God’s Good Man E-Book

Marie Corelli

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The plot takes place in England. Pastor John Walden, a forty-year-old „man of worship”, is presented as having a cheerful, optimistic personality, athletic build, and strong character. He owns one of the smallest „living quarters” in England, an old relic from a medieval church. The ending is unpredictable and keeps you in suspense until the last words.

Leseprobe

Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

I

It was May-time in England.

The last breath of a long winter had blown its final farewell across the hills,–the last frost had melted from the broad, low-lying fields, relaxing its iron grip from the clods of rich, red-brown earth which, now, soft and broken, were sprouting thick with the young corn’s tender green. It had been a hard, inclement season. Many a time, since February onward, had the too-eagerly pushing buds of trees and shrubs been nipped by cruel cold,–many a biting east wind had withered the first pale green leaves of the lilac and the hawthorn,–and the stormy caprices of a chill northern. Spring had played havoc with all the dainty woodland blossoms that should, according to the ancient ‘Shepherd’s Calendar’ have been flowering fully with the daffodils and primroses. But during the closing days of April a sudden grateful warmth had set in,–Nature, the divine goddess, seemed to awaken from long slumber and stretch out her arms with a happy smile,–and when May morning dawned on the world, it came as a vision of glory, robed in clear sunshine and girdled with bluest skies. Birds broke into enraptured song,–young almond and apple boughs quivered almost visibly every moment into pink and white bloom,–cowslips and bluebells raised their heads from mossy corners in the grass, and expressed their innocent thoughts in sweetest odour–and in and through all things the glorious thrill, the mysterious joy of renewed life, hope and love pulsated from the Creator to His responsive creation.

It was May-time;–a real ‘old-fashioned’ English May, such as Spenser and Herrick sang of:

“When all is yclad With blossoms; the ground with grass, the woodes With greene leaves; the bushes with blossoming buddes,”

and when whatever promise our existence yet holds for us, seems far enough away to inspire ambition, yet close enough to encourage fair dreams of fulfilment. To experience this glamour and witchery of the flowering-time of the year, one must, perforce, be in the country. For in the towns, the breath of Spring is foetid and feverish,–it arouses sick longings and weary regrets, but scarcely any positive ecstasy. The close, stuffy streets, the swarming people, the high buildings and stacks of chimneys which only permit the narrowest patches of sky to be visible, the incessant noise and movement, the self-absorbed crowding and crushing,–all these things are so many offences to Nature, and are as dead walls of obstacle set against the revivifying and strengthening forces with which she endows her freer children of the forest, field and mountain. Out on the wild heathery moorland, in the heart of the woods, in the deep bosky dells, where the pungent scent of moss and pine-boughs fills the air with invigorating influences, or by the quiet rivers, flowing peacefully under bending willows and past wide osier-beds, where the kingfisher swoops down with the sun-ray and the timid moor-hen paddles to and from her nest among the reeds,–in such haunts as these, the advent of a warm and brilliant May is fraught with that tremor of delight which gives birth to beauty, and concerning which that ancient and picturesque chronicler, Sir Thomas Malory, writes exultantly: “Like as May moneth flourisheth and flowerth in many gardens, so in likewise let every man of worship flourish his heart in this world!”

There was a certain ‘man of worship’ in the world at the particular time when this present record of life and love begins, who found himself very well-disposed to ‘flourish his heart’ in the Maloryan manner prescribed, when after many dark days of unseasonable cold and general atmospheric depression, May at last came in rejoicing. Seated under broad apple-boughs, which spread around him like a canopy studded with rosy bud-jewels that shone glossy bright against the rough dark-brown stems, he surveyed the smiling scenery of his own garden with an air of satisfaction that was almost boyish, though his years had run well past forty, and he was a parson to boot. A gravely sedate demeanour would have seemed the more fitting facial expression for his age and the generally accepted nature of his calling,–a kind of deprecatory toleration of the sunshine as part of the universal ‘vanity’ of mundane things,–or a condescending consciousness of the bursting apple-blossoms within his reach as a kind of inferior earthy circumstance which could neither be altered nor avoided.

The Reverend John Walden, however, was one of those rarely gifted individuals who cannot assume an aspect which is foreign to temperament. He was of a cheerful, even sanguine disposition, and his countenance faithfully reflected the ordinary bent of his humour. Seeing him at a distance, the casual observer would at once have judged him to be either an athlete or an ascetic. There was no superfluous flesh about him; he was tall and muscular, with well- knit limbs, broad shoulders, and a head altogether lacking in the humble or conciliatory ‘droop’ which all worldly-wise parsons cultivate for the benefit of their rich patrons. It was a distinctively proud head,–almost aggressive,–indicative of strong character and self-reliance, well-poised on a full throat, and set off by a considerable quantity of dark brown hair which was refractory in brushing, inclined to uncanonical curls, and plentifully dashed with grey. A broad forehead, deeply-set, dark- blue eyes, a straight and very prominent nose, a strong jaw and obstinate chin,–a firmly moulded mouth, round which many a sweet and tender thought had drawn kindly little lines of gentle smiling that were scarcely hidden by the silver-brown moustache,–such, briefly, was the appearance of one, who though only a country clergyman, of whom the great world knew nothing, was the living representative of more powerful authority to his little ‘cure of souls’ than either the bishop of the diocese, or the King in all his majesty.

He was the sole owner of one of the smallest ‘livings’ in England,–an obscure, deeply-hidden, but perfectly unspoilt and beautiful relic of mediaeval days, situated in one of the loveliest of woodland counties, and known as the village of St. Rest, sometimes called ‘St. Est.’ Until quite lately there had been considerable doubt as to the origin of this name, and the correct manner of its pronouncement. Some said it should be, ‘St. East,’ because, right across the purple moorland and beyond the line of blue hills where the sun rose, there stretched the sea, miles away and invisible, it is true, but nevertheless asserting its salty savour in every breath of wind that blew across the tufted pines. ‘St. East,’ therefore, said certain rural sages, was the real name of the village, because it faced the sea towards the east. Others, however, declared that the name was derived from the memory of some early Norman church on the banks of the peaceful river that wound its slow clear length in pellucid silver ribbons of light round and about the clover fields and high banks fringed with wild rose and snowy thorn, and that it should, therefore, be ‘St. Rest,’ or better still, ‘The Saint’s Rest.’ This latter theory had recently received strong confirmation by an unexpected witness to the past,–as will presently be duly seen and attested.

