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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.

ā€œAnd anything I can do for you, Spruce, or for your husband,ā€ continued Maryllia, dropping her business-like tone for one of as coaxing a sweetness as ever Shakespeareā€™s Juliet practised for the persuasion of her too tardy Nurseā€”ā€œwill be done with ever so much pleasure! You know that, donā€™t you?ā€ And she laid her pretty little hands on the worthy womanā€™s portly shouldersā€”ā€œYou shall go out whenever you likeā€”after work, of course!ā€”duty first, pleasure second!ā€”and you shall even grumble, if you feel like it,ā€”and have your little naps when the midday meal is done with,ā€”Aunt Emilyā€™s housekeeper in London used to have them, and she snored dreadfully! the second footmanā€”QUITE a nice ladā€”used to tickle her nose with a straw! But I canā€™t afford to keep a second footmanā€”one is quite enough,ā€”or a coachman, or a carriage;ā€”besides, I would always rather ride than drive,ā€”and my groom, Bennett, will only want a stable-boy to help him with Cleo and Daffodil. So I hope thereā€™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.ā€

She laughed merrily,ā€”and Mrs. Spruce for the life of her could not help laughing too. The picture of Primmins condescending to indulge in a game of ā€˜nose and strawā€™ was too grotesque to be considered with gravity.

ā€œWell I never, Miss!ā€ she ejaculatedā€”ā€œYou do put things that funny!ā€

ā€œDo I? Iā€™m so glad!ā€ said Maryllia demurelyā€”ā€œitā€™s nice to be funny to other people, even if youā€™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 Iā€™m going for an hourā€™s walk with Plato, and when I come in, and have had my tea, Iā€™ll visit the picture-gallery. I know all about it,ā€”Uncle Fred told me,ā€ā€”she paused, and her eyes darkened with a wistful and deepening gravity,ā€”then she added gentlyā€”ā€œI shall not want you there, Spruce,ā€”I must be quite alone.ā€

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

ā€œWhat about the clergyman here, Mr. Walden?ā€ā€”she askedā€”ā€œIs he a nice man?ā€”kind to the village people, I mean, and good to the poor?ā€

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.

ā€œMr. Walden is jest one of the finest men God ever made, Miss,ā€ she said, with solemnity and unctionā€”ā€œYou may take my word for it! Heā€™s that good, that as we often sez, if mā€™appen there ainā€™t no saint in the Sarky anā€™ nowt but dust, weā€™ve got a real live saint walkinā€™ free among us as is far more ā€˜spectable to look at in his plain coat anā€™ trousers than they monks anā€™ friars in the picter-books wiā€™ ropes around their waistses anā€™ bald crowns, which ainā€™t no sign to me oā€™ beinā€™ full oā€™ grace, but rather loss of ā€˜air,ā€”anā€™ which you will presently see yourself, Miss, as ā€˜ow Mr. Waldenā€™s done the church beautiful, like a dream, as all the visitors sez, which there isnā€™t its like in all Englandā€”anā€™ heā€™s jest a father to the village anā€™ friends with every man, woman, anā€™ child in it, anā€™ grudges nothink to ā€˜elp in cases deservinā€™, anā€™ works like a nigger, he do, for the school, which if heā€™d ā€˜ad a wife it might aā€™ been better anā€™ it might aā€™ been worse, the Lord only knows, for no woman would aā€™ come up ā€˜ere anā€™ stood that patient watchinā€™ me anā€™ my work, anā€™ I tell you truly, Miss Maryllia, that when your boxes came anā€™ I had to unpack ā€˜em anā€™ sort the clothes in ā€˜em, I sent for Passon Walden jest to show ā€˜im that I felt my ā€˜sponsibility, anā€™ he sez, sez he: ā€˜You go on doinā€™ your duty, Missis Spruce, anā€™ your lady will be all rightā€™ā€”anā€™ though I begged ā€˜im to stop, he wouldnā€™t while I was a- shakinā€™ out your dresses with Nancyā€”ā€

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

ā€œStop, stop, Spruce!ā€ she exclaimedā€”ā€œOh dear, oh dear I Do you think I can understand all this? Did you show the parson my clothes- actually? You did!ā€ For Mrs. Spruce nodded violently in the affirmative. ā€œGood gracious! What a perfectly dreadful thing to do!ā€ And she laughed again. ā€œAnd what is the saint in the Sarky?ā€ Here she removed her hand from the mouth she was guarding. ā€œSay it in one word, if you can,-what is the Sarky?ā€

