God's Good Man Part 10

Then again, the 'Pa.s.son's' sermon that morning had been something of a failure. Walden himself, all the time he was engaged in preaching it, had known that it was a lame, halting and perfunctory discourse, and he had felt fully conscious that a patient tolerance of him on the part of his paris.h.i.+oners had taken the place of the respectful interest and attention they usually displayed. He was indeed sadly at a loss concerning 'the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.' He had desired to recommend the cultivation of such a grace in the most forcible manner, yet he found himself wondering why fas.h.i.+onable women wore pink shoes much smaller than the natural size of the human foot? To be 'meek and quiet' was surely an excellent thing, but then it was impossible for any man with blood in his veins to feel otherwise than honestly indignant at the extravagance displayed by certain modern ladies in the selection of their gowns! Flas.h.i.+ng sparks of pearl and crystal sewn on cloud-like tissues and chiffons, danced before his eyes, as he ponderously weighed out the spiritual advantages of being meek and quiet; and his metaphors became as hazy as the deductions he drew from his text were vague and difficult to follow. He was uncomfortably conscious of a slight flush rising to his face, as he met the bland enquiring stare of Sir Morton Pippitt's former butler--now on 'temp'ry' service at the Manor,--he became aware that there was also a new and rather pretty housemaid beside the said butler, who whispered when she ought to have been silent,--and he saw blankness on the fat face of Mrs. Spruce, a face which was tied up like a round red damaged sort of fruit in a black basket-like bonnet, fastened with very broad violet strings. Now Mrs. Spruce always paid the most pious attention to his sermons, and jogged her husband at regular intervals to prevent that worthy man from dozing, though she knew he could not hear a word of anything that was said, and that, therefore, he might as well have been allowed to sleep,--but on this occasion John was sure that even he failed to be interested in his observations on that 'ornament,'

which she called 'hornament,' of the meek and quiet spirit, p.r.o.nounced to be of such 'great price.' He realised that if any 'great price' was at all in question with her that morning, it was the possible monetary value of her new lady's wardrobe. So that on the whole he was very glad when he came to the end of his ramble among strained similes, and was able to retire altogether from the gaze of the different pairs of eyes, cow-like, sheep-like, bird- like, dog-like, and human, which in their faithful watching of his face as he preached, often moved him to a certain embarra.s.sment, though seldom as much as on this occasion. With his disappearance from the pulpit, and his subsequent retreat round by the back of the churchyard into the privacy of his own garden, the tongues of the gossips, restrained as long as their minister was likely to be within earshot, broke loose and began to wag with glib rapidity.

"Look 'ee 'ere, Tummas," said one short, thick-set man, addressing Bainton; "Look 'ee 'ere--thy measter baint oop to mark this marnin'!

Seemed as if he couldn't find the ways nor the meanin's o' the Lord nohow!"

Bainton slowly removed his cap from his head and looked thoughtfully into the lining, as though seeking for inspiration there, before replying. The short, thick-set man was an important personage,--no less than the proprietor of the 'Mother Huff' public-house; and not only was he proprietor of the said public-house, but brewer of all the ale he sold there. Roger Buggins was a man to be reckoned with, and he expected to be treated with almost as much consideration as the 'Pa.s.son' himself. Buggins wore a very ill-fitting black suit on Sundays, which made him look like a cross between a waiter and an undertaker; and he also supported on his cranium a very tall top-hat with an extra wide brim, suggesting in its antediluvian shape a former close acquaintance with cast-off clothing stores.

"He baint himself,"--reiterated Buggins emphatically; "He was fair mazed and dazed with his argifyin'. 'Meek and quiet sperrit'! Who wants the like o' that in this 'ere mortal wurrld, where we all commences to fight from the moment we lays in our cradles till the last kick we gives 'fore we goes to our graves? Meek and quiet goes to prison more often than rough and ready!"

"Mebbe Pa.s.son Walden was thinkin' of Oliver Leach," suggested Bainton with a slight twinkle in his eye; "And 'ow m'appen we'd best be all of us meek and quiet when he's by. It might be so, Mr.

