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

>“Fancy your being so clever as to be able to send off telegrams!” she exclaimed—“What an accomplishment for a Churchman! Don’t you want to know all about the messages you sent?—who the persons are, and what I have to do with them?”

“Not in the least!” answered John, smiling.

“Are you not of a curious disposition?”

“I never care about other people’s business,” he said, meeting her upturned eyes with friendly frankness—“I have enough to do to attend to my own.”

“Then you are positively inhuman!” declared Maryllia—“And absolutely unnatural! You are, really! Every two-legged creature on earth wants to find out all the ins and cuts of every other two- legged creature,—for if this were not the case wars would be at an end, and the wicked cease from troubling and the weary be at rest. So just because you don’t want to know about my two friends in Paris, I’m going to tell you. Louis Gigue is the greatest teacher of singing there is,—and Cicely Bourne is his pupil, a perfectly wonderful little girl with a marvellous compass of voice, whose training and education I am paying for. I want her with me here—and I have sent for her;—Gigue can come on if he thinks it necessary to give her a few lessons during the summer, but of course she is not to sing in public until she is sixteen. She is only fourteen now.”

Walden listened in silence. He was looking at his companion sideways, and noting the delicate ebb and flow of the rose tint in her cheeks, the bright flecks of gold in the otherwise brown hair, and the light poise of her dainty rounded figure as she stepped along beside him with an almost aerial grace and swiftness.

“She was the child of a Cornish labourer,”—went on Maryllia. “Her mother sold her for ten pounds. Yes!—wasn’t it dreadful!” This, as John’s face expressed surprise. “But it is true! You shall hear all the story some day,—it is quite a little romance. And she is so clever!—you would think her ever so much older than she is, to hear her talk. Sometimes she is rather blunt, and people get offended with her-but she is true—oh, so true!—she wouldn’t do a mean action for the world! She is just devoted to me,—and that is perhaps why I am devoted to her,—because after all, it’s a great thing to be loved, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed!” replied John, mechanically, beginning to feel a little dazed under the influence of the bright eyes, animated face, smiling lips and clear, sweet voice—“It ought to be the best of all things.”

“It ought to be, and it is!” declared Maryllia emphatically. “Oh, what a lovely bush of lilac!” And she hastened on a few steps in order to look more closely at the admired blossoms, which were swaying in the light breeze over the top of a thick green hedge— “Why, it must be growing in your garden! Yes, it is!—of course it is!—this is your gate. May I come in?”

She paused, her hand on the latch,—and for a moment Walden hesitated. A wave of colour swept up to his brows,—he was conscious of a struggling desire to refuse her request, united to a still more earnest craving to grant it. She looked at him, wistfully smiling.

“May I come in?” she repeated.

He advanced, and opened the gate, standing aside for her to pass.

“Of course you may!”—he said gently,—“And welcome!”

XIV

Now it happened that Bainton was at that moment engaged in training some long branches of honey-suckle across the rectory walls, and being half-way up a ladder for the purpose, the surprise he experienced at seeing ‘Passon’ and Miss Vancourt enter the garden together and walk slowly side by side across the lawn, was so excessive, that in jerking his head round to convince himself that it was not a vision but a reality, he nearly lost his balance.

“Woa, steady!” he muttered, addressing the ladder which for a second swayed beneath him—“Woa, I sez! This ain’t no billowy ocean with wot they calls an underground swell! So the ice ‘ave broke, ‘ave it! She, wot don’t like clergymen, an’ he, wot don’t like ladies, ‘as both come to saunterin’ peaceful like with one another over the blessed green grass all on a fine May mornin’! Which it’s gettin’ nigh on June now an’ no sign o’ the weather losin’ temper. Well, well! Wonders won’t never cease it’s true, but I’d as soon a’ thought o’ my old ‘ooman dancin’ a ‘ornpipe among her cream cheeses as that Passon Walden would a’ let Miss Vancourt inside this ‘ere gate so easy like, an’ he a bacheldor. But there!—arter all, he’s gettin’ on in years, an’ she’s ever so much younger than he is, an’ I dessay he’s made up his mind to treat ‘er kind like, as ‘twere her father, which he should do, bein’ spiritooal ‘ead o’ the village, an’ as for the pretty face of ‘er, he’s not the man to look at it more’n once, an’ then he couldn’t tell you wot it’s like. He favours his water-lilies mor’n females,—ah, an’ I bet he’d give ten pound for a new specimen of a flower when he wouldn’t lay out a ‘apenny on a new specimen of a woman.” Here, pausing in his reflections, he again looked cautiously round from his high vantage point of view on the ladder, and saw Walden break off a spray of white lilac from one bush of a very special kind near the edge of the lawn, and give it to Miss Vancourt. “Well, now that do beat me altogether!” he ejaculated under his breath. “If he’s told me once, he’s told me a ‘undred times that he won’t ‘ave no blossoms broke off that bush on no account An’ there he is a-pickin’ of it hisself! That’s a kind of thing which do make me feel that men is a poor feeble-minded lot,— it do reely now!”

But feeble-minded or not, John had nevertheless gathered the choice flower, and moreover, had found a certain pleasure in giving it to his fair companion, who inhaled its delicious odour with an appreciative smile.

“What a dear old house you have!” she said, glancing up at the crossed timbers, projecting gables, and quaint dormer windows set like eyes in the roof—“I had no idea that it was so pretty! And the garden is perfectly lovely. It is so very artistic!—it looks like a woman’s dream of a garden rather than a man’s.”

John smiled.

“You think women more artistic than men?” he queried.

“In the decorative line—yes,” she replied—“Especially where flowers are concerned. If one leaves the planning of a garden entirely to a man, he is sure to make it too stiff and mathematical,—he will not allow Nature to have her own way in the least little bit,—in fact”—and she laughed—“I don’t think men as a rule like to let anything or anybody have their own way except themselves!”

The smile still lingered kindly round the corners of Walden’s mouth.

“Possibly you may be right,”—he said—“I almost believe you are. Men are selfish,—much more selfish than women. Nature made them so in the first instance,—and our methods of education and training all tend to intensify our natural bent. But”—here he paused and looked at her thoughtfully; “I am not sure that absolute unselfishness would be a wise or strong trait in the character of a man. You see the first thing he has to do in this world is to earn the right to live,—and if he were always backing politely out of everybody else’s way, and allowing himself to be hustled to one side in an unselfish desire to let others get to the front, he would scarcely be able to hold his own in any profession. And all those dependent upon his efforts would also suffer,—so that his ‘unselfishness’ might become the very worst kind of selfishness in the end—don’t you think so?” “Well—yes—perhaps in that way it might!” hesitated Maryllia, with a faint blush—“I ought not to judge anyone I know—but—oh dear!—the men one meets in town—the society men with their insufferable airs of conceit and condescension,—their dullness of intellect,—their preference for cigars, whiskey, and Bridge to anything else under the sun,—their intensely absorbed love of personal ease, and their perfectly absurd confidence in their own supreme wisdom!—these are the hybrid creatures that make one doubt the worth of the rest of their sex altogether.”

“But there are hybrid creatures on both sides,”—said Walden quietly—“Just as there are the men you speak of, so there are women of the same useless and insufferable character. Is it not so?”

She looked up at him and laughed.

“Why, yes, of course!” she frankly admitted—“I guess I won’t argue with you on the six of one and half-dozen of the other! But it’s just as natural for women to criticise men as for men to criticise nowadays. Long ago, in the lovely ‘once upon a time’ fairy period, the habit of criticism doesn’t appear to have developed strongly in either sex. The men were chivalrous and tender,—the women adoring and devoted—I think it must have been perfectly charming to have lived then! It is all so different now!”

“Fortunately, it is,” said John, with a mirthful sparkle in his eyes—“I am sure you would not have liked that ‘once upon a time fairy period’ as you call it, at all, Miss Vancourt! Poets and romancists may tell us that the men were ‘chivalrous and tender,’ but plain fact convinces us that they were very rough unwashen tyrants who used to shut up their ladies in gloomy castles where very little light and air could penetrate,—and the adoring and devoted ladies, in their turn, made very short work of the whole business by either dying of their own grief and ill-treatment, or else getting killed in cold blood by order of their lords and masters. Why, one of the finest proofs of an improvement in our civilisation is the freedom of thought and action given to women in the present day. Personally speaking, I admit to a great fondness for old-fashioned ways, and particularly for old-fashioned manners,- but I cannot shut my mind to the fact that for centuries women have been unfairly hindered by men in every possible way from all chance of developing the great powers of intelligence they possess,-and it is certainly time the opposition to their advancement should cease. Of course, being a man myself,”—and he smiled—“I daresay that in my heart of hearts I like the type of woman I first learned to know and love best,—my mother. She had the early Victorian, ways,—they were very simple, but also very sweet.”

He broke off, and for a moment or two they paced the lawn in silence.

“I suppose you live all alone here?” asked Maryllia, suddenly.

“Yes. Quite alone.”

“And are you happy?”

“I am content.”

“I understand!” and she looked at him somewhat earnestly:—“‘Happy’ is a word that should seldom be used I think. It is only at the rarest possible moments that one can feel real true happiness.”

“You are too young to say that,”—he rejoined gently—“All your life is before you. The greater part of mine lies behind me.” Again she glanced at him somewhat timidly.

“Mr. Walden”—she began—“I’m afraid—I suppose—I daresay you think---”

John caught the appealing flash of the blue eyes, and wondering what she was going to say. She played with the spray of lilac he had given her, and for a moment seemed to have lost her self-possession.

“I am quite sure,”—she went on, hurriedly—“that you—I mean, I’m afraid you haven’t a very good opinion of me because I don’t go to church---”

He