Bennett gave an expressive gesture.
"She won't go—you may depend on that!" he said; "She's had too much of parsons as it is. Why Mrs. Fred—that's her American aunt—was regular pestered with 'em coming beggin' of her for their churches and their windows and their schools and their infants and their poor, lame, blind, sick of all sorts, as well as for theirselves. D'rectly they knew she was a millionaire lady' they 'adn't got but one thought—how to get some of the millions out of her. There was three secretaries kept when we was in London, and they'd hardly time for bite nor sup with all the work they 'ad, refusin' scores of churches and religious folks all together. Miss Maryllia's got a complete scare o' parsons. Whenever she see a shovel-hat coming she just flew! When she was in Paris it was the Catholics as wanted money—nuns, sisters of the poor, priests as 'ad been turned out by the Government,—and what not,—and out in America it was the Christian Scientists all the time with such a lot of tickets for lectures and fal-lals as you never saw,—then came the Spiritooalists with their seeances; and altogether the Vancourt family got to look on all sorts of religions merely as so many kinds of beggin' boxes which if you dropped money into, you went straight to the Holy-holies, and if you didn't you dropped down into the great big D's. No!—I don't think anyone need expect to see my lady at church—it's the last place she'd ever think of going to!"
This piece of information was received by his hearers with profound gravity. No one spoke, and during the uncomfortable pause Bennett gave a careless 'Good-night!'—and took his departure.
"Things is come to a pretty pass in this 'ere country," then said Mr. Netlips grandiosely, "when the woman who is merely the elevation of the man, exhibits in public a conviction to which her status is unfitted. If the lady who now possesses the Manor were under the submission of a husband, he would naturally assume the control which is govemmentally retaliative and so compel her to include the religious considerations of the minority in her communicative system!"
Farmer Thorpe looked impressed, but slightly puzzled.
"You sez fine, Mr. Netlips,—you sez fine," he observed respectfully. "Not that I altogether understands ye, but that's onny my want of book-larnin' and not spellin' through the dictionary as I oughter when I was a youngster. Howsomever I makes bold to guess wot you're drivin' at and I dessay you may be right. But I'm fair bound to own that if it worn't for Mr. Walden, I shouldn't be found in church o' Sundays neither, but lyin' flat on my back in a field wi' my face turned up to the sun, a-thinkin' of the goodness o' God, and hopin' He'd put a hand out to 'elp make the crops grow as they should do. Onny Passon he be a rare good man, and he do speak to the 'art of ye so wise-like and quiet, and that's why I goes to hear him and sez the prayers wot's writ for me to say and doos as he asks me to do. But if I'd been unfort'nit enough to live in the parish of Badsworth under that old liar Leveson, I'd a put my fist in his jelly face 'fore I'd a listened to a word he had to say! Them's my sentiments, mates!—and you can read 'em how you like, Mr. Netlips. God's in heaven we know,—but there's onny churches on earth, an' we 'as to make sure whether there's men or devils inside of 'em 'fore we goes kneelin' and grubbin' in front of 'uman idols—Good-night t'ye!"
With these somewhat disjointed remarks Farmer Thorpe strode out of the tap-room, whistling loudly to his dog as he reached the door. The heavy tramp of his departing feet echoed along the outside lane and died away, and Roger Buggins, glancing at the sheep-faced clock in the bar, opined that it was 'near closin' hour.' All the company rose and began to take their leave.
"Church or no church, Miss Vancourt's a real lady!" declared Dan Bidley emphatically—"She may have her reasons, an' good ones too, for not attending service, but she ain't no heathen, I'm sartin' sure o' that."
"You cannot argumentarially be sure of what you do not know," said Mr. Netlips, with a tight smile, buttoning on his overcoat—"A heathen is a proscription of the law, and cannot enjoy the rights of the commons."
Dan stared.
"There ain't no proscription of the law in stayin' away from church," he said—"Nobody's bound to go. Lords nor commons can't compel us."
Mr. Netlips shook his head and frowned darkly, with the air of one who could unveil a great mystery if he chose.
"Compulsion is a legal community," he said—"And while powerless to bring affluence to the Christian conscience, it culminates in the citizenship of the heathen. Miss Vancourt, as her father's daughter, should be represented by the baptized spirit, and not by the afflatus of the ungenerate! Good-night!"
Still puckering his brow into lines of mysterious suggestiveness, the learned Netlips went his way, Roger Buggins gazing after him admiringly.
"That man's reg'lar lost down 'ere,"—he observed—"He oughter ha' been in Parliament."
"Ah, so he ought!" agreed Dan Ridley—"Where's there's fog he'd a made it foggier, and where's there's no understandin' he'd a made it less understandable. I daresay he'd a bin Prime Minister in no time- -he's just the sort. They likes a good old muddler for that work— someone as has the knack o' addlin' the people's brains an' makin' them see a straight line as though'twere crooked. It keeps things quiet an' yet worrity-like—first up, then down—this way, then that way, an' never nothin' certain, but plenty o' big words rantin' round. That's Netlips all over,—it's in the shape of his 'ed,—he was born like it. I don't like his style myself,—but he'd make a grand cab-nit minister!"
"Ay, so he would!" acquiesced Buggins, as he drew the little red curtains across the windows of the tap-room and extinguished the hanging lamp—"Easy rest ye, Dan!"
"Same to you, Mr. Buggins!" responded the tailor cheerfully, as he turned out into the cool sweet dimness of the hawthorn-hedged lane in which the 'Mother Huff' stood—"I make bold to say that church or no church, Miss Vancourt's bein' at her own 'ouse 'ull be a gain an' a blessing to the village."
"Mebbe so," returned Buggins laconically,—and closing his door he barred it across for the night, while Dan Ridley, full of the half- poetic, half philosophic thoughts which the subjects of religion and religious worship frequently excite in a more or less untutored rustic mind, trudged slowly homeward.
During these days, Maryllia herself, unconscious of the remarks passed upon her as the lady of the Manor by her village neighbours, had not been idle, nor had she suffered much from depression of spirits, though, socially speaking, she was having what she privately considered in her own mind 'rather a dull time.' To begin with, everybody in the neighbourhood that was anybody in the neighbourhood, had called upon her,—and the antique oaken table in the great hall was littered with a snowy array of variously shaped bits of pasteboard, bearing names small and great,—names of old county families,—names of new mushroom gentry,—names of clergymen and their wives in profusion, and one or two modest cards with the plain 'Mr.' of the only young bachelors anywhere near for fifteen miles round. Nearly every man had a wife—"Such a pity!" commented Maryllia, when noting the fact—"One can never ask any of them to dinner without their dragons!"
Most of the callers had paid their 'duty visits' at a time of the afternoon when she was always out,—roaming over her own woods and fields, and 'taking stock' as she said, of her own possessions,—but on one or two occasions she had been caught 'in,' and this was the case when Sir Morton Pippitt, accompanied by his daughter Tabitha, Mr. Julian Adderley, and Mr. Marius Longford were announced just at the apt and fitting hour of 'five-o'clock tea.' Rising from the chair where she had negligently thrown herself to read for a quiet half hour, she set aside her book, and received those important personages with the careless ease and amiable indifference which was a 'manner familiar' to her, and which invariably succeeded in making less graceful persons than she was, feel wretchedly awkward and unhappy about the management of their hands and feet. With a smiling upward and downward glance, she mastered Sir Morton Pippitt's 'striking and jovial personality,'—his stiffly-carried upright form, large lower chest, close-shaven red face, and pleasantly clean white hair,—"The very picture of a Bone-Melter"—she thought—"He looks as if he had been boiled all over himself—quite a nice well- washed old man,"—her observant eyes flashed over the attenuated form of Julian Adderley with a sparkle of humour,—she noticed the careful carelessness of his attire, the artistic 'set' of his ruddy locks, the eccentric cut of his trousers, and the, to himself, peculiar knot of his tie.
