And Parson Seyton, whose nature was very different from his neighbour’s, spent a long hour in telling tales of Cherry’s boyhood to his willing listener. “Eh!” he concluded, “and I meant to fetch him over to hear our fine singing, and see how spick and span we are now-a-days—new surplice and all! Eh! he wrote me a sermon once—when he was a little lad not twelve years old—and I’ll swear it might have been preached with the best.”
Although Virginia had said nothing and done little to mend matters at Elderthwaite, there had been a certain revival of the elements of respectability. A drunken old farmer had been succeeded by his son, who had been brought up and had married elsewhere. This young couple came to church, and Virginia had by chance made acquaintance with the bride. Her husband got himself made churchwarden—Elderthwaite was not enlightened enough for parochial contests, and Virginia having shyly intimated that want of means need not stand in the way, the windows were mended, and some yards of cocoa-nut matting appeared in the aisle. There had always been a little forlorn singing; young Mr and Mrs Clement were musical, and the Sunday children were collected in the week and taught to sing. The parson had been presented with the surplice, and as by this time he would have done most things to please his pretty niece, accepted it with some pride. Whether from the effect of these splendours, or from consideration for the fair attentive face that he never failed to see before him, the parson himself began to conduct the service with a slight regard to decency and order; and being with his Seyton sense of humour fully conscious of the improvement, and, with the simplicity that was like a grain of salt in his character, rather proud of it, had looked forward to Cherry’s approbation.
“Eh!” he said, “I’d like to see him—I’d like to see him.”
“He mustn’t see any one,” said Virginia; “they will hardly let his father go in.”
“Well, it’s a pity it’s not the Frenchman. Eh! bless my soul, my darling, I forgot.”
“Alvar is almost ready to think so too, uncle,” said Virginia, hardly able to help laughing.
“If I could do anything that he would like—catch him some trout—” suggested the parson.
“Uncle,” said Virginia timidly, “in church, when any one is sick or in trouble, they pray for them. They will mention Cherry’s name at Oakby to-morrow. Could not we—”
“Ay, my lass, it would show a very proper respect,” said the parson; “and the lad would like it too.”
And of all the many hearty prayers that were sent up on that Sunday for Cheriton Lester’s recovery, none were more sincere than rough Parson Seyton’s.