She was standing, having gathered up her knitting preparatory to retiring.
“I don’t understand you, Andrew,” she answered, in a somewhat complaining, but also slightly alarmed voice. “I think it is I who have to ask for an explanation. How is it that I have been left alone this entire evening? I had much to say to you—I came here on purpose, and yet you left me to myself all these hours.”
“Sit down, Maria,” said the Doctor, more gently. “I can give you as much time as you can desire now, and as you will be leaving in the morning it is as well that we should have our talk out to-night.”
Mrs. Cameron’s face became now really crimson with anger.
“You can say words like that to me?” she said—“your wife’s sister.”
“My dear wife’s half-sister, and until now my very good friend,” retorted the Doctor. “But, however well you have meant it, you have sown dissension and unhappiness in the midst of a number of motherless children, and for the present at least, for all parties, I must ask you, Maria, to return to Bath.”
Mrs. Cameron sank now plump down into her chair. She was too deeply offended for a moment to speak. Then she said, shortly:
“I will certainly return, but from this moment I wash my hands of you all.”
“I hope not,” said the Doctor. “I trust another time you will come to me as my welcome and invited guest. You see, Maria”—here his eyes twinkled with that sly humor which characterized him—“it was a mistake—it always is a mistake to take the full reins of government in any house uninvited.”
“But, Andrew, you were making such a fool of yourself. After that letter of yours I felt almost hopeless, so for poor Helen’s sake I came, at great personal inconvenience. Your home is most dreary, the surroundings appalling in their solitude. No wonder Helen died! Andrew, I thought it but right to do my best for those poor children. I came, the house was in a state of riot, you have not an idea what Polly’s conduct was. Disrespectful, insolent, impertinent. I consider her an almost wicked girl.”