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

hope, sympathy!—such emotion as most surely palpitates through the whole body of the natural creation, else there would be naught created. God Himself—if there be a God—must be conscious of Love! Do we not say: ‘God IS Love’?—and this too while we suffer beneath His heavy chastisements which are truely more like Hate! I repeat, Walden, you have never loved,—till now perhaps—and even now you are scarcely conscious of the hidden strength of your own feelings. But suppose—just for the sake of argument—suppose this ‘little girl’ as you call her, Maryllia Vancourt, were to die suddenly, would you not, as you express it, ‘draw a mourning veil of your own across the face of God’?”

Walden started as though suddenly wounded. If Maryllia were to die!’ He shuddered as the mere thought passed across his brain. ‘If Maryllia were to die!’ Why then—then the world would be a blank— there would be no more sunshine!—no roses!—no songs of birds!— nothing of fairness or pleasure left in life—not for him, whatever there might be for others. Was it possible that her existence meant so much to him? Yes, it meant so much!—it had come to mean so much! He felt his old friend’s melancholy eyes upon him, and looking up met their searching scrutiny with a serious and open frankness.

“Honestly, I think I should die myself, or lose my senses!”—he said—“And honestly, I hardly realised this,—which is just as much selfishness on my part as any of which I hastily accused you,—till you put it to me. I will not profess to have a stoicism beyond mortal limits, Harry, nor should I expect such from you. But I WILL say, that despite our human weakness, we must have courage!—we are not men without it. And whether faith stands fast or falters, whether God seems far off or very near, we must face and fight our destiny—not run away from it! You want to run away,”—and he smiled gravely—“or rather, just in the present mood of yours you think of doing so—but I believe it is only a mood—and that you will not, after putting your hand to the plough, turn back because of the aridness or ungratefulness of the soil,—that would not be like you. If one must needs perish, it is better to perish at one’s post of duty than desert over to the enemy.”

“I am not sure that Rome is an enemy;”—said the Bishop, musingly.

To this Walden gave no reply, and the conversation fell into other channels. But, during the whole time of his visit, John was forced to realise, with much acute surprise and distress, that constant brooding on grief,—and excessive spiritual emotion of an exalted and sensuous kind, with much perplexed pondering on human evils for which there seemed no remedy, had produced a painful impression of life’s despair and futility on Brent’s mind,—an impression which it would be difficult to eradicate, and which would only be softened and possibly diminished by tenderly dealing with it as though it were an illness, and gradually bringing about restoration and recovery through the gentlest means. Though sometimes it was to be feared that all persuasion would be useless, and that the scandalous spectacle of an English Bishop seceding to the Church of Rome would be exhibited with an almost theatrical effect in his friend’s case. For the ornate ritual which the Bishop maintained in his Cathedral services was almost worthy of a Mass at St. Peter’s. The old, simple chaste English style of ‘Morning Prayer’ was exchanged for ‘Matins,’—choristers perpetually chanted and sang,—crosses were carried to and fro,—banners waved—processions were held—and the ‘Via Crucis’ was performed by a select number of the clergy and congregation every Friday.

“I never have this sort of thing in my church,”—said Walden, bluntly, on one occasion—“My parishioners would not understand it.”

“Why not teach them to understand it?” asked the Bishop, dreamily. They were standing together in the beautiful old Cathedral, now empty save for their presence, and Brent’s eyes were fixed with a kind of sombre wistfulness on a great gold crucifix up on the altar.

“Teach them to understand it?” echoed Walden, with a touch of sorrow and indignation—“You are my Bishop, but if you commanded me to teach them these ‘vain repetitions’ prohibited by the Divine Master, I should disobey you!”

The Bishop flushed red.

“You disapprove?”

“I disapprove of everything that tends to put England back again into the old religious fetters which she so bravely broke and cast aside,”—said John, warmly—“I disapprove of all that even hints at the possibility of any part of the British Empire becoming the slave of Rome!”

Brent gave a weary gesture.

“In religious matters it is wiser to be under subjection than free,”—he said, with a sigh—“In a state of freedom we may think as we please—and freedom of thought breeds doubt,—whereas in a state of subjection we think as we MUST, and so we are gradually forced into an attitude of belief. The spread of atheism among the English is entirely due to the wild, liberty of opinion allowed tham by their forms of faith.”

“I do not agree with you!”—declared Walden, firmly—“The spread of atheism is due, not to freedom of opinion, nor forms of faith, but simply to the laxity and weakness of the clergy.”

The Bishop looked at him with a smile.

“You always speak straight out, John!” he said—“You always did! And strange to say, I like you all the better for it. I could, if I chose, both reprove and command you—but I will do neither. You must take your own way, as you always have done. But there is a flavour of Rome even in your little church of St. Rest,—your miracle shrine,—your unknown saint in the alabaster coffin. You and your parishioners kneel before that every Sunday.”

