“He that worketh deceit shall not dwell within my house: he that telleth lies shall not tarry in my sight.”
Her lips moved with the words, her voice was soft and low as she sang.
And when the vicar mounted the pulpit to preach his sermon, she folded her hands upon her lap and composed herself to listen, and her eyes, serious and intent, lifted to watch his face as he gave out his text,
“It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.”
The sun came through the stained glass of the windows and shone upon her.
I could see, from my seat, the round rosy faces of the village children, yawning a little as they waited for the sermon to finish, and I could hear the shuffle of their feet, pinched into Sunday boots, longing to be barefoot on the green in play.
I wished passionately, for one brief moment, that I might be young again, and innocent, with Ambrose, and not Rachel, beside me in the pew.
“There is a green hill far away, beneath a city wall.”
I don’t know why we sang that hymn this day; perhaps there had been some festival in connection with the village children.
Our voices rose loud and clear in the parish church, and I did not think of Jerusalem, as I was no doubt supposed to do, but only of a plain grave in its corner of the Protestant cemetery in Florence.
When the choir had departed and the congregation were stepping out into the aisles, Rachel whispered to me,
“I believe we should ask the Kendalls and the Pascoes to dine today, as we used to do.
It has been so long, and they will grow offended.”
I thought a moment, and then nodded briefly.
It would be better so.
Their company would help to bridge the gulf between us, and occupied in conversation with the guests, used to my silence on these occasions, she would have no time to look at me, and wonder.
Outside the church, the Pascoes needed no persuasion, the Kendalls rather more.
“I shall be obliged to leave you,” said my godfather, “immediately we have dined, but the carriage can return again to fetch Louise.”
“Mr. Pascoe has to preach again at evensong,” interrupted the vicar’s wife, “we can take you back with us.”
They fell into elaborate plans of transportation, and while they were thus arguing, and arranging how it could best be done, I noticed that the foreman in charge of the workmen who were employed upon the building of the terrace walk and the future sunken garden stood at the side of the path to speak to me, his hat in his hand.
“What is it?” I said to him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Ashley sir,” he said,
“I looked for you yesterday, when we were done work for the day, but did not see you, just to warn you, if you should go on the terrace walk, not to stand on the bridgeway we are building across the sunken garden.” “Why, what is wrong with it?”
“It’s only a framework, sir, until we can get working on it Monday morning.
The planking looks firm enough to the eye, but it doesn’t bear no weight upon it.
Anyone stepping on it, thinking to cross to the further side, could fall and break their neck.”
“Thank you,” I said,
“I will remember.”
I turned to find my party had come to their agreement, and as on that first Sunday, which now seemed so long ago, we split into three groups, Rachel and my godfather driving in his carriage, and Louise and I in mine. The Pascoes, in their brougham, followed third.
No doubt it had come about like this many times between; yet as we climbed the hill, and I got out and walked, I kept thinking of the first time, nearly ten months before, on that Sunday in September.
I had been irritated by Louise that morning, sitting so stiff and proud, and had neglected her from that day forward.
She had not wavered, but had stayed my friend.
When we topped the hill, and I stepped once more into the carriage, I said to her,
“Did you know that laburnum seeds are poisonous?”
She looked at me, surprised.
“Yes, I believe so,” she said;
“I know that if cattle eat them they die.
And children too.
What makes you ask?
Have you lost cattle at the Barton?”
“No, not yet,” I said, “but Tamlyn spoke to me the other day about moving the trees that lean from the plantation to the field beneath, because of the seeds falling to the ground.”
“It might be wise to do so,” she replied.
“Father lost a horse once, years ago, eating yew berries.
It can come about so quickly, and there is nothing one can do.”
We came along the lane, and to the park gates, and I wondered what she would say if I told her of my discovery of the night before.
Would she stare at me in horror, telling me I was mad?
I doubted it.
I thought she would believe me.
This was not the place, though, with Wellington seated on the box and Jim beside him.
I turned my head; the other carriages were following behind.