Читать книгу Deerbrook - Harriet Martineau - Страница 13

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Mr. Grey looked extremely pleased when asked whether he supposed Hester might be won. His reply was simple enough. He was not in his young cousin’s confidence: he could not undertake to answer for the state of mind of young ladies; but he knew of no other attachment—of nothing which need discourage his friend Hope, who would have his hearty good wishes if he should persevere in his project. Yes, yes; he fully understood: it was not to be spoken of;—it was to rest entirely between themselves till Hope should have felt his way a little. He knew it was the fashion in these days to feel the way a little more than was thought necessary or desirable in his time: but he liked that all should follow their own method in an affair which concerned themselves so much more than any one else: so the matter should be a perfect secret, as Mr. Hope desired; though he did not fancy it would have to be kept so close for any great length of time.

This was over. Now for the interview with Margaret, which had become necessary.

His reappearance in the family party at Mr. Grey’s, under the inquisitive eyes of Mrs. Grey herself, must be an awkward business at the best, while he remained in uncertainty. The only way was to put an end to the uncertainty as soon as possible. He would go this very afternoon, and ascertain his fate before the day was over. He went boldly up to the door and rang. “The family were all out in the garden after dinner,” Alice said: “would Mr. Hope join them there, or would he rest himself while she told them he had arrived?” Alice’s anxiety about his looks was not yet satisfied.

“I will step in here,” said he, the door of the blue parlour being open. “Send Morris to me,” Morris at that moment crossing the hall. “Morris, I want to see Miss Margaret. Will you just tell her that some one wishes to speak with her? I know she will excuse my asking the favour of her to come in.”

“Miss Margaret, sir?”

“Yes.”

“I am sure, sir, you look more fit to sit here than to be gathering apples with them all in the orchard. Did you say Miss Margaret, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever else may be in Morris’s mind,” thought Hope, “it is clear that she is surprised at my wanting to see Margaret.—Here she comes.”

He was not sorry that the step paused in the hall—that there was a delay of some seconds before Margaret appeared. He felt as weak at the moment as on first rising from his bed after his accident; but he rallied his resolution before he met her eye—now timid and shrinking as he had never seen it before. Margaret was very grave, and as nearly awkward as it was possible for her to be. She shook hands with him, however, and hoped that he was better again.

“I am better, thank you. Will you sit down, and let me speak to you for a few minutes?”

It was impossible to refuse. Margaret sank down, while he shut the door.

“I hear,” said he, “that you are already thinking of returning to Birmingham. Is this true?”

“Yes: we shall go home in a few days.”

“Then, before you leave us, will you allow me to ask your advice—?”

At the word “advice” a glow of pleasure passed over Margaret’s face, and she could not quite suppress a sigh of relief. She now looked up freely and fearlessly. All this was good for Mr. Hope: but it went to his heart, and for a moment checked his speech. He soon proceeded, however.

“I want your advice as a friend, and also some information which you alone can give me. What I have to say relates to your sister.”

Margaret’s ecstasy of hope was scarcely controllable. For her sister’s sake she hung her head upon her bosom, the better to conceal her joy. It was a bitter moment for him who could not but note and rightly interpret the change in her countenance and manner.

“I wish to know, if you have no objection to tell me, whether your sister is disengaged.”

“I have no objection to say,” declared Margaret, looking up cheerfully, “that my sister is not engaged.”

“That is the information I wished for. Now for the opinion which I venture to ask of you, as of the one to whom your sister’s mind is best known. Do you believe that, if I attempt it, I am likely to win her?”

Margaret was silent. It was difficult to answer the question with perfect truth, and with due consideration to her sister.

“I see,” said Hope, “that you do not approve my question: nor do I myself. Rather tell me whether you suppose that she prefers any one to me—that she had rather I should not seek her—whether, in short, you would advise me to withdraw.”

“By no means,” said Margaret. “I cannot say anything tending to deter you. I know of nothing which need discourage you; and I assure you, you have my best wishes that you may succeed.”

