By the time the little breakfast-room had been duly visited, and it had been explained that the other small parlour must necessarily be kept for a waiting-room for Mr Hope's patients, and the young ladies had returned to the drawing-room, Maria was in full flow of sympathy with the housekeeping interests and ideas which occupied, or rather amused, her companion. Women do inevitably love housekeeping, unless educational or other impediments interfere with their natural tastes. Household management is to them the object of their talents, the subject of their interests, the vehicle of their hopes and fears, the medium through which their affections are manifested, and much of their benevolence gratified. If it be true, as has been said, that there is no good quality of a woman's heart and mind which is not necessary to perfect housekeeping, it follows that there is no power of the mind or affection of the heart which may not be gratified in the course of its discharge. As Margaret and her guest enjoyed their pheasant, their table drawn close to the sofa and the fire, that Maria might be saved the trouble of moving, their talk was of tradespeople, of shopping at Deerbrook, and the market at Birmingham; of the kitchen and store-room, and the winter and summer arrangements of the table. The foot-boy, whom Margaret was teaching to wait, often forgot his function, and stood still to listen, and at last left the room deeply impressed with the wisdom of his instructor and her guest. When the dinner and the wine were gone, they sang, they gossiped, they quizzed. The Greys were sacred, of course; but many an anecdote came out, told honestly and with good-nature, of dear old Mrs Enderby, and her talent for being pleased; of Mrs Rowland's transactions abroad and at home—all regulated by the principle of eclipsing the Greys; and of Mrs Howell's and Miss Miskin's fine sentiments, and extraordinary pieces of news. Margaret produced some of her brother-in-law's outlines, which she had picked up and preserved—sketches of the children, in the oddest attitudes of children—of Dr Levitt, resting his book on the end of his nose, as he read in his study-chair—of Mrs Plumstead, exasperated by the arrival of an illegible letter—of almost every oddity in the place. Then out came the pencils, and the girls supplied omissions. They sketched Mr Hope himself; listening to an old woman's theory of her own case; they sketched each other. Mr Enderby was almost the only person omitted altogether, in conversation and on paper.

"Where can I have hidden my work bag?" asked Maria, after tea.

"You laid it beside you, and I put it away," said Margaret. "I wanted to see whether you could spend a whole afternoon without the feel of your thimble. You shall have it again now, for you never once asked for it between dinner and tea."

"I forgot it: but now you must give it me. I must finish my collar, or I shall not duly honour your sister in my first call. We can talk as well working as idle."

"Cannot I help you? Our affairs are all in such dreadfully perfect order, that I have not a stitch of work to do. I see a hole in your glove: let me mend it."

"Do; and when you have done that, there is the other. Two years hence, how you will wonder that there ever was a time when you had not a stitch of work in the house! Wedding clothes last about two years, and then they all wear out together. I wish you joy of the work you will have to do then—if nothing should come between you and it."

"What should come between us and it?" said Margaret, struck by the tone in which Maria spoke the last words. "Are you following Morris's lead? Are you going to say,—'Remember death, Miss Margaret?'"

"Oh, no; but there are other things which happen sometimes besides death. I beg your pardon, Margaret, if I am impertinent—"

"How should you be impertinent? You, the most intimate friend but one that I have in the world! You mean marriage of course; that I may marry within these same two years? Any one may naturally say so, I suppose, to a girl whose sister is just married: and in another person's case it would seem to me probable enough, but I assure you, Maria, I do not feel as if it was at all likely that I should marry."

"I quite believe you, Margaret. I have no doubt you feel so, and that you will feel so till—. But, dear, you may one day find yourself feeling very differently without a moment's warning; and that day may happen within two years. Such things have been known."

"If there was any one—" said Margaret, simply—"if I had ever seen any one for whom I could fancy myself feeling as Hester did—"

"If there was any one!"—repeated Maria, looking up in some surprise. "My dear Margaret, do you mean to say there is no one?"

"Yes, I do; I think so. I know what you mean, Maria. I understand your face and your voice. But I do think it is very hard that one cannot enjoy a pleasant friendship with anybody without seeing people on the watch for something more. It is so very painful to have such ideas put into one's mind, to spoil all one's intercourse—to throw restraint over it—to mix up selfishness with it! It is so wrong to interfere between those who might and would be the most useful and delightful companions to each other, without having a thought which need put constraint between them! Those who so interfere have a great deal to answer for. They do not know what mischief they may be doing—what pain they may be giving while they are gossiping, and making remarks to one another about what they know nothing at all about. I have no patience with such meddling!"

"So I perceive, indeed," replied Maria, somewhat amused. "But, Margaret, you have been enlarging a good deal on what I said. Not a syllable was spoken about any remarks, any observations between any people; or even about reference to any particular person. I alone must be subject to all this displeasure, and even I did not throw out a single hint about any friend of yours."

"No, you did not; that is all very true," said Margaret, blushing: "but neither was I vexed with you;—at least, not so much as with some others. I was hasty."

"You were, indeed," said Maria, laughing. "I never witnessed such an outburst from you before."

"And you shall not see such another; but I was answering less what you said than what I have reason to suppose is in the minds of several other people."

"In their minds? They have not told you their thoughts, then. And several other people, too! Why, Margaret, I really think it is not very reasonable in you to find fault with others for thinking something which they have not troubled you to listen to, and which is so natural, that it has struck 'several' of them. Surely, Margaret, you must be a little, just a very little, touchy upon the matter."

"Touchy! What should make me touchy?"

"Ay, what?"

"I do assure you, Maria, nothing whatever has passed between that person and me which has anything more than the commonest—No, I will not say the commonest friendship, because I believe ours is a very warm and intimate friendship; but indeed it is nothing more. You may be sure that, if it had been otherwise, I should not have said a word upon the whole matter, even to you; and I would not have allowed even you to speak ten words to me about it. Are you satisfied now?"

"I am satisfied that you any what you think."

"Oh, Maria! what a sigh! If you have no objection, I should like to know the meaning of that sigh."

"I was thinking of 'the course of true love.'"

"But not that it 'never does run smooth.' That is not true. Witness Hester's."

"Dear Margaret, be not presumptuous! Consider how early the days of that love are yet."

"And that love in their case has only just leaped out of the fountain, and can hardly be said to have begun its course. Well! may Heaven smile on it! But tell me about that course of love which made you sigh as you did just now."

"What can I tell you about it? And yet, you shall know, if you like, how it appears to me."

"Oh, tell me! I shall see whether you would have understood Hester's case."

"The first strange thing is, that every woman approaches this crisis of her life as unawares as if she were the first that ever loved."

"And yet all girls are brought up to think of marriage as almost the only event in life. Their minds are stuffed with thoughts of it almost before they have had time to gain any other ideas."

"Merely as means to ends low enough for their comprehension. It is not marriage—wonderful, holy, mysterious marriage—that their minds are full of, but connection with somebody or something which will give them money, and ease, and station, and independence of their parents. This has nothing to do with love. I was speaking of love—the grand influence of a woman's life, but whose name is a mere empty sound to her till it becomes, suddenly, secretly, a voice which shakes her being to the very centre—more awful, more tremendous, than the crack of doom."

"But why? Why so tremendous?"

"From the struggle which it calls upon her to endure, silently and alone;—from the agony of a change of existence which must be wrought without any eye perceiving it. Depend upon it, Margaret, there is nothing in death to compare with this change; and there can be nothing in entrance upon another state which can transcend the experience I speak of. Our powers can but be taxed to the utmost. Our being can but be strained till not another effort can be made. This is all that we can conceive to happen in death; and it happens in love, with the additional burden of fearful secrecy. One may lie down and await death, with sympathy about one to the last, though the passage hence must be solitary; and it would be a small trouble if all the world looked on to see the parting of soul and body: but that other passage into a new state, that other process of becoming a new creature, must go on in the darkness of the spirit, while the body is up and abroad, and no one must know what is passing within. The spirit's leap from heaven to hell must be made while the smile is on the lips, and light words are upon the tongue. The struggles of shame, the pangs of despair, must be hidden in the depths of the prison-house. Every groan must be stifled before it is heard: and as for tears—they are a solace too gentle for the case. The agony is too strong for tears."

"Is this true love?" asked Margaret, in agitation.

"This is true love; but not the whole of it. As for what follows—"

"But is this what every woman has to undergo?"

"Do you suppose that every woman knows what love really is? No; not even every unmarried woman. There are some among them, though I believe but few, who know nothing of what love is; and there are, undoubtedly, a multitude of wives who have experienced liking, preference, affection, and taken it for love; and who reach their life's end without being aware that they have never loved. There are also, I trust, a multitude of wives who have really loved, and who have reaped the best fruits of it in regeneration of soul."

"But how dreadful is the process, if it be as you say!"

"I said I had alluded to only a part of it. As for what follows, according as it is prosperous or unreturned love, heaven ensues upon this purgatory, or one may attain a middle region, somewhat dim, but serene. You wish me to be plainer?"

"I wish to hear all you think—all you know. But do not let us go on with it if it makes you sigh so."

"What woman ever spoke of love without sighing?" said Maria, with a smile. "You sighed yourself, just now."

"I was thinking of Hester, I believe. How strange, if this process really awaits women—if it is a region through which their path of life must stretch—and no one gives warning, or preparation, or help!"

"It is not so strange as at first sight it seems. Every mother and friend hopes that no one else has suffered as she did—that her particular charge may escape entirely, or get off more easily. Then there is the shame of confession which is involved: some conclude, at a distance of time, that they must have exaggerated their own sufferings, or have been singularly rebellious and unreasonable. Some lose the sense of the anguish in the subsequent happiness; and there are not a few who, from constitution of mind, forget altogether 'the things that are behind.' When you remember, too, that it is the law of nature and providence that each should bear his and her own burden, and that no warning would be of any avail, it seems no longer so strange that while girls hear endlessly of marriage, they are kept wholly in the dark about love."

"Would warning really be of no avail?"

