He smiled. Walden returned the smile, but nevertheless was conscious of a sorrowful sense of regret at what he considered his friend’s leaning toward superstitious observances and idolatrous ceremonies. At the same time he well knew that any violent opposition on the subject would be worse than useless in the Bishop’s present mood. He therefore contented himself with, as he mentally said, ‘putting in the thin end of the wedge’ — and, — carefully steering clear of all controversial matters, — contrived in a great measure to reassert the old magnetic sway he had been wont to exercise over Brent’s more pliable mind when at college — so that before they parted, he had obtained from him a solemn promise that there should be no ‘secession’ or even preparation for secession to Rome, till six months had elapsed.
“And if you would only put away that picture,” — said Walden, earnestly, pointing towards the ‘Virgin and Child’— “Or rather, if you would have another one painted of the sweet woman you loved as she really was in life, it would be wiser and safer for your own peace.”
The Bishop shook his head.
“The Virgin and Child are a symbol of all humanity,” — he said— “Mother and Son, — Present and Future! Woman holds the human race in her arms — at her breast! — without her, Chaos would come again! And for me, all Womanhood is personified in that one face!”
He raised his eyes to the picture with an almost devout passion — and then abruptly turned away. The conversation was not renewed again between them, but when Walden parted from his friend, he had the satisfaction of knowing that he left him in a brighter, more hopeful and healthful condition, cheered, soothed and invigorated by the exchange of that mutual confidence and close sympathy which had linked their two lives together in boyhood, and which held them still subtly and tenderly responsive to each other’s most intimate emotions as men.
XXVIII
Arriving home at his own domain late on the Saturday night, Walden had no opportunity to learn anything of the incidents which had occurred during his brief absence. Letters were waiting for him, but he opened none, and shut himself up in his study at once to prepare his next day’s sermon. He wrote on far into the night, long after all the servants of his household had retired to rest, and overslept himself the next morning in consequence, therefore his preparation for the eleven o’clock service were necessarily somewhat hurried, and he had not time to say more than a cheery ‘Good-morning’ even to Bainton, whom he passed on his way into the church, or to Adam Frost, though he fancied that both, men looked at him somewhat curiously, as with an air of mingled doubt and enquiry. Once within the sacred building he was conscious of an exceptionally crowded congregation. None that he could see were missing from their usual places. Maryllia certainly was not there, — but as she was admittedly not a church-goer, he did not expect her to be present. Badsworth Hall was entirely unrepresented, much to his relief; neither Sir Morton Pippitt nor Lord Roxmouth, nor Mr. Marius Longford were anywhere visible. Old Josey Letherbarrow sat in his usual corner, — everything was precisely the same as it was wont to be — and yet a sense of vague trouble oppressed him, — he saw, or thought he saw, an expression on some of the faces of his parishioners which was new to him, and he felt instinctively that some disturbing element had found its way into the peace of the village, though what the trouble could be, he was at a loss to imagine. He chose as his text: ‘What went ye out for to see? A reed shaken with the wind?’ and preached thereon with wonderful force, simplicity, eloquence and fervour — though all the time he spoke he wondered why his people stared at him so persistently, and why so many round eyes in so many round faces appeared to express such a lively, not to say questioning curiosity.
After service, however, the whole mystery was cleared up. Bainton, in his Sunday best, with hat in hand, presented himself at the garden gate on his master’s return from the church to the rectory, and after a word or two was admitted into the study. Bainton, honest as the daylight, and sturdy in his principles as an oak in its fibres, had determined to have ‘no humbuggin’ wi’ Passon.’ And in a few words, spoken with a great deal of feeling and rough eloquence, he had told all, — how Miss Vancourt had gone away ‘suddint-like’ from the Manor, — and how it was said and reported all through the county and neighbourhood that she had gone because her engaged husband, Lord Roxmouth, had caught her ‘makin’ love’ to a parson, that parson being no other than St. Rest’s own beloved ‘man o’ God,’ John Walden. And that Lord Roxmouth had at once gone after her, and that neither of the twain ‘weren’t never comin’ back no more.’ So said Bainton, twirling his cap round, and fixing his eyes sympathetically on his master’s face, — eyes as faithful as those of the dog Nebbie, who clambered at his master’s knee, equally gazing up at him with a fondness exceeding all speech.
