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

looked back with a half-appealing smile, and received an encouraging little nod for his pains—a nod which said ‘Yes—you can come again if you like!’ The wheels of the Pippitt equipage crunched heavily down the drive, and as the grating sound died away, clear on the quiet air came the soft slow chime of the church-bells ringing. It was near sunset,—and Walden sometimes held a short simple service of evening prayer at that hour. Leaning against the open window Maryllia listened.

“How pretty it is!” she said—“It must be the nearness of the river that makes the tone of the bells so soft and mellow! Oh, what an insufferable old snob that Pippitt is! And what a precious crew of ‘friends’ he boasts of! Lumpton, who, when he was a few years younger, danced the skirt-dance in women’s clothes for forty pounds a night at a New York restaurant!—Mawdenham, who pawned all his mother’s jewels to pay his losses at Bridge—and Lady Elizabeth Messing, who is such an abandoned old creature that her own married daughters won’t know her! Oh, dear! And I believe the Knighted Bone- Boiler thinks they are quite good style! That literary man, Longford, was a most unprepossessing looking object,—a friend of Roxmouth’s too, which makes him all the more unpleasant. And of course he will at once write off and say he has seen me. And then— and then-dear me! I wonder where Sir Morton picks these people up! He doesn’t like the parson here evidently—‘a pretentious University prig and upstart’—what a strong way of putting it!—very strong for such a clean-looking old man! ‘A pretentious University prig and upstart’ are you, Mr. Walden!” Here, smiling to herself, she moved out into the garden and called her dog to her side—“Do you hear that, Plato? Our next-door neighbour is a prig as well as a parson!- isn’t it dreadful!” Plato looked up at her with great loving brown eyes and wagged his plumy tail. “I believe he is,-and yet—yet all the same, I think—yes!—I think, as soon as a convenient opportunity presents itself, I’ll ask him to dinner.”

XIII

The next day Maryllia was up betimes, and directly after breakfast she sent for Mrs. Spruce. That good lady, moved by the summons into sudden trepidation, lest some duty had been forgotten, or some clause of the household ‘rules and regulations’ left unfulfilled, hastened to the inner library, a small octagonal room communicating with the larger apartment, and there found her mistress sitting on a low stool, with her lap full of visiting-cards which she was busily sorting.

“Spruce!” and she looked up from her occupation with a mock tragic air—“I’m dull! Positively D U double L! DULL!”

Mrs. Spruce stared,—but merely said:

“Lor, Miss!” and folded her hands on her apron, awaiting the next word.

“I’m dull, dull, dull!” repeated Maryllia, springing up and tossing all the cards into a wide wicker basket near at hand—“I don’t know what to do with myself, Spruce! I’ve got nobody to talk to, nobody to play with, nobody to sing to, nobody to amuse me at all, at all! I’ve seen everything inside and outside the Manor,—I’ve visited the church,—I know the village—I’ve talked to dear old Josey Letherbarrow till he must be just tired of me,—he’s certainly the cleverest man in the place,—and yesterday the Pippitts came and finished me. I’m done! I throw up the sponge!—that’s slang, Spruce! There’s nobody to see, nowhere to go, nothing to do. It’s awful! ‘The time is out of joint, O cursed spite!’ That’s Hamlet. Something must HAPPEN, Spruce!”—and here she executed a playful pas-seul around the old housekeeper—“There! Isn’t that pretty? Don’t look so astonished!—you’ll see ever so much worse than that by and bye! I am going to have company. I am, really! I shall fill the house! Get all the beds aired, and all the bedrooms swept out! I shall ask heaps of people,—all the baddest, maddest folks I can find! I want to be bad and mad myself! There’s nobody bad or mad enough to keep me going down here. Look at these!” And she raked among the visiting-cards and selected a few. “Listen!—‘Miss Ittlethwaite, Miss Agnes Ittlethwaite, Miss Barbara Ittlethwaite, Miss Christina Ittlethwaite, Ittlethwaite Park.’ It makes my tongue all rough and funny to read their names! They’ve called,—and I suppose I shall have to call back, but I don’t want to. What’s the good? I’m sure I never shall get on with the Ittlethwaites,—we shall never, never agree! Do you know them, Spruce? Who are they?”

