I
It was May-time in England.
The last breath of a long winter had blown its final farewell across
the hills,--the last frost had melted from the broad, low-lying
fields, relaxing its iron grip from the clods of rich, red-brown
earth which, now, soft and broken, were sprouting thick with the
young corn's tender green. It had been a hard, inclement season.
Many a time, since February onward, had the too-eagerly pushing buds
of trees and shrubs been nipped by cruel cold,--many a biting east
wind had withered the first pale green leaves of the lilac and the
hawthorn,--and the stormy caprices of a chill northern. Spring had
played havoc with all the dainty woodland blossoms that should,
according to the ancient 'Shepherd's Calendar' have been flowering
fully with the daffodils and primroses. But during the closing days
of April a sudden grateful warmth had set in,--Nature, the divine
goddess, seemed to awaken from long slumber and stretch out her arms
with a happy smile,--and when May morning dawned on the world, it
came as a vision of glory, robed in clear sunshine and girdled with
bluest skies. Birds broke into enraptured song,--young almond and
apple boughs quivered almost visibly every moment into pink and
white bloom,--cowslips and bluebells raised their heads from mossy
corners in the grass, and expressed their innocent thoughts in
sweetest odour--and in and through all things the glorious thrill,
the mysterious joy of renewed life, hope and love pulsated from the
Creator to His responsive creation.
It was May-time;--a real 'old-fashioned' English May, such as
Spenser and Herrick sang of:
"When all is yclad
With blossoms; the ground with grass, the woodes
With greene leaves; the bushes with blossoming buddes,"
and when whatever promise our existence yet holds for us, seems far
enough away to inspire ambition, yet close enough to encourage fair
dreams of fulfilment. To experience this glamour and witchery of the
flowering-time of the year, one must, perforce, be in the country.
For in the towns, the breath of Spring is foetid and feverish,--it
arouses sick longings and weary regrets, but scarcely any positive
ecstasy. The close, stuffy streets, the swarming people, the high
buildings and stacks of chimneys which only permit the narrowest
patches of sky to be visible, the incessant noise and movement, the
self-absorbed crowding and crushing,--all these things are so many
offences to Nature, and are as dead walls of obstacle set against
the revivifying and strengthening forces with which she endows her
freer children of the forest, field and mountain. Out on the wild
heathery moorland, in the heart of the woods, in the deep bosky
dells, where the pungent scent of moss and pine-boughs fills the air
with invigorating influences, or by the quiet rivers, flowing
peacefully under bending willows and past wide osier-beds, where the
kingfisher swoops down with the sun-ray and the timid moor-hen
paddles to and from her nest among the reeds,--in such haunts as
these, the advent of a warm and brilliant May is fraught with that
tremor of delight which gives birth to beauty, and concerning which
that ancient and picturesque chronicler, Sir Thomas Malory, writes
exultantly: "Like as May moneth flourisheth and flowerth in many
gardens, so in likewise let every man of worship flourish his heart
in this world!"
There was a certain 'man of worship' in the world at the particular
time when this present record of life and love begins, who found
himself very well-disposed to 'flourish his heart' in the Maloryan
manner prescribed, when after many dark days of unseasonable cold
and general atmospheric depression, May at last came in rejoicing.
Seated under broad apple-boughs, which spread around him like a
canopy studded with rosy bud-jewels that shone glossy bright against
the rough dark-brown stems, he surveyed the smiling scenery of his
own garden with an air of satisfaction that was almost boyish,
though his years had run well past forty, and he was a parson to
boot. A gravely sedate demeanour would have seemed the more fitting
facial expression for his age and the generally accepted nature of
his calling,--a kind of deprecatory toleration of the sunshine as
part of the universal 'vanity' of mundane things,--or a
condescending consciousness of the bursting apple-blossoms within
his reach as a kind of inferior earthy circumstance which could
neither be altered nor avoided.
