So Peter went to London to collect his kit and to say good-bye to Jane
Erskine, and Nigel Christopherson ordered a great many new boots of
various designs, and some warlike weapons, and then there came the time
when he had to write to Mrs. Avory to say that he was going away, and
when in the solitude of his life at Hulworth he had time to sit down
and wonder what she would think about it. He was not long left in
doubt. A telegram came first, and then a letter. 'Dearest, dearest,'
this ran, 'I cannot let you go away.' It was a horribly compromising
letter, but it came from a poor little woman who had fought long odds,
and who was often very tired, and who sat for the greater part of the
day making blouses for which she was seldom paid. Mrs. Avory was not a
strong woman, nor in any way a great-minded woman, but she was one who,
in spite of weakness and a good deal of silliness, clung almost
fiercely to the fact that she must be good, and who kept faithfully the
promises she had made to a wholly unworthy person in the village church
at home twelve years ago. Every word of the letter was an appeal to
her dear, dear Nigel to stay in England and not leave her alone. She
had so few friends and so little to look forward to except his Sunday
visits. And then this poor tear-blotched letter which was neither very
grammatical nor legibly written changed its tone suddenly, and Mrs.
Avory said that perhaps it was better that he should go. Everything
was very difficult, and it seemed that although his society was the one
thing that she loved in the world, perhaps the fact of seeing him made
things almost more difficult. Her husband, she heard, had been
watching her movements lately; they said he wanted to marry some one
else, so really and truly Nigel had better go, and if possible forget
all about her for ever.
Toffy finished reading the letter and groaned. 'Was she never to have
a good time!' he wondered, thinking of the dull room and the
half-finished blouses upon the table, the economical gas jets in the
fireplace in lieu of the glow of a bright fire, and the dingy paper on
the walls. The whole thing was too hard on her, he thought, and
everything in the world seemed to be against her.
Long ago, when he was little more than a boy, he had met Horace Avory
and his wife in an out-of-the-way fishing village in Wales. Avory's
treatment of the small timid woman had roused pity and resentment in
Toffy's mind. A student of character would have seen directly that a
woman with more power and strength of mind--a woman with a bit of the
bully in herself--who could have taken the upper hand with the big
red-faced tyrant, might have made a very fairly good imitation of a
gentleman, and perhaps even of a good husband, of Avory. But his
wife--timid, and all too gentle--could only wince under the things he
said, or let her big eyes suddenly brim over with tears. Toffy began
to writhe under the cruel speeches which Avory made to her; he never
saw for an instant that there was a fault anywhere save with the
husband. She was one of those women who invariably inspire sweeping
and contradictory criticisms on the whole of her sex, one man finding
in her a proof that all women are angels, and the next discovering as
certainly that all women are fools.
Presently Avory left the fishing village on the plea of business and
went back to London, leaving his wife and child in the little hotel by
the sea. There had followed a whole beautiful sunlit month of peace
and quiet for Mrs. Avory, while her little girl played on the sands and
she worked and read, or walked and fished with Nigel, and the colour
came back to her cheeks, and the vague look of terror left her eyes.
And Toffy determined that Mrs. Avory should have a good time for once.
The years between boyhood and manhood had been bridged over by a sense
that some one needed his care, and that he was a protection to a little
woman who was weak and unhappy. And, whether it was love or not, the
thing was honourable and straightforward as an English boy can make it.
And then one night by the late post had come a letter from Horace Avory
of a kind particularly calculated to wound. Mrs. Avory brought it to
Toffy to read out on the sands; and she broke down suddenly and sobbed
as though her heart would break; and Toffy to comfort her had told her
that he loved her, and meant every word he said, and asked what on
earth he could do for her, and said that she must really try not to cry
or it would make her ill. He put his arm round the trembling
form,--and Mrs. Avory took his hand in hers and clung to it; and then,
comforted, she had dried her eyes at last, and gone back to the little
hotel again. Toffy saw the whole scene quite plainly before him now.
The little whitewashed inn with the hill behind it, the moonlit water
of the bay, and the tide coming rolling in across the wet sands. When
they met on the following day he told her with boyish chivalry that he
would wait for her for years if need were, and that some day they
should be happy together.
