mrs. mince was in possession of her husband’s study, a melancholy room whose single window looked forth upon a red-brick wall and a corner of mr. mince’s vegetable garden. the room was carpeted with red drugget and curtained with dingy green plush. a forcible aroma of stale tobacco-smoke pervaded the air. ranged along one wall were a number of dilapidated leather chairs like needy pensioners, the seats of the uninitiated who came on certain occasions to receive wisdom from mr. mince’s lips. a deal bookcase stood with warped shelves beneath a ponderous infliction of theological literature. the very books appeared dreary monuments of a dogmatism that had outlived its age. as for the room, it seemed to smell of calvin and to echo the barbaric incongruities of the athanasian creed. it suggested a geological museum in its atmosphere, save that geology stands in peril of being dubbed heretical, and mr. mince’s sacerdotal fossils were orthodox to the last letter.

mrs. mince was in possession of her husband’s desk-chair, that solemn pedestal whence the sage gave to saltire those luminous moments of spiritual exaltation begot of brandy and tobacco. opposite the vicaress, on one of the sedilia bankrupt of horse-hair, sat that estimable person mrs. primmer, who had dwelt as cook for seven years under the parsonic roof and had earned a reputation for sober saintliness and extreme economy. mrs. primmer was garbed in her best for the occasion, a lavish outlay of crape and jet beads testifying to the woe that had once made of her a widow. she was one of mrs. mince’s “props of honesty,” an estimable errant angel in cloth boots and crape.

the reason of mrs. primmer’s expedition that day was a certain matter that lay heavy on what she was pleased to call her conscience. hers was a pilgrimage undertaken from honest motives, a most disinterested excursion. the vicaress and the ex-cook were keenly in sympathy on such a subject. with admirable ingenuity they veiled their too feminine propensities under the cassocks of duty and moral obligation.

“i think you were quite right, eliza,” mrs. mince was saying, “to come to me in this matter. it most certainly needs careful consideration, and you have acted like a conscientious christian woman. you are quite sure—now—as to the gentleman’s identity?”

“certain,” replied the conscientious person, with a tense closure of the lips; “i have one of his handkerchiefs here, ma’am, marked with his name.”

“dear, dear,” said the vicaress, “how very scandalous! they are always out together, you say? dear, dear. i suppose all the offence is on his side, mrs. primmer?”

the ex-cook folded her bony hands over her black skirt and spoke with regretful candor.

“i’m afraid not, ma’am. the girl’s every bit as bad as the man.”

“dear, dear,” said mrs. mince again, “how very scandalous, to be sure! only married eight months, and his wife away on a holiday. and you caught them in the dark, you say?”

“in the dark, ma’am, during that terrible storm on wednesday night.”

“in the dark, yes.”

mrs. mince’s face was suffused with a shiny avidity; even her colorless eyes were eager.

“well, ma’am, i shouldn’t like to say all i thought i saw.”

“of course not, eliza; it is too shocking a subject for clean-minded women to discuss. dear, dear, how badly people turn out in this world; human nature has nothing but disappointments for us. only to think of it,” and mrs. mince sighed.

“i thought i ought to come and ask your advice, ma’am,” said mrs. primmer, with great deference.

“it shows a most excellent spirit in you, eliza.”

“the responsibility, ma’am, rather troubled me; i thought i would come to a good, godly lady for counsel. old mr. gildersedge is weak and helpless, what with the drink and the like, poor old gentleman. he ain’t to be considered ‘compot mentis,’ as they call it, ma’am. i couldn’t see all this going on and say nothing to nobody.”

mrs. mince wiped her face with her handkerchief and seemed agreeably conscious of her own importance.

“you were quite right, eliza,” she said; “this is a most painful discovery. i must talk it over with mr. mince and see what his christian conscience suggests. for the present, i should keep the whole affair a profound secret. silence is golden, eliza, on occasions.”

