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

somehow of th’ owld Squire’s gel! Ay, she do!—Miss Maryllia was just as peart and dauntsome when she was her age. Did I ever tell ye, Passon, ‘bout Miss Maryllia’s legs an’ the wopses’ nest?”

John started violently. What was the old man talking about? He felt that he must immediately put a stop to any chance of indecorous garrulity.

“No, you never told me anything about it, Josey,”—he said, hastily,—“an I’ve no time just now to stay and listen. I’m off on a visit for two or three days—you won’t see me again till Sunday.”

Josey drew his pipe slowly out of his mouth.

“Goin’ away, Passon, are ye?” he said in quavering accents of surprise—“Ain’t that a bit strange like?”

“Why yes, I suppose it is,”—said John, half laughing—“I never do go away I know—but---”

“Look ‘ere Passon! Speak frank an’ fair!—there baint nothin’ drivin’ ye away, be there?”

The hot colour sprang to Walden’s brows.

“Why no, Josey!—of course not! How can you think of such a thing?”

Josey stooped and patted Ipsie’s flaxen tangle of curls softly. Then he straightened himself and looked fully into John’s face.

“Well I dunno how ‘tis, Passon,”—he said, slowly—“When the body gets old an’ feels the fallin’ o’ the dark shadder, the soul begins to feel young, an’ sees all at once the light a-comin’ which makes all things clear. See this little child playin’ wi’ me?—well, she don’t think o’ me as an old worn man, but as somethin’ young like herself—an’ for why? Because she sees the soul o’ me,—the eyes o’ the children see souls more’n bodies, if ye leave ‘em alone an’ don’t worrit ‘em wi’ worldly talk. An’ it’s MY soul wot sees more’n my body—an’ that’s why I sez to ye, Passon, that if so be you’ve any trouble don’t run away from it! Stay an’ fight it out—it’s the onny way!—fight it out!”

Walden was for a moment taken aback. Then he answered steadily.

“You’re right, Josey! If I had any trouble I should stay and as you say, fight it out;—but I’ve none, Josey!—none in the world! I am as happy as I can be,—far happier than I deserve,—and I’m only going away to see my old friend Bishop Brent—you remember—the Bishop who consecrated the church seven years ago?”—Josey nodded comprehensively, “He lives, as you know, quite a hundred miles from here—but I shall be in my usual place on Sunday.”

“Please God, you will!” said Josey, devoutly—“And please God, so shall I. But there’s never no knowin’ what may ‘appen in a day or two days---”

Here Ipsie gave vent to a yell of delight. She had been groping among the flowers in the cottage border, and now held up a deep red rose, darkly glowing at its centre.

“Wed wose!” she announced, screamingly—“Wed—all wed! For Passon! Passon, tiss it!”

John still leaning on the gate, reached down and took the flower, kissing it as he was told, with lips that trembled on the velvet leaves. It was one of the ‘old French damask’ roses—and its rich scent, so soft and full of inexplicable fine delicacy, affected him strangely.

“‘Ave ye heard as ‘ow Miss Maryllia’s goin’ to marry that fine gen’leman wot’s at Badsworth?” pursued Josey, presently, beginning to chuckle as he asked the question—“Roxmouth, they calls him;— Lord, Lord, what clicketin’ talk, like all the grass-‘oppers out for a fairin’! She ain’t goin’ to marry no Roxmouths, bless ‘er ‘art!— she’s goin’ to stick to the old ‘ome an’ people, and never leave ‘em no more! I knows her mind! She tells old Josey wot she don’t tell nobody else, you bet she do!”

John Walden tried not to look interested.

“Miss Vancourt will no doubt marry some day,”—he said, somewhat lamely.

“Av coorse she will!”—returned Josey—“When Mr. Right comes along, she’ll know ‘im fast enough! Them blue eyes ain’t goin’ to be deceived, I tell ye! But she ain’t goin’ to be no Duchess as they sez,—it’s my ‘pinion plain Missis is good ‘nough for the Squire’s gel, if so be a lovin’ an’ true Mister was to ax ‘er and say—‘Will ‘ee be my purty little wife, an’ warm my cold ‘art all the days o’ my life?’—an’ there’d be no wantin’ dukes nor lords round when there’s real love drivin’ a man an’ woman into each other’s arms! Lord—Lord, don’t I know it! Seems but t’other day I was a fine man o’ thirty odd, an’ walkin’ under the hawthorns all white wi’ bloom, an’ my wife that was to be strollin’ shy like at my side—we was kind o’ skeered o’ one another, courtin’ without knowin’ we was courtin’ ezackly, an’ she ‘ad a little blue print gown on an’ a white linen sunbonnet—I kin see ‘er as clear an’ plain as I see you, Passon!—an’ she looks up an’ she sez—‘Ain’t it a lovely day, Joe?’ An’ I sez—‘Yes, it’s lovely, an’ you’re lovely too!’ An’ my ‘art gave a great dump agin my breast, an’ ‘fore I knowed it I ‘ad ‘er in my arms a-kissin’ ‘er for all I was worth! Ay, that was so— an’ I never regretted them kisses under the may-trees, I tell ye! An’ that’s what’ll ‘appen to Squire’s gel—some good man ‘ull walk by ‘er side one o’ these days, an’ won’t know wot he’s a-doin’ of nor she neither, an’ love ‘ull just come down an’ settle in their ‘arts like a broodin’ dove o’ the ‘Oly Spirit, not speakin’ blasPHEmous, Passon, I do assure ye! For if Love ain’t a ‘Oly Spirit, then there ain’t no Lord God in the ‘Love one another!’ I sez ‘tis a ‘Oly Spirit wot draws fond ‘arts together an’ makes ‘em beat true—and the ‘Oly Spirit ‘ull fall on Squire’s gel in its own time an’ bring a blessin’ with it. That’s wot I sez,—are ye goin’, Passon?”

