“And over all this blackness and chaos the supernal figure of the glorious Christ was aerially poised,—one Hand was extended, and to this a Woman clung—a woman with a beautiful face made piteous in its beauty by long grief and patient endurance. In her other arm she held a sleeping child—and mother and child were linked together by a garland of flowers partially broken and faded. Her entreating attitude,—the sleeping child’s helplessness—her worn face,—the perishing roses of earth’s hope and joy,—all expressed their meaning simply yet tragically; and as the Divine Hand supported and drew her up out of the universal chaos below, the hope of a new world, a better world, a wiser world, a holier world, seemed to be distantly conveyed. But the eyes of the Christ were full of reproach, and were bent on the Representative of St. Peter binding the laurel-crowned youth, and dragging him into darkness,—and the words written across the golden mount of the picture, in clear black letters, seemed to be actually spoken aloud from the vivid color and movement of the painting. ‘Many in that day will call upon Me and say, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in Thy name, and in Thy name cast out devils, and done many wonderful works?’
“‘Then will I say to them, I never knew you! Depart from Me all ye that work iniquity!’”
And what of Angela and Florian? Painter and sweetheart regard the work. Varillo’s first remark is, “Did you do it all yourself?” That is the first verbal stab. Others follow, killing the joy of Angela. And the verbal stabs are but the prelude to one with steel; for Varillo, maddened by jealousy, determines to kill Angela and then to persuade the world that he has painted the picture. Angela, happily, is not killed. Varillo, who escapes, enters into a conspiracy to declare and maintain that the great picture is his. He is got out of the world and out of the book by perishing in a fire at a monastery to which he had been taken. Such treachery it is almost impossible to conceive. Yet those who condemn the incident should remember some of Marie Corelli’s own personal experiences, with which the world has now to some extent become acquainted. Angela subsequently marries Gys Grandit.
Throughout the book there are a good many discourses by Aubrey Leigh and Gys Grandit on the subject of Christian Democracy. What seems to be the main desire of this party is “a purified Church—a House of Praise to God, without any superstition or Dogma.” We must confess, however, that we recognize the truth of the remark made by Gherardi—one of the Roman prelates—“You must have Dogma. You must formulate something out of a chaos of opinion”; and neither through Manuel, Aubrey Leigh, nor Gys Grandit does Marie Corelli tell us how she would build up this simple universal church of which she speaks so much. We may, however, expect in a further book to have Miss Corelli’s constructive conceptions on the subject. The basis of it all is, at any rate, that the main feature of all worship should be praise of the Almighty and His Divine Son; and, as a true believer and an artist, she would have the churches not only essentially houses of Praise, but buildings worthy of the high purpose for which they are erected. In “The Master Christian” she gives us her stepfather’s poem as indicating Aubrey Leigh’s ideal on the subject:
If thou’rt a Christian in deed and thought,
Loving thy neighbor as Jesus taught,—
Living all days in the sight of Heaven,
And not one only out of seven,—
Sharing thy wealth with the suffering poor,
Helping all sorrow that Hope can cure,—
Making religion a truth in the heart,
And not a cloak to be wore in the mart,
Or in high cathedrals and chapels and fanes,
Where priests are traders and count the gains,—
All God’s angels will say, “Well done!”
Whenever thy mortal race is run.
White and forgiven,
Thou’lt enter heaven,
And pass, unchallenged, the Golden Gate,
Where welcoming spirits watch and wait
To hail thy coming with sweet accord
To the Holy City of God the Lord!
If Peace is thy prompter, and Love is thy guide,
And white-robed Charity walks by thy side,—
If thou tellest the truth without oath to bind,
Doing thy duty to all mankind,—
Raising the lowly, cheering the sad,
Finding some goodness e’en in the bad,
And owning with sadness if badness there be,
There might have been badness in thine and in thee,
If Conscience the warder that keeps thee whole
Had uttered no voice to thy slumbering soul,—
All God’s angels will say, “Well done!”
Whenever thy mortal race is run.
White and forgiven,
Thou’lt enter heaven,
And pass, unchallenged, the Golden Gate,
Where welcoming spirits watch and wait
To hail thy coming with sweet accord
To the Holy City of God the Lord!
If thou art humble and wilt not scorn,
However wretched, a brother forlorn,—
If thy purse is open to misery’s call,
And the God thou lovest is God of all,
Whatever their color, clime or creed,
Blood of thy blood, in their sorest need,—
If every cause that is good and true,
And needs assistance to dare and do,
Thou helpest on through good and ill,
With trust in heaven, and God’s good-will,—
All God’s angels will say, “Well done!”
Whenever thy mortal race is run.
White and forgiven,
Thou’lt enter heaven,
And pass, unchallenged, the Golden Gate,
Where welcoming spirits watch and wait
To hail thy coming with sweet accord
To the Holy City of God the Lord!
In the closing of the story we find Cardinal Bonpré threatened by the Pope with severe punishment unless he parts with Manuel, and the Cardinal’s dignified and argumentative reply. The two part, but it is not at the bidding of the Pope. There is a beautiful description of the last night on earth of the Cardinal and of a vision beheld by him—a Dream of Angels, “Of thousands of dazzling faces, that shone like stars or were fair as flowers!”
So the Cardinal passes away to his eternal rest: