“You must look at what is coming up the aisle,” it said, “it is worth looking at. See how discreetly I manage to do so – my prayer-book a little to one side. No one would guess I was not attending to the service.”
But from where Mary sat so much diplomacy was hardly called for. Another moment brought the newcomers full in her view, as they filed in, one after the other, two ladies, then two gentlemen, to a pew some little way in front. The first lady was middle-aged, if not elderly, well-dressed and rather fat; the second was tall and thin, and seemingly very young, well-dressed too, and – an accidental turn of her head brought the face full in sight – yes, there was no doubt of it, very, very pretty. Pretty with the prettiness that is almost, but not quite, beauty, that might, perhaps, grow to be such in a few years, for just now she could not, thought Mary, be more than sixteen or seventeen – the rounded cheek and white forehead, on which the dark, soft hair lay so nestlingly, had no lines or suspicions of furrows such as are seldom altogether escaped even at twenty; the nose, the mouth, the lovely, happy looking eyes, showing bright blue through the long black lashes, all told of the very first spring-time of life; the poise of the graceful little head on the shoulders, the flutter of unconcealed interest with which she looked about her, put her extreme youth beyond a doubt.
“How pretty she is!” thought Mary. “How bright and sweet and happy she looks!”
And for a moment or two the girl personally so interested her that she forgot to ask herself the question at which Lilias had long ago aimed, “Who can she be?” or rather, “Who can they be?”
For the “they” was made up by more interesting objects than the well-dressed, rather fat lady at the top of the pew. The rest of the “they” consisted of two gentlemen, who next fell under Mary’s investigation. Neither of them was old, yet one was decidedly older than the other; both were good-looking, but one was better than good-looking, he was undoubtedly handsome, and his expression was almost as attractive in its way as that of the young girl beside him. Could they be brother and sister? thought Mary to herself. There was no striking likeness between them, certainly, but neither was there any decided unlikeness, and she fancied there was something brother and sister-like in the way they sat together, sharing a hymn-book when the time came for the anthem’s substitute, Hathercourt Church being supposed to be “a place where they sing,” though the way in which the singing was performed was sometimes a matter of mortification to the Western girls, considering the time and labour they bestowed on the “choir.” It seemed unusually bad to Mary to-day, listening, as she caught herself doing, with “other people’s ears;” and once, when she fancied that she detected the ghost of a smile pass between the two young people on whom she was bestowing so much attention, she felt her cheeks grow hot, and she turned her eyes away from them with a little feeling of irritation.
“I wish strangers would stay away, if they come to criticise,” she said to herself.
Just then for the first time she caught distinct sight of the face of the other gentleman, the elder of the two. It was grave and serious enough to please her, surely! Too grave and serious by far, she decided. It was like turning from sunshine into gloom to watch his dark, quiet face after the two beside him. He looked older, a great deal older, than his companions.
“Thirty-three or four, at least,” was the age with which many credited him, but when she looked at his face again, she doubted the correctness of her opinion. It was more grave than old, after all, and after all, too, there was something rather nice about it. What fun it would be to talk them all over with Lilias afterwards! What – Suddenly a little pause in her father’s voice startled her wandering thoughts back to the present; the sermon was just coming to an end, and with considerable compunction Mary confessed the truth to herself – she had not heard a word of it! Certainly these strangers had a great deal to answer for.
There was a little delay in the coming out of church. The Smithson girls, and old Mrs Bedell, and even the school-children and the clerk seemed to be stupefied by the presence of the unexpected visitors; they all hung back and stared at the strangers, and at each other, as if they did not know what to do, till at last Lilias Western, waxing impatient, touched her mother with the end of her parasol, and leaning across little Francie and Brooke, whispered something which resulted in the rector’s wife, contrary to the usual order of procedure, leading the way down the aisle, followed by her goodly array of sons and daughters. Thus encouraged, the rest of the congregation followed with a rush, and when Lilias looked back from the door, there was no one to be seen in the church but the two gentlemen and two ladies, gazing about them in dignified desertion.
“What a set of boors all the people make themselves look,” exclaimed Lilias, almost before the Rectory party was out of earshot of the other members of the congregation.
“Hush, Lilias, some of them will hear you,” said her mother. “They don’t mean to be rude, poor people. You must remember how unaccustomed they are to strangers.”
“Mamma,” interrupted George, the second Western boy, hurrying up – “mamma, who can those people be? They’ve come out of church, and they’re standing staring about as if they didn’t know what to do. Where can they be going to? Their carriage hasn’t come back.”
Lilias’s fair face flushed – a very small amount of excitement was enough to deepen the soft pink colour of her cheeks at any time.
“We should do something, mamma,” she said, appealingly. “Shouldn’t Basil or George run back and ask them if they would like to wait at the Rectory till their carriage comes? You, Basil, run back, do, and ask them if they wouldn’t like to come in and rest a little.” (Basil was much the best-looking of “the boys.”)
“Rest – rubbish!” he said, contemptuously. “Haven’t they been resting in church all this time? I’m not going with such a nonsensical message,” and he turned away.
“George, you go, as Basil seems afraid of behaving like a gentleman,” said Mrs Western.
But George, too, hesitated.
“I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t for those ladies. Mother, they are so awfully grand,” he said, beseechingly.
Lilias’s face grew scarlet.
“I will go myself, then,” she exclaimed, and turning quickly, she had gone some way across the grass before the others quite understood her intention. Mrs Western looked distressed.
“Lilias excites herself so,” she said.
“I’ll ran after her, mother,” said Mary, quickly, and in another moment she was by her sister’s side. Lilias was still flushed and breathless to boot.
“Did you ever know such ill-mannered, rude – ” she was beginning, but Mary interrupted her.
“They are just boys,” she said, philosophically. “But, Lilias, you have put yourself quite into a fever. Let me go and speak to these ladies – yes, do, I would rather – it is better for me than for you.”
“But why?” said Lilias, doubtfully, though visibly relaxing her speed.
Mary laughed.
“I can’t say exactly, but somehow it’s not dignified for you to go hurrying back in that sort of way, and for me – well, I don’t think it matters.”
Lilias still hesitated.
“It isn’t that,” she said; “I wouldn’t have you do anything I would not do myself, only – Mary, you will laugh at me – I do feel so shabbily dressed.”
Mary did not laugh. She looked at her sister with real sympathy and concern. There are some of the trials of poverty whose stings are even more acutely felt at three-and-twenty than at seventeen, and Mary pitied Lilias where she might have laughed at Alexa.
“Let me speak to them, then,” she repeated. “Do, Lilias; I will hurry on, and you may follow slowly and see how I comport myself,” and Lilias made no further objection.
“How Lilias under-estimates herself,” she thought. “Who, with eyes in their heads, would think of her dress when they see her face?”
She