God's Good Man Part 38

He took it up indifferently as the girl retired,--then uttered a slight exclamation of pleasure.

"From Brent,"--he said, half aloud--"Dear old fellow! I have not heard from him since New Year."

He opened the letter, and began to read. The interested look in his eyes deepened,--and he moved nearer to the open window to avail himself as much as possible of the swiftly decreasing light.

"DEAR WALDEN,"--it ran--"The spirit moves me to write to you, not only because it occurs to me that I have failed to do so for a long time, but also because I feel a certain necessity for thought- expansion to someone, who, like yourself, is accustomed to the habit of thinking. The tendency of the majority nowadays is,--or so it appears to me,--to forget the purpose for which the brain was designed, or rather to use it for no higher object than that for which it is employed by the brute creation, namely to consider the ways and means of securing food, and then to ruminate on the self- gratification which follows the l.u.s.ts of appet.i.te. In fact, 'to rot and rot,--and thereby hangs a tale!' But before I enter into any particulars of my own special phase or mood, let me ask how it fares with you in your small and secluded parish? All must be well, I imagine, otherwise doubtless I should have heard. It seems only the other day that I came, at your request, to consecrate your beautiful little church of 'The Saint's Rest,'--yet seven years have rolled away since then, leaving indelible tracks of age on me, as probably on you also, my dear fellow!--though you have always carried old Time on your back more lightly and easily than I. To me he has ever been the Arabian Nights' inexorable 'Old Man of the Sea,' whose habit is to kill unless killed. At fifty-one I feel myself either 'rusting' or mellowing; I wonder which you will judge the most fitting appellation for me when we next meet? Mind and memory play me strange tricks in my brief moments of solitude, and whenever I think of you, I imagine it can only be yesterday that we two college lads walked and talked together in the drowsy old streets of Oxford and made our various plans for our future lives with all the superb dominance and a.s.sertiveness of youth, which is so delightful while it lasts, despite the miserable deceptions it practises upon us. One thing, however, which I gained in the past time, and which has never deceived me, is your friends.h.i.+p,--and how much I owe to you no one but myself can ever tell. Good G.o.d!--how superior you always were, and are, to me! Why did you efface yourself so completely for my sake? I often ask this question, and except for the fact that it would be impossible to you to even make an attempt to override, for mere ambition, anyone for whom you had a deep affection, I cannot imagine any answer. But as matters have turned out with me I think it might have been better after all, had you been in my place and I in yours! A small 'cure of souls' would have put my mental fibre to less torture, than the crowding cares of my diocese, which depress me more and more as they increase. Many things seem to me hopeless,- -utterly irremediable! The shadow of a pre-ponderating, defiant, all-triumphant Evil stalks abroad everywhere--and the clergy are as much affected by it as the laymen. I feel that the world is far more Christ-less to-day after two thousand years of preaching and teaching, than it was in the time of Nero. How has this happened?

Whose the fault? Walden, there is only one reply--it is the Church itself that has failed! The message of salvation,--the gospel of love,--these are as G.o.d-born and true as ever they were,--but the preachers and teachers of the Divine Creed are to blame,--the men who quarrel among themselves over forms and ceremonies instead of concentrating their energies on ministering to others,--and I confess I find myself often at a loss to dispose Church affairs in such wise as to secure at one and the same time, peace and satisfaction amongst the clergy under me, with proper devotion to the mental and physical needs of the thousands who have a right, yes a right to expect spiritual comfort and material succour from those who profess, by their vows of ordination, to be faithful and disinterested servants of Christ.

"I daresay you remember how we used to talk religious matters over when we were young and enthusiastic men, studying for the Church.

You will easily recall the indignation and fervour with which we repudiated all heresies new and old, and turned our backs with mingled pity and scorn on every writer of agnostic theories, estimating such heterodox influences as weighing but lightly in the balance of belief, and making little or no effect on the minds of the majority. We did not then grasp in its full measure the meaning of what is to-day called the 'rush' of life. That blind, brutal stampede of humanity over every corner and quarter of the earth,--a stampede which it is impossible to check or to divert, and which arises out of a nameless sense of panic, and foreboding of disaster!

