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

which Maryllia took no part. She sat very quietly looking from one face to the other at table with a critical interest. These were the people she had met every day more or less in London,—some of them had visited her aunt constantly, and had invited her out to dinners and luncheons, ‘at homes,’ balls and race parties, and all were considered to be ‘very select’ in every form that is commended by an up-to-date civilisation. Down here, in the stately old-world surroundings of Abbot’s Manor, they looked very strange to her,—nay, even more than strange. Clowns, columbines and harlequins with all their ‘make-up’ on, could not have seemed more out of place than these socially popular persons in the historic house of her ancestors. Lady Beaulyon was perhaps the most remarkable ‘revelation’ of the whole company. Maryllia had always admired Eva Beaulyon with quite an extravagant admiration, on account of her physical charm and grace,- and had also liked her sufficiently well to entirely discredit the stories that were rife about the number of her unlawful amours. That she was an open flirt could not be denied,-but that she ever carried a flirtation beyond bounds, Maryllia would never have believed. Now, however, a new light seemed thrown upon her—there was a touch of something base in her beauty—a flash of cruelty in her smile—a hardness in her eyes. Maryllia looked at her wistfully now and then, and was half sorry she had invited her, the disillusion was so complete.

The luncheon went on, and was soon over, and coffee and cigarettes were served. All the women smoked with the exception of Maryllia, Cicely and old Miss Fosby. The rings of pale blue vapour circled before Maryllia’s eyes in a dim cloud,—she had seen the same kind of mixed smoking going on before, scores of times, and yet now—why was it that she felt vaguely annoyed by a sense of discrepancy and vulgarity She could not tell. Cicely watched her lovingly,—and every now and again Julian Adderley, waving away the smoke of his own cigar with one hand, studied her face and tried to fathom its expression. She spoke but little, and that chiefly to Lord Charlemont who was on her left-hand side.

“And how long are you going to stay in this jolly old place, Miss Vancourt?” he asked.

“All my life, I hope,”—she said with a little smile—“It is my own home, you know.”

“Oh yes!—I know!—but—” he hesitated for a moment; “But your aunt-

—”

“Aunt Emily and I don’t quite agree,”—said Maryllia, quietly—“She has been very kind to me in the past,—but since Uncle Fred’s death, things have not been just as pleasant. You see, I speak frankly. Besides I’m getting on towards thirty,—it’s time I lived my own life, and tried to do something useful.”

Charlemont laughed.

“You look more like eighteen than thirty,”—he said—“Why give yourself away?”

“Is that giving myself away?” and she raised her eyebrows quizzically—“I’m not thirty yet—I’m twenty-seven,—but that’s old enough to begin to take things seriously. I’ve made up my mind to live here at Abbot’s Manor and do all I can for the tenantry and the village generally—I’m sure I shall be perfectly happy.” “How about getting married?” he queried.

Her blue eyes darkened with a shade of offence.

“The old story!” she said—“Men always think a woman must be married to be happy. It doesn’t at all follow. I know heaps and heaps of married women, and they are in anything but an enviable state. I would not change with one of them!”

“Would you like to be another Miss Fosby?” he suggested in a mirthful undertone.

She smiled.

“Well—no! But I would rather be Miss Fosby than Lady Wicketts!”

Here she rose, giving the signal for general adjournment to the drawing-room. The windows of this apartment were set open, and a charming garden vista of lawn and terraee and rose-walk opened out before the eyes.

“Now for Bridge!” said Lady Beaulyon—“I’m simply dying for a game!”

“So am I!” declared Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay—“Lord Charlemont, you’ll play?”

“Charmed, I’m sure!” was the ready response. “Where shall we put the card tables? Near the window? Such an enjoyable prospect!”

“We’ll have two tables, or even three,”—said Lady Beaulyon; “I suppose most of us will play?”

“Oh yes!” “Why of course!” “I should think so!” “Just what we’re all longing for!” Such were the expressions of general delight and acceptance chorussed by the whole party.

“You’ll join, Lady Wicketts?”

“With pleasure!” and Lady Wicketts’ sunken old eyes gleamed with an anxious light over the furrows of flesh which encircled them, as she promptly deserted Miss Fosby, who had been sitting next to her, for the purpose of livelier entertainment;—and in a moment there was a general gathering together in the wide embrasure of the window nook, and an animated discussion as to who should play Bridge and who should not. Maryllia watched the group silently. There were varying shades of expression on her mobile features. She held Cicely’s hand in her own,—and was listening to some of Adderley’s observations on quite ordinary topics, when suddenly, with, an impulsive movement, she let Cicely go, and with an ‘Excuse me!’ to Julian, went towards her guests. She had made a resolve;—it would be an attempt to swim against the social current, and it was fraught with difficulty and unpleasantness,—yet she was determined to do it. “If I am a coward now,” she thought—“I shall never be brave!” Her heart beat uncomfortably, and she could feel the blood throbbing nervously in her veins, as she bent her mind to the attitude she was about to take up, regardless of mockery or censure. Scraps of the window conversation fell on her ears—“I won forty pounds last Wednesday,— it just paid my boot-bill!” said one young woman, laughing carelessly.

“Luckier than me!” retorted a man next to her—“I had to pay a girl’s losses to the tune of a hundred. It’s all right though!” And he grinned suggestively.

