That Stick ...

However, with the words, ‘Beg your pardon,’ they stepped out with a little amusement in their eyes, when a spruce young woman sprang up from the opposite pew, with a scandalised whisper—

‘Mr. Ruddiman, it’s his Lordship!  Allow me, my Lord—your own seat—’

And she marshalled them up to the choir followed closely by Mr. Ruddiman, ruddier than ever, and butcher all over, in a perfect agony of apology, which Lord Northmoor in vain endeavoured to suppress or silence, till, when the guide had pointed to a handsome heavy carved seat with elaborate cushions, he gave a final gasp of, ‘You’ll not remember it in the custom, my Lord,’ and departed, leaving his Lordship almost equally scarlet with annoyance at the place and time of the demonstration, though, happily, the clergyman had not yet appeared, in his long and much-tumbled surplice.

It was a case of a partial restoration of a church in the dawn of such doings, when the horsebox was removed, but the great family could not be routed out of the chancel, so there were the seats, where p. 76the choir ought to have sat, beneath a very ugly east window, bedecked with the Morton arms.  In the other division of the seat was a pale lady in black, with a little girl, Lady Adela Morton, no doubt, and opposite were the servants, and the school children sat crowded on the steps.  It was not such a service as had been the custom of the Hurminster churches; and the singing, such as it was, depended on the thin shrill voices of the children, assisted by Lady Adela and the mistress; the sermon was dull and long, and altogether there was something disheartening about the whole.

Lady Adela had a gentle, sweet countenance and a simple devout manner; but it was disappointing that she did not attempt to address the newcomers, though they passed her just outside the churchyard, talking to an old man.  Lady Kenton would surely have welcomed them.

p. 77CHAPTER XII

THE BURTHEN OF HONOURS

A fearful affair to the new possessors of Northmoor was the matter of morning calls.  The first that befell them, as in duty bound, was that from the Vicar.  They were peaceably writing their letters in the library, and hoping soon to go out to explore the Park, when Mr. Woodman was announced, and was found a lonely black speck in the big dreary drawing-room, a very state room, indeed, which nobody had ever willingly inhabited.  The Vicar was accustomed to be overridden; he was an elderly widower, left solitary in his old age, and of depressed spirits and manner.  However, Frank had been used to intercourse with clergy, though his relations with them seemed reversed, and instead of being patronised, he had to take the initiative; or rather, they touched each other’s cold, shy, limp hands, and sat upright in their chairs, and observed upon the appropriate topic of early frosts, which really seemed to be affecting themselves.

There was a little thaw when Lord Northmoor asked about the population, larger, alas, than the p. 78congregation might have seemed to show, and Mary asked if there were much poverty, and was answered that there was much suffering in the winter, there was not much done for the poor except by Lady Adela.

‘You must tell us how we can assist in any way.’

The poor man began to brighten.  ‘It will be a great comfort to have some interest in the welfare of the parish taken here, my Lord.  The influence hitherto has not been fortunate.  Miss Morton, indeed—latterly—but, poor thing, if I may be allowed to say so, she is flighty—and uncertain—no wonder—’

At that moment Lady Adela was ushered in, and the Vicar looked as if caught in talking treason, while a fresh nip of frost descended on the party.

Not that the lady was by any means on stiff terms with the Vicar, whom, indeed, she daily consulted on parochial subjects, and she had the gracious, hereditary courtesy of high breeding; but she always averred that this same drawing-room chilled her, and she was fully persuaded that any advance towards familiarity would lead to something obnoxious on the part of the newcomers, so that the proper relations between herself and them could only be preserved by a judicious entrenchment of courtesy.  Still, it was more the manner of the Vicar than of herself that gave the impression of her being a formidable autocrat.  After the frost had been again languidly discussed, Mr. Woodman faltered out, ‘His Lordship was asking—was so good as to ask—how to assist in the parish.’

Lady Adela knew how scarce money must be, p. 79so she hesitated to mention subscriptions, and only said, ‘Thank you—very kind.’

‘Is there any one I could read to?’ ventured Mary.

‘Have you been used to the kind of thing?’ asked Lady Adela, not unkindly, but in a doubting tone.

‘No, I never could before; but I do wish to try to do something.’

The earnest humility of the tone was touching, the Vicar and the autocrat looked at one another, and the former suggested, ‘Old Swan!’