"Only 'dust to dust' for me that sicken at your lawless din,--
Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the newer world begin!"
"'Wholesome old-world dust'!" he mused--"Yes! I think it WAS more
wholesome than our too heavily manured soil!"
And a wave of pained regret and yearning arose in him for the days
when life was taken more quietly, more earnestly, more soberly--with
the trust and love of God inspiring the soul to purity and peace--
when to find a woman who was at the same time an atheist was a thing
so abnormal and repulsive as to excite the utmost horror in society.
Society! why, now, many women in society were atheists, and made no
secret of their shame!
"I must not dwell on these thoughts,"--he said, resolutely. "The
sooner I see Brent, the better. I've accepted his invitation for the
last week of this month--I can be spared then for two or three days-
-indeed, I doubt whether I shall even be missed! The people only
want me on Sundays now--and--though I do try not to notice it,--a
good many of the congregation are absent from their usual places."
He sighed. He would not admit to himself that it was Maryllia
Vancourt--'Maryllia Van'--or rather her guests who had exercised a
maleficent influence on his little cure of souls, and that because
the 'quality' did not go to church on Sundays, then some of the
villagers,--like serfs under the sway of nobles,--stayed away also.
He realised that he had given offence to this same 'quality,' by
pausing in his reading, when they entered late on the one occasion
they did attend divine service,--but he did not care at all for
that. He knew, that the truth of the mischief wrought by the idle,
unthinking upper classes of society, is always precisely what the
upper classes do not want to hear;--and he was perfectly aware in
his own mind that his short, but explicit sermon, on the 'Soul,' had
not been welcome to any one of his aristocratic hearers, while it
had been a little over the heads of his own parishioners.
"Mere waste of words!" he mused, with a kind of self-reproach--"I
don't know why I chose the text or subject at all. Yes--yes!--I do
know! Why do I play the deceiver with myself! She was there--so
winsome--so pretty!--and her soul is sweet and pure;--it must be
sweet and pure, if it can look out of such clear windows as her
eyes. Let all the world go, but keep that soul, I thought!--and so I
spoke as I did. But I think she scarcely listened--it was all waste
of time, waste of words,--waste of breath! I shall be glad to see
dear old Brent again. He wants to talk to me, he says--and I most
certainly want to talk to him. After the dinner-party at the Manor,
I shall be free. How I dread that party! How I wish I were not
going! But I have promised her--and I must not break my word!"
He began to think about one or two matters that to him were not
altogether pleasing. Chief among these was the fact that Sir Morton
Pippitt had driven over twice now 'to inspect the church'--
accompanied by Lord Roxmouth, and the Reverend 'Putty' Leveson. Once
Lord Roxmouth had left his card at the rectory, and had written on
it: 'Wishing to have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Walden'--a pleasure
which had not, so far, been gratified. Walden understood that Lord
Roxmouth was, or intended to be, the future husband of Miss
Vancourt. He had learned something of it from Bishop Brent's letter-
-but now that his lordship was staying as a guest at Badsworth Hall,
rumour had spread the statement so very generally that it was an
almost accepted fact. Three days had been sufficient to set the
village and county talking;--Roxmouth and his tools never did their
mischievous work by halves. John Walden accepted the report as
others accepted it--only reserving to himself an occasion to ask
Miss Vancourt if it were indeed true. Meantime, he kept himself
apart from the visitors--he had no wish to meet Lord Roxmouth--
though he knew that a meeting was inevitable at the forthcoming
dinner-party at Abbot's Manor. Bainton had that dinner-party on his
mind as well as his master. He had heard enough of it on all sides.
Mrs. Spruce had gabbled of it, saying that 'what with jellies an'
ices an' all the things as has to be thought of an' got in ready,'
she was 'fair mazed an' moithered.' And she held forth on the
subject to one of her favourite cronies, Mrs. Keeley, whose son Bob
was still in a state of silent and resentful aggressiveness against
the 'quality' for the death of his pet dog.
"It's somethin' too terrible, I do assure you!" she said--"the way
these ladies and gentlemen from Lunnon eats fit to bust themselves!
When they fust came down, I sez to cook, I sez--'Lord bless 'em,
they must 'ave all starved in their own 'omes'--an' she laughed--she
'avin 'sperience, an' cooked for 'ouse-parties ever since she
learned makin' may'nases [mayonnaise] which she sez was when she was
twenty, an' she's a round sixty now, an' she sez, 'Lor, no! It do
frighten one at first wot they can put into their stummicks, Missis
Spruce, but don't you worry--you just get the things, and they'll
know how to swaller 'em.' Well now, Missis Keeley, if you'll b'lieve
me"--and here Mrs. Spruce drew a long breath and began to count on
her fingers--"This is 'ow we do every night for the visitors, makin'
ready for hextras, in case any gentleman comes along in a motor
which isn't expected--fust we 'as horduffs---"
"Save us!" exclaimed Mrs. Keeley--"What's they?"
