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

and my particular hobby is gardening. I love flowers, and I go everywhere I can, or may, to see them and watch their growth. So that for years I have visited your rose-garden, Miss Vancourt! I have been a regular and persistent trespasser,—but all the same, I have never plucked a rose.”

“Well, I wish you had!” said Maryllia, feeling somewhat impatient with him for calling himself an ‘old fogey,’—why did he give himself away?—she thought,—“I wish you had plucked them all and handed them round in baskets to the villagers, especially to the old and sick persons. It would have been much better than to have had them sold at Riversford through Oliver Leach.”

“Did he sell them?” exclaimed John, quickly—“I am not surprised!”

“He sold everything, and put the money in his own pocket”—said Maryllia,—“But, after all, the loss is quite my own fault. I ought to have enquired into the management of the property myself. And I certainly ought not to have stayed away from home so many years. But it’s never too late to mend!” She smiled, and advancing a step or two called “Cicely!”

Cicely turned, looking up from beneath her spreading canopy of dark cedar boughs.

“Oh, Maryllia, we’re having such fun!” she exclaimed—“Mr. Adderley is talking words, and I’m talking music! We’ll show you how it goes presently!”

“Do, please!” laughed Maryllia; “It must be delightful! Mr. Walden and I are going into the rose-garden. We shall be back in a few minutes!”

She moved along, her white dress floating softly over the green turf, its delicate flounces and knots of rosy ribbon looking like a trail of living flowers. Walden, walking at her side, nodded smilingly as he passed close by Cicely and Julian, his tall athletic figure contrasting well with Maryllia’s fairy-like grace,—and presently, crossing from the lawn to what was called the ‘Cherry- Tree Walk,’ because the path led under an arched trellis work over which a couple of hundred cherry-trees were trained to form a long arbour or pergola, they turned down it, and drawing closer together in conversation, under the shower of white blossoms that shed fragrance above their heads, they disappeared. Cicely, struck by a certain picturesqueness, or what she would have called a ‘stage effect’ in the manner of their exit, stopped abruptly in the pianissimo humming of a tune with which she declared she had been suddenly inspired by some lines Adderley had just recited.

“Isn’t she pretty!” she said, indicating with a jerk of her ever gesticulating hand the last luminous glimmer of Maryllia’s vanishing gown—“She’s like Titania,—or Kilmeny in Fairyland. Why don’t you write something about HER, instead of about some girl you ‘imagine’ and never see?”

Adderley, lying at his ease on the grass, turned on his arm and likewise looked after the two figures that had just passed, as it seemed, into a paradise of snowy flowers.

“The girls I ‘imagine’ are always so much better than those I see,”- -he replied, with uncomplimentary candour.

“Thank you!” said Cicely—“You are quite rude, you know! But it doesn’t matter.”

He stared up at her in vague astonishment.

“Oh, I didn’t mean you!” he explained—“You’re not a girl.”

“No, really!” ejaculated Cicely—“Then what am I, pray?”

He looked at her critically,—at her thin sallow little face with the intense eyes burning like flame under her well-marked black eyebrows,—at her drooping angular arms and unformed figure, tapering into the scraggy, long black-stockinged legs which ended in a pair of large buckled shoes that covered feet of a decidedly flat- iron model,—then he smiled oddly.

“You are a goblin!”—he said—“An elf,—a pixie—a witch! You were born in a dark cave where the sea dashed in at high tide and made the rough stones roar with music. There were sea-gulls nesting above your cradle, and when the wind howled, and you cried, they called to you wildly in such a plaintive way that you stopped your tears to listen to them, and to watch their white wings circling round you! You are not a girl—no!—how can you be? For when you grew a little older, the invisible people of the air took you away into a great forest, and taught you to swing yourself on the boughs of the trees, while the stars twinkled at you through the thick green leaves,—and you heard the thrushes sing at morning and the nightingales at evening, till at last you learned the trill and warble and the little caught sob in the throat which almost breaks the heart of those who listen to it? And so you have become what you are, and what I say you always will be—a goblin—a witch!—not a girl, but a genius!”

He waved his hand with fantastic gesture and raked up his hair.

“That’s all very well and very pretty,”—said Cicely, showing her even white teeth in a flashing ‘goblin’ grin,—“But of course you don’t mean a word of it! It’s merely a way of talking, such as poets, or men that call themselves poets, affect when the ‘fit’ is on them. Just a string of words,—mere babble! You’d better write them down, though,—you musn’t waste them! Publishers pay for so many words I believe, whether they’re sense or nonsense,—please don’t lose any halfpence on my account! Do you know you are smiling up at the sky as if you were entirely mad? Ordinary people would say you were,—people to whom dinner is the dearest thing in life would suggest your being locked up. And me, too, I daresay! You haven’t answered my question,—why don’t you write something about Maryillia?”

“She, too, is not a girl,”—rejoined Adderley—“She is a woman. And she is absolutely unwritable!”

“Too lovely to find expression even in poetry,”—said Cicely, complacently.

