It was some hours before Hope appeared at home again; and when he did,
he was very grave. Mr Walcot had been truly glad to see him, and, it
was plain, would have applied to him for aid and co-operation some days
before, if Mrs Rowland had not interfered, to prevent any consultation
of the kind. The state of health of Deerbrook was bad,--much worse than
Hope had had any suspicion of. Whole families were prostrated by the
fever in the labourers' cottages, and it was creeping into the better
sort of houses. Mr Walcot had requested Hope to visit some of his
patients with him: and what he had seen had convinced him that the
disease was of a most formidable character, and that a great mortality
must be expected in Deerbrook. Walcot appeared to be doing his duty
with more energy than might have been expected: and it seemed as if
whatever talent he had, was exercised in his profession. Hope's opinion
of him was raised by what he had seen this morning. Walcot had
complained that his skill and knowledge could have no fair play among a
set of people so ignorant as the families of his Deerbrook patients.
They put more faith in charms than in medicines or care; and were
running out in the cold and damp to have their fortunes told by night,
or in the grey of the morning. If a fortune-teller promised long life,
all the warnings of the doctor went for nothing. Then, again, the
people mistook the oppression which was one of the first symptoms of the
fever, for debility; and before the doctor was sent for, or in defiance
of his directions, the patient was plied with strong drinks, and his
case rendered desperate from the beginning. Mr Walcot had complained
that the odds were really too much against him, and that he believed
himself likely to lose almost every fever patient he had. It may be
imagined how welcome to him were Mr Hope's countenance, suggestions,
and influence,--such as the prejudices of the people had left it.
Dr Levitt's influence was of little more avail than Mr Hope's. From
this day, he was as busily engaged among the sick as the medical
gentlemen themselves; laying aside his books, and spending all his time
among his parishioners; not neglecting the rich, but especially devoting
himself to the poor. He co-operated with Hope in every way; raising
money to cleanse, air, and dry the most cheerless of the cottages, and
to supply the indigent sick with warmth and food. But all appeared to
be of little avail. The disease stole on through the village, as if it
had been left to work its own way; from day to day tidings came abroad
of another and another who was down in the fever,--the Tuckers'
maidservant, Mr Hill's shop-boy, poor Mrs Paxton, always sure to be
ill when anybody else was, and all John Ringworth's five children. In a
fortnight, the church bell began to give token how fatal the sickness
was becoming. It tolled till those who lived very near the church were
weary of hearing it.
On the afternoon of a day when its sound had scarcely ceased since
sunrise, Dr Levitt and Hope met at the door of the corner-house.
"You are the man I wanted to meet," said Dr Levitt. "I have been
inquiring for you, but your household could give me no account of you.
Could you just step home with me? Or come to me in the evening, will
you? But stay! There is no time like the present, after all; so, if
you will allow me, I will walk in with you now; and, if you are going to
dinner, I will make one. I have nobody to sit down with me at home at
present, you know,--or perhaps you do not know."
"Indeed I was not aware of the absence of your family," said Hope,
leading the way into the parlour, where Margaret at the moment was
laying the cloth.
"You must have wondered that you had seen nothing of my wife all this
week, if you did not know where she was. I thought it best, all things
considered, to send them every one away. I hope we have done right. I
find I am more free for the discharge of my own duty, now that I am
unchecked by their fears for me, and untroubled by my own anxiety for
them. I have sent them all abroad, and shall go for them when this
epidemic has run its course; and not till then. I little thought what
satisfaction I could feel in walking about my own house, to see how
deserted it looks. I never hear that bell but I rejoice that all that
belong to me are so far off."
"I wanted to ask you about that bell," said Hope. "My question may seem
to you to savour strongly of dissent; but I must inquire whether it is
absolutely necessary for bad news to be announced to all Deerbrook every
day, and almost all day long. However far we may be from objecting to
hear it in ordinary times, should not our first consideration now be for
the living? Is not the case altered by the number of deaths that takes
place at a season like this?"
