“Yes, indeed,” said Blanche heartily, thinking to herself with satisfaction that, thanks to Sir Adam, there could no longer be any complication in the matter. “But we shall not be at Pinnerton for a good while – not till next summer; however, I will come to see you whenever I can, you may be quite sure.”
“I’m afraid I shan’t be allowed to go as far as Blissmore just yet,” said Hebe; “I have to guard against any chill. But I had quite hoped you were coming back to the Lodge soon, from what Sir Adam said last night.”
“Dear Sir Adam,” said Blanche. “I could never tell you how good he is to us! But still, things must stay as they are for a while.” And then she went on to explain to Hebe the position of affairs with regard to Miss Halliday, and how much they felt themselves indebted to her, adding simply: “At that time she really seemed our only friend.”
Hebe stroked Blanche’s hand.
“I quite understand how you feel,” she said, “and I have no doubt you are right. But Sir Adam was so full of it last night, he was sure he’d get your tenants to turn out at once, and – he’s such an old man now, Blanche – he can’t have many years to live. Don’t you think perhaps, for his sake, you should not be quite so scrupulous?”
“It may be possible to arrange things a little sooner,” said Blanche. “Of course his wishes will be almost our first thought now. But, you see, in any case he must not risk the winter in this climate.”
“I was forgetting that,” said Hebe regretfully. “He seems so much stronger lately.”
Then they went on to talk of other things, Hebe giving a few details of all she had gone through.
“I can bear to think of it now that it is all so happily over;” and in the interest of their conversation time passed rapidly.
Hebe started when the silvery sound of a gong reached them from the hall below.
“That’s the tea-gong,” she said. “I am allowed to go down to tea, for Josephine keeps the room in a half-light for me. I had no idea it was so late.”
The two girls went down the staircase together; the drawing-room door stood open, and a hum of voices reached their ears before they entered the room. Then Lady Marth’s clear, decided tones rang out conspicuously above the others.
“Nonsense!” she was saying. “You can both stay if you choose – you know you are always welcome.”
“That must be Norman,” said Hebe gladly, “and – ”
But Blanche heard no more, for by this time they were inside the room, and Lady Marth was addressing her.
“How do you do, Miss Derwent? My hands are full of teacups, you see. I persuaded Sir Adam to stay to tea.”
Some one came forward from the little group near the fire. It was almost too dark to distinguish faces at the first moment, but Hebe’s, “This is Norman, Blanche,” prepared her for his cordial greeting.
“Here’s a nice corner for you both,” said Mr Milward. “No foot-stools to stumble over!”
“I see better in the dark than the rest of you, I think,” said Hebe laughingly; “it is too bad for you all to suffer for my sake. – Oh,” she exclaimed, “is that you, Archie? I didn’t know you were coming back again to-day.”
“Norman brought me over,” Mr Dunstan replied.
“And he’s pretending he can’t stay to dinner,” put in Lady Marth. – “As if your aunt would mind, Archie!”
He did not at once reply. He was shaking hands with Blanche.
“How do you do, Miss Derwent?” he said easily. “I hope Mrs Derwent is well, and that famous little brother of yours?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Blanche, in a tone which she endeavoured to render unconstrained, though feeling for once nervous, and ill at ease and disgusted at herself for being so, especially as Mr Dunstan struck her as his airiest, most conventional self.
“I really can’t stay,” he went on, turning again to Lady Marth. “Auntie is counting upon me, as she has got a man too few, and some people are coming to dinner.”
“It’s only to take in Rosy,” said Norman, with a brother’s brutality.
“Only Rosy!” repeated Lady Marth. “My dear Norman, if Rosy were any one but your sister, I don’t think you would be quite so much at a loss to account for Archie’s obstinacy.”
Archie laughed a hearty unconstrained laugh. “Archie’s taste is not peculiar; every one loves a tête-à-tête with Rosy, when they have a chance of it,” said Hebe, with apparently uncalled-for warmth.
“Of course they do,” said Sir Adam, speaking for the first time. – “And now, my dear Blanche, if you’ve had a cup of tea, I think we must be off – I have to get back to Alderwood in time for dinner, too, Master Archie. By-the-bye, we’ve got the large brougham – will you come with us viâ Blissmore, though it is rather a round?”
“Well no, I think I prefer Norman’s cart, which is here,” said Mr Dunstan lightly. “Though many thanks, all the same.”
