“You quite make a fairy-godmother of me!” she cried; “as if I have but to wave my wand, and wishes come true. What shall I say? Did a little bird tell me that everything would go smoothly, that we should all be friends again? What do you guess?”
Hugh moved quietly toward the vestry door, and entered, closing it after him. Canon Alington had just finished counting the offertory, which again was slightly Alexandrine, and was putting it away in a stout washleather bag, and he was alone.
“Look here, Dick!” said Hugh. “I want two words with you. I oughtn’t to have said all those things to you this afternoon; I’m sorry. I came down to tell you so.”
Canon Alington was quick in responses.
“My dear fellow,” he said, holding out his hand, “never say another word about it.”
They shook hands, and a discreet tap came at the outer door of the vestry by which Hugh had entered.
“That’s Mrs. Owen,” he whispered, “and she mustn’t see me. I shall go out through the church. Good-night, Dick!”
Supper at the Vicarage on Sunday evening was of the simple kind, “cold cow and coney tart,” as the Vicar habitually described it, and when it was over and Ambrose and Perpetua had gone to bed, he and his wife talked over the happy turn that events had taken.
“A wonderful woman,” said he, referring to their dea ex-machina, “and it is a privilege to know her. She will have a great influence, I already foresee, over the Graingers. Think what she did in but an hour’s talk this afternoon! Hugh’s expressions to me only just before church were very violent, very violent indeed, and now the dear fellow runs down to withdraw them completely.”
“And she is so modest about it, too,” said Agnes. “She wouldn’t even allow she had influenced Hugh at all. She had some pretty expression about a little bird having told her that everything would be smooth, and that was all.”