by Holme Lee.
Originally published in The National Magazine (National Magazine Company) #1 (Nov 1856).
Part II.
London, February 17, 1832. Yesterday week, two old boxes were sent up from Darlston containing some of papa's books and papers; and amongst them, behold my lost diary! the lock all rusted, and the binding mouldy. Faithful old secret-keeper! I have been reading a few of its last dismal pages. Can it be Margaret Arden who wrote them? Well, I suppose it was.
Wonderful to look back ten years, and to see the difference between then and now. Laura married and a mother, pretty May grown up, and myself quite on the old maids' list. Papa,—I don't know what ails papa; he always looks preoccupied and melancholy. Some of his wonderful speculations may be going wrong; but we dare not ask, for he avoids all allusion to them studiously.
We have had Uncle Joshua staying in town for a fortnight: he brings all the gossip of his neighbourhood. Mr. Danby seems avowed to bachelorhood. He has become a very busy popular man in his county. He must be growing middle-aged now: I am seven-and-twenty, and he was ten years older or more. Papa was speaking yesterday of some very important measure that he is trying to carry through parliament, and saying that he had made a very able speech in the House upon it, and was much trusted by his party. I read that speech in the paper,—at least, I dare say it is that one; but he speaks often. It strikes me that he clings with intense pertinacity to his purposes;—that old obstinate look,—I wonder whether his gray face wears it still? If there were a chance, I would go to hear him some night, for old friendship's sake.
February 25. Last night Maria Constant and I got into the gallery of the House, after a grand crush, and I heard Mr. Danby speak. He is not very fluent, but he brings out a few nervous, detached sentences that are very much to the point; and when he has said his say, down he sits. He reminds me of nothing so much as a hammer driving in a nail with a few steady strokes. I was surprised to observe how gray his hair has become, and what a worn, over-worked look there is on his face. They say he is a thorough-going, practical, energetic man of business.
February 28. We are all very uneasy about my father just now: I never saw him in such a restless, perturbed state before. I wonder what could make him rush into speculation; we had money enough and to spare, without gambling for more.
March 17. At a dinner-party at the Petershams' last night we met Mr. Danby. Papa had some talk with him, and he took notice of May, remarking that she is like what I was. She is much prettier than ever I was, even in my best days. We exchanged half-a-dozen sentences about indifferent matters, and both looked and felt awkward with each other. I could not help remembering that speech I made to him so long ago, which broke off our engagement. Charlotte's "penniless lieutenant" has met with quick promotion.
March 30. I am miserable about my father; he looks ill and anxious to the last degree. If he would only speak, and tell us what he fears or suffers, it would be better than this silent expectation of we know not what.
April 2. My father looks calmer this morning than we have seen him do for months; he feels, at least, that all is known—the very worst. Uncle Joshua says he has expected it for years, and that no man who ran after every new theory that was started, and took a part in every specious project that turned up, could reasonably look for any other result. Uncle Joshua is very hard and unconciliatory. He does not seem at all distressed at the verification of his sagacious previsions—rather the reverse, indeed. When my father stated the case in his hesitating way, he blustered out after his usual manner: "Pretty interest your philanthropy is likely to bring you, brother James!—a fool and his money are soon parted." My poor father looked miserable, especially when he had to confess that Darlston must be sold. Uncle Joshua cast up his hands, and cried, "James, you're surely mad to talk of selling Darlston: things can't be so bad as that?" "They are as bad as bad can be. We must make our home at Norfleet henceforward," my father answered. At this announcement Uncle Joshua looked as if he were struck dumb, shook his head, and walked out of the house. As soon as he was gone, May began to ery and to hang about my father in her fond, affectionate Way ; it was very distressing; she begged that they might not be separated whatever should happen. It is a comfort in our adversity to feel that there is no disunion amongst us. Aunt Dorothy got her coaxed away, and then my father and I had a long talk about ways and means. It was very late before we got to bed, and then I could not sleep for thinking of all the changes that were to come. We go to Norfleet in a few days.
