it so well; Stasy and I walking home from Blissmore, laughing and
talking--I even remember what we were talking about--how Stasy was
flattering me;" and Blanche's colour deepened a little. "And then to
find poor mamma as she was when we got home! It was dreadful. And yet,
how wonderfully all that side of things has come right! I _should_ be
grateful, and I think I am;" but still she gave a little sigh.
Sir Adam had carried out his scheme. He had taken a house in London for
a part of the season, and had got his god-daughter and her children with
him, excepting Herty, whom it had been thought wiser to leave under Miss
Halliday's care, not to interrupt his lessons.
Just then Stasy joined her sister.
"What are you doing, Blanche?" she said brightly.
"I thought it was against your principles to stand idle at the window.
Even though these lovely London streets are delightful to look out on."
Blanche smiled.
"How you have changed, Stasy! London used to be a synonym with you for
everything dreary and miserable."
"Yes, I daresay. London in November, with a fog, in a horrid hotel, and
without a creature to speak to, isn't exactly the same thing as London
in May, in a bright open street like this, and with--really, I must say,
everything one could reasonably wish to have."
"London means a great many things--worlds and worlds of different
lives," said Blanche soberly. "I was just thinking how bare the trees
are, Stasy, compared with this time last year;" and she reminded her
sister of the date.
Stasy seemed impressed.
"It should make us awfully thankful," she said, "and I'm sure it does.
But I don't quite understand you lately, Blanchie. You so often seem
rather depressed, and just a little gloomy."
She looked at her sister anxiously as she spoke.
"I wonder," she went on--"I wonder if it is that you kept up too well
when we were in such trouble. You were always so cheerful, and I used
to be so cross. Do you remember my raging at Mrs Burgess's caps?"
"No," said Blanche decidedly. "You were always as good as could be. I
don't know how we should have got on without your fun and mischief, and
I know I've grown horrid lately."
"Are you not well, perhaps?" said Stasy. "I don't think you have been
quite yourself for a long time. I remember noticing it first, that
Christmas week at Alderwood, when I did so enjoy myself. Even Lady
Marth couldn't freeze me up."
"On the contrary, I think you're rather a favourite of hers," remarked
Blanche.
"Oh, I don't mind her," said Stasy. "She's not bad, after all; only she
wants to manage every one's affairs for them. I wonder if she'll ever
succeed in her match-making?"
"What do you mean?" said Blanche.
"Oh, you know, you must have forgotten about it. Rosy Milward and
Archie Dunstan, of course."
Blanche turned on her sharply.
"I do hope, Stasy, you're not going to get into that odious habit of
calling men you scarcely know, by their first names."
Stasy opened her eyes very wide.
"I do know him, very well, I consider, and so do you, only you don't
like him. We saw a great deal of him at Christmas time, and _I_ shall
always consider him a true friend, whether you do or not. And so will
mamma, I'm sure; the way he stuck to us, and was so kind to Herty at the
time when no one else troubled their heads about us at all. Indeed, I'm
by no means sure that Sir Adam would have found out about us as he did,
not for a long time anyway, but for Mr Dunstan the younger. Does that
suit you, Blanchie?"
Blanche took no notice of Stasy's sarcasm.
"I know he was very good at that time," she said. "I think he has most
kind and generous impulses, but I don't think his character can be very
deep."
"I think you are perfectly unfair and very censorious," said Stasy
indignantly. "Because you don't personally like the man, and _cannot_
give any good reason for your dislike, you imagine qualities, or no
qualities, to justify your own prejudice."
"Well, what does it matter what I think?" said Blanche, in a tone which
she intended to be light and indifferent. "Rosy Milward's opinion of
him is, I suppose, the thing that signifies."
_Something_ in her voice struck Stasy. She eyed Blanche curiously.
"I don't know that," she said, speaking more slowly than was usual with
her. "I'm not at all sure that Archie Dunstan does care in any special
way what dear Rosy thinks about him."
"Do you not think so?" said Blanche, with involuntary eagerness; but
before Stasy had time to reply, they were interrupted by their mother's
entering the room.
"Quick, dears," she said. "You must get ready. Sir Adam will be
waiting for you."
