Mr Walcot had arrived nearly at the end of his letter to his parents,
when summoned to attend Mrs Rowland to call on the Greys. He was
afterwards glad that he had left room to put in that perhaps what Mr
Enderby had said about Deerbrook ought to be the less regarded, from its
having come out that he was in an entanglement with the sister-in-law of
this Mr Hope, when he had rather have been engaged to another person--
being actually, indeed, attached to a lady now abroad. He represented
that Mrs Rowland evidently paid very little regard to her brother's
views of Deerbrook affairs, now that his mind was in a state of
distraction between his proper attachment and his new entanglement. So
Mr Enderby's opinion ought not to go for more than it was worth.
The letter was still not quite finished when he was called to Mrs
Enderby. She was very ill, and Mr Rowland and Phoebe were alarmed.
Philip was at the corner-house. Mrs Rowland was gone to see Miss
Young, to convince her that she must put herself into Mr Walcot's hands
immediately--to declare, indeed, that she should send her own medical
man to attend her dear children's governess. The argument occupied some
time, and Mrs Rowland's absence was protracted. Mrs Enderby had been
extremely terrified, the evening before, at the noises she had heard,
and the light of the bonfire upon the sky. The children were permitted
to carry to her all the extravagant reports that were afloat about Mr
Hope being roasted in the fire, the ladies being in the hands of the
mob, and so forth; and though her son-in-law had seen her before she
settled for the night, and had assured her that everybody was safe, she
could not be tranquillised. She thought he was deceiving her for her
good, and that the children were probably nearest the truth. She was
unable to close her eyes, and in the middle of the night told Phoebe
that she could not be satisfied--she should not have a moment's peace--
till she had seen some one of the dear people from the corner-house, to
know from themselves that they were quite safe. Phoebe had found it
difficult to persuade her that it was now two o'clock in the morning,
and that they were all, no doubt, sleeping in their beds. She passed a
wretched night; and the next day, after Philip had succeeded in
composing her, a strange gentleman was brought to her to prescribe for
her. This revived her terrors. She said she would ask no more
questions, for all were in league to deceive her. Then she cried
because, she had said so harsh a thing, and begged that Phoebe would not
expose it. Her weeping continued till Phoebe's heart was almost broken.
The infallible drops failed; arrowroot was in vain; the children were
sent away as soon as they came in, as it would hurt their spirits, their
mother thought, to see distress of this kind. In the afternoon quiet
was prescribed by the authorities, and the old lady was left alone with
Phoebe. To the weeping succeeded the spasms, so violent that little
George was despatched with all speed to summon his uncle, and Mr Walcot
was called away from crossing the ends of his letter. No one but he
proposed sending for Mrs Rowland; and his hint to that effect was not
taken.
Philip arrived in a shorter time than could have been supposed possible.
Mr Rowland then immediately disappeared. He had formed the heroic
resolution of bringing Margaret into the house, on his own
responsibility, for Mrs Enderby's relief and gratification and he was
gone to tell Margaret that he considered her now as Mrs Enderby's
daughter, and was come to summon her to the sick bed. Philip presently
discovered that the presence of some one from the Hopes would be the
best cordial that could be administered; and he set forth on the same
errand--to bring Margaret, that she might have his protection in case of
his sister returning before her arrival. Mrs Rowland did return: and
the two gentlemen, having taken different roads to the corner-house (it
being a matter of old dispute which was the shortest) missed each other.
Margaret was gone with Mr Rowland before Philip arrived.
"Here I will leave you," said Mr Rowland to Margaret, on the steps of
his own house. "You will find Philip and Phoebe upstairs, and Mr
Walcot. I must go in search of Mr Hope, and beg the favour of him to
tell me whether we are proceeding rightly with our patient. She is too
ill for ceremony."
