Delphi collected works o.., p.618
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 618
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
“I am sorry to hear that the historic house of Abbot’s Manor is again inhabited, and by one who is likely to be a most undesirable neighbour to you.”
Here Walden, unable to read very quickly at the window, stepped out on the lawn, still holding the letter close to his eyes. “A most undesirable neighbour” — he-murmured-”Yes — now let me see! — where is that phrase? — Oh, here it is,— ‘a most undesirable neighbour.’” And he read on:-”I allude to Miss Vancourt, the only child of the late Robert Vancourt who was killed some years ago in the hunting field. The girl was taken away at her father’s death by her uncle Frederick, who, having sown an unusual crop of wild oats, had married one of those inordinately wealthy American women to whom the sun itself appears little more than a magnified gold-piece — and of course between the two she has had a very bad training. Frederick Vancourt was the worst and weakest of the family, and his wife has been known for years as a particularly hardened member of the ‘smart’ set. Under their tutelage Miss Vancourt, or ‘Maryllia Van,’ as she appears to be familiarly known and called in society, has attained a rather unenviable notoriety; and when I heard the other day that she had left her aunt’s house in a fit of ungovernable temper, and had gone to her own old house to live, I thought at once of you with a pang of pity. For, if I remember rightly, you have a great opinion of the Manor as an unspoilt relic of Tudor times, and have always been rather glad that it was left to itself without any modern improvement or innovation. I can imagine nothing worse to your mind than the presence of a ‘smart’ lady in the unsophisticated village of St. Rest! However, you may take heart of grace, as it is not likely she will stay there long. Rumour asserts that she is shortly to be married to Lord Roxmouth, — he who will be Duke of Ormistoune and owner of that splendid but half-ruined pile, Roxmouth Castle. She has, it appears, kept this poor gentleman dancing attendance on her for a sufficient time to make evident to the world her desire to secure his title, and her present sudden capricious retirement into country life is understood to be a mere RUSE to draw him more swiftly on to his matrimonial doom. No doubt he has an eye on Mrs. Fred Vancourt’s millions, which her niece would inherit in the event of her marrying a future English duke, — still, from what I gather, he would deserve some compensation for risking his life’s happiness with such a very doubtful partner. But I daresay I am retailing information with which you are no doubt already quite familiar, and in all probability ‘Maryllia Van’ is not likely to cross your path at any time, as among her other reported characteristics is that of a cheap scorn for religion, — a scorn which sits so unbecomingly on our modern women, and forbodes so much disaster in the future, they being the mothers of the coming race. I expect the only circumstance likely to trouble your calm and pleasant routine of life and labour is, that the present occupation of Abbot’s Manor may have stopped some of your romantic rambles in the beautiful woods surrounding it! May never any greater care disturb you, my dear fellow! — for even that is one, which, as I have pointed out to you, will be of brief duration. Let me know when you think you will be able to come and spend a couple of days here, — and I will clear my work ahead in order to leave the time free for an entire unburdening of my soul to you, as in the days of our youth, so long ago. — Sincerely and affectionately yours, H.A. BRENT.”
Slowly, and with methodical nicety, Walden folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. With a kind of dazed air he looked about him, vaguely surprised that the evening seemed to have fallen so soon. Streaks of the sunset still glowed redly here and there in the sky, but the dense purple of the night had widened steadily over the spaces of the air, and just above the highest bough of the apple- tree on the lawn, the planet Venus twinkled bravely in all its silver panoply of pride as the Evening Star. Low and sweet on the fragrant silence came the dulcet piping of a nightingale, and the soft swishing sound of the river flowing among the rushes, and pushing against the pebbly shore. A sudden smarting sense of pain stung Walden’s eyes, — pressing them with one hand he found it wet, — with tears? No, no! — not with tears, — merely with the moisture of strain and fatigue, — his sight was not so good as it used to be; — of course he was getting old, — and Bishop Brent’s small caligraphy had been difficult to decipher by the half-light. All at once something burning and passionate stirred in him, — a wave of chivalrous indignation that poured itself swiftly through every channel of his clean and honest blood, and he involuntarily clenched his hand.
“What liars there are in the world!” he said aloud and fiercely— “What liars!”
Venus, peeping at him over the apple-boughs, gave out a diamond-like sparkle as though she were no greater thing than a loving eye, — the unseen nightingale, tuning its voice to richer certainties, broke into a fuller, deeper warble, — more stars flew, like shining fire- flies, into space, and on the lowest line of the western horizon a white cloud fringed with silver, floated slowly, the noiseless herald of the coming moon. But Walden saw nothing of the mystically beautiful transfiguration of the evening into night. His thoughts were elsewhere.
“And yet” — he mused sorrowfully— “How do I know? How can I tell? The clear childlike eyes may be trained to deceive, — the smile of the sweet, all too sweet mouth, may be insincere — the pretty, impulsive confiding manner may be a mere trick — and — after all — what is it to me? I demand of myself plainly and fairly — what is it to me?”
He gave a kind of unconscious despairing gesture. Was there some devil in his soul whom he was bound to wrestle with by fasting and prayer, and conquer in the end? Or was it an angel that had entered there, before whose heavenly aspect he must kneel and succumb? Why this new and appalling loneliness which had struck himself and his home-surroundings as with an earthquake shock, shaking the foundations of all that had seemed so safe and secure? Why this feverish restlessness in his mind, which forbade him to occupy himself with any of the work waiting for him to do, and which made him unhappy and ill at ease for no visible or reasonable cause?
He walked slowly across the lawn to his favourite seat under the apple-tree, — and there, beneath the scented fruiting boughs, with the evening dews gathering on the grass at his feet, he tried manfully to face the problem that troubled his own inner consciousness.
“Let me brave it out!” he said— “Let me realise and master the thoughts that seek to master ME, otherwise I am no man, but merely a straw to be caught by the idle wind of an emotion. Why should I shirk the analysis of what I feel to be true of myself? For, after all, it is only a weakness of nature, — a sense of regret and loss, — a knowledge of something I have missed in life, — all surely pardonable if quelled in the beginning. She, — Maryllia Vancourt — is only at woman, — I am only a man. There is more than at first seems apparent in that simple qualification ‘only’! She, the woman, has charm, and is instinctively conscious of her power, as why should she not be? — she has tried it, and found it no doubt in every case effectual. I, the man, am long past the fervours and frenzies of life, — and charm, whether it be hers or that of any other of her sex, should have, or ought to have, no effect upon me, particularly in my vocation, and with my settled habits. If I am so easily moved as to be conscious of a certain strange glamour and fascination in this girl, — for she is a girl to me, nay almost a child, — that is not her fault, but mine. As well expect the sun not to shine or a bird not to sing, as expect Maryllia Vancourt not to smile and look sweet! Walking with her in her rose-garden, where she took me with such a pretty air of confiding grace, to show me her border of old French damask roses, I listened to her half-serious, sometimes playful talk as in a dream, and answered her kindly questions concerning some of the sick and poor in the village as best I could, though I fear I must occasionally have spoken at random. Oh, those old French damask roses! I have known them growing in that border for years, — yet I never saw them as I saw them to-day, — never looked they so darkly red and glowing! — so large and open-hearted! I fancy I shall smell their fragrance all my life! ‘Are they doing well, do you think?’ — she said, and the little white chin perked up from under the pink ribbon which tied her hat, and the dark blue eyes gleamed drowsily from beneath their drooping lids, — and the lips parted, smiling — and then — then came the devil and tempted me! I was no longer middle-aged John Walden, the quiet parson of a country ‘cure,’ — I was a man unknown to myself, — possessed as it were, by the ghost of a dead youth, clamouring for youthful joy! I longed to touch that delicate little pink-and-white creature, so like a rose herself! — I was moved by an insane desire — yes! — it was insane, and fortunately quite momentary, — such impulses are not uncommon” — and here, as he unravelled, to his own satisfaction, the tangled web of his impressions, his brow cleared, and he smiled gravely,— “I was, I say, moved by an insane desire to draw that dainty small bundle of frippery and prettiness into my arms — yes, — it was so, and why should I not confess it to myself? Why should I be ashamed? Other men have felt the same, though perhaps they do not count so many years of life as I do. At any rate with me the feeling was momentary, — and passed. Then, — some moments later, — under the cedar- tree she dropped a rose from the cluster she had gathered, — and in giving it back to her I touched her hand — and our eyes met.”
Here his thoughts became disconnected, and wandered beyond his control. He let them go, — and listened, instead of thinking, to the notes of the nightingale singing in his garden. It was now being answered by others at a distance, with incessant repetitions of a flute-like warble, — and then came the long sobbing trill and cry of love, piercing the night with insistant passion.
“The Bird of Life is singing on the bough, His two eternal notes of ‘I and Thou’ — O hearken well, for soon the song sings through, And would we hear it, we must hear it Now.”
A faint tremor shook him as the lines quoted by Cicely Bourne rang back upon his memory. He rose to go indoors.
“I am a fool!” — he said— “I must not trouble my head any more about a summer day’s fancy. It was a kind of ‘old moonlight in the blood,’ as Hafiz says, — an aching sense of loss, — or rather a touch of the spring affecting a decaying tree!” He sighed. “I shall not suffer from it again, because I will not. Brent’s letter has arrived opportunely, — though I think — nay, I am sure, he has been misinformed. However, Miss Vancourt’s affairs have nothing to do with me, — nor need I interest myself in what is not my concern. My business is with those who depend on my care, — I must not forget myself — I must attend to my work.”
He went into the house, — and there was confronted in his own hall by a big burly figure clad in rough corduroys, — that of Farmer Thorpe, who doffed his cap and pulled his forelock respectfully at the sight of him.
