Mrs. Spruce pursed up her mouth tightly and looked unutterable things.
“‘Tain’t no good countin’ chickens ‘fore they’re hatched, Missis Keeley!” she said— “An’ the Lord sometimes fixes up marriages in quite a different way to what we expects. There ain’t goin’ to be no weddin’s nor buryin’s yet in the Manor, please the A’mighty goodness, for one’s as mis’able as t’other, an’ both means change, which sometimes is good for the ‘elth but most often contrariwise, though whatever ‘appens either way we must bend our ‘eads under the rod to both. But I mustn’t stay chitterin’ ’ere any longer — good day t’ye!”
And nodding darkly as one who could say much an’ she would, the worthy woman ambled away.
Scraps of information, such as this talk of Mrs. Spruce’s, reached Bainton’s ears from time to time in a disjointed and desultory manner and moved him to profound cogitation. He was not quite sure now whether, after all, his liking for Miss Vancourt had not been greatly misplaced.
“When I seed her first,” — he said to himself, pathetically, while hoeing the weeds out of the paths in the rectory garden, “When me an’ old Josey went up to get ‘er to save the Five Sisters, she seemed as sweet as ‘oney, — an’ she’s done many a kind thing for the village since. But I don’t care for ‘er friends. They’ve changed her like — they’ve made her forget all about us! An’ as for Passon, she don’t come nigh ’im no more, an’ he don’t go nigh ‘er. Seems to me ’tis all a muddle an’ a racket since the motor-cars went bouncin’ about an’ smellin’ like p’ison— ‘tain’t wot it used to be. Howsomever, let’s ‘ope to the Lord it’ll soon be over. If wot they all sez is true, there’ll be a weddin’ ’ere soon, Passon’ll marry Miss Vancourt to the future Dook, an’ away they’ll go, an’ Abbot’s Manor’ll be shut up again as it used to afore. An’ the onny change we’ll ‘ave will be Mr. Stanways for agent ‘stead of Oliver Leach — which is a blessin’ — for Stanways is a decent, kindly man, an’ Oliver Leach — well now!” And he paused in his hoeing, fixing his round eyes meditatively on a wall where figs were ripening in the sun— “Blest if I can make out Oliver Leach! One day he’s with old Putty Leveson — another he’s drunk as a lord in the gutter — an’ another he’s butterfly huntin’ with a net, lookin’ like a fool — but allus about the place — allus about — an’ he’s got a face that a kid would scream at seein’ it in the dark. I wish he’d find another situation in a fur-off neighbourhood!”
Here, looking towards the lawn, he saw his master walking slowly up and down on the grass in front of his study window, with head bent and hands loosely clasped behind his back, apparently lost in thought.
“Passon ain’t hisself, — seems all gone to pieces like,” he mused— “He don’t do nothin’ in the garden, — he ain’t a bit partikler or fidgetty — an all he cares about is the bits o’ glass which comes on approval from all parts o’ the world for the rose window. I sez to him t’other day— ‘Ain’t ye got enough old glass yet, Passon?’ — and he sez all absent-minded like, ‘No, Bainton — not yet! There are many difficulties to be conquered — one must have patience. It’s almost like piecing a life together,’ sez he— ‘one portion is good — another bad — one’s got the true colour — the other’s false — and so on — it’s hard work to get all the little bits of love an’ charity an’ kindness to fit into their proper places. Don’t you understand?’ ‘No, Passon,’ sez I, ‘I can’t say as I do!’ Then he laughed, but sad like — an’ went away with his ‘ead down as he’s got it now. Something’s wrong with him — an’ it’s all since Miss Vancourt came. She’s a real worry to ’im I ‘spect, — an’ it’s true enough the place ain’t like what it was a month ago. Yet there’s no denyin’ she’s a sweet little lady for all one can say!”
