A FEW Sundays after that, Mr. Cole’s heart was gladdened by the sight of Madame Koller and the bundle of cloaks and mufflers she called her mamma, walking in church just as the morning service was beginning. The little clergyman felt inspired. He fancied himself like Paul before the Athenians. Olivia Berkeley was there too, and the Colonel, who settled himself in his pew to catch Mr. Cole in a false syllogism or a misquotation—anything to chaff the reverend gentleman about during the coming week. Mr. Cole did his best. He laid aside his manuscript and indulged in an extempore address that warmed the orator, if not the congregation, with something like eloquence. The Hibbses were there too—a florid, well-dressed family, Mr. Hibbs making the responses in a basso so much louder than Mr. Cole’s mild treble that it seemed as if Mr. Hibbs were the parson and Mr. Cole the clerk.
“I tell you what it is my dear,” Colonel Berkeley had said angrily to his daughter half an hour before when the Hibbses swept past them up the flagged walk through the churchyard, “the religion of these infernal Hibbs people is what disgusts me most. They made their money in the war of 1812. Up to then they were shouting Methodists—I’ve heard my father swear it a hundred times—” The Colonel belonged to a class, not uncommon in Virginia, who regarded the Episcopal Church as a close corporation, and resented with great pugnacity any attempt to enter it on the part of the great unwashed. It was the vehicle chosen by the first families to go to heaven in, and marked “Reserved.” Hence the Colonel’s wrath. His church was a church founded by gentlemen, of gentlemen, and for gentlemen, and it was a great liberty for any other class to seek that aristocratic mode of salvation.
“Now, damme, the Hibbses are the greatest Episcopalians in the parish. I am as good a churchman as there is in the county, but begad, if I want such a set of vulgarians worshiping under the same roof and rubbing elbows with me when I go up to the Lord’s table. I think I gave that young Hibbs fellow a setback last communion Sunday which will prevent him from hustling up to the rail before his betters.”
By which it will be seen that Dashaway’s unlucky fiasco and the triumph of the long-legged roan at Campdown had not been obliterated from the Colonel’s memory. During the sermon, Colonel Berkeley only took his eyes off the clergyman once. This was when Mr. Hibbs came around with the collection plate. The object of that day’s collection was, as Mr. Cole had feelingly stated, for the conversion of the higher castes in India. Colonel Berkeley thrust both hands in his trousers’ pockets, and surveyed Mr. Hibbs defiantly as that worthy citizen poked the plate at him. This duello between Mr. Hibbs and Colonel Berkeley occurred every collection Sunday, to the edification of the congregation. After holding the plate before the Colonel for a considerable time, Mr. Hibbs moved off—a time that seemed interminable to Olivia, blushing furiously in the corner of the pew.
After church the congregation streamed out, and according to the country custom, the people stopped to talk in the churchyard. Colonel Berkeley marched up to Mr. Cole, and put something in his hand.
“There, Cole,” he remarked, “I wouldn’t put anything in the plate when that ruffian of a vestry-man of yours poked it under my nose. But I doubled my contribution, and I’ll thank you to put it with the rest.”
“Certainly, Colonel,” answered Mr. Cole—“but Christian charity—”
“Christian charity be hanged, sir. I’m a Christian and a churchman, but I prefer Christian gentlemen to Methodist upstarts. Whether I go to heaven or the other place either, damme, I propose to go in good company.”
“This will go to the missionary fund for India, Colonel.”
“Ha! ha! I’d like to see one of you callow young clergymen tackle a Brahmin in India. By Jove. It would be fun—for the Brahmin!”
Colonel Berkeley had no mind to let Mr. Cole monopolize Madame Koller, so just as the clergyman stood, hat in hand bowing to her and her mother, the Colonel marched up, and by a skillful maneuver shoveled the elder lady off on Mr. Cole, while he himself attended the younger one to the carriage. At the churchyard gate was Olivia Berkeley talking with Mrs. Peyton—and by her side stood French Pembroke. Madame Koller smiled charmingly at her old acquaintances. She was so sorry Miss Berkeley had not been at home the day she called. Miss Berkeley was politely regretful. It was so sunshiny and delightful that Madame Koller would like to walk as far as the main road led them toward home—it was only across a field or two then, for each of them to reach home. Olivia also assented to this. Madame Koller’s society was far from lacking charm to her—and besides, the attraction of repulsion is never stronger than between two women who cherish a smoldering spark of jealousy.
