Harriet Martineau (1802-1876) (continued 11)

“There, now!” cried Fanny, “we have passed the place—the place where cousin Margaret fell in last winter. We wanted to have gone directly over it.”

Margaret looked up, and caught Sydney’s awe-struck glance. He had not yet recovered from that day.

“If you had mentioned it sooner,” said Margaret, “I could have shown you the very place. We did pass directly over it.”

“Oh, why did you not tell us? You should have told us.”

Dr Levitt smiled as he remarked that he thought Miss Ibbotson was likely to be the last person to point out that spot to other people, as well as to forget it herself. Margaret had indeed been far from forgetting it. She had looked down into its depths, and had brought thence something that had been useful to her—something on which she was meditating when Fanny spoke. She had been saved, and doubtless for a purpose. If it was only to suffer for her own part, and to find no rest and peace but in devoting herself to others—this was a high purpose. Maria could live, and was thankful to live, without home, or family, or prospect. But it was not certain that this was all that was to be done and enjoyed in life. Something dreadful had happened: but Philip loved her: he still loved her—for nothing but agonised love could have inspired the glance which yet thrilled through her. There was some mistake—some fearful mistake; and the want of confidence in her which it revealed—the fault of temper in him—opened a long perspective of misery; but yet, he loved her, and all was not over. At times she felt certain that Mrs Rowland was at the bottom of this new injury: but it was inconceivable that Philip should be deluded by her, after his warnings, and his jealous fears lest his Margaret should give heed to any of his sister’s misrepresentations. No light shone upon the question, from the cloudy sky above, or the clear waters beneath; but both yielded comfort through that gentle law by which things eminently real—Providence, the mercy of death, and the blessing of godlike life, are presented or prophesied to the spirit by the shadows amidst which we live. When Margaret spoke, there was a calmness in her voice, so like an echo of comfort in her heart, that it almost made Edward start.

The party in the other boat were noisier, whether or not they were happier, than those in whose wake they followed. Mr Walcot had begun to be inspired as soon as the oars had made their first splash, and was now reciting to Sophia some “Lines to the Setting Sun,” which he had learned when a little boy, and had never forgotten. He asked her whether it was not a sweet idea—that of the declining sun being like a good man going to his rest, to rise again to-morrow morning. Sophia was fond of poetry that was not too difficult; and she found little disinclination in herself now to observe her father’s directions about being civil to Mr Walcot. The gentleman perceived that he had won some advantage; and he persevered. He next spoke of the amiable poet, Cowper, and was delighted to find that Miss Grey was acquainted with some of his writings; that she had at one time been able to repeat his piece on a Poplar Field, and those sweet lines beginning—

“The rose had been washed, just washed in a shower.”

But she had never heard the passage about “the twanging horn o’er yonder bridge,” and “the wheeling the sofa round,” and “the cups that cheer but not inebriate;” so Mr Walcot repeated them, not, as before, in a high key, and with his face turned up towards the sky, but almost in a whisper, and inclining towards her ear. Sophia sighed, and thought it very beautiful, and was sorry for people who were not fond of poetry. A pause of excited feeling followed, during which they found that the gentlemen were questioning a boatman, who was awaiting his turn to tow, about the swans in the river.

“The swans have much increased in number this season, surely. Those are all of one family, I suppose—those about the island,” observed Mr Grey.

“Yes, sir; they can’t abide neighbours. They won’t suffer a nest within a mile.”

“They fight it out, if they approach too near, eh?” said Enderby.

“Yes, sir; they leave one another for dead. I have lost some of the finest swans under my charge in that way.”

“Do you not part them when they fight?” asked Walcot.

“I would. I always part little boys whom I see fighting in the streets, and tell them they should not quarrel.”

“You would repent meddling with the swans, sir, if you tried. When I knew no better, I meddled once, and I thought I should hardly get away alive. One of the creatures flapped my arm so hard, that I thought more than once it was broken. I would advise you, sir, never to go near swans when they are angry.”

“You will find ample employment for your peace-making talents among the Deerbrook people, Mr Walcot,” said Philip. “They may break your windows, and perhaps your heart; but they will leave you your eyes and your right arm. For my part, I do not know but I had rather do battle with the swans.”

“Better not, sir,” said the boatman. “I would advise you never to go near swans when they are angry.”

“Look!” said Sophia, anxiously. “Is not this one angry? Yes, it is: I am sure it is! Did you ever see anything like its feathers? and it is coming this way, it is just upon us! Oh, Mr Walcot!”

Sophia threw herself over to the other side of the boat, and Mr Walcot started up, looking very pale.

“Sit down!” cried Mr Grey, in his loudest voice. Mr Walcot sat down as if shot; and Sophia crept back to her place, with an anxious glance at the retreating bird. Of course, the two young people were plentifully lectured about shifting their places in a boat without leave, and were asked the question, more easily put than answered, how they should have felt if they had been the means of precipitating the whole party into the water. Then there was a calling out from the other boat to know what was the matter, and an explanation; so that Sophia and Mr Walcot had to take refuge in mutual sympathy from universal censure.

“The birds always quarrel with the boats—boats of this make,” explained the boatman; “because their enemies go out in skiffs to take them. They let a lighter pass without taking any notice, while they always scour the water near a skiff; but I never heard of their flying at a pleasure party in any sort of boat.”

“Where are the black swans that a sea-captain brought to Lady Hunter?” asked Philip. “I see nothing of them.”

“The male died; choked, sir,—with a crust of bread a stranger gave him. But for that, he would have been now in sight, I don’t doubt; for he prospered very well till that day.”

“Of a crust of bread! What a death!” exclaimed Philip. “And the other?”

“She died, sir, by the visitation of God,” replied the boatman, solemnly.

It was obviously so far from the man’s intention that any one should laugh, that nobody did laugh. Maria observed to her next neighbour that, to a keeper of swans, his birds were more companionable, and quite as important, as their human charge to coroners and jurymen.

The boat got aground amongst the flags, at a point where the tow-rope had to be carried over a foot-bridge at some little distance inland. One of the men, in attempting to leap the ditch, had fallen in, and emerged dripping with mud. Ben jumped ashore to take his turn at the rope, and Enderby pushed the boat off again with an oar, with some little effort. Mr Walcot had squeezed Sophia’s parasol so hard, during the crisis, as to break its ivory ring. The accident, mortifying as it was to him, did not prevent his exclaiming in a fervour of gratitude, when the vibration of the boat was over, and they were once more afloat—

“What an exceedingly clever man Mr Enderby is!”

“Extremely clever. I really think he can do everything.”

“Ah! he would not have managed to break the ring of your parasol, as I have been so awkward as to do. But I will see about getting it mended to-morrow. If I were as clever as Mr Enderby now, I might be able to mend it myself.”

“You will not be able to get another ring in Deerbrook. But never mind. I beg you will not feel uncomfortable about it. I can fasten it with a loop of green ribbon and a button till the next time I go to Blickley. Pray do not feel uncomfortable.”

“How can I help it? You say there is no ring in Deerbrook. Not any sort of ring? My dear Miss Grey, if I cannot repair this sort of ring—”

Sophia was a good deal flurried. She begged he would think no more of the parasol; it was no manner of consequence.

“Do not be too good to me,” whispered he. “I trust. I know my duty better than to take you at your word. From my earliest years, my parents have instilled into me the duty of making reparation for the injuries we cause to others.”

Sophia gave him an affecting look of approbation, and asked with much interest where his parents lived, and how many brothers and sisters he had; and assured him, at last, that she saw he belonged to a charming family.

“It does not become me to speak proudly of such near relations,” said he; “and one who has so lately left the parental roof is, perhaps, scarcely to be trusted to be impartial; but I will say for my family that, though not perhaps so clever as Mrs Rowland and Mr Enderby—”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, do not name them together!”

Mr Walcot saw that he had broken the charm: he hastened to repair the mischief which one unhappy name had caused.

“It is natural, I know, that you should take the most interest in that member of the family who is to be your relation. You consider him in that light, I believe?”

“Of course. He is to be our cousin.”

“The parties wish it to be kept a secret, I conclude,” said he, glancing at Enderby, and then stretching back as far as he thought safe, to look at the other boat.

“Oh dear, no! There is no secret about the matter.”

“I should not have supposed them to be engaged, by their manner to each other. Perhaps it is off,” said he, quickly, fixing his eyes upon her.

“Off! What an odd idea! Who ever thought of such a thing?”

“Such things have been heard of as engagements going off, you know.”

Both had raised their voices during the last few eager sentences. Sophia became aware that they had been overheard, by seeing the deep flush which overspread Miss Young’s pale face. Philip looked at Mr Walcot as if he would have knocked him down, if they had only been on land. The young man took off his hat, and ran his fingers through his white hair, for the sake of something to do: replaced his hat, and shook his head manfully, as if to settle his heart in his breast, as well as his beaver on his crown. He glanced down the river, in hopes that the abbey was not yet too near. It was important to him that the wrath of so extremely clever a man as Mr Enderby should have subsided before the party went on shore.

