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

‘helping on’ the desired union between Roxmouth Castle and the Vaneourt millions. Now this dream was over, and he could willingly have thrown plates and dishes and anything else that came handy at the very name of Maryllia for her ‘impudence’ as he called it, in leaving them all in the lurch.

“It will be quite easy to ascertain where she has gone,”—said Marius Longford presently, in soft conciliatory accents—“Lady Wicketts will probably know, and Miss Fosby---”

“Damn Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby!” snapped out Sir Morton, this time without any apology—“A couple of female donkeys! ‘Kind of me to call upon them!’ God bless my soul! I should think it WOULD be kind! Nobody but a fool would go near them---”

“They are very pleasant, good women,”—said Miss Tabitha with severe serenity—“Personally, I much prefer them to Miss Vancourt.”

Sir Morton snorted contempt; Mr. Longford coughed discreetly.

“Miss Vancourt has not yet ripened sufficiently to bear comparison with Lady Wicketts,”—he said, smoothly—“or with Miss Fosby. But I think, Miss Pippitt, there is a great deal in what you say!” Miss Tabitha bowed, and smiled a vinegary smile. “Lady Wicketts has a fine mind—very fine! Her husband, Sir Thomas---”

“Oh never mind her husband!” blustered Sir Morton,—

“He’s dead. And a good job too—for himself. Now what’s to be done, my dear lord, eh?—what’s to be done?”

Roxmouth looked up and managed to force his usual conventional smile.

“Nothing!”

“Nothing? Oh come, come! That won’t do! Paint heart never won fair lady—ha-ha-ha! God bless my soul! The course of true love never did run smooth—that’s the advice of what’s-his-name—Shakespeare. Ha- ha! By the bye, what’s become of that poet acquaintance of yours, Longford? Oughtn’t HE to have known something about this? Didn’t you tell him to keep a sharp look-out on Maryllia Van, eh?”

Longford reddened slightly under his pale yellow skin. What a vulgar way Sir Morton had of putting things, to be sure!

“I certainly asked Mr. Adderley to let us know if there was anything in which we could possibly participate to give pleasure and entertainment to Miss Vancourt,”—he answered frigidly—“He seems to have ingratiated himself with both Miss Vancourt and her young friend Miss Bourne—I should have thought he would have been told of their intending departure.”

“You may depend he knows all about it!” said Sir Mortou—“He’s double-faced, that’s what he is! Poets always are. I hate ‘em! Regular sneaks!—always something queer about their morals—look at Byron!—God bless my soul!—he ought to have been locked up— positively locked up, he-ha-ha! We’ll come down on this Adderley— we’ll take him by surprise and cross-examine him—we’ll ask him why the devil he has played a double game---”

“Pray do not think of such a thing!”—interrupted Roxmouth, quietly- “I really doubt whether he knows any more than we do. Maryllia- Miss Vancourt—is not of a character to confide her movements, even to a friend,—she has always been reticent---” He paused.

“And sly!”—said Miss Tabitha, finishing his sentence for him, “Very sly! The first time I ever saw Miss Vancourt I knew she was deceitful! Her very look expresses it!”

“I’m afraid,”—murmured Roxmouth,—and then hesitating a moment, he raised his eyes with an affectation of great frankness—“I’m really afraid you may be right, Miss Tabitha! I had hoped that I should not have had to speak of a matter,—a very disagreeable matter which happened the other night—but, under the circumstances, it may be as well to mention it. You can perhaps imagine how distressing it has been to me—distressing and painful—and indeed incredible,—to discover the lady whom I have every right to consider almost my promised wife, entering into a kind of amorous entanglement down here with a clergyman!”

Sir Morton bounced in his chair.

“God bless my soul! A clergyman?”

“A clergyman?” echoed Miss Tabitha, with sudden sharpness in her tone—“What clergyman do you mean?”

“Who should I mean!” And Roxmouth affected a somewhat sad and forbearing demeanour—“There is only one who appears to be welcome at the Manor-the Reverend John Walden.”

Miss Tabitha turned a paler waxen yellow-Sir Morton shot forth a deep, dreadful and highly blasphemous oath.

“That prig?” he roared, with a bull-like loudness and fury—“That high-and-mighty piece of damned superior clerical wisdom? God bless my soul! There must be some mistake---”

“Yes surely!”—murmured Miss Tabitha, feeling the clutch of a deadly spite and fear at her heart,—for was not Walden HER clergyman?—HER choice of a husband?—the man she had resolved to wed sooner or later, even if she had to wait till he was senile, and did not know what he was doing when led to the altar? “Mr. Walden is not a man who would be easily allured---”

“Perhaps not,”—said Roxmouth, quietly—“But I can hardly refuse to accept the witness of my own eyes and ears.” And, attended by an almost breathless silence on the part of his auditors, he related with an air of patient endurance and compassionate regret, his own account of the interview between Maryllia and Walden in the picture- gallery, exaggerating something here, introducing a suggestive insinuation there, suppressing the simplicity of the true facts, and inserting falsehood wherever convenient, till he had succeeded in placing Walden’s good name at Miss Tabitha’s cat-like mercy for her to rend and pounce upon to the utmost extent of her own jaundiced rage and jealous venom.

