God's Good Man by Marie Corelli (best young adult book series .txt) đ
- Author: Marie Corelli
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âLook âee âere, Tummas,â said one short, thick-set man, addressing Bainton; âLook âee âereâthy measter baint oop to mark this marninâ! Seemed as if he couldnât find the ways nor the meaninâs oâ the Lord nohow!â
Bainton slowly removed his cap from his head and looked thoughtfully into the lining, as though seeking for inspiration there, before replying. The short, thick-set man was an important personage,âno less than the proprietor of the âMother Huffâ public-house; and not only was he proprietor of the said public-house, but brewer of all the ale he sold there. Roger Buggins was a man to be reckoned with, and he expected to be treated with almost as much consideration as the âPassonâ himself. Buggins wore a very ill-fitting black suit on Sundays, which made him look like a cross between a waiter and an undertaker; and he also supported on his cranium a very tall top-hat with an extra wide brim, suggesting in its antediluvian shape a former close acquaintance with cast-off clothing stores.
âHe baint himself,ââreiterated Buggins emphatically; âHe was fair mazed and dazed with his argifyinâ. âMeek and quiet sperritâ! Who wants the like oâ that in this âere mortal wurrld, where we all commences to fight from the moment we lays in our cradles till the last kick we gives âfore we goes to our graves? Meek and quiet goes to prison more often than rough and ready!â
âMebbe Passon Walden was thinkinâ of Oliver Leach,â suggested Bainton with a slight twinkle in his eye; âAnd âow mâappen weâd best be all of us meek and quiet when heâs by. It might be so, Mr. Buggins,âPassonâs a rare one to guess as âow the wind blows norâ- norâ-east sometimes in the village, for all that itâs a warm day and the peas cominâ on beautiful. Eh, now, Mr. Buggins?â This with a conciliatory air, for Bainton had a little reckoning at the âMother Huffâ and desired to be all that was agreeable to its proprietor.
Buggins snorted a defiant snort.
âOliver Leach indeed!â he ejaculated. âMeek anâ quiet suits him down to the ground, it do! Thereâs a man wotâs likely to have a kindly note of warninâ from my best fist, if he comes larrupinâ round my place too often. âAve ye âeard as âow heâs chalked the Five Sisters?â
âNow donât go for to say that!â expostulated Bainton gently. ââE runs as near the wind as he can, but âeâd never be stark starinâ mad enough to chalk the Five Sisters!â
âChalk âem âe HAS!â returned Buggins, putting quite a strong aspirate where he generally left it out,ââAnd down theyâre cominâ on Wednesday marninâ. Which I sez yesteâday to Adam Frost âere: if the Five Sisters is to lay low, what next?â
âAy! ay!â chorussed several other villagers who had been, listening eagerly to the conversation; âYou say true, Mr. Bugginsâyou say gospel true. If the Five Sisters lay low, what next!â
And dismal shakings of the head and rollings of the eyes from all parties followed this proposition.
âWhat next,â echoed the sexton, Adam Frost, who on hearing his name brought into the argument, showed himself at once ready to respond to it. âWhy next weâll not have a tree of any size anywhere near the village, for if timberâs to be sold, sold it will be, and the only person weâll be able to rely on for a bit of green shade or shelter will be Passon Walden, who wouldnât have a tree cut down anywhere on his land, no, not if he was starving. Ah! If the old Squire were alive heâd sooner have had his own âead chopped off than the Five Sisters laid low!â
By this time a considerable number of the villagers had gathered round Roger Buggins as the centre of the discussion,âsome out of curiosity, and others out of a vague and entirely erroneous idea that perhaps if they took the proper side of the argument ârefreshersâ in the way of draughts of home-brewed ale at the âMother Huffâ between church hours might be offered as an amicable end to the conversation.
âSomeone should tell Miss Vancourt about it; sheâs coming home to the Manor on Tuesday,â suggested the barmaid of the âMother Huff,â a smart-looking young woman, who was however looked upon with grave suspicion by her feminine neighbours, because she dressed âbeyond her stationâ; âPâraps sheâd do something?â
âNot she!â said Frost, cynically; âSheâs a fine lady,âbeen livinâ with âMericans what will eat banknotes for breakfast in order to write about it to the papers arterwards. Them sort of women takes no âcount oâ trees, except to make money out of âem.â
Here there was a slight stir among the group, as they saw a familiar figure slowly approaching them,âthat of a very old man, wearing a particularly clean smock-frock and a large straw hat, who came out from under the church porch like a quaint, moving, mediaeval Dutch picture. Shuffling along, one halting step at a time, and supporting himself on a stout ash stick, this venerable personage made his way, with a singular doggedness and determination of movement, up to the group of gossips. Arriving among them he took off his straw hat, and producing a blue spotted handkerchief from its interior wiped the top of his bald head vigorously.
âNow, what are ye at?â he said slowly; âWhat are ye at? All clickettinâ together like grasshoppers in a load of hay! Whatâs the mischief? Whose character are ye bitinâ bits out of, like mice in an old cheese? Eh? Lord! Lord! Eighty-nine years oâ livinâ wiâ ye, summer in and summer out, donât improve ye,âtalk to ye as I will and as I may, yeâre all as misâable sinners as ever ye was, and never a saint among ye âcept the one in the Sarky Fagus.â
Here, pausing for breath, the ancient speaker wiped his head again, carefully flattening down with the action a few stray wisps of thin white hair, while a smile of tranquil and superior wisdom spread itself among the countless wrinkles of his sun-browned face, like a ray of winter sunshine awakening rippling reflections on a half- frozen pool.
âWe ainât doinâ nothinâ, Josey!â said Buggins, almost timidly.
âNor we ainât sayinâ nothinâ,â added Bainton.
âWe be as harmless as doves,â put in Adam Frost with a sly chuckle; âand we ainât no match for sarpints!â
âAinât you looking well, Mr. Letherbarrow!â ejaculated the smartly dressed barmaid; âJust wonderful for your time of life!â
âMy time oâ life?â And Josey Letherbarrow surveyed the young woman with an inimitable expression of disdain; âWell, itâs a time oâ life YOUâLL never reach, sane or sound, my gel, take my word forât! Fine feathers makes fine birds, but the life is moreân the meat and the body moreân raiment. And as for âarmless as doves and no match for sarpints, ye may be all that and more, which is no sort of argyment and when I sez âwhat mischief are ye all up toâ I sez it, and expecks a harnser, and a harnser Iâll âave, or Iâll reckon to know the reason why!â
The men and women glanced at each other. It was unnecessary, and it would certainly be inhuman, to irritate old Josey Letherbarrow, considering Ms great age and various infirmities.
âWe was jest a-sayinâ a word or two about the Five Sistersââ began Adam Frost.
âAy! ay!â said Josey; âThat ye may do and no âarm come of it; I knows âem well! Five of the finest beech-trees in all England! Ay! ay! thâ owld Squire was main proud of âem---â
âThey be cominâ down,â said Buggins; âOliver Leachâs chalk markâs on âem for Wednesday marninâ.â
âCominâ down!â echoed JoseyââCominâ down? Garân with ye all for a parcel oâ silly idgits wiâ neither rhyme nor reason nor backbone! Cominâ down! Why ye might as well tell me the Manor House was beinâ turned into a cow-shed! Cominâ down! Garân!â
âItâs true, Josey,â said Adam Frost, beginning to make his way towards the gate of the churchyard, for he had just spied one of his numerous âolive-branches,â frantically beckoning him home to dinner, and he knew by stern experience what it meant if Mrs. Frost and the family were kept waiting for the Sundayâs meal. âItâs true, and youâll find it so. And whether itâll be any good speakinâ to the new lady whoâs cominâ home on Tuesday, or whether the Five Sisters wonât be all corpses afore she comes, thereâs no knowinâ. The Lord He gave the trees, but whether the Lord He gave Oliver Leach to take âem away again after a matter of three or four hundred year is mighty doubtful!â
Old Josey looked stupefied.
âThe Five Sisters cominâ down!â he repeated dully; âMay you never live to do my buryinâ, Adam Frost, if itâs true!âand thatâs the worst wish I can give ye!â
But Adam Frost here obeyed the call of his domestic belongings, and hurried away without response.
Josey leaned on his stick thoughtfully for a minute, and then resumed his slow shuffling way. Any one of the men or women near him would have willingly given him a hand to assist his steps, but they all knew that he would be highly incensed if they dared to show that they considered him in any way feeble or in need of support. So they contented themselves with accompanying him at his own snailâs pace, and at such a distance as to be within hearing of any remarks he might let fall, without intruding too closely on the special area in which he chose to stump along homewards.
âThe Five Sisters cominâ down, and the old Squireâs daughter cominâ âome!â he muttered; âThey two things is like ile and water,ânothinâ âull make âem mix. The Squireâs daughterâayâay! It seems but only yesteâday the Squire died! And she was a fine mare that threw him, too,âFirefly was her name. Ayâay! It seems but yesteâdayâbut yesteâday!â
âDâye mind the Squireâs daughter, Josey?â asked one of the village women sauntering a little nearer to him.
âMind her?â And Josey Letherbarrow halted abruptly. âDo I mind my own childer? It seems but yesteâday, I tell ye, that the Squire died, but mebbe
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