God's Good Man Part 23

"You goes too fur--you goes too fur, Mister Thorpe!" he said severely--"There ain't no keepin' bars nor farmin' carried on in the next world, nor marrying nor givin' in marriage. We be all as the angels there."

"A nice angel you'll make too, Mr. Buggins!" said Farmer Thorpe, as he sent his tankard to be refilled,--"Lord! We won't know you!"

Again the laugh went round, and Mrs. Buggins precipitately retired to her 'inner parlour' there to recover from the shock occasioned to her religious feelings by the irreverent remarks of her too matter- of-fact customer. Meanwhile Dan Ridley, the tailor, had again reverted to the subject of Miss Vancourt.

"There's one thing about her comin' to church,"--he said; "If so be as she did come it 'ud do us all good, for she's real pleasant to look at. I've seen her a many times in the village."

"Ah, so have I!" chorussed two or three more men.

"She's been in to see Adam Frost's children an' she gave Baby Hippolyta a bag o' sweeties,"--said Bainton. "An' she's called at the schoolhouse, but Miss Eden, she worn't in an' Susie Prescott saw her, an' Susie was that struck that she 'adn't a wurrd to say, so she tells us, an' Miss Vancourt she went to old Josey Letherbarrow's straight away an' there she stayed iver so long. She ain't called at our house yet."

"Which 'ouse might you be a-meanin', Tummas?" queried Farmer Thorpe, with a slow grin--"Your own or your measter's?"

"When we speaks in the plural we means not one, but two,"--rejoined Bainton with dignity. "An' when I sez 'our' I means myself an'

Pa.s.son, which Miss Vancourt ain't as yet left her card on Pa.s.son. He went up in a great 'urry one afternoon when he knowed she was out,-- he knowed it, 'cos I told 'im as 'ow I'd seen her gallopin' by on that mare of hers which, they calls Cleopatra-an' away 'e run like a March 'are, an' he ups to the Manor and down again, an' sez he, laughin' like: 'I've done my dooty by the lady' sez he--'I've left my card!' That was three days ago, an' there ain't been no return o'

the perliteness up to the present--"

Here he broke off and began to drink his ale, as a small dapper man entered the bar-room with a brisk step and called for 'a gla.s.s of home-brewed,' looking round on those a.s.sembled with a condescending smile. All of them knew him as Jim Bennett, Miss Vancourt's groom.

"Well, mates!" he said with a sprightly air of familiarity--"All well and hearty?"

"As yourself, Mr. Bennett,"--replied Roger Buggins, acting as spokesman for the rest, and personally serving him with the foaming draught he had ordered. "Which, we likewise trusts your lady is well?"

"My lady enjoys the hest of health, thank you!" said Bennett, with polite gravity. And tossing off the contents of his gla.s.s, he signified by an eloquent gesture and accompanying wink, that he was 'good for another.'

"We was just a-sayin' as you come in, Mr. Bennett," observed Dan Ridley, "that we'd none of us seen your lady at church yet on Sundays, Mebbe she ain't of our 'persuasion' as they sez, or mehbe she goes into Riversford, preferrin' 'Igh services---"

Bennett smiled a superior smile, and leaning easily against the bar, crossed his legs and surveyed the company generally with a compa.s.sionate air.

"I suppose it's quite a business down here,--goin' to church, eh?"

he queried--"Sort of excitement like--only bit of fun you've got-- helps to keep you all alive! That's the country way, but Lord bless you!--in town we're not taking any!"

Bainton looked up,--and Mr. Netlips loosened his collar and lifted his head, as though preparing himself for another flow of 'cohesion'

eloquence. Farmer Thorpe turned his bull-neck slowly round, and brought his eyes to bear on the speaker.

"How d'ye make that out, Mr. Bennett?" he demanded. "Doan't ye sarve the A'mighty same in town as in country?"

"Not a bit of it!" replied Bennett airily--"You're a long way behind the times, Mr. Thorpe!--you are indeed, beggin' your pardon for sayin' so! The 'best' people have given up the Almighty altogether, owing to recent scientific discoveries. They've taken to the Almighty Dollar instead which no science can do away with. And Sundays aren't used any more for church-going, except among the middle-cla.s.s population,--they're just Bridge days with OUR set-- Bridge lunches, Bridge suppers,--every Sunday's chock full of engagements to 'Bridge,' right through the 'season.'"

"That's cards, ain't it?" enquired Dan Ridley.

"Just so! Harmless cards!" rejoined Bennett--"Only you can chuck away a few thousands or so on 'em if you like!"

Mr. Netlips here pushed aside his emptied ale-gla.s.s and raised his fat head unctuously out of his stiff s.h.i.+rt-collar.