Madame Koller wanted the Colonel to come, and brought her whole battery of smiles and glances into action to compel him—but he got out of it with much astuteness. He was no walker, he said. Then she turned to French Pembroke.
“Good-bye, my dear,” said Mrs. Peyton to Olivia, sotto voce. “Don’t be left at the meeting of the ways.”
“No, I won’t, I promise you,” replied Olivia.
Off they started. Madame Koller moved with the grace of a fairy in a drawing-room, but on a country road, holding a sunshade in one hand and her gown in the other, it was a promenade rather than a walk. Olivia walked with the easy step of a girl country born and country bred, and albeit it was a little more than a saunter, she soon walked Madame Koller out of breath.
Pembroke had but little share in the conversation. Except a laughing reference to him occasionally, he was left out, and had full opportunity to compare the two women—which he did with an amused smile. Compliments were plenty from Madame Koller, which Olivia deftly parried or ignored. In a little while the turning was in sight where both left the high road, and a path in one direction led to Isleham, and in another, gave a short cut to The Beeches. Pembroke was beginning to apprehend an awkward predicament for himself as to which one of the ladies he should accompany, when Olivia cut the knot.
“Here I must leave you—good-bye, Madame Koller, I shall see you during the week—good-bye—” to Pembroke.
“There is Madame Koller’s carriage in sight,” remarked Pembroke, thinking that offered a solution of the problem—to which Olivia only responded pleasantly—“Good-bye—good-bye—” and tripped off.
Madame Koller looked rather foolish—she had been outgeneraled completely.
“There is your carriage,” again said Pembroke, this time looking straight at her.
“Yes. I know it. You will soon be rid of me.”
As she spoke her eyes filled with real tears of mortification. Pembroke was a man, and he could not see this, and be as hard as he meant to be. Nevertheless, he did not intend to walk through the field with Madame Koller.
“Come, Elise,” he said. “The way is too long for you. You are no walker. It would be best for you to drive home.”
“When you call me Elise I will do anything for you,” she said—and she was really tired and hated walking for walking’s sake.
The carriage drew up, and Pembroke put her in carefully. Old Madame Schmidt said: “That is right, Eliza,” and they drove off.
A few yards hid him from their sight, and at that instant he struck out in the path to Isleham. In ten minutes he had overtaken Olivia.
She was surprised to see him.
“What have you done with Madame Koller?”
“Put her in the carriage and sent her home.”
A faint flush crept into Olivia’s cheeks.
“I have wanted to ask you something for a week or two,” she said, “but this is my first opportunity. You know that poor negro, Bob Henry, who is to be tried for murder—I believe he belonged to you, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“His wife was my maid when I was a child. Yesterday she came to see me—just out of her bed from a long fever. She is naturally in great trouble about her husband, whom she has not seen, the jail being too far off. She has heard something about your defending him when he is tried, and she begged me to see you, and ask you as a mercy to them, to ‘try him,’ as she says.”
“That is what brought me back to America,” he replied.
Olivia said not a word, but walked on. She could not but believe him—but if he had not come on Madame Koller’s account, Madame Koller might have come on his account.
“I have done, and I am doing, the best I can for the poor fellow. Cave has helped me much.”
Then it occurred to Olivia that at least Pembroke ought to get the credit for coming on such an errand.
“How kind it was of you,” she said. “I am so glad—”
“To find I am not such a scamp as you thought me?” he said, good-naturedly.
“Have it any way you like,” she replied. “But I am very glad, and Jane will be very glad, and I’m sure Bob Henry is—and you may come home with me and have some luncheon, and papa will be very glad—he hates Sunday afternoons in the country.”