 CHAPTER XXXIII THE SUN RISES AND SETS, SEED TIME AND HARVEST, COME AND GO, GENERATIONS, ARISE AND PASS AWAY, LAW AND AUTHORITY hold on their course, while hundreds of millions of human hearts have, stirring within them, struggles and emotions eternally new, and experience so diversified as that no two days appear alike to any one, and to no two does any one day appear the same. There is something so striking in this perpetual contrast between the external uniformity and an internal variety of the procedure of existence, that it is no wonder that multitudes have formed a conception of fate, of a mighty, unchanging power, blind to the differences of spirits, and deaf to the appeals of human delight and misery, a huge insensible force, beneath which all that is spiritual is sooner or later wounded, and is ever liable to be crushed. This conception of fate is grand, the natural and fully warranted to minds too lofty to be satisfied with the details of human life, but which have not risen to the far higher conception of providence to whom this uniformity and variety are, but means to a higher end than they apparently involve. There is infinite blessing in having reached the nobler conception. The feeling of helplessness is relieved, the craving for sympathy from the ruling power is satisfied, there is a hold for veneration, there is room for hope, there is above all, the stimulus and support of an end perceived or anticipated a purpose which steeps in sanctity all human experience. Yet even where this blessing is the most fully felt and recognized, the spirit cannot be at times overwhelmed by the vast regularly of aggregate existence, thrown back upon its faith for support. When it reflects how all things go on as they did before it became conscious of existence, and how all would go on as now, if it were to die today, on it rolls not only the great globe itself, but the life which stirs and hums on its surface, enveloping it like an atmosphere, on it rolls, and the vastest tumult that may take place among its inhabitants can no more make itself seen and heard above the general stirring hum of life, than Chimborazo or the loftiest Himalaya can lift its peak into space above the atmosphere. On, on its rolls, and the strong arm of the United Race could not turn from its course one planetary mo of the myriads that swim in space, no shriek of passion nor shrill song of joy, sent up from a group of nations on a continent, could attain the ear of the eternal silence. As she sits, thrown among the stars, death is less dreary than life in this view, a view which at times perhaps presents itself to every mind, but which speedily vanishes before the faith of those who with the heart believe that they are not the accidents of fate but the children of a father. In the house of every wise parent may then be seen in epitome of life, a sight whose consolation is needed at times, perhaps by all, which of the little children of a virtuous household can achieve of his entering into his parents' pursuits, or interfering with them, how sacred are the study and the office, the apparatus of a knowledge and a power which he can only venerate. Which of these little ones' dreams of disturbing the course of his parents' thought or achievement, which of them conceives of the daily routine of the household, is going forth and coming in, its rising on its rest, having been different before his birth, or that it would be altered by his absence? It is even a matter of surprise to him, when it now and then occurs to him that there is anything set apart for him, that he has clothes and couch, and that his mother thanks and cares for him. If he lags behind in a walk, or finds himself alone among the trees, he does not dream of being missed, but home rises up before him, as he has always seen it, his father thoughtful, his mother occupied, and the rest gay, with the one difference of his not being there. Thus he believes, and has no other trust than in the streaks of terror. For being ever remembered more, yet all the while, from day to day, from year to year, without one moment's intermission, is the providence of his parent around him, brooding over the workings of his infant spirit, chastening its passions, nourishing its affections, now troubling it with solitary pain, now animating it with even more wholesome delight. All the while is the order of household affairs regulated for the comfort and profit of these lowly little ones, though they regard it reverently because they cannot comprehend it. They may not know of all this, how their guardian bends over their pillow nightly, and lets no word of their careless talk drop unheeded, hails every brightening gleam of reason, and records every sob of infant grief, and every chirp of childish glee. They may not know this, because they could not understand it all right, and each little heart would be inflated with pride, each little mind would lose the grace and purity of its unconsciousness, but the guardianship is not less real, constant and tender for its being unrecognized by its objects, as the spirit expands and perceives that it is one of an innumerable family, it would be in danger of sinking into the despair of loneliness if it were not capable of belief and mercy carried infinite degrees beyond the tenderness of human hearts. While the very circumstance of multitude obviates the danger of undue elation, but though it is good to be lowly, it behooves everyone to be sensible of the guardianship of which so many evidences are around all who breathe, while the world and life roll on and on. The feeble reason of the child of Providence may be at times overpowered with the vastness of the system amidst which he lives, but his faith will smile upon his fear, rebuke him for averting his eyes and inspire him with the thought, Nothing can crush me, for I am made for eternity, I will do, suffer, and enjoy as my father wills and let the world and life roll on. Such is the faith which supports, which alone can support, the many who, having been world in the eddying stream of social affairs, are withdrawn, by one cause or another, to abide in some still little creek. The passage of the mighty tide, the broken-down statesman, who knows himself to be spoken of as politically dead, and sees his excessors at work, building on his foundations without more than a passing thought on who had labored before them, has need of his faith, the aged who find affairs proceeding at the will of the young and hardy, whatever the grey-haired may think and say, have need of his faith, so have the sick, when they find none but themselves, disposed to look on life in the light, which comes from beyond the grave, so have the persecuted when, with or without cause, they see themselves pointed at in the streets, and the despised, who find themselves neglected, whichever way they turn, so have the prosperous during those moments, which must occur to all, when sympathy fails and means to much desired ends at wanting, or when society makes the spirit roam abroad in search of something better than it has found. This universal, eternal, filial relation is the only universal and eternal refuge. It is the solace of royalty, weeping, in the inner chambers of its palaces, and of poverty, drooping beside its cold hearth. It is the glad tidings, preached to the poor, and in which all must be poor in spirit to have part. If they be poor in spirit, it matters little, what is their external state, or whether the world which rolls on beside or over them be the world of a solar system, or of a conquering empire, or of a small, sold village. It now and then seems strange to hope, his wife and sister now and then, and for a passing moment, that while their hearts were full of motion, and their hands occupied with vicitudes of their lot, the little world around them, which was want to busy itself so strenuously with their affairs, should work its yearly round as if it heated them not, as often as they detected themselves in his thought, they smelled at it, for might not each neighbor say the same of them as constituting a part of the surrounding world. Where a cottage, where some engrossing interest did not defy a sympathy, where there was not some secret joy, some hearts sore, hidden from every eye, some important change, while all looked as familiar as the thatch and paling, and the faces which appeared within them. Yet there seemed something wonderful in the regularity with which affairs proceeded. The Hawthorne hedges blossomed, and the corn was green in the furrows. The saw of the carpenter was heard from day to day, and the anvil of the blacksmith rang. The letter carrier blew his horn. As the times came round, the children shouted in the road, and their parents, bought and sold, planted and delved, ate and slept, as they had ever done. As if existence were as mechanical as the clock which told the hours without fail from the grey steeple. I missed all this, how great were the changes in the cornerhouse. In the early spring, the hearts of the dwellers in that house had been, though far less dreary than in the winter, still heavy at times with care. Hester thought that she would never again look upon the palm bows of the willow, swelling with sap and full of the hum, of the early bees, or upon the bright green sprouts of the gooseberry in the cottage gardens, or upon the earliest pimeros of the season on its moist bank without a vivid recollection of the anxieties of this first spring season of her married life. The balmy month of May, rich in its tulips and lilacs, and guelder roses was sacred to Margaret, from the sorrow which it brought in the death of Mrs. Underby. She wandered under the hedge-rose with Philip, during the short remainder of a stay, and alone when he was gone, and grew into better acquaintance with her own state of heart and mind, and into higher hope for the future, of all whom she loved most, when the mowers were in the field, and the chirping figlings had become birds of the air, and the days were at the longest, her country rambles became more precious, for they must henceforth be restricted. They must be scarcer and shorter in the place of the leisure and solitude for books in her own room, and for meditation in the field, leisure and solitude which had been, to this day more dreamed of, then enjoyed. She must now be take herself to more active duty. The maid Susan was discharged at mid-summer, and not only Susan, after ample consultation with Morris, it was decided that Charles must go too, his place being in part supplied by a boy of yet humbler pretensions, out of the house who should carry out the medicines from the surgery, and do the errands of the family. Morris spoke cheerfully enough of these changes, smiled as if amused at the idea of her leaving her young ladies. It did not doubt but that, if Miss Margaret would lend her a helping hand sometimes, she would be able to preserve the credit of the family. There was something more to be done than to lend this helping hand in the later domestic offices. Their mid-summer remittance had been eagerly looked for by the sisters, not only because it was exceedingly wanted for the current expenses of the household, but because it was high time that preparations were begun for the great event of the autumn, the birth of Hester's little one. During the summer, Margaret was up early, and was busy as Morris herself about the house till breakfast, and for some time after hope had gone forth on his daily round, now so small that he soon returned to his books and his pen in the study. The morning hours passed pleasantly away, while Hester and Margaret sat at work by the window which looked into their garden. Now by Sydney's care, trimmed up into a state of promise once more, Hester was so much happier, so reasonable, so brave, and missed her sinking fortunes, that Margaret could scarcely have been gayer than implying her needle by her side. Their care is laid cheerfully out of doors now. The villagers behaved rudely to Edward, and cherished Mr. Walcott. Mrs. Rowland took every opportunity of insulting Margaret, and throwing discredit on her engagement, and the grays caused their cousins much uneasiness by the spirit in which they conducted their share of the great controversy of the place. These troubles awaited the cornerhouse family abroad, but their peace was perpetually on the increase at home. They were so completely in one interest. Edward was so easily pleased, and they were so free from jealous dependence that they could carry their economy to any extent that suited their conscience and convenience. When