"Oh, I don't know anything at all about it!" replied His Grace, with the air of a sporting groom; "I've no taste at all in churches, and I'm not taking any on old coffins! It's a nice little chapel—just enough for a small village I should say. After all, don't-cher-know, you only want very little accommodation for a couple of hundred yokels; and whether it's old or new architecture doesn't matter to 'em a brass farthing!"
These observations were made with a rambling air of vague self- assertiveness which the speaker evidently fancied would pass for wit and wisdom. Walden said nothing. His brow was placid, and his countenance altogether peaceful. He was listening to the solemnly sweet flow of a Bach prelude which Miss Eden was skilfully unravelling on the organ, the notes rising and falling, and anon soaring up again like prayerful words striving to carry themselves to heaven.
"I think," said Mr. Marius Longford weightily, "that whatever fault the building may have from a strictly accurate point of view,—which is a matter I am not prepared to go into without considerable time given for due study and consideration,—it is certainly the most attractive edifice of its kind that I have seen for some time. It reflects great credit on you, Mr. Walden;—no doubt the work gave you much personal pleasure!"
"It certainly did so," replied John,—"and I'm afraid I am arrogant enough to be satisfied with the general result so far as it goes,— with the exception of the eastern window, of course!"
"Ah, that eastern window!" sighed the Reverend 'Putty' with an air of aesthetic languor which was in comical contrast with his coarse and commonplace appearance; "That is a sad, sad flaw! A terrible incongruity!"
"I made up my mind from the first," pursued Walden, his equable voice seeming to float pleasantly on the tide of music with which the little sanctuary was just then filled; "that nothing but the most genuine and authentic old stained glass should fill that fine circular rose carving, and those lance apertures; so I am collecting it slowly, bit by bit, for this purpose. It will take time and patience, no doubt,—but I think and hope that success will be the end of the task I have set myself. In the meantime, of course, the effect of plain glass where there should be only the richest colouring is decidedly 'crude'!"
He smiled slightly, and there was an uncomfortable pause. Sir Morton Pippitt took out a voluminous red handkerchief covered with yellow spots and blew his nose violently therein while the Reverend Mr. Leveson nodded his large head blandly, as one who receives doubtful information with kindly tolerance. Mr. Marius Longford looked faintly amused.
"I understand!" said the light of the 'Savile and Savage,' slowly;
"You seek perfection!"
He smiled a pallid smile; but on the whole surveyed Walden with more interest than he had hitherto done. Julian Adderley, who had during the last couple of minutes stepped up to the chancel, now stood gazing at the sarcophagus of the supposed Saint with a kind of melancholy interest. Reading the only legible words of the inscription in sotto voce, he sighed drearily.
"' In—Resurrectione—Sanctorum—Resurget!' How simple!—how new!— how fresh! To think that anyone ever held such a child's faith!"
"The Church is still supposed to hold it," said Walden steadily, "And her ministers also. Otherwise, religion is a farce, and its professors much less honest than the trusted servant who steals his master's money!"
Marius Longford smiled, and stroked one feline whisker thoughtfully.
"So you actually believe what you preach!" he murmured—"Strange! You are more of an antiquity than the consecrated dust enclosed in that alabaster! Believe me!"
"Much more,—much, more!" exclaimed the fantastic Adderley; "To believe in anything at all is so remote!—so very remote!—and yet so new—so fresh!"
Walden made no reply. He never argued on religious matters; moreover, with persons minded in the manner of those before him, it seemed useless to even offer an opinion. They exchanged meaning glances with each other, and followed Sir Morton, who was now moving down the central aisle of the church towards the door of exit, holding the Duke of Lumpton familiarly by the arm, and accompanied by Lord Mawdenham. Walden walked silently with them, till, passing out of the church, they all stood in a group on the broad gravelled pathway which led to the open road, where the Pippitt equipage, a large waggonette and pair, stood waiting, together with a bicycle, the property of the Reverend Mr. Leveson.
"Thank you, Mr. Walden!" then said Sir Morton Pippitt with a grandiose air, as of one who graciously confers a benefit on the silence by breaking it; "Thank you for—er—for—er—the pleasure of your company this—er—this morning! My friend, the Duke,—and Lord Mawdenham—and—er—our rising poet, Mr. Adderley—and—er—Mr. Longford, have been delighted. Yes—er—delighted! Of course you know MY opinion! Ha-ha-ha! You know MY opinion! It is the same as it ever was—I never change! When I have once made up my mind, it is a fixture! I have said already and I say it again, that the church was quite good enough for such people as live here, in its original condition, and that you have really spent a great deal of cash on a very needless work! I mustn't be rude, no, no, no!—but you know the old adage: 'Fools and their money!' Ha-ha-ha! But we shan't quarrel. Oh, dear no! It has cost ME nothing, I am glad to say! Ha-ha! Nor anybody else! Now, if Miss Vancourt of Abbot's Manor had been here when you began this restoration business of yours, SHE might have had something to say—ha-ha-ha! She always has something to say!"
"You think she would have objected?" queried Walden, coldly.
"Oh, I won't go so far as that—no!—eh, your Grace—we won't go so far as that!"
The Duke of Lumpton, thus suddenly adjured, looked round, and smiled vacantly.
"Won't go so far as what?" he asked; "Didn't catch it!"
"I was talking of Maryllia Vancourt," said Sir Morton with a kind of fatuous leer; "YOU know her, of course!—everyone knows her more or less. Charming girl!—charming! Maryllia Van!—ha-ha!"
And Sir Morton laughed and leered again till certain veins, moved by cerebral emotion, protruded largely on his forehead. His Grace laughed also, but shortly and indifferently.
"Oh, ya-as—ya-as! She's the one who's just had a rumpus with her rich American aunt. I believe they don't speak, After years of devotion, eh? So like women, ain't it!"
The Reverend 'Putty' Leveson, who had been stooping over his bicycle to set something right that was invariably going wrong with that particular machine, and who was redder than ever in the face with his efforts, now looked up.
"Miss Vancourt is coming back to the Manor to reside there, so I hear," he said. "Very dull for a woman accustomed to London and Paris. I expect she'll stay about ten days."
"One never knows—one cannot tell!" sighed Julian Adderley. "Sometimes to the satiated female mind, overwrought with social dissipation, there comes a strange longing for peace!—for the scent of roses!—for the yellow shine of cowslips!—for the song of the mating birds!—for the breath of cows!"
Mr. Marius Longford smiled, and picked a tall buttercup nodding in the grass at his feet.
"Such aspirations in the fair sex are absolutely harmless," he said; "Let us hope the lady's wishes may find their limit in a soothing pastoral!" "Ha-ha-ha!" laughed Sir Morton. "You are deep, my dear sir, you are very deep! God bless my soul! Deep as a well! No wonder people are afraid of you! Clever, clever! I'm afraid of you myself! Come along, come along! Can I assist your Grace?" Here he pushed aside with a smothered 'Damn!' the footman, who stood holding open the door of the waggonette, and officiously gave the Duke of Lumpton a hand to help him into the carriage. "Now, Lord Mawdenham, please! You next, Mr. Longford! Come, come, Mr. Adderley! Think of Lady Elizabeth! She will be arriving at the Hall before we are there to receive her! Terrible, terrible! Come along! We're all ready!"
Julian Adderley had turned to Walden.
"Permit me to call and see you alone!" he said. "I cannot just now appreciate the poetry of your work in the church as I should do—as I ought to do—as I must do! The present company is discordant!—one requires the music of Nature,-the thoughts,—the dreams! But no more at present! I should like to talk with you on many matters some wild sweet morning,—if you have no objection?"
Walden was amused. At the same time he was not very eager to respond to this overture of closer acquaintanceship with one who, by his dress, manner and method of speech, proclaimed himself a 'decadent' of the modern school of ethics; but he was nothing if not courteous. So he replied briefly:
"I shall be pleased to see you, of course, Mr. Adderley, but I must warn you that I am a very busy man—I should not be able to give you much time—"
"No explanations—I understand!" And Adderley pressed his hand with enthusiasm. "The very fact that you are busy in a village like this adds to the peculiar charm of your personality! It is so strange!— so new—so fresh!"
