The world rolls on, let what may be happening to the individuals who
occupy it. The sun rises and sets, seed-time and harvest come and go,
generations arise and pass away, law and authority hold on their course,
while hundreds of millions of human hearts have stirring within them
struggles and emotions eternally new,--an experience so diversified as
that no two days appear alike to any one, and to no two does any one day
appear the same. There is something so striking in this perpetual
contrast between the external uniformity and internal variety of the
procedure of existence, that it is no wonder that multitudes have formed
a conception of Fate,--of a mighty unchanging power, blind to the
differences of spirits, and deaf to the appeals of human delight and
misery; a huge insensible force, beneath which all that is spiritual is
sooner or later wounded, and is ever liable to be crushed. This
conception of Fate is grand, is natural, and fully warranted to minds
too lofty to be satisfied with the details of human life, but which have
not risen to the far higher conception of a Providence, to whom this
uniformity and variety are but means to a higher end, than they
apparently involve. There is infinite blessing in having reached the
nobler conception; the feeling of helplessness is relieved; the craving
for sympathy from the ruling power is satisfied; there is a hold for
veneration; there is room for hope: there is, above all, the stimulus
and support of an end perceived or anticipated; a purpose which steeps
in sanctity all human experience. Yet even where this blessing is the
most fully felt and recognised, the spirit cannot but be at times
overwhelmed by the vast regularity of aggregate existence,--thrown back
upon its faith for support, when it reflects how all things go on as
they did before it became conscious of existence, and how all would go
on as now, if it were to die to-day. On it rolls,--not only the great
globe itself, but the life which stirs and hums on its surface,
enveloping it like an atmosphere;--on it rolls; and the vastest tumult
that may take place among its inhabitants can no more make itself seen
and heard above the general stir and hum of life, than Chimborazo or the
loftiest Himalaya can lift its peak into space above the atmosphere.
On, on it rolls; and the strong arm of the united race could not turn
from its course one planetary mote of the myriads that swim in space: no
shriek of passion nor shrill song of joy, sent up from a group of
nations on a continent, could attain the ear of the eternal Silence, as
she sits throned among the stars. Death is less dreary than life in
this view--a view which at times, perhaps, presents itself to every
mind, but which speedily vanishes before the faith of those who, with
the heart, believe that they are not the accidents of Fate, but the
children of a Father. In the house of every wise parent may then be
seen an epitome of life,--a sight whose consolation is needed at times,
perhaps, by all. Which of the little children of a virtuous household
can conceive of his entering into his parent's pursuits, or interfering
with them? How sacred are the study and the office, the apparatus of a
knowledge and a power which he can only venerate! Which of these little
ones dreams of disturbing the course of his parent's thought or
achievement? Which of them conceives of the daily routine of the
household--its going forth and coming in, its rising and its rest--
having been different before his birth, or that it would be altered by
his absence? It is even a matter of surprise to him when it now and
then occurs to him that there is anything set apart for him,--that he
has clothes and couch, and that his mother thinks and cares for him. If
he lags behind in a walk, or finds himself alone among the trees, he
does not dream of being missed; but home rises up before him as he has
always seen it--his father thoughtful, his mother occupied, and the rest
gay, with the one difference of his not being there. Thus he believes,
and has no other trust than in his shrieks of terror, for being ever
remembered more. Yet, all the while, from day to day, from year to
year, without one moment's intermission, is the providence of his parent
around him, brooding over the workings of his infant spirit, chastening
its passions, nourishing its affections,--now troubling it with salutary
pain, now animating it with even more wholesome delight. All the while
is the order of household affairs regulated for the comfort and profit
of these lowly little ones, though they regard it reverently because
they cannot comprehend it. They may not know of all this,--how their
guardian bends over their pillow nightly, and lets no word of their
careless talk drop unheeded, hails every brightening gleam of reason,
and records every sob of infant grief; and every chirp of childish
glee,--they may not know this, because they could not understand it
aright, and each little heart would be inflated with pride, each little
mind would lose the grace and purity of its unconsciousness: but the
guardianship is not the less real, constant, and tender, for its being
unrecognised by its objects. As the spirit expands, and perceives that
it is one of an innumerable family, it would be in danger of sinking
into the despair of loneliness if it were not capable of:--
"Belief
In mercy carried infinite degrees
Beyond the tenderness of human hearts,"
while the very circumstance of multitude obviates the danger of undue
elation. But, though it is good to be lowly, it behoves every one to be
sensible of the guardianship, of which so many evidences are around all
who breathe. While the world and life roll on and on, the feeble reason
of the child of Providence may be at times overpowered with the vastness
of the system amidst which he lives; but his faith will smile upon his
fear, rebuke him for averting his eyes, and inspire him with the
thought, "Nothing can crush me, for I am made for eternity. I will do,
suffer and enjoy, as my Father wills and let the world and life roll
on!"
