by Holme Lee.
Originally published in The National Magazine (National Magazine Company) #1 (Nov 1856).
Part I.
June 17, 1822. O what a weary place is this Holly Bank! Here am I for a three months' visit; and already, after five days, am I dismally haunted by the spirit of dullness. Uncle Joshua, being firmly persuaded in his own mind that new books are not half so good as old ones, does not patronise modern literature, much to my distress. Yesterday I asked him respectfully for something to read—(he keeps his books locked up behind glass-doors)—and he offered me Johnson's Dictionary. "There, niece," said he, "study that; most boarding-school misses are deficient in spelling." I accepted the volume with a curtsey, and handed it to Cousin Maria, whom her father has educated at home on new principles: she bristles all over with definitions as a tipsy-cake does with almonds, and talks about philology as ordinary women do of babies. She thanked me, and said of all studies grammar and the construction of languages was to her the most edifying; she does not care for poetry, or romances, or history—indeed, she reminds me of nothing so much as a person who persists in grubbing up the roots of plants, instead of admiring their graceful forms, bright foliage, or rich fruit. But Maria is good-natured notwithstanding her learning; and seeing that I was really likely to fall into mischief purely through idleness, she brought up from the depths of her, apron pocket the key of the book-closet, to which out-of-date pamphlets, magazines, and reviews are exiled; and suggested that perhaps I might find some light-reading amongst them. Thither accordingly I flew, and pounced greedily upon a pile of dusty quarterlies; an armful of which I carried off to my sanctum for private consumption. They are as a gold-mine to me: I love a review—a good one—whether tender, or ferocious, or satirical. From these gray paper-covered tomes I have disinterred some opinions of sterling metal, which, having been tried in the furnace of time, have lost nothing; but now and then I also turn up a clod which only enshrines an earth-worm. I liked especially to find an echo of my own sentiments; but it vexes me more than a little to see poetry which is sweet to me as the sound of many waters sneered at as the veriest doggrel. Ah, well! there are the poets, in green and crimson and purple and gold, behind Uncle Joshua's glass-doors; while these slashing reviewers lie mouldy and dusty, given over a prey to the ravages of mice in attic obscurity.
June 18. I hope and trust some event will turn up soon to stir the slumberous routine of Holly Bank. We don't live, we vegetate, and shall turn into dormice—(dormice or dormouses, which is it? Mem. to ask Cousin Maria)—soon, if nothing happens. I have only a further instalment of the reviews for Aunt Doe. She will think I have had a very prosy time; and so I have, thus far; but it is useless to complain. Well, these old books have introduced me to the private life of France as depicted in the memoirs of celebrated people, and any thing but a pleasant impression they give of our neighbours' morality: the critic seems to have experienced a righteous pleasure in dissecting these books, in exposing to daylight the hideous ravage of chronic disease, the deformed limb, or the wilful warping of what might have grown straight; no decent raiment is permitted to shroud the moral decay of life and truth; it is made to stand before us stripped of its masking garments, horrible as the loathly lady in the old rhyme. Madame du Châtelet, Madame du Deffaud, and many other madames of more wit than wisdom, enliven the dreary mass with smart sayings and doings. How long will it be ere order is educed from this moral chaos? If I can do nothing else at Holly Bank, I can get up an epitome of ancient literature that will astonish Aunt Doe. I wonder how they all are at Darlston; I have not heard from my father since I left home; I will write to-morrow to the little ones.
June 24. An arrival at Holly Bank,—Mr. Matthew Constant, who is to marry Cousin Maria: a little man—mousy face, soft hair, and a sleek undertoned manner. It is great fun to see how he obeys Maria: I am sure she ordered him to propose to her—he never could have dared to do it without prompting. Any body to watch them might think they had been ten years married. There is none of what Maria calls "foolish philandering" between them; it is all systematic business love-making. Mr. Matthew has several little peculiarities of pronunciation which offend Maria's correct ear mightily; though they give her opportunities of displaying her erudition, and airing her roots and derivations. I am glad my father did not think it necessary to have me cultivated so highly.
