"Me!" cried Mrs. Gaunt, in amazement: then she ran to the picture, and
at sight of it every other sentiment gave way for a moment to gratified
vanity. "Nay," said she, beaming and blushing, "I was never half so
beautiful. What heavenly eyes!"
"The fellows to 'em be in your own head, dame, this moment."
"Seeing is believing," said Mrs. Gaunt, gaily, and in a moment she was
at the priest's mirror, and inspected her eyes minutely, cocking her
head this way and that. She ended by shaking it, and saying, "Nay. He
has flattered them prodigiously."
"Not a jot," said Betty. "If you could see yourself in chapel, you do
turn 'em up just so, and the white shows all round." Then she tapped
the picture with her finger: "Oh them eyes! they were never made for
the good of his soul; poor simple man."
Betty said this with sudden gravity: and now Mrs. Gaunt began to feel
very awkward. "Mr. Gaunt would give fifty pounds for this," said she,
to gain time: and, while she uttered that sentence, she whipped on her
armour.
"I'll tell you what I think," said she, calmly: "he wished to paint
a Madonna; and he must take some woman's face to aid his fancy. All
the painters are driven to that. So he just took the best that came
to hand, and that is not saying much, for this is a rare ill-favoured
parish: and he has made an angel of her, a very angel. There, hide Me
away again, or I shall long for Me--to show to my husband. I must be
going; I wouldn't be caught here now for a pension."
"Well, if ye must," said Betty; "but when will ye come again?" (She
hadn't got the petticoat yet.)
"Humph!" said Mrs. Gaunt, "I have done all I can for him; and perhaps
more than I ought. But there's nothing to hinder you from coming to me.
I'll be as good as my word; and I have an old Paduasoy, besides; you
can do something with it perhaps."
"You are very good, dame," said Betty, curtsying.
Mrs. Gaunt then hurried away, and Betty looked after her very
expressively, and shook her head. She had a female instinct that
mischief was brewing.
Mrs. Gaunt went home in a reverie.
At the gate she found her husband, and asked him to take a turn in the
garden with her.
He complied; and she intended to tell him a portion, at least, of
what had occurred. She began timidly, after this fashion----"My dear,
Brother Leonard is so grateful for your flowers," and then hesitated.
"I'm sure he is very welcome," said Griffith. "Why doesn't he sup with
us and be sociable, as Father Francis used? Invite him; let him know he
will be welcome."
Sirs. Gaunt blushed; and objected, "He never calls on us."
"Well, well, every man to his taste," said Griffith, indifferently, and
proceeded to talk to her about his farm, and a sorrel mare with a white
mane and tail, that he had seen, and thought it would suit her.
She humoured him, and affected a great interest in all this, and had
not the courage to force the other topic on.
Next Sunday morning, after a very silent breakfast, she burst out,
almost violently, "Griffith, I shall go to the parish church with you,
and then we will dine together afterwards."
"You don't mean it, Kate?" said he, delighted. "Ay, but I do. Although
you refused to go to chapel with me."
They went to church together, and Mrs. Gaunt's appearance there
created no small sensation. She was conscious of that, but hid it, and
conducted herself admirably. Her mind seemed entirely given to the
service, and to a dull sermon that followed.
But at dinner she broke out, "Well, give me your church for a sleeping
draught. You all slumbered, more or less: those that survived the
drowsy, droning prayers, sank under the dry, dull dreary discourse. You
snored, for one."
"Nay, I hope not, my dear."
"You did, then, as loud as your bass fiddle."
"And you sat there and let me!" said Griffith, reproachfully.
"To be sure I did. I was too good a wife, and too good a Christian, to
wake you. Sleep is good for the body, and twaddle is not good for the
soul. I'd have slept too, if I could; but, with me going to chapel, I'm
not used to sleep at that time o' day. You can't sleep, and Brother
Leonard speaking."
In the afternoon came Mrs. Gough, all in her best. Mrs. Gaunt had her
into her bedroom, and gave her the promised petticoat, and the old
Peau de soie gown; and then, as ladies will, when their hand is once
in, added first one thing, then another, till there was quite a large
bundle.
"But how is it you are here so soon?" asked Mrs. Gaunt.
"Oh, we had next to no sermon to-day. He couldn't make no hand of it:
dawdled on a bit; then gave us his blessing, and bundled us out."