But St. Rest, or St. Est, whichever name rightly belonged to it, was in itself so insignificant as a ‘benefice,’ that its present rector, vicar, priest and patron had bought it for himself, through the good offices of a friend, in the days when such purchases were possible, and for some ten years had been supreme Dictator of his tiny kingdom and limited people. The church was his,–especially his, since he had restored it entirely at his own expense,–the rectory, a lop- sided, half-timbered house, built in the fifteenth century, was his,–the garden, full of flowering shrubs, carelessly planted and allowed to flourish at their own wild will, was his,–the ten acres of pasture-land that spread in green luxuriance round and about his dwelling were his,–and, best of all, the orchard, containing some five acres planted with the choicest apples, cherries, plums and pears, and bearing against its long, high southern wall the finest peaches and nectarines in the county, was his also. He had, in fact, everything that the heart of a man, especially the heart of a clergyman, could desire, except a wife,–and that commodity had been offered to him from many quarters in various delicate and diplomatic ways,–only to be as delicately and diplomatically rejected.

And truly there seemed no need for any change in his condition. He had gone on so far in life,–‘so far!’ he would occasionally remind himself, with a little smile and sigh,–that a more or less solitary habit had, by long familiarity, become pleasant. Actual loneliness he had never experienced, because it was not in his nature to feel lonely. His well-balanced intellect had the brilliant quality of a finely-cut diamond, bearing many facets, and reflecting all the hues of life in light and colour; thus it quite naturally happened that most things, even ordinary and common things, interested him. He was a great lover of books, and, to a moderate extent, a collector of rare editions; he also had a passion for archaeology, wherein he was sustained by a certain poetic insight of which he was himself unconscious. The ordinary archaeologist is generally a mere Dry-as- Dust, who plays with the bones of the past as Shakespeare’s Juliet fancied she might play with her forefathers’ joints, and who eschews all use of the imaginative instinct as though it were some deadly evil. Whereas, it truly needs a very powerful imaginative lens to peer down into the recesses of bygone civilisations, and re-people the ruined haunts of dead men with their shadowy ghosts of learning, art, enterprise, or ambition.

To use the innermost eyes of his soul in such looking backward down the stream of Time, as well as in looking forward to that ‘crystal sea’ of the unknown Future, flowing round the Great White Throne whence the river of life proceeds, was a favourite mental occupation with John Walden. He loved antiquarian research, and all such scientific problems as involve abstruse study and complex calculation,–but equally he loved the simplest flower and the most ordinary village tale of sorrow or mirth recounted to him by any one of his unlessoned parishioners. He gave himself such change of air and scene as he thought he required, by taking long swinging walks about the country, and found sufficient relaxation in gardening, a science in which he displayed considerable skill. No one in all the neighbourhood could match his roses, or offer anything to compare with the purple and white masses of violets which, quite early in January came out under his glass frames not only perfect in shape and colour, but full of the real ‘English’ violet fragrance, a benediction of sweetness which somehow seems to be entirely withheld from the French and Russian blooms. For the rest, he was physically sound and morally healthy, and lived, as it were, on the straight line from earth to heaven, beginning each day as if it were his first life-opportunity, and ending it soberly and with prayer, as though it were his last.

To such a mind and temperament as his, the influences of Nature, the sublime laws of the Universe, and the environment of existence, must needs move in circles of harmonious unity, making loveliness out of commonness, and poetry out of prose. The devotee of what is mistakenly called ‘pleasure,’–enervated or satiated with the sickly moral exhalations of a corrupt society,–would be quite at a loss to understand what possible enjoyment could be obtained by sitting placidly under an apple-tree with a well-thumbed volume of the wisdom of the inspired pagan Slave, Epictetus, in the hand, and the eyes fixed, not on any printed page, but on a spray of warmly- blushing almond blossom, where a well-fed thrush, ruffling its softly speckled breast, was singing a wild strophe concerning its mate, which, could human skill have languaged its meaning, might have given ideas to a nation’s laureate. Yet John Walden found unalloyed happiness in this apparently vague and vacant way. There was an acute sense of joy for him in the repeated sweetness of the thrush’s warbling,–the light breeze, stirring through a great bush of early flowering lilac near the edge of the lawn, sent out a wave of odour which tingled through his sensitive blood like wine,–the sunlight was warm and comforting, and altogether there seemed nothing wrong with the world, particularly as the morning’s newspapers had not yet come in. With them would probably arrive the sad savour of human mischief and muddle, but till these daily morbid records made their appearance, May-day might be accepted as God made it and gave it,–a gift unalloyed, pure, bright and calm, with not a shadow on its lovely face of Spring. The Stoic spirit of Epictetus himself had even seemed to join in the general delight of nature, for Walden held the book half open at a page whereon these words were written:

“Had we understanding thereof, would any other thing better beseem us than to hymn the Divine Being and laud Him and rehearse His gracious deeds? These things it were fitting every man should sing, and to chant the greatest and divinest hymns for this, that He has given us the power to observe and consider His works, and a Way wherein to walk. If I were a nightingale, I would do after the manner of a nightingale; if a swan, after that of a swan. But now I am a reasoning creature, and it behooves me to sing the praise of God; this is my task, and this I do, nor as long as it is granted me, will I ever abandon this post. And you, too, I summon to join me in the same song.”

“A wonderfully ‘advanced’ Christian way of looking at life, for a pagan slave of the time of Nero!” thought Walden, as his eyes wandered from the thrush on the almond tree, back to the volume in his hand,–”With all our teaching and preaching, we can hardly do better. I wonder–-”

Here his mind became altogether distracted from classic lore, by the appearance of a very unclassic boy, clad in a suit of brown corduroys and wearing hob-nailed boots a couple of sizes too large for him, who, coming suddenly out from a box-tree alley behind the gabled corner of the rectory, shuffled to the extreme verge of the lawn and stopped there, pulling his cap off, and treading on his own toes from left to right, and from right to left in a state of sheepish hesitancy.

“Come along,–come along! Don’t stand there, Bob Keeley!” And Walden rose, placing Epictetus on the seat he vacated–”What is it?”

Bob Keeley set his hob-nailed feet on the velvety lawn with gingerly precaution, and advancing cap in hand, produced a letter, slightly grimed by his thumb and finger.

“From Sir Morton, please sir! Hurgent, ‘e sez.”

Walden took the missive, small and neatly folded, and bearing the words ‘Badsworth Hall’ stamped in gold at the back of the envelope. Opening it, he read:

“Sir Morton Pippitt presents his compliments to the Reverend John Walden, and having a party of distinguished guests staying with him at the Hall, will be glad to know at what day and hour this week he can make a visit of inspection to the church with his friends.”

