The unhappy are indisposed to employment: all active occupations are
wearisome and disgusting in prospect, at a time when everything, life
itself, is full of weariness and disgust. Yet the unhappy must be
employed, or they will go mad. Comparatively blessed are they, if they
are set in families, where claims and duties abound, and cannot be
escaped. In the pressure of business there is present safety and
ultimate relief. Harder is the lot of those who have few necessary
occupations, enforced by other claims than their own harmlessness and
profitableness. Reading often fails. Now and then it may beguile; but
much oftener the attention is languid, the thoughts wander, and
associations with the subject of grief are awakened. Women who find
that reading will not do, will obtain no relief from sewing. Sewing is
pleasant enough in moderation to those whose minds are at ease the
while; but it is an employment which is trying to the nerves when long
continued, at the best; and nothing can be worse for the harassed, and
for those who want to escape from themselves. Writing is bad. The pen
hangs idly suspended over the paper, or the sad thoughts that are alive
within write themselves down. The safest and best of all occupations
for such sufferers as are fit for it, is intercourse with young
children. An infant might beguile Satan and his peers the day after
they were couched on the lake of fire, if the love of children chanced
to linger amidst the ruins of their angelic nature. Next to this comes
honest, genuine acquaintanceship among the poor; not mere
charity-visiting, grounded on soup-tickets and blankets, but intercourse
of mind, with real mutual interest between the parties. Gardening is
excellent, because it unites bodily exertion with a sufficient
engagement of the faculties, while sweet, compassionate Nature is
ministering cure in every sprouting leaf and scented blossom, and
beckoning sleep to draw nigh, and be ready to follow up her benignant
work. Walking is good,--not stepping from shop to shop, or from
neighbour to neighbour; but stretching out far into the country, to the
freshest fields, and the highest ridges, and the quietest lanes.
However sullen the imagination may have been among its griefs at home,
here it cheers up and smiles. However listless the limbs may have been
when sustaining a too heavy heart, here they are braced, and the lagging
gait becomes buoyant again. However perverse the memory may have been
in presenting all that was agonising, and insisting only on what cannot
be retrieved, here it is first disregarded, and then it sleeps and the
sleep of the memory is the day in Paradise to the unhappy. The mere
breathing of the cool wind on the face in the commonest highway, is rest
and comfort which must be felt at such times to be believed. It is
disbelieved in the shortest intervals between its seasons of enjoyment:
and every time the sufferer has resolution to go forth to meet it, it
penetrates to the very heart in glad surprise. The fields are better
still; for there is the lark to fill up the hours with mirthful music;
or, at worst, the robin and flocks of fieldfares, to show that the
hardest day has its life and hilarity. But the calmest region is the
upland, where human life is spread out beneath the bodily eye, where the
mind roves from the peasant's nest to the spiry town, from the
school-house to the churchyard, from the diminished team in the patch of
fallow, or the fisherman's boat in the cove, to the viaduct that spans
the valley, or the fleet that glides ghost-like on the horizon. This is
the perch where the spirit plumes its ruffled and drooping wines, and
makes ready to let itself down any wind that Heaven may send.
No doubt Margaret found the benefit of exercise, and the solitary
enjoyment of the country; for, during the last few weeks, walking seemed
to have become a passion with her. Hester was almost out of patience
about it, when for a moment she lost sight of what she well knew must be
the cause of this strong new interest. Every doubtful morning, Margaret
was at the window exploring the clouds. Every fine day she laid her
watch on the table before her, impatiently waiting the approach of the
hour when her brother was to come in for Hester, and when she might set
off by herself, not to return till dinner-time. She became renowned in
Deerbrook for the length of her excursions. The grocer had met her far
out in one direction, when returning from making his purchases at the
market town. The butcher had seen her in the distant fields, when he
paid a visit to his grazier in the pastures. Dr Levitt had walked his
horse beside her in the lane which formed the limit of the longer of his
two common rides; and many a neighbour or patient of Mr Hope's had been
surprised at her declining a cast in a taxed-cart or gig, when there was
only a long stretch of plain road before her, and the lanes and fields
were too miry to enable her to seek any variety in them, in her way
home.
