III

When England's great Queen, Victoria the Good; was still enjoying

her first happy years of wedded life, and society, under her gentle

sway, was less ostentatious and much more sincere in its code of

ethics than it is nowadays, the village of St. Rest, together with

the adjacent post-town of Riversford, enjoyed considerable

importance in county chronicles. Very great 'county personages' were

daily to be seen comporting themselves quite simply among their own

tenantry, and the Riversford Hunt Ball annually gathered together a

veritable galaxy of 'fair women and brave men' who loved their

ancestral homes better than all the dazzle and movement of town, and

who possessed for the most part that 'sweet content' which gives

strength to the body and elasticity to the mind. There was then a

natural gaiety and spontaneous cheerfulness in English country life

that made such a life good for human happiness; and the jolly

Squires who with their 'dames' kept open house and celebrated

Harvest Home and Christmas Festival with all the buoyancy and vigour

of a sane and healthful manhood undeteriorated by any sickly taint

of morbid pessimism and indifferent inertia, were the beneficent

rulers of a merrier rural population than has ever been seen since

their day. Squire Vancourt the elder, grandfather of the present

heiress of Abbot's Manor, had been a splendid specimen of 'the fine

old English gentleman, all of the olden time,' and his wife, one of

the handsomest, as well as one of the kindest-hearted women that

ever lived, had been justly proud of her husband, devoted to her

children, and a true friend and benefactress to the neighbourhood.

Her four sons, two of whom were twins, all great strapping lads,

built on their vigorous father's model, were considered the best-

looking young men in the county, and by their fond mother were

judged as the best-hearted; but, as it often happens, Nature was

freakish in their regard, and turned them all out wild colts of a

baser breed than might have been expected from their unsullied

parentage. The eldest took to hard drinking and was killed at

steeple-chasing; the second was drowned while bathing; one of the

twins, named Frederick, the younger by a few minutes, after nearly

falling into unnameable depths of degradation by gambling with

certain 'noble and exalted' personages of renown, saved himself, as

it were, by the skin of his teeth, through marriage with a rich

American girl whose father was blessed with unlimited, oil-mines. He

was thereby enabled to wallow in wealth with an impaired digestion

and shattered nervous power, while capricious Fate played him her

usual trick in her usual way by denying him any heirs to his married

millions. His first-born brother, Robert, wedded for love, and chose

as his mate a beautiful girl without a penny, whose grace and charm

had dazzled the London world of fashion for about two seasons, and

she had died at the age of twenty in giving birth to her first

child, the girl whom her father had named Maryllia.

All these chances and changes of life, however, occurring to the

leading family of the neighbourhood had left very little mark on St.

Rest, which drowsed under the light shadow of the eastern hills by

its clear flowing river, very much as it had always drowsed in the

old days, and very much as it would always do even if London and

Paris were consumed by unsuspected volcanoes. The memory of the

first 'old Squire,'--who died peacefully in his bed all alone, his

wife having passed away two years before him, and his two living

twin sons being absent,--was frequently mixed with stories of the

other 'old Squire' Robert, the elder twin, who was killed in the

hunting field,--and indeed it often happened that some of the more

ancient and garrulous villagers were not at all sure as to which was

which. The Manor had been shut up for ten years,--the Manor 'family'

had not been heard of during all that period, and the tenantry's

recollection of their late landlord, as well as of his one daughter,

was more vague and confused than authentic. The place had been

'managed' and the cottage rents collected by the detested agent

Oliver Leach, a fact which did not sweeten such remembrance of the

Vancourts as still existed in the minds of the people.

However, nothing in the general aspect and mental attitude of the

village had altered very much since the early thirties, except the

church. That from a mere ruin, had under John Walden's incumbency

become a gem of architecture, so unique and perfect as to be the

wonder and admiration of all who beheld it, and whereas in the early

Victorian reign a few people stopped at Riversford because it was a

county town and because there was an inn there where they could put

up their horses, so a few people now went to St. Rest, because there

was a church there worth looking at. They came by train to

Riversford, where the railway line stopped, and then took carriage

or cycled the seven miles between that town and St. Rest to see the

church; and having seen it, promptly went back again. For one of the

great charms of the little village hidden under the hills was that

no tourist could stay a night in it, unless he or she took one spare

room--there was only one--at the small public-house which sneaked

away up round a corner of the street under an archway of ivy, and

pushed its old gables through the dark enshrouding leaves with a

half-surprised, half-propitiatory air, as though somewhat ashamed of

its own existence. With the exception of this one room in this one

public-house, there was no accommodation for visitors. Never will

the rash cyclist who ventured once to appeal to the sexton's wife

for rooms in her cottage, forget the brusqueness of his reception:

"Rooms!" And Mrs. Frost, setting her arms well akimbo, surveyed the

enquirer scornfully through an open doorway, rendered doubly

inviting by the wealth of roses clambering round it. "Be off, young

man! Where was you a-comin' to? D'ye think a woman wi' fifteen great

boys and girls in an' out of the 'ouse all day, 'as rooms for payin'

guests!" And here Mrs. Frost, snorting at the air in irrepressible

disdain, actually snapped her fingers in her would-be lodger's face.

