Mrs. Bainton laughed good-naturedly.
“That’s quite true!” she agreed; “If there were, I shouldn’t have made Sunday pudding for a man who talks too much to eat it while it’s hot. Keep your tongue in your mouth, Tom! — use it for tastin’ jes’ now an’ agin!”
Bainton took the hint and subsided into silent enjoyment of his food. Only once again he spoke in the course of the meal, and that was during the impressive pause between pudding and cheese.
“When he knows as ‘ow the Five Sisters be chalked, Passon Walden’s sure to do somethin’,” he said.
“Ay!” responded his wife thoughtfully; “he’s sure to do something.”
“What d’ye think he’ll do?” queried Bainton, somewhat anxiously.
“Oh, you know best, Tom,” replied his buxom partner, setting a flat Dutch cheese before him and a jug of foaming beer; “There ain’t no sense o’ fitness in ME, bein’ a woman! You know best!”
Bainton lowered his eyes sheepishly. As usual his better half had closed the argument unanswerably.
VII
Seldom in the placid course of years had St. Rest ever belied its name, or permitted itself to suffer loss of dignity by any undue display of excitement. The arrival of John Walden as minister of the parish, — the re-building of the church, and the discovery of the medieval sarcophagus, which old Josey Letherbarrow always called the Sarky Fagus, together with the consecration ceremony by Bishop Brent, — were the only episodes in ten years that had moved it slightly from its normal calm. For though rumours of wars and various other mishaps and tribulations, reached it through the medium of the newspapers in the ordinary course, it concerned itself not at all with these, such matters being removed and apart from its own way of life and conduct. It was a little world in itself, and had only the vaguest interest in any other world, save perhaps the world to come, which was indeed a very real prospect to most of the villagers, their inherited tendency being towards a quaint and simple piety that was as childlike as it was sincere. The small congregation to which John Walden preached twice every Sunday was composed of as honest men and clean-minded women as could be found in all England, — men and women with straight notions of honour and duty, and warm, if plain, conceptions of love, truth and family tenderness. They had their little human failings and weaknesses, thanks to Mother Nature, whose children we all are, and who sets her various limitations for the best of us, — but, taken on the whole, they were peculiarly unspoilt by the iconoclastic march of progress; and ‘advanced’ notions of doubt as to a God, and scepticism as to a future state, had never clouded their quiet minds. Walden had taken them well in hand from the beginning of his ministry, — and being much of a poet and dreamer at heart, he had fostered noble ideals among them, which he taught in simple yet attractive language, with the happiest results. The moral and mental attitude of the villagers generally was a philosophic cheerfulness and obedience to the will of God, — but this did not include a tame submission to tyranny, or a passive acceptance of injury inflicted upon them by merely human oppressors.
Hence, — though any disturbance of the daily equanimity of their agricultural life and pursuits was quite an exceptional circumstance, the news of the ‘layin’ low of the Five Sisters’ was sufficient cause, when once it became generally known, for visible signs of trouble. In its gravity and importance it almost overtopped the advent of the new mistress of the Manor; and when on Tuesday it was whispered that ‘Passon Walden’ had himself been to expostulate with Oliver Leach concerning the meditated murder of the famous trees, and that his expostulations had been all in vain, clouded brows and ominous looks were to be seen at every corner where the men halted on their way to the fields, or where the women gathered to gossip in the pauses of their domestic labour. Walden himself, pacing impatiently to and fro in his garden, was for once more disturbed in his mind than he cared to admit. When he had been told early on Monday morning of the imminent destruction awaiting the five noble beeches which, in their venerable and broadly-branching beauty, were one of the many glories of the woods surrounding Abbot’s Manor, he was inclined to set it down to some capricious command issued by the home-coming mistress of the estate; and, in order to satisfy himself whether this was, or was not the case, he had done what was sorely against his own sense of dignity to do, — he had gone at once to interview Oliver Leach personally on the subject. But he had found that individual in the worst of all possible moods for argument, having been, as he stated, passed over’ by Miss Vancourt. That lady had not, he said, written to inform him of her intended return, therefore, — so he argued, — it was not his business to be aware of it.
