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

by Marie Corelli

  Silently Walden followed her through the rooms, saying little in response to her remarks, ‘ricketty’ or otherwise, and noting all the various changes as he went.

  In the dining-room there was a great transformation. The fine old Cordova leather chairs were all released from their brown holland coverings, — the long-concealed Flemish tapestries were again unrolled and disclosed to the light of day — valuable canvases that had been turned to the wall to save their colour from the too absorbing sunshine, were now restored to their proper positions, and portraits by Vandyke, and landscapes by Corot gave quite a stately air of occupation to a room, which being large and lofty, had always seemed to Walden the loneliest in the house for lack of a living presence. He trod in the restless wake of Mrs. Spruce, however, without comment other than a word of praise such as she expected, for the general result of her labours in getting the long-disused residence into habitable condition, and was only moved to something like enthusiasm when he reached what was called ‘the morning room,’ an apartment originally intended to serve as a boudoir for that beautiful Mrs. Vancourt, the bride who never came home. Here all the furniture was of the daintiest design, — here rich cushions of silk and satin were lavishly piled on the luxurious sofas and in the deep easy-chairs, — curtains of cream brocade embroidered by hand with garlands of roses, draped the sides of the deep embrasured window- nook whence two wide latticed doors opened outwards to a smooth terrace bordered with flowers, where two gardeners were busy rolling the rich velvety turf, — and beyond it stretched a great lawn shaded with ancient oaks and elms that must have seen the days of Henry VII. The prospect was fair and soothing to the eyes, and Walden. gazing at it, gave a little involuntary sigh of pleasure.

  “This is beautiful!” he said, speaking more to himself than to anyone— “Perfectly beautiful!”

  “It is so, sir,” agreed Mrs. Spruce, with an air of comfortably placid conviction; “There’s no doubt about it — it’s as beautiful a room as could be made for a queen, though I say it — but whether our new lady will like it, is quite another question. You see, sir, this room was always kept locked in the Squire’s time, and so was all the other rooms as was got ready for the wife as never lived to use them. The Squire wouldn’t let a soul inside the doors, not even his daughter. And now, sir, will you please read the letter I got this morning, which as you will notice, is quite nice-like and kindly, more than the other — onny when the boxes came I was a bit upset. You see the letter was registered and had the keys inside it all right.”

  Walden took the missive in reluctant silence. The same thick notepaper, odorous with crushed violets — the same bold, dashing handwriting he had seen before, but the matter expressed in it was worded somehow in a totally different tone to that of the previous letter from the same hand.

  “DEAR MRS. SPRUCE,” it ran: “I enclose the keys of my boxes which I am sending in advance, as I never travel with luggage. Kindly unpack all the contents and arrange them in the wardrobes and presses of my mother’s rooms. If I remember rightly, these rooms have never been used, hut I intend to take them for myself now, so please have everything prepared. I have received your letter in which you say there is some difficulty in getting good servants at so short a notice. I quite understand this, and am sure you. will arrange for the best. Should everything not be quite satisfactory, we can make alterations when I come. I expect to arrive home in time for afternoon tea. MARYLLIA VANCOURT.”

  Walden folded up the letter and gave it back to its owner.

  “Well, so far, you have nothing to complain of, Mrs. Spruce,” he said, with a little smile; “The lady is evidently prepared to excuse any deficiencies arising from the hurry of your preparations.”

  “Yes, sir, that may be,” answered Mrs. Spruce; “but if so be you saw what I’ve seen you mightn’t take it so easily. Now, sir, if you’ll follow me, you’ll be able to judge of the quandary we was in till we got our senses back.”

  Beginning to be vaguely amused and declining to speculate as to the ‘quandary’ which according to the good woman had resulted in a species of lunacy, Walden followed as he was told, and slowly ascended the broad staircase, one of the finest specimens of Tudor work in all England, with its richly turned balustrades and grotesquely carved headpieces, but as he reached the upper landing, he halted abruptly, seeing through an open door mysterious glimmerings of satins and laces, to which he was entirely unaccustomed.

  “What room is that?” he enquired.

  “That’s what we used to call ‘the bride’s room,’ sir,” replied Mrs. Spruce, smoothing down her black skirts with an air of fussy importance, and heaving a sigh; “Miss Maryllia’s mother was to have had it. Don’t be afraid to step inside, Passon; everythink’s been turned out and aired, and there’s not a speck of damp or dismals anywhere, and you’ll see for yourself what a time we’re ‘avin’ though we’re gettin’ jes’ a bit straight now, and I’ve ‘ad Nancy Pyrle as is ‘andy with her pencil to mark things down as they come to ‘and. Step inside, Passon Walden, — do step inside!”

  But Walden, held back by some instinctive fastidiousness, declined to move further than the threshold of this hitherto closed and sacredly guarded chamber. Leaning against the doorway he looked in wonderingly, with a vague feeling of bewilderment, while Mrs. Spruce, trotting busily ahead, gave instructions to a fresh-faced country lass, who, breathing very hard, as though she were running, was carefully shaking out what seemed to be a fairy’s robe of filmy white lace, glistening with pearls.

  “Ye see, Passon, this is what all my trouble’s about;” — she said— “Fancy ‘avin’ to unpack all these grand clothes, and sort ’em as they comes, not knowin’ whether they mayn’t fall to bits in our ‘ands, some of ’em bein’ fine as cobwebs, an’ such body linen as was never made for any mortal woman in St. Rest, all lace an’ silk an’ little ribbins! When the trunks arrived an’ we got ’em into the ‘all, I felt THAT faint, I do assure ye! For me to ‘ave to unpack an’ open ’em, and take out all the things inside, — ah, Passon, it’s an orful ‘sponsibility, seein’ there’s jewels packed among the dresses quite reckless-like, rubies an’ sapphires an’ diamants, somethin’ amazin’, and we’ve taken a reg’lar invent’ry of them all lest somethin’ might be missin’, for the Lord He only knows whether there might not be fifty thousand pounds of proputty in one of them little kicketty boxes, all velvet and satin, made just as if they was sweetmeats, only when ye looks inside ye sees a sparklin’ stone glisterin’ at ye, and ye know it’s wuth a fortune! I do assure ye, Passon, I’ve never seen such things in all my life! Miss Maryllia must be mortal extravagant, for there’s enough in one o’ them boxes to feed the whole village of St. Best for several years. Ah! Passon, I do assure ye, I’ve thought of Scripter many a time this mornin’; ‘Whose adornin’ let it be the adornin’ of a meek and quiet spirit,’ which is a hornament and no mistake!”

  Walden made no remark. It never even occurred to him just then that Mrs. Spruce was unconsciously rendering in her own particular fashion the text he had chosen for the next day’s sermon. Never in all his life before had he experienced such strongly mingled sensations of repulsion and interest as at that moment. With a kind of inward indignation, he asked himself what business he had to be there looking curiously into a woman’s room, littered with all the fripperies and expensive absurdities of a woman’s apparel? Above all, why should he be so utterly ridiculous and inconsequential in his own mind as to find himself deeply fascinated by such a spectacle? In all the years he had passed with his sister, so long as she had lived, he had never seen such a bewildering disorder of feminine clothes. He had never had the opportunity of noting the pathetic difference existing between the toilette surroundings of a woman who is strong and well, and of one who is deprived of all natural coquetry by the cruel ravages of long sickness and disease. His sister, beautiful even in her incurable physical affliction, had always borne that affliction more or less in mind, and had attired herself with a severely si
mple taste, — her bedroom, where she had had to pass so many weary hours of suffering, had been a model of almost Spartan-like simplicity, and her dressing-table was wont to be far more conspicuous for melancholy little medicine-phials than for flashing, silver-stoppered cut-glass bottles, exhaling the rarest perfumes. Then, since her death, Walden had lived so entirely alone, that the pretty vanities of bright and healthy women were quite unfamiliar to him.

  The present glittering display of openly expressed frivolity seemed curiously new, and vaguely alarming. He was angry with it, yet in a manner attracted. He found himself considering, with a curious uneasiness, two small nondescript pink objects that were lying on the floor at some distance from each other. At a first glance they appeared to be very choice examples of that charming orchid known as the ‘Cypripedium,’ — but on closer examination it was evident they were merely fashionable evening shoes. Again and again he turned his eyes away from them, — and again and again his glance involuntarily wandered back and rested on their helpless-looking little pointed toes and ridiculously high heels. Considered from a purely ‘sanitary’ point of view, they were the most wicked, the most criminal, the most absolutely unheard-of shoes ever seen. Why, no human feet of the proper size could possibly get into them, unless they were squeezed —

  “Yes, squeezed!” — repeated Walden inwardly, with a sense of unreasonable irritation; “All the toes cramped and the heels pinched — everything out of joint and distorted — false feet, in fact, like everything else false that has to do with the modern fashionable woman!”

