Mrs. Errington was greatly astonished to hear of Algernon's sudden departure from Whitford. The news came to her through Mrs. Thimbleby, who had learned it from the baker, who had been told by the barman at the "Blue Bell" that young Mr. Errington had gone off to London by the night mail on Monday. At first Mrs. Errington was incredulous. But Mrs. Thimbleby's information was so circumstantial, that at length her lodger resolved to go to Ivy Lodge and ascertain the truth. She found Castalia in a very gloomy humour. Yes; Ancram was gone, she said. Why? Well, he said he went because Lord Seely was ill. She, for her part, made no such statement. And, beyond that, it was not possible to draw much information out of her.

Mrs. Errington, however, returned not altogether ill-pleased to her lodgings, and assumed an air of majestic melancholy. She desired Mrs. Thimbleby to prepare a cup of chocolate for her, and to bring it forthwith to the sitting-room. And when it appeared she began to sip it languidly, and to hold forth, and to enjoy herself.

"Oh, my dear good soul," she said, half closing her eyes and slowly shaking her head, "I've had a great shock—a great shock!"

"Deary me, ma'am!" cried simple Mrs. Thimbleby, with ready sympathy, looking into her lodger's round comely face. "Nothing wrong with Mr. Algernon, I hope?"

"No, thank Heaven! Not that; but perhaps the next greatest trial that could befall me, in the illness of a dear relative."

"Young Mrs.——" Mrs. Thimbleby checked herself, having been reproved for using that distinctive epithet of "young" to Algernon's wife, and substituted the form of words her lodger had taught her. "The Honourable Mrs. Errington ain't ill, ma'am, is she?"

"No, my good creature. We had a despatch last evening announcing the illness of Lord Seely. It was sent to Algy, because dear Lady Seely was so fearful of startling me. And, for the same reason, dear Algy went off without telling me a word about it."

Mrs. Thimbleby had only the haziest notion as to what kinship existed between Mrs. Errington and the nobleman in question. But she knew that her lodger was nearly connected with high folks; but she had often been troubled by doubts and misgivings, as to how far this fact might militate against her lodger's spiritual welfare, as being apt to promote worldliness and vain-glory. But Mrs. Thimbleby was full of abounding charity, and she was always ready to attribute what appeared to her evil to her own "poor head," rather than to other people's poor heart. So she merely expressed a hope that "the poor gentleman would soon get over it."

"I trust so, Mrs. Thimbleby. His removal from the scene of life would be a terrible loss to this country. From the sovereign downwards, we should all feel it."

"Should we, ma'am?"

"Not, of course, as acutely as the family would feel it. That could not be, of course! But I trust he will recover. I wish I could have accompanied Algy to town, to help to nurse the dear patient, and take some of the care off the shoulders of my poor darling cousin, Belinda. Belinda is Lady Seely's Christian-name, my good Thimbleby. But of course that was impossible. I have not strength for it."

"No, for sure, ma'am; but them high gentle-folks like them—lords, I mean, will be sure to have nurse-tenders, and doctors, and servants, as many as they need!"

"Oh, as to that——! The king's own physician twice daily."

"I hope," said Mrs. Thimbleby, timidly, before leaving the room, "that the Lord will soften your daughter-in-law's heart to you in this trouble."

It must be understood that Mrs. Errington had of late, and especially since Castalia's outburst against Rhoda Maxfield, spoken of her daughter-in-law with a good deal of disapprobation; pitying her son for all he had to endure, and lamenting that he should have thrown himself away as he had done, when so many brilliant matches were, as it might be said, at his feet. "The dear Seelys," she would say, "considered that he was making a sacrifice. That, I happen to know. But she displayed so undisguised an attachment—and Algy—Algy is the soul of chivalry. All the Ancrams ever have been."

It had certainly taken some time for the worthy lady to discover that her son's marriage wasn't quite a satisfactory one. But when the discovery did force itself on her perceptions, she was by no means tender to Castalia. Her moral toughness of hide prevented her from being much hurt by such speeches as, "Dear me! Not happy together! Why, I thought this was such a model marriage, Mrs. Errington!" Or, "Ah! jealous and fretful, is she? Well, I always thought it wouldn't do. But of course I said nothing. You plumed yourself so much on the match, you know, at the time." She could always retreat to illogical strongholds of unreason, whence she sent forth retorts, and arguments, and statements, which were found to be unanswerable by the average intellect of Whitford.

