Margaret was as calm as she appeared to be. To a nature like hers,
blissful repose was congenial, and anxiety both appeared and felt
unnatural. In her there was no weak wonder that Providence had blessed
her as she felt she was blessed. While she suffered, she concluded with
certainty that the suffering was for some good purpose; but no degree of
happiness took her by surprise, or seemed other than a natural influence
shed by the great Parent into the souls of his children. She had of
late been fearfully shaken,--not in her faith, but in her serenity. In
a moment this experience appeared like a sick dream, and her present
certainty of being beloved spread its calm over her lately-troubled
spirit, somewhat as her nightly devotions had done from her childhood
upwards. Even now, it was little that she thought of herself: her
recovered Philip filled her mind--he who had been a stranger--who had
been living in a world of which she could conceive nothing--who had
suddenly vanished from her companionship, as if an earthquake had
swallowed him up--and who was now all her own again, by her side, and to
be lived for. Amidst this security, this natural and delightful state
of things, that restless uneasiness--now jealousy, and now
self-abasement--which she had called her own vanity and selfishness,
disappeared, and she felt like one who has escaped from the horrors of a
feverish bed into the cool fragrant airs and mild sunshine of the early
morning. Anxieties soon arose--gentle doubts expressing themselves in
soft sighs, which were so endeared by the love from which they sprang
that she would not have banished them if she could--anxieties lest she
should be insufficient for Philip's happiness, lest he should overrate
the peace of home, which she now knew was not to be looked for in full
measure there, any more than in other scenes of human probation. Gentle
questionings like these there were; but they tended rather to preserve
than to disturb her calmness of spirit. Misery had broken her sleep by
night, and constrained her conduct by day. Happy love restored her at
once to her natural mood, lulling her to the deepest rest when she
rested, and rendering her free and self-possessed in all the employments
and intercourses of life.
There was one person who must not be kept waiting for this intelligence
till Mrs Rowland's return--as Margaret told Philip--and that was Maria.
Philip's heart was now overflowing with kindness towards all whom
Margaret loved; and he spoke with strong interest of Maria, of her
virtues, her misfortunes, and the grace and promise which once bloomed
in her.
"You knew her before her misfortunes then?"
"To be sure I did:--that was the time when I did know her; for, as you
may perceive, there is not much opportunity now. And, besides, she is
so totally changed, that I do not feel sure that I understand her
feelings--I am too much in awe of them to approach her very nearly. Oh
yes, I knew Maria Young once, much better than I know her now."
"She never told me so. How very strange!"
"Does she ever speak of any other circumstance of her prosperous days?"
"That is true, only incidentally."
"Time was," said Philip, "when some boyish dreams connected themselves
with Maria Young--only transiently, and quite at the bottom of my own
fancy. I never spoke of them to any one before, nor fully acknowledged
them to myself. She was the first sensible woman I ever knew--the first
who conveyed to me any conception of what the moral nature of a woman
may be, under favourable circumstances. For this I am under great
obligations to her; and this is all the feeling that I brought out of
our intercourse. It might possibly have come to more, but that I
disliked her father excessively, and left off going there on that
account. What a selfish wretch I was in those days! I can hardly
believe it now; but I distinctly remember rejoicing, on hearing of her
accident, that my esteem for her had not passed into a warmer feeling,
as I should then have suffered so much on her account."
"Is it possible?" cried Margaret, who, in the midst of the unpleasant
feeling excited by this fact, did not fail to remark to herself that
there could have been no love in such a case.
"I ought, for my own sake, however, Margaret, to say that Maria Young
had not the slightest knowledge of her influence over me--superficial
and transient as it was. I never conveyed it to her by word or act; and
I am thankful I did not--for this reason among many--that I am now
perfectly free to show her all the kindness she deserves, both from her
own merits, and from her being a beloved friend of yours."
Margaret had no doubt of Philip's full conviction of what he was saying;
but she was far from certain that he was not mistaken--that looks and
tones might not have communicated what words and acts had been forbidden
to convey. She thought of Maria's silence about her former acquaintance
with Philip, of her surprising knowledge of his thoughts and ways,
betraying itself to a vigilant observer through the most trivial
conversation, and of her confession that there had been an attachment to
some one: and, thinking of these things, her heart melted within her for
her friend. She silently resolved upon the only method she could think
of, to spare her feelings. She would write the news of this engagement,
instead of going to tell it, as she had intended. She was confident
that it would be no surprise to Maria; but Maria should have time and
solitude in which to reconcile herself to it.
