But on Mahony voicing his
attitude with: "And his immortal soul, sir? Isn't it the church's duty
to hope for a miracle? . . . just as it is ours to keep the vital spark
going," he made haste to take the edge off his words. "Now, now, doctor,
only my fun! Our duty is, I trust, plain to us both."
It was even easier to soothe than to ruffle Mahony. "Remember me very
kindly to Mrs. Long, will you?" he said as the Archdeacon prepared to
climb into his buggy. "But tell her, too, I owe her a grudge just now.
My wife's so lost in flannel and brown holland that I can't get a word
out of her."
"And mine doesn't know where she'd be, with this bazaar, if it weren't
for Mrs. Mahony." Long was husband to a dot of a woman who, having borne
him half a dozen children of his own feature and build, now worked as
parish clerk and district visitor rolled in one; driving about in
sunbonnet and gardening-gloves behind a pair of cream ponies--tiny,
sharp-featured, resolute; with little of her husband's large tolerance,
but an energy that outdid his own, and made her an object of both fear
and respect. "And that reminds me: over at the cross-roads by Spring
Hill, I met your young brother-in-law. And he told me, if I ran across
you to ask you to hurry home. Your wife has some surprise or other in
store for you. No, nothing unpleasant! Rather the reverse, I believe.
But I wasn't to say more. Well, good-day, doctor, good-day to you!"
Mahony smiled, nodded and went on his way.
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