Delphi collected works o.., p.633
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 633
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
“Anything but that!” — she said to herself, with something of a prayer— “O dear God! — anything but that!”
Sometimes God hears these little petitions which are not of the orthodox Church. Sometimes, as it seems, by a strange chance, the cry of a helpless and innocent soul does reach that vast Profound where all the secrets of life and destiny lie hidden in mysterious embryo. And thus it happens that across the din and bustle of our petty striving and restless disquietudes there is struck a sudden great silence, by way of answer, — sometimes it is the silence of Death which ends all sorrow, — sometimes it is the sweeter silence of Love which turns sorrow into joy.
Next day all the guests at the Manor had departed with the exception of three — Louis Gigue, and the ‘Sisters Gemini,’ namely, Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby. With much gush and gratitude for a ‘charming stay — a delightful time!’ Lady Beaulyon and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay took leave of their ‘dear Maryllia,’ who received their farewells and embraces with an irresponsively civil coldness. Lord Charlemont and Mr. Bludlip Courtenay ‘motored’ to London, undertaking with each other to keep up a speed of fifty miles an hour, provided there were not too many hills and not too much ‘slowing down’ for the benefit of unexpected policemen round corners. And at sunset, a pleasant peace and stillness settled on the Manor grounds, erstwhile disturbed by groups of restless persons walking aimlessly to and fro, — persons who picked flowers merely to throw them away again, and played tennis and croquet only to become quarrelsome and declare that the weather was much too hot for games. Everybody that was anybody had gone their ways, — and within her own domicile Mrs. Spruce breathed capaciously and freely, and said in confidence to the cook and to Primmins:
“Thank the Lord an’ His mercies, that’s all over! An’ from what I hears, Miss Maryllia won’t be wantin’ no more London folks for a goodish bit o’ time, an’ we’ll all ‘ave peace to turn round an’ look at ourselves an’ find out whether we’re sane or silly, for the two old leddies what is stayin’ on give no trouble at all, an’ that Mr. Gigg don’t care what he gets, so long as he can bang away on the pianner an’ make Miss Cicely sing, an’ I will own she do sing lovely like the angels in a ‘evenly ‘ost, but there! — I don’t want no more company, for what with French maids an’ valets, all talkin’ the wickedest stuff I ever heard about the ways an’ doins o’ their masters an’ missises in London, I’m downright glad to be rid o’ the whole lot! For do what we will, there is limits to patience, an’ a peaceful life is what suits me best not knowin’ for the past three weeks whether my ‘ead or my ‘eels is uppermost with the orderin’ an’ messin’ about, though I will say Miss Maryllia knows what’s what, an’ ain’t never in a fuss nor muddle, keepin’ all wages an’ bills paid reg’lar like a hoffice clerk, mebbe better, for one never knows whether clerks pays out what they’re told or keeps some by in their own pockets, honesty not bein’ always policy with the likes o’ they. Anyway ’ere we are all alive an’ none the worse for the bustle, which is a mercy, an’ now mebbe we’ll have time to think a bit as we go, an’ stop worrittin’ over plates an’ dishes an’ glass an’ silver, which, say what we like, do sit on one like a burden when there’s a many to serve. A bit o’ quiet ‘ull do us all good!”
The ‘quiet’ she thus eulogised was to be longer and lonelier than she imagined, but of this she knew nothing. The whole house was delightfully tranquil after the departure of the visitors, and the spirit of a grateful repose seemed to have imparted itself to its few remaining occupants. Louis Gigue played wonderful improvisations on the piano that evening, and Cicely sang so brilliantly and ravishingly that had she then stood on the boards of the Paris Grand Opera, she would have created a wild ‘furore.’ Lady Wicketts knitted placidly; she was making a counterpane, which no doubt someone would reluctantly decide to sleep under — and Miss Fosby embroidered a cushion cover for Lady Wicketts, who already possessed many of these articles wrought by the same hand. Maryllia occupied herself in writing many letters, — and all was peace. Nothing in any way betokened a change, or suggested the slightest interruption to the sun-lighted serenity of the long, lovely summer days.
