Mr Hope's professional duties would not permit him to be long absent,
even on such an occasion as his wedding journey. The young couple went
only to Oxford, and were to return in a week. Margaret thought that
this week never would be over. It was not only that she longed for rest
in a home once more, and was eager to repose upon her new privilege of
having a brother: she was also anxious about Hester,--anxious to be
convinced, by the observation of the eye and the hearing of the ear,
that her sister was enjoying that peace of spirit which reason seemed to
declare must be hers. It would be difficult to determine how much
Margaret's attachment to her sister was deepened and strengthened by the
incessant solicitude she had felt for her, ever since this attachment
had grown out of the companionship of their childhood. She could
scarcely remember the time when she had not been in a state of either
hope or fear for Hester;--hope that, in some new circumstances, she
would be happy at last; or dread lest these new circumstances should
fail, as all preceding influences had failed. If Hester had been less
candid and less generous than she was, her sister's affection might have
given way under the repeated trials and disappointments it had had to
sustain; and there were times when Margaret's patience _had_ given way,
and she had for a brief while wished, and almost resolved, that she
could and would regard with indifference the state of mind of one who
was not reasonable, and who seemed incapable of being contented. But
such resolutions of indifference dissolved before her sister's next
manifestations of generosity, or appeals to the forgiveness of those
about her. Margaret always ended by supposing herself the cause of the
evil; that she had been inconsiderate; that she could not allow
sufficiently for a sensitiveness greater than her own; and above all,
that she was not fully worthy of such affection as Hester's--not
sufficient for such a mind and heart. She had looked forward, with
ardent expectation when she was happiest, and with sickly dread when she
was depressed, to the event of Hester's marriage, as that which must
decide whether she could be happy, or whether her life was to be
throughout the scene of conflict that its opening years had been.
Hester's connexion was all that she could have desired, and far beyond
her utmost hopes. This brother-in-law was one of a thousand--one whom
she was ready to consider a good angel sent to shed peace over her
sister's life: and during the months of her engagement, she had kept
anxiety at bay, and resigned herself to the delights of gratitude and of
sweet anticipations, and to the satisfaction of feeling that her own
responsibilities might be considered at an end. She had delivered
Hester's happiness over into the charge of one who would cherish it
better and more successfully than she had done; and she could not but
feel the relief of the freedom she had gained: but neither could she
repress her anxiety to know, at the outset, whether all was indeed as
well as she had till now undoubtingly supposed that it would be.
Margaret's attachment to her sister would have been in greater danger of
being worn out but for the existence of a closer sympathy between them
than any one but themselves, and perhaps Morris, was aware of. Margaret
had a strong suspicion that in Hester's place her temper would have been
exactly what Hester's was in its least happy characteristics. She had
tendencies to jealousy; and if not to morbid self-study, and to
dissatisfaction with present circumstances, she was indebted for this,
she knew, to her being occupied with her sister, and yet more to the
perpetual warning held up before her eyes. This conviction generated no
sense of superiority in Margaret--interfered in no degree with the
reverence she entertained for Hester, a reverence rather enhanced than
impaired by the tender compassion, with which she regarded her mental
conflicts and sufferings. Every movement of irritability in herself
(and she was conscious of many) alarmed and humbled her, but, at the
same time, enabled her better to make allowance for her sister; and
every harsh word and unreasonable mood of Hester's, by restoring her to
her self-command and stimulating her magnanimity, made her sensible that
she owed much of her power over herself to that circumstance which kept
the necessity of it perpetually before her mind. For the same reason
that men hate those whom they have injured, Margaret loved with unusual
fervour the sister with whom she had to forbear. For the same reason
that the children, even the affectionate children, of tyrannical or lax
parents, love liberty and conscientiousness above all else, Margaret was
in practice gentle, long-suffering, and forgetful of self. For the same
reason that the afflicted are looked upon by the pure-minded as sacred,
Margaret regarded her sister with a reverence which preserved her
patience from being spent, and her attachment from wasting away.
The first letter from her brother and sister had been opened in great
internal agitation. All was well, however. It was certain that all was
well; for, while Hester said not one word about being happy, she was
full of thought for others. She knew that Margaret meant to take
possession of the corner-house, to "go home," a few days before the
arrival of the travellers, in order to make all comfortable for them.
