 CHAPTER 39. PART 2 of DEARBROOK. DEARBROOK by Harriet Martinu. CHAPTER 39. PART 2. Margaret blushed. She could not have denied. If closely pressed, that some little tinge of the eastern superstition had entered into this sacred ring, and lay there, like the fire in the opal. She could not have denied that, when she drew it on every morning. She noted with satisfaction that its blue was as clear and bright as ever. How is it that this ring is still here, as Maria? Is it possible that he retains gifts of yours? Yet I think if he did not, this ring would not be on your finger. He does keep whatever I gave him. Thank God, he keeps them. This is one of my greatest comforts. It is the only way I have left of speaking to him. But if it were not so, this ring would still be where it is. I would not give it up. I am not altered. I am not angry with him. His love is as precious to me as it ever was, and I will not give up the tokens of it. Why, Maria, you surely cannot suppose that these things have any other value or use but as given to him. You cannot suppose that I dread the imputation of keeping them for their own sakes. No, but, but what? Is any proof of his former regard of value now? That is the question. It has only very lately became a question to with me. I have only lately learned to think him in fault. I excused him before. I excused him as long as I could. You will unlearn your present opinion of him. Yes, everything that was ever valuable from him is more precious than ever now. Now that he is under a spell and cannot speak his soul. If it were, as you think, if he loved me no longer, they would still be more precious as a relic of the dead, but it is not so. If faith can remove mountains, we may have to rejoice for you still, Margaret, for there can be no mass of calamities between you and him, which you have not faith enough to overthrow. Thank you for that. It is the best word of comfort that has come to me from without for many a day. Now there is one thing more in which you can perhaps help me. I have heard nothing about him for so long. You see, Mr. Rowland, sometimes I know he feels a great friendship for you, and you meet the younger children. Do you hear nothing whatever about him? Nothing, nor do they. Mr. Rowland told me a fortnight ago that Mrs. Rowland and he are seriously uneasy at obtaining no answers to their repeated letters to Mr. Enderby. Mrs. Rowland is more disturbed, I believe, than she chooses to show. She must feel herself responsible. She has tried various means of accounting for his silence all the autumn. Now she gives that up and is silent in return. If it were not for the impossibility of leaving home at such a time as this, Mr. Rowland would go to London to satisfy himself. Margaret, I believe you are the only person who has smiled at this. Perhaps I'm the only one who understands him. I'd rather know of the silence than all the letters he could have written to Mrs. Rowland. If he had been ill, they would certainly have heard. Yes, they say so. Then that is enough. Let us say no more now. You have said that which has cheered me for you, Margaret, though as we poor, irreligious human beings often say to each other, I wish I had your faith. You have given me more than I had, however. But are we to say no more about anything? Must we leave this comfortable fire and go to sleep? Not unless you wish it. I have more to ask, if you are not tired. Come ask me. Can not you tell me of some way in which a woman may earn money? A woman? What rate of woman? Do you mean yourself? That question is easily answered. A woman from the uneducated classes can get a subsistence by washing and cooking, by milking cows and going to service, and in some parts of the kingdom, by working in a cotton mill or burnishing plate, as you have no doubt seen for yourself at Birmingham. But for an educated woman, a woman with the powers which God gave her, religiously improved with a reason which lays life open before her in understanding which surveys silence as its appropriate task, and a conscience which would make every species of responsibility safe. For such a woman, there is in all England no chance of subsistence, but by teaching, that almost ineffectual teaching, which can never countervail the education of circumstances, and for which not one in a thousand is fit, or by being a superior misnairs, the feminine gender of the tailor and the hatter. The tutor, the tailor and the hatter, is this all? All, except that there are departments of art and literature from which it is impossible to shut woman out. These are not, however, to be regarded as resources for bread. Besides the number who succeed in art and literature, being necessarily extremely small, it seems pretty certain that no great achievements in the domains of art and imagination can be looked for from either men or woman who labor there to supply their lower wants, or for any other reason than the pure love of their work. While they toil in any one of the arts of expression, if they are not engrossed by some loftier meaning, the highest which they will end with expressing will be the need of bread. True, quite true, I must not think of any of those higher departments of labor, because even if I were qualified, what I want is not employment, but money. I am anxious to learn some money, Maria. We are very poor. Edward is trying, one way and another. To earn money to live upon, till his practice comes back to him, as he is forever trusting it will. I wish to earn something, too, if it be ever so little. Can you tell me of no way? I believe I should not if I could. Why, because I think you have quite enough to do already, and will soon have too much. Just consider, when Morris goes, what hour of the day will you have to spare? Let us see. Do you mean to sweep the rooms with your own hands? Yes, said Margaret, smiling. And to score them, too? No, not quite that. We shall hire a neighbor to come two or three times a week to do the rougher parts of the work. But I mean to light the fire in the morning, and we shall have but one. And get breakfast ready, and Hester will help me to make the beds. That is nearly all I shall let her do besides the sewing. For, baby, I will give her employment enough. Indeed, I think so. And that will leave you too much. Do not think, dear, of earning money. You are doing all you ought in saving it. I must think about it, because earning is so much nobler and more effectual than saving. I cannot help seeing that it would be far better to earn the amount of Morris's maintenance than to save it by doing her work badly myself, not that I shrink from the labor. I am rather enjoying the prospect of it, as I told you. Hark, what footstep is that? I heard it a minute or two ago, whispered Maria, but I did not like to mention it. They listened in the deepest silence for a while. At first they were not sure whether they heard anything above the beating of their own hearts, but they were soon certain that there were feet moving outside the room door. The church clock has but lately gone 12, said Maria, in the faint hope that it might be someone of the household yet stirring. Margaret shook her head. She rose softly from her seat and took a candle from the table to light it, saying she would go and see her hand trembled a little as she held the match, and the candle would not immediately light. Meantime the door opened without noise, and someone walked in and quite up to the gazing ladies. It was the tall woman. Maria made an effort to reach the bell, but the tall woman seized her arm and made her sit down. A capricious jet of flame from a coal in the fire at this moment lighted up the face of the stranger for a moment and enabled Maria to spy a crete pierced under the muffler. What do you want at this time, said Margaret? I want money. And what else can I get? said the intruder in the no longer disguised voice of a man. I have been into your larder, but you seem to have nothing there. That is true, said Margaret firmly, nor have we any money. We are very poor. You could not have come to a worse place. If you are in want. Here is something, however, said the man, turning to the tray. With your leave, I'll see what you have left us to eat. He thrust one of the candles between the bars to the grate to light it, telling the ladies they had better start no difficulty, lest they should have reason to repent it. There were others with him in the house who would show themselves in an instant if any noise were made. Then do you make none? I beg it as a favor, said Margaret. There is a lady asleep upstairs with a very young infant. If you expect her life, you will be quiet. The man did not answer, but he was quiet. He cut slices from the loaf and carried them to the door, and they were taken by somebody outside. He quickly devoured the remains of the pheasant, tearing the meat from the bones with his teeth. He drank from the decanter of wine and then carried it, where he had taken the bread. Two men put their heads in at the door, nodded to the ladies before they drank, and again withdrew. The girls cast a look at each other. A glance of agreement, what resistance was not to be thought of. Yet each was conscious of a feeling of rather pleasant surprise, that she was not more alarmed. Now for it, said the man, striding oddly about in his petticoats and evidently out of patience with them. Now for your money, as he spoke. He put the spoons from the tray into the bosom of his gown. Proceeding to murmur at his deficiency of pockets, Margaret held out her purse to him. It contained one single shilling. You don't mean this is all you are going to give me. It is all I have. And I believe there is not another shilling in the house. I told you we have no money. And you said he turned to Maria. I have not my purse about me. And if I had, there is nothing in it worth your taking. I assure you I have not got my purse. I am only a visitor here for this one night. And an odd night it is to have chosen as it turns out. Give me your watches. I have no watch. I have not had a watch these five years said Maria. I have no watch said Margaret. I sold mine a month ago. I told you we were very poor. The man muttered something about the plague of gentle folks being so poor, and about wondering that gentle folks were not ashamed of being so poor. You have got something. However, he continued fixing his eye on the ring on Margaret's finger. Give me that ring. Give it me. Or else I'll take it. Margaret's heart sank with the self approach worse than her grief. When she remembered how easily she might have saved this ring, how easily she might have thrust it under the fender or dropped it into her shoe into her hair anywhere. While the intruder was gone to the room door to his companions, she felt that she could never forgive herself for this neglect of the most precious things she had in the world. Of that which most belonged to Philip. She cannot part with that ring said Maria. Look, you may see, she had rather part with any money she is ever likely to have than with that ring. She pointed to Margaret, who is sitting with her friends clasped as if they were never to be disjoined, and with the face of the deepest distress. I can't help that, said the man. I must have what I can get. He seized her hands, and with one gripe of his made hers fly open. Margaret could no longer endure to expose any of her feelings to the notice of a stranger of this character. Be patient a moment, said she, and she drew off the ring after its guard, made of Hester's hair, and put them into the large hand, which was held out to receive them, feeling at the moment as if her heart was breaking. The man threw the hair ring back into her lap, and tied the turquoise in the corner of the shawl he wrote. The lady upstairs has got a watch, I suppose. Yes, she has. Let me go and fetch it. Do let me go. I'm afraid of nothing so much as to her being terrified. If you have any humanity, let me go. Indeed, I will bring the watch. While there is no man in the house, I know for you to call. You may go, miss, but I must step behind you to the room door. No further. She shan't see me, nor know anyone is there unless you tell her. This young lady will sit as still as a mouse till we come back. Never mind me, said Maria to her friend while they were gone. She sat, as she was desired, as still as a mouse, and forced there, too, by the certainty that a man stood in the shadow by the door with his eye upon her the whole time. Margaret lighted a chamber candle in order, as she said, to look as usual if her sister should see her. The robber did tread very softly on the stairs and stop outside the chamber door. Morris was sitting up in her truckle bed, evidently listening, and was on the point of starting out of it on seeing that Margaret's face was pale. When Margaret put her finger on her lips and motioned her to lie down, Hester was asleep. With her sleeping infant on her arm, Margaret