Chapter 6

"'Did you notice this?' she asked, holding up her hand, and pointing out the edging on the sleeve of her night-dress; 'it's a new pattern; do you know it? Oh! my dears, the yards and yards of tatting that Cecilia had for her trousseau!'

"Fatima and I were not rich in tatting edges, and rejoiced when the conversation took another turn.

"'About the proposal,' she rambled on; 'do you know I don't really know whereabouts Henry (that is the major, my brother-in-law,' she added, with one of the little attacks of dignity to which she was subject) 'proposed or what he said. I asked Cecy, but she wouldn't tell me. She was very cross, often; I'm very glad she's married. I think sisters ought to marry off as fast as they can; they never get on well in a house together, you know.'

"I fairly gasped at this idea, and Fatima said bluntly:

"'There are lots of us, and we get on.'

"'Ah!' said Miss Lucy, in tones of wisdom; 'wait till you're a little older, and you'll see. Cecy was at school with two sisters who hated each other like poison, and they were obliged to dress alike, and the younger wore out her things much faster than the other one, but she was obliged to wear them till her sister's were done. She used to wish so her sister would marry, Cecy said, and the best fun is, now they're both in love with the same man. He's the curate of the church they go to.'

"'Which of them is he in love with?' I asked.

"'Oh, neither that I know of,' said Miss Lucy, composedly. 'They don't know him, you know; but they sit close under the pulpit, and they have such struggles about which shall get into the corner of the pew that's nearest. Cecy and I weren't like that; but still I'm very glad she's married. Now wasn't it stupid of her not to tell me? I should never have told anybody, you know. And don't you wonder what gentlemen do say, and how they say it? He couldn't propose sitting, and I think standing would be very awkward. I suppose he knelt. Aunt Maria doesn't approve of gentlemen kneeling; she says it's idolatry. I think they must look very silly. Cecy wouldn't even tell me what he said. She said he spoke to mamma, and mamma said his conduct was highly honourable; but I think it was very stupid. Do you know, my dears, I have a cousin who was really married at Gretna Green? She married an officer. He was splendidly handsome; but people said things against him, and her parents objected. So they eloped, and then went to Wales, to such a lovely place! Wasn't it romantic? They quarrelled afterwards though; he lives abroad now. People ought to be careful. I shall be very careful myself; I mean to refuse the first few offers I get.'

"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.'

"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.

"We knelt again for the Benediction, and then went back through the summer fields.

"The red-haired young lady talked very little. Once she said:

"'How is it we have never heard you sing?'

"To which the Irishman replied:

"'I don't understand music, I sing by ear; and I hate 'company' performances. I will sing to you whenever you like.'

"'Mary,' said Fatima, when we were in our room again, 'I believe those two will marry each other some day.'

"'So do I,' I answered; 'but don't say anything about it to Lucy.'

"'No, indeed!' said Fatima, warmly. So we kept this idea sacred from Miss Lucy's comments--why, I do not think either of us could have told in words.

'Pity, that pleasant impressions--pity, that most impressions--pass away so soon!

* * * * *

"The evening was not altogether so satisfactory as the afternoon had been. First, Miss Lucy took us to see her sister's wedding-presents, most of which were still here in her mother's keeping. They were splendid, and Miss Lucy was eloquent. From them we dawdled on into her room, where she displayed her own treasures, with a running commentary on matters of taste and fashion, which lasted till it was time to dress for the evening, when she made the usual inquiry, 'What shall you put on to-night, my dear girls?' and we blushed to own that there was nothing further of our limited toilettes to reveal.

"In the drawing-room, similar subjects of conversation awaited us. Our hostess and her friends did not seem to care much for reading, and, as they did not work on Sunday evening, they talked the more. The chatter ran chiefly upon the Bath fashions, and upon some ball which had been held somewhere, where somebody had been dressed after a manner that it appeared needful to protest against; whilst somebody else (a cousin of our hostess) was at all points so perfectly attired, that it seemed as if she should have afforded ample consolation for the other lady's defects.