She looked at him with the bright expression of sincerity and regard which had touched his heart oftener and more deeply than all Hester’s beauty. He could not have offered to shake hands at the moment; but she held out hers, and he could not but take it. The door burst open at the same instant, and Mr. Enderby entered. Both let drop the hand they held, and looked extremely awkward and grave. A single glance was enough to send Mr. Enderby away, without having spoken his errand, which was to summon Margaret to the orchard, for the final shake of the apple-tree. When he was gone, each saw that the face of the other was crimson: but while Hope had a look of distress which Margaret wondered at, remembering how soon Mr. Enderby would understand the nature of the interview, she was struggling to restrain a laugh.

“Thank you for your truth,” said Mr. Hope. “I knew I might depend upon it from you.”

“I have told you all I can,” said Margaret rising; “and it will be best to say no more at present. It is due to my sister to close our conversation here. If she should choose,” continued she, gaily, “to give us leave to renew it hereafter, I shall have a great deal to say to you on my own part. You have done me the honour of calling me ‘friend.’ You have my friendship, I assure you, and my good wishes.”

Hope grasped her hand with a fervour which absolved him from the use of words. He then opened the door for her.

“I must return to the orchard,” said she. “Will you go? or will you repose yourself here till we come in to tea?”

Mr. Hope preferred remaining where he was. The die was cast, and he must think. His hour of meditation was salutary. He had never seen Margaret so—he dared not dwell upon it: but then, never had her simplicity of feeling towards him, her ingenuous friendship, unmixed with a thought of love, been so clear. He had made no impression upon her, except through her sister, and for her sister. He recalled the stiffness and fear with which she had come when summoned to a tête-à-tête; her sudden relief on the mention of her sister; and her joyous encouragement of his project.

“I ought to rejoice—I do rejoice at this,” thought he. “It seems as if everyone else would be made happy by this affair. It must have been my own doing; there must have been that in my manner and conduct which authorised all this expectation and satisfaction—an expectation and satisfaction which prove to be no fancy of Mrs. Grey’s. I have brought upon myself the charge of Hester’s happiness. She is a noble woman, bound to me by all that can engage my honour, my generosity, my affection. She shall be happy from this day, if my most entire devotion can make her so. Margaret loves Enderby: I am glad I know it. I made him dreadfully jealous just now; I must relieve him as soon as possible. I do not know how far matters may have gone between them; but Margaret is not at liberty to explain what he saw till I have spoken to Hester. There must be no delay: I will do it this evening. I cannot bring myself to communicate with Mrs. Grey. If Mr. Grey is at home, he will make the opportunity for me.”

Mr. Grey was at home, and on the alert to take a hint. “I guessed how it was,” said he. “Margaret has been trying to keep down her spirits, but not a child among them all flew about the orchard as she did, when Mr. Enderby had been to look for her, and she followed him back. I thought at first it was something on her own account; but Enderby looked too dull and sulky for that. I have no doubt he is jealous of you. He found you together, did he? Well, he will soon know why, I trust. Oh, you have a hearty well-wisher in Margaret, I am sure! Now, you see they are setting Sophia down to the piano; and I think I can find for you the opportunity you want, if you really wish to bring the business to a conclusion this evening. I will call Hester out to take a turn with me in the shrubbery, as she and I often do, these fine evenings; and then, if you choose, you can meet us there.”

Hester was not at all sorry to be invited by Mr. Grey to the turn in the shrubbery, which was one of the best of her quiet pleasures—a solace which she enjoyed the more, the more she became attached to kind Mr. Grey: and she did much respect and love him. This evening she was glad of any summons from the room. Margaret had fully intended not to speak to her of what had passed, thinking it best for her sister’s dignity, and for Mr. Hope’s satisfaction, that he should not be anticipated. All this was very wise and undeniable while she was walking back to the orchard: but it so happened that Hester’s hand hung by her side, as she stood looking up at the apple-tree, unaware that Margaret had left the party. Margaret could not resist seizing the hand, and pressing it with so much silent emotion, such a glance of joy, as threw Hester into a state of wonder and expectation. Not a syllable could she extort from Margaret, either on the spot or afterwards, when summoned to tea. Whether it was on account of Mr. Hope’s return to the house, she could not satisfy herself. She had sat, conscious and inwardly distressed, at the tea-table, where nothing remarkable had occurred; and was glad to escape from the circle where all that was said appeared to her excited spirit to be tiresome, or trifling, or vexatious.

