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

of herself and her ‘smartness’ to the American press under a ‘nom-de-plume.’ She was not, like Lady Beaulyon, celebrated for her beauty, but for her perennial youth. Her face, without being in the least interesting or charming, was smooth and peach-coloured, without a line of thought or a wrinkle of care upon it. Her eyes were bright and quite baby-like in their meaningless expression, and her hair was of the loveliest Titian red. She had a figure which was the envy of all modellers of dress-stands,—and as she was wont to say of herself, it would have been difficult to find fault with the ‘chic’ of her outward appearance. Painters and sculptors would have found her an affront to nature—but then Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay had no acquaintance with painters and sculptors. She thought them ‘queer’ people, with very improper ideas. She was exceedingly put out by Walden’s abrupt pause in his reading of the ‘Dearly beloved,’ while she and the other members of the Manor house-party rustled into their places,—and when he recommenced the exordium she revenged herself by staring at him quizzically through a long- handled tortoiseshell-mounted lorgnon. But she did not succeed in confusing him at all, or in even attracting his attention,—so she merely shrugged her shoulders, with what the French call an ‘air moqueuse.’

The momentary confusion caused by the pause in the service soon passed, and the spirit of calm again settled on the scene after the ‘General Confession.’ But Maryllia was deeply conscious of hurt and vexation. It was too bad of Mr. Walden, she kept on. saying to herself over and over again,—too bad! Her friends and herself were only five or six minutes late, and to have stopped in his reading of the service like that to put them all to shame was unkind—‘yes, unkind,’ she said in her vexed soul,—vexed all the more because she was inwardly conscious that Walden was right and herself wrong. She knew well enough that she could have reached the church at eleven had she chosen, and have brought her friends punctual to time as well. She knew it was neither reverent nor respectful to interrupt divine worship. But she was too irritated to reason the matter out calmly just then,—all she could think of was that she and her London guests had received a reproof from the minister of the parish—silent, but none the less severe—before all the villagers- before her own servants—and on the first occasion of her coming to church, too! She could not get over it.

“If he can see me,” she thought, “he will know that I am angry!”

Chafed little spirit!—as if it mattered to Walden whether she was angry or not! He saw her well enough,—he noted her face ‘red as a rose,’ with its mobile play of expression, set in its frame of golden-brown hair,—it flitted, sunbeam-like between his eyes and the ‘Book of Common Prayer’—and, when he ceased reading, while the village choir, rendered slightly nervous by the presence of ‘the quality,’ chanted the ‘O come let us sing unto the Lord,’ he was conscious of a sudden lassitude, arising, as he knew, from the strain he had put upon himself for the past few minutes. He was, however, quite calm and self-possessed when he rose to read the Lessons of the Day, and the service proceeded as usual in the perfectly simple, unadorned style of ‘that pure and reformed part of Christ’s Holy Catholic Church which is established in this Realm.’ Now and then his attention wandered—once or twice his eyes rested on the well-dressed group directly opposite to him with a kind of vague regret and doubt. There was an emotion working in his soul to which he could scarcely give a name. Instinctively he was conscious that a certain embarrassment and uneasiness affected the ordinary members of his congregation,—he knew that their minds were disquieted and distracted,—that the girls and women were open-eyed and almost open-mouthed at the sight of the fashionable costumes and wondrous millinery which the ladies of Miss Vancourt’s house-party wore, and were dissatisfied with their own clothing in consequence,- -and that the lads and men felt themselves to be awkward, uncouth and foolish in the near presence of personages belonging to quite another sphere than their own. He knew that the showy ephemera of this world had by a temporary fire-fly glitter, fascinated the simple souls that had been erstwhile glad to dwell for a space on the contemplation of spiritual and heavenly things. He saw that the matchless lesson of Christ’s love to humanity was scarcely heeded in the contemplation of how very much humanity was able to do for itself even without Christ’s love, provided it had money and the devil to ‘push’ it on! He sighed a little;—and certain words in the letter of his friend Bishop Brent came back to his memory—“Many things seem to me hopeless,utterly irremediable … I grow tired of my own puny efforts to lift the burden which is laid upon me.” Then other, and stronger, thoughts came to him, and when the time arrived to read the Commandments, a rush of passion and vigorous intensity filled him with a force far greater than he knew. Cicely Bourne said afterwards that she should never forget the thrill that ran through her like a shock of electricity, when he proclaimed from the altar: -”GOD spake these words and said: Thou shalt have none other gods but me!”

Looking up at this moment, she saw Julian Adderley in the aisle on her left-hand side,—he too was staring at Walden as though he saw the figure of a saint in a vision. But Maryllia kept her face hidden, listening in a kind of awe, as each ‘Commandment’ was, as it seemed, grandly and strenuously insisted upon by the clear voice that had no tone of hypocrisy in its whole scale.