"Well _I_ calls 'em kickshaws, but the right name is horduffs,
Primmins sez, bein' a butler he should know the French, an' 'tis a
French word, an' it's nothin' but little dishes 'anded round, olives
an' anchovies, an' sardines an' messes of every kind, enough to make
ye sick to look at 'em--they swallers 'em, an' then we sends in
soup--two kinds, white an' clear. They swallers THAT, an' the fish
goes in--two kinds--the old Squire never had but one--THAT goes
down, an' then comes the hentreys. Them's sometimes two--sometimes
four--it just depends on the number we 'as at table. They'se all got
French names--there's nothing plain English about them. But they'se
only bits o' meat an' fowl, done up in different ways with sauces
an' vegetables, an' the quality eats 'em up as though they was two
bites of an apple. Then we sends in the roast and b'iled--and they
takes good cuts off both--then there's game,--now that's nearly
allus all eat up, for I like to pick a bone now and then myself if
it comes down on a dish an' no one else wants it--but there's never
a morsel left for me, I do assure you! Then comes puddings an'
sweets--then cheese savouries--then ices--an' then coffee--an' all
the time the wine's a-goin', Primmins sez, every sort, claret, 'ock,
chably, champagne,--an' the Lord alone He knows wot their poor
insides feels like when 'tis all a-mixin' up together an' workin'
round arterwards. But, as I sez, 'tain't no business o' mine if the
fash'nables 'as trained their stummicks to be like the ostriches
which eats, as I'm told, 'ard iron nails with a relish, I onny know
I should 'a' bin dead an' done with long ago if I put a quarter of
the stuff into me which they puts into theirselves, while some of
the gentlemen drinks enough whiskey an' soda to drown 'em if 'twas
all put in a tub at once---"
"But Miss Vancourt," interrupted Mrs. Keeley, who had been listening
to her friend's flow of language in silent wonder,--"She don't eat
an' drink like that, do she?"
"Miss Maryllia, bless 'er 'art, sits at her table like a little
queen,"--said Mrs. Spruce, with emotion--"Primmins sez she don't eat
scarce nothin', and don't say much neither. She just smiles pretty,
an' puts in a word or two, an' then seems lookin' away as if she saw
somethink beautiful which nobody else can see. An' that Miss Cicely
Bourne, she's just a pickle!--'ow she do play the comic, to be
sure!--she ran into the still-room the other day an' danced round
like a mad thing, an' took off all the ladies with their airs an'
graces till I nearly died o' larfin'! She's a good little thing,
though, takin' 'er all round, though a bit odd in 'er way, but that
comes of bein' in France an' learnin' music, I expect. But I really
must be goin'--there's heaps an' heaps to do, but by an' by we'll
have peace an' quiet again--they're all a-goin' next week."
"Well, I shan't be sorry!"--and Mrs. Keeley gave a short sigh of
satisfaction--"I'm fair sick o' seein' them motor-cars whizzin'
through the village makin' such a dust an' smell as never was,--an'
I'm sure there's no love lost 'tweens Missis Frost an' me, but it do
make me worrited like when that there little Ipsie goes runnin' out,
not knowin' whether she mayn't be run over like my Bob's pet dog.
For the quality don't seem to care for no one 'cept theirselves--an'
it ain't peaceful like nor safe as 'twas 'fore they came. An' I
s'pose we'll be seein' Miss Maryllia married next?"
Mrs. Spruce pursed up her mouth tightly and looked unutterable
things.
"'Tain't no good countin' chickens 'fore they're hatched, Missis
Keeley!" she said--"An' the Lord sometimes fixes up marriages in
quite a different way to what we expects. There ain't goin' to be no
weddin's nor buryin's yet in the Manor, please the A'mighty
goodness, for one's as mis'able as t'other, an' both means change,
which sometimes is good for the 'elth but most often contrariwise,
though whatever 'appens either way we must bend our 'eads under the
rod to both. But I mustn't stay chitterin' 'ere any longer--good day
t'ye!"
And nodding darkly as one who could say much an' she would, the
worthy woman ambled away.
Scraps of information, such as this talk of Mrs. Spruce's, reached
Bainton's ears from time to time in a disjointed and desultory
manner and moved him to profound cogitation. He was not quite sure
now whether, after all, his liking for Miss Vancourt had not been
greatly misplaced.
"When I seed her first,"--he said to himself, pathetically, while
hoeing the weeds out of the paths in the rectory garden, "When me
an' old Josey went up to get 'er to save the Five Sisters, she
seemed as sweet as 'oney,--an' she's done many a kind thing for the
village since. But I don't care for 'er friends. They've changed her
like--they've made her forget all about us! An' as for Passon, she
don't come nigh 'im no more, an' he don't go nigh 'er. Seems to me
'tis all a muddle an' a racket since the motor-cars went bouncin'
about an' smellin' like p'ison--'tain't wot it used to be.
