At Afternoon Service.
The still quietness of the Sabbath morning shed its peace over
Foxwood. Within the Court of that name--where the lawns were green and
level, and the sweet flowers exhaled their perfume, and a tree here
and there was already putting on its autumn tints--the aspect of peace
seemed to be more especially exhaled.
The windows of the rooms stood open. Inside one of them the breakfast
was on the table yet, Miss Blake seated at it. Matins at St. Jerome's
had been unusually prolonged; and Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian had
taken breakfast when she got home. The Reverend Damon Puff had now
come to help Mr. Cattacomb; imparting to St. Jerome's an additional
attraction.
While Miss Blake took her breakfast, Lucy went out amidst her flowers.
The scent of the mignonette filled the air, the scarlet of the
geraniums made the beds brilliant. Lucy wore one of her simple
muslin dresses; it had sprigs of green upon it--for the weather was
still that of summer, though the season was not, and the nightingales
were no longer heard of an evening. Trinity church boasted a set of
sweet-toned bells, and they were ringing on the air. When the
Sacrament was administered--the first Sunday in each month--they
generally did ring before service. This was the first Sunday in
September. Lucy stooped to pick some mignonette as she listened to the
bells. She was getting to look what she was--worn and unhappy. Nothing
could be much less satisfactory than her life: it seemed to herself
sometimes that she was like a poor flower withering for lack of
sunshine. For the first time for several weeks she meant, that day, to
stay for the after-service: her mind had really been in too great a
chaos before: but this week she had been schooling herself in
preparation for it, and praying and striving to feel tranquil.
Karl came round the terrace from his room and crossed the lawn. In his
hand he held a most exquisite rose, and offered it to her. She thanked
him as she took it. In manner they were always courteous to one
another.
"What a lovely day it is?" she said. "So calm and still."
"And not quite so hot as it was a few weeks ago," he replied. "Those
must be Mr. Sumnor's bells."
"Yes. I wish they rang every Sunday. I think--it may be all fancy, but
I can't help thinking it--that people would go to church more heartily
if the bells rang for them as they are ringing now, instead of calling
them with the usual ding-dong."
"There is something melancholy in the ringing of bells," observed
Karl, in abstraction.
"But, when the heart is in itself melancholy, the melancholy of the
bells brings to it a feeling of soothing consolation," was Lucy's
hasty answer. And the next moment she felt sorry that she had said it.
Never, willingly, did she allude to aught that could touch on their
estrangement.
"Talking of church, Lucy," resumed Karl, in a different and almost
confidential tone, "I am beginning to feel really annoyed about that
place, St. Jerome's. They are going too far. I wish you would speak a
word of caution to Theresa."
"I--I scarcely like to," answered Lucy, after a pause, her delicate
cheek faintly flushing, for she was conscious that she had not dared
to talk much on any score with Theresa lately, lest Theresa might
allude to the subject of the Maze. Fearing that she avoided her when
she could, so as to give no opportunity for private conversation. "She
is so much older and wiser than I am--"
"Wiser!" interrupted Karl. "I think not. In all things, save one, you
have ten times the good plain sense that she has. That one thing,
Lucy, I shall never be able to understand, or account for, to my dying
day."
"And, moreover, I was going to add," continued Lucy, flushing deeper
at the allusion, "I am quite sure that Theresa would not heed me,
whatever I might say."
"Well, I don't know what is to be done. People are mocking at St.
Jerome's and its frequenters' folly more than I care to hear, and
blame me for allowing it to go on. I should not like to be written to
by the Bishop of the Diocese."
"_You_ written to!" cried Lucy in surprise.
"It is within the range of possibility. The place is on the Andinnian
land."
"I think, were I you, I would speak to Mr. Cattacomb."
Karl made a wry face. He did not like the man. Moreover he fancied--as
did Lucy in regard to Miss Blake--that whatever he might say would
make no impression. But for this he had spoken to him before. But, now
that another was come and the folly was being doubled, it lay in his
duty to remonstrate. The whole village gossiped and laughed; Sir Adam
was furious. Ann Hopley carried the gossip home to her master--which
of course lost nothing in the transit--and he abused Karl for not
interfering.