He smiled, and again pressed hands.
"Good-bye! The mood will send me to you at the fitting moment!"
He clapped his hat more firmly on his redundant red locks and clambered into the waiting waggonette. Sir Morton followed him, and the footman shut to the door of the vehicle with a bang as unnecessary as his master's previous 'Damn!'
"Good-morning, Mr. Walden!" then shouted the knight of bone-melting prowess; "Much obliged to you, I'm sure!"
Walden raised his hat with brief ceremoniousness, and then as the carriage rolled away addressed the Reverend Mr. Leveson, who was throwing himself with hippopotamus-like agility across his bicycle.
"You follow, I suppose?"
"Yes. I'm lunching at Badsworth Hall. The Duke wants to consult me about his family records. You know I'm a bit of an authority on such points!"
Walden smiled.
"I believe you are! But mind you calendar the ducal deeds carefully," he said. "A slip in the lineal descent of the Lumptons might affect the whole prestige of the British Empire!"
A light shone in his clear blue eyes,—a flashing spark of battle.
Leveson stayed his bicycle a moment, wobbling on it uneasily.
"Lumpton goes back a good way," he said airily; "I shall take him up when I have gone through the history of the Vancourts. I'm on that scent now. I shall make a good bit of business directly Miss Vancourt returns; she'll pay for anything that will help her to stiffen her back and put more side on."
"Really!" ejaculated Walden, coldly. "I should have thought her forebears would have saved her from snobbery."
"Not a bit of it!" declared Leveson, beginning to start the muscles of his grand-pianoforte legs with energy; "Rapid as a firework, and vain as a peacock! Ta!"
And fixing a small cap firmly on the back of his very large head, he worked his wheel with treadmill regularity and was soon out of sight.
Walden stood alone in the churchyard, lost for a brief space in meditation. The solemn strains of the organ which the schoolmistress was still playing, floated softly out from the church to the perfumed air, and the grave melodious murmur made an undercurrent of harmony to the clear bright warbling of a skylark, which, beating its wings against the sunbeams, rose ever higher and higher above him.
"What petty souls we are!" he murmured; "Here am I feeling actually indignant because this fellow Leveson, who has less education and knowledge than my dog Nebbie, assumes to have some acquaintance with Miss Vancourt! What does it matter? What business is it of mine? If she cares to accept information from an ignoramus, what is it to do with me? Nothing! Yet,—what a blatant ass the fellow is! Upon my word, it does me good to say it—a blatant ass! And Sir Morton Pippitt is another!"
He laughed, and lifting his hat from his forehead, let the soft wind breathe refreshing coolness on his uncovered hair.
"There are decided limits to Christian love!" he said, the laughter still dancing in his eyes. "I defy—I positively defy anyone to love Leveson! 'The columns and capitals are all wrong' are they?" And he gave a glance back at the beautiful little church in its exquisite design and completed perfection."'Out of keeping with early Norman walls!' Wise Leveson! He ignores all periods of transition as if they had never existed—as if they had no meaning for the thinker as well as the architect—as if the movement upward from the Norman, to the Early Pointed style showed no indication of progress! And whereas a church should always be a veritable 'sermon in stone' expressive of the various generations that have wrought their best on it, he limits himself to the beginning of things! I wonder what Leveson was in the beginning of things? Possibly an embryo Megatherium!"
Broadly smiling, he walked to the gate communicating with his own garden, opened it, and passed through. Nebbie was waiting for him on the lawn, and greeted him with the usual effusiveness. He returned to his desk, and to the composition of his sermon, but his thoughts were inclined to wander. Sir Morton Pippitt, the Duke of Lumpton, and Lord Mawdenham hovered before him like three dull puppets in a cheap show; and he was inclined to look up the name of Marius Longford in one of the handy guides to contemporary biography, in order to see if that flaccid and fish-like personage had really done anything In the world to merit his position as a shining luminary of the 'Savage and Savile.' Accustomed as he was to watch the ebb and flow of modern literature, he had not yet sighted either the Longford straw or the Adderley cork, among the flotsam and jetsam of that murky tide. And ever and again Sir Morton Pippitt's coarse chuckle, combined with the covert smiles of Sir Morton's 'distinguished' friends, echoed through his mind in connection with the approaching dreaded invasion of Miss Vancourt into the happy quietude of the village of St. Rest, till he experienced a sense of pain and aversion almost amounting to anger. Why, he asked himself, seeing she had stayed so long away from her childhood's home, could she not have stayed away altogether? The swift and brilliant life of London was surely far more suited to one who, according to 'Putty' Leveson, was 'rapid as a firework, and vain as a peacock.' But was 'Putty' Leveson always celebrated for accuracy in his statements? No! Certainly not—yet—"
Then something seemed to fire him with a sudden resolution, for he erased the first lines of the sermon he had begun, and altered his text, which had been: "Glory, honour and peace to every man that worketh good." And in its place he chose, as a more enticing subject of discourse:
"The ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of
God, of great price."
V
The warm bright weather continued. Morning after morning dawned in unclouded sunshine, and when Saturday concluded the first five days of the 'May-moneth,' the inhabitants of St. Rest were disposed to concede that it was just possible they might have what they called 'a spell of fair weather.' Saturday was the general 'cleaning-up day' in the village—the day when pails of water were set out in unexpected places for the unwary to trip over; when the old flagstones poured with soapsuds that trickled over the toes of too- hasty passers-by; when cottage windows were violently squirted at with the aid of garden-syringes and hose,—and when Adam Frost, the sexton, was always to be found meditating, and even surreptitiously drinking beer, in a quiet corner of the churchyard, because he was afraid to go home, owing to the persistent housewifely energy of his better half, who 'washed down' everything, 'cleaned out' everything, and had, as she forcibly expressed it, 'the Sunday meals on her mind.' It was a day, too, when Bainton, released from his gardening duties at the rectory at noon, took a thoughtful stroll by himself, aware that his 'Missis' was scrubbing the kitchen, and 'wouldn't have him muckin' about,'—and when John Walden, having finished his notes for the Sunday's sermon, felt a sense of ease and relief, and considered himself at liberty to study purely Pagan literature, such as The Cratylus of Plato. But on this special Saturday he was not destined to enjoy complete relaxation. Mrs. Spruce had sent an urgent appeal to him to 'kindly step up to the Manor in the afternoon.' And Mrs. Spruce's husband, a large, lumbering, simple- faced old fellow, in a brown jacket and corduroys, had himself come with the message, and having delivered it, stood on Walden's threshold, cap in hand, waiting for a reply. John surveyed his awkward, peasant-like figure with a sense of helplessness,—excuses and explanations he knew would be utterly lost on an almost deaf man. Submitting to fate, he nodded his head vigorously, and spoke as loudly as he judged needful.
"All right, Spruce! Say I'll come!"
"Jes' what I told her, sir," answered Spruce, in a remarkably gentle tone; "It's a bit okkard, but if she doos her dooty, no 'arm can 'appen, no matter if it's all the riches of the yearth."
John felt more helpless than ever. What was the man talking about?
He drew closer and spoke in a more emphatic key.
"Look here, Spruce! Tell your wife I'll come after luncheon. Do you hear? Af-ter lun-cheon!"
Spruce put one hand to his ear and smiled blandly.
"Ezackly, sir! I quite agrees with ye; but women are allus a bit worrity-like, and of course there's a deal to do, and she got frightened with the keys, and when she saw them fine clothes, and what not,—so I drawed her a glass of cherry-cordial, an' sez I, 'Now, old 'ooman,' sez I, 'don't skeer yerself into fits. I'll fetch the passon to ye.' And with that, she seemed easier in her mind. Lord love ye!—it's a great thing to fetch the passon at once when there's anything a bit wrong. So, if you'd step up, sir?—"
Driven almost to despair, Walden put his lips close to the old man's obstinate ear.