XXV
Whatever the feelings of John Walden were concerning the incidents that had led him to more or less give himself away, as the saying goes, into Maryllia’s hands, he remained happily unconscious of the fact that Lord Roxmouth had overheard his interview with her in the picture-gallery — and being a man who never brooded over his own particular small vexations and annoyances, he had determined, as far as might be possible, to put the whole incident behind him, as it were, and try to forget it. Of course he knew he never could forget it, — he knew that the sweet look in Maryllia’s eyes — the little appealing touch of her hand on his arm, would be perchance the most vivid impressions of his life till that life should be ended. But it was useless to dwell with heart-aching persistence on her fascination, or on what he now called his own utter foolishness, and he was glad that he had arranged to visit his old friend Bishop Brent, as this enabled him to go away at once for three or four days. And it was possible, so he argued with himself, that this three or four days’ break of the magnetic charm that had, against his own wish and will, enslaved his thoughts and senses, would restore him to that state of self-poise and philosophic tranquillity in which he had for so many years found an almost, if not quite, perfect happiness. Bracing himself fully up to the determination that he would, at all hazards, make an effort to recover his lost peace, he made rapid preparations for his departure from St. Rest, and going the round of his parish, he let all whom it might concern know, that for the first time in a long ten years, he was about to take two or three days’ holiday. The announcement was received by some with good-natured surprise — by others with incredulity — but by most, with the usual comfortable resignation to circumstances which is such a prevailing characteristic of the rustic mind.
“It’ll do ye good, Passon, that it will!” said Mrs. Frost, in her high acidulated voice, which by dint of constant scolding and screaming after her young family had become almost raspish— “For you’re looking that white about the gills that it upsets my mind to see it. I sez to Adam onny t’other day, ‘You’ll be diggin’ a grave for Passon presently — see if you don’t — for he’s runnin’ downhill as fast as a loaded barrow with naught ahint it.’ That’s what I said, Passon — an’ its Gospel true!”
Walden smiled.
“You’re quite right, Mrs. Frost,” — he said, patiently— “I am certainly going downhill, as you say — but I must try to put a little check on the wheels! There’s one thing to be said about it, if Adam digs my grave, as it is likely he will, I know he will do it better than any other sexton in the county! I shall sleep in it well, and securely!”
Mrs. Frost felt a certain sense of pride in this remark.
“You may say that, Passon — you may say that and not be fur wrong,” — she said, complacently— “Adam don’t do much, but what he doos is well done, an’ there’s no mistake about it. If I ‘adn’t a known ’im to be a ‘andy man in his trade he wouldn’t ‘a had me to wife, I do assure you!”
Walden smiled and passed on. To Mr. Netlips, the grocer, he confided a few orders for the household supplies during his absence, which that worthy and sapient personage accepted with due attention.
“It is a demonstrable dispensation, Mr. Walden, sir,” — he said, “that you should be preparing yourself for locomotion at the moment when the house-party at the Manor is also severed indistinguishably. There is no one there now, so my imparted information relates, with the exception of her ladyship Wicketts, a Miss Fosby and a hired musician from the cells of the professional caterer, named Gigg.”
Walden’s eyes twinkled. He was always very indulgent to Mr. Netlips, and rather encouraged him than otherwise in his own special flow of language.
“Really!” he said— “And so they are all gone! I’m afraid it will make a difference to your trade, Mr. Netlips! How about your Petrol storage?”
Mr. Netlips smiled, with a comfortable air of self-conscious wisdom.
“It has been absorbed — quite absorbed,” he said, complacently— “The board of announcement was prospective, not penetrative. Orders were consumed in rotation, and his lordship Charlemont was the last applicant on the formula.”
“I see!” said Walden— “So you are no loser by the transaction. I’m glad to hear it! Good-day! I only intend to be away a short time. You will scarcely miss me, — as I shall occupy my usual post on Sunday.”
“Your forethought, Mr. Walden, sir, is of a most high complication,” — rejoined Mr. Netlips with a gracious bend of his fat neck— “And it is not to be regretted by the profane that you should rotate with the world, provided you are seen in strict adhesion to the pulpit on the acceptable seventh day. Otherwise, it is but natural that you should preamble for health’s sake. You have been looking poorly, Mr. Walden sir, of late; I trust you will beneficially profit by change.”
