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

humbuggin’ wi’ Passon.’ And in a few words, spoken with a great deal of feeling and rough eloquence, he had told all,—how Miss Vancourt had gone away ‘suddint-like’ from the Manor,—and how it was said and reported all through the county and neighbourhood that she had gone because her engaged husband, Lord Roxmouth, had caught her ‘makin’ love’ to a parson, that parson being no other than St. Rest’s own beloved ‘man o’ God,’ John Walden. And that Lord Roxmouth had at once gone after her, and that neither of the twain ‘weren’t never comin’ back no more.’ So said Bainton, twirling his cap round, and fixing his eyes sympathetically on his master’s face,—eyes as faithful as those of the dog Nebbie, who clambered at his master’s knee, equally gazing up at him with a fondness exceeding all speech.

John Walden sat, white and rigid, in his chair and heard the tale out to its end.

“Is that all?” he asked, when Bainton had concluded.

“That’s all, an’ ain’t it enough, Passon?” queried Bainton in somewhat dismal accents. “Not that I takes in ‘arf wot I hears, but from the fust I sez you should know every bit on it, an’ if no one else ‘ad the ‘art or the pluck to tell ye straight out, I’d tell ye myself. For that old Miss Tabitha’s got a tongue as long as a tailor’s yard-measure wot allus measures a bit oif to ‘is own good, an’ Sir Morton Pippitt he do nothin’ but run wild-like all over the place a-talkin’ of it everywhere, an’ old Putty Leveson, he’s up at the ‘All, day in, an’ day out, tellin’ ‘ow you was goin’ to hit ‘im in the eye—hor-hor-hor!—an’ why didn’t ye do it, Passon?—‘twould a’ been a real Gospel mercy!—an’ ‘ow ‘twas all about Miss Vancourt, till Mr. Hadderley ‘e come up an throwed ‘im over in the road on ‘is back which makes me think all the better o’ that young man, ‘owsomever, I never took to ‘im afore. But though he’s all skin an’ bone an’ long ‘air as red as a biled carrot, he’s got a fist of ‘is own, that’s pretty plain, an’ if he knocked down old Putty Leveson it shows ‘e’s got some sense in ‘im as well as sperrit. For it’s all over the place that there’s trouble about Miss Vancourt, an’ you may take my wurrd for it, Passon, they don’t leave the poor little leddy alone, nor you neither, an’ never takes into their minds as ‘ow you’re old enough to be ‘er father. That Miss Tabitha don’t spare no wurrds agin ‘er—an’ as ye know, Passon, she’s a leddy wot’s like curdled cream all gone wrong in a thunderstorm. Anyways, I thought it best to tell ye straight out an’ no lyin’ nor trickin’—an’ if I’ve stepped over my dooty, I ‘umbly axes pardin, but I means well, Passon,—I means well,—I do reely now!”

Walden looked up,—his eyes were glittering—his lips were pate and dry.

“I know-I know!”—he said, speaking with an effort—“You’re an honest fellow, Bainton!—and—and—I thank you! Tou not only mean well—you have done well. But it’s a lie, Bainton!—it’s all a wicked, damnable lie!”

He sprang to his feet as he said this, the wrath in his eyes flashing a steel-like lightning.

“It’s a lie!” he repeated—“Do you understand? A cruel, abominable lie!”

Bainton twirled his cap sympathetically.

“So it be, Passon,”—he murmured—“So it be—I know’d that all along! It’s a lie set goin’ by that fine gentleman rascal, Lord Roxmouth, wot can’t get Miss Maryllia and ‘er aunt’s money nohow. Lor’ bless ye, I sees that plain enough! But take it ‘ow we will, a lie’s a nasty sort o’ burr to stick to a good name, ‘speshully a name like yours, Passon,—an’ when it comes to that I feel that moithered an’ worrited-like not knowin’ ‘ow to pick the burr off again. An’ Lord Roxmouth he be gone away or mebbe you could a’ had it out wi’ him---”

“That will do, Bainton!”—said Walden, interrupting him by a gesture—“Say no more about it, please! I’m glad you’ve spoken,—I’m glad I know! But,—let it rest there! Never allude to it again!”

Bainton glanced up timorously at his master’s pale set face.

“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ to be done?” he faltered anxiously—“Nothin’ to say as ‘ow it’s all a lie---”

“Nothing on my part!”—said Walden, quickly and sternly, “The best answer to such low gossip and slander is silence. You understand?”

His look was a command, and Bainton felt it to be such. Shuffling about a little, he murmured something about the ‘apples comin’ on fine in the orchard’—as if Walden’s three days’ absence had somehow or other accelerated their ripening, and then slowly and reluctantly retired, deeply dejected in his own mind.

“For silence gives consent,” he argued dolefully with himself— “That’s copybook truth! Yet o’ coorse ‘tain’t to be expected as Passon would send for the town-crier from Riversford to ring a bell through the village an’ say as ‘ow he ‘adn’t nothin’ to dp with Miss Vancourt nor she with ‘im. Onny the worst of it is that in this wurrld lies is allus taken for truth since the beginnin’, when the Sarpint told the first big whopper in the Garden of Eden an’ took in poor silly Eve. An’ ye can’t contradict a lie somehow without makin’ it look more a truth than ever,—that’s the way o’ the thing. An’ it do stick!—Passon himself ‘ull find that out,—it do stick, it do reely now!”

