Hester was tired of her snow-boots before she saw them. She had spent
more trouble on them than they were worth; and it was three weeks yet
before they came. It was now past the middle of February--rather late
in the season for snow-boots to arrive: but then there was Margaret's
consolatory idea, that they would be ready for next year's snow.
"It is not too late yet," said Mr Hope. "There is skating every day in
the meadow. It will soon be over; so do not lose your opportunity.
Come! let us go to-day."
"Not unless the sun shines out," said Hester, looking with a shiver up
at the windows.
"Yes, to-day," said Edward, "because I have time to-day to go with you.
You have seen me quiz other skaters: you must go and see other skaters
quiz me."
"What points of your skating do they get hold of to quiz?" asked
Margaret.
"Why, I hardly know. We shall see."
"Is it so very good, then?"
"No. I believe the worst of my skating is, that it is totally devoid of
every sort of expression. That is just the true account of it," he
continued, as his wife laughed. "I do not square my elbows, nor set my
coat flying, nor stoop, nor rear; but neither is there any grace. I
just go straight on; and, as far as I know, nobody ever bids any other
body look at me."
"So you bid your own family come and look at you. But how are your
neighbours to quiz you if they do not observe you?"
"Oh, that was only a bit of antithesis for effect. My last account is
the true one, as you will see. I shall come in for you at twelve."
By twelve the sun had shone out, and the ladies, booted, furred, and
veiled, were ready to encounter the risks and rigours of the ice and
snow. As they opened the hall door they met on the steps a young woman,
who was just raising her hand to the knocker. Her errand was soon told.
"Please, ma'am, I heard that you wanted a servant."
"That is true," said Hester. "Where do you come from?--from any place
near, so that you can call again?"
"Surely," said Margaret, "it is Mrs Enderby's Susan."
"Yes, miss, I have been living with Mrs Enderby. Mrs Enderby will
give me a good character, ma'am."
"Why are you leaving her, Susan?"
"Oh, ma'am, only because she is gone."
"Gone!--where?--what do you mean?"
"Gone to live at Mrs Rowland's, ma'am. You didn't know?--it _was_ very
sudden. But she moved yesterday, ma'am, and we were paid off--except
Phoebe, who stays to wait upon her. I am left in charge of the house,
ma'am: so I can step here again, if you wish it, some time when you are
not going out."
"Do so; any time this evening, or before noon to-morrow."
"Did you know of this, Edward?" said his wife, as they turned the
corner.
"Not I. I think Mrs Rowland is mistaken in saying that nothing can be
kept secret in Deerbrook. I do not believe anybody has dreamed of the
poor old lady giving up her house."
"Very likely Mrs Rowland never dreamed of it herself; till the day it
was done," observed Margaret.
"Oh, yes, she did," said Mr Hope. "I understand now the old lady's
agitation, and the expressions she dropped about `last times' nearly a
month ago."
"By-the-by, that was the last time you saw her--was it not?"
"Yes; the next day when I called I was told that she was better, and
that she would send when she wished to see me again, to save me the
trouble of calling when she might be asleep."
"She has been asleep or engaged every time I have inquired at the door
of late," observed Margaret. "I hope she is doing nothing but what she
likes in this change of plan."
"I believe she finds most peace and quiet in doing what her daughter
likes," said Mr Hope. "Here, Margaret, where are you going? This is
the gate. I believe you have not learned your way about yet."
"I will follow you immediately," said Margaret: "I will only go a few
steps to see if this can really be true."
Before the Hopes had half crossed the meadow, Margaret joined them,
perfectly convinced. The large bills in the closed windows of Mrs
Enderby's house bore "To be Let or Sold" too plainly to leave any doubt.
As the skating season was nearly over, all the skaters in Deerbrook were
eager to make use of their remaining opportunities, and the banks of the
brook and of the river were full of their wives, sisters, and children.
Sydney Grey was busy cutting figures-of-eight before the eyes of his
sisters, and in defiance of his mother's careful warnings not to go
here, and not to venture there, and not to attempt to cross the river.
Mr Hope begged his wife to engage Mrs Grey in conversation, so that
Sydney might be left free for a while, and promised to keep near the boy
for half an hour, during which time Mrs Grey might amuse herself with
watching other and better performers further on. As might have been
foreseen, however, Mrs Grey could talk of nothing but Mrs Enderby's
removal, of which she had not been informed till this morning, and which
she had intended to discuss in Hester's house, on leaving the meadows.