superfluity after another vanished from the table, every day something which had always been a want was discovered to be a fancy, and with every new act of frugality each fresh exertion of industry, their spirits rose with a sense of achievement, and the competency propered a cheerful sacrifice. In the evenings of their busy days, the sisters went out with Edward into their garden, or into the meadows, or spent an hour in the grays' pretty shrubbery. Maria often saw them, thus, and thought how happy are they who can ramble abroad, and find their cares to spurs by their breeze, or dissolved in the sunshine of the fields. The little Rowland sometimes met them in the lanes, and the younger ones would thrust upon them the wildflowers which Mr. Walcott had helped them together, while Mrs. Rowland and Matilda would draw down their black crepe bales, and walk on with scarcely a passing salutation. Every such meeting with the lady, every civil bow from Mr. Walcott, every tail which Mrs. Gray and Sophia had to tell against the new surgeon, seemed to do hester good, and make her happier. These things were appeals to her magnanimity, and she could bear for Edward's sake many a trial which she could not otherwise have endured. All this told upon the intercourse at home, and Morse's heart was often cheered as she pursued her labors in kitchen, or chamber, with the sound of such merry laughter as had seldom been heard in the family during the anxious winter that had gone by. It seemed as if nothing depressed her young ladies now. There was frequent intelligence of the going over of another patient to Mr. Walcott. The summer was not a favorable one, and everybody else was complaining of unseasonable weather, of the certainty of storms in the autumn of blight, and the prospect of scarcity yet, though Mr. Gray shook his head, and the parish clerk could never be seen, but with the doleful prophecy in his mouth. Morse's young master and mistresses were gay as she could desire. She was piously thankful for Margaret's engagement, for she concluded that it was by means of this that other hearts were working round into their true relation and into a peace which the world, with all its wealth and favors, can neither make nor mar. In one of Margaret's hedgerow's rambles with Philip, a few days after his mother's funeral, she had been strongly urged to leave Dearbrook and its troubles behind her to marry at once and be free from the trials, from which he could not protect her, if he remained in the same place with Mrs. Rowland, but Margaret steadily refused. You will be wretched, said Philip. You will be wretched. I know you will, the moment I am gone. I never was less likely to be wretched. Mrs. Rowland cannot make me so. And other people will not. I have every expectation of a happy summer, which I mentioned for your sake, for I do not like to indulge in that sort of anticipation without some such good reason as comforting you. You cannot be happy here. Priscilla will never let you have an easy day. While she fancies, she can separate us. When I think of pertinacity with which she disowns you, the scorn with which she speaks about you, even in my presence, I see that nothing will do, but you're being mine at once. That would not mend the matter. Our hasten and prudence would go to countenance, the scandal she spreads. Why cannot we rather live it down? Because your spirit will be broken in the meantime. Margaret, I must be your guardian. This is my first duty, and an absolute necessity. If you will not go with me, I will not leave this place. And if my plan of life is broken up, you will be answerable for it. It was your plan, and you may demolish it, if you choose. I have a plan of life, too, said Margaret. It is to do the duty that lies nearest at hand, and the duty that lies nearest at hand is to keep you up to yours. After this there is one which lies almost as close. I cannot leave Hester and Edward till this crisis in their fortunes is past. I am bound to them for the present. What are their claims to mine? Nothing, if they were fortunate, as I trust they yet may be. Nothing if you had followed your plan of life up to this point when we may carry it out together. We are wrong, Philip. In even thinking of what you say, you must go and study law, and you must go without me. Indeed, I could not be happy to join you yet. Your good name would suffer from what Mrs. Rollin might then say. Your future prospects would suffer from the interruption of your preparation for your profession. I should feel that I had injured you and deserted my own duty. Indeed, Philip, I could not be happy. And how happy do you imagine we shall be apart? Margaret gave him a look which said what words could not, what it was to be assured of his love. What it seemed to ask, could all the evil tongues in the world do to poison this joy? Besides, said she, I have the idea that I could not be spared, and there is great pleasure in that vanity Edward and Hester cannot do without me at present. You may say so at any future time. No, when the right time comes, they will not want me. Oh, Philip, you are grieved for them, and you long to see them prosperous. Do not tempt me to desert them now. They want my help. They want the little money I have. They want my hands and head. Let this be your share of the penalty Mrs. Rowland imposes upon us all, to spare me to them while their adversity lasts. I would not be selfish, Margaret. I would not trespass upon your wishes and your duty. But the truth is, I sometimes fear that I may have some heavier penalty, even than this, to pay for Priscilla's temper. Ah, you wonder what can be heavier. Remember, she has put misunderstanding between us before. But she never can again. Ours was then merely a tacit understanding. Now supposing me ever to hear what she may hint or say, do you imagine I could give the slightest heed to it? I would not believe her news of a person. I had never seen, and do you think she can make the slightest impression on me with regard to you? It seems unreasonable at this moment, but yet I have a superstitious dread of the power of spirits of evil. Superstitious indeed, I defy them all. Now that we have once understood each other, if we were able to do far more than she can, if she could load the winds with accusations against you, if she could haunt my dreams and raise you up in vicious mocking at me, I believe she could not move me now, before I blamed myself. I thought I was lost in vanity and error. Now that I have once had certainty, we are safe. You are right, I trust, I believe it. But there is a long, hard battle to be fought yet. It fills me with shame to think how he treats you in every relation you have. She is cruel to Maria young. She hopes to reach you through her. You will hear nothing of it from Maria, I dare say, but she spoke infamously to her this morning before Mrs. Levitt. Mrs. Levitt happened to be sitting with Maria when Priscilla and one or two of the children went in. Mrs. Levitt spoke of us. Priscilla denied our engagement. Maria asserted it very gently, but quite decidedly. Priscilla reminded her of her poverty and infirmities, spoke of the gratitude she owed to those from whom she derived her subsistence, and reapproached her with having purposes of her own to answer in making matches in the families of her employers. And Maria, Maria trembled excessively, the children say. We can reduce by pain as she is. One can hardly conceive of temper carrying any woman into such cruelty. Mrs. Levitt rose in great concern and displeasure to go. But Maria begged her to sit down again, sent one of the children for me and appealed to me to declare what share she had had in my engagement with you. I set her right with Mrs. Levitt, who I am convinced sees how the matter stands, but it was really a distressing scene. And before the children too, that was the worst part of it. They stood looking from the furthest corner of the room in utter dismay. It would have moved anyone but Priscilla to see the torn of tears. Maria shed over them when they came timidly to wish her good morning. After Mrs. Levitt was gone, she said she could do nothing more for them. They had been taught to despise her, and her relation to them was at an end. It is, it must be, exclaimed Margaret. Is there no way of stopping a career a vice like this? While Mrs. Plumstead gets a parish boy whip for picking up her hen's eggs from among the nettles, is Maria to have no redness for slander, which takes away her peace and her bread? She shall have redness for the children's sake, as well as her own. Her connection with them must go on. I do not exactly see how, but the thing must be done. I dread speaking to poor Rowland about any of these things. I know it makes them so wretched, but the good and the innocent must not be sacrificed. If these poor children must despise somebody, their contempt must be made to fall in the right place, even though it be upon their mother. Let us go and see Maria, said Margaret, turning back. If there is a just and merciful way of proceeding in this case, she will point it out. I wish she had told me all this before. Here have we been rambling over the grass and among the wildflowers, where at the best Maria can never go. And she lies weeping all alone, looking for me. I dare say, every moment, let us make haste. Philip made all the haste that was compatible with gathering a handful of wild hyacinth and meadowed narcissists for poor Maria. He found himself farther from success than ever. When he would have again urged Margaret to Maria once, a new duty seemed to have sprung up to keep her at Dearbrook. Maria wanted her. Her summer work lay clear before her. She must nurse and cheer Maria. She must ply her needle for Hester and play the housewife, spending many of her hours in the business of living. A business which is often supposed to transact itself, but which in reality requires all the faculties which can be brought to it. And all the good moral habits which conscience can originate. The most that Philip could obtain was permission to come when his duties would fairly allow it. And a promise that he should be summoned if Margaret found herself placed in any difficulty by Mrs. Rowland. Maria was not now literally alone. Nor did she depend on her hostess or on Margaret for nursing and companionship. It occurred to all the kindest of her friends. Immediately after Mrs. Enderby's death that Phoebe might be her attendant. Phoebe was not just them, the most cheerful of nurses. So truly did she mourn her good old mistress. But she was glad of occupation. Glad to be out of Mrs. Rowland's way. Glad to be useful. And she was an inestimatable comfort to Maria. Nothing could be done about placing the children again under Maria's care. When she had recovered, Mr. Rowland was naturally unwilling to stir in the business and saw that the best chance for his children was to send them to school at a distance from Dearbrook. And Maria had been too grossly insulted and the presence of her pupils to choose to resume her authority. The grays took her up with double zeal. As the Rowlands let her down, they assured her that her little income should not suffer for her being able to devote all her time to Fanny and Mary. The money indeed was nothing to Mrs. Gray. In comparison with the pleasure, it procured her. It put her upon equal terms with Mrs. Rowland at last. She did not know how it was, but it was very difficult to patronize, Mr. Hope. He always contrived to baffle her praise, but here was an unconnected person thrown upon her care. And if Mrs. Rowland had a young surgeon to push, Mrs. Gray had an incomparable governess now all to herself. End of chapter 33. Chapter 34 of Dearbrook. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dearbrook by Harriet Martinu, chapter 34, Old and Young. One of the characteristics of this summer at Dearbrook was the rival parties of pleasure with which the village was entertained. There had been rival parties of pleasure the preceding year, but from what a different cause, then all were anxious to do honor to Hesser and Margaret or to show off in their eyes. Now the efforts made were on one hand to mortify and on the other to sustain them. The Rowlands had a carriage party to the woods one week and the Gray's cavalcade to the flower show at Blickley the next. The Rowlands gave a dinner to introduce Mr. Walcott to more and more of their country neighbors and the Gray's had a dance in the green walk for the young people of the village. The Rowlands went to a strawberry gathering at Sir William Hunter's and the Gray's with all their faction as Mrs. Rowland called it were invited to a syllabub under the cow at the Miss Anderson's breaking up for the holidays. All pretense of a good understanding between the two families was now at an end. They seized to invite each other and scrambled for their mutual acquaintances. The best of their mutual acquaintances saw no reason for taking part in the quarrel and preserved the strict neutrality and the worst enjoyed being scrambled for. The Levits visited both families and entertained everybody in return as if nothing was happening. Sir William and Lady Hunter ate their annual dinner with each and condensed to pay two or three extra visits to Mrs. Rowland without making a point of a full moon. Every circumstance that happened afforded occasion for comment, of course. Mrs. Gray thought it very improper in the Rowlands to indulge in all this gaiety while they were in deep mourning. It was painful to her feelings she owned to hear the children shouting with laughter while they were all bombazine and crepe from head to foot. She had hoped to see the memory of her dear old friend treated with more respect. In vain did Mr. Hope plead Mrs. Underby's delight in the mirth of children and that their innocent gaiety would cheer her in her grave. If it could reach her there, in vain did Hester urge the danger and sin of training the little creatures to hypocrisy, a probable result. If they were to be kept solemn and unamused to the day when they might put off their mourning, Mrs. Gray felt herself only the more called upon by all this to furnish the amount of sighs and tears which she believed to be due to Mrs. Underby's memory. Margaret rather sided with her. It was so sweet to, to her to hear, Phillips mother mourned. Mrs. Gray's tears were, however, inner spearsed with smiles. On the day of the Rowlands great dinner party when all was to be so stately for the hunters, when the noon dessert service was procured from Staffordshire, the fish had not arrived from London. This was certainly a fact. The fish had come by the coach the next morning and was still more remarkable. It had not occurred to Mrs. Rowland that such an accident might happen, was very likely to happen and as if she had been an inexperienced housekeeper, she had not any dished in reserve in case of the non-arrival of the fish. It was said that Mrs. Rowland had sat down to table with a face perfectly crimson with anxiety and vexation. To such a temper as hers, what a vexation it must have been. There was a counterpart to the story for Mrs. Rowland. She fancied that Mrs. Gray's friends, the Andersons, must have looked rather foolish on occasion of their great syllabub party. She hoped the Miss Andersons trained their pupils better than their cows. They had a sad, obstreperous cow, she understood. Some of the young ladies had lit up the lawn with the potato and got it to stand still to be milked, but when somebody began to sing, she had no doubt it was Miss Ibbotson who sang. The poor animal found the music was not to its taste and of course it kicked away the chinobull and pranced down the lawn again. There was a dirge song over the syllabub. No doubt the poor Miss Andersons must have been terribly annoyed. The good understanding of the gentlemen seemed all this time to be uninterrupted. They had much to put up with at home on his account, but their good humor towards each other remained unbroken. Mr. Rowland's anxious face and his retirement within the enclosure of his own business told his neighbors something of what he had to go through at home. Mrs. Gray was vexed with her husband that he did not visit Hope's misfortunes upon Mr. Rowland. Uncall the husband to account for the mischief the wife had caused and hest her more than once expressed some resentment against her relation for not exposing Edward's cause more warmly. Hope told her this was not reasonable. Remember, said he, as they sauntered in their garden, one evening that these gentlemen must be more wary than we are, which is saying a great deal of these perpetual squabbles, and they must earnestly desire to have peace in the counting house. God forbid that their dominion should be invaded for our sake, not for our sake only, but for the sake of justice. Everything depends on the sort of men you have to deal with, in such cases as this. You must not expect too much. Here are two kind-hearted men bound to each other by mutual goodwill and mutual interest. There is no other resemblance between them, except that they are both overpowered, made rather cowardly by the circumstances of their environment. One departing from their plan of keeping the peace, they would be plunged into quarrel. They view things so differently from the differences of their minds that their only safety is in avoiding altogether all subjects of dearbrook contention. If you expect the heroism of devoted friendship or have an enthusiastic sense of justice from such men, you will not find it. We must take them as they are and humbly accept such continence as they choose to bestow. Take it or leave it, as you will. There is no use in quarreling with them for not being what they are not. That is all. Be generous with them and do not expect from them the conduct which they have a right to expect from you. I rather wonder, observed Margaret, that they have had the courage to go so far as they do in bearing testimony in your favor. They have been very handsome in their conduct on the whole and it would grieve me sincerely if they were to suffer further than they have already done on my account. I am afraid Mr. Rowland is wretched now because I will accept no assistance from him. He told me the other day that he should receive no rent for his house while Walcott occupies the other. He was beyond measure mortified when I positively declined being under any such obligation to any landlord. If Mr. Rowland steadily refuses to turn us out of our house and goes on offering favors that I cannot accept, that is all we can expect from him. It never occurred to me that he can turn us out, said Hester, that we are tenants at will. Oh, how sorry I should be to go. She continued as she surveyed the place. I should grieve to quit our first home. There is no danger, I believe. Mr. Rowland will be firm on that head. And there is no danger, I should think, said Margaret, but that the Greys should find us something better the next day. Oh, I do not know where or how, but it would be such a splendid opportunity for patronage, that they would work miracles rather than let it slip. How far this ivy had trailed over the wall already. I should be sorry to leave this garden now, that it promises to look like itself so soon again. Sidney despises me for my admiration of it at present. He looks melancholy about the blight. It is a pity, certainly. Look at this rose-bush, how curled and withered it is. Sidney is doing like everyone else in looking grave about the blight, observe hope. So bad a reason has not been known since I came to Dearbrook. I see care in the face of many and one who does not stand anything like our chance of want. Here comes Sidney with news of every ill-looking field for five miles round. I doubt not. And Mr. and Mrs. Gray and Sophia, said Hester, acquitting her husband's arm and hastening to meet her friends, the Grays pronounced it so pleasant an evening that they had no wish to sit down within doors. They preferred walking in the garden. They seemed to come for two purposes, to offer an invitation, and to relate that Mr. Walcott was gone to dine at Sir William Hunter's today, and that Sir William had sent the carriage for him. Mr. Walcott had not been ready to full five minutes after the carriage had driven up to the door. This delay was no doubt intended to give all Dearbrook time to observe the peculiar consideration in which Mr. Walcott was treated by Sir William and Lady Hunter, who were by no means in the habit of sending their carriage for their Dearbrook guests. Did you ever hear of such a thing, said Sophia, as sending a carriage for a young man? I have no doubt it is because he cannot ride. There you are out, Sophie, cried Sidney. Mr. Walcott rides as well as Mr. Hope every bit. I cannot think what has happened to Sidney, observed his mother. He does nothing but stand up for Mr. Walcott in the most unaccountable way. I hope you will forgive it, Mr. Hope. Boys take strange fancies, you know. You must forgive it, my dears, in consideration of the rest of us. Instead of forgiving it, said Hope, I shall take leave, rather to admire it. There is a fine, chivalrous spirit, shone and frightening Mr. Walcott's battles with our friends and relations. There now, cried Sidney triumphantly, but I cannot help it. You see, Mr. Walcott can ride, and he does ride well, and he is very civil to me, and asks me to go fishing with him. And I'm sure he always inquires very respectfully after the rest of them. I never said any more than that in praise of him, and I can't say less, can I, when they are all abusing him for whatever he does? I think not. I believe we may spare him that much credit without grudging. But Sidney, you know it is not pleasant to us to hear you speak in praise of Mr. Walcott under present circumstances, and you should have little consideration for us. Well, mother, if you will not speak of him at all, no more will I. And he glanced up into his mother's face to see how the proposition was taken. That is fair, is not it? He inquired of Mr. Hope. Excellent in theory, Sidney, but who likes to be tied down not to speak on any subject, especially one which is turning up every hour? Your plan will not answer. I will ask you because I said I would, and all the more because you are not cross about Mr. Walcott. Hold your tongue, Sidney, said the mother. Do not be ridiculous, Sidney, advised the sister. Mr. Hope will say whether it is ridiculous, Sophie. No, Mr. Hope would not you and cousin Hester and Margaret go down the water with us to the abbey, just the same if Mr. Walcott was with us. With any guest of your fathers and mothers, Sidney, we have no quarrel with Mr. Walcott. The truth is we feel after all we have heard that we know very little about him. We have not the slightest objection to meet Mr. Walcott. Neither wish nor objection, said Hester calmly. We are perfectly indifferent about him. Sidney vehemently beckoned his father who left the apricot he and Margaret were examining by the surgery wall and came to see what was wanted for. You see, said he to Hope, when the matter was explained, I have naturally been rather anxious to bring this about this meeting between you and the young man. In a small place like this, it is painful to have everybody quarreling and not to be able to get one's friends about one. For fear they should brawl in one's very drawing room. Mr. Rowland is one of my mind there and I know it would gratify him if I were to take some notice of this young man. I really could hardly refuse knowing how handsomely Mr. Rowland always speaks of you and yours and believing Mr. Walcott to be a very respectable, harmless young man. If I thought it would injure your interests in the least, I would see him at Cape Horn before I would invite him, of course. You must be aware of that. And I should not think of asking you to meet Mrs. Rowland, that would be going too far. But Mrs. Gray wishes that your wife and Margaret should visit these ruins that we were always prevented from getting to last year. And Mr. Walcott is anxious to see them, too. And he has been civil to Sydney and, in short, I believe that Sydney have promised that he should go with us. Say no more, replied Hope. You will have no difficulty with us. I really know nothing against Mr. Walcott. He had a perfect right to settle where he pleased. Whether the manner of doing it was handsome or otherwise is of far more consequence to himself than to me or to anyone else. I wish we all viewed the matter as you do. If the ladies had your temper, we should have been a heaven upon earth, but they take things up so warmly, you see, when their feelings are interested for anybody. Mrs. Rowland, for one, and my wife for another, I hardly know what she will say to the idea of our having, Walcott, with us. Let us go and see. I have a word to say to you first. Do you know of anyone who wants a horse? I'm going to dispose of mine. Mr. Walcott wants a horse, said Sydney, delighted at the idea of solving a difficulty. Hope smiled and told Mr. Gray that he had rather sell his horse at a distance. Mr. Walcott had already hired the boy, Charles, whom Hope had just dismissed. And if