"The poor thing wants to be something out of the common and can't quite manage it," she mentally decided, while she viewed with extreme disfavour the feline elegance affected by Mr. Marius Longford, and the sleek smile, practised by him 'for women only,' with which he blandly admitted her existence. To Miss Tabitha Pippit she offered a chair of capacious dimensions, amply provided with large down cushons, inviting her to sit down in it with a gentleness which implied kindly consideration for her years and for the fatigue she might possibly experience as a result of the drive over from Badsworth Hall,—whereat the severe spinster's chronically red nose reddened more visibly, and between her thin lips she sharply enunciated her preference for 'a higher seat,—no cushions, thank you!' Thereupon she selected the 'higher seat' for herself, in the shape of an old-fashioned music-stool, without back or arm-rest, and sat stiffly upon it like a draper's clothed dummy put up in a window for public inspection. Maryllia smiled,—she knew that kind of woman well;—and paying only the most casual attention to her for the rest of the time, returned to her own place by the open windows and began to dispense the tea, while Sir Morton Pippitt opened conversation by feigning to recall having met her some two or three years back. He was not altogether in the best of humours, the sight of his recently dismissed butler, Primmins, having upset his nerves. He knew how servants 'talked.' Who could tell what Primmins might not say in his new situation at Abbot's Manor, of his former experiences at Badsworth Hall? And so it was with a somewhat heated countenance that Sir Morton endeavoured to allude to a former acquaintance with his hostess at a Foreign Office function.
"Oh no, I don't think so," said Maryllia, lazily dropping lumps of sugar into the tea-cups—"Do you take sugar? I ought to ask, I know,—such a number of men have the gout nowadays, and they take saccharine. I haven't any saccharine,—so sorry! You do like sugar, Mr. Adderley? How nice of you!" And she smiled. "None for you, Mr. Longford? I thought not. You, Miss Pippitt? No! Everybody else, yes? That's all right! The Foreign Office? I think not, Sir Morton,—I gave up going there long ago when I was quite young. My aunt, Mrs. Fred Vancourt, always went—you must have met her and taken her for me, I always hated a Foreign Office 'crush.' Such big receptions bore one terribly—you never see anybody you really want to know, and the Prime Minister always looks tired to death. His face is a study in several agonies. Two or three years ago? Oh no,—I don't think I was in London at that time. And you were there, were you? Really!"
She handed a cup of tea with a bewitching smile and a 'Will you kindly pass it?' to Julian Adderley, who so impetuously accepted the task she imposed upon him of acting as general waiter to the company, that in hastening towards her he caught his foot in the trailing laces of her gown and nearly fell over the tea-tray.
"A thousand pardons!" he murmured, righting himself with an effort—
"So clumsy of me!"
"Don't mention it!" said Maryllia, placidly—"Will you hand bread- and-butter to Miss Pippitt, Do you take hot cake, Sir Morton?"
Sir Morton's face had become considerably redder during this interval, and, as he spread his handkerchief out on one knee to receive the possible dribblings of tea from the cup he had begun to sip at somewhat noisily, he looked as he certainly felt, rather at a loss what next to say. He was not long in this state of indecision, however, for a bright idea occurred to him, causing a smile to spread among his loose cheek-wrinkles.
"I'm sorry my friend the Duke of Lumpton has left me," he said with unctuous pomp. "He would have been delighted—er—delighted to call with me to-day—"
"Who is he?" enquired Maryllia, languidly.
Again Sir Morton reddened, but managed to conceal his discomfiture in a fat laugh.
"Well, my dear lady, he is Lumpton!—that is enough for him, and for most people—"
"Really?—Oh—well—of course!—I suppose so!" interrupted Maryllia, with an expressive smile, which caused Miss Tabitha's angular form, perched as it was on the high music-stool, to quiver with spite, and moved Miss Tabitha's neatly gloved fingers to clench like a cat's claws in their kid sheaths with an insane desire to scratch the fair face on which that smile was reflected.
"He is a charming fellow, the Duke-charming-charming!" went on Sir Morton, unconscious of the complex workings of thought in his elderly daughter's acidulated brain! "And his great 'chum,' Lord Mawdenham, has also been staying with us—but they left Badsworth yesterday, I'm sorry to say. They travelled up to London with Lady Elizabeth Messing, who paid us a visit of two or three days—"
"Lady Elizabeth Messing!" echoed Maryllia, with a sudden ripple of laughter—"Dear me! Did you have her staying with you? How very nice of you! She is such a terror!"
Mr. Marius Longford stroked one of his pussy-cat whiskers thoughtfully, and put in his word.
"Lady Elizabeth spoke of you, Miss Vancourt, several times," he said. "In fact"—and he smiled—"she had a good deal to say! She remembers meeting you in Paris, and—if I mistake not—also at Homburg on one occasion. She was surprised to hear you were coming to live in this dull country place—she said it would never suit you at all—you were altogether too brilliant—er—" he bowed—" and er- -charming!" This complimentary phrase was spoken with the air of a beneficent paterfamilias giving a child a bon-bon.
Maryllia's glance swept over him carelessly.
"Much obliged to her, I'm sure!" she said—"I can quite imagine the anxiety she felt concerning me! So good of her! Is she a great friend of yours?"
Mr. Longford looked slightly disconcerted.
"Well, no," he replied—"I have only during these last few days— through Sir Morton—had the pleasure of her acquaintance—"
"Mr. Longford is not a 'society' man!" said Sir Morton, with a chuckle—"He lives on the heights of Parnassus—and looks down with scorn on the browsing sheep in the valleys below! He is a great author!"
"Indeed!" and Maryllia raised her delicately arched eyebrows with a faint movement of polite surprise—"But all authors are great nowadays, aren't they? There are no little ones left."
"Oh, yes, indeed, and alas, there are!" exclaimed Julian Adderley, flourishing his emptied tea-cup in the air before setting it back in its saucer and depositing the whole on a table before him; "I am one of them, Miss Vancourt! Pray be merciful to me!"
The absurd attitude of appeal he assumed moved Maryllia to a laugh.
"Well, when you look like that I guess I will!" she said playfully, not without a sense of liking for the quaint human creature who so willingly made himself ridiculous without being conscious of it— "What is your line in the small way?"
"Verse!" he replied, with tragic emphasis—"Verse which nobody reads—verse which nobody wants—verse which whenever it struggles into publication, my erudite friend here, Mr. Longford, batters into pulp with a sledge-hammer review of half-a-dozen lines in the heavier magazines. Verse, my dear Miss Vancourt!—verse written to please myself, though its results do not feed myself. But what matter! I am happy! This village of St. Rest, for example, has exercised a spell of enchantment over me. It has soothed my soul! So much so, that I have taken a cottage in a wood—how melodious that sounds!—at the modest rent of a pound a week. That much I can afford,—that much I will risk—and on the air, the water, the nuts, the berries, the fruits, the flowers, I will live like a primaeval man, and let the baser world go by!" He ran his fingers through his long hair. "It will be an experience! So new—so fresh!"
Miss Tabitha sniffed sarcastically, and gave a short, hard laugh.
"I hope you'll enjoy yourself!" she said tartly—"But you'll soon tire. I told you at once when you said you had decided to spend the summer in this neighbourhood that you'd regret it. You'll find it very dull."
"Oh, I don't think he will!" murmured Maryllia graciously; "He will be writing poetry all the time, you see! Besides, with you and Sir Morton as neighbours, how CAN he feel dull? Won't you have some more tea?"
"No, thank you!" and Miss Pippitt rose,—"Father, we must be going. You have not yet explained to Miss Vancourt the object of our visit."
