Canon Alington did not reply for a moment, for he was putting the case to the touchstone of conscience. The secretary’s position in the society, he knew, was a confidential one; yet if Agnes, with her scrupulous sense of honour, still wished to tell him, might he not be choosing the greater of two evils if he refused to hear? He knew also that she was as broad-minded as himself—it was not in the least likely that she should feel like this if there was no adequate cause.
He came and sat down by her again.
“I have made up my mind,” he said. “I think it is my duty, both as your husband and as the guardian of the spiritual—Yet I don’t know. It is very difficult.”
“It comes to this, then,” said his wife, “that I must resign the secretaryship. Because I will not send these notices out. I will not sign them—that would imply my approval.”
Canon Alington again paused.
“Tell me, then,” he said at length. “I take all responsibility.”
Mrs. Alington looked straight in front of her, and spoke calmly.
“The lately discovered letters of Lord Nelson,” she said. “They are addressed chiefly to Lady Hamilton.”
Though he heard quite clearly, Canon Alington said “What?” sharply. It was the incredulousness of the mind that spoke.
“You did right to tell me,” he said, after a moment; “you had to. Now what are we to do? We must be very careful, very tactful, very broad-minded, but we must be firm. Of course the paper cannot be read.”