What was to be done about Mrs Enderby? She had been told at once, on
Philip's arrival, that it was all a mistake about Miss Bruce; and she
had appeared relieved when freed from the image of an unknown
daughter-in-law. Philip and Margaret agreed that they must deny
themselves the pleasure of revealing the rest of the truth to her, till
it had been inflicted upon Mrs Rowland. Mrs Enderby would never be
able to keep it from the Greys; and she would be disturbed and alarmed
in the expectation of the scenes which might ensue, when Mrs Rowland
should discover that her brother meant to choose his wife for himself,
instead of taking one of her selection. Margaret must go and see his
mother as often as possible, but her new interest in her old friend must
be concealed for the present. How Margaret--motherless for so many long
years--felt her heart yearn towards the old lady, who seemed to be
everybody's charge, but whom she felt now to be a sacred object of her
care!
The lovers immediately experienced some of the evils attendant on
concealment, in the difficulty of meeting as freely as they wished.
There was the breakfast-room at Mr Hope's for them; and, by a little
management on the part of brother and sister, a branching off in country
walks, out of sight of the good people of Deerbrook. In company, too,
they were always together, and without awkwardness. True lovers do not
want to talk together in company; they had rather not. It is enough to
be in mutual presence; and they have nothing to say at such times, and
prefer joining in what everybody else is saying. When Philip had once
put a stop to all congratulations about Miss Bruce, by earnestly and
most respectfully, though gaily, releasing that lady's name from all
connection with his own, no further awkwardness remained. He treated
the affair as one of the false reports which are circulating every day,
and left it for his sister to explain how she had been misled by it. It
was amusing to the corner-house family to see that Mrs Grey and Sophia
insisted on believing that either Mr Enderby was a rejected lover of
Miss Bruce's, or that it had been an engagement which was now broken
off, or that it would soon be an engagement. The gay state of Enderby's
spirits accorded best with the latter supposition; but this gaiety might
be assumed, to cover his mortification. Margaret was daily made a
listener to one or other of these suppositions.
One bright, mild, March day, Hester and Margaret were accompanying
Philip to Mr Rowland's to call on Mrs Enderby, when they met Mr
Rowland in the street,--returned the evening before from Cheltenham.
"Ladies, your most obedient!" said he, stopping up the path before them.
"I was on my way to call on you; but if you will step in to see Mrs
Enderby, we can have our chat there." And he at once offered his arm to
Margaret, bestowing a meaning smile on Hester. As soon as they were
fairly on their way, he entered at once on the compliments it had been
his errand to pay, but spoke for himself alone.
"I did not write," said he, "because I expected to deliver my good
wishes in person so soon; but they are not the less hearty for being a
little delayed. I find, however, that I am still beforehand with my
neighbours--that even Mrs Enderby does not know, nor my partner's
family. All in good time: but I am sorry for this mistake about the
lady. It is rather awkward. I do not know where Mrs Rowland got her
information, or what induced her to rely so implicitly upon it. All I
can say is, that I duly warned her to be sure of her news before she
regularly announced it. But I believe such reports--oftener unfounded
than true--have been the annoyance of young people ever since there has
been marriage and giving in marriage. We have all suffered in our turn,
I dare say, though the case is not always so broad an one as this.--
Come, Mr Philip, what are you about? Standing there, and keeping the
ladies standing! and I do believe you have not knocked. Our doors do
not open of themselves, though it be to let in the most welcome guests
in the world. Now, ladies, will you walk in? Philip will prepare Mrs
Enderby to expect you up-stairs; and, meanwhile, let me show you what a
splendid jonquil we have in blow here."
The day was so mild, and the sun shone into the house so pleasantly,
that Mrs Enderby had been permitted to leave her chamber, and establish
herself for the day in the drawing-room. There she was found in a
flutter of pleasure at the change of scene. Matilda's canary sang in
the sunshine; Philip had filled the window with flowering plants for his
mother, and the whole room was fragrant with his hyacinths. The little
Greys had sent Mrs Enderby a bunch of violets; Phoebe had made bold,
while the gardener was at breakfast, to abstract a bough from the almond
tree on the grass; and its pink blossoms now decked the mantelpiece.
These things were almost too much for the old lady. Her black eyes
looked rather too bright, and her pale thin face twitched when she
spoke. She talked a great deal about the goodness of everybody to her,
and said it was almost worth while being ever so ill to find one's self
so kindly regarded. It rejoiced her to see her friends around her again
in this way. It was quite a meeting of friends again. If only her dear
Priscilla, and the sweet children, had been here!--it was a great
drawback, certainly, their being away, but she hoped they would soon be
back; if they had been here, there would have been nothing left to wish.