April 17. This is going to be no playing at poverty, O, surely if my poor father had known what disastrous consequences to all of us his foolish speculations were to produce, he would not have been so rash! We left him in London yesterday, and arrived here this afternoon about dusk. If ever there was a house that had "haunted" legibly inscribed on the face of it, surely Norfleet Manor-house is the place. Dowker has come with us, and has done nothing but grumble since she set her foot over the door-stone. Matters look unpromising enough certainly. It is a wet night to begin with, and the parlour-fire smoked so we have been obliged to let it go out; the paper on the walls is not only damp, but it hangs in ragged festoons; there is no carpet, and very little furniture. We have all done our best to be cheerful, but it was a miserable effort; and now poor little May is fretting herself to sleep.
April 18. A better day than could have been expected. There is a charm and an invigorating power in spring sunshine: this morning rose very bright and clear, and I found myself hopeful and cheerful. We have all been hard at work as carpenters, upholsterers, and housemaids, and have done what we could to reduce this old place to order. How very fortunate my father did not come down with us! Aunt Doe is a whole host of servants and workpeople in herself; for she is one of those clever women who can turn their hand to any thing as readily as if they had been born to it. By her advice we have forsaken the large parlours for two little wainscoted rooms with bow-windows that look into the garden. We have to make the chintz-covers and curtains ourselves, under Dowker's querulous superintendence. She never looked to see her young ladies work, she reiterates; and all our misfortunes she resents as private, personal afflictions. Faithful old soul!
April 27. My father came down from London yesterday, looking, to our sorrow, very ill and worn. He gives way to his depression more than we anticipated; and now that all necessity for exertion is over, he is sinking into a state of dull apathy from which nothing seems able to rouse him. He sits the whole of the long mornings in his dressing-room, not reading or writing, or doing any thing that we can discover but ponder over and lament what is now irretrievable, What a fortunate thing it is we have been able to make some of the house cheerful! if he had seen it as we saw it first, I do not think he would have stayed. We are all rather proud of the results of our exertions in the upholstering trade; for in our great Darlston house we had no rooms so comfortable as our two old-fashioned parlours, when the sun shines. The furniture, re-covered with red and white chintz, is quite seemly; and we have discovered a quantity of grotesque china ornaments in one of the cupboards, which fits out the mantel-pieces and cabinets very appropriately. It is ugly, May says; but it is in keeping with the stiff-backed chairs and spindle-legged tables. By dint of glorious fires, bunches of lilac and laburnum in the vases, and our books and other feminine belongings scattered about, we have succeeded in making a very picturesque and cosy home for ourselves. If only my dear father would be more cheerful.
May 9. We are grieving down now, and gradually fitting ourselves to the new life. We have all found out that we have a till now undeveloped taste for gardening; and for the last ten days we have been at work in our mossy wilderness. After all, it is a very pretty spot: the view of the house from the further side of the river is most picturesque; but papa fancies the ivy makes it damp. I hope he will not insist upon having it all torn down before Laura and her husband come, for then it will look naked and dreary. Aunt Doe has been busy yesterday and to-day with Dowker getting ready rooms for them, and a nursery for the youngster. I am glad they are coming, if it is only to stir my father out of his languid apathy, which he suffers to grow upon him more and more every day.
