“Sunbury, I think Sir Gilbert says; Sunbury a pretty village on the river. I know it a little, but I ought to know it better; for my mother’s family lived there. And an aunt of mine—Miss Coldpepper—must be one of your oldest inhabitants. But owing to family circumstances, we do not see very much of her. How is she? I hope she supports the Church, as all people of property should do.”
“The Church requires no support”—Mr. Golightly was always annoyed at the idea of the Church being patronized; “except what she has from above, Mr. Bulwrag, and from the proper zeal and gratitude of her dutiful children.”
“To be sure. That is exactly what I meant. I trust that my aunt is a dutiful child. But I know with sorrow that we do not all value our privileges, as we should. You find that the case sometimes, I fear.”
“Too often, I regret to say, I do.” Mr. Golightly was always grave with any one who spoke gravely. “But we do not restrict the opportunities of doing good to parishioners. We have many useful institutions in our parish. Perhaps you would like me to mention a few. And if with your very kind feelings towards the Church, and anxiety about your aunt’s discharge of Christian duties, you should feel impelled to contribute, I happen to have the subscription-lists of six of the most meritorious, all in urgent need of funds; and I carry the receipt-forms in my pocket.”
Downy was caught in his own net very neatly, and the parson heard him mutter—“Confound that Sir Gilbert. This is a little too bad of him.”
“Ah, I don’t quite see. I am sure this is most kind of you—but with the many claims upon my small resources—perhaps it would be better to allow my mother the benefit of this opportunity.”
“You must not blame Sir Gilbert. I did not come upon a begging errand. I intrude upon you for quite a different purpose. A sad and most mysterious thing has happened in our parish.” Mr. Golightly watched him closely, to note the effect of every word. “A lady newly married to an excellent young man, of one of our oldest families, suddenly disappeared last May, and has not since been heard of.”
“You need not tell me that. I know all about it,” Bulwrag replied without any change of face, but in quite a different tone, and speaking quickly. “I could not help knowing it, considering that the girl’s father was my mother’s husband. She married without our knowledge, and is gone without it. My mother, who has been most kind to her, never met with such ingratitude.”
“I do not intrude into family matters. I have nothing to do with that part of the case. I am here simply to discharge my duty. I come by nobody’s suggestion. Only as the clergyman of the parish I feel myself bound to do all I can, to restore peace and happiness, and to right a great wrong.”
“It is very good on your part, and I wish you all success. It would appear to be rather an affair for the police. I am sorry that I have an important engagement. Would you like to see my mother on the subject?”