pain to her, Margaret flew to see if she could not fetch what was wanted: but Miss Young was already looking into the desk. Her eye caught the pretty new little volume which lay there. She took it up, found it was a volume of Tieck, and saw on the fly-leaf, in the well-known handwriting, “From PE.” One warm beam of hope shot through her heart:—how could it be otherwise—the book lying in her desk, and thus addressed? But it was only one moment’s joy. The next instant’s reflection, and the sight of Margaret’s German exercise, on which the book had lain, revealed the real case to her. In sickness of heart, she would, upon impulse, have put back the book, and concealed the incident: but she was not sure but that Margaret had seen the volume, and she was sure of what her own duty was. With a smile and a steady voice she held out the book to Margaret, and said:
“Here is something for you, Margaret, which looks a little like one of the hidden, and gentle, and mysterious tokens Mr. Enderby has been talking about. Here it is, lying among your books; and I think it was not with them when you last left your seat.”
Margaret blushed with an emotion which seemed to the one who knew her best to be too strong to be mere surprise. She looked doubtful for a moment about the book being meant for her. Its German aspect was conclusive against its being designed for Hester: but Miss Young—was it certain that the volume was not hers? She asked this; but Maria replied, as her head was bent over her desk:
“There is no doubt about it. I am sure. It is nobody’s but yours.”
Some one proposed to resume the reading. The ‘Hymn to Heavenly Beauty’ was finished, but no remark followed. Each was thinking of something else. More common subjects suited their present mood better. It was urged upon Hester that she should be one of the daily party; and, her lonely fancies being for the hour dispersed, she agreed.
“But,” she observed, “other people’s visits alter the case entirely. I do not see how study is to go on if any one may come in from either house, as Mr. Enderby did to-day. It is depriving Miss Young of her leisure, too, and making use of her apartment in a way that she may well object to.”
“I am here, out of school hours, only upon sufferance,” replied Miss Young. “I never call the room mine without this explanation.”
“Besides,” said Margaret, “it is a mere accident Mr. Enderby’s coming in to-day. If he makes a habit of it, we have only to tell him that we want our time to ourselves.”
Miss Young knew better. She made no reply; but she felt in her inmost soul that her new-born pleasures were, from this moment, to be turned into pains. She knew Mr. Enderby; and knowing him, foresaw that she was to be a witness of his wooings of another, whom she had just begun to take to her heart. This was to be her fate if she was strong enough for it—strong enough to be generous in allowing to Margaret opportunities which could not without her be enjoyed, of fixing the heart of one whom she could not pronounce to have been faulty towards herself. His conversation today had gone far to make her suppose him blameless, and herself alone in fault; so complete had seemed his unconsciousness with regard to her. Her duty then was clearly to give them up to each other, with such spirit of self-sacrifice as she might be capable of. If not strong enough for this, the alternative was a daily painful retreat to her lodging, whence she might look out on the heaps of cinders in the farrier’s yard, her spirit abased the while with the experience of her own weakness. Neither alternative was very cheering.
Chapter Six.
Family Confidence.
“When do you leave us, Philip?” inquired Mrs. Rowland, putting her arm within her brother’s, and marching him up the gravel-walk.
“Do you wish me to go?” replied he, laughing. “Is this what you were so anxious to say?”
“Why, we understood, six weeks since, that you meant to leave Deerbrook in a fortnight: that is all.”
“So I did: but my mother is kind enough to be pleased that I am staying longer; and since I am equally pleased myself, it is all very well. I rather think, too, that the children consider Uncle Philip a good boy, who deserves a holiday.”
“My mother! Oh, she always supposes everything right that you do; and that is the reason why Mr. Rowland and I—”
“The reason why Rowland and I agree so well,” interrupted the brother. “Yes, that is one reason, among many. Rowland’s wish is to see the old lady happy; and she is naturally happiest when she has both her children with her; and for every merry hour of hers, your good husband looks the more kindly upon me.”
“Of course; all that is a matter of course; though you are not aware, perhaps, of the fatigue it is to my mother to have any one with her too long a time. She will not tell you; but you have no idea how low she is for some time after you go away, if you have stayed more than a few days, from exhaustion—from pure exhaustion. Ah! you do not perceive it, because the excitement keeps her up while you are here; and she naturally makes an effort, you know. But if you were to see her as we do after you are gone;—you cannot think how it sets the Greys talking about her low spirits.”
“Poor soul! I wish I could be always with her. I will try whether I cannot; for some time to come, at least. But, sister, how does it happen that neither you nor Rowland ever told me this before?”
“Oh, we would not distress you unnecessarily. We knew it was an unavoidable evil. You cannot always be here, and you must—”
“Yes, I must sometimes come: that is an unavoidable evil; and always will be, sister, while I have a good old mother living here.”
“My dear Philip, how you do misunderstand one! I never heard anything so odd.”
“Why odd? Have you not been giving me to understand, all this time, that you do not wish to have me here—that you want me to go away? If not this, I do not know what you have been talking about.”
“What an idea! My only brother! What can you be thinking of? Why upon earth should I wish you anywhere else?”
“That you may manage my mother and her affairs all your own way, I imagine.”
Mrs. Rowland had nothing to oppose to this plain speech but exclamations. When she had exhausted all she could muster, she avowed that the only consideration which could reconcile her to the sacrifice of her dear brother’s society was anxiety for his happiness.
“Then, supposing I am happiest here, we are all satisfied.” And Uncle Philip would have made a diversion from the path to give George his favourite swing, quite up to the second branch of the great pear-tree.
“Pray let George swing himself for once, brother. Hold your tongue, George! You are a very troublesome boy, and your uncle and I are busy. It is about your own affairs, brother, that I want to open my mind to you. As for your always remaining here, as you kindly hinted just now—”
“I did not mean to hint,” said Philip; “I thought I had spoken quite plainly.”
“Well, well. We all know how to appreciate the kindness of your intentions, I am sure: but your happiness must not be sacrificed to the good of any of us here. We can take care of one another: but, as it is impossible that you should find a companion for life here, and as it is time you were thinking of settling, we must not be selfish, and detain you among
