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In the white morning-room which served for her boudoir Mrs. Pendyce sat with an opened letter in her lap.  It was her practice to sit there on Sunday mornings for an hour before she went to her room adjoining to put on her hat for church.  It was her pleasure during that hour to do nothing but sit at the window, open if the weather permitted, and look over the home paddock and the squat spire of the village church rising among a group of elms.  It is not known what she thought about at those times, unless of the countless Sunday mornings she had sat there with her hands in her lap waiting to be roused at 10.45 by the Squire’s entrance and his “Now, my dear, you’ll be late!” She had sat there till her hair, once dark-brown, was turning grey; she would sit there until it was white.  One day she would sit there no longer, and, as likely as not, Mr. Pendyce, still well preserved, would enter and say, “Now, my dear, you’ll be late!” having for the moment forgotten.

But this was all to be expected, nothing out of the common; the same thing was happening in hundreds of country houses throughout the “three kingdoms,” and women were sitting waiting for their hair to turn white, who, long before, at the altar of a fashionable church, had parted with their imaginations and all the changes and chances of this mortal life.

Round her chair “the dear dogs” lay ­this was their practice too, and now and again the Skye (he was getting very old) would put out a long tongue and lick her little pointed shoe.  For Mrs. Pendyce had been a pretty woman, and her feet were as small as ever.

Beside her on a spindley table stood a china bowl filled with dried rose-leaves, whereon had been scattered an essence smelling like sweetbriar, whose secret she had learned from her mother in the old Warwickshire home of the Totteridges, long since sold to Mr. Abraham Brightman.  Mrs. Pendyce, born in the year 1840, loved sweet perfumes, and was not ashamed of using them.

The Indian summer sun was soft and bright; and wistful, soft, and bright were Mrs. Pendyce’s eyes, fixed on the letter in her lap.  She turned it over and began to read again.  A wrinkle visited her brow.  It was not often that a letter demanding decision or involving responsibility came to her hands past the kind and just censorship of Horace Pendyce.  Many matters were under her control, but were not, so to speak, connected with the outer world.  Thus ran the letter: 

“S.R.W.C., Hanover square,

“November 1, 1891.

Dear Margery,

“I want to see you and talk something over, so I’m running down on Sunday afternoon.  There is a train of sorts.  Any loft will do for me to sleep in if your house is full, as it may be, I suppose, at this time of year.  On second thoughts I will tell you what I want to see you about.  You know, of course, that since her father died I am Helen Bellew’s only guardian.  Her present position is one in which no woman should be placed; I am convinced it ought to be put an end to.  That man Bellew deserves no consideration.  I cannot write of him coolly, so I won’t write at all.  It is two years now since they separated, entirely, as I consider, through his fault.  The law has placed her in a cruel and helpless position all this time; but now, thank God, I believe we can move for a divorce.  You know me well enough to realise what I have gone through before coming to this conclusion.  Heaven knows if I could hit on some other way in which her future could be safeguarded, I would take it in preference to this, which is most repugnant; but I cannot.  You are the only woman I can rely on to be interested in her, and I must see Bellew.  Let not the fat and just Benson and his estimable horses be disturbed on my account; I will walk up and carry my toothbrush.

“Affectionately your cousin,

Gregory Vigil.”

Mrs. Pendyce smiled.  She saw no joke, but she knew from the wording of the last sentence that Gregory saw one, and she liked to give it a welcome; so smiling and wrinkling her forehead, she mused over the letter.  Her thoughts wandered.  The last scandal ­Lady Rose Bethany’s divorce ­had upset the whole county, and even now one had to be careful what one said.  Horace would not like the idea of another divorce-suit, and that so close to Worsted Skeynes.  When Helen left on Thursday he had said: 

“I’m not sorry she’s gone.  Her position is a queer one.  People don’t like it.  The Maidens were quite ­”

And Mrs. Pendyce remembered with a glow at her heart how she had broken in: 

“Ellen Maiden is too bourgeoise for anything!”

Nor had Mr. Pendyce’s look of displeasure effaced the comfort of that word.

