A RUSTIC APOLLO.
"The marble statue of an antique god
May win our admiration for a time,
Seeing it lacks not any outward grace,
But stands a type of flesh idealised.
Yet as we gaze in silent wonderment,
We weary of the irresponsive stone,
Because the cold perfection wants a soul."
It was without doubt a charming cottage--such as one reads of in a
fairy tale. Clay walls, thatched roof, wide diamond-paned casements,
and twisted chimney, with all the violent colours subdued to a
pleasant neutral tint by the sun and rain, while ivy, rose-trees and
wistaria clambered over all, enclosing it in a network of greenery.
And the garden--oh, it was a most delightful garden; not too neat, but
all the handiwork of man softened by the gentle touch of nature. Tall
hollyhocks, odorous stocks, crimson-tipped daisies, flaunting dahlias,
and staring sunflowers grew together in riotous sweetness, breaking
bounds here and there as they nodded over the low white fence and
bent across the narrow path leading up to the rose-wreathed trellis
of the porch. There was an apple-tree, too, on one side--a gnarled,
moss-tufted apple-tree, already snowy with white blossoms, and on the
other a low-branched cherry-tree, looking like a frosted twelfth cake.
Pigeons fluttered around the eaves of the cottage, fowls strutted
among the flowers, and over all blazed the hot sun of summer from the
cloud-dappled sky. It was really charming in its rustic
picturesqueness, and Mrs. Belswin, pausing at the gate, looked
regretfully at this vision of bucolic ease so far removed from her own
feverish existence.
"If I had been a village girl I might have been a good woman," she
thought, walking up to the porch; "but I daresay I should have tired
of this innocent sweetness and gone up to the evil life of London, as
all village beauties have done."
On knocking at the door it was opened shortly by a tiny woman, old,
shrivelled, and evil-looking enough to have been the witch of the
cottage. Not that Mrs. Belk was ill-looking; on the contrary, she must
have been pretty when young, for she still retained a sufficiency of
beauty to warrant a second glance; but there was a restless look in
her dark eyes, a settled sneer on her thin lips, and a generally
discontented expression on her face which repelled the onlooker. Mrs.
Belswin had an intuitive capability of reading faces, and the first
glance she threw on this little figure with the withered face put her
at once on her guard. On her guard against a cottager! Mrs. Belswin
would have laughed at the idea. Still, the fact remains that Mrs. Belk
bore her character in her face, and Mrs. Belswin at once put herself
on her guard against Mrs. Belk. Hardly probable that these two women
would meet again. The cottager could never have it in her power to
harm the lady; but in spite of the absurdity of the situation, Mrs.
Belswin, with that inherent suspicion created by a long life of
duplicity and watchfulness, did not think it beneath her dignity to
pick and choose her words while talking to this humble woman, in case
chance should turn her into a possible enemy.
"I beg your pardon," she said slowly; "but I am very tired, and would
like to rest."
"There's a public a little way on, ma'am," replied Mrs. Belk,
respectfully, by no means inclined to entertain a stranger.
"I prefer to rest here," said Mrs. Belswin, coolly. "You know me, I
daresay--Miss Pethram's companion."
"Mrs. Belsin?" said the old woman, doubtfully.
"Let the lady come in, mother," remarked the slow soft voice of a man
inside the cottage. "Don't you see she looks tired?"
Whereupon Mrs. Belk with manifest reluctance moved to one side, and
Miss Pethram's companion entered the room to find herself face to face
with the handsomest man she had ever seen. He offered her a chair in
silence, and she sat down thankfully, while Mrs. Belk closed the door,
and the rustic Apollo stood leaning against the table looking at their
visitor.
Handsome! yes; splendidly handsome this man, in a massive Herculean
fashion. One who would be called a magnificent animal; for there was
no intellect in the fresh-coloured face, no intelligence in the bright
blue eyes, and his whole figure had but beauty and symmetry after the
fashion of a brute. He was very tall--over six feet--with long limbs,
a great breadth of chest, and a small, well-shaped head covered with
crisp locks of curly golden hair. His skin was browned by the sun, he
had a well-shaped nose, sleepy blue eyes, and his mouth and chin were
hidden by a magnificent golden beard which swept his chest. Nature had
lavished her gift of physical beauty on this man, but the casket
contained no jewel, for the soul which would have lent light to the
eyes, expression to the mouth, and noble bearing to the body, was
absent, and Samson Belk was simply a fine animal whom one would admire
like a soulless picture, but tire of in a few moments. Mrs. Belswin's
first thought was, "What a handsome man!" her second, "What a brute he
would be to the woman who loved him!"
They were a curious couple, the little withered mother and the tall
handsome son, dissimilar enough in appearance to negative the
relationship except for the expression of the face; for there, in the
countenance of the man, appeared the same expression that pervaded the
face of the woman. The eyes were not so restless, because they had
rather a sleepy expression, the sneer on the lips was hidden by the
drooping moustache, and the general look was more of ill-humour than
discontent: but in spite of the physical difference between them, no
one could have helped noticing, by the worst traits of the woman
appearing in the man, that this splendid specimen of humanity was the
offspring of this dwarfish feminine personality.
