“This will never do,” said Mr. Brown, gazing ruefully at the several works of art. “What a splendid chance for me! I shall paint, as the old masters did, under direct inspiration. What a sublime sensation, when my picture shall have been completed, to witness the reverential admiration of the poor devout people here! I shall be regarded as a benefactor. Fancy my being a benefactor to anybody or anything! Heigh-ho!” he sighed, “what a glorious little Gothic church, a prayer in stone, a portion of the money I so murderously squandered would have built here!—that four thousand I flung last March into the mire in Paris. Faugh!” And, dragged back over the waves of Time, he sat down upon one of the wooden benches, overwhelmed by the rush of his own thoughts.
Of the length of time he remained thus absorbed he made no count. The dead leaves of the misspent past rustled drearily round his heart, weighing him down with a load of inexpressible sadness—a sadness almost amounting to anguish—and two hours had come and gone ere his reverie was broken.
Happening to raise his eyes towards the altar, he was startled by perceiving a female form kneeling at the railings, lithe, svelte, and attired in costly and fashionable raiment. As he gazed, the young girl finished her prayers, and, with a deep, reverential inclination in front of the altar, swept past him with that graceful, undulatory motion which would seem to be the birthright of the daughters of sunny Spain. She was tall, elegantly formed, and possessed that air of high breeding which makes itself felt like a perfume. Her bright chestnut hair was brushed tightly back from an oval face, and hung in massive plaits at the back of her head. Her eyes were soft brown, her complexion milk-white.
“What a vision, and in this place, too! That is the best of the Catholic religion. The churches are always open, inviting one to come in and pray. I wonder who she can be? Some tourist. Pshaw! your tourist doesn’t trouble this quarter of the globe. To see, to be seen, to dress, and wrangle over the bills at palatial hotels, means touring nowadays. Some county lady, over to do a little shopping; but there are no shops, except that miserable little box opposite, and they apparently sell nothing there but marbles, tobacco-pipes, kites, and corduroy. Ah! I have it: some inlander coming for a plunge in the Atlantic. I suppose I shall meet her pony phaeton as I pass up through the village. I seriously hope I shall. There is something very fetching about her, and it purifies a fellow to see a girl like that at prayer.”
Such were the cogitations of Mr. Brown as he emerged from the dingy little chapel. Brown was not a Catholic. He had been educated at Eton, and, although intended for Cambridge, his guardian took him to Japan when he should have been cramming for his degree. Of the religion as by law established in England, he paid but little attention to the forms and merely went to church during the season to hear some “swell” preacher, or because Lady Clara Vere de Vere gave him a rendezvous. But, with all his faults and follies, he was never irreverent, and his respect for the things that belong unto God was ever honest, open, and sincere.
He was doomed to be disappointed. No pony phaeton disturbed the stillness of the village street. The curs, which had patiently waited for him whilst he remained in the church, received him with noiseless but cheery tail-wagging as he came out, and marched at his heels as though he had been their lord and master. The children rushed from cabins and dropped their quaint little curtsies. The cripples doffed their caps, the matrons gazed at him and gossiped; and, although he lingered to say a few words to a passing fisherman, and somewhat eagerly scanned the surrounding country, no sign could he obtain of the fair young girl who had flashed upon him like a “vision of the night.”
“I shall never see her again,” he thought; “and yet I could draw that face. Such a mouth! such contour! I must ask the padre if he knows her, though that is scarcely probable; and yet she is one of his flock—at least, she is a Catholic, so there is some hope.”
He returned to the cottage, and encountered Father Maurice in the garden.
“I did not like to disturb you at your devotions, Mr. Brown,” he said, “but I was only going to give you five minutes longer, as the salmon grill will be ready by that time.”
“How did you ascertain I was in the church?” asked Brown, entering the hall and hanging up his hat.