“I was afraid you would go to her, and that your engagement would come on again.”
“Then what you told me—what made me break it off—could not have been true.”
“No, it was not—not all true.”
“What was true, and what was not?”
Mrs Rowland did not answer, but looked timidly at Mr Hope. Now was the moment for him to speak.
“It was true,” said he, “that, at the very beginning of my acquaintance with Hester and Margaret, I preferred Margaret—and that my family discerned that I did—as true as that Hester has long been the beloved of my heart—beloved as—but I cannot speak of my wife, of my home, in the hearing of one who has endeavoured to profane both. All I need say is that neither Hester nor Margaret ever knew where my first transient fancy lighted, while they both know—know as they know their own hearts—where it has fixed. It is not true that Margaret ever loved any one but you, Enderby; and Mrs Rowland cannot truly say that she ever did.”
“What was it then that Margaret confided to my mother?” asked Enderby, turning to his sister.
“I cannot tell what possessed me at the time to say so, but that I thought I was doing the best for your happiness—but—but, Philip, I really believe now, that Margaret never did love any one but you. I know nothing to the contrary.”
“But my mother?”
“She knew very little of any troubles in Mr Hope’s family; and—and what she did hear was all from me.”