The long lazy afternoons of July, full of strong heat and the intense perfume of field-flowers, had never seemed so long and lazy to John Walden as during this particular summer. He felt as if he had nothing in the world to do,—nothing to fill up his life and make it worth living. All his occupations seemed to him very humdrum,—his garden, now ablaze with splendid bloom and colour, looked tawdry, he thought; it had been much prettier in spring-time when the lilac was in blossom. There was not much pleasure in punting,—the river was too glassy and glaring in the sun,—the water dripped greasily from the pole like warm oil—besides, why go punting when there was nobody but one's self to punt? Whether it was his own idle fancy, or a fact, he imagined that the village of St. Rest and its villagers had, in some mysterious way, become separated from him. Everybody in the place, or nearly everybody, had something to do for Miss Vancourt, or else for one or other of Miss Vancourt's guests. Everything went 'up to the Manor '—or came 'down from the Manor'—the village tradespeople were all catering for the Manor— and Mr. Netlips, the grocer, driving himself solemnly ever to Riversford one day, came back with a board—'a banner with a strange device'—painted in blue letters on a white ground, which said:
PETROL STORED HERE.
This startling announcement became a marvel and a fascination to the eyes of the villagers, every one of them coming out of their houses to look at it, directly it was displayed.
"You'll be settin' the 'ouse on fire, Mr. Netlips, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Frost, severely, putting her arms akimbo, and sniffing at the board as though she could smell the spirit it proclaimed—"You don't know nothink about petrol! An' we ain't goin' to have motor-cars often 'ere, please the Lord's goodness!"
Mr. Netlips smiled a superior smile.
"My good woman,"—he said, with his most magisterial air—"if you will kindly manage your own business, which is that of pruning the olive and uprooting the vine, and leave me to manage my establishment as the reversible movement of the age requires, it will be better for the equanimity of the gastritis."
"Good Lord!" and Mrs. Frost threw up her hands—"You're a fine sort of man for a grocer, with your reversibles and your gastritis! What in the world are you talking about?"
Mr. Netlips, busy with the unpacking of a special Stilton cheese which he was about to send 'up to the Manor,' waved her away with one hand.
"I am talking above your head altogther, Mrs. Frost,"—he said, placidly—"I know it! I am aware that my consonances do not tympanise on your brain. Good afternoon!"
"Petrol Stored Here!"—said Bainton, standing squat before the announcement, as he returned from his day's work—"Hor-hor-hor! Hor- hor! I say, Mr. Netlips, don't blow us all into the middle of next week. Where does ye store it? Out in the coal-shed? It's awful 'spensive, ain't it?"
"It is costly,"—admitted Mr. Netlips, with a grandiose manner, implying that even if it had cost millions he would have been equal to 'stocking' it—"But the traveling aristocrat does not interrogate the lucrative matter."
"Don't he?" and Bainton scratched his head ruminatively. "I s'pose you knows what you means, Mr. Netlips, an' you gen'ally means a lot. Howsomever, I thought you was dead set against aristocrats anyway— your pol'tics was for what you call masses,—not classes, nor asses neither. Them was your sentiments not long ago, worn't they?"
Mr. Netlips drew himself up with an air of offended dignity.
"You forestall me wrong, Thomas Bainton,"—he said—"And I prefer not to amplify the conference. A sentiment is no part of a political propinquity."
With that, he retired into the recesses of his 'general store,' leaving Bainton chuckling to himself, with a broad grin on his weatherbeaten countenance.
The 'Petol' board displayed on the front of Mr. Netlips' shop, however, was just one of those slight indications which showed the vague change that had crept over the erstwhile tranquil atmosphere of St. Rest. Among other signs and tokens of internal disquiet was the increasing pomposity of the village post-mistress, Mrs. Tapple. Mrs. Tapple had grown so accustomed to various titles and prefixes of rank among the different guests who came in turn to stay at the Manor, that whereas she had at one time stood in respectful awe of old Pippitt because he was a 'Sir,' she now regarded him almost with contempt. What was a 'Sir' to a 'Lord'? Nothing!—less than nothing! For during one week she had sold stamps to a real live Marquis and post-cards to a 'Right Honourable,' besides despatching numerous telegrams for the Countess of Beaulyon. By all the gods and little fishes, Sir Morton Pippitt had sunk low indeed!—for when Mrs. Tapple, bridling with scorn, said she 'wondered 'ow a man like 'im wot only made his money in bone-boilin' would dare to be seen with Miss Vancourt's real quality' it was felt that she was expressing an almost national sentiment.