“And how is Norman going to get home, then?” said Lady Marth. “You’re not going to force him away too?”
“The cart can come back,” said Archie.
“Thank you,” said Norman, somewhat grimly. “Pray, be on no ceremony.”
“There comes our brougham,” said Sir Adam, shaking hands with Lady Marth, Blanche following his example.
Then came a more affectionate farewell from Hebe, who accompanied them to the drawing-room door.
“I mustn’t go farther,” she said; but Norman Milward crossed the hall to see them off, Mr Dunstan having contented himself with a regulation hand-shake, when standing beside his hostess on the hearthrug.
The air outside felt chilly as they stepped into the carriage, but not so chilly as a strange, unreasonable breath of disappointment, which seemed to pass through Blanche, though, even to herself, she would have shrunk from calling it by such a name.
Chapter Twenty Four
Hebe’s Good News
May again! A later spring this year than last. As Blanche Derwent stood at the window of a house in a broad, airy street, at one end of which the trees of the Park were to be seen, she could scarcely believe it was same time of year, the same date, actually, as the day on which the news of their reversal of fortune had reached her mother at Pinnerton Lodge.
“That was such a lovely summery day,” she said to herself. “I remember it so well; Stasy and I walking home from Blissmore, laughing and talking – I even remember what we were talking about – how Stasy was flattering me;” and Blanche’s colour deepened a little. “And then to find poor mamma as she was when we got home! It was dreadful. And yet, how wonderfully all that side of things has come right! I should be grateful, and I think I am;” but still she gave a little sigh.
Sir Adam had carried out his scheme. He had taken a house in London for a part of the season, and had got his god-daughter and her children with him, excepting Herty, whom it had been thought wiser to leave under Miss Halliday’s care, not to interrupt his lessons.
Just then Stasy joined her sister.
“What are you doing, Blanche?” she said brightly.
“I thought it was against your principles to stand idle at the window. Even though these lovely London streets are delightful to look out on.”
Blanche smiled.
“How you have changed, Stasy! London used to be a synonym with you for everything dreary and miserable.”
“Yes, I daresay. London in November, with a fog, in a horrid hotel, and without a creature to speak to, isn’t exactly the same thing as London in May, in a bright open street like this, and with – really, I must say, everything one could reasonably wish to have.”
“London means a great many things – worlds and worlds of different lives,” said Blanche soberly. “I was just thinking how bare the trees are, Stasy, compared with this time last year;” and she reminded her sister of the date.
Stasy seemed impressed.
“It should make us awfully thankful,” she said, “and I’m sure it does. But I don’t quite understand you lately, Blanchie. You so often seem rather depressed, and just a little gloomy.”
She looked at her sister anxiously as she spoke.
“I wonder,” she went on – “I wonder if it is that you kept up too well when we were in such trouble. You were always so cheerful, and I used to be so cross. Do you remember my raging at Mrs Burgess’s caps?”
“No,” said Blanche decidedly. “You were always as good as could be. I don’t know how we should have got on without your fun and mischief, and I know I’ve grown horrid lately.”
“Are you not well, perhaps?” said Stasy. “I don’t think you have been quite yourself for a long time. I remember noticing it first, that Christmas week at Alderwood, when I did so enjoy myself. Even Lady Marth couldn’t freeze me up.”
“On the contrary, I think you’re rather a favourite of hers,” remarked Blanche.
“Oh, I don’t mind her,” said Stasy. “She’s not bad, after all; only she wants to manage every one’s affairs for them. I wonder if she’ll ever succeed in her match-making?”
“What do you mean?” said Blanche.
“Oh, you know, you must have forgotten about it. Rosy Milward and Archie Dunstan, of course.”
Blanche turned on her sharply.
“I do hope, Stasy, you’re not going to get into that odious habit of calling men you scarcely know, by their first names.”
Stasy opened her eyes very wide.
“I do know him, very well, I consider, and so do you, only you don’t like him. We saw a great deal of him at Christmas time, and I shall always consider him a true friend, whether you do or not. And so will mamma, I’m sure; the way he stuck to us, and was so kind to Herty at the time when no one else troubled their heads about us at all. Indeed, I’m by no means sure that Sir Adam would have found out about us as he did, not for a long time anyway, but for Mr Dunstan the younger. Does that suit you, Blanchie?”
