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

Walden, I’m so sorry I have alarmed you—do, do forgive me!---” And she began to cry bitterly.

He looked at her vaguely for a moment,—anon his face relaxed, and his eyes softened. Advancing to her, he took both her hands and pressed them.

“Poor little Cicely!” he said, kindly—“So it is you, is it? Poor dear little singer!—you have had so much anxiety—and I—” He broke off and turned his head away. Then, after a pause, he resumed—“It’s all right, Cicely! You—you startled me just a little—I scarcely knew you! You look so worn out, dear child, and no wonder! What can I do to cheer you? Is she—is she still going on well?”

Cicely raised her dark, tear-wet eyes to his in a kind of wistful wonder. Then she suddenly stooped and kissed the hands that held her own.

“Homage to a brave man!” she said, impulsively—“You ARE brave!— don’t contradict me, because I won’t stand it!” She detached her hands from his and tried to laugh. “Is she going on well, you ask? Yes,—as well as she can. But—you know she will be a cripple— always?”

Walden bent his head sadly.

“I know!”

“And it’s all through those terrible ‘Five Sister’ beeches!” she went on—“If Oliver Leach had been allowed to cut them down, Maryllia would never have gone out to save them that morning, or given the wretched man his dismissal. And he wouldn’t have cursed her, or tried to murder her!”

Walden shuddered a little.

“Then it is quite as much my fault as anybody else’s, Cicely,”—he said, wearily—“For I had something to do with the saving of the old trees. At any rate, I did not exercise my authority as I might have done to pacify the villagers, when their destruction was threatened. I feel somehow that I my share of blame in the disaster.”

“Nonsense!” snapped out Cicely, sharply, almost angrily—“Why should you take the sins of everyone in the parish on. your shoulders? Broad as they are, you can draw the line somewhere surely! You might as well blame poor old Josey Letherbarrow. He was the one who persuaded Maryllia to save the Five Sisters,—and if you were to tell him that all the trouble had come through him, he’d die! Poor old dear!” She laughed a trifle hysterically. “It’s nobody’s fault, I suppose. It’s destiny.”

John sighed heavily.

“Of course,” went on Cicely desperately—“Maryllia may live a long time,—or she may not. She thinks not. And because she thinks not, she wants to see you.”

He started nervously.

“To see ME?”

“Yes. It’s perfectly natural, isn’t it? Isn’t it your business to visit the sick,—and---” He interrupted her by a quick gesture.

“Not dying,”—he said—“I will not have the word used! She is not dying—she will not die! She shall not!”

His eyes flashed—he looked all at once like an inspired apostle with the gift of life in his hand. Cicely watched him with a sudden sense of awe.

“If you say so,”—she faltered slowly—“perhaps she will not. Go and see her!”

“To-day?”

“Yes,—this afternoon. She has asked for the school children to come and sing to her,—I shall try to get them about four. If you come at five, she will be able to see you—alone.”

A silence fell between them.

“I will come!” said John, at last.

“That’s right! Good-bye till then!”

And with a glance more expressive than words, Cicely went.

Left to himself, John threw open his study windows, and stepping out into his garden all wet with rain, made his way to its warmest corner, where, notwithstanding inclement weather, the loveliest sweet violets were thickly blossoming under his glass frames. He began to gather them carefully, and massed them together in bunches of deep purple and creamy white,—while Bainton, working at a little distance off, looked up in surprise and gratification at the sight of him. For it was many weary weeks since ‘Passon’ had taken any interest in his ‘forced blooms.’ Nebbie, having got thoroughly draggled and muddy by jumping wildly after his master through an exceedingly wet tangle of ivy, sat demurely watching him, as the little heap of delicately scented blossoms increased.

“The violets are doing wonderfully well this year, Bainton,”—he presently said, with his old kind smile, addressing his gardener—“I am taking these to Miss Vancourt this afternoon.”

Bainton lifted his cap respectfully.

“God bless her!” he said,—“An’ you too, Passon!”

And John, holding the fragrant bunch of small sweet flowers tenderly in his hand, answered gently—

“Thank you, my friend! I hope He will!”

XXXI

The rain cleared off in the afternoon and a bright glint of sunshine shone through the slowly dispersing clouds, enabling the children of the village choir to put on their best frocks and hats for the important function to which Cicely had summoned them. There was great excitement among these little people. That they should be specially asked to sing to Miss Vancourt was to them an unexpected and unprecedented honour, and filled them with speechless delight and pride. They were all very shy and nervous, however, and it was with quite a trembling awe that they scraped their feet on the polished oak floors of the Manor, and dragged them hesitatingly and timidly along into the morning room where Maryllia lay peacefully resting, and awaiting their approach. Her nurses had attired her freshly and becomingly, and had wrapped her in soft pale rose cashmere with delicate ribbons of the same hue tying it about her, while her lovely hair, loosely knotted on the top of her head, was caught together by a comb edged with pink coral which gave just the contrasting touch of colour to the gold-brown curls. She turned a smiling happy face on the children as they entered, and to Miss Eden and her young assistant, Susie Prescott, she held out her hand.

