A Sunday's Experiences
Catherine Carmichael was up and dressed next day fully two hours before
any one else was stirring in Woodley Villa. Then she said her prayers,
and read her Bible, and still had plenty of time left for the writing of
her letter.
Softly opening the bedroom window, which was in the front of the house,
she placed her desk on a small table, and sat down where she could feel
the fresh wind and look out occasionally over the country scene.
A September sunrise, and an open window! Mrs. Arderne would have been
horrified at Catherine's imprudence, but to this girl an open-air life
had been natural in all weathers, and for early hours she had a strong
preference.
'Before breakfast' was always her thinking-time. She was of opinion that
men and women need leisure in which to reflect upon their lives, and to
remember both the high purpose and the unimportance of earthly
existence. Beginning the day thus, with happy realization of the
creature's indebtedness to the Creator, she found daily crosses and
perplexities much easier to bear with serenity, while joys and innocent
pleasures acquired double powers of satisfaction, by being hallowed with
foreseeing gratitude.
The country was very quiet at this early hour of the Sabbath; no
agricultural workers were abroad, and smoke had scarcely begun to issue
from the picturesquely irregular chimneys of the village. In front of
the villa were fields, pasture land upon which grazed some venerable
horses, and across which a path wound away to a distant wood. Over the
trees hung a pearl-tinted mist, which the sunshine was beginning to
dispel. When, presently, the sun contrived to peep between two barriers
of cloud, the wood gleamed golden and gorgeous, as the light struck upon
its copper beeches.
Catherine unconsciously smiled at the loveliness spread out before her
eyes, and remembered the words of a poet:
'What sweeter aid my matins could befall
Than this fair glory from the East hath made?
What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of All,
To bid us feel and see! We are not free
To say we see not, for the glory comes,
Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea.'
Then she took up her pen and began to write to Brian.
This was no hard task, for she knew that he liked her letters to be
rambling and unstudied, consisting of sentences from her heart, just as
she loved best to make them. All her pure girl's fancies and imaginings
about the higher life, all her tender anxieties--on the subject of
himself usually--her fears for his health, and longings for his complete
understanding of God, all her merry discoveries in her daily life, all
the kindnesses she received, all her hopes for the future, these were
written down simply for his interest. Fortunately, Brian North could be
trusted to appreciate and reverence Catherine's sincerity. The letter,
when written, was a precious revelation of a good woman's very soul.
Probably the 'good woman' herself would never guess how large an effect
her letters wrought upon Brian's heart and intellect, how he was
learning to accept her ideas, see God through her eyes, and exchange
his worldly ambitions for her lofty content with aspirations infinitely
nobler.
She was quite unconsciously setting him a lovable model of a Christian
life, as all God-serving girls should be able to do for those who are
dear to them.
Her pen flew over the several sheets of paper, until she felt satisfied
that her lover had been given a really accurate description of her new
experiences at Beverbridge. She had honestly tried not to allow her
great affection for Uncle Jack to prejudice her in writing of Uncle
Ross, yet she wanted Brian to be prepared to be devoted to the former.
Mrs. Arderne's suggestion that Brian would not approve of his
betrothed's acceptance of Redan Cottage as 'home' scarcely occurred to
Catherine this morning. She had not the least doubt that she had acted
in the best way in regard to Uncle Jack's offer, and so, loyally, she
felt certain that Brian must agree with her when he considered the
subject.
The letter, though of even unusual length, was finished some time before
the hour for breakfast, so Catherine began to write another to her
cousin George in Melbourne, the cousin who had been in the same regiment
with poor Loring Carmichael.
After sending messages to George's relatives, and giving him a spirited
account of her experiences in London, describing the sights she had
seen, she continued as follows:
'Do you remember that you used to call me "the most meddlesome of
girls"?--that year when I tried to reconcile my stepfather and his men.
Well, I am going to be meddlesome again, for I want, if God will let me,
to make peace between our two English uncles. Would you believe that
they are living in different houses in the same neighbourhood, and are
still estranged because of Loring's choice of a profession? Yet I can
see that they both desire to be friends again, if once their pride
could be overcome. Now that Loring is dead, Uncle Jack must partly
regret having persuaded him to be a soldier, and Uncle Ross should be
able to forgive the choice, especially as he has been chiefly to blame
for the strength to which this foolish family feud has attained. If you
can tell me anything, George, about Loring's death, since you, his
friend, were with him when he fell, I might be fortunate enough to
effect a reconciliation through their mutual interest in the news. Did
Loring send no messages to either uncle? Please let me know all you
know, for I, being on the spot, can perhaps make good use of the
knowledge.'
