In the flowering-time of year When the heavens were crystal clear, And the skylark’s singing sweet Close against the sun did beat, — All the sylphs of all the streams, All the fairies born in dreams, All the elves with wings of flame, Trooping forth from Cloudland came To the wooing of Maryllia!
Walden murmured something inarticulate, but Adderley waved him into silence, and continued:
Woodland sprites of ferns and trees, Ariels of the wandering breeze, Kelpies from the hidden caves Coral-bordered ‘neath the waves, Sylphs, that in the rose’s heart, Laugh when leaves are blown apart, — All the Faun and Dryad crew From their mystic forests flew To the wooing of Maryllia!
“Very fanciful!” said John, with a forced smile— “I suppose you can go on like that interminably?”
“I can, and I will,” — said Julian— “So long as the fit possesses me. But not now. You are in a hurry, and you wish to say good-bye. You imply the P.P.C. in your aspect. So be it! I shall see you on Sunday in the pulpit as usual?”
“Yes.”
“Badsworth Hall will probably attend your ministrations, so I am told,” — continued Julian— “Lord Roxmouth wants to hear you preach, — and Sir Morton himself proposes to ‘sit under’ you.”
“Sorry for it!” said Walden abruptly— “He should attend his own ‘cure’ — Mr. Leveson.”
They laughed.
“Of course you don’t credit that story about Miss Vancourt’s marriage with Lord Roxmouth?” queried Adderley, suddenly.
“I am slow to believe anything I hear,” — replied John— “But — is it quite without foundation?”
Adderley looked him straight in the eyes.
“Quite! Very quite! Most quite! My dear Walden, you are pale! A change, even a brief one, will do you good. Go and see your Bishop by all means. And tell him how nearly, how very nearly you gave prestige to the calling of a Churchman by knocking down a rascal!”
They parted then; and by sundown Walden was in the train speeding away from St. Rest at the rate of fifty miles an hour to one of the great manufacturing cities where human beings swarm together more thickly than bees in a hive, and overcrowd and jostle each other’s lives out in the desperate struggle for mere bread. Bainton and Nebbie were left sole masters of the rectory and its garden, and both man and dog were depressed in spirits, and more or less restless and discontented.
“‘Tain’t what it used to be by no manner o’ means,” — muttered Bainton, looking with a dejected air round the orchard, where the wall fruit was hanging in green clusters of promise— “Passon don’t seem to care, an’ when HE don’t care then I don’t care! Why, it seems onny t’other day ’twas May morning, an’ he was carryin’ Ipsie Frost on his shoulder, an’ leadin’ all the children wi’ the Maypole into the big meadow, an’ all was as right as right could be, — yet ’ere we’re onny just in August an’ everything’s topsy-turvy like. Lord, Lord!— ‘ow trifles do make up a sum o’ life to be sure, as the copybooks sez — for arter all, what’s ‘appened? Naught in any wise partikler. Miss Vancourt ‘as come ‘ome to her own, — an’ she’s ‘ad a few friends from Lunnon stayin’ with ‘er. That’s simple enough, as simple as plantains growin’ in a lawn. Then Miss Vancourt’s ‘usband that is to be, comes down an’ stays with old Blusterdash Pippitt at the ‘All, in order to be near ’is sweet’art. There ain’t nothin’ out of the common in that. It’s all as plain as piecrust. An’ Passon ain’t done nothin’ either but jest his dooty as he allus doos it, — he ain’t been up to the Manor more’n once, — he ain’t been at the ‘All, — an’ Miss Vancourt she ain’t been ’ere neither since the day he broke his best lilac for her. So it can’t be she what’s done mischief — nor him, nor any on ’em. So I sez to myself, what is it? What’s come over the old place? What’s come over Passon? Neither place nor man’s the same somehow, yet blest if I know where the change comes in. It’s like one of the ways o’ the Lord, past findin’ out!”
He might have thought there was something still more to wonder at if he could have looked into Josey Letterbarrow’s cottage that evening and seen Maryllia there, sitting on a low stool at the old man’s knee and patting his wrinkled hand tenderly, while she talked to him in a soft undertone and he listened with grave intentness and sagacity, though, also with something of sorrow.
“An’ so ye think it’s the onny way, my beauty!” he queried, anxiously— “There ain’t no other corner round it?”