  There they lay,-apparently innocent; — but surely detestable, nay even Satanic objects. He determined he would have them removed — picked up — cast out — thrust into the nearest drawer, anywhere, in fact, provided they were out of his stern, clerical sight. Mrs. Spruce was continuing conversation in brisk tones, but whether she was addressing him, or the buxom young woman, who, under her directions was shaking out or folding up the various garments taken out of the various boxes, he did not know, and, as a matter of fact, he did not care. She sounded like Tennyson’s ‘Brook,’ with a ‘Men may come and men may go, but I go on for ever’ monotonousness that was as depressing as it was incessant.

  He determined to interrupt the purling stream.

  “Mrs. Spruce,” he began, — then hesitated, as she turned briskly towards him, looking like a human clothes-prop, with both fat arms extended in order to keep well away from contact with the floor a gauzy robe sparkling all over with tiny crystalline drops, which, catching the sunbeams, flashed like little points of flame.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Passon, did you speak?”

  “Yes. I think you should not let anything lie about, as, for example, — those—” and he pointed to the objectionable shoes with an odd sense of discomfiture; “They appear to be of a delicate colour and might easily get soiled.”

  Mrs. Spruce peered round over the sparkling substance she held, looking like a very ancient and red-faced cherub peeping over the rim of a moonlit cloud.

  “Well, I never!” she exclaimed; “What a hi you have, Passon! What a hi! Now them shoes missed me altogether! They must have dropped out of some of the dresses we’ve been unfoldin’, for the packin’s quite reckless-like, and ain’t never been done by no trained maid. All hustled-bustled like into the boxes anyhow, as if the person what had done it was in a mortal temper or hurry. Lord! Don’t I know how people crams things in when they’s in a rage! Ah! Wait till I get rid of all these diamants,” and she waddled to the deep oak wardrobe, which stood open, and carefully hung the glittering garment up by its two sleeveholes on two pegs, — then turned round with a sigh. “It’s orful what the world’s coming to, Passon Walden,- -orful! Fancy diamants all sewed on to a gown! I wouldn’t let my Kitty in ’ere for any amount of money! She’d be that restless and worritin’ and wantin’ the like things for ‘erself, and the mortal mischief it would be, there’s no knowin’! Why, the first ‘commercial’ as come round ’ere with ’is pack and ’is lies, would get her runnin’ off with ’im! Ah! That’s jes’ where leddies makes such work for Satan’s hands to do; they never thinks of the envy and jealousy and spite as eats away the ‘arts of poor gels what sees all these fine things, and ain’t got no chance for to have them for theirselves!” Here, sidling along the floor, she picked up the pink shoes to which Walden had called her attention, first one and then the other. “Well! Call them shoes! My Kitty couldn’t get her ‘and into ’em! And as for a foot fittin’ in! What a foot! It can’t be much bigger’n a baby’s. Well, well, what a pair o’ shoes!”

  She stood looking at them, a fat smile on her face, and Walden moved uneasily from the threshold.

  “I’ll leave you now, Mrs. Spruce,” he said; “You have plenty to do, and I’m in the way here.”

  “Well, now, Passon, that do beat me!” said Mrs. Spruce plaintively; “I thought you was a-goin’ to help us!”

  “Help you? I?” and Walden laughed aloud; “My dear woman, do you think I can unpack and unfold ladies’ dresses? Of all the many incongruous uses a clergyman was ever put to, wouldn’t that be the most impossible?”

  “Lord love ye, Passon Walden, I ain’t askin’ ye no such thing;” retorted Mrs. Spruce; “Don’t ye think it! For there’s nothin’ like a man, passon or no passon, for makin’ rumples of every bit of clothes he touches, even his own coats and weskits, and I wouldn’t let ye lay hands on any o’ these things to save my life. Why, they’d go to pieces at the mere sight of yer fingers, they’re so flimsy! What I thought ye might do, was to be a witness to us while we sorted them all. It’s a great thing to have a man o’ God as a witness to the likes o’ this work!”

