Читать книгу Deerbrook - Harriet Martineau - Страница 11

Table of Contents

Mr. Rowland hoped “to see the whole of the present company, from the oldest to the youngest.” This was the best part of his speech to the ears of the children; it made an impression also upon some others. Two or three days afterwards, Sydney burst, laughing, into the dining-room, where his mother and her guests were at work, to tell them that he had seen Mr. Hope riding a pony in the oddest way, in the lane behind his lodgings. He had a side-saddle, and a horse-cloth put on like a lady’s riding-habit. He rode the pony in and out among the trees, and made it scramble up the hill behind, and it went as nicely as could be, wherever he wanted it to go. Mr. Hope’s new way of riding was easily explained, the next time he called. Miss Young was certainly included in the invitation to Dingleford woods: it was a pity she should not go; and she could not walk in wild places:—the pony was training for her. Mrs. Grey quite agreed that Miss Young ought to go, but thought that Mr. Hope was giving himself much needless trouble; there would be room made for her in some carriage, of course. No doubt; but no kind of carriage could make its way in the woods; and, but for this pony, Miss Young would have to sit in a carriage, or under a tree, the whole time that the rest of the party were rambling about; whereas, this quiet active little pony would take care that she was nowhere left behind. It could do everything but climb trees. It was to be taken over to Dingleford the evening before, and would be waiting for its rider on the verge of the woods, when the party should arrive.

Miss Young was touched, and extremely pleased with Mr. Hope’s attention. In the days of her prosperity she had been accustomed to ride much, and was very fond of it; but since her misfortunes she had never once been in the saddle—lame as she was, and debarred from other exercise. To be on a horse again, and among the woods, was a delicious prospect; and when a few misgivings had been reasoned away—misgivings about being troublesome, about being in the way of somebody’s pleasure or convenience—Maria resigned herself to the full expectation of a most delightful day, if the weather would only be fine. The children would be there; and they were always willing to do anything for her. Sydney would guide her pony in case of need, or show her where she might stay behind by herself, if the others should exhibit a passion for impracticable places. She knew that Margaret would enjoy the day all the more for her being there; and so would Mr. Hope, as he had amply proved. Maria was really delighted to be going, and she and the children rejoiced together.

This great pleasure involved some minor enjoyments too, in the way of preparation. On Sunday Mr. Hope told her, that he believed the pony was now fully trained; but he should like that she should try it, especially as she had been long out of the habit of riding. She must take a ride with him on Monday and Tuesday afternoons, for practice. The Monday’s ride was charming; through Verdon woods, and home over the heath from Crossley End. The circuit, which was to have been three miles, had extended to ten. She must be moderate, she said to herself, the next day, and not let Mr. Hope spend so much of his time upon her; and besides, the pony had to be sent over to Dingleford in the evening, after she had done with it, to be in readiness for her on Wednesday morning.

The ride on Tuesday was happily accomplished, as that of Monday: but it was much shorter. Mr. Hope agreed that it should be short, as he had a patient to visit on the Dingleford road, so near the hamlet that he might as well take the pony there himself. It would trot along beside his horse. Sydney saved him part of the charge. Sydney would at all times walk back any distance for the sake of a ride out, on whatever kind of saddle, or almost any kind of quadruped. He was in waiting at the farrier’s gate, when Miss Young returned from her ride; and having assisted her into the house, he threw himself upon her pony, and rode three miles and a half on the Dingleford road before he would dismount, and deliver his bridle into Mr. Hope’s hand. Tea was over, and the tea-things removed, before he appeared at home, heated and delighted with his expedition. He ran to the dairy for a basin of milk, and declared that his being hot and tired did not matter in the least, as he had no lessons to do—the next day being a holiday.

