About a week before the day actually fixed for the wedding, the former seemed more likely. Jenny met Gervase on his return from Ashford with a pale, disconcerted face.
“Father guesses something’s up,” she said briefly.
“What?—How?—Has anyone told him?”
“No—he doesn’t really know anything, thank heaven—at least anything vital. But he’s heard I was at tea at Fourhouses twice last week. One of the Dengates called for some eggs, I remember, and she must have told Rose when Rose was messing about in the village. He’s being heavily sarcastic, and asking me if I wouldn’t like Mrs. Appleby asked in to tea, so that I won’t have to walk so far to gratify my democratic tastes.”
“But Peter’s had tea with them, too—you told me it was he who introduced you.”
“Yes, but that only makes it worse. Peter’s been at me as well—says he’d never have taken me there if he’d thought I hadn’t a better sense of my position. He was very solemn about it, poor old Peter.”
“But of course they don’t suspect any reason.”
“No, but I’m afraid they will. I’m not likely to have gone there without some motive—twice, too—and, you see, I’ve been so secret about it, never mentioned it at home, as I should have done if I’d had tea at Glasseye or Monkings or anywhere like that. They must think I’ve some reason for keeping quiet.... I hope they won’t question me, for I’m a bad liar.”
“You’ll be married in ten days—I don’t suppose they’ll get really suspicious before that.”
However, a certain amount of reflection made him uneasy, and after dinner he drove over to Fourhouses, to discuss the matter with Ben Godfrey himself.