Mr Hope might well doubt. Margaret was not gay but desperate. Yes,
even the innocent may be desperate under circumstances of education and
custom, by which feelings natural and inevitable are made occasions of
shame; while others, which are wrong and against the better nature of
man, bask in daylight and impunity. There was not a famishing wretch
prowling about a baker's door, more desperate than Margaret this day.
There was not a gambler setting his teeth while watching the last turn
of the die, more desperate than Margaret this day. If there was a
criminal standing above a sea of faces with the abominable executioner's
hands about his throat, Margaret was, for the time, as wretched as he.
If any asked why--why it should be thus with one who has done no wrong,
the answer is--Why is there pride in the human heart?--why is there a
particular nurture of this pride into womanly reserve?--Why is it that
love is the chief experience, and almost the only object, of a woman's
life? Why is it that it is painful to beings who look before and after
to have the one hope of existence dashed away--the generous faith
outraged--all self-confidence overthrown--life in one moment made dreary
as the desert--Heaven itself overclouded--and death all the while
standing at such a weary distance that there is no refuge within the
horizon of endurance? Be these things right or wrong, they are: and
while they are, will the woman who loves, unrequited, feel desperate on
the discovery of her loneliness--and, the more pure and proud, innocent
and humble, the more lonely.
For some little time past, Margaret had been in a state of great
tranquillity about Philip--a tranquillity which she now much wondered
at--now that it was all over. She had had an unconscious faith in him;
and, living in this faith, she had forgotten herself, she had not
thought of the future, she had not felt impatient for any change. Often
as she wished for his presence, irksome as she had sometimes felt it to
know nothing of him from week to week, she had been tacitly satisfied
that she was in his thoughts as he was in hers; and this had been enough
for the time. What an awakening from this quiescent state was hers this
day!
It was from no other than Dr Levitt that she had heard in the morning
that Mr Enderby was shortly going to be married to Miss Mary Bruce.
Dr Levitt was at Widow Rye's when Margaret went, and had walked part of
the way home with her. During the walk, this piece of news had dropped
out, while they were talking of Mrs Enderby's health. All that Dr
Levitt knew of Miss Mary Bruce was, that she was of sufficiently good
family and fortune to make the Rowlands extremely well satisfied with
the match; that Mrs Enderby had never seen her, and that it would be
some time before she could see her, as the whole family of the Bruces
was at Rome for the winter. When Dr Levitt parted from Margaret at the
gate of the churchyard, these last words contained the hope she clung
to--a hope which might turn into the deepest reason for despair. Philip
had certainly not been abroad. Was it likely that he should lately have
become engaged to any young lady who had been some time in Rome? It was
not likely: but then, if it was true, he must have been long engaged: he
must have been engaged at the time of his last visit of six days, when
he had talked over his views of life with Margaret, and been so anxious
to obtain hers:--he must surely have been engaged in the summer, when
she found Tieck in the desk, and when he used to spend so many evenings
at the Greys'--certainly not on Hester's account. At one moment she was
confident all this could not be; she was relieved; she stepped lightly.
The next moment, a misgiving came that it was all too true; the weight
fell again upon her heart, she lost breath, and it was intolerable to
have to curtesy to Mrs James, and to answer the butcher's inquiry about
the meat that had been ordered. If these people would only go on with
their own business, and take no notice of her! Then, again, the thought
occurred, that she knew Philip better than any,--than even his own
family; and that, say what they might, he was all her own. In these
changes of mood, she had got through dinner; the dominant idea was then
that she must, by some means or other, obtain certainty. She thought of
Maria. Maria was likely to know the facts, from her constant
intercourse with the Rowlands, and besides, there was certainly a
something in Maria's mind in relation to Philip,--a keen insight, which
might be owing to the philosophical habit of her mind, or to something
else,--but which issued in information about him, which it was
surprising that she could obtain. She seldom spoke of him; but when she
did, it was wonderfully to the purpose. Margaret thought she could
learn from Maria, in a very simple and natural way, that which she so
much wished to know: and when she left the room after dinner, it was to
write the note which might bring certainty.
"Dear Friend,--I saw Dr Levitt this morning while I was out, and he
told me, with all possible assurance, that Mr Enderby is going to be
married very shortly to a young lady at Rome,--Miss Mary Bruce. Now,
this is true or it is not. If true, you are as well aware as we are
that we are entitled to have known it otherwise and earlier than by
common report. If not true, the rumour should not be allowed to
spread. If you know anything certainly, one way or the other, pray
tell us.