Bainton’s sentiments were a fair reflection of the general village opinion, though in the town of Riversford the tide of feeling ran high, and controversy raged furiously, over the ways and doings of Miss Vancourt and her society friends. A certain vague awe stole over the gossips, however, when they heard that, whether rapid or non-rapid, ‘Maryllia Van,’ as Sir Morton Pippitt persisted in calling her, was likely to be the future Duchess of Ormistoune. Lord Roxmouth had been seen in Riversford just once, and many shop-girls had declared him ‘so distinguished looking!’ Mordaunt Appleby, the brewer, had thrown out sundry hints to Sir Morton Pippitt that he ‘should be pleased to see his lordship at Appleby House’ — Appleby House being the name of his, the brewer’s, residence — but somehow his lordship had not yet availed himself of the invitation. Sufficient, however, was altogether done and said by all concerned to weave a web of worry round Maryllia, — and to cause her to heartily regret that she had ever asked any of her London acquaintances down to her house.
“I did it as a kind of instruction to myself, — a lesson and a test,” she said— “But I had far better have run the risk of being called an old maid and a recluse than have got these people round me, — all of whom I thought were my friends, — but who have been more or less tampered with by Aunt Emily and Roxmouth, and pressed in to help carry on the old scheme against me of a detestable alliance with a man I hate. Well! — I have learned the falsity of their protestations of liking and admiration and affection for me, — and I’m sorry for it! I should like to believe in the honesty of at least a few persons in the world — if that were possible! — I don’t want to have myself always ‘on guard’ against intrigue and humbug!”
Everyone present, however, on the night of the last dinner-party she gave to her London guests, was bound to admit that a sweeter, fairer creature than its present mistress never trod the old oaken floors of Abbot’s Manor; and that even the radiant pictured beauty of ‘Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt,’ to whom no doubt many a time the Merry Monarch had doffed his plumed hat in salutation, paled and grew dim before the living rose of Maryllia’s dainty loveliness and the magnetic tenderness of Maryllia’s eyes. Something of the exquisite pensiveness of her mother’s countenance, as portrayed in the long hidden picture which was now one of the gems of the Manor gallery, seemed to soften the outline of her features, and deepen the character and play of the varying expression which made her so fascinating to those who look for the soul in a woman’s face, rather than its mere physical form. Lady Beaulyon, beautiful though she was, owed something to art; but Maryllia was nature’s own untouched product, and everything about her exhaled freshness, sweetness, and radiant vitality. Roxmouth, entering ‘most carefully upon his hour,’ namely at a quarter to eight o’clock, found her singularly attractive, — more so, he thought, than he had ever before realised. The stately old-world setting of Abbot’s Manor suited her — the dark oak panelling, — the Flemish tapestries, the worn shields and scutcheons, the old banners and armorial bearings, — all the numerous touches of the past which spoke of chivalry, ancestral pride and loyalty to great traditions, lent grace and colouring to the picture she herself made, as she received her guests with that sweet kindness, ease and distinction, which are the heritage of race and breeding.
“Pretty little shrew!” he said, in an aside to Marius Longford— “She is really charming, — and I begin to think I want her as much for herself as for her aunt’s millions!”
Longford smiled obsequiously.
“There is a certain air of originality, or shall we say individuality, about the lady,” — he observed, with a critical, not to say insolent stare in Maryllia’s direction,— “The French term ‘beaute du diable’ expresses it best. But whether the charm will last, is another question.”
“No woman’s beauty lasts more than a few years,” — said Roxmouth, as he glanced at the various guests who had entered or were entering. “Lady Beaulyon wears well — but she is forty years old, and begins to show it. Margaret Bludlip Courtenay must be fifty, and she doesn’t show it — she manages her Paris cosmetics wonderfully. Some of these county ladies would be better for a little touch of her art! But Maryllia Vancourt needs no paint, — she
can afford to be natural. Is that the parson?”
Walden was just entering the room, and Longford put up his glasses.
“Yes,” — he replied— “That is the parson. He is not without character.”
Roxmouth became suddenly interested. He saw Walden go up to his hostess and bow — he also saw the sudden smile that brightened Maryllia’s face as she welcomed her clerical guest, — the one Churchman of the party.
“Rather a distinguished looking fellow,” — he commented carelessly— “Is he clever?”
