“We have had a very unfortunate day,” he said sternly when she entered. “I found the fire out when I came back from evening service.”
“Ah, that’s why I never go to it,” Hannah said, and she said it with more roguishness than was quite suitable.
“I have reason to know that some people find superior attractions elsewhere,” he said loftily, “and naturally, I must be the last to blame them, but when one of them is my own daughter … By the way,” he said, and she approved the carelessness of his manner, “I hope your business was done satisfactorily.”
With her head calculatingly on one side, Hannah looked at him. She was not going to be trapped, and she saw safety in the truth which, for her, had been accidental and dreadful, but was already proving useful. “Well, no, it wasn’t,” she said.
“But you saw your house?”
“Yes, I saw it. But then a robin sang—” There was a delicious pain in speaking of the robin and already the power of that memory was lessened. “He sang, and I didn’t go any further, not in that direction, but we went a long way in another.”
“We? You were not alone?”
“Oh no! I was with Mr. Blenkinsop.”
“If it was only a walk with Mr. Blenkinsop, I think it was a pity you chose a Sunday. And I wish you had told me before,” he said in a lower tone.
“How could I know you would be interested?”
“I don’t like to be informed about my domestic affairs by outsiders.”
“Then you knew?” Hannah asked innocently, and she decided that if he could thus deceive her, she was justified, if she needed justification, in deceiving him.
“No, I—well, I had a suspicion.”
“Then it was lucky that I told the truth!” She laughed and seemed to expect him to laugh with her. “And why shouldn’t I? But will you tell me who forestalled me?”
“It was Mrs. Spenser-Smith.”
“How on earth—Oh yes, I told her myself.”
“But she gave me to understand that Mr. Blenkinsop was taking you to some other place of worship.”
“Only to Nature’s cathedral, as they call it. That’s a painful expression, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Mr. Corder replied vaguely, and she thought he was wondering how often he had used it, but he put that aside. “And it hurt me, Miss Mole.”
“It would,” she said sympathetically.
“Coming, as it did, after more troubling news of the same kind.”
“And perhaps there’s just as good an explanation.”
“I’m afraid not. I’m afraid there is no doubt that my daughter had been attending Mr. Pilgrim’s chapel, not regularly, but noticeably. How can I explain a desertion like that? And it’s not—it’s not modest, Miss Mole. She won’t listen to reason. She defied me this afternoon.” He shaded his eyes with his hand. “This is worse than Howard,” he said in a muffled voice and she thought that in this reference to his son, the man himself was speaking, and past his shoulder, on the desk, she saw Mrs. Corder listening.
She took a breath and said, “You must ask him to the house.”
“But why? I dislike the man. He is not a man with whom I have, or could have, any sympathy. Ignorant—and rather absurd. And if you are suggesting that I should do it for Ethel’s sake, I must refuse. I don’t wish her to be friendly with him.”
“The more she sees him, the less she may like him, and stolen fruits are sweet—so they say. It isn’t everybody’s experience.”
“And I have never encouraged young men to come to the house.”
“If you had, she might not have been interested in Mr. Pilgrim, and he’s middle-aged, but I think a middle-aged man would suit her.”
“I’m disappointed, Miss Mole. I was hoping for your support, but it seems as though no woman can see a man who is not married without prejudice in his favour.”
Hannah controlled a smile and gave what was almost a sniff. “I don’t call Mr. Pilgrim a savoury object myself, but that’s neither here nor there. Make a bargain with her. She doesn’t go to his chapel, but he comes here if he wants to. If she’s going to tire of him, she’ll tire the quicker; if not, what can you do? No, she must not go to his chapel. It’s a fierce light that beats on those thrones of yours.”
“Could you—” he hesitated, “would you speak to her yourself? She won’t listen to me. I used some strong expressions about Mr. Pilgrim.”
“I’ll keep mine to myself. Suaviter in modo. I’ll do my best.” She looked at Mrs. Corder and hoped she was feeling grateful. “And, Mr. Corder, it’s a pity for Ruth to hear about things like this.”
“It’s a pity for the things to occur. And—er—Miss Mole, you’ll forgive me, but I think you will agree I ought to know—is there any—any attachment between you and Mr. Blenkinsop?”
Hannah cast down her eyes and her lips twitched, but, suddenly she wanted to cry. She had lost Mr. Blenkinsop: the only use he had for her was gone, and the one she had for him, which was no more than the sense of a strange kind of fellowship, was growing greater as Mr. Pilgrim approached. She had meant to equivocate and tease Mr. Corder with the prospect of another amorous situation, even to raise her value in his opinion, and she found she could not do it. She looked up and she was afraid there were tears in her eyes. “No, none,”
