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

constantly in cheap pictorials, and of these Lady Beaulyon was a notorious example, to say nothing of the graver sins against morality and principle for which she was renowned. He had no sympathy with sporting or betting men—and he knew by repute that Lord Charlemont and Bludlip Courtenay were of this class. Then again, deep down in his own soul, he resented the fact that Maryllia Vancourt entertained this sort of people as her guests. She was much too good for them, he thought,—she wronged herself by being in their company, or allowing them to be in hers! He watched her as she received part of the ‘county’ in the Ittlethwaites of Ittlethwaite Park, with a charming smile of welcome for Bruce Ittlethwaite, a lively bachelor of sixty, and for his eldest sister Arabella, some ten years younger, a lady whose portly form was attired in a wonderful apple-green satin, trimmed with priceless lace, the latter entirely lost as an article of value, among the misshapen folds of the green gown, which had been created, no doubt, by some local dressmaker, whose ideas were evidently more voluminous than artistic. And presently, as he stood, a quiet spectator of the different types of persons who were mingling with each other in the casual conversation on current topics and events, which always occupies that interval of time known as the ‘mauvais quart d’heure’ before the announcement of dinner, he happened to look at Maryllia’s own dress, and, noticing it more closely, smiled. It was not the first time he had seen that dress!—and a faint colour warmed his cheeks as he remembered the occasion when Mrs. Spruce had sent for him as a ‘man o’ God’ to serve as a witness to her system of unpacking her lady’s wardrobe. That was the dress the garrulous old housekeeper had held up in her arms as though she were a clothes- prop, with the observation, ‘It’s orful wot the world’s a-comin’ to- orful! Fancy diamants all sewed on to a gown!’ The gown with the ‘diamants’ was the very one which now clothed Maryllia,-falling over an underskirt of palest pink satin, it glittered softly about her like dew spangles on rose-leaves—and involuntarily Walden thought of the pink shoes he had also seen,—those absurd little shoes!—did she wear them with that fairy-like frock, he wondered? He dared not look towards the floor, lest he should catch a sudden glimpse of the shining points of that ridiculous but fascinating foot-gear that had once so curiously discomposed him. Those shoes might peep out at any moment from under the ‘diamants’—with a blink of familiarity which would be, to say the least of it, embarrassing. His reflections were at this juncture interrupted by a smooth voice at his ear.

“How do you do, Mr. Walden?”

A glance showed the speaker to be Mr. Marius Longford, and he responded with brief courtesy.

“Permit me”—continued Mr. Longford—“to introduce you to Lord Roxmouth!”

Walden bowed stiffly.

“I must congratulate you on the beauty of your church, Mr. Walden,”- said Roxmouth, with his usual conventional smile-“I have never seen a finer piece of work. It is not so much a restoration as a creation.”

Walden said nothing. He did not particularly care for compliments from Lord Roxmouth.

“That sarcophagus,”—continued his lordship—“was a very singular ‘find.’ I suppose you have no clue to the possible identity of the saint or sinner whose ashes repose within it?”

“None,”—replied Walden—“Something might probably be discovered if the casket were opened. But that will never happen during my lifetime.”

“You would consider it sacrilege, no doubt?” queried Roxmouth, with a tolerant air.

“I should, most certainly!”

“Nonsense, nonsense!” said Sir Morton Pippitt, obtruding himself on the conversation at this moment—“God bless my soul! Not so very long ago every churchyard in England used to have its regular clean out—ha-ha-ha!—all the bones and skulls used to be dug up and thrown together in a charnel house, higgledy-piggledy—and nobody ever talked about sacrilege! You should progress with the age, Mr. Walden!—you should progress! Why shouldn’t a coffin be opened as readily as any other box, eh? There’s generally nothing inside—ha- ha-ha!—nothing inside worth keeping, ha-ha-ha! The plan of a spring-cleaning for churchyards was an excellent one, I think;—God bless my soul!—why not?—makes room for more hodies and saves extra land being given up to those who are past farming it, except in the way of manure, ha-ha-ha! There’s no such thing as sacrilege nowadays, Mr. Walden!—why we’ve got the photograph of Rameses, taken after a few thousand years’ decomposition had set in—ha-ha- ha! And not bad looking—not bad looking!—rather wild about the eyes, that’s all—ha-ha! God bless my soul!”

These choice observations of the knight Pippitt were brought to a happy conclusion by the marshalling of the guests into dinner. Sir Morton, much to his chagrin, found himself deputed to escort Lady Wicketts, whose unwieldy proportions allied to his own, made it difficult for both to pass with proper dignity through the dining- room doorway. A little excited whispering between Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay and Lady Beaulyon took place, as to whether ‘Maryllia Van’ in her professed detestation of Lord Roxmouth, would forget etiquette and the rule of ‘precedence’—but they soon saw she did not intend to so commit herself. For when all her guests had passed in before her, she followed resignedly on the arm of the future Duke. As the greatest stranger, and as the highest in social rank of all present, he had claim to this privilege, and she was too tactful to refuse it.

“What a delightful chatelaine you are!” he murmured, looking down at her as she rested her little gloved hand with scarce a touch on his arm—“And how proud and glad I am to be once more beside you! Ah, Maryllia, you are very cruel to me! If you would only realise how happy we could be—always together!”

