God's Good Man Part 57

"Don't you? Well, wait till we get back to town!"--and 'Pipkin' took up her false hair and shook it gently, as she spoke--"We can do wonders--wonders, I tell you, Eva! And till we go, we'll be as nice to the girl as we can,--go off good friends and all that sort of thing--tell her how much we've enjoyed ourselves--thank her profusely,--and then once away we'll tell Mrs. Fred all about John Walden, and leave her to do as she likes with the story. That will be quite enough! If Maryllia has any sneaking liking for the man, she'll do anything to save HIS name if she doesn't care about saving her own!"

"Oh, I see now!" and Lady Beaulyon's eyes sparkled up with a gleam of malice--"Yes--I quite understand!"

'Pipkin' danced about the room in ecstasy,--she was half undressed for the night, and showed a pair of exceedingly thin old legs under an exceedingly short young petticoat.

"Maryllia Vancourt and a country parson!" she exclaimed, "The whole thing is TOO delicious! Go to bed, Eva! Get your beauty sleep or you'll have ever so many more wrinkles than you need! Good-night, dearest! If Maryllia declines to know US, we shall soon find excellent reasons for not knowing HER! Good-night!"

With a shrill little laugh, the lady kissed her dear friend affectionately--and if the caress was not returned with very great fervour, it may be presumed that this coldness was due more to the unlovely impression created by the night 'toilette' of the Ever- Youthful one, than anything else. Anyway the two social schemers parted on the most cordial terms, and retired to their several couches with an edifying sense of virtue pervading them both morally and physically.

And while they and others in the Manor were sleeping, Maryllia lay broad awake, watching the moonbeams creeping about her room like thin silver threads, interlacing every object in a network of pale luminance,--and listening to the slow tick-tock of the rusty timepiece in the courtyard which said, 'Give all--take nothing-- give--all--take--no--thing!'--with such steady and monotonous persistence. She was sad yet happy,--perplexed, yet peaceful;--she had decided on her own course of action, and though that course involved some immediate vexation and inconvenience to herself, she was satisfied that it was the only one possible to adopt under the irritating circ.u.mstances by which she was hemmed in and surrounded.

"It will be best for everyone concerned,"--she said, with a sigh-- "Of course it upsets all my plans and spoils my whole summer,--but it is the only thing to do--the wisest and safest, both for--for Mr.

Walden--and for me. I should be a very poor friend if I could not sacrifice myself and my own pleasure to save him from possible annoyance,--and though it is a little hard--yes!--it IS hard!--it can't be helped, and I must go through with it. 'Home, Home, sweet Home!' Yes--dear old Home!--you shall not be darkened by a shadow of deceit or treachery if _I_ can prevent it!--and for the present, my way is the only way!"

One or two tears glittered on her long lashes when she at last fell into a light slumber, and the old pendulum's rusty voice croaking out: 'Give all--take no--thing' echoed hoa.r.s.ely through her dreams like a harsh command which it was more or less difficult to obey.

But life, as we all know, is not made up of great events so much as of irritating trifles,--poor, wretched, apparently insignificant trifles, which, nevertheless do so act upon our destinies sometimes as to put everything out of gear, and make havoc and confusion where there should be nothing but peace. It was the merest trifle that Sir Morton Pippitt should have brought his 'distinguished guests,'

including Marius Longford, to see John Walden's church--and also have taken him to visit Maryllia in her own home;--it was equally trifling that Longford, improving on the knightly Bone-Melter's acquaintance, should have chosen to import Lord Roxmouth into the neighbourhood through the convenient precincts of Badsworth Hall;-- it was a trifle that Maryllia should have actually believed in the good faith of two women who had formerly entertained her at their own houses and whose hospitality she was anxious to return;--and it was a trifle that John Walden should, so to speak, have made a conventionally social 'slip' in his protest against smoking women;-- but there the trifles stopped. Maryllia knew well enough that only the very strongest feeling, the very deepest and most intense emotion could have made the quiet, self-contained 'man o' G.o.d' as Mrs. Spruce called him, speak to her as he had done,--and she also knew that only the most bitter malice and cruel under-intent to do mischief could have roused Roxmouth, usually so coldly self-centred, to the white heat of wrath which had blazed out of him that evening.

