she
had been three days deep in the Great Desert.
"Can you tell me now," asked Margaret, "what Mrs Rowland has been
saying to you?"
"No, not at present: better wait. Margaret! what do you think now?"
"I think that all looks brighter than it did this morning; but what a
wretched day it has been!"
"You found it so, did you? Oh, Margaret, I have longed every hour to
lie down to sleep in that wood, and never wake again!"
"I do not wonder: but you will soon feel better. The sleep from which
you will wake to-morrow morning will do nearly as well. We must sleep
to-night, and hope for good news in the morning."
"No good news will ever come to me again," sighed Hester. "No, no; I do
not quite mean that. You need not look at me so. It is ungrateful to
say such a thing at this moment. Come: I am ready to go down to tea.
It is really getting dark. I thought this day never would come to an
end."
The evening was wearisome enough. Mrs Grey asked how Mrs Rowland had
behaved, and Sophia was beginning to tell, when her father checked her,
reminding her that she had been enjoying Mrs Rowland's hospitality.
This was all he said, but it was enough to bring on one of Sophia's
interminable fits of crying. The children were cross with fatigue: Mrs
Grey thought her husband hard upon Sophia; and, to complete the
absurdity of the scene, Hester's and Margaret's tears proved
uncontrollable. The sight of Sophia's set them flowing; and though they
laughed at themselves for the folly of weeping from mere sympathy, this
did not mend the matter. Mrs Grey seemed on the verge of tears
herself, when she observed that she had expected a cheerful evening
after a lonely and anxious day. A deep sob from the three answered to
this observation, and they all rose to go to their apartments. Hester
was struck by the peculiar tender pressure of the hand given her by Mr
Grey, as she offered him her mute good-night. It caused her a fresh
burst of grief when she reached her own room.
Margaret was determined not to go to rest without knowing what it was
that Mrs Rowland had said to her sister. She pressed for it now,
hoping that it would rouse Hester from more painful thoughts.
"Though I have been enjoying that woman's hospitality, as Mr Grey
says," declared Hester, "I must speak of her as I think, to you. Oh,
she has been so insolent!"
"Insolent to you! How? Why?"
"Nay: you had better ask her why. Her confidence was all about her
brother. She seems to think,--she did not say so, or I should have
known better how to answer her, but she seems to think that her brother
is--(I can hardly speak it even to you, Margaret!)--is in some way in
danger from me. Now, you and I know that he cares no more for me than
for any one of the people who were there to-day; and yet she went on
telling me, and I could not stop her, about the views of his family for
him!"
"What views?"
"Views which, I imagine, it by no means follows that he has for himself.
If she has been impertinent to me, she has been even more so to him. I
wonder how she dares meddle in his concerns as she does."
"Well, but what views?" persisted Margaret.
"Oh, about his marrying:--that he is the darling of his family,--that
large family interests hang upon his marrying,--that all his relations
think it is time he was settling, and that he told her last week that he
was of that opinion himself:--and then she went on to say that there was
the most delightful accordance in their views for him;--that they did
not much value beauty,--that they should require for him something of a
far higher order than beauty, and which indeed was seldom found with
it--"
"Insolent creature! Did she say that to you?"
"Indeed she did: and that her brother's wife must be of a good family,
with a fortune worthy of his own; and, naturally, of a county family."
"A county family!" said Margaret, half laughing. "What matters county
or city, when two people are watching over one another for life and
death, and for hereafter?"
"With such people as Mrs Rowland," said Hester, "marriage is a very
superficial affair. If family, fortune, and equipage are but right, the
rest may be left to Providence. Temper, mind, heart--. The worst of
all, however, was her ending--or what was made her ending by our being
interrupted."
"Well! what was her finish?"
"She put her face almost under my bonnet, as she looked smiling at me,
and said there was a young lady--she wished she could tell me all about
it--the time would come when she might--there was a sweet girl, beloved
by them all for many years, from her very childhood, whom they had hopes
of receiving, at no very distant time, as Philip's wife."
"I do not believe it," cried Margaret. After a pause, she added, "Do
you believe it, Hester?"
"I am sure I do not know. I should not rate Mrs Rowland's word very
highly: but this would be such a prodigious falsehood! It is possible,
however, that she may believe it without its being true. Or, such a
woman might make the most, for the occasion, of a mere suspicion of her
own."
"I do not believe it is true," repeated Margaret.
"At all events," concluded Hester, "nothing that Mrs Rowland says is
worth regarding. I was foolish to let myself be ruffled by her."
Margaret tried to take the lesson home, but it was in vain. She was
ruffled; and, in spite of every effort, she did believe in the existence
of the nameless young lady. It had been a day of trouble; and thus was
it ending in fresh sorrow and fear.
Morris came in, hesitated at the door, was told she might stay, and
immediately busied herself in the brushing of hair and the folding of
clothes. Many tears trickled down, and not a word was spoken, till all
the offices of the toilet were finished. Morris then asked, with a
glance at the book-shelf, whether she should go or stay.
"Stay, Morris," said Hester, gently. "You shall not suffer for our
being unhappy to-night. Margaret, will you, can you read?"
Margaret took the volume in which it was the sisters' common practice to
read together, and with Morris at night. While Morris took her seat,
and reverently composed herself to hear, Margaret turned to the words
which have stilled many a tempest of grief, from the moment when they
were first uttered to mourners, through a long course of centuries, "Let
not your heart be troubled." "Believe in God; believe in me." Morris
sometimes spoke on these occasions. She loved to hear of the many
mansions in the House of the Father of all; and she said that though it
might seem to her young ladies that their parents had gone there full
soon, leaving them to undergo trouble by themselves, yet she had no
doubt they should all be at peace together, sooner or later, and their
passing troubles seem as nothing. Even this simple and obvious remark
roused courage in the sisters. They remembered what their father had
said to them about his leaving them to encounter the serious business
and trials of life, and how they had promised to strive to be wise and
trustful, and to help each other. This day the serious business and
trials of life had manifestly begun: they must strengthen themselves and
each other to meet them. They agreed upon this, and in a mood of faith
and resolution fell asleep.