IV

Two days later on, when Walden was at work in his own room seriously

considering the points of his sermon for the coming Sunday, his

'head man about the place,' Bainton, made a sudden appearance on the

lawn and abruptly halted there, looking intently up at the sky, as

though taking observations of a comet at noon. This was a customary

trick of his resorted to whenever he wished to intrude his presence

during forbidden hours. John saw him plainly enough from where he

sat busily writing, though for a few minutes he pretended not to

see. But as Bainton remained immovable and apparently rooted to the

ground, and as it was likely that there he would remain till

positively told to go, his master made a virtue of necessity, and

throwing down his pen, went to the window. Bainton thereupon

advanced a little, but stopped again as though irresolute. Walden

likewise paused a moment, then at last driven to bay by the old

gardener's pertinacity, stepped out.

"Now what is it, Bainton?" he said, endeavouring to throw a shade of

sternness into his voice; "You know very well I hate being disturbed

while I'm writing."

Bainton touched his cap respectfully.

"Now don't go for to say as I'm disturbing on ye, Passon," he

remonstrated, mildly; "I ain't said a mortal wurrd! I was onny jes'

keepin' my eye on the clap gate yonder, in case the party in the

churchyard might walk through, thinkin' it a right-o'-way. Them

swagger folk ain't got no sort of idee as to respectin' private

grounds."

Walden's eyes flashed.

"A party in the churchyard?" he repeated. "Who are they?"

"Who should they be?" And Bainton's rugged features expressed a

sedate mingling of the shrewd and the contemptnous that was quite

amazing. "Worn't you expectin' distinguished visitors some day this

week, sir?"

"I know!" exclaimed Walden quickly; "Sir Morton Pippitt and his

guests have come to 'inspect' the church!"

There was a pause, during which Walden, baring his head as he passed

in, entered the sacred edifice. He became aware of Sir Morton

Pippitt standing in the attitude of a University Extension lecturer

near the sarcophagus in the middle of the chancel, with the Reverend

Mr. Leveson and a couple of other men near him, while two more

strangers were studying the groined roof with critical curiosity. As

he approached, Sir Morton made a rapid sign to his companions and

stepped down from the chancel.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Walden," he said in a loud whisper, and with

an elaborate affectation of great heartiness; "I have brought His

Grace the Duke of Lumpton to see the church."

Walden allowed his calm blue eyes to rest quietly on His Grace the

Duke of Lumpton without much interest. His Grace was an undersized

fat man, with a bald head and a red face, and on Walden's being

presented to him, merely nodded with a patronisingly casual air.

"Lord Mawdenham,"--continued Sir Morton, swelling visibly with just

pride at his own good fortune in being able to introduce a Lord

immediately after a Duke, and offering Walden, as it were, with an

expressive wave of his hand, to a pale young gentleman, who seemed

seriously troubled by an excess of pimples on his chin, and who

plucked nervously at one of these undesirable facial addenda as his

name was uttered. Walden acknowledged his presence with silent

composure, as he did the wide smile and familiar nod of his brother

minister, the Reverend 'Putty,' whose truly elephantine proportions

were encased in a somewhat too closely fitting bicycle suit, and

whose grand-pianoforte shaped legs and red perspiring face together,

presented a most unclerical spectacle of the 'Church at large.'

The two gentlemen who had been studying the groined roof, now

brought their glances to bear on Walden, and one of them, a youngish

man with a crop of thick red hair and a curiously thin, hungry face,

spoke without waiting for Sir Morton's cue.

"Mr. Walden? Ye-es!--I felt sure it must be Mr. Walden! Let me

congratulate you, sir, on your exquisite devotional work here! The

church is beau-ti-ful--beau-ti-ful! A sonnet in stone! A sculptured

prayer! Ye-es! It is so! Permit me to press your hand!"

John smiled involuntarily. There was a quaint affectation about the

speaker that was quite irresistibly entertaining.

"Mr. Julian Adderley is a poet," said Sir Morton, whispering this in

a jocose stage aside; "Everything is 'beautiful' to him!"

Mr. Julian Adderley smiled faintly, and fixed a pair of rather fine

grey eyes on Walden with a mute appeal, as one who should say with

Hamlet 'These tedious old fools!' Meanwhile Sir Morton Pippitt had

secured the last member of his party affectionately by the arm, and

continuing his stage whisper said:

"Permit me, Mr. Walden! This is one of our greatest London literary

lights! He will particularly appreciate anything you may he good

enough to tell him respecting your work of restoration here--Mr.

Marius Longford, of the Savile and Savage clubs!"

Mr. Marius Longford, of the Savile and Savage clubs, bent his head

with an air of dignified tolerance. He was an angular personage,

with a narrow head, and a face cleanly shaven, except at the sides

where two small pussy-cat whiskers fringed his sharply defined jaws.

He had a long thin mouth, and long thin slits for his eyes to peep

through,--they would have been eyelids with other people, but with

him they were merely slits. He was a particularly neat man in

appearance--his clothes were well brushed, his linen spotless, his

iron-grey hair sleek, and his whole appearance that of a man well

satisfied with his own exterior personality. Walden glanced at this

great London literary light as indifferently as he would have

glanced at an incandescent lamp in the street, or other mechanical

luminary. He had not as yet spoken a word. Sir Morton had done all

the talking; but the power of silence always overcomes in the end,

and John's absolute non-committal of himself to any speech, had at

last the effect he desired--namely that of making Sir Morton appear

a mere garrulous old interloper, and his 'distinguished' friends

somewhat of the cheap tripper persuasion. The warm May sun poured

through the little shrine of prayer, casting flickers of gold and

silver on the 'Saint at Rest' before the altar, and showering azure

and rose patterns through the ancient stained glass which filled the

side lancet windows. The stillness became for the moment intense and

almost oppressive,--Sir Morton Pippitt fidgeted uneasily, pulled at

his high starched collar and became red in the face,--the Reverend

'Putty' forgot himself so far as to pinch one of his own legs and

hum a little tune, while the rest of the party waited for the

individual whom their host had so frequently called 'the damned

parson' to speak. The tension was relieved by the sudden quiet

entrance of a young woman carrying a roll of music. Seeing the group

of persons in the chancel, she paused in evident uncertainty. Walden

glanced at her, and his composed face all at once lighted up with

that kindly smile which in such moments made him more than

ordinarily handsome.

"Come along, Miss Eden," he said in a low clear tone; "You are quite

at liberty to practise as usual. Sir Morton Pippitt and his friends

will not disturb you."

Miss Eden smiled sedately and bent her head, passing by the visitors

with an easy demeanour and assured step, and made her way to where

the organ, small, but sweet and powerful, occupied a corner near

the chancel. While she busied herself in opening the instrument and

arranging her musics Walden took advantage of the diversion created

by her entrance to address himself to the knight Pippitt.

"If I can be of service to your friends in explaining anything about

the church they may wish, to know, pray command me, Sir Morton," he

said. "But I presume that you and Mr, Leveson"--here he glanced at

the portly 'Putty' with a slight smile--"have pointed out all that

is necessary."

"On the contrary!" said Mr. Marius Longford 'of the Savile and

Savage,' with a smoothly tolerant air; "We are really quite in the

dark! Do we understand, for example, that the restoration of this

church is entirely due to your generosity, or to assistance from

public funds and subscriptions?"

