"Here I must cease my gossip. I regularly begin my letters with the intention of telling you all that I hear and see out of my profession but I invariably stop short, as I do now, from disgust at the nonsense I should have to write. It is endurable enough to witness; for one thing quickly dismisses another, and some relief occurs from the more amiable or intellectual qualities of the parties concerned: but I hate detail in writing; and I never do get through the whole list of particulars that I believe you would like to have. You must excuse me now, and take my word for it, in the large, that we are all pretty much what we were when you saw us three years ago, except of course, being three years older, and some few of us three years wiser. It will be a satisfaction to you also to know that my practice has made a very good growth for the time. You liked my last year's report of it. It has increased more since that time than even during the preceding year; and I have no further anxiety about my worldly prospects. I am as well satisfied with my choice of an occupation in life as ever. Mine has its anxieties, and desagremens, as others have: but I am convinced I could not have chosen better. You saw, when you were with me, something of the anxiety of responsibility; what it is, for instance, to await the one or the other event of a desperate case: and I could tell you a good deal that you do not and cannot know of the perils, and troubles attendant upon being the depository of so much domestic and personal confidence as my function imposes upon me the necessity of receiving. I sometimes long to be able to see nothing but what is apparent to all in society; to perceive what is ostensible, and to dream of nothing more,—not exactly like children, but like the members of large and happy families, who carry about with them the purity and peace of their homes, and therefore take cognisance of the pure and peaceful only whom they meet abroad; but it is childish, or indolent, or cowardly, to desire this. While there is private vice and wretchedness, and domestic misunderstanding, one would desire to know it, if one can do anything to cure or alleviate it. Dr Levitt and I have the same feeling about this; and I sometimes hope that we mutually prepare for and aid each other's work. There is a bright side to our business, as I need not tell you. The mere exercise of our respective professions, the scientific as well as the moral interest of them, is as much to us as the theory of your business to you; and that is saying a great deal. You will not quarrel with the idea of the scientific interest of Dr Levitt's profession in his hands; for you know how learned he is in the complex science of Humanity. You remember the eternal wonder of the Greys at his liberality towards dissenters. Of that liberality he is unconscious: as it is the natural, the inevitable result of his knowledge of men,—of his having been 'hunting the waterfalls' from his youth up,—following up thought and prejudice to their fountains. When I see him bland and gay amongst us, I feel pretty confident that his greatest pleasure is the same as mine,—that of reposing in the society of the innocent, the single-hearted, the unburdened, after having seen what the dark corners of social life are. It is like coming out of a foetid cave into the evening sunshine. Of late, we have felt this in an extraordinary degree. But I must tell you in an orderly way what has happened to us. I have put off entering upon the grand subject, partly from the pleasure of keeping one's best news for the last, and partly from shyness in beginning to describe what it is impossible that you should enter into. I am well aware of your powers of imagination and sympathy: but you have not lived five years within five miles of a country village; and you can no more understand our present condition than we can appreciate your sherbet and your mountain summer-house.

"There are two ladies here from Birmingham, so far beyond any ladies that we have to boast of, that some of us begin to suspect that Deerbrook is not the Athens and Arcadia united that we have been accustomed to believe it. You can have no idea how our vanity is mortified, and our pride abased, by finding what the world can produce out of the bounds of Deerbrook. We bear our humiliation wonderfully, however. Our Verdon woods echo with laughter; and singing is heard beside the brook. The voices of children, grown and ungrown, go up from all the meadows around; and wit and wisdom are wafted over the surface of our river at eventide. The truth is, these girls have brought in a new life among us, and there is not one of us, except the children, that is not some years younger for their presence. Mr Grey deserts his business for them, like a school-boy; and Mr Rowland watches his opportunity to play truant in turn. Mrs Enderby gives dances, and looks quite disposed to lead off in person. Mrs Plumstead has grown quite giddy about sorting the letters, and her voice has not been heard further than three doors off since the arrival of the strangers. Dr Levitt is preaching his old sermons. Mrs Grey is well-nigh intoxicated with being the hostess of these ladies, and has even reached the point of allowing her drawing-room to be used every afternoon. Enderby is a fixture while they are so. Neither mother, sister, friend, nor frolic, ever detained him here before for a month together. He was going away in a fortnight when these ladies came: they have been here six weeks, and Enderby has dropped all mention of the external world. If you ask, as you are at this moment doing in your own heart, how I stand under this influence, I really cannot tell you. I avoid inquiring too closely. I enjoy every passing day too much to question it, and I let it go; and so must you.

