"I'll tell thee a part,
Of the thoughts that start
To being when thou art nigh."
--Shelley.
The next day is Sunday, and a very muggy, disagreeable one it proves.
There is an indecision about it truly irritating. A few drops of rain
here and there, a threatening of storm, but nothing positive. Finally,
at eleven o'clock, just as they have given up all hope of seeing any
improvement, it clears up in a degree,--against its will,--and allows
two or three depressed and tearful sunbeams to struggle forth, rather
with a view to dishearten the world than to brighten it.
Sunday at Herst is much the same as any other day. There are no rules,
no restrictions. In the library may be found volumes of sermons waiting
for those who may wish for them. The covers of those sermons are as
clean and fresh to-day as when they were placed on their shelves, now
many years ago, showing how amiably they _have_ waited. You may
play billiards if you like; you need not go to church if you don't
like. Yet, somehow, when at Herst, people always do go,--perhaps
because they needn't, or perhaps because there is such a dearth of
amusements.
Molly, who as yet has escaped all explanation with Tedcastle, coming
down-stairs, dressed for church, and looking unusually lovely, finds
almost all the others assembled before her in the hall, ready to start.
Laying her prayer-books upon a table, while with one hand she gathers
up the tail of her long gown, she turns to say a word or two to Lady
Stafford.
At this moment both Luttrell and Shadwell move toward the books.
Shadwell, reaching them first, lays his hand upon them.
"You will carry them for me?" says Molly, with a bright smile to him;
and Luttrell, with a slight contraction of the brow, falls back again,
and takes his place beside Lady Stafford.
As the church lies at the end of a pleasant pathway through the woods,
they elect to walk it; and so in twos and threes they make their way
under the still beautiful trees.
"It is cold, is it not?" Molly says to Mrs. Darley once, when they come
to an open part of the wood, where they can travel in a body;
"wonderfully so for September."
"Is it? I never mind the cold, or--or anything," rejoins Mrs. Darley,
affectedly, talking for the benefit of the devoted Mottie, who walks
beside her, "laden with golden grain," in the shape of prayer-books and
hymnals of all sorts and sizes, "if I have any one with me that suits
me; that is, a sympathetic person."
"A lover you mean?" asks uncompromising Molly. "Well, I don't know; I
think that is about the time, of all others, when I should object to
feeling cold. One's nose has such an unpleasant habit of getting beyond
one's control in the way of redness; and to feel that one's cheeks are
pinched and one's lips blue is maddening. At such times I like my own
society best."
"And at other times, too," said Philip, disagreeably; "this morning,
for instance." He and Molly have been having a passage of arms, and he
has come off second best.
"I won't contradict you," says Molly, calmly; "it would be rude, and,
considering how near we are to church, unchristian."
"A pity you cannot recollect your Christianity on other occasions,"
says he, sneeringly.
"You speak with feeling. How have I failed toward _you_ in
Christian charity?"
"Is it charitable, is it kind to scorn a fellow-creature as you do,
only because he loves you?" Philip says, in a low tone.
Miss Massereene is first honestly surprised, then angry. That Philip
has made love to her now and again when opportunity occurred is a fact
she does not seek to deny, but it has been hitherto in the careless,
half-earnest manner young men of the present day affect when in the
society of a pretty woman, and has caused her no annoyance.
That he should now, without a word of warning (beyond the slight
sparring-match during their walk, and which is one of a series), break
forth with so much vehemence and apparent sense of injury, not only
alarms but displeases her; whilst some faint idea of treachery on her
own part toward her betrothed, in listening to such words, fills her
with distress.
There is a depth, an earnestness, about Philip not to be mistaken. His
sombre face has paled, his eyes do not meet hers, his thin nostrils are
dilated, as though breathing were a matter of difficulty; all prove him
genuinely disturbed.
To a man of his jealous, passionate nature, to love is a calamity. No
return, however perfect, can quite compensate him for all the pains and
fears his passion must afford. Already Philip's torture has begun;
already the pangs of unrequited love have seized upon him.
"I wish you would not speak to me like--as--in such a tone," Molly
says, pettishly and uneasily. "Latterly, I hate going anywhere with
you, you are so ill-tempered; and now to-day---- Why cannot you be
pleasant and friendly, as you used to be when I first came to Herst?"
"Ah, why indeed?" returns he, bitterly.
At this inauspicious moment a small rough terrier of Luttrell's rushes
across their path, almost under their feet, bent on some mad chase
after a mocking squirrel; and Philip, maddened just then by doubts and
the coldness of her he loves, with the stick he carries strikes him a
quick and sudden blow; not heavy, perhaps, but so unexpected as to draw
from the pretty brute a sharp cry of pain.
