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

“Don’t mention it, Mrs. Spruce!” said Walden amicably, and then, determining to bring the worthy woman sharply round to the real object of her visit, he gave a side-glance at the clock. “Is there anything you want me to do for you this morning? I’m rather busy—”

“Beggin’ your pardon, I’m sure, sir, for troubling you at all!— knowin’ as I do that what with the moithering old folks and the maupsing young ones, your ‘ands is always full. But when I got the letter this morning, I says to my husband, William—‘William,’ says I, very loud, for the poor creature’s growing so deaf that by and by I shall be usin’ a p’lice whistle to make him ‘ear me—‘William,’ says I, ‘there is only one man in this village who’s got the right to give advice when advice is asked for. Of course there’s no call for us to follow advice, even when we gets it,—howsomever, it’s only respectable for decent church-going folks to see the minister of the parish whenever there’s any fear of our makin’ a slip of our souls and goin’ wrong. Therefore, William,’ says I, shaking him By the arm to make the poor silly fool understand me, ‘it’s to Passon Walden I’m goin’ this mornin’ with this letter,—to Passon Walden, d’ye ‘ear?’ And he nodded his head wise-like, for all the world as though there were a bit of sense in it, (which there ain’t), and agrees with me;—for the Lord, knows, if William doesn’t, that it may make an awsome change for him as well as for me. And I do confess I’ve been took back.”

Following as best he could the entangled thread of the estimable lady’s discourse, Walden grasped the fact, albeit vaguely, that some unexpected letter with unexpected news in it had arrived to trouble the Spruces’ domestic peace. Suppressing a slight yawn, he endeavoured to assume the proper show of interest which every village parson is expected to display on the shortest notice concerning any subject, from the birth of the latest baby parishioner, to the death of the earliest sucking pig.

“I’m sorry you’re in trouble, Mrs. Spruce,” he said kindly; “What letter are you speaking of? You see I don’t quite understand—”

“Which it’s not to be expected you should, sir!” replied Mrs. Spruce with an air of triumph,—“Considerin’ as you wer’n’t here when she left, and the Manor has been what you may call a stately ‘ome of England deserted as most stately ‘omes are, for more’n ten years, you couldn’t be expected to understand!”

The Reverend John looked as he felt, completely mystified. He ‘wasn’t here when she left.’ Who was ‘she’? With all his naturally sweet temper he began to feel slightly irritated.

“Really, Mrs. Spruce,” he said, endeavouring to throw an inflection of sternness into his mellow voice, “I must ask you to explain matters a little more clearly. I know that the Manor has been practically shut up ever since I’ve been here,—that you are the housekeeper in charge, and that your husband is woodman or forester there,—but beyond this I know nothing. So you must not talk in riddles, Mrs. Spruce,”—here his kind smile shone out again—“Even as a boy I was never good at guessing them! And I am getting old now.”

“So you are, sir—so you are!” agreed Mrs. Spruce sympathetically; “And ‘tis a shame for me to come worryin’ of you,—for no one more truly than myself can feel pity for the weariness of the flesh, when ‘tis just a burden to the bones and no pleasure in the carryin’ of it, though you don’t put much of it on, Passon Walden, you don’t, I do assure you! But it’s Gospel truth that some folks wears thin like a knife, while others wears thick like a pig, and there is no stopping them,—either way bein’ the Lord’s will,—but I’m feelin’ real okkard myself to have put you about, Passon, only as I said, I’ve been took back,—and here’s the letter, sir, which if you will kindly glance your hi over, you will tell me whether I’ve done the right thing to call on my way down here and get in a couple of scrubbers at eighteen-pence a day, which is dear, but they won’t come for less, jest to get some of the rough dirt off the floors afore polishin’, which polishin’ will have to be done whether we will or no, for the boards are solid oak, and bein’ ancient take the shine quickly, which is a mercy, for this day week is none too far off, seein’ all that’s put upon me suddint.”

Here, being short of breath, she paused, and fumbling in a large black calico pocket which hung loosely at her side, attached to her ample waist by a string, she drew out with great care a rather large, square-looking missive, and then rising from her chair with much fluttering of her black gown and mysterious creaking sound, as of tight under-wear strained to breaking point, she held it out toward Walden, who had durng her last oratorical outburst unconsciously put his hand to his head in a daze of bewilderment.

“There is the letter sir,” she continued, in the tone of one who should say: ‘There is the warrant for execution’—“‘Short and sweet,’ as the farmer’s wife said when she ate the pig’s tail what dropped off while the animal was a-roastin’.”

Allowing this brilliant simile to pass without comment, Walden took the thick, creamy-white object she offered and found himself considering it with a curious disfavour. It was a strictly ‘fashionable’ make of envelope, and was addressed in a particularly bold and assertive hand-writing to

MRS. SPRUCE, Housekeeper, Abbot’s Manor, St. Rest.