sat down in the light and leaned over her to take the watch from its hook at the head of the bed. Are you still up? said Hester, drowsily, and just opening her eyes. What do you want? It must be very late. Nearly half past twelve, by your watch. I am sorry I disturbed you, good night. As she withdrew with the watch in her hand, she whispered to Morris, lie still, don't be uneasy. I will come again presently, so in a few minutes. As seemed to intently listening ears, the house was clear of the intruders. Within a quarter of an hour, Margaret had beckoned Morris out of Hester's room, and had explained the case to her. They went round the house and found that all the little plate they had was gone, and the cheese from the pantry. Morris's cloth cloak was left hanging on its pin, and even Edward's old hat, from these circumstances, and from the dialect, if the only speaker Margaret thought the thieves must be country people from the neighborhood who could not wear the old clothes of the gentry without danger of detection. They had come in from the surgery, whose outer door was sufficiently distant from the inhabited rooms of the house, to be forced without the noise being heard. Morris and Margaret barricaded the store, as well as they could, with such chests and benches as they were able to move without making themselves heard upstairs, and then Morris, at Margaret's earnest desire, stole back to bed. Anything rather than alarm Hester, while they were below, Maria had put on more coals, and restored some order and comfort to the table and the fireside. She concluded that sleep was out of the question for this night, for some moments after Margaret came and sat down by her, neither of them spoke, at length Margaret said, half laughing, that you should have come here for rest this night, of all nights in the year. I am glad it happened so, yes, indeed I am. I know it must have been a comfort to you, to have someone with you, though only poor lay me, and I am glad, on my own account too. I assure you, such a visitation is not half so dreadful as I had fancied, not worth half the fear. I have spent upon it all my life. I am sure you felt it as I did, while he was here. You felt it quite yourself, did not you? If it had not been for the woman's clothes, it would really have been scarcely terrifying at all. There is something much more human about a horse breaker, than I had fancied, but yet it was very inhuman of him to take your ring. Margaret wept more bitterly than anyone had ever seen her weep since her unhappy days began, and her friend could not comfort her. It was a case in which there was no comfort to be given, unless in the very faint and unreasonable hope that the ring might be offered for sale to some jeweler in some market town in the county. A hope sadly faint and unreasonable, since country people who would take plate and ornaments must, in all probability, be in communication, with London rogues who would turn the property into money in the great city. Still, there was a possibility of recovering the lost treasure, and on this possibility Maria dwelt perseveringly. But Margaret, she went on to ask, what is this about your watch? Have you indeed sold it? Yes, Morris managed that for me, while Hester was confined. I am glad now that I parted with it, as I did. It has paid some bills, which I had no made Edward anxious, and that is far better than it's being in a housebreakers hands. Yes, indeed. But I am sorry, you all have such a struggle to live, not a shilling in the house, but the one you gave up. So much for Edward's being out, it happened very well, for he could not have helped us, if he had been here. You saw there were three of them. What I meant was that Edward was about him, the little money, that is to last us till Christmas. The rent is safe enough. It is in Mr. Gray's strongbox, or the bank at Blickley. The rent is too important a matter to be put to any hazard, considering that Mr. Rowland is our landlord. It is already in safe. That is well. Now Margaret, could you swear to this visitor of ours? No, said Margaret softly, looking round, as if to convince herself that he was not there still. No, his bonnet was so large, and he kept the shadow of it so carefully upon his face, that I should not know him again. At least, not in any other dress. And we shall never see him again in this. It is very disagreeable, she continued, shuddering slightly, to think that we may pass him any day or every day, and that he may say to himself as we go by, there go the ladies that sat with their feet on the fender so comfortably when I went in without leave. Poor wretch, he will rather stay. There goes the young lady that I made so unhappy about her ring. I wish I had choked with the wine I drank before I took that ring. The first man you meet that cannot look you in the face is the thief. Depend on it, Margaret. I must not depend upon that. But Maria, could you swear to him? I am not quite sure at this moment, but I believe I could. The light from the fire shone brightly upon his black chin, and a bit of lank hair that came from under his mobcap. I could swear to the shawl. So could I, but that will be burned tomorrow morning. Now, Maria, do go to bed. Well, if you had rather, can we be together? Must I be treated as a guest, and have a room to myself? Not if you think we can make room in mine. We shall be most comfortable there. Shall not we, near to Morris and Hester? Rather than separate, they both betook themselves to the bed in Margaret's room. Maria lay still, as if asleep, but wide awake and listening. Margaret mourned her turquoise with silent tears all the rest of the night. End of chapter thirty-nine, part two. section forty-eight 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 Martino. section forty-eight, Lights and Days, part one. Before he returned home in the morning, Hope went to Dr Levitz to report of what he had seen and heard on Mr Gray's premises in the course of the night. He was persuaded that several persons had been about the yards, and he had seen a light appearing and disappearing among the shrubs, which grew thick in the rear of the house. Sydney and he had examined the premises this morning, in company with Mr Gray's clerk, and they had found the flower beds trampled and drops of tallow from a candle, which had probably been taken out of a lantern, and ashes from tobacco pipes scattered under the lee of a pile of logs. Nothing was missed from the yards. It was probable that they were the resort of persons who had been plundering elsewhere, but the danger from fire was so great, and the unpleasantness of having such night-neighbours so extreme that the gentlemen agreed that no time must be lost in providing a watch which would keep the premises clear of intruders. The dog, which had by some means been conjoaled out of his duty, must be replaced by a more faithful one, and Dr Levitz was disposed to establish a patrol in the village. The astonishment of both was great when Margaret appeared, early as it was, with her story. It was the faint hope of recovering her ring, which brought her thus early to the magistrates. Her brother was satisfied to stay and listen, when he found that Hester knew as yet nothing of the matter. It was a clear case that the Gray's must find some other guardian for the nights that Mr Gray spent from home, and Dr Levitz said that no man was justified in leaving his family unprotected for a single night in such times as these. He spoke with the deepest concern of the state of the neighborhood this winter, and of his own inability to preserve security by his influence either as clergymen or magistrate. The fact was, he said, that neither law nor gospel could deter men from crime when pressed by want, and hardened against all other claims by those of their starving families. Such times had never been known within his remembrance, and the guardians of the public peace and safety were almost as much at their wit's end as the sickly and savage population they had to control. He must today consult with as many of his brother magistrates as he could reach as to what could be done for the general security and relief. As Hope and Margaret returned home to breakfast, they agreed that their little household was more free to discharge their duties of such a time than most of their neighbors of their own rank could possibly be. They had now little or nothing of which they could be robbed. It was difficult to conceive how they could be further injured. They might now wholly free from fear and self-regards devote themselves to forgive and serve their neighbors. Such emancipation from care is as the blessing of poverty even more than of wealth was theirs, and as a great blessing in the midst of a very tolerable evil they felt it. Margaret laughed as she asked Edward if he could spare a few pence to buy horned spoons in the village as all the silver ones were gone. Hester was not at all too much alarmed or disturbed when she missed her watch and heard what had happened. She was chiefly vexed that she had slept through it all. It seemed so ridiculous that a master of the house should be safe at a distance and the mistress comfortably asleep during such an event leaving it to sister, maid and guest to bear all the terror of it. Dr Levitt's absence of mind did not interfere with the activity of his heart or with his penetration in cases where the hearts of others were concerned. He perceived that the lost turquoise was from some cause inestimable to Margaret and he spared no pains to recover it, but weeks passed on without any tidings of it. Margaret told herself that she must give up this as she had given up so much else with as much cheerfulness as she did, but she missed her ring every hour of the day. Christmas came and the expected contest took place around the rent of the corner house. Mr Rowland showed his lady the banknotes on the morning of quarter day and then immediately and secretly sent them back. Mrs Rowland had never been so sorry to see banknotes yet she would have been so angry at their being returned that her husband concealed the fact from her. Within an hour the money was in Mr Rowland's hand again with a request that he should desist from pressing favours upon those who could not but consider them as pecuniary obligation and not as justice. Mr Rowland's side turned the key to his desk upon the money and set forth to the corner house to see whether no repairs were wanted, whether there was nothing that he could do as landlord to promote the comfort and security of his excellent tenants. Christmas came and Morris found she could not leave her young ladies while the days were so very short. She would receive no wages after Christmas and she would take care that she cost them next to nothing but she could not be easy to go till brighter days, days externally brighter at least were at hand, nor till the baby was a little less tender and had shown beyond dispute that he was likely to be a stout little fellow. She could not think of Miss Margaret getting up quite in the dark to light the fire. It was a dismal time to begin such a new sort of work. Margaret privately explained to her that these little circumstances brought no discouragement to persons who undertake such labour with sufficient motive and Morris admitted this. She saw the difference between the case of a poor girl first going to service who trembles half the night at the idea of her mistress's displeasure if she should not happen to wake in time. Such poor girl, undertaking service for a maintenance and by no means from love in either party towards the other, Morris saw the difference between the morning waking to such a service and Margaret's being called from her bed by love of those whom she was going to serve through the day and by an exhilarating sense of honour and duty. Morris saw that while to the solitary dependent every accessory of cheerfulness is necessary to make her willingly leave her rest. The early sunshine through her window and the morning songs of birds it mattered little to Margaret under what circumstances she went about her business, whether in darkness or in light, in keen frost or genial warmth. She had the strength of will in whose glow all the disgust, all the meanness, all the hardship of the most sordid occupations is consumed leaving unimpaired the dignity and delight of toil. Margaret saw and fully admitted all this and yet she stayed on until the end of January. By that time her friends were not satisfied to have her remain any longer. It was necessary that she should now earn money and she had an opportunity of earning what she needed at Birmingham. The time was come when Morris must go. The family had their sorrow all to themselves that dismal evening for not a soul in Dearbrooke except Maria knew that Morris was going at all. Maria had known all along and it had been settled that Maria should occupy Morris's room after it was