Mr Walcot was delighted with the invitation to the water-party, but was fully engaged for the next three weeks.  Mr Grey decreed that he was to be waited for.  Then the lady moon had to be waited for another ten days; so that it was past the middle of August before Mrs Grey and Sophia were called upon to endure Mr Walcot’s society for six hours.  The weather was somewhat dubious when the day arrived:  but in so bad a season as the present, it would never do to let a doubt put a stop to an excursion which had been planned above a month.  One of Mr Grey’s men was sent round among the ladies in the morning, to request to be the bearer of their cloaks, as it was thought they would be cold on the water without all the wraps they had.  Hester sent as many warm things as she thought Margaret could possibly wear.  She was not going herself.  She wished it much; but it was decided on all hands that it would be imprudent, as there was no calculating the amount of fatigue which each might have to incur.

At three o’clock the party assembled on the wharf on Messrs. Grey and Rowland’s premises, everyone having dined at home.  Mrs Rowland had tried to persuade Mr Walcot that he ought not to be out of the way, after what Lady Hunter had said in a note about her terrible headache of yesterday.  It might be the beginning of a feverish attack; and it would be unfortunate if he should be six miles down the river ­not expected home till nine or ten at night, when a messenger should arrive from the Hall.  But Mr Walcot had seen few water-parties in the course of his life, and he was resolved to go.

Margaret and her brother repaired in gay spirits to the water-side.  In the days of poverty, trifles become great events, and ease is luxury.  Hope felt himself clear of the world to-day.  He had received the money from the sale of his horse; and after paying for its corn, there was fifteen pounds left to be put by for his rent.  Hester had bidden adieu to the horse with a sort of glee, as she had never been able to overcome her panic during her husband’s long country rides; and Hope found that he hung more and more upon Hester’s smiles:  they cheered him, from whatever cause they arose.  Margaret was gay from discourse with Philip.  She had just despatched a letter to him ­a letter which had acknowledged that it was, indeed, long since they had met ­that it was almost time that he was coming to Deerbrook again.

The party they joined looked less merry than themselves.  The two boats which lay at the wharf were gay enough ­the one with crimson cushions, and the other with blue.  A servant-maid was to go in each, to take care of the provisions, and provide tea at the ruins; and Alice and her companion were alert and smiling.  But Mrs Grey wore a countenance of extraordinary anxiety; and the twitching of her face showed that something had gone very seriously wrong.  Sophia nearly turned her back upon Mr Walcot, who continued to address her with patient diligence.  Maria was sitting on some deals, waiting to be called to enter the boat; and some of the people of the village were staring at her from a little distance.  Margaret immediately joined her.

“What are those people looking at you for?”

“I cannot conceive.  I fancied that while I was sitting I looked pretty much like other people.”

“To be sure you do.  I will ask Mr Grey.  I am sure there is some meaning in their gaze ­so ridiculously compassionate.”

“Do not you know?” said Mr Grey.  “Do not you know the story they have got up about Miss Young’s case.  They say Mr Hope set her limb so badly that he had to break it again twice.  I have been asked several times whether he did not get me to help him:  and they will not believe me when I deny the whole.”

Maria laughed; and Margaret observed that they would presently see how much better Maria could walk now than she did before her last accident, such being the effect of the long and complete rest which had been enforced upon her.

“Nothing like seeing for themselves,” observed Mr Grey, surveying the company.  “All come but Dr Levitt now, I think.  It really goes to my heart not to take some of my partner’s children.  There they are, peeping at us, one head behind another, from that gate.  There is room for two or three, from the Jameses failing us at the last.  The little things might as well go; but I suppose there would be no use in saying anything about it.  I must have a word with my daughter before we embark.  Sophia, my dear!  Sophia!”

Sophia came, and Margaret overheard her father say to her, that every person present was his guest, and to be treated with the civility and attention due to him as such.  Sophia looked rather sulky at hearing this, and walked far away from Mr Walcot to devote herself to Miss Anderson.

