"Quite!" murmured Julian, lazily.
"And if you want to get on, you will hardly find a better friend than Lord Roxmouth,"—pursued Longford, with meaning emphasis—"He has made many a man famous!"
"Oh, my dear Longford!-pray do not speak of these things!"— interrupted Roxmouth, with an air of gentlemanly humility. "Merit always commands my interest and attention—and Mr. Adderley's talent as a poet—naturally—!" Here he waved his hand and allowed the sentence to finish itself.
Julian looked at him thoughtfully.
"Thanks! I THINK I see what you mean!"—he said slowly—"But I'm afraid I am not a useful person. I never have been useful in my life—neither to myself, nor to anybody else. To be useful would be new—and in some cases, fresh,"—here he smiled dubiously—"Yes— very fresh!—and delightful! But I fear—I very much fear that I shall always 'lack advancement' as Hamlet says—I can never accommodate myself to other people's plans. You will excuse my inabilities?"
Roxmouth flushed angrily. He understood. So did Marius Longford— resolving in his own mind that whenever, IF ever, a book of poems appeared by Julian Adderley, he would so maul and pounce upon it in the critical reviews, that there should not be a line of it left unmangled or alive. They parted with him, however, on apparently excellent terms.
Returning to Badsworth Hall they found no further news awaiting them than they had themselves been able to obtain. Sir Morton's fussy enquiries had brought no result—Miss Tabitha had scoured the neighbourhood in her high dogcart, calling on the Ittlethwaites and Mandeville Porehams, all in vain. Nobody knew anything. Nobody had heard anything. The sudden exit of Maryllia from the scene took everyone by surprise. And when Miss Pippitt began to hiss a scandalous whisper concerning John Walden, and a possible intrigue between him and the Lady of the Manor, the 'county' sat up amazed. Here indeed was food for gossip! Here was material for 'local' excitement!
"Old Tabitha's jealous!—that's what it is!" said Bruce Ittlethwaite of Ittlethwaite Park, to his maiden sisters,—"Ha-ha-ha! Old green- and-yellow Tabitha is afraid she'll lose her pet parson! Dammit! A pretty woman always starts this kind of nonsense. If it wasn't the clergyman, it would be somebody else—perhaps Sir Morton himself—or perhaps me! Ha-ha-ha! Dammit!"
"I don't believe a word of it!" declared the eldest Miss Ittlethwaite,—"I do not attend Mr. Walden's services myself, but I am quite sure he is an excellent man—and a perfect gentleman. Nothing that Tabitha Pippitt can ever say, will move me on that point!"
"I always had my suspicions!"—said Mrs. Mandeville Poreham, severely, when she in her turn heard the news—"I heard that Miss Vancourt had insisted—positively INSISTED on Mr. Walden's visiting her nearly every day, and I trembled for him! MY girls have gone quite crazy about Miss Vancourt ever since they met her at Sir Morton Pippitt's garden-party, but I have NEVER changed my opinion. MY poor mother always taught me to be firm in my convictions. And Miss Vancourt is a designing person. There's no doubt of it. She affects the innocence of a child—but I doubt whether I have ever met anyone QUITE so worldly and artful!"
So the drops of petty gossip began to trickle,—very slowly at first, and then faster and faster, as is their habitude in the effort to wear away the sparkling adamant of a good name and unblemished reputation. The Reverend Putwood Leveson, vengefully brooding over the wrongs which he considered he had sustained at the hands of Walden, as well as Julian Adderley, rode to and fro on his bicycle from morn till dewy eye, perspiring profusely, and shedding poisonous slanders almost as freely as he exuded melted tallow from his mountainous flesh, aware that by so doing he was not only ingratiating himself with the Pippitts, but also with Lord Roxmouth, through whose influence he presently hoped to 'get a thing or two.' Mordaunt Appleby, the Riversford brewer, and his insignificant spouse, irritated at never having had the chance to 'receive' Lord Roxmouth, were readily pressed into the same service and did their part of scandal-mongering with right good-will and malignant satisfaction. And in less than forty-eight hours' time there was no name too bad for the absent Maryllia; she was 'mixed up' with John Walden,—she had 'tried to entangle him'—there had been 'a scene with him at the Manor,'—she was 'forward,' 'conceited'—and utterly lost to any sense of propriety. Why did she not marry Lord Roxmouth? Why, indeed! Many people could tell if they chose! Ah yes!—and with this, there were sundry shakings of the head and shruggings of the shoulders which implied more than whole volumes of libel.
But while the county talked, the village listened, sagaciously incredulous of mere rumour, quiescent in itself and perfectly satisfied that whoever else was wrong, 'Passon Walden' in everything he did, said, or thought, was sure to be right. Wherefore, until they heard their 'man o' God's' version of the stories that were being so briskly circulated, they reserved their own opinions. The infallibility of the Supreme Pontiff was not more securely founded in the Roman Catholic Ritual than the faith of St. Rest in the 'gospel according to John.'
XXVII
Meanwhile Walden himself, ignorant of all the 'local' excitement so suddenly stirred up in his tiny kingdom, had arrived on a three days' visit at the house, or to put it more correctly, at the palace, of his friend Bishop Brent. It was, in strict reality a palace, having been in the old days one of the residences of Henry VII. Much of the building had been injured during the Cromwellian period, and certain modern repairs to its walls had been somewhat clumsily executed, but it still retained numerous fine old mullioned windows, and a cloistered court of many sculptured arches still eminently beautiful, though grey and crumbling under the touch of the melancholy vandal, Time. The Bishop's study had formerly been King Henry's audience chamber, and possessed a richly-wrought ceiling of interlaced oak rafters, and projecting beams smoothly polished at the ends and painted with royal emblems, from which projections no doubt, in early periods, many a banner of triumph had floated and many a knightly pennon. Bishop Brent was fond of this room, and carefully maintained its ancient character in the style of its furniture and general surroundings. The wide angle-nook and high carved chimney-piece, supported by two sculptured angel-figures of heroic size, was left unmodernised, and in winter the gaping recess was filled with great logs blazing cheerily as in olden times, but in summer, as now, it served as a picturesque setting for masses of rare flowers which, growing in pots, or cut freshly and set in crystal vases, were grouped together with the greatest taste and artistic selection of delicate colouring, forming, as it seemed, a kind of blossom-wreathed shrine, above which, against the carved chimney itself, hung a wonderfully impressive picture of the Virgin and Child. Placed below this, and slightly towarde the centre of the room, was the Bishop's table-desk and chair, arranged so that whenever he raised his head from his work, the serene soft eyes of Mary, Blessed among Women, should mystically meet his own. And here just now he sat at evening, deep in conversation with John Walden, who with the perfect unselfishness which was an ingrained part of his own nature, had for the time put aside or forgotten all his own little troubles, in order to listen to the greater ones of his friend. He had been shocked at the change wrought in seven years on Brent's form and features. Always thin, he had now become so attenuated as to have reached almost a point of emaciation,—his dark eyes, sunk far back under his shelving brows, blazed with a feverish brilliancy which gave an almost unearthly expression to his pale drawn features, and his hand, thin, long, and delicate as a woman's, clenched and unclenched itself nervously when he spoke, with an involuntary force of which he was himself unconscious.
"You have not aged much, Walden!" he said, thoughtfully regarding his old college chum's clear and open countenance with a somewhat sad smile—"Your eyes are the same blue eyes of the boy that linked his arm through mine so long ago and walked with me through the sleepy old streets of 'Alma Mater!' That time seems quite close to me sometimes—and again sometimes far away—dismally, appallingly, far away!"
He sighed. Walden looked at him a little anxiously, but for the moment said nothing.
