P. S.—Mrs. Owen! Mrs. Owen!!!
Hugh addressed his letter and rang the bell, saying, it must go at once, as is the habit of people who wish their letters to arrive at their destinations irrespective of the time at which posts start. Had he known what was going on within a few hundred yards of him he would probably have delayed it.
Mrs. Owen had awoke that morning with a strong consciousness of some duty to be done. For the moment she could not determine in what direction that duty lay. As far as she knew, there was no kindness left unperformed, no remission of her sunbeam efforts. (In the earlier days of their married life Mr. Owen had habitually called her “Sunbeam.” He now called her S. B.) Then she remembered. She got up at once.
It was wise in such cases to take the worst possible view, especially if you are going to be helpful. That saved shocks afterward, though sometimes (she did not think this) it entailed disappointments. “Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst and be helpful” was a favourite motto of hers, which also was a condensation of one of Canon Alington’s sermons. The phrase at once suggested to her the next step. She would “drop in” at St. Olaf’s with the seeds which she had promised—had she not?—to give him. And then she would be really diplomatic and also true to herself. She would sound him; she would find out whether some such dreadful idea had occurred to him as had occurred to her. If so, they would hold sweet converse together. If not, she would erase all these terrible surmises from her mind. If he had not thought of that (she did not quite know what “that” was, but it was scandalous), she would cease to think of “that” at all, and demand even when alone, no explanation of Hugh’s mysterious appearance. The phrase “to thine own self be true” gave her enterprise the light of mission-work. But Shakespeare, perhaps, did not reflect, and certainly she did not, that if you are true to people like Mrs. Owen, the result to others whom you cannot be false to, is not a very happy or distinguished performance.
The technique of her plan was brilliantly successful. She chose her hour well, the hour when (probably) Canon Alington would have finished his letters, and be doing something strenuous in the garden, and when Agnes would be still employed indoors, the “Martha-hour,” as her husband called it, though he did not mean that he was doing the better part. There he was, sure enough, hatless and coatless, for he was not the sort of man who thought it necessary to appear always in clerical garb, chopping down a tree in the paddock. Her foot was noiseless on the grass, and he did not see her till she had approached quite near. But she saw him; there was not the excellent physical vigour that usually hung about him. He was listless, sad. And the moment he saw her he put down his axe, instead of giving a few more violent strokes, which would have been characteristic of him.
“I have brought you the seeds I spoke of,” she said. “They ought to be sown now, and the plants will be quite hardy by the autumn.”
He took the packet.
“Thanks,” he said absently—“thanks.”
A dreadful silence. Mrs. Owen told herself that her errand had not been in vain. As a matter of fact, she did not know what the seeds were. Nor did he. She was determined, however, that he should begin. That was only right. He began.
“How did you think Hugh Grainger was looking?” he asked. “We were both most surprised at his suddenly appearing like that. Did he look to you well—happy?”