“To turn and look back when thou hearest
The sound of my name.”
She kept choking and swallowing all the time that she thought about it. She tried to comfort herself with the idea, that what he imagined her to be, did not alter the fact of what she was. But it was a truism, a phantom, and broke down under the weight of her regret. She had twenty questions on the tip of her tongue to ask Mr. Bell, but not one of them did she utter. Mr. Bell thought that she was tired, and sent her early to her room, where she sate long hours by the open window, gazing out on the purple dome above, where the stars arose, and twinkled and disappeared behind the great umbrageous trees before she went to bed. All night long too, there burnt a little light on earth; a candle in her old bedroom, which was the nursery with the present inhabitants of the parsonage, until the new one was built. A sense of change, of individual nothingness, of perplexity and disappointment, overpowered Margaret. Nothing had been the same; and this slight, all-pervading instability, had given her greater pain than if all had been too entirely changed for her to recognise it.
“I begin to understand now what heaven must be—and, oh! the grandeur and repose of the words—‘The same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.’ Everlasting! ‘From everlasting to everlasting, Thou art God.’ That beautiful sky above me looks as though it could not change, and yet it will. I am so tired—so tired of being whirled on through all these phases of my life, in which nothing abides by me, no creature, no place; it is like the circle in which the victims of earthly passion eddy continually. I am in the mood in which women of another religion take the veil. I seek heavenly steadfastness in earthly monotony. If I were a Roman Catholic and could deaden my heart, stun it with some great blow, I might become a nun. But I should pine after my kind; no, not my kind, for love for my species could never fill my heart to the utter exclusion of love for individuals. Perhaps it ought to be so, perhaps not; I cannot decide to-night.”
Wearily she went to bed, wearily she arose in four or five hours’ time. But with the morning came hope, and a brighter view of things.
“After all it is right,” said she, hearing the voices of children at play while she was dressing. “If the world stood still, it would retrograde and become corrupt, if that is not Irish. Looking out of myself and my own painful sense of change, the progress of all around me is right and necessary. I must not think so much of how circumstances affect me myself, but how they affect others, if I wish to have a right judgment, or a hopeful trustful heart.” And with a smile ready in her eyes to quiver down to her lips, she went into the parlour and greeted Mr. Bell.
“Ah, Missy! you were up late last night, and so you’re late this morning. Now I’ve got a little piece of news for you. What do you think of an invitation to dinner? a morning call, literally in the dewy morning. Why, I’ve had the Vicar here already, on his way to the school. How much the desire of giving our hostess a teetotal lecture for the benefit of the hay-makers, had to do with his earliness, I don’t know; but here he was, when I came down just before nine; and we are asked to dine there to-day.”
“But Edith expects me back—I cannot go,” said Margaret, thankful to have so good an excuse.
“Yes! I know; so I told him. I thought you would not want to go. Still it is open, if you would like it.”
“Oh, no!” said Margaret. “Let us keep to our plan. Let us start at twelve. It is very good and kind of them; but indeed I could not go.”
“Very well. Don’t fidget yourself, and I’ll arrange it all.”