A slight tinge of colour overspread Walden’s face. Presently he smiled, and tearing up the note leisurely, put the fragments into one of his large loose coat pockets, for to scatter a shred of paper on his lawn or garden paths was an offence which neither he nor any of those he employed ever committed.

“How is your mother, Bob?” he then said, approaching the stumpy urchin, who stood respectfully watching him and awaiting his pleasure.

“Please sir, she’s all right, but she coughs ‘orful!”

“Coughs ‘orful, does she?” repeated the Reverend John, musingly; “Ah, that is bad!–I am sorry! We must–let me think!–yes, Bob, we must see what we can do for her–eh?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Bob meekly, turning his cap round and round and wondering what ‘Passon’ was thinking about to have such a ‘funny look’ in his eyes.

“Yes!” repeated Walden, cheerfully, “We must see what we can do for her! My compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, Bob, and say I will write.”

“Nothink else, sir?”

“Nothing–or as you put it, Bob, ‘nothink else’! I wish you would remember, my dear boy,”–and here he laid his firm, well-shaped hand protectingly on the small brown corduroy shoulder,–”that the word ‘nothing’ does not terminate in a ‘k.’ If you refer to your spelling-book, I am sure you will see that I am right. The Educational authorities would not approve of your pronunciation, Bob, and I am endeavouring to save you future trouble with the Government. By the way, did Sir Morton Pippitt give you anything for bringing his note to me?”

“Sed he would when I got back, sir.”

“Said he would when you got back? Well,–I have my doubts, Bob,–I do not think he will. And the labourer being worthy of his hire, here is sixpence, which, if you like to do a sum on your slate, you will find is at the rate of one penny per mile. When you are a working man, you will understand the strict justice of my payment. It is three miles from Badsworth Hall and three back again,–and now I come to think of it, what were you doing up at Badsworth?”

Bob Keeley grinned from ear to ear.

“Me an’ Kitty Spruce went up on spec with a Maypole early, sir!”

John Walden smiled. It was May morning,–of course it was!–and in the village of St. Rest the old traditional customs of May Day were still kept up, though in the county town of Riversford, only seven miles away, they were forgotten, or if remembered at all, were only used as an excuse for drinking and vulgar horse-play.

“You and Kitty Spruce went up on spec? Very enterprising of you both, I am sure! And did you make anything out of it?”

“No, sir,–there ain’t no ladies there, ‘cept Miss Tabitha,–onny some London gents,–and Sir Morton, ‘e flew into an orful passion–like ‘e do, sir,–an’ told us to leave off singin’ and git out,–‘Git off my ground,’ he ‘ollers–‘Git off!’–then jest as we was a gittin’ off, he cools down suddint like, an’ ‘e sez, sez ‘e: ‘Take a note to the dam passon for me, an’ bring a harnser, an’ I’ll give yer somethink when yer gits back.’ An’ all the gents was a-sittin’ at breakfast, with the winders wide open an’ the smell of ‘am an’ eggs comin’ through strong, an’ they larfed fit to split theirselves, an’ one on ’em tried to kiss Kitty Spruce, an’ she spanked his face for ’im!”

The narration of this remarkable incident, spoken with breathless rapidity in a burst of confidence, seemed to cause the relief supposed to be obtained by a penitent in the confessional, and to lift a weight off Bob Keeley’s mind. The smile deepened on the ‘Passon’s’ face, and for a moment he had some difficulty to control an outbreak of laughter, but recollecting the possibly demoralising effect it might have on the more youthful members of the community, if he, the spiritual director of the parish, were reported to have laughed at the pugnacious conduct of the valiant Kitty Spruce, he controlled himself, and assumed a tolerantly serious air.

“That will do, Bob!–that will do! You must learn not to repeat all you hear, especially such objectionable words as may occasionally be used by a–a–a gentleman of Sir Morton Pippitt’s high standing.”

And here he squared his shoulders and looked severely down an the abashed Keeley. Anon he unbent himself somewhat and his eyes twinkled with kindly humour: “Why didn’t you bring the Maypole here?” he enquired; “I suppose you thought it would not be as good a ‘spec as Badsworth Hall and the London gents–eh?”

Bob Keeley opened his round eyes very wide.

“We be all comin’ ‘ere, sir!” he burst out: “All on us–ever so many on us! But we reckoned to make a round of the village first and see how we took on, and finish up wi’ you, sir! Kitty Spruce she be a- keepin’ her best ribbin for comin’ ‘ere–we be all a-comin’ ‘fore twelve!”

Walden smiled.

“Good! I shall expect you! And mind you don’t all sing out of tune when you do come. If you commit such an offence, I shall–let me see!–I shall make mincemeat of you!–I shall indeed! Positive mincemeat!–and bottle you up in jars for Christmas!” And he nodded with the ferociously bland air of the giant in a fairy tale, whose particular humour is the devouring of small children. “Now you had better get back to Badsworth Hall with my message. Do you remember it? My compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, and I will write.”

He turned away, and Bob Keeley made as rapid a departure as was consistent with the deep respect he felt for the ‘Passon,’ having extracted a promise from the butcher boy of the village, who was a friend of his, that if he were ‘quick about it,’ he would get a drive up to Badsworth and back again in the butcher’s cart going there for orders, instead of tramping it.

The Reverend John, meanwhile, strolled down one of the many winding garden paths, past clusters of daffodils, narcissi and primroses, into a favourite corner which he called the ‘Wilderness,’ because it was left by his orders in a more or less untrimmed, untrained condition of luxuriantly natural growth. Here the syringa, a name sometimes given by horticultural pedants to the lilac, for no reason at all except to create confusion in the innocent minds of amateur growers, was opening its white ‘mock orange’ blossoms, and a mass of flowering aconites spread out before him like a carpet of woven gold. Here, too, tufts of bluebells peeked forth from behind the moss-grown stems of several ancient oaks and elms, and purple pansies bordered the edge of the grass. A fine old wistaria grown in tree-form, formed a natural arch of entry to this shady retreat, and its flowers were just now in their full beauty, hanging in a magnificent profusion of pale mauve, grapelike bunches from the leafless stems. Many roses, of the climbing or ‘rambling’ kind, were planted here, and John Walden’s quick eye soon perceived where a long green shoot of one of those was loose and waving in the wind to its own possible detriment. He felt in his pockets for a bit of roffia or twine to tie up the straying stem,–he was very seldom without something of the kind for such emergencies, but this time he only groped among the fragments of Sir Morton Pippitt’s note and found nothing useful. Stepping out on the path again, he looked about him and caught a glimpse of a stooping, bulky form in weather- beaten garments, planting something in one of the borders at a little distance.

