II

For a moment or two Walden found himself smitten by so strong a

sense of the mere simple sensuous joy of living, that he could do no

more than stand looking in silent admiration at the pretty group of

expectant young creatures gathered round the Maypole, and huddled,

as it were, under its cumbrous crown of dewy blossoms, which showed

vividly against the clear sky, while the long streamers of red,

white and blue depending from its summit, trailed on the daisy-

sprinkled grass at their feet.

Every little face was familiar and dear to him. That awkward lad,

grinning from ear to ear, with a particularly fine sprig of

flowering hawthorn in his cap, was Dick Styles;--certainly a very

different individual to Chaucer's knight, Arcite, but resembling him

in so far that he had evidently gone into the woods early, moved by

the same desire: "I hope that I some green here getten may!" That

tiny girl, well to the front, with a clean white frock on and no hat

to cover her tangle of golden curls, was Baby Hippolyta,--the last,

the very last, of the seemingly endless sprouting olive branches of

the sexton, Adam Frost. Why the poor child had been doomed to carry

the name of Hippolyta, no one ever knew. When he, Walden, had

christened her, he almost doubted whether he had heard the lengthy

appellation aright, and ventured to ask the godmother of the

occasion to repeat it in a louder voice. Whereupon 'Hip-po-ly-ta'

was uttered in such strong tones, so thoroughly well enunciated,

that he could no longer mistake it, and the helpless infant,

screaming lustily, left the simple English baptismal font burdened

with a purely Greek designation. She was, however, always called

'Ipsie' by her playmates, and even her mother and father, who were

entirely responsible for her name in the first instance, found it

somewhat weighty for daily utterance and gladly adopted the simpler

sobriquet, though the elders of the village generally were rather

fond of calling her with much solemn unction: 'Baby Hippolyta,' as

though it were an elaborate joke. Ipsie was one of the loveliest

children in the village, and though she was only two-and-a-half

years old, she was fully aware of her own charms. She was pushed to

the front of the Maypole this morning, merely because she was

pretty,--and she knew it. That was why she lifted the extreme edge

of her short skirt and put it in her mouth, thereby displaying her

fat innocent bare legs extensively, and smiled at the Reverend John

Walden out of the uplifted corners of her forget-me-not blue eyes.

Then there was Bob Keeley, more or less breathless with excitement,

having just got back again from Badsworth Hall, his friend the

butcher boy having driven him to and from that place 'in a jiffy' as

he afterwards described it,--and there was a very sparkling,

smiling, vivacious little person of about fifteen, in a lilac cotton

frock, who wore a wreath of laburnum on her black curls, no other

than Kitty Spruce, generally alluded to in the village as 'Bob

Keeley's gel';--and standing near Baby Hippolyta, or 'Ipsie,' was

the acknowledged young beauty of the place, Susie Prescott, a slip

of a lass with a fair Madonna-like face, long chestnut curls and

great, dark, soft eyes like pansies filled with dew. Susie had a

decided talent for music,--she sang very prettily, and led the

village choir, under the guidance of Miss Janet Eden, the

schoolmistress. This morning, however, she was risking the duties of

conductorship on her own account, and very sweet she looked in her

cheap white nuns-veiling gown, wearing a bunch of narcissi

carelessly set in her hair and carrying a flowering hazel-wand in

her hand, with which she beat time for her companions as they

followed her bird-like carolling in the 'Mayers' Song.' But just now

all singing had ceased,--and every one of the children had their

round eyes fixed on John Walden with a mingling of timidity,

affection and awe that was very winning and pretty to behold.

Taking in the whole picture of nature, youth and beauty, as it was

set against the pure background of the sky, Walden realised that he

was expected to say something,--in fact, he had been called upon to

say something every year at this time, but he had never been able to

conquer the singular nervousness which always overcame him on such

occasions. It is one thing to preach from a pulpit to an assembled

congregation who are prepared for orthodoxy and who are ready to

listen with more or less patience to the expounding of the same,--

but it is quite another to speak to a number of girls and boys all

full of mirth and mischief, and as ready for a frolic as a herd of

young colts in a meadow. Especially when it happens that most of the

girls are pretty, and when, as a clergyman and director of souls,

one is conscious that the boys are more or less all in love with the

girls,--that one is a bachelor,--getting on in years too;--and that-

-chiefest of all--it is May-morning! One may perhaps be conscious of

a contraction at the heart,--a tightening of the throat,--even a

slight mist before the eyes may tease and perplex such an one--who

knows? A flash of lost youth may sting the memory,--a boyish craving

for love and sympathy may stir the blood, and may make the gravest

parson's speech incoherent,--for after all, even a minister of the

Divine is but a man.

At any rate the Reverend John found it difficult to begin. The round

forget-me-not eyes of Baby Hippolyta stared into his face with

relentless persistency,--the velvet pansy-coloured ones of Susie

Prescott smiled confidingly up at him with a bewildering

youthfulness and unconsciousness of charm; and the mischief-loving

small boys and village yokels who stood grouped against the Maypole

like rough fairy foresters guarding magic timber, were, with all the

rest of the children, hushed into a breathless expectancy, waiting

eagerly for 'Passon' to speak. And 'Passon' thereupon began,--in the

lamest, feeblest, most paternally orthodox manner:

"My dear children--"

"Hooray! Hooray! Three cheers for 'Passon'! Hooray!"

