There was a moment"s silence.
"Hester is my sister," said Mr. Gresley, "and I am fond of her in spite of all, and she has no one to look to for help and guidance but me. I am her only near relation. That is why I feel so much the way she disregards all I say. She does not realize that it is for her sake I speak."
Mr. Gresley thought he was sincere, because he was touched.
Mrs. Gresley"s cheek burned. That faithful, devoted little heart, which lived only for her husband and children, could not brook--_what?_ That her priest should be grieved and disregarded? Or was it any affection for and interest in another woman that it could not brook?
"I have made up my mind," said Mr. Gresley, "to forbid her most solemnly when she comes back to-morrow to publish that book."
"She does not come back to-morrow, but this evening," said the young wife; and pushed by some violent, nameless feeling which was too strong for her, she added, "She will not obey you. When has she ever listened to what you say? She will laugh at you, James. She always laughs at you.
And the book will be published all the same."
"It shall not," said Mr. Gresley, coloring darkly. "I shall not allow it."
"You can"t prevent it," said Mrs. Gresley, her breath coming quickly.
She was not thinking of the book at all, but of the writer. What was a book, one more or one less? It was her duty to speak the truth to her husband. His sister, whom he thought so much of, had no respect for his opinion, and he ought to know it. Mr. Gresley did know it, but he felt no particular satisfaction in his wife"s presentment of the fact.
"It is no use saying I can"t prevent it," he said, coldly, letting his arm fall by his side. He was no longer thinking of the book either, but of the disregard of his opinion, nay, of his authority, which had long gravelled him in his sister"s att.i.tude towards him. "I shall use my authority when I see fit, and if I have so far used persuasion rather than authority, it was only because, in my humble opinion, it was the wisest course."
"It has always failed," said Mrs. Gresley, stung by the slackening of his arm. Yes. In spite of the new baby, she would rather have a hundred a year less than have this woman in the house. The wife ought to come first. By first, Mrs. Gresley meant without a second. She had this morning seen Emma laying Hester"s clean clothes on her bed, just returned from a distant washer-woman whom the Gresleys did not employ, and whom they had not wished Hester to employ. The sight of those two white dressing-gowns, beautifully "got up" with goffered frills, had aroused afresh in Mrs. Gresley what she believed to be indignation at Hester"s extravagance, an indignation which had been increased when she caught sight of her own untidy wrapper over her chair. She always appeared to disadvantage in Hester"s presence. The old smouldering grievance about the washing set a light to other feelings. They caught.
They burned. They had been drying in the oven a long time.
"It has always failed," said Mrs. Gresley, with subdued pa.s.sion, "and it will fail again. I heard you tell Mrs. Loftus that you would never let Hester publish another book like the _Idyll_. But though you say this one is worse, you won"t be able to stop her. You will see when she comes back that she will pack up the parcel and send it back to the publishers, whatever you may say."
The young couple were so absorbed in their conversation that they had not observed the approach of a tall, clerical figure whom the parlor-maid was escorting towards them.
"I saw you through the window, and I said I would join you in the garden," said Archdeacon Thursby, majestically. "I have been lunching with the Pratts. They naturally wished to hear the details of the lamented death of our mutual friend, Lord Newhaven."
Archdeacon Thursby was the clergyman who had been selected, as a friend of Lady Newhaven"s, to break to her her husband"s death.
"It seems," he added, "that a Miss West, who was at the Abbey at the time, is an intimate friend of the Pratts."
Mrs. Gresley slipped away to order tea, the silver teapot, etc.
The Archdeacon was a friend of Mr. Gresley"s. Mr. Gresley had not many friends among the clergy, possibly because he always attributed the popularity of any of his brethren to a laxity of principle on their part, or their success, if they did succeed, to the peculiarly easy circ.u.mstances in which they were placed. But he greatly admired the Archdeacon, and made no secret of the fact that, in his opinion, he ought to have been the Bishop of the diocese.
A long conversation now ensued on clerical matters, and Mr. Gresley"s drooping spirits revived under a refreshing _douche_ of compliments on "Modern Dissent."
The idea flashed across his mind of asking the Archdeacon"s advice regarding Hester"s book. His opinion carried weight. His remarks on "Modern Dissent" showed how clear, how statesmanlike his judgment was.
