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For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.

Though the day following the children’s ball dawned overcast and mild for the end of February, a metaphorical whirlwind soon engulfed the village.

The first hint of the storm arrived when the Barstows were at breakfast. On this occasion, Mrs. Lamb of the Tree Inn had stood manfully to her post, and Irving returned to the cottage bearing no letters from the postmistress but a full budget of news.

“If you please, Mrs. Barstow, the Tree Inn was in uproar this morning, so I’m late with building up the fire.”

“It’s all right, Irving,” she answered. “What was the fuss about?”

“Mrs. Robson—the Perryfield housekeeper—her cousin had taken a cart from Oxford. He’s the one who works at the Angel Inn, madam.

Fellow by the name of Brears. A waiter there, in the coffee room.

I didn’t know him from Adam, naturally, but he got to the Tree Inn just as Sealy the Perryfield gardener boy came for the post.” Irving was a slow speaker at all times, but in this instance he was also busy sweeping the ashes and scraping them into his bucket.

Having become familiar with his roundabout, dilatory storytelling, however, no one pressed him to come to the point but merely went on with their meal.

“Mrs. Lamb says, ‘Look here, Mr. Brears, Sealy can take you on to Perryfield,’ and Brears says, ‘Thank you, but I know the way well enough, Mrs. Robson being my cousin,’ and Sealy says, ‘Then are you the one who sent those wretched servants to us, what got everyone in a pother?’ And Brears says, ‘It’s about one of those servants I’m going to see Maggie.

Make my apologies to her because I would never have sent ’em over, if I’d known how queer they were, the one more than t’other. ’”

Irving had their attention now, not that he noticed, as he had begun to lay the fire and took great pride in doing it just so, so that it would catch at once and require very little poking or encouragement to burn steadily.

“Then Mrs. Lamb puts in her oar and says, ‘What’s this about queer? Don’t you two go walking off before you tell me.

People depend on me to know what there is to know.

’ Nor did she have to ask twice because Sealy says straight off, ‘That’s right they were odd ones.

The footboy goes to help one of our guests go home yesterday, and his lordship sends Harker with the gig after them because the guest fellow lamed himself dancing or some sort, but then Harker takes longer than he ought, so that he isn’t around to help when the other guests are going, and when he does show his face again, the mistress commences to scold him good, but he throws up his hands and says, ‘Madam, what could I do? I couldn’t find them where they were supposed to be, but instead I catch them on the Pettypont Bridge, a-kissing or a-fighting or I don’t know what, and Mr. Langworthy tells me to send on Blodgett and their things because he—Blodgett—and Wrigley are making off by the late coach—’”

“Kissing?” gasped Frances, the only one who managed to speak a word in response to this astonishing account.

“—And you might have beat her down with a feather after Harker tells her this, Sealy says—Mrs. Dere, you understand. And he says she turned right to his lordship and says, ‘What is this? What is this? Have we hosted under our roof a liar and a who-knows-what-all sort of ruffian?’ and his lordship tries to tell her to calm herself, says Sealy—but then Brears the cousin-waiter says, ‘I knew it! I knew there was something odd-like between those two in the coffee room at the Angel’—between Wrigley and—”

“Thank you, Irving,” Mrs. Barstow cut in, her face pale and hands fluttering.

“That will do. If you will leave us.” It was probably a case of shutting the stable door after the horse was stolen, to judge from her family’s expressions (and the clamor which erupted after the door shut), but she could not think what else to do.

“What is he talking about?” demanded Gordon. “Mr. Langworthy kissing or fighting with that footboy? What can Irving mean?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. There must be some mistake, and Irving told it in the most confusing manner.”

“What was that about Mr. Langworthy’s ankle?” asked Maria. “I’m glad Harker came along, because suppose the footboy attacked Mr. Langworthy, and he could not defend himself because of his ankle?”

“That makes no sense at all,” Frances told her quellingly. “If Mr. Langworthy’s ankle still troubled him, what were they doing away over on the Pettypont Bridge?”

“None of it makes any sense,” rejoined Gordon. “Ankle or no ankle.”

None of it made any sense, but that did not prevent the Barstows discussing it at great length, turning the little they knew this way and that, as if clarity would come with much handling.

Sarah alone said nothing. She could not have spoken if she wanted to, over the hard little knot in her chest.