The Reverend John Walden, however, was one of those rarely gifted
individuals who cannot assume an aspect which is foreign to
temperament. He was of a cheerful, even sanguine disposition, and
his countenance faithfully reflected the ordinary bent of his
humour. Seeing him at a distance, the casual observer would at once
have judged him to be either an athlete or an ascetic. There was no
superfluous flesh about him; he was tall and muscular, with well-
knit limbs, broad shoulders, and a head altogether lacking in the
humble or conciliatory 'droop' which all worldly-wise parsons
cultivate for the benefit of their rich patrons. It was a
distinctively proud head,--almost aggressive,--indicative of strong
character and self-reliance, well-poised on a full throat, and set
off by a considerable quantity of dark brown hair which was
refractory in brushing, inclined to uncanonical curls, and
plentifully dashed with grey. A broad forehead, deeply-set, dark-
blue eyes, a straight and very prominent nose, a strong jaw and
obstinate chin,--a firmly moulded mouth, round which many a sweet
and tender thought had drawn kindly little lines of gentle smiling
that were scarcely hidden by the silver-brown moustache,--such,
briefly, was the appearance of one, who though only a country
clergyman, of whom the great world knew nothing, was the living
representative of more powerful authority to his little 'cure of
souls' than either the bishop of the diocese, or the King in all his
majesty.
He was the sole owner of one of the smallest 'livings' in England,--
an obscure, deeply-hidden, but perfectly unspoilt and beautiful
relic of mediaeval days, situated in one of the loveliest of
woodland counties, and known as the village of St. Rest, sometimes
called 'St. Est.' Until quite lately there had been considerable
doubt as to the origin of this name, and the correct manner of its
pronouncement. Some said it should be, 'St. East,' because, right
across the purple moorland and beyond the line of blue hills where
the sun rose, there stretched the sea, miles away and invisible, it
is true, but nevertheless asserting its salty savour in every breath
of wind that blew across the tufted pines. 'St. East,' therefore,
said certain rural sages, was the real name of the village, because
it faced the sea towards the east. Others, however, declared that
the name was derived from the memory of some early Norman church on
the banks of the peaceful river that wound its slow clear length in
pellucid silver ribbons of light round and about the clover fields
and high banks fringed with wild rose and snowy thorn, and that it
should, therefore, be 'St. Rest,' or better still, 'The Saint's
Rest.' This latter theory had recently received strong confirmation
by an unexpected witness to the past,--as will presently be duly
seen and attested.
But St. Rest, or St. Est, whichever name rightly belonged to it, was
in itself so insignificant as a 'benefice,' that its present rector,
vicar, priest and patron had bought it for himself, through the good
offices of a friend, in the days when such purchases were possible,
and for some ten years had been supreme Dictator of his tiny kingdom
and limited people. The church was his,--especially his, since he
had restored it entirely at his own expense,--the rectory, a lop-
sided, half-timbered house, built in the fifteenth century, was
his,--the garden, full of flowering shrubs, carelessly planted and
allowed to flourish at their own wild will, was his,--the ten acres
of pasture-land that spread in green luxuriance round and about his
dwelling were his,--and, best of all, the orchard, containing some
five acres planted with the choicest apples, cherries, plums and
pears, and bearing against its long, high southern wall the finest
peaches and nectarines in the county, was his also. He had, in fact,
everything that the heart of a man, especially the heart of a
clergyman, could desire, except a wife,--and that commodity had been
offered to him from many quarters in various delicate and diplomatic
ways,--only to be as delicately and diplomatically rejected.
And truly there seemed no need for any change in his condition. He
had gone on so far in life,--'so far!' he would occasionally remind
himself, with a little smile and sigh,--that a more or less solitary
habit had, by long familiarity, become pleasant. Actual loneliness
he had never experienced, because it was not in his nature to feel
lonely. His well-balanced intellect had the brilliant quality of a
finely-cut diamond, bearing many facets, and reflecting all the hues
of life in light and colour; thus it quite naturally happened that
most things, even ordinary and common things, interested him. He was
a great lover of books, and, to a moderate extent, a collector of
rare editions; he also had a passion for archaeology, wherein he was
sustained by a certain poetic insight of which he was himself
unconscious. The ordinary archaeologist is generally a mere Dry-as-
Dust, who plays with the bones of the past as Shakespeare's Juliet
fancied she might play with her forefathers' joints, and who eschews
all use of the imaginative instinct as though it were some deadly
evil. Whereas, it truly needs a very powerful imaginative lens to
peer down into the recesses of bygone civilisations, and re-people
the ruined haunts of dead men with their shadowy ghosts of learning,
art, enterprise, or ambition.
