“I wish to leave it entirely to you.”
Dora and Sophy had gone across the fields, a four miles’ walk to Poppleby, and were to be brought home in the evening, and Mary was left to wander about the old road and the field-path, and meditate on the ruts and quagmires that would beset the way in the winter, and shut them up from visiting, perhaps even from church. Besides, there were appearances!
There was an old gentleman, a far-away connection of Edmund’s, who had been in the navy, and now lived at Poppleby, and went about collecting all the chatter to be heard in one house, and retailing it all in another, and he thought himself licensed to tell Edmund and Mary everything personal. One thing was—
“My dear fellow, you should really put a check on your wife’s Methodistical ways!”
“I didn’t know she had any.”
“I have been told, on good authority, that she has a meeting every Sunday in the wash-house.”
Edmund laughed. “A dozen children for Sunday School, with the President’s full consent.”
“It won’t do, Edmund. You’ll find it won’t do! Why, old Selby told me she was a pretty creature, only just like your good pious ladies, running into all the dirtiest cottages.”
And to Mary it was, “Let me give you a hint, my dear Mrs Carbonel. The Duchess saw you in Poppleby, and asked who you were, and she said she would like to visit you, if you did not live in such a hole.”
“I don’t think I want her,” said Mary.