Last night, while Maria and I were looking over some beautiful gown-pieces which Mr. Matthew has brought from town for her, I asked a question which has been in my mind ever since I saw him,—what could first have put it into her head to think of marrying him? and she replied with the most artless candour—
"Why, Margaret, I suppose I must be married some day; and as he asked me, and there was nothing against him, I thought I might as well get settled at once. The little man is very well worth having: his income is larger than my father's, you know."
"And do you love him?" This question was, I confess, put in rather a mocking incredulous spirit, and Maria took me up smartly.
"Love and stuff!" she ejaculated. "What has love to do with it? I am going to be properly married, and of course I shall love Matthew: but I don't like nonsense."
The very idea of nonsense as connected with Cousin Maria is profanation: her sharp face looked so much sharper at the mere possibility of any being inflicted upon her, that I was fain to make a laughing apology for my indiscretion in suggesting it.
"Your head is full of romance, Margaret," said she grandly; "by the time you are my age, it is to be hoped that you will be more practical."
"I hope I shall not; I'll never marry any body unless I Love him with all my heart and all my soul, never."
Maria is getting old—quite six-and-twenty—and she is not pretty; but she is too nice for Mr. Matthew Constant. She ought to know what she likes, however. One thing is certain, she would not make a nice kind old maid like Aunt Doe; and she may make a good wife: I don't know.
June 26. Yesterday to an archery meeting at Danby Grange; it was very gay and pleasant, though nearly all the people were strangers to me. Danby is a grand house: its master is a bachelor,—not very young,—who has travelled all the world over, and who is very scientific. I thought him proud and stiff, but he is not generally disliked; Charlotte Petersham said she was ready to swear obedience to him at any moment on his rent-roll. Charlotte is going to marry a lieutenant in a marching regiment, and neither of them has sixpence; but I like this sort of marriage much better than Maria's, who calls them love-sick geese.
The first prize was won by Mr. Danby himself—a beautiful silver arrow—and he gave it to me: because, I suppose, I had no chance of winning one for myself, and was an uncome-out girl. Uncle Joshua said it was a compliment: all the men gave their prizes to some lady. Mr. Matthew shot I know not how many times, in hopes of having a trophy to present to Maria; but he could not even hit the target, and she said he made quite a simpleton of himself by trying, for he had never, to her certain knowledge, handled a bow before. There was a dancing-party afterwards, but none of us stayed for it. To-morrow Uncle Joshua has a dinner-party: Mr. Danby is coming to meet the Broughs and Petershams: we hear that he intends to stand for the county at the next election. I am very glad of a little variety: it will be hard work to get through the three months to Cousin Maria's wedding; I wish it were "over and done with," as she always cries herself when she has to leave her grammars and dictionaries to try on dresses.
June 28. Last evening's dinner went off very pleasantly. Mrs. Brough is always nice, and Charlotte keeps every body lively wherever she goes. She told me she was having all her boxes made so that they could be turned into beds, couches, easy chairs, and tables. She has designed and superintended the making of them herself, and generously offers to make over the drawings to me when the carpenter has done with them; expressing her firm conviction that I, like herself, shall some day marry a penniless lieutenant. Well, better a penniless lieutenant than a Mr. Matthew Constant. That stealthy little man exasperates me. I shall quarrel with him before long, I know.
I had to sing last night, and somebody said I had a fine natural organ. Fine natural fiddlestick!
Uncle Joshua is in the most absurd good humour with me this morning: we none of us know how to interpret his vivacity. He has even gone so far as to unlock the sacred glass-doors of his bookcase, and to give me permission to help myself. He asked at breakfast if I should like to have a pony to ride while I am at Holly Bank. Of course I should; it would searcely be dull then. There is going to be a grand ball at Holmby next month: I should like to go; but there's no chance of it.
June 29. Uncle Joshua was very prompt in finding me a pony; he bought one yesterday of Mr. Petersham, after we had talked about it, and this morning I have tried it over Holmby Moor. It is a nice spirited animal: dark brown, with black mane and tail; really a pretty creature. But what has made Uncle Joshua, with whom I was never a favourite, take such a generous fit, I cannot tell. Maria looks mysterious, and says he has his reasons, if they are past our finding out.
