These objections were after all, so he told himself, really rooted in masculine selfishness,—the absorbing selfishness of old bachelorhood, which had grown round him like a shell, shutting him out altogether from the soft influences of feminine attraction,—so much so indeed that he had even come to look upon his domestic indoor servants as obliging machines rather than women,—machines which it was necessary to keep well oiled with food and wages, but which could scarcely be considered as entering into his actual life more than the lawn-mower or the roasting-jack. Yet he was invariably kind to all his dependants,—invariably thoughtful of all their needs,—nevertheless he maintained a certain aloofness from them, not only because he was by nature reserved, but because he judged reserve necessary in order to uphold respect. In sickness or trouble, no one could be more quietly helpful or consolatory than he; and in the company of children he threw off all restraint and was as a child himself in the heartiness and spontaneity of his mirth and good humour,—but with all women, save the very aged and matronly, he generally found himself at a loss, uncertain what to say to them, and equally uncertain as to how far he might accept or believe what they said to him. The dark eyes of a sparkling brunette embarrassed him as much as the dreamy blue orbs of a lily-like blonde,—they were curious dazzlements that got into his way at times, and made him doubtful as to whether any positive sincerity ever could or ever would lurk behind such bewildering brief flashes of light which appeared to shine forth without meaning, and vanish again without result. And in various ways,—he now began to think,— he must certainly have grown inordinately, outrageously selfish!— his irritation at the prospective return of Miss Vancourt proved it. He determined to brace himself together and put the lurking devil of egotism down.
"Put it down!" he said inwardly and with sternness,—"put it down— trample it under foot, John, my boy! The lady of the Manor is perhaps sent here to try your patience and prove the stuff that is in you! She is no child,—she is twenty-seven years of age—a full grown woman,—she will have her ways, just as you have yours,—she will probably rub every mental and moral hair on the skin of your soul awry,—but that is really just what you want, John,—you do indeed! You want something more irritating than Sir Morton Pippitt's senile snobberies to keep you clean of an overgrowth or an undergrowth of fads! Your powers of endurance are about to be put to the test, and you must come out strong, John! You must not allow yourself to become a querulous old fellow because you cannot always do exactly as you like!"
He smiled genially at his own mental scolding of himself, and addressing Bainton once more, said:
"I shall probably write a note to Miss Vancourt this afternoon, and send you up with it. I shall tell her all about the Five Sisters, and ask her to give orders that the cutting down of the trees may be delayed till she has seen them for herself. But don't say anything about this in the village," here he paused a moment, and then spoke with greater emphasis—"I don't want to interfere with anything anybody else may have on hand. Do you understand? We must save the old beeches somehow. I will do my best, but I may fail; Miss Vancourt may not read my letter, or if she does, she may not be disposed to attend to it; it is best that all ways and means should be, tried,—"
He broke off,—but his eyes met Bainton's in a mutual flash of understanding.
"You're a straight man, Passon, and no mistake," observed Bainton with a slow smile; "No beatin' about the bush in the likes o' you! Lord, Lord! What a mussy we ain't saddled with a poor snuffling, addle-pated, whimperin' man o' God like we 'ad afore you come 'ere— what found all 'is dooty an' pleasure in dinin' with Sir Morton Pippitt up at the 'All! And when there was a man died, or a baby born, or some other sich like calamity in the village, he worn't never to 'and to 'elp,-but he would give a look in when it was all over, and then he sez, sez he: 'I'm sorry, my man, I wasn't 'ere to comfort ye, but I was up at the 'All.' And he did roll it round and round in his mouth like as 'twas a lump o' butter and 'oney—'up at the 'All'! Hor-hor-hor! It must a' tasted sweet to 'im as we used to say,—and takin' into consideration that Sir Morton was a bone- melter by profession, we used to throw up the proverb 'the nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat'—not that it had any bearin' on the matter, but a good sayin's a good thing, and a proverb fits into a fancy sometimes better'n a foot into a shoe. But you ain't a snuffler, Passon!—and you ain't never been up at the 'All, nor wouldn't go if you was axed to, and that's one of the many things what makes you a gineral favourite,—it do reely now!"
Walden smiled, but forbore to continue conversation on this somewhat personal theme. He retired into his own study, there to concoct the stiffest, most clerical, and most formal note to Miss Vancourt that he could possibly devise. He had the very greatest reluctance to attempt such a task, and sat with a sheet of notepaper before him for some time, staring at it without formulating any commencement. Then he began: "The Rev. John Walden presents his compliments to Miss Vancourt, and begs to inform her—"
No, that would never do! 'Begs to inform her' sounded almost threatening. The Rev. John Walden might 'beg to inform her' that she had no business to wear pink shoes with high heels, for example. He destroyed one half sheet of paper, put the other half economically aside to serve as a stray leaflet for 'church memoranda,' and commenced in a different strain.
"Dear Madam,"
"Dear Madam!" He looked at the two words in some annoyance. They were very ugly. Addressed to a person who wore pink shoes, they seemed singularly abrupt. And if Miss Vancourt should chance to resemble in the least her ancestress, Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt, they were wholly unsuitable. A creditor might write 'Dear Madam' to a customer in application for an outstanding bill,— but to Mary Elia Adelgisa one would surely begin,—Ah!—now how would one begin? He paused, biting the end of his penholder. Another half sheet of notepaper was wasted, and equally another half sheet devoted to 'church memoranda.' Then he began: