Audrey

"Ay, sir!" she cried. "And if that were all, sir"--and straightway she

embarked upon a colored narration of the occurrence at the Governor's

ball. This was followed by a wonderfully circumstantial account of Mr.

Marmaduke Haward's sins of omission against old and new acquaintances who

would have entertained him at their houses, and been entertained in turn

at Fair View, and by as detailed a description of the toils that had been

laid for him by that audacious piece who had forced herself upon the

company last night.

Mr. Eliot listened aghast, and mentally amended his sermon. If he knew

Virginia, even so flagrant a case as this might never come before a

vestry. Should this woman go unreproved? When in due time he was in the

church, and the congregation was gathering, he beckoned to him one of the

sidesmen, asked a question, and when it was answered, looked fixedly at a

dark girl sitting far away in a pew beneath the gallery.

It was a fine, sunny morning, with a tang of autumn in the air, and the

concourse within the church was very great. The clergy showed like a wedge

of black driven into the bright colors with which nave and transept

overflowed. His Excellency the Governor sat in state, with the Council on

either hand. One member of that body was not present. Well-nigh all

Williamsburgh knew by now that Mr. Marmaduke Haward lay at Marot's

ordinary, ill of a raging fever. Hooped petticoat and fragrant bodice

found reason for whispering to laced coat and periwig; significant glances

traveled from every quarter of the building toward the tall pew where,

collected but somewhat palely smiling, sat Mistress Evelyn Byrd beside her

father. All this was before the sermon. When the minister of the day

mounted the pulpit, and, gaunt against the great black sounding-board,

gave out his text in a solemn and ringing voice, such was the genuine

power of the man that every face was turned toward him, and throughout the

building there fell a sudden hush.

Audrey looked with the rest, but she could not have said that she

listened,--not at first. She was there because she always went to church

on Sunday. It had not occurred to her to ask that she might stay at home.

She had come from her room that morning with the same still face, the same

strained and startled look about the eyes, that she had carried to it the

night before. Black Peggy, who found her bed unslept in, thought that she

must have sat the night through beside the window. Mistress Stagg, meeting

her at the stairfoot with the tidings (just gathered from the lips of a

passer-by) of Mr. Haward's illness, thought that the girl took the news

very quietly. She made no exclamation, said nothing good or bad; only drew

her hand across her brow and eyes, as though she strove to thrust away a

veil or mist that troubled her. This gesture she repeated now and again

during the hour before church time. Mistress Stagg heard no more of the

ball this morning than she had heard the night before. Something ailed the

girl. She was not sullen, but she could not or would not talk. Perhaps,

despite the fact of the Westover coach, she had not been kindly used at

the Palace. The ex-actress pursed her lips, and confided to her Mirabell

that times were not what they once were. Had she not, at Bath, been given

a ticket to the Saturday ball by my Lord Squander himself? Ay, and she had

footed it, too, in the country dance, with the best of them, with captains

and French counts and gentlemen and ladies of title,--ay, and had gone

down the middle with, the very pattern of Sir Harry Wildair! To be sure,

no one had ever breathed a word against her character; but, for her part,

she believed no great harm of Audrey, either. Look at the girl's eyes,

now: they were like a child's or a saint's.