"That is Miss Vancourt's dismissed agent,"—said Adderley, pausing a moment to watch his uncertain progress up the road. "What an objectionable beast!"
He walked on, and, his former train of thought being entirely disturbed, he went to the 'Mother Huff,' where he was a frequent visitor, his elaborate courtesies to Mrs. Buggins enabling him to hear from that lady's pious lips all the latest news, scandal and gossip, true or untrue, concerning the whole neighbourhood.
Walden, meanwhile, finding himself once more alone in his own domain, breathed freely. The faithful Nebbie, who had passed all the hours of his master's absence, 'on guard' by the window of the vacant study, came running to meet him as he set foot upon the lawn,—three or four doves that were brooding on the old tiled and gabled roof of the rectory, rose aloft in a short flight and descended again, cooing softly as though with satisfaction at his return,—and there was a soothing silence everywhere, the work of the day being done, and Bainton having left the garden trim and fair to its own sweet solitude and calm. Gently patting his dog's rough head, as the animal sprang up to him with joyous short barks of welcome, John looked about him quietly for a moment or two with an expression in his eyes that was somewhat dreamy and pathetic.
"I have known the old place so long and loved every corner of it!"— he murmured—"And yet,—to-day it seems all strange and unfamiliar!"
The glow of the sunset struck a red flare against the walls of his house, and beat out twinkling diamond flashes from the latticed windows,—the clambering masses of honeysuckle and roses shone forth in vivid clusters as though inwardly illuminated. The warmth and ecstasy of life seemed palpitating in every flush of colour, every shaft of light,—and the wild, voluptuous singing of unseen skylarks, descending to their nests, and shaking out their songs, as it seemed, like bubbles of music breaking asunder in the clear empyrean, expressed the rapture of heaven wedded to the sensuous, living, breathing joys of earth. The glamour and radiance of the air affected Walden with a sudden unwonted sense of fatigue and pain, and pressing one hand across his eyes, he shut out the dazzle of blue sky and green grass for a moment's respite,—then went slowly, and with bent head into his study. Here everything was very quiet,— and, as it struck him then, curiously lonely,—on his desk lay various notes and messages and accounts—the usual sort of paper litter that accumulated under his hands every day,—two or three visiting cards had been left for him during his absence,—one on the part of the local doctor, a very clever and excellent fellow named James Forsyth, who was familiarly called 'Jimmy' by the villagers, and who often joined Walden of an evening to play a game of chess with him,—and another bearing the neat superscription 'Mrs. Mandeville Poreham. The Leas. At Home Thursdays,'—whereat he smiled. Mrs. Mandeville Poreham was a 'county' lady, wife of a gentleman-at-ease who did nothing but hunt, and who never had done anything in all his life but hunt,—she was also the mother of five marriageable daughters, and her calls on the Reverend John were marked by a polite and patient persistency that seemed altogether admirable. She lived some two miles out of St. Rest, but always attended Walden's church regularly, driving thither with her family in a solemnly closed private omnibus of the true 'county' type. She professed great interest in all Church matters, on the ground that she was herself the daughter of a dead-and-gone clergyman.
"My poor father!" she was wont to say, smoothing her sleek bandeaux of grey hair on either side of her forehead with one long, pale, thin finger—"He was such a good man! Ah yes!—and he had such a lovely mind! My mother was a Beedle."
This last announcement, generally thrown in casually, was apt to be startling to the uninitiated,—and it was not till the genealogy of the Beedle family had been duly explained to the anxious enquirer, that it was seen how important and allsufficing it was to have had a Beedle for one's maternal parent. The Beedles were a noted 'old stock' in Suffolk, so it appeared,—and to be connected with a Suffolk Beedle was, to certain provincial minds of limited perception, a complete guarantee of superior birth and breeding. Walden was well accustomed to receiving a call from Mrs. Poreham about every ten days or so, and he did his utmost best to dodge her at all points. Bainton was his ready accomplice in this harmless conspiracy, and promptly gave him due warning whenever the Poreham ''bus' or landau was seen weightily bearing down upon the village, with the result that, on the arrival of the descendant of the Beedles at the rectory door she was met by Hester Rockett, the parlourmaid, with a demure smile and the statement,—'Mr. Walden is out, mim.' Then, when Walden, according to the laws of etiquette, had to return the lady's visit, Bainton again assisted him by watching and waiting till he could inform him, ''as 'ow he'd seen that blessed old Poreham woman drivin' out with 'er fam'ly to Riversford. They won't likely be back for a couple of hours at least.' Whereupon Walden straightway took a swinging walk up to 'The Leas,' deposited his card with the footman, for the absent 'fam'ly' and returned again in peace to his own dwelling.
This afternoon he had again, as usual, missed the worthy lady, and he set aside her card, the smile with which he had glanced at it changing suddenly to a sigh of somewhat wearied impatience. Surely there was something unusually dark and solitary in the aspect of the room to which, for so many years, he had been accustomed, and where he had generally found comfort and contentment? The vivid hues of the sunset were declining rapidly, and the solemn shadow of evening was creeping up apace over the sky and outer landscape—but something heavier than the mild obscurity of approaching night seemed weighing on the air around him, which oppressed his nerves and saddened his soul. He stood absently turning over the papers on his desk, in a frame of mind which left him uncertain how to employ himself,—whether to read,—to write,—to finish a sketch of the flowering reeds on the river which he had yesterday begun,—or to combat with his own mood, fathom its meaning, and conquer its tendency? There came a light tap at his door and the maid Hester entered with a letter.
"The last post, sir. Only one for you."
He took it up indifferently as the girl retired,—then uttered a slight exclamation of pleasure.