God's Good Man by Marie Corelli (speld decodable readers txt) 📕

sense came over him that he was no longer an accustomed visitor to a beautiful ‘show house,’ so much as a kind of trespasser on forbidden ground. The thick nail-studded doors, clamped with huge bolts and bars, stood wide open; no servant was on the threshold to bid him enter, and for a moment he hesitated, uncertain whether to ring the bell, or to turn back and go away, when suddenly Mrs. Spruce emerged from a shadowy corner leading to the basement, and hailed his appearance with an exclamation of evident relief.

“Thank the Lord and His goodness, Passon Walden, here you are at last! I’d made up my mind the silly fool of a Spruce had brought me the wrong message;—a good meanin’ man, but weak in the upper storey, ‘cept where trees is concerned and clearing away brushwood, when I’d be bold to say he’s as handy as they make ‘em—but do, for mercy’s sake, Passon, step inside and see how we’ve got on, for it’s not so bad as it might have been, an’ I’ve seen worse done at a few days’ notice than even myself with hired hands on a suddint could ever do. Step in, sir, step in!—we’re leavin’ the door open to let the sun in a bit to warm the hall, for the old stained glass do but filter it through at its best; not but that we ain’t had a fire in it night and mornin’ ever since we had Miss Vancourt’s letter.”

Walden made no attempt to stem the flow of the worthy woman’s discourse. From old experience, he knew that to be an impossible task. So he stepped in as he was bidden, and looked round the grand old hall, decorated with ancient armour, frayed banners and worn scutcheons, feeling regretfully that perhaps he was looking at it so for the last time. No one more than he had appreciated the simple dignity of its old-world style, or had more correctly estimated the priceless value of the antique oak panelling that covered its walls. He loved the great ingle-nook, set deep back as it were, in the very bosom of the house, with its high and elaborately carved benches on each side, and its massive armorial emblems wrought in black oak, picked out with tarnished gold, crimson and azure,—he appreciated every small gleam and narrow shaft of colour reflected by the strong sun through the deeply-tinted lozenge panes of glass that filled the lofty oriel windows on either side;—and the stuffed knight-in- armour, a model figure ‘clad in complete steel,’ of the fourteenth century, which stood, holding a spear in its gauntleted hand near the doorway leading to the various reception rooms, was almost a personal friend. Mrs. Spruce, happily unconscious of the deepening melancholy which had begun to tinge his thoughts, led the way through the hall, still garrulously chirping.

“We’ve cleaned up wonderfully, considerin’—and it was just the Lord’s providence that at Riversford I found a decent butler and footman what had jes’ got the sack from Sir Morton Pippitt’s and were lookin’ for a place temp’ry, preferring London later, so I persuaded both of ‘em to come and try service with a lady for once, instead of with a fussy old ancient, who turns red and blue in the face if he’s kept waitin’ ‘arf a second—and I picked up with a gel what the footman was engaged to, and that’ll keep HIM a fixture,— and I found the butler had a hi on a young woman at the public-house ‘ere,—so that’s what you may call an ‘hattraction,’ and then I got two more ‘andy gels which was jes’ goin’ off to see about Mrs. Leveson’s place, and when I told ‘em that there the sugar was weighed out, and the tea dispensed by the ounce, as if it was chemicals, and that please the Lord and anybody else that likes, they’d have better feedin’ if they came along with me, they struck a bargain there and then. And then as if there was a special powerful blessin’ on it all, who should come down Riversford High Street but one of the best cooks as ever took a job, a Scotch body worth her weight in gold, and she’d be a pretty big parcel to weigh, too, but she can send up a dinner for one as easy as for thirty, which is as good a test as boilin’ a tater---and ‘as got all her wits about her. She was just goin’ to advertise for a house party or shootin’ job, so we went into the Crown Inn at Riversford and had tea together and settled it. And they all come up in a wagginette together as merry as larks;—so the place is quite lively, Passon, I do assure you, ‘specially for a woman like me which have had it all to myself and lonesome like for many years. I’ve made Kitty useful, too, dustin’ and polishin’—gels can’t begin their trainin’ too early, and all has been going on fine;—not but what there’s a mighty sight of eatin’ and drinkin’ now, but it’s the Lord’s will that human bein’s should feed even as the pigs do, ‘specially domestic servants, and there’s no helpin’ of it nor hinderin’—but this mornin’s business did put me out a bit, and I do assure you I haven’t got over it yet, but howsomever, Spruce says ‘Do yer dooty!’—and I’m a-doin’ it to the best of my belief and, ‘ope—still it do make my mind a bit ricketty—”

Silently Walden followed her through the rooms, saying little in response to her remarks, ‘ricketty’ or otherwise, and noting all the various changes as he went.

