Allowing this brilliant simile to pass without comment, Walden took the thick, creamy-white object she offered and found himself considering it with a curious disfavour. It was a strictly 'fashionable' make of envelope, and was addressed in a particularly bold and assertive hand-writing to
MRS. SPRUCE, Housekeeper, Abbot's Manor, St. Rest.
Opening it, the Reverend John read as follows:
"Miss Vancourt begs to inform Mrs. Spruce that she will arrive at
Abbot's Manor on the 7th inst., to remain there in residence. Mrs.
Spruce is requested to engage the necessary household servants, as
Miss Vancourt will bring none except the groom in charge of her two
hunters."
Over and over again Walden read this curt and commonplace note, with a sense of irritation which he knew was perfectly absurd, but which, nevertheless, defied all reason. The paper on which it was written was thick and satiny,—and there was a faint artificial odour of violets about it which annoyed him. He hated scented notepaper. Deliberately he replaced it in its envelope, and holding it for a moment as he again studied the superscription, he addressed the expectant Mrs. Spruce, who had re-seated herself and was waiting for him to speak.
"Well, Mrs. Spruce, I don't think you need any advice from me on such a simple matter as this," he said slowly. "Your duty is quite plain. You must obey orders. Miss Vancourt is, I suppose, the mistress of Abbot's Manor?"
"She is, sir,—of course it all belongs to Miss Maryllia—"
"Miss—what?" interrupted Walden, with a sudden lightening of his dark blue eyes.
"Maryllia, sir. It is a kind of family name, pronounced 'Ma-rill- yer,'" explained Mrs. Spruce with considerable pomposity; "Many folks never gets it right—it wants knowledge and practice. But if you remember the pictures in the gallery at the Manor, sir, you may call to mind one of the ancestresses of the Vancourts, painted in a vi'let velvet; ridin' dress and holdin' a huntin' crop, and the name underneath is 'Mary Ella Adelgisa de Vaignecourt' and it was after her that the old Squire called his daughter Maryllia, rollin' the two fust names, Mary Elia, into one, as it were, just to make a name what none of his forebears had ever had. He was a queer man, the old Squire—he wouldn't a-cared whether the name was Christian or heathen."
"I suppose not." said the Reverend John carelessly, rising and pushing back his chair with a slightly impatient gesture; whereupon Mrs. Spruce rose too, and stood 'at attention,' her loosened bonnet- strings flying and her large black calico pocket well in evidence to the front of her skirt.
"Here's your letter, Mrs. Spruce;" and as she took it from his hand with a curtsey he continued: "There is evidently nothing for it but to get the house in order by the day appointed and do your best to please the lady. I can quite understand that you feel a little worried at having to prepare everything so quickly and unexpectedly,—but after all, you must have often thought that Miss Vancourt's return to her old home was likely to happen at any time."
"Which I never did, sir!" declared Mrs. Spruce emphatically, "No, sir, never! For when the old Squire died, she was jest a slip of fifteen and her uncle, the Squire's own twin brother, what had married an American heiress with somethin' like a hundred million of money, so I'm told, took her straight away and adopted her like, and the reg'ler pay for keepin' up the Manor and grounds has been sent to us through a Bank, and so far we've got nothin' to complain of bein' all strictly honourable both ways, but of Miss Vancourt we never heard a thing. And Mr. Oliver Leach he is the agent of the property, and he ain't never said a word,—and we think, me and my husband, that he don't know nothin' of her comin' back, and should we tell him, sir? Or would you reckon that we'd better keep a still tongue in our heads till she do come? For there's no knowin' why or wherefore she's comin',—though we did hear her poor uncle died two years ago, and we wondered where she and her aunt with the hundred million was got to—but mebbe she'll change her mind and not come, after all?"
"I should certainly not count upon that, if I were you, Mrs. Spruce," said Walden decisively; "Your business is to keep everything in order for the lady's arrival; but I don't think,—I really don't think, you are at all bound to inform Mr. Oliver Leach of the matter. He will no doubt find out for himself. or receive his orders direct from Miss Vancourt." Here he paused. "How old did you say she was when, she went away from home?"
"Fifteen, sir. That was nigh eleven years ago,—just one week after the Squire's funeral, and a year afore you came here, sir. She's gettin' on for seven-and-twenty now."
"Quite a woman, then," said Walden lightly; "Old enough to know her own mind at any rate. Do you remember her?"
"Perfectly well, sir,—a little flitterin' creature all eyes and hair, with a saucy way of tossin' her curls about, and a trick of singin' and shoutin' all over the place. She used to climb the pine trees and sit in them and pelt her father with the cones. Oh, yes, sir, she was a terrible child to rule, and it's Gospel truth there was no ruling her, for the governesses came and went like the seasons, one in, t'other out. Ay, but the Lord knows I'll never forget the scream she gave when the Squire was brought home from the hunting field stone dead!"
Here John Walden turned his head towards her with an air of more interest than he had yet shown.
"Ah!—How was that?" he enquired.
"He was killed jumpin' a fence;" went on Mrs. Spruce; "A fine, handsome gentleman,—they say he'd been wild in his youth; anyhow he got married in London to a great Court beauty, so I've been told. And after the wedding, they went travelling allover the world for a year and a half, and just when they was expected 'ome Mrs. Vancourt died with the birth of the child, and he and the baby and the nurses all came back here and he never stirred away again himself till death took him at full gallop,—which is 'ow he always wished to die. But poor Miss Maryllia—" And Mrs. Spruce sighed dolefully— "'Twas hard on her, seein' him ride off so gay and well and cheery in the early mornin' to be brought home afore noon a corpse! Ay, it was an awsome visitation of the Lord! Often when the wind goes wimblin' through the pines near the house I think I 'ear her shriek now,—ay, sir!—it was like the cry of somethin' as was havin' its heart tore out!"
Walden stood very silent, listening. This narrative was new to him, and even Mrs. Spruce's manner of relating it was not without a certain rough eloquence. The ancient history of the Vancourts he knew as well as he knew the priceless archaeological value of their old Manor-house as a perfect gem of unspoilt Tudor architecture,— but though he had traced the descent of the family from Robert Priaulx de Vaignecourt of the twelfth century and his brother Osmonde Priaulx de Vaignecourt who had, it was rumoured, founded a monastery in the neighbourhood, and had died during a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, he had ceased to follow the genealogical tree with much attention or interest when the old Norman name of De Vaignecourt had degenerated into De Vincourt and finally in the times of James I. had settled down into Vancourt. Yet there was a touch of old-world tragedy in Mrs. Spruce's modern history of the young girl's shriek when she found herself suddenly fatherless on that fatal hunting morning.
"And now," continued Mrs. Spruce, coaxing one bonnet-string at a time off each portly shoulder with considerable difficulty; "I s'pose I must be goin', Passon Walden, and thank you kindly for all! It's a great weight off my mind to have told you just what's 'appened, an' the changes likely to come off, and I do assure you I'm of your opinion, Passon, in letting Oliver Leach shift for himself, for if so be Miss Vancourt has the will of her own she had when she was a gel, I shouldn't wonder if there was rough times in store for him! But the Lord only knows what may chance to all of us!" and here she heaved another dismal sigh as she tied the refractory bonnet-strings into a bow under her fat chin. "It's right-down sinful of me to be wishin' rough times to any man, seein' I'm likely in for them myself, for a person's bound to be different at nigh seven-and-twenty to what she was at fifteen, and the modern ways of leddies ain't old ways, the Lord be merciful to us all! And I do confess, Passon, it's a bit upsettin' at my time of life to think as how I've lived in Abbot's Manor all these years, and now for all I can tell, me and William may have to shift. And where we'll go, the Lord only knows!"
