Chapter Twenty.
Enderby News.
“Mamma, what do you think Fanny and Mary Grey say?” asked Matilda of her mother.
“My dear, I wish you would not tease me with what the Greys say. They say very little that is worth repeating.”
“Well, but you must hear this, mamma. Fanny and Mary were walking with Sophia yesterday, and they met Mrs Hope and Miss Ibbotson in Turn-stile Lane; and Mrs Hope was crying so, you can’t think.”
“Indeed! Crying! What, in the middle of the day?”
“Yes; just before dinner. She had her veil down, and she did not want to stop, evidently, mamma. She—.”
“I should wonder if she did,” observed Mr Rowland from the other side of the newspaper he was reading. “If Dr and Mrs Levitt were to come in the next time you cry, Matilda, you would not want to stay in the parlour, evidently, I should think. For my part, I never show my face when I am crying.”
“You cry, papa!” cried little Anna. “Do you ever cry?”
“Have you never found me behind the deals, or among the sacks in the granary, with my finger in my eye?”
“No, papa. Do show us how you look when you cry.”
Mr Rowland’s face, all dolefulness, emerged from behind the newspaper, and the children shouted.
“But,” said Matilda, observing that her mother’s brow began to lower, “I think it is very odd that Mrs Hope did not stay at home if she wanted to cry. It is so very odd to go crying about the streets!”
“I dare say Deerbrook is very much obliged to her,” said papa. “It will be something to talk about for a week.”
“But what could she be crying for, papa?”
“Suppose you ask her, my dear? Had you not better put on your bonnet, and go directly to Mr Hope’s, and ask, with our compliments, what Mrs Hope was crying for at four o’clock yesterday afternoon? Of course she can tell better than anybody else.”
“Nonsense, Mr Rowland,” observed his lady. “Go, children, it is very near school-time.”
“No, mamma; not by—”
“Go, I insist upon it, Matilda. I will have you do as you are bid. Go, George: go, Anna.—Now, my love, did I not tell you so, long ago? Do not you remember my observing to you, how coldly Mr Hope took our congratulations on his engagement in the summer? I was sure there was something wrong. They are not happy, depend upon it.”
“What a charming discovery that would be!”
“You are very provoking, Mr Rowland! I do believe you try to imitate Mr Grey’s dry way of talking to his wife.”
“I thought I had heard you admire that way, my dear.”
“For her, yes: it does very well for a woman like her: but I beg you will not try it upon me, Mr Rowland.”
“Well, then, Mrs Rowland, I am going to be as serious as ever I was in my life, when I warn you how you breathe such a suspicion as that the Hopes are not happy. Remember you have no evidence whatever about the matter. When you offered Mr Hope your congratulations, he was feeble from illness, and probably too much exhausted at the moment to show any feeling, one way or another. And as for this crying fit of Mrs Hope’s, no one is better able than you, my dear, to tell how many causes there may be for ladies’ tears besides being unhappily married.”
“Pray, Mr Rowland, make yourself easy, I beg. Whom do you suppose I should mention such a thing to?”
“You have already mentioned it to yourself and me, my dear, which is just two persons too many. Not a word more on the subject, if you please.”
Mrs Rowland saw that this was one of her husband’s authority days;—rare days, when she could not have her own way, and her quiet husband was really formidable. She buckled on her armour, therefore, forthwith. That armour was—silence. Mr Rowland was sufficiently aware of the process now to be gone through, to avoid speaking, when he knew he should obtain no reply. He finished his newspaper without further remark, looked out a book from the shelves, half-whistling all the while, and left the room.
Meantime, the children had gone to the schoolroom, disturbing Miss Young nearly an hour too soon. Miss Young told them she was not at liberty; and when she heard that their mamma had sent them away from the drawing-room, she asked why they could not play as usual. It was so cold! How did George manage to play? George had not come in with the rest. If he could play, so could they. The little girls had no doubt George would present himself soon: they did not know where he had run; but he would soon have enough of the cold abroad, or of the dullness of the nursery. In another moment Miss Young was informed of the fact of Hester’s tears of yesterday; and, much as she wanted the time she was deprived of; she was glad the children had come to her, that this piece of gossip might be stopped. She went somewhat at length with them into the subject of tears, showing that it is very hasty to conclude that any one has been doing wrong, even in the case of a child’s weeping; and much more with regard to grown people. When they had arrived at wondering whether some poor person had been begging of Mrs Hope, or whether one of Mr Hope’s patients that she cared about was very ill, or whether anybody had been telling her an affecting story, Miss Young brought them to see that they ought not to wish to know;—that they should no more desire to read Mrs Hope’s thoughts than to look over her shoulder while she was writing a letter. She was just telling them a story of a friend of hers who called on an old gentleman, and found him in very low spirits, with his eyes all red and swollen; and how her friend did not know whether to take any notice; and how the truth came out,—that the old gentleman had been reading a touching story:— she was just coming to the end of this anecdote, when the door opened and Margaret entered, holding George by the hand. Margaret looked rather grave, and said—
“I thought I had better come to you first, Maria, for an explanation which you may be able to give. Do you know who sent little George with a message to my sister just now? I concluded you did not. George has been calling at my brother’s door, with his papa’s and mamma’s compliments, and a request to know what Mrs Hope was crying for yesterday, at four o’clock.”
Maria covered her face with her hands, with as much shame as if she had been in fault, while “Oh, George!” was reproachfully uttered by the little girls.
“Matilda,” said Miss Young, “I trust you to go straight to your papa, without saying a word of this to any one else, and to ask him to come here this moment. I trust you, my dear.”
Matilda discharged her trust. She peeped into the drawing-room, and popped out again without speaking, when she saw papa was no longer there. She found him in the office, and brought him, without giving any hint of what had happened. He was full of concern, of course; said that he could not blame George, though he was certainly much surprised; that it would be a lesson to him not to use irony with children, since even the broadest might be thus misunderstood; and that a little family scene had thus been laid open, which he should hardly regret if it duly impressed his children with the folly and unkindness of village gossip. He declared he could not be satisfied without apologising,—well, then, without explaining, to Mrs Hope how it had happened; and he would do it through the medium of Mr Hope; for, to say the truth, he was ashamed to face Mrs Hope till his peace was made. Margaret laughed at this, and begged him to go home with her; but he preferred stepping over to Mrs Enderby’s, where Mr Hope had just been seen to enter. Mr Rowland concluded by saying, that he should accept it as a favour in Miss Ibbotson, as well as Miss Young, if she would steadily refuse to gratify any impertinent curiosity shown by his children, in whatever direction it might show itself. They were exposed to great danger from example in Deerbrook, like most children brought up in small villages, he supposed: and he owned he dreaded the idea of his children growing up the scourges to society that he considered foolish and malignant gossips to be.
“Do sit down, Margaret,” said Maria. “I shall feel uncomfortable when you are gone, if you do not stay a minute to turn our thoughts to something pleasanter than this terrible mistake of poor George’s.”
“I cannot stay now, however,” said Margaret, smiling. “You know I must go and turn my sister’s thoughts to something pleasanter. There she is, sitting at home, waiting to know how all this has happened.”
“Whether she has not been insulted? You are right, Margaret. Make haste back to her, and beg her pardon for us all. Shall she not, children, if she will be so kind?”
Margaret was overwhelmed with the petitions for pardon she had to carry; and not one of the children asked what Mrs Hope had been crying for, after all.
Hester looked up anxiously as Margaret entered the drawing-room at home.
“It is all a trifle,” said Margaret, gaily.
“How can it be a trifle?”
“The little Greys told what they saw yesterday, of course; and one of the little Rowlands wondered what was the reason;—(children can never understand what grown people, who have no lessons to learn, can cry for, you know); and Mr Rowland, to make their gossip ridiculous to themselves, told them they had better come and ask; and poor George, who cannot take a joke, came without any one knowing where he was gone. They were all in great consternation when I told them, and there is an ample apology coming to you through Edward. That is the whole story, except that Mr Rowland would have come himself to you, instead of going to your husband, but that he was ashamed of his joke. So there is an end of that silly matter, unless it be to make George always ask henceforth whether people are in joke or in earnest.”
“I think Mr Rowland might have come to me,” observed Hester. “Are you sure Mrs Rowland had nothing to do with it?”
“I neither saw her nor heard of her. You had better not go out to-day, it is so like snow. I shall be back soon; but as I have my bonnet on, I shall go and see Johnny Rye and his mother. Can I do anything for you?”
“Oh, my snow-boots! But I would not have you go to Mrs Howell’s while she is in such a mood as she was in yesterday. I would not go myself.”
“Oh! I will go. I am not afraid of Mrs Howell; and we shall have to encounter her again, sooner or later. I will buy something, and then see what my diplomacy will effect about the boots.”
Mr Hope presently came in, and found his wife prepared for the apology he brought from Mr Rowland. But it was obvious that Hope’s mind was far more occupied with something else.
“Where is Margaret?”
“She is gone out to Widow Rye’s, and to Mrs Howell’s.”
“No matter where, as long as she is out. I want to consult you about something.” And he drew a chair to the fire, and told that he had visited Mrs Enderby, whom he found very poorly, apparently from agitation of spirits. She had shed a few tears on reporting her health, and had dropped something which he could not understand, about this being almost the last time she should be able to speak freely to him. Hester anxiously hoped that the good old lady was not really going to die. There was no near probability of this, her husband assured her. He thought Mrs Enderby referred to some other change than dying; but what, she did not explain. She had gone on talking in rather an excited way, and at last hinted that she supposed she should not see her son for some time, as Mrs Rowland had intimated that he was fully occupied with the young lady he was going to be married to. Mrs Enderby plainly said that she had not heard this from Philip himself; but she seemed to entertain no doubt of the truth of the information she had received. She appeared to be struggling to be glad at the news; but it was clear that the uppermost feeling was disappointment at having no immediate prospect of seeing her son.
“Now, what are we to think and do?” said Hope.
“This agrees with what Mrs Rowland told me in Dingleford woods, six months ago,” said Hester; “and I suppose what she then said may have been true all this time.”
