further off. The air was full of lark music. The party stood still and listened. Looking up into the sunny sky, they watched one little warbler, wheeling round, falling, rising again, still warbling, till it seemed as if it could never be exhausted. Sophia said it made her head ache to look up so long; and she seemed impatient for the bird to have done. It then struck her that she also might find a nest, like her sisters; and she examined the place whence the lark had sprung. Under a thick tuft of grass, in a little hollow, she found a family of infant larks huddled together, and pointed them out to her cousins.
The children came upon being called. They were damped in spirits. They did not see how they were to find any nests, if the ants' nest would not do; unless, indeed, Mr Hope would hold them up into the trees or hedges to look; but they could not climb trees, Mr Hope knew. They were somewhat further mortified by perceiving that they might have found a nest by examining the ground, if they had happened to think of it.
Margaret begged they would not be distressed at not finding nests for her; and Mr Hope proposed to try his luck, saying, that if he succeeded, every one who wished should have a ride on his horse.
To the surprise of the children, he turned towards the water, and walked along the bank. The brimming river was smooth as glass; and where it stood in among the rushes, and in every tiny inlet, it was as clear as the air, and alive with small fish, which darted at the flies that dimpled the surface. A swan, which had been quietly sailing in the middle of the stream, changed its deportment as the party proceeded along the bank. It ruffled its breast feathers, arched back its neck till the head rested between the erect wings, and drove through the water with a speed which shivered the pictures in it as a sweeping gale would have done.
"What is the matter with the creature?" asked Margaret; "I never saw a swan behave so."
The children seemed rather afraid that the bird would come on shore and attack them. Mr Hope took the opportunity of its being at some little distance, to open the rushes, and show where a fine milk-white egg lay in a large round nest.
"Oh, Mr Hope, you knew!" cried the children, "you knew there was a swan's nest near."
"Yes; and did not you, when you saw how the swan behaved? But I was aware of this nest before. Tom Creach has the care of the park swans; he made this nest, and he told me where it was. Let your cousins have a peep; and then we will go, before the poor swan grows too much frightened. And now, who will have a ride on my horse?"
All the children chose to ride; and, while Mr Hope was coursing with them in turn, round and round the meadow, the young ladies proceeded along the bank. A quarter of a mile further on, they fell in with Sydney Grey and his friend Mr Philip. They had been successful in their sport. Mr Enderby had had enough of it, and was stretched on the grass reading, while Sydney stood on the roots of an old oak, casting his line into the pool beneath its shadow.
"So, here you are, quite safe!" said Sophia; "George Rowland might have come after all. Poor boy! I am glad he is not with us, he would be so mortified to see all the fish you have caught without him!"
"How many times have we been in the river, Sydney? Can you remember?"
asked Mr Enderby.
"I have seen no fish big enough to pull us in," said Sydney; "and I do not know any other way of getting a wetting at this sport. Mrs Rowland should have seen George and me climbing the old oak at the two-mile turning. I dared George to it, and there he hung over the water, at the end of the branch, riding up and down like a see-saw. She would think nothing of letting him go fishing after that."
"If the branch had broken," said Mr Enderby, "what would you have done then?"
"Oh, it is not often that a branch breaks."
"Old oaks are apt to break, sooner or later; and, the next time you dare George to see-saw over the river, I would advise you to consider beforehand how you would get him out, in case of his dropping in."
"Oh, he is not afraid. One day lately, when the water was low, he offered to cross the weir at Dingleford. I did not persuade him to that; but he pulled off his shoes and stockings, and got over and back, safe enough."
"Indeed! and you tried it too, I suppose?"
"Yes; it would be a shame if I could not do what George can. It was almost as easy as walking along this bank."
"I shall talk to Master George, however, before he goes to Dingleford again, or he may chance to find it easier some day to miss his footing than to hold it."
"I wonder Mrs Rowland is afraid to let George go out with you," said Sophia, "considering what things he does when you are not with him."
"She does not know of these pranks, or she would feel as you do; and I hope every one here will be kind enough not to tell her. It would only be making her anxious to no purpose, whenever the boy is out of her sight. It would be a pity to make a coward of him; and I think I can teach him what is mischief, and what is not, without disturbing her.
