“If he was so very bad,” said the vicar, smiling, “surely it was strange that Mr. Hart used to associate with him so much.”
“Well, you see, sir, he was always liberal, and kept a good table, and Mr. Hart was a cheerful liver. Then Mr. Haldane was always ready with his purse when there was a hard winter, or the crops were bad, or any poor person was ill.”
“I see, I see,” said the vicar.
“But his charity could not do him any good, people said, when he didn’t believe there was a God, or that he had a soul.”
“So they didn’t consider it worth while to be thankful?”
“I don’t think they did, sir.”
“And was Mrs. Haldane staying at the Manor the first year of their marriage?”
“Yes; he brought her back with him after the honeymoon.”
“And do they speak as kindly of her in the village as they do of her husband?”
“Oh, indeed, sir, they worship her. Even old Mother Grimsoll, who said she wanted to make a charity woman of her when you bought her that scarlet cloak last winter, has a good word for Mrs. Haldane. She isn’t the least bit conceited, and she knows that poor people have their proper pride; and when she helps any one she makes them feel that they are doing her a favour. When Mr. Hart was alive she used to go round with him, devising and dispensing charities. It’s only a pity she is married to—to—“—and Miss Greatheart beat impatiently on the ground with her foot in the effort to recall the word—“to an agnostic. Mr. Hart said he wasn’t an atheist, but an agnostic, though I dare say if the truth were known one is worse than the other.”