"I am quite of your opinion, Mr Hope; and I have talked with Owen, and
many others, about that matter, within this week. I have proposed to
dispense, for the present, with a custom which I own myself to be
attached to in ordinary times, but which I now see may be pernicious.
But it cannot be done. We must yield the point."
"I will not engage to cure any sick, or to keep any well, who live
within sound of that bell."
"I am not surprised to hear you say so. But this practice has so become
a part of people's religion, that it seems as if worse effects would
follow from discontinuing it than from pursuing the usual course. Owen
says there is scarcely a person in Deerbrook who would not talk of a
heathen death and burial if the bell were silenced; and, if once the
people's repose in their religion is shaken, I really know not what will
become of them."
"I agree with you there. Their religious feelings must be left
untouched, or all is over; but I am sorry that this particular
observance is implicated with them so completely as you say. It will be
well if it does not soon become an impossibility to toll the bell for
all who die."
"It would be well, too," said Dr Levitt, "if this were the only
superstition the people entertained. They are more terrified with some
others than with this bell. I am afraid they are more depressed by
their superstitions than sustained by their religion. Have you
observed, Hope, how many of them stand looking at the sky every night?"
"Yes; and we hear, wherever we go, of fiery swords, and dreadful angels,
seen in the clouds; and the old prophecies have all come up again--at
least, all of them that are dismal. As for the death-watches, they are
out of number; and there is never a fire lighted but a coffin flies
out."
"And this story of a ghost of a coffin, with four ghosts to bear it,
that goes up and down in the village all night long," said Hester, "I
really do not wonder that it shakes the nerves of the sick to hear of
it. They say that no one can stop those bearers, or get any answer from
them: but on they glide, let what will be in their way."
"Come, tell me," said Dr Levitt, "have not you yourself looked out for
that sight?"
Hester acknowledged that she had seen a real substantial coffin, carried
by human bearers, pass down the middle of the street, at an hour past
midnight; the removal of a body from a house where it had died, she
supposed, to another whence it was to be buried. This coffin and the
ghostly one she took to be one and the same.
Dr Levitt mentioned instances of superstition, which could scarcely
have been believed by him, if related by another.
"Do you know the Platts?" he inquired of Hope. "Have you seen the poor
woman that lies ill there with her child?"
"Yes: what a state of destitution they are in!"
"At the very time that that woman and her child are lying on shavings,
begged from the carpenter's yard, her mother finds means to fee the
fortune-teller in the lane for reading a dream. The fortune-teller
dooms the child, and speaks doubtfully of the mother."
"I could not conceive the reason why no one of the family would do
anything for the boy. I used what authority I could, while I was there;
but I fear he has been left to his fate since. The neighbours will not
enter the house."
"What neighbours?" said Margaret. "You have never so much as asked me."
"You are our main stay at home, Margaret. I could ask no more of you
than you do here."
Margaret was now putting the dinner on the table. It consisted of a
bowl of potatoes, salt, the loaf and butter, and a pitcher of water.
Dr Levitt said grace, and they sat down, without one word of apology
from host or hostess. Though Dr Levitt had not been prepared for an
evidence like this of the state of affairs in the family, he had known
enough of their adversity to understand the case now at a glance. No
one ate more heartily than he; and the conversation went on as if a
sumptuous feast had been spread before the party.
"I own myself disappointed," said Hope, "in finding among our neighbours
so little disposition to help each other. I hardly understand it,
trusting as I have ever done in the generosity of the poor, and having
always before seen my faith justified. The apathy of some, and the
selfish terrors of others, are worse to witness than the disease
itself."
"How can you wonder," said Dr Levitt, "when they have such an example
before their eyes in certain of their neighbours, to whom they are
accustomed to look up? Sir William Hunter and his lady are enough to
paralyse the morals of the whole parish at a time like this. Do not you
know the plan they go upon? They keep their outer gates locked, lest
any one from the village should set foot within their grounds; every
article left at the lodge for the use of the family is fumigated before
it is admitted into the house: and it is generally understood that
neither the gentleman nor the lady will leave the estate, in any
emergency whatever, till the disease has entirely passed away. Our poor
are not to have the solace of their presence even in church, during this
time of peril, when the face of the prosperous is like light in a dark
place. Sir William makes it no secret that they would have left home
altogether, if they could have hoped to be safer anywhere else--if they
could have gone anywhere without danger of meeting the fever."