"The restoration is due, not to my 'generosity,'" replied Walden,

"but merely to my sense of what is fitting for Divine service. I

have had no assistance from any fund or from any individual, because

I have not sought it."

There was a pause, during which Mr. Longford fixed a pair of gold-

rimmed glasses on his nose and gazed quizzically through them at Sir

Morton Pippitt, whose countenance had grown uncomfortably purple in

hue either with exterior heat or inward vexation.

"I thought. Sir Morton," he began slowly, when Mr. Leveson adroitly

interrupted him by the query:

"Now what period would you fix, Mr. Longford, for this sarcophagus?

I am myself inclined to think it of the fourteenth century."

A soft low strain of music here crept through, the church,--the

village schoolmistress was beginning her practice. She had a

delicate touch, and the sounds her fingers pressed from the organ-

keys were full, and solemn and sweet. His Grace the Duke of Lumpton

coughed loudly; he hated music, and always made some animal noise of

his own to drown it.

"What matters the period!" murmured Julian Adderley, running his

thin hand through his thick hair. "Is it not sufficient to see it

here among us, with us, OF us?"

"God bless my soul! I hope it is not OF us!" spluttered Sir Morton

with a kind of fat chuckle which seemed to emanate from his stiff

collar rather than from his throat; "'Ashes to ashes' of course; we

are all aware of that--but not just yet!--not just yet!"

"I am unable to fix the period satisfactorily to my own mind," said

Walden, quietly ignoring both Sir Morton and his observations on the

Beyond; "though I have gone through considerable research with

respect to the matter. So I do not volunteer any opinion. There is,

however, no doubt that at one time the body contained in that coffer

must have been of the nature termed by the old Church 'miraculous.'

That is to say, it must have been supposed to be efficacious in

times of plague or famine, for there are several portions of the

alabaster which have evidently been worn away by the frequent

pressure or touch of hands on the surface. Probably in days when

this neighbourhood was visited by infection, drought, floods or

other troubles, the priests raised the coffin by the system of

leverage which we discovered when excavating (and which is still in

working order) and allowed the people to pass by and lay their hands

upon it with a special prayer to be relieved of their immediate

sickness or sorrow. There were many such 'miraculous' shrines in the

early part of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries."

"Exactly," said Mr. Longford; "I imagine you may be right, Mr.

Walden; it is evidently a relic of the very earliest phases of the

Christian myth."

As he spoke the last words Walden looked straightly at him. A fine

smile hovered on his lips.

"It is as you say," he rejoined calmly--"It is a visible token of

the time when men believed in an Unseen Force more potent than

themselves."

The Duke of Lumpton coughed noisily again, and his friend, Lord

Mawdenham, who up to the present had occupied the time in staring

vaguely about him and anxiously feeling his pimples, said hurriedly:

"Oh, look here, Sir Morton--er--I say,--er--hadn't we better be

going? There's Lady Elizabeth Messing coming to lunch and you know

she can't bear to be kept waiting-never do, you know, not to be

there to see her when she arrives--he-he-he! We should never get

over it in London or out of London--'pon my life!--I do assure you!"

Sir Morton's chest swelled;--his starched collar crackled round his

expanding throat, and his voice became richly resonant as under the

influential suggestion of another 'titled' personage, he replied:

"Indeed, you are right, my dear Lord Mawdenham! To keep Lady

Elizabeth waiting would be an unpardonable offence against all the

proprieties! Hum--ha--er--yes!--against all the proprieties! Mr.

Walden, we must go! Lady Elizabeth Messing is coming to lunch with

us at Badsworth. You have no doubt heard of her--eldest daughter of

the Earl of Charrington!--yes, we must really be going! I think I

may say, may I not, your Grace?"--here he bent towards the ducal

Lumpton--"that we are all highly pleased with the way in which Mr.

Waldon has effected the restoration of the church?"

"Oh, I don't know anything at all about it!" replied His Grace, with

the air of a sporting groom; "I've no taste at all in churches, and

I'm not taking any on old coffins! It's a nice little chapel--just

enough for a small village I should say. After all, don't-cher-know,

you only want very little accommodation for a couple of hundred

yokels; and whether it's old or new architecture doesn't matter to

'em a brass farthing!"

These observations were made with a rambling air of vague self-

assertiveness which the speaker evidently fancied would pass for wit

and wisdom. Walden said nothing. His brow was placid, and his

countenance altogether peaceful. He was listening to the solemnly

sweet flow of a Bach prelude which Miss Eden was skilfully

unravelling on the organ, the notes rising and falling, and anon

soaring up again like prayerful words striving to carry themselves

to heaven.

"I think," said Mr. Marius Longford weightily, "that whatever fault

the building may have from a strictly accurate point of view,--which

is a matter I am not prepared to go into without considerable time

given for due study and consideration,--it is certainly the most

attractive edifice of its kind that I have seen for some time. It

reflects great credit on you, Mr. Walden;--no doubt the work gave

you much personal pleasure!"

"It certainly did so," replied John,--"and I'm afraid I am arrogant

enough to be satisfied with the general result so far as it goes,--

with the exception of the eastern window, of course!"

"Ah, that eastern window!" sighed the Reverend 'Putty' with an air

of aesthetic languor which was in comical contrast with his coarse

and commonplace appearance; "That is a sad, sad flaw! A terrible

incongruity!"

"I made up my mind from the first," pursued Walden, his equable

voice seeming to float pleasantly on the tide of music with which

the little sanctuary was just then filled; "that nothing but the

most genuine and authentic old stained glass should fill that fine

circular rose carving, and those lance apertures; so I am collecting

it slowly, bit by bit, for this purpose. It will take time and

patience, no doubt,--but I think and hope that success will be the

end of the task I have set myself. In the meantime, of course, the

effect of plain glass where there should be only the richest

colouring is decidedly 'crude'!"

He smiled slightly, and there was an uncomfortable pause. Sir Morton

Pippitt took out a voluminous red handkerchief covered with yellow

spots and blew his nose violently therein while the Reverend Mr.

Leveson nodded his large head blandly, as one who receives doubtful

information with kindly tolerance. Mr. Marius Longford looked

faintly amused.

"I understand!" said the light of the 'Savile and Savage,' slowly;

"You seek perfection!"

He smiled a pallid smile; but on the whole surveyed Walden with more

interest than he had hitherto done. Julian Adderley, who had during

the last couple of minutes stepped up to the chancel, now stood

gazing at the sarcophagus of the supposed Saint with a kind of

melancholy interest. Reading the only legible words of the

inscription in sotto voce, he sighed drearily.

"' In--Resurrectione--Sanctorum--Resurget!' How simple!--how new!--

how fresh! To think that anyone ever held such a child's faith!"

"The Church is still supposed to hold it," said Walden steadily,

"And her ministers also. Otherwise, religion is a farce, and its

professors much less honest than the trusted servant who steals his

master's money!"

Marius Longford smiled, and stroked one feline whisker thoughtfully.

"So you actually believe what you preach!" he murmured--"Strange!

You are more of an antiquity than the consecrated dust enclosed in

that alabaster! Believe me!"

"Much more,--much, more!" exclaimed the fantastic Adderley; "To

believe in anything at all is so remote!--so very remote!--and yet

so new--so fresh!"