May 15. The house is turned completely upside down since Laura, Norton, and the baby arrived; but the fuss has done my father good already: he is beginning to look more like himself again, which is a great comfort. But to think that I, Mistress Margaret Arden, am to be reduced to a mere cipher in the house by a squalling chit of eight months old! It is preposterous, incredible, yet painfully true. This shows me the additional consequence a woman gains by fulfilling her vocation in the old-fashioned way. Laura, ten years younger than I am, a married mother, treats me with the civilest patronage in the world. First I must give up my bedroom to be converted into a nursery, because it has a southern aspect, which will be suitable for baby; then I must be awakened every morning at five o'clock,—I who never get up till the day is well aired,—by its crowing next door to me. No longer ago than yesterday, I caught it gnawing the cover of my precious Rochefoucauld's Maxims: Laura it was its gums or its teeth. Teeth, indeed! Well, I hope the little mischief has imbibed some of their bitterness. What is the good of being an old maid, I should like to know, if I am to be deprived of my privileges in this way? As well be married and have done with it: at least one knows what to expect. Laura, whose whole soul is in a bassinet, is quite lady paramount now, and wears her baby as if it were an insignia of the order of merit, conferred upon her by nature in approbation of some wonderful feat that she has performed. Then she bores me to extinction by lengthy details concerning it. Why, I could cite as many and more entertaining of my kitten Toby! Its bonnets, its frocks, its little pink toes, its great eyes with a wise sagacious look, its rose-bud of a mouth, its dimple, its six yellow hairs,—O, how she does ring the changes on them, as if every baby in Christendom had not the like! I verily believe if you were to collect twelve infants of eight months old and put them together into a room, unclothed, I could not pick out Dottie. Dottie! that is the pet name for the innocent; she was christened Mabel, but Laura never speaks English now; she talks exclusively in babble. It is scarcely an hour since she invited me at dinner to partake of "mincey beefey:" I could not have touched that dish if I had been paid to do it. If it were—
May 16. Yesterday I was interrupted in the midst of a sentence by a knock at my door. Nurse in tears—baby in a fit. Would I go over to Holmby for the doctor; there was nobody else to go? Of course I would; there is so much trouble in bringing the quaint little mortals into the world, that it is a pity they should go out of it prematurely. It was an even down-pour of rain, so I saddled papa's little rough pony myself,—the groom at the inn who does it generally being away,—and had a hard seven miles' trot over the wold. Ah, well, who knows but that Dottie may grow up to be a comfort to me when I am an old woman! Laura says she has a sweet temper; and so she ought to have, poor wee soul, for they try it with castor-oil, bottle, and pins from morning till night. I dare say it was similar persecution in my infancy that made me so restive when I grew up. Aunt Doe says no; it was the natural perversity that is in me: but I incline to think myself that it was injudicious coddling. As I was trotting post-haste down Holmby Lane, I encountered Mr. Danby on his pretty bay mare: coming to Norfleet has brought us quite into his neighbourhood. I suppose if we went any where we should be likely to meet him; but we are too poor to keep company. Perhaps Charlotte Bruce will take May to the Holmby ball, if Laura and Norton don't go: she would like it, I am sure. I retnember my Holmby bail: what an enjoyable time it was! Heigho, ten years ago!
June 5. Somebody has found his way to Norflest, to whom I should be very very glad to say good-by,—Captain Ernest Norton. He came for the Holmby archery meeting and ball, and of course May saw him at both, He is my favourite aversion--a male coquette. He boasts of having flirted his way all round the alphabet, and keeps a small collection of locks of hair, gloves, ribbons, and flowers—feminine trophies, duly labelled, and always open to the inspection of his friends. He is doing his utmost to turn May's head; for her beauty makes it well worth his while to enslave her; arid she takes his homage in earnest, and is evidently pleased. Laura laughed when I spoke to her about it, and said it was only "Ernest's way." She believed he was engaged. "Ernest's way!" I shall warn May, let her be angry or no.
June 7, Papa, perfectly unconscious of what is going forward, presses Captain Norton to stay another week; and May is quite delighted. It vexes me inexpressibly to see her throwing away her heart on such a trifler. Only yesterday I caught her in tears, because there was some talk of his going away: I ventured on my warning, and she fired up indignantly, and then flashed out of the room without answering m6 a single word. And all the evening she kept aloof from me, and was more winning than ever to Captain Norton, as if to defy my doubts. It is a pity she saw so
much of him last Christmas at Laura's house: the mischief was done then. Charlotte Bruce has asked me to go to her for a couple of days next week; they are going to have some pleasant company, she says.
June 12. This morning Captain Norton left Norfleet, greatly to my satisfaction and Aunt Doe's too: he has been here a great deal too long. Laura's husband spoke to him about his conduct to May, and during the last three days it underwent a total change. He began to treat her like a child, and to jest at her; he even had the impertinence to say, "Good-by, little May, you'll be quite a woman when I come again," and to offer to kiss her; but she drew herself up proudly, and gave him a stately curtsey instead. Bless her dear heart! But I did wish I were a man just for one short quarter of an hour, that I might have administered a sound castigation, and have changed his wily, conceited smile into a more dolorous expression.