These were, in fact, Margaret's times of refreshing--of practical
worship. These were the times when she saw what at other moments she
only repeated to herself--that all things are right, and that our
personal trials derive their bitterness from our ignorance and spiritual
inexperience. At these times she could not only pity all who suffered,
but congratulate all who enjoyed, and could afford feelings of
disinterested regard to Philip, and of complacency to Miss Bruce. She
remembered that Miss Bruce was unconscious of having injured her--was
possibly unaware even of her existence; and then she enjoyed the luxury
of blessing her rival, and of longing for an opportunity to serve her
secretly and silently, as the happy girl's innocence of all wrong
towards her deserved.
Margaret's desire for a long solitary walk was as strong as ever, the
day after she had visited Maria. No opportunity had occurred of
speaking to her brother without alarming Hester; and she had almost
determined merely to refer him to Maria, instead of telling the story
herself. She should not see him again till dinner. He was gone into
the country: the day was gloomy and cold, and Hester was not disposed to
leave the fireside: so Margaret issued forth, with thick shoes,
umbrella, and muff--guarded against everything that might occur overhead
and under foot. She had generally found hope, or at least comfort,
abroad; to-day, when she ought to have been much happier, she found
anxiety and fear. The thought, the very words, would incessantly recur,
`If he is not engaged to Miss Bruce, it does not follow...' Then she
seriously grieved for her brother, and the troubles which she feared
awaited him; and then she reproached herself with not grieving enough--
not having attention enough to spare from her own concerns. While she
was walking along on the dry causeway, looking straight before her, but
thinking of far other things than the high-road, she was startled by the
stroke of a horse's foot against a stone close by her side, and a voice
speaking almost in her ear. It was only Edward. He was going a couple
of miles forward, and he brought his horse beside the raised causeway,
so that they could converse as if walking together.
"There is nobody to overhear us, I think," said Margaret, looking round.
"I have been wanting, since yesterday evening, to speak to you alone--
about something very disagreeable, which I would not disturb Hester
with. You, of course, can do as you please about telling her."
She related to him the whole story of Mrs Rowland's imputations and
proceedings--her reports of the hysterics and their origin, the
body-snatching, and the cause and mode of Mrs Enderby's removal.
Margaret had always considered her brother as a man of uncommon nerve;
and her surprise was therefore great at seeing him change colour as he
did.
"We shall agree," said she, "that the worst of all this is, that there
is some truth at the bottom part of it."
"Oh, Heavens!" thought Hope, "is it possible that Mrs Grey can have
told the share she had in my marriage?" It was but a momentary fear.
Margaret went on.
"I have never hoped--I never hoped at Birmingham, and much less here--
that Hester could escape the observation of her neighbours--that her
occasional agitation of spirits should not excite remark and
speculation. As we are not quite whole and sound in our domestic
peace--(I must speak plainly, brother, at such a time as this) I should
think it would be better to take no notice of that set of imputations.
I trust we shall live them down."
"You gave me great comfort in a few words once," said Hope. "Do you
remember saying, `When the time for acting comes, see how she will act!'
You know her well, and you judge her rightly: and you will, perhaps, be
the less sorry to hear that the time seems coming when we may all have
to act--I scarcely see how--but against adversity."
"She will come out nobly then. I fear nothing for her but too much
prosperity."
"There is no fear of that, I assure you," said Hope, smiling somewhat
sadly.
"You find the effect of this woman's slanders?"
"My situation has, from one cause or more, totally changed since you
first knew me. It would break Hester's heart to hear what I am
subjected to in the discharge of my daily business. I tell her a trifle
now and then, to prepare her for what may happen; but she and you do not
know a tenth part, of what is inflicted upon me."
"And what may happen?"
"I cannot see the extent of it myself: but I am losing my practice every
day. No; not through any failure; not through any of the accidents
which will happen in all medical practice. There are reports of such
abroad, I believe; but nothing is commoner than those reports. The
truth is, no patient of mine has died, or failed to do well, for an
unusually long space of time. The discontent with me is from other
causes."
