Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  He hurried his steps and was just in sight of his study window, when he was met by his parlourmaid, a neat, trim young woman who rejoiced in the euphonious name of Hester Rockett, and who said as she approached him:

  “If you please, sir, Mrs. Spruce.”

  His genial face fell a little, and he heaved a short sigh.

  “Mrs. Spruce? Oh, Lord! — I mean, very well! Show her in, Hester. You are sure she wants to see me? Or is it her girl Kitty she is after?”

  “She didn’t mention Kitty, sir,” replied Hester demurely; “She said she wished to see you very particular.”

  “All right! Show her into my study, and afterwards just go round to the orchard and tell Bainton I will see him when he’s had his dinner. I know I sha’n’t get off under an hour at least!”

  He sighed again, then smiled, and entered the house, Nebbie sedately following. Arrived in his own quiet sanctum, he took off his soft slouched hat and seated himself at his desk with a composed air of patient attention, as the door was opened to admit a matronly- looking lady with a round and florid countenance, clad in a voluminous black gown, and wearing a somewhat aggressive black bonnet, ‘tipped’ well forward, under which her grey hair was plastered so far back as to be scarcely visible. There was a certain aggrieved dignity about her, and a generally superior tone of self- consciousness even in the curtsey which she dropped respectfully, as she returned Walden’s kindly nod and glance.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Spruce!”

  “Good morning, sir! I trust I see you well, sir?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Spruce, I am very well.”

  “Which is a mercy indeed!” said Mrs. Spruce fervently; “For we never knows from one day to another whether we may be sound or crippled, considering the diseases which now flies in the air with the dust in the common road, as the papers tell us, — and dust is a thing we cannot prevent, do what we may, for the dust is there by the will of the Almighty, Who made us all out of it.”

  She paused. John Walden smiled and pointed to a chair,

  “Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Spruce?”

  “Thank you kindly, sir!” and Mrs. Spruce accordingly plumped into the seat indicated with evident relief and satisfaction. “I will confess that it is a goodish step to walk on such a warm morning.”

  “You have come straight from the Manor?” enquired Walden, turning over a few papers on his desk, and wondering within himself when the good woman was going to unburden herself of her business.

  “Straight from the Manor, sir, yes, — and such a heat and moil I never felt on any May morning, which is most onwholesome, I am sure. A cold May and a warm June is what I prefers myself, — but when you get the cuckoo and the nightingale clicketin’ together in the woods on the First of May, you can look out for quarrelsome weather at Midsummer, leastways so I have heard my mother often say, and she was considered a wise woman in her time, I do assure you!”

  Here Mrs. Spruce untied her bonnet-strings and flung them apart, — she likewise loosened the top button of her collar and heaved a deep sigh. Again the Reverend John smiled, and vaguely balanced a penholder on his fore-finger.

  “I daresay your mother was quite right, Mrs. Spruce! Indeed, I believe all our mothers were quite right in their day. All the same, I’m glad it’s a fine May morning’, for the children’s sakes. They are all down in the big meadow having a romp together. Your little Kitty is with them, looking as bright as a May blossom herself.”

  Mrs. Spruce straightened herself up, patted her ample bosom, with one hand, and threw her bonnet-strings still further back.

  “Kitty’s a good lass,” she said, “though a bit mettlesome and wild; but I’m not saying anything again her. The Lord forbid that I should run down my own flesh and blood! An’ she’s better than most gels of her age. I wouldn’t grudge her a bit of fun while she’s got it in her, — Heaven knows it’ll be soon gone out of her when she marries, which nat’rally she will do, sooner or later. Anyhow, she’s all I’ve got, — which is a marvel how the Lord deals with some of us, when you see a little chidester of a woman like Adam Frost’s wife with fifteen, boys and girls, and me with only one nesh maid.”

  Walden was silent. He was not disposed to argue on such marvels of the Lord’s way, as resulted in endowing one family with fifteen children, and the other with only a single sprout, such as was accorded to the righteous Jephthah, judge of Israel.

  “Howsomever,” continued Mrs. Spruce, “Kitty’s welcome to jump round the Maypole till she’s wore her last pair of boots out, if so be it’s your wish, Mr. Walden, — and many thanks to you, sir, for all your kindness to her!”

