God's Good Man by Marie Corelli (best young adult book series .txt) đ
- Author: Marie Corelli
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Bishop Brent, Waldenâs old college friend, came to perform the ceremony of consecration, and this was the first time the inhabitants of St. Rest had seen a real Bishop for many years. Much excitement did his presence create in that quiet woodland dell, the more especially as he proved to be a Bishop somewhat out of the common. Tall and attenuated in form, he had a face which might almost be called magnetic, so alive was its expression,âso intense and passionate was the light of the deep dark melancholy eyes that burned from under their shelving brows like lamps set in a high watch-tower of intellect. When he preached, his voice, with its deep mellow cadence, thrilled very strangely to the heart,âand every gesture, every turn of his head, expressed the activity of the keen soul pent up within his apparently frail body. The sermon he gave on the occasion of the re-dedication of the Church of St. Rest was powerful and emotional, but scarcely orthodoxâand therefore was not altogether pleasing to Sir Morton Pippitt. He chose as his text: âBehold I show you a mystery; we shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed;â and on this he expatiated, setting forth the joys of the spiritual life as opposed to the physical,âinsisting on the positive certainty of individual existence after death, and weaving into his discourse some remarks on the encoffined saint whose sarcophagus had been unearthed from its long-hidden burial-place and set again where it had originally stood, in the middle of the chancel. He spoke in hushed and solemn tones of the possibility of the holy spirit of that unknown one being present among them that day, helping them in their work, joining in their prayers of consecration and perhaps bestowing upon them additional blessing. At which statement, given with poetic earnestness and fervour, Sir Morton stared, breathed hard and murmured in his daughterâs ear âA Roman! The man is a Roman!â
But notwithstanding Sir Morton Pippittâs distaste for the manner in which the Bishop dealt with his subject, and his numerous allusions to saints in heaven and their probable guardianship of their friends on earth, the sermon was a deeply impressive one and lingered long in the memories of those who had heard it, softening their hearts, inspiring their for the news of her coming. It is the one cloud in an otherwise clear sky!
The young moon swinging lazily downward to the west, looked upon him as though she smiled. A little bat scurried past in fear and hurled itself into the dewy masses of foliage bordering the edge of the lawn. And from the reeds and sedges fringing the river beyond, there came floating a long whispering murmur that swept past his ears and died softly into space, as of a voice that had something strange and new to say, which might not yet be said. Sir Morton only served to give piquancy and savour to the quiet round of his daily habits. Now, all unexpectedly, there was to be a break,âa new source of unavoidable annoyance in the intrusion of a feminine authority,âa modern Squire-ess, who no doubt would probably bring modern ways with her into the little old-world place,âwho would hunt and shoot and smoke,âperhaps even swear at her grooms,âwho could tell? She would not, she could not interfere with, the church, or its minister, were she ever so much Miss Vancourt of Abbotâs Manor,âbut she could if she liked âmuddle aboutâ with many other matters, and there could be no doubt that as the visible and resident mistress of the most historic house in the neighbourhood, she would be what is called âa social influence.â
âAnd not for good!â mused John Walden, during a meditative stroll in his garden on the even of the May-day on. which he had heard the disturbing news; âCertainly not for good!â
He raised his eyes to the sky where the curved bow of a new moon hung clear and bright as a polished sickle. All was intensely still. The day had been a very busy one for him;âthe childrenâs dinner and their May-games had kept his hands full, and not till sunset, when the chimes of the church began to ring for evening service, had he been able to snatch a moment to himself for quiet contemplation. The dewy freshness of the garden, perfumed by the opening blossoms of the syringa, imparted its own sense of calm and grave repose to his mind,âand as he paced slowly up and down the gravel walk in front of his study window watching the placid beauty of the deepening night, a slight sigh escaped him.
