XXVI

Next day at Badsworth Hall, a stately luncheon was in progress.

Luncheon, or indeed any meal, partaken of under the rolling and

excitable eye of Sir Morton Pippitt, was always a function fraught

with considerable embarrassment to any guests who might happen to be

present, being frequently assisted by the Shakespearean stage

direction 'alarums and excursions.' With Sir Morton at the head of

the table, and the acid personality of his daughter Miss Tabitha at

the foot, there was very little chance of more than merely

monosyllabic conversation, while any idea of merriment, geniality or

social interchange of thought, withered in conception and never came

to birth. The attention of both host and hostess was chiefly

concentrated on the actual or possible delinquencies of the servants

in attendance--and what with Sir Morton's fierce nods and becks to

unhappy footmen, and Miss Tabitha's freezing menace of brow bent

warningly against the butler, those who, as visitors, were outside

these privacies of the domestic circle, never felt altogether at

their ease. But the fact that other people were made uncomfortable

by his chronic irascibility moved Sir Morton not at all, so long as

he personally could enjoy himself in his own fashion, which was to

browbeat, bully and swear at every hapless household retainer that

came across his path in the course of the day. He was more than

usually choleric and fussy in the 'distinguished' presence of Lord

Roxmouth, for though that individual had gone the social pace very

thoroughly, and was, to put it mildly, a black sheep of modern

decadence, hopelessly past all regeneration, he still presented the

exterior appearances of a gentleman, and was careful to maintain

that imperturbable composure of mien, dignity of bearing, and

unruffled temper which indicate breeding, though they are far from

being evidences of sincerity. And thus it very naturally happened

that in the companionship of the future Duke of Ormistoune, Sir

Morton did not shine. His native vulgarity came out side by side

with his childish pomposity, and Roxmouth, after studying his

habits, customs and manners for two or three days, began to feel

intensely bored and out of humour.

"Upon my word,"--he said, to his fidus Achates, Marius Longford,--"I

am enduring a great deal for the sake of the Vancourt millions! To

follow an erratic girl like Maryllia from one Continental resort to

another was bad enough,-but to stay here in tame, highly respectable

country dullness is a thousand times worse! Why on earth, my good

fellow, could you not have found a more educated creature to play

host to me than this terrible old Bone-Boiler?"

Longford pressed the tips of his fingers together with a deprecatory

gesture.

"There was really no one else who could receive you,"--he answered,

almost apologetically--"I thought I had managed the affair rather

well. You will remember that directly Miss Vancourt had announced to

her aunt her intention to return to her own home, you sent me down

here to investigate the place and its surroundings, and see what I

could do. Sir Morton Pippitt seemed to be the only person, from the

general bent of his character, to suit your aims, and his house was,

(before he had it) of very excellent historic renown. I felt sure

you would be able to use him. There is no other large place in the

neighbourhood except Miss Vancourt's own Manor, and Ittlethwaite

Park--I doubt whether you could have employed the Ittlethwaites to

much purpose---"

"Spare me the suggestion!" yawned Roxmouth--"I should not have

tried!"

"Well, there is no one else of suitable position, or indeed of

sufficient wealth to entertain you,"--continued Longford--"Unless

you had wished me to fraternise with the brewer, Mordaunt Appleby?

HE certainly might have been useful! oj He would sell his soul to a

title!"

Roxmouth gave an exclamation of mingled contempt and impatience, and

dropped the conversation. But he was intensely weary of Sir Morton's

'fine jovial personality'--he hated his red face, his white hair,

his stout body, his servile obsequiousness to rank, and all his

'darling old man' ways. Darling old man he might be, but he was

unquestionably a dull old man as well. So much so, indeed, that when

at luncheon on the day now named, his lordship Roxmouth, as Mr.