“I’m afraid not, dear Josey!” she answered, with a sigh— “And I’m telling you all about it, because you knew my father, and because you saw me when I was a little child. You would not like me to marry a man whom I hate, — a man who is bad right through, and who only wants my aunt’s money, which he would get if I consented to be his wife. I am sure, Josey, you don’t think money is the best thing in life, do you? — I know you agree with me that love is better?”
Josey looked down upon her where she sat with an almost devout tenderness.
“Love’s the onny thing in the world worth ‘avin’ an’ keeping my beauty!” he said— “An’ love’s wot you desarves, an’ wot you’re sure to get. I wouldn’t see Squire’s gel married for money, no, not if it was a reglar gold mine! — I’d rather see ‘er in ‘er daisy grave fust! An’ I don’t want to see ‘er with a lord nor a duke, — I’ll be content to see ‘er with a good man if the Lord will grant me that ‘fore I die! An’ you do as you feels to be right, an’ all things ‘ull work together for good to them as loves the Lord! That’s Passon’s teachin’ an’ rare good teachin’ it be!”
At this Maryllia rose rather hurriedly and put on her hat, tying its chiffon strings slowly under her chin.
“Good-bye, Josey dear!” — she said— “It won’t be for very long. But you must keep my secret — you mustn’t say a word, not even” — here she paused and laughed a little forcedly— “not even to the Parson you’re so fond of!”
Josey looked at her sideways, with a quaintly meditative expression.
“Passon be gone away hisself,” — he said, a little smile creeping among the kindly wrinkles of his brown weather-beaten face— “He baint comin’ back till Sunday.”
“Gone away?” Maryllia was quite unconscious of the vibration of pain in her voice as she asked the question, as she was equally of the startled sorrow in her pretty eyes.
“Ah, my beauty, gone away,” — repeated Josey, with a curious sort of placid satisfaction— “Passon, he be lookin’ downhearted like, an’ a change o’ scene ‘ull do ’im good mebbe, an’ bring ’im back all the better for it. He came an’ said good-bye to me this marnin’.”
Maryllia stood for a moment irresolute. Why had he gone away? Her brows met in a little puckered line of puzzled wonder.
“He be gone to see the Bishop,” — pursued Josey, watching her tenderly with his old dim eyes, — it was like reading a love-story to see the faint colour flushing those soft round cheeks of hers, and the tremulous quiver of that sweet sensitive mouth— “Church business, likely. But never you mind, my beauty! — he’ll be ’ere to preach, please the Lord, on Sunday.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Maryllia, quickly recovering herself— “Only I shan’t be here, you see — and — and I had intended to explain something to him — however, it doesn’t matter! I can write all I wanted to say. Good-bye, Josey! Give my love to Ipsie!”
“Good-bye, my beauty!” returned Josey, with emphatic earnestness— “An’ God bless ye an’ make all the rough places smooth for ye! You’ll find us all ’ere, lovin’ an’ true, whenever ye comes, mornin’, noon or night — the village ain’t the world, but you’ve got round it, my dearie — you’ve got round it!”
And in the deep midnight when the church chimes rang the hour, and the moon poured a pearly shower of luminance over the hushed woodland and silently winding river, Josey lay broad awake, resignedly conscious of his extreme age, and thinking soberly of the beginning and end of life, — the dawn and fruition of love, — the wonderful, be
autiful, complex labyrinth of experience through which every human soul is guided from one mystic turn to another of mingled joy and sorrow by that supreme Wisdom, Whom, though we cannot see, we trust, — and feeling the near close of his own long life-journey, he folded his withered hands and prayed aloud:
“For all Thy childern, O Lord God, that ‘ave gone by the last milestone on the road an’ are growin’ footsore an’ weary, let there be Thy peace which passeth all understandin’! — but for Squire’s gel with the little lonely heart of ‘er beatin’ like the wings of a bird that wants a nest, let there be Love!”
