them. He thinks that things are right which I think wrong; and—”
“And he is hard upon the King?—No! Then he is hard upon the Queen?”
“Not so much that as—In short, uncle, we think so differently about all these quarrels, in which everybody that belongs to us has some share, that we were always losing patience with each other. That was it.”
“If that was all, my darling, everybody that belongs to you will lose patience with you both. I suppose you love each other. Well, well! there is nothing to say about that, I see. Two young creatures in love, and quarrelling, not for any jealousy.”
“Only jealousy about their Majesties, uncle. I cannot bear to hear such things as they all say—”
“Ay, ay! I knew how it was: and so you come for refuge to your old uncle as a true Loyalist. Your uncle is proud of you, my love. As for Master Harry, he shall know—”
“O, uncle! let Harry alone! Do not say a word to him! He thinks he is right; and I know I have tried him. And we can never meet again. Let me live quietly with you here. However this trial in London may end, my father will not be often at Hampden this winter. If he gains his cause, he will have business in Scotland—”
“Ha! what takes him there? Is he going to make his bow to Jenny Geddes? If he does, that stool of hers shall be his stool of repentance.”
“There is some public business which will detain him there,” Henrietta went on: “and Aunt Carewe will not leave the children; and I could not bear—”
“I see; you could neither keep up your friendship with her nor deprive her of Harry’s presence. This is clearly the home for you at present, my love; and I rejoice to have you here But, Henrietta, you must cheer up. When His Majesty has brought his perverse children back to their duty, Harry will come back to his. I may not put it so? Well, then, I will put it the other way: you and Harry will come back to each other.”
“Never! never!” Henrietta insisted. “Never! never!” she repeated to herself as she went to her chamber, and while she was settling herself there as in her permanent home. She did not see how she could ever return to Hampden till Harry should be married to some one more worthy of him than herself. Dear Hampden! she should never see it more till she should be old and grave, and past feeling things so strongly. Her youth would be spent here in the Fens; and when Uncle Oliver was in his grave, and she should have ceased to have cares because she would have ceased to have feelings, she should return to Hampden, to watch over Aunt Carewe in her old age, and be a daughter to her, though Harry would have long had another wife.
“Never! never!” she said again to Helen as at night, when they should have been asleep, they were sitting together by the fire in Henrietta’s chamber. It struck her that she had to repeat this assurance very often. Her family seemed all of one mind about her affairs,—all confident that Harry and she would come together again. But perhaps she would never have to contradict Helen upon it after this night. When she had relieved her mind of the whole story to this friend of her whole life,—when she had related all that had been said by Harry and by herself, and what bitter things she was conscious of having uttered, and how desperate Harry’s feelings had become under her sarcasms,—Helen did not repeat her belief that such evils could disappear and leave no trace. Henrietta said that passion might be mutually forgiven; but how could she be sure that passion would not be roused again,—that there would not be more sarcasms, and more misery from them, Helen fervently agreed. The present pain was the least, great as it was. Henrietta was quite right in stopping in time: and all the rest were quite wrong in trying to persuade two young people, who could not be happy for a month at a time now, to run the risk of spending their lives together.
“They say,” suggested Henrietta, “that public affairs must be settled very soon; and then the danger will be over. When the King has taught the people their duty, and established his right . . . .”
“Who says that?” asked Helen. “Not your father,—not Lady Carewe?”
“Uncle Oliver said so to-day; and I know Lord Wentworth thinks so. Lady Carlisle gives it out everywhere.”
“On the other hand,” said Helen, “your father and mine, and every public man they have confidence in, are no less confident that the victory will be the other way. When the King is humbled so far as to summon his parliament . . . . What is the matter? O! in this part of the country we do not regard the proclamation against naming the parliament. My father says we might as well leave off speaking of the Bible by order of the Pope. As I was saying . . . .”
“No matter!” Henrietta interrupted. “I know what you would say.”
Helen persevered so far as to ask whether it was not too serious a risk to commit the happiness of a marriage to the chances of a political strife,—some called it a rebellion, and some a revolution,—on the issue of which no two wise men were agreed. She considered Henrietta right in her decision,—noble-minded, generous, and prudent.
“I am so glad . . . .” sobbed Henrietta, as her head lay on Helen’s shoulder. “I am so glad . . . .” And the sobs came thicker, and the tears in floods.
Puritans as the Mashams were, they had read certain stage plays of a writer who was much thought of at the time; and one line of a tragedy of that player’s now darted across Helen’s memory; “Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much!” and her heart smote her.
“I cannot bear to grieve you,” she said. “But you have done so nobly and so wisely, that it is due to you to say that I agree with you.”
“Of course you must say what you think,” replied Henrietta; “I am so glad . . . .”
Still she was unable to express the cause of her