Читать книгу Deerbrook - Harriet Martineau - Страница 12

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Mr. Hope’s case turned out more favourably than any of his attendants and friends had ventured to anticipate. For some days the symptoms continued as alarming as at first; but from the hour that he began to amend, his progress towards recovery was without drawback, and unusually rapid. Within a month, the news circulated through the village, that he had been safely brought home to his own lodgings; and the day after, the ladies at Mr. Grey’s were startled by seeing him alight from a gig at the door, and walk up the steps feebly, but without assistance. He could not stay away any longer, he declared. He had been above a month shut up in a dim room, without seeing any faces but of doctor, nurse, and Mrs. Grey, and debarred from books; now he was well enough to prescribe for himself; and he was sure that a little society, and a gradual return to his usual habits of life, would do him more good than anything.

Mrs. Grey kept all her own children out of sight during this first visit, that Mr. Hope might not see too many faces at once. She admitted only Hester and Margaret, and Alice, who brought him some refreshment. The girl made him a low curtsey, and looked at him with an expression of awe and pleasure, which brought tears into the eyes of even her mistress. Mr. Hope had been a benefactor to this girl. He had brought her through a fever. She had of late little expected ever to see him again. Mr. Hope replied to her mute looks:

“Thank you, Alice, I am much better. I hope to be quite well soon. Did not you make some of the good things Mrs. Grey has been kind enough to bring me?—I thought so. Well, I’m much obliged to you; and to everybody who has been taking pains to make me well. I do not know how it is,” he continued, when Alice had left the room, “but things do not appear as they used to do. Perhaps my eyes are dim still; but the room does not seem bright, and none of you look well and merry.”

Mrs. Grey observed that she had drawn the blinds down, thinking he would find it a relief after the sunshine. Margaret said ingenuously—

“We are all well, I assure you; but you should not wonder if you find us rather grave. Much has happened since we met. We have been thinking of you with great anxiety for so long, that we cannot on a sudden talk as lightly as when you used to come in every day.”

“Ah!” said he, “I little thought, at one time, that I should ever see any of you again in this world.”

“We have thought of you as near death,” said Margaret; “and since that, as having a sick-room experience, which we respect and stand in awe of; and that is reason enough for our looking grave.”

“You feel as if you had to become acquainted with me over again. Well, we must lose no time; here is a month gone that I can give no account of.”

Hester felt how differently the case stood with her. The last month had been the longest she had ever known—tedious as to the state captive, serving his noviciate to prison life. She would have been thankful to say that she could give no account of the past month. She inquired how the accident happened; for this was still a mystery to everybody. Mr. Hope could not clear up the matter: he remembered parting with Sydney, and trotting, with the bridle of the pony in his hand, to the top of the ascent—the point where Sydney lost sight of him: he had no distinct remembrance of anything more—only a sort of impression of his horse rearing bolt upright. He had never been thrown before; and his supposition was, that a stone cast from behind the hedge might have struck his horse: but he really knew no more of the affair than any one else. The ladies all trusted he would not ride the same horse again; but this he would not promise: his horse was an old friend; and he was not in a hurry to part with old friends. He was glad to find that Miss Young had not laid the blame on the pony, but had ridden it through the woods as if nothing had happened.

“Not exactly so,” said Margaret, smiling.

“The young folks did not enjoy their excursion very much, I fancy,” said Mrs. Grey, smiling also. “Mrs. Rowland was quite put out, poor soul! You know she thinks everything goes wrong, on purpose to plague her.”

“I think she had some higher feelings on that occasion,” said Mr. Hope, gently, but gravely. “I am indebted to her for a very anxious concern on my account, and for kind offices in which perhaps none of my many generous friends have surpassed her.”

Mrs. Grey, somewhat abashed, said that Mrs. Rowland had some good qualities: it was only a pity that her unhappy temper did not allow them fair play.

“It is a pity,” observed Mr. Hope; “and it is at the same time, an appeal to us to allow her the fair play she does not afford herself. That sofa looks delightfully comfortable, Mrs. Grey.”

“Oh, you are tired; you are faint, perhaps?”

