“Bainton!” he called.
The figure slowly raised itself, and as slowly turned its head.
“Sir!”
“Just come here and tie this rose up, will you?”
The individual addressed approached at a very deliberate pace, dragging out some entangled roffia from his pocket as he came and severing it into lengths with his teeth. Walden partly prepared his task for him by holding up the rose branch in the way it should go, and on his arrival assisted him in the business of securing it to the knotty bough from which it had fallen.
“That looks better!” he remarked approvingly, as he stepped back and surveyed it. “You might do this one at the same time while you are about it, Bainton.”
And he pointed to a network of ‘Crimson rambler’ rose-stems which had blown loose from their moorings and were lying across the grass.
“This place wants a reg’ler clean out,” remarked Bainton then, in accents of deep disdain, as he stooped to gather up the refractory branches: “It beats me altogether, Passon, to know what you wants wi’ a forcin’ bed for weeds an’ stuff in the middle of a decent garden. That old Wistaria Sinyens (Sinensis) is the only thing here that is worth keeping. Ah! Y’are a precious sight, y’are!” he continued, apostrophising the ‘rambler’ branches— “For all yer green buds ye ain’t a-goin’ to do much this year! All sham an’ ‘umbug, y’are! — all leaf an’ shoot an’ no flower, — like a great many people I knows on — ah! — an’ not so far from this village neither! I’d clear it all out if I was you, Passon, — I would reely now!”
Walden laughed.
“Don’t open the old argument, Bainton!” he said good-humouredly; “We have talked of this before. I like a bit of wild Nature sometimes.”
“Wild natur!” echoed Bainton. “Seems to me natur allus wants a bit of a wash an’ brush up ‘fore she sits down to her master’s table; — an’ who’s ‘er master? Man! She’s jest like a child comin’ out of a play in the woods, an’ ‘er ‘air’s all blown, an’ ‘er nails is all dirty. That’s natur! Trim ‘er up an’ curl ‘er ‘air an’ she’s worth looking at. Natur! Lor’, Passon, if ye likes wild natur ye ain’t got no call to keep a gard’ner. But if ye pays me an’ keeps me, ye must ‘spect me to do my duty. Wherefore I sez: why not ‘ave this ’ere musty-fusty place, a reg’ler breedin’ ‘ole for hinsects, wopses, ‘ornits, snails an’ green caterpillars — ah! an’ I shouldn’t wonder if potato-fly got amongst ’em, too! — why not, I say, have it cleaned out?”
“I like it as it is,” responded Walden with cheerful imperturbability, and a smile at the thick-set obstinate-looking figure of his ‘head man about the place’ as Bainton loved to be called. “Have you planted out my phloxes?”
“Planted ’em out every one,” was the reply; “Likewhich the Delphy Inums. An’ I’ve put enough sweet peas in to supply Covint Garden market, bearin’ in mind as ‘ow you sed you couldn’t have enough on ’em. Sir Morton Pippitt’s Lunnon valet came along while I was a- doin’ of it, an’ ’e peers over the ‘edge an’ ’e sez, sez ’e: ‘Weedin’ corn, are yer?’ ‘No, ye gowk,’ sez I! ‘Ever seen corn at all ‘cept in a bin? Mixed wi’ thistles, mebbe?’ An’ then he used a bit of ’is master’s or’nary language, which as ye knows, Passon, is chice — partic’ler chice. ‘Evil communications c’rupts good manners’ even in a valet wot ‘as no more to do than wash an’ comb a man like a ‘oss, an’ pocket fifty pun a year for keepin’ of ’is haristocratic master clean. Lor’! — what a wurrld it is! — what a wurrld!”
He had by this time tied up the ‘Crimson rambler’ in orderly fashion, and the Reverend John, stroking his moustache to hide a smile, proceeded to issue various orders according to his usual daily custom.
“Don’t forget to plant some mignonette in the west border, Bainton. Not the giant kind, — the odour of the large blooms is rough and coarse compared with that of the smaller variety. Put plenty of the ‘common stuff’ in, — such mignonette as our grandmothers grew in their gardens, before you Latin-loving horticultural wise-acres began to try for size rather than sweetness.”
Bainton drew himself up with a quaint assumption of dignity, and by lifting his head a little more, showed his countenance fully, — a countenance which, though weather-worn and deeply furrowed, was a distinctly intelligent one, shrewd and thoughtful, with sundry little curves of humour lighting up its native expression of saturnine sedateness.
