Chapter XV

The following morning Henry walked with Mr. and Mrs. Elliott to church. As he returned home, and during luncheon, he was fractious, exceedingly ready to be teased, and not good-tempered about it. This was because of a disappointment. He had expected to meet Nora, and perhaps to walk with her; but though he had seen her in church, Mr. and Mrs. Elliott had walked out, and walked on homewards, without waiting to converse like their neighbours at the church door. Such being their conduct, he had felt bound to accompany them.

As they rose from luncheon, Mrs. Elliott said to him, “I am going to church again, but I suppose you will not come?”

“And why should you suppose any such thing?” he replied sharply. “Why may not I be as good a Christian as my neighbours?”

“Oh! then will you come with me? I shall be delighted to have your company for my walk. My old man never will go twice to church. He says he was not brought up to it.”

“Nor more I was. And I tell you what, Mr. Henry, all the church-going of the present day has no more religion in it than there is in Tom Jones. One goes to hear fine music, and another goes to abuse the new altar-cloth, and another goes to laugh at the old altar-cloth.”

“Yes, sir,” said Henry, who certainly could not be accused of being a great church-goer; “and another goes to hear the new curate intone so beautifully.”

“Yes,” cried Mr. Elliott, “and another to laugh at the poor old rector because he can’t intone; and if he could intone ever so well, would not do it--no, not to please the whole generation; and he’s right.”

“Well, never mind,” said Mrs. Elliott, who, knowing her husband could be worked up to insanity on any religious party question, dreaded such subjects; “we have no intoning here. And if our young curate preaches this afternoon, we are sure to have a good sermon. Will you be in the garden at a quarter before three?”

Henry acquiesced, and Mr. Elliott observed drily,

“And some go to church to see a young lady.”

On which Henry coloured, and said bitterly,

“If you mean me, sir, I don’t seem to have attained my object this morning.”

“No. I wish you more luck this afternoon.”

“But I did not say it _was_ my object,” Henry began; and then, struck suddenly with his folly, bit his lip, looked foolish, laughed, and walked out of the room.

On their way to church Mrs. Elliott observed,

“Mr. Elliott does not approve of gossiping outside the church door. He thinks it irreverent, and says he was brought up differently. It is often a disappointment to me to turn away, but I think he is in the right, and I generally try to follow his example. This afternoon, however, I want to persuade a few of my acquaintance to come up to Thorneybank to tea; we will therefore wait in the road till the congregation passes us.”

Henry immediately recovered his good temper. He might have guessed that his thoughts had been read, and that this was a plot of his kind hostess to meet his wishes; but he was not accustomed to reflect, and only thought how easily he could now accomplish his purpose of seeing a little more of Miss Smith.

She and Miss Willis, and three other ladies, accepted Mrs. Elliott’s invitation; and as the October day closes in early, they walked to Thorneybank at once. Mrs. Elliott and the three ladies in front; Henry, with Nora and Miss Willis, behind.

Mrs. Elliott had said that if the young curate preached there would be a good sermon. He had preached, and there was a good sermon. This young curate was not an eloquent speaker, nor was he remarkable for talent, nor apparently remarkable in any way, but he always preached well. Sometimes his sermons were more excellent than at other times, but from the first day when he began to preach he had never been known to preach a dull sermon. Wherein his gift consisted no one knew, but when he went into the pulpit every countenance expressed satisfaction, and when he ceased no one looked weary.

On this Sunday his text had been, “He went about doing good,” and for twenty-three minutes he gave his thoughts on this text, riveting, while he spoke, the attention of his hearers. _While he spoke!_ For the most part, when he had done his words were forgotten. The cares of the world came in and replaced them. But in every congregation there are one or two who, having a sincerer desire for help and advice than the rest, have truly ears to hear.

