Arriving home at his own domain late on the Saturday night, Walden
had no opportunity to learn anything of the incidents which had
occurred during his brief absence. Letters were waiting for him, but
he opened none, and shut himself up in his study at once to prepare
his next day's sermon. He wrote on far into the night, long after
all the servants of his household had retired to rest, and overslept
himself the next morning in consequence, therefore his preparation
for the eleven o'clock service were necessarily somewhat hurried,
and he had not time to say more than a cheery 'Good-morning' even to
Bainton, whom he passed on his way into the church, or to Adam
Frost, though he fancied that both, men looked at him somewhat
curiously, as with an air of mingled doubt and enquiry. Once within
the sacred building he was conscious of an exceptionally crowded
congregation. None that he could see were missing from their usual
places. Maryllia certainly was not there,--but as she was admittedly
not a church-goer, he did not expect her to be present. Badsworth
Hall was entirely unrepresented, much to his relief; neither Sir
Morton Pippitt nor Lord Roxmouth, nor Mr. Marius Longford were
anywhere visible. Old Josey Letherbarrow sat in his usual corner,--
everything was precisely the same as it was wont to be--and yet a
sense of vague trouble oppressed him,--he saw, or thought he saw, an
expression on some of the faces of his parishioners which was new to
him, and he felt instinctively that some disturbing element had
found its way into the peace of the village, though what the trouble
could be, he was at a loss to imagine. He chose as his text: 'What
went ye out for to see? A reed shaken with the wind?' and preached
thereon with wonderful force, simplicity, eloquence and fervour--
though all the time he spoke he wondered why his people stared at
him so persistently, and why so many round eyes in so many round
faces appeared to express such a lively, not to say questioning
curiosity.
After service, however, the whole mystery was cleared up. Bainton,
in his Sunday best, with hat in hand, presented himself at the
garden gate on his master's return from the church to the rectory,
and after a word or two was admitted into the study. Bainton, honest
as the daylight, and sturdy in his principles as an oak in its
fibres, had determined to have 'no humbuggin' wi' Passon.' And in a
few words, spoken with a great deal of feeling and rough eloquence,
he had told all,--how Miss Vancourt had gone away 'suddint-like'
from the Manor,--and how it was said and reported all through the
county and neighbourhood that she had gone because her engaged
husband, Lord Roxmouth, had caught her 'makin' love' to a parson,
that parson being no other than St. Rest's own beloved 'man o' God,'
John Walden. And that Lord Roxmouth had at once gone after her, and
that neither of the twain 'weren't never comin' back no more.' So
said Bainton, twirling his cap round, and fixing his eyes
sympathetically on his master's face,--eyes as faithful as those of
the dog Nebbie, who clambered at his master's knee, equally gazing
up at him with a fondness exceeding all speech.
John Walden sat, white and rigid, in his chair and heard the tale
out to its end.
"Is that all?" he asked, when Bainton had concluded.
"That's all, an' ain't it enough, Passon?" queried Bainton in
somewhat dismal accents. "Not that I takes in 'arf wot I hears, but
from the fust I sez you should know every bit on it, an' if no one
else 'ad the 'art or the pluck to tell ye straight out, I'd tell ye
myself. For that old Miss Tabitha's got a tongue as long as a
tailor's yard-measure wot allus measures a bit oif to 'is own good,
an' Sir Morton Pippitt he do nothin' but run wild-like all over the
place a-talkin' of it everywhere, an' old Putty Leveson, he's up at
the 'All, day in, an' day out, tellin' 'ow you was goin' to hit 'im
in the eye--hor-hor-hor!--an' why didn't ye do it, Passon?--'twould
a' been a real Gospel mercy!--an' 'ow 'twas all about Miss Vancourt,
till Mr. Hadderley 'e come up an throwed 'im over in the road on 'is
back which makes me think all the better o' that young man,
'owsomever, I never took to 'im afore. But though he's all skin an'
bone an' long 'air as red as a biled carrot, he's got a fist of 'is
own, that's pretty plain, an' if he knocked down old Putty Leveson
it shows 'e's got some sense in 'im as well as sperrit. For it's all
over the place that there's trouble about Miss Vancourt, an' you may
take my wurrd for it, Passon, they don't leave the poor little leddy
alone, nor you neither, an' never takes into their minds as 'ow
you're old enough to be 'er father. That Miss Tabitha don't spare no
wurrds agin 'er--an' as ye know, Passon, she's a leddy wot's like
curdled cream all gone wrong in a thunderstorm. Anyways, I thought
it best to tell ye straight out an' no lyin' nor trickin'--an' if
I've stepped over my dooty, I 'umbly axes pardin, but I means well,
Passon,--I means well,--I do reely now!"