In passing through Danby village Mr. Danby overtook us; he was going to Holmby also, and we rode together. He is an amusing man when one knows him better, but awfully proud: I should say he would never forgive or forget an offence; he has the most obstinate mouth in the world; he is not handsome, indeed people call him plain; but he is not that either: I don't quite know what sort of a face it is.
June 30. Last evening Mr. Danby came over without any invitation; we were all so surprised while we were sitting at dessert to hear a ring at the door-bell, and in he came. An importation of foreign customs, I suppose. Uncle Joshua gave him a general invitation for the future, if he found himself dull for lack of company in his great house, and Maria gave him a long lecture on philology; it is my belief he did not understand any thing she said; for he acceded to every one of her propositions, even when she contradicted herself. "That odious little Mr. Matthew Constant tried all the evening to be facetious, and failed dismally; Maria tried to frown him into silence, but did not succeed: I think she is half-ashamed of him sometimes in society, when he will distinguish himself by talking humorously, as he thinks. He is a gilded pill.
July 8. Mr. Danby has availed himself very freely of Uncle Joshua's general invitation to Holly Bank; he hag been over six times during the last seven days. This morning he came directly after breakfast, to give me a lesson in shooting: I was very tiresome. There is an inexplicable something about his grand air and obstinate face that rouses all my natural perversity into unnatural vivacity; I could not help saying very pert contradictious little things to him, for he was so miraculously patient with my blunders that it would really have been a pity not to test his temper. It is fiery, but well governed, I could tell. Once he almost vexed me, for he laughed; Uncle Joshua said it was at my shrewishness. A letter from Darlston, with such capital news! My father and Aunt Doe have given their consent to my going to the Holmby ball. Uncle Joshua wrote to ask them. I must go away into the hall and practise my steps, for I have half-forgotten them, I think.
July 9. Maria and I were caught yesterday dancing the new dance by Mr. Danby. He professes not to like it: I do like it, and I shall valse at the ball if any body asks me; it is very graceful and pretty, I'm sure. He looked very grim when I said so, but said no more. One would absolutely think, to hear him talk, that he fancied he had got some sort of right to advise me; indeed, I love my own way too well to listen to such supererogatory counsel; it is all very well for Aunt Doe, and even Maria, but he is not to lecture me.
July 17. Well, the ball is come and gone. I wish there was to be one every night for a month. I did enjoy it. I danced all night; never sat out a single set. Mr. Danby took me whenever I seemed not going to have another partner, so that I danced with him, in all, seven times; and he took me in to supper also. I heard somebody say I was pretty; I am very glad, though I don't believe I had ever thought of it before, or cared either: I am glad to be pretty, because it pleases people we like, and it ts a good thing, though Cousin Maria says it is not worth a straw whether one is pretty or not. My new white dress was handsomely made too, and it suited me; and those bouquets that came from the Danby greenhouse,—could any thing be more charming? Charlotte Petersham teased me about mine, for she said she knew the azalea could only have come from Danby. I have written them a long letter home about the ball. I did not think when I came to Holly Bank that I should enjoy it half so much.
This afternoon Mr. Danby walked over to ask how we were after our late night, and Uncle Joshua lent him his black horse Saladin to ride to Holmby: his own favourite has fallen lame, it seems. We had a little dispute before he left—(I wonder what makes me so perverse with him, for I don't dislike him)—and for the first time he rather lost his temper; and I saw as he went down the hill that he was fretting Saladin finely. They'll have a quarrel too before they get to Holmby, if he does not take care.
July 18. O, we have had the saddest accident! and I can't help feeling that somehow or other it is my blame. Mr. Danby had scarcely got a quarter of a mile from the Bank when Saladin threw him, and he was taken up seemingly dead; but they brought him here, and after he had been bled he recovered consciousness. I feel so dreadfully guilty when they talk about it down-stairs. Uncle Joshua says he would not have lent him the horse if he had not felt sure of both their tempers. I know how it was. I had a good cry last night thinking if he should die,—O, if he should die!
