The evil consequences of Mr Hope's voting for Lowry had not been
exaggerated in the anticipations of his friends and vigilant neighbours;
and these consequences were rather aggravated than alleviated by the
circumstance that Mr Lowry won the election. First, the inhabitants of
Deerbrook were on the watch for any words which might fall from Sir
William or Lady Hunter; and when it was reported that Sir William had
frowned, and sworn an oath at Mr Hope, on hearing how he had voted, and
that Lady Hunter had asked whether it was possible that Mr Hope had
forgotten under whose interest he held his appointment to attend the
almshouses and the neighbouring hamlet, several persons determined to be
beforehand with their great neighbours, and to give the benefit of their
family practice to some one of better politics than Mr Hope. In
another set of minds, a real fear of Mr Hope, as a dangerous person,
sprang up under the heat of the displeasure of the influential members
of society. Such were slow to have recourse to another medical
attendant, and undertook the management of the health of their own
families, till they could find an adviser in whom they could perfectly
confide. When Mr Lowry gained the contest, the population of Deerbrook
was electrified, and the unpleasantness of their surprise was visited
upon the only supporter of Mr Lowry whom the place contained. Wise
folks were not wanting who talked of the skill which some persons had in
keeping on the winning side,--of reasons which time sometimes revealed
for persons choosing to be singular,--and some remarkable incidents were
reported of conversations between Mr Lowry and Mr Hope in the lanes,
and of certain wonderful advantages which had lately fallen to one or
another of Mr Hope's acquaintances, through some strong political
interest. Mr Rowland doubted, at his own table, all the news he heard
on the subject, and said everywhere that he did not see why a man should
not vote as he pleased. Mr Grey was very sorry about the whole affair;
he was sorry that there had been any contest at all for the county, as
it disturbed the peace of Deerbrook; he was sorry that the candidate he
preferred had won, as the fact exasperated the temper of Deerbrook; he
was sorry that Hope had voted, to the detriment of his name and rising
fortunes; and he was sorry that he himself had been unable at last to
vote for Lowry, to keep his young friend in countenance: it was truly
unlucky that he should have passed his promise early to Sir William
Hunter not to vote. It was a sad business altogether. It was only to
be hoped that it would pass out of people's minds; that things would
soon get into their usual train; and that it might be seven years before
there was another election.
Hester complained to her husband and sister of the manner in which she
was treated by the tradespeople of the place. She had desired to put
herself on a footing of acquaintanceship with them, as neighbours, and
persons with whom there must be a constant transaction of business for
life. She saw at once the difference in the relation between
tradespeople and their customers in a large town like Birmingham, and in
a village where there is but one baker, where the grocer and hatter are
the same personage, and where you cannot fly from your butcher, be he
ever so much your foe. Hester therefore made it her business to
transact herself all affairs with the village tradesmen. She began her
housekeeping energetically, and might be seen in Mr Jones's open shop
in the coldest morning of January, selecting her joint of meat; or
deciding among brown sugars at Tucker's, the grocer's. After the
election, she found some difference in the manner of most of the
shop-people towards her; and she fancied more than there was. With some
of these persons, there was no more in their minds than the
consciousness of having discussed the new family and Mr Hope's vote,
and come to a conclusion against his "principles." With others, Mrs
Rowland's influence had done deeper mischief. A few words dropped by
herself, or reports of her sayings, circulated by her servants,
occasioned dislike or alarm which Hester's sensitiveness apprehended at
once, and forthwith exaggerated. She complained to her husband that she
could not go to the shops with any comfort, and that she thought she
must turn over the housekeeping to Morris. Margaret remonstrated
against this; and, by being her sister's constant companion in her walks
of business as well as pleasure, hoped to be able to keep the peace, and
to preserve or restore, if need were, a good understanding between
parties who could most materially promote or injure each other's
comfort. The leisure hours to which she had looked forward with such
transport were all chequered with anxiety on this subject, in the
intervals of speculation on another matter, to which she found her mind
constantly recurring, in spite of her oft-repeated conviction that it
was no concern of hers,--where Mr Enderby was,--what he was doing,--and
when he would come. Day by day, as she spread her books before her, or
began to write, she wondered at her own listlessness about employments
to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness; and when she
detected herself gazing into the fire by the half-hour together, or
allowing the ink to dry in her suspended pen, she found that she was as
far as ever from deciding whether Hester was not now in the way to be
less happy than ever, and how it was that, with all her close friendship
with Philip Enderby, of which she had spoken so confidently to Maria,
she was now in perfect ignorance of his movements and intentions. The
whole was very strange, and, in the experience, somewhat dreary.