To use the innermost eyes of his soul in such looking backward down
the stream of Time, as well as in looking forward to that 'crystal
sea' of the unknown Future, flowing round the Great White Throne
whence the river of life proceeds, was a favourite mental occupation
with John Walden. He loved antiquarian research, and all such
scientific problems as involve abstruse study and complex
calculation,--but equally he loved the simplest flower and the most
ordinary village tale of sorrow or mirth recounted to him by any one
of his unlessoned parishioners. He gave himself such change of air
and scene as he thought he required, by taking long swinging walks
about the country, and found sufficient relaxation in gardening, a
science in which he displayed considerable skill. No one in all the
neighbourhood could match his roses, or offer anything to compare
with the purple and white masses of violets which, quite early in
January came out under his glass frames not only perfect in shape
and colour, but full of the real 'English' violet fragrance, a
benediction of sweetness which somehow seems to be entirely withheld
from the French and Russian blooms. For the rest, he was physically
sound and morally healthy, and lived, as it were, on the straight
line from earth to heaven, beginning each day as if it were his
first life-opportunity, and ending it soberly and with prayer, as
though it were his last.
To such a mind and temperament as his, the influences of Nature, the
sublime laws of the Universe, and the environment of existence, must
needs move in circles of harmonious unity, making loveliness out of
commonness, and poetry out of prose. The devotee of what is
mistakenly called 'pleasure,'--enervated or satiated with the sickly
moral exhalations of a corrupt society,--would be quite at a loss to
understand what possible enjoyment could be obtained by sitting
placidly under an apple-tree with a well-thumbed volume of the
wisdom of the inspired pagan Slave, Epictetus, in the hand, and the
eyes fixed, not on any printed page, but on a spray of warmly-
blushing almond blossom, where a well-fed thrush, ruffling its
softly speckled breast, was singing a wild strophe concerning its
mate, which, could human skill have languaged its meaning, might
have given ideas to a nation's laureate. Yet John Walden found
unalloyed happiness in this apparently vague and vacant way. There
was an acute sense of joy for him in the repeated sweetness of the
thrush's warbling,--the light breeze, stirring through a great bush
of early flowering lilac near the edge of the lawn, sent out a wave
of odour which tingled through his sensitive blood like wine,--the
sunlight was warm and comforting, and altogether there seemed
nothing wrong with the world, particularly as the morning's
newspapers had not yet come in. With them would probably arrive the
sad savour of human mischief and muddle, but till these daily morbid
records made their appearance, May-day might be accepted as God made
it and gave it,--a gift unalloyed, pure, bright and calm, with not a
shadow on its lovely face of Spring. The Stoic spirit of Epictetus
himself had even seemed to join in the general delight of nature,
for Walden held the book half open at a page whereon these words
were written:
"Had we understanding thereof, would any other thing better beseem
us than to hymn the Divine Being and laud Him and rehearse His
gracious deeds? These things it were fitting every man should sing,
and to chant the greatest and divinest hymns for this, that He has
given us the power to observe and consider His works, and a Way
wherein to walk. If I were a nightingale, I would do after the
manner of a nightingale; if a swan, after that of a swan. But now I
am a reasoning creature, and it behooves me to sing the praise of
God; this is my task, and this I do, nor as long as it is granted
me, will I ever abandon this post. And you, too, I summon to join me
in the same song."
"A wonderfully 'advanced' Christian way of looking at life, for a
pagan slave of the time of Nero!" thought Walden, as his eyes
wandered from the thrush on the almond tree, back to the volume in
his hand,--"With all our teaching and preaching, we can hardly do
better. I wonder---"
Here his mind became altogether distracted from classic lore, by the
appearance of a very unclassic boy, clad in a suit of brown
corduroys and wearing hob-nailed boots a couple of sizes too large
for him, who, coming suddenly out from a box-tree alley behind the
gabled corner of the rectory, shuffled to the extreme verge of the
lawn and stopped there, pulling his cap off, and treading on his own
toes from left to right, and from right to left in a state of
sheepish hesitancy.