Meantime, Walden, left alone, gave himself up to a tumult of misery and self-torture. His sensitive nature shrank from the breath of vulgar scandal like the fine frond of delicate foliage from the touch of a coarse finger. He had never before been associated with the faintest rumour of it,—his life had been too simple, too austere, and too far removed from all the trumpery shows and petty intrigues of society. He felt himself now in a manner debased by having had to listen with enforced patience to Bainton’s rambling account of the gossip going on in the neighbourhood, and despite that worthy servitor’s disquisition on the subject, he could not imagine how it had arisen, unless his quarrel with Putwood Leveson were the cause. It was all so sudden and unlooked for! Maryllia had gone away,—and that fact of itself was sufficient to make darkness out of sunshine. He could not quite realise it. And not only had she gone away, but some slanderous story had been concocted concerning her in connection with himself, which was being bandied about on all the tongues of the village and county. How it had arisen he could not understand. He was, of course, unaware of the part Lord Roxmouth had played in the matter, and in his ignorance of the true source of the mischief, tormented his mind with endless fancies and perplexities, all of which helped to increase his annoyance and agitation. Pacing restlessly up and down his study, his eyes presently fell on the little heap of letters which had accumulated on his table during his brief absence, all as yet unopened. Turning them over indifferently, he came suddenly on one small sealed note, inscribed as having been left ‘by hand,’ addressed to him in the bold frank writing to which he had once, not so very long ago, felt such an inexplicable aversion when Mrs. Spruce was the recipient of a first letter from the same source. Now he snatched the little missive up with a strangely impulsive ardour, and being quite alone, indulged himself in the pleasure of kissing the firm free pen- strokes with all the passion of a boy. Then opening it, he read:

“DEAR MR. WALDEN,—You will be surprised to find that I have gone away from the dear home I love so well, and I daresay you will think me very capricious. But please do not judge me hastily, or believe everything you may hear of me from others. I am very sorry to go away just now, but circumstances leave me no other choice. I should like to have bidden you good-bye, as I could perhaps have explained things to you better, but old Josey Letherbarrow tells me you have gone to see the Bishop on business, so I leave this note myself just to say that I hope you will think as kindly of me as you can now I am gone. Please go into the Manor gardens as often as you like, and let the sick and old people in the village have plenty of the flowers and fruit. By doing this you will please me very much. My agent, Mr. Stanways, will be quite at your service if you ever want his assistance. Perhaps I ought just to mention that Lord Roxmouth overheard our conversation in the picture-gallery that night of the dinner-party. He was very rude about it. I tell you this in case you should see him, but I do not think you will. Good-bye! Try to forget that I smoked that cigarette!—Your sincere friend,” “MARYLLIA VANCOURT.”

As he perused these lines, Walden alternately grew hot and cold—red and pale. All was clear to him now!-it was Lord Roxmouth who had played the spy and eavesdropper! He recalled every little detail of the scene in the picture-gallery and at once realised how much a treacherous as well as jealous and vindictive man could make of it. Maryllia’s hand laid so coaxingly on his arm,—Maryllia’s face so sweetly and pleadingly upturned,—Maryllia’s half-tender tremulous voice with its ‘Will you forgive me?’—and then—his own impetuous words!—the way he had caught her hand and kissed it!—why his very look must have betrayed him to the ‘noble and honourable’ detective, part of whose distinguished role it was to listen at doors and afterwards relate to an inquisitive and scandal-loving society all that he heard within. By degrees he grasped the whole situation. He realised that his name and honour lay at the mercy of this man Roxmouth, who under the circumstances of the constant check put upon his mercenary aims, would certainly spare no pains to injure both. And he felt sick at heart.

Locking Maryllia’s note carefully in his desk, he stepped into his garden and walked up and down the lawn slowly with bent head, Nebbie trotting after him with a sympathetically disconsolate air. And gradually it dawned upon him that Maryllia had possibly—nay very probably—gone away for his sake,—to make things easier for him—to remove her presence altogether from his vicinity-and so render Roxmouth’s tale-bearing, with its consequent malicious gossip, futile, till of itself it died away and was forgotten. As this idea crossed his mind and deepened into conviction, his eyes filled with a sudden smarting moisture.

“Poor child!” he said, half aloud—“Poor little lonely child!”

Then a fresh thought came to him,—one which made the blood run more quickly through his veins and caused his heart to pulsate with quite a foolish joy. If—if she had indeed gone away out of a sweet womanly wish to save him from what she imagined might cause him embarrassment or perplexity, then—then surely she cared! Yes—she must care for him greatly as a friend,—though only as a friend—to be willing to sacrifice the pleasure of passing all the summer in the old home to which she had so lately returned, merely to relieve him of any difficulty her near society might involve. If she cared! Was such a thing—could such a thing be possible? Tormented by many mingled feelings of tenderness, regret and pain, John