Walden looked up,--his eyes were glittering--his lips were pate and
dry.
"I know-I know!"--he said, speaking with an effort--"You're an
honest fellow, Bainton!--and--and--I thank you! Tou not only mean
well--you have done well. But it's a lie, Bainton!--it's all a
wicked, damnable lie!"
He sprang to his feet as he said this, the wrath in his eyes
flashing a steel-like lightning.
"It's a lie!" he repeated--"Do you understand? A cruel, abominable
lie!"
Bainton twirled his cap sympathetically.
"So it be, Passon,"--he murmured--"So it be--I know'd that all
along! It's a lie set goin' by that fine gentleman rascal, Lord
Roxmouth, wot can't get Miss Maryllia and 'er aunt's money nohow.
Lor' bless ye, I sees that plain enough! But take it 'ow we will, a
lie's a nasty sort o' burr to stick to a good name, 'speshully a
name like yours, Passon,--an' when it comes to that I feel that
moithered an' worrited-like not knowin' 'ow to pick the burr off
again. An' Lord Roxmouth he be gone away or mebbe you could a' had
it out wi' him---"
"That will do, Bainton!"--said Walden, interrupting him by a
gesture--"Say no more about it, please! I'm glad you've spoken,--I'm
glad I know! But,--let it rest there! Never allude to it again!"
Bainton glanced up timorously at his master's pale set face.
"Ain't nothin' goin' to be done?" he faltered anxiously--"Nothin' to
say as 'ow it's all a lie---"
"Nothing on my part!"--said Walden, quickly and sternly, "The best
answer to such low gossip and slander is silence. You understand?"
His look was a command, and Bainton felt it to be such. Shuffling
about a little, he murmured something about the 'apples comin' on
fine in the orchard'--as if Walden's three days' absence had somehow
or other accelerated their ripening, and then slowly and reluctantly
retired, deeply dejected in his own mind.
"For silence gives consent," he argued dolefully with himself--
"That's copybook truth! Yet o' coorse 'tain't to be expected as
Passon would send for the town-crier from Riversford to ring a bell
through the village an' say as 'ow he 'adn't nothin' to dp with Miss
Vancourt nor she with 'im. Onny the worst of it is that in this
wurrld lies is allus taken for truth since the beginnin', when the
Sarpint told the first big whopper in the Garden of Eden an' took in
poor silly Eve. An' ye can't contradict a lie somehow without makin'
it look more a truth than ever,--that's the way o' the thing. An' it
do stick!--Passon himself 'ull find that out,--it do stick, it do
reely now!"