They went to church together, Karl and his wife. It was a thinner
congregation than ordinary. Being a grand field-day at St. Jerome's
with procession and banners, some of them had gone off thither as to a
show. Kneeling by her husband's side in their pew, Lucy felt the
influence of the holy place, and peace seemed to steal down upon her.
Margaret Sumnor was opposite, looking at her: and in Margaret's face
there was a strange, pitying compassion, for she saw that that other
face was becoming sadder day by day.
It was a plain, good sermon: Mr. Sumnor's sermons always were: its
subject the blessings promised for the next world; its text, "And God
shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." The tears rose to Lucy's
eyes as she listened. Karl listened too, wrapt in the words. Just for
the quarter of an hour it lasted--the sermons were always short the
first Sunday in the month--both of them seemed to have passed beyond
their cares into Heaven. It almost seemed to matter little what the
trouble of this short span on earth might be, with that glorious
fruition to come hereafter.
"I am going to stay," whispered Lucy, as the service ended. A hint to
him that he might depart without her.
Karl nodded, but made no other answer. The congregation filed out, and
still he sat on. Lucy wondered. All in a moment it flashed upon her
that he also must be going to stay. Her face turned crimson: the
question, was he fit for it, involuntarily suggesting itself.
He did stay. They knelt side by side together and received the
elements of Christ's holy Ordinance. After that, Karl was on his knees
in his pew until the end, buried as it seemed in beseeching prayer. It
was impossible for Lucy to believe that he could be living an ill life
of any kind at that present time--whatever he might have done.
He held out his arm as they quitted the church, and she took it. It
was not often that she did. Thus they walked home together, exchanging
a sentence or two between whiles. Karl went at once to his room,
saying he should not take anything to eat: he had a headache. Miss
Blake had "snatched a morsel," and had gone out again to hear the
children's catechism, Hewitt said. One thing must be conceded--that
she was zealous in her duties.
And so Lucy was alone. She took a "morsel" too, and went to sit under
the acacia tree. When an hour or so had passed, Karl came up, and
surprised her with tears on her cheeks.
"Is it any new grief?" he asked.
"No," she answered, half lost in the sorrow her thoughts had been
abandoned to, and neglecting her usual reticence. "I was but thinking
that I am full young to have so much unhappiness."
"We both have enough of that, I expect. I know I have. But yours is
partly of your own making, Lucy; mine is not."
"Not of his own making!" ran her thoughts. "Of his own planning, at
any rate." But she would not say a word to mar the semi-peace which
pervaded, or ought to pervade, their hearts that day.
"That was a nice sermon this morning," he resumed, sitting down by her
on the bench.
"Very. I almost forgot that we were not close to Heaven: I forgot that
we had, speaking according to earth's probabilities, years and years
and years to live out here first."
"We shall have to live them out, Lucy, I suppose--by Heaven's will.
The prospect of it looks anything but consolatory."
"I thought you seemed very sad," she remarked in a low tone. "I had no
idea you were going to stay."
"_Sad!_" He laid his hand upon her knee, not in any particular
affection, but to give emphasis to his word. "Sad is not the term for
it, Lucy. Misery, rather; dread; despair--the worst word you will. I
wished, with a yearning wish, that I was in Mr. Sumnor's heaven--the
heavens he described--if only some others could go before me, so that
I did not leave them here."
Lucy wondered of whom he spoke. She thought it must lie between
herself and Mrs. Grey. Karl had been thinking of his poor proscribed
brother, for whom the glad earth could never open her arms freely
again.
"I think what Mr. Sumnor said must be true," resumed Lucy. "That the
more sorrow we have to endure in this world, the brighter will be our
entrance to the next. I am sure he has a great deal of sorrow himself:
whenever he preaches of it he seems to feel it so deeply."
