FullReads

“And so Miss Lucy rambled on, perfectly unconscious of the melancholy and yet ludicrous way in which she degraded serious subjects, which she was not old enough to understand, or wise enough to reverence. We were too young then to see it fully, but her frivolity jarred upon us, though she amused us, and excited our curiosity. She was not worse than many other girls, with plenty of inquisitiveness and sharp sense, and not too much refinement and feeling; whose accomplishments are learnt from the ‘first masters,’ and whose principles are left to be picked up from gossip, servants, and second-rate books; digested by ignorant, inquisitive, and undisciplined minds.

“I won’t try to recall any more of it, dear Ida. I remember it was a continuous stream of unedifying gossip, varied by small boastings about her own family. We’ve so many connections, was a favourite phrase of Miss Lucy’s, and it seemed to mean a great deal. ‘Do you like making trees?’ she asked. I was getting sleepy, and without much thought replied, ‘I love trees beyond anything, and I like growing oak trees in bottles.’ Miss Lucy’s, ‘My dear girl, I mean family trees, genealogical trees,’ was patronizing to scorn. ‘Ours is in the spring drawer of the big oak cabinet in the drawing-room,’ she added. ‘We are descended from King Stephen.’

“I believe I was the first to fall asleep that night. The last words I remember hearing were: ‘We’ve so many connections.’

“The next day’s post brought news from Bath of more general interest to the household. The plans of Cecilia and the major were changed; they were coming to her mother’s on the following Monday.

“‘My dear girls, I am so glad!’ said Miss Lucy; ‘you’ll see them. But you will have to move out of your room, I’m sorry to say.’

“And for the next twelve hours Miss Lucy was more descriptive of her family glories in general, and of the glories of her sister and brother-in-law in particular, than ever.

“Sunday was a day of mixed experiences to us; some pleasant and some the reverse. Miss Lucy in her best clothes was almost intolerably patronizing, and a general stiffness seemed to pervade everything, the ladies’ silk dresses included. After breakfast we dawdled about till it was time to dress for church, and as most of the ladies took about five minutes more than they had allowed for, it seemed likely that we should be late. At the last moment, Miss Lucy lost her Prayer Book, and it was not till another five minutes had gone in the search that she remembered having left it in church the Sunday before. This being settled we all stowed away in the carriages and drove off. It was only a short drive; but when we came in sight of the quaint little church there was no sound of bells, and it became evident that we were late. In the porch we shook out our dresses, the Irishman divided the burden of Prayer Books he had been gallantly bearing, our hostess turned back from the half-open door to say in a loud and encouraging whisper, ‘It’s only the Confession;’ and we swept up the little church into a huge square pew.

“My dear Ida, I must tell you that we had been brought up to have a just horror of being late for service, this being a point on which my father was what is called ‘very particular.’ Fatima and I therefore felt greatly discomposed by our late and disturbing entrance, though we were in no way to blame. We had also been taught to kneel during the prayers, and it was with a most uncomfortable sensation of doubt and shame-facedness that we saw one lady after another sit down and bend her bonnet over her lap, and hesitated ourselves to follow our own customs in the face of such a majority. But the red-haired young lady seemed fated to help us out of our difficulties. She sank at once on her knees in a corner of the pew, her green silk falling round her; we knelt by her side, and the question was settled. The little Irishman cast a doubtful glance at her for a moment, and then sat down, bending his head deeply into his hat. We went through a similar process about responding, which did not seem to be the fashion with our hostess and her friends. The red-haired young lady held to her own customs, however, and we held with her. Our responses were the less conspicuous, as they were a good deal drowned by the voice of an old gentleman in the next pew. Diversity seemed to prevail in the manners of the congregation. This gentleman stood during prayers, balancing a huge Prayer Book on the corner of the pew, and responding in a loud voice, more devout than tuneful, keeping exact time with the parson also, as if he had a grudge against the clerk and felt it due to himself to keep in advance of him. I remember, Ida, that as we came in, he was just saying, ‘those things which we ought not to have done,’ and he said it in so terrible a voice, and took such a glance at us over his gold-rimmed spectacles, that I wished the massive pulpit-hangings would fall and bury my confusion. When the text of the sermon had been given out, our hostess rustled up, and drew the curtains well round our pew. Opposite to me, however, there was a gap through which I could see the old gentleman. He had settled himself facing the pulpit, and sat there gazing at the preacher with a rigid attention which seemed to say–‘Sound doctrine, if you please; I have my eye on you.’