It was about two hours after this, when Hester and Margaret were singing to Sophia’s playing, that Mr. Grey put his head in at the door, and beckoned Mrs. Grey out of the room. She remained absent a considerable time; and when she returned, the singers were in the middle of another duet. She wandered restlessly about the room till the piece was finished, and then made a sign to Sophia to follow her into the storeroom, the double door of which the sisters could hear carefully closed. They were too much accustomed to the appearance of mystery among the ladies of the Grey family, to be surprised at any number of secret conferences which might take place in the course of the day. But evening was not the usual time for these. The family practice was to transact all private consultations in the morning, and to assemble round the work-table or piano after tea. The sisters made no remark to each other on the present occasion, but continued their singing, each supposing that the store-room conference related to some preparation for the next day’s excursion.

It was too dark to distinguish anything in the room before their hostess re-entered it. Margaret was playing quadrilles; Hester was standing at the window, watching the shadows which the risen moon was flinging across the field, and the lighting up of Mrs. Enderby’s parlour behind the blinds; and Sydney was teasing his twin sisters with rough play on the sofa, when Mrs. Grey returned.

“You are all in the dark,” said she, in a particularly grave tone. “Why, did you not ring for lights, my dears?” and she rang immediately. “Be quiet, children! I will not have you make so much noise.”

The little girls seemed to wish to obey; but their brother still forced them to giggle; and their struggling entreaties were heard—“Now don’t, Sydney; now pray, Sydney, don’t!”

“Mary and Fanny, go to bed,” said their mother, decidedly, when lights were brought. “Sydney, bid your cousins good-night, and then come with me; I want to ask you a question.”

“Good-night already, mother! Why, it is not time yet this half-hour.”

“It is enough that I choose you to go to bed. Wish your cousins good-night, and come with me.”

Mrs. Grey led the way once more into the store-room, followed, rather sulkily, by Sydney.

“What can all this be about?” whispered Hester to Margaret. “There is always something going on which we are not to know.”

“Some affair of fruit, or wine, or bonbons, perhaps, which are all the better for making their appearance unexpectedly.”

At this moment Sophia and her mother entered by opposite doors. Sophia’s eyes were red; and there was every promise in her face that the slightest word spoken to her would again open the sluices of her tears. Mrs. Grey’s countenance was to the last degree dismal: but she talked—talked industriously, of everything she could think of. This was the broadest possible hint to the sisters not to inquire what was the matter; and they therefore went on sewing and conversing very diligently till they thought they might relieve Mrs. Grey by offering to retire. They hesitated only because Mr. Grey had not come in; and he so regularly appeared at ten o’clock, that they had never yet retired without having enjoyed half an hour’s chat with him.

“Sophia, my dear,” said her mother, “are the night candles there? Light your cousins’ candles.—I am sure they are wishing to go; and it is getting late. You will not see Mr. Grey to-night, my dears. He has been sent for to a distance.”

At this moment, the scrambling of a horse’s feet was heard on the gravel before the front door. Sophia looked at her mother, and each lighted a candle precipitately, and thrust it into a hand of each cousin.

“There, go, my dears,” said Mrs. Grey. “Never mind stopping for Mr. Grey. I will deliver your good-night to him. You will have to be rather early in the morning, you know. Good-night, good-night.”

Thus Hester and Margaret were hurried up-stairs, while the front door was in the act of being unbarred for Mr. Grey’s entrance. Morris was despatched after them, with equal speed, by Mrs. Grey’s orders, and she reached their chamber-door at the same moment that they did.

Hester set down her candle, bade Morris shut the door, and threw herself into an armchair with wonderful decision of manner, declaring that she had never been so treated;—to be amused and sent to bed like a baby, in a house where she was a guest!

“I am afraid something is the matter,” said Margaret.

“What then? they might have told us so, and said plainly that they had rather be alone.”

“People must choose their own ways of managing their own affairs, you know: and what those ways are cannot matter to us, as long as we are not offended at them.”

“Do you take your own way of viewing their behaviour, then, and leave me mine,” said Hester hastily.

Morris feared there was something amiss; and she believed Alice knew what it was: but she had not told either cook or housemaid a syllable about it. By Morris’s account, Alice had been playing the mysterious in the kitchen as her mistress had in the parlour. Mr. Grey had been suddenly sent for, and had saddled his horse himself, as his people were all gone, and there was no one on the premises to do it for him. A wine-glass had also been called for, for Miss Sophia, whose weeping had been overheard. Master Sydney had gone to his room very cross, complaining of his mother’s having questioned him overmuch about his ride, and then sent him to bed half an hour before his usual time.

A deadly fear seized upon Margaret’s heart, when she heard of Sydney’s complaint of being overmuch questioned about his ride—a deadly fear for Hester. If her suspicion should prove true, it was out of pure consideration that they had been “amused and sent to bed like babies.” A glance at Hester showed that the same apprehension had crossed her mind. Her eyes were closed for a moment, and her face was white as ashes. It was not for long, however. She presently said, with decision, that whatever was the matter, it must be some entirely private affair of the Greys’. If any accident had happened to any one in the village—if bad news had arrived of any common friend—there would be no occasion for secrecy. In such a case, Mrs. Grey would have given herself the comfort of speaking of it to her guests. It must certainly be some entirely private, some family affair.—Hester was sincere in what she said. She knew so little of the state of her own heart, that she could not conceive how some things in it could be divined or speculated upon by others. Still only on the brink of the discovery that she loved Mr. Hope, she could never have imagined that any one else could dream of such a thing—much less act upon it. She was angry with herself for letting her fears now point for a moment to Mr. Hope; for, if this bad news had related to him, her sister and she would, of course, have heard of it the next moment after the Greys. Margaret caught her sister’s meaning, and strove to the utmost to think as she did; but Sydney’s complaint of being “overmuch questioned about his ride” was fatal to the attempt. It returned upon her incessantly during the night; and when, towards morning, she slept a little, these words seemed to be sounding in her ear all the while. Before undressing, both she and Hester had been unable to resist stepping out upon the stairs to watch for signs whether it was the intention of the family to sit up or go to rest. All had retired to their rooms some time before midnight; and then it was certain that nothing more could be learned before morning.

Each sister believed that the other slept; but neither could be sure. It was an utterly wretched night to both, and the first which they had ever passed in misery, without speaking to each other. Margaret’s suffering was all from apprehension. Hester was little alarmed in comparison; but she this night underwent the discovery which her sister had made some little time ago. She discovered that nothing could happen to her so dreadful as any evil befalling Mr. Hope. She discovered that he was more to her than the sister whom she could have declared, but a few hours before, to be the dearest on earth to her. She discovered that she was for ever humbled in her own eyes; that her self-respect had received an incurable wound: for Mr. Hope had never given her reason to regard him as more than a friend. During the weary hours of this night, she revolved every conversation, every act of intercourse, which she could recall; and from all that she could remember, the same impression resulted—that Mr. Hope was a friend, a kind and sympathising friend—interested in her views and opinions, in her tastes and feelings;—that he was this kind friend, and nothing more. He had in no case distinguished her from her sister. She had even thought, at times, that Margaret had been the more important of the two to him. That might be from her own jealous temper, which, she knew, was apt to make her fancy every one preferred to herself: but she had thought that he liked Margaret best, as she was sure Mr. Enderby did. Whichever way she looked at the case, it was all wretchedness. She had lost her self-sufficiency and self-respect, and she was miserable.

The first rays of morning have a wonderful power of putting to flight the terrors of the darkness, whether their causes lie without us or within. When the first beam of the midsummer sunshine darted into the chamber, through the leafy limes which shaded one side of the apartment, Hester’s mood transiently changed. There was a brief reaction in her spirits. She thought she had been making herself miserable far too readily. The mystery of the preceding evening might turn out a trifle: she had been thinking too seriously about her own fancies. If she had really been discovering a great and sad secret about herself, no one else knew it, nor need ever know it. She could command herself; and, in the strength of pride and duty, she would do so. All was not lost. Before this mood had passed away, she fell asleep, with prayer in her heart, and quiet tears upon her cheek. Both sisters were roused from their brief slumbers by a loud tapping at their door. All in readiness to be alarmed, Margaret sprang up, and was at the door to know who was there.