“Thou shalt NOT bear false witness against thy neighbour!”

Lady Beaulyon forgot to droop her head in the usual studied way which she knew was so becoming to her,—the NOT was so emphatic. An unpleasant shiver ran through her daintily-clothed person,—dear me!—how often and often she had ‘borne false witness,’ not only against her neighbour, but against everyone she could think of or talk about! Where could be the fun of living if you must NOT swear to as many lies about your neighbour as possible? No spice or savour would be left in the delicate ragout of ‘swagger’ society! The minister of St. Rest was really quite objectionable,—a ranter,—a noisy, ‘stagey’ creature!—and both she and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay murmured to each other that they ‘did not like him.’

“So loud!” said Lady Beaulyon, breathing the words delicately against her friend’s Titian-red hair.

“So provincial!” rejoined Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, in the same dulcet undertone, adding to her remark the fervent—“Lord have mercy upon us and incline our hearts to keep this law!”

One very gratifying circumstance to these ladies, however, and one that considerably astonished all the members of Miss Vancourt’s house-party, as well as Miss Vancourt herself, was that no ‘collection’ was made. Neither the church, the poor, nor some distant mission to the heathen served as any excuse for begging, in the shrine of the ‘Saint’s Rest.’ No vestige of a money-box or ‘plate’ was to be seen anywhere. And this fact pre-disposed them to survey Walden’s face and figure with critical attention as he left the chancel and ascended the pulpit during the singing of ‘The Lord is my Shepherd.’ At the opening chords of that quaint and simple hymn, Cicely Bourne glanced at Miss Eden and Susie Prescott with a little suggestive smile, and caught their appealing glances,—then, as the quavering chorus of boys and girls began, she raised her voice as the ‘leading soprano,’ and like a thread of gold it twined round all the notes and tied them together in clear and lovely unison:

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want, He maketh me down to lie, In pleasant fields where the lilies grow, And the river runneth by.”

Everyone in the congregation stared and seemed stricken with sudden wonderment. Such singing they had never heard before. Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay put up her lorgnon.

“It’s Maryllia Vancourt’s creature,”—she whispered—“The ugly child she picked up in Paris. I suppose it really IS a voice?”

“It really is, I think!” responded Lady Beaulyon, languidly, turning her fair head to look at the plain sallow girl with the untidy black hair whom she had only seen for a few minutes on her arrival at Abbot’s Manor the previous day, and whom she had scarcely noticed. But Cicely saw her not—her whole soul was in her singing,—and she had no glance even for Julian Adderley, who, gazing at her as if she were already the prima donna in an opera, listened enrapt.

“The Lord is my Shepherd; He feedeth me, In the depth of a desert land; And, lest I should in the darkness slip, He holdeth me by the hand.”

Maryllia felt a contraction in her throat, and her eyes unconsciously filled with tears. How sweet that hymn was!—how very sweet! Tender memories of her father crowded upon her,—her mother’s face, grown familiar to her sight from her daily visits to the now no longer veiled picture in the Manor gallery, shone out upon her from the altar like a glorified angel above the white sarcophagus where the word ‘Resurget’ sparkled jewel-like in the sunshine,—and she began to feel that after all there was something in the Christian faith that was divinely helpful and uplifting to the soul.

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want, My mind on Him is stayed, And though through the Valley of Death I walk, I shall not be afraid!”

Pure and true rang Cicely’s young, fresh and glorious voice, carrying all the voices of the children with it on the pulsating waves of the organ chords,—and an impression of high exaltation, serenity and peace, rested on the whole congregation with the singing of the last verse—

“The Lord is my Shepherd: O Shepherd sweet, Leave me not here to stray; But guide me safe to Thy heavenly fold, And keep me there, I pray! Amen!”

During the silence that immediately followed, Walden stood erect in the pulpit, looking down upon the people. He saw Maryllia’s face,— he saw all the eyes of her London friends fixed on him with a more or less critical and supercilious stare,—he saw his own flock’ waiting for his first word with their usual air of respectful attention,—every small point and detail in his surroundings became suddenly magnified to his sight,—even the little rose in old Josey Letherbarrow’s smock caught his eye with an almost obtrusive flare. The blithe soft carol of the birds outside sounded close and loud,— the buzzing of a bumble-bee that had found its way into the church and was now bouncing fussily against a sunlit window, in its efforts to pass through what seemed to itself clear space, made quite an abnormal noise. His heart beat heavily,—he fancied he could hear it thudding in his breast,—then, all at once, an inflow of energy rushed upon him as though the ‘fiery tongues’ of