Between these two men she stood--a quite worthless object of regard, so she a.s.sured herself,--through her, one of them was like to have his name torn to shreds in the foul mouths of up-to-date salacious slanderers,--and likewise through her, the other was prepared and ready to commit himself to any kind of lie, any sort of treachery, in order to gain his own interested ends. Small wonder that tears rose to her eyes even in sleep--and that in an uneasy and confused dream she saw John Walden standing in his garden near the lilac-tree from which he had once given her a spray,--and that he turned upon her a sad white face, furrowed with pain and grief, while he said in weary accents--"Why have you troubled my peace? I was so happy till you came!" And she cried out--"Oh, let me go away! No one wants me!

I have never been loved much in all my life--but I am loving enough not to wish to give pain to my friends--let me go away from my dear old home and never come back again, rather than make you wretched!"

And then with a cry she awoke, s.h.i.+vering and half-sobbing, to feel herself the loneliest of little mortals--to long impotently for her father's touch, her father's kiss,--to pray to that dimly-radiant phantom of her mother's loveliness which was pictured on her brain, and anon to stretch out her pretty rounded arms with a soft cry of mingled tenderness and pain--"Oh, I am so sorry!--so sorry for HIM!

I know he is unhappy!--and it's all my fault! I wish--I wish---"

But what she wished she could not express, even to herself. Her sensitive nature was keenly alive to every slight impression of kindness or of coldness;--and the intense longing for love, which had been the pulse of her inmost being since her earliest infancy, and which had filled her with such pa.s.sionate devotion to her father that her grief at his loss had been almost abnormally profound and despairing, made her feel poignantly every little incident which emphasised, or seemed to emphasise, her own utter loneliness in the world; and she was just now strung up to such a nervous tension, that she would almost have consented to wed Lord Roxmouth if by so doing she could have saved any possible mischief occurring to John Walden through Roxmouth's malignancy. But the shuddering physical repulsion she felt at the bare contemplation of such a marriage was too strong for her.

"Anything but that!"--she said to herself, with something of a prayer--"O dear G.o.d!--anything but that!"

Sometimes G.o.d hears these little pet.i.tions which are not of the orthodox Church. Sometimes, as it seems, by a strange chance, the cry of a helpless and innocent soul does reach that vast Profound where all the secrets of life and destiny lie hidden in mysterious embryo. And thus it happens that across the din and bustle of our petty striving and restless disquietudes there is struck a sudden great silence, by way of answer,--sometimes it is the silence of Death which ends all sorrow,--sometimes it is the sweeter silence of Love which turns sorrow into joy.

Next day all the guests at the Manor had departed with the exception of three--Louis Gigue, and the 'Sisters Gemini,' namely, Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby. With much gush and grat.i.tude for a 'charming stay--a delightful time!' Lady Beaulyon and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay took leave of their 'dear Maryllia,' who received their farewells and embraces with an irresponsively civil coldness. Lord Charlemont and Mr. Bludlip Courtenay 'motored' to London, undertaking with each other to keep up a speed of fifty miles an hour, provided there were not too many hills and not too much 'slowing down' for the benefit of unexpected policemen round corners. And at sunset, a pleasant peace and stillness settled on the Manor grounds, erstwhile disturbed by groups of restless persons walking aimlessly to and fro,--persons who picked flowers merely to throw them away again, and played tennis and croquet only to become quarrelsome and declare that the weather was much too hot for games.

Everybody that was anybody had gone their ways,--and within her own domicile Mrs. Spruce breathed capaciously and freely, and said in confidence to the cook and to Primmins:

"Thank the Lord an' His mercies, that's all over! An' from what I hears, Miss Maryllia won't be wantin' no more London folks for a goodish bit o' time, an' we'll all 'ave peace to turn round an' look at ourselves an' find out whether we're sane or silly, for the two old leddies what is stayin' on give no trouble at all, an' that Mr.

