The Waghorns returned to England towards the end of October, and forthwith took up their residence in a stately house in the neighbourhood of Regent’s Park. The first intimation Helen Norman received of their presence in London was a personal visit. One day they drove up together in a brougham, and, as Mrs. Cumberbatch happened to be out, Helen had to receive them in solitary grandeur. It was not an enviable task, for, considering the terms on which she had last parted from Maud, she might reasonably be in doubt as to how she should behave towards her.
The commencement of the interview was formal. Mr. John Waghorn, respectable as ever, was profuse in expressions of interest. He feared that Miss Norman was not so well as when he had last seen her; certainly she looked somewhat pale. He feared she overworked herself in her never-to-besufficiently-lauded philanthropic undertakings. Helen, in her turn, manifested absorbing interest in her visitors. Maud was looking wonderfully well, and Mr. Waghorn appeared to enjoy something more than his usual robustness.
“And Mr. Gresham?” inquired the gentleman. “Have you heard from Mr. Gresham lately, Miss Norman?”
“We heard from Berlin about a fortnight ago,” replied Helen. “Mr. Gresham was then in the enjoyment of good health.”
“Would you believe it?” pursued Mr. Waghorn. “We became slightly acquainted, at Venice, with a gentleman who is one of Mr. Gresham’s intimate friends, and who had left him not a fortnight before in Germany. That was the first intimation we had of his being on the Continent.”
“Did he leave suddenly?” asked Maud, who was lolling hack in a low easy-chair, going lazily over the patterns of the carpet with the end of her umbrella. She spoke in a somewhat affected and languid tone, and without looking up.
“Rather suddenly,” replied Helen, somewhat at a loss for a reply.
“Ah, I feared his health would give way,” put in Mr. Waghorn. “I sincerely hope, Miss Norman, that you may not experience a similar misfortune. Indeed you are too devoted. You do not consider yourself sufficiently.”
“You don’t live altogether alone, I suppose?” asked Maud, glancing up for a moment at Helen’s face.
“No,” replied Helen. “An aunt of Mr. Gresham’s, Mrs. Cumberbatch, is living here now. I am sorry to say she is out at present.”
The conversation dragged on in this manner for some ten minutes, when Maud suddenly turned round towards her husband (she had been sitting with her back to him), and said —
“Don’t you think it would be as well to go on into Oxford Street, and call for me here when you come back?”
“Possibly it might, my dear,” replied Mr. Waghorn, with a slight cough and a quick glance at Helen. “You might perhaps ask, however, if Miss Norman is at liberty just now?”
Helen affirmed that she was entirely so.
“In that case I might do as you propose,” said Mr. Waghorn. “I shall perhaps be a little more than half-an-hour. I will say good-bye for the present, Miss Norman.”
And he withdrew with much grace of manner. The moment the door had closed upon him, Maud suddenly jumped up from her seat and, with a laugh of delight, flung her arms round Helen’s neck.
“Come, come and sit down by me, you dear old beauty!” she exclaimed, kissing her friend and laughing heartily between the kisses. “Here, on the sofa. Don’t be afraid of spoiling my dress. It was all I could do to keep from bursting into fits of laughter whilst that man was by — it was so absurdly comical to see you receiving us with that stately dignity which becomes you so well, and to hear you talking polite small-talk in a way which didn’t become you at all! Now confess, you didn’t know whether to treat me as a friend or an enemy, did you?”
“It is true,” returned Helen, “that I scarcely felt safe speaking to Mrs. Waghorn as I had once been used to talk to Maud Gresham. I can’t tell you how glad I am, Maud, to hear you speak in your old way.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the other; “call me Maud. Let Mrs. Waghorn go to — the old gentleman, as far as we two are concerned, Helen! That name is a mere outward garment, something I put on occasionally for show, as I do these silks and satins when I go out to pay visits. If you love me, Pallas, never a word of Mrs. Waghorn!”
