Queenie was moderate in her praises of Hepshaw church; nevertheless, it pleased her with a certain sense of fitness. There was no beauty of architecture, no tastefulness of detail; it was just a village church, adapted to the needs of a rustic population.
But there was something grateful in its simplicity. Through the open door the fresh sweet winds blew straight from heaven; the shadows of the sycamores swept without the porch; some leaves rustled on the threshold. Queenie walked down the narrow aisle, turning over the well-worn books on the desks. A smile crossed her face when she saw the font; the mean little stone stoup struck her as incongruous. "It seems a pity to see that," she said very simply, "I can almost cover it with the palm of my hand; it ought to be so wide and massive, filled to the brim with purifying and regenerating water, lavishly given and lavishly bestowed, not doled in drops."
"Hush! here comes Mr. Miles," answered Cathy; "he is the boys' schoolmaster. We have no schoolmistress, you know; the old one is married and is going away with her husband. He has come to practise on the organ; he is organist, choirmaster, and I don't know what besides."
"Is he nice?" whispered Queenie. She just caught sight of the pale, serious-looking young man, dressed in shabby black like a Methodist parson of the old school, who came limping up the aisle on one crutch.
"Hum! truth lies sometimes at the bottom of a deep well," was Cathy's ambiguous reply. "Yes, Garth says he is nice; he pities him. Somehow I can't make him out; I don't know why, but I always think of Eugene Aram, or the school-master in the 'Mutual Friend,' when I see him. I am sure he has got a history. I don't like a young man with a history; from a child I never could bear riddles. Ted is quite fond of him, though. I believe half my dislike comes from his persisting in dressing like a broken-down undertaker; he only wants a white tie to make him complete." They were happily in the lane by this time, and Queenie could enjoy her laugh without scruple of conscience.
"Is this the vicarage, Cathy? but of course it is; I knew it from your description. You are a perfect word-painter; all your portraits are true to life."
"That means caricature."
"Well, I suppose so; but, all the same, your likenesses are thoroughly spirited."
"Only I never miss out the moles and the freckles. This is not the ideal vicarage, is it, ma chère? though I could show you one not many miles from here. Crossgill Vicarage is lovely; I must take you to see it some day, as nurse used to say; it is the dearest, most picturesque place. A little river flows through the village just in the middle of the road; and the church is beautiful; and the vicarage a quaint old house with gable ends embosomed in creepers, with the loveliest garden always blazing with flowers."
"That sounds nice."