The rector passed half the night in that solitude which was ever respected by his wife as devoted to elegant study. But his energies were occupied by subjects neither classic nor biblic, nor yet philosophic. It was the diplomatic composition of one short letter that kept him employed into the deep hours.
The purpose of this missive was so close to his heart, the matter was so delicate; so necessary was it to display some guile, that the erudite gentleman had seldom set his wits a more difficult task.
The finished draft was of a masterpiece of its kind, though one could hardly say that the impression it conveyed to the reader adhered closely to actual fact. But, as it certainly conveyed the impression desired by the reverend Horatio, he read it over with great complacency before folding and sealing it. And when he retired at last to his couch, his conscience was more placid than altogether became a divine of the Anglican church, who had just been guilty of dealing in Jesuitical casuistry.
About six o’clock the next evening, as the rector sipped his after-dinner cup of bohea, he made casually the following announcement to his spouse:
“My love, I despatched a messenger to Bath by the coach this morning.”
Madam Tutterville put down her spoon and looked up eagerly.
“Indeed, doctor?”
“Yes, Sophia. I discovered that there was positively not another pinch of macabaw in my tabatière.”
The lady examined him sharply. Then before his impassive countenance her own fell considerably.
“It is a pity,” she remarked with some dryness, “that you did not make that discovery before I started yesterday.”