That had all happened long ago now, and during the years between they
had hoped quite openly and candidly that it would all come right some
day, although hardly saying even to themselves that the coming right
was dependent upon Horace Avory's death.
Meanwhile Mrs. Avory worked hard at her unremunerative tasks, and
trimmed parasols and cut out blouses, and worked hopefully, because she
knew that it would all come right some day, and because Nigel had said
that he loved her. And Nigel wrote regularly to her, and always went
to see her on Sunday when he was in London. And every night of his
life of late he had dreamed of a girl dressed in rose colour, who had
given him her photograph to put on his writing-table.
He read Mrs. Avory's letter again (she wrote probably the worst hand in
Christendom), and when he had spelt the ill-formed words once more, he
discovered that the blotched and scrawled writing contained a
postscript which he had not at first noticed. 'After all, you had
better not come here,' it said, 'but I will run down and see you
to-morrow. It is far the best and wisest plan, and I must say
good-bye. Please expect me by the three o'clock train.' The letter,
as usual, had not been posted in time to reach him in the morning, and
Toffy realized almost with a sense of disaster that to-morrow was now
to-day, and that it was too late to write and expostulate or to suggest
to Mrs. Avory how unwise her visit would be. There was nothing for it
but to order the motor-car and go to the station to meet her, and
afterwards to give her tea in the library, and say to her all the
comforting and consoling things he could think of.
Mrs. Avory appeared more than usually worn and thin this afternoon; and
her eyes, so ready to brim with tears, looked pathetically large in her
sallow little face. She had been sitting up late for many nights to
finish her work, and there had been 'bothers' in her little household
which she took to heart and worried over. Her dress looked worn and
shabby, and her gloves were darned. The nervousness in her manner was
increased by ill-health, and she reiterated that she knew she had done
the best thing in running down here quietly for an hour, and that she
had quite meant to bring her child and the governess; but Dorothy had
not been well, and she did not like either to bring her or to leave her
alone.
'I didn't know until the last minute that they couldn't come,' she
reiterated nervously. Perhaps--who knows?--even she, poor soul, was
dimly conscious that she had done a not very wise deed. But Toffy was
all that was comforting and tender towards her, told her without
flinching that of course she had done the right thing, and that it was
awfully plucky of her to have come. He took off the damp tweed cape
which she wore and led her to the fire. They had tea together in the
big cold drawing-room, and then came the time to say good-bye, and Mrs.
Avory pleaded to walk to the station for the sake of one last talk
together, and her watch--which never kept scrupulous time--deceiving
her as to the hour, she missed the last train at the little branch
station at Hulworth, and then wondered tearfully, and with an access of
nervousness which rendered her almost hysterical, what she should do.
Toffy had a Bradshaw twelve months old which he promised to consult if
Mrs. Avory would walk back with him across the fields again to the
house. He consoled her as best he could, and assured her that it would
be all right. And Mrs. Cosby, who was really a great woman at a
crisis, suggested suddenly and with brilliance that there was a train
from the main station ten miles off at eight o'clock, and that the
motor, if it did not break down, might take them there in half an hour.
She provided warm wraps for the lady, and Nigel found rugs for her; and
when all had been arranged, and she who got so little pleasure started
for a moonlight drive in the cold crisp air, with Nigel taking care of
her and wrapping her up warmly in rugs and furs, Mrs. Avory felt with a
sudden rush of that joy of which she had so little experience that all
had turned out happily and for the best.
It was not Toffy's fault upon this occasion that the motor-car came to
grief. Mr. Lawrence's big Panhard ran into them when they were seven
miles from home, and Mrs. Avory was taken back to Hulworth insensible
and with a broken arm. Mr. Lawrence was himself bruised and shaken,
but he helped to take Mrs. Avory home, where the housekeeper's greeting
convinced him, if he had required convincing, that Mrs. Avory was
staying at Hulworth. He said good-night when he had done everything
that was useful and neighbourly, and had sent his chauffeur in his own
car for the doctor, and had been helpful in getting remedies and
suggesting cures. And the following day he had the pleasure of being
first with the news of Mrs. Avory's escapade. Half his friends and
neighbours heard all about it before lunch-time; his own
bruises--rather obtrusively displayed--were proof of the truth of his
story, if proof were needed. And Mr. Lawrence finished up his
well-spent morning by lunching with Miss Abingdon, and by recounting to
her in his high-pitched, gossiping voice his very latest piece of
intelligence.