For the kind old man was devoting himself to "doing" London for his
adopted grand-daughters' benefit, two or three times a week, in the
earlier part of the day.
At that very moment, at no great distance from the spot where Blanche
and Stasy Derwent had been discussing Archie Dunstan's character, the
very person in question was sitting beside Lady Marth in her boudoir,
listening to a very solemn oration discoursed, for his benefit, by that
somewhat dictatorial lady herself.
She had summoned him by a note the evening before, and as he felt
himself in duty bound to obey the behest of an old friend, he had made
his appearance punctually. He was not without some suspicion as to the
nature of the good advice she intended to bestow upon him, but saw no
advantage in evading the interview.
"I must put an end to it, once for all," he thought to himself. "Why
will women meddle in such matters? But Josephine is honest and
trustworthy when she feels herself trusted, so I'd rather have to do
with her than with many would-be match-makers."
So he sat in silence, patiently enough, to all appearance, while Lady
Marth unbosomed herself of what she considered her mission, prefacing
her advice with the usual excuses for interference, on the ground that,
sooner or later, both of the principals concerned would thank her for
having acted as a true friend in the matter.
Archie bent his head in acknowledgment of her kind intentions, but
beyond this, neither by word nor look did he help her out with what she
had to say.
This attitude of his made her task by no means easier. For some little
time she floundered about in unusual embarrassment; but once fairly
under weigh, her words flowed fluently. She dilated on Archie's lonely
position--the advisability of his making up his mind to marry, instead
of remaining a target for the aims of designing mammas or rich
husband-hunting daughters, and possibly some day finding himself pinned
by their well-directed arrows. She hinted at the satisfaction and
security of being cared for, "for himself," and by one who had known him
long and thoroughly, to all of which Archie listened unmoved, with the
utmost deference and attention, till her ladyship at last pulled up
short, partly through breathlessness, partly because, without the
encouragement of a responsive word or gesture, she had really nothing
more to say.
Then he looked up, but nothing in his face helped her to any conclusion
as to the effect of her exordium.
"I must thank you," he said, "for your great interest in my welfare.
Believe me, I shall always remember it." Which statement was certainly
well founded, though the glimmer of a smile danced in his eyes as he
made his little speech.
The smile, however, Lady Marth was too engrossed to perceive.
"But"--and at this word, for the first time, her heart misgave her as to
what was to follow--"but it is best for me at once to make you
understand my position. I am not likely to marry. It seems to me at
present almost certain that I never shall."
"Archie!" exclaimed Lady Marth, startled and surprised, "why not?"
"Simply for this reason. There is only one woman in the world whom I
can imagine myself caring for in that way, and she"--here, even Archies
calm somewhat deserted him--"she," he went on, with a touch of
bitterness quite new to him, "won't have anything to say to me."
"I can scarcely believe it," exclaimed his hearer.
"There _must_ be some mistake!"
"Thank you for the inferred compliment," he replied. "But no--it is
quite true; there is no mistake."
Then a wild idea struck Lady Marth, suggested by her irrepressible
belief in her own powers of discernment.
"You don't mean to say," she began. "Is it possible that we are both
thinking of the same person! It can't be that _Rosy_ has refused you."
Archie laughed, quite unconstrainedly.
"As things are," he said, "I suppose I may be quite frank. Rosy!--oh
dear, no; we are the best of friends, as you are aware, but thoroughly
and completely like brother and sister. And it is by no means
improbable that she suspects the real state of the case, as Hebe is in
my confidence."
"Then who in all the world can it be?" said Lady Marth, completely
nonplussed, "for somehow you seem to infer that it's some one I know."
"I don't mind telling you," said Archie. "You do know her--it is
Blanche Derwent."
For a moment or two Lady Marth did not speak. Then she said, half
timidly:
"It must have been very sudden. You have seen very little of her? Oh
yes, there was that Christmas week at Alderwood."
"It all happened long before then," said Archie.
"It is true, I had not seen much of her, but it doesn't seem to me now
that time is required in such a case. It was soon after they left
Pinnerton, and took up that millinery business."
"Before Sir Adam came home?"
"Of course," said Archie drily.
"And she refused you--_then_?"