It appeared that Mrs Enderby had been in agitated and variable spirits
for some time, apparently wishing to say something that she did not say,
and expressing a stronger regard than ever for her old friends--a
regular sign that some act of tyranny or rudeness might speedily be
expected from Mrs Rowland. The Greys were in the midst of their
speculations, as to what might be coming to pass, when Sydney burst in,
with the news that Mrs Enderby's house was to be "Let or Sold." Mrs
Grey had mounted her spectacles first, to verify the fact, and then sent
Alice over to inquire, and had immediately put on her bonnet and cloak,
and called on her old friend at Mrs Rowland's. She had been told at
the door that Mrs Enderby was too much fatigued with her removal to see
any visitors. "So I shall try again to-morrow," concluded Mrs Grey.
"How does Mr Hope think her spasms have been lately?" asked Sophia.
"He has not seen her for nearly a month; so I suppose they are better."
"I fear that does not follow, my dear," said Mrs Grey, winking. "Some
people are afraid of your husband's politics, you are aware; and I know
Mrs Rowland has been saying and doing things on that score which you
had better not hear about. I have my reasons for thinking that the old
lady's spasms are far from being better. But Mrs Rowland has been so
busy crying up those drops of hers, that cure everything, and praising
her maid, that I have a great idea your husband will not be admitted to
see her till she is past cure, and her daughter thoroughly frightened.
Mr Hope has never been forgiven, you know, for marrying into our
connection so decidedly. And I really don't know what would have been
the consequence, if, as we once fancied likely, Mr Philip and Margaret
had thought of each other."
Margaret was happily out of hearing. A fresh blow had just been struck.
She had looked to Mrs Enderby for information on the subject which for
ever occupied her, and on which she felt that she must know more or
sink. She had been much disappointed at being refused admission to the
old lady, time after time. Now all hope of free access and private
conversation was over. She had set it as an object before her to see
Mrs Enderby, and learn as much of Philip's affair as his mother chose
to offer: now this object was lost, and nothing remained to be done or
hoped--for it was too certain that Mrs Enderby's friends would not be
allowed unrestrained intercourse with her in her daughter's house.
For some little time Margaret had been practising the device, so
familiar to the unhappy, of carrying off mental agitation by bodily
exertion. She was now eager to be doing something more active than
walking by Mrs Grey's side, listening to ideas which she knew just as
well without their being spoken. Mrs Grey's thoughts about Mrs
Rowland, and Mrs Rowland's ideas of Mrs Grey, might always be
anticipated by those who knew the ladies. Hester and Margaret had
learned to think of something else, while this sort of comment was
proceeding, and to resume their attention when it came to an end.
Margaret had withdrawn from it now, and was upon the ice with Sydney.
"Why, cousin Margaret, you don't mean that you are afraid of walking on
the ice?" cried Sydney, balancing himself on his heels. "Mr Hope, what
do you think of that?" he called out, as Hope skimmed past them.
"Cousin Margaret is afraid of going on the ice!"
"What does she think can happen to her?" asked Mr Hope, his last words
vanishing in the distance.
"It looks so grey, and clear, and dark, Sydney."
"Pooh! It is thick enough between you and the water. You would have to
get down a good way, I can tell you, before you could get drowned."
"But it is so slippery!"
"What of that? What else did you expect with ice? If you tumble, you
can get up again. I have been down three times this morning."
"Well, that is a great consolation, certainly. Which way do you want me
to walk?"
"Oh, any way. Across the river to the other bank, if you like. You
will remember next summer, when we come this way in a boat, that you
have walked across the very place."
"That is true," said Margaret. "I will go if Sophia will go with me."
"There is no use in asking any of them," said Sydney. "They stand
dawdling and looking, till their lips and noses are all blue and red,
and they are never up to any fun."
"I will try as far as that pole first," said Margaret. "I should not
care if they had not swept away all the snow here, so as to make the ice
look so grey and slippery."
"That pole!" said Sydney. "Why, that pole is put up on purpose to show
that you must not go there. Don't you see how the ice is broken all
round it? Oh, I know how it is that you are so stupid and cowardly
to-day. You've lived in Birmingham all your winters, and you've never
been used to walk on the ice."
"I am glad you have found that out at last. Now, look--I am really
going. What a horrid sensation!" she cried, as she cautiously put down
one foot before the other on the transparent floor. She did better when
she reached the middle of the river, where the ice had been ground by
the skates.