Helen was pained to hear her friend speaking thus. It confirmed old fears, and once more clouded her countenance.
“Are you not happy in your marriage, Maud?” she asked, quietly.
“Happy? Oh, as the day is long! I have enough to eat and drink, a good house to live in, what I like to wear, and carriage to drive about to my friends. Why should I not be happy, 0, goddess of wisdom?”
“But your husband, Maud. Does not Mr. Waghorn enter into your list of blessings?”
“What a delightfully innocent creature you are!” exclaimed Maud, passing her arm round her companion’s waist. “Have you the felicity to think that a husband can by any possibility be a blessing? Now let us understand each other once for all. Waghorn is neither a blessing nor a curse to me, but something totally indifferent. He lives his life, and I live mine, and as long as that life of his doesn’t encroach upon my peculiar privileges I have nothing to say to him good or bad. You understand?”
Helen looked into the speaker’s face with pained surprise.
“Why bless you, Pallas!” cried Maud, “what is there in all this to trouble one’s head about! Don’t you know that this is marriage à-la-mode, the way in which every matrimonial establishment with any pretension to elegance is conducted?”
“I am very ignorant in such matters,” returned Helen, “but it appears to me very dreadful.”
“No doubt it does, my dear child. And to you it would be dreadful. But for me, who knew exactly what it would be like before I actually experienced it, I assure you it is the most natural thing in the world. You are as different from me and the million other women who resemble me, Helen, as chalk is from cheese. Suppose I saw you suddenly seized with an infatuation for a man like Waghorn, and on the point of marrying him, do you know what I should do? I should hang upon you night and day till I had forced you to break off the engagement; I would let you have no peace; if I couldn’t prevail otherwise, I would bring out one of the beautiful little pistols I carry about in my dressing-case and shoot the man that was to marry you. I would do anything rather than see you plunge into such a gulf of misery!”
“But why would you take such pains to save me from what you encounter yourself with your eyes open?”
“Because I have got brains to recognise a merit superior to my own, and a heart to cherish affection for an old friend. And that is what I want you to understand, Helen. Come, will you make a compact with me? Will you promise me that, however you see me behave before other people, however much you learn to despise me, you will still keep one little corner of your heart open to me? Promise that you will come and see me often, and that you will let me come and see you. In all London I shall not have any one but you that I can really call a friend; I know very well I shall not. You must let me come and talk seriously for a few minutes with you when I am weary of chattering nonsense to a houseful of fools. Now will you promise me all this, Pallas?”
“But it seems very sad, Maud,” replied Helen, “that you should see so clearly into all your errors, and yet lack the resolution to correct them. Instead of making a friend of me in your tired-out moments only, why not let me be your friend at all times? Why not throw away all this affectation of giddiness — I am sure it can be nothing but affectation — and settle down to a steady useful life?”
“Why not? Why, because I am not Helen Norman, nor anything like her. That is the reason, my dear girl. You must not try to reason me out of my nature, Helen. The leopard can’t change his spots, you know. But upon my word I speak the truth when I say that I have a little bit of brain and a little bit of heart still available. Possibly they may be made to expand and grow with judicious watering, I won’t deliver any opinion on the point. Shall we be friends on these terms, Helen?”
“It is impossible for me to regard you otherwise than with kindness, Maud,” replied her companion; “but how can real friendship subsist under such circumstances as these?”
“Oh, never mind the name!” cried Maud, impatiently. “Let us call it enmity, if you will, provided you agree to live on these terms. Shall I whisper a secret into your chaste ear, Pallas. I feel within myself now and then possibilities of wickedness which would startle you if I dared name them How shall I combat these? You know already that I have no such thing as principle to fall back upon, and as to the world’s opinion, well, that can be preserved under any circumstances by one who possesses a little tact. So the fact is, Helen, I must look upon you as my principle, personified. I must have this friendship of yours to stand fast upon if I feel that which it used to be the fashion to call the devil getting hold of me. Do you understand!”
