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

now that it was very wrong. In another hundred years or so we shall find out that twentieth-century surgery was just as wrong.”

Cicely clasped her hands nervously.

“Oh, don’ you think Maryllia will come through the operation all right?” she implored, for about the hundredth time in the course of two days.

Julian looked away from her.

“I don’t know—and I don’t like to express any opinion about it,”— he answered, with careful gentleness—“But there is danger—and—if the worst should happen---”

“It won’t happen! It shan’t happen!” cried Cicely passionately.

“Dear little singing Goblin, I wish you could control fate!” And, taking her hand, he patted it affectionately. “Everything would be all right for everybody if you could make it so, I’m sure!—even for me! Wouldn’t it?”

Cicely blushed suddenly.

“I don’t know,”—she said—“I never think about you!”

He smiled.

“Don’t you? Well,—perhaps some day you will! When you are a great prima donna, you will read the poems and verses I shall write about you in all the newspapers and magazines, and you will say as you take kings’ and emperors’ diamonds out of your hair: ‘Who is this fellow? Ah yes! I remember him! He was a chum of mine down in the little village of St. Rest. I called him Mooncalf, and he called me Goblin. And—he was very fond of me!’”

She laughed a little, and drew away her hand from his.

“Don’t talk nonsense!” she said—“Think of Maryllia—and of Mr. Walden!”

“I do think of them,—I think of them all the time!” declared Julian earnestly—“And that is why I am so uneasy. For—if the worst should happen, it will break Walden’s heart.”

Cicely’s eyes filled with tears. She hurried away from him without another word or glance.

The fateful morning dawned. Walden had parted from Maryllia the previous night, promising himself that he would see her again before she passed into the surgeon’s hands,—but Forsyth would not permit this.

“She does not wish it, John,”—he said—“And she has asked me to tell you so. Stay away from the Manor—keep quiet in your own house, if you feel unable to perform your usual round of work. It will be best for her and for you. I will let you know directly the operation is over. Santori is already here. Now”—and he gave Walden’s hand a close and friendly grip—“steady, John! Say your prayers if you like,—we want all the help God can give us!”

The door opened and closed again—he was gone. A great silence,—a horrible oppression and loneliness fell upon Walden’s heart. He sank into his accustomed chair and stared before him with unseeing eyes,- -mechanically patting his dog Nebbie while gently pushing the animal back in its attempts to clamber on his knee.

“My God, my God!” he muttered—“What shall I do without her?”

Someone opened the door again just then. He started, thinking that Forsyth had returned perhaps to tell him something he had forgotten. But the tall attenuated form that confronted him was not that of Forsyth. A look of amazed recognition, almost of awe, flashed into his eyes.

“Brent!” he cried,—and he caught at the pale hands extended to him,—hands like those of a saint whose flesh is worn by fasting and prayer;—then, with something of a sob, exclaimed again—“Harry! How—why did you come?”

Brent’s eyes met his with a world of sympathy and tenderness in their dark and melancholy depths.

“I have come,”—he said,—and his musical voice, grave and sweet, trembled with deep feeling—“because I think this is your dark hour, John!—and because---perhaps---you may need me!”

And John, meeting that sad and steadfast gaze, and shaken beyond control by his pent-up suffering and suspense, suddenly fell on his knees.

“Help me!” he cried, appealingly, with the tears struggling in his throat—“You are right—I need you! Help me to be strong—you are nearer God than I am! Pray for me!”

Gently the Bishop withdrew his hands from the fevered clasp that held them, and laid them tenderly on the bowed head. His lips moved, but he uttered no words. There was a solemn pause, broken only by the slow ticking of the clock in the outer hall.

Presently, rising in obedience to his friend’s persuasive touch, Walden stood awhile with face turned away, trying to master himself, yet trembling in every nerve, despite his efforts.

“Brent,”—he began, huskily—“I am ashamed that you should see me like this---so weak---”

“A weakness that will make you stronger by and by, John!” and the Bishop linked a friendly arm within his own—“Come into the church with me, will you? I feel the influence of your enshrined Saint upon me! Let us wait for news, good or bad, at the altar,—and while waiting, we will pray. Do you remember what I said to you when you came to see me last summer? ‘Some day, when we are in very desperate straits, we will see what your Saint can do for us’? Come!”

Without a word of demur, John obeyed. They passed out of the house together and took the private by-path to the church. It was then about noon, and the sun shone through a soft mist that threatened rain without permitting it to fall. The faint piping of a thrush in the near distance suggested the music of the coming Spring, and the delicate odour of plant-life pushing its way through the earth gave a pungent freshness to the quiet air. Arriving at the beautiful little sanctuary, they entered it by the vestry, though the public door stood open according to invariable custom. A singularly brilliant glare of luminance reflected from the plain clear glass that filled the apertures of the rose-window above the altar, struck aslant on the old-world sarcophagus which doubtless contained the remains of one who, all ‘miraculous’ attributes apart, had nobly lived and bravely died,—and as the Bishop moved reverently round it to the front of the altar-rails, his eyes were uplifted and full of spiritual rapture.