Opening it, the Reverend John read as follows:

“Miss Vancourt begs to inform Mrs. Spruce that she will arrive at Abbot’s Manor on the 7th inst., to remain there in residence. Mrs. Spruce is requested to engage the necessary household servants, as Miss Vancourt will bring none except the groom in charge of her two hunters.”

Over and over again Walden read this curt and commonplace note, with a sense of irritation which he knew was perfectly absurd, but which, nevertheless, defied all reason. The paper on which it was written was thick and satiny,—and there was a faint artificial odour of violets about it which annoyed him. He hated scented notepaper. Deliberately he replaced it in its envelope, and holding it for a moment as he again studied the superscription, he addressed the expectant Mrs. Spruce, who had re-seated herself and was waiting for him to speak.

“Well, Mrs. Spruce, I don’t think you need any advice from me on such a simple matter as this,” he said slowly. “Your duty is quite plain. You must obey orders. Miss Vancourt is, I suppose, the mistress of Abbot’s Manor?”

“She is, sir,—of course it all belongs to Miss Maryllia—”

“Miss—what?” interrupted Walden, with a sudden lightening of his dark blue eyes.

“Maryllia, sir. It is a kind of family name, pronounced ‘Ma-rill- yer,’” explained Mrs. Spruce with considerable pomposity; “Many folks never gets it right—it wants knowledge and practice. But if you remember the pictures in the gallery at the Manor, sir, you may call to mind one of the ancestresses of the Vancourts, painted in a vi’let velvet; ridin’ dress and holdin’ a huntin’ crop, and the name underneath is ‘Mary Ella Adelgisa de Vaignecourt’ and it was after her that the old Squire called his daughter Maryllia, rollin’ the two fust names, Mary Elia, into one, as it were, just to make a name what none of his forebears had ever had. He was a queer man, the old Squire—he wouldn’t a-cared whether the name was Christian or heathen.”

“I suppose not.” said the Reverend John carelessly, rising and pushing back his chair with a slightly impatient gesture; whereupon Mrs. Spruce rose too, and stood ‘at attention,’ her loosened bonnet- strings flying and her large black calico pocket well in evidence to the front of her skirt.

“Here’s your letter, Mrs. Spruce;” and as she took it from his hand with a curtsey he continued: “There is evidently nothing for it but to get the house in order by the day appointed and do your best to please the lady. I can quite understand that you feel a little worried at having to prepare everything so quickly and unexpectedly,—but after all, you must have often thought that Miss Vancourt’s return to her old home was likely to happen at any time.”

“Which I never did, sir!” declared Mrs. Spruce emphatically, “No, sir, never! For when the old Squire died, she was jest a slip of fifteen and her uncle, the Squire’s own twin brother, what had married an American heiress with somethin’ like a hundred million of money, so I’m told, took her straight away and adopted her like, and the reg’ler pay for keepin’ up the Manor and grounds has been sent to us through a Bank, and so far we’ve got nothin’ to complain of bein’ all strictly honourable both ways, but of Miss Vancourt we never heard a thing. And Mr. Oliver Leach he is the agent of the property, and he ain’t never said a word,—and we think, me and my husband, that he don’t know nothin’ of her comin’ back, and should we tell him, sir? Or would you reckon that we’d better keep a still tongue in our heads till she do come? For there’s no knowin’ why or wherefore she’s comin’,—though we did hear her poor uncle died two years ago, and we wondered where she and her aunt with the hundred million was got to—but mebbe she’ll change her mind and not come, after all?”

“I should certainly not count upon that, if I were you, Mrs. Spruce,” said Walden decisively; “Your business is to keep everything in order for the lady’s arrival; but I don’t think,—I really don’t think, you are at all bound to inform Mr. Oliver Leach of the matter. He will no doubt find out for himself. or receive his orders direct from Miss Vancourt.” Here he paused. “How old did you say she was when, she went away from home?”

“Fifteen, sir. That was nigh eleven years ago,—just one week after the Squire’s funeral, and a year afore you came here, sir. She’s gettin’ on for seven-and-twenty now.”

“Quite a woman, then,” said Walden lightly; “Old enough to know her own mind at any rate. Do you remember her?”

“Perfectly well, sir,—a little flitterin’ creature all eyes and hair, with a saucy way of tossin’ her curls about, and a trick of singin’ and shoutin’ all over the place. She used to climb the pine trees and sit in them and pelt her father with the cones. Oh, yes, sir, she was a terrible child to rule, and it’s Gospel truth there was no ruling her, for the governesses came and went like the seasons, one in, t’other out. Ay, but the Lord knows I’ll never forget the scream she gave when the Squire was brought home from the hunting field stone dead!”

Here John Walden turned his head towards her with an air of more interest than he had yet shown.

“Ah!—How was that?” he enquired.

“He was killed jumpin’ a fence;” went on Mrs. Spruce; “A fine, handsome gentleman,—they say he’d been wild in his youth; anyhow he got married in London to a great Court beauty, so I’ve been told. And after the wedding, they went travelling allover the world for a year and a half, and just when they was expected ‘ome Mrs.