Chapter X

Sunday morning was always with the Bracknels a period of disturbance and confusion. Breakfast was fixed for a particular time, half-past nine it happened to be, and at this hour everyone was expected to be seated at the table. Mrs. Bracknel came down first; Rusk also took care not to be late; but when Mr. Bracknel himself appeared punctually at the first ringing of the gong, a stormy scene not infrequently followed. For the others straggled down anyhow, and in varying order, save that Alfred, sleepy and in a vile temper, inevitably brought up the rear. The gong sounded repeatedly, sometimes being rung excitedly by Mr. Bracknel in person--he had once actually overturned it with an immense and startling clatter--and the air became full of conflicting and angry noises. Yet in spite of this agitation there was exactly the usual scramble at the last moment to be in time for church.

Morning church was absolutely obligatory. Nobody was allowed to miss it; not even the stranger within the gates--Rusk, for example, who had just re-awakened to this consciousness, a few days after his visit to the Birches, when through the customary stillness he became aware of the faint sound of a distant, lonely bell, marking off the passing moments with uncertain but by no means unmusical beats. As he dressed himself he looked out through the open window into a perfect summer day, and marvelled at the regularity with which, Sunday after Sunday, they all took their seats in the stuffy little building he detested. They would all be going this morning, he knew, though the garden looked delightful, and one could never tell how long the fine weather would last.

The Bracknels were Presbyterians, but Rusk had thought it better to go with them. Such things, even when they were not necessary, he did easily, thanks to his equable temper, and to a certain inherent desire to be obliging. To-day there was the usual rush at the last moment. The atmosphere was heavily charged with a kind of suppressed irritability, ready at the slightest touch to break out in sparks of temper. Amy in her haste had split a glove that was possibly a little too small for her, though she responded bitterly when Alfred made this suggestion: and Alfred, sulkily brushing his hat, told her not to be a fool, and wondered that she hadn’t a little sense. Mrs. Bracknel disappeared in the most exasperating fashion just as they should have been starting off--she had gone to give some directions to the servants--and her husband fumed and fretted in the hall, calling to her that they would be late. It was not till they were half way down the avenue that it was discovered that Denis was missing. Nobody had seen him; he must either be in bed still, or else have gone out before anyone else was down. Mr. Bracknel began to storm, and everyone was hot and unspeakably bored by the time they reached their destination.

And the service dragged interminably. Mr. Bracknel slept at the end of the pew. Alfred, to whom sleep was denied, yawned and stretched himself. Mrs. Bracknel alone appeared to listen to what was going on. Amy, clad in pale, soft, floating green, and with a huge hat, sat next to Rusk, a position she had obtained by almost pushing May into the pew first. Rusk was dressed in a light grey suit, with which he wore a deep violet tie. His skin was so sunburned as to be several shades darker than his fair hair. Amy looked, without turning her head, at his handsome profile, at his well-cut clothes. She sat close to him, closer in fact than was at all necessary, and when he moved away a little she was annoyed and drew back herself. He had begun to be constantly present to her thoughts, both by night and day. She had made a determined effort to attract him. It seemed to her, in the extraordinary impulsiveness of her nature, that, if she could not do so, life would not be worth living. She began to picture a series of imaginary love adventures, while the voice of the minister sounded persuasively through the building. Her mind wandered hither and thither. Would her father let her marry him? He had nothing and his prospects, so far as she knew, were nothing....

The congregation with a unanimous sigh of relief shuffled to its feet. Amy had determined to walk home with Rusk, but unfortunately she was doomed to disappointment. While they were yet in the porch May secured the young Englishman’s attention. “Oh, Mr. Rusk,” she cried, “you never told us you went in for sketching. I found it out by the merest chance from Miss Birch. I’m going to make you help _me_, so there.”

Rusk laughed, and his words were inaudible as he and May dropped behind.

Her mother made some remark to her, but Amy did not listen. Her disappointment was keen. He had not so much as glanced at her, and she had dressed especially to please him. And it was always like this. At the last moment May stepped in to take him away from her. She did it out of spite, not because she cared a straw for him. And now this “sketching” idea would be for ever coming up. May would use it for all it was worth. It would be an excuse to get hold of him for hours at a time. May had not opened her paint-box for months, but Amy was perfectly convinced that it would be in full evidence to-morrow. They would probably go on little expeditions together, and, under the pretence of getting help from him, she would occupy all his spare time. They would bend over each other’s drawings. They would be for ever putting their heads together. And May would flatter him: she would pretend to make fun of him and at the same time contrive to show him how much she was really influenced by what he said. That had always been May’s method. She was so good at listening, so sympathetic, so full of involuntary admiration. She was listening to Rusk now, she was being sympathetic and involuntarily admiring. And it was all for nothing, all merely to satisfy her personal vanity, for in reality she was as cold as ice and had never cared for anybody in her life....