Walden made no reply. He never argued on religious matters;

moreover, with persons minded in the manner of those before him, it

seemed useless to even offer an opinion. They exchanged meaning

glances with each other, and followed Sir Morton, who was now moving

down the central aisle of the church towards the door of exit,

holding the Duke of Lumpton familiarly by the arm, and accompanied

by Lord Mawdenham. Walden walked silently with them, till, passing

out of the church, they all stood in a group on the broad gravelled

pathway which led to the open road, where the Pippitt equipage, a

large waggonette and pair, stood waiting, together with a bicycle,

the property of the Reverend Mr. Leveson.

"Thank you, Mr. Walden!" then said Sir Morton Pippitt with a

grandiose air, as of one who graciously confers a benefit on the

silence by breaking it; "Thank you for--er--for--er--the pleasure of

your company this--er--this morning! My friend, the Duke,--and Lord

Mawdenham--and--er--our rising poet, Mr. Adderley--and--er--Mr.

Longford, have been delighted. Yes--er--delighted! Of course you

know MY opinion! Ha-ha-ha! You know MY opinion! It is the same as it

ever was--I never change! When _I_ have once made up my mind, it is

a fixture! I have said already and I say it again, that the church

was quite good enough for such people as live here, in its original

condition, and that you have really spent a great deal of cash on a

very needless work! I mustn't be rude, no, no, no!--but you know the

old adage: 'Fools and their money!' Ha-ha-ha! But we shan't quarrel.

Oh, dear no! It has cost ME nothing, I am glad to say! Ha-ha! Nor

anybody else! Now, if Miss Vancourt of Abbot's Manor had been here

when you began this restoration business of yours, SHE might have

had something to say--ha-ha-ha! She always has something to say!"

"You think she would have objected?" queried Walden, coldly.

"Oh, I won't go so far as that--no!--eh, your Grace--we won't go so

far as that!"

The Duke of Lumpton, thus suddenly adjured, looked round, and smiled

vacantly.

"Won't go so far as what?" he asked; "Didn't catch it!"

"I was talking of Maryllia Vancourt," said Sir Morton with a kind of

fatuous leer; "YOU know her, of course!--everyone knows her more or

less. Charming girl!--charming! Maryllia Van!--ha-ha!"

And Sir Morton laughed and leered again till certain veins, moved by

cerebral emotion, protruded largely on his forehead. His Grace

laughed also, but shortly and indifferently.

"Oh, ya-as--ya-as! She's the one who's just had a rumpus with her

rich American aunt. I believe they don't speak, After years of

devotion, eh? So like women, ain't it!"

The Reverend 'Putty' Leveson, who had been stooping over his bicycle

to set something right that was invariably going wrong with that

particular machine, and who was redder than ever in the face with

his efforts, now looked up.

"Miss Vancourt is coming back to the Manor to reside there, so I

hear," he said. "Very dull for a woman accustomed to London and

Paris. I expect she'll stay about ten days."

"One never knows--one cannot tell!" sighed Julian Adderley.

"Sometimes to the satiated female mind, overwrought with social

dissipation, there comes a strange longing for peace!--for the scent

of roses!--for the yellow shine of cowslips!--for the song of the

mating birds!--for the breath of cows!"

Mr. Marius Longford smiled, and picked a tall buttercup nodding in

the grass at his feet.

"Such aspirations in the fair sex are absolutely harmless," he said;

"Let us hope the lady's wishes may find their limit in a soothing

pastoral!" "Ha-ha-ha!" laughed Sir Morton. "You are deep, my dear

sir, you are very deep! God bless my soul! Deep as a well! No wonder

people are afraid of you! Clever, clever! I'm afraid of you myself!

Come along, come along! Can I assist your Grace?" Here he pushed

aside with a smothered 'Damn!' the footman, who stood holding open

the door of the waggonette, and officiously gave the Duke of Lumpton

a hand to help him into the carriage. "Now, Lord Mawdenham, please!

You next, Mr. Longford! Come, come, Mr. Adderley! Think of Lady

Elizabeth! She will be arriving at the Hall before we are there to

receive her! Terrible, terrible! Come along! We're all ready!"

Julian Adderley had turned to Walden.

"Permit me to call and see you alone!" he said. "I cannot just now

appreciate the poetry of your work in the church as I should do--as

I ought to do--as I must do! The present company is discordant!--one

requires the music of Nature,-the thoughts,--the dreams! But no more

at present! I should like to talk with you on many matters some wild

sweet morning,--if you have no objection?"

Walden was amused. At the same time he was not very eager to respond

to this overture of closer acquaintanceship with one who, by his

dress, manner and method of speech, proclaimed himself a 'decadent'

of the modern school of ethics; but he was nothing if not courteous.

So he replied briefly:

"I shall be pleased to see you, of course, Mr. Adderley, but I must

warn you that I am a very busy man--I should not be able to give you

much time--"

"No explanations--I understand!" And Adderley pressed his hand with

enthusiasm. "The very fact that you are busy in a village like this

adds to the peculiar charm of your personality! It is so strange!--

so new--so fresh!"

He smiled, and again pressed hands.

"Good-bye! The mood will send me to you at the fitting moment!"

He clapped his hat more firmly on his redundant red locks and

clambered into the waiting waggonette. Sir Morton followed him, and

the footman shut to the door of the vehicle with a bang as

unnecessary as his master's previous 'Damn!'

"Good-morning, Mr. Walden!" then shouted the knight of bone-melting

prowess; "Much obliged to you, I'm sure!"

Walden raised his hat with brief ceremoniousness, and then as the

carriage rolled away addressed the Reverend Mr. Leveson, who was

throwing himself with hippopotamus-like agility across his bicycle.

"You follow, I suppose?"

"Yes. I'm lunching at Badsworth Hall. The Duke wants to consult me

about his family records. You know I'm a bit of an authority on such

points!"

Walden smiled.

"I believe you are! But mind you calendar the ducal deeds

carefully," he said. "A slip in the lineal descent of the Lumptons

might affect the whole prestige of the British Empire!"

A light shone in his clear blue eyes,--a flashing spark of battle.

Leveson stayed his bicycle a moment, wobbling on it uneasily.

"Lumpton goes back a good way," he said airily; "I shall take him up

when I have gone through the history of the Vancourts. I'm on that

scent now. I shall make a good bit of business directly Miss

Vancourt returns; she'll pay for anything that will help her to

stiffen her back and put more side on."

"Really!" ejaculated Walden, coldly. "I should have thought her

forebears would have saved her from snobbery."

"Not a bit of it!" declared Leveson, beginning to start the muscles

of his grand-pianoforte legs with energy; "Rapid as a firework, and

vain as a peacock! Ta!"

And fixing a small cap firmly on the back of his very large head, he

worked his wheel with treadmill regularity and was soon out of

sight.

Walden stood alone in the churchyard, lost for a brief space in

meditation. The solemn strains of the organ which the schoolmistress

was still playing, floated softly out from the church to the

perfumed air, and the grave melodious murmur made an undercurrent of

harmony to the clear bright warbling of a skylark, which, beating

its wings against the sunbeams, rose ever higher and higher above

him.

"What petty souls we are!" he murmured; "Here am I feeling actually

indignant because this fellow Leveson, who has less education and

knowledge than my dog Nebbie, assumes to have some acquaintance with

Miss Vancourt! What does it matter? What business is it of mine? If

she cares to accept information from an ignoramus, what is it to do

with me? Nothing! Yet,--what a blatant ass the fellow is! Upon my

word, it does me good to say it--a blatant ass! And Sir Morton

Pippitt is another!"