Howsomever, let's 'ope to the Lord it'll soon be over. If wot they
all sez is true, there'll be a weddin' 'ere soon, Passon'll marry
Miss Vancourt to the future Dook, an' away they'll go, an' Abbot's
Manor'll be shut up again as it used to afore. An' the onny change
we'll 'ave will be Mr. Stanways for agent 'stead of Oliver Leach--
which is a blessin'--for Stanways is a decent, kindly man, an'
Oliver Leach--well now!" And he paused in his hoeing, fixing his
round eyes meditatively on a wall where figs were ripening in the
sun--"Blest if I can make out Oliver Leach! One day he's with old
Putty Leveson--another he's drunk as a lord in the gutter--an'
another he's butterfly huntin' with a net, lookin' like a fool--but
allus about the place--allus about--an' he's got a face that a kid
would scream at seein' it in the dark. I wish he'd find another
situation in a fur-off neighbourhood!"
Here, looking towards the lawn, he saw his master walking slowly up
and down on the grass in front of his study window, with head bent
and hands loosely clasped behind his back, apparently lost in
thought.
"Passon ain't hisself,--seems all gone to pieces like," he mused--
"He don't do nothin' in the garden,--he ain't a bit partikler or
fidgetty--an all he cares about is the bits o' glass which comes on
approval from all parts o' the world for the rose window. I sez to
him t'other day--'Ain't ye got enough old glass yet, Passon?'--and
he sez all absent-minded like, 'No, Bainton--not yet! There are many
difficulties to be conquered--one must have patience. It's almost
like piecing a life together,' sez he--'one portion is good--another
bad--one's got the true colour--the other's false--and so on--it's
hard work to get all the little bits of love an' charity an'
kindness to fit into their proper places. Don't you understand?'
'No, Passon,' sez I, 'I can't say as I do!' Then he laughed, but sad
like--an' went away with his 'ead down as he's got it now.
Something's wrong with him--an' it's all since Miss Vancourt came.
She's a real worry to 'im I 'spect,--an' it's true enough the place
ain't like what it was a month ago. Yet there's no denyin' she's a
sweet little lady for all one can say!"
Bainton's sentiments were a fair reflection of the general village
opinion, though in the town of Riversford the tide of feeling ran
high, and controversy raged furiously, over the ways and doings of
Miss Vancourt and her society friends. A certain vague awe stole
over the gossips, however, when they heard that, whether rapid or
non-rapid, 'Maryllia Van,' as Sir Morton Pippitt persisted in
calling her, was likely to be the future Duchess of Ormistoune. Lord
Roxmouth had been seen in Riversford just once, and many shop-girls
had declared him 'so distinguished looking!' Mordaunt Appleby, the
brewer, had thrown out sundry hints to Sir Morton Pippitt that he
'should be pleased to see his lordship at Appleby House'--Appleby
House being the name of his, the brewer's, residence--but somehow
his lordship had not yet availed himself of the invitation.
Sufficient, however, was altogether done and said by all concerned
to weave a web of worry round Maryllia,--and to cause her to
heartily regret that she had ever asked any of her London
acquaintances down to her house.
"I did it as a kind of instruction to myself,--a lesson and a test,"
she said--"But I had far better have run the risk of being called an
old maid and a recluse than have got these people round me,--all of
whom I thought were my friends,--but who have been more or less
tampered with by Aunt Emily and Roxmouth, and pressed in to help
carry on the old scheme against me of a detestable alliance with a
man I hate. Well!--I have learned the falsity of their protestations
of liking and admiration and affection for me,--and I'm sorry for
it! I should like to believe in the honesty of at least a few
persons in the world--if that were possible!--I don't want to have
myself always 'on guard' against intrigue and humbug!"
Everyone present, however, on the night of the last dinner-party she
gave to her London guests, was bound to admit that a sweeter, fairer
creature than its present mistress never trod the old oaken floors
of Abbot's Manor; and that even the radiant pictured beauty of 'Mary
Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt,' to whom no doubt many a time the
Merry Monarch had doffed his plumed hat in salutation, paled and
grew dim before the living rose of Maryllia's dainty loveliness and
the magnetic tenderness of Maryllia's eyes. Something of the
exquisite pensiveness of her mother's countenance, as portrayed in
the long hidden picture which was now one of the gems of the Manor
gallery, seemed to soften the outline of her features, and deepen
the character and play of the varying expression which made her so
fascinating to those who look for the soul in a woman's face, rather
than its mere physical form. Lady Beaulyon, beautiful though she
was, owed something to art; but Maryllia was nature's own untouched
product, and everything about her exhaled freshness, sweetness, and
radiant vitality. Roxmouth, entering 'most carefully upon his hour,'
namely at a quarter to eight o'clock, found her singularly
attractive,--more so, he thought, than he had ever before realised.
The stately old-world setting of Abbot's Manor suited her--the dark
oak panelling,--the Flemish tapestries, the worn shields and
scutcheons, the old banners and armorial bearings,--all the numerous
touches of the past which spoke of chivalry, ancestral pride and
loyalty to great traditions, lent grace and colouring to the picture
she herself made, as she received her guests with that sweet
kindness, ease and distinction, which are the heritage of race and
breeding.
"Pretty little shrew!" he said, in an aside to Marius Longford--"She
is really charming,--and I begin to think I want her as much for
herself as for her aunt's millions!"
Longford smiled obsequiously.
