God's Good Man, Marie Corelli [me reader .txt] 📗

quickly interrupted him—“But please do not talk about it just now! I want to forget my poor crippled body altogether for a little while. I’ve had so much bother with it lately! I want to talk to you about my soul. That’s not crippled. And you can tell me just what it is and what I am to do with it.”

He gazed at her in a kind of bewildered wonder.

“Your soul!”—he murmured,

“Yes.” And a shadow of sad and wistful thought darkened her features—“You see I may not live very long,—and I ought to be properly prepared in case I die. I know you will explain everything that is difficult to me,—because you seem to be sure of your faith. You remember your sermon on the soul, when I came to church just that once?”

He bent his head. He could find no words with which to interrupt her.

“Well, I have often thought of it since,—and I have longed—oh, so much!—to make a confession to you! But may I ask you one or two questions first?”

His dry lips moved—and he whispered, rather than spoke—

“You may! But are you not distressing yourself about matters which— which perhaps—could wait---?”

Her blue eyes regarded him with a wonderful courage.

“Dear Mr. Walden, I don’t think I ought to wait,”—she said, very earnestly—“Because really no one has ever done anything for me in a religious sense,—and if I AM to die, you are the only person in the world who can help me.”

He tried to rouse his wandering, ebbing energies.

“I will do my best,”—he said, slowly—“My best, I mean, to answer your questions.”

“You will?—As a clergyman, as a friend and an honest man?—yes, I felt sure you would!” And she spoke with almost passionate eagerness—“I will put you through your catechism, and you shall, if you like, put me through mine! Now to begin with,—though it seems a strange thing to ask a clergyman-do you really believe in God?”

He started,—wakened from his trance of mind by sheer amazement.

“Do I really believe in God? With all my soul, with all my heart, I believe in Him!”

“Many clergymen don’t,”—said Maryllia, gravely studying his face,— “That is why I asked. You mustn’t mind! You see I have met a great many Churchmen who preach what they do not practise, and it has rather worried me. Because, of course, if they really believed in God they would he careful not to do things which their faith forbids them to do.”

He was silent.

“My next question is just as audacious as my first,”—she went on after a pause—“It is this—do you believe in Christ?”

He rose from his chair and stood tenderly looking down upon her. His old authoritative energy inspired him,—he had now recovered himself sufficiently to be able to trample down his own clamorous personal emotions for the time and to think only of his spiritual duty.

“I believe in Him as the one Divine Man ever born!” he said.

“Is that quite sufficient for orthodoxy?” And she looked up at him with a half smile.

“Perhaps not! But I fear orthodoxy and I are scarcely the best of friends!” he replied—“Must I really tell you my own private form of belief?”

“Ah yes!—please do so!” she answered gently—“It will help me so much!”

He paused a moment. Then he said—

“I believe this,—that Christ was born into the world as a Sign and Symbol of the life, death and destined immortality of each individual human soul. Into the mystery of His birth I do not presume to penetrate. But I see Him as He lived,—the embodiment of Truth—crucified! I see Him dead,—rising from the grave to take upon Himself eternal life. I accept Him as the true manifestation of the possible Divine in Man—for no man before or after Him has had such influence upon the human race. And I am convinced that the faithful following of His Gospel ensures peace in this world, and joy in the world to come!”

He paused, and drew nearer to her. “Will that suffice you?”

Her eyes were turned away from his, but he could see a sparkle as of dew on her lashes.

“Sit down by me again,”—she said in a low uncertain voice—“You do believe!—and now that I know this for certain, I can make my confession to you.”

He resumed his seat beside her couch.

“Surely you have nothing to confess—” he said, gently.

“Why yes, I have!” she declared—“I’ve not been good, you know!”

He smiled.

“Have you not?” But his voice trembled a little—“Well! I suppose I must believe you—but it will be difficult!”

She looked down at the bunch of violets she held, and touched the purple and white blossoms tenderly.

“I don’t mean,”—she continued softly—“that I have been downright wicked in a criminal sense. Oh no!—I haven’t anything to confess that way! What I mean is that I haven’t been religious. Now please let me go straight on and explain—will you?”

He made a slight gesture of assent.