“I suppose y’are alludin’ to the F.R.H.’s, Passon,” he said; “They all loves Latin, as cats loves milk; howsomever, they never knows ‘ow to pronounce it. Likewhich myself not bein’ a F.R.H. nor likely to be, I’m bound to confess I dabbles in it a bit, — though there’s a chap wot I gets cheap shrubs of, his Latin’s worse nor mine, an’ ‘e’s got all the three letters after ’is name. ‘Ow did ’e get ’em? By reason of competition in the Chrysanthum Show. Lor’! Henny fool can grow ye a chrysanthum as big as a cabbage, if that’s yer fancy,- -that ain’t scientific gard’nin’! An’ as for the mignonette, I reckon to agree wi’ ye, Passon — the size ain’t the sweetness, likewhich when I married, I married a small lass, for sez I: ‘Little to carry, less to keep!’ An’ that’s true enough, though she’s gained in breadth, Lor’ love ‘er! — wot she never ‘ad in heighth. As I was a-sayin’, the chap wot I gets shrubs of, reels off ’is Latin like chollops of mud off a garden scraper; but ’e don’t understand it while ’e sez it. Jes’ for show, bless ye! It all goes down wi’ Sir Morton Pippitt, though, for ’e sez, sez ’e: ‘MY cabbages are the prize vegetable, grown by Mr. Smogorton of Worcester, F.R.H.’ ‘E’s got it in ’is Catlog! Hor! — hor! — hor! Passon, a bit o’ Latin do go down wi’ some folks in the gard’nin’ line — it do reely now!”
“Talking of Sir Morton Pippitt,” said Walden, disregarding his gardener’s garrulity, “It seems he has visitors up at the Hall.”
“’E ‘as so,” returned Bainton; “Reg’ler weedy waifs an’ strays o’ ‘umanity, if one may go by out’ard appearance; not a single firm, well-put-down leg among ’em. Mos’ly ‘lords’ and ‘sirs.’ Bein’ so jes’ lately knighted for buildin’ a ‘ospital at Riversford, out of the proceeds o’ bone meltin’ into buttons, Sir Morton couldn’t a’ course, be expected to put up wi’ a plain ‘mister’ takin’ food wi’ ’im.”
“Well, well, — whoever they are, they want to see the church.”
“Seems to me a sight o’ folks wants to see the church since ye spent so much money on it, Passon,” said Bainton somewhat resentfully; “There oughter be a charge made for entry.”
Walden smiled thoughtfully; but there was a small line of vexation on his brow.
“They want to see the church,” he repeated, “Or rather Sir Morton wants them to ‘inspect’ the church;” — and then his smile expanded and became a soft mellow laugh; “What a pompous old fellow it is! One would almost think he had restored the church himself, and not only restored it, but built it altogether and endowed it!” He turned to go, then suddenly bethought himself of other gardening matters,— “Bainton, that bare corner near the house must be filled with clematis. The plants are just ready to bed out. And look to the geraniums in the front border. By the way, do you see that straight line along the wall there, — where I am pointing?”
“Yes, sir!” dutifully rejoined Bainton, shading his eyes from the strong sun with one grimy hand.
“Well, plant nothing but hollyhocks there, — as many as you can cram in. We must have a blaze of colour to contrast with those dark yews. See to the jessamine and passion-flowers by the porch; and there is a ‘Gloire’ rose near the drawing-room window that wants cutting back a bit.” He moved a step or two, then again turned: “I shall want you later on in the orchard, — the grass there needs attending to.”
A slow grin pervaded Bainton’s countenance.
“Ye minds me of the ‘Oly Scripter, Passon, ye does reely now!” he said— “Wi’ all yer different orders an’ idees, y’are behavin’ to me like the very moral o�
� the livin’ Wurrd!”
Walden looked amused.
“How do you make that out?”
“Easy enough, sir,— ‘The Scripter moveth us in sun’ry places’! Hor!- hor!-hor!— “and Bainton burst into a hoarse chuckle of mirth, entirely delighted with his own witticism, and walked off, not waiting to see whether its effect on his master was one of offence or appreciation. He was pretty sure of his ground, however, for he left John Walden laughing, a laugh that irradiated his face with some of the sunshine stored up in his mind. And the sparkle of mirth still lingered in his eyes as, crossing the lawn and passing the seat where the volume of Epictetus lay, now gratuitously decorated by a couple of pale pink shell-like petals dropped from the apple- blossoms above it, he entered his house, and proceeding to his study sat down and wrote the following brief epistle:
“The Reverend John Walden presents his compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, and in reply to his note begs to say that, as the church is always open and free, Sir Morton and his friends can ‘inspect’ it at any time provided no service is in progress.”
