Her nervous system was out of
order, and her husband had been needlessly frightened by a
hysterical paroxysm. If she did not get better in a week, change
of scene might then be tried. In the meantime, there was not the
least cause for alarm.
On the next day she was quieter, but she hardly spoke at all. At
night she slept well, and Mr. Carling's faith in the medical man
revived again.
The morning after was the morning which would bring the answer
from the publisher in London. The rector's study was on the
ground floor, and when he heard the postman's knock, being
especially anxious that morning about his correspondence, he went
out into the hall to receive his letters the moment they were put
on the table.
It was not the footman who had answered the door, as usual, but
Mrs. Carling's maid. She had taken the letters from the postman,
and she was going away with them upstairs.
He stopped her, and asked her why she did not put the letters on
the hall table as usual. The maid, looking very much confused,
said that her mistress had desired that whatever the postman had
brought that morning should be carried up to her room. He took
the letters abruptly from the girl, without asking any more
questions, and went back into his study.
Up to this time no shadow of a suspicion had fallen on his mind.
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