"Are we to understand," he began ponderously, "that Miss Vancourt is addicted to this fas.h.i.+on of procrastinating the Lord's Day?"

Bennett straightened his dapper figure suddenly.

"Now don't you put yourself out, Mr. Netlips, don't, that's a good feller!" he said in sarcastically soothing tones--"There's no elections going on just at present--when there is you can bring your best leg foremost, and rant away for all you're worth! My lady don't gamble, if that's what you mean,--though she's always with the swagger set, and likely so to remain. But you keep up your spirits!- -your groceries 'ull be paid for all right!--she don't run up no bills--so don't you fear, cards or no cards! And as for procrastinating the Lord's Day, whatever that may be, I could name to you the folks what does worse than play Bridge on Sundays. And who are they? Why the clergymen theirselves! And how does they do worse? Why by tellin' lies as fast as they can stick! They says we're all going to heaven if we're good,--and they don't know nothing about it,--and we're all going to h.e.l.l if we're bad, and they don't know nothing about that neither! I tell you, as I told you at first, in town we've got beyond all that stuff--we're just not taking any!"

He paused, and there was a deep silence, while he drank off his second gla.s.s of ale. The thoughts of every man present were apparently too deep for words.

"You're a smart chap!" said Bainton at last, breaking the mystic spell and rising to take his leave--"An' I don't want to argify with ye, for I'spect you're about right in what you sez about Sunday ways in town--but I tell ye what, young feller!--you've got to 'ave a deal o' patience an' a deal o' pity for they poor starveling sinners wot gits boxed up in cities an' never ain't got no room to look at the sky, or see the wide fields with all the daisies blowin' open to the sun. No wonder they're so took up wi' their scinetific muddlins over worms an' microbes an' sich-like, as to 'ave forgot what the Almighty is doin' in the workin' o' the Universe,--but it's onny jest like poor prisiners in a cell wot walks up an' down, up an'

down, countin' the stones in the wall with scinetific multiplication-like, an' 'splainin' to their poor lonely selves as how many stones makes a square foot, an' so many square feet makes a square yard, an' on they goes a-walkin' their mis'able little round an' countin' their mis'able little sums, an' all the time just outside the prison the flowers is all bloomin' wild an' the birds singin', an' the blue sky over it all with G.o.d smilin' behind it.

That's 'ow 'tis, Mr. Bennett!" and Bainton looked into the lining of his cap as was his wont before he put it on his head--"I believe all you say right enough, an' it don't put me out nohow--I've seen too much o' natur to be shook off my 'old on the Almighty--for there's no worm wot ain't sure of a rose or some kind o' flower an' fruit somewhere, though m'appen the poor blind thing don't know where to find it. It's case o' leadin' on, an' guidin' beyond our knowledge, Mr. Bennett,--an' that's wot Pa.s.son Walden tells us. HE don't bother us wi' no 'hows' nor 'whys' nor 'wherefores'--he says we can FEEL G.o.d with us in our daily work, an' so we can, if we've a mind to!

Daily work and common things shows Him to us,--why look there!"-- here he pulled from his pocket a small paper-bag, and opening it, showed some dry loose seed--"There ain't nothin' commoner than that!

That's pansy seed--a special stock too,--well now, if you didn't know how common it is, wouldn't it seem a miracle as wonderful as any in the Testymen, that out o' that handful o' dust like, the finest flowers of purple an' yellow will come?--ay! some o' them two to three inches across, an' every petal like velvet an' silk! If so be you don't b'lieve in a G.o.d, Mr. Bennett, owin' to town opinions, you try the gardenin' business! That'll make a man of ye! I allus sez if Adam had stuck to the gardenin' business an' left the tailorin' trade alone we'd have all been in Eden now!"

His eyes twinkled, as glancing round the company, he saw that his words had made an impression and awakened a responsive smile--"Good- night t'ye!" And touching Bennett on the shoulder in pa.s.sing, he added: "You come an' see me, my lad, when you feels like goin' a bit in the scinetific line! Mebbe I can tell ye a few pints wot the learned gentlemen in London don't know. Anyway, a little church- goin' under Pa.s.son Walden won't do you no 'arm, nor your lady neither, if she's what I takes her for, which is believin' her to be all good as wimmin goes. An' when Pa.s.son warms to his work an' tells ye plain as 'ow everything's ordained for the best, an' as 'ow every flower's a miracle of the Lord, an' every bird's song a bit o' the Lord's own special music, it 'eartens ye up an' makes ye more 'opeful o' your own poor mis'able self--it do reely now!"

With another friendly pat on the groom's shoulder, and a cheery smile, Bainton pa.s.sed out, and left the rest of the company in the 'Mother Huff' tap-room solemnly gazing upon one another.