He laughed, and lifting his hat from his forehead, let the soft wind

breathe refreshing coolness on his uncovered hair.

"There are decided limits to Christian love!" he said, the laughter

still dancing in his eyes. "I defy--I positively defy anyone to love

Leveson! 'The columns and capitals are all wrong' are they?" And he

gave a glance back at the beautiful little church in its exquisite

design and completed perfection."'Out of keeping with early Norman

walls!' Wise Leveson! He ignores all periods of transition as if

they had never existed--as if they had no meaning for the thinker as

well as the architect--as if the movement upward from the Norman, to

the Early Pointed style showed no indication of progress! And

whereas a church should always be a veritable 'sermon in stone'

expressive of the various generations that have wrought their best

on it, he limits himself to the beginning of things! I wonder what

Leveson was in the beginning of things? Possibly an embryo

Megatherium!"

Broadly smiling, he walked to the gate communicating with his own

garden, opened it, and passed through. Nebbie was waiting for him on

the lawn, and greeted him with the usual effusiveness. He returned

to his desk, and to the composition of his sermon, but his thoughts

were inclined to wander. Sir Morton Pippitt, the Duke of Lumpton,

and Lord Mawdenham hovered before him like three dull puppets in a

cheap show; and he was inclined to look up the name of Marius

Longford in one of the handy guides to contemporary biography, in

order to see if that flaccid and fish-like personage had really done

anything In the world to merit his position as a shining luminary of

the 'Savage and Savile.' Accustomed as he was to watch the ebb and

flow of modern literature, he had not yet sighted either the

Longford straw or the Adderley cork, among the flotsam and jetsam of

that murky tide. And ever and again Sir Morton Pippitt's coarse

chuckle, combined with the covert smiles of Sir Morton's

'distinguished' friends, echoed through his mind in connection with

the approaching dreaded invasion of Miss Vancourt into the happy

quietude of the village of St. Rest, till he experienced a sense of

pain and aversion almost amounting to anger. Why, he asked himself,

seeing she had stayed so long away from her childhood's home, could

she not have stayed away altogether? The swift and brilliant life of

London was surely far more suited to one who, according to 'Putty'

Leveson, was 'rapid as a firework, and vain as a peacock.' But was

'Putty' Leveson always celebrated for accuracy in his statements?

No! Certainly not--yet--"

Then something seemed to fire him with a sudden resolution, for he

erased the first lines of the sermon he had begun, and altered his

text, which had been: "Glory, honour and peace to every man that

worketh good." And in its place he chose, as a more enticing subject

of discourse:

"The ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of

God, of great price."

V

The warm bright weather continued. Morning after morning dawned in

unclouded sunshine, and when Saturday concluded the first five days

of the 'May-moneth,' the inhabitants of St. Rest were disposed to

concede that it was just possible they might have what they called

'a spell of fair weather.' Saturday was the general 'cleaning-up

day' in the village--the day when pails of water were set out in

unexpected places for the unwary to trip over; when the old

flagstones poured with soapsuds that trickled over the toes of too-

hasty passers-by; when cottage windows were violently squirted at

with the aid of garden-syringes and hose,--and when Adam Frost, the

sexton, was always to be found meditating, and even surreptitiously

drinking beer, in a quiet corner of the churchyard, because he was

afraid to go home, owing to the persistent housewifely energy of his

better half, who 'washed down' everything, 'cleaned out' everything,

and had, as she forcibly expressed it, 'the Sunday meals on her

mind.' It was a day, too, when Bainton, released from his gardening

duties at the rectory at noon, took a thoughtful stroll by himself,

aware that his 'Missis' was scrubbing the kitchen, and 'wouldn't

have him muckin' about,'--and when John Walden, having finished his

notes for the Sunday's sermon, felt a sense of ease and relief, and

considered himself at liberty to study purely Pagan literature, such

as The Cratylus of Plato. But on this special Saturday he was not

destined to enjoy complete relaxation. Mrs. Spruce had sent an

urgent appeal to him to 'kindly step up to the Manor in the

afternoon.' And Mrs. Spruce's husband, a large, lumbering, simple-

faced old fellow, in a brown jacket and corduroys, had himself come

with the message, and having delivered it, stood on Walden's

threshold, cap in hand, waiting for a reply. John surveyed his

awkward, peasant-like figure with a sense of helplessness,--excuses

and explanations he knew would be utterly lost on an almost deaf

man. Submitting to fate, he nodded his head vigorously, and spoke as

loudly as he judged needful.

"All right, Spruce! Say I'll come!"

"Jes' what I told her, sir," answered Spruce, in a remarkably gentle

tone; "It's a bit okkard, but if she doos her dooty, no 'arm can

'appen, no matter if it's all the riches of the yearth."

John felt more helpless than ever. What was the man talking about?

He drew closer and spoke in a more emphatic key.

"Look here, Spruce! Tell your wife I'll come after luncheon. Do you

hear? Af-ter lun-cheon!"

Spruce put one hand to his ear and smiled blandly.

"Ezackly, sir! I quite agrees with ye; but women are allus a bit

worrity-like, and of course there's a deal to do, and she got

frightened with the keys, and when she saw them fine clothes, and

what not,--so I drawed her a glass of cherry-cordial, an' sez I,

'Now, old 'ooman,' sez I, 'don't skeer yerself into fits. I'll fetch

the passon to ye.' And with that, she seemed easier in her mind.

Lord love ye!--it's a great thing to fetch the passon at once when

there's anything a bit wrong. So, if you'd step up, sir?--"

Driven almost to despair, Walden put his lips close to the old man's

obstinate ear.

"Yes," he bellowed--"af-ter lun-cheon! Yes! Ye-es!"

His reply at last penetrated the closed auricular doors of Spruce's

brain.

"Thank you, kindly, sir, I'm sure," he said, still in the same meek

and quiet tone. "And if I might make so bold, sir, seein' there's

likely to be changes up at the Manor, if it should be needful to

speak for me and my old 'ooman, p'raps you'd be so good, sir? We

wouldn't like to leave the old place now, sir---"

His soft, hesitating voice faltered, and he suddenly brushed his

hand across his poor dim eyes. The pathos of this hint was not lost

on Walden, who, forgetting all his own momentary irritation, rose

manfully to the occasion and roared down the old man's ears like one

of the far-famed 'Bulls of Bashan.'

"Don't worry!" he yelled, his face becoming rapidly crimson with his

efforts; "I'll see you all right! You sha'n't leave the Manor if I

can prevent it! I'll speak for you! Cheer up! Do you hear! Che-er

up!"

Spruce heard very clearly this time, and smiled. "Thank you, Passon!

God bless you! I'm sure you'll help us, if so be the lady is a hard

one--"

He trusted himself to say no more, but with a brief respectful

salutation, put on his cap and turned away.

Left alone, Walden drew a long breath, and wiped his brow. To make

poor old Spruce hear was a powerful muscular exertion. Nebbie had

been so much astonished at the loud pitch of his master's voice,

that he had retired under a sofa in alarm, and only crawled out now

as Spruce departed, with small anxious waggings of his tail. Walden

patted the animal's head and laughed.