Helen was on the point of replying when suddenly the door opened and admitted Mrs. Cumberbatch. Helen had to perform the ceremony of introduction, after which the conversation once more assumed a commonplace character. Mrs. Cumberbatch’s sharp little eyes never ceased to examine Maud’s; whilst the latter seemed to find amusement in “drawing out” her grand-aunt. The conversation was chiefly carried on between these two, as Helen was too much occupied in reflecting upon Maud’s words to take much part in it. It was a relief to her when at length Mr. Waghorn reappeared. Once more the introduction had to be gone through, after which followed a few more polite commonplaces from each one present, and then Mr. and Mrs. Waghorn rose to depart. As Maud shook hands with Helen, she whispered —
“Remember.”
Helen’s thoughts followed the two home in their carriage, wondering greatly whether Maud had not exaggerated the indifference between herself and her husband. We, who are privileged to intrude into the most private recesses of the heart, need hesitate little to take a seat in the brougham of a lately-married couple and overhear their conversation.
“Where to now?” was Maud’s question, as Mr. Waghorn, after giving directions to the coachman, entered and took his seat opposite her. She did not look at him as she spoke, but occupied herself in rustling over the leaves of a novel from Mudie’s.
“To the Edwards’s,” replied her husband, with something of a scowl upon his face.
There was silence for a few minutes, and Mr. Waghorn was the first to break it.
“I want you to pay attention to me for a minute,” he said, bending slightly forward.
“Well?” returned Maud, without raising her face.
“Look at me!” exclaimed the other, stamping his foot.
“I can hear quite well,” persisted Maud, still rustling her pages.
“Look at me!” he almost shouted, clenching his fist; “or, by God ——”
Maud raised her face for a moment, and it was rather pale. But she did not speak.
“I want you to understand one thing,” went on Mr. Waghorn, satisfied with having forced her to submit, and preserving in his tone but little of that suave politeness which distinguished him in society. “You may be as damned sulky as you please when we’re alone together; for that I don’t care a snap. But when we’re obliged to be seen in each other’s company, I’ll thank you to show me a little more politeness. Do you hear?”
“I can hear quite well, as I said before. If you wish the coachman to hear too, why not beg him to take a seat here for a few minutes? It would save you raising your voice, and I should feel somewhat safer with his protection to look to.”
“If you give me any of your blasted impudence,” returned Mr. Waghorn, his face livid with passion, “you’ll have need for protection in earnest. You’ve heard what I said. Just heed it, or I’ll make you!”
And so the colloquy ended. It was not the first of the kind that had taken place between the two. In all probability it would not be the last.
Mr. John Waghorn had not been altogether wrong when he said that Helen did not look so well as she had once done, and as the year drew to a close she continued to grow paler. Her eyes seemed to lose something of their wonted joyous brightness, and oftener showed instead a dull and fixed intensity of gaze which unmistakably denoted over-application. For several months now she had been working with an energy which only a strong man would have been able to support long. Daily she spent many hours in her toil among the poor and miserable, breathing air charged with all manner of foulness, omitting no possible chance of making her work as complete as possible. As we have heard Lucy Venning testify, she would not allow herself to be withheld by any fear of evil consequences to her bodily health, penetrating into sickness — haunted homes where others were afraid to go, finding her sole reward in the increased opportunities for exertion which there lay before her. In several cases she had already spent whole nights watching by sick beds, fulfilling all the duties of a hospital nurse, and deriving a sense of pleasure from her increasing skill and knowledge. Then she had her school two nights of the week, on which she toiled with unceasing energy, for here she felt,that she was making clearly visible progress, and every lesson well learnt, every, good habit inculcated, cheered her on to renewed exertions. In addition to all this she never failed to spend some portion of the day in self-improvement, pursuing a course of severe technical study which she had laid out for herself. Most generally the early hours of the morning were spent thus, for she was never later than six in rising. So completely was her life one of stern self-sacrifice that, in her moments of calm reflection, she felt that she was growing to understand something of the ascetic’s zeal, and asked herself with a smile whether she might not possibly develop into a veritable ascetic, loving to toil merely for the sake of toiling and the sweetness of self-imposed pain? Indeed it is not at all unlikely that to the increasing sternness of her temperament was due the course of thought she pursued with regard to Maud. A year ago she would hardly have met Maud’s appeal as now she did. Her affection had become less effusive, her mind more used to stern combat with the bitterest problems of life.
