Читать книгу Deerbrook - Harriet Martineau - Страница 8

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“When do you leave us, Philip?” inquired Mrs. Rowland, putting her arm within her brother’s, and marching him up the gravel-walk.

“Do you wish me to go?” replied he, laughing. “Is this what you were so anxious to say?”

“Why, we understood, six weeks since, that you meant to leave Deerbrook in a fortnight: that is all.”

“So I did: but my mother is kind enough to be pleased that I am staying longer; and since I am equally pleased myself, it is all very well. I rather think, too, that the children consider Uncle Philip a good boy, who deserves a holiday.”

“My mother! Oh, she always supposes everything right that you do; and that is the reason why Mr. Rowland and I—”

“The reason why Rowland and I agree so well,” interrupted the brother. “Yes, that is one reason, among many. Rowland’s wish is to see the old lady happy; and she is naturally happiest when she has both her children with her; and for every merry hour of hers, your good husband looks the more kindly upon me.”

“Of course; all that is a matter of course; though you are not aware, perhaps, of the fatigue it is to my mother to have any one with her too long a time. She will not tell you; but you have no idea how low she is for some time after you go away, if you have stayed more than a few days, from exhaustion—from pure exhaustion. Ah! you do not perceive it, because the excitement keeps her up while you are here; and she naturally makes an effort, you know. But if you were to see her as we do after you are gone;—you cannot think how it sets the Greys talking about her low spirits.”

“Poor soul! I wish I could be always with her. I will try whether I cannot; for some time to come, at least. But, sister, how does it happen that neither you nor Rowland ever told me this before?”

“Oh, we would not distress you unnecessarily. We knew it was an unavoidable evil. You cannot always be here, and you must—”

“Yes, I must sometimes come: that is an unavoidable evil; and always will be, sister, while I have a good old mother living here.”

“My dear Philip, how you do misunderstand one! I never heard anything so odd.”

“Why odd? Have you not been giving me to understand, all this time, that you do not wish to have me here—that you want me to go away? If not this, I do not know what you have been talking about.”

“What an idea! My only brother! What can you be thinking of? Why upon earth should I wish you anywhere else?”

“That you may manage my mother and her affairs all your own way, I imagine.”

Mrs. Rowland had nothing to oppose to this plain speech but exclamations. When she had exhausted all she could muster, she avowed that the only consideration which could reconcile her to the sacrifice of her dear brother’s society was anxiety for his happiness.

“Then, supposing I am happiest here, we are all satisfied.” And Uncle Philip would have made a diversion from the path to give George his favourite swing, quite up to the second branch of the great pear-tree.

“Pray let George swing himself for once, brother. Hold your tongue, George! You are a very troublesome boy, and your uncle and I are busy. It is about your own affairs, brother, that I want to open my mind to you. As for your always remaining here, as you kindly hinted just now—”

“I did not mean to hint,” said Philip; “I thought I had spoken quite plainly.”

“Well, well. We all know how to appreciate the kindness of your intentions, I am sure: but your happiness must not be sacrificed to the good of any of us here. We can take care of one another: but, as it is impossible that you should find a companion for life here, and as it is time you were thinking of settling, we must not be selfish, and detain you among us when you should be creating an interest elsewhere. Mr. Rowland and I are extremely anxious to see you happily married, brother; and indeed we feel it is time you were thinking about it.”

“I am glad of that, sister. I am somewhat of the same opinion myself.”

“I rejoice to hear it,” replied the lady, in a rather uneasy tone. “We have been delighted to hear of these frequent visits of yours to the Buchanans’. There is a strong attraction there, I fancy, Philip.”

“Joe Buchanan is the attraction to me there. If you mean Caroline, she has been engaged these three years to her brother’s friend, Annesley.”

“You do not say so! But you did not know it?”

“I have known it these two years, under the seal of secrecy. Ah! sister, I have had many an hour’s amusement at your schemes on my behalf about Caroline Buchanan.”

“I have been quite out, I see. When do you go to the Bruces’, to make the visit you were disappointed of at Christmas?”

“When they return from the Continent, where they are gone for three years. Miss Mary is out of reach for three years, sister.”

“Out of reach! You speak as if Paris—or Rome, if you will—was in Australia. And even in Australia one can hardly speak of people being out of reach.”

“If one wishes to overtake them,” said Mr. Enderby: “whereas, I can wait very well for the Bruces till they come home again. Now, no more, sister! I cannot stand and hear the young ladies of my acquaintance catalogued as a speculation for my advantage. I could not look them in the face again after having permitted it.”

“There is somebody in the schoolroom, I declare!” cried the lady, as if astonished. And she stood looking from afar at the summer-house, in which three heads were distinctly visible.

“Were you not aware of that before? Did you suppose I was asleep there, or writing poetry all alone, or what? The Miss Ibbotsons are there, and Miss Young.”

“You remind me,” said the lady, “of something that I declared to Mr. Rowland that I would speak to you about. My dear brother, you should have some compassion on the young ladies you fall in with.”

“I thought your great anxiety just now was that the young ladies should have compassion upon me.”

“One, Philip; the right one. But you really have no mercy. You are too modest to be aware of the mischief you may be doing. But let me entreat you not to turn the head of a girl whom you cannot possibly think seriously of.”

“Whom do you mean?”

“You may be making even more mischief than flattering the poor girl with vain hopes. If you once let it get into the heads of the Greys that any one belonging to us could think of marrying into their connection, you do not know the trouble you will impose upon Mr. Rowland and me.”

“Does Rowland say so?”

“Does he say so? one would think—Dear me! brother, there is nothing one might not think from your manner. You terrify me.”