"Of no more avail than warning to a pilgrim in the middle of the desert that he will suffer from thirst, and be deluded by the mirage, before he gets into green fields again. He has no longer the choice whether to be a pilgrim in the desert or to stay at home. No one of us has the choice to be or not to be; and we must go through with our experience, under its natural conditions."

"'To be or not to be,'" said Margaret, with a grave smile. "You remind one that the choice of suicide remains: and I almost wonder—Surely suicide has been committed from dread of lighter woes than you have described."

"I believe so: but in this case there is no dread. We find ourselves in the midst of the struggle before we are aware. And then—"

"Ay, and then—"

"He, who appoints the struggles of the spirit, supplies aids and supports. I fully believe that this time of conflict is that in which religion first becomes to many the reality, for which they ever afterwards live. It may have been hitherto a name, a fancy, a dim abstraction, or an intermitting though bright influence: and it may yet be resorted to merely as a refuge for the spirit which can find no other. But there is a strong probability that it may now be found to be a wonderful reality; not only a potent charm in sorrow, but the life of our life. This is with many the reason why, and the mode in which, the conflict is endured to the end."

"But the beginning," said Margaret; "what can be the beginning of this wonderful experience?"

"The same with that of all the most serious of our experiences—levity, unconsciousness, confidence. Upon what subject in the world is there a greater accumulation of jokes than upon love and marriage; and upon what subject are jokes so indefatigably current? A girl laughs at her companions, and blushes or pouts for herself; as girls have done for thousands of years before her. She finds, by degrees, new, and sweet, and elevated ideas of friendship stealing their way into her mind, and she laments and wonders that the range of friendship is not wider—that its action is not freer—that girls may not enjoy intimate friendship with the companions of their brothers, as well as with their own. There is a quick and strong resentment at any one who smiles at, or speculates upon, or even observes the existence of such a friendship."

"Oh, Maria!" exclaimed Margaret, throwing down her work, and covering her face with her hands.

"This goes on for a while," proceeded Maria, as if she did not observe her companion, "this goes on for a while, smoothly, innocently, serenely. Mankind are then true and noble, the world is passing fair, and God is tender and bountiful. All evil is seen to be tending to good; all tears are meant to be wiped away; the gloom of the gloomy is faithless; virtue is easy and charming; and the vice of the vicious is unaccountable. Thus does young life glide on for a time. Then there comes a day—it is often a mystery why it should be that day of all days—when the innocent, and gay, and confident young creature finds herself in sudden trouble. The film on which she lightly trod has burst and she is in an abyss. It seems a mere trifle that plunged her there. Her friend did not come when she looked for him, or he is gone somewhere, or he has said something that she did not expect. Some such trifle reveals to her that she depends wholly upon him—that she has for long been living only for him, and on the unconscious conclusion that he has been living only for her. At the image of his dwelling anywhere but by her side, of his having any interest apart from hers, the universe is, in a moment, shrouded in gloom. Her heart is sick, and there is no rest for it, for her self-respect is gone. She has been reared in a maidenly pride, and an innocent confidence: her confidence is wholly broken-down; her pride is wounded and the agony of the wound is intolerable. We are wont to say, Margaret, that everything is endurable but a sense of guilt. If there be an exception, this is it. This wounding of the spirit ought not perhaps to be, but it is very like the sting of guilt; and a 'wounded spirit who can bear?'"

"How is it borne—so many as are the sufferers, and of a class usually thought so weak?"

"That is a mistake. There is not on earth a being stronger than a woman in the concealment of her love. The soldier is called brave who cheerfully bears about the pain of a laceration to his dying day; and criminals, who, after years of struggle, unbosom themselves of their secret, give tremendous accounts of the sufferings of those years; but I question whether a woman whose existence has been burdened with an unrequited love, will not have to unfold in the next world a more harrowing tale than either of these."

"It ought not to be so."

"It ought not, where there is no guilt. But how noble is such power of self-restraint! Though the principle of society may be to cultivate our pride to excess, what fortitude grows out of it! There are no bounds to the horror, disgust, and astonishment expressed when a woman owns her love to its object unasked—even urges it upon him; but I acknowledge my surprise to be the other way—that the cases are so rare. Yet, fancying the case one's own—"

"Oh, dreadful!" cried Margaret.

"No woman can endure the bare thought of the case being her own; and this proves the strong natural and educational restraint under which we all lie: but I must think that the frequent and patient endurance proves a strength of soul, a vigour of moral power, which ought to console and animate us in the depth of our abasement, if we could but recall it then when we want support and solace most."

"It can be little estimated—little understood," said Margaret, "or it would not be sported with as it is."

"Do not let us speak of that, Margaret. You talk of my philosophy sometimes; I own that that part of the subject is too much for any philosophy I have."

"I see nothing philosophical," said Margaret, "in making light of the deepest cruelty and treachery which is transacted under the sun. A man who trifles with such affections, and abuses such moral power, and calls his cruelty flirtation—"

"Is such an one as we will not speak of now. Well! it cannot be but that good—moral and intellectual good—must issue from such exercise and discipline as this; and such good does issue often, perhaps generally. There are sad tales sung and told everywhere of brains crazed, and graves dug by hopeless love: and I fear that many more sink down into disease and death from this cause, than are at all suspected to be its victims: but not a few find themselves lifted up from their abyss, and set free from their bondage of pride and humiliation. They marry their loves and stand amazed at their own bliss, and are truly the happiest people upon earth, and in the broad road to be the wisest. In my belief, the happiest are ever so."

"Bless you for that, for Hester's sake! And what of those who are not thus released?"

"They get out of the abyss too; but they have to struggle out alone. Their condition must depend much on what they were before the conflict befell them. Some are soured, and live restlessly. Some are weak, and come out worldly, and sacrifice themselves, in marriage or otherwise, for low objects. Some strive to forget, and to become as like as possible to what they were before; and of this order are many of the women whom we meet, whose minds are in a state of perpetual and incurable infancy. It is difficult to see the purpose of their suffering, from any effects it appears to have produced: but then there is the hope that their griefs were not of the deepest."

"And what of those whose griefs are of the deepest?"

"They rise the highest above them. Some of these must be content with having learned more or less, of what life is, and of what it is for, and with reconciling themselves to its objects and conditions."

"In short, with being philosophical," said Margaret, with an inquiring and affectionate glance at her friend.

"With being philosophical," Maria smilingly agreed. "Others, of a happier nature, to whom philosophy and religion come as one, and are welcomed by energies not wholly destroyed, and affections not altogether crushed, are strong in the new strength which they have found, with hearts as wide as the universe, and spirits the gayest of the gay."

"You never told me anything of all this before," said Margaret; "yet it is plain that you must have thought much about it—that it must have been long in your mind."

"It has; and I tell it to you, that you may share what I have learned, instead of going without the knowledge, or, alas! gathering it up for yourself."

"Oh, then, it is so—it is from your own—"

"It is from my own experience that I speak," said Maria, without looking up. "And now, there is some one in the world who knows it beside myself."

"I hope you do not—I hope you never will repent having told me," said Margaret, rising and taking her seat on the sofa, beside her friend.

"I do not, and I shall not repent," said Maria. "You are faithful: and it will be a relief to me to have sympathy—to be able to speak sometimes, instead of having to deny and repress my whole heart and soul. But I can tell you no more—not one word."

"Do not. Only show me how I can comfort—how I can gratify you."

"I need no special comfort now," said Maria, smiling. "I have sometimes grievously wanted a friend to love and speak with—and if I could, to serve. Now I have a friend." And the look with which she gazed at her companion brought the tears into Margaret's eyes.

"Come, let us speak of something else," said Maria, cheerfully. "When do you expect your friend, Mr Enderby, at Deerbrook again?"

"His sister says nobody knows; and I do not think he can tell himself. You know he does not live at Deerbrook."

"I am aware of that; but his last visit was such a long one—"

"Six days," said Margaret, laughing.

"Ah! I did not mean his last week's appearance, or any of his pop visits. I was thinking of his summer visitation. It was so long, that some people began to look upon him as a resident."

"If his mother does not grow much better soon, we shall see him again," said Margaret. "It is always her illness that brings him.—Do you not believe me, Maria?"

"I believe, as before, that you say what you think. Whether you are mistaken is another question, which I cannot pretend to answer."

"I hope, Maria, that as you have placed so much confidence in me, you will not stop short at the very point which is of the greatest importance to me."

"I will not, dear. What I think on the subject of Mr Enderby, in relation to you, is, that some of your friends believe that you are the cause of his stay having been so long in the summer, and of his coming so often since. I know no more than this. How should I?"

"Then I will tell you something more, that I might as well have mentioned before. When Mrs Rowland had an idea that Mr Enderby might think of Hester, she told Hester—that miserable day in Dingleford woods—that his family expected he would soon marry a young lady of family and fortune, who was a great favourite with all his connections."

"Who may this young lady be?"

"Oh, she did not say; some one too high for our acquaintance, if we are to believe what Mrs Rowland declared."

"And do you believe it?"

"Why—. Do you?"

"I dare say Mrs Rowland may believe it herself; but she may be mistaken."

"That is exactly what Hester said," observed Margaret, eagerly. "And that was more than five months ago, and we have not heard a syllable of the matter since."

"And so intimate a friendship as yours and Mr Enderby's is," said Maria, smiling,—"it is scarcely probable that his mind should be full of such an affair, and that he should be able to conceal it so perfectly from you."

"I am glad you think so," said Margaret, ingenuously. "You cannot imagine how strange it is to see Mrs Grey and others taking for granted that he is free, when Hester and I could tell them in a moment what Mrs Rowland said. But if you think Mrs Rowland is all wrong, what do you really suppose about his coming so much to Deerbrook?"

"I have little doubt that those friends of yours—Mrs Grey and the others—are right. But—."

"But what?"

