God's Good Man by Marie Corelli (best young adult book series .txt) 📖

had his little living. University men said he had ‘stood aside’ in order to allow Brent to press more swiftly forward, but though this was a perfectly natural supposition on the part of those who knew something of Walden’s character, it was not correct. Walden at that time had only one object in life,— and this was to secure such name and fame, together with such worldly success as might delight and satisfy the only relative he had in the world, his sister, a beautiful and intelligent woman, full of an almost maternal tenderness for him, and a sweet resignation to her own sad lot, which made her the victim of a slow and incurable disease. So long as she lived, her brother threw himself into his work with intensity and ardour; but when she died that impulse withered, as it were, at its very root. The world became empty for him, and he felt that from henceforth he would be utterly companionless. For what he had seen of modern women, modern marriage and modern ways of life, did not tempt him to rashly seek refuge for his heart’s solitude in matrimony. Almost immediately following the loss of his sister, an uncle of whom he had known very little, died suddenly, leaving him a considerably large fortune. As soon as he came into possession of this unexpected wealth, he disappeared at once from the scene of his former labours,—the pretty old house in the University town, with its great cedars sloping to the river and its hallowed memories of the sister he had so dearly loved, was sold by private treaty,—his voice was heard no more in London pulpits, where it had begun to carry weight and influence,—and he managed to obtain the then vacant and obscure living of St. Rest, the purchase of the advowson being effected, so it was said, privately through the good offices of his quondam college friend, Bishop Brent. And at St. Rest he had remained, apparently well contented with the very simple and monotonous round of duty it offered.

When he had first arrived there, he found that the church consisted of some thick stone walls of the early Norman, period, built on a cruciform plan, the stones being all uniformly wrought and close- jointed,—together with a beautiful ruined chancel divided from the main body of the building by massive columns, which supported on their capitals the fragments of lofty arches indicative of an architectural transition from the Norman to the Early Pointed English style. There were also the hollow slits of several lancet windows, and one almost perfect pierced circular window to the east, elaborately And here he whirled round on his only daughter, an angular and severely-visaged spinster; “Look at this fool!—this staring ape! All the sauce on the carpet! Wish he had to pay for it! He’ll take an hour to get a cloth and wipe it up! Why did you engage such a damned ass, eh?”

Miss Tabitha preserved a prudent silence, seeing that the butler, a serious-looking personage with a resigned-to-ill-usage demeanour, was already engaged in assisting the hapless footman to remove the remains of the spilt condiment, from the offended gaze of his irate master.

“Like his damned impudence!” broke out Sir Morton again, resuming with some reluctance his seat at the breakfast table, and chopping at the fried bacon on his plate till the harder bits flew far and wide,—“‘Happy to reimburse me!’—the snivelling puppy! Why the devil he was allowed to sneak into this living, I don’t know! The private purchase of advowsons is a scandal—a disgraceful scandal! Any Tom, Dick or Harry can get a friend to buy him a benefice in which to make himself a nuisance! Done under the rose,—and called a ‘presentation’! All humbug and hypocrisy! That’s why we get impudent dogs like this beast Walden settling down in a neighbourhood whether we like it or not!”

Miss Tabitha munched some toast slowly with a delicate regard for her front teeth, which had cost money. There was no one in the room to suggest to Sir Morton that it is a pity some law is not in progress to prevent the purchase of historic houses by vulgar and illiterate persons of no family;—which would be far more a benefit to the land at large than the suppression of privately purchased benefices. For the chances are ten to one that the ordained minister, who, by his own choice secures a Church living for himself, is likely at least to be a well-educated gentleman, interested in the work he has himself elected to do,—whereas the illiterate individual who buys an historic house simply for self- glorification, will probably be no more than a mere petty and pompous tyrant over the district which that particular house dominates.

Badsworth Hall, a fine sixteenth-century pile, had, through the reckless racing and gambling propensities of the last heir, fallen into the hands of the Jews. On the fortunate demise of the young gentleman who had brought it to this untimely end, it was put up for sale with all its contents. And Sir Morton Pippitt,—a rich colonial, whose forebears were entirely undistinguished, but who had made a large fortune by a bone-melting business, which converted the hoofs, horns and (considering that some years ago it had been a mere roofless ruin, and that the people had been compelled to walk or drive to Riversford in order to attend church at all on Sundays) Sir Morton thought was now very comfortable and satisfactory. In fact, Sir Morton concluded, “Mr. Walden would be very ill-advised if he made any attempt to raise money for such a useless purpose as the ‘entire restoration’ of the church of St. Rest, and Mr. Walden might as well be at once made aware that Sir Morton himself would not give a penny towards it.” To which somewhat rambling and heated epistle John Walden replied with civil stiffness as follows:

“The Rev. John Walden presents his compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, and in answer to his letter begs to say that he has no intention of raising any subscription to defray the cost of restoring the church, which in its present condition is totally unfit for Divine service. Having secured the living, Mr. Walden will make the restoration the object of his own personal care, and will also be pleased to reimburse Sir Morton Pippitt for any outlay to which he may have been put in erecting the galvanised roof and other accessories for the immediate convenience of the parishioners who have, he understands, already expressed their sense of obligation to Sir Morton for kindly providing them with such temporary shelter from the changes of the weather as seemed to be humanely necessary.”