"True, true!" and Sir Morton got out of his chair with some difficulty—"Time flies fast in such fascinating company!" and he smiled beamingly—"We came, my dear lady, to ask you to dine with us on Thursday next at Badsworth Hall." No words could convey the pomposity which Sir Morton managed to infuse into this simple sentence. To dine at Badsworth was, or ought to be, according to his idea, the utmost height of human bliss and ambition. "We will invite some of our most distinguished neighbours to meet you,—there are a few of the old stock left—" this as if he were of the 'old stock' himself;—"I knew your father—poor fellow!—and of course I remember seeing you as a child, though you don't remember me—ha- ha!—but I shall be delighted to welcome you under my roof—"
"Thanks so much!" said Maryllia, demurely—"But please let it be for another time, will you? I haven't a single evening disengaged between this and the end of June! So sorry! I'll come over to tea some day, with pleasure! I know Badsworth. Dear old place!—quite famous too, once in the bygone days—almost as famous as Abbot's Manor itself. Let me see!" and she looked up at the ceiling musingly—"There was a Badsworth who fought against the Commonwealth,—and there was another who was Prime Minister or something of that kind,—then there was a Sir Thomas Badsworth who wrote books—and another who did some wonderful service for King James the First—yes, and there were some lovely women in the family, too—I suppose their portraits are all there? Yes—I thought so!"—this as Sir Morton nodded a blandly possessive affirmative— "How things change, don't they? Poor old Badsworth! So funny to think you live there! Oh, yes! I'll come over—certainly I'll come over,—some day!"
Thus murmuring polite platitudes, Maryllia bade her visitors adieu.
Sir Morton conquered an inclination to gasp for breath and say
'Damn!' at the young lady's careless refusal of his invitation to
dinner,—Miss Tabitha secretly rejoiced.
"I'm sure I don't want her at Badsworth," she said within herself, viciously—"Nasty little insolent conceited thing! I believe her hair is dyed, and her complexion put on! A regular play-actress!"
Unconscious of the spinster's amiable thoughts, Maryllia was holding out a hand to her.
"Good-bye!" she said—"So kind of you to come and see me! I'm sure you think I must be lonely here. But I'm not, really! I don't think I ever shall be,—because as soon as I have got the house quite in order, I am going to ask a great many friends to stay with me in turn. They will enjoy seeing the old place, and country air is such a boon to London people! Good-bye!"—and here she turned to Marius Longford—"I'm afraid I haven't read any of your books!—anyway I expect they would be too deep for me. Wouldn't they?"
"Lord Roxmouth has been good enough to express his liking for my poor efforts," he replied, with a slight covert smile—"I believe you know him?"
"Oh, quite well—quite too well!" said Maryllia, without any discomposure—"But what he likes, I always detest. Unfortunate, isn't it! So I mustn't even try to read your works! You, Mr. Adderley"—and she laughingly looked up at that gentleman, who, hat in hand, was pensively drooping in a farewell attitude before her,— "you are going to stop here all summer, aren't you? And in a cottage! How delightful! Anywhere near the Manor?"
"I am not so happy as to have found a domicile on this side Eden!" murmured Adderley, with a languishing look—"My humble hut is set some distance apart,—about a mile beyond the rectory."
"Then your best neighbour will be the parson," said Maryllia, gaily-
-"So improving to your morals!"
"Possibly—possibly! "assented Adderley—" Mr. Walden is not exactly like other parsons,—there is something wonderfully attractive about him—"
"Something wonderfully conceited and unbearable, you mean!" snapped out Sir Morton—"Come, come!—we must be off! The horses are at the door,—can't keep them standing! Miss Vancourt doesn't want to hear anything about the parson. She'll find him out soon enough for herself. He's an upstart, my dear lady—take my word for it!—a pretentious University prig and upstart! You'll never meet HIM at Badsworth!—ha-ha-ha! Never! Sorry you can't dine on Thursday! Never mind, never mind! Another time! Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" and with a slight further exchange of salutations Maryllia found herself relieved of her visitors. Of all the four, Adderley alone looked back with a half-appealing smile, and received an encouraging little nod for his pains—a nod which said 'Yes—you can come again if you like!' The wheels of the Pippitt equipage crunched heavily down the drive, and as the grating sound died away, clear on the quiet air came the soft slow chime of the church-bells ringing. It was near sunset,—and Walden sometimes held a short simple service of evening prayer at that hour. Leaning against the open window Maryllia listened.
"How pretty it is!" she said—"It must be the nearness of the river that makes the tone of the bells so soft and mellow! Oh, what an insufferable old snob that Pippitt is! And what a precious crew of 'friends' he boasts of! Lumpton, who, when he was a few years younger, danced the skirt-dance in women's clothes for forty pounds a night at a New York restaurant!—Mawdenham, who pawned all his mother's jewels to pay his losses at Bridge—and Lady Elizabeth Messing, who is such an abandoned old creature that her own married daughters won't know her! Oh, dear! And I believe the Knighted Bone- Boiler thinks they are quite good style! That literary man, Longford, was a most unprepossessing looking object,—a friend of Roxmouth's too, which makes him all the more unpleasant. And of course he will at once write off and say he has seen me. And then— and then-dear me! I wonder where Sir Morton picks these people up! He doesn't like the parson here evidently—'a pretentious University prig and upstart'—what a strong way of putting it!—very strong for such a clean-looking old man! 'A pretentious University prig and upstart' are you, Mr. Walden!" Here, smiling to herself, she moved out into the garden and called her dog to her side—"Do you hear that, Plato? Our next-door neighbour is a prig as well as a parson!- -isn't it dreadful!" Plato looked up at her with great loving brown eyes and wagged his plumy tail. "I believe he is,—and yet—yet all the same, I think—yes!—I think, as soon as a convenient opportunity presents itself, I'll ask him to dinner."
XIII
The next day Maryllia was up betimes, and directly after breakfast she sent for Mrs. Spruce. That good lady, moved by the summons into sudden trepidation, lest some duty had been forgotten, or some clause of the household 'rules and regulations' left unfulfilled, hastened to the inner library, a small octagonal room communicating with the larger apartment, and there found her mistress sitting on a low stool, with her lap full of visiting-cards which she was busily sorting.
"Spruce!" and she looked up from her occupation with a mock tragic air—"I'm dull! Positively D U double L! DULL!"
Mrs. Spruce stared,—but merely said:
"Lor, Miss!" and folded her hands on her apron, awaiting the next word.
"I'm dull, dull, dull!" repeated Maryllia, springing up and tossing all the cards into a wide wicker basket near at hand—"I don't know what to do with myself, Spruce! I've got nobody to talk to, nobody to play with, nobody to sing to, nobody to amuse me at all, at all! I've seen everything inside and outside the Manor,—I've visited the church,—I know the village—I've talked to dear old Josey Letherbarrow till he must be just tired of me,—he's certainly the cleverest man in the place,—and yesterday the Pippitts came and finished me. I'm done! I throw up the sponge!—that's slang, Spruce! There's nobody to see, nowhere to go, nothing to do. It's awful! 'The time is out of joint, O cursed spite!' That's Hamlet. Something must HAPPEN, Spruce!"—and here she executed a playful pas-seul around the old housekeeper—"There! Isn't that pretty? Don't look so astonished!—you'll see ever so much worse than that by and bye! I am going to have company. I am, really! I shall fill the house! Get all the beds aired, and all the bedrooms swept out! I shall ask heaps of people,—all the baddest, maddest folks I can find! I want to be bad and mad myself! There's nobody bad or mad enough to keep me going down here. Look at these!" And she raked among the visiting-cards and selected a few. "Listen!—'Miss Ittlethwaite, Miss Agnes Ittlethwaite, Miss Barbara Ittlethwaite, Miss Christina Ittlethwaite, Ittlethwaite Park.' It makes my tongue all rough and funny to read their names! They've called,—and I suppose I shall have to call back, but I don't want to. What's the good? I'm sure I never shall get on with the Ittlethwaites,—we shall never, never agree! Do you know them, Spruce? Who are they?"