"Yours affectionately,
"Margaret Ibbotson."
The "we" and "us" were not quite honest; but Margaret meant to make them
as nearly so as possible by _ex-post-facto_ communication with her
brother and sister: a resolution so easily made, that it did not occur
to her how difficult it might be to execute. While her messenger was
gone, she wrought herself up to a resolution to bear the answer,
whatever it might be, with the same quietness with which she must bear
the whole of her future life, if Dr Levitt's news should prove to be
founded in fact. The door opening seemed to prick the nerves of her
ears: her heart heaved to her throat at the sight of the white paper:
yet it was with neatness that she broke the seal, and with a steady hand
that she held the note to read it. The handwriting was only too
distinct: it seemed to burn itself in upon her brain. All was over.
"Dear Margaret,--I do not know where Dr Levitt got his news; but I
believe it is true. Mrs Rowland pretends to absolute certainty about
her brother's engagement to Miss Bruce; and it is from this that
others speak so positively about it. Whatever are the grounds that
Mrs R. goes upon, there are others which afford a strong presumption
that she is right. Some of these may be known to you. They leave no
doubt in my mind that the report is true. As to the failure of
confidence in his friends,--what can be said?--unless by way of
reminder of the old truth that, by the blessing of Heaven, wrongs--be
they but deep enough--may chasten a human temper into something
divine.
"George has been very grave for the last three hours, pandering, I
fancy, what irony can be for. Your sister will not grudge him his
lesson, though afforded at her expense.
"Yours affectionately,
"Maria Young."
"Wrongs!" thought she;--"Maria goes too far when she speaks of wrongs.
There was nothing in my note to bring such an expression in answer. It
is going too far."
This was but the irritability of a racked soul, needing to spend its
agony somewhere. The remembrance of the conversation with Maria, held
so lately, and of Maria's views of Philip's relation to her, returned
upon her, and her soul melted within her. She, felt that Maria had
understood her better than she did herself; and was justified in the
words she had used. Under severe calamity, to be endured alone, evil
thoughts sometimes come before good ones. Margaret was, for an hour or
two, possessed with the bad spirit of defiance. Her mind sank back into
what it had been in her childhood, when she had hidden herself in the
lumber-room, or behind the water-tub, for many hours, to make the family
uneasy, because she had been punished,--in the days when she bore every
infliction that her father dared to try, with apparent unconcern, rather
than show to watchful eyes that she was moved,--in the days when the
slightest concession would dissolve her stubbornness in an instant, but
when, to get rid of a life of contradiction, she had had serious
thoughts of cutting her throat, had gone to the kitchen door to get the
carving-knife, and had been much disappointed to find the servants at
dinner, and the knife-tray out of reach. This spirit, so long ago
driven out by the genial influences of family love, by the religion of
an expanding intellect, and the solace of appreciation, now came back to
inhabit the purified bosom which had been kept carefully swept and
garnished. It was the motion of this spirit, uneasy in its unfit abode,
that showed itself by the shiver, the flushed cheek, the clenching hand,
and the flashing eye. It kept whispering wicked things,--"I will baffle
and deceive Maria: she shall withdraw her pity, and laugh at it with
me." "I defy Edward and Hester: they shall wonder how it is that my
fancy alone is free, that my heart alone is untouched, that the storms
of life pass high over my head, and dare not lower." "I will humble
Philip, and convince him..." But, no; it would not do. The abode was
too lowly and too pure for the evil spirit of defiance: the demon did
not wait to be cast out; but as Margaret sat down in her chamber, alone
with her lot, to face it as she might, the strange inmate escaped, and
left her at least herself.
Margaret was in agonised amazement at the newness of the misery she was
suffering. She really fancied she had sympathised with Hester that
dreadful night of Hope's accident: she had then actually believed that
she was entering into her sister's feelings. It had been as much like
it as seeing a picture of one on the rack is like being racked. But
Hester had not had so much cause for misery, for she never had to
believe Edward unworthy. Her pride had been wounded at finding that her
peace was no longer in her own power; but she had not been trifled
with--duped. Here again Margaret refused to believe. The fault was all
her own. She had been full of herself, full of vanity; fancying,
without cause, that she was much to another when she was little. She
was humbled now, and she no doubt deserved it. But how ineffably weak
and mean did she appear in her own eyes! It was this which clouded
Heaven to her at the moment that earth had become a desert. She felt so
debased, that she durst not ask for strength where she was wont to find
it. If she had done one single wrong thing, she thought she could bear
the consequences cheerfully, and seek support, and vigorously set about
repairing the causes of her fault; but here it seemed to her that her
whole state of mind had been low and selfish. It must be this sort of
blindness which had led her so far in so fearful a delusion. And if the
whole condition of her mind had been low and selfish, while her
conscience had given her no hint of anything being amiss, where was she
to begin to rectify her being? She felt wholly degraded.
