The Devil has no stancher ally than _want of perception_.--PHILIP
H. WICKSTEED.
It takes two to speak truth--one to speak and another to
hear.--THOREAU.
Mrs. Gresley had passed an uncomfortable day. In the afternoon all the
Pratts had called, and Mr. Gresley, who departed early in the afternoon
for Southminster, had left his wife no directions as to how to act in
this unforseen occurrence, or how to parry the questions with which she
was overwhelmed.
After long hesitation she at last owned that Hester had returned to
Southminster in the Bishop's carriage not more than half an hour after
it had brought her back.
"I can't explain Hester's actions," she would only repeat over and over
again. "I don't pretend to understand clever people. I'm not clever
myself. I can only say Hester went back to Southminster directly she
arrived here."
Hardly had the Pratts taken their departure when Doll Loftus was ushered
in. His wife had sent him to ask where Hester was, as Fräulein had
alarmed her earlier in the day. Doll at least asked no questions. He had
never asked but one in his life, and that had been of his wife, five
seconds before he had become engaged to her.
He accepted with equanimity the information that Hester had returned to
Southminster, and departed to impart the same to his exasperated wife.
"But why did she go back? She had only that moment arrived," inquired
Sybell. How should Doll know. She, Sybell, had said she could not rest
till she knew where Hester was, and he, Doll, had walked to Warpington
through the snow-drifts to find out for her. And he had found out, and
now she wanted to know something else. There was no satisfying some
women. And the injured husband retired to unlace his boots.
Yes, Mrs. Gresley had passed an uncomfortable day. She had ventured out
for a few minutes, and had found Abel, with his arms akimbo;
contemplating the little gate which led to the stables. It was lying on
the ground. He had swept the snow off it.
"I locked it up the same as usual last night," he said to Mrs. Gresley.
"There's been somebody about as has tampered it off its hinges. Yet
nothing hasn't been touched, the coal nor the stack. It doesn't seem
natural, twisting the gate off for nothing."
Mrs. Gresley did not answer. She did not associate Hester with the gate.
But she was too much perturbed to care about such small matters at the
moment.
"His lordship's coachman tell me as Miss Gresley was at the Palace,"
continued Abel, "while I was a hotting up his mash for him, for William
had gone in with a note, and onst he's in the kitchen the hanimals might
be stocks and stones for what he cares. He said his nevvy, the footman,
heard the front door-bell ring just as he was getting into bed last
night, and Miss Gresley come in without her hat, with the snow upon her.
The coachman said as she must ha' run afoot all the way."
Abel looked anxiously at Mrs. Gresley.
"I was just thinking," he said, "as perhaps the little lady wasn't quite
right in her 'ead. They do say as too much learning flies to the 'ead,
the same as spirits to them as ain't manured to 'em. And the little lady
does work desperate hard."
"Not as hard as Mr. Gresley," said Mrs. Gresley.
"Maybe not, mem, maybe not. But when I come up when red cow was sick at
four in the morning, or maybe earlier, there was always a light in her
winder, and the shadder of her face agin the blind. Yes, she do work
precious hard."
Mrs. Gresley retreated into the house, picking her way over the debris
of the porch. At any other time its demise would have occupied the minds
of the Vicarage household for days. But, until this moment, it had
hardly claimed the tribute of a sigh. Mrs. Gresley did sigh as she
crossed the threshold. That prostrate porch meant expense. She had
understood from her husband that Dick had wantonly torn out the clamp
that supported it, and that the whole thing had in consequence given way
under the first snowfall. "He meant no harm," Mr. Gresley had added,
"but I suppose in the Colonies they mistake horse-play for wit."