“Bainton!” he called.

The figure slowly raised itself, and as slowly turned its head.

“Sir!”

“Just come here and tie this rose up, will you?”

The individual addressed approached at a very deliberate pace, dragging out some entangled roffia from his pocket as he came and severing it into lengths with his teeth. Walden partly prepared his task for him by holding up the rose branch in the way it should go, and on his arrival assisted him in the business of securing it to the knotty bough from which it had fallen.

“That looks better!” he remarked approvingly, as he stepped back and surveyed it. “You might do this one at the same time while you are about it, Bainton.”

And he pointed to a network of ‘Crimson rambler’ rose-stems which had blown loose from their moorings and were lying across the grass.

“This place wants a reg’ler clean out,” remarked Bainton then, in accents of deep disdain, as he stooped to gather up the refractory branches: “It beats me altogether, Passon, to know what you wants wi’ a forcin’ bed for weeds an’ stuff in the middle of a decent garden. That old Wistaria Sinyens (Sinensis) is the only thing here that is worth keeping. Ah! Y’are a precious sight, y’are!” he continued, apostrophising the ‘rambler’ branches–”For all yer green buds ye ain’t a-goin’ to do much this year! All sham an’ ‘umbug, y’are!–all leaf an’ shoot an’ no flower,–like a great many people I knows on–ah!–an’ not so far from this village neither! I’d clear it all out if I was you, Passon,–I would reely now!”

Walden laughed.

“Don’t open the old argument, Bainton!” he said good-humouredly; “We have talked of this before. I like a bit of wild Nature sometimes.”

“Wild natur!” echoed Bainton. “Seems to me natur allus wants a bit of a wash an’ brush up ‘fore she sits down to her master’s table;–an’ who’s ‘er master? Man! She’s jest like a child comin’ out of a play in the woods, an’ ‘er ‘air’s all blown, an’ ‘er nails is all dirty. That’s natur! Trim ‘er up an’ curl ‘er ‘air an’ she’s worth looking at. Natur! Lor’, Passon, if ye likes wild natur ye ain’t got no call to keep a gard’ner. But if ye pays me an’ keeps me, ye must ‘spect me to do my duty. Wherefore I sez: why not ‘ave this ‘ere musty-fusty place, a reg’ler breedin’ ‘ole for hinsects, wopses, ‘ornits, snails an’ green caterpillars–ah! an’ I shouldn’t wonder if potato-fly got amongst ‘em, too!–why not, I say, have it cleaned out?”

“I like it as it is,” responded Walden with cheerful imperturbability, and a smile at the thick-set obstinate-looking figure of his ‘head man about the place’ as Bainton loved to be called. “Have you planted out my phloxes?”

“Planted ’em out every one,” was the reply; “Likewhich the Delphy Inums. An’ I’ve put enough sweet peas in to supply Covint Garden market, bearin’ in mind as ‘ow you sed you couldn’t have enough on ’em. Sir Morton Pippitt’s Lunnon valet came along while I was a- doin’ of it, an’ ‘e peers over the ‘edge an’ ‘e sez, sez ‘e: ‘Weedin’ corn, are yer?’ ‘No, ye gowk,’ sez I! ‘Ever seen corn at all ‘cept in a bin? Mixed wi’ thistles, mebbe?’ An’ then he used a bit of ‘is master’s or’nary language, which as ye knows, Passon, is chice–partic’ler chice. ‘Evil communications c’rupts good manners’ even in a valet wot ‘as no more to do than wash an’ comb a man like a ‘oss, an’ pocket fifty pun a year for keepin’ of ‘is haristocratic master clean. Lor’!–what a wurrld it is!–what a wurrld!”

He had by this time tied up the ‘Crimson rambler’ in orderly fashion, and the Reverend John, stroking his moustache to hide a smile, proceeded to issue various orders according to his usual daily custom.

“Don’t forget to plant some mignonette in the west border, Bainton. Not the giant kind,–the odour of the large blooms is rough and coarse compared with that of the smaller variety. Put plenty of the ‘common stuff’ in,–such mignonette as our grandmothers grew in their gardens, before you Latin-loving horticultural wise-acres began to try for size rather than sweetness.”

Bainton drew himself up with a quaint assumption of dignity, and by lifting his head a little more, showed his countenance fully,–a countenance which, though weather-worn and deeply furrowed, was a distinctly intelligent one, shrewd and thoughtful, with sundry little curves of humour lighting up its native expression of saturnine sedateness.

“I suppose y’are alludin’ to the F.R.H.'s, Passon,” he said; “They all loves Latin, as cats loves milk; howsomever, they never knows ‘ow to pronounce it. Likewhich myself not bein’ a F.R.H. nor likely to be, I’m bound to confess I dabbles in it a bit,–though there’s a chap wot I gets cheap shrubs of, his Latin’s worse nor mine, an’ ‘e’s got all the three letters after ‘is name. ‘Ow did ‘e get ’em? By reason of competition in the Chrysanthum Show. Lor’! Henny fool can grow ye a chrysanthum as big as a cabbage, if that’s yer fancy,- -that ain’t scientific gard’nin’! An’ as for the mignonette, I reckon to agree wi’ ye, Passon–the size ain’t the sweetness, likewhich when I married, I married a small lass, for sez I: ‘Little to carry, less to keep!’ An’ that’s true enough, though she’s gained in breadth, Lor’ love ‘er!–wot she never ‘ad in heighth. As I was a-sayin’, the chap wot I gets shrubs of, reels off ‘is Latin like chollops of mud off a garden scraper; but ‘e don’t understand it while ‘e sez it. Jes’ for show, bless ye! It all goes down wi’ Sir Morton Pippitt, though, for ‘e sez, sez ‘e: ‘MY cabbages are the prize vegetable, grown by Mr. Smogorton of Worcester, F.R.H.’ ‘E’s got it in ‘is Catlog! Hor!–hor!–hor! Passon, a bit o’ Latin do go down wi’ some folks in the gard’nin’ line–it do reely now!”

“Talking of Sir Morton Pippitt,” said Walden, disregarding his gardener’s garrulity, “It seems he has visitors up at the Hall.”