"Just this. If I might warn you by myself; I would caution you, not only against dwelling much upon such a fact, but against interpreting it to mean more than it possibly may. This is my reason for speaking to you upon the matter at all. I do it because you will be pretty sure to hear how the fact itself is viewed by others, while no one else would be likely to give you the caution. Mr Enderby may come, as you suppose, entirely to see his mother. He may come to see you: but, supposing he does, if he is like other men, he may not know his own mind yet: and, there is another possible thing—a thing which is possible, Margaret, though he is such a dear and intimate friend—that he may not know yours—all its strength of affection, all its fidelity, all its trust and power of self-control."

"Oh, stop; pray stop," said Margaret. "You frighten me with the thoughts of all you have been saying this evening, though I could so entirely satisfy you as to what our intercourse has been—though I know Mr Enderby so much better than you do. You need warn me no more. I will think of what you have said, if I find myself doubting whether he comes to see his mother—if I find myself listening to what others may suppose about his reasons. Indeed, I will remember what you have said."

"Then I am glad I ventured to say it, particularly as you are not angry with me this time."

"I am not at all angry: how could I be so? But I do not agree with you about the fact."

"I know it, and I may be mistaken."

"Now tell me," said Margaret, "what you suppose Morris meant when she said what you heard about the pleasure of solitude depending on one's thoughts being happy or otherwise. I know it is a common old idea enough; but Morris does not know that; and I am sure she had some particular instance in view. Morris does not make general propositions, except with a particular case in her mind's eye; and she is a wise woman; and we think her sayings are weighty."

"It struck me that she had a real probability in her mind; but I did not think it related to Mr Enderby, or to anything so exclusively your own concern."

"No; I hope not: but what then?"

"I think that Morris knows more of life and the world than you, and that she does not anticipate quite so much happiness from Hester's marriage as you do. Do not be distressed or alarmed. She means no mistrust of anybody, I imagine; but only that there is no perfect happiness in this life, that nobody is faultless; and no home, not even where her young ladies live, is quite free from care and trouble. It would not hurt you, surely, if she was to say this outright to you?"

"Oh, no; nor a good deal more of the same tendency. She might come much nearer to the point, good soul! without hurting me. Suppose I ask her what it was she did mean, to-night or to-morrow, when she and I are alone?"

"Well! if she is such a wise woman—. But I doubt whether you could get her nearer to the point without danger of hurting her. Can she bring herself to own that either of you have faults?"

"Oh, yes: she has never spared us, from the time we were two feet high."

"What can make you so anxious as to what she meant?"

"I really hardly know, unless it be that where one loves very much, one fears—Oh, so faithlessly! I know I ought to fear less for Hester than ever; and yet—."

The door burst open, and the foot-boy entered with his jingling tray, and news that the sedan for Miss Young was at the door. What sedan? Margaret had asked Mrs Grey for hers, as the snow had fallen heavily, and the streets were not fit for Maria's walking. Maria was very thankful.

Here was an end of Maria's bright holiday. Mr Grey's porters must not be kept waiting. The friends assured each other that they should never forget this day. It was little likely that they should.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

HOME.

Margaret had an unconscious expectation of seeing her sister altered. This is an irresistible persuasion in almost every case where an intimate friend is absent, and is under new influences, and amidst new circumstances. These accessories alter the image of the beloved one in our minds; our fancy follows it, acting and being acted upon in ways in which we have no share. Our sympathy is at fault, or we conceive it to be so; and doubt and trouble creep over us, we scarcely know why. Though the letters which come may be natural and hearty, as of old, breathing the very spirit of our friend, we feel a sort of surprise at the handwriting being quite familiar. We look forward with a kind of timidity to meeting, and fear there may be some restraint in it. When the hour of meeting comes, there is the very same face, the line of the cheek, the trick of the lip, the glance of the eye; the rise and fall of the voice are the same; and the intense familiarity makes our very spirit swim in joy. We are amazed at our previous fancy—we laugh at the solemn stiffness in which our friend stood before our mind's eye, and to relieve which we had striven to recall the ludicrous situations and merry moods, in which that form and that face had been seen; and perhaps we have no peace till we have acknowledged to the beloved one the ingenuity of our self-tormentings. Is there a girl whose heart is with her brother at college, who does not feel this regularly as the vacation comes round? Is there a parent whose child is reaping honours in the field of life, and returning childlike from time to time, to rest in the old country-home—is there such a parent who is not conscious of the misgiving and the re-assurance, as often as the absence and the re-union occur? Is there even the most trustful of wives, whose husband is on the other side of the globe, that is wholly undisturbed by the transmutation of the idol in her mind? When the husband is returning, and her hungry heart is feasting on the anticipation of his appearance, she may revel in the thought—

"And will I see his face again, And will I hear him speak?"

But it is not till that vivid face and that piercing voice thrill her sight and her ear again that all misgiving vanishes. There is nothing in life that can compensate for long partings. There ought to be few or no insurmountable obstacles to the frequent meetings, however short, of those who love each other. No duties and no privileges can be of more importance than the preservation, in all their entireness, of domestic familiarity and faith.

A very short separation will afford the experience of a long one, if it be full of events, or if the image of the absent one be dwelt upon, from hour to hour, with laborious strivings of the fancy. It has been said that this week of Hester's absence was the longest that Margaret had ever known. Besides this, she felt that she had forgotten her sister further than she could have supposed possible after a ten years' separation. On the evening when she was expecting the travellers home, her heart was sick with expectation; and yet she was conscious of a timidity which made her feel as if alone in the world. Again and again she looked round her, to fancy what would be the aspect, of everything to Hester's eye. She wandered about the house to see once more that all was in its right place, and every arrangement in due order. She watched the bright drawing-room fire nervously, and made herself anxious about the tea-table, and sat upright on the sofa, listening for the sound of horses' feet in the snowy street, as if it had been a solemn stranger that she was expecting, instead of her own sister Hester, with whom she had shared all her heart, and spent all her days. But a small part of this anxiety was given to Mr Hope: she retained her image of him unperplexed, as a treasure of a brother, and a man with a mind so healthy that he was sure to receive all things rightly, and be pleased and satisfied, happen what might.

They came; and Hester's spring from the carriage, and her husband's way of rubbing his hands over the fire, put all Margaret's anxieties to flight. How sweet was the welcome! How delicious the contest about which was to give the welcome to this, the lasting home of the three— whether she who had put all in order for them, or they who claimed to have the charge of her! Margaret's eyes overflowed when Hester led her to Edward for his brotherly kiss. Mr Hope's mind was disturbed for one single moment that he had not given this kiss with all the heartiness and simplicity of a brother; but the feeling was gone almost before he was conscious of it.

The fire crackled, the kettle sang, Hester took her own place at once at the tea-board, and her husband threw himself on the sofa, after ascertaining that there were no family letters for him. He knew that it was impossible that there should be any in answer to the announcement of his marriage. Even Anne's could not arrive these four or five days yet. He desired Margaret not to tell him at present if there were any messages for him; for, if all Deerbrook had colds, he had no inclination to go out to-night to cure them. There was a long list of messages, Margaret said, but they were in the surgery; and the pupil there might bring them in, if he thought proper: they should not be sent for. This one evening might be stolen for home and comfort. Their journey had been delightful. Oxford was more splendid than Hester had had an idea of. Every facility had been afforded them for seeing it, and Mr Hope's acquaintances there had been as kind as possible. The fall of snow had not put them in any danger, and the inconveniences it had caused were rather stimulating to people who had travelled but little. Hester had had to get out of the carriage twice; and once she had walked a mile, when the driver had been uncertain about the road; but as Mrs Grey had had the foresight to cause a pair of snow boots to be put into the carriage at the last moment, no harm had happened,—not even to the wetting of feet; only enough inconvenience to make them glad to be now by their snug fireside. Hester was full of mirth and anecdote. She seemed to have been pleased with everybody and awake to everything. As her sister looked upon her brow, now open as a sleeping child's, upon the thick curl of glossy brown hair, and upon the bright smile which lighted up her exquisite face, she was amazed at herself for having perplexed such an image with apprehensive fancies.

How had Margaret spent her week? Above all, it was to be hoped she had not fatigued herself in their service. There were four days' grace yet for preparation, before they should receive their company. Margaret should not have worked so hard. Had Maria Young come yesterday? Dear Maria! she must often come. Should not the Greys be asked to dine in a quiet way, before any one else was admitted into the house? Was it not due to them? But could the footboy wait at table? Would it be possible to bring him into such training as would prevent Mrs Grey's being too much shocked at their way of getting through dinner? Or was there any one in Deerbrook who went out as a waiter? Morris must be consulted; but they must have the Greys to dinner before Monday. How was Mrs Enderby? Was her illness really thought serious, or was it only Mrs Rowland's way of talking, which was just the same, whether Mrs Enderby had a twinge of rheumatism or one of her frightful attacks? Was Mr Enderby coming?—that was the chief point. If he did not appear, it was certain that he could not be feeling uneasy about his mother. Margaret blushed when she replied that she had not heard of Mr Enderby's being expected. She could not but blush; for the conversation with Maria came full into her mind. Mr Hope saw the blush, and painfully wondered that it sent trouble through his soul.

How were Morris and the new maid likely to agree? Did Morris think the girl promising? Surely it was time to take some notice of the servants. Edward would ring the bell twice, the signal for Morris; and Morris should introduce the other two into the parlour. They came, Morris in her best gown, and with her wedding ribbon on. When she had shaken hands with her master and mistress, and spoken a good word for her fellow-servants, as she called them, the ruddy-faced girl appeared, her cheeks many shades deeper than usual, and her cap quillings standing off like the rays on a sign-post picture of the sun. Following her came the boy, feeling awkward in his new clothes, and scraping with his left leg till the process was put a stop to by his master's entering into conversation with him. Hester's beauty was really so striking, as with a blushing bashfulness, she for the first time enacted the mistress before her husband's eyes, that it was impossible not to observe it. Margaret glanced towards her brother, and they exchanged smiles. But the effect of Margaret's smile was that Mr Hope's died away, and left him grave.