Hearing a sound of distress from his favorite, Luttrell turns, and,
seeing him shrinking away from Molly's side, casts upon her a glance
full of the liveliest reproach, that reduces her very nearly to the
verge of tears. To be so misunderstood, and all through this tiresome
Philip, it is too bad! As, under the circumstances, she cannot well
indulge her grief, she does the next best thing, and gives way to
temper.
"Don't do that again," she says, with eyes that flash a little through
their forbidden tears.
"Why?" surprised in his turn at her vehemence; "it isn't your dog; it's
Luttrell's."
"No matter whose dog it is; don't do it again. I detest seeing a poor
brute hurt, and for no cause, but merely as a means to try and rid
yourself of some of your ill-temper."
"There is more ill-temper going than mine. I beg your pardon, however.
I had no idea you were a member of the Humane Society. You should study
the bearing-rein question, and vivisection, and--that," with a sullen
laugh.
"Nothing annoys me so much as wanton cruelty to dumb animals."
"There are other--perhaps mistakenly termed--superior animals on whom
even _you_ can inflict torture," he says, with a sneer. "All your
tenderness must be reserved for the lower creation. You talk of
brutality: what is there in all the earth so cruel as a woman? A
lover's pain is her joy."
"You are getting out of your depth,--I cannot follow you," says Molly,
coldly. "Why should you and I discuss such a subject as lovers? What
have we in common with them? And it is a pity, Philip, you should allow
your anger to get so much the better of you. When you look savage, as
you do now, you remind me of no one so much as grandpapa. And _do_
recollect what an odious old man he makes."
This finishes the conversation. He vouchsafes her no reply. To be
considered like Mr. Amherst, no matter in how far-off a degree, is a
bitter insult. In silence they continue their walk; in silence reach
the church and enter it.
It is a gloomy, antiquated building, primitive in size, and form, and
service. The rector is well-meaning, but decidedly Low. The curate is
unmeaning, and abominably slow. The clerk does a great part of the
duty.
He is an old man, and regarded rather in the light of an institution in
this part of the county. Being stone deaf, he puts in the responses
anyhow, always in the wrong place, and never finds out his mistake
until he sees the clergyman's lips set firm, and on his face a look of
patient expectation, when he coughs apologetically, and says them all
over again.
There is an "Amen" in the middle of every prayer, and then one at the
end. This gives him double trouble, and makes him draw his salary with
a clear conscience. It also creates a lively time for the
school-children, who once at least on every Sunday give way to a loud
burst of merriment, and are only restored to a sense of duty by a
severe blow administered by the sandy-haired teacher.
It is a good old-fashioned church too, where the sides of the pews are
so high that one can with difficulty look over them, and where the
affluent man can have a real fire-place all to himself, with a real
poker and tongs and shovel to incite it to a blaze every now and again.
Here, too, without rebuke the neighbors can seize the opportunity of
conversing with each other across the pews, by standing on tiptoe, when
occasion offers during the service, as, for instance, when the poor-box
is going round. And it _is_ a poor-box, and no mistake,--flat,
broad, and undeniable pewter, at which the dainty bags of a city chapel
would have blushed with shame.
When the clergyman goes into the pulpit every one instantly blows his
or her nose, and coughs his or her loudest before the text is given
out, under a mistaken impression that they can get it all over at once,
and not have to do it at intervals further on. This is a compliment to
the clergyman, expressing their intention of hearing him undisturbed to
the end, and, I suppose, is received as such.
It is an attentive congregation,--dangerously so, for what man but
blunders in his sermon now and then? And who likes being twitted on
week-days for opinions expressed on Sundays, more especially if he has
not altogether acted up to them! It is a suspicious congregation too
(though perhaps not singularly so, for I have perceived others do the
same), because whenever their priest names a chapter and verse for any
text he may choose to insert in his discourse, instantly and with
avidity each and all turn over the leaves of their Bibles, to see if it
be really in the identical spot mentioned, or whether their pastor has
been lying. This action may not be altogether suspicion; it may be also
thought of as a safety-valve for their _ennui_, the rector never
letting them off until they have had sixty good minutes of his valuable
doctrine.
All the Herst party conduct themselves with due discretion save Mr.
Potts, who, being overcome by the novelty of the situation and the
length of the sermon, falls fast asleep, and presently, at some
denunciatory passage, pronounced in a rather distinct tone by the
rector, rousing himself with a precipitate jerk, sends all the
fire-irons with a fine clatter to the ground, he having been most
unhappily placed nearest the grate.
"The ruling passion strong in death," says Luttrell, with a despairing
glance at the culprit; whereupon Molly nearly laughs outright, while
the school-children do so quite.
