God's Good Man by Marie Corelli (best young adult book series .txt) đ
- Author: Marie Corelli
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Broadly smiling, he walked to the gate communicating with his own garden, opened it, and passed through. Nebbie was waiting for him on the lawn, and greeted him with the usual effusiveness. He returned to his desk, and to the composition of his sermon, but his thoughts were inclined to wander. Sir Morton Pippitt, the Duke of Lumpton, and Lord Mawdenham hovered before him like three dull puppets in a cheap show; and he was inclined to look up the name of Marius Longford in one of the handy guides to contemporary biography, in order to see if that flaccid and fish-like personage had really done anything In the world to merit his position as a shining luminary of the âSavage and Savile.â Accustomed as he was to watch the ebb and flow of modern literature, he had not yet sighted either the Longford straw or the Adderley cork, among the flotsam and jetsam of that murky tide. And ever and again Sir Morton Pippittâs coarse chuckle, combined with the covert smiles of Sir Mortonâs âdistinguishedâ friends, echoed through his mind in connection with the approaching dreaded invasion of Miss Vancourt into the happy quietude of the village of St. Rest, till he experienced a sense of pain and aversion almost amounting to anger. Why, he asked himself, seeing she had stayed so long away from her childhoodâs home, could she not have stayed away altogether? The swift and brilliant life of London was surely far more suited to one who, according to âPuttyâ Leveson, was ârapid as a firework, and vain as a peacock.â But was âPuttyâ Leveson always celebrated for accuracy in his statements? No! Certainly notâyetââ
Then something seemed to fire him with a sudden resolution, for he erased the first lines of the sermon he had begun, and altered his text, which had been: âGlory, honour and peace to every man that worketh good.â And in its place he chose, as a more enticing subject of discourse:
âThe ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God, of great price.â
V
The warm bright weather continued. Morning after morning dawned in unclouded sunshine, and when Saturday concluded the first five days of the âMay-moneth,â the inhabitants of St. Rest were disposed to concede that it was just possible they might have what they called âa spell of fair weather.â Saturday was the general âcleaning-up dayâ in the villageâthe day when pails of water were set out in unexpected places for the unwary to trip over; when the old flagstones poured with soapsuds that trickled over the toes of too- hasty passers-by; when cottage windows were violently squirted at with the aid of garden-syringes and hose,âand when Adam Frost, the sexton, was always to be found meditating, and even surreptitiously drinking beer, in a quiet corner of the churchyard, because he was afraid to go home, owing to the persistent housewifely energy of his better half, who âwashed downâ everything, âcleaned outâ everything, and had, as she forcibly expressed it, âthe Sunday meals on her mind.â It was a day, too, when Bainton, released from his gardening duties at the rectory at noon, took a thoughtful stroll by himself, aware that his âMissisâ was scrubbing the kitchen, and âwouldnât have him muckinâ about,ââand when John Walden, having finished his notes for the Sundayâs sermon, felt a sense of ease and relief, and considered himself at liberty to study purely Pagan literature, such as The Cratylus of Plato. But on this special Saturday he was not destined to enjoy complete relaxation. Mrs. Spruce had sent an urgent appeal to him to âkindly step up to the Manor in the afternoon.â And Mrs. Spruceâs husband, a large, lumbering, simple- faced old fellow, in a brown jacket and corduroys, had himself come with the message, and having delivered it, stood on Waldenâs threshold, cap in hand, waiting for a reply. John surveyed his awkward, peasant-like figure with a sense of helplessness,âexcuses and explanations he knew would be utterly lost on an almost deaf man. Submitting to fate, he nodded his head vigorously, and spoke as loudly as he judged needful.
âAll right, Spruce! Say Iâll come!â
âJesâ what I told her, sir,â answered Spruce, in a remarkably gentle tone; âItâs a bit okkard, but if she doos her dooty, no âarm can âappen, no matter if itâs all the riches of the yearth.â
John felt more helpless than ever. What was the man talking about? He drew closer and spoke in a more emphatic key.
âLook here, Spruce! Tell your wife Iâll come after luncheon. Do you hear? Af-ter lun-cheon!â
Spruce put one hand to his ear and smiled blandly.
âEzackly, sir! I quite agrees with ye; but women are allus a bit worrity-like, and of course thereâs a deal to do, and she got frightened with the keys, and when she saw them fine clothes, and what not,âso I drawed her a glass of cherry-cordial, anâ sez I, âNow, old âooman,â sez I, âdonât skeer yerself into fits. Iâll fetch the passon to ye.â And with that, she seemed easier in her mind. Lord love ye!âitâs a great thing to fetch the passon at once when thereâs anything a bit wrong. So, if youâd step up, sir?ââ
Driven almost to despair, Walden put his lips close to the old manâs obstinate ear.
âYes,â he bellowedââaf-ter lun-cheon! Yes! Ye-es!â
His reply at last penetrated the closed auricular doors of Spruceâs brain.
