"He is a fool who is not for love and beauty. I
speak unto the young, for I am of them, and always
shall be."--BAILEY.
SLOWLY, decorously, they march into church, one by one--Dulce first, and
then Sir Christopher, and then Julia Beaufort and Portia, and so on,
down to the children, who are evidently consumed with a desire to know
more than seems, and who are evincing a dangerous longing to waltz up
the smooth stone aisle.
The Boodie (who has not been overdrawn by Dulce and Roger, and who
really _is_ like an angel, with her sapphire eyes and corn-colored hair,
and the big white bonnet, with its blue bow, that surrounds her face
like a cloud) rather loses her presence of mind. It is either this, or a
sudden accession of ambition, that overcomes her, because, without a
moment's notice, she turns gently on her left heel, and executes a tiny
pirouette on her small Hessian boots. A frown from her mother suppresses
further evolutions, and, with a sigh, she returns to decorum and the
family pew.
In a corner of it the children are comfortably stowed away, while all
the others following suit, fall into their proper places. They are only
barely in time. The organ plays them up the aisle, and they have only
just a second to scramble through the preliminary prayers (so distinct a
token of respectability), when the rector's voice breaks forth.
Portia, who has not been to church before, looks up at Mr. Grainger,
while he is confessing everybody in a tone severe but bilious, and tells
herself he is as like a superannuated old crow as ever he can be. He is
flanked by the curate, a mediaeval young man, with a pallid countenance
and an irreproachable gown, cut in the latest fashion, who stands in an
attitude of the most approved, with his eyes fixed immovably upon a side
pillar. The fixity of his gaze is so intense as to suggest the idea that
he never again means to remove it until death claims him for his own.
Then a hymn is sung by the village choir, led by the organist's high
soprano. It is a hymn very unique in its way, and sung with much
fervor, if little tune, and pierces even to the brains of its hearers.
The organ beats a solemn accompaniment to this delicacy, and whether the
strains from the ancient instrument--that squeaks like a dilapidated
bagpipes--is too much for the curate, I know not; but, at the last
verse, he removes his eyes from the pillar of the church and
concentrates them upon Portia.
Portia, at this particular moment, I regret to say, is smiling broadly.
A brilliant smile that illuminates her whole face, rendering her as
lovely as a dream. She is plainly deriving great consolation from the
village choir?
The curate, smitten by the sight of her levity, or by the consciousness
of his own lapse from the path of duty, in so far letting his mind
wander to mundane matters, turns pale, and, lowering his eyes until they
reach the tesselated pavement at his feet, grows sad and thoughtful, and
perhaps decides on eating no meat again to-day as punishment for his
fault.
The church is old, quaint, curious. It is like a thing forgotten. It
looks as if it had been dug up by somebody and planted just here, no one
knows why. The windows are narrow and elongated, and admit but little
light. The pillars in the more distant corners are wrapt in gloom. A
cobweb falling from the roof, spun by some enterprising spider, hangs
over the gaunt pulpit, as though desirous of coming in contact with
whosoever may enter it.
The cobweb, as it waves lazily backward and forward with every breeze
that assails it, is a thing of joy to Roger and Dicky Browne, who are
sitting side by side. It is an unspeakable boon, a sweet attraction, an
everlasting resource to them throughout the service. As it goes to and
fro their eyes follow it; they would willingly bet upon it were such a
thing practicable; and they wait in a charmed suspense until such time
as some one will enter the pulpit, to see whether the some one will
attack the cobweb, or the cobweb attack the some one.
Besides the cobweb there is a clerk and a sexton. Sometimes they say
Amen when the idea strikes them; sometimes they don't; it is awkward
when they _don't_. Then a lull in the performance makes itself felt,
though it is always somewhat broken by the voice of the curate, which is
monotonous in the extreme.
A few stray sunbeams are straggling in through the narrow windows, and
are holding high festival in Dulce's bonnet; a perfect crown of glory
envelops her head. The day being exceptionally warm, everything and
every one is drowsy and sleepy, and a trifle inattentive.