“Yes—I’m going,” said John in an uncertain voice, while Ipsie stared up at him in sudden enquiring wonder, perhaps because he looked so pale, and because the hand in which he held the rose she had given him trembled slightly—“I’ve a number of things to do, Josey—otherwise I should love to stop and hear you talk—you know I should!” and he smiled kindly—“For you are quite right, Josey! You have faith in the beautiful and the true, and so have I! I believe— yes—I believe that everything—even a great sorrow—is for the best. We cannot see,—we do not know—but we should trust the Divine mind of God enough to feel that all is, all must be well!”

“That’s so, Passon!” said Josey, with grave heartiness—“Stick to that, an’ we’re all right. God bless ye! I’ll see ye Sunday if I ain’t gone to glory!”

Walden pulled open the garden gate to shake hands with the old man, and to kiss Ipsie who, as he lifted her up in his arms, caressed his cheeks with her two dumpy hands.

“Has ‘oo seen my lady-love?” she asked, in a crooning whisper—“My bootiful white lady-love?”

Walden looked at Josey perplexedly.

“She means Miss Maryllia,”—said the old man—“That’s the name she’s given ‘er—lady-love—the thinkin’ little imp she is! Where’s lady- love? Why she’s in ‘er own house—she don’t want any little tags o’ babbies runnin’ round ‘er—your lady-love’s got somethin’ else to do.”

“She AIN’T!” said Ipsie, with dramatic emphasis—“She tums an’ sees me often—‘oo don’t know nuffin’ ‘bout it! HAS ‘oo seen ‘er?” she asked Walden again, taking hold of one end of his moustache very tenderly.

He patted the little chubby arm.

“I saw her the other night,”—he said, a sudden rush of words coming to his lips in answer to the child’s query—“Yes, Ipsie,—I saw her! She was all in white, as a lady-love should be—only there were little flushes of pink on her dress like the sunset on a cloud—and she had diamonds in her hair,”—Here Ipsie sighed a profound sigh of comfortable ecstasy—“and she looked very sweet and beautiful—and— and”—Here he suddenly paused. Josey Letherbarrow was looking at him with sudden interest. “And that’s all, Ipsie!”

“Didn’t she say nuffin’ ‘bout me?” asked the small autocrat.

Walden set her gently down on the ground.

“Not then, Ipsie,”—he said—“She was very busy. But I am sure she thought of you!”

Ipsie looked quite contented.

“‘Ess,—my lady-love finks a lot, oh, a lot of me!” she said, seriously—“Allus finkin’ of me!”

John smiled, and again shook old Josey’s hand.

“Good-bye till Sunday!” he said.

“Good-bye, Passon!” rejoined Josey, cheerily—“Good luck t’ye! God bless ye!”

And the old man watched John’s tall, slim athletic figure as long as his failing sight could follow it, murmuring to himself—

“Who’d a thought it!—who’d ‘a thought it! Yet mebbe I’m wrong—an’ mebbe I’m right!—for the look o’ love never lightens a man’s eyes like that but once in his life—all the rest o’ the sparkles is only imitations o’ the real fire. The real fire burns once, an’ only once—an’ it’s fierce an’ hot when it kindles up in a man after the days o’ his youth are gone! An’ if the real fire worn’t in Passon’s eyes when he talked o’ the lady-love, than I’m an old idgit wot never felt my heart go dunt again my side in courtin’ time!”

Walden meanwhile went on his round of visits, and presently,—the circle of his poorer parishioners being completed,-he decided to call on Julian Adderley at his ‘cottage in the wood’ and tell him also of his intended absence. He had taken rather a liking to this eccentric off-shoot of an eccentric literary set,—he had found that despite some slight surface affectations, Julian had very straight principles, and loyal ideas of friendship, and that he was not without a certain poetic talent which, if he studied hard and to serious purpose, might develop into something of more or less worthiness. Some lines that he had recently written and read aloud to Walden, had a haunting ring which clung to the memory:

Art thou afraid to live, my Heart? Look round and see What life at its best, With its strange unrest, Can mean for thee! Ceaseless sorrow and toil, Waits for each son of the soil; And the highest work seems ever unpaid By God and man, In the mystic plan;— Think of it! Art thou afraid? Art thou afraid to love, my Heart? Look well and see If any sweet thing, That can sigh or sing, Hath need of thee! Of Love cometh wild desire, Hungry and fierce as fire, In the souls of man and maid,— But the fulness thereof Is the end of love,— Think of it! Art thou afraid? Art thou afraid of Death, my Heart? Look down and see What the corpse on the bed, So lately dead, Can teach to thee! Is it the close of the strife, Or a new beginning of Life? The secret is not betrayed;—