God's Good Man Part 66

Bainton glanced up timorously at his master's pale set face.

"Ain't nothin' goin' to be done?" he faltered anxiously--"Nothin' to say as 'ow it's all a lie---"

"Nothing on my part!"--said Walden, quickly and sternly, "The best answer to such low gossip and slander is silence. You understand?"

His look was a command, and Bainton felt it to be such. Shuffling about a little, he murmured something about the 'apples comin' on fine in the orchard'--as if Walden's three days' absence had somehow or other accelerated their ripening, and then slowly and reluctantly retired, deeply dejected in his own mind.

"For silence gives consent," he argued dolefully with himself-- "That's copybook truth! Yet o' coorse 'tain't to be expected as Pa.s.son would send for the town-crier from Riversford to ring a bell through the village an' say as 'ow he 'adn't nothin' to dp with Miss Vancourt nor she with 'im. Onny the worst of it is that in this wurrld lies is allus taken for truth since the beginnin', when the Sarpint told the first big whopper in the Garden of Eden an' took in poor silly Eve. An' ye can't contradict a lie somehow without makin'

it look more a truth than ever,--that's the way o' the thing. An' it do stick!--Pa.s.son himself 'ull find that out,--it do stick, it do reely now!"

Meantime, Walden, left alone, gave himself up to a tumult of misery and self-torture. His sensitive nature shrank from the breath of vulgar scandal like the fine frond of delicate foliage from the touch of a coa.r.s.e finger. He had never before been a.s.sociated with the faintest rumour of it,--his life had been too simple, too austere, and too far removed from all the trumpery shows and petty intrigues of society. He felt himself now in a manner debased by having had to listen with enforced patience to Bainton's rambling account of the gossip going on in the neighbourhood, and despite that worthy servitor's disquisition on the subject, he could not imagine how it had arisen, unless his quarrel with Putwood Leveson were the cause. It was all so sudden and unlooked for! Maryllia had gone away,--and that fact of itself was sufficient to make darkness out of sunshine. He could not quite realise it. And not only had she gone away, but some slanderous story had been concocted concerning her in connection with himself, which was being bandied about on all the tongues of the village and county. How it had arisen he could not understand. He was, of course, unaware of the part Lord Roxmouth had played in the matter, and in his ignorance of the true source of the mischief, tormented his mind with endless fancies and perplexities, all of which helped to increase his annoyance and agitation. Pacing restlessly up and down his study, his eyes presently fell on the little heap of letters which had acc.u.mulated on his table during his brief absence, all as yet unopened. Turning them over indifferently, he came suddenly on one small sealed note, inscribed as having been left 'by hand,' addressed to him in the bold frank writing to which he had once, not so very long ago, felt such an inexplicable aversion when Mrs. Spruce was the recipient of a first letter from the same source. Now he s.n.a.t.c.hed the little missive up with a strangely impulsive ardour, and being quite alone, indulged himself in the pleasure of kissing the firm free pen- strokes with all the pa.s.sion of a boy. Then opening it, he read:

"DEAR MR. WALDEN,--You will be surprised to find that I have gone away from the dear home I love so well, and I daresay you will think me very capricious. But please do not judge me hastily, or believe everything you may hear of me from others. I am very sorry to go away just now, but circ.u.mstances leave me no other choice. I should like to have bidden you good-bye, as I could perhaps have explained things to you better, but old Josey Letherbarrow tells me you have gone to see the Bishop on business, so I leave this note myself just to say that I hope you will think as kindly of me as you can now I am gone. Please go into the Manor gardens as often as you like, and let the sick and old people in the village have plenty of the flowers and fruit. By doing this you will please me very much. My agent, Mr. Stanways, will be quite at your service if you ever want his a.s.sistance. Perhaps I ought just to mention that Lord Roxmouth overheard our conversation in the picture-gallery that night of the dinner-party. He was very rude about it. I tell you this in case you should see him, but I do not think you will. Good-bye! Try to forget that I smoked that cigarette!--Your sincere friend,"

"MARYLLIA VANCOURT."

As he perused these lines, Walden alternately grew hot and cold--red and pale. All was clear to him now!-it was Lord Roxmouth who had played the spy and eavesdropper! He recalled every little detail of the scene in the picture-gallery and at once realised how much a treacherous as well as jealous and vindictive man could make of it.

