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Miss Wenham, fifty-five years of age and unappeasably timid, unaccountably strange, had, on her reduced scale, an almost Gothic grotesqueness; but the final effect of one's sense of it was an amenity that accompanied one's steps like wafted gratitude.
He evidently regarded her as an enemy; for, the feathers on his crest got ruffled. "Indeed!" said her mother, in freezing accents down to the temperature of the best Wenham Lake ice! "I'm sure Mr Lorton is very good! Still, you know, Minnie," she continued, "that I do not like you receiving presents in this way." "But it is only a little bird, Mrs Clyde!"
What a pity that he was not a little more presentable! "Yes," he muttered, "we must be friends, Elizabeth. Wenham had all the luck at first. Perhaps it's going to be my turn now, eh?" He bent towards her. She laughed into his face for a moment and then was once more suddenly colorless, the smile frozen upon her lips. She began to shiver. "What is it?" he asked. "What is it, Elizabeth?"
"Now," she went on, more cheerfully, "no one will venture to deny that Wenham is mad. He will be placed under restraint, of course, and the courts will make me an allowance. One thing is absolutely certain, and that is that he will not live a year." Tavernake half closed his eyes. Was there no sign of his suffering, no warning note of the things which were passing out of his life!
Take these things for what they're worth. Believe me when I tell you now that there is a great deal more in the coming of this man than Mrs. Wenham Gardner ever bargained for." "I wish you'd tell me who he is," Tavernake begged. "All this mystery about Beatrice and her sister, and that lazy old hulk of a father, is most irritating." Pritchard nodded sympathetically.
Mus. Mus.; 5th ed. in Harvard library: all published within the year. Witchcraft Farther Display'd. Justice Powel's procedure therein.... London, 1712. A Full Confutation of Witchcraft: More particularly of the Depositions against Jane Wenham, Lately Condemned for a Witch; at Hertford.
The career of poor Wenham Gardner was set down in black and white, with little extenuation, little mercy. His misdeeds in Paris, his career in New York, spoke for themselves. He was quoted as a type, a decadent of the most debauched instincts, to whom crime was a relaxation and vice a habit. Tavernake would read no more. He might have been all these things, and yet she had become his wife!
At three o'clock in the afternoon, at eight in the evening, and again at eleven o'clock at night, he presented himself at the Milan Court, always with the same inquiry. On the last occasion, the hall porter had cheering news for him. "Mrs. Wenham Gardner returned from the country an hour ago, sir," he announced. "I can send your name up now, if you wish to see her."
"Why don't you ask Sumph to publish 'em in your new paper the what-d'ye-call-'em hay, Shandon?" bawled out Wagg. "Why don't you ask him to publish 'em in your old magazine, the Thingumbob?" Shandon replied. "Is there going to be a new paper?" asked Wenham, who knew perfectly well, but was ashamed of his connection with the press.
This letter was signed by Charles Grant, Jr., a person not known to either of the Knapps, nor was it known to them that any other person beside the Crowninshields knew of the conspiracy. This letter, by the accidental omission of the word Jr., fell into the hands of the father, when intended for the son. The father carried it to Wenham, where both the sons were. They both read it.
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