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

erect, looked almost spectral in the mists of the gathering night. He went on reciting solemnly,—

“I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold and not another!”

Here there was a general movement of consternation in the little crowd. Parson Walden was beginning to read the burial service! Then men whispered to one another,—and some of the women burst out crying bitterly. Dr. Forsyth became alarmed.

“John!” he said, imperatively—“Rouse yourself, man! You are ill—I see you are ill,—but I cannot attend to you now! Try not to delay me, for God’s sake! Miss Vancourt is seriously injured—but I MAY save her life. She is not dead.”

Something snapped like a broken harp-string behind Walden’s temples,—the horrible tension was relieved.

“Not dead—not dead?” he muttered—“Not dead? Forsyth, are you sure?”

“Sure!”

His face changed and softened,—a sudden sweet moisture freshened his eyes.

“Thank God!” he murmured.

Then he looked about him like a man suddenly wakened from sleep. He was still unable quite to realise his surroundings or what he had done.

“Forgive me!” he said, pathetically—“I am afraid I have been a trouble to you! I’ve been studying too much this afternoon,—and— and—I don’t know why I came out here just now—I’ll—I’ll go in. Will you let me know how—how---”

Forsyth nodded comprehensively.

“You shall know everything—best or worst—to-morrow,”—he said— “But now go in and lie down, Walden! You want rest!”

At an imperative sign from him, Walden obediently turned away, not daring to look at the men that now passed him, carrying Maryllia’s senseless form back to Abbot’s Manor, the beloved home from which she had ridden forth so gaily that morning. He re-entered the still open doorway of his rectory, wholly unconscious that his parishioners, deeply affected by his strange and sudden mind- bewilderment, were now all as anxious about him as they were about Maryllia,—he was too dazed to see that the faithful Bainton still waited for him on his own threshold, or that his servant Hester was still crying as though her heart would break. He passed all and everyone—and went straight upstairs to his own bedroom, where he closed and locked the door. There, smiling down upon him was the portrait of his dead sister,—and there too, just above his bed was an engraving of the tragically sweet Head crowned with thorns, of Guido’s ‘Ecce Homo.’ On this his gaze rested abstractedly. His temples ached and throbbed, and there was a dull cold heaviness at his heart. Keeping his eyes still on the pictured face of Christ, he dropped on his knees, clasped his hands, and tried to pray, but could not. How should he appeal to a God who was cruel enough to kill a bright creature like Maryllia in the very zenith and fair flowering-time of her womanhood!—an innocent happy soul that had no thought or wish to do anyone any harm! And then he remembered his own reproaches to his friend Bishop Brent whom he had accused of selfishness for allowing his life to be swayed by the memory of an inconsolable sorrow and loss. ‘You draw a mourning veil of your own across the very face of God!’ So he had said,—and was he not ready now to do the same? Suddenly, like the teasing refrain of a haunting melody, there came back to his mind the verse he had read that morning:

“As she fled fast thro’ sun and shade, The happy winds upon her play’d, Blowing the ringlet from the braid: She look’d so lovely as she sway’d The rein with dainty finger-tips. A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly wealth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips.”

Over and over these rhymes went, jingling their sweet concord in his brain,—till all at once the strong pressure upon his soul relaxed,- a great sigh escaped his lips-and with the sigh came the sudden breaking of the wave of grief. A rush of scalding tears blinded his eyes—and with a hard sob of agony his head fell forward on his clasped hands.

“Spare me her life, O God!” he passionately prayed—“Oh God, oh God! Save Guinevere!”

XXX

And now a cloud of heavy sorrow and foreboding hung over the little village. All its inhabitants were oppressed by a dreary sense of helpless wretchedness and personal loss. Maryllia was not dead,—but it was to be feared that she was dying,—slowly, and by inches as it were, yet nevertheless surely. A great specialist had been summoned from London by Dr. Forsyth, and after long and earnest consultation, his verdict upon her case had been well-nigh hopeless. Thereupon Cicely Bourne was immediately sent for, and arrived from Paris in all haste, only to fall into a state of utter despair. For there seemed no possible chance of saving the dear and valuable life of her beloved friend and protectress to whom she owed all her happiness, all her future prospects. And thus confronted with a tragedy more dire and personal than any she had ever pictured in her wildest imaginative efforts, she sat by Maryllia’s bedside, hour after hour, day after day, night after night, stunned by grief, watching, weeping, and waiting for the least glimmer of returning consciousness in that unconscious form which lay so terribly inert, like a figure of life-in-death before her, till she became the mere gaunt, little ghost of herself, her large melancholy dark eyes alone expressing the burning vital anguish of her soul. A telegram conveying the sad news of her niece’s accident had been sent to Mrs. Fred Vancourt at the Gezireh Palace Hotel, Cairo, to which, with the happy vagueness which so often characterizes the ultra-fashionable woman, Mrs. Fred had replied direct to Maryllia herself thus:

“So glad to know where you really are at last, but sorry you have met with a spill. Hope you have a good doctor and nurses. Will write on return from expedition to Luxor. Lord Roxmouth much regrets to hear of accident and thinks it lucky you are back in your own home.”

Of course this ‘sympathetic’ message was not read by its intended recipient at the time of its arrival. Maryllia lay blind, deaf and senseless to all that was going on around her, and for many days gave no sign of life whatever save a faint uneasy breathing and an occasional moan. Cicely was left alone to face all difficulties, to receive and answer all messages and to take upon herself for the time being the ostensible duties of the mistress of Abbot’s Manor. She bent her energies to the task, though she felt that her heart must break in the effort,—and with tears blinding her eyes, she told poor Mrs. Spruce, who was quite stupefied by the sudden crash of misfortune that had fallen upon the household, that she meant to try and do her best to keep everything going on just as Maryllia would wish it kept, “till—till—she gets better,”—she faltered sobbingly—“and you will help me, dear Mrs. Spruce, won’t you?”

Whereupon Mrs. Spruce took the poor child into her motherly arms, and they both cried and kissed each other, moved by the same common woe.

The Manor was soon besieged with callers. Everyone in the county flocked thither to leave cards, and express their sympathy for the unfortunate mischance that had overtaken the bright creature who had been the cynosure of all eyes for her beauty and grace on the morning of the first fox-hunt of the year. All the ill-natured gossip, all the slanderous tittle-tattle which had been started by Lord Roxmouth and fostered by Miss Tabitha Pippitt, ebbed and died away in the great wave of honest regret and kindly pity that pervaded the whole neighbourhood. Even Sir Morton Pippitt, smitten by compunction for certain selfish motives which had inspired him to serve Lord Roxmouth as a willing tool, was an indefatigable, almost daily enquirer as to Maryllia’s condition, for though pompous, blusterous, and to a very great extent something of a snob, his nature was not altogether lacking in the milk of human kindness like that of his daughter Tabitha. She, still smarting under the jealous conviction that John Walden was secretly enamoured of the Lady of the Manor, had heard the strange story of his having so far forgotten his usual self as to wander out bareheaded in the evening air and recite the commencement of the burial service like a man distraught when Maryllia’s crushed body had been brought home, and she thought of it often with an inward rage she could scarcely conceal. Almost,—such was her acrimony and vindictiveness—she wished Maryllia would die.

“Serve her right!” she said to herself, setting her thin lips spitefully together—“Serve her right!”

There are a great many eminently respectable ladies of Miss Tabitha’s temperament who always say ‘Serve her right,’ when a pretty and charming woman, superior to themselves, meets with some misfortune. They regard it as a just dispensation of Providence.

John Walden meanwhile had braced himself to face the worst that could happen. Or rather, as he chose to put it, strength, not his own, had been given him to stand up, albeit feebly, under the shock of unexpected disaster. Pale, composed, punctilious in the performance of all his duties, and patiently attentive to the needs of his parishioners, he went about among them as usual in his own quiet, sympathetic way just as if his heart were not crying out in fierce rebellion against inexorable destiny,—and as if he were not wildly clamouring to be near her whom, now that she was being taken from him, he knew that he loved with an ardour far deeper and stronger than with the same passion common to men in the first flush of their early manhood. And though he sent Bainton every day up to the Manor to make enquiries about her, he never went near the place himself. He could not. Brave as he tried to be, he could not meet Cicely Bourne. He knew that one look into the little singer’s piteous dark eyes would have broken him down completely.

Every night Dr. ‘Jimmy’ Forsyth came to the rectory with the latest details respecting Maryllia’s condition,—though for weeks there was no change to report. She was suffering from violent concussion of the brain, and was otherwise seriously injured, but Forsyth would not as yet state how serious the injuries were. For he guessed Walden’s secret, and was deeply touched by the quiet patience and restrained sorrow of the apparently calm, self-contained man who, notwithstanding his own inward acute agony, never forgot a single detail having to do with the poor or sick of the parish,—who soothed little Ipsie Frost’s bewildered grief concerning her ‘poor bootiful white lady-love,’—and who sat with old Josey Letherbarrow by his cottage fire, trying as best he could to explain, ay, even to excuse the mysterious ways of divine Providence as apparently shown in the visitation of cruel affliction on the head of a sweet and innocent woman. Josey was a little dazed about it all and could not be brought to realise that ‘th’ owld Squire’s gel’ might never rise from her bed again.

“G’arn with ye!” he said, indignantly, to the melancholy village gossips who came in to see him and shake their heads generally over life and its brief vanities—“Th’ Almighty Lord ain’t a pulin’, spiteful, hoppitty kicketty devil wot