Netlips would have styled him, was in a somewhat petulant mood,

being tired of the constant scolding of the servants that went on

around him, and being likewise moved to a sort of loathing repulsion

at the contemplation of Miss Tabitha's waxy-clean face lined with

wrinkles, and bordered by sternly smooth grey hair. He was lazily

wondering to himself whether she had ever been young--whether the

same waxy face, wrinkles and grey hair had not adorned her in her

very cradle,--when the appearance of an evidently highly nervous boy

in buttons, carrying a letter towards his host on a silver salver,

distracted his attention.

"What's this--what's this?" spluttered Sir Morton, hastily dropping

a fork full of peas which he had been in the act of conveying to his

mouth--"What are you bringing notes in here for, eh? Haven't I told

you I won't have my meals disturbed by messages and parcels? What

d'ye mean by it? Take it away--take it away!--No!--here!--stop a

minute, stop a minute! Yes--yes!--I see!--marked 'immediate,' and

from Abbot's Manor. My dear lord!"--And here he raised his voice to

a rich warble-"I believe this will concern you more than me--ha-ha-

ha!--yes, yes! we know a thing or two! 'When a woman will, she will,

you may depend on't!'--never mind the other line!--never mind, never

mind!" And he broke open the seal of the missive presented to him,

and adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles to read its contents. "Eh--

what's this--what's this? God bless my soul!" And his round eyes

protruded in astonishment and dismay--"Look here!--I say--really!

You'd better read this, my lord! God bless my soul! She's bolted!"

Roxmouth started violently. Mr. Marius Longford looked up sharply--

and Miss Tabitha laid down her knife and fork with the regular old

maid's triumphant air of 'I told you so!'

"God bless my soul!" said Sir Morton again--"Was ever such a bit of

damned cheek!--beg pardon, my lord!---"

"Don't apologise!" said Roxmouth, with courteous languor, "At least,

not to ME! To Miss Tabitha!" and he waved his hand expressively.

"May I see the letter?"

"Certainly--certainly!" and Sir Morton in a great fluster passed it

along. It was a very brief note and ran as follows:

"DEAR SIR MORTON,--I quite forgot to tell you, when you and your

friends dined with me the other day, that I am leaving home

immediately and shall be away for the rest of the summer. Lady

Wicketts and Miss Fosby are staying on at the Manor for a fortnight

or three weeks, as the country air does them so much good. It will

be very kind if you and Lord Roxmouth will call and see them as

often as you can,--they are such dear kind people!--and I am sure

Miss Tabitha will be glad to have them near her as she already likes

them so much. Anything you can do to give them pleasure while they

are here, will be esteemed as a personal favour to myself. I am

sorry not to have the time to call and say good-bye--but I am sure

you will excuse ceremony. I shall have left before you receive this

note.--With kind regards, sincerely yours,"

"MARYLLIA VANCOURT."

Roxmouth read this letter, first to himself, and then aloud to all

at table. For a moment there was a silence of absolute stupefaction.

"Then she's gone!" at last said Miss Tabitha, placidly nodding,

while the suspicion of a malign smile crept round the hard corners

of her mouth.

"Evidently!" And Roxmouth crumbled the bread beside his plate into

fine shreds with a nervous, not to say vicious clench of his hand.

He was inwardly furious. There is nothing so irritating to a man of

his type as to be made ridiculous. Maryllia had done this. In the

most trifling, casual, and ordinary way she had compelled him to

look like a fool. All his carefully laid plans were completely

upset, and he fancied that even Longford, his tool, to whom he had

freely confided his wishes and intentions, was secretly laughing at

him. To have plotted and contrived a stay at Badsworth Hall with the

blusterous Pippitt in order to have the opportunity of crossing

Maryllia's path at every turn, and compromising her name with his in

her own house and county, and then to find himself 'left,' with the

civil suggestion that he should 'call and see' the antique Sisters

Gemini, Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby, was somewhat too much for his

patience. The blow was totally unexpected,--the open slight to his

amour propre sudden and keen. His very blood tingled under the lash

of Maryllia's disdain--she had carried a point against him, and he

almost imagined he could hear the distant echo of her light mocking

laughter. His brow reddened,--he gnawed his under-lip angrily, and

sat mute, aware that he had been tricked and foiled.