It would have been a strange thing to have known how many of that company were dreading to reach the object of their excursion. A thrill passed through many hearts when the ruins, with their overshadowing ivy, were at length discerned, seated in the meadow to which the boats seemed approaching far too rapidly. In the bustle of landing, however, it was easy for those who wished to avoid one another to do so.

Most of the guests walked straight up to the abbey walls, to examine all that was left of them. Mrs Grey and her maids went to the little farmhouse which was at one corner of the old building, and chiefly constructed out of its ruins; and while the parties on whom the cares of hospitality devolved were consulting with the farmer’s wife about preparations for tea, any stray guest might search for wood-plants in the skirts of the copse on the hill behind, or talk with the children who were jumping in and out of an old saw-pit in the wood, or if contemplative, might watch the minnows in the brook, which was here running parallel with the river.

Mrs Grey obviously considered that Margaret was her peculiar charge. She spoke little to her; but when Philip was off somewhere, she took her arm, and seemed to insist on her company when she proceeded to her treaty with the dame of the farm. Margaret stood for some time patiently, while they discussed whether it should be tea in the farmhouse parlour, which was too small—or tea in the meadow, which might be damp—or tea in the ruins, where there might be draughts, and the water could not be supplied hot. Before this matter was settled, Margaret saw that her friend Maria was seated on a log beside the brook, and gazing wistfully at her. Margaret tried to disengage her arm from Mrs Grey; Mrs Grey objected.

“Wait a moment, my dear. I will not detain you five minutes. You must not go anywhere without me, my dear child.”

Never before had Mrs Grey spoken to Margaret with tenderness like this. Margaret was resolved to know why now; but she would first speak to Maria. She said she would return presently: she wished to return: but she must speak to Maria.

“Margaret, what is all this?” said Maria, in a voice whose agitation she could not control. “Have I been doing wrong? Am I now thinking what is wrong? I did not know whether to be angry with him or not. I was afraid to speak to him, and afraid not to speak to him. How is it? tell me, Margaret.”

“I wish I could,” said Margaret, in a tone calmer than her friend’s. “I am in a miserable dream. I wrote to him this morning.”

“To London?”

“Yes, to London. He must have been in Deerbrook while I was writing it. I heard from him, as usual, three days ago; and since then, I have never had a line or a word to prepare me for this. There is some dreadful mistake.”

“The mistake is not his, I fear,” said Maria, her eyes filling as she spoke. “The mistake is yours, Margaret, and mine, and everybody’s who took a selfish man of the world for a being with a heart and a conscience.”

“You are wrong, Maria. You go too far. You will find that you are unjust. He is as wretched as I am. There is some mistake which may be explained: for he... he loves me, I am certain. But I wish I was anywhere but here—it is so wretched!”

“I am afraid I have done wrong in speaking with him at all,” said Maria. “I longed for three words with you; for I did not know what I ought to do. We must learn something before we return. Your friends must act for you. Where is Mr Hope?”

“I do not know. Everybody deserts me, I think.”

“I will not. It is little I can do; but stay by me: do not leave me. I will watch for you.”

Margaret fell into the common error of the wretched, when she said these last words. Her brother was at work on her behalf. Hope had gone towards the ruins with the rest of the party, to keep his eye on Enderby. Sophia hung on his arm, which she had taken that she might relieve herself of some thoughts which she could not so well speak to any one of the strangers of the party.

“Oh, Mr Hope!” cried she, “how very much mistaken we have been in Mr Walcot all this time! He is a most delightful young man—so refined! and so domestic!”

“Indeed! You will trust Sydney’s judgment more readily another time.”

“Yes, indeed. But I could not help telling you. I know you will not be offended; though some people, perhaps, would not venture to speak so to you; but I know you will excuse it, and not be offended.”

“So far from being offended, I like what you now say far better than the way I have heard you sometimes speak of Mr Walcot. I have thought before that you did not allow him fair play. Now, in my turn, I must ask you not to be offended with me.”

“Oh, I never could be offended with you; you are always so good and amiable. Mamma seemed a little vexed when you encouraged Sydney to praise Mr Walcot: but she will be delighted at your opinion of him, when she finds how accomplished he is—and so refined!”

“You speak of my opinion. I have no opinion about Mr Walcot yet, because I do not know him. You must remember that, though all Deerbrook has been busy about him since May, I have scarcely heard him say five words. I do not speak as having any opinion of him, one way or another. How dark this place looks to-day!—that aisle—how gloomy!”

“I think it is the weather. There is no sun; and the ivy tosses about strangely. What do you think of the weather?”

“I think we shall have the least possible benefit of the moon. How like a solid wall those clouds look, low down in the sky!—Here comes Mr Walcot. Suppose you let him take you after the rest of the party? You will not like the gloom of that aisle where I am going.”

Both Sophia and Mr Walcot much preferred each other’s company to the damp and shadow of the interior of the abbey. They walked off together, and gathered meadow flowers, and admired poetry and poets till all were summoned, and they were compelled to join the groups who were converging from copse, brook, poultry-yard, and cloister, towards the green before the farmhouse, where, after all, the long tea-table was spread.

The reason of Hope’s anxiety to consign Sophia to Mr Walcot’s charge was, that he saw Enderby pacing the aisle alone with rapid steps, his face hung with gloom as deep as darkened the walls about him.

“Enderby, are you mad?” cried Hope, hastening in to him.

“I believe I am. As you are aware, no man has better cause.”

“I wait your explanation. Till I have it, your conduct is a perfect mystery. To Margaret, or to me for her, you must explain yourself, and that immediately. In the mean time, I do not know how to address you—how to judge you.”

“Then Mrs Grey has not told you of our conversation of this morning?”

“No,” said Hope, his heart suddenly failing him.

“The whole dreadful story has become known to me; and I am thankful that it is revealed before it is too late. My sister is sometimes right, however she may be often wrong. She has done me a cruel kindness now. I know all, Hope;—how you loved Margaret;—how, when it was too late, you discovered that Margaret loved you;—how, when I burst in upon you and her, she was (Oh, why did I ever see her again?) she was learning from you the absurd resolution which Mrs Grey had been urging upon you, by working upon your false sense of honour—a sense of honour of which I am to have none of the benefit, since, after marrying the one sister out of compassion and to please Mrs Grey, you turn the other over to me—innocent in soul and conscience, I know, but no longer with virgin affections—you give her to me for your mutual security and consolation.”

“Enderby! you are mad,” cried Hope, his strength being roused by this extent of accusation from the depression caused by the mixture of truth in the dreadful words Philip had just spoken. “But mad, deluded, or wicked—however you may have been wrought into this state of mind, there are two things which must be said on the instant, and regarded by you in all coming time. These charges, as they relate to myself, had better be spoken of at another opportunity, and when you are in a calmer state of mind: but meanwhile I, as a husband, forbid you to speak lightly of my beloved and honoured wife: and I also charge you, as you revere the purity of Margaret’s soul—of the innocent soul and conscience of which you speak—that you do not convey to her, by the remotest intimation, any conception of the horrible tale with which some wretch has been deluding you. She never loved any one but you. If you pollute and agonise her imagination with these vile fancies of your sister’s, (for from whom else can such inventions come?) remember that you peril the peace of an innocent family; you poison the friendship of sisters whom bereavement has bound to each other; and deprive Margaret of all that life contains for her. You will not impair my wife’s faith in me, I am confident; but you may turn Margaret’s brain, if you say to her anything like what passed your lips just now. It seems but a short time, Enderby, since we committed Margaret’s happiness to your care; and now I have to appeal on her behalf to your honour and conscience.”

“Mrs Grey, Mrs Grey,” Enderby repeated, fixing his eyes upon Hope’s countenance.

“The quarrel between you and me shall be attended to in its turn, Enderby. I must first secure my wife and Margaret from any rashness on your part. If you put distrust between them, and pollute their home by the wildest of fancies, it would be better for you that these walls should fall upon us, and bury us both.”

“Oh, that they would!” cried Philip. “I am sick of living in the midst of treachery. Life is a waste to a man treated as I have been.”

“Answer me, Enderby—answer me this instant,” Hope cried, advancing to place himself between Enderby and Margaret, whom he saw now entering the ruin, and rapidly approaching them.

“You are right,” said Enderby, aloud. “You may trust me.”

“Philip, what am I to think?” said Margaret, walking quite up to him, and looking intently in his face. “I hardly know whether we are living, and in our common world.” Hope shuddered to see the glance she cast round the dreary place. Philip half turned away and did not speak.

