The family in the corner-house thought this the strangest Sunday morning they had ever looked upon.  Outside their premises, all was like a May sabbath.  The gardens sent up their fragrance into the warm, still air:  the cottage windows were open, and early roses and late hyacinths appeared within the casements.  The swallows were skimming and dipping about the meadows; and the swans steered their majestic course along the river, rippling its otherwise unbroken surface.  The men of the village sat on the thresholds of their doors, smoking an early pipe! and their tidy children, the boys with hair combed straight, and the girls with clean pinafores, came abroad; some to carry the Sunday dinner to the baker’s, and others to nurse the baby in the sunshine, or to snatch a bit of play behind a neighbour’s dwelling.  The contrast within the corner-house was strange.  Morris and the boy had been up early to gather the stones, and sweep up the fragments of glass from the floors, to put the effigy out of sight, and efface the marks of feet in the hall and parlours.  The supper had been cleared away in the kitchen, and the smell of spirits and tobacco got rid of:  but this was all that the most zealous servants could do.  The front shutters must remain closed, and the garden windows empty of glass.  The garden itself was a mournful spectacle, ­the pretty garden, which had been the pride and pleasure of the family all this spring; part of the wall was thrown down; the ivy trailed on the earth.  Of the shrubs, some were pulled up, and others cut off at the roots.  The beds were trodden into clay, and the grass, so green and sunny yesterday, was now trampled black where it was not hidden with fragments of the wood-work of the surgery, and with the refuse of the broken glasses and spilled drugs.  Hope had also risen early.  He had found his scared pupil returned, and wandering about the ruins of his abode, ­the surgery.  They set to work together, to put out of sight whatever was least seemly of the scattered contents of the professional apartment; but, with all their pains, the garden looked forlorn and disagreeable enough when Hester came down, shawled, to make breakfast in the open air of the parlour, and her husband thought it time to go and see how Maria had passed the night, and to bring Margaret home.

Hester received from her husband and sister a favourable report of Maria.  She had slept, and Margaret had slept beside her.  Maria carried her philosophy into all the circumstances of her lot, and she had been long used to pain and interruption of her plans.  These things, and the hurry of an accident in the street, might dismay one inexperienced in suffering, but not her.  When not kept awake by actual pain, she slept; and when assured that her case was perfectly simple, and that there was every probability of her being as well as usual in a few weeks, all her anxieties were for the Hopes.  No report of them could have satisfied her so well as Mr Hope’s early visit, ­as his serene countenance and cheerful voice.  She saw that he was not sad at heart; and warmly as she honoured his temper, she could hardly understand this.  No wonder for she did not know what his sufferings had previously been from other causes, nor how vivid was his delight at the spirit in which Hester received their present misfortunes.  Margaret saw at once that all was well at home, and made no inquiries about her sister.

“Here is a letter for you, with a magnificent seal,” said Hester, as they entered.  “And here is tea as hot, I believe, as if we were still blessed with glass windows.”

The letter had just been left by Sir William Hunter’s groom.  It was from the Baronet, and its contents informed Mr Hope that his attendance would not be required at the almshouses in future, as their inmates were placed under the medical superintendence of Mr Walcot.

“I am glad,” said Hester.  “No more danger and insult from that quarter!”

“Nor funds either, my dear.  It is pleasant enough to have no insult and danger to apprehend; but what will you say to having no funds?”

“We shall see when that time comes, love.  Meantime, here is breakfast, and the sweet Sunday all before us?”

The pressure of her hand by her husband effaced all woes, present and future.

“Who is Mr Walcot?” asked Margaret.

“Somebody from Blickley, I suppose,” said Hester.

“No,” replied Hope.  “Mr Walcot is a surgeon, last from Cheltenham, who settled in Deerbrook at seven o’clock yesterday evening, and who has already swept the greater part of the practice of the place, I suspect.  He is, no doubt, the `better doctor,’ `the new man,’ of whom we have heard so much of late.”

Hester changed colour, and Margaret too, while Hope related the arrival of Mrs Rowland and her party, as he had heard it from his pupil early this morning. ­What sort of man was Mr Walcot?  Time must show.  His coming to settle in this manner, at such a conjuncture of circumstances, did not look very well, Hope said; but it should be remembered that he must necessarily be extremely prejudiced against the family in the corner-house, if his information about Deerbrook was derived from Mrs Rowland.  He ought not to be judged till he had had time and opportunity to learn for himself what was the real state of affairs in the place.  He must have fair play; and it was very possible that he might turn out a man who would give others fair play.

