“I believe you are! But mind you calendar the ducal deeds carefully,” he said. “A slip in the lineal descent of the Lumptons might affect the whole prestige of the British Empire!”
A light shone in his clear blue eyes, — a flashing spark of battle. Leveson stayed his bicycle a moment, wobbling on it uneasily.
“Lumpton goes back a good way,” he said airily; “I shall take him up when I have gone through the history of the Vancourts. I’m on that scent now. I shall make a good bit of business directly Miss Vancourt returns; she’ll pay for anything that will help her to stiffen her back and put more side on.”
“Really!” ejaculated Walden, coldly. “I should have thought her forebears would have saved her from snobbery.”
“Not a bit of it!” declared Leveson, beginning to start the muscles of his grand-pianoforte legs with energy; “Rapid as a firework, and vain as a peacock! Ta!”
And fixing a small cap firmly on the back of his very large head, he worked his wheel with treadmill regularity and was soon out of sight.
Walden stood alone in the churchyard, lost for a brief space in meditation. The solemn strains of the organ which the schoolmistress was still playing, floated softly out from the church to the perfumed air, and the grave melodious murmur made an undercurrent of harmony to the clear bright warbling of a skylark, which, beating its wings against the sunbeams, rose ever higher and higher above him.
“What petty souls we are!” he murmured; “Here am I feeling actually indignant because this fellow Leveson, who has less education and knowledge than my dog Nebbie, assumes to have some acquaintance with Miss Vancourt! What does it matter? What business is it of mine? If she cares to accept information from an ignoramus, what is it to do with me? Nothing! Yet, — what a blatant ass the fellow is! Upon my word, it does me good to say it — a blatant ass! And Sir Morton Pippitt is another!”
He laughed, and lifting his hat from his forehead, let the soft wind breathe refreshing coolness on his uncovered hair.
“There are decided limits to Christian love!” he said, the laughter still dancing in his eyes. “I defy — I positively defy anyone to love Leveson! ‘The columns and capitals are all wrong’ are they?” And he gave a glance back at the beautiful little church in its exquisite design and completed perfection.”’Out of keeping with early Norman walls!’ Wise Leveson! He ignores all periods of transition as if they had never existed — as if they had no meaning for the thinker as well as the architect — as if the movement upward from the Norman, to the Early Pointed style showed no indication of progress! And whereas a church should always be a veritable ‘sermon in stone’ expressive of the various generations that have wrought their best on it, he limits himself to the beginning of things! I wonder what Leveson was in the beginning of things? Possibly an embryo Megatherium!”
Broadly smiling, he walked to the gate communicating with his own garden, opened it, and passed through. Nebbie was waiting for him on the lawn, and greeted him with the usual effusiveness. He returned to his desk, and to the composition of his sermon, but his thoughts were inclined to wander. Sir Morton Pippitt, the Duke of Lumpton, and Lord Mawdenham hovered before him like three dull puppets in a cheap show; and he was inclined to look up the name of Marius Longford in one of the handy guides to contemporary biography, in order to see if that flaccid and fish-like personage had really done anything In the world to merit his position as a shining luminary of the ‘Savage and Savile.’ Accustomed as he was to watch the ebb and flow of modern literature, he had not yet sighted either the Longford straw or the Adderley cork, among the flotsam and jetsam of that murky tide. And ever and again Sir Morton Pippitt’s coarse chuckle, combined with the covert smiles of Sir Morton’s ‘distinguished’ friends, echoed through his mind in connection with the approaching dreaded invasion of Miss Vancourt into the happy quietude of the village of St. Rest, till he experienced a sense of pain and aversion almost amounting to anger. Why, he asked himself, seeing she had stayed so long away from her childhood’s home, could she not have stayed away altogether? The swift and brilliant life of London was surely far more suited to one who, according to ‘Putty’ Leveson, was ‘rapid as a firework, and vain as a peacock.’ But was ‘Putty’ Leveson always celebrated for accuracy in his statements? No! Certainly not — yet—”
Then something seemed to fire him with a sudden resolution, for he erased the first lines of the sermon he had begun, and altered his text, which had been: “Glory, honour and peace to every man that worketh good.” And in its place he chose, as a more enticing subject of discourse:
“The ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God, of great price.”