Come, ladies, suppose you rest yourselves here; you will find a pleasant seat on this bank: at least, I fell asleep on it just now, as if I had been on a sofa."
"I wish you would all go to sleep, or else walk off," said Sydney. "You make so much noise I shall never catch any fish."
"Suppose you were to go somewhere else," said Mr Enderby. "Would not that be rather more civil than sending us all away?"
Sydney thought he would find another place: there were plenty along the bank. He gathered up bait and basket, and trudged off. There was an amusement, however, which he liked better even than fishing; and for which he now surrendered it. He was presently seen cantering round the meadow on Mr Hope's horse.
Mr Enderby hoped the Miss Ibbotsons were able to say "No" with decision. If not, he did not envy them their supper this evening; for Sydney would certainly ask them to eat all the fish he had caught--bream and dace and all. The first pleasure of young anglers is to catch these small fry; and the next is, to make their sisters and cousins eat them.
Sophia solemnly assured her cousins that mamma never allowed Sydney's fish to come to table, at least in the house. If the children liked to get the cook to boil them for their dolls' feasts in the schoolroom, they might.
"And then Miss Young is favoured with a share, I suppose?" said Margaret.
"Have you made acquaintance with Miss Young yet?" inquired Mr Enderby.
"Oh, yes! I had the pleasure of knowing Miss Young long before I knew you."
"Long! how long? I was not aware that you had ever met. Where did you meet?"
"In the schoolroom, before breakfast,--full four hours before you called this morning."
"Oh, that is all you mean! I wondered how you should know her."
Sophia asked whether Margaret and Miss Young were not going to study together: Margaret assented. Miss Young was kind enough to promise to help her to read German.
"And you?" said Mr Enderby to Hester.
"Why, no; I am rather afraid of the undertaking."
"And you, Miss Grey?"
"No. Mamma says, I have enough to do with my history and my music; especially while my cousins are here. I began German once, but mamma thought I was growing awry, and so I left it off. I find Mrs Rowland means Matilda to learn German."
"We are all disposed to have my little nieces learn whatever Miss Young will be kind enough to teach them; they will gain nothing but good from her."
"She is very learned, to be sure," observed Sophia.
"And something more than learned, I should think," said Hester; "I fancy she is wise."
"How can you have discovered that already?" asked Mr Enderby, whose fingers were busy dissecting a stalk of flowering grass.
"I hardly know; I have nothing to quote for my opinion. Her conversation leaves a general impression of her being very sensible."
"Sensible, as she is a woman," observed Margaret; "if she were a man, she would be called philosophical."
"She _is_ very superior," observed Sophia. "It was mamma's doing that she is the children's governess."
"Philosophical!" repeated Mr Enderby. "It is a happy thing that she is philosophical in her circumstances, poor thing!"
"As she happens to be unprosperous," said Margaret, smiling. "If she were rich, and strong, and admired, her philosophy would be laughed at; it would only be in the way."
Mr Enderby sighed, and made no answer. Before any one spoke again, Mr Hope and his little companions came up.
"How quiet you all are!" exclaimed Sydney. "I've a good mind to come and fish here again, if you will only go on to be so drowsy."
Sophia declared that they had been talking, up to the last minute, about Miss Young, and learning German, and being philosophical.
"And which of the party have you made out to be the most philosophical?"
inquired Mr Hope.
"We have not so much as made out what philosophy is for," said Hester; "can you tell us?"
As she looked up at Mr Hope, who was standing behind her, Sydney thought her question was addressed to him. Swinging his fishing-rod round, he replied doubtfully that he thought philosophy was good to know how to do things. What sort of things? Why, to make phosphorus lights, and electrify people, as Dr Levitt did, when he made Sophia jump off the stool with glass legs. Sophia was sure that any one else would have jumped off the stool as she did. She should take good care never to jump on it again. But she wondered Sydney did not know any better than that what philosophy was for. Her cousins said Miss Young was philosophical, and she had nothing to do with phosphorus or electrical machines.
