“Tom,” she said, in a dry, commanding voice, “you must go up to the Holme at once and hear what news they have. There may be some chance—it may please God to spare us yet.”
“Yes,” answered the Rector meekly; “I will go.”
While he was lacing his boots with all speed Mrs. Glynde took up the newspaper again, and reread the brief account of the disaster. They were spared comment; that blow came later, when the warriors of Fleet Street set about explaining why the defeat was sustained and why it should never have happened. In due course these carpet tacticians proved to their own satisfaction that Colonel Stevenor was incompetent for the service on which he had been dispatched. But the reek of printing-ink never was good for the better feelings.
In due course the Rector set off across the park; very grave, and distinctly aware of the importance of his mission. He had somewhere in his composition a strong sense of the dramatic, to which the situation appealed. He felt that had he been a younger man he would have stored up many details during the morning's work worthy of reproduction in the narrative form during years to come.
Before he reached the great house he was aware that the grim pleasure of imparting bad news was not to be his, for the blinds were all lowered—a detail likely to receive early attention in a feminine household, for it is only men who can hear of a death without thinking of mourning and the blinds.
The butler opened the door and took the Rector's hat and stick with a silent savoir-faire indicative of experience in well-bred grief. His chaste demeanour said as plainly as words that this was right and proper, the Rector being no more than he expected.
“Where's your mistress?” asked Mr. Glynde, who had strong views upon butlers in general and Tims in particular—said Tims being so sure of his place that he did not always trouble to know it.
“Library, sir,” replied Tims in an appropriately sepulchral voice.
The Rector went to the library without waiting to be announced. He was a man well versed in human nature, as most parsons are, and it is possible that he had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Agar watching his advent from the dining-room window.
The lady of the house was standing by the writing-table when he entered, and beneath her ill-concealed excitement there was something subtly observant, like the glance of an untruthful child, which he never forgot nor forgave, despite his cloth and the impossibilities popularly expected therefrom.