he obtained the horse, too, the old servant who knew his way to every patient's door, all the country round, it really would look too like the unpopular man, patronizing his opponent, besides it would be needlessly publishing in Dearbrook, that the horse was given up. What is the fault of your horse, asked Mr. Gray, rousing himself from an absent fit. Merely that he eats and therefore is expensive. I cannot afford now to keep a horse. He declared in answer to Mr. Gray's stare of amazement. I have so few patients, now out of walking reach, that I have no right to keep a horse. I can always hire, you know, from Reeves. Upon my soul, I am sorry to hear this, extremely sorry to hear it. Matters must have gone further than I had any idea of. My dear fellow, we must see how we can serve you. You must let me accommodate you. Indeed you must, rather than give up your horse. Do not speak of it, you are very kind, but we need no help. I do assure you, my mind is quite made up about the horse. It would only be in cubarance now. And to satisfy you, I will mention that I have declined repeated offers of accommodation, offers very strongly urged. All I need to ask of you is to help me to dispose of my horse somewhere out of Dearbrook. I will manage that for you the next time I go to market and in the emotion of the moment, Mr. Gray was on the point of offering the use of his own horse when it should be at home. But he stopped short on the verge of his rash generosity. He was very particular about no one riding his horse but himself and the man who groomed it. He remembered his friend's hopes, rapid riding and enthusiasm and suspected that he should sooner or later repent the offer. So he changed it into, I will get your horse disposed off to the best advantage. You may depend on it, but I am very sorry, very sorry indeed. It is probable that nothing could have been reconciled the ladies of Mr. Gray's family to the idea of admitting Mr. Walcott into their party. But the fact that they had of late cut rather than a poor figure in contrast to Mrs. Rowland, that lady had the advantage of novelty in the person of Mr. Walcott and her faction was by far the larger of the two. The Gray's found fault with all its elements but there was no denying its superiority of numbers. It was a great hardship to have Mr. Walcott forced upon them. But they reflected that his presence might bring a reinforcement that some neighbors would perhaps come to meet him who would be otherwise engaged to the Rowlands for the very day on which they were wanted. For Mrs. Rowland had the art of pre-engaging just the people the Gray's intended to have. So if you observe that Mr. Walcott's presence would be less of a restraint in a boat and at tea among the ruins than in a drying room, there was always something to be said about the banks and the woods and there was singing and in a boat people were not obliged to talk unless they liked. She should not wonder if he would rather relish a little neglect. He had been made much of lately at such a ridiculous rate. If we do our part, my love, said Mrs. Gray to Hester in a mysterious low voice, I think you should exert yourselves a little. Nothing can be done without a little exertion in this world, you know? Sophia and I were agreeing that it is a long time since you had any of your friends about you. Very few since your wedding company observed Sophia. We remember you had all your acquaintance in the winter. My dear, it was very proper, I am sure. All you did then, but it is now the middle of July, you know, and our neighbors, if dear Brooke, always expect to be invited twice a year. I should be happy to see them, I assure you, said Hester, but it happens to be not convenient. Not convenient, my dear, just so. We shall always be glad to see you and yours, but we have no hospitality to spare for the common world just now. We have no servants, you know, but Morris, and we are spending as little as we can. Tea company costs so very little, said Sophia, at this time of the year. When you need not light candles till people are going away, and when fruit is cheap and plentiful, and we will take care of the cake, interposed Mrs. Gray, Sophia will make you come over by carriage cake, and a batch of almond biscuits, and Alice shall come and wait. We can manage it very easily. You are extremely kind, but if our acquaintance are to eat your cake, it had better be at your house. It does not suit our present circumstances to entertain company. But it costs so very little, persisted Sophia. Mr. Russell Taylor's father used to give a general invitation to all his friends to come to tea in the summer, because as he said, they then cost him only two pence, half penny ahead. I am afraid we are not such good managers as Mr. Russell's Taylor's father, replied Hester, laughing. And if we were, it is not convenient to spend even two pence, half penny ahead upon our common acquaintance at present. If we grow richer, we will get our friends about us without counting the cost so closely as that. That time will soon come, Sophia, my dear, said her mother, winking at Hester, in every profession you know, there are little ups and downs, and particularly in the medical, I dare say. If the truth were whole, there is scarcely any professional man without private fortune, who has not at some time of his life broken into his last guinea without knowing where he is to get another. But professional people generally keep their difficulties to themselves. I fancy, Hester, they are not often so frank as you. Mind that, Sophia, you will be discreet, Sophia. We have no intention of proclaiming in the streets that we are as poor, said Hester. But we owe it to you, dear Mrs. Gray, to give our reasons for not doing all that we and you might wish. We are not dissatisfied. We want no help or pity. But we must live as we think right, that is all. Indeed, my dear, I must say you do not look as if anything was a mess. You look charmingly indeed. Charmingly indeed, echoed Sophia, and Mrs. Leavitt was saying that Margaret seems to have grown quite handsome this summer. I fancy Mrs. Rowland gets very few to agree with her as to Margaret being so very plain. No indeed, Margaret's consonance is so intelligent and pleasant that I always said, from the beginning, that nobody, but Mrs. Rowland, could call her plain. I suppose we shall soon be losing her, Hester. Oh no, not soon. She has no thought of leaving us at present. She would not go in the spring and sit beside Philip while he was learning his lessons. And now, still they wait, I believe, till the lessons are finished. She would not, well, that shows what love will do. That shows what her power over Mr. Enderby is. We used to think, indeed. Everybody used to say it of Mr. Enderby that he always managed to do as he liked. He carried all his points, yet even he is obliged to yield. Margaret has a way of carrying her points, too, said Hester. The best way in the world, by being always right. Mind that, Sophia, but my dear Hester, I am really anxious about you. I had no idea, I am sure. I hope you get your natural rest. Perfectly, I assure you, Mrs. Harwell might envy me. If she still cannot sleep for matching of worsteds, the simple truth is, Mrs. Gray, we never were so happy in our lives. This may seem rather perverse, but so it is. Mrs. Gray sighed that Mrs. Rollins could not be aware of this. Hester thought it was no business of Mrs. Rollins, but Mrs. Gray could not but feel that it would be a great satisfaction that she should know that those whom she halted slept. She heard Margaret and Sydney sing something in the middle of the grass plot about the Milky Way, looking up. She was surprised to perceive how plain it was and how many stars were twinkling in the sky. She was sure Hester must be dreadfully tired with sauntering about so long. They had been very inconsiderate and must go away directly. Sydney must call his father. They are delightful young people, really, observed Mrs. Gray to her husband during their walk home. One never knows how to get away. Lady Hunter little supposes that she loses and not cultivating them. Go on before us, Sophia. Make haste home with your sister, Sydney. But, my dear, they speak in a very poor way of their affairs. Oh, Hester spoke to you, did he? Hope told me he must part with his horse. So Hester spoke to you? Yes, not at all in a melancholy way, however. She keeps up her spirits wonderfully, poor girl. We really must push them, Mr. Gray. I see nothing but ruin before them. If we do not push them, ah, there is the difficulty. That little enthusiasm of hopes comes in. I have a great respect for him, but I own I should like to see him a little more practical. I really am pleased to hear you say so. It is just what I think. And I always fancied you did not agree with me. It really puts me almost out of patience to hear him speak of Mr. Walcott, encouraging Sydney in his notions. It is unnatural. It looks a little like affectation. All that sort of feeling about Mr. Walcott. I do not object to that, I confess. His thinking fairly of Walcott can do no harm and may have mischief and it looks honorable and well. I do not regret that, I own. But I think he is clearly wrong in selling his horse in such a hurry. All Dearbrook will know it directly and it will not look well. I offered him such accommodation as he would enable him to keep it, but he is quite obstinate. Some enthusiastic notion of honor, I suppose, but I told them that there is no profession or business in the world that has not its ups and downs. Exactly what I told Hester when she declined having any parties at present. It is the very crisis in my opinion when it is of great consequence that they should get their friends about them. Sophia would have made the cake and Alice would have waited at tea. But the fact is Mr. Hope has put some of his spirit into his wife and they must take their own way, I suppose. He gave me his reasons, however, observed Mr. Gray. He regards this as something more than one of the slack times common in his profession. He will not accept obligation while he sees no clear prospect of being able to discharge it. I could not prevail upon him. However, they must have enough. They cannot be actually pinched. I never saw him in better spirits. There can be no occasion for our doing anything more than just seeing on the lookout to serve them. We must push them. That is all we can do. They cannot really be wanting anything, as you say. Such fine spirits as they are in. Hester looks sweetly. The first game that we have to spare this season shall go to them. And I shall bear them in mind when we gather our apples. If you find we have any apples to gather, my dear, I doubt it. Do you really? It will be unfortunate for our young friends. If prices rise next winter, as you seem to expect, there goes ten o'clock, I declare. And there are the children looking out for us, as well they may. But those are really delightful young people. There is no getting away from them. End of chapter 34. Chapter 35, part one of Dearbrook. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Gary Day. Dearbrook by Harriet Martin, chapter 35, part one, Boating. Mr. Walcott was delighted with the invitation to the water party, but he was fully engaged for the next three weeks. Mr. Gray decreed that he was to be waited for. Then the Lady Moon had to be waited for another 10 days, so that it was past the middle of August, before Mrs. Gray and Sophia were called upon to endure Mr. Walcott's society for six hours. The weather was somewhat dubious when the day arrived, but in so bad a season as the present, it would never do to let a doubt put a stop to an excursion, which had been planned above a month. One of Mr. Gray's men was sent round among the ladies in the morning to request to be the bearers of their cloaks. As it was thought they would be cold on the water without all the wraps they had. Hester sent as many warm things as she could, as she thought Margaret could possibly wear. She was not going herself. She wished it much, but it was decided on all hands that it would be imprudent, as there was no calculating the amount of fatigue which each might have to endure. At three o'clock, the party assembled on the wharf on Mrs. Gray and Roland's premises, everyone having dined at home. Mrs. Roland had tried to persuade Mr. Walcott that he ought not to be out of the way, after what Lady Hunter had said in a note about her terrible headache of yesterday. It might be the beginning of a feverish attack, and it would be unfortunate if he should be six miles down the river, not expected home until nine or 10 at night, when a messenger should arrive from the hall. But Mr. Walcott had seen few water parties in the course of his life, and he was resolved to go. Margaret and her brother repaired in gay spirit to the water side. In the days of poverty, trifles become great events, and ease is luxury. Hope felt himself clear of the world today. He had received the money from the sale of his horse, and after paying for its corn, there was 15 pounds left to be put by for his rent. Hester had bidden adieu to the horse with a sort of glee, as she had never been able to overcome her panic during her husband's long country rides. And Hope found that he hung more and more upon Hester's smiles. They cheered him from whatever cause they arose. Margaret was gay from discourse with Philip. She had just dispatched a letter to him, a letter which had acknowledged that it was, indeed, long since they had met, that it was almost time that he was coming to Dearbrook again. The party they joined looked less merry than themselves. The two boats which lay at the wharf were day enough, one with crims and cushions and the other with blue. A servant maid was to go in each to take care of the provisions and provide tea at the ruins. And Alice and her companion were alert and smiling, but Mrs. Gray wore accountants of extraordinary anxiety and the twitching of her face showed that something had gone very seriously wrong. Sophia nearly turned her back on Mr. Walcott, who continued to address her with patient diligence. Maria was sitting on some deals, waiting to be called to enter the boat. And some of the people of the village were staring at her from a little distance. Margaret immediately joined her. What are those people looking at you for? I cannot conceive. I fancied that while I was sitting, I looked pretty much like other people. To be sure you do, I wanna ask Mr. Gray. I'm sure there is some meaning in their gaze so ridiculously compassionate. Do you not know, said Mr. Gray? Do you not know the story that they have got up about this young's case? They say Mr. Hope set her limb so badly that he had to break it again twice. I have been asked several times whether he did not get me to help. And they will not believe me when I deny the whole. Maria laughed and Margaret observed that they would presently see how much better Maria could walk now than she did before her last accident, such being the effect of the long and complete rest which had been enforced upon her. Nothing like seeing for themselves, observed Mr. Gray surveying the company. All come but Dr. Levitt now, I think. He really goes to my heart not to take some of my partner's children. There they are peeping at us, one behind another from that gate. There is room for two or three from the James's failing us at the last. The little things might as well go but I suppose there would be no use in saying anything about it. I must have a word with my daughter before we embark. Sophia, my dear, Sophia! Sophia came and Margaret overheard her father say to her that every person present was his guest and to be treated with the civility and attention due to him as such. Sophia looked rather sulky at hearing this and walked far away from Mr. Walcott to devote herself to Miss Anderson. By dint of sending a messenger to Dr. Levitt's a quarter of an hour before the time his presence was secured a quarter of an hour after it. He made his usual approach looking bland and gentlemanly and fearing he was late. The party were ordered into the boats as if they had been going into dinner. Mr. Walcott was appointed to hand Margaret in but he showed, amidst great simplicity an entire determination to piece of fear's companion. Hope was approaching Maria's seat to give her his arm when some bustle was heard at the gate where the little Rowlands were clustered. Here is my partner, he will go with us after all, said Mr. Gray. Come, my dear sir, we have plenty of room. So much the better for my brother-in-law. You have room for Enderby, have you? He will be delighted to join you, I have no doubt. Room for me too? I really think I must indulge myself, yes. Enderby took us quite by surprise this morning but that is his way, you know. Philip here and without notice, Margaret thought she was dreaming the words she heard. She felt much oppressed as if there must be something wrong in so sudden and strange a proceeding. At the very moment of suspense she caught Mrs. Gray's eyes fixed upon her with the saddest expression she thought she had ever seen. Philip was come, it was no dream. He was presently in the midst of the party making his compliments, compliments paid to Margaret in all a manner scarcely different in the eyes of others from those which were shared by all. But to her, a world of wonder and of horror was revealed by the glance of an eye and the quiver of a lip, too slight to be detected by any eye less intently fixed than hers. Margaret stood aloes, the others were stepping into the boats. But Philip did not approach her. He interfered between Hope and Maria Young. Maria looked agitated and uncertain but she thought she had no right to cause any delay or difficulty and she took his arm. Though she felt herself unable to conceal her trembling, Margaret saw that Hope was scarcely able to support herself. I cannot go, she said, as he drew her arm within his, leave me behind. They will not miss me. Nobody will miss me. The agonized tone of these last words brought back the color which Hope had lost in the tempest of emotions in which anger was uppermost. He was no longer deadly pale when he said, impossible, I cannot leave you. You must not stay behind. It is of the utmost consequence that you should go. Cannot you? Do try. I will place you beside Mrs. Gray. Cannot you make the effort? She did make the effort. With desperate steadiness, she stepped into the boat when Mrs. Gray was seated. She was conscious that Philip watched to see what she would do and then seated Maria and himself in the other boat. Hope followed Margaret. If he had been in the same boat with Enderby, the temptation to throw him overboard would have been too strong. Till they were past the weir and the lock and all the erections belonging to the village and to the great fur which dignified it, the boats were rode. Conversation went on. The gray church steeple was pronounced picturesque as it rose above the trees and the children looked up at Dr. Levitt as if the credit of it by some means belonged to him, the rector. Sidney desired his younger sisters not to trail their hands through the water as it recharged the passage of the boat. The precise distance of the ruins from Dearbrook ferry was argued and Dr. Levitt gave some curious traditions about the old abbey they were going to see. Then towing took the place of rowing and the party became very quiet. The boat cut steadily through the steel waters, the slight ripple at the bowels being the only sound which marked its progress. Dr. Levitt pointed with his stick to the verduous wall which sprang up from the brink of the river. Every spray of the beach, every pyramid of the larch, every leaf of the oak and the tall column of the occasional poplar reflected true as the magical nature of light and waters could make them. Some then wished the sun would come out without which it could scarcely be called seeing the woods. Others tried to recognize the person who stood fishing under the great ash. And it took a minute or two to settle whether it was a man or a boy and two minutes more to decide that it belonged to nobody at Dearbrook. Margaret almost wondered that Edward could talk all about these things as much as he did, much in his common tone and manner. But for his ease and steadiness in small talk, she should suppose that he was striving to have her left unnoticed, to look down into the water as strenuously as she pleased. She little knew what a training he had had in wearing his usual manner while his heart was wretched. There now, cried Fanny, we have passed the place, the place where cousin Margaret fell in last winter. We wanted to have gone directly over it. Margaret looked up and saw Sydney's awestruck glance. He had not yet recovered from that day. If you have mentioned it sooner, said Margaret, I could have shown you the very place. We did pass directly over it. Oh, why did you not tell us? You should have told us. Dr. Levitt smiled as he remarked that he thought Ms. Iberson was less likely to be the last person to point out that spot to other people as well as to forget it herself. Margaret had indeed been far from forgetting it. She had looked down into its depths and had bought thence something that had been useful to her, something on which she was meditating when Fanny spoke. She had been saved and doubtless for a purpose. If it was only to suffer for her own part and to find no rest and peace but in devoting herself to others, this was a high purpose. Maria could live and was thankful to live without home or family or prospect. But it was not certain that this was all that was to be done and enjoyed in life. Something dreadful had happened, but Philip loved her. He still loved her. For nothing but agonized love could have inspired the glance which yet thrilled through her. There was some mistake, some fearful mistake and the want of confidence in her which it revealed. The fault of temper in him opened a long perspective of misery. But yet he loved her and all was not over. At times she felt certain that Mr. Rowland was at the bottom of this new injury. But it was inconceivable that Philip should be deluded by her after his warnings and his jealous fears lest his Margaret should give heed to any of his sister's misrepresentations. No light shone upon the question on the cloudy sky above or the clear waters beneath. But both yielded comfort through that gentle law by which things eminently real. Providence, the mercy of death and the blessing of God-like life are presented or prophesied to the spirit by the shadows amidst which we live. When Margaret spoke there was a calmness in her voice so like an echo of comfort in her heart that it almost made it would start. The party in the other boat were noisier, whether or not they were happier than those in whose weight they followed. Mr. Walcott had begun to be inspired as soon as the oars had made their first splash and was now reciting to Sophia some lines to the setting sun which he had learned when a little boy and had never forgotten. He asked her whether it was not a sweet idea, that of the declining sun being like a good man going to his rest to rise again tomorrow morning. Sophia was fond of poetry that was not too difficult and she found little disinclination in herself now to observe her father's directions about being civil to Mr. Walcott. The gentleman perceived that he had won some advantage and he persevered. He next spoke of the amiable poet Calpa and was delighted to find that this gray boy was acquainted with some of his writings. That she had at one time been able to repeat his piece on a poplar field and whose sweet lines beginning, the rose has never been washed, just washed in a shower. That she'd never heard the passage about the twanging horn or yonder bridge and the wheeling the sofa round and the cups that cheer but not inebriate. So Mr. Walcott repeated them not as before in a high key and with his face turned up towards the sun but almost in a whisper and inclining towards her ear, Sophia sighed and thought it very beautiful and was sorry for people who were not fond of poetry. A pause of excited feeling followed during which they found that the gentleman were questioning a boatman who was waiting his turn to tap to toe about the swans in the river. The swans have much increased in number this year, surely. Those are all of one family, I suppose. Those about the island, observed Mr. Gray. Yes, sir, they can't abide neighbors. They won't suffer a nest within a mile. They fight it out if they approach too near, eh? Said Enderby. Yes, sir, they leave another for dead. I have lost some of the finest swans under my charge in that way. Do you not part them when they fight after Walcott? I would. I always part little boys whom I see fighting in the streets and tell them they should not quarrel. You would repent meddling with the swans, sir, if you tried. When I knew no better, I meddled once and thought I should hardly get away alive. One of the creatures flapped my arm so hard that I thought more than once that it was broken. I would advise you, sir, never to go near swans when they are angry. You will