Hearing a knock at the door, Mrs. Gillingwater threw down the summons with an expression that was more forcible than polite having reference, indeed, to the temporal and spiritual welfare of her august sovereign and of all those who administer justice under her. Then, having looked carefully through the window to make sure that her visitor was not another bailiff or policeman, she opened the door and took her letter.
“I don’t know the writing,” she muttered, turning it round and round suspiciously. “It may be another of those dratted summonses, or something of that sort; I’ve half a mind to throw it into the fire and swear that I never got it, only then that fool of a postman would give me the lie, for I took it from him myself.”
In the end she opened the letter and spelt through its contents with difficulty and ever growing astonishment.
“Well,” she said, as she put it down, “here’s some luck at last, anyway. If that silly girl doesn’t go and die it will be hard if I don’t turn an honest penny out of her, now that I know where she’s got to. Samuel would pay up to learn, but it’s best to let him lie awhile, for I can work more out of him when she gets well again if she does. I’m off up to the old man’s, for that’s the safest game: he’ll scarcely bow me out with this in my hand; and if I don’t give him a nip or two before I am done with him, the mean old scamp, then my fingers grow on my feet, that’s all!” For be it known that on two recent occasions when Mrs. Gillingwater called, Mr. Levinger had declared himself not to be at home, and this when she could plainly see him standing by the study window.
Reaching Monk’s Lodge in due course, Mrs. Gillingwater, who was not afflicted with Joan’s humility, went to the front door and rang the bell boldly. Its sound disturbed Mr. Levinger from his reading, and he stepped to the window to perceive her standing on the doorstep, red and hot from her walk, and looking, as he thought, unusually large, coarse and violent.
“There is that dreadful woman again,” he said to himself. “I can’t bear the sight of her. I wonder now if, had she lived, poor Mary would have looked like her by this time. Perhaps,” and he sighed; then, opening the door, told the servant to say that he was not at home.
She obeyed, and presently there arose sounds of altercation. “It ain’t no use, you impudent barefaced thing, for you to stand there a-lying your soul away, when I saw him with my own eyes,” shrilled the rough voice of Mrs. Gillingwater.
“Not at home: them’s my orders,” answered the girl with warmth, as she attempted to shut the door.
“No, you don’t, hussy!” retorted the visitor, thrusting her foot between it and the jamb. “I’ve got some orders must see him, about Joan Haste, and if he won’t let me in I’ll holler what I’ve got to say outside the house.”
Alarmed by the violence of her antagonist, the girl retreated, and, returning presently, showed Mrs. Gillingwater into the study without a word. Here she found Mr. Levinger standing by the fire, his face white with anger.