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

abnormally profound and despairing, made her feel poignantly every little incident which emphasised, or seemed to emphasise, her own utter loneliness in the world; and she was just now strung up to such a nervous tension, that she would almost have consented to wed Lord Roxmouth if by so doing she could have saved any possible mischief occurring to John Walden through Roxmouth’s malignancy. But the shuddering physical repulsion she felt at the bare contemplation of such a marriage was too strong for her.

“Anything but that!”—she said to herself, with something of a prayer—“O dear God!—anything but that!”

Sometimes God hears these little petitions which are not of the orthodox Church. Sometimes, as it seems, by a strange chance, the cry of a helpless and innocent soul does reach that vast Profound where all the secrets of life and destiny lie hidden in mysterious embryo. And thus it happens that across the din and bustle of our petty striving and restless disquietudes there is struck a sudden great silence, by way of answer,—sometimes it is the silence of Death which ends all sorrow,—sometimes it is the sweeter silence of Love which turns sorrow into joy.

Next day all the guests at the Manor had departed with the exception of three—Louis Gigue, and the ‘Sisters Gemini,’ namely, Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby. With much gush and gratitude for a ‘charming stay—a delightful time!’ Lady Beaulyon and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay took leave of their ‘dear Maryllia,’ who received their farewells and embraces with an irresponsively civil coldness. Lord Charlemont and Mr. Bludlip Courtenay ‘motored’ to London, undertaking with each other to keep up a speed of fifty miles an hour, provided there were not too many hills and not too much ‘slowing down’ for the benefit of unexpected policemen round corners. And at sunset, a pleasant peace and stillness settled on the Manor grounds, erstwhile disturbed by groups of restless persons walking aimlessly to and fro,—persons who picked flowers merely to throw them away again, and played tennis and croquet only to become quarrelsome and declare that the weather was much too hot for games. Everybody that was anybody had gone their ways,—and within her own domicile Mrs. Spruce breathed capaciously and freely, and said in confidence to the cook and to Primmins:

“Thank the Lord an’ His mercies, that’s all over! An’ from what I hears, Miss Maryllia won’t be wantin’ no more London folks for a goodish bit o’ time, an’ we’ll all ‘ave peace to turn round an’ look at ourselves an’ find out whether we’re sane or silly, for the two old leddies what is stayin’ on give no trouble at all, an’ that Mr. Gigg don’t care what he gets, so long as he can bang away on the pianner an’ make Miss Cicely sing, an’ I will own she do sing lovely like the angels in a ‘evenly ‘ost, but there!—_I_ don’t want no more company, for what with French maids an’ valets, all talkin’ the wickedest stuff I ever heard about the ways an’ doins o’ their masters an’ missises in London, I’m downright glad to be rid o’ the whole lot! For do what we will, there is limits to patience, an’ a peaceful life is what suits me best not knowin’ for the past three weeks whether my ‘ead or my ‘eels is uppermost with the orderin’ an’ messin’ about, though I will say Miss Maryllia knows what’s what, an’ ain’t never in a fuss nor muddle, keepin’ all wages an’ bills paid reg’lar like a hoffice clerk, mebbe better, for one never knows whether clerks pays out what they’re told or keeps some by in their own pockets, honesty not bein’ always policy with the likes o’ they. Anyway ‘ere we are all alive an’ none the worse for the bustle, which is a mercy, an’ now mebbe we’ll have time to think a bit as we go, an’ stop worrittin’ over plates an’ dishes an’ glass an’ silver, which, say what we like, do sit on one like a burden when there’s a many to serve. A bit o’ quiet ‘ull do us all good!”

The ‘quiet’ she thus eulogised was to be longer and lonelier than she imagined, but of this she knew nothing. The whole house was delightfully tranquil after the departure of the visitors, and the spirit of a grateful repose seemed to have imparted itself to its few remaining occupants. Louis Gigue played wonderful improvisations on the piano that evening, and Cicely sang so brilliantly and ravishingly that had she then stood on the boards of the Paris Grand Opera, she would have created a wild ‘furore.’ Lady Wicketts knitted placidly; she was making a counterpane, which no doubt someone would reluctantly decide to sleep under—and Miss Fosby embroidered a cushion cover for Lady Wicketts, who already possessed many of these articles wrought by the same hand. Maryllia occupied herself in writing many letters,—and all was peace. Nothing in any way betokened a change, or suggested the slightest interruption to the sun-lighted serenity of the long, lovely summer days.