Hester begged that she would take care to be well amused during these
few days. Perhaps she might induce Maria Young to waive the ceremony of
being first invited by the real housekeepers, and to spend as much time
as she could with her friend. "Give my kind regards to Maria," said the
letter, "and tell her I like to fancy you two passing a long evening by
that fireside where we all hope we shall often have the pleasure of
seeing her." Six months ago Hester would not have spoken so freely and
so kindly of Maria: she would not have so sanctioned Margaret's intimacy
with her. All was right, and Margaret was happy.
Maria came, and, thanks to the holiday spirit of a wedding week, for a
long day. Delicious are the pleasures of those whose appetite for them
is whetted by abstinence. Charming, wholly charming, was this day to
Maria, spent in quiet, free from the children, free from the observation
of other guests, passed in all external luxury, and in sister-like
confidence with the friend to whom she had owed some of the best
pleasures of the last year. Margaret was no less happy in indulging
her, and in opening much more of her heart to her than she could to any
one else since Hester married--which now, at the end of six days, seemed
a long time ago.
Miss Young came early, that she might see the house, and everything in
it, before dark; and the days were now at their shortest. She did not
mind the fatigue of mounting to the very top of the house. She must see
the view from the window of Morris's attic. Yesterday's fall of snow
had made the meadows one sheet of white; and the river looked black, and
the woods somewhat frowning and dismal; but those who knew the place so
well could imagine what all this must be in summer; and Morris was
assured that her room was the pleasantest in the house. Morris
curtseyed and smiled, and did not say how cold and dreary a wide
landscape appeared to her, and how much better she should have liked to
look out upon a street, if only Mr Hope had happened to have been
settled in Birmingham. She pointed out to Maria how good Miss Hester
had been, in thinking about the furnishing of this attic. She had taken
the trouble to have the pictures of Morris's father and mother, which
had always hung opposite her bed at Birmingham, brought hither, and
fixed up in the same place. The bed-hangings had come, too; so that,
except for its being so much lighter, and the prospect from the window
so different, it was almost like the same room she had slept in for
three-and-twenty years before. When Maria looked at "the pictures"--
silhouettes taken from shadows on the wall, with numerous little
deformities and disproportions incident to that method of taking
likenesses--she appreciated Hester's thoughtfulness; though she fully
agreed in what Margaret said, that if Morris was willing to leave a
place where she had lived so many years, for the sake of remaining with
Hester and her, it was the least they could do to make her feel as much
at home as possible in her new abode.
Margaret's own chamber was one of the prettiest rooms in the house, with
its light green paper, its French bed and toilet at one end, and the
book-case, table and writing-desk, footstool and armchair, at the other.
"I shall spend many hours alone here in the bright summer mornings,"
said Margaret. "Here I shall write my letters, and study, and think."
"And nod over your books, perhaps," said Maria. "These seem comfortable
arrangements for an old or infirm person; but I should be afraid they
would send you to sleep. You have had little experience of being alone:
do you know the strong tendency that solitary people have to napping?"
Margaret laughed. She had never slept in the daytime in her life,
except in illness. She could not conceive of it, in the case of a young
person, full of occupation, with a hundred things to think about, and
twenty books at a time that she wanted to read. She thought that
regular daily solitude must be the most delightful, the most improving
thing in the world. She had always envied the privilege of people who
could command solitude; and now, for the first time in her life, she was
going to enjoy it, and try to profit by it.
"You began yesterday, I think," said Maria. "How did you like it?"
"It was no fair trial. I felt restless at having the house in my
charge; and I was thinking of Hester perpetually; and then I did not
know but that some of the Greys might come in at any moment: and
besides, I was so busy considering whether I was making the most of the
precious hours, that I really did next to nothing all day."
"But you looked sadly tired at night, Miss Margaret," said Morris. "I
never saw you more fit for bed after any party or ball."
Maria smiled. She knew something of the fatigues, as well as the
pleasures, of solitude. Margaret smiled too; but she said it would be
quite another thing when the family were settled, and when it should
have become a habit to spend the morning hours alone; and to this Maria
fully agreed.
Morris thought that people's liking or not liking to be alone depended
much on their having easy or irksome thoughts in their minds. Margaret
answered gaily, that in that case, she was pretty sure of liking
solitude. She was made grave by a sigh and a shake of the head from
Morris.