Her great comfort was Edward: this was a new support and a strong one:
but even here she was compelled to own herself somewhat disappointed.
This brotherly relation, for which she had longed all her life, did not
bring the fulness of satisfaction which she had anticipated. She had
not a fault to find with Edward: she was always called upon by his daily
conduct for admiration, esteem, and affection; but all this was not of
the profit to her which she had expected. He seemed altered: the flow
of his spirits was much moderated; but perhaps this was no loss, as his
calmness, his gentle seriousness, and domestic benevolence were brought
out more strikingly than ever. Margaret's disappointment lay in the
intercourse between themselves. That Edward was reserved--that beneath
his remarkable frankness there lay an uncommunicativeness of
disposition--no one could before his marriage have made her believe: yet
it certainly was so. Though Hester and she never discussed Edward's
character, more or less--though Hester's love for him, and Margaret's
respect for that love, rendered all such conversation unpossible,
Margaret was perfectly well aware that Hester's conviction on this
particular point was the same as her own--that Hester had discovered
that she had not fully understood her husband, and that there remained a
region of his character into which she had not yet penetrated. Margaret
was obliged to conclude that all this was natural and right, and that
what she had heard said of men generally was true even of Edward Hope--
that there are depths of character where there are not regions of
experience, which defy the sympathy and sagacity of women. However
natural and right all this might be, she could not but be sorry for it.
It brought disappointment to herself, and, as she sadly suspected, to
Hester. While continually and delightedly compelled to honour and
regard him more and more, and to rely upon him as she had never before
relied, she felt that he did not win, and even did not desire, any
intimate confidence. She found that she could still say things to Maria
which she could not say to him; and that, while their domestic
conversation rarely flagged--while it embraced a boundless range of
fact, and all that they could ascertain of morals, philosophy, and
religion--the greatest psychological events, the most interesting
experiences of her life might go forward without express recognition
from Edward. Such was her view of the case; and this was the
disappointment which, in the early days of her new mode of life, she had
to acknowledge to herself, and to conceal from all others.
One fine bright morning towards the end of January, the sisters set out
for their walk, willingly quitting the clear crackling fire within for
the sharp air and sparkling pathways without.
"Which way shall we go?" asked Margaret.
"Oh, I suppose along the high-road, as usual. How provoking it is that
we are prevented, day after day, from getting to the woods by my
snow-boots not having arrived! We will go by Mrs Howell's for the
chance of their having come."
Mrs Howell had two expressions of countenance--the gracious and the
prim. Till lately, Hester had been favoured with the first exclusively.
She was now to be amused with variety, and the prim was offered to her
contemplation. Never did Mrs Howell look more inaccessible than
to-day, when she scarcely rose from her stool behind the counter, to
learn what was the errand of her customer.
"You guess what I am come for, Mrs Howell, I dare say. Have my boots
arrived yet?"
"I am not aware of their having arrived, ma'am. But Miss Miskin is now
occupied in that department."
"Only consider how the winter is getting on, Mrs Howell! and I can walk
nowhere but in the high-road, for want of my boot."
Mrs Howell curtsied.
"Can you not hasten your agent, or help me to my boots, one way or
another? Is there no one in Deerbrook whom you could employ to make me
a pair?"
Mrs Howell cast up her hands and eyes.
"How do other ladies manage to obtain their boots before the snow comes,
instead of after it has melted?"
"Perhaps you will ask them yourself ma'am: I conceive you know all the
ladies in Deerbrook. You will find Miss Miskin in that department,
ladies, if you wish to investigate."