“Miss Vancourt hasn’t told me anything, and of course I don’t know anything,” he said carelessly, standing in his doorway and keeping his hat on in the minister’s presence; “My work is on the land, and when timber has to be felled it’s my affair and nobody else’s. I’ve been agent on these estates since the Squire’s death, and I don’t want to be taught my duty by any man.”
“But surely your duty does not compel you to cut down five of the finest old trees in England,” said Walden, hotly,— “They have been famous for centuries in this neighbourhood. Have you any right to fell them without special orders?”
“Special orders?” echoed Leach with a sneer; “I’ve had no ‘special order’ for ten years at least! My employers trust me to do what I think best, and I’ve every right to act accordingly. The trees will begin to rot in another eighteen months or so, — just now they’re in good condition and will fetch a fair price. You stick to your church, Parson Walden, — you know all about that, no doubt! — but don’t come preaching to me about the felling of timber. That’s my business, — not yours!”
Walden flushed, and bit his lip. His blood grew warm with indignation, and he involuntarily clenched his fist. But he suppressed his rising wrath with an effort.
“You may as well keep a civil tongue in your head, Mr. Leach — it will do you no harm!” he said quietly; “I have no wish to interfere with what you conceive to be your particular mode of duty, but I think that before you destroy what can never be replaced, you should consult the owner of the trees, Miss Vancourt, especially as her return is fixed for to-morrow.”
“As I told you before, I know nothing about her return,” replied Leach, obstinately; “I am not supposed to know. And whether she’s here or away, makes no difference to me. I know what’s to be done, and I shall do it.”
Walden’s eyes flashed. Strive as he would, he could not disguise his inward contempt for this petty jack-in-office, — and his keen glance was, to the perverse nature of the ill-conditioned boor he addressed, like the lash of a whip on the back of a snarling cur.
“I know what’s to be done, and I shall do it,” Leach repeated in a louder tone; “And all the sentimental rot ever talked in the village about the Five Sisters won’t make me change my mind, — no, nor all the sermons on meek and quiet spirits neither! That’s my last word, Mr. Walden, and you may take it for what it is worth!”
Walden swung round on his heel and went his way without replying. Outwardly, he was calm enough, but inwardly he was in a white heat of anger. His thoughts dwelt with a passionate insistence on the grand old trees with their great canopies of foliage, where hundreds of happy birds annually made their homes, — where, with every recurring Spring, the tender young leaves sprouted forth from the aged gnarled boughs, expressing the joy of a life that had outlived whole generations of men — where, in the long heats of summer broad stretches of shade lay dense on the soft grass, offering grateful shelter from the noon-day sun to the browsing cattle, — and where with the autumn’s breath, the slow and glorious transformation of green leaves to gold, with flecks of scarlet between, made a splendour of colour against the pale grey-blue sky, such as artists dream of and with difficulty realise. All this wealth of God-granted natural beauty, — the growth of centuries, — was to perish in a single morning! Surely it was a crime! — surely it was a wic
ked and wanton deed, for which, there could be no sane excuse offered! Sorrowfully, and with bitterness, did Walden relate to his gardener, Bainton, the failure of his attempt to bring Oliver Leach to reason, — solemnly, and in subdued silence did Bainton hear the tale.
“Well, well, Passon,” he said, when his master had finished; “You doos your best for us, and no man can’t say but what you’ve done it true ever since you took up with this ’ere village, — and you’ve tried to save the Five Sisters, and if ‘tain’t no use, why there’s no more to be said. Josey Letherbarrow was for walkin’ up to the Manor an’ seein’ Miss Vancourt herself, as soon as iver she gets within her own door, — but Lord love ye, he’d take ‘arf a day to jog up there on such feet as he’s got left after long wear and tear, an’ there ain’t no liftin’ ’im into a cart nohow. Sez he to me: ‘I’ll see the little gel wot I used to know, and I’ll tell ‘er as ‘ow the Five Sisters be chalked, an’ she’ll listen to me — you see if she don’t!’ I was rather took with the idee myself, but I sez, sez I: ‘Let alone, Josey, — you be old as Methusaleh, and you can’t get up to the Manor nohow; let Passon try what he can do wi’ Leach,’ — and now you’ve been and done your best, and can’t do nothin’, why we must give it up altogether.”