vacated as often as she felt nervous and lonely in her lodging. But she was not aware of the precise day when the separation of these old and dear friends was to take place. So they mourned Morris as privately as she had long grieved over their adversity. Mr. Hope meant to drive Morris to Buckley himself and to see her into the coach for Birmingham and he had borrowed Mr. Gray's gig for the purpose. He had been urged by Mr. Gray not to think of returning that night, had desired his wife and sister not to expect him and had engaged the neighbour to sleep in the house. The sisters might well look forward to a sad evening and their hearts were heavy when the gig came to the door. When they were fortifying Morris with a parting glass of wine and wrapping her up with warm things which were to come back with her master and expressing their heart's sorrow by the tenderness by which they melted the very soul of poor Morris. She could not speak, she could resist nothing. She took all they offered to comfort herself with, from having neither heart nor voice to refuse. Morris never gave way to tears but she was as solemn as if she were going to execution. The baby alone was insensible to her gravity. He laughed in her face when she took him into her arms for the last time. A seasonable laugh it was for it relieved his mother of some slight superstitious dread which was stealing upon her as she witnessed the solemnity of Morris's farewell to him. They all spoke of her return to them but no one felt that there was any comfort in so vague a hope amidst the sadness of the present certainty. As Hester and Margaret stood out on the steps to watch the gig till the last moment, a few flakes of snow were driven against their faces. They feared Morris would have a dreary journey and this was not the pleasantest thought to carry with them into the house. While Hester nursed her infant by the fire, Margaret went round the house to see what there was for her to do tonight. It moved her to find how thoughtfully everything was done. Busy as Morris had been, with a thousand little affairs and preparations, every part of the house was left in the completest order. The very blinds of the chambers were drawn down and a fire was laid in every grate in case it was wanted. The tea tray was set in the pantry and not a plate left from dinner unwashed. Margaret felt and said how badly she would supply the place of Morris's hands to say nothing of their loss of her head and heart. She sighed her thankfulness to her old friend, that she was already at liberty to sit down beside her sister with actually nothing on her hands to be done before tea time. It was always a holiday to Margaret when she could sit by at leisure as the morning and the evening dressing and undressing of the baby went on. Hester would never entrust the business to her or to anyone, but it was the next best thing to watch the pranks of the little fellow and the play between him and his mother and then to see the funds subside into drowsiness and be lost in that exquisite spectacle, the quiet sleep of an infant. When he was this evening laid in his basket and all was unusually still from there being no one but themselves in the house and the snow having by this time fallen thickly outside, Margaret said to her sister, if I remember rightly it is just the twelve months since you warned me how wretched marriage was, just a year is it not? Is it possible? said Hester, withdrawing her eyes from her infant. I wish I could have foreseen then how soon I might remind you of this. Is it possible that I said so? And of all marriage, of all love and all marriage, I remember it distinctly. You have but too much reason to remember it love, but how thankless, how wicked of me to ever say so. We all perhaps say some wretched things which dwell on other people's minds long after we have forgotten them ourselves. It is one of the acts we shall waken up to as sins, perhaps every one of us whenever we become qualified to review our lives dispassionately. As sins, no doubt, for the pain does not die with the utterance and to give pain needlessly and to give lasting pain is surely a sin. We are none of us guiltless but I am glad you said this particular thing, dreadful as it was to hear it. It has caused me a great deal of thought within the year and now it makes us both aware how much happier we are than we were then. We? Yes, all of us. I rather shrink from measuring states of fortune and of mind as they are at one time against those of another, but it is impossible to recall that warning of yours and be unaware how differently we have caused to think and speak now. I felt at the time that it was too late for us to complain of love and of marriage. The die was then cast for us all. It is much better to feel now that those complaints were the expression of passing pain long since over. I rejoice to hear you say this for yourself, Margaret, though I own I should scarcely have expected it, and yet no one is more aware than I that it is a blessing to love, a blessing still whatever may be the woe that must come with the love. It is a blessing to live for another, to feel far more deeply than the most selfish being on earth ever felt for himself. I know that it is better to have felt this disinterested attachment to another, even in the midst of storms of passion hidden in the heart, and of pangs from disappointment than to live on in the very best peace of those who have never loved. Yet, knowing this, I have been cowardly for you, Margaret, and at one time sank under my own troubles. Anyone who loved as I did should have been braver. I should have been more willing, both for you and myself, to meet the suffering which belongs to the exercise of all the highest and best part of our nature. But I was unworthy then of the benignant discipline appointed to me, and at the moment I doubt not I should have preferred if the choice had been offered to me the safety and quiet of a passionless existence to the glorious exercise which has been graciously appointed me against my will. I do try now, Margaret, to be thankful that you have had some of this exercise and discipline, but I have not faith enough. My thanks are all up in grief before I have done, grief that you have the struggle and the sorrow, without the support and the full return which has been granted to me. You need not grieve much for me. I have not only had the full return you speak of, but I have it still. It cannot be spoken or written or even indulged, but I know it exists, and therefore am I happier than I was last year. How foolish it is you continued as if thinking aloud. How perfectly childish to set our hearts on what we call happiness, on any arrangement of circumstances, either in our minds or our fortunes. So little as we know. How you and I should have dreaded this night and tomorrow if they could have been foreshown to us a little while ago. How we would have shrunk from sitting down under a cloud of sorrow which appears to have settled upon this house. Now this evening has come. The evening of Morris is going away and everything else so dreary. No servant, no money, no prospect, careful economy at home, ill will abroad, the times bad, the future all blank. We too sitting here alone with the snow falling without and our hearts aching with parting with Morris. We must come back to that principal grief. How dismal all this would have looked if we could have seen it in a fairy glass at Birmingham long ago, and yet I would not change this very evening for any we ever spent in Birmingham when we were exceedingly proud of being very happy. Nor I, this is life and to live, to live with the whole soul and mind and strength is enough. It is not often that I have the strength to feel this and the courage to say it, but tonight I have both. And in time we may be strong enough to pray that this child may truly and wholly live, may live in every capacity of his being. Whatever suffering may be the condition of such life, but it requires some courage to pray so for him. He looks so unfit for anything but ease at present. For anything but feeding and sleeping and laughing in our faces, did you ever see an infant sleep so softly? Are not those wheels passing? Yes, surely I heard wheels rolling over the snow. She was right. In five minutes more Margaret had to open the door to her brother. Hope had arrived at Blickley only just in time to drive Morris up to the door of the Birmingham coach and put her in as the guard was blowing his horn. Mr Gray's horse had gone badly and they had been full late in setting off. He had not liked the prospect of staying where he was till morning and had resolved to bid defiance to footpaths and return. So he stepped into the coffee room and read the papers while the horse was feeding and came home as quickly after as he could. As he was safe all the three were glad he had done so, and the more that, for once, Edward seemed sad. They made a bright fire and gave him tea, but their household officers did not seem to cheer him as usual. Hester asked at length whether he had heard any bad news. Only public news. The papers are full of everything that is dismal. The epidemic is spreading frightfully. It is a most serious affair. The people you meet in the streets at Blickley look as if they have had the plague raging in the town. They say the funerals have never ceased passing through the streets all this week. And really the churchyard I saw seemed full of new graves. I believe the case is little better in any town in the kingdom. And the villagers? The villagers follow, of course, with difference according to their circumstances. None will be worse than this place when once the fever appears among us. I would not say so anywhere but by our own fireside, because everything should be done to encourage the people instead of frightening them. But indeed it is difficult to imagine a place better prepared for destruction than our pretty villages just now, from the extreme poverty of most of the people and their ignorance, which renders them unfit to take any rational care of themselves. You say whenever the fever comes do you think it must certainly come? Yes, and I have had some suspicions within a day or two that it is here already. I must see Walcott tomorrow and learn what he has discovered in his practice. Mr Walcott will not Dr Levitt do as well? I must see Dr Levitt too consult about some means of cleansing and drying the worth to the houses in the village. But it is quite necessary that I should have some conversation with Walcott about the methods of treatment of this dreadful disease. If he is not glad of an opportunity of consulting with a brother in the profession he ought to be, and I have no doubt he will be, for he will very soon have as much upon him as any head and hands in the world could manage. Can I let him come to you for advice and assistance when he wants it? I must not wait for that. He is young and as we all imagine, not over-wise. And a dozen of our poor neighbors might die before he became aware of as much as I know tonight about this epidemic. No, love, my dignity must give way to the safety of our neighbors. Depend upon it, Walcott will be glad enough to hear what I have to say, if not tomorrow, by next week at the furthest. So soon, what makes you say next week? I judge partly from the rate of progress of the fever elsewhere and partly from the present state of health in Dearbrook. There are other reasons too. I have seen some birds of ill omen on the wing hitherward this evening. What can you mean? I mean fortune-tellers. Are you not aware that in seasons of plague of the epidemics of our times, as well as the plagues of former days, conjurers and fortune-tellers and quacks appear, as a sort of heralds of the disease? They are not really so, for the disease in fact precedes them, but they show themselves so immediately on its arrival. And usually before its presence is acknowledged that they often have been thought to bring it. They have early information of its existence in any place, and they come to take advantage of the first panic of its inhabitants, when there are enough who are ignorant to make the speculation a good one. I saw two parties of these people trooping hither, and we shall have heard something of their prophecies and of a fever case or two before this time tomorrow I have little doubt. It is this prospect which has made you sad, said Hester. No, my dear, not that alone. But do not let us talk about being sad. What does it matter? Yes, do let us talk about it, said Margaret. If, as I suspect, you are sad for us, it is about Morris's going away, is it not? About many things. It is impossible to be at all times unaffected by such changes as have come upon us. I cannot always forget what my profession was once to me. For honour, for occupation, and for income, I confidently reckoned on bringing you both to a home full of comfort. Never were women so