Chapter Thirty One.
Keeping Sunday.
Mr Enderby was in the churchyard when the congregation poured out from the porch. Group after group walked away, and he saw no signs of the party he was waiting for. Mrs Rowland lingered in the aisle, with the intention of allowing all Deerbrook time to look at Mr Walcot. When none but the Levitts remained, the lady issued forth from the porch, leaning on Mr Walcot’s arm, and followed by four of her children, who were walking two and two, holding up their heads, and glancing round to see how many people were observing the new gentleman they had brought with them from Cheltenham. Mr Enderby approached the family party, and said—
“Sister, will you introduce me to Mr Walcot?”
“With the greatest pleasure, my dear brother. Mr Walcot, my brother, Mr Enderby. Brother, my friend, Mr Walcot.”
Mr Walcot blushed with delight, looked as if he longed to shake hands if he dared, and said something of his joy at becoming acquainted with the brother of so kind a friend as Mrs Rowland.
“There is not much to be apprehended here,” thought Mr Enderby. “How perfectly unlike what I had fancied! This dragon, which was to devour the Hopes, seems a pretty harmless creature. Why he looks a mere boy, and with hair so light, one can’t see it without spectacles. What will he do with himself in my mother’s good house? Fanny Grey’s bird-cage would suit him better;—and then he might hang in Rowland’s hall, and be always ready for use when the children are ill. I must have out what I mean to say to him, however; and, from his looks, I should fancy I may do what I please with him. He will go away before dinner, if I ask him, I have little doubt. I wonder that, while she was about it, Priscilla did not find out somebody who had the outside of a professional man at least. This youth looks as if he would not draw one’s tooth for the world, because it would hurt one so! How he admires the rooks and the green grass on the graves, because the children do!—Sister,” he continued aloud, “I am sorry to deprive you of your companion; but it is absolutely necessary that Mr Walcot and I should have some conversation together immediately. The children will go home with you; and we will follow presently.”
Mrs Rowland looked thunder and lightning at her brother; but Mr Walcot appeared so highly pleased, that she considered it safest to acquiesce in the present arrangement, trusting to undo Philip’s work in the course of the afternoon. So she sailed away with the children.
“This is no time for ceremony,” observed Enderby, as he led the way to the walk under the trees. “I have used none with my sister, as you perceive; and I shall use none with you.”
“Thank you, sir. My dear parents have always taught me that there could be no occasion for ceremony where people feel kindly, and mean only what is right. They will be pleased to hear that you do not think ceremony necessary between us.”
“The circumstances are too urgent for it in the present case;—that is what I mean,” said Philip. “I am confident, Mr Walcot, from what you say about feeling kindly and meaning rightly, that you cannot be aware what is the real state of affairs in Deerbrook, or you could not have been induced to think of settling here.”
“Oh, I assure you, sir, you are mistaken. Mrs Rowland herself was the person who told me all about it; and I repeated all she said to my parents. They strongly advised my coming; and I am sure they would never recommend me to do anything that was not right.”
“Then, if I tell you what I know to be the true state of the case here, will you represent it fully to your parents, and see what they will say then?”
“Certainly. I can have no objection to that. They will be very sorry, however, if any difficulty should arise. I had a letter from them this very morning, in which they say that they consider me a fortunate youth to have fallen in with such a friend as Mrs Rowland, who promises she will be a mother, or rather, I should say, a sister to me, and to have stepped at once into such practice as Mrs Rowland says I shall certainly have here. They say what is very true, that it is a singular and happy chance to befall a youth who has only just finished his education.”
“That is so true, that you ought not to be surprised if it should turn out that there is something wrong at the bottom of the affair. I am going to show you what this wrong is, that you may take warning in time, and not discover, when it is too late, that you have been injuring an honourable man, who has been too hardly treated already.”
“I should be sorry to do that: but I cannot think what you can mean.”
“I dare say not. Pray have you been told of a Mr Hope who lives here?”
“Oh, yes; we saw the people breaking his windows as we drove past, yesterday evening. He must be a very improper, disagreeable man. And it is very hard upon the ladies and gentlemen here to have no one to attend them but that sort of person.”
“That is one account of Mr Hope: now you must hear the other.” And Mr Enderby gave a full statement of Hope’s character, past services, and present position, in terms which he conceived to be level with the capacity of the young man. He kept his sister out of the story, as far as it was possible, but did not soften the statement of her calumnies, though refraining from exhibiting their origin. “Now,” said he, at the end of his story, “have I not shown cause for consideration, as to whether you should settle here or not?”
