“Willingly, Mr. Silk—if your zeal
for me did not outrun my understanding.”
“Yet you’re clever. But you won’t
persuade me you don’t see the difficulty. .
. . Er—how shall I put it? The
Collector—we’ll have to get used
to calling him Sir Oliver—is as cool under
fire as any man this side of the Atlantic; fire of
criticism, I mean. There’s a limit though.
He despises Colonial opinion—that’s
his pose; takes pride in despising it, encouraged
by Langton. But England? his family?—that’s
another matter. An aunt—and that aunt
an earl’s daughter—If you’ll
believe me, Miss Josselin, I’m a man of family
and know the sort. They’re incredible.
And the younger lady, if I may remind you, called
Diana; which—er—may warn us that
she, too, is particular about these things.”
Here Mr. Silk, having at length found his retort upon
her similitude of the satyr, licked his lips.
Ruth drew up and stood tapping her foot. “May
I beg to be told exactly what has happened, sir?”
“What has happened? What has happened
is that Vyell is placing Sabines at the disposal of
his aunt and cousin for so long as they may honour
Boston with their presence. He sends the Quiney
word to pack and hold herself in readiness for a flitting.
Whither? I cannot say; nor can he yet have
found the temporary nest for you. But doubtless
you will hear in due course. May I offer you
my arm?”
“I thank you, no. Indeed we will part
here, unless you have further business in the house—and
I gather that your errand there is discharged. . .
. One question—Captain Vyell sent his
message by a letter, which Miss Quiney no doubt will
show to me. Did he further commission you with
a verbal one? You had better,” she added
quietly, “be particular about telling me the
truth; for I may question him, and for a discovered
falsehood he is capable of beating you.”
“What I have said,” stammered the clergyman,
“was—er—entirely on my
own responsibility. I—I conceived
you would find it sympathetic— helpful
perhaps. Believe me, Miss Josselin, I have considerable
feeling for you and your—er—position.”
“I thank you.” She dismissed him
with a gentle curtsy. “I feel almost sure
you have been doing your best.”
MR. HICHENS.
She turned and walked slowly back to the house.
Once within the front door and out of his sight,
she was tempted to rush across the hall and up the
stairs to her own room. She was indeed gathering
up her skirts for the run, when in the hall she almost
collided with the Reverend Malachi Hichens, who stood
there with his nose buried in a vase of roses, while
behind his back his hands interwove themselves and
pulled each at the other’s bony knuckles.
“Ah!” He faced about with a stiff bow,
and a glance up at the tall clock. “You
are late this morning, Miss Josselin. But I dare
say my good brother Silk has been detaining you in
talk?”