Putting this in an envelope, he sealed and stamped it. It should go by post, and Sir Morton would receive it next morning. There was no need for a ‘special messenger,’ either in the person of Bob Keeley, or in the authorised Puck of the Post Office Messenger-service.
“For there is not the slightest hurry,” he said to himself: “It will not hurt Sir Morton to be kept waiting. On the contrary, it will do him good. He had it all his own way in this parish before I came, — but now for the past ten years he has known what it is to ‘kick against the pricks’ of legitimate Church authority. Legitimate Church authority is a fine thing! Half the Churchmen in the world don’t use it, and a goodly portion of the other half misuse it. But when you’ve got a bumptious, purse-proud, self-satisfied old county snob like Sir Morton Pippitt to deal with, the pressure of the iron hand should be distinctly exercised under the velvet glove!”
He laughed heartily, throwing back his head with a sense of enjoyment in his laughter. Then, rising from his desk, he turned towards the wide latticed doors of his study, which opened into the garden, and looked out dreamily, as though looking across the world and far beyond it. The sweet mixed warbling of birds, the thousand indistinguishable odours of flowers, made the air both fragrant and musical. The glorious sunshine, the clear blue sky, the rustling of the young leaves, the whispering swish of the warm wind through the shrubberies, — all these influences entered the mind and soul of the man and aroused a keen joy which almost touched the verge of sadness. Life pulsated about him in such waves of creative passion, that his own heart throbbed uneasily with Nature’s warm restlessness; and the unanswerable query which, in spite of his high and spiritual faith had often troubled him, came back again hauntingly to his mind,— “Why should Life be made so beautiful only to end in Death?”
This was the Shadow that hung over all things; this was the one darkness he and others of his calling were commissioned to transfuse into light, — this was the one dismal end for all poor human creatures which he, as a minister of the Gospel was bound to try and represent as not an End but a Beginning, — and his soul was moved to profound love and pity as he raised his eyes to the serene heavens and asked himself: “What compensation can all the most eloquent teaching and preaching make to men for the loss of the mere sunshine? Can the vision of a world beyond the grave satisfy the heart so much as this one perfect morning of May!”
An involuntary sigh escaped him. The beating wings of a swallow flying from its nest under the old gabled eaves above him flashed a reflex of quivering light against his eyes; and away in the wide meadow beyond, where the happy cattle wandered up to their fetlocks in cowslips and lush grass, the cuckoo called with cheerful persistence. One of old Chaucer’s quaintly worded legends came to his mind, — telling how the courtly knight Arcite,
“Is risen, and looketh on the merrie daye All for to do his observance to Maye, — And to the grove of which that I you told, By aventure his way he gan to hold To maken him a garland of the greves, Were it of woodbind or of hawthorn leaves, And loud he sung against the sunny sheen, — ‘O Maye with all thy flowers and thy green, Right welcome be thou, faire, freshe, Maye! I hope that I some green here getten may!”
Smiling at the antique simplicity and freshness of the lines as they rang across his brain like the musical jingle of an old-world spinet, his ears suddenly caught the sound of young voices singing at a distance.
“Here come the children!” he said; and stepping out from his open window into the garden, he again bent his ear to listen. The tremulous voices came nearer and nearer, and words could now be distinguished, breaking through the primitive quavering melody of ‘The Mayers’ Song’ known to all the country side since the thirteenth century:
“Remember us poor Mayers all. — And thus do we begin, To lead our lives in righteousness, Or else we die in sin.
We have been rambling all this night, And almost all this day, And now returning back again, We bring you in the May.
The hedges and trees they are so green, In the sunne’s goodly heat, Our Heavenly Father He watered them With His Heavenly dew so sweet.
A branch of May we have brought you—”
Here came a pause and the chorus dropped into an uncertain murmur. John Walden heard his garden gates swing back on their hinges, and a shuffling crunch of numerous small feet on the gravel path.
“G’arn, Susie!” cried a shrill boy’s voice— “If y’are leadin’ us, lead! G’arn!”
