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

smell as never was,—an’ I’m sure there’s no love lost ‘tweens Missis Frost an’ me, but it do make me worrited like when that there little Ipsie goes runnin’ out, not knowin’ whether she mayn’t be run over like my Bob’s pet dog. For the quality don’t seem to care for no one ‘cept theirselves—an’ it ain’t peaceful like nor safe as ‘twas ‘fore they came. An’ I s’pose we’ll be seein’ Miss Maryllia married next?”

Mrs. Spruce pursed up her mouth tightly and looked unutterable things.

“‘Tain’t no good countin’ chickens ‘fore they’re hatched, Missis Keeley!” she said—“An’ the Lord sometimes fixes up marriages in quite a different way to what we expects. There ain’t goin’ to be no weddin’s nor buryin’s yet in the Manor, please the A’mighty goodness, for one’s as mis’able as t’other, an’ both means change, which sometimes is good for the ‘elth but most often contrariwise, though whatever ‘appens either way we must bend our ‘eads under the rod to both. But I mustn’t stay chitterin’ ‘ere any longer—good day t’ye!”

And nodding darkly as one who could say much an’ she would, the worthy woman ambled away.

Scraps of information, such as this talk of Mrs. Spruce’s, reached Bainton’s ears from time to time in a disjointed and desultory manner and moved him to profound cogitation. He was not quite sure now whether, after all, his liking for Miss Vancourt had not been greatly misplaced.

“When I seed her first,”—he said to himself, pathetically, while hoeing the weeds out of the paths in the rectory garden, “When me an’ old Josey went up to get ‘er to save the Five Sisters, she seemed as sweet as ‘oney,—an’ she’s done many a kind thing for the village since. But I don’t care for ‘er friends. They’ve changed her like—they’ve made her forget all about us! An’ as for Passon, she don’t come nigh ‘im no more, an’ he don’t go nigh ‘er. Seems to me ‘tis all a muddle an’ a racket since the motor-cars went bouncin’ about an’ smellin’ like p’ison—‘tain’t wot it used to be. Howsomever, let’s ‘ope to the Lord it’ll soon be over. If wot they all sez is true, there’ll be a weddin’ ‘ere soon, Passon’ll marry Miss Vancourt to the future Dook, an’ away they’ll go, an’ Abbot’s Manor’ll be shut up again as it used to afore. An’ the onny change we’ll ‘ave will be Mr. Stanways for agent ‘stead of Oliver Leach— which is a blessin’—for Stanways is a decent, kindly man, an’ Oliver Leach—well now!” And he paused in his hoeing, fixing his round eyes meditatively on a wall where figs were ripening in the sun—“Blest if I can make out Oliver Leach! One day he’s with old Putty Leveson—another he’s drunk as a lord in the gutter—an’ another he’s butterfly huntin’ with a net, lookin’ like a fool—but allus about the place—allus about—an’ he’s got a face that a kid would scream at seein’ it in the dark. I wish he’d find another situation in a fur-off neighbourhood!”

Here, looking towards the lawn, he saw his master walking slowly up and down on the grass in front of his study window, with head bent and hands loosely clasped behind his back, apparently lost in thought.

“Passon ain’t hisself,—seems all gone to pieces like,” he mused— “He don’t do nothin’ in the garden,—he ain’t a bit partikler or fidgetty—an all he cares about is the bits o’ glass which comes on approval from all parts o’ the world for the rose window. I sez to him t’other day—‘Ain’t ye got enough old glass yet, Passon?’—and he sez all absent-minded like, ‘No, Bainton—not yet! There are many difficulties to be conquered—one must have patience. It’s almost like piecing a life together,’ sez he—‘one portion is good—another bad—one’s got the true colour—the other’s false—and so on—it’s hard work to get all the little bits of love an’ charity an’ kindness to fit into their proper places. Don’t you understand?’ ‘No, Passon,’ sez I, ‘I can’t say as I do!’ Then he laughed, but sad like—an’ went away with his ‘ead down as he’s got it now. Something’s wrong with him—an’ it’s all since Miss Vancourt came. She’s a real worry to ‘im I ‘spect,—an’ it’s true enough the place ain’t like what it was a month ago. Yet there’s no denyin’ she’s a sweet little lady for all one can say!”

Bainton’s sentiments were a fair reflection of the general village opinion, though in the town of Riversford the tide of feeling ran high, and controversy raged furiously, over the ways and doings of Miss Vancourt and her society friends. A certain vague awe stole over the gossips, however, when they heard that, whether rapid or non-rapid, ‘Maryllia Van,’ as Sir Morton Pippitt persisted in calling her, was likely to be the future Duchess of Ormistoune. Lord Roxmouth had been seen in Riversford just once, and many shop-girls had declared him ‘so distinguished looking!’ Mordaunt Appleby, the brewer, had thrown out sundry hints to Sir Morton Pippitt that he ‘should be pleased to see his lordship at Appleby House’—Appleby House being the name of his, the brewer’s, residence—but somehow his lordship had not yet availed himself of the invitation. Sufficient, however, was altogether done and said by all concerned to weave a web of worry round Maryllia,—and to cause her to heartily regret that she had ever asked any of her London acquaintances down to her house.