Wild whooping followed, and the Maypole rocked uneasily, and began

to slant downward in a drunken fashion, like a convivial giant whom

strong wine has made doubtful of his footing.

"Take care, you young rascals!" cried Walden, letting sentiment,

orthodoxy and eloquence go to the winds,--"You will have the whole

thing down!"

Peals of gay laughter responded, and the nodding mass of bloom was

swiftly pulled up and assisted to support its necessary horizontal

dignity. But here Baby Hippolyta suddenly created a diversion. Moved

perhaps by the consciousness of her own beauty, or by the general

excitement around her, she suddenly waved a miniature branch of

hawthorn and emitted a piercing yell.

"Passon! Tum 'ere! Passon! Tum 'ere!"

There was no possibility of 'holding forth' after this. A. short

address on the brevity of life, as being co-equal with the

evanescent joys of a Maypole, would hardly serve,--and a fatherly

ambition as to the unbecoming attitude of mendi-cancy assumed by

independent young villagers carrying a great crown of flowers round

to every house in the neighbourhood, and demanding pence for the

show, would scarcely be popular. Because what did the 'Mayers' Song

say:

"The Heavenly gates are opened wide, Our paths are beaten plain; And

if a man be not too far gone, He may return again."

And the 'Heavenly gates' of Spring being wide open, the Reverend

John, thought his special path was 'beaten plain' for the occasion;

and not being 'too far gone' either in bigotry or lack of heart,

John did what he reverently imagined the Divine Master might have

done when He 'took a little child and set it in the midst." He

obeyed Baby Hippolyta's imperious command, and to her again loudly

reiterated "Passon! Tum 'ere!" he sprang forward and caught her up

in his arms, kissing her rosy cheeks heartily as he did so. Seated

in 'high exalted state' upon his shoulder. 'Ipsie' became Hippolyta

in good earnest, so thoroughly aware was she of her dignity, while,

holding her as lightly and buoyantly as he would have held a bird,

the Reverend John turned his smiling face on his young parishioners.

"Come along, boys and girls!" he exclaimed,--"Come and plant the

Maypole in the big meadow yonder, as you did last year! It is a

holiday for us all to-day,--for me as well as for you! It has always

been a holiday even before the days when great Elizabeth was Queen

of England, and though many dear old customs have fallen into disuse

with the changing world, St. Rest has never yet been robbed of its

May-day festival! Be thankful for that, children!--and come along;--

but move carefully!--keep order,--and sing as you come!"

Whereupon Susie Prescott lifted up her pretty voice again and her

hazel wand baton at the same moment, and started the chorus with the

verse:

"We have been rambling all this night, And almost all this day; And

now returning back again, We bring you in the May!"

And thus carolling, they passed through the garden moving meadow-

wards, Walden at the head of the procession,--and Baby Hippolyta

seated on his shoulder, was so elated with the gladsome sights and

sounds, that she clasped her chubby arms round 'Passon's' neck and

kissed him with a fervour that was as fresh and delightful as it was

irresistibly comic.

Bainton, making his way along the southern wall of the orchard, to

take a 'glance round' as he termed it, at the condition of the wall

fruit-trees before his master joined him on the usual morning tour

of inspection, stopped and drew aside to watch the merry procession

winding along under the brown stems dotted with thousands of red

buds splitting into pink-and-white bloom; and a slow smile moved the

furrows of his face upward in various pleasant lines as he saw the

'Passon' leading it with a light step, carrying the laughing 'Ipsie'

on his shoulder, and now and again joining in the 'Mayers' Song'

with a mellow baritone voice that warmed and sustained the whole

chorus.

"There 'e goes!" he said half aloud--"Jes' like a boy!--for all the

wurrld like a boy! I reckon 'e's got the secret o' never growin'

old, for all that 'is 'air's turnin' a bit grey. 'Ow many passons in

this 'ere neighbrood would carry the children like that, I wonder?

Not one on 'em!--though there's a many to pick an' choose from--a

darned sight too many if you axes my opinion! Old Putty Leveson,

wi's bobbin' an' 'is bowin's to the east--hor!--hor!--hor!--a fine

east 'e's got in 'is mouldy preachin' barn, wi' a whitewashed wall

an' a dirty bit o' tinsel fixed up agin it--he wouldn't touch a

child o' ourn, to save 'is life--though 'e's got three or four mean,

lyin' pryin' brats of 'is own runnin' wild about the place as might

jest as well 'ave never been born. And as for Francis Anthony, the

'igh pontiff o' Riversford, wi's big altar-cloak embrided for 'im by

all the poor skinny spinsters wot ain't never 'ad no chance to

marry--'e'd see all the children blowed to bits under the walls of

Jericho to the sound o' the trumpets afore 'e'd touch 'em! Talk o'

saints!--I'm not very good at unnerstannin' that kind o' folk, not

seein' myself 'owever a saint could manage to get on in this mortal

wurrld; but I reckon to think there's a tollable imitation o' the

real article in Passon Walden--the jolly sort o' saint, o' coorse,--

not the prayin', whinin', snuffin' kind. 'E's been doin' nothin' but

good ever since 'e came 'ere, which m'appen partly from 'is not

bein' married. If 'e'd gotten a wife, the place would a' been awsome

different. Not but wot 'e ain't a bit cranky over 'is, flowers

'isself. But I'd rather 'ave 'im fussin' round than a petticut arter

me. A petticut at 'ome's enough, an' I ain't complainin' on it,

though it's a bit breezy sometimes,--but a petticut in the gard'nin'

line would drive me main wild--it would reely now!"

