Hope grasped her hand with a fervour which absolved him from the use of words. He then opened the door for her.
“I must return to the orchard,” said she. “Will you go? or will you repose yourself here till we come in to tea?”
Mr Hope preferred remaining where he was. The die was cast, and he must think. His hour of meditation was salutary. He had never seen Margaret so—he dared not dwell upon it: but then, never had her simplicity of feeling towards him, her ingenuous friendship, unmixed with a thought of love, been so clear. He had made no impression upon her, except through her sister, and for her sister. He recalled the stiffness and fear with which she had come when summoned to a tête-à-tête; her sudden relief on the mention of her sister; and her joyous encouragement of his project.
“I ought to rejoice—I do rejoice at this,” thought he. “It seems as if everyone else would be made happy by this affair. It must have been my own doing; there must have been that in my manner and conduct which authorised all this expectation and satisfaction,—an expectation and satisfaction which prove to be no fancy of Mrs Grey’s. I have brought upon myself the charge of Hester’s happiness. She is a noble woman, bound to me by all that can engage my honour, my generosity, my affection. She shall be happy from this day, if my most entire devotion can make her so. Margaret loves Enderby: I am glad I know it. I made him dreadfully jealous just now; I must relieve him as soon as possible. I do not know how far matters may have gone between them; but Margaret is not at liberty to explain what he saw till I have spoken to Hester. There must be no delay: I will do it this evening. I cannot bring myself to communicate with Mrs Grey. If Mr Grey is at home, he will make the opportunity for me.”
Mr Grey was at home, and on the alert to take a hint. “I guessed how it was,” said he. “Margaret has been trying to keep down her spirits, but not a child among them all flew about the orchard as she did, when Mr Enderby had been to look for her, and she followed him back. I thought at first it was something on her own account; but Enderby looked too dull and sulky for that. I have no doubt he is jealous of you. He found you together, did he? Well, he will soon know why, I trust. Oh, you have a hearty well-wisher in Margaret, I am sure! Now, you see they are setting Sophia down to the piano; and I think I can find for you the opportunity you want, if you really wish to bring the business to a conclusion this evening. I will call Hester out to take a turn with me in the shrubbery, as she and I often do, these fine evenings; and then, if you choose, you can meet us there.”
Hester was not at all sorry to be invited by Mr Grey to the turn in the shrubbery, which was one of the best of her quiet pleasures,—a solace which she enjoyed the more, the more she became attached to kind Mr Grey: and she did much respect and love him. This evening she was glad of any summons from the room. Margaret had fully intended not to speak to her of what had passed, thinking it best for her sister’s dignity, and for Mr Hope’s satisfaction, that he should not be anticipated. All this was very wise and undeniable while she was walking back to the orchard: but it so happened that Hester’s hand hung by her side, as she stood looking up at the apple-tree, unaware that Margaret had left the party. Margaret could not resist seizing the hand, and pressing it with so much silent emotion, such a glance of joy, as threw Hester into a state of wonder and expectation. Not a syllable could she extort from Margaret, either on the spot or afterwards, when summoned to tea. Whether it was on account of Mr Hope’s return to the house, she could not satisfy herself. She had sat, conscious and inwardly distressed, at the tea-table, where nothing remarkable had occurred; and was glad to escape from the circle where all that was said appeared to her excited spirit to be tiresome, or trifling, or vexatious.
How different was it all when she returned to the house! How she loved the whole world, and no one in it was dull, and nothing was trifling, and it was out of the power of circumstances to vex her! Life had become heaven: its doubts, its cares, its troubles, were gone, and all had given place to a soul-penetrating joy. She should grow perfect now, for she had one whom she believed perfect to lead her on. Her pride, her jealousy, would trouble her no more: it was for want of sympathy—perfect sympathy always at hand—that she had been a prey to them. She should pine no more, for there was one who was her own. A calm, nameless, all-pervading bliss had wrapped itself round her spirit, and brought her as near to her Maker as if she had been his favoured child. There needs no other proof that happiness is the most wholesome moral atmosphere, and that in which the immortality of man is destined ultimately to thrive, than the elevation of soul, the religious aspiration, which attends the first assurance, the first sober certainty, of true love. There is much of this religious aspiration amidst all warmth of virtuous affections. There is a vivid love of God in the child that lays its cheek against the cheek of its mother, and clasps its arms about her neck. God is thanked (perhaps unconsciously) for the brightness of his earth, on summer evenings, when a brother and sister, who have long been parted, pour out their heart stores to each other, and feel their course of thought brightening as it runs. When the aged parent hears of the honours his children have won, or looks round upon their innocent faces as the glory of his decline, his mind reverts to Him who in them prescribed the purpose of his life, and bestowed its grace. But, religious as is the mood of every good affection, none is so devotional as that of love, especially so called. The soul is then the very temple of adoration, of faith, of holy purity, of heroism, of charity. At such a moment the human creature shoots up into the angel: there is nothing on earth too defiled for its charity—nothing in hell too appalling for its heroism—nothing in heaven too glorious for its sympathy. Strengthened, sustained, vivified by that most mysterious power, union with another spirit, it feels itself set well forth on the way of victory over evil, sent out conquering and to conquer. There is no other such crisis in human life. The philosopher may experience uncontrollable agitation in verifying his principle of balancing systems of worlds, feeling, perhaps, as if he actually saw the creative hand in the act of sending the planets forth on their everlasting way; but this philosopher, solitary seraph, as he may be regarded, amidst a myriad of men, knows at such a moment no emotions so divine as those of the spirit becoming conscious that it is beloved—be it the peasant girl in the meadow, or the daughter of the sage, reposing in her father’s confidence, or the artisan beside his loom, or the man of letters musing by his fireside. The warrior, about to strike the decisive blow for the liberties of a nation, however impressed with the solemnity of the hour, is not in a state of such lofty resolution as those who, by joining hearts, are laying their joint hands on the whole wide realm of futurity for their own. The statesman who, in the moment of success, feels that an entire class of social sins and woes is annihilated by his hand, is not conscious of so holy and so intimate a thankfulness as they who are aware that their redemption is come in the presence of a new and sovereign affection. And these are many—they are in all corners of every land. The statesman is the leader of a nation—the warrior is the grace of an age—the philosopher is the birth of a thousand years; but the lover—where is he not? Wherever parents look round upon their children, there he has been—wherever children are at play together, there he will soon be—wherever there are roofs under which men dwell—wherever there is an atmosphere vibrating with human voices, there is the lover, and there is his lofty worship going on, unspeakable, but revealed in the brightness of the eye, the majesty of the presence, and the high temper of the discourse. Men have been ungrateful and perverse; they have done what they could to counteract, to debase, this most heavenly influence of their life; but the laws of their Maker are too strong, the benignity of their Father is too patient and fervent, for their opposition to withstand: and true love continues, and will continue, to send up its homage amidst the meditations of every eventide, and the busy hum of noon, and the song of the morning stars.
Hester, when she re-entered the house, was full of the commonest feeling of all in happy lovers,—a wonder that such intense happiness should be permitted to her. Margaret was lingering about the stair-head in the dusk, and met her sister at the door of their own apartment.
“May I come in?” said she.
“May you come in? Oh, Margaret! I want you.”