Though severe application of any kind has a tendency to increase seriousness, it is only labour which has in it very much of the distasteful and disappointing that embitters the spirit. There was in Helen’s character far too much of genuine firmness, of exalted purpose, of inexhaustible sympathy to permit of her ever being soured by tasks of whatever distastefulness; and yet in all probability it was the circumstance of her having so often to encounter grievous disappointment, and experience deep disgust in the course of her work, which began by degrees to impart to her perseverance a character of grim stubbornness where there had at first been only cheerful persistence. Many times was she obliged to confess in her inmost heart that, prepared as she had been to combat with horrors, her imagination had been far from encompassing the full extent of hideous suffering and wickedness which it was her daily lot to strive against. When she confessed to Mr. Heatherley that she was often brought to a pause by ingratitude, stubborn lack of confidence, and similar evils among the poor, she was only on the threshold of her labour; when she passed over from the old year to the new she had grown inured to these evils, and, as I have said, they were gradually converting her cheerfulness into stubbornness. On New Year’s eve she spent several hours in reflection upon the past half-year, and the result of it was a night made sleepless by discontent and fear — fear for the future lest her bodily strength should give way or her resolution faint. She concluded that her aims had been too high, that she must cease to hope for such great results, and be content if she made any progress at all. The dispensary had now been open for three months, and was doing good work — there was certainly satisfaction in that. Then again when she thought of her school she obtained a glimpse of true encouragement. There was toil enough there, it is true, but not toil of such a hopeless and repulsive kind as that among nature petrified by long years of vice and crime. Among the bright young faces which met her each Tuesday and Saturday night, Helen always recovered her cheerfulness and her hope, and it was in thinking of these and in making plans for their better instruction during the year to come that she at length sunk to sleep.
Her life at home was a very lonely one. With Mrs. Cumberbatch she had no sympathy whatever, and, though the latter frequently forced her society upon her, she regarded this as an infliction rather than a relief. From time to time she saw Maud, and listened, half in wonder, half in pain, to the strange revelation which that young lady seemed to delight in making of her own cynicism and frivolity, but it appeared so impossible to penetrate to any source of genuine feeling that Helen grew somewhat weary of these bizarre conversations. Very occasionally indeed she visited Maud’s house, but the certainty of finding it full of people who excited nothing but disgust in her soon led her almost entirely to cease these visits. To one of these, however, we must refer more in detail, seeing that it was the occasion of her meeting once more with very old acquaintances.
She had called rather early in the morning and was shown by the servant into the small drawing-room where she usually saw Maud in private. After she had waited nearly a quarter of an hour the door opened, but no one immediately entered. Helen could distinctly hear Maud’s voice chattering to some one, and interrupting her chattering with bursts of laughter.
“Come,” said Maud, at length, pushing the door wide open, “we shall be safe from interruption here. But mind, you mustn’t tell me any more of those ridiculous stories. I shall positively die of laughing!”
Helen had risen to her feet, and, before she was herself perceived, saw Maud entering with her face turned back towards a tall and elegant looking young man, who was smiling as if highly pleased with himself. When Maud a moment after turned her head and perceived Helen, she started and went suddenly pale. Her discomposure only lasted for a second; then she advanced towards her visitor in her usual manner, with both hands extended.
“Why, however long have you been waiting?” she asked, in a tone of the utmost surprise. “No one told me you were here.”