At the next knock, Hester started, thereby showing that she was moved.  Mr Jones had called to know how the family were; and, after satisfying himself on this point, had left a delicate sweetbread, with his respects, and wishes that Mrs Hope might relish it after her fright.  This incident gave the little family more pleasure than Mr Walcot had yet caused them pain.  Here was sympathy, ­the most acceptable offering they could receive.

Next came a message of inquiry from Dr and Mrs Levitt, with an intimation that they would call, if not inconvenient to the family, after church.  This was pleasant too.

While it was being agreed that a nurse must be found immediately for Maria, and that the glazier at Blickley must have notice to send people to mend the windows as early as possible to-morrow morning, a letter was brought in, which looked longer, but less grand, than Sir William Hunter’s.  It was from Mr Rowland.

  “(Private.)

  “My Dear Sir, Sunday Morning, 7 o’clock.

“During the greater part of an anxious night, my mind was full of the intention of calling on you this morning, for some conversation on a topic which must be discussed between us; but the more I dwell upon what must be said, the more I shrink from an interview which cannot but be extremely painful to each party; and I have at length come to the conclusion that, for both our sakes, it is best to write what I have to say.  It is painful enough, God knows, to write it!

“Your position here, my dear sir, must have been anything but pleasant for some time past.  I regret that its uneasiness should have been augmented, as I fear it has, by the influence of any one connected with myself.  My respect for you has been as undeviating as it is sincere; and I have not to reproach myself with having uttered a word concerning you or your family which I should be unwilling to repeat to yourselves:  but I am aware that the same cannot be said, with regard to every one for whom I am in a manner answerable.  In relation to this unpleasant fact I can only say, that I entreat you to accept the assurance of my deep regret and mortification.

“A new aspect of affairs has presented itself, ­to me very suddenly, as I trust you will believe, on my word of honour.  A gentleman of your profession, named Walcot, arrived last night, with a view to settling in Deerbrook.  The first inducement held out to him was the medical charge of Mrs Enderby, and of the whole of my family:  but, of course, it is not probable that his expectations of practice among your patients stop here; and the present unfortunate state of the public mind of Deerbrook regarding yourself, makes it too probable that his most sanguine expectations will be realised.  I write this with extreme pain; but I owe it to you not to disguise the truth, however distasteful may be its nature.

“These being the circumstances of the case, it appears to me hopeless to press the departure of Mr Walcot.  And if he went away to-day, I should fear that some one would arrive to-morrow to occupy his position.  Yet, my dear sir, justice must be done to you.  After protracted and anxious consideration, one mode of action has occurred to me, by which atonement may be made to you, for what has passed.  Let me recommend it to your earnest and favourable consideration.

“Some other place of residence would, I should hope, yield you and your family the consideration and comfort of which you have here been most unjustly deprived.  Elsewhere you might ensure the due reward of that professional ability and humanity which we have shown ourselves unworthy to appreciate.  If you could reconcile yourself to removing, with your family, I believe that the peace of our society would be promoted, that unpleasant collisions of opinions and interests would be avoided, and that that reparation would be made to you which I fear would be impracticable here.  All difficulty about the process of removal might and should be obviated.  To speak frankly, I should, in that case, consider myself your debtor to such an amount as, by a comparison of your losses and my means, should appear to us both to be just.  I believe I might venture to make myself answerable for so much as would settle you in some more favourable locality, and enable you to wait a moderate time for that appreciation of your professional merits which would be certain to ensue.

“I need not add that, in case of your acceding to my proposition, all idea of obligation would be misplaced.  I offer no more than I consider actually your due.  The circumstance of the father of a large and rising family offering to become responsible to such an extent, indicates that my sense of your claim upon me is very strong.  I should be glad to be relieved from it:  and I therefore, once more, beseech your best attention to my proposal, ­the latter particulars of which have been confided to no person whatever, ­nor shall they be, under any circumstances, unless you desire it.

  “I shall await your reply with anxiety ­yet with patience, as I am
  aware that such a step as I propose cannot be decided on without some
  reflection.

“I rejoice to find that your family have not suffered materially from the outrages of last night.  It was matter of sincere regret to me that the unexpected arrival of my family at the very time prevented my hastening to offer my best services to you and yours.  The magistracy will, of course, repair all damages; and then I trust no evil consequences will survive.