Meantime, Walden, left alone, gave himself up to a tumult of misery
and self-torture. His sensitive nature shrank from the breath of
vulgar scandal like the fine frond of delicate foliage from the
touch of a coarse finger. He had never before been associated with
the faintest rumour of it,--his life had been too simple, too
austere, and too far removed from all the trumpery shows and petty
intrigues of society. He felt himself now in a manner debased by
having had to listen with enforced patience to Bainton's rambling
account of the gossip going on in the neighbourhood, and despite
that worthy servitor's disquisition on the subject, he could not
imagine how it had arisen, unless his quarrel with Putwood Leveson
were the cause. It was all so sudden and unlooked for! Maryllia had
gone away,--and that fact of itself was sufficient to make darkness
out of sunshine. He could not quite realise it. And not only had she
gone away, but some slanderous story had been concocted concerning
her in connection with himself, which was being bandied about on all
the tongues of the village and county. How it had arisen he could
not understand. He was, of course, unaware of the part Lord Roxmouth
had played in the matter, and in his ignorance of the true source of
the mischief, tormented his mind with endless fancies and
perplexities, all of which helped to increase his annoyance and
agitation. Pacing restlessly up and down his study, his eyes
presently fell on the little heap of letters which had accumulated
on his table during his brief absence, all as yet unopened. Turning
them over indifferently, he came suddenly on one small sealed note,
inscribed as having been left 'by hand,' addressed to him in the
bold frank writing to which he had once, not so very long ago, felt
such an inexplicable aversion when Mrs. Spruce was the recipient of
a first letter from the same source. Now he snatched the little
missive up with a strangely impulsive ardour, and being quite alone,
indulged himself in the pleasure of kissing the firm free pen-
strokes with all the passion of a boy. Then opening it, he read:
"DEAR MR. WALDEN,--You will be surprised to find that I have gone
away from the dear home I love so well, and I daresay you will think
me very capricious. But please do not judge me hastily, or believe
everything you may hear of me from others. I am very sorry to go
away just now, but circumstances leave me no other choice. I should
like to have bidden you good-bye, as I could perhaps have explained
things to you better, but old Josey Letherbarrow tells me you have
gone to see the Bishop on business, so I leave this note myself just
to say that I hope you will think as kindly of me as you can now I
am gone. Please go into the Manor gardens as often as you like, and
let the sick and old people in the village have plenty of the
flowers and fruit. By doing this you will please me very much. My
agent, Mr. Stanways, will be quite at your service if you ever want
his assistance. Perhaps I ought just to mention that Lord Roxmouth
overheard our conversation in the picture-gallery that night of the
dinner-party. He was very rude about it. I tell you this in case you
should see him, but I do not think you will. Good-bye! Try to forget
that I smoked that cigarette!--Your sincere friend,"
"MARYLLIA VANCOURT."
As he perused these lines, Walden alternately grew hot and cold--red
and pale. All was clear to him now!-it was Lord Roxmouth who had
played the spy and eavesdropper! He recalled every little detail of
the scene in the picture-gallery and at once realised how much a
treacherous as well as jealous and vindictive man could make of it.
Maryllia's hand laid so coaxingly on his arm,--Maryllia's face so
sweetly and pleadingly upturned,--Maryllia's half-tender tremulous
voice with its 'Will you forgive me?'--and then--his own impetuous
words!--the way he had caught her hand and kissed it!--why his very
look must have betrayed him to the 'noble and honourable' detective,
part of whose distinguished role it was to listen at doors and
afterwards relate to an inquisitive and scandal-loving society all
that he heard within. By degrees he grasped the whole situation. He
realised that his name and honour lay at the mercy of this man
Roxmouth, who under the circumstances of the constant check put upon
his mercenary aims, would certainly spare no pains to injure both.
And he felt sick at heart.
Locking Maryllia's note carefully in his desk, he stepped into his
garden and walked up and down the lawn slowly with bent head, Nebbie
trotting after him with a sympathetically disconsolate air. And
gradually it dawned upon him that Maryllia had possibly--nay very
probably--gone away for his sake,--to make things easier for him--to
remove her presence altogether from his vicinity-and so render
Roxmouth's tale-bearing, with its consequent malicious gossip,
futile, till of itself it died away and was forgotten. As this idea
crossed his mind and deepened into conviction, his eyes filled with
a sudden smarting moisture.
"Poor child!" he said, half aloud--"Poor little lonely child!"
