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

way of sentiment. Why, whatever are you thinking of? Maryllia has heaps of men in, love with her,—she could marry to-morrow if she liked.”

“Ay, no doubt she could marry—that is quite common—but perhaps she could not love!” And Julian waved one hand expressively. “To love is so new!—so fresh!”

“But Maryllia would never fall in love with a PARSON!” declared Cicely, almost resentfully—“A parson!—a country parson too! The idea is perfectly ridiculous!”

A glimmer of white in the vista of the flowering ‘Cherry-Tree Walk’ here suddenly appeared and warned her that Maryllia and the Reverend John were returning from their inspection of the rose-garden. She cheeked herself in an outburst of speech and silently watched them approaching. Adderley watched them too with a kind of lachrymose interest. They were deep in conversation, and Maryllia carried a bunch of white and blush roses which she had evidently just gathered. She looked charmingly animated, and now and then a light ripple of her laughter floated out on the air as sweet as the songs of the birds chirming around them.

“The roses are perfectly lovely!” she exclaimed delightedly, as she came under the shadow of the great cedar-tree; “Mr. Walden says he has never seen the standards so full of bud.” Here she held the cluster she had gathered under Cicely’s nose. “Aren’t they delicious! Oh, by the bye, Mr. Walden, I have promised you one! You must have it, in return for the spray of lilac you gave me when I came to see YOUR garden! Now you must take a rose from mine!” And, laying all the roses on Cicely’s lap, she selected one delicate half-opened, blush-white bloom. “Shall I put it in your coat for you?”

“If you will so far honour me!” answered Walden;—he was strangely pale, and a slight tremor passed over him as he looked down at the small fingers,—pink-tipped as the petals of the flower they so deftly fastened in his buttonhole; “And how”—he continued, with an effort, addressing Cicely and Julian—“How have Music and Poetry got on together?”

“Oh, we’re not married yet,”—said Cicely, shaking off the dumb spell which Adderley’s ‘suggestion’ had for a moment cast upon her mind—“We ought to be, of course,—for a real good opera. But we’re only just beginning courtship. Mr. Adderley has recited some lines of his own composition, and I have improvised some music. You shall hear the result some day.”

“Why not now?” queried Maryllia, as she seated herself in another chair next to Cicely’s under the cedar boughs, and signed to Walden to do the same.

“Why, because I believe that the tea is about to arrive. I saw the majestic Primmins in the distance, wrestling with a table—didn’t you, Mr. Adderley?”

Adderley rose from his half recumbent position on the grass, and shading his eyes from the afternoon sunshine, looked towards the house.

“Yes,—it is even so!” he replied—“Primmins and a subordinate are on the way hither with various creature comforts. Music and Poetry must pause awhile. Yet why should there be a pause? It is for this that I am a follower of Omar Kayyam. He was a materialist as well as a spiritualist, and his music admits of the aforesaid creature comforts as much as the exalted and subtle philosophies and ironies of life.”

“Poor Omar!” said Walden,—“The pretty piteousness of him is like the wailing of a lamb led to the slaughter. Grass is good to graze on, saith lambkin,—other lambs are fair to frisk with,—but alas!— neither grass nor lambs can last, and therefore as lambkin cannot always be lambkin, it bleats its end in Nothingness! But, thank God, there is something stronger and wiser in the Universe than lambkin!”

“True!” said Adderley, “But even lambkin has a right to complain of its destiny.”

Walden smiled.

“I think not,”—he rejoined—“No created thing has a right to complain of its destiny. It finds itself Here,—and the fact that it IS Here is a proof that there is a purpose for its existence. What that purpose is we do not know yet, but we SHALL know!”

Adderley lifted dubious eyelids.

“You think we shall?”

“Most assuredly! What does Dante Rosetti say?—

‘The day is dark and the night To him that would search their heart; No lips of cloud that will part Nor morning song in the light; Only, gazing alone To him wild shadows are shown, Deep under deep unknown, And height above unknown height Still we say as we go: “Strange to think by the way Whatever there is to know That shall we know one day.”’”

He recited the lines softly, but with eloquent emphasis. “You see, those of us who take the trouble to consider the working and progress of events, know well enough that this glorious Creation around us is not a caprice or a farce. It is designed for a Cause and moves steadily towards that Cause. There may be—no doubt there are—many men who elect to view life from a low, material, or even farcical standpoint—nevertheless, life in itself is serious and noble.”

Cicely’s dark face lightened as with an illumination while she listened to these words. Maryllia, who had taken up the roses she had laid in Cicely’s lap, and was now arranging them afresh, looked up suddenly.

“Yet there are many searching truths in the philosophy of Omar Kayyam, Mr. Walden,”—she said—“Many sad facts that even our religion can scarcely get over, don’t you think so?”

He met her eyes with a gentle kindliness in his own.

“I think religion, if true and pure, turns all sad facts to sweetness, Miss Vancourt,”—he said—“At least, so I have found it.”

