FullReads

“We returned as we came.

“‘Is there afternoon service?’ I asked Miss Lucy.

“‘Oh, yes!’ was the reply, ‘the servants go in the afternoon.’

“‘Don’t you?’ I asked.

“‘Oh, no!’ said Miss Lucy, ‘once is enough. You can go with the maids, if you want to, my dears,’ she added, with one of the occasional touches of insolence in which she indulged.

“Afternoon arrived, and I held consultation with Fatima as to what we were to do.

“When once roused, Fatima was more resolute than I.

“‘Of course we’ll go,’ said she; ‘what’s the use of having written out all our good rules and sticking at this? We always go twice at home. Let’s look for Bedford.’

“On which mission I set forth, but when I reached the top of the stairs I caught sight of the red-haired young lady, in her bonnet and shawl, standing at the open door, a Prayer Book in her hand. I dashed downstairs, and entered the hall just as the Irishman came into it by another door. In his hand was a Prayer Book also, and he picked up his hat, and went smiling towards her. But as he approached the young lady, she looked so much annoyed–not to say cross–that I hesitated to go forwards.

“‘Are you going to church?’ said the little Irishman, with a pleased look.

“‘I don’t know,’ said the young lady, briefly, ‘are you?’

“‘I was–‘ he began, and stopped short, looking puzzled and vexed.

“‘Is no else going?’ he asked, after a moment’s pause.

“‘No one else ever does go,’ she said, impatiently, and moved into the hall.

“The Irishman coloured.

“‘I am in the habit of going twice myself, though you may not think it,’ he said, quietly; ‘my poor mother always did. But I do not pretend to go to such good purpose as she did, or as you would, so if it is to lie between us–‘and, without finishing his sentence, he threw his book (not too gently) on to the table, and, just lifting his hat as he passed her, dashed out into the garden.

“I did not at all understand this little scene, but, as soon as he was gone, I ran up to ask our friend if she were going to church, and would take us. She consented, and I went back in triumph to Fatima. As there was no time to lose, we dressed quickly enough; so that I was rather surprised, when we went down, to find the Irish gentleman, with his face restored to its usual good humour, standing by our friend, and holding her Prayer Book as well as his own. The young lady did not speak, but, cheerfully remarking that we had plenty of time before us, he took our books also, and we all set forth.

“I remember that walk so well, Ida! The hot, sweet summer afternoon–the dusty plants by the pathway–the clematis in the hedges (I put a bit into my Prayer Book, which was there for years)–the grasshoppers and flies that our dresses caught up from the long grass, and which reappeared as we sat during the sermon.

“The old gentleman was in his pew, but his glance was almost benevolent, as, in good time, we took our places. We (literally) followed his example with much heartiness in the responses; and, if he looked over into our pew during prayers (and from his position he could hardly avoid it), he must have seen that even the Irishman had rejected compromises, and that we all knelt together.

“There was one other feature of that service not to be forgotten. When the sermon was ended, and I had lost sight of the last grasshopper in my hasty rising, we found that there was to be a hymn. It was the old custom of this church so to conclude Evening Prayer. No one seemed to use a book–it was Bishop Ken’s evening hymn, which everyone knew, and, I think, everyone sang. But the feature of it to us was when the Irishman began to sing. From her startled glance, I think not even the red-haired young lady had known that he possessed so beautiful a voice. It had a clearness without effort, a tone, a truth, a pathos, such as I have not often heard. It sounded strangely above the nasal tones of the school-children, and the scraping of a solitary fiddle. Even our neighbour, who had lustily followed the rhythm of the tune, though without much varying from the note on which he responded, softened his own sounds and turned to look at the Irishman, who sang on without noticing it, till, in the last verse, he seemed disturbed to discover how many eyes were on him. Happily, self-consciousness had come too late. The hymn was ended.