"'But who are they?' you want to know. They are distant cousins of Mr Grey's,—orphans, and in mourning for their father. They are just above twenty, and their name is Ibbotson. 'Are they handsome?' is your next question. The eldest, Hester, is beautiful as the evening star. Margaret is very different. It does not matter what she is as to beauty, for the question seems never to have entered her own mind. I doubt whether it has often occurred to her whether she can be this, or that, or the other. She is, and there is an end of the matter. Such pure existence, without question, without introspection, without hesitation or consciousness, I never saw in any one above eight years old. Yet she is wise; it becomes not me to estimate how wise. You will ask how I know this already. I knew it the first day I saw them; I knew it by her infinite simplicity, from which all selfishness is discharged, and into which no folly can enter. The airs of heaven must have been about her from her infancy, to nourish such health of the soul. What her struggle is to be in life I cannot conceive, for not a morbid tendency is to be discerned. I suppose she may be destined to make mistakes,—to find her faith deceived, her affections rebuked, her full repose delayed. If, like the rest of us, she be destined to struggle, it must be to conflict of this kind; for it is inconceivable that any should arise from herself. Yet is she as truly human as the weakest of us,—engrossed by affection, and susceptible of passion. Her affection for her sister is a sort of passion. It has some of the features of the serene guardianship of one from on high; but it is yet more like the passionate servitude—of the benefited to a benefactor, for instance—which is perhaps the most graceful attitude in which our humanity appears. Where are the words that can tell what it is to witness, day by day, the course of such a life as this?—to see, living and moving before one's eyes, the very spirit that one had caught glimpses of, wandering in the brightest vistas of one's imagination, in the holiest hours of thought! Yet is there nothing fearful, as in the presence of a spirit; there is scarcely even a sense of awe, so childlike is her deportment. I go, grave and longing to listen; I come away, and I find I have been talking more than any one; revealing, discussing, as if I were the teacher and not the learner,—you will say the worshipper. Say it if you will. Our whole little world worships the one or the other. Hester is also well worthy of worship. If there were nothing but her beauty, she would have a wider world than ours of Deerbrook at her feet. But she has much more. She is what you would call a true woman. She has a generous soul, strong affections, and a susceptibility which interferes with her serenity. She is not exempt from the trouble and snare into which the lot of women seems to drive them,—too close a contemplation of self, too nice a sensitiveness, which yet does not interfere with devotedness to others. She will be a devoted wife: but Margaret does not wait to be a wife to be devoted. Her life has been devotedness, and will be to the end. If she were left the last of her race, she would spend her life in worshipping the unseen that lay about her, and would be as unaware of herself as now.