“Why will not you speak? What reason can there be for this silence? When you last left me, you feared your sister might make mischief between us; and then I promised that if such a thing could happen as that I should doubt you, I would tell you my doubt as soon as I was aware of it myself; and now you are angry with me—you would strike me dead this moment, if you dared—and you will not speak.”

“Go now, Margaret,” said Hope, gently. “He cannot speak to you now: take my word for it that he cannot.”

“I will not go. I will take nobody’s word. What are you, Edward, between me and him? It is my right to know how I have offended him. I require no more than my right. I do not ask him to love me; nor need I, for he loves me still—I know it and feel it.”

“It is true,” said Enderby, mournfully gazing upon her agitated countenance, but retreating as he gazed.

“I do not ask to be yours, any farther than I am now—now when our affections are true, and our word is broken. But I do insist upon your esteem, as far as I have ever possessed it. I have done nothing to forfeit it; and I demand your reasons for supposing that I have.”

“Not now,” said Philip, faintly, shrinking in the presence of the two concerning whom he entertained so painful a complexity of feelings. There stood Hope, firm as the pillar behind him. There stood Margaret, agitated, but unabashed as the angels that come in dreams. Was it possible that these two had loved? Could they then stand before him thus? But Mrs Grey—what she admitted!—this, in confirmation with other evidence, could not be cast aside. Yet Philip dared not speak, fearing to injure beyond reparation.

“Oh, Margaret, not now!” he faintly repeated. “My heart is almost broken! Give me time.”

“You have given me none. Let that pass, however. But I cannot give you time. I cannot hold out—who can hold out, under injurious secrecy—under mocking injustice—under torturing doubt from the one who is pledged to the extreme of confidence? Let us once understand one another, and we will never meet more, and I will endure whatever must be endured, and we shall have time—Oh, what a weary time!—to learn to submit. But not till you have given me the confidence you owe—the last I shall ever ask from you—will I endure one moment’s suspense. I will not give you time.”

“Yes, Margaret, you will—you must,” said Hope. “It is hard, very hard; but Enderby is so far right.”

“God help me, for every one is against me!” cried Margaret, sinking down among the long grass, and laying her throbbing head upon the cold stone. “He comes without notice to terrify me by his anger—me whom he loves above all the world; he leaves my heart to break with his unkindness in the midst of all these indifferent people; he denies me the explanation I demand; and you—you of all others, tell me he is right! I will do without protection, since the two who owe it forsake me: but God is my witness how you wrong me.”

“Enderby, why do not you go?” said Hope, sternly. Almost before the words were spoken, Enderby had disappeared at the further end of the aisle.

“Patience, Margaret! A little patience, my dear sister. All may be well; all must be well for such as you; but I mean that I trust all may be repaired. He has been wrought upon by some bad influence—”

“Then all is over. If, knowing me as he did—. But, Edward, do not speak to me. Go: leave me! I cannot speak another word now—”

“I cannot leave you here. This is no place for you. Think of your sister, Margaret. You will do nothing to alarm her. If she were to see you now—.”

Margaret raised herself; took her brother’s arm, and went out into the air. No one was near.

“Now leave me, brother. I must be alone. I will walk here, and think what I must do. But how can I know, when all is made such a mystery? Oh, brother, tell me what I ought to do!”

“Calm yourself now. Command yourself; for this day. You, innocent as you are, may well do so. If I had such a conscience as yours—if I were only in your place, Margaret—if I had nothing to bear but wrongs, I would thank Heaven as Heaven was never yet thanked.”

“You, Edward!”

“If the universe heaped injuries upon me, they should not crush me. If I had a self-respect like yours, I would lift my head to the stars.”

“You, Edward!”

“Margaret, wretched as you are, your misery is nothing to mine. Have pity upon me, and command yourself. For my sake and your sister’s, look and act like yourself, and hope peacefully, trust steadily, that all will yet be right.”

“It cannot be that you have wronged me, brother. You sent him from me, I know; and that was unkind: but you could never really wrong any one.”

“I never meant it. I honour you, and would protect you—I will protect you as a brother should. Only do not say again that you are forsaken. It would break our hearts to hear you say that again.”

“I will not. And I will try to be for to-day as if nothing had happened: but I promise no more than to endeavour—I am so bewildered!”

“Then I will leave you. I shall not be far off. No one shall come to disturb you.”

There is, perhaps, no mood of mind in which it is impossible for the sweet ministrations of nature to be accepted. Even now, as Margaret stood on the river-bank, the influences of the scene flowed in upon her. The operations of thought were quickened, and she was presently convinced that the next time she saw Philip she should learn all—she might even find him repentant for having been weak and credulous. Edward’s self-reproach was the most inexplicable mystery of all. In his brotherly grief he had no doubt exaggerated some slight carelessness of speech, some deficiency of watchfulness and zeal. Hester must never know of these sorrowful things that Edward had said. There was substantial comfort in other of his words. It was true that she was only wronged. In her former season of wretchedness, it had been far worse: there was not only disappointment, but humiliation; loss, not only of hope, but of self-respect. Now, she was innocent of any wrong towards Philip and herself; and, in this consciousness, any lot must be supportable. While thus musing, she walked slowly along, sighing away some of her oppression. Her heart and head throbbed less. Her eye was caught by the little fish that leaped out of the water after the evening flies: she stood to watch them. The splash of a water-rat roused her ear, and she turned to track him across the stream. Then she saw a fine yellow iris, growing among the flags on the very brink, and she must have it for Maria. To reach it without a wetting required some skill and time. She tried this way—she tried that; but the flower was just out of reach. She went to the next alder-bush for a bough, which answered her purpose; and she had drawn the tuft of flags towards her, and laid hold of the iris, when Sydney shouted her name from a distance, and summoned her to tea.

Maria was seated at the table, amidst the greater proportion of the party, when Margaret arrived, escorted by Sydney, and followed at a little distance by Mr Hope. Never had flower been more welcome to Maria than this iris, offered to her with a smile. Pale as the face was, and heavy as were the eyes, there was a genuine smile. Maria had kept a place for Margaret, which she took, though Mrs Grey kept gazing at her, and assured her that she must sit beside her. Mr Enderby was not to be seen. Frequent proclamation was made for him; but he did not appear; and it was settled that if he preferred wood-ranging to good cheer, he must have his own way.

Tea passed off well enough. Dr Levitt and Mr Hope went over the subject of the abbey again, for the benefit of the rearward portion of the company, who had not heard it before. Mr Rowland and the farmer discussed the bad crops. Sophia spilled her tea, from Mr Walcot having made her laugh when she was carrying the cup to her lips; and Sydney collected a portion of every good thing that was on the table for Mr Enderby to enjoy on his return.

Mr Enderby did not return till it was quite time to be gone. Mr Grey had long been hurrying the servants in their business of packing up plates and spoons. He even offered help, and repeated his cautions to his guests not to stray beyond call. The farmer shook his head as he looked up at the leaden-coloured sky, across which black masses of cloud, like condensed smoke, were whirled, and prophesied a stormy night. There was no time to be lost. The boatmen came bustling out of the farm-kitchen, still munching; and they put the boats in trim with all speed, while the ladies stood on the bank quite ready to step in. Mrs Grey assorted the two parties, still claiming Margaret for her own boat, but allowing Maria to enter instead of Sydney. Hope chose to remain with them; so Dr Levitt exchanged with Sophia. Mr Walcot thought there was a lion in his path either way—Mr Hope, his professional rival, in one boat, and Mr Enderby, whom he fancied he had offended, in the other. He adhered to Sophia, as a sure ally.

“Mr Enderby! Where can he be?” was the exclamation, when all were seated, and the boatmen stood ready to start, with the tow-rope about their shoulders; when the dame of the farm had made her parting curtsey, and had stepped a few paces backward, after her swimming obeisance. The farmer was running over the meadow towards the copse in search of the missing gentleman, and Sydney would have sprung out of the boat to join in the chase, when his father laid a strong hand on him, and said that one stray member of a party on a threatening evening was enough. He could not have people running after one another till the storm came on. Mr Rowland was full of concern, and would have had Sydney throw away the basketful of good things he had hoarded for his friend. If Enderby chose to absent himself for his own enjoyments, Mr Rowland said, he could not expect to share other people’s. Hope was standing up in the first boat, gazing anxiously round, and Margaret’s eyes were fixed on his face, when every body cried out at once, “Here he is! here he comes!” and Enderby was seen leaping through a gap in the farthest hedge, and bounding over the meadow. He sprang into the boat with a force which set it rocking, and made the ladies catch at whatever could be grasped.

“Your hat!” exclaimed several voices.

“Why, Mr Enderby, where is your hat?” cried Sydney, laughing. Enderby clapped his hand on the top of his head, and declared he did not know. He had not missed his hat till this moment.