"There is a certain air of originality, or shall we say
individuality, about the lady,"--he observed, with a critical, not
to say insolent stare in Maryllia's direction,--"The French term
'beaute du diable' expresses it best. But whether the charm will
last, is another question."
"No woman's beauty lasts more than a few years,"--said Roxmouth, as
he glanced at the various guests who had entered or were entering.
"Lady Beaulyon wears well--but she is forty years old, and begins to
show it. Margaret Bludlip Courtenay must be fifty, and she doesn't
show it--she manages her Paris cosmetics wonderfully. Some of these
county ladies would be better for a little touch of her art! But
Maryllia Vancourt needs no paint,--she can afford to be natural. Is
that the parson?"
Walden was just entering the room, and Longford put up his glasses.
"Yes,"--he replied--"That is the parson. He is not without
character."
Roxmouth became suddenly interested. He saw Walden go up to his
hostess and bow--he also saw the sudden smile that brightened
Maryllia's face as she welcomed her clerical guest,--the one
Churchman of the party.
"Rather a distinguished looking fellow,"--he commented carelessly--
"Is he clever?"
Longford hesitated. He had been pulverised in one of the literary
weeklies by an article on the authenticity of Shakespeare's plays,
signed boldly 'John Walden'--and he had learned, by cautious
enquiries here and there in London, that though, for the most part,
extremely unassuming, the aforesaid John Walden was considered an
authority in matters of historical and antiquarian research. But he
was naturally anxious that the future Duke of Ormistoune, when he
had secured Mrs. Fred Vancourt's millions, should not expend his
powerful patronage to a country clergyman who might, from a 'Savage
and Savile' point of view, be considered an interloper. So he
replied with caution:
"I believe he dabbles a little in literary and archaeological
pursuits,--many parsons do. As an archaeologist, he certainly has
merit. You entertain a favourable opinion of the church, he has
restored?"
"The church, as I have before told you, is perfect,"--replied
Roxmouth--"And the man who carried out such a design must needs be
an interesting personality. I think Miss Vancourt finds him so!"
His cold grey eyes lightened unpleasantly as he made this remark,
and Marius Longford, quick to discern every shade of tone in a
voice, recognised a touch of satire in the seemingly casual words.
He made no observation, however, but kept his lynx eyes and ears
open, watching and listening for anything that might perchance be of
use in furthering his patron's desires and aims.
Walden, meanwhile, had, quite unconsciously to himself, created a
little sensation by his appearance. HE was the parson who had dared
to stop in his reading of the service because the Manor house-party
had entered the church a quarter of an hour behind time,--HE was the
man who had told them that it was no use gaining the whole world if
they lost their own souls,--as if, in this advanced era of progress,
any one of them had souls to lose! Preposterous! Here he was, this
country cleric, who, as he was introduced by his hostess to the
various gentlemen standing immediately about her, smiled urbanely,
bowed ceremoniously, and comported himself with an air of
intellectual composure and dignity that had a magnetic effect upon
all. Yet in himself he was singularly ill at ease. Various emotions
in his mind contended together to make him so. To begin with, he
disliked social 'functions' of all kinds, and particularly those at
which any noted persons of the so-called 'Smart Set' were present.
He disliked women who made capital out of their beauty, by allowing
their photographs to be on sale in shop-windows and to appear
constantly in cheap pictorials, and of these Lady Beaulyon was a
notorious example, to say nothing of the graver sins against
morality and principle for which she was renowned. He had no
sympathy with sporting or betting men--and he knew by repute that
Lord Charlemont and Bludlip Courtenay were of this class. Then
again, deep down in his own soul, he resented the fact that Maryllia
Vancourt entertained this sort of people as her guests. She was much
too good for them, he thought,--she wronged herself by being in
their company, or allowing them to be in hers! He watched her as she
received part of the 'county' in the Ittlethwaites of Ittlethwaite
Park, with a charming smile of welcome for Bruce Ittlethwaite, a
lively bachelor of sixty, and for his eldest sister Arabella, some
ten years younger, a lady whose portly form was attired in a
wonderful apple-green satin, trimmed with priceless lace, the latter
entirely lost as an article of value, among the misshapen folds of
the green gown, which had been created, no doubt, by some local
dressmaker, whose ideas were evidently more voluminous than
artistic. And presently, as he stood, a quiet spectator of the
different types of persons who were mingling with each other in the
casual conversation on current topics and events, which always
occupies that interval of time known as the 'mauvais quart d'heure'
before the announcement of dinner, he happened to look at Maryllia's
own dress, and, noticing it more closely, smiled. It was not the
first time he had seen that dress!--and a faint colour warmed his
cheeks as he remembered the occasion when Mrs. Spruce had sent for
him as a 'man o' God' to serve as a witness to her system of
unpacking her lady's wardrobe. That was the dress the garrulous old
housekeeper had held up in her arms as though she were a clothes-
prop, with the observation, 'It's orful wot the world's a-comin' to-
-orful! Fancy diamants all sewed on to a gown!' The gown with the
'diamants' was the very one which now clothed Maryllia,--falling
over an underskirt of palest pink satin, it glittered softly about
her like dew spangles on rose-leaves--and involuntarily Walden
thought of the pink shoes he had also seen,--those absurd little
shoes!--did she wear them with that fairy-like frock, he wondered?