“‘E ‘as so,” returned Bainton; “Reg’ler weedy waifs an’ strays o’ ‘umanity, if one may go by out’ard appearance; not a single firm, well-put-down leg among ’em. Mos’ly ‘lords’ and ‘sirs.’ Bein’ so jes’ lately knighted for buildin’ a ‘ospital at Riversford, out of the proceeds o’ bone meltin’ into buttons, Sir Morton couldn’t a’ course, be expected to put up wi’ a plain ‘mister’ takin’ food wi’ ’im.”

“Well, well,–whoever they are, they want to see the church.”

“Seems to me a sight o’ folks wants to see the church since ye spent so much money on it, Passon,” said Bainton somewhat resentfully; “There oughter be a charge made for entry.”

Walden smiled thoughtfully; but there was a small line of vexation on his brow.

“They want to see the church,” he repeated, “Or rather Sir Morton wants them to ‘inspect’ the church;”–and then his smile expanded and became a soft mellow laugh; “What a pompous old fellow it is! One would almost think he had restored the church himself, and not only restored it, but built it altogether and endowed it!” He turned to go, then suddenly bethought himself of other gardening matters,–“Bainton, that bare corner near the house must be filled with clematis. The plants are just ready to bed out. And look to the geraniums in the front border. By the way, do you see that straight line along the wall there,–where I am pointing?”

“Yes, sir!” dutifully rejoined Bainton, shading his eyes from the strong sun with one grimy hand.

“Well, plant nothing but hollyhocks there,–as many as you can cram in. We must have a blaze of colour to contrast with those dark yews. See to the jessamine and passion-flowers by the porch; and there is a ‘Gloire’ rose near the drawing-room window that wants cutting back a bit.” He moved a step or two, then again turned: “I shall want you later on in the orchard,–the grass there needs attending to.”

A slow grin pervaded Bainton’s countenance.

“Ye minds me of the ‘Oly Scripter, Passon, ye does reely now!” he said–”Wi’ all yer different orders an’ idees, y’are behavin’ to me like the very moral o’ the livin’ Wurrd!”

Walden looked amused.

“How do you make that out?”

“Easy enough, sir,–‘The Scripter moveth us in sun’ry places’! Hor!- hor!-hor!–”and Bainton burst into a hoarse chuckle of mirth, entirely delighted with his own witticism, and walked off, not waiting to see whether its effect on his master was one of offence or appreciation. He was pretty sure of his ground, however, for he left John Walden laughing, a laugh that irradiated his face with some of the sunshine stored up in his mind. And the sparkle of mirth still lingered in his eyes as, crossing the lawn and passing the seat where the volume of Epictetus lay, now gratuitously decorated by a couple of pale pink shell-like petals dropped from the apple- blossoms above it, he entered his house, and proceeding to his study sat down and wrote the following brief epistle:

“The Reverend John Walden presents his compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, and in reply to his note begs to say that, as the church is always open and free, Sir Morton and his friends can ‘inspect’ it at any time provided no service is in progress.”

Putting this in an envelope, he sealed and stamped it. It should go by post, and Sir Morton would receive it next morning. There was no need for a ‘special messenger,’ either in the person of Bob Keeley, or in the authorised Puck of the Post Office Messenger-service.

“For there is not the slightest hurry,” he said to himself: “It will not hurt Sir Morton to be kept waiting. On the contrary, it will do him good. He had it all his own way in this parish before I came,–but now for the past ten years he has known what it is to ‘kick against the pricks’ of legitimate Church authority. Legitimate Church authority is a fine thing! Half the Churchmen in the world don’t use it, and a goodly portion of the other half misuse it. But when you’ve got a bumptious, purse-proud, self-satisfied old county snob like Sir Morton Pippitt to deal with, the pressure of the iron hand should be distinctly exercised under the velvet glove!”

He laughed heartily, throwing back his head with a sense of enjoyment in his laughter. Then, rising from his desk, he turned towards the wide latticed doors of his study, which opened into the garden, and looked out dreamily, as though looking across the world and far beyond it. The sweet mixed warbling of birds, the thousand indistinguishable odours of flowers, made the air both fragrant and musical. The glorious sunshine, the clear blue sky, the rustling of the young leaves, the whispering swish of the warm wind through the shrubberies,–all these influences entered the mind and soul of the man and aroused a keen joy which almost touched the verge of sadness. Life pulsated about him in such waves of creative passion, that his own heart throbbed uneasily with Nature’s warm restlessness; and the unanswerable query which, in spite of his high and spiritual faith had often troubled him, came back again hauntingly to his mind,–”Why should Life be made so beautiful only to end in Death?”

This was the Shadow that hung over all things; this was the one darkness he and others of his calling were commissioned to transfuse into light,–this was the one dismal end for all poor human creatures which he, as a minister of the Gospel was bound to try and represent as not an End but a Beginning,–and his soul was moved to profound love and pity as he raised his eyes to the serene heavens and asked himself: “What compensation can all the most eloquent teaching and preaching make to men for the loss of the mere sunshine? Can the vision of a world beyond the grave satisfy the heart so much as this one perfect morning of May!”

An involuntary sigh escaped him. The beating wings of a swallow flying from its nest under the old gabled eaves above him flashed a reflex of quivering light against his eyes; and away in the wide meadow beyond, where the happy cattle wandered up to their fetlocks in cowslips and lush grass, the cuckoo called with cheerful persistence. One of old Chaucer’s quaintly worded legends came to his mind,–telling how the courtly knight Arcite,

“Is risen, and looketh on the merrie daye All for to do his observance to Maye,– And to the grove of which that I you told, By aventure his way he gan to hold To maken him a garland of the greves, Were it of woodbind or of hawthorn leaves, And loud he sung against the sunny sheen,– ‘O Maye with all thy flowers and thy green, Right welcome be thou, faire, freshe, Maye! I hope that I some green here getten may!”

Smiling at the antique simplicity and freshness of the lines as they rang across his brain like the musical jingle of an old-world spinet, his ears suddenly caught the sound of young voices singing at a distance.

“Here come the children!” he said; and stepping out from his open window into the garden, he again bent his ear to listen. The tremulous voices came nearer and nearer, and words could now be distinguished, breaking through the primitive quavering melody of ‘The Mayers’ Song’ known to all the country side since the thirteenth century:

“Remember us poor Mayers all.– And thus do we begin, To lead our lives in righteousness, Or else we die in sin.

We have been rambling all this night, And almost all this day, And now returning back again, We bring you in the May.

The hedges and trees they are so green, In the sunne’s goodly heat, Our Heavenly Father He watered them With His Heavenly dew so sweet.

