“She is suffering very much; I will go and talk to her,” said the really kind-hearted old Mrs. Compton.
“No, mother, do nothing of the sort. It would be altogether useless. You might wear out your lungs to no purpose. She is perfectly contumacious,” said Mrs. Houston.
“Nellie, my dear, she is the child of your best friend.”
“I know it,” exclaimed the little lady, with the tears of grief and rage rushing to her eyes, “and that is what makes it so difficult to deal with her; for if she were any other than Marguerite De Lancie’s daughter, I would turn her out of the house without more ado.”
“My good mother, and my dear wife, listen to me. You are both right, in a measure. I think with you, Nellie, that since Miss Helmstedt persistently declines to explain her strange course, self-respect and dignity should hold us all henceforth silent upon this subject. And with you, Mrs. Compton, I think that regard to the memory of the mother should govern our conduct toward the child until we can resign her into the hands of her father. The trial will be short. We may daily expect his arrival, and in the meantime we must avoid the obnoxious subject, and treat the young lady with the courtesy due solely to Marguerite De Lancie’s daughter.”
While this conversation was on the tapis, the door was thrown open, and the Rev. Mr. Wellworth announced. This worthy gentleman’s arrival was, of late, the harbinger of startling news. The family had grown to expect it on seeing him. His appearance now corroborated their usual expectations. His manner was hurried, his face flushed, his expression angry.
“Good-day, friends! Has your fugitive returned?”
“Yes, why?” inquired three or four in a breath, rising from the table.
“Because mine has, that is all!” replied the old man, throwing down his hat and seating himself unceremoniously. “Yes, Ensign Dawson presented himself this morning at our house, looking as honest, as frank, and as innocent as that exemplary young man generally does. I inquired why he came, and how he dared present himself. He replied that he had been unavoidably detained, but that as soon as he was at liberty, he had returned to redeem his parole and save his honor. I told him that ‘naught was never in danger,’ but requested him to be more explicit. He declined, saying that he had explained to me that he had been detained, and had in the first moment of his liberty returned to give himself up, and that was enough for me to know.”
“But, you asked him about the supposed companion of his flight?” inquired the indiscreet Nellie.