Buggins,--Pa.s.son's a rare one to guess as 'ow the wind blows nor'- nor'-east sometimes in the village, for all that it's a warm day and the peas comin' on beautiful. Eh, now, Mr. Buggins?" This with a conciliatory air, for Bainton had a little reckoning at the 'Mother Huff' and desired to be all that was agreeable to its proprietor.

Buggins snorted a defiant snort.

"Oliver Leach indeed!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "Meek an' quiet suits him down to the ground, it do! There's a man wot's likely to have a kindly note of warnin' from my best fist, if he comes larrupin' round my place too often. 'Ave ye 'eard as 'ow he's chalked the Five Sisters?"

"Now don't go for to say that!" expostulated Bainton gently. "'E runs as near the wind as he can, but 'e'd never be stark starin' mad enough to chalk the Five Sisters!"

"Chalk 'em 'e HAS!" returned Buggins, putting quite a strong aspirate where he generally left it out,--"And down they're comin'

on Wednesday marnin'. Which I sez yeste'day to Adam Frost 'ere: if the Five Sisters is to lay low, what next?"

"Ay! ay!" chorussed several other villagers who had been, listening eagerly to the conversation; "You say true, Mr. Buggins--you say gospel true. If the Five Sisters lay low, what next!"

And dismal shakings of the head and rollings of the eyes from all parties followed this proposition.

"What next," echoed the s.e.xton, Adam Frost, who on hearing his name brought into the argument, showed himself at once ready to respond to it. "Why next we'll not have a tree of any size anywhere near the village, for if timber's to be sold, sold it will be, and the only person we'll be able to rely on for a bit of green shade or shelter will be Pa.s.son Walden, who wouldn't have a tree cut down anywhere on his land, no, not if he was starving. Ah! If the old Squire were alive he'd sooner have had his own 'ead chopped off than the Five Sisters laid low!"

By this time a considerable number of the villagers had gathered round Roger Buggins as the centre of the discussion,--some out of curiosity, and others out of a vague and entirely erroneous idea that perhaps if they took the proper side of the argument 'refreshers' in the way of draughts of home-brewed ale at the 'Mother Huff' between church hours might be offered as an amicable end to the conversation.

"Someone should tell Miss Vancourt about it; she's coming home to the Manor on Tuesday," suggested the barmaid of the 'Mother Huff,' a smart-looking young woman, who was however looked upon with grave suspicion by her feminine neighbours, because she dressed 'beyond her station'; "P'raps she'd do something?"

"Not she!" said Frost, cynically; "She's a fine lady,--been livin'

with 'Mericans what will eat banknotes for breakfast in order to write about it to the papers arterwards. Them sort of women takes no 'count o' trees, except to make money out of 'em."

Here there was a slight stir among the group, as they saw a familiar figure slowly approaching them,--that of a very old man, wearing a particularly clean smock-frock and a large straw hat, who came out from under the church porch like a quaint, moving, mediaeval Dutch picture. Shuffling along, one halting step at a time, and supporting himself on a stout ash stick, this venerable personage made his way, with a singular doggedness and determination of movement, up to the group of gossips. Arriving among them he took off his straw hat, and producing a blue spotted handkerchief from its interior wiped the top of his bald head vigorously.

"Now, what are ye at?" he said slowly; "What are ye at? All clickettin' together like gra.s.shoppers in a load of hay! What's the mischief? Whose character are ye bitin' bits out of, like mice in an old cheese? Eh? Lord! Lord! Eighty-nine years o' livin' wi' ye, summer in and summer out, don't improve ye,--talk to ye as I will and as I may, ye're all as mis'able sinners as ever ye was, and never a saint among ye 'cept the one in the Sarky f.a.gus."

Here, pausing for breath, the ancient speaker wiped his head again, carefully flattening down with the action a few stray wisps of thin white hair, while a smile of tranquil and superior wisdom spread itself among the countless wrinkles of his sun-browned face, like a ray of winter suns.h.i.+ne awakening rippling reflections on a half- frozen pool.

