Dudley Worthington was not thinking then—not he!—of the young man in the white beaver who had called at the Social Library many years before to see a young woman whose name, too, had been Cynthia.—He was thinking, in fact, for he was a man to think in anger, whether it were not possible to remove this Cynthia from the face of the earth—at least to a place beyond his horizon and that of his son. Had he worn the chain mail instead of the frock coat he would have had her hung outside the town walls.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. And the words sounded profane indeed as he fixed his eyes upon Mr. Flint. "You knew that Robert had been to Brampton."
"Yes," said Flint, "the whole village knew it."
"Good God!" cried Mr. Worthington again, "why was I not informed of this? Why was I not warned of this? Have I no friends? Do you pretend to look after my interests and not take the trouble to write me on such a subject."
"Do you think I could have prevented it?" asked Mr. Flint, very calmly.
"You allow this—this woman to come here to Brampton and teach school in a place where she can further her designs? What were you about?"
"When the prudential committee appointed her, nothing of this was known,
Mr. Worthington."
"Yes, but now—now! What are you doing, what are they doing to allow her to remain? Who are on that committee?"
Mr. Flint named the men. They had been reelected, as usual, at the recent town-meeting. Mr. Errol, who had also been reelected, had returned but had not yet issued the certificate or conducted the examination.
"Send for them, have them here at once," commanded Mr. Worthington, without listening to this.