Hester asked if Mr Hope had visited her this morning. She had rather
expected to meet him here, and had brought something for him which he
had wished very much to have--a letter from his brother in India. She
was impatient till it was in his hands. Had he made his call, or might
she expect him presently? Mrs Enderby seemed to find difficulty in
comprehending the question; and then she could not recollect whether Mr
Hope had paid his visit this morning or not. She grew nervous at her
own confusion of mind--talked faster than ever; and, at last, when the
canary sang out a sudden loud strain, she burst into tears.
"We are too much for her," said Hester; "let us go, we have been very
wrong."
"Yes, go," said Philip, "and send Phoebe. You will find your way into
the garden, and I will join you there presently. Rowland, you will go
with them."
Margaret cast a beseeching look at Philip, and he gratefully permitted
her to stay. Hester carried off the canary. Margaret drew down the
blinds, and then kneeled by Mrs Enderby, soothing and speaking
cheerfully to her, while tears, called up by a strange mixture of
emotions, were raining down her cheeks. Philip stood by the
mantelpiece, weeping without restraint; the first time that Margaret had
ever seen tears from him.
"I am a silly old woman," said Mrs Enderby, half laughing in the midst
of her sobs. "Here comes Phoebe--Phoebe, I have been very silly, and I
hardly know what about, I declare. My dear!" she exclaimed as she felt
tears drop upon the hand which Margaret was chafing--"my dear Miss
Ibbotson--"
"Oh! call me Margaret!"
"But, my dear, I am afraid there is something the matter, after all.
Something has happened."
"Oh, dear, no, ma'am!" said Phoebe. "Only we don't like to see you in
this way."
"There is nothing the matter, I assure you," said Margaret. "We were
too much for you; we tired you; and we are very sorry--that is all. But
the room will be kept quite quiet now, and you will soon feel better."
"I am better, my dear, thank you. How are you sitting so low? Bless
me! you are kneeling. Pray, my dear, rise. To think of your kneeling
to take care of me!"
"Give me one kiss, and I will rise," said Margaret, bending over her.
It was a hearty kiss which Mrs Enderby gave her, for the old lady put
all her energy into it. Margaret rose satisfied; she felt as if she had
been accepted for a daughter.
As soon as Mrs Enderby appeared disposed to shut her eyes and lie
quiet, Philip and Margaret withdrew, leaving her to Phoebe's care.
Arm-in-arm they sauntered about the walks, till they came upon Hester
and Mr Rowland, who were sitting in the sun, under the shelter of an
evergreen hedge.
"Have you heard nothing of my husband yet?" asked Hester. "I do wish he
would come, and read this letter from Frank."
"Her anxiety is purely disinterested," said Margaret to Philip. "There
can be nothing about her in that letter. His greetings to her will come
in the next."
"Edward enjoys Frank's letters above everything," observed Hester.
"Suppose you go in next door, and we will send Hope to you when he
comes," said Philip, intending thus to set Mr Rowland free, to dismiss
Hester, and have Margaret to himself for a garden walk.
"The Greys are all out for the day," observed Mr Rowland; "my partner
and all; and this must be my excuse to you, ladies, for wishing you a
good morning. There is a lighter at the wharf down there, whose lading
waits for me."
"Ay, go," said Philip: "we have detained you long enough. We will find
our way by some means into the Greys' grounds, and amuse ourselves
there. If you will bid one of your people call us when Hope comes, we
shall hear."
By the help of an overturned wheelbarrow, and some activity, and at the
expense of a very little detriment to the hedge, the ladies were
presently landed on Mr Grey's territories. By common consent, the
three directed their steps towards the end of the green walk, whence
might be seen the prospect of which the sisters were never tired. A
purple and golden crocus peeped up here and there from the turf of this
walk; there was a wilderness of daffodils on either side, the blossoms
just bursting from their green sheaths; the periwinkle, with its starry
flowers and dark shining sprays, overran the borders; and the hedge
which bounded the walk was red with swollen buds. As the gazers leaned
on this close-clipped, compact hedge, they overlooked a wide extent of
country. They stood on a sort of terrace, and below them was the field
where the Greys' pet animals were wont to range. The old pony trotted
towards the terrace, as if expecting notice. Fanny's and Mary's lambs
approached and looked up, as awaiting something good. Philip amused
himself and them with odd noises, but had nothing better for them; and
so they soon scampered off, the pony throwing out his hind legs as if in
indignation at his bad entertainment. Beyond this field, a few white
cottages, in the rear of the village, peeped out from the lanes, and
seemed to sit down to rest in the meadows, so profound was the repose
which they seemed to express. The river wound quietly through the green
level, filling its channel, and looking pearly under the light spring
sky; and behind it the woods uprose, their softened masses and outlines
prophesying of leafy summer shades. Near at hand the air was alive with
twitterings: afar off, nature seemed asleep, and nothing was seen to
move but the broad sail of a wherry, and a diminished figure of a man
beside his horse, bush-harrowing in a distant green field.
