Quite intentionally she gave to her manner a good deal of that haughtiness which young wives think dignity, but which is in reality the offensive freshness of new-made honour. The preacher offered her his hand, but she did not see it, being fully occupied in arranging the long train of cashmere, silk, and lace which, in those days, made morning dresses a misnomer.
“I am the Wesleyan preacher from St. Penfer, Mrs. Burrell.”
“Can I do anything for you, sir? though really, if yours is a charitable visit, I must remind you that my own church looks to me for all I can possibly afford.”
“I do not come, Mrs. Burrell, to ask for money. I bring you this sovereign, which belongs to Mr. Roland Tresham.”
The gold fell from his fingers, spun round a few times, and, dropping upon the polished mahogany table, made a distinct clink.
“I do not understand you, Mr. Farrar.”
The preacher hastened to make the circumstance more intelligible. He related the scene at the St. Clair chapel with a dramatic force that sprang from intense feeling, and Elizabeth listened to his solemn 165 words with angry uneasiness. Yet she made an effort to treat the affair with unconcern.
“What have I to do with the sovereign, sir?” she asked. “I am not responsible for Mr. Tresham’s acts. I did my best to prevent the disgrace that has befallen the fisherman’s daughter.”
“I think you are to blame in a great measure.”
“Sir!”