"It makes me very unhappy to think how he is suffering,--how much more
he has to bear than I; so much more than the separation and the blank.
He cannot trust me as I trusted him; and that is, indeed, to be without
consolation."
"Do men ever trust as women do?"
"Yes, Edward does. If he were to go to India for twenty years, he would
know, as certainly as I should, that Hester would be widowed in every
thought till his return. And the time will come when Philip will know
this as certainly of me. It is but a little while yet that I have
waited, Maria; but it does sometimes seem a weary waiting."
Maria took her friend's hand, in token of the sympathy she could not
speak,--so much of hopelessness was there mingled with it.
"I know you and others think that this waiting is to go on for ever."
"No, love; not so."
"Or that a certainty which is even worse will come some day. But it
will be otherwise. His love can no more be quenched or alienated by the
slanders of a wicked woman, than the sun can be put out by an eclipse,
or sent to enlighten another world, leaving us mourning."
"You judge by your own soul, Margaret; and that should be a faithful
guide. You judge him by your own soul,--and how much by this?" she
added, with a smile, fixing her eyes on the turquoise ring, which was
Philip's gift, and which, safely guarded, was on a finger of the hand
she held.
Margaret blushed. She could not have denied, if closely pressed, that
some little tinge of the Eastern superstition had entered into this
sacred ring, and lay there, like the fire in the opal. She could not
have denied, that, when she drew it on every morning, she noted with
satisfaction that its blue was as clear and bright as ever.
"How is it that this ring is still here?" asked Maria. "Is it possible
that he retains gifts of yours? Yet, I think, if he did not, this ring
would not be on your finger."
"He does keep whatever I gave him. Thank God! he keeps them. This is
one of my greatest comforts: it is the only way I have left of speaking
to him. But if it were not so, this ring would still be where it is. I
would not give it up. I am not altered. I am not angry with him. His
love is as precious to me as it ever was, and I will not give up the
tokens of it. Why, Maria, you surely cannot suppose that these things
have any other value or use but as given by him! You cannot suppose
that I dread the imputation of keeping them for their own sakes!"
"No: but--"
"But what?"
"Is any proof of his former regard of value now? That is the question.
It has only very lately become a question with me. I have only lately
learned to think him in fault. I excused him before... I excused him
as long as I could."
"You will unlearn your present opinion of him. Yes; everything that was
ever valuable from him is more precious than ever now,--now that he is
under a spell, and cannot speak his soul. If it were, as you think, if
he loved me no longer, they would be still more precious, as a relic of
the dead. But it is not so."
"If faith can remove mountains, we may have to rejoice for you still,
Margaret; for there can be no mass of calumnies between you and him
which you have not faith enough to overthrow."
"Thank you for that. It is the best word of comfort that has come to me
from without for many a day. Now there is one thing more in which you
can perhaps help me. I have heard nothing about him for so long! You
see Mr Rowland sometimes (I know he feels a great friendship for you);
and you meet the younger children. Do you hear nothing whatever about
_him_?"
"Nothing: nor do they. Mr Rowland told me, a fortnight ago, that Mrs
Rowland and he are seriously uneasy at obtaining no answers to their
repeated letters to Mr Enderby. Mrs Rowland is more disturbed, I
believe, than she chooses to show. She must feel herself responsible.
She has tried various means of accounting for his silence, all the
autumn. Now she gives that up, and is silent in her turn. If it were
not for the impossibility of leaving home at such a time as this, Mr
Rowland would go to London to satisfy himself. Margaret, I believe you
are the only person who has smiled at this."
"Perhaps I am the only one who understands him. I had rather know of
this silence than of all the letters he could have written to Mrs
Rowland. If he had been ill, they would certainly have heard."
"Yes; they say so."
"Then that is enough. Let us say no more now."
"You have said that which has cheered me for you, Margaret, though, as
we poor irreligious human beings often say to each other, `I wish I had
your faith.' You have given me more than I had, however. But are we to
say no more about anything? Must we leave this comfortable fire, and go
to sleep?"
"Not unless you wish it. I have more to ask, if you are not tired."
"Come, ask me."
"Cannot you tell me of some way in which a woman may earn money?"
"A woman? What rate of woman? Do you mean yourself? That question is
easily answered. A woman from the uneducated classes can get a
subsistence by washing and cooking, by milking cows and going to
service, and, in some parts of the kingdom, by working in a cotton mill,
or burnishing plate, as you have no doubt seen for yourself at
Birmingham. But, for an educated woman, a woman with the powers which
God gave her, religiously improved, with a reason which lays life open
before her, an understanding which surveys science as its appropriate
task, and a conscience which would make every species of responsibility
safe,--for such a woman there is in all England no chance of subsistence
but by teaching--that almost ineffectual teaching, which can never
countervail the education of circumstances, and for which not one in a
thousand is fit--or by being a superior Miss Nares--the feminine gender
of the tailor and the hatter."
"The tutor, the tailor, and the hatter. Is this all?"
"All; except that there are departments of art and literature from which
it is impossible to shut women out. These are not, however, to be
regarded as resources for bread. Besides the number who succeed in art
and literature being necessarily extremely small, it seems pretty
certain that no great achievements, in the domains of art and
imagination, can be looked for from either men or women who labour there
to supply their lower wants, or for any other reason than the pure love
of their work. While they toil in any one of the arts of expression, if
they are not engrossed by some loftier meaning, the highest which they
will end with expressing will be, the need of bread."
"True--quite true. I must not think of any of those higher departments
of labour, because, even if I were qualified, what I want is not
employment, but money. I am anxious to earn some money, Maria. We are
very poor. Edward is trying, one way and another, to earn money to live
upon, till his practice comes back to him, as he is for ever trusting it
will. I wish to earn something too, if it be ever so little. Can you
tell me of no way?"
"I believe I should not if I could. Why? Because I think you have
quite enough to do already, and will soon have too much. Just consider.
When Morris goes, what hour of the day will you have to spare? Let us
see;--do you mean to sweep the rooms with your own hands?"
"Yes," said Margaret, smiling.
"And to scour them too?"
"No; not quite that. We shall hire a neighbour to come two or three
times a week to do the rougher parts of the work. But I mean to light
the fire in the morning (and we shall have but one), and get breakfast
ready; and Hester will help me to make the beds. That is nearly all I
shall let her do besides the sewing; for baby will give her employment
enough."
"Indeed, I think so; and that will leave you too much. Do not think,
dear, of earning money. You are doing all you ought in saving it."
"I must think about it, because earning is so much nobler and more
effectual than saving. I cannot help seeing that it would be far better
to earn the amount of Morris's maintenance, than to save it by doing her
work badly myself. Not that I shrink from the labour: I am rather
enjoying the prospect of it, as I told you. Hark! what footstep is
that?"
"I heard it a minute or two ago," whispered Maria, "but I did not like
to mention it."
They listened in the deepest silence for a while. At first they were
not sure whether they heard anything above the beating of their own
hearts; but they were soon certain that there were feet moving outside
the room door.
"The church clock has but lately gone twelve," said Maria, in the faint
hope that it might be some one of the household yet stirring.
Margaret shook her head. She rose softly from her seat, and took a
candle from the table to light it, saying she would go and see. Her
hand trembled a little as she held the match, and the candle would not
immediately light. Meantime, the door opened without noise, and some
one walked in and quite up to the gazing ladies. It was the tall woman.
Maria made an effort to reach the bell, but the tall woman seized her
arm, and made her sit down. A capricious jet of flame from a coal in
the fire at this moment lighted up the face of the stranger for a
moment, and enabled Maria to "spy a creat peard under the muffler."
"What do you want at this time?" said Margaret.
"I want money, and what else I can get," said the intruder, in the no
longer disguised voice of a man. "I have been into your larder, but you
seem to have nothing there."
"That is true," said Margaret, firmly; "nor have we any money. We are
very poor. You could not have come to a worse place, if you are in
want."
"Here is something, however," said the man, turning to the tray. "With
your leave, I'll see what you have left us to eat."
He thrust one of the candles between the bars of the grate to light it,
telling the ladies they had better start no difficulty, lest they should
have reason to repent it. There were others with him in the house, who
would show themselves in an instant, if any noise were made.
"Then do you make none--I beg it as a favour," said Margaret. "There is
a lady asleep up-stairs, with a very young infant. If you respect her
life you will be quiet."
The man did not answer, but he was quiet. He cut slices from the loaf,
and carried them to the door, and they were taken by somebody outside.
He quickly devoured the remains of the pheasant, tearing the meat from
the bones with his teeth. He drank from the decanter of wine, and then
carried it where he had taken the bread. Two men put their heads in at
the door, nodded to the ladies before they drank, and again withdrew.
The girls cast a look at each other--a glance of agreement that
resistance was not to be thought of: yet each was conscious of a feeling
of rather pleasant surprise that she was not more alarmed.
"Now for it!" said the man, striding oddly about in his petticoats, and
evidently out of patience with them. "Now for your money!" As he
spoke, he put the spoons from the tray into the bosom of his gown,
proceeding to murmur at his deficiency of pockets.
Margaret held out her purse to him. It contained one single shilling.
"You don't mean this is all you are going to give me?"
"It is all I have: and I believe there is not another shilling in the
house. I told you we have no money."
"And you?" said he, turning to Maria.
"I have not my purse about me; and if I had there is nothing in it worth
your taking. I assure you I have not got my purse. I am only a visitor
here for this one night--and an odd night it is to have chosen, as it
turns out."
"Give me your watches."
"I have no watch. I have not had a watch these five years," said Maria.
"I have no watch," said Margaret. "I sold mine a month ago. I told you
we were very poor."
The man muttered something about the plague of gentlefolks being so
poor, and about wondering that gentlefolks were not ashamed of being so
poor. "You have got something, however," he continued, fixing his eye
on the ring on Margaret's finger. "Give me that ring. Give it me, or
else I'll take it."
Margaret's heart sank with a self-reproach worse than her grief, when
she remembered how easily she might have saved this ring--how easily she
might have thrust it under the fender, or dropped it into her shoe, into
her hair, anywhere, while the intruder was gone to the room door to his
companions. She felt that she could never forgive herself for this
neglect of the most precious thing she had in the world--of that which
most belonged to Philip.
"She cannot part with that ring," said Maria. "Look! you may see she
had rather part with any money she is ever likely to have than with that
ring."
She pointed to Margaret, who was sitting with her hands clasped as if
they were never to be disjoined, and with a face of the deepest
distress.
"I can't help that," said the man. "I must have what I can get."
He seized her hands, and, with one gripe of his, made hers fly open.
Margaret could no longer endure to expose any of her feelings to the
notice of a stranger of this character. "Be patient a moment," said
she; and she drew off the ring after its guard, made of Hester's hair,
and put them into the large hand which was held out to receive them;
feeling, at the moment, as if her heart was breaking. The man threw the
hair ring back into her lap, and tied the turquoise in the corner of the
shawl he wore.
"The lady up-stairs has got a watch, I suppose."
"Yes, she has: let me go and fetch it. Do let me go. I am afraid of
nothing so much as her being terrified. If you have any humanity, let
me go. Indeed I will bring the watch."
"Well, there is no man in the house, I know, for you to call. You may
go, Miss: but I must step behind you to the room door; no further--she
shan't see me, nor know any one is there, unless you tell her. This
young lady will sit as still as a mouse till we come back."
"Never mind me," said Maria, to her friend. While they were gone, she
sat as she was desired, as still as a mouse, enforced thereto by the
certainty that a man stood in the shadow by the door, with his eye upon
her the whole time.
Margaret lighted a chamber candle, in order, as she said, to look as
usual if her sister should see her. The robber did tread very softly on
the stairs, and stop outside the chamber-door. Morris was sitting up in
her truckle-bed, evidently listening, and was on the point of starting
out of it on seeing that Margaret's face was pale, when Margaret put her
finger on her lips, and motioned to her to lie down. Hester was asleep,
with her sleeping infant on her arm. Margaret set down the light, and
leaned over her, to take the watch from its hook at the head of the bed.
"Are you still up?" said Hester, drowsily, and just opening her eyes.
"What do you want? It must be very late."
"Nearly half-past twelve, by your watch. I am sorry I disturbed you.
Good-night."
