"i'll tell thee a part,

of the thoughts that start

to being when thou art nigh."

—shelley.

the next day is sunday, and a very muggy, disagreeable one it proves. there is an indecision about it truly irritating. a few drops of rain here and there, a threatening of storm, but nothing positive. finally, at eleven o'clock, just as they have given up all hope of seeing any improvement, it clears up in a degree,—against its will,—and allows two or three depressed and tearful sunbeams to struggle forth, rather with a view to dishearten the world than to brighten it.

sunday at herst is much the same as any other day. there are no rules, no restrictions. in the library may be found volumes of sermons waiting for those who may wish for them. the covers of those sermons are as clean and fresh to-day as when they were placed on their shelves, now many years ago, showing how amiably they have waited. you may play billiards if you like; you need not go to church if you don't like. yet, somehow, when at herst, people always do go,—perhaps because they needn't, or perhaps because there is such a dearth of amusements.

molly, who as yet has escaped all explanation with tedcastle, coming down-stairs, dressed for church, and looking unusually lovely, finds almost all the others assembled before her in the hall, ready to start.

laying her prayer-books upon a table, while with one hand she gathers up the tail of her long gown, she turns to say a word or two to lady stafford.

at this moment both luttrell and shadwell move toward the books. shadwell, reaching them first, lays his hand upon them.

"you will carry them for me?" says molly, with a bright smile to him; and luttrell, with a slight contraction of the brow, falls back again, and takes his place beside lady stafford.

as the church lies at the end of a pleasant pathway through the woods, they elect to walk it; and so in twos and threes they make their way under the still beautiful trees.

"it is cold, is it not?" molly says to mrs. darley once, when they come to an open part of the wood, where they can travel in a body; "wonderfully so for september."

"is it? i never mind the cold, or—or anything," rejoins mrs. darley, affectedly, talking for the benefit of the devoted mottie, who walks beside her, "laden with golden grain," in the shape of prayer-books and hymnals of all sorts and sizes, "if i have any one with me that suits me; that is, a sympathetic person."

"a lover you mean?" asks uncompromising molly. "well, i don't know; i think that is about the time, of all others, when i should object to feeling cold. one's nose has such an unpleasant habit of getting beyond one's control in the way of redness; and to feel that one's cheeks are pinched and one's lips blue is maddening. at such times i like my own society best."

"and at other times, too," said philip, disagreeably; "this morning, for instance." he and molly have been having a passage of arms, and he has come off second best.

"i won't contradict you," says molly, calmly; "it would be rude, and, considering how near we are to church, unchristian."

"a pity you cannot recollect your christianity on other occasions," says he, sneeringly.

"you speak with feeling. how have i failed toward you in christian charity?"

"is it charitable, is it kind to scorn a fellow-creature as you do, only because he loves you?" philip says, in a low tone.

miss massereene is first honestly surprised, then angry. that philip has made love to her now and again when opportunity occurred is a fact she does not seek to deny, but it has been hitherto in the careless, half-earnest manner young men of the present day affect when in the society of a pretty woman, and has caused her no annoyance.

that he should now, without a word of warning (beyond the slight sparring-match during their walk, and which is one of a series), break forth with so much vehemence and apparent sense of injury, not only alarms but displeases her; whilst some faint idea of treachery on her own part toward her betrothed, in listening to such words, fills her with distress.

there is a depth, an earnestness, about philip not to be mistaken. his sombre face has paled, his eyes do not meet hers, his thin nostrils are dilated, as though breathing were a matter of difficulty; all prove him genuinely disturbed.

to a man of his jealous, passionate nature, to love is a calamity. no return, however perfect, can quite compensate him for all the pains and fears his passion must afford. already philip's torture has begun; already the pangs of unrequited love have seized upon him.

"i wish you would not speak to me like—as—in such a tone," molly says, pettishly and uneasily. "latterly, i hate going anywhere with you, you are so ill-tempered; and now to-day—— why cannot you be pleasant and friendly, as you used to be when i first came to herst?"

"ah, why indeed?" returns he, bitterly.

at this inauspicious moment a small rough terrier of luttrell's rushes across their path, almost under their feet, bent on some mad chase after a mocking squirrel; and philip, maddened just then by doubts and the coldness of her he loves, with the stick he carries strikes him a quick and sudden blow; not heavy, perhaps, but so unexpected as to draw from the pretty brute a sharp cry of pain.

hearing a sound of distress from his favorite, luttrell turns, and, seeing him shrinking away from molly's side, casts upon her a glance full of the liveliest reproach, that reduces her very nearly to the verge of tears. to be so misunderstood, and all through this tiresome philip, it is too bad! as, under the circumstances, she cannot well indulge her grief, she does the next best thing, and gives way to temper.