Meanwhile, the service progresses surely, if slowly. Uncle Christopher's
head is courting his chest; Fabian, who always sits next to him, is
unmistakably wide-awake, but has his head lowered, and his eyes fixed
moodily upon the carpet at his feet. He looks attentive, but is really
miles away from the Commandments and from everything.
Portia, in her white gown, is looking more than ordinarily lovely, and
just now is gazing oddly at Fabian. She is vaguely wondering how he
would look if he permitted himself to smile. He is always so
preternaturally grave that she is curious to know if a smile--once
indulged in--would imbitter or sweeten his face. Yes; Roger was quite
right when he said the other day that Fabian's face was perfect. Perhaps
even the smile she desires to see upon it could not improve it. Nay, it
might even mar it, so severe are its lines; but were they _always_ so?
She is lost in impossible speculation!
Dulce, clad all in severe black, with her hands crossed upon her knees,
like a small devotee, is looking straight before her at nothing
particular, and is utterly unconscious that the strange young man in the
"Fens" pew is regarding her with an amount of attention he has certainly
not expended on his prayers.
The children have behaved wonderfully well, all things considered. The
Boodie has only once laughed out loud, and only twice have Jacky and
Pussy indulged in a deadly scuffle; altogether, there is deep cause for
thankfulness.
The cobweb is still waving to and fro, and now (as Mr. Grainger ascends
the stairs and enters the pulpit), driven, perhaps, by some stronger
current of air, moves rapidly to the right, so that the rector reaches
his place and arranges himself therein, without coming into collision
with it, to Roger's and Dicky's everlasting chagrin.
"A narrow escape," says Dicky, in a careful undertone, to Roger, who,
too, has been breathlessly watching the _denouement_.
"Yes, just like our dismal luck," responds that young man, in an
aggrieved tone. "I'd have bet anything on its catching him by the wig."
Mr. Grainger standing up, after a short and private prayer, looks as if
he was making his bow to the audience, and having surveyed them
leisurely for an embarrassing moment (during which the farmers' wives
fidget, and look as if they would gladly inhabit their boots), he gives
forth his text.
Silence ensues; the curate arranges himself in a purely ascetic
attitude; the rector stamps his foot, in a preparatory sort of way, on
the floor of the massive pulpit, which is as hideous as it is clumsy to
the last degree. There are a few meagre little carvings all round it,
suggestive of tares, and wheat, and good Samaritans, and there is an
impossible donkey in the foreground. It is a very depressing pulpit, but
certainly solid.
"No chance of a breakdown," says Roger, gloomily, fixing, his eye-glass
in his left eye, and surveying with ill concealed disgust the unwieldy
structure before him.
"You're a brave boy," returns Mr. Browne, with exaggerated admiration.
"Fancy your looking for excitement _here_."
"It may be nearer than you think," says Roger, _so_ meaningly, that his
companion applies himself to the translating of his glance. It is fixed,
and fixed on the cobweb, too, which is slowly, slowly floating towards
the rector's head. It comes nearer to it, catches in a rising lock (that
has elevated itself, no doubt, because of the preacher's eloquence), and
lingers there, as though bent on lifting pulpit, Grainger and all to the
ceiling with the next puff of wind.
Roger forgets his grievance, his _ennui_, everything! The situation has
its charm. To his delight he finds Dicky as wrapt in the possible result
as himself. The cobweb sticks fast. Mr. Grainger, lifting his hand,
smooths his ear, under the mistaken impression that the ticking feeling
is there, and then goes on solemnly with his discourse, which is dryer
than the weather, which is saying a good deal. He moves his head
impatiently from side to side, but gains nothing by this, as the cobweb
is apparently of an affectionate disposition, and goes with him wherever
he listeth.
Dicky Browne is entranced. _Such_ an interlude was more than he had
hoped for. Involuntarily he lays his hand on Dulce's arm, and, giving
her a mild pinch, shows her the cause of his apparent joy.
"If the flooring gives way he'll die the death of Absalom," he says,
gravely, whereupon Miss Blount also, I grieve to say, gives way to
silent but wild mirth.
