God's Good Man, Marie Corelli [me reader .txt] 📗

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