“Do you mean that all you told me of Margaret’s confidences to my mother was false?”
There was no answer; but Mrs Rowland’s pale cheeks grew paler.
“Oh God! 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.