A Colony of Girls Part 11

CHAPTER VII.

A WALK IN THE SHRUBBERY.

It was Sunday and Nan and Emily were sitting together on the vine-covered porch of the parsonage, trying to while away the long hour between church time and the midday dinner.

Nan gave a prodigious yawn, and stretched herself out in the comfortable steamer chair.

"Oh, dearie me," she sighed, "I wonder if it would be a crime for me to admit how bored I was in church this morning."

"Well, I don't think it would be in very good taste, considering your father preached," replied Emily severely.

"I can't help it if he did. I was tired, and moreover," crossly, "I am always bored."

Emily raised her eyebrows.

"I am afraid, Nan, your soul longs for Gregorian chants and tapering candles."

"Of course it does; and acolytes, incense, and embroidered altar cloths. Yes, I admit it frankly, I should have belonged to The Church," she ended, with great emphasis.

"I know, Em," she continued, after waiting a moment to observe the effect of her last words, "you will think it absurd; but, I tell you, I really envy the Lawrence girls. To think that they attend that dear, delightful Episcopal chapel, while I----" and the sentence ended with a laugh. "Why, Em, of course you won't sympathize with me, but I do think it is bad form."

Emily looked really shocked.

"Nan Birdsall, I am ashamed of you. What would uncle think of you?"

"Well," replied Nan, with a perverse expression on her face, "I don't intend that the ministers' sons shall have it all their own way. I have just as good a right to live up to the old saying as any of them."

Emily would not stay to listen to another word, and with a great air of dignity, she arose, and swept into the house. Very soon the soft tinkling of a bell told Nan that the noonday meal was ready. Old Mr.

Birdsall stood at one end of the table, his hands folded on the back of the chair before him, waiting for Emily and Nan to appear. When they were come the long grace was spoken slowly and impressively, and no one watching Nan's demure face would have guessed at her outbreak of the morning.

They were a somewhat incongruous trio, and what little conversation there was consisted chiefly of good-natured banter of Emily by the irrepressible Nan, to which Mr. Birdsall listened somewhat abstractedly.

The dinner hour had not as yet a.s.sumed a position of importance to either of the girls, and as soon as possible they pushed back their chairs, and once more sought the shady porch. Emily gave one furtive glance over her shoulder to a.s.sure herself that her uncle was not following them, and then picked up a novel from a neighboring table, and opened it with a great show of interest. Nan watched the bit of deception, and a smile spread itself over her face.

"Puss," she cried, stooping to lift up a little white kitten which was brushing against her skirt, "it is now our turn to be shocked and horrified."

Her remark being received in contemptuous silence, for a while she played languidly with the little creature in her lap, then her hand dropped at her side, her head fell back against the cushions, and Nan was fast asleep. The air was heavy and drowsy, all about the insects hummed so lazily and the very atmosphere lulled one into forgetfulness. By and by, the crunching sound of footsteps on the graveled path roused Nan to sudden consciousness.

"Oh! dear, Nan," Emily was whispering in a tone of suppressed excitement, "please wake up. Here comes Mr. Dudley. I forgot to tell you that I was going for a walk with him."

"That's all right," Nan interrupted her sleepily. "I am going in so he won't see me," and lifting herself lazily from her chair, she slipped into the house through one of the French windows.

Within the house there reigned the solemn stillness of the Day of Rest. The door of the study stood part-way open, and Nan could see her father lying on his lounge, his white head shining like silver against the dark leather of the cushion. She stole in on tip-toe to avoid awakening him, caught up a bright-colored afghan and threw it over him.

"How sweet he looks," she thought with great tenderness, as she stooped and gently kissed him. She paused a moment by the large writing table to find, amid a litter of papers, an old hymnbook, shabby from long usage, and opening it marked the hymns selected for the evening service. Then she pa.s.sed out and closed the door softly behind her. She waited a few moments until she heard Emily and Mr.

Dudley leave the porch, then put on her hat, and started across the lawn to the manor. Coming out upon the drive-way she met Helen walking briskly along.

"Well," she cried, "where are you going?"

"To evening prayers, Nancy. Won't you come with me?"

"Yes, indeed I will. I thought you never left the children Sunday afternoon."

"I don't usually, but to-day I felt just in the humor for church."

There was a note of sadness in Helen's tone, which ordinarily Nan would have readily detected, but to-day the girl was possessed by a sense of personal dissatisfaction and restlessness, and so, absorbed in her own mood, this was lost upon her. There was a pause of brief duration, then Helen drew a long breath, and resumed more lightly:

"How sweet and sunny it is, isn't it, Nan? I love these first early days of summer when everything is so fresh and green. The country doesn't begin to look so lovely later in the season."