Hester invaded the domain of Miss Miskin--the shoe-shop behind the other
counter--in the hope of finding something to put on her feet, which
should enable her to walk where she pleased. While engaged in turning
over the stock, without any help from Miss Miskin, who was imitating
Mrs Howell's distant manner with considerable success, a carriage drove
up to the door, which could be no other than Sir William Hunter's; and
Lady Hunter's voice was accordingly heard, the next minute, asking for
green sewing-silk. The gentle drawl of Mrs Howell's tone conveyed that
her countenance had resumed its primary expression. She observed upon
the horrors of the fire which had happened at Blickley the night before.
Lady Hunter had not heard of it; and the relation therefore followed
of: the burning down of a house and shop in Blickley, when a nursemaid
and baby were lost in the flames.
"I should hope it is not true," observed Lady Hunter. "Last night, did
you say?--Early this morning? There has scarcely been time for the news
to arrive of a fire at Blickley early this morning."
"It is certainly true, however, my lady. No doubt whatever of the
catastrophe, I am grieved to say." And Mrs Howell's sighs were
sympathetically responded to by Miss Miskin in the back shop.
"But how did you hear it?" asked Lady Hunter.
There was no audible answer. There were probably signs and intimations
of something; for Lady Hunter made a circuit round the shop, on some
pretence, and stared in at the door of the shoe-parlour, just at the
right moment for perceiving, if she so pleased, the beautiful smallness
of Hester's foot. Some low, murmuring, conversation then passed at Mrs
Howell's counter, when the words "black servant" alone met Margaret's
ear.
Hester found nothing that she could wear. The more she pressed for
information and assistance about obtaining boots, the more provokingly
cool Miss Miskin grew. At last Hester turned to her sister with a hasty
inquiry what was to be done.
"We must hope for better fortune before next winter, I suppose," said
Margaret, smiling.
"And wet my feet every day this winter," said Hester; "for I will not be
confined to the high-road for any such reason as this."
"Dear me, ma'am, you are warm!" simpered Miss Miskin.
"I warm! What do you mean, Miss Miskin?"
"You are warm, ma'am:--not that it is of any consequence; but you are a
little warm at present."
"Nobody can charge that upon you, Miss Miskin, I must say," observed
Margaret, laughing.
"No, ma'am, that they cannot, nor ever will. I am not apt to be warm,
and I hope I can excuse... Good morning, ladies."
Mrs Howell treated her customers with a swimming curtsey as they went
out, glancing at her shop-woman the while. Lady Hunter favoured them
with a full stare.
"What excessive impertinence!" exclaimed Hester. "To tell me that I was
warm, and she hoped she could excuse! My husband will hardly believe
it."
"Oh, yes, he will. He knows them for two ignorant, silly women; worth
observing, perhaps, but not worth minding. Have you any other shop to
go to?"
Yes, the tinman's, for a saucepan or two of a size not yet supplied, for
which Morris had petitioned.
The tinman was either unable or not very anxious to understand Hester's
requisitions. He brought out everything but what was wanted; and was so
extremely interested in observing something that was going on over the
way, that he was every moment casting glances abroad between the
dutch-ovens and fenders that half-darkened his window. The ladies at
last looked over the way too, and saw a gig containing a black footman
standing before the opposite house.
"A stranger in Deerbrook!" observed Margaret, as they issued from the
shop. "I do not wonder that Mr Hill had so little attention to spare
for us."
The sisters had been so accustomed, during all the years of their
Birmingham life, to see faces that they did not know, that they could
not yet sympathise with the emotions caused in Deerbrook by the
appearance of a stranger. They walked on, forgetting in conversation
all about the gig and black servant. Hester had not been pleased by the
insufficient attention she had met with in both the shops she had
visited, and she did not enjoy her walk as was her wont. As they trod
the crisp and glittering snow, Margaret hoped the little Rowlands and
Greys were happy in making the snow-man which had been the vision of
their imaginations since the winter set in: but Hester cast longing eyes
on the dark woods which sprang from the sheeted meadows, and thought
nothing could be so delightful as to wander among them, and gather
icicles from the boughs, even though the paths should be ankle-deep in
snow.