"I wonder the woman isn't ashamed—really now!" exclaimed Miss Chubb once in the exasperation of listening to Mrs. Errington calmly superior to facts, and of being quite unable to touch her self-complacency by any recapitulation of them.

"Do you?" asked Rose McDougall tartly. "How odd! Now, as to me, nothing would surprise me more than to find Mrs. Errington ashamed of anything."

These and similar things had been freely spoken in Whitford, and although the world resented Mrs. Errington's manner of complaint, as being deficient in humility and candour—for it is provoking to find people who ought to lament in sackcloth and ashes, holding up their heads and making a merit of their deserved misfortunes—yet the world admitted that Mrs. Errington had substantial cause for complaint. The Honourable Castalia was really intolerable, and the only possible excuse for her behaviour was—what had been whispered with many nods and becks, and much mystery—that she was not quite of sound mind. And when the news began to circulate in Whitford that young Errington had gone to London suddenly, and almost secretly, the first, and most general, impression was that he had run away from his wife. To this solution the tradesmen to whom he owed money added, "And his debts!" Mrs. Errington's statement as to Lord Seely's illness was not much believed. And if he were ill, was it likely that my lord should cause Algernon Errington to be sent for? Later on in the course of the day, it began to be known that Castalia had accompanied her husband to the coach-office, so that his departure had not been clandestine so far as she was concerned, at all events. But was it not rather odd, the postmaster rushing off in this sudden manner? How did he manage to leave his business? Mr. Cooper never did such things! Not, probably, that it would make much difference whether Algernon Errington were here or not; for everybody knew pretty well that he was a mere cipher in the office, and Mr. Gibbs did everything!

As to Mr. Gibbs, he was inwardly much disquieted at his chief's unwarranted absence. He had received a note which Algernon had left behind him to be delivered on the morning after his departure. But the note was not very satisfactory:—

"My dear Gibbs," it said—"I am off to town by the night mail. My wife's uncle, Lord Seely, is ill, and I must see him. I shall speak to him on your behalf, of course. The inheritance must soon fall to you, without waiting for the demise of the present holder. I shall be back on Wednesday at latest. Meanwhile, I trust implicitly to your discretion.

"Yours always,

"A. A. E."

This was oracular enough. But Mr. Obadiah Gibbs understood very well, as he read it, that by the "inheritance" which must soon fall to him, Algernon meant the place of postmaster. Still there was nothing in the note to commit Algernon in any way whatever. And his going off to London without leave and without notice, was a proceeding which shocked all the old clerk's notions of what was fitting. The thought did cross his mind, "Suppose he should never come back! Suppose he is off to America, as a short cut out of his troubles!" The thing was possible. And the possibility haunted Mr. Obadiah Gibbs persistently, though he tried to argue it away.

In the afternoon of Tuesday, Rhoda Maxfield walked into the post-office, and asked to speak with Mr. Errington. She was on foot and alone, and was looking so pretty and blooming as to arrest the attention of the dry old clerk. When he told her that Mr. Errington was away in London, and would not be back until the next day, she appeared disappointed. "Will you tell him, please, that I came, and wanted to speak to him particularly, and beg him to come to me as soon as ever he gets back to Whitford?" she said, in her soft lady's voice. Mr. Gibbs did not answer her. He stared straight over her shoulder as if Medusa's head had suddenly appeared behind her. Rhoda turned to see what had petrified Mr. Gibbs into silence, and saw Castalia Errington.

Rhoda was startled, but more from sympathy with Gibbs than from any other reason. The quick colour mounted into her cheeks and deepened their blush rose hue to damask. "Oh, Mrs. Errington," she said, and held out her hand. Castalia did not take it; did not speak; did not, after one baleful stare of anger, look at her. "Come into the private office," she said, addressing Gibbs in a dry, husky voice, and with a manner of imperious harshness. As she stood with her hand on the lock of the door leading into the inner room, she looked round over her shoulder and flung these words at Rhoda like a missile; "You have made a mistake. My husband is not here to-day, of all days. He has been remiss in not letting you know of his journey. But men are apt, I have been told, to fail in polite attention to persons of your sort."