“It is us—it is we, Fanny and Mary, cousin Margaret,” answered the twins, “come to call you. It is such a fine morning, you can’t think. Papa does not believe we shall have a drop of rain to-day. The baker’s boy has just carried the rolls—such a basket-full!—to Mrs. Rowland’s: so you must get up. Mamma is getting up already.”

The sisters were vexed to have been thrown into a terror for nothing; but it was a great relief to find Mr. Grey prophesying fine weather for the excursion. Nothing could have happened to cast a doubt over it. Margaret, too, now began to think that the mystery might turn out a trifle; and she threw up the sash, to let in the fresh air, with a gaiety of spirits she had little expected to feel.

Another tap at the door. It was Morris, with the news that it was a fine morning, that the whole house was astir, and that she had no further news to tell.

Another tap before they were half-dressed. It was Mrs. Grey, with a face quite as sorrowful as on the preceding evening, and the peculiar nervous expression about the mouth—which served her instead of tears.

“Have you done with Morris yet, my dears?”

“Morris, you may go,” said Hester, steadily.

Mrs. Grey gazed at her with a mournful inquisitiveness, while she spoke; and kept her eyes fixed on Hester throughout, though what she said seemed addressed to both sisters.

“There is something the matter, Mrs. Grey,” continued Hester, calmly. “Say what it is. You had better have told us last night.”

“I thought it best not to break your sleep, my dears. We always think bad news is best told in the morning.”

“Tell us,” said Margaret. Hester quietly seated herself on the bed.

“It concerns our valued friend, Mr. Hope,” said Mrs. Grey. Hester’s colour had been going from the moment Mrs. Grey entered the room: it was now quite gone; but she preserved her calmness.

“He was safe when Sydney lost sight of him, on the ridge of the hill, on the Dingleford road; but he afterwards had an accident.”

“What kind of accident?” inquired Margaret.

“Is he killed?” asked Hester.

“No, not killed. He was found insensible in the road. The miller’s boy observed his horse, without a rider, plunge into the river below the dam, and swim across; and another person saw the pony Sydney had been riding, grazing with a side-saddle on, on the common. This made them search, and they found Mr. Hope lying in the road insensible, as I told you.”

“What is thought of his state?” asked Margaret.

“Two medical men were called immediately from the nearest places, and Mr. Grey saw them last night; for the news reached us while you were at the piano, and we thought—”

“Yes but what do the medical men say?”

“They do not speak very favourably. It is a concussion of the brain. They declare the case is not hopeless, and that is all they can say. He has not spoken yet; only just opened his eyes: but we are assured the case is not quite desperate; so we must hope for the best.”

“I am glad the case is not desperate,” said Hester. “He would be a great loss to you all.”

Mrs. Grey looked at her in amazement, and then at Margaret. Margaret’s eyes were full of tears. She comprehended and respected the effort her sister was making.

“Oh, Mrs. Grey!” said Margaret, “must we go to-day? Surely it is no time for an excursion of pleasure.”

“That must be as you feel disposed, my dears. It would annoy Mrs. Rowland very much to have the party broken up; so much so, that some of us must go: but my young people will do their best to fill your places, if you feel yourselves unequal to the exertion.” She looked at Hester as she spoke.

“Oh, if anybody goes, we go, of course,” said Hester. “I think you are quite right in supposing that the business of the day must proceed. If there was anything to be done by staying at home—if you could make us of any use, Mrs. Grey, it would be a different thing: but—”

“Well, if there is nothing in your feelings which—if you believe yourselves equal to the exertion—”

Margaret now interposed. “One had rather stay at home and be quiet, when one is anxious about one’s friends: but other people must be considered, as we seem to be agreed—Mr. and Mrs. Rowland, and all the children. So we will proceed with our dressing, Mrs. Grey. But can you tell us, before you go, how soon—How soon we shall know;—when this case will probably be decided?”

It might be a few hours, or it might be many days, Mrs. Grey said. She should stay at home to-day, in case of anything being sent for from the farmhouse where Mr. Hope was lying. He was well attended—in the hands of good nurses—former patients of his own: but something might be wanted; and orders had been left by Mr. Grey that application should be made to his house for whatever could be of service: so Mrs. Grey could not think of leaving home. Mr. Grey would make inquiry at the farmhouse as the party went by to the woods: and he would just turn his horse back in the middle of the day, to inquire again: and thus the Rowlands’ party would know more of Mr. Hope’s state than those who remained at home. Having explained, Mrs. Grey quitted the room, somewhat disappointed that Hester had received the disclosure so well.

