"Ah! there you are!" said Lady Ingram, laughing. "You island English, with your hearts and your consciences, every man of you a Pope to himself! Well, I will not be too hard upon you at first, ma belle. That will do for the present. By and by I shall exact more."
Celia had a request to prefer before she went.
"Madam," she asked, trembling very much, "if it pleased you, and you had no desire that I should do otherwise, would you give me leave to hear Dr. Sacheverell preach on Sunday?"
"Ma chère!" said Lady Ingram, "how can I, a Catholic, choose between your Protestant teachers? You shall go where you like. The Consul has been so good as to place one of his carriages at my disposal, and as I shall remain here all the day, I place it at yours. I will bid William ask where your great Doctor preaches."
Celia went slowly back to her own room, feeling very strange, very lonely, and very miserable, though she hardly knew why. As soon as she reached it, she proceeded to contravene all Lady Ingram's orders by a good cry. She felt all the better for it; and having bathed her eyes, and comforted herself with a few words out of her Book, she was ready when Thérèse came to summon her to go down to breakfast with her step-mother. They breakfasted in a room down-stairs, the Consul and his wife being present; the latter a voluble French woman, who talked very fast to Lady Ingram. The days passed drearily to Celia; but she kept looking forward to the Sunday, on which she hoped to hear a sermon different from Dr. Braithwaite's. When the Sunday arrived, the carriage came round after breakfast to take Celia to hear Dr. Sacheverell, who, William had learned, was to preach at St. Andrew's that morning. To Holborn, therefore, the coach drove; and Celia entered St. Andrew's Church alone. She was put into a great pew, presently filled with other ladies; and the service was conducted by a young clergyman in a fair wig, who seemed more desirous to impress his hearers with himself than with his subject. Then the pulpit was mounted by a stout man in a dark wig, who preached very fluently, very energetically, and very dogmatically, a discourse in which there were more politics than religion, and very much more of Henry Sacheverell than of Jesus Christ.
All the attention which Celia could spare from the service and the preacher was concentrated in amazement on her fellow-worshippers. They were tolerably attentive to the sermon, but on the prayers they bestowed no notice whatever. All were dressed in the height of the fashion, and all carried fans and snuff-boxes. The former they flourished, handled, unfurled, discharged, grounded, recovered, and fluttered all through the service.[[6]] Whenever the fans were still for a moment, the snuff-boxes came into requisition, and the amount of snuff consumed by these fashionable ladies astonished Celia. They talked in loud whispers, with utter disregard to the sanctity of place and circumstances; and the tone of their conversation was another source of surprise to their hearer.
"Do you see Sir Thomas?"
"I am sure he is looking this way."
"There is Lady Betty—no, on your left."
"Lady Diana has not come this morning."