And still smiling with perfect complacency, he watched the Maypole

being carried carefully along the space of grass left open between

the fruit trees on either side of the orchard, and followed its

bright patch of colour and the children's faces and forms around it,

till it entirely disappeared among the thicker green of a clump of

elms that bordered the 'big meadow,' which Walden generally kept

clear of both crops and cattle for the benefit of the village sports

and pastimes.

He was indeed the only land-owner in the district who gave any

consideration of this kind to the needs of the people. St. Rest was

surrounded on all sides by several large private properties, richly

wooded, and possessing many acres of ploughed and pasture land, but

there was no public right-of-way across any single one of them, and

every field, every woodland path, every tempting dell was rigidly

fenced and guarded from 'vulgar' intrusion. None of the proprietors

of these estates, however, appeared to take the least personal joy

or pride in their possessions. They were for the most part away in

London for 'the season' or abroad 'out' of the season,--and their

extensive woods appeared to exist chiefly for the preservation of

game, reared solely to be shot by a few idle louts of fashion during

September and October, and also for the convenience and support of a

certain land agent, one Oliver Leach, who cut down fine old timber

whenever he needed money, and thought it advisable to pocket the

proceeds of such devastation.

Scarcely in one instance out of a hundred did the actual owners of

property miss the trees sufficiently to ask what had become of them.

So long as the game was all right, they paid little heed to the

rest. The partridges and the pheasants thrived, and so did Mr.

Oliver Leach. He enjoyed, however, the greatest unpopularity of any

man in the neighbourhood, which was some small comfort to those who

believed in the laws of compensation and justice. Bainton was his

particular enemy for one, and Bainton's master, John Walden, for

another. His long-practised 'knavish tricks' and the malicious

delight he took in trying to destroy or disfigure the sylvan beauty

of the landscape by his brutish ignorance of the art of forestry,

combined with his own personal greed, were beginning to be well-

known in St. Rest, and it is very certain that on May-morning when

the youngsters of the village were abroad and, to a great extent,

had it all their own way, (aided and abetted in that way by the

recognised authority of the place, the minister himself,) he would

never have dared to show his hard face and stiffly upright figure

anywhere, lest he should be unmercifully 'guyed' without a chance of

rescue or appeal.

With the disappearance of the Maypole into the further meadow,

Bainton likewise disappeared on his round of duty, which, as he had

declared, moved him 'in sundry places,' and for a little while the

dove-like spirit of Spring brooded in restful silence over the quiet

orchard and garden.

The singing of the May-day children had now grown so faint and far

as to be scarcely audible,--and the call of the cuckoo shrilling

above the plaintive murmur of the wood pigeons, soon absorbed even

the echo of the young human voices passing away. A light breeze

stirred the tender green grass, shaking down a shower of pink almond

bloom as it swept fan-like through the luminous air,--a skylark half

lost in the brilliant blue, began to descend earthwards, flinging

out a sparkling fountain of music with every quiver of his jewel-

like wings, and away in the sheltered shade of a small hazel copse,

the faint fluty notes of a nightingale trembled with a mysterious

sweetness suggestive of evening, when the song should be full.

More than an hour elapsed, and no living being entered the seclusion

of the parson's garden save Nebbie, the parson's rough Aberdeen

terrier, who, appearing suddenly at the open study-window, sniffed

at the fair prospect for a moment, and then, stepping out with a

leisurely air of proprietorship lay down on the grass in the full

sunshine. A wise-looking dog was Nebbie,--though few would have

thought that his full name was Nebuchadnezzar. Only the Reverend

John knew that. Nebbie was perfectly aware that the children had

come with the Maypole, and that his master had accompanied them to

the big meadow. Nebbie also knew that presently that same master of

his would return again to make the circuit of the garden in the

company of Bainton, according to custom,--and as he stretched his

four hairy paws out comfortably, and blinked his brown eyes at a

portly blackbird prodding in the turf for a worm within a stone's

throw of him, he was evidently considering whether it would be worth

his while, as an epicurean animal, to escort these two men on their

usual round on such a warm pleasant morning. For it was a dog's real

lazy day,--a day when merely to lie on the grass was sufficient

satisfaction for the canine mind. And Nebbie, yawning extensively,

and stretching himself a little more, closed his eyes in a rapture

of peace, and stirred his tail slightly with one, two, three mild

taps on the soft grass, when a sudden clear whistle caused him to

spring up with every hair bristling on end, fore-paws well forward

and eyes wide open.

