Within the Maze: A Novel, Vol. 1 (of 2)

by Mrs. Henry Wood

The progress of events in Mr. Blake's church need not be traced. It is enough to say that the Reverend Mr. Cattacomb--whose preaching was no better than the rest of him: a quarter of an hour's rant, of which nobody could make any sense at all--emptied the church. Nearly all the old congregation left it. In their places a sprinkling of young people began to frequent it. We have had examples of these things. The Reverend Guy led, and his flock (almost the whole of them ardent young girls of no experience) followed. There were banners and processions, and images of saints and angels, and candlesticks and scrolls and artificial flowers, and thrown-up incense, and soft mutterings coming from nowhere, and all kinds of odd services at all kinds of hours,
and risings-up and sittings-down, and bowings here and bowings there, and private confessions and public absolutions. Whether the worship, or, in fact, the church itself was meant to represent the Roman Catholic faith or the Protestant no living soul could tell. It was ultra-foolish--that is really the only name for it--and created some scandal. People took to speak of its frequenters slightingly and disrespectfully as "Mr. Cattacomb and his tail." The tail being the ardent young ladies who were never away from his heels.

Never a one amidst them more ardent than Miss Blake. In the Rev. Guy and his ceremonies she found that outlet for the superfluous resources of her heart that Karl Andinnian had left so vacant. Ten times a day, if the church had ten services, or scraps of services, was Miss Blake to be seen amid the knot of worshippers. At early morning she went to Matins; at sunset she went to Vespers. Once a week she was penned up in a close box which the Reverend Guy had put up as a confessional, confessing her sins. Some ladies chose the Reverend Mr. Cattacomb as their father priest in this respect; some chose his friend and coadjutor the Reverend Damon Puff: a very zealous young man also, whom the former had appointed to his assistance. One confessional box was soon found quite insufficient, and a second was introduced. Lookers-on began to wonder what would come next. Miss Blake did not neglect the claims of society in her new call to devotion; so that, what with the world and what with the church, she had but little spare time on her hands. It was somewhat unusual to see her, as now, seated quietly at her needle. The work was some beauteous silken embroidery, destined to cover a cushion for Mr. Cattacomb's reverend knees to rest upon when at his private devotions. The needle came to a sudden pause.

"I wonder if I am wrong," she exclaimed, after regarding attentively the leaf that had been growing under her hands. "Mrs. Cleeve, do you think the leaves to this rose should be brown? I fancy they ought to be green."

"Do not ask me anything about it, Theresa."

Mrs. Cleeve's answer wore rather a resentful accent. The fact was, both herself and Colonel Cleeve were sadly vexed at Miss Blake's wholesale goings in for the comprehensive proceedings of Mr. Cattacomb. They had resigned their pew in the church themselves, and now walked regularly to the beautiful services in the cathedral. Colonel Cleeve remonstrated with Miss Blake for what he called her folly. He told her that she was making herself ridiculous; and that these ultra innovations could but tend to bring religion itself into disrepute. It will therefore be understood that Mrs. Cleeve, knowing what the embroidery was destined for, did not regard it with approbation.

"Theresa, if I thought my dear child, here, Lucy, would ever make the spectacle of herself that you and those other girls are doing, I should weep with sorrow and shame."

"Well I'm sure!" cried Miss Blake. "Spectacle!"

"What else is it To see a parcel of brainless girls running after Guy Cattacomb and that other one--Puff? Their mothers ought to know better than to allow it. God's pure and reverent and holy worship is one thing; this is quite another."

Lucy asked for some of the cooling beverage that stood near: her mouth felt always parched. As her mother brought it to her, Lucy pressed her hand and looked up in her face with a smile. Mrs. Cleeve knew that it was as much as to say "There is no fear of me."

Colonel Cleeve came in as the glass was being put down. He looked somewhat anxiously at his daughter: he was beginning to be uneasy that she did not gain strength more quickly.