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 events of life?”
“Of the mind, of course, I mean. Without the mind the mere life is nothing.”
“Is not allegory a very pretty way of telling such