"What a comfort it is to speak freely of them! This is the first relief of the kind I have had. Every one is praising them; every one is following them: but to whom but you can I speak of them? Even to you, I filled my first sheet with mere surface matter. I now wonder how I could. As for the 'general opinion' of Deerbrook on the engrossing subject of the summer, you will anticipate it in your own mind,—concluding that Hester is most worshipped, on account of her beauty, and that Margaret's influence must be too subtle and refined to operate on more than a few. This is partly, but not wholly the case. It has been taken for granted from the beginning, by the many, that Hester is to be exclusively the adored; and Enderby has, I fancy, as many broad hints as myself of this general conclusion. But I question whether Enderby assents, any more than myself. Margaret's influence may be received as unconsciously as it is exerted, but it is not, therefore, the less real, while it is the more potent. I see old Jem Bird raise himself up from the churchyard bench by his staff, and stand uncovered as Hester passes by; I see the children in the road touch one another, and look up at her; I see the admiration which diffuses itself like sunshine around her steps: all this homage to Hester is visible enough. But I also see Sydney Grey growing manly, and his sisters amiable, under Margaret's eye. I fancy I perceive Enderby—But that is his own affair. I am sure I daily witness one healing and renovating process which Margaret is unconsciously effecting. There is no one of us so worthy of her, so capable of appreciating her, as Maria Young: they are friends, and Maria Young is becoming a new creature. Health and spirit are returning to that poor girl's countenance: there is absolutely a new tone in her voice, and a joyous strain in her conversation, which I, for one, never recognised before. It is a sight on which angels might look down, to see Margaret, with her earnest face, listening humbly, and lovingly serving the infirm and much-tried friend whom she herself is daily lifting up into life and gladness. I have done with listening to abuse of life and the world. I will never sit still under it again. If there are two such as these sisters, springing out of the bosom of a busy town, and quietly passing along their path of life, casting sanctity around them as they go,—if there are two such, why not more? If God casts such seeds of goodness into our nook, how do we know but that he is sowing the whole earth with it? I will believe it henceforth.

"You will wonder, as I have wondered many a time within the last six weeks, what is to become of us when we lose these strangers. I can only say, 'God help us!' But that time is far off. They came for several months, and no one hints at their departure yet. They are the most unlearned creatures about country life that you can conceive, with a surpassing genius for country pleasures. Only imagine the charm of our excursions! They are never so happy as when in the fields or on the river; and we all feel ourselves only too blest in being able to indulge them. Our mornings are all activity and despatch, that our afternoons may be all mirth, and our evenings repose. I am afraid this will make you sigh with mingled envy and sympathy; but whatever is that can be told, you may rely upon it that I shall tell you, trusting to your feeling both pleasure and pain in virtuous moderation.

"I have done my story; and now I am going to look what o'clock it is— a thing I have refrained from, in my impulse to tell you all. The house is quite still, and I heard the church clock strike something very long just now; but I would not count. It is so. It was midnight that the clock struck. I shall seal this up directly. I dare not trust my morning—my broad daylight mood with it. Now, as soon as you have got thus far, just take up your pen, and answer me, telling me as copiously of your affairs as I have written of ours. Heaven bless you.

"Yours ever,

"Edward Hope."

It was not only Mr Hope's broad daylight mood which was not to be trusted with this letter. In this hour of midnight a misgiving seized upon him that it was extravagant. He became aware, when he laid down his pen, that he was agitated. The door of his room opened into the garden. He thought he would look out upon the night. It was the night of the full moon. As he stood in the doorway, the festoons of creepers that dangled from his little porch waved in the night breeze; long shadows from the shrubs lay on the grass; and in the depth of one of these shadows glimmered the green spark of a glow-worm. It was deliciously cool and serene. Mr Hope stood leaning against the door-post, with his arms folded, and was not long in settling the question whether the letter should go.

"Frank will think that I am in love," he considered. "He will not understand the real state of my feeling. He will think that I am in love. I should conclude so in his place. But what matters it what he infers and concludes? I have written exactly what I thought and felt at the moment, and it is not from such revelations that wrong inferences are usually drawn. What I have written is true; and truth carries safely over land and sea—more safely than confidence compounded with caution. Frank deserves the simplest and freshest confidence from me. I am glad that no hesitation occurred to me while I wrote. It shall go—every word of it."

He returned to his desk, sealed and addressed the letter, and placed it where it was sure to be seen in the morning, and carried to the post-office before he rose.



CHAPTER NINE.

CHILD'S PLAY.