"Come along,--come along! Don't stand there, Bob Keeley!" And Walden
rose, placing Epictetus on the seat he vacated--"What is it?"
Bob Keeley set his hob-nailed feet on the velvety lawn with gingerly
precaution, and advancing cap in hand, produced a letter, slightly
grimed by his thumb and finger.
"From Sir Morton, please sir! Hurgent, 'e sez."
Walden took the missive, small and neatly folded, and bearing the
words 'Badsworth Hall' stamped in gold at the back of the envelope.
Opening it, he read:
"Sir Morton Pippitt presents his compliments to the Reverend John
Walden, and having a party of distinguished guests staying with him
at the Hall, will be glad to know at what day and hour this week he
can make a visit of inspection to the church with his friends."
A slight tinge of colour overspread Walden's face. Presently he
smiled, and tearing up the note leisurely, put the fragments into
one of his large loose coat pockets, for to scatter a shred of paper
on his lawn or garden paths was an offence which neither he nor any
of those he employed ever committed.
"How is your mother, Bob?" he then said, approaching the stumpy
urchin, who stood respectfully watching him and awaiting his
pleasure.
"Please sir, she's all right, but she coughs 'orful!"
"Coughs 'orful, does she?" repeated the Reverend John, musingly;
"Ah, that is bad!--I am sorry! We must--let me think!--yes, Bob, we
must see what we can do for her--eh?"
"Yes, sir," replied Bob meekly, turning his cap round and round and
wondering what 'Passon' was thinking about to have such a 'funny
look' in his eyes.
"Yes!" repeated Walden, cheerfully, "We must see what we can do for
her! My compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, Bob, and say I will
write."
"Nothink else, sir?"
"Nothing--or as you put it, Bob, 'nothink else'! I wish you would
remember, my dear boy,"--and here he laid his firm, well-shaped hand
protectingly on the small brown corduroy shoulder,--"that the word
'nothing' does not terminate in a 'k.' If you refer to your
spelling-book, I am sure you will see that I am right. The
Educational authorities would not approve of your pronunciation,
Bob, and I am endeavouring to save you future trouble with the
Government. By the way, did Sir Morton Pippitt give you anything for
bringing his note to me?"
"Sed he would when I got back, sir."
"Said he would when you got back? Well,--I have my doubts, Bob,--I
do not think he will. And the labourer being worthy of his hire,
here is sixpence, which, if you like to do a sum on your slate, you
will find is at the rate of one penny per mile. When you are a
working man, you will understand the strict justice of my payment.
It is three miles from Badsworth Hall and three back again,--and now
I come to think of it, what were you doing up at Badsworth?"
Bob Keeley grinned from ear to ear.
"Me an' Kitty Spruce went up on spec with a Maypole early, sir!"
John Walden smiled. It was May morning,--of course it was!--and in
the village of St. Rest the old traditional customs of May Day were
still kept up, though in the county town of Riversford, only seven
miles away, they were forgotten, or if remembered at all, were only
used as an excuse for drinking and vulgar horse-play.
"You and Kitty Spruce went up on spec? Very enterprising of you
both, I am sure! And did you make anything out of it?"
"No, sir,--there ain't no ladies there, 'cept Miss Tabitha,--onny
some London gents,--and Sir Morton, 'e flew into an orful passion--
like 'e do, sir,--an' told us to leave off singin' and git out,--
'Git off my ground,' he 'ollers--'Git off!'--then jest as we was a
gittin' off, he cools down suddint like, an' 'e sez, sez 'e: 'Take a
note to the dam passon for me, an' bring a harnser, an' I'll give
yer somethink when yer gits back.' An' all the gents was a-sittin'
at breakfast, with the winders wide open an' the smell of 'am an'
eggs comin' through strong, an' they larfed fit to split
theirselves, an' one on 'em tried to kiss Kitty Spruce, an' she
spanked his face for 'im!"