John Walden sat, white and rigid, in his chair and heard the tale out to its end.
“Is that all?” he asked, when Bainton had concluded.
“That’s all, an’ ain’t it enough, Passon?” queried Bainton in somewhat dismal accents. “Not that I takes in ‘arf wot I hears, but from the fust I sez you should know every bit on it, an’ if no one else ‘ad the ‘art or the pluck to tell ye straight out, I’d tell ye myself. For that old Miss Tabitha’s got a tongue as long as a tailor’s yard-measure wot allus measures a bit oif to ’is own good, an’ Sir Morton Pippitt he do nothin’ but run wild-like all over the place a-talkin’ of it everywhere, an’ old Putty Leveson, he’s up at the ‘All, day in, an’ day out, tellin’ ‘ow you was goin’ to hit ’im in the eye — hor-hor-hor! — an’ why didn’t ye do it, Passon?— ’twould a’ been a real Gospel mercy! — an’ ‘ow ’twas all about Miss Vancourt, till Mr. Hadderley ’e come up an throwed ’im over in the road on ’is back which makes me think all the better o’ that young man, ‘owsomever, I never took to ’im afore. But though he’s all skin an’ bone an’ long ‘air as red as a biled carrot, he’s got a fist of ’is own, that’s pretty plain, an’ if he knocked down old Putty Leveson it shows ‘e’s got some sense in ’im as well as sperrit. For it’s all over the place that there’s trouble about Miss Vancourt, an’ you may take my wurrd for it, Passon, they don’t leave the poor little leddy alone, nor you neither, an’ never takes into their minds as ‘ow you’re old enough to be ‘er father. That Miss Tabitha don’t spare no wurrds agin ‘er — an’ as ye know, Passon, she’s a leddy wot’s like curdled cream all gone wrong in a thunderstorm. Anyways, I thought it best to tell ye straight out an’ no lyin’ nor trickin’ — an’ if I’ve stepped over my dooty, I ‘umbly axes pardin, but I means well, Passon, — I means well, — I do reely now!”
Walden looked up, — his eyes were glittering — his lips were pate and dry.
“I know-I know!” — he said, speaking with an effort— “You’re an honest fellow, Bainton! — and — and — I thank you! Tou not only mean well — you have done well. But it’s a lie, Bainton! — it’s all a wicked, damnable lie!”
He sprang to his feet as he said this, the wrath in his eyes flashing a steel-like lightning.
“It’s a lie!” he repeated— “Do you understand? A cruel, abominable lie!”
Bainton twirled his cap sympathetically.
“So it be, Passon,” — he murmured— “So it be — I know’d that all along! It’s a lie set goin’ by that fine gentleman rascal, Lord Roxmouth, wot can’t get Miss Maryllia and ‘er aunt’s money nohow. Lor’ bless ye, I sees that plain enough! But take it ‘ow we will, a lie’s a nasty sort o’ burr to stick to a good name, ‘speshully a name like yours, Passon, — an’ when it comes to that I feel that moithered an’ worrited-like not knowin’ ‘ow to pick the burr off again. An’ Lord Roxmouth he be gone away or mebbe you could a’ had it out wi’ him—”
“That will do, Bainton!” — said Walden, interrupting him by a gesture— “Say no more about it, please! I’m glad you’ve spoken, — I’m glad I know! But, — let it rest there! Never allude to it again!”
Bainton glanced up timorou
sly at his master’s pale set face.
“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ to be done?” he faltered anxiously— “Nothin’ to say as ‘ow it’s all a lie—”
“Nothing on my part!” — said Walden, quickly and sternly, “The best answer to such low gossip and slander is silence. You understand?”
His look was a command, and Bainton felt it to be such. Shuffling about a little, he murmured something about the ‘apples comin’ on fine in the orchard’ — as if Walden’s three days’ absence had somehow or other accelerated their ripening, and then slowly and reluctantly retired, deeply dejected in his own mind.
