The Rector of St. Marks | Page 6

night that, if it were possible, God would grant the
boon he craved above all others--the priceless gift of Anna Ruthven's
love.
CHAPTER III.
SUNDAY.
There was an unnatural flush on the rector's face, and his lips were very
white when he came before his people that Sunday morning, for he felt
that he was approaching the crisis of his fate; that he had only to look
across the row of heads up to where Anna sat, and he should know the
truth. Such thoughts savored far too much of the world which he had
renounced, he knew, and he had striven to banish them from his mind;
but they were there still, and would be there until he had glanced once
at Anna, occupying her accustomed seat, and quietly turning to the
chant she was so soon to sing: "Oh, come, let us sing unto the Lord; let
us heartily rejoice in the strength of His salvation." The words echoed
through the house, filling it with rare melody, for Anna was in perfect
tone that morning, and the rector, listening to her with hands folded
upon his prayer-book, felt that she could not thus "heartily rejoice,"

meaning all the while to darken his whole life, as she surely would if
she told him "no." He was looking at her now, and she met his eyes at
last, but quickly dropped her own, while he was sure that the roses
burned a little brighter on her cheek, and that her voice trembled just
enough to give him hope, and help him in his fierce struggle to cast her
from his mind and think only of the solemn services in which he was
engaging. He could not guess that the proud woman who had sailed so
majestically into church, and followed so reverently every prescribed
form, bowing in the creed far lower than ever bow was made before in
Hanover, had played him false and was the dark shadow in his path.
That day was a trying one for Arthur, for, just as the chant was ended
and the psalter was beginning, a handsome carriage dashed up to the
door, and, had he been wholly blind, he would have known, by the
sudden sound of turning heads and the suppressed hush which ensued,
that a perfect hailstorm of dignity was entering St. Mark's.
It was the Hethertons, from Prospect Hill, whose arrival in town had
been so long expected. Mrs. Hetherton, who, more years ago than she
cared to remember, was born in Hanover, but who had lived most of
her life either in Paris, New York or New Orleans and who this year
had decided to fit up her father's old place, and honor it with her
presence for a few weeks at least; also, Fanny Hetherton, a brilliant
brunette, into whose intensely black eyes no one could long look, they
were so bright, so piercing, and seemed so thoroughly to read one's
inmost thoughts; also, Colonel Hetherton, who had served in the
Mexican war, and, retiring on the glory of having once led a forlorn
hope, now obtained his living by acting as attendant on his fashionable
wife and daughter; also, young Dr. Simon Bellamy who, while
obedient to the flashing of Miss Fanny's black eyes, still found stolen
opportunities for glancing at the fifth and last remaining member of the
party, filing up the aisle to the large, square pew, where old Judge
Howard used to sit, and which was still owned by his daughter. Mrs.
Hetherton liked being late at church, and so, notwithstanding that the
Colonel had worked himself into a tempest of excitement, had tied and
untied her bonnet-strings half a dozen times, changed her rich basquine
for a thread lace mantilla, and then, just as the bell from St. Mark's

gave forth its last note, and her husband's impatience was oozing out in
sundry little oaths, sworn under his breath, she produced and fitted on
her fat, white hands a new pair of Alexander's, keeping herself as cool,
and quiet, and ladylike as if outside upon the graveled walk there was
no wrathful husband threatening to drive off and leave her, if she did
not "quit her cussed vanity, and come along."
Such was the Hetherton party, and they created quite as great a
sensation as Mrs. Hetherton could desire, first upon the commoners, the
people nearest the door, who rented the cheaper pews; then upon those
farther up the aisle, and then upon Mrs. Meredith, who, attracted by the
rustling of heavy silk and aristocratic perfume emanating from Mrs.
Hetherton's handkerchief, slightly turned her head at first, and, as the
party swept by, stopped her reading entirely and involuntarily started
forward, while a smile of pleasure flitted across her face as Fanny's
black, saucy eyes