Then one widow was to ‘do for’ the Vicar, who had taken solitary possession of the Vicarage, but would soon be joined there by one or more curates. He had been inducted into the ruinous chancel of the poor old church, had paid the architect of the Rat-house fifty pounds (a sum just equalling the proceeds of the bazaar) to be rid of his plans; had brought down a first-rate architect; and in the meantime was working the little iron church vigorously.
“Everything seems to be beginning there just as I go into exile!” said Mrs. Duncombe. “It seems odd that I should have to go from what I have only just learnt to prize. But you have taught mo a good deal—”
“Every one must have learnt a good deal,” said Herbert wearily. “If one only has!”
“I meant you yourself, and that is what I came to thank you for. Yes, I did; even if you don’t like to hear it, your sister does, and I must have it out. I shall recollect you again and again standing over all those beds, and shrinking from nothing, and I shall hold up the example to my boys.”
“Do hold up something better!”
“Can you write?” she said abruptly.
“I have written a few lines to my mother.”
“Do you remember what you said that night, when you had to hold that poor man in his delirium, and his wife was so wild with fright that she could not help?”
“I am not sure what you mean.”
“You said it three or four times. It was only—”