“Sandal was absent on a visit to some neighbouring nobleman, and Margaret and Elinor were one evening completely alone. Each seemed equally anxious for an explanation, which neither appeared willing to begin. Elinor had lingered till twilight at the casement, from which she had seen him ride, and lingered still when to see him was no longer possible. Her sight was strained to catch a glimpse of him through the gathering clouds, as her imagination still toiled to catch a gleam of that light of the heart, which now struggled dimly amid clouds of gloomy and unpierceable mystery. “Elinor,” said Margaret emphatically, “look for him no longer,--he never can be yours!” “The sudden address, and the imperative tone of conviction, had upon Elinor the effect of being addressed by a supernatural monitor. She was unable even to ask how the terrible intelligence that burst on her so decisively, was obtained. “There is a state of mind in which we listen thus to a human voice as if it were an oracle,--and instead of asking an explanation of the destiny it announces, we wait submissively for what yet remains to be told. In this mood, Elinor slowly advanced from the casement, and asked in a voice of fearful calmness, “Has he explained himself perfectly to you?”--“Perfectly.”--“And there is nothing to expect?”--“Nothing.”--“And you have heard this from himself--his very self?”--“I have; and, dear Elinor, let us never again speak on the subject.”--“Never!” answered Elinor,--“Never!” “The veracity and dignity of Margaret’s character, were inviolable securities for the truth of what she uttered; and perhaps that was the very reason why Elinor tried to shrink most from the conviction. In a morbid state of heart, we cannot bear truth--the falsehood that intoxicates us for a moment, is worth more than the truth that would disenchant us for life.--_I hate him because he tells me the truth_, is the language natural to the human mind, from the slave of power to the slave of passion. * * * * * * * * “Other symptoms that could not escape the notice of the most shallow, struck her every hour. That devotion of the eye and heart,--of the language and the look, that cannot be mistaken,--were all obviously directed to Margaret. Still Elinor lingered in the Castle, and said to herself, while every day she saw and felt what was passing, “Perhaps.” That is the last word that quits the lips of those who love. * * * * * * “She saw with all her eyes,--she felt to the bottom of her soul,--the obviously increasing attachment of John Sandal and Margaret; yet still she dreamed of interposing obstacles,--of _an explanation_. When passion is deprived of its proper aliment, there is no telling the food on which it will prey,--the impossibilities to which, like a famished garrison, it will look for its wretched sustenance.