Blanche took no notice of Stasy’s sarcasm.
“I know he was very good at that time,” she said. “I think he has most kind and generous impulses, but I don’t think his character can be very deep.”
“I think you are perfectly unfair and very censorious,” said Stasy indignantly. “Because you don’t personally like the man, and cannot give any good reason for your dislike, you imagine qualities, or no qualities, to justify your own prejudice.”
“Well, what does it matter what I think?” said Blanche, in a tone which she intended to be light and indifferent. “Rosy Milward’s opinion of him is, I suppose, the thing that signifies.”
Something in her voice struck Stasy. She eyed Blanche curiously.
“I don’t know that,” she said, speaking more slowly than was usual with her. “I’m not at all sure that Archie Dunstan does care in any special way what dear Rosy thinks about him.”
“Do you not think so?” said Blanche, with involuntary eagerness; but before Stasy had time to reply, they were interrupted by their mother’s entering the room.
“Quick, dears,” she said. “You must get ready. Sir Adam will be waiting for you.”
For the kind old man was devoting himself to “doing” London for his adopted grand-daughters’ benefit, two or three times a week, in the earlier part of the day.
At that very moment, at no great distance from the spot where Blanche and Stasy Derwent had been discussing Archie Dunstan’s character, the very person in question was sitting beside Lady Marth in her boudoir, listening to a very solemn oration discoursed, for his benefit, by that somewhat dictatorial lady herself.
She had summoned him by a note the evening before, and as he felt himself in duty bound to obey the behest of an old friend, he had made his appearance punctually. He was not without some suspicion as to the nature of the good advice she intended to bestow upon him, but saw no advantage in evading the interview.
“I must put an end to it, once for all,” he thought to himself. “Why will women meddle in such matters? But Josephine is honest and trustworthy when she feels herself trusted, so I’d rather have to do with her than with many would-be match-makers.”
So he sat in silence, patiently enough, to all appearance, while Lady Marth unbosomed herself of what she considered her mission, prefacing her advice with the usual excuses for interference, on the ground that, sooner or later, both of the principals concerned would thank her for having acted as a true friend in the matter.
Archie bent his head in acknowledgment of her kind intentions, but beyond this, neither by word nor look did he help her out with what she had to say.
This attitude of his made her task by no means easier. For some little time she floundered about in unusual embarrassment; but once fairly under weigh, her words flowed fluently. She dilated on Archie’s lonely position – the advisability of his making up his mind to marry, instead of remaining a target for the aims of designing mammas or rich husband-hunting daughters, and possibly some day finding himself pinned by their well-directed arrows. She hinted at the satisfaction and security of being cared for, “for himself,” and by one who had known him long and thoroughly, to all of which Archie listened unmoved, with the utmost deference and attention, till her ladyship at last pulled up short, partly through breathlessness, partly because, without the encouragement of a responsive word or gesture, she had really nothing more to say.
Then he looked up, but nothing in his face helped her to any conclusion as to the effect of her exordium.
“I must thank you,” he said, “for your great interest in my welfare. Believe me, I shall always remember it.” Which statement was certainly well founded, though the glimmer of a smile danced in his eyes as he made his little speech.
The smile, however, Lady Marth was too engrossed to perceive.
“But” – and at this word, for the first time, her heart misgave her as to what was to follow – “but it is best for me at once to make you understand my position. I am not likely to marry. It seems to me at present almost certain that I never shall.”
“Archie!” exclaimed Lady Marth, startled and surprised, “why not?”
“Simply for this reason. There is only one woman in the world whom I can imagine myself caring for in that way, and she” – here, even Archies calm somewhat deserted him – “she,” he went on, with a touch of bitterness quite new to him, “won’t have anything to say to me.”
“I can scarcely believe it,” exclaimed his hearer.
“There must be some mistake!”
“Thank you for the inferred compliment,” he replied. “But no – it is quite true; there is no mistake.”
Then a wild idea struck Lady Marth, suggested by her irrepressible belief in her own powers of discernment.
“You don’t mean to say,” she began. “Is it possible that we are both thinking of the same person! It can’t be that Rosy has refused you.”
Archie laughed, quite unconstrainedly.
“As things are,” he said, “I suppose I may be quite frank. Rosy! – oh dear, no; we are the best of friends, as you are aware, but thoroughly and completely like brother and sister. And it is by no means improbable that she suspects the real state of the case, as Hebe is in my confidence.”
