Arbuthnot spoke on and on, so much practiced in the kind of
speech that she could have said it all in her sleep, and at the end of
the meeting, her eyes dazzled by her secret visions, she hardly noticed
that nobody was moved in any way whatever, least of all in the way of
contributions.
But the vicar noticed. The vicar was disappointed. Usually his
good friend and supporter Mrs. Arbuthnot succeeded better than this.
And, what was even more unusual, she appeared, he observed, not even to
mind.
"I can't imagine," he said to her as they parted, speaking
irritably, for he was irritated both by the audience and by her, "what
these people are coming to. Nothing seems to move them."
"Perhaps they need a holiday," suggested Mrs. Arbuthnot; an
unsatisfactory, a queer reply, the vicar thought.
"In February?" he called after her sarcastically.
"Oh no--not till April," said Mrs. Arbuthnot over her shoulder.
"Very odd," thought the vicar. "Very odd indeed." And he went
home and was not perhaps quite Christian to his wife.
That night in her prayers Mrs. Arbuthnot asked for guidance. She
felt she ought really to ask, straight out and roundly, that the
mediaeval castle should already have been taken by some one else and
the whole thing thus be settled, but her courage failed her.
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