Mrs. Spruce drew a long breath, rolled up her eyes, and began:
"Which the Misses Ittlethwaite is a county fam'ly, Miss, livin' some seven or eight miles from here as proud as proud, owin' to their forebears 'avin' sworn death on Magnum Chartus for servin' of King John—an' Miss Ittlethwaite proper, she be gettin' on in years, but she's a great huntin' lady, an' come November is allus to be seen follerin' the 'ounds, stickin' to the saddle wonderful for 'er size an' time o' life, an' Miss Barbara, she doos a lot o' sick visitin', an' Bible readin', not 'ere, for our people won't stand it, an' Passon Walden ain't great on breakin' into private 'ouses without owners' consents for Bible readin', but she, she's 'Igh, an' tramps into Riversford near every day which the carrier's cart brings 'er 'ome to 'er own place they 'avin' given up a kerridge owin' to spekylation in railways, an' Miss Hagnes she works lovely with 'er needle, an' makes altar cloths an' vestis for Mr. Francis Anthony, the 'Igh Church clergyman at Riversford, he not bein' married, though myself I should say there worn't no chance for 'er, bein' frightful skinny an' a bit off in 'er looks—an' Miss Christina she do still play at bein' a baby like, she's the youngest, an' over forty, yet quite a giddy in 'er way, wearin' ribbins round her waist, an' if 'twarn't for 'er cheeks droppin' in long like, she wouldn't look so bad, but they're all that proud—"
"That'll do, Spruce, that'll do!" cried Maryllia, putting her hands to her ears—"No more Ittlethwaites, please, for the present! Sufficient for the day is the Magnum Chartus thereof! Who comes here?" and she read from another card,—"'Mrs. Mordaunt Appleby.' Also a smaller label which says, 'Mr. Mordaunt Appleby'! More county family pride or what?"
"Oh lor' no, Miss, Mordaunt Appleby's only the brewer of Riversford," said Mrs. Spruce, casually. "He's got the biggest 'ouse in the town, but people remembers 'im when he was a very shabby lot indeed,-an awful shabby lot. HE ain't nobody, Miss-he's just got a bit o' money which makes the commoner sort wag tails for 'im, but it's like his cheek to call 'ere at all. Sir Morton Pippitt, bein' in. the bone-meltin' line, as 'im up to dine now an' agin, just to keep in with 'im like, for he's a nasty temper, an' his wife's got the longest and spitefullest tongue in all the neighbourhood. But you needn't take up wi' them, Miss-they ain't in your line,-which some brewers is gentlemen, an' Appleby ain't—YOUR Pa wouldn't never know HIS Pa."
"Then that's settled!" said Maryllia, with a sigh of relief. "Depart, Mordaunt Applebys into the limbo of forgotten callers!"-and she tossed the cards aside-"Here are the Pippitt names,-I small remember them all right-Pip-pitt and Ittlethwaite have a tendency to raise blisters of memory on the brain. What is this neat looking little bit of pasteboard-' The Rev. John Walden.' Yes!-he called two or three days ago when I was out."
Mrs. Spruce sniffed a sniff of meaning, but said nothing.
"I've not been to church yet"-went on Maryllia medi-tatively. "I dare say he thinks me quite a dreadful person. But I hate going to church,-it's so stupid-so boresome-and oh!-such a waste of time!"
Mrs. Spruce still held her peace. Maryllia gave her a little side- glance and noted a certain wistfulness and wonder in the rosy, wrinkled face which was not without its own pathos.
"I suppose everybody about here goes to church at least Once on
Sundays," pursued Maryllia-"Don't they?"
"Them as likes Mr. Walden goes," answered Mrs. Spruce promptly-"Then as don't stops away. Sir Morton Pippitt used allus to attend 'ere reg'ler when the buildin' was nowt but ruin, an' 'e 'ad a tin roof put over it,-'e was that proud o' the tin roof you'd a' thought 'twas made o' pure gold, an' he was just wild when Mr. Walden pulled it all off an' built up the walls an' roof again as they should be all at 'is own expense, an' he went away from the place for sheer spite like, an' stayed abroad a whole year, an' when 'e come back again 'e never wouldn't go nigh it, an' now 'e attends service at Badsworth Church,-Badsworth Barn we calls it,-for'tain't nowt but a barn which Mr. Leveson keeps 'Igh as 'Igh with a bit o' tinsel an' six candles, though it's the mis'ablest place ye ever set eyes on, an' 'e do look a caution 'isself with what 'e calls a vestiment 'angin' down over 'is back, which is a baek as fat as porpuses, the Lord forgive me for sayin.' it, but Sir Morton 'e be that set against Mr. Walden he'll rather say 'is prayers in a pig-stye with a pig for the minister than in our church, since it's been all restored an' conskrated—then, as I told you just now, Miss, the Ittlethwaites goes to Riversford where they gits opratick music with the 'Lord be merciful to us mis'able sinners'—an' percessions with candles,—so our church is mostly filled wi' the village folks, farmer bodies an' sich-like,—there ain't no grand people what comes, though we don't miss 'em, for Passon 'e don't let us want for nothin' an' when there's a man out o' work, or a woman sick, or a child what's pulin' a bit, an' ricketty, he's alhis ready to 'elp, with all 'e 'as an' welcome, payin' doctor's fees often,—an' takin' all the medicine bills on 'isself besides. Ah, 'e's a rare good sort is Passon Walden, an' so you'd say yerself, Miss, if ever you took on your mind to go and hear 'im preach, an' studied 'is ways for a bit as 'twere an' asked 'bout 'im in the village, for 'e's fair an' open as the day an' ain't got no sly, sneaky tricks in 'im,—he's just a man, an' a good one—an' that's as rare a thing to find in this world as a di'mond in a wash-tub, an' makin' so bold, Miss, if you'd onny go to church next Sunday—-"
Maryllia interrupted her by a little gesture.
"I can't, Spruce!" she said, but with great gentleness—"I know it's the right and proper thing for me to do in the country if I wish to stand well with my neighbours,-but I can't! I don't believe in it,— and I won't pretend that I believe!"
Poor Mrs. Spruce felt a sudden choking in her throat, and her motherly face grew red and pale by turns. Miss Maryllia, the old squire's daughter, was—what? A heathen?—an unbeliever—an atheist? Oh, surely it was not possible—it could not be!—she would not accept the idea that a creature so dainty and pretty, so fair and winsome, could be cast adrift on the darkness of life without any trust in the saving grace of the Christian Faith! Limited as were Mrs. Spruce's powers of intelligence, she was conscious enough that there would be something sweet and strong lost out of the world, which nothing could replace, were the message of Christ withdrawn from it. The perplexity of her thoughts was reflected on her countenance and Maryllia, watching her, smiled a little sadly.
"You mustn't think I don't believe in God, Spruce,"—she said slowly—"I do! But I can't agree with all the churches teach about Him. They make Him out to be a cruel, jealous and revengeful Being— -"
"Mr. Walden don't—-," put in Mrs. Spruce, quickly.
"And I like to think of Him as all love and pity and goodness," went on Maryllia, not heeding her—"and I don't say prayers, because I think He knows what is best for me without my asking. Do you understand? So it's really no use my going to church, unless just out of curiosity—and perhaps I will some day do that,—I'll see about it! But I must know Mr. Walden a little better first,—I must find out for myself what kind of a man he is, before I make up my mind to endure such a martyrdom as listening to a sermon! I simply loathe sermons! I suppose I must have had too many of them when I was a child. Surely you remember, Spruce, that I used to be taken into Riversford to church?" Mrs. Spruce nodded emphatically in the affirmative. "Yes!—because when father was alive the church here was only a ruin. And I used to go to sleep over the sermons always— and once I fell off my seat and had to be carried out. It was dreadful! Now Uncle Fred never went to church,—nor Aunt Emily. So I've quite got out of the way of going—nobody is very particular about it in Paris or London, you see. But perhaps I'll try and hear Mr. Walden preach—just once—and I'll tell you then what I think about it. I'll put his card on the mantelpiece to remind me!"
