After having made the announcement, I was breathing free, when Mills came to me with a blank face.
“They have struck,” he said.
“Struck what?—struck you?” I asked.
“They will not put on their cassocks and surplices and go into the choir this evening.”
“Well, Mr. Mills, then we will manage without them.”
So we did. One, faithful among the faithless found, did put on his surplice. A little fellow who could not read. However, we sang the whole service, psalms, responses, Magnificat, Nunc Dimittis, hymns, just as though we had a full choir. I do not think there was any musician in the congregation that evening, for I do not recall any one being carried out fainting.
There was one peculiarity about Mills that I could not break him of. He had learned the Apostles’ Creed in the Roman version, which differed slightly from our form, and he would always bray forth that “form of sound words” which he had acquired in his childhood.
In 1868 there was about to be a change in my domestic arrangements—in fact, I was about to be married—consequently I was forced, much to my regret, to get rid of Mills.
After a little inquiry and some letter-writing, it was settled that he should go to Christ Church and become valet to Dr. Pusey, at that time getting old and infirm.