The narration of this remarkable incident, spoken with breathless
rapidity in a burst of confidence, seemed to cause the relief
supposed to be obtained by a penitent in the confessional, and to
lift a weight off Bob Keeley's mind. The smile deepened on the
'Passon's' face, and for a moment he had some difficulty to control
an outbreak of laughter, but recollecting the possibly demoralising
effect it might have on the more youthful members of the community,
if he, the spiritual director of the parish, were reported to have
laughed at the pugnacious conduct of the valiant Kitty Spruce, he
controlled himself, and assumed a tolerantly serious air.
"That will do, Bob!--that will do! You must learn not to repeat all
you hear, especially such objectionable words as may occasionally be
used by a--a--a gentleman of Sir Morton Pippitt's high standing."
And here he squared his shoulders and looked severely down an the
abashed Keeley. Anon he unbent himself somewhat and his eyes
twinkled with kindly humour: "Why didn't you bring the Maypole
here?" he enquired; "I suppose you thought it would not be as good a
'spec as Badsworth Hall and the London gents--eh?"
Bob Keeley opened his round eyes very wide.
"We be all comin' 'ere, sir!" he burst out: "All on us--ever so many
on us! But we reckoned to make a round of the village first and see
how we took on, and finish up wi' you, sir! Kitty Spruce she be a-
keepin' her best ribbin for comin' 'ere--we be all a-comin' 'fore
twelve!"
Walden smiled.
"Good! I shall expect you! And mind you don't all sing out of tune
when you do come. If you commit such an offence, I shall--let me
see!--I shall make mincemeat of you!--I shall indeed! Positive
mincemeat!--and bottle you up in jars for Christmas!" And he nodded
with the ferociously bland air of the giant in a fairy tale, whose
particular humour is the devouring of small children. "Now you had
better get back to Badsworth Hall with my message. Do you remember
it? My compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, and I will write."
He turned away, and Bob Keeley made as rapid a departure as was
consistent with the deep respect he felt for the 'Passon,' having
extracted a promise from the butcher boy of the village, who was a
friend of his, that if he were 'quick about it,' he would get a
drive up to Badsworth and back again in the butcher's cart going
there for orders, instead of tramping it.
The Reverend John, meanwhile, strolled down one of the many winding
garden paths, past clusters of daffodils, narcissi and primroses,
into a favourite corner which he called the 'Wilderness,' because it
was left by his orders in a more or less untrimmed, untrained
condition of luxuriantly natural growth. Here the syringa, a name
sometimes given by horticultural pedants to the lilac, for no reason
at all except to create confusion in the innocent minds of amateur
growers, was opening its white 'mock orange' blossoms, and a mass of
flowering aconites spread out before him like a carpet of woven
gold. Here, too, tufts of bluebells peeked forth from behind the
moss-grown stems of several ancient oaks and elms, and purple
pansies bordered the edge of the grass. A fine old wistaria grown in
tree-form, formed a natural arch of entry to this shady retreat, and
its flowers were just now in their full beauty, hanging in a
magnificent profusion of pale mauve, grapelike bunches from the
leafless stems. Many roses, of the climbing or 'rambling' kind, were
planted here, and John Walden's quick eye soon perceived where a
long green shoot of one of those was loose and waving in the wind to
its own possible detriment. He felt in his pockets for a bit of
roffia or twine to tie up the straying stem,--he was very seldom
without something of the kind for such emergencies, but this time he
only groped among the fragments of Sir Morton Pippitt's note and
found nothing useful. Stepping out on the path again, he looked
about him and caught a glimpse of a stooping, bulky form in weather-
beaten garments, planting something in one of the borders at a
little distance.
"Bainton!" he called.
The figure slowly raised itself, and as slowly turned its head.
"Sir!"
"Just come here and tie this rose up, will you?"
The individual addressed approached at a very deliberate pace,
dragging out some entangled roffia from his pocket as he came and
severing it into lengths with his teeth. Walden partly prepared his
task for him by holding up the rose branch in the way it should go,
and on his arrival assisted him in the business of securing it to
the knotty bough from which it had fallen.
