Deerbrook

Chapter One.

Moonlight to Townsfolk.

Table of Contents

The moment the door closed behind Sophia, as she left the sisters in their apartment, Hester crossed the room with a step very like a dance, and threw up the window.

I had rather look out than sleep, said she. I shall be ashamed to close my eyes on such a prospect. Morris, if you are waiting for us, you may go. I shall sit up a long while yet.

Morris thought she had not seen Hester in such spirits since her father’s death. She was unwilling to check them, but said something about the fatigues of the journey, and being fresh for the next day.

No fear for to-morrow, Morris. We are in the country, you know, and I cannot fancy being tired in the fields, and in such a park as that. Good-night, Morris.

When she too was gone, Hester called Margaret to her, put her arm round her waist, and kissed her again and again.

You seem happy to-night, Hester, said Margaret’s gentle voice.

Yes, sighed Hester; more like being happy than for a long time past. How little we know what we shall feel! Here have I been dreading and dreading this evening, and shrinking from the idea of meeting the Greys, and wanting to write at the last moment to say that we would not come;—and it turns out—Oh, so differently! Think of day after day, week after week of pure country life! When they were planning for us to-night, and talking of the brook, and lanes, and meadows, it made my very heart dance.

Thank God! said Margaret. When your heart dances, there is nothing left to wish.

But did not yours? Had you ever such a prospect before—such a prospect of delicious pleasure for weeks together—except perhaps when we caught our first sight of the sea?

Nothing can ever equal that, replied Margaret. Do not you hear now the shout we gave when we saw the sparkles on the horizon—heaving sparkles—when we were a mile off, and mamma held me up that I might see it better; and baby—dear baby—clapped his little hands? Does it not seem like yesterday?

Like yesterday: and yet, if baby had lived, he would now have been our companion, taking the place of all other friends to us. I thought of him when I saw Sydney Grey; but he would have been very unlike Sydney Grey. He would have been five years older, but still different from what Sydney will be at eighteen—graver, more manly.

How strange is the idea of having a brother! said Margaret. I never see girls with their brothers but I watch them, and long to feel what it is, just for one hour. I wonder what difference it would have made between you and me, if we had had a brother.

You and he would have been close friends—always together, and I should have been left alone, said Hester, with a sigh. Oh, yes, she continued, interrupting Margaret’s protest, it would have been so. There can never be the same friendship between three as between two.

And why should you have been the one left out? asked Margaret. But this is all nonsense—all a dream, she added. The reality is that baby died—still a baby—and we know no more of what he would have been, than of what he is. The real truth is, that you and I are alone, to be each other’s only friend.

It makes me tremble to think of it, Margaret. It is not so long since our home seemed full. How we used all to sit round the fire, and laugh and play with papa, as if we were not to separate till we had all grown old: and now, young as we are, here we are alone! How do we know that we shall be left to each other?

There is only one thing we can do, Hester, said Margaret, resting her head on her sister’s shoulder. We must make the most of being together while we can. There must not be the shadow of a cloud between us for a moment. Our confidence must be as full and free, our whole minds as absolutely open, as—as I have read and heard that two minds can never be.

Those who say so do not know what may be, exclaimed Hester. I am sure there is not a thought, a feeling in me, that I could not tell you, though I know I never could to any one else.

If I were to lose you, Hester, there are many, many things that would be shut up in me for ever. There will never be any one on earth to whom I could say the things that I can tell to you. Do you believe this, Hester?

I do. I know it.

Then you will never again doubt me, as you certainly have done sometimes. You cannot imagine how my heart sinks when I see you are fancying that I care for somebody else more than for you; when you think that I am feeling differently from you. Oh, Hester, I know every change of your thoughts by your face; and indeed your thoughts have been mistaken sometimes.

They have been wicked, often, said Hester, in a low voice. I have sometimes thought that I must be hopelessly bad, when I have found that the strongest affection I have in the world has made me unjust and cruel to the person I love best. I have a jealous temper, Margaret; and a jealous temper is a wicked temper.

Now you are unkind to yourself, Hester. I do believe you will never doubt me again.

I never will. And if I find a thought of the kind rising in me, I will tell you the moment I am aware of it.

Do, and I will tell you the moment I see a trace of such a thought in your face. So we shall be safe. We can never misunderstand each other for more than a moment.

By the gentle leave of Heaven, all human beings have visions. Not the lowest and dullest but has the coarseness of his life relieved at moments by some scenery of hope rising through the brooding fogs of his intellect and his heart. Such visitations of mercy are the privilege of the innocent, and the support of the infirm. Here were the lonely sisters sustained in bereavement and self-rebuke, by the vision of a friendship which should be unearthly in its depth and freedom; they were so happy for the hour, that nothing could disturb them.

I do not see, observed Hester, that it will be possible to enjoy any intimate intercourse with this family. Unless they are of a different order from what they seem, we cannot have much in common; but I am sure they mean to be kind, and they will let us be happy in our own way. Oh, what mornings you and I will have together in those woods! Did you ever see anything so soft as they look—in this light?

And the bend of the river glittering there! Here, a little more this way, and you will see it as I do. The moon is not at the full yet; the river will be like this for some nights to come.

And these rides and drives—I hope nothing will prevent our going through the whole list of them. What is the matter, Margaret? Why are you so cool about them?

I think all the pleasure depends upon the companionship, and I have some doubts about that. I had rather sit at work in a drawing-room all day, than go among mountains with people—

Like the Mansons; Oh, that spreading of shawls, and bustle about the sandwiches, before they could give a look at the waterfall! I am afraid we may find something of the same drawback here.

I am afraid so.

Well, only let us get out into the woods and lanes, and we will manage to enjoy ourselves there. We can contrive to digress here and there together without being missed. But I think we are judging rather hastily from what we saw this evening even about this family; and we have no right to suppose that all their acquaintance are like them.

No, indeed; and I am sure Mr. Hope, for one, is of a different order. He dropped one thing, one little saying, which proved this to my mind.

I know what you mean—about the old man that is to be our guide over that heath they were talking of—about why that heath is a different and more beautiful place to him than to us, or to his former self. Is it not true, what he said?

I am sure it is true. I have little to say of my own experience, or wisdom, or goodness, whichever it was that he particularly meant as giving a new power of sight to the old man; but I know that no tree waves to my eye as it did ten years ago, and the music of running water is richer to my ear as every summer comes round.

Yes; I almost wonder sometimes whether all things are not made at the moment by the mind that sees them, so wonderfully do they change with one’s mood, and according to the store of thoughts they lay open in one’s mind. If I lived in a desert island (supposing one’s intellect could go on to grow there), I should feel sure of this.

But not here, where it is quite clear that the village sot (if there be one), and Mr. Hope, and the children, and we ourselves all see the same objects in sunlight and moonlight, and acknowledge them to be the same, though we cannot measure feelings upon them. I wish Mr. Hope may say something more which may lead to the old man on the heath again. He is coming to-morrow morning.

Yes; we shall see him again to-morrow.

Chapter Two.

Making Acquaintance.

Table of Contents

The sisters were not so fatigued with their journey but that they were early in the open air the next morning. In the shrubbery they met the twins, walking hand in hand, each with a doll on the disengaged arm.

You are giving your dolls an airing before breakfast, said Hester, stopping them as they would have passed on.

Yes; we carry out our dolls now because we must not run before breakfast. We have made arbours in our own gardens for our dolls, where they may sit when we are swinging.

I should like to see your arbours and your gardens, said Margaret, looking round her. Will you take me to them?

Not now, answered they; we should have to cross the grass, and we must not go upon the grass before breakfast.

Where is your swing? I am very fond of swinging.

Oh! it is in the orchard there, under that large tree. But you cannot—

I see; we cannot get to it now, because we should have to cross the grass. And Margaret began to look round for any place where they might go beyond the gravel-walk on which they stood. She moved towards the greenhouse, but found it was never unlocked before breakfast. The summerhouse remained, and a most unexceptionable path led to it. The sisters turned that way.

You cannot go there, cried the children; Miss Young always has the schoolroom before breakfast.

We are going to see Miss Young, explained Hester, smiling at the amazed faces with which the children stared from the end of the path. They were suddenly seen to turn, and walk as fast as they could, without its being called running, towards the house. They were gone to their mother’s dressing-room door, to tell her that the Miss Ibbotsons were gone to see Miss Young before breakfast.

The path led for some little way under the hedge which separated Mr. Grey’s from Mr. Rowland’s garden. There were voices on the other side, and what was said was perfectly audible. Uneasy at hearing what was not meant for them, Hester and Margaret gave tokens of their presence. The conversation on the other side of the hedge proceeded; and in a very short time the sisters were persuaded that they had been mistaken in supposing that what was said was not meant for them.

My own Matilda, said a voice, which evidently came from under a lady’s bonnet which moved parallel with Hester’s and Margaret’s; My own Matilda, I would not be so harsh as to prevent your playing where you please before breakfast. Run where you like, my love. I am sorry for little girls who are not allowed to do as they please in the cool of the morning. My children shall never suffer such restriction.

Mother, cried a rough little person, I’m going fishing with Uncle Philip to-day. Sydney Grey and I are going, I don’t know how far up the river.

On no account, my dear boy. You must not think of such a thing. I should not have a moment’s peace while you are away. You would not be back till evening, perhaps; and I should be fancying all day that you were in the river. It is out of the question, my own George.

But I must go, mother. Uncle Philip said I might; and Sydney Grey is going.

That is only another reason, my dear boy. Your uncle will yield to my wishes, I am sure, as he always does. And if Mrs. Grey allows her son to run such risks, I am sure I should not feel myself justified. You will stay with me, love, won’t you? You will stay with your mother, my own boy.

George ran roaring away, screaming for Uncle Philip; who was not at hand, however, to plead his cause.

My Matilda, resumed the fond mother, you are making yourself a sad figure. You will not be fit to show yourself at breakfast. Do you suppose your papa ever saw such a frock as that? There! look—dripping wet! Pritchard, take Miss Matilda, and change all her clothes directly. So much for my allowing her to run on the grass while the dew is on! Lose no time, Pritchard, lest the child should catch cold. Leave Miss Anna with me. Walk beside me, my Anna. Ah! there is papa. Papa, we must find some amusement for George today, as I cannot think of letting him go out fishing. Suppose we take the children to spend the morning with their cousins at Dingleford?

To-morrow would suit me better, my love, replied the husband. Indeed I don’t see how I can go to-day, or you either. And Mr. Rowland lowered his voice, so as to show that he was aware of his liability to be overheard.

Oh, as to that, there is no hurry, replied the lady, aloud. If I had nothing else to do, I should not make that call to-day. Any day will do as well.

As Hester and Margaret looked at each other, they heard the gentleman softly say Hush! But Mrs. Rowland went on as audibly as ever.