July 19. We have the quietest house, all speaking in whispers, and treading softly; the doctor is very grave about Mr. Danby's accident, and confesses he cannot tell yet what its issue may be. Another surgeon—a very clever one—was sent for from town yesterday; but he cannot be here until to-morrow night at the earliest. I was up this morning very early wandering about the garden; I can't be still in one place, and keep thinking always if—O, but I will not encourage so terrible a fear! Every body from far and near sends to inquire after him; there is enough for one person to do to answer them, and it falls principally to me. They all express astonishment at the manner of the accident, for Mr. Danby is such a thorough horseman. Nobody seems to suspect how it occurred.
July 25. It has been a dreadfully anxious time, but at last Mr. Danby is recovering; the doctor says in another week he may be about again. O, how thankful, how deeply thankful I am! Maria has gone to stay a week with the Petershams, and Mr. Matthew Constant has started for town; so Uncle Joshua and I have to entertain our invalid. He looks very shorn and ill, and is most particularly silent. If I did not fancy myself in some degree the cause of his suffering, I am afraid I should say he was ill-tempered. Only this morning, when I put up the green blind in Maria's sitting-room, to which he comes in the daytime, he said quite shortly, "Child, child, be still; the blind is best down; I can't bear the light;" and when I drew it down again, he made as if the noise aggravated him, so I left him to himself for an hour or two, and then carried him as a peace-offering a little vase filled with red and white moss-roses. He accepted it with the most ungracious air in the world, and set it down on the table without even admiring them. Absolutely he is a Turk, spite of his pale face!
July 29. This morning at breakfast Mr. Danby announced his intention of going off to the Grange in the course of the day; and he is gone. I dare say he fancies we shall miss him a very great deal more than we are likely to do, now all the bustle of preparing for Maria's wedding is begun. Papa and Aunt Doe come next week, and I have made up my mind to go back to Darlston with them. In riding to Holmby with Uncle Joshua this afternoon, after Mr. Danby left, we overtook Charlotte Petersham, who must needs insinuate a hundred absurdities. What can have put it into her head that Mr. Danby and I should ever have any thing to do with each other? It is absurd; I felt quite angry and mortified, and told her never to let any one hint at such a possibility before her without flatly contradicting it.
July 30. To all our surprise, Mr. Danby arrived at luncheon-time. I think he had better come and live here altogether; for he is no sooner out of the house than back he comes again directly, and with the most frivolous excuse to-day; Did we want flowers for the wedding-breakfast? Such nonsense! We have plenty at Holly Bank; and if not, there are enough to be bought out of the shops at Holmby. As soon as he had asked his ridiculous question he felt how silly it was, and turned a queer confused look. I could not help smiling and saying, "We shall decorate with corn-flowers and poppies, Mr. Danby, if all our friends' greenhouses are exhausted; or I don't think Maria would care if we had thistles and nettles instead." "No need for the last, Margaret, where your tongue is," said Uncle Joshua, laughing; and I verily believe Mr. Danby coincided; for he regained his self-possession immediately, and began to talk very fast. Whenever Mr. Danby is put out or excited he talks fast, and so he does when he is pleased. He said he thought of going abroad for the winter. What in the world is it to us if he chooses to go to the moon!—and he speaks about it just as if he expected some of us to coax him to stay at home. I advised him to go to the Holy Land, taking Jericho in his way; and it was laughable to see the dismayed and surprised look he put on. He got up as if going to pack his carpet-bag instanter, and marched off. We shall not see him again, I expect, for a week, as he is going away to his brother's house at Moor Park.
August 3. Mr. Danby found Moor Park dull, we suppose; for he is back at home again, and this morning joined Uncle Joshua and me in our ride. The poor man has quite an orphaned look: I could laugh sometimes at his dolour. He has not recovered thoroughly from the effects of his accident, and is so gray and solemn. We went back to the Grange with him to look at a new picture he has bought,—he is sensible enough to patronise modern art; and then, as I had not seen the house, he took me through the principal rooms. There are a great number of fine paintings which he brought from abroad; but the thing he seems to set the most store by is a portrait of his mother by Reynolds. It is a lovely countenance; he seems quite to venerate her; she died just as he was growing up, he told me.
I believe he asked Uncle Joshua if he might come to dinner this evening, and I taxed him with the fact; but he denied it strenuously. I proposed to my uncle that we should take him in to board and lodge as he is so fond of Holly Bank; but was bid to hold my tongue.
