God's Good Man by Marie Corelli (speld decodable readers txt) 📕

he still possessed was of a pleasantly- bright silver hue. The first impression he created was always one of kindness and benevolence,—the hearts of women especially invariably went out to him, and murmurs of ‘What a dear old man!’ and ‘What a darling old man!’ frequently escaped lips feminine in softest accents. He was very courtly to women,—when he was not rude; and very kind to the poor,—when he was not mean. His moods were fluctuating; his rages violent; his temper obstinate. When he did not succeed in getting his own way, his petulant sulks resembled those of a spoilt child put in a corner, only they lasted longer. There was one shop in Riversford which he had not entered for ten years, because its owner had ventured, with trembling respect, to contradict him on a small matter. Occasionally he could be quite the ‘dear darling old man’ his lady admirers judged him to be,—but after all, his servants knew him best. To them, ‘Sir Morton was a caution.’ And that is precisely what he was; the definition entirely summed up his character. He had one great passion,—the desire to make himself ‘the’ most important person in the county, and to be written about in the local paper, a hazy and often ungrammatical organ For the chancel appeared to demand special reverence, from the nature of a wonderful discovery made in it during the work of restoration,—a discovery which greatly helped to sustain and confirm the name of both church and village as ‘St. Rest,’ and to entirely disprove the frequently-offered suggestion that it could ever have been meant for ‘St. East.’ And this is how the discovery happened.

One never-to-be-forgotten morning when the workmen were hewing away at the floor of the chancel, one of their pickaxes came suddenly in contact with a hard substance which gave back a metallic echo when the blow of the implement came down upon it. Working with caution, and gradually clearing away a large quantity of loose stones, broken pieces of mosaic and earth, a curious iron handle was discovered attached to a large screw which was apparently embedded deep in the ground. Walden was at once informed of this strange ‘find’ and hastened to the spot to examine the mysterious object. He was not very long in determining its nature.

“This is some very ancient method of leverage,” he said, turning round to the workmen with an excitement he could barely conceal; “There is something precious underneath in the ground,—something which can probably be raised by means of this handle and screw. Dig round it about a yard away from the centre,—loosen the earth gently—be very careful!”

They obeyed; and all that day Walden stood watching them at work, his mind divided between hope and fear, and his spirit moved by the passionate exultation of the antiquary whose studies and researches are about to be rewarded with unexpected treasure. Towards sunset the men came upon a large oblong piece of what appeared to be alabaster, closely inlaid with patterns of worn gold and bearing on its surface the sculptured emblems of a cross, a drawn sword and a crown of laurel leaves intertwisted with thorns, the whole most elaborately wrought, and very little injured. As this slowly came to light, Walden summoned all hands to assist him in turning the great iron screw which now stood out upright, some three or four feet from the aperture they had been digging. Wondering at his ‘fancy’ as they termed it, they however had full reliance on his proved knowledge of what he was about, and under his guidance they all applied themselves to the quaint and cumbrous iron handle which had been the first thing discovered, and with considerable difficulty began to day to the effect that as the Reverend John Walden was now the possessor of the living of St. Rest and had furthermore obtained a ‘faculty’ for the proper restoration of the church, which was to be carried out at the said John Walden’s own risk and personal expenditure, the matter was not open to any outside discussion. Whereat, Sir Morton’s fury became so excessive that he actually shut up Badsworth Hall and went away for a whole year, greatly to the relief of the editor of the ‘Riversford Gazette,’ who was able to dismiss him with a comfortable paragraph, thus:

“Sir Morton Pippitt has left Badsworth Hall for a tour round the world. Miss Pippitt accompanies her distinguished father.”

Then followed a spell of peace;—and the restoration of the church at St. Rest was quietly proceeded with. Lovingly, and with tenderest care for every stone, every broken fragment, John Walden pieced together the ruined shrine of ancient days, and managed at last to trace and recover the whole of the original plan. It had never been a large building, its proportions being about the same as those of Roslin Chapel, near Edinburgh. The task of restoration was costly, especially when carried out with such perfection and regard to detail,—but Walden grudged nothing to make it complete, and superintended the whole thing himself, rejecting all the semi- educated suggestions of the modern architect, and faithfully following out the ideas of the particular period in which the church was originally designed by those to whom the building of a ‘God’s House’ was a work of solemn prayer and praise. The ancient stones were preserved, and wherever modern masonry was used, it was cunningly worked in to look as time-worn as the Norman walls, while the lancet windows were filled with genuine old stained glass purchased by degrees from different parts of England, each fragment being properly authenticated. A groined roof, simple yet noble in outline, covered in the building; ornamented with delicately rounded mouldings alternated with hollows so planned as to give the most forcible effects of light and shade according to the style of English Early Pointed work, and the only thing that was left incomplete was the pierced circular window above the chancel, which Walden sought to fill with stained glass of such indubitable antiquity and beauty of design that he was only able to secure it bit by bit at long intervals. While engaged in collecting this, he judged it best to fill the window with ordinary clear glass rather than put in inferior stuff. age system exactly in the middle of the chancel, fronting the altar, we will let it remain there and occupy its own original place. The chancel could not have a grander ornament!

