As the season drew to its close at Albano, and the period of returning to Rome approached, the church committee, following the precedent of all previous years, fell out, and held a succession of vestry-meetings for mutual abuse and recrimination. Partisanship is the badge of church patrons; and while the parson had his adherents, and the organist his supporters, there were half a dozen very warm friends who advocated the cause of the bell-ringer,—a drunken little heathen, who, because he had never crossed the threshold of a Catholic church for years, was given brevet rank as a member of the Reformed religion.

The time of auditing the church accounts is usually a sort of day of judgment on the clergyman. All the complaints that can be preferred against him are kept for that occasion. A laudable sentiment possibly prompts men to ascertain what they have got for their money; at all events, people in no wise remarkable for personal thrift show at such times a most searching spirit of inquiry, and eagerly investigate the cost of sweeping out the vestry and clearstarching the chaplain's bands.

As to the doctrine of the parson, and the value of his ministration, there were a variety of opinions. He was too high for this one, too dry for that; he was not impressive, not solemn nor dignified with some, while others deemed him deficient in that winning familiarity which is so soothing to certain sinners. Some thought his sermons too high-flown and too learned, others asked why he only preached to the children in the gallery. On one only point was there anything like unanimity: each man who withdrew his subscription did so on principle. None—not one—referred his determination to contribute no longer to any motive of economy. All declared that it was something in the celebration of the service—a doctrine inculcated in the pulpit—something the parson had said, or something he had worn—obliged them, “with infinite regret,” to withdraw what they invariably called “their mite.” In fact, one thing was clear: a more high-minded, right-judging, scrupulous body of people could not be found than the congregation, whatever might be said or thought of him whose duty it was to guide them.

Lady Augusta Bramleigh had gone off to Rome, and a small three-cornered note, highly perfumed, and most nervously written, informed the committee that she was quite ready to continue her former subscription, or more, if required; that she was charmed with the chaplain, pleased with the choir, and generally delighted with every one,—a testimony more delicately valuable from the fact that she had been but once to the church during the entire season.

Sir Marcus Cluff, after reading out the letter, took occasion to observe on the ventilation of the church, which was defective in many respects. There was a man in King Street—he thought his name was Harmond, or something like Harmond, but it might be Fox—who had invented a self-revolving pane for church windows. It was perfectly noiseless, and the cost a mere trifle, though it required to be adjusted by one of the patentee's own people; some mistakes having occurred by blundering adaptation, by which two persons had been asphyxiated at Redhill.

The orator was here interrupted by Mrs. Trumpler, who stoutly affirmed that she had come there that day at great inconvenience, and was in no wise prepared to listen to a discourse upon draughts, or the rival merits of certain plumbers. There were higher considerations than these that might occupy them, and she wished to know if Mr. L'Estrange was prepared to maintain the harsh, and she must say the ungenerous and unscholarlike, view he had taken of the character of Judas. If so, she withdrew her subscription, but added that she would also in a pamphlet explain to the world the reasons of her retirement, as well as the other grounds of complaint she had against the chaplain.

One humble contributor of fifteen francs alleged that, though nutcrackers were a useful domestic implement, they formed an unpleasant accompaniment to the hymns, and occasionally startled devotionally minded persons during the service; and he added his profound regret at the seeming apathy of the clergyman to the indecent interruption; indeed, he had seen the parson sitting in the reading-desk, while these disturbances continued, to all appearance unmoved and indifferent.

A retired victualler, Mr. Mowser, protested that to see the walk of the clergyman, as he came up the aisle, “was enough for him;” and he had only come to the meeting to declare that he himself had gone over to the sect of the Nuremberg Christians, who, at least, were humble-minded and lowly, and who thought their pastor handsomely provided for with a thousand francs a year, and a suit of black clothes at Christmas.

In a word, there was much discontent abroad, and a very general opinion seemed to prevail that, what with the increasing dearness of butchers' meat, and an extra penny lately added to the income-tax, it behoved every one to see what wise and safe economy could be introduced into their affairs. It is needless to say how naturally it suggested itself to each that the church subscription was a retrenchment at once practicable and endurable.