Longford hesitated. He had been pulverised in one of the literary weeklies by an article on the authenticity of Shakespeare’s plays, signed boldly ‘John Walden’ — and he had learned, by cautious enquiries here and there in London, that though, for the most part, extremely unassuming, the aforesaid John Walden was considered an authority in matters of historical and antiquarian research. But he was naturally anxious that the future Duke of Ormistoune, when he had secured Mrs. Fred Vancourt’s millions, should not expend his powerful patronage to a country clergyman who might, from a ‘Savage and Savile’ point of view, be considered an interloper. So he replied with caution:
“I believe he dabbles a little in literary and archaeological pursuits, — many parsons do. As an archaeologist, he certainly has merit. You entertain a favourable opinion of the church, he has restored?”
“The church, as I have before told you, is perfect,” — replied Roxmouth— “And the man who carried out such a design must needs be an interesting personality. I think Miss Vancourt finds him so!”
His cold grey eyes lightened unpleasantly as he made this remark, and Marius Longford, quick to discern every shade of tone in a voice, recognised a touch of satire in the seemingly casual words. He made no observation, however, but kept his lynx eyes and ears open, watching and listening for anything that might perchance be of use in furthering his patron’s desires and aims.
Walden, meanwhile, had, quite unconsciously to himself, created a little sensation by his appearance. HE was the parson who had dared to stop in his reading of the service because the Manor house-party had entered the church a quarter of an hour behind time, — HE was the man who had told them that it was no use gaining the whole world if they lost their own souls, — as if, in this advanced era of progress, any one of them had souls to lose! Preposterous! Here he was, this country cleric, who, as he was introduced by his hostess to the various gentlemen standing immediately about her, smiled urbanely, bowed ceremoniously, and comported himself with an air of intellectual composure and dignity that had a magnetic effect upon all. Yet in himself he was singularly ill at ease. Various emotions in his mind contended together to make him so. To begin with, he disliked social ‘functions’ of all kinds, and particularly those at which any noted persons of the so-called ‘Smart Set’ were present. He disliked women who made capital out of their beauty, by allowing their photographs to be on sale in shop-windows and to appear constantly in cheap pictorials, and of these Lady Beaulyon was a notorious example, to say nothing of the graver sins against morality and principle for which she was renowned. He had no sympathy with sporting or betting men — and he knew by repute that Lord Charlemont and Bludlip Courtenay were of this class. Then again, deep down in his own soul, he resented the fact that Maryllia Vancourt entertained this sort of people as her guests. She was much too good for them, he thought, — she wronged herself by being in their company, or allowing them to be in hers! He watched her as she received part of the ‘county’ in the Ittlethwaites of Ittlethwaite Park, with a charming smile of welcome for Bruce Ittlethwaite, a lively bachelor of sixty, and for his eldest sister Arabella, some ten years younger, a lady whose portly form was attired in a wonderful apple-green satin, trimmed with priceless lace, the latter entirely lost as an article of value, among the misshapen folds of the green gown, which had been created, no doubt, by some local dressmaker, whose ideas were evidently more voluminous than artistic. And presently, as he stood, a quiet spectator of the different types of persons who were mingling with each other in the casual conversation on current topics and events, which always occupies that interval of time known as the ‘mauvais quart d’heure’ before the announcement of dinner, he happened to look at Maryllia’s own dress, and, noticing it more closely, smiled. It was not the first time he had seen that dress! — and a faint colour warmed his cheeks as he remembered the occasion when Mrs. Spruce had sent for him as a ‘man o’ God’ to serve as a witness to her system of unpacking her lady’s wardrobe. That was the dress the garrulous old housekeeper had held up in her arms as though she were a clothes- prop, with the observation, ‘It’s orful wot the world’s a-comin’ to- -orful! Fancy diamants all sewed on to a gown!’ The gown with the ‘diamants’ was the very one which now clothed Maryllia, — falling over an underskirt of palest pink satin, it glittered softly about her like dew spangles on rose-leaves — and involuntarily Walden thought of the pink shoes he had also seen, — those absurd little shoes! — did she wear them with that fairy-like frock, he wondered? He dared not look towards the floor, lest he should catch a sudden glimpse of the shining points of that ridiculous but fascinating foot-gear that had once so curiously discomposed him. Those shoes might peep out at any moment from under the ‘diamants’ — with a blink of familiarity which would be, to say the least of it, embarrassing. His reflections were at this juncture interrupted by a smooth voice at his ear.
“How do you do, Mr. Walden?”
