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

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 passed 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 circumstance? 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 passed 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 passed, and that she would now, without doubt, marry the future Duke of Ormistoune, and pass 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.

“Passon Walden,”—began Dan Ridley—“Passon Walden---”

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

“No gossiping o’ Passon 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 clusters, 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’