“I went down to bathe,” said Martin; “in fact, it was only the bell beginning that reminded me there was service at eight.”
Mr. Challoner looked at him a moment with a sort of appeal.
“But, dear Martin,” he said, “you did not come without preparation?”
“I am afraid I did,” said Martin, and the joy of his waking hours dropped utterly dead, while the hopelessness of the compact of the evening before rose close in front of him.
They took a turn up and down the lawn before going in, and his father very gently, but very firmly impressed on him the positive sin of his omission. His voice trembled with the earnestness of his feeling, for to him the danger of coming to the Communion unprepared was as vital as the need for coming. He hated to say what he felt he must say; it was so soon after their compact to try to understand one another, to get on without perpetual correction and admonishment. But this could not be left unsaid. Once it occurred to Martin to tell him the truth, to say, “I came in order to please you; otherwise I should not,” but the impulse passed. There was no need to give his father such pain as that; and he merely assented dully where assent was needed, said, “Yes, I see,” at intervals, and gave the promise required. But it was a dreary beginning to the day.
The Chartries pew, the only family pew remaining in the church, was well attended at the eleven o’clock service, Lady Sunningdale being, as usual, the brightest object present; indeed, among the rest of the congregation she resembled a bird of paradise which had by mistake found its way into a colony of sparrows. But what this violation of her habits in appearing so long before lunch had cost her none but her maid knew. However, there she was, and the colours of the spectroscope blossomed together in her hat, and in a fit of absence of mind, to which she was prone, she as nearly as possible put up a pink sunshade, forgetting where she was, to shield her from the sun which was shining through a mauve-coloured saint on to the middle of her face in a manner which she felt to be aggressive and probably unbecoming. So she moved to behind the shadow of a neighbouring pillar, from where, looking at the organ, she could see who sat there.
“Too heavenly,” she said in a shrill whisper to Stella Plympton. “Martin is at the organ. I’m afraid he won’t play the Brahms, though. What a pity it is not Good Friday; he would be sure to give us the Charfreitag music.”
That, however, was not to be, and instead the familiar strains of “O Rest in the Lord” were the prelude to which six choir-boys, four choir men, including the carpenter, who in a fluty falsetto sang a steady third below the trebles and believed it to be alto, advanced to their places. But Martin, in Lady Sunningdale’s opinion, could do no wrong, and again she whispered shrilly to Stella,—
“Is he not wonderful? That tune is exactly like the stained glass. It is absolutely the ‘air’ of the place. Look, there is Helen Challoner sitting with the choir. Is she not a dream? Tell Frank to look at her.”
But this was unnecessary, as Frank Yorkshire was already looking. He was a rather stout, very pleasant-faced young man of about thirty, with smooth flaxen hair, rather prominent blue eyes, and an expression of extraordinary amiability, which his character fully endorsed. He was remarkably adaptable, and while he would willingly talk flippancies with Lady Sunningdale, his tenantry adored him for his friendliness and his great common sense if the baby was ill or the pig would not put on flesh. In other respects he was a Baron of the realm, immensely wealthy, and unmarried, so that he was perpetually drenched by showers of eligible girls, whom aspiring mothers hurled at his head. These he returned with thanks, uninjured.