  “I beg my best compliments to Mrs Hope and Miss Ibbotson, and entreat
  you to believe me, my dear sir,

  “With the highest respect,

  “Your obedient servant,

  “H.  Rowland.”

For one moment Hester looked up in her husband’s face, as he read this letter in a subdued voice ­for one moment she hoped he would make haste to live elsewhere ­in some place where he would again be honoured as he once was here, and where all might be bright and promising as ever:  but that moment’s gaze at her husband changed her thoughts and wishes.  Her colour rose with the same feelings which drew a deep seriousness over his countenance.

“Mr Rowland means well,” said Margaret; “but surely this will never do.”

“I hardly know what you would consider meaning well,” replied Hope.  “Rowland would buy himself out of an affair which he has not the courage to manage by nobler means.  He would give hush-money for the concealment of his wife’s offences.  He would bribe me from the assertion of my own character, and would, for his private ends, stop the working out of the question between Deerbrook and me.  This is, to my mind, the real aspect of his proposal, however persuaded he himself may be that he intends peace to his neighbours, and justice to me.  This letter,” he continued, waving it before him, “is worthy only of the fire, where I would put it this moment, but that I suppose prudence requires that we should retain in our own hands all evidence whatever relating to the present state of our affairs.”

“I do not exactly see what is to become of us,” said Hester, cheerfully.

“Nor do I, love:  but is not all the world in the same condition?  How much does the millionaire know of what is to intervene between to-day and his death?”

“And the labouring classes,” observed Margaret ­“that prodigious multitude of toiling, thinking, loving, trusting beings!  How many of them see further than the week which is coming round?  And who spends life to more purpose than some of them?  They toil, they think, they love, they obey, they trust; and who will say that the most secure in worldly fortune are making a better start for eternity than they?  They see duty around them and God above them; and what more need they see?”

“You are right,” said Hester.  “What I said was cowardly.  I wish I had your faith.”

“You have it,” said her husband.  “There was faith in your voice, and nothing faithless in what you said.  It is a simple truth, that we cannot see our way before us.  We must be satisfied to discern the duty of the day, and for the future to do what we ought always to be doing ­`to walk by faith and not by sight.’  Now, as to this present duty, it seems to me very clear.  It is my duty to offer moral resistance to oppression, and to make a stand for my reputation.  When it pleases God that men should be overwhelmed by calumny, it is a dreadful evil which must be borne as well as it may; but not without a struggle.  We must not too hastily conclude that this is to be the issue in our case.  We must stay and struggle for right and justice ­struggle for it, by living on with firm, patient, and gentle minds.  This is surely what we ought to do, rather than go away for the sake of ease, leaving the prejudices of our neighbours in all their virulence, because we have not strength to combat them, and letting the right succumb to the wrong, for want of faith and constancy to vindicate it.”

“Oh, we will stay!” cried Hester.  “I will try to bear everything, and be thankful to have to bear, for such reasons.  It is all easy, love, when you lay open your views of our life ­when you give us your insight into the providence of it.  I believe I should have looked at it in this way before, if you had been suffering in any great cause ­any cause manifestly great, because the welfare of many others was involved in it.  I see now that the principle of endurance and the duty of steadfastness are the same, though .”  And yet she paused, and bit her lip.

“Though the occasion looks insignificant enough,” said her husband.  “True.  Some might laugh at our having to appeal to our faith because we have been mobbed on pretences which make us blush to think what nonsense they are, and because a rival has come to supplant me in my profession.  But with all this we have nothing to do.  The truth to us is, that we are living in the midst of malice and hatred, and that poverty stares us in the face.  If these things are quite enough for our strength (and I imagine we shall find they are so), we have no business to quarrel with our trial because it is not of a grander kind.  Well! wife and sister, we stay.  Is it not so?  Then I will go and write to Mr Rowland.”

The sisters were silent for some moments after he had left them.  Margaret was refreshing her flowers ­the flowers which Philip had brought in from the garden the day before.  How precious were they now, even above other flowers brought by the same hand ­for not another blossom was left in the desolate garden!  Margaret was resolving silently that she would keep these alive as long as she could, and then dry them in memory of the place they came from, in its wedding trim.  Hester presently showed the direction her thoughts had taken, by saying ­

“I should think that it must be always possible for able and industrious people, in health, to obtain bread.”

“Almost always possible, provided they can cast pride behind them.”

“Ah!  I suspect that pride is the real evil of poverty ­of gentlefolks’ poverty.  I could not promise for my own part, to cast pride behind me:  but then, you know, it has pleased God to give me something to be proud of, far different from rank and money.  I could go to jail or the workhouse with my husband without a blush.  The agony of it would not be from pride.”

