The hours of a sleepless night were not too long for Hope to revolve
what he must say and do on the morrow. He must meet Enderby; and the
day would probably decide Margaret's fate. That this decision would
implicate his own happiness or misery was a subordinate thought. It was
not till after he had viewed Margaret's case in every light, in which
apprehension could place it, that he dwelt upon what the suffering to
himself must be of seeing Margaret, day by day, living on, in meek
patience, amidst the destruction of hope and happiness which his
attachment had caused. When he did dwell upon it, his heart sank within
him. All that had made him unhappy seemed of late to have passed away.
For many months he had seen Margaret satisfied in her attachment to
another; he had seen Hester coming out nobly from the trial of
adversity, in which all her fine qualities had been exercised, and her
weaknesses almost subdued. She had been not only the devoted wife, but
patient and generous towards her foes, full of faith and cheerfulness in
her temper, and capable of any degree of self-denial in the conduct of
her daily life. She had been of late all that in the days of their
engagement--in the days when he had dealt falsely with his own mind--he
had trusted she would be. A friendship, whose tenderness was life
enough for them both, had grown up in his soul, and he had been at
peace. It had been a subject of incessant thankfulness to him, that the
evil of what he could now hardly consider as a false step had been
confined to himself--that his struggles, his strivings, the dreadful
solitary conflicts of a few months, had not been in vain; that he had
fulfilled the claims of both relations, and marred no one's peace. Now,
he was plunged into the struggle again. The cause was at an end; but
consequences, of perhaps endless wretchedness, remained to be borne.
His secret was known, and made the basis of untruths to which the whole
happiness of his household, so victoriously struggled for, so carefully
cherished by him, and so lately secured, must be sacrificed. Again and
again he turned from the fearful visions of Margaret cast off, of the
estrangement of the sisters, of the possible loss of some of their fair
fame--from these harrowing thoughts he turned again and again to
consider what must be done.--The most certain thing was, that he must
not by word, look, pause, or admission, countenance to Enderby himself
the supposition that he had not preferred Hester at the time she became
his wife. In the present state of their attachment, this was the merest
justice to her. Nothing that it was in Mrs Grey's power to reveal bore
a relation to any time later than his early, and, it might be assumed,
superficial, intercourse with the sisters and, as far as he knew, no one
else, unless it were Frank (by this time in possession of the facts),
had ever conceived of the true state of the case. He must decline all
question about his domestic relations, except as far as Margaret was
concerned. Beyond this, he would allow of no inquisition, and would
forbid all speculation. For Margaret's sake, no less than Hester's,
this was necessary. If she should ever be Enderby's wife, it was of the
utmost importance that Enderby should not, in his most secret soul, hold
this information, however strongly he might be convinced that Margaret
was in ignorance of it, and had never loved any but himself. There must
be no admission to Enderby of that which had been truth, but which would
become untruth by being first admitted now. There must be entire
silence upon the whole subject of himself.--As to Margaret, he did not
see what could be done, but to declare his true and perfect belief that
she had never loved any but Enderby. But alas! what chance was there of
this testimony being received; the very point of Enderby's accusation
being, that they both looked, perhaps in self-delusion, at the
connection with him as their security from the consequences of Hope's
weakness in marrying Hester? It was all confused--all wretched--all
nearly hopeless. Margaret would be sacrificed without knowing why--
would have her heart wrung with the sense of injury in addition to her
woe.
From reflections and anticipations, Hope rose early to the great duty of
the day. He told Hester that he was going to meet Enderby in the
meadows, to receive a full explanation of his conduct of the preceding
day; and that it was probable that he should bring home whatever tidings
it might be Margaret's lot to hear.