Mrs. Gresley went back to the drawing-room, and sat down to her
needle-work. She was an exquisite needlewoman, but all the activity of
her untiring hands was hardly able to stem the tide of mending that was
for ever flowing in upon her. When was she to find time to finish the
darling little garments which the new baby required? Fräulein had been
kind in helping, but Fräulein's eyes are not very strong, or her
stitches in consequence very small. Mrs. Gresley would have liked to sit
in the school-room when lessons were over, but Fräulein had been so
distant at luncheon about a rissole that she had not the courage to go
in.
So she sat and stitched with a heavy heart awaiting her husband's
return. The fly was another expense. Southminster was ten miles from
Warpington, eleven according to the Loftus Arms, from which it issued,
the owner of which was not on happy terms with his "teetotal" vicar. Yet
it had been absolutely necessary to have the fly, in order that Regie,
who so easily caught cold, might return in safety.
The dusk was already falling, and more snow with it.
It was quite dark when Mrs. Gresley at last caught the sound of wheels,
and hurried to the door.
Mr. Gresley came in, bearing Regie, fast asleep in a fur rug, and laid
him carefully on the sofa, and then went out to have an altercation with
the driver, who demurred in forcible language to the arrangement,
adhered to by Mr. Gresley, that the cost of the fly should be considered
as part payment of certain arrears of tithe which in those days it was
the unhappy duty of the clergyman to collect himself. Mr. Gresley's
methods of dealing with money matters generally brought in a high rate
of interest in the way of friction, and it was a long time before the
driver drove away, turning his horse deliberately on the little patch of
lawn under the dining-room windows.
Regie in the meanwhile had waked up, and was having tea in the
drawing-room as a great treat.
He had much to tell about his expedition; how the Bishop had given him
half-a-crown, and Uncle Dick had taken him into the town to spend it,
and how after dinner he had ridden on Uncle Dick's back.
"And Auntie Hester. How was she?"
"She was very well, only she cried a little. I did not stay long,
because Mr. Bishop was wanting to give me the half-crown, and he kept it
down-stairs. And when I went in again she was in bed, and she was so
sleepy she hardly said anything at all."
Mr. Gresley came in wearily and dropped into a chair.
Mrs. Gresley gave him his tea, and presently took Regie up-stairs. Then
she came back and sat down in a low chair close to her husband. It was
the first drop of comfort in Mr. Gresley's cup to-day.
"How is Hester?"
"According to Dr. Brown she is very ill," said Mr. Gresley, in an
extinguished voice. "But they would not let me see her."
"Not see her own brother! My dear James, you should have insisted."
"I did, but it was no use. You know how angry Dr. Brown gets at the
least opposition. And the Bishop backed him up. They said it would
excite her."
"I never heard of such a thing. What is the matter with her?"
"Shock, Dr. Brown calls it. They have been afraid of collapse all day,
but she is better this evening. They seemed to think a great deal of her
knowing Regie."
"Did the little lamb forgive her?"
"Oh yes; he kissed her, and she knew him and cried. And it seems her
hands are severely burned. They have got a nurse, and they have
telegraphed for Miss West. The Bishop was very good to Regie and gave
him that fur rug."
They looked at the splendid blue fox rug on the sofa.
"I am afraid," said Mrs. Gresley, after a pause, "that Hester did run
all the way to Southminster as the Bishop said. Abel said the Bishop's
coachman told him that she came late last night to the Palace, and she
was white with snow when the footman let her in."
"My dear, I should have thought you were too sensible to listen to
servant's gossip," said Mr. Gresley, impatiently. "Your own common-sense
will tell you that Hester never performed that journey on foot. I told
Dr. Brown the same, but he lost his temper at once. It's curious how
patient he is in a sick-room, and how furious he can be out of it. He
was very angry with me, too, because when he mentioned to the Bishop in
my presence that Hester was under morphia, I said I strongly objected to
her being drugged, and when I repeated that morphia was a most dangerous
drug, with effects worse than intoxication, in fact, that morphia was a
form of intoxication, he positively, before the Bishop, shook his fist
in my face, and said he was not going to be taught his business by me.
