God's Good Man - Marie Corelli (i want to read a book .txt) 📗

fixed her spectacles more firmly on her nose, and began to murmur slowly—“Je desire, d.e.sire—oh, yes—desire!—que—q.u.e.—Cicely- yes that’s all right!-passe, an e to pass—yes—now let me wait a minute; one minute, Miss, if you please!—l’ete—l apostrophe e, stroke across the e,—t, and e, stroke across the e---”

Maryllia’s eyebrows went up in pretty perplexity.

“Oh dear, I’m afraid you won’t be able to get it right that way!” she said—“I had better write it in English,—why, here’s Mr. Walden!” This, as she saw the clergyman’s tall athletic figure entering Mrs. Tapple’s tiny garden,—“Good-morning, Mr. Walden!” and as he raised his hat, she smiled graciously—“I want to send off a French telegram, and I’m afraid it’s rather difficult---”

A glance at Mrs. Tapple explained the rest, and Walden’s eyes twinkled mirthfully.

“Perhaps I can be of some use, Miss Vancourt,” he said. “Shall I try?”

Maryllia nodded, and he walked into the little office.

“Let me send off those telegrams for you, Mrs. Tapple,” he said. “You know you often allow me to amuse myself in that way! I haven’t touched the instrument for a month at least, and am getting quite out of practice. May I come in?”

Mrs. Tapple’s face shone with relief and gladness.

“Well now, Mr. Walden, if it isn’t a real blessin’ that you happened to look in this mornin’!” she exclaimed—“For now there won’t be no delay,—not but what I knew a bit o’ French as a gel, an’ I’d ‘ave made my way to spell it out somehow, no matter how slow,—but there! you’re that handy that ‘twon’t take no time, an’ Miss Vancourt will be sure of her message ‘avin’ gone straight off from here correct,— an’ if they makes mistakes at Riversford, ‘twon’t be my fault!”

While she thus ran on, Walden was handling the telegraphic apparatus. His back was turned to Maryllia, but he felt her eyes upon him,—as indeed they were,—and there was a slight flush of colour in his bronzed cheeks as he presenty looked round and said:

“May I have the telegram?”

“There are two—both for Paris,” replied Maryllia, handing him the filled-up forms—“One is quite easy—in English.” “And the other quite difficult—in French!”—he laughed. “Let me see if I can make it out correctly.” Thereupon he read aloud: “‘Louis Gigue, Conservatoire, Paris. Je desire que Cicely passe l’ete avec moi et qu’elle arrive immediatement. Elle peut tres-bien continuer ses etudes ici. Vous pouvez suivre, cher maitre, a votre plaisir.’ Is that right?”

Maryllia’s eyes opened a little more widely,—like blue flowers wakening to the sun. This country clergyman’s pronunciation of French was perfect,—more perfect than her own trained Parisian accent. Mrs. Tapple clasped her dumpy red hands in a silent ecstasy of admiration. ‘Passon’ knew everything!

“Is it right?” Walden repeated.

Maryllia gave a little start.

“Oh I beg your pardon! Yes—quite right!—thank you ever so much!”

Click-click-click-click! The telegraphic apparatus was at work, and the unofficial operator was entirely engrossed in his business. Mrs. Tapple stood respectfully dumb and motionless, watching him. Maryllia, leaning against the ledge of the office counter, watched him, too. She took quiet observation of the well-poised head, covered with its rich brown-grey waving locks of hair,—the broad shoulders, the white firm muscular hands that worked the telegraphic instrument, and she was conscious of the impression of authority, order, knowledge, and self-possession, which seemed to have come into the little office with him, and to have created quite a new atmosphere. Outside, in the small garden, among mignonette and early flowering sweetpeas, Plato sat on his huge haunches in lion-like dignity, blinking at the sun,—while Walden’s terrier Nebbie executed absurd but entirely friendly gambols in front of him, now pouncing down on two forepaws with nose to ground and eyes leering sideways,—now wagging an excited tail with excessive violence to demonstrate goodwill and a desire for amity.—and anon giving a short yelp of suppressed feeling,—to all of which conciliatory approaches Plato gave no other response than a vast yawn and meditative stare.

The monotonous click-click-click continued,—now stopping for a second, then going on more rapidly again, till Maryllia began to feel quite unreasonably impatient. She found something irritating at last in the contemplation of the back of Walden’s cranium,—it was too well-shaped, she decided,—she could discover no fault in it. Humming a tune carelessly under her breath, she turned towards Mrs. Tapple’s small grocery department, and feigned to be absorbed in an admiring survey of peppermint balls and toffee. Certain glistening squares of sticky white substance on a corner shelf commended themselves to her notice as specimens of stale ‘nougat,’ wherein the almonds represented a remote antiquity,—and a mass of stringy yellow matter laid out in lumps on blue paper and marked ‘One Penny per ounce’ claimed attention as a certain ‘hardbake’ peculiar to St. Rest, which was best eaten in a highly glutinous condition. A dozen or so of wrinkled apples which, to judge by their damaged and worn exteriors, must have been several autumns old, kept melancholy companionship with assorted packages of the ‘Choice Tea’ whereof the label was displayed in the window, and Maryllia was just about wondering whether she would, or could buy anything out of the musty- fusty collection, when the click-click-click stopped abruptly, and Walden stepped forth from the interior ‘den’ of the post-office.

“That’s all right, Miss Vancourt,” he said. “Your telegrams are sent correctly as far as Riversford anyhow, and there is one operator there who is acquainted with the French language. Whether they will transmit correctly from London I shouldn’t like to say!—we are a singular nation, and one of our singularities is that we scorn to know the language of our nearest neighbours!”

