Since, however, it seemed that some one had to be loved if you were to be able to hold up your head with the rest, then it was easier, infinitely easier, to love the curate. With the curate, no personal contact was necessary — and that was more than could be said even of the music-masters. In regard to them, pressures of the hand, as well as countless nothings, were expected and enacted, in the bi-weekly reports you rendered to those of your friends who followed the case. Whereas for the curate it was possible to simulate immense ardour, without needing either to humble your pride or call invention to your aid: the worship took place from afar. The curate was, moreover, no unworthy object; indeed he was quite attractive, in a lean, ascetic fashion, with his spiritual blue eyes, and the plain gold cross that dangled from his black watch-ribbon — though, it must be admitted, when he preached, and grew greatly in earnest, his mouth had a way of opening as if it meant to swallow the church — and Laura was by no means his sole admirer. Several of her friends had a fancy for him, especially as his wife, who was much older than he, was a thin, elderly lady with a tired face.
And now, by her own experience, Laura was led to the following discovery: that, if you imagine a thing with sufficient force, you can induce your imagining to become reality. By dint of pretending that it was so, she gradually worked herself up into an attack of love, which was genuine enough to make her redden when Mr. Shepherd was spoken of, and to enjoy being teased about him. And since, at any rate when in church, she was a sincerely religious little girl, and one to whom — notwithstanding her protested indifference to forms of worship — such emotional accessories as flowers, and music, and highly coloured vestments made a strong appeal, her feelings for Mr. Shepherd were soon mystically jumbled up with her piety: the eastward slant for the Creed, and the Salutation at the Sacred Name, seemed not alone homage due to the Deity, but also a kind of minor homage offered to and accepted by Mr. Shepherd; the school-pew being so near the chancel that it was not difficult to believe yourself the recipient of personal notice.
At home during the winter holidays, his name chanced to cross her lips. Straightway it occurred to Mother that he was the nephew of an old friend whom she had long lost sight of letters passed between Warrenega and Melbourne, and shortly after her return to the College Laura learnt that she was to spend the coming monthly holiday at Mr. Shepherd’s house.
In the agitated frame of mind this threw her into, she did not know whether to be glad or sorry. Her feelings had, of late, got into such a rapt and pious muddle that it seemed a little like being asked out to meet God. On the other hand, she could not but see that the circumstance would raise her standing at school, immeasurably. And this it did. As soon as the first shock had passed she communicated the fact freely, and was shrewd enough not to relate how the invitation had come about, allowing it to be put down, as her friends were but too ready to do, to the effect produced on the minister by her silent adoration.
The Church girls were wild with envy. Laura was dragged up the garden with an arm thrust through each of hers. Mr. Shepherd’s holy calling and spiritual appearance stood him in small stead here; and the blackest interpretation was put on the matter of the visit.
“Nice things you’ll be up to, the pair of you — oh, my aunt!” ejaculated Maria.
“I think it’s beastly risky her going at all,” filled in Kate Horner, gobbling a little; for her upper lip overhung the lower. “These saints are oftenest bad ‘uns.”
“Yes, and with an Aunt Sally like that for a wife.— Now look here, Kiddy, just you watch you’re not left alone with him in the dark.”
“And mind, you’ve got to tell us everything — every blessed thing!”
Laura was called for, on Saturday morning, by the maiden sister of her divinity. Miss Isabella Shepherd was a fair, short, pleasant young woman, with a nervous, kindly smile, and a congenital inability to look you in the face when speaking to you; so that the impression she made was that of a perpetual friendliness, directed, however, not at you, but at the inanimate objects around you. Laura was so tickled by this peculiarity, which she spied the moment she entered the waiting-room, that at first she could take in nothing else. Afterwards, when the novelty had worn off, she subjected her companion to a closer scrutiny, and from the height of thirteen years had soon taxed her with being a frumpish old maid; the valiant but feeble efforts Miss Isabella made to entertain her, as they walked along, only strengthening her in this opinion.
Not very far from the College they entered a small, two-storied stone house, which but for an iron railing and a shrub or two gave right on the street.
“Will you come up to the study?” said Miss Isabella, smiling warmly, and ogling the door-mat. “I’m sure Robby would like to see you at once.”
Robby? Her saint called Robby?— Laura blushed.
But at the head of the stairs they were brought up short by Mrs. Shepherd, who, policeman-like, raised a warning hand.
“Hssh . . . ssh . . . sh!” she breathed, and simultaneously half-closed her eyes, as if imitating slumber. “Robby has just lain down for a few minutes. How are you, dear?”— in a whisper. “I’m so pleased to see you.”
She looked even more faded than in church. But she was very kind, and in the bedroom insisted on getting out a clean towel for Laura.
“Now we’ll go down.— It’s only lunch to-day, for Robby has a confirmation-class immediately afterwards, and doesn’t care to eat much.”
They descended to the dining-room, but though the meal was served, did not take their seats: they stood about, in a kind of anxious silence. This lasted for several minutes; then, heavy footsteps were heard trampling overhead: these persisted, but did not seem to advance, and at length there was a loud, impatient shout of: “Maisie!”
Both ladies were perceptibly flurried. “He can’t find something,” said Miss Isabella in a stage-whisper; while Mrs. Shepherd, taking the front of her dress in both hands, set out for the stairs with the short, clumsy jerks which, in a woman, pass for running.
A minute or two later the origin of the fluster came in, looking, it must be confessed, not much more amiable than his voice had been: he was extremely pale, too, his blue eyes had hollow rings round them, and there were tired wrinkles on his forehead. However he offered Laura a friendly hand which she took with her soul in her eyes.
“Well, and so this is the young lady fresh from the halls of learning, is it?” he asked, after a mumbled grace, as he carved a rather naked mutton-bone: the knife caught in the bone; he wrenched it free with an ill-natured tweak. “And what do they teach you at college, miss, eh?” he went on. “French? . . . Greek? . . . Latin? How goes it? INFANDUM, REGINA, JUBES RENOVARE DOLOREM— isn’t that the way of it? And then . . . let me see! It’s so long since I went to school, you know.”
“TROJANAS UT OPES ET LAMENTABILE REGNUM ERUERINT DANAI,” said Laura, almost blind with pride and pleasure.
“Well, well, well!” he exclaimed, in what seemed tremendous surprise; but, even as she spoke, his thoughts were swept away; for he had taken up a mustard-pot and found it empty. “Yes, yes, here we are again! Not a scrap of mustard on the table. “— His voice was angrily............