"Morris, what do you mean?" said Margaret, apprehensively. "Why do you
sigh and shake your head? Why should not I have easy thoughts as often
as I sit in that chair?"
"We never know, Miss Margaret, my dear, how things will turn out. Do
you remember Miss Stevenson, that married a gentleman her family all
thought a great deal of, and he turned out a swindler, and--?"
The girls burst out a-laughing, and Maria assured Morris that she could
answer for no accident of that kind happening with regard to Mr Hope.
Morris laughed too, and said she did not mean that, but only that she
never saw anybody more confident of everything going right than Miss
Stevenson and all her family; and within a month after the wedding, they
were in the deepest distress. That was what she meant: but there were
many other ways of distress happening.
"There is death, my dears," she said. "Remember death, Miss Margaret."
"Indeed, Morris, I do," said Margaret. "I never thought so much of
death as I have done since Mr Hope's accident, when I believed death
was coming to make us all miserable; and the more I have since recoiled
from it, the oftener has the thought come back."
"That is all right, my dear: all very natural. It does not seem natural
to undertake any great new thing in life, without reminding one's self
of the end that must come to all our doings. However, I trust my master
and mistress, and you, have many a happy year to live."
"I like those words, Morris. I like to hear you speak of your master
and mistress, it has such a domestic sound! Does it not make one feel
at home, Maria? Yes, Morris, there I shall sit, and feel so at ease! so
at home, once more!"
"But there may be other--." Morris stopped, and changed her mood. She
stepped to the closet, and opened the door, to show Miss Young the
provision of shelves and pegs; and pointed out the part of the room
where she had hoped there would be a sofa. She should have liked that
Miss Margaret should have had a sofa to lie down on when she pleased.
It seemed to her the only thing wanting. Margaret gaily declared that
nothing was wanting. She had never seen a room more entirely to her
taste, though she had inhabited some that were grander.
By the time the little breakfast-room had been duly visited, and it had
been explained that the other small parlour must necessarily be kept for
a waiting-room for Mr Hope's patients, and the young ladies had
returned to the drawing-room, Maria was in full flow of sympathy with
the housekeeping interests and ideas which occupied, or rather amused,
her companion. Women do inevitably love housekeeping, unless
educational or other impediments interfere with their natural tastes.
Household management is to them the object of their talents, the subject
of their interests, the vehicle of their hopes and fears, the medium
through which their affections are manifested, and much of their
benevolence gratified. If it be true, as has been said, that there is
no good quality of a woman's heart and mind which is not necessary to
perfect housekeeping, it follows that there is no power of the mind or
affection of the heart which may not be gratified in the course of its
discharge. As Margaret and her guest enjoyed their pheasant, their
table drawn close to the sofa and the fire, that Maria might be saved
the trouble of moving, their talk was of tradespeople, of shopping at
Deerbrook, and the market at Birmingham; of the kitchen and store-room,
and the winter and summer arrangements of the table. The foot-boy, whom
Margaret was teaching to wait, often forgot his function, and stood
still to listen, and at last left the room deeply impressed with the
wisdom of his instructor and her guest. When the dinner and the wine
were gone, they sang, they gossiped, they quizzed. The Greys were
sacred, of course; but many an anecdote came out, told honestly and with
good-nature, of dear old Mrs Enderby, and her talent for being pleased;
of Mrs Rowland's transactions abroad and at home--all regulated by the
principle of eclipsing the Greys; and of Mrs Howell's and Miss Miskin's
fine sentiments, and extraordinary pieces of news. Margaret produced
some of her brother-in-law's outlines, which she had picked up and
preserved--sketches of the children, in the oddest attitudes of
children--of Dr Levitt, resting his book on the end of his nose, as he
read in his study-chair--of Mrs Plumstead, exasperated by the arrival
of an illegible letter--of almost every oddity in the place. Then out
came the pencils, and the girls supplied omissions. They sketched Mr
Hope himself; listening to an old woman's theory of her own case; they
sketched each other. Mr Enderby was almost the only person omitted
altogether, in conversation and on paper.
"Where can I have hidden my work bag?" asked Maria, after tea.
"You laid it beside you, and I put it away," said Margaret. "I wanted
to see whether you could spend a whole afternoon without the feel of
your thimble. You shall have it again now, for you never once asked for
it between dinner and tea."
