"My dear," said Lady Merton, "you may comfort yourself by remembering that your Papa"s character is too well known to be affected by such an a.s.sertion as this; most people will not believe it, and those who do, can only think that his daughter is turning radical, not himself."

"Ay, this is the first public decisive act of Miss Merton"s life," said Rupert; "no wonder so much is made of it."

"But, Rupert," said Anne, "I only beg of you not to say anything about it to Lizzie."

"You cut me off from everything diverting," said Rupert; "you are growing quite impertinent, but I will punish you some day when you do not expect it."

"I do not care what you do when we are at home," said Anne; "I defy you to do your worst then; only spare Lizzie and me while we are here."

"Spare Lizzie, indeed!" said Rupert; "she does not want your protection, she is able enough to take care of herself."

"I believe Rupert"s five wits generally go off halting, from the sharp encounter of hers," said Lady Merton.

"And therefore he wants to gain a shabby advantage over a wounded enemy," said Anne; "I give you up, you recreant; your name should have been Oliver, instead of Rupert."

"There is an exemplification of the lecture," said Rupert; "impotent chivalry biting its nails with disdain and despite."

"Well, Mamma," said Anne, "since chivalry is impotent, I shall leave you to tame that foul monster with something else; I will have no more to do with him."

She went to fetch her work out of her bed-room, but on seeing Elizabeth there, her pocket-handkerchief in her hand, and traces of tears on her face, was hastily retreating, when her cousin said, "Come in," and added, "So, Anne, you have heard, the murder is out."

"The Mechanics" Inst.i.tute, you mean," said Anne, "not Fido."

"Not Fido," said Elizabeth; "but the rest of the story is out; I mean, it is not known who killed c.o.c.k Robin, and I do not suppose it ever will be; but the Mechanics" Inst.i.tute affair is in the newspaper, and it is off my mind, for I have had it all out with Papa. And, Anne, he was so very kind, that I do not know how to think of it. He made light of the annoyance to himself on purpose to console me, and--but," added she, smiling, while the tears came into her eyes again, "I must not talk of him, or I shall go off into another cry, and not be fit for the reading those unfortunate children have been waiting for so long. Tell me, are my eyes very unfit to be seen?"

"Not so very bad," said Anne.

"Well, I cannot help it if they are," said Elizabeth; "come down and let us read."

They found Helen alone in the school-room, where she had been sitting ever since breakfast-time, thinking that the penny club was occupying Elizabeth most unusually long this morning.

"Helen," said Elizabeth, as she came into the room, "Papa knows the whole story, and I can see that he is as much pleased with your conduct as I am sure you deserve."

All was explained in a few words. Helen was now by no means inclined to triumph in her better judgement, for, while she had been waiting, alone with her drawing, she had been thinking over all that had pa.s.sed since the unfortunate Friday evening, wondering that she could ever have believed that Elizabeth was not overflowing with affection, and feeling very sorry for the little expression of triumph which she had allowed to escape her in her ill-temper on Sat.u.r.day. "Lizzie," said she, "will you forgive me for that very unkind thing I said to you?"

Elizabeth did not at first recollect what it was, and when she did, she only said, "Nonsense, Helen, I never consider what people say when they are cross, any more than when they are drunk."

Anne was very much diverted by the idea of Elizabeth"s experience of what drunken people said, or of drunkenness and ill-temper being allied, and her merriment restored the spirits of her cousins, and took off from what Elizabeth called the "awfulness of a grand pardoning scene." Helen was then sent to summon the children to their lessons, which were happily always supposed to begin later on a Monday than on any other day of the week.

The study door was open, and as she pa.s.sed by, her father called her into the room. "Helen," said he, "Elizabeth tells me that you acted the part of a sensible and obedient girl the other evening, and I am much pleased to hear it."

Helen stood for a few moments, too much overcome with delight and surprise to be able to speak. Mr. Woodbourne went on writing, and she bounded upstairs with something more of a hop, skip, and jump, than those steps had known from her foot since she had been an inhabitant of the nursery herself, thinking "What would he say if he knew that I only refused to go, out of a spirit of opposition?" yet feeling the truth of what Anne had said, that her father"s praise, rarely given, and only when well earned, was worth all the Stauntons" admiration fifty times over.