The afternoon arrived when the children were to have their feast in the summer-house. From the hour of dinner the little people were as busy as aldermen's cooks, spreading their table. Sydney thought himself too old for such play. He was hard at work, filling up the pond he had dug in his garden, having tried experiments with it for several weeks, and found that it never held water but in a pouring rain. While he was occupied with his spade, his sisters and the little Rowlands were arranging their dishes, and brewing their cowslip-tea.

"Our mamma is coming," said Fanny to Matilda: "is yours?"

"No; she says she can't come—but papa will."

"So will our papa. It was so funny at dinner. Mr Paxton came in, and asked whether papa would ride with him; and papa said it was out of the question; it must be to-morrow; for he had an engagement this afternoon."

"A very particular engagement, he said," observed Mary: "and he smiled at me so, I could not help laughing. Fanny, do look at Matilda's dish of strawberries! How pretty!"

"There's somebody coming," observed little Anna, who, being too young to help, and liable to be tempted to put her fingers into the good things, was sent to amuse herself with jumping up and down the steps.

"There now! That is always the way, is not it, Miss Young?" cried Fanny. "Who is it, George? Mr Enderby? Oh, do not let him come in yet! Tell him he must not come this half-hour."

Mr Enderby chose to enter, however, and all opposition gave way before him.

"Pray don't send me back," said he, "till you know what I am come for. Now, who will pick my pockets?"

Little Anna was most on a level with the coat pocket. She almost buried her face in it as she dived, the whole length of her arm, to the very bottom. George attacked its fellow, while the waistcoat pockets were at the mercy of the taller children. A number of white parcels made their appearance, and the little girls screamed with delight.

"Miss Young!" cried Fanny, "do come and help us to pick Mr Enderby's pockets. See what I have got—the very largest of all!"

When every pocket had been thoroughly picked without Miss Young's assistance, the table did indeed show a goodly pile of white cornucopia,—that most agitating form of paper to children's eyes. When opened, there was found such a store of sweet things as the little girls had seldom before seen out of the confectioner's shop. Difficulties are apt to come with good fortune; and the anxious question was now asked, how all these dainties were to be dished up. Miss Young was, as usual, the friend in need. She had before lent two small china plates of her own; and she now supplied the further want. She knew how to make pretty square boxes out of writing-paper; and her nimble scissors and neat fingers now provided a sufficiency of these in a trice. Uncle Philip was called upon, as each was finished, to admire her skill; and admire he did, to the children's entire content.

"Is this our feast, Mr Enderby?" inquired Mary, finally, when Anna had been sent to summon the company. "May we say it is ours?"

"To be sure," cried Fanny. "Whose else should it be?"

"It is all your own, I assure you," said Mr Enderby. "Now, you two should stand at the head of the table, and Matilda at the foot."

"I think I had better take this place," said Sydney, who had made his appearance, and who thought much better of the affair now that he saw Mr Enderby so much interested in it. "There should always be a gentleman at the bottom of the table."

"No, no, Sydney," protested Mr Enderby; "not when he has had no cost nor trouble about the feast. March off. You are only one of the company. Stand there, Matilda, and remember you must look very polite. I shall hide behind the acacia there, and come in with the ladies."

A sudden and pelting shower was now falling, however; and instead of hiding behind a tree, Mr Enderby had to run between the house and the schoolroom, holding umbrellas over the ladies' heads, setting clogs for them, and assuring Mrs Grey at each return that the feast could not be deferred, and that nobody should catch cold. Mr Grey was on the spot; to give his arm to Mrs Enderby, who had luckily chanced to look in,—a thing which "she really never did after dinner." Mr Hope had been seen riding by, and Mrs Grey had sent after him to beg he would come in. Mr Rowland made a point of being present: and thus the summer-house was quite full,—really crowded.

"I am glad Mrs Rowland keeps away," whispered Mrs Grey to Sophia. "She would say it is insufferably hot."