“Is she pretty?”

“Ripping!”

“I want to make up five hundred pounds this week,” observed Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, in the most serious and matter-of-fact way—“I’ve won it all but a hundred and fifty.”

“Good for you!”

“Rather!” said Lord Charlemont, nodding approval—“I’d like to get you for a partner!”

“I AM considered lucky,”—smiled Mrs. Courtenay, with an air of virtuous pride—“I always win SOMETHING!”

“Well, let’s begin at once,—we’ll play all the afternoon.” said Lady Beaulyon.

“Where are the tables?” “AND the cards?”

“Ask Maryllia---”

But at that moment Maryllia stepped gently into their midst, her eyes shining, her face very pale.

“Not on Sunday, please!” she said.

A stillness fell upon them all. They gazed upon each other in sheer stupefaction. Lady Beaulyon smiled disdainfully.

“Not on Sunday? What are you talking about, Maryllia? Not WHAT on Sunday?”

“Not Bridge,”—replied Maryllia, in her clear soft voice—“I do not allow it.”

Fresh glances of wonderment were exchanged. The men hummed and hawed and turned themselves about on their heels—the women simply stared. Lady Beaulyon burst out laughing.

“Ridiculous!” she exclaimed,—then flushed, and bit her lip, knowing that such an ejaculation was scarcely civil to her hostess. But Maryllia took no offence.

“Pray do not think me discourteous,”—she said, very sweetly. “I would not interfere with your pleasure in any way if I could possibly help it. But in this instance I really must do so.”

“Oh certainly, Miss Vancourt!” “We would not think of playing if you do not wish it!” These, and similar expressions came from Lord Charlemont, and one or two others.

“My dear Maryllia,” said Mrs. Courtenay, reproachfully—“You are really VERY odd! I have myself seen you playing Bridge, Sunday after Sunday at your aunt’s house in London. Why should you now suddenly object to your friends doing what you have so often done yourself?”

Maryllia flushed a pretty rose-red.

“In my aunt’s house I had to do as my aunt wished, Mrs. Courtenay,” she said—“In my own house I do as I wish!”

Here her face relaxed into a bright smile, as she raised her candid blue eyes to the men standing about her—“I’m sure you won’t mind amusing yourselves with something else than cards, just for one day, will you? Come into the garden,—it’s such a perfect afternoon! The rose-walk just opposite leads down to the bank of the river,—would some of you like to go on the water? There are two boats ready there if you would. And do forgive me for stopping your intended game!— you can play Bridge every day in the week if you like, but spare the Sunday!”

There was a brief awkward pause. Then Eva Beaulyon turned her back indifferently on the whole party and stepped out on the lawn. She was followed by Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, and both ladies gave vent to small smothered bleats of mocking laughter as they sauntered across the grass side by side. But Maryllia did not care. She had carried her point, and was satisfied. The Sunday’s observance in Abbot’s Manor, always rigorously insisted upon by her father, would not be desecrated by card-playing and gambling under his daughter’s sway. That was enough for her. A serene content dwelt in her eyes as she watched her guests disperse and scatter themselves in sections of twos and threes all over the garden and grounds—and she said the pleasantest and kindest things when any of them passed her on their way, telling them just where to find the prettiest nooks, and where to pick the choicest fruit and flowers. Lord Charlemont watched her with a sense of admiration for her ‘pluck.’

“By Jove!” he thought—“I’d rather have fronted the guns in a pitched battle than have forbidden my own guests to play Bridge on Sunday! Wants nerve,—upon my soul it does!—and the little woman’s got it—you bet she has!” Aloud he said—

“I’m awfully glad to be let off Bridge, Miss Vancourt! A day’s respite is a positive boon!”

“Do you play it so often, then?” she asked gently. He flushed slightly.

“Too often, I’m afraid! But how can I help it? One must do something to kill time!”

“Poor Time!” said Maryllia, with a smile—“Why should he be killed? I would rather make much of him while I have him!”

Charlemont did not answer. He lit a cigar and strolled away by himself to meditate.

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay just then re-entered the drawing-room from the garden, fanning herself vigorously with her handkerchief.

“It is so frightfully warm!” she complained—“Such a burning sun! So bad for the skin! They are picking strawberries and eating them off the plants—very nice, I daresay—but quite messy. Eva Beaulyon and two of the men have taken a boat and gone on the water. If you don’t mind, Maryllia, I shall rest and massage till dinner.”

“Pray do so!” returned Maryllia, kindly, smiling, despite herself; Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay’s life was well-nigh, spent in ‘massage’ and various other processes for effacing the prints of Time from her carefully guarded epidermis—“But I was just going to ask Cicely to play us something. Won’t you wait five minutes and hear her?”

Mrs. Courtenay sighed and sank into a chair. Nothing bored her so utterly as music,—but as it was only for ‘five minutes,’ she resigned herself to destiny. And Cicely, at a sign from Maryllia, went to the piano and played divinely,—wild snatches of Polish and Hungarian folk-songs, nocturnes and romances, making the instrument speak a thousand things of love and laughter, of sorrow and death,— till the glorious rush of melody captivated some of the wanderers in the garden and brought them near the open window to listen. When she ceased, there was a little outbreak of applause, and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay rose languidly.

“Yes,