Maryllia's hand laid so coaxingly on his arm,--Maryllia's face so sweetly and pleadingly upturned,--Maryllia's half-tender tremulous voice with its 'Will you forgive me?'--and then--his own impetuous words!--the way he had caught her hand and kissed it!--why his very look must have betrayed him to the 'n.o.ble and honourable' detective, part of whose distinguished role it was to listen at doors and afterwards relate to an inquisitive and scandal-loving society all that he heard within. By degrees he grasped the whole situation. He realised that his name and honour lay at the mercy of this man Roxmouth, who under the circ.u.mstances of the constant check put upon his mercenary aims, would certainly spare no pains to injure both.

And he felt sick at heart.

Locking Maryllia's note carefully in his desk, he stepped into his garden and walked up and down the lawn slowly with bent head, Nebbie trotting after him with a sympathetically disconsolate air. And gradually it dawned upon him that Maryllia had possibly--nay very probably--gone away for his sake,--to make things easier for him--to remove her presence altogether from his vicinity-and so render Roxmouth's tale-bearing, with its consequent malicious gossip, futile, till of itself it died away and was forgotten. As this idea crossed his mind and deepened into conviction, his eyes filled with a sudden smarting moisture.

"Poor child!" he said, half aloud--"Poor little lonely child!"

Then a fresh thought came to him,--one which made the blood run more quickly through his veins and caused his heart to pulsate with quite a foolish joy. If--if she had indeed gone away out of a sweet womanly wish to save him from what she imagined might cause him embarra.s.sment or perplexity, then--then surely she cared! Yes--she must care for him greatly as a friend,--though only as a friend--to be willing to sacrifice the pleasure of pa.s.sing all the summer in the old home to which she had so lately returned, merely to relieve him of any difficulty her near society might involve. If she cared!

Was such a thing--could such a thing be possible? Tormented by many mingled feelings of tenderness, regret and pain, John pondered his own heart's problem anxiously, and tried to decide the best course to pursue,--the best for her--the best for himself. He was not long in coming to a decision, and once resolved, he was more at ease.

When he celebrated the evening service that Sunday the garrulous Bainton saw, much to his secret astonishment, that the effect of his morning's communication had apparently left no trace on his master's ordinary demeanour, except perhaps to add a little extra gravity to his fine strong features, and accentuate the reserve of his accustomed speech and manner. His habitual dignity was even greater than usual,--his composed mien and clear steadfastness of eye had lost nothing of their quelling and authoritative influence,--and so far as his own manner and actions showed, the absence or presence of Miss Vancourt was a matter to him of complete unconcern. His visit to his friend the Bishop had 'done 'im a power o' good'--said his parishioners, observing him respectfully, as, Sunday being over and the week begun, he went about among them on his accustomed round of duty, enquiring after the poultry and the cattle with all the zeal expected of him. The name of Miss Vancourt seldom pa.s.sed his lips,-- when other people spoke of her, either admiringly, questioningly or suggestively, he merely listened, offering no opinion. He denied himself to all 'county' visitors on plea of press of work,--he never once went to Abbot's Manor or entered the Manor grounds--and the only persons with whom he occasionally interchanged hospitalities were Julian Adderley and the local doctor, 'Jimmy' Eorsyth.

Withdrawing himself in this fashion into closer seclusion than ever, his life became almost hermit-like, for except in regard to his daily parish work, he seldom or never went beyond the precincts of his own garden.

Days went on, weeks went on,--and soon, too soon, summer was over.

The melancholy autumn shook down the once green leaves, all curled up in withering death-convulsions, from the branches of the trees now tossing in chill wind and weeping mists of rain. No news had been received by anyone in the village concerning Maryllia. The 'Sisters Gemini,' Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby, had departed from Abbot's Manor when the time of their stay had concluded, and neither of the twain had given the slightest hint to any enquirer, as to the probable date of the return of the mistress of the domain. Sir Morton Pippitt at last got tired of talking scandal for which there seemed no visible or tangible foundation, and even his daughter Tabitha began to wonder whether after all there was not some exaggeration in the story Lord Roxmouth had given her to sow like rank seed upon the soil of daily circ.u.mstance? She never saw Walden by any chance,--on one occasion she ventured to call, but he was 'out' as usual. Neither could she persuade Julian Adderley to visit at Badsworth Hall. A veil of obscurity and silence was gradually but surely drawn between St. Rest and the outlying neighbourhood so far as its presiding ruler John Walden was concerned, while within the village his reticence and reserve were so strongly marked that even the most privileged person in the place, Josey Letherbarrow, awed at his calm, cold, almost stern aspect, hesitated to speak to him except on the most ordinary matters, for fear of incurring his displeasure.

Meanwhile the village sorely missed the bright face and sweet ways of 'th' owld Squire's gel'--and many of the inhabitants tried to get news of her through Mrs. Spruce, but all in vain. That good lady, generally so talkative, was for once in her life more than discreetly dumb. All that she would say was that she "didn't know nothink. Miss Maryllia 'ad gone abroad an' all 'er letters was sent to London solicitors. Any other address? No--no other address. The servants was to be kep' on--no one wasn't goin' to lose their places if they behaved theirselves, which please the Lord, they will do!"-- she concluded, with much fervour. Bennett, the groom, was entrusted with the care of the mares Cleo and Daffodil, and might be seen exercising them every day on the open moors beyond the village, accompanied by the big dog Plato,--and so far as the general management of affairs was concerned, that was ably undertaken by the agent Stanways, who though civil and obliging to all the tenantry, had no news whatever to give respecting the absence or the probable return of the lady of the Manor. The Reverend Putwood Leveson occasionally careered through the village on his bicycle, accompanied by Oliver Leach who bestrode a similar machine, and both individuals made a point of grinning broadly as they pa.s.sed the church and rectory of St. Rest, jerking their fingers and thumbs at both buildings with expressively suggestive contempt.

And by and by the people began to settle down, into the normal quietude which had been more or less their lot, before Maryllia, with her vivacious little musical protegee Cicely Bourne had awakened a new interest and animation in the midst of their small community,--and they began to resign themselves to the idea that her 'whim' for residing once more in the home of her childhood had pa.s.sed, and that she would now, without doubt, marry the future Duke of Ormistoune, and pa.s.s away from the limited circle of St. Rest to those wider spheres of fashion, the splendours of which, mere country-folk are not expected to have more than the very faintest glimmering conception. Even in that independent corner of opinion, the tap-room of the 'Mother Huff,' her name was spoken with almost bated breath, though Mr. Netlips was not by any means loth to spare any flow of oratorical eloquence on the subject.

"I think, Mr. Buggins," he said one evening, addressing 'mine host'

with due gravity--"I think you will recall to your organisation certain objective propositions I made with regard to Miss Vancourt, when that lady first entered into dominative residence at Abbot's Manor. Personally speaking, I have no discrepancies to suggest beyond the former utterance. Matters in which I have taken the customary mercantile interest have culminated with the lady to the satisfaction of all sides. Nothing has been left standing controversially on my books. Nevertheless it would be repudiative to say that I have sophisticated my previous opinion. I said then, and I confirm the observation, that a heathen cannot enjoy the prospective right of the commons."

"I s'pose,"--said Mr. Buggins, meditatively in reference to this outburst--"you means, Mr. Netlips, that Miss Vancourt is a kind of heathen?"

Mr. Netlips nodded severely.

"'Cos she don't go to church?" suggested Dan Ridley, who as usual was one of the tap-room talkers. Again Mr. Netlips nodded.

"Well," said Dan, "she came to church once an' brought her friends-- -"

"Late,--very late,"--interposed Mr. Netlips, solemnly--"The tardiness of her entrance was marked by the strongest decorum. The strongest, the most open decorum! Deplorable decorum!"

"What's decorum?" enquired Mr. Buggins, anxiously.

Mr. Netlips waved one fat hand expressively.

"Decorum,"--he said--"is--well!--decorum."

Buggins scratched his head dubiously. Dan Ridley looked perplexed.

There was a silence,--the men listening to the wailing of a rising wind that was beginning to sweep round the house and whistle down the big open chimney, accompanied by pattering drops of rain.

"Summer's sheer over,"--said a labourer, lifting his head from his tankard of ale--"Howsomever, we're all safe this winter in the worst o' weather. Rents are all down at 'arf what they was under Oliver Leach, thanks to the new lady, so whether she's a decorum or not don't matter to me. She's a right good sort--so here's to her!"

And he drained off his ale at one gulp with a relish, several men present following his example.

