He did hear them indeed, for what a clatter they made, one after another, as if they would be heard.
Mabel ran away all joyousness—very soon she had her bonnet on, for that took little time, and then she was down with Lucy—getting her shawl, and finding her lost gloves, and her prayer-book, and then, all pleasant bustle, as if she feared he would change his mind, down again to her uncle's study, ready with the soft brush to smooth his sleek hat.
And then they were in the street, and taking their way, not to any of the fashionable places of worship, but down the shady part of the old town to a little church which seemed to hide itself from view, so small that the imagination could scarcely wander round its walls, from the voice of the venerable preacher, whose simple but well chosen language brought conviction with it. There too, the white-haired, aged clerk, in his stiff quaint reading desk, and the twelve old pensioners, nearly as old as himself. And then so few to listen they could not choose but hear.
Mabel felt tremblingly happy, for she had succeeded in her desire to get her uncle to break his bad habit of remaining shut up on a Sunday. She saw, too, that he was happier, as they walked home together, though he often looked, when he met any one he knew, as if he had been committing some crime. But however that might be, he himself proposed going in the evening, and gladly did she consent, and when they walked home again through the lighted streets, talking of what they had heard, alone, for Lucy was too delicate to venture in the evening air, she felt happy indeed. And when they reached home again no one was more ready to join in the conversation over the bright fire where the sisters sat, glad to welcome Hargrave back from his mysterious absence. And Mr. Villars too, as he went to bed that night, could scarcely understand why he felt such pleasant fatigue, not that fatigue which makes the very heart ache, and keep the eyes awake with uneasy watchfulness, but which closes them in light repose, and bids them open again in cheerful, buoyant hope to the light of day.
For many a long week, indeed, he had not welcomed Monday morning so pleasantly. The sun shone so brightly that the spendthrift might almost have been excused for being guided by the presence of the ill-fated swallow. The Spring air was light and warm, and the rich, pink blossom of the almond supplied the place of leaves and flowers.
Colonel Hargrave was as gay as the sunshine, as he stood joking with the little party lingering over the breakfast table.
"Pray, ladies," said he, "how do you mean to make the most of this lovely day?"
"By keeping you with us, for the first thing," said Caroline.
"You wicked creature," said her mamma, by way of adding point to the observation; the object of which, however, remained rigidly indifferent. Nobody could say he flirted; he withdrew from all approach to such a thing, with the rapidity of a frightened girl. Mrs. Villars tried to believe, though against her better judgment, that he was timid, yet he had received sufficient encouragement to have made a boy propose; but never by muttered word or tender look had he taken advantage of it, never had he been betrayed into a tête-à-tête walk—never had he offered Caroline a present which had not a fac-simile in one to each of her sisters. In short, he was the most impenetrable being possible.