Taking everything into consideration, it was not to be denied that the new element infused into the little village community had brought with it a certain stir and excitement, but also a sense of discontent. And John Walden, keenly alive to every touch of feeling, was more conscious of the change than many another man would have been who was not endowed with so quick and responsive a nature. He noted the quaint self-importance of Mrs. Tapple with a kindly amusement, not altogether unmixed with pain,—he watched regretfully the attempts made by the young girls of his little parish to trick themselves out with cheap finery imported from the town of Riversford, in order to imitate in some fashion, no matter how far distant, the attire of Lady Beaulyon, whose dresses were a wonder, and whose creditors were legion,—and he was sincerely sorry to see that even gentle and pretty Susie Prescott had taken to a new mode of doing her hair, which, though elaborate, did not suit her at all, and gave an almost bold look to an otherwise sweet and maidenly countenance.
"But I am old,—and old-fashioned too!"—he said to himself, resignedly—"The world must move on—and as it moves it is bound to leave old times behind it—and me with them. I must not complain— nor should I, even in my own heart, find too many reproaches for the ways of the young."
And involuntarily he recalled Tennyson's lines:—
"Only 'dust to dust' for me that sicken at your lawless din,— Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the newer world begin!"
"'Wholesome old-world dust'!" he mused—"Yes! I think it WAS more wholesome than our too heavily manured soil!"
And a wave of pained regret and yearning arose in him for the days when life was taken more quietly, more earnestly, more soberly—with the trust and love of God inspiring the soul to purity and peace— when to find a woman who was at the same time an atheist was a thing so abnormal and repulsive as to excite the utmost horror in society. Society! why, now, many women in society were atheists, and made no secret of their shame!
"I must not dwell on these thoughts,"—he said, resolutely. "The sooner I see Brent, the better. I've accepted his invitation for the last week of this month—I can be spared then for two or three days- -indeed, I doubt whether I shall even be missed! The people only want me on Sundays now—and—though I do try not to notice it,—a good many of the congregation are absent from their usual places."
He sighed. He would not admit to himself that it was Maryllia Vancourt—'Maryllia Van'—or rather her guests who had exercised a maleficent influence on his little cure of souls, and that because the 'quality' did not go to church on Sundays, then some of the villagers,—like serfs under the sway of nobles,—stayed away also. He realised that he had given offence to this same 'quality,' by pausing in his reading, when they entered late on the one occasion they did attend divine service,—but he did not care at all for that. He knew, that the truth of the mischief wrought by the idle, unthinking upper classes of society, is always precisely what the upper classes do not want to hear;—and he was perfectly aware in his own mind that his short, but explicit sermon, on the 'Soul,' had not been welcome to any one of his aristocratic hearers, while it had been a little over the heads of his own parishioners.
"Mere waste of words!" he mused, with a kind of self-reproach—"I don't know why I chose the text or subject at all. Yes—yes!—I do know! Why do I play the deceiver with myself! She was there—so winsome—so pretty!—and her soul is sweet and pure;—it must be sweet and pure, if it can look out of such clear windows as her eyes. Let all the world go, but keep that soul, I thought!—and so I spoke as I did. But I think she scarcely listened—it was all waste of time, waste of words,—waste of breath! I shall be glad to see dear old Brent again. He wants to talk to me, he says—and I most certainly want to talk to him. After the dinner-party at the Manor, I shall be free. How I dread that party! How I wish I were not going! But I have promised her—and I must not break my word!"