Gigg don't care what he gets, so long as he can bang away on the pianner an' make Miss Cicely sing, an' I will own she do sing lovely like the angels in a 'evenly 'ost, but there!--_I_ don't want no more company, for what with French maids an' valets, all talkin' the wickedest stuff I ever heard about the ways an' doins o' their masters an' missises in London, I'm downright glad to be rid o' the whole lot! For do what we will, there is limits to patience, an' a peaceful life is what suits me best not knowin' for the past three weeks whether my 'ead or my 'eels is uppermost with the orderin' an'

messin' about, though I will say Miss Maryllia knows what's what, an' ain't never in a fuss nor muddle, keepin' all wages an' bills paid reg'lar like a hoffice clerk, mebbe better, for one never knows whether clerks pays out what they're told or keeps some by in their own pockets, honesty not bein' always policy with the likes o' they.

Anyway 'ere we are all alive an' none the worse for the bustle, which is a mercy, an' now mebbe we'll have time to think a bit as we go, an' stop worrittin' over plates an' dishes an' gla.s.s an' silver, which, say what we like, do sit on one like a burden when there's a many to serve. A bit o' quiet 'ull do us all good!"

The 'quiet' she thus eulogised was to be longer and lonelier than she imagined, but of this she knew nothing. The whole house was delightfully tranquil after the departure of the visitors, and the spirit of a grateful repose seemed to have imparted itself to its few remaining occupants. Louis Gigue played wonderful improvisations on the piano that evening, and Cicely sang so brilliantly and ravis.h.i.+ngly that had she then stood on the boards of the Paris Grand Opera, she would have created a wild 'furore.' Lady Wicketts knitted placidly; she was making a counterpane, which no doubt someone would reluctantly decide to sleep under--and Miss Fosby embroidered a cus.h.i.+on cover for Lady Wicketts, who already possessed many of these articles wrought by the same hand. Maryllia occupied herself in writing many letters,--and all was peace. Nothing in any way betokened a change, or suggested the slightest interruption to the sun-lighted serenity of the long, lovely summer days.

XXV

Whatever the feelings of John Walden were concerning the incidents that had led him to more or less give himself away, as the saying goes, into Maryllia's hands, he remained happily unconscious of the fact that Lord Roxmouth had overheard his interview with her in the picture-gallery--and being a man who never brooded over his own particular small vexations and annoyances, he had determined, as far as might be possible, to put the whole incident behind him, as it were, and try to forget it. Of course he knew he never could forget it,--he knew that the sweet look in Maryllia's eyes--the little appealing touch of her hand on his arm, would be perchance the most vivid impressions of his life till that life should be ended. But it was useless to dwell with heart-aching persistence on her fascination, or on what he now called his own utter foolishness, and he was glad that he had arranged to visit his old friend Bishop Brent, as this enabled him to go away at once for three or four days. And it was possible, so he argued with himself, that this three or four days' break of the magnetic charm that had, against his own wish and will, enslaved his thoughts and senses, would restore him to that state of self-poise and philosophic tranquillity in which he had for so many years found an almost, if not quite, perfect happiness. Bracing himself fully up to the determination that he would, at all hazards, make an effort to recover his lost peace, he made rapid preparations for his departure from St. Rest, and going the round of his parish, he let all whom it might concern know, that for the first time in a long ten years, he was about to take two or three days' holiday. The announcement was received by some with good-natured surprise--by others with incredulity--but by most, with the usual comfortable resignation to circ.u.mstances which is such a prevailing characteristic of the rustic mind.

"It'll do ye good, Pa.s.son, that it will!" said Mrs. Frost, in her high acidulated voice, which by dint of constant scolding and screaming after her young family had become almost raspish--"For you're looking that white about the gills that it upsets my mind to see it. I sez to Adam onny t'other day, 'You'll be diggin' a grave for Pa.s.son presently--see if you don't--for he's runnin' downhill as fast as a loaded barrow with naught ahint it.' That's what I said, Pa.s.son--an' its Gospel true!"

Walden smiled.

"You're quite right, Mrs. Frost,"--he said, patiently--"I am certainly going downhill, as you say--but I must try to put a little check on the wheels! There's one thing to be said about it, if Adam digs my grave, as it is likely he will, I know he will do it better than any other s.e.xton in the county! I shall sleep in it well, and securely!"

Mrs. Frost felt a certain sense of pride in this remark.

