Lucilla sprang down with exhilarated spirits, and even wished for Honor to share her indignation at the slovenliness around the cathedral, and the absence of close or cloister; nay, though she had taken an aversion to Strafford as a hero of Honor’s, she forgave him, and resolved to belabour the House of Cork handsomely in her journal, when she beheld the six-storied monument, and imagined it, as he had found it, in the Altar’s very place. ‘Would that he had created an absolute Boylean vacuum!’ What a grand bon mot for her journal!
However, either the spirit of indignation at the sight of the unkneeling congregation, or else the familiar words of the beautiful musical service, made her more than usually devout, and stirred up something within her that could only be appeased by the resolution that the singing in Robert Fulmort’s parish should be super-excellent. After the service, the carman persuaded them to drive in the Phœnix Park, where they enjoyed the beautiful broken ground, the picturesque thickets, the grass whose colour reminded them that they were in the Emerald Isle, the purple outlines of the Wicklow hills, whence they thought they detected a fresh mountain breeze. They only wondered to find this delightful place so little frequented. In England, a Sunday would have filled it with holiday strollers, whereas here they only encountered a very few, and those chiefly gentlefolks. The populace preferred sitting on the doorsteps, or lounging against the houses, as if they were making studies of themselves for caricatures; and were evidently so much struck with the young ladies’ attire, that the shelter of the hotel was gladly welcomed.
Lucilla was alone in the sitting-room when the waiter came to lay the cloth. He looked round, as if to secure secrecy, and then remarked in a low confidential voice, ‘There’s been a gentleman inquiring for you, ma’am.’
‘Who was it?’ said Lucy, with feigned coolness.
‘It was when you were at church, ma’am; he wished to know whether two ladies had arrived here, Miss Charteris and Miss Sandbrook.’
‘Did he leave his card?’
‘He did not, ma’am, his call was to be a secret; he said it was only to be sure whether you had arrived.’
‘Then he did not give his name?’
‘He did, ma’am, for he desired to be let know what route the young ladies took when they left,’ quoth the man, with a comical look, as though he were imparting a most delightful secret.