find ample employment for your peacemaking talents among the dearbrook people, Mr. Walcott. Said Philip, they may break your windows and perhaps your heart, but they will leave your eyes and your right arm. For my part, I do not know, but I rather do battle with the swans. Better not, sir, said the boatman. I would advise you never to go near swans when they are angry. Look, said Sophia anxiously. Is not this one angry? Yes, it is, I'm sure it is. Did you ever see anything like its feathers? And it's coming this way. It's just upon us, oh, Mr. Walcott. Sophia threw herself over to the other side of the boat. And Mr. Walcott started up looking very pale. Sit down, cried Mr. Gray, in his loudest voice. Mr. Walcott sat down as if shot and Sophia crept back to her place with an anxious glance at the retreating bird. Of course, the two young people were plentifully lectured about shifting their places in the boat without leave and were asked the question more easily put than answered, how they should have felt if they had been the means of precipitating the whole party into the water. Then there was a calling out from the other boat to know what was the matter and an explanation. So that Sophia and Mr. Walcott had to take refuge in mutual sympathy from universal censure. The birds always quarrel with the boats. Boats of this make, explained the boatman, because their enemies go out in skiffs to take them. They let a lighter pass without taking any notice while they always scour the water near a skiff. But I never heard of their flying into pleasure party in any sort of boat. Where are the black swans that a sea captain bought to Lady Hunter? asked Philip. I see nothing of them. The male died, choked sir, with a crust of bread a stranger gave him, but for that he would now be in sight. I don't doubt, for he prospered very well till that day. Of a crust of bread, what a death, exclaimed Philip. And the other? She died, sir, by the visitation of God, replied the boatman solemnly. It was obviously so far from the man's intention that anyone should laugh, but nobody did laugh. Maria observed to her next neighbor that to a keeper of swans, his birds were more companionable and quite as important as their human charge to coroners and jurymen. The boat got aground among the flags at a point where the tow rope had to be carried over a footbridge at some little distance inland. One of the men attempting to leap the ditch had fallen in and emerged dripping with mud. Ben jumped ashore to take his little turn at the rope and end to be pushed the boat off again with an oar with some little effort. Mr. Walcott had squeezed Sophia's parasol so hard during the crisis as to break its ivory ring. The accident, mortifying as it was to him, did not prevent his exclaiming in a fervor of gratitude when the vibration of the boat was over and they were once more afloat. Was an exceedingly clever man, Mr. Enderby is. Extremely clever. I really think he can do everything. He would not have managed to break the ring of your parasol as I have been so awkward as to do, but I will see about getting it mended tomorrow. If I were as clever as Mr. Enderby now, I might be able to mend it myself. You will not be able to get another ring in Dearbrook, but never mind, I beg you will not feel uncomfortable about it. I can fasten it with a loop of green ribbon and a button till the next time I go to Blickley. Pray, do not feel uncomfortable. How can I help it? You say there is no ring in Dearbrook, not any sort of ring. My dear Miss Gray, if I cannot repair this sort of ring, Sophia was a good deal flurried. She begged he would think no more of the parasol. It was no manner of consequence. Do not be too good to me, he whispered. I trust I know my duty better than to take to you at your word. From my earliest years, my parents have instilled upon me the duty of making reparation for the injuries we cause to others. Sophia gave him an affecting look of approbation and asked with much interest where his parents lived and how many brothers and sisters he had and assured him at last that she saw he belonged to a charming family. It does not become me to speak proudly of such near relations, said he, and one who has so lately left the parental roof is perhaps scarcely to be trusted as to be impartial. But I will say that my family that, though not perhaps so clever as Mr. Rowland and Mr. Rendabee, who for heaven's sake do not name them together, Mr. Walcott saw he had broken the charm. He hastened to repair the mischief which one unhappy name had caused. This is natural I know that you should take the most interest in that member of the family who is to be your relation. You consider him in that light, I believe? Of course, he is to be our cousin. The parties wish it to be kept a secret, I conclude, said he, glancing at Rendabee and then stretching back as far as he thought safe to look at the other boat. Oh dear, no, there is no secret about the matter. I should not have supposed them to be engaged by their manner to each other. Perhaps it is off, said he quickly, fixing his eyes upon her. Off, what an odd idea. Who ever thought of such a thing? Such things have been heard of as engagements going off, you know. Both had raised their voices during the last few eager sentences. Sophia became aware that they had been overheard by seeing the deep flush which overspread Miss Young's pale face. Philip looked at Mr. Walcott as if he would have knocked him down. If they had only been on land, the young man took off his hat and ran his fingers through his white hair for the sake of something to do. Replaced his hat and shook his head manfully as if to settle his heart in his breast as well as his beaver on his crown. He glanced down the river in hopes that the abbey was not yet too near. It was important to him the wrath of so extremely clever a man as Mr. Enderby should have subsided before the party went on shore. It would have been a strange thing to have known how many of that company were dreading to reach the object of their excursion. A thrill passed through many hearts when the ruins with their overshadowing ivy were at length discerned, seated in the meadow to which the boat seemed to be approaching far too rapidly. In the bustle of landing, however, it was easy for those who wished to avoid one another to do so. Most of the guests walked straight up to the abbey walls so to examine all that was left of them. Mrs. Gray and her maids went to the little farmhouse, which was at one corner of the old building and chiefly constructed out of its ruins. And while the parties on whom the cares of hospitality devolved were consulting with the farmer's wife about preparations for tea, any stray guest might search for wood plants in the skirts of the cops on the hill behind or talk with the children who were jumping in and out of an old saw pit in the wood or if contemplative might watch the minnows in the brook, watch was here running parallel with the river. Mrs. Gray obviously considered that Margaret was her peculiar charge. She spoke little to her, but when Philip was off somewhere, she took her arm and seemed to insist on her company when she proceeded to her treaty with the dame of the farm. Margaret stood for some time patiently while they discussed whether it should be tea in the farmhouse parlor, which was too small or tea in the meadow, which might be damp or tea in the ruins, where there might be drafts and the water could not be supplied hot. Before this matter was settled, Margaret saw that her friend Maria was seated on a log beside the brook. Gazing wistfully at her, Margaret tried to disengage her arm from Mrs. Gray. Mrs. Gray objected, wait a moment, my dear. I will not detain you five minutes. You must not go anywhere without me, my dear child. Never before had Mrs. Gray spoken to Margaret with tenderness like this. Margaret was resolved to know why, but she would first speak to Maria. She said she would return presently. She wished to return, but she must speak to Maria. Margaret, what is all this, said Maria, in a voice whose agitation she could not control. Have I been doing wrong? Am I now thinking what is wrong? I did not know whether to be angry with him or not. I was afraid to speak to him and afraid not to speak to him. How is it? Tell me, Margaret. I wish I could, said Margaret, in a tone calmer than her friends. I am in a miserable dream. I wrote to him this morning. To London? Yes, to London. He must have been in dear brook while I was writing it. I have heard from him, as usual, three days ago. And since then, I have never had a line or a word to prepare me for this. There is some dreadful mistake. The mistake is not his, I fear, said Maria, her eyes filling as she spoke. The mistake is yours, Margaret, and mine, and everybody's who took a selfish man of the world for a being with a heart and a conscience. You are wrong, Maria. You go too far. You will find that you are unjust. He is as wretched as I am. There is some mistake which may be explained, for he loves me, I am certain, but I wish I was anywhere but here. It is so wretched. I am afraid I have done wrong in speaking with him at all, said Maria. I longed for three words with you, for I did not know that I ought to do. We must learn something before we return. Your friends must act for you. Where is Mr. Hope? I do not know. Everybody deserts me, I think. I will not. It is little more than I can do, but stay by me. Do not leave me. We will watch for you. Margaret fell into the common error of the wretched when she said these last words. Her brother was at work on her behalf. Hope had gone towards the ruins with the rest of the party to keep his eye on Enderby. Sophia hung on his arm, which she had taken that she might relieve herself of some thoughts, which she could not so well speak to anyone of the strangers of the party. Oh, Mr. Hope, cried she, how very much mistaken we have been in Mr. Walcott all this time. He is a most delightful young man, so refined and so domestic. Indeed, you will trust Sivne's judgment more readily another time. Yes, indeed, but I could not help telling you. I know you will not be offended, though some people perhaps would not venture to so to speak to you, but I know you will excuse it and not be offended. So far from being offended, I like what you say far better than the way I have heard you sometimes speak of Mr. Walcott. I have thought before that you did not allow him fair play. Now, in my turn, I must ask you not to be offended with me. Oh, I could never be offended with you. You are always so good and amiable. Mama seemed a little vexed when you encouraged Sivne to praise Mr. Walcott, but she will be delighted at your opinion of him when she finds how accomplished he is and so refined. You speak of my opinion. I have no opinion about Mr. Walcott yet, because I do not know him. You must remember that, although Dearbrook has been busy about him since May, I have scarcely heard him say five words. I do not speak as having any opinion of him one way or another. How dark this place looks today at Isle. How gloomy. I think it is the weather. There is no sun and the ivy tosses about strangely. What do you think of the weather? I think we shall have the least possible benefit of the moon. How like a solid wall those clouds look low down in the sky. Here comes Mr. Walcott. Suppose you let him take you after the rest of the party. You will not like the gloom of that Isle where I am going. End of Part One. Section 41, Chapter 35, Part Two of Dearbrook. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gary Day. Dearbrook by Harriet Martino. Chapter 35, Part Two, Boating. Both Sophia and Mr. Walcott much preferred each other's company to the damp and shadow of the interior of the abbey. They walked off together and gathered meadow flowers and admired poetry and poets till all were summoned and they were compelled to join the groups who were converging from cops, brook, paltry yard and cloister towards the green before the farmhouse where, after all, the long tea table was spread. The reason of Hope's anxiety to consign Sophia to Mr. Walcott's charge was that he saw Enderby pacing the Isle alone with rapid steps. His face hung with gloom as deep as darkened the walls about him. Enderby, are you mad? cried Hope, hastening into him. I believe I am. As you are aware, no man has better cause. I await your explanation. Till I have it, your conduct is a perfect mystery to Margaret or to me for her, you must explain yourself. And that immediately. In the meantime, I do not know how to address you, how to judge you. Then Mrs. Gray has not told you of our conversation of this morning? No, said Hope, his heart suddenly failing him. The whole dreadful story has become known to me and I am thankful that it is revealed before it is too late. My sister is sometimes right, however she may be often wrong. She has done me a cruel kindness now. I know all, Hope, how you loved Margaret, how, when it was too late, you discovered that Margaret loved you, how, when I burst in upon you and her, she was, oh, why did I ever see her again? She was learning from you the absurd resolution which Mrs. Gray had been urging upon you by working upon your false sense of honor, a sense of honor of which I am to have none of the benefit. Since after marrying the one sister out of compassion and took, please, Mrs. Gray, you turn the other over to me, innocent in soul and conscience. I know, but no longer with virgin affections, you give her to me for your mutual security and consolation. Enderby, you are mad, cried Hope, his strength being roused by this extent of accusation from the depression caused by the mixture of truth in the dreadful words Philip had spoken. But mad, deluded or wicked, however you may have been wrought into this state of mind, there are two things which must be said on the instant and regarded by you in all coming time. These charges, as they relate to myself, had better be spoken of at another opportunity and when you are in a calmer state of mind. But meanwhile, I, as a husband, forgive you to speak lightly of my beloved and honored wife. And I also charge you, as you revere the purity of Margaret's soul, of the innocent soul and conscience of which you speak, that you do not convey to her by the remotest intimation any conception of the horrible tale with which some wretch has been deluding you. She never loved anyone but you. If you pollute and agonize her imagination with these vile fancies of your sisters, for from whom else can such inventions come? Remember that you peril the peace of an innocent family. You poison the friendship of sisters whom bereavement has bound to each other and deprive Margaret of all that life contains for her. You will not impair my wife's faith in me, I am confident, but you may turn Margaret's brain if you say anything to her like what passed your lips just now. It seems but a short time, Enderby, since we committed Margaret's happiness to your care. And now I have to appeal on her behalf to your honor and conscience. Mrs. Gray, Mrs. Gray, Enderby repeated, fixing his eyes upon Hope's countenance. The quarrel between you and me shall be attended to in its turn, Enderby. I must first secure my wife and Margaret from any rashness on your part. If you put distrust between them and pollute their home by the wildest of fancies, it will be better for you that these walls should fall upon us and bury us both. Oh, that they would, cried Philip, I am sick of living in the midst of treachery. My life is a waste to a man treated as I have been. Answer me, Enderby, answer me this instant, Hope cried, advancing to place himself between Enderby and Margaret, whom he saw now entering the ruin and rapidly approaching them. You are right, said Enderby, allowed. You may trust me. Philip, what am I to think, said Margaret, walking quite up to him and looking intently in his face. I hardly know whether we are living and in our common world. Hope shuddered to see the glance she can't surround the dreary place. Philip half turned away and did not speak. Why will you not speak? What reason can there be for this silence? When you last left me, you feared your sister might make mischief between us. And then I promised that if such a thing could happen as that, I should doubt you. I would tell you my doubt as soon as I was aware of it myself and now you are angry with me. You would strike me dead this moment if you dared and you will not speak. Go now, Margaret, said Hope gently. He cannot speak to you now. Take my word for it that he cannot. I will not go. I will take nobody's word. What are you, Edward, between me and him? It is my right to know how I have offended him. I require no more than my right. I do not ask him to love me nor need I for he loves me still. I know it and feel it. It is true, said Enderby, mournfully gazing upon her agitated countenance but retreating as he gazed. I do not ask to be yours any farther than I am now, now when our affections are true and our word is broken. But I do insist upon your esteem as far as I have ever possessed it. I have done nothing to forfeit it and I demand your reasons for supposing that I have. Not now, said Philip, faintly, shrinking in the presence of the two concerning whom he entertained so painful a complexity of feelings. There stood Hope firm as the pillar behind him. There stood Margaret agitated but unabashed as the angels that come in dreams. Was it possible that these two had loved? Could they then stand before him thus? But Mrs. Gray, what she had mitted, this in confirmation with other evidence could not be cast aside. Yet Philip dared not speak, fearing to injure beyond reparation. Oh Margaret, not now, he faintly repeated. My heart is almost broken. Give me time. You have given me none. Let that pass, however. But I cannot give you time. I cannot hold out. Who can hold out? Under injurious secrecy, under mocking injustice, under torturing doubt from the one who is pledged to the extreme of confidence. Let us understand one another and we shall never meet more and I will endure whatever must be endured and we shall have time. Oh, what a weary time to learn to submit. But not till you have given me the confidence you owe. The last I shall ever ask from you. Will I endure one moment's suspense? I will not give you time. Yes, Margaret, you will. You must, said Hope. It is hard, very hard, but enderby is so far right. God help me for everyone is against me, cried Margaret, sinking down among the long grass and laying her throbbing head upon the cold stone. He comes without notice to terrify me by his anger, me whom he loves above all the world. He leaves my heart to break with his unkindness in the midst of all these indifferent people. He denies me the explanation I demand and you, you of all others, tell me he is right. I will do without protection since the two who owe it forsake me. But God is my witness, how you wrong me. Enderby, why do you not go? said Hope sternly. Almost before the words were spoken, Enderby had disappeared at the father end of the aisle. Patience, Margaret, a little patience, my dear sister. All may be well. All must be well for such as you. But I mean that I trust all may be repaired. He has been wrought upon by some bad influence. Then all is over, if knowing me as he did. But Edward do not speak to me, go, leave me. I cannot speak another word now. I cannot leave you here, this is no place for you. Think of your sister Margaret. You will do nothing to alarm her. If she were to see you now, Margaret raised herself, took her brother's arms and went out into the air. No one was near. Now leave me brother, I must be alone. I will walk here and think what I must do. But how can I know when all is made such a mystery? Oh brother, tell me what I ought to do. Calm yourself now, command yourself. For this day, you innocent as you are, may well do so. If I had such a conscience as yours, if I were only in your place, Margaret, if I had nothing to bear but wrongs, I would thank heaven as heaven was never yet thanked. You, Edward, if the universe heaped injuries on upon me, they should not crush me. If I had a self-respect like yours, I would lift my head to the stars. You, Edward, Margaret, wretched as you are, your misery is nothing to mine. Have pity upon me and command yourself. For my sake and your sisters, look and act like yourself and hope peacefully, trust steadily, that all will yet be right. It cannot be that you have wronged me, brother. You sent him from me, I know, and that was unkind, but you could never really wrong anyone. I never meant it. I honor you and would protect you. I will protect you, as a brother should, only do not say again that you are forsaken. It would break our hearts to hear you say that again. I will not, and I will try to be for today as if nothing had happened, but I promise no more than to endeavor. I am so bewildered. Then I will leave you. I shall not be far off. No one shall come to disturb you. There is perhaps no mood of mind in which it is impossible for the sweet administrations of nature to be accepted. Even now, as Margaret stood on the riverbank, the influences of the scene flowed in upon her. The operations of thought were quickened and she was presently convinced that the next time she saw Philip, she should learn all. She might even find him repentant for having been weak and credulous. Edward's self-reproach was the most inexplicable mystery of all. In his brotherly grief, he had no doubt exaggerated some slight carelessness of speech, some deficiency of watchfulness and zeal. Hester must never know of these sorrowful things that Edward had said. There was substantial comfort in other of his words. It was true that she was only wronged. In her former season of wretchedness, it had been far worse. There was not only disappointment, but humiliation, loss, not only of hope, but of self-respect. Now she was innocent of any wrong towards Philip and herself, and in this consciousness, and any lot must be supportable. While thus musing, she walked slowly along, sighing away some of her oppression. Her heart and head throbbed less. Her eye was caught by the little fish that leaped out of the water after the evening flies. She stood to watch them. The splash of a water roused her ear, and she turned to track him across the stream. Then she saw a fine yellow iris growing among the flags on the very brink, and she must have it for Maria. To reach it without a wetting required some skill and time. She tried this way, she tried that, but the flower was just out of reach. She went to the next older bush for a bow, which answered her purpose, and she had drawn the tuft of flags toward her and laid whole hold of the iris when Sydney shouted her name from a distance and summoned her to tea. Maria was seated at the table amidst the greater proportion of the party when Margaret arrived, escorted by Sydney, and followed her a little distance by Mr. Hope. Never had flower been more welcomed to Maria than this iris offered to her with a smile. Pale as the face was and heavy as were the eyes, there was a genuine smile. Maria had kept a place for Margaret, which she took, though Mrs. Gray kept gazing at her and assured her that she must sit beside her. Mr. Enderby was not to be seen. Frequent proclamation was made for him, but it did not appear, and it was settled that if he preferred wood-ranging to good cheer, he must have his own way. Tea passed off well enough. Dr. Levitt and Mr. Hope went over the subject of the abbey again for the benefit of the rearwood portion of the company who had not heard it before. Mr. Rowland and the farmer discussed the bad crops. Sophia spilled her tea from Mr. Walcott having made her laugh when she was carrying the cup to her lips. And Sydney collected a portion of every good thing that was on the table for Mr. Enderby to enjoy on his return. Mr. Enderby did not return until it was quite time to be gone. Mr. Gray had long been hurrying the servants in their business of packing up plates and spoons. He even offered help and repeated his cautions to his guests, not to stray beyond call. The farmer shook his head as he looked up at the leaven-colored sky, across which black masses of cloud, like condensed smoke, were whirled and prophesied a stormy night. There was no time to be lost. The boatmen came bustling out of the farm kitchen, still munching, and they put the boats in trim with all speed while the ladies stood on the bank, quite ready to step in. Mrs. Gray assorted the two parties, still claiming Margaret for her own boat, but allowed Maria to enter instead of Sydney. Hope chose to remain with them. So Dr. Levitt exchanged with Sophia. Mr. Walcott thought there was a lion in his path, either way. Mr. Hope, his professional rival in one boat, and Mr. Enderby, whom he fancied he had offended, in the other. He adhered to Sophia as a sure ally. Mr. Enderby, where can he be? Was the exclamation when all was seated and the boatmen stood ready to start with the tow rope about their shoulders. When the dame of the farm made her part in curtsy and had stepped a few paces backwards after a swimming