‘I am afraid,’ she said, ‘that I must ask you to excuse her this morning, Mr. Wyvern. She is not quite prepared to see anyone at present. In fact,’ she lowered her voice and smiled very graciously, ‘she has just had an--an agitating interview with Mr. Mutimer--she has consented to be his wife.’ ‘In that case I cannot of course trouble her,’ the vicar replied, with gravity which to Mrs. Waltham appeared excessive, rather adapted to news of a death than of a betrothal. The dark searching eyes, too, made her feel uncomfortable. And he did not utter a syllable of the politeness expected on these occasions. ‘What a very shocking thing about Mr. Eldon!’ the lady pursued. ‘You have heard?’ ‘Shocking? Pray, what has happened?’ Hubert had left him in some depression the night before, and for a moment Mr. Wyvern dreaded lest some fatality had become known in Wanley. ‘Ah, you have not heard? It is in this newspaper.’ The vicar examined the column indicated. ‘But,’ he exclaimed, with subdued indignation, ‘this is the merest falsehood!’ ‘A falsehood! Are you sure of that, Mr. Wyvern?’ ‘Perfectly sure. There is no foundation for it whatsoever.’ ‘You don’t say so! I am very glad to hear that, for poor Mrs. Eldon’s sake.’ ‘Could you lend me this newspaper for to-day?’ ‘With pleasure. Really you relieve me, Mr. Wyvern. I had no means of inquiring into the story, of course. But how disgraceful that such a thing should appear in print!’ ‘I am sorry to say, Mrs. Waltham, that the majority of things which appear in print nowadays are more or less disgraceful. However, this may claim prominence, in its way.’ ‘And I may safely contradict it? It will be such a happiness to do so.’ ‘Contradict it by all means, madam. You may cite me as your authority.’ The vicar crushed the sheet into his pocket and strode homewards. CHAPTER XIII In the church of the Insurgents there are many orders. To rise to the supreme passion of revolt, two conditions are indispensable: to possess the heart of a poet, and to be subdued by poverty to the yoke of ignoble labour. But many who fall short of the priesthood have yet a share of the true spirit, bestowed upon them by circumstances of birth and education, developed here and there by the experience of life, yet rigidly limited in the upshot by the control of material ease, the fatal lordship of the comfortable commonplace. Of such was Hubert Eldon. In him, despite his birth and breeding, there came to the surface a rich vein of independence, obscurely traceable, no doubt, in the characters of certain of his ancestors, appearing at length where nineteenth-century influences had thinned the detritus of convention and class prejudice. His nature abounded in contradictions, and as yet self-study--in itself the note of a mind striving for emancipation--had done little for him beyond making clear the manifold difficulties strewn in his path of progress.