Just when they were proposing to turn back, a horseman appeared on the
ridge of the rising ground, over which the road passed. "It is Edward!"
cried Hester. "I had no idea we should meet him on this road." And she
quickened her pace, and her countenance brightened as if she had not
seen him for a month. Before they met him, however, the gig with the
black footman, now containing also a gentleman driving, overtook and
slowly passed them--the gentleman looking round him, as if in search of
some dwelling hereabouts. On approaching Hope, the stranger drew up,
touched his hat, and asked a question; and on receiving the answer,
bowed, turned round, and repassed Hester and Margaret. Hope joined his
wife and sister, and walked his horse beside the path.
"Who is that gentleman, Edward?"
"I believe it is Mr Foster, the surgeon at Blickley."
"What did he want with you?"
"He wanted to know whether he was in the right road to the Russell
Taylors."
"The Russell Taylors! Your patients!"
"Once my patients, but no longer so. It seems they are Mr Foster's
patients now."
Hester made no reply.
"Can you see from your pathway what is going on below there in the
meadow? I see the skaters very busy on the ponds. Why do not you go
there, instead of walking here every day?"
Margaret had to explain the case about the snow-boots, for Hester's face
was bathed in tears. Edward rallied her gently; but it would not do.
She motioned to him to ride on, and he thought it best to do so. The
sisters proceeded in silence, Hester's tears flowing faster and faster.
Instead of walking through Deerbrook, she took a back road homewards,
and drew down her veil. As ill luck would have it, however, they met
Sophia Grey and her sisters, and Sophia would stop. She was about to
turn back with them, when she saw that something was the matter, and
then she checked herself awkwardly, and wished her cousins good morning,
while Fanny and Mary were staring at Hester.
"One ought not to mind," said Margaret, half laughing: "there are so
many causes for grown people's tears! but I always feel now as I did
when I was a child--a shame at being seen in tears, and an excessive
desire to tell people that I have not been naughty."
"You could not have told Sophia so of me, I am sure," said Hester.
"Yes, I could; you are not crying because you have been naughty, but you
are naughty because you cry; and that may be cured presently."
It was not presently cured, however. During the whole of dinner-time,
Hester's tears continued to flow; and she could not eat, though she made
efforts to do so. Edward and Margaret talked a great deal about skating
and snow-men, and about the fire at Blickley; but they came to a stand
at last. The foot-boy went about on tiptoe, and shut the door as if he
had been in a sick-room; and this made Hester's short sobs only the more
audible. It was a relief when the oranges were on the table at last,
and the door closed behind the dinner and the boy. Margaret began to
peel an orange for her sister, and Edward poured out a glass of wine; he
placed it before her, and then drew his chair to her side, saying--
"Now, my dear, let us get to the bottom of all this distress."
"No, do not try, Edward. Never mind me! I shall get the better of
this, by-and-by: only let me alone."
"Thank you!" said Hope, smiling. "I like to see people reasonable! I
am to see you sorrowing in this way, and for very sufficient cause, and
I am neither to mind your troubles nor my own, but to be as merry as if
nothing had happened! Is not this reasonable, Margaret?"
"For very sufficient cause!" said Hester, eagerly.
"Yes, indeed; for very sufficient cause. It must be a painful thing to
you to find my neighbours beginning to dislike me; to have the
tradespeople impertinent to you on my account; to see my patients leave
me, and call in somebody from a distance, in the face of all Deerbrook.
It must make you anxious to think what is to become of us, if the
discontent continues and spreads: and it must be a bitter disappointment
to you to find that to be my wife is not to be so happy as we expected.
Here is cause enough for tears."
In the midst of her grief, Hester looked up at her husband with an
expression of gratitude and tenderness which consoled him for her.
"I will not answer for it," he continued, "but that we may all three sit
down to weep together, one of these days."
"And then," said Margaret, "Hester will be the first to cheer up and
comfort us."
"I have no doubt of it," replied Hope. "Meantime, is there anything
that you would have had done otherwise by me? Was I right or not to
vote? and was there anything wrong in my manner of doing it? Is there
any cause whatever for repentance?"
