"You judge by your own soul, Margaret; and that should be a faithful guide. You judge him by your own soul,--and how much by this?" she added, with a smile, fixing her eyes on the turquoise ring, which was Philip's gift, and which, safely guarded, was on a finger of the hand she held.

Margaret blushed. She could not have denied, if closely pressed, that some little tinge of the Eastern superst.i.tion had entered into this sacred ring, and lay there, like the fire in the opal. She could not have denied, that, when she drew it on every morning, she noted with satisfaction that its blue was as clear and bright as ever.

"How is it that this ring is still here?" asked Maria. "Is it possible that he retains gifts of yours? Yet, I think, if he did not, this ring would not be on your finger."

"He does keep whatever I gave him. Thank G.o.d! he keeps them. This is one of my greatest comforts: it is the only way I have left of speaking to him. But if it were not so, this ring would still be where it is. I would not give it up. I am not altered. I am not angry with him. His love is as precious to me as it ever was, and I will not give up the tokens of it. Why, Maria, you surely cannot suppose that these things have any other value or use but as given by him! You cannot suppose that I dread the imputation of keeping them for their own sakes!"

"No: but--"

"But what?"

"Is any proof of his former regard of value now? That is the question.

It has only very lately become a question with me. I have only lately learned to think him in fault. I excused him before... I excused him as long as I could."

"You will unlearn your present opinion of him. Yes; everything that was ever valuable from him is more precious than ever now,--now that he is under a spell, and cannot speak his soul. If it were, as you think, if he loved me no longer, they would be still more precious, as a relic of the dead. But it is not so."

"If faith can remove mountains, we may have to rejoice for you still, Margaret; for there can be no ma.s.s of calumnies between you and him which you have not faith enough to overthrow."

"Thank you for that. It is the best word of comfort that has come to me from without for many a day. Now there is one thing more in which you can perhaps help me. I have heard nothing about him for so long! You see Mr Rowland sometimes (I know he feels a great friendship for you); and you meet the younger children. Do you hear nothing whatever about _him_?"

"Nothing: nor do they. Mr Rowland told me, a fortnight ago, that Mrs Rowland and he are seriously uneasy at obtaining no answers to their repeated letters to Mr Enderby. Mrs Rowland is more disturbed, I believe, than she chooses to show. She must feel herself responsible.

She has tried various means of accounting for his silence, all the autumn. Now she gives that up, and is silent in her turn. If it were not for the impossibility of leaving home at such a time as this, Mr Rowland would go to London to satisfy himself. Margaret, I believe you are the only person who has smiled at this."

"Perhaps I am the only one who understands him. I had rather know of this silence than of all the letters he could have written to Mrs Rowland. If he had been ill, they would certainly have heard."

"Yes; they say so."

"Then that is enough. Let us say no more now."

"You have said that which has cheered me for you, Margaret, though, as we poor irreligious human beings often say to each other, 'I wish I had your faith.' You have given me more than I had, however. But are we to say no more about anything? Must we leave this comfortable fire, and go to sleep?"

"Not unless you wish it. I have more to ask, if you are not tired."

"Come, ask me."

"Cannot you tell me of some way in which a woman may earn money?"

"A woman? What rate of woman? Do you mean yourself? That question is easily answered. A woman from the uneducated cla.s.ses can get a subsistence by washing and cooking, by milking cows and going to service, and, in some parts of the kingdom, by working in a cotton mill, or burnishing plate, as you have no doubt seen for yourself at Birmingham. But, for an educated woman, a woman with the powers which G.o.d gave her, religiously improved, with a reason which lays life open before her, an understanding which surveys science as its appropriate task, and a conscience which would make every species of responsibility safe,--for such a woman there is in all England no chance of subsistence but by teaching--that almost ineffectual teaching, which can never countervail the education of circ.u.mstances, and for which not one in a thousand is fit--or by being a superior Miss Nares--the feminine gender of the tailor and the hatter."

"The tutor, the tailor, and the hatter. Is this all?"

"All; except that there are departments of art and literature from which it is impossible to shut women out. These are not, however, to be regarded as resources for bread. Besides the number who succeed in art and literature being necessarily extremely small, it seems pretty certain that no great achievements, in the domains of art and imagination, can be looked for from either men or women who labour there to supply their lower wants, or for any other reason than the pure love of their work. While they toil in any one of the arts of expression, if they are not engrossed by some loftier meaning, the highest which they will end with expressing will be, the need of bread."