"Rooms indeed! Go to Brighting!"

Whereupon the abashed wheelman went,--whether to Brighton, as the

irate lady suggested, or to a warmer place unmentionable history

sayeth not. But St. Rest remained, as its name implied, restful,--

and the barbaric yell of the cheap tripper, together with the

equally barbaric scream of the cheap tripper's 'young lady' echoed

chiefly through modernised and vulgarised Riversford, where there

were tea-rooms and stuffy eating-houses and bad open-air concerts,

such as trippers and their 'ladies' delight in,--and seldom

disturbed the tranquil charm of the tiny mediaeval village dear to a

certain few scholars, poets and antiquarians who, through John

Walden, had gradually become acquainted with this 'priceless bit' as

they termed it, of real 'old' England and who almost feared to

mention its existence even in a whisper, lest it should be 'swarmed

over' by enquiring Yankees, searching for those everlasting

ancestors who all managed so cleverly to cross the sea together in

one boat, the Mayflower.

There is something truly pathetic as well as droll in the anxiety of

every true American to prove himself or herself an offshoot from

some old British root of honour or nobility. It would be cruel to

laugh at this instinct, for after all it is only the passionate

longing of the Prodigal Son who, having eaten of the husks that the

swine did eat, experienced such an indigestion at last, that he said

'I will arise and go to my father.' And it is quite possible that an

aspiring Trans-Atlantic millionaire yearning for descent more than

dollars, would have managed to find tracks of a Mayflower pedigree

in St. Rest, a place of such antiquity as to be able to boast a

chivalric 'roll of honour' once kept in the private museum at

Badsworth Hall before the Badsworth family became extinct, but now,

thanks to Walden, rescued from the modern clutch of the Hall's

present proprietor, Sir Morton Pippitt, and carefully preserved in

an iron box locked up in the church, along with other documents of

value belonging to the neighbourhood. On this were inscribed the

names of such English gentlemen once resident in the district, who

had held certain possessions in France at the accession of Henry II.

in 1154. Besides the 'roll of honour' there were other valuable

records having to do with the Anglo-French campaigns in the time of

King John, and much concerning those persons of St. Rest and

Riversford who took part in the Wars of the Barons.

Whatever there was of curious or interesting matter respecting the

village and its surroundings had been patiently ferreted out by John

Walden, who had purchased the living partly because he knew it to be

a veritable mine for antiquarian research, and one likely to afford

him inexhaustible occupation and delight. But there were, of course,

other reasons for his settling down in so remote a spot far from the

busy haunts of men,--reasons which, to his own mind, were perfectly

natural and simple, though on account of his innate habit of

reticence, and disinclination to explain his motives to others, they

were by some supposed to be mysterious. In his youth he had been one

of the most brilliant and promising of University scholars, and all

those who had assisted to fit him for his career in the Church, had

expected great things of him. Some said he would be a Bishop before

he was thirty; others considered that he would probably content

himself with being the most intellectual and incisive preacher of

his time. But he turned out to be neither one nor the other. A

certain Henry Arthur Brent, his fellow student at College and five

years his senior, had, with apparent ease, outstripped him in the

race for honour, though lacking in all such exceptional slowly off

towards the vegetable garden where his 'under gardeners' as he

called three or four sturdy village lads employed to dig and hoe,

constantly required his supervision.

Meanwhile Walden, leaving his own grounds, entered the churchyard,

walking with softly reverent step among the little green mounds of

earth, under which kind eyes were closed, and warm hearts lay cold,

till, reaching the porched entrance of the church itself, he paused,

brought to a halt by the sound of voices which were pitched rather

too loud for propriety, considering the sacredness of the

surroundings.

"That eastern window is crude--very crude!" said a growlingly robust

baritone; "I suppose the reverend gentleman could not secure

sufficient subscriptions to meet the expense of suitable stained

glass?"

"Unfortunately Mr. Walden is a very self-opinionated man," replied a

smooth and oily tenor, whose particular tone of speech Walden

recognised as that of the Reverend 'Putty' Leveson, the minister of

Badsworth, a small scattered village some five or six miles 'on the

wrong side of Badsworth Hall,' as the locality was called, owing to

its removed position from the county town of Riversford. "He would

not accept outside advice. Of course these columns and capitals are

all wrong,--they are quite incongruous with early Norman walls,--but

when ignorance is allowed to have its own way, the effect is always

disastrous."

"Always--always,--my dear sir--always!" And the voice or Sir Morton

Pippitt, high pitched and resonant, trolled out on the peaceful air;

"The fact is, the church could have been much better done, had I

been consulted! The whole thing was carried out in the most brazen

manner, under my very nose, sir, under my very nose!--without so

much as a 'by your leave'! Shocking, shocking! I complained to the

Bishop, but it was no use, for it seems that he has a perfect

infatuation for this man Walden--they were college friends or

something of that kind. As for the sarcophagus here, of course it

ought in the merest common decency to have been transferred to the

Cathedral of the diocese. But you see the present incumbent bought

the place;--the purchase of advowsons is a scandal, in my opinion--

however this man got it all his own way, more's the pity!--he bought

it through some friend or other--and so--"

"So he could do as he liked with it!" said a mild, piping falsetto;

"And so far, he has made it beau-ti-ful!--beau-ti-ful!" carved with

traceries of natural fruit and foliage, which were scarcely injured

by the devastating mark of time. But rough and sacrilegious hands

had been at work to spoil and deface the classic remains of the

time-worn edifice, and some of the lancet windows had been actually

hewn out and widened to admit of the insertion of modern timber

props which awkwardly supported a hideous galvanised iron roof, on

the top of which was erected a kind of tin hen-coop in which a sharp

bell clanged with irritating rapidity for Sunday service. Outside,

the building was thus rendered grotesquely incongruous,--inside it

was almost blasphemous in its rank ugliness. There were several rows

of narrow pews made of common painted deal,--there was a brown stone

font and a light pine-wood pulpit--a small harmonium stood in one

corner, festooned by a faded red woollen curtain, and a general air

of the cheap upholsterer and jerry-builder hovered over the whole

concern. And the new incumbent, gazing aghast at the scene, was

triumphantly informed that "Sir Morton Pippitt had been generous

enough to roof and 'restore' the church in this artistic manner out

of his own pocket, for the comfort of the villagers," and moreover

that he actually condescended to attend Divine service under the

galvanised iron roof which he had so liberally erected. Nay, it had

been even known that Sir Morton had on one or two occasions himself

read the Lessons in the absence of the late rector, who was subject

to sore throats and was constantly compelled to call in outside

assistance.

To all this information John Walden said nothing. He was not

concerned with Sir Morton Pippitt or any other county magnate in the

management of his own affairs. A fortnight after his arrival he

quietly announced to his congregation that the church was about to

be entirely restored according to its original lines of

architecture, and that a temporary building would be erected on his,

Walden's, own land for the accommodation of the people during such

time as the restoration should be in progress. This announcement

brought about Walden's first acquaintance with his richest

neighbour, Sir Morton Pippitt. That gentleman having been accustomed

to have his own way in everything concerning St. Rest, for a

considerable time, straightway wrote, expressing his 'surprise and

indignation' at the mere assumption that any restoration was

required for the church beyond what he, Sir Morton, had effected at

his own expense. The number of parishioners was exceedingly small,--

too small to warrant any further expenditure for enlarging a place

of worship which mental ability as he possessed, and was now Bishop

of the very diocese in which he had his little living. University

men said he had 'stood aside' in order to allow Brent to press more

swiftly forward, but though this was a perfectly natural supposition

on the part of those who knew something of Walden's character, it

was not correct. Walden at that time had only one object in life,--

and this was to secure such name and fame, together with such

worldly success as might delight and satisfy the only relative he

had in the world, his sister, a beautiful and intelligent woman,

full of an almost maternal tenderness for him, and a sweet

resignation to her own sad lot, which made her the victim of a slow

and incurable disease. So long as she lived, her brother threw

himself into his work with intensity and ardour; but when she died

that impulse withered, as it were, at its very root. The world

became empty for him, and he felt that from henceforth he would be

utterly companionless. For what he had seen of modern women, modern

marriage and modern ways of life, did not tempt him to rashly seek

refuge for his heart's solitude in matrimony. Almost immediately

following the loss of his sister, an uncle of whom he had known very

little, died suddenly, leaving him a considerably large fortune. As

soon as he came into possession of this unexpected wealth, he

disappeared at once from the scene of his former labours,--the

pretty old house in the University town, with its great cedars

sloping to the river and its hallowed memories of the sister he had

so dearly loved, was sold by private treaty,--his voice was heard no

more in London pulpits, where it had begun to carry weight and

influence,--and he managed to obtain the then vacant and obscure

living of St. Rest, the purchase of the advowson being effected, so

it was said, privately through the good offices of his quondam

college friend, Bishop Brent. And at St. Rest he had remained,

apparently well contented with the very simple and monotonous round

of duty it offered.

When he had first arrived there, he found that the church consisted

of some thick stone walls of the early Norman, period, built on a

cruciform plan, the stones being all uniformly wrought and close-

jointed,--together with a beautiful ruined chancel divided from the

main body of the building by massive columns, which supported on

their capitals the fragments of lofty arches indicative of an

architectural transition from the Norman to the Early Pointed

English style. There were also the hollow slits of several lancet

windows, and one almost perfect pierced circular window to the east,

elaborately And here he whirled round on his only daughter, an

angular and severely-visaged spinster; "Look at this fool!--this

staring ape! All the sauce on the carpet! Wish he had to pay for it!

He'll take an hour to get a cloth and wipe it up! Why did you engage

such a damned ass, eh?"

Miss Tabitha preserved a prudent silence, seeing that the butler, a

serious-looking personage with a resigned-to-ill-usage demeanour,

was already engaged in assisting the hapless footman to remove the

remains of the spilt condiment, from the offended gaze of his irate

master.

"Like his damned impudence!" broke out Sir Morton again, resuming

with some reluctance his seat at the breakfast table, and chopping

at the fried bacon on his plate till the harder bits flew far and

wide,--"'Happy to reimburse me!'--the snivelling puppy! Why the

devil he was allowed to sneak into this living, I don't know! The

private purchase of advowsons is a scandal--a disgraceful scandal!

Any Tom, Dick or Harry can get a friend to buy him a benefice in

which to make himself a nuisance! Done under the rose,--and called a

'presentation'! All humbug and hypocrisy! That's why we get impudent

dogs like this beast Walden settling down in a neighbourhood whether

we like it or not!"

Miss Tabitha munched some toast slowly with a delicate regard for

her front teeth, which had cost money. There was no one in the room

to suggest to Sir Morton that it is a pity some law is not in

progress to prevent the purchase of historic houses by vulgar and

illiterate persons of no family;--which would be far more a benefit

to the land at large than the suppression of privately purchased

benefices. For the chances are ten to one that the ordained

minister, who, by his own choice secures a Church living for

himself, is likely at least to be a well-educated gentleman,

interested in the work he has himself elected to do,--whereas the

illiterate individual who buys an historic house simply for self-

glorification, will probably be no more than a mere petty and

pompous tyrant over the district which that particular house

dominates.

Badsworth Hall, a fine sixteenth-century pile, had, through the

reckless racing and gambling propensities of the last heir, fallen

into the hands of the Jews. On the fortunate demise of the young

gentleman who had brought it to this untimely end, it was put up for

sale with all its contents. And Sir Morton Pippitt,--a rich

colonial, whose forebears were entirely undistinguished, but who had

made a large fortune by a bone-melting business, which converted the

hoofs, horns and (considering that some years ago it had been a mere

roofless ruin, and that the people had been compelled to walk or

drive to Riversford in order to attend church at all on Sundays) Sir

Morton thought was now very comfortable and satisfactory. In fact,

Sir Morton concluded, "Mr. Walden would be very ill-advised if he

made any attempt to raise money for such a useless purpose as the

'entire restoration' of the church of St. Rest, and Mr. Walden might

as well be at once made aware that Sir Morton himself would not give

a penny towards it." To which somewhat rambling and heated epistle

John Walden replied with civil stiffness as follows:

"The Rev. John Walden presents his compliments to Sir Morton

Pippitt, and in answer to his letter begs to say that he has no

intention of raising any subscription to defray the cost of

restoring the church, which in its present condition is totally

unfit for Divine service. Having secured the living, Mr. Walden will

make the restoration the object of his own personal care, and will

also be pleased to reimburse Sir Morton Pippitt for any outlay to

which he may have been put in erecting the galvanised roof and other

accessories for the immediate convenience of the parishioners who

have, he understands, already expressed their sense of obligation to

Sir Morton for kindly providing them with such temporary shelter

from the changes of the weather as seemed to be humanely necessary."

This calm epistle when received at Badsworth Hall, had the effect of

a sudden stiff breeze on the surface of hitherto quiet waters. Sir

Morton Pippitt in a brand-new tweed suit surmounted by a very high,

clean, stiff shirt-collar, was sitting at breakfast in what was

formerly known as the 'great Refectory,' a memory of the days when

Badsworth had been a large and important monastery, but which was

now turned into a modern-antique dining-room,--and as he read, with

the aid of his gold-rimmed spectacles, the curt, chill, severely

polite letter of the 'new parson' he flew into a sudden violent

passion.

"Damn the fellow!" he spluttered, jumping up in haste and striking

out an arm towards the very direction in which a mild young footman

was just approaching him with a bottle of Worcester sauce on a

tray,--"Damn him!"

The footman staggered back in terror, and the Worcester sauce reeled

over drunkenly on to the carpet.

"There you go, you clumsy, gaping idiot!" roared Sir Morton, growing

purple with increasing fury. "Tabitha!" called 'The Riversford

Gazette.' If Sir Morton had a pig killed, the fact was duly notified

to an admiring populace in the 'Riversford Gazette.' If he took a

prize in cabbages at the local vegetable and flower show, the

'Riversford Gazette' had a column about it. If he gave a tennis-

party, there were two columns, describing all the dresses of the

ladies, the prowess of the 'champions' and the 'striking and jovial

personality' of Sir Morton Pippitt. And if the fact of that

'striking and jovial personality' were not properly insisted upon,

Sir Morton went himself to see the editor of the 'Riversford

Gazette,' an illiterate tuft-hunting little man,--and nearly

frightened him into fits. He had asserted himself in this kind of

autocratic fashion ever since he had purchased Badsworth, when he

was still in his forties,--and it may be well imagined that at the

age of sixty he was not prepared to be thwarted, even in a matter

wherein he had no real concern. The former rector of St. Rest, an

ailing, nervous and exceedingly poor creature, with a large family

to keep, had been only too glad and ready to do anything Sir Morton

Pippitt wished, for the sake of being invited to dine at the Hall

once a week,--it was therefore a very unexpected and disagreeable

experience for the imperious Bone-melter to learn that the new

incumbent was not at all disposed to follow in the steps of his

predecessor, but, on the contrary, was apparently going to insist on

having his own way with as much emphasis as Sir Morton Pippitt

himself.