He began to think about one or two matters that to him were not altogether pleasing. Chief among these was the fact that Sir Morton Pippitt had driven over twice now 'to inspect the church'— accompanied by Lord Roxmouth, and the Reverend 'Putty' Leveson. Once Lord Roxmouth had left his card at the rectory, and had written on it: 'Wishing to have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Walden'—a pleasure which had not, so far, been gratified. Walden understood that Lord Roxmouth was, or intended to be, the future husband of Miss Vancourt. He had learned something of it from Bishop Brent's letter- -but now that his lordship was staying as a guest at Badsworth Hall, rumour had spread the statement so very generally that it was an almost accepted fact. Three days had been sufficient to set the village and county talking;—Roxmouth and his tools never did their mischievous work by halves. John Walden accepted the report as others accepted it—only reserving to himself an occasion to ask Miss Vancourt if it were indeed true. Meantime, he kept himself apart from the visitors—he had no wish to meet Lord Roxmouth— though he knew that a meeting was inevitable at the forthcoming dinner-party at Abbot's Manor. Bainton had that dinner-party on his mind as well as his master. He had heard enough of it on all sides. Mrs. Spruce had gabbled of it, saying that 'what with jellies an' ices an' all the things as has to be thought of an' got in ready,' she was 'fair mazed an' moithered.' And she held forth on the subject to one of her favourite cronies, Mrs. Keeley, whose son Bob was still in a state of silent and resentful aggressiveness against the 'quality' for the death of his pet dog.
"It's somethin' too terrible, I do assure you!" she said—"the way these ladies and gentlemen from Lunnon eats fit to bust themselves! When they fust came down, I sez to cook, I sez—'Lord bless 'em, they must 'ave all starved in their own 'omes'—an' she laughed—she 'avin 'sperience, an' cooked for 'ouse-parties ever since she learned makin' may'nases [mayonnaise] which she sez was when she was twenty, an' she's a round sixty now, an' she sez, 'Lor, no! It do frighten one at first wot they can put into their stummicks, Missis Spruce, but don't you worry—you just get the things, and they'll know how to swaller 'em.' Well now, Missis Keeley, if you'll b'lieve me"—and here Mrs. Spruce drew a long breath and began to count on her fingers—"This is 'ow we do every night for the visitors, makin' ready for hextras, in case any gentleman comes along in a motor which isn't expected—fust we 'as horduffs—-"
"Save us!" exclaimed Mrs. Keeley—"What's they?"
"Well I calls 'em kickshaws, but the right name is horduffs, Primmins sez, bein' a butler he should know the French, an' 'tis a French word, an' it's nothin' but little dishes 'anded round, olives an' anchovies, an' sardines an' messes of every kind, enough to make ye sick to look at 'em—they swallers 'em, an' then we sends in soup—two kinds, white an' clear. They swallers THAT, an' the fish goes in—two kinds—the old Squire never had but one—THAT goes down, an' then comes the hentreys. Them's sometimes two—sometimes four—it just depends on the number we 'as at table. They'se all got French names—there's nothing plain English about them. But they'se only bits o' meat an' fowl, done up in different ways with sauces an' vegetables, an' the quality eats 'em up as though they was two bites of an apple. Then we sends in the roast and b'iled—and they takes good cuts off both—then there's game,—now that's nearly allus all eat up, for I like to pick a bone now and then myself if it comes down on a dish an' no one else wants it—but there's never a morsel left for me, I do assure you! Then comes puddings an' sweets—then cheese savouries—then ices—an' then coffee—an' all the time the wine's a-goin', Primmins sez, every sort, claret, 'ock, chably, champagne,—an' the Lord alone He knows wot their poor insides feels like when 'tis all a-mixin' up together an' workin' round arterwards. But, as I sez, 'tain't no business o' mine if the fash'nables 'as trained their stummicks to be like the ostriches which eats, as I'm told, 'ard iron nails with a relish, I onny know I should 'a' bin dead an' done with long ago if I put a quarter of the stuff into me which they puts into theirselves, while some of the gentlemen drinks enough whiskey an' soda to drown 'em if 'twas all put in a tub at once—-"
"But Miss Vancourt," interrupted Mrs. Keeley, who had been listening to her friend's flow of language in silent wonder,—"She don't eat an' drink like that, do she?"