A branch of May we have brought you–-”

Here came a pause and the chorus dropped into an uncertain murmur. John Walden heard his garden gates swing back on their hinges, and a shuffling crunch of numerous small feet on the gravel path.

“G’arn, Susie!” cried a shrill boy’s voice–”If y’are leadin’ us, lead! G’arn!”

A sweet flute-like treble responded to this emphatic adjuration, singing alone, clear and high,

“A branch of May–-” and then all the other voices chimed in:

“A branch of May we have brought you And at your door it stands, ’Tis but a sprout, But ’tis budded out By the work of our Lord’s hands!”

And with this, a great crown of crimson and white blossoms, set on a tall, gaily-painted pole and adorned with bright coloured ribbons, came nid-nodding down the box-tree alley to the middle of the lawn opposite Walden’s study window, where it was quickly straightened up and held in position by the eager hands of some twenty or thirty children, of all sizes and ages, who, surrounding it at its base, turned their faces, full of shy exultation towards their pastor, still singing, but in more careful time and tune:

“The Heavenly gates are open wide, Our paths are beaten plain, And if a man be not too far gone, He may return again.

The moon shines bright and the stars give light A little before it is day, So God bless you all, both great and small, And send you a merrie May!”

II

For a moment or two Walden found himself smitten by so strong a sense of the mere simple sensuous joy of living, that he could do no more than stand looking in silent admiration at the pretty group of expectant young creatures gathered round the Maypole, and huddled, as it were, under its cumbrous crown of dewy blossoms, which showed vividly against the clear sky, while the long streamers of red, white and blue depending from its summit, trailed on the daisy- sprinkled grass at their feet.

Every little face was familiar and dear to him. That awkward lad, grinning from ear to ear, with a particularly fine sprig of flowering hawthorn in his cap, was Dick Styles;–certainly a very different individual to Chaucer’s knight, Arcite, but resembling him in so far that he had evidently gone into the woods early, moved by the same desire: “I hope that I some green here getten may!” That tiny girl, well to the front, with a clean white frock on and no hat to cover her tangle of golden curls, was Baby Hippolyta,–the last, the very last, of the seemingly endless sprouting olive branches of the sexton, Adam Frost. Why the poor child had been doomed to carry the name of Hippolyta, no one ever knew. When he, Walden, had christened her, he almost doubted whether he had heard the lengthy appellation aright, and ventured to ask the godmother of the occasion to repeat it in a louder voice. Whereupon ‘Hip-po-ly-ta’ was uttered in such strong tones, so thoroughly well enunciated, that he could no longer mistake it, and the helpless infant, screaming lustily, left the simple English baptismal font burdened with a purely Greek designation. She was, however, always called ‘Ipsie’ by her playmates, and even her mother and father, who were entirely responsible for her name in the first instance, found it somewhat weighty for daily utterance and gladly adopted the simpler sobriquet, though the elders of the village generally were rather fond of calling her with much solemn unction: ‘Baby Hippolyta,’ as though it were an elaborate joke. Ipsie was one of the loveliest children in the village, and though she was only two-and-a-half years old, she was fully aware of her own charms. She was pushed to the front of the Maypole this morning, merely because she was pretty,–and she knew it. That was why she lifted the extreme edge of her short skirt and put it in her mouth, thereby displaying her fat innocent bare legs extensively, and smiled at the Reverend John Walden out of the uplifted corners of her forget-me-not blue eyes. Then there was Bob Keeley, more or less breathless with excitement, having just got back again from Badsworth Hall, his friend the butcher boy having driven him to and from that place ‘in a jiffy’ as he afterwards described it,–and there was a very sparkling, smiling, vivacious little person of about fifteen, in a lilac cotton frock, who wore a wreath of laburnum on her black curls, no other than Kitty Spruce, generally alluded to in the village as ‘Bob Keeley’s gel’;–and standing near Baby Hippolyta, or ‘Ipsie,’ was the acknowledged young beauty of the place, Susie Prescott, a slip of a lass with a fair Madonna-like face, long chestnut curls and great, dark, soft eyes like pansies filled with dew. Susie had a decided talent for music,–she sang very prettily, and led the village choir, under the guidance of Miss Janet Eden, the schoolmistress. This morning, however, she was risking the duties of conductorship on her own account, and very sweet she looked in her cheap white nuns-veiling gown, wearing a bunch of narcissi carelessly set in her hair and carrying a flowering hazel-wand in her hand, with which she beat time for her companions as they followed her bird-like carolling in the ‘Mayers’ Song.’ But just now all singing had ceased,–and every one of the children had their round eyes fixed on John Walden with a mingling of timidity, affection and awe that was very winning and pretty to behold.

Taking in the whole picture of nature, youth and beauty, as it was set against the pure background of the sky, Walden realised that he was expected to say something,–in fact, he had been called upon to say something every year at this time, but he had never been able to conquer the singular nervousness which always overcame him on such occasions. It is one thing to preach from a pulpit to an assembled congregation who are prepared for orthodoxy and who are ready to listen with more or less patience to the expounding of the same,–but it is quite another to speak to a number of girls and boys all full of mirth and mischief, and as ready for a frolic as a herd of young colts in a meadow. Especially when it happens that most of the girls are pretty, and when, as a clergyman and director of souls, one is conscious that the boys are more or less all in love with the girls,–that one is a bachelor,–getting on in years too;–and that- -chiefest of all–it is May-morning! One may perhaps be conscious of a contraction at the heart,–a tightening of the throat,–even a slight mist before the eyes may tease and perplex such an one–who knows? A flash of lost youth may sting the memory,–a boyish craving for love and sympathy may stir the blood, and may make the gravest parson’s speech incoherent,–for after all, even a minister of the Divine is but a man.

At any rate the Reverend John found it difficult to begin. The round forget-me-not eyes of Baby Hippolyta stared into his face with relentless persistency,–the velvet pansy-coloured ones of Susie Prescott smiled confidingly up at him with a bewildering youthfulness and unconsciousness of charm; and the mischief-loving small boys and village yokels who stood grouped against the Maypole like rough fairy foresters guarding magic timber, were, with all the rest of the children, hushed into a breathless expectancy, waiting eagerly for ‘Passon’ to speak. And ‘Passon’ thereupon began,–in the lamest, feeblest, most paternally orthodox manner:

“My dear children–”

“Hooray! Hooray! Three cheers for ‘Passon’! Hooray!”

Wild whooping followed, and the Maypole rocked uneasily, and began to slant downward in a drunken fashion, like a convivial giant whom strong wine has made doubtful of his footing.

