III
Of the many ill things done in the name of beauty during the last hundred years, none, surely, can compare in sheer wantonness with the restorations of our old village churches. In this matter pious iconoclasts have wrought more mischief than Cromwell and his Ironsides ever succeeded in doing, and the lover of rural England, in the course of his pilgrimage, has perpetually thrust on his notice the loveliness without, wedded to the plaintive ugliness within, of buildings raised to the glory of God in a more creative as well as in a holier age than ours.
Here and there, becoming, however, pitifully few as time goes on, the seeker may even now find a village church to the interior of which no desecration has as yet been offered. But such survivals owe their temporary lease of life either to the happy indifference of a wise neighbourhood, or to the determined eccentricity and obstinate conservatism of an incumbent happening to be on intimate terms of friendship—or enmity will serve as well—with the patron of the living.
Such had been the fortunate case of the parish church of Marston Lydiate, and Wantley felt a thrill of pleasure when he saw how completely untouched everything had been left since the distant days of his childhood.
Together he and his wife made their way among the square old-fashioned pews, first to one and then to another of the holly-decked tombs and monuments of long-dead Wantleys. At last the young man led Cecily up to the most ancient, as also to the most ornate, of these, one taking up the greater part of one aisle.
The monument represented Sir George Wantley, of Marston Lydiate, Knight, who in the year 1609 had rebuilt the church. His effigy in armour, bare-headed and kneeling, was under a pillared canopy, and at some little distance was the statue of his wife under a similar canopy. The inscription set forth that their married life, if brief, had been unclouded by dissension, and that 'His lady, left alone, lived alone,' till, having attained her eightieth year, 'she was again joined unto her husband in this place.'
'So,' said Wantley, very soberly, 'would you wish our poor Penelope to be. She has been left alone, and now you would condemn her to live alone.'
But Cecily made no answer. She only looked very kindly at the stiff figure of the steadfast dame whose name she now herself bore, and whose conduct she so thoroughly understood and approved.
As they walked through the church gate, a boy came running up breathless. He held a telegram in his hand, and began, in the native dialect, an involved explanation as to why it had not been delivered before.
'Oh, it's addressed to you,' said Wantley, handing it to his wife.
Cecily opened it. 'I don't understand,' she began, but he saw her cheeks turn bright pink. 'I don't think it can be meant for me at all.'
Wantley looked over her shoulder. 'It certainly is not meant for you,' he said dryly.
The message, which had been sent from Simla, consisted in the words:
'Penelope and I were married to-day by Archdeacon of Lahore. Please have proper announcement put in Times.—Your affectionate son, David Winfrith.'
Wantley and Cecily looked at one another in silence. Then, fumbling about in his pocket, the young man finally handed the astonished and gratified boy half a sovereign. 'It's fair that someone should win the bet,' he said, with a queer whimsical smile, and then, after the recipient of his bounty had gone off, he added: 'Well, Cecily?'
'You are always right, and I am always wrong,' she cried, half laughing, and yet her eyes filling with tears. 'But, oh! do let us hurry back and give this to Lady Wantley. I shall have to explain to her how stupid it was of me to open it.'
They walked along in almost complete silence, till suddenly Wantley said musingly: 'I wonder how much David Winfrith knows—I wonder if she has told him——'
But Cecily looked up at him very reproachfully, and as if she herself were being accused—of what? 'There was very little to know,' she said vehemently, 'and very, very little to tell.'
'If you make half as good a wife as you are friend,' exclaimed Wantley, 'I shall be more than content.'
THE TEMPLE PRESS, PRINTERS, LETCHWORTH
Transcriber's Note:
A Table of Contents has been added.