Margaret wondered why, if this was the case, Mr Rowland did not bring
Edward to the patient at once; but she had her wonder to herself, for
her escort was gone. The servant did not more than half-open the door,
and seemed unwilling to let Margaret enter; but she passed in, saying
that she must see Phoebe for a moment. She soon found that she was to
be left standing on the mat; for no person appeared, though she thought
she heard whispers upstairs. Ned coming to peep from the study-door,
she beckoned him to her, and asked to be shown to where Phoebe was. The
child took her hand, and led her upstairs. At the top of the first
flight she met the lady of the house, who asked her, with an air of
astonishment, what she wanted there? Margaret replied that Mr Rowland
had brought her to see Mrs Enderby. That was impossible, the lady
replied. Mr Rowland knew that Mrs Enderby was too ill to receive
visitors. She herself would send for Miss Ibbotson whenever it should
be proper for Mrs Enderby to admit strangers. Margaret replied that
she must see Phoebe--that she should not retire till she had spoken to
her, or till Mr Rowland's return. Mrs Rowland sent Ned to desire the
servant to open the door for Miss Ibbotson; and Margaret took her seat
on a chair on the landing, saying that, relying on her title to be
admitted to Mrs Enderby, at the desire of her old friend herself, and
of all the family but Mrs Rowland, she should wait till she could
obtain admittance.
How rejoiced was she, at this moment, to hear the house door open, to
hear the step she knew so well, to see Philip, and to have her arm drawn
within his!
"Let us pass," said he to his sister, who stopped the way.
"Rest a moment," said Margaret. "Recover your breath a little, or we
shall flurry her."
"She is flurried to death already," said Philip, in his deepest tone of
emotion. "Priscilla, our mother is dying; it is my belief that she is
dying. If you have any humanity,--if you have any regard for your own
future peace of mind, conduct yourself decently now. Govern your own
family as you will, when you have lost your mother; but hold off your
hand from her last hours."
"Your own last hours are to come," said Margaret. "As you would have
Matilda be to you then, be you to your mother now."
"I must ascertain one thing, Philip," said Mrs Rowland. "Does my
mother know of what you call your engagement to Miss Ibbotson?"
"She does not; and the sole reason is, that I would not subject her to
what you might say and do. I wished, for her own sake, to keep the
whole affair out of her thoughts, when once I had removed the false
impressions you had given her. But Margaret and I may see fit to tell
her now. I may see fit to give her the comfort of a daughter who will
be to her what you ought to have been."
He gently drew his sister aside, to make way for Margaret to pass.
"In my own house!" exclaimed Mrs Rowland, in a tone of subdued rage.
"We should have been in the house over the way," replied her brother;
"and we act as if we were there. Come, my Margaret, we are doing
right."
"We are," replied Margaret; but yet she trembled.
"I must go in first, and tell her that I have brought you," said Philip.
"And yet I do not like to leave you, even for a moment."
"Oh, never mind! I am not to be shaken now."
Mrs Rowland did not appear during the two long minutes that Margaret
was left by herself in the dressing-room. When Philip came for her, he
said:
"You must not leave her again. You will stay, will not you? You shall
be protected: but you must stay. I shall tell her how we stand to each
other,--we will tell her,--carefully, for she cannot bear much
emotion.--You are tired,--you must be tired," he continued, looking at
her with anxiety: "but--"
"Do not speak of it. I did sleep last night, and there will be time
enough for sleep when duty is done,--the duty for which I have longed
ever since I knew what duty was." And her eyes swam in tears.
Phoebe's face was a dismal sight,--too dismal for the sickroom, for so
many hours had she been in tears. She was dismissed to refresh herself
with a turn in the garden. It was Philip's doing that she was at hand
at all. Mrs Rowland had ordained that she should go; but Philip had
supported the girl in her resolution to bear anything, rather than leave
her mistress while it was essential to her mistress's comfort that she
should stay.
Mrs Enderby was in great pain; but yet not suffering too much to be
comforted by finding that all were safe and well in the corner-house.
She even smiled when the others laughed at the ridiculous stories with
which the children had assaulted her imagination. She thought it was
very wrong for people to fabricate such things, and tell them to
children:--they might chance to put some extremely old ladies into a
terrible fright.--She was soothed in the very midst of a spasm, by
hearing that Margaret would stay with her as long as she liked, if it
would be of any comfort to her. In answer to her surprise and almost
alarm at such a blessing, Philip said that Margaret wished it as a
pleasure, and asked it as a sort of right. Now, could she not guess any
reason why it was a sort of right of Margaret's to attend upon her like
a daughter? Yes,--it was so indeed! Margaret was to be her daughter--
some time or other,--when her big boy should have learned all his
lessons, as little George would say.
"I am thankful! Indeed I _am_ thankful, my dears, to hear this. But,
my loves, that will be too late for me. I rejoice indeed; but it will
be too late for me."
"Well, then, let me be your daughter now."
The old lady clasped her arms about Margaret, and endured her next
paroxysm with her head upon her young friend's shoulder.
