THE ANGLERS OF THE DOVE.
BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.
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CHAPTER IX. THE GREAT AUTUMN AT TUTBURY.
A Sunday like the good old Sundays came round at last. The church bell rang for service; and all day there were throngs in the churchyard. The burials, baptisms, and marriages of several months were to be got through during that day and the next; and the clergyman had his hands so full that Dr. Pantlin appeared,—to help his brother-minister, as he grimly said. If the one administered the sacraments, the other should undertake the preaching; and Dr. Pantlin accordingly caused it to be known that he should hold a meeting in the meadow by the river-side.
There were windows in the Castle which overlooked that meadow; and at one of those windows stood Father Berthon with his glass; and there, presently, stood Polly also, being sent for to look through the glass, and say who was who, and what was being done.
That was Dr. Pantlin holding forth from his stand on the grey rock. There were few of the village people there,—fewer than there used to be on the coldest days of winter; but the church bell accounted for that. Her own parents must be at church; for they were not here: yet they had never thought to miss a discourse of Dr. Pantlin’s. There was a man on horseback; he would not carry away much, if his horse would not stand better. Ah! he had dismounted, and let his horse graze while he listened, holding the bridle the while. That group of women came from the hamlet over the hill yonder; they did not belong to the place. There seemed to be scarcely anybody that did belong to the place. All the men at least were strangers, or nearly so. The two gentlemen with their rods were not exactly strangers,—Mr. Stansbury and Mr. Felton.
“Are they there? Let me see them,” said Father Berthon. “Are you certain?”
“Quite. You may catch them now, coming from behind those alders. You see their rods? What everlasting anglers they are! Sundays and all days!”
