With manifest wish for reciprocity, Lucy fell into transports over
the shawl, but gaining nothing by this, Sophy asked if she did not
like the mantillas? Albinia could only make civility compatible with
truth by saying that the colour was pretty, but where was Gilbert?
He was on a stool before the dining-room fire, looking piteous, and
pronouncing his tooth far too bad for going to church, and she had
just time for a fresh administration of camphor before Mr. Kendal
came forth from his study, and gave her his arm.
The front door opened on a narrow sweep, the river cutting it off
from the road, and crossed by two wooden bridges, beside each of
which stood a weeping-willow, budding with fresh spring foliage.
Opposite were houses of various pretentious, and sheer behind them
rose the steep hill, with the church nearly at the summit, the noble
spire tapering high above, and the bells ringing out a cheerful
chime. The mist had drawn up, and all was fresh and clear.
'There go Lizzie and Loo!' cried Lucy, 'and the Admiral and Mrs.
Osborn. I'll run and tell them papa is come home.'
Sophy was setting off also, but Mr. Kendal stopped them, and lingered
a moment or two, making an excuse of looking for a needless umbrella,
but in fact to avoid the general gaze. As if making a desperate
plunge, however, and looking up and down the broad street, so as to
be secure that no acquaintance was near, he emerged with Albinia from
the gate, and crossed the road as the chime of the bells changed.
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