The 'Petol' board displayed on the front of Mr. Netlips' shop, however, was just one of those slight indications which showed the vague change that had crept over the erstwhile tranquil atmosphere of St. Rest. Among other signs and tokens of internal disquiet was the increasing pomposity of the village post-mistress, Mrs. Tapple. Mrs. Tapple had grown so accustomed to various titles and prefixes of rank among the different guests who came in turn to stay at the Manor, that whereas she had at one time stood in respectful awe of old Pippitt because he was a 'Sir,' she now regarded him almost with contempt. What was a 'Sir' to a 'Lord'? Nothing!—less than nothing! For during one week she had sold stamps to a real live Marquis and post-cards to a 'Right Honourable,' besides despatching numerous telegrams for the Countess of Beaulyon. By all the gods and little fishes, Sir Morton Pippitt had sunk low indeed!—for when Mrs. Tapple, bridling with scorn, said she 'wondered 'ow a man like 'im wot only made his money in bone-boilin' would dare to be seen with Miss Vancourt's real quality' it was felt that she was expressing an almost national sentiment.
Taking everything into consideration, it was not to be denied that the new element infused into the little village community had brought with it a certain stir and excitement, but also a sense of discontent. And John Walden, keenly alive to every touch of feeling, was more conscious of the change than many another man would have been who was not endowed with so quick and responsive a nature. He noted the quaint self-importance of Mrs. Tapple with a kindly amusement, not altogether unmixed with pain,—he watched regretfully the attempts made by the young girls of his little parish to trick themselves out with cheap finery imported from the town of Riversford, in order to imitate in some fashion, no matter how far distant, the attire of Lady Beaulyon, whose dresses were a wonder, and whose creditors were legion,—and he was sincerely sorry to see that even gentle and pretty Susie Prescott had taken to a new mode of doing her hair, which, though elaborate, did not suit her at all, and gave an almost bold look to an otherwise sweet and maidenly countenance.
"But I am old,—and old-fashioned too!"—he said to himself, resignedly—"The world must move on—and as it moves it is bound to leave old times behind it—and me with them. I must not complain— nor should I, even in my own heart, find too many reproaches for the ways of the young."
And involuntarily he recalled Tennyson's lines:—
"Only 'dust to dust' for me that sicken at your lawless din,—
Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the newer world begin!"
"'Wholesome old-world dust'!" he mused—"Yes! I think it WAS more wholesome than our too heavily manured soil!"
And a wave of pained regret and yearning arose in him for the days when life was taken more quietly, more earnestly, more soberly—with the trust and love of God inspiring the soul to purity and peace— when to find a woman who was at the same time an atheist was a thing so abnormal and repulsive as to excite the utmost horror in society. Society! why, now, many women in society were atheists, and made no secret of their shame!
"I must not dwell on these thoughts,"—he said, resolutely. "The sooner I see Brent, the better. I've accepted his invitation for the last week of this month—I can be spared then for two or three days- -indeed, I doubt whether I shall even be missed! The people only want me on Sundays now—and—though I do try not to notice it,—a good many of the congregation are absent from their usual places."
He sighed. He would not admit to himself that it was Maryllia Vancourt—'Maryllia Van'—or rather her guests who had exercised a maleficent influence on his little cure of souls, and that because the 'quality' did not go to church on Sundays, then some of the villagers,—like serfs under the sway of nobles,—stayed away also. He realised that he had given offence to this same 'quality,' by pausing in his reading, when they entered late on the one occasion they did attend divine service,—but he did not care at all for that. He knew, that the truth of the mischief wrought by the idle, unthinking upper classes of society, is always precisely what the upper classes do not want to hear;—and he was perfectly aware in his own mind that his short, but explicit sermon, on the 'Soul,' had not been welcome to any one of his aristocratic hearers, while it had been a little over the heads of his own parishioners.
"Mere waste of words!" he mused, with a kind of self-reproach—"I don't know why I chose the text or subject at all. Yes—yes!—I do know! Why do I play the deceiver with myself! She was there—so winsome—so pretty!—and her soul is sweet and pure;—it must be sweet and pure, if it can look out of such clear windows as her eyes. Let all the world go, but keep that soul, I thought!—and so I spoke as I did. But I think she scarcely listened—it was all waste of time, waste of words,—waste of breath! I shall be glad to see dear old Brent again. He wants to talk to me, he says—and I most certainly want to talk to him. After the dinner-party at the Manor, I shall be free. How I dread that party! How I wish I were not going! But I have promised her—and I must not break my word!"