think that sunday is the dullest day in the week,” exclaimed vincent, stretching himself with a weary yawn; “and a wet sunday is the worst of all.”
clemence put down the book which she had been reading, and joined vincent at the window, where he was drearily watching the raindrops plashing on the brown pavement, making circles in the muddy pools, and coursing each other slowly down the panes. she seated herself beside him, resting her arm on the back of his chair.
“some people speak of enjoying sunday,” pursued vincent. “i’m certain it is nothing but talk. i know aunt selina said that she did so one day when our clergyman was making a call. i know that what she does on sunday is to notice the dress of everybody at church, and find fault with the sermon, and talk over all the plans for the week. i don’t see much enjoyment in that.” nor did clemence; but she thought it better not to express her opinion.
“do you enjoy sunday?” asked vincent, turning round, so that he could look his step-mother in the face.
“yes; especially sundays in the country.”
“where’s the difference between sundays in london and sundays in the country?” asked vincent.
here was an opening for pleasant, familiar converse, and clemence was not slow in availing herself of it. she talked of her school at stoneby; gave interesting anecdotes of her girls; told of an aged, bed-ridden woman, who loved to receive a call every sunday afternoon, always expecting that her visitor would repeat to her the leading points in the morning’s sermon. greatly had clemence missed her accustomed sabbath labours of love, her husband having decidedly objected to her undertaking any such in the great metropolis. it was sweet to her now to recall them; and in vincent, who was thoroughly weary of his own society, she found a willing listener.
“i can fancy that it must be pleasant going to the cottages, where every one is glad to see you,” said the boy; “but then there are the long, tiresome evenings, especially during the winter; how did you manage to get over them?”
“i sang hymns, and read a good deal.”
“oh, but sunday books are so dull.”
“do you think so? i find some so interesting.”
“i never saw one yet which did not set me yawning before i had got through half a page.”
clemence went to the book-case without replying, and returning with a volume of the “history of the reformation,” resumed her seat by vincent. “would you like to hear a story?” she said, after turning to an interesting passage in the life of luther.
“a story, yes; but i don’t want a sermon.”
clemence read with animation and expression, and vincent speedily became interested. the history naturally led to questions from the intelligent boy, which his step-mother readily answered. he was unconsciously drinking in information upon one of the most important of subjects.
“how odd it is,” exclaimed vincent suddenly, “that i should ever have taken you for a papist!”
“a papist!” repeated clemence in a little surprise.
“why, aunt selina told us that your grandmother was a frenchwoman.”
“and so she was, but not a romanist.”
vincent’s countenance fell. “so you’re partly french, after all,” cried he; “i’m sorry for that, for i hate the french.”
“should we hate anything but sin?” said clemence softly.
“i’m a regular john bull!” cried vincent, “and i don’t care if all the world knew it! britannia for ever, say i!”
“you cannot love old england better than i do,” said clemence; “but patriotism is one thing, and prejudice another.”
“what do you call prejudice?” asked vincent.
“the determination to dislike some one or something before judgment has had time to decide whether it merit your dislike or not. surely this is neither reasonable nor right!”
“i think that we were prejudiced against you,” said vincent thoughtfully—“that is, before we knew you, and perhaps some of us after we had known you. we did not wish to like you; only, you see, we really could not help ourselves,” and the boy looked up archly into the blue eyes that met his gaze so kindly.
“prejudice,” observed clemence, “prevents our seeing objects as they actually are.”
“i see, i see,” said vincent quickly; “prejudices are like the knots in the glass of one of our windows at school. they alter the shape of everything that we choose to look at through them; they make straight things crooked, and nothing distinct—even your face would look quite ugly only seen through that glass.”
“one would not wish to have one’s mind full of such knots,” said clemence, smiling at the schoolboy’s smile.
“i think that your glass is all rosy-coloured!” cried vincent, “and that makes you look at every one kindly. but aunt selina don’t deserve it of you. do you know what she said of you once?”
“i have no wish to hear it, dear vincent.”
“something about idolatry, which was not at all true; and she said—i did not believe a word of it!—that there is a natural leaning in our hearts toward idolatry. that was downright nonsense, i know. nobody has idols in england.”
“i wish that i could think so,” replied clemence.
“what! do you believe that there are any in this country?”
“i fear that there is scarcely a house in it that is really without one. idols, dear vincent, are not merely lifeless figures of silver or gold, such as the poor heathen worship; anything, everything that takes the place of god in the heart,—anything, everything that is loved more than him is an idol, and brings on us the sin of idolatry.”
vincent sat for a space very silent, revolving his step-mother’s words in his mind, then said, “if that be the case, i think that there are idols in this very house. bella’s idol is pride, louisa’s is pleasure, aunt selina’s—”
“hush!” said clemence gravely, laying her hand on the arm of vincent; “it is worse than useless to find out the idols of our neighbours; our duty is to search for our own. the same volume in which we read, judge yourselves, brethren, also bids us, in respect to others, judge not, that ye be not judged.”
“i don’t think that i have any idol,” said vincent, after another pause for reflection. clemence effingham remained silent.
“do you think that i have?” said the boy.
“are you willing to know, dear vincent, or will you be vexed if i tell you the truth?”
“i wish to know it,” replied vincent.
“then it appears to me, dear boy, as though you had hitherto made an idol of self-will. it appears to me that when any duty presents itself, ‘what do i like to do?’ not ‘what ought i to do?’ is usually your first consideration. you are ready for any kind, generous, noble act, if it accord with your own inclination; but if it run counter to that, duty is sacrificed at once. is not this putting self-will in the place of the law of god? is not this bowing to an idol that usurps the authority of god?”
“i never had it put to me in that way before,” replied vincent. “i suppose that it was thinking of what i liked, instead of what i ought to do, that made me disobey you by going on the ice, and cost that noble old captain——but i do not like to speak of that,” said vincent, interrupting himself, “and it makes you look so sad. i wonder,” he cried in an altered tone, “if you have an idol too, and if you try hard to put it away?”
before clemence had time to reply to the bright-eyed boy, the door opened, and mr. effingham entered. if the heart of clemence enshrined an idol—if there were one being whose love was almost more precious to her than celestial hopes, whose approbation was almost more fondly sought for than that of her lord, that idol was before her now!