"The Bishop took me away into the study. Dick Vernon was sitting there,
at least he was creeping about on all fours with Regie on his back. I
think he must be in love with Hester, he asked so anxiously if there was
any change. He would not speak to me, pretended not to know me. I
suppose the Bishop had told him about the porch, and he was afraid I
should come on him for repairs, as he had tampered with it. The Bishop
sent them away, and said he wanted to have a talk with me. The Bishop
himself was the only person who was kind."
There was a long pause. Mrs. Gresley laid her soft cheek against her
husband's, and put her small hand in a protecting manner over his large
one. It was not surprising that on the following Sunday Mr. Gresley said
such beautiful things about women being pillows against which weary
masculine athletes could rest.
"He spoke very nicely of you," went on Mr. Gresley at last. "He said he
appreciated your goodness in letting Regie go after what had happened,
and your offer to come and nurse Hester yourself. And then he spoke
about me. And he said he knew well how devoted I was to my work, and how
anything I did for the Church was a real labor of love, and that my
heart was in my work."
"It is quite true. So it is," said Mrs. Gresley.
"I never thought he understood me so well. And he went on to say that he
knew I must be dreadfully anxious about my sister, but that as far as
money was concerned--I had offered to pay for a nurse--I was to put all
anxiety off my mind. He would take all responsibility about the illness.
He said he had a little fund laid by for emergencies of this kind, and
that he could not spend it better than on Hester, whom he loved like his
own child. And then he went on to speak of Hester. I don't remember all
he said when he turned off about her, but he spoke of her as if she were
a person quite out of the common."
"He always did spoil her," said Mrs. Gresley.
"He went off on a long rigmarole about her and her talent, and how vain
he and I should be if leading articles appeared in the _Spectator_ about
us as they did about her. I did not know there had been anything of the
kind, but he said every one else did. And then he went on more slowly
that Hester was under a foolish hallucination, as groundless, no doubt,
as that she had caused Regie's death, that her book was destroyed. He
said, 'It is this idea which has got firm hold of her, but which has
momentarily passed off her mind in her anxiety about Regie, which has
caused her illness.' And then he looked at me. He seemed really quite
shaky. He held on to a chair. I think his health is breaking."
"And what did you say?"
"I said the truth, that it was no hallucination but the fact, that much
as I regretted to say so Hester had written a profane and immoral book,
and that I had felt it my duty to burn it, and a very painful duty it
had been. I said he would have done the same if he had read it."
"I am glad you said that."
"Well, the awkward part was that he said he had read it, every word, and
that he considered it the finest book that had been written in his day.
And then he began to walk up and down and to become rather excited, and
to say that he could not understand how I could take upon myself such a
responsibility, or on what grounds I considered myself a judge of
literature. As if I ever did consider myself a judge! But I do know
right from wrong. We had got on all right up till then, especially when
he spoke so cordially of you and me, but directly he made a personal
matter of Hester's book, setting his opinion against mine, for he
repeated over and over again it was a magnificent book, his manner
seemed to change. He tried to speak kindly, but all the time I saw that
my considering the book bad while he thought it good, gravelled him, and
made him feel annoyed with me. The truth is, he can't bear any one to
think differently from himself."
"He always was like that," said the comforter.
"I said I supposed he thought it right to run down the clergy and hold
them up to ridicule. He said, 'Certainly not, but he did not see how
that applied to anything in Hester's book.' He said, 'She has drawn us,
without bias towards us, exactly as we appear to three-quarters of the
laity. It won't do us any harm to see ourselves for once as others see
us. There is in these days an increasing adverse criticism of us in many
men's minds, to which your sister's mild rebukes are as nothing. We have
drawn it upon ourselves, not so much by our conduct, which I believe to
be uniformly above reproach, or by any lack of zeal, as by our ignorance
of our calling; by our inability to "convert life into truth," the
capital secret of our profession, as I was once told as a divinity
student. I for one believe that the Church will regain her prestige and
her hold on the heart of the nation, but if she does, it will be mainly
due to a new element in the minds of the clergy, a stronger realization,
not of our responsibilities--we have that--but of the education, the
personal search for truth, the knowledge of human nature, which are
necessary to enable us to meet them.' He went on a long time about that.