Hester judged rightly that the lovers would like to have this scene to
themselves; and having surveyed it with that sigh of delight with which
Spring causes the heart to swell, she softly stole away, and sauntered
down the green walk. She proceeded till she reached a bench, whence she
could gaze upon the grey old church tower, rising between the
intervening trees, and at the same time overlook Mr Rowland's garden.
She had not sat many minutes before her husband leaped the hedge, and
bounded over the grass towards her.
"What news?" cried he. "There is good news in your face."
"There is good news in my bag, I trust." And she produced the large
square epistle, marked "Ship letter" in those red characters which have
a peculiar power of making the heart beat. She did not wonder that her
husband changed colour as she held up the letter. She knew that the
arrival of news from Frank was a great event in life to Edward. She
gloried in being, for the first time, the medium through which this rare
pleasure reached him; and she longed to share, for the first time, the
confidence of a brother. Margaret had for some months reposed upon the
possession of a brother: she was now to have the same privilege. She
made room upon the bench for her husband, and proposed to lose no time
in reading the letter together. But Hope did not sit down, though, from
his agitation, she would have supposed him glad of a seat. He said he
would read in the shrubbery, and walked slowly away, breaking the seal
as he went. Hester was rather disconcerted; but she suppressed her
disappointment, begged him to take advantage of the bench, and herself
retired into the orchard while he read his epistle. There, as she stood
apparently amusing herself by the pond, wiping away a tear or two which
would have way, she little imagined what agony her husband was enduring
from this letter, which she was supposing must make his heart overflow
with pleasure. The letter was half full of reply to Edward's account of
Margaret, in his epistle of last June--of raillery about her, of
intreaty that Edward would give him such a sister-in-law, and of
intimations that nothing could be more apparent than that the whole rich
treasure of his heart's love was Margaret's own. Hope's soul sickened
as he read, with that deadly sickness which he had believed was past:
but last June, with its delights and opening love, was too suddenly, and
too vividly, re-awakened in his memory and imagination. The Margaret of
yesterday, of last month, he trusted he had arrived at regarding as a
sister: not so the Margaret of last summer. In vain he repeated, again
and again, to himself, that he had expected this--that he always knew it
must come--that this was the very thing, and no more, that he had been
dreading for half a year past--that it was over now--that he ought to
rejoice that he held in his hand the last witness and reminder of the
mistake of his life. In vain did he repeat to himself these reasonable
things--these satisfactory truths. They did not still the throbbing of
his brain, or relieve the agony of his spirit;--an agony under which he
could almost have cursed the hilarity of his brother as levity, and his
hearty affection as cruel mockery. He recovered some breath and
composure when he read the latter half of Frank's volume of
communication, and, before he had finished it, the sound of distant
footsteps fell upon his excited ear. He knew they were coming--the
three who would be full of expectation as to what he should have to tell
them from India. It was they, walking very slowly, as if waiting for
the news.
"Come!" said he, starting up, and going to meet them. "Now, to the
green walk--we shall be quiet there--and I will read you all about
Frank."
He did read them all about Frank--all the last half of the letter--
Hester hanging on his arm, and Philip and Margaret listening, as if they
were taking in their share of family news. When it was done, and some
one said it was time to be turning homewards, Hope disengaged his arm
from Hester, and ran off, saying that he would report of Mrs Enderby to
Mr Rowland in the office, and meet them before they should be out of
the shrubbery. He did so: but he first took his way round by a fence
which was undergoing the operation of tarring, thrust Frank's letter
into the fire over which the tar was heating, and saw every inch of it
consumed before he proceeded. When he regained his party, Hester took
his arm, and turned once more towards the shrubbery, saying--
"We have plenty of time, and I am not at all tired: so now read me the
rest."
"My love, I have read you all I can."
