God's Good Man by Marie Corelli (best young adult book series .txt) đ
- Author: Marie Corelli
- Performer: -
Book online «God's Good Man by Marie Corelli (best young adult book series .txt) đ». Author Marie Corelli
Taking in the whole picture of nature, youth and beauty, as it was set against the pure background of the sky, Walden realised that he was expected to say something,âin fact, he had been called upon to say something every year at this time, but he had never been able to conquer the singular nervousness which always overcame him on such occasions. It is one thing to preach from a pulpit to an assembled congregation who are prepared for orthodoxy and who are ready to listen with more or less patience to the expounding of the same,â but it is quite another to speak to a number of girls and boys all full of mirth and mischief, and as ready for a frolic as a herd of young colts in a meadow. Especially when it happens that most of the girls are pretty, and when, as a clergyman and director of souls, one is conscious that the boys are more or less all in love with the girls,âthat one is a bachelor,âgetting on in years too;âand that- chiefest of all-it is May-morning! One may perhaps be conscious of a contraction at the heart,âa tightening of the throat,âeven a slight mist before the eyes may tease and perplex such an oneâwho knows? A flash of lost youth may sting the memory,âa boyish craving for love and sympathy may stir the blood, and may make the gravest parsonâs speech incoherent,âfor after all, even a minister of the Divine is but a man.
At any rate the Reverend John found it difficult to begin. The round forget-me-not eyes of Baby Hippolyta stared into his face with relentless persistency,âthe velvet pansy-coloured ones of Susie Prescott smiled confidingly up at him with a bewildering youthfulness and unconsciousness of charm; and the mischief-loving small boys and village yokels who stood grouped against the Maypole like rough fairy foresters guarding magic timber, were, with all the rest of the children, hushed into a breathless expectancy, waiting eagerly for âPassonâ to speak. And âPassonâ thereupon began,âin the lamest, feeblest, most paternally orthodox manner:
âMy dear childrenââ
âHooray! Hooray! Three cheers for âPassonâ! Hooray!â
Wild whooping followed, and the Maypole rocked uneasily, and began to slant downward in a drunken fashion, like a convivial giant whom strong wine has made doubtful of his footing.
âTake care, you young rascals!â cried Walden, letting sentiment, orthodoxy and eloquence go to the winds,ââYou will have the whole thing down!â
Peals of gay laughter responded, and the nodding mass of bloom was swiftly pulled up and assisted to support its necessary horizontal dignity. But here Baby Hippolyta suddenly created a diversion. Moved perhaps by the consciousness of her own beauty, or by the general excitement around her, she suddenly waved a miniature branch of hawthorn and emitted a piercing yell.
âPasson! Tum âere! Passon! Tum âere!â
There was no possibility of âholding forthâ after this. A. short address on the brevity of life, as being co-equal with the evanescent joys of a Maypole, would hardly serve,âand a fatherly ambition as to the unbecoming attitude of mendi-cancy assumed by independent young villagers carrying a great crown of flowers round to every house in the neighbourhood, and demanding pence for the show, would scarcely be popular. Because what did the âMayersâ Song say:
âThe Heavenly gates are opened wide, Our paths are beaten plain; And if a man be not too far gone, He may return again.â
And the âHeavenly gatesâ of Spring being wide open, the Reverend John, thought his special path was âbeaten plainâ for the occasion; and not being âtoo far goneâ either in bigotry or lack of heart, John did what he reverently imagined the Divine Master might have done when He âtook a little child and set it in the midst.â He obeyed Baby Hippolytaâs imperious command, and to her again loudly reiterated âPasson! Tum âere!â he sprang forward and caught her up in his arms, kissing her rosy cheeks heartily as he did so. Seated in âhigh exalted stateâ upon his shoulder. âIpsieâ became Hippolyta in good earnest, so thoroughly aware was she of her dignity, while, holding her as lightly and buoyantly as he would have held a bird, the Reverend John turned his smiling face on his young parishioners.
âCome along, boys and girls!â he exclaimed,ââCome and plant the Maypole in the big meadow yonder, as you did last year! It is a holiday for us all to-day,âfor me as well as for you! It has always been a holiday even before the days when great Elizabeth was Queen of England, and though many dear old customs have fallen into disuse with the changing world, St. Rest has never yet been robbed of its May-day festival! Be thankful for that, children!âand come along;â but move carefully!âkeep order,âand sing as you come!â
Whereupon Susie Prescott lifted up her pretty voice again and her hazel wand baton at the same moment, and started the chorus with the verse:
âWe have been rambling all this night, And almost all this day; And now returning back again, We bring you in the May!â
And thus carolling, they passed through the garden moving meadow- wards, Walden at the head of the procession,âand Baby Hippolyta seated on his shoulder, was so elated with the gladsome sights and sounds, that she clasped her chubby arms round âPassonâsâ neck and kissed him with a fervour that was as fresh and delightful as it was irresistibly comic.