"Nebbie! Nebbie!"

Nebbie was nothing if not thoroughbred, and the voice of his master

was, despite all considerations of sleep and sunshine, to him as the

voice of the commanding officer to a subaltern. He was off like a

shot at a tearing pace, nose down and tail erect, and in less than a

minute had scented Walden in the shrubbery, which led by devious

windings down from the orchard to the banks of the river Rest, and

there finding him, started frantically gambolling round and round

him, as though years had parted man and dog from one another,

instead of the brief space of an hour. Walden was smiling to

himself, and his countenance was extremely pleasant. Nebbie, with

the quaint conceit common to pet animals, imagined that the smile

was produced specially for him, and continued his wild jumps and

barks till his red tongue hung a couple of inches out of his mouth

with excess of heat and enthusiasm.

"Nebbie! Nebbie!" said the Reverend John, mildly; "Don't make such a

noise! Down, lad, down!"

Nebbie subsided, and on reaching the river bank, squatted on his

haunches, with his tongue still lolling out, while he watched his

master step on a small floating pier attached by iron chains and

posts to the land, and bend therefrom over into the clear water,

looking anxiously downward to a spot he well knew, where hundreds of

rare water-lilies were planted deep in the bed of the stream.

"Nymphea Odorata,"--he murmured, in the yearning tone of a lover

addressing his beloved;--"Nymphea Chromatella--now I wonder if I

shall see anything of them this year! The Aurora Caroliniana must

have been eaten up by water-rats!"

Nebbie uttered a short bark. The faintest whisper of 'rats'

seriously affected his nerves. He could have told his master many a

harrowing story of those mischievous creatures swimming to and fro

in the peaceful flood, tearing with their sharp teeth at the lily

roots, and making a horrible havoc of all the most perfect buds of

promise. The river Rest itself was so clear and bright that it was

difficult to associate rats with its silver flowing,--yet rats there

were, hiding among the osiers and sedges, frightening the moorhens

and reed-warblers out of their little innocent lives. Nebbie caught

and killed them whenever he could,--but he had no particular taste

for swimming, and he was on rather 'strained relations' with a pair

of swans who, with a brood of cygnets kept fierce guard on the

opposite bank against all unwelcome intrusion.

His careful examination of the lily beds done, John Walden sprang

back again from the pier to the land, and there hesitated a moment.

His eyes rested longingly on a light punt, which, running half out

of a rustic boathouse, swayed suggestively on the gleaming water.

"I wish I had time,--" he said, half aloud, while Nebbie wagging his

tail violently, sat waiting and expectant. The river looked

deliciously tempting. The young green of the silver birches drooping

above its shining surface, the lights and shadows rippling across it

with every breath of air,--the skimming of swallows to and fro,--the

hum of bees among the cowslips, thyme and violets that were pushing

fragrantly through the clipped turf,--were all so many wordless

invitations to him to go forth into the fair freedom of Nature.

"The green trees whispered low and mild, It was a sound of joy! They

were my playmates when a child, And rocked me in their arms so wild!

Still they looked on me and smiled As if I were a boy!"

Such simple lines,--by Longfellow too, the despised of all the Sir

Oracles of criticism,--yet coming to Walden's memory suddenly, they

touched a chord of vivid emotion.

"And still they whispered soft and low! Oh, I could not choose but

go!"

he hummed half under his breath, and then with a decided movement

turned from the winding river towards the house.

"No, Nebbie, it's no use," he said aloud, addressing his four-footed

comrade, who thereupon got up reluctantly and began to trot

pensively beside him--"We mustn't be selfish. There are a thousand

and one things to do. There is dinner to be served to the children

at two o'clock--there is Mrs. Keeley to call upon--there are the

school accounts to be looked into,--" here he glanced at his watch--

" Good Heavens!--how time flies! It is half-past eleven! I shall

have to see Bainton later on."

He hurried his steps and was just in sight of his study window, when

he was met by his parlourmaid, a neat, trim young woman who rejoiced

in the euphonious name of Hester Rockett, and who said as she

approached him:

"If you please, sir, Mrs. Spruce."

His genial face fell a little, and he heaved a short sigh.

"Mrs. Spruce? Oh, Lord!--I mean, very well! Show her in, Hester. You

are sure she wants to see me? Or is it her girl Kitty she is after?"

"She didn't mention Kitty, sir," replied Hester demurely; "She said

she wished to see you very particular."

"All right! Show her into my study, and afterwards just go round to

the orchard and tell Bainton I will see him when he's had his

dinner. I know I sha'n't get off under an hour at least!"

He sighed again, then smiled, and entered the house, Nebbie sedately

following. Arrived in his own quiet sanctum, he took off his soft

slouched hat and seated himself at his desk with a composed air of

patient attention, as the door was opened to admit a matronly-

looking lady with a round and florid countenance, clad in a

voluminous black gown, and wearing a somewhat aggressive black

bonnet, 'tipped' well forward, under which her grey hair was

plastered so far back as to be scarcely visible. There was a certain

aggrieved dignity about her, and a generally superior tone of self-

consciousness even in the curtsey which she dropped respectfully, as

she returned Walden's kindly nod and glance.