XXV

Whatever the feelings of John Walden were concerning the incidents that had led him to more or less give himself away, as the saying goes, into Maryllia’s hands, he remained happily unconscious of the fact that Lord Roxmouth had overheard his interview with her in the picture-gallery—and being a man who never brooded over his own particular small vexations and annoyances, he had determined, as far as might be possible, to put the whole incident behind him, as it were, and try to forget it. Of course he knew he never could forget it,—he knew that the sweet look in Maryllia’s eyes—the little appealing touch of her hand on his arm, would be perchance the most vivid impressions of his life till that life should be ended. But it was useless to dwell with heart-aching persistence on her fascination, or on what he now called his own utter foolishness, and he was glad that he had arranged to visit his old friend Bishop Brent, as this enabled him to go away at once for three or four days. And it was possible, so he argued with himself, that this three or four days’ break of the magnetic charm that had, against his own wish and will, enslaved his thoughts and senses, would restore him to that state of self-poise and philosophic tranquillity in which he had for so many years found an almost, if not quite, perfect happiness. Bracing himself fully up to the determination that he would, at all hazards, make an effort to recover his lost peace, he made rapid preparations for his departure from St. Rest, and going the round of his parish, he let all whom it might concern know, that for the first time in a long ten years, he was about to take two or three days’ holiday. The announcement was received by some with good-natured surprise—by others with incredulity—but by most, with the usual comfortable resignation to circumstances which is such a prevailing characteristic of the rustic mind.

“It’ll do ye good, Passon, that it will!” said Mrs. Frost, in her high acidulated voice, which by dint of constant scolding and screaming after her young family had become almost raspish—“For you’re looking that white about the gills that it upsets my mind to see it. I sez to Adam onny t’other day, ‘You’ll be diggin’ a grave for Passon presently—see if you don’t—for he’s runnin’ downhill as fast as a loaded barrow with naught ahint it.’ That’s what I said, Passon—an’ its Gospel true!”

Walden smiled.

“You’re quite right, Mrs. Frost,”—he said, patiently—“I am certainly going downhill, as you say—but I must try to put a little check on the wheels! There’s one thing to be said about it, if Adam digs my grave, as it is likely he will, I know he will do it better than any other sexton in the county! I shall sleep in it well, and securely!”

Mrs. Frost felt a certain sense of pride in this remark.

“You may say that, Passon—you may say that and not be fur wrong,”— she said, complacently—“Adam don’t do much, but what he doos is well done, an’ there’s no mistake about it. If I ‘adn’t a known ‘im to be a ‘andy man in his trade he wouldn’t ‘a had me to wife, I do assure you!”

Walden smiled and passed on. To Mr. Netlips, the grocer, he confided a few orders for the household supplies during his absence, which that worthy and sapient personage accepted with due attention.

“It is a demonstrable dispensation, Mr. Walden, sir,”—he said, “that you should be preparing yourself for locomotion at the moment when the house-party at the Manor is also severed indistinguishably. There is no one there now, so my imparted information relates, with the exception of her ladyship Wicketts, a Miss Fosby and a hired musician from the cells of the professional caterer, named Gigg.”

Walden’s eyes twinkled. He was always very indulgent to Mr. Netlips, and rather encouraged him than otherwise in his own special flow of language.

“Really!” he said—“And so they are all gone! I’m afraid it will make a difference to your trade, Mr. Netlips! How about your Petrol storage?”

Mr. Netlips smiled, with a comfortable air of self-conscious wisdom.

“It has been absorbed—quite absorbed,” he said, complacently—“The board of announcement was prospective, not penetrative. Orders were consumed in rotation, and his lordship Charlemont was the last applicant on the formula.”

“I see!” said Walden—“So you are no loser by the transaction. I’m glad to hear it! Good-day! I only intend to be away a short time. You will scarcely miss me,—as I shall occupy my usual post on Sunday.”

“Your forethought, Mr. Walden, sir, is of a most high complication,”—rejoined Mr. Netlips with a gracious bend of his fat neck—“And it is not to be regretted by the profane that you should rotate with the world, provided you are seen in strict adhesion to the pulpit on the acceptable seventh day. Otherwise, it is but natural that you should preamble for health’s sake. You have been looking poorly, Mr. Walden sir, of late; I trust you will beneficially profit by change.”

Walden thanked him, and went his way. His spirits were gradually rising—he was relieved to hear that Maryllia’s house-party had broken up and dispersed, and he cogitated within himself as to whether he should go and say good-bye to her before leaving the village, or just let things remain as they were. He was a little uncertain as to which was the wisest course to adopt,—and while he was yet thinking about it he passed the cottage of old Josey Letherbarrow, and saw the old man sitting at his door peacefully smoking, while at his feet, Ipsie Frost was curled up comfortably like a kitten, busying herself in tying garlands of ivy and honeysuckle round the tops of his big coarsely-laced boots. Pausing, John leaned on the gate and looked at the two with a smile.

“Ullo, Passon!” said Ipsie, turning her blue eyes up at him with a confidential air—“Tum an’ tie up my Zozey-Posey! Zozey-Posey’s bin naughty,—he’s dot to be tied up so he tan’t move!”

“And when he’s good again, what then?” said Walden—“Will you untie him?”

Ipsie stared roundly and meditatively.

“Dunno!”—she said—“‘Specks I will! But oh, my Zozey-Posey IS so bad!” and she screwed her little flaxen head round with an expression of the most comical distress—“See my wip?” And she held up a long stem of golden-rod in flower,—“Zozey dot to be wipped— poor Zozey! But he’s dot to be tied up fust!”

Josey heard all this nonsense babble with delighted interest, and surveyed the tops of his decorated boots with much admiration.

“Ain’t she a little caution!” he said—“She do mind me