"We ain't doin' nothin', Josey!" said Buggins, almost timidly.

"Nor we ain't sayin' nothin'," added Bainton.

"We be as harmless as doves," put in Adam Frost with a sly chuckle; "and we ain't no match for sarpints!"

"Ain't you looking well, Mr. Letherbarrow!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the smartly dressed barmaid; "Just wonderful for your time of life!"

"My time o' life?" And Josey Letherbarrow surveyed the young woman with an inimitable expression of disdain; "Well, it's a time o' life YOU'LL never reach, sane or sound, my gel, take my word for't! Fine feathers makes fine birds, but the life is more'n the meat and the body more'n raiment. And as for 'armless as doves and no match for sarpints, ye may be all that and more, which is no sort of argyment and when I sez 'what mischief are ye all up to' I sez it, and expecks a harnser, and a harnser I'll 'ave, or I'll reckon to know the reason why!"

The men and women glanced at each other. It was unnecessary, and it would certainly be inhuman, to irritate old Josey Letherbarrow, considering Ms great age and various infirmities.

"We was jest a-sayin' a word or two about the Five Sisters--" began Adam Frost.

"Ay! ay!" said Josey; "That ye may do and no 'arm come of it; I knows 'em well! Five of the finest beech-trees in all England! Ay!

ay! th' owld Squire was main proud of 'em---"

"They be comin' down," said Buggins; "Oliver Leach's chalk mark's on 'em for Wednesday marnin'."

"Comin' down!" echoed Josey--"Comin' down? Gar'n with ye all for a parcel o' silly idgits wi' neither rhyme nor reason nor backbone!

Comin' down! Why ye might as well tell me the Manor House was bein'

turned into a cow-shed! Comin' down! Gar'n!"

"It's true, Josey," said Adam Frost, beginning to make his way towards the gate of the churchyard, for he had just spied one of his numerous 'olive-branches,' frantically beckoning him home to dinner, and he knew by stern experience what it meant if Mrs. Frost and the family were kept waiting for the Sunday's meal. "It's true, and you'll find it so. And whether it'll be any good speakin' to the new lady who's comin' home on Tuesday, or whether the Five Sisters won't be all corpses afore she comes, there's no knowin'. The Lord He gave the trees, but whether the Lord He gave Oliver Leach to take 'em away again after a matter of three or four hundred year is mighty doubtful!"

Old Josey looked stupefied.

"The Five Sisters comin' down!" he repeated dully; "May you never live to do my buryin', Adam Frost, if it's true!--and that's the worst wish I can give ye!"

But Adam Frost here obeyed the call of his domestic belongings, and hurried away without response.

Josey leaned on his stick thoughtfully for a minute, and then resumed his slow shuffling way. Any one of the men or women near him would have willingly given him a hand to a.s.sist his steps, but they all knew that he would be highly incensed if they dared to show that they considered him in any way feeble or in need of support. So they contented themselves with accompanying him at his own snail's pace, and at such a distance as to be within hearing of any remarks he might let fall, without intruding too closely on the special area in which he chose to stump along homewards.

"The Five Sisters comin' down, and the old Squire's daughter comin'

'ome!" he muttered; "They two things is like ile and water,--nothin'

'ull make 'em mix. The Squire's daughter--ay--ay! It seems but only yeste'day the Squire died! And she was a fine mare that threw him, too,--Firefly was her name. Ay--ay! It seems but yeste'day--but yeste'day!"

"D'ye mind the Squire's daughter, Josey?" asked one of the village women sauntering a little nearer to him.

