Chapter Seven Back to Previous Chapter Walter embarked on his new position as rector of Kellynch with great dispatch. He found that the church had been sadly neglected over the past seven years, with a series of visiting priests as its only guardians, and he set Delbert Stock to righting it. The curate, though he held a degree from one of the universities, was no philosopher; he was happiest when he had a set task and preferred to work with his hands, taking pride in keeping the two churches clean and in good repair. As payment for his increased duties, Walter gave Mr. Stock the rambling Kellynch parsonage-house to live in rent-free, no small consideration for a man with a wife and seven children. The grateful curate threw himself into his duties, and between them they were able to minister to the souls of two parishes with less difficulty than one might expect. Word soon came that a tenant had been found for Kellynch Hall. Sir Frederick, attending a reception at the Court of St. James (grudgingly and only at the express command of the Lords of the Admiralty), had encountered a gentleman who had been made a Knight of the Bath that very day. He was an Irish merchant who had rendered a mysterious yet valuable service to the queen, and as the Crown's relations with Erin remained tenuous at best, it was thought that honouring one of her sons might buy Her Majesty some goodwill for relatively little cost. Unfortunately Sir Bernard Gilbride saw his new position as an excellent excuse to leave the country of his birth and the business that had brought him his fortune and establish himself as a real English country gentleman, thus neatly circumventing the Crown's purposes while satisfying his own. Having a superstitious bent, Sir Bernard saw his meeting with the dignified Sir Frederick Wentworth of the Royal Navy on the day of his own elevation as fortuitous, and agreed to lease Kellynch Hall sight unseen. He would take possession within the month, along with his two children. The Gilbrides were not the only new faces in the neighbourhood. Walter was walking back from the post office one cold, sunny March day when an elegant cabriolet, attended by a driver and footman in spotless livery, pulled into the sweep in front of the parsonage. He continued up the walk curiously, not recognizing the equipage, and was startled to see the footman hand out Gwendolyn Clay. She glanced up at the parsonage with a smile as her maid, Jeanne, clambered inelegantly from the carriage. "Good morning, Miss Clay," said Walter, walking up to the door. He made no move to invite her into the house. "Mr. Musgrove," said Gwendolyn warmly, walking up to him with her hand extended. "It is so very good to see you, sir! It has been much too long." Walter took her hand and bowed over it, wondering if she expected him to kiss it; if she did she gave no indication. "So this is your house! It appears very neat and cozy." "It serves me." There was a silence, then Gwendolyn said brightly, "Your manners are abominable, sir. Do you often leave ladies standing in the public roadway?" Walter refrained from pointing out that the sweep was located well off the roadway, saying only, "I am not in the habit of receiving unmarried, unattended ladies." "Unattended?" Gwendolyn looked at him in mock surprise. "But here is Jeanne! She is small but I assure you she would not countenance any man taking liberties with her mistress." Jeanne nodded and gave him a gap-toothed grin. Walter nearly laughed aloud, remembering the nights that the little maid had led him to Gwendolyn's bed-chamber for that very purpose. Just then the door opened and Mrs. Brumby came out. She looked Gwendolyn's fashionably-clad form down, then up, with eyebrow raised. She muttered a "humph" and looked pointedly at the rector. Walter knew that if he turned Gwendolyn away, the servants would spread the news across the countryside. He suddenly felt that he could not allow her to be embarrassed in such a way; he told himself that he owed that service to Miss Clay as one of his parishioners, not wishing to examine his real motives too closely. "Mrs. Brumby, will you see the ladies into the drawing-room, please? Miss Clay and Miss...Jeanne" --suddenly realizing that he did not know the maid's surname-- "have come to call. Your timing is excellent, ladies," he added, moving to hold the door for them. "I was just returning with the mail. I shall take it into my library and be at your service directly." He dropped the mail on the desk and went down the passage hastily to the drawing-room. As he approached the door, Mrs. Brumby came out and looked at him sharply. "You'll want tea, sir?" she said, disapproval evident in each word. "Yes, thank you," he said in some embarrassment as the housekeeper walked down the passage toward the kitchen, shaking her head. He took a deep breath