“I have only been here a very few minutes,” replied Helen, somewhat disconcerted by a consciousness that the young man present was not entirely unknown to her, though she could not exactly recognise him.
“How desperately provoking!” pursued Maud, in the voice which she was wont, in private conversation with Helen, to term her “society voice.” “Well, you are an early visitor, but you see I have another still earlier. Of course you remember this gentleman?”
“I fear not,” replied Helen, glancing slightly towards the young man.
“Oh, but I’m sure you must! It is such a very old friend.”
“I have doubtless altered much since I last had the pleasure of seeing Miss Norman,” here put in the gentleman referred to “We met then, if I am not mistaken, in the Rectory at Bloomford.”
Helen was now freed from her doubts, but surprise took their place. She could scarcely believe that in this tall, handsome, elegant, well-spoken gentleman she saw the eldest son of the Rev. Mr. Whiffle, who had given her so, much amusement during the railway journey by his raw affectation of polite manners.
“I certainly thought I remembered your face, Mr. Whiffle,” she said, extending her hand with the frank courtesy natural to her; “but till you spoke I could not decide upon your identity. I hope the elder Mr. Whiffle is quite well?”
“Oh, charming!” put in Maud, as she pointed to seats for her visitors. “Why I actually believe I never told you, Helen, but we attend St. Abinadab’s — Mr. Whiffle’s church, you know. You must really come with us some Sunday; you would be delighted.”
“You are living in London at present, Miss Norman?” asked Augustus.
“Yes,” replied Helen, “I have lived here now almost a year.”
“I think I understood from my father that you had been in Germany for some time?”
“Yes, I was there two years.”
“Mr. Whiffle, you must know, Helen,” put in Mrs. Waghorn, “is studying for the Church. Of course he could not adopt any other career, bearing in mind Mr. Orlando Whiffle’s prominence. And the fact is he has inspired me with quite a zeal for ecclesiastical matters. The reason of his calling so early this morning was to make some arrangements with regard to a bazaar we are about to hold for the purpose of contributing towards the expense of wax tapers consumed in the church. You cannot conceive, Helen, how indispensable wax tapers are to the salvation of High Church souls. Other people’s souls may possibly be saved by the light of vulgar gas or even tallow-candles, but for us wax tapers are absolutely indispensable.”
Whilst Maud spoke, Augustus Whiffle kept looking from her face to that of her friend, and at last a smile rose to his lips.
“Mrs. Waghorn is rather fond of speaking satirically,” he said. “Don’t you find it so, Miss Norman?”
“Upon my word, not in the least!” exclaimed Maud, willing to spare Helen, who she saw hesitated how to meet such a question. “I really don’t think I even know the meaning of that word ‘satirical.’ But as I said, Helen, Mr. Whiffle is studying for the Church. I constantly impress upon him that he must not let his zeal lead him to too severe study. I really think he begins to show the result of sleepless nights. What do you think, Helen?”
“Mr. Whiffle appears to me to enjoy very good health,” replied Helen, who was suffering extremely from the nature of the conversation.
“You think so? I’m afraid you are too indulgent to people who over-work themselves. You must know, Mr. Whiffle, that Miss Norman is a severe student, quite a blue-stocking.”
At this moment a servant knocked and entered.
“The Rev. Mr. Whiffle wishes to know if he can see you, ma’am.”
But apparently the Rev. Mr. Whiffle could not wait to receive the permission, for his voice was immediately heard close behind the servant, calling out in a tone which at once announced the fashionable clergyman.
“Oh, tell Mrs. Waghorn that I won’t detain her a moment. A matter of considerable importance. Am unable to wait very long, and regret that I cannot call at a later hour.”