Mrs. Spruce drew a long breath, rolled up her eyes, and began:

“Which the Misses Ittlethwaite is a county fam’ly, Miss, livin’ some seven or eight miles from here as proud as proud, owin’ to their forebears ‘avin’ sworn death on Magnum Chartus for servin’ of King John—an’ Miss Ittlethwaite proper, she be gettin’ on in years, but she’s a great huntin’ lady, an’ come November is allus to be seen follerin’ the ‘ounds, stickin’ to the saddle wonderful for ‘er size an’ time o’ life, an’ Miss Barbara, she doos a lot o’ sick visitin’, an’ Bible readin’, not ‘ere, for our people won’t stand it, an’ Passon Walden ain’t great on breakin’ into private ‘ouses without owners’ consents for Bible readin’, but she, she’s ‘Igh, an’ tramps into Riversford near every day which the carrier’s cart brings ‘er ‘ome to ‘er own place they ‘avin’ given up a kerridge owin’ to spekylation in railways, an’ Miss Hagnes she works lovely with ‘er needle, an’ makes altar cloths an’ vestis for Mr. Francis Anthony, the ‘Igh Church clergyman at Riversford, he not bein’ married, though myself I should say there worn’t no chance for ‘er, bein’ frightful skinny an’ a bit off in ‘er looks—an’ Miss Christina she do still play at bein’ a baby like, she’s the youngest, an’ over forty, yet quite a giddy in ‘er way, wearin’ ribbins round her waist, an’ if ‘twarn’t for ‘er cheeks droppin’ in long like, she wouldn’t look so bad, but they’re all that proud—”

“That’ll do, Spruce, that’ll do!” cried Maryllia, putting her hands to her ears—“No more Ittlethwaites, please, for the present! Sufficient for the day is the Magnum Chartus thereof! Who comes here?” and she read from another card,—“‘Mrs. Mordaunt Appleby.’ Also a smaller label which says, ‘Mr. Mordaunt Appleby’! More county family pride or what?”

“Oh lor’ no, Miss, Mordaunt Appleby’s only the brewer of Riversford,” said Mrs. Spruce, casually. “He’s got the biggest ‘ouse in the town, but people remembers ‘im when he was a very shabby lot indeed,-an awful shabby lot. HE ain’t nobody, Miss-he’s just got a bit o’ money which makes the commoner sort wag tails for ‘im, but it’s like his cheek to call ‘ere at all. Sir Morton Pippitt, bein’ in. the bone-meltin’ line, as ‘im up to dine now an’ agin, just to keep in with ‘im like, for he’s a nasty temper, an’ his wife’s got the longest and spitefullest tongue in all the neighbourhood. But you needn’t take up wi’ them, Miss-they ain’t in your line,which some brewers is gentlemen, an’ Appleby ain’t-YOUR Pa wouldn’t never know HIS Pa.”

“Then that’s settled!” said Maryllia, with a sigh of relief. “Depart, Mordaunt Applebys into the limbo of forgotten callers!”and she tossed the cards aside“Here are the Pippitt names,-I small remember them all right-Pip-pitt and Ittlethwaite have a tendency to raise blisters of memory on the brain. What is this neat looking little bit of pasteboard-‘ The Rev. John Walden.’ Yes!-he called two or three days ago when I was out.”

Mrs. Spruce sniffed a sniff of meaning, but said nothing.

“I’ve not been to church yet”-went on Maryllia medi-tatively. “I dare say he thinks me quite a dreadful person. But I hate going to church,-it’s so stupid-so boresome-and oh!-such a waste of time!”