My father and Aunt Doe come to-morrow, and Mr. Matthew Constant the day after. Maria has got home again, and contemplates the crisis of her fate with a sublime equanimity; she wishes it were all over too, and wonders why there need be such a fuss of bridesmaids and bridecake and stuff! Aunt Doe is to bring the dresses and bonnets from town; I hope they will be pretty. At first Uncle Joshua determined that the wedding-breakfast should be quite a family-party, there aye so many relatives on both sides the house; but it appears now that Mr. Danby is to be invited. What has he to do with the family, I should wish to know? I hope he will see the propriety of not coming where he would only be in the way. If I have an opportunity, I think I shall give him a hint.
August 5. Papa and Aunt Doe, and ever so many more people, are here; the house is overflowing from cellar to attic. To-morrow is the grand day. Mr. Matthew Constant grows more and more conceited; he is telling every body he is so proud of Maria. Maria does not reciprocate the compliment. O, what a marriage! I would rather be ten times an old maid than marry such a little disagreeable man. It is a very lucky thing that Maria does not cherish romantic views of life; but I think this sort of barter and sale sinks a long way below the practical. Aunt Doe, who has never seen him before, and hoped better things of Maria, is grieved exceedingly; and papa quite avoids him.
August 7, 1822. The great wedding-day is over, and Cousin Maria and Mr. Matthew Constant have gone into the north (it is near the twelfth, and he has designs on the grouse, we believe), and every body but myself is in bed. I have not had time yet to think whether I am glad or sorry that Mr. Danby loves me. It seems he had spoken to papa the night before; but it took me quite by surprise, and to begin to cry was, I am sure, just the silliest thing I could do. I don't know whether it is worth while to be the envy of all my acquaintance at the cost of having no delicious young time as most girls have,—no balls or picnics or fun,—and I shall not be seventeen till December. I am rather happy too—I shall not begin to be afraid of him. They all seem to think it an awfully serious affair. Uncle Joshua could almost thank me on his knees for achieving such honour; and though papa and Aunt Doe say less, it is easy to see how proud and pleased they both are. This is the best way to fulfil my vocation; but Charlotte Petersham's remark about the penniless ensign had filled my fancy with lofty ideas of the dignity of self-sacrifice; and I saw myself, in imagination, travelling in baggage-waggons in the rear of the regiment, and following my hero to the wars; and instead of that, I am to have a fine house and luxury all my life. I rather wish Mr. Danby were a penniless ensign for a few years, and when we were tired of dangers and adventures we could come into our fortunes and take our rest; it is not romantic to have every thing smooth:—if only somebody would have contradicted us! How strange it looks to see me writing about myself and Mr. Danby as us. His Christian name is Harry—Harry; it is always a nice name to say, but I shall not call him by it,—not now, at least. I suppose we shall see him to-morrow. Well, after all I think I am glad—I'm sure I am.
August 10. I have to be on my very best behaviour just now, for Aunt Doe keeps the most watchful of eyes upon me whenever I begin to be fractious with Mr. Danby. I do wish she would not expatiate so diffusely on his virtues and his excellence; for the fact of his being so much better than I am makes me feel inclined to be perverse and aggravating. His superlative goodness is a reproach to me. How can any body expect nearly seventeen to be as sober as thirty? I am very glad and happy now when I am not put out of temper by too much advice. I shall like to be Mr. Danby's wife, for he is a man to look up to and trust. I could never love any one who was not my master. We had the pleasantest ride together to-day round by Haggerston Woods. I did not want to contradict once. I flatter myself I was as sweet as summer all the while.
August 15. It was so vexing! I do wish people would let me have my time, instead of trying to make me a staid, experienced, well-behaved character all at once. I am most grieved with Aunt Doe; she never lets me alone, and I can't bear it. If I did wish to valse, it was not so wrong; other girls valse. It is quite unreasonable to expect me to give up all my amusements, just because I am engaged to be married to Mr. Danby. If they had not both warned me, "Margaret, you must not valse, because Mr. Danby dislikes it;" and, "Don't valse, Margaret; I can't endure to see you valse," I don't think I should have done it, because I knew beforehand that it was disagreeable to Mr. Danby; and I do love him enough to forego a much greater matter than a valse. But to be for ever schooled and dictated to is too bad. Why does not Mr. Danby make the best of my faults, instead of the worst? I am sure I showed him early enough how restive and wilful I can be when I am thwarted; it is his own fault if we quarrel, and not mine.