Such is the faith which supports, which alone can support, the many who,
having been whirled in the eddying stream of social affairs, are
withdrawn, by one cause or another, to abide, in some still little
creek, the passage of the mighty tide. The broken-down statesman, who
knows himself to be spoken of as politically dead, and sees his
successors at work building on his foundations, without more than a
passing thought on who had laboured before them, has need of this faith.
The aged who find affairs proceeding at the will of the young and
hardy, whatever the grey-haired may think and say, have need of this
faith. So have the sick, when they find none but themselves disposed to
look on life in the light which comes from beyond the grave. So have
the persecuted, when, with or without cause, they see themselves pointed
at in the streets; and the despised, who find themselves neglected,
whichever way they turn. So have the prosperous, during those moments
which must occur to all, when sympathy fails, and means to much desired
ends are wanting, or when satiety makes the spirit roam abroad in search
of something better than it has found. This universal, eternal, filial
relation is the only universal and eternal refuge. It is the solace of
royalty weeping in the inner chambers of its palaces, and of poverty
drooping beside its cold hearth. It is the glad tidings preached to the
poor, and in which all must be poor in spirit to have part. If they be
poor in spirit, it matters little what is their external state, or
whether the world which rolls on beside or over them be the world of a
solar system, or of a conquering empire, or of a small-souled village.
It now and then seemed strange to Hope, his wife and sister--now and
then, and for a passing moment--that while their hearts were full of
motion and their hands occupied with the vicissitudes of their lot, the
little world around them, which was wont to busy itself so strenuously
with their affairs, should work its yearly round as if it heeded them
not. As often as they detected themselves in this thought, they smiled
at it; for might not each neighbour say the same of them as constituting
a part of the surrounding world? there a cottage where some engrossing
interest did not defy sympathy; where there was not some secret joy,
some heart-sore, hidden from every eye; some important change, while all
looked as familiar as the thatch and paling, and the faces which
appeared within them? Yet there seemed something wonderful in the
regularity with which affairs proceeded. The hawthorn hedges blossomed,
and the corn was green in the furrows: the saw of the carpenter was
heard from day to day, and the anvil of the blacksmith rang. The
letter-carrier blew his horn as the times came round; the children
shouted in the road; and their parents bought and sold, planted and
delved, ate and slept, as they had ever done, and as if existence were
as mechanical as the clock which told the hours without fail from the
grey steeple. Amidst all this, how great were the changes in the
corner-house!
In the early spring, the hearts of the dwellers in that house had been,
though far less dreary than in the winter, still heavy at times with
care. Hester thought that she should never again look upon the palm
boughs of the willow, swelling with sap, and full of the hum of the
early bees, or upon the bright green sprouts of the gooseberry in the
cottage gardens, or upon the earliest primrose of the season on its
moist bank, without a vivid recollection of the anxieties of this first
spring season of her married life. The balmy month of May, rich in its
tulips, and lilacs, and guelder roses, was sacred to Margaret, from the
sorrow which it brought in the death of Mrs Enderby. She wandered
under the hedgerows with Philip, during the short remainder of his stay,
and alone when he was gone; and grew into better acquaintance with her
own state of heart and mind, and into higher hope for the future of all
whom she loved most. When the mowers were in the field, and the
chirping fledgelings had become birds of the air, and the days were at
the longest, her country rambles became more precious, for they must
henceforth be restricted;--they must be scarcer and shorter. In the
place of the leisure and solitude for books in her own room and for
meditation in the field--leisure and solitude which had been to this day
more dreamed of than enjoyed, she must now betake herself to more active
duty. The maid Susan was discharged at Midsummer: and not only Susan.
