Hester's sleeping as well as waking thoughts were this night full of
solicitude as to her feelings and conduct towards her sister. A
thousand times before the morning she had said to herself, in dreams and
in meditation, that she had failed in this relation--the oldest, and,
till of late, the dearest. She shuddered to think how nearly she had
lost Margaret; and to imagine what her state of mind would have been, if
her sister had now been beyond the reach of the voice, the eye, the
hand, which she was resolved should henceforth dispense to her nothing
but the love and the benefits she deserved. She reflected that to few
was granted such a warning of the death of beloved ones: to few was it
permitted to feel, while it was yet not too late, the agony of remorse
for pain inflicted, for gratifications withheld; for selfish neglect,
for insufficient love. She remembered vividly what her emotions had
been as a child, on finding her canary dead in its cage;--how she had
wept all day, not so much for its loss as from the recollection of the
many times when she had failed to cheer it with sugar, and groundsel,
and play, and of the number of hours when she had needlessly covered up
its cage in impatience at its song, shutting out its sunshine, and
changing the brightest seasons of its little life into dull night. If
it had been thus with her sister! Many a hasty word, many an unjust
thought, came back now to wring her heart, when she imagined Margaret
sinking in the water,--the soft breathing on which our life so
marvellously hangs, stopped without struggle or cry. How near--how very
near, had Death, in his hovering, stooped towards their home! How
strange, while treading thus precariously the film which covers the
abyss into which all must some day drop, and which may crack under the
feet of any one at any hour,--how strange to be engrossed with petty
jealousies, with selfish cares, and to be unmindful of the great
interests of existence, the exercises of mutual love and trust! Thank
God! it was not too late. Margaret lived to be cherished, to be
consoled for her private griefs, as far as consolation might be
possible; to have her innocent affections redeemed from the waste to
which they now seemed doomed,--gathered gradually up again, and knit
into the interests of the home life in which she was externally bearing
her part. Full of these thoughts, and forgetting how often her best
feelings had melted away beneath the transient heats kindled by the
little provocations of daily life, Hester now believed that Margaret
would never have to suffer from her more,--that their love would be
henceforth like that of angels,--like that which it would have been if
Margaret had really died yesterday. It was yet early, when, in the full
enjoyment of these undoubting thoughts, Hester stood by her sister's
bedside.
Margaret was still sleeping, but with that expression of weariness in
her face which had of late become too common. Hester gazed long at the
countenance, grieving at the languor and anxiety which it revealed. She
had not taken Margaret's suffering to heart,--she had been unfeeling,--
strangely forgetful. She would minister to her now with reverent care.
As she thus resolved, she bent down, and kissed her forehead. Margaret
started, shook off sleep, felt quite well, would rise;--there was no
reason why she should not rise at once.
When she entered the breakfast-room, Hester was there, placing her chair
by the fire, and inventing indulgences for her, as if she had been an
invalid. It was in vain that Margaret protested that no effects of the
accident remained,--not a single sensation of chill: she was to be taken
care of; and she submitted. She was touched by her sister's gentle
offices, and felt more like being free and at peace, more like being
lifted up out of her woe, than she had yet done since the fatal hour
which rendered her conscious and wretched. Breakfast went on
cheerfully. The fire blazed bright: the rain pelting against the
windows gave welcome promise of exemption from inquiries in person, and
from having to relate, many times over, the particulars of the event of
yesterday. Hester was beautiful in all the glow of her sensibilities,
and Edward was for this morning in no hurry. No blue or yellow backed
pamphlet lay beside his plate; and when his last cup was empty, he still
sat talking as if he forgot that he should have to go out in the rain.
In the midst of a laugh which had prevented their hearing a premonitory
knock, the door opened, and Mrs Grey's twin daughters entered, looking
half-shy, half-eager. Never before had they been known to come out in
heavy rain: but they were so very desirous to see cousin Margaret after
she had been in the water!--and Sydney had held the great gig umbrella
over himself and them, as papa would not hear of Sydney not coming:--he
was standing outside the door now, under the large umbrella, for he said
nothing should make him come in and see cousin Margaret--he would never
see her again if he could help it. Sydney had said another thing,--such
a wicked thing! Mamma was quite ashamed of him. Mr Hope thought they
had better not repeat anything wicked that any one had said: but Hester
considered it possible that it might not appear so wicked if spoken as
if left to the imagination. What Sydney had said was, that if cousin
Margaret had been really drowned, he would have drowned himself before
dinner-time. Mary added that she heard him mutter that he was almost
ready to do it now. Mr Hope thought that must be the reason why he was
standing out at present, to catch all this rain, which was very nearly
enough to drown anybody; and he went to bring him in. But Sydney was
not to be caught. He was on the watch; and the moment he saw Mr Hope's
coat instead of his sisters' cloaks, he ran off with a speed which
defied pursuit, and was soon out of sight with the large umbrella.
His cousins were sorry that he felt the event so painfully, and that he
could not come in and confide his trouble of mind to them. Hope
resolved not to let the morning pass without seeing him, and, if
possible, bringing him home to dinner, with William Levitt to take off
the awkwardness.
