God's Good Man by Marie Corelli (best young adult book series .txt) đ
- Author: Marie Corelli
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Walden stood very silent, listening. This narrative was new to him, and even Mrs. Spruceâs manner of relating it was not without a certain rough eloquence. The ancient history of the Vancourts he knew as well as he knew the priceless archaeological value of their old Manor-house as a perfect gem of unspoilt Tudor architecture,â but though he had traced the descent of the family from Robert Priaulx de Vaignecourt of the twelfth century and his brother Osmonde Priaulx de Vaignecourt who had, it was rumoured, founded a monastery in the neighbourhood, and had died during a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, he had ceased to follow the genealogical tree with much attention or interest when the old Norman name of De Vaignecourt had degenerated into De Vincourt and finally in the times of James I. had settled down into Vancourt. Yet there was a touch of old-world tragedy in Mrs. Spruceâs modern history of the young girlâs shriek when she found herself suddenly fatherless on that fatal hunting morning.
âAnd now,â continued Mrs. Spruce, coaxing one bonnet-string at a time off each portly shoulder with considerable difficulty; âI sâpose I must be goinâ, Passon Walden, and thank you kindly for all! Itâs a great weight off my mind to have told you just whatâs âappened, anâ the changes likely to come off, and I do assure you Iâm of your opinion, Passon, in letting Oliver Leach shift for himself, for if so be Miss Vancourt has the will of her own she had when she was a gel, I shouldnât wonder if there was rough times in store for him! But the Lord only knows what may chance to all of us!â and here she heaved another dismal sigh as she tied the refractory bonnet-strings into a bow under her fat chin. âItâs right-down sinful of me to be wishinâ rough times to any man, seeinâ Iâm likely in for them myself, for a personâs bound to be different at nigh seven-and-twenty to what she was at fifteen, and the modern ways of leddies ainât old ways, the Lord be merciful to us all! And I do confess, Passon, itâs a bit upsettinâ at my time of life to think as how Iâve lived in Abbotâs Manor all these years, and now for all I can tell, me and William may have to shift. And where weâll go, the Lord only knows!â
âNow donât anticipate misfortune, Mrs. Spruce!â said Walden, beginning to shake off the indescribable feeling of annoyance against which he had been fighting for the past few minutes and resuming his usual quiet air of cheerfulness; âMiss Vancourt is not likely to dismiss you unless you offend her. The great thing is to avoid offence,âand to do even more than your strict duty in making her old home look its best and brightest for her return andââ Here he hesitated for a moment, then went onââOf course if I can do anything to help you, I will.â
âThank you, sir, Iâm sure most kindly,â said Mrs. Spruce curtseying two or three times in a voluminous overflow of gratitude. âI shall take the liberty of asking you to step up during the week, to see how things appears to you yourself. And as for servants, thereâs no gels old enough at the school for servants, so Iâll be goinâ to Riversford with the carrierâs cart to-morrow to see what I can do. Ah, Itâs an awsome mission Iâm goinâ on; there ainât no gels to be got of the old kind, as far as I can make out. They all wants to be fine leddies nowadays and marry âMerican millionaires.â
âNot quite so bad as that, I think, Mrs. Spruce!â laughed Walden, holding open the door of the study for her to pass out, as a broad hint that the interview must be considered at an end.ââThere are plenty of good, industrious, intelligent girls in England ready and willing to enter domestic service, if we make it worth their while,- and Iâm sure no one can teach YOU anything in that line! Good morning, Mrs. Spruce!â
âGood-morning, sir,âand youâll step up to the Manor when convenient some afternoon?â
âCertainly, if you wish it. Whenever convenient to yourself, Mrs. Spruce.â
Mrs. Spruce curtseyed again at the respect for her own importance which was implied in Waldenâs last sentence, and slowly sidled out, the âPassonâ watching her with a smile as she trotted down the passage from his study to a door which led to the kitchen and basement.