“Have you a pocket-mirror about you?” asked Philip. “I should like to see what this terrible manner of mine is like.”

“Now, pray, no joking, Philip. I declare my nerves will not bear it. But I tell you what, Philip: if you let your old admiration of beauty carry you away, and make you forget yourself so far as to dream of marrying into that connection, you will repent it as long as you live. I shall never forgive you; and you will kill our poor dear mother.”

“I will ask her whether she thinks so,” said Philip, “and I give you my word of honour that I will not kill my mother.”

“Girls seem to think that beauty is everything,” continued the angry lady, “and so do their connections for them. I declare Mrs. Grey sits winking at my mother when Miss Ibbotson has a colour, as if nobody ever saw a good complexion before. I declare it makes me sick. Now, Philip, you have been fairly warned; and if you fall into the trap, you will not deserve any consideration from me.”

“I have let you lay down the law to me, sister, in your own way, because I know your way. Say what you please to me of myself and my affairs, and a joke is the worst that will come of it. But I tell you gravely, that I will not hear of traps—I will not hear imputations like those you have just spoken against these young ladies or their connections, without rebuke. You can know nothing of the Miss Ibbotsons which can justify this conversation.”

“I shall soon believe you are in love,” cried the lady, in high resentment.

“Only take care what grounds you go upon before you speak and act, sister. In my turn, I give you fair warning how you take any measures against them, even in your own inmost mind, without being quite sure what you are about.”

“You do not say now that you do not mean to have that girl?” cried Mrs. Rowland, fixing her fiery eyes upon her brother’s face.

“Why should I? You have not set about obtaining my confidence in any way which could succeed. If I am in love, it would not be easy to own it upon such unwarrantable pressure. If I am not in love—”

“Ah! If you are not—”

“In that case I am disinclined to make my not caring for them the condition on which those young ladies may receive your civilities. These civilities are due to them, whatever I may feel or intend; and my respect for them is such that I shall keep my mind to myself.”

“At least,” said the lady, somewhat humbled, “do not be so much with them. For my sake, do not go into the schoolroom again.”

“I am sorry I cannot oblige you,” said he, smiling, “but I must go at this moment:—not to sit down—not to speak five words, however—but only to get my hat. I have to go into the village, on an errand for the children. Can I do anything for you in the village?”

“She thinks only of Hester, it is plain,” thought he. “If I am to have any more lectures and advice, I hope they will proceed on the same supposition: it will make my part easier, and save my being driven to assert my own will, and so plunging poor Priscilla into hysterics. I can bear her interference, as long as Margaret’s name is not on her lips. The moment she casts an evil eye on her, I shall speak to Rowland; which I had much rather avoid. It would be delicious, too, to be her protector, without her knowing it—to watch over her as she walks in her bright innocence—to shield her—but from whom? From my own sister? No! no! better keep her out of suspicion: better let it pass that it is really Hester. Hester has plenty of friends to stand by her. The Greys are so proud of her beauty, they have no eyes or ears but for her. People who meddle with concerns they have no business with, are strangely blind—they make odd mistakes, from running away with notions of their own, prepared beforehand. Here is everybody determined that we shall all fall in love with Hester. Priscilla has jumped to her conclusion at once—perhaps in emulation of Mrs. Grey. Mrs. Grey has clearly given Hester to Hope, in her own mind. I rather think Hope would be obliged to her if she would not show so plainly what is in her thoughts. I fear so—I may be jealous—but I am afraid Hope and I are too much of the same mind about these girls. I will stand up for Mrs. Grey, as long as I live, if she proves right here. She shall wink and nod for evermore, and I will justify her, if Hope turns out to be in love with Hester. I will be the first to congratulate him, if he succeeds with her: and really he would be a happy fellow. She is a lovely creature; and how she will love whenever she does love! She would be a devoted wife. Why cannot he see the matter so, and leave my Margaret to me? Now, how will she look up as I go in?”

His vision of Margaret’s looks remained a vision. No one was in the schoolroom but Miss Young, writing a letter.

“They are not here!” said Mr. Enderby.

“No; they are gone with Mrs. Grey into the village, I believe.”

“Oh, well, I only came for my hat. You are in the children’s secret, of course, Miss Young?”

“About their feast. Yes, I believe I know all about it.”

“I am going to ask some important questions for them at the confectioner’s. You will not object to my bringing them a few good things?”

“I? Oh, no.”

“I would not act in so serious a matter without asking you. Can I be of any use to you in the village? Or perhaps you may want some pens mended before I go?”

“No, I thank you.”

“Then I will not interrupt your letter any longer. Good morning.”

It was a wonder that the letter was written at all. When Maria had done leaning back in her chair, and had taken up her pen again, she was disturbed by painful sounds from Mrs. Rowland’s garden. The lady’s own Matilda, and precious George, and darling Anna, were now pronounced to be naughty, wilful, mischievous, and, finally, to be combined together to break their mamma’s heart. It was clear that they were receiving the discharge of the wrath which was caused by somebody else. Now a wail, now a scream of passion, went to Maria’s heart. She hastened on with her letter, in the hope that Mrs. Rowland would presently go into the house, when the little sufferers might be invited into the schoolroom, to hear a story, or have their ruffled tempers calmed by some other such simple means.

“What a life of discipline this is!” thought Maria. “We all have it, sooner or later. These poor children are beginning early. If one can but help them through it! There she goes in, and shuts the door behind her! Now I may call them hither, and tell them something or another about Una and her lion.”

At the well-known sound of Miss Young’s lame step, the little ones all came about her. One ashamed face was hid on her shoulder; another was relieved of its salt tears; and the boy’s pout was first relaxed, and then forgotten.