There is no reason why I should be in any hurry to call on Mrs. Grey’s friends, whoever and whatever they may be. Any day will do for that, my dear.

Not having been yet forbidden to run before breakfast, Hester and Margaret fled to the summer-house, to avoid hearing any more of the domestic dialogues of the Rowland family.

What shall we do when that woman calls? said Hester. How will it be possible to speak to her?

As we should speak to any other indifferent person, replied Margaret. Her rudeness is meant for Mrs. Grey, not for us; for she knows nothing about us: and Mrs. Grey will never hear from us what has passed.—Shall we knock?

In answer to the knock, they were requested to enter. Miss Young rose in some confusion when she found her visitors were other than her pupils: but she was so lame that Hester made her sit down again, while they drew seats for themselves. They apologised for breaking in upon her with so little ceremony, but explained that they were come to be inmates at Mr. Grey’s for some months, and that they wished to lose no time in making themselves acquainted with every resort of the family of which they considered themselves a part. Miss Young was evidently pleased to see them. She closed her volume, and assured them they were welcome to her apartment; For, said she, everybody calls it my apartment, and why should not I?

Do you spend all your time here? asked Hester.

Almost the whole day. I have a lodging in the village; but I leave it early these fine mornings, and stay here till dark. I am so lame as to make it inconvenient to pass over the ground oftener than is necessary; and I find it pleasanter to see trees and grass through every window here, than to look out into the farrier’s yard—the only prospect from my lodging. The furnace and sparks are pretty enough on a winter’s evening, especially when one is too ill or too dismal to do anything but watch them; but at this season one grows tired of old horse-shoes and cinders; and so I sit here.

To the sisters there seemed a world of desolation in these words. They were always mourning for having no brother. Here was one who appeared to be entirely alone. From not knowing exactly what to say, Margaret opened the book Miss Young had laid aside. It was German—Schiller’s Thirty Years’ War. Every one has something to say about German literature; those who do not understand it asking whether it is not very mystical, and wild, and obscure; and those who do understand it saying that it is not so at all. It would be a welcome novelty if the two parties were to set about finding out what it is to be mystical—a point which, for aught that is known to the generality, is not yet ascertained. Miss Young and her visitors did not enter upon precise definitions this morning. These were left for a future occasion. Meantime it was ascertained that Miss Young had learned the German language by the aid of dictionary and grammar alone, and also that if she should happen to meet with any one who wished to enjoy what she was enjoying, she should be glad to afford any aid in her power. Hester was satisfied with thanking her. She was old enough to know that learning a new language is a serious undertaking. Margaret was somewhat younger, and ready for any enterprise. She thought she saw before her hours of long mornings, when she should be glad to escape from the work-table to Miss Young’s companionship and to study. The bright field of German literature seemed to open before her to be explored. She warmly thanked Miss Young, and accepted her offered assistance.

So you spend all your days alone here, said she, looking round upon the rather bare walls, the matted floor, the children’s desks, and the single shelf which held Miss Young’s books.

Not exactly all the day alone, replied Miss Young; the children are with me five hours a day, and a set of pupils from the village comes to me besides, for a spare hour of the afternoon. In this way I see a good many little faces every day.

And some others too, I should hope; some besides little faces?

Miss Young was silent. Margaret hastened on—

I suppose most people would say here what is said everywhere else about the nobleness and privilege of the task of teaching children. But I do not envy those who have it to do. I am as fond of children as any one; but then it is having them out to play on the grass, or romping with them in the nursery, that I like. When it becomes a matter of desks and school-books, I had far rather study than teach.

I believe everybody, except perhaps mothers, would agree with you, said Miss Young, who was now, without apology, plying her needle.

Indeed! then I am very sorry for you.

Thank you; but there’s no need to be sorry for me. Do you suppose that one’s comfort lies in having a choice of employments? My experience leads me to think the contrary.

I do not think I could be happy, said Hester, to be tied down to an employment I did not like.

Not to a positively disgusting one. But I am disposed to think that the greatest number of happy people may be found busy in employments that they have not chosen for themselves, and never would have chosen.

I am afraid these very happy people are haunted by longings to be doing something else.

Yes: there is their great trouble. They think, till experience makes them wiser, that if they were only in another set of circumstances, if they only had a choice what they would do, a chance for the exercise of the powers they are conscious of, they would do such things as should be the wonder and the terror of the earth. But their powers may be doubted, if they do not appear in the conquest of circumstances.

So you conquer these giddy children, when you had rather be conquering German metaphysicians, or—, or—, what else?

There is little to conquer in these children, said Miss Young; they are very good with me. I assure you I have much more to conquer in myself, with regard to them. It is but little that I can do for them; and that little I am apt to despise, in the vain desire to do more.

How more?

If I had them in a house by myself, to spend their whole time with me, so that I could educate, instead of merely teaching them. But here I am doing just what we were talking of just now—laying out a pretty-looking field of duty, in which there would probably be as many thorns as in any other. Teaching has its pleasures—its great occasional, and small daily pleasures, though they are not to be compared to the sublime delights of education.

You must have some of these sublime delights mixed in with the humbler. You are, in some degree, educating these children while teaching them.

Yes: but it is more a negative than a positive function, a very humble one. Governesses to children at home can do little more than stand between children and the faults of the people about them. I speak quite generally.

Is such an occupation one in which anybody can be happy?