"Good morning, Mrs. Spruce!"

"Good morning, sir! I trust I see you well, sir?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Spruce, I am very well."

"Which is a mercy indeed!" said Mrs. Spruce fervently; "For we never

knows from one day to another whether we may be sound or crippled,

considering the diseases which now flies in the air with the dust in

the common road, as the papers tell us,--and dust is a thing we

cannot prevent, do what we may, for the dust is there by the will of

the Almighty, Who made us all out of it."

She paused. John Walden smiled and pointed to a chair,

"Won't you sit down, Mrs. Spruce?"

"Thank you kindly, sir!" and Mrs. Spruce accordingly plumped into

the seat indicated with evident relief and satisfaction. "I will

confess that it is a goodish step to walk on such a warm morning."

"You have come straight from the Manor?" enquired Walden, turning

over a few papers on his desk, and wondering within himself when the

good woman was going to unburden herself of her business.

"Straight from the Manor, sir, yes,--and such a heat and moil I

never felt on any May morning, which is most onwholesome, I am sure.

A cold May and a warm June is what I prefers myself,--but when you

get the cuckoo and the nightingale clicketin' together in the woods

on the First of May, you can look out for quarrelsome weather at

Midsummer, leastways so I have heard my mother often say, and she

was considered a wise woman in her time, I do assure you!"

Here Mrs. Spruce untied her bonnet-strings and flung them apart,--

she likewise loosened the top button of her collar and heaved a deep

sigh. Again the Reverend John smiled, and vaguely balanced a

penholder on his fore-finger.

"I daresay your mother was quite right, Mrs. Spruce! Indeed, I

believe all our mothers were quite right in their day. All the same,

I'm glad it's a fine May morning', for the children's sakes. They

are all down in the big meadow having a romp together. Your little

Kitty is with them, looking as bright as a May blossom herself."

Mrs. Spruce straightened herself up, patted her ample bosom, with

one hand, and threw her bonnet-strings still further back.

"Kitty's a good lass," she said, "though a bit mettlesome and wild;

but I'm not saying anything again her. The Lord forbid that I should

run down my own flesh and blood! An' she's better than most gels of

her age. I wouldn't grudge her a bit of fun while she's got it in

her,--Heaven knows it'll be soon gone out of her when she marries,

which nat'rally she will do, sooner or later. Anyhow, she's all I've

got,--which is a marvel how the Lord deals with some of us, when you

see a little chidester of a woman like Adam Frost's wife with

fifteen, boys and girls, and me with only one nesh maid."

Walden was silent. He was not disposed to argue on such marvels of

the Lord's way, as resulted in endowing one family with fifteen

children, and the other with only a single sprout, such as was

accorded to the righteous Jephthah, judge of Israel.

"Howsomever," continued Mrs. Spruce, "Kitty's welcome to jump round

the Maypole till she's wore her last pair of boots out, if so be

it's your wish, Mr. Walden,--and many thanks to you, sir, for all

your kindness to her!"

"Don't mention it, Mrs. Spruce!" said Walden amicably, and then,

determining to bring the worthy woman sharply round to the real

object of her visit, he gave a side-glance at the clock. "Is there

anything you want me to do for you this morning? I'm rather busy--"

"Beggin' your pardon, I'm sure, sir, for troubling you at all!--

knowin' as I do that what with the moithering old folks and the

maupsing young ones, your 'ands is always full. But when I got the

letter this morning, I says to my husband, William--'William,' says

I, very loud, for the poor creature's growing so deaf that by and by

I shall be usin' a p'lice whistle to make him 'ear me--'William,'

says I, 'there is only one man in this village who's got the right

to give advice when advice is asked for. Of course there's no call

for us to follow advice, even when we gets it,--howsomever, it's

only respectable for decent church-going folks to see the minister

of the parish whenever there's any fear of our makin' a slip of our

souls and goin' wrong. Therefore, William,' says I, shaking him By

the arm to make the poor silly fool understand me, 'it's to Passon

Walden I'm goin' this mornin' with this letter,--to Passon Walden,

d'ye 'ear?' And he nodded his head wise-like, for all the world as

though there were a bit of sense in it, (which there ain't), and

agrees with me;--for the Lord, knows, if William doesn't, that it

may make an awsome change for him as well as for me. And I do

confess I've been took back."

Following as best he could the entangled thread of the estimable

lady's discourse, Walden grasped the fact, albeit vaguely, that some

unexpected letter with unexpected news in it had arrived to trouble

the Spruces' domestic peace. Suppressing a slight yawn, he

endeavoured to assume the proper show of interest which every

village parson is expected to display on the shortest notice

concerning any subject, from the birth of the latest baby

parishioner, to the death of the earliest sucking pig.

"I'm sorry you're in trouble, Mrs. Spruce," he said kindly; "What

letter are you speaking of? You see I don't quite understand--"

"Which it's not to be expected you should, sir!" replied Mrs. Spruce

with an air of triumph,--"Considerin' as you wer'n't here when she

left, and the Manor has been what you may call a stately 'ome of

England deserted as most stately 'omes are, for more'n ten years,

you couldn't be expected to understand!"