She smiled up at him,—and as his glance met hers he was taken aback, as it were, by the pellucid beauty and frank innocence of the grave dark-blue eyes that shone so serenely into his own.

“Thank you so very, very much! You have been most kind!” and with a swift droop of her white eyelids she veiled those seductive ‘mirrors of the soul’ beneath a concealing fringe of long golden-brown lashes—“It’s quite a new experience to find a clergyman able and willing to be a telegraph clerk as well! So useful, isn’t it?”

“In a village like this it is,” rejoined Walden, gaily—“And after all, there’s not much use in being a minister unless one can practically succeed in the art of ‘ministering’ to every sort of demand made upon one’s capabilities! Even to Miss Vancourt’s needs, should she require anything, from the preservation of trees to the sending of telegrams, that St. Rest can provide!”

Again Maryllia glanced at him, and again a little smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

“I must pay for the telegrams,” she said abruptly—“Mrs. Tapple---”

“Yes, Miss—I’ve written it all down,” murmured Mrs. Tapple nervously—“It’s right, Mr. Walden, isn’t it? If you would be so good as to look at it, bein’ tuppence a word, it do make it different like, an’ m’appen there might be a mistake---”

Walden glanced over the scrap of paper on which she had scrawled her rough figures.

“Fivepence out, I declare, Mrs. Tapple!” he said, merrily. “Dear, dear! Whatever is going to become of you, eh? To cheat yourself wouldn’t matter—nobody minds THAT—but to do the British Government out of fivepence would be a dreadful thing! Now if I had not seen this you would have been what is called ‘short’ this evening in making up accounts.” Here he handed the corrected paper to Maryllia. “I think you will find that right.”

Maryllia opened her purse and paid the amount,—and Mrs. Tapple, in giving her change for a sovereign, included among the coins a bright new threepenny piece with a hole in it. Spying this little bit of silver, Maryllia held it up in front of Walden’s eyes triumphantly.

“Luck!” she exclaimed—“That’s for you! It’s a reward for your telegraphic operations! Will you be grateful if I give it to you?”

He laughed.

“Profoundly! It shall be my D.S.O.!”

“Then there you are!” and she placed the tiny coin in the palm of the hand he held out to receive it. “The labourer is worthy of his hire! Now you can never go about like some clergymen, grumbling and saying you work for no pay!” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “What shall we do next? Oh, I know! Let’s buy some acid drops!”

Mrs. Tapple stared and smiled.

“Or pear-drops,” continued Maryllia, glancing critically at the various jars of ‘sweeties,’—“I see the real old-fashioned pink ones up there,—lumpy at one end and tapering at the other. Do you like them? Or brandy balls? I think the pear-drops carry one back to the age of ten most quickly! But which do you prefer?”

Walden tried to look serious, but could not succeed. Laughter twinkled all over his face, and he began to feel extremely young.

“Well,—really, Miss Vancourt,---” he began.

“There, I know what you are going to say!” exclaimed Maryllia—“You are going to tell me that it would never do for a clergyman to be seen munching pear-drops in his own parish. I understand! But clergymen do ever so much. worse than that sometimes. They do, really! Two ounces of pear-drops for me, Mrs. Tapple, please!—and one of brandy balls!”

Mrs. Tapple bustled out of her ‘Gove’nment’ office, and came to the grocery counter to dispense these dainties.

“They stick to the jar so,” said Maryllia, watching her thoughtfully; “They always did. I remember, as a child, seeing a man put his finger in to detach them. Don’t put your finger in, Mrs. Tapple!—take a bit of wood—an old skewer or something. Oh, they’re coming out all right! That’s it!” And she popped one of the pear- drops into her mouth. “They are really very good—better than French fondants—so much more innocent and refreshing!” Here she took possession of the little paper-bags which Mrs. Tapple had filled with the sweets. “Thank you, Mrs. Tapple! If any answers to my telegrams come from Paris, please send them up to the Manor at once. Good-morning!”

“Good-morning, Miss!” And Mrs. Tapple, curtseying, pulled the door of her double establishment wider open to let the young lady pass out, which she did, with a smile and nod, Walden following her. Plato rose and paced majestically after his mistress, Nebbie trotting meekly at the rear, and so they all went forth from the postmistress’s garden into the road, where Walden, pausing, raised his hat in farewell.

“Oh, are you going?” queried Maryllia. “Won’t you walk with me as far as your own rectory?”

“Certainly, if you wish it,”—he answered with a slight touch of embarrassment; “I thought perhaps---”

“You thought perhaps,—what?” laughed Maryllia, glancing up at him archly—“That I was going to make you eat pear-drops against your will? Not I! I wouldn’t be so rude. But I really thought I ought to buy something from Mrs. Tapple,—she was so worried, poor old dear!- till you came in. Then she looked as happy as though she saw a vision of angels. She’s a perfect picture, with her funny old shawl and spectacles and knobbly red fingers-and do you know, all the time you were working the telegraph you were under the fragrant shadow of a big piece of bacon which was ‘curing,’—positively ‘curing’ over your head! Couldn’t you smell it?”

Walden’s eyes twinkled.

“There was certainly a fine aroma in the air,” he said—“But it seemed to me no more than the customary perfume common to Mrs. Tapple’s surroundings. I daresay it was new to you! A country clergyman is perhaps the only human being who has to inure himself to bacon odours as the prevailing sweetness of cottage interiors.”

Maryllia laughed. She had a pretty laugh, silver-clear and joyous without loudness.