How different was it all when she returned to the house! How she loved the whole world, and no one in it was dull, and nothing was trifling, and it was out of the power of circumstances to vex her! Life had become heaven: its doubts, its cares, its troubles, were gone, and all had given place to a soul-penetrating joy. She should grow perfect now, for she had one whom she believed perfect to lead her on. Her pride, her jealousy, would trouble her no more: it was for want of sympathy—perfect sympathy always at hand—that she had been a prey to them. She should pine no more, for there was one who was her own. A calm, nameless, all-pervading bliss had wrapped itself round her spirit, and brought her as near to her Maker as if she had been his favoured child. There needs no other proof that happiness is the most wholesome moral atmosphere, and that in which the immortality of man is destined ultimately to thrive, than the elevation of soul, the religious aspiration, which attends the first assurance, the first sober certainty, of true love. There is much of this religious aspiration amidst all warmth of virtuous affections. There is a vivid love of God in the child that lays its cheek against the cheek of its mother, and clasps its arms about her neck. God is thanked (perhaps unconsciously) for the brightness of his earth, on summer evenings, when a brother and sister, who have long been parted, pour out their heart stores to each other, and feel their course of thought brightening as it runs. When the aged parent hears of the honours his children have won, or looks round upon their innocent faces as the glory of his decline, his mind reverts to Him who in them prescribed the purpose of his life, and bestowed its grace. But, religious as is the mood of every good affection, none is so devotional as that of love, especially so called. The soul is then the very temple of adoration, of faith, of holy purity, of heroism, of charity. At such a moment the human creature shoots up into the angel: there is nothing on earth too defiled for its charity—nothing in hell too appalling for its heroism—nothing in heaven too glorious for its sympathy. Strengthened, sustained, vivified by that most mysterious power, union with another spirit, it feels itself set well forth on the way of victory over evil, sent out conquering and to conquer. There is no other such crisis in human life. The philosopher may experience uncontrollable agitation in verifying his principle of balancing systems of worlds, feeling, perhaps, as if he actually saw the creative hand in the act of sending the planets forth on their everlasting way; but this philosopher, solitary seraph, as he may be regarded, amidst a myriad of men, knows at such a moment no emotions so divine as those of the spirit becoming conscious that it is beloved—be it the peasant girl in the meadow, or the daughter of the sage, reposing in her father’s confidence, or the artisan beside his loom, or the man of letters musing by his fireside. The warrior, about to strike the decisive blow for the liberties of a nation, however impressed with the solemnity of the hour, is not in a state of such lofty resolution as those who, by joining hearts, are laying their joint hands on the whole wide realm of futurity for their own. The statesman who, in the moment of success, feels that an entire class of social sins and woes is annihilated by his hand, is not conscious of so holy and so intimate a thankfulness as they who are aware that their redemption is come in the presence of a new and sovereign affection. And these are many—they are in all corners of every land. The statesman is the leader of a nation—the warrior is the grace of an age—the philosopher is the birth of a thousand years; but the lover—where is he not? Wherever parents look round upon their children, there he has been—wherever children are at play together, there he will soon be—wherever there are roofs under which men dwell—wherever there is an atmosphere vibrating with human voices, there is the lover, and there is his lofty worship going on, unspeakable, but revealed in the brightness of the eye, the majesty of the presence, and the high temper of the discourse. Men have been ungrateful and perverse; they have done what they could to counteract, to debase, this most heavenly influence of their life; but the laws of their Maker are too strong, the benignity of their Father is too patient and fervent, for their opposition to withstand: and true love continues, and will continue, to send up its homage amidst the meditations of every eventide, and the busy hum of noon, and the song of the morning stars.

