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

which those who had listened to her marvellous improvisation were afraid to break by a word or movement. And then, with a smile at their mute admiration and astonishment, she had passed her small supple hands lightly again over the piano- keys, evoking therefrom a playful prelude, and the pure silvery sound of her voice had cloven the air asunder with De Musset’s ‘Adieu, Suzon!’“Adieu, Suzon, ma rose blonde, Qui m’as aime pendant huit jours! Les plus courts plaisirs de ce monde Souvent font les meilleurs amours. Sais-je au moment ou je te quitte Ou m’entraine mon astre errant? Je m’en vais pourtant, ma petite, Bien loin, bien vite, Adieu, Suzon!”

Was it possible for any man with a drop of warm blood flowing through his veins, not to feel a quicker heart-beat, a swifter pulse, at the entrancing, half-melancholy, half-mocking sweetness she infused into these lines?

“Je pars, et sur ma levre ardente Brule encor ton dernier baiser. Entre mes bras, chere imprudente Ton beau front vient de reposer. Sens-tu mon coeur, comme il palpite? Le tien, comme il battait gaiment! Je m’en vais pourtant, ma petite, Bien loin, bien vite Tourjours t’aimant! Adieu, Suzon!”

With the passion, fire and exquisite abandon of her singing of this verse in tones of such youthful freshness and fervour as could scarcely be equalled and never surpassed, Adderley could no longer restrain himself, and crying ‘Brava Bravissima!’ fell to clapping his hands in the wildest ecstasy. Walden, less demonstrative, was far more moved. Something quite new and strange to his long fixed habit and temperament had insidiously crept over him,—and being well accustomed to self-analysis, he was conscious of the fact, and uneasy at finding himself in the grip of an emotion to which he could give no name. Therefore, he was glad when,—the music being ended, and when he had expressed his more or less incoherent praise and thanks to Cicely for the delight her wonderful gift had afforded him,—he could plead some business in the village as an excuse to take his departure. Maryllia very sweetly bade him come again.

“As often as you like,”—she said—“And I want you to promise me one thing, Mr. Walden!—you must consent to meet some of my London friends here one evening to dinner.”

She had given him her hand in parting, and he was holding it in his own.

“I’m afraid I should be very much in the way, Miss Vancourt,”—he replied, with a grave smile—“I am not a social acquisition by any means! I live very much alone,—and a solitary life, I think, suits me best.”

She looked at him thoughtfully, and withdrew her hand.

“That means that you do not care to come,”—she said, simply—“I am so sorry you do not like me!”

The blood rushed up to his brows.

“Miss Vancourt!” he stammered—“Pray—pray do not think---”

But here she turned aside to receive Adderley’s farewells and thanks for the charming afternoon he had spent in her company. After this, and when Julian had made his exit, accompanied by Cicely who wanted him to give her a written copy of certain verses he had composed, Maryllia again spoke:

“Well, at any rate, I shall send you an invitation to one of my parties, whether you come or not, Mr. Walden;” she said, playfully— “Otherwise, I shall feel I have not done my social duty to the minister of the parish! It will be for some evening during the next three weeks. I hope you will be able to accept it. If not---”

A sudden resolve inspired John’s hesitating soul. Taking the hand she offered, he raised it lightly to his lips with all the gallantry of an old-world courtier rather than a modern-time parson.

“If you wish me to accept it, it shall be accepted!”—he said, and his voice shook a little—“Forgive me if in any way. I have seemed to you discourteous, Miss Vancourt!—I am so much of a solitary, that ‘society’ has rather an intimidating effect upon me,—but you must never”—here he looked at her full and bravely—“You must never say again or think that I do not like you! I DO like you!”

Her eyes met his with pure and candid earnestness.

“That is kind of you,”—she said—“And I am glad! Good-bye!”

“Good-bye!”

And so he left her presence.

When he started to walk home across the fields, Adderley proffered his companionship, which could not in civility be refused. They left the Manor grounds together by the little wicket-gate, and took the customary short-cut to the village. The lustrous afternoon light was mellowing warmly into a deeper saffron glow,—a delicate suggestion of approaching evening was in the breath of the cooling air, and though the uprising orb of Earth had not yet darkened the first gold cloud beneath the western glory of the sun, there was a gentle murmur and movement among the trees and flowers and birds, which indicated that the time for rest and sleep was drawing nigh. The long grasses rustled mysteriously, and the smafl unseen herbs hidden under them sent up a pungently sweet odour as the two men trod them down on their leisurely way across the fields,—and it was with a certain sense of relief from mental strain that Walden lifted his hat and let the soft breeze fan his temples, which throbbed and ached very strangely as though with a weight of pent-up tears. He was very silent,—and Julian Adderley, generally accustomed to talk for two, seemed disposed to an equal taciturnity. The few hours they had spent in the society of Maryllia Vancourt and her weird protegee, Cicely Bourne, had given both men subject for various thoughts which neither of them were inclined to express to one another. Walden, in particular, was aware of a certain irritation and uneasiness of mind which troubled him greatly and he looked askance at his companion with unchristian impatience. The long- legged, red-haired poet was decidedly in his way at the present moment,—he would rather have been alone. He determined in any case not to ask him to enter the rectory garden,—more of his society would be intolerable,—they would part at the gate,—

“I’m afraid I’m boring you, Mr. Walden,”—said the unconscious object of his musings, just then—” I am dull! I feel myself under a cloud. Pray excuse it!”