“Take care, you young rascals!” cried Walden, letting sentiment, orthodoxy and eloquence go to the winds,–”You will have the whole thing down!”

Peals of gay laughter responded, and the nodding mass of bloom was swiftly pulled up and assisted to support its necessary horizontal dignity. But here Baby Hippolyta suddenly created a diversion. Moved perhaps by the consciousness of her own beauty, or by the general excitement around her, she suddenly waved a miniature branch of hawthorn and emitted a piercing yell.

“Passon! Tum ‘ere! Passon! Tum ‘ere!”

There was no possibility of ‘holding forth’ after this. A. short address on the brevity of life, as being co-equal with the evanescent joys of a Maypole, would hardly serve,–and a fatherly ambition as to the unbecoming attitude of mendi-cancy assumed by independent young villagers carrying a great crown of flowers round to every house in the neighbourhood, and demanding pence for the show, would scarcely be popular. Because what did the ‘Mayers’ Song say:

“The Heavenly gates are opened wide, Our paths are beaten plain; And if a man be not too far gone, He may return again.”

And the ‘Heavenly gates’ of Spring being wide open, the Reverend John, thought his special path was ‘beaten plain’ for the occasion; and not being ‘too far gone’ either in bigotry or lack of heart, John did what he reverently imagined the Divine Master might have done when He ‘took a little child and set it in the midst.” He obeyed Baby Hippolyta’s imperious command, and to her again loudly reiterated “Passon! Tum ‘ere!” he sprang forward and caught her up in his arms, kissing her rosy cheeks heartily as he did so. Seated in ‘high exalted state’ upon his shoulder. ‘Ipsie’ became Hippolyta in good earnest, so thoroughly aware was she of her dignity, while, holding her as lightly and buoyantly as he would have held a bird, the Reverend John turned his smiling face on his young parishioners.

“Come along, boys and girls!” he exclaimed,–”Come and plant the Maypole in the big meadow yonder, as you did last year! It is a holiday for us all to-day,–for me as well as for you! It has always been a holiday even before the days when great Elizabeth was Queen of England, and though many dear old customs have fallen into disuse with the changing world, St. Rest has never yet been robbed of its May-day festival! Be thankful for that, children!–and come along;–but move carefully!–keep order,–and sing as you come!”

Whereupon Susie Prescott lifted up her pretty voice again and her hazel wand baton at the same moment, and started the chorus with the verse:

“We have been rambling all this night, And almost all this day; And now returning back again, We bring you in the May!”

And thus carolling, they passed through the garden moving meadow- wards, Walden at the head of the procession,–and Baby Hippolyta seated on his shoulder, was so elated with the gladsome sights and sounds, that she clasped her chubby arms round ‘Passon’s’ neck and kissed him with a fervour that was as fresh and delightful as it was irresistibly comic.

Bainton, making his way along the southern wall of the orchard, to take a ‘glance round’ as he termed it, at the condition of the wall fruit-trees before his master joined him on the usual morning tour of inspection, stopped and drew aside to watch the merry procession winding along under the brown stems dotted with thousands of red buds splitting into pink-and-white bloom; and a slow smile moved the furrows of his face upward in various pleasant lines as he saw the ‘Passon’ leading it with a light step, carrying the laughing ‘Ipsie’ on his shoulder, and now and again joining in the ‘Mayers’ Song’ with a mellow baritone voice that warmed and sustained the whole chorus.

“There ‘e goes!” he said half aloud–”Jes’ like a boy!–for all the wurrld like a boy! I reckon ‘e’s got the secret o’ never growin’ old, for all that ‘is ‘air’s turnin’ a bit grey. ‘Ow many passons in this ‘ere neighbrood would carry the children like that, I wonder? Not one on ’em!–though there’s a many to pick an’ choose from–a darned sight too many if you axes my opinion! Old Putty Leveson, wi’s bobbin’ an’ ‘is bowin’s to the east–hor!–hor!–hor!–a fine east ‘e’s got in ‘is mouldy preachin’ barn, wi’ a whitewashed wall an’ a dirty bit o’ tinsel fixed up agin it–he wouldn’t touch a child o’ ourn, to save ‘is life–though ‘e’s got three or four mean, lyin’ pryin’ brats of ‘is own runnin’ wild about the place as might jest as well ‘ave never been born. And as for Francis Anthony, the ‘igh pontiff o’ Riversford, wi’s big altar-cloak embrided for ’im by all the poor skinny spinsters wot ain’t never ‘ad no chance to marry–‘e’d see all the children blowed to bits under the walls of Jericho to the sound o’ the trumpets afore ‘e’d touch ’em! Talk o’ saints!–I’m not very good at unnerstannin’ that kind o’ folk, not seein’ myself ‘owever a saint could manage to get on in this mortal wurrld; but I reckon to think there’s a tollable imitation o’ the real article in Passon Walden–the jolly sort o’ saint, o’ coorse,–not the prayin’, whinin’, snuffin’ kind. ‘E’s been doin’ nothin’ but good ever since ‘e came ‘ere, which m’appen partly from ‘is not bein’ married. If ‘e’d gotten a wife, the place would a’ been awsome different. Not but wot ‘e ain’t a bit cranky over ‘is, flowers ‘isself. But I’d rather ‘ave ’im fussin’ round than a petticut arter me. A petticut at ‘ome’s enough, an’ I ain’t complainin’ on it, though it’s a bit breezy sometimes,–but a petticut in the gard’nin’ line would drive me main wild–it would reely now!”

And still smiling with perfect complacency, he watched the Maypole being carried carefully along the space of grass left open between the fruit trees on either side of the orchard, and followed its bright patch of colour and the children’s faces and forms around it, till it entirely disappeared among the thicker green of a clump of elms that bordered the ‘big meadow,’ which Walden generally kept clear of both crops and cattle for the benefit of the village sports and pastimes.

He was indeed the only land-owner in the district who gave any consideration of this kind to the needs of the people. St. Rest was surrounded on all sides by several large private properties, richly wooded, and possessing many acres of ploughed and pasture land, but there was no public right-of-way across any single one of them, and every field, every woodland path, every tempting dell was rigidly fenced and guarded from ‘vulgar’ intrusion. None of the proprietors of these estates, however, appeared to take the least personal joy or pride in their possessions. They were for the most part away in London for ‘the season’ or abroad ‘out’ of the season,–and their extensive woods appeared to exist chiefly for the preservation of game, reared solely to be shot by a few idle louts of fashion during September and October, and also for the convenience and support of a certain land agent, one Oliver Leach, who cut down fine old timber whenever he needed money, and thought it advisable to pocket the proceeds of such devastation.

