Books: The Master Christian

M >> Marie Corelli >> The Master Christian

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50

Her eyes fell beneath his straight clear regard, and she moved
restlessly.

"Ah you do not know--you do not understand!" she said. "I am not
thinking of myself--indeed I am not! But I feel as if my work--my
picture--had killed Florian! I hate myself!--I hate everything I
have ever done, or could ever possibly do. I see him night and day
in those horrible flames!--Oh God! those cruel flames!--he seems to
reproach me,--even to curse me for his death!"

She shuddered and turned her face away. Cyrillon ventured to take
her hand.

"That is not like you, dear friend!" he said, his rich voice
trembling with the pity he felt for her. "That is not like your
brave spirit! You look only at one aspect of grief--you see the
darkness of the cloud, but not its brighter side. If I were to say
that he whom you loved so greatly has perhaps been taken to save him
from even a worse fate, you would be angry with me. You loved him--
yes; and whatever he did or attempted to do, even to your injury,
you would have loved him still had he lived! That is the angel half
of woman's nature. You would have given him your fame had he asked
you for it,--you would have pardoned him a thousand times over had
he sought your pardon,--you would have worked for him like a slave
and been content to die with your genius unrecognized if that would
have pleased him. Yes I know! But God saw your heart--and his--and
with God alone rests the balance of justice. You must not set
yourself in opposition to the law; you,--such a harmonious note in
work and life,--must not become a discord!"

She did not speak. Her hand lay passively in his, and he went on.

"Death is not the end of life. It is only the beginning of a new
school of experience. Your very grief,--your present inaction, may
for all we know, be injuring the soul of the man whose loss you
mourn!"

She sighed.

"Do you think that possible--?"

"I do think it very possible," he answered. "Natural sorrow is not
forbidden to us,--but a persistent dwelling on cureless grief is a
trespass against the law. Moreover you have been endowed with a
great talent,--it is not your own--it is lent to you to use for
others, and you have no right to waste it. The world has taken your
work with joy, with gratitude, with thanksgiving; will you say that
you do not care for the world?--that you will do nothing more for
it?--Because one love--one life, has been taken from you, will you
discard all love, all life? Dear friend, that will not be
reasonable,--not right, nor just, nor brave!"

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 presence 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!"

He paused--there was a slight stir among the audience, but otherwise
not a sound. Sylvie sat quiet, a graceful, nymph-like figure, veiled
in her cloudy white--Cardinal Bonpre's mild blue eyes raised to the
speaker's face, were full of rapt attention--and Manuel still
leaning against the great Cross seemed absorbed in dreamy and
beautiful thoughts of his own.

"I should like," went on Aubrey with increasing warmth and passion,
"to tell you what I mean by 'faith unbroken.' It is the highest form
of love,--the only firm rock of friendship. It leaves no room for
suspicion,--no place for argument--no cause for contradiction. It is
the true meaning of the wedding-ring. Apart from marriage
altogether, it is the only principle that can finally civilize and
elevate man. So long as we doubt God and mistrust our fellows, so
long must corruption sway business, and wars move nations. The man
who gives us cause to suspect his honesty,--the man who forces us to
realize the existence of treachery, is a worse murderer than he who
stabs us bodily to death; for he has tainted our soul; he has pushed
us back many steps on our journey Godward, and has made us wonder
and question whether in truth a God can exist who tolerates in His
universe such a living lie! It is only when we have to contemplate a
broken faith that we doubt God! For a broken faith is an abnormal
prodigy in the natural scheme of the universe--a discord in the
eternal music of the stars! There are no treacheries, no falsifying
of accounts, in the Divine order of the Law. The sun does not fail
to rise each morning, whether clouds obscure the sky or not,--the
moon appears at her stated seasons and performs her silver-footed
pilgrimage faithfully to time--the stars move with precision in
their courses,--and so true are they to their ordainment, that we
are able to predict the manner in which they will group themselves
and shine, years after we have passed away. In the world of Nature
the leaves bud, and the birds nest at the coming of Spring; the
roses bloom in Summer--the harvest is gathered in Autumn,--the whole
marvellous system moves like a grand timepiece whose hands are never
awry, whose chimes never fail to ring the exact hour,--and in all
the splendour of God's gifts to us there is no such thing as a
broken faith! Only we,--we, the creatures He has endowed with 'His
own image,'--Free-will,--break our faith with Him and with each
other. And so we come to mischief, inasmuch as broken faith is no
part of God's Intention. And when two persons, man and woman, swear
to be true to each other before God, so long as life shall last, and
afterwards break that vow, confusion and chaos result from their
perjury, and all the pestilential furies attending on a wrong deed
whip them to their graves! In these times of ours, when wars and
rumours of wars shake the lethargic souls of too-exultant
politicians and statesmen with anxiety for themselves if not for
their country, we hear every day of men and women breaking their
marriage vows as lightly as though God were not existent,--we read
of princes whose low amours are a disgrace to the world--of dukes
and earls who tolerate the unchastity of their wives in order that
they themselves may have the more freedom,--of men of title and
position who even sell their wives to their friends in order to
secure some much-needed cash or social advantage,--and while our law
is busy night and day covering up 'aristocratic' crimes from
publicity, and showing forth the far smaller sins of hard-working
poverty, God's law is at work in a totally different way. The human
judge may excuse a king's vices,--but before God there are neither
kings nor commoners, and punishment falls where it is due! Christ
taught us that the greatest crime is treachery, for of Judas He said
'it were better for that man that he had never been born,' and for
the traitor and perjurer death is not the end, but the beginning, of
evils. Against the man who accepts the life of a woman given to him
in trust and love, and then betrays that life to misery, all Nature
arrays itself in opposition and disaster. We, as observers of the
great Play of human existence, may not at once see, among the
numerous shifting scenes, where the evil-doer is punished, or the
good man rewarded,--but wait till the end!--till the drop-curtain
falls--and we shall see that there is no mistake in God's plan--no
loophole left for breaking faith even with a child,--no 'permit'
existing anywhere to destroy the life of the soul by so much as one
false or cruel word! It is with a deep sense of the exact balance of
God's justice, that I stand before you to-day, my friends, and ask
you without any accepted ritual or ceremonial to hear my vows of
marriage. She to whom I pledge my word and life, is one who in the
world's eyes is accounted great, because rich in this world's
goods,--but her wealth has no attraction for me, and for my own self
I would rather she had been poor. Nevertheless, were she even
greater than she is,--a crowned queen with many kingdoms under her
control, and I but the poorest of her servants, nothing could undo
the love we have for each other,--nothing could keep our lives
asunder! Love and love only is our bond of union--sympathy of mind
and heart and spirit; wealth and rank would have been but causes of
division between us if love had not been greater. The world will
tell you differently--the world will say that I have married for
money--but you who know me better than the world, will feel by my
very words addressed to you to-day that my marriage is a true
marriage, in which no grosser element than love can enter. My wife's
wealth remains her own--settled upon her absolutely and always, and
I am personally as poor as when I first came among you and proved to
you that hard work was a familiar friend. But I am rich in the
possession of the helpmate God has given me, and with the utmost
gratitude and humility I ask you to bear witness to the fact that
this day before you and in the presence of the symbol of the
Christian faith, I take my oath to be true to her and only her while
life shall last!"