Hester stopped short, and with flashing eyes, whose fire was scarcely
dimmed by her tears, cried--
"Do you mean to give me no more of your confidence than others? Is your
wife--"
"My dear, it is not my confidence: it is Frank's."
"And is not Frank my brother? He is nothing to them."
"He was not your brother when this letter was written, nor did he know
that he should ever be so. Consider this letter as one of old time--as
belonging to the antiquity of our separate lives. I hope there will
never be another letter from Frank, or anybody else (out of the range of
my professional affairs) whose contents will not be as much yours as
mine. This must satisfy you now, Hester; for I can tell you no more.
This ought to satisfy you."
"It does not satisfy me. I never will be satisfied with giving all, and
having nothing in return. I have given you all. Not a thought has
there been in my heart about Margaret, from the day we married, that I
have not imparted to you. Has it not been so?"
"I believe it, and I thank you for it."
"And what is it to you to have a sister--you who have always had
sisters--what is it to you, in comparison with my longing to have a
brother? And now you make him no more mine than he is Margaret's and
Philip's. He himself, if he has the heart of a brother, would cry out
upon you for disappointing me."
"I can allow for your feelings, Hester. I have known too well what
disappointment is, not to feel for you. But here the fault is not
mine."
"Whose is it then? It is to be charged upon Providence, I suppose, like
most of our evils."
"No, Hester; I charge it upon you. The disappointment was unavoidable;
but the sting of it lies in yourself. You are unreasonable. It is at
your own request that I remind you to be reasonable."
"And when was that request made? When I believed that you would hold me
your friend--that no others were to come near my place in your
confidence--that all you cared for was to be equally mine--that your
brother himself was to be my brother. It was when you promised me these
things that I put my conscience and my feelings into your charge. But
now all that is over. You are as much alone in your own soul as ever,
and I am thrust out from it as if you were like other men... Oh!" she
cried, covering her face with her hands, "call me your housekeeper at
once--for I am not your wife--and breathe not upon my conscience--look
not into my heart--for what are they to you? I reclaim from you, as
your servant, the power I gave you over my soul, when I supposed I was
to be your wife."
"Now you must hear me, Hester. Sit down; for you cannot stand under the
tempest of your own feelings. Now, what are the facts out of which all
this has arisen? I have had a letter, written before we were known to
be engaged, containing something which is confided to my honour. We had
both rather that such had not been the case. Would you now have me
violate my honour? Let us have done. The supposition is too
ridiculous."
"But the manner," pleaded Hester. "It is not curiosity about the
letter. I care nothing if it contained the affairs of twenty nations.
But, oh! your manner was cruel. If you loved me as you once did, you
could not treat me exactly as you treat Margaret and Philip. You do not
love me as you once did... You do not answer me," she continued in a
tone of wretchedness. "Nay, do not answer me now. It will not satisfy
me to hear you say upon compulsion that you love me. Ah! I had
Margaret once; and once I had you. Philip has taken my Margaret from
me; and if you despise me, I will lie down and die."
"Fear not!" said Hope, with great solemnity. "While I live you shall be
honoured, and have such rest as you will allow to your own heart. But
do you not see that you have now been distrusting me--not I you? Shall
I begin to question whether you love me? Could you complain of
injustice if I did, when you have been tempting my honour, insulting my
trust in you, and wounding my soul? Is this the love you imagine I
cannot estimate and return? This is madness, Hester. Rouse yourself
from it. Waken up the most generous part of yourself. We shall both
have need of it all."
"Oh, God! what do you intend? Consider again, before you break my
heart, if you mean to say that we must... Edward! forgive me, Edward!"
"I mean to say that we must support each other under troubles of God's
sending, instead of creating woes of our own."
"Support each other! Thank Heaven!"
"I see how your spirit rouses itself at the first sound of threatening
from without. I knew it would. Rough and trying times are coming,
love, and I must have your support. Trouble is coming--daily and hourly
annoyance, and no end of it that I can see: and poverty, perhaps,
instead of the ease to which we looked forward when you married me. I
do not ask you whether you can bear these things, for I know you can. I
shall look to you to help me to keep my temper."
"Are you not mocking me?" doubtfully whispered Hester.
"No, my love," her husband replied, looking calmly in her face. "I know
you to be a friend made for adversity."
"Let it come, then!" exclaimed she. And she felt herself on the
threshold of a new life, in which all the past might yet be redeemed.
They soon rejoined Margaret, and went home to relate and to hear what
new threats the day had disclosed.