cherished as I meant you should be, now it has ended in your little incomes being almost our only resource, and in your being deprived of your old friend Morris some years before her time. I can hardly endure to think of tomorrow. And do you really call this the end, asked Margaret? Do you consider our destiny fixed forever more? As far as you and I are concerned, love, said Hester to him, I could almost wish that this were the end. I feel as if it almost any change would be for the worse. I mean supposing you not to look as you do now, but as you have always been till now. Oh, Edward, I am so happy. End of section 48, part 1. Section 49 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 Martino. Section 49, Lightsome Days, Part 2. Her husband could not speak for astonishment and delight. You remember that evening in Verdon Woods, Edward? The evening before we were married? Remember it? Well, how infinitely happier are we now than then? Oh, that fear, that mistrust of myself. You reproved me for my fear and mistrust then. And I must beg leave to remind you of what you then said. It is not often that I can have the honour of preaching to you, my dear husband, as it is rather difficult to find an occasion. But now I have caught you tripping. What is there for you to be uneasy about now that can at all be compared with what I troubled myself about then? Since that time, I have caused you much misery, I know, misery which I partly foresaw I should cause you. But that is over, I trust. It is over at least for the time that we are poor and persecuted. I dare not and do not wish for anything otherwise, than as we have it flow. Persecution seems to have made us wiser and poverty happier. And how, if only Margaret were altogether as we would see her, how could we be better than we are? You are right, my dear wife. These few tender words and her husband's brightened looks sufficed. Esther had no cares. She forgot even the fever in seeing Edward look as gay as usual again, and in feeling that she was everything to that feeling, that conviction for which she had sighed in vain for long after her marriage. She had then fancied that his profession, his family, his own thoughts were as important to him as herself. She now knew that she was supreme, and this was supreme satisfaction. When Margaret sprang up to her new labours in the chilled dusk of the next morning, she flattered herself that she was the first awake. But it was not so. When she went down, busy shoveling the snow away and making a clear path from the kitchen door to the coal house, he declared it delightfully warm work. By the time he had bought coals in enough for the day and wanted more employment of the same sort, he went round to the front of the house and cleared the steps and pavement there, caring nothing for the fact that two or three neighbours gazed from their front doors and that some children stood blowing upon their fingers and stamping with their feet, enduring the cold for the sake of seeing the gentleman clearing his own steps. What would the greys say, asked Margaret, laughing, as duster in hand she looked from the open window and spoke to her brother outside. I'm sure they ought to say I've done my work well. That is just what Hester is observing within here. You are almost ready for breakfast, are you not? She is setting the table. Quite ready. What warm work this is. Really, I do not believe there is such a bit of pavement in all Dearbrook as this of ours. Come, come into breakfast. You have admired your work quite enough for this morning. The three who sat down to breakfast were as reasonable and philosophical as most people, but even they were taken by surprise with the sweetness of comforts provided by their only immediate toil. There was something in the novelty perhaps, but hope threw on the fire with remarkable energy, the coals he had himself brought in from the coal house, and ate with great relish the toast toasted by his wife's own hands. Margaret too looked round the room more than once, with a new sort of pride in there being not a particle of dust on table, chair or book. It was scarcely possible to persuade Edward that there was nothing more for him to do about the house till the next morning, that the errand boy would come in an hour and clean the shoes, and that the only assistance the master of the house could render would be to take charge of the baby for a quarter of an hour, while Hester helped her sister to make the beds. After breakfast, when Hester was dressing her infant and Margaret washing up the tea cups and sauces, the postman's knock was heard. Margaret went to the door and paid for the letter from the emergency purse, as they called a little sum of money they had put aside for unforeseen expenses. The letter was for Edward, and so brief that it must be on business. It was on business. It was from the lawyer of Mr Hope's aged grandfather, and it told that the old gentleman had at last sunk rather suddenly under his many infirmities. Mr Hope was invited to go, not to the funeral, for it must be over before he could arrive, but to see the will in which he had a large beneficial interest. The property being divided between himself and his brother, subject to legacies of one hundred pounds each of his sisters, and a few smaller bequests to the servants. This is as you always feared, said Hester, to her husband observing the expression of concern on his face, on reading the letter. Indeed, I always feared it would be so, he replied. I did what I could to prevent this act of posthumous injustice, and I am grieved that I failed, for nothing can repair it. My sisters will have their money, the same in amount, but how different in value? They will receive it as a gift from their brothers, instead of as their due from their grandfather. I am very sorry that his last act was of this character. Will you go? Must you go? No, I shall not go, at least not at present. The funeral would be over, you see, before I could get there, and I doubt not the rest of the business may be managed quietly and easily by letter. I have no inclination to travel just now, and no money to do it with, and strong reasons of another kind for staying at home. No, I shall not go. I am very glad. Now, the first duty is to write to Emily and Anne, I suppose, and to Frank? Not to Frank just yet. He knows what I meant to do, in case of my grandfather recurring to this disposition of his property. And, further than this, I must not influence Frank. He must be left entirely free to do as he thinks proper, and I shall not communicate with him till he has had ample time to decide on his course. I shall write to Emily and Anne today. I am sorry for them. So am I, what a pity it is when the aged, whom one would wish to honour after they have gone to their graves, impair one's respect by an unjust arrangement of their affairs. How easily might my grandfather have satisfied us all, and secured our due reverence at the last, by merely being just. Now, after admitting what was just, he has gone back into his prejudices, and placed us all in a painful position, from which it will be difficult to every one of us to regard his memory as we would wish. He little thought you would look upon his rich legacy in this way, said Margaret, smiling. I gave him warning that I should. It was impossible to refuse it more peremptorily than I did. That must be your satisfaction now, love. You have done everything that was right, so we will not discompose ourselves, because another has done a wrong, which you can partly repair. My dear wife, what a comfort you give, what a blessing it is, that you think and feel and will act with me, making my duty easy instead of difficult. I was going to ask, asked Margaret, whether you have no misgiving, no doubt whatever, that you are right in refusing all this money. Not the slightest doubt, Margaret. The case is not in any degree altered by my change of fortune. The facts remain that my sisters have received nothing yet from the property, while I have had my professional education out of it. That my profession does not, at present, supply us with bread, does not affect the question at all, nor can you think it does, I am sure. But hester my love, what think you of our prospect of a hundred pounds? A hundred pounds? Yes, that is the sum set down for me when the honest will was made. And that sum I shall, of course, retain. Oh, delightful! What a quantity of comfort we may get out of a hundred pounds! How rich we shall be! She is thinking already, said Margaret, what sort of a pretty cloak baby is to have for the summer. And Margaret must have something out of it, must she not love? Asked hester. We will all enjoy it, with many thanks to my poor grandfather. Surely this hundred pounds will set us on through the year. That will be very pleasant, really, observed Margaret, to be sure of bread for all the rest of the year. Oh, the value of a hundred pounds to some people. What a pity that Morris did not stay with us one other day, exclaimed hester. And yet, perhaps not so. It might have perplexed her mind about leaving us, and induced her to give up her new place. And there is nothing in a chance, hundred pounds, to justify that. It is better as it is. All things are very well as they are, so hope. As long as we think so. Now, I am going to call on Walcott. Goodbye. Stop, stop one moment. Stay and see what I have found, cried his wife, in a tone of glee. Look, feel. Tell me, is this not our boy's first tooth? It is. It certainly is. I give you joy, my little fellow. Worth all the hundreds of pounds in the world, observed Margaret, coming in her turn to see and feel the little pearly edge, whose value its owner was far from appreciating, while worried that the inquisition which was made into the mysteries into his mouth. Now, it is a pity that Morris is not here, all exclaimed. We must write to her. Perhaps we might have found it yesterday, if we had any idea it might come so soon. No, Hester was quite positive there was no tooth to be seen or felt last night. Well, we must write to Morris. You must leave me a corner, said Hope. We must all try our skill in describing a first tooth. I will consider my part as I walk. Bite my finger once more before my go, my boy. The sisters busied themselves in putting the parlour in order, for the reception of any visitors who might chance to call, though the streets were so deep in snow as to render the chance a remote one. Margaret believed that when the time should come she might set the potatoes over the parlour fire to boil, and thus without detection saved the lighting another fire. But before she had taken off her apron, while she was in the act of sweeping up the hearth, there was a loud knock, which she recognised as proceeding from the hand of a grey. The family resemblance extended to their knocks at the door. As if no snow had fallen, Mrs Grey and Sophia entered. You are surprised to see us, my dears, I have no doubt. But I could not be satisfied without knowing what Mr Hope thinks of this epidemic, this terrible fever which everyone is speaking about so frightfully. Why, what can he think? I mean, my dear, does he suppose that it will come here? Are we likely to have it? He tells us what I suppose you hear from Mr Grey that the fever seems to be spreading everywhere, and is just now very destructive at Buckley. Does not Mr Grey tell you so? No indeed, there is no learning anything from Mr Grey, but he does not like to tell. Sophia, I think we must take in a newspaper again, that we may stand a chance of knowing something. Sophia agreed. Sophia and I found that we really had no time to read the newspaper, there it lay, and nobody touched it, for Mr Grey reads the news in the office always. I told Mr Grey that it was paying so much a week, but no good to anybody, and I begged he would countermand the paper. But we must take it in again, really, to know how this fever goes on. Does Mr Hope think, my dears, as many people are saying here this morning, that it is a sort of plague? Oh, Mama, exclaimed Sophia, how can you say anything so dreadful? I have not heard my husband speak of it so, said Hester. He thinks it is a very serious affair, happening as it does in the midst of a scarcity, when the poor are already depressed and sickly. Ah, that is always the way Mr Grey tells me, after a scarcity comes the fever, he says. The poor are much to be pitted indeed, but what should those who do, who are not poor, have you heard Mr Hope say? He thinks they should help their poor neighbours to the very utmost. Oh yes, of course, but what I mean is, what precautions would be advised? We will ask him, I have not heard him speak particularly of this on the present occasion. Then he has not established any regulations in his own family? No, but I know his opinion on such cases is in general to be, that the safest way is to go on, as usual, taking rational care of health, and avoiding all