Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “That can be done still,” — observed Sir Frederick laughingly— “And is done, pretty often. People haven’t left off making love because the faith in Venus is exploded. I expect they’ll go on in the same old abandoned way to the end of the chapter.”

  And, throwing his arm round his wife’s waist, he sauntered on with her towards the thicket of trees at the end of which their driver had told them the “refuge” was situated, leaving Strathlea and Madame Vassilius to follow. Strathlea perceived and was grateful for the opportunity thus given, and ventured to approach Irene a little more closely. She was still gazing out to the sea, — her soft eyes were dreamy and abstracted, — her small ungloved right hand hung down at her side, — after a moment’s hesitation, he boldly lifted it and touched its delicate whiteness with a kiss. She started nervously — she had been away in the land of dreams, — and now she met his gaze with a certain vague reproach in the sweet expression of her face.

  “I cannot help it—” said Strathlea quickly, and in a low eager tone— “I cannot, Irene! You know I love you, — you have seen it, and you have discouraged and repelled me in every possible way, — but I am not made of stone or marble — I am mere flesh and blood, and I must speak. I love you, Irene! I love you — I will not unsay it. I want you to be my wife. Will you, Irene? Do not be in a hurry to answer me — think long enough to allow some pity for me to mingle with your thoughts. Just imagine a little hand like this” — and he kissed it again— “holding the pen with such a masterful grip and inditing to the world the thoughts and words that live in the minds of thousands, — is it such a cold hand that it is impervious to love’s caress? I cannot — I will not believe it. You cannot be obdurate for ever. What is there in love that it should repel you?”

  She smiled gravely, and gently, very gently, withdrew her hand.

  “It is not love that repels me—” she said, “It is what is called love, in this world, — a selfish sentiment that is not love at all. I assure you I am not insensible to your affection for me, my dear Duke,...I wish for your sake I were differently constituted.”

  She paused a moment, then added hastily, “See, the others are out of sight — do let us overtake them.”

  She moved away quickly with that soft gliding tread of hers which reminded one of a poet’s sylph walking on a moonbeam, and he paced beside her, half mortified, yet not altogether without hope.

  “Why are you so anxious to see this man who has lost his wits, — this El-Râmi Zarânos?” he asked, with a touch of jealousy in his accents— “Was he more to you than most people?”

  She raised her eyes with an expression of grave remonstrance.

  “Your thoughts wrong me—” she said simply— “I never saw El-Râmi but twice in my life, — I only pitied him greatly. I used to have a strong instinct upon me that all would not be well with him in the end.”

  “Why?”

  “First, because he had no faith, — secondly because he had an excess of pride. He dismissed God out of his calculations altogether, and was perfectly content to rely on the onward march of his own intellect. Intellectual Egoism is always doomed to destruction, — this seems to be a Law of the Universe. Indeed, Egoism, whether sensual or intellectual, is always a defiance of God.”

  Strathlea walked along in silence for a minute, then he said abruptly.

  “It is odd to hear you speak like this, as if you were a religious woman. You are not religious, — everyone says so, — you are a free-thinker, — and also, pardon me for repeating it, society supposes you to be full of this sin you condemn — Intellectual Egoism.”

  “Society may suppose what it pleases of me” — said Irene— “I was never its favourite, and never shall be, nor do I court its good opinion. Yes, I am a free-thinker, and freely think without narrow law or boundary, of the majesty, beauty and surpassing goodness of God. As for intellectual egoism, — I hope I am not in any respect guilty of it. To be proud of what one does, or what one knows, has always seemed to me the poorest sort of vanity, — and it is the stumbling-block over which a great many workers in the literary profession fall, never to rise again. But you are quite right in saying I am not a ‘religious’ woman; I never go to church, and I never patronize bazaars.”

  The sparkle of mirth in her eyes was infectious, and he laughed. But suddenly she stopped, and laid her hand on his arm.