"I shall soon bring that fellow to his senses," declared Sir Morton,

on the eventful morning which first saw the gage of battle thrown

down; "I shall teach him that, parson or no parson, he will have to

respect my authority! God bless my seoul! Does he think I'm going to

be dictated to at my time of life?"

He addressed these observations to his daughter, Miss Tabitha

Pippitt, but whether she heard them or not was scarcely apparent. At

any rate, she did not answer. Having finished her breakfast, she

pulled out some knitting from an embroidered bag hanging at her side

and set her needles clicketing, while her father, redder in the face

and more implacable of mood than ever, went out to see what he could

do to save his galvanised iron roof from the hand of the spoiler.

But, as he might have known, if his irascibility had allowed him to

weigh the pros and cons of the situation, his 'authority' was of no

avail. An angry letter to the Bishop of the diocese only drew forth

a curt reply from the Bishop's secrebones of defunct animals into a

convenient mixture wherewith to make buttons and other useful

articles of hardware, bought it, as the saying goes, 'for a mere

song.' Through his easy purchase he became possessed of the

Badsworth ancestry, as shown in their pictures hanging on the

dining-room walls and in the long oak-panelled picture gallery. Lady

Madeline Badsworth, famous for her beauty in some remote and

chivalrous past, gazed down at Sir Morton while he sat at meals,

suggesting to the imaginative beholder a world of scorn in her

lovely painted eyes,--and a heroic young Badsworth who had perished

at the battle of Marston Moor, stood proudly out of one of the dark

canvases, his gauntleted hand on the hilt of his sword and a smile

of pained wrath on his lips, as one who should say, beholding the

new possessor of his ancient home 'To such base uses must we come at

last!'

Surrounded by gold-framed Badsworths, young and old, Sir Morton ate

his fried bacon and 'swilled' his tea, with a considerable noise in

swallowing, getting gradually redder in the face as he proceeded

with his meal. He was by no means a bad-looking old gentleman,--his

sixty years sat lightly upon his broad shoulders, and he was tall

and well set up, though somewhat too stout in what may be politely

called the 'lower chest' direction. His face was plump, florid and

clean-shaven, and what hair he still possessed was of a pleasantly-

bright silver hue. The first impression he created was always one of

kindness and benevolence,--the hearts of women especially invariably

went out to him, and murmurs of 'What a dear old man!' and 'What a

darling old man!' frequently escaped lips feminine in softest

accents. He was very courtly to women,--when he was not rude; and

very kind to the poor,--when he was not mean. His moods were

fluctuating; his rages violent; his temper obstinate. When he did

not succeed in getting his own way, his petulant sulks resembled

those of a spoilt child put in a corner, only they lasted longer.

There was one shop in Riversford which he had not entered for ten

years, because its owner had ventured, with trembling respect, to

contradict him on a small matter. Occasionally he could be quite the

'dear darling old man' his lady admirers judged him to be,--but

after all, his servants knew him best. To them, 'Sir Morton was a

caution.' And that is precisely what he was; the definition entirely

summed up his character. He had one great passion,--the desire to

make himself 'the' most important person in the county, and to be

written about in the local paper, a hazy and often ungrammatical

organ For the chancel appeared to demand special reverence, from the

nature of a wonderful discovery made in it during the work of

restoration,--a discovery which greatly helped to sustain and

confirm the name of both church and village as 'St. Rest,' and to

entirely disprove the frequently-offered suggestion that it could

ever have been meant for 'St. East.' And this is how the discovery

happened.

One never-to-be-forgotten morning when the workmen were hewing away

at the floor of the chancel, one of their pickaxes came suddenly in

contact with a hard substance which gave back a metallic echo when

the blow of the implement came down upon it. Working with caution,

and gradually clearing away a large quantity of loose stones, broken

pieces of mosaic and earth, a curious iron handle was discovered

attached to a large screw which was apparently embedded deep in the

ground. Walden was at once informed of this strange 'find' and

hastened to the spot to examine the mysterious object. He was not

very long in determining its nature.

"This is some very ancient method of leverage," he said, turning

round to the workmen with an excitement he could barely conceal;

"There is something precious underneath in the ground,--something

which can probably be raised by means of this handle and screw. Dig

round it about a yard away from the centre,--loosen the earth

gently--be very careful!"

They obeyed; and all that day Walden stood watching them at work,

his mind divided between hope and fear, and his spirit moved by the

passionate exultation of the antiquary whose studies and researches

are about to be rewarded with unexpected treasure. Towards sunset

the men came upon a large oblong piece of what appeared to be

alabaster, closely inlaid with patterns of worn gold and bearing on

its surface the sculptured emblems of a cross, a drawn sword and a

crown of laurel leaves intertwisted with thorns, the whole most

elaborately wrought, and very little injured. As this slowly came to

light, Walden summoned all hands to assist him in turning the great

iron screw which now stood out upright, some three or four feet from

the aperture they had been digging. Wondering at his 'fancy' as they

termed it, they however had full reliance on his proved knowledge of

what he was about, and under his guidance they all applied

themselves to the quaint and cumbrous iron handle which had been the

first thing discovered, and with considerable difficulty began to

day to the effect that as the Reverend John Walden was now the

possessor of the living of St. Rest and had furthermore obtained a

'faculty' for the proper restoration of the church, which was to be

carried out at the said John Walden's own risk and personal

expenditure, the matter was not open to any outside discussion.