Like hordes of wild cattle on the prairies, who scent invisible fire, and begin to gallop furiously headlong anywhere and everywhere, before the first red gleam of the devouring element breaks from the undergrowth of dry gra.s.s and stubble,--so do the nations and peoples appear to me to-day. Reckless, maddened, fear- stricken and reasonless, they rush hither and thither in search of refuge from themselves and from each other, yet are all the while driven along unconsciously in heterogeneous ma.s.ses, as though swept by the resistless breath of some mysterious whirlwind, impelling them on to their own disaster. I feel the end approaching, Walden!-- sometimes I almost see it! And with the near touch of a shuddering future catastrophe on me, I am often disposed to agree with sad King Solomon that after all 'there is nothing better for a man than that he should eat, drink and be merry all the days of his life.' For I grow tired of my own puny efforts to lift the burden of human sorrow which is laid upon me, aloft on the fainting wings of prayer, to a G.o.d who seems wholly irresponsive,--mind, Walden, I say seems--so do not start away from my words and judge me as beginning to weaken in the faith that formerly inspired me. I confess to an intense fatigue and hopelessness,--the constant unrelieved consciousness of human wretchedness weighs me down to the dust of spiritual abas.e.m.e.nt, for I can but think that if G.o.d were indeed merciful and full of loving- kindness, He would not, He could not endure the constant spectacle of man's devilish injustice to his brother man! I have no right to permit myself to indulge in such reflections as these, I know,--yet they have gained such hold on me that I have latterly had serious thoughts of resigning my bishopric. But this is a matter involving other changes in my life, on which I should like to have some long friendly talks with you, before taking any decisive step. Your own att.i.tude of mind towards the 'calling and election' you have chosen has always seemed to me so pre-eminently pure and lofty, that I should condemn ray own feelings even more than I do, were I to allow the twin forces of pessimism and despair to possess me utterly without an attempt to bring them under your sane and healthful exorcism, the more so, as you know all my personal history and life- long sorrow. And this brings me to the main point of my letter which is, that I should much like to see you, if you can spare me two or three days of your company any time before the end of August. Try to arrange an early visit, though I know how ill your paris.h.i.+oners can spare you, and how more than likely they are to grumble at your absence. You are to be envied in having secured so much affection and confidence in the parish you control, and every day I feel more and more how wisely you have chosen your lot in that comparative obscurity, which, at one time, seemed to those who know your brilliant gifts, a waste of life and opportunity. Of course you are not without jealous enemies,--no true soul ever is. Sir Morton Pippitt still occasionally sends me a spluttering note of information as to something you have, or have not done, to the church on which you have spent the greater part of your personal fortune; and Leveson, the minister at Badsworth, appears to think that I should a.s.sist him by heading a subscription list to obtain funds for the purpose of making his church as perfect a gem of architecture as yours. Due enquiries have been made as to the nature and needs of his paris.h.i.+oners, and it appears that only twenty--five adult persons on an average ever attend his ministrations, and that the building for which he pleads is a brick edifice built in 1870 and deliberately allowed to decay by disuse and neglect. However, Sir Morton Pippitt is taking some interest in it, so I am given to understand,--and perhaps in 'restoring' a modern chapel, he will be able to console himself for the ruthless manner in which you stripped off his 'galvanised tin' roof from your old Norman church walls!

"I am sorry to hear that the historic house of Abbot's Manor is again inhabited, and by one who is likely to be a most undesirable neighbour to you."

Here Walden, unable to read very quickly at the window, stepped out on the lawn, still holding the letter close to his eyes. "A most undesirable neighbour"--he-murmured-"Yes--now let me see!--where is that phrase?--Oh, here it is,--'a most undesirable neighbour.'" And he read on:-"I allude to Miss Vancourt, the only child of the late Robert Vancourt who was killed some years ago in the hunting field.