"Now don't anticipate misfortune, Mrs. Spruce!" said Walden, beginning to shake off the indescribable feeling of annoyance against which he had been fighting for the past few minutes and resuming his usual quiet air of cheerfulness; "Miss Vancourt is not likely to dismiss you unless you offend her. The great thing is to avoid offence,—and to do even more than your strict duty in making her old home look its best and brightest for her return and—" Here he hesitated for a moment, then went on—"Of course if I can do anything to help you, I will."
"Thank you, sir, I'm sure most kindly," said Mrs. Spruce curtseying two or three times in a voluminous overflow of gratitude. "I shall take the liberty of asking you to step up during the week, to see how things appears to you yourself. And as for servants, there's no gels old enough at the school for servants, so I'll be goin' to Riversford with the carrier's cart to-morrow to see what I can do. Ah, It's an awsome mission I'm goin' on; there ain't no gels to be got of the old kind, as far as I can make out. They all wants to be fine leddies nowadays and marry 'Merican millionaires."
"Not quite so bad as that, I think, Mrs. Spruce!" laughed Walden, holding open the door of the study for her to pass out, as a broad hint that the interview must be considered at an end.—"There are plenty of good, industrious, intelligent girls in England ready and willing to enter domestic service, if we make it worth their while,- -and I'm sure no one can teach YOU anything in that line! Good- morning, Mrs. Spruce!"
"Good-morning, sir,—and you'll step up to the Manor when convenient some afternoon?"
"Certainly, if you wish it. Whenever convenient to yourself, Mrs.
Spruce."
Mrs. Spruce curtseyed again at the respect for her own importance which was implied in Walden's last sentence, and slowly sidled out, the 'Passon' watching her with a smile as she trotted down the passage from his study to a door which led to the kitchen and basement.
"Now she'll go and tell all her story again to Hester and the cook," he said to himself; "And how she will enjoy herself to be sure! Bless the woman, what a tongue she has! No wonder her husband is deaf!"
He re-seated himself at his desk, and taking up a bundle of accounts connected with the church and the school, tried to fix his attention on them, but in vain. His mind wandered. He was obliged to own to himself that he was unreasonably irritated at the news that Abbot's Manor, which had been so long a sort of unoccupied 'show' house, was again to be inhabited,—and by one who was its rightful owner too. Ever since he had bought the living of St. Rest he had been accustomed to take many solitary walks through the lovely woods surrounding the Vancourts' residence, without any fear of being considered a trespasser,—and he had even strolled through the wide, old-fashioned gardens with as little restraint as though they had belonged to himself, Mrs. Spruce, the housekeeper, being the last person in the world to forbid her minister to enter wherever he would. He had passed long hours of delightful research in the old library, and many afternoons of meditation in the picture gallery, where the portrait of the lady in the 'vi'let velvet,' Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt, had often caught his eye and charmed his fancy when the setting sun had illumined its rich colouring and had given life to the face, half-petulant, half-sweet, which pouted forth from the old canvas like a rose with light on its petals. Now all these pleasant rambles were finished. The mistress of Abbot's Manor would certainly object to a wandering parson in her house and grounds. Probably she was a very imperious, disagreeable young woman,—full of the light scorn, lack of sentiment and cheap atheism common to the 'smart' lady of a decadent period, and if it were true that she had been for so many years in the charge of an American aunt with a 'hundred millions,' the chances were ten to one that she would be an exceedingly unpleasant neighbour.
He gave a short impatient sigh.
"Ah, well! I only hope she will put a stop to the felling of the fine old trees in her domain," he said half aloud,—"If no one else in the village has the pluck to draw her attention to the depredations of Oliver Leach, I will. But, so far as other matters go,—my walks in the Manor woods are ended! Yes, Nebbie!" and he gently patted the head of the faithful animal, who, with inborn sagacity instinctively guessing that his master was somewhat annoyed, was clambering with caressing forepaws against his knee. "Our rambles by the big elms and silvery birches and under the beautiful tall pines are over, Nebbie! and we shouldn't be human if we weren't just a trifle sorry! Sir Morton Pippitt is bad enough as a neighbour, but he's a good three miles off at Badsworth Hall, thank Heaven!—whereas Abbot's Manor is but a quarter of an hour's walk from this gate. We've had pleasant times in the dear old- fashioned gardens, Nebbie, you and I, but it's all over! The mistress of the Manor is coming home,—and I'm positively certain, Nebbie,—yes, old boy!—positively certain that we shall both detest her!"
III
When England's great Queen, Victoria the Good; was still enjoying her first happy years of wedded life, and society, under her gentle sway, was less ostentatious and much more sincere in its code of ethics than it is nowadays, the village of St. Rest, together with the adjacent post-town of Riversford, enjoyed considerable importance in county chronicles. Very great 'county personages' were daily to be seen comporting themselves quite simply among their own tenantry, and the Riversford Hunt Ball annually gathered together a veritable galaxy of 'fair women and brave men' who loved their ancestral homes better than all the dazzle and movement of town, and who possessed for the most part that 'sweet content' which gives strength to the body and elasticity to the mind. There was then a natural gaiety and spontaneous cheerfulness in English country life that made such a life good for human happiness; and the jolly Squires who with their 'dames' kept open house and celebrated Harvest Home and Christmas Festival with all the buoyancy and vigour of a sane and healthful manhood undeteriorated by any sickly taint of morbid pessimism and indifferent inertia, were the beneficent rulers of a merrier rural population than has ever been seen since their day. Squire Vancourt the elder, grandfather of the present heiress of Abbot's Manor, had been a splendid specimen of 'the fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time,' and his wife, one of the handsomest, as well as one of the kindest-hearted women that ever lived, had been justly proud of her husband, devoted to her children, and a true friend and benefactress to the neighbourhood. Her four sons, two of whom were twins, all great strapping lads, built on their vigorous father's model, were considered the best- looking young men in the county, and by their fond mother were judged as the best-hearted; but, as it often happens, Nature was freakish in their regard, and turned them all out wild colts of a baser breed than might have been expected from their unsullied parentage. The eldest took to hard drinking and was killed at steeple-chasing; the second was drowned while bathing; one of the twins, named Frederick, the younger by a few minutes, after nearly falling into unnameable depths of degradation by gambling with certain 'noble and exalted' personages of renown, saved himself, as it were, by the skin of his teeth, through marriage with a rich American girl whose father was blessed with unlimited, oil-mines. He was thereby enabled to wallow in wealth with an impaired digestion and shattered nervous power, while capricious Fate played him her usual trick in her usual way by denying him any heirs to his married millions. His first-born brother, Robert, wedded for love, and chose as his mate a beautiful girl without a penny, whose grace and charm had dazzled the London world of fashion for about two seasons, and she had died at the age of twenty in giving birth to her first child, the girl whom her father had named Maryllia.
All these chances and changes of life, however, occurring to the leading family of the neighbourhood had left very little mark on St. Rest, which drowsed under the light shadow of the eastern hills by its clear flowing river, very much as it had always drowsed in the old days, and very much as it would always do even if London and Paris were consumed by unsuspected volcanoes. The memory of the first 'old Squire,'—who died peacefully in his bed all alone, his wife having passed away two years before him, and his two living twin sons being absent,—was frequently mixed with stories of the other 'old Squire' Robert, the elder twin, who was killed in the hunting field,—and indeed it often happened that some of the more ancient and garrulous villagers were not at all sure as to which was which. The Manor had been shut up for ten years,—the Manor 'family' had not been heard of during all that period, and the tenantry's recollection of their late landlord, as well as of his one daughter, was more vague and confused than authentic. The place had been 'managed' and the cottage rents collected by the detested agent Oliver Leach, a fact which did not sweeten such remembrance of the Vancourts as still existed in the minds of the people.
However, nothing in the general aspect and mental attitude of the village had altered very much since the early thirties, except the church. That from a mere ruin, had under John Walden's incumbency become a gem of architecture, so unique and perfect as to be the wonder and admiration of all who beheld it, and whereas in the early Victorian reign a few people stopped at Riversford because it was a county town and because there was an inn there where they could put up their horses, so a few people now went to St. Rest, because there was a church there worth looking at. They came by train to Riversford, where the railway line stopped, and then took carriage or cycled the seven miles between that town and St. Rest to see the church; and having seen it, promptly went back again. For one of the great charms of the little village hidden under the hills was that no tourist could stay a night in it, unless he or she took one spare room—there was only one—at the small public-house which sneaked away up round a corner of the street under an archway of ivy, and pushed its old gables through the dark enshrouding leaves with a half-surprised, half-propitiatory air, as though somewhat ashamed of its own existence. With the exception of this one room in this one public-house, there was no accommodation for visitors. Never will the rash cyclist who ventured once to appeal to the sexton's wife for rooms in her cottage, forget the brusqueness of his reception:
"Rooms!" And Mrs. Frost, setting her arms well akimbo, surveyed the enquirer scornfully through an open doorway, rendered doubly inviting by the wealth of roses clambering round it. "Be off, young man! Where was you a-comin' to? D'ye think a woman wi' fifteen great boys and girls in an' out of the 'ouse all day, 'as rooms for payin' guests!" And here Mrs. Frost, snorting at the air in irrepressible disdain, actually snapped her fingers in her would-be lodger's face. "Rooms indeed! Go to Brighting!"
Whereupon the abashed wheelman went,—whether to Brighton, as the irate lady suggested, or to a warmer place unmentionable history sayeth not. But St. Rest remained, as its name implied, restful,— and the barbaric yell of the cheap tripper, together with the equally barbaric scream of the cheap tripper's 'young lady' echoed chiefly through modernised and vulgarised Riversford, where there were tea-rooms and stuffy eating-houses and bad open-air concerts, such as trippers and their 'ladies' delight in,—and seldom disturbed the tranquil charm of the tiny mediaeval village dear to a certain few scholars, poets and antiquarians who, through John Walden, had gradually become acquainted with this 'priceless bit' as they termed it, of real 'old' England and who almost feared to mention its existence even in a whisper, lest it should be 'swarmed over' by enquiring Yankees, searching for those everlasting ancestors who all managed so cleverly to cross the sea together in one boat, the Mayflower.
There is something truly pathetic as well as droll in the anxiety of every true American to prove himself or herself an offshoot from some old British root of honour or nobility. It would be cruel to laugh at this instinct, for after all it is only the passionate longing of the Prodigal Son who, having eaten of the husks that the swine did eat, experienced such an indigestion at last, that he said 'I will arise and go to my father.' And it is quite possible that an aspiring Trans-Atlantic millionaire yearning for descent more than dollars, would have managed to find tracks of a Mayflower pedigree in St. Rest, a place of such antiquity as to be able to boast a chivalric 'roll of honour' once kept in the private museum at Badsworth Hall before the Badsworth family became extinct, but now, thanks to Walden, rescued from the modern clutch of the Hall's present proprietor, Sir Morton Pippitt, and carefully preserved in an iron box locked up in the church, along with other documents of value belonging to the neighbourhood. On this were inscribed the names of such English gentlemen once resident in the district, who had held certain possessions in France at the accession of Henry II. in 1154. Besides the 'roll of honour' there were other valuable records having to do with the Anglo-French campaigns in the time of King John, and much concerning those persons of St. Rest and Riversford who took part in the Wars of the Barons.
Whatever there was of curious or interesting matter respecting the village and its surroundings had been patiently ferreted out by John Walden, who had purchased the living partly because he knew it to be a veritable mine for antiquarian research, and one likely to afford him inexhaustible occupation and delight. But there were, of course, other reasons for his settling down in so remote a spot far from the busy haunts of men,—reasons which, to his own mind, were perfectly natural and simple, though on account of his innate habit of reticence, and disinclination to explain his motives to others, they were by some supposed to be mysterious. In his youth he had been one of the most brilliant and promising of University scholars, and all those who had assisted to fit him for his career in the Church, had expected great things of him. Some said he would be a Bishop before he was thirty; others considered that he would probably content himself with being the most intellectual and incisive preacher of his time. But he turned out to be neither one nor the other. A certain Henry Arthur Brent, his fellow student at College and five years his senior, had, with apparent ease, outstripped him in the race for honour, though lacking in all such exceptional slowly off towards the vegetable garden where his 'under gardeners' as he called three or four sturdy village lads employed to dig and hoe, constantly required his supervision.
Meanwhile Walden, leaving his own grounds, entered the churchyard, walking with softly reverent step among the little green mounds of earth, under which kind eyes were closed, and warm hearts lay cold, till, reaching the porched entrance of the church itself, he paused, brought to a halt by the sound of voices which were pitched rather too loud for propriety, considering the sacredness of the surroundings.
"That eastern window is crude—very crude!" said a growlingly robust baritone; "I suppose the reverend gentleman could not secure sufficient subscriptions to meet the expense of suitable stained glass?"
"Unfortunately Mr. Walden is a very self-opinionated man," replied a smooth and oily tenor, whose particular tone of speech Walden recognised as that of the Reverend 'Putty' Leveson, the minister of Badsworth, a small scattered village some five or six miles 'on the wrong side of Badsworth Hall,' as the locality was called, owing to its removed position from the county town of Riversford. "He would not accept outside advice. Of course these columns and capitals are all wrong,—they are quite incongruous with early Norman walls,—but when ignorance is allowed to have its own way, the effect is always disastrous."
"Always—always,—my dear sir—always!" And the voice or Sir Morton Pippitt, high pitched and resonant, trolled out on the peaceful air; "The fact is, the church could have been much better done, had I been consulted! The whole thing was carried out in the most brazen manner, under my very nose, sir, under my very nose!—without so much as a 'by your leave'! Shocking, shocking! I complained to the Bishop, but it was no use, for it seems that he has a perfect infatuation for this man Walden—they were college friends or something of that kind. As for the sarcophagus here, of course it ought in the merest common decency to have been transferred to the Cathedral of the diocese. But you see the present incumbent bought the place;—the purchase of advowsons is a scandal, in my opinion— however this man got it all his own way, more's the pity!—he bought it through some friend or other—and so—"
"So he could do as he liked with it!" said a mild, piping falsetto; "And so far, he has made it beau-ti-ful!—beau-ti-ful!" carved with traceries of natural fruit and foliage, which were scarcely injured by the devastating mark of time. But rough and sacrilegious hands had been at work to spoil and deface the classic remains of the time-worn edifice, and some of the lancet windows had been actually hewn out and widened to admit of the insertion of modern timber props which awkwardly supported a hideous galvanised iron roof, on the top of which was erected a kind of tin hen-coop in which a sharp bell clanged with irritating rapidity for Sunday service. Outside, the building was thus rendered grotesquely incongruous,—inside it was almost blasphemous in its rank ugliness. There were several rows of narrow pews made of common painted deal,—there was a brown stone font and a light pine-wood pulpit—a small harmonium stood in one corner, festooned by a faded red woollen curtain, and a general air of the cheap upholsterer and jerry-builder hovered over the whole concern. And the new incumbent, gazing aghast at the scene, was triumphantly informed that "Sir Morton Pippitt had been generous enough to roof and 'restore' the church in this artistic manner out of his own pocket, for the comfort of the villagers," and moreover that he actually condescended to attend Divine service under the galvanised iron roof which he had so liberally erected. Nay, it had been even known that Sir Morton had on one or two occasions himself read the Lessons in the absence of the late rector, who was subject to sore throats and was constantly compelled to call in outside assistance.
