Many days had passed, and life went on at Hightoft in the same sad way.
It was the "master's" desire that the nurse should stay, but there was
rebellion among the servants against "master's favourite," and poor Aunt
Anne's breast swelled with anger against her niece, who had ventured to
tell her that she was unjust.
"But I shall say nothing, Isabel, only that some day you will come to me
repentant, asking my pardon. I always have been ready to ridicule all
superstitious things, and have laughed at table turnings, and talkings,
and hypnotisms, and mesmerisms, and all the rest of it, but that woman
has something of the sort in her, a kind of power for influencing weak
people, for she has literally bewitched you all. If she had lived a
hundred years ago, she would have died."
"Why, of course, Aunt dear," said Isabel smiling. "It is nothing to
make fun of, my dear. She would have either had her toes tied together,
and been thrown into a pond, or been burned at the stake. That was the
fate of all these witches then."
"Poor Nurse Elisia!" said Isabel smiling. "I'm glad she did not live
then."
"Maria tells me," continued Aunt Anne, "that it was just the same at the
hospital. That woman used to turn all the other nurses and the students
round her little finger; and as for Sir Denton--well, they may call him
a great surgeon, but if ever the carriage overturns, and I am badly
hurt, no Sir Dentons for me. I call him a weak, silly, infatuated old
goose. Maria only yesterday told me that once--"
"Aunt Anne," said Isabel quickly, "does it ever strike you that it is
very undignified and degrading to listen to the wretched tattlings of an
ignorant, spiteful woman, who returns all Nurse Elisia's kindness to her
by telling falsities and distorting simple matters that happened in the
past?"
"Isabel!" cried Aunt Anne, starting bolt upright in her chair, "you
surprise me!"
"Do I, Aunt?"
"Yes, you do. You, assuming the tones and manners of your poor father,
and speaking to me, the mistress of the house, like that!"
"But you are not the mistress of the house, Aunt."
"I beg your pardon, child. Your father has delegated all authority to
me, and he renewed the charge only a few weeks back."
"Then you ought to do your duty, Aunt," said Isabel.
"Isabel, you do surprise me, you do indeed!" cried Aunt Anne, who looked
quite aghast at what was, in her eyes, rank rebellion by a child against
her authority.
"Do I, Aunt? I am very sorry," replied Isabel quietly. "I was only
thinking that if I were mistress here, I should consider it my duty to
send Maria away at once."
"And I do not," cried Aunt Anne. "My idea is that it would be my duty
to discharge that dreadful nurse."
"But poor Auntie cannot," thought Isabel, "and consequently she is not
sole mistress of the house."
"And now, as I have occasion to talk to you, Isabel," continued Aunt
Anne, drawing herself up, and gazing very sternly at her niece, "I will
not reprove you for your very flippant, disrespectful treatment of your
poor father's sister."
"Oh, Auntie dear," cried the affectionate girl, jumping up from her
place to go behind the elder lady's chair, and place her arms about her
neck.
"Isabel, I beg you will not do that," said Aunt Anne. "It is not
prompted by genuine affection."
"Oh, yes, Auntie, it's quite true," said Isabel.
"It cannot be, my dear; but, as I going to say, as I have found it
necessary to reprove you, I must remind you that your conduct is not
what it should be to your friends Saxa and Dana."
"But, Aunt dear, they went off to Lucerne without a word to me, and you
know that I never felt that they were great friends of mine, in spite of
all. They always looked down upon me because I did not care for horses,
and dogs, and grooms."
"I am not going to say any more about those two poor girls who have been
expatriated by your brothers' base conduct."
"Auntie! It was not base if the boys did not love them."
"They did love them, and they do love them, my dear," said Aunt Anne
sternly. "All this is but a passing cloud, spread by that wicked woman,
which blinds them. But it was not about that I wished to speak to you."
"What, then, Auntie?" said Isabel, looking at her suspiciously, and
thinking of a visit she had paid a few days before to a certain invalid
vicar who had lain back in his chair to proudly read aloud portions of a
letter he had received by the last mail.
"Sir Cheltnam Burwood was here yesterday. Now, it is of no use for you
to pretend that you did not know he was here, for I am certain that I
saw you stealing off down the laurel walk, on the pretence of going to
visit some of the poor, and I dare say, if the truth were known, you
went to the vicarage."
"There was no pretence about it, Aunt dear."
"But indeed there was, Isabel, and _I_ was obliged to entertain him,
instead of you. Naturally enough, he complained very bitterly of your
treatment, and I must say that for a young lady engaged to him it is
most icy, almost paralysing."
"Papa will not persist," thought Isabel; "he has grown so kind and
loving to me. He will not make me say yes, when he knows that it would
break my heart."
"Now, it is of no use for you to turn sulky, my dear, and take refuge in
silence. That is very childish and unbecoming in a girl like you. For
you are no longer a child, and if you cannot do what is just and right,
you must be taught. I have invited Sir Cheltnam to dinner on Tuesday."
"Aunt!"
"Yes, my dear, and I am sure your papa will highly approve of my plan.