"You give me no response,"—continued Brent, with sudden querulousness—"Since you arrived we have been talking nothing but generalities and Church matters. Heavens, how sick I am of Church matters! Yet I know you see a change in me. I am sure you do—and you will not say it. Now you never were secretive—you never said one thing and meant another—so speak the truth as you have always done! I AM changed, am I not?"
"You are,"—replied Walden, steadily—"But I cannot tell how, or in what way. You look ill and worn out. You are overworked and overwrought—but I think there is something else at the root of the evil;—something that has happened during the last seven years. You are not quite the man you were when you came to consecrate my church at St. Rest."
"St. Rest!" repeated the Bishop, musingly—"What a sweet name it is- -what a still sweeter suggestion! Rest—rest!—and a saint's rest too!—that perfect rest granted to all the martyrs for Christ!—how safe and peaceful!—how sure and glorious! Would that such rest were mine! But I see nothing ahead of me but storm and turmoil, and stress of anguish and heartbreak, ending in—Nothingness!"
Walden bent a little more forward and looked his friend full in the eyes.
"What is wrong, Harry?" he asked, with exceeding gentleness.
At the old schoolboy name of bygone years, Brent caught and pressed his hand with strong fervour. A smile lighted his eyes.
"John, my boy, everything is wrong!" he said—"As wrong as ever my work at college was, before you set it right. Do you think I forget! Everything is wrong, I tell you! I am wrong,—my thoughts are wrong,—and my conscience leaves me no peace day or night! I ought not to be a Bishop—for I feel that the Church itself is wrong!"
John sat quiet for a minute. Then he said—
"So it is in many ways. The Church is a human attempt to build humanity up on a Divine model, and it has its human limitations. But the Divine model endures!"
Brent threw himself back in his chair and closed his eyes.
"The Divine model endures—yes!" he murmured—"The Divine foundation remains firm, but the human building totters and is insecure to the point of utter falling and destruction!" Here, opening his eyes, he gazed dreamily at the pictured face of the Madonna above him. "Walden, it is useless to contend with facts, and the facts are, that the masses of mankind are as unregenerate at this day as ever they were before Christ came into the world! The Church is powerless to stem the swelling tide of human crime and misery. The Church in these days has become merely a harbour of refuge for hypocrites who think to win conventional repute with their neighbours, by affecting to believe in a religion not one of whose tenets they obey! Blasphemy, rank blasphemy, Walden! It is bad enough in all conscience to cheat one's neighbour, but an open attempt to cheat the Creator of the Universe is the blackest crime of all, though it be unnamed in the criminal calendar!"
He uttered these words with intense passion, rising from his seat, and walking up and down the room as he spoke. Walden watched his restless passing to and fro, with a wistful look in his honest eyes. Presently he said, smiling a little—
"You are my Bishop—and I should not presume to differ from you, Brent! YOU must instruct ME,—not I you! Yet if I may speak from my own experience—-"
"You may and you shall!"—replied Brent, swiftly—"But think for a moment, before you speak, of what that experience has been! One great grief has clouded your life—the loss of your sister. After that, what has been your lot? A handful of simple souls set under your charge, in the loveliest of little villages,—souls that love you, trust you and obey you. Compared to this, take MY daily life! An over-populated diocese—misery and starvation on all sides,—men working for mere pittances,—women prostituting themselves to obtain food—children starving—girls ruined in their teens—and over it all, my wretched self, a leading representative of the Church which can do nothing to remedy these evils! And worse than all, a Church in which some of the clergy themselves who come under my rule and dominance are more dishonourable and dissolute than many of the so- called 'reprobates' of society whom they are elected to admonish! I tell you, Walden, I have some men under my jurisdiction whom I should like to see soundly flogged!—only I am powerless to order the castigation—and some others who ought to be serving seven years in penal servitude instead of preaching virtue to people a thousand times more virtuous than themselves!"
"I quite believe that!" said Walden, smiling—"I know one of them!"
The Bishop glanced at him, and laughed.
"You mean Putwood Leveson?" he said—"He seems a mischievous fool— but I don't suppose there is any real harm in him, is there?"
"Real harm?"—and John flared up in a blaze of wrath—"He is the most pernicious scoundrel that ever masqueraded in the guise of a Christian!"
The Bishop paused in his walk up and down, and clasping his hands behind his back, an old habit of his, looked quizzically at his friend. A smile, kindly and almost boyish, lightened the grey pallor of his worn face.
"Why, John!" he said—"you are actually in a temper! Your mental attitude is evidently that of squared fists and 'Come on!' What has roused the slumbering lion, eh?"
"It doesn't need a lion to spring at Leveson,"—said Walden, contemptuously—"A sheep would do it! The tamest cur that ever crawled would have spirit enough to make a dash for a creature so unutterably mean and false and petty! I may as well admit to you at once that I myself nearly struck him!"
"You did?" And Bishop Brent's grave dark eyes flashed with a sudden suspicion of laughter.
"I did. I know it was not Churchman-like,—I know it was a case of 'kicking against the pricks.' But Leveson's 'pricks' are too much like hog's bristles for me to endure with patience!"
The Bishop assumed a serious demeanour.
"Come, come, let me hear this out!" he said—"Do you mean to tell me that you—YOU, John—actually struck a brother minister?"
"No—I do not mean to tell you anything of the kind, my Lord Bishop!" answered Walden, beginning to laugh. "I say that I 'nearly' struck him,—not quite! Someone else came on the scene at the critical moment, and did for me what I should certainly have done for myself had I been left to it. I cannot say I am sorry for the impulse!"
"It sounds like a tavern brawl,"—said the Bishop, shaking his head dubiously—"or a street fight. So unlike you, Walden! What was it all about?"
"The fellow was slandering a woman,"—replied Walden, hotly— "Poisoning her name with his foul tongue, and polluting it by his mere utterance—contemptible brute! I should like to have horsewhipped him—-"
"Stop, stop!" interrupted the Bishop, stretching out his thin long white hand, on which one single amethyst set in a plain gold ring, shone with a pale violet fire—"I am not sure that I quite follow you, John! What woman is this?"
Despite himself, a rush of colour sprang to Walden's brows. But he answered quite quietly.
"Miss Vancourt,—of Abbot's Manor."
"Miss Vancourt!" Bishop Brent looked, as he felt, utterly bewildered. "Miss Vancourt! My dear Walden, you surprise me! Did I not write to you—do you not know—-"
"Oh, I know all that is reported of her,"—said John, quickly—"And I remember what you wrote. But it's a mistake, Brent! In fact, if you will exonerate me for speaking bluntly, it's a lie! There never was a gentler, sweeter woman than Maryllia Vancourt,—and perhaps there never was one more basely or more systematically calumniated!"
The Bishop took a turn up to the farther end of the room. Then he came back and confronted Walden with an authoritative yet kindly air.
"Look me straight in the face, John!"
John obeyed. There was a silence, while Brent scanned slowly and with appreciative affection the fine intellectual features, brave eyes, and firm, yet tender mouth of the man whom he had, since the days of their youth together, held dearest in his esteem among all other men he had ever known, while Walden, in his turn, bore the sad and searching gaze without flinching. Then the Bishop laid one hand gently on his shoulder.
"So it has come, John!" he said.
Then and then only the brave eyes fell,—then and then only the firm mouth trembled. But Walden was not the man to shirk any pain or confusion to himself in matters of conscience.
"I suppose it has!" he answered, simply.
The Bishop sat down, and, seemingly out of long habit, raised his eyes to the blandly smiling Virgin and Child above him.
"I am sorry!"—he murmured—"John, my dear old fellow, I am very sorry—-"
"Why should you be sorry?" broke out Walden, impetuously, "There is nothing to be sorry for, except that I am a fool! But I knew THAT long ago, even if you did not!"—and he forced a smile—"Don't be sorry for me, Brent!—I'm not in the least sorry for myself. Indeed, if I tell you the whole truth, I believe I rather like my own folly. It does nobody any harm! And after all it is not absolutely a world's wonder that a decaying tree should, even in its decaying process, be aware of the touch of spring. It should not make the tree unhappy!"
The Bishop raised his eyes. They were full of a deep melancholy.
"We are not trees—we are men!" he said—"And as men, God has made us all aware of the love of woman,—the irresistible passion that at one time or another makes havoc or glory of our lives! It is the direst temptation on earth. Worst of all and bitterest it is when love comes too late,—too late, John!—I say in your case, it comes too late!"
John sighed and smiled.
"Love—if it has come to me at all—is never too late,"—he said with quiet patience,—"My dear Brent, don't you understand? This little girl—this child—for she is nothing more than that to a man of my years—has slipped into my life by chance, as it were, like a stray sunbeam—no more! I feel her brightness—her warmth—her vitality—and my soul is conscious of an animation and gladness whenever she is near, of which she is the sole cause. But that is all. Her pretty ways—her utter loneliness,—are the facts of her existence which touch me to pity, and I would see her cared for and protected,—but I know myself to be too old and too unworthy to so care for and protect her. I want her to be happy, but I am fully conscious that I can never make her so. Would you call this kind of chill sentiment 'love'?"
Brent regarded him steadfastly.
"Yes, John! I think I should!—yes, I certainly should call 'this chill sentiment' love! And tell me—have you never got out of your depth in the water of this 'chill sentiment,' or found yourself battling for dear life against an outbreak of volcanic fire?"
Walden was silent.
"I never thought,"—continued the Bishop, rather sorrowfully,—"when I wrote to you about the return of Robert Vancourt's daughter to her childhood's home, that she would in any serious way interfere with the peace of your life, John! I told you just what I had heard—no more. I have never seen the girl. I only know what people say of her. And that is not altogether pleasing."
"Do you believe what people say?" interrupted Walden, suddenly,—"Is it not true that when a woman is pretty, intelligent, clean-souled and pure-minded, and as unlike the rest of 'society' women as she can well be, she is slandered for having the very virtues her rivals do not possess?"
"Quite true!"—said Brent—"and quite common. It is always the old story—'Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.' Do not imagine for a moment, John, that I am going to run the risk of losing your friendship by repeating anything that may have been said against the reputation or the character of Miss Vancourt. I have always prayed that no woman might ever come between us,"—and here a faint tinge of colour warmed the pallor of his face—"And, so far, I fancy the prayer has been granted. And I do not think that this—this—shall we call it glamour, John?—this glamour, of the imagination and the senses, will overcome you in any detrimental way. I cannot picture you as the victim of a 'society' siren!"
John smiled. A vision rose up before his eyes of a little figure in sparkling white draperies—a figure that bent appealingly towards him, while a soft childlike voice said—'I'm sorry! Will you forgive me?' The tender lines round his mouth deepened and softened at the mental picture.
"She is not a society siren,"—he said, gently—"Poor little soul!
She is a mere woman, needing what woman best thrives upon—love!"
"Well, she has been loved and sought in marriage for at least three years by Lord Roxmouth,"—said the Bishop.
"Has SHE been loved and sought, or her aunt's millions?" queried Walden—"That is the point at issue. But my dear Brent, do not let us waste time in talking over this little folly of mine—for I grant you it is folly. I'm not sorry you have found it out, for in any case I had meant to make a clean breast of it before we parted,"—he hesitated—then looked up frankly—"I would rather you spoke no more of it, Harry! I've made my confession. I admit I nearly struck Leveson for slandering an innocent and defenseless woman,—and I believe you'll forgive me for that. Next, I own that though I am getting into the sere and yellow leaf, I am still conscious of a heart,—and that I feel a regretful yearning at times for the joys I have missed out of my life—and you'll forgive me for that too,—I know you will! For the rest, draw a curtain over this little weakness of mine, will you? I don't want to speak of it—I want to fight it and conquer it."
The Bishop stretched out a hand and caught Walden's in a close grasp.
"Right!"—he said—"Do that, and you will do well! It is all a question of fighting and conquering, or—being conquered. But YOU will never give in, John! You are not the man to yield to the wiles of the devil. For there IS a devil!—I am sure of it!" And his dark eyes flashed with a sudden wild light. "A cozening, crafty, lurking devil, that sets temptation before us in such varied and pleasing forms that it is difficult—sometimes impossible—to tell which is right and which is wrong! Walden, we must escape from this devil—we must escape!"
He sprang up with an impulsive quickness which startled Walden, and began to pace up and down the room again.
"A mocking devil,"—he said—"a lying devil!—whispering from morning till evening, and from evening till morning, doubts of God! Doubts whether He, the Creator of worlds, really exists,-doubts as to whether He, or It, is not some huge blind, deaf Force, grinding its way on through limitless and eternal Production and Reproduction to one end,—Annihilation! Walden, you must now hear MY confession! These doubts are driving me mad! I cannot bear the thought of the whirl of countless universes, immeasurable solar systems, crammed with tortured life for which there seems to be no hope, no care, no rescue, no future! I am unable to preach or to FEEL comfort for the human race! The very tragedy of the Cross only brings me to one result—that Truth is always crucified. The world prefers Falsehood. So much so indeed that the Christian religion itself is little more than a super-structure of lies raised above the sepulchre of a murdered Truth. I told you in my letter I had serious thoughts of resigning my bishopric. So I have. My spirit turns to Rome!"
"Rome!" cried Walden—"What, YOU, Brent!—you think of going over to
Rome? What strange fantasy has seized you?"
"Rome," said Brent, slowly, stopping in his restless walk—"is the Mother of Creeds—the antique Muse of the world's history! Filled with the blood of martyrs, hallowed by the memories of saints, she is, she must always be, supreme in matters of faith—or superstition!" And he smiled,—a wan and sorrowful smile—"Or even idolatry, if you will! Emotionalism,—sensationalism in religion— these the craving soul must have, and these Rome gives! We must believe,—mark you, Walden!—we must positively BELIEVE that the Creator of all Universes was moved to such wrath against the helpless human creature He had made, that he cursed that creature forever for merely eating, like a child, fruit which had been forbidden! And after that we must believe everything else that has since followed in the track of the Woman, the Serpent and the Tree. Now in the Church of England I find I cannot believe these things— in the Church of Rome I WILL believe, because I MUST! I will humble myself in dust and ashes, and accept all—all. Anything is better than Nothingness! I will be the lowest of lay brethren, and in solitude and silence, make atonement for my unbelief. It is the only way, Walden!—for me, it is the only way! To Her!" And he pointed up to the picture of the Virgin and Child—"To Her, my vows! As Woman, she will pity me—as Woman, she can be loved!"
Walden heard this wild speech without any word or gesture of interruption. Then, raising his eyes to the picture Brent thus apostrophised, he said, quietly—
"When did you have that painted, Brent?"
A sudden change came over the Bishop's features. He looked as though startled by some vague terror. Then he answered, slowly:
"Some years ago—in Florence. Why do you ask? It is a copy—-"
"Of HER likeness—yes!" said Walden, softly—"I saw that at once. You had it done, of course! She was beautiful and good—she died young. I know! But you have no right to turn your personal passion and grief into a form of worship, Harry!"
The Bishop gazed at him fixedly and solemnly.
"You do not know,"—he murmured—"You have not seen what I have seen! She has come to me lately—she, who died so long ago!—she has come to me night after night, and she has told me to pray for her— 'pray' she says—'pray that I may help to save your soul!' And I must surely do as she bids. I must get away from this place—away from this city of turmoil and wickedness, into some quieter comer of the world,—some monastic retreat where I may end my days in peace,- -I cannot fight my devils here—they are too strong for me!"