Walden walked up and down, Ms hands loosely clasped behind his back, lost in thought.
“We won’t give it up altogether, Bainton,” he said; “We’ll try and find some other way—”
“There’s goin’ to be another way,” declared Bainton, significantly; “There’s trouble brewin’ in the village, an’ m’appen when Oliver Leach gets up to the woods to-morrow mornin’ he’ll find a few ready to meet ’im!”
Walden stopped abruptly.
“What do you mean?”
“‘Tain’t for me to say;” and Bainton pretended to be very busy in pulling up one or two plantains from the lawn; “But I tells ye true, Passon, the Five Sisters ain’t goin’ to be laid low without a shindy!”
John’s eyes sparkled. He scented battle, and was not by any means displeased.
“This is Tuesday, isn’t it?” he asked abruptly; “This is the day Miss Vancourt has arranged to return?”
“It is so, sir,” replied Bainton; “and it’s believed the arrangements ‘olds good — for change’er mind as a woman will, ‘er ‘osses an’ groom’s arrived — and a dog as large as they make ’em, which ’is name is Plato.”
Walden gave a slight gesture of annoyance. Here was a fresh cause of antipathy to the approaching Miss Vancourt. No one but a careless woman, devoid of all taste and good feeling, would name a dog after the greatest of Greek philosophers!
“Plato’s a good name,” went on Bainton meditatively, unconscious of the view his master was taking of that name in his own mind; “I’ve ‘eard it somewheres before, though I couldn’t tell just where. And it’s a fine dog. I was up at the Manor this mornin’ lookin’ round the grounds, just to see ‘ow they’d been a-gettin’ on — and really it isn’t so bad considerin’, and I was askin’ a question or two of Spruce, and he showed me the dog lyin’ on the steps of the Manor, lookin’ like a lion’s baby snoozin’ in the sun, and waitin’ as wise as ye like for his mistress. He don’t appear at all put out by new faces or new grounds — he’s took to the place quite nat’ral.”
“You saw Spruce early, then?”
“Yes, sir, I see Spruce, and arter ‘ollerin’ ‘ard at ’im for ‘bout ten minutes, he sez, sez he, as gentle as a child sez he: ‘Yes, the Five Sisters is a-comin’ down to-morrow mornin’, and we’s all to be there a quarter afore six with ropes and axes.’”
John started walking up and down again.
“When is Miss Vancourt expected?” he enquired.
“At tea-time this arternoon,” replied Bainton. “The train arrives at Riversford at three o’clock, if so be it isn’t behind its time, — and if the lady gets a fly from the station, which if she ain’t ordered it afore, m’appen she won’t get it, she’ll be ’ere ‘bout four.”
Instinctively Walden glanced at his watch. It was just two o’clock. Another hour and the antipathetic ‘Squire-ess’ would be actually on her way to the village! He heaved a short sigh. Forebodings of evil infected the air, — impending change, disturbing and even disastrous to St. Rest suggested itself troublously to his mind. Arguing inwardly with himself, he presently began to think that notwithstanding all his attempts to live a Christian life, after the manner Christianly, he was surely becoming a very selfish and extremely narrow-minded man! He was unreasonably, illogically vexed at the return of the heiress of Abbot’s Manor; and why? Why, chiefly because he would no longer be able to walk at liberty in Abbot’s Manor gardens and woods, — because there would be another personality perhaps more dominant than his own in the little village, and because — yes! — because he had a particular aversion to women of fashion, such as Miss Vancourt undoubtedly must be, to judge from the brief exhibition of her wardrobe which, through the guilelessness of Mrs. Spruce, had been displayed before his reluctant eyes.
