On one Wednesday morning early in June, great preparations were being made at the brick house in the Close at Exeter for an event which can hardly be said to have required any preparation at all. Mrs Stanbury and her elder daughter were coming into Exeter from Nuncombe Putney to visit Dorothy. The reader may perhaps remember that when Miss Stanbury’s invitation was sent to her niece, she was pleased to promise that such visits should be permitted on a Wednesday morning. Such a visit was now to be made, and old Miss Stanbury was quite moved by the occasion. ‘I shall not see them, you know, Martha,’ she had said, on the afternoon of the preceding day.

‘I suppose not, ma’am.’

‘Certainly not. Why should I? It would do no good.’

‘It is not for me to say, ma’am, of course.’

‘No, Martha, it is not. And I am sure that I am right. It’s no good going back and undoing in ten minutes what twenty years have done. She’s a poor harmless creature, I believe.’

‘The most harmless in the world, ma’am.’

‘But she was as bad as poison to me when she was young, and what’s the good of trying to change it now? If I was to tell her that I loved her, I should only be lying.’

‘Then, ma’am, I would not say it.’

‘And I don’t mean. But you’ll take in some wine and cake, you know.’

‘I don’t think they’ll care for wine and cake.’

‘Will you do as I tell you? What matters whether they care for it or not. They need not take it. It will look better for Miss Dorothy. If Dorothy is to remain here I shall choose that she should be respected.’ And so the question of the cake and wine had been decided overnight. But when the morning came Miss Stanbury was still in a twitter. Half-past ten had been the hour fixed for the visit, in consequence of there being a train in from Lessboro’, due at the Exeter station at ten. As Miss Stanbury breakfasted always at half-past eight, there was no need of hurry on account of the expected visit. But, nevertheless, she was in a fuss all the morning; and spoke of the coming period as one in which she must necessarily put herself into solitary confinement.

‘Perhaps your mamma will be cold,’ she said, ‘and will expect a fire.’

‘Oh, dear, no, Aunt Stanbury.’

‘It could be lighted of course. It is a pity they should come just so as to prevent you from going to morning service; is it not?’

‘I could go with you, aunt, and be back very nearly in time. They won’t mind waiting a quarter of an hour.’

‘What; and have them here all alone! I wouldn’t think of such a thing. I shall go up-stairs. You had better come to me when they are gone. Don’t hurry them. I don’t want you to hurry them at all; and if you require anything, Martha will wait upon you. I have told the girls to keep out of the way. They are so giddy, there’s no knowing what they might be after. Besides they’ve got their work to mind.’

All this was very terrible to poor Dorothy, who had not as yet quite recovered from the original fear with which her aunt had inspired her — so terrible that she was almost sorry that her mother and sister were coming to her. When the knock was heard at the door, precisely as the cathedral clock was striking half-past ten, to secure which punctuality, and thereby not to offend the owner of the mansion, Mrs Stanbury and Priscilla had been walking about the Close for the last ten minutes Miss Stanbury was still in the parlour.

‘There they are!’ she exclaimed, jumping up. ‘They haven’t given a body much time to run away, have they, my dear? Half a minute, Martha just half a minute!’ Then she gathered up her things as though she had been ill-treated in being driven to make so sudden a retreat, and Martha, as soon as the last hem of her mistress’s dress had become invisible on the stairs, opened the front door for the visitors.

‘Do you mean to say you like it?’ said Priscilla, when they had been there about a quarter of an hour.

‘H u sh,’ whispered Mrs Stanbury.

‘I don’t suppose she’s listening at the door,’ said Priscilla.

‘Indeed, she’s not,’ said Dorothy. ‘There can’t be a truer, honester woman, than Aunt Stanbury.’

‘But is she kind to you, Dolly?’ asked the mother.

‘Very kind; too kind. Only I don’t understand her quite, and then she gets angry with me. I know she thinks I’m a fool, and that’s the worst of it.’

‘Then, if I were you, I would come home,’ said Priscilla.

‘She’ll never forgive you if you do,’ said Mrs Stanbury.

‘And who need care about her forgiveness?’ said Priscilla.

‘I don’t mean to go home yet, at any rate,’ said Dorothy. Then there was a knock at the door, and Martha entered with the cake and wine. ‘Miss Stanbury’s compliments, ladies, and she hopes you’ll take a glass of sherry.’ Whereupon she filled out the glasses and carried them round.