Walden thanked him, and went his way. His spirits were gradually rising — he was relieved to hear that Maryllia’s house-party had broken up and dispersed, and he cogitated within himself as to whether he should go and say good-bye to her before leaving the village, or just let things remain as they were. He was a little uncertain as to which was the wisest course to adopt, — and while he was yet thinking about it he passed the cottage of old Josey Letherbarrow, and saw the old man sitting at his door peacefully smoking, while at his feet, Ipsie Frost was curled up comfortably like a kitten, busying herself in tying garlands of ivy and honeysuckle round the tops of his big coarsely-laced boots. Pausing, John leaned on the gate and looked at the two with a smile.
“Ullo, Passon!” said Ipsie, turning her blue eyes up at him with a confidential air— “Tum an’ tie up my Zozey-Posey! Zozey-Posey’s bin naughty, — he’s dot to be tied up so he tan’t move!”
“And when he’s good again, what then?” said Walden— “Will you untie him?”
Ipsie stared roundly and meditatively.
“Dunno!” — she said—”’Specks I will! But oh, my Zozey-Posey IS so bad!” and she screwed her little flaxen head round with an expression of the most comical distress— “See my wip?” And she held up a long stem of golden-rod in flower,— “Zozey dot to be wipped — poor Zozey! But he’s dot to be tied up fust!”
Josey heard all this nonsense babble with delighted interest, and surveyed the tops of his decorated boots with much admiration.
“Ain’t she a little caution!” he said— “She do mind me somehow of th’ owld Squire’s gel! Ay, she do! — Miss Maryllia was just as peart and dauntsome when she was her age. Did I ever tell ye, Passon, ‘bout Miss Maryllia’s legs an’ the wopses’ nest?”
John started violently. What was the old man talking about? He felt that he must immediately put a stop to any chance of indecorous garrulity.
“No, you never told me anything about it, Josey,” — he said, hastily,— “an I’ve no time just now to stay and listen. I’m off on a visit for two or three days — you won’t see me again till Sunday.”
Josey drew his pipe slowly out of his mouth.
“Goin’ away, Passon, are ye?” he said in quavering accents of surprise— “Ain’t that a bit strange like?”
“Why yes, I suppose it is,” — said John, half laughing— “I never do go away I know — but—”
“Look ’ere Passon! Speak frank an’ fair! — there baint nothin’ drivin’ ye away, be there?”
The hot colour sprang to Walden’s brows.
“Why no, Josey! — of course not! How can you think of such a thing?”
Josey stooped and patted Ipsie’s flaxen tangle of curls softly. Then he straightened himself and looked fully into John’s face.
“Well I dunno how ’tis, Passon,” — he said, slowly— “When the body gets old an’ feels the fallin’ o’ the dark shadder, the soul begins to feel young, an’ sees all at once the light a-comin’ which makes all things clear. See this little child playin’ wi’ me? — well, she don’t think o’ me as an old worn man, but as somethin’ young like herself — an’ for why? Because she sees the soul o’ me, — the eyes o’ the children see souls more’n bodies, if ye leave ’em alone an’ don’t worrit ’em wi’ worldly talk. An’ it’s MY soul wot sees more’n my body — an’ that’s why I sez to ye, Passon, that if so be you’ve any trouble don’t run away from it! Stay an’ fight it out — it’s the onny way! — fight it out!”
Walden was for a moment taken aback. Then he answered steadily.
“You’re right, Josey! If I had any trouble I should stay and as you say, fight it out; — but I’ve none, Josey! — none in the world! I am as happy as I can be, — far happier than I deserve, — and I’m only going away to see my old friend Bishop Brent — you remember — the Bishop who consecrated the church seven years ago?” — Josey nodded comprehensively, “He lives, as you know, quite a hundred miles from here — but I shall be in my usual place on Sunday.”
“Please God, you will!” said Josey, devoutly— “And please God, so shall I. But there’s never no knowin’ what may ‘appen in a day or two days—”
Here Ipsie gave vent to a yell of delight. She had been groping among the flowers in the cottage border, and now held up a deep red rose, darkly glowing at its centre.
“Wed wose!” she announced, screamingly— “Wed — all wed! For Passon! Passon, tiss it!”
John still leaning on the gate, reached down and took the flower, kissing it as he was told, with lips that trembled on the velvet leaves. It was one of the ‘old French damask’ roses — and its rich scent, so soft and full of inexplicable fine delicacy, affected him strangely.