In the dining-room there was a great transformation. The fine old Cordova leather chairs were all released from their brown holland coverings,—the long-concealed Flemish tapestries were again unrolled and disclosed to the light of day—valuable canvases that had been turned to the wall to save their colour from the too absorbing sunshine, were now restored to their proper positions, and portraits by Vandyke, and landscapes by Corot gave quite a stately air of occupation to a room, which being large and lofty, had always seemed to Walden the loneliest in the house for lack of a living presence. He trod in the restless wake of Mrs. Spruce, however, without comment other than a word of praise such as she expected, for the general result of her labours in getting the long-disused residence into habitable condition, and was only moved to something like enthusiasm when he reached what was called ‘the morning room,’ an apartment originally intended to serve as a boudoir for that beautiful Mrs. Vancourt, the bride who never came home. Here all the furniture was of the daintiest design,—here rich cushions of silk and satin were lavishly piled on the luxurious sofas and in the deep easy-chairs,—curtains of cream brocade embroidered by hand with garlands of roses, draped the sides of the deep embrasured window- nook whence two wide latticed doors opened outwards to a smooth terrace bordered with flowers, where two gardeners were busy rolling the rich velvety turf,—and beyond it stretched a great lawn shaded with ancient oaks and elms that must have seen the days of Henry VII. The prospect was fair and soothing to the eyes, and Walden. gazing at it, gave a little involuntary sigh of pleasure.

“This is beautiful!” he said, speaking more to himself than to anyone—“Perfectly beautiful!”

“It is so, sir,” agreed Mrs. Spruce, with an air of comfortably placid conviction; “There’s no doubt about it—it’s as beautiful a room as could be made for a queen, though I say it—but whether our new lady will like it, is quite another question. You see, sir, this room was always kept locked in the Squire’s time, and so was all the other rooms as was got ready for the wife as never lived to use them. The Squire wouldn’t let a soul inside the doors, not even his daughter. And now, sir, will you please read the letter I got this morning, which as you will notice, is quite nice-like and kindly, more than the other—onny when the boxes came I was a bit upset. You see the letter was registered and had the keys inside it all right.”

Walden took the missive in reluctant silence. The same thick notepaper, odorous with crushed violets—the same bold, dashing handwriting he had seen before, but the matter expressed in it was worded somehow in a totally different tone to that of the previous letter from the same hand.

“DEAR MRS. SPRUCE,” it ran: “I enclose the keys of my boxes which I am sending in advance, as I never travel with luggage. Kindly unpack all the contents and arrange them in the wardrobes and presses of my mother’s rooms. If I remember rightly, these rooms have never been used, hut I intend to take them for myself now, so please have everything prepared. I have received your letter in which you say there is some difficulty in getting good servants at so short a notice. I quite understand this, and am sure you. will arrange for the best. Should everything not be quite satisfactory, we can make alterations when I come. I expect to arrive home in time for afternoon tea. MARYLLIA VANCOURT.”

Walden folded up the letter and gave it back to its owner.

“Well, so far, you have nothing to complain of, Mrs. Spruce,” he said, with a little smile; “The lady is evidently prepared to excuse any deficiencies arising from the hurry of your preparations.”

“Yes, sir, that may be,” answered Mrs. Spruce; “but if so be you saw what I’ve seen you mightn’t take it so easily. Now, sir, if you’ll follow me, you’ll be able to judge of the quandary we was in till we got our senses back.”

Beginning to be vaguely amused and declining to speculate as to the ‘quandary’ which according to the good woman had resulted in a species of lunacy, Walden followed as he was told, and slowly ascended the broad staircase, one of the finest specimens of Tudor work in all England, with its richly turned balustrades and grotesquely carved headpieces, but as he reached the upper landing, he halted abruptly, seeing through an open door mysterious glimmerings of satins and laces, to which he was entirely unaccustomed.

“What room is that?” he enquired.

“That’s what we used to call ‘the bride’s room,’ sir,” replied Mrs. Spruce, smoothing down her black skirts with an air of fussy importance, and heaving a sigh; “Miss Maryllia’s mother was to have had it. Don’t be afraid to step inside, Passon; everythink’s been turned out and aired, and there’s not a speck of damp or dismals anywhere, and you’ll see for yourself what a time we’re ‘avin’ though we’re gettin’ jes’ a bit straight now, and I’ve ‘ad Nancy Pyrle as is ‘andy with her pencil to mark things down as they come to ‘and. Step inside, Passon Walden,—do step inside!”

But Walden, held back by some instinctive fastidiousness, declined to move further than the threshold of this hitherto closed and sacredly guarded chamber. Leaning against the doorway he looked in wonderingly, with a vague feeling of bewilderment, while Mrs. Spruce, trotting busily ahead, gave instructions to a fresh-faced country lass, who, breathing very hard, as though she were running, was carefully shaking out what seemed to be a fairy’s robe of filmy white lace, glistening with pearls.

“Ye see, Passon, this is what all my trouble’s about;”—she said— “Fancy ‘avin’ to unpack all these grand clothes, and sort ‘em as they comes, not knowin’ whether they mayn’t fall to bits in our ‘ands, some of ‘em bein’ fine as cobwebs, an’ such body linen as was never made for any mortal woman in St. Rest, all lace an’ silk an’ little ribbins! When