"Yes," he bellowed—"af-ter lun-cheon! Yes! Ye-es!"
His reply at last penetrated the closed auricular doors of Spruce's brain.
"Thank you, kindly, sir, I'm sure," he said, still in the same meek and quiet tone. "And if I might make so bold, sir, seein' there's likely to be changes up at the Manor, if it should be needful to speak for me and my old 'ooman, p'raps you'd be so good, sir? We wouldn't like to leave the old place now, sir—-"
His soft, hesitating voice faltered, and he suddenly brushed his hand across his poor dim eyes. The pathos of this hint was not lost on Walden, who, forgetting all his own momentary irritation, rose manfully to the occasion and roared down the old man's ears like one of the far-famed 'Bulls of Bashan.'
"Don't worry!" he yelled, his face becoming rapidly crimson with his efforts; "I'll see you all right! You sha'n't leave the Manor if I can prevent it! I'll speak for you! Cheer up! Do you hear! Che-er up!"
Spruce heard very clearly this time, and smiled. "Thank you, Passon! God bless you! I'm sure you'll help us, if so be the lady is a hard one—"
He trusted himself to say no more, but with a brief respectful salutation, put on his cap and turned away.
Left alone, Walden drew a long breath, and wiped his brow. To make poor old Spruce hear was a powerful muscular exertion. Nebbie had been so much astonished at the loud pitch of his master's voice, that he had retired under a sofa in alarm, and only crawled out now as Spruce departed, with small anxious waggings of his tail. Walden patted the animal's head and laughed.
"Mind you don't get deaf in your old age, Nebbie!" he said. "Phew! A little more shouting like that and I should be unable to preach to- morrow!"
Still patting the dog's head, his eyes gradually darkened and his brow became clouded.
"Poor Spruce!" he murmured. "'Help him, if so be the lady is a hard one!' Already in fear of her! I expect they have heard something— some ill-report—probably only too correctly founded. Yet, how it goes against the grain of manhood to realise that any 'lady' may be 'a hard one!' But, alas!—what a multitude of 'hard ones' there are! Harder than men, perhaps, if all the truth were known!"
And there was a certain sternness and rooted aversion in him to that dim approaching presence of the unknown heiress of Abbot's Manor. He experienced an instinctive dislike of her, and was positively certain that the vague repugnance would deepen into actual antipathy.
"One cannot possibly like everybody," he argued within himself, in extenuation of what he felt was an unreasonable mental attitude; "'And modern fashionable women are among the most unlikeable of all human creatures. Any one of them in such a village as this would be absurdly out of place."
Thus self-persuaded, his mood was a singular mixture of pity and resentment when, in fulfilment of his promise, he walked that afternoon up the winding road which led to the Manor, and avoiding the lodge gates, passed through a rustic turnstile he knew well and so along a path across meadows and through shrubberies to the house. The path was guarded by a sentinel board marked 'Private. Trespassers will be prosecuted.' But in all the years he had lived at St. Rest, he cared nothing for that. As rector of the parish he had his little privileges. Nebbie trotted at his heels with the air of a dog accustomed to very familiar surroundings. The grass on either side was springing up long and green,—delicate little field flowers were peeping through it here and there, and every now and then there floated upwards the strong sweet incense of the young wild thyme. The way he had chosen to walk was known as a 'short cut' to Abbot's Manor, and ten minutes of easy striding brought him into the dewy coolness of a thicket of dark firs, at the end of which, round a sharp turn, the fine old red brick and timbered gables of the house came into full view. He paused a moment, looking somewhat regretfully at the picture, warmly lit up by the glow of the bright sun,—a picture which through long habitude of observation had grown very sweet to him. It was not every day that such a house as Abbot's Manor came within reach of the archaeologist and antiquarian. The beautiful tiled-roof—the picturesque roughness and crookedness of the architectural lines of the whole building, so different to the smooth, hard, angular imitations of half-timbered work common in these degenerate days, were a delight to the eyes to rest upon,—a wealth of ivy clung thickly to the walls and clambered round the quaint old chimneys;—some white doves clustered in a group on the summit of one broad oak gable, were spreading their snowy wings to the warm sun and discussing their domestic concerns in melodious cooings;—the latticed windows, some of which in their unspoilt antiquity of 'horn' panes were a particular feature of the house, were all thrown open,—but to Walden's sensitive observation there seemed a different atmosphere about the place,—a suggestion of change and occupation which was almost startling.
He paced slowly on, and arrived at the outside gate, which led into a square old-fashioned court, such as was common to Tudor times, paved on three sides and planted with formal beds of flowers, the whole surrounded by an ancient wall. The gate was ajar, and pushing it open he passed in, glancing for a moment at the grey weather- beaten sun-dial in the middle of the court which told him it was three-o'clock. For four centuries, at least, that self-same dial had marked the hour in that self-same spot, a silent commentary on the briefness of human existence, as compared with its own strange non- sentient lastingness. The sound of Walden's footsteps on the old paving-stones awoke faint echoes, and startled away a robin from a spray of blossoming briar-rose, and as he walked up to the great oaken porch of entrance,—a porch heavily carved with the Vaignecourt or Vancourt emblems, and as deep and wide in its interior as a small room, an odd sense came over him that he was no longer an accustomed visitor to a beautiful 'show house,' so much as a kind of trespasser on forbidden ground. The thick nail-studded doors, clamped with huge bolts and bars, stood wide open; no servant was on the threshold to bid him enter, and for a moment he hesitated, uncertain whether to ring the bell, or to turn back and go away, when suddenly Mrs. Spruce emerged from a shadowy corner leading to the basement, and hailed his appearance with an exclamation of evident relief.
"Thank the Lord and His goodness, Passon Walden, here you are at last! I'd made up my mind the silly fool of a Spruce had brought me the wrong message;—a good meanin' man, but weak in the upper storey, 'cept where trees is concerned and clearing away brushwood, when I'd be bold to say he's as handy as they make 'em—but do, for mercy's sake, Passon, step inside and see how we've got on, for it's not so bad as it might have been, an' I've seen worse done at a few days' notice than even myself with hired hands on a suddint could ever do. Step in, sir, step in!—we're leavin' the door open to let the sun in a bit to warm the hall, for the old stained glass do but filter it through at its best; not but that we ain't had a fire in it night and mornin' ever since we had Miss Vancourt's letter."
Walden made no attempt to stem the flow of the worthy woman's discourse. From old experience, he knew that to be an impossible task. So he stepped in as he was bidden, and looked round the grand old hall, decorated with ancient armour, frayed banners and worn scutcheons, feeling regretfully that perhaps he was looking at it so for the last time. No one more than he had appreciated the simple dignity of its old-world style, or had more correctly estimated the priceless value of the antique oak panelling that covered its walls. He loved the great ingle-nook, set deep back as it were, in the very bosom of the house, with its high and elaborately carved benches on each side, and its massive armorial emblems wrought in black oak, picked out with tarnished gold, crimson and azure,—he appreciated every small gleam and narrow shaft of colour reflected by the strong sun through the deeply-tinted lozenge panes of glass that filled the lofty oriel windows on either side;—and the stuffed knight-in- armour, a model figure 'clad in complete steel,' of the fourteenth century, which stood, holding a spear in its gauntleted hand near the doorway leading to the various reception rooms, was almost a personal friend. Mrs. Spruce, happily unconscious of the deepening melancholy which had begun to tinge his thoughts, led the way through the hall, still garrulously chirping.
"We've cleaned up wonderfully, considerin'—and it was just the Lord's providence that at Riversford I found a decent butler and footman what had jes' got the sack from Sir Morton Pippitt's and were lookin' for a place temp'ry, preferring London later, so I persuaded both of 'em to come and try service with a lady for once, instead of with a fussy old ancient, who turns red and blue in the face if he's kept waitin' 'arf a second—and I picked up with a gel what the footman was engaged to, and that'll keep HIM a fixture,— and I found the butler had a hi on a young woman at the public-house 'ere,—so that's what you may call an 'hattraction,' and then I got two more 'andy gels which was jes' goin' off to see about Mrs. Leveson's place, and when I told 'em that there the sugar was weighed out, and the tea dispensed by the ounce, as if it was chemicals, and that please the Lord and anybody else that likes, they'd have better feedin' if they came along with me, they struck a bargain there and then. And then as if there was a special powerful blessin' on it all, who should come down Riversford High Street but one of the best cooks as ever took a job, a Scotch body worth her weight in gold, and she'd be a pretty big parcel to weigh, too, but she can send up a dinner for one as easy as for thirty, which is as good a test as boilin' a tater—-and 'as got all her wits about her. She was just goin' to advertise for a house party or shootin' job, so we went into the Crown Inn at Riversford and had tea together and settled it. And they all come up in a wagginette together as merry as larks;—so the place is quite lively, Passon, I do assure you, 'specially for a woman like me which have had it all to myself and lonesome like for many years. I've made Kitty useful, too, dustin' and polishin'—gels can't begin their trainin' too early, and all has been going on fine;—not but what there's a mighty sight of eatin' and drinkin' now, but it's the Lord's will that human bein's should feed even as the pigs do, 'specially domestic servants, and there's no helpin' of it nor hinderin'—but this mornin's business did put me out a bit, and I do assure you I haven't got over it yet, but howsomever, Spruce says 'Do yer dooty!'—and I'm a-doin' it to the best of my belief and, 'ope—still it do make my mind a bit ricketty—"
Silently Walden followed her through the rooms, saying little in response to her remarks, 'ricketty' or otherwise, and noting all the various changes as he went.
In the dining-room there was a great transformation. The fine old Cordova leather chairs were all released from their brown holland coverings,—the long-concealed Flemish tapestries were again unrolled and disclosed to the light of day—valuable canvases that had been turned to the wall to save their colour from the too absorbing sunshine, were now restored to their proper positions, and portraits by Vandyke, and landscapes by Corot gave quite a stately air of occupation to a room, which being large and lofty, had always seemed to Walden the loneliest in the house for lack of a living presence. He trod in the restless wake of Mrs. Spruce, however, without comment other than a word of praise such as she expected, for the general result of her labours in getting the long-disused residence into habitable condition, and was only moved to something like enthusiasm when he reached what was called 'the morning room,' an apartment originally intended to serve as a boudoir for that beautiful Mrs. Vancourt, the bride who never came home. Here all the furniture was of the daintiest design,—here rich cushions of silk and satin were lavishly piled on the luxurious sofas and in the deep easy-chairs,—curtains of cream brocade embroidered by hand with garlands of roses, draped the sides of the deep embrasured window- nook whence two wide latticed doors opened outwards to a smooth terrace bordered with flowers, where two gardeners were busy rolling the rich velvety turf,—and beyond it stretched a great lawn shaded with ancient oaks and elms that must have seen the days of Henry VII. The prospect was fair and soothing to the eyes, and Walden. gazing at it, gave a little involuntary sigh of pleasure.
"This is beautiful!" he said, speaking more to himself than to anyone—"Perfectly beautiful!"
"It is so, sir," agreed Mrs. Spruce, with an air of comfortably placid conviction; "There's no doubt about it—it's as beautiful a room as could be made for a queen, though I say it—but whether our new lady will like it, is quite another question. You see, sir, this room was always kept locked in the Squire's time, and so was all the other rooms as was got ready for the wife as never lived to use them. The Squire wouldn't let a soul inside the doors, not even his daughter. And now, sir, will you please read the letter I got this morning, which as you will notice, is quite nice-like and kindly, more than the other—onny when the boxes came I was a bit upset. You see the letter was registered and had the keys inside it all right."
Walden took the missive in reluctant silence. The same thick notepaper, odorous with crushed violets—the same bold, dashing handwriting he had seen before, but the matter expressed in it was worded somehow in a totally different tone to that of the previous letter from the same hand.
"DEAR MRS. SPRUCE," it ran: "I enclose the keys of my boxes which I am sending in advance, as I never travel with luggage. Kindly unpack all the contents and arrange them in the wardrobes and presses of my mother's rooms. If I remember rightly, these rooms have never been used, hut I intend to take them for myself now, so please have everything prepared. I have received your letter in which you say there is some difficulty in getting good servants at so short a notice. I quite understand this, and am sure you. will arrange for the best. Should everything not be quite satisfactory, we can make alterations when I come. I expect to arrive home in time for afternoon tea. MARYLLIA VANCOURT."
Walden folded up the letter and gave it back to its owner.
"Well, so far, you have nothing to complain of, Mrs. Spruce," he said, with a little smile; "The lady is evidently prepared to excuse any deficiencies arising from the hurry of your preparations."
"Yes, sir, that may be," answered Mrs. Spruce; "but if so be you saw what I've seen you mightn't take it so easily. Now, sir, if you'll follow me, you'll be able to judge of the quandary we was in till we got our senses back."
Beginning to be vaguely amused and declining to speculate as to the 'quandary' which according to the good woman had resulted in a species of lunacy, Walden followed as he was told, and slowly ascended the broad staircase, one of the finest specimens of Tudor work in all England, with its richly turned balustrades and grotesquely carved headpieces, but as he reached the upper landing, he halted abruptly, seeing through an open door mysterious glimmerings of satins and laces, to which he was entirely unaccustomed.
"What room is that?" he enquired.
"That's what we used to call 'the bride's room,' sir," replied Mrs. Spruce, smoothing down her black skirts with an air of fussy importance, and heaving a sigh; "Miss Maryllia's mother was to have had it. Don't be afraid to step inside, Passon; everythink's been turned out and aired, and there's not a speck of damp or dismals anywhere, and you'll see for yourself what a time we're 'avin' though we're gettin' jes' a bit straight now, and I've 'ad Nancy Pyrle as is 'andy with her pencil to mark things down as they come to 'and. Step inside, Passon Walden,—do step inside!"
But Walden, held back by some instinctive fastidiousness, declined to move further than the threshold of this hitherto closed and sacredly guarded chamber. Leaning against the doorway he looked in wonderingly, with a vague feeling of bewilderment, while Mrs. Spruce, trotting busily ahead, gave instructions to a fresh-faced country lass, who, breathing very hard, as though she were running, was carefully shaking out what seemed to be a fairy's robe of filmy white lace, glistening with pearls.
"Ye see, Passon, this is what all my trouble's about;"—she said— "Fancy 'avin' to unpack all these grand clothes, and sort 'em as they comes, not knowin' whether they mayn't fall to bits in our 'ands, some of 'em bein' fine as cobwebs, an' such body linen as was never made for any mortal woman in St. Rest, all lace an' silk an' little ribbins! When the trunks arrived an' we got 'em into the 'all, I felt THAT faint, I do assure ye! For me to 'ave to unpack an' open 'em, and take out all the things inside,—ah, Passon, it's an orful 'sponsibility, seein' there's jewels packed among the dresses quite reckless-like, rubies an' sapphires an' diamants, somethin' amazin', and we've taken a reg'lar invent'ry of them all lest somethin' might be missin', for the Lord He only knows whether there might not be fifty thousand pounds of proputty in one of them little kicketty boxes, all velvet and satin, made just as if they was sweetmeats, only when ye looks inside ye sees a sparklin' stone glisterin' at ye, and ye know it's wuth a fortune! I do assure ye, Passon, I've never seen such things in all my life! Miss Maryllia must be mortal extravagant, for there's enough in one o' them boxes to feed the whole village of St. Best for several years. Ah! Passon, I do assure ye, I've thought of Scripter many a time this mornin'; 'Whose adornin' let it be the adornin' of a meek and quiet spirit,' which is a hornament and no mistake!"