“I did it as a kind of instruction to myself,—a lesson and a test,” she said—“But I had far better have run the risk of being called an old maid and a recluse than have got these people round me,—all of whom I thought were my friends,—but who have been more or less tampered with by Aunt Emily and Roxmouth, and pressed in to help carry on the old scheme against me of a detestable alliance with a man I hate. Well!—I have learned the falsity of their protestations of liking and admiration and affection for me,—and I’m sorry for it! I should like to believe in the honesty of at least a few persons in the world—if that were possible!—I don’t want to have myself always ‘on guard’ against intrigue and humbug!”

Everyone present, however, on the night of the last dinner-party she gave to her London guests, was bound to admit that a sweeter, fairer creature than its present mistress never trod the old oaken floors of Abbot’s Manor; and that even the radiant pictured beauty of ‘Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt,’ to whom no doubt many a time the Merry Monarch had doffed his plumed hat in salutation, paled and grew dim before the living rose of Maryllia’s dainty loveliness and the magnetic tenderness of Maryllia’s eyes. Something of the exquisite pensiveness of her mother’s countenance, as portrayed in the long hidden picture which was now one of the gems of the Manor gallery, seemed to soften the outline of her features, and deepen the character and play of the varying expression which made her so fascinating to those who look for the soul in a woman’s face, rather than its mere physical form. Lady Beaulyon, beautiful though she was, owed something to art; but Maryllia was nature’s own untouched product, and everything about her exhaled freshness, sweetness, and radiant vitality. Roxmouth, entering ‘most carefully upon his hour,’ namely at a quarter to eight o’clock, found her singularly attractive,—more so, he thought, than he had ever before realised. The stately old-world setting of Abbot’s Manor suited her—the dark oak panelling,—the Flemish tapestries, the worn shields and scutcheons, the old banners and armorial bearings,—all the numerous touches of the past which spoke of chivalry, ancestral pride and loyalty to great traditions, lent grace and colouring to the picture she herself made, as she received her guests with that sweet kindness, ease and distinction, which are the heritage of race and breeding.

“Pretty little shrew!” he said, in an aside to Marius Longford—“She is really charming,—and I begin to think I want her as much for herself as for her aunt’s millions!”

Longford smiled obsequiously.

“There is a certain air of originality, or shall we say individuality, about the lady,”—he observed, with a critical, not to say insolent stare in Maryllia’s direction,—“The French term ‘beaute du diable’ expresses it best. But whether the charm will last, is another question.”

“No woman’s beauty lasts more than a few years,”—said Roxmouth, as he glanced at the various guests who had entered or were entering. “Lady Beaulyon wears well—but she is forty years old, and begins to show it. Margaret Bludlip Courtenay must be fifty, and she doesn’t show it—she manages her Paris cosmetics wonderfully. Some of these county ladies would be better for a little touch of her art! But Maryllia Vancourt needs no paint,—she can afford to be natural. Is that the parson?”

Walden was just entering the room, and Longford put up his glasses.

“Yes,”—he replied—“That is the parson. He is not without character.”

Roxmouth became suddenly interested. He saw Walden go up to his hostess and bow—he also saw the sudden smile that brightened Maryllia’s face as she welcomed her clerical guest,—the one Churchman of the party.

“Rather a distinguished looking fellow,”—he commented carelessly— “Is he clever?”

Longford hesitated. He had been pulverised in one of the literary weeklies by an article on the authenticity of Shakespeare’s plays, signed boldly ‘John Walden’—and he had learned, by cautious enquiries here and there in London, that though, for the most part, extremely unassuming, the aforesaid John Walden was considered an authority in matters of historical and antiquarian research. But he was naturally anxious that the future Duke of Ormistoune, when he had secured Mrs. Fred Vancourt’s millions, should not expend his powerful patronage to a country clergyman who might, from a ‘Savage and Savile’ point of view, be considered an interloper. So he replied with caution:

“I believe he dabbles a little in literary and archaeological pursuits,—many parsons do. As an archaeologist, he certainly has merit. You entertain a favourable opinion of the church, he has restored?”

“The church, as I have before told you, is perfect,”—replied Roxmouth—“And the man who carried out such a design must needs be an interesting personality. I think Miss Vancourt finds him so!”

His cold grey eyes lightened unpleasantly as he made this remark, and Marius Longford, quick to discern every shade of tone in a voice, recognised a touch of satire in the seemingly casual words. He made no observation, however, but kept his lynx eyes and ears open, watching and listening for anything that might perchance be of use in furthering his patron’s desires and aims.

Walden, meanwhile, had, quite unconsciously to himself, created a little sensation by his appearance. HE was the parson who had dared to stop in his reading of the service because the Manor house-party had entered the church a quarter of an hour behind time,—HE was the man who had told them that it was no use gaining the whole world if they lost their own souls,—as if, in this advanced era of progress, any one of them had souls to lose! Preposterous! Here he was, this country cleric, who, as he was introduced by his hostess to the various gentlemen standing immediately about her, smiled urbanely, bowed ceremoniously, and comported himself with an air of intellectual composure and dignity that had a magnetic effect upon all. Yet in himself he was singularly ill at ease. Various emotions in his mind contended together to make him so. To begin with, he disliked social ‘functions’ of all kinds, and particularly those at which any noted persons of the so-called ‘Smart Set’ were present. He disliked women who made capital out of their beauty, by allowing their photographs to be on sale in shop-windows and to appear