Mr Enderby explained to Mr Hope that he had said what he was ready to maintain; that it was a happy thing for any one who, like Miss Young, was not so prosperous as she had been, to be supported by philosophy.
"And, granting this," said Margaret, "it was next inquired whether this same philosophy would have been considered equally admirable, equally a matter of congratulation, if Miss Young had not wanted it for solace."
"A question as old as the brigg at Stirling," replied Mr Hope; "older, older than any bridges of man's making."
"Why Stirling brigg? What do you mean?"
"I mean--do not you know the story?--that an old woman wanted to cross the Forth, and some ferrymen would have persuaded her to go in their boat when she was confident that a tempest was coming on, which would have made the ferry unsafe. They told her at last that she must trust to Providence. `Na, na,' said she, `I will ne'er trust to Providence while there is a brigg at Stirling.' The common practice is, you know, with the old woman.--We will not trust to the highest support we profess to have, till nothing else is left us. We worship philosophy, but never think of making use of it while we have prosperity as well."
"The question is whether such practice is wise," said Margaret: "we all know it is common."
"For my part," said Mr Enderby, "I think the old Scotchwoman was right; Providence helps those that help themselves, and takes care of those who take care of themselves."
"Just so," said Hope. "Her error was in supposing that the one course was an alternative from the other,--that she would not be trusting in Providence as much in going by the bridge as in braving the tempest. I think we are in the same error when we set up philosophy and prosperity in opposition to each other, taking up with the one when we cannot get the other, as if philosophy were not over all, compassing our life as the blue sky overarches the earth, brightening, vivifying, harmonising all, whether we look up to see whence the light comes or not."
"You think it a mistake, then," said Margaret, "not to look up to it till all is night below, and there is no light to be seen but by gazing overhead?"
"I do not see why we should miss seeing the white clouds and blue depths at noon because we may reckon upon moon and stars at midnight. Then again, what is life at its best without philosophy?"
"I can tell you, as well as anybody," said Mr Enderby, "for I never had any philosophy,--no, neither wisdom, nor the love of wisdom, nor patience, nor any of the things that philosophy is understood to mean."
"Oh, Mr Enderby!" cried Sydney, "what pains you took to teach me to fish, and to make me wait patiently for a bite! _You_ say you are not patient!"
"My account of life without philosophy," said Mr Enderby, proceeding as if he did not hear the children testifying to his patience with them,--"my account of life without philosophy is, that it slips away mighty easily, till it is gone, you scarcely know where or how."
"And when you call upon philosophy at last to give an account of it, what does she say?" asked Margaret.
"I do not understand how life can slip away so," said Hester. "Is there ever a day without its sting?--without doubt of somebody, disappointment in oneself or another, dread of some evil, or weariness of spirit?
Prosperity is no more of a cure for these than for sickness and death.
If philosophy is--" "Well!" exclaimed Mr Hope, with strong interest, "if philosophy is--" "Happy they that have her, for all need her."
"Hear a testimony at least as candid as your own, Enderby. If you really find life steal away as easily as you now fancy, depend upon it you are more of a philosopher than you are aware of."
"What is philosophy?" asked Matilda of Sydney in a loud whisper, which the boy was not in any hurry to take notice of, so little was there in the conversation which seemed to bear upon phosphorus and electricity.
"A good question," observed Mr Enderby. "Hope, will you tell us children what we are talking about,--what philosophy is all this while?"
"You gave us a few meanings just now, which I should put into one. Call it enlargement of views, and you have wisdom, and the love of wisdom, and patience, all at once: ay, Sydney, and your kind of philosophy too:--It was by looking far and deep into nature that men found electricity."
"Did Dr Levitt find it out?" asked Matilda: "he is so very short-sighted! I don't believe he would see those fish snapping up the flies, if he sat where I do. What was that that fell on my bonnet? Is it raining?"
Sydney, tired of fishing, had climbed into the oak, and was sending down twigs and leaves upon the heads of the party. Sophia desired him to come down, and even assured him that if he did not, she should be angry.
He replied, that he would only stay to see whether she would be angry or not. The experiment was cut short by the whole party rising, and moving homewards. The sun was setting, and the picked cowslips must not have any dew upon them.