“Shall I ring?” said Hester, moving to the bell.

“No, no,” said he, laughing; “I am very well at present. I only mean that I should like to stay all day, if you will let me. I am sure that sofa is full as comfortable as my own. I may stay, may I not?”

“No, indeed you shall not, this first day. If you will go away now before you are tired, and if I find when I look in upon you this evening, that you are not the worse for this feat, you shall stay longer to-morrow. But I assure you it is time you were at home now. My dears, just see whether the gig is at the door.”

“So I only get sent away by begging to stay,” said Mr. Hope. “Well, I have been giving orders to sick people for so many years, that I suppose it is fairly my turn to obey now. May I ask you to send to Widow Rye’s to-day? I looked in as I came; and her child is in want of better food, better cooked, than she is able to give him.”

“I will send him a dinner from our table. You are not going to see any more patients to-day, I hope?”

“Only two that lie quite in my road. If you send me away, you must take the consequences. Farewell, till tomorrow.”

“Mr. Grey and I shall look in upon you this evening. Now do not look about you out of doors, to catch anybody’s eye, or you will be visiting a dozen patients between this house and your own.”

There were, indeed, many people standing about, within sight of Mr. Grey’s door, to see Mr. Hope come out. All Mr. Grey’s children and servants were peeping through the shrubbery. Mrs. Enderby waved her hand from a lower, and her two maids looked out from an upper window. The old man of a hundred years, who was sunning himself on the bank, as usual, rose and took off his hat: and the little Reeves and their schoolfellows stood whispering to one another that Mr. Hope looked rarely bad still. Mrs. Plumstead dropped a low curtsey, as she stood taking in the letter-bag, at her distant door. Mrs. Grey observed to Hester on the respect which was paid to Mr. Hope all through the place, as if Hester was not feeling it in her heart of hearts at the moment.

Mrs. Grey flattered herself that Mr. Hope was thinking of Hester when he said his friends did not look well. She had been growing thinner and paler for the last month, and no doubt remained in Mrs. Grey’s mind about the cause. Hester had commanded herself, to her sister’s admiration; but she could not command her health, and that was giving way under perpetual feelings of anxiety and humiliation. Mrs. Grey thought all this had gone quite far enough. She was more fond and proud of Hester every day, and more impatient that she should be happy, the more she watched her. She spoke to Margaret about her. Margaret was prepared for this, having foreseen its probability; and her answers, while perfectly true and sincere, were so guarded, that Mrs. Grey drew from them the comfortable inference that she alone penetrated the matter, and understood Hester’s state of mind. She came to the resolution at last of making the young people happy a little sooner than they could have managed the affair for themselves. She would help them to an understanding, but it should be with all possible delicacy and regard to their feelings. Not even Mr. Grey should know what she was about.

Opportunities were not wanting. When are opportunities wanting to match-makers? If such do not find means of carrying their points, they can construct them. Few match-makers go to work so innocently and securely as Mrs. Grey; for few can be so certain of the inclinations of the parties as she believed herself. Her own admiration of Hester was so exclusive, and the superiority of Hester’s beauty so unquestionable, that it never occurred to her that the attraction which drew Mr. Hope to the house could be any other than this. About the state of Hester’s affections she felt justly confident; and so, in her view, nothing remained to be done but to save her from further pining by bringing about an explanation. She was frequently with Mr. Hope at his lodgings, during his recovery, seeing that he took his afternoon rest, and beguiling a part of his evenings; in short, watching over him as over a son, and declaring to Hester that he was no less dear to her.

One evening, when she was spending an hour in Mr. Hope’s parlour, where Mr. Grey had deposited her till nine o’clock, when he was to call for her, she made the same affectionate declaration to Mr. Hope himself—that he was as dear to her as if he had been her own son; “and,” she continued, “I shall speak to you with the same freedom as I should use with Sydney, and may, perhaps, ten years hence.”

“Pray do,” said Mr. Hope. “I shall be glad to hear anything you have to say. Are you going to find fault with me?”

“Oh dear, no! What fault should I have to find with you? unless, indeed, it be a fault or a folly to leave your own happiness and that of another person in needless uncertainty.”

