Mr. Hayhoe stepped gladly to his wife. Evidently he had only to be away from her for a very little while in order to return to her joyously.
“This is Mr. John Death,” he said, presenting his new-made friend, “a gentleman that I was fortunate to meet soon after seeing Lord Bullman. But I must not let you wait longer for the news—the living of Dodder is ours.”
Priscilla was looking at Death.
“John has had the misfortune,” explained Mr. Hayhoe, “to lose something hereabouts that he very much values, and he wishes to live a while in this village until he finds what he has lost.”
Priscilla regarded her husband with anxiety; something, evidently, had troubled her. Though she had looked at her husband’s companion, she had not noticed his name, and even the news that Lord Bullman had offered the living did not appear to please her as much as Mr. Hayhoe expected.
Her husband wondered why she was not more glad. All the way, in coming along the lane, he had looked forward to the pleasure of telling her that now they might leave the dingy lodgings at Shelton, where everything reminded them of the death of their child. Something unpleasing to his wife, he feared, must have happened while he was away.
Priscilla had not welcomed John very kindly. This was strange, for, usually, she welcomed any friend of his—however poor—with the greatest friendliness. Only a week before, he remembered how gladly she had received a travelling tinker, Mr. Jar, at their lodgings, giving him all there was in the cupboard to eat—but now she seemed disinclined to speak to Death.
“I hope that Mr. Mere’s fierce dog has not sprung out at you,” Mr. Hayhoe asked of his wife, looking at her with concern. “That dog ought never to be allowed so much liberty; one day it will do some one a hurt.”
“No dog has frightened me,” answered Priscilla, “and if you did not find me as pleased as you expected at the good news, it is only that I fear sometimes that what we do here is not always for the good of the people, for, in passing along the street on my way to the church, I saw something that made me wonder.”
“You saw nothing that I have lost?” inquired Death, eagerly.
“No, sir,” replied Priscilla. “I am quite sure that what I saw—and blushed to see—had nothing to do with you. It was merely a scarlet thread hanging out of Daisy Huddy’s bedroom window.”
Mr. Hayhoe coloured deeply.
“Alas!” he said, “I am altogether to blame, for before reading the Bible to Daisy, I ought to have explained to her that all scriptural doings are not meant for us to copy. I called a few days ago upon the young woman and, knowing nothing then of her way of living, I read all the way through the book of Joshua. I shall never trust myself again; I put the Bible into my pocket instead of Persuasion! Never was a poor clergyman more unlucky than I! Only the other day I advised Mr. Solly, who despises love, to read the Song of Songs. I am always showing people the way to go wrong, and when I tell them to do right they hate me. I advised Mr. Mere to give all that he had to the poor, in order to save his soul, and he set his dog upon me. Even Mr. Jar, the tinker, looked at me with surprise, when I told him he was the chief of sinners. And now I have caused poor Daisy to own publicly to all the world that she is a harlot.”
“Never mind, my dear,” said Mrs. Hayhoe, looking at her husband with the greatest affection, “God knows your mistake and also, that in reading His word to Daisy, you hoped to do good. Before long I am sure that she will learn where true happiness is to be found.”
“Be so good, madam,” inquired John Death, who had listened with interest to the lady, “as to tell me where true happiness is to be found?”
“In plain sewing,” replied Priscilla.