God's Good Man Part 70

"No,"--replied Cicely, quietly--"He has not been very well himself, so Dr. Forsyth says,--and he has not been about much except to perform service on Sundays, and to visit his sick paris.h.i.+oners---"

"Well, I am a sick paris.h.i.+oner!" said Maryllia--"Why should he leave me out?"

Cicely looked at her very tenderly.

"I don't think he has left you out, darling! I fancy he has thought of you a great deal. He has sent to enquire after you every day."

Maryllia was silent for a minute. Then, with her own quaint little air of authority and decision, she said--

"Well!--I want to see him now. In fact, I must see him,--not only as a friend, but as a clergyman. Because you know I may not live very long---"

"Maryllia!" cried Cicely, pa.s.sionately--"Don't say that!"

"I won't, if you don't like it!" and Maryllia smiled up at her from her pillows--"But I think I should like to speak to Mr. Walden. So, as you will be pa.s.sing the rectory on your way to fetch Miss Eden and the children, will you go in and ask him if he will come up and see me this afternoon?"

"I will!" And Cicely ran out of the room with a sense of sudden, inexplicable excitement which she could scarcely conceal. Quickly putting on her hat and cloak, she almost flew down the Manor avenue, regardless of the fact that it was raining dismally, and only noticing that there was a scent of violets in the air, and one or two glimmerings of yellow crocus peeping like golden spears through the wet mould. Arriving at the rectory, she forgot that she had not seen Walden at all since Maryllia's accident, and scarcely waiting for the maid Hester to announce her, she hastened into his study with startling suddenness. Springing from his chair, he confronted her with wild imploring eyes, and a face from which ever vestige of colour had fled.

"What is it?" he muttered faintly--"My G.o.d spare me!--she--she is not dead?"

"No, no!" cried Cicely, smitten to the heart with self-reproach at her own unthinking impetuosity--"No--no--NO! Oh what an utter idiot I am! Oh, Mr. Walden, I didn't think--I didn't know--oh, dear Mr.

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 n.o.body'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 gla.s.s frames. He began to gather them carefully, and ma.s.sed 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 'Pa.s.son' 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.

"G.o.d bless her!" he said,--"An' you too, Pa.s.son!"

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

"Thank you, my friend! I hope He will!"

x.x.xI

The rain cleared off in the afternoon and a bright glint of suns.h.i.+ne 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 sc.r.a.ped 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 a.s.sistant, 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 G.o.d!--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 a.s.sisted them, the children sang--