God's Good Man Part 50

"I am talking above your head altogther, Mrs. Frost,"--he said, placidly--"I know it! I am aware that my consonances do not tympanise on your brain. Good afternoon!"

"Petrol Stored Here!"--said Bainton, standing squat before the announcement, as he returned from his day's work--"Hor-hor-hor! Hor- hor! I say, Mr. Netlips, don't blow us all into the middle of next week. Where does ye store it? Out in the coal-shed? It's awful 'spensive, ain't it?"

"It is costly,"--admitted Mr. Netlips, with a grandiose manner, implying that even if it had cost millions he would have been equal to 'stocking' it--"But the traveling aristocrat does not interrogate the lucrative matter."

"Don't he?" and Bainton scratched his head ruminatively. "I s'pose you knows what you means, Mr. Netlips, an' you gen'ally means a lot.

Howsomever, I thought you was dead set against aristocrats anyway-- your pol'tics was for what you call ma.s.ses,--not cla.s.ses, nor a.s.ses neither. Them was your sentiments not long ago, worn't they?"

Mr. Netlips drew himself up with an air of offended dignity.

"You forestall me wrong, Thomas Bainton,"--he said--"And I prefer not to amplify the conference. A sentiment is no part of a political propinquity."

With that, he retired into the recesses of his 'general store,'

leaving Bainton chuckling to himself, with a broad grin on his weatherbeaten countenance.

The 'Petol' board displayed on the front of Mr. Netlips' shop, however, was just one of those slight indications which showed the vague change that had crept over the erstwhile tranquil atmosphere of St. Rest. Among other signs and tokens of internal disquiet was the increasing pomposity of the village post-mistress, Mrs. Tapple.

Mrs. Tapple had grown so accustomed to various t.i.tles and prefixes of rank among the different guests who came in turn to stay at the Manor, that whereas she had at one time stood in respectful awe of old Pippitt because he was a 'Sir,' she now regarded him almost with contempt. What was a 'Sir' to a 'Lord'? Nothing!--less than nothing!

For during one week she had sold stamps to a real live Marquis and post-cards to a 'Right Honourable,' besides despatching numerous telegrams for the Countess of Beaulyon. By all the G.o.ds and little fishes, Sir Morton Pippitt had sunk low indeed!--for when Mrs.

Tapple, bridling with scorn, said she 'wondered 'ow a man like 'im wot only made his money in bone-boilin' would dare to be seen with Miss Vancourt's real quality' it was felt that she was expressing an almost national sentiment.

Taking everything into consideration, it was not to be denied that the new element infused into the little village community had brought with it a certain stir and excitement, but also a sense of discontent. And John Walden, keenly alive to every touch of feeling, was more conscious of the change than many another man would have been who was not endowed with so quick and responsive a nature. He noted the quaint self-importance of Mrs. Tapple with a kindly amus.e.m.e.nt, not altogether unmixed with pain,--he watched regretfully the attempts made by the young girls of his little parish to trick themselves out with cheap finery imported from the town of Riversford, in order to imitate in some fashion, no matter how far distant, the attire of Lady Beaulyon, whose dresses were a wonder, and whose creditors were legion,--and he was sincerely sorry to see that even gentle and pretty Susie Prescott had taken to a new mode of doing her hair, which, though elaborate, did not suit her at all, and gave an almost bold look to an otherwise sweet and maidenly countenance.

"But I am old,--and old-fashioned too!"--he said to himself, resignedly--"The world must move on--and as it moves it is bound to leave old times behind it--and me with them. I must not complain-- nor should I, even in my own heart, find too many reproaches for the ways of the young."

And involuntarily he recalled Tennyson's lines:--

"Only 'dust to dust' for me that sicken at your lawless din,-- Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the newer world begin!"

"'Wholesome old-world dust'!" he mused--"Yes! I think it WAS more wholesome than our too heavily manured soil!"

