I agreed emphatically with this sensible suggestion. “Not,” I added, “that there is much for us to think over. The explanations will have to come from Dimsdale. It was he who failed to grasp the seriousness of poor Harold’s condition.”
While Barbara was absent, breaking the news to the servants, I tried to bring Madeline to a more composed frame of mind. With Wallingford I had no patience. Men should leave hysterics to the other sex. But I was sorry for Madeline; and even if she seemed more overwhelmed by the sudden complications than the occasion justified, I told myself that the blow had fallen when she was already shaken by Harold’s unexpected death.
The luncheon was a silent and comfortless function; indeed it was little more than an empty form. But it had the merit of brevity. When the last dish had been sent away almost intact, Wallingford drew out his cigarette case and we all rose.
“What are you going to do, Madeline?” Barbara asked.
“I must go to the school, I suppose, and let the secretary know that—that I may have to be absent for a day or two. It will be horrid. I shall have to tell him all about it—after having got leave for the funeral. But it will sound so strange, so extraordinary. Oh! It is horrible!”
“It is!” exclaimed Wallingford, fumbling with tremulous fingers at his cigarette case. “It is diabolical! A fiendish plot to disgrace and humiliate us. As to that infernal parson, I should like—”
“Never mind that, Tony,” said Barbara; “and we had better not stay here, working up one another’s emotions. What are you doing, Rupert?”
“I shall go to my chambers and clear off some correspondence.”
“Then you might walk part of the way with Madeline and see if you can’t make her mind a little more easy.”
Madeline looked at me eagerly. “Will you, Rupert?” she asked.