After ample consultation with Morris, it was decided that Charles must
go too, his place being in part supplied by a boy of yet humbler
pretensions out of the house, who should carry out the medicines from
the surgery, and do the errands of the family. Morris spoke cheerfully
enough of these changes, smiled as if amused at the idea of her leaving
her young ladies; and did not doubt but that, if Miss Margaret would
lend her a helping hand sometimes, she should be able to preserve the
credit of the family.
There was something more to be done than to lend this helping hand in
the lighter domestic offices. Their Midsummer remittance had been
eagerly looked for by the sisters, not only because it was exceedingly
wanted for the current expenses of the household, but because it was
high time that preparations were begun for the great event of the
autumn--the birth of Hester's little one. During this summer, Margaret
was up early, and was busy as Morris herself about the house till
breakfast, and for some time after Hope had gone forth on his daily
round--now so small that he soon returned to his books and his pen in
the study. The morning hours passed pleasantly away, while Hester and
Margaret sat at work by the window which looked into their garden, now,
by Sydney's care, trimmed up into a state of promise once more. Hester
was so much happier, so reasonable, so brave, amidst her sinking
fortunes, that Margaret could scarcely have been gayer than in plying
her needle by her side. Their cares lay chiefly out of doors now: the
villagers behaved rudely to Edward, and cherished Mr Walcot; Mrs
Rowland took every opportunity of insulting Margaret, and throwing
discredit on her engagement; and the Greys caused their cousins much
uneasiness by the spirit, in which they conducted their share of the
great controversy of the place. These troubles awaited the corner-house
family abroad; but their peace was perpetually on the increase at home.
Morris and they were so completely in one interest, Edward was so easily
pleased, and they were so free from jealous dependants, that they could
carry their economy to any extent that suited their conscience and
convenience. One superfluity after another vanished from the table;
every day something which had always been a want was discovered to be a
fancy; and with every new act of frugality, each fresh exertion of
industry, their spirits rose with a sense of achievement, and the
complacency proper to cheerful sacrifice. In the evenings of their busy
days, the sisters went out with Edward into their garden, or into the
meadows, or spent an hour in the Greys' pretty shrubbery. Maria often
saw them thus, and thought how happy are they who can ramble abroad, and
find their cares dispersed by the breeze, or dissolved in the sunshine
of the fields. The little Rowlands sometimes met them in the lanes: and
the younger ones would thrust upon them the wild flowers which Mr
Walcot had helped them to gather, while Mrs Rowland and Matilda would
draw down their black crape veils, and walk on with scarcely a passing
salutation. Every such meeting with the lady, every civil bow from Mr
Walcot, every tale which Mrs Grey and Sophia had to tell against the
new surgeon, seemed to do Hester good, and make her happier. These
things were appeals to her magnanimity; and she could bear for Edward's
sake many a trial which she could not otherwise have endured. All this
told upon the intercourse at home; and Morris's heart was often cheered,
as she pursued her labours in kitchen or chamber, with the sound of such
merry laughter as had seldom been heard in the family, during the
anxious winter that had gone by. It seemed as if nothing depressed her
young ladies now. There was frequent intelligence of the going over of
another patient to Mr Walcot; the summer was not a favourable one, and
everybody else was complaining of unseasonable weather, of the certainty
of storms in the autumn, of blight, and the prospect of scarcity; yet,
though Mr Grey shook his head, and the parish clerk could never be seen
but with a doleful prophecy in his mouth, Morris's young master and
mistresses were gay as she could desire. She was piously thankful for
Margaret's engagement; for she concluded that it was by means of this
that other hearts were working round into their true relation, and into
a peace which the world, with all its wealth and favours, can neither
make nor mar.