'I don't believe it,' said Miss Abingdon sharply.
Sometimes these ladies of a sterner period than ourselves say
surprisingly rude things in the most natural and simple way.
'But it's a fact, really!' said Mr. Lawrence, with enjoyment. 'Why,
the first thing the housekeeper said to her was, "So you 're back
again!" No one had seen Toffy for ages. He said he had influenza.'
Mr. Lawrence was going to add some jocular words to the effect that
Toffy was a sly dog, but something in Miss Abingdon's face checked him,
and he murmured only that it was an awful pity.
And then Kitty Sherard came in; she was staying with Miss Abingdon for
a few days to console her for Jane's absence. Miss Abingdon did not
quite approve of her, but, alas for the frailty of humanity, a little
lightness and amusement are sometimes lacking in our otherwise
admirable English homes, and the man or woman who can provide them is
readily forgiven and easily excused. Miss Sherard was amusing; no one
could deny it. She told her _risqué_ stories with the innocent look of
a child, while her big eyes were raised almost with an air of
questioning to her bearer's face. Also she was boundlessly
affectionate, although she said such dreadful things, and in fine,
where she was there were young men gathered together.
She came up the drive now. Canon Wrottesley's two elder sons with her
and a sailor friend of theirs, and she was smiling at them all quite
indiscriminately and doing considerable damage to their hearts without
in the least intending it.
Miss Sherard had been shooting duck in the marshes below Bowshott,
where Peter had given her leave to shoot when she liked; and she came
towards the house now, a miniature gun over her shoulder, and clad in a
brown shooting dress, with a knot of her favourite colour under her
chin.
There was a certain jauntiness about Kitty which became her, where in
almost any one else it might have seemed outrageous. Even Miss
Abingdon always remembered that Kitty had lost her mother when she was
four years old, and since then had been the playmate and boon companion
of a man who had been accounted fast even in the go-ahead set in which
he lived, and who had taken his daughter to every race meeting in
England since the time when she could first sit beside him on the front
seat of his coach. He had never allowed her to go to school, and he
had dismissed half a dozen governesses in turn because they were trying
to make a prim little miss of her, and because they always insisted on
pouring out tea for him as if they expected him to marry them. When
Kitty was sixteen he dismissed 'the whole bothering lot of old women'
and finished her education himself. Lord Sherard spoke French like a
native, and was one of the best riders and sportsmen of his day. He
faithfully conveyed all that he knew to his daughter, with the result
that Kitty had more knowledge of French literature than of English, and
she and her father conversed but little with each other in their native
tongue. But the result as far as Kitty was concerned was that she had
turned out a beautiful and engaging young woman with eyes that looked
frankly and charitably on the world. She loved you so much that she
nearly always had her arm linked in yours when she told her absurd
little stories; and she smiled so delightedly when you saw the joke of
them, that even when you said, 'Well, really, Kitty!' you knew quite
well that hers was a sort of innocence of daring, and you warned her
severely that she must be very careful indeed to whom she said things
like that, but that of course it didn't matter a bit as far as you
yourself were concerned, because you understood her and loved her. And
because everybody else said exactly the same sort of thing to her, and
because no one would have ventured to crush that blithe and childlike
nature by one word of real disapproval, there was not much hope that
Kitty would ever reform and become sober-minded and well-behaved and
satisfactory. The plague of it was that you couldn't help loving her
whatever she did, and she loved you too, which was perfectly
intoxicating when you came to think of it, except that you knew that
she loved at least a hundred different people in exactly the same sort
of way. She kept her real affection for her father and Jane Erskine,
and lately she had fallen in love--which is a different thing--with Sir
Nigel Christopherson.