"Yes; that she would. Do not you think we might have that window open? The rain does not come in on that side. Did you ever see such a feast as the children have got? I am sure poor Elizabeth and I never managed such a one. It is really a pity Mrs Rowland should not see it. Mr Rowland should have made her come. It looks so odd, her being the only one to stay away!"

The room resounded with exclamations, and admiration, and grave jokes upon the children. Notwithstanding all Uncle Philip could do, the ingenuous little girls answered to every compliment—that Mr Enderby brought his, and that that and the other came out of Uncle Philip's pocket. They stood in their places, blushing and laughing, and served out their dainties with hands trembling with delight.

Maria's pleasure was, as usual, in observing all that went on.

She could do this while replying, quite to the purpose, to Mrs Enderby's praise of her management of the dear children, and to George's pressing offers of cake; and to Mr Rowland's suspicions that the children would never have accomplished this achievement without her, as indeed he might say of all their achievements; and to Anna's entreaty that she would eat a pink comfit, and then a yellow one, and then a green one; and to Mrs Grey's wonder where she could have put away all her books and things, to make so much room for the children. She could see Mr Hope's look of delight when Margaret declined a cup of chocolate, and said she preferred tasting some of the cowslip-tea. She saw how he helped Mary to pour out the tea, and how quietly he took the opportunity of getting rid of it through the window behind Margaret, when she could not pretend to say that she liked it. She observed Mr Rowland's somewhat stiff politeness to Hester, and Mr Enderby's equal partition of his attentions between the two sisters. She could see Mrs Grey watching every strawberry and sugar-plum that went down the throats of the little Rowlands, and her care, seconded by Sophia's, that her own children should have an exactly equal portion of the good things. She believed, but was not quite sure, that she saw Hester's colour and manner change as Mr Hope came and went, in the course of his service about the table; and that once, upon receiving some slight attention from him, she threw a hasty glance towards her sister, and turned quite away upon meeting her eye.

The rain had not prevented the servants from trying to amuse themselves with witnessing the amusement of the family. They were clustered together under umbrellas at the window nearest the stables, where they thought they should be least observed. Some commotion took place among them, at the same moment that an extraordinary sound became audible, from a distance, above the clatter of plates, and the mingling of voices, in the summer-house.

"What in the world is that noise?" asked Margaret.

"Only somebody killing a pig," replied Sydney, decidedly.

"Do not believe him," said Mr Enderby. "The Deerbrook people have better manners than to kill their pigs in the hearing of ladies on summer afternoons."

"But what is it? It seems coming nearer."

"I once told you," said Mr Enderby, "that we possess an inhabitant, whose voice you might know before her name. I suspect it is that same voice which we hear now."

"A human voice! Impossible!"

"What is the matter, Alice?" Mrs Grey asked of her maid out of the window.

"Oh, ma'am, it is Mrs Plumstead! And she is coming this way, ma'am. She will be upon us before we can get to the house. Oh, ma'am, what shall we do?"

Mrs Grey entreated permission of the ladies to allow the maid-servants to come into the summer-house. Their caps might be torn from their heads before they could defend themselves, she said, if they remained outside. Of course, leave was given instantly, and the maids crowded in, with chattering teeth and many a tale of deeds done by Mrs Plumstead, in her paroxysms of rage.

The children shared the panic, more or less: and not only they. Mr Grey proposed to put up the shutters of the windows nearest to the scene of action; but it was thought that this might draw on an attack from the virago, who might let the party alone if she were left unnoticed by them. She was now full in sight, as, with half Deerbrook at her heels, she pursued the object of her rage through the falling shower, and amidst the puddles in front of the stables. Her widow's cap was at the back of her head, her hair hanging from beneath it, wet in the rain: her black gown was splashed to the shoulders; her hands were clenched; her face was white as her apron, and her vociferations were dreadful to hear. She was hunting a poor terrified young countrywoman, who, between fright and running, looked ready to sink.