"Naturally, as she didn't care for me."
Lady Marth again relapsed into silence. The confusion of ideas in her
mind was too great to find expression in words. She had read of such
things; in novels, perhaps, they seemed credible and rather fine. But
in real life--no, she couldn't take it in.
Archie showed no inclination to say more. He rose, and held out his
hand.
"Good-bye," he said. "Thank you for your interest in me."
"Good-bye," she replied, "and--no, perhaps I had better say nothing.
Except, yes--honestly, Archie, I should like to see you happy."
"Thank you," he repeated.
When Archie found himself in the street again, he looked about him
vaguely, and sauntered on, scarcely knowing why or whither, thinking
over the interview which had just taken place, and recalling, not
without a certain grim humour, Josephine Marth's blank amazement.
Suddenly the sound of his own name not far from him made him start, and
looking up, on the opposite pavement he caught sight of three familiar
figures, Sir Adam and his two "grand-daughters."
"Where are you off to?" said the old man. "You don't look as if you
were bound on anything very important. Come with us--we're going to see
some of the pictures."
Mr Dunstan hesitated.
"Yes, do come," said Stasy, with whom he was on the friendliest of
terms. "Three is no company, you know, and I'm always getting left
behind by myself."
He glanced up, still irresolute, but at that moment he caught Blanche's
eyes, and something--an impalpable something in their blue depths--
brought him to a sudden determination.
"If I won't be in the way," he said, "I should like nothing better."
And the four walked on together.
"Norman," said Lady Hebe that same evening, when they met for a few
moments before dinner in her guardian's house--it was within a week or
two of the date fixed for their marriage--"Norman, I've something
wonderful to tell you. Archie Dunstan rushed in late this afternoon to
see me for a moment--"
"Well?" said Norman, as she paused. "Do you want me to guess?"
"No," said Hebe, "I want to tell you straight off. Archie knew how I
should enjoy doing so. Its all right, Norman--between him and Blanche,
I mean. Just fancy! _Aren't_ you pleased?"
And never had Hebe's face looked happier than as she said the words.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
End of "Blanche."
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
ONE SUNDAY MORNING.
The Rector of a large West-end church was ill. His illness was not very
serious, nor did it threaten to be protracted, but it fell at a bad
moment. It was the middle of the season, the time at which his church
was more crowded than at any other of the year. He was an earnest and
thoughtful man, and one who, despite much discouragement, laboured
energetically to do his best; but on the Friday evening, preceding the
second Sunday in June, he was obliged to acknowledge that for some days
he would be unfit to officiate in his usual place.
"What shall I do?" he said in distress. "What shall I do about the
sermon on Sunday morning? The curates can manage the rest, but it will
be as much as they _can_ do. I cannot ask either of them to prepare
another sermon so hurriedly. And the one I had ready has cost me much
time and thought--I had even built some hopes upon it. One never
knows--"
"Your sermon will keep till another Sunday. That is not the question,"
said his wife.
"No, truly," he agreed, with some bitterness; "my sermon, as you say,
will keep. Nor can I flatter myself that any one will be the loser if
it never be preached at all. Do sermons ever do good, I sometimes ask
myself? Yet many of us--I could almost say most of us--do our best. We
spare neither time nor trouble nor prayer; but all falls on stony
ground, it seems to me. And we are but human--liable to error and
mistake, and but few among us have great gift of eloquence. It is easy,
I know, to pick holes and criticise; but is the fault all on the side of
the sermons, I wonder?"
"You misunderstood me, Reginald," said his wife gently. "No, truly; the
fault must lie in great part with the hearers. All other efforts to
instruct or do good are received with some amount of respect and
appreciation. No popular lecturers, for instance, are listened to with
such indifference or criticised so captiously as the mass of English
clergy. It is the tone of the day, the fashion of the age. Though one
rose from the dead--nay, if an angel from heaven came down to preach one
Sunday morning," she went on with sad impressiveness, "he would be found
fault with, or sneered at, or criticised, and accused of having nothing
to say, or not knowing how to say it; yes, I verily believe it would be
so."
Her husband smiled, though his smile was a melancholy one, at her
earnestness.