Why not, as well as in making pins’ heads, or in nursing sick people, or in cutting square blocks out of a chalk pit for thirty years together, or in any other occupation which may be ordained to prove to us that happiness lies in the temper, and not in the object of a pursuit? Are there not free and happy pin-makers, and sick-nurses, and chalk-cutters?

Yes: but they know how much to expect. They have no idea of pin-making in itself being great happiness.

Just so. Well: let a governess learn what to expect; set her free from a hankering after happiness in her work, and you have a happy governess.

I thought such a thing was out of the order of nature.

Not quite. There have been such, though there are strong influences against it. The expectations of all parties are unreasonable; and those who are too humble, or too amiable, to be dissatisfied with others, are discontented with themselves, when the inevitable disappointment comes. There is a great deal said about the evils of the position of a governess—between the family and the servants—a great deal said that is very true, and always will be true, while governesses have proud hearts, like other people: but these are slight evils in comparison with the grand one of the common failure of the relation.—There! do you hear that bell?

What is it? The breakfast bell?

Yes. You must go. I would not be understood as inviting you here; for it is not, except upon sufferance, my room; and I have no inducement to offer. But I may just say, that you will always be welcome.

Always? said Margaret. In and out of school hours?

In and out of school hours, unless your presence should chance to turn my pupils’ heads. In that case, you will not be offended if I ask you to go away.

Mary and Fanny had just reported in the breakfast-parlour, that the Miss Ibbotsons had been such a time with Miss Young! when Hester and Margaret entered. The testimony there was all in favour of Miss Young. Mr. Grey called her a most estimable young woman; and Mrs. Grey declared that, though she could not agree with her on all points, and decidedly thought that she overrated Matilda Rowland’s talents, she was convinced that her children enjoyed great advantages under her care. Sophia added, that she was very superior—quite learned. Mrs. Grey further explained that, though now so much at ease on the subject of her daughters’ education, no one could have an idea of the trouble she had had in getting the plan arranged. It had seemed a pity that the Rowlands and her children should not learn together: it was such an advantage for children to learn together! But Mrs. Rowland had made a thousand difficulties. After breakfast, she would show her young friends the room which she had proposed should be the schoolroom—as airy and advantageous in every way as could be imagined: but Mrs. Rowland had objected that she could not have Matilda and George come out in all weathers—as if they would have had to walk a mile, instead of just the sweep of the gravel-walk! Mrs. Rowland had proposed that her back-parlour should be the schoolroom: but really it was not to be thought of—so small and close, and such a dull room for Miss Young! The gentlemen had been obliged to take it up at last. Nobody could ever find out which of them it was that had thought of the summerhouse, though she was satisfied in her own mind that Mr. Rowland was not in the habit of having such clever ideas; but, however, it was soon settled. The summer-house was so exactly on the boundary-line between the two gardens, that really no objection had been left for Mrs. Rowland to make. She came as near to it as she could, however; for she had had the walk covered in at great expense from her garden door to the summer-house, when everybody knew she did not mind her children getting wet at other times on the grass before the dew was off.

And the covered way is quite an eyesore from the drawing-room windows, added Sophia.

Quite, said Mrs. Grey; and it can be seen from ours, as I dare say you observed last night. But I have no doubt that entered into her calculations when she had it made.

Mr. Grey inquired about the arrangements for the morning, and whether he could be of any service. It happened to be a leisure morning with him, and he did not know when he might have another at command. Sophia reminded her father that it would be impossible for the ladies of the family to go out, when they were expecting the neighbours to call: and this brought on another speculation as to who would call—and especially when the Rowlands might be looked for. Hester and Margaret believed they could have settled this matter; but they forbore to speak of what they had overheard. They began to wonder whether the subject of Mrs. Rowland was to be served up with every meal, for a continuance; and Hester found her anticipations of delight in a country life somewhat damped, by the idea of the frowning ghost of the obnoxious lady being for ever present.

Chapter Three.

Morning Calls.

Table of Contents

The little girls had been dismissed to the schoolroom before Mr. Grey had finally pushed away his tea-cup. Not being wanted by the ladies, he walked off to his timber-yard, and his wife followed to ask him some question not intended for the general ear. Sophia was struck with a sudden panic at being left alone with the strangers, and escaped by another door into the store-room. As the last traces of the breakfast things vanished, Hester exclaimed—

So we may please ourselves, it seems, as to what we are to do with our morning!

I hope so, said Margaret. Do let us get down to the meadow we see from our window—the meadow that looks so flat and green! We may very well take two hours’ grace before we need sit down here in form and order.

Hester was willing, and the bonnets were soon on. As Margaret was passing down stairs again, she saw Mrs. Grey and Sophia whispering in a room, the door of which stood open. She heard it shut instantly, and the result of the consultation soon appeared. Just as the sisters were turning out of the house, Sophia ran after them to say that mamma wished they would be so good as to defer their walk; mamma was afraid that if they were seen abroad in the village, it would be supposed that they did not wish to receive visitors: mamma would rather that they should stay within this morning. There was nothing for it but to turn back; and Hester threw down her bonnet with no very good grace, as she observed to her sister that, to all appearance, a town life was more free than a country one, after all.

Let us do our duty fully this first morning, said Margaret. Look, I am going to carry down my work-bag; and you shall see me sit on the same chair from this hour till dinner-time, unless I receive directions to the contrary.