"That looks better!" he remarked approvingly, as he stepped back and
surveyed it. "You might do this one at the same time while you are
about it, Bainton."
And he pointed to a network of 'Crimson rambler' rose-stems which
had blown loose from their moorings and were lying across the grass.
"This place wants a reg'ler clean out," remarked Bainton then, in
accents of deep disdain, as he stooped to gather up the refractory
branches: "It beats me altogether, Passon, to know what you wants
wi' a forcin' bed for weeds an' stuff in the middle of a decent
garden. That old Wistaria Sinyens (Sinensis) is the only thing here
that is worth keeping. Ah! Y'are a precious sight, y'are!" he
continued, apostrophising the 'rambler' branches--"For all yer green
buds ye ain't a-goin' to do much this year! All sham an' 'umbug,
y'are!--all leaf an' shoot an' no flower,--like a great many people
I knows on--ah!--an' not so far from this village neither! I'd clear
it all out if I was you, Passon,--I would reely now!"
Walden laughed.
"Don't open the old argument, Bainton!" he said good-humouredly; "We
have talked of this before. I like a bit of wild Nature sometimes."
"Wild natur!" echoed Bainton. "Seems to me natur allus wants a bit
of a wash an' brush up 'fore she sits down to her master's table;--
an' who's 'er master? Man! She's jest like a child comin' out of a
play in the woods, an' 'er 'air's all blown, an' 'er nails is all
dirty. That's natur! Trim 'er up an' curl 'er 'air an' she's worth
looking at. Natur! Lor', Passon, if ye likes wild natur ye ain't got
no call to keep a gard'ner. But if ye pays me an' keeps me, ye must
'spect me to do my duty. Wherefore I sez: why not 'ave this 'ere
musty-fusty place, a reg'ler breedin' 'ole for hinsects, wopses,
'ornits, snails an' green caterpillars--ah! an' I shouldn't wonder
if potato-fly got amongst 'em, too!--why not, I say, have it cleaned
out?"
"I like it as it is," responded Walden with cheerful
imperturbability, and a smile at the thick-set obstinate-looking
figure of his 'head man about the place' as Bainton loved to be
called. "Have you planted out my phloxes?"
"Planted 'em out every one," was the reply; "Likewhich the Delphy
Inums. An' I've put enough sweet peas in to supply Covint Garden
market, bearin' in mind as 'ow you sed you couldn't have enough on
'em. Sir Morton Pippitt's Lunnon valet came along while I was a-
doin' of it, an' 'e peers over the 'edge an' 'e sez, sez 'e:
'Weedin' corn, are yer?' 'No, ye gowk,' sez I! 'Ever seen corn at
all 'cept in a bin? Mixed wi' thistles, mebbe?' An' then he used a
bit of 'is master's or'nary language, which as ye knows, Passon, is
chice--partic'ler chice. 'Evil communications c'rupts good manners'
even in a valet wot 'as no more to do than wash an' comb a man like
a 'oss, an' pocket fifty pun a year for keepin' of 'is haristocratic
master clean. Lor'!--what a wurrld it is!--what a wurrld!"
He had by this time tied up the 'Crimson rambler' in orderly
fashion, and the Reverend John, stroking his moustache to hide a
smile, proceeded to issue various orders according to his usual
daily custom.
"Don't forget to plant some mignonette in the west border, Bainton.
Not the giant kind,--the odour of the large blooms is rough and
coarse compared with that of the smaller variety. Put plenty of the
'common stuff' in,--such mignonette as our grandmothers grew in
their gardens, before you Latin-loving horticultural wise-acres
began to try for size rather than sweetness."
Bainton drew himself up with a quaint assumption of dignity, and by
lifting his head a little more, showed his countenance fully,--a
countenance which, though weather-worn and deeply furrowed, was a
distinctly intelligent one, shrewd and thoughtful, with sundry
little curves of humour lighting up its native expression of
saturnine sedateness.
"I suppose y'are alludin' to the F.R.H.'s, Passon," he said; "They
all loves Latin, as cats loves milk; howsomever, they never knows
'ow to pronounce it. Likewhich myself not bein' a F.R.H. nor likely
to be, I'm bound to confess I dabbles in it a bit,--though there's a
chap wot I gets cheap shrubs of, his Latin's worse nor mine, an'
'e's got all the three letters after 'is name. 'Ow did 'e get 'em?