To all this information John Walden said nothing. He was not concerned with Sir Morton Pippitt or any other county magnate in the management of his own affairs. A fortnight after his arrival he quietly announced to his congregation that the church was about to be entirely restored according to its original lines of architecture, and that a temporary building would be erected on his, Walden's, own land for the accommodation of the people during such time as the restoration should be in progress. This announcement brought about Walden's first acquaintance with his richest neighbour, Sir Morton Pippitt. That gentleman having been accustomed to have his own way in everything concerning St. Rest, for a considerable time, straightway wrote, expressing his 'surprise and indignation' at the mere assumption that any restoration was required for the church beyond what he, Sir Morton, had effected at his own expense. The number of parishioners was exceedingly small,— too small to warrant any further expenditure for enlarging a place of worship which mental ability as he possessed, and was now Bishop of the very diocese in which he had his little living. University men said he had 'stood aside' in order to allow Brent to press more swiftly forward, but though this was a perfectly natural supposition on the part of those who knew something of Walden's character, it was not correct. Walden at that time had only one object in life,— and this was to secure such name and fame, together with such worldly success as might delight and satisfy the only relative he had in the world, his sister, a beautiful and intelligent woman, full of an almost maternal tenderness for him, and a sweet resignation to her own sad lot, which made her the victim of a slow and incurable disease. So long as she lived, her brother threw himself into his work with intensity and ardour; but when she died that impulse withered, as it were, at its very root. The world became empty for him, and he felt that from henceforth he would be utterly companionless. For what he had seen of modern women, modern marriage and modern ways of life, did not tempt him to rashly seek refuge for his heart's solitude in matrimony. Almost immediately following the loss of his sister, an uncle of whom he had known very little, died suddenly, leaving him a considerably large fortune. As soon as he came into possession of this unexpected wealth, he disappeared at once from the scene of his former labours,—the pretty old house in the University town, with its great cedars sloping to the river and its hallowed memories of the sister he had so dearly loved, was sold by private treaty,—his voice was heard no more in London pulpits, where it had begun to carry weight and influence,—and he managed to obtain the then vacant and obscure living of St. Rest, the purchase of the advowson being effected, so it was said, privately through the good offices of his quondam college friend, Bishop Brent. And at St. Rest he had remained, apparently well contented with the very simple and monotonous round of duty it offered.
When he had first arrived there, he found that the church consisted of some thick stone walls of the early Norman, period, built on a cruciform plan, the stones being all uniformly wrought and close- jointed,—together with a beautiful ruined chancel divided from the main body of the building by massive columns, which supported on their capitals the fragments of lofty arches indicative of an architectural transition from the Norman to the Early Pointed English style. There were also the hollow slits of several lancet windows, and one almost perfect pierced circular window to the east, elaborately And here he whirled round on his only daughter, an angular and severely-visaged spinster; "Look at this fool!—this staring ape! All the sauce on the carpet! Wish he had to pay for it! He'll take an hour to get a cloth and wipe it up! Why did you engage such a damned ass, eh?"
Miss Tabitha preserved a prudent silence, seeing that the butler, a serious-looking personage with a resigned-to-ill-usage demeanour, was already engaged in assisting the hapless footman to remove the remains of the spilt condiment, from the offended gaze of his irate master.
"Like his damned impudence!" broke out Sir Morton again, resuming with some reluctance his seat at the breakfast table, and chopping at the fried bacon on his plate till the harder bits flew far and wide,—"'Happy to reimburse me!'—the snivelling puppy! Why the devil he was allowed to sneak into this living, I don't know! The private purchase of advowsons is a scandal—a disgraceful scandal! Any Tom, Dick or Harry can get a friend to buy him a benefice in which to make himself a nuisance! Done under the rose,—and called a 'presentation'! All humbug and hypocrisy! That's why we get impudent dogs like this beast Walden settling down in a neighbourhood whether we like it or not!"
Miss Tabitha munched some toast slowly with a delicate regard for her front teeth, which had cost money. There was no one in the room to suggest to Sir Morton that it is a pity some law is not in progress to prevent the purchase of historic houses by vulgar and illiterate persons of no family;—which would be far more a benefit to the land at large than the suppression of privately purchased benefices. For the chances are ten to one that the ordained minister, who, by his own choice secures a Church living for himself, is likely at least to be a well-educated gentleman, interested in the work he has himself elected to do,—whereas the illiterate individual who buys an historic house simply for self- glorification, will probably be no more than a mere petty and pompous tyrant over the district which that particular house dominates.
Badsworth Hall, a fine sixteenth-century pile, had, through the reckless racing and gambling propensities of the last heir, fallen into the hands of the Jews. On the fortunate demise of the young gentleman who had brought it to this untimely end, it was put up for sale with all its contents. And Sir Morton Pippitt,—a rich colonial, whose forebears were entirely undistinguished, but who had made a large fortune by a bone-melting business, which converted the hoofs, horns and (considering that some years ago it had been a mere roofless ruin, and that the people had been compelled to walk or drive to Riversford in order to attend church at all on Sundays) Sir Morton thought was now very comfortable and satisfactory. In fact, Sir Morton concluded, "Mr. Walden would be very ill-advised if he made any attempt to raise money for such a useless purpose as the 'entire restoration' of the church of St. Rest, and Mr. Walden might as well be at once made aware that Sir Morton himself would not give a penny towards it." To which somewhat rambling and heated epistle John Walden replied with civil stiffness as follows:
"The Rev. John Walden presents his compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, and in answer to his letter begs to say that he has no intention of raising any subscription to defray the cost of restoring the church, which in its present condition is totally unfit for Divine service. Having secured the living, Mr. Walden will make the restoration the object of his own personal care, and will also be pleased to reimburse Sir Morton Pippitt for any outlay to which he may have been put in erecting the galvanised roof and other accessories for the immediate convenience of the parishioners who have, he understands, already expressed their sense of obligation to Sir Morton for kindly providing them with such temporary shelter from the changes of the weather as seemed to be humanely necessary."
This calm epistle when received at Badsworth Hall, had the effect of a sudden stiff breeze on the surface of hitherto quiet waters. Sir Morton Pippitt in a brand-new tweed suit surmounted by a very high, clean, stiff shirt-collar, was sitting at breakfast in what was formerly known as the 'great Refectory,' a memory of the days when Badsworth had been a large and important monastery, but which was now turned into a modern-antique dining-room,—and as he read, with the aid of his gold-rimmed spectacles, the curt, chill, severely polite letter of the 'new parson' he flew into a sudden violent passion.
"Damn the fellow!" he spluttered, jumping up in haste and striking out an arm towards the very direction in which a mild young footman was just approaching him with a bottle of Worcester sauce on a tray,—"Damn him!"
The footman staggered back in terror, and the Worcester sauce reeled over drunkenly on to the carpet.
