Almost as soon as Hope had left the house, Sydney Grey arrived, looking
full of importance. He took care to shut the door before he would tell
his errand. His mother had been obliged to trust him for want of
another messenger; and he delivered his message with a little of the
parade of mystery he had derived from her. Mr Grey's family had become
uneasy about his returning from the markets in the evening, since
robberies had become so frequent as they now were, and the days so
short; and had at length persuaded him to sleep at the more distant
market-towns he had to visit, and return the next morning. From
Blickley he could get home before the evening closed in; but on two days
in the week he was to remain out all night. When he had agreed to this,
his family had applauded him and felt satisfied: but as the evening drew
on, on occasion of this his first absence, Mrs Grey and Sophia had
grown nervous on their own account. They recalled story after story,
which they had lately heard, of robberies at several solitary houses in
the country round; and, though their house was not solitary, they could
not reconcile themselves to going to rest without the comfort of knowing
that there was, as usual, a strong man on their premises. If they had
been aware how many strong men there were sometimes on their premises at
night, they would not have been satisfied with having one within their
walls. Not having been informed, however, how cleverly their dogs were
silenced, how much poached game was divided under the shelter of their
stacks of deals, and what dextrous abstractions were at such times made
from the store of corn in their granaries, and coal in their lighters,
they proposed nothing further than to beg the favour of Mr Hope that he
would take a bed in their house for this one night. They dared not
engage any of the men from the yards to defend them; they had not Mr
Grey's leave, and he might not be pleased if they showed any fear to
their own servants: but it would be the greatest comfort if Mr Hope
would come, as if to supper, and stay the night. The spare room was
ready; and Mrs Grey hoped he would not object to leaving his family
just for once. Mr Grey intended to do the same thing twice a week,
till the days should lengthen, and the roads become safer.
Though Sydney made the most of his message, he declared himself not
thoroughly pleased with it.
"They might have trusted me to take care of them," said he. "If they
had just let me have my father's pistols--."
"Come, come, Sydney, do not talk of pistols," said Hester, who did not
relish any part of the affair.
"He would not talk of them if he thought they were likely to be wanted,"
observed Margaret.
"Likely! when were they ever more likely to be wanted, I should like to
know! Did you hear what happened at the Russell Taylors' last night?"
"No; and we do not wish to hear. Do not tell us any horrible stories,
unless you mean my husband to stay at home to-night."
"Oh, you must just hear this, because it ended well; that is, nobody was
killed. Mr Walcot told Sophia all about it this morning; and it was
partly that which made her so anxious to have some one sleep in the
house to-night."
"Well, then, do not tell us, or you will make us anxious for the same
thing."
"What would your mother say if you were to carry home word that Mr Hope
could not come--that his family dare not part with him?"
"Oh, then she must let me have my father's pistols, and watch for the
fellows. If they came about our windows as they did about the Russell
Taylors', how I would let fly among them! They came rapping at the
shutters, at two this morning; and when Mr Taylor looked out from his
bedroom above, they said they would not trouble themselves to get in, if
he would throw out his money!"
"And did he?"
"Yes. They raised a hat upon a pole, and he put in four or five
pounds--all he had in the house, he told them. So they went away; but
none of the family thought of going to bed again."
"I dare say not. And what sort of thieves are these supposed to be?
They set about their business very oddly."
"Not like London thieves," said Sydney, consequentially, as if he knew
all about London thieves. "They are the distressed country people, no
doubt--such as would no more think of standing a second shot from my
pistol, than of keeping the straits of Thermopylae. Look here," he
continued, showing the end of a pistol, which peeped from a pocket
inside his coat; "here's a thing that will put such gentry into a fine
taking."
"Pray, is that pistol loaded?" inquired Hester, pressing her infant to
her.
"To be sure. What is the use of a pistol if it is not loaded? It might
as well be in the shop as in my pocket, then. Look at her, cousin
Margaret! If she is not in as great a fright as the cowardly thieves!
Why, cousin Hester, don't you see, if this pistol went off, it would not
shoot you or the baby. It would go straight through me."
"That is a great comfort. But I had rather you would go away, you and
your pistol. Pray, does your mother know that you carry one?"
"No. Mind you don't tell her. I trust you not to tell her. Remember,
I would not have told you if I had not felt sure of you."
"You had better not have felt sure of us. However, we will not tell
your mother; but my husband will tell Mr Grey to-morrow, when he comes
home. If he chooses that you should carry loaded pistols about, there
will be no harm done."
"I have a great mind to say I will shoot you if you tell," cried Sydney,
presenting the pistol with a grand air. But he saw that he made his
cousins really uneasy, and he laid it down on the table, offering to
leave it with them for the night, if they thought it would make them
feel any safer. There were plenty more at home.
"Thank you," said Margaret, "but I believe we are more afraid of loaded
pistols than of thieves. The sooner you take it away the better. You
can go now, presently, for here comes my brother."
