not conceive how some things in it could be divined or speculated upon by others. Still only on the brink of the discovery that she loved Mr. Hope, she could never have imagined that any one else could dream of such a thing—much less act upon it. She was angry with herself for letting her fears now point for a moment to Mr. Hope; for, if this bad news had related to him, her sister and she would, of course, have heard of it the next moment after the Greys. Margaret caught her sister’s meaning, and strove to the utmost to think as she did; but Sydney’s complaint of being “overmuch questioned about his ride” was fatal to the attempt. It returned upon her incessantly during the night; and when, towards morning, she slept a little, these words seemed to be sounding in her ear all the while. Before undressing, both she and Hester had been unable to resist stepping out upon the stairs to watch for signs whether it was the intention of the family to sit up or go to rest. All had retired to their rooms some time before midnight; and then it was certain that nothing more could be learned before morning.
Each sister believed that the other slept; but neither could be sure. It was an utterly wretched night to both, and the first which they had ever passed in misery, without speaking to each other. Margaret’s suffering was all from apprehension. Hester was little alarmed in comparison; but she this night underwent the discovery which her sister had made some little time ago. She discovered that nothing could happen to her so dreadful as any evil befalling Mr. Hope. She discovered that he was more to her than the sister whom she could have declared, but a few hours before, to be the dearest on earth to her. She discovered that she was for ever humbled in her own eyes; that her self-respect had received an incurable wound: for Mr. Hope had never given her reason to regard him as more than a friend. During the weary hours of this night, she revolved every conversation, every act of intercourse, which she could recall; and from all that she could remember, the same impression resulted—that Mr. Hope was a friend, a kind and sympathising friend—interested in her views and opinions, in her tastes and feelings;—that he was this kind friend, and nothing more. He had in no case distinguished her from her sister. She had even thought, at times, that Margaret had been the more important of the two to him. That might be from her own jealous temper, which, she knew, was apt to make her fancy every one preferred to herself: but she had thought that he liked Margaret best, as she was sure Mr. Enderby did. Whichever way she looked at the case, it was all wretchedness. She had lost her self-sufficiency and self-respect, and she was miserable.
The first rays of morning have a wonderful power of putting to flight the terrors of the darkness, whether their causes lie without us or within. When the first beam of the midsummer sunshine darted into the chamber, through the leafy limes which shaded one side of the apartment, Hester’s mood transiently changed. There was a brief reaction in her spirits. She thought she had been making herself miserable far too readily. The mystery of the preceding evening might turn out a trifle: she had been thinking too seriously about her own fancies. If she had really been discovering a great and sad secret about herself, no one else knew it, nor need ever know it. She could command herself; and, in the strength of pride and duty, she would do so. All was not lost. Before this mood had passed away, she fell asleep, with prayer in her heart, and quiet tears upon her cheek. Both sisters were roused from their brief slumbers by a loud tapping at their door. All in readiness to be alarmed, Margaret sprang up, and was at the door to know who was there.
“It is us—it is we, Fanny and Mary, cousin Margaret,” answered the twins, “come to call you. It is such a fine morning, you can’t think. Papa does not believe we shall have a drop of rain to-day. The baker’s boy has just carried the rolls—such a basket-full!—to Mrs. Rowland’s: so you must get up. Mamma is getting up already.”
The sisters were vexed to have been thrown into a terror for nothing; but it was a great relief to find Mr. Grey prophesying fine weather for the excursion. Nothing could have happened to cast a doubt over it. Margaret, too, now began to think that the mystery might turn out a trifle; and she threw up the sash, to let in the fresh air, with a gaiety of spirits she had little expected to feel.
Another tap at the door. It was Morris, with the news that it was a fine morning, that the whole house was astir, and that she had no further news to tell.
Another tap before they were half-dressed. It was Mrs. Grey, with a face quite as sorrowful as on the preceding evening, and the peculiar nervous expression about the mouth—which served her instead of tears.
“Have you done with Morris yet, my dears?”
“Morris, you may go,” said Hester, steadily.
Mrs. Grey gazed at her with a mournful inquisitiveness, while she spoke; and kept her eyes fixed on Hester throughout, though what she said seemed addressed to both sisters.
“There is something the matter, Mrs. Grey,” continued Hester, calmly. “Say what it is. You had better have told us last night.”
“I thought it best not to break your sleep, my dears. We always think bad news is best told in the morning.”
“Tell us,” said Margaret. Hester quietly seated herself on the bed.
“It concerns our valued friend, Mr. Hope,” said Mrs. Grey. Hester’s colour had been going from the moment Mrs. Grey entered the room: it was now quite gone; but she preserved her calmness.
“He was safe when Sydney lost sight of him, on the ridge of the hill, on the Dingleford road; but he afterwards had an accident.”
“What kind of accident?” inquired Margaret.
“Is he killed?” asked Hester.
“No, not killed. He was found insensible in the road. The miller’s boy observed his horse, without a rider, plunge into the river below the dam, and swim across; and another person saw the pony Sydney had been riding, grazing with a side-saddle on, on the common. This made them search, and they found Mr. Hope lying in the road insensible, as I told you.”
“What is thought of his state?” asked Margaret.
“Two medical men were called immediately from the nearest places, and Mr. Grey saw them last night; for the news reached us while you were at the piano, and we thought—”
“Yes but what do the medical men say?”
“They do not speak very favourably. It is a concussion of the brain. They declare the case is not hopeless, and that is all they can say. He has not spoken yet; only just opened his eyes: but we are assured the case is not quite desperate; so we must hope for the best.”
“I am glad the case is not desperate,” said Hester. “He would be a great loss to you all.”
Mrs. Grey looked at her in amazement, and then at Margaret. Margaret’s eyes were full of tears. She comprehended and respected the effort her sister was making.
“Oh, Mrs. Grey!” said Margaret, “must we go to-day? Surely it is no time for an excursion of pleasure.”
“That must be as you feel disposed, my dears. It would annoy Mrs. Rowland very much to have the party broken up; so much so, that some of us must go: but my young people will do their best to fill your places, if you feel yourselves unequal to the exertion.” She looked at Hester as she spoke.
“Oh, if anybody goes, we go, of course,” said Hester. “I think you are quite right in supposing that the business of the day must proceed. If there was anything to be done by staying at home—if you could make us of any use, Mrs. Grey, it would be a different thing: but—”
“Well, if there is nothing in your feelings which—if you believe yourselves equal to the exertion—”