"None, none," cried Hester. "You have been right throughout. I glory
in all you do."
"To me it seems that you could not have done otherwise," observed
Margaret. "It was a simple, unavoidable act, done with the simplicity
of affairs which happen in natural course. I neither repent it for you,
nor glory in it."
"That is just my view of it, Margaret. And it follows that the
consequences are to be taken as coming in natural course too. Does not
this again simplify the affair, Hester?"
"It lights it up," replied Hester. "It reminds me how all would have
been if you had acted otherwise than as you did. It is, to be sure,
scarcely possible to conceive of such a thing,--but if you had not
voted, I should have--not despised you in any degree,--but lost
confidence in you a little."
"That is a very mild way of putting it," said Hope, laughing.
"Thank Heaven, we are spared that!" exclaimed Margaret. "But, brother,
tell us the worst that you think can come of this displeasure against
you. I rather suspect, however, that we have suffered the worst
already, in discovering that people can be displeased with you."
"That being so extremely rare a lot in this world, and especially in the
world of a village," replied Hope, "I really do not know what to expect
as the last result of this affair, nor am I anxious to foresee. I never
liked the sort of attachment that most of my neighbours have testified
for me. It was to their honour in as far as it showed kindness of
heart, but it was unreasonable: so unreasonable that I imagine the
opposite feelings which are now succeeding may be just as much in
excess. Suppose it should be so, Hester?"
"Well, what then?" she asked, sighing.
"Suppose our neighbours should send me to Coventry, and my patients
should leave me so far as that we should not have enough to live on?"
"That would be persecution," cried Hester, brightening. "I could bear
persecution,--downright persecution."
"You could bear seeing your husband torn by lions in the amphitheatre,"
said Margaret, smiling, "but..."
"But a toss of Mrs Howell's head is unendurable," said Hope, with
solemnity.
Hester looked down, blushing like a chidden child.
"But about this persecution," said she. "What made you ask those
questions just now?"
"I find my neighbours more angry with me than I could have supposed
possible, my dear. I have been treated with great and growing rudeness
for some days. In a place like this, you know, offences seldom come
alone. If you do a thing which a village public does not approve, there
will be offence in whatever else you say and do for some time after.
And I suspect that is my case now. I may be mistaken, however; and
whatever happens, I hope, my love, we shall all be to the last degree
careful not to see offence where it is not intended."
"Not to do the very thing we are suffering under ourselves," observed
Margaret.
"We will not watch our neighbours, and canvass their opinions of us by
our own fireside," said Hope. "We will conclude them all to be our
friends till they give us clear evidence to the contrary. Shall it not
be so, love?"
"I know what you mean," said Hester, with some resentment in her voice
and manner. "You cannot trust my temper in your affairs: and you are
perfectly right. My temper is not to be trusted."
"Very few are, in the first agonies of unpopularity; and such faith in
one's neighbours as shall supersede watching them ought hardly to be
looked for in the atmosphere of Deerbrook. We must all look to
ourselves."
"I understand you," said Hester. "I take the lesson home, I assure you.
It is clear to me through your cautious phrase,--the `we,' and `all of
us,' and `ourselves.' But remember this,--that people are not made
alike, and are not able, and not intended to feel alike; and if some
have less power than others over their sorrow, at least over their
tears, it does not follow that they cannot bear as well what they have
to bear. If I cannot sit looking as Margaret does, peeling oranges and
philosophising, it may not be that I have less strength at my heart, but
that I have more at stake,--more--"
Hope started from her side, and leaned against the mantelpiece, covering
his face with his hands. At this moment, the boy entered with a message
from a patient in the next street, who wanted Mr Hope.
"Oh, do not leave me, Edward! Do not leave me at this moment!" cried
Hester. "Come back for five minutes!"
Hope quietly said that he should return presently, and went out. When
the hall door was heard to close behind him, Hester flung herself down
on the sofa. Whatever momentary resentment Margaret might have felt at
her sister's words, it vanished at the sight of Hester's attitude of
wretchedness. She sat on a footstool beside the sofa, and took her
sister's hand in hers.
