Clive returned to the chapel by the little door near to the Vestiarium. All the congregation had poured out by this time. Only two ladies were standing near the pulpit; and Sherrick, with his hands rattling his money in his pockets, was pacing up and down the aisle.
“Capital house, Mr. Newcome, wasn’t it? I counted no less than fourteen nobs. The Princess of Moncontour and her husband, I suppose, that chap with the beard, who yawns so during the sermon. I’m blessed, if I didn’t think he’d have yawned his head off. Countess of Kew, and her daughter; Countess of Canterton, and the Honourable Miss Fetlock—no, Lady Fetlock. A Countess’s daughter is a lady, I’m dashed if she ain’t. Lady Glenlivat and her sons; the most noble the Marquis of Farintosh, and Lord Enry Roy; that makes seven—no, nine—with the Prince and Princess.—Julia, my dear, you came out like a good un to-day. Never heard you in finer voice. Remember Mr. Clive Newcome?”
Mr. Clive made bows to the ladies, who acknowledged him by graceful curtsies. Miss Sherrick was always looking to the vestry-door.
“How’s the old Colonel? The best feller—excuse my calling him a feller—but he is, and a good one too. I went to see Mr. Binnie, my other tenant. He looks a little yellow about the gills, Mr. Binnie. Very proud woman that is who lives with him—uncommon haughty. When will you come down and take your mutton in the Regent’s Park, Mr. Clive? There’s some tolerable good wine down there. Our reverend gent drops in and takes a glass, don’t he, missis?”
“We shall be most ’appy to see Mr. Newcome, I’m sure,” says the handsome and good-natured Mrs. Sherrick. “Won’t we, Julia?”
“Oh, certainly,” says Julia, who seems rather absent. And behold, at this moment the reverend gent enters from the vestry. Both the ladies run towards him, holding forth their hands.
“Oh, Mr. Honeyman! What a sermon! Me and Julia cried so up in the organ-loft; we thought you would have heard us. Didn’t we, Julia?”
“Oh, yes,” says Julia, whose hand the pastor is now pressing.
“When you described the young man, I thought of my poor boy, didn’t I, Julia?” cries the mother, with tears streaming down her face.
“We had a loss more than ten years ago,” whispers Sherrick to Clive gravely. “And she’s always thinking of it. Women are so.”