Whereat, Sir Morton's fury became so excessive that he actually shut

up Badsworth Hall and went away for a whole year, greatly to the

relief of the editor of the 'Riversford Gazette,' who was able to

dismiss him with a comfortable paragraph, thus:

"Sir Morton Pippitt has left Badsworth Hall for a tour round the

world. Miss Pippitt accompanies her distinguished father."

Then followed a spell of peace;--and the restoration of the church

at St. Rest was quietly proceeded with. Lovingly, and with tenderest

care for every stone, every broken fragment, John Walden pieced

together the ruined shrine of ancient days, and managed at last to

trace and recover the whole of the original plan. It had never been

a large building, its proportions being about the same as those of

Roslin Chapel, near Edinburgh. The task of restoration was costly,

especially when carried out with such perfection and regard to

detail,--but Walden grudged nothing to make it complete, and

superintended the whole thing himself, rejecting all the semi-

educated suggestions of the modern architect, and faithfully

following out the ideas of the particular period in which the church

was originally designed by those to whom the building of a 'God's

House' was a work of solemn prayer and praise. The ancient stones

were preserved, and wherever modern masonry was used, it was

cunningly worked in to look as time-worn as the Norman walls, while

the lancet windows were filled with genuine old stained glass

purchased by degrees from different parts of England, each fragment

being properly authenticated. A groined roof, simple yet noble in

outline, covered in the building; ornamented with delicately rounded

mouldings alternated with hollows so planned as to give the most

forcible effects of light and shade according to the style of

English Early Pointed work, and the only thing that was left

incomplete was the pierced circular window above the chancel, which

Walden sought to fill with stained glass of such indubitable

antiquity and beauty of design that he was only able to secure it

bit by bit at long intervals. While engaged in collecting this, he

judged it best to fill the window with ordinary clear glass rather

than put in inferior stuff. age system exactly in the middle of the

chancel, fronting the altar, we will let it remain there and occupy

its own original place. The chancel could not have a grander

ornament!

And so, in the middle of the chancel, between the altar and the

steps which separated that part of the church from the main body of

the building, the mysterious undated relic lay under the warm light

of the eastern window, and people who were interested in antiquities

came from far and near to see it, though they could make no more of

it than Walden himself had done. The cross and sword might possibly

indicate martyrdom; the laurels and thorn fame. Certainly there were

no signs that the dumb occupant of that sealed coffer was a monarch

of merely earthly power and state. When the alabaster came to be

thoroughly cleansed and polished, part of the inscription could be

deciphered in the following letters of worn gold:

Sancta. vixit. Sancta obit.. In. coelum.. sanctorum.,

transmigravit... In Resurrectione Sanctorum resurget M.. Beatse.

ma.. R.

But to what perished identity these significant words applied

remained an impenetrable mystery. Every old record was carefully

searched,--every scrap of ancient history wherein the neighbourhood

of St. Rest had ever been concerned was turned over and over by the

patient and indefatigable John Walden, who followed up many

suggestive tracks eagerly and lost them again when apparently just

on the point of finding some sure clue,--till at last he gave up the

problem in despair and contented himself and his parishioners by

accepting the evident fact that in the old church at one time or

another some saint or holy abbot had been buried,--hence the name of

St. Rest or 'The Saint's Rest,' which had become attached to the

village. But at what exact period such saint or abbot had lived and

died, was undiscoverable.

When the restoration of the sacred shrine was completed, and an

expectant congregation filled it to overflowing to assist at the

solemn service of its re-dedication to the worship of God, not one

among them all but was deeply impressed by the appearance of the

restored chancel, with its beautiful columns and delicate capitals,

arching like a bower of protection over the altar, and over that

wonderful white sarcophagus lying turn it round and round. As they

proceeded laboriously in this task, while the screw creaked and

groaned under the process with a noise as of splitting timber, all

at once the oblong slab of alabaster moved, and rose upward about an

inch.

"To it, boys!" cried Walden, his eyes sparkling; "To it again, and

harder! We shall have it with us in an hour!"

And truly, in somewhat less than an hour the strange old-world lever

had lifted what it must often have lifted in a similar way in bygone

years,--a magnificent and perfectly preserved sarcophagus, measuring

some six or seven feet long by three feet wide, covered with

exquisite carving at the sides, representing roses among thorns, the

flowers having evidently at one time been centred with gems and

which even now bore traces of gold. Round the lid there was some dim

lettering which was scarcely discernible,--the lid itself was firmly

closed and strongly cemented.

