'And you have certainly never seen a play?'
'Never.'
'Clear your head, child, of the nonsense that has got into it—I can't think how. Rich Mr. Dunboyne has taught his heir to despise the base act of marrying for money. He knows that Philip will meet young ladies at my house; and he has written to me on the subject of his son's choice of a wife. 'Let Philip find good principles, good temper, and good looks; and I promise beforehand to find the money.' There is what he says. Are you satisfied with Philip's father, now?'
I jumped up in a state of ecstasy. Just as I had thrown my arms round Mrs. Staveley's neck, the servant came in with a letter, and handed it to me.
Helena had written again, on this last day of my visit. Her letter was full of instructions for buying things that she wants, before I leave London. I read on quietly enough until I came to the postscript. The effect of it on me may be told in two words: I screamed. Mrs. Staveley was naturally alarmed. 'Bad news?' she asked. Being quite unable to offer an opinion, I read the postscript out loud, and left her to judge for herself.
This was Helena's news from home:
'I must prepare you for a surprise, before your return. You will find a strange lady established at home. Don't suppose there is any prospect of her bidding us good-by, if we only wait long enough. She is already (with father's full approval) as much a member of the family as we are. You shall form your own unbiased opinion of her, Eunice. For the present, I say no more.'
I asked Mrs. Staveley what she thought of my news from home. She said: 'Your father approves of the lady, my dear. I suppose it's good news.'
But Mrs. Staveley did not look as if she believed in the good news, for all that.
CHAPTER XIV. HELENA'S DIARY.
To-day I went as usual to the Scripture-class for girls. It was harder work than ever, teaching without Eunice to help me. Indeed, I felt lonely all day without my sister. When I got home, I rather hoped that some friend might have come to see us, and have been asked to stay to tea. The housemaid opened the door to me. I asked Maria if anybody had called.
'Yes, miss; a lady, to see the master.'
'A stranger?'
'Never saw her before, miss, in all my life.' I put no more questions. Many ladies visit my father. They call it consulting the Minister. He advises them in their troubles, and guides them in their religious difficulties, and so on. They come and go in a sort of secrecy. So far as I know, they are mostly old maids, and they waste the Minister's time.
When my father came in to tea, I began to feel some curiosity about the lady who had called on him. Visitors of that sort, in general, never appear to dwell on his mind after they have gone away; he sees too many of them, and is too well accustomed to what they have to say. On this particular evening, however, I perceived appearances that set me thinking; he looked worried and anxious.
'Has anything happened, father, to vex you?' I said.
'Yes.'
'Is the lady concerned in it?'
'What lady, my dear?'
'The lady who called on you while I was out.'
'Who told you she had called on me?'
'I asked Maria—'
'That will do, Helena, for the present.'
He drank his tea and went back to his study, instead of staying a while, and talking pleasantly as usual. My respect submitted to his want of confidence in me; but my curiosity was in a state of revolt. I sent for Maria, and proceeded to make my own discoveries, with this result:
No other person had called at the house. Nothing had happened, except the visit of the mysterious lady. 'She looked between young and old. And, oh dear me, she was certainly not pretty. Not dressed nicely, to my mind; but they do say dress is a matter of taste.'
Try as I might, I could get no more than that out of our stupid young housemaid.
Later in the evening, the cook had occasion to consult me about supper. This was a person possessing the advantages of age and experience. I asked if she had seen the lady. The cook's reply promised something new: 'I can't say I saw the lady; but I heard her.'
'Do you mean that you heard her speaking?'
'No, miss—crying.'
'Where was she crying?'
'In the master's study.'
'How did you come to hear her?'
'Am I to understand, miss, that you suspect me of listening?'
Is a lie told by a look as bad as a lie told by words? I looked shocked at the bare idea of suspecting a respectable person of listening. The cook's sense of honor was satisfied; she readily explained herself: 'I was passing the door, miss, on my way upstairs.'