The restraint did not amount to this. Hester’s chair was placed opposite to Mrs. Grey, who seemed to have pleasure in gazing at her, and in indulging in audible hints and visible winks and nods about her beauty, to every lady visitor who sat near her. Margaret might place herself where she pleased. In the intervals of the visits of the morning, she was treated with a diversity of entertainments by Sophia, who occasionally summoned her to the window to see how Matilda Rowland was allowed to run across the road to her grandmamma’s, without so much as a hat upon her head—to see Jim Bird, the oldest man in the parish (believed to be near a hundred), who was resting himself on the bank of the hedge—to see the peacock which had been sent as a present from Sir William Hunter to Mr. James, the lawyer, and which was a great nuisance from its screaming—to say whether the two little Reeves, dropping their curtseys as they went home from school, were not little beauties—and, in short, to witness all the village spectacles which present themselves before the windows of an acute observer on a fine spring morning. The young ladies had to return to their seats as often as wheels were heard, or the approach of parasols was discerned.

Among the earliest visitors were Mrs. Enderby and her redoubtable son, Mr. Philip. Mrs. Enderby was a bright-eyed, brisk, little old lady, who was rather apt to talk herself quite out of breath, but who had evidently a stronger tendency still; and that was, to look on the bright side of everything and everybody. She smiled smiles full of meaning and assent in return for Mrs. Grey’s winks about Hester’s beauty; and really cheered Hester with accounts of how good everybody was at Deerbrook. She was thankful that her maid Phoebe was better; she knew that Mrs. Grey would not fail to inquire; really Phoebe was very much better; the influenza had left sad effects, but they were dispersing. It would be a pity the girl should not quite recover, for she was a most invaluable servant—such a servant as is very rarely to be met with. The credit of restoring her belonged to Mr. Hope, who indeed had done everything. She supposed the ladies would soon be seeing Mr. Hope. He was extremely busy, as everybody knew—had very large practice now; but he always contrived to find time for everything. It was exceedingly difficult to find time for everything. There was her dear daughter, Priscilla (Mrs. Rowland, whose husband was Mr. Grey’s partner); Priscilla devoted her life to her children (and dear children they were); and no one who knew what she did for her children would expect anything more from her; but, indeed, those who knew best, she herself, for instance, were fully satisfied that her dear Priscilla did wonders. The apology for Mrs. Rowland, in case she should not call, was made not without ingenuity. Hester fully understood it; and Mrs. Grey showed by her bridling that it was not lost upon her either.

Mr. Enderby, meanwhile, was behaving civilly to Margaret and Sophia; that is to say, he was somewhat more than merely civil to Margaret, and somewhat less to Sophia. It was obviously not without reason that Sophia had complained of his hauteur. He could not, as Sydney had pleaded, help being tall; but he might have helped the excessive frigidity with which he stood upright till invited to sit down. The fact was, that he had reason to believe that the ladies of Mr. Grey’s family made very free with his sister’s name and affairs; and though he would have been sorry to have been obliged to defend all she said and did, he felt some very natural emotions of dislike towards those who were always putting the worst construction upon the whole of her conduct. He believed that Mr. Grey’s influence was exerted on behalf of peace and good understanding, and he thought he perceived that Sydney, with the shrewdness which some boys show very early, was more or less sensible of the absurdity of the feud between the partners’ wives and daughters; and towards these members of the Grey family, Mr. Enderby felt nothing but good-will; he talked politics with Mr. Grey in the shrubbery after church on Sunday, executed commissions for him in London, and sent him game: and Sydney was under obligations to him for many a morning of sport, and many a service such as gentlemen who are not above five-and-twenty and its freaks can render to boys entering their teens. Whatever might be his opinion of women generally, from the particular specimens which had come in his way, he had too much sense and gentlemanly feeling to include Mrs. Grey’s guests in the dislike he felt towards herself, or to suppose that they must necessarily share her disposition towards his relations. Perhaps he felt, unknown to himself some inclination to prepossess them in favour of his connections; to stretch his complaisance a little, as a precaution against the prejudices with which he knew Mrs. Grey would attempt to occupy their minds. However this might be, he was as amicable with Margaret as his mother was with her sister.

He soon found out that the strangers were more interested about the natural features of Deerbrook than about its gossip. He was amused at the earnestness of Margaret’s inquiries about the scenery of the neighbourhood, and he laughingly promised that she should see every nook within twenty miles.

People always care least about what they have just at hand, said he. I dare say, if I were to ask you, you have never seen a glass-bottle blown, or a tea-tray painted?

If I have, said Margaret, I know many ladies in Birmingham who have not.

You will not be surprised, then, if you find some ladies in Deerbrook who do not ride, and who can tell you no more of the pretty places near than if they had been brought up in Whitechapel. They keep their best sights for strangers, and not for common use. I am, in reality, only a visitor at Deerbrook. I do not live here, and never did; yet I am better able to be your guide than almost any resident. The ladies, especially, are extremely domestic: they are far too busy to have ever looked about them. But I will speak to Mr. Grey, and—

Oh, pray, do not trouble Mr. Grey! He has too much business on his hands already; and he is so kind, he will be putting himself out of his way for us; and all we want is to be in the open air in the fields.

‘All you want!’ very like starlings in a cage; and he looked as if he was smiling at the well-known speech of the starling; but he did not quote it. My mother is now saying that Mr. Hope finds time for everything: and she is right. He will help us. You must see Hope, and you must like him. He is the great boast of the place, next to the new sign.

Is the sign remarkable, or only new?