“Then who in all the world can it be?” said Lady Marth, completely nonplussed, “for somehow you seem to infer that it’s some one I know.”
“I don’t mind telling you,” said Archie. “You do know her – it is Blanche Derwent.”
For a moment or two Lady Marth did not speak. Then she said, half timidly:
“It must have been very sudden. You have seen very little of her? Oh yes, there was that Christmas week at Alderwood.”
“It all happened long before then,” said Archie.
“It is true, I had not seen much of her, but it doesn’t seem to me now that time is required in such a case. It was soon after they left Pinnerton, and took up that millinery business.”
“Before Sir Adam came home?”
“Of course,” said Archie drily.
“And she refused you —then?”
“Naturally, as she didn’t care for me.”
Lady Marth again relapsed into silence. The confusion of ideas in her mind was too great to find expression in words. She had read of such things; in novels, perhaps, they seemed credible and rather fine. But in real life – no, she couldn’t take it in.
Archie showed no inclination to say more. He rose, and held out his hand.
“Good-bye,” he said. “Thank you for your interest in me.”
“Good-bye,” she replied, “and – no, perhaps I had better say nothing. Except, yes – honestly, Archie, I should like to see you happy.”
“Thank you,” he repeated.
When Archie found himself in the street again, he looked about him vaguely, and sauntered on, scarcely knowing why or whither, thinking over the interview which had just taken place, and recalling, not without a certain grim humour, Josephine Marth’s blank amazement.
Suddenly the sound of his own name not far from him made him start, and looking up, on the opposite pavement he caught sight of three familiar figures, Sir Adam and his two “grand-daughters.”
“Where are you off to?” said the old man. “You don’t look as if you were bound on anything very important. Come with us – we’re going to see some of the pictures.”
Mr Dunstan hesitated.
“Yes, do come,” said Stasy, with whom he was on the friendliest of terms. “Three is no company, you know, and I’m always getting left behind by myself.”
He glanced up, still irresolute, but at that moment he caught Blanche’s eyes, and something – an impalpable something in their blue depths – brought him to a sudden determination.
“If I won’t be in the way,” he said, “I should like nothing better.”
And the four walked on together.
“Norman,” said Lady Hebe that same evening, when they met for a few moments before dinner in her guardian’s house – it was within a week or two of the date fixed for their marriage – “Norman, I’ve something wonderful to tell you. Archie Dunstan rushed in late this afternoon to see me for a moment – ”
“Well?” said Norman, as she paused. “Do you want me to guess?”
“No,” said Hebe, “I want to tell you straight off. Archie knew how I should enjoy doing so. Its all right, Norman – between him and Blanche, I mean. Just fancy! Aren’t you pleased?”
And never had Hebe’s face looked happier than as she said the words.
End of “Blanche.”
Chapter Twenty Five
One Sunday Morning
The Rector of a large West-end church was ill. His illness was not very serious, nor did it threaten to be protracted, but it fell at a bad moment. It was the middle of the season, the time at which his church was more crowded than at any other of the year. He was an earnest and thoughtful man, and one who, despite much discouragement, laboured energetically to do his best; but on the Friday evening, preceding the second Sunday in June, he was obliged to acknowledge that for some days he would be unfit to officiate in his usual place.
“What shall I do?” he said in distress. “What shall I do about the sermon on Sunday morning? The curates can manage the rest, but it will be as much as they can do. I cannot ask either of them to prepare another sermon so hurriedly. And the one I had ready has cost me much time and thought – I had even built some hopes upon it. One never knows – ”
“Your sermon will keep till another Sunday. That is not the question,” said his wife.
“No, truly,” he agreed, with some bitterness; “my sermon, as you say, will keep. Nor can I flatter myself that any one will be the loser if it never be preached at all. Do sermons ever do good, I sometimes ask myself? Yet many of us – I could almost say most of us – do our best. We spare neither time nor trouble nor prayer; but all falls on stony ground, it seems to me. And we are but human – liable to error and mistake, and but few among us have great gift of eloquence. It is easy, I know, to pick holes and criticise; but is the fault all on the side of the sermons, I wonder?”