As the group passed up the street, Sydney in advance, with his rod and basket, on Mr Hope's horse, Mr Hope himself following with Hester, and the tall Mr Enderby, with Sophia and Margaret on either arm, all, like the little girls, laden with cowslips, the gossips of Deerbrook were satisfied that the stranger ladies must have enjoyed their walk in the meadows.
CHAPTER SIX.
THE SCHOOL-ROOM.
Mrs Rowland was mortified that the Greys had been beforehand with her in the idea of a cowslip-gathering. From the moment of Matilda's asking leave to accompany them, she resolved to have such an expedition from her house as her neighbours should not be able to eclipse. Like Lear, she did not yet know what her deed was to be; but it should be the wonder and terror of the place: she would do such things as should strike the strangers with admiration. When she heard an account of it from her little daughter, she found this had been a very poor beginning,--a mere walk in the meadows, and home again to tea;--no boiling the kettle in the woods,--not even a surprise of early strawberries. She could not call this being forestalled; it could not give the young ladies any idea of a proper country excursion, with four or five carriages, or a boat with an awning. As soon as Mr Rowland came home in the evening, she consulted him about the day, the place, the mode, and the numbers to be invited. Mr Rowland was so well pleased to find his lady in the mood to be civil to her neighbours, that he started no difficulties, and exerted himself to overcome such as could not be overlooked. All the planning prospered so well, that notes to the Grey family and to the Miss Ibbotsons lay on Mr Grey's breakfast-table the next morning, inviting the whole party to dine with Mrs Rowland in Dingleford woods, that day week--the carriages to be at the door at ten o'clock.
The whole village rang with the preparations for this excursion; and the village was destined to ring with other tidings before it took place.
Mrs Rowland often said that she had the worst luck in the world; and it seemed as if all small events fell out so as to plague her. She had an unusual fertility in such sensible suppositions and reasonable complaints; and her whole diversity of expressions of this kind was called into play about this expedition to Dingleford woods. The hams were actually boiled, and the chicken-pies baked, when clouds began to gather in the sky; and on the appointed morning, pattens clinked in the village street, Miss Young's umbrella was wet through in the mere transit from the farrier's gate to the schoolroom; the gravel-walk before Mr Grey's house was full of yellow pools, and the gurgling of spouts or drips from the trees was heard on every side. The worst of it was, this rain came after a drought of many weeks, which had perilled the young crops, and almost destroyed the hopes of hay; the ladies and children had been far from sufficiently sorry to hear that some of the poorer wheat lands in the county had been ploughed up, and that there was no calculating what hay would be a ton the next winter. They were now to receive the retribution of their indifference; rain had set in, and the farmers hoped that it might continue for a month. It would not be wise to fix any country excursion for a few weeks to come. Let the young people enjoy any fine afternoon that they might be able to turn to the account of a walk, or a drive, or a sail on the river; but picnic parties must be deferred till settled weather came. There was every hope that the middle of the summer would be fine and seasonable, if the rains came down freely now.
This course of meteorological events involved two great vexations to Mrs Rowland. One was, that the neighbours, who could pretend to entertain the strangers only in a quiet way at home, took the opportunity of the rainy weather to do so, hoping, as they said, not to interfere with any more agreeable engagements. Mrs Rowland really never saw anything so dissipated as the Greys; they were out almost every evening when they had not company at home. It was impossible that Sophia's studies could go on as they ought to do. What with taking a quiet cup of tea with one acquaintance, and being at a merry reading party at another's, and Mrs Enderby's little dance, and dinner at the Levitts', there were few evenings left; and on those few evenings they were never content to be alone. They were always giving the young men encouragement to go in. Mr Hope made quite a home house of Mr Grey's; and as for Philip, he seemed now to be more at Mr Grey's than even at his own mother's or sister's. Mrs Grey ought to remember how bad all this was for a girl of Sophia's age. It would completely spoil the excursion to Dingleford woods. The young people knew one another so well by this time, that the novelty was all worn off, and they would have nothing left to say to each other. It was provoking that Mr Rowland had promised that the excursion should take place whenever the weather should be settled enough. It might so fairly have been given up! and now it must be gone on with, when every one was tired of the idea, and the young people must almost be weary of one another, from being always together!
