Chapter Forty Four.
Late Religion.
A few days after Morris’s return, she told Margaret that the tidings in the village of Miss Rowland’s illness were not good. Mrs Rowland was quite as sure as ever that, if anybody could cure Matilda, it was Mr Walcot; but Mr Walcot himself looked anxious; and a bed had been put up for him in the room next to the sick child. Margaret wondered why Mr Rowland did not send to Blickley for further advice: but Morris thought that Mrs Rowland would not give up her perfect faith in Mr Walcot, if all her children should die before her face.
When Morris had left the room, Margaret was absorbed in speculations, as she played with her sister’s infant—speculations on the little life of children, and on their death. Her memory followed Matilda through every circumstance in which she had seen her. The poor little girl’s very attitude, voice, and words—words full, alas! of folly and vanity—rose again upon her eye and ear, in immediate contrast with the image of death, and the solemnity of the life to come. In the midst of these thoughts came tears of shame and self-reproach; for another thought (how low! how selfish!) thrust itself in among them—that she was secure for the present from Philip’s departure—that he would not leave Deerbrook while Matilda was in a critical state. As these tears rolled down her cheeks, the baby looked full in her face, and caught the infection of grief.
He hung his little lip, and looked so woe-begone, that Margaret dashed away the signs of her sorrow, and spoke gaily to him; and, as the sun shone in at the moment upon the lustres on the mantelpiece, she set the glass-drops in motion, and let the baby try to catch the bright colours that danced upon the walls and ceiling. At this moment, Hester burst in with a countenance of dismay.
“Margaret, my husband has a headache!”
A headache was no trifle in these days.
“Anything more than a headache?” asked Margaret. “No other feeling of illness? There is nothing to wonder at in a mere headache. It is very surprising that he has not had it before, with all his toil and want of sleep.”
“He declares it is a trifle,” said Hester: “but I see he can hardly hold up. What shall I do?”
“Make him lie down and rest, and let me go to Mrs Howell instead of you. She will be a little disappointed; but that cannot be helped. She must put up with my services to-day. Now, do not frighten yourself, as if no one ever had a headache without having a fever.”
“I shall desire Morris to let no one in; and to bring no messages to her master while his headache lasts.”
“Very right. I will tell her as I go for my bonnet. One more kiss before I go, baby. Do not wait tea for me, Hester. I cannot say when I shall be back.”
Margaret had been gone to Mrs Howell’s about an hour and a half, when there was a loud and hasty knock at the door of the corner-house. It roused Hope from a doze into which he had just fallen, and provoked Hester accordingly. There was a parley between Morris and somebody in the hall; and presently a voice was heard calling loudly upon Mr Hope. Hester could not prevent her husband from springing from the bed, and going out upon the stairs. Mr Rowland was already half-way up, looking almost beside himself with grief.
“You must excuse me, Mr Hope—you must not judge me hardly;—if you are ill, I am sorry... sir; but sir, my child is dying. We fear she is dying, sir; and you must come, and see if anything can save her. I shall never forgive myself for going on as we have been doing. She has been sacrificed—fairly sacrificed, I fear.”
“Nay, Mr Rowland, I must comfort you there,” said Hope, as they walked rapidly along the street. “I have had occasion to see a great deal of Mr Walcot and his professional conduct, in the course of the last few weeks; and I am certain that he has a very competent knowledge of his business. I assure you he shows more talent, more power altogether, in his professional than his unprofessional conduct; and in this particular disease he has now had much experience.”
“God bless you for saying so, my dear sir! It is like you—always generous, always just and kind! You must forgive us, Mr Hope. At a time like this, you must overlook all causes of offence. They are very great, I know; but you will not visit them upon us now.”
“We have only to do with the present now,” said Hope. “Not a word about the past, I entreat you.”
Mrs Rowland, to-day reckless of everything but her child, was standing out on the steps, watching, as for the last hope for her Matilda.
“She is much worse, Mr Hope; suddenly and alarmingly worse. This way: follow me.”
Hope would speak with Mr Walcot first. As he entered the study, to await Mr Walcot, Philip passed out. They did not speak.
“Oh, Philip! speak to Mr Hope!” cried Mrs Rowland. “For God’s sake do not do anything to offend him now!”
“I will do everything in my power, madam, to save your child,” said Hope. “Do not fear that the conduct of her relations will be allowed to injure her.”
“My love,” said Mr Rowland, “Mr Hope came from a sick bed to help us. Do not distrust him. Indeed he deserves better from us.”
“Pray forgive me,” said the miserable mother. “I do not well know what I am saying. But I will atone for all if you save my child.”
“Priscilla!” cried her brother, from the doorway, against which he was leaning. His tone of wonder was lost as Walcot entered, and the study was left for the conference of the medical men.
As the gentlemen went upstairs to Matilda’s room, they saw one child here, and another there, peeping about, in silence and dismay. As Hope put his hand on the head of one in passing, Mr Rowland said:
“There is a carriage coming for them presently, to take them away. Anna and George are now with Miss Young, and she will take them all away. She is very good: but I knew we might depend upon her—upon her heart, and her forgiveness. Ah! you hear the poor child’s voice. That shows you the way.”
Matilda was wandering, and, for the moment, talking very loud. Something about grandmamma seeing her dance, and “When I am married,” struck the ear as Hope entered her chamber, and entirely overset the mother. Matilda was soon in a stupor again.