"I forgot it: but now you must give it me. I must finish my collar, or
I shall not duly honour your sister in my first call. We can talk as
well working as idle."
"Cannot I help you? Our affairs are all in such dreadfully perfect
order, that I have not a stitch of work to do. I see a hole in your
glove: let me mend it."
"Do; and when you have done that, there is the other. Two years hence,
how you will wonder that there ever was a time when you had not a stitch
of work in the house! Wedding clothes last about two years, and then
they all wear out together. I wish you joy of the work you will have to
do then--if nothing should come between you and it."
"What should come between us and it?" said Margaret, struck by the tone
in which Maria spoke the last words. "Are you following Morris's lead?
Are you going to say,--`Remember death, Miss Margaret?'"
"Oh, no; but there are other things which happen sometimes besides
death. I beg your pardon, Margaret, if I am impertinent--"
"How should you be impertinent? You, the most intimate friend but one
that I have in the world! You mean marriage of course; that I may marry
within these same two years? Any one may naturally say so, I suppose,
to a girl whose sister is just married: and in another person's case it
would seem to me probable enough, but I assure you, Maria, I do not feel
as if it was at all likely that I should marry."
"I quite believe you, Margaret. I have no doubt you feel so, and that
you will feel so till--. But, dear, you may one day find yourself
feeling very differently without a moment's warning; and that day may
happen within two years. Such things have been known."
"If there was any one--" said Margaret, simply--"if I had ever seen any
one for whom I could fancy myself feeling as Hester did--"
"If there was any one!"--repeated Maria, looking up in some surprise.
"My dear Margaret, do you mean to say there is no one?"
"Yes, I do; I think so. I know what you mean, Maria. I understand your
face and your voice. But I do think it is very hard that one cannot
enjoy a pleasant friendship with anybody without seeing people on the
watch for something more. It is so very painful to have such ideas put
into one's mind, to spoil all one's intercourse--to throw restraint over
it--to mix up selfishness with it! It is so wrong to interfere between
those who might and would be the most useful and delightful companions
to each other, without having a thought which need put constraint
between them! Those who so interfere have a great deal to answer for.
They do not know what mischief they may be doing--what pain they may be
giving while they are gossiping, and making remarks to one another about
what they know nothing at all about. I have no patience with such
meddling!"
"So I perceive, indeed," replied Maria, somewhat amused. "But,
Margaret, you have been enlarging a good deal on what I said. Not a
syllable was spoken about any remarks, any observations between any
people; or even about reference to any particular person. I alone must
be subject to all this displeasure, and even I did not throw out a
single hint about any friend of yours."
"No, you did not; that is all very true," said Margaret, blushing: "but
neither was I vexed with you;--at least, not so much as with some
others. I was hasty."
"You were, indeed," said Maria, laughing. "I never witnessed such an
outburst from you before."
"And you shall not see such another; but I was answering less what you
said than what I have reason to suppose is in the minds of several other
people."
"In their minds? They have not told you their thoughts, then. And
_several_ other people, too! Why, Margaret, I really think it is not
very reasonable in you to find fault with others for thinking something
which they have not troubled you to listen to, and which is so natural,
that it has struck `several' of them. Surely, Margaret, you must be a
little, just a very little, touchy upon the matter."
"Touchy! What should make me touchy?"
"Ay, what?"
"I do assure you, Maria, nothing whatever has passed between that person
and me which has anything more than the commonest--No, I will not say
the commonest friendship, because I believe ours is a very warm and
intimate friendship; but indeed it is nothing more. You may be sure
that, if it had been otherwise, I should not have said a word upon the
whole matter, even to you; and I would not have allowed even you to
speak ten words to me about it. Are you satisfied now?"
"I am satisfied that you any what you think."
"Oh, Maria! what a sigh! If you have no objection, I should like to
know the meaning of that sigh."
"I was thinking of `the course of true love.'"
"But not that it `never does run smooth.' That is not true. Witness
Hester's."
"Dear Margaret, be not presumptuous! Consider how early the days of
that love are yet."
"And that love in their case has only just leaped out of the fountain,
and can hardly be said to have begun its course. Well! may Heaven smile
on it! But tell me about that course of love which made you sigh as you
did just now."
"What can I tell you about it? And yet, you shall know, if you like,
how it appears to me."
"Oh, tell me! I shall see whether you would have understood Hester's
case."