“Well now, to begin with,” she said—“of course when I was quite a child, I was taught to say prayers, and I was taken to church on Sundays just in the usual way. But I never could quite believe there was anyone to listen to my prayers, and going to church bored me and made me dreadfully sleepy. All the clergymen seemed to talk and preach in exactly the same way, and they all spoke in the same sing- song voice. I found it very dull and monotonous. I was told that God lived up in the sky, and that He loved me very much and would take care of me always,—but I never could make out why, if God loved me, He should not tell me so Himself, without the help of a clergyman. Because then I should have understood things better. I daresay it was a very wicked idea,—but it used to come into my head like that, and I couldn’t help it. Then, everything in my life as a child came to an end with a great crash as it were, when my father was killed. I adored my father! He was always kind to me,—always tender!—he was the only man in the world that ever loved me! And when he was taken away suddenly from me like that, and I was told it was God’s will, I hated God! I did really! You know unless you are a born angel, it is natural to hate anyone who takes away the dearest and most beloved thing you have to live for, isn’t it?”

John turned his head a little away, and looked straight before him into the glowing embers of the fire. A deep sigh involuntarily escaped him.

“I suppose it is natural!” he said, slowly—“But we must fight against nature. We must believe that God knows best!”

Her eyes, blue as flax-flowers, turned towards him wistfully.

“You believe that?” she asked—“You are sure that God means everything for the best, even when He makes you suffer for no fault of your own?”

At this his heart was sorely troubled within him, but he answered quietly and firmly—

“Yes! I am sure that God means everything for the best, even when He makes me suffer for no fault of my own!”

His voice, always soft and mellow, dropped to a tenderer cadence, as,—like a true servant of the Master he served,—he faithfully asserted his belief, that even in personal sorrow, the Divine will is always a Divine blessing.

A pause of silence ensued. Then Maryllia went on somewhat hesitatingly—

“Well, I was wicked, you see! I could NOT believe that God meant it for the best in killing my father! And I know that my father himself never could understand that God was at all good in allowing my mother to die when I was born. So that I was quite set against God, when, after my father’s death, Uncle Fred and his wife came and took me away to live with them, and adopted me as their daughter. And living with them, and being always surrounded by the society they entertained, made me forget religion altogether. They never went to church,—neither did any of the people they called their friends. Indeed nobody I ever met in all the ‘sets’ of London, or Paris, or New York ever seemed to think of God or a future life at all. Some of them went in for what they called ‘spiritualism’ and deceived each other in the most terrible way! I never heard people tell so many dreadful lies! They used to joke about it afterwards. But no one ever seemed to think that religion,—real religion—real Christianity—was at all necessary or worth talking about. They called it an ‘exploded myth.’ When I met Cicely Bourne I found that SHE believed in it. And I was quite surprised! Because she had such a hard life, and she had always been so cruelly treated, that I wondered how she could believe in anything. But she told me that when she knew she had a voice and a gift for music, she used to pray that an angel might be sent to help her,—and when I asked her—‘Did the angel come?’ she said that God had sent ME as the angel! Of course it wasn’t true, but it was very sweet of her to say it!”

She paused. Walden was quite silent. Leaning his elbow on the raised head of her couch, he shaded his brow with one hand, thus partially covering his eyes from the glow of the fire. There were tears in those eyes, and he was afraid she would see them.

“Cicely was always so brave and contented,”—she presently continued—“And as I learned to know more of her I began to wonder if really after all, her religion helped her? And then there came a time of great worry and trouble for me—and—I came home here to try and find peace and rest—and I met YOU!”

He moved restlessly, but said nothing.

“To meet you was an event in my life!” she said, turning. towards him a little, and laying her hand timidly on his coat sleeve—“It was really!”

He looked at her,—and a wave of warmth passed over his face.

“Was it?” he murmured.

“Of course it was!” she declared,—and almost she laughed—“You won’t understand me, I daresay!—but to meet you. for the first time is a kind of event to most people! They begin to think about you,— they can’t help it! You are so different from the ordinary sort of clergyman,—I don’t know how or why,—but you are!”

He smiled a trifle sadly.

“Talk of yourself, not of me,”—he said, uneasily.

“Yes, but I cannot very well talk of myself now without bringing you into it,”—she insisted,—“And you must let me tell my story in my own way!”

He shaded his eyes again from the firelight, and listened.

“After I met you that morning,” she went on—“I heard many things about you in the village. Everyone seemed to love you!—yes, even the tiniest children! The poor people, the old and the sick, all seemed to trust you as their truest and best friend! And when I knew all this I began to think very earnestly about the religious faith which seemed to make you what you are. I didn’t go to church to hear you preach—you know that!—I only went once—and I was late—you remember?—So it has not been anything you have said in the pulpit that has changed me so much. It is just YOU, yourself! It is because you live your life as you do that I want to learn to live the rest of mine just a little