Gradually the young ones were captured, and nightdresses
finally removed, ready for the clean Sunday shirt. But before
the Sunday shirt was slipped over the fleecy head, away darted
the naked body, to wallow in the sheepskin which formed the
parlour rug, whilst the mother walked after, protesting sharply,
holding the shirt like a noose, and the father's bronze voice
rang out, and the naked child wallowing on its back in the deep
sheepskin announced gleefully: "I'm bading in the sea, mother."
"Why should I walk after you with your shirt?" said the
mother. "Get up now."
"I'm bading in the sea, mother," repeated the wallowing,
naked figure.
"We say bathing, not bading," said the mother, with her
strange, indifferent dignity. "I am waiting here with your
shirt."
At length shirts were on, and stockings were paired, and
little trousers buttoned and little petticoats tied behind. The
besetting cowardice of the family was its shirking of the garter
question.
"Where are your garters, Cassie?"
"I don't know."
"Well, look for them."
But not one of the elder Brangwens would really face the
situation. After Cassie had grovelled under all the furniture
and blacked up all her Sunday cleanliness, to the infinite grief
of everybody, the garter was forgotten in the new washing of the
young face and hands.
Later, Ursula would be indignant to see Miss Cassie marching
into church from Sunday school with her stocking sluthered down
to her ankle, and a grubby knee showing.
"It's disgraceful!" cried Ursula at dinner. "People will
think we're pigs, and the children are never washed."
"Never mind what people think," said the mother superbly. "I
see that the child is bathed properly, and if I satisfy myself I
satisfy everybody. She can't keep her stocking up and no garter,
and it isn't the child's fault she was let to go without
one."
The garter trouble continued in varying degrees, but till
each child wore long skirts or long trousers, it was not
removed.
On this day of decorum, the Brangwen family went to church by
the high-road, making a detour outside all the garden-hedge,
rather than climb the wall into the churchyard. There was no law
of this, from the parents. The children themselves were the
wardens of the Sabbath decency, very jealous and instant with
each other.
It came to be, gradually, that after church on Sundays the
house was really something of a sanctuary, with peace breathing
like a strange bird alighted in the rooms. Indoors, only reading
and tale-telling and quiet pursuits, such as drawing, were
allowed. Out of doors, all playing was to be carried on
unobtrusively. If there were noise, yelling or shouting, then
some fierce spirit woke up in the father and the elder children,
so that the younger were subdued, afraid of being
excommunicated.
The children themselves preserved the Sabbath. If Ursula in
her vanity sang: "Il était un' bergère
Et ron-ron-ron petit patapon," Theresa was sure to cry: "That's not a Sunday song, our Ursula."