“We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord.”
Gordon neither smiled now nor frowned.
The chant died while the visitors said their adieus. The feeling of estrangement had been deepening in Shelley’s fair-haired wife. For a moment she had been back in old St. Giles’-in-the-Fields, whither she had gone so often of a Sunday from William Godwin’s musty book-shop. She put her hand on Shelley’s arm.
“Bysshe,” she whispered, “let us stop a while as we go down. It seems so like old times. We can slip in at the back and leave before the rest. Will you?”
Shelley looked ruefully at his loose nankeen trousers, his jacket sleeves worn from handling the tiller, and shook his tangled hair, but seeing her wistful expression, acquiesced.
“Very well, Mary,” he said; “come along.” He followed her, shrugging his shoulders.
At the entrance of the impromptu audience-room, Mary drew back uncertainly. The benches had been so disposed that the late-comers found themselves fronting the side of the audience and the center of curious eyes. Shelley colored at the scrutiny, but it was too late to retire, and they seated themselves in the rear.
At the moment of their entry the Rev. Dr. Nott, in cassock and surplice, having laid off the priest (he was an exact high-churchman) was kissing the center of the preacher’s stole. He settled the garment on his shoulders with satisfaction. He had been annoyed at the disappearance of Cassidy, on whose aid he had counted for many preliminary details, but the presence of the author of “Queen Mab” more than compensated. This would indeed be good seed sown. He proceeded with zeal to the text of his sermon:
“Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do.”