Bainton, making his way along the southern wall of the orchard, to take a âglance roundâ as he termed it, at the condition of the wall fruit-trees before his master joined him on the usual morning tour of inspection, stopped and drew aside to watch the merry procession winding along under the brown stems dotted with thousands of red buds splitting into pink-and-white bloom; and a slow smile moved the furrows of his face upward in various pleasant lines as he saw the âPassonâ leading it with a light step, carrying the laughing âIpsieâ on his shoulder, and now and again joining in the âMayersâ Songâ with a mellow baritone voice that warmed and sustained the whole chorus.
âThere âe goes!â he said half aloudââJesâ like a boy!âfor all the wurrld like a boy! I reckon âeâs got the secret oâ never growinâ old, for all that âis âairâs turninâ a bit grey. âOw many passons in this âere neighbrood would carry the children like that, I wonder? Not one on âem!âthough thereâs a many to pick anâ choose fromâa darned sight too many if you axes my opinion! Old Putty Leveson, wiâs bobbinâ anâ âis bowinâs to the eastâhor!âhor!âhor!âa fine east âeâs got in âis mouldy preachinâ barn, wiâ a whitewashed wall anâ a dirty bit oâ tinsel fixed up agin itâhe wouldnât touch a child oâ ourn, to save âis lifeâthough âeâs got three or four mean, lyinâ pryinâ brats of âis own runninâ wild about the place as might jest as well âave never been born. And as for Francis Anthony, the âigh pontiff oâ Riversford, wiâs big altar-cloak embrided for âim by all the poor skinny spinsters wot ainât never âad no chance to marryââeâd see all the children blowed to bits under the walls of Jericho to the sound oâ the trumpets afore âeâd touch âem! Talk oâ saints!âIâm not very good at unnerstanninâ that kind oâ folk, not seeinâ myself âowever a saint could manage to get on in this mortal wurrld; but I reckon to think thereâs a tollable imitation oâ the real article in Passon Waldenâthe jolly sort oâ saint, oâ coorse,â not the prayinâ, whininâ, snuffinâ kind. âEâs been doinâ nothinâ but good ever since âe came âere, which mâappen partly from âis not beinâ married. If âeâd gotten a wife, the place would aâ been awsome different. Not but wot âe ainât a bit cranky over âis, flowers âisself. But Iâd rather âave âim fussinâ round than a petticut arter me. A petticut at âomeâs enough, anâ I ainât complaininâ on it, though itâs a bit breezy sometimes,âbut a petticut in the gardâninâ line would drive me main wildâit would reely now!â
And still smiling with perfect complacency, he watched the Maypole being carried carefully along the space of grass left open between the fruit trees on either side of the orchard, and followed its bright patch of colour and the childrenâs faces and forms around it, till it entirely disappeared among the thicker green of a clump of elms that bordered the âbig meadow,â which Walden generally kept clear of both crops and cattle for the benefit of the village sports and pastimes.
He was indeed the only land-owner in the district who gave any consideration of this kind to the needs of the people. St. Rest was surrounded on all sides by several large private properties, richly wooded, and possessing many acres of ploughed and pasture land, but there was no public right-of-way across any single one of them, and every field, every woodland path, every tempting dell was rigidly fenced and guarded from âvulgarâ intrusion. None of the proprietors of these estates, however, appeared to take the least personal joy or pride in their possessions. They were for the most part away in London for âthe seasonâ or abroad âoutâ of the season,âand their extensive woods appeared to exist chiefly for the preservation of game, reared solely to be shot by a few idle louts of fashion during September and October, and also for the convenience and support of a certain land agent, one Oliver Leach, who cut down fine old timber whenever he needed money, and thought it advisable to pocket the proceeds of such devastation.
Scarcely in one instance out of a hundred did the actual owners of property miss the trees sufficiently to ask what had become of them. So long as the game was all right, they paid little heed to the rest. The partridges and the pheasants thrived, and so did Mr. Oliver Leach. He enjoyed, however, the greatest unpopularity of any man in the neighbourhood, which was some small comfort to those who believed in the laws of compensation and justice. Bainton was his particular enemy for one, and Baintonâs master, John Walden, for another. His long-practised âknavish tricksâ and the malicious delight he took in trying to destroy or disfigure the sylvan beauty of the landscape by his brutish ignorance of the art of forestry, combined with his own personal greed, were beginning to be well- known in St. Rest, and it is very certain that on May-morning when the youngsters of the village were abroad and, to a great extent, had it all their own way, (aided and abetted in that way by the recognised authority of the place, the minister himself,) he would never have dared to show his hard face and stiffly upright figure anywhere, lest he should be unmercifully âguyedâ without a chance of rescue or appeal.
With the disappearance of the Maypole into the further meadow, Bainton likewise disappeared on his round of
Comments (0)