Longford watched him narrowly and with something of dismay,--for if

this lordly patron, who, by his position alone, was able to push

things on in certain quarters of the press, were to suddenly turn

crusty and unreasonable, where would his, Longford's, 'great

literary light' be? Quenched utterly like a rush-light in a gale!

Sir Morton Pippitt during the uncomfortable pause of silence had

grown purple with suppressed excitement. He knew perfectly well,--

because he had consented to it,--that his house had only been 'used'

for Roxmouth's purposes, and that he, personally, was of no more

consideration to a man like the future Duke of Ormistoune than a

landlord for the time being, whose little reckoning for

entertainment would in due course be settled in some polite and

ceremonious fashion. And he realised dolefully that his

'distinguished' guest might, and probably would, soon take his

departure from Badsworth Hall, that abode no longer being of any

service to him. This meant annihilation to many of Sir Morton's

fondest hopes. He had set his heart on appearing at sundry garden-

parties in the neighbourhood during the summer with Lord Roxmouth

under his portly wing--he had meant to hurl Lord Roxmouth here, Lord

Roxmouth there at all the less 'distinguished' people around him, so

that they should almost sink into the dust with shame because they

had not had the honour of sheltering his lordship within their

walls,--and he had expected to add considerably to his own

importance by 'helping on' the desired union between Roxmouth Castle

and the Vaneourt millions. Now this dream was over, and he could

willingly have thrown plates and dishes and anything else that came

handy at the very name of Maryllia for her 'impudence' as he called

it, in leaving them all in the lurch.

"It will be quite easy to ascertain where she has gone,"--said

Marius Longford presently, in soft conciliatory accents--"Lady

Wicketts will probably know, and Miss Fosby---"

"Damn Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby!" snapped out Sir Morton, this

time without any apology--"A couple of female donkeys! 'Kind of me

to call upon them!' God bless my soul! I should think it WOULD be

kind! Nobody but a fool would go near them---"

"They are very pleasant, good women,"--said Miss Tabitha with severe

serenity--"Personally, I much prefer them to Miss Vancourt."

Sir Morton snorted contempt; Mr. Longford coughed discreetly.

"Miss Vancourt has not yet ripened sufficiently to bear comparison

with Lady Wicketts,"--he said, smoothly--"or with Miss Fosby. But I

think, Miss Pippitt, there is a great deal in what you say!" Miss

Tabitha bowed, and smiled a vinegary smile. "Lady Wicketts has a

fine mind--very fine! Her husband, Sir Thomas---"

"Oh never mind her husband!" blustered Sir Morton,--

"He's dead. And a good job too--for himself. Now what's to be done,

my dear lord, eh?--what's to be done?"

Roxmouth looked up and managed to force his usual conventional

smile.

"Nothing!"

"Nothing? Oh come, come! That won't do! Paint heart never won fair

lady--ha-ha-ha! God bless my soul! The course of true love never did

run smooth--that's the advice of what's-his-name--Shakespeare. Ha-

ha! By the bye, what's become of that poet acquaintance of yours,

Longford? Oughtn't HE to have known something about this? Didn't you

tell him to keep a sharp look-out on Maryllia Van, eh?"

Longford reddened slightly under his pale yellow skin. What a vulgar

way Sir Morton had of putting things, to be sure!

"I certainly asked Mr. Adderley to let us know if there was anything

in which we could possibly participate to give pleasure and

entertainment to Miss Vancourt,"--he answered frigidly--"He seems to

have ingratiated himself with both Miss Vancourt and her young

friend Miss Bourne--I should have thought he would have been told of

their intending departure."

