So she sat still, uttering not a word except an occasional whisper of “Be quiet, Arthur,” until Dr. Grey entered the room.  Even then, she restrained herself so far as to let Miss Gascoigne tell the story.  She trusted—­as she knew she could trust—­to her husband’s sense of justice and quick-sightedness, even through any amount of cloudy exaggeration.  When the examination came to an end, and Dr. Grey, sorely perplexed and troubled, looked toward his wife questioningly, all she said was a suggestion that both the children—­for Letitia had watched the matter with eager curiosity from a corner—­should be sent out of the room.

“Yes, yes, certainly Arthur, let go your mother’s hand, and run up to the nursery.”

But Arthur’s plaintive sobs began again.  “I can’t go, papa—­I daren’t; Phillis will beat me!”

“Is this true, Christian?”

“I am afraid it is.  Had not the children better wait in my room?”

This order given, and the door closed, Dr. Grey sat down with very piteous countenance.  He was such a lover of peace and quietness and now to be brought from his study into the midst of this domestic hurricane—­it was rather hard.  He looked from his wife to his sister, and back again to his wife.  There his eyes rested and brightened a little.  The contrast between the two faces was great—­one so fierce and bitter, the other sad indeed, but composed and strong.  Nature herself, who, in the long run, usually decides between false and true authority, showed at once who possessed the latter—­which of the two women was the most fitted to govern children.

“Henrietta,” said Dr. Grey, “what is it you wish me to do? if my boy has offended you, of course he must be punished.  Leave him to Mrs. Grey; she will do what is right.”

“Then I have no longer any authority in this house?”

“Authority in my wife’s house my sister could hardly desire.  Influence she might always have; and respect and affection will, I trust, never be wanting.”

Dr. Grey spoke very kindly, and held out his hand, but Miss Gascoigne threw it angrily aside; and then, breaking through even the unconscious restraint in which most women, even the most violent, are held by the presence of a man, and especially such a man as the master, she burst out—­this poor passionate woman, cursed with that terrible pre-dominance of self which in men is ugly enough, in women absolutely hateful—­

“Never!  Keep your hypocrisies to yourself, and your wife too—­the greatest hypocrite I know.  But she can not deceive me.  Maria”—­and she rushed at luckless Aunt Maria, who that instant, knitting in hand, was quietly entering the room—­“come here, Maria, and be a witness to what your brother is doing.  He is turning me out of his house—­me, who, since my poor sister died, have been like a mother to his children.  He is taking them from me, and giving them over to that woman—­that bad, low, cunning woman!”