At the first sound of the voice Augustus Whiffle and Mrs. Waghorn had at once started to their feet, interchanging a glance of something very like consternation. Scarcely had they risen when Mr. Whiffle’s form followed his voice, and he pushed into the room past the servant. He was dressed in the ordinary clerical suit, which indicated, however, in several places, that his old habit of personal negligence had not altogether deserted him. His ruddy hair, which had begun to grow much scantier than of old, still asserted its inherent stubbornness, and his eyes still had the droll wide-open expression which had marked them when their possessor was a curate at Bloomford. But in person he was becoming quite stout, and, whether it was due to the physical cause, or adopted as an appropriate indication of importance, he had acquired a habit of puffing between his sentences, which, bye-the-by, were spoken in a much louder and more consequential voice than of old. For all this, Helen would have known him anywhere, and at present his appearance afforded her such unutterable relief that she really felt glad to see him.
As Mr. Whiffle’s eyes fell upon his son and heir they became wider than ever, and he paused in the middle of a loud greeting to Mrs. Waghorn.
“What! You here, Gus!” he continued, putting a gold-rimmed pince-nez upon his nose. “I had not the remotest knowledge of the fact that you were acquainted with Mrs. Waghorn! I protest, it is an entire surprise to me! Mrs. Waghorn, I rejoice to see you looking so wonderfully well. This is trying weather, dreadfully trying weather; I can scarcely remember such weather since first I entered The Church, and I dare not think how many years ago that is. Ha! But whom have we here? Upon my word, I believe I have once more the pleasure, the delight, of seeing Miss Helen Norman, the daughter of my dear departed rector! Miss Norman, how do you do? Really I am overjoyed to see you! Been to old Bloomford lately, Miss Norman?”
“I have not seen Bloomford since I last called upon you there, Mr. Whiffle.”
“You have not! Well, upon my word! Ah! there are sad goings on down at Bloomford, Miss Norman, very sad goings on, I assure you. During the period in which I enjoyed the inestimable honour of succeeding my dear departed rector in the incumbency of St. Peter’s, I did my little utmost, Miss Norman, to establish a pure form of ritual, but I fear with little enduring result. I endured persecution, Miss Norman, which amounted to little less than martyrdom. You remember old Isaac Simpson, the retired tallow-chandler?”
“Very well,” said Helen, smiling at the recollection.
“Well, would you believe it? that man was churchwarden during a portion of my incumbency, and he made it the object of his life to thwart me in my endeavour to establish a pure form of ritual. I placed a cross upon the communion table, following what I consider to have been the practice of the primal Church. Old Simpson took the first opportunity of removing it. I replaced it; old Simpson took it away again! Can you believe, Miss Norman, that old Simpson, the retired tallow-chandler, would have the unspeakable audacity to beard a rector of the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church as by law established in the performance of his ecclesiastical functions? I wrote a letter to the County Chronicle, wherein I spoke wrathfully, I confess, Miss Norman, and — can you believe it? — old Simpson was on the point of commencing an action for libel; fancy, an action against a clergyman of the Church of England; against a parson, persona ecclesi?. But I persevered unto the end, Miss Norman, and I won the victory. Old Simpson died — I discovered that he had never been baptised — I refused to read the Burial Service over him!”
“But those days are happily gone by, Mr. Whiffle,” interposed Maud. “At St. Abinadab’s there are no such obstinate schismatics. There we have the purest of rituals, absolutely free from adulteration. But oh! how thankful I am that you triumphed over that odious Simpson! How delightful to be able to refuse to read the Service! Oh! what an admirable Church is the Church of England!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Waghorn, thank you,” replied Mr. Whiffle. “If all my congregation were as ardent as you, I should indeed have little to wish for, and could at any moment intone the Nunc Dimittis with a clear voice and a quiet conscience. But I grieve to say that there is yet a drop of bitterness in my otherwise overflowing cup. Would you believe it, Mrs. Waghorn? I have only this morning received this anonymous letter, doubtless from some ill-guided member of my flock.”
He pulled out an enormous bundle of letters from an inside pocket, and, after rummaging over them for some minutes, at length hit upon the one he sought.