Walden made no remark. It never even occurred to him just then that Mrs. Spruce was unconsciously rendering in her own particular fashion the text he had chosen for the next day's sermon. Never in all his life before had he experienced such strongly mingled sensations of repulsion and interest as at that moment. With a kind of inward indignation, he asked himself what business he had to be there looking curiously into a woman's room, littered with all the fripperies and expensive absurdities of a woman's apparel? Above all, why should he be so utterly ridiculous and inconsequential in his own mind as to find himself deeply fascinated by such a spectacle? In all the years he had passed with his sister, so long as she had lived, he had never seen such a bewildering disorder of feminine clothes. He had never had the opportunity of noting the pathetic difference existing between the toilette surroundings of a woman who is strong and well, and of one who is deprived of all natural coquetry by the cruel ravages of long sickness and disease. His sister, beautiful even in her incurable physical affliction, had always borne that affliction more or less in mind, and had attired herself with a severely simple taste,—her bedroom, where she had had to pass so many weary hours of suffering, had been a model of almost Spartan-like simplicity, and her dressing-table was wont to be far more conspicuous for melancholy little medicine-phials than for flashing, silver-stoppered cut-glass bottles, exhaling the rarest perfumes. Then, since her death, Walden had lived so entirely alone, that the pretty vanities of bright and healthy women were quite unfamiliar to him.
The present glittering display of openly expressed frivolity seemed curiously new, and vaguely alarming. He was angry with it, yet in a manner attracted. He found himself considering, with a curious uneasiness, two small nondescript pink objects that were lying on the floor at some distance from each other. At a first glance they appeared to be very choice examples of that charming orchid known as the 'Cypripedium,'—but on closer examination it was evident they were merely fashionable evening shoes. Again and again he turned his eyes away from them,—and again and again his glance involuntarily wandered back and rested on their helpless-looking little pointed toes and ridiculously high heels. Considered from a purely 'sanitary' point of view, they were the most wicked, the most criminal, the most absolutely unheard-of shoes ever seen. Why, no human feet of the proper size could possibly get into them, unless they were squeezed—-
"Yes, squeezed!"—repeated Walden inwardly, with a sense of unreasonable irritation; "All the toes cramped and the heels pinched—everything out of joint and distorted—false feet, in fact, like everything else false that has to do with the modern fashionable woman!"
There they lay,-apparently innocent;—but surely detestable, nay even Satanic objects. He determined he would have them removed— picked up—cast out—thrust into the nearest drawer, anywhere, in fact, provided they were out of his stern, clerical sight. Mrs. Spruce was continuing conversation in brisk tones, but whether she was addressing him, or the buxom young woman, who, under her directions was shaking out or folding up the various garments taken out of the various boxes, he did not know, and, as a matter of fact, he did not care. She sounded like Tennyson's 'Brook,' with a 'Men may come and men may go, but I go on for ever' monotonousness that was as depressing as it was incessant.
He determined to interrupt the purling stream.
"Mrs. Spruce," he began,—then hesitated, as she turned briskly towards him, looking like a human clothes-prop, with both fat arms extended in order to keep well away from contact with the floor a gauzy robe sparkling all over with tiny crystalline drops, which, catching the sunbeams, flashed like little points of flame.
"Beggin' your pardon, Passon, did you speak?"
"Yes. I think you should not let anything lie about, as, for example,—those—" and he pointed to the objectionable shoes with an odd sense of discomfiture; "They appear to be of a delicate colour and might easily get soiled."
Mrs. Spruce peered round over the sparkling substance she held, looking like a very ancient and red-faced cherub peeping over the rim of a moonlit cloud.
"Well, I never!" she exclaimed; "What a hi you have, Passon! What a hi! Now them shoes missed me altogether! They must have dropped out of some of the dresses we've been unfoldin', for the packin's quite reckless-like, and ain't never been done by no trained maid. All hustled-bustled like into the boxes anyhow, as if the person what had done it was in a mortal temper or hurry. Lord! Don't I know how people crams things in when they's in a rage! Ah! Wait till I get rid of all these diamants," and she waddled to the deep oak wardrobe, which stood open, and carefully hung the glittering garment up by its two sleeveholes on two pegs,—then turned round with a sigh. "It's orful what the world's coming to, Passon Walden,- -orful! Fancy diamants all sewed on to a gown! I wouldn't let my Kitty in 'ere for any amount of money! She'd be that restless and worritin' and wantin' the like things for 'erself, and the mortal mischief it would be, there's no knowin'! Why, the first 'commercial' as come round 'ere with 'is pack and 'is lies, would get her runnin' off with 'im! Ah! That's jes' where leddies makes such work for Satan's hands to do; they never thinks of the envy and jealousy and spite as eats away the 'arts of poor gels what sees all these fine things, and ain't got no chance for to have them for theirselves!" Here, sidling along the floor, she picked up the pink shoes to which Walden had called her attention, first one and then the other. "Well! Call them shoes! My Kitty couldn't get her 'and into 'em! And as for a foot fittin' in! What a foot! It can't be much bigger'n a baby's. Well, well, what a pair o' shoes!"
She stood looking at them, a fat smile on her face, and Walden moved uneasily from the threshold.
"I'll leave you now, Mrs. Spruce," he said; "You have plenty to do, and I'm in the way here."
"Well, now, Passon, that do beat me!" said Mrs. Spruce plaintively;
"I thought you was a-goin' to help us!"
"Help you? I?" and Walden laughed aloud; "My dear woman, do you think I can unpack and unfold ladies' dresses? Of all the many incongruous uses a clergyman was ever put to, wouldn't that be the most impossible?"
"Lord love ye, Passon Walden, I ain't askin' ye no such thing;" retorted Mrs. Spruce; "Don't ye think it! For there's nothin' like a man, passon or no passon, for makin' rumples of every bit of clothes he touches, even his own coats and weskits, and I wouldn't let ye lay hands on any o' these things to save my life. Why, they'd go to pieces at the mere sight of yer fingers, they're so flimsy! What I thought ye might do, was to be a witness to us while we sorted them all. It's a great thing to have a man o' God as a witness to the likes o' this work!"
Again Walden laughed, this time with very genuine heartiness, though he did wish Mrs. Spruce would put away the troublesome pink shoes which she still held, and to which he found his eyes still wandering.
"Nonsense! You don't want any witness!" he said gaily; "What are you thinking about, Mrs. Spruce? When Miss Vancourt is here, all you have to do is to go over every item of her property with her, and see that she finds it all right. If anything is missing, it's not your fault."
"If anythink's missing," echoed Mrs. Spruce in sepulchral tones, "then the Lord knows what we'll do, for it'll be all over, so far as we're consarned! Beggars in the street'll be kings to us. Passon, I reckon ye doesn't read the newspapers much, does ye?"
"Pretty fairly," responded Walden still smiling; "I keep myself as well acquainted as I can with what is going on in the world."
"Does ye now?" And Mrs. Spruce surveyed him admiringly. "Well, now, I shouldn't have thought it, for ye seems as inn'cent as a babby I do assure ye; ye seems jes' that. But mebbe ye doesn't get the same kind o' newspapers which we poor folks gets—reg'ler weekly penny lists o' murders, soocides, railway haccidents, burgul'ries, fires, droppin's down dead suddint, struck by lightnin' and collapsis, with remedies pervided for all in the advertisements invigoratin' to both old and young, bone and sinew, brain and body, whether it be pills, potions, tonics, lotions, ointment or min'ral waters. Them's the sort o' papers we gets, or rather the 'Mother Huff' takes 'em all in for us, an' the 'ole village drinks the 'orrors an' the medicines in with the ale. Ah! It's mighty edifyin', Passon, I do assure ye—and many of us goes to church on Sundays and reads the 'orrors an' medicines in the arternoon, and whether we remembers your sermon or the 'orrors an' medicines most, the Lord only knows! But it's in them papers I sees how fine leddies goes on nowadays, and if they misses so much as a two-and-sixpenny 'airpin, some of 'em out of sheer spite, will 'aul a gel up 'fore the p'lice and 'ave 'er in condemned cells in no time, so that ye see, Passon, if so be Miss Maryllia counts over the sparkling diamants and one's lost, we'll all be brought 'fore Sir Morton Pippitt as county mag'strate afore we've 'ad time to look at our breakfasts. Wherefore, I sez, why not 'ave a man o' God as witness?"