“‘Ave ye heard as ‘ow Miss Maryllia’s goin’ to marry that fine gen’leman wot’s at Badsworth?” pursued Josey, presently, beginning to chuckle as he asked the question— “Roxmouth, they calls him; — Lord, Lord, what clicketin’ talk, like all the grass-’oppers out for a fairin’! She ain’t goin’ to marry no Roxmouths, bless ‘er ‘art! — she’s goin’ to stick to the old ‘ome an’ people, and never leave ’em no more! I knows her mind! She tells old Josey wot she don’t tell nobody else, you bet she do!”
John Walden tried not to look interested.
“Miss Vancourt will no doubt marry some day,” — he said, somewhat lamely.
“Av coorse she will!” — returned Josey— “When Mr. Right comes along, she’ll know ’im fast enough! Them blue eyes ain’t goin’ to be deceived, I tell ye! But she ain’t goin’ to be no Duchess as they sez, — it’s my ‘pinion plain Missis is good ‘nough for the Squire’s gel, if so be a lovin’ an’ true Mister was to ax ‘er and say— ‘Will ‘ee be my purty little wife, an’ warm my cold ‘art all the days o’ my life?’ — an’ there’d be no wantin’ dukes nor lords round when there’s real love drivin’ a man an’ woman into each other’s arms! Lord — Lord, don’t I know it! Seems but t’other day I was a fine man o’ thirty odd, an’ walkin’ under the hawthorns all white wi’ bloom, an’ my wife that was to be strollin’ shy like at my side — we was kind o’ skeered o’ one another, courtin’ without knowin’ we was courtin’ ezackly, an’ she ‘ad a little blue print gown on an’ a white linen sunbonnet — I kin see ‘er as clear an’ plain as I see you, Passon! — an’ she looks up an’ she sez— ‘Ain’t it a lovely day, Joe?’ An’ I sez— ‘Yes, it’s lovely, an’ you’re lovely too!’ An’ my ‘art gave a great dump agin my breast, an’ ‘fore I knowed it I ‘ad ‘er in my arms a-kissin’ ‘er for all I was worth! Ay, that was so — an’ I never regretted them kisses under the may-trees, I tell ye! An’ that’s what’ll ‘appen to Squire’s gel — some good man ‘ull walk by ‘er side one o’ these days, an’ won’t know wot he’s a-doin’ of nor she neither, an’ love ‘ull just come down an’ settle in their ‘arts like a broodin’ dove o’ the ‘Oly Spirit, not speakin’ blasPHEmous, Passon, I do assure ye! For if Love ain’t a ‘Oly Spirit, then there ain’t no Lord God in the ‘Love one another!’ I sez ’tis a ‘Oly Spirit wot draws fond ‘arts together an’ makes ’em beat true — and the ‘Oly Spirit ‘ull fall on Squire’s gel in its own time an’ bring a blessin’ with it. That’s wot I sez, — are ye goin’, Passon?”
“Yes — I’m going,” said John in an uncertain voice, while Ipsie stared up at him in sudden enquiring wonder, perhaps because he looked so pale, and because the hand in which he held the rose she had given him trembled slightly— “I’ve a number of things to do, Josey — otherwise I should love to stop and hear you talk — you know I should!” and he smiled kindly— “For you are quite right, Josey! You have faith in the beautiful and the true, and so have I! I believe — yes — I believe that everything — even a great sorrow — is for the best. We cannot see, — we do not know — but we should trust the Divine mind of God enough to feel that all is, all must be well!”
“That’s so, Passon!” said Josey, with grave heartiness— “Stick to that, an’ we’re all right. God bless ye! I’ll see ye Sunday if I ain’t gone to glory!”
Walden pulled open the garden gate to shake hands with the old man, and to kiss Ipsie who, as he lifted her up in his arms, caressed his cheeks with her two dumpy hands.
“Has ‘oo seen my lady-love?” she asked, in a crooning whisper— “My bootiful white lady-love?”
Walden looked at Josey perplexedly.
“She means Miss Maryllia,” — said the old man— “That’s the name she’s given ‘er — lady-love — the thinkin’ little imp she is! Where’s lady- love? Why she’s in ‘er own house — she don’t want any little tags o’ babbies runnin’ round ‘er — your lady-love’s got somethin’ else to do.”
