Deerbrook. Harriet MartineauЧитать онлайн книгу.
all-pervading bliss had wrapped itself round her spirit, and brought her as near to her Maker as if she had been his favoured child. There needs no other proof that happiness is the most wholesome moral atmosphere, and that in which the immortality of man is destined ultimately to thrive, than the elevation of soul, the religious aspiration, which attends the first assurance, the first sober certainty, of true love. There is much of this religious aspiration amidst all warmth of virtuous affections. There is a vivid love of God in the child that lays its cheek against the cheek of its mother, and clasps its arms about her neck. God is thanked (perhaps unconsciously) for the brightness of his earth, on summer evenings, when a brother and sister, who have long been parted, pour out their heart stores to each other, and feel their course of thought brightening as it runs. When the aged parent hears of the honours his children have won, or looks round upon their innocent faces as the glory of his decline, his mind reverts to Him who in them prescribed the purpose of his life, and bestowed its grace. But, religious as is the mood of every good affection, none is so devotional as that of love, especially so called. The soul is then the very temple of adoration, of faith, of holy purity, of heroism, of charity. At such a moment the human creature shoots up into the angel: there is nothing on earth too defiled for its charity—nothing in hell too appalling for its heroism—nothing in heaven too glorious for its sympathy. Strengthened, sustained, vivified by that most mysterious power, union with another spirit, it feels itself set well forth on the way of victory over evil, sent out conquering and to conquer. There is no other such crisis in human life. The philosopher may experience uncontrollable agitation in verifying his principle of balancing systems of worlds, feeling, perhaps, as if he actually saw the creative hand in the act of sending the planets forth on their everlasting way; but this philosopher, solitary seraph, as he may be regarded, amidst a myriad of men, knows at such a moment no emotions so divine as those of the spirit becoming conscious that it is beloved—be it the peasant girl in the meadow, or the daughter of the sage, reposing in her father’s confidence, or the artisan beside his loom, or the man of letters musing by his fireside. The warrior, about to strike the decisive blow for the liberties of a nation, however impressed with the solemnity of the hour, is not in a state of such lofty resolution as those who, by joining hearts, are laying their joint hands on the whole wide realm of futurity for their own. The statesman who, in the moment of success, feels that an entire class of social sins and woes is annihilated by his hand, is not conscious of so holy and so intimate a thankfulness as they who are aware that their redemption is come in the presence of a new and sovereign affection. And these are many—they are in all corners of every land. The statesman is the leader of a nation—the warrior is the grace of an age—the philosopher is the birth of a thousand years; but the lover—where is he not? Wherever parents look round upon their children, there he has been—wherever children are at play together, there he will soon be—wherever there are roofs under which men dwell—wherever there is an atmosphere vibrating with human voices, there is the lover, and there is his lofty worship going on, unspeakable, but revealed in the brightness of the eye, the majesty of the presence, and the high temper of the discourse. Men have been ungrateful and perverse; they have done what they could to counteract, to debase, this most heavenly influence of their life; but the laws of their Maker are too strong, the benignity of their Father is too patient and fervent, for their opposition to withstand: and true love continues, and will continue, to send up its homage amidst the meditations of every eventide, and the busy hum of noon, and the song of the morning stars.
Hester, when she re-entered the house, was full of the commonest feeling of all in happy lovers—a wonder that such intense happiness should be permitted to her. Margaret was lingering about the stair-head in the dusk, and met her sister at the door of their own apartment.
“May I come in?” said she.
“May you come in? Oh, Margaret! I want you.”
“All is right: all is well; is it, Hester? And I was quite wrong throughout. I grieve now that I helped to make you miserable: but, indeed, I was miserable myself. I saw no hope; I was completely mistaken.”
“We were both mistaken,” said Hester, resting her head at Margaret’s shoulder. “Mistaken in judgment—blinded by anxiety. But all that is over now. Margaret, what have I done that I should be so happy?”
“You have loved one who deserves such a love as yours,” said Margaret, smiling. “That is what you have done: and you will have the blessings of all who know you both. You have mine, dearest.”
“What an ungrateful wretch shall I be, if I do not make every one happy that is within my reach!” cried Hester. “Margaret, I will never grieve his heart as I have grieved yours. I will never grieve yours again.”
“But how is it?” asked Margaret. “You have not told me yet. Is it all settled?”
A silent embrace told that it was.
“I may shake hands with you upon it, then. Oh, Hester, after all our longings for a brother, you are going to give me one! We are not alone in the world. My father—our mother—where are they? Do they know? Have they foreseen while we have been suffering so? Do they now foresee for us?”
“There was not one word of his,” said Hester, “that I should not have gloried in their hearing. So gentle, Margaret! so noble! so calm!”
“And you?” said Margaret, softly. “Did you speak—speak openly?”
“Yes: it was no time for pride. With him I have no pride. I could not have believed how I should tell him all: but he was so noble—spoke so gloriously—that it would have been an insult to use any disguise. He knows all that you know, Margaret—and I am not ashamed.”
“I honour you,” said Margaret. “Thank God, all is right! But where is Mr. Hope all this time?”
“He went away when I came in. You will see him in the morning.”
“Can you go down this evening? If you think you can—.”
“Go down! Yes:—this moment. I feel as if I could face the whole world.”
“Let me ask one thing. May I tell Maria in the morning? She will be so pleased! and no one but you understands my feelings so well. Everybody will rejoice with me; but I can say anything to her. May I tell her all in the morning?”
“Dear Maria! Oh, yes: tell her from me, with my love. I know I shall have her blessing. Now let us go down.”
“But we must just settle how matters are to proceed,” said Margaret. “Are the family to know or not?”
“Oh, let all that take its chance!” said Hester. “I am sure I do not care. Let it be as it happens, for to-night at least.”
“For to-night at least,” agreed Margaret.
All was going on as usual below-stairs. The working of collars and of rugs was proceeding, as the family sat round the lamp. On the appearance of Hester and Margaret, the book, with the Society’s cover on it, was produced; and it was requested that some one would read aloud, as it was necessary that forty pages a day should be gone through, to get the volume done by the time it must be sent to Mrs. Enderby. Sophia asked whether some one else would be so good as to read this evening, as she thought she could finish her collar by keeping steadily to it till bedtime.
Margaret took the book, and was surprised to find how easy a process it is to read aloud passably without taking in a word of the sense. Fortunately the Greys were not much given to make remarks on what they read. To have gone through the books that came from the Society was enough; and they could not have accomplished the forty pages an evening if they had stopped to talk. The only words spoken during the lecture, therefore, were occasional remarks that the reader seemed hoarse, and that some one else had better take the book; and whispered requests across the table for scissors, thread, or the adjustment of the light. Such being the method of literary exercise in the family, Hester and Margaret were able to think of anything they pleased with impunity.
“There! here comes papa!” said Sophia; “and I do not believe we have read nearly forty pages. Where did you begin, Margaret?”
Margaret resigned