"Miss Maryllia, bless 'er 'art, sits at her table like a little queen,"—said Mrs. Spruce, with emotion—"Primmins sez she don't eat scarce nothin', and don't say much neither. She just smiles pretty, an' puts in a word or two, an' then seems lookin' away as if she saw somethink beautiful which nobody else can see. An' that Miss Cicely Bourne, she's just a pickle!—'ow she do play the comic, to be sure!—she ran into the still-room the other day an' danced round like a mad thing, an' took off all the ladies with their airs an' graces till I nearly died o' larfin'! She's a good little thing, though, takin' 'er all round, though a bit odd in 'er way, but that comes of bein' in France an' learnin' music, I expect. But I really must be goin'—there's heaps an' heaps to do, but by an' by we'll have peace an' quiet again—they're all a-goin' next week."
"Well, I shan't be sorry!"—and Mrs. Keeley gave a short sigh of satisfaction—"I'm fair sick o' seein' them motor-cars whizzin' through the village makin' such a dust an' smell as never was,—an' I'm sure there's no love lost 'tweens Missis Frost an' me, but it do make me worrited like when that there little Ipsie goes runnin' out, not knowin' whether she mayn't be run over like my Bob's pet dog. For the quality don't seem to care for no one 'cept theirselves—an' it ain't peaceful like nor safe as 'twas 'fore they came. An' I s'pose we'll be seein' Miss Maryllia married next?"
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 Roxmouth, 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.
"Well done, Maryllia!" she murmured, as she saw her friend enter on Roxmouth's arm—"Cold as a ray of the moon, but doing her social duty to the bitter end! What a tom-cat Roxmouth is!—a sleek pussy, sure to snarl if his fur is rubbed up the wrong way—but he is just the type that some women would like to marry—he looks so well-bred. Poor Mr. Walden!—he's got to talk to the Everlasting-Youth lady,— and old Sir Morton Pippitt is immediately opposite to him!—now that's too bad of Maryllia!—it really is! She knows how the bone- boiler longs to boil Mr. Walden's bones, and that Mr. Walden wishes Sir Morton Pippitt were miles away from him! They shouldn't have faced each other. But how very, very superior to all the lot Mr. Walden looks!—he really IS handsome!—he has such an intellectual head. There's Gigue chattering away to poor old Miss Fosby!—oh dear! Miss Fosby will never understand him! What a motley crew! And I shall have to sing to them all after they've dined! Saint Moses! It will be a sort of 'first appearance in England.' A good test, too, because all the English eat nearly to bursting before they go to the opera. No wonder they never can grasp what the music is about, or who's who! It's all salmon and chicken and lobster and champagne with them—not Beethoven or Wagner or Rossini. Good old Gigue! His spirits are irrepressible! How he is laughing! Mr. Walden looks very serious—almost tragic—I wonder what he is thinking about! I wish I could hear what they are all saying—but it's nothing but buzz, buzz!"
She took a sip at her 'cordial,' watching with artistic appreciation the gay scene in the Manor dining-room—the twinkling lights on the silver and glass and flowers—the elegant dresses of the women,—the jewels that flashed like starbeams on the lovely neck and shoulders of Lady Beaulyon,—the ripples of gold-auburn in Maryllia's hair,— it was a picture that radiated with a thousand colours on the eye and the brain, and was certainly one destined, so far as many of those who formed a part of it were concerned, never to be forgotten. Not that there was anything very remarkable or brilliant in the conversation at the dinner-table,—there never is nowadays. Peeple dine with their friends merely to eat, not to talk. One never by any chance hears so much even as an echo of wit or wisdom. Occasionally a note of scandal is struck,—and more often than not, a questionable anecdote is related, calculated to bring 'a blush to the cheek of the Young Person,' if a Young Person who can blush still exists, and happens to be present. But as a rule, the general habitude of the dining class is to discourse in a very desultory and inconsequential, not to say stupid, style, and the guests at the Manor proved no exception to the rule. Sir Morton Pippitt fired off bumptious observations at Walden, who paid no heed to them—Bruce Ittlethwaite of Ittlethwaite Park, found a congenial spirit in Lord Charlemont, and talked sport right through the repast—and Louis Gigue enlivened the table by a sudden discussion with Mr. Marius Longford, relative to the position of art in Great Britain.
