“I know you’ve every right to say to me:
‘Mind your own business.’ But I made
up my mind to come as a friend, hoping to save you
from—er” he stammered, and began
again: “I think you ought to know of the
feeling in your parish that—er—that—er—your
position is very delicate. Without breach of
confidence I may tell you that letters have been sent
to headquarters; you can imagine perhaps what I mean.
Do believe, my dear friend, that I’m actuated
by my old affection for you; nothing else, I do assure
you.”
In the silence, his breathing could be heard, as of
a man a little touched with asthma, while he continually
smoothed his thick black knees, his whole face radiating
an anxious kindliness. The sun shone brightly
on those two black figures, so very different, and
drew out of their well-worn garments the faint latent
green mossiness which. underlies the clothes of clergymen.
At last Pierson said: “Thank you, Alec;
I understand.”
The Canon uttered a resounding sigh. “You
didn’t realise how very easily people misinterpret
her being here with you; it seems to them a kind—a
kind of challenge. They were bound, I think,
to feel that; and I’m afraid, in consequence—”
He stopped, moved by the fact that Pierson had closed
his eyes.
“I am to choose, you mean, between my daughter
and my parish?”
The Canon seemed, with a stammer of words, to try
and blunt the edge of that clear question.
“My visit is quite informal, my dear fellow;
I can’t say at all. But there is evidently
much feeling; that is what I wanted you to know.
You haven’t quite seen, I think, that—”
Pierson raised his hand. “I can’t
talk of this.”
The Canon rose. “Believe me, Edward, I
sympathise deeply. I felt I had to warn you.”
He held out his hand. “Good-bye, my dear
friend, do forgive me”; and he went out.
In the hall an adventure befell him so plump, and
awkward, that he could barely recite it to Mrs. Rushbourne
that night.
“Coming out from my poor friend,” he said,
“I ran into a baby’s perambulator and
that young mother, whom I remember as a little thing”—he
held his hand at the level of his thigh—“arranging
it for going out. It startled me; and I fear
I asked quite foolishly: ’Is it a boy?’
The poor young thing looked up at me. She has
very large eyes, quite beautiful, strange eyes.
’Have you been speaking to Daddy about me?’
‘My dear young lady,’ I said, ’I’m
such an old friend, you see. You must forgive
me.’ And then she said: ’Are
they going to ask him to resign?’ ‘That
depends on you,’ I said. Why do I say these
things, Charlotte? I ought simply to have held
my tongue. Poor young thing; so very young!
And the little baby!” “She has brought
it on herself, Alec,” Mrs, Rushbourne replied.
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