“Kneel here with me, John!” he said—“And with all our hearts and all our minds, let us pray to God for the life of the beloved woman whom God has given you,—given, surely, not to take away again, but to be more completely made your own! Let us pray, as the faithful servants of Christ prayed in the early days of the Church,—not hesitatingly, not doubtingly, not fearingly!—but believing and making sure that our prayers will, if good for us, be granted!”

They knelt together. Walden, folding his arms on the altar-rails, hid his face,—but the Bishop, clasping his hands and fixing his eyes on the word ‘Resurget’ that flashed out of the worn alabaster— wherein the unknown ‘Saint’ reposed, seemed to gather to himself all the sunlight that poured through the window above him, and to exhale from his own slight worn frame something like the mystic halo of glory pictured round the figure of an apostle or evangelist.

The minutes slowly ebbed away. The church clock chimed the half-hour after noon—and they remained absorbed in a trance of speechless, passionate prayer. They were unaware that some of Walden’s parishioners, moved by the same idea of praying for Maryllia while she was undergoing the operation which was to save or slay, had come to the church also for that purpose, but were brought to a pause on the threshold of the building by the sight they saw within. That their own beloved ‘Passon’ should be kneeling at the altar in the agony of his own heart’s Gethsemane was too much for their simple and affectionate souls,—and they withdrew in haste and silence, many of them with tears in their eyes. They were considerably awed too by the discovery that no less a personage than the Bishop of the diocese himself was companioning Walden in his trouble,—and, moving away in little groups of twos and threes, they stood about here and there in the churchyard, waiting for they knew not what, and all affected by the same thrill of mingled suspense, hope and fear. Among them was Bainton, who, when he had peered into the white silence of the church and had seen for himself that it was indeed his master who was praying there beside his Bishop, made no pretence to hide his emotion.

“We be all fools together,”—he said to Adam Frost in hoarse accents, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand—“We ain’t no stronger nor wiser than a lot o’ chitterin’ sparrows on a housetop! Old Josey, he be too weak an’ ailin’ to get out in this kind o’ weather, but he sez he’s prayin’ ‘ard, which I truly believe he is, though he ain’t in church. All the village is on its knees this marnin’ I reckon, whether it’s workin’ in fields or gardens, or barns or orchards, an’ if the Lord A’mighty don’t take no notice of us, He must be powerful ‘ard of ‘earin’!”

Adam Frost coughed warningly,—jerked his thumb in the direction of the church, and was silent.

Suddenly a lark sang. Rising from the thick moss and jgrass which quilted over the grave of ‘th’ owld Squire,’ Maryllia’s father, the bird soared hoveringly aloft into the sun-warmed February air,—and by one common impulse the villagers looked up, watching the quivering of its wings.

“Bless us! That’s the first skylark of the year!” said Mrs. Frost, who, holding her blue-eyed ‘Baby Hippolyta,’ otherwise Ipsie, by the hand, stood near the church porch—“Ain’t it singin’ sweet?”

“Fine!” murmured one or two of her gossips near her,—“Seems a good sign o’ smilin’ weather!”

There was a silence then among the merely human company, while the bird of heaven sang on more and more exultingly, and soared higher and higher into the misty grey-blue of the sky.

All at once the clock struck with a sharp clang ‘one.’ Inside the church, its deep reverbation startled the watchers from their prayers with an abrupt shock—and Walden lifted his head from his folded arms, showing in the bright shaft of strong sunshine that now bathed him in its radiance, his sad eyes, heavy and swollen with restrained tears. Suddenly there was a murmur of voices outside,—a smothered cry,—and then a little flying figure, breathless, hatless, with wild sparkling eyes and dark hair streaming loose in the wind, rushed into the church. It was Cicely. “It’s all over!” she cried.

Walden sprang up, sick and dizzy. Bishop Brent rose from his knees slowly, his delicate right hand clutching nervously at the altar rail. Like men in a dream, they heard and gazed, stricken by a mutual horror too paralysing for speech.

“All over!”—muttered John, feebly—“My God!—my God! All over!”

Cicely sprang to him and caught his arm.

“Yes!—Don’t you understand?” and her voice shook with excitement— “All over! She is safe!—quite safe!—she will be well!—Mr. Walden!—John!—don’t look at me like that! oh dear!” and she turned a piteous glance on Bishop Brent who was, to her, a complete stranger—“He doesn’t seem to hear me—please speak to him!—do make him understand! Everything has been done successfully—and Maryllia will live—she will be her own dear bright self again! As soon as I heard the good news, I raced down here to tell you and everybody!— oh John!—poor John!”

For, with a great sigh and a sudden stretching upward of his arms as though he sought to reach all Heaven with his soul’s full measure of gratitude, John staggered blindly a few steps from the altar of the Saint’s Rest and fell,—senseless.

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