And she suited the action to the word, Mrs. Spruce gazing at her in a kind of mild stupefaction. It seemed such a very odd thing to stick up a clergyman's card as a reminder to go to church 'just once' some Sunday.
Meanwhile Maryllia continued, "Now, Spruce, you must begin to be busy! You must prepare the Manor for the reception of all sorts of people, small and great. I feel that the time has come for 'company, company!' And in the first place I'm going to send for Cicely Bourne,—she's my pet 'genius'—and I'm paying the cost of her musical education in Paris. She's an orphan—like me—she's all alone in the world—like me;—and we're devoted to each other. She's only a child—just over fourteen—but she's simply a wonder!—the most wonderful musical wonder in the world!—and she has a perfectly marvellous voice. Her master Gigue says that when she is sixteen she will have emperors at her feet! Emperors! There are only a few,—but they'll all be grovelling in the dust before her! You must prepare some pretty rooms for her, Spruce, those two at the top of the house that look right over the lawn and woods—and make everything as cosy as you can. I'll put the finishing touches. And I must send to London for a grand piano. There's only the dear old spinet in the drawing-room,—it's sweet to sing to, and Cicely will love it,—but she must have a glorious 'grand' as well. I shall wire to her to- day,—I know she'll come at once. She will arrive direct from Paris,—let me see!"—and she paused meditatively—"when can she arrive? This is Friday,—yes!—probably she will arrive here Sunday or Monday morning. So you can get everything ready."
"Very well, Miss," and Mrs. Spruce, with the usual regulation 'dip' of respectful submission to her mistress was about to withdraw, when Maryllia called her back and handed over to her care the wicker basket full of visiting-cards.
"Put them all by,"—she said—"When Cicely comes we'll go through them carefully together, and discuss what to eat, drink and avoid. Till then, I shall blush unseen, wasting my sweetness on the desert air! Time enough and to spare for making the acquaintance of the 'county.' Who was it that said: Never know your neighbours'? I forget,—but he was a wise man, anyway!"
Mrs. Spruce 'dipped' a second time in silence, and was then allowed to depart on her various household duties. The good woman's thoughts were somewhat chaotically jumbled, and most fervently did she long to send for 'Passon,' her trusted adviser and chief consoler, or else go to him herself and ask him what he thought concerning the non-church-going tendencies of her mistress. Was she altogether a lost sheep? Was there no hope for her entrance into the heavenly fold?
"Which I can't and won't believe she's wicked,"—said Mrs. Spruce to herself—"With that sweet childie face an' eyes she couldn't be! M'appen 'tis bad example,—'er 'Merican aunt 'avin' no religion as 'twere, an' 'er uncle, Mr. Frederick, was never no great shakes in 'is young days if all the truth was told. Well, well! The Lord 'e knows 'is own, an' my 'pinion is He ain't a-goin' to do without Miss Maryllia, for it's allus 'turn again, turn again, why will 'ee die' sort of thing with Him, an' He don't give out in 'is patience. I'm glad she's goin' to 'ave a friend to stay with 'er,—that'll do 'er good and 'earten her up—an' mebbe the friend'll want to go to church, an' Miss Maryllia 'ull go with her, an' once they listens to Passon 'twill be all right, for 'is voice do draw you up into a little bit o' heaven somehow, whether ye likes it or not, an' if Miss Maryllia once 'ears 'im, she'll be wanting to 'ear 'im again— so it's best to leave it all in the Lord's 'ands which makes the hill straight an' the valleys crooked, an' knows what's good for both man and beast. Miss Maryllia ain't goin' to miss the Way, the Truth an' the Life—I'm sartin sure o' that!"
Thus Mrs. Spruce gravely cogitated, while Maryllia herself, unaware of the manner in which her immortal destinies were being debated by the old housekeeper, put on her hat, and ran gaily across the lawn, her great dog bounding at her side, making for the usual short-cut across the fields to the village. Arrived there she went straight to the post-office, a curious little lop-sided half-timbered cottage with a projecting window, wherein, through the dusty close-latticed panes could be spied various strange edibles, such as jars of acidulated drops, toffee, peppermint balls, and barley-sugar— likewise one or two stray oranges, some musty-looking cakes, a handful or so of old nuts, and slabs of chocolate protruding from shining wrappers of tin-foil,—while a flagrant label of somebody's 'Choice Tea' was suspended over the whole collection, like a flag of triumph. The owner of this interesting stock-in-trade and the postmistress of St. Rest, was a quaint-looking little woman, very rosy, very round, very important in her manner, very brisk and bright with her eyes, but very slow with her fingers.
"Which I gets the rheumatiz so bad in my joints," she was wont to say—"that I often wonders 'ow I knows postage-stamps from telegram- forms an' register papers from money-orders, an' if you doos them things wrong Gove'nment never forgives you!"
"Ah, you'll never get into no trouble with Gove'nment, Missis Tapple!" her gossips were wont to assure her, "For you be as ezack as ezack!"
A compliment which Mrs. Tapple accepted without demur, feeling it to be no more than her just due. She was, however, in spite of her 'ezack' methods, always a little worried when anything out of the ordinary occurred, and she began to feel slightly flustered directly she saw Maryllia swing open her garden gate. She had already, during the last few days, been at some trouble to decipher various telegrams which the lady of the Manor had sent down by Primmins for immediate despatch, such as one to a certain Lord Roxmouth which had run as follows:—"No time to reply to your letter. In love with pigs and poultry."
"It IS 'pigs and poultry,' ain't it?" she had asked anxiously of Primmins, after studying the message for a considerable time through, her spectacles. And Primmins, gravely studying it, too, had replied:—
"It is undoubtedly 'pigs and poultry.'"
"And it IS 'in love' you think?" pursued Mrs. Tapple, with perplexity furrowing her brow.
"It is certainly 'in love,'" rejoined Primmins, and the faintest suggestion of a wink affected his left eyelid.
Thereupon the telegram was 'sent through' to Riversford on its way to London, though not without serious misgivings in Mrs. Tapple's mind as to whether it might not be returned with a 'Gove'nment' query as to its correctness. And now, when Maryllia herself entered the office, and said smilingly, "Good-morning! Some foreign telegram-forms, please!" Mrs. Tapple felt that the hour was come when her powers of intelligence were about to be tried to the utmost; and she accordingly began to experience vague qualms of uneasiness.
"Foreign telegram-forms, Miss? Is it for Ameriky?"
"Oh, no!—only for Paris,"—and while the old lady fumbled nervously in her 'official' drawer, Maryllia glanced around the little business establishment with amused interest. She had a keen eye for small details, and she noticed with humorous appreciation Mrs. Tapple's pink sun-bonnet hanging beside the placarded 'Post Office Savings Bank' regulations, and a half side of bacon suspended from the ceiling, apparently for 'curing' purposes, immediately above the telegraphic apparatus. After a little delay, the required pale yellow 'Foreign and Colonial' forms were found, and Mrs. Tapple carefully flattened them out, and set them on her narrow office counter.
"Will you have a pencil, or pen and ink, Miss?" she enquired.
"Pen and ink, please," replied Maryllia; whereat the old postmistress breathed a sigh of relief. It would be easier to make out anything at all 'strange and uncommon' in pen and ink than in pencil-marks which had a trick of 'rubbing.' Leaning lightly against the counter Maryllia wrote in a clear bold round hand:
"Miss CICELY BOURNE,
"17 RUE CROISIE, PARIS.
"Come to me at once. Shall want you all summer. Have wired Gigue. Start to-morrow.
"MARYLLIA VANCOURT."
She pushed this over to Mrs. Tapple, who thankfully noting that she was writing another, took time to carefully read and spell over every word, and mastered it all without difficulty. Meanwhile Maryllia prepared her second message thus:
"Louis GIGUE,
"CONSERVATOIRE, PARIS.