Hope called from the first boat to the farmer, and asked him to look in the aisle of the abbey for the gentleman’s hat. It was brought thence; and Fanny and Mary laughed at Mr Hope for being such a good guesser as to fancy where Mr Enderby’s hat might be, when Mr Enderby did not know himself. The moment the hat was tossed into the lap of its owner, Mr Grey’s voice was heard shouting to the men—

“Start off, and get us home as soon as you can.”

The men gave a glance at the sky, and set forth at a smart pace. Mr Grey saw that the umbrellas lay at his hand, ready for distribution, and advised each lady to draw her cloak about her, as the air felt to him damp and chill.

A general flatness being perceptible, some one proposed that somebody else should sing. All declined at first, however, except Maria, whose voice was always most ready when it was most difficult to sing—when the party was dull, or when no one else would begin. She wanted to prevent Margaret’s being applied to, and she sang, once and again, on the slightest hint. Sophia had no music-books, and could not sing without the piano, as every one knew beforehand she would say. Mrs Grey dropped a tear to the memory of Mrs Enderby, whose ballad was never wanting on such occasions as these. Sydney concluded that it was the same thought which made Mr Enderby bury his head in his hat between his knees while Miss Young was singing. It could not surely be all from shame at having kept the party waiting.

It was with some uncertainty and awe that he whispered in his friend’s ear—

“Don’t you think you could sing your new song that cousin Margaret is so fond of? Do: we are all as flat as flounders, and everybody will be asleep presently if we don’t do something. Can’t you get over a thing or two, and sing for us?”

“I am sure I would if I only could.”

Enderby shook his head without raising it from his knees.

Mr Walcot had no idea of refusing when he was asked. He could sing the Canadian Boat Song; but he was afraid they might have heard it before.

“Never mind that. Let us have it,” said everybody.

“But there should be two: it is a duet, properly, you know.”

Sophia believed she could sing that—just that—without the piano. She would try the first part, if he would take the second. Mr Grey thought to himself that his daughter seemed to have adopted his hint about civility to his guests very dutifully. But Mr Walcot could sing only the first part, because he had a brother at home who always took the second. He could soon learn it, he had no doubt, but he did not know it at present: so he had the duet all to himself; uplifting a slender voice in a very odd key, which Fanny and Mary did not quite know what to make of. They looked round into all the faces in their boat to see whether anyone was going to laugh: but everybody was immoveable, except that Sophia whispered softly to Miss Young, that Mr Walcot was a most delightful young man, after all—so accomplished and so refined!

Mr Walcot’s song ended with a quaver, from a large, cold, startling drop of rain falling on his nose, as he closed his eyes to draw out his last note. He blushed at having started and flinched from a drop of rain, and so spoiled his conclusion. Some of his hearers supposed he had broken-down, till assured by others that he had finished. Then everybody thanked him, and agreed that the rain was really coming on.

There were now odd fleeces of white cloud between the lead colour and the black. They were hurried about in the sky, evidently by counter currents. The river was almost inky in its hue, and every large drop made its own splash and circle. Up went the umbrellas in both boats; but almost before they were raised, some were turned inside out, and all were dragged down again. The gust had come, and brought with it a pelt of hail—large hailstones, which fell in at Fanny’s collar behind, while she put down her head to save her face, and which almost took away Mary’s breath, by coming sharp and fast against her cheeks. Then somebody descried a gleam of lightning quivering in the grey roof of the sky; and next, every one saw the tremendous flash which blazed over the surface of the water, all round about. How Mr Walcot would have quavered if he had been singing still. But a very different voice was now to be heard—the hoarse thunder rolling up, like advancing artillery; first growling, then roaring, and presently crashing and rattling overhead. The boatmen’s thoughts were for the ladies, exposed as they were, without the possibility of putting up umbrellas. It felt almost dark to those in the boats, as they cut rapidly—more and more rapidly—through the water which seethed about the bows. The men were trotting, running. Presently it was darker still: the bent heads were raised, and it appeared that the boats were brought to, under the wide branches of two oaks which overhung the water. The woods were reached already.

“Shelter for the ladies, sir,” said the panting boatmen, touching their hats, and then taking them off to wipe their brows. Mr Grey looked doubtful, stood up to survey, and then asked if there was no farm, no sort of house anywhere near. None nearer than you village where the spire was, and that was very little nearer than Deerbrook itself. The ladies who were disposed to say anything, observed that they were very well as they were: the tree kept off a great deal of the hail, and the wind was not felt quite so much as on the open river. Should they sit still, or step on shore? Sit still, by all means. Packed closely as they were, they would be warmer and drier than standing on shore; and they were now ready to start homewards as soon as the storm should abate. It did not appear that there was any abatement of the storm in five minutes, nor in a quarter of an hour. The young people looked up at the elder ones, as if asking what to expect. Several of the party happened to be glancing in the same direction with the boatmen, when they saw a shaft of lightning strike perpendicularly from the upper range of cloud upon the village spire, and light it up.

“Lord bless us!” exclaimed Mr Grey, as the spire sent its smoke up like a little volcano.

Fanny burst out a-crying, but was called a silly child, and desired not to make a noise. Everyone was silent enough now; most hiding their faces, that they might not see what happened next. Half way between the river and the smoking church, in the farther part of the opposite meadow, was a fine spreading oak, under which, as might just be seen, a flock of sheep were huddled together for shelter. Another fiery dart shot down from the dark canopy, upon the crown of this oak. The tree quivered and fell asunder, its fragments lying in a circle. There was a rush forth of such of the sheep as escaped, and a rattle of thunder which would have overpowered any ordinary voices, but in the midst of which a scream was heard from the first boat. It was a singular thing that, in talking over this storm in after-days at home, no lady would own this scream.

“I’m thinking, sir,” said Ben, as soon as he could make himself heard, “we are in a bad place here, as the storm seems thickening this way. We had best get from under the trees, for all the hail.”

“Do so, Ben; and make haste.”

When the first boat was brought a little out into the stream, in order to clear it of the flags, Margaret became aware that Philip was gazing earnestly at her from the other boat. She alone of the ladies had sat with face upraised, watching the advance of the storm. She alone, perhaps, of all the company, had enjoyed it with pure relish. It had animated her mind, and restored her to herself. When she saw Philip leaning back on his elbow, almost over the edge of the boat, to contemplate her, she returned his gaze with such an expression of mournful wonder and composed sorrow, as moved him to draw his hat over his eyes, and resolve to look no more.

The storm abated, but did not cease. Rain succeeded to hail, lightning still hovered in the air, and thunder continued to growl afar off. But the umbrellas could now be kept up, and the ladies escaped with a slight wetting.

Before the party dispersed from the wharf Hope sought Philip, and had a few moments’ conversation with him, the object of which was to agree upon further discourse on the morrow. Hope and Margaret then accompanied Maria to her lodging, and walked thence silently home.

Hester was on the watch for them—a little anxious lest they should have suffered from the storm, and ready with some reflections on the liabilities of parties of pleasure; but yet blithe and beaming. Her countenance fell when she saw her sister’s pale face.

“Margaret! how you look!” cried she. “Cold, wet, and weary: and ill, too, I am sure.”

“Cold, wet, and weary,” Margaret admitted. “Let me make haste to bed. And do you make tea for Edward, and send some up to me. Good-night! I cannot talk now. Edward will tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Hester asked her husband, when she found that Margaret had really rather have no attendance.

“That Margaret is unhappy, love, from some misunderstanding with Enderby. Some busy devil—I have no doubt the same that has caused so much mischief already—has come between him and Margaret.”

He then told the story of Philip’s sudden appearance, and his conduct throughout the day, omitting all hint that any conversation with himself had taken place. He hoped, in conclusion, that all would be cleared up, and the mutual faith of the lovers restored.

Hester thought this impossible. If Philip could be prejudiced against Margaret by any man or woman on earth, or any devil in hell, there must be an instability in his character to which Margaret’s happiness must not be committed. Hope was not sure of this. There were circumstances of temptation, modes of delusion, under which the faith of a seraph might sink. But worse still, Hester said, was his conduct of to-day, torturing Margaret’s affection, wounding her pride, insulting her cruelly, in the presence of all those among whom she lived. Hope was disposed to suspend his judgment even upon this. Enderby was evidently half-frantic. His love was undiminished, it was clear. It was the soul of all the madness of to-day. Margaret had conducted herself nobly. Her innocence, her faith, must triumph at last. They might bring her lover to her side again, Hester had little doubt: but she did not see what could now render Philip worthy of Margaret. This had always been her apprehension. How, after the passions of this day, could they ever again be as they had been? And tears, as gentle and sorrowful as Margaret had ever shed for her, now rained from Hester’s eyes.

“Be comforted, my Hester—my generous wife, be comforted. You live for us—you are our best blessing, my love, and we can never bear to see you suffer for her. Be comforted, and wait. Trust that the retribution of this will fall where it ought; and that will never be upon our Margaret. Pray that the retribution may fall where it ought, and that its bitterness may be intense as the joy which Margaret and you deserve.”