“How does that agree with his conduct to Margaret? Or am I mistaken in what I have told you I thought about that? Seriously—very seriously—how do you suppose the case stands with Margaret?”
“I know no more than you. I think he went further than he ought, if he was thinking of another; and, but for his conduct since, I should have quite concluded, from some observations that I made, that he was attached to Margaret.”
“And she—?”
“And she certainly likes him very well; but I can hardly fancy her happiness at stake. I have thought her spirit rather flat of late.”
Hope sighed deeply.
“Ah! you may well sigh,” said Hester, sighing herself, and sinking back in her chair. “You know what I am going to say. I thought I might be the cause of her being less gay than she should be. I have disappointed her expectations, I know. But let us talk only of her.”
“Yes: let us talk only of her, till we have settled what is our duty to her. Ought we to tell her of this or not?”
Both considered long. At length Hester said—
“I think she ought to hear it quietly at home first (whether it be true or not), to prepare her for anything that may be reported abroad. Perhaps, if you were to drop, as we sit together here, what Mrs Enderby said—”
“No, no; not I,” said Hope, quickly. He went on more calmly: “Her sister and bosom friend is the only person to do this—if, indeed, it ought to be done. But the news may be untrue; and then she need perhaps never hear it. Do not let us be in a hurry.”
Hester thought that if Margaret felt nothing more than friendship for Enderby, she would still consider herself ill-used; for the friendship had been so close an one that she might reasonably expect that she should not be left to learn such an event as this from common report. But was it certain, Hope asked, that she had anything new to learn? Was it certain that she was not in his confidence all this time—that she had not known ten times as much as Mrs Rowland from the beginning? Certainly not from the beginning, Hester said; and she had a strong persuasion that Margaret was as ignorant as themselves of Enderby’s present proceedings and intentions.
At this moment, a note was brought in. It was from Mrs Enderby to Mr Hope, written hurriedly, and blistered with tears. It told that she had been extremely wrong in mentioning to him prematurely what was uppermost in her mind about a certain family affair, and begged the great favour of him to keep to himself what she had divulged, and, if possible, to forget it. Once more, Mr Hope unconsciously sighed. It was at the idea that he could forget such a piece of intelligence.
“Poor old lady!” said Hester; “she has been taken to task, I suppose, for relieving her mind to you. But, Edward, this looks more and more as if the news were true. My darling Margaret! How will it be with her? Does it not look too like being true, love?”
“It looks as if Enderby’s family all believed it, certainly. This note settles the matter of our duty, however. If the affair is so private that Mrs Enderby is to be punished for telling me, it is hardly likely that Margaret will hear it by out-door chance. You are spared the task for the present at least, my dear!”
“I should like to be sure that Margaret does not love—that she might pass through life without loving,” said Hester, sighing, “But here she comes! Burn the note!”
The note curled in the flames, was consumed, and its ashes fluttered up the chimney, and Margaret did not enter. She had gone straight up-stairs. She did not come down till dinner was on the table. She was then prepared with the announcement that the snow-boots might be looked for very soon. She told of her visit to Widow Rye’s, and had something to say of the probability of snow; but she was rather absent, and she took wine. These were all the circumstances that her anxious sister could fix upon, during dinner, for silent comment. After dinner, having eaten an orange with something like avidity, Margaret withdrew for a very few minutes. As the door closed behind her, Hester whispered—
“She has heard. She knows. Is it not so?”
“There is no question about it,” replied Hope, examining the screen he held in his hand.
“I wonder who can have told her.”
“Tellers of bad news are never wanting, especially in Deerbrook,” said Hope, with a bitterness of tone which Hester had never heard from him before.
Margaret took up the other screen when she returned, and played with it till the table was cleared, so that she could have the use of her work-box. It was Morris who removed the dessert.
“Morris,” said Mr Hope, as she was leaving the room, “I want Charles: pray send him.”
“Charles is out, sir.”
“Out! when will he be back?”
“He will be back presently,” said Margaret. “I sent him with a note to Maria.”
As she leant over her work again, Hester and her husband exchanged glances.
An answer from Maria soon arrived. Margaret read it as she sat, her brother and sister carefully withdrawing their observation from her. Whatever else might be in the note, she read aloud the latter part—two or three lines relating to the incident of the morning. Her voice was husky, but her manner was gay. During the whole evening she was gay. She insisted on making tea, and was too quick with the kettle for Edward to help her. She proposed music, and she sang—song after song. Hester was completely relieved about her; and even Edward gave himself up to the hope that all was well with her. From music they got to dancing. Margaret had learned, by sitting with Maria during the children’s dancing-lesson, a new dance which had struck her fancy, and they must be ready with it next week at Dr Levitt’s. Alternately playing the dance and teaching it, she ran from the piano to them, and from them to the piano, till they were perfect, and her face was as flushed as it could possibly be at Mrs Levitt’s dance next week. But in the midst of this flush, Hope saw a shiver: and Hester remarked, that during the teaching, Margaret had, evidently without being aware of it, squeezed her hand with a force which could not have been supposed to be in her. These things made Hope still doubt.