Karl appeared not to hear. He was gazing upwards, a look of patient
pain on his pale face. There were moments--and this was one--when
Lucy's arms and heart alike yearned to encircle him, and ask for his
love to be hers again. She cared for him still--oh, how much!--and
wished she could awake to find the Maze, and all the trouble connected
with it, a hideous dream.
They sat on, saying nothing. The birds sang as in spring, the trees
waved gently beneath the blue sky, and the green grass was grateful
for the eye to rest upon. On the handsome house lay the glad sun: not
a sound of every-day labour, indoors or out, broke the stillness. All
was essentially peace. Except--except within their own wearied
breasts.
The bell of Trinity church rang out for service, arousing Lucy from
her reverie. She said she should like to attend it.
"What! this afternoon?" exclaimed Karl. "You are not accustomed to go
in the afternoon."
That was true. The heat of the summer weather had been almost
unbearable, and Lucy had not ventured to church in it more than once a
day.
"It is cooler now," she answered. "And I always like to go if I can
when I have stayed for the communion."
But Karl held back from it: rather, Lucy thought, in an unaccountable
manner, for he was ever ready to second any wish of hers. He did not
seem inclined to go forth again, and said, as a plea of excuse, that
he preferred to retain the impression of the morning's sermon on his
mind, rather than let it give place to an inferior one. His head was
aching badly.
"I do not ask you to come," said Lucy, gently. "I should like to go
myself, but I can go quite well alone."
When she came down with her things on, however, she found him ready
also; and they set off together.
It may be questioned, though, whether Lucy would have gone had she
foreseen what was to happen. In the middle of the service, while the
"Magnificat" was being sung, a respectable, staid woman entered the
church with an infant in her arms. A beautifully dressed infant. Its
long white robe elaborately embroidered, its delicate blue cloak of
surpassing richness, its veil of lace dainty as a gossamer thread. The
attire, not often seen at Foxwood, caught Lucy's eye, and she wondered
who the infant was. It seemed to her that she had seen the nurse's
face before, and began to ransack her memory. In an instant it flashed
on her with a shock--it was the servant at the Maze.
She turned her eyes on her husband: not intentionally, but in an
uncontrollable impulse. Karl was looking furtively at the woman and
child--a red flush dyeing his face. Poor Lucy's benefit in the
afternoon service was over.
The baby had come to be baptised. Ann Hopley sat down on a bench to
which she was shown, just underneath the Andinnian pew. Towards the
close of the second lesson, the clerk advanced to her, and entered on
a whispered colloquy. Every word of which was distinct to Karl and
Lucy.
"Have you brought this infant to be christened?"
"To be baptised," replied Ann Hopley. "Not christened."
The clerk paused. "It's not usual with us to baptise children unless
they are so delicate as to render it necessary," said he. "We prefer
to christen at once."
"But this child is delicate," she answered. "My mistress, who is
herself still very ill, has got nervous about it and wishes it done.
The christening must be left until she is better."
"It's the baby at the Maze, I think?"
"Yes. Mrs. Grey's."
The second lesson came to an end. Mr. Sumnor's voice ceased, and he
stepped out of the reading desk to perform the baptism. Ann Hopley had
drawn away the veil, and Lucy saw the child's face; a fair, sweet,
delicate little face, calm and placid in its sleep.
The congregation, a very small one always in the afternoon, rose up,
and stood on tiptoe to see and hear. Mr. Sumnor, standing at the font,
took the child in his arms.
"Name this child."
"Charles," was the audible and distinct reply of Ann Hopley. And Lucy
Andinnian turned red and white; she thought it was, so to say, named
after her husband. As indeed was the case.
The child was brought back to the bench again; and the afternoon
service went on to its close. There was no sermon. When Lucy rose from
her knees, the woman and baby had gone. Karl offered her his arm as
they quitted the church, but she would not take it. They walked home
side by side, saying never a word to each other.