“Now let me read you a paragraph or two from this letter, Miss Norman,” he said. “You will marvel at the audacity of this fellow. Bear in mind, always, Mrs. Waghorn, that this is addressed to a clergyman of the Church of England — nay to the Incumbent of St. Abinadab’s. Hum — hum — hum — Ah! I will begin here. ‘I beg to call your attention to the fact that on six successive Sundays’ — so and so, so and so, and &c. — ‘you have made use of lighted candles upon the communion table, where they were evidently not needed for the purposes of light.’ The paltry fellow! He ought to be thankful to anyone who lightens the darkness of his perverted soul — ha! ha! ha! Now he goes on, observe, Miss Norman: ‘Moreover, that you are in the habit of wearing unlawful ecclesiastical vestments, to wit, an alb, a chasuble, and a biretta.’ — The audacity of this creature — ‘Furthermore, that you illegally administer to your communicants wafer-bread. Again, I must remind you that to adopt the eastward position, as you habitually do, is unlawful, as also to make the sign of the cross towards the congregation, to omit kneeling during the Confession, and to have a cross upon the communion table.’ And so on, and so on. And then he concludes — ‘I shall certainly esteem it my duty to make representation to the Bishop of these deviations from the ritual prescribed by the Church of England.’ — The presumptuous blockhead! The fellow, Miss Norman, has the unparalleled impudence to assert that he is better acquainted than the Incumbent of St. Abinadab’s with what is, and what is not, allowed by the Church! He positively includes in his letter a long argument on the subject, which I, of course, have not done him the honour to read through, but in which I see mentions of the words Rubric, Common Prayer, and Reformation. Since he is so familiar with the Rubric, I should have imagined that his idiotship would have known that in the Rubric at the end of the calendar it is written: ‘that such ornaments of the Church and of the ministers thereof at all times of their ministration shall be retained and be in use as were in this Church of England by the authority of Parliament in the second year of the reign of King Edward VI.’ — Ha, ha! Miss Norman, he’d better not come the Rubric over me! I imagine I know it as well as most men, as well as the ritual of the Church in the reign of Edward VI. ‘Unlawful’ and ‘illegal,’ forsooth! Where is the Act of Parliament to restrain me, I should like to know? Ha, ha, ha! An excellent joke!”
By this time Mr. Whiffle had talked himself completely out of breath, and into such a perspiration that he was obliged to wipe his face all over with an immense silk handkerchief.
But in the operation he was repeatedly overcome with his sense of amusement at the audacity of the letter-writer, and broke into little bursts of scornful laughter.
“But I entirely forgot to state the purpose of my visit, Mrs. Waghorn. Bye-the-by, Miss Norman, have you seen my pamphlet on ‘Religious Teaching in Public Schools’?”
“I am sorry to say I have not,” returned Helen.
“Indeed! Of course, I need not ask you, Mrs. Waghorn?”
“I deeply regret it has never come into my hands,” said Maud.
“Not!” cried Mr. Whiffle, elevating his fat hands in horror. “You astound me! Not seen my pamphlet? I must send you a copy this very day; I will send you half-a-dozen copies! And you, too, Miss Norman, I will send you as many copies as you like, to distribute among your friends. It is only signed ‘0. W’. I should be loath, you know, to take undue advantage of my position as incumbent of St. Abinadab’s. In controversy I always like to allow my adversaries fair play, you know, Miss Norman. 0, Mrs. Waghorn, I know you will be delighted with the pamphlet. In it I preach an absolute crusade against the godless policy of our School Boards. Miss Norman, you must certainly attend St. Abinadab’s next Sunday. I am preparing a sermon which I know will please you. Promise me you will come.”
“If nothing occurs to prevent me, I shall have pleasure in doing so, Mr. Whiffle.”