The girl was taken away at her father's death by her uncle Frederick, who, having sown an unusual crop of wild oats, had married one of those inordinately wealthy American women to whom the sun itself appears little more than a magnified gold-piece--and of course between the two she has had a very bad training. Frederick Vancourt was the worst and weakest of the family, and his wife has been known for years as a particularly hardened member of the 'smart' set. Under their tutelage Miss Vancourt, or 'Maryllia Van,'

as she appears to be familiarly known and called in society, has attained a rather unenviable notoriety; and when I heard the other day that she had left her aunt's house in a fit of ungovernable temper, and had gone to her own old house to live, I thought at once of you with a pang of pity. For, if I remember rightly, you have a great opinion of the Manor as an unspoilt relic of Tudor times, and have always been rather glad that it was left to itself without any modern improvement or innovation. I can imagine nothing worse to your mind than the presence of a 'smart' lady in the unsophisticated village of St. Rest! However, you may take heart of grace, as it is not likely she will stay there long. Rumour a.s.serts that she is shortly to be married to Lord Roxmouth,--he who will be Duke of Ormistoune and owner of that splendid but half-ruined pile, Roxmouth Castle. She has, it appears, kept this poor gentleman dancing attendance on her for a sufficient time to make evident to the world her desire to secure his t.i.tle, and her present sudden capricious retirement into country life is understood to be a mere RUSE to draw him more swiftly on to his matrimonial doom. No doubt he has an eye on Mrs. Fred Vancourt's millions, which her niece would inherit in the event of her marrying a future English duke,--still, from what I gather, he would deserve some compensation for risking his life's happiness with such a very doubtful partner. But I daresay I am retailing information with which you are no doubt already quite familiar, and in all probability 'Maryllia Van' is not likely to cross your path at any time, as among her other reported characteristics is that of a cheap scorn for religion,--a scorn which sits so unbecomingly on our modern women, and forbodes so much disaster in the future, they being the mothers of the coming race. I expect the only circ.u.mstance likely to trouble your calm and pleasant routine of life and labour is, that the present occupation of Abbot's Manor may have stopped some of your romantic rambles in the beautiful woods surrounding it! May never any greater care disturb you, my dear fellow!--for even that is one, which, as I have pointed out to you, will be of brief duration. Let me know when you think you will be able to come and spend a couple of days here,--and I will clear my work ahead in order to leave the time free for an entire unburdening of my soul to you, as in the days of our youth, so long ago.--Sincerely and affectionately yours, H.A. BRENT."

Slowly, and with methodical nicety, Walden folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. With a kind of dazed air he looked about him, vaguely surprised that the evening seemed to have fallen so soon.

Streaks of the sunset still glowed redly here and there in the sky, but the dense purple of the night had widened steadily over the s.p.a.ces of the air, and just above the highest bough of the apple- tree on the lawn, the planet Venus twinkled bravely in all its silver panoply of pride as the Evening Star. Low and sweet on the fragrant silence came the dulcet piping of a nightingale, and the soft swis.h.i.+ng sound of the river flowing among the rushes, and pus.h.i.+ng against the pebbly sh.o.r.e. A sudden smarting sense of pain stung Walden's eyes,--pressing them with one hand he found it wet,-- with tears? No, no!--not with tears,--merely with the moisture of strain and fatigue,--his sight was not so good as it used to be;--of course he was getting old,--and Bishop Brent's small caligraphy had been difficult to decipher by the half-light. All at once something burning and pa.s.sionate stirred in him,--a wave of chivalrous indignation that poured itself swiftly through every channel of his clean and honest blood, and he involuntarily clenched his hand.

"What liars there are in the world!" he said aloud and fiercely-- "What liars!"

Venus, peeping at him over the apple-boughs, gave out a diamond-like sparkle as though she were no greater thing than a loving eye,--the unseen nightingale, tuning its voice to richer certainties, broke into a fuller, deeper warble,--more stars flew, like s.h.i.+ning fire- flies, into s.p.a.ce, and on the lowest line of the western horizon a white cloud fringed with silver, floated slowly, the noiseless herald of the coming moon. But Walden saw nothing of the mystically beautiful transfiguration of the evening into night. His thoughts were elsewhere.

"And yet"--he mused sorrowfully--"How do I know? How can I tell? The clear childlike eyes may be trained to deceive,--the smile of the sweet, all too sweet mouth, may be insincere--the pretty, impulsive confiding manner may be a mere trick---and---after all---what is it to me? I demand of myself plainly and fairly--what is it to me?"