"I have a daughter already," said she, when she revived a little: "but I
have room in my heart for another: and I always had you in my heart, my
love, from the first moment I saw you."
"You hold all the world in your heart, I think."
"Ah! my love, you flatter me. I mean I took to you particularly from
the very hour I saw you. You have always been so kind and gentle with
me!"
Margaret's heart swelled at the thought that any one could ever have
been otherwise than kind and gentle to one so lowly and so loving.
Nothing more could be done than was done for the sufferer. Hope saw
her, at Mr Rowland's desire, and said this. He left directions with
Margaret, and then declined staying where his presence could be of no
use, and caused much annoyance. Mrs Enderby was sinking rapidly. The
probability was, that a few hours would end the struggle. Mrs Rowland
was much alarmed and shocked. She went and came between the
drawing-room and her mother's chamber, but talked of the claims of her
children at such a time, and persuaded herself that her duty lay chiefly
with them. Others wanted no persuasion about the matter. They were too
glad to have her dispose herself where she would be out of her mother's
way. Mrs Enderby looked round now and then, and seemed as if on the
point of asking for her, but that her courage failed. At last, about
eight in the evening, when Mrs Rowland had come in softly, and Phoebe
had met her at the door, to say something very unceremonious, Mrs
Enderby's voice was heard.
"Phoebe, I hope you are not preventing any person from coming in. I
should wish to see my daughter. Priscilla, my dear, let me see you.
Come to me, my dear."
Mrs Rowland's face was very pale, and her brow told of a dreadful
headache. There was a dark expression in her countenance, but the
traces of irritability were gone. She was subdued for the hour.
"My dear daughter," said Mrs Enderby, "I may not be able at another
time to thank you as I should like for all the care you have taken of
me:--nor can I now do it as I could wish: but I thank you, my love."
Mrs Rowland involuntarily cast a glance at her brother and Margaret, to
see how they took this: but their eyes were fixed on her mother.
"And I can only say," continued Mrs Enderby, "that I am aware that you
must have had many things to bear from me. I must have been much in
your way, and often--"
Margaret and Philip implored her to say nothing of this kind; they could
not bear it from one who was all patience herself, and gave no cause for
forbearance in others. Mrs Rowland did not speak--perhaps because she
could not.
"Well, well; I will not dwell upon these things. You are all very kind.
I only wanted to say that I was sensible of--of many things.
Priscilla--"
"Mother!" said she, starting.
"This dear young friend of ours,--she calls herself my daughter, bless
her!--is to be your sister, my love. Philip has been telling me--. Let
me see--. Give me the pleasure of seeing--"
Margaret could have opened her arms to any spectre from the pale
kingdoms at a moment like this, and under the imploring eye of Mrs
Enderby. She disengaged her hand from that of her old friend, and took
Mrs Rowland's, offering to kiss her cheek. Mrs Rowland returned the
kiss, with some little visible agitation.
"Thank you, my dears!" said Mrs Enderby, in a strong voice of
satisfaction. She had made a great effort. Her speech now failed her;
but they thought she would have said something about the children.
"The children--" said Mrs Rowland, rather eagerly. She turned, and
went slowly out of the room. The moment the door was shut, there was a
heavy fall. She had fainted on the outside.
Her mother heard it not. When Mrs Rowland was found to be reviving,
the children were brought to their grandmamma's room. They quietly
visited the bed, one by one, and with solemnity kissed the wasted
cheek,--the first time they had ever kissed grandmamma without return.
The baby made its remark upon this in its own way. As it had often done
before, it patted the cheek rather roughly: several hands were instantly
stretched out to stop its play; it set up a cry, and was hurried out of
the room.
By the middle of the night, Margaret was longing to be at home and
alone. It was all over. She was ashamed to think of her own share of
the loss while witnessing Philip's manly grief, or even while seeing how
Phoebe lamented, and how Mr Rowland himself was broken-down; but not
the less for this was her heart repeating, till it was sick of itself,
"I have lost another mother."
She did not see Mrs Rowland again.
In the earliest grey of the morning, Mr Rowland took Margaret home. As
they stood on the steps, waiting to be let in, she observed that the
morning star was yellow and bright in the sky. As soon as the sun had
risen, the toll of the church bell conveyed to every ear in Deerbrook
the news that Mrs Enderby was dead. Perhaps there might have been
compunction in the breasts of some who had been abroad on Saturday
night, on hearing the universal remark that it must have been rather
sudden at last.