âIt cannot be for good!â he repeated, regretfully; âA woman trained as she must have been trained since girlhood, with all her finer perceptions blunted by perpetual contact with the assertive and ostentatious evidences of an excess of wealth,âprobably surrounded too by the pitiful vulgarisms of a half-bred American society, too ignorant to admit or recognise its own limitations,âshe must have almost forgotten the stately traditions of the fine old family she springs from. One must not expect the motto of ânoblesse obligeâ to weigh with modern young womenâmoreâs the pity! Iâm afraid the mistress of Abbotâs Manor will be a disturbing element in the village, breeding discontent and trouble where there has been till now comparative peace, and a fortunate simplicity of life. Iâm sorry! This would have been a perfect First of May but Ha-ha-ha-ha!â And he broke into a laugh so joyous and mellow that Bainton found it quite irresistible and joined in it with a deep âHor-hor-hor!â evoked from the hollow of his throat, and beginning loudly, but dying away into a hoarse intermittent chuckle.
âHa-ha-ha!â laughed the Reverend John again, throwing back his head with a real enjoyment in his capability for laughter; âYou did quite right to disturb me, Bainton,âquite right! Where are Sir Morton and his party? What are they doing?â
âThey was jesâ crossinâ the churchyard when I spied âem,â answered Bainton; âAnâ Sir Morton was makinâ some very speshul observations of his own on the âherly Norman period.â Hor-hor-hor! Anâ theyâve got ole Putty Leveson with âemââ
âBainton!â interrupted Walden severely; âHow often must I tell you that you should not speak of the rector of Badsworth in that disrespectful manner?â
âVery sorry, sir!â said Bainton complacently; âBut if one of the names of a man âappens to be Putwood anâ the man âimself is as fat as a pig scored for roastinâ âole, what more natrul than the pet name of âPuttyâ for âim? No âarm meant, Iâm sure, Passon!âPuttyâs as good as Pippitt any day!â
Walden suppressed his laughter with an effort. He was very much of a boy at heart, despite his forty odd years, and the quaint obstinacies of his gardener amused him too much to call for any serious remonstrance. Turning back to his study he took his hat and cane from their own particular corner of the room and started for the little clap gate which Bainton had been, as he said, âkeeping his eye on.â
âNo more work to-day,â he said, with an air of whimsical resignation; âBut I may possibly get one or two hints for my sermon!â
He strode off, and Bainton watched him go. As the clap gate opened and swung to again, and his straight athletic figure disappeared, the old gardener still stood for a moment or two ruminating.
âWhat a blessinâ he ainât married!â he said thoughtfully; âA blessinâ to the village, anâ a blessinâ to âimself! Heâd a bin a fine man spoilt, if a woman âad ever got âold on âim,âa fine man spoilt, jesâ like me!â
An appreciative grin at his own expense spread among the furrows of his face at this consideration;âthen he trotted
IV
Two days later on, when Walden was at work in his own room seriously considering the points of his sermon for the coming Sunday, his âhead man about the place,â Bainton, made a sudden appearance on the lawn and abruptly halted there, looking intently up at the sky, as though taking observations of a comet at noon. This was a customary trick of his resorted to whenever he wished to intrude his presence during forbidden hours. John saw him plainly enough from where he sat busily writing, though for a few minutes he pretended not to see. But as Bainton remained immovable and apparently rooted to the ground, and as it was likely that there he would remain till positively told to go, his master made a virtue of necessity, and throwing down his pen, went to the window. Bainton thereupon advanced a little, but stopped again as though irresolute. Walden likewise paused a moment, then at last driven to bay by the old gardenerâs pertinacity, stepped out.
âNow what is it, Bainton?â he said, endeavouring to throw a shade of sternness into his voice; âYou know very well I hate being disturbed while Iâm writing.â
Bainton touched his cap respectfully.
âNow donât go for to say as Iâm disturbing on ye, Passon,â he remonstrated, mildly; âI ainât said a mortal wurrd! I was onny jesâ keepinâ my eye on the clap gate yonder, in case the party in the churchyard might walk through, thinkinâ it a right-oâ-way. Them swagger folk ainât got no sort of idee as to respectinâ private grounds.â
Waldenâs eyes flashed.
âA party in the churchyard?â he repeated. âWho are they?â
âWho should they be?â And Baintonâs rugged features expressed a sedate mingling of the shrewd and the contemptnous that was quite amazing. âWornât you expectinâ distinguished visitors some day this week, sir?â
âI know!â exclaimed Walden quickly; âSir Morton Pippitt and his guests have come to âinspectâ the church!â
There was a pause, during which Walden, baring his head as he passed in, entered the sacred edifice. He became aware of Sir Morton Pippitt standing in
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