Now, however, his state of mind was altogether more propitious. He approached the little country church, to which a sparse congregation was being summoned by the discordant pealing of a cracked bell, in a mood of keen anticipation. And immediately, as he entered, he had the satisfaction of Kathy’s swiftly lowered glance of recognition. When the service began with a hymn, sung rather uncertainly, and later, during Fotheringay’s sermon, which was long and dull, a truly laboured effort, he had the privilege of observing her, though always discreetly, as she sat with the village children. He was struck by the competence with which she controlled her restless charges and by the patience she brought, sitting very erect, to the tedious discourse. Her profile had a purity of outline that reminded him of an Italian primitive—Uccello, perhaps, no, no—her sweetness of expression suggested a much later canvas—Chardin’s The Young Teacher, he decided finally, pleased to have hit it exactly, but wincing at an increasing volume of disharmony from the choir.
His reward came afterwards when, outside the church doors, he waited for her. She came out with Mrs Fotheringay. The minister’s wife was a short, stout woman with a downright manner and a broad, plain, honest face, her lined but keen blue eyes set behind highly coloured cheekbones—a Raeburn face, Moray thought instinctively. She wore her “Sunday best,” an antique black feathered hat and a dark grey costume that had seen much service and was now too tight for her. Moray was introduced and presently, after a few moments’ conversation, they were joined by Fotheringay. Immediately, Moray congratulated the minister on his sermon.
“Most edifying,” he said. “Listening to you, sir, I was reminded of a spiritual experience I had in the church of St. Thomas’s in New York.”
At the implied comparison with the great city Fotheringay reddened with pleasure.
“It was good of you to come to our country service. We are a small congregation and our poor old bell does not attract many people from the outside world.”
“I did notice,” Moray raised his brows deprecatingly, “that the tone was not particularly clear.”
“Nor loud,” the other said, glancing upwards towards the church tower with sudden irritation. “The bell fell last year from a rotted cross-beam. It will take near to eighty pounds to recast it. And where is a poor parish to find that siller?”
“At least there is nothing wrong with your voice,” Moray said diplomatically. “I found you most eloquent. And now,” he went on agreeably, “I’m going to take the liberty of inviting all three of you to Sunday dinner. I’ve made arrangements at the hotel. I hope you are free to come.”
A brief, rather blank pause ensued: such invitations were not current in the district. But almost at once Fotheringay’s expression cleared.
“You’re very kind, sir. I must confess that when I come out of the pulpit I always seem to be sharp set.” He glanced almost jocularly at his wife. “What do you say, my dear? Our little roast will do tomorrow, and you won’t have to wash up today.”
From the start, with the blunt look of a woman who must be convinced rather than persuaded, she had been openly taking stock of this newcomer who had arrived so dramatically from the unknown. But her first impressions seemed not unfavourable and the prospect of emancipation from those menial duties imposed by the meagreness of her husband’s stipend was a mollifying one. She gave Moray a dry sort of smile.
“It’ll be a treat for me. If Matthew gets his appetite in the pulpit, I lose mine by the kitchen stove.”
Kathy looked pleased, less perhaps at the prospect of her own visit to the Marine than at this hospitable treatment of her old friends. After Moray had settled them in the car, the minister and Kathy behind, Mrs Fotheringay beside him in front, he drove off. From the outset he had realised that the Fotheringays must be won over, if necessary propitiated, and everything seemed to be going well.
At the hotel they were welcomed by Miss Carmichael. As the season was virtually over—only a few visitors remained in the hotel—half of the main restaurant was closed and she had given them a table by the fire in the cosy breakfast room, a privacy especially pleasing. The food, simple and unpretentious, was of the first quality: a Scotch broth, saddle of Lothian lamb with roast potatoes and garden beans, home-made trifle laced with sherry and topped with double country cream, then a native Dunlop cheese and hot oatcakes. Moray had hoped the parson and his spouse would enjoy this repast and they did, especially Mrs Fotheringay, who ate with hearty and honest appreciation of the good things. The more he saw of this plain, outspoken woman, the more he liked her. But what gave him most satisfaction was the fine blood that the nourishing meal—so different from the meagre fare which, he was convinced, awaited her at home—gradually brought to Kathy’s cheeks, making her eyes brighter, her smile warmer. Thank heaven, he thought, she isn’t all spirit, and pressing her to another helping of trifle, he set out to ensure that the flesh was not neglected. Indeed, with that flexibility which enabled him to attune himself to any society, he was the perfect host. Kindly and serious rather than gay, he charmed them all. Keeping the conversation moving with discretion, he spoke briefly of his business in America, of his early retirement and return to Europe, finally of the home he had made for himself above the Schwansee; and, since Kathy was listening with attentive interest, he took pains and, with feeling, described the lake, the village, the surrounding landscape.
“You should see it under snow, as it will be soon.” He concluded on a high note. “A mantle of the purest white.”
“It sounds a braw spot,” Mrs Fotheringay said. Assured that her first doubts had been unjustified, she had long since thawed towards him, revealing an unsuspected archness. “You’re a lucky chiel to live amongst such beauty.”
“Lucky, yes.” He smiled. “But lonely, too.”
“Then you’re not married?”
“I have been a widower for some years.”
“Oh, dear,” she exclaimed, concerned. “But you have children?”
“None.” He raised his eyes, looked at her gravely. “My marriage . . . was not a particularly joyful one.”
The painful words, so obviously the understatement of a perfect gentleman, produced a sudden silence. But before this became prolonged he rallied them.
“That’s all past. And now I’m happy to be back in my own country and in this present company.” He smiled. “Shall we go into the lounge for coffee?”
Regretfully the minister looked at his watch.