Scarcely in one instance out of a hundred did the actual owners of property miss the trees sufficiently to ask what had become of them. So long as the game was all right, they paid little heed to the rest. The partridges and the pheasants thrived, and so did Mr. Oliver Leach. He enjoyed, however, the greatest unpopularity of any man in the neighbourhood, which was some small comfort to those who believed in the laws of compensation and justice. Bainton was his particular enemy for one, and Bainton’s master, John Walden, for another. His long-practised ‘knavish tricks’ and the malicious delight he took in trying to destroy or disfigure the sylvan beauty of the landscape by his brutish ignorance of the art of forestry, combined with his own personal greed, were beginning to be well- known in St. Rest, and it is very certain that on May-morning when the youngsters of the village were abroad and, to a great extent, had it all their own way, (aided and abetted in that way by the recognised authority of the place, the minister himself,) he would never have dared to show his hard face and stiffly upright figure anywhere, lest he should be unmercifully ‘guyed’ without a chance of rescue or appeal.

With the disappearance of the Maypole into the further meadow, Bainton likewise disappeared on his round of duty, which, as he had declared, moved him ‘in sundry places,’ and for a little while the dove-like spirit of Spring brooded in restful silence over the quiet orchard and garden.

The singing of the May-day children had now grown so faint and far as to be scarcely audible,–and the call of the cuckoo shrilling above the plaintive murmur of the wood pigeons, soon absorbed even the echo of the young human voices passing away. A light breeze stirred the tender green grass, shaking down a shower of pink almond bloom as it swept fan-like through the luminous air,–a skylark half lost in the brilliant blue, began to descend earthwards, flinging out a sparkling fountain of music with every quiver of his jewel- like wings, and away in the sheltered shade of a small hazel copse, the faint fluty notes of a nightingale trembled with a mysterious sweetness suggestive of evening, when the song should be full.

More than an hour elapsed, and no living being entered the seclusion of the parson’s garden save Nebbie, the parson’s rough Aberdeen terrier, who, appearing suddenly at the open study-window, sniffed at the fair prospect for a moment, and then, stepping out with a leisurely air of proprietorship lay down on the grass in the full sunshine. A wise-looking dog was Nebbie,–though few would have thought that his full name was Nebuchadnezzar. Only the Reverend John knew that. Nebbie was perfectly aware that the children had come with the Maypole, and that his master had accompanied them to the big meadow. Nebbie also knew that presently that same master of his would return again to make the circuit of the garden in the company of Bainton, according to custom,–and as he stretched his four hairy paws out comfortably, and blinked his brown eyes at a portly blackbird prodding in the turf for a worm within a stone’s throw of him, he was evidently considering whether it would be worth his while, as an epicurean animal, to escort these two men on their usual round on such a warm pleasant morning. For it was a dog’s real lazy day,–a day when merely to lie on the grass was sufficient satisfaction for the canine mind. And Nebbie, yawning extensively, and stretching himself a little more, closed his eyes in a rapture of peace, and stirred his tail slightly with one, two, three mild taps on the soft grass, when a sudden clear whistle caused him to spring up with every hair bristling on end, fore-paws well forward and eyes wide open.

“Nebbie! Nebbie!”

Nebbie was nothing if not thoroughbred, and the voice of his master was, despite all considerations of sleep and sunshine, to him as the voice of the commanding officer to a subaltern. He was off like a shot at a tearing pace, nose down and tail erect, and in less than a minute had scented Walden in the shrubbery, which led by devious windings down from the orchard to the banks of the river Rest, and there finding him, started frantically gambolling round and round him, as though years had parted man and dog from one another, instead of the brief space of an hour. Walden was smiling to himself, and his countenance was extremely pleasant. Nebbie, with the quaint conceit common to pet animals, imagined that the smile was produced specially for him, and continued his wild jumps and barks till his red tongue hung a couple of inches out of his mouth with excess of heat and enthusiasm.

“Nebbie! Nebbie!” said the Reverend John, mildly; “Don’t make such a noise! Down, lad, down!”

Nebbie subsided, and on reaching the river bank, squatted on his haunches, with his tongue still lolling out, while he watched his master step on a small floating pier attached by iron chains and posts to the land, and bend therefrom over into the clear water, looking anxiously downward to a spot he well knew, where hundreds of rare water-lilies were planted deep in the bed of the stream.

“Nymphea Odorata,”–he murmured, in the yearning tone of a lover addressing his beloved;–”Nymphea Chromatella–now I wonder if I shall see anything of them this year! The Aurora Caroliniana must have been eaten up by water-rats!”

Nebbie uttered a short bark. The faintest whisper of ‘rats’ seriously affected his nerves. He could have told his master many a harrowing story of those mischievous creatures swimming to and fro in the peaceful flood, tearing with their sharp teeth at the lily roots, and making a horrible havoc of all the most perfect buds of promise. The river Rest itself was so clear and bright that it was difficult to associate rats with its silver flowing,–yet rats there were, hiding among the osiers and sedges, frightening the moorhens and reed-warblers out of their little innocent lives. Nebbie caught and killed them whenever he could,–but he had no particular taste for swimming, and he was on rather ‘strained relations’ with a pair of swans who, with a brood of cygnets kept fierce guard on the opposite bank against all unwelcome intrusion.

His careful examination of the lily beds done, John Walden sprang back again from the pier to the land, and there hesitated a moment. His eyes rested longingly on a light punt, which, running half out of a rustic boathouse, swayed suggestively on the gleaming water.

“I wish I had time,–” he said, half aloud, while Nebbie wagging his tail violently, sat waiting and expectant. The river looked deliciously tempting. The young green of the silver birches drooping above its shining surface, the lights and shadows rippling across it with every breath of air,–the skimming of swallows to and fro,–the hum of bees among the cowslips, thyme and violets that were pushing fragrantly through the clipped turf,–were all so many wordless invitations to him to go forth into the fair freedom of Nature.

“The green trees whispered low and mild, It was a sound of joy! They were my playmates when a child, And rocked me in their arms so wild! Still they looked on me and smiled As if I were a boy!”

Such simple lines,–by Longfellow too, the despised of all the Sir Oracles of criticism,–yet coming to Walden’s memory suddenly, they touched a chord of vivid emotion.

“And still they whispered soft and low! Oh, I could not choose but go!”