A low, rumbling voice shook up from the kitchen. Mrs. Bowater was talking to herself. Dejection drew over me again at the thought of the deceit I was in, and I looked at my love for Fanny as I suppose Abraham at the altar of stones looked at his son Isaac. Then suddenly a thought far more matter-of-fact chilled through my mind. I saw again Mr. Crimble huddling down towards me in that echoing hall, heard my voice delivering Fanny’s message, and realized that half of what I had said had been written in mockery. It had been intended for my eye only—“Let alone my prayers.” In the solitude of the darkness the words had a sound far more sinister than even Fanny can have intended.
Mr. Crimble, however, had accepted them apparently in good faith—to judge at least from the letter which reached me the following morning:—
“Dear Miss M.—Thank you. I write with a mind so overburdened that words fail me. But I realize that Miss Bowater has no truer friend than yourself, and shall be frank. After that terrible morning you might well have refused to help me. I cannot believe that you will—for her sake. This long concealment, believe me, is not of my own seeking. It cannot, it must not, continue, a moment beyond the necessity. For weeks, nay, months, I have been tortured with doubts and misgivings. Her pride, her impenetrable heedlessness; oh, indeed, I realize the difficulties of her situation. I dare not speak till she gives consent. Yet silence puts me in a false position, and tongues, as perhaps even you may be aware, begin to wag. Nor is this my first attempt, and—to be more frank than I feel is discreet—there is my mother (quite apart from hers) now, alas, aged and more dependent on my affection and care than ever. To make a change now—the talk, the absence of Christian charity, my own temperament and calling! I pray for counsel to guide my stumbling bark on this sea of darkest tempest.
“Can F. decide that her affections are such as could justify her in committing her future to me? Am I justified in asking her? You, too, must have many anxieties—anxieties perhaps unguessed at by those of coarser fibre. And though I cannot venture to ask your confidences, I do ask for your feminine intuition—even though this may seem an intrusion after my sad discomfiture the other day. And yet, I assure you, it was not corporeal fear—are not we priests the police of the City Beautiful? Might I not have succeeded merely in making us both ridiculous? But that is past, and the dead past must bury its dead: there is no gentler sexton.
“Need I say that this letter is not the fruit of any mere impulse. The thought, the very image of her never leaves my consciousness night or day; and I get no rest. I am almost afraid at the power she has of imprinting herself on the mind. I implore you to be discreet, without needless deception. I will wait patiently. My last desire is to hasten an answer—unless, dear Miss M., one in the affirmative. And would it be possible—indeed the chief purpose of this letter was to make this small request—would it be possible to give me one hour—no tea—this afternoon? There was a phrase in your whispered message—probably because of the peculiar acoustic properties of Brunswick House—that was but half-caught. We must not risk the faintest shadow of misunderstanding.
“Believe me, yours most gratefully, though ‘perplexed in the extreme,’
My old habit of hunting in the crannies of what I read had ample opportunity here. Two things stood out in my mind: a kind of astonishment at Mr. Crimble’s “stumbling bark” which he was asking me to help to steer, and inexpressible relief that Fanny’s letter was buried beyond hope of recovery before he could call that afternoon. The more I pitied and understood his state of mind, the more helpless and anxious I felt. Then, in my foolish fashion, I began again picturing in fancy the ceremony that would bring Mr. Crimble and my landlady into so close a relationship. Why did he fear the wagging of tongues so much? I didn’t. Would Miss Bullace be a bridesmaid? Would I? I searched in my drawer and read over the “Form of Solemnization of Matrimony.” I came to “the dreadful day of judgment,” and to “serve” and “obey,” and shivered. I was not sure that I cared for the way human beings had managed these things. But at least, bridesmaids said nothing, and if I⸺
While I was thus engaged Mrs. Bowater entered the room. I smuggled my prayerbook aside and gave her Fanny’s letter. She was always a woman of few words. She folded it reflectively; took off her spectacles, replaced them in their leather case, and that in her pocket.
“ ‘Soap, handkerchiefs, stockings,’ ” she mused, “though why in the world she didn’t say ‘silk’ is merely Fanny’s way. And I am sure, miss,” she added, “she must have had one peculiar moment when the thought occurred to her of the bolt.”
“But, Mrs. Bowater,” I cried in snakelike accents, “you said