"There you go, you clumsy, gaping idiot!" roared Sir Morton, growing purple with increasing fury. "Tabitha!" called 'The Riversford Gazette.' If Sir Morton had a pig killed, the fact was duly notified to an admiring populace in the 'Riversford Gazette.' If he took a prize in cabbages at the local vegetable and flower show, the 'Riversford Gazette' had a column about it. If he gave a tennis- party, there were two columns, describing all the dresses of the ladies, the prowess of the 'champions' and the 'striking and jovial personality' of Sir Morton Pippitt. And if the fact of that 'striking and jovial personality' were not properly insisted upon, Sir Morton went himself to see the editor of the 'Riversford Gazette,' an illiterate tuft-hunting little man,—and nearly frightened him into fits. He had asserted himself in this kind of autocratic fashion ever since he had purchased Badsworth, when he was still in his forties,—and it may be well imagined that at the age of sixty he was not prepared to be thwarted, even in a matter wherein he had no real concern. The former rector of St. Rest, an ailing, nervous and exceedingly poor creature, with a large family to keep, had been only too glad and ready to do anything Sir Morton Pippitt wished, for the sake of being invited to dine at the Hall once a week,—it was therefore a very unexpected and disagreeable experience for the imperious Bone-melter to learn that the new incumbent was not at all disposed to follow in the steps of his predecessor, but, on the contrary, was apparently going to insist on having his own way with as much emphasis as Sir Morton Pippitt himself.
"I shall soon bring that fellow to his senses," declared Sir Morton, on the eventful morning which first saw the gage of battle thrown down; "I shall teach him that, parson or no parson, he will have to respect my authority! God bless my seoul! Does he think I'm going to be dictated to at my time of life?"
He addressed these observations to his daughter, Miss Tabitha Pippitt, but whether she heard them or not was scarcely apparent. At any rate, she did not answer. Having finished her breakfast, she pulled out some knitting from an embroidered bag hanging at her side and set her needles clicketing, while her father, redder in the face and more implacable of mood than ever, went out to see what he could do to save his galvanised iron roof from the hand of the spoiler.
But, as he might have known, if his irascibility had allowed him to weigh the pros and cons of the situation, his 'authority' was of no avail. An angry letter to the Bishop of the diocese only drew forth a curt reply from the Bishop's secrebones of defunct animals into a convenient mixture wherewith to make buttons and other useful articles of hardware, bought it, as the saying goes, 'for a mere song.' Through his easy purchase he became possessed of the Badsworth ancestry, as shown in their pictures hanging on the dining-room walls and in the long oak-panelled picture gallery. Lady Madeline Badsworth, famous for her beauty in some remote and chivalrous past, gazed down at Sir Morton while he sat at meals, suggesting to the imaginative beholder a world of scorn in her lovely painted eyes,—and a heroic young Badsworth who had perished at the battle of Marston Moor, stood proudly out of one of the dark canvases, his gauntleted hand on the hilt of his sword and a smile of pained wrath on his lips, as one who should say, beholding the new possessor of his ancient home 'To such base uses must we come at last!'
Surrounded by gold-framed Badsworths, young and old, Sir Morton ate his fried bacon and 'swilled' his tea, with a considerable noise in swallowing, getting gradually redder in the face as he proceeded with his meal. He was by no means a bad-looking old gentleman,—his sixty years sat lightly upon his broad shoulders, and he was tall and well set up, though somewhat too stout in what may be politely called the 'lower chest' direction. His face was plump, florid and clean-shaven, and what hair he still possessed was of a pleasantly- bright silver hue. The first impression he created was always one of kindness and benevolence,—the hearts of women especially invariably went out to him, and murmurs of 'What a dear old man!' and 'What a darling old man!' frequently escaped lips feminine in softest accents. He was very courtly to women,—when he was not rude; and very kind to the poor,—when he was not mean. His moods were fluctuating; his rages violent; his temper obstinate. When he did not succeed in getting his own way, his petulant sulks resembled those of a spoilt child put in a corner, only they lasted longer. There was one shop in Riversford which he had not entered for ten years, because its owner had ventured, with trembling respect, to contradict him on a small matter. Occasionally he could be quite the 'dear darling old man' his lady admirers judged him to be,—but after all, his servants knew him best. To them, 'Sir Morton was a caution.' And that is precisely what he was; the definition entirely summed up his character. He had one great passion,—the desire to make himself 'the' most important person in the county, and to be written about in the local paper, a hazy and often ungrammatical organ For the chancel appeared to demand special reverence, from the nature of a wonderful discovery made in it during the work of restoration,—a discovery which greatly helped to sustain and confirm the name of both church and village as 'St. Rest,' and to entirely disprove the frequently-offered suggestion that it could ever have been meant for 'St. East.' And this is how the discovery happened.
One never-to-be-forgotten morning when the workmen were hewing away at the floor of the chancel, one of their pickaxes came suddenly in contact with a hard substance which gave back a metallic echo when the blow of the implement came down upon it. Working with caution, and gradually clearing away a large quantity of loose stones, broken pieces of mosaic and earth, a curious iron handle was discovered attached to a large screw which was apparently embedded deep in the ground. Walden was at once informed of this strange 'find' and hastened to the spot to examine the mysterious object. He was not very long in determining its nature.
"This is some very ancient method of leverage," he said, turning round to the workmen with an excitement he could barely conceal; "There is something precious underneath in the ground,—something which can probably be raised by means of this handle and screw. Dig round it about a yard away from the centre,—loosen the earth gently—be very careful!"
They obeyed; and all that day Walden stood watching them at work, his mind divided between hope and fear, and his spirit moved by the passionate exultation of the antiquary whose studies and researches are about to be rewarded with unexpected treasure. Towards sunset the men came upon a large oblong piece of what appeared to be alabaster, closely inlaid with patterns of worn gold and bearing on its surface the sculptured emblems of a cross, a drawn sword and a crown of laurel leaves intertwisted with thorns, the whole most elaborately wrought, and very little injured. As this slowly came to light, Walden summoned all hands to assist him in turning the great iron screw which now stood out upright, some three or four feet from the aperture they had been digging. Wondering at his 'fancy' as they termed it, they however had full reliance on his proved knowledge of what he was about, and under his guidance they all applied themselves to the quaint and cumbrous iron handle which had been the first thing discovered, and with considerable difficulty began to day to the effect that as the Reverend John Walden was now the possessor of the living of St. Rest and had furthermore obtained a 'faculty' for the proper restoration of the church, which was to be carried out at the said John Walden's own risk and personal expenditure, the matter was not open to any outside discussion. Whereat, Sir Morton's fury became so excessive that he actually shut up Badsworth Hall and went away for a whole year, greatly to the relief of the editor of the 'Riversford Gazette,' who was able to dismiss him with a comfortable paragraph, thus:
"Sir Morton Pippitt has left Badsworth Hall for a tour round the world. Miss Pippitt accompanies her distinguished father."
Then followed a spell of peace;—and the restoration of the church at St. Rest was quietly proceeded with. Lovingly, and with tenderest care for every stone, every broken fragment, John Walden pieced together the ruined shrine of ancient days, and managed at last to trace and recover the whole of the original plan. It had never been a large building, its proportions being about the same as those of Roslin Chapel, near Edinburgh. The task of restoration was costly, especially when carried out with such perfection and regard to detail,—but Walden grudged nothing to make it complete, and superintended the whole thing himself, rejecting all the semi- educated suggestions of the modern architect, and faithfully following out the ideas of the particular period in which the church was originally designed by those to whom the building of a 'God's House' was a work of solemn prayer and praise. The ancient stones were preserved, and wherever modern masonry was used, it was cunningly worked in to look as time-worn as the Norman walls, while the lancet windows were filled with genuine old stained glass purchased by degrees from different parts of England, each fragment being properly authenticated. A groined roof, simple yet noble in outline, covered in the building; ornamented with delicately rounded mouldings alternated with hollows so planned as to give the most forcible effects of light and shade according to the style of English Early Pointed work, and the only thing that was left incomplete was the pierced circular window above the chancel, which Walden sought to fill with stained glass of such indubitable antiquity and beauty of design that he was only able to secure it bit by bit at long intervals. While engaged in collecting this, he judged it best to fill the window with ordinary clear glass rather than put in inferior stuff. age system exactly in the middle of the chancel, fronting the altar, we will let it remain there and occupy its own original place. The chancel could not have a grander ornament!
