Celia sat silently gazing out of the window on the fair sward and trees of Ashcliffe Park. She had not found any answer when Lucy burst in, with no previous ceremony, and with the exclamation, "What are you doing here, Celia? Didn't you hear the bell for the sermon? Oh, me! I wish it was over!"
Perhaps Lucy was not the only person who wished it. The Sunday-evening sermon at Ashcliffe was a rather fearful institution to more mature and sedate persons than she. First, one of the Squire's sons—Harry, when he was at home, Charley, if not—read the Psalms and Lessons for the day, and it was necessary that they should be read very loud. This was disagreeable when they contained a number of Hebrew names, which Charley, at least, had no idea how to pronounce. He was consequently reduced to make hits at them, which passed muster in all but very flagrant cases, as, fortunately for him, his father was little wiser than himself. This ordeal over, the sermon itself was read by the Squire, and commonly lasted about an hour and a half. It was never very entertaining, being most frequently a discourse on the moral virtues, in tone heathenish, and in style dreary beyond measure. After the sermon, the whole family repeated the Lord's Prayer,—any other prayers the Squire, being a layman, would have thought it semi-sacrilege to read. Then, all remaining in their places, Charley and Lucy were called up to repeat their catechism, each answering alternately, and standing in as stiff a position as possible. When this was over, they had to repeat the text of Dr. Braithwaite's sermon, and that one who remembered it best was rewarded with a silver groat. This was the last act of the drama, the young lady and gentleman being then pounced upon by Cicely and ordered off to bed, after saying good-night all round. The Squire finished the day with a bowl of punch, and a game of cards or backgammon, in which it never occurred to him to see any incongruity with his previous occupations. Later came supper, after which the ladies retired, leaving the Squire to finish his punch alone; and the whole household was in bed by ten at the latest.
The sermon this evening was a discourse upon covetousness—a vice to which none of the hearers were addicted; and after listening to a learned prologue concerning the common derivation of misery and miser, with a number of quotations and instances to show it, Celia's thoughts began to wander, and roamed off once more to her conversation with old Cicely.
"The Gazette, Sir!" said Harry, coming into the room in boots and spurs one morning about three months after the Sunday in question. "Great tumults in London regarding one Dr. Sacheverell,[[12]] who hath preached a Jacobite sermon and much inflamed the populace; and 'tis said the Queen will not consent to his being deprived. Likewise"—
"Hang all Jacobites!" cried the Squire.
"Likewise," pursued his son, "'tis said the Pretender will take a journey to Rome to speak with the Pope, and"—
"Hang the Pretender twice over, and the Pope three times!" thundered his father.
"Hardly necessary, Sir, though you might find it agreeable," observed Harry, in his courtly way. "Moreover, 'tis thought he is gathering an army, wherewith he means to come against our coasts, if any evil should chance to Her Majesty."
"Let him come!" growled the Squire. "We'll send him packing in half the time! Anything else?"
"I see nothing of import," replied Harry, handing the newspaper to him.