But he
had never had the courage to speak to her at such moments; and there was
only a mournful suspicion and dread in his heart, which he did his best
to hide from himself.
This afternoon Mrs. Bolton had sought him in the vestry, where he had
been silently brooding over his parish and its sins and sorrows, in the
dim, green light shining through the lattice window, which was thickly
overgrown with ivy. Mrs. Bolton was a handsome woman still, always
handsomely dressed, as became a wealthy archdeacon's widow. Her presence
seemed to fill up the little vestry; and as she occupied his old,
high-backed chair, Mr. Warden stood opposite to her, looking down
painfully and shyly at the floor on which he stood, rather than at the
distinguished personage who was visiting him.
"I come to you," she said, in a decisive, emphatic voice, "as a
clergyman, as well as my nephew's confidential friend. What I say to you
must go no farther than ourselves. We have no confessional in our
church, thank Heaven! but that which is confided to a clergyman, even to
a curate, ought to be as sacred as a confession.
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