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

by Marie Corelli

  “I shall be most happy—” he murmured.

  “She will be so interested to hear how you sent her my telegram,” — continued Maryllia— “And Gigue too — poor old Gigue! — he is sure to come over here some time during the summer. He is such a quaint person! I think you will like him. Good-bye!”

  “Good-bye — for the present!” said John with a slight note of appeal in his voice, which was not lost wholly upon the air alone, for Maryllia turned her head back towards him with a laugh.

  “Oh, of course! — only for the present! We are really next-door neighbours, and I’m afraid we can’t escape each other unless we each play hermit in separate caves! But I promise not to bore you with my presence very often!”

  She waved the spray of white lilac he had given her in farewell, and calling her dog to her side, passed down the village road lightly, like a blue flower drifting with the May breeze, and was soon out of sight.

  Walden closed the gate after her with careful slowness, and returned across the lawn to his favourite seat under his favourite apple- tree. Nebbie followed him, disconsolately snuffing the ground in the trail of the departed Plato, who doubtless, to the smaller animal’s mind, represented a sort of canine monarch who ruthlessly disdained the well-meaning attentions of his inferiors. Bainton, having finished his task of training the vines across the walls of the rectory, descended his ladder, making as much noise as he could about it and adding thereto a sudden troublesome cough which would he considered, probably excite his master’s sympathy and instant attention. But Walden paid no heed. He was apparently busy fumbling with his watch-chain. Bainton waited a moment, and then, unable any longer to control his curiosity, seized his ladder and deliberately carried it across the lawn, though he knew that that was not the proper way to the tool-shed where it was kept. Halting close to the seat under the apple-tree, he said: —

  “Yon red honeysuckle’s comin’ on fine, Passon, — it be as full o’ bud as a pod o’ peas.”

  “Ay indeed!” murmured Walden, absently— “That’s all right!”

  Bainton paused expectantly. No further word however was vouchsafed to him, and he knew by experience that such silence implied his master’s wish to be left alone. With an almost magisterial gravity he surveyed the Reverend John’s bent head, and with another scrutinising glance, ascertained the nature of the occupation on which his fingers were engaged, whereupon his face expressed the liveliest amazement. Shouldering his ladder, he went his way, — and once out of earshot gave vent to a long low whistle.

  “It do beat me!” he said, slapping one corduroy-trousered leg vehemently— “It do beat me altogether — it do reely now! I ain’t no swearin’ sort, an’ bad langwidge ain’t my failin’, but I feel like takin’ a bet, or sayin’ a swear when I sees a sensible man like, makin’ a fool of hisself! If Passon ain’t gone looney all on a suddint, blest if I knows wot’s come to ’im. ‘Tain’t Miss Vancourt,- -’tain’t no one nor nothink wot I knows on, but I’m blowed if he worn’t sittin’ under that tree, like a great gaby, a’ fastenin’ a mis’able threepenny bit to ’is watch-chain! Did anyone ever ‘ear the like! A threepenny bit with a ‘ole in it! To think of a man like that turnin’ to the sup’stitions o’ maids an’ wearin’ a oley bit o’ silver! It do make me wild! — it do reely now!”

  And snorting with ineffable disdain, Bainton almost threw his ladder into the tool-shed, thereby scaring a couple of doves who had found their way within, and who now flew out with a whirr of white wings that glistened like pearl in the sunlight as they spread upwards and away into the sky.

  “A threepenny bit with a ‘ole in it!” he repeated, mechanically watching the birds of peace in their flight— “An’ on his watch-chain too, along wi’ the gold cross wot he allus wears there, an’ which folks sez was the last thing wore by ’is dead sister! Somethin’s gone wrong with ’im-somethin’ MUST a’ gone wrong! Ginerally speakin’ a ‘oley bit means a woman in it — but ‘tain’t that way wi’ Passon for sure — there’s a deeper ‘ole than the ‘ole in the threepenny — a ‘ole wot ain’t got no bottom to it, so fur as I can see. I’m just fair ‘mazed with that ‘ole!— ‘mazed an’ moithered altogether, blest if I ain’t!”