Kitty stamped her feet in the hall, and then drew off her gloves and
came forward to the drawing-room fire, with the big white sheepskin in
front of it; and kneeling down before the blaze she told Mr. Lawrence
and Miss Abingdon collectively that they had had very good sport in the
marshes, and that she had brought back some duck for Miss Abingdon; and
didn't everybody think it was too awfully cold, and what would their
poor hunters do if a frost came?
Finally, having enunciated all these small remarks, Miss Kitty turned a
radiant face on their visitor, who was stretched luxuriously in a big
armchair by the fire, and bade him tell her the very latest news, for
she expected all sorts of gossip and, if possible, some scandals from
him.
Mr. Lawrence laughed delightedly; he was really proud of his reputation
as a scandal-monger. 'Well,' he said, 'I believe I can supply you with
the very latest thing of that description,' and then he told her the
story.
Kitty had led a rough-and-tumble sort of life, and every one knew
perfectly well that hers had been a liberal education at the hands of
her father. Yet even Mr. Lawrence would not have blurted out his tale
to Jane Erskine, for instance, as he had just done to Kitty. But bless
you! every one knew that old Lord Sherard told his daughter his best
scenes, and that she stayed with him in Continental hotels which some
very particular mothers would not have allowed their daughters to
enter. Mr. Lawrence wound up by saying, in a very charitable way, that
he didn't blame the poor little woman, for she had a perfect beast of a
husband.
Kitty was still kneeling on the white sheepskin rug and holding out her
cold hands to the blaze when Mr. Lawrence had finished; and Miss
Abingdon, who had tried once or twice without success to catch Mr.
Lawrence's eye and to check his loquacity, shook her head as she
realized that Kitty did not seem the least bit shocked.
When Mr. Lawrence had left, Kitty changed her shooting dress for a
habit and announced to Miss Abingdon, who suggested that she should
rest for the remainder of the afternoon, that she was going to exercise
one of Jane's horses. She mounted the hunter and went off alone,
blowing kisses to Miss Abingdon from the tips of her riding gloves, and
so out of the white gates down the road to the left, and then into the
open country. She set her horse at a fence and flew over it. Her
small white teeth were pressed together, and her eyes, under level
black eye-brows, had a fierce look in them. She pulled her hat more
firmly down upon her brows and steered her hunter across country, as
though following the quickest burst of hounds of the season. Kitty was
a tireless rider, and Jane's hunter did not want exercise for some
little time after this. The country round Bowshott is known as 'stiff'
for hunting people, but Kitty had marked out a straight line for
herself, and took everything that came in her way with a sort of
foolhardiness which made a trifle of big hedges or yawning ditches, and
all the time she was saying to herself, 'I will never forgive him,
never!' She had given her whole heart to Nigel Christopherson, and
believed that he had given his to her. And now he was at Hulworth with
Mrs. Avory, and Mr. Lawrence was touring the country in his big red
motor-car telling everybody about it.
Mrs. Wrottesley heard the story from her maid, who had it from Miss
Abingdon's butler, and she told it to her mistress when they were
counting charity blankets together in Mrs. Wrottesley's bedroom. The
canon was away from home, and Mrs. Wrottesley was having a few
uninterrupted days in which to do her work, without calls upon her to
come and admire Canon Wrottesley. The story was received very quietly
by her. She sat a full minute without saying anything at all, and then
she finished counting the blankets. When that useful task was over
Mrs. Wrottesley began to speak. This was a much more unusual event
with her than with most people, and what made it more forcible was that
she began to speak deliberately and with intention.
'I am going to stay at Hulworth,' said Mrs. Wrottesley. 'Pack my box,
please, and order the carriage to be round in half an hour.'
She drove over to Hulworth, her plain and rather austere face showing
very little expression upon it, and she reached the big ugly house to
find Toffy sitting over a smouldering fire in the drawing-room, his
hair rumpled up from his forehead and his head buried in his hands, and
Mrs. Avory upstairs still suffering from slight concussion of the brain.