Beyond this small _contre-temps_, however, nothing of note occurs;
and, service being over, they all file decorously out of the church
into the picturesque porch outside, where they stand for a few minutes
interchanging greetings with such of the county families as come within
their knowledge.
With a few others too, who scarcely come within that aristocratic pale,
notably Mrs. Buscarlet. She is a tremendously stout, distressingly
healthy woman, quite capable of putting her husband in a corner of her
capacious pocket, which, by the bye, she insists on wearing outside her
gown, in a fashion beloved of our great-grandmothers, and which, in a
modified form, last year was much affected by our own generation.
This alarming personage greets Marcia with the utmost _bonhommie_,
being apparently blind to the coldness of her reception. She greets
Lady Stafford also, who is likewise at freezing-point, and then gets
introduced to Molly. Mrs. Darley, who even to the uninitiated Mrs.
Buscarlet appears a person unworthy of notice, she lets go free, for
which favor Mrs. Darley is devoutly grateful.
Little Buscarlet himself, who has a weakness for birth, in that he
lacks it, comes rambling up to them at this juncture, and tells them,
with many a smirk, he hopes to have the pleasure of lunching with them
at Herst, Mr. Amherst having sent him a special invitation, as he has
something particular to say to him; whereupon Molly, who is nearest to
him, laughs, and tells him she had no idea such luck was in store for
her.
"You are the greatest hypocrite I ever met in my life," Sir Penthony
says in her ear, when Buscarlet, smiling, bowing, radiant, has moved
on.
"I am not indeed; you altogether mistake me," Molly answers. "If you
only knew how his anxiety to please, and Marcia's determination
_not_ to be pleased, amuse me, you would understand how thoroughly
I enjoy his visits."
"I ask your pardon. I had no idea we had a student of human nature
among us. Don't study _me_, Miss Massereene, or it will unfit you
for further exertions; I am a living mass of errors."
"Alas that I cannot contradict you!" says Cecil, with a woful sigh, who
is standing near them.
Mr. Amherst, who never by any chance darkens the doors of a church,
receives them in the drawing-room on their return. He is in an amiable
mood and pleased to be gracious. Seizing upon Mr. Buscarlet, he carries
him off with him to his private den, so that for the time being there
is an end of them.
"For all small mercies," begins Mr. Potts, solemnly, when the door has
closed on them; but he is interrupted by Lady Stafford.
"'Small,' indeed," grumbles she. "What do you mean? I shan't be able to
eat my lunch if that odious little man remains, with his 'Yes, Lady
Stafford;' 'No, Lady Stafford;' 'I quite agree with your ladyship,' and
so on. Oh, that I could drop my title!"--this with a glance at Sir
Penthony;--"at all events while he is present." This with another and
more gracious glance at Stafford. "Positively I feel my appetite going
already, and that is a pity, as it was an uncommonly good one."
"Cheer up, dear," says Molly; "and remember there will be dinner later
on. Poor Mr. Buscarlet! There must be something wrong with me, because
I cannot bring myself to think so disparagingly of him as you all do."
"I am sorry for you. Not to know Mr. Buscarlet's little peculiarities
of behavior argues yourself unknown," Marcia says, with a good deal of
intention. "And I presume they cannot have struck you, or you would
scarcely be so tolerant."
"He certainly sneezes very incessantly and very objectionably," Molly
says, thoughtfully. "I hate a man who sneezes publicly; and his sneeze
is so unpleasant,--so exactly like that of a cat. A little wriggle of
the entire body, and then a little soft--splash!"
"My _dear_ Molly!" expostulates Lady Stafford.
"But is it not?" protests she; "is it not an accurate description?"
"Yes, its accuracy is its fault. I almost thought the man was in the
room."
"And then there is Mrs. Buscarlet: I never saw any one like Mrs.
Buscarlet," Maud Darley says, plaintively; "did you? There is so much
of her, and it is all so nasty. And, oh! her voice! it is like wind
whistling through a key-hole."
"Poor woman," says Luttrell, regretfully, "I think I could have
forgiven her had she not worn that very verdant gown."
"My dear fellow, I thought the contrast between it and her cheeks the
most perfect thing I ever saw. It is evident you have not got the eye
of an artist," Sir Penthony says, rather unfeelingly.
"I never saw any one so distressingly healthy," says Maud, still
plaintively. "Fat people are my aversion. I don't mind a
comfortable-looking body, but she is much too stout."
"Let us alter that last remark and say she has had too much stout, and
perhaps we shall define her," remarks Tedcastle. "I hate a woman who
shows her food."
"The way she traduced those Sedleys rather amused me," Molly says,
laughing. "I certainly thought her opinion of her neighbors very
pronounced."
"She shouldn't have any opinion," says Lady Stafford, with decision.