The other vexation was, that there were frequent short intervals of fine weather, which were immediately taken advantage of for a drive, or a walk, or a sail; and it came out one day from the children, who had learned it in the schoolroom, that the Miss Ibbotsons had been in Dingleford woods. There had been no such intention when the party set out; they had not designed to go nearly so far; but they had been tempted on by the beauty of the evening and of the scenery, till they had found it the shortest way to come home through the Dingleford woods.
Mrs Rowland pronounced this abominable; and she was not appeased by hearing that her brother had been the proposer of this mode of return, and the guide of the party. Philip forgot everything, she declared, in his fancy for these girls; it was always his fault that he was carried away by the people he was with: he had got the name of a flirt by it, and a flirt he was; but she had never known him so possessed as he seemed to be by these strangers. She must speak to Mr Rowland about it; the matter might really become serious; and if he should ever be entrapped into marrying into the Grey connections, among people so decidedly objectionable, it would be a terrible self-reproach to her as long as she lived, that she had not interfered in time. She should speak to Mr Rowland.
Meanwhile she kept a watchful eye on her brother's proceedings. She found from the children that their Uncle Philip had fulfilled his promise of going to see the schoolroom, and had been so much better than his word, that he had been there very often. When he went, it was always when the Miss Ibbotsons were there, learning German, or drawing, or talking with Miss Young. It was impossible to pick a quarrel with Miss Young about this; for she always sent her visitors away the moment the clock struck the school hour. The summer-house was Mr Grey's property, too; so that Mrs Rowland could only be angry at the studies which went on in it, and had no power to close the doors against any of the parties.
The rainy weather had indeed been very propitious to the study of German. For a fortnight Margaret had spent some hours of each day with Miss Young; and over their books they had learned so much of one another's heart and mind, that a strong regard had sprung up between them. This new friendship was a great event to Miss Young;--how great, she herself could scarcely have believed beforehand. Her pupils found that Miss Young was now very merry sometimes. Mr Grey observed to his wife that the warmer weather seemed to agree with the poor young woman, as she had some little colour in her cheeks at last; and Margaret herself observed a change in the tone of the philosophy she had admired from the beginning. There was somewhat less of reasoning in it, and more of impulse; it was as sound as ever, but more genial. While never forgetting the constancy of change in human affairs, she was heartily willing to enjoy the good that befell her, while it lasted. It was well that she could do so; for the good of this new friendship was presently alloyed.
She was not aware, and it was well that she was not, that Hester was jealous of her, almost from the hour of Margaret's learning what a vast number of irregular verbs there is in the German. Each sister remembered the conversation by the open window, on the night of their arrival at Deerbrook. Remembering it, Margaret made Hester a partaker in all her feelings about Maria Young; her admiration, her pity, her esteem. Reserving to herself any confidence which Maria placed in her (in which, however, no mention of Mr Enderby ever occurred), she kept not a thought or feeling of her own from her sister. The consequence was, that Hester found that Maria filled a large space in Margaret's mind, and that a new interest had risen up in which she had little share. She, too, remembered the conversation, but had not strength to act up to the spirit of it. She had then owned her weakness, and called it wickedness, and fancied that she could never mistrust her sister again. She was now so ashamed of her own consciousness of being once more jealous, that she strove to hide the fact from herself; and was not therefore likely to tell it to Margaret. She struggled hourly with herself, rebuking her own temper, and making appeals to her own generosity. She sat drawing in the little blue parlour, morning after morning, during Sophia's reading or practising, telling herself that Margaret and Miss Young had no secrets, no desire to be always _tete-a-tete_; that they had properly invited her to learn German; and that she had only to go at any moment, and offer to join them, to be joyfully received. She argued with herself,--how mean it would be to do so; to agree to study at last, in order to be a sort of spy upon them, to watch over her own interests; as if Margaret--the most sincere and faithful of living beings--were not to be trusted with them. She had often vowed that she would cure the jealousy of her temper; now was the occasion, and she would meet it; she would steadily sit beside Sophia or Mrs Grey every morning, when Margaret was not with her, and never let her sister know how selfish she could be.