unnecessary terror, this common way of living, and a particularly diligent care of those who want the good offices are the rich, are what he would recommend. I believe at this time, but when he comes in, we will ask him, you would better stay until he returns. He may bring some news. Meantime, I am sorry my baby is asleep, I should like to show you his first tooth. His first tooth indeed, he is a forward little fellow, but Hester, do you happen to have heard your husband say what sort of fumigation he would recommend, in case of such a fever as this, showing itself in the house? Indeed, I have not heard him speak of fumigations at all, have you Margaret? I should just like to know, but Mrs Jones told me of a very good one, and Mrs Howell thinks ill of it. Mrs Jones recommended me to pour some sulfuric acid upon salt, common salt, in a saucer, but Mrs Howell says there is nothing half so good as hot vinegar. Somebody has come and put up a stall, said Sophia, where he sells fumigating powders and some pills, which he says are an infallible remedy against the fever. Preventative, my dear. Well, mama, it is just the same thing. Does Mr Hope know anything of the people who have set up that stall? Hester thought she might venture to answer that question without waiting for her husband's return. She laughed as she said that medical men avoided acquaintance with quacks. Does Mr Hope think that medical men are in any particular danger? Asked Sophia bashfully, but with great anxiety. I think they must be going among so many people who are ill. If there is a whole family in the fever in a cottage at Crossley End, as Mrs Howell says there is, how very dangerous it must be to attend them. Sophia was checked by her wink from her mother, and then first remembered that she was speaking to a surgeon's wife. She tried to explain away what she had said, but there was no need. Hester calmly remarked that it was the duty of many to expose themselves at such time in an equal degree with the medical men, and that she believed that few were more secure than those who did so without selfish thoughts and ignorant panic. Sophia believed that everyone did not think so. Some of Mr Wolcott's friends had been remonstrating with him about going so much among the poor sick people just at this time, and Mr Wolcott had been consulting her as to whether his duty to his parents did not require that he should have some regard to his own safety. He had not known what to do about going to a house in turn-style lane where some people were ill. A dead silence followed this explanation. Mrs Gray broke it by asking Margaret if she might speak plainly to her. The common preface to a lecture. As usual, Margaret replied, certainly. I would only just hint, my dear, that it would be as well if you did not open the door yourself. You cannot think how strangely it looks, and some very unpleasant remarks might be made about it. It is of no consequence such a thing happening when Sophia and I come to your door. I would not have you think we regard it for ourselves in the least, than not being properly shown in by a servant. Oh, not in the least, protested Sophia. But you know it might have been the Levits. I suppose it would have been just the same if the Levits have called. It certainly would. It might have been the Levits certainly, observed Hester. But I must just explain that it was to oblige me that Margaret went to the door. Then, my dear, I hope you will point out some other way in which Margaret may oblige you, for really you have no idea how oddly it looks for young ladies to answer knocks at the door. It is not proper self-respect, proper regard to appearance. And was it to oblige you that Margaret carried a basket all through Dearbrook on Wednesday, with a small lend of a carrot peeping out from under the lid? Fee, my dears, I say fee. It grieves me to find faults with you, but really this is folly. It is really neglecting appearances too far. Mr. Hope did not return in time to see Mrs. Gray. When she could wait no longer, Hester promised to send her husband to solve Mrs. Gray's difficulties. What would she have said, exclaimed Hester, if she had seen my husband's doings of this morning? Ah, what indeed? Actually shoveling snow from his own steps. Oh, I thought you meant giving away a competence. Which act would she have thought the least self-respectful? She would have had a great deal to say on his duty to his family in both cases. But it is all out of kindness that she grieves so much over his enthusiasm, and lectures us for our disregard of appearances. If she loved us less, we should hear less of her concern. And it would be told to others behind our backs. So we will not mind it. You do not mind it, Margaret? I rather enjoy it. That is right. Now, I wish my husband would come in. He has been gone very long, and I want to hear the whole truth about this fever. End of Section 49 He was very grave. Mr. Walcott had been truly glad to see him, and it was plain, who would have applied to him for aid and cooperation some days before, if Mrs. Rowland had not interfered to prevent any consultation of the kind. The state of health of Dearbrook was bad, much worse than hope had had any suspicion of. Whole families were prostrated by the fever in the laborer's cottages, and it was creeping into the better sort of houses. Mr. Walcott had requested hope to visit some of his patients with him, and what he had seen had convinced him that the disease was of a most formidable character. And that a great mortality must be expected in Dearbrook. Walcott appeared to be doing his duty with more energy than might have been expected, and it seemed as if whatever talent he had was exercised in his profession. Hope's opinion of him was raised by what he had seen this morning. Walcott had complained that his skill and knowledge could have no fair play among a set of people so ignorant as the families of his Dearbrook patients. They put more faith in charms than in medicines or care, and were running out in the cold and damp to have their fortunes told by night. Or in the gray of the morning, if a fortune teller promised long life, all the warnings of the doctor went for nothing. Then again the people mistook the oppression, which was one of the first symptoms of the fever, fur debility, and before the doctor was sent for, or in defiance of his directions. The patient was plied with strong drinks, and his case rendered desperate from the beginning. Mr. Walcott complained that the odds were really too much against him, and that he believed himself likely to lose almost every fever patient he had. It may be imagined how welcome to him were Mr. Hope's continence, suggestions, and influence, such as the prejudices of the people had left it. Dr. Levitt's influence was a little more avail than Mr. Hope's. From this day he was as busily engaged among the stick as the medical gentlemen themselves, laying aside his books and spending all his time among his parishioners, not neglecting the rich, but especially devoting himself to the poor. He cooperated with Hope in every way, raising money to cleanse, air, and dry the most cheerless of the cottages, and to supply the indigent sick with warmth and food, but all appeared to be of little avail. The disease stole on through the village, as if it had been left to work its own way. From day to day tidings came a broad of another and another who was down in the fever. The Tucker's maid servant, Mr. Hill's shop boy, poor Mrs. Paxton, always sure to be ill when anybody else was, and all John Ringworth's five children, in a fortnight the church bell began to give token how fatal the sickness was becoming. It told till those who lived very near the church were wary of hearing it. On the afternoon of the day, when its sound had scarcely seized since sunrise, Dr. Levitt and Hope met at the door of the corner house. You are the man I wanted to meet, said Dr. Levitt. I've been inquiring for you, but your household could give me no account of you. Could you just step home with me, or come to me in the evening, will you? But stay, there is no time like the present. After all, so if you will allow me, I will walk in with you now, and if you are going to dinner, I will make one. I have nobody to sit down with, me at home at present, you know, or perhaps you do not know. Indeed, I was not aware of the absence of your family, said Hope, leading the way into the parlor where Margaret at the moment was laying the cloth. You must have wondered that you had seen nothing of my wife all this week. If you did not know where she was, I thought it was best. All things considered, to send them every one away. I hope we have done right. I find I am more free for the discharge of my own duty, now that I am unspiled their fears for me, and untroubled by my own anxiety for them. I have sent them all abroad, and shall go for them, when this epidemic has run its course, and not till then. I little thought what satisfaction I could feel in walking about my own house, to see how deserted it looks. I never hear that bell, but I rejoice that all that belonged to me are so far off. I wanted to ask you about that bell, said Mr. Hope. My question may seem to you to save her strongly of dissent, but I must inquire whether it is absolutely necessary for bad news to be announced, to all Dearbrook every day. And almost all day long, however far, we may be from objecting to hear it in ordinary times. Should not our first consideration now be for the living? It is not the case, altered by the number of deaths that takes place at a season like this. I am quite of your opinion, Mr. Hope, and I have talked with Owen, and many others about that matter, within this week. I have proposed a dispense for the present with the custom which I own myself to be attached to in ordinary times, but which I now see may be pernicious, but it cannot be done. We must yield the point. I will not engage to cure any sick, or to keep any well, who live within sound of that bell. I am not surprised to hear you say so, but this practice has so become a part of people's religion, that it seems as if worse effects would follow from discontinuing it, then from pursuing the usual course. Owen says there is scarcely a person in Dearbrook who would not talk of a heathen death burial if the bell were silenced, and if once the people's repose in their religion is shaken, I really know not what will become of them. I agree with you there, their religious feelings must be left untouched, or all is over, but I am sorry that this particular observance is implicated with them so completely as you say, it will be well if it does not soon become impossibility to toll the bell for all who die. It would be well too, said Dr. Leavitt, if this were the only superstition with people entertained. They are more terrified with some others than with this bell. I am afraid they are more depressed by their superstitions than sustained by their religion. Have you observed, Hope, how many of them stand looking at the sky every night? Yes, and we hear, wherever we go, of fiery swords and dreadful angels seen in the clouds, and the old prophecy have all come up again, at least all of them that are dismal, as for the death watches, they are out of number, and there is never a fire lighted but a coffin flies out. And this story of a ghost of a coffin, with four ghosts to bear it, and goes up and down in the village all night long, said Hester. I really do not wonder that it shakes the nerves of the sick to hear of it. They say that no one can stop those bearers, or get any answer from them. But on they glide, let what will be in their way. Come tell me, said Dr. Leavitt. Have not you yourself looked out for that sight? Hester acknowledged that she had seen a real, substantial coffin carried by human bearers passed down the middle of the street at an hour past midnight, the removal of a body from a house where it had died. She supposed to another once it was to be buried. This coffin and the ghostly one she took to be one and the same. Dr. Leavitt mentioned instances of superstition, which could scarcely have been believed by him. If related by another, do you know the plots? He inquired of hope. Have you seen the poor woman that lies ill there with her child? Yes, what a state of destitution they are in. At the very time that that woman and her child are lying on shavings, begged from the carpenter's yard, her mother finds means to fee the fortune teller in the lane for reading a dream. The fortune teller dooms the child and speaks stoutfully of the mother. I could not conceive the reason why no one of the family would do anything for the boy. I used what authority I could while I was there, but I fear he has been left to his fate since. The neighbors will not enter the house. What neighbors said, Margaret? You have never so much as asked me. You are our mainstay at home, Margaret. I could ask no more of