Sydney quickly pocketed his pistol. Hope agreed to go, and promised to
be at Mr Grey's to supper by nine o'clock.
Margaret was incessantly thinking of Maria in these long evenings, when
alarms of one kind or another were all abroad. She now thought she
would go with Sydney, and spend an hour or two with Maria, returning by
the time her brother would be going to the Greys'. Maria's landlord
would see her home, no doubt.
She found her friend busy with book and needle, and as well in health as
usual, but obviously somewhat moved by the dismal stories which had
travelled from mouth to mouth through Deerbrook during the day. It
seemed hardly right that any person in delicate health should be lonely
at such a time; and it occurred to Margaret that her friend might like
to go home with her, and occupy the bed which was this night to spare.
Maria thankfully accepted the offer, and let Margaret put up her little
bundle for her. The farrier escorted them to the steps of the
corner-house, and then left them.
The door was half-open, as Morris was talking with some one on the mat
in the hall. An extremely tall woman, with a crying baby in her arms,
made way for the ladies, not by going out of the house, but by stepping
further into the hall.
"Morris, had you not better shut the door?" said Margaret; "the wind
blows in so, it is enough to chill the whole house."
But Morris held the door open, rather wider than before.
"So the gentleman is not at home," said the tall woman, gruffly. "If I
come again in an hour with my poor baby, will he be at home then?"
"Is my brother gone, Morris?"
"Yes, Miss, three minutes ago."
"Then he will not be back in an hour. We do not expect him--."
"This good woman had better go to Mr Walcot, ma'am, as I have been
telling her. There's no doubt he is at home."
"I could wait here till the gentleman comes home," said the tall woman;
"and so get the first advice for my poor baby. 'Tis very ill, ma'am."
"Better go to Mr Walcot," persisted Morris.
"Or to my brother at Mr Grey's," said Margaret, unwilling to lose the
chance of a new patient for Edward, and thinking his advice better, for
the child's sake, than Mr Walcot's.
"It is far the readiest way to go to Mr Walcot's," declared Maria,
whose arm Margaret felt to tremble within her own.
"I believe you are right," said Margaret. "You had better not waste any
more time here, good woman. It may make all the difference to your
child."
"If you would let me wait till the gentleman comes home," said the tall
woman.
"Impossible. It is too late to-night for patients to wait. This lady's
landlord, without there, will show you the way to Mr Walcot's. Call
him, Morris."
Morris went out upon the steps, but the tall woman passed her, and was
gone. Morris stepped in briskly, and put up the chain.
"You were very ready to send a new patient to Mr Walcot, Morris," said
Margaret, smiling.
"I had a fancy that it was a sort of patient that my master would not be
the better for," replied Morris. "I did not like the looks of the
person."
"Nor I," said Maria.
The drawing-room door was heard to open, and Morris put her finger on
her lips. Hester had been alone nearly ten minutes; she was growing
nervous, and wanted to know what all this talking in the hall was about.
She was told that Mr Hope had been inquired for, about a sick baby;
and the rest of the discourse went to the account of Maria's unexpected
arrival. Hester welcomed Maria kindly, ordered up the cold pheasant and
the wine, and then, leaving the friends to enjoy themselves over the
fire, retired to rest. Morris was desired to go too, as she still slept
in her mistress's room, and ought to keep early hours, since, in
addition to her labours of the day, she was at the baby's call in the
night. Margaret would see her friend to her room. Morris must not
remain up on their account.
"How comfortable this is!" cried Maria, in a gleeful tone, as she looked
round upon the crackling fire, the tray, the wine, and her companion.
"How unlooked for, to pass a whole evening and night without being
afraid of anything!"
"What an admission from you!--that you are afraid of something every
night."
"That is just the plain truth. When I used to read about the horrors of
living in a solitary house in the country, I little thought how much of
the same terror I should feel from living solitary in a house in a
village. You wonder what could happen to me, I dare say; and perhaps it
would not be very easy to suppose any peril which would stand
examination."
"I was going to say that you and we are particularly safe, from being so
poor that there is no inducement to rob us. We and you have neither
money nor jewels, nor plate, that can tempt thieves!--for our few forks
and spoons are hardly worth breaking into a house for."
"People who want bread, however, may think it worth while to break in
for that: and while our thieves are this sort of people, and not the
London gentry whom Sydney is so fond of talking of, it may be enough
that gentlemen and ladies live in houses to make the starving suppose
that they shall find something valuable there."
"They would soon learn better if they came here. I doubt whether, when
you and I have done our supper, they would find anything to eat. But
how do you show your terrors, I should like to know? Do you scream?"
"I never screamed in my life, as far as I remember. Screaming appears
to me the most unnatural of human sounds. I never felt the slightest
inclination to express myself in that manner."
"Nor I: but I never said so, because I thought no one would believe me."