"Mrs. Errington!" cried Rhoda, turning pale, less at the words than at the look and tone which interpreted their meaning so that it was impossible altogether to misunderstand it. "I came here to speak to Mr. Errington about something he wished to hear of. And if I may say it to you instead——"

"To ME? How dare you?" Castalia turned full on her with a livid, furious face, lit by a pair of hollow, burning eyes. Poor, artificial, small product of her social surroundings as she usually seemed, the passion in the woman transfigured her now with a tragic fire and force, before which Rhoda's innocent lily nature seemed shrivelled and discoloured, like a flower in the blast of a furnace. It was strange to himself, but Mr. Gibbs, as he looked at the two women, and was fully conscious on which side lay the right in the matter, could not help feeling an inexplicable thrill of sympathy with Castalia as she stood there breathing quickly and hard, with dilated nostrils and suffering, tearless eyes. The truth is that there was some subtle ingredient in Mr. Gibbs's composition which was more cognate with flesh and blood—even erring, passionate flesh and blood—than with the cool fluid that circulates in the petals of a lily. David Powell would have said that it was a manifest stirring of the Old Adam which caused the regenerate Obadiah Gibbs—a professing Christian, a confirmed and tried pillar of Methodism, a man whose precious experiences had been poured forth for the edification of many a band meeting—to be conscious for the first time of some fellow-feeling with Castalia, at the very moment when she was conducting herself in a manner to shock every sentiment of what was just and fitting. But whether it were due to original sin, or to whatever other cause, the fact remained that Obadiah Gibbs for the first time in his life now felt disposed to spare and screen the postmaster's wife.

"I'll give the message when Mr. Errington comes back," said he to Rhoda, almost hustling her out of the office as he spoke. "The poor thing is not very well," he added, in a lower voice. "She has been a good deal cut up, one way and another. You mustn't think anything of her manner, nor bear malice, Miss Maxfield. Good morning."

When Rhoda was gone—feeling almost dizzy with surprise and fright—Gibbs followed Mrs. Errington into the inner office. He found her openly examining the contents of the table-drawer, having tossed all the papers she had found in it pell-mell on to the table. Gibbs entered and closed the door carefully. "Mrs. Errington," he began, intending to remonstrate with her—or, perhaps, utter something stronger than a remonstrance—on her manner of conducting herself in the office, when she interrupted him at once, looking up from the heap of papers. "What message did that creature give you for my husband?" she asked abruptly.

"Now, Mrs. Errington, you really must not go on in this way! I'm responsible to Mr. Errington, you know, for things being right here."

"Did you hear me? What message did that creature give you?"

"Oh now, really, Mrs. Errington, I think you ought not to speak of Rhoda Maxfield in that way. She is a very good girl, and you hurt her terribly by your manner."

Castalia smiled bitterly. "Did I?" she said. "Of course you're in league with her. Why does this good young woman come here in secret to see my husband? What can she want to say to him that cannot be said openly?"

"I cannot hear such things, ma'am; I cannot, indeed. If you would give yourself an instant for reflection, you would remember that Miss Maxfield offered to tell her message to you yourself."

"Offered to tell me! Do you really suppose I am duped by such low tricks? I heard her say, 'Send him to me directly he comes back'—heard it with my own ears. But of course you won't tell me the truth."

"I am obliged to say, Mrs. Errington, that you really must leave the office. I am very sorry, but I am responsible in Mr. Errington's absence, and I cannot allow you to turn everything topsy-turvy here in this way. There has been trouble enough by your coming here already."

"Trouble enough! Who says so? Who is troubled?"

"Mr. Errington is troubled, and I am troubled, and—in short, it's altogether out of rule."

"Then he confesses, does he, that he is afraid of my coming here to make discoveries about him? Why should he be troubled if he had nothing to conceal?"