Mr. Gresley decided to lay the matter before him, and to consult him as to his responsibility in the matter. The Archdeacon did not know Hester.
He did not know--for he lived at a distance of several miles--that Mr.
Gresley had a sister who had written a book.
Mr. Gresley did not wish him to become aware of this last fact, for we all keep our domestic skeletons in their cupboards, so he placed a hypothetical case before his friend.
Supposing some one he knew, a person for whose actions he felt himself partly responsible, had written a most unwise letter, and this letter, by no fault of Mr. Gresley"s, had fallen into his hands and been read by him. What was he, Mr. Gresley, to do? The letter, if posted, would certainly get the writer into trouble, and would cause acute humiliation to the writer"s family. What would the Archdeacon do, in his place?
Mr. Gresley did not perceive that the hypothetical case was not "on all fours" with the real one. His first impulse had been to gain the opinion of an expert without disclosing family dissensions. Did some unconscious secondary motive impel him to shape the case so that only one verdict was probable?
The good Archdeacon ruminated, asked a few questions, and then said, without hesitation:
"I cannot see your difficulty. Your course is clear. You are responsible--"
"To a certain degree."
"To a certain degree for the action of an extremely injudicious friend or relation who writes a letter which will get him and others into trouble. It providentially falls into your hands. If I were in your place I should destroy it, inform your friend that I had done so princ.i.p.ally for his own sake, and endeavor to bring him to a better mind on the subject."
"Supposing the burning of the letter entailed a money loss?"
"I judge from what you say of this particular letter that any money that accrued from it would be ill-gotten gains."
"Oh! decidedly."
"Then burn it; and if your friend remains obstinate he can always write it again; but we must hope that by gaining time you will be able to arouse his better feelings, and at least induce him to moderate its tone."
"Of course he could write it again if he remains obstinate. I never thought of that," said Mr. Gresley, in a low voice. "So he would not eventually lose the money if he was still decided to gain it in an unscrupulous manner. Or I could help him to rewrite it. I never thought of that before."
"Your course is perfectly clear, my dear Gresley," said the Archdeacon, not impatiently, but as one who is ready to open up a new subject. "Your tender conscience alone makes the difficulty. Is not Mrs. Gresley endeavoring to attract our attention?"
Mrs. Gresley was beckoning them in to tea.
When the Archdeacon had departed, Mr. Gresley said to his wife: "I have talked over the matter with him, not mentioning names, of course. He is a man of great judgment. He advises me to burn it."
"Hester"s book?"
"Yes."
"He is quite right, I think," said Mrs. Gresley, her hands trembling, as she took up her work. Hester would never forgive her brother if he did that. It would certainly cause a quarrel between them. Young married people did best without a third person in the house.
"Will you follow his advice?" she asked.
"I don"t know. I--you see--poor Hester!--it has taken her a long time to write. I wish to goodness she would leave writing alone."
"She is coming home this evening," said his wife, significantly.
Mr. Gresley abruptly left the room, and went back to his study. He was irritated, distressed.
Providence seemed to have sent the Archdeacon to advise him. And the Archdeacon had spoken with decision. "Burn it," that was what he had said, "and tell your friend that you have done so."
It did not strike Mr. Gresley that the advice might have been somewhat different if the question had been respecting the burning of a book instead of a letter. Such subtleties had never been allowed to occupy Mr. Gresley"s mind. He was, as he often said, no splitter of hairs.
He told himself that from the very first moment of consulting him he had dreaded that the Archdeacon would counsel exactly as he had done. Mr.
Gresley stood a long time in silent prayer by his study window. If his prayers took the same bias as his recent statements to his friend, was that his fault? If he silenced, as a sign of cowardice, a voice within him which entreated for delay, was that his fault? If he had never educated himself to see any connection between a seed and a plant, a cause and a result, was that his fault? The first seedling impulse to destroy the book was buried and forgotten. If he mistook this towering, full-grown determination which had sprung from it for the will of G.o.d, the direct answer to prayer, was that his fault?
As his painful duty became clear to him, a thin veil of smoke drifted across the little lawn.
Regie came dancing and caracoling round the corner.