“Sure to,” he said. “This is an island.” Then she must needs go.
Of the two of them the man was the more perturbed—but he had his remedy. After a frowning quarter-hour he was up and packing his tent. Within the hour he was on the road.
With her, no revolt against what was to be. There is no revolt visible under the sun for the poor. When Mr. Germain called the next morning to bid her farewell she received him with all the virginal airs of the consciously possessed. He measured her fourth finger. A pretty ceremony.
XII
ALARUMS
Revolt is, as it always has been, within easy reach of the great; but a Rector’s wife should attend upon her lord. The Hon. Mrs. Germain watched her James’s eyebrow, waiting for the lift. It came, and her cry broke from her. “James, James, this cannot be possible!” She saw her fair realm in earthquake and eclipse.
The Rector, no less disturbed, could not for the life of him avoid his humour. “Alas, my dear”—one eyebrow made a hoop in his forehead—“all things are possible to amorous man.”
“Amorous!” she whistled the word. “John—and that minx! You use horrible words.”
“Hardly so, my dear. Not horrible in a man’s regard for his wife. The state is sanctioned.”
She was beyond his quibbles. “What are we to do? Heavens and earth, what can we do?”
He eyed his brother’s letter ruefully. “Upon my word,” he said, “this is a facer. I could have believed anything of any man sooner than this of him. Old John! Exactly double her age—and she a quiet little mouse of a girl out of a cottage. Woodbine Cottage, eh? That’s it, you know. Woodbine Cottage and white muslin have done it. Do you remember the valentines of our youth—gauffred edges, a pathway to a porch—the linked couple, and the little god in the air, pink as a shell? White muslin—fatal wear! He sees her so to all eternity; enskied and sainted, in muslin and a sash! Confound it, Constantia, I feel old.”