SUNDAY.
There was an unnatural flush on the rector's face, and his lips were
very white when he came before his people that Sunday morning, for he
felt that he was approaching the crisis of his fate; that he had only
to look across the row of heads up to where Anna sat, and he should
know the truth. Such thoughts savored far too much of the world which
he had renounced, he knew, and he had striven to banish them from his
mind; but they were there still, and would be there until he had
glanced once at Anna, occupying her accustomed seat, and quietly
turning to the chant she was so soon to sing: "Oh, come, let us sing
unto the Lord; let us heartily rejoice in the strength of His
salvation." The words echoed through the house, filling it with rare
melody, for Anna was in perfect tone that morning, and the rector,
listening to her with hands folded upon his prayer-book, felt that she
could not thus "heartily rejoice," meaning all the while to darken his
whole life, as she surely would if she told him "no." He was looking
at her now, and she met his eyes at last, but quickly dropped her own,
while he was sure that the roses burned a little brighter on her
cheek, and that her voice trembled just enough to give him hope, and
help him in his fierce struggle to cast her from his mind and think
only of the solemn services in which he was engaging. He could not
guess that the proud woman who had sailed so majestically into church,
and followed so reverently every prescribed form, bowing in the creed
far lower than ever bow was made before in Hanover, had played him
false and was the dark shadow in his path.
That day was a trying one for Arthur, for, just as the chant was ended
and the psalter was beginning, a handsome carriage dashed up to the
door, and, had he been wholly blind, he would have known, by the
sudden sound of turning heads and the suppressed hush which ensued,
that a perfect hailstorm of dignity was entering St. Mark's.
It was the Hethertons, from Prospect Hill, whose arrival in town had
been so long expected. Mrs. Hetherton, who, more years ago than she
cared to remember, was born in Hanover, but who had lived most of her
life either in Paris, New York or New Orleans and who this year had
decided to fit up her father's old place, and honor it with her
presence for a few weeks at least; also, Fanny Hetherton, a brilliant
brunette, into whose intensely black eyes no one could long look, they
were so bright, so piercing, and seemed so thoroughly to read one's
inmost thoughts; also, Colonel Hetherton, who had served in the
Mexican war, and, retiring on the glory of having once led a forlorn
hope, now obtained his living by acting as attendant on his
fashionable wife and daughter; also, young Dr. Simon Bellamy who,
while obedient to the flashing of Miss Fanny's black eyes, still found
stolen opportunities for glancing at the fifth and last remaining
member of the party, filing up the aisle to the large, square pew,
where old Judge Howard used to sit, and which was still owned by his
daughter. Mrs. Hetherton liked being late at church, and so,
notwithstanding that the Colonel had worked himself into a tempest of
excitement, had tied and untied her bonnet-strings half a dozen times,
changed her rich basquine for a thread lace mantilla, and then, just
as the bell from St. Mark's gave forth its last note, and her
husband's impatience was oozing out in sundry little oaths, sworn
under his breath, she produced and fitted on her fat, white hands a
new pair of Alexander's, keeping herself as cool, and quiet, and
ladylike as if outside upon the graveled walk there was no wrathful
husband threatening to drive off and leave her, if she did not "quit
her cussed vanity, and come along."
Such was the Hetherton party, and they created quite as great a
sensation as Mrs. Hetherton could desire, first upon the commoners,
the people nearest the door, who rented the cheaper pews; then upon
those farther up the aisle, and then upon Mrs. Meredith, who,
attracted by the rustling of heavy silk and aristocratic perfume
emanating from Mrs. Hetherton's handkerchief, slightly turned her head
at first, and, as the party swept by, stopped her reading entirely and
involuntarily started forward, while a smile of pleasure flitted
across her face as Fanny's black, saucy eyes took her, with others,
within their range of vision, and Fanny's black head nodded a quick
nod of recognition. The Hethertons and Mrs. Meredith were evidently
friends, and in her wonder at seeing them there, in stupid Hanover,
the great lady forgot for a while to read, but kept her eyes upon them
all, especially upon the fifth and last mentioned member of the party,
the graceful little blonde, whose eyes might have caught their hue
from the deep blue of the summer sky, and whose long, silken curls
fell in a golden shower beneath the fanciful French hat. She was a
beautiful young creature, and even Anna Ruthven leaned forward to look
at her as she shook out her airy muslin and dropped into her seat. For
a moment the little coquettish head bowed reverently, but at the first
sound of the rector's voice it lifted itself up quickly, and Anna saw
the bright color which rushed into her cheeks and the eager joy which
danced in the blue eyes, fixed so earnestly upon the rector, who, at
sight of her, started suddenly and paused an instant in his reading.
Who was she, and what was she to Arthur Leighton? Anna asked herself,
while, by the fierce pang which shot through her heart, as she watched
the stranger and the clergyman, she knew that she loved the rector of
St. Mark's, even if she doubted it before.
Anna was not an ill-tempered girl, but the sight of those gay city
people annoyed her, and when, at she sang the Jubilate Deo, she saw
the soft blue orbs of the blonde and the coal-black eyes of the
brunette, turning wonderingly toward her, she was conscious of
returning their glance with as much of scorn as it was possible for
her to show. Anna tried to ask forgiveness for that feeling in the
prayers which followed; but, when the services were over, and she saw
a little figure in blue and white flitting up the aisle to where
Arthur, still in his robes, stood waiting for her, an expression upon
his face which she could not define, she felt that she had prayed in
vain; and, with a bitterness she had never before experienced, she
watched the meeting between them, growing more and more bitter as she
saw the upturned face, the wreathing of the rosebud lips into the
sweetest of smiles, and the tiny white hand, which Arthur took and
held while he spoke words she would have given much to hear.