and entered the drawing-room. Gwendolyn was perched demurely on the edge of the sofa by the window. She had placed herself with her usual care; the curtains were opened, the sunlight streamed in and lit the golden curls that had escaped from the sides of her elegant hat, and she positively glowed. Jeanne had wandered over to the watercolours hanging on the wall at the far side of the room and was looking at them with some interest. Walter knew that she understood little English and would be only a nominal chaperone in any case, but had the feeling that she had removed herself from their company at the command of her mistress. Walter seated himself on the other sofa, across from Gwendolyn and with the tea-table between them, and said, "How may I be of service to you, Miss Clay?" "Service?" she said in some amusement. "Can a lady not pay a call on her clergyman without requiring a service?" "It is not a common practice for an unmarried woman." "I see." She regarded him with thoughtfully. "Perhaps I require spiritual guidance." This time he allowed himself to laugh, long and heartily. Gwendolyn smiled back at him, not at all offended. The door opened and Mrs. Brumby brought in the tea, casting another disapproving look at the rector, who tried unsuccessfully to hide his grin. "I will pour," Gwendolyn told the housekeeper, dismissing her firmly yet politely, and she withdrew, shaking her head. "She is very protective," said Gwendolyn, passing him a cup. "I am glad you have someone to look after you." There was a small silence, and to fill it Walter said, "My condolences on your loss." "My loss? Oh, you mean my mother. We meant little to one another in life, and she is not much missed. There, you have my confession. I have broken a Commandment by failing to honour my mother. That makes this visit official, does it not?" Walter did not know what to say to that; he loved his mother, despite her many faults, and could not imagine sharing such enmity with her. He soldiered on gamely. "Is your brother in good health?" "I believe so. Henry is not the best correspondent, although his wife writes to me occasionally. He is married now, you know." She sipped her tea and giggled. "He has young squire Musgrove to thank for that." "Charles?" asked Walter in astonishment. "Aye. My brother now bears a very ugly scar right here," brushing her fingers along her cheekbone. "I understand that it was inflicted by your brother with the business end of a horsewhip. He deserved it, of course; I told him he was foolish to meddle with Sophie Wentworth, but he would not listen to me. Pretty young ladies care not for his altered countenance, which as you might imagine put a crimp in his romantic conquests, so he managed to get himself leg-shackled to a cross-eyed consumptive shopkeeper's daughter with six thousand pounds." The fell into an uncomfortable silence. Walter finally set the cup on the table and said bluntly, "Why are you here, Gwen?" She raised an eyebrow. "So much for the social niceties." "We know each other too well for those." "I suppose we do." She set down her own cup. "I simply wished to call and tell you that I have returned to the neighbourhood." "You are enjoying Sir William's legacy, then." Gwendolyn blinked at the mention of the late baronet's name. Her smile disappeared and she said, "Yes, my stepfather was kind to me at the last. Ten thousand pounds and a life interest in Kellynch Lodge; think you that a fair price for my virtue, Walter?" He was struck dumb by the bitterness in her eyes. He remembered the indifferent way she had referred to her affair with Sir William, remembered how she had insisted that she was not a victim, but he read a very different message in her expression. Then the mask went back in place and she said with a brightness that rang false, "Well, that is all in the past. Do you like my cabriolet?" He smiled and said, "It suits you." "I thought so." She sipped her tea and smiled. Walter considered his words carefully, then said, "Gwen, if you have an idea that I wish to return to our former association, I assure you that I do not. I am not the same man that you knew before. I have worked hard these two years to build something for myself here, something of real value, and I will not endanger it for--physical gratification. Forgive me for speaking plainly." "Then I shall speak plainly as well. I have not come here seeking to lure you to my bed." She gazed at him intently; he had forgotten how green her eyes were. "I am an independent woman now. I no longer conduct my life or claim a home by any man's pleasure, and I plan to take full advantage of my new position. You have indeed changed these two years, Walter; I saw it immediately. You are content, and you wear your contentment well. Is it too much to believe that I wish to change as well, to achieve such