"You are kinder to me than I deserve," murmured Hester: "but, Margaret,
mind what I say! never marry, Margaret! Never love, and never marry,
Margaret!"
Margaret laid her hand on her sister's shoulder, saying,--"Stop here,
Hester! While I was the only friend you had, it was right and kind to
tell me all that was in your heart. But now that there is one nearer
and dearer, and far, far worthier than I, I can hear nothing like this.
Nor are you fit just now to speak of these serious things: you are
discomposed--"
"One would think you were echoing Miss Miskin, Margaret,--`You are warm,
ma'am.' But you must hear this much. I insist upon it. If you would
have heard me, you would have found that I was not going to say a word
about my husband inconsistent with all the love and honour you would
have him enjoy. I assure you, you might trust me not to complain of my
husband. I have no words in which to say how noble he is. But, oh! it
is all true about the wretchedness of married life! I am wretched,
Margaret."
"So I see," said Margaret, in deep sorrow.
"Life is a blank to me. I have no hope left. I am neither wiser, nor
better, nor happier for God having given me all that should make a woman
what I meant to be. What can God give me more than I have?"
"I was just thinking so," replied Margaret, mournfully.
"What follows then?"
"Not that all married people are unhappy because you are."
"Yes, oh, yes! all who are capable of happiness: all who can love. The
truth is, there is no perfect confidence in the world: there is no rest
for one's heart. I believed there was, and I am disappointed: and if
you believe there is, you will be disappointed too, I warn you."
"I shall not neglect your warning; but I do believe there is rest for
rational affections--I am confident there is, if the primary condition
is fulfilled--if there is repose in God together with human love."
"You think that trust in God is wanting in me?"
"Do let us speak of something else," said Margaret. "We are wrong to
think and talk of ourselves as we do. There is something sickly about
our state while we do so, and we deserve to be suffering as we are.
Come! let us be up and doing. Let me read to you; or will you practise
with me till Edward comes back?"
"Not till you have answered my question, Margaret. Do you believe that
my wretchedness is from want of trust in God?"
"I believe," said Margaret, seriously, "that all restless and passionate
suffering is from that cause. And now, Hester, no more."
Hester allowed Margaret to read to her; but it would not do. She was
too highly wrought up for common interests. The reading was broken off
by her hysterical sobs; and it was clear that the best thing to be done
was to get her to bed, under Morris's care, that all agitating
conversation might be avoided. When Mr Hope returned, he found
Margaret sitting alone at the tea-table. If she had had no greater
power of self-control than her sister, Edward might have been made
wretched enough, for her heart was full of dismay: but she felt the
importance of the duty of supporting him, and he found her, though
serious, apparently cheerful.
"I have sent Hester to bed," said she, as he entered. "She was worn
out. Yes: just go and speak to her; but do not give her the opportunity
of any more conversation till she has slept. Tell her that I am going
to send her some tea; and by that time yours will be ready."
"Just one word upon the events of to-day," said Hope, as he took his
seat at the tea-table, after having reported that Hester was tolerably
composed:--"just one word, and no more. We must avoid bringing emotions
to a point--giving occasion for--"
"I entirely agree with you," said Margaret. "She requires to be drawn
out of herself. She cannot bear that opening of the sluices, which is a
benefit and comfort to some people. Let us keep them shut, and when it
comes to acting, see how she will act!"
"Bless you for that!" was on Hope's lips; but he did not say it. Tea
was soon dismissed, and he then took up the newspaper; and when that was
finished, he found he could not read to Margaret--he must write:--he had
a case to report for a medical journal.
"I hope I have not spoiled your evening," said Hester, languidly, when
her sister went to bid her good-night. "I have been listening; but I
could not hear you either laughing or talking."
"Because we have been neither laughing nor talking. My brother has been
writing--"
"Writing! To whom? To Emily, or to Anne?"
"To a far more redoubtable person than either: to the editor of some one
of those green and blue periodicals that he devours, as if they were
poetry. And I have been copying music."
"How tired you look!"
"Well, then, good-night!"
Margaret might well look tired; but she did not go to rest for long.