June 17. Charlotte Bruce's pleasant company was Mr. Danby and his eldest brother. The house is a good one for visitors: no tiresome constraint. Each one does what is agreeable in his and her own eyes. Mr. Danby and I talked political economy, foreign travel, and pictures. He has got a very nervous habit of twirling his watch-guard, which I don't remember in old times; and whenever any, the most distant allusion to them occurs, even in general conversation, he flushes and starts away. I should like to know what he thinks then. I am as composed as possible; therefore I opine all the ancient feelings are dead.
We had a long letter from Laura this morning to tell us of their safe arrival at home. She adds, as agreeable news, that her brother-in-law, Captain Ernest, is going to be married in August to a Mrs. Foxley, a rich widow, who is twelve years older than himself. May heard the news read aloud by papa without betraying the slightest emotion or surprise. She has not once mentioned his name since he left the house: a sure indication that he is ever in her thoughts. How soon we women learn to be hypocrites!
June 24. We have got a very dangerous type of low fever stirring in the neighbourhood just now. A man at Danby-Fleetwood, and two of his children, have got it; and two children in Norfleet have died of it. May and I were at the school to-day, and heard that Mary Wallis had taken it,—she was our nurse, an excellent creature—and May insisted on going to see her, so we both went. She is Very ill, not likely to recover, Uncle Joshua has sent me an invitation for a month; but it is not at a season like the present that I can leave home, so I have declined, Mr. Danby was here yesterday to see my father.
June 27, We are in dreadful anxiety for darling May; we cannot tell what ails her—surely it cannot be the fever! She hangs about languid and weary, sometimes hysterically gay, and sometimes very still. Dr. Manning shall see her, if she is no better to-morrow. Aunt Doe is in great alarm, but dare not say a word on my father's account. He has got some idea into his head about her and Captain Ernest Norton; and we are afraid of his speaking to her about him just now. She is better let alone.
July 1, Poor May is delirious in fever: she was struck with it three days ago, and its progress is awfully rapid, O, it makes our hearts bleed to see her. She has not recognised any of us for eight-and-forty hours; but we have hope in her strong constitution; Dr. Manning says we may hope. It was kind in Mr. Danby to walk over this morning, but I told him he must come no more to our infected house.
July 5, The crisis is over now, and our sweet pet lies passive and helpless, but living and perfectly conscious. 0, what hope it gives to see beloved eyes light up with intelligence when the dark fever-eclipse is over! Our only fear now is from exhaustion. What a different world the child will look on when she rises from her sick bed! Laura would come over when she heard of her illness, and is here now. May seems to like her near her better than any of us, Aunt Doe is worn out With watching.
July 12. This morning we buried our darling, our beautiful May! Long will it be ere we can realise our loss; her death came so suddenly, so painfully, just when we were beginning to hope that she might be spared to us. When she saw Aunt Doe in tears, she said, "Don't cry, I am quite happy.' Afterwards she added, "Let Dottie have my watch when she is old enough; Maggie, you take my books." They were what she had prized most. My heart swelled almost to bursting as I knelt beside her, and asked her to forget it if I had ever been unkind or harsh to her; she could not speak then, but she smiled her forgiveness. Last night, when I went to look at her in her coffin, the smile was on her lips still. Papa is quite struck down by this sudden bereavement: "Always the best first," he keeps murmuring to himself. It seems as if all the sunshine had faded out of the house, and left us in the midst of barren winter.
July 28. We have prevailed on my father to go home with Laura; the change will divert and cheer him more than any thing else could. O, in what haste are we to put our dead out of our thoughts, and to get away back into the beaten routine of our lives! Strange contradiction! what we most love we seem desirous the soonest to forget. The fever has has made empty places at many hearths besides ours. Last Sunday at church there were many, many people in mourning. Aunt Doe feels May's loss so keenly.
July 31. I have just come back from a walk all through the blazing afternoon sun to Danby-Fleetwood. We got word this morning that Mr. Danby had taken the fever: I could not believe it at first; but it is true, it is true. I dare not face Aunt Doe. All the old love poured back over my heart like a stream with a fresh on it when I heard it, and this new fear for him makes me seem half-forgetful of dear May. How selfish we are even in our affection! My thoughts are more, far more for Mr. Danby than for my dead sister. Will he live, or will he die? I ask myself twenty times an hour. What is it to me? O my God, it is all the world to me! I feel as if I could not bear to lose him, as if he were mine again. I think if one came to me now and said, "He is dead!" I should drop dead at their feet also.