And a wave of pained regret and yearning arose in him for the days when life was taken more quietly, more earnestly, more soberly--with the trust and love of G.o.d inspiring the soul to purity and peace-- when to find a woman who was at the same time an atheist was a thing so abnormal and repulsive as to excite the utmost horror in society.

Society! why, now, many women in society were atheists, and made no secret of their shame!

"I must not dwell on these thoughts,"--he said, resolutely. "The sooner I see Brent, the better. I've accepted his invitation for the last week of this month--I can be spared then for two or three days- -indeed, I doubt whether I shall even be missed! The people only want me on Sundays now--and--though I do try not to notice it,--a good many of the congregation are absent from their usual places."

He sighed. He would not admit to himself that it was Maryllia Vancourt--'Maryllia Van'--or rather her guests who had exercised a maleficent influence on his little cure of souls, and that because the 'quality' did not go to church on Sundays, then some of the villagers,--like serfs under the sway of n.o.bles,--stayed away also.

He realised that he had given offence to this same 'quality,' by pausing in his reading, when they entered late on the one occasion they did attend divine service,--but he did not care at all for that. He knew, that the truth of the mischief wrought by the idle, unthinking upper cla.s.ses of society, is always precisely what the upper cla.s.ses do not want to hear;--and he was perfectly aware in his own mind that his short, but explicit sermon, on the 'Soul,' had not been welcome to any one of his aristocratic hearers, while it had been a little over the heads of his own parishioners.

"Mere waste of words!" he mused, with a kind of self-reproach--"I don't know why I chose the text or subject at all. Yes--yes!--I do know! Why do I play the deceiver with myself! She was there--so winsome--so pretty!--and her soul is sweet and pure;--it must be sweet and pure, if it can look out of such clear windows as her eyes. Let all the world go, but keep that soul, I thought!--and so I spoke as I did. But I think she scarcely listened--it was all waste of time, waste of words,--waste of breath! I shall be glad to see dear old Brent again. He wants to talk to me, he says--and I most certainly want to talk to him. After the dinner-party at the Manor, I shall be free. How I dread that party! How I wish I were not going! But I have promised her--and I must not break my word!"

He began to think about one or two matters that to him were not altogether pleasing. Chief among these was the fact that Sir Morton Pippitt had driven over twice now 'to inspect the church'-- accompanied by Lord Roxmouth, and the Reverend 'Putty' Leveson. Once Lord Roxmouth had left his card at the rectory, and had written on it: 'Wishing to have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Walden'--a pleasure which had not, so far, been gratified. Walden understood that Lord Roxmouth was, or intended to be, the future husband of Miss Vancourt. He had learned something of it from Bishop Brent's letter- -but now that his lordship was staying as a guest at Badsworth Hall, rumour had spread the statement so very generally that it was an almost accepted fact. Three days had been sufficient to set the village and county talking;--Roxmouth and his tools never did their mischievous work by halves. John Walden accepted the report as others accepted it--only reserving to himself an occasion to ask Miss Vancourt if it were indeed true. Meantime, he kept himself apart from the visitors--he had no wish to meet Lord Roxmouth-- though he knew that a meeting was inevitable at the forthcoming dinner-party at Abbot's Manor. Bainton had that dinner-party on his mind as well as his master. He had heard enough of it on all sides.

Mrs. Spruce had gabbled of it, saying that 'what with jellies an'

ices an' all the things as has to be thought of an' got in ready,'

she was 'fair mazed an' moithered.' And she held forth on the subject to one of her favourite cronies, Mrs. Keeley, whose son Bob was still in a state of silent and resentful aggressiveness against the 'quality' for the death of his pet dog.

"It's somethin' too terrible, I do a.s.sure you!" she said--"the way these ladies and gentlemen from Lunnon eats fit to bust themselves!