Mr. Hope changed colour, quite to the extent of her wishes.

“I know,” continued she, “that your illness has put a stop to everything; and that it has left you little nerve for any explanation of the kind: but you are growing stronger every day now, and the case is becoming so serious on the other side that I own I dread the consequences of much further delay. You see I speak openly.”

She had every encouragement to do so, for Mr. Hope’s countenance was flushed with what appeared to her to be delight. “You observed, yourself, you know, that Hester did not look well; and indeed the few weeks after your accident were so trying to her—the exertions she made to conceal her feelings were so—. But I must spare her delicacy. I trust you are quite assured that she has not the most remote idea of my speaking to you thus. Indeed, no human being is in the least aware of it.”

“Hester! Miss Ibbotson! Pray, Mrs. Grey, do not say another word. Let us talk of something else.”

“Presently; when I have finished. You must have seen that I love this dear girl as a daughter; and there is not a thought of her heart that she can conceal from me, though her delicacy is so great that I am confident she thinks me unaware of her state of mind at this moment. But I saw how the affair was going from the very beginning; and the failure of her health and looks since your accident have left me no doubt whatever, and have made me feel it my duty to give you the encouragement your modesty requires, and to confide to you how wholly her happiness lies in your hands.”

“Hester! Miss Ibbotson! I assure you, Mrs. Grey, you must be completely mistaken.”

“I beg your pardon: I am not so easily mistaken as some people. There is Mrs. Rowland, now! I am sure she fancies that her brother is in love with Hester, when it is plain to everybody but herself that he and my other young cousin are coming to a conclusion as fast as need be. However, I know you do not like to hear me find fault with Mrs. Rowland; and, besides, I have no right to tell Margaret’s secrets; so we will say no more about that.”

Mr. Hope sighed heavily. These remarks upon Enderby and Margaret accorded but too well with his own observations. He could not let Mrs. Grey proceed without opposition; but all he was capable of was to repeat that she was entirely mistaken.

“Yes, that is what men like you always say—in all sincerity, of course. Your modesty always stands in the way of your happiness for a while: but you are no losers by it. The happiness is all the sweeter when it comes at last.”

“But that is not what I mean. You have made it difficult for me to explain myself. I hardly know how to say it; but it must be said. You have mistaken my intentions—mistaken them altogether.”

It was now Mrs. Grey’s turn to change colour. She asked in a trembling voice:

“Do you mean to say, Mr. Hope, that you have not been paying attentions to Hester Ibbotson?”

“I do say so; that I have paid no attentions of the nature you suppose. You compel me to speak plainly.”

“Then I must speak plainly too, Mr. Hope. If any one had told me you would play the part you have played, I should have resented the imputation as I resent your conduct now. If you have not intended to win Hester’s affections, you have behaved infamously. You have won her attachment by attentions which have never varied, from the very first evening that she entered our house, till this afternoon. You have amused yourself with her, it seems; and now you are going to break her heart.”

“Stop, stop, Mrs. Grey! I cannot hear this.”

“There is not a soul in the place that does not think as I do. There is not a soul that will not say—.”

“Let us put aside what people may say. If, by any imprudence of my own, I have brought blame upon myself, I must bear it. The important point is—. Surely, Mrs. Grey, it is possible that you may be in error about Miss Ibbotson’s—Miss Ibbotson’s state of mind.”

“No, Mr. Hope, it is not possible.” And being in for it, as she said, Mrs. Grey gave such a detail of her observations, and of unquestionable facts, as left the truth indeed in little doubt.

“And Margaret,” said Mr. Hope, in a troubled voice: “do you know anything of her views of my conduct?”

“Margaret is not so easily seen through as Hester,” said Mrs. Grey: an assertion from which Mr. Hope silently dissented; Margaret appearing to him the most simple-minded person he had ever known; lucid in her sincerity, transparent in her unconsciousness. He was aware that Mrs. Grey had been so occupied with Hester as not to have been open to impression from Margaret.

“Margaret is not so easily seen through as Hester, you know; and she and I have never talked over your conduct confidentially: but if Margaret does not perceive the alteration in her sister, and the cause of it, it can only be because she is occupied with her own concerns.”

