Cheered by the idea that he had saved his client’s fortune, and comforted by a tumbler or two of irreproachable champagne, Mr. Sampson managed to eat a very good supper, and he trudged briskly homewards on the stroke of midnight, tolerably content with himself and life in general.
“Perhaps after all I may be better off as a bachelor than with the most fascinating of wives,” he reflected. “But I must come to an understanding with Eliza. Cheeseparing is all very well as long as my cheese is not pared. I must let Eliza know that I’m master, and that my tastes are to be consulted in every particular. When I think of the melted butter they gave me last night at Veefoor’s, and the sauce with that sole normong, I shudder at the recollection of the bill-sticker’s paste I’ve been asked to eat at my own table. If Eliza is to go on keeping house for me, there must be a revolution in the cookery.”
John Treverton and his wife spent a Sabbath of exceeding peacefulness. They appeared at church together, morning and evening, much to the discomfiture of Edward Clare, who was surprised to see them looking so happy.
“Does he think the storm has blown over?” Edward said to himself. “Poor wretch. He will discover his mistake before long.”
The Vicar went to the Manor House after the evening service, and he and John Treverton were closeted together in the library for an hour or more, during which time John told his wife’s trustee all that had happened at Auray, and showed him documents which proved Marie Pomellec’s marriage with Jean Kergariou, and Kergariou’s death two years after her second marriage.
“Providence has been very good to you, John Treverton,” said the Vicar, when he had heard everything. “You cannot be too grateful for your escape from disgrace and difficulty. But I hope you will always remember that your own sin is not lessened by this discovery. I hope that you honestly and truly repent that sin.”
“Can I do otherwise?” asked John Treverton, sadly. “Has it not brought fear and sorrow upon one I love better than myself. The thing was done to benefit her, but I feel now that it was not the less dishonourable.”
“Well, we will try to forget all about it,” said the good-natured Vicar, who, in exhorting a sinner to repentance, never wished to make the burden of remorse too heavy. “I only desired that you should see your conduct in a proper light, as a Christian and a gentleman. God knows how grateful I am to Him for His mercy to you and my dear Laura. It would have almost broken my heart to see you turned out of this house.”
“Like Adam and Eve out of Paradise,” said Treverton, smiling, “and my poor Eve a sinless sufferer.”
After this serious talk the Vicar and his host went back to the drawing-room, where Laura and Celia were sitting by a glorious wood fire reading Robertson’s sermons.
“What a darling he was,” cried Celia, with a gush. “And how desperately in love with him I should have been if I had lived at Brighton in his time and heard him preach. His are the only sermons I can read without feeling bored. If that dear prosy old father of mine would only take a lesson—”
Her father’s entrance silenced her, just as she was about to criticise his capabilities as a preacher. The Vicar went straight to Laura, and took both her hands in his hearty grasp.
“My dear, dear girl,” he said. “Providence has ordered all things well for you. You have no more trouble to fear!”
It was not till the next morning that Laura remembered her husband’s anxious tenant from Beechampton. Husband and wife were breakfasting together tête-à-tête in the book-room, at half-past seven, John Treverton dressed in his hunting gear, ready to start for a six-mile ride to the meet of staghounds among the pasture-clad hills. Celia, who did not consider that her obligations as a guest included early rising, was still luxuriating in morning dreams.
“Oh, by the by,” exclaimed Laura, when she and her husband had talked about many things, “I quite forgot to tell you about your tenant at Beechampton. He is coming to see you at nine o’clock this morning. It is a rather important matter he wants to see you about, he says. He has been extremely anxious for your return.”
“My tenant at Beechampton, dear,” said John Treverton, with a puzzled air. “Who can that be? I have no property at Beechampton except ground rents, and Sampson collects those. I have nothing to do with the tenants.”
“Yes, but this is something about drainage, and your tenant wants to see you. He said you were the ground landlord of some houses which he holds.”
John Treverton shrugged his shoulders resignedly.
“Rather a bore,” he said. “But if he is here at nine o’clock I don’t mind seeing him—I shan’t wait for him. I’ve ordered my horse at nine sharp. And I’ve ordered the pony carriage for you and Celia to drive to the meet. It’s a fine morning, and the fresh air will do you good.”
“Then I’d better send a message to Celia,” said Laura. “She is given to late hours in wintry weather.”
She rang the bell and told Trimmer to send one of the maids to Miss Clare to say that she was to be ready for a drive at nine o’clock; and then John and his wife dawdled over their talk and breakfast till half-past eight, by which time the January sun was bright enough to invite them into the garden.
“Run and put on your sealskin, Laura, and come for a turn in the grounds,” said Mr. Treverton.
The obedient wife departed, and came back in five minutes, in a brown cloth dress, with jacket, hat, and muff of darkest sealskin.
“What a delightful study in brown,” said John.
They went out into the Dutch garden—that garden where John Treverton had walked