In one of Margaret's hedgerow rambles with Philip, a few days after his
mother's funeral, she had been strongly urged to leave Deerbrook and its
troubles behind her--to marry at once, and be free from the trials from
which he could not protect her, if she remained in the same place with
Mrs Rowland. But Margaret steadily refused.
"You will be wretched," said Philip; "you will be wretched--I know you
will--the moment I am gone."
"I never was less likely to be wretched. Mrs Rowland cannot make me
so, and other people will not. I have every expectation of a happy
summer, which I mention for your sake; for I do not like to indulge in
that sort of anticipation without some such good reason as comforting
you."
"You cannot be happy here. Priscilla will never let you have an easy
day, while she fancies she can separate us. When I think of the
pertinacity with which she disowns you, the scorn with which she speaks
about you, even in my presence, I see that nothing will do but your
being mine at once."
"That would not mend the matter. Our haste and imprudence would go to
countenance the scandal she spreads. Why cannot we rather live it
down?"
"Because your spirit will be broken in the mean time. Margaret, I must
be your guardian. This is my first duty, and an absolute necessity. If
you will not go with me, I will not leave this place: and if my plan of
life is broken up, you will be answerable for it. It was your plan, and
you may demolish it if you choose."
"I have a plan of life, too," said Margaret. "It is to do the duty that
lies nearest at hand; and the duty that lies nearest at hand is, to keep
you up to yours. After this, there is one which lies almost as close, I
cannot leave Hester and Edward till this crisis in their fortunes is
past. I am bound to them for the present."
"What are their claims to mine?"
"Nothing, if they were fortunate, as I trust they yet may be;--nothing,
if you had followed your plan of life up to the point when we may carry
it out together. We are wrong, Philip, in even thinking of what you
say. You must go and study law, and you must go without me. Indeed, I
could not be happy to join you yet. Your good name would suffer from
what Mrs Rowland might then say. Your future prospects would suffer
from the interruption of your preparation for your profession. I should
feel that I had injured you, and deserted my own duty. Indeed, Philip,
I could not be happy."
"And how happy do you imagine we shall be apart?"
Margaret gave him a look which said what words could not--what it was to
be assured of his love. What, it seemed to ask, could all the evil
tongues in the world do to poison this joy?
"Besides," said she, "I have the idea that I could not be spared; and
there is great pleasure in that vanity. Edward and Hester cannot do
without me at present."
"You may say so at any future time."
"No: when the right time comes, they will not want me. Oh, Philip! you
are grieved for them, and you long to see them prosperous. Do not tempt
me to desert them now. They want my help; they want the little money I
have; they want my hands and head. Let this be your share of the
penalty Mrs Rowland imposes upon us all--to spare me to them while
their adversity lasts."
"I would not be selfish, Margaret--I would not trespass upon your wishes
and your duty, but the truth is, I sometimes fear that I may have some
heavier penalty even than this to pay for Priscilla's temper. Ah! you
wonder what can be heavier. Remember she has put misunderstanding
between us before."
"But she never can again. Ours was then merely a tacit understanding.
Now, supposing me ever to hear what she may hint or say, do you imagine
I should give the slightest heed to it? I would not believe her news of
a person I had never seen; and do you think she can make the slightest
impression on me with regard to you."
"It seems unreasonable at this moment; but yet, I have a superstitious
dread of the power of spirits of evil."
"Superstitious, indeed! I defy them all, now that we have once
understood each other. If she were able to do far more than she can--if
she could load the winds with accusations against you--if she could
haunt my dreams, and raise you up in visions mocking at me--I believe
she could not move me now. Before, I blamed myself--I thought I was
lost in vanity and error: now that I have once had certainty, we are
safe."
"You are right, I trust--I believe it. But there is a long hard battle
to be fought yet. It fills me with shame to think how she treats you in
every relation you have. She is cruel to Maria Young. She hopes to
reach you through her. Ah! you will hear nothing of it from Maria, I
dare say; but she spoke infamously to her this morning, before Mrs
Levitt. Mrs Levitt happened to be sitting with Maria, when Priscilla
and one or two of the children went in. Mrs Levitt spoke of us:
Priscilla denied our engagement: Maria asserted it--very gently, but
quite decidedly. Priscilla reminded her of her poverty and infirmities,
spoke of the gratitude she owed to those from whom she derived her
subsistence, and reproached her with having purposes of her own to
answer, in making matches in the families of her employers."
