“Heaven only knows, Fanny, Heaven only knows,” he replied in a like whisper. “It has proven to be a vicious creature. There is no accounting for its madness.”

Mrs. Rushworth was saying, “It is a handsome chapel, and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening. Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain, within the memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth left it off.”

“Every generation has its improvements,” said Miss Crawford, with a fixed smile, to Edmund. She seemed to be well recovered from the extremely odd incident of moments earlier and now stood a bit farther away than everyone else from the pulpit. Other than the one smile she put on for Edmund, during other moments she had a closed, tight-lipped expression, as though suffering a tad of vaporous indigestion.

Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford.

Edmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster together, considering the chapel history. There was an unspoken decision from that point forward, to no longer make mention of the duck.

“It is a pity,” cried Fanny, “that the prayer custom was discontinued. It was a valuable part of former times. A whole family assembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!”

“Very fine indeed,” said Miss Crawford, laughing. “It must do the heads of the family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away.”

“That is hardly Fanny’s idea of a family assembling,” said Edmund. “If the master and mistress do not attend themselves, there must be more harm than good in the custom.”

“At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such subjects. Everybody likes to go their own way—to chuse their own time and manner of devotion. Nobody likes the obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint, the length of time. If the good people who used to kneel and gape in that gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets—starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of something very different—with no sudden flying fowl to relieve them of their long moments of stupor—or especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at—and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now.”