“Happily, we are sure of bread, mere bread,” said Margaret, “for the present, and for what we call certainty.  What you and I have is enough for bread.”

“What I have can hardly be called sufficient for even that,” said Hester:  “and you ­I must speak my thankfulness for that ­you will soon be out of the reach of such considerations.”

“Not soon:  and I cannot separate my life from yours ­I cannot fancy it.  Do not let us fancy it just now.”

“Well, we will not.  I am glad Susan has warning from me to go.  It is well that we began retrenching so soon.  We must come to some full explanation with Morris, that we may see what can best be done for her.”

“She will never leave you while you will let her stay.”

“It may be necessary to dismiss Charles.  But we will wait to talk that over with my husband.  He will tell us what we ought to do.  Was that a knock at the door?”

“I rather think it was a feeble knock.”

It was Mrs Grey, accompanied by Sydney.  Mrs Grey’s countenance wore an expression of solemn misery, with a little of the complacency of excitement under it.  The occasion was too great for winks:  mute grief was the mood of the hour.  Sydney was evidently full of awe.  He seemed hardly to like to come into the parlour.  Margaret had to go to the door, and laugh at him for his shyness.  His mother’s ideas were as much deranged as his own, by the gaiety with which Hester received them, boasting of the thorough ventilation of the room, and asking whether Sophia did not think their bonfire surpassed the famous one at the last election but one.  Sophia had not seen anything of the fire of last night.  She had been so much agitated, that the whole family, Mr Grey and all, had been obliged to exert themselves to compose her spirits.  Much as she had wished to come this morning, to make her inquiries in person, she had been unable to summon courage to appear in the streets; and indeed her parents could not press it ­she had been so extremely agitated!  She was now left in Alice’s charge.

Hester and Margaret hoped that when Sophia found there was nothing more to fear, and that her cousins were perfectly well, she would be able to spare Alice for some hours, to wait upon Miss Young.  Maria’s hostess was with her now, and Margaret would spend the night with her again, if a nurse could not be procured before that time.  Mrs Grey had not neglected Maria in her anxiety for her cousins.  She was just going to propose that Alice should be the nurse to-night, and had left word at Miss Young’s door that she herself would visit her for the hour and half that people were in church.  Her time this morning was therefore short.  She was rejoiced to see her young friends look so much like themselves ­ so differently from what she had dared to expect.  And Mr Hope ­it was not fair perhaps to ask where he was; ­he had probably rather not have it known where he might be found:  (and here the countenance relaxed into a winking frame).  Not afraid to show himself abroad!  Had been out twice! and without any bad consequences!  It would be a cordial to Sophia to hear this, and a great relief to Mr Grey.  But what courage!  It was a fine lesson for Sydney.  If Mr Hope was really only writing, and could spare a minute, it would be a comfort to see him.  Hester went for him.  He had just finished his letter.  She read and approved it, and sat down to take a copy of it while her husband occupied her seat beside Mrs Grey.

The wife let fall a few tears ­tears of gentle sorrow and proud love, not on her husband’s letter (for not for the world would she have had that letter bear a trace of tears), but on the paper on which she wrote.  The letter appeared to her very touching; but others might not think so:  there was so much in it which she alone could see!  It took her only a few minutes to copy it; but the copying gave her strength for all the day.  The letter was as follows: ­

“My Dear Sir ­Your letter expresses, both in its matter and phrase, the personal regard which I have always believed you to entertain towards me and mine.  I cannot agree with you, however, in thinking that the proceeding you propose involves real good to any of the parties concerned in it.  The peace of society in Deerbrook is not likely to be permanently secured by such deference to ignorant prejudice as would be expressed by the act of my departure; nor would my wrongs be repaired by my merely leaving them behind me.  I cannot take money from your hands as the price of your tranquillity, and as a commutation for my good name, and the just rewards of my professional labours.  My wife and I will not remove from Deerbrook.  We shall stay, and endeavour to discharge our duty, and to bear our wrongs, till our neighbours learn to understand us better than they do.

“You will permit to say, with the respect which I feel, that we sympathise fully in the distress of mind which you must be experiencing.  If you should find comfort in doing us manful justice, we shall congratulate you yet more than ourselves:  if not, we shall grieve for you only the more deeply.

  “My wife joins me in what I have said, and in kindly regards.

  “Yours sincerely,

  “Edward Hope.”