"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, with a snap of his fingers—"Ze art is dead in Angleterre,—zere is no musique, ze poesie. Zis is ze land of ze A-penny journal—ze musique, ze poesie, ze science, ze politique, ze sentiment,—one A-penny! Bah! Ca, ce, n'est pas possible!—zis pauvre pays is kill avec ze vulgarite of ze cheap! Ze people are for ze cheap—for ze photographic, instead of ze picture- -ze gramophone, instead of ze artist fingers avec ze brain—et ze literature—it is ze cheap 'imitation de Zola,' qui obtient les eloges du monde critique a Londres. Vous ecrivez?"—and he shook his finger at Longford—"Bien'! Ecrivez un roman qui est sain, pure et noble—et ze A-penny man vill moque de ca—mais—ecrivez of ze dirt of ze human naturel, et voila! Ze A-penny man say 'Bon! Ah que c'est l'art! Donnes moi l'ordure que je peux sentir! C'est naturel! C'est divin! C'est l'art!'"
A murmur, half of laughter, half of shocked protest, went round the table.
"I think," said Mr. Longford, with a pale smile—"that according to the school of the higher criticism, we must admit the natural to be the only divine."
Gigue's rolling eyes gleamed under his shaggy hair.
"Je ne comprends pas!"—he said—"Ven ze pig squeak, c'est naturel— ce n'est pas divin! Ven ze man scratch ze flea, c'est naturel—ce n'est pas divin! Ze art ne desire pas ze picture of ze flea! Ze literature n'existe pas pour ze squeak of ze pig! Ah, bah! L'art,— c'est l'imagination—l'ideal—c'est le veritable Dieu en l'homme!"
Longford gave vent to a snigger, which was his way of laughing.
"God is an abstract illusion,"—he said—"One does not introduce a non-available quantity in the summing up of facts!"
"Ah! Vous ne croyez pas en Dieu?" And Gigue ruffled up his grey hair with one hand. "Mais—a quoi bon! Ca ne sert rien! Dieu pent exister sans votre croyance, Monsieur!—je vous jure!"
And he laughed—a hearty laugh that was infectious and carried the laughter of everyone else with it. Longford, irritated, turned to his next neighbour with some trite observation, and allowed the discussion to drop. But Walden had heard it, and his heart went out to Gigue for the manner in which he had, for the moment at least, quenched the light of the 'Savage and Savile.'
Up at the end of the table at which he, Walden, sat, things were of rather a strained character. Lord Roxmouth essayed to be witty and conversational, but received so little encouragement in his sallies from Maryllia, that he had to content himself with Lady Wicketts, whom he found a terrible bore. Sir Morton Pippitt, eating heartily of everything, was gradually becoming purple in the face and somnolent under the influence of wine and food,—Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, tired of trying to 'draw' Walden on sundry topics, got cross and impatient, the more so as she found that he could make himself very charming to the other people in his immediate vicinity, and that, as the dinner proceeded, he 'came out' as it were, very unexpectedly in conversation, and proved himself not only an intellectually brilliant man, but a socially entertaining one. Lord Roxmouth glanced at him curiously from time to time with growing suspicion and disfavour. He was not the kind of subservient, half hypocritical, mock-meek being that is conventionally supposed to represent a country 'cure.' His independent air, his ease of manner, and above all, his intelligence and high culture, were singularly displeasing to Lord Roxmouth, especially as he noticed that Maryllia listened to everything Walden said, and appeared to be more interested in his observations than in those of anyone else at the table. Exchanging a suggestive glance with Lady Beaulyon, Roxmouth saw that she was taking notes equally with himself on this circumstance, and his already hard face hardened, and grew colder and more inflexible as Walden, with a gaiety and humour irresistibly his own, kept the ball of conversation rolling, and gradually drew to his own strong and magnetic personality, the appreciative attention of nearly all present.
