Margaret was punctual at Alison's—she came spanking up in the carriage with the big gray horses the moment after I had reached the door—and we went together into the sparely furnished room where he lived and did his work. He was no bookman—his walls looked bare; his very chairs meant labor rather than rest. And he was no student—"My convictions from God, my orders from the Bishop, my time to the ministry," he had once said to me—adding then, with the touch of humor that so often softened his rigorous zeal—"I sometimes think one's Bishop is the final trial of faith, Austin." Our Bishop was a moderate man, highly diplomatic, given to quoting St. Paul as an example of adaptability. "All things to all men if by chance—" So far as the chance lay there, his lordship never missed it.
But to see Alison with Margaret obliterated any criticism left possible by his affectionate nature and (may I add?) his ingenuous consciousness of possessing absolute and exclusive truth. He had so tender a reverence for her youth and receptivity—and with it such a high gentlemanly purpose that she should not think that he held her either too young for courtesy or too receptive for intellectual respect. He had great manners, born of a loving heart. Why, after all, should he worry about reading books? Guesses about appearances—that's books—from novels up to philosophy. But how pleasant is the guessing!
She became to him at once a delighted disciple. Here was no such discrepancy of heart and head as divided him from Jenny—no appeal to another standard—no obstinate defense against his attacks behind the ramparts of her nature. Margaret's nature was his to mold—small blame to him if the thought crossed his mind that it would be to the good if she were set in a high place—if such a light burned under no bushel of obscurity!
Fillingford was announced. Alison gave me a quick glance, as though to say "Now for it!"—and the grave stern man stood on the threshold of the room. I had not seen him without his hat for a long while; he had grown gray: his figure, too, was more set; he was indisputably, even emphatically, middle-aged. His face was more lined and looked careworn. His eyes fell first on me, and there was hesitation in his manner. Alison went quickly to him and greeted him.
"We've been having a little tea-party, but I shall soon be ready for business. Austin you know. This is my friend Miss Octon."
Fillingford came forward—slowly, but with no change of expression. He bowed gravely to Margaret, and gave me his hand with a limp pressure. "I hope you're well, Mr. Austin? We've met very little of late."
Margaret was regarding him with curiosity complicated by alarm. This was Amyas Lacey's father—and Amyas had given the impression that his father was formidable; there was a knowledge in her own heart which might well make him seem formidable to her, even had his bearing been far more cordial.
"I'm afraid I've come too soon," he said. "I interrupt your party."
"Sit down with us and have a cup of tea—Miss Octon will give you one."
He did not refuse the invitation, and sat down opposite Margaret. She ministered to him with a graceful assiduity, offering her timid services with smiles that begged a welcome for them. He remained gravely courteous, watching her with apparent interest.