"Mind you don't get deaf in your old age, Nebbie!" he said. "Phew! A

little more shouting like that and I should be unable to preach to-

morrow!"

Still patting the dog's head, his eyes gradually darkened and his

brow became clouded.

"Poor Spruce!" he murmured. "'Help him, if so be the lady is a hard

one!' Already in fear of her! I expect they have heard something--

some ill-report--probably only too correctly founded. Yet, how it

goes against the grain of manhood to realise that any 'lady' may be

'a hard one!' But, alas!--what a multitude of 'hard ones' there are!

Harder than men, perhaps, if all the truth were known!"

And there was a certain sternness and rooted aversion in him to that

dim approaching presence of the unknown heiress of Abbot's Manor. He

experienced an instinctive dislike of her, and was positively

certain that the vague repugnance would deepen into actual

antipathy.

"One cannot possibly like everybody," he argued within himself, in

extenuation of what he felt was an unreasonable mental attitude;

"'And modern fashionable women are among the most unlikeable of all

human creatures. Any one of them in such a village as this would be

absurdly out of place."

Thus self-persuaded, his mood was a singular mixture of pity and

resentment when, in fulfilment of his promise, he walked that

afternoon up the winding road which led to the Manor, and avoiding

the lodge gates, passed through a rustic turnstile he knew well and

so along a path across meadows and through shrubberies to the house.

The path was guarded by a sentinel board marked 'Private.

Trespassers will be prosecuted.' But in all the years he had lived

at St. Rest, he cared nothing for that. As rector of the parish he

had his little privileges. Nebbie trotted at his heels with the air

of a dog accustomed to very familiar surroundings. The grass on

either side was springing up long and green,--delicate little field

flowers were peeping through it here and there, and every now and

then there floated upwards the strong sweet incense of the young

wild thyme. The way he had chosen to walk was known as a 'short cut'

to Abbot's Manor, and ten minutes of easy striding brought him into

the dewy coolness of a thicket of dark firs, at the end of which,

round a sharp turn, the fine old red brick and timbered gables of

the house came into full view. He paused a moment, looking somewhat

regretfully at the picture, warmly lit up by the glow of the bright

sun,--a picture which through long habitude of observation had grown

very sweet to him. It was not every day that such a house as Abbot's

Manor came within reach of the archaeologist and antiquarian. The

beautiful tiled-roof--the picturesque roughness and crookedness of

the architectural lines of the whole building, so different to the

smooth, hard, angular imitations of half-timbered work common in

these degenerate days, were a delight to the eyes to rest upon,--a

wealth of ivy clung thickly to the walls and clambered round the

quaint old chimneys;--some white doves clustered in a group on the

summit of one broad oak gable, were spreading their snowy wings to

the warm sun and discussing their domestic concerns in melodious

cooings;--the latticed windows, some of which in their unspoilt

antiquity of 'horn' panes were a particular feature of the house,

were all thrown open,--but to Walden's sensitive observation there

seemed a different atmosphere about the place,--a suggestion of

change and occupation which was almost startling.

He paced slowly on, and arrived at the outside gate, which led into

a square old-fashioned court, such as was common to Tudor times,

paved on three sides and planted with formal beds of flowers, the

whole surrounded by an ancient wall. The gate was ajar, and pushing

it open he passed in, glancing for a moment at the grey weather-

beaten sun-dial in the middle of the court which told him it was

three-o'clock. For four centuries, at least, that self-same dial had

marked the hour in that self-same spot, a silent commentary on the

briefness of human existence, as compared with its own strange non-

sentient lastingness. The sound of Walden's footsteps on the old

paving-stones awoke faint echoes, and startled away a robin from a

spray of blossoming briar-rose, and as he walked up to the great

oaken porch of entrance,--a porch heavily carved with the

Vaignecourt or Vancourt emblems, and as deep and wide in its

interior as a small room, an odd sense came over him that he was no

longer an accustomed visitor to a beautiful 'show house,' so much as

a kind of trespasser on forbidden ground. The thick nail-studded

doors, clamped with huge bolts and bars, stood wide open; no servant

was on the threshold to bid him enter, and for a moment he

hesitated, uncertain whether to ring the bell, or to turn back and

go away, when suddenly Mrs. Spruce emerged from a shadowy corner

leading to the basement, and hailed his appearance with an

exclamation of evident relief.

"Thank the Lord and His goodness, Passon Walden, here you are at

last! I'd made up my mind the silly fool of a Spruce had brought me

the wrong message;--a good meanin' man, but weak in the upper

storey, 'cept where trees is concerned and clearing away brushwood,

when I'd be bold to say he's as handy as they make 'em--but do, for

mercy's sake, Passon, step inside and see how we've got on, for it's

not so bad as it might have been, an' I've seen worse done at a few

days' notice than even myself with hired hands on a suddint could

ever do. Step in, sir, step in!--we're leavin' the door open to let

the sun in a bit to warm the hall, for the old stained glass do but

filter it through at its best; not but that we ain't had a fire in

it night and mornin' ever since we had Miss Vancourt's letter."

Walden made no attempt to stem the flow of the worthy woman's

discourse. From old experience, he knew that to be an impossible

task. So he stepped in as he was bidden, and looked round the grand

old hall, decorated with ancient armour, frayed banners and worn

scutcheons, feeling regretfully that perhaps he was looking at it so

for the last time. No one more than he had appreciated the simple

dignity of its old-world style, or had more correctly estimated the

priceless value of the antique oak panelling that covered its walls.

He loved the great ingle-nook, set deep back as it were, in the very

bosom of the house, with its high and elaborately carved benches on

each side, and its massive armorial emblems wrought in black oak,

picked out with tarnished gold, crimson and azure,--he appreciated

every small gleam and narrow shaft of colour reflected by the strong

sun through the deeply-tinted lozenge panes of glass that filled the

lofty oriel windows on either side;--and the stuffed knight-in-

armour, a model figure 'clad in complete steel,' of the fourteenth

century, which stood, holding a spear in its gauntleted hand near

the doorway leading to the various reception rooms, was almost a

personal friend. Mrs. Spruce, happily unconscious of the deepening

melancholy which had begun to tinge his thoughts, led the way

through the hall, still garrulously chirping.

"We've cleaned up wonderfully, considerin'--and it was just the

Lord's providence that at Riversford I found a decent butler and

footman what had jes' got the sack from Sir Morton Pippitt's and

were lookin' for a place temp'ry, preferring London later, so I

persuaded both of 'em to come and try service with a lady for once,

instead of with a fussy old ancient, who turns red and blue in the

face if he's kept waitin' 'arf a second--and I picked up with a gel

what the footman was engaged to, and that'll keep HIM a fixture,--

and I found the butler had a hi on a young woman at the public-house

'ere,--so that's what you may call an 'hattraction,' and then I got

two more 'andy gels which was jes' goin' off to see about Mrs.

Leveson's place, and when I told 'em that there the sugar was

weighed out, and the tea dispensed by the ounce, as if it was

chemicals, and that please the Lord and anybody else that likes,

they'd have better feedin' if they came along with me, they struck a

bargain there and then. And then as if there was a special powerful

blessin' on it all, who should come down Riversford High Street but

one of the best cooks as ever took a job, a Scotch body worth her

weight in gold, and she'd be a pretty big parcel to weigh, too, but

she can send up a dinner for one as easy as for thirty, which is as

good a test as boilin' a tater---and 'as got all her wits about her.