“That is not like Margaret,” thought Mr. Hope.

“However, she does see it, I am sure; for she has proposed their return to Birmingham—their immediate return, though their affairs are far from being settled yet, and they do not know what they will have to live upon. They promised to stay till October, too; and we are only half through August yet. Margaret can hardly have any wish to leave us on her own account, considering whom she must leave behind. It is for Hester’s sake, I am confident. There is no doubt of the fact, Mr. Hope. Your honour is involved. I repeat, you have won this dear girl’s affections; and now you must act as a man of conscience, which I have always supposed you to be.”

Mr. Hope was tempted to ask for further confirmation, from the opinions of the people who were about Hester; but he would not investigate the degree of exposure which might have taken place. Even if no one agreed with Mrs. Grey, this would be no proof that her conviction was a wrong one; it might happen through Hester’s successful concealment of what she must be striving to suppress.

Mrs. Grey urged him about his honour and conscience more closely than he could bear. He faintly begged her to leave him. He obtained from her a promise that she would inform no person of what had been said; and she again assured him that neither Hester, nor any one else, had the remotest idea of her speaking as she had done this evening. On his part, Mr. Hope declared that he should reflect on what had passed, and act with the strictest regard to duty. As, in Mrs. Grey’s eyes, his duty was perfectly clear, this declaration was completely satisfactory. She saw the young people, with her mind’s eye, settled in the corner house which belonged to Mr. Rowland, and was delighted that she had spoken. As soon as she was gone, Mr. Hope would discover, she had little doubt, that he had loved Hester all this time without having been conscious what the attraction had really been; and in a little while he would be thankful to her for having smoothed his way for him. With these thoughts in her mind, she bade him good-night, just as Mr. Grey drove up to the door. She whispered once more, that he was as dear to her as a son, and that this was the reason of her having spoken so plainly.

“How are you this evening, Hope?” said Mr. Grey, from the doorway. “On the sofa, eh? don’t rise for me, then. Rather done up, eh? Ah! I was afraid you were for getting on too fast. Bad economy in the end. You will be glad to be rid of us: so I shall not come in. Take care of yourself, I beg of you. Good-night.”

In what a state of mind was Hope left! His plain-speaking motherly friend little guessed what a storm she had raised in a spirit usually as calm as a summer’s morning. There was nothing to him so abhorrent as giving pain; nothing so intolerable in idea as injuring any human being: and he was now compelled to believe that through some conduct of his own, some imprudence, in a case where imprudence is guilt, he had broken up the peace of a woman whom, though he did not love, he respected and warmly regarded! His mind was in too tumultuous a state for him to attempt to settle with himself the degree of his culpability. He only knew that he was abased in his own sense of deep injury towards a fellow-creature. In the same breath came the destruction of his hopes—hopes, of which, till the moment, he had been scarcely conscious—with regard to the one on whom his thoughts had been really fixed. He had pledged himself to act strictly according to his sense of duty. His consolation, his refuge in every former trial of life, since the days of childhood, had been in resolving to abide faithfully by the decisions of duty. In this he had found freedom; in this he had met strength and repose, so that no evil had been intolerable to him. But what was his duty now? Amidst the contradictions of honour and conscience in the present case, where should he find his accustomed refuge? At one moment he saw clearly the obligation to devote himself to her whose affections he had gained—thoughtlessly and carelessly, it is true, but to other eyes purposely. At the next moment, the sin of marrying without love—if not while loving another—rose vividly before him, and made him shrink from what, an instant before, seemed clear duty. The only hope was in the possibility of mistake, which might yet remain. The whole could not be mistake, about Hester, and Enderby, and Margaret, and all Mrs. Grey’s convictions. Some of all this must be true. The probability was that it was all true: and if so—he could almost repine that he had not died when his death was expected. Then he should not have known of all this injury and woe; then he should not have had to witness Margaret’s love for another: then Hester’s quiet grief would have melted away with time, unembittered by reproach of him. No one had, till this hour, loved and relished life more than he; yet now this gladsome being caught himself mourning that he had survived his accident. He roused himself from this; but all was fearful and confused before him. He could see nothing as it was, and as it ought to be: he could decide upon nothing. He must take time: he must be deliberate upon this, the most important transaction of his life.

