The denunciation of the Young Pretender was not an easy matter even in Ida’s eyes. It was one thing to have a pet grievance and see herself as a heroine, righting her dear injured brother’s wrongs, and another to reproach two of the quietest most matter-of-fact people in the world with the atrocious frauds of which only a wicked baronet was capable.

She was not sorry that the return to England was deferred by the tenants of the house at Westhaven wanting to stay on; and when at length a Christmas visit was paid at Northmoor, Mite was an animated little personage of three and a quarter, and, except that he could not accomplish a k, perfect in speaking plainly and indeed with that pretty precision of utterance that children sometimes acquire when baby language has not been foolishly fastened. Indeed, his pet name of Mite was only for strictly private use. Except to his nearest relatives, he was always Michael.

Mrs. Morton was delighted with him, and would have liked to make up for her knowledge of Ida’s suspicions by extra petting, and by discovering resemblances to all the family portraits as well as to his parents, none of which any one else could see. She lived upon thorns lest Ida should burst out with some accusation, but Ida had not the requisite impudence, and indeed, in sight of the boy with his parents, her ‘evidence’ faded into such stuff as dreams are made of.

There was some vexation, indeed, that Louisa the nursery-maid, whom Mrs. Morton had recommended, had had to be dismissed.

‘I am sorry,’ said Mrs. Morton, ‘for, as I told you, her father was the mate aboard the Emma Jane, my poor father’s ship, you know, and went down with poor pa and my poor dear Charlie. And her mother used to char for us, which was but her due.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Mary; ‘Frank and I were both very sorry, and we would have found her another place, but she would go home. You see, we could not keep her in the nursery, for we must have a thoroughly trustworthy person to go out with Michael.’

‘What! Can’t your fine nurse?’

‘Eden? It is her one imperfection. It is some weakness of the spine, and neither she nor I can be about with Michael as long as it is good for him. I thought he must be safe in the garden, but it turned out that Louisa had been taking him down to the village, and there meeting a sailor, who I believe came up in a collier to Colbeam.’

‘Oh, an old friend from Westhaven?’

‘Sam Rattler,’ suggested Ida. ‘Don’t you remember, mamma, Mrs. Hall said they were sweethearting, and she wanted to get her out of the way of him.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Lady Northmoor, ‘but I should have forgiven it if she had told me the truth and not tempted Mite. She used to make excuses to Eden for going down to the village, and at last she took Mite there, and they gave him sweets at the shop not to tell!’

‘Did he?’ said Ida, rather hoping the model boy would have failed.

‘Oh yes. The dear little fellow did not understand keeping things back, and when his papa was giving him his nightly sugar-plum, he said, “Blue man gave me a great striped sweet, and it stuck in my little teeth”; and then, when we asked when and where, he said, “Down by Betty’s, when I was out with Cea and Louie”; and so it came out that she had taken him into the village, met this man, brought him into the grounds by the little gate, and tried to bribe Mite to say nothing about it. Cea told us all about it,—the little girl who lives with Miss Morton. Of course we could never let him go out with her again, and you would hardly believe what an amount of falsehoods she managed to tell Eden and me about it.’

‘Ah, if you had lived at Westhaven you would have found out that to be so particular is the way to make those girls fib,’ said Mrs. Morton.

‘I hope not. I think we have a very good girl now, trained up in an orphanage.’

‘Oh, those orphanage girls are the worst of all. I’ve had enough of them. They break everything to pieces, and they run after the lads worst of all, because they have never seen one before!’

To which Mary answered by a quiet ‘I hope it may not turn out so.’

There were more agitating questions to be brought forward. Herbert had behaved very fairly well ever since the escapade of the pied rook; the lad kept his promise as to betting faithfully in his uncle’s absence, and though it had not been renewed, he had learnt enough good sense to keep out of mischief.

