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 bit like it, even though I am crippled and more or less useless. You will teach me, won’t you? I want to have your faith — your goodness—”
He interrupted her.
“Do not call me good!” he said, faintly— “I cannot bear it — I cannot!”
She looked at him, and there were tears in her eyes.
“I’m afraid you will have to bear it!” she said, softly— “For you ARE good! — you have always been good to ME! And I do honestly believe that God means everything for the best as you say, because now I am a cripple, I have escaped once and for all from the marriage my aunt was trying to force me into with Lord Roxmouth. I thank God every minute of my life for that!”
“You never loved him?”
John’s voice was very low and tremulous as he asked this question.
“Never!” she answered, in the same low tone. “How could you think it?”
“I did not know — I was not quite sure—” he murmured.
“No, I never loved him!” she said, earnestly— “I always feared and hated him! And he did not love me, — he only cared for the money my aunt would have left me had I married him. But I have always wanted to be loved for myself — and this has been my great trouble. If anyone had ever really cared for me, I think it would have made me good and wise and full of trust in God — I should have been a much better woman than I am — I am sure I should! People say that the love I want is only found in poems and story books, and that my fancies are quite ridiculous. Perhaps they are. But I can’t help it. I am just myself and no other!” She smiled a little — then went on— “Lord Roxmouth has a great social position, — but, to my mind, he has degraded it. I could not have married a man for whom I had no respect. You see I can talk quite easily about all this because it is past. For of course now I am a cripple, the very idea of marriage for me is all over. And I am really very glad it is so. No one can spread calumnies about me, or compromise my name any more. And even the harm Lord Roxmouth meant to try and do to YOU, has been stopped. So this time God HAS answered my prayers.”
John looked up suddenly.
“Did you pray — ?” he began in a choked voice-then checked himself, and said quickly— “Dear child, I do not think Lord Roxmouth could have ever done me any harm!”
“Ah, you don’t know him as I do!” and she sighed— “He stops at nothing. He will employ any base tool, any mean spy, to gain his own immediate purposes. And — and—” she hesitated— “you know I wrote to you about it — he saw us in the picture gallery—”
“Well!” said John, and his eyes kindled into a sudden light and fire— “What if he did?”
“You were telling me how much you disliked seeing women smoke” — she faltered— “And — and — you spoke of Psyche, — you remember—”
“I remember!” And John grew bolder and more resolute in spirit as he saw the soft rose flush on her cheeks and listened to the dulcet tremor of her voice— “I shall never forget!”
“And he thought — he thought—” here her words sank almost to a whisper— “that I — that you—”
He turned suddenly and looked down upon her where she lay. Their eyes met, — and in that one glance, love flashed a whole unwritten history. Stooping over her, he caught her little hands in his own, and pressed them against his heart with strong and pas
sionate tenderness.
“If he thought I loved you,” — he said— “he was right! I loved you then — I love you now! — I shall love you for ever — till death, and beyond it! My darling, my darling! You know I love you!”
A half sob, a little smile answered him, — and then soft, broken words.
“Yes — I know! — I always knew!”
He folded his arms about her, and drew her into an embrace from which he wildly thought not Death itself should tear her.
“And you care?” he whispered.
“I care so much that I care for nothing else!” she said — then, all suddenly she broke down and began to weep pitifully, clinging to him and murmuring the grief she had till now so bravely restrained— “But it is all too late!” she sobbed— “Oh my dearest, you love me, — and I love you, — ah! — you will never know how much! — but it is too late! — I can be of no use to you! — I can never be of use! I shall only be a trouble to you, — a drag and a burden on your days! — oh John! — and a little while ago I might have been your joy instead of your sorrow!”
He held her to him more closely.
“Hush, hush!” he said softly, soothing her as he would have soothed a child, — and with mingled tenderness and reverence, he kissed the sweet trembling lips, the wet eyes, the tear-stained cheeks— “Hush, my little girl! You are all my joy in this world — can you not feel that you are?” And he kissed her again and yet again. “And I am so unworthy of you! — so old and worn and altogether unpleasing to a woman — I am nothing! Yet you love me! How strange that seems! — how wonderful! — for I have done nothing to deserve your love. And had you been spared your health and strength, I should never have spoken — never! I would not have clouded your sunny life with my selfish shadow. No! I should have let you go on your way and have kept silence to the end! For in all your vital brightness and beauty I should never have dared to say I love you, Maryllia!”
At this she checked her sobs, and looked up at him in vague amazement.
“You would never have spoken?”
“Never!”
“You would have let me live on here, quite close to you, seeing you every day, perhaps, without a word of the love in your heart?”
He kissed her, half-smiling.
“I think I should!”
“Then” — said Maryllia, with grave sweetness— “I know that God does mean everything for the best — and I thank Him for having made me a cripple! Because if my trouble has warmed your heart, — your cold, cold heart, John!” — and she smiled at him through her tears— “and has made you say you love me, then it is the most blessed and beautiful trouble I could possibly have, and has brought me the greatest happiness of my life! I am glad of it and proud of it, — I glory in it! For I would rather know that you love me than be the straightest, brightest, loveliest woman in the world! I would rather be here in your arms — so—” and she nestled close against him— “than have all the riches that were ever counted! — and — listen, John!” Here, with her clinging, caressing arms, she drew his head down close to her breast— “Even if I have to die and leave you soon, I shall know that all is right with my soul! — yes, dear, dear John! — because you will have taken away all its faults and made it beautiful with your love! — and God will love it for love’s sake, almost as much as He must love you for your own, John!”