V
The warm bright weather continued. Morning after morning dawned in unclouded sunshine, and when Saturday concluded the first five days of the ‘May-moneth,’ the inhabitants of St. Rest were disposed to concede that it was just possible they might have what they called ‘a spell of fair weather.’ Saturday was the general ‘cleaning-up day’ in the village — the day when pails of water were set out in unexpected places for the unwary to trip over; when the old flagstones poured with soapsuds that trickled over the toes of too- hasty passers-by; when cottage windows were violently squirted at with the aid of garden-syringes and hose, — and when Adam Frost, the sexton, was always to be found meditating, and even surreptitiously drinking beer, in a quiet corner of the churchyard, because he was afraid to go home, owing to the persistent housewifely energy of his better half, who ‘washed down’ everything, ‘cleaned out’ everything, and had, as she forcibly expressed it, ‘the Sunday meals on her mind.’ It was a day, too, when Bainton, released from his gardening duties at the rectory at noon, took a thoughtful stroll by himself, aware that his ‘Missis’ was scrubbing the kitchen, and ‘wouldn’t have him muckin’ about,’ — and when John Walden, having finished his notes for the Sunday’s sermon, felt a sense of ease and relief, and considered himself at liberty to study purely Pagan literature, such as The Cratylus of Plato. But on this special Saturday he was not destined to enjoy complete relaxation. Mrs. Spruce had sent an urgent appeal to him to ‘kindly step up to the Manor in the afternoon.’ And Mrs. Spruce’s husband, a large, lumbering, simple- faced old fellow, in a brown jacket and corduroys, had himself come with the message, and having delivered it, stood on Walden’s threshold, cap in hand, waiting for a reply. John surveyed his awkward, peasant-like figure with a sense of helplessness, — excuses and explanations he knew would be utterly lost on an almost deaf man. Submitting to fate, he nodded his head vigorously, and spoke as loudly as he judged needful.
“All right, Spruce! Say I’ll come!”
“Jes’ what I told her, sir,” answered Spruce, in a remarkably gentle tone; “It’s a bit okkard, but if she doos her dooty, no ‘arm can ‘appen, no matter if it’s all the riches of the yearth.”
John felt more helpless than ever. What was the man talking about? He drew closer and spoke in a more emphatic key.
“Look here, Spruce! Tell your wife I’ll come after luncheon. Do you hear? Af-ter lun-cheon!”
Spruce put one hand to his ear and smiled blandly.
“Ezackly, sir! I quite agrees with ye; but women are allus a bit worrity-like, and of course there’s a deal to do, and she got frightened with the keys, and when she saw them fine clothes, and what not, — so I drawed her a glass of cherry-cordial, an’ sez I, ‘Now, old ‘ooman,’ sez I, ‘don’t skeer yerself into fits. I’ll fetch the passon to ye.’ And with that, she seemed easier in her mind. Lord love ye! — it’s a great thing to fetch the passon at once when there’s anything a bit wrong. So, if you’d step up, sir?—”
Driven almost to despair, Walden put his lips close to the old man’s obstinate ear.
“Yes,” he bellowed— “af-ter lun-cheon! Yes! Ye-es!”
His reply at last penetrated the closed auricular doors of Spruce’s brain.
“Thank you, kindly, sir, I’m sure,” he said, still in the s
ame meek and quiet tone. “And if I might make so bold, sir, seein’ there’s likely to be changes up at the Manor, if it should be needful to speak for me and my old ‘ooman, p’raps you’d be so good, sir? We wouldn’t like to leave the old place now, sir—”
His soft, hesitating voice faltered, and he suddenly brushed his hand across his poor dim eyes. The pathos of this hint was not lost on Walden, who, forgetting all his own momentary irritation, rose manfully to the occasion and roared down the old man’s ears like one of the far-famed ‘Bulls of Bashan.’
“Don’t worry!” he yelled, his face becoming rapidly crimson with his efforts; “I’ll see you all right! You sha’n’t leave the Manor if I can prevent it! I’ll speak for you! Cheer up! Do you hear! Che-er up!”
Spruce heard very clearly this time, and smiled. “Thank you, Passon! God bless you! I’m sure you’ll help us, if so be the lady is a hard one—”
He trusted himself to say no more, but with a brief respectful salutation, put on his cap and turned away.