“You misunderstood me, Reginald,” said his wife gently. “No, truly; the fault must lie in great part with the hearers. All other efforts to instruct or do good are received with some amount of respect and appreciation. No popular lecturers, for instance, are listened to with such indifference or criticised so captiously as the mass of English clergy. It is the tone of the day, the fashion of the age. Though one rose from the dead – nay, if an angel from heaven came down to preach one Sunday morning,” she went on with sad impressiveness, “he would be found fault with, or sneered at, or criticised, and accused of having nothing to say, or not knowing how to say it; yes, I verily believe it would be so.”
Her husband smiled, though his smile was a melancholy one, at her earnestness.
“I have it,” he exclaimed suddenly; “I will write to Lyle by to-night’s post. He will come if he can, I am sure, and I know he only preaches occasionally where he is.”
The letter was written and despatched. Mr Lyle was a young clergyman doing assistant duty temporarily at a church in the suburbs while waiting for a living promised to him. His answer came by return. He would be glad to do as his friend asked. “But I shall go straight to Saint X’s on Sunday morning,” he wrote. “I shall not probably be able to reach it till the last moment, as I have an early service here. Ask them to count on me for nothing but the sermon. I shall look in after the service and shall hope to find you better.”
“He will be here at luncheon, then, I suppose?” said the Rector’s wife – Mildred was her name.
“Doubtless; at least you will ask him to come. You can wait to see him after the service,” her husband replied. “With you there he will have one attentive hearer, I can safely promise him,” he added, with a smile.
“I cannot help listening, even when it is not you, Reginald,” she said naïvely. “It seems to me only natural to do so and to try to gain something at least. We cannot expect perfection in sermons surely, even less than in lesser things. And if the perfection were there, could we, imperfect as we are, recognise it?”
Sunday morning rose, bright and glowing over the great city – a real midsummer’s day.
“How beautiful it must be in the country to-day!” thought Mildred, as she made her way to church; “it is beautiful even here in town. I wonder why I feel so happy to-day. It is greatly, no doubt, that Reginald is better, and the sunshine is so lovely. When I feel as I do this morning I long to believe that the world is growing better, not worse, that the misery, and the ignorance, and the sins are lessening, however slowly; I feel as if I could give my life to help it on.”
There was scarcely any one in the church when she entered and sat down in her accustomed place. Gradually it filled – up the aisles flecked with the brilliant colours of the painted windows, as the sunshine made its way through them, the congregation crowded in, in decorous silence. There were but few poor, few even of the the so-called working classes, for Saint X’s is in a rich and fashionable neighbourhood, yet there was diversity enough and of many kinds among those now pressing in through its doors. There were old, and middle-aged, and young – from the aged lady on her son’s arm, who, as she feebly moved along, said to herself that this might perhaps be her last attendance at public worship, to the little round-eyed wondering cherub coming to church for the first time. There was the anxious mother of a family, who came from a vague feeling that it was a right and respectable thing to do, though it was but seldom that she could sufficiently distract her mind from cares and calculations to take in clearly the sense of the words that fell upon her ears. There was the man of learning, who smiled indulgently at the survival of the ancient creeds and customs, while believing them doomed. There were bright and lovely young faces, whose owners, in the heyday of youth and prosperity, found it difficult to put aside for the time the thoughts of present enjoyment for graver matters. There were some in deep mourning, to whom, on the other hand, it seemed impossible that aught in life could ever cheer or interest them again.
There were men and women of many different and differing modes of thought, all assembled for the avowed purpose of praying to God and praising Him in company, and of listening to the exhortation or instruction of a man they recognised as empowered to deliver it. And among them all, how many, think you, prayed from the heart and not only with the lips? how many thrilled with solemn rejoicing as the beautiful words of adoration rose with the strains of the organ’s tones? how many ever thought of the “sermon,” save as a most legitimate subject for sharp criticism or indifferent contempt?
The service went on with the usual decorum. From her place Mildred could see all that passed. She noticed that the two curates were alone and unaided.
“Mr Lyle cannot yet have come,” she thought nervously. “Surely nothing can have detained him?” and a slight misgiving, lest he should not have got away in time, began to assail her. But when the moment for commencing the Communion service came, the sight of a third white-surpliced figure removed all her apprehensions, and with a sigh of relief she knelt again, joining her voice to the responses. She observed that the new-comer took no active part in the service; he remained kneeling where she had first perceived him. But it seemed to her that the music and the voices had never sounded so rich and melodious, and once or twice tones caught her ears which she fancied she had not before remarked.