"If the fact had not been," said Hester, "as Mrs Howell states it, that
the epidemic prevails partially everywhere."
"There is a case where Lady Hunter's example immediately operates,"
observed Dr Levitt. "If Lady Hunter had not forgotten herself in her
duty, Mrs Howell would have given the benefit of her good offices to
some whom she might have served; for she is really a kind-hearted woman:
but she is struck with a panic because Lady Hunter is, and one cannot
get a word with her or Miss Miskin."
"I saw that her shutters were nearly closed," observed Margaret. "I
supposed she had lost some relation."
"No: she is only trying to shut out the fever. She and Miss Miskin are
afraid of the milkman, and each tries to put upon the other the peril of
serving a customer. This panic will destroy us if it spreads."
The sisters looked at each other, and in one glance exchanged agreement
that the time was fully come for them to act abroad, let what would
become of their home comforts.
"I ought to add, however," said Dr Levitt, "that Sir William Hunter has
supplied my poor's purse with money very liberally. I spend his money
as freely as my own at a time like this; but I tell him that one hour of
his presence among us would do more good than all the gold he can send.
His answer comes in the shape of a handsome draft on his banker,
smelling strongly of aromatic vinegar. They fumigate even their
blotting-paper, it seems to me. I did hope my last letter would have
brought him to call."
"Our friends are very ready with their money," said Hope. "I should
have begged of you before this, but that Mr Grey has been liberal in
that way. He concludes it to be impossible that he should look himself
into the wants of the village; but he permits me to use his purse pretty
freely. Is there anything that you can suggest that can be done by me,
Dr Levitt? Is there any case unknown to me where I can be of service?"
"Or I?" said Margaret. "My brother and sister will spare me, and put up
with some hardship at home, I know, if you can point out any place where
I can be more useful."
"To be sure I can. Much as I like to come to your house, to witness and
feel the thorough comfort which I always find in it, I own I shall care
little to see everything at sixes and sevens here for a few weeks, if
you will give me your time and talents for such services as we gentlemen
cannot perform, and as we cannot at present hire persons to undertake.
You see I take you at your word, my dear young lady. If you had not
offered, I should not have asked you: as you have, I snatch at the good
you hold out. I mean to preach a very plain sermon next Sunday on the
duties of neighbours in a season of distress like this: and I shall do
it with the better hope, if I have, meanwhile, a fellow-labourer of your
sex, no less valuable in her way than my friend Hope in his."
"I shall come and hear your sermon," said Hester, "if Margaret will take
charge of my boy for the hour. I want to see clearly what is my duty at
a time when claims conflict as they do now."
There was at present no time for the conscientious and charitable to
lose in daylight loiterings over the table, or chat by the fireside. In
a few minutes the table was cleared, and Margaret ready to proceed with
Dr Levitt to the Platts' Cottage.
As soon as Margaret saw what was the real state of affairs in the
cottage, she sent away Dr Levitt, who could be of no use till some
degree of decency was instituted in the miserable abode. What to set
about first was Margaret's difficulty. There was no one to help her but
Mrs Platt's mother, who was sitting down to wait the result of the
fortune-teller's predictions. Her daughter lay moaning on a bedstead
spread with shavings only, and she had no covering whatever but a
blanket worn into a large hole in the middle. The poor woman's long
hair, unconfined by any cap, strayed about her bare and emaciated
shoulders, and her shrunken bands picked at the blanket incessantly,
everything appearing to her diseased vision covered with black spots.
