XVIII

I was the first Sunday in July. Under a sky of pure and cloudless blue the village of St. Rest lay cradled in floral and foliage loveliness, with all the glory of the morning sunshine and the full summer bathing it in floods of living gold. It had reached the perfect height of its annual beauty with the full flowering of its orchards and fields, and with all the wealth of colour which was flung like spray against the dark brown thatched roofs of its clustering cottages by the masses of roses, red and white, that clambered as high as the tops of the chimneys, and turning back from thence, dropped downwards again in a tangle of blossoms, and twined over latticed windows with a gay and gracious air like garlands hung up for some great festival. The stillness of the Seventh Day's pause was in the air, even the swallows, darting in and out from their prettily contrived nests under the bulging old-fashioned eaves, seemed less busy, less active on their bright pinions, and skimmed to and fro with a gliding ease, suggestive of happy indolence and peace. The doors of the church were set wide open, and Adam Frost, sexton and verger, was busy inside the building, placing the chairs, as was his usual Sunday custom, in orderly rows for the coming congregation. It was about half-past ten, and the bell-ringers, arriving and ascending into the belfry, were beginning to 'tone' the bells before pealing the full chime for the eleven o'clock service, when Bainton, arrayed in his Sunday best, strolled with a casual air into the churchyard, looked round approvingly for a minute or two, and then with some apparent hesitation, entered the church porch, lifting his cap reverently as he did so. Once there, he coughed softly to attract Frost's attention, but that individual was too much engrossed with his work to heed any lesser sound than the grating of the chairs he was arranging. Bainton waited patiently, standing near the carved oaken portal, till by chance the verger turned and saw him, whereupon he beckoned mysteriously with a crook'd forefinger. "Adam! Hi! A word wi' ye!"

Adam came down the nave somewhat reluctantly, his counte

nance showing signs of evident preoccupation and harass

ment.

"What now?" he demanded, in a hoarse whisper-" Can't ye see I'm busy?"

"O' coorse you're busy-I knows you're busy,"-returned Bainton, soothingly-"I ain't goin' to keep ye back nohow. All I wants to know is, ef it's true?"

"Ef what's true?"

66

"This 'ere, wot the folks are all a' clicketin' about,—that Miss Vancourt 'as got a party o' Lunnon fash'nables stayin' at the Manor, an' that they're comin' to church this marnin'?" True enough!" said Frost-"Don't ye see me a-settin' chairs for 'em near the poopit? There'll be what's called a 'crush' I can tell ye!-for there ain't none too much room in the church at the best o' times for our own poor folk, but when rich folks comes as well, we'll be put to it to seat 'em. Mister Primmins, he comes down to me nigh 'arf an hour ago, an' he sez, sez he: Miss Vancourt 'as friends from Lunnon stayin' with 'er, an' they're comin' to church this marnin'. 'Ope you'll find room?' An' I sez to 'im, 'I'll do my best, but there ain't no reserve seats in the 'ouse o' God, an' them as comes fust gits fust served.' Ay, it's true enough they're a-comin', but 'ow it got round in the village, I don't know. I ain't sed a wurrd."

"Ill news travels fast," said Bainton, sententiously, "Mister Primmins no doubt called on his young 'ooman at the 'Mother Huff' an' told 'er to put on 'er best 'at. She's a reg'ler telephone tube for information-any bit o' news runs right through 'er as though she was a wire. 'Ave ye told Passon Waldon as 'ow Miss Vancourt an' visitors is a-comin' to 'ear 'im preach?"

"No,"-replied Adam, with some vigour "I ain't told 'im nothin'. An' I ain't goin' to neither!"

Bainton looked into the crown of his cap, and finding his handkerchief there wiped the top of his head with it.

"It be powerful warm this marnin', Adam," he said"Powerful warm it be. So you ain't goin' to tell Passon nothin',-an' for why, may I ask, if to be so bold?"

"Look 'ere, Tummas,"-rejoined the verger, speaking slowly and emphatically-"Passon, 'e be a rare good man, m'appen no better man anywheres, an' what he's goin' to say to us this blessed Sunday is all settled-like. He's been thinkin' it out all the week. He knows what's what. "Tain't for us,-'tain't for you nor me, to go puttin' 'im out an' tellin' 'im o' the world,

the flesh an' the devil all a-comin' to church.

Mebbe he's

been a-prayin' to the Lord A'mighty to put the 'Oly Spirit into 'im, an' mebbe he's got it-just there." And Adam touched his breast significantly. "Now if I goes, or you goes and sez to 'im: 'Passon, there's fash'nable folks from Lunnon comin' 'ere to look at ye an' listen to ye, an' for all we kin tell make mock o' ye as well as o' the Gospel itself in their 'arts'— d'ye think he'd be any the better for it? No, Tummas, no! I say leave Passon alone. Don't upset 'im. Let 'im come out of 'is 'ouse wise an' peaceful like as he allus do, an' let 'im speak as the fiery tongues from Heaven moves 'im, an' as if there worn't no fashion nor silly nonsense in the world. He's best so, Tummas!-you b'lieve me,-he's best so!"