Left alone, Walden drew a long breath, and wiped his brow. To make poor old Spruce hear was a powerful muscular exertion. Nebbie had been so much astonished at the loud pitch of his master’s voice, that he had retired under a sofa in alarm, and only crawled out now as Spruce departed, with small anxious waggings of his tail. Walden patted the animal’s head and laughed.
“Mind you don’t get deaf in your old age, Nebbie!” he said. “Phew! A little more shouting like that and I should be unable to preach to- morrow!”
Still patting the dog’s head, his eyes gradually darkened and his brow became clouded.
“Poor Spruce!” he murmured. “‘Help him, if so be the lady is a hard one!’ Already in fear of her! I expect they have heard something — some ill-report — probably only too correctly founded. Yet, how it goes against the grain of manhood to realise that any ‘lady’ may be ‘a hard one!’ But, alas! — what a multitude of ‘hard ones’ there are! Harder than men, perhaps, if all the truth were known!”
And there was a certain sternness and rooted aversion in him to that dim approaching presence of the unknown heiress of Abbot’s Manor. He experienced an instinctive dislike of her, and was positively certain that the vague repugnance would deepen into actual antipathy.
“One cannot possibly like everybody,” he argued within himself, in extenuation of what he felt was an unreasonable mental attitude; “‘And modern fashionable women are among the most unlikeable of all human creatures. Any one of them in such a village as this would be absurdly out of place.”
Thus self-persuaded, his mood was a singular mixture of pity and resentment when, in fulfilment of his promise, he walked that afternoon up the winding road which led to the Manor, and avoiding the lodge gates, passed through a rustic turnstile he knew well and so along a path across meadows and through shrubberies to the house. The path was guarded by a sentinel board marked ‘Private. Trespassers will be prosecuted.’ But in all the years he had lived at St. Rest, he cared nothing for that. As rector of the parish he had his little privileges. Nebbie trotted at his heels with the air of a dog accustomed to very familiar surroundings. The grass on either side was springing up long and green, — delicate little field flowers were peeping through it here and there, and every now and then there floated upwards the strong sweet incense of the young wild thyme. The way he had chosen to walk was known as a ‘short cut’ to Abbot’s Manor, and ten minutes of easy striding brought him into the dewy coolness of a thicket of dark firs, at the end of which, round a sharp turn, the fine old red brick and timbered gables of the house came into full view. He paused a moment, looking somewhat regretfully at the picture, warmly lit up by the glow of the bright sun, — a picture which through long habitude of observation had grown very sweet to him. It was not every day that such a house as Abbot’s Manor came within reach of the archaeologist and antiquarian. The beautiful tiled-roof — the picturesque roughness and crookedness of the architectural lines of the whole building, so different to the smooth, hard, angular imitations of half-timbered work common in these degenerate days, were a delight to the eyes to rest upon, — a wealth of ivy clung thickly to the walls and clambered round the quaint old chimneys; — some white doves clustered in a group on the summit of one broad oak gable, were spreading their snowy wings to the warm sun and discussing their domestic concerns in melodious cooings; — the latticed windows, some of which in their unspoilt antiquity of ‘horn’ panes were a particular feature of the house, were all thrown open, — but to Walden’s sensitive observation there seemed a different atmosphere about the place, — a suggestion of change and occupation which was almost startling.
He paced slowly on, and arrived at the outside gate, which led into a square old-fashioned court, such as was common to Tudor times, paved on three sides and planted with formal beds of flowers, the whole surrounded by an ancient wall. The gate was ajar, and pushing it open he passed in, glancing for a moment at the grey weather- beaten sun-dial in the middle of the court which told him it was three-o’clock. For four centuries, at least, that self-same dial had marked the hour in that self-same spot, a silent commentary on the briefness of human existence, as compared with its own strange non- sentient lastingness. The sound of Walden’s footsteps on the old paving-stones awoke faint echoes, and startled away a robin from a spray of blossoming briar-rose, and as he walked up to the great oaken porch of entrance, — a porch heavily carved with the Vaignecourt or Vancourt emblems, and as deep and wide in its interior as a small room, an odd sense came over him that he was no longer an accustomed visitor to a beautiful ‘show house,’ so much as a kind of trespasser on forbidden ground. The thick nail-studded doors, clamped with huge bolts and bars, stood wide open; no servant was on the threshold to bid him enter, and for a moment he hesitated, uncertain whether to ring the bell, or to turn back and go away, when suddenly Mrs. Spruce emerged from a shadowy corner leading to the basement, and hailed his appearance with an exclamation of evident relief.