A sweet flute-like treble responded to this emphatic adjuration, singing alone, clear and high,
“A branch of May—” and then all the other voices chimed in:
“A branch of May we have brought you And at your door it stands, ’Tis but a sprout, But ’tis budded out By the work of our Lord’s hands!”
And with this, a great crown of crimson and white blossoms, set on a tall, gaily-painted pole and adorned with bright coloured ribbons, came nid-nodding down the box-tree alley to the middle of the lawn opposite Walden’s study window, where it was quickly straightened up and held in position by the eager hands of some twenty or thirty children, of all sizes and ages, who, surrounding it at its base, turned their faces, full of shy exultation towards their pastor, still singing, but in more careful time and tune:
“The Heavenly gates are open wide, Our paths are beaten plain, And if a man be not too far gone, He may return again.
The moon shines bright and the stars give light A little before it is day, So God bless you all, both great and small, And send you a merrie May!”
II
For a moment or two Walden found himself smitten by so strong a sense of the mere simple sensuous joy of living, that he could do no more than stand looking in silent admiration at the pretty group of expectant young creatures gathered round the Maypole, and huddled, as it were, under its cumbrous crown of dewy blossoms, which showed vividly against the clear sky, while the long streamers of red, white and blue depending from its summit, trailed on the daisy- sprinkled grass at their feet.
Every little face was familiar and dear to him. That awkward lad, grinning from ear to ear, with a particularly fine sprig of flowering hawthorn in his cap, was Dick Styles; — certainly a very different individual to Chaucer’s knight, Arcite, but resembling him in so far that he had evidently gone into the woods early, moved by the same desire: “I hope that I some green here getten may!” That tiny girl, well to the front, with a clean white frock on and no hat to cover her tangle of golden curls, was Baby Hippolyta, — the last, the very last, of the seemingly endless sprouting olive branches of the sexton, Adam Frost. Why the poor child had been doomed to carry the name of Hippolyta, no one ever knew. When he, Walden, had christened her, he almost doubted whether he had heard the lengthy appellation aright, and ventured to ask the godmother of the occasion to repeat it in a louder voice. Whereupon ‘Hip-po-ly-ta’ was uttered in such strong tones, so thoroughly well enunciated, that
he could no longer mistake it, and the helpless infant, screaming lustily, left the simple English baptismal font burdened with a purely Greek designation. She was, however, always called ‘Ipsie’ by her playmates, and even her mother and father, who were entirely responsible for her name in the first instance, found it somewhat weighty for daily utterance and gladly adopted the simpler sobriquet, though the elders of the village generally were rather fond of calling her with much solemn unction: ‘Baby Hippolyta,’ as though it were an elaborate joke. Ipsie was one of the loveliest children in the village, and though she was only two-and-a-half years old, she was fully aware of her own charms. She was pushed to the front of the Maypole this morning, merely because she was pretty, — and she knew it. That was why she lifted the extreme edge of her short skirt and put it in her mouth, thereby displaying her fat innocent bare legs extensively, and smiled at the Reverend John Walden out of the uplifted corners of her forget-me-not blue eyes. Then there was Bob Keeley, more or less breathless with excitement, having just got back again from Badsworth Hall, his friend the butcher boy having driven him to and from that place ‘in a jiffy’ as he afterwards described it, — and there was a very sparkling, smiling, vivacious little person of about fifteen, in a lilac cotton frock, who wore a wreath of laburnum on her black curls, no other than Kitty Spruce, generally alluded to in the village as ‘Bob Keeley’s gel’; — and standing near Baby Hippolyta, or ‘Ipsie,’ was the acknowledged young beauty of the place, Susie Prescott, a slip of a lass with a fair Madonna-like face, long chestnut curls and great, dark, soft eyes like pansies filled with dew. Susie had a decided talent for music, — she sang very prettily, and led the village choir, under the guidance of Miss Janet Eden, the schoolmistress. This morning, however, she was risking the duties of conductorship on her own account, and very sweet she looked in her cheap white nuns-veiling gown, wearing a bunch of narcissi carelessly set in her hair and carrying a flowering hazel-wand in her hand, with which she beat time for her companions as they followed her bird-like carolling in the ‘Mayers’ Song.’ But just now all singing had ceased, — and every one of the children had their round eyes fixed on John Walden with a mingling of timidity, affection and awe that was very winning and pretty to behold.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 585