Very remarkable for ingenuity, if not for beauty. It is ‘The Bonnet so Blue:’—a lady’s bonnet of blue satin, with brown bows, or whatever you may call the trimming when you see it; and we are favoured besides with a portrait of the milliner, holding the bonnet so blue. We talk nearly as much of this sign as of Mr. Hope; but you must see them both, and tell us which you like best.

We have seen Mr. Hope. He was here yesterday evening.

Well, then, you must see him again; and you must not think the worse of him for his being praised by everybody you meet. It is no ordinary case of a village apothecary.

Margaret laughed; so little did Mr. Hope look like the village apothecary of her imagination.

Ah, I see you know something of the predilection of villagers for their apothecary—how the young people wonder that he always cures everybody; and how the old people could not live without him; and how the poor folks take him for a sort of magician; and how he obtains more knowledge of human affairs than any other kind of man. But Hope is, though a very happy man, not this sort of privileged person. His friends are so attached to him that they confide to him all their own affairs; but they respect him too much to gossip at large to him of other people’s. I see you do not know how to credit this; but I assure you, though the inhabitants of Deerbrook are as accomplished in the arts of gossip as any villagers in England, Hope knows little more than you do at this moment about who are upon terms and who are not.

My sister and I must learn his art of ignorance, said Margaret. If it be really true that the place is full of quarrels, we shall be afraid to stay, unless we can contrive to know nothing about them.

Oh, do not suppose we are worse than others who live in villages. Since our present rector came, we have risen somewhat above the rural average of peace and quiet.

And the country has always been identical with the idea of peace and quiet to us town-bred people! said Margaret.

And very properly, in one sense. But if you leave behind the din of streets for the sake of stepping forth from your work-table upon a soft lawn, or of looking out upon the old church steeple among the trees, while you hear nothing but bleating and chirping, you must expect some set-off against such advantages: and that set-off is the being among a small number of people, who are always busy looking into one another’s small concerns.

But this is not a necessary evil, said Margaret. From what you were saying just now, it appears that it may be avoided.

From what I was saying about Hope. Yes; such an one as Hope may get all the good out of every situation, without its evils; but—

But nobody else, said Margaret, smiling. Well, Hester and I must try whether we cannot have to do with lawns and sheep for a few months, without quarrelling or having to do with quarrels.

And what if you are made the subject of quarrels? asked Mr. Enderby. How are you to help yourselves, in that case?

How does Mr. Hope help himself in that case?

It remains to be seen. As far as I know, the whole place is agreed about him at present. Every one will tell you that never was society so blessed in a medical man before;—from the rector and my mother, who never quarrel with anybody, down to the village scold. I am not going to prepossess you against even our village scold, by telling her name. You will know it in time, though your first acquaintance will probably be with her voice.

So we are to hear something besides bleating and chirping?

A tremendous knock at the door occurred, as if in answer to this. All the conversation in the room suddenly stopped, and Mr. and Mrs. Rowland walked in.

This is my sister, Mrs. Rowland, observed Mr. Enderby to Margaret.

This is my daughter Priscilla, Mrs. Rowland, said Mrs. Enderby to Hester.

Both sisters were annoyed at feeling timid and nervous on being introduced to the lady. There is something imposing in hearing a mere name very often, in the proof that the person it belongs to fills a large space in people’s minds: and when the person is thus frequently named with fear and dislike, an idea is originated of a command over powers of evil which makes the actual presence absolutely awful. This seemed now to be felt by all. Sophia had nothing to say: Mrs. Grey’s head twitched nervously, while she turned from one to another with slight remarks: Mrs. Enderby ran on about their having all happened to call at once, and its being quite a family party in Mrs. Grey’s parlour; and Mr. Philip’s flow of conversation had stopped. Margaret thought he was trying to help laughing.

The call could not be an agreeable one. The partners’ ladies quoted their own children’s sayings about school and Miss Young, and Miss Young’s praise of the children; and each vied with the other in eulogium on Miss Young, evidently on the ground of her hopes of Fanny and Mary on the one hand, and of Matilda, George, and Anna, on the other. Mrs. Enderby interposed praises of all the children, while Mr. Rowland engaged Hester’s attention, calling off her observation and his own from the sparring of the rival mothers. Philip informed Margaret at length, that George was a fine little fellow, who would make a good sportsman. There was some pleasure in taking such a boy out fishing. But Mr. Philip had lighted on a dangerous topic, as he soon found. His sister heard what he was saying, and began an earnest protest against little boys fishing, on account of the danger, and against any idea that she would allow her George to run any such risks. Of course, this made Mrs. Grey fire up, as at an imputation upon her care of her son Sydney; and before the rest of the company could talk down the dispute, it bore too much of the appearance of a recrimination about the discharge of maternal duties. Margaret thought that, but for the relationship, Mrs. Rowland might fairly be concluded to be the village scold alluded to by Mr. Enderby. It was impossible that he could have been speaking of his sister; but Deerbrook was an unfortunate place if it contained a more unamiable person than she appeared at this moment. The faces of the two ladies were still flushed with excitement when Mr. Hope came in. The sisters thought he appeared like a good genius, so amiable did the party grow on his entrance. It seemed as if he was as great a favourite with the Rowlands as with the other family; so friendly was the gentleman, and so gracious the lady; while Mr. Hope was, to all appearance, unconscious of the existence of any unpleasant feelings among his neighbours. The talk flowed on about the concerns of personages of the village, about the aspect of public affairs, about the poets of the age, and what kind of poetry was most read in Deerbrook, and how the Book Society went on, till all had grown cordial, and some began to propose to be hospitable. Mrs. Rowland hoped for the honour of seeing the Miss Ibbotsons one day the next week, when Mr. Rowland should have returned from a little excursion of business. Mrs. Enderby wondered whether she could prevail on all her young friends to spend an evening with her before her son left Deerbrook; and Mrs. Grey gave notice that she should shortly issue her invitations to those with whom she wished her young cousins to become better acquainted.