Then a fresh thought came to him,--one which made the blood run more
quickly through his veins and caused his heart to pulsate with quite
a foolish joy. If--if she had indeed gone away out of a sweet
womanly wish to save him from what she imagined might cause him
embarrassment or perplexity, then--then surely she cared! Yes--she
must care for him greatly as a friend,--though only as a friend--to
be willing to sacrifice the pleasure of passing all the summer in
the old home to which she had so lately returned, merely to relieve
him of any difficulty her near society might involve. If she cared!
Was such a thing--could such a thing be possible? Tormented by many
mingled feelings of tenderness, regret and pain, John pondered his
own heart's problem anxiously, and tried to decide the best course
to pursue,--the best for her--the best for himself. He was not long
in coming to a decision, and once resolved, he was more at ease.
When he celebrated the evening service that Sunday the garrulous
Bainton saw, much to his secret astonishment, that the effect of his
morning's communication had apparently left no trace on his master's
ordinary demeanour, except perhaps to add a little extra gravity to
his fine strong features, and accentuate the reserve of his
accustomed speech and manner. His habitual dignity was even greater
than usual,--his composed mien and clear steadfastness of eye had
lost nothing of their quelling and authoritative influence,--and so
far as his own manner and actions showed, the absence or presence of
Miss Vancourt was a matter to him of complete unconcern. His visit
to his friend the Bishop had 'done 'im a power o' good'--said his
parishioners, observing him respectfully, as, Sunday being over and
the week begun, he went about among them on his accustomed round of
duty, enquiring after the poultry and the cattle with all the zeal
expected of him. The name of Miss Vancourt seldom passed his lips,--
when other people spoke of her, either admiringly, questioningly or
suggestively, he merely listened, offering no opinion. He denied
himself to all 'county' visitors on plea of press of work,--he never
once went to Abbot's Manor or entered the Manor grounds--and the
only persons with whom he occasionally interchanged hospitalities
were Julian Adderley and the local doctor, 'Jimmy' Eorsyth.
Withdrawing himself in this fashion into closer seclusion than ever,
his life became almost hermit-like, for except in regard to his
daily parish work, he seldom or never went beyond the precincts of
his own garden.
Days went on, weeks went on,--and soon, too soon, summer was over.
The melancholy autumn shook down the once green leaves, all curled
up in withering death-convulsions, from the branches of the trees
now tossing in chill wind and weeping mists of rain. No news had
been received by anyone in the village concerning Maryllia. The
'Sisters Gemini,' Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby, had departed from
Abbot's Manor when the time of their stay had concluded, and neither
of the twain had given the slightest hint to any enquirer, as to the
probable date of the return of the mistress of the domain. Sir
Morton Pippitt at last got tired of talking scandal for which there
seemed no visible or tangible foundation, and even his daughter
Tabitha began to wonder whether after all there was not some
exaggeration in the story Lord Roxmouth had given her to sow like
rank seed upon the soil of daily circumstance? She never saw Walden
by any chance,--on one occasion she ventured to call, but he was
'out' as usual. Neither could she persuade Julian Adderley to visit
at Badsworth Hall. A veil of obscurity and silence was gradually but
surely drawn between St. Rest and the outlying neighbourhood so far
as its presiding ruler John Walden was concerned, while within the
village his reticence and reserve were so strongly marked that even
the most privileged person in the place, Josey Letherbarrow, awed at
his calm, cold, almost stern aspect, hesitated to speak to him
except on the most ordinary matters, for fear of incurring his
displeasure.