By dint of sending a messenger to Dr Levitt’s a quarter of an hour before the time, his presence was secured a quarter of an hour after it.  He made his usual approach ­looking bland and gentlemanly, and fearing he was late.

The party were ordered into the boats as if they had been going to dinner.  Mr Walcot was appointed to hand Margaret in; but he showed, amidst great simplicity, an entire determination to be Sophia’s companion.  Hope was approaching Maria’s seat, to give her his arm, when some bustle was heard at the gate where the little Rowlands were clustered.

“There is my partner!  He will go with us, after all,” said Mr Grey.  “Come, my dear sir, we have plenty of room.”

“So much the better for my brother-in-law.  You have room for Enderby, have you?  He will be delighted to join you, I have no doubt.  Room for me too?  I really think I must indulge myself.  Yes; Enderby took us quite by surprise this morning:  but that is his way, you know.”

Philip here, and without notice!  Margaret thought she was dreaming the words she heard.  She felt much oppressed ­as if there must be something wrong in so sudden and strange a proceeding.  At the very moment of suspense, she caught Mrs Grey’s eye fixed upon her with the saddest expression she thought she had ever seen.

Philip was come ­it was no dream.  He was presently in the midst of the party, making his compliments ­compliments paid to Margaret in a manner scarcely different in the eyes of others from those which were shared by all:  but to her, a world of wonder and of horror was revealed by the glance of the eye and the quiver of the lip, too slight to be detected by any eye less intently fixed than hers.  Margaret stood alone, as the others were stepping into the boats; but Philip did not approach her.  He interfered between Hope and Maria Young.  Maria looked agitated and uncertain; but she thought she had no right to cause any delay or difficulty; and she took his arm, though she felt herself unable to conceal her trembling.  Hope saw that Margaret was scarcely able to support herself.

“I cannot go,” she said, as he drew her arm within his.  “Leave me behind.  They will not miss me.  Nobody will miss me.”

The agonised tone of these last words brought back the colour which Hope had lost in the tempest of emotions, in which anger was uppermost.  He was no longer deadly pale when he said: 

“Impossible.  I cannot leave you.  You must not stay behind.  It is of the utmost consequence that you should go.  Cannot you?  Do try.  I will place you beside Mrs Grey.  Cannot you make the effort?”

She did make the effort.  With desperate steadiness she stepped into the boat where Mrs Grey was seated.  She was conscious that Philip watched to see what she would do, and then seated Maria and himself in the other boat.  Hope followed Margaret.  If he had been in the same boat with Enderby, the temptation to throw him overboard would have been too strong.

Till they were past the weir and the lock, and all the erections belonging to the village, and to the great firm which dignified it, the boats were rowed.  Conversation went on.  The grey church steeple was pronounced picturesque, as it rose above the trees; and the children looked up at Dr Levitt, as if the credit of it by some means belonged to him, the rector.  Sydney desired his younger sisters not to trail their hands through the water, as it retarded the passage of the boat.  The precise distance of the ruins from Deerbrook ferry was argued, and Dr Levitt gave some curious traditions about the old abbey they were going to see.  Then towing took the place of rowing, and the party became very quiet.  The boat cut steadily through the still waters, the slight ripple at the bows being the only sound which marked its progress.  Dr Levitt pointed with his stick to the “verdurous wall” which sprang up from the brink of the river, every spray of the beech, every pyramid of the larch, every leaf of the oak, and the tall column of the occasional poplar, reflected true as the natural magic of light and waters could make them.  Some then wished the sun would come out, without which it could scarcely be called seeing the woods.  Others tried to recognise the person who stood fishing under the great ash; and it took a minute or two to settle whether it was a man or a boy; and two minutes more to decide that it was nobody belonging to Deerbrook.  Margaret almost wondered that Edward could talk on about these things as he did ­so much in his common tone and manner.  But for his ease and steadiness in small talk, she should suppose he was striving to have her left unnoticed, to look down into the water as strenuously as she pleased.  She little knew what a training he had had in wearing his usual manner while his heart was wretched.

“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!”