  The Reverend John, meanwhile, seated under his canopy of apple- blossoms, had succeeded in attaching the ‘‘oley bit’ to his chain in such a manner that it should not come unduly into notice with the mere action of pulling out his watch. He could not, for the life of him, have explained, had he been asked, the reason why he had determined to thus privately wear it on his own person. To himself he said he ‘fancied’ it. And why should not parsons have ‘fancies’ like other people? Why should they not wear ‘‘oley bits’ if they liked? No objection, either moral, legal or religious could surely be raised to such a course of procedure!

  And John actually whistled a tune as he slipped back his chain with its new adornment attached, into his waistcoat pocket, and surveyed his garden surroundings with a placid smile. His interview with Miss Vancourt had not been an unpleasant experience by any means. He liked her better than when he had first seen her on the morning of their meeting under the boughs of the threatened ‘Five Sister’ beeches. He could now, as he thought, gauge her character and temperament correctly, with all the wonderful perspicuity and not- to-be-contradicted logic of a man. She was charming, — and she knew her charm; — she was graceful, and she was aware of her grace; — she was bright and intelligent in the prettily ‘surface’ way of women, — she evidently possessed a kind heart, and she seemed thoughtful of other people’s feelings, — she had a sweet voice and a delightfully musical laugh, — and — and — that was about all. It was not much, strictly speaking; — yet he found himself considerably interested in weighing the pros and cons of her nature, and wondering how she had managed to retain, in the worldly and social surroundings to which she had been so long accustomed, the child-like impulsiveness of her manner, and the simple frankness of her speech.

  “Of course it may be all put on,” — he reflected, though with a touch of shamed compunction at the bare suggestion— “One can never tell! It seemed natural. And it would hardly be worth her while to act a part for the benefit of an old fogey like myself. I think she is genuine. I hope so! At any rate I will believe she is, till she proves herself otherwise. Of course ‘the trend of modern thought’ has touched her. The cruellest among the countless cruel deeds of latter-day theism is to murder the Christ in women. For, as woman’s purity first brought the Divine Master into the world, so must woman’s purity still keep Him here with us, — else we men are lost — lost through the sins, not only of our fathers, but chiefly of our mothers!”

  That same evening Maryllia received a prompt reply to one of the telegrams which Walden had sent off for her in the morning. It was brief and to the point, and only ran:— ‘Coming. Cicely’; — a message which Mrs. Tapple had no difficulty in deciphering, and which she sent up to the Manor, post haste, as soon as it arrived. The telegraph-boy who conveyed it, got sixpence for himself as a reward for the extra speed he had put on in running all the way from the village to the house, thereby outstripping the postman, who being rotund in figure was somewhat heavily labouring up in the same direction with the last delivery of letters for the day. Miss Vancourt’s correspondents were generally very numerous, — but on this occasion there was only one letter for her, — one, neatly addressed, with a small finely engraved crest on the flap of the envelope. Maryllia surveyed that envelope and crest with disfavour, — she had seen too many of the same kind. The smile that brightened her face when she read Cicely’s telegram, faded altogether into an expression of cold weariness as with a small silver paper-knife she slowly slit the closed edges of the unwelcome missive and glanced indifferently at its contents. It ran as follows:

  “MY DEAR MISS MARYLLIA, — I feel sure you do not realise the great pain you are inflicting on your aunt, as well as on myself, by declining to answer our letters except by telegram. Pray remember that we are qui
te in the dark as to the state of your health, your surroundings and your general well-being. Your sudden departure from town, was, if you will permit me to say so, a most unwise impulse, causing as it has done, the greatest perplexity in your own social circle and among your hosts of friends. I have done my best to smooth matters over, by assuring all enquirers that certain matters on your country estate required your personal supervision, but rumour, as you know, has many tongues which are not likely to be easily silenced. Your aunt was much surprised and disturbed to receive from you a box of peacock’s feathers, without any word from yourself. She has no doubt you meant the gift kindly, but was not the manner of giving somewhat strange? — let me say eccentric? I hope you will allow me to point out to you that nothing is more fatal to a woman in good society than to attain any sort of reputation for eccentricity. I may take the liberty of saying this to you as an old friend, and as one who still holds persistently to the dear expectation, despite much discouragement, of being able soon to call you by a closer name than mere friendship allows. The disagreement between your aunt and yourself should surely be a matter of slight duration, and not sufficient in any case to warrant your rash decision to altogether resign the protection and kindly guardianship which she, on her part, has exercised over you for so many years. I cannot too strongly impress upon your mind the fatal effect any long absence from her is likely to have on your position in society, and though as yet you have only been about three weeks away, people are talking and will no doubt continue to talk. If you find your old home an agreeable change from town life, pray allow your aunt to join you there. She will do so, I am sure, with pleasure. She misses you very greatly, and I will never believe that you would wilfully cause her needless trouble. I may not, I know, express my own feelings on the subject, as I should probably only incur your scorn or displeasure, but simply as an honest man who wishes you nothing but good, I ask you quietly to consider to what misrepresentation and calumny you voluntarily expose yourself by running away, as it were, from a rightful and affectionate protector and second mother like your good aunt, and living all alone in the country without any one of your immediate circle of friends within calling distance. Is there a more compromising or more ludicrous position than that of the independent and defenceless female? I think not! She is the laughing-stock of the clubs, and the perennial joke of the comic press. Pray do not place yourself in the same category with the despised and unlovely of your sex, but remain on the height where Nature placed you, and where your charm and intelligence can best secure acknowledgment from the less gifted and fortunate. Entreating your pardon for any word or phrase in this letter which may unluckily chance to annoy you, I am. my dear Miss Maryllia, — Yours with the utmost devotion,” “ROXMOUTH.”

  “What a humbug he is!” said Maryllia, half aloud, as she nut the letter back in its envelope and set it aside— “What a soft, smooth, civil, correctly trained humbug! How completely he ignores the possibility of my having any intelligence, even while he asks me to remain ‘on the height’ where it can best secure acknowledgment! He never appears to realise that my intelligence may be of such a quality as to enable me to see through him pretty clearly! And so the ‘independent and defenceless female’ is the laughing-stock of the clubs, is she? Well, I daresay he is quite right there! There’s nothing braver for men to do at their clubs than to laugh at the ‘defenceless’ women who would rather fight the world alone and earn their own livelihood, than enter into loveless marriages! The quaintest part of the letter is the bit about Aunt Emily. Roxmouth must really think me a perfect idiot if he dreams that I would accept such a story as that she was ‘surprised and disturbed’ at receiving the box of peacock’s feathers. Aunt Emily was never ‘surprised’ or ‘disturbed’ at anything in her life, I am sure! When poor Uncle Fred died, she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes for five minutes, and then sat down at her desk to write her orders for mourning. And when I spoke my mind to her about Roxmouth, she only smiled and told me not to excite myself. Then when I said I had determined to leave her altogether and go back to my own home to live, she took it quite easily, and merely stated she would have to alter her will. I assured her I hoped she would do so at once, as I had no wish to benefit by her death. Then she didn’t speak to me for several days, and I came away quietly without bidding her good-bye. And here I am, — and here I mean to stay!”

  She laughed a little, and moving to the open window, looked out on the quiet beauty of the landscape. “Yes! — I too will become a laughing-stock of the clubs; — and even I may attain the distinction of being accepted as a ‘joke by the comie press’! I will be an ‘independent and defenceless female,’ and see how I get on! In any case I’d rather be defenceless than have Roxmouth as a defender. And I shall not be alone here, now that Cicely is coming. Besides, I have two men friends in the village, — at least, I think I have! I’m sure of one, — old Josey Letherbarrow!” The smile lingered on her lips, as she still looked out on the lawn and terrace, shadowed by the evening dusk, and sweet with the cool perfume of the rising dew. “And the other, — if he should turn out as agreeable as he seemed this morning, — why, he is a tower of strength so far as respectability is concerned! What better protection can an ‘independent and defenceless female’ have than the minister of the parish? I can go to him for a character, ask him for a reference, throw myself and my troubles upon him as upon a rock, and make him answer for me as an honest and well-intentioned parishioner! And I believe he would ‘speak up’ for me, as the poor folks say, — yes, my Lord Roxmouth! — I believe he would, — and if he did, I’m certain he would speak straight, and not whisper a few small poisonous lies round the corner! For I think” — and here the train of her reflections wandered away from her aunt and her lordly wooer altogether, “yes, — I think Mr. Walden is a good man! I was not quite sure about him when I first met him, — I thought his eyes seemed deceitful, — so many parsons’ eyes are! — but I looked well into them to-day, — and they’re not the usual eyes of a parson at all, — they’re just the eyes of a British sailor who has watched rough seas all his life, — and such eyes are always true!”

