Mary's face became crimson with a blush that seemed to burn through the forehead into her very brain, and she could only mutter,—
“I 'm sorry I did n't know; my carriage and pony were in the stable. If I had but heard of this—” and was silent.
They had now reached the entrance to the little churchyard, where the few members of the small flock lingered, awaiting the arrival of the clergyman. Amidst many a respectful salutation and gaze of affectionate interest, Mary walked to the end of the aisle, where, shrouded in heavy curtains, soft-cushioned and high-panelled, stood the castle pew.
It must be, indeed, hard for the rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. The very appliances of his piety are the offshoots of his voluptuous habits; and that his heart should feel humble, his hassock must be of down! It was not often that the words of the pastor were heard within that solemn, small enclosure with the same reverent devotion. Mary was now alone there; her mind no longer distracted by the petty incidents of their coming, her proud station seemed to have vanished, and she felt herself but as one of an humble flock, supplicating and in sorrow!
Dr. Leslie had heard of the terrible visitation which menaced them, and made it the subject of his sermon. The fact of his own great age and fast declining strength gave a deeper meaning to all he said, and imparted to the faltering words of his benediction the solemnity of a farewell.
“You are a little fatigued to-day, doctor,” said Mary, as he came out of church. “Will you allow me to offer you my arm?”
“Willingly, my dear Miss Mary. But this is not our road.”
“Why so?—this is the path to the vicarage.”
“They 've made some change, my dear; they 've altered the approach.”
“And you came round by the avenue,—a distance of two miles?” cried she, deep crimson with shame.