contentment for myself? You must believe that I never wanted the life I had before. These past two months--I cannot tell you how delicious my freedom is. And I have determined that there is no reason that I should not be respectable as well as independent. I mean to enter the life of this neighbourhood and be a real part of it. I have the fortune, and the connections. In six months I will be able to call on you and your housekeeper will not treat me disrespectfully and shake her head at me. Depend upon it, Walter, for I am determined, and when I am determined on something, more often than not I achieve it." She set down her cup and rose. "Come along, Jeanne," she called the maid, who trotted over obediently. Walter rose to see her out, still reeling a little from Gwendolyn's impassioned speech. "Will I see you at services on Sunday?" he could not resist asking. Gwendolyn turned back at the door and smiled at him. "Of course. All the respectable women in the parish will be there, will they not? Good morning, Mr. Musgrove." She swept out, trailed by the faithful Jeanne. Walter stood by the door for a moment, then turned abruptly and went into the library. He closed the door and leaned against it for a moment with his eyes closed, trying to forget that he had spent most of Gwendolyn's visit wondering how his hands would feel tucked into the curve of her tightly-corseted waist. Naturally, Mrs. Musgrove was one of the first to call on the Gilbrides, and reported back to her husband and younger son as they dined that evening at the Great House. "Sir Bernard is not very genteel," she complained as she sipped a spoonful of soup. "Oh, he is agreeable enough, I suppose, but quite unrefined." "What of the children?" asked her husband. "The daughter keeps house for Sir Bernard. She appeared about five-and-twenty. Red hair, sallow skin, not a handsome young lady at all. Indeed, she is rather plain. On the shelf, you know. I did not see the son. He is of a sickly constitution, and Sir Bernard moved into the country mostly for his benefit." "How old is he?" "He is fifteen, Miss Gilbride said." "A difficult age for a boy to be much abed," Walter observed. "Especially with spring approaching. One hopes the country air will benefit him sufficiently to allow him to enjoy the warm days." "Yes, well," said his mother dismissively. "I am going to invite them to dine with us next week. In our position, we must be among the first to invite them, you know, or people will talk." Mr. Musgrove laughed. "Who will talk, Mary?" he asked his wife with a grin. "Frederick and Anne would not, nor would Charles and Henrietta, nor anyone else in the neighbourhood. But if you wish to have a dinner party, by all means do so. A little company in the evening is always pleasant. I shall call on Sir Bernard tomorrow, and will take him a note if you like." "I do not wish to have a dinner party, Charles," she snapped. "I am doing so because I must, as the wife of the squire and as the daughter of Sir Walter Elliot. As ill as I have been this week, such an event will completely drain me. I do wish you would learn to appreciate the sacrifices I make for your good name!" Walter and his father exchanged furtive grins, both knowing that Mrs. Musgrove loved company and adored to give dinner parties. Insensible of the impertinence conducted under her very nose, she drowned her sorrows in some plum pudding, which fortunately was of a special recipe that never added to her indispositions. As the evening of the dinner party approached, Walter found himself growing more curious about the new family living at Kellynch Hall. He had made a point of taking the Sunday service at Kellynch church, a function that he usually left for Mr. Stock, but the only Gilbride there was Sir Bernard, who explained that his son had been indisposed that morning and that his daughter had stayed behind to nurse him. Despite his mother's disparaging description, Walter found his new parishioner to be a pleasant enough man, not handsome, but extremely good-natured and unaffected by his new title. However, it was rare for new people to come into their small society, and such arrivals must always be interesting. Thus the rector walked into the drawing-room of the Great House on the appointed evening with a heightened sense of anticipation that was only slightly tempered by the fact that Charles and Anne were the only other guests yet arrived. He kissed Anne, who smiled up at him. Charles had reported that the lowness and fatigue she had previously suffered had mostly passed, and she was glowing and lovely, her voluminous skirts no longer able to conceal her expanding waistline. "How are you feeling, love?" he asked her softly. "Very well, I thank you," she said. "Perhaps a little off-balance at times." She lowered her voice and added, "I cannot help feeling that I