By reason of competition in the Chrysanthum Show. Lor'! Henny fool
can grow ye a chrysanthum as big as a cabbage, if that's yer fancy,-
-that ain't scientific gard'nin'! An' as for the mignonette, I
reckon to agree wi' ye, Passon--the size ain't the sweetness,
likewhich when I married, I married a small lass, for sez I: 'Little
to carry, less to keep!' An' that's true enough, though she's gained
in breadth, Lor' love 'er!--wot she never 'ad in heighth. As I was
a-sayin', the chap wot I gets shrubs of, reels off 'is Latin like
chollops of mud off a garden scraper; but 'e don't understand it
while 'e sez it. Jes' for show, bless ye! It all goes down wi' Sir
Morton Pippitt, though, for 'e sez, sez 'e: 'MY cabbages are the
prize vegetable, grown by Mr. Smogorton of Worcester, F.R.H.' 'E's
got it in 'is Catlog! Hor!--hor!--hor! Passon, a bit o' Latin do go
down wi' some folks in the gard'nin' line--it do reely now!"
"Talking of Sir Morton Pippitt," said Walden, disregarding his
gardener's garrulity, "It seems he has visitors up at the Hall."
"'E 'as so," returned Bainton; "Reg'ler weedy waifs an' strays o'
'umanity, if one may go by out'ard appearance; not a single firm,
well-put-down leg among 'em. Mos'ly 'lords' and 'sirs.' Bein' so
jes' lately knighted for buildin' a 'ospital at Riversford, out of
the proceeds o' bone meltin' into buttons, Sir Morton couldn't a'
course, be expected to put up wi' a plain 'mister' takin' food wi'
'im."
"Well, well,--whoever they are, they want to see the church."
"Seems to me a sight o' folks wants to see the church since ye spent
so much money on it, Passon," said Bainton somewhat resentfully;
"There oughter be a charge made for entry."
Walden smiled thoughtfully; but there was a small line of vexation
on his brow.
"They want to see the church," he repeated, "Or rather Sir Morton
wants them to 'inspect' the church;"--and then his smile expanded
and became a soft mellow laugh; "What a pompous old fellow it is!
One would almost think he had restored the church himself, and not
only restored it, but built it altogether and endowed it!" He turned
to go, then suddenly bethought himself of other gardening matters,--
"Bainton, that bare corner near the house must be filled with
clematis. The plants are just ready to bed out. And look to the
geraniums in the front border. By the way, do you see that straight
line along the wall there,--where I am pointing?"
"Yes, sir!" dutifully rejoined Bainton, shading his eyes from the
strong sun with one grimy hand.
"Well, plant nothing but hollyhocks there,--as many as you can cram
in. We must have a blaze of colour to contrast with those dark yews.
See to the jessamine and passion-flowers by the porch; and there is
a 'Gloire' rose near the drawing-room window that wants cutting back
a bit." He moved a step or two, then again turned: "I shall want you
later on in the orchard,--the grass there needs attending to."
A slow grin pervaded Bainton's countenance.
"Ye minds me of the 'Oly Scripter, Passon, ye does reely now!" he
said--"Wi' all yer different orders an' idees, y'are behavin' to me
like the very moral o' the livin' Wurrd!"
Walden looked amused.
"How do you make that out?"
"Easy enough, sir,--'The Scripter moveth us in sun'ry places'! Hor!-
hor!-hor!--"and Bainton burst into a hoarse chuckle of mirth,
entirely delighted with his own witticism, and walked off, not
waiting to see whether its effect on his master was one of offence
or appreciation. He was pretty sure of his ground, however, for he
left John Walden laughing, a laugh that irradiated his face with
some of the sunshine stored up in his mind. And the sparkle of mirth
still lingered in his eyes as, crossing the lawn and passing the
seat where the volume of Epictetus lay, now gratuitously decorated
by a couple of pale pink shell-like petals dropped from the apple-
blossoms above it, he entered his house, and proceeding to his study
sat down and wrote the following brief epistle:
"The Reverend John Walden presents his compliments to Sir Morton
Pippitt, and in reply to his note begs to say that, as the church is
always open and free, Sir Morton and his friends can 'inspect' it at
any time provided no service is in progress."