ā€œItā€™s in the church,ā€ā€”said Mrs. Spruce, dauntlessly proceeding with her flow of narrative, and encouraged thereto by the sparkling mirth in her mistressā€™s faceā€”ā€œWe calls it Sarky for short. Josey Letherbarrow, what reads, anā€™ ā€˜as larninā€™, calls it the Sarky Fagus, anā€™ my Kitty, sheā€™s studied at the school, anā€™ SHE sez ā€˜itā€™s Sar-KO- fagus, mother,ā€™ which it may be or it maynā€™t, for the schools donā€™t know more than the public-ā€˜ouses in my opinion,ā€”leastways itā€™s a great long white coffin whatā€™s supposed to ā€˜ave the body of a saint inside it, anā€™ Mr. Walden he discovered it when he was rebuildinā€™ the church, anā€™ when the Bishop come to conskrate it, he sez ā€˜twas a saint in there anā€™ thatā€™s why the village is called St. Restā€”but youā€™ll find it all out yourself. Miss, anā€™ as I sez anā€™ I donā€™t care who ā€˜ears me, the real saint ainā€™t in the Sarky at all,ā€”itā€™s just Mr. Walden himself,ā€”ā€

Again Marylliaā€™s hand closed her mouth.

ā€œYou really must stop, Spruce! You are the dearest old gabbler possibleā€”but you must stop! Youā€™ll have no breath leftā€”and I shall have no patience! Iā€™ve heard quite enough. I met Mr. Walden this morning, and Iā€™m sure he isnā€™t a saint at all! Heā€™s a very ordinary person indeed,ā€”most ordinaryā€”not in the very least remarkable. Iā€™m. glad heā€™s good to the people, and that they like himā€”thatā€™s really all thatā€™s necessary, and itā€™s all I want to know. Go along, Spruce!ā€”donā€™t talk to me any more about saints in the Sarky or out of the Sarky! There never was a real saint in the worldā€”never!ā€”not in the shape of a man!ā€

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 ā€˜Rules and Regulationsā€™ having somewhat subsided under the influence of her mistressā€™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 ā€˜Sarky.ā€™

ā€œI never was so much entertained in my life!ā€ she declared to herself, as she walked lightly along,ā€”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 countryā€”ā€œSpruce is a perfect comedy in herself,ā€”ever so much better than a stage play! And then the quaint funny men who came to see me last night,ā€”and those village boys this morning! And the ā€˜saintlyā€™ parson! Iā€™m sure heā€™ll turn out to be comic too,ā€”in a wayā€”heā€™ll be the ā€˜heavy fatherā€™ of the piece! Really I never imagined I should have so much fun!ā€

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 dogā€™s neck, she checked the great creatureā€™s gambols and compelled him to walk sedately by her side, as with hushed footsteps she entered the ā€˜Sleepy Hollowā€™ of deathā€™s long repose, and went straight up to the church door which, as usual, stood open.

ā€œStay here, Plato!ā€ 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,ā€”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,ā€”the open purity of the nave, without any disfiguring pews or fixed seats to mar its clear space,ā€”(for the chairs which were used at service were all packed away in a remote corner out of sight)ā€”the fair, slender columns, springing up into flowering capitals, like the stems of palms breaking into leaf- coronals,ā€”the dignified plainness of the altar, with that strange white sarcophagus set in front of it,ā€”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-ā€˜In Resurrectioneā€”Sanctorumā€”Resurget.ā€™ The atmosphere around her seemed surcharged with mystical suggestions,ā€”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.

ā€œIt is lovelyā€”lovely!ā€ she murmured under her breath, as she rose from her kneeling attitudeā€”ā€œThe 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. Spruceā€™s account, the man I met this morning-the quizzical parson with the grey-brown curly-locks, did it all at his own expenseā€”he must really be quite clever,ā€”such an unusual thing for a country clergyman!ā€

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,ā€”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 inscriptionā€”ā€˜Sacred to the Memory of Robert Vancourt of Abbotā€™s Manor,ā€™ this being followed by the usual dates of birth and death, and the one word ā€˜Resting.ā€™ 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 fatherā€™s deep mellow voice which had been the music of her childhood, playfully saying as was so often his wont:ā€”ā€œWell, my little girl! How goes the

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