She was just goin' to advertise for a house party or shootin' job,

so we went into the Crown Inn at Riversford and had tea together and

settled it. And they all come up in a wagginette together as merry

as larks;--so the place is quite lively, Passon, I do assure you,

'specially for a woman like me which have had it all to myself and

lonesome like for many years. I've made Kitty useful, too, dustin'

and polishin'--gels can't begin their trainin' too early, and all

has been going on fine;--not but what there's a mighty sight of

eatin' and drinkin' now, but it's the Lord's will that human bein's

should feed even as the pigs do, 'specially domestic servants, and

there's no helpin' of it nor hinderin'--but this mornin's business

did put me out a bit, and I do assure you I haven't got over it yet,

but howsomever, Spruce says 'Do yer dooty!'--and I'm a-doin' it to

the best of my belief and, 'ope--still it do make my mind a bit

ricketty--"

Silently Walden followed her through the rooms, saying little in

response to her remarks, 'ricketty' or otherwise, and noting all the

various changes as he went.

In the dining-room there was a great transformation. The fine old

Cordova leather chairs were all released from their brown holland

coverings,--the long-concealed Flemish tapestries were again

unrolled and disclosed to the light of day--valuable canvases that

had been turned to the wall to save their colour from the too

absorbing sunshine, were now restored to their proper positions, and

portraits by Vandyke, and landscapes by Corot gave quite a stately

air of occupation to a room, which being large and lofty, had always

seemed to Walden the loneliest in the house for lack of a living

presence. He trod in the restless wake of Mrs. Spruce, however,

without comment other than a word of praise such as she expected,

for the general result of her labours in getting the long-disused

residence into habitable condition, and was only moved to something

like enthusiasm when he reached what was called 'the morning room,'

an apartment originally intended to serve as a boudoir for that

beautiful Mrs. Vancourt, the bride who never came home. Here all the

furniture was of the daintiest design,--here rich cushions of silk

and satin were lavishly piled on the luxurious sofas and in the deep

easy-chairs,--curtains of cream brocade embroidered by hand with

garlands of roses, draped the sides of the deep embrasured window-

nook whence two wide latticed doors opened outwards to a smooth

terrace bordered with flowers, where two gardeners were busy rolling

the rich velvety turf,--and beyond it stretched a great lawn shaded

with ancient oaks and elms that must have seen the days of Henry

VII. The prospect was fair and soothing to the eyes, and Walden.

gazing at it, gave a little involuntary sigh of pleasure.

"This is beautiful!" he said, speaking more to himself than to

anyone--"Perfectly beautiful!"

"It is so, sir," agreed Mrs. Spruce, with an air of comfortably

placid conviction; "There's no doubt about it--it's as beautiful a

room as could be made for a queen, though I say it--but whether our

new lady will like it, is quite another question. You see, sir, this

room was always kept locked in the Squire's time, and so was all the

other rooms as was got ready for the wife as never lived to use

them. The Squire wouldn't let a soul inside the doors, not even his

daughter. And now, sir, will you please read the letter I got this

morning, which as you will notice, is quite nice-like and kindly,

more than the other--onny when the boxes came I was a bit upset. You

see the letter was registered and had the keys inside it all right."

Walden took the missive in reluctant silence. The same thick

notepaper, odorous with crushed violets--the same bold, dashing

handwriting he had seen before, but the matter expressed in it was

worded somehow in a totally different tone to that of the previous

letter from the same hand.

"DEAR MRS. SPRUCE," it ran: "I enclose the keys of my boxes which I

am sending in advance, as I never travel with luggage. Kindly unpack

all the contents and arrange them in the wardrobes and presses of my

mother's rooms. If I remember rightly, these rooms have never been

used, hut I intend to take them for myself now, so please have

everything prepared. I have received your letter in which you say

there is some difficulty in getting good servants at so short a

notice. I quite understand this, and am sure you. will arrange for

the best. Should everything not be quite satisfactory, we can make

alterations when I come. I expect to arrive home in time for

afternoon tea. MARYLLIA VANCOURT."

Walden folded up the letter and gave it back to its owner.

"Well, so far, you have nothing to complain of, Mrs. Spruce," he

said, with a little smile; "The lady is evidently prepared to excuse

any deficiencies arising from the hurry of your preparations."

"Yes, sir, that may be," answered Mrs. Spruce; "but if so be you saw

what I've seen you mightn't take it so easily. Now, sir, if you'll

follow me, you'll be able to judge of the quandary we was in till we

got our senses back."

Beginning to be vaguely amused and declining to speculate as to the

'quandary' which according to the good woman had resulted in a

species of lunacy, Walden followed as he was told, and slowly

ascended the broad staircase, one of the finest specimens of Tudor

work in all England, with its richly turned balustrades and

grotesquely carved headpieces, but as he reached the upper landing,

he halted abruptly, seeing through an open door mysterious

glimmerings of satins and laces, to which he was entirely

unaccustomed.

"What room is that?" he enquired.

"That's what we used to call 'the bride's room,' sir," replied Mrs.

Spruce, smoothing down her black skirts with an air of fussy

importance, and heaving a sigh; "Miss Maryllia's mother was to have

had it. Don't be afraid to step inside, Passon; everythink's been

turned out and aired, and there's not a speck of damp or dismals

anywhere, and you'll see for yourself what a time we're 'avin'

though we're gettin' jes' a bit straight now, and I've 'ad Nancy

Pyrle as is 'andy with her pencil to mark things down as they come

to 'and. Step inside, Passon Walden,--do step inside!"

But Walden, held back by some instinctive fastidiousness, declined

to move further than the threshold of this hitherto closed and

sacredly guarded chamber. Leaning against the doorway he looked in

wonderingly, with a vague feeling of bewilderment, while Mrs.

Spruce, trotting busily ahead, gave instructions to a fresh-faced

country lass, who, breathing very hard, as though she were running,

was carefully shaking out what seemed to be a fairy's robe of filmy

white lace, glistening with pearls.

"Ye see, Passon, this is what all my trouble's about;"--she said--

"Fancy 'avin' to unpack all these grand clothes, and sort 'em as

they comes, not knowin' whether they mayn't fall to bits in our

'ands, some of 'em bein' fine as cobwebs, an' such body linen as was

never made for any mortal woman in St. Rest, all lace an' silk an'

little ribbins! When the trunks arrived an' we got 'em into the

'all, I felt THAT faint, I do assure ye! For me to 'ave to unpack

an' open 'em, and take out all the things inside,--ah, Passon, it's

an orful 'sponsibility, seein' there's jewels packed among the

dresses quite reckless-like, rubies an' sapphires an' diamants,

somethin' amazin', and we've taken a reg'lar invent'ry of them all

lest somethin' might be missin', for the Lord He only knows whether

there might not be fifty thousand pounds of proputty in one of them

little kicketty boxes, all velvet and satin, made just as if they

was sweetmeats, only when ye looks inside ye sees a sparklin' stone

glisterin' at ye, and ye know it's wuth a fortune! I do assure ye,

Passon, I've never seen such things in all my life! Miss Maryllia

must be mortal extravagant, for there's enough in one o' them boxes

to feed the whole village of St. Best for several years. Ah! Passon,

I do assure ye, I've thought of Scripter many a time this mornin';

'Whose adornin' let it be the adornin' of a meek and quiet spirit,'

which is a hornament and no mistake!"