“I never knew you so revengeful, Edward,” said his wife, taking the hand he held before his eyes. “Shall I admonish you for once? Shall I give you a reproof for wishing woe to our enemies? Shall I remind you to forgive—fully, freely, as you hope to be forgiven?”

“Yes, love; anything for the hope of being forgiven.”

“Ah! how deep your sorrow for Margaret is! Grief always humbles us in our own eyes. Such humiliation is the test of sorrow. Bless you, love, that you grieve so for Margaret!”

Chapter Thirty Six.

The Next Day.

The hours of a sleepless night were not too long for Hope to revolve what he must say and do on the morrow. He must meet Enderby; and the day would probably decide Margaret’s fate. That this decision would implicate his own happiness or misery was a subordinate thought. It was not till after he had viewed Margaret’s case in every light in which apprehension could place it, that he dwelt upon what the suffering to himself must be of seeing Margaret, day by day, living on, in meek patience, amidst the destruction of hope and happiness which his attachment had caused. When he did dwell upon it, his heart sank within him. All that had made him unhappy seemed of late to have passed away. For many months he had seen Margaret satisfied in her attachment to another; he had seen Hester coming out nobly from the trial of adversity, in which all her fine qualities had been exercised, and her weaknesses almost subdued. She had been not only the devoted wife, but patient and generous towards her foes, full of faith and cheerfulness in her temper, and capable of any degree of self-denial in the conduct of her daily life. She had been of late all that in the days of their engagement—in the days when he had dealt falsely with his own mind—he had trusted she would be. A friendship, whose tenderness was life enough for them both, had grown up in his soul, and he had been at peace. It had been a subject of incessant thankfulness to him, that the evil of what he could now hardly consider as a false step had been confined to himself—that his struggles, his strivings, the dreadful solitary conflicts of a few months, had not been in vain; that he had fulfilled the claims of both relations, and marred no one’s peace. Now, he was plunged into the struggle again. The cause was at an end; but consequences, of perhaps endless wretchedness, remained to be borne. His secret was known, and made the basis of untruths to which the whole happiness of his household, so victoriously struggled for, so carefully cherished by him, and so lately secured, must be sacrificed. Again and again he turned from the fearful visions of Margaret cast off, of the estrangement of the sisters, of the possible loss of some of their fair fame—from these harrowing thoughts he turned again and again to consider what must be done.—The most certain thing was, that he must not by word, look, pause, or admission, countenance to Enderby himself the supposition that he had not preferred Hester at the time she became his wife. In the present state of their attachment, this was the merest justice to her. Nothing that it was in Mrs Grey’s power to reveal bore a relation to any time later than his early, and, it might be assumed, superficial, intercourse with the sisters and, as far as he knew, no one else, unless it were Frank (by this time in possession of the facts), had ever conceived of the true state of the case. He must decline all question about his domestic relations, except as far as Margaret was concerned. Beyond this, he would allow of no inquisition, and would forbid all speculation. For Margaret’s sake, no less than Hester’s, this was necessary. If she should ever be Enderby’s wife, it was of the utmost importance that Enderby should not, in his most secret soul, hold this information, however strongly he might be convinced that Margaret was in ignorance of it, and had never loved any but himself. There must be no admission to Enderby of that which had been truth, but which would become untruth by being first admitted now. There must be entire silence upon the whole subject of himself.—As to Margaret, he did not see what could be done, but to declare his true and perfect belief that she had never loved any but Enderby. But alas! what chance was there of this testimony being received; the very point of Enderby’s accusation being, that they both looked, perhaps in self-delusion, at the connection with him as their security from the consequences of Hope’s weakness in marrying Hester? It was all confused—all wretched—all nearly hopeless. Margaret would be sacrificed without knowing why—would have her heart wrung with the sense of injury in addition to her woe.

From reflections and anticipations, Hope rose early to the great duty of the day. He told Hester that he was going to meet Enderby in the meadows, to receive a full explanation of his conduct of the preceding day; and that it was probable that he should bring home whatever tidings it might be Margaret’s lot to hear.

He found, during the long and anxious conversation in the meadow, that he had need of all the courage, calmness, and discretion he could command. It was a cruel trial to one whose wont it had been from his childhood to converse in “simplicity and godly sincerity,”—it was a cruel trial to hear evidence upon evidence brought of what he knew to have been fact, and to find connected with this, revolting falsehoods, against which he could only utter the indignation of his soul. When he afterwards reflected how artfully the facts and falsehoods were connected, he could no longer wonder at Enderby’s convictions, nor at the conduct which proceeded from them. There was in Enderby this morning no undue anger, no contempt which could excite anger in another;—no doubt cast by him upon Hope’s honour, or Margaret’s purity of mind, as the world esteems purity. However this might have been before their meeting of yesterday, it was now clear that, though immoveably convinced of their mutual attachment, he supposed it to have been entertained as innocently as it was formed;—that Hope had been wrought upon by Mrs Grey, and by a consciousness of Hester’s love; that he had married from a false sense of honour, and then discovered his mistake;—that he had striven naturally, and with success, to persuade himself that Margaret loved his friend, while Margaret had made the same effort, and would have married that friend for security and with the hope of rest in a home of her own, with one whom she might possibly love and to whom she was bound by his love of herself.

As for the evidence on which his belief was founded, there seemed to be no end to it. Hope could do little but listen to the detail. If he had been sitting in judgment on the conduct of an imputed criminal, he would have wrestled with the evidence obstinately and long; but what could he do, when it was the lover of his sister-in-law who was declaring why his confidence in her was gone, and he must resume his plighted faith? None but those who had done the mischief could repair it; and least of all, Hope himself. He could only make one single, solemn protestation of his belief that Margaret had loved none but Enderby, and deny the truth of every statement that was inconsistent with this.

The exhibition of the evidence showed how penetrating, how sagacious, as well as how industrious, malice can be. There seemed to be no circumstance connected with the sisters and their relation to Mr Hope, that Mrs Rowland had not laid hold of. Mrs Grey’s visit to Hope during his convalescence; his subsequent seclusion, and his depression when he reappeared—all these were noted; and it was these which sent Enderby to Mrs Grey for an explanation, which she had not had courage or judgment to withhold—which, indeed, she had been hurried into giving. She had admitted all that had passed between herself and Mr Hope—his consternation at finding that it was Hester who loved him, and whom he must marry, and the force with which Mrs Grey had felt herself obliged to urge that duty upon him. Enderby connected with this his own observations and feelings at the time; his last summer’s conviction that it was Margaret whom Hope loved; his rapturous surprise on hearing of the engagement being to Hester; and his wonder at the coldness with which his friend received his congratulations. He now thought that he must have been doomed to blindness not to have discerned the truth through all this.—Then there was his own intrusion during the interview which Hope had with Margaret;—their countenances had haunted him ever since. Hope’s was full of constraint and anxiety;—he was telling his intentions:— Margaret’s face was downcast, and her attitude motionless; she was hearing her doom.—Then, after Hope was married, all Deerbrook was aware of his failure of spirits; and of Margaret’s no less. It was a matter of common remark, that there must be something amiss—that all was not right at home. They had, then, doubtless discovered that the attachment was mutual; and they might well be wretched.—Those who ought to know best had been convinced of this at an earlier stage of the intercourse. Mrs Rowland had met at Cheltenham a young officer, an intimate friend of Mr Hope’s family, who would not be persuaded that it was not to the younger sister that Mr Hope was married. He declared that he knew, from the highest authority, that Hope was attached to Margaret, and that the attachment was returned. It was not till Mrs Rowland had shown him the announcement of the marriage in an old Blickley newspaper, which she happened to have used in packing her trunk, that he would believe that it was the elder sister who was Hope’s wife.—There was one person, however, who had known the whole, Enderby said; perhaps she was the only person who had been aware of it all: and that was his mother.