Nora was at this time in great want of advice; her mind, always thoughtful, had become active in thought; her conscience had become more quick. Her responsibility had begun to weigh on her in a more religious sense, and the mind, concentred on itself and its needs, was seeking food and help wherever it cast its eyes. The sermon of the young curate had taken her by surprise. She almost felt that it was addressed to her; and when she left the church she was like a person in a dream, or like one conning over a lesson that has to be learned. In this mood she half-reluctantly accepted Mrs. Elliott’s invitation, and, with little thought of the requirements of society, walked along wrapt in her reflections.

Henry and Miss Willis talked as they walked. Henry had taken a fancy to Miss Willis the night before. Her gentle, timid manner, and pleased reception of the commonest attentions, gave her a kind of attraction, and he talked to her for some little way without dissatisfaction. It was Nora, however, who interested him against his will; and when he had told Miss Willis of Mr. Elliott’s distaste of gossiping at the church door, had heard her warm agreement in the same opinion; when he had laughed at her about it, asking if it was a sin to say “How d’ye do?” which expression he pronounced in ten different tones of voice, mimicking all the varieties of voices, ages, and characters that might be found at a country church door, he turned to Nora. Though Miss Willis was laughing heartily at his wit, she was still immersed in thought, and he was piqued.

“If I may ask, what are you thinking about?” he said, abruptly.

Nora started. She had been quite unaware how profoundly she was reflecting.

“I was thinking about the sermon,” she replied. “Was it not wonderful?”

“It was good, I think,” he replied, with condescension. “Yes, I think it must have been good, because I listened to it, which does not happen to me above twice a year. But was it wonderful? How? In what way?”

“Wonderful in advice,” she said, with a kind of sigh. “I never thought before what one’s life ought to be.”

Henry stared.

“One’s own life!” he said. “Oh! dear, no. I don’t suppose all our lives could be like that.”

“Was not that what he said? That if everyone set before his eyes the one desire to go about doing good, this world would be a different place from what it is.”

“I daresay it would, indeed! But that does seem a little too much to expect of us poor mortals. Don’t suppose,” he added, with most innocent gravity, “that I am uncharitable. I like to give--I can’t bear to see distress; and though I am not rich, I hope I never refuse to help a sad thing that comes in one’s way. But to go about looking up pains and troubles, is quite another thing; and I can’t say I think that would be a proper plan to pursue.”

Nora made no answer. She was thinking very deeply, and his speech did not hit upon her tone of thought.

Miss Willis, with her breathless gasp, said,

“And yet I think I do know people whose lives are like what the preacher described--who do go about looking for pains and troubles, that they may relieve them.”

“Well, Miss Willis,” Henry said, reluctantly, “I think I do know one such person. It is not common, but I do know one; and that person is a man. And I do believe that he not only looks up pains and troubles, as I said, but that he also considers how he can give pleasure, which is more. I believe he gets up every morning thinking what good he can do.”

“Is it Mr. Fanshawe you mean?” she cried, amazed.

“Yes. What do you know of Mr. Fanshawe?” And he looked eagerly at her.

“Oh! I know him a little,” she said; then, suddenly conscious of indiscretion, added, “I made his acquaintance a year or two ago--not more.”

“How curious! And do you also know him?” and he turned to Nora.

“I do a little,” she replied with a blush.

He saw the blush, and something prompted him to say, with a vexed manner,

“I am very sorry you know him. He is my best friend and my worst enemy. I mean he tries to be my friend; but he thinks a great deal worse of me than I deserve, and has used me, as I think, very ill. I should be sorry that you spoke to him about me.”

Nora made no answer. She felt exceedingly uncomfortable. Concealment was bringing her into difficulties; and yet at that moment she could not risk a discovery of herself. She walked on in silence. Miss Willis, alarmed at her indiscretion, and much more alarmed lest she should have to take part in anything like disguise, remained silent also; and Henry, huffed at receiving no complimentary observation from Nora’s lips, would not speak.

The silence at length struck Nora, and impelled her to action. After walking a short distance, she began to talk of the singing of the previous evening. Though the change was abrupt, it was natural, and Henry fell into it at once. They entered into a musical discussion, so interesting and animated that before they separated he had asked leave to call on her the following morning, that he might inspect her collection of songs.