August 27. Yesterday we all came home to Darlston. Laura and May were glad to see us—the bonnie wee darlings! Mr. Danby is coming over to stay next month with us for the shooting. It is so ridiculous to see the respect with which people treat me now to what they did. All the Wilton girls came over yesterday to talk about my engagement, and any thing else I would tell them. I am rather proud to be married out of the nursery; but I would not be proud at all if Mr. Danby were not such a good man as well as a rich one. We are not to have along engagement; I don't care; I feel as if I should be happier with him by myself now than in the midst of people warning and watching and guiding me. I should like to be let alone. I know what would keep me quiet and tractable; my love for Harry would, if they would only leave me to it and myself; but they won't.
September 8. We are not to have Mr. Danby at Darlston so soon as we expected; he has been obliged to go over to Nice, where his brother is staying on account of his health—there are even fears for his life. Harry writes me often long, pleasant letters, and those I send him are shamefully brief; but he says they are precious! I do wish this journey abroad had not come in the way; this autumn's parties will not be half so agreeable without him.
Cousin Maria and Mr. Constant have been staying with us a week, and we all fancied that she did not look very happy. Does he behave well to her, I wonder? He is more sleek and odious than ever; but instead of his watching her to forestall her wishes, she has to observe him: and she does it in fear and trembling. Wealthy as he is known to be, they have scarcely any establishment—no carriage or horses; it is a very incomprehensible state of affairs; but Maria says nothing, and of course nobody cares to interfere. Yes, she said to me yesterday that the first six months of woman's married life are the most tiresome and miserable that can be conceived. What a confession from a four weeks' wife!
October 15. We have heard to-day of Mr. Herbert Danby's death at Nice. Harry feels it very very much; he will be with us by the thirtieth. I am very sorry for him; they were the nearest of an age in the family, and had been so much together all their lives—at school first, and then in their travels abroad. He said in his letter it had been a most painful time.
October 30. Mr. Danby arrived this afternoon; it quite grieves me to see him so deeply feeling his loss. In his mourning he looks graver and older than ever; the little ones don't fancy him much; neither, I remember, did I at our first meeting.
October 10. There is not much to do at Darlston just now; no company, and no going out, on Mr. Danby's account. When the ball comes, I suppose none of us will go; Aunt Doe bade me not mention it. She took me to task pretty sharply last night for some wild speech I made to Mr. Danby; she says if he were not one of the most forbearing and patient of men he would break with me at once. I can bear a good deal of lecturing from Aunt Doe, because I know she loves me; still, I think she might take my part a little more. I don't mean to do any thing wrong; but these fits of mischievous perversity will get possession of me. Mr. Danby does not make a long stay with us this time; there is some talk of his going on Monday, but I don't think he will, really.
October 22. Winter has begun very early this year. Yesterday papa, Mr. Danby, and I, were overtaken near Darlston Pits in a snow-storm; we had a terrible ride home, and sitting to play in the nursery with the little ones for an hour in my wet habit has given me a miserable cold: I feel quite stupid, and was so cross all last evening. The first part of it, till after dinner, got over pretty comfortably; but when Aunt Doe fell asleep in the drawing-room, and papa was reading his paper, Mr. Danby and I began to fratch, as usual. I said one thing to him that I would have bitten my tongue off to recall the moment it was uttered: but I could not humble myself enough to acknowledge I was wrong, though I saw he was deeply wounded. He got up and left me, and soon after he and papa went away into the library, and there they stayed till past midnight. I sat up longer than we do generally, in the hope he would come back and say good night; but he did not, and this morning he was away to London before I came down-stairs. He left me in anger, I know, and I'm so sorry now; for all my perversity cannot keep me from loving him very very dearly. There'll be a letter to-morrow.