“True—but we do not kneel to IT,—nor do we pray through It,”— replied Walden—“It stays in the chancel because it was found in the chancel. But it does not make a miracle shrine’ as you say,—there is nothing miraculous about it.”

“If it contains the body of a Saint,”—said the Bishop, slowly—“it MUST be miraculous! If, in the far-gone centuries, the prayers and tears of sorrowful human beings have bedewed that cold stone, some efficacy, some tenderness, some vitality, born of these prayers and tears, must yet remain! Walden, we preach the supernatural—do we not believe in it?”

“The Divine supernatural—yes!” answered Walden,—“But---” The Bishop interrupted him by a gesture of his delicate hand.

“There are no ‘buts’ in the matter, John,”—he said, quietly—“What is supernatural is so by its own nature. The Divine is the Human, the Human is the Divine. In all and through all things the Spirit moves and makes its way. Our earth and ourselves are but particles of matter, worked by the spirit or essence of creative force. This spirit we can neither see nor touch, therefore we call it super- natural. But it permeates all things,—the stone as completely as the flower. It circulates through that alabaster sarcophagus in your church, as easily as through your own living veins. Hence, as I say, if the mortal remains of a saint are enshrined within that reliquary, the spirit or ‘soul’ enveloping it MAY work ‘miracles,’ for all we dare to know!” He paused, and looking kindly at Walden’s grave and somewhat troubled face, added—“Some day, when we are in very desperate straits, John, we will am what your saint can do for us!”

He smiled. Walden returned the smile, but nevertheless was conscious of a sorrowful sense of regret at what he considered his friend’s leaning toward superstitious observances and idolatrous ceremonies. At the same time he well knew that any violent opposition on the subject would be worse than useless in the Bishop’s present mood. He therefore contented himself with, as he mentally said, ‘putting in the thin end of the wedge’—and,—carefully steering clear of all controversial matters,—contrived in a great measure to reassert the old magnetic sway he had been wont to exercise over Brent’s more pliable mind when at college—so that before they parted, he had obtained from him a solemn promise that there should be no ‘secession’ or even preparation for secession to Rome, till six months had elapsed.

“And if you would only put away that picture,”—said Walden, earnestly, pointing towards the ‘Virgin and Child’—“Or rather, if you would have another one painted of the sweet woman you loved as she really was in life, it would be wiser and safer for your own peace.”

The Bishop shook his head.

“The Virgin and Child are a symbol of all humanity,”—he said— “Mother and Son,—Present and Future! Woman holds the human race in her arms—at her breast!—without her, Chaos would come again! And for me, all Womanhood is personified in that one face!”

He raised his eyes to the picture with an almost devout passion—and then abruptly turned away. The conversation was not renewed again between them, but when Walden parted from his friend, he had the satisfaction of knowing that he left him in a brighter, more hopeful and healthful condition, cheered, soothed and invigorated by the exchange of that mutual confidence and close sympathy which had linked their two lives together in boyhood, and which held them still subtly and tenderly responsive to each other’s most intimate emotions as men.

XXVIII

Arriving home at his own domain late on the Saturday night, Walden had no opportunity to learn anything of the incidents which had occurred during his brief absence. Letters were waiting for him, but he opened none, and shut himself up in his study at once to prepare his next day’s sermon. He wrote on far into the night, long after all the servants of his household had retired to rest, and overslept himself the next morning in consequence, therefore his preparation for the eleven o’clock service were necessarily somewhat hurried, and he had not time to say more than a cheery ‘Good-morning’ even to Bainton, whom he passed on his way into the church, or to Adam Frost, though he fancied that both, men looked at him somewhat curiously, as with an air of mingled doubt and enquiry. Once within the sacred building he was conscious of an exceptionally crowded congregation. None that he could see were missing from their usual places. Maryllia certainly was not there,—but as she was admittedly not a church-goer, he did not expect her to be present. Badsworth Hall was entirely unrepresented, much to his relief; neither Sir Morton Pippitt nor Lord Roxmouth, nor Mr. Marius Longford were anywhere visible. Old Josey Letherbarrow sat in his usual corner,— everything was precisely the same as it was wont to be—and yet a sense of vague trouble oppressed him,—he saw, or thought he saw, an expression on some of the faces of his parishioners which was new to him, and he felt instinctively that some disturbing element had found its way into the peace of the village, though what the trouble could be, he was at a loss to imagine. He chose as his text: ‘What went ye out for to see? A reed shaken with the wind?’ and preached thereon with wonderful force, simplicity, eloquence and fervour— though all the time he spoke he wondered why his people stared at him so persistently, and why so many round eyes in so many round faces appeared to express such a lively, not to say questioning curiosity.

After service, however, the whole mystery was cleared up. Bainton, in his Sunday best, with hat in hand, presented himself at the garden gate on his master’s return from the church to the rectory, and after a word or two was admitted into the study. Bainton, honest as the daylight, and sturdy in his principles as an oak in its fibres, had determined to have ‘no