you than you do here. Margaret was now putting the dinner on the table. It consisted of a bowl of potatoes, salt, the loaf and butter, and a pitcher of water. Dr. Leavitt said grace, and they sat down without one word of apology from hosts or hostess. Though Dr. Leavitt had not been prepared for an evidence like this of the state of affairs in the family, he had known enough of their adversity to understand the case now at a glance. No one ate more heartily than he, and the conversation went on, as if a sumptuous feast had been spread before the party. I owned myself disappointed, said Hope, in finding among our neighbors so little disposition to help each other. I hardly understand it, trusting as I have ever done in the generosity of the poor, and having always before seen my faith justified, the apathy of some and the selfish terrors of others are worse to witness than the disease itself. How can you wonder, said Dr. Leavitt, when they have such an example before their eyes in certain of their neighbors, to whom they are accustomed to look up? Sir William Hunter and his lady are enough to paralyze the morals of the whole parish at a time like this. Do not you know the plan they go upon? They keep their outer gates locked, lest anyone from the village should set foot within their grounds. Every article left at the lodge for the use of the family is fumigated before it is admitted into the house, and it is generally understood that neither the gentleman nor the lady will leave the estate in any emergency, whatever. Till the disease has entirely passed away, our poor are not to have the solace of their presence, even in church, during this time of peril, when the face of the prosperous is like light in a dark place. Sir William makes it no secret that they would have left home altogether, if they could have hoped to be safer anywhere else, if they could have gone anywhere without danger of meeting the fever. If the fact had not been, said Hester, as Mrs. Howell states it, that the epidemic prevails partially everywhere. There is a case where Lady Hunter's example immediately operates, observed Dr. Levitt. If Lady Hunter had not forgotten herself in her duty, Mrs. Howell would have given the benefit of her good offices to some who she might have served, for she is really a kindhearted woman, but she is struck with a panic because Lady Hunter is, and one cannot get a word with her or Miss Miskin. I saw that her shutters were nearly closed, observed Margaret. I suppose she had lost some relation. No, she is only trying to shut out the fever. She and Miss Miskin are afraid of the milkman, and each tries to put upon the other the peril of serving a customer. This panic will destroy us if it spreads. The sisters looked at each other, and in one glance exchanged agreement that the time was fully come for them to act abroad, let what would become of their own comforts. I ought to add, however, said Dr. Levitt, that Sir William Hunter has supplied my poor's purse with money very liberally. I spend his money as freely as my own at a time like this, but I tell him that one hour of his presence among us would do more good than all the gold he can send. His answer comes in the shape of a handsome draft on his banker, smelling strongly of aromatic vinegar. They fumigate, even their blotting paper. It seems to me I did hope my last letter would have brought him the call. Our friends are very ready with their money, said I hope. I should have begged of you before this, but that Mr. Gray has been liberal in that way. He concludes it to be impossible that he should look himself into the wants of the village, but he permits me to use his purse pretty freely. Is there anything that you can suggest that can be done by me, Dr. Levitt? Is there any case unknown to me where I can be of service? Or I, said Margaret, my brother and sister will spare me and put up with some hardship at home. I know if you can point out any place where I can be more useful. To be sure I can, much as I like, to come to your house, to witness and feel the thorough comfort which I always find in it. I own, I shall carry little to see everything that sixes and sevens here for a few weeks. If you will give me your time and talents for such services, as we gentlemen cannot perform, and as we cannot at present hire persons to undertake. You see, I take you at your word, my dear young lady. If you had not offered, I should not have asked you as you have. I snatch at the good you hold out. I mean to preach a very plain sermon next Sunday on the duties of neighbors in a season of distress like this, and I shall do it with the better hope if I have, meanwhile, a fellow laborer of your sex, no less valuable in her way than my friend hope in his. I shall come and hear your sermon, said Hester, if Margaret will take charge of my boy for the hour. I want to see clearly what is my duty at a time when claims conflict as they do now. There was at present no time for the conscientious and charitable to lose in daylight loiterings over the table, or chat by the fireside in a few minutes the table was cleared, and Margaret ready to proceed with Dr. Levitt to the Platt's cottage. As soon as Margaret saw what was the real state of affairs in the cottage, she sent away Dr. Levitt, who could be of no use till some degree of decency was instituted in the miserable abode. What to set about first was Margaret's difficulty. There was no one to help her but Mrs. Platt's mother, who was sitting down to wait the result of the fortune teller's predictions. Her daughter lay moaning on a bedstead, spread with shavings only, and she had no covering, whatever but a blanket worn into a large hole in the middle. The poor woman's long hair, unconfined by any cap, strayed about, her bare and emaciated shoulders, and her shrunken bands, picked at the blanket incessantly, everybody appearing to her deceased vision, covered with black spots, never before, had so squalled an object met Margaret's eyes. The husband sat by the empty grave, stooping and shrinking and looking at the floor with an idiotic expression of continence, as appeared through the handkerchief, which was tied over his head. He was just sinking into the fever. His boy lay on a heap of rags in the corner. His head also tied up, but the handkerchief stiffed with the black hood, which was still oozing from his nose, ears, and mouth. It was inconceivable to Margaret that her brother with Mr. Gray's money in his pocket could have left the family in his state. He had not. There were cinders in the earth which showed that there had been a fire, and the old woman acknowledged that a pair of sheets and a rug had been pawned to the fortune teller in the lane since the morning. There had been food, but nobody had any appetite for herself, and she had eaten it up. The fortune teller had charmed the pail of fresh water that stood under the bed, and had promised a new spell in the morning. In a case of such extremity, Margaret had no fears, she sat forth alone for the fortune tellers, not far off, and redeemed the sheets and blanket, which were quite clean. And she went. She was sorry. She had dismissed Dr. Levitt so soon, as a magistrate. He could have immediately compelled the restoration of the bedding. The use of his name, however, answered the purpose, and the conjurer even offered to carry the articles for her to Platt's house. She so earnestly desired to keep him and her charge apart, that she preferred loading herself with the package. Then the shavings were found to be in such a state that every shred of them must be removed before the sick man could be allowed to lie down. No time was to be lost. In the face of the old woman's protest stations that her daughter should not stir, Margaret spread the bedding on the floor, wrapped the sick woman in a sheet, and laid her upon it. Finding the poor creature so light from emancipation, she was as easy to lift as a child. The only thing that the old woman would consent to do was to go with a pencil note to Mr. Gray and bring back the clean, dry straw which would be given her in his yard. She went in hopes of receiving something else with the straw, and while she was gone, Margaret was quite alone with the sick family. Struggling to surmount her disgust at the task, she resolved to employ the inner vall and removing the shavings. The pail containing the charmed water was the only thing in the cottage which would hold them, and she made bold to empty it in the dish, clothes at hand. Platt was capable of watching all she did, and she made a frightful gesture of rage at her as she re-entered. She saw in the shadow of the handkerchief his quivering lips move in the act of speaking, and her ear caught the words of an oath. Her situation now was far from pleasant, but it was still a relief that no one was, by to witness, what she saw and was doing. She conveyed, pailful after pailful, of the noisome shavings to the dung hill at the back of the cottage, wondering the while that the inhabitants of the dwelling were not all dead of the fever long ago. She almost gave over her task when a huge toad crawled upon her foot from its resting place. Among the shavings she shrunk from it, and was glad to see it make for the door of its own accord. Platt again growled, and clenched his fist at her. He probably thought that she had again broken a charm for which he had paid money. She spoke kindly and cheerfully again and again, but he was either deaf or too ill to understand, to relieve the sense of drariness. She went to work again. She thoroughly cleansed the pail, and filled it afresh from the brook, looking anxiously down, the lane for the approach of some human creature, and then applied herself to rubbing the bedstead as dry and clean as she could, with an apron of the old woman's. In due time her messenger returned, and with her been, carrying a truss of straw, his face was the face of a friend. We must have some warm water, then, to clean these poor creatures, and there seems to be nothing to make a fire with. And it would take a long time, miss, to get the coals and heat the water, and the poor soul lying there all the time could not I bring you a pail of hot water from the bonnet so blue quicker than that? Do, and soap and towels from home. Then was gone from the pail, during the whole time of spreading the straw on the bedstead, the old woman remonstrated against anything being done to her daughter, beyond laying her where she was before, and giving her a little warm spirits. But when she discovered that the charmed water had been thrown out into the ditch, all to her seemed over. Her last hope was gone, and she sat down in a sulky silence, eyeing Margaret's proceedings without any offer to help. When the warm water arrived and the sick woman seemed to like the sponging and drying of her fevered limbs, the mother began to relent, and at last approached to give her assistance, holding her poor daughter in her arms while Margaret spread the blanket and sheet on the straw, and then lifting the patient into the now clean bed. She was still unwilling to waste any time and trouble on the child in the corner, but Margaret was prempatory. She saw that he was dying. But not the less for this, must he be made as comfortable as circumstances would permit. In half an hour, he too was laid on his bed of clean straw, and the filthy rags with which he had been surrounded were deposited out of doors, till someone who would wash them could come for them by a promise of fire and food, Margaret bribed the old woman to let things remain as they were while she went for her brother, whose skill and care she hoped might now have some chance of saving his patience. She recommended that Platt himself should not attempt to sit up any longer and engage to return in half an hour. She paused on the threshold a minute to see how far Platt was able to walk, so great seemed to be difficulty with which he raised himself from his chair. With the old woman's assistance, once he stumbled and would have fallen, if Margaret had not sprung to his side, on recovering himself, he wrenched his arm from her and pushed her backwards with more force than she had supposed he possessed. There was a half smile on the old woman's face as he did this, which made Margaret sure, but she was more troubled by a look from the man which he caught from beneath the handkerchief that bound his head, a look which she could not fancy she had met before with the same feeling of uneasiness. When she had seen him safely seated on the bedside, she hastened away for her brother. They lost no more time in returning then just to step to Widow's rise. To ask whether she would sit up with this miserable family this night, the widow would have done anything else in the world for Mr. Hope, and she did not positively refuse to do this. But the fear of her neighbors had so infected her, and her terror of a sick room was so extreme, that it was evident her presence there would do more harm than good. She was glad to compound for a less hazardous service, and agreed to wash for the sick. With all diligence, if she was not required to enter the houses, but might fetch the linen from tubs of water placed outside the doors, after seeing on plenty of water to heat, she now followed Hope and Margaret to the cottage in the lane. It was nearly dark, and they walked rapidly, Margaret describing as they went what she had done, and what she thought remained to be done. To give Mrs. Platt a chance of recovery. What now? Why do you start so? cried Hope as she stopped short in the middle of a sentence. Margaret even stood still for one moment. Hope looked away as she was looking, and saw in the little twilight that remained the figure of someone who had been walking on the opposite side of the road, but whose walk was now quickened to a run. It is, it is he, said Hope. As Philip disappeared from the darkness, answering to what he knew must be in Margaret's thoughts, he continued, he knows the state the village is in, the danger that we are all in, and he cannot say away. We? All? When I say we, I mean you particularly. If he thinks so, murmured Margaret and stopped for breath. I think so, but it does not follow that there is any change. He has always loved you. Margaret, do not deceive yourself. Do not afflict yourself with expectations. Do not speak to me, brother. I cannot bear a word from you about him. Hope sighed deeply, but he could not remonstrate. He knew that Margaret had only too much reason for saying this. They walked on in entire silence to the lane. A fire was now kindled, and a light dimly burned in Platt's cottage, as Margaret stood by the bedside, watching her brother's examination of his patient, and anxious to understand rightly the directions he was giving. The poor woman half raised her head from her pillow, and fixed her dull eyes on Margaret's face, saying as if thinking aloud, the lady has heard some good news, sure. She looks cheerful like the mother herself turned round to stare, and for the first time dropped a curtsy. I hope we shall see you, look cheerful too, one day soon, if we nurse you well, said Margaret. Then miss, don't let them move me, to take the blankets away, again. You shall not be moved unless you wish it. I am going to stay with you tonight. Her brother did not oppose this, for he did not know of the unpleasant clances and mutterings with which Platt rewarded all Margaret's good offices. Hope believed he should himself be out all night among his patients. He would come early in the morning, and now fairly warned Margaret that it was very possible that the child might die in the course of the night. She was not deterred by this, nor by her dread of the sick man. She had gained a new strength of soul, and this night she feared nothing. During the long hours there was much to do, three sufferers at once requiring her cares, and amissed all that she did. She was sustained by the thought that she had seen Philip, and that he was near. The abyss of nothingness was past, and she now trod the ground of certainty of his existence, and of his remembrance. When her brother entered, letting in the first gray of the morning, as he opened the cottage door, he found her almost untired, almost gay. Platt was worse, his wife, much the same. And the child still living, the old woman's heart was so far touched with the unwanted comfort of the past night, and with her, having been allowed, and even encouraged to take her rest, that she now offered her bundle of clothes for the lady to lie down upon. And when that favor was declined, readily promised not to part with any article to the fortune teller, till she should see some of Mr. Hope's family again. Hope thought Mrs. Platt might possibly get through, and this was all that was said on the way home. Margaret lay down to rest, to sweet sleep, for a couple of hours, and when she appeared below, her brother and sister had half done breakfast, and Mr. Gray and his twin daughters were with them. Mr. Gray came to say that he and all his family were to leave Dearbrook in two hours, where they should settle for the present. They had not yet made up their minds. The first object was to get away. The epidemic being now really too frightful to be encountered any longer, they should proceed immediately to Brighton, and there determine whether to go to the continent or seek some healthy place near home, to stay in, till Dearbrook should again be habitable. They were extremely anxious to carry Hester, Margaret, and the baby with them. They knew Mr. Hope could not desert his posts, but they thought he would feel as Dr. Levitt did, far happier to know that his family were out of danger than to have them with him. Hester had firmly refused to go. From the first mention of the plan, and now Margaret was equally decided in expressing her determination to stay, Mr. Gray urged the extreme danger. Fanny and Mary hung up on her, and implored her to go, and to carry the baby with her. They should so like to have the baby with them for a great many weeks, and they would take care of him and play with him all day long. Their father once more interposed for the child's sake. Hester might go to Brighton, there wean her infant, and return to her husband, so that the little helpless creature might at least be safe. Mr. Gray would not conceal that he considered this a positive duty, that the parents would have much to answer for. If anything should happen to the boy at home, the parents' hearts swelled. They looked at each other, and felt that this was not a moment in which to perplex themselves with calculations of incalculable things, with comparisons of the dangers, which threatened their infant abroad and at home. This was the decision for their hearts to make. Their hearts decided that their child's right place was in his parents' arms, and that their best hope now, as at all other times, was to live and die together. Hester had heard from her husband of the apparition of the preceding evening, and she therefore knew that there was less of enthusiasm, as Mr. Gray called what some others would have named virtue. In Margaret's determination to stay, then might appear, if Philip was here, how vain must be all attempts to remove her. Mr. Gray might as well set about persuading the old church tower to go with him, and so he found. Oh, cousin Margaret said Mary in a whisper with a face of much sorrow. Mama will not ask Miss Young to go with us, if she should be ill while we are gone, if she should die. Nonsense, Mary cried fanny, partly overhearing, and partly discussing what her sister had said. You know Mama says it's not convenient, and Miss Young is not like my cousins, as Mama says. A member of a family, with people depending upon her, it is quite a different case, Mary, as you must know very well. Only think, cousin Margaret, what an odd thing it will be, to be so many weeks without saying any lessons, how we shall enjoy ourselves. But if Miss Young should be ill and die, persisted Mary. Who, why should she be ill and die? More than Dr. Levitt, and Ben, and her cook, and my cousins, and all that are going to stay behind. Margaret, I do wish cousin Hester would let us carry the baby with us. We shall have no lessons to do, you know. And we could play with him all day long. Yes, I wish she might go, said Mary. But Margaret, do you not think, if you spoke a word to Papa and Mama, they would let me stay with Miss Young? I know she would make room for me, for she did for Phoebe, when Phoebe nursed her, and I should like to stay and help her, and read to her, even if she should not be ill. I think Papa and Mama might let me stay, if you asked them. I do not think they would, Mary, and I had rather not asked them. But I promise you, that we will all take the best care we can of Maria. We will try to help and amuse her, as well as you could wish. Come, Mary, we must go, cried Fanny. There is Papa giving Mr. Hope some money for the poor. People always go away quick after giving money. Goodbye, cousin Margaret. We shall bring you some shells or something. I daresay, when we come back, now let me kiss the baby once more. I can't think why you won't let him go with us. We should like so to have him. So do we, said Hester, laughing. As the door closed behind the grays, the three looked, in each other's faces. That glance assured each other, that they had done right, and that glance was a mutual promise of cheerful fidelity through whatever might be impending. There was no sadness in the tone of their conversation, and when, within two hours, the grays went by, driven slowly, because there was a funeral train on each side of the way. There was full, as much happiness in the faces, that smiled a farewell from the windows, as in the gestures of the young people, who started up in the carriage to kiss their hands, and who were being born away from the abode of danger and death, to spend several weeks without doing any lessons. Often during this day was the voice of mirth, even heard in this dwelling. It was not like the mirth of the well-known company of the prisoners in the First French Revolution, men who knew that they should leave their prison only to lose their heads, and who, once mutually acknowledging this, agreed vainly and the pucillionimously, to banish from that hour all sad, all grave thoughts, and laugh till they died. It is not this mirth of despair, nor yet that of carelessness, nor yet that of defiance, nor were there the spirits of the Patriot in the hour of struggle, nor of the Euro in the crisis of danger, in a prairie like theirs. There is nothing imposing to the imagination, or flattering to the pride, or immediately appealing to the energies of the soul. There were no resources for them in emotions of valor or patriotism. Theirs was the gaiety of simple faith and innocence. They had acted from pure inclination from affection, unconscious of pride, of difficulty, of merit, and they were satisfied and gay as the innocent ought to be, enjoying what there was to enjoy, and questioning and fearing nothing beyond. From a distant point of time or place such a state of spirits in the midst of a pestilence may appear unnatural and wrong, but experience proves that it is neither. Whatever observers may think, it is natural, and it is right that mind strong enough to be settled. Either in a good or evil frame, should preserve their usual character, admiss any changes of circumstance. To those involved in new events, they appear less strange than in prospect or in review. Habitual thoughts are present, familiarizing wonderful incidents, and the fears of the selfish, the repose of the religious, and speculations of the thoughtful, and the gaiety of the innocent pervade the life of each. Let what will be happening, yet to the prevailing mood the circumstances of the time will interpose on occasional check. This very evening, when Margaret was absent at the cottage in the lane, and hope wearied with his toils among the sick all the night, and all this day was apparently sleeping for an hour on the sofa, Hester's heart grew heavy as she lulled her infant to rest by the fire, and she thought on what was passing in the houses of her neighbors. Death seemed to close around the little being. She held in her arms as she gazed in his face, watching the slumber ceiling on. She murmured over him, Oh my child, my child, if I should lose you, what should I do? Hester, my love, said her husband, in a tone of tender remonstrance, What do you mean? I did not think you would hear me, love, but I thank you. What did I mean? Not exactly what I said. For God knows I would strive to part willingly with whatever He might see fit to take away. But, oh Edward, what a struggle it would be. And how near it comes to us. How many mothers are now parting from their children? God's will be done, cried hope, starting up and standing over this babe. Are you sure, Edward, may we feel quite certain that we have done rightly by our boy in keeping him here? I am satisfied, my love, then I am prepared. How still he is now. How like death it looks. What, that warm, breathing sleep? No more like death than his laugh is like sin. And hope looked about him for pencil and paper, and hastily sketched his boy in all the beauty of her pose. Before he went forth again among the stick and wretched, it was very like, and Hester placed it before her as she piled her needle all that long solitary evening. End of chapter 41. Sunday, as she wished, to hear Dr. Levitt's promised plain sermon on the duties of the times. Margaret gladly stayed at home with the baby, thankful for the relief from the sight of sickness, and for the quiet of solitude while the infant slept. Edward was busy among those who wanted his good offices, as he was now almost without intermission. Hester had to go alone. Everything abroad looked very strange, quite unlike the common Sunday aspect of the place. The streets were empty, except that a party of mourners were returning from a funeral. Either people were already in church, or nobody was going. She quickened her pace in the fear that she might be late, though the bell seemed to assure her that she was not. Widow Rye's little garden plot was all covered with linen put out to dry, and Mrs. Rye may be seen through the window at the wash tub. The want of fresh linen was so pressing that the sick must not be kept waiting, though it was Sunday. Miss Nair's and Miss Flint were in curlpapers plying their needles. They had been up all night, and were now putting the last stitches to a suit of family mourning, which was to enable the bereaved to attend afternoon church. Miss Nair's looked quite haggard as well she might, having scarcely left her seat for the last fortnight, except to take orders for mourning, and to snatch a scanty portion of rest. She had endeavored to procure an additional workwoman or two from among her neighbours, and then from Blickley. But her neighbours were busy with their domestic troubles, and the Blickley people wanted more mourning than their hands there could supply. So Miss Nair's and Miss Flint had been compelled to work night and day, till they both looked as if they had the sickness, and were justified in saying that no money could pay them for what they were undergoing. They began earnestly to wish what they had till now deprecated, that Dr Levitt might succeed in inducing some of his flock to forego the practice of wearing mourning. But of this there was little prospect. The people were as determined upon wearing black as upon having the bell tolled for the dead, and Miss Nair's heart sank at the prospect before her. If the epidemic should continue, and she should be able to get no help. Almost every second house in the place was shut up. The blank windows of the cottages, where plants or smiling faces were usually to be seen on a Sunday morning, looked dreary. The inhabitants of many of the better dwellings were absent. There were no voices of children about the little courts, no groups of boys under the churchyard wall. Of those who had frequented this spot, several were under the sod. Some were laid low in fever within the houses, and others were with their parents forming a larger congregation around the fortune teller's tents in the lanes than Dr Levitt could assemble in the church. Hester heard the strokes of the hammer and the saw as she passed the closed shop of the carpenter, who was also the undertaker. She knew that people were making coffins by candlelight within. Happening to look around after she had passed, she saw a woman come out, one in countenance, and carrying under her cloak something which, a puff of wind, showed to be an infant's coffin, a sight from which every young mother avert her eyes. As Hester approached a cottage whose thatch had not been weeded for long, she was startled by a howl and a whine from within. And a dog, emaciated to the laugh degree, sprang upon the sill of an open window. A neighbour who perceived her shrink back and hesitate to pass assured her that she need not be afraid of the dog. The poor animal would not leave the place, whose inmates were all dead of the fever. The window was left open for the dog's escape, but he never came out, though he looked famished. Some persons had thrown food in at first, but now no one had time or thought to spare for dogs. Mr. Wolcott issued from a house near the church as Hester passed, and he stopped her. He was roused or frightened out of his usual simplicity of manner, and observed with an air of deep anxiety, that he trusted Mr. Hope had better success with his patients than he could boast of. The disease was most terrific, and the saving of a life was a chance now seemingly too rare to be reckoned on. It really required more strength than most men had to stand by their duty at such a time, when they could do little more than see their patients die. Hester thought him so much moved, that at this moment he was hardly fit for business. She said, We all have need of all our strength. I do not know whether worship gives it to you as it does to me. Will it not be an hour or even half an hour well spent if you go there with me? You will say you are wanted elsewhere, but will you not be stronger and calmer for the comfort you may find there? I should like it. I have always been in the habit of going to church. It would do me good, I know. But Mrs. Hope, how is this? I thought you had been a dissenter. I always said so. I have been very wrong, very ill-natured. I am a dissenter, said Hester, smiling, but you are not, and therefore I may urge you to go to church. As for the rest of the mystery, I will explain it when we have more time. Meanwhile, I hope you do not suppose that dissenters do not worship, and need and love worship as other people do. Mr. Wolcott replied by timidly offering his arm, which Hester accepted, and they entered the church together. The Rowlands were already in their pew. There was a general commotion among the children when they saw Mrs. Hope and Mr. Wolcott walking up the aisle arm in arm. Matilda called her mother's attention to the remarkable fact, and the little heads all whispered together. The church looked really almost empty. There were no hunters with their train of servants. There were no Levits. The Miss Andersons had not entered Dearbrook for weeks, and Maria Young sat alone in the large double pew commonly occupied by her scholars. There was a sprinkling of pour, but Hester observed that everyone in the church was in mourning but Maria and herself. It looked sadly chill and dreary. The sights and sounds she had met, and the aspect of the place she was in, disposed her to welcome every thought of comfort that the voice of the preacher could convey. There were others to whom consolation appeared even more necessary than to herself. Philip Enderby had certainly seen her and was distressed at it. He could not have expected to meet her there, and his composure was obvious. He looked thin and grave, not to say subdued. Hester was surprised to find how she relented towards him. The moment she saw he was not gay and careless, and how her feelings grew softer and softer under the religious emotions of the hour. She was so near forgiving him that she was very glad Margaret was not by her side. If she could forgive, how would it be with Margaret? The next most melancholy person present, perhaps, was Mr Walcott. He knew that the whole family of the Rowlands remained in Deerbrook, from Mrs Rowland's ostentation of confidence in his skill. He knew that Mr Rowland would have removed his family when the graze departed. But that the lady had refused to go, and how he felt how groundless was her confidence. Not that he had pretended to more professional merit than he had believed himself to possess, but that, amidst this disease, he was like a willow twig in the stream. He became so impressed with his responsibilities now, in the presence of the small and sad-faced congregation, that he could not refrain from whispering to Hester that he could never be thankful enough that Mr Hope had not left Deerbrook long ago, and that he hoped they should be friends henceforth, that Mr Hope would take his proper place again, and forgive and forget all that had passed. He thought he might trust Mr Hope not to desert him and Deerbrook now, Hester smiled gently, but made no reply, and did not appear to notice the Prophet hand. It was no time or place to ratify a compact her husband in his absence. All this time Mr Warcott's countenance and manner were sufficiently subdued, but his agitation increased when the solemn voice of Dr Levitt uttered the prayer. Have pity upon us miserable sinners who are now visited with great sickness and mortality. Here the voice of weeping became so audible from the lower part of the church that the preacher stopped for a moment to give other people, and possibly himself, time to recover composure. Then he went on, that like as thou didst then accept of an atonement, and didst command via destroying angel to cease from punishing, so may it now please thee to withdraw us from this plague and grievous sickness through Jesus Christ our Lord. Everybody in the church uttered Amen. Except Mr Warcott's. He was struggling with his sobs, unexpected and excessive as were the tokens of his grief, Hester could not but respect it. It was so much better than gross selfishness, carelessness, that she could pity and almost honour it. She felt that Mr Warcott was as far superior to the quacks who were making a market of the credulity of the suffering people. As her husband with his professional decision, his manly composure, and his forgetfulness of the injuries of his foes, in their hour of suffering, was above Mr Warcott. The poor young man drank in, as if they were direct from heaven, the suggestions contained in the preacher's plain sermon on the duties of the time. Plain it was indeed, familiarly practical to an unexampled degree, so that most of his hearers quitted the church with a far clearer notion of their business as nurses and neighbours than they ever had before. The effect was visible as they left their seats in the brightening of their countenances and the increased activity of their stepper as they walked. There go, said Hester kindly to her companion, many must be wanting you, but you have lost no time by coming here. No indeed, but Mr Hope, rely upon him, he will do his duty, go and do yours. God bless you, cried Warcott, squeezing her hand affectionately. Mrs Rowland saw this as she always saw everything. She beckoned to Mr Warcott with her most engaging smile, and whispered him with an air of the most intimate confidence, till she saw that her presence was wanted elsewhere. Then she let him go. Mr Rowland, followed by Philip, slipped out of his pew as Hester passed, and walked down the aisle with her. He was glad to see her there. He hoped it was a proof that all her household were well in this sickly time. Philip bent forward to hear the answer. Mr Rowland went on to say how still and dull the village was. The shutters up or the blinds down at all the grey's windows looked quite sad, and he never saw any of his friends from the corner house in the shrubbery now. They had too many painful duties, he feared, to allow of their permitting themselves such pleasures. But his friends must take care not to over strain their powers. They and he must be very thankful that their respective households were thus far unvisited by the disease, and they should all, in his opinion, favour their health by the indulgence of a little rational cheerfulness. Hester smiled, aware that never had their household been more cheerful than now. Whether it was that Hester's smile was irresistible, or that other influences were combined with it, it had an extraordinary effect upon Philip. He started forward in front of her, and offered his hand, saying so as to be heard by her alone, will you not? I have no quarrel with you. And you can suppose, she replied, in a tone more of compassion than of anger, that I have none with you? How strangely you must forget, she added, as he precipitately withdrew his offered hand and turned from her. Forget, I forget, he murmured, turning his face of woe to water for one instant. How little you know me. How little we all know each other, said Hester, for the moment careless what construction might be put upon her words. Even in this place, said Dr. Levitt, who had now joined them, had heard these last words, even in this place, where all hearts should be open and all resentments forgotten. Are there any here who refuse to shake hands at such a time as this? It is not for myself, said Hester, distressed, but how can I? It is true, she cannot. Do not blame her, Dr. Levitt, said Philip. And he was gone. It was this meeting which had cut short Mrs. Rowland's whispers, with Mr. Walcott, and brought her down the aisle in all her stateliness, with her train of children behind her. When Hester went home, she thought it right to tell Margaret exactly what had happened. I knew it, was all Margaret said, but her heightened colour during the day told what unspeakable things were in her heart. Hester was occupied with speculations as to what might have been the event if Margaret had been to church, instead of herself. Her husband would only shake his head and look hopeless, but she still thought all might have come right, under the influences of the hour. Whether it were to be wished that Philip and Margaret should understand each other again was another question. Yesterday, Hester would have earnestly desired that Margaret should never see him to be again. Today she did not know what to wish. She and Margaret came silently to the same conclusion. There is nothing for it but waiting. If he had heard this, hope would have shaken his head again. End of section 51