Meanwhile the village sorely missed the bright face and sweet ways
of 'th' owld Squire's gel'--and many of the inhabitants tried to get
news of her through Mrs. Spruce, but all in vain. That good lady,
generally so talkative, was for once in her life more than
discreetly dumb. All that she would say was that she "didn't know
nothink. Miss Maryllia 'ad gone abroad an' all 'er letters was sent
to London solicitors. Any other address? No--no other address. The
servants was to be kep' on--no one wasn't goin' to lose their places
if they behaved theirselves, which please the Lord, they will do!"--
she concluded, with much fervour. Bennett, the groom, was entrusted
with the care of the mares Cleo and Daffodil, and might be seen
exercising them every day on the open moors beyond the village,
accompanied by the big dog Plato,--and so far as the general
management of affairs was concerned, that was ably undertaken by the
agent Stanways, who though civil and obliging to all the tenantry,
had no news whatever to give respecting the absence or the probable
return of the lady of the Manor. The Reverend Putwood Leveson
occasionally careered through the village on his bicycle,
accompanied by Oliver Leach who bestrode a similar machine, and both
individuals made a point of grinning broadly as they passed the
church and rectory of St. Rest, jerking their fingers and thumbs at
both buildings with expressively suggestive contempt.
And by and by the people began to settle down, into the normal
quietude which had been more or less their lot, before Maryllia,
with her vivacious little musical protegee Cicely Bourne had
awakened a new interest and animation in the midst of their small
community,--and they began to resign themselves to the idea that her
'whim' for residing once more in the home of her childhood had
passed, and that she would now, without doubt, marry the future Duke
of Ormistoune, and pass away from the limited circle of St. Rest to
those wider spheres of fashion, the splendours of which, mere
country-folk are not expected to have more than the very faintest
glimmering conception. Even in that independent corner of opinion,
the tap-room of the 'Mother Huff,' her name was spoken with almost
bated breath, though Mr. Netlips was not by any means loth to spare
any flow of oratorical eloquence on the subject.
"I think, Mr. Buggins," he said one evening, addressing 'mine host'
with due gravity--"I think you will recall to your organisation
certain objective propositions I made with regard to Miss Vancourt,
when that lady first entered into dominative residence at Abbot's
Manor. Personally speaking, I have no discrepancies to suggest
beyond the former utterance. Matters in which I have taken the
customary mercantile interest have culminated with the lady to the
satisfaction of all sides. Nothing has been left standing
controversially on my books. Nevertheless it would be repudiative to
say that I have sophisticated my previous opinion. I said then, and
I confirm the observation, that a heathen cannot enjoy the
prospective right of the commons."
"I s'pose,"--said Mr. Buggins, meditatively in reference to this
outburst--"you means, Mr. Netlips, that Miss Vancourt is a kind of
heathen?"
Mr. Netlips nodded severely.
"'Cos she don't go to church?" suggested Dan Ridley, who as usual
was one of the tap-room talkers. Again Mr. Netlips nodded.
"Well," said Dan, "she came to church once an' brought her friends--
-"
"Late,--very late,"--interposed Mr. Netlips, solemnly--"The
tardiness of her entrance was marked by the strongest decorum. The
strongest, the most open decorum! Deplorable decorum!"
"What's decorum?" enquired Mr. Buggins, anxiously.
Mr. Netlips waved one fat hand expressively.
"Decorum,"--he said--"is--well!--decorum."
Buggins scratched his head dubiously. Dan Ridley looked perplexed.
There was a silence,--the men listening to the wailing of a rising
wind that was beginning to sweep round the house and whistle down
the big open chimney, accompanied by pattering drops of rain.
"Summer's sheer over,"--said a labourer, lifting his head from his
tankard of ale--"Howsomever, we're all safe this winter in the worst
o' weather. Rents are all down at 'arf what they was under Oliver
Leach, thanks to the new lady, so whether she's a decorum or not
don't matter to me. She's a right good sort--so here's to her!"
And he drained off his ale at one gulp with a relish, several men
present following his example.
"Passon Walden,"--began Dan Ridley--"Passon Walden---"
But here there was a sudden loud metallic crash. Buggins had
overturned two empty pewter-mugs on his counter.
"No gossiping o' Passon Walden allowed 'ere,"--he said,--"Not while
I'm master o' this public!"