And so, in the middle of the chancel, between the altar and the steps which separated that part of the church from the main body of the building, the mysterious undated relic lay under the warm light of the eastern window, and people who were interested in antiquities came from far and near to see it, though they could make no more of it than Walden himself had done. The cross and sword might possibly indicate martyrdom; the laurels and thorn fame. Certainly there were no signs that the dumb occupant of that sealed coffer was a monarch of merely earthly power and state. When the alabaster came to be thoroughly cleansed and polished, part of the inscription could be deciphered in the following letters of worn gold:

Sancta. vixit. Sancta obit.. In. coelum.. sanctorum., transmigravit… In Resurrectione Sanctorum resurget M.. Beatse. ma.. R.

But to what perished identity these significant words applied remained an impenetrable mystery. Every old record was carefully searched,—every scrap of ancient history wherein the neighbourhood of St. Rest had ever been concerned was turned over and over by the patient and indefatigable John Walden, who followed up many suggestive tracks eagerly and lost them again when apparently just on the point of finding some sure clue,—till at last he gave up the problem in despair and contented himself and his parishioners by accepting the evident fact that in the old church at one time or another some saint or holy abbot had been buried,—hence the name of St. Rest or ‘The Saint’s Rest,’ which had become attached to the village. But at what exact period such saint or abbot had lived and died, was undiscoverable.

When the restoration of the sacred shrine was completed, and an expectant congregation filled it to overflowing to assist at the solemn service of its re-dedication to the worship of God, not one among them all but was deeply impressed by the appearance of the restored chancel, with its beautiful columns and delicate capitals, arching like a bower of protection over the altar, and over that wonderful white sarcophagus lying turn it round and round. As they proceeded laboriously in this task, while the screw creaked and groaned under the process with a noise as of splitting timber, all at once the oblong slab of alabaster moved, and rose upward about an inch.

“To it, boys!” cried Walden, his eyes sparkling; “To it again, and harder! We shall have it with us in an hour!”

And truly, in somewhat less than an hour the strange old-world lever had lifted what it must often have lifted in a similar way in bygone years,—a magnificent and perfectly preserved sarcophagus, measuring some six or seven feet long by three feet wide, covered with exquisite carving at the sides, representing roses among thorns, the flowers having evidently at one time been centred with gems and which even now bore traces of gold. Round the lid there was some dim lettering which was scarcely discernible,—the lid itself was firmly closed and strongly cemented.

Exclamations of wonder, admiration, and excitement broke from all who had been engaged in the work of excavation, and presently the whole village ran out to see the wonderful relic of a forgotten past, all chattering, all speculating, all staring, Walden alone stood silent; his head bared,—his hands clasped. He knew that only some great saint or holy recluse could have ever been so royally enshrined in ancient days, and the elaborate system of leverage used seemed to prove that the body laid within that wrought alabaster and gold must have been considered to be of that peculiar nature termed ‘miraculous,’ and worthy to be lifted from its resting-place into the chancel on certain particular occasions for the homage and reverence of the people. The sun poured down upon the beautiful object lying there,—on the groups of workmen who, instinctively imitating Walden’s example, had bared their heads,—on the wrinkled worn faces of old village men and women,—on the bright waving locks of young girls, and the clear enquiring eyes of children, all gazing at the strange treasure-trove their ruined church had given up to the light of a modern day. Presently the chief workman, asked Walden in a hushed voice:

“Shall we break it open, sir?”

“No,—never!” replied Walden gently but firmly; “That would be sacrilege. We may not lightly disturb the dead! The ashes enshrined in this wonderful casket must be those of one who was dear to the old-time church. They shall rest in peace. And as this sarcophagus is evidently fixed by its leversouls, and awakening them to hopeful considerations of a happier end than the mere grave.”

Ten years, however, had now passed since John Walden had bought the living, and of these ten years three had been occupied in the restoration of the church, so that seven had elapsed since it had been consecrated. And during those seven years not once had Bishop Brent been seen again in St. Rest. He remained in the thoughts of the people as an indefinable association with whom they would fain have had more to do. Sir Morton Pippitt had passed from the sixties into the seventies, very little altered;—still upright, still inflexible and obstinate of temperament, he ruled the neighbourhood, Riversford especially, as much as was possible to him now that much of the management of St. Rest had passed under the quieter, but no less firm authority