The Reverend John looked as he felt, completely mystified. He

'wasn't here when she left.' Who was 'she'? With all his naturally

sweet temper he began to feel slightly irritated.

"Really, Mrs. Spruce," he said, endeavouring to throw an inflection

of sternness into his mellow voice, "I must ask you to explain

matters a little more clearly. I know that the Manor has been

practically shut up ever since I've been here,--that you are the

housekeeper in charge, and that your husband is woodman or forester

there,--but beyond this I know nothing. So you must not talk in

riddles, Mrs. Spruce,"--here his kind smile shone out again--"Even

as a boy I was never good at guessing them! And I am getting old

now."

"So you are, sir--so you are!" agreed Mrs. Spruce sympathetically;

"And 'tis a shame for me to come worryin' of you,--for no one more

truly than myself can feel pity for the weariness of the flesh, when

'tis just a burden to the bones and no pleasure in the carryin' of

it, though you don't put much of it on, Passon Walden, you don't, I

do assure you! But it's Gospel truth that some folks wears thin like

a knife, while others wears thick like a pig, and there is no

stopping them,--either way bein' the Lord's will,--but I'm feelin'

real okkard myself to have put you about, Passon, only as I said,

I've been took back,--and here's the letter, sir, which if you will

kindly glance your hi over, you will tell me whether I've done the

right thing to call on my way down here and get in a couple of

scrubbers at eighteen-pence a day, which is dear, but they won't

come for less, jest to get some of the rough dirt off the floors

afore polishin', which polishin' will have to be done whether we

will or no, for the boards are solid oak, and bein' ancient take the

shine quickly, which is a mercy, for this day week is none too far

off, seein' all that's put upon me suddint."

Here, being short of breath, she paused, and fumbling in a large

black calico pocket which hung loosely at her side, attached to her

ample waist by a string, she drew out with great care a rather

large, square-looking missive, and then rising from her chair with

much fluttering of her black gown and mysterious creaking sound, as

of tight under-wear strained to breaking point, she held it out

toward Walden, who had durng her last oratorical outburst

unconsciously put his hand to his head in a daze of bewilderment.

"There is the letter sir," she continued, in the tone of one who

should say: 'There is the warrant for execution'--"'Short and

sweet,' as the farmer's wife said when she ate the pig's tail what

dropped off while the animal was a-roastin'."

Allowing this brilliant simile to pass without comment, Walden took

the thick, creamy-white object she offered and found himself

considering it with a curious disfavour. It was a strictly

'fashionable' make of envelope, and was addressed in a particularly

bold and assertive hand-writing to

MRS. SPRUCE, Housekeeper, Abbot's Manor, St. Rest.

Opening it, the Reverend John read as follows:

"Miss Vancourt begs to inform Mrs. Spruce that she will arrive at

Abbot's Manor on the 7th inst., to remain there in residence. Mrs.

Spruce is requested to engage the necessary household servants, as

Miss Vancourt will bring none except the groom in charge of her two

hunters."

Over and over again Walden read this curt and commonplace note, with

a sense of irritation which he knew was perfectly absurd, but which,

nevertheless, defied all reason. The paper on which it was written

was thick and satiny,--and there was a faint artificial odour of

violets about it which annoyed him. He hated scented notepaper.

Deliberately he replaced it in its envelope, and holding it for a

moment as he again studied the superscription, he addressed the

expectant Mrs. Spruce, who had re-seated herself and was waiting for

him to speak.

"Well, Mrs. Spruce, I don't think you need any advice from me on

such a simple matter as this," he said slowly. "Your duty is quite

plain. You must obey orders. Miss Vancourt is, I suppose, the

mistress of Abbot's Manor?"

"She is, sir,--of course it all belongs to Miss Maryllia--"

"Miss--what?" interrupted Walden, with a sudden lightening of his

dark blue eyes.

"Maryllia, sir. It is a kind of family name, pronounced 'Ma-rill-

yer,'" explained Mrs. Spruce with considerable pomposity; "Many

folks never gets it right--it wants knowledge and practice. But if

you remember the pictures in the gallery at the Manor, sir, you may

call to mind one of the ancestresses of the Vancourts, painted in a

vi'let velvet; ridin' dress and holdin' a huntin' crop, and the name

underneath is 'Mary Ella Adelgisa de Vaignecourt' and it was after

her that the old Squire called his daughter Maryllia, rollin' the

two fust names, Mary Elia, into one, as it were, just to make a name

what none of his forebears had ever had. He was a queer man, the old

Squire--he wouldn't a-cared whether the name was Christian or

heathen."

"I suppose not." said the Reverend John carelessly, rising and

pushing back his chair with a slightly impatient gesture; whereupon

Mrs. Spruce rose too, and stood 'at attention,' her loosened bonnet-

strings flying and her large black calico pocket well in evidence to

the front of her skirt.