Hester, when she re-entered the house, was full of the commonest feeling of all in happy lovers—a wonder that such intense happiness should be permitted to her. Margaret was lingering about the stair-head in the dusk, and met her sister at the door of their own apartment.

“May I come in?” said she.

“May you come in? Oh, Margaret! I want you.”

“All is right: all is well; is it, Hester? And I was quite wrong throughout. I grieve now that I helped to make you miserable: but, indeed, I was miserable myself. I saw no hope; I was completely mistaken.”

“We were both mistaken,” said Hester, resting her head at Margaret’s shoulder. “Mistaken in judgment—blinded by anxiety. But all that is over now. Margaret, what have I done that I should be so happy?”

“You have loved one who deserves such a love as yours,” said Margaret, smiling. “That is what you have done: and you will have the blessings of all who know you both. You have mine, dearest.”

“What an ungrateful wretch shall I be, if I do not make every one happy that is within my reach!” cried Hester. “Margaret, I will never grieve his heart as I have grieved yours. I will never grieve yours again.”

“But how is it?” asked Margaret. “You have not told me yet. Is it all settled?”

A silent embrace told that it was.

“I may shake hands with you upon it, then. Oh, Hester, after all our longings for a brother, you are going to give me one! We are not alone in the world. My father—our mother—where are they? Do they know? Have they foreseen while we have been suffering so? Do they now foresee for us?”

“There was not one word of his,” said Hester, “that I should not have gloried in their hearing. So gentle, Margaret! so noble! so calm!”

“And you?” said Margaret, softly. “Did you speak—speak openly?”

“Yes: it was no time for pride. With him I have no pride. I could not have believed how I should tell him all: but he was so noble—spoke so gloriously—that it would have been an insult to use any disguise. He knows all that you know, Margaret—and I am not ashamed.”

“I honour you,” said Margaret. “Thank God, all is right! But where is Mr. Hope all this time?”

“He went away when I came in. You will see him in the morning.”

“Can you go down this evening? If you think you can—.”

“Go down! Yes:—this moment. I feel as if I could face the whole world.”

“Let me ask one thing. May I tell Maria in the morning? She will be so pleased! and no one but you understands my feelings so well. Everybody will rejoice with me; but I can say anything to her. May I tell her all in the morning?”

“Dear Maria! Oh, yes: tell her from me, with my love. I know I shall have her blessing. Now let us go down.”

“But we must just settle how matters are to proceed,” said Margaret. “Are the family to know or not?”

“Oh, let all that take its chance!” said Hester. “I am sure I do not care. Let it be as it happens, for to-night at least.”

“For to-night at least,” agreed Margaret.

All was going on as usual below-stairs. The working of collars and of rugs was proceeding, as the family sat round the lamp. On the appearance of Hester and Margaret, the book, with the Society’s cover on it, was produced; and it was requested that some one would read aloud, as it was necessary that forty pages a day should be gone through, to get the volume done by the time it must be sent to Mrs. Enderby. Sophia asked whether some one else would be so good as to read this evening, as she thought she could finish her collar by keeping steadily to it till bedtime.

Margaret took the book, and was surprised to find how easy a process it is to read aloud passably without taking in a word of the sense. Fortunately the Greys were not much given to make remarks on what they read. To have gone through the books that came from the Society was enough; and they could not have accomplished the forty pages an evening if they had stopped to talk. The only words spoken during the lecture, therefore, were occasional remarks that the reader seemed hoarse, and that some one else had better take the book; and whispered requests across the table for scissors, thread, or the adjustment of the light. Such being the method of literary exercise in the family, Hester and Margaret were able to think of anything they pleased with impunity.

“There! here comes papa!” said Sophia; “and I do not believe we have read nearly forty pages. Where did you begin, Margaret?”

