Melicent always accompanied her mother, and had the true down-drawn, regulation countenance; but Clara was seldom seen in their pew, and boldly answered, when questioned on the subject, that she sometimes went to the Catholic churches to hear the music. “I go wherever I can hear Wilcox play the organ,” she said. “I never tire listening to him. Others play difficult music with dexterity, and you admire their skill; but he plays the same, and you forget that there is any skill in it. Such bewitching grace! Such laughter running up and down the keys! Such picturesque improvisations! He played last Sunday something that called up to me a scene in Seaton—that bit of meadow on East Street, Edith. There was some sort of musical groundwork, soft and monotonous, with little blossoming chords springing up everywhere, and over it all swam a lovely, meandering melody with the vox humana. When the bell rang, at the Sanctus, he caught the sound, and ran straight up into the stars, as though some waiting angel had flown audibly up to heaven to announce the time of the consecration. It is delightful to hear him. In his graver music, and his choruses, I do not so much distinguish him from others; but he is the only organist I know who gives an idea of the play of the little saints and cherubim in heaven, their dancing, their singing, their swift flights to the earth and back again, and all their exquisite loves, and pranks, and delights—their very worship like the worship of birds and flowers.”
Not a word about doctrines, about the iniquities of Rome, the superstition of Papists, the idolatry of the Mass!
What wonder if these good people, who considered it blasphemy to associate cherubic music with any more rapid motion than that of the semibreve and minim, should think Miss Clara Yorke in a dangerous way? It was hoped, however, that when Dr. Stewart and Melicent were married, his influence would recall her to a sense of duty.
The doctor did try, carefully, though, warned by his wife, and by some sharp, though tacit, rebuffs from Mr. Yorke and Edith. He spoke one day philosophically of the obnoxious Review, as though there were no question of truth, but merely of cleverness in handling certain subjects, and, in a careless à propos, offered Mr. Yorke the loan of certain volumes, which, he privately believed, would triumphantly controvert the controversialist. The doctor had not read any of these Catholic authorities.
“Thank you!” Mr. Yorke replied. He wished to be friendly, and really liked the doctor when he let theology alone. Besides, he was dining there, and could not be disagreeable.
After dinner, Melicent slipped out of the room a few minutes; and when her father went home, she said sweetly, “By the way, papa, I put up those books the doctor spoke of to you, if you like to take them now. They lie on the hall table.”
“Let them lie!” replied Mr. Yorke, with a glance and an emphasis which were not even doubtful.
He might permit Dr. Stewart to exhort him, but he would not be schooled by his own daughter.
There was but little to tell of the family for a while. Mr. Yorke employed a part of his time in attending to Carl’s and Edith’s pecuniary affairs, everything being entrusted to his management. Patrick was his assistant occasionally, and was also Edith’s coachman; for the only carriage they kept belonged to Edith.