In the evening her carriage once again drew up with clang and clatter
at the door of the chapel. But her coachman was out of temper at
having to leave the bosom of his family circle--as he styled the
table that upheld his pot of beer and jar of tobacco--of a Sunday,
and sought relief to his feelings in giving his horses a lesson in
crawling; the result of which was fortunate for his mistress: when
she entered, the obnoxious Mr Masquar was already reading the hymn.
She turned at once and made for the door.
But her carriage was already gone. A strange sense of loneliness
and desolation seized her. The place had grown hateful to her, and
she would have fled from it. Yet she lingered in the porch. The
eyes of the man in the pulpit, with his face of false solemnity
and low importance--she seemed to feel the look of them on her
back, yet she lingered. Now that Malcolm was gone, how was she to
learn when Mr Graham would be preaching?
"If you please, ma'am," said a humble and dejected voice.
She turned and saw the seamed and smoky face of the pew opener,
who had been watching her from the lobby, and had crept out after
her. She dropped a courtesy, and went on hurriedly, with an anxious
look now and then over her shoulder--"Oh, ma'am! we shan't see
'im no more. Our people here--they're very good people, but they
don't like to be told the truth.
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