He dared not look towards the floor, lest he should catch a sudden
glimpse of the shining points of that ridiculous but fascinating
foot-gear that had once so curiously discomposed him. Those shoes
might peep out at any moment from under the 'diamants'--with a blink
of familiarity which would be, to say the least of it, embarrassing.
His reflections were at this juncture interrupted by a smooth voice
at his ear.
"How do you do, Mr. Walden?"
A glance showed the speaker to be Mr. Marius Longford, and he
responded with brief courtesy.
"Permit me"--continued Mr. Longford--"to introduce you to Lord
Roxmouth!"
Walden bowed stiffly.
"I must congratulate you on the beauty of your church, Mr. Walden,"-
-said Roxmouth, with his usual conventional smile--"I have never
seen a finer piece of work. It is not so much a restoration as a
creation."
Walden said nothing. He did not particularly care for compliments
from Lord Roxmouth.
"That sarcophagus,"--continued his lordship--"was a very singular
'find.' I suppose you have no clue to the possible identity of the
saint or sinner whose ashes repose within it?"
"None,"--replied Walden--"Something might probably be discovered if
the casket were opened. But that will never happen during my
lifetime."
"You would consider it sacrilege, no doubt?" queried Roxmouth, with
a tolerant air.
"I should, most certainly!"
"Nonsense, nonsense!" said Sir Morton Pippitt, obtruding himself on
the conversation at this moment--"God bless my soul! Not so very
long ago every churchyard in England used to have its regular clean
out--ha-ha-ha!--all the bones and skulls used to be dug up and
thrown together in a charnel house, higgledy-piggledy--and nobody
ever talked about sacrilege! You should progress with the age, Mr.
Walden!--you should progress! Why shouldn't a coffin be opened as
readily as any other box, eh? There's generally nothing inside--ha-
ha-ha!--nothing inside worth keeping, ha-ha-ha! The plan of a
spring-cleaning for churchyards was an excellent one, I think;--God
bless my soul!--why not?--makes room for more hodies and saves extra
land being given up to those who are past farming it, except in the
way of manure, ha-ha-ha! There's no such thing as sacrilege
nowadays, Mr. Walden!--why we've got the photograph of Rameses,
taken after a few thousand years' decomposition had set in--ha-ha-
ha! And not bad looking--not bad looking!--rather wild about the
eyes, that's all--ha-ha! God bless my soul!"
These choice observations of the knight Pippitt were brought to a
happy conclusion by the marshalling of the guests into dinner. Sir
Morton, much to his chagrin, found himself deputed to escort Lady
Wicketts, whose unwieldy proportions allied to his own, made it
difficult for both to pass with proper dignity through the dining-
room doorway. A little excited whispering between Mrs. Bludlip
Courtenay and Lady Beaulyon took place, as to whether 'Maryllia Van'
in her professed detestation of Lord Roxmouth, would forget
etiquette and the rule of 'precedence'--but they soon saw she did
not intend to so commit herself. For when all her guests had passed
in before her, she followed resignedly on the arm of the future
Duke. As the greatest stranger, and as the highest in social rank of
all present, he had claim to this privilege, and she was too tactful
to refuse it.
"What a delightful chatelaine you are!" he murmured, looking down at
her as she rested her little gloved hand with scarce a touch on his
arm--"And how proud and glad I am to be once more beside you! Ah,
Maryllia, you are very cruel to me! If you would only realise how
happy we could be--always together!"
She made no answer. Arriving in the dining-room, she withdrew her
hand from his arm, and seated herself at the head of her table. He
then found that he was on her right hand, while Lord Charlemont was
on her left. Next to Lord Charlemont sat Lady Beaulyon,--and next to
Lady Beaulyon John Walden was placed with the partner allotted to
him, Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay. On Roxmouth's own side there were Lady
Wicketts and Sir Morton Pippitt,--so it chanced that the table was
arranged in a manner that brought certain parties who were by no
means likely to agree on any one given point, directly opposite to
each other. Cicely, peeping out from a little ante-room, where she
had entreated to be allowed to stand and watch the proceedings, made
a running commentary on this in her own particular fashion. Cicely
was looking very picturesque, in a new white frock which Maryllia
had given her,--with a broad crimson sash knotted carelessly round
her waist and a ribbon of the same colour in her luxuriant black
hair. She was to sing after dinner--Gigue had told her she was to
'astonish ze fools'--and she was ready to do it. Her dark eyes shone
like stars, and her lips were cherry-red with excitement,--so much
so that Mrs. Spruce, thinking she was feverish, had given her a
glass of 'cooling cordial'--made of fruit and ice and lemon water,
which she was enjoying at intervals while criticising the fine folks
in the dining-room.
"Well done, Maryllia!" she murmured, as she saw her friend enter on
Roxmouth's arm--"Cold as a ray of the moon, but doing her social
duty to the bitter end! What a tom-cat Roxmouth is!--a sleek pussy,
sure to snarl if his fur is rubbed up the wrong way--but he is just
the type that some women would like to marry--he looks so well-bred.