Castalia spoke with trembling eagerness and excitement. She had thrown all semblance of dignity or reserve to the winds. She would have spoken as she was speaking at that moment in Whitford market-place. Gibbs looked at her, and a doubt came into his mind as to whether his suspicions, and other people's suspicions, about her were quite so well-founded as he had thought. She was terribly violent, jealous, insolent, unconverted, full of the leaven of unrighteousness—but was she a practised hypocrite, a woman experienced in dishonesty? For the life of him, Obadiah Gibbs could not feel so sure of this as he had felt, now that he looked into her poor, haggard face, and met her eyes, and heard her utterly incautious and vehement speeches.

"As to me not telling you the truth, Mrs. Errington," he said, "I suppose you know the truth as to why your visits here bring trouble on everybody?"

"Tell it me, you!"

"Well, I—oh you must be aware of it, I suppose. And if I was to tell you, you would only be more angry and offended with me than ever, though what I have done to excite your displeasure I don't know."

"Tell me this truth that I know so well! Do you think I should seriously care for anything you could say, except as it concerned my husband?"

"Mrs. Errington, I don't know whether you are feigning or not. But, anyway, I think it my duty to answer you with Christian sincerity. It is borne in upon me that I ought to do so."

"Go on, go on, go on!" cried Castalia, drumming with restless fingers on the table and looking up at the clerk with eyes that blazed with excitement and impatience.

"You are aware that there have been unpleasant circumstances at the post-office—letters lost—money-letters lost. Well, your name has been mentioned in connection with those losses. It is known in Whitford that you come haunting the office at all hours when your husband is away. A little while ago you paid a bill with some notes that were endorsed in a peculiar way. People ask where you got those notes. I thought it my duty to mention the subject to Mr. Errington the other day. He was greatly distressed, of course. He said he should interrogate you about the notes. My advice to you is—in all sincerity and charity, as the Lord sees me—to tell your husband the truth, whatever it is."

He ended his speech with a tremor of compassion in his voice, and with a sudden breakdown of his rhetorical manner, for Castalia's face changed so piteously, so terribly, as he spoke, that the man's heart was deeply touched by it. She grew ashy pale. The quick fingers that had been tapping impatiently on the table seemed turned to lead. They lay there heavy and motionless. Her mouth was half open, and her eyes stared straight before her at the blank wall of the yard, as though they saw a spectre.

"Lord have mercy on us, she is guilty!" thought Obadiah Gibbs. And at that moment if he could have hidden her crime from the eyes of all men, I believe he would have done it at the cost of a lie.

"Of course you're not bound to say anything to me, you know, Mrs. Errington," he went on, after a short pause. And as he spoke he bent nearer to her, to rouse her, for she seemed neither to hear nor to see him. "You'd better go home now at once, you don't seem very strong."

Still she did not move.

"Look here, Mrs. Errington, I—you may rely upon my not breaking a word—not one syllable to anybody else, if you—if you will try to make things straight again as far as in your power lies. Go home now, pray do!"

Still she did not move.

"You don't look much able to walk, I fear. Shall I send the boy for a fly? Let me send for a fly?"

He softly touched her shoulder as he spoke, and she immediately turned her head and answered with a composure that startled him, "Yes; get me a fly." Then she sat quite still again, staring at the wall as before.

Gibbs went out into the outer office and sent the boy for a vehicle. There he remained, pen in hand, behind his desk until the jingle of the fly was heard at the door. He went back himself to the private office to call Castalia, and found her sitting in exactly the same place and attitude. She rose mechanically to her feet when he told her the fly was ready, but as she began to walk towards the door she staggered and caught at Gibbs's arm. He supported her with a sort of quiet gravity;—much as if he had been her old servant, and she a cripple whose infirmity was a matter of course,—which showed much delicacy of feeling, and as they neared the door he said in her ear, "Take my advice, ma'am, and tell your husband the truth." She turned her eyes on him with a singular look, but said nothing. "Tell him the truth! and—and look upward. Lift your heart in prayer. There is a fountain of grace and love ready for all who seek it!"

"Not for me," she answered in a very low but distinct voice.

"Oh, my poor soul, don't say so! Don't think so!"

By this time she was in the carriage, having been almost lifted into it by Gibbs. She was perfectly quiet and tearless, and as the vehicle drove away, and Gibbs stood watching it disappear, he said to himself that her face was as the face of a corpse.