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

at once forget it,—but think, forget, or remember as you choose, the truth remains, that all of you, young and old, rich and poor, are endowed in your own selves with the ‘making of an angel.’ The ‘Soul’ within you, which you may elect to keep or to lose, is the infant of Heaven. It depends on you for care,—for sustenance;—it needs all your work and will to aid it in growing up to its full stature and perfection. It shall profit you nothing if you gain the whole world, and at death have naught to give to your Maker but crumbling clay. Let the Angel be ready,—the ‘Soul’ in you prepared, and full-winged for flight! According to the power and purity with which you have invested and surrounded it, will be its fate. If you have voluntarily checked and stunted its aspirations, even so checked and stunted must be its next probation,—but if you have faithfully done your best to nourish it with loving thoughts and noble aims,—if you have given it room to expand and shine forth with all its own original God-born radiance, then will its ascension to a higher sphere of action and attainment be attended with unimaginable joy and glory. Let the world go, rather than lose the Divine Light within you! For that Light will, and must, attract all that is worth knowing, worth loving and worth keeping in our actual environment. The rest can be well spared,—whether it be money, position, notoriety or social influence,—for none of these things last,—none of them are in any way precious, save to such ignorant and misguided persons as are deceived by external shows. The Soul is all! Keep but that ‘breath of God’ within you, and the world becomes merely one step of the ladder on which you may easily mount through everlasting love upon love, joy upon joy, to the utmost height of Heaven!”

He ceased. For a moment there was a profound stillness. And then, with the usual formula—“Now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost be praise, honour and glory for ever and ever”—the congregation stood up. Lady Beaulyon shook her silken skirts delicately. Mrs. Bludlip Oourtenay put her hand to her back hair coil and made sure that it was safe. And there was a general stir and movement, which instantly subsided again, as the people knelt to receive the parting benediction. Maryllia’s eyes were riveted on Walden as he stretched out his hands;—she was conscious of a certain vague awe and reverence for this man with whom she had so casually walked and talked, only as it seemed the other day;—he appeared, as it were, removed from her by an immeasurable distance,- his spirit and hers had gone wide apart,-his was throned upon a height of noble ideals,—hers was low, low down in a little valley of worldly nothings,—and oh, how small and insignificant she felt! Cicely’s hand caught hers and gave it an affectionate little pressure, as they bowed their heads together under the solemnly pronounced blessing.

“The peace of God which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, and of His Son Jesus Christ our Lord,”—here Walden turned ever so slightly towards the place where Maryllia knelt; “and the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, be amongst you and remain with you always!”

“A---men!”

With this last response from the choir, the congregation began to disperse, and Walden, glancing over the little moving crowd, saw the eager bustle and pressure of all its units to look at ‘the ladies from the Manor’ and take stock of their wonderful costumes. The grip of ‘the world’ was on them, and the only worshipper remaining quietly in his place, with hands clasped across his stick, and eyes closed, was Josey Letherbarrow. The old man seemed to be praying inwardly—his face was rapt and serene. Walden looked down upon him very tenderly. A verse of Browning’s ran through his mind:—

“Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life for which the first was made. Our times are in His hand, Who saith: ‘A whole I planned,’ Youth shows but half; trust God; see all, nor be afraid!”

And musing on this, he descended slowly from the pulpit and retired.

XIX

Outside in the churchyard, there was a general little flutter of local excitement. Maryllia lingered there for several minutes, pointing out the various beauties in the architecture of the church to her guests, not that these individuals were very much interested in such matters, for they were of that particular social type which considers that the highest form of good breeding is to show a polite nullity of feeling concerning everything and everybody. They were eminently ‘cultured,’ which nowadays means pre-eminently dull. Had they been asked, they would have said that it is dangerous to express any opinion on any subject,—even on the architecture of a church. Because the architect himself might be somewhere near,—or the architect’s father, or his mother or his great-grandam—one never knows! And by a hasty remark in the wrong place and at the wrong moment, one might make an unnecessary enemy. It is so much nicer—so much safer to say nothing at all! Of course they looked at the church,—it would have been uncivil to their hostess not to look at it, as she was taking the trouble to call their attention to its various points, and they assumed the usual conventional air of appreciative admiration. But none of, them understood anything about it,—and none of them cared to understand. They had not even noticed the ancient sarcophagus in front of the altar except as ‘some odd kind of sculptured ornament.’ When they wore told what it was, they smiled vacuously, and said: ‘How curious!’ But further than this mild and non-aggressive exclamation they did not venture. The villagers hung about shyly, loth to lose sight of the ‘quality’;— two or three ‘county’ people lingered also, to stare at, and comment upon, the notorious ‘beauty,’ Lady Beaulyon, whose physical charms, having been freely advertised for some years in the society columns of the press, were naturally ‘on show’ for the criticism of Tom, Dick and Harry,—Mrs. Mandeville Poreham, marshalling her five marriageable daughters together, stalked magisterially to her private ‘bus, very much en evidence, and considerably put out by the supercilious gaze and smile of the perfectly costumed Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay,—Julian Adderley, coming up in response to the beckoning finger of Cicely Bourne, was kindly greeted by Maryllia, introduced to one or two of her friends, and asked then and there to luncheon, an invitation he accepted with alacrity, and, after this, all the Manor party started with their hostess to walk home, leaving the village and villagers behind them, and discussing as they went, the morning’s service and sermon in the usual brief and desultory style common to fashionable church-goers. The principal impression they appeared to have on their minds was one of vague amusement. The notion that any clergyman should have the ‘impudence’—(this was the word used by Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay)—to pause in the service because people came in late, touched the very apex of absurdity.