XXVI
Next day at Badsworth Hall, a stately luncheon was in progress. Luncheon, or indeed any meal, partaken of under the rolling and excitable eye of Sir Morton Pippitt, was always a function fraught with considerable embarrassment to any guests who might happen to be present, being frequently assisted by the Shakespearean stage direction ‘alarums and excursions.’ With Sir Morton at the head of the table, and the acid personality of his daughter Miss Tabitha at the foot, there was very little chance of more than merely monosyllabic conversation, while any idea of merriment, geniality or social interchange of thought, withered in conception and never came to birth. The attention of both host and hostess was chiefly concentrated on the actual or possible delinquencies of the servants in attendance — and what with Sir Morton’s fierce nods and becks to unhappy footmen, and Miss Tabitha’s freezing menace of brow bent warningly against the butler, those who, as visitors, were outside these privacies of the domestic circle, never felt altogether at their ease. But the fact that other people were made uncomfortable by his chronic irascibility moved Sir Morton not at all, so long as he personally could enjoy himself in his own fashion, which was to browbeat, bully and swear at every hapless household retainer that came across his path in the course of the day. He was more than usually choleric and fussy in the ‘distinguished’ presence of Lord Roxmouth, for though that individual had gone the social pace very thoroughly, and was, to put it mildly, a black sheep of modern decadence, hopelessly past all regeneration, he still presented the exterior appearances of a gentleman, and was careful to maintain that imperturbable composure of mien, dignity of bearing, and unruffled temper which indicate breeding, though they are far from being evidences of sincerity. And thus it very naturally happened that in the companionship of the future Duke of Ormistoune, Sir Morton did not shine. His native vulgarity came out side by side with his childish pomposity, and Roxmouth, after studying his habits, customs and manners for two or three days, began to feel intensely bored and out of humour.
“Upon my word,” — he said, to his fidus Achates, Marius Longford,— “I am enduring a great deal for the sake of the Vancourt millions! To follow an erratic girl like Maryllia from one Continental resort to another was bad enough,-but to stay here in tame, highly respectable country dullness is a thousand times worse! Why on earth, my good fellow, could you not have found a more educated creature to play host to me than this terrible old Bone-Boiler?”
Longford pressed the tips of his fingers together with a deprecatory gesture.
“There was really no one else who could receive you,” — he answered, almost apologetically— “I thought I had managed the affair rather well. You will remember that directly Miss Vancourt had announced to her aunt her intention to return to her own home, you sent me down here to investigate the place and its surroundings, and see what I could do. Sir Morton Pippitt seemed to be the only person, from the general bent of his character, to suit your aims, and his house was, (before he had it) of very excellent historic renown. I felt sure you would be able to use him. There is no other large place in the neighbourhood except Miss Vancourt’s own Manor, and Ittlethwaite Park — I doubt whether you could have employed the Ittlethwaites to much purpose—”
“Spare me the suggestion!” yawned Roxmouth— “I should not have tried!”
“Well, there is no one else of suitable position, or indeed of sufficient wealth to entertain you,” — continued Longford— “Unless you had wished me to fraternise with the brewer, Mordaunt Appleby? HE certainly might have been useful! oj He would sell his soul to a title!”
Roxmouth gave an exclamation of mingled contempt and impatience, and dropped the conversation. But he was intensely weary of Sir Morton’s ‘fine jovial personality’ — he hated his red face, his white hair, his stout body, his servile obsequiousness to rank, and all his ‘darling old man’ ways. Darling old man he might be, but he was unquestionably a dull old man as well. So much so, indeed, that when at luncheon on the day now named, his lordship Roxmouth, as Mr. Netlips would have styled him, was in a somewhat petulant mood, being tired of the constant scolding of the servants that went on around him, and being likewise moved to a sort of loathing repulsion at the contemplation of Miss Tabitha’s waxy-clean face lined with wrinkles, and bordered by sternly smooth grey hair. He was lazily wondering to himself whether she had ever been young — whether the same waxy face, wrinkles and grey hair had not adorned her in her very cradle, — when the appearance of an evidently highly nervous boy in buttons, carrying a letter towards his host on a silver salver, distracted his attention.
“What’s this — what’s this?” spluttered Sir Morton, hastily dropping a fork full of peas which he had been in the act of conveying to his mouth— “What are you bringing notes in here for, eh? Haven’t I told you I won’t have my meals disturbed by messages and parcels? What d’ye mean by it? Take it away — take it away! — No! — here! — stop a minute, stop a minute! Yes — yes! — I see! — marked ‘immediate,’ and from Abbot’s Manor. My dear lord!” — And here he raised his voice to a rich warble-”I believe this will concern you more than me — ha-ha- ha! — yes, yes! we know a thing or two! ‘When a woman will, she will, you may depend on’t!’ — never mind the other line! — never mind, never mind!” And he broke open the seal of the missive presented to him, and adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles to read its contents. “Eh — what’s this — what’s this? God bless my soul!” And his round eyes protruded in astonishment and dismay— “Look here! — I say — really! You’d better read this, my lord! God bless my soul! She’s bolted!”