Poor Mr. Walden!--he's got to talk to the Everlasting-Youth lady,--
and old Sir Morton Pippitt is immediately opposite to him!--now
that's too bad of Maryllia!--it really is! She knows how the bone-
boiler longs to boil Mr. Walden's bones, and that Mr. Walden wishes
Sir Morton Pippitt were miles away from him! They shouldn't have
faced each other. But how very, very superior to all the lot Mr.
Walden looks!--he really IS handsome!--he has such an intellectual
head. There's Gigue chattering away to poor old Miss Fosby!--oh
dear! Miss Fosby will never understand him! What a motley crew! And
I shall have to sing to them all after they've dined! Saint Moses!
It will be a sort of 'first appearance in England.' A good test,
too, because all the English eat nearly to bursting before they go
to the opera. No wonder they never can grasp what the music is
about, or who's who! It's all salmon and chicken and lobster and
champagne with them--not Beethoven or Wagner or Rossini. Good old
Gigue! His spirits are irrepressible! How he is laughing! Mr. Walden
looks very serious--almost tragic--I wonder what he is thinking
about! I wish I could hear what they are all saying--but it's
nothing but buzz, buzz!"
She took a sip at her 'cordial,' watching with artistic appreciation
the gay scene in the Manor dining-room--the twinkling lights on the
silver and glass and flowers--the elegant dresses of the women,--the
jewels that flashed like starbeams on the lovely neck and shoulders
of Lady Beaulyon,--the ripples of gold-auburn in Maryllia's hair,--
it was a picture that radiated with a thousand colours on the eye
and the brain, and was certainly one destined, so far as many of
those who formed a part of it were concerned, never to be forgotten.
Not that there was anything very remarkable or brilliant in the
conversation at the dinner-table,--there never is nowadays. Peeple
dine with their friends merely to eat, not to talk. One never by any
chance hears so much even as an echo of wit or wisdom. Occasionally
a note of scandal is struck,--and more often than not, a
questionable anecdote is related, calculated to bring 'a blush to
the cheek of the Young Person,' if a Young Person who can blush
still exists, and happens to be present. But as a rule, the general
habitude of the dining class is to discourse in a very desultory and
inconsequential, not to say stupid, style, and the guests at the
Manor proved no exception to the rule. Sir Morton Pippitt fired off
bumptious observations at Walden, who paid no heed to them--Bruce
Ittlethwaite of Ittlethwaite Park, found a congenial spirit in Lord
Charlemont, and talked sport right through the repast--and Louis
Gigue enlivened the table by a sudden discussion with Mr. Marius
Longford, relative to the position of art in Great Britain.
"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, with a snap of his fingers--"Ze art is
dead in Angleterre,--zere is no musique, ze poesie. Zis is ze land
of ze A-penny journal--ze musique, ze poesie, ze science, ze
politique, ze sentiment,--one A-penny! Bah! Ca, ce, n'est pas
possible!--zis pauvre pays is kill avec ze vulgarite of ze cheap! Ze
people are for ze cheap--for ze photographic, instead of ze picture-
-ze gramophone, instead of ze artist fingers avec ze brain--et ze
literature--it is ze cheap 'imitation de Zola,' qui obtient les
eloges du monde critique a Londres. Vous ecrivez?"--and he shook his
finger at Longford--"Bien'! Ecrivez un roman qui est sain, pure et
noble--et ze A-penny man vill moque de ca--mais--ecrivez of ze dirt
of ze human naturel, et voila! Ze A-penny man say 'Bon! Ah que c'est
l'art! Donnes moi l'ordure que je peux sentir! C'est naturel! C'est
divin! C'est l'art!'"
A murmur, half of laughter, half of shocked protest, went round the
table.
"I think," said Mr. Longford, with a pale smile--"that according to
the school of the higher criticism, we must admit the natural to be
the only divine."
Gigue's rolling eyes gleamed under his shaggy hair.
"Je ne comprends pas!"--he said--"Ven ze pig squeak, c'est naturel--
ce n'est pas divin! Ven ze man scratch ze flea, c'est naturel--ce
n'est pas divin! Ze art ne desire pas ze picture of ze flea! Ze
literature n'existe pas pour ze squeak of ze pig! Ah, bah! L'art,--
c'est l'imagination--l'ideal--c'est le veritable Dieu en l'homme!"
Longford gave vent to a snigger, which was his way of laughing.
"God is an abstract illusion,"--he said--"One does not introduce a
non-available quantity in the summing up of facts!"
"Ah! Vous ne croyez pas en Dieu?" And Gigue ruffled up his grey hair
with one hand. "Mais--a quoi bon! Ca ne sert rien! Dieu pent exister
sans votre croyance, Monsieur!--je vous jure!"
And he laughed--a hearty laugh that was infectious and carried the
laughter of everyone else with it. Longford, irritated, turned to
his next neighbour with some trite observation, and allowed the
discussion to drop. But Walden had heard it, and his heart went out
to Gigue for the manner in which he had, for the moment at least,
quenched the light of the 'Savage and Savile.'