"We must put a stop to this," cried Mr Grey and Mr Rowland, each speaking to the other. It ended with their issuing forth together, looking as dignified as they could, and placing themselves between the scold and her victim. It would not do. They could not make themselves heard; and when she shook her fist in their faces, they retired backwards, and took refuge among their party, bringing the victim in with them, however. Mr Enderby declared this retreat too bad, and was gone before the entreaties of his little nieces could stop him. He held his ground longer; and the dumb show he made was so energetic as to cause a laugh in the summer-house, in the midst of the uneasiness of his friends, and to call forth shouts of mirth from the crowd at the virago's heels.

"That will not do. It will only exasperate her the more," said Mr Hope, pressing his way to the door. "Let me pass, will you?"

"Oh, Mr Hope! Oh, sir!" said Alice, "don't go! Don't think of going, sir! She does not mind killing anybody, I assure you, sir."

"Oh, Mr Hope, don't go!" cried almost everybody. Maria was sure she heard Hester's voice among the rest. The young countrywoman and the children grasped the skirts of his coat; but he shook them off, laughing, and went. Little Mary loved Mr Hope very dearly. She shot out at the door with him, and clasped her hands before Mrs Plumstead, looking up piteously, as if to implore her to do Mr Hope no harm. Already, however, the vixen's mood had changed. At the first glimpse of Mr Hope, her voice sank from being a squall into some resemblance to human utterance. She pulled her cap forward, and a tinge of colour returned to her white lips. Mr Enderby caught up little Mary and carried her to her mamma, crying bitterly. Mr Hope might safely be left to finish his conquest of the otherwise unconquerable scold. He stood still till he could make himself heard, looking her full in the face; and it was not long before she would listen to his remonstrance, and even at length take his advice, to go home and compose herself. He went with her, to ensure the good behaviour of her neighbours, and had the satisfaction of seeing her lock herself into her house alone before he returned to his party.

"It is as you told me," said Margaret to Mr Enderby; "Mr Hope's power extends even to the temper of the Deerbrook scold. How she began to grow quiet directly! It was like magic."

Mr Enderby smiled; but there was some uneasiness in his smile.

The countrywoman was commended to the servants, to be refreshed, and dismissed another way. There was no further reason for detaining her when it appeared that she really could give no account of how she had offended Mrs Plumstead in selling her a pound of butter. It remained to console little Mary, who was still crying,—more from grief for Mrs Plumstead than from fear, Maria thought, though Mrs Grey was profuse in assurances to the child that Mrs Plumstead should not be allowed to frighten her any more. All the children seemed so depressed and confounded, that their guests exerted themselves to be merry again, and to efface, as far as was possible, the impression of the late scene. When Mr Hope returned, he found Mr Grey singing his single ditty, about Dame Dumshire and her crockery-ware, amidst great mirth and unbounded applause. Then Mrs Enderby was fluttered, and somewhat flattered, by an entreaty that she would favour the company with one of the ballads, for which she had been famous in her time. She could not refuse on such an occasion,—if indeed she had ever been able to refuse what she was told would give pleasure. She made her son choose for her what she should sing; and then followed a wonderful story of Giles Collins, who loved a lady: Giles and the lady both died of true love; Giles was laid in the lower chancel, and the lady in the higher; from the one grave grew a milk-white rose, and from the other a briar, both of which climbed up to the church top, and there tied themselves into a true-lover's knot, which made all the parish admire. At this part, Anna was seen looking up at the ceiling; but the rest had no eyes but for Mrs Enderby, as she gazed full at the opposite wall, and the shrill, quavering notes of the monotonous air were poured out, and the words were as distinct as if they were spoken.

"Is that true, grandmamma?" asked Anna, when all was over.

"You had better ask the person who made the song, my dear. I did not make it."

"But did you ever see that church with the briar growing in it, before the sexton cut it down?"

"Do not let us talk any more about it," said Philip, solemnly. "I wonder grandmamma dares sing such a sad song."

"Why, you asked her, Uncle Philip."

"Oh, ay, so I did. Well, we are much obliged to her; and now we will have something that is not quite so terrible.—Miss Grey, you will favour us with a song?"