He gave a kind of unconscious despairing gesture. Was there some devil in his soul whom he was bound to wrestle with by fasting and prayer, and conquer in the end? Or was it an angel that had entered there, before whose heavenly aspect he must kneel and succ.u.mb? Why this new and appalling loneliness which had struck himself and his home-surroundings as with an earthquake shock, shaking the foundations of all that had seemed so safe and secure? Why this feverish restlessness in his mind, which forbade him to occupy himself with any of the work waiting for him to do, and which made him unhappy and ill at ease for no visible or reasonable cause?

He walked slowly across the lawn to his favourite seat under the apple-tree,--and there, beneath the scented fruiting boughs, with the evening dews gathering on the gra.s.s at his feet, he tried manfully to face the problem that troubled his own inner consciousness.

"Let me brave it out!" he said--"Let me realise and master the thoughts that seek to master ME, otherwise I am no man, but merely a straw to be caught by the idle wind of an emotion. Why should I s.h.i.+rk the a.n.a.lysis of what I feel to be true of myself? For, after all, it is only a weakness of nature,--a sense of regret and loss,-- a knowledge of something I have missed in life,--all surely pardonable if quelled in the beginning. She,--Maryllia Vancourt--is only at woman,--I am only a man. There is more than at first seems apparent in that simple qualification 'only'! She, the woman, has charm, and is instinctively conscious of her power, as why should she not be?--she has tried it, and found it no doubt in every case effectual. I, the man, am long past the fervours and frenzies of life,--and charm, whether it be hers or that of any other of her s.e.x, should have, or ought to have, no effect upon me, particularly in my vocation, and with my settled habits. If I am so easily moved as to be conscious of a certain strange glamour and fascination in this girl,--for she is a girl to me, nay almost a child,--that is not her fault, but mine. As well expect the sun not to s.h.i.+ne or a bird not to sing, as expect Maryllia Vancourt not to smile and look sweet! Walking with her in her rose-garden, where she took me with such a pretty air of confiding grace, to show me her border of old French damask roses, I listened to her half-serious, sometimes playful talk as in a dream, and answered her kindly questions concerning some of the sick and poor in the village as best I could, though I fear I must occasionally have spoken at random. Oh, those old French damask roses! I have known them growing in that border for years,--yet I never saw them as I saw them to-day,--never looked they so darkly red and glowing!--so large and open-hearted! I fancy I shall smell their fragrance all my life! 'Are they doing well, do you think?'--she said, and the little white chin perked up from under the pink ribbon which tied her hat, and the dark blue eyes gleamed drowsily from beneath their drooping lids,--and the lips parted, smiling--and then--then came the devil and tempted me! I was no longer middle-aged John Walden, the quiet parson of a country 'cure,'--I was a man unknown to myself,--possessed as it were, by the ghost of a dead youth, clamouring for youthful joy! I longed to touch that delicate little pink-and-white creature, so like a rose herself!--I was moved by an insane desire--yes!--it was insane, and fortunately quite momentary,--such impulses are not uncommon"--and here, as he unravelled, to his own satisfaction, the tangled web of his impressions, his brow cleared, and he smiled gravely,--"I was, I say, moved by an insane desire to draw that dainty small bundle of frippery and prettiness into my arms--yes,--it was so, and why should I not confess it to myself? Why should I be ashamed? Other men have felt the same, though perhaps they do not count so many years of life as I do. At any rate with me the feeling was momentary,--and pa.s.sed. Then,--some moments later,--under the cedar- tree she dropped a rose from the cl.u.s.ter she had gathered,--and in giving it back to her I touched her hand--and our eyes met."

Here his thoughts became disconnected, and wandered beyond his control. He let them go,--and listened, instead of thinking, to the notes of the nightingale singing in his garden. It was now being answered by others at a distance, with incessant repet.i.tions of a flute-like warble,--and then came the long sobbing trill and cry of love, piercing the night with insistant pa.s.sion.

"The Bird of Life is singing on the bough, His two eternal notes of 'I and Thou'-- O hearken well, for soon the song sings through, And would we hear it, we must hear it Now."

A faint tremor shook him as the lines quoted by Cicely Bourne rang back upon his memory. He rose to go indoors.

"I am a fool!"--he said--"I must not trouble my head any more about a summer day's fancy. It was a kind of 'old moonlight in the blood,'

as Hafiz says,--an aching sense of loss,--or rather a touch of the spring affecting a decaying tree!" He sighed. "I shall not suffer from it again, because I will not. Brent's letter has arrived opportunely,--though I think--nay, I am sure, he has been misinformed. However, Miss Vancourt's affairs have nothing to do with me,--nor need I interest myself in what is not my concern. My business is with those who depend on my care,--I must not forget myself--I must attend to my work."