"You are Sir Rupert's head bailiff, are you not?" said Mrs. Belswin,
when she had sufficiently admired her host.
"Yes, madam, I have that honour."
He spoke in a slow sleepy voice, eminently attractive, and suited to
his appearance; a voice which, in its languor and oily softness, had
an accent of refinement and culture. Yet this man was a simple rustic,
a bailiff, one of the peasant class. It was most perplexing; and Mrs.
Belswin, clever woman of the world as she was, felt herself puzzled.
She was a woman and inquisitive, so she set herself to work to solve
this problem by a series of artful questions.
"Have you been a bailiff here long?"
"About four years, madam. I was bailiff to Sir Robert, and when Sir
Rupert came into the title he kindly kept me on."
"I should think you were fitted for better things."
Belk gazed at her in a slow, bovine fashion, and a spark of admiration
flashed into his sleepy eyes as he looked at this stately woman who
spoke in such a friendly manner.
"It's very kind of you to say so, madam, but I have no one to say a
good word for me."
"Ah! the rich never say a good word for the poor, my lady," said Mrs.
Belk, with fawning deprecation. "If looks go for anything, my Samson
ought to live in a palace. He's the finest wrestler in all the county,
and the best shot, and the most daring rider----"
"And the poorest man," finished Samson, with a coarse laugh, which
betrayed his real nature. "Aye, aye, mother, if I'd money to play the
swell, I'd cut a dash with the best of these fine, lily-handed gents."
"What would you do?" asked Mrs. Belswin, curious to find out how
different this man's soul was to his body.
"Do!" echoed the giant, folding his arms; "why, madam, I'd keep a fine
stable, and race my horses at the Derby. I'd marry a lady, and have a
fine house with servants, and the finest of wine to drink and food to
eat--that's what I'd do."
"A very modest ambition, truly," said Mrs. Belswin, with a scarcely
concealed sneer. "I presume you would not cultivate your brains."
"I've had enough schooling," growled Belk, stroking his beard. "Mother
made me learn things, and a fine time I had of it."
"You were never a good boy, Samson," said his mother, shaking her head
with a look of pride which belied her words. "Handsome is as handsome
does--that's what I always tells him, my lady."
"If it were handsome does as handsome is, your son would be a clever
man," replied Mrs. Belswin, rising to go.
Neither Mrs. Belk nor Samson were clever enough to understand this
remark, but after a time a faint idea of what she meant dawned on the
obtuse intellect of the giant, and he smiled approvingly.
"Won't you have a glass of milk, my lady?" asked Mrs. Belk, dropping a
curtsey.
"No, thank you!"
"May I have the honour of showing you the nearest way through the
wood, madam?" said Belk, hat in hand, resuming his polite manner, and
languid mode of speaking.
"No, thank you, I know my way," answered Mrs. Belswin, coolly; "many
thanks for your courtesy--good-day."
When she had vanished, Samson Belk stood for some minutes in a brown
study, then, recovering himself with a huge sigh, ordered his mother
to bring him a mug of beer.
"Eh, she's a fine madam that," he said, as he drank the ale; "got a
spice of the devil in her too. I wish I could marry her."
"That wouldn't do much good," said his mother contemptuously, "she's
only a companion. Now if you married Miss Pethram, you'd have all this
place, and be master here."
"Not much chance of that," growled Belk, putting on his hat; "she's in
love with that friend of parson's."
"A whipper-snapper."
"Aye, that he is. I could smash him with one hand; not any great
shakes with money either, as I've heard tell. What'll Sir Rupert say
to his courting?"
"Well, I heard at the great house this morning, that Sir Rupert was on
his way home."
Belk scowled and shook his broad shoulders in an uneasy manner. He did
not like Sir Rupert, who was a severe master, and therefore was not at
all pleased to hear that his term of liberty would soon be over.
"I hope accounts are all right, Samson," said his mother anxiously.
"Let Sir Rupert see you've been a good servant, lad."
"I'm good enough for the wage I get," growled Belk, sulkily; "if Sir
Rupert meddles with me, he'll get the worst of it; I'll stand no man's
handling, d----n me if I do."
He thrust his hands into his pockets and strolled off defiantly.
"Where are you going, lad?" asked his mother, as he paused at the
gate.
"To 'The Badger,'" retorted Mr. Belk, curtly, and hurriedly retreated
so as to escape his parent's expostulations.
"The lad's always there," said Mrs. Belk to herself as she closed the
door; "he's after no good I reckon. Eh, if I could only get some
money, I'd march him off to America, where he could live like a
gentleman. But there's no chance of that while rich folk have the
handling of the money."
Meanwhile, Mrs. Belswin was walking rapidly back to the house,
thinking over the curious couple she had just left.
"Not a bit like the ordinary people," she thought. "The mother's not
to be trusted except as concerns the son, and the son--well, he's
discontented with his lot. I wonder if Rupert finds him a good
servant. He must, or he wouldn't keep him on. But if Mr. Samson Belk
tries any games on with his master, I think he'll get the worst of
it."