“certainly, ma’am.”

mrs. mince seemed to gather her soul for a final flight of charitable circumspection.

“you must go back,” she said, unctuously, “watch, and say nothing. try to be the poor, deluded girl’s guardian angel in secret. it is sad—most sad. i only hope something may be done before it is too late; as the wife of one of the father’s ministers i will think it over, and pray to the dear god for guidance. now you must really go into the kitchen, eliza, and get some tea.”

mrs. primmer’s stony face seemed to lighten seraphically at the suggestion.

“i’ve only done, ma’am,” she said, “what the dear lord put into my heart to do. i thank him every day of my life that he gave me seven years of sojourn under this good, saintly roof. mr. mince’s sermons, ma’am, always taught me to love the holy book and to look to jesus, the author and finisher of our faith. ‘god is love.’ i have that text you gave me over my bed, ma’am.”

“ah, eliza, we always try to do our best,” said mrs. mince, with an inimitable smirk in the direction of the vegetable garden.

when mrs. primmer had betaken herself to the scene of her past culinary prowess, mrs. mince panted up-stairs to her bedroom and proceeded to array herself in sabbath attire. she donned her new bonnet with the red roses in it and her black silk dress. she buttoned on a new pair of glacé kid boots and hung her little gold cross on her bosom. mrs. mince’s toilet would have suggested a smart tea-party, a church service, or some important parochial function. being in some vague way impressed by the onerous responsibility of her british matronship, she had donned full pontificals for the occasion. a state gossip, a most solemn scandal festival, was in the air, and with quaint feminine na?veté the vicaress had flown to her finery as though her attire should be in harmony with the splendor of her tidings.

mrs. mince threaded the archaic and picturesque saltire high street with a species of complacent waddle that characterized her mind. the glimpses of forestland and azure sky caught betwixt red roofs and bourgeoning orchards were foreign to her ken. she was a person who delighted in oil and vinegar. if you had shown her some masterpiece of art in the nude, she would have sniffed and remarked, “how very disgusting!” she possessed the mock modesty of coarse-minded persons—a mock modesty that waxes loud and aggressive to hide the nastiness beneath.

mrs. marjoy was at home, or in her lair, as certain uncharitable folk had expressed it. the doctor’s wife was in a particularly angelic mood. mrs. mince found mrs. marjoy closeted with the eldest miss snodley in her drawing-room. the mercurial lady was creaking to and fro in a patent-spring rocking-chair that needed oiling. she dribbled some lukewarm water into the exhausted teapot and greeted the vicaress with dubious delight.

mrs. mince had seated herself with a species of portentous calm. she looked supremely cheerful, big and beaming with the fat confessions stowed in her motherly bosom. tidings of honey, vineyards, and much corn! the lady gloated like an israelite over the promised spoiling of canaan.

“dear, dear, such news,” she said, fingering her fat wedding-ring, as though meditating upon the supreme respectability of her own lot.

the two listeners were “muzzles up” on the instant, like hounds that give tongue over a struck scent.

“what is it?”

“that ginge girl’s engaged at last!”

“nonsense.”

“that hussy!”

“guess again, my dear.”

“your cook’s gone wrong?” said mrs. marjoy, who had a particular grievance against domestics.

“no.”

“some one has eloped?” ventured miss snodley.

“no, dear, much more exciting.”

“tell us, then.”

mrs. mince took a deep breath and delivered herself of her tidings with fitting éclat.

“young strong has compromised himself?” she said.

there was a moment’s silence, then a kind of cackling outburst, like the pother in a farm-yard over the laying of an egg.

“never,” said miss snodley.

“he has.”

“when—how?”

“i knew it,” quoth mrs. marjoy, with intense pride. “i always knew that fellow was a scoundrel.”

“and ophelia?” said miss snodley.

the three ladies looked at one another and tittered.

“it will take the airs out of her,” said mrs. mince.

“serve her right,” quoth the doctor’s wife.