“I wonder if it can be Mr Lyle singing,” she thought. “I do not remember if Reginald ever mentioned his having a beautiful voice.”
And when the time came for the preacher to ascend the pulpit, she watched for him with increased interest. It needed but the first few syllables which fell from his lips to satisfy her that his was the voice which she had perceived; and with calm yet earnest expectancy she waited to hear what he had to say.
At the first glance he looked very young. His face was pale, and he was of a fair complexion. There was nothing in him to strike or attract a careless or superficial observer. But when the soft yet penetrating tones of his voice caught the ear, one felt constrained to bestow a closer attention on the speaker, and this, once given, was not easily withdrawn. For there was a power in his eyes, though their habitual expression was mild, such as it would be vain for me to attempt to describe – a strength and firmness in the lines of the youthful face which marked him as one not used to speak in vain.
“Is he young?” thought Mildred more than once. “It seems in some way difficult to believe it, though his features are in no way time-worn; and those wonderful eyes are as clear and candid as the eyes of a child that has scarcely yet learned to look out on to this troubled world.”
And her perplexity was shared by many among the hearers.
They had settled themselves comfortably to listen or not to listen, according to their wont, as the preacher ascended the pulpit steps.
A momentary feeling of surprise – in a few cases of disappointment – passed through the congregation on catching sight of the unfamiliar face.
“Another new curate, no doubt,” thought a portly and pompous churchwarden. “And what a boy! Well, if the Rector chooses to throw away his money on three when two are quite enough for the work, it is no business of ours. Still, it would be more becoming to consult us, and not to set a beardless youth like that to teach us. I, for one, shall not irritate myself by listening to his platitudes.”
And he ensconsed himself more snugly in his corner to carry out his intention. But what was there in that vibrating voice that would be heard? – that so often as Mr Goldmain turned his thoughts in other directions, drew them back again like a flock of rebellious sheep, constraining him to hearken? Then his mood changed: annoyed, he knew not why, he set himself to cavil and object.
“Arrant Socialism!” he called the sermon when describing it afterwards. “Shallow, superficial, unpractical nonsense, about drawing all classes together by sympathy and charity. It sounds plausible enough, I daresay; so did many of the theories and doctrines of the first movers in the great French Revolution, I have no doubt. No, no! Let each do his duty in that station of life where God has placed him; that is my interpretation of religion. Our great charitable institutions must be kept up, of course, so that the deserving poor may be helped when they really need it; though even among the respectable, in nine cases out of ten, my dear sir, you may believe me, it’s their own fault. But as for this dream of universal brotherhood, ‘of the rich mingling in the daily life of the poor, weeping with them in their sorrows, rejoicing in their joys,’ it is sentimental twaddle. It would revolutionise society, it would break down all the barriers which keep the masses in their places. And to have this nonsense preached to us by a chit of a boy, it makes me lose my temper, I confess. I have not seen our worthy Rector yet, but when I do, I must tell him plainly that if he is not more careful whom he puts in his pulpit when he is absent or ill – hypochondriacal fellow he is, I fancy – I shall look out for seats in some other church than Saint X’s.”
Such was Mr Goldmain’s impression of the sermon. For though he closed his eyes in order that those about him might think he was asleep, he did not succeed in achieving even the shortest of dozes. Nay, more, he felt as if mentally stung by nettles for the rest of the day, so irritated, and, though for worlds he would not have confessed it, ill at ease, had the strange preacher’s discourse left him. But the soil of his conscience was choked with thorns; there was room for naught beside. Mr Goldmain was of this world, worldly, and such he remained.
He might have spared himself the trouble of thinking of how he appeared to those around him. They were none of them paying any attention to him. In the next seat sat some richly-clad ladies of uncertain age. They had become members of the Saint X’s congregation because they had been told they would find its Rector’s views in no way “extreme.” For these worthy women had an exaggerated horror of everything “high,” or, as they expressed it, “verging on papistry.” That God could be worshipped “in spirit and in truth,” in any but their own pet “evangelical” fashion, was a possibility that had not yet suggested itself to their dull brains. And they too, this Sunday morning, felt a shock of disapproval when, looking up at the sound of the vibrating voice, the fair face of the strange preacher met their gaze.