This letter was also finished, and the envelope addressed and stamped,
before the breakfast bell sounded.
Catherine ran downstairs, to find Ted and Toddie awaiting her in the
dining-room, two solemn-faced little people, wearing their best frocks,
and standing side by side, hand in hand, on the hearth-rug.
'We've been _vewwy_ good, an' we're so tired wiv it,' announced Toddie,
with emphasis.
'We didn't fink muvver was ever comin', nor you, nor bweakfast,'
explained Ted. 'Bweakfast comed first though, an' we didn't peep one bit
under the cover, did we, Toddie?'
'No, but it's sausages, I fink, 'cause it smells like it.'
'Then you comed next, dearie Carr, an' we won't have to be good no
longer.'
Ted's face was roguish again, and he scrambled on to Catherine's knee as
she sat down in the arm-chair, while Toddie, regardless of her Sunday
dress, sank down in a happy heap on the rug at her feet.
'Not good any more! Oh, Ted, you know I always want you to be good!' she
exclaimed, trying to preserve discipline.
'Oh yes, of course!' cried the culprit, 'only the nurse says "Be vewwy
good children," when she just wants us not to cwumple our clothes. _You_
don't do that. _You_ don't like us best when we're _stiff_, does you,
Carr?'
'You mustn't spoil your nice clothes on purpose, Ted and Toddie, but
you--you needn't keep on remembering them. Why, they are sensibly-chosen
clothes, they will not easily take harm. Some poor little children are
always dressed in silks and satins, so grand that they are expected to
take great care of them, but your kind mamma likes you to be happy and
able to romp about.'
'_Silks an' satins!_' repeated Toddie. 'Gwacious!--_wouldn't_ we cwumple
them all up!'
Mrs. Arderne came into the room, and found the usual picture awaiting
her vision--Catherine and the babies laughing together, clinging
together, perfectly happy in their merriment.
'Ah, chickies, plaguing "Carr" again. Catherine, dear, in a weak moment
yesterday I promised those infants that they should spend Sunday with
us, and come to church.'
'We'll be _vewwy_ good.'
'We'll twy dreffully hard not to laugh.'
Catherine kissed them both as she lifted them comfortably on to their
chairs close to the table.
'You must promise faithfully not to talk in church, children, not even
if there is a funny-looking old lady in front of you, or any naughty
little boys try to make you laugh at them.'
'Not if there's anover lady who can't find her pocket, Carr?'
'Or an old, old man wiv a spider cweeping up his back?'
'Not for any reason at all. You must promise to try to remember all the
time that you are in church to please God, not to amuse yourselves.'
'But we mustn't speak pwayers out loud.'
'Muvver, you don't always 'member, _does_ you?'
'I'se _sure_ muvver doesn't, 'cause once she laughed an' spoke to Carr
something about bonnets,' cried Toddie delightedly.
'Now you are beginning to talk too much, and about matters you do not
properly understand,' said Miss Carmichael quickly. 'Say grace, and eat
your breakfasts, dears.'
The mother and children, and the companion, sallied forth early to find
the village church. Ted and Toddie walked most demurely, one on either
side of Catherine, sometimes uttering their quaint criticisms of the
people and objects they passed, and proudly carrying their Prayer-books,
so that their own destination was plainly intimated to all persons
curious on the subject.
'Won't look as though we was goin' no wicked walk,' explained Toddie.
The church proved to be quite a long walk away. It was a beautiful old
grey brick building, wreathed and wrapped round by ivies of many
species, and stood, in the midst of its little graveyard, on the summit
of a hill. Two roads approached it from different sides of the country,
and there was also a much-used footpath leading from a vista of
park-like meadows to the vestry door.
By this path came the clergyman, a venerable-looking gentleman, whom
Catherine guessed to be the Mr. Burnley of whom her uncles had told her
many years ago.
Just as Catherine passed at the wicket-gate of the churchyard she became
aware of the approach of Mr. Ross Carmichael, who had just stepped out
of his carriage. It was a rare event for him to be seen in the precincts
of a church. The tall, straight old gentleman was dressed with his
accustomed care, from the glossy hat to the perfectly-fitting _Suede_
gloves, and the white 'spats' over patent-leather boots. Catherine
noticed that his step was very firm, unlike that of Uncle Jack, who was
approaching from a greater distance, coming slowly uphill, beside
Agatha's wheel-chair, which Robert was pushing. The military uncle's
face had none of the deep lines which creased that of the business man,
yet he seemed the elder and less strong, and his moustache was quite as
silvery as was the other's short beard.