"I suppose so," returned Nan laconically. "I am such a country girl that I don't half see the beauties about me. When you are so used to things I don't think you are apt to be so keenly alive to them."

"I dare say that is true; you see I go away just enough to appreciate this dear place when I come back to it."

"While I," grumbled Nan, "have never been away from Hetherford but two or three times in my whole life. One year is just like another. There is always father, deeply interested in church matters, and looking upon me as an enigma; and cross old Bridget who runs the house and disapproves of me. I often long to dance a jig before father and to throw something at Bridget's head, just to relieve the monotony."

Helen laughed softly as Nan's grievances multiplied, knowing full well how it diminishes one's annoyances to be able to give voice to them.

"Then Emily comes," continued Nan, with a scowl, "and tells me that my clothes are awful and that I look like a fright, and wonders why I can't cultivate a slight interest in men. I tell her," laughing dubiously, "that I would if I found them eager to do their share."

"You silly child," and Helen squeezed Nan's arm affectionately. "I won't have you depreciate your dear self."

But Nan was not to be so easily diverted.

"I do hope that some day I shall see something of the world," she replied. "I would like to lead an exciting life, full of incident and adventure, and oh, dear me, who could lead one less so. I wish something new and interesting would happen."

"O Nancy," Helen said to her gravely, "don't be so anxious to have things happen. It is so much better when they don't, little girl."

Nan looked up at Helen and felt rebuked for her egotism, as she saw the shadow clouding her friend's pale face.

Dissimilar as these two girls were in character, a very warm friendship existed between them. Helen dearly loved Nan for her ready wit, easy-going ways, warm heart, and sunny nature, and Nan simply adored Helen, looking up to her with the greatest admiration, and deferring readily to her judgment in all things. There was a very romantic side to Nan's nature, hidden away though it was, beneath so much nonsense and jollity, and Helen's love affair and its sad ending had touched her keenly. She thoroughly liked Guy, and he, on his part, had always shown a preference for her above the other girls. Perhaps he had guessed at her strong love for Helen and partisanship for himself, for to her alone had he spoken of Helen on his return from that last unhappy interview. His words had been few, but Nan had seen the real grief in his honest eyes, and her heart had ached for him.

She made a pretty shrewd guess at the real state of affairs, and she found her firm belief, that Helen's heart belonged to Guy and that it would all come out right in the end, greatly strengthened by her friend's present unhappiness and discontent. To-day she was full of sympathy for Helen, but she respected her reticence too deeply to broach the subject, so she consoled herself with the thought that this mood scored a point in Guy's favor. Her reverie was broken in upon by Helen's voice saying gently:

"I consider it a most fortunate thing, Nan, that I am carrying you off to church; I am sure the service will do us both good."

"Well, there's room for improvement in me," laughed Nan. "You should have seen Em's face this morning when I told her that my one ambition was to imitate the proverbial minister's son."

"Nancy, I am ashamed of you," Helen remonstrated, with a reluctant smile. "Come, be a good girl, for we are just at the church door. Let us give our hearts and minds to the service," she added with sweet gravity, "and we will see how much peace will come to us."

"I will, dear," Nan whispered as they started up the aisle to the Lawrences' pew.

The rector of St. Andrew's leaned somewhat toward ritualism, and no form nor observance that to his mind lent beauty and solemnity to the service was omitted. As the girls took their places the solemn chords of the Stabat Mater inclined their hearts to reverential prayer. In a moment more the doors of the vestry swung open and the organ took up the sweet strains of the soul-inspiring hymn, "Hark, hark, my soul."

Slowly the choristers filed by; first the cross-bearer, his young face full of dignity, then the singers, two by two, and as their numbers swelled their fresh young voices filled the church.

The grace and beauty of the Episcopal form of worship appealed to Nan.

The rhythmic lines of the confessional, "We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep," etc., moved her to a heartfelt penitence for her shortcomings, and inspired her with an earnest desire to live more n.o.bly and unselfishly. One by one her petty trials took their flight, and only a sense of great peace remained. When the benediction had been p.r.o.nounced and the girls had left the church, they were both somewhat subdued and silent. The slanting rays of the sun fell softly athwart the quaint old churchyard, and on the faintly stirring breeze was borne the sweet perfume of roses and honeysuckle which grew in such profusion against the low stone wall. Pa.s.sing through the gateway they strolled side by side along the road.

"I wish I could always attend St. Andrew's," mused Nan, slipping her hand within Helen's arm. "I really believe I would be a better girl.