"From Mrs Rowland's tongue, I doubt not, more than from your politics."
"The ignorance of the people about us is the great evil. Without this,
neither Mrs Rowland, nor any one else, could persuade them that I rob
the churchyard, and vaccinate children to get patients, and draw good
teeth to sell again."
"Oh, monstrous!" said Margaret, who yet could not help laughing. "You
never draw teeth, do you?"
"Sometimes; but not when I can get people to go to the dentist at
Blickley. Mrs Grey used to boast to you of my popularity; but I never
liked it much. I had to be perpetually on the watch to avoid
confidences; and you see how fast the stream is at present running the
contrary way. I can hardly get on my horse now, without being insulted
at my own door."
"Must you submit to all this?"
"By no means. I have called two or three men to account, and shaken my
whip over one or two more--with excellent effect. If there were none
but bullies among my enemies, I could easily deal with them."
"But cannot we go away, and settle somewhere else?"
"Oh, no! Wherever I might go, it would soon be understood that I had
been obliged to leave Deerbrook, from being detected in body-snatching
and the like. I owe it to myself to stay. We must remain, and live
down all imputations whatever, if we can."
"And if we cannot?"
"Then we shall see what to do when the time comes."
"And having managed the bullies, how do you propose to manage Mrs
Rowland? What do you think of speaking to Mr Grey?"
"I shall not do that. The Greys have no concern with it; but they will
think they have. Then there will be a partisan warfare, with me for the
pretext, and the two families have had quite warfare enough for a
lifetime already. No, I shall not bring the Greys into it. I am sorry
enough for Mr Rowland, for I am sure he has no part in all this. I
shall go to him to-day. I should confront the lady at once, and call
her to account, but that Miss Young must be considered. The more
courageous and disinterested she is, the more care we must take of her."
"Perhaps she is at this moment telling Mr Rowland what we talked about
last night. How very painful! Do you know she thinks--(it is right to
tell the whole for other people's sake)--she thinks that what Mrs
Rowland says is not to be trusted, in any case where she feels enmity.
Maria even doubts whether Mr Enderby has treated you and his other
friends so very negligently--whether he is engaged to Miss Bruce, after
all."
Mr Hope was so much engaged about one of his stirrups while Margaret
said this, that he could not observe where and how she was looking.
"Very likely," replied Hope, at length. "Hester has thought all along
that this was possible. We shall know the truth from Enderby himself,
one of these days, by act or word. Meantime, I, for one, shall wait to
hear his own story."
There was another pause, at the end of which Mr Hope clapped spurs to
his horse, and said he must be riding on. Margaret called him back for
a moment, to ask what he wished her to do about informing Hester of the
state of affairs. Mr Hope was disposed to tell her the whole, if
possible; but not till he should have come to some issue with Mr
Rowland. He hated mysteries--any concealments in families; and it was
due both to Hester and to himself that there should be no concealment of
important affairs from her. The only cautions to be observed were, to
save her from suspense, to avoid the appearance of a formal telling of
bad news, and to choose an opportunity when she might have time, before
seeing any of the Rowlands, to consider the principles which should
regulate her conduct to them, that she might do herself honour by the
consistency and temper, of which she was capable under any
circumstances, when she was only allowed time.
This was settled, and he rode off with almost his usual gaiety of air.
He saw Mr Rowland before night. The next day but one, a
travelling-carriage from Blickley was seen standing at Mr Rowland's
door; and before the clock struck nine, it was loaded with trunks and
band-boxes, and crowded with people. As it drove down the village
street, merry little faces appeared at each carriage window. Mr
Rowland was on the box. He was going to take his family to Cheltenham
for the spring months. Miss Rowland was rather delicate, and Deerbrook
was cold in March. Mrs Enderby was left behind; but there was Phoebe
to take care of her; and Mr Rowland was to return as soon as he had
settled his family. It seemed rather a pity, to be sure, that the old
lady had been moved out of her own house just before she was to be left
alone in her new residence; but, between Mr Rowland and her maid, she
would be taken good care of; and the family would return when the warm
weather set in.