At last there was a crisis. At the end of the second season after
their visit to us, Clarence sent a hasty note, begging my father to
join him in averting an execution in Griffith's house. I cannot
record the particulars, for just at that time I had a long low
fever, and did not touch my diary for many weeks; nor indeed did I
know much about the circumstances, since my good nurses withheld as
much as possible, and would not let me talk about what they believed
to make me worse. Nor can I find any letters about it. I believe
they were all made away with long ago, and thus I only know that my
father hurried up to town, remained for a fortnight, and came back
looking ten years older. The house in London had been given up, and
he had offered a vacant one of our own, near home, to Griff to
retrench in, but Selina would not hear of it, insisting on going
abroad.
This was a great grief to him and to us all. There was only one
side of our lives that was not saddened. Our old incumbent had died
about six months after the Fordyces had gone, and Mr. Henderson had
gladly accepted the living where the parsonage had been built. The
lady to whom he had been so long engaged was a great acquisition.
Her home had been at Oxford; and she was as thoroughly imbued with
the spirit that there prevailed as was the Hillside curate. She
talked to us of Littlemore, and of the sermons there and at St.
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