"
Here the girl beside Lady Florimel gave a loud cry, and fell backwards
from her seat. On all sides arose noises, loud or suppressed,
mingled with murmurs of expostulation. Even Lady Florimel, invaded
by shrieks, had to bite her lips hard to keep herself from responding
with like outcry; for scream will call forth scream, as vibrant
string from its neighbour will draw the answering tone.
"Deep calleth unto deep! The wind is blowing on the slain! The
Spirit is breathing on the dry bones!" shouted the preacher in an
ecstacy. But one who rose from behind Lizzy Findlay, had arrived
at another theory regarding the origin of the commotion--and
doubtless had a right to her theory, in as much as she was a woman
of experience, being no other than Mrs Catanach.
At the sound of her voice seeking to soothe the girl, Malcolm shuddered;
but the next moment, from one of those freaks of suggestion which
defy analysis, he burst into laughter: he had a glimpse of a she
dog, in Mrs Catanach's Sunday bonnet, bringing up the rear of the
preacher's canine company, and his horror of the woman found relief
in an involuntary outbreak that did not spring altogether from
merriment.
It attracted no attention. The cries increased; for the preacher
continued to play on the harp nerves of his hearers, in the firm
belief that the Spirit was being poured out upon them. The marquis,
looking very pale, for he could never endure the cry of a woman
even in a play, rose, and taking Florimel by the arm, turned to
leave the place.
Pages:
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476