“‘Evenin’, Passon!” he said— “I thought as ‘ow I’d make bold to coom an’ tell ye my red cow’s took the turn an’ doin’ wonderful! Seems a special mussy of th’ A’mighty, an’ if there’s anythin’ me an’ my darter can do fur ye, ye’ll let us know, Passon, for I’m darn grateful, an’ feels as ‘ow the beast pulled round arter I’d spoke t’ye about ‘er. An’ though as ye told me, ‘tain’t the thing to say no prayers for beasties which is worldly goods, I makes a venture to arsk ye if ye’ll step round to the farm to-morrer, jest to please Mattie my darter, an’ take a look at the finest litter o’ pigs as ever was seen in this county, barrin’ none! A litter as clean an’ sweet as daisies in new-mown hay, an’ now’s the time for ye to look at ’em, Passon, an’ choose yer own suckin’ beast for bilin’ or roastin’ which ye please, for both’s as good as t’other, — an’ there ain’t no man about ’ere what desarves a sweet suckin’ pig more’n you do, an’ that I say an’ swear to. It’s a real prize litter I do assure you! — an’ Mattie my darter, she be that proud, an’ all ye wants to do is just to coom along an’ choose your own!”
“Thank you, Mr. Thorpe!” said Walden with his usual patient courtesy— “Thank you very much! I will certainly come. Glad to hear the cow is better. And is Miss Thorpe well?”
“She’s that foine,” — rejoined the farmer— “that only the pigs can beat ‘er! I’ll be tellin’ ‘er you’ll coom to-morrer then?”
“Oh yes — by all means! Certainly! Most kind of you, I’m sure! Good- evening, Thorpe!”
“Same t’ye, Passon, an’ thank ye kindly!” Whereat John escaped at last into his own solitary sanctum.
“My work!” he said, with a faint smile, as he seated himself at his desk— “I must do my work! I must attend to the pigs as much as anything else in the parish! My work!”
XVIII
It was the first Sunday in July. Under a sky of pure and cloudless blue the village of St. Rest lay cradled in floral and foliage loveliness, with all the glory of the morning sunshine and the full summer bathing it in floods of living gold. It had reached the perfect height of its annual beauty with the full flowering of its orchards and fields, and with all the wealth of colour which was flung like spray against the dark brown thatched roofs of its clustering cottages by the masses of roses, red and white, that clambered as high as the tops of the chimneys, and turning back from thence, dropped downwards again in a tangle of blossoms, and twined over latticed windows with a gay and gracious air like garlands hung up for some great festival. The stillness of the Seventh Day’s pause was in the air, — even the swallows, darting in and out from their prettily contrived nests under the bulging old-fashioned eaves, seemed less busy, less active on their bright pinions, and skimmed to and fro with a gliding ease, suggestive of happy indolence and peace. The doors of the church were set wide open, — and Adam Frost, sexton and verger, was busy inside the building, placing the chairs, as was his usual Sunday custom, in orderly rows for the coming congregation. It was about half-past ten, and the bell-ringers, arriving and ascending into the belfry, were beginning to ‘tone’ the bells before pealing the full chime for the eleven o’clock service, when Bainton, arrayed in his Sunday best, strolled with a casual air into the churchyard, looked round approvingly for a minute or two, and then with some apparent hesitation, entered the church porch, lifting his cap reverently as he did so. Once there, he coughed softly to attract Frost’s attention, but that individual was too much engrossed with his work to heed any lesser sound than the grating of the chairs he was arranging. Bainton waited patiently, standing near the carved oaken portal, till by chance the verger turned and saw him, whereupon he beckoned mysteriously with a crook’d forefinger.
“Adam! Hi! A word wi’ ye!”
Adam came down the nave somewhat reluctantly, his countenance showing signs of evident preoccupation and harassment.
“What now?” he demanded, in a hoarse whisper-’”Can’t ye see I’m busy?”
“O’ coorse you’re busy — I knows you’re busy,” — returned Bainton, soothingly— “I ain’t goin’ to keep ye back nohow. All I wants to know is, ef it’s true?”
“Ef what’s true?”
“This ’ere, wot the folks are all a’ clicketin’ about, — that Miss Vancourt ‘as got a party o’ Lunnon fash’nables stayin’ at the Manor, an’ that they’re comin’ to church this marnin’?”
“True enough!” said Frost— “Don’t ye see me a-settin’ chairs for ’em near the poopit? There’ll be what’s called a ‘crush’ I can tell ye!- -for there ain’t none too much room in the church at the best o’ times for our own poor folk, but when rich folks comes as well, we’ll be put to it to seat ’em. Mister Primmins, he comes down to me nigh ‘arf an hour ago, an’ he sez, sez he: ‘Miss Vancourt ‘as friends from Lunnon stayin’ with ‘er, an’ they’re comin’ to church this marnin’. ‘Ope you’ll find room?’ An’ I sez to ’im, ‘I’ll do my best, but there ain’t no reserve seats in the ‘ouse o’ God, an’ them as comes fust gits fust served.’ Ay, it’s true enough they’re a- comin’, but ‘ow it got round in the village, I don’t know. I ain’t sed a wurrd.”
