Mrs. Brander drew herself up in the old, proud way, and spoke with her accustomed cold haughtiness in addressing a person she disliked.
“You need not be afraid, Mr. Mitchell. I can stand by a criminal husband: I would not by a cowardly one.”
“Do you call it courageous, then, to kill a woman, and let another man bear the blame for ten years?” asked Ned.
Mrs. Brander did not answer. She led the way across the hall to the study, and knocked.
“Come in,” called out the vicar, in his usual voice.
She opened the door, and signed to the two men to follow her in. Abel would have slunk away, but Ned Mitchell kept a tight hold on his arm. Both, however, kept in the background, near the door, while the lady went up to her husband, and laid her hand upon his shoulder. He leant back in his comfortable chair, pen still in hand. He had been busy writing, and the table was covered with large sheets of MS. He faced the two intruders with an air of mild annoyance, which would have made an onlooker think that he was the injured person. Ned, with astonishment, which he would not admit by word or look, examined the bland, fair face, with its healthy complexion, frank blue eyes, broad white forehead, and saw on it no trace of shame, guilt, or even of anxiety. It was his wife’s face which bore all these signs. As she stood, upright and daring, by her husband’s side, handsome, majestic, and brave, Ned Mitchell felt that to deal with Meredith as he deserved, while she remained there, was impossible. He half turned, as if anxious to put off the interview. The vicar changed his position, wheeling his chair round, so that he could face the two men.
“Well,” he said, “you wish to speak to me, do you not?”
His tone was mildly peremptory.
“Yes, we do. But what we have to say we wish to say to you alone.”
“Go, my dear,” said Meredith, turning kindly to his wife.