should not have declined your mother's kind invitation." "Why?" She gestured toward her lap in embarrassment. "It cannot be entirely proper to appear in company in such a state!" Walter laughed. "I suppose my mother would not be put off." "No. She said that I was being missish and insisted that Charles and I attend. I hope the Gilbrides are not offended." Having met the good-natured Sir Bernard, Walter felt comfortable in assuring her that they would not be affronted. "I hope my nephew is behaving himself tonight?" "He or she is resting quietly at the moment," she said with a grin. "I am glad that he has learned to act properly amongst company." Walter continually teased his sister about the sex of her child; he truthfully had no preference, only hoping for a healthy child and an easy birth for Anne. "I do not really expect that happy circumstance to last the entire evening," she replied, and then her eyes widened in surprise at something behind him. He turned and saw that Gwendolyn Clay had entered the room, accompanied by Mrs. Fletcher, an eminently respectable middle-aged widow whom Miss Clay had recently engaged to live with her at Kellynch Lodge. Mrs. Musgrove moved forward to greet the newcomers, and Walter found Charles at his side, gazing up at him with concern. "Walter, if I had known, I would have told you--I did not know that Mother intended to invite her." Walter gave his brother a wan smile. "Miss Clay lives in one of my parishes, after all. I cannot avoid her forever." "No, I suppose not," Charles agreed, but he did not look any more comfortable with the present circumstance. He exchanged a troubled look with his wife, who reached for her brother's hand and squeezed it comfortingly. Walter smiled down at her. "Thank you, love," he said softly. "Thank you both for your concern, but I assure you that it is not at all necessary." "Well, Anne cannot rise from her chair without assistance, so you have my leave to monopolize her all night," declared Charles, making both Anne and Walter laugh. Mrs. Musgrove bore down upon them. "What is so amusing, Charles? Come, you must share the joke with all of us." Charles stopped laughing, glanced toward Miss Clay, and said only, "I have forgotten." He went to join his father. Mrs. Musgrove drew Walter aside. "Walter, you know your brother is hopeless as a host, so I depend upon you to help me entertain the ladies here tonight. I know when you see Miss Gilbride, you may feel it a hard charge, but a pretty young lady like Miss Clay will be easy to talk to, I am sure. You have been friendly with her in the past, have you not?" His mother's innocent question gave Walter a moment's pause, but he managed to ask her why she had invited Miss Clay and her companion. "Well, Miss Clay is Sir William's stepdaughter, and he saw fit to give her a legacy. I feel obliged to maintain the connection; my dear father would have wanted it, I am sure. And they are very close neighbours to the Gilbrides, after all. I am very glad to be able to introduce them." At that moment the Gilbrides were announced, and Walter turned to the door with real interest. Sir Bernard came in, all red face and good nature, followed by his children. Miss Gilbride proved to be very much as Mrs. Musgrove had described, although a more discerning observer would have noticed that her hair was less red than it was warm, burnished copper, and her skin less sallow than translucently pale. No one would ever describe her as pretty, but she was certainly handsome, with an intelligence in her azure-blue eyes that must draw one's interest. Master Michael Gilbride was tall and gangly, with his sister's coppery hair and blue eyes in an thin, eager face that looked around him with his father's good-natured, open friendliness. Mrs. Musgrove was saying, "I am so glad that young Mr. Gilbride is able to join us. I know how vexing it is to be obliged to go into company when one is indisposed. I hope you did not exert yourself overmuch." "I thank you, ma'am. I detest having to stay abed when there is a party, and I told Eileen that I would on no account miss it, and she agreed that I was well enough to come. I hardly coughed all day." Mrs. Musgrove, accustomed to her own invalidish protests, blinked at the boy in surprise; Walter smiled at his frankness, and at the affectionate expressions on the faces of Miss Gilbride and Sir Bernard. Michael caught his eye and grinned in a very friendly manner. "Come, boy, you'll have these good people thinking you a gudgeon," Sir Bernard declared, moving forward to shake Mr. Musgrove's hand. "How do ye do, sir, how do ye do? I have had the pleasure of meeting the rector last Sunday at Mass." Mr. Musgrove performed the necessary introductions, and soon the call came for dinner. "Walter, take in Miss Clay," whispered his mother as she took Sir Bernard's