This calm epistle when received at Badsworth Hall, had the effect of a sudden stiff breeze on the surface of hitherto quiet waters. Sir Morton Pippitt in a brand-new tweed suit surmounted by a very high, clean, stiff shirt-collar, was sitting at breakfast in what was formerly known as the ‘great Refectory,’ a memory of the days when Badsworth had been a large and important monastery, but which was now turned into a modern-antique dining-room,—and as he read, with the aid of his gold-rimmed spectacles, the curt, chill, severely polite letter of the ‘new parson’ he flew into a sudden violent passion.

“Damn the fellow!” he spluttered, jumping up in haste and striking out an arm towards the very direction in which a mild young footman was just approaching him with a bottle of Worcester sauce on a tray,—“Damn him!”

The footman staggered back in terror, and the Worcester sauce reeled over drunkenly on to the carpet.

“There you go, you clumsy, gaping idiot!” roared Sir Morton, growing purple with increasing fury. “Tabitha!” called ‘The Riversford Gazette.’ If Sir Morton had a pig killed, the fact was duly notified to an admiring populace in the ‘Riversford Gazette.’ If he took a prize in cabbages at the local vegetable and flower show, the ‘Riversford Gazette’ had a column about it. If he gave a tennis- party, there were two columns, describing all the dresses of the ladies, the prowess of the ‘champions’ and the ‘striking and jovial personality’ of Sir Morton Pippitt. And if the fact of that ‘striking and jovial personality’ were not properly insisted upon, Sir Morton went himself to see the editor of the ‘Riversford Gazette,’ an illiterate tuft-hunting little man,—and nearly frightened him into fits. He had asserted himself in this kind of autocratic fashion ever since he had purchased Badsworth, when he was still in his forties,—and it may be well imagined that at the age of sixty he was not prepared to be thwarted, even in a matter wherein he had no real concern. The former rector of St. Rest, an ailing, nervous and exceedingly poor creature, with a large family to keep, had been only too glad and ready to do anything Sir Morton Pippitt wished, for the sake of being invited to dine at the Hall once a week,—it was therefore a very unexpected and disagreeable experience for the imperious Bone-melter to learn that the new incumbent was not at all disposed to follow in the steps of his predecessor, but, on the contrary, was apparently going to insist on having his own way with as much emphasis as Sir Morton Pippitt himself.

“I shall soon bring that fellow to his senses,” declared Sir Morton, on the eventful morning which first saw the gage of battle thrown down; “I shall teach him that, parson or no parson, he will have to respect my authority! God bless my seoul! Does he think I’m going to be dictated to at my time of life?”

He addressed these observations to his daughter, Miss Tabitha Pippitt, but whether she heard them or not was scarcely apparent. At any rate, she did not answer. Having finished her breakfast, she pulled out some knitting from an embroidered bag hanging at her side and set her needles clicketing, while her father, redder in the face and more implacable of mood than ever, went out to see what he could do to save his galvanised iron roof from the hand of the spoiler.

But, as he might have known, if his irascibility had allowed him to weigh the pros and cons of the situation, his ‘authority’ was of no avail. An angry letter to the Bishop of the diocese only drew forth a curt reply from the Bishop’s secrebones of defunct animals into a convenient mixture wherewith to make buttons and other useful articles of hardware, bought it, as the saying goes, ‘for a mere song.’ Through his easy purchase he became possessed of the Badsworth ancestry, as shown in their pictures hanging on the dining-room walls and in the long oak-panelled picture gallery. Lady Madeline Badsworth, famous for her beauty in some remote and chivalrous past, gazed down at Sir Morton while he sat at meals, suggesting to the imaginative beholder a world of scorn in her lovely painted eyes,—and a heroic young Badsworth who had perished at the battle of Marston Moor, stood proudly out of one of the dark canvases, his gauntleted hand on the hilt of his sword and a smile of pained wrath on his lips, as one who should say, beholding the new possessor of his ancient home ‘To such base uses must we come at last!’

Surrounded by gold-framed Badsworths, young and old, Sir Morton ate his fried bacon and ‘swilled’ his tea, with a considerable noise in swallowing, getting gradually redder in the face as he proceeded with his meal. He was by no means a bad-looking old gentleman,—his sixty years sat lightly upon his broad shoulders, and he was tall and well set up, though somewhat too stout in what may be politely called the ‘lower chest’ direction. His face was plump, florid and clean-shaven, and what hair