“I think we'd better not have one to-night,” said one; “perhaps Mortimer's right.”
“Don't have one, don't!” said Louis, starting up; “do not let us forget that all this day is God's day, and that we must not even speak our own words.”
“None of your cant,” cried one.
“Well, I propose that we go to sleep, and then we shan't hear what he says,” said Meredith. “They talk of his not having pluck enough to speak, but he can do it when he pleases,” he remarked in a low tone to his next companion, Frank Digby, who rejoined,
“More shame for him, the little hypocrite. I like real religious people, but I can't bear cant.”
What Frank's idea of real religion was, may be rather a difficult matter to settle. Probably it was an obscure idea to himself,—an idea of certain sentiment and no vitality.
Chapter VII.
The next Saturday afternoon proving unusually fine, the community at Ashfield House sallied forth to enjoy their half-holiday on the downs. A few of the seniors had received permission to pay a visit to Bristol, and not a small party was arranged for a good game of cricket. Among the latter was Reginald Mortimer, whose strong arm and swift foot were deemed almost indispensable on such occasions. As he rushed out of the playground gates, bat in hand, accompanied by Meredith, he overtook his brother, who had discovered a poem unknown to him in Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, and was anticipating a pleasant mental feast in its perusal.
“Louis, you lazy fellow,” cried Reginald, good-temperedly, “you shan't read this fine afternoon—come, join us.”