"Pa.s.son Walden,"--began Dan Ridley--"Pa.s.son Walden---"

But here there was a sudden loud metallic crash. Buggins had overturned two empty pewter-mugs on his counter.

"No gossiping o' Pa.s.son Walden allowed 'ere,"--he said,--"Not while I'm master o' this public!"

"Leeze majestas,"--proclaimed Mr. Netlips, impressively--"You're right, Buggins--you're quite right! Leeze majestas would be entirely indigenous--entirely so!"

An awkward pause ensued. 'Leeze majestas' in all its dark incomprehensibility had fallen like a weight upon the tavern company, and effectually checked any further conversation. It was one of those successful efforts of Mr. Netlips, which, by its ponderous vagueness and inscrutability, produced an overwhelming effect. There was nothing to be said after it.

The gold and crimson glory of autumn slowly waned and died,--and the village began to look very lonely and dreary. Heavy rains fell and angry gales blew,--so that when dark November came glooming in, with lowering skies, there was scarcely so much as a leaf of russet or scarlet Virginian creeper clinging to roof or wall. The woods around Abbot's Manor were leafless except where the pines and winter laurel grew in thick cl.u.s.ters, and where several grand old hollies showed their scarlet berries ripening among the glossy green. The Manor itself however looked wide-awake and cheerful,--smoke poured up from the chimneys and glints of firelight sparkled through the windows,-- all the shutters, which had been put up after the departure of the 'Sisters Gemini,' were taken down--blinds were raised and curtains drawn back,--and as soon as these signs and tokens were manifested, people were not slow in asking Mrs. Spruce whether Miss Vancourt was coming back for Christmas? But to all enquiries that estimable dame gave the same answer. She 'didn't know nothink.' The groom Bennett was equally reticent. He had received 'no orders.' Mr. Stanways, the agent, and his wife, both of whom had become very friendly with all the villagers, were cheerfully talkative on every subject but one,-- that of Miss Vancourt and her movements. All they could or would say was that her return was 'quite uncertain.' Fires were lighted in the Manor--oh yes!--to keep the house well aired--and windows were opened for the same purpose,--but beyond that--'really," said Mr.

Stanways, smiling pleasantly--'I can give no information!'

The days grew shorter, gloomier and colder,--and soon, when the chill nip of winter began to make itself felt in grim damp earnest, the whole county woke up from the pleasant indolence into which the long bright summer had steeped it, and responded animatedly to the one pulse of vitality which kept it going. The hunting season began.

Old, otherwise dull men, started up into the semblance of youth again, and sprang to their saddles with almost as much rigour and alertness as boys,--and Reynard with his cubs ruled potently the hour. The first 'meet' of the year was held at Ittlethwaite Park,-- and for days before it took place nothing else was talked of.

Hunting was really the one occupation of the gentry of the district,--everything else distinctly 'bored' them. Many places in England are entirely under the complete dominion of this particular form of sport,--places, where, if you do not at least talk about hunting and nothing BUT hunting, you are set down as a fool.

Politics, art, literature,--these matters brought into conversation merely excite a vacuous stare and yawn,--and you may consider yourself fortunate if, in alluding to such things at all, you are not considered as partially insane. To obtain an ordinary reputation for common-sense in an English hunting county, you must talk horse all day and play Bridge all night,--then and then only will you have earned admission into these 'exclusive' circles where the worth of a quadruped exceeds the brain of a man.

The morning of the meet dawned dully--yet now and then the sun shone fitfully through the clouds, lighting up with a cold sparkle the thick ivy, wet with the last night's rain, which clung to the walls of Walden's rectory. There was a chill wind, and the garden looked bleak and deserted, though it was kept severely tidy, Bainton never failing to see that all fallen leaves were swept up every afternoon and all weeds 'kep' under.' But there was no temptation to saunter down the paths or across the damp lawn in such weather, and Walden, seated by a blazing fire in his study, with Nebbie snoozing at his feet, was sufficiently comfortable to be glad that no 'parochial'

duties called him forth just immediately from his warm snuggery. He had felt a little ailing of late--'the oncoming of age and infirmity,' he told himself, and he looked slightly more careworn.