The expression of his face was comically lachrymose, and John felt a touch of compunction at the nature of his own immediate mental attitude towards the harmless ‘moon-calf.’

“Don’t apologise!” he said, with a frank smile—“I myself am not in a companionable humour. I think Miss Bourne’s music has not only put something into us, but taken something out of us as well.”

“You are right!” said Julian—“You are perfectly right. And you express the emotion aptly. It was extraordinary music! But that voice! That voice will be a wonder of the world!”

“It is a wonder already”—rejoined Walden—“If the girl keeps her health and does not break down from nervous excitement and overstrain, she will have a dazzling career. I think Miss Vancourt will take every possible care of her.”

“Miss Vancourt is very lovely,”—said Adderley reflectively, “I have made up my mind on that point at last. When I first saw her, I was not convinced. Her features are imperfect. But they are mobile and expressive—and in the expression there is a subtle beauty which is quite provocative. Then again, my own ‘ideals’ of women have always been tall and queenly,—yet in Miss Vanconrt we have a woman who is queenly without being tall. It is the regal air without the material inches. And I am now satisfied that the former is more fascinating than the latter. Though I admit that it was once my dream to die upon the breast of a tall woman!”

Walden. laughed forcedly. He was vexed to be compelled to listen to Adderley’s criticism of Maryllia Vancourt’s physical charms, yet he was powerless to offer any remonstrance.

“But, after all,” continued Julian, gazing up into the pink and mauve clouds of the kindling sunset,—“The tall woman might possibly, from the very coldness of her height, be unsympathetic. She might be unclaspable. Juno seems even more repellent than Venus or Psyche. Then again, there are so many large women. They are common. They obstruct the public highway. They tower forth in theatre-stalls, and nod jewelled tiaras from the elevation of opera- boxes, blocking out the view of the stage. They are more often assertive than lovable. Therefore let me not cling to an illusion which will not bear analysis. For Miss Vancourt is not a tall woman,—nor for that matter is she short,—she is indescribable, and therefore entirely bewitching!”

John said nothing, but only walked on a trifle more quickly.

“You are perhaps not an admirer of the fair sex, Walden?” pursued his companion—“And therefore my observations awaken no sympathy in your mind?”

“I never discuss women,”—replied Walden, drily—“I am not a poet, you see,—” and he smiled—“I am merely a middle-aged parson. You can hardly expect me to share in your youthful enthusiasms, Adderley! You are going up the hill of life,—I am travelling down. We cannot see things from the same standpoint.” Here, they left the fields and came to the high road,—from thence a few more paces brought them to the gate of the rectory. “But I quite agree with you in your admiration of Miss Vancourt. She seems a most kindly and charming lady—and—I believe—I am sure”—and his remarks become somewhat rambling and disjointed—“yes—I am sure she will try to do good in the village now that she has taken up her residence here. That is, of course, if she stays. She may get tired of country life- that is quite probable-but—it is, of course, a good thing to have a strong social influence in the neighbourhood—especially a woman’s influence—and I should say Miss Vancourt will make herself useful and beloved in the parish---”

At this period he caught Adderley’s eyes fixed upon him somewhat quizzically, and realised that he was getting quite ‘parochial’ in his talk. He checked himself abruptly and swung open his garden gate.

“I’m sorry I can’t ask you in just now,”—he said—“I have some pressing work to do---”

“Don’t mention it!” and Julian clasped him by the hand fervently—“I would not intrude upon you for worlds! You must be alone, of course. You are delightful!—yes, my dear Walden, you are delicious! So new- -so fresh! It is a privilege to know you! Good-bye for the moment! I may come and talk to you another time!”

“Oh, certainly! By all means!” And Walden, shaking hands with all the vigour Adderley’s grasp enforced upon him, escaped at last into the sanctuary of his own garden, and hastened under the covering shadow of the trees that bordered the lawn. Adderley watched him disappear, and then went on his own way with a gratified air of perfect complacency.

“Those who ‘never discuss women’ are apt to be most impressed by them,”—he sagaciously reflected—“The writhings of a beetle on a pin are not so complex or interesting as the writhings of a parson’s stabbed senses! Now a remarkable psychological study might be made— My good friend! Kindly look where you are going!”

This last remark was addressed to a half-drunken man