I took the bridle-road through Haggerston Woods, and asked at the first lodge if what we had heard was true--that Mr. Danby had taken the fever; and the woman said, indeed that was over-true, the doctor was at the house then. I rode half-way up the avenue, and turned back again. What more could I learn than I had learnt? What right had I there? I asked the gatekeeper who there was to nurse her master, and she told me "nobody but the servants;" and some of them were in such a fright they were quite helpless. How desolate it sounds! Could not I go to him? O, that I
had the right!
How vividly all the past comes over me again—all its hitter pain and mortification! Ah, I was a child then; but I have never had young thoughts since; never has another love or another hope come into my heart since that first golden glorious day when Mr. Danby asked me to be his wife! Foolish,—here am I alone,—there lies he alone, suffering, perhaps dying! and between us ten long years of estrangement. Can the end be coming? O my God, have mercy, have pity! I scarcely know how or what I write; all about me seems whirl and confusion. Yet how still, how sleepy calm is the summer day! it takes no note of sorrow. When I grieve, I would have the clouds hang low and weep. How can I think of the day, when he is in agony? Why cannot I go to him? Nobody but servants to tend him—no hand of affection. Ought I not to go? What care I for that old scarecrow, "What will people say?" Would not my heart reproach me if he died alone? I know it would.
August 1. O May, May, my angel sister, can the time be coming when I shall wish myself lying beside thee in the grave? Very sad, very desolate, very hopeless looks the blank world. Last night I could not rest. There was a glorious moon, the country was hushed and lovely. I never met a soul as I went down by Haggerston Woods to Danby—to the house. All the windows were dark, and I was never seen; but it eased me somewhat to be near him. If I might only have gone in—but no. And I came home again weeping,—O, how bitterly! Aunt Doe had found out my absence, and was grieved. It is not easy to judge for others: she does not know how I suffer. This morning the report is that he is worse, and that a hospital-nurse from Holmby is left with him. Are those women kind? He has no need of me now: O, I wish he had! I have written to my father to tell him: he will be grieved anew, for he always liked Mr. Danby.
August 3. How long are those glorious days burdened with fear! I sit in the garden for hours alone; mind vacant except for one terrible dread: there is nothing for me to do to break this intensity of waiting anxiety. We were told this morning that there was very very little hope. God help us!
August 4, Last night I fell asleep, and dreamed the most beautiful dream! We were young again, and no quarrel had come to divide us; it was the old happy time at Holly Bank. We were walking, in my dream, in that lovely glade of Haggerston Woods where the lilies grow—(how poor May liked to gather those lilies!)—and it seemed as if we went on and on for years; I always felt young in my heart. But looking up suddenly, I saw his face was grown old, and all his hair was white; and I awoke. Such a strange dream! We have Just heard news: to-day's report is many degrees more favourable. I met Dr. Manning coming out of the gate at Danby, and he told me his friends might be easy about him now. O, how thankful I am! Directly I got home I fell on my knees and thanked God. His loss would have afflicted many, many besides me: he is so truly excellent.
August 6. Yesterday Mr. Danby had a relapse: I could no longer restrain myself, and I went to him. I was suffered to go up-stairs by the nurse, under a promise of secrecy. He did not know me. "O God, have mercy, and spare him!" is my cry; but it seems now as if the heavens were brass to my prayers. And I had begun to hope so certainly.
August 8. Again a glimmer of hope! "Only a constitution of iron could have gone through such a severe struggle" Dr. Manning says; and he adds, that there is something mysterious in this sudden improvement, for which he has not ventured to look. It seems as if he had made up his mind to live, and would live, spite of the fever.
August 10. Mr. Danby gradually rallies: "all danger is past." O, my heart could scarcely bear the torrent of joy those last few words poured over it. He will live, and I shall see him again. There was a faithful prophecy in my dream after all.
