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

But I can’t agree with all the churches teach about Him. They make Him out to be a cruel, jealous and revengeful Being—

-”

“Mr. Walden don’t---,” put in Mrs. Spruce, quickly.

“And I like to think of Him as all love and pity and goodness,” went on Maryllia, not heeding her—“and I don’t say prayers, because I think He knows what is best for me without my asking. Do you understand? So it’s really no use my going to church, unless just out of curiosity—and perhaps I will some day do that,—I’ll see about it! But I must know Mr. Walden a little better first,—I must find out for myself what kind of a man he is, before I make up my mind to endure such a martyrdom as listening to a sermon! I simply loathe sermons! I suppose I must have had too many of them when I was a child. Surely you remember, Spruce, that I used to be taken into Riversford to church?” Mrs. Spruce nodded emphatically in the affirmative. “Yes!—because when father was alive the church here was only a ruin. And I used to go to sleep over the sermons always— and once I fell off my seat and had to be carried out. It was dreadful! Now Uncle Fred never went to church,—nor Aunt Emily. So I’ve quite got out of the way of going—nobody is very particular about it in Paris or London, you see. But perhaps I’ll try and hear Mr. Walden preach—just once—and I’ll tell you then what I think about it. I’ll put his card on the mantelpiece to remind me!”

And she suited the action to the word, Mrs. Spruce gazing at her in a kind of mild stupefaction. It seemed such a very odd thing to stick up a clergyman’s card as a reminder to go to church ‘just once’ some Sunday.

Meanwhile Maryllia continued, “Now, Spruce, you must begin to be busy! You must prepare the Manor for the reception of all sorts of people, small and great. I feel that the time has come for ‘company, company!’ And in the first place I’m going to send for Cicely Bourne,—she’s my pet ‘genius’—and I’m paying the cost of her musical education in Paris. She’s an orphan—like me—she’s all alone in the world—like me;—and we’re devoted to each other. She’s only a child—just over fourteen—but she’s simply a wonder!—the most wonderful musical wonder in the world!—and she has a perfectly marvellous voice. Her master Gigue says that when she is sixteen she will have emperors at her feet! Emperors! There are only a few,—but they’ll all be grovelling in the dust before her! You must prepare some pretty rooms for her, Spruce, those two at the top of the house that look right over the lawn and woods—and make everything as cosy as you can. I’ll put the finishing touches. And I must send to London for a grand piano. There’s only the dear old spinet in the drawing-room,—it’s sweet to sing to, and Cicely will love it,—but she must have a glorious ‘grand’ as well. I shall wire to her to- day,—I know she’ll come at once. She will arrive direct from Paris,—let me see!”—and she paused meditatively—“when can she arrive? This is Friday,—yes!—probably she will arrive here Sunday or Monday morning. So you can get everything ready.”

“Very well, Miss,” and Mrs. Spruce, with the usual regulation ‘dip’ of respectful submission to her mistress was about to withdraw, when Maryllia called her back and handed over to her care the wicker basket full of visiting-cards.

“Put them all by,”—she said—“When Cicely comes we’ll go through them carefully together, and discuss what to eat, drink and avoid. Till then, I shall blush unseen, wasting my sweetness on the desert air! Time enough and to spare for making the acquaintance of the ‘county.’ Who was it that said: Never know your neighbours’? I forget,—but he was a wise man, anyway!”

Mrs. Spruce ‘dipped’ a second time in silence, and was then allowed to depart on her various household duties. The good woman’s thoughts were somewhat chaotically jumbled, and most fervently did she long to send for ‘Passon,’ her trusted adviser and chief consoler, or else go to him herself and ask him what he thought concerning the non-church-going tendencies of her mistress. Was she altogether a lost sheep? Was there no hope for her entrance into the heavenly fold?

“Which I can’t and won’t believe she’s wicked,”—said Mrs. Spruce to herself—“With that sweet childie face an’ eyes she couldn’t be! M’appen ‘tis bad example,—‘er ‘Merican aunt ‘avin’ no religion as ‘twere, an’ ‘er uncle, Mr. Frederick, was never no great shakes in ‘is young days if all the truth was told. Well, well! The Lord ‘e knows ‘is own, an’ my ‘pinion is He ain’t a-goin’ to do without Miss Maryllia, for it’s allus ‘turn again, turn again, why will ‘ee die’ sort of thing with Him, an’ He don’t give out in ‘is patience. I’m glad she’s goin’ to ‘ave a friend to stay with ‘er,—that’ll do ‘er good and ‘earten her up—an’ mebbe the friend’ll want to go to church, an’ Miss Maryllia ‘ull go with her, an’ once they listens to Passon ‘twill be all right, for ‘is voice do draw you up into a little bit o’ heaven somehow, whether ye likes it or not, an’ if Miss Maryllia once ‘ears ‘im, she’ll be wanting to ‘ear ‘im again— so it’s best to leave it all in the Lord’s ‘ands which makes the hill straight an’ the valleys crooked, an’ knows what’s good for both man and beast. Miss Maryllia ain’t goin’ to miss the Way, the Truth an’ the Life—I’m sartin sure o’ that!”

