XXII

LetthereadernowpicturePriscillacomingdownstairsthenextmorning,agoldenSundaymorningfullofSabbathcalm,andaPriscillaleaden-eyedandleaden-souled,hershabbygarmentswornouttoasymbolofherwornoutzeals,herfacethefaceofonewhohasforgottenpeace,hereyestheeyesofoneatstrifewiththefuture,ofoneforeverasking"Whatnext?"andshrinkingwithashuddering"Ohpleasenotthat,"fromthebaldreply. OutofdoorsNatureworehermildest,mostbeneficentaspect.Sheveryevidentlycarednothingforthesqualidtragediesofhumanfate.Herhillswerebathedingentlelight.Hersunshinelaywarmalongthecottagefronts.Inthegardensherhopefulbees,cheatedintothoughtsofsummer,dronedroundthepalemauvesandpurplesofwhatwasleftofstarworts.Thegrassinthechurchyardsparkledwiththefairyfilmofgossamers.Sparrowschirped.Robinswhistled.Andhumanitygavethelasttouchtothepicturebyringingthechurchbellsmelodiouslytoprayer. Withoutdoubtitwasadayofblessing,supposinganyonecouldbefoundwillingtobeblest.Letthereader,then,imaginethisoutwardserenity,thisdivinecalmness,thisfairandlight-floodedworld,andwithinthemustywallsofCreeperCottagePriscillacomingdowntobreakfast,despairinhereyesandheart. Theybreakfastedlatesolatethatitwasdonetotheaccompaniment,strangelypurifiedandbeautifiedbytheinterveningchurchwallsandgraveyard,ofMrs.Morrison'sorganplayingandthechantingofthevillagechoir.Theirdoorstoodwideopen,forthestreetwasempty.Everybodywasinchurch.Theservicewas,asMrs.Morrisonafterwardsremarked,unusuallywellattended.ThevoluntariessheplayedthatdaywereDeadMarches,andthevicarpreachedaconscience-shatteringsermonuponthetext"Lord,whoisit?" HethoughtthatMrs.Jones'smurderermustbeoneofhisparishioners.Itwasapainfulthought,butithadtobefaced.Hehadlivedsolongshutoutfromgossip,sodeaftotheever-clickingtongueofrumour,thathehadforgottenhowfar