Too proud to bear a pitying eye;
How sweet in that dark hour to fall
On bosoms waiting to receive
Our sighs, and gently whisper all!
They love us—will not God forgive?
Keble’s Christian Year.
Strangers passing through Sandycliffe always paused to admire the picturesque old Grange, with its curious gables and fantastically twisted chimneys, its mullion windows and red-brick walls half smothered in ivy, while all sorts of creepers festooned the deep, shady porch, with its long oaken benches that looked so cool and inviting on a hot summer’s day, while the ever-open door gave a glimpse of a hall furnished like a sitting-room, with a glass door leading to a broad, gravel terrace. The smoothly shaved lawn in front of the house was shaded by two magnificent elms; a quaint old garden full of sweet-smelling, old-fashioned flowers lay below the terrace, and a curious yew-tree walk bordered one side. This was Mr. Ferrers’s favorite walk, where he pondered over the subject for his Sunday’s sermons. It was no difficulty for him to find his way down the straight alley, An old walnut-tree at the end with a broad, circular seat and a little strip of grass round it was always known as the “Master’s summer study.” It was here that Margaret read to him in the fresh, dewy mornings when the thrushes were feeding on the lawn, or in the evenings when the birds were chirping their good-nights, and the lark had come down from the gate of heaven to its nest in the corn-field, and the family of greenfinches that had been hatched in the branches of an old acacia-tree were all asleep and dreaming of the “early worm.”
People used to pity Margaret for having to spend so many hours over such dull, laborious reading; the homilies of the old Fathers and the abstract philosophical treatises in which Mr. Ferrers’s soul delighted must have been tedious to his sister, they said; but if they had but known it, their pity was perfectly wasted.
Margaret’s vigorous intellect was quite capable of enjoying and assimilating the strong, hardy diet provided for it; she knew Mr. Ferrers’s favorite authors, and would pause of her own accord to read over again some grand passage or trenchant argument.
Hugh had once laughingly called her a blue-stocking when he had found the brother and sister at their studies, but he had no idea of the extent of Margaret’s erudition; in earlier years she had learned a little Greek, and was able to read the Greek Testament to Raby—she was indeed “his eyes,” as he fondly termed her, and those who listened to the eloquent sermons of the blind vicar of Sandycliffe little knew how much of that precious store of wisdom and scholarly research was owing to Margaret’s unselfish devotion; Milton’s daughters reading to him in his blindness were not more devoted than she.