"Upon the beauty of this cousin, her father's wealth, and her superabundant opportunities of matrimony, Miss Lucy enlarged to us, as we sat in a corner. Another of her peculiarities, by-the-by, was this. By her own account, all her relatives and friends were in some sense beautiful. The men were generally 'splendidly handsome;' the ladies, 'the loveliest creatures.' If not 'lovely,' they were 'stylish;' if nothing else, they were 'charming.' For those who were beyond the magic circle, this process was reversed. If pretty, they 'wanted style.' If the dress was beyond criticism, the nose, the complexion, the hand was at fault. I have met with this _trait_ in other cliques, since then.

"My dear Ida, I wish to encourage no young lady of the hoydenish age of thirteen, in despising nice dressing and pretty looks and manners; or in neglecting to pick up any little hints which she may glean in such things from older friends. But there are people to whom these questions seem of such first importance, that to be with them when you are young and impressionable, is to feel every defect in your own personal appearance to be a crime, and to believe that there is neither worth, nor love, nor happiness (no life, in fact, worth living for) connected with much less than ten thousand a year, and 'connections.' Through some such ordeal we passed that evening, in seeing and hearing of all the expensive luxuries without which it seemed impossible to feed, dress, sleep, go out--in fact, exist; and all the equally expensive items of adornment, without which it appeared to be impossible to have (or at any rate retain) the respect and affection of your friends.

"Meanwhile, the evening slipped by, and our Sunday reading had not been accomplished. We had found little good habits less easy to maintain in a strange household than we had thought, and this one seemed likely to follow some others that had been allowed to slip. The red-haired young lady had been absent for about half an hour, and the Irishman had been prowling restlessly round the room, performing murderous-looking fidgets with the paper-knives, when she returned with a book in her hand, which she settled herself resolutely to read. The Irishman gave a comical glance at the serious-looking volume, and then, seating himself on a chair just behind her, found apparent peace in the effort to sharpen a flat ruler on his knees. The young lady read on. It was evident that her Sunday customs were not apt to be disturbed by circumstances.

"I began to feel uncomfortable. Fatima was crouched down near Lucy, listening to the history of a piece of lace. I waited some little time to catch her eye, and then beckoned her to me.

"'We haven't read,' I whispered.

"'Dare you go?' asked Fatima.

"'We ought,' I said.

"It required more daring than may appear. To such little people as ourselves it _was_ rather an undertaking to cross the big drawing-room, stealing together over the soft carpet; to attack the large, smooth handle, open the heavy door, and leave the room in the face of the company. We did it, however, our confusion being much increased by the Irish gentleman, who jumped up to open the door for us. We were utterly unable to thank him, and, stumbling over each other in the passage, flew up to our own room like caged birds set free.

"Fatima drew out the pillows from the bed, and made herself easy on the floor. I found the book, and climbed into the window-seat. The sun was setting, the light would not last much longer; yet I turned over the pages slowly, to find the place, which was in the second part, thinking of the conversation downstairs. Fatima heaved a deep sigh among her cushions, and said: 'I wish we were rich.'

"'I wish we were at home,' I answered.

"'When one's at home,' Fatima continued, in doleful tones, 'one doesn't feel it, because one sees nobody; but when one goes among other people, it _is_ wretched not to have plenty of money and things. And it's no good saying it isn't,' she added, hurriedly, as if to close the subject.

"'It's getting dark,' I said.

"'I beg your pardon: go on,' sighed Fatima.

"I lifted up my voice, and read till I could see no longer. It was about the Valley of Humiliation through which Mr. Greatheart led Christiana and her children. The 'green valley, beautified with lilies,' in whose meadows the air was pleasant; where 'a man shall be free from the noise and from the hurryings of this life;' and where 'in former times men have met with angels.'

"The last streaks of crimson were fading in the sky when I read the concluding lines of the shepherd-boy's song--

'Fulness to such a burden is, That go on pilgrimage, Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age.'

"'Here little, and hereafter bliss!'