Walden made no remark. It never even occurred to him just then that

Mrs. Spruce was unconsciously rendering in her own particular

fashion the text he had chosen for the next day's sermon. Never in

all his life before had he experienced such strongly mingled

sensations of repulsion and interest as at that moment. With a kind

of inward indignation, he asked himself what business he had to be

there looking curiously into a woman's room, littered with all the

fripperies and expensive absurdities of a woman's apparel? Above

all, why should he be so utterly ridiculous and inconsequential in

his own mind as to find himself deeply fascinated by such a

spectacle? In all the years he had passed with his sister, so long

as she had lived, he had never seen such a bewildering disorder of

feminine clothes. He had never had the opportunity of noting the

pathetic difference existing between the toilette surroundings of a

woman who is strong and well, and of one who is deprived of all

natural coquetry by the cruel ravages of long sickness and disease.

His sister, beautiful even in her incurable physical affliction, had

always borne that affliction more or less in mind, and had attired

herself with a severely simple taste,--her bedroom, where she had

had to pass so many weary hours of suffering, had been a model of

almost Spartan-like simplicity, and her dressing-table was wont to

be far more conspicuous for melancholy little medicine-phials than

for flashing, silver-stoppered cut-glass bottles, exhaling the

rarest perfumes. Then, since her death, Walden had lived so entirely

alone, that the pretty vanities of bright and healthy women were

quite unfamiliar to him.

The present glittering display of openly expressed frivolity seemed

curiously new, and vaguely alarming. He was angry with it, yet in a

manner attracted. He found himself considering, with a curious

uneasiness, two small nondescript pink objects that were lying on

the floor at some distance from each other. At a first glance they

appeared to be very choice examples of that charming orchid known as

the 'Cypripedium,'--but on closer examination it was evident they

were merely fashionable evening shoes. Again and again he turned his

eyes away from them,--and again and again his glance involuntarily

wandered back and rested on their helpless-looking little pointed

toes and ridiculously high heels. Considered from a purely

'sanitary' point of view, they were the most wicked, the most

criminal, the most absolutely unheard-of shoes ever seen. Why, no

human feet of the proper size could possibly get into them, unless

they were squeezed---

"Yes, squeezed!"--repeated Walden inwardly, with a sense of

unreasonable irritation; "All the toes cramped and the heels

pinched--everything out of joint and distorted--false feet, in fact,

like everything else false that has to do with the modern

fashionable woman!"

There they lay,-apparently innocent;--but surely detestable, nay

even Satanic objects. He determined he would have them removed--

picked up--cast out--thrust into the nearest drawer, anywhere, in

fact, provided they were out of his stern, clerical sight. Mrs.

Spruce was continuing conversation in brisk tones, but whether she

was addressing him, or the buxom young woman, who, under her

directions was shaking out or folding up the various garments taken

out of the various boxes, he did not know, and, as a matter of fact,

he did not care. She sounded like Tennyson's 'Brook,' with a 'Men

may come and men may go, but I go on for ever' monotonousness that

was as depressing as it was incessant.

He determined to interrupt the purling stream.

"Mrs. Spruce," he began,--then hesitated, as she turned briskly

towards him, looking like a human clothes-prop, with both fat arms

extended in order to keep well away from contact with the floor a

gauzy robe sparkling all over with tiny crystalline drops, which,

catching the sunbeams, flashed like little points of flame.

"Beggin' your pardon, Passon, did you speak?"

"Yes. I think you should not let anything lie about, as, for

example,--those--" and he pointed to the objectionable shoes with an

odd sense of discomfiture; "They appear to be of a delicate colour

and might easily get soiled."

Mrs. Spruce peered round over the sparkling substance she held,

looking like a very ancient and red-faced cherub peeping over the

rim of a moonlit cloud.

"Well, I never!" she exclaimed; "What a hi you have, Passon! What a

hi! Now them shoes missed me altogether! They must have dropped out

of some of the dresses we've been unfoldin', for the packin's quite

reckless-like, and ain't never been done by no trained maid. All

hustled-bustled like into the boxes anyhow, as if the person what

had done it was in a mortal temper or hurry. Lord! Don't I know how

people crams things in when they's in a rage! Ah! Wait till I get

rid of all these diamants," and she waddled to the deep oak

wardrobe, which stood open, and carefully hung the glittering

garment up by its two sleeveholes on two pegs,--then turned round

with a sigh. "It's orful what the world's coming to, Passon Walden,-

-orful! Fancy diamants all sewed on to a gown! I wouldn't let my

Kitty in 'ere for any amount of money! She'd be that restless and

worritin' and wantin' the like things for 'erself, and the mortal

mischief it would be, there's no knowin'! Why, the first

'commercial' as come round 'ere with 'is pack and 'is lies, would

get her runnin' off with 'im! Ah! That's jes' where leddies makes

such work for Satan's hands to do; they never thinks of the envy and

jealousy and spite as eats away the 'arts of poor gels what sees all

these fine things, and ain't got no chance for to have them for

theirselves!" Here, sidling along the floor, she picked up the pink

shoes to which Walden had called her attention, first one and then

the other. "Well! Call them shoes! My Kitty couldn't get her 'and

into 'em! And as for a foot fittin' in! What a foot! It can't be

much bigger'n a baby's. Well, well, what a pair o' shoes!"

She stood looking at them, a fat smile on her face, and Walden moved

uneasily from the threshold.

"I'll leave you now, Mrs. Spruce," he said; "You have plenty to do,

and I'm in the way here."

"Well, now, Passon, that do beat me!" said Mrs. Spruce plaintively;

"I thought you was a-goin' to help us!"

"Help you? I?" and Walden laughed aloud; "My dear woman, do you

think I can unpack and unfold ladies' dresses? Of all the many

incongruous uses a clergyman was ever put to, wouldn't that be the

most impossible?"

"Lord love ye, Passon Walden, I ain't askin' ye no such thing;"

retorted Mrs. Spruce; "Don't ye think it! For there's nothin' like a

man, passon or no passon, for makin' rumples of every bit of clothes

he touches, even his own coats and weskits, and I wouldn't let ye

lay hands on any o' these things to save my life. Why, they'd go to

pieces at the mere sight of yer fingers, they're so flimsy! What I

thought ye might do, was to be a witness to us while we sorted them

all. It's a great thing to have a man o' God as a witness to the

likes o' this work!"

Again Walden laughed, this time with very genuine heartiness, though

he did wish Mrs. Spruce would put away the troublesome pink shoes

which she still held, and to which he found his eyes still

wandering.

"Nonsense! You don't want any witness!" he said gaily; "What are you

thinking about, Mrs. Spruce? When Miss Vancourt is here, all you

have to do is to go over every item of her property with her, and

see that she finds it all right. If anything is missing, it's not

your fault."

"If anythink's missing," echoed Mrs. Spruce in sepulchral tones,

"then the Lord knows what we'll do, for it'll be all over, so far as

we're consarned! Beggars in the street'll be kings to us. Passon, I

reckon ye doesn't read the newspapers much, does ye?"

"Pretty fairly," responded Walden still smiling; "I keep myself as

well acquainted as I can with what is going on in the world."