Poor Horace!  The children took after him, except George, who took after her brother Hubert.  The dear boy had gone back to his club on Friday ­the day after Helen and the others went.  She wished he could have stayed.  She wished ­The wrinkle deepened on her brow.  Too much London was bad for him!  Too much ­Her fancy flew to the London which she saw now only for three weeks in June and July, for the sake of the girls, just when her garden was at its best, and when really things were such a whirl that she never knew whether she was asleep or awake.  It was not like London at all ­not like that London under spring skies, or in early winter lamplight, where all the passers-by seemed so interesting, living all sorts of strange and eager lives, with strange and eager pleasures, running all sorts of risks, hungry sometimes, homeless even ­so fascinating, so unlike ­

“Now, my dear, you’ll be late!”

Mr. Pendyce, in his Norfolk jacket, which he was on his way to change for a black coat, passed through the room, followed by the spaniel John.  He turned at the door, and the spaniel John turned too.

“I hope to goodness Barter’ll be short this morning.  I want to talk to old Fox about that new chaff-cutter.”

Round their mistress the three terriers raised their heads; the aged Skye gave forth a gentle growl.  Mrs. Pendyce leaned over and stroked his nose.

“Roy, Roy, how can you, dear?”

Mr. Pendyce said: 

“The old dog’s losing all his teeth; he’ll have to be put away.”

His wife flushed painfully.

“Oh no, Horace ­oh no!”

The Squire coughed.

“We must think of the dog!” he said.

Mrs. Pendyce rose, and crumpling the letter nervously, followed him from the room.

A narrow path led through the home paddock towards the church, and along it the household were making their way.  The maids in feathers hurried along guiltily by twos and threes; the butler followed slowly by himself.  A footman and a groom came next, leaving trails of pomatum in the air.  Presently General Pendyce, in a high square-topped bowler hat, carrying a malacca cane, and Prayer-Book, appeared walking between Bee and Norah, also carrying Prayer-Books, with fox-terriers by their sides.  Lastly, the Squire in a high hat, six or seven paces in advance of his wife, in a small velvet toque.

The rooks had ceased their wheeling and their cawing; the five-minutes bell, with its jerky, toneless tolling, alone broke the Sunday hush.  An old horse, not yet taken up from grass, stood motionless, resting a hind-leg, with his face turned towards the footpath.  Within the churchyard wicket the Rector, firm and square, a low-crowned hat tilted up on his bald forehead, was talking to a deaf old cottager.  He raised his hat and nodded to the ladies; then, leaving his remark unfinished, disappeared within the vestry.  At the organ Mrs. Barter was drawing out stops in readiness to play her husband into church, and her eyes, half-shining and half-anxious, were fixed intently on the vestry door.

The Squire and Mrs. Pendyce, now almost abreast, came down the aisle and took their seats beside their daughters and the General in the first pew on the left.  It was high and cushioned.  They knelt down on tall red hassocks.  Mrs. Pendyce remained over a minute buried in thought; Mr. Pendyce rose sooner, and looking down, kicked the hassock that had been put too near the seat.  Fixing his glasses on his nose, he consulted a worn old Bible, then rising, walked to the lectern and began to find the Lessons.  The bell ceased; a wheezing, growling noise was heard.  Mrs. Barter had begun to play; the Rector, in a white surplice, was coming in.  Mr. Pendyce, with his back turned, continued to find the Lessons.  The service began.

Through a plain glass window high up in the right-hand aisle the sun shot a gleam athwart the Pendyces’ pew.  It found its last resting-place on Mrs. Barter’s face, showing her soft crumpled cheeks painfully flushed, the lines on her forehead, and those shining eyes, eager and anxious, travelling ever from her husband to her music and back again.  At the least fold or frown on his face the music seemed to quiver, as to some spasm in the player’s soul.  In the Pendyces’ pew the two girls sang loudly and with a certain sweetness.  Mr. Pendyce, too, sang, and once or twice he looked in surprise at his brother, as though he were not making a creditable noise.

Mrs. Pendyce did not sing, but her lips moved, and her eyes followed the millions of little dust atoms dancing in the long slanting sunbeam.  Its gold path canted slowly from her, then, as by magic, vanished.  Mrs. Pendyce let her eyes fall.  Something had fled from her soul with the sunbeam; her lips moved no more.