And so, in the middle of the chancel, between the altar and the steps which separated that part of the church from the main body of the building, the mysterious undated relic lay under the warm light of the eastern window, and people who were interested in antiquities came from far and near to see it, though they could make no more of it than Walden himself had done. The cross and sword might possibly indicate martyrdom; the laurels and thorn fame. Certainly there were no signs that the dumb occupant of that sealed coffer was a monarch of merely earthly power and state. When the alabaster came to be thoroughly cleansed and polished, part of the inscription could be deciphered in the following letters of worn gold:
Sancta. vixit. Sancta obit.. In. coelum.. sanctorum., transmigravit… In Resurrectione Sanctorum resurget M.. Beatse. ma.. R.
But to what perished identity these significant words applied remained an impenetrable mystery. Every old record was carefully searched,—every scrap of ancient history wherein the neighbourhood of St. Rest had ever been concerned was turned over and over by the patient and indefatigable John Walden, who followed up many suggestive tracks eagerly and lost them again when apparently just on the point of finding some sure clue,—till at last he gave up the problem in despair and contented himself and his parishioners by accepting the evident fact that in the old church at one time or another some saint or holy abbot had been buried,—hence the name of St. Rest or 'The Saint's Rest,' which had become attached to the village. But at what exact period such saint or abbot had lived and died, was undiscoverable.
When the restoration of the sacred shrine was completed, and an expectant congregation filled it to overflowing to assist at the solemn service of its re-dedication to the worship of God, not one among them all but was deeply impressed by the appearance of the restored chancel, with its beautiful columns and delicate capitals, arching like a bower of protection over the altar, and over that wonderful white sarcophagus lying turn it round and round. As they proceeded laboriously in this task, while the screw creaked and groaned under the process with a noise as of splitting timber, all at once the oblong slab of alabaster moved, and rose upward about an inch.
"To it, boys!" cried Walden, his eyes sparkling; "To it again, and harder! We shall have it with us in an hour!"
And truly, in somewhat less than an hour the strange old-world lever had lifted what it must often have lifted in a similar way in bygone years,—a magnificent and perfectly preserved sarcophagus, measuring some six or seven feet long by three feet wide, covered with exquisite carving at the sides, representing roses among thorns, the flowers having evidently at one time been centred with gems and which even now bore traces of gold. Round the lid there was some dim lettering which was scarcely discernible,—the lid itself was firmly closed and strongly cemented.
Exclamations of wonder, admiration, and excitement broke from all who had been engaged in the work of excavation, and presently the whole village ran out to see the wonderful relic of a forgotten past, all chattering, all speculating, all staring, Walden alone stood silent; his head bared,—his hands clasped. He knew that only some great saint or holy recluse could have ever been so royally enshrined in ancient days, and the elaborate system of leverage used seemed to prove that the body laid within that wrought alabaster and gold must have been considered to be of that peculiar nature termed 'miraculous,' and worthy to be lifted from its resting-place into the chancel on certain particular occasions for the homage and reverence of the people. The sun poured down upon the beautiful object lying there,—on the groups of workmen who, instinctively imitating Walden's example, had bared their heads,—on the wrinkled worn faces of old village men and women,—on the bright waving locks of young girls, and the clear enquiring eyes of children, all gazing at the strange treasure-trove their ruined church had given up to the light of a modern day. Presently the chief workman, asked Walden in a hushed voice:
"Shall we break it open, sir?"
"No,—never!" replied Walden gently but firmly; "That would be sacrilege. We may not lightly disturb the dead! The ashes enshrined in this wonderful casket must be those of one who was dear to the old-time church. They shall rest in peace. And as this sarcophagus is evidently fixed by its leversouls, and awakening them to hopeful considerations of a happier end than the mere grave."
Ten years, however, had now passed since John Walden had bought the living, and of these ten years three had been occupied in the restoration of the church, so that seven had elapsed since it had been consecrated. And during those seven years not once had Bishop Brent been seen again in St. Rest. He remained in the thoughts of the people as an indefinable association with whom they would fain have had more to do. Sir Morton Pippitt had passed from the sixties into the seventies, very little altered;—still upright, still inflexible and obstinate of temperament, he ruled the neighbourhood, Riversford especially, as much as was possible to him now that much of the management of St. Rest had passed under the quieter, but no less firm authority of John Walden, whose will was nearly always found in intellectually balanced opposition to his. The two seldom met. Sir Morton was fond of 'county' society; Walden loathed it. Moreover, Miss Tabitha, wearing steadily on towards fifty, had, as the saying is, secretly 'set her cap' at the Reverend John; and the mere sight of the sedately-amorous spinster set his nerves on edge. Devoting himself strictly to his duties, to the care of the church, to the interests of his parishioners, young and old, to the cultivation of his garden, and to the careful preservation of all the natural beauties of the landscape around him,—John lived very much the life of a 'holy man' of mediaeval days; while Sir Horton built and 'patronised' a hospital at Riversford, gave several prizes for cabbages and shooting competitions, occasionally patted the heads of a few straggling school-children, fussed round among his scattered tenantry, and wrote paragraphs about his own 'fine presence and open-hearted hospitality' for publication in the 'Riversford Gazette' whenever he entertained a house party at Badsworth Hall, which he very frequently did. He kept well in touch with London folk, and to London folk he was fond of speaking of St. Rest as 'my' little village. But when London folk came to enquire for themselves as to the nature of his possession, they invariably discovered that it was not Sir Morton's little village at all but the Reverend John's little village. Hence arose certain discrepancies and cross-currents of feeling, leading to occasional mild friction and 'local' excitement. Up to the present time, however, Walden had on the whole lived a tranquil life, such as best suited his tranquil and philosophic temperament, and his occasional 'brushes' with. snow-like in the rays of the sun, which flashed clear on its stray bits of gold and broken incrustation of gems, sending a straight beam through the eastern window on the one word 'Resurget' like a torch of hope from beyond the grave.
Bishop Brent, Walden's old college friend, came to perform the ceremony of consecration, and this was the first time the inhabitants of St. Rest had seen a real Bishop for many years. Much excitement did his presence create in that quiet woodland dell, the more especially as he proved to be a Bishop somewhat out of the common. Tall and attenuated in form, he had a face which might almost be called magnetic, so alive was its expression,—so intense and passionate was the light of the deep dark melancholy eyes that burned from under their shelving brows like lamps set in a high watch-tower of intellect. When he preached, his voice, with its deep mellow cadence, thrilled very strangely to the heart,—and every gesture, every turn of his head, expressed the activity of the keen soul pent up within his apparently frail body. The sermon he gave on the occasion of the re-dedication of the Church of St. Rest was powerful and emotional, but scarcely orthodox—and therefore was not altogether pleasing to Sir Morton Pippitt. He chose as his text: "Behold I show you a mystery; we shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed;" and on this he expatiated, setting forth the joys of the spiritual life as opposed to the physical,—insisting on the positive certainty of individual existence after death, and weaving into his discourse some remarks on the encoffined saint whose sarcophagus had been unearthed from its long-hidden burial-place and set again where it had originally stood, in the middle of the chancel. He spoke in hushed and solemn tones of the possibility of the holy spirit of that unknown one being present among them that day, helping them in their work, joining in their prayers of consecration and perhaps bestowing upon them additional blessing. At which statement, given with poetic earnestness and fervour, Sir Morton stared, breathed hard and murmured in his daughter's ear "A Roman! The man is a Roman!"