Thus Mrs. Spruce gravely cogitated, while Maryllia herself, unaware of the manner in which her immortal destinies were being debated by the old housekeeper, put on her hat, and ran gaily across the lawn, her great dog bounding at her side, making for the usual short-cut across the fields to the village. Arrived there she went straight to the post-office, a curious little lop-sided half-timbered cottage with a projecting window, wherein, through the dusty close-latticed panes could be spied various strange edibles, such as jars of acidulated drops, toffee, peppermint balls, and barley-sugar— likewise one or two stray oranges, some musty-looking cakes, a handful or so of old nuts, and slabs of chocolate protruding from shining wrappers of tin-foil,—while a flagrant label of somebody’s ‘Choice Tea’ was suspended over the whole collection, like a flag of triumph. The owner of this interesting stock-in-trade and the postmistress of St. Rest, was a quaint-looking little woman, very rosy, very round, very important in her manner, very brisk and bright with her eyes, but very slow with her fingers.

“Which I gets the rheumatiz so bad in my joints,” she was wont to say—“that I often wonders ‘ow I knows postage-stamps from telegram- forms an’ register papers from money-orders, an’ if you doos them things wrong Gove’nment never forgives you!”

“Ah, you’ll never get into no trouble with Gove’nment, Missis Tapple!” her gossips were wont to assure her, “For you be as ezack as ezack!”

A compliment which Mrs. Tapple accepted without demur, feeling it to be no more than her just due. She was, however, in spite of her ‘ezack’ methods, always a little worried when anything out of the ordinary occurred, and she began to feel slightly flustered directly she saw Maryllia swing open her garden gate. She had already, during the last few days, been at some trouble to decipher various telegrams which the lady of the Manor had sent down by Primmins for immediate despatch, such as one to a certain Lord Roxmouth which had run as follows:—“No time to reply to your letter. In love with pigs and poultry.”

“It IS ‘pigs and poultry,’ ain’t it?” she had asked anxiously of Primmins, after studying the message for a considerable time through, her spectacles. And Primmins, gravely studying it, too, had replied:—

“It is undoubtedly ‘pigs and poultry.’”

“And it IS ‘in love’ you think?” pursued Mrs. Tapple, with perplexity furrowing her brow.

“It is certainly ‘in love,’” rejoined Primmins, and the faintest suggestion of a wink affected his left eyelid.

Thereupon the telegram was ‘sent through’ to Riversford on its way to London, though not without serious misgivings in Mrs. Tapple’s mind as to whether it might not be returned with a ‘Gove’nment’ query as to its correctness. And now, when Maryllia herself entered the office, and said smilingly, “Good-morning! Some foreign telegram-forms, please!” Mrs. Tapple felt that the hour was come when her powers of intelligence were about to be tried to the utmost; and she accordingly began to experience vague qualms of uneasiness.

“Foreign telegram-forms, Miss? Is it for Ameriky?”

“Oh, no!—only for Paris,”—and while the old lady fumbled nervously in her ‘official’ drawer, Maryllia glanced around the little business establishment with amused interest. She had a keen eye for small details, and she noticed with humorous appreciation Mrs. Tapple’s pink sun-bonnet hanging beside the placarded ‘Post Office Savings Bank’ regulations, and a half side of bacon suspended from the ceiling, apparently for ‘curing’ purposes, immediately above the telegraphic apparatus. After a little delay, the required pale yellow ‘Foreign and Colonial’ forms were found, and Mrs. Tapple carefully flattened them out, and set them on her narrow office counter.

“Will you have a pencil, or pen and ink, Miss?” she enquired.

“Pen and ink, please,” replied Maryllia; whereat the old postmistress breathed a sigh of relief. It would be easier to make out anything at all ‘strange and uncommon’ in pen and ink than in pencil-marks which had a trick of ‘rubbing.’ Leaning lightly against the counter Maryllia wrote in a clear bold round hand:

“Miss CICELY BOURNE, “17 RUE CROISIE, PARIS. “Come to me at once. Shall want you all summer. Have wired Gigue. Start to-morrow. “MARYLLIA VANCOURT.”

She pushed this over to Mrs. Tapple, who thankfully noting that she was writing another, took time to carefully read and spell over every word, and mastered it all without difficulty. Meanwhile Maryllia prepared her second message thus:

“Louis GIGUE, “CONSERVATOIRE, PARIS. “Je desire que Cicely passe l’ete avec moi et qu’elle arrive immediatement. Elle peut tres-bien continuer ses etudes ici. Vous pouvez suivre, cher maitre, a votre plaisir. “MARYLLIA VANCOURT.”

“It’s rather long,”—she said thoughtfully, as she finished it. “But for Gigue it is necessary to explain fully. I hope you can make it out?”

Poor Mrs. Tapple quivered with inward agitation as she took the terrible telegram in hand, and made a brave effort to rise to the occasion.

“Yes, Miss,” she stammered, “Louis Gigue—G.i.g.u.e., that’s right— yes—at the Conservatory, Paris.”

“‘No, no!” said Maryllia, with a little laugh—“Not Conservatory— Conservatoire—TOIRE, t.o.i.r.e., the place where they study music.”

“Oh, yes—I see!” and Mrs. Tapple tried to smile knowingly, as she