Mrs. Spruce still held her peace. Maryllia gave her a little side- glance and noted a certain wistfulness and wonder in the rosy, wrinkled face which was not without its own pathos.

“I suppose everybody about here goes to church at least Once on Sundays,” pursued Maryllia-“Don’t they?”

“Them as likes Mr. Walden goes,” answered Mrs. Spruce promptly-“Then as don’t stops away. Sir Morton Pippitt used allus to attend ‘ere reg’ler when the buildin’ was nowt but ruin, an’ ‘e ‘ad a tin roof put over it,-‘e was that proud o’ the tin roof you’d a’ thought ‘twas made o’ pure gold, an’ he was just wild when Mr. Walden pulled it all off an’ built up the walls an’ roof again as they should be all at ‘is own expense, an’ he went away from the place for sheer spite like, an’ stayed abroad a whole year, an’ when ‘e come back again ‘e never wouldn’t go nigh it, an’ now ‘e attends service at Badsworth Church,-Badsworth Barn we calls it,-for’tain’t nowt but a barn which Mr. Leveson keeps ‘Igh as ‘Igh with a bit o’ tinsel an’ six candles, though it’s the mis’ablest place ye ever set eyes on, an’ ‘e do look a caution ‘isself with what ‘e calls a vestiment ‘angin’ down over ‘is back, which is a baek as fat as porpuses, the Lord forgive me for sayin.’ it, but Sir Morton ‘e be that set against Mr. Walden he’ll rather say ‘is prayers in a pig-stye with a pig for the minister than in our church, since it’s been all restored an’ conskrated—then, as I told you just now, Miss, the Ittlethwaites goes to Riversford where they gits opratick music with the ‘Lord be merciful to us mis’able sinners’—an’ percessions with candles,—so our church is mostly filled wi’ the village folks, farmer bodies an’ sich-like,—there ain’t no grand people what comes, though we don’t miss ‘em, for Passon ‘e don’t let us want for nothin’ an’ when there’s a man out o’ work, or a woman sick, or a child what’s pulin’ a bit, an’ ricketty, he’s alhis ready to ‘elp, with all ‘e ‘as an’ welcome, payin’ doctor’s fees often,—an’ takin’ all the medicine bills on ‘isself besides. Ah, ‘e’s a rare good sort is Passon Walden, an’ so you’d say yerself, Miss, if ever you took on your mind to go and hear ‘im preach, an’ studied ‘is ways for a bit as ‘twere an’ asked ‘bout ‘im in the village, for ‘e’s fair an’ open as the day an’ ain’t got no sly, sneaky tricks in ‘im,—he’s just a man, an’ a good one—an’ that’s as rare a thing to find in this world as a di’mond in a wash-tub, an’ makin’ so bold, Miss, if you’d onny go to church next Sunday---”

Maryllia interrupted her by a little gesture.

“I can’t, Spruce!” she said, but with great gentleness—“I know it’s the right and proper thing for me to do in the country if I wish to stand well with my neighbours,but I can’t! I don’t believe in it,- and I won’t pretend that I believe!”

Poor Mrs. Spruce felt a sudden choking in her throat, and her motherly face grew red and pale by turns. Miss Maryllia, the old squire’s daughter, was—what? A heathen?—an unbeliever—an atheist? Oh, surely it was not possible—it could not be!—she would not accept the idea that a creature so dainty and pretty, so fair and winsome, could be cast adrift on the darkness of life without any trust in the saving grace of the Christian Faith! Limited as were Mrs. Spruce’s powers of intelligence, she was conscious enough that there would be something sweet and strong lost out of the world, which nothing could replace, were the message of Christ withdrawn from it. The perplexity of her thoughts was reflected on her countenance and Maryllia, watching her, smiled a little sadly.

“You mustn’t think I don’t believe in God, Spruce,”—she said slowly—“I do!