"don't do that again," she says, with eyes that flash a little through their forbidden tears.

"why?" surprised in his turn at her vehemence; "it isn't your dog; it's luttrell's."

"no matter whose dog it is; don't do it again. i detest seeing a poor brute hurt, and for no cause, but merely as a means to try and rid yourself of some of your ill-temper."

"there is more ill-temper going than mine. i beg your pardon, however. i had no idea you were a member of the humane society. you should study the bearing-rein question, and vivisection, and—that," with a sullen laugh.

"nothing annoys me so much as wanton cruelty to dumb animals."

"there are other—perhaps mistakenly termed—superior animals on whom even you can inflict torture," he says, with a sneer. "all your tenderness must be reserved for the lower creation. you talk of brutality: what is there in all the earth so cruel as a woman? a lover's pain is her joy."

"you are getting out of your depth,—i cannot follow you," says molly, coldly. "why should you and i discuss such a subject as lovers? what have we in common with them? and it is a pity, philip, you should allow your anger to get so much the better of you. when you look savage, as you do now, you remind me of no one so much as grandpapa. and do recollect what an odious old man he makes."

this finishes the conversation. he vouchsafes her no reply. to be considered like mr. amherst, no matter in how far-off a degree, is a bitter insult. in silence they continue their walk; in silence reach the church and enter it.

it is a gloomy, antiquated building, primitive in size, and form, and service. the rector is well-meaning, but decidedly low. the curate is unmeaning, and abominably slow. the clerk does a great part of the duty.

he is an old man, and regarded rather in the light of an institution in this part of the county. being stone deaf, he puts in the responses anyhow, always in the wrong place, and never finds out his mistake until he sees the clergyman's lips set firm, and on his face a look of patient expectation, when he coughs apologetically, and says them all over again.

there is an "amen" in the middle of every prayer, and then one at the end. this gives him double trouble, and makes him draw his salary with a clear conscience. it also creates a lively time for the school-children, who once at least on every sunday give way to a loud burst of merriment, and are only restored to a sense of duty by a severe blow administered by the sandy-haired teacher.

it is a good old-fashioned church too, where the sides of the pews are so high that one can with difficulty look over them, and where the affluent man can have a real fire-place all to himself, with a real poker and tongs and shovel to incite it to a blaze every now and again.

here, too, without rebuke the neighbors can seize the opportunity of conversing with each other across the pews, by standing on tiptoe, when occasion offers during the service, as, for instance, when the poor-box is going round. and it is a poor-box, and no mistake,—flat, broad, and undeniable pewter, at which the dainty bags of a city chapel would have blushed with shame.

when the clergyman goes into the pulpit every one instantly blows his or her nose, and coughs his or her loudest before the text is given out, under a mistaken impression that they can get it all over at once, and not have to do it at intervals further on. this is a compliment to the clergyman, expressing their intention of hearing him undisturbed to the end, and, i suppose, is received as such.

it is an attentive congregation,—dangerously so, for what man but blunders in his sermon now and then? and who likes being twitted on week-days for opinions expressed on sundays, more especially if he has not altogether acted up to them! it is a suspicious congregation too (though perhaps not singularly so, for i have perceived others do the same), because whenever their priest names a chapter and verse for any text he may choose to insert in his discourse, instantly and with avidity each and all turn over the leaves of their bibles, to see if it be really in the identical spot mentioned, or whether their pastor has been lying. this action may not be altogether suspicion; it may be also thought of as a safety-valve for their ennui, the rector never letting them off until they have had sixty good minutes of his valuable doctrine.

all the herst party conduct themselves with due discretion save mr. potts, who, being overcome by the novelty of the situation and the length of the sermon, falls fast asleep, and presently, at some denunciatory passage, pronounced in a rather distinct tone by the rector, rousing himself with a precipitate jerk, sends all the fire-irons with a fine clatter to the ground, he having been most unhappily placed nearest the grate.

