“Talking of husbands,” she resumed, “don’t make the mistake, my dear, that I committed. Beware of letting anybody persuade you to marry an old man. Mr. Rook is old enough to be my father. I bear with him. Of course, I bear with him. At the same time, I have not (as the poet says) ‘passed through the ordeal unscathed.’ My spirit—I have long since ceased to believe in anything of the sort: I only use the word for want of a better—my spirit, I say, has become embittered. I was once a pious young woman; I do assure you I was nearly as good as my name. Don’t let me shock you; I have lost faith and hope; I have become—what’s the last new name for a free-thinker? Oh, I keep up with the times, thanks to old Miss Redwood! She takes in the newspapers, and makes me read them to her. What is the new name? Something ending in ic. Bombastic? No, Agnostic?—that’s it! I have become an Agnostic. The inevitable result of marrying an old man; if there’s any blame it rests on my husband.”
“There’s more than an hour yet before the train starts,” Alban interposed. “I am sure, Miss Emily, you would find it pleasanter to wait in the garden.”
“Not at all a bad notion,” Mrs. Rook declared. “Here’s a man who can make himself useful, for once. Let’s go into the garden.”
She rose, and led the way to the door. Alban seized the opportunity of whispering to Emily.
“Did you notice the empty decanter, when we first came in? That horrid woman is drunk.”
Emily pointed significantly to the locket. “Don’t let her go. The garden will distract her attention: keep her near me here.”
Mrs. Rook gayly opened the door. “Take me to the flower-beds,” she said. “I believe in nothing—but I adore flowers.”
Mrs. Rook waited at the door, with her eye on Emily. “What do you say, miss?”
“I think we shall be more comfortable if we stay where we are.”
“Whatever pleases you, my dear, pleases me.” With this reply, the compliant housekeeper—as amiable as ever on the surface—returned to her chair.