Part 73 (1/2)
”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 G.o.d saw your heart--and his--and with G.o.d 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 pa.s.sively 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 trespa.s.s 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 grat.i.tude, 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 hars.h.!.+” 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 G.o.d!
G.o.d 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!--”