"Je desire que Cicely passe l'ete avec moi et qu'elle arrive immediatement. Elle peut tres-bien continuer ses etudes ici. Vous pouvez suivre, cher maitre, a votre plaisir.
"MARYLLIA VANCOURT."
"It's rather long,"—she said thoughtfully, as she finished it. "But for Gigue it is necessary to explain fully. I hope you can make it out?"
Poor Mrs. Tapple quivered with inward agitation as she took the terrible telegram in hand, and made a brave effort to rise to the occasion.
"Yes, Miss," she stammered, "Louis Gigue—G.i.g.u.e., that's right— yes—at the Conservatory, Paris."
"'No, no!" said Maryllia, with a little laugh—"Not Conservatory—
Conservatoire—TOIRE, t.o.i.r.e., the place where they study music."
"Oh, yes—I see!" and Mrs. Tapple tried to smile knowingly, as she fixed her spectacles more firmly on her nose, and began to murmur slowly—"Je desire, d.e.sire—oh, yes—desire!—que—q.u.e.—Cicely- -yes that's all right!—passe, an e to pass—yes—now let me wait a minute; one minute, Miss, if you please!—l'ete—l apostrophe e, stroke across the e,—t, and e, stroke across the e—-"
Maryllia's eyebrows went up in pretty perplexity.
"Oh dear, I'm afraid you won't be able to get it right that way!" she said—"I had better write it in English,—why, here's Mr. Walden!" This, as she saw the clergyman's tall athletic figure entering Mrs. Tapple's tiny garden,—"Good-morning, Mr. Walden!" and as he raised his hat, she smiled graciously—"I want to send off a French telegram, and I'm afraid it's rather difficult—-"
A glance at Mrs. Tapple explained the rest, and Walden's eyes twinkled mirthfully.
"Perhaps I can be of some use, Miss Vancourt," he said. "Shall I try?"
Maryllia nodded, and he walked into the little office.
"Let me send off those telegrams for you, Mrs. Tapple," he said. "You know you often allow me to amuse myself in that way! I haven't touched the instrument for a month at least, and am getting quite out of practice. May I come in?"
Mrs. Tapple's face shone with relief and gladness.
"Well now, Mr. Walden, if it isn't a real blessin' that you happened to look in this mornin'!" she exclaimed—"For now there won't be no delay,—not but what I knew a bit o' French as a gel, an' I'd 'ave made my way to spell it out somehow, no matter how slow,—but there! you're that handy that 'twon't take no time, an' Miss Vancourt will be sure of her message 'avin' gone straight off from here correct,— an' if they makes mistakes at Riversford, 'twon't be my fault!"
While she thus ran on, Walden was handling the telegraphic apparatus. His back was turned to Maryllia, but he felt her eyes upon him,—as indeed they were,—and there was a slight flush of colour in his bronzed cheeks as he presenty looked round and said:
"May I have the telegram?"
"There are two—both for Paris," replied Maryllia, handing him the filled-up forms—"One is quite easy—in English." "And the other quite difficult—in French!"—he laughed. "Let me see if I can make it out correctly." Thereupon he read aloud: "'Louis Gigue, Conservatoire, Paris. Je desire que Cicely passe l'ete avec moi et qu'elle arrive immediatement. Elle peut tres-bien continuer ses etudes ici. Vous pouvez suivre, cher maitre, a votre plaisir.' Is that right?"
Maryllia's eyes opened a little more widely,—like blue flowers wakening to the sun. This country clergyman's pronunciation of French was perfect,—more perfect than her own trained Parisian accent. Mrs. Tapple clasped her dumpy red hands in a silent ecstasy of admiration. 'Passon' knew everything!
"Is it right?" Walden repeated.
Maryllia gave a little start.
"Oh I beg your pardon! Yes—quite right!—thank you ever so much!"
Click-click-click-click! The telegraphic apparatus was at work, and the unofficial operator was entirely engrossed in his business. Mrs. Tapple stood respectfully dumb and motionless, watching him. Maryllia, leaning against the ledge of the office counter, watched him, too. She took quiet observation of the well-poised head, covered with its rich brown-grey waving locks of hair,—the broad shoulders, the white firm muscular hands that worked the telegraphic instrument, and she was conscious of the impression of authority, order, knowledge, and self-possession, which seemed to have come into the little office with him, and to have created quite a new atmosphere. Outside, in the small garden, among mignonette and early flowering sweetpeas, Plato sat on his huge haunches in lion-like dignity, blinking at the sun,—while Walden's terrier Nebbie executed absurd but entirely friendly gambols in front of him, now pouncing down on two forepaws with nose to ground and eyes leering sideways,—now wagging an excited tail with excessive violence to demonstrate goodwill and a desire for amity.—and anon giving a short yelp of suppressed feeling,—to all of which conciliatory approaches Plato gave no other response than a vast yawn and meditative stare.
The monotonous click-click-click continued,—now stopping for a second, then going on more rapidly again, till Maryllia began to feel quite unreasonably impatient. She found something irritating at last in the contemplation of the back of Walden's cranium,—it was too well-shaped, she decided,—she could discover no fault in it. Humming a tune carelessly under her breath, she turned towards Mrs. Tapple's small grocery department, and feigned to be absorbed in an admiring survey of peppermint balls and toffee. Certain glistening squares of sticky white substance on a corner shelf commended themselves to her notice as specimens of stale 'nougat,' wherein the almonds represented a remote antiquity,—and a mass of stringy yellow matter laid out in lumps on blue paper and marked 'One Penny per ounce' claimed attention as a certain 'hardbake' peculiar to St. Rest, which was best eaten in a highly glutinous condition. A dozen or so of wrinkled apples which, to judge by their damaged and worn exteriors, must have been several autumns old, kept melancholy companionship with assorted packages of the 'Choice Tea' whereof the label was displayed in the window, and Maryllia was just about wondering whether she would, or could buy anything out of the musty- fusty collection, when the click-click-click stopped abruptly, and Walden stepped forth from the interior 'den' of the post-office.
"That's all right, Miss Vancourt," he said. "Your telegrams are sent correctly as far as Riversford anyhow, and there is one operator there who is acquainted with the French language. Whether they will transmit correctly from London I shouldn't like to say!—we are a singular nation, and one of our singularities is that we scorn to know the language of our nearest neighbours!"
She smiled up at him,—and as his glance met hers he was taken aback, as it were, by the pellucid beauty and frank innocence of the grave dark-blue eyes that shone so serenely into his own.
"Thank you so very, very much! You have been most kind!" and with a swift droop of her white eyelids she veiled those seductive 'mirrors of the soul' beneath a concealing fringe of long golden-brown lashes—"It's quite a new experience to find a clergyman able and willing to be a telegraph clerk as well! So useful, isn't it?"
"In a village like this it is," rejoined Walden, gaily—"And after all, there's not much use in being a minister unless one can practically succeed in the art of 'ministering' to every sort of demand made upon one's capabilities! Even to Miss Vancourt's needs, should she require anything, from the preservation of trees to the sending of telegrams, that St. Rest can provide!"
Again Maryllia glanced at him, and again a little smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
"I must pay for the telegrams," she said abruptly—"Mrs. Tapple—-"
"Yes, Miss—I've written it all down," murmured Mrs. Tapple nervously—"It's right, Mr. Walden, isn't it? If you would be so good as to look at it, bein' tuppence a word, it do make it different like, an' m'appen there might be a mistake—-"
Walden glanced over the scrap of paper on which she had scrawled her rough figures.
"Fivepence out, I declare, Mrs. Tapple!" he said, merrily. "Dear, dear! Whatever is going to become of you, eh? To cheat yourself wouldn't matter—nobody minds THAT—but to do the British Government out of fivepence would be a dreadful thing! Now if I had not seen this you would have been what is called 'short' this evening in making up accounts." Here he handed the corrected paper to Maryllia. "I think you will find that right."