"He speaks straight, he do," said Farmer Thorpe, "An' he ain't no canter,--he's just plain Tummas, an' wot he sez he means."

"Here's to his 'elth,--a game old boy!" said Bennett good- humouredly, ordering another gla.s.s of ale; "It's quite a treat to meet a man like him, and I shan't be above owning that he's got a deal of right on his side. But what he says ain't Orthodox Church teaching."

"Mebbe not," said Dan Kidley, "but it's Pa.s.son Walden's teachin', an' if you ain't 'eard Pa.s.son yet, Mister Bennett, I'd advise ye to go next Sunday. An' if your lady 'ud make up her mind to go too just for once---"

Bennett gave an expressive gesture.

"She won't go--you may depend on that!" he said; "She's had too much of parsons as it is. Why Mrs. Fred--that's her American aunt--was regular pestered with 'em coming beggin' of her for their churches and their windows and their schools and their infants and their poor, lame, blind, sick of all sorts, as well as for theirselves.

D'rectly they knew she was a millionaire lady' they 'adn't got but one thought--how to get some of the millions out of her. There was three secretaries kept when we was in London, and they'd hardly time for bite nor sup with all the work they 'ad, refusin' scores of churches and religious folks all together. Miss Maryllia's got a complete scare o' parsons. Whenever she see a shovel-hat coming she just flew! When she was in Paris it was the Catholics as wanted money--nuns, sisters of the poor, priests as 'ad been turned out by the Government,--and what not,--and out in America it was the Christian Scientists all the time with such a lot of tickets for lectures and fal-lals as you never saw,--then came the Spiritooalists with their seeances; and altogether the Vancourt family got to look on all sorts of religions merely as so many kinds of beggin' boxes which if you dropped money into, you went straight to the Holy-holies, and if you didn't you dropped down into the great big D's. No!--I don't think anyone need expect to see my lady at church--it's the last place she'd ever think of going to!"

This piece of information was received by his hearers with profound gravity. No one spoke, and during the uncomfortable pause Bennett gave a careless 'Good-night!'--and took his departure.

"Things is come to a pretty pa.s.s in this 'ere country," then said Mr. Netlips grandiosely, "when the woman who is merely the elevation of the man, exhibits in public a conviction to which her status is unfitted. If the lady who now possesses the Manor were under the submission of a husband, he would naturally a.s.sume the control which is govemmentally retaliative and so compel her to include the religious considerations of the minority in her communicative system!"

Farmer Thorpe looked impressed, but slightly puzzled.

"You sez fine, Mr. Netlips,--you sez fine," he observed respectfully. "Not that I altogether understands ye, but that's onny my want of book-larnin' and not spellin' through the dictionary as I oughter when I was a youngster. Howsomever I makes bold to guess wot you're drivin' at and I dessay you may be right. But I'm fair bound to own that if it worn't for Mr. Walden, I shouldn't be found in church o' Sundays neither, but lyin' flat on my back in a field wi'

my face turned up to the sun, a-thinkin' of the goodness o' G.o.d, and hopin' He'd put a hand out to 'elp make the crops grow as they should do. Onny Pa.s.son he be a rare good man, and he do speak to the 'art of ye so wise-like and quiet, and that's why I goes to hear him and sez the prayers wot's writ for me to say and doos as he asks me to do. But if I'd been unfort'nit enough to live in the parish of Badsworth under that old liar Leveson, I'd a put my fist in his jelly face 'fore I'd a listened to a word he had to say! Them's my sentiments, mates!--and you can read 'em how you like, Mr. Netlips.

G.o.d's in heaven we know,--but there's onny churches on earth, an' we 'as to make sure whether there's men or devils inside of 'em 'fore we goes kneelin' and grubbin' in front of 'uman idols--Good-night t'ye!"

With these somewhat disjointed remarks Farmer Thorpe strode out of the tap-room, whistling loudly to his dog as he reached the door.

The heavy tramp of his departing feet echoed along the outside lane and died away, and Roger Buggins, glancing at the sheep-faced clock in the bar, opined that it was 'near closin' hour.' All the company rose and began to take their leave.

"Church or no church, Miss Vancourt's a real lady!" declared Dan Bidley emphatically--"She may have her reasons, an' good ones too, for not attending service, but she ain't no heathen, I'm sartin'

sure o' that."

"You cannot argumentarially be sure of what you do not know," said Mr. Netlips, with a tight smile, b.u.t.toning on his overcoat--"A heathen is a proscription of the law, and cannot enjoy the rights of the commons."

Dan stared.

"There ain't no proscription of the law in stayin' away from church," he said--"n.o.body's bound to go. Lords nor commons can't compel us."

Mr. Netlips shook his head and frowned darkly, with the air of one who could unveil a great mystery if he chose.