“What it is—ahem! I suppose it is a surplice.”
“Yes, ma’am, but it is something more,” said Salis sharply; “it is an insult!”
“An insult, Mr Salis?”
“Yes, ma’am, an insult; an anonymous insult! Somebody had said to himself or herself, ‘This poor curate has lost his surplice, and can’t afford another without going into debt; I’ll buy him one and send him—carriage paid.’”
“Mr Salis!”
“Yes, ma’am. That is the state of the case. All right, Mary, my dear; I know what I am saying. Perhaps Mrs Berens may know who sent it.”
“Mr Salis! I—”
“Stop, stop, ma’am; pray don’t tell me. I would rather not know; it would be too painful to me. I only wish you, if you happen to know, to tell the anonymous donor what I feel about the matter. I was going to send the robe back to the maker: but, on second thoughts, I said to myself, I cannot afford a new one, so will swallow my pride, and wear it regularly, as a garb of penance, as a standing reproach—to the giver.”
There was quite a strong odour of patchouli in the room, for Mrs Berens was whisking her handkerchief about wildly.
“That’s all I wanted to say, ma’am. Mary, you’ll alter those buttons. I’ve tried it on, and my breast swelled so much with honest indignation, I suppose, that the fastenings nearly flew off. Good-bye, Mrs Berens. Oh! pray shake hands, ma’am. We are not going to be bad friends because I spoke out honestly and plainly.”