“It is so good of you to humour me in my fancy!” she said; “I loved the little hymn you all sang on the Sunday I came to church with my friends—don’t you remember?—and I want to hear it again. I came in late to service that day, didn’t I?—yes!—it was so wrong of me! But I should never do it again if I had the chance. Unfortunately we are always sorry for our wrong-doings too late!” She smiled again, and in answer to murmured words of sympathy from Miss Eden, and the sight of tears in the eyes of Susie Prescott, made haste to say—“Oh no!—I’m not in any pain just now. You need not think that. I am just helpless—that’s all. But I’ve got all my reasoning faculties back, thank God!—and my sight has been spared. I can read and write, and enjoy music,—so you see how many blessings are still left to me! Will you ask the children to begin now, please? There is not a piano in this room,—but Cicely will play the accompaniment on the old spinet—it’s quite in tune. And she will sing with you.”

In another moment they were all grouped round the ancient instrument of Charles the Second’s day, and Cicely, keeping her hands well pressed on the jingling ivory keys, managed to evoke from them something like a faint, far-off organ-like sound. Falteringly at first, and then more clearly and steadily, as Cicely’s full round voice assisted them, the children sang—

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me down to lie In pleasant fields where the lilies grow, And the river runneth by.”

Maryllia listened, watching them. The declining sunlight, pale as it was, shed luminance upon the awkward stumpy boys, and bashfully shrinking girls, as with round, affectionate eyes fixed upon her, they went on tunefully—

“The Lord is my Shepherd; He feedeth me, In the depth of a desert land, And, lest I should in the darkness slip, He holdeth me by the hand. “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want, My mind on Him is stayed, And though through the Valley of Death I walk, I shall not be afraid!”

Here, something like a sob interrupted the melody. Some one in the little choir broke down,—but Cicely covered the break with a tender chord, and the young voices rose above it.

“The Lord is my Shepherd; O Shepherd sweet, Leave me not here to stray, But guide me safe to Thy heavenly fold, And keep me there, I pray!”

With each verse, the harmony grew sweeter and more solemn, till Maryllia, lying back on her pillows with closed eyes through which the tears would creep despite herself, began to feel earth very far away and heaven very near. At the ‘Amen,’ she said:

“Thank you! That was beautiful! Do you mind singing the third verse over again?”

They obeyed, looking at Cicely for the lead.

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want; My mind on Him is stayed, And though through the Valley of Death I walk, I shall not be afraid!”

There was a silence.

“Now,” breathed Cicely softly—“now the Amen!”

Full and grave came the solemn chord and the young fresh voices with it,—

“A—men!” And then Cicely went up to Maryllia and bent over her.

“Are you pleased, dearest?”

She was very quiet. There were tears in her eyes, but at the question, she smiled.

“Very pleased! And very happy! Take the children away now and give them tea. And thank them all for me,—say I will see them again some day when I am stronger—when I do not feel inclined to cry quite so easily!”

In a few minutes all the little scuffling shuffling feet had made their way out of the room, and Maryllia was left to herself in the deepening twilight,—a twilight illumined brightly every now and again by the leaping flame of a sparkling log fire. Suddenly the door which had just been closed after the children, gently opened again, and Cicely entering, said in rather a tremulous voice—

“Mr. Walden is here, Maryllia.”

Whereat she quickly disappeared.

Maryllia turned her head round on her pillows and watched John’s tall straight figure slowly approaching. A delicate, Spring-like odour floated to her as he came, and she saw that he carried a bunch of violets. Then she held out her hand.

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Walden!”

He tried to speak, but could not. Without a word he laid the violets gently down on the silk coverlet of her couch. She took them up at once and kissed them.

“How sweet they are!” she murmured—“The first I have had given to me this year!”

She smiled up at him gratefully, and pointed to a chair close beside her.

“Will you sit near me?” she said—“And then we can talk!”

Silently he obeyed. To see her lying there so quietly resigned and helpless, nearly unmanned him, but he did brave battle with his own emotions. He took her little offered hand and gently kissed it. If to touch its soft smooth whiteness sent fire through his veins, there was no sign of feeling in his face. He was grave and strangely impassive.

“I am grieved to see you like this---” he began.

“Yes, I am sure you are!” she