"Now, you would get on beautifully," said Sydney, "if you would not look
at your feet. Why can't you look at the people, and the trees
opposite?"
"Suppose I should step into a hole."
"There are no holes. Trust me for the holes. What do you flinch so
for? The ice always cracks so, in one part or another. I thought you
had been shot."
"So did I," said she, laughing. "But, Sydney, we are a long way from
both banks."
"To be sure: that is what we came for."
Margaret looked somewhat timidly about her. An indistinct idea flitted
through her mind--how glad she should be to be accidentally, innocently
drowned; and scarcely recognising it, she proceeded.
"You get on well," shouted Mr Hope, as he flew past, on his return up
the river.
"There, now," said Sydney, presently; "it is a very little way to the
bank. I will just take a trip up and down, and come for you again, to
go back; and then we will try whether we can't get cousin Hester over,
when she sees you have been safe there and back."
This was a sight which Hester was not destined to behold. Margaret had
an ignorant partiality for the ice which was the least grey; and, when
left to herself, she made for a part which looked less like glass.
Nobody particularly heeded her. She slipped, and recovered herself: she
slipped again, and fell, hearing the ice crack under her. Every time
she attempted to rise, she found the place too slippery to keep her
feet; next, there was a hole under her; she felt the cold water--she was
sinking through; she caught at the surrounding edges--they broke away.
There was a cry from the bank, just as the death-cold waters seemed to
close all round her, and she felt the ice like a heavy weight above her.
One thought of joy--"It will soon be all over now"--was the only
experience she was conscious of.
In two minutes more, she was breathing the air again, sitting on the
bank, and helping to wring out her clothes. How much may pass in two
minutes! Mr Hope was coming up the river again, when he saw a bustle
on the bank, and slipped off his skates, to be ready to be of service.
He ran as others ran, and arrived just when a dark-blue dress was
emerging from the water, and then a dripping fur tippet, and then the
bonnet, making the gradual revelation to him who it was. For one
instant he covered his face with his hands, half-hiding an expression of
agony so intense that a bystander who saw it, said, "Take comfort, sir:
she has been in but a very short time. She'll recover, I don't doubt."
Hope leaped to the bank, and received her from the arms of the men who
had drawn her out. The first thing she remembered was hearing, in the
lowest tone she could conceive of--"Oh, God! my Margaret!" and a groan,
which she felt rather than heard. Then there were many warm and busy
hands about her head--removing her bonnet, shaking out her hair, and
chafing her temples. She sighed out, "Oh, dear!" and she heard that
soft groan again. In another moment she roused herself, sat up, saw
Hope's convulsed countenance, and Sydney standing motionless and deadly
pale.
"I shall never forgive myself," she heard her brother exclaim.
"Oh, I am very well," said she, remembering all about it. "The air
feels quite warm. Give me my bonnet. I can walk home."
"Can you? The sooner the better, then," said Hope, raising her.
She could stand very well, but the water was everywhere dripping from
her clothes. Many bystanders employed themselves in wringing them out;
and in the meanwhile Margaret inquired for her sister, and hoped she did
not know of the accident. Hester did not know of it, for Margaret
happened to be the first to think of any one but herself.
Sydney was flying off to report, when he was stopped and recalled.
"You must go to her, Edward," said Margaret, "or she will be frightened.
You can do me no good. Sydney will go home with me, or any one here, I
am sure." Twenty people stepped forward at the word. Margaret parted
with her heavy fur tippet, accepted a long cloth cloak from a poor
woman, to throw over her wet clothes, selected Mr Jones, the butcher,
for her escort, sent Sydney forward with directions to Morris to warm
her bed, and then she set forth homeward. Mr Hope and half a dozen
more would see her across the ice; and by the time she had reached the
other bank, she was able to walk very much as if nothing had happened.
Mr Hope had perfectly recovered his composure before he reached the
somewhat distant pond where Hester and the Greys were watching sliding
as good as could be seen within twenty miles. It had reached
perfection, like everything else, in Deerbrook.
"What! tired already?" said Hester to her husband. "What have you done
with your skates?"
"Oh, I have left them somewhere there, I suppose." He drew her arm
within his own. "Come, my dear, let us go home. Margaret is gone."
"Gone! Why? Is not she well? It is not so very cold."
"She has got wet, and she has gone home to warm herself." Hester did
not wait to speak again to the Greys when she comprehended that her
sister had been in the river. Her husband was obliged to forbid her
walking so fast, and assured her all the way that there was nothing to
fear. Hester reproached him for his coolness.