There are times when the strong arm of a man is the one needful and the
one serviceable thing in the world; but there are times again when it
is only a strong woman who is wanted, or who is capable of a certain
sort of work.
'I don't know how you ever thought of coming,' said Toffy, looking at
her with eyes which were about as full of perplexity and helplessness
as a young man's could well be. 'I thought of writing to Peter, but
after all this is his last time with Jane, and I have no relations
myself, and I couldn't ask Lawrence not to say anything, because that
would have given away the whole show.'
'I think I can settle everything satisfactorily with Mr. Lawrence,'
said Mrs. Wrottesley. 'Mr. Lawrence is proverbially ill-natured in his
own kind way, and it would not have been unlike him to omit the fact
that I was staying with you during the time Mrs. Avory was here.'
'She came down yesterday afternoon to say good-bye to me,' said Toffy
eagerly.
'And I arrived by the same train,' said Mrs. Wrottesley, 'which was
very convenient.'
Toffy got up from his chair and crossed to the other side of the hearth
and kissed Mrs. Wrottesley.
It was not an unusual thing for her to drive over to Hulworth to put
housekeeping matters straight when they were at their most acute stages
of discomfort, or when Toffy was more than common ill. She was quite
at home in the house, and she now drew up a writing-table to the fire
and penned a number of notes in her neat, precise hand, headed with the
Hulworth address, telling her friends how sad she considered the
accident of last night, how attentive Mr. Lawrence had been, and how,
of course, she must give up her engagements at home for the next few
days, as she would not dream of leaving until Mrs. Avory was able to
leave also. The notes fell like a series of cold douches upon the warm
interest and keen excitement prevalent at Culversham. Perhaps only
Miss Abingdon was sincerely glad that conventionalities had been in
force throughout.
'No one could be more delighted than I am that Mrs. Wrottesley was at
Hulworth,' she said, 'though I doubt if it is a very wise thing for a
married woman to pay visits without her husband. Still, no doubt Canon
Wrottesley in his usual broad-minded way arranged that she should be
there. He is always so thoughtful and self-sacrificing, and it's more
than good of him to spare his wife to nurse Mrs. Avory. He is an
example to us all.'
Canon Wrottesley had always been devoted to his wife. Her quiet dress
and her mantle had ever seemed to him the essence of good womanhood,
and he respected her for her considerable fortune as well as for her
unimpeachable orthodoxy. His highest term of praise of her was to
speak of her as the helpmeet for him.
The canon was now sitting in the very charming library of the house of
his Bishop, where he was spending a few days, and was busy inditing a
few lines to his wife to ask her if the latest news from Culversham was
true. He was warned by a curious presentiment that the information
which he had received was in accordance with facts, and, being always
ready with a word of counsel, Canon Wrottesley was writing to his wife
to warn her that until the whole thing blew over it would be wiser for
her not to see anything of Mrs. Avory. Considering his own and her
position in the parish, he thought they could not be too careful.
When the second post arrived at the palace, bringing him the unexpected
news that his wife was at that moment nursing Mrs. Avory at their
neighbour's house, Canon Wrottesley felt one of those shocks which in
all their painfulness can only be realized, perhaps, by those who hold
a conspicuous position in a very small society. When the world is
narrowed down to quite a little place its weight is felt more heavily
than when its interests and its knowledge are dispersed over a wider
area.
He believed that poor Henrietta had meant well when she had gone to
Hulworth to look after Mrs. Avory; but her action proved to the canon
what he had always known--that a woman requires guidance, and he meant
to tell his wife kindly how much wiser it would have been if, before
taking any action in this matter, she had wired to him for advice.
