There was no answer; but Mrs Rowland's pale cheeks grew paler.

"Oh G.o.d! what can Margaret have thought of me all this time?" cried Philip.

"I can tell you what she has thought, I believe," said Hope. "Her brother and sister have read her innocent mind, as you yourself might have done, if your faith in her had been what she deserved. She has believed that you loved her, and that you love her still. She has believed that some one--that Mrs Rowland traduced her to you: and in her generosity, she blames you for nothing but that you would not see and hear her--that you went away on the receipt of her letter--of that letter which it now appears you never saw."

"Where is she?" cried Enderby, striding to the door.

"She is not at home. You cannot find her at this moment: and if you could, you must hear me first. You remember the caution I gave you when we last conversed--in the abbey, and again in the meadows."

"I do; and I will observe it now."

"You remember that she is unaware--"

"That you ever--that that interview with Mrs Grey ever took place? She shall never learn it from me. It is one of those facts which have ceased to exist--which is absolutely dead, and should be buried in oblivion. You hear, Priscilla?"

She bowed her head.

"You believe that--."

"Say no more, brother. Do not humble me further. I will make what reparation I can--indeed I will--and then perhaps G.o.d will spare my child."

Hope's pa.s.sing reflection was, "How alike is the superst.i.tion of the ignorant and of the wicked! My poor neighbours stealing to the conjuror's tent in the lane, and this wretched lady, hope alike to bribe Heaven in their extremity--they by gifts and rites, she by remorse and reparation.--How different from the faith which say; 'Not as I will, but as thou wilt!'"

"Where _is_ Margaret? Will you tell me?" asked Enderby, impatiently.

"But before I see her, I ought to ask forgiveness from you, Hope. You find how cruelly I have been deceived--by what incredible falsehood--.

But," glancing at his pale sister, "we will speak no more of that. If, in the midst of all this error and wretchedness, I have hurt your feelings more than my false persuasions rendered necessary... I hope you will forgive me."

"And me! Will you forgive me?" asked Mrs Rowland, faintly.

"There is nothing to pardon in you," said Hope to Philip. "Your belief in what your own sister told you in so much detail can scarcely be called a weakness; and you did and said nothing to me that was not warranted by what you believed.--And I forgive you, madam. I will do what I can to relieve your present affliction; and, as long as you attempt no further injustice towards my family, no words shall be spoken by any of us, to remind you of what is past."

"You are very good, Mr Hope."

"I tell you plainly," he resumed, "that you cannot injure us beyond a certain point. You cannot make it goodness in us to forget what is past. It is of far less consequence to us what you and others think of us than what we think of our neighbours. Our chief sorrow has been the spectacle of yourself in your dealings with us. We shall be thankful to be reminded of it no more. And now enough of this."

"Where _is_ Margaret?" again asked Enderby, as if in despair of an answer.

"She is nursing Mrs Howell. As soon as I have seen this poor child again, I will go home, and take care that Margaret is prepared to see you. Remember how great the surprise, the mystery, must be to her."

"If the surprise were all--" said Philip.--"But will she hear me? Will she forgive me? Will she trust me?"

"Was there ever a woman who really loved who would not hear, would not forgive, would not trust?" said Hope, smiling. "I must not answer for Margaret; but I think I may answer for woman in the abstract."

"I will follow you in an hour, Hope."

"Do so. Now, madam."

And Hope followed Mrs Rowland again to the bedside of her dying child.

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

REST OF THE PLACABLE.

Margaret was not at Mrs Howell's at the moment that her brother believed and said she was. She had been there just in time to witness the poor woman's departure; and she was soon home again and relating the circ.u.mstances to Hester, by the fireside. Even the news that Edward was now in the same house with Philip, could not efface from her mind what she had seen; nor could Hester help listening, though full of anxiety about her husband.

"Miss Miskin was prevailed upon to leave her room at the last, I suppose?"

"Scarcely. Poor Nanny was supporting her mistress's head when I went in; and she said, with tears, that there was no depending on any one but us. They both looked glad enough to see me: but then, nothing would satisfy Mrs Howell but that I should warm myself, and be seated."

"To the last! and she offered you some cherry-bounce, I suppose."

"Yes; just as usual. Then she told me that it would be as well to mention now, in case she should grow worse, and be in any danger, that she should be gratified if you and I would select each a rug or screen pattern from her stock, and worsteds to work it with: and she gave a broad hint that there was one with a mausoleum and two weeping willows, which she hoped one of us would choose; and that perhaps her name might fill up the s.p.a.ce on the tomb. Poor Nanny began to cry; and this affected Mrs Howell; and she begged earnestly to see Miss Miskin."

"And then she came, I suppose."

"Not she! She would not come till her friend sent a message threatening to haunt her if she did not."

"Did you carry the message?"

"No; but Nanny did; and, I thought, with hearty good will; Miss Miskin came trembling, but too much frightened to cry. She would not approach nearer than the doorway, and there fell down on her knees, and so remained the whole time she was receiving directions about the shop and the stock,--'in case,' as the poor soul again said, 'of my getting worse, so as to be in any danger.' And yet Dr Levitt thought he had told her, plainly enough, what he thought of her state this morning."

"And was she aware at last? or did she go off unconsciously?"

"I think she was aware; I think so from her last words--'Oh, my poor dear Howell!' I sat behind the curtain while she was speaking to Miss Miskin--sometimes so faintly that Nanny had to repeat her words, to make them heard as far as the door."

"That selfish wretch--Miss Miskin!"

"It was very moving, I a.s.sure you, to hear not one word of reproach,--or even notice of Miss Miskin's desertion in this illness. What was said was common-place enough; but every word was kind. I have it all. I took it down with my pencil, behind the curtain; for I was sure Miss Miskin would never remember it. Mrs Howell went on till she came to directions about the bullfinch that her poor dear Howell used to laugh to see perched upon her nightcap of a morning; and then she grew unintelligible. I thought she was only fainting; but while we were trying to revive her, Nanny said she was going. Miss Miskin drew back into the pa.s.sage, shut the door, and made her escape. Her friend looked that way once more, and said that we had all been very good to her. She mentioned her husband, as I told you, and then died very quietly."

"Miss Miskin knows, of course?"

"I told her, and did not pretend to feel much sympathy in her lamentations. I told her she had lost a friend who would have watched over her, I believed, till her last breath, if she had been the one attacked by the fever."

"What did she say?"

"She exclaimed a great deal about how good we all were, and wondered what Deerbrook would have done without us; and said she was sure I was too kind to think of leaving her in the house with the corpse, with only Nanny. When I declined pa.s.sing the night there, she comforted herself with thinking aloud that her friend would not haunt her--certainly would not haunt her--as she _had_ gone to her room at last. Her final question was, how soon I thought it likely that she should feel the fever coming on, in case of her having caught it, after all, by going into the room."

"What an end to a sentimental friendship of so many years!"

"I rather expect to hear in the morning that she has taken refuge in some neighbour's house, and left Nanny alone with the corpse to-night."

"My husband's knock!" cried Hester, starting up. "How is your headache, love?" asked she anxiously, as she met him at the room door.

"Gone, quite gone," he replied. "I must step down into the surgery for a minute, about this poor little girl's medicine; and then I have a great deal to tell you."

The sisters sat in perfect silence till his return.