Truth to tell, a sudden exhilaration and excitement had wakened up John's latent forces,—Maryllia's eyes, glancing half timidly, half wistfully at him, and her fair face, slightly troubled in its expression, had moved him to an exertion of his best powers to please her, and make everything bright and gay around her. Instinct told him that some secret annoyance fretted her—and watching her looks, and noting the monosyllabic replies she gave to Lord Roxmouth whenever that distinguished personage addressed her, he decided, with a foolish thrill at his heart, that the report of her intended marriage with this nobleman could not be true—she could never look so coldly at anyone she loved! And with this idea paramount in his brain he gave himself up to the humour of the hour—and by and by heads were turned in his direction, and people whispered—'Is that the parson of the parish?'—and when the answer was given in the affirmative, wondering glances were exchanged, and someone at the other end of the table remarked sotto voce:—'Much too brilliant a man for the country!'—whereat Miss Arabella Ittlethwaite bridled up and said she 'hoped nobody thought that town offered the only samples of the human brain worth noticing,' as she would, in that case, 'beg to differ.' Whereat there ensued a lively discussion, which ended, so far as the general experience went, in the decision that clever men were always born or discovered in the country, but that after a while they invariably went up to town, and there became famous.
Presently, the dinner drawing to an end, dessert, coffee and the smoking conveniences for both ladies and gentlemen were handed round,—cigars for the gentlemen, cigarettes for both gentlemen and ladies. All the women helped themselves to cigarettes, as a matter of course, with the exception of Miss Ittlethwaite,—(who, as a 'county' lady of the old school, sat transfixed with horror at the bare idea of being expected to smoke)—poor old Miss Fosby, and Maryllia. And now occurred an incident, in itself trifling, but fraught with strange results to those immediately concerned. Lady Beaulyon was just about to light her own cigarette when, in obedience to a sudden thought that flashed across her brain, she turned her lovely laughing face round towards Walden, and said:
"As there's a clergyman present, I'm sure we ought to ask his permission before we light up! Don't you think it very shocking for women to smoke, Mr. Walden?"
He looked straight at her—his face paling a little with a sense of strongly suppressed feeling.
"I have always been under the impression that English ladies never smoke,"—he said, quietly, with a very slight emphasis on the word 'ladies.' "The rest, of course, must do as they please!"
Had a bombshell suddenly exploded in the dining-room, the effect could hardly have been more stupefying than these words. There was an awful pause. The women, holding the unlit cigarettes delicately between their fingers, looked enquiringly at their hostess. The men stared; Lord Roxmouth laughed.
Maryllia turned white as a snowdrop—but her eyes blazed with sudden amazement, indignation and pride that made lightning in their tender blue. Then,—deliberately choosing a cigarette from the silver box which had been placed on the table before her, she lit it,—and began to puff the smoke from her rosy lips in delicate rings, turning to Lord Roxmouth as she did so with a playful word and smile. It was enough;—the 'lead' was given. A glance of approval went the round of her London lady guests—who, exonerated by her prompt action from all responsibility, lighted their cigarettes without further ado, and the room was soon misty with tobacco fumes. Not a word was addressed to Walden,—a sudden mantle of fog seemed to have fallen over him, covering him up from the consciousness of the company, for no one even glanced at him, except covertly,—no one appeared to have heard or noticed his remark. Lord Charlemont looked, as he felt, distressed. In his heart he admired Walden for his boldness in speaking out frankly against a modern habit of women which he also considered reprehensible,—but at the same time he recognised that the reproof had perhaps been administered too openly. Walden himself sat rigid and very pale—he fully realised what he had done,—and he knew he was being snubbed for it—but he did not care.
"Better so!"—he said to himself in an inward rage—"Better that I should never see her again than see her as she is now! She wrongs herself!—and I cannot be a silent witness of her wrong, even though it is wrought by her own hand!"