How should she rest, while her soul was sick with dismay, her heart
weighed down with disappointment, her sister's sobs still sounding in
her ear, her sister's agonised countenance rising up from moment to
moment, as often as she closed her eyes? And all this within the sacred
enclosure of home, in the very sanctuary of peace! All this where love
had guided the suffering one to marriage--where there was present
neither sickness, nor calamity, nor guilt, but the very opposites of all
these! Could it then be true, that the only sanctuary of peace is in
the heart? that while love is the master passion of humanity, the
main-spring of human action, the crowning interest of human life--while
it is ordained, natural, inevitable, it should issue as if it were
discountenanced by Providence, unnatural, and to be repelled? Could it
be so? Was Hester's warning against love, against marriage, reasonable,
and to be regarded? That warning Margaret thought she could never put
aside, so heavily had it sunk upon her heart, crushing--she knew not
what there. If it was not a reasonable warning, whither should she turn
for consolation for Hester? If this misery arose out of an incapacity
in Hester herself for happiness in domestic life, then farewell sisterly
comfort--farewell all the bright visions she had ever indulged on behalf
of the one who had always been her nearest and dearest? Instead of
these, there must be struggle and grief, far deeper than in the anxious
years that were gone; struggle with an evil which must grow if it does
not diminish, and grief for an added sufferer--for one who deserved
blessing where he was destined to receive torture. This was not the
first time by a hundred that Hester had kept Margaret from her pillow,
and then driven rest from it; but never had the trial been so great as
now. There had been anxiety formerly; now there was something like
despair, after an interval of hope and comparative ease.
Mankind are ignorant enough, Heaven knows, both in the mass, about
general interests, and individually, about the things which belong to
their peace: but of all mortals, none perhaps are so awfully
self-deluded as the unamiable. They do not, any more than others, sin
for the sake of sinning; but the amount of woe caused by their selfish
unconsciousness is such as may well make their weakness an equivalent
for other men's gravest crimes. There is a great diversity of
hiding-places for their consciences--many mansions in the dim prison of
discontent: but it may be doubted whether, in the hour when all shall be
uncovered to the eternal day, there will be revealed a lower deep than
the hell which they have made. They, perhaps, are the only order of
evil ones who suffer hell without seeing and knowing that it is hell.
But they are under a heavier curse even than this; they inflict
torments, second only to their own, with an unconsciousness almost
worthy of spirits of light. While they complacently conclude themselves
the victims of others, or pronounce, inwardly or aloud, that they are
too singular, or too refined, for common appreciation, they are putting
in motion an enginery of torture whose aspect will one day blast their
minds' sight. The dumb groans of their victims will sooner or later
return upon their ears from the depths of the heaven, to which the
sorrows of men daily ascend. The spirit sinks under the prospect of the
retribution of the unamiable, if all that happens be indeed for
eternity, if there be indeed a record--an impress on some one or other
human spirit--of every chilling frown, of every querulous tone, of every
bitter jest, of every insulting word--of all abuses of that tremendous
power which mind has over mind. The throbbing pulses, the quivering
nerves, the wrung hearts, that surround the unamiable--what a cloud of
witnesses is here! and what plea shall avail against them? The terror
of innocents who should know no fear--the vindictive emotions of
dependants who dare not complain--the faintness of heart of life-long
companions--the anguish of those who love--the unholy exultation of
those who hate,--what an array of judges is here! and where can appeal
be lodged against their sentence? Is pride of singularity a rational
plea? Is super-refinement, or circumstance of God, or uncongeniality in
man, a sufficient ground of appeal, when the refinement of one is a
grace granted for the luxury of all, when circumstance is given to be
conquered, and uncongeniality is appointed for discipline? The
sensualist has brutified the seraphic nature with which he was endowed.