Nothing could equal or surpass Sir Morton’s amazement and wrath as he listened to the narration. His eyes seemed to literally start out of his head,—his throat swelled visibly till a fat ridge of flesh lolled over the edge of his stiff shirt-collar, and he threw in various observations of his own with regard to Walden, such as ‘Sniveling puppy!’ ‘Canting rascal!’ ‘Elderly humbug!’ ‘Sneaking upstart,’ which were quite in accordance with his native good taste and refinement of speech. And when at last his stock of expletives became, for the time being, exhausted, and when Miss Tabitha’s dumb viciousness had, like an invisible sculptor’s chisel, carved sudden deep lines in her face as fitting accompaniments to the deepening malice of her thoughts, they all rose from the luncheon table and went their several ways in their several moods of disconcerted confusion, impotence and vexation, in search of fresh means to gain new and unexpected ends. Roxmouth, reluctantly yielding to the earnest persuasions of Longford, walked with him into the village of St. Rest, and made enquiries at the post-office as to whether Miss Vancourt’s sudden departure was known there, or whether any instructions had been left as to the forwarding of her letters. But the postmistress, Mrs. Tapple, breathing hard and curtseying profoundly to the ‘future Dook’ declared she ‘‘adn’t heard nothink,’ and ‘‘adn’t ‘ad no orders.’ Miss Vancourt’s letters and telegrams all went up to the Manor as usual. Whereupon, still guided by the astute Longford, Roxmouth so far obeyed Maryllia’s parting suggestion as to go and ‘kindly call’ upon Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby at the Manor itself. The beautiful old house looked the same as usual; there were no shutters up, no blinds drawn, in any of the windows,—nothing indicated absence on the part of the reigning mistress of the fair domain; and even the dog Plato was comfortably snoozing according to daily custom, on the sun-baked flag-stones in the Tudor court. Primmins opened the door to them with his usual well-trained and imperturbable demeanour.

“Miss Vancourt is not at home?” began Roxmouth tentatively.

“Miss Vancourt has left for the Continent, my lord,” replied Primmins, sedately.

Longford exchanged a swift glance with his patron. The latter gave a slight, weary shrug of his shoulders.

“Miss Bourne.”—began Longford then.

“Miss Bourne and Mr. Gigg have also left,” said Primmins.

“I suppose Miss Vancourt went with them?”

“No, sir.”

This was baffling.

“Lady Wicketts is staying here, I believe,”—murmured Roxmouth—“Can I—er?”

“Her ladyship has the neuralgy and is lying down, my lord,” and an acute observer might have noticed the tremor of a wink in Primmins’ eye—“Miss Fosby is in the drawing-room.”

With a profound sigh Roxmouth glanced at Longford. That gentleman smiled a superior smile.

“We should like to see Miss Fosby.”

Primmins at once threw open the door more widely.

“This way, if you please!”

In another moment they were ushered into the presence of Miss Fosby, who, laying aside her embroidery, rose with punctilious ceremony to receive them.

“Lady Wicketts is not well,”—she said, in tenderly lachrymose accents—“Dear Lady Wicketts! She is always so good!—always thinking of other people and doing such kind things!—she fatigues herself, and she is so delicate—ah!—so very delicate! She is suffering from neuralgia, I am sorry to say!”

“Don’t mention it,”—said Roxmouth, hastily—“We would not disturb her for the world! The fact is, we called to see Miss Vancourt---”

“Yes?” queried Miss Fosby, gently, taking up her embroidery again, and carefully setting her needle into the petal of a rosebud she was designing—“Dear girl! She left here yesterday.”

“Rather sudden, wasn’t it?” said Longford.

Miss Fosby looked up placidly, and smiled. She had a touch of humour about her as well as much ‘early Victorian’ sentiment, and she was just now enjoying herself.

“I think not! Young women like change and travel. Maryllia has always been accustomed to go abroad in August. The first time Lady Wicketts and I ever met her, she was travelling with her aunt. Oh no, I don’t think it is at all sudden!”

“Where has she gone?” asked Roxmouth, affecting as much ease and lightness of manner as he could in putting the question.

Miss Fosby smiled a little more.

“I really don’t know,”—she replied, with civil mildness—“I fancy she has no settled plans at all. She has kindly allowed Lady Wicketts and myself the use of the Manor for three weeks.”

“Till she returns?” suggested Longford.

This time Miss Fosby laughed.

“Oh no! When WE leave it, the Manor is to be shut up again for quite a long time—probably till next summer.”

“Miss Bourne has gone with her friend, I suppose?” “No,”—and Miss Fosby sought carefully among her embroidery silks for some special tint of colour—“Little Cicely and Monsieur Gigue, her master, went away together only this morning.”

“Well, I suppose Miss Vancourt’s letters will he forwarded on somewhere!”—said Eoxmouth, unguardedly. Miss Fosby’s back stiffened instantly.

“Really, my lord, I know nothing about that,”—she said, primly— “Nor should I even make it my business to enquire.” There was an awkward pause after this, and though Longford skilfully changed the subject of conversation to generalities, the rest of the interview was fraught with considerable embarrassment. Miss Fosby was not to be ‘drawn.’ She was distinctly ‘old-fashioned,’—needless therefore to add that she was absolutely loyal to her absent friend and hostess.

Leaving the Manor, Lord Roxmouth and his tame pussy sought for information in other quarters with equal futility. The agent, Mr. Stanways, ‘knew nothing.’ His orders were to communicate all his business to Miss Vancourt’s solicitors in London. Finally the last hope failed them in Julian Adderley. They found that young gentleman as much taken aback as themselves by the news of Maryllia’a departure. He had been told nothing of it. A note from Cicely Bourne had been brought to him that morning by one of the gardeners at the Manor—and he showed this missive to both Roxmouth and Longford with perfect frankness. It merely ran: “Goodbye Moon-calf! Am going away. No time to see you for a fond farewell! Hope you will be famous before I come back. Enclosed herewith is my music to your ‘Little Eose Tree,’ GOBLIN.”

This, with the accompanying manuscript score of the song alluded to was all the information Julian could supply,—and his own surprise and consternation at the abrupt and unexpected termination of his pleasant visits to the Manor, were too genuine