The Squire sang two loud notes, spoke three, sang two again; the Psalms ceased.  He left his seat, and placing his hands on the lectern’s sides, leaned forward and began to read the Lesson.  He read the story of Abraham and Lot, and of their flocks and herds, and how they could not dwell together, and as he read, hypnotised by the sound of his own voice, he was thinking: 

’This Lesson is well read by me, Horace Pendyce.  I am Horace Pendyce ­Horace Pendyce.  Amen, Horace Pendyce!’

And in the first pew on the left Mrs. Pendyce fixed her eyes upon him, for this was her habit, and she thought how, when the spring came again, she would run up to town, alone, and stay at Green’s Hotel, where she had always stayed with her father when a girl.  George had promised to look after her, and take her round the theatres.  And forgetting that she had thought this every autumn for the last ten years, she gently smiled and nodded.  Mr. Pendyce said: 

“’And I will make thy seed as the dust of the earth; so that if a man can number the dust of the earth, then shall thy seed also be numbered.  Arise, walk through the land in the length of it and in the breadth of it; for I will give it unto thee.  Then Abram removed his tent, and came and dwelt in the plain of Mamre, which is in Hebron, and built there an altar unto the Lord.’  Here endeth the first Lesson.”

The sun, reaching the second window, again shot a gold pathway athwart the church; again the millions of dust atoms danced, and the service went on.

There came a hush.  The spaniel John, crouched close to the ground outside, poked his long black nose under the churchyard gate; the fox-terriers, seated patient in the grass, pricked their ears.  A voice speaking on one note broke the hush.  The spaniel John sighed, the fox-terriers dropped their ears, and lay down heavily against each other.  The Rector had begun to preach.  He preached on fruitfulness, and in the first right-hand pew six of his children at once began to fidget.  Mrs. Barter, sideways and unsupported on her seat, kept her starry eyes fixed on his cheek; a line of perplexity furrowed her brow.  Now and again she moved as though her back ached.  The Rector quartered his congregation with his gaze, lest any amongst them should incline to sleep.  He spoke in a loud-sounding voice.

God-he said-wished men to be fruitful, intended them to be fruitful, commanded them to be fruitful.  God ­he said ­made men, and made the earth; He made man to be fruitful in the earth; He made man neither to question nor answer nor argue; He made him to be fruitful and possess the land.  As they had heard in that beautiful Lesson this morning, God had set bounds, the bounds of marriage, within which man should multiply; within those bounds it was his duty to multiply, and that exceedingly ­even as Abraham multiplied.  In these days dangers, pitfalls, snares, were rife; in these days men went about and openly, unashamedly advocated shameful doctrines.  Let them beware.  It would be his sacred duty to exclude such men from within the precincts of that parish entrusted to his care by God.  In the language of their greatest poet, “Such men were dangerous” ­dangerous to Christianity, dangerous to their country, and to national life.  They were not brought into this world to follow sinful inclination, to obey their mortal reason.  God demanded sacrifices of men.  Patriotism demanded sacrifices of men, it demanded that they should curb their inclinations and desires.  It demanded of them their first duty as men and Christians, the duty of being fruitful and multiplying, in order that they might till this fruitful earth, not selfishly, not for themselves alone.  It demanded of them the duty of multiplying in order that they and their children might be equipped to smite the enemies of their Queen and country, and uphold the name of England in whatever quarrel, against all who rashly sought to drag her flag in the dust.

The Squire opened his eyes and looked at his watch.  Folding his arms, he coughed, for he was thinking of the chaff-cutter.  Beside him Mrs. Pendyce, with her eyes on the altar, smiled as if in sleep.  She was thinking, ’Skyward’s in Bond Street used to have lovely lace.  Perhaps in the spring I could ­Or there was Goblin’s, their Point de Venise ­’

Behind them, four rows back, an aged cottage woman, as upright as a girl, sat with a rapt expression on her carved old face.  She never moved, her eyes seemed drinking in the movements of the Rector’s lips, her whole being seemed hanging on his words.  It is true her dim eyes saw nothing but a blur, her poor deaf ears could not hear one word, but she sat at the angle she was used to, and thought of nothing at all.  And perhaps it was better so, for she was near her end.

Outside the churchyard, in the sun-warmed grass, the fox-terriers lay one against the other, pretending to shiver, with their small bright eyes fixed on the church door, and the rubbery nostrils of the spaniel John worked ever busily beneath the wicket gate.