“Something the matter with that beast,” said Philip, as carelessly as he could. “Have it chained up.” Turning away, and reëntering the house, he said softly to himself—“The moral of which is: keep away from the animals. They are wiser than the more superior beings.”
It was with very uncomfortable sensations in his breast that Philip Chater—after discovering, in his wanderings, a small gate and path leading direct from the grounds to the churchyard—strolled carelessly across, and entered the church. He had been careful to wait until the last moment, when the slow bell had actually ceased, before venturing inside; and it was perhaps as well that he did so. Fortunately for himself, he came face to face, just inside the porch, with an ancient man, who appeared to act as a sort of verger or beadle; and who was so much astonished at his appearance, and stepped so hurriedly backwards, that he almost tripped himself up in the folds of his rusty black gown. But he recovered sufficiently to be able to shuffle along the church, towards the pulpit, and to pull open the door of a huge old-fashioned pew, like a small parlour, with a fireplace in it. Philip was glad to hide himself within the high walls of this pew, and to find himself shut in by the ancient one.
But his coming had created no little stir. Although, having seated himself, he could see nothing except the windows above him, and a few cracked old monuments high up on the walls, he was nevertheless aware of a rustling of garments, and sharp whisperings near him. When, presently, he rose from his seat with the rest of the congregation, he discovered that his eyes, passing over the top of the pew were on a level with certain other eyes—gentle and simple—which were hurriedly withdrawn on meeting his own. Moreover, immediately on the opposite side of the aisle in which his parlour-like pew was situated, was another pew, in which stood a young girl—very neatly, but very beautifully dressed; and, to his utter embarrassment, the eyes of this young girl met his, with a gaze so frank and kindly, and lingered in their glance for a moment so tenderly and sweetly over the top of that high pew, that he wondered who in the world the young girl was, and what interest she had in Dandy Chater.
Again—another disquieting circumstance arose; for, when he got to his feet a second time, and almost instinctively looked again in the direction of those eyes which had met his so frankly, his glance fell on another pair, near at hand—a black pair, looking at him, he thought with something of sullenness—something of pleading. This second pair of eyes were mischievous—daring—wilful—kittenish—what you will; and they were lower than the other eyes, showing that their wearer was not so tall. And the strange thing about them was, that they flashed a glance, every now and then, at the other eyes—a glance which was one wholly of defiance.
“The devil’s i’ the kirk to-day,” thought Philip Chater—“and I wish I knew what it was all about. Dandy—my poor brother—you’re at the bottom of the river; but you didn’t clear up things before you went.”
The clergyman was a dear old white-haired man, who also gave a glance, of kindly sympathy and encouragement, towards the big square pew and its single occupant; and who preached, in a queer quavering old voice, on love, and charity, and all the sweeter things which men so stubbornly contrive to miss. And he tottered down the steps from the pulpit, with yet another glance at the big pew.
The service ended, Philip Chater sat still—and, to his infinite astonishment, every one else sat still too. Worse than all, the whispering, and the faint stirring of dresses and feet, began again.
“I wonder what on earth they’re waiting for,” thought Philip, craning his neck, in an endeavour to peer over the top of the pew. The next moment, the door of the pew was softly opened, and the ancient man who had ushered him into it, stood bowing, and obviously waiting for him to come out. In an instant, Philip recognised that the congregation waited, in conformity with an old custom, until the Squire should have passed out of church.
Rising, with his heart in his mouth, the supposed Dandy Chater faced that small sea of eyes, every one of which seemed to be turned in his direction; and every face, instead of being, as it should have been, familiar to him from his childhood, was the face of an utter stranger.
He thought hard, while he gathered up Dandy Chater’s hat and gloves—harder, probably, than he had ever thought before, within the same short space of time. And then, to crown it all, as he stepped from the pew came the most astounding event of all.