"Why do I care? It's nothing to me," she thought, and, with a proud
step, she was leaving the church, when her aunt, who was shaking hands
with the Hethertons, signed for her to join her.
The blonde was now coming down the aisle with Mr. Leighton, and
joined the group just as Anna was introduced as "My niece, Miss Anna
Ruthven."
"Oh, you are the Anna of whom I have heard so much from Ada Fuller.
You were at school together in Troy," Miss Fanny said, her searching
eyes taking in every point as if she were deciding how far her new
acquaintance was entitled to the praise she had heard bestowed upon
her.
"I know Miss Fuller--yes;" and Anna bowed haughtily, turning next to
the blonde, Miss Lucy Harcourt, who was telling Colonel Hetherton how
she had met Mr. Leighton first among the Alps, and afterwards traveled
with him until the party returned to Paris, where he left them for
America.
"I was never so surprised in my life as I was to find him here. Why,
it actually took my breath for a moment," she went on, "and I greatly
fear that, instead of listening to his sermon, I have been roaming
amid that Alpine scenery and basking again in the soft moonlight of
Venice. I heard you singing, though," she said, when Anna was
presented to her, "and it helped to keep up the illusion--it was so
like the music heard from a gondola that night, when Mr. Leighton and
myself made a voyage through the streets of Venice. Oh, it was so
beautiful," and the blue eyes turned to Mr. Leighton for confirmation
of what the lips had uttered.
"Which was beautiful?--Miss Ruthven's singing or that moonlight night
in Venice?" young Bellamy asked, smiling down upon the little lady who
still held Anna's hand, and who laughingly replied:
"Both, of course, though the singing is just now freshest in my
memory. I like it so much. You must have had splendid teachers," and
she turned again to Anna, whose face was suffused with blushes as she
met the rector's eyes, for to his suggestions and criticisms and
teachings she owed much of that cultivation which had so pleased and
surprised the stranger.
"Oh, yes, I see it was Arthur. He tried to train me once, and told me
I had a squeak in my voice. Don't you remember?--those frightfully
rainy days in Rome?" Miss Harcourt said, the Arthur dropping from her
lips as readily as if they had always been accustomed to speak it.
She was a talkative, coquettish little lady, but there was something
about her so genuine and cordial, that Anna felt the ice thawing
around her heart, and even returned the pressure of the snowy fingers
which had twined themselves around her, as Lucy rattled on until the
whole party left the church. It had been decided that Mrs. Meredith
should call at Prospect Hill as early as Tuesday, at least; and, still
holding Anna's hand Miss Harcourt whispered to her the pleasure it
would be to see her again.
"I know I am going to like you. I can tell directly I can see a
person--can't I Arthur?" and, kissing her hand to Mrs. Meredith, Anna,
and the rector, too, she sprang into the carriage, and was whirled
rapidly away.
"Who is she?" Anna asked, and Mr. Leighton replied:
"She is an orphan niece of Colonel Hetherton's, and a great heiress, I
believe, though I never paid much attention to the absurd stories told
concerning her wealth."
"You met in Europe?" Mrs. Meredith said, and he replied:
"Yes, she has been quite an invalid, and has spent four years abroad,
where I accidentally met her. It was a very pleasant party, and I was
induced to join it, though I was with them in all not more than four
months."
He told this very rapidly, and an acute observer would have seen that
he did not care particularly to talk of Lucy Harcourt, with Anna for
an auditor. She was walking very demurely at his side, pondering in
her mind the circumstances which could have brought the rector and
Lucy Harcourt into such familiar relations as to warrant her calling
him Arthur and appear so delighted to see him.
"Can it be there was anything between them?" she thought, and her
heart began to harden against the innocent Lucy, at that very moment
chatting so pleasantly of her and of Arthur, too, replying to Mrs.
Hetherton, who suggested that Mr. Leighton would be more appropriate
for a clergyman.
"I shall say Arthur, for he told me I might that time we were in Rome.
I could not like him as well if I called him Mr. Leighton. Isn't he
splendid, though, in his gown, and wasn't his sermon grand?"
"What was the text?" asked Dr. Bellamy, mischievously, and, with a
toss of her golden curls and a merry twinkle of her eyes, Lucy
replied, "Simon, Simon, lovest thou me?"
Quick as a flash of lightning the hot blood mounted to the doctor's
face, while Fanny cast upon him a searching glance as if she would
read him through. Fanny Hetherton would have given much to know the
answer which Dr. Simon Bellamy mentally gave to that question, put by
one whom he had known but little more than three months. It was not
fair for Lucy to steal away all Fanny's beaux, as she surely had been
doing ever since her feet touched the soil of the New World, and truth
to tell, Fanny had borne it very well, until young Dr. Bellamy showed
signs of desertion. Then the spirit of resistance was roused, and she
watched her lover narrowly, gnashing her teeth sometimes when she saw
his ill-concealed admiration for her sprightly little cousin, who
could say and do with perfect impunity so many things which in another
would have been improper to the last degree. She was a tolerably
correct reader of human nature, and, from the moment she witnessed the
meeting between Lucy and the rector of St. Marks, she took courage,
for she readily guessed the channel in which her cousin's preference
ran. The rector, however, she could not read so well; but few men she
knew could withstand the fascinations of her cousin, backed as they
were, by the glamour of half a million; and, though her mother, and,
possibly, her father, too, would be shocked at the _mésalliance_ and
throw obstacles in the way, she was capable of removing them all, and
she would do it, too, sooner than lose the only man she had ever cared
for. These were Fanny's thoughts as she rode home from church that
Sunday afternoon, and, by the time Prospect Hill was reached, Lucy
Harcourt could not have desired a more powerful ally than she
possessed in the person of her resolute, strong-willed cousin.