When Mrs. Woodbourne came down, she advised Helen not to call Katherine, saying that she thought it would be better for her to be left to herself, so that she was seen no more till just before the Hazlebys departed, when she came down to take leave of them, looking very pale, her eyes very red, and her voice nearly choking, but still there was no appearance of submission about her.

"Helen," said Lucy, as they were standing in the window of the inner drawing-room, "I should like you to tell Aunt Mildred how very much I have enjoyed this visit."

"I wish you would tell her so yourself," said Helen; "I am sure you cannot be afraid of her, Lucy."

"Oh no, I am not afraid of her," said Lucy, "only I do not like to say this to her. It is putting myself too forward almost, to say it to you even, Helen; but I have been wishing all the time I have been here, to thank her for having been so very kind as to mention me especially, in her letter to Papa."

"But have you really enjoyed your visit here?" said Helen, thinking how much she had felt for Lucy on several occasions.

"Oh! indeed I have, Helen," answered she; "to say nothing of the Consecration, such a sight as I may never see again in all my life, and which must make everyone very happy who has anything to do with your Papa, and Aunt Mildred; it has been a great treat to be with you all again, and to see your uncle and aunt, and Miss Merton. I hardly ever saw such a delightful person as Miss Merton, so clever and so sensible, and now I shall like to hear all you have to say about her in your letters."

"Yes, I suppose Anne is clever and sensible," said Helen musingly.

"Do not you think her so?" said Lucy, with some surprise.

"Why, yes, I do not know," said Helen, hesitating; "but then, she does laugh so very much."

Lucy could not make any answer, for at this moment her mother called her to make some arrangement about the luggage; but she pondered a little on the proverb which declares that it is well to be merry and wise.

Mrs. Hazleby had been condoling with Mr. Woodbourne upon his daughter"s misbehaviour, and declaring that her dear girls would never dream of taking a single step without her permission, but that learning was the ruin of young ladies.

Mr. Woodbourne listened to all this discourse very quietly, without attempting any remark, but as soon as the Hazlebys had gone up-stairs to put on their bonnets, he said, "Well, I wish Miss Harriet joy of her conscience."

"I wish Barbara had been more gentle with those girls," replied Mrs.

Woodbourne, with a sigh. And this was all that pa.s.sed between the elders on the subject of the behaviour of Miss Harriet Hazleby.

Mr. Woodbourne and Rupert accompanied Mrs. Hazleby and her daughters to the railroad station, Rupert shewing himself remarkably polite to Mrs.

Hazleby"s pet baskets, and saving Lucy from carrying the largest and heaviest of them, which generally fell to her share.

CHAPTER XIV.

"Well," said Elizabeth, drawing a long breath, as she went out to walk with Anne and Helen, "there is the even-handed justice of this world.

Of the four delinquents of last Friday, there goes one with flying colours, in all the glory of a successful deceit; you, Anne, who, to say the best of you, acted like a very great goose, are considered as wise as ever; I, who led you all into the sc.r.a.pe with my eyes wilfully blinded, am only pitied and comforted; poor Kitty, who had less idea of what she was doing than any of us, has had more crying and scolding than anybody else; and Lucy, who behaved so well--oh! I cannot bear to think of her."

"It is a puzzle indeed," said Helen; "I mean as far as regards Harriet and Lucy."

"Not really, Helen," said Elizabeth; "it is only a failure in story book justice. Lucy is too n.o.ble a creature to be rewarded in a story-book fashion; and as for Harriet, impunity like hers is in reality a greater punishment than all the reproof in the world."

"How could she sit by and listen to all that Papa and Mrs. Hazleby were saying?" said Helen.

"How could she bear the glance of Papa"s eye?" said Elizabeth; "did you watch it? I thought I never saw it look so stern, and yet that contemptible creature sat under it as contentedly as possible. Oh! it made me quite sick to watch her."

Are you quite sure that she knew whether my uncle was aware of her share in the matter?" said Anne.

"She must have seen it in that glance, or have been the most insensible creature upon earth," said Elizabeth.

"Ah!" said Anne, "I have some notion what that eye of your Papa"s can be."

"You, Anne?" said Elizabeth; "you do not mean that you could ever have done anything to make him look at you in that way?"

"Indeed I have," said Anne; "do not you remember?"