"AT FIRST SIGHT!"
The Church of Saint Peter and the Holy Cross at Wandsborough is full
from end to end for the great service of the forenoon. It is Whitsun
Day and the High Celebration is about to commence.
A noble building is this old parish church, with its splendid chancel
and columned aisles and long spacious nave. Windows, rich in stained
glass, throw a network of colour upon the subdued and chastened light
within, and a great number of saints and martyrs, in glowing pane and
canopied niche, would seem to afford representation of the whole court,
and company of Heaven, whichever way the eye may turn; and here and
there, glimpsed through a foreground of graceful arches, the red gleam
of a lamp suspended in some side chapel imparts an idea of mystery and
awe to the half-darkened recess where it burns.
To-day, the chancel is magnificently decorated. The high altar,
ornamented with a profusion of choice flowers and ablaze with many
lights, stands out a prominent and striking object, and visible to
nearly everybody in the building. Large banners, wrought in exquisite
needlework, setting forth the image of saint, or mystery, or some
historical event in the annals of Christianity, are ranged around the
walls. A perfume of incense is in the air, and, as the great bell
ceases tolling, a low sweet melody, gurgling forth from yon illuminated
organ pipes, seems specially designed to attune the minds of the
awaiting multitude to the solemnity which is about to begin.
The seat nearest the light gilded railing which divides the choir from
the nave is occupied by three graceful and tastefully attired girls.
Two of them are apparently in devout frame of mind enough, but the third
suffers her gaze to wander in a way which, all things considered, is not
as it should be. Not to put too fine a point upon it, she is evidently
given to looking about her. But the sternest of ecclesiastical
martinets would find it difficult to be hard on the owner of that face.
It is a face to be seen and remembered. A perfect oval, its warm
paleness is lit up by the loveliest of hazel eyes, long-lashed,
expressive, lustrous. Delicate features, and the faintest suspicion of
a smile ever lurking about the corners of the sweetest little mouth in
the world, complete the picture--a picture of dark piquante beauty which
is more than winning. So think, for the hundredth time, more than one
in its owner's immediate vicinity. So thinks for the first time one in
particular, who, from the moment he entered, has done little else but
furtively watch that faultless profile, as well as he is able and under
difficulties, for he is nearly in line with the same. Who can she be?
he is wondering. Is it the Rectory pew, and can it be that the owner of
that rare face is one of the rector's daughters? It may as well be
stated that the stranger's surmise is correct.
And now the congregation rises in a body as a long double file of
surpliced choristers emerges from a side chapel. Then follow the three
officiating clergy in their rich red vestments, attended by acolytes and
taper-bearers in scarlet and lawn; and advancing to the steps of the
high altar, all kneel. The great organ thunders forth like the surging
of many waters, as the first verse of _Veni Creator_ is solemnly
chanted. Then, rising, choristers and priests advance in procession
down the chancel. A thurifer goes first, flinging his censer high in
the air, and the lights, borne one on each side of the great silver
crucifix, gleam redly through a misty cloud. Bright banners move aloft
at intervals above the shining pageant, which is closed by the richly
vested celebrant and his attendants. Quickly the crowded congregation
takes up the grand old plainsong hymn, joining in heartily as the
stately procession wends its way slowly down the nave--a glow of light
and colour--and, making a complete circuit of the spacious building,
re-enters the chancel. The choristers file into their stalls; the
celebrant and his assistants ascend to the altar and incense it in every
part, as amid a great volume of choral harmony the service begins.
He to whom we have made brief reference watches the ceremonial with some
interest. That he is a stranger is evident, and this, coupled with his
striking appearance, is, we grieve to say, a fact which occupies the
attention of many a fair devotee there present far more than it should,
remembering the time and place. That it engrosses a sufficient share of
that of the young lady in the front seat we grieve still more to be
obliged to chronicle, remembering that she is an occupant of the Rectory
pew. But the stranger does not reciprocate the general attention of
which he is the object, for he has an eye for but one face amid that
assembly of faces. Stay, though; another there attracts his interest to
a tolerably vivid degree, and it is that of no less a personage than the
celebrating priest himself; a strikingly handsome man of lofty stature,
and whose forking grey beard descends, like that of Aaron, even to the
skirts of his embroidered clothing--or nearly so. And in the
countenance of this imposing ecclesiastic he detects a strong family
likeness to the lovely brunette who first attracted his eye.