  XV

  On the following Monday afternoon Cicely Bourne, to whom Walden had so successfully telegraphed Maryllia’s commands, arrived. She was rather an odd-looking young person. Her long thin legs were much too long for the shortness of her black cashmere frock, which was made ‘en demoiselle,’ after the fashion adhered to in French convents, where girls are compelled to look as ugly as possible, in order that they may eschew the sin of personal vanity, — her hair, of a rich raven black, was plaited in a stiff thick braid resembling a Chinese pigtail, and was fastened at the end with a bow of ribbon, — and a pair of wonderfully brilliant dark eyes flashed under her arching brows, suggesting something weird and witchlike in their roving glances, and giving an almost uncanny expression to her small, sallow face. But she was full of the most exuberant vitality, — she sparkled all over with it and seemed to exhale it in the mere act of breathing. Brimful of delight at the prospect of spending the whole summer with her friend and patroness, to whom she owed everything, and whom she adored with passionate admiration and gratitude, she dashed into the old-world silence and solitude of Abbot’s Manor like a wild wave of the sea, crested with sunshine and bubbling over with ripples of mirth. Her incessant chatter and laughter awoke the long- hushed echoes of the ancient house to responsive gaiety, — and every pale lingering shadow of dullness or loneliness fled away from the exhilarating effect of her presence, which acted at once as a stimulant and charm to Maryllia, who welcomed her arrival with affectionate enthusiasm.

  “But oh, my dear!” she exclaimed— “What a little school-guy they have made of you! You must have grown taller, surely, since November when I saw you last? Your frock is ever so much too short!”

  “I don’t think I’ve grown a bit,” — said Cicely, glancing down at her own legs disparagingly— “But my frock wore shabby at the bottom, and the nuns had a fresh
hem turned up all round. That reduced its length by a couple of inches at least. I told them as modestly as I could that my ankles were too vastily exposed, but they said it didn’t matter, as I was only a day-boarder.”

  Maryllia’s eyebrows went up perplexedly.

  “I don’t see what that has to do with it,” — she said— “Would you have preferred to live in the Convent altogether, dear?”

  “Grand merci!” and Cicely made an expressive grimace— “Not I! I should not have had half as many lessons from Gigue, and I should never have been able to write to you without the Mere Superieure spying into my letters. That’s why none of the girls are allowed to have sealing wax, because all their letters are ungummed over a basin of hot water and read before going to post. Discipline, discipline! Torquemada’s Inquisition was nothing to it! Of course I had to tell the Mere Superieure that you had sent for me, and that I should be away all summer. She asked heaps of questions, but she got nothing out of me, so of course she wrote to your aunt. But that doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “Not in the least,” — answered Maryllia, decisively,— “My aunt has nothing whatever to do with me now, nor I with her. I am my own mistress.”

  “And it becomes you amazingly!” declared Cicely— “I never saw you looking prettier! You are just the sweetest thing that ever fell out of heaven in human shape! Oh, Maryllia, what a lovely, lovely place this is! And is it all yours? — your very, very own?”

  “My very, very own!” and Maryllia, in replying to the question, felt a thrill of legitimate pride in the beautiful old Tudor house of her ancestors,— “I wish I had never been taken away from it! The more I see of it, the more I feel I ought not to have left it so long.”

  “It is real home, sweet home!” said Cicely, and her great eyes grew suddenly sad and wistful, as she slipped a caressing arm round her friend’s waist— “How grateful I am to you for asking me to come and stay in it! Because, after all, I am only a poor little peasant, — with a musical faculty!”