The above pronouncement while rendering Felicia Verity somewhat uneasy, in nowise turned her from her purpose.  Her powers of sympathy were as unlimited as they were confused and, too often, ineffective.  Forever she ran after the tribulations of her fellow creatures, pouring forth on them treasures of eager sympathy, but without discrimination as to whether the said tribulations were in fact trivial or profound, deserving or deserved.  That anyone under any circumstances, should suffer, be uncomfortable or unhappy, filled her with solicitude.  The loss of an eyelash, the loss of a fortune, the loss of the hope of a lifetime equally ranked.  Illness and disease appealed to her in hardly less degree than unfortunate affairs of the heart.  She practised the detection of extenuating circumstances as one might practise a fine art.  She wallowed in sentiment, in short; but that with such native good-breeding and singleness of mind, as went far to redeem the said wallowings from morbidity or other offence.  Her friends and acquaintances loved her, quite unconscionably made use of her, secretly laughed at her, grew weary of her, declared that “of such are the Kingdom of Heaven;” and, having successfully exploited her, turned with relief to the society of persons frankly belonging to the kingdoms of earth.  Men petted but did not propose to her; affected to confide in her, but carefully withheld the heart of their confessions.  Tall, thin, gently hurried and bird-like, she yet bore a quaint, almost mirthful, resemblance to her brother, Sir Charles Verity.  Such was the lady who responded, in a spirit of liveliest charity, to Theresa’s wildly waved flag of distress.

By the time Miss Verity reached Marychurch the rain amounted to a veritable downpour.  Driven by the southwesterly wind, it swept in sheets over the low-lying country, the pallid waters, drab mud-flats, dingy grey-green salt-marsh, and rusty brown reed-beds of the estuary.  The dusty road, running alongside this last through the hamlets of Horny Cross and Lampit, grew hourly deeper in gritty mud.  Beyond question summer and all its dear delights were departed and the chill mournfulness of autumn reigned in their stead.

With the surrounding mournfulness, Miss Verity’s simple, yet devious, mind played not ungratefully.  For it seemed to her to harmonize with the true inwardness of her mission, offering a sympathetic background to the news of her niece’s indisposition and the signals of distress flown by her little protegee, Theresa Bilson.  The note addressed to her by the latter was couched in mysterious and ambiguous phrases, the purport of which she failed to grasp.  Theresa’s handwriting, usually so neat and precise, was wobbly, bearing unmistakable traces of severe agitation and haste.  She hinted at nothing short of catastrophe, though whether in relation to herself, to her ex-pupil, or to Sir Charles, Miss Verity couldn’t for the life of her discover.  It was clear in any case, however, that affairs at The Hard had, for cause unknown, gone quite startlingly astray, and that Theresa found herself entirely unequal to righting them—­hence her outcry.