When they fust came down, I sez to cook, I sez--'Lord bless 'em, they must 'ave all starved in their own 'omes'--an' she laughed--she 'avin 'sperience, an' cooked for 'ouse-parties ever since she learned makin' may'nases [mayonnaise] which she sez was when she was twenty, an' she's a round sixty now, an' she sez, 'Lor, no! It do frighten one at first wot they can put into their stummicks, Missis Spruce, but don't you worry--you just get the things, and they'll know how to swaller 'em.' Well now, Missis Keeley, if you'll b'lieve me"--and here Mrs. Spruce drew a long breath and began to count on her fingers--"This is 'ow we do every night for the visitors, makin'

ready for hextras, in case any gentleman comes along in a motor which isn't expected--fust we 'as horduffs---"

"Save us!" exclaimed Mrs. Keeley--"What's they?"

"Well _I_ calls 'em kickshaws, but the right name is horduffs, Primmins sez, bein' a butler he should know the French, an' 'tis a French word, an' it's nothin' but little dishes 'anded round, olives an' anchovies, an' sardines an' messes of every kind, enough to make ye sick to look at 'em--they swallers 'em, an' then we sends in soup--two kinds, white an' clear. They swallers THAT, an' the fish goes in--two kinds--the old Squire never had but one--THAT goes down, an' then comes the hentreys. Them's sometimes two--sometimes four--it just depends on the number we 'as at table. They'se all got French names--there's nothing plain English about them. But they'se only bits o' meat an' fowl, done up in different ways with sauces an' vegetables, an' the quality eats 'em up as though they was two bites of an apple. Then we sends in the roast and b'iled--and they takes good cuts off both--then there's game,--now that's nearly allus all eat up, for I like to pick a bone now and then myself if it comes down on a dish an' no one else wants it--but there's never a morsel left for me, I do a.s.sure you! Then comes puddings an'

sweets--then cheese savouries--then ices--an' then coffee--an' all the time the wine's a-goin', Primmins sez, every sort, claret, 'ock, chably, champagne,--an' the Lord alone He knows wot their poor insides feels like when 'tis all a-mixin' up together an' workin'

round arterwards. But, as I sez, 'tain't no business o' mine if the fash'nables 'as trained their stummicks to be like the ostriches which eats, as I'm told, 'ard iron nails with a relish, I onny know I should 'a' bin dead an' done with long ago if I put a quarter of the stuff into me which they puts into theirselves, while some of the gentlemen drinks enough whiskey an' soda to drown 'em if 'twas all put in a tub at once---"

"But Miss Vancourt," interrupted Mrs. Keeley, who had been listening to her friend's flow of language in silent wonder,--"She don't eat an' drink like that, do she?"

"Miss Maryllia, bless 'er 'art, sits at her table like a little queen,"--said Mrs. Spruce, with emotion--"Primmins sez she don't eat scarce nothin', and don't say much neither. She just smiles pretty, an' puts in a word or two, an' then seems lookin' away as if she saw somethink beautiful which n.o.body else can see. An' that Miss Cicely Bourne, she's just a pickle!--'ow she do play the comic, to be sure!--she ran into the still-room the other day an' danced round like a mad thing, an' took off all the ladies with their airs an'

graces till I nearly died o' larfin'! She's a good little thing, though, takin' 'er all round, though a bit odd in 'er way, but that comes of bein' in France an' learnin' music, I expect. But I really must be goin'--there's heaps an' heaps to do, but by an' by we'll have peace an' quiet again--they're all a-goin' next week."

"Well, I shan't be sorry!"--and Mrs. Keeley gave a short sigh of satisfaction--"I'm fair sick o' seein' them motor-cars whizzin'

through the village makin' such a dust an' 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.

Sc.r.a.ps 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 Pa.s.son, 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, Pa.s.son'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 b.u.t.terfly 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 gra.s.s in front of his study window, with head bent and hands loosely clasped behind his back, apparently lost in thought.

"Pa.s.son 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' gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s yet, Pa.s.son?'--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, Pa.s.son,' 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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!"