The letter was brought to her in the drawing-room one evening about nine o’clock. Mrs. Arbuthnot had gone out to a Bridge party.
Trix was engrossed in a rather exciting novel at the moment, a blazing fire and an exceedingly comfortable armchair adding to her blissful state of well-being. Barely raising her eyes from the book, she merely put out her hand and took the letter from the tray. It was not till she had come to the end of the chapter that she even glanced at the handwriting. Then she saw that the writing was Miss Tibbutt’s.
Now, a letter from Miss Tibbutt was of such extremely rare occurrence that Trix immediately leapt to the conclusion that Pia must be ill. It was therefore with a distinct pang of uneasiness that she broke the seal. This is what she read:
“My Dear Trix,—
“I have made rather an astounding discovery. At least I feel sure I’ve made it, I mean that I am right in what I think. I have no one in whom I can confide, as it certainly would not do to speak to Pia on the subject,—I feel sure she would rather I didn’t, so I am writing to you as I feel I must tell someone. My dear, it sounds too extraordinary for anything, and I can’t understand it myself, but it is this. Pia knows the under-gardener at the Hall, really knows him I mean, not merely who he is, and that he is one of the gardeners, and that he came to these parts last March, which, of course, we all know.
“I found this out quite by accident, and will explain the incident to you. You must forgive me if I am lengthy; but I can only write in my own way, dear Trix, and perhaps that will be a little long-winded.
“Yesterday afternoon, which was Saturday, Pia and I motored into Byestry, as she wanted to see Father Dormer about something. I went into the church, while she went to the presbytery. I noticed a man in the church as I went in, a man in workman’s clothes, but of course I did not pay any particular attention to him. I knelt down by one of the chairs near the door, and just beyond St. Peter’s statue. I suppose I must have been kneeling there about ten minutes when the man got up. He didn’t genuflect, and I glanced involuntarily at him. He didn’t notice me, because I was partly hidden by St. Peter’s statue. Then I saw it was the under-gardener,—Michael Field, I believe his name is.
“My dear, the man looked dreadfully ill, and so sad. It was the face of a man who had lost something or someone very dear to him. He went towards the porch, and just before he reached it, I heard the door open. Whoever was coming in must have met him just inside the church. There was a sound of steps as if the person had turned back into the porch with him. Then I heard Pia’s voice, speaking impulsively and almost involuntarily. At least I felt sure it was involuntarily. It sounded exactly as if she couldn’t help speaking.
“‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you’ve been ill.’
“‘Nothing of any consequence, Madam,’ I heard the man’s voice answer.