The rector waxes warm. The cobweb, giving up the hair as a bad job, has
relinquished its hold, and is now mildly touching his cheek, in a
somewhat coquettish fashion. Mr. Grainger, with a short but decisive
gesture, drags it, and its many yards of spider-workmanship to the
ground. The cobweb and the spider suffer--but they have their revenge.
Mr. Grainger is embarrassed with the cobweb, which has twined itself
loving round his finger, and not until he has lost his place in his
sermon and grown very red in the face, is serenity restored.
The rural congregation shows every symptom of being able to fall at a
moment's notice into the arms of Morpheus. The curate grows leaner, more
toil-worn, more ascetic. The rector drones away. The Boodie, having
walked up and down the pew several times, has finally come to anchor in
Uncle Christopher's arms, and having flung her little white bonnet from
her, has now snuggled her head inside his coat, and is intently
listening to what appears to be a very lengthened whisper from him. It
seems to be a whisper without an end, and one undesirous of response.
Indeed, there is a legend extant that Uncle Christopher employs his time
during the sermon, whenever the Boodie is with him, in telling her tales
of fairyland, not to be surpassed by Grimm or Andersen!
The rector bleats on incessantly; faintly and more faintly his voice
seems to reach his flock. The sun beats with undying fervor upon the
gables outside and the bald heads of the parishioners within. There is a
great sense of quiet everywhere, with only the rector's voice to disturb
it, when suddenly upon the startled ear falls a sound, ambiguous, but
distinct.
It is a snore! An undeniable snore! and it emanates from Jacky! He has
succumbed to heat and Mr. Grainger, and is now travelling in lands where
we poor waking mortals cannot enter. Apparently he is happy, but he
certainly is not as pretty as he need be, with his short and somewhat
aggressive nose uplifted, and his mouth at its widest stretch.
Everyone in the pew gives a decided jump--be the same small or
great--but Pussy alone finds herself equal to the occasion. She is a
child of extreme promise, and, seeing her opportunity, at once embraces
it. She seizes Jacky mildly, but firmly, by the hair, and administers to
him three severe shocks.
The result is everything she can possibly have desired. Jacky,
awakening, comes to his senses with the aid of a partially suppressed
yell, and falling upon Pussy with an evident desire to exterminate her
there and then, rolls with her off the seat, and disappears with her
heavily under it.
An awful moment, fraught with agony for the survivors ensue: and then
the belligerents are once more brought to light by Fabian; who, after
much search and expostulation, restores them to their proper places.
Being nearest to them, he plants them again upon their cushions with
only this precaution--that he himself now sits between them. This is
hardly to their liking, and from their several positions, and right
across poor Fabian's chest, they breathe fire and war, and death and
destruction upon each other.
How it will all end everyone refuses to dwell upon; but, just at the
most critical moment, Fabian, stooping his dark, grave face, whispers
something to the irate little damsel that, as if by magic, reduces her
to order.
She looks at him a little while, then sighs, and finally, slipping her
hand through his arm, lays her blonde head against him, and is the
personification of all things peaceful, until the service ends.
She looks up at him, too, as though desirous of his forgiveness, and
Fabian, taking her slim little baby hand in his, assures her with a
glance that she _is_ forgiven; and then she smiles at him, and nestles a
degree closer, and then Fabian, though always unsmilingly, passes his
arm round the child, and draws her into a more comfortable position.
Portia, who has watched it all, feels a strange pang at her heart; it is
as though he is glad to be friends with these children, to be at peace
with them, because they, at least (sweet, trusting souls), believe in
him. And what a tenderness he betrays towards them! this dark, moody,
concentrated man, whose whole life is burdened with an unsavory mystery.
What a power, too, he possesses over them; even that untractable Pussy
was calmed, charmed into submission by a word, a glance. Yet children
and dogs, they say, have keenest instincts!
While she still wonders, Fabian lifts his eyes and meets hers, and as
though drawn by some magnetic influence each towards the other, though
sorely against their wills, they gaze into each other's faces for more
time than they care to calculate afterwards, until at last Fabian (who
is the first to recover himself) lets his glance fall, and so the spell
is broken.
After this, Portia sits quiet and thoughtful until the last Amen is
uttered, and they all go eagerly, but with a meritorious attempt at
regret, into the open air once more.