Up at the end of the table at which he, Walden, sat, things were of
rather a strained character. Lord Roxmouth essayed to be witty and
conversational, but received so little encouragement in his sallies
from Maryllia, that he had to content himself with Lady Wicketts,
whom he found a terrible bore. Sir Morton Pippitt, eating heartily
of everything, was gradually becoming purple in the face and
somnolent under the influence of wine and food,--Mrs. Bludlip
Courtenay, tired of trying to 'draw' Walden on sundry topics, got
cross and impatient, the more so as she found that he could make
himself very charming to the other people in his immediate vicinity,
and that, as the dinner proceeded, he 'came out' as it were, very
unexpectedly in conversation, and proved himself not only an
intellectually brilliant man, but a socially entertaining one. Lord
Roxmouth glanced at him curiously from time to time with growing
suspicion and disfavour. He was not the kind of subservient, half
hypocritical, mock-meek being that is conventionally supposed to
represent a country 'cure.' His independent air, his ease of manner,
and above all, his intelligence and high culture, were singularly
displeasing to Lord Roxmouth, especially as he noticed that Maryllia
listened to everything Walden said, and appeared to be more
interested in his observations than in those of anyone else at the
table. Exchanging a suggestive glance with Lady Beaulyon, Roxmouth
saw that she was taking notes equally with himself on this
circumstance, and his already hard face hardened, and grew colder
and more inflexible as Walden, with a gaiety and humour irresistibly
his own, kept the ball of conversation rolling, and gradually drew
to his own strong and magnetic personality, the appreciative
attention of nearly all present.
Truth to tell, a sudden exhilaration and excitement had wakened up
John's latent forces,--Maryllia's eyes, glancing half timidly, half
wistfully at him, and her fair face, slightly troubled in its
expression, had moved him to an exertion of his best powers to
please her, and make everything bright and gay around her. Instinct
told him that some secret annoyance fretted her--and watching her
looks, and noting the monosyllabic replies she gave to Lord Roxmouth
whenever that distinguished personage addressed her, he decided,
with a foolish thrill at his heart, that the report of her intended
marriage with this nobleman could not be true--she could never look
so coldly at anyone she loved! And with this idea paramount in his
brain he gave himself up to the humour of the hour--and by and by
heads were turned in his direction, and people whispered--'Is that
the parson of the parish?'--and when the answer was given in the
affirmative, wondering glances were exchanged, and someone at the
other end of the table remarked sotto voce:--'Much too brilliant a
man for the country!'--whereat Miss Arabella Ittlethwaite bridled up
and said she 'hoped nobody thought that town offered the only
samples of the human brain worth noticing,' as she would, in that
case, 'beg to differ.' Whereat there ensued a lively discussion,
which ended, so far as the general experience went, in the decision
that clever men were always born or discovered in the country, but
that after a while they invariably went up to town, and there became
famous.
Presently, the dinner drawing to an end, dessert, coffee and the
smoking conveniences for both ladies and gentlemen were handed
round,--cigars for the gentlemen, cigarettes for both gentlemen and
ladies. All the women helped themselves to cigarettes, as a matter
of course, with the exception of Miss Ittlethwaite,--(who, as a
'county' lady of the old school, sat transfixed with horror at the
bare idea of being expected to smoke)--poor old Miss Fosby, and
Maryllia. And now occurred an incident, in itself trifling, but
fraught with strange results to those immediately concerned. Lady
Beaulyon was just about to light her own cigarette when, in
obedience to a sudden thought that flashed across her brain, she
turned her lovely laughing face round towards Walden, and said:
"As there's a clergyman present, I'm sure we ought to ask his
permission before we light up! Don't you think it very shocking for
women to smoke, Mr. Walden?"
He looked straight at her--his face paling a little with a sense of
strongly suppressed feeling.
"I have always been under the impression that English ladies never
smoke,"--he said, quietly, with a very slight emphasis on the word
'ladies.' "The rest, of course, must do as they please!"
Had a bombshell suddenly exploded in the dining-room, the effect
could hardly have been more stupefying than these words. There was
an awful pause. The women, holding the unlit cigarettes delicately
between their fingers, looked enquiringly at their hostess. The men
stared; Lord Roxmouth laughed.
Maryllia turned white as a snowdrop--but her eyes blazed with sudden
amazement, indignation and pride that made lightning in their tender
blue. Then,--deliberately choosing a cigarette from the silver box
which had been placed on the table before her, she lit it,--and
began to puff the smoke from her rosy lips in delicate rings,
turning to Lord Roxmouth as she did so with a playful word and
smile. It was enough;--the 'lead' was given. A glance of approval
went the round of her London lady guests--who, exonerated by her
prompt action from all responsibility, lighted their cigarettes
without further ado, and the room was soon misty with tobacco fumes.