"Then I've lost nothing," said Mrs. Gaunt.
"Not you. Well, I don't know. Mayhap if you had been there he'd have
preached his best. But la, we weren't worth it."
At this conjecture Mrs. Gaunt's face burned; but she said nothing: only
she cut the interview short, and dismissed Betty with her bundle.
As Betty crossed the landing, Mrs. Gaunt's new lady's-maid, Caroline
Ryder, stepped accidentally, on purpose, out of an adjoining room, in
which she had been lurking, and lifted her black brows in affected
surprise. "What, are you going to strip the house, my woman?" said she,
quietly.
Betty put down the bundle, and set her arms akimbo. "There is none on't
stolen, any way," said she.
Caroline's black eyes flashed fire at this, and her cheek lost colour;
but she parried the innuendo skilfully.
"Taking my perquisites on the sly, that is not so very far from
stealing."
"Oh, there's plenty left for you, my fine lady. Besides, you don't want
her; you can set your cap at the master, they say. I'm too old for
that, and too honest into the bargain."
"Too ill-favoured, you mean, ye old harridan," said Ryder,
contemptuously.
But, for reasons hereafter to be dealt with. Betty's thrust went home:
and the pair were mortal enemies from that hour.
Mrs. Gaunt came down from her room discomposed: from that she became
restless and irritable; so much so, indeed, that, at last, Sir. Gaunt
told her, good-humouredly enough, if going to church made her ill
(meaning peevish), she had better go to chapel. "You are right," said
she, "and so I will."
The next Sunday she was at her post in good time.
The preacher cast an anxious glance around to see if she was there.
Her quick eye saw that glance, and it gave her a demure pleasure.
This day he was more eloquent than ever: and he delivered a beautiful
passage concerning those who do good in secret. In uttering these
eloquent sentences, his cheek glowed, and he could not deny himself the
pleasure of looking down at the lovely face that was turned up to him.
Probably his look was more expressive than he intended: the celestial
eyes sank under it, and were abashed, and the fair cheek burned: and
then so did Leonard's at that.
Thus, subtly yet effectually, did these two minds communicate in a
crowd, that never noticed nor suspected the delicate interchange of
sentiment that was going on under their very eyes.
In a general way compliments did not seduce Mrs. Gaunt: she was well
used to them, for one thing. Put to be praised in that sacred edifice,
'and from the pulpit, and by such an orator as Leonard, and to be
praised in words so sacred and beautiful, that the ears around her
drank them with delight, all this made her heart beat, and filled her
with soft and sweet complacency.
And then to be thanked in public, yet, as it were, clandestinely, this
gratified the furtive tendency of women.
There was no irritability this afternoon; but a gentle radiance that
diffused itself on all around, and made the whole household happy;
especially Griffith, whose pipe she filled, for once, with her own
white hand, and talked dogs, horses, calves, hinds, cows, politics,
markets, hay, to please him: and seemed interested in them all.
But the next day she changed: ill at ease, and out of spirits, and
could settle to nothing.
It was very hot for one thing: and, altogether, a sort of lassitude
and distaste for everything overpowered her, and she retired into the
grove, and sat languidly on a seat with half-closed eyes.
But her meditations were no longer so calm and speculative as
heretofore. She found her mind constantly recurring to one person,
and, above all, to the discovery she had made of her portrait in his
possession. She had turned it off to Betty Gough; but here, in her calm
solitude and umbrageous twilight, her mind crept out of its cave, like
wild and timid things at dusk, and whispered to her heart that Leonard
perhaps admired her more than was safe or prudent.
Then this alarmed her, yet caused her a secret complacency: and that,
her furtive satisfaction, alarmed her still more.
Now, while she sat thus absorbed, she heard a gentle footstep coming
near. She looked up, and there was Leonard close to her; standing
meekly with his arms crossed upon his bosom.
His being there so pat upon her thoughts, scared her out of her
habitual self-command. She started up, with a faint cry, and stood
panting, as if about to fly, with, her beautiful eyes turned large
upon him.
He put forth a deprecating hand, and soothed her. "Forgive me, madam,"
said he; "I have unawares intruded on your privacy; I will retire."
"Nay," said she, falteringly, "you are welcome. But no one comes here;
so I was startled;" then, recovering herself, "excuse my ill-manners.
'Tis so strange you should come to me here, of all places."