"And Maria?"
"Maria trembled excessively, the children say, weak and reduced by pain
as she is. One can hardly conceive of temper carrying any woman into
such cruelty! Mrs Levitt rose, in great concern and displeasure, to
go: but Maria begged her to sit down again, sent one of the children for
me, and appealed to me to declare what share she had had in my
engagement with you. I set her right with Mrs Levitt, who, I am
convinced, sees how the matter stands. But it was really a distressing
scene."
"And before the children, too!"
"That was the worst part of it. They stood looking from the furthest
corner of the room in utter dismay. It would have moved any one but
Priscilla to see the torrent of tears Maria shed over them, when they
came timidly to wish her good morning, after Mrs Levitt was gone. She
said she could do nothing more for them: they had been taught to despise
her, and her relation to them was at an end."
"It is; it must be," exclaimed Margaret. "Is there no way of stopping a
career of vice like this? While Mrs Plumstead gets a parish boy
whipped for picking up her hens' eggs from among the nettles, is Maria
to have no redress for slander which takes away her peace and her
bread?"
"She shall have redress. For the children's sake, as well as her own,
her connection with them must go on. I do not exactly see how; but the
thing must be done. I dread speaking to poor Rowland about any of these
things; I know it makes him so wretched: but the good and the innocent
must not be sacrificed. If these poor children must despise somebody,
their contempt must be made to fall in the right place, even though it
be upon their mother."
"Let us go and see Maria," said Margaret, turning back. "If there is a
just and merciful way of proceeding in this case, she will point it out.
I wish you had told me all this before. Here have we been rambling
over the grass and among the wild-flowers, where, at the best, Maria can
never go; and she lies weeping all alone, looking for me, I dare say,
every moment! Let us make haste."
Philip made all the haste that was compatible with gathering a handful
of wild hyacinth and meadow narcissus for poor Maria. He found himself
farther from success than ever, when he would have again urged Margaret
to marry at once. A new duty seemed to have sprung up to keep her at
Deerbrook. Maria wanted her. Her summer work lay clear before her.
She must nurse and cheer Maria, she must ply her needle for Hester, and
play the housewife, spending many of her hours in the business of
living; a business which is often supposed to transact itself, but,
which in reality requires all the faculties which can be brought to it,
and all the good moral habits which conscience can originate. The most
that Philip could obtain was, permission to come when his duties would
fairly allow it, and a promise that he should be summoned, if Margaret
found herself placed in any difficulty by Mrs Rowland.
Maria was not now literally alone; nor did she depend on her hostess or
on Margaret for nursing and companionship. It occurred to all the
kindest of her friends, immediately after Mrs Enderby's death, that
Phoebe might be her attendant. Phoebe was not, just then, the most
cheerful of nurses, so truly did she mourn her good old mistress; but
she was glad of occupation, glad to be out of Mrs Rowland's way, glad
to be useful: and she was an inestimable comfort to Maria.
Nothing could be done about placing the children again under Maria's
care, when she had recovered. Mr Rowland was naturally unwilling to
stir in the business, and saw that the best chance for his children was
to send them to school at a distance from Deerbrook: and Maria had been
too grossly insulted in the presence of her pupils to choose to resume
her authority. The Greys took her up with double zeal, as the Rowlands
let her down. They assured her that her little income should not suffer
for her being able to devote all her time to Fanny and Mary. The money,
indeed, was nothing to Mrs Grey, in comparison with the pleasure it
procured her. It put her upon equal terms with Mrs Rowland, at last.
She did not know how it was, but it was very difficult to patronise Mr
Hope. He always contrived to baffle her praise. But here was an
unconnected person thrown upon her care: and if Mrs Rowland had a young
surgeon to push, Mrs Grey had an incomparable governess, now all to
herself.