Sunday morning was always with the Bracknels a period of disturbance and
confusion. Breakfast was fixed for a particular time, half-past nine it
happened to be, and at this hour everyone was expected to be seated at
the table. Mrs. Bracknel came down first; Rusk also took care not to be
late; but when Mr. Bracknel himself appeared punctually at the first
ringing of the gong, a stormy scene not infrequently followed. For the
others straggled down anyhow, and in varying order, save that Alfred,
sleepy and in a vile temper, inevitably brought up the rear. The gong
sounded repeatedly, sometimes being rung excitedly by Mr. Bracknel in
person--he had once actually overturned it with an immense and startling
clatter--and the air became full of conflicting and angry noises. Yet in
spite of this agitation there was exactly the usual scramble at the last
moment to be in time for church.
Morning church was absolutely obligatory. Nobody was allowed to miss it;
not even the stranger within the gates--Rusk, for example, who had just
re-awakened to this consciousness, a few days after his visit to the
Birches, when through the customary stillness he became aware of the
faint sound of a distant, lonely bell, marking off the passing moments
with uncertain but by no means unmusical beats. As he dressed himself he
looked out through the open window into a perfect summer day, and
marvelled at the regularity with which, Sunday after Sunday, they all
took their seats in the stuffy little building he detested. They would
all be going this morning, he knew, though the garden looked delightful,
and one could never tell how long the fine weather would last.
The Bracknels were Presbyterians, but Rusk had thought it better to go
with them. Such things, even when they were not necessary, he did
easily, thanks to his equable temper, and to a certain inherent desire
to be obliging. To-day there was the usual rush at the last moment. The
atmosphere was heavily charged with a kind of suppressed irritability,
ready at the slightest touch to break out in sparks of temper. Amy in
her haste had split a glove that was possibly a little too small for
her, though she responded bitterly when Alfred made this suggestion: and
Alfred, sulkily brushing his hat, told her not to be a fool, and
wondered that she hadn’t a little sense. Mrs. Bracknel disappeared in
the most exasperating fashion just as they should have been starting
off--she had gone to give some directions to the servants--and her
husband fumed and fretted in the hall, calling to her that they would be
late. It was not till they were half way down the avenue that it was
discovered that Denis was missing. Nobody had seen him; he must either
be in bed still, or else have gone out before anyone else was down. Mr.
Bracknel began to storm, and everyone was hot and unspeakably bored by
the time they reached their destination.
And the service dragged interminably. Mr. Bracknel slept at the end of
the pew. Alfred, to whom sleep was denied, yawned and stretched himself.
Mrs. Bracknel alone appeared to listen to what was going on. Amy, clad
in pale, soft, floating green, and with a huge hat, sat next to Rusk, a
position she had obtained by almost pushing May into the pew first. Rusk
was dressed in a light grey suit, with which he wore a deep violet tie.
His skin was so sunburned as to be several shades darker than his fair
hair. Amy looked, without turning her head, at his handsome profile, at
his well-cut clothes. She sat close to him, closer in fact than was at
all necessary, and when he moved away a little she was annoyed and drew
back herself. He had begun to be constantly present to her thoughts,
both by night and day. She had made a determined effort to attract him.
It seemed to her, in the extraordinary impulsiveness of her nature,
that, if she could not do so, life would not be worth living. She began
to picture a series of imaginary love adventures, while the voice of
the minister sounded persuasively through the building. Her mind
wandered hither and thither. Would her father let her marry him? He had
nothing and his prospects, so far as she knew, were nothing....
The congregation with a unanimous sigh of relief shuffled to its feet.
Amy had determined to walk home with Rusk, but unfortunately she was
doomed to disappointment. While they were yet in the porch May secured
the young Englishman’s attention. “Oh, Mr. Rusk,” she cried, “you never
told us you went in for sketching. I found it out by the merest chance
from Miss Birch. I’m going to make you help _me_, so there.”
Rusk laughed, and his words were inaudible as he and May dropped behind.
Her mother made some remark to her, but Amy did not listen. Her
disappointment was keen. He had not so much as glanced at her, and she
had dressed especially to please him. And it was always like this. At
the last moment May stepped in to take him away from her. She did it out
of spite, not because she cared a straw for him. And now this
“sketching” idea would be for ever coming up. May would use it for all
it was worth. It would be an excuse to get hold of him for hours at a
time. May had not opened her paint-box for months, but Amy was perfectly
convinced that it would be in full evidence to-morrow. They would
probably go on little expeditions together, and, under the pretence of
getting help from him, she would occupy all his spare time. They would
bend over each other’s drawings. They would be for ever putting their
heads together. And May would flatter him: she would pretend to make fun
of him and at the same time contrive to show him how much she was really
influenced by what he said. That had always been May’s method. She was
so good at listening, so sympathetic, so full of involuntary
admiration. She was listening to Rusk now, she was being sympathetic and
involuntarily admiring. And it was all for nothing, all merely to
satisfy her personal vanity, for in reality she was as cold as ice and
had never cared for anybody in her life....