"_That_ was the reason why he wanted to keep me away from church this
afternoon!" was Lucy's indignant thought. "And to dress it up like
that! How, how shall I go on, and bear?"
But Lucy was mistaken. Karl had known no more about it than she, and
was struck with astonishment to see Ann Hopley come in. It arose
exactly as the woman had stated. During the night the child had seemed
so ill that its mother had become nervously uneasy because it was not
baptised, and insisted upon its being brought to church that
afternoon.
Meanwhile Ann Hopley had hurried homewards. Partly to get out before
the rest and avoid observation, partly because she wanted to be back
with her mistress. After passing the Court gates, in traversing the
short space of road between them and the Maze, she encountered Miss
Blake coming home from St. Jerome's. Miss Blake, seeing a baby
sumptuously attired, and not at the moment recognizing Ann Hopley in
her bonnet, crossed the road to inquire whose child it was. Then she
saw it was the servant at the Maze: but she stopped all the same.
"I should like to take a peep at the baby, nurse."
"It's asleep, ma'am, and I am in a hurry," was the answer, given in
all truthfulness, not in discourtesy; for it must be remembered than
Ann Hopley had no grounds to suspect that this lady took any special
interest in affairs at the Maze. "It slept all through its baptism."
"Oh it has been baptised, has it! At Mr. Sumnor's church!"
"Yes, at Mr. Sumnor's. There is no other church in the place but
that," added the woman, totally ignoring St. Jerome's, but not
thinking to give offence thereby.
Miss Blake put aside the lace and looked at the sleeping baby. "What
is its name, nurse?"
"Charles."
"Oh," said Miss Blake, the same notion striking her, as to the name,
that had struck Lucy. "It is Mr. Grey's name I suppose--or something
like it."
"No, it is not Mr. Grey's name," replied the woman.
"Who is the baby considered like!" went on Miss Blake, still regarding
it. "Its father or its mother!"
"It's not much like anybody, that I see, ma'am. The child's too young
to show any likeness yet."
"I declare that I see a likeness to Sir Karl Andinnian?" cried Miss
Blake, speaking partly upon impulse. For, in looking whether she could
trace this likeness, her fancy seemed to show her that it was there.
"What a strange thing, nurse!"
With one startled gaze into Miss Blake's eyes, Ann Hopley went off in
a huff. The suggestion had not been palatable.
"If he's like Sir Karl, I must never bring him abroad again, lest by
that means suspicion should come to my master," she thought, as she
took the gate key from her pocket and let herself in. "But I don't
believe it can be: for I'm sure there's not a bit of resemblance
between the two brothers!"
"How plain it all is!" sighed Miss Blake, meekly regarding the cross
upon her ivory prayer-book as she went over to the Court. "And that
ridiculously simple Lucy does not see it! Bartimeus was blind, and so
is she. He could see nothing until his eyes were opened: her eyes have
been opened and yet she will not see!"
No, Miss Blake, neither could the self-righteous Pharisee see, when he
went into the Temple to thank God that he was better than other men,
and especially than the poor publican.
St. Jerome's was prospering. It had taken--as Tom Pepp the bell-ringer
phrased it--a spurt. A rich maiden lady of uncertain age, fascinated
by the Reverend Guy Cattacomb's oratory and spectacles, came over once
a day in her brougham from Basham, and always put a substantial coin
into the offertory-bag during the service.
The Reverend Damon Puff found favour too. He had a beautiful black
moustache, which he was given to stroke lovingly at all kinds of
unseasonable times, his hair was parted down the middle carefully,
back and front, and he had an interesting lisp: otherwise he was a
harmless kind of young man, devotedly attentive to the ladies, and not
overburdened with brains. Mr. Puff had taken up his abode for the
present at Basham, and came over in the omnibus. Two omnibus-loads of
fair worshippers arrived now daily: there was frightful scuffling
among them to get into the one that contained the parson.
