"Hope is not the first good man who has been slandered and suffered
violence. Oh, Priscilla, I am unwilling to give you up! Let me hope,
that the pride, the insane pride of this morning, is but the reaction of
your internal suffering from witnessing the results of your influence in
the outrages of last night. Confide this to me now, and give yourself
such ease as you yet can."

"Thank you: but you are quite mistaken. I was extremely glad to arrive
when I did. It satisfied me as to the necessity of getting rid of these
people; and it proved to Mr Walcot, as I observed to him at the time,
how much he was wanted here. Now, if you have nothing more to say to
me, I must go. I shall deny your engagement everywhere."

Philip fixed his eyes upon her with an earnestness from which, for one
moment, she shrank; but she instantly rallied, and returned him a stare
which lasted till she reached the door.

"There is something almost sublime in audacity like this," thought he.
"But it cannot last. It comes from internal torture--a thing as
necessarily temporary as faith (the source of the other kind of
strength) is durable. Not the slightest compunction has she for having
caused the misery she knows of: and not a whit would she relent, if she
could become aware (which she never shall) of what she made Margaret
suffer. I fear my Margaret has still much to endure from her. I will
watch and struggle to ward off from her every evil word and thought.
This is the only comfort under the misery of her being exposed to the
malice of any one belonging to me. No; not the only comfort. She does
not suffer from these things as she did. She says she has a new
strength; and, thank God! I believe it. Now for Mr Walcot! I must
catch him as he comes out of church, and see what I can make of him. If
he is an honourable man, all may turn out well. If not--Rowland and I
must see what can be done next."

CHAPTER THIRTY.

CONDOLENCE.

The family in the corner-house thought this the strangest Sunday morning
they had ever looked upon. Outside their premises, all was like a May
sabbath. The gardens sent up their fragrance into the warm, still air:
the cottage windows were open, and early roses and late hyacinths
appeared within the casements. The swallows were skimming and dipping
about the meadows; and the swans steered their majestic course along the
river, rippling its otherwise unbroken surface. The men of the village
s