  Again Walden laughed, this time with very genuine heartiness, though he did wish Mrs. Spruce would put away the troublesome pink shoes which she still held, and to which he found his eyes still wandering.

  “Nonsense! You don’t want any witness!” he said gaily; “What are you thinking about, Mrs. Spruce? When Miss Vancourt is here, all you have to do is to go over every item of her property with her, and see that she finds it all right. If anything is missing, it’s not your fault.”

  “If anythink’s missing,” echoed Mrs. Spruce in sepulchral tones, “then the Lord knows what we’ll do, for it’ll be all over, so far as we’re consarned! Beggars in the street’ll be kings to us. Passon, I reckon ye doesn’t read the newspapers much, does ye?”

  “Pretty fairly,” responded Walden still smiling; “I keep myself as well acquainted as I can with what is going on in the world.”

  “Does ye now?” And Mrs. Spruce surveyed him admiringly. “Well, now, I shouldn’t have thought it, for ye seems as inn’cent as a babby I do assure ye; ye seems jes’ that. But mebbe ye doesn’t get the same kind o’ newspapers which we poor folks gets — reg’ler weekly penny lists o’ murders, soocides, railway haccidents, burgul’ries, fires, droppin’s down dead suddint, struck by lightnin’ and collapsis, with remedies pervided for all in the advertisements invigoratin’ to both old and young, bone and sinew, brain and body, whether it be pills, potions, tonics, lotions, ointment or min’ral waters. Them’s the sort o’ papers we gets, or rather the ‘Mother Huff’ takes ’em all in for us, an’ the ‘ole village drinks the ‘orrors an’ the medicines in with the ale. Ah! It’s mighty edifyin’, Passon, I do assure ye — and many of us goes to church on Sundays and reads the ‘orrors an’ medicines in the arternoon, and whether we remembers your sermon or the ‘orrors an’ medicines most, the Lord only knows! But it’s in them papers I sees how fine leddies goes on nowadays, and if they misses so much as a two-and-sixpenny ‘airpin, some of ’em out of sheer spite, will ‘aul a gel up ‘fore the p’lice and ‘ave ‘er in condemned cells in no time, so that ye see, Passon, if so be Miss Maryllia counts over the sparkling diamants and one’s lost, we’ll all be brought ‘fore Sir Morton Pippitt as county mag’strate afore we’ve ‘ad time to look at our breakfasts. Wherefore, I sez, why not ‘ave a man o’ God as witness?”

/>   “Why not, indeed!” returned Walden, playfully; “but your ‘man of God’ won’t be me, Mrs. Spruce! I’m off! I congratulate you on your preparations, and I think you are doing everything splendidly! If Miss Vancourt does not look upon you as a positive treasure, I shall be very much mistaken! Good afternoon!”

  “Passon, Passon!” urged Mrs. Spruce; “Ye baint goin’ already?”

  “I must! To-morrow’s Sunday, remember!”

  “Ah! — that it is!” she sighed, “And my mind sorely misgives me that I never asked the new servants whether they was ‘Igh, Low or Roman. It fairly slipped my memory, and they seemed never to think of it themselves. Why didn’t they remind me, Passon? — can you answer me that? Which it proves the despisableness of our naturs that we never thinks of the religious sides of ourselves, but only our wages and stummicks. Wages and stummicks comes fust, and the care of the Lord Almighty arterwards. But, there, there! — we’re jest a perverse and stiffnecked generation!”

  Walden turned away. Mrs. Spruce, at last deciding to resign her hold of the pink shoes, over whose pointed toes she had been moralising, gave them into the care of the rosy-cheeked Phyllis, who was assisting her in her labours, and followed her ‘man of God’ out to the landing.

  “Do ye reely think we’re doin’ quite right, and that we’re quite safe, Passon?” she queried, anxiously.

  “You’re doing quite right, and you’re quite safe,” replied Walden, laughing. “Go on in your present path of virtue, Mrs. Spruce, and all will be well! I really cannot wait a moment longer. Don’t trouble to come and show me out, — I know my way!”