“Even a cough that he is troubled with is mentioned, if I remember right?”
“Yes, and mentioned correctly. He treats it lightly himself, though it sometimes makes his friends anxious about him.”
“I suppose no whispers have ever been heard against his character?”
“Mr. Hartright! I hope you are not unjust enough to let that infamous letter influence you?”
I felt the blood rush into my cheeks, for I knew that it had influenced me.
“I hope not,” I answered confusedly. “Perhaps I had no right to ask the question.”
“I am not sorry you asked it,” she said, “for it enables me to do justice to Sir Percival’s reputation. Not a whisper, Mr. Hartright, has ever reached me, or my family, against him. He has fought successfully two contested elections, and has come out of the ordeal unscathed. A man who can do that, in England, is a man whose character is established.”
I opened the door for her in silence, and followed her out. She had not convinced me. If the recording angel had come down from heaven to confirm her, and had opened his book to my mortal eyes, the recording angel would not have convinced me.
We found the gardener at work as usual. No amount of questioning could extract a single answer of any importance from the lad’s impenetrable stupidity. The woman who had given him the letter was an elderly woman; she had not spoken a word to him, and she had gone away towards the south in a great hurry. That was all the gardener could tell us.
The village lay southward of the house. So to the village we went next.