The clear conviction of his tone was like the sound of a silver bell calling to prayer. A silence followed, broken only by the singing of a little bird aloft in the cedar-tree, whose ecstatic pipings aptly expressed the unspoilt joys of innocence and trust.

“One pretty verse of Omar I remember,” then said Cicely, abruptly, fixing her penetrating eyes on Walden,—“And it really isn’t a bit irreligious. It is this:—

‘The Bird of Life is singing on the bough, His two eternal notes of “I and Thou”— O hearken well, for soon the song sings through, And would we hear it, we must hear it Now!’”

A white rose slipped from the cluster Maryllia held, and dropped on the grass. John stooped for it, and gave it back to her. Their hands just touched as she smiled her thanks. There was nothing in the simple exchange of courtesies to move any self-possessed man from his normal calm, yet a sudden hot thrill and leap of the heart dazed Walden’s brain for a moment and made him almost giddy. A sick fear— an indefinable horror of himself possessed him,—caught by this mmameable transport of sudden and singular emotion, he felt he could have rushed away, away!—anywhere out of reach and observation, and have never entered the fair and halcyon gardens of Abbot’s Manor again. Why?—in Heaven’s name, why? He could not tell,—but—he had no right to be there!—no right to be there!—he kept on repeating to himself;—he ought to have remained at home, shut up in his study with his dog and his books,—alone, alone, always alone! The brief tempest raged over his soul with soundless wind and fire,—then passed, leaving no trace on his quiet features and composed manner. But in that single instant an abyss had been opened in the depths of his own consciousness,—an abyss into which he looked with amazement and dread at the strange foolhardiness which had involuntarily led him to its brink,—and he now drew back from it, nervously shuddering.

“‘And would we hear it, we must hear it Now!’” repeated Adderley, with opportune bathos at this juncture—“As I have said, and will always maintain, Omar’s verse always fits in with the happy approach of creature comforts! Behold the illustration and example!—Primmins with the tea!”

“It is a pretty verse, though, isn’t it?” queried Cicely, moving her chair aside to make more space for the butler and footman as they nimbly set out the afternoon tea-table in the deepest shade bestowed by the drooping cedar boughs—“Isn’t it?”

And her searching eyes fastened themselves pertinaciously upon John’s face.

“Very pretty!” he answered, steadily—“And—so far-as it goes—very true!”

XVII

After tea, they re-entered the house at Maryllia’s request to hear Cicely play. Arrived in the drawing-room they found the only truly modern thing in it, a grand piano, of that noted French make which as far surpasses the German model as a genuine Stradivarius surpasses a child’s fiddle put together yesterday, and, taking her seat at this instrument, Cicely had transformed both herself and it into unspeakable enchantment. The thing of wood and wire and ivory keys had become possessed, as it were, with the thunder of the battling clouds and the great rush of the sea,—and then it had suddenly whispered of the sweetness of love and life, till out of storm had grown the tender calm of a flowing melody, on which wordless dreams of happiness glittered like rainbow bubbles on foam, shining for a moment and then vanishing at a breath; it had caught the voices of the rain and wind,—and the pattering drops and sibilant hurricane had whizzed sharply through the scale of sound till the very notes seemed alive with the wrath of nature,—and then it had rolled all the wild clamour away into a sustained magnificence of prayerful chords which seemed to plead for all things grand, all things true, all things beautiful,—and to list the soul of man in panting, labouring ecstasy up to the very threshold of Heaven! And she—the ‘goblin’ who evoked all this phantasmagoria of life set in harmony—she too changed as it seemed, in nature and aspect,—her small meagre face was as the face of a pictured angel, with the dark hair clustering round it in thick knots and curling waves as of blackest bronze,—while the eyes, full of soft passion and fire, glowed beneath the broad temples with the light of youth’s imperial dream of fame. What human creature could accept the limited fact of being mere man, mere woman only, while Cicely played? Such music as hers recalled and revealed the earliest splendour of the days when Poesy was newly born,—when gods and goddesses were believed to walk the world in large and majestic freedom,—and when brave deeds of chivalry and self-sacrifice became exalted by the very plenitude of rich imagination, into supernatural facts of heaven conquering, hell-charming prowess. Not then was man made to seem uncouth, or mean and savage in his attempts to dominate the planet, but strong, fearless, and endowed with dignity and power. Not then was every noble sentiment derided,—every truth scourged,—every trust betrayed,every tenderness mocked,-and every sweet emotion made the subject of a slander or a sneer. Not then was love mere lust, marriage mere convenience, and life mere covetousness of gain. There was something higher, greater, purer than these,—something of the inspiring breath of God, which, according to the old Biblical narrative, was breathed into humanity with the words—“Let us make man in Our image, after Our likeness.” That ‘image’ of God was featured gloriously in the waves of music which surged through Cicely’s brain and fingers, out on the responsive air,—and when she ceased playing there followed a dumb spell of wonderment and awe,