Sophia's music-books were all in the house, and she could not sing without. Mr Enderby would fetch some, if she would give him directions what to bring. No; she could not sing without the piano. As it was clearly impossible to bring that, Philip feared the company must wait for the pleasure of hearing Miss Grey till another time. Mr Grey would have Hester and Margaret sing; and sing they did, very simply and sweetly, and much to the satisfaction of all present. One thing led on to another; they sang together,—with Mr Grey,—with Mr Enderby; Mr Hope listening with an unlearned eagerness, which made Mrs Grey wink at her husband, and nod at Sophia, and exchange smiles with Mrs Enderby. They proceeded to catches at last; and when people really fond of music get to singing catches in a summer-house, who can foresee the end?

"'Fair Enslaver!'" cried Mr Enderby. "You must know 'Fair Enslaver:' there is not a sweeter catch than that. Come, Miss Ibbotson, begin; your sister will follow, and I—"

But it so happened that Miss Ibbotson had never heard 'Fair Enslaver.' Margaret knew it, she believed; but she did not. With a gay eagerness, Mr Enderby turned round to Maria, saying that he knew she could sing this catch; and everybody was aware that when she had the power of doing a kindness, she never wanted the will;—he remembered that she could sing 'Fair Enslaver.' He might well remember this, for often had they sung it together. While several of the company were saying they did not know Miss Young could sing, and the children were explaining that she often sang at her work, Mr Enderby observed some signs of agitation in Maria, and hastened to say,—"You had rather not, perhaps. Pray do not think of it. I will find something else in a moment. I beg your pardon: I was very inconsiderate."

But Maria thought she had rather not accept the consideration; and besides, the children were anxious that she should sing. She bore her part in a way which made Mr Rowland and Mrs Grey agree that she was a very superior young woman indeed; that they were singularly fortunate to have secured her for their children; and that she was much to be pitied.

"I think Miss Young has got a little cold, though," observed Sydney. "Her voice is not in the least husky when she sits singing here by herself.—Father! look there! there are all the servants huddled together under the window again, to listen to the singing."

This was true; and the rain was over. It was presently settled that the schoolroom should be evacuated by the present party; that the children should be allowed to invite the servants in, to dispense to them the remains of the feast; and that Miss Young must favour Mrs Grey with her company this evening.

Mr Rowland was obliged to return home to business; but, before his friends dispersed, he must just say that Mrs Rowland and he had never, for a moment, given up the hope of the pleasure of entertaining them at dinner in the Dingleford woods; and, as the rains were now daily abating, he might perhaps be allowed to name Wednesday of the next week as the day of the excursion. He hoped to see the whole of the present company, from the oldest to the youngest,—bowing, as he spoke, to Mrs Enderby and to his own little daughter Anna. This was one of Mr Rowland's pieces of independent action. His lady had given him no commission to bring the affair to an issue; and he returned home, involuntarily planning what kind of an unconcerned face and manner he should put on, while he told her what he had done.



CHAPTER TEN.

A PARTY OF PLEASURE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am afraid something is the matter," said Margaret.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you done with Morris yet, my dears?"

"Morris, you may go," said Hester, steadily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What kind of accident?" inquired Margaret.

"Is he killed?" asked Hester.

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

"What is thought of his state?" asked Margaret.

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

"Yes but what do the medical men say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You feared what?" asked Hester, quickly, looking up.

"I feared that some accident had happened to Mr Hope."

"So did I."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you think there is no hope?"

"Consider his state."

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

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

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

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

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

"I betray you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Insolent to you! How? Why?"

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

"What views?"

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

"Well, but what views?" persisted Margaret.

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

"Insolent creature! Did she say that to you?"

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

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

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

"Well! what was her finish?"

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

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

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

"I do not believe it is true," repeated Margaret.

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

MEDIATION.

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.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

A TURN IN THE SHRUBBERY.

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.