Unfortunately, however, he had not the faculty of passing examinations. He was not exactly stupid or idle, but any kind of study was a bore to him, and the knowledge he was forced to ‘get up’ was not an acquisition that gave him the slightest satisfaction for its own sake, or that he desired to increase beyond what would carry him through. Naturally, he had more cleverness than his uncle, and learning was less difficult to him, but he only used his ability to be sooner done with a distasteful task, which never occupied his mind for a moment after it was thrown aside. Thus time after time he had failed in passing for the army, and now only one chance remained before being reduced to attempting to enter the militia. And suppose that there he failed?

He remained in an amiable, passive, good-humoured state, rather amused than otherwise at his mother’s impression that it was somehow all his uncle’s fault, and ready to be disposed of exactly as they pleased provided that he had not the trouble of thinking about it or of working extra hard.

Mrs. Morton was sure that something could be done. Could not his uncle send him to Oxford? Then he could be a clergyman, or a lawyer or anything. Oh dear, were there those horrid examinations there too? And then those gentlemen that belonged to the ambassadors and envoys—she was sure Mr. Rollstone had told her any one who had connection could get that sort of appointment to what they called the Civil Service. What, examinations again? connection no good? Well, it was shame! What would things come to? As Mr Rollstone said, it was mere ruin!

Merchant’s office? Bah! such a gentleman as her Herbert was, so connected! What was his uncle thinking of, taking him up to put him down in that way? It was hard.

And Lord Northmoor was thankful to the tears that as usual choked her, while he begged her at present to trust to that last chance. It would be time to think what was to come next if that failed.

Wherewith the victim passed the window whistling merrily, apparently perfectly regardless of his doom, be it what it might, and with Mite clinging to his hand in ecstatic admiration.

Constance too was in question. Here she was at eighteen, a ladylike, pleasant, good girl, very nice-looking, sweet-faced, and thoughtful, having finished her course at the High School with great credit, but alas! it was not in the family to win scholarships. She did things well, but not so brilliantly as cleverer girls, having something of her uncle’s tardiness of power.

Her determination to be a governess was as decided as ever, and it was first brought before her mother by an offer on Lady Adela’s part to begin with her at once for Amice, who was now eleven years old.

‘Really, now!’ said Mrs. Morton, stopping short to express her offence.

‘That is—’ added Ida, equally at a loss.

‘But what do you mean, mamma?’ said Constance. ‘I always intended to be a teacher; I think it noble, useful work.’

‘Oh, my poor child! what have they brought you to? Pretending such affection, too!’

‘Indeed, mamma, I have meant this always. I could not be dependent all my life, you know. Do listen, mamma; don’t Ida—’

‘That my Lady Adela should insult us that way, when you are as good as she!’

‘Nonsense, Ida! That has nothing to do with it. It is the greatest possible compliment, and I am very much pleased.’

‘Just to live there, at her beck and call, drudging at that child’s lessons!’ sneered Ida.

‘Yes, and when I made sure, at least after all the fuss they have made with you, that your aunt would present you at Court, and make you the young lady of the house, and marry you well, but there’s no trust to be placed in them—none!’

‘Oh, mamma, don’t cry. I should not feel it right, unless Aunt Mary really needed me, and, though she is so kind and dear, she does not really. My only doubt is—’

‘You have a doubt, then?’

‘Yes. I should be so much fitter if I could go to one of the ladies’ colleges, and then come back to dear little Amice, but now I have failed, I don’t like to let Uncle Frank spend all that money on me, when I might be earning eighty pounds for myself.’

‘Well, you are a strange girl, with no proper pride for your family,’ said her mother.

And Ida chimed in: ‘Yes. Do you think any one will be likely to marry you? or if you don’t care about yourself, you might at least think of me!’

Mrs. Morton shed her ready tears when talking it over with Lady Northmoor.

‘You see,’ said Mary gently, ‘I should like nothing better than to have dear little Conny to live with me like a daughter, but, for one thing, it would not be fair towards Ida, and besides, it would not be good for her in case she did not marry to have wasted these years.’

Mrs. Morton by no means appreciated the argument. However, Lord Northmoor put off the matter by deciding to send Constance to St. Hugh’s Hall, thinking she really deserved such a reward to her diligence.