All went right for the rest of the morning. When the Enderbys and Rowlands went away, the Levitts came. When Dr. Levitt inquired about the schools of Birmingham, it could not but come out that Hester and Margaret were dissenters. Yet, as they were desired to observe, he did not seem in the least shocked, and his manner was just as kind to them after this disclosure as before. He was pronounced a very liberal man. Mr. Hope was asked to stay to dinner, and Mrs. Grey complacently related the events of the morning to her husband as he took his place at table. Deerbrook had done its duty to Hester and Margaret pretty well for the first day. Everybody of consequence had called but the Andersons, and they would no doubt come on Sunday.

Chapter Four.

The Meadows.

Table of Contents

The afternoon was the time when Miss Young’s pupils practised the mysteries of the needle. Little girls are not usually fond of sewing. Till they become clever enough to have devices of their own, to cut out a doll’s petticoat, or contrive a pin-cushion to surprise mamma, sewing is a mere galling of the fingers and strain upon the patience. Every wry stitch shows, and is pretty sure to be remarked upon: the seam or hem seems longer the oftener it is measured, till the little work-woman becomes capable of the enterprise of despatching a whole one at a sitting; after which the glory is found to ameliorate the toil, and there is a chance that the girl may become fond of sewing.

Miss Young’s pupils had not arrived at this stage. It was a mystery to them that Miss Young could sit sewing, as fast as her needle could fly, for the whole afternoon, and during the intervals of their lessons in the morning. It was in vain that she told them that some of her pleasantest hours were those which she passed in this employment: and that she thought they would perhaps grow as fond of work as their sister Sophia before they were as old as she. With languid steps did the twins return to the house this afternoon for another pair of shirt-sleeves, and to show mamma the work they had finished. Hand in hand, as usual, and carrying up for judgment their last performance, they entered the house. In a very different mood did they return. Running, skipping, and jumping, they burst again into the summer-house.

Miss Young, oh, Miss Young, we are to have a holiday!

Mamma sends her compliments to you, Miss Young, and she hopes you will give us a holiday. It is a fine afternoon, she thinks, and my cousins have never gathered cowslips; and we are all going into the meadow for a cowslip-gathering; and Mr. Hope will come to us there. He has to go somewhere now, but he will come to us before we have half done.

Matilda Rowland looked fall of dismay till she was told that Mrs. Grey hoped she would be of the party, and begged that she would, go directly and ask her mamma’s leave.

What a quantity of cowslips we shall get! observed Mary, as she took down Fanny’s basket from the nail on which it hung, and then her own. We are each to have a basket, mamma says, that we may not quarrel. What shall we do with such a quantity of cowslips?

Make tea of them, to be sure, replied Fanny. We may dry them in this window, may not we, Miss Young? And we will give you some of our cowslip-tea.

Miss Young smiled and thanked them. She did not promise to drink any of the promised tea. She had a vivid remembrance of the cowslip-drying of her young days, when the picked flowers lay in a window till they were laced all over with cobwebs; and when they were at length popped into the teapot with all speed, to hide the fact that they were mouldy. She remembered the good-natured attempts of her father and mother to swallow a doll’s cupful of her cowslip-tea, rather than discourage the spirit of enterprise which, now that she had lost those whom she loved, was all that she had to trust to.

Fanny, said Mary, with eyes wide open, cannot we have a feast here for my cousins, when we make our cowslip-tea?

A feast! Oh, that would be grand! replied Fanny. I have a shilling, and so have you; and we could buy a good many nice things for that: and Matilda Rowland will lend us her doll’s dishes to put with ours. Miss Young, will you let us have our feast here, one afternoon? We will ask my cousins, without telling them anything; and they will be so surprised!

Miss Young promised everything, engaged not to tell, smoothed their hair, tied their bonnets, and sent them away quite happy with their secret.

Such a holiday as this was one of Miss Young’s few pleasures. There were several occasions in the year when she could make sure beforehand of some hours to herself. Her Sundays were much occupied with the Sunday-school, and with intercourse with poor neighbours whom she could not meet on any other day: but Christmas-day, the day of the annual fair of Deerbrook, and two or three more, were her own. These were, however, so appropriated, long before, to some object, that they lost much of their character of holidays. Her true holidays were such as the afternoon of this day—hours suddenly set free, little gifts of leisure to be spent according to the fancy of the moment. Let none pretend to understand the value of such whose lives are all leisure; who take up a book to pass the time; who saunter in gardens because there are no morning visits to make; who exaggerate the writing of a family letter into important business. Such have their own enjoyments: but they know nothing of the paroxysm of pleasure of a really hardworking person on hearing the door shut which excludes the business of life, and leaves the delight of free thoughts and hands. The worst part of it is the having to decide how to make the most of liberty. Miss Young was not long in settling this point. She just glanced up at her shelf of books, and down upon her drawing-board, and abroad through the south window, and made up her mind. The acacia with its fresh bunches of blossoms was waving above the window, casting in flickering shadows upon the floor: the evergreens of the shrubbery twinkled in the sun, as the light breeze swept over them: the birds were chirruping all about, and a yellow butterfly alighted and trembled on the window-sill at the moment. It was one of the softest and gayest days of spring; and the best thing was to do nothing but enjoy it. She moved to the south window with her work, and sewed or let the wind blow upon her face as she looked out.