"No: the true mood for these doleful winter nights is, to sit trying to
read, but never able to fix your attention for five minutes, for some
odd noise or another. And yet it is almost worse to hear nothing but a
cinder falling on the hearth now and then, startling you like a
pistol-shot. Then it seems as if somebody was opening the shutter
outside, and then tapping at the window. I have got so into the habit
of looking at the window at night, expecting to see a face squeezed flat
against the pane, that I have yielded up my credit to myself, and
actually have the blinds drawn down when the outside shutters are
closed."
"How glad I am to find you are no braver than the rest of us!"
"No; do not be glad. It is very painful, night after night. Every step
clinks or craunches in the farrier's yard, you know. This ought to be a
comfort: but sometimes I cannot clearly tell where the sound comes from.
More than once lately I have fancied it was behind me, and have turned
round in a greater hurry than you would think I could use. My rooms are
a good way from the rest of the house; you remember the length of the
passage between. I do not like disturbing the family in the evenings;
but I have been selfish enough to ring, once or twice this week, without
any sufficient reason, just for the sake of a sight of my landlady."
"A very sufficient reason. But I had no idea of all this from you."
"You have heard me say some fine things about the value of time to me--
about the blessings of my long evenings. For all that (true as it is),
I have got into the way of going to bed soon after ten, just because I
know every one else in the house is in bed, and I do not like to be the
only person up."
"That is the reason why you are looking so well, notwithstanding all
these terrors. But, Maria, what has become of your bravery?"
"It is just where it was. I am no more afraid than I used to be of
evils which may be met with a mature mind: and just as much afraid as
ever of those which terrified my childhood."
"Our baby shall never be afraid of anything," asserted Margaret. "But
Maria, something must be done for your relief."
"That is just what I hoped and expected you would say, and the reason
why I exposed myself to you."
"Why do not the Greys offer you a room there for the winter? That seems
the simplest and most obvious plan."
"It is not convenient."
"How should that be?"
"The bed would have to be uncovered, you know; and the mahogany
wash-stand might be splashed."
"They can get a room ready for a guest, to relieve their own fears, but
not yours. Can nothing be done about it?"
"Not unless the Rowlands should take in Mr Walcot, because he is afraid
to live alone: in such case, the Greys would take me in for the same
reason. But that will not be so, Margaret, I will ask you plainly, and
you will answer as plainly--could you, without too much pain, trouble,
and inconvenience, spend an evening or two a week with me, just till
this panic is passed? If you could put it in my power to be always
looking forward to an evening of relief, it would break the sense of
solitude, and make all the difference to me. I see the selfishness of
this; but I really think it is better to own my weakness than to
struggle uselessly against it any longer."
"I could do that--should like of all things to do it till Morris goes:
but that will be so soon--."
"Morris! where is she going?"
Margaret related this piece of domestic news, too private to be told to
any one else till the last moment. Maria forgot her own troubles, or
despised them as she listened, so grieved was she for her friends,
including Morris. Margaret was not very sorry on Morris's own account.
Morris wanted rest--an easier place. She had had too much upon her for
some time past.
"What then will you have, when she is gone?"
"If I have work enough to drive all thought out of my head, I shall be
thankful. Meantime, I will bestow my best wit upon your case."
"I am ashamed of my case already. While sitting in all this comfort
here, I can hardly believe in my own tremors, of no earlier date than
last night. Come, let us draw to the fire. I hope we shall not end
with sitting up all night; but I feel as if I should like it very much."
Margaret stirred up a blaze, and put out the candles. No economy was
now beneath her care. As she took her seat beside her friend, she said:
"Maria, did you ever know any place so dull and dismal as Deerbrook is
now? Is it not enough to make any heart as heavy as the fortunes of the
place?"
"Even the little that I see of it, in going to and from the Greys, looks
sad enough. You see the outskirts, which I suppose are worse still."
"The very air feels too heavy to breathe. The cottages, and even the
better houses, appear to my eyes damp and weather-stained on the
outside, and silent within. The children sit shivering on the
thresholds--do not they?--instead of shouting at their play as they did.
Every one looks discontented, and complains--the poor of want of bread,
and every one else of hard times, and all manner of woes, that one never
hears of in prosperous seasons. Mr James says the actions for trespass
are beyond all example; Mr Tucker declares his dog, that died the other
day, was poisoned; and I never pass the Green but the women are even
quarrelling for precedence at the pump."
"I have witnessed some of this, but not all: and neither, I suspect,
have you, Margaret, though you think you have. We see the affairs of
the world in shadow, you know, when our own hearts are sad."
"My heart is not so sad as you think. You do not believe me: but that
is because you do not believe what I am sure of--that he is not to blame
for anything that has happened--that, at least, he has only been
mistaken,--that there his been no fickleness, no selfishness, in him. I
could not speak of this, even to you, Maria, if it were not a duty to
him. You must not be left to suppose from my silence that he is to
blame, as you think he is. I suffer from no sense of injury from him.
I got over that, long ago."