The thing was a real trouble to him, and helped to spoil his enjoyable
stay at the palace. He knew himself to be popular there and that his
visit had given real pleasure. He had been asked to improvise upon the
piano every evening, and had even sung once, saying gracefully to the
Bishop's daughter, when she had concluded her very indifferent
accompaniment to the song, 'An accompanist is born, not made!' He had
preached one of his favourite sermons on Sunday, which had not only
swelled the offertory bag to an unusual size, but had obtained for the
canon quite a sheaf of compliments which he looked forward to retailing
to Henrietta at home. He left the pleasant ways of the Bishop's palace
determined to face with a magnanimous mind the difficulties that
awaited him. He did not like Henrietta's being 'mixed up in this
affair' at all, and, as he sat in the first-class carriage of the train
on his homeward journey, a rug about his knees and a footwarmer at his
feet, he decided that the wisest and best thing he could do would be to
shorten his journey by getting out at Hulworth station and going
straight up to Sir Nigel's house. When he had time, and was able to
see how Culversham viewed this affair of Mrs. Avory's, he could then
decide whether his wife should call upon her or not. But for the
present he saw quite plainly that inaction and patience were the best
course.
He gave up his ticket at the railway station with a fine air of
reserve, and bade his coachman drive to Hulworth in the same manner in
which a statesman might impart a Cabinet secret to his secretary. The
brougham drove on through the grim stone gates of Hulworth and
deposited the canon before the flight of steps leading to the front
door. He decided, if possible, not to partake of any food in the
house, nor even to sit down if this could be avoided. He was not going
to blame Sir Nigel yet, but, to say the least of it, he thought that he
had been unwise. The canon stood with his back to the fire in the
drawing-room, looking judicial and massive. Presently Mrs. Wrottesley
came in and saluted her husband with that calm affection which
twenty-five years of married life may engender.
He stooped and kissed her gravely. 'My love,' he said, 'this is not
the place for you.'
It seemed to Mrs. Wrottesley to come very suddenly to her that almost
for the first time in their married life there was going to be a real
matter of difference between her husband and herself, in which neither
meant to give in. She regretted in her quiet way that it should be so.
'Remember,' said Canon Wrottesley kindly, 'that I don't in any way
blame Sir Nigel; I think he is foolish, and I think, considering Mrs.
Avory's position, she has been more than foolish. A woman who is
separated from her husband cannot be too careful.'
'I am afraid,' said Mrs. Wrottesley, with regret in her voice, and
coming straight to the point at once in her graceful way, 'that I must
stay here for the present.'
The canon, although he had not intended doing so, sat down abruptly on
one of the drawing-room chairs.
It was a horrible time for both these affectionate elderly people who
had always lived a peaceful, orderly, well-conducted life together, and
whose home had been, in the mind of the canon at least, the model
household of the neighbourhood. Also, it was a real shock to him to
realize that Henrietta did not mean to yield in this matter. She spoke
with regret, but she spoke firmly. It must always be a surprise--even
to a prophet--when a dumb creature speaks, and in a certain sense Mrs.
Wrottesley had always been dumb. And now, after years of silence and
affectionate wifely submission, Mrs. Wrottesley was asserting herself.
'You must be reasonable, dear,' her husband said at last.
Mrs. Wrottesley replied, 'I want to be reasonable;' and she told him
the whole story of how her presence might save from very serious
consequences two people who were admittedly not very wise, but who were
certainly nothing more than foolish, and might prevent a scandal which
would damage them in the eyes of the world and result in all sorts of
trouble for Mrs. Avory.
'The scandal cannot now be prevented,' said Canon Wrottesley. 'I heard
myself from Mr. Lawrence this morning telling me the whole story. My
love, you cannot touch pitch and not be defiled; Mrs. Avory must send
for her own relations, if she has any, to help her out of this
regrettable business. I cannot allow you to appear in the matter at
all.'
'I have had my letters addressed here for the last two days,' said Mrs.
Wrottesley.
The canon rose from his chair and began to pace up and down the room.
'I don't know what people will say,' he said, his forehead knitted into
a frown and his fingers impatiently letting off small pistol-shots
against his palm. There had never been a better wife or mother, he
admitted to himself, than Henrietta Wrottesley, but she was a child
still in many ways. 'To-morrow is Sunday,' he went on, 'and we must
appear in church together. In this way only can we shut people's
mouths and prevent their talking, and although I don't like anything in
the form of secrecy or underhand actions, no one need know that you
have been staying here.'