"They will be too strong for you anywhere, if you are a coward!"— said Walden, impetuously. "Brent, I thought you had gotten the victory over this old despair of yours long ago! I thought you had made the memory of the woman you loved a noble spur to noble actions! I never dreamed that it would be possible for you to brood silently on your sorrow till you made it a cause of protest against God's will! And worst and strangest of all is this frenzied idea of yours to fly to the Church of Rome for shelter from yourself and your secret misery, and there give yourself over to monasticism and a silent, idolatrous worship,—not of Mary, the Mother of Christ,— but of the mere picture of the woman you loved! And you would pray to THAT?—you would kneel before THAT?—you would pass long hours of fasting and vigil, gazing at that face, till, like the 'stigmata,' it is almost outlined in blood upon your heart? My dear Brent, is it possible your brain is so shaken and your soul so feeble that you must needs seek refuge in a kind of half-spiritual, half-sensuous passion, which is absolute rank blasphemy?"
At this the Bishop raised his head with an air of imperious authority.
"I cannot permit!—-" he said, in unsteady accents—"You have no right to speak to me in such a tone—it is not your place—-"
Then, suddenly, his voice broke, and throwing himself into his chair, he dropped his head forward on the desk and covered it with his hands in an attitude of the utmost abandonment and dejection. The moisture rose to Walden's eyes,—he knew the great tragedy of his friend's life—all comprised in one brief, romantic episode of the adoring love, and sudden loss of a beautiful woman drowned by accident in her own pleasure-boat on the very eve of her marriage with him,—and be knew that just as deep and ardent as the man's passion had been, so deep and ardent was his sorrow—a sorrow that could never be consoled. And John sat silent, deeply moved in himself, and ever and anon glancing upwards at the exquisite face of the painted Virgin above him,—the face of the dead girl whom her lover had thus sanctified. Presently Brent raised his head,—his face was white and worn—his eyes were wet.
"Forgive me, John!" he said—"I have been working hard of late, and my nerves are unstrung. And—I cannot, I cannot forget her! And what is more awful and terrible to me than anything is that I cannot forgive God!" He uttered these words in an awed whisper. "I cannot! I bear the Almighty a grudge for wrenching her life away from mine! Of what use was it to be so cruel? Of what purpose to kill one so young? If God is omnipotent, God could have saved her. But He let her die! I tell you, Walden, that ever since I have been Bishop of this diocese, I have tried to relieve sorrow and pain whenever I have met with it—I have striven to do my duty, hoping against hope that perhaps God would teach me—would explain the why and wherefore of so much needless agony to His creatures—and that by discovering reasons for the afflictions of others, I should learn to become reconciled to my own. But no!—nothing has been made clear! I have seen innocent women die in the tortures of the damned—while their drunken husbands have lived to carouse over their coffins. Children,—mere babes—are afflicted with diseases for which often no cause can be assigned and no cure discovered—while over the whole sweltering mass of human helplessness and ignorance, Death stalks triumphant,—and God, though called upon for rescue with prayers and tears, withdraws Himself in clouds of impenetrable silence. It is all hopeless, useless, irremediable! That is why my thoughts turn to Rome—I say, let me believe in SOMETHING, if it be only a fairy tale! Let me hear grand music mounting to heaven, even if human words cannot reach so high!—let me think that guardian angels exist, even if there is nothing in space save a blind Chance spawning life particles uselessly,—let my soul and senses feel the touch of something higher, vaster, purer and better than what the Church of England calls Christianity at this present day!"
"And that 'something higher, vaster, purer and better'—would you call it the Church of Rome?" asked Walden. "In suggestion,—in emotion and poetic inspiration, yes!"—said Brent—"In theory and in practice, no!"
There was a pause. Walden sat for a few moments absorbed in anxious thought. Then he looked up with a cheerful air.
"Harry," he said—"Will you do me a favour? Promise that you will postpone the idea of seceding, or as you put it, 'returning' to Rome, for six months. Will you? At the end of that time we'll discuss it again."
The Bishop looked uneasy.
"I would rather do what has to be done at once,"—he said.
"Then I must talk to you straightly,"—continued John, bracing himself up, and squaring his shoulders resolutely—"I must forget that you are my Bishop, and speak just as man to man. All the facts of the case can be summed up in one word—Selfishness! Pure Selfishness, Harry!—and I never thought I should have had to convict you of it!"
Brent drew himself slowly up in his chair.
"Selfishness!" he echoed, dreamily—"I can take anything from you,
John!—I did at college,—but—selfishness—-"
"Selfishness!" repeated John, firmly—"You have had to suffer a grief—a great grief,—and because it was so sudden, so tragic and overwhelming, you draw a mourning veil of your own across the very face of God! You try to rule your diocese by the measure of your own rod of affliction. And, finding that nothing is clear to you, because of your own obstructive spirit, you would set up a fresh barrier between yourself and Eternal Wisdom, by deserting your post here, and separating yourself from all the world save the shadow of the woman you yourself loved! Harry, my dear old friend, unless I had heard this from your own lips, I should never have believed it of you!"
Brent sat heavily in his chair, sunk in a brooding melancholy.
"'The heart knoweth its own bitterness!'"—he murmured wearily— "Your reproaches are just,—I know I deserve them, but they do not rouse me. They do not stir one pulse in my soul! What have I learned of Eternal Wisdom?—what have I seen? Nothing but cruelty upon cruelty dealt out, not to the wicked, but to the innocent! And because I protest against this, you call my spirit an obstructive one—well!—it may be so! But, Walden, you have never loved!—you have never felt all your life rush like a river to the sea of passion!—not low, debasing passion, but passion born of vitality, ardour, truth, hope, sympathy!—such emotion as most surely palpitates through the whole body of the natural creation, else there would be naught created. God Himself—if there be a God—must be conscious of Love! Do we not say: 'God IS Love'?—and this too while we suffer beneath His heavy chastisements which are truely more like Hate! I repeat, Walden, you have never loved,—till now perhaps—and even now you are scarcely conscious of the hidden strength of your own feelings. But suppose—just for the sake of argument—suppose this 'little girl' as you call her, Maryllia Vancourt, were to die suddenly, would you not, as you express it, 'draw a mourning veil of your own across the face of God'?"
Walden started as though suddenly wounded. If Maryllia were to die!' He shuddered as the mere thought passed across his brain. 'If Maryllia were to die!' Why then—then the world would be a blank— there would be no more sunshine!—no roses!—no songs of birds!— nothing of fairness or pleasure left in life—not for him, whatever there might be for others. Was it possible that her existence meant so much to him? Yes, it meant so much!—it had come to mean so much! He felt his old friend's melancholy eyes upon him, and looking up met their searching scrutiny with a serious and open frankness.
"Honestly, I think I should die myself, or lose my senses!"—he said—"And honestly, I hardly realised this,—which is just as much selfishness on my part as any of which I hastily accused you,—till you put it to me. I will not profess to have a stoicism beyond mortal limits, Harry, nor should I expect such from you. But I WILL say, that despite our human weakness, we must have courage!—we are not men without it. And whether faith stands fast or falters, whether God seems far off or very near, we must face and fight our destiny—not run away from it! You want to run away,"—and he smiled gravely—"or rather, just in the present mood of yours you think of doing so—but I believe it is only a mood—and that you will not, after putting your hand to the plough, turn back because of the aridness or ungratefulness of the soil,—that would not be like you. If one must needs perish, it is better to perish at one's post of duty than desert over to the enemy."
"I am not sure that Rome is an enemy;"—said the Bishop, musingly.
