“Well,” he answered, “it would show up the most remarkably perfect specimen of a consummate humbug that I have ever had the honor of meeting.”
A curious thing had happened before this short colloquy was ended. The rest of the group had gradually dispersed, and left the two men alone together. As he uttered the last words, the doctor also turned abruptly away, so that the vicar was left by himself. He did not seem disconcerted, but walked, with a half smile on his face, in the direction of the churchyard gate. His wife, whose handsome face was as pale as that of a corpse, and whose limbs tottered under her, moved, with faltering step, in the same direction. At the gate stood Abel Squires, who stood back to allow the vicar to pass out first. But Meredith Brander would not allow this. He turned to him with a kindly nod.
“Well, Abel,” said he, “I’m afraid this is a sad business for somebody.”
“I’m afeard so too, sir,” replied Abel, with an immovable face.
“We must hush it up. I’m sure you would not like any harm to come to my brother.”
“No fear o’ that, sir,” said Abel. “I could prevent that.”
“Why, how so?”
“Ah wur wi’ him all that evenin’. An’ if he hadn’t kept my tongue quiet all these years hissen, truth would ha’ been aht long ago.”
The vicar went through the gate without another word. But before he had taken many steps in the lane outside, he felt an arm thrust through his. It was his brother Vernon, who pressed his arm warmly two or three times before he spoke.
“Cheer up, old chap!” he whispered, huskily. “For Evelyn’s sake and the children’s we can get it kept quiet still.”