arm. Walter looked around; his father was taking in Miss Gilbride, and Charles was assisting Anne from her chair; he finally approached Gwendolyn and held out his hand silently. She smiled and rose, allowing him to tuck her gloved hand into his arm, and they walked into the dining-room closely followed by Michael Gilbride and Mrs. Fletcher. The seating arrangements were no easier on his peace; he found himself between Gwendolyn and her companion. At first, Gwendolyn confined her attention to Sir Bernard on her other hand, and Walter tried to make conversation with Mrs. Fletcher; she proved to be pleasant but rather stupid, and he soon gave up the attempt. When Gwendolyn finally turned to him, her conversation was innocuous, mostly polite questions about the church and the parish. Walter found himself gazing at his father and brother, smiling and laughing at the conversation of Miss Gilbride, who was seated between them, her blue eyes sparkling. When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room, Walter was careful to take a seat at the opposite end of the room from Gwendolyn, despite his mother's nods and winks, finding himself next to Michael Gilbride and his sister. After the tea and coffee were dispensed, Mrs. Musgrove said brightly, "How shall we entertain you, gentlemen? I would ask Anne to play, but she can no longer reach the keys!" Anne turned bright red at her mother-in-law's reference to her condition in front of those outside the family circle. Charles rose gallantly to the occasion, saying, "Perhaps one of the other ladies will oblige us. Miss Gilbride, do you play the pianoforte?" "Unfortunately, I do not," she said. "But perhaps I can entertain the company in another way." Mrs. Musgrove looked confused. "Do you play the harp, Miss Gilbride? I am afraid we have none at Uppercross. My sister-in-law Mrs. Hayter has one, and had I known--" "Oh, no, ma'am, I am not at all musical. But in Kerry I am well-known for my skill in storytelling." Michael clapped. "Ah, we are in for a treat! Tell 'em the one about Pat Diver, Eileen." She smiled at her brother and brushed an errant lock of hair from his eyes. "Very well, this is the story of Pat Diver the tinker, who had no story of his own to tell. I first heard this from a gentleman of Donegal who was one of my father's customers." She rose and stood in front of the fire; as she told the story, her movements punctuated her words, wrapping the listeners in a cocoon of imagination and carrying them off to the mists and green fields of Ireland. "Pat Diver, the tinker, was a man well-accustomed to a wandering life, and to strange shelters; he had shared the beggar's blanket in smoky cabins; he had crouched beside the still in many a nook and corner where poteen was made on the wild Innishowen mountains; he had even slept on the bare heather, or on the ditch, with no roof over him but the vault of heaven; yet were all his nights of adventure tame and commonplace when compared with one especial night. During the day preceding that night, he had mended all the kettles and saucepans in Moville and Greencastle, and was on his way to Culdaff, when night overtook him on a lonely mountain road. He knocked at one door after another asking for a night's lodgings, while he jingled the halfpence in his pocket, but was everywhere refused. Where was the boasted hospitality of Innishowen, which he had never before known to fail? It was of no use to be able to pay when the people seemed so churlish. Thus thinking, he made his way towards a light a little further on, and knocked at another cabin door. An old man and woman were seated one at each side of the fire. 'Will you be pleased to give me a night's lodging, sir?' asked Pat respectfully. 'Can you tell a story?' returned the old man. 'No, then, sir, I canna say I'm good at storytelling,' replied the puzzled tinker. 'Then you maun just gang further, for none but them that can tell a story will get in here.' This reply was made in so decided a tone that Pat did not attempt to repeat his appeal, but turned away reluctantly to resume his weary journey. 'A story, indeed,' muttered he. 'Auld wives' fables to please the weans!' As he took up his bundle of tinkering implements, he observed a barn standing rather behind the dwelling-house, and, aided by the rising moon, he made his way towards it. It was a clean, roomy barn, with a piled-up heap of straw in one corner. Here was a shelter not to be despised; so Pat crept under the straw, and was soon asleep. He could not have slept very long when he was awakened by the tramp of feet, and, peeping cautiously through a crevice in his straw covering, he saw four immensely tall men enter the barn, dragging a body, which they threw roughly upon the floor. They next lighted a fire in the middle of the barn, and fastened the corpse by the feet with a great rope to a beam in the roof. One of them began to turn it slowly before the fire. 