“‘Dash it, you don’t mean a hurdy-gurdy?’”
“‘Sherrick,’ says I, ‘you are no better than a heathen ignoramus. I mean why shouldn’t they sing Handel’s Church Music, and Church Music in general in Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel? Behind the screen up in the organ-loft what’s to prevent ’em? By Jingo! Your singing-boys have gone to the Cave of Harmony; you and your choir have split—why should not these ladies lead it?’ He caught at the idea. You never heard the chants more finely given—and they would be better still if the congregation would but hold their confounded tongues. It was an excellent though a harmless dodge, sir: and drew immensely, to speak profanely. They dress the part, sir, to admiration—a sort of nunlike costume they come in: Mrs. Sherrick has the soul of an artist still—by Jove, sir, when they have once smelt the lamps, the love of the trade never leaves ’em. The ladies actually practised by moonlight in the Chapel, and came over to Honeyman’s to an oyster afterwards. The thing took, sir. People began to take box-seats, I mean, again:—and Charles Honeyman, easy in his mind through your noble father’s generosity, perhaps inspirited by returning good fortune, has been preaching more eloquently than ever. He took some lessons of Husler, of the Haymarket, sir. His sermons are old, I believe; but so to speak, he has got them up with new scenery, dresses, and effects, sir. They have flowers, sir, about the buildin’—pious ladies are supposed to provide ’em, but, entre nous, Sherrick contracts for them with Nathan, or some one in Covent Garden. And—don’t tell this now, upon your honour!”
“Tell what, F. B.?” asks Clive.
“I got up a persecution against your uncle for Popish practices: summoned a meetin’ at the Running Footman, in Bolingbroke Street. Billings the butterman; Sharwood, the turner and blacking-maker; and the Honourable Phelin O’Curragh, Lord Scullabogue’s son, made speeches. Two or three respectable families (your aunt, Mrs. What-d’-you-call-’em Newcome, amongst the number) quitted the Chapel in disgust—I wrote an article of controversial biography in the P. M. G.; set the business going in the daily press; and the thing was done, sir. That property is a paying one to the Incumbent, and to Sherrick over him. Charles’s affairs are getting all right, sir. He never had the pluck to owe much, and if it be a sin to have wiped his slate clean, satisfied his creditors, and made Charles easy—upon my conscience, I must confess that F. B. has done it. I hope I may never do anything worse in this life, Clive. It ain’t bad to see him doing the martyr, sir: Sebastian riddled with paper pellets; Bartholomew on a cold gridiron. Here comes the lobster. Upon my word, Mary, a finer fish I’ve seldom seen.”
Now surely this account of his uncle’s affairs and prosperity was enough to send Clive to Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel, and it was not because Miss Ethel had said that she and Lady Kew went there that Clive was induced to go there too? He attended punctually on the next Sunday, and in the incumbent’s pew, whither the pew-woman conducted him, sate Mr. Sherrick in great gravity, with large gold pins, who handed him, at the anthem, a large, new, gilt hymn-book.
An odour of millefleurs rustled by them as Charles Honeyman accompanied by his ecclesiastical valet, passed the pew from the vestry, and took his place at the desk. Formerly he used to wear a flaunting scarf over his surplice, which was very wide and full; and Clive remembered when as a boy he entered the sacred robing-room, how his uncle used to pat and puff out the scarf and the sleeves of his vestment, and to arrange the natty curl on his forehead and take his place, a fine example of florid church decoration. Now the scarf was trimmed down to be as narrow as your neckcloth, and hung loose and straight over the back; the ephod was cut straight and as close and short as might be,—I believe there was a little trimming of lace to the narrow sleeves, and a slight arabesque of tape, or other substance, round the edge of the surplice. As for the curl on the forehead, it was no more visible than the Maypole in the Strand, or the Cross at Charing. Honeyman’s hair was parted down the middle, short in front, and curling delicately round his ears and the back of his head. He read the service in a swift manner, and with a gentle twang. When the music began, he stood with head on one side, and two slim fingers on the book, as composed as a statue in a mediæval niche. It was fine to hear Sherrick, who had an uncommonly good voice, join in the musical parts of the service. The produce of the market-gardener decorated the church here and there; and the impresario of the establishment, having picked up a Flemish painted window from old Moss in Wardour Street, had placed it in his chapel. Labels of faint green and gold, with long Gothic letters painted thereon, meandered over the organ-loft and galleries, and strove to give as mediæval a look to Lady Whittlesea’s as the place was capable of assuming.
In the sermon Charles dropped the twang with the surplice, and the priest gave way to the preacher. He preached short stirring discourses on the subjects of the day. It happened that a noble young prince, the hope of a nation, and heir of a royal house, had just then died by a sudden accident. Absalom, the son of David, furnished Honeyman with a parallel. He drew a picture of the two deaths, of the grief of kings, of the fate that is superior to them. It was, indeed, a stirring discourse, and caused thrills through the crowd to whom Charles imparted it. “Famous, ain’t it?” says Sherrick, giving Clive a hand when the rite was over. “How he’s come out, hasn’t he? Didn’t think he had it in him.” Sherrick seemed to have become of late impressed with the splendour of Charles’s talents, and spoke of him—was it not disrespectful?—as a manager would of a successful tragedian. Let us pardon Sherrick: he had been in the theatrical way. “That Irishman was no go at all,” he whispered to Mr. Newcome, “got rid of him,—let’s see, at Michaelmas.”
On account of Clive’s tender years, and natural levity, a little inattention may be allowed to the youth, who certainly looked about him very eagerly during the service. The house was filled by the ornamental classes, the bonnets of the newest Parisian fashion. Away in a darkling corner, under the organ, sate a squad of footmen. Surely that powdered one in livery wore Lady Kew’s colours? So Clive looked under all the bonnets, and presently spied old Lady Kew’s face, as grim and yellow as her brass knocker, and by it Ethel’s beauteous countenance. He dashed out of church when the congregation rose to depart. “Stop and see Honeyman, won’t you?” asked Sherrick, surprised.
“Yes, yes; come back again,” said Clive, and was gone.
He kept his word, and returned presently. The young Marquis and an elderly lady were in Lady Kew’s company. Clive had passed close under Lady Kew’s venerable Roman nose without causing that organ to bow in ever so slight a degree towards the ground. Ethel had recognised him with a smile and a nod. My lord was whispering one of his noble pleasantries in her ear. She laughed at the speech or the speaker. The steps of a fine belozenged carriage were let down with a bang. The Yellow One had jumped up behind it, by the side of his brother Giant Canary. Lady Kew’s equipage had disappeared, and Mrs. Canterton’s was stopping the way.