“Was he personal?” the latter asked, so indifferently; “I didn’t notice it. Well, I suppose it amuses him, and it certainly does not hurt me.” (Mrs. Danvers sniffed indignantly—a form of protest to which her nose, from its construction, was eminently adapted; but he went on before she could speak) “Miss Tresilyan, will you allow perhaps the unworthiest member of the congregation to express an opinion that the singing went off superbly?”
Her beautiful eyes glittered somewhat disdainfully. “Thank you, you are very good. But I think you have hardly a right to be critical. I should like to have some one’s opinion who is really interested in the chapel. It was scarcely worth taking so much trouble to appear so the other day. You know what Liston said about the penny? ‘It is not the value of the thing, but one hates to be imposed upon.’ Delusions are not so agreeable as illusions, Major Keene.”
Royston was very much pleased. He liked above all things to see a woman stand up to him defiantly; indeed, if they were worth “setting to with,” he always tried to get them to spar as soon as possible, to find out if they had any idea of hitting straight. He did not betray his satisfaction, though, as he answered quite calmly, “Pardon me, I could not be so impertinent as to attempt a ‘delusion’ on so short an acquaintance. I deny the charge distinctly. I believe that residence in Dorade, and a certain amount of subscription, constitute a member of Mr. Fullarton’s congregation, and give one a franchise. He has not thought fit to excommunicate me publicly as yet. I really was interested in the subject, for I fully meant to go to church this morning, and I mean to go again.”
Insensibly they had walked on in advance of the others. She shook her head with a saucy incredulity—“I am no believer in sudden conversions.”
“Nor I; I was not speaking of such; but I am very fond of good singing, and I would go any where to hear it. Did our chaplain include hypocrisy among my other disqualifications for decent society last night? I understand he is good enough to furnish a catalogue of them to all new comers.”
Cecil certainly had not abused him then; so there was not the slightest necessity for her looking guilty and conscious, both of which she felt she was doing as she replied—“I am sure Mr. Fullarton would not asperse any one’s character knowingly. He could only speak from a sense of duty, perhaps not a pleasant one.”
“Quite so,” said Royston; “I don’t quarrel with him for any fair professional move. If he thinks it necessary or expedient to prejudice indifferent people against me, he is clearly right to do so. Ah! I see, you think I dislike him. I don’t, indeed. Morally and physically, he seems a little too unctuous, that’s all. Capital clergyman for a cold climate! Fancy how useful he would be in an Arctic expedition. They might save his salary in Arnott’s stoves: I’m certain he radiates.”
Miss Tresilyan knew that it was wrong to smile. But she had an unfortunately quick perception of the ridiculous, and the struggles of principle against a sense of humor were not always successful. She would not give up her point, though. “I can not think that you judge him fairly,” she persisted.
“Perhaps not; but there is a large class who would scarcely be much moved by stronger and abler words than, I suppose, we heard to-day—spoken as they were spoken. These preachers won’t study the fitness of things; that’s the worst of it. I have known a garrison chaplain deliver a discourse that, I am convinced, was composed for a visitation. It seems absurd to hear a man warning us against a particular sin, and threatening us with all sorts of penalties if we indulge in it, when it is impossible that he himself should ever have felt the temptation. We want some one who can find out the harmless side of our character, as well as the diseased part, and work upon it. Such a person may be as strict and harsh as he pleases, but he is listened to.” He paused for a moment, and went on in a graver tone—“I think it might have done even me some good, when I was younger, to have talked for half an hour with the man who wrote ‘How Amyas threw his sword away.’”
Cecil could not disagree with him now, nor did she wish to do so. She liked those last words of his better than any he had spoken. Remember, she was born and bred in the honest west country, where one, at least, of their own prophets hath honor. If you want to indulge your enthusiasm for the Rector of Eversley, let your next walking-tour turn thitherward; for on all the sea-board from Portsmouth to Penzance, there is never a woman—maid, wife, or widow—that will say you nay.