Mrs. Bridling was very late in getting home. On any other day she would have felt some apprehension on the score of Mr. Bridling’s temper, and would certainly have had to endure a prolonged dissertation on the duty of a wife, supported by quotations from the Scriptures, but tonight she had so much news to impart that she could count upon holding the floor. Mr. Bridling’s curiosity, whetted by rumour and far from being appeased by the snatches of news which had come his way, was in a really rampant condition. Wat Cooling’s aunt had rushed in with the bare statement that Geoffrey Taverner had committed suicide and then rushed out again to give an irascible husband who was working over-time his belated supper. John Higgins hadn’t been near him. He was, in fact, what Mrs. Bridling called “all worked up.”
Mrs. Bridling found herself being listened to as never before, and she fairly let herself go.
“Seems there’s been goodness knows what going on. Secret passages full of gold and diamonds and all sorts. And Mr. Castell taken up for murder—and Mr. Geoffrey Taverner too if he hadn’t killed himself. And that Luke White not dead at all. Too bad to be killed easy is what I say!”
“Flourishing like the green bay tree,” said Mr. Bridling with a groan.
His wife gave an emphatic nod.
“You couldn’t have put it better. You’re a wonderful hand with texts, Ezra, and that I must say.”
Mr. Bridling groaned again, this time with impatience.
“Go on!” he said.
Emily Bridling went on with an extremely colourful narrative.
“It’s poor Annie I’m sorry for,” she said at the end of it.
“She shouldn’t have married a foreigner,” said Mr. Bridling.
Mrs. Bridling brought him his cup of cocoa.
“Someone’s got to marry them.”
Mr. Bridling blew on the froth.
“Let them marry foreign,” he said. “Annie Higgins was brought up Chapel and she did ought to have known better.”
“She didn’t know he was going to turn out the way he did. Ever such a way with him, and she was tired of cooking for other people—wanted a home of her own.”
Mr. Bridling sipped complacently.
“And look where it’s brought her,” he said. “Lucky for her if she isn’t took up too. There’s no word of that, I suppose?”
Mrs. Bridling flushed.
“No, there isn’t, nor there won’t be if anyone’s got a grain of sense. Poor Annie didn’t know a thing. Nor they wouldn’t tell her—why should they? A bit simple from a child, but that good-hearted, and such a hand for pastry as never was.”
Mr. Bridling sipped again.
“Ah, well,” he said, “she’s made her bed and she must lie on it.”
Up at the Catherine-Wheel Jane and Eily were talking in bed. Jane looked into the darkness and thought of all the things that had happened since Jeremy drove her down on Saturday evening. It was only Tuesday now, and by another Saturday she wouldn’t be Jane Heron any more, because she was going to marry Jeremy. She had lost her job, she had got past feeling proud, they loved each other, he wanted to take care of her. There really didn’t seem to be anything to wait for.
The last thought got itself into words.
“There doesn’t seem to be anything to wait for.”
Eily made a rather indeterminate sound—a kind of murmur with a question in it. Then she said,
“John is in a terrible hurry.”
Jane said what she had said once before.
“He wants to look after you. You can’t stay here.”
Eily shuddered. She put out a hand, and Jane held it.
“Don’t you want to marry him?”
Eily didn’t answer that. She said,
“He says there’s room for Aunt Annie and she’ll be welcome.”
“He’s good. He’ll look after you, Eily.”
Eily drew a long sighing breath.
“I shall have to go to chapel twice on a Sunday.”
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