We had a letter from Laura this morning: she tells us that my poor father never ceases to lament for May, dear May! She cannot prevail on him to remain with them any longer. He says nothing but "Home, home." We look for his return to Norfleet to-morrow or the next day. Now I can meet him with a less mournful face.
August 28. Mr. Danby is out of doors again. My father and I went to inquire after him this morning, and found him crawling up and down on the sunny side of the house. He said very few people went near him: he thought they were afraid; and he was very dull often. There was a great deal of his old kindness of manner to-day, without that confused stiffness which I used to remark; and he went back to calling me "Margaret," just in the old way. I declare it would have seemed quite natural, if he had begun to lecture me and I to contradict him. What an adhesive nature must mine be! To this old faithful friend I may whisper, that I would have been glad if he had lectured me for something, if only that I might have shown him how wonderfully tractable and docile time has made me. But no, he was as pliable as he used to be obstinate: his illness appears to have tamed him too, How gray he looked, to be sure! and not over handsome in his velvet-cap.
August 30. What a compound of oddities is Mr. Danby! This morning there came a note from him to Aunt Doe to say that he had taken it into his head that a change of air would do him good, and he fancies that of Norfleet would suit him: can she take him in for a few days? Aunt Doe looked across to my father, who said quite carelessly, "To be sure; let the poor fellow come: but he will find it a sad house now." Every thing recalls May to his memory. Sweet May!
September 4. We have had Mr. Danby on our hands for three days now; he behaves remarkably well, and seems absolutely no longer to care to have a will of his own; I have not the chance of contradicting him, if I felt ever so much disposed. His being here is good for my father too; they get on the inexhaustible theme of their foreign travels, and talk for everlasting. Aunt Doe wonders how long he will stay; for we want to invite poor Maria Constant, and she will not care to be seen by any body but ourselves. Who would have thought that Mr. Matthew Constant, that little, soft-spoken, sleek abomination, could ever have treated her so shamefully! Even Uncle Joshua, whose creed is, "Tyranny unlimited for man, and obedience without bounds for woman," considers that a separation is absolutely necessary. How fortunate it is that there are no children to suffer through their quarrels!
September 8. How surprised every body will be! Aunt Doe says "No;" but I say "Yes." Well, I am happy. O, I must live to atone!
This was how it came about.
Papa had for the first time this season taken his gun and gone out for an afternoon's shooting, and Aunt Doe was busy with Dowker up-stairs getting ready Maria Constant's rooms; so I had Mr. Danby to entertain all to myself. We have never been left alone before since he came to Norfleet, and I did feel it rather embarrassing: I never was so shy of him before. Neither of us attempted to talk at first. We had got the window into the garden open, it was so hot and sunny; and he remarked that this was one of the prettiest old-fashioned nooks he had ever been in; he liked it almost better than Danby. I laughed at his modest tastes, and said, I thought he would not like to make the exchange.
"Yes, Margaret, I would truly, if I might have Norfleet just as it stands, with all its belongings!" he replied hurriedly. "Margaret, I have come into possession of a piece of your property in rather a curious way. Do you recognise this old seal?"
I took it out of his hand, and asked, "Where did you find it? I did not know it was lost; I wore it to my chain."
"Guess where I found it, Margaret?"
"I don't like your enigmas; I cannot guess. On the staircase?"
"No; did not I give you that little seal long ago, and did you not laugh at the device? I'll tell you, Margaret, where I found it, shall I?"
"Just as you please," said I; and I coloured violently, I began to suspect.
"If I had not found it when I did, and made nurse Goodhugh confess, I believe Dr. Manning might have prescribed for me in vain. Margaret, let the past be forgiven. (Whether I was to forgive him, or whether he was to forgive me, did not clearly appear.) I was standing up by the window, and he had taken hold of my hand, grasping it so hardly, that my rings cut into the flesh; I could not speak for a second or two; then I said, "I did not mean what I said that night; you were too hasty."
"Yes, Margaret; and bitterly have I had cause to regret it. You were wrong once; but I was a hundred times wrong." (There was an admission!) "Can you, will you pardon me? Margaret, if you deny me, you will kill me!" He was far too submissive to need contradiction.
"And will you bear with me? I am no more an angel now than I was ten years ago," I replied.
