Minnie's Bishop and Other Stories/Mrs. Williams

HE day was wet, even for the west of Ireland, unusually wet. The church offered a refuge and I went into it, leaving the muddy streets, the lowing cattle, and the heavy smell of a fair day in a little Connaught town. I found myself the spectator of rites not meant for me. Between twenty and thirty clergymen, old and young, were gathered in the church and listened to an exhortation delivered by an elderly dignitary, who spoke, not from the regular pulpit, but from the lectern. I felt myself an intruder, an eavesdropper, a spy upon the private devotions of worthy men. But the quietness and the soothing grey of the church attracted me. I was by no means inclined to go out again. I settled myself in a remote seat and compromised matters with my sense of honour by determining not to listen to one word Which was said. Unfortunately there was nothing in the architecture of the church to absorb my attention. From a stained glass window close beside me I turned away my eyes lest they should behold vanity or worse. The artist had worked from the photograph of a deceased fat man, and had clad his person in garments of shape and colouring such as must have put his ghost to the blush. Nor could I lay my hands on anything to read except a mutilated hymn-book printed in type impossible to my eyes in the light of that dreary afternoon. Then, by good luck, I noticed that the book-rest in front of me was scribbled over.

I leaned forward and read. Sissy Foster had written her name in a sprawling schoolchild's hand, digging with a sharp pencil into the soft pine wood. She must have been about twelve years old when she wrote, beguiling, perhaps, the tediousness of the Litany. The "Sissy" gave me a clue to her. She was, so the name or title seemed to indicate, the eldest of a family, the prematurely grave little mother of a tribe of small brothers, who had learned, each in turn, to lisp the recognition of relationship. At last, she herself had forgotten that she was really Muriel or Maud, and had accepted as name and description alike the pretty Sissy. I pictured her a gentle little maiden, with long, straight, fair hair, unnaturally careful, for poor mother's sake, of each clean pinafore. A little further along the book-rest I came to her again as Cis Foster. The handwriting, formed and fashionably square, witnessed that she was older, seventeen years old perhaps, or eighteen; not much more, for the Litany still evidently bored her. The changed spelling of the name told me something about her. To the Miss Foster of that date the younger brothers were boisterous schoolboys, troublesome creatures with tops and marbles and rough games. She was Sissy no more, but Cis, which is a name derived from Cecilia, and full of romantic possibilities. Cecilia, at full length, is a stately maiden, aloof a little from common things, to be wooed gloriously by one in the guise of a prince. Cis smacks more of the world, of gay laughter, of daring attractiveness. Cis is the mistress of arts and wiles. She sports with the hearts of men. Miss Foster vacillated between the two ideals, and I have no doubt—it was springtime then—wore a pink cotton frock, ironed stiffly, wonderfully frilled.

Beside Cis Foster was another name in another writing, John Emmanuel Williams. He used to come there on Sunday evenings when Mrs. Foster, growing oldish now and a little worn, stayed at home; when Mr. Foster smoked his pipe with a secure feeling that one churchgoing of a Sunday was enough for any man; when the boys, young scamps, were birds'-nesting in the woods. Then Cis Foster and John Emmanuel Williams sat together, sharing the mutilated hymn-book, and the evening sun shone on them through the wide west door. Cis had a wonderful new pink frock in those days, and her cheeks glowed with a brighter pink. Then while prayers were being said for King Edward this was in the early days of his reign John Emmanuel wrote his name and Cis watched him. Further down the book-rest, in the very corner came one more inscription. The handwriting was Miss Foster's, but the words she wrote were "Mrs. Williams." This must have been an experiment. After marriage, if she wrote at all, she would have written "Cis Williams," not "Mrs. Williams." Besides, after marriage a careful churchwarden would have moved her and John Emmanuel into a pew of their own. The "Mrs. Williams" must have been a delighted dip into the future, a daring attempt to realise beforehand anticipated joys. Perhaps John Emmanuel watched her while she wrote, blushed when she blushed, and afterwards mutilated the hymn-book in search of material for little notes during sermon time. It must have been autumn then, and in the half-lit church no prying eyes would see the passing of the folded paper or note the lingering touches of the hands.

The service, the special clerical devotions,—not that evensong in the early days of King Edward,—ended abruptly, and the clergy slipped past me towards the door. I joined myself to the one who walked last, guessing, by something of a proprietor's mien about him, that he was the proper pastor of the church. I offered him a share of my umbrella when we got outside, and then while he thanked me, asked my question.

"Did Cis Foster, who used to be Sissy Foster when she was a child, marry John Emmanuel Williams in the end?"

"Yes," he said. "I married them. He's a groom up at the big house. That was six years ago. She has four fine boys of her own now."

"Ah," I said, "she'll know how to manage them after all the practice she had with her young brothers."

"She does," said the rector smiling. Then he turned on me abruptly. "But how do you come to know all about them? Surely you're a stranger here?"

"I don't actually know," I said. "I merely guess. I suppose she has given up wearing pink cotton frocks in summer time?"

"Did she ever wear pink cotton frocks?" he asked. "I don't remember."

"She certainly did," I said, "in 1903 or thereabouts. You must have been very unobservant; but of course the church was rather dark. I suppose she has a new hymn-book now?"

"I gave her one myself," said the rector, "the day she was married."

"You couldn't," I said, "have given her anything she wanted more. There are only about fourteen pages left in the old one."