"Mebbe-mebbe!" and Bainton twirled his cap round and round dubiously-"But Miss Vancourt

"Miss Vancourt ain't been to church once till now," said Adam,-"An' she's only comin' now to show it to her friends. I doesn't want to think 'ard of her, for she's a sweet-looking little lady an' a kind one-an' my Ipsie just worships 'er,-an' what my baby likes I'm bound to like too-but I do 'ope she ain't a 'eathen, an' that once comin' to church means comin' again, an' reg'lar ever arterwards. Anyway, it's for you an' me, Tummas, to leave Passon to the Lord an' the fiery tongues, we ain't no call to interfere with 'im by tellin' 'im who's comin' to church an' who ain't. Anyone's free to enter the 'ouse o' God, rich or poor, an' 'tain't a world's wonder if strangers worships at the Saint's Rest as well as our own folk."

Here the bells began to ring in perfect unison, with regular rhythm and sweet concord.

"I must go,"-continued Adam-"I ain't done fixin' the chairs yet, an' it's a quarter to eleven. We'll be 'avin 'em all 'ere d'rectly."

He hurried into the church again just as Miss Eden and her boy-and-girl' choir' entered the churchyard, and Bainton seeing them, and also perceiving in the near distance the slow halting figure of Josey Letherbarrow, who made it a point never to be a minute late for divine service, rightly concluded that there was no time now, even if he were disposed to such a course, to warn Passon' that he would have to preach to 'fashionable folks' that morning.

"Mebbe Adam's right," he reflected-" An' yet it do worry me a bit to think of 'im comin' out of 'is garden innercent like an' not knowin' what's a-waitin' for 'im. For he's been rare

quiet lately-seems as if he was studyin' an' prayin' from mornin' to night, an' he ain't bin nowhere,-an' no one's bin to see 'im, 'cept that scarecrow-lookin' chap, Adderley, which he stayed a 'ole arternoon, jabberin' an' readin' to 'im. An' what's mighty queer to me is that he ain't bin fidgettin' over 'is garden like he used to. He don't seem to care no more whether the flowers blooms or doesn't. Them phloxes up against the west wall now-a finer show I never seen-an' as for the lilum candidum, they're a perfect picter. But he don't notice 'em much, an' he's not so keen on his water-lilies as I thought he would be, for they're promisin' better this year than they've ever done before, an' the buds all a-floatin' up on top o' the river just lovely. An' as for vegetables-Lord!-he don't seem to know whether 'tis beans or peas he 'as-there's a kind o' sap gone out o' the garden this summer, for all that it's so fine an' flourishin'. There's a missin' o' somethin' somewheres!"

His meditations were put to an end by the continuous arrival of all the villagers coming to church; by twos and threes, and then by half dozens and dozens, they filed in through the churchyard, exchanging brief neighbourly greetings with one another as they passed quietly into the sacred edifice, where the soft strains of the organ now began to mingle with the outside chiming of the bells. Bainton still lingered near the porch, moved by a pardonable curiosity. He was anxious to see the first glimpse of the people who were staying at the Manor, but as yet there was no sign of any one of them, though the time wanted only five minutes to eleven.

The familiar click of the latch of the gate which divided the church precincts from the rectory garden, made him turn his head in that direction, to watch his master approaching the scene of his morning's ministrations. The Reverend John walked slowly, with uplifted head and tranquil demeanour, and, as he turned aside up the narrow path which led to the vestry at the back of the church the faithful 'Tummas' felt a sudden pang. 'Passon' looked too good for this world, he thought, his dignity of movement, his serene and steadfast eyes, his fine, thoughtful, though somewhat pale countenance, were all expressive of that repose and integrity of soul which lifts a man above the common level, and unconsciously to himself, wins for him the silent honour and respect of all his fellows. And yet there was a touch of pathetic isolation about him, too, as of one who is with, yet not of, the ordinary joys, hopes, and loves of humanity, and it was this which instinc

tively moved Bainton, though that simple rustic would have been at a loss to express the sense of what he felt in words. However there was no more leisure for thinking, if he wished to be in his place at the commencement of service. The servants from Abbot's Manor were just entering the churchyardgates, marshalled, as usual, by the housekeeper, Mrs. Spruce, and her deaf but ever dutiful husband,-and though Bainton longed to ask one of them if Miss Vancourt and her guests were really coming, he hesitated,-and in that moment of hesitation the whole domestic retinue passed into church before him, and he judged it best and wisest to follow quickly in silence, lest, when prayers began, his master should note his absence.

The building was very full,-and it was difficult to see where, if any strangers did arrive, they could be accommodated. Miss Eden, in her capacity as organist, was still playing the opening voluntary, but, despite the fact that there was no apparent disturbance of the usual order of things, there was a certain air of hushed expectancy among the people which was decidedly foreign to the normal atmosphere of St. Rest. The village lasses looked at each other's hats with keener interest,-the lads fidgeted with their ties and collars more strenuously, and secreted their caps more surreptitiously behind their legs,-and the most placid-looking personage in the whole congregation was Josey Letherbarrow, who, in a very clean smock, with a small red rose in his buttonhole, and his silvery hair parted on either side and just touching his shoulders, sat restfully in his own special corner not far from the pulpit, leaning on his stick and listening with rapt attention to the fall and flow of the organ music as it swept round him in soft and ever decreasing eddies of sound. The bells ceased, and eleven o'clock struck slowly from the church tower. At the last stroke, the Reverend John entered the chancel in his plain white surplice, spotless as new-fallen snow, -and as he knelt for a moment in silent devotion, the voluntary ended with a grave, long, sustained chord. A pause, and then the 'Passon rose, and faced his little flock, his hand laid on the open 'Book of Common Prayer.'

"When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive."

Walden's voice rang clear and sonorous,-the sunshine pouring through the plain glass of the high rose-window behind and above him, shed effulgence over the ancient sarcophagus