  “Don’t mention it, Mrs. Spruce!” said Walden amicably, and then, determining to bring the worthy woman sharply round to the real object of her visit, he gave a side-glance at the clock. “Is there anything you want me to do for you this morning? I’m rather busy—”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, I’m sure, sir, for troubling you at all! — knowin’ as I do that what with the moithering old folks and the maupsing young ones, your ‘ands is always full. But when I got the letter this morning, I says to my husband, William— ‘William,’ says I, very loud, for the poor creature’s growing so deaf that by and by I shall be usin’ a p’lice whistle to make him ‘ear me— ‘William,’ says I, ‘there is only one man in this village who’s got the right to give advice when advice is asked for. Of course there’s no call for us to follow advice, even when we gets it, — howsomever, it’s only respectable for decent church-going folks to see the minister of the parish whenever there’s any fear of our makin’ a slip of our souls and goin’ wrong. Therefore, William,’ says I, shaking him By the arm to make the poor silly fool understand me, ‘it’s to Passon Walden I’m goin’ this mornin’ with this letter, — to Passon Walden, d’ye ‘ear?’ And he nodded his head wise-like, for all the world as though there were a bit of sense in it, (which there ain’t), and agrees with me; — for the Lord, knows, if William doesn’t, that it may make an awsome change for him as well as for me. And I do confess I’ve been took back.”

  Following as best he could the entangled thread of the estimable lady’s discourse, Walden grasped the fact, albeit vaguely, that some unexpected letter with unexpected news in it had arrived to trouble the Spruces’ domestic peace. Suppressing a slight yawn, he endeavoured to assume the proper show of interest which every village parson is expected to display on the shortest notice concerning any subject, from the birth of the latest baby parishioner, to the death of the earliest sucking pig.

  “I’m sorry you’re in trouble, Mrs. Spruce,” he said kindly; “What letter are you speaking of? You see I don’t quite understand—”

  “Which it’s not to be expected you should, sir!” replied Mrs. Spruce with an air of triumph,— “Considerin’ as you wer’n’t here when she left, and the Manor has been what you may call a stately ‘ome of England deserted as most stately ‘omes are, for more’n ten years, you couldn’t be expected to understand!”

  The Reverend John looked as he felt, completely mystified. He ‘wasn’t here when she left.’ Who was ‘she’? With all his naturally sweet temper he began to feel slightly irritated.

  “Really, Mrs. Spruce,” he said, endeavouring to throw an inflection of sternness into his mellow voice, “I must ask you to explain matters a little more clearly. I know that the Manor has been practically shut up ever since I’ve been here, — that you are the housekeeper in charge, and that your husband is woodman or forester there, — but beyond this I know nothing. So you must not talk in riddles, Mrs. Spruce,” — here his kind smile shone out again— “Even as a boy I was never good at guessing them! And I am getting old now.”

  “So you are, sir — so you are!” agreed Mrs. Spruce sympathetically; “And ’tis a shame for me to come worryin’ of you, — for no one more truly than myself can feel pity for the weariness of the flesh, when ’tis just a burden to the bones and no pleasure in the carryin’ of it, though you don’t put much of it on, Pas
son Walden, you don’t, I do assure you! But it’s Gospel truth that some folks wears thin like a knife, while others wears thick like a pig, and there is no stopping them, — either way bein’ the Lord’s will, — but I’m feelin’ real okkard myself to have put you about, Passon, only as I said, I’ve been took back, — and here’s the letter, sir, which if you will kindly glance your hi over, you will tell me whether I’ve done the right thing to call on my way down here and get in a couple of scrubbers at eighteen-pence a day, which is dear, but they won’t come for less, jest to get some of the rough dirt off the floors afore polishin’, which polishin’ will have to be done whether we will or no, for the boards are solid oak, and bein’ ancient take the shine quickly, which is a mercy, for this day week is none too far off, seein’ all that’s put upon me suddint.”

  Here, being short of breath, she paused, and fumbling in a large black calico pocket which hung loosely at her side, attached to her ample waist by a string, she drew out with great care a rather large, square-looking missive, and then rising from her chair with much fluttering of her black gown and mysterious creaking sound, as of tight under-wear strained to breaking point, she held it out toward Walden, who had durng her last oratorical outburst unconsciously put his hand to his head in a daze of bewilderment.