"I have it," he exclaimed suddenly; "I will write to Lyle by to-night's
post. He will come if he can, I am sure, and I know he only preaches
occasionally where he is."
The letter was written and despatched. Mr Lyle was a young clergyman
doing assistant duty temporarily at a church in the suburbs while
waiting for a living promised to him. His answer came by return. He
would be glad to do as his friend asked. "But I shall go straight to
Saint X's on Sunday morning," he wrote. "I shall not probably be able
to reach it till the last moment, as I have an early service here. Ask
them to count on me for nothing but the sermon. I shall look in after
the service and shall hope to find you better."
"He will be here at luncheon, then, I suppose?" said the Rector's wife--
Mildred was her name.
"Doubtless; at least you will ask him to come. You can wait to see him
after the service," her husband replied. "With you there he will have
_one_ attentive hearer, I can safely promise him," he added, with a
smile.
"I cannot help listening, even when it is not you, Reginald," she said
naively. "It seems to me only natural to do so and to try to gain
_something_ at least. We cannot expect perfection in sermons surely,
even less than in lesser things. And if the perfection were there,
could we, imperfect as we are, recognise it?"
Sunday morning rose, bright and glowing over the great city--a real
midsummer's day.
"How beautiful it must be in the country to-day!" thought Mildred, as
she made her way to church; "it is beautiful even here in town. I
wonder why I feel so happy to-day. It is greatly, no doubt, that
Reginald is better, and the sunshine is so lovely. When I feel as I do
this morning I _long_ to believe that the world is growing better, not
worse, that the misery, and the ignorance, and the sins are lessening,
however slowly; I feel as if I could give my life to help it on."
There was scarcely any one in the church when she entered and sat down
in her accustomed place. Gradually it filled--up the aisles flecked
with the brilliant colours of the painted windows, as the sunshine made
its way through them, the congregation crowded in, in decorous silence.
There were but few poor, few even of the the so-called working classes,
for Saint X's is in a rich and fashionable neighbourhood, yet there was
diversity enough and of many kinds among those now pressing in through
its doors. There were old, and middle-aged, and young--from the aged
lady on her son's arm, who, as she feebly moved along, said to herself
that this might perhaps be her last attendance at public worship, to the
little round-eyed wondering cherub coming to church for the first time.
There was the anxious mother of a family, who came from a vague feeling
that it was a right and respectable thing to do, though it was but
seldom that she could sufficiently distract her mind from cares and
calculations to take in clearly the sense of the words that fell upon
her ears. There was the man of learning, who smiled indulgently at the
survival of the ancient creeds and customs, while believing them doomed.
There were bright and lovely young faces, whose owners, in the heyday
of youth and prosperity, found it difficult to put aside for the time
the thoughts of present enjoyment for graver matters. There were some
in deep mourning, to whom, on the other hand, it seemed impossible that
aught in life could ever cheer or interest them again.
There were men and women of many different and differing modes of
thought, all assembled for the avowed purpose of praying to God and
praising Him in company, and of listening to the exhortation or
instruction of a man they recognised as empowered to deliver it. And
among them all, how many, think you, prayed from the heart and not only
with the lips? how many thrilled with solemn rejoicing as the beautiful
words of adoration rose with the strains of the organ's tones? how many
ever thought of the "sermon," save as a most legitimate subject for
sharp criticism or indifferent contempt?
The service went on with the usual decorum. From her place Mildred
could see all that passed. She noticed that the two curates were alone
and unaided.
"Mr Lyle cannot yet have come," she thought nervously. "Surely nothing
can have detained him?" and a slight misgiving, lest he should not have
got away in time, began to assail her. But when the moment for
commencing the Communion service came, the sight of a third
white-surpliced figure removed all her apprehensions, and with a sigh of
relief she knelt again, joining her voice to the responses. She
observed that the new-comer took no active part in the service; he
remained kneeling where she had first perceived him. But it seemed to
her that the music and the voices had never sounded so rich and
melodious, and once or twice tones caught her ears which she fancied she
had not before remarked.
"I wonder if it can be Mr Lyle singing," she thought. "I do not
remember if Reginald ever mentioned his having a beautiful voice."