"What are we to do?" exclaimed Sydney's little sisters. "He has carried
off the great umbrella."
"I cannot conveniently send you, just at present," said Hester; "so you
had better put off your cloaks, and amuse yourselves here till the rain
abates, or some one comes for you. We will speak to Miss Young to
excuse your not being with her."
"Oh, cousin Margaret," said the children, "if you will speak to Miss
Young, she will give us any sort of a holiday. She minds everything you
say. She will let us stop all day, and dine here, if you ask her."
Hester said she could not have them stay all day,--she did not mean to
have them to dinner: and the little girls both looked up in her face at
once, to find out what made her speak so angrily. They saw cousin
Margaret glancing the same way too.
"Do you know, Mary," said Fanny, "you have not said a word yet of what
Miss Young bade you say?"
Mary told cousin Margaret, that Miss Young was wishing very much to see
her, and would be pleased if Margaret would mention what evening she
would spend with her,--a nice long evening, Mary added, to begin as soon
as it grew dark, and on till--nobody knew when.
"Maria had better come here," observed Hester, quickly; "and then some
one else besides Margaret may have the benefit of her conversation. She
seems to forget that anybody cares for her besides Margaret. Tell Miss
Young she had better fix an evening to come here."
"I do not think she will do that," said both the little girls.
"Why not?"
"She is very lame now," replied Mary, "and she cannot walk further than
just to school and back again."
"And, besides," remarked Fanny, "she wants to talk with cousin Margaret
alone, I am sure. They have such a great deal of talk to do whenever
they are together! We watch them sometimes in the schoolroom, through
the window, when we are at play in the garden; and their heads nod at
one another in this way. I believe they never leave off for a minute.
We often wonder what it can be all about."
"Ah, my dears, you and I had better not ask," said Hester. "I have no
doubt it is better that we should not know."
Margaret looked beseechingly at her sister. Hester replied to her look:
"I mean what I say, Margaret. You cannot but be aware how much more you
have to communicate to Maria than to me. Our conversation soon comes to
a stand: and I must say I have had much occasion to admire your great
talent for silence of late. Maria has still to learn your
accomplishments in that direction, I fancy."
Margaret quietly told the little girls that she would write a note to
Maria, with her answer.
"You must not do that," said Fanny. "Miss Young said you must not.
That was the reason why she sent you a message instead of a note--that
you might not have to write back again, when a message would do as
well."
Margaret, nevertheless, sat down at the writing-table.
"You go to-day, of course," said Hester, in the voice of forced calmness
which Margaret knew so well. "The little girls may as well stay and
dine, after all, as I shall otherwise be alone in the evening."
"I shall not go to-day," said Margaret, without turning her head.
"You will not stay away on my account, of course."
"I have said that I shall go on Thursday."
"Thursday! that is almost a week hence. Now, Margaret, do not be
pettish, and deny yourself what you know you like best. Do not be a
baby, and quarrel with your supper. I had far rather you should go
to-night, and have done with it, than that you should wait till
Thursday, thinking all day long till then that you are obliging me by
staying with me. I cannot bear that."
"I wish I knew what you could bear," said Margaret, in a voice which the
children could not hear. "I wish I knew how I could save you pain."
The moment the words were out, Margaret was sorry for them. She was
aware that the best kindness to her sister was to take as little notice
as possible of her discontents--to turn the conversation--to avoid
scenes, or any remarks which could bring them on. It was hard--
sometimes it seemed impossible--to speak calmly and lightly, while every
pulse was throbbing, and every fibre trembling with fear and
wretchedness; but yet it was best to assume such calmness and lightness.
Margaret now asked the little girls, while she sealed her note, how
their patchwork was getting on--thus far the handsomest patchwork quilt
she had ever seen.
"Oh, it will be far handsomer before it is done. Mrs Howell has found
up some beautiful pieces of print for us--remnants of her first
morning-gown after she was married, and of her poor dear Howell's last
dressing-gown, as she says. We were quite sorry to take those; but she
would put them up for us; and she is to see the quilt sometimes in
return."
"But Miss Nares's parcel was the best, cousin Margaret. Such a quantity
of nankeen for the ground, and the loveliest chintz for the centre
medallion! Is not it, Mary?"
"Oh, lovely! Do you know, cousin Margaret, Miss Nares and Miss Flint
both cried when they heard how nearly you were drowned! I am sure, I
had no idea they would have cared so much."
"Nor I, my dear. But I dare say they feel kindly towards anyone saved
from great danger."
"Not everybody," said Fanny; "only you, because you are a great
favourite. Everybody says you are a great favourite. Papa cried last
night--just a little tear or two, as gentlemen do--when he told mamma
how sorry everybody in Deerbrook would have been if you had died."
"There! that will do," said Hester, struggling between her better and
worse feelings--her remorse of this morning, and her present jealousy--
and losing her temper between the two. "You have said quite enough
about what you do not understand, my dears. I cannot have you make so
free with your cousin's name, children."