In answer to Hope’s exclamations upon the absurdity of this, Enderby said, that a thousand circumstances rose up to confirm Mrs Rowland’s statement that her mother had known all, and had learned it from Margaret herself. Margaret had confided in her old friend as in a mother; and nothing could be more natural—nothing probably more necessary to an overburdened heart. This explained his mother’s never having shown his letters to Margaret—the person for whom, as she knew, they were chiefly written. This explained the words of concern about the domestic troubles of the Hopes, which, now and then during her long confinement, she had dropped in Phoebe’s hearing, and even in her letters to her son. She had repeatedly regretted that Margaret would not leave her sister’s house, and return to Birmingham—saying that income and convenience were not to be thought of for a moment, in comparison with some other considerations. In fact she had—it was weakness, perhaps, but one not to be too hardly judged under the circumstances—she had revealed the whole to her daughter under injunctions to secrecy, which had been strictly observed while she lived, and broken now only for a brother’s sake, and after a long conflict between obligations apparently contradictory. When, from her deathbed, she had welcomed Margaret as a daughter-in-law, it was in the gratitude which it was natural for a mother to feel, on finding the attachment of an only son at length appreciated and rewarded. When she had implored Mrs Rowland to receive Margaret as a sister, and had seen them embrace, her generous spirit had rejoiced in her young friend’s conquest of an unhappy passion; and she had meant to convey to Priscilla an admonition to bury in oblivion what had become known to her, and to forgive Margaret for having loved any one but Philip. Priscilla could not make a difficulty at such a time, and in such a presence; she had submitted to the embrace, but her soul had recoiled from it; she had actually fainted under the shock: and ever since, she had declared to her brother, with a pertinacity which he had been unable to understand—which, indeed, had looked like sheer audacity, that he would never marry Margaret Ibbotson. Philip was now convinced that he had done his sister much wrong. Her temper and conduct were in some instances indefensible; but since he had learned all this, and become aware how much of what he had censured had been said and done out of affection for himself, he had been disposed rather to blame her for the lateness of her explanations, than for any excess of zeal on his account,—zeal which he admitted had carried her a point or two beyond the truth in some of her aims. These statements about the condition of Margaret’s mind were borne out by circumstances known to others. When Margaret had been rescued from drowning, Hope was heard to breathe, as he bent over her, “Oh God! my Margaret!” and it was observed that she rallied instantly on hearing the exclamation, and repaid him with a look worthy of his words. This had been admitted to Enderby himself by the one who heard it, and who might be trusted to speak of it to no one else. Then, it was known that when Margaret was in the habit of taking long walks alone, towards the end of the winter, she was met occasionally by her brother-in-law in his rides—naturally enough. Their conversation had been overheard, once at least, when they consulted about the peace of their home—how much of a certain set of circumstances they should communicate to Mrs Hope, and whether or not Mr Enderby was engaged to a lady abroad. Without these testimonies, Enderby felt that he had only to recur to his own experience to be convinced that Margaret had never loved him, though striving to persuade herself, as well as him, that she did. The calmness with which she had received his avowals that first evening last winter, struck him with admiration at the time: he now understood it better. He wondered he had felt so little till now the coldness of the tone of her correspondence. The first thing which awakened him to an admission of it, was her refusal to marry him in the spring. She shrank, as she avowed, from leaving her present residence—she might have said, from quitting those she loved best.

It was clear that in marrying she was to make a sacrifice to duty—to secure innocence and safety for herself and those who were dearest to her; and that, when the time drew near, she recoiled from the effort. Enderby was thankful that all had become clear in time for her release and his own.

The horror with which Hope listened to this was beyond what he had prepared himself for—beyond all that he had yet endured. Enderby seemed quite willing to hear him; but what could be said? Only that which he had planned. His protest against the truth of certain of the statements, and the justice of some of the constructions of facts, was strong. He declared that, in his perfect satisfaction with his domestic state, his happiness with his beloved and honoured wife, he would admit of no question about his family affairs, as far as he and Hester were concerned. He denied at once and for ever, all that went to show that Margaret had for a moment regarded him otherwise than as a friend and a brother; and declared that the bare mention to her of the idea which was uppermost in Enderby’s mind would be a cruelty and insult which could never be retrieved. He was not going to plead for her. Bitterly as she must suffer, it was from a cause which lay too deep for cure—from a want of faith in her in one who ought to know her best, but from whom she would be henceforth best separated, if what he had been saying was his deliberate belief and judgment.—Enderby declaring that it was so, and that it was his intention to release Margaret from her engagement, gently and carefully, without useless explanation and without reproach, there was nothing more to be said or done. Hope prophesied, in parting, that, of all the days of Enderby’s life, this was perhaps that of which he would one day most heartily repent; and while he spoke, he felt that this same day was the one which he might himself find the most difficult to endure. He left Enderby still pacing the meadow, and walked homewards with a heart weighed down with grief—a grief which yet he would fain have increased to any degree of intensity by taking Margaret’s upon himself.

Margaret was at the breakfast-table with her sister when he entered. Her eyes were swollen, but her manner was gentle and composed. She looked up at Edward, when he appeared, with an expression of timid expectation in her face, which went to his soul. A few words passed—a very few, and then no more was said.

“Yes; I have seen him. He is very wretched. He will not come, but we shall hear something, I have no doubt. A strange persuasion which I cannot remove, of a prior attachment—of a want of frankness and confidence. He will explain himself presently. But his persuasion is irremoveable.”

Hester had much to say of him out of her throbbing heart; but she looked at Margaret, and restrained herself. What must there be in that heart? To utter one word would be irreverent. The breakfast passed in an almost unbroken silence.

It had not been long over when the expected letter came. Hope never saw it; but there was no need: he perfectly anticipated its contents, while to her for whom they were written they were incomprehensible.

“I spare you and myself the misery of an interview. It must be agonising to you, and there would be dishonour as well as pain to me, in witnessing that agony. If, as I fully believe, you have been hitherto blind to the injustice of your connecting yourself with me, from a sense of duty and expediency, when you had not a first genuine love to give, I think you will see it now; and I pity your suffering in the discovery. There is only one point on which I wish or intend to hang any reproach. Why did you not, when I had become entitled to your confidence, lay your heart fully open to me? Did I not do so by you? Did I not reveal to you even the transient fancy which I entertained long ago, and which I showed my faith in you, her friend, by revealing? If you had only done the same—if you had only let me know, without a hint as to the object, that you had been attached, and that you believed I might succeed to your affections in time—if you had done this, I do not say that we should then have been what I so lately trusted we were to be, for my soul is jealous—has been made so by what I thought you—and will bear none but a first, and an entire, and an exclusive love: but in that case I should have cherished you in my inmost heart, as all that I have believed you to be, though not destined for me.

“But I do not blame you. You have done what you meant to be right; though, from too great regard to one set of considerations, you have mistaken the right, and have sacrificed me. I make allowance for your difficulty, and, for my own part, pardon you, and testify most sincerely and earnestly to the purity of your mind and intentions. Do not reject this parting testimony. I offer it because I would not have you think me harsh, or suppose that passion has made me unjust. I love you too deeply to do more than mourn. I have no heart to blame, except for your want of confidence. Of that I have a right to complain: but, for the rest, spare yourself the effort of self-justification. It is not needed. I do not accuse you. You were right in saying yesterday that I love you still. I shall ever love you, be our separate lives what they may. God bless you!

“PE.”

“Will you not wait, my dearest Margaret?” said Hester, when, within half an hour of the arrival of Enderby’s letter, she met her sister on the stairs, with the reply in her hand, sealed, and ready to be sent. “Why such haste? The events of your life may hang on this day, on this one letter. Can it be right to be so rapid in what you think and do?”

“The event of my life is decided,” she replied, “unless—No—the event of my life is decided. I have nothing more to wait for. I have written what I think, and it must go.”

It was as follows:—

“I have nothing to say in reply to your letter, for I cannot understand it. Yet I wonder less at your letter than at your having written it instead of coming to me, to say all that is in your mind. At some moments I still think that you will—I feel that you are on your way hither, and I fancy that this dreadful dream of your displeasure will pass away. It is the first time in my life that any one has been seriously and lastingly displeased with me; and, though I feel that I have not deserved it, I am very wretched that you, of all others, should blame me, and cease to trust me. There ought to be some comfort in the thought that your anger is without cause: but I cannot find such comfort; for I feel that though I could endure your loss by long absence or death, I cannot live in the spirit in which I should wish to live, without your esteem.

“It is useless, alas! to entreat of you to come and explain yourself, or in some other way to put me in possession of the cause of your anger. If you could resist the claims I had upon you for confidence before I knew what was going to befall me—if you could resist the demand I made yesterday, I fear there is little use in imploring you to do me justice. If I thought there was any chance, I would submit to entreat, though I would not have you, any more than myself, forget that I have a right to demand. But indeed I would yield everything that I dare forego, to have you awakened from this strange delusion which makes us both wretched. It is no time for pride now. I care not how fully you know what I feel. I only wish that you could see into my soul as into your own; for then you would not misjudge me as you do. I care not what any one may think of my throwing myself upon the love which I am certain you feel for me, if I can only persuade you to tell me what you mean, and to hear what I shall then have to say. What can I now say? I will not reproach you, for I know you must be even, if possible, more miserable than I: but yet, how can I help feeling that you have been unjust and harsh with me? Yes; though the tone of your letter seems to be gentle, and you clearly mean it to be so, I feel that you have been very harsh to me. Nothing that you can do shall ever make me so cruel to you. You may rest satisfied that, if we should not meet again, I will never be unjust to you. To every one about me it will appear that you are fickle and dishonourable—that you have acted towards me as it is in the nature of some men to act towards the women whose affections they possess; in the nature of some men, but not in yours. I know you to be incapable of anything worse than error and mistrust (and, till yesterday, I could not have believed you capable of this much wrong): and you may trust me to impute to you nothing worse than this. Suffering as I now am, as we both are, under this error and mistrust, may I not implore you, for your own sake (for mine it is too late), to nourish the weak part of yourself, to question your own unworthy doubts, and to study the best parts of the minds you meet, till you grow assured (as a religious man ought to be) that there can be no self-interest, and much less falsehood, mixed up with any real affection—with any such affection as has existed between us two?