The landscape was a wide one. Far beyond, and somewhat below the garden and shrubberies in which the summerhouse stood, flat meadows stretched to the brink of the river, on the other side of which were the park woods. All was bathed in the afternoon sunshine, except where a tree here and there cast a flake of shadow upon the grass of the meadows.

It is a luxury, thought the gazer, "for one who cannot move about to sit here and look abroad. I wonder whether I should have been with the party if I had not been lame. I dare say something would have taken off from the pleasure if I had. But how well I can remember what the pleasure is! the jumping stiles—the feel of the turf underfoot—the running after every flower—the going wherever one has a fancy to go—how well I remember it all! And yet it gives me a sort of surprise to see the activity of these children, and how little they are aware of what their privilege is. I fancy, however, the pleasure is more in the recollection of all such natural enjoyments than at the moment. It is so with me, and I believe with everybody. This very landscape is more beautiful to me in the dark night when I cannot sleep, than at this very moment, when it looks its best and brightest: and surely this is the great difference between that sort of pleasures and those which come altogether from within. The delight of a happy mood of mind is beyond everything at the time; it sets one above all that can happen; it steeps one in heaven itself; but one cannot recall it: one can only remember that it was so. The delight of being in such a place as those woods is generally more or less spoiled at the time by trifles which are forgotten afterwards;—one is hungry, or tired, or a little vexed with somebody, or doubtful whether somebody else is not vexed; but then the remembrance is purely delicious—brighter in sunshine, softer in shade—wholly tempered to what is genial. The imagination is a better medium than the eye. This is surely the reason why Byron could not write poetry on Lake Leman, but found he must wait till he got within four walls. This is the reason why we are all more moved by the slightest glimpses of good descriptions in books than by the amplitude of the same objects before our eyes. I used to wonder how that was, when, as a child, I read the openings of scenes and books in ‘Paradise Lost.’ I saw plenty of summer sunrises; but none of them gave me a feeling like the two lines:—

" ‘Now morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime

Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl.’

"If all this be so, our lot is more equalised than is commonly thought. Once having received pictures into our minds, and possessing a clear eye in the mind to see them with, the going about to obtain more is not of very great consequence. This comforts one for prisoners suffering carcere duro, and for townspeople who cannot often get out of the streets; and for lame people like me, who see others tripping over commons and through fields where we cannot go. I wish there was as much comfort the other way—about such as suffer from unhappy moods of mind, and know little of the joy of the highest. It would be a small gain to them to fly like birds—to see like the eagle itself.—Oh, there are the children! So that is their cowslip meadow! How like children they all look together, down on the grass!—gathering cowslips, I suppose. The two in black are more eager about it than Sophia. She sits on the stile while they are busy. The children are holding forth to their cousins—teaching them something, evidently. How I love to overlook people—to watch them acting unconsciously, and speculate for them! It is the most tempting thing in the world to contrast the little affairs one sees them busy about, with the very serious ones which await them—which await every one. There are those two strangers busy gathering cowslips, and perhaps thinking of nothing beyond the fresh pleasure of the air and the grass, and the scent of their flowers—their minds quite filled with the spirit of the spring, when who knows what may be awaiting them! Love may be just at hand. The tempest of passion may be brewing under this soft sunshine. They think themselves now as full of happiness as possible; and a little while hence, upon a few words spoken, a glance exchanged, they may be in such a heaven of bliss that they will smile at their own ignorance in being so well pleased to-day. Or—but I pray they may escape the other chance. Neither of them knows anything of that misery yet, I am confident. They both look too young, too open, too free to have really suffered.—I wonder whether it is foolish to fancy already that one of them may be settled here. It can hardly be foolish, when the thought occurs so naturally: and these great affairs of life lie distinctly under the eye of such as are themselves cut off from them. I am out of the game, and why should not I look upon its chances? I am quite alone; and why should I not watch for others? Every situation has its privileges and its obligations.—What is it to be alone, and to be let alone, as I am? It is to be put into a post of observation on others: but the knowledge so gained is anything but a good if it stops at mere knowledge—if it does not make me feel and act. Women who have what I am not to have, a home, an intimate, a perpetual call out of themselves, may go on more safely, perhaps, without any thought for themselves, than I with all my best consideration: but I, with the blessing of a peremptory vocation, which is to stand me instead of sympathy, ties and spontaneous action—I may find out that it is my proper business to keep an intent eye upon the possible events of other people’s lives, that I may use slight occasions of action which might otherwise pass me by. If one were thoroughly wise and good, this would be a sort of divine lot. Without being at all wiser or better than others—being even as weak in judgment and in faith as I am—something may be made of it. Without daring to meddle, one may stand clear-sighted, ready to help.—How the children are flying over the meadow towards that gentleman who is fastening his horse to the gate! Mr. Hope, no doubt. He is the oldest cowslip gatherer of them all, I fancy. If one could overhear the talk in every house along the village, I dare say some of it is about Mr. Hope winning one of these young ladies. If so, it is only what I am thinking about myself. Every one wishes to see Mr. Hope married—every one, even to the servants here, who are always disputing whether he will not have Miss Sophia, or whether Miss Sophia is not to make a grander match. Sophia will not do for