The next day was Sunday, to which I had already begun to look
forward eagerly, as one does in the country, as a break in the
monotonous round of days. Old Mr. Reade was not at church, and his son
sat in his place with his back to me. Instead of putting his elbows on
his knees through the prayers as he had done on the Sunday before, he
would turn right round and kneel in front of his seat, facing
me--which was a little disconcerting, for, as he knelt with his chin
on his hands and his head back, he seemed to be saying all the
responses to me, and I could not raise my eyes for a minute from my
book without having my attention distracted in spite of myself.
After service, as we stood about in the churchyard, I heard Mr. Rayner
telling the doctor and two of the farmers about the races he had been
to the week before, and of his having won fifteen pounds on a horse
the name of which I forget; and he took out of his pocket a torn
race-card, seeming surprised to find it there, and said it must have
been that which had caused his thoughts to wander during the sermon.
He asked Mrs. Reade whether her husband was ill, and did not seem at
all affected by the cool manner in which she answered his inquiries.
“I had the pleasure of lunching with a relative of yours, Mrs. Reade,
on the course at Newmarket last week--Lord Bramley. He is a cousin of
yours, is he not?”
“Hardly a cousin; but he is connected with my family, Mr. Rayner,” she
answered more graciously.
“He thinks more of the connection than you seem to do, for he asked me
particularly how you were, and whether you thought of going up to town
this autumn. I told him I could not give him any information as to
your intended movements, but that you had never looked better than
when I saw you last.”
And Mrs. Reade was still talking to Mr. Rayner, with more affability
in her haughtiness, when Haidee and I started on our walk home.
At dinner Mr. Rayner gave us part of their conversation, with an
excellent parody of the lady’s manner and a funny exaggeration of the
humility of his own. He was always particularly bright on Sunday at
dinner, the contact with duller wits in the morning seeming to give
edge to his own.
On that afternoon I was scarcely outside the gate on my way to church
when he joined me.
“No, no, Miss Christie; we are not going to trust you to go to church
by yourself again.”
I blushed, feeling a little annoyed, though I scarcely knew why. But
surely I could take care of myself, and did not want surveillance,
especially Mr. Rayner’s.
“Don’t be angry; I spoke only in fun. I want to see Boggett about some
fencing, and I know I shall catch him at church. But, if you object to
my company--”
“Oh, no, Mr. Rayner, of course not!” said I, overwhelmed with terror
at the thought of such impertinence being attributed to me.
The shock of this made conversation difficult to me, and I listened
while Mr. Rayner talked, with even less of “Yes” and “No” and simple
comment than usual. When we passed the park, I saw Mr. Laurence Reade,
dressed for church, tossing a small prayer-book--men never burden
themselves with the big church-service we women carry--and finishing a
cigar, with his back against a tree. I think he must have seen us for
some time before I caught sight of him, for I was looking at an
oak-leaf in my hand while Mr. Rayner explained its structure to me. I
had never seen Mr. Reade look cross before, and I thought it a pity he
should spoil his nice kind face by such a frown; and I wondered
whether he was ill-tempered, and, if not, what had annoyed him.
When one sees people playing with prayer-books and dressed for church,
one cannot help expecting to see them there; and I had an unreasonable
and absurd feeling almost like disappointment as the little organ
droned out a dismal voluntary and the service began, and still Mr.
Laurence Reade did not appear; and I caught myself looking up whenever
the door creaked and a late worshipper came in, and glancing towards
the pew he had occupied on the Sunday before, which I suddenly
remembered was very unbecoming in me. But he did not come.
The heat and this absurd little trifle, and my penitence for it, so
distracted my attention that I scarcely heard a word of the sermon.
But then it was the curate who preached on that afternoon, and his
discourses were never of the exciting kind. I just heard him say that
it was his intention to give a course of six sermons, of which this
was to be the first; and after that I listened only now and then; and
presently I noticed that Mr. Rayner, who always looked more devout
than anybody else in church, was really asleep all the time. It was a
heavily-built little Norman church, very old and dark, and he was
sitting in a corner in such an attentive attitude that I thought at
first I must be mistaken; but I looked at him twice, and then I was
quite sure.
When service was over, he stayed behind to talk to Boggett, while I
went on alone. He overtook me in a few minutes; but, when he said the
sermon was good of its kind, I had to turn away my head that he might
not see me smiling. But I was not quick enough for Mr. Rayner.
“I didn’t say of what kind, Miss Christie. I may have meant it was
good as a lullaby. One must be on one’s guard with you demure people.
I have never yet been to afternoon service without going to sleep, and
I have never before been discovered. Now the spell is broken, and I
shall feel that the eyes of the whole congregation are upon me. Are
you shocked Miss Christie?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Rayner!”
“You wouldn’t take such a liberty as to be shocked at anything I might
do; would you, Miss Christie?”