'Come on,' said he, addressing a gigantic fellow, the tallest of the four--'I'm tired; you be to tak' your turn.' 'Faix an' troth, I'll no turn him,' replied the big man. 'There's Pat Diver in under the straw, why wouldn't he tak' his turn?' With hideous clamour the four men called the wretched Pat, who seeing there was no escape, thought it was his wisest plan to come forth as he was bidden. 'Now, Pat,' said they, 'you'll turn the corpse, but if you let him burn you'll be tied up there and roasted in his place.' Pat's hair stood on end, and the cold perspiration poured from his forehead, but there was nothing for it but to perform his dreadful task. Seeing him fairly embarked in it, the tall men went away. Soon, however, the flames rose so high as to singe the rope, and the corpse fell with a great thud upon the fire, scattering the ashes and embers, and extracting a howl of anguish from the miserable cook, who rushed to the door and ran for his life. He ran on until he was ready to drop with fatigue, when, seeing a drain overgrown with tall, rank grass, he thought he would creep in there and lie hidden till morning. But he was not many minutes in the drain before he heard the heavy tramping again, and the four men came up with their burthen, which they laid down on the edge of the drain. 'I'm tired,' said one, to the giant; it's your turn to carry him a piece now.' 'Faix and troth, I'll no carry him,' replied he, 'but there's Pat Diver in the drain, why wouldn't he come out and tak' his turn?' 'Come out, Pat, come out,' roared all the men, and Pat, almost dead with fright, crept out. He staggered on under the weight of the corpse until he reached Kiltown Abbey, a ruin festooned with ivy, where the brown owl hooted all night long, and the forgotten dead slept around the walls under dense, matted tangles of brambles and ben-weed. No one ever buried there now, but Pat's tall companions turned into the wild graveyard and began digging a grave. Pat, seeing them thus engaged, thought he might once more try to escape, and climbed up into a hawthorn tree in the fence, hoping to be hidden in the boughs. 'I'm tired,' said the man who was digging the grave; 'here, take the spade,' addressing the big man, 'it's your turn.' 'Faix an' troth, it's no my turn,' replied he, as before. 'There's Pat Diver in the tree, why wouldn't he come down and tak' his turn?' Pat came down to take the spade, but just then the cocks in the little farmyards and cabins round the abbey began to crow, and the men looked at one another. 'We must go,' said they, 'and well it is for you, Pat Diver, that the cocks crowed, for if they had not, you'd just ha' been bundled into that grave with the corpse.' Two months passed, and Pat had wandered far and wide over the county Donegal, when he chanced to arrive at Raphoe during a fair. Among the crowd that filled the Diamond he came suddenly on the big man. 'How are you, Pat Diver?' said he, bending down to look into the tinker's face. 'You've the advantage of me, sir, for I havna' the pleasure of knowing you,' faltered Pat. 'Do you not know me, Pat?' And then he whispered, 'When you go back to Innishowen, this time you'll have a story to tell!'"* When she stopped speaking, there was complete silence for a long moment; then the company burst into applause. Charles, who loved a good story, was the most enthusiastic, clapping heartily and grinning from ear to ear, but his brother was not far behind. Anne, who had clutched her husband's hand throughout the story, smiled with delight, her large brown eyes shining. Michael leaned over to Walter and confided, "She knows hundreds and hundreds of stories like that, and better, sir! Don't you, Eileen?" Miss Gilbride had come back to her seat, and Walter rose to greet her. "In that case, I hope that you will oblige us again in the future," he said with a smile. "I should be very glad to do so, sir," she said, returning his smile, her blue eyes dancing with merriment. "But I am afraid that Mrs. Musgrove thinks my story vulgar." Walter glanced at his mother, who was staring at Miss Gilbride with an odd expression. "I think she is simply surprised at such an accomplishment in a young lady. It is not a common thing amongst our acquaintance." Mrs. Fletcher had taken a seat at the pianoforte and was playing a bright air of no consequence, just the thing to stimulate conversation amongst a crowd of strangers. Michael was summoned by Charles, who had promised him a game of chess during dinner. Walter turned to Miss Gilbride and said, "I was surprised to see your father at Kellynch Church last Sunday." She set her cup in the saucer and looked at him curiously. "Why would that surprise you, sir?" "Most of the Irish are members of the Roman Church, are they