Of course he declined to believe
it. Nobody had ever invited his wife to Italy before. There was no
precedent. He required proofs. The only proof was Mrs. Arbuthnot, and
Mrs. Wilkins had produced her; but after what entreaties, what
passionate persuading! Mrs. Arbuthnot had not imagined she would have
to face Mr. Wilkins and say things to him that were short of the truth,
and it brought home to her what she had for some time suspected, that
she was slipping more and more away from God.
Indeed, the whole of March was filled with unpleasant, anxious
moments. It was an uneasy month. Mrs. Arbuthnot's conscience, made
super-sensitive by years of pampering, could not reconcile what she was
doing with its own high standard of what was right. It gave her little
peace. It nudged her at her prayers. It punctuated her entreaties for
divine guidance with disconcerting questions, such as, "Are you not a
hypocrite? Do you really mean that? Would you not, frankly, be
disappointed if that prayer were granted?"
The prolonged wet, raw weather was on the side too of her
conscience, producing far more sickness than usual among the poor.
They had bronchitis; they had fevers; there was no end to the distress.
And here she was going off, spending precious money on going off,
simply and solely to be happy.
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