Putting this in an envelope, he sealed and stamped it. It should go
by post, and Sir Morton would receive it next morning. There was no
need for a 'special messenger,' either in the person of Bob Keeley,
or in the authorised Puck of the Post Office Messenger-service.
"For there is not the slightest hurry," he said to himself: "It will
not hurt Sir Morton to be kept waiting. On the contrary, it will do
him good. He had it all his own way in this parish before I came,--
but now for the past ten years he has known what it is to 'kick
against the pricks' of legitimate Church authority. Legitimate
Church authority is a fine thing! Half the Churchmen in the world
don't use it, and a goodly portion of the other half misuse it. But
when you've got a bumptious, purse-proud, self-satisfied old county
snob like Sir Morton Pippitt to deal with, the pressure of the iron
hand should be distinctly exercised under the velvet glove!"
He laughed heartily, throwing back his head with a sense of
enjoyment in his laughter. Then, rising from his desk, he turned
towards the wide latticed doors of his study, which opened into the
garden, and looked out dreamily, as though looking across the world
and far beyond it. The sweet mixed warbling of birds, the thousand
indistinguishable odours of flowers, made the air both fragrant and
musical. The glorious sunshine, the clear blue sky, the rustling of
the young leaves, the whispering swish of the warm wind through the
shrubberies,--all these influences entered the mind and soul of the
man and aroused a keen joy which almost touched the verge of
sadness. Life pulsated about him in such waves of creative passion,
that his own heart throbbed uneasily with Nature's warm
restlessness; and the unanswerable query which, in spite of his high
and spiritual faith had often troubled him, came back again
hauntingly to his mind,--"Why should Life be made so beautiful only
to end in Death?"
This was the Shadow that hung over all things; this was the one
darkness he and others of his calling were commissioned to transfuse
into light,--this was the one dismal end for all poor human
creatures which he, as a minister of the Gospel was bound to try and
represent as not an End but a Beginning,--and his soul was moved to
profound love and pity as he raised his eyes to the serene heavens
and asked himself: "What compensation can all the most eloquent
teaching and preaching make to men for the loss of the mere
sunshine? Can the vision of a world beyond the grave satisfy the
heart so much as this one perfect morning of May!"
An involuntary sigh escaped him. The beating wings of a swallow
flying from its nest under the old gabled eaves above him flashed a
reflex of quivering light against his eyes; and away in the wide
meadow beyond, where the happy cattle wandered up to their fetlocks
in cowslips and lush grass, the cuckoo called with cheerful
persistence. One of old Chaucer's quaintly worded legends came to
his mind,--telling how the courtly knight Arcite,
"Is risen, and looketh on the merrie daye
All for to do his observance to Maye,--
And to the grove of which that I you told,
By aventure his way he gan to hold
To maken him a garland of the greves,
Were it of woodbind or of hawthorn leaves,
And loud he sung against the sunny sheen,--
'O Maye with all thy flowers and thy green,
Right welcome be thou, faire, freshe, Maye!
I hope that I some green here getten may!"
Smiling at the antique simplicity and freshness of the lines as they
rang across his brain like the musical jingle of an old-world
spinet, his ears suddenly caught the sound of young voices singing
at a distance.
"Here come the children!" he said; and stepping out from his open
window into the garden, he again bent his ear to listen. The
tremulous voices came nearer and nearer, and words could now be
distinguished, breaking through the primitive quavering melody of
'The Mayers' Song' known to all the country side since the
thirteenth century:
"Remember us poor Mayers all.--
And thus do we begin,
To lead our lives in righteousness,
Or else we die in sin.
We have been rambling all this night,
And almost all this day,
And now returning back again,
We bring you in the May.
The hedges and trees they are so green,
In the sunne's goodly heat,
Our Heavenly Father He watered them
With His Heavenly dew so sweet.