It is absurd to go on as you do, though your conduct is no worse than
your brothers'. I declare, the house is quite wretched: Neil shut up
always in the library, pretending to study bones, and Alison sulking
about in the gunroom, and scowling at Neil whenever they meet. All I
hope is that nothing worse will come of it."
"Oh, Aunt, what could come of it?" said Isabel uneasily.
"Ah, you speak like a child. When you have had my experience of the
world and man's angry passions, you too will have fears."
"It is all very sad and a great pity," said Isabel. "Yes, and a greater
pity that those two misguided young men's sister should go on as she
does, making a devoted friend of the cause of all the mischief." Isabel
winced.
"I'm sure we've quite trouble enough in the house without having a
parricide."
"Auntie! A parricide?"
"Don't be absurd, Isabel. I said a fratricide."
"Aunt, what a dreadful idea! Oh, for shame!"
"Dreadful enough, my dear, and I'm sure I sincerely hope there never
will be anything of the kind, but Cain never could have looked at Abel
worse than Alison did at Neil only yesterday."
"Aunt!"
"Oh, it's true, my dear. It sent a cold chill all down my back; and
ever since I've felt quite a presentiment of coming evil. I do hope
they will not quarrel, and really I think it would be better if Neil
went back to town."
"Aunt, dear, such ideas are too shocking. Just as if Neil would be
likely to degrade himself by quarrelling with Alison. I am sure he has
too much self-respect."
"Ah, young inexperience!" cried Aunt Anne pityingly. "Young men forget
all their self-respect when they have been blinded by such a siren as
that nurse."
"Oh, Aunt, you ought not to speak of nurse like that."
"You think so, my dear; I do not."
"But you will some day," cried Isabel passionately, and with the tears
of vexation in her eyes. "She is all that is amiable, and good, and
ladylike."
"Ladylike, child!"
"Yes, Aunt. If she were not, I'm sure poor dear Neil would not have
cared for her as he does."
"Ah, well," said Aunt Anne, preening herself like a plump bird, "we
shall see, I dare say. I will not call her an artful woman, but mark my
words, Isabel, she will not rest till she has deluded one of your poor
brothers into marrying her."
"Aunt! And she avoids them, and is as distant as possible to poor
Neil."
"All feminine cunning, child. Oh, Isabel, I wish you would not be such
a baby! Can you not see that it is to lead him on, while she is playing
off one brother against the other?"
"I will not argue with you, Aunt," said the girl indignantly.
"No, my dear, I beg you will not. Wait and see, and then come to me
humbly, and own how wrong you have been."
Isabel was silent, and Aunt Anne went leisurely on with some fancywork
of a very useless type, till an idea occurred to her, and she looked up.
"Isabel, my dear, what wine was that Sir Cheltnam praised so, last time
he dined here?"
"Really, Aunt, I do not know."
"No, child, you never know anything. It is very tiresome. I should
like the dinner to go off well, and that wine has quite slipped my
memory. Now, was it the hock, or the champagne? He would like the
compliment if I had the forethought to have it served." Isabel shrugged
her shoulders impatiently.
"It is very tiresome," continued Aunt Anne. "He praised one of them,
and made a face at the other; but perhaps I shall recollect by and by.
I wonder that I remember anything, harassed as my poor brain is with
worry and trouble, and you never trying in the least to help me, but
rather setting yourself in antagonism."
"Oh, Aunt, you are too hard."
"Not a bit, child. And I am surprised at your giving so much as a
passing thought to young Mr Beck. Tom! Gracious, what a name! Only
fit for a groom, or one of the men about the farm."
"Really, Aunt," began Isabel.
"Now, pray do not interrupt me, Isabel. The name is common and absurd.
Now, Cheltnam--Sir Cheltnam--Sir Cheltnam Burwood! It is old,
aristocratic, and refined. A name to be proud of. But Beck--Tom Beck!
Faugh!"
"It sounds honest, Auntie," said the girl with spirit, "and does not
suggest drinking the Cheltenham waters, which I believe are very
bitter."
"Now that's absurd and childish, Isabel, and you know it is. I did hope
that now young Beck has gone, you would come to your senses. But I will
be fair, and say that your brothers are worse than you. I suppose I
shall have to beg and pray of them to come in to dinner, and behave like
Christians, and not let Sir Cheltnam think he is going to be
brother-in-law to a couple of young men with malice and hatred in their
hearts. All your beautiful nurse's doing, my dear, all her fault.
Well, really! To jump up and run out of the room like that!" cried Aunt
Anne, staring in amazement at the last fold of her niece's dress, as the
poor girl hurried away, unable to bear the long flow of annoying
prattle, and to hide her chagrin in face of the ordeal to which she was
to be submitted at the dinner projected by her aunt.
She hurried up to her room, to sink upon her knees by her bed and bury
her face in her hands.
"Crying, Isabel? What is the matter, dear?"
She had not heard the door opened, and she started to her feet to throw
herself upon Nurse Elisia's breast, sobbing out her trouble, and dread
of the meeting on the following Tuesday, when she knew that in her
mistaken notions of duty, Aunt Anne would contrive that she and Sir
Cheltnam should be left alone.