"You may depend he knows all about it!" said Sir Mortou--"He's

double-faced, that's what he is! Poets always are. I hate 'em!

Regular sneaks!--always something queer about their morals--look at

Byron!--God bless my soul!--he ought to have been locked up--

positively locked up, he-ha-ha! We'll come down on this Adderley--

we'll take him by surprise and cross-examine him--we'll ask him why

the devil he has played a double game---"

"Pray do not think of such a thing!"--interrupted Roxmouth, quietly-

-"I really doubt whether he knows any more than we do. Maryllia--

Miss Vancourt--is not of a character to confide her movements, even

to a friend,--she has always been reticent---" He paused.

"And sly!"--said Miss Tabitha, finishing his sentence for him, "Very

sly! The first time I ever saw Miss Vancourt I knew she was

deceitful! Her very look expresses it!"

"I'm afraid,"--murmured Roxmouth,--and then hesitating a moment, he

raised his eyes with an affectation of great frankness--"I'm really

afraid you may be right, Miss Tabitha! I had hoped that I should not

have had to speak of a matter,--a very disagreeable matter which

happened the other night--but, under the circumstances, it may be as

well to mention it. You can perhaps imagine how distressing it has

been to me--distressing and painful--and indeed incredible,--to

discover the lady whom I have every right to consider almost my

promised wife, entering into a kind of amorous entanglement down

here with a clergyman!"

Sir Morton bounced in his chair.

"God bless my soul! A clergyman?"

"A clergyman?" echoed Miss Tabitha, with sudden sharpness in her

tone--"What clergyman do you mean?"

"Who should I mean!" And Roxmouth affected a somewhat sad and

forbearing demeanour--"There is only one who appears to be welcome

at the Manor-the Reverend John Walden."

Miss Tabitha turned a paler waxen yellow-Sir Morton shot forth a

deep, dreadful and highly blasphemous oath.

"That prig?" he roared, with a bull-like loudness and fury--"That

high-and-mighty piece of damned superior clerical wisdom? God bless

my soul! There must be some mistake---"

"Yes surely!"--murmured Miss Tabitha, feeling the clutch of a deadly

spite and fear at her heart,--for was not Walden HER clergyman?--HER

choice of a husband?--the man she had resolved to wed sooner or

later, even if she had to wait till he was senile, and did not know

what he was doing when led to the altar? "Mr. Walden is not a man

who would be easily allured---"

"Perhaps not,"--said Roxmouth, quietly--"But I can hardly refuse to

accept the witness of my own eyes and ears." And, attended by an

almost breathless silence on the part of his auditors, he related

with an air of patient endurance and compassionate regret, his own

account of the interview between Maryllia and Walden in the picture-

gallery, exaggerating something here, introducing a suggestive

insinuation there, suppressing the simplicity of the true facts, and

inserting falsehood wherever convenient, till he had succeeded in

placing Walden's good name at Miss Tabitha's cat-like mercy for her

to rend and pounce upon to the utmost extent of her own jaundiced

rage and jealous venom.

Nothing could equal or surpass Sir Morton's amazement and wrath as

he listened to the narration. His eyes seemed to literally start out

of his head,--his throat swelled visibly till a fat ridge of flesh

lolled over the edge of his stiff shirt-collar, and he threw in

various observations of his own with regard to Walden, such as

'Sniveling puppy!' 'Canting rascal!' 'Elderly humbug!' 'Sneaking

upstart,' which were quite in accordance with his native good taste

and refinement of speech. And when at last his stock of expletives

became, for the time being, exhausted, and when Miss Tabitha's dumb

viciousness had, like an invisible sculptor's chisel, carved sudden

deep lines in her face as fitting accompaniments to the deepening

malice of her thoughts, they all rose from the luncheon table and

went their several ways in their several moods of disconcerted

confusion, impotence and vexation, in search of fresh means to gain

new and unexpected ends. Roxmouth, reluctantly yielding to the

earnest persuasions of Longford, walked with him into the village of

St. Rest, and made enquiries at the post-office as to whether Miss

Vancourt's sudden departure was known there, or whether any

instructions had been left as to the forwarding of her letters. But

the postmistress, Mrs. Tapple, breathing hard and curtseying

profoundly to the 'future Dook' declared she ''adn't heard nothink,'

