In
the minor affairs of life Ann Penhallow used the quick perception of a
woman, and now and then brought the Squire's kindly excesses to the bar
of common sense. Sometimes the sentence was never announced, but now and
then annoyed at his over-indulgent charity she allowed her impatience the
privilege of speech, and then, as on this occasion, was sorry to have
spoken.
Dismissing his slight vexation, Penhallow said presently, "He told me his
mother was sick."
"She was not yesterday. I took her our monthly allowance and some towels
I wanted hemmed and marked. He lied to you, James. Did you believe him
even for a moment?"
"But she might be sick, Ann. I meant you to stop and ask."
"I will, of course." This time she held her tongue, and left him at
Grace's door.
The perfect sweetness of her husband's generous temperament was sometimes
trying to Ann in its results, but now it had helped her out of an awkward
position, and with pride and affection she watched his soldierly figure
for a moment and then went on her way.
Intent with gladness on fulfilling his wife's errand, he went up the
steps of the small two-storey house of the Baptist preacher. He had
difficulty in making any one hear where there was no one to hear. If at
Westways the use of the rare bells or more common knockers brought no one
to the door, you were free to walk in and cry, "Where are you, Amanda
Jane, and shall I come right up?" Penhallow had never set foot in the
house, but had no hesitation in entering the front room close to the
narrow hall which was known as the front entry.
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