âThank you, kindly, sir, Iâm sure,â he said, still in the same meek and quiet tone. âAnd if I might make so bold, sir, seeinâ thereâs likely to be changes up at the Manor, if it should be needful to speak for me and my old âooman, pâraps youâd be so good, sir? We wouldnât like to leave the old place now, sir---â
His soft, hesitating voice faltered, and he suddenly brushed his hand across his poor dim eyes. The pathos of this hint was not lost on Walden, who, forgetting all his own momentary irritation, rose manfully to the occasion and roared down the old manâs ears like one of the far-famed âBulls of Bashan.â
âDonât worry!â he yelled, his face becoming rapidly crimson with his efforts; âIâll see you all right! You shaânât leave the Manor if I can prevent it! Iâll speak for you! Cheer up! Do you hear! Che-er up!â
Spruce heard very clearly this time, and smiled. âThank you, Passon! God bless you! Iâm sure youâll help us, if so be the lady is a hard oneââ
He trusted himself to say no more, but with a brief respectful salutation, put on his cap and turned away.
Left alone, Walden drew a long breath, and wiped his brow. To make poor old Spruce hear was a powerful muscular exertion. Nebbie had been so much astonished at the loud pitch of his masterâs voice, that he had retired under a sofa in alarm, and only crawled out now as Spruce departed, with small anxious waggings of his tail. Walden patted the animalâs head and laughed.
âMind you donât get deaf in your old age, Nebbie!â he said. âPhew! A little more shouting like that and I should be unable to preach to- morrow!â
Still patting the dogâs head, his eyes gradually darkened and his brow became clouded.
âPoor Spruce!â he murmured. ââHelp him, if so be the lady is a hard one!â Already in fear of her! I expect they have heard somethingâ some ill-reportâprobably only too correctly founded. Yet, how it goes against the grain of manhood to realise that any âladyâ may be âa hard one!â But, alas!âwhat a multitude of âhard onesâ there are! Harder than men, perhaps, if all the truth were known!â
And there was a certain sternness and rooted aversion in him to that dim approaching presence of the unknown heiress of Abbotâs Manor. He experienced an instinctive dislike of her, and was positively certain that the vague repugnance would deepen into actual antipathy.
âOne cannot possibly like everybody,â he argued within himself, in extenuation of what he felt was an unreasonable mental attitude; ââAnd modern fashionable women are among the most unlikeable of all human creatures. Any one of them in such a village as this would be absurdly out of place.â
Thus self-persuaded, his mood was a singular mixture of pity and resentment when, in fulfilment of his promise, he walked that afternoon up the winding road which led to the Manor, and avoiding the lodge gates, passed through a rustic turnstile he knew well and so along a path across meadows and through shrubberies to the house. The path was guarded by a sentinel board marked âPrivate. Trespassers will be prosecuted.â But in all the years he had lived at St. Rest, he cared nothing for that. As rector of the parish he had his little privileges. Nebbie trotted at his heels with the air of a dog accustomed to very familiar surroundings. The grass on either side was springing up long and green,âdelicate little field flowers were peeping through it here and there, and every now and then there floated upwards the strong sweet incense of the young wild thyme. The way he had chosen to walk was known as a âshort cutâ to Abbotâs Manor, and ten minutes of easy striding brought him into the dewy coolness of a thicket of dark firs, at the end of which, round a sharp turn, the fine old red brick and timbered gables of the house came into full view. He paused a moment, looking somewhat regretfully at the picture, warmly lit up by the glow of the bright sun,âa picture which through long habitude of observation had grown very sweet to him. It was not every day that such a house as Abbotâs Manor came within reach of the archaeologist and antiquarian. The beautiful tiled-roofâthe picturesque roughness and crookedness of the architectural lines of the whole building, so different to the smooth, hard, angular imitations of half-timbered work common in these degenerate days, were a delight to the eyes to rest upon,âa wealth of ivy clung thickly to the walls and clambered round the quaint old chimneys;âsome white doves clustered in a group on the summit of one broad oak gable, were spreading their snowy wings to the warm sun and discussing their domestic concerns in melodious cooings;âthe latticed windows, some of which in their unspoilt antiquity of âhornâ panes were a particular feature of the house, were all thrown open,âbut to Waldenâs sensitive observation there seemed a different atmosphere about the place,âa suggestion of change and occupation which was almost startling.
He paced slowly on, and arrived at the outside gate, which led into a square old-fashioned court, such as was common to Tudor times, paved on three sides and planted with formal beds of flowers, the whole surrounded by an ancient wall. The gate was ajar, and pushing it open he passed in, glancing for a moment at the grey weather- beaten sun-dial in the middle of the court which told him it was three-oâclock. For four centuries, at least, that self-same dial had marked the hour in that self-same spot, a silent commentary on the briefness of human existence, as compared with its own strange non- sentient lastingness. The sound of Waldenâs footsteps on the old paving-stones awoke faint echoes, and startled away a robin from a spray of blossoming briar-rose, and as he walked up to the great oaken porch of entrance,âa porch heavily carved with the Vaignecourt or Vancourt emblems, and as deep and wide in its interior as a small room, an odd
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