The little girls looked at each other in wonder; and Hester thought she
detected a lurking smile.
"I see what you are thinking, children. Yes, look, the rain is nearly
over; and then you may go and tell Mrs Howell and Miss Nares, and all
the people you see on your way home, that they had better attend to
their own concerns than pretend to understand what would have been felt
if your cousin had been drowned. I wonder at their impertinence."
"Are you in earnest, cousin Hester? Shall we go and tell them so?"
"No; she is not in earnest," said Margaret. "But before you go, Morris
shall give you some pieces for your quilt--some very pretty ones, such
as she knows I can spare."
Margaret rang, and Morris took the children up-stairs, to choose for
themselves out of Margaret's drawer of pieces. When the door had closed
behind them, Margaret said--"Sister, do not make me wish that I had died
under the ice yesterday."
"Margaret, how dare you say anything so wicked?"
"If it be wicked, God forgive me! I was wretched enough before--I would
fain have never come to life again: and now you almost make me believe
that you would have been best pleased if I never had."
At this moment Hope entered. He had left them in a far different mood:
it made him breathless to see his wife's face of passion, and Margaret's
of woe.
"Hear her!" exclaimed Hester. "She says I should have been glad to have
lost her yesterday!"
"Have mercy upon me!" cried Margaret, in excessive agitation. "You
oppress me beyond what I can bear. I cannot bear on as I used to do.
My strength is gone, and you give me none. You take away what I had!"
"Will you hear me spoken to in this way?" cried Hester, turning to her
husband.
"I will."
Margaret's emotion prevented her hearing this, or caring who was by.
She went on--"You leave me nothing--nothing but yourself--and you abuse
my love for you. You warn me against love--against marriage--you chill
my very soul with terror at it. I have found a friend in Maria; and you
poison my comfort in my friendship, and insult my friend. There is not
an infant in a neighbour's house but you become jealous of it the moment
I take it in my arms. There is not a flower in your garden, not a book
on my table, that you will let me love in peace. How ungenerous--while
you have one to cherish and who cherishes you, that you will have me
lonely!--that you quarrel with all who show regard to me!--that you
refuse me the least solace, when my heart is breaking with its
loneliness! Oh, it is cruel!"
"Will you hear this, Edward?"
"I will, because it is the truth. For once, Hester, you must hear
another's mind; you have often told your own."
"God knows why I was saved yesterday," murmured Margaret; "for a more
desolate creature does not breathe."
Hope leaned against the wall. Hester relieved her torment of mind with
reproaches of Margaret.
"You do not trust me," she cried; "it is you who make me miserable. You
go to others for the comfort you ought to seek in me. You place that
confidence in others which ought to be mine alone. You are cheered when
you learn that the commonest gossips in Deerbrook care about you, and
you set no value on your own sister's feelings for you. You have faith
and charity for people out of doors, and mistrust and misconstruction
for those at home. I am the injured one, Margaret, not you."
"Margaret," said Hope, "your sister speaks for herself. I think that
you are the injured one, as Hester herself will soon agree. So far from
having anything to reproach you with, I honour your forbearance,--
unremitting till this hour,--I mourn that we cannot, if we would,
console you in return. But whatever I can do shall be done. Your
friendships, your pursuits, shall be protected. If we persecute your
affections at home, I will take care that you are allowed their exercise
abroad. Rely upon me, and do not think yourself utterly lonely while
you have a brother."
"I have been very selfish," said Margaret, recovering herself at the
first word of kindness; "wretchedness makes me selfish, I think."
She raised herself up on the sofa, and timidly held out her hand to her
sister. Hester thrust it away. Margaret uttered a cry of agony, such
as had never been heard from her since her childhood. Hope fell on the
floor--he had fainted at the sound.
Even now there was no one but Morris who understood it. Margaret
reproached herself bitterly for her selfishness--for her loss of the
power of self-control. Hester's remorse, however greater in degree, was
of its usual kind, strong and brief. She repeated, as she had done
before, that she made her husband wretched--that she should never have
another happy moment--that she wished he had never seen her. For the
rest of the day she was humbled, contrite, convinced that she should
give way to her temper no more. Her eyes filled when her husband spoke
tenderly to her, and her conduct to Margaret was one act of
supplication. But a lesser degree of this same kind of penitence had
produced no permanent good effect before; and there was no security that
the present paroxysm would have a different result.
Morris had seen that the children were engaged up-stairs when she came
down at Margaret's silent summons, to help to revive her master. When
she saw that there had been distress before there was illness, she took
her part. She resolved that no one but herself should hear his first
words, and sent the ladies away when she saw that his consciousness was
returning. All the world might have heard his first words. He
recovered himself with a vigorous effort, swallowed a glass of wine, and
within a few minutes was examining a patient in the waiting-room. There
the little girls saw him as they passed the half-open door, on their way
out with their treasure of chintz and print; and having heard some
bustle below, they carried home word that they believed Mr Hope had
been doing something to somebody which had made somebody faint; and
Sophia, shuddering, observed how horrid it must be to be a surgeon's
wife.