"Nay, my daughter," said the priest, "not so very strange:
contemplative minds love such places. Calling one day to see you, I
found this sweet and solemn grove; the like I never saw in England: and
to-day I returned in hopes to profit by it. Do but look around at these
tall columns; how calm, how reverend! 'Tis God's own temple not built
with hands."
"Indeed it is," said Mrs. Gaunt, earnestly. Then, like a woman as she
was, "So you came to see my trees, not me."
Leonard blushed. "I did not design to return without paying my respects
to her who owns this temple, and is worthy of it; nay, I beg you not to
think me ungrateful."
His humility, and gentle but earnest voice, made Mrs. Gaunt ashamed of
her petulance. She smiled sweetly, and looked pleased. However, ere
long, she attacked him again. "Father Francis used to visit us often,"
said she. "He made friends with my husband, too. And I never lacked an
adviser while he was here."
Leonard looked so confused at this second reproach that Mrs. Gaunt
regretted having uttered it. Then he said humbly that Francis was a
secular priest, whereas he was convent-bred. He added, that by his
years and experience Francis was better fitted to advise persons of her
age and sex, in matters secular, than he was. He concluded timidly that
he was ready, nevertheless, to try and advise her; but could not, in
such matters, assume the authority that belongs to age and knowledge
of the world.
"Nay, nay," said she, earnestly, "guide and direct my soul, and I am
content."
He said, yes! that was his duty and his right.
Then, after a certain hesitation, which at once let her know what was
coming, he began to thank her, with infinite grace and sweetness, for
her kindness to him.
She looked him full in the face, and said she was not aware of any
kindness she had shown him worth speaking of.
"That but shows," said he, "how natural it is to you to do acts of
goodness. My poor room is a very bower now, and I am happy in it. I
used to feel very sad there at times; but your hand has cured me."
Mrs. Gaunt coloured beautifully. "You make me ashamed," said she.
"Things are come to a pass indeed if a lady may not send a few flowers
and things to her spiritual father without being--thanked for it. And,
oh, sir, what are earthly flowers compared with those blossoms of the
soul you have shed so liberally over us? Our immortal parts were all
asleep when you came here, and wakened them by the fire of your words.
Eloquence! 'twas a thing I had read of, but never heard, nor thought to
hear. Methought the orators and poets of the Church were all in their
graves this thousand years, and she must go all the way to heaven, that
would hear the soul's true music. But I know better now."
Leonard coloured high with pleasure. "Such praise from you is too
sweet," he muttered. "I must not court it. The heart is full of
vanity." And he deprecated further eulogy, by a movement of the hand
extremely refined and, in fact, rather feminine.
Deferring to his wish, Mrs. Gaunt glided to other matters, and was
naturally led to speak of the prospects of their Church, and the
possibility of reconverting these islands. This had been the dream of
her young heart; but marriage and maternity, and the universal coldness
with which the subject had been received, had chilled her so, that of
late years she had almost ceased to speak of it. Even Leonard, on a
former occasion, had listened coldly to her; but now his heart was open
to her. He was, in fact, quite as enthusiastic on this point as ever
she had been; and then he had digested his aspirations into clearer
forms. Not only had he resolved that Great Britain must be reconverted,
but had planned the way to do it. His cheek glowed, his eyes gleamed,
and he poured out his hopes and his plans before her with an eloquence
that few mortals could have resisted.
As for this, his hearer, she was quite carried away by it. She joined
herself to his plans on the spot; she begged, with tears in her eyes,
to be permitted to support him in this great cause. She devoted to it
her substance, her influence, and every gift that God had given her:
the hours passed like minutes in this high converse; and, when the
tinkling of the little bell at a distance summoned him to vespers, he
left her with a gentle regret he scarcely tried to conceal, and she
went slowly in like one in a dream, and the world seemed dead to her
for ever.
Nevertheless, when Mrs. Ryder, combing out her long hair, gave one
inadvertent tug, the fair enthusiast came back to earth, and asked her,
rather sharply, who her head was running on.
Ryder, a very handsome young woman, with fine black eyes, made no
reply, but only drew her breath audibly hard.
I do not very much wonder at that, nor at my having to answer that
question for Mrs. Ryder. For her head was at that moment running, like
any other woman's, on the man she was in love with.
And the man she was in love with was the husband of the lady, whose
hair she was combing, and who put her that curious question--plump.