The service, magnificent in its artistic adjuncts, and impressive in its
well-ordered ceremonial, proceeds. The stately altar, aglow with lights
and gorgeous draperies; the solemn chant of the celebrant and jubilant
response from choir and organ; the ever-changing postures and
picturesque groupings; clouds of incense and the silvery ringing of
bells at the culmination of the solemnity--all go to make up an imposing
whole. But it is over at last. Choristers, acolytes and priests retire
amid a stirring voluntary from the great organ, and the sunlight,
intercepted and subdued by lancets of stained glass, falls in a hundred
changing gleams upon the now empty chancel.
The occupants of the Rectory pew linger in their seats, and while the
other two are busy gathering up their books and sunshades preparatory to
a move, the girl whom we have noticed, turning half round, scans the
departing congregation. As she does so she meets the stranger's glance
and there is a meaning in it which renders her slightly confused--
perhaps a little angry.
"Now, Olive dear, we'd better go," whispers a remonstrant voice. With a
start and a half blush the girl recollects herself, and the three haste
to follow in the wake of the now thinning crowd, which is streaming out
through the west door.
"Ah-h! what a relief to be outside again!" exclaimed she who had been
addressed as "Olive," as the three girls wended their way beneath the
tall feathery elms which shaded the churchyard walk. "I declare I
thought it was never going to end."
"Hush, dear I don't talk like that," answered the eldest of the three,
with a slightly scared look around. "If anyone were to hear you, what
would be said?"
"That a man's foes are they of his own household," came the reply with a
merry, ringing laugh. "That if our dad must give us such a long and
elaborate function on so heavenly a morning as this, he might at least
let us off a twenty minutes sermon."
Even more startled looked the remonstrant, as at the moment some
acquaintances passed within earshot. What if they should have heard?
"It's no use shaking your solemn old head at me, Margaret," went on the
first speaker. "I meant what I said, and I don't care who knows it.
Now we shan't have time for a walk."
Margaret Ingelow made no reply. She was a fair, good-looking girl of
twenty-five, with a thoughtful, refined face. Her bright young sister's
levity often jarred upon her uncomfortably when exercised upon sacred or
ecclesiastical subjects, for which she herself entertained the
profoundest reverence. Left motherless at an early age, upon her had
devolved the care of the younger children, and this, combined with her
position as head of the household, had endowed the rector's eldest
daughter with a gravity of thought and manner beyond her years.
"Olive, look! Who is that, I wonder!" exclaimed Sophie, aged seventeen.
"That" was a masculine figure a little in front on the opposite side of
the street, for they had left the churchyard now. Olive, following her
sister's glance, recognised the stranger who had attracted her notice in
church.
"Perhaps someone down here for the Whitsun holidays," struck in
Margaret's quiet voice. But for some occult reason the remark was
received by Olive with a little frown.
"In other words, something between a cheap trippist and a bank clerk,"
she said. "No--not exactly."
"Keep your temper, Olive dear," laughed Sophie maliciously. "We didn't
know the subject was a tender one or we'd have--"
"Why, what a pace you girls walk at!" cried a cheery voice behind them.
"I thought I should have to return home in my own sweet society."
"Oh, father, there you are at last," cried Margaret, stopping as the
rector joined them. "We quite thought it would be of no use waiting."
"That tiresome Mr Barnes always keeps you prosing in the vestry for
half an hour," struck in Sophie. "What an old bore he is! I can't see
the use of churchwardens at all."
"Our friends at the Radical club do, dear," rejoined her father with a
twinkle in his eyes. "How on earth would they emphasise their arguments
without a goodly number of `churchwardens' to smash?"
"Now, father, you know I don't mean that kind of churchwarden, so don't
try and be sarcastic," cried Sophie. And the rector burst into a hearty
laugh.
