Then came later tales—­about our ways at Arghouse—­all as a warning against permitting any intercourse of the sweet child’s, which might be abused.  Lady Diana was angered and vexed, but she was not a woman who rose above the opinion of the world.  Her daughter, Di Enderby, was a friend of Birdie Stympson, and would be shocked; and she actually told me that I must perceive that, while such things were said, it was not possible—­for her own Viola’s sake—­to keep up the intimacy she would have wished.

For my part it seemed to me that, in Lady Diana’s position, unjust accusations against a poor young girl were the very reason for befriending her openly; but her ladyship spoke in a grand, authoritative, regretful way, and habitual submission prevented me from making any protest beyond saying coldly, “I am very sorry, but I cannot give up my nephews.”

Viola was not present.  It was supposed to be so shocking that she could know nothing about it, but she flew into my room and raged like a little fury at the cruel wickedness of the Stympsons in trying to turn everyone’s friends against them, and trumping up stories, and mamma giving up as if she believed them.  She wished she was Dermot—­ she wished she was uncle Erymanth—­she wished she was anybody, to stand up and do battle with those horrid women!—­anybody but a poor little girl, who must obey orders and be separated from her friends.  And she cried, and made such violent assurances that I had to soothe and silence her, and remind her of her first duty, &c.

Lord Erymanth was a nobler being than his sister, and had reached up to clap Harold on the shoulder, while declaring that these assertions made no difference to him, and that he did not care the value of a straw for what Avice Stympson might say, though Harold had no defence but his own denial of half the stories, and was forced to own that there was truth in some of the others.  He was deeply wounded.  “Why cannot the women let us keep our friends?” he said, as I found him in the great hall.

“It is very hard,” I said, with grief and anger.

“Very hard on the innocent,” he answered.

Then I saw he was preparing to set off to walk home, twelve miles, and remonstrated, since Lake Valley would probably be flooded.

“I must,” he said; “I must work it out with myself, whether I do Eustace most harm or good by staying here.”

And off he went, with the long swift stride that was his way of walking off vexation.  I did not see him again till I was going up to dress, when I found him just inside the front door, struggling to get off his boots, which were perfectly sodden; while his whole dress, nay, even his hair and beard, was soaked and drenched, so that I taxed him with having been in the water.

“Yes, I went in after a dog,” he said, and as he gave a shiver, and had just pulled off his second boot, I asked no more questions, but hunted him upstairs to put on dry clothes without loss of time; and when we met at dinner, Eustace was so full of our doings at the castle, and Dora of hers with Miss Woolmer, that his bath was entirely driven out of my head.