"The first strange thing is, that every woman approaches this crisis of
her life as unawares as if she were the first that ever loved."
"And yet all girls are brought up to think of marriage as almost the
only event in life. Their minds are stuffed with thoughts of it almost
before they have had time to gain any other ideas."
"Merely as means to ends low enough for their comprehension. It is not
marriage--wonderful, holy, mysterious marriage--that their minds are
full of, but connection with somebody or something which will give them
money, and ease, and station, and independence of their parents. This
has nothing to do with love. I was speaking of love--the grand
influence of a woman's life, but whose name is a mere empty sound to her
till it becomes, suddenly, secretly, a voice which shakes her being to
the very centre--more awful, more tremendous, than the crack of doom."
"But why? Why so tremendous?"
"From the struggle which it calls upon her to endure, silently and
alone;--from the agony of a change of existence which must be wrought
without any eye perceiving it. Depend upon it, Margaret, there is
nothing in death to compare with this change; and there can be nothing
in entrance upon another state which can transcend the experience I
speak of. Our powers can but be taxed to the utmost. Our being can but
be strained till not another effort can be made. This is all that we
can conceive to happen in death; and it happens in love, with the
additional burden of fearful secrecy. One may lie down and await death,
with sympathy about one to the last, though the passage hence must be
solitary; and it would be a small trouble if all the world looked on to
see the parting of soul and body: but that other passage into a new
state, that other process of becoming a new creature, must go on in the
darkness of the spirit, while the body is up and abroad, and no one must
know what is passing within. The spirit's leap from heaven to hell must
be made while the smile is on the lips, and light words are upon the
tongue. The struggles of shame, the pangs of despair, must be hidden in
the depths of the prison-house. Every groan must be stifled before it
is heard: and as for tears--they are a solace too gentle for the case.
The agony is too strong for tears."
"Is this true love?" asked Margaret, in agitation.
"This is true love; but not the whole of it. As for what follows--"
"But is this what every woman has to undergo?"
"Do you suppose that every woman knows what love really is? No; not
even every unmarried woman. There are some among them, though I believe
but few, who know nothing of what love is; and there are, undoubtedly, a
multitude of wives who have experienced liking, preference, affection,
and taken it for love; and who reach their life's end without being
aware that they have never loved. There are also, I trust, a multitude
of wives who have really loved, and who have reaped the best fruits of
it in regeneration of soul."
"But how dreadful is the process, if it be as you say!"
"I said I had alluded to only a part of it. As for what follows,
according as it is prosperous or unreturned love, heaven ensues upon
this purgatory, or one may attain a middle region, somewhat dim, but
serene. You wish me to be plainer?"
"I wish to hear all you think--all you know. But do not let us go on
with it if it makes you sigh so."
"What woman ever spoke of love without sighing?" said Maria, with a
smile. "You sighed yourself, just now."
"I was thinking of Hester, I believe. How strange, if this process
really awaits women--if it is a region through which their path of life
must stretch--and no one gives warning, or preparation, or help!"
"It is not so strange as at first sight it seems. Every mother and
friend hopes that no one else has suffered as she did--that her
particular charge may escape entirely, or get off more easily. Then
there is the shame of confession which is involved: some conclude, at a
distance of time, that they must have exaggerated their own sufferings,
or have been singularly rebellious and unreasonable. Some lose the
sense of the anguish in the subsequent happiness; and there are not a
few who, from constitution of mind, forget altogether `the things that
are behind.' When you remember, too, that it is the law of nature and
providence that each should bear his and her own burden, and that no
warning would be of any avail, it seems no longer so strange that while
girls hear endlessly of marriage, they are kept wholly in the dark about
love."
"Would warning really be of no avail?"
"Of no more avail than warning to a pilgrim in the middle of the desert
that he will suffer from thirst, and be deluded by the mirage, before he
gets into green fields again. He has no longer the choice whether to be
a pilgrim in the desert or to stay at home. No one of us has the choice
to be or not to be; and we must go through with our experience, under
its natural conditions."
"`To be or not to be,'" said Margaret, with a grave smile. "You remind
one that the choice of suicide remains: and I almost wonder--Surely
suicide has been committed from dread of lighter woes than you have
described."