Any one who wishes to convince himself how dear to the Protestant heart is the right of private judgment, has only to attend a vestry-meeting of a church supported on the voluntary system. It is the very grandest assertion of that great principle. There is not a man there represented by ten francs annual subscription who has not very decided opinions of the doctrine he requires for his money; and thus, while no one agreed with his neighbor, all concurred in voting that they deemed the chaplain had not fulfilled their expectations, and that they reserved their right to contribute or not for the ensuing year, as future thought and consideration should determine.

L'Estrange had gone into Rome to meet Augustus Bramleigh and Ellen, who were coming to pass the Christmas with him, when Sir Marcus Cluff called to announce this unpleasant resolution of the Church patrons.

“Perhaps I could see Miss L'Estrange?” said he to the servant, who had said her master was from home.

Julia was seated working at the window as Sir Marcus entered the room.

“I hope I do not come at an unseemly hour; I scarcely know the time one ought to visit here,” he began, as he fumbled to untie the strings of his respirator. “How nice and warm your room is; and a south aspect, too. Ah! that's what my house fails in.”

“I 'm so sorry my brother is not at home, Sir Marcus. He will regret not meeting you.”

“And I 'm sorry, too. I could have broken the bad news to him, perhaps, better than—I mean—oh, dear! if I begin coughing, I shall never cease. Would you mind my taking my drops? They are only aconite and lettuce; and if I might ask for a little fresh water. I 'm so sorry to be troublesome.”

Though all anxiety to know to what bad news he referred, she hastened to order the glass of water he desired, and calmly resumed her seat.

“It 's spasmodic,—this cough. I don't know if that be any advantage, or the reverse; but the doctor says 'only spasmodic,' which would lead one to suppose it might be worse. Would you do me the great favor to drop thirty-five—be sure only thirty-five—of these? I hope your hand does not shake?”

“No, Sir Marcus. It is very steady.”

“What a pretty hand it is! How taper your fingers are; but you have these dimples at the knuckles they say are such signs of cruelty.”

“Oh, Sir Marcus!”

“Yes, they say so. Nana Sahib had them, and that woman—there, there, you have given me thirty-seven.”

“No, I assure you, Sir Marcus, only thirty-five. I'm a practised hand at dropping medicine. My brother used to have violent headaches.”

“And you always measured his drops, did you?”

“Always. I 'm quite a clever nurse, I assure you.”

“Oh, dear! do you say so?” And as he laid down his glass he looked at her with an expression of interest and admiration, which pushed her gravity to its last limit.

“I don't believe a word about the cruelty they ascribe to those dimples. I pledge you my word of honor I do not,” said he, seriously.

“I 'm sincerely glad to hear you say so,” said she, trying to seem grave.

“And is your brother much of an invalid?”

“Not now. The damp climate of Ireland gave him headaches; but he rarely has them here.”

“Ah, and you have such a quiet way of moving about; that gentle gliding step, so soothing to the sick. Oh, you don't know what a boon it is; and the common people never have it, nor can they acquire it. When you went to ring the bell, I said to myself, 'That 's it,—that's what all the teaching in the world cannot impart.'”

“You will make me very vain, Sir Marcus. All the more that you give me credit for merits I never suspected.”

“Have you a cold hand?” asked he, with a look of eagerness.

“I really don't know. Perhaps I have.”

“If I might dare. Ah,” said he, with much feeling, as he touched her hand in the most gentle manner—“ah! that is the greatest gift of nature A small hand, perfect in form, beautiful in color, and cold as marble.”

Julia could resist no longer, but laughed out one of those pleasant merry laughs whose music make an echo in the heart.

“I know well enough what you are saying to yourself. I think I hear you muttering, 'What an original, what a strange creature it is;' and so I am, I won't deny it. One who has been an invalid for eighteen years; eighteen years passed in the hard struggle with an indolent alimentary system, for they say it 's no more. There 's nothing organic; nothing whatever. Structurally, said Dr. Boreas of Leamington, structurally you are as sound as a roach. I don't fully appreciate the comparison; but I take it the roach must be a very healthy fish. Oh, here's your brother coming across the garden. I wish he had not come just yet; I had a—no matter, perhaps you 'd permit me to have a few words with you to-morrow?”