‘Pray give my compliments and thanks to my sister Stanbury,’ said Dorothy’s mother. But Priscilla put down the glass of wine without touching it, and looked her sternest at the maid.

Altogether, the visit was not very successful, and poor Dorothy almost felt that if she chose to remain in the Close she must lose her mother and sister, and that without really making a friend of her aunt. There had as yet been no quarrel, nothing that had been plainly recognised as disagreeable; but there had not as yet come to be any sympathy, or assured signs of comfortable love. Miss Stanbury had declared more than once that it would do, but had not succeeded in showing in what the success consisted. When she was told that the two ladies were gone, she desired that Dorothy might be sent to her, and immediately began to make anxious inquiries.

‘Well, my dear, and what do they think of it?’

‘I don’t know, aunt, that they think very much.’

‘And what do they say about it?’

‘They didn’t say very much, aunt. I was very glad to see mamma and Priscilla. Perhaps I ought to tell you that mamma gave me back the money I sent her.’

‘What did she do that for?’ asked Miss Stanbury very sharply.

‘Because she says that Hugh sends her now what she wants.’ Miss Stanbury, when she heard this, looked very sour. ‘I thought it best to tell you, you know.’

‘It will never come to any good, got in that way, never.’

‘But, Aunt Stanbury, isn’t it good of him to send it?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s better than drinking, and smoking, and gambling. But I dare say he gets enough for that too. When a man, born and bred like a gentleman, condescends to let out his talents and education for such purposes, I dare say they are willing enough to pay him. The devil always does pay high wages. But that only makes it so much the worse. One almost comes to doubt whether any one ought to learn to write at all, when it is used for such vile purposes. I’ve said what I’ve got to say, and I don’t mean to say anything more. What’s the use? But it has been hard upon me very. It was my money did it, and I feel I’ve misused it. It’s a disgrace to me which I don’t deserve.’

For a couple of minutes Dorothy remained quite silent, and Miss Stanbury did not herself say anything further. Nor during that time did she observe her niece, or she would probably have seen that the subject was not to be dropped. Dorothy, though she was silent, was not calm, and was preparing herself for a crusade in her brother’s defence.

‘Aunt Stanbury, he’s my brother, you know.’

‘Of course he’s your brother. I wish he were not.’

‘I think him the best brother in the world and the best son.’

‘Why does he sell himself to write sedition?’

‘He doesn’t sell himself to write sedition. I don’t see why it should be sedition, or anything wicked, because it’s sold for a penny.’

‘If you are going to cram him down my throat, Dorothy, you and I had better part.’

‘I don’t want to say anything about him, only you ought not to abuse him before me.’

By this time Dorothy was beginning to sob, but Miss Stanbury’s countenance was still very grim and very stern. ‘He’s coming home to Nuncombe Putney, and I want to see see him,’ continued Dorothy.

‘Hugh Stanbury coming to Exeter! He won’t come here.’

‘Then I’d rather go home, Aunt Stanbury.’

‘Very well, very well,’ said Miss Stanbury, and she got up and left the room.

Dorothy was in dismay, and began to think that there was nothing for her to do but to pack up her clothes and prepare for her departure. She was very sorry for what had occurred, being fully alive to the importance of the aid not only to herself, but to her mother and sister, which was afforded by the present arrangement, and she felt very angry with herself, in that she had already driven her aunt to quarrel with her. But she had found it to be impossible to hear her own brother abused without saying a word on his behalf. She did not see her aunt again till dinner-time, and then there was hardly a word uttered. Once or twice Dorothy made a little effort to speak, but these attempts failed utterly. The old woman would hardly reply even by a monosyllable, but simply muttered something, or shook her head when she was addressed. Jane, who waited at table, was very demure and silent, and Martha, who once came into the room during the meal, merely whispered a word into Miss Stanbury’s ear. When the cloth was removed, and two glasses of port had been poured out by Miss Stanbury herself, Dorothy felt that she could endure this treatment no longer. How was it possible that she could drink wine under such circumstances?

‘Not for me, Aunt Stanbury,’ said she, with a deploring tone.

‘Why not?’

‘I couldn’t drink it today.’

‘Why didn’t you say so before it was poured out? And why not today? Come, drink it. Do as I bid you.’ And she stood over her niece, as a tragedy queen in a play with a bowl of poison. Dorothy took it and sipped it from mere force of obedience. ‘You make as many bones about a glass of port wine as though it were senna and salts,’ said Miss Stanbury. ‘Now I’ve got something to............