And then what a set of pictures rose up before her excited fancy!
Philip going forth for a walk with her and Hester, after having just
sealed a letter to Miss Bruce, carrying the consciousness of what he had
been saying to the mistress of his heart, while she, Margaret, had
supposed herself the chief object of his thought and care! Again,
Philip discussing her mind and character with Miss Bruce, as those of a
friend for whom he had a regard! or bestowing a passing imagination on
how she would receive the intelligence of his engagement! Perhaps he
reserved the news till he could come down to Deerbrook, and call and
tell her himself, as one whose friendship deserved that he should be the
bearer of his own tidings. That footstep, whose spring she had
strangely considered her own signal of joy, was not hers but another's.
That laugh, the recollection of which made her smile even in these
dreadful moments, was to echo in another's home. She was stripped of
all her heart's treasure, of his tones, his ways, his thoughts,--a
treasure which she had lived upon without knowing it; she was stripped
of it all--cast out--left alone--and he and all others would go on their
ways, unaware that anything had happened! Let them do so. It was hard
to bear up in solitude when self-respect was gone with all the rest; but
it must be possible to live on--no matter how--if to live on was
appointed. If not, there was death, which was better.
These thoughts were not beneath one like Margaret--one who was religious
as she. It requires time for religion to avail anything when
self-respect is utterly broken-down. A devout sufferer may surmount the
pangs of persecution at the first onset, and wrestle with bodily pain,
and calmly endure bereavement by death; but there is no power of faith
by which a woman can attain resignation under the agony of unrequited
passion otherwise than by conflict, long and terrible.
Margaret laid down at last, because her eyes were weary of seeing; and
she would fain have shut out all sounds. The occasional flicker of a
tiny blaze, however, and the fall of a cinder in the hearth, served to
lull her senses, and it was not long before she slept. But, oh, the
horrors of that sleep! The lines of Maria's note stared her in the
face--glaring, glowing, gigantic. Sometimes she was trying to read
them, and could not, though her life depended on them. Now Mrs Rowland
had got hold of them; and now they were thrown into the flames, but
would not burn, and the letters grew red-hot. Then came the image of
Philip; and that horror was mixed up with whatever was most ludicrous.
Once she was struggling for voice to speak to him, and he mocked her
useless efforts. Oh, how she struggled! till some strong arm raised
her, and some other voice murmured gently in her throbbing ear.
"Wake, my dear! Wake up, Margaret! What is it, dear? Wake!"
"Mother! is it you? Oh, mother! have you come at last?" murmured
Margaret, sinking her head on Morris' shoulder.
It was some moments before Margaret felt a warm tear fall upon her
cheek, and heard Morris say:
"No, my dear: not yet. Your mother is in a better place than this,
where we shall all rest with her at last, Miss Margaret."
"What is all this?" said Margaret, raising herself, and looking round
her. "What did I mean about my mother? Oh, Morris, my head is all
confused, and I think I have been frightened. They were laughing at me,
and when somebody came to help me, I thought it must be my mother. Oh,
Morris, it is a long while--I wish I was with her."
Morris did not desire to hear what Margaret's dream had been. The
immediate cause of Margaret's distress she did not know; but she had for
some time suspected that which only one person in the world was aware of
besides herself. The terrible secret of this household was no secret to
her. She was experienced enough in love and its signs to know, without
being told where love was absent, and where it rested. She had not
doubted, up to the return from the wedding-trip, that all was right; but
she had never been quite happy since. She had perceived no sign that
either sister was aware of the truth; the continuance of their sisterly
friendship was a proof that neither of them was: but she wished to avoid
hearing the particulars of Margaret's dream, and all revelations which,
in the weakness and confusion of an hour like this, she might be tempted
to make. Morris withdrew from Margaret's clasp, moved softly across the
room, gently put the red embers together in the grate, and lighted the
lamp which stood on the table.
"I hope," whispered Margaret, trying to still her shivering, "that
nobody heard me but you. How came you to think of coming to me?"