“Of course, of course! And, bye-the-by — but, upon my word, I am still forgetting the object of my visit, Mrs. Waghorn. Did it ever occur to you that — that one or two of my portraits on the stalls at the bazaar might not be in bad taste? You see, it is so natural that the congregation of St. Abinadab’s should like to possess a photograph of their minister. Suppose, you know, we sold them for half-a-crown a piece? I shouldn’t wonder if they added materially to the profits.”
“A delicious idea!” exclaimed Maud. “A perfectly dazzling idea! What a stupid creature I am that it never occurred to me before. Of course, it is the very thing — so tasteful, so delicate. And especially on Mrs. Whiffle’s stall they will be appropriate.”
“You think so? My very idea! I am overjoyed.”
“Oh, I hope you will sit especially for the occasion.”
“Will you believe that I have already done so — and in full canonicals? Upon my word, I believe I have one with me. Yes — no — yes, here it is!”
He produced a portrait and handed it to Mrs. Waghorn, and, skipping behind her like an excited child, peeped over her shoulder as she examined it.
“Do you think it good? Do you think it worthy of the incumbent of St. Abinadab’s?” he asked breathlessly.
“Oh, delicious!” cried Maud. “How stately, how reverend! I vow I should have taken it for an archbishop if I had not known the features!”
“You would? No! You mean it? I am overjoyed! Miss Norman, pray what is your opinion?”
“I think it very like,” and then, feeling that graceful condescension to human weakness required more than this, she added, “It is a very excellent portrait, indeed.”
“I am delighted! I am entranced!” cried Mr. Whiffle, skipping about. “It is the happiest day since I entered The Church! Mrs. Waghorn, you shall have ten dozen for your stall. I’m sure you could easily dispose of that number, don’t you think so?”
“Oh, ten times as many!” cried Maud, with enthusiasm.
“You shall have them!” exclaimed Mr. Whiffle. “But, I protest, I have been here nearly half an hour. I must run. Miss Norman, remember your promise for Sunday. You must come and see Mrs. Whiffle. Pray come and dine with us, any evening you like. Bye-the-by, Mrs. Waghorn, did you see my letter in the Times the other morning on that poisoning case, you know?”
“I did,” returned Maud, “and was entranced with the argument.”
“Oh, the mere thought of an odd moment!” exclaimed the clergyman. “But, good-bye all. Good-bye, Miss Norman, good-bye, Mrs. Waghorn; I will look in again very shortly. Gus, are you going my way?”
“I think not,” replied his son, somewhat coolly.
“Very well. Once more, good-bye all.”
And, clapping his soft hat on his head, he hastened from the room and from the house.
“I do believe that father of mine grows more absurd every day!” exclaimed Augustus, as soon as they were alone. “Didn’t you admire Mrs. Waghorn’s satirical replies, Miss Norman? I thought them admirable.”
“You disrespectful boy!” cried Maud. “You do not only venture to say that your father is absurd, but also that I openly ridicule him? I’m ashamed of you!”
At this Mr. Augustus and Maud laughed heartily in chorus. Helen rose, eager to be gone.
“Are you really going?” asked Maud, in a tone of purely affected regret. “Again, I am dreadfully sorry for having kept you waiting for me. Pray come again soon. Mr. Whiffle, excuse me one moment.”
Helen, having bidden adieu to Augustus, left the room, and was followed into the hall by Maud.
“Come again tomorrow morning at the same time, there’s a good girl,” whispered the latter. “Forget all this nonsense. You ought not to have seen me in this mood at all.”
“Having seen you, Maud,” returned Helen, “I sincerely wish I never had. Would it not be better if I ceased coming to you? I could not bear to be subjected to such an hour again.”
“Pooh, pooh! Foolish child! I tell you, I am not in my grave mood, Pallas. I may regret it, but can’t help it. Will you come tomorrow?”
“I fear I must not promise. I have much to do tomorrow.”
“Well, well; whenever you like. Good-bye. Don’t think too hardly of me, Helen. You know what power you have over me.”
“I wish I felt that I had any,” replied Helen.
And with these words they parted.