Not a word was addressed to Walden,--a sudden mantle of fog seemed
to have fallen over him, covering him up from the consciousness of
the company, for no one even glanced at him, except covertly,--no
one appeared to have heard or noticed his remark. Lord Charlemont
looked, as he felt, distressed. In his heart he admired Walden for
his boldness in speaking out frankly against a modern habit of women
which he also considered reprehensible,--but at the same time he
recognised that the reproof had perhaps been administered too
openly. Walden himself sat rigid and very pale--he fully realised
what he had done,--and he knew he was being snubbed for it--but he
did not care.
"Better so!"--he said to himself in an inward rage--"Better that I
should never see her again than see her as she is now! She wrongs
herself!--and I cannot be a silent witness of her wrong, even though
it is wrought by her own hand!"
The buzz of talk now grew more loud and incessant;--he saw Sir
Morton Pippitt's round eyes fixed upon him with an astonished and
derisive stare,--and he longed for the moment to come when he might
escape from the whole smoking, chattering party. All that his own
eyes consciously beheld was Maryllia--Maryllia, the dainty, pretty,
delicate feminine creature who seemed created out of the finest
mortal and spiritual essences,--smoking! That cigarette stuck in her
pretty mouth, vulgarised her appearance at once,--coarsened her--
made her look as if she were indeed the rapid 'Maryllia Van' his
friend Bishop Brent had written of. What did he care if not a soul
at that table ever spoke to him again? Nothing! But he cared--oh, he
cared greatly for any roughening touch on that little figure of
smooth white and rose flesh, which somehow he had, unconsciously to
himself, set in a niche for thoughts higher than common! He was
quite aware that he had committed a social error, yet he was sorry
she could not have reproved him in some other fashion than that of
deliberately doing what he had just condemned as unbecoming to a
lady. And his mind was in a whirl, when at last she rose to give the
signal to adjourn, passing out of the dining-room without a glance
in his direction.
The moment she had vanished, he at once prepared to leave, not only
the room, but the house. No one offered to detain him. The men were
all too conscious of what they considered his 'faux pas'--and they
were also made rather uncomfortable by the decided rebuff he had
received from their hostess. Yet they all liked him, and were, in
their way, sorry for what had occurred. Lord Roxmouth, with the easy
assurance of one who is conscious of his own position, remarked with
kindly banter:--
"Won't you stay with us, Mr. Walden? Are you obliged to go?"
Walden looked at him unflinchingly, yet with a smile.
"When a man elects to speak his mind, Lord Roxmouth, his room is
better than his company!"
And with this he left them--to laugh at him if they chose--caring
little whether they did or not. Passing into the hall, he took his
hat and coat,--he was angry with himself, yet not ashamed,--for
something in his soul told him that he had done rightly, even as a
minister of the Gospel, to utter a protest against the vulgarising
of womanhood. He stepped out into the courtyard--the moon was
rising, and the air was very sweet and cool.
"I was wrong!"--he said, half aloud--"And yet I was right! I should
not have said what I did,--and yet I should! If no man is ever bold
enough to protest again the voluntary and fast-increasing self-
degradation of women, then men will be most to blame if the next
generation of wives and mothers are shameless, unsexed, indecorous,
and wholly unworthy of their life's mission. How angry she looked!
Possibly she will never speak to me again. Well, what does it
matter! The wider apart our paths are set, the better!"
He reached the gate of the courtyard, and was about to pass through
it, when a little fluttering figure in white, with crimson in its
rough dark hair, rushed after him. It was Cicely.
"Don't go, please Mr. Walden!" she said, breathlessly; and he saw,
even by the light of the moon, that her eyes were wet--"Please don't
go! Maryllia wishes to speak to you."
He turned a pale, composed face upon her.
"Where?"
"In the picture-gallery. She is alone there. She saw you cross the
courtyard, and sent me after you. All the other people are in the
drawing-room, waiting to hear me sing--and I must run, for Gigue is
there, and he is so impatient! Please, Mr. Walden!"--and Cicely's
voice shook--"Please don't mind if Maryllia is angry! She IS angry!
But it's all on the surface--she doesn't really mean it--she
wouldn't be unkind for all the world! I know what you said,--I was
watching the dinner-party from the ante-room and I saw everything--
and--and--I think you were just splendid!--it's horrid for women to
smoke--but they nearly all do it nowadays--only I never saw Maryllia
do it before, and oh, Mr. Walden, make it all right with her,
please!"
For a moment John hesitated. Then a kind smile softened his
features.
"I can't quite promise that, Cicely,--but I'll do my best!" And
taking her hand he patted it gently, as she furtively dashed one or
two tear-drops from her lashes--"Come, come, you mustn't cry! Run
away and sing like the little nightingale you are--don't fret---"
"But you'll go to Maryllia, won't you?" she urged, anxiously.
"Yes. I'll go!"
She lifted her dark eyes, and he saw how true and full of soul they
were, despite their witch-like wildness and passion. Just then a
stormy passage of music, played on the piano, and tumbling out, as
it seemed, on the air through the open windows of the Manor drawing-
room, reminded her that she was being waited for by her impetuous
and impatient maestro.
"That's the signal for me!" she said--"I must run! But oh do, do
make it up with Maryllia and be friends!"
She rushed away. He waited till she had disappeared, then turning
back through the courtyard, slowly re-entered the house.