“Thank the Lord and His goodness, Passon Walden, here you are at last! I’d made up my mind the silly fool of a Spruce had brought me the wrong message; — a good meanin’ man, but weak in the upper storey, ‘cept where trees is concerned and clearing away brushwood, when I’d be bold to say he’s as handy as they make ’em — but do, for mercy’s sake, Passon, step inside and see how we’ve got on, for it’s not so bad as it might have been, an’ I’ve seen worse done at a few days’ notice than even myself with hired hands on a suddint could ever do. Step in, sir, step in! — we’re leavin’ the door open to let the sun in a bit to warm the hall, for the old stained glass do but filter it through at its best; not but that we ain’t had a fire in it night and mornin’ ever since we had Miss Vancourt’s letter.”
Walden made no attempt to stem the flow of the worthy woman’s discourse. From old experience, he knew that to be an impossible task. So he stepped in as he was bidden, and looked round the grand old hall, decorated with ancient armour, frayed banners and worn scutcheons, feeling regretfully that perhaps he was looking at it so for the last time. No one more than he had appreciated the simple dignity of its old-world style, or had more correctly estimated the priceless value of the antique oak panelling that covered its walls. He loved the great ingle-nook, set deep back as it were, in the very bosom of the house, with its high and elaborately carved benches on each side, and its massive armorial emblems wrought in black oak, picked out with tarnished gold, crimson and azure, — he appreciated every small gleam and narrow shaft of colour reflected by the strong sun through the deeply-tinted lozenge panes of glass that filled the lofty oriel windows on either side; — and the stuffed knight-in- armour, a model figure ‘clad in complete steel,’ of the fourteenth century, which stood, holding a spear in its gauntleted hand near the doorway leading to the various reception rooms, was almost a personal friend. Mrs. Spruce, happily unconscious of the deepening melancholy which had begun to tinge his thoughts, led the way through the hall, still garrul
ously chirping.
“We’ve cleaned up wonderfully, considerin’ — and it was just the Lord’s providence that at Riversford I found a decent butler and footman what had jes’ got the sack from Sir Morton Pippitt’s and were lookin’ for a place temp’ry, preferring London later, so I persuaded both of ’em to come and try service with a lady for once, instead of with a fussy old ancient, who turns red and blue in the face if he’s kept waitin’ ‘arf a second — and I picked up with a gel what the footman was engaged to, and that’ll keep HIM a fixture, — and I found the butler had a hi on a young woman at the public-house ’ere, — so that’s what you may call an ‘hattraction,’ and then I got two more ‘andy gels which was jes’ goin’ off to see about Mrs. Leveson’s place, and when I told ’em that there the sugar was weighed out, and the tea dispensed by the ounce, as if it was chemicals, and that please the Lord and anybody else that likes, they’d have better feedin’ if they came along with me, they struck a bargain there and then. And then as if there was a special powerful blessin’ on it all, who should come down Riversford High Street but one of the best cooks as ever took a job, a Scotch body worth her weight in gold, and she’d be a pretty big parcel to weigh, too, but she can send up a dinner for one as easy as for thirty, which is as good a test as boilin’ a tater — and ‘as got all her wits about her. She was just goin’ to advertise for a house party or shootin’ job, so we went into the Crown Inn at Riversford and had tea together and settled it. And they all come up in a wagginette together as merry as larks; — so the place is quite lively, Passon, I do assure you, ‘specially for a woman like me which have had it all to myself and lonesome like for many years. I’ve made Kitty useful, too, dustin’ and polishin’ — gels can’t begin their trainin’ too early, and all has been going on fine; — not but what there’s a mighty sight of eatin’ and drinkin’ now, but it’s the Lord’s will that human bein’s should feed even as the pigs do, ‘specially domestic servants, and there’s no helpin’ of it nor hinderin’ — but this mornin’s business did put me out a bit, and I do assure you I haven’t got over it yet, but howsomever, Spruce says ‘Do yer dooty!’ — and I’m a-doin’ it to the best of my belief and, ‘ope — still it do make my mind a bit ricketty—”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 592