Exclamations of wonder, admiration, and excitement broke from all

who had been engaged in the work of excavation, and presently the

whole village ran out to see the wonderful relic of a forgotten

past, all chattering, all speculating, all staring, Walden alone

stood silent; his head bared,--his hands clasped. He knew that only

some great saint or holy recluse could have ever been so royally

enshrined in ancient days, and the elaborate system of leverage used

seemed to prove that the body laid within that wrought alabaster and

gold must have been considered to be of that peculiar nature termed

'miraculous,' and worthy to be lifted from its resting-place into

the chancel on certain particular occasions for the homage and

reverence of the people. The sun poured down upon the beautiful

object lying there,--on the groups of workmen who, instinctively

imitating Walden's example, had bared their heads,--on the wrinkled

worn faces of old village men and women,--on the bright waving locks

of young girls, and the clear enquiring eyes of children, all gazing

at the strange treasure-trove their ruined church had given up to

the light of a modern day. Presently the chief workman, asked Walden

in a hushed voice:

"Shall we break it open, sir?"

"No,--never!" replied Walden gently but firmly; "That would be

sacrilege. We may not lightly disturb the dead! The ashes enshrined

in this wonderful casket must be those of one who was dear to the

old-time church. They shall rest in peace. And as this sarcophagus

is evidently fixed by its leversouls, and awakening them to hopeful

considerations of a happier end than the mere grave."

Ten years, however, had now passed since John Walden had bought the

living, and of these ten years three had been occupied in the

restoration of the church, so that seven had elapsed since it had

been consecrated. And during those seven years not once had Bishop

Brent been seen again in St. Rest. He remained in the thoughts of

the people as an indefinable association with whom they would fain

have had more to do. Sir Morton Pippitt had passed from the sixties

into the seventies, very little altered;--still upright, still

inflexible and obstinate of temperament, he ruled the neighbourhood,

Riversford especially, as much as was possible to him now that much

of the management of St. Rest had passed under the quieter, but no

less firm authority of John Walden, whose will was nearly always

found in intellectually balanced opposition to his. The two seldom

met. Sir Morton was fond of 'county' society; Walden loathed it.

Moreover, Miss Tabitha, wearing steadily on towards fifty, had, as

the saying is, secretly 'set her cap' at the Reverend John; and the

mere sight of the sedately-amorous spinster set his nerves on edge.

Devoting himself strictly to his duties, to the care of the church,

to the interests of his parishioners, young and old, to the

cultivation of his garden, and to the careful preservation of all

the natural beauties of the landscape around him,--John lived very

much the life of a 'holy man' of mediaeval days; while Sir Horton

built and 'patronised' a hospital at Riversford, gave several prizes

for cabbages and shooting competitions, occasionally patted the

heads of a few straggling school-children, fussed round among his

scattered tenantry, and wrote paragraphs about his own 'fine

presence and open-hearted hospitality' for publication in the

'Riversford Gazette' whenever he entertained a house party at

Badsworth Hall, which he very frequently did. He kept well in touch

with London folk, and to London folk he was fond of speaking of St.

Rest as 'my' little village. But when London folk came to enquire

for themselves as to the nature of his possession, they invariably

discovered that it was not Sir Morton's little village at all but

the Reverend John's little village. Hence arose certain

discrepancies and cross-currents of feeling, leading to occasional

mild friction and 'local' excitement. Up to the present time,

however, Walden had on the whole lived a tranquil life, such as best

suited his tranquil and philosophic temperament, and his occasional

'brushes' with. snow-like in the rays of the sun, which flashed

clear on its stray bits of gold and broken incrustation of gems,

sending a straight beam through the eastern window on the one word

'Resurget' like a torch of hope from beyond the grave.

Bishop Brent, Walden's old college friend, came to perform the

ceremony of consecration, and this was the first time the

inhabitants of St. Rest had seen a real Bishop for many years. Much

excitement did his presence create in that quiet woodland dell, the

more especially as he proved to be a Bishop somewhat out of the

common. Tall and attenuated in form, he had a face which might

almost be called magnetic, so alive was its expression,--so intense

and passionate was the light of the deep dark melancholy eyes that

burned from under their shelving brows like lamps set in a high

watch-tower of intellect. When he preached, his voice, with its deep

mellow cadence, thrilled very strangely to the heart,--and every

gesture, every turn of his head, expressed the activity of the keen

soul pent up within his apparently frail body. The sermon he gave on

the occasion of the re-dedication of the Church of St. Rest was

powerful and emotional, but scarcely orthodox--and therefore was not

altogether pleasing to Sir Morton Pippitt. He chose as his text:

"Behold I show you a mystery; we shall not sleep, but we shall all

be changed;" and on this he expatiated, setting forth the joys of

the spiritual life as opposed to the physical,--insisting on the

positive certainty of individual existence after death, and weaving

into his discourse some remarks on the encoffined saint whose

sarcophagus had been unearthed from its long-hidden burial-place and

set again where it had originally stood, in the middle of the

chancel. He spoke in hushed and solemn tones of the possibility of

the holy spirit of that unknown one being present among them that

day, helping them in their work, joining in their prayers of

consecration and perhaps bestowing upon them additional blessing. At

which statement, given with poetic earnestness and fervour, Sir

Morton stared, breathed hard and murmured in his daughter's ear "A

Roman! The man is a Roman!"