His tone of grave mischief woke an answering spirit in me.
“Certainly not, Mr. Rayner.”
“Where did you pick up a sense of humor, most rare gift of your sex,
and why do you hide it away so carefully, Miss Christie?”
“Indeed I don’t know; and I don’t mean to hide anything,” I answered
rather foolishly.
“And how did you like the sermon?”
“I--I wasn’t listening much, Mr. Rayner.”
“Not listening! A religious little girl like you not listening! I’m
surprised--I really am.”
His manner grew suddenly so grave, and he really seemed so much
surprised, that I felt called upon to make a sort of profession.
“I’m not really religious,” I said hurriedly. “I haven’t meant ever to
pretend to be. But I do respect religion and religious people very
much, and I hope some day I shall be able to enter into their feelings
better than I can now. I do pray for it,” I ended, almost in a
whisper.
Mr. Rayner took my hand very kindly.
“It will come, child, it will come,” he said gravely and quite
paternally. “Go on quietly doing your duty as you do, and the blessing
will come in due time.”
He said it so simply, without any attempt at preaching, that I felt I
looked up to him more naturally than even to a clergyman, being quite
sure now that he acquitted me of any intention to be hypocritical. And
when, after tea, he asked me to accompany his violin on the piano
while he played Mozart’s Twelfth Mass, the fervor which he put into
the beautiful music inspired me with a corresponding exaltation of
feeling, such as no sacred music had ever woke in me before. At the
end of the evening Mrs. Rayner wished me good-night and glided softly
from the room before I had finished putting the music in order, as Mr.
Rayner had asked me to do. When I rose from bending over the
canterbury, still flushed with the excitement caused by the music, Mr.
Rayner held out his hand with a grave smile.
“You are the best accompanist I have ever met; you catch the spirit of
this sacred music perfectly. To-morrow night I shall prove whether you
are so accomplished a reader of secular music. Good night, my dear
child.”
And he bent down to kiss me. But I shrank back slightly, and so evaded
him, trying at the same time to make my movement seem unconscious;
and, with a smiling “Good-night,” I left the room.
As soon as I had done so, my heart sank within me. What had I done?
Probably offended Mr. Rayner beyond recall by what must seem to him an
absurdly strained piece of prudery. It looked as if I thought myself a
person of such attractions that he wanted to kiss me to please
himself, instead of an insignificant little girl whom he was going to
kiss good-naturedly, as he might have done if he had been her father.
But then he was not my father, and not nearly old enough to be so,
however paternal and kind his manner might be; if he had been forty or
fifty, I should have submitted without a moment’s hesitation. But, if
Sarah or Mrs. Rayner, neither of whom seemed to like me very much, had
suddenly come in and found Mr. Rayner kissing me, she might have
mistaken, in a way which would have been very unpleasant for me, the
feeling which prompted him to do so. So I comforted myself as well as
I could with the thought that, after all, I had done only what was
right and prudent; and, if he was offended, well, there was no help
for it.
The next morning, to my great relief, his manner was just the same as
usual; of course what had caused so much thought and anxiety to the
girl of eighteen had seemed but a trifle to the man of
three-and-thirty. I wondered whether I should be summoned to the
drawing-room to accompany him on the violin, as he had spoken on the
previous night of wishing me to do. But at tea he was much
preoccupied, and told Sarah that a gentleman would be coming to see
him presently, who was to be shown into the study.
As he turned to say this, I noticed a sudden flash of horror pass over
Mrs. Rayner’s pale features and disappear in a moment, before her
husband could see her face again; and I thought I saw on Sarah’s dark
face a look of intelligence when the order was given her, as if she
too knew something about the expected visitor. I hope I am not very
inquisitive; but, in a quiet country-house to which, rightly or
wrongly, some suspicion of mystery is attached, one cannot help
noticing even trifles connected with unaccustomed events, and
wondering whether there is some meaning in them.
I tried not to think any more about it, as it certainly did not
concern me; but I did not succeed very well in banishing it from my
mind until I sat down in the empty schoolroom to my evening task, set
by myself, of translating a page of Markham’s English History into
German. I was very anxious to improve myself, so that by and by I
might be an accomplished woman and able to take an engagement as
finishing governess, which at that time seemed to me quite a lofty
ambition. When the translation was finished, I had still to read a
chapter of Guizot’s French History; but that was pleasant, easy work,
and might be enjoyed in the garden. I had seen the stranger as I was
crossing the hall after tea. He was a small slight man, with a fair
mustache, who might be old or young; and, although he wore only a gray
travelling-suit, he gave one the impression of being very well dressed
indeed. I had forgotten all about him long before I made my way, with
a heavy volume of history in my arms, to the pond, near the prettiest,
reediest corner of which I had made myself a nice little nest. There
was here a willow-tree which had been forced by an aggressive oak to
grow in a slanting position, and one of its lowest branches hung
parallel to the ground. This made my seat, and a piece of cord
fastened from branch to branch a foot and a half above made a rest for
my back; so, with a couple of old bricks to raise my feet out of the
damp grass, I could injudiciously sit there and enjoy the summer
evening till quite late. I read my Guizot, conscientiously hunting out
in the dictionary all the words I did not know, until the light began
to fade, and I was thinking it was time to go in, when I heard voices
that seemed to be coming towards me from the house.