Maryllia opened her purse and paid the amount,—and Mrs. Tapple, in giving her change for a sovereign, included among the coins a bright new threepenny piece with a hole in it. Spying this little bit of silver, Maryllia held it up in front of Walden's eyes triumphantly.
"Luck!" she exclaimed—"That's for you! It's a reward for your telegraphic operations! Will you be grateful if I give it to you?"
He laughed.
"Profoundly! It shall be my D.S.O.!"
"Then there you are!" and she placed the tiny coin in the palm of the hand he held out to receive it. "The labourer is worthy of his hire! Now you can never go about like some clergymen, grumbling and saying you work for no pay!" Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "What shall we do next? Oh, I know! Let's buy some acid drops!"
Mrs. Tapple stared and smiled.
"Or pear-drops," continued Maryllia, glancing critically at the various jars of 'sweeties,'—"I see the real old-fashioned pink ones up there,—lumpy at one end and tapering at the other. Do you like them? Or brandy balls? I think the pear-drops carry one back to the age of ten most quickly! But which do you prefer?"
Walden tried to look serious, but could not succeed. Laughter twinkled all over his face, and he began to feel extremely young.
"Well,—really, Miss Vancourt,—-" he began.
"There, I know what you are going to say!" exclaimed Maryllia—"You are going to tell me that it would never do for a clergyman to be seen munching pear-drops in his own parish. I understand! But clergymen do ever so much. worse than that sometimes. They do, really! Two ounces of pear-drops for me, Mrs. Tapple, please!—and one of brandy balls!"
Mrs. Tapple bustled out of her 'Gove'nment' office, and came to the grocery counter to dispense these dainties.
"They stick to the jar so," said Maryllia, watching her thoughtfully; "They always did. I remember, as a child, seeing a man put his finger in to detach them. Don't put your finger in, Mrs. Tapple!—take a bit of wood—an old skewer or something. Oh, they're coming out all right! That's it!" And she popped one of the pear- drops into her mouth. "They are really very good—better than French fondants—so much more innocent and refreshing!" Here she took possession of the little paper-bags which Mrs. Tapple had filled with the sweets. "Thank you, Mrs. Tapple! If any answers to my telegrams come from Paris, please send them up to the Manor at once. Good-morning!"
"Good-morning, Miss!" And Mrs. Tapple, curtseying, pulled the door of her double establishment wider open to let the young lady pass out, which she did, with a smile and nod, Walden following her. Plato rose and paced majestically after his mistress, Nebbie trotting meekly at the rear, and so they all went forth from the postmistress's garden into the road, where Walden, pausing, raised his hat in farewell.
"Oh, are you going?" queried Maryllia. "Won't you walk with me as far as your own rectory?"
"Certainly, if you wish it,"—he answered with a slight touch of embarrassment; "I thought perhaps—-"
"You thought perhaps,—what?" laughed Maryllia, glancing up at him archly—"That I was going to make you eat pear-drops against your will? Not I! I wouldn't be so rude. But I really thought I ought to buy something from Mrs. Tapple,—she was so worried, poor old dear!- -till you came in. Then she looked as happy as though she saw a vision of angels. She's a perfect picture, with her funny old shawl and spectacles and knobbly red fingers—and do you know, all the time you were working the telegraph you were under the fragrant shadow of a big piece of bacon which was 'curing,'—positively 'curing' over your head! Couldn't you smell it?"
Walden's eyes twinkled.
"There was certainly a fine aroma in the air," he said—"But it seemed to me no more than the customary perfume common to Mrs. Tapple's surroundings. I daresay it was new to you! A country clergyman is perhaps the only human being who has to inure himself to bacon odours as the prevailing sweetness of cottage interiors."
Maryllia laughed. She had a pretty laugh, silver-clear and joyous without loudness.
"Fancy your being so clever as to be able to send off telegrams!" she exclaimed—"What an accomplishment for a Churchman! Don't you want to know all about the messages you sent?—who the persons are, and what I have to do with them?"
"Not in the least!" answered John, smiling.
"Are you not of a curious disposition?"
"I never care about other people's business," he said, meeting her upturned eyes with friendly frankness—"I have enough to do to attend to my own."
"Then you are positively inhuman!" declared Maryllia—"And absolutely unnatural! You are, really! Every two-legged creature on earth wants to find out all the ins and cuts of every other two- legged creature,—for if this were not the case wars would be at an end, and the wicked cease from troubling and the weary be at rest. So just because you don't want to know about my two friends in Paris, I'm going to tell you. Louis Gigue is the greatest teacher of singing there is,—and Cicely Bourne is his pupil, a perfectly wonderful little girl with a marvellous compass of voice, whose training and education I am paying for. I want her with me here—and I have sent for her;—Gigue can come on if he thinks it necessary to give her a few lessons during the summer, but of course she is not to sing in public until she is sixteen. She is only fourteen now."
Walden listened in silence. He was looking at his companion sideways, and noting the delicate ebb and flow of the rose tint in her cheeks, the bright flecks of gold in the otherwise brown hair, and the light poise of her dainty rounded figure as she stepped along beside him with an almost aerial grace and swiftness.
"She was the child of a Cornish labourer,"—went on Maryllia. "Her mother sold her for ten pounds. Yes!—wasn't it dreadful!" This, as John's face expressed surprise. "But it is true! You shall hear all the story some day,—it is quite a little romance. And she is so clever!—you would think her ever so much older than she is, to hear her talk. Sometimes she is rather blunt, and people get offended with her-but she is true—oh, so true!—she wouldn't do a mean action for the world! She is just devoted to me,—and that is perhaps why I am devoted to her,—because after all, it's a great thing to be loved, isn't it?"
"It is indeed!" replied John, mechanically, beginning to feel a little dazed under the influence of the bright eyes, animated face, smiling lips and clear, sweet voice—"It ought to be the best of all things."
"It ought to be, and it is!" declared Maryllia emphatically. "Oh, what a lovely bush of lilac!" And she hastened on a few steps in order to look more closely at the admired blossoms, which were swaying in the light breeze over the top of a thick green hedge— "Why, it must be growing in your garden! Yes, it is!—of course it is!—this is your gate. May I come in?"
She paused, her hand on the latch,—and for a moment Walden hesitated. A wave of colour swept up to his brows,—he was conscious of a struggling desire to refuse her request, united to a still more earnest craving to grant it. She looked at him, wistfully smiling.
"May I come in?" she repeated.
He advanced, and opened the gate, standing aside for her to pass.
"Of course you may!"—he said gently,—"And welcome!"
XIV
Now it happened that Bainton was at that moment engaged in training some long branches of honey-suckle across the rectory walls, and being half-way up a ladder for the purpose, the surprise he experienced at seeing 'Passon' and Miss Vancourt enter the garden together and walk slowly side by side across the lawn, was so excessive, that in jerking his head round to convince himself that it was not a vision but a reality, he nearly lost his balance.
"Woa, steady!" he muttered, addressing the ladder which for a second swayed beneath him—"Woa, I sez! This ain't no billowy ocean with wot they calls an underground swell! So the ice 'ave broke, 'ave it! She, wot don't like clergymen, an' he, wot don't like ladies, 'as both come to saunterin' peaceful like with one another over the blessed green grass all on a fine May mornin'! Which it's gettin' nigh on June now an' no sign o' the weather losin' temper. Well, well! Wonders won't never cease it's true, but I'd as soon a' thought o' my old 'ooman dancin' a 'ornpipe among her cream cheeses as that Passon Walden would a' let Miss Vancourt inside this 'ere gate so easy like, an' he a bacheldor. But there!—arter all, he's gettin' on in years, an' she's ever so much younger than he is, an' I dessay he's made up his mind to treat 'er kind like, as 'twere her father, which he should do, bein' spiritooal 'ead o' the village, an' as for the pretty face of 'er, he's not the man to look at it more'n once, an' then he couldn't tell you wot it's like. He favours his water-lilies mor'n females,—ah, an' I bet he'd give ten pound for a new specimen of a flower when he wouldn't lay out a 'apenny on a new specimen of a woman." Here, pausing in his reflections, he again looked cautiously round from his high vantage point of view on the ladder, and saw Walden break off a spray of white lilac from one bush of a very special kind near the edge of the lawn, and give it to Miss Vancourt. "Well, now that do beat me altogether!" he ejaculated under his breath. "If he's told me once, he's told me a 'undred times that he won't 'ave no blossoms broke off that bush on no account An' there he is a-pickin' of it hisself! That's a kind of thing which do make me feel that men is a poor feeble-minded lot,— it do reely now!"