But, flourishing though St. Jerome's was, people were talking about it
in anything but a reverend manner. Sir Karl Andinnian was blamed for
allowing it to go on unchecked--as he told his wife. Had Karl been a
perfectly free man, unswayed by that inward and ever-present dread, he
had certainly put a stop to it long ago, or obliged Farmer Truefit to
do so; but as it was, he had done nothing. Not a single male person
attended the services; and most of the ladies who did so were in their
teens, or not much beyond them. Karl felt that this was not as it
should be: but he had made no move to alter it. The sensitive fear of
making enemies swayed him. Not fear for his own sake, but lest it
should in some way draw observation on the Maze and on him whom it
contained. When the mind is weighed down with an awful secret, danger
seems to lie in everything, reasonable and unreasonable. But Karl
found he must do something.
A comic incident happened one day. There came a lady to Foxwood Court,
sending in her card as "Mrs. Brown" and asking to see Sir Karl
Andinnian. Sir Karl found she was from Basham. She had come over to
pray him, she said with tears in her eyes, that he would put a stop to
the goings-on at St. Jerome's and shut up the place. She had two
daughters who had been drawn into its vortex and she could not draw
them out again. Twice and three times every day of their lives did
they come over to Foxwood, by rail, omnibus, or on foot; their whole
thoughts and days were absorbed by St. Jerome's: by the services, by
cleaning the church, by Mr. Cattacomb's lectures at home, or in
helping Mr. Puff teach the children. Sir Karl replied that he did not
know what he could do in the matter, and intimated very courteously
that the more effectual remedy in regard to the Miss Browns would be
for Mrs. Brown to keep the young ladies at home. They would not be
kept at home, Mrs. Brown said with a burst of sobs; they had learnt to
set her at defiance: and--she begged to hint to Sir Karl--that in her
opinion it was not quite the right thing for a young girl to be
closeted with a young man, for half an hour at a time, under plea of
confession, though the man did write himself priest. What on earth had
they got to confess, Mrs. Brown wanted to know, becoming a little
heated with the argument: if they'd confess how undutiful they were to
her, their mother, perhaps some good might come of it.
Well, this occurred. Sir Karl got rid of Mrs. Brown; but he could not
shut his ears to the public chatter; and he was conscious that
something or other ought to be done, or attempted. He could not see
why people should expect that it lay in his hands, and he certainly
did not know whether he could effect anything, even with all the good
will in the world. Mr. Cattacomb might civilly laugh at him. Not
knowing whether any power lay with him, or not, he felt inclined to
put the question to the only lawyer Foxwood contained--Mr. St. Henry.
But oh, what was this petty grievance to the great trouble ever lying
upon him? As nothing. The communication made to him by Ann Hopley, of
the night watches she had seen, of the stranger who afterwards
presented himself at the Maze gate with his questions, was so much
addition to his tormenting dread. Just about this time, too, it came
to his knowledge through Hewitt, that inquiries were being made as to
the Maze. Private, whispered inquiries, not apparently with any
particular object; more in the way of idle gossip. Who was putting
them? Karl could not learn. Hewitt did not know who, but was sure of
the fact. The story told by Mrs. Chaffen, of the gentleman she had
seen at the Maze the night she entered it, and "which it was at her
wits' end to know whether he were a ghost, or not," was circulating
round the village and reached Karl's ears, to his intense annoyance
and dismay. Added to all this, was the doubt that lay within himself,
as to whether Smith the agent was Philip Salter, and what his course
in the matter should be. In his own mind he felt persuaded that it was
Salter, and no other; but the persuasion was scarcely sufficiently
assured to induce him to act. He felt the danger of speaking a word of
accusation to Smith wrongfully--the danger it might bring on his
brother--and therefore he, in this, vacillated and hesitated, and did
nothing.
Do not reproach Karl Andinnian with being an unstable or vacillating
man. He was nothing of the kind. But he was living under exceptional
circumstances, and there seemed to be risk to his unfortunate brother
on the left hand and on the right. If discovery should chance to
supervene through any rash step of his, Karl's, remorse would never
cease from racking him to the end of his bitter life.