It was impossible to hold out much prospect of her recovery. It was painful to every one to hear how Mrs Rowland attempted to bribe Mr Hope, by promises of doing him justice, to exert himself to the utmost in Matilda’s behalf. He turned away from her, again and again, with a disgust which his compassion could scarcely restrain. Philip was so far roused by the few words which had been let drop below-stairs, as to choose to hear what passed now, in the antechamber to the patient’s room. It was he who decidedly interposed at last. He sent his brother-in-law to Matilda’s bedside, dismissed Mr Walcot from the room, and then said—
“A very few minutes will suffice, I believe, sister, to relieve your mind: and they will be well spent. Tell us what you mean by what you have been saying so often within this quarter of an hour. As you hope in Heaven—as you dare to ask God to spare your child, tell us the extent to which you feel that you have injured Mr Hope.”
Hope sank down into the window-seat by which he had been standing. He thought the whole story of his love was now coming out. He waited for the first words as for a thunderclap. The first words were—
“Oh, Philip! I am the most wretched woman living! I never saw it so strongly before; I believe I did it with an idea of good to you; but I burned a letter of Margaret’s to you.”
“What letter? When?”
“The day you left us last—the day you were in the shrubbery all the morning—the day the children found the shavings burnt.”
“What was in the letter? Did you read it?”
“No; I dared not.”
“What made you burn it?”
“I was afraid you would go to her, and that your engagement would come on again.”
“Then what you told me—what made me break it off—could not have been true.”
“No, it was not—not all true.”
“What was true, and what was not?”
Mrs Rowland did not answer, but looked timidly at Mr Hope. Now was the moment for him to speak.
“It was true,” said he, “that, at the very beginning of my acquaintance with Hester and Margaret, I preferred Margaret—and that my family discerned that I did—as true as that Hester has long been the beloved of my heart—beloved as—but I cannot speak of my wife, of my home, in the hearing of one who has endeavoured to profane both. All I need say is that neither Hester nor Margaret ever knew where my first transient fancy lighted, while they both know—know as they know their own hearts—where it has fixed. It is not true that Margaret ever loved any one but you, Enderby; and Mrs Rowland cannot truly say that she ever did.”
“What was it then that Margaret confided to my mother?” asked Enderby, turning to his sister.
“I cannot tell what possessed me at the time to say so, but that I thought I was doing the best for your happiness—but—but, Philip, I really believe now, that Margaret never did love any one but you. I know nothing to the contrary.”
“But my mother?”
“She knew very little of any troubles in Mr Hope’s family; and—and what she did hear was all from me.”
“Do you mean that all you told me of Margaret’s confidences to my mother was false?”
There was no answer; but Mrs Rowland’s pale cheeks grew paler.
“Oh God! what can Margaret have thought of me all this time?” cried Philip.
“I can tell you what she has thought, I believe,” said Hope. “Her brother and sister have read her innocent mind, as you yourself might have done, if your faith in her had been what she deserved. She has believed that you loved her, and that you love her still. She has believed that some one—that Mrs Rowland traduced her to you: and in her generosity, she blames you for nothing but that you would not see and hear her—that you went away on the receipt of her letter—of that letter which it now appears you never saw.”
“Where is she?” cried Enderby, striding to the door.
“She is not at home. You cannot find her at this moment: and if you could, you must hear me first. You remember the caution I gave you when we last conversed—in the abbey, and again in the meadows.”
“I do; and I will observe it now.”
“You remember that she is unaware—”
“That you ever—that that interview with Mrs Grey ever took place? She shall never learn it from me. It is one of those facts which have ceased to exist—which is absolutely dead, and should be buried in oblivion. You hear, Priscilla?”
She bowed her head.
“You believe that—.”
“Say no more, brother. Do not humble me further. I will make what reparation I can—indeed I will—and then perhaps God will spare my child.”
Hope’s passing reflection was, “How alike is the superstition of the ignorant and of the wicked! My poor neighbours stealing to the conjuror’s tent in the lane, and this wretched lady, hope alike to bribe Heaven in their extremity—they by gifts and rites, she by remorse and reparation.—How different from the faith which say; ‘Not as I will, but as thou wilt!’”
“Where is Margaret? Will you tell me?” asked Enderby, impatiently. “But before I see her, I ought to ask forgiveness from you, Hope. You find how cruelly I have been deceived—by what incredible falsehood—. But,” glancing at his pale sister, “we will speak no more of that. If, in the midst of all this error and wretchedness, I have hurt your feelings more than my false persuasions rendered necessary... I hope you will forgive me.”
“And me! Will you forgive me?” asked Mrs Rowland, faintly.
“There is nothing to pardon in you,” said Hope to Philip. “Your belief in what your own sister told you in so much detail can scarcely be called a weakness; and you did and said nothing to me that was not warranted by what you believed.—And I forgive you, madam. I will do what I can to relieve your present affliction; and, as long as you attempt no further injustice towards my family, no words shall be spoken by any of us to remind you of what is past.”
“You are very good, Mr Hope.”
“I tell you plainly,” he resumed, “that you cannot injure us beyond a certain point. You cannot make it goodness in us to forget what is past. It is of far less consequence to us what you and others think of us than what we think of our neighbours. Our chief sorrow has been the spectacle of yourself in your dealings with us. We shall be thankful to be reminded of it no more. And now enough of this.”
“Where is Margaret?” again asked Enderby, as if in despair of an answer.
“She is nursing Mrs Howell. As soon as I have seen this poor child again, I will go home, and take care that Margaret is prepared to see you. Remember how great the surprise, the mystery, must be to her.”
“If the surprise were all—” said Philip.—“But will she hear me? Will she forgive me? Will she trust me?”
“Was there ever a woman who really loved who would not hear, would not forgive, would not trust?” said Hope, smiling. “I must not answer for Margaret; but I think I may answer for woman in the abstract.”
“I will follow you in an hour, Hope.”
“Do so. Now, madam.”
And Hope followed Mrs Rowland again to the bedside of her dying child.