"Brother!" said Margaret; "what is the true story belonging to that great book about the Polar Sea, that you see lying there?"

"How do you mean? Is there any story belonging to it at all?"

"Three at least; and Deerbrook has been so hot about it—"

"You should send round the book to cool them. It is enough to freeze one to look at the plates of those polar books."

"Sending round the book is exactly the thing I wanted to do, and could not. Mrs Rowland insists that Mrs Enderby ordered it in; and Mrs Grey demands to have it first; and Mr Rowland is certain that you bespoke it before anybody else. I was afraid of the responsibility of acting in so nice a case. An everlasting quarrel might come out of it: so I covered it, and put in the list, all ready to be sent at a moment's warning; and then I amused myself with it while you were away. Now, brother, what will you do?"

"The truth of the matter is, that I ordered it in myself, as Mr Rowland says. But Mrs Enderby shall have it at once, because she is ill. It is a fine large type for her; and she will pore over the plates, and forget Deerbrook and all her own ailments, in wondering how the people will get out of the ice."

"Do you remember, Margaret," said Hester, "how she looked one summer day,—like a ghost from the grave,—when she came down from her books, and had even forgotten her shawl?"

"Oh, about the battle!" cried Margaret, laughing.

"What battle?" asked Hope. "An historical one, I suppose, and not that of the Rowlands and Greys. Mrs Enderby is of a higher order than the rest of us Deerbrook people: she gets most of her news, and all her battles, out of history."

"Yes: she alighted among us to tell us that such a great, such a wonderful battle had been fought, at a place called Blenheim, by the Duke of Marlborough, who really seemed a surprisingly clever man: it was such a good thought of his to have a swamp at one end of his line, and to put some of his soldiers behind some bushes, so that the enemy could not get at them! and he won the battle."

"This book will be the very thing for her," said Margaret. "It is only a pity that it did not come in at Midsummer instead of Christmas. I am afraid she will sympathise so thoroughly that Phoebe will never be able to put on coals enough to warm her."

"Nay," said Mr Hope, "it is better as it is. She must be told now, at all events: whereas, if this book came to her at Midsummer, it would chill her whole month of July. She would start every time she looked out of her window, and saw the meadows green."

"I hope she is not really very ill," said Hester.

"You were thinking the same thought that I was," said her husband, starting up from the sofa. "It is certainly my business to go and see her to-night, if she wishes it. I will step down into the surgery, and learn if there is any message from her."

"And if there is not from her, there will be from some one else," said Hester, sorrowfully. "What a cold night for you to go out, and leave this warm room!"

Mr Hope laughed as he observed what an innocent speech that was for a surgeon's wife. It was plain that her education in that capacity had not begun. And down he went.

"Here are some things for you, cards and notes," said Margaret to her sister, as she opened a drawer of the writing-table: "one from Mrs Grey, marked 'Private.' I do not suppose your husband may not see it; but that is your affair. My duty is to give it you privately."

"One of the Grey mysteries, I suppose," said Hester, colouring, and tearing open the letter with some vehemence: "These mysteries were foolish enough before; they are ridiculous now. So, you are going out?" cried she, as her husband came in with his hat on.

"Yes; the old lady will be the easier for my seeing her this evening; and I shall carry her the Polar Sea. Where is pen and ink, Margaret? We do not know the ways of our own house yet."

Margaret brought pen and ink; and while Mr Hope wrote down the dates in the Book Society's list, Hester exclaimed against Mrs Grey for having sent her a letter marked "Private," now that she was married.

"If you mean it not to be private, you shall tell me about it when I come back," said her husband. "If I see Mrs Enderby to-night, I must be gone."

It was not twenty minutes before he was seated by his own fireside again. His wife looked disturbed; and was so; she even forgot to inquire after Mrs Enderby.

"There is Mrs Grey's precious letter!" said she. "She may mean to be very kind to me: I dare say she does: but she might know that it is not kindness to write so of my husband."

"I do not see that she writes any harm of me, my dear," said he, laying the letter open upon the table. "She only wants to manage me a little: and that is her way, you know."

"So exceedingly impertinent!" cried Hester, turning to Margaret. "She wants me to use my influence, quietly, and without betraying her, to make my husband—," she glanced into her husband's face, and checked her communication. "In short," she said, "Mrs Grey wants to be meddling between my husband and one of his patients."

"Well, what then?" said Margaret.

"What then? Why, if she is to be interfering already in our affairs—if she is to be always fancying that she has anything to do with Edward,— and we living so near,—I shall never be able to bear it."

And Hester's eyes overflowed with tears.

"My dear! is it possible?" cried Edward. "Such a trifle—."

"It is no trifle," said Hester, trying to command her voice; "it can never be a trifle to me that any one shows disrespect to you. I shall never be able to keep terms with any one who does."

Margaret believed that nothing would be easier than to put a stop to any such attempts—if indeed they were serious. Mrs Grey was so fond of Hester that she would permit anything from her; and it would be easy for Hester to say that, not wishing to receive any exclusively private letters, she had shown Mrs Grey's to her husband, though to no one else: and that it was to be the principle of the family not to interfere, more or less, with Mr Hope's professional affairs.

"Or, better still, take no notice of the matter in any way whatever, this time," said Mr Hope. "We can let her have her way while we keep our own, cannot we? So, let us put the mysterious epistle into the fire—shall we? I wait your leave," said he, laughing, as he held the letter over the flame.

"It is your property."

Hester signed to have it burned; but she could not forget it. She recurred to Mrs Grey, again and again. "So near as they lived," she said—"so much as they must be together."

"The nearer we all live, and the more we must be with our neighbours," said her husband, "the more important it is that we should allow each other our own ways. You will soon find what it is to live in a village, my love; and then you will not mind these little trifles."

"If they would meddle only with me," said Hester, "I should not mind. I hope you do not think I should care so much for anything they could say or do about me. If they only would let you alone—"

"That is the last thing we can expect," said Margaret. "Do they let any public man alone? Dr Levitt, or Mr James?"

"Or the parish clerk?" added Mr Hope. "It was reported lately that steps were to be taken to intimate to Owen, that it was a constant habit of his to cough as he took his seat in the desk. I was told once myself, that it was remarked throughout Deerbrook that I seemed to be half whistling as I walked up the street in the mornings; and that it was considered a practice too undignified for my profession."

Hester's colour rose again. Margaret laughed, and asked:

"What did you do?"

"I made my best bow, and thought no more about the matter, till events brought it to mind again at this moment. So, Hester, suppose we think no more of Mrs Grey's hints?" Seeing that her brow did not entirely clear, he took his seat by her, saying:

"Supposing, love, that her letter does not show enough deference to my important self to satisfy you, still it remains that we owe respect to Mrs Grey. She is one of my oldest, and most hospitable, and faithful friends here; and I need say nothing of her attachment to you. Cannot we overlook in her one little error of judgment?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," said Hester, cheerfully. "Then I will say nothing to her unless she asks; and then tell her, as lightly as I may, what Margaret proposed just now. So be it."

And all was bright and smooth again—to all appearance. But this little cloud did not pass away without leaving its gloom in more hearts than one. As Margaret set down her lamp on her own writing-table, and sank into the chair of whose ease she had bidden Maria make trial, she might have decided, if she had happened at the moment to remember the conversation, that the pleasure of solitude does depend much on the ease of the thoughts. She sat long, wondering how she could have overlooked the obvious probability that Hester, instead of finding the habit of mind of a lifetime altered by the circumstances of love and marriage, would henceforth suffer from jealousy for her husband in addition to the burden she had borne for herself. Long did Margaret sit there, turning her voluntary musings on the joy of their meeting, and the perfect picture of comfort which their little party had presented; but perpetually recurring, against her will, to the trouble which had succeeded, and following back the track of this cloud, to see whether there were more in the wind—whether it did not come from a horizon of storm.

Yet hers was not the most troubled spirit in the house. Hester's vexation had passed away, and she was unconscious, as sufferers of her class usually are, of the disturbance she had caused. She presently slept and was at peace. Not so her husband. A strange trouble—a fearful suspicion had seized upon him. He was amazed at the return of his feelings about Margaret, and filled with horror when he thought of the days, and months, and years of close domestic companionship with her, from which there was no escape. There was no escape. The peace of his wife, of Margaret—his own peace in theirs—depended wholly on the deep secrecy in which he should preserve the mistake he had made. It was a mistake. He could scarcely endure the thought; but it was so. For some months, he had never had a doubt that he was absolutely in the road of duty; and, if some apprehension about his entire happiness had chilled him, from time to time, he had cast them off, as inconsistent with the resolution of his conscience. Now he feared, he felt he had mistaken his duty. As, in the stillness of the night, the apprehension assailed him, that he had thrown away the opportunity and the promise of his life—that he had desecrated his own home, and doomed to withering the best affections of his nature, he for the moment wished himself dead. But his was a soul never long thrown off its balance. He convinced himself, in the course of a long sleepless night, that whatever might have been his errors, his way was now clear, though difficult. He must devote himself wholly to her whose devotion to him had caused him his present struggles; and he must trust that, if Margaret did not ere long remove from the daily companionship which must be his sorest trial, he should grow perpetually stronger in his self-command. Of one thing he was certain—that no human being suspected the real state of his mind. This was a comfort and support. Of something else he felt nearly certain—that Margaret loved Philip. This was another comfort, if he could only feel it so; and he had little doubt that Philip loved her. He had also a deep conviction, which he now aroused for his support—that no consecration of a home is so holy as that of a kindly, self-denying, trustful spirit in him who is the head and life of his house. If there was in himself a love which must be denied, there was also one which might be indulged. Without trammelling himself with vows, he cheered his soul with the image of the life he might yet fulfil, shedding on all under his charge the blessings of his activity, patience, and love; and daily casting off the burden of the day, leaving all care for the morrow to such as, happier than himself, would have the future the image of the present.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

FIRST HOSPITALITY.