To this Walden gave no reply, and the conversation fell into other channels. But, during the whole time of his visit, John was forced to realise, with much acute surprise and distress, that constant brooding on grief,—and excessive spiritual emotion of an exalted and sensuous kind, with much perplexed pondering on human evils for which there seemed no remedy, had produced a painful impression of life's despair and futility on Brent's mind,—an impression which it would be difficult to eradicate, and which would only be softened and possibly diminished by tenderly dealing with it as though it were an illness, and gradually bringing about restoration and recovery through the gentlest means. Though sometimes it was to be feared that all persuasion would be useless, and that the scandalous spectacle of an English Bishop seceding to the Church of Rome would be exhibited with an almost theatrical effect in his friend's case. For the ornate ritual which the Bishop maintained in his Cathedral services was almost worthy of a Mass at St. Peter's. The old, simple chaste English style of 'Morning Prayer' was exchanged for 'Matins,'—choristers perpetually chanted and sang,—crosses were carried to and fro,—banners waved—processions were held—and the 'Via Crucis' was performed by a select number of the clergy and congregation every Friday.
"I never have this sort of thing in my church,"—said Walden, bluntly, on one occasion—"My parishioners would not understand it."
"Why not teach them to understand it?" asked the Bishop, dreamily. They were standing together in the beautiful old Cathedral, now empty save for their presence, and Brent's eyes were fixed with a kind of sombre wistfulness on a great gold crucifix up on the altar.
"Teach them to understand it?" echoed Walden, with a touch of sorrow and indignation—"You are my Bishop, but if you commanded me to teach them these 'vain repetitions' prohibited by the Divine Master, I should disobey you!"
The Bishop flushed red.
"You disapprove?"
"I disapprove of everything that tends to put England back again into the old religious fetters which she so bravely broke and cast aside,"—said John, warmly—"I disapprove of all that even hints at the possibility of any part of the British Empire becoming the slave of Rome!"
Brent gave a weary gesture.
"In religious matters it is wiser to be under subjection than free,"—he said, with a sigh—"In a state of freedom we may think as we please—and freedom of thought breeds doubt,—whereas in a state of subjection we think as we MUST, and so we are gradually forced into an attitude of belief. The spread of atheism among the English is entirely due to the wild, liberty of opinion allowed tham by their forms of faith."
"I do not agree with you!"—declared Walden, firmly—"The spread of atheism is due, not to freedom of opinion, nor forms of faith, but simply to the laxity and weakness of the clergy."
The Bishop looked at him with a smile.
"You always speak straight out, John!" he said—"You always did! And strange to say, I like you all the better for it. I could, if I chose, both reprove and command you—but I will do neither. You must take your own way, as you always have done. But there is a flavour of Rome even in your little church of St. Rest,—your miracle shrine,—your unknown saint in the alabaster coffin. You and your parishioners kneel before that every Sunday."
"True—but we do not kneel to IT,—nor do we pray through It,"— replied Walden—"It stays in the chancel because it was found in the chancel. But it does not make a miracle shrine' as you say,—there is nothing miraculous about it."
"If it contains the body of a Saint,"—said the Bishop, slowly—"it MUST be miraculous! If, in the far-gone centuries, the prayers and tears of sorrowful human beings have bedewed that cold stone, some efficacy, some tenderness, some vitality, born of these prayers and tears, must yet remain! Walden, we preach the supernatural—do we not believe in it?"
"The Divine supernatural—yes!" answered Walden,—"But—-" The
Bishop interrupted him by a gesture of his delicate hand.
"There are no 'buts' in the matter, John,"—he said, quietly—"What is supernatural is so by its own nature. The Divine is the Human, the Human is the Divine. In all and through all things the Spirit moves and makes its way. Our earth and ourselves are but particles of matter, worked by the spirit or essence of creative force. This spirit we can neither see nor touch, therefore we call it super- natural. But it permeates all things,—the stone as completely as the flower. It circulates through that alabaster sarcophagus in your church, as easily as through your own living veins. Hence, as I say, if the mortal remains of a saint are enshrined within that reliquary, the spirit or 'soul' enveloping it MAY work 'miracles,' for all we dare to know!" He paused, and looking kindly at Walden's grave and somewhat troubled face, added—"Some day, when we are in very desperate straits, John, we will am what your saint can do for us!"
He smiled. Walden returned the smile, but nevertheless was conscious of a sorrowful sense of regret at what he considered his friend's leaning toward superstitious observances and idolatrous ceremonies. At the same time he well knew that any violent opposition on the subject would be worse than useless in the Bishop's present mood. He therefore contented himself with, as he mentally said, 'putting in the thin end of the wedge'—and,—carefully steering clear of all controversial matters,—contrived in a great measure to reassert the old magnetic sway he had been wont to exercise over Brent's more pliable mind when at college—so that before they parted, he had obtained from him a solemn promise that there should be no 'secession' or even preparation for secession to Rome, till six months had elapsed.
"And if you would only put away that picture,"—said Walden, earnestly, pointing towards the 'Virgin and Child'—"Or rather, if you would have another one painted of the sweet woman you loved as she really was in life, it would be wiser and safer for your own peace."
The Bishop shook his head.
"The Virgin and Child are a symbol of all humanity,"—he said— "Mother and Son,—Present and Future! Woman holds the human race in her arms—at her breast!—without her, Chaos would come again! And for me, all Womanhood is personified in that one face!"
He raised his eyes to the picture with an almost devout passion—and then abruptly turned away. The conversation was not renewed again between them, but when Walden parted from his friend, he had the satisfaction of knowing that he left him in a brighter, more hopeful and healthful condition, cheered, soothed and invigorated by the exchange of that mutual confidence and close sympathy which had linked their two lives together in boyhood, and which held them still subtly and tenderly responsive to each other's most intimate emotions as men.
XXVIII
Arriving home at his own domain late on the Saturday night, Walden had no opportunity to learn anything of the incidents which had occurred during his brief absence. Letters were waiting for him, but he opened none, and shut himself up in his study at once to prepare his next day's sermon. He wrote on far into the night, long after all the servants of his household had retired to rest, and overslept himself the next morning in consequence, therefore his preparation for the eleven o'clock service were necessarily somewhat hurried, and he had not time to say more than a cheery 'Good-morning' even to Bainton, whom he passed on his way into the church, or to Adam Frost, though he fancied that both, men looked at him somewhat curiously, as with an air of mingled doubt and enquiry. Once within the sacred building he was conscious of an exceptionally crowded congregation. None that he could see were missing from their usual places. Maryllia certainly was not there,—but as she was admittedly not a church-goer, he did not expect her to be present. Badsworth Hall was entirely unrepresented, much to his relief; neither Sir Morton Pippitt nor Lord Roxmouth, nor Mr. Marius Longford were anywhere visible. Old Josey Letherbarrow sat in his usual corner,— everything was precisely the same as it was wont to be—and yet a sense of vague trouble oppressed him,—he saw, or thought he saw, an expression on some of the faces of his parishioners which was new to him, and he felt instinctively that some disturbing element had found its way into the peace of the village, though what the trouble could be, he was at a loss to imagine. He chose as his text: 'What went ye out for to see? A reed shaken with the wind?' and preached thereon with wonderful force, simplicity, eloquence and fervour— though all the time he spoke he wondered why his people stared at him so persistently, and why so many round eyes in so many round faces appeared to express such a lively, not to say questioning curiosity.
After service, however, the whole mystery was cleared up. Bainton, in his Sunday best, with hat in hand, presented himself at the garden gate on his master's return from the church to the rectory, and after a word or two was admitted into the study. Bainton, honest as the daylight, and sturdy in his principles as an oak in its fibres, had determined to have 'no humbuggin' wi' Passon.' And in a few words, spoken with a great deal of feeling and rough eloquence, he had told all,—how Miss Vancourt had gone away 'suddint-like' from the Manor,—and how it was said and reported all through the county and neighbourhood that she had gone because her engaged husband, Lord Roxmouth, had caught her 'makin' love' to a parson, that parson being no other than St. Rest's own beloved 'man o' God,' John Walden. And that Lord Roxmouth had at once gone after her, and that neither of the twain 'weren't never comin' back no more.' So said Bainton, twirling his cap round, and fixing his eyes sympathetically on his master's face,—eyes as faithful as those of the dog Nebbie, who clambered at his master's knee, equally gazing up at him with a fondness exceeding all speech.
