"By the way, you did the church flowers this morning didn't you, eh?"Maggie turned white and, as always on these occasions, her heart thumped, leaping, as it seemed, into the very palms of her hands.
"But it was to-morrow--" she began.
"You remember that I told you three days ago that it was to be this morning instead of the usual Thursday because of the Morgans'
wedding."
"Oh, Grace, I'm so sorry! I had remembered, I had indeed, and then Lucy suddenly having that chill--."Paul struck in."Really, Maggie, that's too bad.No flowers to-morrow? Those others were quite dead yesterday.I noticed at evensong...Really, really.And the Morgans' wedding!"Maggie sat there, trembling.
"I'm very sorry," she said, almost whispering.Why did fate play against her? Why, when she might have fought the Uncle Mathew battle victoriously, had Grace suddenly been given this weapon with which to strike?
"I'll go and do them now," she said."I can take those flowers out of the drawing-room.""It's done," Grace slowly savouring her triumph."I did them myself this afternoon.""Then you should have told me that!" Maggie burst out."It's not fair ****** me miserable just for your own fun.You don't know how you hurt, Grace.You're cruel, you're cruel!"She had a horrible fear lest she should burst into tears.To save that terrible disaster she jumped up and ran out of the room, hearing behind her Paul's admonitory "Maggie, Maggie!"It is to be expected that Mrs.Maxse and Miss Purves made the most of their story.The Rector's wife and a drunken uncle! No, it was too good to be true...but it was true, nevertheless.Christmas passed and the horrible damp January days arrived.Skeaton was a dripping covering of emptiness--hollow, shallow, deserted.Every tree, Maggie thought, dripped twice as much as any other tree in Europe.It remained for Caroline Purdie to complete the situation.
One morning at breakfast the story burst upon Maggie's ears.Grace was too deeply moved and excited to remember her hostility.She poured out the tale.
It appeared that for many many months Caroline had not been the wife she should have been.No; there had been a young man, a Mr.Bennett from London.The whole town had had its suspicions, had raised its pointing finger, had peeped and peered and whimpered.The only person who had noticed nothing was Mr.Purdie himself.He must, of course, have seen that his house was filled with noisy young men and noisier young women; he must have realised that his bills were high, that champagne was drunk and cards were played, and that his wife's attire was fantastically gorgeous.At any rate, if he noticed these things he said nothing.He was a dull, silent, slow-thinking man, people said.Then one day he went up to London or rather, in the manner of the best modern problem play, he pretended to go, returned abruptly, and discovered Caroline in the arms of Mr.Bennett.