“I wish you had let Irving tell us all he knew, muddled though it was,” Frances said for the third time.

“But since you didn’t, I intend to walk straight to Perryfield and have it all out of Mrs. Dere.

” Gordon and Maria immediately begged to accompany her, and even Mrs. Barstow bit her lip and said she would go.

Mr. Langworthy was such a favorite with her, she could not bear to think of any mystery or disgrace attaching to him, even if it turned out to be just in her neighbors’ imaginations.

“Are you coming, Sarah?” demanded Frances.

Sarah shook her head.

“Yes,” agreed her mother-in-law. “You had better not. After your cold, the ball must have knocked you up, for you are quite wan. You rest here, and we will get to the bottom of this tittle-tattle.”

The house was very quiet when they had gone.

Even the dog and cat snoozed in their baskets.

Though Bash was mostly recovered from his own cold, he still tired easily and was content to sit with her, the two of them examining illustrations of insects in a book the baron had lent to them.

Sarah was glad of the occupation, though it was not demanding enough to distract her.

Because what exactly had taken place, and what could it all mean?

Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with her, she told herself, though she remembered with uneasiness Wrigley’s hostility and his accusations.

Could he possibly have repeated those humiliating claims to Mr. Langworthy?

Said that Sarah was trying to steal him from Mary Pence, or that she ought better to be a good little widow and leave the young men alone?

Could it have been warnings against Mrs. Sebastian and her cunning traps which angered Mr. Langworthy, if he had indeed been angry?

She could make those pieces fit Irving’s ramblings plausibly, but then what about the possible kissing?

Poppet’s head snapped up, and a second later Reed opened the parlor door and peeked in.

“It’s him, Mrs. Sebastian.” From the way the maid widened her eyes as she made the announcement, it was obvious to Sarah that Irving had shared the morning’s bombshell with her, directly after leaving the breakfast room.

“Him?” repeated Sarah stupidly. She was scarcely audible because all at once her heart was beating a mile a minute.

“Mr. Langworthy!” hissed the maid. “Coming up the walk!” Poppet went to sniff the servant’s ankles, and she picked him up, throwing a glance back along the passage, as if their infamous caller might suddenly appear at her shoulder.

“What should I do? Turn him from the door? I will call Irving to do it.”

“You will do no such thing,” croaked Sarah.

“But the village is ringing with his doings!” squeaked Reed in a most un-Reed-like manner. “Shall I say you are not at home, then?”

“But I am. At home.” She wound her fingers through Bash’s hair, tugging at it for comfort, and for once he did not pull away. “And I will see him. Take the dog with you, please.”

Reed hung fire, eyeing Sarah as if uncertain if she were of sound mind, but then she shrugged and shook her head, backing from the room.

Over her racing heart Sarah could still hear the maid’s steps which followed, the front door opening and closing, Poppet barking and voices murmuring, steps returning.

She rose unsteadily to her feet by the time the parlor door opened again.

“Mr. Langworthy, Mrs. Sebastian.” Although Reed’s sour face could not be seen by the guest, the sourness of her voice was easily detected.

He entered, hat in hand, making his bow, to which Sarah returned a teetering curtsey, nodding at Reed to dismiss her.

For all the maid’s disapproval, she resented being sent away, and Sarah did not doubt she would only go so far as to fetch Irving, that the two of them might tiptoe back and listen at the door.

“Won’t you sit down?”

“I—did not expect to find you alone. I mean—you and Master Bash. Is Mrs. Gordon Barstow not here?”

“No. She has—they’ve all—gone to call at Perryfield.”

He seemed to grow handsomer each time she saw him.

Everything pleased her now, from his crown of red-brown hair to the lines drawn by weather and humor at the corners of his eyes, to his agile, trim person.

After two months in Iffley his tan had faded, but this morning there was color enough in his face. And in her own, she suspected.

They took their seats, an awkward silence falling, both anxious to begin and at a loss how to do so.

Bash rescued them. He held up the insect book to show their visitor, uttering, “Scawb.”

Langworthy leaned closer to peer at the illustration. “So it is,” he said. “A scarab.”

Before Sarah knew what he was about, the little boy reached a plump hand to pat Langworthy’s face. “No oosker.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “I know I don’t have Dr. Rearden’s luxuriant whiskers. It’s a terrible shortcoming of mine.”