“For consideration, certainly. But, you see, it is so difficult to know what to think. Here is Mrs Rowland telling me one set of things about Mr Hope, and you tell me something quite different.”
“Well, what do you propose to do?”
“I shall consult my parents, of course.”
“Had not you better set off by the coach to-morrow morning, and tell your parents all about it before you commit yourself?”
“I do not see how I could do that very well, as I have engaged to go over and see these people in Sir William Hunter’s almshouses, that I am to have the charge of. No; I think my best way will be this. I will write fully to my parents first. I will do that this afternoon. Then, considering that I have said I shall stay here, and that the house is going to be got ready for me,—and considering how hard it is upon the ladies and gentlemen here to have nobody to attend them but a person they do not like,—and considering, too, that I cannot tell for myself what Mr Hope really is, while people differ so about him, I think I had better wait here (just as I should have done if you had not told me all this) till Mrs Rowland, and you, and Sir William Hunter, and everybody, have settled whether Mr Hope is really a good man or not: and then, you know, I can go away, after all, if I please.”
Philip thought that Dr Levitt must have been preaching to his new parishioner to join the wisdom of the serpent with the harmlessness of the dove. Mr Walcot himself seemed quietly satisfied with his own decision, for he adhered to it, repeating it in answer to every appeal that Philip could devise.
“I think it right to warn you,” said Philip, “that if the prospect of being my mother’s medical attendant has been part of your inducement to settle here, you have been misled in relying on it. My mother is much attached to Mr Hope and his family; she prefers him to every other medical attendant; and I shall take care that she has her own way in this particular.”
“While I am in Mrs Rowland’s house, I shall, of course, attend Mrs Rowland’s family,” replied Mr Walcot.
“Her children, if she pleases; but not necessarily her mother.”
“Yes; her mother too, as I dare say you will see.”
“You will allow Mrs Enderby to choose her own medical attendant, I presume?”
“Oh, yes: and I have no doubt she will choose me. Mrs Rowland says so.”
“Here comes a gentleman with whom I want to speak,” said Philip, seeing Mr Grey approaching from a distance. “He is as warm a friend and admirer of Mr Hope as I am; and—”
“Mr Hope married into his family,—did not he?”
“Yes; but Mr Grey and Mr Hope were friends long before either of them was acquainted with Mrs Hope. The friendship between the gentlemen was more likely to have caused the marriage than the marriage the friendship.”
“Ah! that does happen sometimes, I know.”
“What I was going to say is this, Mr Walcot, that Mr Hope’s friends have determined to see justice done him; and that if, in the prosecution of this design, you should imagine that you are remarkably coolly treated,—by myself, for instance,—you must remember that I fairly warned you from the beginning that I shall give no countenance to any one who comes knowingly to establish himself on the ruins of a traduced man’s reputation. You will remember this, Mr Walcot.”
“Oh, certainly. I am sure I shall expect nothing from anybody; for nobody here knows me. It is only through Mrs Rowland’s kindness that I have any prospect here at all.”
“I will just give you one more warning, as you seem a very young man. The Deerbrook people are apt to be extremely angry when they are angry at all. What would you think of it, if they should break your windows, as they broke Mr Hope’s last night, when they find that you have been thriving upon his practice, while they were under a mistake concerning him which you were fully informed of?”
“I do not think I should mind it. I might get over it, you know, as Mr Hope would then have done. Or I might go away, after all, if I pleased. But you want to speak to that gentleman; so I will wish you good morning.”
“You will represent to your parents all I have said? Then, pray, do not omit the last,—about what dreadful people the Deerbrook people are when they are angry; and how likely it is that they may be very angry with you some day. I advise you by all means to mention this.”
“Yes, certainly; thank you. I shall write this afternoon.”
“I wish Mrs Rowland joy of her fledgling,” said Enderby, as he joined Mr Grey.
“I was just thinking, as you and he came up, that a few lessons from the drill-sergeant at Blickley would do him no harm. Perhaps, however, your sister will teach him to hold up his head better. I rather think he is a little scared with the rooks, is not he? What in the world is your sister to do with him, now she has got him here?”
“I hope little Anna will lend him her cup and ball on rainy days.”
“Do you find him a simpleton?”
“I hardly know. One must see him more than once to be quite sure. But enough of him for the present. I have just come from the corner-house; but I am not going to talk about the Hopes either: and yet I have something out of the common way to say to you, my good friend.”