  “There is the letter sir,” she continued, in the tone of one who should say: ‘There is the warrant for execution’—”’Short and sweet,’ as the farmer’s wife said when she ate the pig’s tail what dropped off while the animal was a-roastin’.”

  Allowing this brilliant simile to pass without comment, Walden took the thick, creamy-white object she offered and found himself considering it with a curious disfavour. It was a strictly ‘fashionable’ make of envelope, and was addressed in a particularly bold and assertive hand-writing to

  MRS. SPRUCE, Housekeeper, Abbot’s Manor, St. Rest.

  Opening it, the Reverend John read as follows:

  “Miss Vancourt begs to inform Mrs. Spruce that she will arrive at Abbot’s Manor on the th inst., to remain there in residence. Mrs. Spruce is requested to engage the necessary household servants, as Miss Vancourt will bring none except the groom in charge of her two hunters.”

  Over and over again Walden read this curt and commonplace note, with a sense of irritation which he knew was perfectly absurd, but which, nevertheless, defied all reason. The paper on which it was written was thick and satiny, — and there was a faint artificial odour of violets about it which annoyed him. He hated scented notepaper. Deliberately he replaced it in its envelope, and holding it for a moment as he again studied the superscription, he addressed the expectant Mrs. Spruce, who had re-seated herself and was waiting for him to speak.

  “Well, Mrs. Spruce, I don’t think you need any advice from me on such a simple matter as this,” he said slowly. “Your duty is quite plain. You must obey orders. Miss Vancourt is, I suppose, the mistress of Abbot’s Manor?”

  “She is, sir, — of course it all belongs to Miss Maryllia—”

  “Miss — what?” interrupted Walden, with a sudden lightening of his dark blue eyes.

  “Maryllia, sir. It is a kind of family name, pronounced ‘Ma-rill- yer,’” explained Mrs. Spruce with considerable pomposity; “Many folks never gets it right — it wants knowledge and practice. But if you remember the pictures in the gallery at the Manor, sir, you may call to mind one of the ancestresses of the Vancourts, painted in a vi’let velvet; ridin’ dress and holdin’ a huntin’ crop, and the name underneath is ‘Mary Ella Adelgisa de Vaignecourt’ and it was after her that the old Squire called his daughter Maryllia, rollin’ the two fust names, Mary Elia, into one, as it were, just to make a name what none of his forebears had ever had. He was a queer man, the old Squire — he wouldn’t a-cared whether the name was Christian or heathen.”

  “I suppose not.” said the Reverend John carelessly, rising and pushing back his chair with a slightly impatient gesture; whereupon Mrs. Spruce rose too, and stood ‘at attention,’ her loosened bonnet- strings flying and her large black calico pocket well in evidence to the front of her skirt.

  “Here’s your letter, Mrs. Spruce;” and as she took it from his hand with a curtsey he continued: “There is evidently nothing for it but to get the house in order by the day appointed and do your best to please the lady. I can quite understand that you feel a little worried at having to prepare everything so quickly and unexpectedly, — but after all, you must have often thought that Miss Vancourt’s return to her old home was likely to happen at any time.”

  “Which I never did, sir!” declared Mrs. Spruce emphatically, “No, sir, never! For when the old Squire died, she was jest a slip of fifteen and her uncle, the Squire’s own twin brother, what had married an American heiress with somethin’ like a hundred million of money, so I’m told, took her straight away and adopted her like, and the reg’ler pay for keepin’ up the Manor and grounds has been sent to us through a Bank, and so far we’ve got nothin’ to complain of bein’ all strictly honourable both ways, but of Miss Vancourt we never heard a thing. And Mr. Oliver Leach he is the agent of the property, and he ain’t never said a word, — and we think, me and my husband, that he don’t know nothin’ of her comin’ back, and should we tell him, sir? Or would you reckon that we’d better keep a still tongue in our heads till she do come? For there’s no knowin’ why or wherefore she’s comin’, — though we did hear her poor uncle died two years ago, and we wondered where she and her aunt with the hundred million was got to — but mebbe she’ll change her mind and not come, after all?”

