"I'm sure he is not a reprobate, and I'm certain you are mistaken," rejoined Helen bravely.
Here the elder lady flamed out, and thumped her umbrella violently on the ground, and cried in her highest key,—
"Then why did he go away? He knew that I had heard about him, for I told him so to his face. I never say behind a person's back what I won't say to their face." (Oh! Mrs. Creery, Mrs. Creery!) "And it is a very remarkable coincidence, that in less than twelve hours, he was out of the place! How do you account for that, eh?"
She paused for breath, and once more proceeded triumphantly,—
"He will never show here again, believe me; and, after all, I am thankful to say he has done no great harm! As far as I know he ran no bills in the bazaar, and certainly neither you nor Lizzie Caggett lost your hearts to him!"
Helen became very pale, her lips quivered, and she was unable to reply for a moment. Then she said,—
"At any rate, I believe in him, Mrs. Creery,—and always will; deeds are better than words. Have you forgotten the wreck?"
"Forgotten it?" she screamed. "Am I ever likely to get it out of my head? Only for my calling myself hoarse, you and Mr. Lisle would both have been murdered in that hole of a cabin! You know I told you not to go down, and you would, and see what you got by it."
There was not the slightest use in arguing with this lady, who not only imposed upon others, but also upon herself: she had a distorted mind, that idealized everything connected with her own actions, and deprecated, and belittled, the deeds of other people! The only persons who had not heard the horrible tale about Mr. Lisle were the Durands and the general; the latter was a singularly astute gentleman, and never lost a certain habit of cool military promptitude, even when in retreat. Each time Mrs. Creery had exhibited symptoms of extracting a letter from her pocket, he had escaped! The Durands were Mr. Lisle's friends,—a fact that lowered them many fathoms in Mrs. Creery's estimation, and were consequently the very last to hear of the scandal!
About a fortnight after the departure of the Scotia, the general gave one of his usual large dinner-parties; every one in Ross was invited, and about twenty-four sat down to the table. When the meal was over, and the ladies had pulled a few crackers, and sipped their glass of claret, they all filed off into the drawing-room in answer to Mrs. Creery's rather dramatic signal, and there they looked over photographs, noted the alterations in each other's dresses, drank coffee, and conversed in groups. In due time the conversation turned upon that ever fertile topic, "Mr. Lisle," and Mrs. Graham, who was seated beside Mrs. Durand, little knowing what she was doing, fired the first shot, by regretting very much "that Mr. Lisle had turned out to be such a dreadful character, so utterly different from what he seemed." Encouraged by one or two cleverly-put questions from her neighbour, she unfolded the whole story. Meantime, Mrs. Durand sat and listened, in rigid silence, her lips pressed firmly together, her hands tightly locked in her pale-blue satin lap. When the recital had come to an end, she turned her grave eyes on her companion, and said in her most impressive manner,—