“No no!—not that! Not that!” And Adderley gave a kind of serpentine writhe on the grass as he raised himself to a half-sitting posture— “Gentle Goblin, do not mistake me! When I say that Miss Vancourt is unwritable, I would fain point out that she is above and beyond the reach of my Muse. I cannot ‘experience’ her! Yes—that is so! What a poet needs most is the flesh model. The flesh model may be Susan, or Sarah, or Jane of the bar and tap-room,—but she must have lips to kiss, hair to touch, form to caress---”

“Saint Moses!” cried Cicely, with an excited wriggle of her long legs—“Must she?”

“She must!” declared Julian, with decision—“Because when you have kissed the lips, you have experienced a ‘sensation,’ and you can write—‘Ah, how sweet the lips I love.’ You needn’t love them, of course,—you merely try them. She must be amenable and good-natured, and allow herself to be gazed at for an hour or so, till you decide the fateful colour of her eyes. If they are blue, you can paraphrase George Meredith on the ‘Blue is the sky, blue is thine eye’ system— if black, you can recall the ‘Lovely as the light of a dark eye in woman,’ of Byron. She must allow you to freely encircle her waist with an arm, so that having felt the emotion you can write—“How tenderly that yielding form, Thrills to my touch!’ And then,—even as a painter who pays so much per hour for studying from the life,— you can go away and forget her—or you can exaggerate her charms in rhyme, or ‘imagine’ that she is fairer than Endymion’s moon-goddess- for so long as she serves you thus she is useful,-but once her uses are exhausted, the poet has done with her, and seeks a fresh sample. Hence, as I say, your friend Miss Vancourt is above my clamour for the Beautiful. I must content myself with some humbler type, and ‘imagine’ the rest!”

“Well, I should think you must, if that’s the way you go to work!” said Cicely, with eyes brimful of merriment and mischief—“Why you are worse than the artists of the Quartier Latin! If you must needs ‘experience’ your models, I wonder that Susan, Sarah and Jane of the bar and tap-room are good enough for you!”

“Any human female suffices,”—murmured Julian, drowsily, “Provided she is amenable,—and is not the mother of a large family. At the spectacle of many olive branches, the Muse shrieks a wild farewell!” Cicely broke into a peal of laughter.

“You absurd creature!” she said—“You don’t mean half the nonsense you talk—you know you don’t!”

“Do I not? But then, what do I mean? Am I justified in assuming that I mean anything?” And he again ran his fingers through his ruddy locks abstractedly. “No,—I think not! Therefore, if I now make a suggestion, pray absolve me from any serious intentions underlying it—and yet---”

“‘And yet’—what?” queried Cicely, looking at him with some curiosity.

“Ah! ‘And yet’! Such little words, ‘and yet’!” he murmured—“They are like the stepping-stones across a brook which divides one sweet woodland dell from another! ‘And yet’!” He sighed profoundly, and plucking a daisy from the turf, gazed into its golden heart meditatively. “What I would say, gentle Goblin, is this,—you call me Moon-calf, therefore there can be no objection to my calling you Goblin, I think?”

“Not the least in the world!” declared Cicely—“I rather like it!”

“So good of you!—so dear!” he said, softly—“Well!—‘and yet’—as I have observed, the Muse may, like the Delphic oracle, utter words without apparent signification, which only the skilled proficient at her altar may be able to unravel. Therefore,—in this precise manner, my suggestion may be wholly without point,—or it may not.”

“Please get on with it, whatever it is,”—urged Cicely, impatiently- -“You’re not going to propose to me, are you? Because, if so, it’s no use. I’m too young, and I only met you this morning!”

He threw the daisy he had just plucked at her laughing face.

“Goblin, you are delicious!” he averred—“But the ghastly spectre of matrimony does not at present stand in my path, luring me to the frightful chasms of domesticity, oblivion and despair. What was it the charming Russian girl Bashkirtseff wrote on this very subject? ‘Me marier et’---?”

“I can tell you!” exclaimed Cicely—“It was the one sentence in the whole book that made all the men mad, because it showed such utter contempt for them! ‘Me marier et avoir des enfants? Mais—chaque blanchisseuse peut en faire autant! Je veux la gloire!’ Oh, how I agree with her! Moi, aussi, je veux la gloire!”

Her dark eyes flamed into passion,—for a moment she looked almost beautiful. Adderley stared languidly at her as he would have stared at the heroine of an exciting scene on the stage, with indolent, yet critical interest.

“Goblin incroyable!” he sighed—“You are so new!—so fresh!”

“Like salad just gathered,” said Cicely, calming down suddenly from his burst of enthusiasm—“And what of your ‘suggestion’?”

“My suggestion,” rejoined Adderley—“is one that may seem to you a strange one. It is even strange to myself! But it has flashed into my brain suddenly,—and even so inspiration may affect the dullard. It is this: Suppose the Parson fell in love with the Lady, or the Lady fell in love with the Parson? Either, neither, or both?”

Cicely sat up straight in her chair as though she had been suddenly pulled erect by an underground wire.

“What do you mean?” she asked—“Suppose the parson fell in love with the lady or the lady with the parson! Is it a riddle?”

“It may possibly become one;” he replied, complacently—“But to speak more plainly—suppose Mr. Walden fell in love with Miss Vancourt, or Miss Vancourt fell in love with Mr. Walden, what would you say?”

“Suppose a Moon-calf jumped over the moon!” said Cicely disdainfully—“Saint Moses! Maryllia is as likely to fall in love as I am,—and I’m the very last possibility in the