and ''adn't 'ad no orders.' Miss Vancourt's letters and telegrams

all went up to the Manor as usual. Whereupon, still guided by the

astute Longford, Roxmouth so far obeyed Maryllia's parting

suggestion as to go and 'kindly call' upon Lady Wicketts and Miss

Fosby at the Manor itself. The beautiful old house looked the same

as usual; there were no shutters up, no blinds drawn, in any of the

windows,--nothing indicated absence on the part of the reigning

mistress of the fair domain; and even the dog Plato was comfortably

snoozing according to daily custom, on the sun-baked flag-stones in

the Tudor court. Primmins opened the door to them with his usual

well-trained and imperturbable demeanour.

"Miss Vancourt is not at home?" began Roxmouth tentatively.

"Miss Vancourt has left for the Continent, my lord," replied

Primmins, sedately.

Longford exchanged a swift glance with his patron. The latter gave a

slight, weary shrug of his shoulders.

"Miss Bourne."--began Longford then.

"Miss Bourne and Mr. Gigg have also left," said Primmins.

"I suppose Miss Vancourt went with them?"

"No, sir."

This was baffling.

"Lady Wicketts is staying here, I believe,"--murmured Roxmouth--"Can

I--er?"

"Her ladyship has the neuralgy and is lying down, my lord," and an

acute observer might have noticed the tremor of a wink in Primmins'

eye--"Miss Fosby is in the drawing-room."

With a profound sigh Roxmouth glanced at Longford. That gentleman

smiled a superior smile.

"We should like to see Miss Fosby."

Primmins at once threw open the door more widely.

"This way, if you please!"

In another moment they were ushered into the presence of Miss Fosby,

who, laying aside her embroidery, rose with punctilious ceremony to

receive them.

"Lady Wicketts is not well,"--she said, in tenderly lachrymose

accents--"Dear Lady Wicketts! She is always so good!--always

thinking of other people and doing such kind things!--she fatigues

herself, and she is so delicate--ah!--so very delicate! She is

suffering from neuralgia, I am sorry to say!"

"Don't mention it,"--said Roxmouth, hastily--"We would not disturb

her for the world! The fact is, we called to see Miss Vancourt---"

"Yes?" queried Miss Fosby, gently, taking up her embroidery again,

and carefully setting her needle into the petal of a rosebud she was

designing--"Dear girl! She left here yesterday."

"Rather sudden, wasn't it?" said Longford.

Miss Fosby looked up placidly, and smiled. She had a touch of humour

about her as well as much 'early Victorian' sentiment, and she was

just now enjoying herself.

"I think not! Young women like change and travel. Maryllia has

always been accustomed to go abroad in August. The first time Lady

Wicketts and I ever met her, she was travelling with her aunt. Oh

no, I don't think it is at all sudden!"

"Where has she gone?" asked Roxmouth, affecting as much ease and

lightness of manner as he could in putting the question.

Miss Fosby smiled a little more.

"I really don't know,"--she replied, with civil mildness--"I fancy

she has no settled plans at all. She has kindly allowed Lady

Wicketts and myself the use of the Manor for three weeks."

"Till she returns?" suggested Longford.

This time Miss Fosby laughed.

"Oh no! When WE leave it, the Manor is to be shut up again for quite

a long time--probably till next summer."

"Miss Bourne has gone with her friend, I suppose?" "No,"--and Miss

Fosby sought carefully among her embroidery silks for some special

tint of colour--"Little Cicely and Monsieur Gigue, her master, went

away together only this morning."