“I must not write more; for I do not know, I cannot conjecture, how you may receive what I have written, thinking of me as you now do. It seems strange to remember that at this time yesterday, in this very chair, I was writing to you. Oh how differently! Is it possible that it was only yesterday—such a world of misery as we have lived through since? But I can write no more. It may be that you will despise me in every line as you read: after what has happened, I cannot tell. Notwithstanding all I have said about trusting, I feel at this moment as if I could never depend on anything in this world again. If you should come within this hour and explain all, how could I be sure that the same thing might not happen again? But do not let this weigh a moment with you, if indeed you think of coming. If I do not see you to-day, I shall never see you. I will then bear in mind, as you desire, and as I cannot help, that you love me still; but how little comfort is there in such love, when trust is gone! God comfort us both!

“Margaret Ibbotson.”

Mrs Rowland was crossing the hall at the moment that her maid Betsy opened the door to Mr Hope’s errand-boy, and took in this letter.

“Where are you carrying that letter?” said she, as Betsy passed her.

“To the study, ma’am, against Mr Enderby comes in. It is for Mr Enderby, ma’am.”

“Very well.”

The letter was placed on the study mantelpiece; the place of deposit for letters for absent members of the family. Mrs Rowland meantime resumed her seat in the drawing-room, where the nursemaid was amusing the baby. Mamma took the baby, and sent the maid away. She had a strong belief that her brother might be found somewhere in the shrubbery, though some feeling had prevented her telling the servant so when the letter was taken in. She went, with the baby in her arms, into the study, to see whether Philip was visible in any part of the garden that could be seen thence. But she stopped short of the window. The handwriting on the address of the letter troubled her sight. More than half-persuaded, as she was, of the truth of much that she had told her brother, strenuously as she had nourished the few facts she was in possession of, till she had made them yield a double crop of inferences, she was yet conscious of large exaggerations of what she knew, and of huge additions to what she believed to be probabilities, and had delivered as facts. There was in that handwriting a prophecy of detection: and, like other cowards, she began to tamper with her reason and conscience.

“There is great mischief in letters at such times,” she thought. “They are so difficult to answer! and it is so possible to produce any effect that may be wished by them! As my husband was reading the other day—‘It is so easy to be virtuous, to be perfect, upon paper!’ Nothing that the girl can say ought to alter the state of the case: it can only harass Philip’s feelings, and perhaps cause all the work to be gone over again. His letter was meant to be final, I am confident, from his intending to go away this evening. There should have been no answer. This letter is a pure impertinence, and ought to be treated as such. It is a sort of duty to use it as it deserves. Many parents (at least I know old Mr Boyle did) burn letters which they know to contain offers to daughters whom they do not wish to part with. Mr Boyle had no scruple; and I am sure this is a stronger case. Better end the whole affair at once; and then Philip will be free to form a better connection. He will thank me one day for having broken off this.”

She carried the letter into the drawing-room, slowly contemplating it as she went. She thought, for one fleeting instant, of reading it. She was not withheld by honour, but by fear. She shrank from encountering its contents. She glanced over the mantelpiece, and saw that the lucifer-matches were at hand. To make the letter burn quickly, it was necessary to unfold it. She put the child down upon the rug—a favourite play-place, for the sake of the gay pink and green shavings which, at this time of the year, curtained the grate. While baby crawled, and gazed quietly and contentedly there, Mrs Rowland broke the seal of Margaret’s letter, turning her eyes from the writing, laid the blistered sheet in the hearth, and set fire to it. The child set up a loud crow of delight at the flame. At that moment, even this simple and familiar sound startled its mother out of all power of self-control. She snatched up the child with a vehemence which frightened it into a shrill cry. She feared the nursemaid would come before all the sparks were out; and she tried to quiet the baby by dancing it before the mirror over the mantelpiece. She met her own face there, white as ashes; and the child saw nothing that could amuse it, while its eyes were blinded with tears. She opened the window to let it hearken to the church clock; and the device was effectual. Baby composed its face to serious listening, before the long succession of strokes was finished, and allowed the tears to be wiped from its cheeks.

One thing more remained to be done. Mrs Rowland heard a step in the hall, and looked out: it was Betsy’s.

“I thought it was you. Pray desire cook to send up a cup of broth for Miss Rowland’s lunch; and be sure and let Miss Rowland know, the moment it is ready. Mr Enderby is in the shrubbery, I think.”

“Yes, ma’am; seeing he was there, I was coming to ask about the letter, ma’am, to carry it to him.”

“Oh, that letter—I sent it to him. He has got it. Tell cook directly about the broth.”

At lunch-time, one of the children was desired to summon Uncle Philip. Mrs Rowland took care to meet him at the garden door. She saw him cast a wistful eye towards the study mantelpiece, as he passed the open door. His sister observed that she believed it was past post time for this half-week. He sighed deeply; and she felt that no sigh of his had ever so gone to her heart before.

“Why, mamma! do look!” cried George, as well as a mouthful of bread would allow. “Look at the chimney! Where are all the shavings gone? There is the knot at the top that they were tied together with, but not a bit of shaving left. Have they blown up the chimney?”

“What will poor baby say?” exclaimed Matilda. “All the pretty pink and green gone!”

“There is some tinder blowing about,” observed George. “I do believe they have been burnt.”

“Shut the window, George, will you? There is no bearing this draught. There is no bearing Betsy’s waste either. She has burned those shavings somehow in cleaning the grate. Her carelessness is past endurance.”

“Make her buy some new shavings, mamma, for baby’s sake.”

“Do be quiet, and get your lunch. Hand your uncle the dish of currants.”

Philip languidly picked a few bunches. He had noticed nothing that had passed, as his sister was glad to observe. Besides being too much accustomed, to hear complaints of the servants to give any heed to them, he was now engrossed with his own wretched thoughts. Every five minutes that passed without bringing a reply from Margaret, went to confirm his most painful impressions.

Margaret meantime was sitting alone in her chamber, enduring the long morning as she best might. Now plying her needle as if life depended on her industry, and now throwing up her employment in disgust, she listened for the one sound she needed to hear, till her soul was sick of every other. “I must live wholly within myself now,” she thought, “as far as he is concerned. I can never speak of him, or allow Hester and Maria to speak of him to me; for they will blame him. Every one will blame him: Maria did yesterday. No one will do him justice. I cannot ask Mrs Grey, as I intended, anything of what she may have seen and heard about all this. I have had my joy to myself: I have carried about my solitary glory and bliss in his being mine; and now I must live alone upon my grief for him; for no one person in the world will pity and justify him but myself. He has done me no wrong that he could help. His staying away to-day is to save me pain, as he thinks. I wish I had not said in my letter that he has been harsh to me. Perhaps he would have been here by this time if I had not said that. How afraid he was, that day in the spring when he urged me so to marry at once—(Oh! if I had, all this would have been saved! and yet I thought, and I still think, I was right.) But how afraid he was of our parting, lest evil should come between us! I promised him it should not, for my own part: but who could have thought that the mistrust would be on his side? He had a superstitious feeling, he said, that something would happen—that we should be parted: and I would not hear of it. How presumptuous I was! How did I dare to make so light of what has come so dreadfully true?—Oh! why are we so made that we cannot see into one another’s hearts? If we are made to depend on one another so absolutely as we are, so that we hold one another’s peace to cherish or to crush, why is it such a blind dependence? Why are we left so helpless? Why, with so many powers as are given us, have we not that one other, worth all the rest, of mutual insight? If God would bestow this power for this one day, I would give up all else for it for ever after. Philip would trust me again then, and I should understand him; and I could rest afterwards, happen what might—though then nothing would happen but what was good. But now, shut in, each into ourselves, with anger and sorrow all about us, from some mistake which a moment’s insight might remove—it is the dreariest, the most tormenting state! What are all the locks, and bars, and fetters in the world to it? So near each other too! When one look, one tone, might perhaps lead to the clearing up of it all! There is no occasion to bear this, however. So near as we are, nothing should prevent our meeting—nothing shall prevent it.”