"I believe so: but in this case there is no dread. We find ourselves in
the midst of the struggle before we are aware. And then--"
"Ay, and then--"
"He, who appoints the struggles of the spirit, supplies aids and
supports. I fully believe that this time of conflict is that in which
religion first becomes to many the reality, for which they ever
afterwards live. It may have been hitherto a name, a fancy, a dim
abstraction, or an intermitting though bright influence: and it may yet
be resorted to merely as a refuge for the spirit which can find no
other. But there is a strong probability that it may now be found to be
a wonderful reality; not only a potent charm in sorrow, but the life of
our life. This is with many the reason why, and the mode in which, the
conflict is endured to the end."
"But the beginning," said Margaret; "what can be the beginning of this
wonderful experience?"
"The same with that of all the most serious of our experiences--levity,
unconsciousness, confidence. Upon what subject in the world is there a
greater accumulation of jokes than upon love and marriage; and upon what
subject are jokes so indefatigably current? A girl laughs at her
companions, and blushes or pouts for herself; as girls have done for
thousands of years before her. She finds, by degrees, new, and sweet,
and elevated ideas of friendship stealing their way into her mind, and
she laments and wonders that the range of friendship is not wider--that
its action is not freer--that girls may not enjoy intimate friendship
with the companions of their brothers, as well as with their own. There
is a quick and strong resentment at any one who smiles at, or speculates
upon, or even observes the existence of such a friendship."
"Oh, Maria!" exclaimed Margaret, throwing down her work, and covering
her face with her hands.
"This goes on for a while," proceeded Maria, as if she did not observe
her companion, "this goes on for a while, smoothly, innocently,
serenely. Mankind are then true and noble, the world is passing fair,
and God is tender and bountiful. All evil is seen to be tending to
good; all tears are meant to be wiped away; the gloom of the gloomy is
faithless; virtue is easy and charming; and the vice of the vicious is
unaccountable. Thus does young life glide on for a time. Then there
comes a day--it is often a mystery why it should be that day of all
days--when the innocent, and gay, and confident young creature finds
herself in sudden trouble. The film on which she lightly trod has burst
and she is in an abyss. It seems a mere trifle that plunged her there.
Her friend did not come when she looked for him, or he is gone
somewhere, or he has said something that she did not expect. Some such
trifle reveals to her that she depends wholly upon him--that she has for
long been living only for him, and on the unconscious conclusion that he
has been living only for her. At the image of his dwelling anywhere but
by her side, of his having any interest apart from hers, the universe
is, in a moment, shrouded in gloom. Her heart is sick, and there is no
rest for it, for her self-respect is gone. She has been reared in a
maidenly pride, and an innocent confidence: her confidence is wholly
broken-down; her pride is wounded and the agony of the wound is
intolerable. We are wont to say, Margaret, that everything is endurable
but a sense of guilt. If there be an exception, this is it. This
wounding of the spirit ought not perhaps to be, but it is very like the
sting of guilt; and a `wounded spirit who can bear?'"
"How is it borne--so many as are the sufferers, and of a class usually
thought so weak?"
"That is a mistake. There is not on earth a being stronger than a woman
in the concealment of her love. The soldier is called brave who
cheerfully bears about the pain of a laceration to his dying day; and
criminals, who, after years of struggle, unbosom themselves of their
secret, give tremendous accounts of the sufferings of those years; but I
question whether a woman whose existence has been burdened with an
unrequited love, will not have to unfold in the next world a more
harrowing tale than either of these."
"It ought not to be so."
"It ought not, where there is no guilt. But how noble is such power of
self-restraint! Though the principle of society may be to cultivate our
pride to excess, what fortitude grows out of it! There are no bounds to
the horror, disgust, and astonishment expressed when a woman owns her
love to its object unasked--even urges it upon him; but I acknowledge my
surprise to be the other way--that the cases are so rare. Yet, fancying
the case one's own--"
"Oh, dreadful!" cried Margaret.
"No woman can endure the bare thought of the case being her own; and
this proves the strong natural and educational restraint under which we
all lie: but I must think that the frequent and patient endurance proves
a strength of soul, a vigour of moral power, which ought to console and
animate us in the depth of our abasement, if we could but recall it then
when we want support and solace most."
"It can be little estimated--little understood," said Margaret, "or it
would not be sported with as it is."
"Do not let us speak of that, Margaret. You talk of my philosophy
sometimes; I own that that part of the subject is too much for any
philosophy I have."