The strong restraint he had imposed upon himself since he knew the nature of the scandal started by Lord Roxmouth, and the loyal and strict silence he had maintained on the subject that was nearest and dearest to his own heart, had been very trying to him. There was no one to whom he could in any way unburden his mind. Even to his closest friend, Bishop Brent, he had merely written the briefest of letters, informing him that Miss Vancourt had left Abbot's Manor for a considerable time,--but no more than this. He longed pa.s.sionately for news of Maryllia, but none came. The only person to whom he sometimes spoke of her, but always guardedly, was Julian Adderley.

Julian had received one or two letters from Cicely Bourne,--but they were all about her musical studies, and never a word of Maryllia in them. And Julian was almost as anxious to know what had become of her as Walden himself, the more so as he heard constantly from Marius Longford, who never ceased urging him to try and discover her whereabouts. Which request proved that, for once. Lord Roxmouth had been foiled, and that even he with all his various social detectives at work, had lost all trace of her.

On this particular morning of the opening of the hunting season, Walden sat by the fire reading,--or trying to read. He was conscious of a great depression,--a 'fit of the blues,' which he attributed partly to the damp, lowering weather. Idly he turned over the leaves of a first edition of Tennyson's poems,--pausing here and there to glance at a favourite lyric or con over a well-remembered verse, when the echo of a silvery horn blown clear on the wintry silence startled him out of his semi-abstraction. Rising, he went instinctively to the window, though from that he could see nothing but his own garden, looking blank enough in its flowerless condition, the only bright speck in it being a robin sitting on a twig hard by, that ruffled its red breast prettily and blinked its trustful eye at him with a friendly air of sympathy and recognition.

He listened attentively for a moment and heard the approaching trot and gallop of horses,--then suddenly recalling the fact that the hounds were to meet that day at Ittlethwaite Park, he took his hat and went out to see if any of the hunters were pa.s.sing by.

A wavering ma.s.s of colour gleamed at the farther end of the village as he looked down the winding road;--scarlet coats, white vests and buckskin breeches showed bravely against the satiny brown and greys of a fine group of gaily prancing steeds that came following after the huntsmen, the hounds and the whippers-in, and a cheery murmur of pleasant voices, broken with an occasional musical ring of laughter, dispersed for a time the heaviness of the rainy air. Something unusually pleasant seemed to animate the faces of all who composed the hunting train as they came into view,--Miss Arabella Ittlethwaite, for example, portly of bulk though she was, sat in her saddle with an almost mirthful lightness, her good-natured fat face all smiles,--while her brother Bruce, laughing heartily over something which had evidently tickled his fancy, looked more like thirty than sixty, so admirably did his 'pink' become him, and so excellently well did he ride. Walden saluted them as they pa.s.sed, and they gave him a pleasant 'good-day.' But,--what was that sudden flash of deep purple, which the fitful sun, peering sulkily through grey clouds, struck upon quickly with a slanting half-smile of radiance? What--and who was the woman riding lightly, with uplifted head like a queen, in the midst of the company, surrounded by all the younger men of the neighbourhood who, keeping their horses close on either side of her, appeared to be trying to outrival each other in eager attentions, in questions and answers, in greetings and hat- liftings, and general exchange of courtesies? Walden rubbed his eyes, and gazed and gazed,-anon his heart gave a wild leap, and he felt himself growing deadly pale. Had the portrait of 'Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt' in Abbot's Manor come visibly to life?--or was it, could it be indeed,--Maryllia?

He would gladly have turned away, but some stronger force than his own held him fast where he stood, stricken with surprise, and a gladness that was almost fear. The swaying gleam of purple came nearer and nearer, and resolved itself at last into definite shape,- -Maryllia's face, Maryllia's eyes! Almost mechanically he half opened his gate as all the hunters went trotting by, and she alone reined in her mare 'Cleopatra' and spoke to him.

"How do you do, Mr. Walden!"

He looked up--and looking, smiled. What a child she was after all!-- full of quaint vanities surely, and naive coquetry! For her riding- dress was the exact copy of that worn by her pictured ancestress "Mary Elia,'--even to the three-cornered hat and the tiny rose fastened in the bodice which was turned back with embroidered gold revers,--so that the 'lady in the vi'let velvet' appeared before him as it were, re-incarnated,--and the pouting lips, sweet eyes and radiant hair were all part of the witch-glamour and mystery!

Mastering his thoughts with an effort, he raised his hat in his usual quietly courteous way.

"This is a great surprise, Miss Vancourt!" he said, lightly, though his voice trembled a little--"And a happy one! The villagers will be delighted to see you back again! When did you return?"