  “Listen,” she said, with a slight tremor in her voice— “You love me, you say...and I — I am not altogether indifferent to you — I confess that much. Wait!” for in an excess of delight he had caught both her hands in his own, and she loosened them gently— “Wait — you do not know me, my dear friend. You do not understand my nature at all, — I sometimes think myself it is not what is understood as ‘feminine.’ I am an abnormal creature — and perhaps if you knew me better you would not like me...”

  “I adore you!” said Strathlea impetuously, “and I shall always adore you!”

  She smiled rather sadly.

  “You think so now,” — she said— “but you cannot be sure, — no man can always be sure of himself. You spoke of society and its opinion of me; — now, as a rule, average people do not like me, — they are vaguely afraid of me, — and they think it is strange and almost dangerous for a ‘writing woman’ to be still young, and not entirely hideous. Literary women generally are so safely and harmlessly repellant in look and bearing. Then again, as you said, I am not a religious woman, — no, not at all so in the accepted sense of the term. But with all my heart and soul I believe in God, and the ultimate good of everything. I abhor those who would narrow our vision of heavenly things by dogma or rule — I resent all ideas of the Creator that seem to lessen His glory by one iota. I may truly say I live in an ecstasy of faith, accepting life as a wondrous miracle, and death as a crowning joy. I pray but seldom, as I have nothing to ask for, being given far more than I deserve, — and I complain of nothing save the blind, cruel injustice and misjudgment shown by one human unit to another. This is not God’s doing, but Man’s — and it will, it must, bring down full punishment in due season.”

  She paused a moment, — Strathlea was looking at her admiringly, and she coloured suddenly at his gaze.

  “Besides” — she added with an abrupt change of tone, from enthusiasm to coldness, “you must not, my dear Duke, think that I feel myself in any way distinguished or honoured by your proposal to make me your wife. I do not. This sounds very brusque, I know, but I think as a general rule in marriage, a woman gives a great deal more than she ever receives. I am aware how very much your position and fortune might appeal to many of my sex, — but I need scarcely tell you they have no influence upon me. For, notwithstanding an entire lack of log-rollers and press ‘booms’” — and she smiled— “my books bring me in large sums, sufficient and more than sufficient, for all my worldly needs. And I am not ambitious to be a duchess.”

  “You are cruel, Irene” — said Strathlea— “Should I ever attaint you with worldly motives? I never wanted to be a duke — I was born so, — and a horrid bore it is! If I were a poor man, could you fancy me?”

  He looked at her, — and her eyes fell under his ardent gaze. He saw his advantage and profited by it.

  “You do not positively hate me?” he asked.

  She gave him one fleeting glance through her long lashes, and a faint smile rested on her mouth.

  “How could I?” she murmured— “you are my friend.”

  “Well, will you try to like me a little more than a friend?” — he continued eagerly— “Will you say to yourself now and then— ‘He is a big, bluff, clumsy Englishman, with more faults than virtues, more money than brains, and a stupid title sticking upon him like a bow of ribbon on a boar’s head, but he is very fond of me, and would give up everything in the world for me’ — will you say that to yourself, and think as well as you can of me? — will you, Irene?”

  She raised her head. All coldness and hauteur had left her face, and her eyes were very soft and tender.
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  “My dear friend, I cannot hear you do yourself wrong” — she said— “and I am not as unjust as you perhaps imagine. I know your worth. You have more virtues than faults, more brains than money, — you are generous and kindly, — and in this instance, your title sets off the grace of a true and gallant gentleman. Give me time to consider a little, — let us join the Vaughans, — I promise you I will give you your answer today.”

  A light flashed over his features, and stooping, he once more kissed her hand. Then, as she moved on, a gracefully gliding figure under the dark arching boughs, he followed with a firm joyous step such as might have befitted a knight of the court of King Arthur who had, after hard fighting, at last won some distinct pledge of his ‘ladye’s’ future favour.

  CHAPTER XI.