obeisance, the farmer was running over the meadow towards the cops in search of the missing gentleman, and Sydney would have sprung out of the boat to join in the chase when his father laid a strong hand on him and said that one stray member of a party on a threatening evening was enough. He could not have people running after one another till the storm came on. Mr. Rowland was full of concern and would have had Sydney throw away the basket full of good things he had hoarded for his friend. If Enderby chose to absent himself for his own enjoyment, Mr. Rowland said, he could not expect to share other people's. Hope was standing up in the first boat, gazing anxiously round, and Margaret's eyes were fixed on his face. When everybody cried out at once, here he is, here he comes. And Enderby was seen leaping through a gap in the farthest hedge and bounding over the meadows. He sprang into the boat with such a force that set it rocking and made the ladies catch a bat, whatever could be grasped. Your hat exclaimed several voices. Why, Mr. Enderby, where is your hat? cried Sydney, laughing. Enderby clapped his hand on top of his head and declared he did not know. He had not missed his hat till that moment. Hope called from the first boat to the farmer and asked him to look in the Isle of the Abbey for the gentleman's hat. It was bought thence, and Fanny and Maria laughed at Mr. Hope for being such a good guesser as to fancy where Mr. Enderby's hat might be, when Mr. Enderby did not know himself. The moment the hat was tossed into the lap of its owner, Mr. Gray's voice was heard shouting to the men, start off and get us home as soon as you can. The men gave a glance at the sky and set forth at a smart pace. Mr. Gray saw that the umbrella lay at his hand ready for distribution and advised each lady to draw her cloak about her as the air felt to him damp and chill. A general flatness being perceptible, someone proposed that someone else should sing. All declined at first, however, except Maria, whose voice was always most ready when it was most difficult to sing, when the party was dull or when no one else would begin. She wanted to prevent Margaret's being applied to and she sang once and again on the slightest hint. Sophia had no music books and could not sing without the piano, as everyone knew beforehand, she would say. Mrs. Gray dropped a tear to the memory of Mrs. Enderby, whose ballad was never wanting on such occasions of these. Sydney concluded that it was the same thought which made Mr. Enderby bury his head in his hat between his knees while Mr. Young was singing. It could not surely be all from shame at having kept the party waiting. It was with some uncertainty and awe that he whispered in his frenzy. Don't you think you could sing your new song that cousin Margaret is so fond of? Do? Well, are at all as flat as flounders and everybody will be asleep presently if we don't do something. Can't you get over a thing or two and sing for us? I'm sure I would if I only could. Enderby shook his head without raising it from his knees. Mr. Walcott had no idea of refusing when he was asked. He could sing the Canadian boat song but he was afraid he might have heard it before. Never mind that, let us have it, said everybody. But there should be two. It is a duet properly, you know. Sophia believed she could sing that, just that, without the piano. She would try the first part if he would take the second. Mr. Gray thought to himself that his daughter seemed to have adopted his hint about civility to his guests very dutifully. But Mr. Walcott could only sing the first part because he had a brother at home who always took the second. He could soon learn it, he had no doubt, but he did not know it at present. So he had the duet all to himself, uplifting a slender voice in a very odd key, which Fanny and Mary did not quite know what to make of. They looked around into all the faces in the boat to see whether anyone was going to laugh. But everyone was immovable. Except that Sophia whispered softly to Miss Young that Mr. Walcott was a most delightful young man after all, so accomplished and so refined. Mr. Walcott's song ended with a quaver from a large cold startling drop of rain falling upon his nose, as he closed his eyes to draw out his last note. He blushed at having started and flinched from a drop of rain and so spoiled his conclusion. Some of his hearers supposed that he had broken down till assured by others that he had finished. Then everybody thanked him and agreed that the rain really was coming on. There were now odd fleeces of white cloud between the lead color and the black. They were hurried about in the sky evidently by countercurrents. The river was almost inky in its hue and every large drop made its own splash and circle. Up went the umbrellas in both boats, but almost before they were raised, some were turned inside out and all were dragged down again. The gust had come and bought with it a pelt of hail, large hail stones, which fell in at Fanny's collar behind while she put down her head to save her face and which almost took away Mary's breath by coming sharp and fast against her cheeks. Then somebody described a gleam of lightning quivering in the gray roof of the sky and next everyone saw the tremendous flash which blazed over the surface of the water all round about. How Mr. Walcott would have quavered if he had been singing still, but a very different voice was now to be heard, the horse thunder rolling up, like advancing artillery, first growling, then roaring and then presently crashing and rattling overhead. The boatsman's thoughts were for the ladies, exposed as they were, without the possibility of putting up umbrellas. It felt almost dark to those in the boats as they cut rapidly, more and more rapidly through the water which sieved about the boughs. The men were trotting, running, presently it was darker still, the bent heads were raised and it appeared that the boats were bought too under the wide branches of two oaks which overhung the water. The woods were reached already. Shelter for the ladies, sir, said the panting boatman, touching their hats and then taking them off to wipe their brows. Mr. Gray looked doubtful, stood up to survey and then asked if there were no farm, no sort of house anywhere near. None nearer than your village where the spire was and that was very little nearer than Dearbrook itself. The ladies who were disposed to say anything observed that they were very well as they were. The tree kept off a good deal of the hail and the wind was not felt quite so much as on the open river. Should they sit still or step on shore? Sit still by all means. Packed closely as they were, they would be warmer and drier than standing on shore. And they were now ready to start homewards as soon as the storm should abate. It did not appear that there was any abatement of the storm in five minutes, nor in a quarter of an hour. The young people looked up at the elder ones as if asking what to expect. Several of the party happened to be glancing in the same direction with the boatman. When they saw a shaft of lightning strike perpendicularly from the upper range of cloud upon the village spire and light it up. Lord bless us! exclaimed Mr. Gray as the spire sent its smoke up like a little volcano. Fanny burst out to crying, but was called a silly child and desired not to make a noise. Everyone was silent now, most hiding their faces, that they might not see what happened next. Halfway between the river and the smoking church, in the farther part of the opposite meadow, was a fine spreading oak, under which, as might just be seen, a flock of sheep were huddled together for shelter. Another fiery dart shot down from the dark canopy under the crown of this oak. The tree quivered and fell asunder, its fragments lying in a circle. There was a rush forth of such of the sheep as escaped, and a rattle of thunder which would have overpowered any ordinary voices, but in the midst of which a scream was heard from the first boat. It was a singular thing that, in talking over this storm in the days after at home, no lady would own this scream. I am thinking, sir, said Ben, as soon as he could make himself heard. We are in a bad place here, as the storms seem thickening this way. We had best get from under the trees for all the hail. Do so, Ben, and make haste. When the first boat was bought out a little into the stream, in order to clear it of the flags, Margaret became aware that Philip was gazing earnestly at her from the other boat. She alone of the ladies had sat with face upraised, watching the advance of the storm. She alone, perhaps of all the company, had enjoyed it with pure relish. It had animated her mind and restored her to herself. When she saw Philip leaning back on his elbow, almost over the edge of the boat, to contemplate her, she returned to his gaze with such an expression of mournful wonder and composed sorrow, as moved him to draw his hat over his eyes and resolved to look no more. The storm abated but did not cease, rain succeeded to hail, lightning still hovered in the air, and thunder continued to growl afar off. But the umbrellas could now be kept up, and the ladies escaped with a slight wetting. Before the party dispersed from the wharf, Hope sought Philip and had a few moments conversation with him. The object of which was to agree upon further discourse on the morrow. Hope and Margaret then accompanied Maria to her lodging and walked thence silently home. Hester was on the watch for them, a little anxious lest they should have suffered from the storm. I'm ready with some reflections on the liabilities of parties of pleasure, yet blithe and beaming. Her countenance fell when she saw her sister's pale face. Margaret, how you look! cried she. Cold, wet and weary, and ill too, I am sure. Cold, wet and weary, Margaret admitted. Let me make haste to bed, and do you make tea for Edward, and send some up to me? Good night, I cannot talk now. Edward will tell you. Tell me what, Hester asked her husband, when she found that Margaret had really rather have no attendants. That Margaret is unhappy love, from some misunderstanding with Enderby, some busy devil. I have no doubt the same that caused so much mischief already has come between him and Margaret. He then told the story of Philip's sudden appearance, and his conduct throughout the day, omitting all hint that any conversation with him had taken place. He hoped in conclusion that all would be cleared up, and the mutual faith of the lovers restored. Hester thought this impossible. If Philip could be prejudiced against Margaret by any man or woman on earth, or any devil in hell, there must be an instability in his character, to which Margaret's happiness must not be committed. Hope was not sure of this. There were circumstances of temptation, modes of delusion, under which the faith of a seraph might sink. But worse still, Hester said, was his conduct of today, torturing Margaret's affections, wounding her pride, insulting her cruelly, in the presence of all those among whom she lived. Hope was disposed to suspend his judgment even upon this. Enderby was evidently half frantic. His love was undiminished, it was clear. It was the soul of all madness of today. Margaret had conducted herself nobly. Her innocence, her faith must triumph at last. They might bring her lover to her side again. Hester had little doubt, but she did not see what could now render Philip worthy of Margaret. This had always been her apprehension. How, after the passions of this day, could they ever be as they had been? And tears as gentle and sorrowful as Margaret had ever shed for her now reigned from Hester's eyes. Be comforted, my Hester, my generous wife. Be comforted. You live for us. You are our best blessing, my love. And we can never bear to see you suffer for her. Be comforted and wait. Trust that the retribution of this will fall where it ought, and that will never be upon our Margaret. Pray that the retribution may fall where it ought, and that its bitterness may be intense as the joy which Margaret and you deserve. I never knew you so revengeful, Edward said his wife, taking the hand he held before his eyes. Shall I admonish you for once? Shall I give you a rip proof for wishing woe to our enemies? Shall I remind you to forgive fully, freely, as you hope to be forgiven? Yes, love, anything for the hope of being forgiven. Our house deep such sorrow for Margaret is. Grief always humbles us in our own eyes. Such humiliation is the test of sorrow. Bless you, love, as you grieve so for Margaret.