It is a pleasant sight that quartette wending homewards along the sunny
street already given over to the stillness of a provincial town at the
Sunday dinner hour. The girls in their light, tasteful summer dresses
looking as fresh and cool as roses on which the dew yet lingers, grouped
around the tall upright form of their father, who, with one hand thrust
in easy attitude through the sash of his long flowing cassock, walked
among them looking supremely happy and contented, now and again
bestowing a nod and a pleasant smile in response to the greeting of some
passer-by.
"Father," said Olive, thrusting her hand through the rector's arm and
nestling up to his side with the most bewitchingly affectionate gesture.
"Do you know you're a dear, sweet old dad, and I'm very proud of you?"
"And wherefore this sudden honour, darling?" enquired he, gazing down
into her upturned face with a fond smile. He was afraid to own to
himself how he loved this beautiful, wayward second daughter, who
tyrannised over him in all things domestic, to an incredible extent.
For the fact must be recorded that this one was the spoilt child of the
house.
"You sang the service beautifully to-day--and it was worth something to
hear you," she replied. "And yet you want to make us believe you are
losing your voice--like Mr Medlicott, who can't even monotone on G
without getting flat."
"My dear little critic, perhaps it is that Medlicott has more to worry
him than I. Though to be sure he is spared such a dreadful little
plague as this," rejoined the rector with his sunny laugh, pressing the
arm, passed through his, to his side.
"Oh, indeed! Well then, for that let me tell you you gave us too long a
sermon," she retorted.
"Did I? It was only eighteen minutes."
"Far too long. Look now. We are done out of our walk all through that.
And just look what a heavenly day it is."
"Poor little things!"
Margaret, turning her head, encountered her father's ruefully comic,
mock-penitent glance, and was hardly reassured. She regarded his sacred
office as so great--so tremendous--a thing, that to hear him taken to
task by this giddy child in his discharge of it always grated upon her.
And all accustomed to this kind of talk as she was, yet she felt
uncomfortable under it. For she was pre-eminently one of those who took
life seriously. But the rector and his favourite daughter thoroughly
understood each other.
"Goodness!" cried Sophie, as a neat brougham drawn by a pair of fine
greys swept past them. "Why if that isn't the Dorriens' carriage."
"Surely _they_ weren't in church!" said Margaret wonderingly.
"Hardly, I think," said the rector, with a lurking smile and a flash of
quiet merriment in his dark eyes. "Poor Mrs Dorrien looks upon the
parish church as a very well of iniquity--and myself, the Pope, and a
certain personage who shall be nameless, as an excellently matched
trio."
"Old pig!" muttered Olive to herself.
"Why then, it must have been Hubert Dorrien after all," said Sophie. "I
thought it was, but he was too far back to be sure. Every time I looked
round I caught that detestable eyeglass glaring at me."
"`Every time'--ahem! And pray how many times was that?" said her
father, drily.
"Oh, there now, I've done it," cried Sophie with a laugh and a blush.
"But it was only once or twice as the procession was coming round, and
that was all behind us, so we couldn't see anything of it unless we did
look back. Will that satisfy you, dad, dear?"
"Well explained!" said the rector with a hearty laugh. "We must let her
down easily on a great occasion, mustn't we, Margaret?"
"But all the same that Hubert Dorrien angers me--he looks so conceited
and supercilious always," went on Sophie. "He's a horrid boy?"
"`Boy!' Why hear her! Why he's five years older than you, Sophie,"
laughed her father.
"Well then he doesn't look it," retorted she. "And he's always tied to
his mother's apron-string."
"I wonder what Roland, the eldest one, is like," said Margaret; "the one
in America. I wonder he doesn't come home."
"Perhaps he doesn't get on well at home," suggested Olive. "But I wish
he would come. He's sure to be nice, if only as a change from his
utterly horrid family. And nice people--or at any rate nice men--are
conspicuous here by their absence."
The rector frowned ever so slightly--for his favourite daughter added to
her other peccadilloes a decided penchant for flirtation. But like a
wise man he said nothing, and by this time they had reached the gates of
their pretty and cheerful-looking home.