He went into the house,--and there was confronted in his own hall by a big burly figure clad in rough corduroys,--that of Farmer Thorpe, who doffed his cap and pulled his forelock respectfully at the sight of him.

"'Evenin', Pa.s.son!" he said--"I thought as 'ow I'd make bold to coom an' tell ye my red cow's took the turn an' doin' wonderful! Seems a special mussy of th' A'mighty, an' if there's anythin' me an' my darter can do fur ye, ye'll let us know, Pa.s.son, for I'm darn grateful, an' feels as 'ow the beast pulled round arter I'd spoke t'ye about 'er. An' though as ye told me, 'tain't the thing to say no prayers for beasties which is worldly goods, I makes a venture to arsk ye if ye'll step round to the farm to-morrer, jest to please Mattie my darter, an' take a look at the finest litter o' pigs as ever was seen in this county, barrin' none! A litter as clean an'

sweet as daisies in new-mown hay, an' now's the time for ye to look at 'em, Pa.s.son, an' choose yer own suckin' beast for bilin' or roastin' which ye please, for both's as good as t'other,--an' there ain't no man about 'ere what desarves a sweet suckin' pig more'n you do, an' that I say an' swear to. It's a real prize litter I do a.s.sure you!--an' Mattie my darter, she be that proud, an' all ye wants to do is just to coom along an' choose your own!"

"Thank you, Mr. Thorpe!" said Walden with his usual patient courtesy--"Thank you very much! I will certainly come. Glad to hear the cow is better. And is Miss Thorpe well?"

"She's that foine,"--rejoined the farmer--"that only the pigs can beat 'er! I'll be tellin' 'er you'll coom to-morrer then?"

"Oh yes--by all means! Certainly! Most kind of you, I'm sure! Good- evening, Thorpe!"

"Same t'ye, Pa.s.son, an' thank ye kindly!" Whereat John escaped at last into his own solitary sanctum.

"My work!" he said, with a faint smile, as he seated himself at his desk--"I must do my work! I must attend to the pigs as much as anything else in the paris.h.!.+ My work!"

XVIII

It was the first Sunday in July. Under a sky of pure and cloudless blue the village of St. Rest lay cradled in floral and foliage loveliness, with all the glory of the morning suns.h.i.+ne and the full summer bathing it in floods of living gold. It had reached the perfect height of its annual beauty with the full flowering of its orchards and fields, and with all the wealth of colour which was flung like spray against the dark brown thatched roofs of its cl.u.s.tering cottages by the ma.s.ses of roses, red and white, that clambered as high as the tops of the chimneys, and turning back from thence, dropped downwards again in a tangle of blossoms, and twined over latticed windows with a gay and gracious air like garlands hung up for some great festival. The stillness of the Seventh Day's pause was in the air,--even the swallows, darting in and out from their prettily contrived nests under the bulging old-fas.h.i.+oned eaves, seemed less busy, less active on their bright pinions, and skimmed to and fro with a gliding ease, suggestive of happy indolence and peace. The doors of the church were set wide open,--and Adam Frost, s.e.xton and verger, was busy inside the building, placing the chairs, as was his usual Sunday custom, in orderly rows for the coming congregation. It was about half-past ten, and the bell-ringers, arriving and ascending into the belfry, were beginning to 'tone' the bells before pealing the full chime for the eleven o'clock service, when Bainton, arrayed in his Sunday best, strolled with a casual air into the churchyard, looked round approvingly for a minute or two, and then with some apparent hesitation, entered the church porch, lifting his cap reverently as he did so. Once there, he coughed softly to attract Frost's attention, but that individual was too much engrossed with his work to heed any lesser sound than the grating of the chairs he was arranging. Bainton waited patiently, standing near the carved oaken portal, till by chance the verger turned and saw him, whereupon he beckoned mysteriously with a crook'd forefinger.

"Adam! Hi! A word wi' ye!"

Adam came down the nave somewhat reluctantly, his countenance showing signs of evident preoccupation and hara.s.sment.