"I see nothing philosophical," said Margaret, "in making light of the
deepest cruelty and treachery which is transacted under the sun. A man
who trifles with such affections, and abuses such moral power, and calls
his cruelty flirtation--"
"Is such an one as we will not speak of now. Well! it cannot be but
that good--moral and intellectual good--must issue from such exercise
and discipline as this; and such good does issue often, perhaps
generally. There are sad tales sung and told everywhere of brains
crazed, and graves dug by hopeless love: and I fear that many more sink
down into disease and death from this cause, than are at all suspected
to be its victims: but not a few find themselves lifted up from their
abyss, and set free from their bondage of pride and humiliation. They
marry their loves and stand amazed at their own bliss, and are truly the
happiest people upon earth, and in the broad road to be the wisest. In
my belief, the happiest are ever so."
"Bless you for that, for Hester's sake! And what of those who are not
thus released?"
"They get out of the abyss too; but they have to struggle out alone.
Their condition must depend much on what they were before the conflict
befell them. Some are soured, and live restlessly. Some are weak, and
come out worldly, and sacrifice themselves, in marriage or otherwise,
for low objects. Some strive to forget, and to become as like as
possible to what they were before; and of this order are many of the
women whom we meet, whose minds are in a state of perpetual and
incurable infancy. It is difficult to see the purpose of their
suffering, from any effects it appears to have produced: but then there
is the hope that their griefs were not of the deepest."
"And what of those whose griefs are of the deepest?"
"They rise the highest above them. Some of these must be content with
having learned more or less, of what life is, and of what it is for, and
with reconciling themselves to its objects and conditions."
"In short, with being philosophical," said Margaret, with an inquiring
and affectionate glance at her friend.
"With being philosophical," Maria smilingly agreed. "Others, of a
happier nature, to whom philosophy and religion come as one, and are
welcomed by energies not wholly destroyed, and affections not altogether
crushed, are strong in the new strength which they have found, with
hearts as wide as the universe, and spirits the gayest of the gay."
"You never told me anything of all this before," said Margaret; "yet it
is plain that you must have thought much about it--that it must have
been long in your mind."
"It has; and I tell it to you, that you may share what I have learned,
instead of going without the knowledge, or, alas! gathering it up for
yourself."
"Oh, then, it is so--it is from your own--"
"It is from my own experience that I speak," said Maria, without looking
up. "And now, there is some one in the world who knows it beside
myself."
"I hope you do not--I hope you never will repent having told me," said
Margaret, rising and taking her seat on the sofa, beside her friend.
"I do not, and I shall not repent," said Maria. "You are faithful: and
it will be a relief to me to have sympathy--to be able to speak
sometimes, instead of having to deny and repress my whole heart and
soul. But I can tell you no more--not one word."
"Do not. Only show me how I can comfort--how I can gratify you."
"I need no special comfort now," said Maria, smiling. "I _have_
sometimes grievously wanted a friend to love and speak with--and if I
could, to serve. Now I have a friend." And the look with which she
gazed at her companion brought the tears into Margaret's eyes.
"Come, let us speak of something else," said Maria, cheerfully. "When
do you expect your friend, Mr Enderby, at Deerbrook again?"
"His sister says nobody knows; and I do not think he can tell himself.
You know he does not live at Deerbrook."
"I am aware of that; but his last visit was such a long one--"
"Six days," said Margaret, laughing.
"Ah! I did not mean his last week's appearance, or any of his pop
visits. I was thinking of his summer visitation. It was so long, that
some people began to look upon him as a resident."
"If his mother does not grow much better soon, we shall see him again,"
said Margaret. "It is always her illness that brings him.--Do you not
believe me, Maria?"
"I believe, as before, that you say what you think. Whether you are
mistaken is another question, which I cannot pretend to answer."
"I hope, Maria, that as you have placed so much confidence in me, you
will not stop short at the very point which is of the greatest
importance to me."
"I will not, dear. What I think on the subject of Mr Enderby, in
relation to you, is, that some of your friends believe that you are the
cause of his stay having been so long in the summer, and of his coming
so often since. I know no more than this. How should I?"
"Then I will tell you something more, that I might as well have
mentioned before. When Mrs Rowland had an idea that Mr Enderby might
think of Hester, she told Hester--that miserable day in Dingleford
woods--that his family expected he would soon marry a young lady of
family and fortune, who was a great favourite with all his connections."