The moment the door was closed, Hester sank forward on the bed, her face hidden, but her trembling betraying her emotion.

“I feared this,” said Margaret, looking mournfully at her sister.

“You feared what?” asked Hester, quickly, looking up.

“I feared that some accident had happened to Mr. Hope.”

“So did I.”

“And if,” said Margaret, “I feared something else—Nay, Hester, you must let me speak. We must have no concealments, Hester. You and I are alone in the world, and we must comfort each other. We agreed to this. Why should you be ashamed of what you feel? I believe that you have a stronger interest in this misfortune than any one in the world; and why—”

“How do you mean, a stronger interest?” asked Hester, trying to command her voice. “Tell me what you mean, Margaret.”

“I mean,” said Margaret, steadily, “that no one is so much attached to Mr. Hope as you are.”

“I think,” said Margaret, after a pause, “that Mr. Hope has a high respect and strong regard for you.” She paused again, and then added, “If I believed anything more, I would tell you.”

When Hester could speak again, she said, gently and humbly, “I assure you, Margaret, I never knew the state of my own mind till this last night. If I had been aware—”

“If you had been aware, you would have been unlike all who ever really loved, if people say true. Now that you have become aware, you will act as you can act—nobly—righteously. You will struggle with your feelings till your mind grows calm. Peace will come in time.”

“Do you think there is no hope?”

“Consider his state.”

“But if he should recover? Oh, Margaret, how wicked all this is! While he lies there, we are grieving about me! What a selfish wretch I am!”

Margaret had nothing to reply, there seemed so much truth in this. Even she reproached herself with being exclusively anxious about her sister, when such a friend might be dying; when a life of such importance to many was in jeopardy.

“I could do anything, I could bear anything,” said Hester, “if I could be sure that nobody knew. But you found me out, Margaret, and perhaps—”

“I assure you, I believe you are safe,” said Margaret. “You can hide nothing from me. But, Mrs. Grey—and nobody except myself, has watched you like Mrs. Grey—has gone away, I am certain, completely deceived. But, Hester! my own precious sister, bear with one word from me! Do not trust too much to your pride.”

“I do trust to my pride, and I will,” replied Hester, her cheeks in a glow. “Do you suppose I will allow all in this house, all in the village, to be pitying me, to be watching how I suffer, when no one supposes that he gave me cause? It is not to be endured, even in the bare thought. No. If you do not betray me—”

“I betray you?”

“Well, well! I know you will not: and then I am safe. My pride I can trust to, and I will.”

“It will betray you,” sighed Margaret. “I do not want you to parade your sorrow, God knows! It will be better borne in quiet and secrecy. What I wish for you is, that you should receive this otherwise than as a punishment, a disgrace in your own eyes for something wrong. You have done nothing wrong, nothing that you may not appeal to God to help you to endure. Take it as a sorrow sent by Him, to be meekly borne, as what no earthly person has any concern with. Be superior to the opinions of the people about us, instead of defying them. Pride will give you no peace: resignation will.”

“I am too selfish for this,” sighed Hester. “I hate myself, Margaret. I have not even the grace to love him, except for my own sake; and while he is dying, I am planning to save my pride! I do not care what becomes of me. Come, Margaret, let us dress and go down. Do not trouble your kind heart about me: I am not worth it.”

This mood gave way a little to Margaret’s grief and endearments; but Hester issued from her chamber for the day in a state of towering pride, secretly alternating with the anguish of self-contempt.