This was all very well; but it could not make Margaret suppose her sister happy when she was not. She could not be certain what was the matter, but she saw that something was wrong. At times, Hester's manner was so unboundedly affectionate, that it was impossible to suppose that unkind feelings existed towards herself; though a few pettish words were at other times let drop. Hester's moods of magnanimity and jealousy were accounted for in other ways by her sister. Margaret believed, after a course of very close observation, that she had discovered, in investigating the cause of Hester's discomposure, a secret which was unknown to her sister herself. Margaret was not experienced in love, nor in watching the signs of it; but here was the mind she understood best, discomposed without apparent cause--more fond, more generous to herself than ever, yet not reposing its usual confidence in her--and subject to those starts of delight and disappointment which she had heard and could understand to be the moods of love. She was confirmed in her suspicion by observing that the merits of Mr Hope were becoming daily a less common subject of conversation between them, while it was certain that he had in no degree lost favour with either. They had been charmed with him from the beginning, and had expressed to each other the freest admiration of his truth, his gaiety, his accomplishments, and great superiority to the people amidst whom he lived. He was now spoken of less every day, while his visits grew more frequent, longer, and, Margaret could not but think, more welcome to her sister. The hours when he was sure not to come happened to be those which she spent with Miss Young--the hours in which gentlemen are devoted to their business.
Margaret thus witnessed all that passed; and if her conjecture about Hester was right, she could have wished to see Mr Hope's manner rather different from what it was. He was evidently strongly attracted to the house; and there was some reason to think that Mrs Grey believed that Hester was the attraction. But Margaret had no such impression. She saw that Mr Hope admired her sister's beauty, listened to her conversation with interest, and was moved at times by the generosity of her tone of moral feeling; but this, though much, was not enough for the anxious sister's full satisfaction; and the one thing besides which she would fain have discerned she could not perceive. These were early days yet, however; so early that, in the case of any one whom she knew, except her sister, she should have supposed her own conjectures wild and almost improper; but Hester's was one of those natures to which time and circumstance minister more speedily and more abundantly than to the generality. By the strength of her feelings, and the activity of her affections, time was made more comprehensive, and circumstance more weighty than to others. A day would produce changes in her which the impressions of a week would not effect in less passionate natures; and what were trifling incidents to the minds about her, were great events to her.
Margaret began to consider what was to be done. The more she thought, the more plainly she perceived that there was nothing to be done but to occupy Hester, simply and naturally, with as many interests as possible.
This was safe practice, be the cause of her occasional discomposure what it might. It was particularly desirable that she should not continue the habit of sitting in silence for a considerable part of every morning.
One day, just after the voices of the children had been heard in the hall, giving token that school was over, Hester, sitting in the little blue parlour alone, with her head on her hand, was apparently contemplating the drawing on her board, but really considering that Margaret was now beginning to be happy with her friend, and asking why Margaret should not be happy with her friend, when Margaret herself entered.
"Do you want Sophia?" said Hester. "She is up-stairs."
"No; I want you."
"Indeed!"
There was an ironical tone of surprise in the one word she spoke, which let fall a weight upon Margaret's heart;--an old feeling, but one to which she had made no progress towards being reconciled.
"I cannot help you with your German, you know. How can you pretend to want me?"
"It is not about the German at all that I want you. Maria has found a Spenser at last, and I am going to read her the `Hymn of Heavenly Beauty,' I know you never can hear that often enough; so come!"
"Perhaps Miss Young had rather not. I should be sorry to intrude myself upon her. But, however," continued she, observing Margaret's look of surprise, "I will come. Do not wait for me, dear. I will come the moment I have put up my drawing."
Margaret did wait, running over the keys of the open piano meanwhile.
"Shall I call Sophia too?" asked Hester, as she took up her work-bag.
"I dare say she never read any of Spenser."