"You, my dear Molly, take an entirely wrong view of it. Such people as
the Buscarlets, sprung from nobody knows where, or cares to know,
should be kept in their proper place, and be sat upon the very instant
they develop a desire to progress."
"How can you be so illiberal?" exclaims Molly, aghast at so much
misplaced vehemence. "Why should they not rise with the rest of the
world?"
"Eleanor has quite a _penchant_ for the Buscarlets," says Marcia,
with a sneer; "she has quite adopted them, and either will not, or
perhaps does not, see their enormities."
Nobody cares to notice this impertinence, and Mr. Potts says, gravely:
"Lady Stafford has never forgiven Mrs. Buscarlet because once, at a
ball here, she told her she was looking very '_distangy_.' Is that
not true?"
Cecil laughs.
"Why should not every one have an opinion?" Molly persists. "I agree
with the old song that 'Britons never shall be slaves:' therefore, why
should they not assert themselves? In a hundred years hence they will
have all the manners and airs of we others."
"Then they should be locked up during the intermediate stage," says
Cecil, with an uncompromising nod of her blonde head. "I call them
insufferable; and if Mr. Buscarlet when he comes in again makes himself
agreeable to me--me!--I shall insult him,--that's all! No use arguing
with me, Molly,--I shall indeed." She softens this awful threat by a
merry sweet-tempered little laugh.
"Let us forget the little lawyer and talk of something we all
enjoy,--to-day's sermon, for instance. You admired it, Potts, didn't
you? I never saw any one so attentive in my life," says Sir Penthony.
Potts tries to look as if he had never succumbed during service to
"Nature's sweet restorer;" and Molly says, apologetically:
"How could he help it? The sermon was so long."
"Yes, wasn't it?" agrees Plantagenet, eagerly. "The longest I ever
heard. That man deserves to be suppressed or excommunicated; and the
parishioners ought to send him a round robin to that effect. Odd, too,
how much at sea one feels with a strange prayer-book. One looks for
one's prayer at the top of the page, where it always used to be in
one's own particular edition, and, lo! one finds it at the bottom.
Whatever you may do for the future, Lady Stafford, don't lend me your
prayer-book. But for the incessant trouble it caused me, between losing
my place and finding it again, I don't believe I should have dropped
into that gentle doze."
"Had you ever a prayer-book of your own?" asks Cecil, unkindly.
"Because if so it is a pity you don't air it now and again. I have
known you a great many years,--more than I care to count,--and never,
never have I seen you with the vestige of one. I shall send you a
pocket edition as a Christmas-box."
"Thanks awfully. I shall value it for the giver's sake. And I promise
you that when next we meet--such care shall it receive--even _you_
will be unable to discover a scratch on it."
"Plantagenet, you are a bad boy," says Cecil.
"I thought the choir rather good," Molly is saying; "but why must a man
read the service in a long, slow, tearful tone? Surely there is no good
to be gained by it; and to find one's self at 'Amen' when he is only in
the middle of the prayer has something intolerably irritating about it.
I could have shaken that curate."
"Why didn't you?" says Sir Penthony. "I would have backed you up with
the greatest pleasure. The person I liked best was the old gentleman
with the lint-white locks who said 'Yamen' so persistently in the wrong
place all through; I grew quite interested at last, and knew the exact
spot where it was likely to come in. I must say I admire consistency."
"How hard it is to keep one's attention fixed," Molly says,
meditatively, "and to preserve a properly dismal expression of
countenance! To look solemn always means to look severe, as far as I
can judge. And did you ever notice when a rather lively and secular set
of bars occur in the voluntary, how people cheer up and rouse
themselves, and give way to a little sigh or two? I hope it isn't a
sigh of relief. We feel it's wicked, but we always do it."
"Still studying poor human nature," exclaims Sir Penthony. "Miss
Massereene, I begin to think you a terrible person, and to tremble when
I meet your gaze."
"Well, at all events no one can accuse them of being High Church," says
Mrs. Darley, alluding to her pastors and masters for the time being.
"The service was wretchedly conducted; hardly any music, and not a
flower to speak of."
"My dear! High Church! How could you expect it? Only fancy that curate
intoning!" says Cecil, with a laugh.
"I couldn't," declares Sir Penthony; "so much exertion would kill me."
"That's why he _isn't_ High Church," says Mr. Potts of the curate,
speaking with a rather sweeping air of criticism. "He ain't musical; he
can't intone. Take my word for it, half the clergy are Anglicans merely
because they think they have voices, and feel what a loss the world
will sustain if it don't hear them."
"Oh, what a malicious remark!" says Molly, much disgusted.
Here the scene is further enlivened by the reappearance of Mr. Amherst
and the lawyer, which effectually ends the conversation and turns their
thoughts toward the dining-room.