“So against his own interests too,”—said Lady Beaulyon, carelessly- -“Because where would all the parsons be if they offended their patrons?”

Mr. Bludlip Courtenay, a thin gentleman with a monocle—assented to this proposition with a “Where indeed!” He considered that clergymen should not forget themselves,—they should show proper respect towards those on whom they depended for support.

“Mr. Walden depends on God for support, I believe,”—said Cicely Bourne suddenly.

Mr. Bludlip Courtenay fixed his monocle firmly in his left eye and stared at her.

“Really!” he drawled dubiously—“You surprise me!”

“It IS funny, isn’t it?” pursued Cicely—“So unlike the Apostles!”

Maryllia smiled. Lady Beaulyon laughed outright.

“Are you trying to be satirical, you droll child?” she enquired languidly.

“Oh no, I’m not trying,”—replied Cicely, with a quick flash of her dark eyes—“It comes quite easy! You were talking about clergymen offending their patrons. Now Mr. Walden hasn’t got any patron to offend. He’s his own patron.” “Has he purchased the advowson, then?” enquired Mr. Courtenay—“Or, to put it more conventionally, has he obtained it through a friend at court?”

“I don’t know anything about the how or the why or the when,”—said Cicely—“But I know he owns the living and the church. So of course if he chooses to show people what he thinks of them when they come in to service late, he can do it. If they don’t like it, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t ask anybody for anything,—he doesn’t even send round a collection plate.”

“No—_I_ noticed that!—awfully jolly!”—said a good-natured looking man who had been walking beside Julian Adderley,—a certain Lord Charlemont whose one joy in life was motoring—“Awfully game! Ought to make him quite famous!”

“It ought,—it ought indeed!” agreed Adderley—“I do not suppose there is another clergyman in England who obliterates the plate from the worship of the Almighty! It is so remote—so very remote!”

“I think he’s a funny sort of parson altogether,”—said Cicely meditatively—“He doesn’t beg, borrow or steal,—he isn’t a toady, he isn’t a hypocrite, and he speaks his mind. Queer, isn’t it?”

“Very!” laughed Lord Charlemont—“I don’t know another like him, give you my word!”

“Well, he can’t preach,”—said Lady Beaulyon, decisively—“I never heard quite such a stupid sermon.”

All the members of the house-party glanced at one another to see if this verdict were generally endorsed. Apparently some differed in opinion.

“Didn’t you like it, Eva?” asked Maryllia.

“My dear child! Who COULD like it! Such transcendental stuff! And all that nonsense about the Soul! In these scientific days too!”

“Ah science, science!” sighed Mr. Bludlip Courtenay, dropping his monocle with a sharp click against his top waistcoat button—“Where will it end?”

Nobody volunteered a reply to this profound proposition.

“‘Souls’ are noted for something else than being saved for heaven nowadays, aren’t they, Lady Beaulyon?” queried Lord Charlemont, with a knowing smile.

Lady Beaulyon’s small, rather hard mouth tightened into a thin line.

“I really don’t know!”—she said carelessly—“If you mean the social ‘Souls,’ they are rather unconventional certainly, and not always discreet. But they are generally interesting—much more so, I should think, than such ‘Souls’ as the parson preached about just now.”

“Indeed, yes!” agreed Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay—“I can imagine nothing more tiresome than to be a Soul without a Body, climbing from height to height of a heaven where there is no night, no sleep, no rest for ever and ever. Simply dreadful! But there!—one only goes to church for form’s sake—just as an example to one’s servants—and when it’s done, don’t you think it’s best to forget it as soon as possible?”

She raised her baby eyes appealingly as she put the question.

Everybody laughed, or rather sniggered. Real honest laughter is not considered ‘good form’ by certain sections of society. A gentle imitation of the nanny-goat’s bleat is the most seemly way for cultured persons to give vent to the expression of mirth. Maryllia alone was grave and preoccupied. The conversation of her guests annoyed her, though in London she had been quite well accustomed to hear people talk lightly and callously of religion and all religious subjects. Yet here, in the quiet country, things were different, somehow. God seemed nearer,—it was more difficult to blaspheme and ignore Him. And there was a greater sense of regret and humiliation in one’s self for one’s own lack of faith. Though, at the same time, it has to be reluctantly conceded that