Roxmouth started violently. Mr. Marius Longford looked up sharply — and Miss Tabitha laid down her knife and fork with the regular old maid’s triumphant air of ‘I told you so!’
“God bless my soul!” said Sir Morton again— “Was ever such a bit of damned cheek! — beg pardon, my lord!—”
“Don’t apologise!” said Roxmouth, with courteous languor, “At least, not to ME! To Miss Tabitha!” and he waved his hand expressively. “May I see the letter?”
“Certainly — certainly!” and Sir Morton in a great fluster passed it along. It was a very brief note and ran as follows:
“DEAR SIR MORTON, — I quite forgot to tell you, when you and your friends dined with me the other day, that I am leaving home immediately and shall be away for the rest of the summer. Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby are staying on at the Manor for a fortnight or three weeks, as the country air does them so much good. It will be very kind if you and Lord Roxmouth will call and see them as often as you can, — they are such dear kind people! — and I am sure Miss Tabitha will be glad to have them near her as she already likes them so much. Anything you can do to give them pleasure while they are here, will be esteemed as a personal favour to myself. I am sorry not to have the time to call and say good-bye — but I am sure you will excuse ceremony. I shall have left before you receive this note. — With kind regards, sincerely yours,” “MARYLLIA VANCOURT.”
Roxmouth read this letter, first to himself, and then aloud to all at table. For a moment there was a silence of absolute stupefaction.
“Then she’s gone!” at last said Miss Tabitha, placidly nodding, while the suspicion of a malign smile crept round the hard corners of her mouth.
“Evidently!” And Roxmouth crumbled the bread beside his plate into fine shreds with a nervous, not to say vicious clen
ch of his hand.
He was inwardly furious. There is nothing so irritating to a man of his type as to be made ridiculous. Maryllia had done this. In the most trifling, casual, and ordinary way she had compelled him to look like a fool. All his carefully laid plans were completely upset, and he fancied that even Longford, his tool, to whom he had freely confided his wishes and intentions, was secretly laughing at him. To have plotted and contrived a stay at Badsworth Hall with the blusterous Pippitt in order to have the opportunity of crossing Maryllia’s path at every turn, and compromising her name with his in her own house and county, and then to find himself ‘left,’ with the civil suggestion that he should ‘call and see’ the antique Sisters Gemini, Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby, was somewhat too much for his patience. The blow was totally unexpected, — the open slight to his amour propre sudden and keen. His very blood tingled under the lash of Maryllia’s disdain — she had carried a point against him, and he almost imagined he could hear the distant echo of her light mocking laughter. His brow reddened, — he gnawed his under-lip angrily, and sat mute, aware that he had been tricked and foiled.
Longford watched him narrowly and with something of dismay, — for if this lordly patron, who, by his position alone, was able to push things on in certain quarters of the press, were to suddenly turn crusty and unreasonable, where would his, Longford’s, ‘great literary light’ be? Quenched utterly like a rush-light in a gale! Sir Morton Pippitt during the uncomfortable pause of silence had grown purple with suppressed excitement. He knew perfectly well, — because he had consented to it, — that his house had only been ‘used’ for Roxmouth’s purposes, and that he, personally, was of no more consideration to a man like the future Duke of Ormistoune than a landlord for the time being, whose little reckoning for entertainment would in due course be settled in some polite and ceremonious fashion. And he realised dolefully that his ‘distinguished’ guest might, and probably would, soon take his departure from Badsworth Hall, that abode no longer being of any service to him. This meant annihilation to many of Sir Morton’s fondest hopes. He had set his heart on appearing at sundry garden- parties in the neighbourhood during the summer with Lord Roxmouth under his portly wing — he had meant to hurl Lord Roxmouth here, Lord Roxmouth there at all the less ‘distinguished’ people around him, so that they should almost sink into the dust with shame because they had not had the honour of sheltering his lordship within their walls, — and he had expected to add considerably to his own importance by ‘helping on’ the desired union between Roxmouth Castle and the Vaneourt millions. Now this dream was over, and he could willingly have thrown plates and dishes and anything else that came handy at the very name of Maryllia for her ‘impudence’ as he called it, in leaving them all in the lurch.
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