She started up, and hastily put on her bonnet and gloves: but when her hand was on the lock of her door, her heart misgave her. “If it should fail!” she thought. “If he should neither look at me nor speak to me—if he should leave me as he did yesterday! I should never get over the shame. I dare not store up such a wretched remembrance, to make me miserable as often as I think of it, for as long as I live. If he will not come after reading my letter, neither would he hear me if I went to him. Oh! he is very unjust! After all his feats of my being influenced against him, he might have distrusted himself. After making me promise to write, on the first doubt that any one might try to put into my mind, he might have remembered to do the same by me, instead of coming down in this way, not to explain, but to overwhelm me with his displeasure, without giving me a moment’s time to justify myself. Edward seems strangely unkind too,” she sighed, as she slowly untied her bonnet and put it away, as if to avoid tempting herself with the sight of it again. “I never knew Edward unjust or unkind before; but I heard him ask Philip why he staid to hear me in the abbey yesterday; and though he has been with Philip this morning, he does not seem to have made the slightest attempt to bring us together. When such as Edward and Philip do so wrong, one does not know where to trust, or what to hope. There is nothing to trust, but God and the right. I will live for these, and no one shall henceforth hear me complain, or see me droop, or know anything of what lies deepest in my heart. This must be possible; it has been done. Many nuns in their convents have carried it through: and missionaries in heathen countries, and all the wisest who have been before their age; and some say—Maria would say—almost every person who has loved as I have: but I do not believe this: I do not believe that many—that any can have felt as I do now. It is not natural and right that any should live as I mean to do. We are made for confidence, not for such solitude and concealment. But it may be done when circumstances press as they do upon me; and, if God gives me strength, I will do it. I will live for Him and his; and my heart, let it suffer as it may, shall never complain to human ear. It shall be as silent as the grave.”

The resolution held for some hours. Margaret was quiet and composed through dinner, though her expectation, instead of dying out, grew more intense with every hour. After dinner, Hope urged his wife to walk with him. It had been a fine day, and she had not been out. There was still another hour before dark. Would not Margaret go too? No; Margaret could not leave home.

When Hester came down, equipped for her walk, she sat beside her sister on the sofa for a minute or two, while waiting for Edward.

“Margaret,” said she, “will you let me say one word to you?”

“Anything, Hester, if you will not be hard upon any one whom you cannot fully understand.”

“I would not for the world be hard, love. But there was once a time, above a year ago, when you warned me, kindly warned me, though I did not receive it kindly, against pride as a support. You said it could not support me; and you said truly. May I say the same to you now?”

“Thank you. It is kind of you. I will consider; but I do not think that I have any pride in me to-day. I feel humbled enough.”

“It is not for you to feel humbled, love. Reverence yourself; for you may. Nothing has happened to impair your self-respect. Admit freely to your own mind, and to us, that you have been cruelly injured, and that you suffer as you must and ought. Admit this freely, and then rely on yourself and us.”

Margaret shook her head. She did not say it, but she felt that she could not rely on Edward, while he seemed to stand between her and Philip. He came in at the moment, and she averted her eyes from him. He felt her displeasure in his heart’s core.

When they returned, sooner than she had expected, from their walk, they had bad news for her, which they had agreed it was most merciful not to delay. They had seen Enderby in Mr Rowland’s gig on the Blickley road. He had his carpet-bag with him; and Mr Rowland’s man was undoubtedly driving him to Blickley, to meet the night coach for London.

“It is better to save you all further useless expectation,” observed Edward. “We keep nothing from you.”

“You keep nothing from me!” said Margaret, now fixing her eyes upon him. “Then what is your reason for not having brought us together, if indeed you have not kept us apart? Do you suppose I did not hear you send him from me yesterday? And how do I know that you have not kept him away to-day?”

“My dear Margaret!” exclaimed Hester: but a look from her husband, and the recollection of Margaret’s misery, silenced her. For the first time Hester forgave on the instant the act of blaming her husband.

“Whatever I have done, whether it appears clear to you or not,” replied Hope, “it is from the most tender respect for your feelings. I shall always respect them most tenderly; and not the less for their being hurt with me.”

“I have no doubt of your meaning all that is kind, Edward: but surely when two people misunderstand each other, it is best that they should meet. If you have acted from a regard to what you consider my dignity, I could wish that you had left the charge of it to myself.”

“You are right: quite right.”

“Then why—. Oh! Edward, if you repent what you have done, it may not yet be too late!”

“I do not repent. I have done you no wrong to-day, Margaret. I grieve for you, but I could not have helped you.”

“Let us never speak on this subject again,” said Margaret, stung by the consciousness of having so soon broken the resolution of the morning, that her suffering heart should be as silent as the grave. “It is not from pride, Hester, that I say so; but let us never again speak of all this.”

“Let us know but one thing, Margaret,” said Edward;—“that yours is the generous silence of forgiveness. I do not mean with regard to him—for I fear you will forgive him sooner than we can do. I do not mean him particularly, nor those who have poisoned his ear; but all. Only tell us that your silence is the oblivion of mercy, so mourning for the erring that, for its own sake, it remembers their transgressions no more.”

Margaret looked up at them both. Though her eyes swam in tears, there was a smile upon her lips as she held out her hand to her brother, and yielded herself to Hester’s kiss.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

The Conqueror.

Mrs Rowland did not find herself much the happier for being borne out by the whole world in her assertions, that Philip and Margaret were not engaged. She knew that, with regard to this, she now stood justified in the eyes of all Deerbrook, that almost everyone there now believed that it had been an entanglement from which she had released her brother. From selfish fear, from dread of the consequences of going so far as to be again sent by her husband to Cheltenham, or by the Levitts to Coventry; from foresight of the results which would ensue from her provoking an inquiry into the domestic concerns of the Hopes—an inquiry which might end in the reconciliation of Philip and Margaret, and in some unpleasant discoveries about herself—she was very guarded respecting the grand accusation by which she had wrought on her brother. No hint of it got abroad in Deerbrook: nothing was added to the ancient gossip about the Hopes not being very happy together. Mrs Rowland knew that affairs stood in this satisfactory state. She knew that Margaret was exposed to as much observation and inquiry as a country village affords, respecting her disappointed attachment—that the Greys were very angry, and praised Margaret to every person they met—that Mr Walcot eulogised Mrs Rowland’s discernment to all Mrs Rowland’s party—that Mrs Howell and Miss Miskin lifted up their eyes in thankfulness at Mr Enderby’s escape from such a connection—that Mr Hope was reported to be rather flat in spirits—and that Margaret was certainly looking thin: she knew of all this success, and yet she was not happier than six months ago. The drawback on such successes is, that they are never complete. There is always some Mordecai sitting at the gate to mar the enjoyment. Mrs Rowland was aware of Mrs James having dropped that she and her husband had nothing to do with anybody’s family quarrels; that there was always a great deal to be said on both sides in such cases; and that they had never seen anything but what was amiable and pleasant in Miss Ibbotson and her connections. She knew that Dr Levitt called on the Hopes full as often as at any house in Deerbrook; and that Mrs Levitt had offered to take some of Margaret’s plants into her greenhouse, to be nursed through the winter. She was always hearing that Miss Young and Margaret were much together, and that they were happy in each other’s society; and she alternately fancied them talking about her, exposing to each other the injuries she had wrought to both, and enjoying an oblivion of their cares in her despite. She could never see Maria taking an airing in the Greys’ shrubbery, leaning on Margaret’s arm, or Margaret turning in at the farrier’s gate, without feeling her colour rise. She knew that Mr Jones was apt to accommodate Miss Ibbotson with a choice of meat, in preference to his other customers; and that Mrs Jones had spoken indignantly to a neighbour about fine gentlemen from London that think little of breaking one young heart after another, to please their own vanity, and never come back to look upon the eyes that they have made dim, and the cheeks that grow pale for them.

All these things Mrs Rowland knew; and they ate into her heart. In these days of her triumph she moved about in fear; and no hour passed without troubling her victory. She felt that she could not rest till the corner-house family was got rid of. They did not seem disposed to move of their own accord. She incessantly expressed her scorn of the want of spirit of a professional man who would live on in a place where he had lost his practice, and where a rival was daily rising upon his ruins: but the Hopes staid on still. Week after week they were to be met in the lanes and meadows—now gleaning in the wake of the harvest-wain, with Fanny and Mary, for the benefit of widow Rye; now blackberry gathering in the fields; now nutting in the hedgerows. The quarterly term came round, and no notice that he might look out for another tenant reached Mr Rowland. If they would not go of their own accord, they must be dislodged; for she felt, though she did not fully admit the truth to herself; that she could not much longer endure their presence. She looked out for an opportunity of opening the subject advantageously with Mr Rowland.

The wine and walnuts were on the table, and the gentleman and lady were amusing themselves with letting Anna and Ned try to crack walnuts (the three elder children being by this time at school at Blickley), when Mrs Rowland began her attack.

“My dear,” said she, “is the corner-house in perfectly good repair at present?”

“I believe so. It was thoroughly set to rights when Mr Hope went into it, and again after the riot; and I have heard no complaint since.”