But notwithstanding Sir Morton Pippitt's distaste for the manner in

which the Bishop dealt with his subject, and his numerous allusions

to saints in heaven and their probable guardianship of their friends

on earth, the sermon was a deeply impressive one and lingered long

in the memories of those who had heard it, softening their hearts,

inspiring their for the news of her coming. It is the one cloud in

an otherwise clear sky!

The young moon swinging lazily downward to the west, looked upon him

as though she smiled. A little bat scurried past in fear and hurled

itself into the dewy masses of foliage bordering the edge of the

lawn. And from the reeds and sedges fringing the river beyond, there

came floating a long whispering murmur that swept past his ears and

died softly into space, as of a voice that had something strange and

new to say, which might not yet be said. Sir Morton only served to

give piquancy and savour to the quiet round of his daily habits.

Now, all unexpectedly, there was to be a break,--a new source of

unavoidable annoyance in the intrusion of a feminine authority,--a

modern Squire-ess, who no doubt would probably bring modern ways

with her into the little old-world place,--who would hunt and shoot

and smoke,--perhaps even swear at her grooms,--who could tell? She

would not, she could not interfere with, the church, or its

minister, were she ever so much Miss Vancourt of Abbot's Manor,--but

she could if she liked 'muddle about' with many other matters, and

there could be no doubt that as the visible and resident mistress of

the most historic house in the neighbourhood, she would be what is

called 'a social influence.'

"And not for good!" mused John Walden, during a meditative stroll in

his garden on the even of the May-day on. which he had heard the

disturbing news; "Certainly not for good!"

He raised his eyes to the sky where the curved bow of a new moon

hung clear and bright as a polished sickle. All was intensely still.

The day had been a very busy one for him;--the children's dinner and

their May-games had kept his hands full, and not till sunset, when

the chimes of the church began to ring for evening service, had he

been able to snatch a moment to himself for quiet contemplation. The

dewy freshness of the garden, perfumed by the opening blossoms of

the syringa, imparted its own sense of calm and grave repose to his

mind,--and as he paced slowly up and down the gravel walk in front

of his study window watching the placid beauty of the deepening

night, a slight sigh escaped him.

"It cannot be for good!" he repeated, regretfully; "A woman trained

as she must have been trained since girlhood, with all her finer

perceptions blunted by perpetual contact with the assertive and

ostentatious evidences of an excess of wealth,--probably surrounded

too by the pitiful vulgarisms of a half-bred American society, too

ignorant to admit or recognise its own limitations,--she must have

almost forgotten the stately traditions of the fine old family she

springs from. One must not expect the motto of 'noblesse oblige' to

weigh with modern young women--more's the pity! I'm afraid the

mistress of Abbot's Manor will be a disturbing element in the

village, breeding discontent and trouble where there has been till

now comparative peace, and a fortunate simplicity of life. I'm

sorry! This would have been a perfect First of May but Ha-ha-ha-ha!"

And he broke into a laugh so joyous and mellow that Bainton found it

quite irresistible and joined in it with a deep "Hor-hor-hor!"

evoked from the hollow of his throat, and beginning loudly, but

dying away into a hoarse intermittent chuckle.

"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed the Reverend John again, throwing back his head

with a real enjoyment in his capability for laughter; "You did quite

right to disturb me, Bainton,--quite right! Where are Sir Morton and

his party? What are they doing?"

"They was jes' crossin' the churchyard when I spied 'em," answered

Bainton; "An' Sir Morton was makin' some very speshul observations

of his own on the 'herly Norman period.' Hor-hor-hor! An' they've

got ole Putty Leveson with 'em--"

"Bainton!" interrupted Walden severely; "How often must I tell you

that you should not speak of the rector of Badsworth in that

disrespectful manner?"

"Very sorry, sir!" said Bainton complacently; "But if one of the

names of a man 'appens to be Putwood an' the man 'imself is as fat

as a pig scored for roastin' 'ole, what more natrul than the pet

name of 'Putty' for 'im? No 'arm meant, I'm sure, Passon!--Putty's

as good as Pippitt any day!"

Walden suppressed his laughter with an effort. He was very much of a

boy at heart, despite his forty odd years, and the quaint

obstinacies of his gardener amused him too much to call for any

serious remonstrance. Turning back to his study he took his hat and

cane from their own particular corner of the room and started for

the little clap gate which Bainton had been, as he said, 'keeping

his eye on.'

"No more work to-day," he said, with an air of whimsical

resignation; "But I may possibly get one or two hints for my

sermon!"

He strode off, and Bainton watched him go. As the clap gate opened

and swung to again, and his straight athletic figure disappeared,

the old gardener still stood for a moment or two ruminating.

"What a blessin' he ain't married!" he said thoughtfully; "A

blessin' to the village, an' a blessin' to 'imself! He'd a bin a

fine man spoilt, if a woman 'ad ever got 'old on 'im,--a fine man

spoilt, jes' like me!"

An appreciative grin at his own expense spread among the furrows of

his face at this consideration;--then he trotted