The Greys needed only to be asked to come and dine before the rest of the world could have an opportunity of seeing the bride and bridegroom. They had previously settled among themselves that they should be invited, and the answer was given on the instant. The only doubt was how far down in the family the pleasure ought to extend. Sydney was full of anxiety about it. His mother decided that he ought to be asked, but that perhaps he had better not go, as he would be in the way; and Sophia was sure it would be very dull for him; a sentence which made Sydney rather sulky. But Hester insisted on having him, and pleaded that William Levitt would come and meet him, and if the lads should find the drawing-room dull, there was the surgery, with some very curious things in it, where they might be able to amuse themselves. So Sydney was to take up his lot with the elderly ones, and the little girls were to be somewhat differently entertained another day.

Oh, the anxieties of a young wife's first dinner-party! If remembered, they become laughable enough when looked back upon from future years; but they are no laughing matter at the time. The terror lest there should be too little on the table, and the consequent danger of there being too much: the fear at once of worrying the cook with too many directions, and leaving any necessary thing unsaid: the trembling doubt of any power of entertainment that may exist in the house; the anticipation of a yawn on the part of any guest, or of such a silence as may make the creaking of the footboy's shoes heard at dinner, or the striking of the hall clock in the evening—these are the apprehensions which make the young wife wish herself on the other side of her first dinner-party, and render alluring the prospect of sitting down next day to hash or cold fowl, followed by odd custards and tartlets, with a stray mince-pie. Where a guest so experienced and so vigilant as Mrs Grey is expected, the anxiety is redoubled, and the servants are sure to discover it by some means or other. Morris woke, this Saturday morning, with the feeling that something great was to happen that day; and Sally began to be sharp with the footboy as early as ten o'clock. Hester and Margaret were surprised to find how soon there was nothing more left for them to do. The wine was decanted, the dessert dished up in the little storeroom, and even the cake cut for tea, soon enough to leave almost the whole morning to be spent as usual. Margaret sat down to study German, and Hester to read. She had just observed that they could not expect to see Edward for some hours, as he had been sent for to the almshouses, and meant to pay a country visit which would cost him a circuit on his return. These almshouses were six miles off; and when Mr Hope was sent for by one of the inmates, nearly all the rest were wont to discover that they ailed more or less; so that their medical guardian found it no easy matter to get away, and his horse had learned, by practice, to stand longer there than anywhere else without fidgeting. Knowing this, Margaret fully agreed to her sister's proposition, that it must be some hours before Edward could appear. In a little while, however, Hester threw down her book, and took up her work, laying her watch just under her eyes upon the table.

"Do you mean to do that for life, when your husband takes a country ride?" said Margaret, laughing.

"I hate these everlasting country rides!" cried Hester. "I do wish he would give up those almshouses."

"Give them up!"

"Yes: they are nothing but trouble and anxiety. The old folks are never satisfied, and never would be, if he lived among them, and attended to nobody else. And as often as he goes there, he is sure to be more wanted here than at any other time. There is another knock. There have been two people wanting him within this hour; and a country gentleman has left word that he shall call with his daughter at one o'clock."

"Well, let them come. If he is home, well and good; if not, they must wait till he arrives."

Hester started up, and walked about the room.

"I know what is in your mind," said Margaret. "The truth is, you are afraid of another accident. I do not wonder at it; but, dearest Hester, you must control this fear. Consider; supposing it to be Heaven's pleasure that you and he should live for forty or fifty years together, what a world of anxiety you will inflict on yourself if you are to suffer in this way every time he rides six miles out and back again!"

"Perhaps I shall grow used to it: but I do wish he would give up those almshouses."

"Suppose we ask him to give up practice at once," said Margaret, "that we may have him always with us. No, no, Hester; we must consider him first, and ourselves next, and let him have his profession all to himself, and as much of it as he likes."

"Ourselves!" cried Hester, contemptuously.

"Well, yourself, then," said Margaret, smiling. "I only put myself in that I might lecture myself at the same time with you."

"Lecture away, dear," said Hester, "till you make me as reasonable as if I had no husband to care for."

Margaret might have asked whether Hester had been reasonable when she had had neither husband nor lover to care for; but, instead of this, she opened the piano, and tempted her sister away from her watch to practise a duet.

"I will tell you what I am thinking of," cried Hester, breaking off in the middle of a bar of the second page. "Perhaps you thought me hasty just now; but you do not know what I had in my head. You remember how late Edward was called out, the night before last?"

"To Mrs Marsh's child? Yes; it was quite dark when he went."

"There was no moon. Mr Marsh wanted to send a servant back with him as far as the high-road: but he was sure he knew the way. He was riding very fast, when his horse suddenly stopped, and almost threw him over its head. He spurred in vain; the animal only turned round and round, till a voice called from somewhere near, 'Stop there, for God's sake! Wait till I bring a light.' A man soon came with a lantern, and where do you think Edward found himself? On the brink of a mill-dam! Another step in the dark night, and he might have been heard of no more!"

Margaret was not at all surprised that Hester covered her face with her hands at the end of this very disagreeable anecdote.

"It is clear," said she, "that Edward is the person who wants lecturing. We must bid him not ride very fast on dark nights, on roads that he does not know. But I have a high opinion of this horse of his. One of the two is prudent; and that is a great comfort. And, for the present, there is the consolation that there are no mill-dams in the way to the almshouses, and that it is broad daylight. So let us go on with our duet,—or shall we begin again?"

Hester played through the duet, and then sighed over a new apprehension—that some of those old invalids would certainly be taking Mr Hope away from home on the two mornings when their neighbours were to pay the wedding visit. "And what shall we do then?" she inquired.

"We shall see when the time comes," replied Margaret. "Meanwhile we are sure of one good thing,—that Edward will not be called away from the dinner-table to-day by the almshouse people. Come! let us play this over once more, that it may be ready for Mr Grey in the evening."

Sooner than he was looked for—sooner than it was supposed possible that he could have come—Edward appeared.

"Safe!" cried he, laughing: "what should prevent my being safe? What sort of a soldier's or sailor's wife would you have made?" he asked, looking in Hester's happy face.

"She would be crazed with every gale, and die at 'rumours of wars,'" said Margaret: "mill-dams are horror enough for her—and, to say the truth, brother, for other people, too, while you ride as you do."

"That was an accident which cannot recur," observed Hope. "I am sorry Mr Marsh's man mentioned it. But Hester—."

"I see what you would say," sighed Hester; "your mention of soldiers' and sailors' wives reminds me. I have no faith, I know: and I thought I should when—. Oh, I wonder how those old crusaders' wives endured their lives! But, perhaps, seven years' suspense was easier to bear than seven hours'."

Hester joined in the laugh at this speech, and Edward went to see his patients in a place where there was really no danger—in the waiting-room. Yet Hester was a little ruffled when the Greys appeared. So many messages had arrived for Edward, that the country gentleman and his daughter had been kept waiting, and a livery servant had called twice, as if impatient. She was afraid that people would blame Edward— that he would never manage to satisfy them all. Her colour was raised, and her brow slightly bent, when her guests entered; but all was right when Edward followed, looking perfectly at leisure, and stood talking before the fire, as if he had been a man of no profession.

Mr Hope had caused his feelings to be so well understood on one important subject, that it was necessary to respect them; and no mention of the Rowlands was made, either before dinner or in the presence of the servants. Nor was there any need of the topic. There was abundance to be said, without having recourse to doubtful subjects; and Margaret became so far relieved from all apprehension on this account, by the time the cheese appeared, that she assured herself that the day was passing off extremely well. There had not been a single pause left to be filled up with the clatter of knives and forks. Mrs Grey pronounced the room delightfully warm; Sophia protested that she liked having the fire at her back; and Mr Grey inquired where Hope got his ale. The boys, who had looked for the first half-hour as if they could not speak for the stiffness of their collars, were now in a full career of jokes, to judge by their stifled laughter. Hester blushed beautifully at every little circumstance that occurred, and played the hostess very gracefully. The day was going off extremely well.

The approaching county election was the principal topic at dinner, as it was probably at every dinner-table in Deerbrook. Mrs Grey first told Hope, at the bottom of the table, all about her wonder at seeing seven or eight gentlemen on horseback entering their field. She was exceedingly surprised to observe such a troop approaching the door: and she hardly knew what to make of it when the servant came in to say that the gentlemen wished to see her, as Mr Grey was at a distance—at market that day. It was strange that she should so entirely forget that there was to be an election soon. To be sure, it might have occurred to her that the party came to canvass Mr Grey: but she did not happen to remember at first; and she thought the gentleman who was spokesman excessively complimentary, both about the place and about some other things, till he mentioned his name, and that he was candidate for the county. Such a highly complimentary strain was not to her taste, she acknowledged; and it lost all its value when it was made so common as in this instance. This gentleman had kissed the little Rowlands all round, she had since been assured:—not that she wished to enlarge on that subject; but it only showed what gentlemen will do when they are canvassing. The other candidate, Mr Lowry, seemed a very high personage indeed. When he found Mr Grey was not at home, he and all his party rode straight on, without inquiring for the ladies. Everyone seemed to think that Mr Lowry was not likely to carry his election, his manners were so extremely high.

Meanwhile, Mr Grey was observing to his hostess that he was sorry to find there was an election impending. People in a small place like Deerbrook were quite apt enough to quarrel, day by day;—an election threw the place into an uproar.

"'How delightful!' those boys are thinking," said Hester, laughing.

"I am sure," said Sophia, "it is anything but delightful to me. I remember, last time, Sydney brought some squibs into the garden, and let them off while mamma and I were in the shrubbery; and we could none of us get to sleep till after midnight for the light of the bonfire down the street."

"They should manage those things more quietly," observed Mr Grey. "This time, however, there will be only a little effusion of joy, and then an end; for they say Ballinger will carry every vote in the place."

"Why, father!" cried Sydney, "are you going to vote for Ballinger this time?"