Never before had so squalid an object met Margaret's eyes. The husband
sat by the empty grate, stooping and shrinking, and looking at the floor
with an idiotic expression of countenance, as appeared through the
handkerchief which was tied over his head. He was just sinking into the
fever. His boy lay on a heap of rags in the corner, his head also tied
up, but the handkerchief stiff with the black blood which was still
oozing from his nose, ears, and mouth. It was inconceivable to Margaret
that her brother, with Mr Grey's money in his pocket, could have left
the family in this state. He had not. There were cinders in the hearth
which showed that there had been a fire; and the old woman acknowledged
that a pair of sheets and a rug had been pawned to the fortune-teller in
the lane since the morning. There had been food; but nobody had any
appetite but herself, and she had eaten it up. The fortune-teller had
charmed the pail of fresh water that stood under the bed, and had
promised a new spell in the morning.
In a case of such extremity, Margaret had no fears. She set forth alone
for the fortune-teller's, not far off, and redeemed the sheets and
blanket, which were quite clean. As she went, she was sorry she had
dismissed Dr Levitt so soon. As a magistrate, he could have
immediately compelled the restoration of the bedding. The use of his
name, however, answered the purpose, and the conjurer even offered to
carry the articles for her to Platt's house. She so earnestly desired
to keep him and her charge apart, that she preferred loading herself
with the package. Then the shavings were found to be in such a state
that every shred of them must be removed before the sick man could be
allowed to lie down. No time was to be lost. In the face of the old
woman's protestations that her daughter should not stir, Margaret spread
the bedding on the floor, wrapped the sick woman in a sheet, and laid
her upon it, finding the poor creature so light from emaciation that she
was as easy to lift as a child. The only thing that the old woman would
consent to do, was to go with a pencil note to Mr Grey, and bring back
the clean dry straw which would be given her in his yard. She went, in
hopes of receiving something else with the straw; and while she was
gone, Margaret was quite alone with the sick family.
Struggling to surmount her disgust at the task, she resolved to employ
the interval in removing the shavings. The pail containing the charmed
water was the only thing in the cottage which would hold them; and she
made bold to empty it in the ditch close at hand. Platt was capable of
watching all she did; and he made a frightful gesture of rage at her as
she re-entered. She saw in the shadow of the handkerchief his quivering
lips move in the act of speaking, and her ear caught the words of an
oath. Her situation now was far from pleasant; but it was still a
relief that no one was by to witness what she saw and was doing. She
conveyed pailful after pailful of the noisome shavings to the dunghill
at the back of the cottage, wondering the while that the inhabitants of
the dwelling were not all dead of the fever long ago. She almost gave
over her task when a huge toad crawled upon her foot from its
resting-place among the shavings. She shrunk from it, and was glad to
see it make for the door of its own accord. Platt again growled, and
clenched his fist at her. He probably thought that she had again broken
a charm for which he had paid money. She spoke kindly and cheerfully,
again and again; but he was either deaf or too ill to understand. To
relieve the sense of dreariness, she went to work again. She thoroughly
cleansed the pail, and filled it afresh from the brook, looking
anxiously down the lane for the approach of some human creature, and
then applied herself to rubbing the bedstead as dry and clean as she
could, with an apron of the old woman's.
In due time her messenger returned; and with her Ben, carrying a truss
of straw. His face was the face of a friend.
"We must have some warm water, Ben, to clean these poor creatures; and
there seems to be nothing to make a fire with."
"And it would take a long time, Miss, to get the coals, and heat the
water; and the poor soul lying there all the time. Could not I bring
you a pail of hot water from the `Bonnet-so-Blue' quicker than that?"
"Do; and soap and towels from home."
Ben was gone with the pail. During the whole time of spreading the
straw on the bedstead, the old woman remonstrated against anything being
done to her daughter, beyond laying her where she was before, and giving
her a little warm spirits; but when she discovered that the charmed
water had been thrown out into the ditch, all to her seemed over. Her
last hope was gone; and she sat down in sulky silence, eyeing Margaret's
proceedings without any offer to help.
When the warm water arrived, and the sick woman seemed to like the
sponging and drying of her fevered limbs, the mother began to relent,
and at last approached to give her assistance, holding her poor daughter
in her arms while Margaret spread the blanket and sheet on the straw,
and then lifting the patient into the now clean bed. She was still
unwilling to waste any time and trouble on the child in the corner; but
Margaret was peremptory. She saw that he was dying; but not the less
for this must he be made as comfortable as circumstances would permit.