âNow sheâll go and tell all her story again to Hester and the cook,â he said to himself; âAnd how she will enjoy herself to be sure! Bless the woman, what a tongue she has! No wonder her husband is deaf!â
He re-seated himself at his desk, and taking up a bundle of accounts connected with the church and the school, tried to fix his attention on them, but in vain. His mind wandered. He was obliged to own to himself that he was unreasonably irritated at the news that Abbotâs Manor, which had been so long a sort of unoccupied âshowâ house, was again to be inhabited,âand by one who was its rightful owner too. Ever since he had bought the living of St. Rest he had been accustomed to take many solitary walks through the lovely woods surrounding the Vancourtsâ residence, without any fear of being considered a trespasser,âand he had even strolled through the wide, old-fashioned gardens with as little restraint as though they had belonged to himself, Mrs. Spruce, the housekeeper, being the last person in the world to forbid her minister to enter wherever he would. He had passed long hours of delightful research in the old library, and many afternoons of meditation in the picture gallery, where the portrait of the lady in the âviâlet velvet,â Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt, had often caught his eye and charmed his fancy when the setting sun had illumined its rich colouring and had given life to the face, half-petulant, half-sweet, which pouted forth from the old canvas like a rose with light on its petals. Now all these pleasant rambles were finished. The mistress of Abbotâs Manor would certainly object to a wandering parson in her house and grounds. Probably she was a very imperious, disagreeable young woman,âfull of the light scorn, lack of sentiment and cheap atheism common to the âsmartâ lady of a decadent period, and if it were true that she had been for so many years in the charge of an American aunt with a âhundred millions,â the chances were ten to one that she would be an exceedingly unpleasant neighbour.
He gave a short impatient sigh.
âAh, well! I only hope she will put a stop to the felling of the fine old trees in her domain,â he said half aloud,ââIf no one else in the village has the pluck to draw her attention to the depredations of Oliver Leach, I will. But, so far as other matters go,âmy walks in the Manor woods are ended! Yes, Nebbie!â and he gently patted the head of the faithful animal, who, with inborn sagacity instinctively guessing that his master was somewhat annoyed, was clambering with caressing forepaws against his knee. âOur rambles by the big elms and silvery birches and under the beautiful tall pines are over, Nebbie! and we shouldnât be human if we werenât just a trifle sorry! Sir Morton Pippitt is bad enough as a neighbour, but heâs a good three miles off at Badsworth Hall, thank Heaven!âwhereas Abbotâs Manor is but a quarter of an hourâs walk from this gate. Weâve had pleasant times in the dear old- fashioned gardens, Nebbie, you and I, but itâs all over! The mistress of the Manor is coming home,âand Iâm positively certain, Nebbie,âyes, old boy!âpositively certain that we shall both detest her!â
III
When Englandâs great Queen, Victoria the Good; was still enjoying her first happy years of wedded life, and society, under her gentle sway, was less ostentatious and much more sincere in its code of ethics than it is nowadays, the village of St. Rest, together with the adjacent post-town of Riversford, enjoyed considerable importance in county chronicles. Very great âcounty personagesâ were daily to be seen comporting themselves quite simply among their own tenantry, and the Riversford Hunt Ball annually gathered together a veritable galaxy of âfair women and brave menâ who loved their ancestral homes better than all the dazzle and movement of town, and who possessed for the most part that âsweet contentâ which gives strength to the body and elasticity to the mind. There was then a natural gaiety and spontaneous cheerfulness in English country life that made such a life good for human happiness; and the jolly Squires who with their âdamesâ kept open house and celebrated Harvest Home and Christmas Festival with all the buoyancy and vigour of a sane and healthful manhood undeteriorated by any sickly taint of morbid pessimism and indifferent inertia, were the beneficent rulers of a merrier rural population than has ever been seen since their day. Squire Vancourt the elder, grandfather of the present heiress of Abbotâs Manor, had been a splendid specimen of âthe fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time,â and his wife, one of the handsomest, as well as one of the kindest-hearted women that ever lived, had been justly proud of her husband, devoted to her children, and a true friend and benefactress to the neighbourhood. Her four sons, two of whom were twins, all great strapping lads, built on their vigorous fatherâs model, were considered the best- looking young men in the county, and by their fond mother were judged as the best-hearted; but, as it often happens, Nature was freakish in their regard, and turned them all out wild colts of a baser breed than might have been expected from their unsullied parentage. The eldest took to hard drinking and was killed at steeple-chasing; the second was drowned while bathing; one of the twins, named Frederick, the younger by a few minutes, after nearly falling into unnameable depths of degradation by gambling with certain ânoble and exaltedâ personages of renown, saved himself, as it were, by the skin of his teeth, through marriage with a rich American girl whose father was blessed with unlimited, oil-mines. He was thereby enabled to wallow in wealth with an impaired digestion and shattered nervous power, while capricious Fate played him her usual trick in her usual way by denying him any heirs to his married millions. His first-born brother, Robert, wedded for love, and chose as his mate a beautiful girl without a penny, whose grace and charm had dazzled the London world of fashion for about two seasons, and she had died at the age of twenty in giving birth to her first child, the girl whom her father had named Maryllia.
All these chances and changes of life, however, occurring to the leading family of the neighbourhood had left very little mark on St. Rest, which drowsed under the light shadow of the eastern hills by its clear flowing river, very much as it had always
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