Said Lady Bassett firmly, “Do you pledge yourself to me, if I can obtain Mr. Bassett's consent?”
“I do,” said Ruperta. “But—”
“You think my power with your father must be smaller than yours. I hope to show you you are mistaken.”
The ladies rose to go: Lady Bassett took leave of them thus: “Good-by, my most valued friend, and sister in sorrow; good-by, my dear daughter.”
At the gate of Huntercombe, whom should they meet but Compton Bassett, looking very pale and unhappy.
He was upon honor not to speak to Ruperta; but he gazed on her with a wistful and terrified look that was very touching. She gave him a soft pitying smile in return, that drove him almost wild with hope.
That night Richard Bassett sat in his chair, gloomy.
When his wife and daughter spoke to him in their soft accents, he returned short, surly answers. Evidently a storm was brewing.
At last it burst. He had heard of Ruperta's repeated visits to Huntercombe Hall. “You are not dealing fairly with me, you two,” said he. “I allowed you to go once to see a woman that says she is very ill; but I warned you she was the cunningest woman in creation, and would make a fool of you both; and now I find you are always going. This will not do. She is netting two simple birds that I have the care of. Now, listen to me; I forbid you two ever to set foot in that house again. Do you hear me?”
“We hear you, papa,” said Mrs. Bassett, quietly; “we must be deaf, if we did not.”