"Why not, indeed!" returned Walden, playfully; "but your 'man of God' won't be me, Mrs. Spruce! I'm off! I congratulate you on your preparations, and I think you are doing everything splendidly! If Miss Vancourt does not look upon you as a positive treasure, I shall be very much mistaken! Good afternoon!"
"Passon, Passon!" urged Mrs. Spruce; "Ye baint goin' already?"
"I must! To-morrow's Sunday, remember!"
"Ah!—that it is!" she sighed, "And my mind sorely misgives me that I never asked the new servants whether they was 'Igh, Low or Roman. It fairly slipped my memory, and they seemed never to think of it themselves. Why didn't they remind me, Passon?—can you answer me that? Which it proves the despisableness of our naturs that we never thinks of the religious sides of ourselves, but only our wages and stummicks. Wages and stummicks comes fust, and the care of the Lord Almighty arterwards. But, there, there!—we're jest a perverse and stiffnecked generation!"
Walden turned away. Mrs. Spruce, at last deciding to resign her hold of the pink shoes, over whose pointed toes she had been moralising, gave them into the care of the rosy-cheeked Phyllis, who was assisting her in her labours, and followed her 'man of God' out to the landing.
"Do ye reely think we're doin' quite right, and that we're quite safe, Passon?" she queried, anxiously.
"You're doing quite right, and you're quite safe," replied Walden, laughing. "Go on in your present path of virtue, Mrs. Spruce, and all will be well! I really cannot wait a moment longer. Don't trouble to come and show me out,—I know my way!"
He sprang down the broad stairs as lightly as a boy, leaving Mrs.
Spruce at the summit, looking wistfully after him.
"It's a pity he couldn't stay!" she murmured, dolefully; "There's a lace petticut which must be worth a fortune!—I'd have liked 'im to see it!"
But Walden was beyond recall. On reaching the bottom of the staircase he had turned into the picture gallery, a long, lofty room panelled with Jacobean oak on both sides and hung with choice canvases, the work of the best masters, three or four fine Gainsboroughs, Peter Lelys and Romneys being among the most notable examples. At one end of the gallery a close curtain of dark green baize covered a picture which was understood to be the portrait of the Mrs. Vancourt who had never lived to see her intended home. The late Squire had himself put up that curtain, and no one had ever dared to lift it. Mrs. Spruce had often been asked to do so, but she invariably refused, 'not wishin' to be troubled with ghosteses of the old Squire,' as she frankly explained. Facing this, at the opposite end, hung another picture, disclosed in all its warm and brilliant colouring to the light of day,—the picture of Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt, who, in the time of Charles the Second had been a noted beauty of the 'merry monarch's' reign, and whose counterfeit presentment Mrs. Spruce had styled 'the lady in the vi'let velvet.' John Walden had suddenly taken a fancy to look at this portrait though for ten years he had known it well.
He walked up to it now slowly, studying it critically as the light fell on its rich colouring. The painted lady had a wonderfully attractive face,—the face of a child, piquante, smiling and provocative,—her eyes were witching blue, with a moonlight halo of grey between the black pupil and the azure iris,—her mouth, a trifle large, but pouting in the centre and curved in the 'Cupid's bow' line, suggested sweetness and passion, and her hair,—but surely her hair was indescribable! The painter of Charles the Second's time had apparently found it difficult to deal with,—for there was a warm brown wave there, a tiny reddish ripple behind the small ear, and a flash of golden curls over the white brow, suggestive of all the tints of spring and autumn sunshine. Habited in a riding dress of velvet the colour of a purple pansy, Mary Elia Adelgisa held her skirt, white gauntleted gloves, and riding whip daintily in one hand,—her hat, a three-cornered piece of coquetry, lay ready for wear, on a garden-seat hard by,—a blush rosebud was fastened carelessly in her close-fitting bodice, which was turned back with embroidered gold revers, and over her head, great forest trees, heavy with foliage, met in an arch of green. John Walden stood for a quiet three minutes, studying the picture intently and also the superscription: "Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt, Born May 1st, 1651: Wedded her cousin, Geoffrey de Vaignecourt, June 5th, 1671: Died May 30th, 1681."
"Not a very long life!" he mused: "All the Vaignecourts, or
Vancourts, have died somewhat early."
He let his eyes rest again on the portrait lingeringly.
"Mary Elia! I wonder if her descendant, 'Maryllia,' is anything like her?"
Slowly turning, he went out of the picture gallery, across the hall and into the garden, where the faithful Nebbie was waiting for him, amid a company of pigeons who were busy picking up what they fancied from the gravelled path, and who were utterly unembarrassed by the constant waggings of the terrier's rough tail. And he walked somewhat abstractedly through the old paved court, past the unsympathetic sun-dial, and out through the great gates, which were guarded on either side by stone griffins, gripping in their paws worn shields decorated with defaced tracings of the old Vaignecourt emblems. Clematis clasped these fabulous beasts in a dainty embrace, winding little tendrils of delicate green over their curved claws, and festooning their savage-looking heads with large star-like flowers of white and pale mauve, and against one of the weather- beaten shields an early flowering red rose leaned its perfumed head in blushing crimson confidence. Halting a moment in his onward pace, Walden paused, and looked back at the scene regretfully.
"Dear old place!" he said half aloud; "Many and many a happy hour have I passed in it, loving it, reverencing it, honouring its every stone,—as all such relics of a chivalrous and gracious past deserve to be loved, reverenced and honoured. But I fear,—yes!—I fear I shall never again see it quite as I have seen it for the past ten years,—or as I see it now! New days, new ways! And I am not progressive. To me the old days and old ways are best!"
VI
"And the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son and the Holy
Ghost, be amongst you and remain with you always!"
So prayed John Walden, truly and tenderly, stretching out his hands in benediction over the bent heads of his little congregation, which responded with a fervent 'Amen.'
Service was over, and the good folks of St. Rest wended their gradual way out of church to the full sweet sound of an organ voluntary, played by Miss Janet Eden, who, as all the village said of her, 'was a rare 'and at doin' the music proper.' Each man and woman wore their Sunday best,—each girl had some extra bit of finery on, and each lad sported either a smart necktie or wore a flower in his buttonhole, as a testimony to the general festal feeling inspired by a day when ordinary work is set aside for the mingled pleasures of prayer, meditation and promiscuous love-making. The iconoclasts who would do away with the appointed seventh day of respite from the hard labours of every-day life, deserve hanging without the mercy of trial. A due observance of Sunday, and especially the English country observance of Sunday, is one of the saving graces of our national constitution. In the large towns, a growing laxity concerning the 'keeping of the seventh day holy,' is plainly noticeable, the pernicious example of London 'smart' society doing much to lessen the old feeling of respect for the day and its sacredness; but in small greenwood places, where it is still judged decent and obedient to the laws of God, to attend Divine worship at least once a day,—when rough manual toil is set aside, and the weary and soiled labourer takes a pleasure in being clean, orderly and cheerfully respectful to his superiors, Sunday is a blessing and an educational force that can hardly be over-estimated.
In such a peaceful corner as St. Rest it was a very day of days. Tourists seldom disturbed its tranquillity, the 'Mother Huff' public-house affording but sorry entertainment to such parties; the motor-bicycle, with its detestable noise, insufferable odour and dirty, oil-stained rider in goggled spectacles, was scarcely ever seen,—and motor-cars always turned another way on leaving the county town of Riversford, in order to avoid the sharp ascent from the town, as well as the still sharper and highly dangerous descent into the valley again, where the little mediaeval village lay nestled. Thus it was enabled to gather to itself a strangely beautiful halcyon calm on the Lord's Day,—and in fair Spring weather like the present, dozed complacently under the quiet smile of serene blue skies, soothed to sleep by the rippling flow of its ribbon-like river, and receiving from hour to hour a fluttering halo of doves' wings, as these traditional messengers of peace flew over the quaint old houses, or rested on the gabled roofs, spreading out their snowy tails like fans to the warmth of the sun. The churchyard was the recognised meeting-place for all the gossips of the village after the sermon was over and the blessing pronounced,—and the brighter and warmer the weather, the longer and more desultory the conversation.