And when the time came for the preacher to ascend the pulpit, she
watched for him with increased interest. It needed but the first few
syllables which fell from his lips to satisfy her that his was the voice
which she had perceived; and with calm yet earnest expectancy she waited
to hear what he had to say.
At the first glance he looked very young. His face was pale, and he was
of a fair complexion. There was nothing in him to strike or attract a
careless or superficial observer. But when the soft yet penetrating
tones of his voice caught the ear, one felt constrained to bestow a
closer attention on the speaker, and this, once given, was not easily
withdrawn. For there was a power in his eyes, though their habitual
expression was mild, such as it would be vain for me to attempt to
describe--a strength and firmness in the lines of the youthful face
which marked him as one not used to speak in vain.
"Is he young?" thought Mildred more than once. "It seems in some way
difficult to believe it, though his features are in no way time-worn;
and those wonderful eyes are as clear and candid as the eyes of a child
that has scarcely yet learned to look out on to this troubled world."
And her perplexity was shared by many among the hearers.
They had settled themselves comfortably to listen or not to listen,
according to their wont, as the preacher ascended the pulpit steps.
A momentary feeling of surprise--in a few cases of disappointment--
passed through the congregation on catching sight of the unfamiliar
face.
"Another new curate, no doubt," thought a portly and pompous
churchwarden. "And what a boy! Well, if the Rector chooses to throw
away his money on three when two are quite enough for the work, it is no
business of ours. Still, it would be more becoming to consult us, and
not to set a beardless youth like that to teach us. I, for one, shall
not irritate myself by listening to his platitudes."
And he ensconsed himself more snugly in his corner to carry out his
intention. But what was there in that vibrating voice that _would_ be
heard?--that so often as Mr Goldmain turned his thoughts in other
directions, drew them back again like a flock of rebellious sheep,
constraining him to hearken? Then his mood changed: annoyed, he knew
not why, he set himself to cavil and object.
"Arrant Socialism!" he called the sermon when describing it afterwards.
"Shallow, superficial, unpractical nonsense, about drawing all classes
together by sympathy and charity. It sounds plausible enough, I
daresay; so did many of the theories and doctrines of the first movers
in the great French Revolution, I have no doubt. No, no! Let each do
his duty in that station of life where God has placed him; that is _my_
interpretation of religion. Our great charitable institutions must be
kept up, of course, so that the _deserving_ poor may be helped when they
really need it; though even among the respectable, in nine cases out of
ten, my dear sir, you may believe me, it's their own fault. But as for
this dream of universal brotherhood, `of the rich mingling in the daily
life of the poor, weeping with them in their sorrows, rejoicing in their
joys,' it is sentimental twaddle. It would revolutionise society, it
would break down all the barriers which keep the masses in their places.
And to have this nonsense preached to us by a chit of a boy, it makes
me lose my temper, I confess. I have not seen our worthy Rector yet,
but when I do, I must tell him plainly that if he is not more careful
whom he puts in his pulpit when he is absent or ill--hypochondriacal
fellow he is, I fancy--I shall look out for seats in some other church
than Saint X's."
Such was Mr Goldmain's impression of the sermon. For though he closed
his eyes in order that those about him might think he was asleep, he did
not succeed in achieving even the shortest of dozes. Nay, more, he felt
as if mentally stung by nettles for the rest of the day, so irritated,
and, though for worlds he would not have confessed it, ill at ease, had
the strange preacher's discourse left him. But the soil of his
conscience was choked with thorns; there was room for naught beside. Mr
Goldmain was of this world, worldly, and such he remained.
He might have spared himself the trouble of thinking of how he appeared
to those around him. They were none of them paying any attention to
him. In the next seat sat some richly-clad ladies of uncertain age.
They had become members of the Saint X's congregation because they had
been told they would find its Rector's views in no way "extreme." For
these worthy women had an exaggerated horror of everything "high," or,
as they expressed it, "verging on papistry." That God could be
worshipped "in spirit and in truth," in any but their own pet
"evangelical" fashion, was a possibility that had not yet suggested
itself to their dull brains. And they too, this Sunday morning, felt a
shock of disapproval when, looking up at the sound of the vibrating
voice, the fair face of the strange preacher met their gaze.