Probably Uncle Ross was aware of the approach of Uncle Jack, for he
advanced quickly to greet his niece, who introduced him to Mrs. Arderne.
'This is a pleasure. I trust you will add to it by helping to fill my
pew.'
Now this invitation could not easily be refused, though Catherine
reflected regretfully that her other relative might object to her having
accepted it. Mrs. Arderne settled the question by answering gratefully:
'That is exceedingly kind of you, Mr. Carmichael. It is sometimes so
difficult for strangers to find good seats in country churches. I only
hope that the children will do nothing to make you regret your
considerate offer.'
Ted and Toddie were gazing in an awe-stricken manner up into the face of
the austere-looking, handsome old gentleman, who now shook hands
ceremoniously with them both.
Uncle Jack and Agatha were nearly at the gate by this time. Uncle Ross,
after a glance over his shoulder, lingered outside the porch to ask:
'Catherine, I am anxious for another talk with you. Can you come to see
me to-morrow? Will you be able to spare her, Mrs. Arderne?'
'Oh, certainly.'
'I will walk up in the afternoon then,' said the girl; adding, with a
laugh and a blush, 'and if by any happy chance Brian should run down
to-morrow to see me, may I bring him also?'
'It will gratify me to make his acquaintance. Excuse my leading the way
into church.'
Uncle Jack and Agatha were not more than twelve steps behind now, but
Catherine could not refuse to follow Uncle Ross through the porch and up
the aisle. Ted and Toddie peeped across her skirts at one another, and
murmured, '_Dwefful_!'
'I will speak to Uncle Jack at all costs, even if I have to appear rude
to Uncle Ross, after service,' Catherine decided.
She tried her utmost to forget her family quarrel, at least its
difficulties and perplexing incidents, while she listened to the sermon;
and endeavoured, as she prayed for God's help in her effort at
peace-making, not to be conscious of the reproachful glances which
Agatha, from her chair in a side aisle, was directing towards her.
Afterwards, when the congregation had nearly dispersed, Uncle Jack and
Uncle Ross remained in church, each waiting for the other to move first.
Each happened to be resolved not to do so. Uncle Ross wished to prevent
Catherine from speaking to his brother. Uncle Jack was simply determined
to speak to her, as he and Agatha both desired to do so.
At length, when the long wait was becoming ridiculous, and Ted and
Toddie were beginning to fidget, Mr. Ross Carmichael rose, and walking
with more than usual stiffness, led the way out of church. Immediately
the colonel marched out, too, down the side aisle.
The groups joined in the porch, and passed into the open air together.
Catherine saw the two old gentlemen exchange the stiffest of bows, but
her quick eyes noted also the restrained impulse of Uncle Jack's right
hand, and the wistful expression in the gaze with which he regarded his
brother, who was now bending courteously over Agatha's chair, inquiring
after her health.
'I'm tired, and in pain, but then I always am,' said the child
fretfully. 'And I've had a lot of neuralgia lately; the air seems damp
and horrid down in the village, where _we_ live.'
Uncle Ross murmured polite regrets, and after bowing to Mrs. Arderne,
and reminding his niece, 'I shall expect you to-morrow afternoon, then,'
turned away by the footpath across the fields.
By this time Mrs. Arderne and the colonel were chatting together.
Agatha beckoned to Catherine to come near, and whispered:
'You ought to have sat in _our_ seat.'
'No; if I have accepted a "home" from one uncle, surely I may accept the
occasional loan of a pew from the other? You must not be unreasonable,
dear, if you want me to try to effect a reconciliation; you must leave
me free to use my own methods.'
'Horrid old man! and you are going to him to-morrow!'
'Well, I am coming to you to-day. Mrs. Arderne has kindly promised to
spare me this evening.'
'Come early, then, for I want some of you all to myself!'
Ted and Toddie ran up to the side of the wheel-chair at this moment, and
scrutinized Agatha.
'Can't you get up?'
'No.'
'Never mind, though,' said Toddie, anxious to be consoling. 'You look
vewwy nice, an' you must feel comfor'ble. I wish _we_ had sofas in
church. Carr wouldn't let us even kneel back'ards this mornin'.'
''Cause of the stiff old man,' Ted explained. '_Your_ old man's ever so
much nicer!'