"True--quite true. I must not think of any of those higher departments of labour, because, even if I were qualified, what I want is not employment, but money. I am anxious to earn some money, Maria. We are very poor. Edward is trying, one way and another, to earn money to live upon, till his practice comes back to him, as he is for ever trusting it will. I wish to earn something too, if it be ever so little. Can you tell me of no way?"

"I believe I should not if I could. Why? Because I think you have quite enough to do already, and will soon have too much. Just consider.

When Morris goes, what hour of the day will you have to spare? Let us see;--do you mean to sweep the rooms with your own hands?"

"Yes," said Margaret, smiling.

"And to scour them too?"

"No; not quite that. We shall hire a neighbour to come two or three times a week to do the rougher parts of the work. But I mean to light the fire in the morning (and we shall have but one), and get breakfast ready; and Hester will help me to make the beds. That is nearly all I shall let her do besides the sewing; for baby will give her employment enough."

"Indeed, I think so; and that will leave you too much. Do not think, dear, of earning money. You are doing all you ought in saving it."

"I must think about it, because earning is so much n.o.bler and more effectual than saving. I cannot help seeing that it would be far better to earn the amount of Morris's maintenance, than to save it by doing her work badly myself. Not that I shrink from the labour: I am rather enjoying the prospect of it, as I told you. Hark! what footstep is that?"

"I heard it a minute or two ago," whispered Maria, "but I did not like to mention it."

They listened in the deepest silence for a while. At first they were not sure whether they heard anything above the beating of their own hearts; but they were soon certain that there were feet moving outside the room door.

"The church clock has but lately gone twelve," said Maria, in the faint hope that it might be some one of the household yet stirring.

Margaret shook her head. She rose softly from her seat, and took a candle from the table to light it, saying she would go and see. Her hand trembled a little as she held the match, and the candle would not immediately light. Meantime, the door opened without noise, and some one walked in and quite up to the gazing ladies. It was the tall woman.

Maria made an effort to reach the bell, but the tall woman seized her arm, and made her sit down. A capricious jet of flame from a coal in the fire at this moment lighted up the face of the stranger for a moment, and enabled Maria to "spy a creat peard under the m.u.f.fler."

"What do you want at this time?" said Margaret.

"I want money, and what else I can get," said the intruder, in the no longer disguised voice of a man. "I have been into your larder, but you seem to have nothing there."

"That is true," said Margaret, firmly; "nor have we any money. We are very poor. You could not have come to a worse place, if you are in want."

"Here is something, however," said the man, turning to the tray. "With your leave, I'll see what you have left us to eat."

He thrust one of the candles between the bars of the grate to light it, telling the ladies they had better start no difficulty, lest they should have reason to repent it. There were others with him in the house, who would show themselves in an instant, if any noise were made.

"Then do you make none--I beg it as a favour," said Margaret. "There is a lady asleep up-stairs, with a very young infant. If you respect her life you will be quiet."

The man did not answer, but he was quiet. He cut slices from the loaf, and carried them to the door, and they were taken by somebody outside.

He quickly devoured the remains of the pheasant, tearing the meat from the bones with his teeth. He drank from the decanter of wine, and then carried it where he had taken the bread. Two men put their heads in at the door, nodded to the ladies before they drank, and again withdrew.

The girls cast a look at each other--a glance of agreement that resistance was not to be thought of: yet each was conscious of a feeling of rather pleasant surprise that she was not more alarmed.

"Now for it!" said the man, striding oddly about in his petticoats, and evidently out of patience with them. "Now for your money!" As he spoke, he put the spoons from the tray into the bosom of his gown, proceeding to murmur at his deficiency of pockets.

Margaret held out her purse to him. It contained one single shilling.

"You don't mean this is all you are going to give me?"

"It is all I have: and I believe there is not another shilling in the house. I told you we have no money."

"And you?" said he, turning to Maria.

"I have not my purse about me; and if I had there is nothing in it worth your taking. I a.s.sure you I have not got my purse. I am only a visitor here for this one night--and an odd night it is to have chosen, as it turns out."

"Give me your watches."

"I have no watch. I have not had a watch these five years," said Maria.