"Well, I suppose Miss Vancourt's letters will he forwarded on

somewhere!"--said Eoxmouth, unguardedly. Miss Fosby's back stiffened

instantly.

"Really, my lord, I know nothing about that,"--she said, primly--

"Nor should I even make it my business to enquire." There was an

awkward pause after this, and though Longford skilfully changed the

subject of conversation to generalities, the rest of the interview

was fraught with considerable embarrassment. Miss Fosby was not to

be 'drawn.' She was distinctly 'old-fashioned,'--needless therefore

to add that she was absolutely loyal to her absent friend and

hostess.

Leaving the Manor, Lord Roxmouth and his tame pussy sought for

information in other quarters with equal futility. The agent, Mr.

Stanways, 'knew nothing.' His orders were to communicate all his

business to Miss Vancourt's solicitors in London. Finally the last

hope failed them in Julian Adderley. They found that young gentleman

as much taken aback as themselves by the news of Maryllia'a

departure. He had been told nothing of it. A note from Cicely Bourne

had been brought to him that morning by one of the gardeners at the

Manor--and he showed this missive to both Roxmouth and Longford with

perfect frankness. It merely ran: "Goodbye Moon-calf! Am going away.

No time to see you for a fond farewell! Hope you will be famous

before I come back. Enclosed herewith is my music to your 'Little

Eose Tree,' GOBLIN."

This, with the accompanying manuscript score of the song alluded to

was all the information Julian could supply,--and his own surprise

and consternation at the abrupt and unexpected termination of his

pleasant visits to the Manor, were too genuine to be doubted.

"It is positively remote!" he said, staring vaguely at his visitors-

-"Too remote for realisation! Mr. Walden has gone away too."

Roxmouth started.

"Mr. Walden?"

"Yes." And Julian looked surprised at the other's hasty tone,--"But

only to see his Bishop. He will preach here as usual on Sunday."

"Are you sure of that?" asked Longford, sharply scanning Julian's

flabby face, green-grey eyes and ruddy locks with sudden suspicion--

"Or is it only a blind?"

"A blind?" And Adderley lifted his shoulders to the lobes of his

ears and spread out his hands in flat amazement,--"What do you mean,

most obscure Marius? For what purpose should a blind be used? Mr.

Walden is the last person in the world to wish to cover his

intentions, or disguise his motives. He is the sincerest man I ever

met!"

Longford glanced at his patron for instructions. Was Adderley to be

told of the 'amorous entanglement' of Miss Vancourt? Roxmouth

frowned at him warningly, and he understood his cue.

"Well, if you hear any news from the Manor, you can let us know,"--

he said--"You are quite aware of the position---"

"Quite!" murmured Julian, lazily.

"And if you want to get on, you will hardly find a better friend

than Lord Roxmouth,"--pursued Longford, with meaning emphasis--"He

has made many a man famous!"

"Oh, my dear Longford!-pray do not speak of these things!"--

interrupted Roxmouth, with an air of gentlemanly humility. "Merit

always commands my interest and attention--and Mr. Adderley's talent

as a poet--naturally--!" Here he waved his hand and allowed the

sentence to finish itself.

Julian looked at him thoughtfully.

"Thanks! I THINK I see what you mean!"--he said slowly--"But I'm

afraid I am not a useful person. I never have been useful in my

life--neither to myself, nor to anybody else. To be useful would be

new--and in some cases, fresh,"--here he smiled dubiously--"Yes--

very fresh!--and delightful! But I fear--I very much fear that I

shall always 'lack advancement' as Hamlet says--I can never

accommodate myself to other people's plans. You will excuse my

inabilities?"

Roxmouth flushed angrily. He understood. So did Marius Longford--

resolving in his own mind that whenever, IF ever, a book of poems

appeared by Julian Adderley, he would so maul and pounce upon it in

the critical reviews, that there should not be a line of it left

unmangled or alive. They parted with him, however, on apparently

excellent terms.