“I am glad you call me by that name,” observed Mr Grey, kindly. “I never could see, for the life of me, why men should look askance upon one another, because their relations, (no matter on which side, or perhaps on both), happen to be more or less in the wrong.”
“And there are other reasons why you and I should beware of being affected by the faults and weaknesses of our connections, Mr Grey,—and that is what I have now to say. I mean, because we may become connected ourselves. How will you like me for a relation, I wonder.”
“It is so, then?”
“It is so: and it is by Margaret’s desire that I inform you of it now, before the circumstance becomes generally known. If you think Mrs Grey will be gratified by early information, I believe I must beg that you will go home and tell her directly. We are as fully aware as you can be, of the absurdity of this way of talking: but circumstances compel us to—”
“I know, I understand. People here have been persuaded that you were engaged to some other lady; and you will have no help in contradicting this from your own family, who may not like your marrying into our connection so decidedly—as I have heard the ladies say about our friend Hope.”
“Just so.”
“Well, my opinion is, that it is of little consequence what your friends may say now, when time is so sure to justify your choice. There is no need for me to tell you that you are a happy man, Mr Enderby. There is not a more amiable girl living than that cousin Margaret of mine. I charge you to make her happy, Enderby. I do not mean that I have any doubt of it: but I charge you to make her happy.”
Philip did not like to speak (any more than to do other things) without being pretty sure of doing it well. He was silent now because he could not well speak. He was anything but ashamed of his attachment to Margaret; but he could not open his lips upon it.
“I trust there is the better chance of her being happy,” continued Mr Grey, “that she is going to marry a man of somewhat less enthusiasm than her sister has chosen, Mr Enderby.”
“Do not speak of that, Mr Grey. We might not agree. I can only say that I am so fully sensible of my immeasurable inferiority to Hope, I know I am hardly worthy to appreciate him... I cannot give you an idea of my sense of his superiority... And to hear him set below me...
“Do not mistake me, my dear friend. No one can value Mr Hope more than I do, as indeed I have every reason to do. Only you see the effects of that unfortunate vote of his. That is just what I mean, now. If you had been in his place, I rather think you would have done what was prudent—you would not have run into anything so useless as giving that vote, when there was not another person in Deerbrook to vote the same way. You would not, Enderby.”
“I trust I should, if I had had Margaret to keep me up to my duty.”
“Well, well; I may be wrong; but it vexes me to see anxiety and sorrow in my cousin Hester’s beautiful face; and that is the truth of it. But, indeed, her husband is a fine fellow, and I respect him from the bottom of my soul; and it makes me extremely happy to hear that Margaret has met with one whom I can as cordially approve. You have my hearty good wishes, I assure you. Now, when may I see my cousin, to wish her joy? I must go home now, and let my family know about it, you say?”
“If you please; for I must tell Margaret how kindly you have received what I had to communicate. She will be waiting anxiously.”
“Why, she could not doubt my good will, surely? How should I be otherwise than pleased? Nor have I any doubt of my wife’s feeling. You stand very high in her good graces, Enderby, I can assure you. I was not fully aware of this myself, till I saw how vexed she was at hearing that you were engaged to that lady abroad. She never could make out what Margaret was feeling about that; but she used to say to me when we were by ourselves, that if Margaret was not hurt and angry, she was. But I suppose the little gipsy was laughing at us and all Deerbrook all the time; though she kept her gravity wonderfully.”
Philip was not disposed to throw any light on this part of the affair; and the gentlemen parted at the turnstile. After a few steps, Philip heard himself called. Mr Grey was hastening after him, to know whether this matter was to be spoken of, or to remain quiet, after Mrs Grey had been informed. He had perfectly understood that all Deerbrook was soon to know it; but it was a different question whether his family were to be authorised to tell it. Mr Enderby desired they would follow their own inclinations entirely. Margaret’s only wish was, that her kind relations should be informed directly from herself before anybody else but her friend, Miss Young: and his own only desire was, that, on Margaret’s account, every one should understand that his engagement was to her, and not to any lady at Rome or elsewhere. Virtual provision having thus been made for the enlightenment of all Deerbrook in the course of the day, the gentlemen once more went their respective ways.