“those gussets were always so stuck up,” said miss snodley.

then they all stared at one another again, embraced rapturously in the spirit, and indulged in more tittering.

“tell us all about it,” said mrs. marjoy, reserving her own domremy episode as a finale.

they drew their chairs closer together, like macbeth’s witches over their reeking caldron. mrs. mince related mrs. primmer’s experiences, with certain embellishments of her own, doing abundant justice, as was to be expected, to the sinister aspects of the romance. when she had talked her fill, mrs. marjoy capped the tale with her own conclusions drawn from the domremy incident. indeed, the three ladies enjoyed themselves with much thoroughness that afternoon. no such sport had fallen to their barbs since a local farmer had been accused of starving his pigs, a very minor excitement. christians they were in name, yet the spirit of imperial rome still lingered in their bosoms. to have witnessed a combat between wild beasts and slaves was a display beyond the possibilities of the civilized arena. indeed, the very mention of it would doubtless have inspired them with unctuous horror and strident indignation. yet there was little difference in the main betwixt the tiger-hearted dames of rome and these modern ladies, save that the latter were hypocrites, the former honest even in their depravity. the pagans gloated over agonies in the flesh, the christians over agonies in the spirit.

“what a scandal,” said the vicaress, with ill-concealed satisfaction, “if the affair comes to light!”

“as it must,” said mrs. marjoy, viciously; “and young strong coming forward as our member, too! nice sort of legislator to frame laws for the country’s good. is it generally known yet?”

“my goodness! no,” quoth mrs. mince; “only mrs. primmer and ourselves are in the secret, so far as i can tell. the question is, what is to be done.”

the mind of this most moral trinity waxed meditative over the problem.

“i think ophelia ought to be communicated with,” said the vicaress, after reasonable cogitation.

“certainly,” observed the doctor’s wife, creaking to and fro in her chair.

“a matter of duty,” added mrs. mince.

“and charity,” said miss snodley, looking over the rims of her gold pince-nez.

they were all vastly serious over the business, exceedingly solemn, infinitely in earnest. the undercurrent of hypocrisy in their ethics did not seem to suggest itself to their minds. they were about to enjoy a triumph over a feminine autocrat, a woman disliked by reason of the superior comeliness of her person.

“ophelia strong must be warned,” said the vicaress, speaking as the most religious woman in saltire.

“but by whom?” queried miss snodley.

mrs. marjoy’s aggressive voice claimed the responsibility.

“by us, of course,” she said.

for a moment they stared at one another in silence.

“how?” asked miss snodley, tentatively.

“by letter,” said the doctor’s wife.

“anonymous, of course,” interposed mrs. mince, with hurried circumspection.

they debated the question briefly, and continued to satisfy the triple conscience as to the morality of the proceeding. mrs. marjoy possessed herself of her writing-case, and, after much tentative suggestion and voluminous wastage of paper, produced the following edifying document:

“as sincere and disinterested friends, we think mrs. strong ought to be warned of the danger that is threatening her domestic happiness. we do not desire to swear to facts or to make mere poisonous insinuations. as christian women we only wish to put a sister on her guard. we hear that her husband has been acting unwisely. there is a serpent in the grass near rilchester, at a place known as burnt house. this letter is despatched by its writers through a deep sense of christian duty and moral obligation. it had better be burned when it has been read.”

“there,” said mrs. marjoy, straightening herself in her chair, with an expression of pride, “that ought to fire the furnace. i have disguised my writing by scrawling it backhand. i am going into rilchester to-morrow, and i can post it there. the postmark will help to keep its origin secret.”

“i wonder what will come of it,” said mrs. mince, with reflection.

“poor ophelia strong!” sighed miss snodley, with a breath of penitence. “what if it proves a great blow to her. perhaps—”

“nonsense,” said mrs. marjoy, sharply; “don’t be sentimental, zinia. we are only doing our duty.”