"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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d," replied the boatman, solemnly.

It was obviously so far from the man's intention that any one should laugh, that n.o.body 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 ash.o.r.e 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 grat.i.tude, 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 b.u.t.ton 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 a.s.sured 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 sh.o.r.e.

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 pa.s.sed 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?"