The buzz of talk now grew more loud and incessant;—he saw Sir Morton Pippitt's round eyes fixed upon him with an astonished and derisive stare,—and he longed for the moment to come when he might escape from the whole smoking, chattering party. All that his own eyes consciously beheld was Maryllia—Maryllia, the dainty, pretty, delicate feminine creature who seemed created out of the finest mortal and spiritual essences,—smoking! That cigarette stuck in her pretty mouth, vulgarised her appearance at once,—coarsened her— made her look as if she were indeed the rapid 'Maryllia Van' his friend Bishop Brent had written of. What did he care if not a soul at that table ever spoke to him again? Nothing! But he cared—oh, he cared greatly for any roughening touch on that little figure of smooth white and rose flesh, which somehow he had, unconsciously to himself, set in a niche for thoughts higher than common! He was quite aware that he had committed a social error, yet he was sorry she could not have reproved him in some other fashion than that of deliberately doing what he had just condemned as unbecoming to a lady. And his mind was in a whirl, when at last she rose to give the signal to adjourn, passing out of the dining-room without a glance in his direction.
The moment she had vanished, he at once prepared to leave, not only the room, but the house. No one offered to detain him. The men were all too conscious of what they considered his 'faux pas'—and they were also made rather uncomfortable by the decided rebuff he had received from their hostess. Yet they all liked him, and were, in their way, sorry for what had occurred. Lord Roxmouth, with the easy assurance of one who is conscious of his own position, remarked with kindly banter:—
"Won't you stay with us, Mr. Walden? Are you obliged to go?"
Walden looked at him unflinchingly, yet with a smile.
"When a man elects to speak his mind, Lord Roxmouth, his room is better than his company!"
And with this he left them—to laugh at him if they chose—caring little whether they did or not. Passing into the hall, he took his hat and coat,—he was angry with himself, yet not ashamed,—for something in his soul told him that he had done rightly, even as a minister of the Gospel, to utter a protest against the vulgarising of womanhood. He stepped out into the courtyard—the moon was rising, and the air was very sweet and cool.
"I was wrong!"—he said, half aloud—"And yet I was right! I should not have said what I did,—and yet I should! If no man is ever bold enough to protest again the voluntary and fast-increasing self- degradation of women, then men will be most to blame if the next generation of wives and mothers are shameless, unsexed, indecorous, and wholly unworthy of their life's mission. How angry she looked! Possibly she will never speak to me again. Well, what does it matter! The wider apart our paths are set, the better!"
He reached the gate of the courtyard, and was about to pass through it, when a little fluttering figure in white, with crimson in its rough dark hair, rushed after him. It was Cicely.
"Don't go, please Mr. Walden!" she said, breathlessly; and he saw, even by the light of the moon, that her eyes were wet—"Please don't go! Maryllia wishes to speak to you."
He turned a pale, composed face upon her.
"Where?"
"In the picture-gallery. She is alone there. She saw you cross the courtyard, and sent me after you. All the other people are in the drawing-room, waiting to hear me sing—and I must run, for Gigue is there, and he is so impatient! Please, Mr. Walden!"—and Cicely's voice shook—"Please don't mind if Maryllia is angry! She IS angry! But it's all on the surface—she doesn't really mean it—she wouldn't be unkind for all the world! I know what you said,—I was watching the dinner-party from the ante-room and I saw everything— and—and—I think you were just splendid!—it's horrid for women to smoke—but they nearly all do it nowadays—only I never saw Maryllia do it before, and oh, Mr. Walden, make it all right with her, please!"
For a moment John hesitated. Then a kind smile softened his features.
"I can't quite promise that, Cicely,—but I'll do my best!" And taking her hand he patted it gently, as she furtively dashed one or two tear-drops from her lashes—"Come, come, you mustn't cry! Run away and sing like the little nightingale you are—don't fret—-"
"But you'll go to Maryllia, won't you?" she urged, anxiously.
"Yes. I'll go!"
She lifted her dark eyes, and he saw how true and full of soul they were, despite their witch-like wildness and passion. Just then a stormy passage of music, played on the piano, and tumbling out, as it seemed, on the air through the open windows of the Manor drawing- room, reminded her that she was being waited for by her impetuous and impatient maestro.
"That's the signal for me!" she said—"I must run! But oh do, do make it up with Maryllia and be friends!"
She rushed away. He waited till she had disappeared, then turning back through the courtyard, slowly re-entered the house.
