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

all her own way as she had fondly imagined when she first saw the apparently child-like personality of her new lady. The child-like personality was merely the rose-flesh covering of a somewhat determined character.

“And anything I can do for you, Spruce, or for your husband,” continued Maryllia, dropping her business-like tone for one of as coaxing a sweetness as ever Shakespeare’s Juliet practised for the persuasion of her too tardy Nurse—“will be done with ever so much pleasure! You know that, don’t you?” And she laid her pretty little hands on the worthy woman’s portly shoulders—“You shall go out whenever you like—after work, of course!—duty first, pleasure second!—and you shall even grumble, if you feel like it,—and have your little naps when the midday meal is done with,—Aunt Emily’s housekeeper in London used to have them, and she snored dreadfully! the second footman—QUITE a nice lad—used to tickle her nose with a straw! But I can’t afford to keep a second footman—one is quite enough,—or a coachman, or a carriage;—besides, I would always rather ride than drive,—and my groom, Bennett, will only want a stable-boy to help him with Cleo and Daffodil. So I hope there’ll be no one downstairs to tease you, Spruce dear, by tickling YOUR nose with a straw! Primmins looks much too staid and respectable to think of such a thing.”

She laughed merrily,—and Mrs. Spruce for the life of her could not help laughing too. The picture of Primmins condescending to indulge in a game of ‘nose and straw’ was too grotesque to be considered with gravity.

“Well I never, Miss!” she ejaculated—“You do put things that funny!”

“Do I? I’m so glad!” said Maryllia demurely—“it’s nice to be funny to other people, even if you’re not funny to yourself! But I want you to understand from the first, Spruce, that everyone must feel happy and contented in my household. So if anything goes wrong, you must tell me, and I will try and set it right. Now I’m going for an hour’s walk with Plato, and when I come in, and have had my tea, I’ll visit the picture-gallery. I know all about it,—Uncle Fred told me,”—she paused, and her eyes darkened with a wistful and deepening gravity,—then she added gently—“I shall not want you there, Spruce,—I must be quite alone.”

Mrs. Spruce again curtseyed humbly, and was about to withdraw, when Maryllia called her back.

“What about the clergyman here, Mr. Walden?”—she asked—“Is he a nice man?—kind to the village people, I mean, and good to the poor?”

Mrs. Spruce gave a kind of ecstatic gasp, folded her fat hands tightly together in front of her voluminous apron, and launched forth straightway on her favourite theme.

“Mr. Walden is jest one of the finest men God ever made, Miss,” she said, with solemnity and unction—“You may take my word for it! He’s that good, that as we often sez, if m’appen there ain’t no saint in the Sarky an’ nowt but dust, we’ve got a real live saint walkin’ free among us as is far more ‘spectable to look at in his plain coat an’ trousers than they monks an’ friars in the picter-books wi’ ropes around their waistses an’ bald crowns, which ain’t no sign to me o’ bein’ full o’ grace, but rather loss of ‘air,—an’ which you will presently see yourself, Miss, as ‘ow Mr. Walden’s done the church beautiful, like a dream, as all the visitors sez, which there isn’t its like in all England—an’ he’s jest a father to the village an’ friends with every man, woman, an’ child in it, an’ grudges nothink to ‘elp in cases deservin’, an’ works like a nigger, he do, for the school, which if he’d ‘ad a wife it might a’ been better an’ it might a’ been worse, the Lord only knows, for no woman would a’ come up ‘ere an’ stood that patient watchin’ me an’ my work, an’ I tell you truly, Miss Maryllia, that when your boxes came an’ I had to unpack ‘em an’ sort the clothes in ‘em, I sent for Passon Walden jest to show ‘im that I felt my ‘sponsibility, an’ he sez, sez he: ‘You go on doin’ your duty, Missis Spruce, an’ your lady will be all right’—an’ though I begged ‘im to stop, he wouldn’t while I was a- shakin’ out your dresses with Nancy—”

Here she was interrupted by a ringing peal of laughter from Maryllia, who, running up to her, put a little hand on her mouth.

“Stop, stop, Spruce!” she exclaimed—“Oh dear, oh dear I Do you think I can understand all this? Did you show the parson my clothes- actually? You did!” For Mrs. Spruce nodded violently in the affirmative. “Good gracious! What a perfectly dreadful thing to do!” And she laughed again. “And what is the saint in the Sarky?” Here she removed her hand from the mouth she was guarding. “Say it in one word, if you can,-what is the Sarky?”

“It’s in the church,”—said Mrs. Spruce, dauntlessly proceeding with her flow of narrative, and encouraged thereto by the sparkling mirth in her mistress’s face—“We calls it Sarky for short. Josey Letherbarrow, what reads, an’ ‘as larnin’, calls it the Sarky Fagus, an’ my Kitty, she’s studied at the school, an’ SHE sez ‘it’s Sar-KO- fagus, mother,’ which it may be or it mayn’t, for the schools don’t know more than the public-‘ouses in my opinion,—leastways it’s a great long white coffin what’s supposed to ‘ave the body of a saint inside it, an’ Mr. Walden he discovered it when he was rebuildin’ the church, an’ when the Bishop come to conskrate it, he sez ‘twas a saint in there an’ that’s why the village is called St. Rest—but you’ll find it all out yourself. Miss, an’ as I sez an’ I don’t care who ‘ears me, the real saint ain’t in the Sarky at all,—it’s just Mr. Walden himself,—”

Again Maryllia’s hand closed her mouth.