He found, during the long and anxious conversation in the meadow, that
he had need of all the courage, calmness, and discretion he could
command. It was a cruel trial to one whose wont it had been from his
childhood to converse in "simplicity and godly sincerity,"--it was a
cruel trial to hear evidence, upon evidence brought of what he knew to
have been fact, and to find connected with this, revolting falsehoods,
against which he could only utter the indignation of his soul. When he
afterwards reflected how artfully the facts and falsehoods were
connected, he could no longer wonder at Enderby's convictions, nor at
the conduct which proceeded from them. There was in Enderby this
morning no undue anger, no contempt which could excite anger in
another;--no doubt cast by him upon Hope's honour, or Margaret's purity
of mind, as the world esteems purity. However this might have been
before their meeting of yesterday, it was now clear that, though
immoveably convinced of their mutual attachment, he supposed it to have
been entertained as innocently as it was formed;--that Hope had been
wrought upon by Mrs Grey, and by a consciousness of Hester's love; that
he had married from a false sense of honour, and then discovered his
mistake;--that he had striven naturally, and with success, to persuade
himself that Margaret loved his friend, while Margaret had made the same
effort, and would have married that friend for security and with the
hope of rest in a home of her own, with one whom she might possibly love
and to whom she was bound by his love of herself.
As for the evidence on which his belief was founded, there seemed to be
no end to it. Hope could do little but listen to the detail. If he had
been sitting in judgment on the conduct of an imputed criminal, he would
have wrestled with the evidence obstinately and long; but what could he
do, when it was the lover of his sister-in-law who was declaring why his
confidence in her was gone, and he must resume his plighted faith? None
but those who had done the mischief could repair it; and least of all,
Hope himself. He could only make one single, solemn protestation of his
belief that Margaret had loved none but Enderby, and deny the truth of
every statement that was inconsistent with this.
The exhibition of the evidence showed how penetrating, how sagacious, as
well as how industrious, malice can be. There seemed to be no
circumstance connected with the sisters and their relation to Mr Hope,
that Mrs Rowland had not laid hold of. Mrs Grey's visit to Hope
during his convalescence; his subsequent seclusion, and his depression
when he reappeared--all these were noted; and it was these which sent
Enderby to Mrs Grey for an explanation, which she had not had courage
or judgment to withhold--which, indeed, she had been hurried into
giving. She had admitted all that had passed between herself and Mr
Hope--his consternation at finding that it was Hester who loved him, and
whom he must marry, and the force with which Mrs Grey had felt herself
obliged to urge that duty upon him. Enderby connected with this his own
observations and feelings at the time; his last summer's conviction that
it was Margaret whom Hope loved; his rapturous surprise on hearing of
the engagement being to Hester; and his wonder at the coldness with
which his friend received his congratulations. He now thought that he
must have been doomed to blindness not to have discerned the truth
through all this.--Then there was his own intrusion during the interview
which Hope had with Margaret;--their countenances had haunted him ever
since. Hope's was full of constraint and anxiety;--he was telling his
intentions:--Margaret's face was downcast, and her attitude motionless;
she was hearing her doom.--Then, after Hope was married, all Deerbrook
was aware of his failure of spirits; and of Margaret's no less. It was
a matter of common remark, that there must be something amiss--that all
was not right at home. They had, then, doubtless discovered that the
attachment was mutual; and they might well be wretched.--Those who ought
to know best had been convinced of this at an earlier stage of the
intercourse. Mrs Rowland had met at Cheltenham a young officer, an
intimate friend of Mr Hope's family, who would not be persuaded that it
was not to the younger sister that Mr Hope was married. He declared
that he knew, from the highest authority, that Hope was attached to
Margaret, and that the attachment was returned. It was not till Mrs
Rowland had shown him the announcement of the marriage in an old
Blickley newspaper, which she happened to have used in packing her
trunk, that he would believe that it was the elder sister who was Hope's
wife.--There was one person, however, who had known the whole, Enderby
said; perhaps she was the only person who had been aware of it all: and
that was his mother.
