Chapter 18

On Sunday Fan accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Churton to morning service, and
thought it strange that her teacher did not go with them. In the evening
the party was differently composed, the master of the house having
absented himself; then just as Mrs. Churton and Fan were starting,
Constance joined them, prayer-book in hand. Mrs. Churton was surprised,
but made no remark. Fan sat between mother and daughter, and Constance,
taking her book, found the places for her; for Mary had failed after all
to teach her how to use it. Mr. Northcott preached the sermon, and it was
a poor performance. He was not gifted with a good delivery, and his voice
was not of that moist mellifluous description, as of an organ fattened on
cream, which is more than half the battle to the young cleric, certainly
more than passion and eloquence, and of the pulpit pulpity. There was a
restless spirit in Mr. Northcott; he took a somewhat painful interest in
questions of the day, and in preaching was prone to leave his text, to
cast it away as it were, and, taking up modern weapons, fight against
modern sins, modern unbelief.

His piping took a troubled sound,
Of storms that rage outside our happy ground;
He could not wait their passing.

But one who was over him could, and the piping was not pleasing to him,
and scarcely intelligible to the drowsy villagers; and when in obedience
to his vicar's wish he went back to preach again of the Jews and
Jehovah's dealings with them, his sermons were no better and no worse
than those of other curates in other village pulpits. It was a sermon of
this kind that Constance heard. If some old Eyethorner, dead these fifty
years, had risen from his mouldy grave in the adjoining churchyard, and
had come in and listened, he would not have known that a great change had
come, that the bright sea of faith that once girdled the earth had
withdrawn.

Down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

He took his text from the Old Testament, and spoke of the captivity of
the Israelites in Egypt. It was a dreary discourse, and through it all
Miss Churton sat leaning back with eyes half closed, but whether
listening to the preacher or attending to her own thoughts, there was
nothing in her face to show.

When they came out into the pleasant evening air Mrs. Churton lingered a
little, as was her custom, to exchange a few words with some of her
friends, while Constance and Fan went slowly on for a short distance, and
finally moved aside from the path on to the green turf. Here presently
the curate joined them.

"I am glad you came, Miss Churton," he spoke, pressing her hand. And
after an interval of silence he added, "I hope I have not made you hate
me for