  DEEPLY embowered among arching boughs and covered with the luxuriant foliage of many a climbing and flowering vine, the little monastic refuge appeared at first sight more like the retreat of a poet or painter than a religious house where holy ascetics fasted and prayed and followed the difficult discipline of daily self-denial. When the little party of visitors reached its quaint low door they all paused before ringing the bell that hung visibly aloft among clustering clematis, and looked about them in admiration.

  “What a delicious place!” said Lady Vaughan, bending to scent the odours of a rich musk rose that had pushed its lovely head through the leaves as though inviting attention— “How peaceful!...and listen! What grand music they are singing!”

  She held up her finger, — the others obeyed the gesture, and hushed their steps to hear every note of the stately harmony that pealed out upon the air. The brethren were chanting part of the grand Greek “Hymn of Cleanthes,” a translation of which may be roughly rendered in the following strophes:

  “Many-named and most glorious of the Immortals, Almighty forever.

  Ruler of Nature whose government is order and law.

  Hail, all hail! for good it is that mortals should praise thee!”

  “We are Thy offspring; we are the Image of Thy Voice.

  And only the Image, as all mortal things are that live and move by Thy power.

  Therefore do we exalt Thy Name and sing of Thy glory forever!”

  “Thee doth the splendid Universe obeyMoving whithersoever Thou leadest,And all are gladly swayed by Thee.”

  “Naught is done in the earth without Thee, O God —

  Nor in the divine sphere of the heavens, nor in the deepest depths of the sea.

  Save the works that evil men commit in their hours of folly.”

  “Yet thou knowest where to find place for superfluous things.

  Thou dost order that which seems disorderly.

  And things not dear to men are dear to Thee!”

  “Thou dost harmonise into One both Good and Evil.

  For there is One Everlasting Reason for them all.”

  “O thou All-Giver, Dweller in the clouds, Lord of the thunder.

  Save thou men from their own self-sought unhappiness.

  Do thou, Father, scatter darkness from their souls, and give them light to discover true wisdom.”

  “In being honoured let them pay Thee Honour.

  Hymning Thy glorious works continually as beseems mortal men.

  Since there can be no greater glory for men or gods than this.

  To praise for ever and ever the grand and Universal Law! Amen! — Amen! — Amen!”

  “Strange they should elect to sing that” — said Strathlea musingly— “I remember learning it off by heart in my student days. They have left out a verse of it here and there, — but it is quite a Pagan hymn.”

  “It seems to me very good Christianity” — said Irene Vassilius, her eyes kindling with emotion— “It is a grand and convincing act of thanksgiving, and I think we have more cause for thankfulness than supplication.”

  “I am not yet quite sure about that myself” — murmured Strathlea in her ear— “I shall know better when the day is ended which I need most, prayer or thanksgiving.”

  She coloured a little and her eyes fell, — meanwhile the solemn music ceased.

  “Shall I ring?” inquired Sir Frederick as the last note died away on the air.

  They all silently acquiesced, — and by means of a coarse rope hanging down among the flowers the bell was gently set in motion. Its soft clang was almost immediately answered by a venerable monk in white garments, with a long rosary twisted into his girdle and a Cross and Star blazoned in gold upon his breast.

  “Benedicite!” said this personage mildly, making the sign of the cross before otherwise addressing the visitors, — then, as they instinctively bent their heads to the pious greeting, he opened the door a little wider and asked them in French what they sought.

  For answer Madame Vassilius stepped forward and gave him an open letter, one which she knew would serve as a pass to obtain ready admission to the monastery, and as the monk glanced it over his pale features brightened visibly.

  “Ah! Friends of our youngest brother Sebastian” — he said in fluent English— “Enter! You are most heartily welcome.”

  He stood aside, and they all passed under the low porch into a square hall, painted from ceiling to floor in delicate fresco. The designs were so beautiful and so admirably executed, that Strathlea could not resist stopping to look at one or two of them.

  “These are very fine” — he said addressing the gray-haired recluse who escorted them— “Are they the work of some ancient or modern artist?”

  The old man smiled and gave a deprecating, almost apologetic gesture.