"Leeze majestas,"--proclaimed Mr. Netlips, impressively--"You're
right, Buggins--you're quite right! Leeze majestas would be entirely
indigenous--entirely so!"
An awkward pause ensued. 'Leeze majestas' in all its dark
incomprehensibility had fallen like a weight upon the tavern
company, and effectually checked any further conversation. It was
one of those successful efforts of Mr. Netlips, which, by its
ponderous vagueness and inscrutability, produced an overwhelming
effect. There was nothing to be said after it.
The gold and crimson glory of autumn slowly waned and died,--and the
village began to look very lonely and dreary. Heavy rains fell and
angry gales blew,--so that when dark November came glooming in, with
lowering skies, there was scarcely so much as a leaf of russet or
scarlet Virginian creeper clinging to roof or wall. The woods around
Abbot's Manor were leafless except where the pines and winter laurel
grew in thick clusters, and where several grand old hollies showed
their scarlet berries ripening among the glossy green. The Manor
itself however looked wide-awake and cheerful,--smoke poured up from
the chimneys and glints of firelight sparkled through the windows,--
all the shutters, which had been put up after the departure of the
'Sisters Gemini,' were taken down--blinds were raised and curtains
drawn back,--and as soon as these signs and tokens were manifested,
people were not slow in asking Mrs. Spruce whether Miss Vancourt was
coming back for Christmas? But to all enquiries that estimable dame
gave the same answer. She 'didn't know nothink.' The groom Bennett
was equally reticent. He had received 'no orders.' Mr. Stanways, the
agent, and his wife, both of whom had become very friendly with all
the villagers, were cheerfully talkative on every subject but one,--
that of Miss Vancourt and her movements. All they could or would say
was that her return was 'quite uncertain.' Fires were lighted in the
Manor--oh yes!--to keep the house well aired--and windows were
opened for the same purpose,--but beyond that--'really," said Mr.
Stanways, smiling pleasantly--'I can give no information!'
The days grew shorter, gloomier and colder,--and soon, when the
chill nip of winter began to make itself felt in grim damp earnest,
the whole county woke up from the pleasant indolence into which the
long bright summer had steeped it, and responded animatedly to the
one pulse of vitality which kept it going. The hunting season began.
Old, otherwise dull men, started up into the semblance of youth
again, and sprang to their saddles with almost as much rigour and
alertness as boys,--and Reynard with his cubs ruled potently the
hour. The first 'meet' of the year was held at Ittlethwaite Park,--
and for days before it took place nothing else was talked of.
Hunting was really the one occupation of the gentry of the
district,--everything else distinctly 'bored' them. Many places in
England are entirely under the complete dominion of this particular
form of sport,--places, where, if you do not at least talk about
hunting and nothing BUT hunting, you are set down as a fool.
Politics, art, literature,--these matters brought into conversation
merely excite a vacuous stare and yawn,--and you may consider
yourself fortunate if, in alluding to such things at all, you are
not considered as partially insane. To obtain an ordinary reputation
for common-sense in an English hunting county, you must talk horse
all day and play Bridge all night,--then and then only will you have
earned admission into these 'exclusive' circles where the worth of a
quadruped exceeds the brain of a man.
The morning of the meet dawned dully--yet now and then the sun shone
fitfully through the clouds, lighting up with a cold sparkle the
thick ivy, wet with the last night's rain, which clung to the walls
of Walden's rectory. There was a chill wind, and the garden looked
bleak and deserted, though it was kept severely tidy, Bainton never
failing to see that all fallen leaves were swept up every afternoon
and all weeds 'kep' under.' But there was no temptation to saunter
down the paths or across the damp lawn in such weather, and Walden,
seated by a blazing fire in his study, with Nebbie snoozing at his
feet, was sufficiently comfortable to be glad that no 'parochial'
duties called him forth just immediately from his warm snuggery. He
had felt a little ailing of late--'the oncoming of age and
infirmity,' he told himself, and he looked slightly more careworn.
