Part 18 (1/2)
”Yes, at seven. I'm very uneasy in my mind about Miss P., Sam.”
”Gussie says she's worse than she knows herself. She hasn't been out of bed for a fortnight now.”
”She's not long for this world, I'm afraid,” Hamlyn answered. ”While she's alive we are fairly safe. But when she's in Glory where shall we be?”
”That's the question, Father. Gussie knows nothing and can't find out anything, neither. A really handsome legacy invested in some good stock would put us right again whatever might happen.”
”It would. But just at present the old lady's awful to deal with. You see, I'm in an awkward position, Sam. I'm not such a fool as to tell her how we've been bested lately--that's to say, I can't bring myself to wound a faithful Protestant heart by stories of persecution of them as is doing the Lord's work against Rome. Miss P. don't know anything about the checks we've received of late. Well, then, she's always bothering me to know why we aren't keeping it up in Hornham, why we aren't going for Blantyre and that lot. She hears everything that goes on in the parish, though Gussie Davies does her best to stop it. But she don't seem to trust Gussie as she did, which is a pity. Miss P. quite sees that, for some reason or other, things have gone quiet in the parish, and she's getting restive. Something must be done soon, that's quite evident. Some big thing to wake her up--and everyone else, too.”
”It doesn't matter much how far we go now.”
”Not a bit. The further the better, as a matter of fact. The lecturers'
hands are so tied now, what with all these cunning moves of the Romanists, that _they_ can't do anything. It seems we've alienated all the moderate people and we've only the extreme ones to rely on. Well, then, we must wake _them_ up, that's all. The papers can't well say worse of us than they do already, so it really is the best policy to give the whole country a regular startler. I can't think of anything new at present, but I shall. I expect a bit of inspiration'll come before long. Anyway, I shall tell Miss Pritchett to-night to wait and have patience a little longer, as there's something in the wind that will do all she wants. It's her illness. She _must_ have continual bits of excitement to keep her going, it's a regular disease with her now. If I can think of a good scheme to liven up things generally, in the first flush of it she'll be so pleased that we might venture a word or two upon her testamentary dispositions. I should feel so much happier about the Cause if I knew the League was down in her will for a thumping sum.
Of course, anything of the sort would have to be said most careful.
She'd get up and be healthy again in a week if she thought we thought she was going to peg out!”
Mr. Hamlyn concluded his remarks with a somewhat resentful sigh, and, whistling down the speaking-tube for the correspondence clerk, began to dictate his morning's letters.
It was about seven o'clock when the secretary arrived at Malakoff House, tired and dispirited. The whole day had gone unsatisfactorily. An evening paper had come out with a leaded column about the League which was far from complimentary. The various callers at the office were all more or less disagreeable, and even the volatile Samuel had been plunged into a state of furtive gloom that radiated mis-ease upon all who came near him.
Mr. Hamlyn was shown into the drawing-room and in a minute or two, Gussie Davies came to him. The girl was white and tired of feature.
Dark semicircles were under her eyes, but her manner had a nervous excitement that was infectious.
Both of them spoke in that agitated whisper that some people affect in the neighbourhood of those who are seriously ill and whom they think like to die. It is a whisper in which there is a not unpleasurable note, a self-congratulation at being near to the Great Mystery, as spectators merely.
”How is she?” whispered Hamlyn.
”Bad,” answered Gussie. ”Dr. Hibbert's been and I had a chat with him afterwards. He daren't speak as plain as he'd like, for fear of frightening her. But he says she must _not_ keep on exciting herself. It will be fatal if she does. Another two months of this St. Elwyn's excitement will kill her, Mr. Hamlyn. I'm sure of that.”
”What's she been saying?”
”Oh, the same old thing: Why doesn't Mr. Hamlyn do something decisive?
Why doesn't he strike these proud priests some crus.h.i.+ng blow? You know she's heard that Miss Blantyre has come to live at the vicarage, and that makes her keener than ever.”
”Well, I must think of something, that's all,” said the secretary in a decisive whisper. ”I'll promise her a new move almost at once. I suppose you've had no chance to get in a word about the will?”
”Not a chance. I can't find out anything either. All I know is that her solicitor hasn't been here since she joined the League. So that looks as if there isn't anything done _yet_.”
”I don't suppose there is, my dear. But if I can keep her quiet _now_, and do something big in the parish in a few days, then I suppose we might broach it?”
”Certainly, Mr. Hamlyn, I should say so.”
”Good. One more question, Gussie, before I go up. Do you think it wise to mention a contribution to the working fund just now? One can never be too zealous in the cause of Protestant Truth, but I want to deal wisely with her.”
”Oh, I think you'll be safe enough for a hundred or two,” Gussie said, ”as long as you promise her a good rumpus soon! She ain't mean, I will say that for her.”
Mr. Hamlyn nodded in a brisk, business-like way, rang for the maid, and was shown up to the sick-room.
Gussie remained in the drawing-room. She wondered how successful her friend and lover's father would be. She had immense faith in his abilities and already looked forward to the time when, released for ever from her duties at Malakoff House, she would, as Mrs. Hamlyn, Junior, become a leading lady of True Protestantism. Not that the girl hated her employer. She had no affection for Miss Pritchett--and it would have been wonderful if she had--but her feeling was not stronger than that.