John Walden sat, white and rigid, in his chair and heard the tale out to its end.
"Is that all?" he asked, when Bainton had concluded.
"That's all, an' ain't it enough, Passon?" queried Bainton in somewhat dismal accents. "Not that I takes in 'arf wot I hears, but from the fust I sez you should know every bit on it, an' if no one else 'ad the 'art or the pluck to tell ye straight out, I'd tell ye myself. For that old Miss Tabitha's got a tongue as long as a tailor's yard-measure wot allus measures a bit oif to 'is own good, an' Sir Morton Pippitt he do nothin' but run wild-like all over the place a-talkin' of it everywhere, an' old Putty Leveson, he's up at the 'All, day in, an' day out, tellin' 'ow you was goin' to hit 'im in the eye—hor-hor-hor!—an' why didn't ye do it, Passon?—'twould a' been a real Gospel mercy!—an' 'ow 'twas all about Miss Vancourt, till Mr. Hadderley 'e come up an throwed 'im over in the road on 'is back which makes me think all the better o' that young man, 'owsomever, I never took to 'im afore. But though he's all skin an' bone an' long 'air as red as a biled carrot, he's got a fist of 'is own, that's pretty plain, an' if he knocked down old Putty Leveson it shows 'e's got some sense in 'im as well as sperrit. For it's all over the place that there's trouble about Miss Vancourt, an' you may take my wurrd for it, Passon, they don't leave the poor little leddy alone, nor you neither, an' never takes into their minds as 'ow you're old enough to be 'er father. That Miss Tabitha don't spare no wurrds agin 'er—an' as ye know, Passon, she's a leddy wot's like curdled cream all gone wrong in a thunderstorm. Anyways, I thought it best to tell ye straight out an' no lyin' nor trickin'—an' if I've stepped over my dooty, I 'umbly axes pardin, but I means well, Passon,—I means well,—I do reely now!"
Walden looked up,—his eyes were glittering—his lips were pate and dry.
"I know-I know!"—he said, speaking with an effort—"You're an honest fellow, Bainton!—and—and—I thank you! Tou not only mean well—you have done well. But it's a lie, Bainton!—it's all a wicked, damnable lie!"
He sprang to his feet as he said this, the wrath in his eyes flashing a steel-like lightning.
"It's a lie!" he repeated—"Do you understand? A cruel, abominable lie!"
Bainton twirled his cap sympathetically.
"So it be, Passon,"—he murmured—"So it be—I know'd that all along! It's a lie set goin' by that fine gentleman rascal, Lord Roxmouth, wot can't get Miss Maryllia and 'er aunt's money nohow. Lor' bless ye, I sees that plain enough! But take it 'ow we will, a lie's a nasty sort o' burr to stick to a good name, 'speshully a name like yours, Passon,—an' when it comes to that I feel that moithered an' worrited-like not knowin' 'ow to pick the burr off again. An' Lord Roxmouth he be gone away or mebbe you could a' had it out wi' him—-"
"That will do, Bainton!"—said Walden, interrupting him by a gesture—"Say no more about it, please! I'm glad you've spoken,—I'm glad I know! But,—let it rest there! Never allude to it again!"
Bainton glanced up timorously at his master's pale set face.
"Ain't nothin' goin' to be done?" he faltered anxiously—"Nothin' to say as 'ow it's all a lie—-"
"Nothing on my part!"—said Walden, quickly and sternly, "The best answer to such low gossip and slander is silence. You understand?"
His look was a command, and Bainton felt it to be such. Shuffling about a little, he murmured something about the 'apples comin' on fine in the orchard'—as if Walden's three days' absence had somehow or other accelerated their ripening, and then slowly and reluctantly retired, deeply dejected in his own mind.
"For silence gives consent," he argued dolefully with himself— "That's copybook truth! Yet o' coorse 'tain't to be expected as Passon would send for the town-crier from Riversford to ring a bell through the village an' say as 'ow he 'adn't nothin' to dp with Miss Vancourt nor she with 'im. Onny the worst of it is that in this wurrld lies is allus taken for truth since the beginnin', when the Sarpint told the first big whopper in the Garden of Eden an' took in poor silly Eve. An' ye can't contradict a lie somehow without makin' it look more a truth than ever,—that's the way o' the thing. An' it do stick!—Passon himself 'ull find that out,—it do stick, it do reely now!"
Meantime, Walden, left alone, gave himself up to a tumult of misery and self-torture. His sensitive nature shrank from the breath of vulgar scandal like the fine frond of delicate foliage from the touch of a coarse finger. He had never before been associated with the faintest rumour of it,—his life had been too simple, too austere, and too far removed from all the trumpery shows and petty intrigues of society. He felt himself now in a manner debased by having had to listen with enforced patience to Bainton's rambling account of the gossip going on in the neighbourhood, and despite that worthy servitor's disquisition on the subject, he could not imagine how it had arisen, unless his quarrel with Putwood Leveson were the cause. It was all so sudden and unlooked for! Maryllia had gone away,—and that fact of itself was sufficient to make darkness out of sunshine. He could not quite realise it. And not only had she gone away, but some slanderous story had been concocted concerning her in connection with himself, which was being bandied about on all the tongues of the village and county. How it had arisen he could not understand. He was, of course, unaware of the part Lord Roxmouth had played in the matter, and in his ignorance of the true source of the mischief, tormented his mind with endless fancies and perplexities, all of which helped to increase his annoyance and agitation. Pacing restlessly up and down his study, his eyes presently fell on the little heap of letters which had accumulated on his table during his brief absence, all as yet unopened. Turning them over indifferently, he came suddenly on one small sealed note, inscribed as having been left 'by hand,' addressed to him in the bold frank writing to which he had once, not so very long ago, felt such an inexplicable aversion when Mrs. Spruce was the recipient of a first letter from the same source. Now he snatched the little missive up with a strangely impulsive ardour, and being quite alone, indulged himself in the pleasure of kissing the firm free pen- strokes with all the passion of a boy. Then opening it, he read:
"DEAR MR. WALDEN,—You will be surprised to find that I have gone away from the dear home I love so well, and I daresay you will think me very capricious. But please do not judge me hastily, or believe everything you may hear of me from others. I am very sorry to go away just now, but circumstances leave me no other choice. I should like to have bidden you good-bye, as I could perhaps have explained things to you better, but old Josey Letherbarrow tells me you have gone to see the Bishop on business, so I leave this note myself just to say that I hope you will think as kindly of me as you can now I am gone. Please go into the Manor gardens as often as you like, and let the sick and old people in the village have plenty of the flowers and fruit. By doing this you will please me very much. My agent, Mr. Stanways, will be quite at your service if you ever want his assistance. Perhaps I ought just to mention that Lord Roxmouth overheard our conversation in the picture-gallery that night of the dinner-party. He was very rude about it. I tell you this in case you should see him, but I do not think you will. Good-bye! Try to forget that I smoked that cigarette!—Your sincere friend," "MARYLLIA VANCOURT."
As he perused these lines, Walden alternately grew hot and cold—red and pale. All was clear to him now!-it was Lord Roxmouth who had played the spy and eavesdropper! He recalled every little detail of the scene in the picture-gallery and at once realised how much a treacherous as well as jealous and vindictive man could make of it. Maryllia's hand laid so coaxingly on his arm,—Maryllia's face so sweetly and pleadingly upturned,—Maryllia's half-tender tremulous voice with its 'Will you forgive me?'—and then—his own impetuous words!—the way he had caught her hand and kissed it!—why his very look must have betrayed him to the 'noble and honourable' detective, part of whose distinguished role it was to listen at doors and afterwards relate to an inquisitive and scandal-loving society all that he heard within. By degrees he grasped the whole situation. He realised that his name and honour lay at the mercy of this man Roxmouth, who under the circumstances of the constant check put upon his mercenary aims, would certainly spare no pains to injure both. And he felt sick at heart.