In half an hour he, too, was laid on his bed of clean straw; and the
filthy rags with which he had been surrounded were deposited out of
doors till some one who would wash them could come for them. By a
promise of fire and food, Margaret bribed the old woman to let things
remain as they were while she went for her brother, whose skill and care
she hoped might now have some chance of saving his patients. She
recommended that Platt himself should not attempt to sit up any longer,
and engaged to return in half an hour.
She paused on the threshold a minute, to see how far Platt was able to
walk; so great seemed to be the difficulty with which he raised himself
from his chair, with the old woman's assistance. Once he stumbled, and
would have fallen, if Margaret had not sprung to his side. On
recovering himself; he wrenched his arm from her, and pushed her
backwards with more force than she had supposed he possessed. There was
a half-smile on the old woman's face as he did this, which made Margaret
shudder; but she was more troubled by a look from the man, which she
caught from beneath the handkerchief that bound his head; a look which
she could not but fancy she had met before with the same feeling of
uneasiness.
When she had seen him safely seated on the bedside, she hastened away
for her brother. They lost no more time in returning than just to step
to Widow Rye's, to ask whether she would sit up with this miserable
family this night. The widow would have done anything else in the world
for Mr Hope; and she did not positively refuse to do this; but the fear
of her neighbours had so infected her, and her terror of a sick-room was
so extreme, that it was evident her presence there would do more harm
than good. She was glad to compound for a less hazardous service, and
agreed to wash for the sick with all diligence, if she was not required
to enter the houses, but might fetch the linen from tubs of water placed
outside the doors. After setting on plenty of water to heat, she now
followed Hope and Margaret to the cottage in the lane.
It was nearly dark, and they walked rapidly, Margaret describing as they
went what she had done, and what she thought remained to be done, to
give Mrs Platt a chance of recovery.
"What now? Why do you start so?" cried Hope, as she stopped short in
the middle of a sentence.
Margaret even stood still for one moment. Hope looked the way she was
looking, and saw, in the little twilight that remained, the figure of
some one who had been walking on the opposite side of the road, but
whose walk was now quickened to a run.
"It is--it is he," said Hope, as Philip disappeared in the darkness.
Answering to what he knew must be in Margaret's thoughts, he continued--
"He knows the state the village is in--the danger that we are all in,
and he cannot stay away."
"`We!' `All?'"
"When I say `we,' I mean you particularly."
"If you think so--" murmured Margaret, and stopped for breath.
"I think so; but it does not follow that there is any change. He has
always loved you. Margaret, do not deceive yourself. Do not afflict
yourself with expectations--"
"Do not speak to me, brother. I cannot bear a word from you about him."
Hope sighed deeply, but he could not remonstrate. He knew that Margaret
had only too much reason for saying this. They walked on in entire
silence to the lane.
A fire was now kindled, and a light dimly burned in Platt's cottage. As
Margaret stood by the bedside, watching her brother's examination of his
patient, and anxious to understand rightly the directions he was giving,
the poor woman half raised her head from her pillow, and fixed her dull
eyes on Margaret's face, saying, as if thinking aloud:
"The lady has heard some good news, sure. She looks cheerful-like."
The mother herself turned round to stare, and, for the first time,
dropped a curtsey.
"I hope we shall see you look cheerful too, one day soon, if we nurse
you well," said Margaret.
"Then, Miss, don't let them move me, to take the blankets away again."
"You shall not be moved unless you wish it. I am going to stay with you
to-night."