The depredator has intercepted the rewards of toil, and marred the image
of justice, and dimmed the lustre of faith in men's minds. The imperial
tyrant has invoked a whirlwind, to lay waste, for an hour of God's
eternal year, some region of society. But the unamiable--the domestic
torturer--has heaped wrong upon wrong, and woe upon woe, through the
whole portion of time which was given into his power, till it would be
rash to say that any others are more guilty than he. If there be hope
or solace for such, it is that there may have been tempers about him the
opposite of his own. It is matter of humiliating gratitude that there
were some which he could not ruin; and that he was the medium of
discipline by which they were exercised in forbearance, in divine
forgiveness and love. If there be solace in such an occasional result,
let it be made the most of by those who need it; for it is the only
possible alleviation to their remorse. Let them accept it as the free
gift of a mercy which they have insulted, and a long-suffering which
they have defied.
Not thus, however, did Margaret regard the case of her sister. She had
but of late ceased to suppose herself in the wrong when Hester was
unhappy: and though she was now relieved from the responsibility of her
sister's peace, she was slow to blame--reluctant to class the case lower
than as one of infirmity. Her last waking thoughts (and they were very
late) were of pity and of prayer.
As the door closed behind Margaret, Hope had flung down his pen. In one
moment she had returned for a book; and she found him by the fireside,
leaning his head upon his arms against the wall. There was something in
his attitude which startled her out of her wish for her book, and she
quietly withdrew without it. He turned, and spoke, but she was gone.
"So this is home!" thought he, as he surveyed the room, filled as it was
with tokens of occupation, and appliances of domestic life. "It is home
to be more lonely than ever before--and yet never to be alone with my
secret! At my own table, by my own hearth, I cannot look up into the
faces around me, nor say what I am thinking. In every act and every
word I am in danger of disturbing the innocent--even of sullying the
pure, and of breaking the bruised reed. Would to God I had never seen
them! How have I abhorred bondage all my life! and I am in bondage
every hour that I spend at home. I have always insisted that there was
no bondage but in guilt. Is it so? If it be so, then I am either
guilty, or in reality free. I have settled this before. I am guilty;
or rather, I have been guilty; and this is my retribution. Not guilty
towards Margaret. Thank God, I have done her no wrong! Thank God, I
have never been in her eyes--what I must not think of! Nor could I ever
have been, if... She loves Enderby, I am certain, though she does not
know it herself. It is a blessing that she loves him, if I could but
always feel it so. I am not guilty towards her, nor towards Hester,
except in the weakness of declining to inflict that suffering upon her
which, fearful as it must have been, might perhaps have proved less
than, with all my care, she must undergo now. There was my fault. I
did not, I declare, seek to attach her. I did nothing wrong so far.
But I dared to measure suffering--to calculate consequences
presumptuously and vainly: and this is my retribution. How would it
have been, if I had allowed them to go back to Birmingham, and had been
haunted with the image of her there? But why go over this again, when
my very soul is weary of it all? It lies behind, and let it be
forgotten. The present is what I have to do with, and it is quite
enough. I have injured, cruelly injured myself; and I must bear with
myself. Here I am, charged with the duty of not casting my shadow over
the innocent, and of strengthening the infirm. I have a clear duty
before me--that is one blessing. The innocent will soon be taken from
under my shadow--I trust so--for my duty there is almost too hard. How
she would confide in me, and I must not let her, and must continually
disappoint her, and suffer in her affection. I cannot even be to her
what our relation warrants. And all the while her thoughts are my
thoughts; her... But this will never do. It is enough that she trusts
me, and that I deserve that she should. This is all that I can ever
have or hope for; but I have won thus much; and I shall keep it. Not a
doubt or fear, not a moment's ruffle of spirits, shall she ever
experience from me. As for my own poor sufferer--what months and years
are before us both! What a discipline before she can be at peace! If
she were to look forward as I do, her heart would sink as mine does, and
perhaps she would try... But we must not look forward: her heart must
not sink. I must keep it up. She has strength under her weakness, and
I must help her to bring it out and use it. There ought to be, there
must be, peace in store for such generosity of spirit as lies under the
jealousy, for such devotedness, for such power. Margaret says, `When it
comes to acting, see how she will act.' Oh, that it might please Heaven
to send such adversity as would prove to herself how nobly she can act!
If some strong call on her power, would come in aid of what I would fain
do for her, I care not what it is. If I can only witness my own wrong
repaired--if I can but see her blessed from within, let all other things
be as they may! The very thought frees me, and I breathe again!"