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

world with you?” Alas, the world had gone very ill with her for a long, long time after his death! Hers was too loving and passionately clinging a nature to find easy consolation for such a loss. Her uncle Frederick, though indulgent to her and always kind, had never filled her father’s place,—her uncle Frederick’s American wife, had, in spite of much conscientious tutelage and chaperonage, altogether failed to win her affection or sympathy. The sorrowful sense that she was an orphan, all alone as it were with herself to face the mystery of life, never deserted her,—and it was perhaps in the most brilliant centres of society that this consciousness of isolation chiefly weighed upon her. She saw other girls around her with their fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters,—but she—she, by the very act of being born had caused her mother’s death,—and she well knew that her father’s heart, quietly as he had endured his grief to all outward appearances, had never healed of that agonising wound.

“I think I should never have come into the world at all,”—she said to herself with a sigh, as she returned over the fields to the Manor—“I am no use to anybody,—I never have been of any use! Aunt Emily says all I have to do to show my sense of proper feeling and gratitude to her for her care of me is to marry—and marry well— marry Lord Roxmouth, in short—he will be a duke when his father dies, and Aunt Emily would like to have the satisfaction of leaving her millions to enrich an English dukedom. Nothing could commend itself more favourably to her ideas—only it just happens my ideas won’t fit in the same groove. Oh dear! Why can’t I be ‘amenable’ and become a future duchess, and ‘build up’ the fortunes of a great family? I don’t know I’m sure,—except that I don’t feel like it! Great families don’t appeal to me. I shouldn’t care if there were none left. They are never interesting at the best of times,—perhaps out of several of them may come one clever man or woman,—and all the rest will be utter noodles. It isn’t worth while to marry Roxmouth on such dubious grounds of possibility!”

Entering the Manor, she was conscious of some fatigue and listlessness,—a touch of depression weighed down her naturally bright spirits. She exchanged her home-spun walking dress for a tea- gown, and descended somewhat languidly to the morning-room where tea was served with more ceremoniousness than on the previous day, Primmins having taken command, with the assistance of the footman. Both men-servants stole respectful glances at their mistress, as she sat pensively alone at the open window, looking out on the verdant landscape that spread away from the terrace, in undulations of lawn, foliage and field to the last border of trees that closed in Abbot’s Manor grounds from the public highway. Both would have said had they been asked, that she was much too pretty and delicate to be all alone in the great old house, with no companion of her own age to exchange ideas with by speech or glance,—and, with that masculine self-assurance which is common to all the lords of creation, whether they be emperors or household domestics, they would have opined that ‘she ought to be married.’ In which they would have entirely agreed with Maryllia’s ‘dragon’ Aunt Emily. But Maryllia’s own mind was far from being set on such themes as love and marriage. Her meditations were melancholy, and not unmixed with self-reproach. She blamed herself for having stayed away so long from her childhood’s home, and her father’s grave.

“I might have visited it at least once a year!” she thought with sharp compunction—“I never really forgot,—why did I seem to forget?”

The sun was sinking slowly in a glory of crimson and amber cloud, when, having resolved upon what she was going to do, she entered the picture-gallery. Softly she trod the polished floor,—with keen quick instinct and appreciative eyes, she noted the fine Vandyke portraits,—the exquisite Greuze that shone out, star-like, from a dark corner of the panelled walls,—and walking with measured pace she went straight up to the picture of ‘Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt’—and gazed at it with friendly and familiar eyes.

“I know YOU quite well!”—she said, addressing the painted beauty— “I have often dreamed about you since I left home! I always admired you and wanted to be like you. I remember when I must have been about seven or eight years old, I ran in from a game in the garden one summer’s afternoon, and I knelt down in front of you and I said: ‘Pray God make little Maryllia as pretty as big Mary Elia!’ And I think,—I really do think—though of course I’m not half or quarter as pretty, I’m just a little like you! Just a very, very little! For instance my hair is the same colour—almost—and my eyes—no! I’m sure I haven’t such beautiful eyes as yours—I wish I had!”

Her lovely ancestress appeared to smile,—if she could have spoken from the canvas that held her painted image she might have said:— “You have eyes that mirror the sunshine,—you have life, and I am dead,—your day is still with you—mine is done! For me love and the world’s delight are ended,—and whither my phantom fairness has fled, who knows! But you are a vital breathing essence of beauty—be glad and rejoice in it while you may!”