"Good-day, Mrs. Belswin."
It was Gelthrip, the curate, who saluted her, a lank lean man, with
a hatchet face, lantern-jawed, and clean shaven, not by any means
what the world would term handsome. Dressed in black he looked like a
crow, and his hoarse voice--for he suffered from clergyman's soar
throat--was not unlike the cawing of those dreary birds. He was a
gossip, and very inquisitive. He supported a sick sister, and
professed High Church principles, and it was lucky that he should have
vowed himself to celibacy, for certainly no woman would have taken him
as her husband. He had long bony hands, and cracked his knuckles in
order to punctuate his sentences, and he talked without ceasing,
mixing up religion, gossip, literature, music, art, and science in one
heterogeneous mass of chatter.
Having drawn the cork of his eloquence by saying Good-day, and
touching his low-crowned hat, Mr. Gelthrip cracked his knuckles
cheerfully, and poured forth a flood of aimless nonsense.
"Good-day! ah, yes, it is a charming day, is it not. The blue of the
sky, with the lark singing so delightfully. You know Shelley's poem do
you not--Yes--Turner might paint that scene. Puts me in mind of his
Vale of Health, and this place by the way, is very healthy--plenty of
oxygen in the air for weak lungs. Ah--ah, my heart swells with
goodness towards the Creator of all things as I drink in the air. I
think I saw you coming out of Belk's cottage, Mrs. Belswin!"
"Yes! I went in there to rest for a few minutes."
"A great contrast, mother and son, Mrs. Belswin. The Witch of Endor
and Apollo, the Far Darter. Yes! but a touching instance of parental
affection, for she is devoted to her son. A devotion of which I regret
to say he's not worthy, Mrs. Belswin, not worthy, my dear lady. He
never comes to church. Passes his time in public-houses, and at
wrestling matches, and horse-races. A most godless young man."
"But surely Sir Rupert objects to this conduct?"
"He does not know, Mrs. Belswin. Belk, in a rough fashion, is crafty,
very crafty, but when the baronet returns I have no doubt he will hear
from others of the behaviour of this misguided young man. I deem it my
duty," continued Mr. Gelthrip, inflating his chest, "to inform Sir
Rupert of his servant's misdeeds."
"I don't think I would do that," said Mrs. Belswin, drily. "Sir Rupert
does not care about his private business being meddled with."
"Ah, you know Sir Rupert then?"
Mrs. Belswin bit her lip in vexation, for she saw that she had made a
mistake, and at once hastened to put herself right in the eyes of this
tale-bearer.
"No! of course not. I only speak from hearsay."
"Sir Rupert," said the curate in a dogmatic fashion, "does not, I
believe, care about the church, therefore, as you say, he may resent
my interference, but I would not be doing my duty as a clergyman if I
did not warn him of the dissipated ways of his bailiff."
"Do you think it is kind to deprive the young man of his situation?"
"In this case, Mrs. Belswin, I do. He is dissipated and neglects his
business. He has the handling of money, and, seeing he is always
betting on races, he may be tempted to--well, you know what I mean."
"I know this, sir," said Mrs. Belswin, with great spirit, "that you
are about to act a most unworthy part. If this man is as you say, warn
him, remonstrate with him, but don't take the bread out of his mouth
by getting him dismissed. Charity covers a multitude of sins. That
remark is in the Bible, I believe. If so, practise what you preach,
and you will be far more respected than if you drive this man to
despair by taking away his only means of livelihood. Good morning."
She bowed and walked off, leaving the curate staring after her with
open mouth, the stream of his eloquence being for once dried up.
Reflections on the part of Mr. Gelthrip.--"Where has this woman been
brought up that she manifests such little reverence for the cloth? A
dangerous woman, I am afraid, and not at all suited to be the
companion of Miss Pethram. I'm afraid I shall have to warn Sir Rupert
about her as well as about Belk. As for Belk! it is my duty--my duty
as a clergyman, to open his master's eyes to the deplorable state of
this young man. He gambles, bets, plays cards, drinks, all these
things entail money, and yet he spends far more than his salary, so I
must warn Sir Rupert of his bailiffs real character. Now, Mrs.
Belswin--ah!"
There was a good deal of spiteful meaning in the curate's "ah," and
there was no doubt that Mrs. Belswin had made a bitter enemy of this
well-meaning but meddlesome young man.
Reflections on the part of Mrs. Belswin.--"I've been preaching a
sermon to a man whose duty it is to preach one to me. Saul among the
prophets this time. I'm not sorry, for I hate those meek young men who
make mischief under the pretence of doing good. Why are these
clergymen so meddlesome? It's none of his business to enlighten Rupert
about Belk. If Belk is dissipated, I know Rupert will find it out
quick enough and discharge him. I shouldn't like to be either Rupert
or the curate if such a thing does come to pass, for Belk is a most
unforgiving man. I can see that in his face. I have made an enemy of
this Rev. Meekness. Well, he can't harm me until Rupert comes home,
and then--ah well, I'll see."