"the ruling passion strong in death," says luttrell, with a despairing glance at the culprit; whereupon molly nearly laughs outright, while the school-children do so quite.

beyond this small contre-temps, however, nothing of note occurs; and, service being over, they all file decorously out of the church into the picturesque porch outside, where they stand for a few minutes interchanging greetings with such of the county families as come within their knowledge.

with a few others too, who scarcely come within that aristocratic pale, notably mrs. buscarlet. she is a tremendously stout, distressingly healthy woman, quite capable of putting her husband in a corner of her capacious pocket, which, by the bye, she insists on wearing outside her gown, in a fashion beloved of our great-grandmothers, and which, in a modified form, last year was much affected by our own generation.

this alarming personage greets marcia with the utmost bonhommie, being apparently blind to the coldness of her reception. she greets lady stafford also, who is likewise at freezing-point, and then gets introduced to molly. mrs. darley, who even to the uninitiated mrs. buscarlet appears a person unworthy of notice, she lets go free, for which favor mrs. darley is devoutly grateful.

little buscarlet himself, who has a weakness for birth, in that he lacks it, comes rambling up to them at this juncture, and tells them, with many a smirk, he hopes to have the pleasure of lunching with them at herst, mr. amherst having sent him a special invitation, as he has something particular to say to him; whereupon molly, who is nearest to him, laughs, and tells him she had no idea such luck was in store for her.

"you are the greatest hypocrite i ever met in my life," sir penthony says in her ear, when buscarlet, smiling, bowing, radiant, has moved on.

"i am not indeed; you altogether mistake me," molly answers. "if you only knew how his anxiety to please, and marcia's determination not to be pleased, amuse me, you would understand how thoroughly i enjoy his visits."

"i ask your pardon. i had no idea we had a student of human nature among us. don't study me, miss massereene, or it will unfit you for further exertions; i am a living mass of errors."

"alas that i cannot contradict you!" says cecil, with a woful sigh, who is standing near them.

mr. amherst, who never by any chance darkens the doors of a church, receives them in the drawing-room on their return. he is in an amiable mood and pleased to be gracious. seizing upon mr. buscarlet, he carries him off with him to his private den, so that for the time being there is an end of them.

"for all small mercies," begins mr. potts, solemnly, when the door has closed on them; but he is interrupted by lady stafford.

"'small,' indeed," grumbles she. "what do you mean? i shan't be able to eat my lunch if that odious little man remains, with his 'yes, lady stafford;' 'no, lady stafford;' 'i quite agree with your ladyship,' and so on. oh, that i could drop my title!"—this with a glance at sir penthony;—"at all events while he is present." this with another and more gracious glance at stafford. "positively i feel my appetite going already, and that is a pity, as it was an uncommonly good one."

"cheer up, dear," says molly; "and remember there will be dinner later on. poor mr. buscarlet! there must be something wrong with me, because i cannot bring myself to think so disparagingly of him as you all do."

"i am sorry for you. not to know mr. buscarlet's little peculiarities of behavior argues yourself unknown," marcia says, with a good deal of intention. "and i presume they cannot have struck you, or you would scarcely be so tolerant."

"he certainly sneezes very incessantly and very objectionably," molly says, thoughtfully. "i hate a man who sneezes publicly; and his sneeze is so unpleasant,—so exactly like that of a cat. a little wriggle of the entire body, and then a little soft—splash!"

"my dear molly!" expostulates lady stafford.

"but is it not?" protests she; "is it not an accurate description?"

"yes, its accuracy is its fault. i almost thought the man was in the room."

"and then there is mrs. buscarlet: i never saw any one like mrs. buscarlet," maud darley says, plaintively; "did you? there is so much of her, and it is all so nasty. and, oh! her voice! it is like wind whistling through a key-hole."

"poor woman," says luttrell, regretfully, "i think i could have forgiven her had she not worn that very verdant gown."

"my dear fellow, i thought the contrast between it and her cheeks the most perfect thing i ever saw. it is evident you have not got the eye of an artist," sir penthony says, rather unfeelingly.

"i never saw any one so distressingly healthy," says maud, still plaintively. "fat people are my aversion. i don't mind a comfortable-looking body, but she is much too stout."

"let us alter that last remark and say she has had too much stout, and perhaps we shall define her," remarks tedcastle. "i hate a woman who shows her food."

"the way she traduced those sedleys rather amused me," molly says, laughing. "i certainly thought her opinion of her neighbors very pronounced."