“For silence gives consent,” he argued dolefully with himself— “That’s copybook truth! Yet o’ coorse ‘tain’t to be expected as Passon would send for the town-crier from Riversford to ring a bell through the village an’ say as ‘ow he ‘adn’t nothin’ to dp with Miss Vancourt nor she with ’im. Onny the worst of it is that in this wurrld lies is allus taken for truth since the beginnin’, when the Sarpint told the first big whopper in the Garden of Eden an’ took in poor silly Eve. An’ ye can’t contradict a lie somehow without makin’ it look more a truth than ever, — that’s the way o’ the thing. An’ it do stick! — Passon himself ‘ull find that out, — it do stick, it do reely now!”
Meantime, Walden, left alone, gave himself up to a tumult of misery and self-torture. His sensitive nature shrank from the breath of vulgar scandal like the fine frond of delicate foliage from the touch of a coarse finger. He had never before been associated with the faintest rumour of it, — his life had been too simple, too austere, and too far removed from all the trumpery shows and petty intrigues of society. He felt himself now in a manner debased by having had to listen with enforced patience to Bainton’s rambling account of the gossip going on in the neighbourhood, and despite that worthy servitor’s disquisition on the subject, he could not imagine how it had arisen, unless his quarrel with Putwood Leveson were the cause. It was all so sudden and unlooked for! Maryllia had gone away, — and that fact of itself was sufficient to make darkness out of sunshine. He could not quite realise it. And not only had she gone away, but some slanderous story had been concocted concerning her in connection with himself, which was being bandied about on all the tongues of the village and county. How it had arisen he could not understand. He was, of course, unaware of the part Lord Roxmouth had played in the matter, and in his ignorance of the true source of the mischief, tormented his mind with endless fancies and perplexities, all of which helped to increase his annoyance and agitation. Pacing restlessly up and down his study, his eyes presently fell on the little heap of letters which had accumulated on his table during his brief absence, all as yet unopened. Turning them over indifferently, he came suddenly on one small sealed note, inscribed as having been left ‘by hand,’ addressed to him in the bold frank writing to which he had once, not so very long ago, felt such an inexplicable aversion when Mrs. Spruce was the recipient of a first letter from the same source. Now he snatched the little missive up with a strangely impulsive ardour, and being quite alone, indulged himself in the pleasure of kissing the firm free pen- strokes with all the passion of a boy. Then opening it, he read:
“DEAR MR. WALDEN, — You will be surprised to find that I have gone away from the dear home I love so well, and I daresay you will think me very capricious. But please do not judge me hastily, or believe everything you may hear of me from others. I am very sorry to go away just now, but circumstances leave me no other choice. I should like to have bidden you good-bye, as I could perhaps have explained things to you better, but old Josey Letherbarrow tells me you have gone to see the Bishop on business, so I leave this note myself just to say that I hope you will think as kindly of me as you can now I am gone. Please go into the Manor gardens as often as you like, and let the sick and old people in the village have plenty of the flowers and fruit. By doing this you will please me very much. My agent, Mr. Stanways, will be quite at your service if you ever want his assistance. Perhaps I ought just to mention that Lord Roxmouth overheard our conversation in the picture-gallery that night of the dinner-party. He was very rude about it. I tell you this in case you should see him, but I do not think you will. Good-bye! Try to forget that I smoked that cigarette! — Your sincere friend,” “MARYLLIA VANCOURT.”
As he perused these lines, Walden alternately grew hot and cold — red and pale. All was clear to him now!-it was Lord Roxmouth who had played the spy and eavesdropper! He recalled every little detail of the scene in the picture-gallery and at once realised how much a treacherous as well as jealous and vindictive man could make of it. Maryllia’s hand laid so coaxingly on his arm, — Maryllia’s face so sweetly and pleadingly upturned, — Maryllia’s half-tender tremulous voice with its ‘Will you forgive me?’ — and then — his own impetuous words! — the way he had caught her hand and kissed it! — why his very look must have betrayed him to the ‘noble and honourable’ detective, part of whose distinguished role it was to listen at doors and afterwards relate to an inquisitive and scandal-loving society all that he heard within. By degrees he grasped the whole situation. He realised that his name and honour lay at the mercy of this man Roxmouth, who under the circumstances of the constant check put upon his mercenary aims, would certainly spare no pains to injure both. And he felt sick at heart.