It was a miserable day, as wretched a party of pleasure as could be imagined. Mrs. Rowland was occupied in thinking, and occasionally saying, how strangely everything fell out to torment her, how something always occurred to cross every plan of hers. She talked about this to her mother, Sophia, and Hester, who were in the barouche with her, till the whole cavalcade stopped, just before reaching the farmhouse where Mr. Hope lay, and to which Mr. Grey rode on to make inquiries. Margaret was with Mr. Rowland in his gig. It was a breathless three minutes till Mr. Grey brought the news. Margaret wondered how Hester was bearing it: it would have pleased her to have known that Mrs. Rowland was holding forth so strenuously upon her disappointment about a dress at the last Buckley ball, and about her children having had the measles on the only occasion when Mr. Rowland could have taken her to the races in the next county, that Hester might sit in silence, and bear the suspense unobserved. Mr. Grey reappeared, quite as soon as he could be looked for. There might have been worse news. Mr. Hope was no longer in a stupor: he was delirious. His medical attendants could not pronounce any judgment upon the case further than that it was not hopeless. They had known recovery in similar cases. As Mr. Grey bore his report from carriage to carriage, every one strove to speak cheerfully, and to make the best of the case; and those who were not the most interested really satisfied themselves with the truth that the tidings were better than they might have been.

The damp upon the spirits of the party was most evident, when all had descended from the carriages, and were collected in the woods. There was a general tremor about accidents. If one of the gentlemen had gone forward to explore, or the children had lagged behind for play, there was a shouting, and a general stop, till the missing party appeared. Miss Young would fain have declined her pony, which was duly in waiting for her. It was only because she felt that no individual could well be spared from the party that she mounted at all. Mr. Hope was to have had the charge of her; and though she had requested Sydney to take his place, as far as was necessary, Mr. Enderby insisted on doing so; a circumstance which did not add to her satisfaction. She was not altogether so heart-sick as her friends, the Ibbotsons; but even to her, everything was weariness of spirit:—the landscape seemed dull; the splendid dinner on the grass tiresome; the sunshine sickly; and even the children, with their laughter and practical jokes, fatiguing and troublesome. Even she could easily have spoken sharply to each and all of the little ones. If she felt so, what must the day have been to Hester? She bore up well under any observation that she might suppose herself the object of; but Margaret saw how laboriously she strove, and in vain, to eat; how welcome was the glass of wine; how mechanical her singing after dinner; and how impatient she was of sitting still. The strangest thing was to see her walking in a dim glade, in the afternoon, arm-in-arm with Mrs. Rowland—as if in the most confidential conversation—Mrs. Rowland apparently offering the confidence, and Hester receiving it.

“Look at them!” said Mr. Enderby. “Who would believe that my sister prohibited solitary walks and tête-à-têtes, only three hours ago, on the ground that every one ought to be sociable to-day? I shall go and break up the conference.”

“Pray do not,” said Margaret. “Let them forget rules, and pass their time as they like best.”

“Oh! but here is news of Hope. Mr. Grey has now brought word that he is no worse. I begin to think he may get through, which, God knows I had no idea of this morning.”

“Do you really think so? But do not tell other people, unless you are quite confident that you really mean what you say.”

“I may be wrong, of course: but I do think the chances improve with every hour that he does not get worse; and he is certainly not worse. I have a strong presentiment that he will struggle through.”

“Go, then; and tell as many people as you choose: only make them understand how much is presentiment.”

The tête-à-tête between the ladies, being broken off by Mr. Enderby with his tidings, was not renewed. Hester walked beside Miss Young’s pony, her cheek flushed, and her eye bright. Margaret thought there was pride underneath, and not merely the excitement of renewed hope, so feeble as that hope must yet be, and so nearly crushed by suspense.

Before the hour fixed for the carriages to be in readiness, the party had given up all pretence of amusing themselves and each other. They sat on a ridge, watching the spot where the vehicles were to assemble; and message after message was sent to the servants, to desire them to make haste. The general wish seemed to be, to be getting home, though the sun was yet some way from its setting. When the first sound of wheels was heard, Hester whispered to her sister—“I cannot be in the same carriage with that woman. No; you must not either. I cannot now tell you why. I dare say Miss Young would take my place, and let me go with the children in the waggon.”

