going on at Rylands and so on. But as he saw that it was clearly beyond
his power, however vigilant he might be, to watch over the old woman and
his wife, and to prevent anyone from meeting with either of them, he
began to consider what he could best do.

Since he had sent away his servants and the gardener, giving out a story
of having received bad news and his wife going away to London where he
would join her, their probably going out of England and so on, he knew
well enough that there would be a great deal of talk in the
neighbourhood.

And as he had now stayed on, contrary to what he had said, there would
be further rumour. Indeed, had he known it, there was a story already
going round the country that his wife had run away with Major Solmes,
and that he was gone mad with grief, that he had shot his dogs and his
horses and shut himself up alone in the house and would speak with no
one. This story was made up by his neighbours not because they were
fanciful or wanted to deceive, but like most tittle-tattle to fill a
gap, as few like to confess ignorance, and if people are asked about
such or such a man they must have something to say, or they suffer in
everybody's opinion, are set down as dull or "out of the swim." In this
way I met not long ago with someone who, after talking some little while
and not knowing me or who I was, told me that David Garnett was dead,
and died of being bitten by a cat after he had tormented it. He had long
grown a nuisance to his friends as an exorbitant sponge upon them, and
the world was well rid of him.

Hearing this story of myself diverted me at the time, but I fully
believe it has served me in good stead since. For it set me on my guard
as perhaps nothing else would have done, against accepting for true all