So Amy worked it out, employing, for material was scanty, a good deal of
imagination and ingenuity. On entering the house she went straight
upstairs to her own room to take off her things. Then she sat down at
the window to wait for Rusk and May. There was really very little use in
this; the sole effect it had was to increase her own exasperation; but
presently she saw them slowly sauntering across the lawn, and a little
later she heard May come upstairs and open her bedroom door. Amy rose
deliberately and walked down the passage to her sister’s room. She flung
the door open brusquely, and as May turned round in some surprise she
took a step forward and then stood still. She looked intently at her
unconscious rival, but without speaking a word.
“What is the matter?” May asked, none too agreeably, for she had been
interrupted in the midst of rather pleasant thoughts, and there was
something particularly irritating in the way Amy stood and gazed at her.
“What are you staring at me like that for? You would think I had seven
heads!”
Amy gave a strained, mirthless laugh. “I hope you had a nice walk,” she
said in a jarring voice. “You managed it so beautifully that it would be
a pity if it hadn’t come off well.” All the indescribable crudity of the
poor girl’s nature was in those few words. It was a pitiable exhibition,
but it awakened no pity in May.
“Are you mad? I don’t even know what you are alluding to.”
“No, I’m not mad.”
“Well, I don’t understand what you mean; but I suppose it has something
to do with Mr. Rusk, as usual.”
Amy took a step toward her, almost as if she were about to strike her.
“That’s a lie,” she said in a low, hoarse voice. “I never mention his
name to you.”
May smiled compassionately. “Perhaps not; but as you never think of
anyone else it is hardly necessary. The way you behave about him is too
revolting for words. Why, you almost pushed me off my feet in the aisle
this morning simply to get sitting beside him.”
“I didn’t,” said Amy passionately. “It was you who stood in the way, as
you always do.”
“My dear girl, I wonder you aren’t ashamed. You don’t know how obvious
it all is, even to strangers. Everybody was staring at you.”
“I don’t care how obvious it is, nor what anybody thinks; you least of
all. You saw I was just going to say something to him and you called him
away.”
May broke into a little scornful laugh. “I didn’t call him away. I
suppose he is at liberty to walk home with me if he wants to.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’s at liberty to do anything he likes with you.”
“After that, will you kindly leave my room.”
For all answer Amy sat down on the edge of the bed. A heavy sombre look
overspread her face. “Are you going sketching with him?” she asked in a
low voice, but May did not reply.
“Are you going sketching with him?” Amy asked again.
“It is no concern of yours what I am going to do. I don’t intend to
discuss the matter with you, so you needn’t wait.”
Still her sister made no movement. There was a silence. At last Amy got
up slowly. Her face had a kind of sullen vindictiveness, but she
appeared to be absolutely unashamed of having laid bare her feelings and
of the manner in which she had done so. She went back to her own room
and began to pace up and down the floor, her mind filled with all the
tumult of unreasoning jealousy. There was a curious simplicity about the
girl; something almost elemental. The savage, the primitive, woman in
her was scarcely even veiled. That slender web of convention which
education and environment had so insecurely wrapped around her could be
brushed aside at a touch; and she had nothing, on the other hand, of the
dignity or self-control characteristic of really uncivilized persons.
Yet her impulses were free and natural, untinged by any taint of vice or
corruption. She posed herself now before the mirror and looked long and
intently at her own image reflected there. The heavy masses of her red
hair threw into relief the brilliant fairness of her complexion. She
wondered artlessly why she should not be more desirable than May. She
studied the outline of her form, which was admirably developed, though
the limbs were possibly a little heavy. Her throat was white and strong
and well-modelled, her lips were full and red. It seemed to her that in
every way she was superior to her sister. May was almost
insignificant-looking. She tried to imagine how May could be more
attractive to any man, and failed. It was certainly not in her physical
charms that her fascination lay. To Amy these appeared meagre. And she
moved to and fro before her mirror almost as if she were a slave
exhibiting herself to some hesitating and critical purchaser, and the
result was reassuring. At any rate it was with a less clouded
countenance that she descended the stairs as the deep note of the gong
sounded from the hall below.