Her brother did not oppose this, for he did not know of the unpleasant
glances and mutterings, with which Platt rewarded all Margaret's good
offices. Hope believed he should himself be out all night among his
patients. He would come early in the morning, and now fairly warned
Margaret that it was very possible that the child might die in the
course of the night. She was not deterred by this, nor by her dread of
the sick man. She had gained a new strength of soul, and this night she
feared nothing. During the long hours there was much to do--three
sufferers at once requiring her cares; and amidst all that she did, she
was sustained by the thought that she had seen Philip, and that he was
near. The abyss of nothingness was passed, and she now trod the ground
of certainty of his existence, and of his remembrance. When her brother
entered, letting in the first grey of the morning as he opened the
cottage door, he found her almost untired, almost gay. Platt was worse,
his wife much the same, and the child still living. The old woman's
heart was so far touched with the unwonted comfort of the past night,
and with her having been allowed, and even encouraged, to take her rest,
that she now offered her bundle of clothes for the lady to lie down
upon; and when that favour was declined, readily promised not to part
with any article to the fortune-teller, till she should see some of Mr
Hope's family again.
Hope thought Mrs Platt might possibly get through: and this was all
that was said on the way home. Margaret lay down to rest, to sweet
sleep, for a couple of hours: and when she appeared below, her brother
and sister had half done breakfast, and Mr Grey and his twin daughters
were with them.
Mr Grey came to say that he and all his family were to leave Deerbrook
in two hours. Where they should settle for the present, they had not
yet made up their minds. The first object was to get away, the epidemic
being now really too frightful to be encountered any longer. They
should proceed immediately to Brighton, and there determine whether to
go to the Continent, or seek some healthy place nearer home, to stay in,
till Deerbrook should again be habitable. They were extremely anxious
to carry Hester, Margaret, and the baby, with them. They knew Mr Hope
could not desert his posts: but they thought he would feel as Dr Levitt
did, far happier to know that his family were out of danger, than to
have them with him. Hester had firmly refused to go, from the first
mention of the plan; and now Margaret was equally decided in expressing
her determination to stay. Mr Grey urged the extreme danger: Fanny and
Mary hung about her, and implored her to go, and to carry the baby with
her. They should so like to have the baby with them for a great many
weeks! and they would take care of him, and play with him all day long.
Their father once more interposed for the child's sake. Hester might go
to Brighton, there wean her infant, and return to her husband; so that
the little helpless creature might at least be safe. Mr Grey would not
conceal that he considered this a positive duty--that the parents would
have much to answer for, if anything should happen to the boy at home.
The parents' hearts swelled. They looked at each other, and felt that
this was not a moment in which to perplex themselves with calculations
of incalculable things--with comparisons of the dangers which threatened
their infant abroad and at home. This was a decision for their hearts
to make. Their hearts decided that their child's right place was in his
parents' arms; and that their best hope now, as at all other times, was
to live and die together.
Hester had heard from her husband of the apparition of the preceding
evening, and she therefore knew that there was less of `enthusiasm,' as
Mr Grey called what some others would have named virtue, in Margaret's
determination to stay, than might appear. If Philip was here, how vain
must be all attempts to remove her! Mr Grey might as well set about
persuading the old church tower to go with him: and so he found.
"Oh, cousin Margaret," said Mary, in a whisper, with a face of much
sorrow, "mamma will not ask Miss Young to go with us! If she should be
ill while we are gone! If she should die!"
"Nonsense, Mary," cried Fanny, partly overhearing, and partly guessing
what her sister had said; "you know mamma says it is not convenient: and
Miss Young is not like my cousins, as mamma says, a member of a family,
with people depending upon her. It is quite a different case, Mary, as
you must know very well. Only think, cousin Margaret! what an odd thing
it will be, to be so many weeks without saying any lessons! How we
shall enjoy ourselves!"
"But if Miss Young should be ill, and die!" persisted Mary.
"Pooh! why should she be ill and die, more than Dr Levitt, and Ben, and
our cook, and my cousins, and all that are going to stay behind?
Margaret, I do wish cousin Hester would let us carry the baby with us.
We shall have no lessons to do, you know; and we could play with him all
day long."
"Yes, I wish he might go," said Mary. "But, Margaret, do you not think,
if you spoke a word to papa and mamma, they would let me stay with Miss
Young? I know she would make room for me; for she did for Phoebe, when
Phoebe nursed her; and I should like to stay and help her, and read to
her, even if she should not be ill. I think papa and mamma might let me
stay, if you asked them."