In answer to Hope's exclamations upon the absurdity of this, Enderby
said, that a thousand circumstances rose up to confirm Mrs Rowland's
statement that her mother had known all, and had learned it from
Margaret herself. Margaret had confided in her old friend as in a
mother; and nothing could be more natural--nothing probably more
necessary to an overburdened heart. This explained his mother's never
having shown his letters to Margaret--the person for whom, as she knew,
they were chiefly written. This explained the words of concern about
the domestic troubles of the Hopes, which, now and then during her long
confinement, she had dropped in Phoebe's hearing, and even in her
letters to her son. She had repeatedly regretted that Margaret would
not leave her sister's house, and return to Birmingham--saying that
income and convenience were not to be thought of for a moment, in
comparison with some other considerations. In fact she had--it was
weakness, perhaps, but one not to be too hardly judged under the
circumstances--she had revealed the whole to her daughter under
injunctions to secrecy, which had been strictly observed while she
lived, and broken now only for a brother's sake, and after a long
conflict between obligations apparently contradictory. When, from her
deathbed, she had welcomed Margaret as a daughter-in-law, it was in the
gratitude which it was natural for a mother to feel, on finding the
attachment of an only son at length appreciated and rewarded. When she
had implored Mrs Rowland to receive Margaret as a sister, and had seen
them embrace, her generous spirit had rejoiced in her young friend's
conquest of an unhappy passion; and she had meant to convey to Priscilla
an admonition to bury in oblivion what had become known to her, and to
forgive Margaret for having loved any one but Philip. Priscilla could
not make a difficulty at such a time, and in such a presence; she had
submitted to the embrace, but her soul had recoiled from it; she had
actually fainted under the shock: and ever since, she had declared to
her brother, with a pertinacity which he had been unable to understand--
which, indeed, had looked like sheer audacity, that he would never marry
Margaret Ibbotson. Philip was now convinced that he had done his sister
much wrong. Her temper and conduct were in some instances indefensible;
but since he had learned all this, and become aware how much of what he
had censured had been said and done out of affection for himself, he had
been disposed rather to blame her for the lateness of her explanations,
than for any excess of zeal on his account,--zeal which he admitted had
carried her a point or two beyond the truth in some of her aims. These
statements about the condition of Margaret's mind were borne out by
circumstances known to others. When Margaret had been rescued from
drowning, Hope was heard to breathe, as he bent over her, "Oh God! my
Margaret!" and it was observed that she rallied instantly on hearing the
exclamation, and repaid him with a look worthy of his words. This had
been admitted to Enderby himself by the one who heard it, and who might
be trusted to speak of it to no one else. Then, it was known that when
Margaret was in the habit of taking long walks alone, towards the end of
the winter, she was met occasionally by her brother-in-law in his
rides--naturally enough. Their conversation had been overheard, once at
least, when they consulted about the peace of their home--how much of a
certain set of circumstances they should communicate to Mrs Hope, and
whether or not Mr Enderby was engaged to a lady abroad. Without these
testimonies, Enderby felt that he had only to recur to his own
experience to be convinced that Margaret had never loved him, though
striving to persuade herself, as well as him, that she did. The
calmness with which she had received his avowals that first evening last
winter, struck him with admiration at the time: he now understood it
better. He wondered he had felt so little till now the coldness of the
tone of her correspondence. The first thing which awakened him to an
admission of it, was her refusal to marry him in the spring. She
shrank, as she avowed, from leaving her present residence--she might
have said, from quitting those she loved best.
It was clear that in marrying she was to make a sacrifice to duty--to
secure innocence and safety for herself and those who were dearest to
her; and that, when the time drew near, she recoiled from the effort.
Enderby was thankful that all had become clear in time for her release
and his own.