The strong restraint he had imposed upon himself since he knew the
nature of the scandal started by Lord Roxmouth, and the loyal and
strict silence he had maintained on the subject that was nearest and
dearest to his own heart, had been very trying to him. There was no
one to whom he could in any way unburden his mind. Even to his
closest friend, Bishop Brent, he had merely written the briefest of
letters, informing him that Miss Vancourt had left Abbot's Manor for
a considerable time,--but no more than this. He longed passionately
for news of Maryllia, but none came. The only person to whom he
sometimes spoke of her, but always guardedly, was Julian Adderley.
Julian had received one or two letters from Cicely Bourne,--but they
were all about her musical studies, and never a word of Maryllia in
them. And Julian was almost as anxious to know what had become of
her as Walden himself, the more so as he heard constantly from
Marius Longford, who never ceased urging him to try and discover her
whereabouts. Which request proved that, for once. Lord Roxmouth had
been foiled, and that even he with all his various social detectives
at work, had lost all trace of her.
On this particular morning of the opening of the hunting season,
Walden sat by the fire reading,--or trying to read. He was conscious
of a great depression,--a 'fit of the blues,' which he attributed
partly to the damp, lowering weather. Idly he turned over the leaves
of a first edition of Tennyson's poems,--pausing here and there to
glance at a favourite lyric or con over a well-remembered verse,
when the echo of a silvery horn blown clear on the wintry silence
startled him out of his semi-abstraction. Rising, he went
instinctively to the window, though from that he could see nothing
but his own garden, looking blank enough in its flowerless
condition, the only bright speck in it being a robin sitting on a
twig hard by, that ruffled its red breast prettily and blinked its
trustful eye at him with a friendly air of sympathy and recognition.
He listened attentively for a moment and heard the approaching trot
and gallop of horses,--then suddenly recalling the fact that the
hounds were to meet that day at Ittlethwaite Park, he took his hat
and went out to see if any of the hunters were passing by.
A wavering mass of colour gleamed at the farther end of the village
as he looked down the winding road;--scarlet coats, white vests and
buckskin breeches showed bravely against the satiny brown and greys
of a fine group of gaily prancing steeds that came following after
the huntsmen, the hounds and the whippers-in, and a cheery murmur of
pleasant voices, broken with an occasional musical ring of laughter,
dispersed for a time the heaviness of the rainy air. Something
unusually pleasant seemed to animate the faces of all who composed
the hunting train as they came into view,--Miss Arabella
Ittlethwaite, for example, portly of bulk though she was, sat in her
saddle with an almost mirthful lightness, her good-natured fat face
all smiles,--while her brother Bruce, laughing heartily over
something which had evidently tickled his fancy, looked more like
thirty than sixty, so admirably did his 'pink' become him, and so
excellently well did he ride. Walden saluted them as they passed,
and they gave him a pleasant 'good-day.' But,--what was that sudden
flash of deep purple, which the fitful sun, peering sulkily through
grey clouds, struck upon quickly with a slanting half-smile of
radiance? What--and who was the woman riding lightly, with uplifted
head like a queen, in the midst of the company, surrounded by all
the younger men of the neighbourhood who, keeping their horses close
on either side of her, appeared to be trying to outrival each other
in eager attentions, in questions and answers, in greetings and hat-
liftings, and general exchange of courtesies? Walden rubbed his
eyes, and gazed and gazed,-anon his heart gave a wild leap, and he
felt himself growing deadly pale. Had the portrait of 'Mary Elia
Adelgisa de Vaignecourt' in Abbot's Manor come visibly to life?--or
was it, could it be indeed,--Maryllia?
He would gladly have turned away, but some stronger force than his
own held him fast where he stood, stricken with surprise, and a
gladness that was almost fear. The swaying gleam of purple came
nearer and nearer, and resolved itself at last into definite shape,-
-Maryllia's face, Maryllia's eyes! Almost mechanically he half
opened his gate as all the hunters went trotting by, and she alone
reined in her mare 'Cleopatra' and spoke to him.