"You need not reproach me," said he. "I shall never cease to reproach
myself for letting her go where she did." And yet his heart told him
that he had only acted according to his deliberate design of keeping
aloof from all Margaret's pursuits and amusements that were not shared
with her sister. And as for the risk, he had seen fifty people walking
across the ice this very morning. Judging by the event, however, he
very sincerely declared that he should never forgive himself for having
left her.
When they reached home, Margaret was quite warm and comfortable, and her
hair drying rapidly under Morris's hands. Hester was convinced that
everybody might dine as usual. Margaret herself came down-stairs to
tea; and the only consequence of the accident seemed to be, that Charles
was kept very busy opening the door to inquirers how Miss Ibbotson was
this evening.
It made Hope uneasy to perceive how much Margaret remembered of what had
passed around her in the midst of the bustle of the morning. If she was
still aware of some circumstances that she mentioned, might she not
retain others--the words extorted from him, the frantic action which he
now blushed to remember?
"Brother," said she, "what _was_ the meaning of something that I heard
some one say, just as I sat up on the bank? `There's a baulk for the
doctor! He is baulked of a body in his own house.'"
"Oh, Margaret," cried her sister, who sat looking at her all the evening
as if they had been parted for ten years, "you dreamed that. It was a
fancy. Think what a state your poor head was in! It may have a few
strange imaginations left in it still. May it not, Edward?"
"This is not one," he replied. "She heard very accurately."
"What did they mean?"
"There is a report abroad about me, arising out of the old prejudice
about dissection. Some of my neighbours think that dissecting is the
employment and the passion of my life, and that I rob the churchyard as
often as anybody is buried."
"Oh, Edward! how frightful! how ridiculous!"
"It is very disagreeable, my dear. I am taunted with this wherever I
go."
"What is to be done?"
"We must wait till the prejudices against me die out: but I see that we
shall have to wait some time; for before one suspicion is given up,
another rises."
"Since that unhappy election," said Hester, sighing. "What a strange
thing it is that men like you should be no better treated! Here is Mrs
Enderby taken out of your hands, and your neighbours suspecting and
slandering you, whose commonest words they are not worthy to repeat."
"My dear Hester!" said he, in a tone of serious remonstrance. "That is
rather a wife-like way of putting the case, to be sure," said Margaret,
smiling: "but, in as far as it is true, the matter surely ceases to be
strange. Good men do not come into the world to be what the world calls
fortunate, but to be something far better. The best men do not use the
means to be rich, to be praised by their neighbours, to be out of the
way of trouble; and if they will not use the means, it does not become
them--nor their wives--to be discouraged at losing their occupation, or
being slandered, or suspected as dangerous people."
Edward's smile thanked her, and so did her sister's kiss. But Hester
looked grave again when she said--"I suppose we shall know, sooner or
later, why it is that good people are not to be happy here, and that the
more they love one another, the more struggles and sorrows they have to
undergo."
"Do we not know something of it already?" said Hope, after a pretty long
pause. "Is it not to put us off from the too vehement desire of being
what we commonly call happy? By the time higher things become more
interesting to us than this, we begin to find that it is given to us to
put our own happiness under our feet, in reaching forward to something
better. We become, by natural consequence, practised in this (forgetful
of the things that are behind); and if the practice be painful, what
then? We shall not quarrel with it, surely, unless we are willing to
exchange what we have gained for money, and praise, and animal spirits,
shutting in an abject mind."
"Oh, no, no!" said Hester; "but yet there are troubles--" She stopped
short on observing Margaret's quivering lip.
"There are troubles, I own, which it is difficult to classify and
interpret," said her husband. "We can only struggle through them,
taking the closest heed to our innocence. But these affairs of ours--
these mistakes of my neighbours--are not of that sort. They are
intelligible enough, and need not therefore trouble us much."
Hope was right in his suspicion of the accuracy of Margaret's memory.
His tones, his words, had sunk deep into her heart--her innocent heart--
in which everything that entered it became safe and pure as itself. "Oh
God! my Margaret!" sounded there like music.
"What a heart he has!" she thought. "I was very selfish to fancy him
reserved; and I am glad to know that my brother loves me so. If it is
such a blessing to be his sister, how happy must Hester be--in spite of
everything! God has preserved my life, and He has given these two to
each other! And, oh, how He has shown me that they love me! I will
rouse myself, and try to suffer less."