But notwithstanding Sir Morton Pippitt's distaste for the manner in which the Bishop dealt with his subject, and his numerous allusions to saints in heaven and their probable guardianship of their friends on earth, the sermon was a deeply impressive one and lingered long in the memories of those who had heard it, softening their hearts, inspiring their for the news of her coming. It is the one cloud in an otherwise clear sky!
The young moon swinging lazily downward to the west, looked upon him as though she smiled. A little bat scurried past in fear and hurled itself into the dewy masses of foliage bordering the edge of the lawn. And from the reeds and sedges fringing the river beyond, there came floating a long whispering murmur that swept past his ears and died softly into space, as of a voice that had something strange and new to say, which might not yet be said. Sir Morton only served to give piquancy and savour to the quiet round of his daily habits. Now, all unexpectedly, there was to be a break,—a new source of unavoidable annoyance in the intrusion of a feminine authority,—a modern Squire-ess, who no doubt would probably bring modern ways with her into the little old-world place,—who would hunt and shoot and smoke,—perhaps even swear at her grooms,—who could tell? She would not, she could not interfere with, the church, or its minister, were she ever so much Miss Vancourt of Abbot's Manor,—but she could if she liked 'muddle about' with many other matters, and there could be no doubt that as the visible and resident mistress of the most historic house in the neighbourhood, she would be what is called 'a social influence.'
"And not for good!" mused John Walden, during a meditative stroll in his garden on the even of the May-day on. which he had heard the disturbing news; "Certainly not for good!"
He raised his eyes to the sky where the curved bow of a new moon hung clear and bright as a polished sickle. All was intensely still. The day had been a very busy one for him;—the children's dinner and their May-games had kept his hands full, and not till sunset, when the chimes of the church began to ring for evening service, had he been able to snatch a moment to himself for quiet contemplation. The dewy freshness of the garden, perfumed by the opening blossoms of the syringa, imparted its own sense of calm and grave repose to his mind,—and as he paced slowly up and down the gravel walk in front of his study window watching the placid beauty of the deepening night, a slight sigh escaped him.
"It cannot be for good!" he repeated, regretfully; "A woman trained as she must have been trained since girlhood, with all her finer perceptions blunted by perpetual contact with the assertive and ostentatious evidences of an excess of wealth,—probably surrounded too by the pitiful vulgarisms of a half-bred American society, too ignorant to admit or recognise its own limitations,—she must have almost forgotten the stately traditions of the fine old family she springs from. One must not expect the motto of 'noblesse oblige' to weigh with modern young women—more's the pity! I'm afraid the mistress of Abbot's Manor will be a disturbing element in the village, breeding discontent and trouble where there has been till now comparative peace, and a fortunate simplicity of life. I'm sorry! This would have been a perfect First of May but Ha-ha-ha-ha!" And he broke into a laugh so joyous and mellow that Bainton found it quite irresistible and joined in it with a deep "Hor-hor-hor!" evoked from the hollow of his throat, and beginning loudly, but dying away into a hoarse intermittent chuckle.
"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed the Reverend John again, throwing back his head with a real enjoyment in his capability for laughter; "You did quite right to disturb me, Bainton,—quite right! Where are Sir Morton and his party? What are they doing?"
"They was jes' crossin' the churchyard when I spied 'em," answered Bainton; "An' Sir Morton was makin' some very speshul observations of his own on the 'herly Norman period.' Hor-hor-hor! An' they've got ole Putty Leveson with 'em—"
"Bainton!" interrupted Walden severely; "How often must I tell you that you should not speak of the rector of Badsworth in that disrespectful manner?"
"Very sorry, sir!" said Bainton complacently; "But if one of the names of a man 'appens to be Putwood an' the man 'imself is as fat as a pig scored for roastin' 'ole, what more natrul than the pet name of 'Putty' for 'im? No 'arm meant, I'm sure, Passon!—Putty's as good as Pippitt any day!"
Walden suppressed his laughter with an effort. He was very much of a boy at heart, despite his forty odd years, and the quaint obstinacies of his gardener amused him too much to call for any serious remonstrance. Turning back to his study he took his hat and cane from their own particular corner of the room and started for the little clap gate which Bainton had been, as he said, 'keeping his eye on.'
"No more work to-day," he said, with an air of whimsical resignation; "But I may possibly get one or two hints for my sermon!"
He strode off, and Bainton watched him go. As the clap gate opened and swung to again, and his straight athletic figure disappeared, the old gardener still stood for a moment or two ruminating.
"What a blessin' he ain't married!" he said thoughtfully; "A blessin' to the village, an' a blessin' to 'imself! He'd a bin a fine man spoilt, if a woman 'ad ever got 'old on 'im,—a fine man spoilt, jes' like me!"
An appreciative grin at his own expense spread among the furrows of his face at this consideration;—then he trotted
IV
Two days later on, when Walden was at work in his own room seriously considering the points of his sermon for the coming Sunday, his 'head man about the place,' Bainton, made a sudden appearance on the lawn and abruptly halted there, looking intently up at the sky, as though taking observations of a comet at noon. This was a customary trick of his resorted to whenever he wished to intrude his presence during forbidden hours. John saw him plainly enough from where he sat busily writing, though for a few minutes he pretended not to see. But as Bainton remained immovable and apparently rooted to the ground, and as it was likely that there he would remain till positively told to go, his master made a virtue of necessity, and throwing down his pen, went to the window. Bainton thereupon advanced a little, but stopped again as though irresolute. Walden likewise paused a moment, then at last driven to bay by the old gardener's pertinacity, stepped out.
"Now what is it, Bainton?" he said, endeavouring to throw a shade of sternness into his voice; "You know very well I hate being disturbed while I'm writing."
Bainton touched his cap respectfully.
"Now don't go for to say as I'm disturbing on ye, Passon," he remonstrated, mildly; "I ain't said a mortal wurrd! I was onny jes' keepin' my eye on the clap gate yonder, in case the party in the churchyard might walk through, thinkin' it a right-o'-way. Them swagger folk ain't got no sort of idee as to respectin' private grounds."
Walden's eyes flashed.
"A party in the churchyard?" he repeated. "Who are they?"
"Who should they be?" And Bainton's rugged features expressed a sedate mingling of the shrewd and the contemptnous that was quite amazing. "Worn't you expectin' distinguished visitors some day this week, sir?"
"I know!" exclaimed Walden quickly; "Sir Morton Pippitt and his guests have come to 'inspect' the church!"
There was a pause, during which Walden, baring his head as he passed in, entered the sacred edifice. He became aware of Sir Morton Pippitt standing in the attitude of a University Extension lecturer near the sarcophagus in the middle of the chancel, with the Reverend Mr. Leveson and a couple of other men near him, while two more strangers were studying the groined roof with critical curiosity. As he approached, Sir Morton made a rapid sign to his companions and stepped down from the chancel.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Walden," he said in a loud whisper, and with an elaborate affectation of great heartiness; "I have brought His Grace the Duke of Lumpton to see the church."
Walden allowed his calm blue eyes to rest quietly on His Grace the Duke of Lumpton without much interest. His Grace was an undersized fat man, with a bald head and a red face, and on Walden's being presented to him, merely nodded with a patronisingly casual air.
"Lord Mawdenham,"—continued Sir Morton, swelling visibly with just pride at his own good fortune in being able to introduce a Lord immediately after a Duke, and offering Walden, as it were, with an expressive wave of his hand, to a pale young gentleman, who seemed seriously troubled by an excess of pimples on his chin, and who plucked nervously at one of these undesirable facial addenda as his name was uttered. Walden acknowledged his presence with silent composure, as he did the wide smile and familiar nod of his brother minister, the Reverend 'Putty,' whose truly elephantine proportions were encased in a somewhat too closely fitting bicycle suit, and whose grand-pianoforte shaped legs and red perspiring face together, presented a most unclerical spectacle of the 'Church at large.'