"I dare say not," replied Margaret; "and she would not care about it now. If you think we ought, we will call her. If not--" Hester smiled, nodded, and led the way to the schoolroom without calling Sophia. She had not been two minutes in the cordial presence of her sister and Maria, before she felt the full absurdity of the feelings which had occupied her so lately, and was angry with herself to her own satisfaction. Her companions looked at each other with a smile as they observed at the same moment the downcast attitude of her moistened eyes, the beautiful blush on her cheek, and the expression of meek emotion on her lips. They thought that it was the image of heavenly beauty which moved her thus.
Before they had quite finished the Hymn, the door was burst open, and the children entered, dragging in Mr Enderby. Mr Enderby rebuked them, good-naturedly, for introducing him with so little ceremony, and declared to the ladies that Matilda had promised to knock before she opened the door. Hester advised Mary and Fanny to be more quiet in their mode of entrance, observing that they had made Miss Young start with their hurry.
Matilda was glad her uncle remembered to come sometimes. He had promised it several weeks before he came at all; even when he said he was going away in a fortnight.
"And if I had gone away in a fortnight," said he, "I should not have seen your schoolroom. But this is not the first time I have seen it, as you remember very well. I have been here often lately."
"But you never attend to me here, uncle! And I want so to show you my desk, where I keep my copy-book, and the work-box you gave me on my birthday."
"Well, you can show me now, cannot you? So, this is your desk! It seems convenient enough, whatever we may think of its beauty. I suppose it will hold all the knowledge you will want to have put into your head for some time to come. Now show me which is George's desk, and which Fanny's; and now Mary's,--a nice row of desks! Now," whispering to her, "can you show me which is Miss Margaret's desk?"
The little girl giggled as she answered, that Miss Margaret was too old to be a school-girl.
"So she is: but she learns of Miss Young, and I know she keeps some of her books here. Can you show me where?"
There was a desk rather larger than the rest, the lid of which now happened to be standing open. Matilda slyly pointed to it. While the ladies were engaged with the other children, Mr Enderby cast a glance into this desk, saw a book which he knew to be Margaret's, laid something upon it from his pocket, and softly closed the lid; the whole passing, if it was observed at all, as a survey of the children's desks.
He then pretended to look round for the rod.
"No rod!" said he to the laughing children. "Oh, I should like to learn here very much, if there is no rod. Miss Margaret, do you not find it very pleasant learning here?"
The children were shouting, "Miss Young, Miss Young, do let uncle Philip come and learn with us. He says he will be a very good boy,--won't you, uncle Philip? Miss Young, when may uncle Philip come and learn his lessons?"
Margaret saw that there was constraint in the smile with which Maria answered the children. Little as she knew, it struck her that in his fun with the children, Mr Enderby was relying quite sufficiently on the philosophy he had professed to admire in Miss Young. Mr Enderby drew a chair to the window round which the ladies were sitting, and took up the volume Margaret had just laid down.
"Go, go, children!" said he; "run away to your gardens! I cannot spare you any more play to-day."
"Oh, but uncle, we want to ask you a question."
"Well, ask it."
"But it is a secret. You must come into the corner with Fanny, and Mary, and me."
For peace and quiet he went into the corner with them, and they whispered into each ear a question, how many burnt almonds and gingerbread-buttons, and how much barley-sugar, two shillings and threepence halfpenny would buy? The cowslips were now ready to make tea of, and the feast on the dolls' dishes might be served any day. Mr Enderby promised to inquire at the confectioner's, and not to tell anybody else; and at last the children were got rid of.
"Now that we have done with mysteries," said he, as he resumed his seat by the window, "that is, with children's mysteries that we can see to the bottom of, let us look a little into the poet's mysteries. What were you reading? Show me, and I will be your reader. Who or what is this Heavenly Beauty? We have not done with mysteries yet, I see."
"I was wondering," said Margaret smiling, "whether you take up Spenser because you are tired of mysteries. In such a case, some other poet might suit you better."
"What other?"
"Some one less allegorical, at least."
"I do not know that," said Hester. "The most cunning allegory that ever was devised is plain and easy in comparison with the simplest true story,--fully told: and a man is a poet in proportion as he fully tells a simple true story."
"A story of the mind, you mean," said Mr Enderby, "not of the mere