Mrs. Grey’s words and manner, so perfectly guileless and natural, for the moment quite confounded her enemy—­her enemy, and yet an honest enemy.  Of the number of cruel things that are done in this world, how many are done absolutely for conscience sake by people who deceive themselves that they are acting from the noblest, purest motives—­ carrying out all the Christian virtues, in short, only they do so, not in themselves, but against other people.  And from their list of commandments they obliterate one—­“Judge not, that ye be not judged condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned.”

But, for the time being, Miss Gascoigne was puzzled.  Her stern reproof, her patronizing pity, were alike disarmed.  Her mountain seemed crumbling to its original mole-hill.  The heap of accusing evidence which she had accumulated dwindled into the most ordinary and commonplace facts at sight of Christian’s innocent face and placid mien.  Nothing could be more unlike a woman who had ever contemplated the ordinary “flirting” of society.  As for any thing worse, the idea was impossible to be entertained for a moment.  It was simply ridiculous.

Aunt Henrietta sat a good while talking, quite mildly for her, of ordinary topics, before she attempted to broach the real object of her visit.  It was only as the hour neared for Dr. Grey’s coming in that she nerved herself to her mission.  She had an uneasy sense that it would be carried out better in his absence than in his presence.

Without glancing often at Christian, who sat so peaceful, looking out into the fading twilight, she launched her thunderbolt at once.

“We had a visit today from Sir Edwin Uniacke.”

“So I supposed, since I and the children met him on the way to Avonside.”

In this world, so full of shams, bow utterly bewildering sometimes is the direct innocent truth!  At this answer of Christian’s Miss Gascoigne looked more amazed than if she had been told a dozen lies.

“Was that the reason you turned back and went home?”

“Partly; I really had forgotten something which Dr. Grey wanted, but I also wished to avoid meeting your visitor.”

“Why so?”

“Surely you must guess.  How can I voluntarily meet any one who is not a friend of my husband’s?”

“Not though he may have been a friend of your own?  For, as I understand, you once had a very close acquaintance with Sir Edwin Uniacke.”

The thrust was so unexpected, unmistakable in its meaning, that Christian, in her startled surprise, said the very worst thing she could have said to the malicious ears which were held open to every thing and eager to misconstrue every thing, “Who told you that?”

“Told me!  Why all Avonsbridge is talking about it, and about you.”

This was a lie—­a little white lie; one of those small exaggerations of which people make no account; but Christian believed it, and it seemed to wrap her round as with a cold mist of fear.  All Avonsbridge talking of her—­her, Dr. Grey’s wife, who had his honor as well as her own in her keeping—­talking about herself and Sir Edwin Uniacke!  What? how much? how had the tale come about? how could it be met?