come to that yet. Still I’ll go and see the old gentleman. I’m a bit of a favorite of his, and I doubt I can turn him round.”
“Pray, Edward, don’t go,” said Maggie. “Frank and I are content to wait; and I’m sure we would rather not have any one speak to Mr. Buxton, upon a subject which evidently gives him so much pain; please, Edward, don’t!”
“Well, well. Only I must go about this property of his. Besides, I don’t mean to get into disgrace; so I shan’t seem to know anything about it, if it would make him angry. I want to keep on good terms, because of the agency. So, perhaps, I shall shake my head, and think it great presumption in you, Maggie, to have thought of becoming his daughter-inlaw. If I can do you no good, I may as well do myself some.”
“I hope you won’t mention me at all,” she replied.
One comfort (and almost the only one arising from Edward’s visit) was, that she could now often be spared to go up to the thorn-tree, and calm down her anxiety, and bring all discords into peace, under the sweet influences of nature. Mrs. Buxton had tried to teach her the force of the lovely truth, that the “melodies of the everlasting chime” may abide in the hearts of those who ply their daily task in towns, and crowded populous places; and that solitude is not needed by the faithful for them to feel the immediate presence of God; nor utter stillness of human sound necessary, before they can hear the music of His angels’ footsteps; but, as yet, her soul was a young disciple; and she felt it easier to speak to Him, and come to Him for help, sitting lonely, with wild moors swelling and darkening around her, and not a creature in sight but the white specks of distant sheep, and the birds that shun the haunts of men, floating in the still mid-air.
She sometimes longed to go to Mr. Buxton and tell him how much she could sympathize with him, if his dislike to her engagement arose from thinking her unworthy of his son. Frank’s character seemed to her grand in its promise. With vehement impulses and natural gifts, craving worthy employment, his will sat supreme over all, like a young emperor calmly seated on his throne, whose fiery generals and wise counsellors stand alike ready to obey him. But if marriage were to be made by due measurement and balance of character, and if others, with their scales, were to be the judges, what would become of all the beautiful services rendered by the loyalty of true love? Where would be the raising up of the weak by the strong? or the patient endurance? or the gracious trust of her:
“Whose faith is fixt and cannot move;
She darkly feels him great and wise,
She dwells on him with faithful eyes,
‘I cannot understand: I love.’”
Edward’s manners and conduct caused her more real anxiety than anything else. Indeed, no other thoughtfulness could be called anxiety compared to this. His faults, she could not but perceive, were strengthening with his strength, and growing with his growth. She could not help wondering whence he obtained the money to pay for his dress, which she thought was of a very expensive kind. She heard him also incidentally allude to “runs up to town,” of which, at the time, neither she nor her mother had been made aware. He seemed confused when she questioned him about these, although he tried to laugh it off; and asked her how she, a country girl, cooped up among one set of people, could have any idea of the life it was necessary for a man to lead who “had any hope of getting on in the world.” He must have acquaintances and connections, and see something of life, and make an appearance. She was silenced, but not satisfied. Nor was she at ease with regard to his health. He looked ill, and worn; and, when he was not rattling and laughing, his face fell into a shape of anxiety and uneasiness, which was new to her in it. He reminded her painfully of an old German engraving she had seen in Mrs. Buxton’s portfolio, called, “Pleasure digging a Grave;” Pleasure being represented by a ghastly figure of a young man, eagerly industrious over his dismal work.
A few days after he went away, Nancy came to her in her bed-room.
“Miss Maggie,” said she, “may I just speak a word?” But when the permission was given, she hesitated.
“It’s none of my business, to be sure,” said she at last: “only, you see, I’ve lived with your mother ever since she was married; and I care a deal for both you and Master Edward. And I think he drains Missus of her money; and it makes me not easy in my mind. You did not know of it, but he had his father’s old watch when he was over last time but one; I thought he was of an age to have a watch, and that it was all natural. But, I reckon he’s sold it, and got that gimcrack one instead. That’s perhaps natural too. Young folks like young fashions. But, this time, I think he has taken away your mother’s watch; at least, I’ve never seen it since he went. And this morning she spoke to me about my wages. I’m sure I’ve never asked for them, nor troubled her; but I’ll own it’s now near on to twelve months since she paid me; and she was as regular as clock-work till then. Now, Miss Maggie don’t look so sorry, or I shall wish I had never spoken. Poor Missus seemed sadly put about, and said something as I did not try to hear; for I was so vexed she should think I needed apologies, and them sort of things. I’d rather live with you without wages than have her look so shame-faced as she did this morning. I don’t want a bit for money, my dear; I’ve a deal in the Bank. But I’m afeard Master Edward is spending too much, and pinching Missus.”
Maggie was very sorry indeed. Her mother had never told her anything of all this, so it was evidently a painful subject to her; and Maggie determined (after lying awake half the night) that she would write to Edward, and remonstrate with him; and that in every personal and household expense, she would be, more than ever, rigidly economical.
The full, free, natural intercourse between her lover and herself, could not fail to be checked by Mr. Buxton’s aversion to the engagement. Frank came over for some time in the early autumn. He had left Cambridge, and intended to enter himself at the Temple as soon as the vacation was ended. He had not been very long at home before Maggie was made aware, partly through Erminia, who had no notion of discreet silence on any point, and partly by her own observation, of the increasing estrangement between father and son. Mr. Buxton was reserved with Frank for the first time in his life; and Frank was depressed and annoyed at his father’s obstinate repetition of the same sentence, in answer to all his arguments in favor of his engagement — arguments which were overwhelming to himself and which it required an effort of patience on his part to go over and recapitulate, so obvious was the conclusion; and then to have the same answer forever, the same words even:
“Frank! it’s no use talking. I don’t approve of the engagement; and never shall.”
He would snatch up his hat, and hurry off to Maggie to be soothed. His father knew where he was gone without being told; and was jealous of her influence over the son who had long been his first and paramount object in life.
He needed not have been jealous. However angry and indignant Frank was when he went up to the moorland cottage, Maggie almost persuaded him, before half an hour had elapsed, that his father was but unreasonable from his extreme affection. Still she saw that such frequent differences would weaken the bond between father and son; and, accordingly, she urged Frank to accept an invitation into Scotland.
“You told me,” said she, “that Mr. Buxton will have it, it is but a boy’s attachment; and that when you have seen other people, you will change your mind; now do try how far you can stand the effects of absence.” She said it playfully, but he was in a humor to be vexed.
“What nonsense, Maggie! You don’t care for all this delay yourself; and you take up my father’s bad reasons as if you believed them.”
“I don’t believe them; but still they may be true.”
“How should you like it, Maggie, if I urged you to go about and see something of society,