On this special Sunday, the worthy farmers and their wives, with their various cronies and confidants, gathered together in larger groups than usual, and lingered about more than was even their ordinary habit. Their curiosity was excited,—so were their faculties of criticism. The new servants from the Manor had attended church, sitting all together in a smart orderly row, and suggesting in their neat spick-and-span attire an unwonted note of novelty, of fashion, of change, nay, even of secret and suppressed society wickedness. Their looks, their attitudes, their whisperings, their movements, furnished plenty of matter to talk about,—particularly as Mrs. Spruce had apparently 'given herself airs' and marshalled them in and marshalled them out again, without stopping to talk to her village friends as usual,—which was indeed a veritable marvel,- -or to vouchsafe any information respecting the expected return of her new mistress, an impending event which was now well known throughout the whole neighbourhood. Oliver Leach, the land agent, had arrived at the church-door in an open dog-cart, and had sat through the service looking as black as thunder, or as Bainton elegantly expressed it: 'as cheerful as a green apple with a worm in it.' Afterwards, he had driven off at a rattling pace, exchanging no word with anyone. Such conduct, so the village worthies opined, was bound to be included among the various signs and tokens which were ominous of a coming revolution in the moral and domestic atmosphere of St. Rest.
Then again, the 'Passon's' sermon that morning had been something of a failure. Walden himself, all the time he was engaged in preaching it, had known that it was a lame, halting and perfunctory discourse, and he had felt fully conscious that a patient tolerance of him on the part of his parishioners had taken the place of the respectful interest and attention they usually displayed. He was indeed sadly at a loss concerning 'the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.' He had desired to recommend the cultivation of such a grace in the most forcible manner, yet he found himself wondering why fashionable women wore pink shoes much smaller than the natural size of the human foot? To be 'meek and quiet' was surely an excellent thing, but then it was impossible for any man with blood in his veins to feel otherwise than honestly indignant at the extravagance displayed by certain modern ladies in the selection of their gowns! Flashing sparks of pearl and crystal sewn on cloud-like tissues and chiffons, danced before his eyes, as he ponderously weighed out the spiritual advantages of being meek and quiet; and his metaphors became as hazy as the deductions he drew from his text were vague and difficult to follow. He was uncomfortably conscious of a slight flush rising to his face, as he met the bland enquiring stare of Sir Morton Pippitt's former butler—now on 'temp'ry' service at the Manor,—he became aware that there was also a new and rather pretty housemaid beside the said butler, who whispered when she ought to have been silent,—and he saw blankness on the fat face of Mrs. Spruce, a face which was tied up like a round red damaged sort of fruit in a black basket-like bonnet, fastened with very broad violet strings. Now Mrs. Spruce always paid the most pious attention to his sermons, and jogged her husband at regular intervals to prevent that worthy man from dozing, though she knew he could not hear a word of anything that was said, and that, therefore, he might as well have been allowed to sleep,—but on this occasion John was sure that even he failed to be interested in his observations on that 'ornament,' which she called 'hornament,' of the meek and quiet spirit, pronounced to be of such 'great price.' He realised that if any 'great price' was at all in question with her that morning, it was the possible monetary value of her new lady's wardrobe. So that on the whole he was very glad when he came to the end of his ramble among strained similes, and was able to retire altogether from the gaze of the different pairs of eyes, cow-like, sheep-like, bird- like, dog-like, and human, which in their faithful watching of his face as he preached, often moved him to a certain embarrassment, though seldom as much as on this occasion. With his disappearance from the pulpit, and his subsequent retreat round by the back of the churchyard into the privacy of his own garden, the tongues of the gossips, restrained as long as their minister was likely to be within earshot, broke loose and began to wag with glib rapidity.
"Look 'ee 'ere, Tummas," said one short, thick-set man, addressing
Bainton; "Look 'ee 'ere—thy measter baint oop to mark this marnin'!
Seemed as if he couldn't find the ways nor the meanin's o' the Lord
nohow!"
Bainton slowly removed his cap from his head and looked thoughtfully into the lining, as though seeking for inspiration there, before replying. The short, thick-set man was an important personage,—no less than the proprietor of the 'Mother Huff' public-house; and not only was he proprietor of the said public-house, but brewer of all the ale he sold there. Roger Buggins was a man to be reckoned with, and he expected to be treated with almost as much consideration as the 'Passon' himself. Buggins wore a very ill-fitting black suit on Sundays, which made him look like a cross between a waiter and an undertaker; and he also supported on his cranium a very tall top-hat with an extra wide brim, suggesting in its antediluvian shape a former close acquaintance with cast-off clothing stores.
"He baint himself,"—reiterated Buggins emphatically; "He was fair mazed and dazed with his argifyin'. 'Meek and quiet sperrit'! Who wants the like o' that in this 'ere mortal wurrld, where we all commences to fight from the moment we lays in our cradles till the last kick we gives 'fore we goes to our graves? Meek and quiet goes to prison more often than rough and ready!"
"Mebbe Passon Walden was thinkin' of Oliver Leach," suggested Bainton with a slight twinkle in his eye; "And 'ow m'appen we'd best be all of us meek and quiet when he's by. It might be so, Mr. Buggins,—Passon's a rare one to guess as 'ow the wind blows nor'- nor'-east sometimes in the village, for all that it's a warm day and the peas comin' on beautiful. Eh, now, Mr. Buggins?" This with a conciliatory air, for Bainton had a little reckoning at the 'Mother Huff' and desired to be all that was agreeable to its proprietor.
Buggins snorted a defiant snort.
"Oliver Leach indeed!" he ejaculated. "Meek an' quiet suits him down to the ground, it do! There's a man wot's likely to have a kindly note of warnin' from my best fist, if he comes larrupin' round my place too often. 'Ave ye 'eard as 'ow he's chalked the Five Sisters?"
"Now don't go for to say that!" expostulated Bainton gently. "'E runs as near the wind as he can, but 'e'd never be stark starin' mad enough to chalk the Five Sisters!"
"Chalk 'em 'e HAS!" returned Buggins, putting quite a strong aspirate where he generally left it out,—"And down they're comin' on Wednesday marnin'. Which I sez yeste'day to Adam Frost 'ere: if the Five Sisters is to lay low, what next?"
"Ay! ay!" chorussed several other villagers who had been, listening eagerly to the conversation; "You say true, Mr. Buggins—you say gospel true. If the Five Sisters lay low, what next!"
And dismal shakings of the head and rollings of the eyes from all parties followed this proposition.
"What next," echoed the sexton, Adam Frost, who on hearing his name brought into the argument, showed himself at once ready to respond to it. "Why next we'll not have a tree of any size anywhere near the village, for if timber's to be sold, sold it will be, and the only person we'll be able to rely on for a bit of green shade or shelter will be Passon Walden, who wouldn't have a tree cut down anywhere on his land, no, not if he was starving. Ah! If the old Squire were alive he'd sooner have had his own 'ead chopped off than the Five Sisters laid low!"
By this time a considerable number of the villagers had gathered round Roger Buggins as the centre of the discussion,—some out of curiosity, and others out of a vague and entirely erroneous idea that perhaps if they took the proper side of the argument 'refreshers' in the way of draughts of home-brewed ale at the 'Mother Huff' between church hours might be offered as an amicable end to the conversation.
"Someone should tell Miss Vancourt about it; she's coming home to the Manor on Tuesday," suggested the barmaid of the 'Mother Huff,' a smart-looking young woman, who was however looked upon with grave suspicion by her feminine neighbours, because she dressed 'beyond her station'; "P'raps she'd do something?"