"My room being over this, you know, it was easy to hear the voice of a
person in an uneasy sleep. I am glad I happened to be awake: so I put
on my cloak and came."
Morris did not say that Edward had heard the stifled cry also, and that
she had met him on the stairs coming to beg that she would see what
could be done. Hester having slept through it, Margaret need never know
that other ears than Morris' had heard her. Thus had Hope and Morris
tacitly agreed.
"Now, my dear, when I have warmed this flannel, to put about your feet,
you must go to sleep again. I will not leave you till daylight--till
the house is near being astir: so you may sleep without being afraid of
bad dreams. I will rouse you if I see you disturbed. Now, no more
talking, or we shall have the house up; and all this had better be
between you and me."
To satisfy Margaret, Morris lay down on the outside of the bed, warmly
covered; and the nurse once more, as in old days, felt her favourite
child breathing quietly against her shoulder: once more she wiped away
the standing tears, and prayed in her heart for the object of her care.
If her prayer had had words, it would have been this:--
"Thou hast been pleased to take to thyself the parents of these dear
children; and surely thou wilt be therefore pleased to be to them as
father and mother, or to raise up or spare to them such as may be so.
This is what I would ask for myself; that I may be that comfort to them.
Thou knowest that a strange trouble hath entered this house--thou
knowest, for thine eye seeth beneath the face into the heart, as the sun
shines into a locked chamber at noon. Thou knowest what these young
creatures know not. Make holy to them what thou knowest. Let thy
silence rest upon that which must not be spoken. Let thy strength be
supplied where temptation is hardest. Let the innocence which has come
forth from thine own hand be kept fit to appear in all the light of thy
countenance. Oh! let them never be seen sinking with shame before thee.
Father, if thou hast made thy children to love one another for their
good, let not love be a grief and a snare to such as these. Thou canst
turn the hearts even of the wicked: turn the hearts of these thy dutiful
children to love, where love may be all honour and no shame, so that
they may have no more mysteries from each other, as I am sure they have
none from thee. All who know them have doubtless asked thy blessing on
their house, their health, their basket and store: let me ask it also on
the workings of their hearts, since, if their hearts be right, all is
well--or will be in thine own best time."
When Margaret entered the breakfast-room in the morning, she found her
brother sketching the skaters of Deerbrook, while the tea was brewing.
Hester was looking over his shoulder, laughing, as she recognised one
after another of her neighbours in the act of skating--this one by the
stoop--that by the formality--and the other by the coat-flaps flying out
behind. No inquiries were made--not a word was said of health or
spirits. It seems strange that sufferers have not yet found means to
stop the practice of such inquiries--a practice begun in kindness, and
carried on in the spirit of hospitality, but productive of great
annoyance to all but those who do not need such inquiries--the healthful
and the happy. There are multitudes of invalids who can give no
comfortable answer respecting their health, and who are averse from
giving an uncomfortable one, and for whom nothing is therefore left but
evasion. There are only too many sufferers to whom it is irksome to be
questioned about their hours of sleeplessness, or who do not choose to
have it known that they have not slept. The unpleasant old custom of
pressing people to eat has gone out: the sooner the other observance of
hospitality is allowed to follow it, the better. All who like to tell
of illness and sleeplessness can do so; and those who have reasons for
reserve upon such points, as Margaret had this morning, can keep their
own counsel.
At the earliest possible hour that the etiquette of Deerbrook would
allow, there was a knock at the door.
"That must be Mrs Rowland," exclaimed Hester. "One may know that
woman's temper by her knock--so consequential, and yet so sharp.
Margaret, love, you can run upstairs--there is time yet--if you do not
wish to see her."
"Why should I?" said Margaret, looking up with a calmness which
perplexed Hester.
"This is either ignorance," thought she, "or such patience as I wish I
had."
It _was_ Mrs Rowland, and she _was_ come to tell what Hester feared
Margaret might not be able to bear to hear. She was attended only by
the little fellow who was so fond of riding on Uncle Philip's shoulder.
It was rather lucky that Ned came, as Margaret was furnished with
something to do in taking off his worsted gloves, and rubbing his little
red hands between her own. And then she could say a great many things
to him about learning to slide, and the difficulty of keeping on the
snow-man's nose, and about her wonder that they had not thought of
putting a pipe into his mouth. Before this subject was finished, Mrs
Rowland turned full round to Margaret, and said that the purpose of her
visit was to explain fully something that her poor mother had let drop
yesterday to Mr Hope. Her mother was not what she had been--though,
indeed, she had always been rather apt to let out things that she should
not. She found that Mr Hope had been informed by her mother of her
brother Philip's engagement to a charming young lady, who would indeed
be a great ornament to the connexion.