But feeble-minded or not, John had nevertheless gathered the choice flower, and moreover, had found a certain pleasure in giving it to his fair companion, who inhaled its delicious odour with an appreciative smile.
"What a dear old house you have!" she said, glancing up at the crossed timbers, projecting gables, and quaint dormer windows set like eyes in the roof—"I had no idea that it was so pretty! And the garden is perfectly lovely. It is so very artistic!—it looks like a woman's dream of a garden rather than a man's."
John smiled.
"You think women more artistic than men?" he queried.
"In the decorative line—yes," she replied—"Especially where flowers are concerned. If one leaves the planning of a garden entirely to a man, he is sure to make it too stiff and mathematical,—he will not allow Nature to have her own way in the least little bit,—in fact"—and she laughed—"I don't think men as a rule like to let anything or anybody have their own way except themselves!"
The smile still lingered kindly round the corners of Walden's mouth.
"Possibly you may be right,"—he said—"I almost believe you are. Men are selfish,—much more selfish than women. Nature made them so in the first instance,—and our methods of education and training all tend to intensify our natural bent. But"—here he paused and looked at her thoughtfully; "I am not sure that absolute unselfishness would be a wise or strong trait in the character of a man. You see the first thing he has to do in this world is to earn the right to live,—and if he were always backing politely out of everybody else's way, and allowing himself to be hustled to one side in an unselfish desire to let others get to the front, he would scarcely be able to hold his own in any profession. And all those dependent upon his efforts would also suffer,—so that his 'unselfishness' might become the very worst kind of selfishness in the end—don't you think so?" "Well—yes—perhaps in that way it might!" hesitated Maryllia, with a faint blush—"I ought not to judge anyone I know—but—oh dear!—the men one meets in town—the society men with their insufferable airs of conceit and condescension,—their dullness of intellect,—their preference for cigars, whiskey, and Bridge to anything else under the sun,—their intensely absorbed love of personal ease, and their perfectly absurd confidence in their own supreme wisdom!—these are the hybrid creatures that make one doubt the worth of the rest of their sex altogether."
"But there are hybrid creatures on both sides,"—said Walden quietly—"Just as there are the men you speak of, so there are women of the same useless and insufferable character. Is it not so?"
She looked up at him and laughed.
"Why, yes, of course!" she frankly admitted—"I guess I won't argue with you on the six of one and half-dozen of the other! But it's just as natural for women to criticise men as for men to criticise nowadays. Long ago, in the lovely 'once upon a time' fairy period, the habit of criticism doesn't appear to have developed strongly in either sex. The men were chivalrous and tender,—the women adoring and devoted—I think it must have been perfectly charming to have lived then! It is all so different now!"
"Fortunately, it is," said John, with a mirthful sparkle in his eyes—"I am sure you would not have liked that 'once upon a time fairy period' as you call it, at all, Miss Vancourt! Poets and romancists may tell us that the men were 'chivalrous and tender,' but plain fact convinces us that they were very rough unwashen tyrants who used to shut up their ladies in gloomy castles where very little light and air could penetrate,—and the adoring and devoted ladies, in their turn, made very short work of the whole business by either dying of their own grief and ill-treatment, or else getting killed in cold blood by order of their lords and masters. Why, one of the finest proofs of an improvement in our civilisation is the freedom of thought and action given to women in the present day. Personally speaking, I admit to a great fondness for old-fashioned ways, and particularly for old-fashioned manners,- -but I cannot shut my mind to the fact that for centuries women have been unfairly hindered by men in every possible way from all chance of developing the great powers of intelligence they possess,—and it is certainly time the opposition to their advancement should cease. Of course, being a man myself,"—and he smiled—"I daresay that in my heart of hearts I like the type of woman I first learned to know and love best,—my mother. She had the early Victorian, ways,—they were very simple, but also very sweet."
He broke off, and for a moment or two they paced the lawn in silence.
"I suppose you live all alone here?" asked Maryllia, suddenly.
"Yes. Quite alone."
"And are you happy?"
"I am content."
"I understand!" and she looked at him somewhat earnestly:—"'Happy' is a word that should seldom be used I think. It is only at the rarest possible moments that one can feel real true happiness."
"You are too young to say that,"—he rejoined gently—"All your life is before you. The greater part of mine lies behind me." Again she glanced at him somewhat timidly.
"Mr. Walden"—she began—"I'm afraid—I suppose—I daresay you think—-"
John caught the appealing flash of the blue eyes, and wondering what she was going to say. She played with the spray of lilac he had given her, and for a moment seemed to have lost her self-possession.
"I am quite sure,"—she went on, hurriedly—"that you—I mean, I'm afraid you haven't a very good opinion of me because I don't go to church—-"
He looked at her, smiling a little.
"Dor't you go to church?" he asked—"I didn't know it!"
Here was a surprise for the lady of the Manor. The clergyman of her own parish,—a man, who by all accepted rule and precedent ought to have been after her at once, asking for subscriptions to this fund and that fund, toadying her for her position, and begging for her name and support, had not even noticed her absence from divine service on Sundays! She did not know whether to be relieved or dissatisfied. Such indifference to her actions piqued her feminine pride, and yet, his tone was very kind and courteous. Noting the colour coming and going on her face, he spoke again—-
"I never interfere personally with my parishioners, Miss Vancourt"— he said—"To attend church or stay away from church is a matter of conscience with each individual, and must be left to individual choice. I should be the last person in the world to entertain a bad opinion of anyone simply because he or she never went to church. That would be foolish indeed! Some of the noblest and best men in Christendom to-day never go to church,—but they are none the less noble and good! They have their reasons of conscience for non- committing themselves to accepted forms of faith, and it often turns out that they are more truly Christian and more purely religious than the most constant church-goer that ever lived."
Maryllia gave a little sigh of sudden relief.
"Ah, you are a broad-minded Churchman!" she said. "I am glad! Very glad! Because you have no doubt followed the trend of modern thought,—and you must have read all the discussions in the magazines and in the books that are written on such subjects,—and you can understand how difficult it is to a person like myself to decide what is right when so many of the wisest and most educated men agree to differ."
Walden stopped abruptly in his walk.
"Please do not mistake me, Miss Vancourt," he said gravely, and with emphasis—"I should be sorry if you gathered a wrong opinion of me at the outset of our acquaintance. As your minister I feel that I ought to make my position clear to you. You say that I have probably followed the trend of modern thought—and I presume that you mean the trend of modern thought in religious matters. Now I have not 'followed' it, but I have patiently studied it, and find it in all respects deplorable and disastrous. At the same time I would not force the high truths of religion on any person, nor would I step out of my way to ask anyone to attend church if he or she did not feel inclined to do so. And why? Because I fully admit the laxity and coldness of the Church in the present day—and I know that there are many ministers of the Gospel who do not attract so much as they repel. I am not so self-opinionated as to dream that I, a mere country parson, can succeed in drawing souls to Christ when so many men of my order, more gifted than I, have failed, and continue to fail. But I wish you quite frankly to understand that the trend of modern thought does not affect the vows I took at my ordination,— that I do not preach one thing, and think another,—and that whatever my faults and shortcomings may be, I most earnestly endeavour to impress the minds of all those men and women who are committed to my care with the beauty, truth and saving grace of the Christian Faith."