As she withdrew with the watch in her hand, she whispered to Morris:
"Lie still. Don't be uneasy. I will come again presently." So, in a
few minutes, as seemed to intently listening ears, the house was clear
of the intruders. Within a quarter of an hour Margaret had beckoned
Morris out of Hester's room, and had explained the case to her. They
went round the house, and found that all the little plate they had was
gone, and the cheese from the pantry. Morris's cloth cloak was left
hanging on its pin, and even Edward's old hat. From these
circumstances, and from the dialect of the only speaker, Margaret
thought the thieves must be country people from the neighbourhood, who
could not wear the old clothes of the gentry without danger of
detection. They had come in from the surgery, whose outer door was
sufficiently distant from the inhabited rooms of the house to be forced
without the noise being heard. Morris and Margaret barricaded this door
as well as they could, with such chests and benches as they were able to
move without making themselves heard up-stairs: and then Morris, at
Margaret's earnest desire, stole back to bed. Anything rather than
alarm Hester.
While they were below, Maria had put on more coals, and restored some
order and comfort to the table and the fireside. She concluded that
sleep was out of the question for this night. For some moments after
Margaret came and sat down by her, neither of them spoke. At length
Margaret said, half laughing:
"That you should have come here for rest this night, of all nights in
the year!"
"I am glad it happened so. Yes; indeed, I am. I know it must have been
a comfort to you to have some one with you, though only poor lame me.
And I am glad on my own account too, I assure you. Such a visitation is
not half so dreadful as I had fancied--not worth half the fear I have
spent upon it all my life. I am sure you felt as I did while he was
here; you felt quite yourself, did not you? If it had not been for the
woman's clothes, it would really have been scarcely terrifying at all.
There is something much more human about a housebreaker than I had
fancied. But yet it was very inhuman of him to take your ring."
Margaret wept more bitterly than any one had seen her weep since her
unhappy days began, and her friend could not comfort her. It was a case
in which there was no comfort to be given, unless in the very faint and
unreasonable hope that the ring might be offered for sale to some
jeweller in some market town in the county; a hope sadly faint and
unreasonable; since country people who would take plate and ornaments
must, in all probability, be in communication with London rogues, who
would turn the property into money in the great city. Still, there was
a possibility of recovering the lost treasure; and on this possibility
Maria dwelt perseveringly.
"But, Margaret," she went on to ask, "what is this about your watch?
Have you indeed sold it?"
"Yes. Morris managed that for me while Hester was confined. I am glad
now that I parted with it as I did. It has paid some bills which I know
made Edward anxious; and that is far better than its being in a
housebreaker's hands."
"Yes, indeed: but I am sorry you all have such a struggle to live. Not
a shilling in the house but the one you gave up!"
"So much for Edward's being out. It happened very well; for he could
not have helped us, if he had been here. You saw there were three of
them. What I meant was, that Edward has about him the little money that
is to last us till Christmas. The rent is safe enough. It is in Mr
Grey's strong box or the bank at Blickley. The rent is too important a
matter to be put to any hazard, considering that Mr Rowland is our
landlord. It is all ready and safe."
"That is well. Now, Margaret, could you swear to this visitor of ours?"
"No," said Margaret, softly, looking round, as if to convince herself
that he was not there still. "No: his bonnet was so large, and he kept
the shadow of it so carefully upon his face, that I should not know him
again--at least, not in any other dress; and we shall never see him
again in this. It is very disagreeable," she continued, shuddering
slightly, "to think that we may pass him any day or every day, and that
he may say to himself as we go by, `There go the ladies that sat with
their feet on the fender so comfortably when I went in, without leave!'"
"Poor wretch! he will rather say, `There goes the young lady that I made
so unhappy about her ring. I wish I had choked with the wine I drank,
before I took that ring!' The first man you meet that cannot look you
in the face is the thief, depend upon it, Margaret."
"I must not depend upon that. But, Maria, could you swear to him?"
"I am not quite sure at this moment, but I believe I could. The light
from the fire shone brightly upon his black chin, and a bit of lank hair
that came from under his mob cap. I could swear to the shawl."
"So could I: but that will be burned to-morrow morning. Now, Maria, do
go to bed."
"Well, if you had rather--. Cannot we be together? Must I be treated
as a guest, and have a room to myself?"
"Not if you think we can make room in mine. We shall be most
comfortable there, shall not we--near to Morris and Hester?"
Rather than separate, they both betook themselves to the bed in
Margaret's room. Maria lay still, as if asleep, but wide awake and
listening. Margaret mourned her turquoise with silent tears all the
rest of the night.