These objections were after all, so he told himself, really rooted in masculine selfishness, — the absorbing selfishness of old bachelorhood, which had grown round him like a shell, shutting him out altogether from the soft influences of feminine attraction, — so much so indeed that he had even come to look upon his domestic indoor servants as obliging machines rather than women, — machines which it was necessary to keep well oiled with food and wages, but which could scarcely be considered as entering into his actual life more than the lawn-mower or the roasting-jack. Yet he was invariably kind to all his dependants, — invariably thoughtful of all their needs, — nevertheless he maintained a certain aloofness from them, not only because he was by nature reserved, but because he judged reserve necessary in order to uphold respect. In sickness or trouble, no one could be more quietly helpful or consolatory than he; and in the company of children he threw off all restraint and was as a child himself in the heartiness and spontaneity of his mirth and good humour, — but with all women, save the very aged and matronly, he generally found himself at a loss, uncertain what to say to them, and equally uncertain as to how far he might accept or believe what they said to him. The dark eyes of a sparkling brunette embarrassed him as much as the dreamy blue orbs of a lily-like blonde, — they were curious dazzlements that got into his way at times, and made him doubtful as to whether any positive sincerity ever could or ever would lurk behind such bewildering brief flashes of light which appeared to shine forth without meaning, and vanish again without result. And in various ways, — he now began to think, — he must certainly have grown inordinately, outrageously selfish! — his irritation at the prospective return of Miss Vancourt proved it. He determined to brace himself together and put the lurking devil of egotism down.
“Put it down!” he said inwardly and with sternness,— “put it down — trample it under foot, John, my boy! The lady of the Manor is perhaps sent here to try your patience and prove the stuff that is in you! She is no child, — she is twenty-seven years of age — a full grown woman, — she will have her ways, just as you have yours, — she will probably rub every mental and moral hair on the skin of your soul awry, — but that is really just what you want, John, — you do indeed! You want something more irritating than Sir Morton Pippitt’s senile snobberies to keep you clean of an overgrowth or an undergrowth of fads! Your powers of endurance are about to be put to the test, and you must come out strong, John! You must not allow yourself to become a querulous old fellow because you cannot always do exactly as you like!”
He smiled genially at his own mental scolding of himself, and addressing Bainton once more, said:
“I shall probably write a note to Miss Vancourt this afternoon, and send you up with it. I shall tell her all about the Five Sisters, and ask her to give orders that the cutting down of the trees may be delayed till she has seen them for herself. But don’t say anything about this in the village,” here he paused a moment, and then spoke with gre
ater emphasis— “I don’t want to interfere with anything anybody else may have on hand. Do you understand? We must save the old beeches somehow. I will do my best, but I may fail; Miss Vancourt may not read my letter, or if she does, she may not be disposed to attend to it; it is best that all ways and means should be, tried,—”
He broke off, — but his eyes met Bainton’s in a mutual flash of understanding.
“You’re a straight man, Passon, and no mistake,” observed Bainton with a slow smile; “No beatin’ about the bush in the likes o’ you! Lord, Lord! What a mussy we ain’t saddled with a poor snuffling, addle-pated, whimperin’ man o’ God like we ‘ad afore you come ’ere — what found all ’is dooty an’ pleasure in dinin’ with Sir Morton Pippitt up at the ‘All! And when there was a man died, or a baby born, or some other sich like calamity in the village, he worn’t never to ‘and to ‘elp,-but he would give a look in when it was all over, and then he sez, sez he: ‘I’m sorry, my man, I wasn’t ’ere to comfort ye, but I was up at the ‘All.’ And he did roll it round and round in his mouth like as ’twas a lump o’ butter and ‘oney— ‘up at the ‘All’! Hor-hor-hor! It must a’ tasted sweet to ’im as we used to say, — and takin’ into consideration that Sir Morton was a bone- melter by profession, we used to throw up the proverb ‘the nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat’ — not that it had any bearin’ on the matter, but a good sayin’s a good thing, and a proverb fits into a fancy sometimes better’n a foot into a shoe. But you ain’t a snuffler, Passon! — and you ain’t never been up at the ‘All, nor wouldn’t go if you was axed to, and that’s one of the many things what makes you a gineral favourite, — it do reely now!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 596