Thus he determined, as the last remains of twilight faded away in his apartment, and the night air blew in chill from the open window. He was so exhausted by his mental conflict as to be scarcely able to rise to close the window, and retire to rest. There was one hope, familiar as the sunshine to his eyes, but unusually feeble, still abiding in his mind for comfort—that he should, sooner or later, clearly discern what it was his duty to do. All was at present dark; but this light might flow in. He would wait: he would not act till it did.

He did wait. For many days he was not seen in any of the haunts to which he had begun to return. The answer to inquiries was that Mr. Hope was not so well, and wished for entire quiet. Everyone was anxious. Hester was wretched, and Mrs. Grey extremely restless and uneasy. She made several attempts to see him; but in no instance did she succeed. She wrote him a private note, and received only a friendly verbal answer, such as all the world might hear.

Mr. Hope did wait for his duty to grow clear in the accumulating light of thought. He decided at length how to act; and he decided wrong;—not for want of waiting long enough, but because some considerations intruded themselves which warped his judgment, and sophisticated his feelings. He decided upon making the great mistake of his life.

Nothing had ever been clearer to his mind than the guilt of marrying without love. No man could have spoken more strongly, more solemnly than he, on the presumption, the dishonourableness, the profligacy, of such an act: but he was unaware how a man may be betrayed into it while he has neither presumption, nor treachery, nor profligacy in his thoughts. Hope went through a world of meditation during the days of his close retirement; some of his thoughts were superficial, and some deceived him. He considered Margaret lost to him: he glanced forwards to his desolation when he should lose the society of both sisters—an event likely to happen almost immediately, unless he should so act as to retain them. He dwelt upon Hester’s beauty, her superiority of mind to every woman but one whom he had known, her attachment to himself; her dependence upon him. He pondered these things till the tone of his mind was lowered, and too many superficial feelings mingled with the sacredness of the transaction, and impaired its integrity. Under their influence he decided what to do.

He had no intention, all this while, of taking Mrs. Grey’s word for the whole matter, without test or confirmation. From the beginning, he was aware that his first step must be to ascertain that she was not mistaken. And this was his first step.

There were two obvious methods of proceeding. One was to consult Mr. Grey, who stood in the place of guardian to these girls, as to the probability of his success with Hester, in case of his proposing himself to her. The other was to ask the same question of Margaret. The advantage of speaking to Mr. Grey was, that he might not be bound to proceed, in case of Mr. Grey differing from his lady’s view of the case; but then, Mr. Grey was perhaps unaware of the real state of Hester’s mind. From Margaret there was certainty of hearing nothing but the truth, however little of it her feelings for her sister might allow her to reveal; but such a conversation with her would compel him to proceed: all retreat would be cut off after it; and he naturally shrank from conversing with Margaret, of all people, on this subject. But Hope was equal to any effort which he thought a matter of duty; and he resolved not to flinch from this. He would speak first to Mr. Grey; and if Mr. Grey did not undertake to answer for Hester’s indifference, he would seek an interview with Margaret. If Margaret should encourage his advances on her sister’s behalf; the matter was decided. He should have a wife who might be the pride of any man—whom it would be an honour to any man to have attached. If, as was still just possible, Margaret should believe that her sister felt no peculiar regard for him, he thought he might intimate so much of the truth as, without offending her feelings on her sister’s account, would secure for him freedom to reconsider his purposes. No man disliked more than he so circuitous a method of acting in the most important affair of life. He had always believed that, in the case of a genuine and virtuous attachment, there can or ought to be nothing but the most entire simplicity of conduct in the parties—no appeal to any but each other—no seeking of an intervention, where no stranger ought to intermeddle with the joy: but the present affair, though perpetually brightening before Hope’s fancy, could not for a moment be thought of as of this kind: and here the circuitous method, which had always appeared disgusting to his imagination, was a matter of necessity to his conscience.