"How do you do, Mr. Walden!"
He looked up--and looking, smiled. What a child she was after all!--
full of quaint vanities surely, and naive coquetry! For her riding-
dress was the exact copy of that worn by her pictured ancestress
"Mary Elia,'--even to the three-cornered hat and the tiny rose
fastened in the bodice which was turned back with embroidered gold
revers,--so that the 'lady in the vi'let velvet' appeared before him
as it were, re-incarnated,--and the pouting lips, sweet eyes and
radiant hair were all part of the witch-glamour and mystery!
Mastering his thoughts with an effort, he raised his hat in his
usual quietly courteous way.
"This is a great surprise, Miss Vancourt!" he said, lightly, though
his voice trembled a little--"And a happy one! The villagers will be
delighted to see you back again! When did you return?"
"Last night,"--she answered, fixing her frank gaze fully upon him
and noting with a sharp little pang of compunction that he looked
far from well--"I felt I MUST be here for the first meet of the
season! I've been staying in an old convent on the Breton coast,--
such a dear quaint place! And I think,"--here she nodded her pretty
head wisely--"I THINK I've brought you enough stained glass to quite
finish your rose-window! I've been busy collecting it ever since I
left here. Gently, Cleo!--gently, my beauty!"--this, as her mare
pawed the ground restlessly and sprang forward--"Come and see me to-
morrow, Mr. Walden! I shall expect you!"
Waving her gloved hand she cantered off and rejoined the rest of the
hunters going on ahead. Once she turned in her saddle and looked
back,--and again waved her hand. The sun came out fully then, and
sweeping aside the grey mists, ehed all its brightness on the
graceful figure in the saddle, striking a reflex of rose from the
soft violet riding-dress, and sparkling against the rippling twists
of gold-brown, hair,--then,--as she disappeared between two rows of
leafless trees,--withdrew itself again frowningly and shone no more
that day.
Walden re-entered his house, hardly able to sustain the sudden joy
that filled him. He felt himself trembling nervously, and was angry
at his own weakness.
"I am more foolish than any love-sick boy!" he said to himself with
inward remonstrance--"And God knows I am old enough to know better!
But I cannot help being glad she has come home!--I cannot help it!
For with her presence it seems to me that 'the winter is past, the
rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth, and the time
of the singing of birds is come'! She is so full of life and
brightness!-we shall know nothing of dull days or gloomy skies in
St. Rest if she stays with us,--though perhaps for me it might be
wiser and safer to choose the dull days and gloomy skies rather than
tempt my soul with the magical light of an embodied spring in
winter-time! But I shall be careful,--careful of myself and of her,-
-I shall guard her name in every way, on my side--and if--if I love
her, she shall never know it!"
He resumed his former seat by the study fire, and again took up his
volume of Tennyson. And opening the book at hazard, his glance fell
on that exquisite 'Fragment' which perhaps excels in its own way all
the 'Idylls of the King'--
"As she fled fast thro' sun and shade,
The happy winds upon her play'd,
Blowing the ringlet from the braid:
She look'd so lovely as she sway'd
The rein with dainty finger-tips.
A man had given all other bliss,
And all his worldly worth for this,
To waste his whole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips."
"Quite true!" he said, as he read the lines half aloud, a tender
smile lighting up the gravity of his deep thoughtful eyes--"True to
the life, so far as the Guinevere of to-day is concerned! But let
the simile stop there, John, my boy! Don't carry it any further!
Don't deceive yourself as to your own demerits! You are nothing but
an old-fashioned country parson--a regular humdrum, middle-aged
fogey!--that's what you are!--so, even though you HAVE fallen in
love (which at your time of life is a folly you ought to be ashamed
of), don't for Heaven's sake imagine yourself a Lancelot, John!--it
won't do!"