“I will do that; and you shall return in Mr. Rowland’s gig. You can talk or not as you please with him; and he is very kind. He is no more to be blamed for his wife’s behaviour, you know, than her mother or her brother. It shall be so. I will manage it.”

Margaret could manage what she pleased, with Maria and Mr. Enderby both devoted to her. Hester was off with Mr. Rowland, and Margaret with one child on her lap, and the others rejoicing at having possession of her, before Mrs. Rowland discovered the shifting of parties which had taken place. Often during the ride she wanted to speak to her brother: three times out of four he was not to be had, so busy was he joking with the children, as he trotted his horse beside the waggon; and when he did hear his sister’s call he merely answered her questions, said something to make his mother laugh, and dropped into his place beside the waggon again. It struck Maria that the waggon had not been such an attraction in going, though the flowers with which it was canopied had then been fresh, and the children more merry and good-humoured than now.

The report to be carried home to Deerbrook was, that Mr. Hope was still no worse: it was thought that his delirium was somewhat quieter. Mrs. Grey was out on the steps to hear the news, when the carriage approached. As it happened, the gig arrived first, and Hester had to give the relation. She spoke even cheerfully, declaring Mr. Enderby’s opinion, that the case was going on favourably, and that recovery was very possible. Mrs. Grey, who had had a wretchedly anxious day by herself, not having enjoyed even the satisfaction of being useful, nothing having been sent for from the farmhouse, was truly cheered by seeing her family about her again.

“I have been watching for you this hour,” said she; “and yet I hardly expected you so soon. As it grew late, I began to fancy all manner of accidents that might befall you. When one accident happens, it makes one fancy so many more! I could not help thinking about Mr. Grey’s horse. Does that horse seem to you perfectly steady, Hester? Well, I am glad of it: but I once saw it shy from some linen on a hedge, and it was in my mind all this afternoon. Here you are, all safe, however: and I trust we may feel more cheerfully now about our good friend. If he goes on to grow better, I shall get Mr. Grey to drive me over soon to see him. But, my dears, what will you have after your ride? Shall I order tea, or will you have something more substantial?”

“Tea, if you please,” said Hester. Her tongue was parched: and when Margaret followed her up-stairs, she found her drinking water, as if she had been three days deep in the Great Desert.

“Can you tell me now,” asked Margaret, “what Mrs. Rowland has been saying to you?”

“No, not at present: better wait. Margaret! what do you think now?”

“I think that all looks brighter than it did this morning; but what a wretched day it has been!”

“You found it so, did you? Oh, Margaret, I have longed every hour to lie down to sleep in that wood, and never wake again!”

“I do not wonder: but you will soon feel better. The sleep from which you will wake to-morrow morning will do nearly as well. We must sleep to-night, and hope for good news in the morning.”

“No good news will ever come to me again,” sighed Hester. “No, no; I do not quite mean that. You need not look at me so. It is ungrateful to say such a thing at this moment. Come: I am ready to go down to tea. It is really getting dark. I thought this day never would come to an end.”

The evening was wearisome enough. Mrs. Grey asked how Mrs. Rowland had behaved, and Sophia was beginning to tell, when her father checked her, reminding her that she had been enjoying Mrs. Rowland’s hospitality. This was all he said, but it was enough to bring on one of Sophia’s interminable fits of crying. The children were cross with fatigue: Mrs. Grey thought her husband hard upon Sophia; and, to complete the absurdity of the scene, Hester’s and Margaret’s tears proved uncontrollable. The sight of Sophia’s set them flowing; and though they laughed at themselves for the folly of weeping from mere sympathy, this did not mend the matter. Mrs. Grey seemed on the verge of tears herself, when she observed that she had expected a cheerful evening after a lonely and anxious day. A deep sob from the three answered to this observation, and they all rose to go to their apartments. Hester was struck by the peculiar tender pressure of the hand given her by Mr. Grey, as she offered him her mute good-night. It caused her a fresh burst of grief when she reached her own room.

Margaret was determined not to go to rest without knowing what it was that Mrs. Rowland had said to her sister. She pressed for it now, hoping that it would rouse Hester from more painful thoughts.