"she shouldn't have any opinion," says lady stafford, with decision. "you, my dear molly, take an entirely wrong view of it. such people as the buscarlets, sprung from nobody knows where, or cares to know, should be kept in their proper place, and be sat upon the very instant they develop a desire to progress."

"how can you be so illiberal?" exclaims molly, aghast at so much misplaced vehemence. "why should they not rise with the rest of the world?"

"eleanor has quite a penchant for the buscarlets," says marcia, with a sneer; "she has quite adopted them, and either will not, or perhaps does not, see their enormities."

nobody cares to notice this impertinence, and mr. potts says, gravely:

"lady stafford has never forgiven mrs. buscarlet because once, at a ball here, she told her she was looking very 'distangy.' is that not true?"

cecil laughs.

"why should not every one have an opinion?" molly persists. "i agree with the old song that 'britons never shall be slaves:' therefore, why should they not assert themselves? in a hundred years hence they will have all the manners and airs of we others."

"then they should be locked up during the intermediate stage," says cecil, with an uncompromising nod of her blonde head. "i call them insufferable; and if mr. buscarlet when he comes in again makes himself agreeable to me—me!—i shall insult him,—that's all! no use arguing with me, molly,—i shall indeed." she softens this awful threat by a merry sweet-tempered little laugh.

"let us forget the little lawyer and talk of something we all enjoy,—to-day's sermon, for instance. you admired it, potts, didn't you? i never saw any one so attentive in my life," says sir penthony.

potts tries to look as if he had never succumbed during service to "nature's sweet restorer;" and molly says, apologetically:

"how could he help it? the sermon was so long."

"yes, wasn't it?" agrees plantagenet, eagerly. "the longest i ever heard. that man deserves to be suppressed or excommunicated; and the parishioners ought to send him a round robin to that effect. odd, too, how much at sea one feels with a strange prayer-book. one looks for one's prayer at the top of the page, where it always used to be in one's own particular edition, and, lo! one finds it at the bottom. whatever you may do for the future, lady stafford, don't lend me your prayer-book. but for the incessant trouble it caused me, between losing my place and finding it again, i don't believe i should have dropped into that gentle doze."

"had you ever a prayer-book of your own?" asks cecil, unkindly. "because if so it is a pity you don't air it now and again. i have known you a great many years,—more than i care to count,—and never, never have i seen you with the vestige of one. i shall send you a pocket edition as a christmas-box."

"thanks awfully. i shall value it for the giver's sake. and i promise you that when next we meet—such care shall it receive—even you will be unable to discover a scratch on it."

"plantagenet, you are a bad boy," says cecil.

"i thought the choir rather good," molly is saying; "but why must a man read the service in a long, slow, tearful tone? surely there is no good to be gained by it; and to find one's self at 'amen' when he is only in the middle of the prayer has something intolerably irritating about it. i could have shaken that curate."

"why didn't you?" says sir penthony. "i would have backed you up with the greatest pleasure. the person i liked best was the old gentleman with the lint-white locks who said 'yamen' so persistently in the wrong place all through; i grew quite interested at last, and knew the exact spot where it was likely to come in. i must say i admire consistency."

"how hard it is to keep one's attention fixed," molly says, meditatively, "and to preserve a properly dismal expression of countenance! to look solemn always means to look severe, as far as i can judge. and did you ever notice when a rather lively and secular set of bars occur in the voluntary, how people cheer up and rouse themselves, and give way to a little sigh or two? i hope it isn't a sigh of relief. we feel it's wicked, but we always do it."

"still studying poor human nature," exclaims sir penthony. "miss massereene, i begin to think you a terrible person, and to tremble when i meet your gaze."

"well, at all events no one can accuse them of being high church," says mrs. darley, alluding to her pastors and masters for the time being. "the service was wretchedly conducted; hardly any music, and not a flower to speak of."

"my dear! high church! how could you expect it? only fancy that curate intoning!" says cecil, with a laugh.

"i couldn't," declares sir penthony; "so much exertion would kill me."

"that's why he isn't high church," says mr. potts of the curate, speaking with a rather sweeping air of criticism. "he ain't musical; he can't intone. take my word for it, half the clergy are anglicans merely because they think they have voices, and feel what a loss the world will sustain if it don't hear them."

"oh, what a malicious remark!" says molly, much disgusted.

here the scene is further enlivened by the reappearance of mr. amherst and the lawyer, which effectually ends the conversation and turns their thoughts toward the dining-room.