In her present mood of amiability, Mrs Rowland determined on giving the Greys the pleasure of a call from Mr Walcot. In the afternoon, when Fanny was saying her catechism to her mamma, and Mary was repeating a hymn to Sophia, Mrs Rowland’s well-known knock was heard, and any religious feelings which might have been aroused in the minds of the little girls were put to flight by the sound. Sophia turned her feet off the sofa, where she had been lying all day, that Mrs Rowland might not suspect that she had suffered from the mobbing of the Hopes. The children were enjoined not to refer to it, and were recommended to avoid the subject of Miss Young also, if possible.
The amazement and wrath of the party at hearing Mr Walcot announced was beyond expression. Mrs Grey was sufficiently afraid of her neighbour to confine herself to negative rudeness. She did the most she dared in not looking at Mr Walcot, or asking him to sit down. He did not appear to miss her attentions, but seated himself beside her daughter, and offered remarks on the difference between Deerbrook and Cheltenham. Sophia made no intelligible replies, and looked impenetrably reserved; he therefore tried another subject, enlarged upon Mrs Rowland’s extreme kindness to him, and said that his parents wrote that they considered him a fortunate youth in having met with a friend who would be a mother or sister to him, now that he was no longer under the parental wing. Sophia had intended to be quite distant and silent, but his long-winded praises of all the Rowlands were too much for her. She observed that it was generally considered that there was nobody in Deerbrook to compare with the family in the corner-house—the Hopes and Miss Ibbotson. From this moment, the tête-à-tête became animated; the speakers alternated rapidly and regularly; for every virtue in a Rowland there was a noble quality in a Hope; for every accomplishment in Matilda and Anna, there was a grace in “our dear Mr Hope” or “our sweet Hester.” Fanny and Mary listened with some amusement to what they heard on either side of their pair of low stools. As sure as they were desired particularly to avoid any subject with the Rowlands, they knew that their mother would presently be in the midst of it. The prohibition showed that her mind was full of it: and whatever her mind was full of was poured out upon Mrs Rowland. The two ladies were presently deep in the riot, and almost at high words about Miss Young. The girls looked at each other, and strove to keep the corners of their mouths in order. In the midst of the conflict of sentiment on these two subjects, Mrs Rowland’s ear caught what Sophia was saying—that there was one person in the same house with Mr Walcot who properly estimated the Hopes—Mr Enderby, who was engaged to Margaret Ibbotson. While Mr Walcot was carefully explaining that Mr Enderby was not in the same house, Mr Enderby having a bed at his mother’s house still, though that house was already preparing for the reception of himself, its new tenant, Mrs Rowland leaned forward with her most satirical air, and begged to assure Miss Grey that she had been misinformed—that what she had just been saying was a mistake.
Sophia looked at her mother in absolute terror, lest they should have adopted a joke of her father’s for earnest. But Mrs Grey was positive. Mrs Rowland laughed more and more provokingly: Mrs Grey grew more and more angry; and at last sent the little girls to see whether their father was at home, that he might bear his testimony. He came; and in reply to his astonishment about what she could mean, Mrs Rowland said that she did not deny that there was some present entanglement; but that she warned Margaret’s connections not to suppose that her brother would ever be married to Miss Ibbotson. Mr Grey observed that time would show, and inquired after Mrs Enderby. The report of her was very flattering indeed. She was to be quite well now soon. Mr Walcot’s opinion of her case was precisely what Mrs Rowland had always held. Mrs Enderby’s complaints were nervous—nervous altogether. With retirement from common acquaintances, and the society of the dear children, and the attendance of a servant (most highly recommended) who would not humour her fancies as Phoebe had done; and, above all, with a medical attendant under the same roof for the present, she was to be quite well immediately. Mr Walcot’s countenance wore an expression of perfect delight at the prospect, and Mr Grey’s of the blackest displeasure.
When the visitors were gone, Mr Walcot being allowed to find his way out as he could, the little girls heard them discussed in the way which might be expected, and were then desired to finish their catechism and hymn. Mamma and Sophia were still flushed and agitated with what they had been hearing and saying, when the low serious voices of Fanny and Mary recited—the one an abjuration of all envy, malice, hatred, and uncharitableness; and the other—
“Teach me to feel for others’ woe,
To hide the faults I see;
The mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.”
“You have a warning, my dear,” said Mrs Grey to Fanny, “in the lady who was here just now—a terrible warning against malice and all those faults. You see how unhappy she makes every one about her, by her having indulged her temper to such a degree. You see—”
“Mary, my darling,” said Mr Grey, “repeat that hymn to me again:—
“‘Teach me to feel for others’ woe,
To hide the faults I see.’
“Let us have that hymn over again, my dear child.”