A glance showed the speaker to be Mr. Marius Longford, and he responded with brief courtesy.
“Permit me” — continued Mr. Longford— “to introduce you to Lord Roxmouth!”
Walden bowed stiffly.
“I must congratulate you on the beauty of your church, Mr. Walden,”- -said Roxmouth, with his usual conventional smile— “I have never seen a finer piece of work. It is not so much a restoration as a creation.”
Walden said nothing. He did not particularly care for compliments from Lord Roxmouth.
“That sarcophagus,” — continued his lordship— “was a very singular ‘find.’ I suppose you have no clue to the possible identity of the saint or sinner whose ashes repose within it?”
“None,” — replied Walden— “Something might probably be discovered if the casket were opened. But that will never happen during my lifetime.”
“You would consider it sacrilege, no doubt?” queried Roxmouth, with a tolerant air.
“I should, most certainly!”
“Nonsense, nonsense!” said Sir Morton Pippitt, obtruding himself on the conversation at this moment— “God bless my soul! Not so very long ago every churchyard in England used to have its regular clean out — ha-ha-ha! — all the bones and skulls used to be dug up and thrown together in a charnel house, higgledy-piggledy — and nobody ever talked about sacrilege! You should progress with the age, Mr. Walden! — you should progress! Why shouldn’t a coffin be opened as readily as any other box, eh? There’s generally nothing inside — ha- ha-ha! — nothing inside worth keeping, ha-ha-ha! The plan of a spring-cleaning for churchyards was an excellent one, I think; — God bless my soul! — why not? — makes room for more hodies and saves extra land being given up to those who are past farming it, except in the way of manure, ha-ha-ha! There’s no such thing as sacrilege nowadays, Mr. Walden! — why we’ve got the photograph of Rameses, taken after a few thousand years’ decomposition had set in — ha-ha- ha! And not bad looking — not bad looking! — rather wild about the eyes, that’s all — ha-ha! God bless my soul!”
These choice observations of the knight Pippitt were brought to a happy conclusion by the marshalling of the guests into dinner. Sir Morton, much to his chagrin, found himself deputed to escort Lady Wicketts, whose unwieldy proportions allied to his own, made it difficult for both to pass with proper dignity through the dining- room doorway. A little excited whispering between Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay and Lady Beaulyon took place, as to whether ‘Maryllia Van’ in her professed detestation of Lord R
oxmouth, would forget etiquette and the rule of ‘precedence’ — but they soon saw she did not intend to so commit herself. For when all her guests had passed in before her, she followed resignedly on the arm of the future Duke. As the greatest stranger, and as the highest in social rank of all present, he had claim to this privilege, and she was too tactful to refuse it.
“What a delightful chatelaine you are!” he murmured, looking down at her as she rested her little gloved hand with scarce a touch on his arm— “And how proud and glad I am to be once more beside you! Ah, Maryllia, you are very cruel to me! If you would only realise how happy we could be — always together!”
She made no answer. Arriving in the dining-room, she withdrew her hand from his arm, and seated herself at the head of her table. He then found that he was on her right hand, while Lord Charlemont was on her left. Next to Lord Charlemont sat Lady Beaulyon, — and next to Lady Beaulyon John Walden was placed with the partner allotted to him, Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay. On Roxmouth’s own side there were Lady Wicketts and Sir Morton Pippitt, — so it chanced that the table was arranged in a manner that brought certain parties who were by no means likely to agree on any one given point, directly opposite to each other. Cicely, peeping out from a little ante-room, where she had entreated to be allowed to stand and watch the proceedings, made a running commentary on this in her own particular fashion. Cicely was looking very picturesque, in a new white frock which Maryllia had given her, — with a broad crimson sash knotted carelessly round her waist and a ribbon of the same colour in her luxuriant black hair. She was to sing after dinner — Gigue had told her she was to ‘astonish ze fools’ — and she was ready to do it. Her dark eyes shone like stars, and her lips were cherry-red with excitement, — so much so that Mrs. Spruce, thinking she was feverish, had given her a glass of ‘cooling cordial’ — made of fruit and ice and lemon water, which she was enjoying at intervals while criticising the fine folks in the dining-room.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 628