Now, as was recorded afterwards in Dole, Sidney conducted himself under these trying circumstances with a seeming forgetfulness of his ministerial dignity which was altogether inexplicable, for, instead of immediately putting the offenders to open shame, he laughed, and even slapped his leg (so rumour said, though this was doubted), and called to the dachshunds, who were amusing themselves demolishing Mary’s coiffure, in a way which savoured more of encouragement than rebuke.
It is hard to live up to “what is expected of us,” and for once the Dole preacher was disappointing—but nevertheless, his presence brought the peace which he should have commanded. For Sally’s unregenerate soul owned one reverence, one love—for her master she would have cut off her right hand. To have him see her thus! There was a violent upheaval in the struggling mass, then Sally was free of it and speeding towards the house at a rate which suggested that her former efforts had not been her best. Mary gathered herself up, and seeing Sidney, by this time outwardly grave, standing looking at her, she too made for the house, and Sidney was left still very stupefied, gazing upon the two dachshunds, which, suddenly finding themselves deprived of amusement, fell upon each other with a good will which proved them fresh in the field.
Sidney entered the house where Mabella and Vashti waited laughing.
Sidney was very pleased to see his wife’s face irradiate with girlish laughter. She had been so grave and quiet of late that his loving heart had ached over it. Was she not happy, this beautiful wife of his?
She had a far keener appreciation of the real humour of the situation than had Mabella, and when her husband entered her eyes danced a welcome. He was enthralled by the sight, and was more than glad to give Mary the price of two dresses to mend her flounces and her temper. Nor did he rebuke Sally too severely for the unauthorized loan she had levied upon Mary’s wardrobe. He knew Sally had been sufficiently punished by his appearance. Mabella had rescued Dorothy at the first alarm, and the child had looked upon the whole proceeding as an amiable effort on Mary’s part to amuse her.
Shortly after Sidney’s arrival Mabella departed, having enjoyed her visit greatly, and Lanty and she spent an hour that evening listening to Dorothy, as, with lisping baby tongue and inadequate vocabulary, she endeavoured to describe how Sally had blackened her face with blacklead to amuse her.
That night Sidney sat alone in his study; his shuttered window was open, and, between the slats, the moths and tiny flying creatures of the night came flitting in. Soon his student lamp was nimbused by a circle of fluttering wings. Now and then an unusually loud hum distracted his attention from the loose-paged manuscripts before him, and he laid them down to rescue some moth, which, allured too near the light, had come within dangerous proximity to the flame.
These poor, half-scorched creatures he sent fluttering forth into the night again, yet, in spite of this, several lay dead upon the green baize below the student lamp; others walked busily about in the circle of light cast by the lamp-shade upon the table, and presently he put aside all pretence of work and watched them with curious kindly eyes.
His heart, that great tender heart which was for ever bleeding for others, whilst its own grievous wound was all unhealed, went out even to these aimless creatures of a day.
Surely some leaven of the divine Eternal Pity wrought in the clay of this man’s humanity, making it quick with a higher life than that breathed by his nostrils.