Part 21 (2/2)
Her brain was whirling; James himself was agitated and unstrung by the vehemence of feeling, the nerve storm, that he had just pa.s.sed through.
And in the minds of Miss Poyntz and Lady Lelant the liveliest curiosity and interest reigned, as it naturally would reign, under such circ.u.mstances, in the minds of any normal young women, gentle or simple, with blue blood or crimson.
But the four people had learned the lessons their life-long environment had taught. Their faces were masks, their talk was trivial.
When at length Lucy rose to go, declining to drive home with Lady Lelant, they all came into the big, quiet courtyard of the hotel, ”to help her choose her hansom.” Every unit of the little party felt her departure would be a relief, she felt it herself. The two girls did not know what had happened and were eager to know. James wanted to be alone, to go through the interview step by step in his brain, reconstructing it for the better surveyal of his chances, and to plan an epistolary campaign, or bombardment rather.
Lucy felt the desire, a great and pressing desire, for home and rest.
She arrived at the vicarage an hour or so after. As the cab had turned into the familiar, sordid streets she had felt glad! She smiled at her own sensations, but they were very real. This place, this ”unutterable North London slum,” as she used to call it, was more like home than Park Lane had ever been.
How tired she felt as she went up-stairs to her room! Her face was pale, dark circles had come out under her eyes, she bore every evidence of having pa.s.sed through some mental strain.
After a bath she felt better, more herself, after these experiences of the afternoon. And to change every article of clothing was in itself a restorative and a tonic. It was an old trick of hers, and she had always found it answer. When she went down-stairs again she was still pale, but had that freshness and dainty completeness that have such enormous charm, that she always had, and that her poorer sisters are so unable to achieve in the _va et vient_ of a hard, work-a-day life.
She wanted to see Bernard, she hungered for her brother. With a pang of self-reproach, she remembered, as she came down-stairs, that this had been the afternoon of the public debate with Hamlyn's people. It was an important event in the parish. And from her start from the clergy-house to her arrival back at its doors, she had quite forgotten the whole thing! In the absorption with her own affairs, it had pa.s.sed completely from her brain and she was sorry. Of late, she had identified herself so greatly with the affairs and hopes of the little St. Elwyn's community, that she felt selfish and ashamed as she knocked at the door of the study. She waited for a moment to hear the invitation to enter. It was never safe to go into Bernard's room without that precaution. Some tragic history might be in the very article of relation, some weary soul might be there seeking ghostly guidance in its abyss of sorrow and despair.
Some one bade her enter. She did so. The room was dark, filled with the evening shadows. For a moment or two, she could distinguish nothing.
”Are you here, Ber?” she said.
”The vicar is up-stairs, Miss Blantyre,” came the answer in King's voice, as he rose from his seat. ”I'm here with Stephens.”
”Well, let me sit down for a little while and talk,” Lucy said. ”May I?--please go on smoking. I can stand Bob's pipe, so I can certainly stand _yours_. I want to hear all about the meeting in the Victoria Hall.”
They found a chair for her; she refused to have lights brought, saying that she preferred this soft gloom that enveloped them.
Her question about the meeting was not immediately responded to. The men seemed collecting their thoughts. By this time, she was really upon something that resembled a true sisterly footing with these two. Both were well-bred men, incapable of any slackening of the cords of courtesy, but there was a mutual understanding between them and her which allowed deliberation in talk, which, in fact, dispensed with the necessity of conventional chatter.
King spoke at length. ”Go on, young 'un,” he said to Stephens, waving his pipe at him, as Lucy could see by the red glow in the bowl. ”You tell her.”
”No, _you_ tell her, old chap.”
Lucy wanted to laugh at the odd pair with whom she was in such sympathy.
They were just like two boys.
King sighed. Conversation of any sort, unless it was actually in the course of his priestly ministrations, was always painful to him. He was a man who _thought_. But he could be eloquent and incisive enough when he chose.
”Well, look here, Miss Blantyre,” he said, ”to begin with, the whole thing has been an unqualified success for the other side! That is to say that the people in the hall--and it was crammed--have gone away in the firm conviction and belief that the Luther Lecturers have got the best of the priests, that, in short, the Protestants have won all along the line.”
”Good gracious! Mr. King, do you really mean to say that one of these vulgar, half-educated men was able to beat Bernard in argument, to enlist the sympathies of the audience against _Bernard_?”
”That's exactly what has happened,” King answered. ”The vicar is up-stairs now, utterly dejected and worn out, trying to get some sleep.”
”But I don't understand how it could be so.”
”It is difficult to understand for a moment, Miss Blantyre. But it's easily explained. One good thing has happened: Every priest in the kingdom will have his warning now----”
”Of what?”
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