Читать книгу Gallybird онлайн

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He had begun to read prayers, though the goody had not yet come. Perhaps her rheumatism was troubling her—he had seen rain in the sky, lying in tremulous pools and sheets of green and yellow beside the fine-weather flush. She must have her rheumatism again and would not come at all. There was no use waiting for anybody else. His girls would not come, the flighty wretches—no doubt they were sporting with some young fellow or other in the house; they never came to prayers except on Sundays. Their mother would have come: their mother had always done as she was bid. How was it that his commands had bred out of her obedience so many disobedient children?

But his church was full on Sundays, and next Sunday he would preach 'em a fine rating sermon about coming in the week. His successor must not find the place slack and neglected. He frowned at the cool empty shadows in the nave, and on the empty benches near the door. He was reading the Psalms now and his thoughts could no longer roam freely while his tongue moved between the fences of habit. His thoughts must follow his tongue in his godly duet with Tom Synden. Tom was as good a clerk as you'd find within fifty miles, and spoke the English language instead of some outlandish jargon of his own. Whosoever came to Leasan would marvel at it; but there was no marvel, since his Parish Priest himself had trained him, moulding his speech to gentleness. . . . La! Tom spake better than his own daughters.