"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 compa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sed 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 n.o.body'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 pa.s.s, 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."

"G.o.d help me, for every one is against me!" cried Margaret, sinking down among the long gra.s.s, 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 G.o.d 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!"