Returning to Badsworth Hall they found no further news awaiting them

than they had themselves been able to obtain. Sir Morton's fussy

enquiries had brought no result--Miss Tabitha had scoured the

neighbourhood in her high dogcart, calling on the Ittlethwaites and

Mandeville Porehams, all in vain. Nobody knew anything. Nobody had

heard anything. The sudden exit of Maryllia from the scene took

everyone by surprise. And when Miss Pippitt began to hiss a

scandalous whisper concerning John Walden, and a possible intrigue

between him and the Lady of the Manor, the 'county' sat up amazed.

Here indeed was food for gossip! Here was material for 'local'

excitement!

"Old Tabitha's jealous!--that's what it is!" said Bruce Ittlethwaite

of Ittlethwaite Park, to his maiden sisters,--"Ha-ha-ha! Old green-

and-yellow Tabitha is afraid she'll lose her pet parson! Dammit! A

pretty woman always starts this kind of nonsense. If it wasn't the

clergyman, it would be somebody else--perhaps Sir Morton himself--or

perhaps me! Ha-ha-ha! Dammit!"

"I don't believe a word of it!" declared the eldest Miss

Ittlethwaite,--"I do not attend Mr. Walden's services myself, but I

am quite sure he is an excellent man--and a perfect gentleman.

Nothing that Tabitha Pippitt can ever say, will move me on that

point!"

"I always had my suspicions!"--said Mrs. Mandeville Poreham,

severely, when she in her turn heard the news--"I heard that Miss

Vancourt had insisted--positively INSISTED on Mr. Walden's visiting

her nearly every day, and I trembled for him! MY girls have gone

quite crazy about Miss Vancourt ever since they met her at Sir

Morton Pippitt's garden-party, but _I_ have NEVER changed my

opinion. MY poor mother always taught me to be firm in my

convictions. And Miss Vancourt is a designing person. There's no

doubt of it. She affects the innocence of a child--but I doubt

whether I have ever met anyone QUITE so worldly and artful!"

So the drops of petty gossip began to trickle,--very slowly at

first, and then faster and faster, as is their habitude in the

effort to wear away the sparkling adamant of a good name and

unblemished reputation. The Reverend Putwood Leveson, vengefully

brooding over the wrongs which he considered he had sustained at the

hands of Walden, as well as Julian Adderley, rode to and fro on his

bicycle from morn till dewy eye, perspiring profusely, and shedding

poisonous slanders almost as freely as he exuded melted tallow from

his mountainous flesh, aware that by so doing he was not only

ingratiating himself with the Pippitts, but also with Lord Roxmouth,

through whose influence he presently hoped to 'get a thing or two.'

Mordaunt Appleby, the Riversford brewer, and his insignificant

spouse, irritated at never having had the chance to 'receive' Lord

Roxmouth, were readily pressed into the same service and did their

part of scandal-mongering with right good-will and malignant

satisfaction. And in less than forty-eight hours' time there was no

name too bad for the absent Maryllia; she was 'mixed up' with John

Walden,--she had 'tried to entangle him'--there had been 'a scene

with him at the Manor,'--she was 'forward,' 'conceited'--and utterly

lost to any sense of propriety. Why did she not marry Lord Roxmouth?

Why, indeed! Many people could tell if they chose! Ah yes!--and with

this, there were sundry shakings of the head and shruggings of the

shoulders which implied more than whole volumes of libel.

But while the county talked, the village listened, sagaciously

incredulous of mere rumour, quiescent in itself and perfectly

satisfied that whoever else was wrong, 'Passon Walden' in everything

he did, said, or thought, was sure to be right. Wherefore, until

they heard their 'man o' God's' version of the stories that were

being so briskly circulated, they reserved their own opinions. The

infallibility of the Supreme Pontiff was not more securely founded

in the Roman Catholic Ritual than the faith of St. Rest in the

'gospel according to John.'