"It is not always easy to realize what one believes. One needs sometimes to get away from the world around, 'from the noise and from the hurryings of this life,' and to hear, read, see, or do something to remind one that there is a standard which is not of drawing-rooms; that petty troubles are the pilgrimage of the soul; that great and happy lives have been lived here by those who have had but little; and that satisfying bliss is not here, but hereafter.

"We went downstairs slowly, hand in hand.

"'I wonder what mother is doing?' said Fatima.

* * * * *

"The next day Miss Lucy very good-naturedly helped us to move our belongings into the smaller room we were now to occupy. It was in another part of the house, and we rather enjoyed the running to and fro, especially as Miss Lucy was gracious and communicative in the extreme.

"'This is the oldest part of the house,' she said, as we sat on the bed resting from our labours, for the day was sultry; 'and it breaks off here in an odd way. There are no rooms beyond this. There were some that matched the other side of the house, but they were pulled down.'

"'Why?' we asked.

"'Well, there's a story about it, in the family,' said Miss Lucy, mysteriously. 'But it's a ghost story. I'll tell you, if you like. But some people are afraid of ghost stories. I'm not; but if you are, I won't tell it.'

"Of course we declared we were not afraid. Sitting there together, on a sunny summer's afternoon, perhaps we were not.

"'It's years and years ago,' began Miss Lucy; 'you know the place has belonged to another branch of our family for generations. Well, at last it came down to an old Mr. Bartlett, who had one daughter, who, of course, was to be the heiress. Well, she fell in love with a man whose name I forget, but he was of inferior family, and very queer character; and her father would not hear of it, and swore that if she married him he would disinherit her. She would have married the man in spite of this, though; but what he wanted was her money; so, when he found that the old man was quite resolute, and that there was no chance of his dying soon, he murdered him.'

"We both exclaimed; for this sudden catastrophe fairly took away our breath. Miss Lucy's nerves were not sensitive, however, and she rattled on.

"'He smothered him in bed, and, as he was a very old man, and might easily have died in the night some other way, and as nothing could be proved, he got off. Well, he married the daughter, and got the property; but the very first evening after he took possession, as he was passing the door of the old man's room, he heard somebody breathing heavily inside, and when he looked in, there was the old father asleep in his bed.'

"'Not really?' we said.

"'Of course not really,' said Miss Lucy, 'but so it was said. That's the ghost part of it. Well, do what he would, he never could get rid of the old man, who was always there asleep; so he pulled the rooms down, and at last he went abroad, and there both he and his wife died, and the property went to a cousin, who took the name of Bartlett.'

"'How awful!' we murmured. But Miss Lucy laughed, and told us other family anecdotes, and the ghost story somewhat passed from our minds, especially as a little later we heard wheels, and, peeping from the landing window, beheld a post-chaise drive up.

"'It's Cecilia!' screamed Miss Lucy, and left us at once.

"I may as well say here, my dear Ida, that Cecilia and the major proved altogether different from our expectations. Cecilia, in travelling gear, taking off an old bonnet, begging for a cup of tea, and complaining in soft accents that butter was a halfpenny a pound dearer in Bath than at home, seemed to have no connection with that Cecilia into the trimmings of whose dresses bank-notes had recklessly dissolved. The major, an almost middle-aged man, of roughish exterior, in plain clothes, pulling his moustache over a letter that had arrived for him, dispelled our visions of manly beauty and military pomp even more effectually. Later on, we discovered that Cecilia was really pretty, soft, and gentle, a good deal lectured by her mother, and herself more critical of Miss Lucy's dress and appearance than that young lady had been of ours. The major proved kind and sensible. He was well-to-do and had 'expectations,' which facts shed round him a glory invisible to us. They seemed a happy couple; more like the rest of the world than we had been led to suppose.

"The new-comers completely absorbed our attention during the evening, and it was not till we were fairly entering the older part on the house on our way to bed, that the story of the old man's ghost recurred to my mind. It was a relief to meet Bedford at this point, to hear her cheerful good-night, and to see her turn into a room only two doors from ours. Once while we were undressing I said: