A wistful longing filled her eyes.
“I wish Manuel were here!” she said plaintively. “He would understand!”
“Manuel is with Cardinal Bonpre in London,” replied Cyrillon. “I heard from Aubrey yesterday that they are going about together among the poor, doing good everywhere. Would you like to join them? Your friend Sylvie would be glad to have you stay with her, I am sure.”
She gave a hopeless gesture.
“I am not strong enough to go—” she began.
“You will be strong enough when you determine to be,” said Cyrillon. “Your frightened soul is making a coward of your body!”
She started and drew her hand away from his gentle clasp.
“You are harsh!” she said, looking at him straightly. “I am not frightened — I never was a coward!”
Something of the old steady light came back to her eyes, and Cyrillon inwardly rejoiced to see it.
“My words seem rough,” he said, “but truly they are not so. I repeat, your soul is frightened — yes! frightened at the close approach of God! God is never so near to us as in a great sorrow; and when we feel His presence almost within sight and touch, we are afraid. But we must not give way to fear; we must not grovel in the dust and hide ourselves as if we were ashamed! We must rise up and grow accustomed to His glory, and let Him lead us where He will!”
He paused, for Angela was weeping. The sound of her low sobbing smote him to the heart.
“Angela — Angela!” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Have I hurt you so much?”
“Yes, yes!” she murmured between her tears. “You have hurt me! — but you are right — you are quite right! I am selfish — weak — cowardly — ungrateful too; — but forgive me, — have patience with me! — I will try — I will try to bear it all more bravely — I will indeed!”
He rose from her side and paced the room, not trusting himself to speak. She looked at him anxiously and endeavoured to control her sobs.
“You are angry?”
“Angry!” He came back, and lifting her suddenly, but gently like a little child, he placed her in an easy sitting position, leaning cosily among her pillows. “Come!” he said smiling, as the colour flushed her cheeks at the swiftness of his action— “Let the Princesse D’Agramont see that I am something of a doctor! You will grow weaker and weaker lying down all day — I want to make you strong again! Will you help me?”
He looked into her eyes, and her own fell before his earnest, reverent, but undisguisedly tender glance.
“I will try to do what you wish,” she said. “If I fail you must forgive me — but I will honestly try!”
“If you try, you will succeed” — said Cyrillon, and bending down, he kissed the trembling little hands— “Ah! forgive me! If you knew how dear your life is — to — to many, you would not waste it in weeping for what cannot be remedied by all your tears! I will not say one word against the man you loved — for YOU do not say it, and you are the most injured; — he is dead — let him rest; — but life claims you, — claims me for the moment; — our fellow-men and women claim our attention, our work, our doing for the best and greatest while we can, — our duty is to them, — not to ourselves! Will you for your father’s sake — for the world’s sake — if I dared say, for MY sake! — will you throw off this torpor of sorrow? Only you can do it, — only you yourself can command the forces of your own soul! Be Angela once more! — the guiding angel of more lives than you know of!—”
His voice sank to a pleading whisper.
“I will try!” she answered in a low voice— “I promise!—”
And when the Princess D’Agramont entered she was surprised and overjoyed to find her patient sitting up on her couch for the first time in many days, talking quietly with the Perseus she had sent to rescue the poor Andromeda from the jaws of a brooding Melancholia which might have ended in madness or death. With her presence the conversation took a lighter tone — and by-and-by Angela found herself listening with some interest to the reading of her father’s last letter addressed to her kind hostess.
“Angela’s picture is gone out of Rome” — he wrote— “It was removed from the studio in the sight of an enormous crowd which had assembled to witness its departure. The Voce Della Verita has described it as a direct inspiration of the devil, and suggests the burning-down of the studio in which it was painted, as a means of purifying the Sovrani Palace from the taint of sulphur and brimstone. La Croix demands the excommunication of the artist, which by the way is very likely to happen. The Osservatore Romano wishes that the ship specially chartered to take it to America, may sink with all on board. All of which kind and charitable wishes on the part of the Vatican press have so augmented the fame of ‘The Coming of Christ’ that the picture could hardly be got through the crush of people craning their necks to get a glimpse of it. It is now en route via Bordeaux for London, where it is to be exhibited for six weeks. As soon as I have finished superintending the putting by of a few home treasures here, I shall join you in Paris, when I hope to find my dear girl nearly restored to her usual self. It will please her to know that her friend the charming Sylvie is well and very happy. She was married for the second time before a Registrar in London, and is now, as she proudly writes, ‘well and truly’ Mrs. Aubrey Leigh, having entirely dropped her title in favour of her husband’s plainer, but to her more valuable designation. Of course spiteful people will say she ceased to be Countess Hermenstein in order not to be recognized too soon as the ‘renegade from the Roman Church,’ but that sort of thing is to be expected. Society never gives you credit for honest motives, but only for dishonest ones. We who know Sylvie, also know what her love for her husband is, and that it is love alone which inspires all her actions in regard to him. Her chief anxiety at present seems to be about Angela’s health, and she tells me she telegraphs to you every day for news—”
— “Is that true?” asked Angela, interrupting the reading of her father’s letter. “Does Sylvie in all her new happiness, actually think of me so much and so often?”
“Indeed she does!” replied the Princess D’Agramont. “Chere enfant, you must not look at all the world through the cloud of one sorrow! We all love you! — we are all anxious to see you quite yourself again!”
Angela’s eyes filled with tears as they rested on her friend’s kindly face, a face usually so brilliant in its animated expression, but now saddened and worn by constant watching and fatigue.
“You are far too good to me,” she said in a low voice— “And I am most unworthy of all your attention.”
Loyse D’Agramont paid no heed to this remark, but resumed reading the Prince Sovrani’s epistle —
“Let me see! . . . Sylvie — yes — here it is— ‘She telegraphs to you every day for news, which is apparently the only extravagance she is guilty of just now. She and her husband have taken rooms in some very poor neighbourhood of London, and are beginning work in real earnest. Our good Felix and his cherished foundling have been with them into many wretched homes, cheering the broken-hearted, comforting the sick, and assuring all those who doubt it that there is a God in spite of priest-craft, — and I have received an English paper which announces that Mr. Aubrey Leigh will give one of his famous “Addresses to the People” on the last day of the year. I should like to hear him, though my very slight knowledge of English would be rather against me in the comprehension of what he might say. For all other news you must wait till we meet. Expect me in Paris in a few days, and ask my Angela to rouse herself sufficiently to give her old father a smile of welcome. My compliments to “Gys Grandit,” and to you the assurance of my devoted homage. Pietro Sovrani.’”
The Princesse folded up the letter and looked wistfully at Angela.
“You will give him the smile of welcome he asks for, will you not, little one?” she asked. “You are all he has in the world, remember!”
“I do remember,” murmured Angela. “I know!”
“Aubrey and his wife
are ‘beginning work in real earnest’!” said Cyrillon. “And how much their work will mean to the world! More than the world can at present imagine or estimate! It seems to be a settled thing that the value of great work shall never be recognised during the worker’s lifetime, but only afterwards — when he or she who was so noble, so self-sacrificing, or so farseeing, shall have passed beyond the reach of envy, scorn and contumely, into other regions of existence and development. The finest deeds are done without acknowledgment or reward, and when the hero or heroine has gone beyond recall, the whole world stands lamenting its blindness for not having known or loved them better. Donna Sovrani” — and his voice softened— “will also soon begin again to work, like Aubrey and Sylvie, ‘in real earnest.’ Will she not?”
Angela raised her eyes, full of sadness, yet also full of light.
“Yes,” she said. “I will! I will work my grief into a glory if I can! And the loss of world’s love shall teach me to love God more!”
Loyse D’Agramont embraced her.
“That is my Angela!” she said. “That is what I wanted you to feel — to know — for I too have suffered!”
“I know you have — and I should have remembered it!” said Angela, penitently. “But — I have been frozen with grief — paralysed in brain and heart, and I have forgotten so many things!” She trembled and closed her eyes for a moment, — then went on— “Give me a little time — a few more days! — and I will prove that I am not ungrateful for your love—” She hesitated, and then turning, gave her hand to Cyrillon,— “or for your friendship.”
He bent over the little hand and kissed it reverently, and soon afterwards took his leave, more light of heart, and more hopeful in spirit, than he had been for many days. He felt he could now go on with his work, part of which was the task of distributing the money his father had left him, among the poor of Paris. He considered that to leave money to the poor after death is not half such a Christian act as to give it while alive. Distributors, secretaries, lawyers, and red-tapeism come in with the disposal of wealth after we are gone; — but to give it to those in need with our own hands — to part with it freely and to deny ourselves something in order to give it, — that is doing what Christ asked us to do. And whether we are blessed or cursed by those whom we seek to benefit, none can take away from us the sweet sense of peace and comfort which is ours to enjoy, when we know that we have in some small measure tried to serve our Divine Master, for the “full measure” of content, “pressed down and running over” which He has promised to those who “freely give,” has never yet been known to fail.
And Cyrillon Vergniaud was given this happiness of the highest, purest kind, as with the aid of the wondering and reluctant Monsieur Andre Petitot, he gave poor families comfort for life, and rescued the sick and the sorrowful, — and all he reserved to himself from his father’s large fortune was half a million francs. For he learned that most of the money he inherited had come to the late Abbe through large bequests left to him by those who had believed in him as a righteous priest of spotless reputation, and Cyrillon’s conscience would not allow him to take advantage of money thus obtained, as he sternly told himself, “on false pretences.”
“My father would not have wished me to keep it after his public confession,” he said. “And I will not possess more than should have been spared in common justice to aid my mother’s life and mine. The rest shall be used for the relief of those in need. And I know, — if I told Angela — she would not wish it otherwise!”
So he had his way. And while his prompt help and personal supervision of the distribution of his wealth brought happiness to hundreds of homes, he was rewarded by seeing Angela grow stronger every day. The hue of health came gradually back to her fair cheeks, — her eyes once more recovered their steadfast brightness and beauty, and as from time to time he visited her and watched her with all the secret passion and tenderness he felt, his heart grew strong within him.
“She will love me one day if I try to deserve her love,” he thought. “She will love me as she has never loved yet! No woman can understand the true worth of love, unless her lover loves her more than himself! This is a joy my Angela has not yet been given, — it will be for me to give it to her!”
XXXVIII.
With the entry of Angela’s great picture “The Coming of Christ” into London, where it became at once the centre of admiration, contention and general discussion, one of the most singular “religious” marriage ceremonies ever known, took place in a dreary out-lying district of the metropolis, where none but the poorest of the poor dwell, working from dawn till night for the merest pittance which scarcely pays them for food and lodging. It was one of Aubrey Leigh’s “centres,” and to serve his needs for a church he had purchased a large wooden structure previously used for the storing of damaged mechanical appliances, such as worn-out locomotives, old railway carriages, and every kind of lumber that could possibly accumulate anywhere in a dock or an engine yard. The building held from three to four thousand people closely packed, and when Leigh had secured it for his own, he was as jubilant over his possession as if the whole continent of Europe had subscribed to build him a cathedral. He had the roof mended and made rainproof, and the ground planked over to make a decent flooring, — then he had it painted inside a dark oak colour, and furnished it with rows of benches. At the upper end a raised platform was erected, and in the centre of that platform stood a simple Cross of roughly carved dark wood, some twelve or fifteen feet in height. There was no other adornment in the building, — the walls remained bare, the floor unmatted, the seats uncushioned. No subscriptions were asked for its maintenance; no collection plate was ever sent around, yet here, whenever Leigh announced a coming “Address,” so vast a crowd assembled that it was impossible to find room for all who sought admittance. And here, on one cold frosty Sunday morning, with the sun shining brightly through the little panes of common glass which had been inserted to serve as windows, he walked through a densely packed and expectant throng of poor, ill-clad, work-worn, yet evidently earnest and reverent men and women, leading his fair wife Sylvie, clad in bridal white, by the hand, up to the platform, and there stood facing the crowd. He was followed by Cardinal Bonpre and — Manuel. The Cardinal wore no outward sign of his ecclesiastical dignity, — he was simply attired in an ordinary priest’s surtout, and his tall dignified figure, his fine thoughtful face and his reverend age, won for him silent looks of admiration and respect from many who knew nothing of him or of the Church to which he belonged, but simply looked upon him as a friend of their idolized teacher, Aubrey Leigh. Manuel passed through the crowd almost unnoticed, and it was only when he stood near the Cross, looking down upon the upturned thousands of faces, that a few remarked his presence. The people had assembled in full force on this occasion, an invitation having gone forth in Leigh’s name asking them “to be witnesses of his marriage,” and the excitement was intense, as Sylvie, veiled as a bride, obeyed the gentle signal of her husband, and took her seat on the platform by the side of the Cardinal on the left hand of the great Cross, against which Manuel leaned lightly like a child who is not conscious of observation, but who simply takes the position which seems to him most natural. And when the subdued murmuring of the crowd had died into comparative silence, Aubrey, advancing a little to the front of the Cross, spoke in clear ringing tones, which carried music to the ears and conviction to the heart.
“My friends! I have asked you all here in your thousands, to witness the most sacred act of my human life — my marriage! By the law of this realm, — by the law of America, the country of my birth, — that marriage is already completed and justified, — but no ‘religious’ ceremony has yet been performed between myself and her whom I am proud and grateful to call wife. To my mind however, a ‘religious’ ceremony is necessary, and I have chosen to hold it here, — with you who have listened to me in this place many and many a time, — with you as witnesses to the oath of fidelity and love I am about to take in the pre
sence of God! There is no clergyman present — no one to my knowledge of any Church denomination except a Cardinal of the Church of Rome who is my guest and friend, but who takes no part in the proceedings. The Cross alone stands before you as the symbol of the Christian faith, — and what I swear by that symbol means for me a vow that shall not be broken either in this world, or in the world to come! I need scarcely tell you that this is not the usual meaning of marriage in our England of to-day. There is much blasphemy in the world, but one of the greatest blasphemies of the age is the degradation of the sacrament of matrimony, — the bland tolerance with which an ordained priest of Christ presumes to invoke the blessing of God upon a marriage between persons whom he knows are utterly unsuited to each other in every way, who are not drawn together by love, but only by worldly considerations of position and fortune. I have seen these marriages consummated. I have seen the horrible and often tragic results of such unholy union. I have known of cases where a man, recognized as a social blackguard of the worst type, whose ways of life are too odious to be named, has been accepted as a fitting mate for a young innocent girl just out of school, because he is a Lord or a Duke or an Earl. Anything for money! Anything for the right to stand up and crow over your neighbours! When an inexperienced girl or woman is united for life to a loathsome blackguard, an open sensualist, a creature far lower than the beasts, yet possessed of millions, she is ‘congratulated’ as being specially to be envied, when as a matter of strict honesty, it would be better if she were in her grave. The prayers and invocations pronounced at such marriages are not ‘religious,’ — they are mere profanity! The priest who says ‘Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder,’ over such immoral wedlock, is guilty of a worse sacrilege than if he trampled on the bread and wine of Christ’s Communion! For marriage was not intended to be a mere union of bodies, — but a union of souls. It is the most sacred bond of humanity. From the love which has created that bond, is born new life, — life which shall be good or evil according to the spirit in which husband and wife are wedded. ‘The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children,’ — and the first and greatest sin is bodily union without soul-love. It is merely a form of animal desire, — and from desire alone no good or lofty thing can spring. We are not made to be ‘as the beasts that perish’ — though materialists and sensualists delight in asserting such to be our destiny, in order to have ground whereon to practise their own vices. This planet, the earth, is set under our dominion; the beasts are ours to control, — they do not control us. Our position therefore is one of supremacy. Let us not voluntarily fall from that position to one even lower than the level of beasts! The bull, the goat, the pig, are moved by animal desire alone to perpetuate their kind — but we, — we have a grander mission to accomplish than theirs — we in our union are not only responsible for the Body of the next generation to come, but for the brain, the heart, the mind, and above all the Soul! If we wed in sin, our children must be born in sin. If we make our marriages for worldly advantage, vanity, blind desire, or personal convenience, our children will be moulded on those passions, and grow up to be curses to the world they live in. Love, and love only of the purest, truest, and highest kind, must be the foundation of the marriage Sacrament, — love that is prepared to endure all the changes of fate and fortune — love that is happy in working and suffering for the thing beloved — love that counts nothing a hardship, — neither sickness, nor sorrow, nor poverty, provided it can keep its faith unbroken!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 518