  “I should certainly not count upon that, if I were you, Mrs. Spruce,” said Walden decisively; “Your business is to keep everything in order for the lady’s arrival; but I don’t think, — I really don’t think, you are at all bound to inform Mr. Oliver Leach of the matter. He will no doubt find out for himself. or receive his orders direct from Miss Vancourt.” Here he paused. “How old did you say she was when, she went away from home?”

  “Fifteen, sir. That was nigh eleven years ago, — just one week after the Squire’s funeral, and a year afore you came here, sir. She’s gettin’ on for seven-and-twenty now.”

  “Quite a woman, then,” said Walden lightly; “Old enough to know her own mind at any rate. Do you remember her?”

  “Perfectly well, sir, — a little flitterin’ creature all eyes and hair, with a saucy way of tossin’ her curls about, and a trick of singin’ and shoutin’ all over the place. She used to climb the pine trees and sit in them and pelt her father with the cones. Oh, yes, sir, she was a terrible child to rule, and it’s Gospel truth there was no ruling her, for the governesses came and went like the seasons, one in, t’other out. Ay, but the Lord knows I’ll never forget the scream she gave when the Squire was brought home from the hunting field stone dead!”

  Here John Walden turned his head towards her with an air of more interest than he had yet shown.

  “Ah! — How was that?” he enquired.

  “He was killed jumpin’ a fence;” went on Mrs. Spruce; “A fine, handsome gentleman, — they say he’d been wild in his youth; anyhow he got married in London to a great Court beauty, so I’ve been told. And after the wedding, they went travelling allover the world for a year and a half, and just when they was expected ‘ome Mrs. Vancourt died with the birth of the child, and he and the baby and the nurses all came back here and he never stirred away again himself till death took him at full gallop, — which is ‘ow he always wished to die. But poor Miss Maryllia—” And Mrs. Spruce sighed dolefully—”’Twas hard on her, seein’ him ride off so gay and well and cheery in the early mornin’ to be brought home afore noon a corpse! Ay, it was an awsome visitation of the Lord! Often when the wind goes wimblin’ through the pines near the house I think I ‘ear her shriek now, — ay, sir! — it was like the cry of somethin’ as was havin’ its heart tore out!”

  Walden stood very silent, listening. This narrative was new to him, and even Mrs. Spruce’s manner of relating it was no
t without a certain rough eloquence. The ancient history of the Vancourts he knew as well as he knew the priceless archaeological value of their old Manor-house as a perfect gem of unspoilt Tudor architecture, — but though he had traced the descent of the family from Robert Priaulx de Vaignecourt of the twelfth century and his brother Osmonde Priaulx de Vaignecourt who had, it was rumoured, founded a monastery in the neighbourhood, and had died during a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, he had ceased to follow the genealogical tree with much attention or interest when the old Norman name of De Vaignecourt had degenerated into De Vincourt and finally in the times of James I. had settled down into Vancourt. Yet there was a touch of old-world tragedy in Mrs. Spruce’s modern history of the young girl’s shriek when she found herself suddenly fatherless on that fatal hunting morning.

  “And now,” continued Mrs. Spruce, coaxing one bonnet-string at a time off each portly shoulder with considerable difficulty; “I s’pose I must be goin’, Passon Walden, and thank you kindly for all! It’s a great weight off my mind to have told you just what’s ‘appened, an’ the changes likely to come off, and I do assure you I’m of your opinion, Passon, in letting Oliver Leach shift for himself, for if so be Miss Vancourt has the will of her own she had when she was a gel, I shouldn’t wonder if there was rough times in store for him! But the Lord only knows what may chance to all of us!” and here she heaved another dismal sigh as she tied the refractory bonnet-strings into a bow under her fat chin. “It’s right-down sinful of me to be wishin’ rough times to any man, seein’ I’m likely in for them myself, for a person’s bound to be different at nigh seven-and-twenty to what she was at fifteen, and the modern ways of leddies ain’t old ways, the Lord be merciful to us all! And I do confess, Passon, it’s a bit upsettin’ at my time of life to think as how I’ve lived in Abbot’s Manor all these years, and now for all I can tell, me and William may have to shift. And where we’ll go, the Lord only knows!”