"What now?" he demanded, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper-'"Can't ye see I'm busy?"

"O' coorse you're busy--I knows you're busy,"--returned Bainton, soothingly--"I ain't goin' to keep ye back nohow. All I wants to know is, ef it's true?"

"Ef what's true?"

"This 'ere, wot the folks are all a' clicketin' about,--that Miss Vancourt 'as got a party o' Lunnon fash'nables stayin' at the Manor, an' that they're comin' to church this marnin'?"

"True enough!" said Frost--"Don't ye see me a-settin' chairs for 'em near the p.o.o.pit? There'll be what's called a 'crush' I can tell ye!- -for there ain't none too much room in the church at the best o'

times for our own poor folk, but when rich folks comes as well, we'll be put to it to seat 'em. Mister Primmins, he comes down to me nigh 'arf an hour ago, an' he sez, sez he: 'Miss Vancourt 'as friends from Lunnon stayin' with 'er, an' they're comin' to church this marnin'. 'Ope you'll find room?' An' I sez to 'im, 'I'll do my best, but there ain't no reserve seats in the 'ouse o' G.o.d, an' them as comes fust gits fust served.' Ay, it's true enough they're a- comin', but 'ow it got round in the village, I don't know. I ain't sed a wurrd."

"Ill news travels fast,"--said Bainton, sententiously, "Mister Primmins no doubt called on his young 'ooman at the 'Mother Huff'

an' told 'er to put on 'er best 'at. She's a reg'ler telephone tube for information--any bit o' news runs right through 'er as though she was a wire. 'Ave ye told Pa.s.son Waldon as 'ow Miss Vancourt an'

visitors is a-comin' to 'ear 'im preach?"

"No,"--replied Adam, with some vigour--"I ain't told 'im nothin'.

An' I ain't goin' to neither!"

Bainton looked into the crown of his cap, and finding his handkerchief there wiped the top of his head with it.

"It be powerful warm this marnin', Adam,"--he said--"Powerful warm it be. So you ain't goin' to tell Pa.s.son nothin',--an' for why, may I ask, if to be so bold."

"Look 'ere, Tummas,"--rejoined the verger, speaking slowly and emphatically--"Pa.s.son, 'e be a rare good man, m'appen no better man anywheres, an' what he's goin' to say to us this blessed Sunday is all settled-like. He's been thinkin' it out all the week. He knows what's what. 'Tain't for us,--'tain't for you nor me, to go puttin'

'im out an' tellin' 'im o' the world the flesh an' the devil all a- comin' to church. Mebbe he'a been a-prayin' to the Lord A'mighty to put the 'Oly Spirit into 'im, an' mebbe he's got it--just THERE."

And Adam touched his breast significantly. "Now if I goes, or you goes and sez to 'im: 'Pa.s.son, there's fash'nable folks from Lunnon comin' 'ere to look at ye an' listen to ye, an' for all we kin tell make mock o' ye as well as o' the Gospel itself in their 'arts'-- d'ye think he'd be any the better for it? No, Tummas, no! I say leave Pa.s.son alone. Don't upset 'im. Let 'im come out of 'is 'ouse wise an' peaceful like as he allus do, an' let 'im speak as the fiery tongues from Heaven moves 'im, an' as if there worn't no fas.h.i.+on nor silly nonsense in the world. He's best so, Tummas!--you b'lieve me,--he's best so!"

"Mebbe--mebbe!" and Bainton twirled his cap round and round dubiously--"But Miss Vancourt---"

"Miss Vancourt ain't been to church once till now,"--said Adam,-- "An' she's only comin' now to show it to her friends. I doesn't want to think 'ard of her, for she's a sweet-looking little lady an' a kind one--an' my Ipsie just wors.h.i.+ps 'er,--an' what my baby likes I'm bound to like too--but I do 'ope she ain't a 'eathen, an' that once comin' to church means comin' again, an' reg'lar ever arterwards. Anyway, it's for you an' me, Tummas, to leave Pa.s.son to the Lord an' the fiery tongues,--we ain't no call to interfere with 'im by tellin' 'im who's comin' to church an' who ain't. Anyone's free to enter the 'ouse o' G.o.d, rich or poor, an 'tain't a world's wonder if strangers wors.h.i.+ps at the Saint's Rest as well as our own folk."