I think he grows very wordy. But I did not argue with him. I let him say
what he liked. I knew that I must be obedient to my Bishop, just as I
should expect my clergy to be to me, if I ever am a Bishop myself. Not
that I expect I ever shall be"--Mr. Gresley was overtired--"but it
seemed to me as he talked about the book, that all the time, though he
put me down to the highest motives--he did me that justice--he was
trying to make me own I had done wrong."
"You didn't say so?" said the little wife, hotly.
"My dear, need you ask? But I did say at last that I had consulted with
Archdeacon Thursby on the matter, and he had strongly advised me to do
as I did. The Bishop seemed thunderstruck. And then--it really seemed
providential--who should come in but Archdeacon Thursby himself. The
Bishop went straight up to him, and said, 'You come at a fortunate
moment, for I am greatly distressed at the burning of Miss Gresley's
book, and Gresley tells me that you advised it.' And would you believe
it," said Mr. Gresley, in a strangled voice, "the Archdeacon actually
denied it then and there. He said he did not know Hester had written a
book, and had never been consulted on the subject."
The tears forced themselves out of Mr. Gresley's eyes. He was exhausted
and overwrought. He sobbed against his wife's shoulder.
"Wicked liar!" whispered Mrs. Gresley, into his parting. "Wicked,
wicked man! Oh, James, I never thought the Archdeacon could have behaved
like that!"
"Nor I," gasped Mr. Gresley, "but he did. I suppose he did not want to
offend the Bishop. And when I expostulated with him, and reminded him of
what he had advised only the day before, he said that was about a
letter, not a book, as if it mattered which it was. It was the principle
that mattered. But they neither of them would listen to me. I said I had
offered to help to rewrite it, and the Bishop became quite fierce. He
said I might as well try to rewrite Regie if he were in his coffin. And
then he mentioned, casually, as if it were quite an afterthought, that
Hester had sold it for a thousand pounds. All through, I knew he was
really trying to hurt my feelings, in spite of his manner, but when he
said _that_ he succeeded."
Mr. Gresley groaned.
"A thousand pounds!" said Mrs. Gresley, turning white. "Oh, it isn't
possible!"
"He said he had seen the publisher's letter offering it, and that Hester
had accepted it by his advice. He seemed to know all about her affairs.
When he said that, I was so distressed I could not help showing it, and
he made rather light of it, saying the money loss was the least serious
part of the whole affair, but, of course, it is the worst. Poor Hester,
when I think that owing to me she has lost a thousand pounds. Seventy
pounds a year, if I had invested it for her, and I know of several good
investments, all perfectly safe, at seven per cent.--when I think of it
it makes me absolutely miserable. We won't talk of it any more. The
Bishop sat with his head in his hands for a long time after the
Archdeacon had gone, and afterwards he was quite kindly again, and said
we looked at the subject from such different points of view that perhaps
there was no use in discussing it. And we talked of the Church Congress
until the fly came, only he seemed dreadfully tired, quite knocked up.
And he promised to let us know first thing to-morrow morning how Hester
was. He was cordial when we left. I think he meant well. But I can
never feel the same to Archdeacon Thursby again. He was quite my
greatest friend among the clergy round here. I suppose I shall learn in
time not to have such a high ideal of people, but I certainly thought
very highly of him until to-day."
Mr. Gresley sat upright, and put away his handkerchief with decision.
"One thing this miserable day has taught us," he said, "and that is that
we must part with Fräulein. If she is to become impertinent the first
moment we are in trouble, such a thing is not to be borne. We could not
possibly keep her after her behavior to-day."