They had some private means, but did not consider themselves rich enough to justify them in adopting her entirely. In all respects, they thought it would be doing her a truer kindness to educate her with a view to making her independent. Harry Helston, artist and dreamer by temperament, was architect by profession. He had spent so much time in travelling the world, and absorbing the idea of all the masterpieces of his great profession, that his fortune was by no means made. It was perhaps a drawback to him professionally, that of him it might be said as of a certain statesman who "thought in continents," that he, Harry Helston, "thought in cathedrals." The ornamental suburban residence, with its nurseries chopped away in chunks to make the external elevation picturesque, was his pet abomination. He would do no work, where cheapness was to be the marring key-note. Simplicity and the best craftsmanship were his mottoes. His work lay in London, where he and his wife, after their travels, were about to take a flat. But he was also now determined to fulfil his youthful ambitions, and build for himself the house of his dreams in Fransdale itself.
Sir Joseph, who was a byword in the district for his stern refusal to sell or lease land for building purposes, had relented in his case; and the home of his imagination was to arise in a level meadow half-way down the Dale—a pleasure house for holiday hours—a final refuge for old age.
For the austere mystery of the North had made him as completely a captive as was Melicent herself.
The girl could hardly believe that she was to visit every year, in the company of those she loved best, the Dale which had gripped her fancy so powerfully. The Helstons were to rent, until their own house should be built, the tiny cottage upon which Melicent had looked down, when she sat upon Tod's Trush. The darkness of her misery was all changed into pure joy by the time her friends took leave.
Before Mr. Helston lay the formidable necessity of seeing Mr. Cooper. He was fairly perplexed. Should he speak, or not? He found himself wondering what advice Mr. Hall, of Ilberston, would be likely to give. But there was no time for reflection. He left his wife still with Melicent, and found himself in the study without having made up his mind as to his duty. His intention flickered to and fro like a candle in the wind. Was he shirking truth because it was disagreeable? Or was he contemplating an unwarrantable interference into another man's affairs? Was he justified in giving information which would result in deeper mismanagement of those unaccountable beings, young girls? Or if he stood aloof, was he guilty of Cain-like indifference to his brother's peril?
He sat down in more discomfort than he ever remembered to have suffered before. His indignation that Melicent should suffer under any kind of stigma made another powerful factor in his desires; and he did not know for how much he ought to let it weigh. As he looked at Mr. Cooper's cold, dark face, he was conscious of a desire to demand that, as it had been publicly announced that Melicent was in disgrace, so it should be publicly known that she was cleared. But he felt pretty sure of the difficulty there would be in establishing the truth. He saw a distinct likeness between the vicar and his niece; he had seen the same hard glint in Melicent's eye when she was on the defensive. The Coopers gave him the idea of being always on the defensive—on the watch to parry and frustrate any attempts upon their confidence or their intimacy.
"I shall be glad to hear that you have elicited any information that may tend to Melicent's rehabilitation," said the vicar, in tones wholly devoid of expectancy.
Helston found himself speaking without having in the least determined what he meant to say.
"Melicent has told us what she knows," he said. "We think it clears her. But we respect her motive for silence, and are inclined to think that no good end could be served by telling you what she told us."
The vicar looked stony. "But I think I must ask to hear it," he said.