"Who may this young lady be?"
"Oh, she did not say; some one too high for our acquaintance, if we are
to believe what Mrs Rowland declared."
"And do you believe it?"
"Why--. Do you?"
"I dare say Mrs Rowland may believe it herself; but she may be
mistaken."
"That is exactly what Hester said," observed Margaret, eagerly. "And
that was more than five months ago, and we have not heard a syllable of
the matter since."
"And so intimate a friendship as yours and Mr Enderby's is," said
Maria, smiling,--"it is scarcely probable that his mind should be full
of such an affair, and that he should be able to conceal it so perfectly
from you."
"I am glad you think so," said Margaret, ingenuously. "You cannot
imagine how strange it is to see Mrs Grey and others taking for granted
that he is free, when Hester and I could tell them in a moment what Mrs
Rowland said. But if you think Mrs Rowland is all wrong, what do you
really suppose about his coming so much to Deerbrook?"
"I have little doubt that those friends of yours--Mrs Grey and the
others--are right. But--."
"But what?"
"Just this. If I might warn you by myself; I would caution you, not
only against dwelling much upon such a fact, but against interpreting it
to mean more than it possibly may. This is my reason for speaking to
you upon the matter at all. I do it because you will be pretty sure to
hear how the fact itself is viewed by others, while no one else would be
likely to give you the caution. Mr Enderby _may_ come, as you suppose,
entirely to see his mother. He may come to see you: but, supposing he
does, if he is like other men, he may not know his own mind yet: and,
there is another possible thing--a thing which is possible, Margaret,
though he is such a dear and intimate friend--that he may not know
yours--all its strength of affection, all its fidelity, all its trust
and power of self-control."
"Oh, stop; pray stop," said Margaret. "You frighten me with the
thoughts of all you have been saying this evening, though I could so
entirely satisfy you as to what our intercourse has been--though I know
Mr Enderby so much better than you do. You need warn me no more. I
will think of what you have said, if I find myself doubting whether he
comes to see his mother--if I find myself listening to what others may
suppose about his reasons. Indeed, I will remember what you have said."
"Then I am glad I ventured to say it, particularly as you are not angry
with me this time."
"I am not at all angry: how could I be so? But I do not agree with you
about the fact."
"I know it, and I may be mistaken."
"Now tell me," said Margaret, "what you suppose Morris meant when she
said what you heard about the pleasure of solitude depending on one's
thoughts being happy or otherwise. I know it is a common old idea
enough; but Morris does not know that; and I am sure she had some
particular instance in view. Morris does not make general propositions,
except with a particular case in her mind's eye; and she is a wise
woman; and we think her sayings are weighty."
"It struck me that she had a real probability in her mind; but I did not
think it related to Mr Enderby, or to anything so exclusively your own
concern."
"No; I hope not: but what then?"
"I think that Morris knows more of life and the world than you, and that
she does not anticipate quite so much happiness from Hester's marriage
as you do. Do not be distressed or alarmed. She means no mistrust of
anybody, I imagine; but only that there is no perfect happiness in this
life, that nobody is faultless; and no home, not even where her young
ladies live, is quite free from care and trouble. It would not hurt
you, surely, if she was to say this outright to you?"
"Oh, no; nor a good deal more of the same tendency. She might come much
nearer to the point, good soul! without hurting me. Suppose I ask her
what it was she did mean, to-night or to-morrow, when she and I are
alone?"
"Well! if she is such a wise woman--. But I doubt whether you could get
her nearer to the point without danger of hurting her. Can she bring
herself to own that either of you have faults?"
"Oh, yes: she has never spared us, from the time we were two feet high."
"What can make you so anxious as to what she meant?"
"I really hardly know, unless it be that where one loves very much, one
fears--Oh, so faithlessly! I know I ought to fear less for Hester than
ever; and yet--."
The door burst open, and the foot-boy entered with his jingling tray,
and news that the sedan for Miss Young was at the door. What sedan?
Margaret had asked Mrs Grey for hers, as the snow had fallen heavily,
and the streets were not fit for Maria's walking. Maria was very
thankful.
Here was an end of Maria's bright holiday. Mr Grey's porters must not
be kept waiting. The friends assured each other that they should never
forget this day. It was little likely that they should.