“Though I have been enjoying that woman’s hospitality, as Mr. Grey says,” declared Hester, “I must speak of her as I think, to you. Oh, she has been so insolent!”

“Insolent to you! How? Why?”

“Nay: you had better ask her why. Her confidence was all about her brother. She seems to think—she did not say so, or I should have known better how to answer her, but she seems to think that her brother is—(I can hardly speak it even to you, Margaret!)—is in some way in danger from me. Now, you and I know that he cares no more for me than for any one of the people who were there to-day; and yet she went on telling me, and I could not stop her, about the views of his family for him!”

“What views?”

“Views which, I imagine, it by no means follows that he has for himself. If she has been impertinent to me, she has been even more so to him. I wonder how she dares meddle in his concerns as she does.”

“Well, but what views?” persisted Margaret.

“Oh, about his marrying:—that he is the darling of his family—that large family interests hang upon his marrying—that all his relations think it is time he was settling, and that he told her last week that he was of that opinion himself:—and then she went on to say that there was the most delightful accordance in their views for him;—that they did not much value beauty—that they should require for him something of a far higher order than beauty, and which indeed was seldom found with it—”

“Insolent creature! Did she say that to you?”

“Indeed she did: and that her brother’s wife must be of a good family, with a fortune worthy of his own; and, naturally, of a county family.”

“A county family!” said Margaret, half laughing. “What matters county or city, when two people are watching over one another for life and death, and for hereafter?”

“With such people as Mrs. Rowland,” said Hester, “marriage is a very superficial affair. If family, fortune, and equipage are but right, the rest may be left to Providence. Temper, mind, heart—. The worst of all, however, was her ending—or what was made her ending by our being interrupted.”

“Well! what was her finish?”

“She put her face almost under my bonnet, as she looked smiling at me, and said there was a young lady—she wished she could tell me all about it—the time would come when she might—there was a sweet girl, beloved by them all for many years, from her very childhood, whom they had hopes of receiving, at no very distant time, as Philip’s wife.”

“I do not believe it,” cried Margaret. After a pause, she added, “Do you believe it, Hester?”

“I am sure I do not know. I should not rate Mrs. Rowland’s word very highly: but this would be such a prodigious falsehood! It is possible, however, that she may believe it without its being true. Or, such a woman might make the most, for the occasion, of a mere suspicion of her own.”

“I do not believe it is true,” repeated Margaret.

“At all events,” concluded Hester, “nothing that Mrs. Rowland says is worth regarding. I was foolish to let myself be ruffled by her.”

Margaret tried to take the lesson home, but it was in vain. She was ruffled; and, in spite of every effort, she did believe in the existence of the nameless young lady. It had been a day of trouble; and thus was it ending in fresh sorrow and fear.

Morris came in, hesitated at the door, was told she might stay, and immediately busied herself in the brushing of hair and the folding of clothes. Many tears trickled down, and not a word was spoken, till all the offices of the toilet were finished. Morris then asked, with a glance at the book-shelf, whether she should go or stay.

“Stay, Morris,” said Hester, gently. “You shall not suffer for our being unhappy to-night. Margaret, will you, can you read?”

Margaret took the volume in which it was the sisters’ common practice to read together, and with Morris at night. While Morris took her seat, and reverently composed herself to hear, Margaret turned to the words which have stilled many a tempest of grief, from the moment when they were first uttered to mourners, through a long course of centuries, “Let not your heart be troubled.” “Believe in God; believe in me.” Morris sometimes spoke on these occasions. She loved to hear of the many mansions in the House of the Father of all; and she said that though it might seem to her young ladies that their parents had gone there full soon, leaving them to undergo trouble by themselves, yet she had no doubt they should all be at peace together, sooner or later, and their passing troubles seem as nothing. Even this simple and obvious remark roused courage in the sisters. They remembered what their father had said to them about his leaving them to encounter the serious business and trials of life, and how they had promised to strive to be wise and trustful, and to help each other. This day the serious business and trials of life had manifestly begun: they must strengthen themselves and each other to meet them. They agreed upon this, and in a mood of faith and resolution fell asleep.