Some thought of this kind would have suggested itself to an imaginative beholder had such an one stood by to compare the picture with its almost twin living copy. Maryllia however had a very small stock of vanity,—she was only pleasantly aware that she possessed a certain grace and fascination not common to the ordinary of her sex, but beyond that, she rated her personal charms at very slight value. The portrait of Mary Elia Adelgisa made her more seriously discontented with herself than ever,—and after closely studying the picturesque make of the violet velvet riding-dress which the fair one of Charles the Second’s day had worn, and deciding that she would have one ‘created’ for her own adornment exactly like it, she turned towards the other end of the gallery. There hung that preciously guarded mysterious portrait of her dead mother, which she herself had never gazed upon, covered close with its dark green baize curtain,—a curtain no hand save her father’s had ever dared to raise. She remembered how often he had used to enter here all alone and lock the doors, remaining thus in sorrow and solitude many hours. She recalled her own childish fears when, by chance running in to look at the pictures for her own entertainment, or to play with her ball on a rainy day for the convenience of space and a lofty ceiling, she was suddenly checked and held in awe by the sight of that great gilded frame enshrining the, to her, unknown presentment of a veiled Personality. Her father alone was familiar with the face hidden behind that covering which he had put up with his own hands,—fastening it by means of a spring pulley, which in its turn was secured to the wall by lock and key. Ever since his death Maryllia had worn that key on a gold chain hidden in her bosom, and she drew it out now with a beating heart and many tremours of hesitation. The trailing folds of her pretty tea-gown, all of the filmiest old lace and ivory-hued cashmere, seemed to make an obtrusive noise as they softly swept the floor,—she felt almost as though she were about to commit a sacrilege and break open a shrine,—yet—

“I must see her!” she said, whisperingly—“I shall not offend her memory. I have never done anything very wrong in my life,—if I had, I should have reason to be afraid—or ashamed,—and then of course wouldn’t dare to look at her. I have often been silly and frivolous and thoughtless,—but never spiteful or malicious, or really wicked. I could meet my father if he were here, just as frankly as if I were still a little girl,—and I think he would wish me to see his Dearest now! His Dearest! He always called her that!”

With the breath coming and going quickly through her parted lips, she stepped slowly and timidly up to that corner in the wall behind the picture, where the fastenings of the spring pulley were concealed, and fitted the key into the padlock which guarded it. The light of the setting sun threw a flame of glory aslant through the windows, and filled the gallery with a warm rush of living colour and radiance; and as she removed the padlock, and came to the front of the picture to pull the curtain-cord, she stood, unconsciously to herself, in a pure halo of gold, which intensified the brown and amber shades of her hair and the creamy folds of her gown, so that she resembled ‘an angel newly drest, save wings, for heaven,’ such as one may see delineated on the illuminated page of some antique missal. Her hand trembled, as at the first touch on the pulley the curtain began to move,—inch by inch it ascended, showing pale glimmerings of white and rose,—still higher it moved, giving to the light a woman’s beautiful hand, so delicately painted as to seem almost living. The hand held a letter, and plainly on the half unfolded scroll could be read the words:

“Thine till death, ROBERT VANCOURT.”

Another touch, and the whole covering rolled up swiftly to its full height,—while Maryllia breathless with excitement and interest gazed with all her soul in her eyes at the exquisite, dreamy, poetic loveliness of the face disclosed. All the beauty of girlhood with the tenderness of womanhood,—all the visions of young romance, united to the fulfilled passion of the heart,—all the budding happiness of a radiant life,all the promise of a perfect love;- these were faithfully reflected in the purely moulded features, the dark blue caressing eyes, and the sweet mouth, which to Maryllia’s fervid imagination appeared to tremble plaintively with a sigh of longing for the joy of life that had been snatched away so soon. Arrayed in simplest white, with a rose at her breast, and her husband’s letter clasped in her hand, the fair form of the young bride that never came home gathered from the sunset-radiance an aspect of life, and seemed to float forth from the dark canvas like a holy spirit of beauty and blessing. Shadow and Substance—dead mother and living child—these twain gazed on each other through cloud-veils of impenetrable mystery,—nor is it impossible to conceive that some intangible contact between them might, through the transference of a thought, a longing, a prayer, have been realised at that mystic moment. With a sudden cry of irresistible emotion Maryllia stretched out her arms, and dropping on her knees, broke out into a passion of tears.

“Oh mother, mother!” she sobbed—“Oh darling mother! I would have loved you!”

XII

In such wise, under the silent benediction of the lost loving dead, the long-deserted old Manor received back the sole daughter of its ancestry to that protection which we understand, or did understand at one time in our history, as ‘Home.’ Home was once a safe and sacred institution in England. There seemed no likelihood of its ever being supplanted by the public restaurant. That it has, in a great measure, been so supplanted, is no advantage to the country, and that many women, young and old, prefer to be seen in gregarious over-dressed hordes, taking their meals in Piccadilly eating-houses, rather than essay the becoming grace of a simple and sincere hospitality to their friends in their own homes, is no evidence of their improved taste or good breeding. Abbot’s Manor was in every sense ‘Home’ in the