“But where is she to go?” asked Mrs. Castillyon in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper.
“That is no business of mine. The Bridgers have been good servants for many years, and I don’t wish to be hard on them. I’ve told the old man that I’ll give him a week to find somewhere for his daughter to go.”
“And if he can’t?”
“If he can’t, it’ll be because he’s a stupid and obstinate dolt. He began to make excuses this afternoon; he talked a deal of nonsense about keeping her in his care, and that it would break his heart to send her away, and he couldn’t afford to. I thought it was no good mincing matters, so I told him if Fanny wasn’t gone for good by Tuesday next I should dismiss him and his two sons.”
Abruptly Mrs. Castillyon snatched her arm from his, and a coldness seized her; she was indignant and horrified.
“We’d better go in to your mother, Paul,” she said, knowing to whom this determination of her husband was due. “We must talk this out at once.”
Surprised at the change in her tone, Castillyon followed his wife, who walked quickly to the drawing-room and flung aside her cloak. She went up to Mrs. Castillyon the elder.
“Did you advise Paul that Fanny Bridger should be sent away?” she asked, her eyes flaming with anger.
“Of course I did. She can’t stay here, and I’m happy to see that Paul has behaved with spirit. People in our position have to take great care; we must allow no contamination to enter the parish.”
“What d’you think will happen to the wretched girl if we turn her out? The only chance for her is to remain in her family.”