"I do not think they would, Mary: and I had rather not ask them. But I
promise you that we will all take the best care we can of Maria. We
will try to help and amuse her as well as you could wish."
"Come, Mary, we must go!" cried Fanny. "There is papa giving Mr Hope
some money for the poor; people always go away quick after giving money.
Good bye, cousin Margaret. We shall bring you some shells, or
something, I dare say, when we come back. Now let me kiss the baby once
more. I can't think why you won't let him go with us: we should like so
to have him!"
"So do we," said Hester, laughing.
As the door closed behind the Greys, the three looked in each other's
faces. That glance assured each other that they had done right. In
that glance was a mutual promise of cheerful fidelity through whatever
might be impending. There was no sadness in the tone of their
conversation; and when, within two hours, the Greys went by, driven
slowly, because there was a funeral train on each side of the way, there
was full as much happiness in the faces that smiled a farewell from the
windows, as in the gestures of the young people, who started up in the
carriage to kiss their hands, and who were being borne away from the
abode of danger and death, to spend several weeks without doing any
lessons. Often, during this day, was the voice of mirth even heard in
this dwelling. It was not like the mirth of the well-known company of
prisoners in the first French revolution--men who knew that they should
leave their prison only to lose their heads, and who, once mutually
acknowledging this, agreed vainly and pusillanimously to banish from
that hour all sad, all grave thoughts, and laugh till they died. It was
not this mirth of despair; nor yet that of carelessness; nor yet that of
defiance. Nor were theirs the spirits of the patriot in the hour of
struggle, nor of the hero in the crisis of danger. In a peril like
theirs, there is nothing imposing to the imagination, or flattering to
the pride, or immediately appealing to the energies of the soul. There
were no resources for them in emotions of valour or patriotism. Theirs
was the gaiety of simple faith and innocence. They had acted from pure
inclination, from affection, unconscious of pride, of difficulty, of
merit; and they were satisfied, and gay as the innocent ought to be,
enjoying what there was to enjoy, and questioning and fearing nothing
beyond.
From a distant point of time or place, such a state of spirits in the
midst of a pestilence may appear unnatural and wrong; but experience
proves that it is neither. Whatever observers may think, it is natural
and it is right that minds strong enough to be settled, either in a good
or evil frame, should preserve their usual character amidst any changes
of circumstance. To those involved in new events, they appear less
strange than in prospect or in review. Habitual thoughts are present,
familiarising wonderful incidents; and the fears of the selfish, the
repose of the religious, the speculations of the thoughtful, and the
gaiety of the innocent, pervade the life of each, let what will be
happening.
Yet to the prevailing mood the circumstances of the time will interpose
an occasional check. This very evening, when Margaret was absent at the
cottage in the lane, and Hope, wearied with his toils among the sick all
the night, and all this day, was apparently sleeping for an hour on the
sofa, Hester's heart grew heavy, as she lulled her infant to rest by the
fire. As she thought on what was passing in the houses of her
neighbours, death seemed to close around the little being she held in
her arms. As she gazed in his face, watching the slumber stealing on,
she murmured over him--
"Oh, my child, my child! if I should lose you, what _should_ I do?"
"Hester! my love!" said her husband, in a tone of tender remonstrance,
"what _do_ you mean?"
"I did not think you would hear me, love; but I thank you. What did I
mean? Not exactly what I said; for God knows, I would strive to part
willingly with whatever he might see fit to take away. But, oh, Edward!
what a struggle it would be! and how near it comes to us! How many
mothers are now parting from their children!"
"God's will be done!" cried Hope, starting up, and standing over his
babe.
"Are you sure, Edward may we feel quite certain that we have done
rightly by our boy in keeping him here?"
"I am satisfied, my love."
"Then I am prepared. How still he is now! How like death it looks!"
"What, that warm, breathing sleep! No more like death than his laugh is
like sin."
And Hope looked about him for pencil and paper, and hastily sketched his
boy in all the beauty of repose, before he went forth again among the
sick and wretched. It was very like; and Hester placed it before her as
she plied her needle, all that long solitary evening.