'I am afraid,' said Mrs. Wrottesley, still in that unyielding tone of
gentle regret, 'that it is too late to keep my movements secret. There
is an account of the accident in the local paper in which it is stated
that I was staying here at the time.'
Canon Wrottesley loved to see his name in print, and looked with
interest at the cutting while Mrs. Wrottesley added, 'I sent the
communication to the paper.'
The canon found himself wondering in a puzzled way what was the
ultimatum that a man should impose upon a woman. What, in point of
fact, was the force that could be brought to bear upon the case? In
primitive days the matter would have been easily enough settled, but in
modern times moral force is the only lever, and although most women, he
admitted, were very easily influenced by moral force, it struck him
painfully that upon this occasion his wife was not going to be moved by
it.
A beneficent Providence who, I think we may allow, comes often to the
assistance of persons whose storm rages in quite a small and narrow
teacup so long as they are genuinely attached to each other, may have
designed that at this moment Lydia of the heavy foot should enter with
the second post's letters, and amongst those which had been sent on to
Mrs. Wrottesley was one directed to her husband in dear Miss Abingdon's
handwriting.
The canon opened it unheedingly. Miss Abingdon often sent him little
notes, but never, perhaps, had she written one which spoke more
genuinely out of a full heart than did this. She had written in the
middle of the night, although she felt how disorderly and almost
indecorous such a proceeding was. By so doing she had missed the
evening post, but she sent the missive to the village early in the
morning by the hand of a groom, and felt glad, as she did so, that
there were no secrets in her life. A letter posted at an unaccustomed
hour suggested intrigues, and Miss Abingdon wondered how people could
live who had such things upon their consciences.
Her unusual behaviour accounts for the fact that her letter arrived by
the second post at Hulworth; Canon Wrottesley was so much upset at the
time that he read half-way through it before he quite realized what it
was about.
'MY DEAR CANON,'--it ran--'you must allow me to say what I think of
your splendid conduct in regard to poor little Mrs. Avory. I had heard
the story, of course, of her very indiscreet behaviour, but it was not
till this morning that I knew how splendidly you had thrown yourself
into the breach by allowing Mrs. Wrottesley to go over to Hulworth to
stay and nurse the poor thing. I must tell you that I hear on all
sides nothing but the kindest things said about your action in the
matter. I do not often write so unreservedly as at present, but I do
feel strongly on the subject, and on occasions such as this I may be
allowed to say that it takes a good man and a broad-minded one to act
promptly and generously--would that there were more of them in the
English Church!'
Miss Abingdon used to fear afterwards that perhaps she had said too
much; but to her also, as to Mrs. Wrottesley, the relief of speaking
her mind once in a way was irresistible.
Of course it weakened the canon's position to show the letter to his
wife. He ought to have relented gracefully and with dignity, and to
have consented as a personal favour, even against his proper judgment,
to his wife's remaining where she was. But Miss Abingdon's letter was
too full of kind remarks to be kept to himself. He handed it to
Henrietta, and when she had read it he folded it up carefully and put
it in his pocket.
'That,' he said, 'is one of the best women that ever lived, and
perhaps, who knows, there may be others who see this matter in the
right light also.' All that he had previously said passed completely
out of his mind as he talked of the insight and the complete
understanding that some good women evinced. He began to speak with
manly kindliness of the poor little invalid upstairs, and when at last
he bade good-bye to his wife he kissed her affectionately and bade
her--in his usual formula--not do too much.
Miss Abingdon's letter had shown the canon to himself in his true
light; before he reached home he had come to believe that it was he who
had urged his wife to go to Hulworth. As was usual with him when he
felt strongly, he adopted a character rôle, and his handsome face wore
a more than usually beneficent and great-minded expression upon it as
he walked with his fine erect carriage through the village that night;
while it would hardly have required a playbill of _dramatis personae_
to indicate the fact that the canon was living the part of the Vicar of
Wakefield in the supreme moment when he visits Olivia in prison. He
had promised his wife before leaving to drive over often to see her
during her stay at Hulworth; and the following Sunday he preached one
of his most memorable sermons on the text--'And when they shall take up
some deadly thing it shall not hurt them.'