"Here's your letter, Mrs. Spruce;" and as she took it from his hand

with a curtsey he continued: "There is evidently nothing for it but

to get the house in order by the day appointed and do your best to

please the lady. I can quite understand that you feel a little

worried at having to prepare everything so quickly and

unexpectedly,--but after all, you must have often thought that Miss

Vancourt's return to her old home was likely to happen at any time."

"Which I never did, sir!" declared Mrs. Spruce emphatically, "No,

sir, never! For when the old Squire died, she was jest a slip of

fifteen and her uncle, the Squire's own twin brother, what had

married an American heiress with somethin' like a hundred million of

money, so I'm told, took her straight away and adopted her like, and

the reg'ler pay for keepin' up the Manor and grounds has been sent

to us through a Bank, and so far we've got nothin' to complain of

bein' all strictly honourable both ways, but of Miss Vancourt we

never heard a thing. And Mr. Oliver Leach he is the agent of the

property, and he ain't never said a word,--and we think, me and my

husband, that he don't know nothin' of her comin' back, and should

we tell him, sir? Or would you reckon that we'd better keep a still

tongue in our heads till she do come? For there's no knowin' why or

wherefore she's comin',--though we did hear her poor uncle died two

years ago, and we wondered where she and her aunt with the hundred

million was got to--but mebbe she'll change her mind and not come,

after all?"

"I should certainly not count upon that, if I were you, Mrs.

Spruce," said Walden decisively; "Your business is to keep

everything in order for the lady's arrival; but I don't think,--I

really don't think, you are at all bound to inform Mr. Oliver Leach

of the matter. He will no doubt find out for himself. or receive his

orders direct from Miss Vancourt." Here he paused. "How old did you

say she was when, she went away from home?"

"Fifteen, sir. That was nigh eleven years ago,--just one week after

the Squire's funeral, and a year afore you came here, sir. She's

gettin' on for seven-and-twenty now."

"Quite a woman, then," said Walden lightly; "Old enough to know her

own mind at any rate. Do you remember her?"

"Perfectly well, sir,--a little flitterin' creature all eyes and

hair, with a saucy way of tossin' her curls about, and a trick of

singin' and shoutin' all over the place. She used to climb the pine

trees and sit in them and pelt her father with the cones. Oh, yes,

sir, she was a terrible child to rule, and it's Gospel truth there

was no ruling her, for the governesses came and went like the

seasons, one in, t'other out. Ay, but the Lord knows I'll never

forget the scream she gave when the Squire was brought home from the

hunting field stone dead!"

Here John Walden turned his head towards her with an air of more

interest than he had yet shown.

"Ah!--How was that?" he enquired.

"He was killed jumpin' a fence;" went on Mrs. Spruce; "A fine,

handsome gentleman,--they say he'd been wild in his youth; anyhow he

got married in London to a great Court beauty, so I've been told.

And after the wedding, they went travelling allover the world for a

year and a half, and just when they was expected 'ome Mrs. Vancourt

died with the birth of the child, and he and the baby and the nurses

all came back here and he never stirred away again himself till

death took him at full gallop,--which is 'ow he always wished to

die. But poor Miss Maryllia--" And Mrs. Spruce sighed dolefully--

"'Twas hard on her, seein' him ride off so gay and well and cheery

in the early mornin' to be brought home afore noon a corpse! Ay, it

was an awsome visitation of the Lord! Often when the wind goes

wimblin' through the pines near the house I think I 'ear her shriek

now,--ay, sir!--it was like the cry of somethin' as was havin' its

heart tore out!"

Walden stood very silent, listening. This narrative was new to him,

and even Mrs. Spruce's manner of relating it was not without a

certain rough eloquence. The ancient history of the Vancourts he

knew as well as he knew the priceless archaeological value of their

old Manor-house as a perfect gem of unspoilt Tudor architecture,--

but though he had traced the descent of the family from Robert

Priaulx de Vaignecourt of the twelfth century and his brother

Osmonde Priaulx de Vaignecourt who had, it was rumoured, founded a

monastery in the neighbourhood, and had died during a pilgrimage to

the Holy Land, he had ceased to follow the genealogical tree with

much attention or interest when the old Norman name of De

Vaignecourt had degenerated into De Vincourt and finally in the

times of James I. had settled down into Vancourt. Yet there was a

touch of old-world tragedy in Mrs. Spruce's modern history of the

young girl's shriek when she found herself suddenly fatherless on

that fatal hunting morning.

"And now," continued Mrs. Spruce, coaxing one bonnet-string at a

time off each portly shoulder with considerable difficulty; "I

s'pose I must be goin', Passon Walden, and thank you kindly for all!

It's a great weight off my mind to have told you just what's

'appened, an' the changes likely to come off, and I do assure you

I'm of your opinion, Passon, in letting Oliver Leach shift for

himself, for if so be Miss Vancourt has the will of her own she had

when she was a gel, I shouldn't wonder if there was rough times in

store for him! But the Lord only knows what may chance to all of

us!" and here she heaved another dismal sigh as she tied the

refractory bonnet-strings into a bow under her fat chin. "It's

right-down sinful of me to be wishin' rough times to any man, seein'

I'm likely in for them myself, for a person's bound to be different

at nigh seven-and-twenty to what she was at fifteen, and the modern

ways of leddies ain't old ways, the Lord be merciful to us all! And

I do confess, Passon, it's a bit upsettin' at my time of life to

think as how I've lived in Abbot's Manor all these years, and now

for all I can tell, me and William may have to shift. And where

we'll go, the Lord only knows!"