"Mind her?" And Josey Letherbarrow halted abruptly. "Do I mind my own childer? It seems but yeste'day, I tell ye, that the Squire died, but mebbe it's a matter of six-an'-twenty 'ear agone since 'e came to me where I was a-workin' in 'is fields, and he pinted out to me the nurse wot was walkin' up and down near the edge of the pasture carryin' his baby all in long clothes. 'See that, Josey!' he sez, an' 'is eyes were all wild-like an' 'is lips was a' tremblin'; 'That little white thing is all I've got left of the wife I was bringin' 'ome to be the suns.h.i.+ne of the old Manor. I felt like killin' that child, Josey, when it was born, because its comin' into this wurrld killed its mother. That was an unnat'ral thing, Josey,'

sez he--'There was no G.o.d in it, only a devil!' and 'is lips trembled more'n ever--'no woman ought to die in givin' birth to a child--it's jes' wicked an' cruel! I would say that to G.o.d Himself, if I knew Him!' An' he clenched 'is fist 'ard, an' then 'e went on-- 'But though I wanted to kill the little creature, I couldn't do it, Josey, I couldn't! It's eyes were like those of my Dearest. So I let it live; an' I'll do my best by it, Josey,'--yes, them's the words 'e said--'I'll do my best by it!'"

Here Josey broke off in his narrative, and resumed his crawling pace.

"You ain't finished, 'ave ye, Josey?" said Roger Buggins propitiatingly, drawing closer to the old man. "It's powerful interestin', all this 'ere!"

Josey halted again.

"Powerful interestin'? O' course it is! There ain't n.o.body's story wot ain't interestin', if ye onny knows it. An' it's all six-an'- twenty year agone now; but I can see th' owld Squire still, an' the nurse walkin' slow up an' down by the border of the field, hus.h.i.+n'

the baby to sleep. And 'twas a good sound baby, too, an' thrived fine; an' 'fore we knew where we was, instid of a baby there was a little gel runnin' wild all over the place, climbin' trees, swannin'

up hay-stacks an' up to all sorts of mischief--Lord, Lord!" And Josey began to chuckle with a kind of inward merriment; "I'll never forget the day that child sat down on a wopses' nest an' got all 'er little legs stung;--she was about five 'ear old then, an' she never cried--not she!--the little proud spitfire that she was, she jes'

stamped 'er mite of a foot an' she sez, sez she: 'Did G.o.d make the wopses?' An' 'er nurse sez to 'er: 'Yes, o' course, lovey, G.o.d made 'em.' 'Then I don't think much of Him!' sez she. Lord, Lord! We larfed nigh to split ourselves that arternoon;--we was all makin'

'ay an' th' owld Squire was workin' wi' us for fun-like. 'I don't think much o' G.o.d, father!'--sez Miss Maryllia, runnin' up to 'im, an' liftin' up all 'er petticuts an' shewin' the purtiest little legs ye ever seed; 'Nurse sez He made the wopses!' He-ee-ee-hor-hor- hor!"

A slow smile was reflected on the faces of the persons who heard this story,--a smile that implied lurking doubt as to whether it was quite the correct or respectful thing to find entertainment in an anecdote which included a description of 'the purtiest little legs'

of the lady of the Manor whose return to her native home was so soon expected,--but Josey Letherbarrow was a privileged personage, and he might say what others dared not. As philosopher, general moralist and purveyor of copy-book maxims, he was looked upon in the village as the Nestor of the community, and in all discussions or disputations was referred to as final arbitrator and judge. Born in St. Rest, he had never been out of it, except on an occasional jaunt to Riversford in the carrier's cart. He had married a la.s.s of the village, who had been his playmate in childhood, and who, after giving him four children, had died when she was forty,--the four children had grown up and in their turn had married and died; but he, like a hardy old tree, had still lived on, with firm roots well fixed in the soil that had bred him. Life had now become a series of dream pictures with him, representing every episode of his experience. His mind was clear, and his perception keen; he seldom failed to recollect every detail of a circ.u.mstance when once the clue was given, and the right little cell in his brain was stirred.

To these qualities he added a stock of good sound common sense, with a great equableness of temperament, though he could be cynical, and even severe, when occasion demanded. Just now, however, his venerable countenance was radiant,--his few remaining tufts of white hair glistened in the sun like spun silver,--his figure in its homely smock, leaning on the rough ash stick, expressed in its very att.i.tude benevolence and good-humour, and 'the purtiest little legs'

had evidently conjured up a vision of childish grace and innocence before his eyes, which he was loth to let go.