"I never said you were an angel, Margaret; I am far too imperfect myself to mate with any but a faulty woman. I will not be so exacting." I really hope he won't; for if he were, it is certain that I could never satisfy him. And so we had a long pleasant talk,—very different to those old fratching bouts, which yet did not lack a pungent aroma of pleasure too,—and settled it all between our two selves; so that when Aunt Doe came in, she found us in the midst of an amicable dispute. I could have laughed at her countenance of surprise and dismay; for she understood it all in a moment. When we told her, she said gently, "I am glad to hear it, children (children, forty and twenty-seven !). I have no doubt you will be far happier than if you had married ten years since. Maggie was too wilful; she is broken in now." Mr. Danby looked grave. I hope every body is not going to take his part this time, and draw comparisons to my disadvantage. Certainly it is not necessary. I am quite as good as he is now. My father is very much satisfied; he is more like himself than he has been since May died. Darling May! how happy she would have been to see this time! I well remember her saying, when we met in town last spring, "I verily believe, Maggie, you two will marry in the end; for you have never loved any body else, and I don't think he has,"—and I would not listen to her.
September 15. All goes on easily and quietly with us. Mr. Danby is still here; and Maria Constant has come—so worn and broken down, poor thing, that I don't think she could, if she tried, define any word but "misery." She says, what is true enough, that she and Matthew never had a chance of happiness; for they began their married life without a spark of love. Harry and I love each other very dearly, I think—I am sure we do; but still there may be to bear and forbear between us. How hard it must be for two indifferent people to live in peace! Dr. Manning wants Mr. Danby to go to Madeira for the winter; but he objects, and thinks he will do very well at home. I would have him go, but neither will he listen to me on this point: he likes his own way the best, after all.
December 25. My diary has been forgotten for weeks; it is surprising how few things a perfectly happy time gives us occasion to chronicle. Laura and her husband and Uncle Joshua are over here for Christmas and our marriage. I have been spending my last evening alone in my room. If May had been alive, she would have borne me company. But none of the others know me as she did; so I, and the fire, and the shadows of ever so many past years, have had the time to ourselves. Harry is at Danby: he left soon after dinner, and the others are talking in the parlour about to-morrow, perhaps. I am glad papa takes my going so quietly. There is one thing, I shall not be very far away.
The wind goes roaring and skirling round the old house to-night as if it meant to bring it all down about our ears. There are chillier and bitterer things in this world of ours than the wildest wind that ever blew; but my life, I trust, has done with them. I shall talk less to my faithful friend, the fire, than for many years I have done; but let me not forget its companionship either. O faithful fire! I cannot remember that you ever put on a scowling face, or looked cold, or went out in any gone time of calamity; you have always been the same: pleasanter, perhaps, in life's dark hours by the mere force of contrast. And I love you, my friend; many a grief, now to be recollected no more, have you seen that was hidden from all besides. O, many a grief! and not a few joys either; and the greatest of all joys is this I show you now—my happy love. May I make Harry happy too! I shall—I will—God's blessing on us both!
High piled upon the hearth are the Yule logs; and as I strike them gently, out rush myriads of sparks: some fly up the chimney—hopes of the new life that is coming; some fall back upon the stone and become white dust: these last typify my old ambitions, visions, and wearinesses, which are of less value now than a handful of wood-ashes. Aunt Doe is at the door to wish me good-night. There is a gray thread in the brightest web: to-day at church we saw poor little May's monument, which has only just been put up. Papa covered his face when his eyes fell on it. It will look down on us to-morrow. O,if I could have had her beside me, I think my happiness would have been perfect! No, no,—there would have been some other flaw; nothing is perfect in our earthly life.
December 26. The sun arose almost as bright as May this morning; but there is a keen hard frost. Never mind; let the sun shine all the way to church, and I don't care for the cold. My heart feels very still this day; I have no fears and no doubts. Why should I? I shall not weep, for I am happy and I am glad—I have shed my last tears for Harry now. My father is calling to me to make haste, for they are all waiting, and Aunt Doe impatiently bids me lay down my pen. Good-by, old friend, Margaret Arden will tell thee no more secrets!