The horror with which Hope listened to this was beyond what he had
prepared himself for--beyond all that he had yet endured. Enderby
seemed quite willing to hear him; but what could be said? Only that
which he had planned. His protest against the truth of certain of the
statements, and the justice of some of the constructions of facts, was
strong. He declared that, in his perfect satisfaction with his domestic
state, his happiness with his beloved and honoured wife, he would admit
of no question about his family affairs, as far as he and Hester were
concerned. He denied at once and for ever, all that went to show that
Margaret had for a moment regarded him otherwise than as a friend and a
brother; and declared that the bare mention to her of the idea which was
uppermost in Enderby's mind would be a cruelty and insult which could
never be retrieved. He was not going to plead for her. Bitterly as she
must suffer, it was from a cause which lay too deep for cure--from a
want of faith in her in one who ought to know her best, but from whom
she would be henceforth best separated, if what he had been saying was
his deliberate belief and judgment.--Enderby declaring that it was so,
and that it was his intention to release Margaret from her engagement,
gently and carefully, without useless explanation and without reproach,
there was nothing more to be said or done. Hope prophesied, in parting,
that, of all the days of Enderby's life, this was perhaps that of which
he would one day most heartily repent; and while he spoke, he felt that
this same day was the one which he might himself find the most difficult
to endure. He left Enderby still pacing the meadow, and walked
homewards with a heart weighed down with grief--a grief which yet he
would fain have increased to any degree of intensity by taking
Margaret's upon himself.
Margaret was at the breakfast-table with her sister when he entered.
Her eyes were swollen, but her manner was gentle and composed. She
looked up at Edward, when he appeared, with an expression of timid
expectation in her face, which went to his soul. A few words passed--a
very few, and then no more was said.
"Yes; I have seen him. He is very wretched. He will not come, but we
shall hear something, I have no doubt. A strange persuasion which I
cannot remove, of a prior attachment--of a want of frankness and
confidence. He will explain himself presently. But his persuasion is
irremoveable."
Hester had much to say of him out of her throbbing heart; but she looked
at Margaret, and restrained herself. What must there be in _that_
heart? To utter one word would be irreverent. The breakfast passed in
an almost unbroken silence.
It had not been long over when the expected letter came. Hope never saw
it; but there was no need: he perfectly anticipated its contents, while
to her for whom they were written they were incomprehensible.
"I spare you and myself the misery of an interview. It must be
agonising to you, and there would be dishonour as well as pain to me,
in witnessing that agony. If, as I fully believe, you have been
hitherto blind to the injustice of your connecting yourself with me,
from a sense of duty and expediency, when you had not a first genuine
love to give, I think you will see it now; and I pity your suffering
in the discovery. There is only one point on which I wish or intend
to hang any reproach. Why did you not, when I had become entitled to
your confidence, lay your heart fully open to me? Did I not do so by
you? Did I not reveal to you even the transient fancy which I
entertained long ago, and which I showed my faith in you, her friend,
by revealing? If you had only done the same--if you had only let me
know, without a hint as to the object, that you had been attached, and
that you believed I might succeed to your affections in time--if you
had done this, I do not say that we should then have been what I so
lately trusted we were to be, for my soul is jealous--has been made so
by what I thought you--and will bear none but a first, and an entire,
and an exclusive love: but in that case I should have cherished you in
my inmost heart, as all that I have believed you to be, though not
destined for me.
"But I do not blame you. You have done what you meant to be right;
though, from too great regard to one set of considerations, you have
mistaken the right, and have sacrificed me. I make allowance for your
difficulty, and, for my own part, pardon you, and testify most
sincerely and earnestly to the purity of your mind and intentions. Do
not reject this parting testimony. I offer it because I would not
have you think me harsh, or suppose that passion has made me unjust.
I love you too deeply to do more than mourn. I have no heart to
blame, except for your want of confidence. Of that I have a right to
complain: but, for the rest, spare yourself the effort of
self-justification. It is not needed. I do not accuse you. You were
right in saying yesterday that I love you still. I shall ever love
you, be our separate lives what they may. God bless you!
"PE."
"Will you not wait, my dearest Margaret?" said Hester, when, within half
an hour of the arrival of Enderby's letter, she met her sister on the
stairs, with the reply in her hand, sealed, and ready to be sent. "Why
such haste? The events of your life may hang on this day, on this one
letter. Can it be right to be so rapid in what you think and do?"
"The event of my life is decided," she replied, "unless--No--the event
of my life _is_ decided. I have nothing more to wait for. I have
written what I think, and it must go."