So Amy worked it out, employing, for material was scanty, a good deal of imagination and ingenuity. On entering the house she went straight upstairs to her own room to take off her things. Then she sat down at the window to wait for Rusk and May. There was really very little use in this; the sole effect it had was to increase her own exasperation; but presently she saw them slowly sauntering across the lawn, and a little later she heard May come upstairs and open her bedroom door. Amy rose deliberately and walked down the passage to her sister’s room. She flung the door open brusquely, and as May turned round in some surprise she took a step forward and then stood still. She looked intently at her unconscious rival, but without speaking a word.

“What is the matter?” May asked, none too agreeably, for she had been interrupted in the midst of rather pleasant thoughts, and there was something particularly irritating in the way Amy stood and gazed at her. “What are you staring at me like that for? You would think I had seven heads!”

Amy gave a strained, mirthless laugh. “I hope you had a nice walk,” she said in a jarring voice. “You managed it so beautifully that it would be a pity if it hadn’t come off well.” All the indescribable crudity of the poor girl’s nature was in those few words. It was a pitiable exhibition, but it awakened no pity in May.

“Are you mad? I don’t even know what you are alluding to.”

“No, I’m not mad.”

“Well, I don’t understand what you mean; but I suppose it has something to do with Mr. Rusk, as usual.”

Amy took a step toward her, almost as if she were about to strike her. “That’s a lie,” she said in a low, hoarse voice. “I never mention his name to you.”

May smiled compassionately. “Perhaps not; but as you never think of anyone else it is hardly necessary. The way you behave about him is too revolting for words. Why, you almost pushed me off my feet in the aisle this morning simply to get sitting beside him.”

“I didn’t,” said Amy passionately. “It was you who stood in the way, as you always do.”

“My dear girl, I wonder you aren’t ashamed. You don’t know how obvious it all is, even to strangers. Everybody was staring at you.”

“I don’t care how obvious it is, nor what anybody thinks; you least of all. You saw I was just going to say something to him and you called him away.”

May broke into a little scornful laugh. “I didn’t call him away. I suppose he is at liberty to walk home with me if he wants to.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s at liberty to do anything he likes with you.”

“After that, will you kindly leave my room.”

For all answer Amy sat down on the edge of the bed. A heavy sombre look overspread her face. “Are you going sketching with him?” she asked in a low voice, but May did not reply.

“Are you going sketching with him?” Amy asked again.

“It is no concern of yours what I am going to do. I don’t intend to discuss the matter with you, so you needn’t wait.”

Still her sister made no movement. There was a silence. At last Amy got up slowly. Her face had a kind of sullen vindictiveness, but she appeared to be absolutely unashamed of having laid bare her feelings and of the manner in which she had done so. She went back to her own room and began to pace up and down the floor, her mind filled with all the tumult of unreasoning jealousy. There was a curious simplicity about the girl; something almost elemental. The savage, the primitive, woman in her was scarcely even veiled. That slender web of convention which education and environment had so insecurely wrapped around her could be brushed aside at a touch; and she had nothing, on the other hand, of the dignity or self-control characteristic of really uncivilized persons. Yet her impulses were free and natural, untinged by any taint of vice or corruption. She posed herself now before the mirror and looked long and intently at her own image reflected there. The heavy masses of her red hair threw into relief the brilliant fairness of her complexion. She wondered artlessly why she should not be more desirable than May. She studied the outline of her form, which was admirably developed, though the limbs were possibly a little heavy. Her throat was white and strong and well-modelled, her lips were full and red. It seemed to her that in every way she was superior to her sister. May was almost insignificant-looking. She tried to imagine how May could be more attractive to any man, and failed. It was certainly not in her physical charms that her fascination lay. To Amy these appeared meagre. And she moved to and fro before her mirror almost as if she were a slave exhibiting herself to some hesitating and critical purchaser, and the result was reassuring. At any rate it was with a less clouded countenance that she descended the stairs as the deep note of the gong sounded from the hall below.