"Does ye now?" And Mrs. Spruce surveyed him admiringly. "Well, now,

I shouldn't have thought it, for ye seems as inn'cent as a babby I

do assure ye; ye seems jes' that. But mebbe ye doesn't get the same

kind o' newspapers which we poor folks gets--reg'ler weekly penny

lists o' murders, soocides, railway haccidents, burgul'ries, fires,

droppin's down dead suddint, struck by lightnin' and collapsis, with

remedies pervided for all in the advertisements invigoratin' to both

old and young, bone and sinew, brain and body, whether it be pills,

potions, tonics, lotions, ointment or min'ral waters. Them's the

sort o' papers we gets, or rather the 'Mother Huff' takes 'em all in

for us, an' the 'ole village drinks the 'orrors an' the medicines in

with the ale. Ah! It's mighty edifyin', Passon, I do assure ye--and

many of us goes to church on Sundays and reads the 'orrors an'

medicines in the arternoon, and whether we remembers your sermon or

the 'orrors an' medicines most, the Lord only knows! But it's in

them papers I sees how fine leddies goes on nowadays, and if they

misses so much as a two-and-sixpenny 'airpin, some of 'em out of

sheer spite, will 'aul a gel up 'fore the p'lice and 'ave 'er in

condemned cells in no time, so that ye see, Passon, if so be Miss

Maryllia counts over the sparkling diamants and one's lost, we'll

all be brought 'fore Sir Morton Pippitt as county mag'strate afore

we've 'ad time to look at our breakfasts. Wherefore, I sez, why not

'ave a man o' God as witness?"

"Why not, indeed!" returned Walden, playfully; "but your 'man of

God' won't be me, Mrs. Spruce! I'm off! I congratulate you on your

preparations, and I think you are doing everything splendidly! If

Miss Vancourt does not look upon you as a positive treasure, I shall

be very much mistaken! Good afternoon!"

"Passon, Passon!" urged Mrs. Spruce; "Ye baint goin' already?"

"I must! To-morrow's Sunday, remember!"

"Ah!--that it is!" she sighed, "And my mind sorely misgives me that

I never asked the new servants whether they was 'Igh, Low or Roman.

It fairly slipped my memory, and they seemed never to think of it

themselves. Why didn't they remind me, Passon?--can you answer me

that? Which it proves the despisableness of our naturs that we never

thinks of the religious sides of ourselves, but only our wages and

stummicks. Wages and stummicks comes fust, and the care of the Lord

Almighty arterwards. But, there, there!--we're jest a perverse and

stiffnecked generation!"

Walden turned away. Mrs. Spruce, at last deciding to resign her hold

of the pink shoes, over whose pointed toes she had been moralising,

gave them into the care of the rosy-cheeked Phyllis, who was

assisting her in her labours, and followed her 'man of God' out to

the landing.

"Do ye reely think we're doin' quite right, and that we're quite

safe, Passon?" she queried, anxiously.

"You're doing quite right, and you're quite safe," replied Walden,

laughing. "Go on in your present path of virtue, Mrs. Spruce, and

all will be well! I really cannot wait a moment longer. Don't

trouble to come and show me out,--I know my way!"

He sprang down the broad stairs as lightly as a boy, leaving Mrs.

Spruce at the summit, looking wistfully after him.

"It's a pity he couldn't stay!" she murmured, dolefully; "There's a

lace petticut which must be worth a fortune!--I'd have liked 'im to

see it!"

But Walden was beyond recall. On reaching the bottom of the

staircase he had turned into the picture gallery, a long, lofty room

panelled with Jacobean oak on both sides and hung with choice

canvases, the work of the best masters, three or four fine

Gainsboroughs, Peter Lelys and Romneys being among the most notable

examples. At one end of the gallery a close curtain of dark green

baize covered a picture which was understood to be the portrait of

the Mrs. Vancourt who had never lived to see her intended home. The

late Squire had himself put up that curtain, and no one had ever

dared to lift it. Mrs. Spruce had often been asked to do so, but she

invariably refused, 'not wishin' to be troubled with ghosteses of

the old Squire,' as she frankly explained. Facing this, at the

opposite end, hung another picture, disclosed in all its warm and

brilliant colouring to the light of day,--the picture of Mary Elia

Adelgisa de Vaignecourt, who, in the time of Charles the Second had

been a noted beauty of the 'merry monarch's' reign, and whose

counterfeit presentment Mrs. Spruce had styled 'the lady in the

vi'let velvet.' John Walden had suddenly taken a fancy to look at

this portrait though for ten years he had known it well.

He walked up to it now slowly, studying it critically as the light

fell on its rich colouring. The painted lady had a wonderfully

attractive face,--the face of a child, piquante, smiling and

provocative,--her eyes were witching blue, with a moonlight halo of

grey between the black pupil and the azure iris,--her mouth, a

trifle large, but pouting in the centre and curved in the 'Cupid's

bow' line, suggested sweetness and passion, and her hair,--but

surely her hair was indescribable! The painter of Charles the

Second's time had apparently found it difficult to deal with,--for

there was a warm brown wave there, a tiny reddish ripple behind the

small ear, and a flash of golden curls over the white brow,

suggestive of all the tints of spring and autumn sunshine. Habited

in a riding dress of velvet the colour of a purple pansy, Mary Elia

Adelgisa held her skirt, white gauntleted gloves, and riding whip

daintily in one hand,--her hat, a three-cornered piece of coquetry,

lay ready for wear, on a garden-seat hard by,--a blush rosebud was

fastened carelessly in her close-fitting bodice, which was turned

back with embroidered gold revers, and over her head, great forest

trees, heavy with foliage, met in an arch of green. John Walden

stood for a quiet three minutes, studying the picture intently and

also the superscription: "Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt, Born

May 1st, 1651: Wedded her cousin, Geoffrey de Vaignecourt, June 5th,

1671: Died May 30th, 1681."

"Not a very long life!" he mused: "All the Vaignecourts, or

Vancourts, have died somewhat early."

He let his eyes rest again on the portrait lingeringly.

"Mary Elia! I wonder if her descendant, 'Maryllia,' is anything

like her?"

Slowly turning, he went out of the picture gallery, across the hall

and into the garden, where the faithful Nebbie was waiting for him,

amid a company of pigeons who were busy picking up what they fancied

from the gravelled path, and who were utterly unembarrassed by the

constant waggings of the terrier's rough tail. And he walked

somewhat abstractedly through the old paved court, past the

unsympathetic sun-dial, and out through the great gates, which were

guarded on either side by stone griffins, gripping in their paws

worn shields decorated with defaced tracings of the old Vaignecourt

emblems. Clematis clasped these fabulous beasts in a dainty embrace,

winding little tendrils of delicate green over their curved claws,

and festooning their savage-looking heads with large star-like

flowers of white and pale mauve, and against one of the weather-

beaten shields an early flowering red rose leaned its perfumed head

in blushing crimson confidence. Halting a moment in his onward pace,

Walden paused, and looked back at the scene regretfully.

"Dear old place!" he said half aloud; "Many and many a happy hour

have I passed in it, loving it, reverencing it, honouring its every

stone,--as all such relics of a chivalrous and gracious past deserve

to be loved, reverenced and honoured. But I fear,--yes!--I fear I

shall never again see it quite as I have seen it for the past ten

years,--or as I see it now! New days, new ways! And I am not

progressive. To me the old days and old ways are best!"