She made no answer. Arriving in the dining-room, she withdrew her hand from his arm, and seated herself at the head of her table. He then found that he was on her right hand, while Lord Charlemont was on her left. Next to Lord Charlemont sat Lady Beaulyon,—and next to Lady Beaulyon John Walden was placed with the partner allotted to him, Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay. On Roxmouth’s own side there were Lady Wicketts and Sir Morton Pippitt,—so it chanced that the table was arranged in a manner that brought certain parties who were by no means likely to agree on any one given point, directly opposite to each other. Cicely, peeping out from a little ante-room, where she had entreated to be allowed to stand and watch the proceedings, made a running commentary on this in her own particular fashion. Cicely was looking very picturesque, in a new white frock which Maryllia had given her,—with a broad crimson sash knotted carelessly round her waist and a ribbon of the same colour in her luxuriant black hair. She was to sing after dinner—Gigue had told her she was to ‘astonish ze fools’—and she was ready to do it. Her dark eyes shone like stars, and her lips were cherry-red with excitement,—so much so that Mrs. Spruce, thinking she was feverish, had given her a glass of ‘cooling cordial’—made of fruit and ice and lemon water, which she was enjoying at intervals while criticising the fine folks in the dining-room.

“Well done, Maryllia!” she murmured, as she saw her friend enter on Roxmouth’s arm—“Cold as a ray of the moon, but doing her social duty to the bitter end! What a tom-cat Roxmouth is!—a sleek pussy, sure to snarl if his fur is rubbed up the wrong way—but he is just the type that some women would like to marry—he looks so well-bred. Poor Mr. Walden!—he’s got to talk to the Everlasting-Youth lady,— and old Sir Morton Pippitt is immediately opposite to him!—now that’s too bad of Maryllia!—it really is! She knows how the bone- boiler longs to boil Mr. Walden’s bones, and that Mr. Walden wishes Sir Morton Pippitt were miles away from him! They shouldn’t have faced each other. But how very, very superior to all the lot Mr. Walden looks!—he really IS handsome!—he has such an intellectual head. There’s Gigue chattering away to poor old Miss Fosby!—oh dear! Miss Fosby will never understand him! What a motley crew! And I shall have to sing to them all after they’ve dined! Saint Moses! It will be a sort of ‘first appearance in England.’ A good test, too, because all the English eat nearly to bursting before they go to the opera. No wonder they never can grasp what the music is about, or who’s who! It’s all salmon and chicken and lobster and champagne with them—not Beethoven or Wagner or Rossini. Good old Gigue! His spirits are irrepressible! How he is laughing! Mr. Walden looks very serious—almost tragic—I wonder what he is thinking about! I wish I could hear what they are all saying—but it’s nothing but buzz, buzz!”

She took a sip at her ‘cordial,’ watching with artistic appreciation the gay scene in the Manor dining-room—the twinkling lights on the silver and glass and flowers—the elegant dresses of the women,—the jewels that flashed like starbeams on the lovely neck and shoulders of Lady Beaulyon,—the ripples of gold-auburn in Maryllia’s hair,— it was a picture that radiated with a thousand colours on the eye and the brain, and was certainly one destined, so far as many of those who formed a part of it were concerned, never to be forgotten. Not that there was anything very remarkable or brilliant in the conversation at the dinner-table,—there never is nowadays. Peeple dine with their friends merely to eat, not to talk. One never by any chance hears so much even as an echo of wit or wisdom. Occasionally a note of scandal is struck,—and more often than not, a questionable anecdote is related, calculated to bring ‘a blush to the cheek of the Young Person,’ if a Young Person who can blush still exists, and happens to be present. But as a rule, the general habitude of the dining class is to discourse in a very desultory and inconsequential, not to say stupid, style, and the guests at the Manor proved no exception to the rule. Sir Morton Pippitt fired off bumptious observations at Walden, who paid no heed to them—Bruce Ittlethwaite of Ittlethwaite Park, found a congenial spirit in Lord Charlemont, and talked sport right through the repast—and Louis Gigue enlivened the table by a sudden discussion with Mr. Marius Longford, relative to the position of art in Great Britain.

“Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, with a snap of his fingers—“Ze art is dead in Angleterre,—zere is no musique, ze poesie. Zis is ze land of ze A-penny journal—ze musique, ze poesie, ze science, ze politique, ze sentiment,—one A-penny! Bah! Ca, ce, n’est pas possible!—zis pauvre pays is kill avec ze vulgarite of ze cheap! Ze people are for ze cheap—for ze photographic, instead of ze picture- ze gramophone, instead of ze artist fingers avec ze brain-et ze literature—it is ze cheap ‘imitation de Zola,’ qui obtient les eloges du monde critique a Londres. Vous ecrivez?”—and he shook his finger at Longford—“Bien’! Ecrivez un roman qui est sain, pure et noble—et ze A-penny man vill moque de ca—mais—ecrivez of ze dirt of ze human naturel, et voila! Ze A-penny man say ‘Bon! Ah que c’est l’art! Donnes moi l’ordure que je peux sentir! C’est naturel! C’est divin! C’est l’art!’”

A murmur, half of laughter, half of shocked protest, went round the table.

“I think,” said Mr. Longford, with a pale smile—“that according to the school of the higher criticism, we must admit the natural to be the only divine.”

Gigue’s rolling eyes gleamed under his shaggy hair.

“Je ne comprends pas!”—he said—“Ven ze pig squeak, c’est naturel— ce n’est pas divin! Ven ze