October 27. No letter from Mr. Danby yet: what can it mean? Aunt Doe looked at me very gravely this morning when papa took the letters out of the bag, and the tears came into her kind eyes: could they be for me? I am not well at all now: so dull and heavy, as if something were hanging over me, as if I were going to be ill. I do wish Harry would write. It is four days since he left.
October 31. Waiting for the post! Another twenty-four anxious hours—perhaps to go through the same pang of disappointment to-morrow. No letter from Mr. Danby yet Papa says nothing, Aunt Doe says nothing; so I must just keep my anxieties to myself. This morning there was a bitter north-east wind blowing over the wolds laden with gusts of sleety rain, and there were packed clouds on the horizon which threatened snow. Old Mattie did not come with the bag; so after waiting till noon, when a fine gleam touched the sky, I thought it would be as well to take a walk, and while I was about it to go over to the post. By the time I was ready the sun was hidden again, and a few scattered snow-flakes came drifting on the wind; but there was a biting anxiety at my heart that defied the cold wet blast. I set out, hoping that the storm would pass; but it thickened when I was about half-way, and then it was of no use to turn back. I was very glad to see the old church-tower and the rectory through the falling cloud at last. I went into Mattie's shop almost ashamed to be seen, and began by inquiring after her rheumatism; and then asked suddenly, as if it were an after-thought, "By the by, Mattie, are there any letters for our house?" Can I be turning deceptive? Mattie was measuring out a pennyworth of nuts for a little boy; and when she had done she looked into the drawer, and after turning over several letters, said, "No, Miss Arden, there's not one—only the squire's paper." So I took that and went away, as Mattie observed that it was a pity that I should have come out on such a day, and that she would send her Tom up with the letters to-morrow the minute they came in. Mattie has my secret all the while: I have been waiting for her often in the avenue lately, though the weather is so raw and chill; once even I met her at the brow of the hill leading to the village, and she looked grieved to disappoint me.
Then I set off to tramp home again. O it is weary! How many days have I waited for a word of forgiveness; for an assurance of Harry's continuing love! I am tempted to think that the prevalent winds of my life are always to be due north, as cold and as bitter as that which drove in my face as I came home.
November 1. O, it is very hard to believe; I can't believe it yet,—it is too sudden,—he might have known I could not mean it when I said so. It was only my temper; and he vexed me. I did not wish him to go away. And he told papa what I had said, "That he always brought clouds with him wherever he went, and that I did not think I could ever be happy with him, and we had better separate while it was time." I did say those words, but it was only in a fit of crossness; and he took them in earnest. When the bag was brought in this morning, I said, "Papa, is there nothing for me?" peeping over his shoulder in hopes that there might be; for I could not suspect then what was the truth. And papa said, "No, Maggie; do you expect a letter from any body?" I turned very red, for Aunt Doe was watching me, and answered, "Yes, papa, to be sure I do; I thought I should hear from Mr. Danby; he has been gone a full week." There was a dead silence for a minute that made my heart sink with an undefinable fear; then Aunt Doe got up and went out, leaving papa and me alone. "Why does he not write; do you know, papa?" I asked hurriedly. "You should know best, Maggie," was his answer; and he went on reading a letter that he had just opened. Then it came into my mind that what I had so foolishly and wickedly said to him the night before he went away from Darlston must have driven him from me. I caught at the table to keep myself from falling; for a thick mist rose before my eyes, and the room seemed to be going round with me. "Speak, papa; tell me what he said to you before he left; I want to know," I whispered hoarsely.
Papa looked very much shocked: " Why, Maggie, it was your own doing. You told him you could never be happy as his wife, and he had better leave you while there was time; and he took you at your word. What could you expect? Mr. Danby is not a man to be led by any girl's caprice. We are all very sorry about it; but if you felt what you said, you were right to say it. I had begun to doubt myself whether you were well matched.
"O, papa, papa!" I cried, "I did like him better than any body in the world; but I was in a passion—"
"Had you not better go to Aunt Doe, my darling? the mischief is done now—Mr. Danby is gone." So I went away upstairs to Aunt Doe. She knew what it meant when I flung myself down beside her, and laid my head on her lap to cry. O, I was so wild and angry, as well as grieved. He has been unkind to me—I am sure he has. Nobody shall ever persuade me that he is right to leave me, when he knows as well as I do that I love him. He wants to punish me; but I feel that he is as much wrong as I am, and more.