I have mentioned a path which led, by a short cut through the
plantation, from the house to the high-road to Beaconsburgh. The
speakers, a man and a woman, as I could already make out, seemed to be
coming along the path. Whoever they might be, I would wait until they
had gone by before I went in. I could not see them, nor could they see
me, I knew. When they came a little nearer, I recognized Sarah’s
voice; the other was that of a man of a class much higher than her
own. Could it be the stranger? He was talking familiarly and seriously
with her; I could tell that before I heard any words. Sarah was
speaking in a tone of bitter complaint, and the first words I heard
were hers.
“I won’t stand it much longer--and so I tell you.”
“Tell him, my dear Sally--if you dare. And now oblige me by speaking a
little lower, for there is nothing like trees for carrying tales.”
She began again in a lower voice, but in the same tone, and, from the
occasional words I heard--for I could not help listening--I gathered
that she was angry because some unknown “he” paid too much attention
to some unknown “her.” But I could guess who they were. Sarah, it was
well known in the house, had an admirer, a man some years younger than
herself, who lived a long way off--in London, I think I had heard it
said--and who paid her visits at irregular intervals. Mr. Rayner took
great interest in this love-affair, and derived much amusement from
it; he had somehow discovered that the admirer, whose name was Tom
Parkes, was inclined to pay more attention than was meet to the
kitchen-maid, Jane; and it was Mr. Rayner’s opinion that there would
be very little left of Jane if she encouraged the fickle swain’s
attentions.
So Sarah was giving vent to her jealousy in an earnest and intimate
conversation with her master’s guest. It seemed a very strange
proceeding. I knew that men in the position of gentlemen do treat
women of a lower class with more consideration than is necessary when
they are young and pretty; but Sarah’s face, which looked as if it was
worn and lined before its time with hard work and strong passions, was
more repellent than attractive, and I was glad I could not see it as I
heard her fierce words more plainly, and knew how her great black eyes
must be flashing and her mouth twitching, as they did whenever she was
annoyed.
“Look what I’ve done for him; think how I’ve worked for him!” she
said. “He would never be where he is now if it wasn’t for me. Does he
think his new fancy will plan for him and plot for him, and risk--”
“Hush, hush--don’t speak so loud! Where’s your old discretion, Sally?”
“Let him look for discretion in Miss Baby, with her round face and her
child’s eyes. Does he think he can make use of her? Nonsense! It wants
a woman that’s strong in her head and strong in her limbs to do the
work he wants done, and not a soft little chit like that!”
“Depend upon it, however useful she might be, he would never compare
her services with yours, Sally. He is only amusing himself with this
little simpleton,” the man said soothingly.
But she interrupted him in a tone of half-suppressed savagery that
made me shudder, out of her sight though I was.
“Amusing himself, do you say? Only amusing himself! Looking at her,
talking to her, not because he wants to make use of her, but because
he likes her, loves her”--she hissed--“as he has never loved any of
his poor tools, though they were handsomer a thousand times than this
wretched girl! If I thought that, if I really believed that, he’d find
me more than his match for once. I’d spoil her beauty for her, and for
him, if I hanged for it!”
Oh, what an awful woman! And all because poor little Jane was younger
and prettier than herself, and had had the misfortune--for it was
indeed a misfortune--to attract the attention of her unprincipled
lover!
The man spoke again, this time very gravely. I had to listen with all
my attention to hear him, for they had now passed the place where I
sat.
“Sally, don’t do anything foolish,” said he. “Jim isn’t a fool, and he
knows how to repay services like yours, though he may be a trifle
harsh sometimes. Why, he might have thrown you over with the rest
when--”
I could hear no more; they had gone too far. I waited till their
voices had died away, and then dashed from my perch, through the
plantation and the hall, up to my room, as fast as I could, locked the
door, and sat down appalled.
What a terrible tragedy in the servants’ hall we were likely to have
if things went on like this! If Mrs. Rayner had been only a woman, not
a statue, I would have confessed all to her; but, as she was, it would
do no good. It was not the sort of thing I could tell Mr. Rayner, and
there was no way of letting him know without telling him. There was
nothing for it but to hope that little Jane would be wise and leave
off provoking Sarah, and that Providence would bring Sarah herself to
a better mind.
But what a dreadful woman to have in the house! And why had the
stranger spoken of Tom Parkes as “Jim”?