"No, my boy. I did not say so. I shall not vote at all," he added, observing that he was expected to explain himself. No remark being made, he continued—"It will not be convenient to me to meddle in election matters this time; and it would be of no use, as Lowry has not the slightest chance. One gets nothing but ill-will and trouble by meddling. So, my dear," turning to Hester, "your husband and I will just keep quiet, and let Deerbrook have its own way."

"I believe you may speak for yourself," replied Hester, her eyes sparkling. "Edward has no idea—." Then, remembering that she was speaking to a guest, she cut short her assurance that Edward had no idea of neglecting his duty when it was wanted most, for such a reason as that it was then most irksome.

"There is no occasion in the world for your husband to come forward," observed Mr Grey, with kind anxiety. "I was saying, Hope, that you are quite absolved from interfering in politics. Nobody expects it from a medical man. Everyone knows the disadvantage to a professional man, circumstanced like you, of taking any side in a party matter. You might find the consequences very serious, I assure you."

"And nobody expects it of a medical man," echoed Mrs Grey.

Mr Hope did not reply, that he voted for other reasons than that it was expected of him. He had argued the subject with Mr Grey before, and knew that they must agree to differ. He quietly declared his intention of voting for Mr Lowry, and then asked Sophia to take wine. His manner left no resource to Mrs Grey but to express her feelings to his wife in the drawing-room, after dinner.

She there drew Hester's arm within her own, and kindly observed what pleasure it gave her to see her anticipations so fulfilled. She had had this home, fitted up and inhabited as it now was, in her mind's eye for a longer time than she should choose to tell. Elderly folks might be allowed to look forward, and Mr Grey could bear witness that she had done so. It was delightful to look round and see how all had come to pass.

"Everybody is so interested!" observed Sophia. "Mrs Howell says, some have observed to her what a pity it is that you are dissenters, so that you will not be at church on Sunday. Everybody would be sure to be there: and she says she is of opinion that, considering how many friends wish to see you make your first appearance, you ought to go, for once. She cannot imagine what harm it could do you to go for once. But, whatever you may think about that, it shows her interest, and I thought you would like to know it. Have you seen Mrs Howell's window?"

"My dear! how should they?" exclaimed her mother.

"I forgot they could not go out before Sunday. But, Margaret you must look at Mrs Howell's window the first thing when you can get out. It is so festooned with purple and white, that I told Miss Miskin I thought they would be obliged to light up in the daytime, they have made the shop so dark."

"And they have thrust all the green and orange into the little side window, where nobody can see it!" cried Sydney.

"You managed to see it, I perceive," said Hester; Sydney having at the moment mounted a cockade, and drawn out his green and orange watch-ribbon into the fullest view. William Levitt lost no time in going through the same process with his purple and white.

"You will be the ornaments of Deerbrook," said Margaret, "if you walk about in that gay style. I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting you both in the street, that I may judge of the effect."

"They will have lost their finery by that time," said Sophia. "We had a terrible snatching of cockades last time."

"Snatching! let them try to snatch mine, and see what they'll get by it!" cried Sydney.

"What would they get but the ribbons?" asked Margaret. Sydney drew her to the light, opened the bows of his cockade, and displayed a corking-pin stuck upright under each bow.

"Isn't it horrid?" said Sophia.

"Horrid! It is not half so horrid as fish-hooks."

And Sydney related how fish-hooks had actually been used during the last election, to detain with their barbs the fingers of snatchers of cockades. "Which do you use?" he asked of William Levitt.

"Neither. My father won't let me do anything more than just wear a cockade and watch-ribbon. I have got a watch-guard too, you see, for fear of losing my watch. But you won't get my cockade off a bit the sooner for my having no spikes under it. I have a particular way of fastening it on. Only try, any day. I defy you to it."

"Hush, hush, boys! don't talk of defiance," said Mrs Grey. "I am sure, I wish there were no such things as elections—in country places, at least. They make nothing but mischief. And, indeed, Hester, my dear, it is a great pity that those should meddle who can keep out of them, as your husband fairly may. Whichever way he might vote, a great many disagreeable remarks would be made; and if he votes as he says, for Mr Lowry, I really think, and so does Mr Grey, that it will be a serious injury to him in his profession."

Hester replied, with some gravity, that people could never do their whole duty without causing disagreeable remarks; and seldom without suffering serious injury.

"But why should he vote?" persisted Mrs Grey.

"Because he considers it his duty, which is commonly his reason for whatever he does."

"An excellent reason too: but I rather thought—I always fancied he defended acting from impulse. But I beg your pardon, my dear:" and she nodded and winked towards the young people, who were trying the impression of a new seal at the centre table, heeding nothing about either duty or impulse. Margaret had fixed the attention of the boys upon this curious seal of hers, in order to obviate a snatching of cockades, or other political feud, upon the spot.

"It seems as if I could speak about nothing but your husband, my dear," continued Mrs Grey, in a whisper: "but you know I feel towards him as towards a son, as I have told him. Do you think he has quite, entirely, got over his accident?"

"Entirely, he thinks. He calls himself in perfect health."

"Well, he ought to know best; but—"

"But what?" asked Hester, anxiously.

"It has occurred to us, that he may still want watching and care. It has struck both Mr Grey and me, that he is not quite the same that he was before that accident. It is natural enough. And yet I thought in the autumn that he was entirely himself again: but there is still a little difference—a little flatness of spirits sometimes—a little more gravity than used to be natural to him."

"But you do not think he looks ill? Tell me just what you think."

"Oh, no, not ill; rather delicate, perhaps; but I am sure it is wonderful that he is so well after such an accident. He calls himself perfectly well, does he?"

"Perfectly."

"Oh, then, we may be quite easy; for he must know best. Do not let anything that I have said dwell upon your mind, my dear. I only just thought I would ask."

How common it is for one's friends to drop a heavy weight upon one's heart, and then desire one not to let it dwell there! Hester's spirits were irrecoverably damped for this evening. Her husband seemed to be an altered man, flat in spirits, and looking delicate, and she told not to be uneasy! She was most eager for the entrance of the gentlemen from the dining-room, that she might watch him and, till they came, she had not a word of amusement to furnish to her guests. Margaret perceived that something had gone wrong and talked industriously till reinforced from the dining-room.

Sophia whispered a hint to her mother to inquire particularly about Mrs Enderby's health. At the mention of her name Mr Hope took his seat on the sofa beside Mrs Grey, and replied gravely and fully—that he thought Mrs Enderby really very unwell—more so than he had ever known her. She was occasionally in a state of great suffering, and any attention that her old friends could show her in the way of a quiet call would be a true kindness. Had he alarmed her family? There was quite hint enough for alarm, he said, in the state in which her relations saw her at times. But Mrs Rowland was always trying to make out that nothing was the matter with her mother: was it not so? Not exactly so. Mrs Rowland knew that there was no immediate danger—that her mother might live many months, or even a few years; but Mr Hope believed neither Mrs Rowland, nor any one else, could deny her sufferings.

"They say Mr Philip is coming," observed Mr Grey.

"Oh, I hope he is!" cried Sydney, turning round to listen.

"Some people say that he is otherwise occupied," observed Sophia, "If all accounts be true—" She caught her mother's eye, and stopped suddenly and awkwardly.

Mr Hope involuntarily glanced at Margaret, as one or two others were doing at the same time. Nothing was to be discerned, for she was stooping over the volume of engravings that she was showing to William Levitt; and she remained stooping for a long while.

When the proper amount of playing and singing had been gone through, and Mrs Grey's sedan was announced the cloaked and muffled guest left behind a not very happy party. Margaret's gaiety seemed exhausted, and she asked if it was not late. Hester was gazing at her husband. She saw the perspiration on his brow. She put her arm within his, and anxiously inquired whether he was not unwell. She was sure he had never fully recovered his strength: she had not taken care enough of him: why did he not tell her when he was weary and wanted nursing?

Mr Hope looked at her with an unaffected surprise, which went far to console her, and assured her that he was perfectly well; and that, moreover, he was so fond of indulgence that she would be sure to hear of it, if ever he could find a pretence for getting upon the sofa.

Hester was comforted, but said that his spirits were not always what they had been: and she appealed to Margaret. Margaret declared that any failure of spirits in Edward was such a new idea, that she must consider before she gave an answer. She thought that he had been too busy to draw so many caricatures as usual lately; but she had observed no deeper signs of despondency than that.

"Do not let us get into the habit of talking about spirits," said Hope. "I hear quite enough about that away from home; and I can assure you, professionally, that it is a bad subject to dwell upon. Every one who lives has variations of spirits: they are like the sunshine, or like Dr Levitt's last sermon, of which Mrs Enderby says every Sunday in the church porch—'It is to be felt, not talked about.'"

"But, as a sign of health—" said Hester.

"As a sign of health, my dear, the spirits of all this household may be left to my professional discrimination. Will you trust me, my dear?"

"Oh, yes!" she uttered, with a sigh of relief.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

GRANDMAMMA IN RETREAT.

"I am better now, Phoebe," said Mrs Enderby, sinking back faintly in her easy-chair, after one of her attacks of spasms. "I am better now; and if you will fan me for a minute or two, I shall be quite fit to see the children—quite delighted to have them."

"I declare," said the maid, "here are the drops standing upon your face this cold day, as if it was August! But if the pain is cone, never mind anything else! And I, for one, won't say anything against your having the children in; for I'm sure the seeing your friends has done you no harm, and nothing but good."

"Pray, draw up the blind, Phoebe, and let me see something of the sunshine. Bless me! how frosty the field looks, while I have been stifled with heat for this hour past! I had better not go to the window, however, for I begin to feel almost chilly already. Thank you, Phoebe; you have fanned me enough. Now call the children, Phoebe."

Phoebe wrapped a cloak about her mistress's knees, pinned her shawl up closer around her throat, and went to call the children in from the parlour below. Matilda drew up her head and flattened her back, and then asked her grandmamma how she did. George looked up anxiously in the old lady's face.

"Ah, George," said she, smiling; "it is an odd face to look at, is not it? How would you like your face to look as mine does?"

"Not at all," said George.

Mrs Enderby laughed heartily, and then told him that her face was not unlike his once—as round, and as red, and as shining in frosty weather.

"Perhaps if you were to go out now into the frost, your face would look as it used to do."

"I am afraid not. When my face looked like yours, it was when I was a little girl, and used to slide and make snowballs as you do. That was a long time ago. My face is wrinkled now, because I am old; and it is pale, because I am ill."

George heard nothing after the word "snowballs." "I wish some more snow would come," he observed. "We have plenty of ice down in the meadows, but there has been only one fall of snow, and that melted almost directly."

"Papa thinks there will be more snow very soon," observed Matilda.

"If there is, you children can do something for me that I should like very much," said grandmamma. "Shall I tell you what it is?"

"Yes."

"You can make a snow-man in that field. I am sure Mr Grey will give you leave."

"What good will that do you?" asked Matilda.

"I can sit here and watch you; and I shall like that exceedingly. I shall see you gathering the snow, and building up your man: and if you will turn about and shake your hand this way now and then, I shall be sure to observe it, and I shall think you are saying something kind to me."

"I wish the snow would come," cried George, stamping with impatience.

"I do not believe mamma will let us," observed Matilda. "She prohibits our going into Mr Grey's field."

"But she shall let us, that one time," cried George. "I will ask papa, and Mr Grey, and Sydney, and Uncle Philip, and all. When will Uncle Philip come again?"

"Some time soon, I dare say. But, George, we must do as your mamma pleases about my plan, you know. If she does not wish you to go into Mr Grey's field, you can make your snow-man somewhere else."

"But then you won't see us. But I know what I will do. I will speak to Sydney, and he and Fanny and Mary shall make you a snow-man yonder, where we should have made him."

Mrs Enderby pressed the boy to her, and laughed while she thanked him, but said it was not the same thing seeing the Greys make a snow-man.

"Why, George!" said Matilda, contemptuously.

"When will Uncle Philip come?" asked the boy, who was of opinion that Uncle Philip could bring all things to pass.

"Why, I will tell you how it is, my dear. Uncle Philip is very busy learning his lessons."

The boy stared.

"Yes: grown-up people who mean to be great lawyers, as I believe Uncle Philip does, have to learn lessons like little boys, only much longer and much harder."

"When will he have done them?"

"Not for a long while yet: but he will make a holiday some time soon, and come to see us. I should like to get well before that. Sometimes I think I shall, and sometimes I think not."

"Does he expect you will?"

"He expects nothing about it. He does not know that I am ill. I do not wish that he should know it, my dears; so, when I feel particularly well, and when I have heard anything that pleases me, I ask Phoebe to bring me the pen and ink, and I write to Uncle Philip."

"And why does not mamma tell him how you are?"

"Ah! why, indeed," muttered Phoebe.

"She knows that I do not wish it. Uncle Philip writes charming long letters to me, as I will show you. Bring me my reticule. Here—here is a large sheet of paper, quite full, you see—under the seal and all. When will you write such long letters, I wonder?"

"I shall when I am married, I suppose," said Matilda, again drawing up her little head.

"You married, my love! And pray when are you to be married?"

"Mamma often talks of the time when she shall lose me, and of what things have to be done while she has me with her."

"There is a great deal to be done indeed, love, before that day, if it ever comes."

"There are more ways than one of losing a child," observed Phoebe, in her straightforward way. "If Mrs Rowland thinks so long beforehand of the one way, it is to be hoped she keeps Miss Matilda up to the thought of the other, which must happen sooner or later, while marrying may not."

"Well, Phoebe," said the old lady, "we will not put any dismal thoughts into this little head: time enough for that: we will leave all that to Miss Young." Then, stroking Matilda's round cheek, she inquired, "My love, did you ever in your life feel any pain?"

"Oh, dear, yes, grandmamma: to be sure I have; twice. Why, don't you remember, last spring, I had a dreadful pain in my head for nearly two hours, on George's birthday? And last week, after I went to bed, I had such a pain in my arm, I did not know how to bear it."

"And what became of it?"

"Oh, I found at last I could bear it no longer, and I began to think what I should do. I meant to ring the bell, but I fell asleep."

Phoebe laughed with very little ceremony, and grandmamma could not help joining. She supposed Matilda hoped it might be long enough before she had any more pain. In the night-time, certainly, Matilda said. And not in the daytime? Is not pain as bad in the daytime? Matilda acknowledged that she should like to be ill in the daytime. Mamma took her on her lap when she was ill; and Miss Young was so very sorry for her; and she had something nice to drink.

"Then I am afraid, my dear, you don't pity me at all," said grandmamma. "Perhaps you think you would like to live in a room like this, with a sofa and a screen, and Phoebe to wait upon you, and whatever you might fancy to eat and drink. Would you like to be ill as I am?"

"Not at present," said Matilda: "not till I am married. I shall enjoy doing as I like when I am married."

"How the child's head runs upon being married!" said Phoebe. "And to suppose that being ill is doing as one likes, of all odd things!"

"I should often like to fly all over the world," said Mrs Enderby, "and to get anywhere out of this room—I am so tired of it: but I know I cannot: so I get books, and read about all the strange places, far off, that Mungo Park tells us about, and Gulliver, and Captain Parry. And I should often like to sleep at night when I cannot; and then I get up softly, without waking Phoebe, and look out at the bright stars, and think over all we are told about them—about their being all full of men and women. Did you know that, George?" asked she—George being now at the window.

"Oh, yes," answered Matilda for him, "we know all about those things."

"Are falling stars all full of men and women?" asked George.

"There were none on a star that my father saw fall on the Dingleford road," observed Phoebe. "It wasn't big enough to hold men and women."

"Did it fall in the middle of the road?" asked George, turning from the window. "What was it like?"

"It was a round thing, as big as a house, and all bright and crystal like," said Phoebe, with absolute confidence. "It blocked up the road from the great oak that you may remember, close by the second milestone, to the ditch on the opposite side."

"Phoebe, are you sure of that?" asked Mrs Enderby, with a face full of anxious doubt.

"Ma'am, my father came straight home after seeing it fall, and he let my brother John and me go the next morning early, to bring home some of the splinters."

"Oh, well," said Mrs Enderby, who always preferred believing to doubting; "I have heard of stones falling from the moon."

"This was a falling star, ma'am."

"Can you show me any of the splinters?" asked George, eagerly.

"There was nothing whatsoever left of them," said Phoebe, "by the time John and I went. We could not find a piece of crystal so big as my thimble. My father has often laughed at John and me since, for not having been there in time, before it was all gone."

"It is a good thing, my dears, depend upon it, as I was saying," observed Mrs Enderby, "to know all such things about the stars, and so on, against the time when you cannot do as you like, and go where you please. Matilda, my jewel, when you are married, as you were talking about, and can please yourself, you will take great care to be kind to your mamma, my dear, if poor mamma should be old and ill. You will always wish to be tender to your mother, love, I am sure; and that will do her more good than anything."

"Perhaps mamma won't be ill," replied Matilda.

"Then if she is never ill, she will certainly be old, some day; and then you will be as kind to her as ever you can be,—promise me, my love. Your mamma loves you dearly, Matilda."

"She says I dance better than any girl in Miss Anderson's school, grandmamma. I heard her tell Mrs Levitt so, yesterday."

"Here comes mamma," said George, from the window.

"Your mamma, my dear? Phoebe, sweep up the hearth. Hang that curtain straight. Give me that letter,—no, not that,—the large letter. There! now put it into my knitting-basket. Make haste down, Phoebe, to be ready to open the door for Mrs Rowland. Don't keep her waiting a moment on the steps."

"She has not got to the steps yet," said George. "She is talking to Mrs Grey. Mrs Grey was coming here, and mamma went and spoke to her. Oh, Matilda, come and look how they are nodding their bonnets at each other! I think Mrs Grey is very angry, she wags her head about so. There! now she is going away. There she goes across the road! and mamma is coming up the steps."

After a minute or two of silent expectation, Mrs Rowland entered her mother's room. She brought with her a draught of wintry air, which, as she jerked aside her ample silk cloak, on taking her seat on the sofa, seemed to chill the invalid, though there was now a patch of colour on each withered cheek.

"How much better you look, ma'am!" was the daughter's greeting. "I always thought it would be a pity to disturb Philip about you: and now, if he were to see you, he would not believe that you had been ill. Mr Rowland would be satisfied that I am right, I am sure, if he were to come in."

"My mistress is noways better," said Phoebe, bluntly. "She is not the better for that flush she has got now, but the worse."

"Never mind, Phoebe! I shall do very well, I dare say," said Mrs Enderby, with a sigh. "Well, my dear, how do you all go on at home?"

"Much as usual, ma'am. But that reminds me—Matilda, my own love, Miss Young must be wanting you for your lesson on objects. Go, my dear."

"I hoped Matilda was come for the day," said Mrs Enderby. "I quite expected she was to stay with me to-day. Do let me have her, my dear: it will do me so much good."

"You are very kind, ma'am, but it is quite impossible. It is totally out of the question, I assure you. Matilda, my love, go this instant. We make a great point of the lessons on objects. Pray, Phoebe, tie Miss Rowland's bonnet, and make haste."

Phoebe did so, taking leave to observe that little girls were likely to live long enough to know plenty of things after they had no grandmammas left to be a comfort to.

Mrs Enderby struggled to say, "Hush, Phoebe;" but she found she could not speak. George was desired to go with his sister, and was scarcely allowed time to kiss his grandmamma. While Phoebe was taking the children down stairs, Mrs Rowland wondered that some people allowed their servants to take such liberties as were taken; and gave notice that though she tolerated Phoebe, because Phoebe's mistress had taken a fancy to her, she could not allow her family plans to be made a subject of remark to her mother's domestics. Mrs Enderby had not quite decided upon her line of reply, when Phoebe came back, and occupied herself in supplying her mistress, first with a freshly-heated footstool, and then with a cup of arrowroot.

"Where do you get your arrowroot, ma'am?" asked Mrs Rowland. "I want some extremely for my poor dear Anna; and I can procure none that is at all to compare with yours."

"Mrs Grey was so kind as to send me some, my dear; and it really is excellent. Phoebe, how much of it is there left? I dare say there may be enough for a cup or two for dear little Anna."

Phoebe replied, that there was very little left—not any more than her mistress would require before she could grow stronger. Mrs Rowland would not take the rest of the arrowroot on any account: she was only wondering where Mrs Grey got it, and how it was that the Greys always contrived to help themselves to the best of everything. Phoebe was going to observe that they helped their neighbours to good things as well as themselves; but a look from her mistress stopped her. Mrs Enderby remarked that she had no doubt she could learn from Mrs Grey or Sophia, the next time she saw either of them, where they procured their arrowroot. "It is a long time since I saw Mrs Grey," she observed, timidly.

"My dear ma'am, how can you think of seeing any one in your present state?" inquired the daughter. "One need but see the flush in your face, to know that it would be highly improper for you to admit company. I could not take the responsibility of allowing it."

"But Mrs Grey is not company, my love."

"Any one is company to an invalid. I assure you I prevented Mr Rowland's coming for the reason I assign. He was coming yesterday, but I would not let him."

"I should like to see him, however. And I should like to see Mrs Grey too."

Under pretence of arranging her mistress's shawl, Phoebe touched the old lady's shoulder, in token of intelligence. Mrs Enderby was somewhat flurried at the liberty which she felt her maid had taken with her daughter; but she could not notice it now; and she introduced another subject. Had everybody done calling on the Hopes? Were the wedding visits all over? Oh, yes, Mrs Rowland was thankful to say; that fuss was at an end at last. One would think nobody had ever been married before, by the noise that had been made in Deerbrook about this young couple.

"Mr Hope is such a favourite!" observed Mrs Enderby.

"He has been so; but it won't last. I never saw a young man so gone off as he is. He has not been like the same man since he connected himself with the Greys so decidedly. Surely, ma'am, you must perceive that."

"It had not occurred to me, my dear. He comes very often, and he is always extremely kind and very entertaining. He brought his bride with him yesterday, which I thought very attentive, as I could not go and pay my respects to her. And really, Priscilla, whether it was that I had not seen her for some time, or that pretty young ladies look prettiest in an old woman's sick-room, I thought she was more beautiful than ever."

"She is handsome," admitted Mrs Rowland. "Poor thing! it makes one sorry for her, when one thinks what is before her."

"What is before her?" ask Mrs Enderby, alarmed.

"If she loves her husband at all, she must suffer cruelly in seeing him act as he persists in doing; and she must tremble in looking forward to the consequences. He is quite obstinate about voting for Mr Lowry, though there is not a soul in Deerbrook to keep him in countenance; and everybody knows how strongly Sir William Hunter has expressed himself in favour of Mr Ballinger. It is thought the consequences will be very serious to Mr Hope. There is his almshouse practice at stake, at all events; and I fancy a good many families will have no more to do with him if he defies the Hunters, and goes against the opinions of all his neighbours. His wife must see that he has nobody with him. I do pity the poor young thing!"

"Dear me!" said the old lady, "can nothing be done, I wonder. I declare I am quite concerned. I should hope something may be done. I would take the liberty of speaking to him myself, rather than that any harm should happen to him. He has always been so very kind to me, that I think I could venture to say anything to him. I will turn it over in my mind, and see what can be done."

"You will not prevail with him, ma'am, I am afraid. If Mr Grey speaks in vain (as I know he has done), it is not likely that any one else will have any influence over him. No, no; the wilful must be left to their own devices. Whatever you do, ma'am, do not speak to the bride about it, or there is no knowing what you may bring upon yourself."

"What could I bring upon myself, my dear?"

"Oh, those who do not see the vixen in that pretty face of hers, have not such good eyes as she has herself. For God's sake, ma'am, do not offend her!"

Mrs Enderby was now full of concern; and being as unhappy as she could be made for the present, her daughter took her leave. The old lady looked into the fire and sighed, for some minutes after she was left alone. When Phoebe re-entered, her mistress declared that she felt quite tired out, and must lie down. Before she closed her eyes, she raised her head again, and said—

"Phoebe, I am surprised at you—"

"Oh, ma'am, you mean about my taking the liberty to make a sign to you. But, ma'am, I trust you will excuse it, because I am sure Mr Hope would have no objection to your seeing Mrs Grey; and, to my thought, there is no occasion to consult with anybody else; and I have no doubt Mrs Grey will be calling again some day soon, just at a time when you are fit to see her. Is not there any book, or anything, ma'am, that I could be carrying over to Mrs Grey's while you are resting yourself, ma'am?"

"Ah! do so, Phoebe. Carry that book,—it is not quite due, but that does not signify; carry that book over, and give my regards, and beg to know how Mrs Grey and all the family are. And if Mrs Grey should come in this evening," she continued, in excuse to herself for her devices, "I shall be able to find out, in a quiet way, where she gets her arrowroot; and Priscilla will be glad to know."

Whatever it might be that Phoebe said to Alice, and that brought Mrs Grey out into the hall to speak herself to Phoebe, the result was that Mrs Grey's lantern was ordered as soon as it grew dark, and that she arrived in Mrs Enderby's apartment just as the old lady had waked from her doze, and while the few tears that had escaped from under her eyelids before she slept were yet scarcely dried upon her cheeks.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

HOME AT "THE HOPES'."

The evil consequences of Mr Hope's voting for Lowry had not been exaggerated in the anticipations of his friends and vigilant neighbours; and these consequences were rather aggravated than alleviated by the circumstance that Mr Lowry won the election. First, the inhabitants of Deerbrook were on the watch for any words which might fall from Sir William or Lady Hunter; and when it was reported that Sir William had frowned, and sworn an oath at Mr Hope, on hearing how he had voted, and that Lady Hunter had asked whether it was possible that Mr Hope had forgotten under whose interest he held his appointment to attend the almshouses and the neighbouring hamlet, several persons determined to be beforehand with their great neighbours, and to give the benefit of their family practice to some one of better politics than Mr Hope. In another set of minds, a real fear of Mr Hope, as a dangerous person, sprang up under the heat of the displeasure of the influential members of society. Such were slow to have recourse to another medical attendant, and undertook the management of the health of their own families, till they could find an adviser in whom they could perfectly confide. When Mr Lowry gained the contest, the population of Deerbrook was electrified, and the unpleasantness of their surprise was visited upon the only supporter of Mr Lowry whom the place contained. Wise folks were not wanting who talked of the skill which some persons had in keeping on the winning side,—of reasons which time sometimes revealed for persons choosing to be singular,—and some remarkable incidents were reported of conversations between Mr Lowry and Mr Hope in the lanes, and of certain wonderful advantages which had lately fallen to one or another of Mr Hope's acquaintances, through some strong political interest. Mr Rowland doubted, at his own table, all the news he heard on the subject, and said everywhere that he did not see why a man should not vote as he pleased. Mr Grey was very sorry about the whole affair; he was sorry that there had been any contest at all for the county, as it disturbed the peace of Deerbrook; he was sorry that the candidate he preferred had won, as the fact exasperated the temper of Deerbrook; he was sorry that Hope had voted, to the detriment of his name and rising fortunes; and he was sorry that he himself had been unable at last to vote for Lowry, to keep his young friend in countenance: it was truly unlucky that he should have passed his promise early to Sir William Hunter not to vote. It was a sad business altogether. It was only to be hoped that it would pass out of people's minds; that things would soon get into their usual train; and that it might be seven years before there was another election.

Hester complained to her husband and sister of the manner in which she was treated by the tradespeople of the place. She had desired to put herself on a footing of acquaintanceship with them, as neighbours, and persons with whom there must be a constant transaction of business for life. She saw at once the difference in the relation between tradespeople and their customers in a large town like Birmingham, and in a village where there is but one baker, where the grocer and hatter are the same personage, and where you cannot fly from your butcher, be he ever so much your foe. Hester therefore made it her business to transact herself all affairs with the village tradesmen. She began her housekeeping energetically, and might be seen in Mr Jones's open shop in the coldest morning of January, selecting her joint of meat; or deciding among brown sugars at Tucker's, the grocer's. After the election, she found some difference in the manner of most of the shop-people towards her; and she fancied more than there was. With some of these persons, there was no more in their minds than the consciousness of having discussed the new family and Mr Hope's vote, and come to a conclusion against his "principles." With others, Mrs Rowland's influence had done deeper mischief. A few words dropped by herself, or reports of her sayings, circulated by her servants, occasioned dislike or alarm which Hester's sensitiveness apprehended at once, and forthwith exaggerated. She complained to her husband that she could not go to the shops with any comfort, and that she thought she must turn over the housekeeping to Morris. Margaret remonstrated against this; and, by being her sister's constant companion in her walks of business as well as pleasure, hoped to be able to keep the peace, and to preserve or restore, if need were, a good understanding between parties who could most materially promote or injure each other's comfort. The leisure hours to which she had looked forward with such transport were all chequered with anxiety on this subject, in the intervals of speculation on another matter, to which she found her mind constantly recurring, in spite of her oft-repeated conviction that it was no concern of hers,—where Mr Enderby was,—what he was doing,—and when he would come. Day by day, as she spread her books before her, or began to write, she wondered at her own listlessness about employments to which she had looked forward with so much eagerness; and when she detected herself gazing into the fire by the half-hour together, or allowing the ink to dry in her suspended pen, she found that she was as far as ever from deciding whether Hester was not now in the way to be less happy than ever, and how it was that, with all her close friendship with Philip Enderby, of which she had spoken so confidently to Maria, she was now in perfect ignorance of his movements and intentions. The whole was very strange, and, in the experience, somewhat dreary.