Locking Maryllia’s note carefully in his desk, he stepped into his garden and walked up and down the lawn slowly with bent head, Nebbie trotting after him with a sympathetically disconsolate air. And gradually it dawned upon him that Maryllia had possibly — nay very probably — gone away for his sake, — to make things easier for him — to remove her presence altogether from his vicinity-and so render Roxmouth’s tale-bearing, with its consequent malicious gossip, futile, till of itself it died away and was forgotten. As this idea crossed his mind and deepened into conviction, his eyes filled with a sudden smarting moisture.
“Poor child!” he said, half aloud— “Poor little lonely child!”
Then a fresh thought came to him, — one which made the blood run more quickly through his veins and caused his heart to pulsate with quite a foolish joy. If — if she had indeed gone away out of a sweet womanly wish to save him from what she imagined might cause him embarrassment or perplexity, then — then surely she cared! Yes — she must care for him greatly as a friend, — though only as a friend — to be willing to sacrifice the pleasure of passing all the summer in the old home to which she had so lately returned, merely to relieve him of any difficulty her near society might involve. If she cared! Was such a thing — could such a thing be possible? Tormented by many mingled feelings of tenderness, regret and pain, John pondered his own heart’s problem anxiously, and tried to decide the best course to pursue, — the best for her — the best for himself. He was not long in coming to a decision, and once resolved, he was more at ease.
When he celebrated the evening service that Sunday the garrulous Bainton saw, much to his secret astonishment, that the effect of his morning’s communication had apparently left no trace on his master’s ordinary demeanour, except perhaps to add a little extra gravity to his fine strong features, and accentuate the reserve of his accustomed speech and manner. His habitual dignity was even greater than usual, — his composed mien and clear steadfastness of eye had lost nothing of their quelling and authoritative influence, — and so far as his own manner and actions showed, the absence or presence of Miss Vancourt was a matter to him of complete unconcern. His visit to his friend the Bishop had ‘done ’im a power o’ good’ — said his parishioners, observing him respectfully, as, Sunday being over and the week begun, he went about among them on his accustomed round of duty, enquiring after the poultry and the cattle with all the zeal expected of him. The name of Miss Vancourt seldom passed his lips, — when other people spoke of her, either admiringly, questioningly or suggestively, he merely listened, offering no opinion. He denied himself to all ‘county’ visitors on plea of press of work, — he never once went to Abbot
’s Manor or entered the Manor grounds — and the only persons with whom he occasionally interchanged hospitalities were Julian Adderley and the local doctor, ‘Jimmy’ Eorsyth. Withdrawing himself in this fashion into closer seclusion than ever, his life became almost hermit-like, for except in regard to his daily parish work, he seldom or never went beyond the precincts of his own garden.
Days went on, weeks went on, — and soon, too soon, summer was over. The melancholy autumn shook down the once green leaves, all curled up in withering death-convulsions, from the branches of the trees now tossing in chill wind and weeping mists of rain. No news had been received by anyone in the village concerning Maryllia. The ‘Sisters Gemini,’ Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby, had departed from Abbot’s Manor when the time of their stay had concluded, and neither of the twain had given the slightest hint to any enquirer, as to the probable date of the return of the mistress of the domain. Sir Morton Pippitt at last got tired of talking scandal for which there seemed no visible or tangible foundation, and even his daughter Tabitha began to wonder whether after all there was not some exaggeration in the story Lord Roxmouth had given her to sow like rank seed upon the soil of daily circumstance? She never saw Walden by any chance, — on one occasion she ventured to call, but he was ‘out’ as usual. Neither could she persuade Julian Adderley to visit at Badsworth Hall. A veil of obscurity and silence was gradually but surely drawn between St. Rest and the outlying neighbourhood so far as its presiding ruler John Walden was concerned, while within the village his reticence and reserve were so strongly marked that even the most privileged person in the place, Josey Letherbarrow, awed at his calm, cold, almost stern aspect, hesitated to speak to him except on the most ordinary matters, for fear of incurring his displeasure.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 639