Edward had left his seal with Hester.  She sealed the letter, rang for Charles, and charged him to deliver it into Mr Rowland’s own hands, placed the copy in her bosom to show to Margaret, and returned to the parlour.  Mrs Grey, who was alone with Hope, stopped short in what she was saying.

“Go on,” said Hope.  “We have no secrets here, and no fears of being frightened ­for one another any more than for ourselves.  Mrs Grey was saying, my dear, that Mr Walcot is very popular here already; and that everybody is going to church to see him.”

Mrs Grey had half-a-dozen faults or oddities of Mr Walcot’s to tell of already; but she was quietly checked in the middle of her list by Mr Hope, who observed that he was bound to exercise the same justice towards Mr Walcot that he hoped to receive from him ­to listen to no evil of him which could not be substantiated:  and it was certainly too early yet for anything to be known about him by strangers, beyond what he looked like.

“To go no deeper than his looks, then,” continued Mrs Grey, “nobody can pretend to admire them.  He is extremely short.  Have you heard how short he is?”

“Yes; that inspired me with some respect for him, to begin with.  I have heard so much of my being too tall, all my life, that I am apt to feel a profound veneration for men who have made the furthest escape from that evil.  By the way, my dear, I should not wonder if Enderby is disposed in Walcot’s favour by this, for he is even taller than I.”

“I am surprised that you can joke on such a subject, Mr Hope.  I assure you, you are not the only sufferers by this extraordinary circumstance of Mr Walcot’s arrival.  It is very hard upon us, that we are to have him for an opposite neighbour ­in Mrs Enderby’s house, you know.  Sophia and I have been in the habit of observing that house, for the old lady’s sake, many times in a day.  We scarcely ever looked out, but we saw her cap over the blind, or some one or another was at the door, about one little affair or another.  It has been a great blank since she was removed ­the shutters shut, and the bills up, and nobody going and coming.  But now we can never look that way.”

“I am afraid you will have to get Paxton to put up a weathercock for you on his barn, so that you may look in the opposite direction for the wind.”

“Nay, Edward, it is really an evil,” said Hester, “to have an unwelcome stranger settled in an opposite house, where an old friend has long lived.  I can sympathise with Mrs Grey.”

“So can I, my dear.  It is an evil:  but I should, under any circumstances, hold myself free to look out of my window in any direction ­that is all.  Do, Mrs Grey, indulge yourself so far.”

“We cannot possibly notice him, you know.  It must be distinctly understood, that we can have nothing to say to an interloper like Mr Walcot.  Mr Grey is quite of my opinion.  You will have our support in every way, my dear sir; for it is perfectly plain to our minds, that all this would not have happened but for your having married into our connection so decidedly.  But this intruder has been thought, and talked about, by us more than he is worth.  I want to hear all you can tell me about the riot, Hester, love.  Your husband has been giving me some idea of it, but...  Bless me! there is the first bell for church; and I ought to have been at Miss Young’s by this time.  We must have the whole story, some day soon; and, indeed, Sophia would quarrel with me for hearing it when she is not by.  Where is Sydney?”

Sydney and Margaret were in the garden, consulting about its restoration.  Sydney declared he would come and work at it every day till it was cleared and planted.  He would begin to-morrow with the cairn for the rock-plants.

“I am glad the Levitts are to call after church,” observed Mrs Grey.  “They always do what is proper, I must say; and not less towards dissenters than their own people.  I suppose Dr Levitt will consult with you about the damages.”

“Sooner or later, I have no doubt.”

“Come, Sydney, we must be gone.  You hear the bell.  Sophia will be quite revived by what I shall tell her, my dears.  No ­do not come out to the door ­I will not allow it, on my account.  There is no knowing what I might have to answer for, if you let yourself be seen at the door on my account.  I am sorry you will not come in this evening.  Are you quite determined?  Well, perhaps Mr Grey will say you are right not to leave your premises in the evening, at present.  No; you must not say anything about our coming just now.  We have not courage, really, for that.  Now hold your tongue, Sydney.  It is out of the question ­your being out of our sight after dark.  Good morning, my love.”

As soon as Charles returned home, after having delivered the letter into Mr Rowland’s own hands, Mr Hope gathered his family together, for their Sunday worship.  The servants entered the room with countenances full of the melancholy which they concluded, notwithstanding all evidence to the contrary, that their master and mistress must be experiencing:  but, when service was over, they retired with the feeling that the family-worship had never been more gladsome.