"You may say that, Pa.s.son--you may say that and not be fur wrong,"-- she said, complacently--"Adam don't do much, but what he doos is well done, an' there's no mistake about it. If I 'adn't a known 'im to be a 'andy man in his trade he wouldn't 'a had me to wife, I do a.s.sure you!"

Walden smiled and pa.s.sed on. To Mr. Netlips, the grocer, he confided a few orders for the household supplies during his absence, which that worthy and sapient personage accepted with due attention.

"It is a demonstrable dispensation, Mr. Walden, sir,"--he said, "that you should be preparing yourself for locomotion at the moment when the house-party at the Manor is also severed indistinguishably.

There is no one there now, so my imparted information relates, with the exception of her ladys.h.i.+p Wicketts, a Miss Fosby and a hired musician from the cells of the professional caterer, named Gigg."

Walden's eyes twinkled. He was always very indulgent to Mr. Netlips, and rather encouraged him than otherwise in his own special flow of language.

"Really!" he said--"And so they are all gone! I'm afraid it will make a difference to your trade, Mr. Netlips! How about your Petrol storage?"

Mr. Netlips smiled, with a comfortable air of self-conscious wisdom.

"It has been absorbed--quite absorbed," he said, complacently--"The board of announcement was prospective, not penetrative. Orders were consumed in rotation, and his lords.h.i.+p Charlemont was the last applicant on the formula."

"I see!" said Walden--"So you are no loser by the transaction. I'm glad to hear it! Good-day! I only intend to be away a short time.

You will scarcely miss me,--as I shall occupy my usual post on Sunday."

"Your forethought, Mr. Walden, sir, is of a most high complication,"--rejoined Mr. Netlips with a gracious bend of his fat neck--"And it is not to be regretted by the profane that you should rotate with the world, provided you are seen in strict adhesion to the pulpit on the acceptable seventh day. Otherwise, it is but natural that you should preamble for health's sake. You have been looking poorly, Mr. Walden sir, of late; I trust you will beneficially profit by change."

Walden thanked him, and went his way. His spirits were gradually rising--he was relieved to hear that Maryllia's house-party had broken up and dispersed, and he cogitated within himself as to whether he should go and say good-bye to her before leaving the village, or just let things remain as they were. He was a little uncertain as to which was the wisest course to adopt,--and while he was yet thinking about it he pa.s.sed the cottage of old Josey Letherbarrow, and saw the old man sitting at his door peacefully smoking, while at his feet, Ipsie Frost was curled up comfortably like a kitten, busying herself in tying garlands of ivy and honeysuckle round the tops of his big coa.r.s.ely-laced boots. Pausing, John leaned on the gate and looked at the two with a smile.

"Ullo, Pa.s.son!" said Ipsie, turning her blue eyes up at him with a confidential air--"Tum an' tie up my Zozey-Posey! Zozey-Posey's bin naughty,--he's dot to be tied up so he tan't move!"

"And when he's good again, what then?" said Walden--"Will you untie him?"

Ipsie stared roundly and meditatively.

"Dunno!"--she said--"'Specks I will! But oh, my Zozey-Posey IS so bad!" and she screwed her little flaxen head round with an expression of the most comical distress--"See my wip?" And she held up a long stem of golden-rod in flower,--"Zozey dot to be wipped-- poor Zozey! But he's dot to be tied up fust!"

Josey heard all this nonsense babble with delighted interest, and surveyed the tops of his decorated boots with much admiration.

"Ain't she a little caution!" he said--"She do mind me somehow of th' owld Squire's gel! Ay, she do!--Miss Maryllia was just as peart and dauntsome when she was her age. Did I ever tell ye, Pa.s.son, 'bout Miss Maryllia's legs an' the wopses' nest?"

John started violently. What was the old man talking about? He felt that he must immediately put a stop to any chance of indecorous garrulity.

"No, you never told me anything about it, Josey,"--he said, hastily,--"an I've no time just now to stay and listen. I'm off on a visit for two or three days--you won't see me again till Sunday."

Josey drew his pipe slowly out of his mouth.

"Goin' away, Pa.s.son, are ye?" he said in quavering accents of surprise--"Ain't that a bit strange like?"

"Why yes, I suppose it is,"--said John, half laughing--"I never do go away I know--but---"