“You really must stop, Spruce! You are the dearest old gabbler possible—but you must stop! You’ll have no breath left—and I shall have no patience! I’ve heard quite enough. I met Mr. Walden this morning, and I’m sure he isn’t a saint at all! He’s a very ordinary person indeed,—most ordinary—not in the very least remarkable. I’m. glad he’s good to the people, and that they like him—that’s really all that’s necessary, and it’s all I want to know. Go along, Spruce!—don’t talk to me any more about saints in the Sarky or out of the Sarky! There never was a real saint in the world—never!—not in the shape of a man!”

With laughter still dancing in her eyes, she turned away, and Mrs. Spruce, in full possession of restored nerve and vivacity, bustled off on her round of household duty, the temporary awe she had felt concerning the new written code of domestic ‘Rules and Regulations’ having somewhat subsided under the influence of her mistress’s gay good-humour. And Maryllia herself, putting on her hat, called Plato to her side, and started off for the village, resolved to make the church her first object of interest, in order to see the wondrous ‘Sarky.’

“I never was so much entertained in my life!” she declared to herself, as she walked lightly along,—her huge dog bounding in front of her and anon returning to kiss her hand and announce by deep joyous barks his delight at finding himself at liberty in the open country—“Spruce is a perfect comedy in herself,—ever so much better than a stage play! And then the quaint funny men who came to see me last night,—and those village boys this morning! And the ‘saintly’ parson! I’m sure he’ll turn out to be comic too,—in a way—he’ll be the ‘heavy father’ of the piece! Really I never imagined I should have so much fun!”

Here, spying a delicate pinnacle gleaming through the trees, she rightly concluded that it belonged to the church she intended to visit, and finding a footpath leading across the fields, she followed it. It was the same path which Walden had for so many years been accustomed to take in his constant walks to and from the Manor. It soon brought her to the highroad which ran through the village, and across this it was but a few steps to the gate of the churchyard. Laying one hand on her dog’s neck, she checked the great creature’s gambols and compelled him to walk sedately by her side, as with hushed footsteps she entered the ‘Sleepy Hollow’ of death’s long repose, and went straight up to the church door which, as usual, stood open.

“Stay here, Plato!” she whispered to her four-footed comrade, who, understanding the mandate, lay down at once submissively in the porch to wait her pleasure.

Entering the sacred shrine she stood still,—awed by its exquisite beauty and impressive simplicity. The deep silence, the glamour of the soft vari-coloured light that flowed through the lancet windows on either side,—the open purity of the nave, without any disfiguring pews or fixed seats to mar its clear space,—(for the chairs which were used at service were all packed away in a remote corner out of sight)—the fair, slender columns, springing up into flowering capitals, like the stems of palms breaking into leaf- coronals,—the dignified plainness of the altar, with that strange white sarcophagus set in front of it,—all these taken together, composed a picture of sweet sanctity and calm unlike anything she had ever seen before. Her emotional nature responded to the beautiful in all things, and this small perfectly designed House of Prayer, with its unknown saintly occupant at rest within its walls, touched her almost to tears. Stepping on tip-toe up to the altar- rails, she instinctively dropped on her knees, while she read all that could be seen of the worn inscription on the sarcophagus from that side-‘In Resurrectione—Sanctorum—Resurget.’ The atmosphere around her seemed surcharged with mystical suggestions,—a vague poetic sense of the super-human and divine moved her to a faint touch of fear, and made her heart beat more quickly than its wont.

“It is lovely—lovely!” she murmured under her breath, as she rose from her kneeling attitude—“The whole church is a perfect gem of architecture! I have never seen anything more beautiful in its way,- not even the Chapel of the Thorn at Pisa. And according to Mrs. Spruce’s account, the man I met this morning-the quizzical parson with the grey-brown curly-locks, did it all at his own expense—he must really be quite clever,—such an unusual thing for a country clergyman!”

She took another observant survey of the whole building, and then went out again into the churchyard. There she paused, her dog beside her, shading her eyes from the sun as she looked wistfully from right to left across the sadly suggestive little hillocks of mossy turf besprinkled with daisies, in search of an object which was as a landmark of disaster in her life.

She saw it at last, and moved slowly towards it,—a plain white marble cross, rising from a smooth grassy eminence, where a rambling rose, carefully and even artistically trained, was just beginning to show pale creamy buds among its glossy dark green leaves. Great tears rose to her eyes and fell unheeded, as she read the brief inscription—‘Sacred to the Memory of Robert Vancourt of Abbot’s Manor,’ this being followed by the usual dates of birth and death, and the one word ‘Resting.’ With tender touch Maryllia gathered one leaf from the climbing rose foliage, and kissing it amid her tears, turned away, unable to bear the thoughts and memories which began to crowd thickly upon her. Almost she seemed to hear her father’s deep mellow voice which had been the music of her childhood, playfully saying as was so often his wont:—“Well, my little girl! How goes the