Margaret resigned the volume to her to have the place found, and was told that she should not have shifted the marker till the evening reading was done, unless she at once set it forward forty pages: it made it so difficult to find the place. Sophia was detained only five minutes from her collar, however, before she discovered that they had read only eight-and-twenty pages. Mrs. Grey observed that Mr. Grey was coming in rather earlier than usual to-night; and Sophia added, that her cousins had been a good while in their own room.

Hester was conscious that Mr. Grey cast a rapid, penetrating glance upon her as he drew his chair, and took his seat at her elbow.

“What a clever book this is!” said Mrs. Grey.

“Very entertaining,” added Sophia.

“What is your opinion of it?” asked Mr. Grey of Hester.

She smiled, and said she must read more of it before she could judge.

“It is such a relief,” said Mrs. Grey, “to have a book like this in hand after the tiresome things Mr. Rowland orders in! He consults Mrs. Rowland’s notions about books far too much; and she always takes a fancy to the dullest. One would almost think it was on purpose.”

Sydney liked the sport of knocking on the head charges against the Rowlands. He showed, by a reference to the Society’s list, that the book just laid down was ordered by the Rowlands.

“Dear me! Sophia,” said her mother, “you made quite a mistake. You told us it was ordered in by Mr. Hope. I am sure, I thought so all this time.”

“Well, I dare say we shall not be able to finish it,” said Sophia. “We have read only eight-and-twenty pages this evening. Papa! how shockingly Mr. Hope looks still, does not he? I think he looks worse than when he was here last.”

“And I trust he will look better when we see him next. I have the strongest hopes that he will now gain ground every day.”

“I am sure he seems to have gained very little yet.”

“Oh, yes, he has; as I trust you will soon see.”

Sophia was about to bewail Mr. Hope’s sickly looks again, when her mother trod on her foot under the table; and, moreover, winked and frowned in a very awful way, so that Sophia felt silenced, she could not conceive for what reason. Not being able to think of anything else to say, to cover her confusion, she discovered that it was bedtime—at least for people who had been gathering apples.

Once more Mrs. Grey gazed over her spectacles at her husband, when the young people were gone.

“My dear,” said she, “what makes you think that Mr. Hope is gaining ground every day?”

“My dear, what made you tread on all our toes when I said so?”

“Dear me, I only gave Sophia a hint, to prevent her saying dismal things before people. One does not know what may be passing in their minds, you know.”

“And so you kindly show what is passing in yours. However, these young ladies may soon be able, perhaps, to tell us more about Hope than we can tell them.”

“My dear, what do you mean?”

“I saw a glance between them, a smile, when you were silencing Sophia. I believe you may prepare yourself for some news, my dear.”

“I have no doubt of Hester’s state of mind—”

“And I feel confident of Hope’s; so here is the case, pretty well made out between us.”

Mrs. Grey was in raptures for a moment; but she then resumed her system of mysterious tokens. She shook her head, and owned that she had reason to think her husband was mistaken.

“Well, just observe them the next time they are together; that is all.”

“And my poor Hester looks wretchedly, Mr. Grey. It really makes my heart ache to see her.”

“How differently people view things! I was just thinking that I never saw her so lovely, with such a sprightliness, such a glow in her face, as five minutes ago.”

“Just this evening, she does not look so pale; but she is sadly altered—grievously changed indeed. Seeing this, is the only thing which reconciles me to parting with her. Now, Mr. Grey, I should like to know what sets you smiling in that manner at the poor girl.”

“I was smiling to think how, as young ladies have been known to change their minds, it may be possible that we may have the pleasure of seeing Hester pick up her good looks again here, in spite of all that Morris says about her native air. I should not wonder that we may persuade her to stay yet.”

Mrs. Grey shook her head decisively. She should have been very glad, a little while since, to hear her husband’s opinion that Mr. Hope’s views were fixed upon Hester; but now—. But men were always so positive; and always the most positive where they knew the least! A deep sigh from the one party, and a broad smile from the other, closed the conversation.