The two gentlemen who had been studying the groined roof, now brought their glances to bear on Walden, and one of them, a youngish man with a crop of thick red hair and a curiously thin, hungry face, spoke without waiting for Sir Morton's cue.
"Mr. Walden? Ye-es!—I felt sure it must be Mr. Walden! Let me congratulate you, sir, on your exquisite devotional work here! The church is beau-ti-ful—beau-ti-ful! A sonnet in stone! A sculptured prayer! Ye-es! It is so! Permit me to press your hand!"
John smiled involuntarily. There was a quaint affectation about the speaker that was quite irresistibly entertaining.
"Mr. Julian Adderley is a poet," said Sir Morton, whispering this in a jocose stage aside; "Everything is 'beautiful' to him!"
Mr. Julian Adderley smiled faintly, and fixed a pair of rather fine grey eyes on Walden with a mute appeal, as one who should say with Hamlet 'These tedious old fools!' Meanwhile Sir Morton Pippitt had secured the last member of his party affectionately by the arm, and continuing his stage whisper said:
"Permit me, Mr. Walden! This is one of our greatest London literary lights! He will particularly appreciate anything you may he good enough to tell him respecting your work of restoration here—Mr. Marius Longford, of the Savile and Savage clubs!"
Mr. Marius Longford, of the Savile and Savage clubs, bent his head with an air of dignified tolerance. He was an angular personage, with a narrow head, and a face cleanly shaven, except at the sides where two small pussy-cat whiskers fringed his sharply defined jaws. He had a long thin mouth, and long thin slits for his eyes to peep through,—they would have been eyelids with other people, but with him they were merely slits. He was a particularly neat man in appearance—his clothes were well brushed, his linen spotless, his iron-grey hair sleek, and his whole appearance that of a man well satisfied with his own exterior personality. Walden glanced at this great London literary light as indifferently as he would have glanced at an incandescent lamp in the street, or other mechanical luminary. He had not as yet spoken a word. Sir Morton had done all the talking; but the power of silence always overcomes in the end, and John's absolute non-committal of himself to any speech, had at last the effect he desired—namely that of making Sir Morton appear a mere garrulous old interloper, and his 'distinguished' friends somewhat of the cheap tripper persuasion. The warm May sun poured through the little shrine of prayer, casting flickers of gold and silver on the 'Saint at Rest' before the altar, and showering azure and rose patterns through the ancient stained glass which filled the side lancet windows. The stillness became for the moment intense and almost oppressive,—Sir Morton Pippitt fidgeted uneasily, pulled at his high starched collar and became red in the face,—the Reverend 'Putty' forgot himself so far as to pinch one of his own legs and hum a little tune, while the rest of the party waited for the individual whom their host had so frequently called 'the damned parson' to speak. The tension was relieved by the sudden quiet entrance of a young woman carrying a roll of music. Seeing the group of persons in the chancel, she paused in evident uncertainty. Walden glanced at her, and his composed face all at once lighted up with that kindly smile which in such moments made him more than ordinarily handsome.
"Come along, Miss Eden," he said in a low clear tone; "You are quite at liberty to practise as usual. Sir Morton Pippitt and his friends will not disturb you."
Miss Eden smiled sedately and bent her head, passing by the visitors with an easy demeanour and assured step, and made her way to where the organ, small, but sweet and powerful, occupied a corner near the chancel. While she busied herself in opening the instrument and arranging her musics Walden took advantage of the diversion created by her entrance to address himself to the knight Pippitt.
"If I can be of service to your friends in explaining anything about the church they may wish, to know, pray command me, Sir Morton," he said. "But I presume that you and Mr, Leveson"—here he glanced at the portly 'Putty' with a slight smile—"have pointed out all that is necessary."
"On the contrary!" said Mr. Marius Longford 'of the Savile and Savage,' with a smoothly tolerant air; "We are really quite in the dark! Do we understand, for example, that the restoration of this church is entirely due to your generosity, or to assistance from public funds and subscriptions?"
"The restoration is due, not to my 'generosity,'" replied Walden, "but merely to my sense of what is fitting for Divine service. I have had no assistance from any fund or from any individual, because I have not sought it."
There was a pause, during which Mr. Longford fixed a pair of gold- rimmed glasses on his nose and gazed quizzically through them at Sir Morton Pippitt, whose countenance had grown uncomfortably purple in hue either with exterior heat or inward vexation.
"I thought. Sir Morton," he began slowly, when Mr. Leveson adroitly interrupted him by the query:
"Now what period would you fix, Mr. Longford, for this sarcophagus?
I am myself inclined to think it of the fourteenth century."
A soft low strain of music here crept through, the church,—the village schoolmistress was beginning her practice. She had a delicate touch, and the sounds her fingers pressed from the organ- keys were full, and solemn and sweet. His Grace the Duke of Lumpton coughed loudly; he hated music, and always made some animal noise of his own to drown it.
"What matters the period!" murmured Julian Adderley, running his thin hand through his thick hair. "Is it not sufficient to see it here among us, with us, OF us?"
"God bless my soul! I hope it is not OF us!" spluttered Sir Morton with a kind of fat chuckle which seemed to emanate from his stiff collar rather than from his throat; "'Ashes to ashes' of course; we are all aware of that—but not just yet!—not just yet!"
"I am unable to fix the period satisfactorily to my own mind," said Walden, quietly ignoring both Sir Morton and his observations on the Beyond; "though I have gone through considerable research with respect to the matter. So I do not volunteer any opinion. There is, however, no doubt that at one time the body contained in that coffer must have been of the nature termed by the old Church 'miraculous.' That is to say, it must have been supposed to be efficacious in times of plague or famine, for there are several portions of the alabaster which have evidently been worn away by the frequent pressure or touch of hands on the surface. Probably in days when this neighbourhood was visited by infection, drought, floods or other troubles, the priests raised the coffin by the system of leverage which we discovered when excavating (and which is still in working order) and allowed the people to pass by and lay their hands upon it with a special prayer to be relieved of their immediate sickness or sorrow. There were many such 'miraculous' shrines in the early part of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries."
"Exactly," said Mr. Longford; "I imagine you may be right, Mr.
Walden; it is evidently a relic of the very earliest phases of the
Christian myth."
As he spoke the last words Walden looked straightly at him. A fine smile hovered on his lips.
"It is as you say," he rejoined calmly—"It is a visible token of the time when men believed in an Unseen Force more potent than themselves."
The Duke of Lumpton coughed noisily again, and his friend, Lord Mawdenham, who up to the present had occupied the time in staring vaguely about him and anxiously feeling his pimples, said hurriedly:
"Oh, look here, Sir Morton—er—I say,—er—hadn't we better be going? There's Lady Elizabeth Messing coming to lunch and you know she can't bear to be kept waiting-never do, you know, not to be there to see her when she arrives—he-he-he! We should never get over it in London or out of London—'pon my life!—I do assure you!"
Sir Morton's chest swelled;—his starched collar crackled round his expanding throat, and his voice became richly resonant as under the influential suggestion of another 'titled' personage, he replied:
"Indeed, you are right, my dear Lord Mawdenham! To keep Lady Elizabeth waiting would be an unpardonable offence against all the proprieties! Hum—ha—er—yes!—against all the proprieties! Mr. Walden, we must go! Lady Elizabeth Messing is coming to lunch with us at Badsworth. You have no doubt heard of her—eldest daughter of the Earl of Charrington!—yes, we must really be going! I think I may say, may I not, your Grace?"—here he bent towards the ducal Lumpton—"that we are all highly pleased with the way in which Mr. Waldon has effected the restoration of the church?"