"I assure you," said Margaret, "my brother is very careful, and always
remembers that he is upon honour as to what he hears in a sick-room. He
has not mentioned it."
"Oh! then it is safe. We are much obliged to Mr Hope, I am sure. I
said to my mother--`My dear ma'am,'--"
"But I must mention," said Margaret, "that the news was abroad before...
I must beg that you will not suppose my brother has spoken of it, if
you should find that everybody knows it. I heard it from Dr Levitt
yesterday, about the same time, I fancy, that Mr Hope was hearing it
from Mrs Enderby."
Hester sat perfectly still, to avoid all danger of showing that this was
news to her.
"How very strange!" exclaimed the lady. "I often say there is no
keeping anything quiet in Deerbrook. Do you know where Dr Levitt got
his information?"
"No," said Margaret, smiling. "Dr Levitt generally knows what he is
talking about. I dare say he had it from some good authority. The
young lady is at Rome, I find."
"Are you acquainted with Miss Bruce?" asked Hester, thinking it time to
relieve Margaret of her share of the conversation.
Margaret started a little on finding that her sister had heard the news.
Was it possible that her brother and sister had been afraid to tell
her? No: it was a piece of Edward's professional discretion. His wife
alone had a right to the news he heard among his patients.
"Oh, yes!" replied Mrs Rowland; "I have long loved Mary as a sister.
Their early attachment made a sister of her to me an age ago."
"It has been a long engagement, then," said Hester, glad to say anything
which might occupy Mrs Rowland, as Margaret's lips were now turning
very white.
"Not now, my dear," Margaret was heard to say to little Ned, over whom
she was bending her head as he stood by her side. "Stand still here,"
she continued, with wonderful cheerfulness of tone; "I want to hear your
mamma tell us about Uncle Philip." With the effort her strength
rallied, and the paleness was gone before Mrs Rowland had turned round.
"How long the engagement has existed," said the lady, "I cannot venture
to say. I speak only of the attachment. Young people understand their
own affairs, you know, and have their little mysteries, and laugh behind
our backs, I dare say, at our ignorance of what they are about. Philip
has been sly enough as to this, I own: but I must say I had my
suspicions. I was pretty confident of his being engaged from the day
that he told me in the summer, that he fully agreed with me that it was
time he was settled."
"How differently some people understood that!" thought Hester and
Margaret at the same moment.
"Is Mr Enderby at Rome now?" asked Hester.
"No: he is hard at work, studying law. He is really going to apply to a
profession now. Not that it would be necessary, for Mary has a very
good fortune. But Mary wishes so much that he should--like a sensible
girl as she is."
"It is what I urged when he consulted me," thought Margaret. She had
had little idea whose counsel she was following up.
"We shall soon hear of his setting off for the Continent, however, I
have no doubt," said the lady.
"To bring home his bride," observed Margaret, calmly.
"Why, I do not know that. The Bruces will be returning early in the
spring; and I should like the young people to marry in town, that we may
have them here for their wedding trip."
"How you do hug me!" cried the laughing little boy, around whom
Margaret's arm was passed.
"Have I made you warm at last?" asked Margaret. "If not, you may go and
stand by the fire."
"No, indeed; we must be going," said mamma. "As I find this news is
abroad, I must call on Mrs Grey. She will take offence at once, if she
hears it from anybody but me. So much for people's husbands being
partners in business!"
Margaret was now fully qualified to comprehend her sister's
irritability. Every trifle annoyed her. The rustle of Mrs Rowland's
handsome cloak almost made her sick; and she thought the hall clock
would never have done striking twelve. When conscious of this, she put
a strong check upon herself.
Hester stood by the mantelpiece, looking into the fire, and taking no
notice of their mutual silence upon this piece of news. At last she
muttered, in a soliloquising tone--
"Do not know--but I am not sure this news is true, after all."
After a moment's pause, Margaret replied--"I think that is not very
reasonable. What must one suppose of everybody else, if it is not
true?"
Hester was going to say, "What must we think of him, if it is?" but she
checked herself. She should not have said what she had; she felt this,
and only replied--
"Just so. Yes; it must be true."
Margaret's heart once more sank within her at this corroboration of her
own remark.