"Now don't anticipate misfortune, Mrs. Spruce!" said Walden,

beginning to shake off the indescribable feeling of annoyance

against which he had been fighting for the past few minutes and

resuming his usual quiet air of cheerfulness; "Miss Vancourt is not

likely to dismiss you unless you offend her. The great thing is to

avoid offence,--and to do even more than your strict duty in making

her old home look its best and brightest for her return and--" Here

he hesitated for a moment, then went on--"Of course if I can do

anything to help you, I will."

"Thank you, sir, I'm sure most kindly," said Mrs. Spruce curtseying

two or three times in a voluminous overflow of gratitude. "I shall

take the liberty of asking you to step up during the week, to see

how things appears to you yourself. And as for servants, there's no

gels old enough at the school for servants, so I'll be goin' to

Riversford with the carrier's cart to-morrow to see what I can do.

Ah, It's an awsome mission I'm goin' on; there ain't no gels to be

got of the old kind, as far as I can make out. They all wants to be

fine leddies nowadays and marry 'Merican millionaires."

"Not quite so bad as that, I think, Mrs. Spruce!" laughed Walden,

holding open the door of the study for her to pass out, as a broad

hint that the interview must be considered at an end.--"There are

plenty of good, industrious, intelligent girls in England ready and

willing to enter domestic service, if we make it worth their while,-

-and I'm sure no one can teach YOU anything in that line! Good-

morning, Mrs. Spruce!"

"Good-morning, sir,--and you'll step up to the Manor when convenient

some afternoon?"

"Certainly, if you wish it. Whenever convenient to yourself, Mrs.

Spruce."

Mrs. Spruce curtseyed again at the respect for her own importance

which was implied in Walden's last sentence, and slowly sidled out,

the 'Passon' watching her with a smile as she trotted down the

passage from his study to a door which led to the kitchen and

basement.

"Now she'll go and tell all her story again to Hester and the cook,"

he said to himself; "And how she will enjoy herself to be sure!

Bless the woman, what a tongue she has! No wonder her husband is

deaf!"

He re-seated himself at his desk, and taking up a bundle of accounts

connected with the church and the school, tried to fix his attention

on them, but in vain. His mind wandered. He was obliged to own to

himself that he was unreasonably irritated at the news that Abbot's

Manor, which had been so long a sort of unoccupied 'show' house, was

again to be inhabited,--and by one who was its rightful owner too.

Ever since he had bought the living of St. Rest he had been

accustomed to take many solitary walks through the lovely woods

surrounding the Vancourts' residence, without any fear of being

considered a trespasser,--and he had even strolled through the wide,

old-fashioned gardens with as little restraint as though they had

belonged to himself, Mrs. Spruce, the housekeeper, being the last

person in the world to forbid her minister to enter wherever he

would. He had passed long hours of delightful research in the old

library, and many afternoons of meditation in the picture gallery,

where the portrait of the lady in the 'vi'let velvet,' Mary Elia

Adelgisa de Vaignecourt, had often caught his eye and charmed his

fancy when the setting sun had illumined its rich colouring and had

given life to the face, half-petulant, half-sweet, which pouted

forth from the old canvas like a rose with light on its petals. Now

all these pleasant rambles were finished. The mistress of Abbot's

Manor would certainly object to a wandering parson in her house and

grounds. Probably she was a very imperious, disagreeable young

woman,--full of the light scorn, lack of sentiment and cheap atheism

common to the 'smart' lady of a decadent period, and if it were true

that she had been for so many years in the charge of an American

aunt with a 'hundred millions,' the chances were ten to one that she

would be an exceedingly unpleasant neighbour.

He gave a short impatient sigh.

"Ah, well! I only hope she will put a stop to the felling of the

fine old trees in her domain," he said half aloud,--"If no one else

in the village has the pluck to draw her attention to the

depredations of Oliver Leach, I will. But, so far as other matters

go,--my walks in the Manor woods are ended! Yes, Nebbie!" and he

gently patted the head of the faithful animal, who, with inborn

sagacity instinctively guessing that his master was somewhat

annoyed, was clambering with caressing forepaws against his knee.

"Our rambles by the big elms and silvery birches and under the

beautiful tall pines are over, Nebbie! and we shouldn't be human if

we weren't just a trifle sorry! Sir Morton Pippitt is bad enough as

a neighbour, but he's a good three miles off at Badsworth Hall,

thank Heaven!--whereas Abbot's Manor is but a quarter of an hour's

walk from this gate. We've had pleasant times in the dear old-

fashioned gardens, Nebbie, you and I, but it's all over! The

mistress of the Manor is coming home,--and I'm positively certain,

Nebbie,--yes, old boy!--positively certain that we shall both detest

her!"