November 2. It is so miserable for me now; but what can I do? I must not write to Harry, and tell him how sorry I am: that would be unwomanly—Aunt Doe says so. Would it? I am not sure. He loves me—he would forgive me if I asked him;—but no, no; there are so many things a girl must not say. I have tried to write a letter, but it is such a one as I dare not send. I used to be so coquettish and silly that I never would acknowledge to him that I loved him, and he might well doubt it. I cannot tell him now: he might fling back my confession scornfully—he would! he would! He is proud and stern and very unforgiving—perhaps he has ceased to love me, O, I think my heart will break!—if there were any hope—but he is gone quite away.
November 3. Already those curious disagreeable people, the Wiltons, have observed Mr. Danby's abrupt departure; and to my other grief is added the mortification of listening to their surprised exclamations. It is very hard to have to keep up before them, but Aunt Doe says I must; she will not have me give way; and my wretched cold and cough have to account for heavy eyes and aching head. O, for how many sore pains stands that common excuse, "a bad head-ache!" I cry myself to sleep night after night; and waking suddenly in a paroxysm of tears, brood over my grief till dawn, and then get up to act indifference, that people may not say I am disappointed. I wish I could get out of sight with my trouble until I grow used to it. I feel so wretchedly ill to-night with a violent throbbing pain in my head, which I have had more or less ever since papa and I spoke together; it is as if I had got a severe blow. But the pain in my head is not half so bad as the ache that never leaves my heart. Where is Harry now? I wish I knew.
November 25. I have not had the heart to write a line in my poor diary for weeks; and now I don't know why I have begun it again. We are all going to Italy for the winter; the doctor says if I stay here I shall die. I wish they would let me die; but I don't feel as if I should—that is too good to hope. I am very grieving and sad: I think Mr. Danby is hard; but it is of no use complaining or fretting; I brought his anger on myself. Laura and May are to be left at school; and when we come from abroad—if I ever come—papa thinks of letting dear old Darlston, and living in London altogether. I have a fancy for the house at Norfleet, where we were all born; but he will not listen to that. Uncle Joshua writes us word that Danby Hall is shut up, and its master away, nobody knows where. I do hope we shall not meet him in our travels abroad: but it is not likely. Aunt Doe does not like leaving England: but I will not go without her—she is a darling comfort, Aunt Doe.
November 27. Every thing is packed up, and to-morrow we go. It is a severance from the old life: I feel now that I would rather have stayed here; but they are doing it for me. I had a letter from Cousin Maria, begging I would go to her, for she is ill; but I cannot—I cannot bear any body's trouble but my own just now. Aunt Doe is so very kind to me, and so are they all. The 2d of December will be my birthday: I shall be seventeen—only seventeen! Sometimes I am almost sick with my sorrow; but the fit passes, and leaves me languid and worn out. O, I shall always, always think that Mr. Danby was unkind to me—I meant no harm; he is proud and unforgiving. Well, we shall never see each other again; and if we do, it will be only as strangers: and yet I cannot say sincerely that I wish I had never known him. If I live, I shall grieve down by and by; but I can never, never love any one again as I loved Mr. Danby. How foolish it is of me to write thus; but I have no one, not even Aunt Doe, to whom I can speak it. Laura and sweet May travel up to London with us, and there we leave them at Mrs. Magnall's. The kind old soul will say her pet-pupil is altered. She has warned me a hundred times and more about my passionate temper. How well I remember her giving me the fable of "The Oak and the Reed" to learn. I am broken enough now. I feel as ifI could never be still again. The last day or two I have thought that it is possible I may not come home again any more, I am so weak and look so wan; yet I have no pain or ache any where now. I think he would be sorry if I were to die: I think he would grieve. I would grieve years hence, I know, to hear of harm having befallen him. I cannot get away from this theme: I never thought to suffer so much. Shall we ever, ever see each other again? 0, if I might only have told him!