“To-morrow, or whenever you like, Sir Marcus; but pray forgive me if I run away now to ask my brother if our visitors have come.”

“They 'll be here to-morrow evening, Ju,” said George, as she rushed to meet him. “Is that Guff's phaeton I see at the gate?”

“Yes; the tiresome creature has been here the last hour. I 'll not go back to him. You must take your share now.”

By the time L'Estrange entered the room, Sir Marcus had replaced his respirator, and enveloped himself in two of his overcoats and a fur boa. “Oh, here you are,” said he, speaking with much difficulty. “I can't talk now; it brings on the cough. Come over in the evening, and I 'll tell you about it.”

“About what, pray?” asked the other, curtly.

“There 's no use being angry. It only hurries the respiration, and chokes the pulmonary vessels. They won't give a sixpence—not one of them. They say that you don't preach St. Paul—that you think too much about works. I don't know what they don't say; but come over about seven.”

“Do you mean that the subscribers have withdrawn from the church?”

Sir Marcus had not breath for further discussion, but made a gesture of assent with his head.

L'Estrange sank down on a chair overpowered, nor did he speak to, or notice, the other as he withdrew.

“Are you ill, dearest George?” said Julia, as she saw her brother pale and motionless on the chair. “Are you ill?”

“They've all withdrawn from the church, Julia. Guff says they are dissatisfied with me, and will contribute no longer.”

“I don't believe it's so bad as he says. I 'm sure it's not. They cannot be displeased with you, George. It's some mere passing misconception. You know how they 're given to these little bickerings and squabbles; but they have ever been kind and friendly to you.”

“You always give me courage, Ju; and even when I have little heart for it, I like it.”

“Come in to dinner now, George; and if I don't make you laugh, it's a wonder to me. I have had such a scene with Sir Marcus as might have graced a comedy.”

It was not an easy task to rally her brother back to good spirits, but she did succeed at last “And now,” said she, as she saw him looking once more at ease and cheerful, “what news of the Bramleighs—are they ever to come?”

“They'll be here to-morrow evening, Ju. Unless they were quite sure the Culduffs had left for Naples, they would not venture here; and perhaps they were so far in the right.”

“I don't think so; at least, if I had been Nelly, I 'd have given anything for such an opportunity of presenting myself to my distinguished relations, and terrifying them by the thought of those attentions that they can neither give me nor deny me.”

“No, no, Julia, nothing of the kind; there would be malice in that.”

“Do I deny it? A great deal of malice in it, and there's no good comedy in life without a slight flavor of spitefulness. Oh, my poor dear George, what a deep sigh that was! How sad it is to think that all your example and all your precept do so little, and that your sister acquires nothing by your companionship except the skill to torment you.”

“But why will you say those things that you don't mean—that you couldn't feel?”

“I believe I do it, George, just the way a horse bounds and rears and buck-leaps. It does not help him on his road, but it lightens the journey; and then it offers such happy occasion for the exercise of that nice light hand of my brother to check these aberrations. You ought to be eternally grateful for the way I develop your talents as a moralist—I was going to say a horse-breaker.”

“I suppose,” said he, after a moment's silence, “I ought to go over to Sir Marcus and learn from him exactly how matters stand here.”

“No, no; never mind him—at least, not this evening. Bores are bad enough in the morning, but after dinner, when one really wants to think well of their species, they are just intolerable; besides, I composed a little song while you were away, and I want you to hear it, and then you know we must have some serious conversation about Sir Marcus; he is to be here to-morrow.”

“I declare, Ju—”

“There, don't declare, but open the pianoforte, and light the candles; and as I mean to sing for an hour at least, you may have that cigar that you looked so lovingly at, and put back into the case. Ain't I good for you, as the French say?”

“Very good, too good for me,” said he, kissing her, and now every trace of his sorrow was gone, and he looked as happy as might be.