not? Especially those who do not live in Ulster." She nodded. "I see. You must also know that it was illegal to profess that religion in Ireland until only a few years ago." "I also know that many of your countrymen continued to profess that religion despite the law." "And you do not approve?" "On the contrary, madam. Such faith can only be considered admirable." She laughed. "It is indeed. And your initial surmise was correct, sir. My mother raised me as a Catholic, even when it was illegal. I received my first Holy Communion shortly after the Emancipation Act was passed in 1829. However, since my mother has passed on and we are living here now, my father thinks it best that we join the Church of England." Her expression was noncommittal, but Walter had a sense that she did not agree with her father's decree. "And this is acceptable to you?" Those remarkably blue eyes met his once again. "It is all the same God, is it not?" Walter laughed. "My bishop would disagree with you, I am afraid." Miss Gilbride smiled in response. "I suppose your bishop has not read 'Tract 90.'" "He has indeed, madam, as have I." Walter was familiar with the work to which she referred, a tract by John Henry Newman, an Anglican priest. The tract argued that the Thirty-Nine Articles of the Anglican Church, which enumerated the ties between the Church of England and Her Majesty's government, were compatible with the doctrines of the Roman Catholic Church. Walter had heard Bishop Prescott refer to the Reverend Mr. Newman as a "popish apologist" who was secretly endeavouring to tempt good Church of England members into the ranks of Rome. "My bishop is an old-time Evangelical, a sympathizer of John Wesley, I am afraid. He does not embrace such radical ideas as those espoused by Mr. Newman." "And you, Mr. Musgrove? Do you have sympathy for those ideas yourself?" "Miss Gilbride, I leave such debates and high ideals to the bishops. My own observation is that the common Englishman, especially the working people who make up a large proportion of my parishes, are only seeking a quiet place to worship in peace and have little or no interest in doctrinal analysis." She laughed aloud, and Walter smiled at her, and neither of them noticed Gwendolyn's glowing green eyes watching them over the top of her teacup. At last Mrs. Fletcher finished playing, to a smattering of polite applause that made her blush profusely, and Mrs. Musgrove asked Gwendolyn to take her place. Gwendolyn sat at the instrument, rebuffed an offer from her companion to turn, and said, "I shall play from memory, Juliette dear, I thank you." She glanced over at Walter, who was still speaking with Miss Gilbride, and began to play the "Moonlight" sonata, the piece she had played for him on their first night together. The haunting notes caught his attention and made him turn his head; he could not see her face, but he could see the tension in her arms and back as she played, bringing a passion and fire to the piece that he had never before heard. Memories crowded his head, and he knew that Gwendolyn intended that they should; she was making love to him with the music, and it was as if the two years and a half since their separation had never occurred. He watched her play, remembering. Miss Gilbride observed him carefully for a time, then rose and went to sit with Anne; Walter did not notice that she was gone. Soon afterward young Michael began to yawn over the chessboard, and Sir Bernard called for his carriage. Walter bowed to Miss Gilbride and said, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, madam, and I thank you for the fine entertainment." She smiled at him and held out her hand. "I look forward to more conversations with you, Mr. Musgrove. It is the rare man who treats me as a reading, thinking, rational creature, and I treasure such acquaintances." She shook his hand cordially and followed her father to the carriage after promising Anne that she would call at the Cottage in the morning. As the carriage rumbled away, the cabriolet drew near, and Gwendolyn and Mrs. Fletcher took their leave. "Good evening, Mr. Musgrove," Gwendolyn said quietly. "It was very good to see you again." "And you," Walter said softly, raising her hand to his lips. "Good night, Miss Clay." When she was gone, Walter turned to see Charles gazing at him with a look of dismay. "Have a care, brother," he said quietly. "I would not have you misused by the likes of Gwendolyn Clay." "She no longer has any power over me." "I hope not," said Charles, smiling faintly. Walter smiled back at him and put his arm around his brother's shoulders as they went back into the house. *The story of Pat Diver is taken from Irish Fairy and Folk Tales collected and edited by W.B. Yeats, first published in 1892. Continued in Next Chapter ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.