J. S. Le Fanus Ghostly Tales, Volume 3 | Page 7

mistake or exaggeration; and if good men turned up their
hands and eyes after a new story, and ladies of experience, who knew
mankind, held their heads high and looked grim and mysterious at
mention of his name, nevertheless an interval of silence softened
matters a little, and the sulphureous perfume dissipated itself in time.
Now that Sir Bale Mardykes had arrived at the Hall, there were hurried
consultations held in many households. And though he was tried and
sentenced by drum-head over some austere hearths, as a rule the law of
gravitation prevailed, and the greater house drew the lesser about it, and
county people within the visiting radius paid their respects at the Hall.
The Reverend Martin Bedel, the then vicar of Golden Friars, a stout

short man, with a mulberry-coloured face and small gray eyes, and
taciturn habits, called and entered the drawing-room at Mardykes Hall,
with his fat and garrulous wife on his arm.
The drawing-room has a great projecting Tudor window looking out on
the lake, with its magnificent background of furrowed and purple
mountains.
Sir Bale was not there, and Mrs. Bedel examined the pictures, and
ornaments, and the books, making such remarks as she saw fit; and
then she looked out of the window, and admired the prospect. She
wished to stand well with the Baronet, and was in a mood to praise
everything.
You may suppose she was curious to see him, having heard for years
such strange tales of his doings.
She expected the hero of a brilliant and wicked romance; and listened
for the step of the truant Lovelace who was to fulfil her idea of manly
beauty and fascination.
She sustained a slight shock when he did appear.
Sir Bale Mardykes was, as she might easily have remembered, a
middle-aged man--and he looked it. He was not even an
imposing-looking man for his time of life: he was of about the middle
height, slightly made, and dark featured. She had expected something
of the gaiety and animation of Versailles, and an evident cultivation of
the art of pleasing. What she did see was a remarkable gravity, not to
say gloom, of countenance--the only feature of which that struck her
being a pair of large dark-gray eyes, that were cold and earnest. His
manners had the ease of perfect confidence; and his talk and air were
those of a person who might have known how to please, if it were
worth the trouble, but who did not care twopence whether he pleased or
not.
He made them each a bow, courtly enough, but there was no smile--not
even an affectation of cordiality. Sir Bale, however, was chatty, and did

not seem to care much what he said, or what people thought of him;
and there was a suspicion of sarcasm in what he said that the rustic
literality of good Mrs. Bedel did not always detect.
"I believe I have not a clergyman but you, sir, within any reasonable
distance?"
"Golden Friars is the nearest," said Mrs. Bedel, answering, as was her
pleasure on all practicable occasions, for her husband. "And
southwards, the nearest is Wyllarden--and by a bird's flight that is
thirteen miles and a half, and by the road more than nineteen--twenty, I
may say, by the road. Ha, ha, ha! it is a long way to look for a
clergyman."
"Twenty miles of road to carry you thirteen miles across, hey? The
road-makers lead you a pretty dance here; those gentlemen know how
to make money, and like to show people the scenery from a variety of
points. No one likes a straight road but the man who pays for it, or who,
when he travels, is brute enough to wish to get to his journey's end."
"That is so true, Sir Bale; one never cares if one is not in a hurry. That's
what Martin thinks--don't we, Martin?--And then, you know, coming
home is the time you are in a hurry--when you are thinking of your cup
of tea and the children; and then, you know, you have the fall of the
ground all in your favour."
"It's well to have anything in your favour in this place. And so there are
children?"
"A good many," said Mrs. Bedel, with a proud and mysterious smile,
and a nod; "you wouldn't guess how many."
"Not I; I only wonder you did not bring them all."
"That's very good-natured of you, Sir Bale, but all could not come at
one bout; there are--tell him, Martin--ha, ha, ha! there are eleven."
"It must be very cheerful down at the vicarage," said Sir Bale

graciously; and turning to the vicar he added, "But how unequally
blessings are divided! You have eleven, and I not one--that I'm aware
of."
"And then, in that direction