"Not she!" said Frost, cynically; "She's a fine lady,—been livin' with 'Mericans what will eat banknotes for breakfast in order to write about it to the papers arterwards. Them sort of women takes no 'count o' trees, except to make money out of 'em."
Here there was a slight stir among the group, as they saw a familiar figure slowly approaching them,—that of a very old man, wearing a particularly clean smock-frock and a large straw hat, who came out from under the church porch like a quaint, moving, mediaeval Dutch picture. Shuffling along, one halting step at a time, and supporting himself on a stout ash stick, this venerable personage made his way, with a singular doggedness and determination of movement, up to the group of gossips. Arriving among them he took off his straw hat, and producing a blue spotted handkerchief from its interior wiped the top of his bald head vigorously.
"Now, what are ye at?" he said slowly; "What are ye at? All clickettin' together like grasshoppers in a load of hay! What's the mischief? Whose character are ye bitin' bits out of, like mice in an old cheese? Eh? Lord! Lord! Eighty-nine years o' livin' wi' ye, summer in and summer out, don't improve ye,—talk to ye as I will and as I may, ye're all as mis'able sinners as ever ye was, and never a saint among ye 'cept the one in the Sarky Fagus."
Here, pausing for breath, the ancient speaker wiped his head again, carefully flattening down with the action a few stray wisps of thin white hair, while a smile of tranquil and superior wisdom spread itself among the countless wrinkles of his sun-browned face, like a ray of winter sunshine awakening rippling reflections on a half- frozen pool.
"We ain't doin' nothin', Josey!" said Buggins, almost timidly.
"Nor we ain't sayin' nothin'," added Bainton.
"We be as harmless as doves," put in Adam Frost with a sly chuckle; "and we ain't no match for sarpints!"
"Ain't you looking well, Mr. Letherbarrow!" ejaculated the smartly dressed barmaid; "Just wonderful for your time of life!"
"My time o' life?" And Josey Letherbarrow surveyed the young woman with an inimitable expression of disdain; "Well, it's a time o' life YOU'LL never reach, sane or sound, my gel, take my word for't! Fine feathers makes fine birds, but the life is more'n the meat and the body more'n raiment. And as for 'armless as doves and no match for sarpints, ye may be all that and more, which is no sort of argyment and when I sez 'what mischief are ye all up to' I sez it, and expecks a harnser, and a harnser I'll 'ave, or I'll reckon to know the reason why!"
The men and women glanced at each other. It was unnecessary, and it would certainly be inhuman, to irritate old Josey Letherbarrow, considering Ms great age and various infirmities.
"We was jest a-sayin' a word or two about the Five Sisters—" began
Adam Frost.
"Ay! ay!" said Josey; "That ye may do and no 'arm come of it; I knows 'em well! Five of the finest beech-trees in all England! Ay! ay! th' owld Squire was main proud of 'em—-"
"They be comin' down," said Buggins; "Oliver Leach's chalk mark's on 'em for Wednesday marnin'."
"Comin' down!" echoed Josey—"Comin' down? Gar'n with ye all for a parcel o' silly idgits wi' neither rhyme nor reason nor backbone! Comin' down! Why ye might as well tell me the Manor House was bein' turned into a cow-shed! Comin' down! Gar'n!"
"It's true, Josey," said Adam Frost, beginning to make his way towards the gate of the churchyard, for he had just spied one of his numerous 'olive-branches,' frantically beckoning him home to dinner, and he knew by stern experience what it meant if Mrs. Frost and the family were kept waiting for the Sunday's meal. "It's true, and you'll find it so. And whether it'll be any good speakin' to the new lady who's comin' home on Tuesday, or whether the Five Sisters won't be all corpses afore she comes, there's no knowin'. The Lord He gave the trees, but whether the Lord He gave Oliver Leach to take 'em away again after a matter of three or four hundred year is mighty doubtful!"
Old Josey looked stupefied.
"The Five Sisters comin' down!" he repeated dully; "May you never live to do my buryin', Adam Frost, if it's true!—and that's the worst wish I can give ye!"
But Adam Frost here obeyed the call of his domestic belongings, and hurried away without response.
Josey leaned on his stick thoughtfully for a minute, and then resumed his slow shuffling way. Any one of the men or women near him would have willingly given him a hand to assist his steps, but they all knew that he would be highly incensed if they dared to show that they considered him in any way feeble or in need of support. So they contented themselves with accompanying him at his own snail's pace, and at such a distance as to be within hearing of any remarks he might let fall, without intruding too closely on the special area in which he chose to stump along homewards.
"The Five Sisters comin' down, and the old Squire's daughter comin' 'ome!" he muttered; "They two things is like ile and water,—nothin' 'ull make 'em mix. The Squire's daughter—ay—ay! It seems but only yeste'day the Squire died! And she was a fine mare that threw him, too,—Firefly was her name. Ay—ay! It seems but yeste'day—but yeste'day!"
"D'ye mind the Squire's daughter, Josey?" asked one of the village women sauntering a little nearer to him.
"Mind her?" And Josey Letherbarrow halted abruptly. "Do I mind my own childer? It seems but yeste'day, I tell ye, that the Squire died, but mebbe it's a matter of six-an'-twenty 'ear agone since 'e came to me where I was a-workin' in 'is fields, and he pinted out to me the nurse wot was walkin' up and down near the edge of the pasture carryin' his baby all in long clothes. 'See that, Josey!' he sez, an' 'is eyes were all wild-like an' 'is lips was a' tremblin'; 'That little white thing is all I've got left of the wife I was bringin' 'ome to be the sunshine of the old Manor. I felt like killin' that child, Josey, when it was born, because its comin' into this wurrld killed its mother. That was an unnat'ral thing, Josey,' sez he—'There was no God in it, only a devil!' and 'is lips trembled more'n ever—'no woman ought to die in givin' birth to a child—it's jes' wicked an' cruel! I would say that to God Himself, if I knew Him!' An' he clenched 'is fist 'ard, an' then 'e went on— 'But though I wanted to kill the little creature, I couldn't do it, Josey, I couldn't! It's eyes were like those of my Dearest. So I let it live; an' I'll do my best by it, Josey,'—yes, them's the words 'e said—'I'll do my best by it!'"
Here Josey broke off in his narrative, and resumed his crawling pace.
"You ain't finished, 'ave ye, Josey?" said Roger Buggins propitiatingly, drawing closer to the old man. "It's powerful interestin', all this 'ere!"
Josey halted again.
"Powerful interestin'? O' course it is! There ain't nobody's story wot ain't interestin', if ye onny knows it. An' it's all six-an'- twenty year agone now; but I can see th' owld Squire still, an' the nurse walkin' slow up an' down by the border of the field, hushin' the baby to sleep. And 'twas a good sound baby, too, an' thrived fine; an' 'fore we knew where we was, instid of a baby there was a little gel runnin' wild all over the place, climbin' trees, swannin' up hay-stacks an' up to all sorts of mischief—Lord, Lord!" And Josey began to chuckle with a kind of inward merriment; "I'll never forget the day that child sat down on a wopses' nest an' got all 'er little legs stung;—she was about five 'ear old then, an' she never cried—not she!—the little proud spitfire that she was, she jes' stamped 'er mite of a foot an' she sez, sez she: 'Did God make the wopses?' An' 'er nurse sez to 'er: 'Yes, o' course, lovey, God made 'em.' 'Then I don't think much of Him!' sez she. Lord, Lord! We larfed nigh to split ourselves that arternoon;—we was all makin' 'ay an' th' owld Squire was workin' wi' us for fun-like. 'I don't think much o' God, father!'—sez Miss Maryllia, runnin' up to 'im, an' liftin' up all 'er petticuts an' shewin' the purtiest little legs ye ever seed; 'Nurse sez He made the wopses!' He-ee-ee-hor-hor- hor!"