  “They are the result of a few years’ pleasant labour” — he replied— “I was very happy while employed thus.”

  “You did them!” exclaimed Lady Vaughan, turning her eyes upon him in frank wonder and admiration— “Why then you are a genius!”

  The monk shook his head.

  “Oh no, Madame, not so. We none of us lay claim to ‘genius’; that is for those in the outer world, — here we simply work and do our best for the mere love of doing it.”

  Here, preceding them a little, he threw open a door, and ushered them into a quaint low room, panelled in oak, and begged them to be seated for a few moments while he went to inform “Brother Sebastian” of their arrival.

  Left alone they gazed about in silence, till Sir Frederick, after staring hard at the panelled walls said —

  “You may be pretty sure these fellows have carved every bit of that oak themselves. Monks are always wonderful workmen,— ‘Laborare est orare’ you know. By the way, I noticed that monk artist who was with us just now wore no tonsure, — I wonder why? Anyhow it’s a very ugly disfigurement and quite senseless; they do well to abjure it.”

  “Is this man you come to see, — El-Râmi — a member of the Fraternity?” asked Strathlea of Irene in a low tone.

  She shook her head compassionately.

  “Oh no — poor creature, — he would not understand their rules or their discipline. He is simply in their charge, as one who must for all his life be weak and helpless.”

  At that moment the door opened, and a tall slim figure appeared, clad in the trailing white garments of the brotherhood; and in the dark poetic face, brilliant eyes and fine sensitive mouth there was little difficulty in recognising Féraz as the “Brother Sebastian” for whom they waited. He advanced towards them with singular grace and quiet dignity, — the former timidity and impetuosity of youth had entirely left him, and from his outward aspect and bearing he looked like a young saint whose thoughts were always set on the highest things, yet who nevertheless had known what it was to suffer in the search for peace.

  “You are most welcome, Madame” — he said, inclining himself with a courteous gentleness towards Irene,— “I expected you, — I felt sure that you would one day come to see us. I know you were always interested in my brother...”

  “I was, and am still” — replied Irene gently, “and in yourself also.”

  Féraz, or “Brother
Sebastian” as he was now called, made another gentle salutation expressive of gratitude, and then turned his eyes questioningly on the other members of the party.

  “You will not need to be reminded of Sir Frederick Vaughan and Lady Vaughan,” — went on Irene, — then as these exchanged greetings, she added— “This gentleman whom you do not know is the Duke of Strathlea, — we have made the journey from England in his yacht, and—” she hesitated a moment, the colour deepening a little in her fair cheeks— “he is a great friend of mine.”

  Féraz glanced at her once, — then once at Strathlea, and a grave smile softened his pensive face. He extended his hand with a frank cordiality that was charming, and Strathlea pressed it warmly, fascinated by the extreme beauty and dignity of this youthful ascetic, sworn to the solitariness of the religious life ere he had touched his manhood’s prime.

  “And how is El-Râmi?” asked Sir Frederick with good-natured bluffness— “My cousin Melthorpe was much distressed to hear what had happened, — and so were we all, — really — a terrible calamity — but you know over-study will upset a man, — it’s no use doing too much—”

  He broke off his incoherent remarks abruptly, embarrassed a little by the calmly mournful gaze of “Brother Sebastian’s” deep dark eyes.

  “You are very good, Sir Frederick,” — he said gently— “I am sure you sympathize truly, and I thank you all for your sympathy. But — I am not sure that I should be sorrowful for my brother’s seeming affliction. God’s will has been made manifest in this, as in other things, — and we must needs accept that will without complaint. For the rest, El-Râmi is well, — and not only well, but happy. Let me take you to him.”

  They hesitated, — all except Irene. Lady Vaughan was a nervous creature, — she had a very vivid remembrance of El-Râmi’s “terrible eyes” — they looked fiery enough when he was sane, — but how would they look now when he was...mad? She moved uneasily, — her husband pulled his long moustache doubtfully as he studied her somewhat alarmed countenance, — and Féraz, glancing at the group, silently understood the situation.