Locking Maryllia's note carefully in his desk, he stepped into his garden and walked up and down the lawn slowly with bent head, Nebbie trotting after him with a sympathetically disconsolate air. And gradually it dawned upon him that Maryllia had possibly—nay very probably—gone away for his sake,—to make things easier for him—to remove her presence altogether from his vicinity-and so render Roxmouth's tale-bearing, with its consequent malicious gossip, futile, till of itself it died away and was forgotten. As this idea crossed his mind and deepened into conviction, his eyes filled with a sudden smarting moisture.
"Poor child!" he said, half aloud—"Poor little lonely child!"
Then a fresh thought came to him,—one which made the blood run more quickly through his veins and caused his heart to pulsate with quite a foolish joy. If—if she had indeed gone away out of a sweet womanly wish to save him from what she imagined might cause him embarrassment or perplexity, then—then surely she cared! Yes—she must care for him greatly as a friend,—though only as a friend—to be willing to sacrifice the pleasure of passing all the summer in the old home to which she had so lately returned, merely to relieve him of any difficulty her near society might involve. If she cared! Was such a thing—could such a thing be possible? Tormented by many mingled feelings of tenderness, regret and pain, John pondered his own heart's problem anxiously, and tried to decide the best course to pursue,—the best for her—the best for himself. He was not long in coming to a decision, and once resolved, he was more at ease.
When he celebrated the evening service that Sunday the garrulous Bainton saw, much to his secret astonishment, that the effect of his morning's communication had apparently left no trace on his master's ordinary demeanour, except perhaps to add a little extra gravity to his fine strong features, and accentuate the reserve of his accustomed speech and manner. His habitual dignity was even greater than usual,—his composed mien and clear steadfastness of eye had lost nothing of their quelling and authoritative influence,—and so far as his own manner and actions showed, the absence or presence of Miss Vancourt was a matter to him of complete unconcern. His visit to his friend the Bishop had 'done 'im a power o' good'—said his parishioners, observing him respectfully, as, Sunday being over and the week begun, he went about among them on his accustomed round of duty, enquiring after the poultry and the cattle with all the zeal expected of him. The name of Miss Vancourt seldom passed his lips,— when other people spoke of her, either admiringly, questioningly or suggestively, he merely listened, offering no opinion. He denied himself to all 'county' visitors on plea of press of work,—he never once went to Abbot's Manor or entered the Manor grounds—and the only persons with whom he occasionally interchanged hospitalities were Julian Adderley and the local doctor, 'Jimmy' Eorsyth. Withdrawing himself in this fashion into closer seclusion than ever, his life became almost hermit-like, for except in regard to his daily parish work, he seldom or never went beyond the precincts of his own garden.
Days went on, weeks went on,—and soon, too soon, summer was over. The melancholy autumn shook down the once green leaves, all curled up in withering death-convulsions, from the branches of the trees now tossing in chill wind and weeping mists of rain. No news had been received by anyone in the village concerning Maryllia. The 'Sisters Gemini,' Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby, had departed from Abbot's Manor when the time of their stay had concluded, and neither of the twain had given the slightest hint to any enquirer, as to the probable date of the return of the mistress of the domain. Sir Morton Pippitt at last got tired of talking scandal for which there seemed no visible or tangible foundation, and even his daughter Tabitha began to wonder whether after all there was not some exaggeration in the story Lord Roxmouth had given her to sow like rank seed upon the soil of daily circumstance? She never saw Walden by any chance,—on one occasion she ventured to call, but he was 'out' as usual. Neither could she persuade Julian Adderley to visit at Badsworth Hall. A veil of obscurity and silence was gradually but surely drawn between St. Rest and the outlying neighbourhood so far as its presiding ruler John Walden was concerned, while within the village his reticence and reserve were so strongly marked that even the most privileged person in the place, Josey Letherbarrow, awed at his calm, cold, almost stern aspect, hesitated to speak to him except on the most ordinary matters, for fear of incurring his displeasure.
Meanwhile the village sorely missed the bright face and sweet ways of 'th' owld Squire's gel'—and many of the inhabitants tried to get news of her through Mrs. Spruce, but all in vain. That good lady, generally so talkative, was for once in her life more than discreetly dumb. All that she would say was that she "didn't know nothink. Miss Maryllia 'ad gone abroad an' all 'er letters was sent to London solicitors. Any other address? No—no other address. The servants was to be kep' on—no one wasn't goin' to lose their places if they behaved theirselves, which please the Lord, they will do!"— she concluded, with much fervour. Bennett, the groom, was entrusted with the care of the mares Cleo and Daffodil, and might be seen exercising them every day on the open moors beyond the village, accompanied by the big dog Plato,—and so far as the general management of affairs was concerned, that was ably undertaken by the agent Stanways, who though civil and obliging to all the tenantry, had no news whatever to give respecting the absence or the probable return of the lady of the Manor. The Reverend Putwood Leveson occasionally careered through the village on his bicycle, accompanied by Oliver Leach who bestrode a similar machine, and both individuals made a point of grinning broadly as they passed the church and rectory of St. Rest, jerking their fingers and thumbs at both buildings with expressively suggestive contempt.
And by and by the people began to settle down, into the normal quietude which had been more or less their lot, before Maryllia, with her vivacious little musical protegee Cicely Bourne had awakened a new interest and animation in the midst of their small community,—and they began to resign themselves to the idea that her 'whim' for residing once more in the home of her childhood had passed, and that she would now, without doubt, marry the future Duke of Ormistoune, and pass away from the limited circle of St. Rest to those wider spheres of fashion, the splendours of which, mere country-folk are not expected to have more than the very faintest glimmering conception. Even in that independent corner of opinion, the tap-room of the 'Mother Huff,' her name was spoken with almost bated breath, though Mr. Netlips was not by any means loth to spare any flow of oratorical eloquence on the subject.
"I think, Mr. Buggins," he said one evening, addressing 'mine host' with due gravity—"I think you will recall to your organisation certain objective propositions I made with regard to Miss Vancourt, when that lady first entered into dominative residence at Abbot's Manor. Personally speaking, I have no discrepancies to suggest beyond the former utterance. Matters in which I have taken the customary mercantile interest have culminated with the lady to the satisfaction of all sides. Nothing has been left standing controversially on my books. Nevertheless it would be repudiative to say that I have sophisticated my previous opinion. I said then, and I confirm the observation, that a heathen cannot enjoy the prospective right of the commons."
"I s'pose,"—said Mr. Buggins, meditatively in reference to this outburst—"you means, Mr. Netlips, that Miss Vancourt is a kind of heathen?"
Mr. Netlips nodded severely.
"'Cos she don't go to church?" suggested Dan Ridley, who as usual was one of the tap-room talkers. Again Mr. Netlips nodded.
"Well," said Dan, "she came to church once an' brought her friends— -"
"Late,—very late,"—interposed Mr. Netlips, solemnly—"The tardiness of her entrance was marked by the strongest decorum. The strongest, the most open decorum! Deplorable decorum!"
"What's decorum?" enquired Mr. Buggins, anxiously.
Mr. Netlips waved one fat hand expressively.
"Decorum,"—he said—"is—well!—decorum."
Buggins scratched his head dubiously. Dan Ridley looked perplexed. There was a silence,—the men listening to the wailing of a rising wind that was beginning to sweep round the house and whistle down the big open chimney, accompanied by pattering drops of rain.
"Summer's sheer over,"—said a labourer, lifting his head from his tankard of ale—"Howsomever, we're all safe this winter in the worst o' weather. Rents are all down at 'arf what they was under Oliver Leach, thanks to the new lady, so whether she's a decorum or not don't matter to me. She's a right good sort—so here's to her!"
And he drained off his ale at one gulp with a relish, several men present following his example.
"Passon Walden,"—began Dan Ridley—"Passon Walden—-"
But here there was a sudden loud metallic crash. Buggins had overturned two empty pewter-mugs on his counter.
"No gossiping o' Passon Walden allowed 'ere,"—he said,—"Not while
I'm master o' this public!"
"Leeze majestas,"—proclaimed Mr. Netlips, impressively—"You're right, Buggins—you're quite right! Leeze majestas would be entirely indigenous—entirely so!"
An awkward pause ensued. 'Leeze majestas' in all its dark incomprehensibility had fallen like a weight upon the tavern company, and effectually checked any further conversation. It was one of those successful efforts of Mr. Netlips, which, by its ponderous vagueness and inscrutability, produced an overwhelming effect. There was nothing to be said after it.
The gold and crimson glory of autumn slowly waned and died,—and the village began to look very lonely and dreary. Heavy rains fell and angry gales blew,—so that when dark November came glooming in, with lowering skies, there was scarcely so much as a leaf of russet or scarlet Virginian creeper clinging to roof or wall. The woods around Abbot's Manor were leafless except where the pines and winter laurel grew in thick clusters, and where several grand old hollies showed their scarlet berries ripening among the glossy green. The Manor itself however looked wide-awake and cheerful,—smoke poured up from the chimneys and glints of firelight sparkled through the windows,— all the shutters, which had been put up after the departure of the 'Sisters Gemini,' were taken down—blinds were raised and curtains drawn back,—and as soon as these signs and tokens were manifested, people were not slow in asking Mrs. Spruce whether Miss Vancourt was coming back for Christmas? But to all enquiries that estimable dame gave the same answer. She 'didn't know nothink.' The groom Bennett was equally reticent. He had received 'no orders.' Mr. Stanways, the agent, and his wife, both of whom had become very friendly with all the villagers, were cheerfully talkative on every subject but one,— that of Miss Vancourt and her movements. All they could or would say was that her return was 'quite uncertain.' Fires were lighted in the Manor—oh yes!—to keep the house well aired—and windows were opened for the same purpose,—but beyond that—'really," said Mr. Stanways, smiling pleasantly—'I can give no information!'
The days grew shorter, gloomier and colder,—and soon, when the chill nip of winter began to make itself felt in grim damp earnest, the whole county woke up from the pleasant indolence into which the long bright summer had steeped it, and responded animatedly to the one pulse of vitality which kept it going. The hunting season began. Old, otherwise dull men, started up into the semblance of youth again, and sprang to their saddles with almost as much rigour and alertness as boys,—and Reynard with his cubs ruled potently the hour. The first 'meet' of the year was held at Ittlethwaite Park,— and for days before it took place nothing else was talked of. Hunting was really the one occupation of the gentry of the district,—everything else distinctly 'bored' them. Many places in England are entirely under the complete dominion of this particular form of sport,—places, where, if you do not at least talk about hunting and nothing BUT hunting, you are set down as a fool. Politics, art, literature,—these matters brought into conversation merely excite a vacuous stare and yawn,—and you may consider yourself fortunate if, in alluding to such things at all, you are not considered as partially insane. To obtain an ordinary reputation for common-sense in an English hunting county, you must talk horse all day and play Bridge all night,—then and then only will you have earned admission into these 'exclusive' circles where the worth of a quadruped exceeds the brain of a man.
The morning of the meet dawned dully—yet now and then the sun shone fitfully through the clouds, lighting up with a cold sparkle the thick ivy, wet with the last night's rain, which clung to the walls of Walden's rectory. There was a chill wind, and the garden looked bleak and deserted, though it was kept severely tidy, Bainton never failing to see that all fallen leaves were swept up every afternoon and all weeds 'kep' under.' But there was no temptation to saunter down the paths or across the damp lawn in such weather, and Walden, seated by a blazing fire in his study, with Nebbie snoozing at his feet, was sufficiently comfortable to be glad that no 'parochial' duties called him forth just immediately from his warm snuggery. He had felt a little ailing of late—'the oncoming of age and infirmity,' he told himself, and he looked slightly more careworn. The strong restraint he had imposed upon himself since he knew the nature of the scandal started by Lord Roxmouth, and the loyal and strict silence he had maintained on the subject that was nearest and dearest to his own heart, had been very trying to him. There was no one to whom he could in any way unburden his mind. Even to his closest friend, Bishop Brent, he had merely written the briefest of letters, informing him that Miss Vancourt had left Abbot's Manor for a considerable time,—but no more than this. He longed passionately for news of Maryllia, but none came. The only person to whom he sometimes spoke of her, but always guardedly, was Julian Adderley. Julian had received one or two letters from Cicely Bourne,—but they were all about her musical studies, and never a word of Maryllia in them. And Julian was almost as anxious to know what had become of her as Walden himself, the more so as he heard constantly from Marius Longford, who never ceased urging him to try and discover her whereabouts. Which request proved that, for once. Lord Roxmouth had been foiled, and that even he with all his various social detectives at work, had lost all trace of her.
On this particular morning of the opening of the hunting season, Walden sat by the fire reading,—or trying to read. He was conscious of a great depression,—a 'fit of the blues,' which he attributed partly to the damp, lowering weather. Idly he turned over the leaves of a first edition of Tennyson's poems,—pausing here and there to glance at a favourite lyric or con over a well-remembered verse, when the echo of a silvery horn blown clear on the wintry silence startled him out of his semi-abstraction. Rising, he went instinctively to the window, though from that he could see nothing but his own garden, looking blank enough in its flowerless condition, the only bright speck in it being a robin sitting on a twig hard by, that ruffled its red breast prettily and blinked its trustful eye at him with a friendly air of sympathy and recognition. He listened attentively for a moment and heard the approaching trot and gallop of horses,—then suddenly recalling the fact that the hounds were to meet that day at Ittlethwaite Park, he took his hat and went out to see if any of the hunters were passing by.
A wavering mass of colour gleamed at the farther end of the village as he looked down the winding road;—scarlet coats, white vests and buckskin breeches showed bravely against the satiny brown and greys of a fine group of gaily prancing steeds that came following after the huntsmen, the hounds and the whippers-in, and a cheery murmur of pleasant voices, broken with an occasional musical ring of laughter, dispersed for a time the heaviness of the rainy air. Something unusually pleasant seemed to animate the faces of all who composed the hunting train as they came into view,—Miss Arabella Ittlethwaite, for example, portly of bulk though she was, sat in her saddle with an almost mirthful lightness, her good-natured fat face all smiles,—while her brother Bruce, laughing heartily over something which had evidently tickled his fancy, looked more like thirty than sixty, so admirably did his 'pink' become him, and so excellently well did he ride. Walden saluted them as they passed, and they gave him a pleasant 'good-day.' But,—what was that sudden flash of deep purple, which the fitful sun, peering sulkily through grey clouds, struck upon quickly with a slanting half-smile of radiance? What—and who was the woman riding lightly, with uplifted head like a queen, in the midst of the company, surrounded by all the younger men of the neighbourhood who, keeping their horses close on either side of her, appeared to be trying to outrival each other in eager attentions, in questions and answers, in greetings and hat- liftings, and general exchange of courtesies? Walden rubbed his eyes, and gazed and gazed,-anon his heart gave a wild leap, and he felt himself growing deadly pale. Had the portrait of 'Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt' in Abbot's Manor come visibly to life?—or was it, could it be indeed,—Maryllia?