There was only one way — there never has been more than one way — to answer such tender words, and John took that way by silencing the sweet lips that spoke them with a kiss in which the pent-up passion of his soul was concentrated. The shadows of the winter gloaming deepened; — the firelight died down to a mass of rosy embers;-and when Cicely softly opened the door an hour later, the room was almost dark. But the scent of violets was in the air — she heard soft whisperings, and saw that two human beings at least, out of all a seeking world, had found the secret of happiness. And she stole away unseen, smiling, yet with glad tears in her eyes, and a little unuttered song in her heart —
“If to love is the best of all things known, We have gain’d the best in the world, mine own! We have touch’d the summit of love — and live God Himself has no more to give!”
XXXII
The prime of youth is said to be the only time of life when lovers are supposed by poets and romancists to walk ‘on air,’ so as John Walden was long past the age when men are called young, it is difficult to determine the kind of buoyant element on which he trod when he left the Manor that evening. Youth! — what were its vague inchoate emotions, its trembling hesitations, its more or less selfish jealousies, doubts and desires, compared to the strong, glowing and tender passion which filled the heart of this man, so long a solitary in the world, who now awaking to the consciousness of love in its noblest, purest form, knew that from henceforth he was no longer alone! A life, — delicate and half broken by cruel destiny, hung on his for support, help and courage, — a soul, full of sweetness and purity, clung to him for its hope of Heaven! The glad blood quickened in his veins, — he was twice a man, — never had he felt so proud, so powerful, and withal so young. Like the Psalmist he could have said ‘My days are renewed upon the earth’ — and he devoutly thanked God for the blessing and glory of the gift of love which above all others makes existence sweet.
“My darling!” he murmured, as he walked joyously along the little distance stretching between the lodge gates of the Manor and his own home— “She shall never miss one joy that I can give her! How fortunate it is that I am tall and strong, for when the summer days come I can lift her from her couch and carry her out into the garden like a little child in my arms, and she will rest under the trees, and perhaps gradually get accustomed to the loss of her own bright vitality if I do my utmost best to be all life to her! I will fill her days with varied occupations and try to make the time pass sweetly, — she shall keep all her interests in the village — nothing shall be done without her consent — ah yes! — I know I shall be able to make her happier than she would be if left to bear her trouble quite alone! If she were strong and well, I should be no fit partner for her — but as it is — perhaps my love may comfort her, and my unworthiness be forgiven!”
Thus thinking, he arrived at his rectory, and entering, pushed open the door of his study. There, somewhat to his surprise, he found Dr. ‘Jimmy’ Forsyth standing in a meditative attitude with his back to the fire.
“Hullo, Walden!” he said— “Here you are at last! I’ve been waiting for you ever so long!”
“Have you?” and John, smiling radiantly, threw off his hat, and pushed back his grey-brown curls from his forehead— “I’m sorry! Anything wrong?” Dr. ‘Jimmy’ shrugged his shoulders.
“Nothing particular. Oliver Leach is dead, — that’s all!”
Walden started back. The smile passed from his face, for, remembering the scarcely veiled threats of his parishioners, he began to fear lest they should have taken some unlawful vengeance on the object of their hatred.
“Dead!” he echoed amazedly— “Surely no one — no one has killed him?”
“Not a bit of it!” said Forsyth, complacently— “It just happened!”
“How?”
“Well, it appears that the rascal has been lying low for a considerable time in the house of our reverend friend, Putwood Leveson. That noble soul has been playing ‘sanctuary’ to him, and no doubt warned him of the very warm feeling with which the villagers of St. Rest regarded him. He has been maturing certain plans, and waiting till an opportunity should arise for him to get away to Riversford, where apparently he intended to take up his future abode, Mordaunt Appleby the brewer having offered him a situation as brewery accountant. The opportunity occurred last night, so I hear. He managed to get off with his luggage in a trap, and duly arrived at the Crown Inn. There he was set upon in the taproom by certain old friends and gambling associates, who accused him of wilfully attempting to injure Miss Vancourt. He denied it. Thereupon they challenged him to drink ten glasses of raw whiskey, one on
top of another, to prove his innocence. It was a base and brutal business, but he accepted the challenge. At the eighth glass he fell down unconscious. His companions thought he was merely drunk — but — as it turned out — he was dead.” [Footnote: This incident happened lately in a village in the south of England.]
Walden heard in silence.
“It’s horrible!” he said at last— “Yet — I cannot say sorry! I suppose as a Christian minister I ought to be, — but I’m not! I only hope none of my people were concerned in the matter?”
“You may be quite easy on that score,” — replied Forsyth— “Of course there will be an inquest, and a severe reproof will be administered to the men who challenged him, — but there the affair will end. I really don’t think we need grieve ourselves unduly over the exit of one scoundrel from a world already overburdened with his species.” With that, he turned and poked the fire into a brighter blaze. “Let us talk of something else” — he said. “I called in to tell you that Santori is in London, and that I have taken the responsibility upon myself of sending for him to see Miss Vancourt.”
Walden was instantly all earnest attention.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 645