Suddenly Horace thought of the obvious thing to say, the explanation to give. “Miss Fletcher is thinking of coming later to take Miss Lucy for a drive,” said he.
“And you called to tell her?” said Mrs. Ayres.
Horace looked at her. Mrs. Ayres understood. “Miss Fletcher must come with a double-seated carriage so that I can go,” said she. “My daughter is very nervous about horses. I never allow her to go to drive without me.”
She observed, with a sort of bitter sympathy, the look of relief overspread Horace's face. “I will send a telephone message from Mrs. Steele's, next door, so there will be no mistake,” she said.
“Thank you,” replied Horace. His face was burning.
Mrs. Ayres went on with a melancholy and tragic calm. “I saw what I saw when I came in,” said she. “I have only to inform you that—any doubts which you may have entertained, any fears, are altogether groundless. Everything has been as harmless as—the candy you ate last night.”
Horace started and stared at her. In truth, he had lain awake until a late hour wondering what might be going to happen to him.
“I made it,” said Mrs. Ayres. “I attend to everything. I have attended to everything.” She gazed at him with a strange, pathetic dignity. “I have no apologies nor excuses to make to you,” she said. “I have only this to say, and you can reflect upon it at your leisure. Sometimes, quite often, it may happen that too heavy a burden, a burden which has been gathering weight since the first of creation, is heaped upon too slender shoulders. This burden may bend innocence into guilt and modesty into shamelessness, but there is no more reason for condemnation than in a case of typhoid fever. Any man of good sense and common Christianity should take that view of it.”
“I do,” cried Horace, hurriedly. He looked longingly at the door. He had never felt so shamed in his life, and never so angrily sympathetic.
“I will go over to Mrs. Steele's and telephone immediately,” said Mrs. Ayres, calmly. “Good-morning, Mr. Allen.”