Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “What’s epik?” inquired Jessamine— “An’ what’s Drojunwors?”

  Lionel laughed softly. The gravity of the old church roof hung over him, otherwise his laughter would have been less restrained.

  “You wouldn’t understand it, if I told you, dear,” he said, becoming suddenly protective and manful as he realised her delightful ignorance and weakness— “Homer was a poet, — do you know what poetry is?”

  “‘Iss,— ‘deed I do!” declared Jessamine, allowing her head to droop caressingly on his shoulder, “I’ve ‘eerd a lot o’t. I’ll tell you some, — it be like this— “Gentle Jesus meek an’ mild, Look upon a little child, Pity my simplicitie An’ suffer me to come to Thee!”

  She looked up as she finished the familiar stanza with one of her radiant baby smiles.

  “Didn’t I say that nice?” she demanded.

  “Very nice!” murmured Lionel, while thoughts were flying round and round in his brain concerning the ‘semi-barbarians who still believed in the Christian myth,’ which was one of his father’s constantly repeated and favourite phrases.

  “Now tell me some more ‘Omer an’ Drojunwors,” — she said, nestling against him like a soft kitten— “Is it ‘bout angels?”

  “No,” replied Lionel,— “It is all about great big men, — very big men—”

  “Too big to get into this church?” queried Jessamine in awe-struck tones.

  “Yes — I believe they would have been too big to get into this church” — said Lionel, smiling involuntarily— “And they all fought about a lady called Helen, who was the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  “Why did she let ’em fight?” asked Jessamine gravely— “She was not a good lady to let the poor big men fight an’ ‘urt theirselves for ‘er. She should ‘ave made ’em all friends.”

  “She couldn’t,” — said Lionel— “You see they wouldn’t be friends.”

  “They must ha’ been funny big men!” murmured Jessamine— “Where be they all now?”

  “Oh, dead ever so long ago!” laughed the boy— “Some people say they never lived at all!”

  “Oh then it’s all fairy-tale like Puss-in-Boots,” said Jessamine— “Your Drojunwors is a fairy- book like mine. Only I like Puss-in-Boots better. Do ‘ee know my fairy-book?”

  Lionel had never had what is called a ‘fairy-book’ in his life, fairy-books having been considered by his father in the same light as that with which Mr. H. Holman, one of Her Majesty’s Inspectors of Schools recently regarded them, publicly denouncing them as “dangerous to morality and mischievous as to knowledge, contradicting the most obvious and elementary facts of experience.” (Alas, good Dry-as-Dust Holman! How much thou art to be pitied for never having been in the least young! And dost thou not realise that Religion itself in all its forms of creed, ‘contradicts the most obvious and elementary facts of experience’?) The little Lionel was unacquainted with Mr. Holman, but he knew his own father’s stern contempt for fairy-tales, even for those which have, in many cases, strangely foretold some of the most brilliant recent discoveries in science, so he replied to Jessamine’s question by a negative shake of his head, the while he gazed admiringly at the nut-brown curls that rippled in charming disarray on his shoulder.

  “I’ll tell ‘ee somethin’ in it,” — she continued, with the thinking dreamy air of a child-angel rapt in some sublime reverie— “There wos once a little girl an’ a little boy,— ‘bout s’ big as we be, — they wos good an’ prutty, an’ they’d got a bad, bad ole uncle. He couldn’t abide ’em ‘cos they wos s’ good an’ ’e wos s’ bad; so one day ’e took ’em out in a great big dark wood where no sun couldn’t shine, an’ there ’e lost ’em both. An’ when they wos lost, they walked ‘bout, up an’ down, an’ couldn’t get out nohow, an’ they got tired an’ ‘ungry, an’ so they laid down an’ said their prayers, an’ put their arms round each other’s necks, — so— “and here Jessamine cuddled closer— “an’ died jest right off, an’ God took ’em straight to Heaven. An’ then all the robin redbreasts i’ th’ wood were sorry ‘bout it, an’ they came an’ covered ’em all over wi’ beautiful red an’ green leaves, ‘cos God told the robins to bury ’em jest so, ‘cos they wos good an’ their ole uncle wos bad, an’ the robins did jest what God told ’em.” Her voice died away in a soft croodling whisper, and her eyelids drooped. “Was that a nice story?” she asked.

  “Very!” responded Lionel almost paternally, feeling quite old and wise, as he ventured now to put his own arm round her.

  “I fink,” murmured Jessamine then— “that ‘oor bad ole Drojunwors ‘as made me sleepy.”

  And as a matter of fact, in a couple of minutes, the little maiden was fast asleep, her pretty mouth half open like a tiny rosebud, and the light rise and fall of her breathing suggesting the delicate palpitations of a dove’s breast. Lionel sat very quiet, still encircling her with his arm, and looked dreamily about him. He studied the altar-screen immediately in front of him, regarding with somewhat of a gravely inquiring air the ancient, roughly carved oaken figures of the twelve apostles that partly formed it. He knew all about them of course, — that they were originally common fishermen picked up on the shores of Galilee by Jesus the son of Joseph the carpenter, and that they went about with Him everywhere, while He preached the new strange Gospel of Love which seemed like madness to a world of contention, envy and malice. They were just poor ordinary men; — not kings, — not warriors, — not nobly born, — not distinguished for either learning or courage, — and yet they had become far greater in history than any monarch that ever lived, — they were evangelists, saints, nay almost secondary gods in the opinion of a section of “semi-barbaric” mankind. It was very strange! — very strange indeed, thought Lionel as he gazed earnestly at their quaint wooden faces, — and stranger still that a mere man who was a carpenter’s son, should have made the larger and more civilised portion of humanity believe in Him as God, for more than eighteen hundred years! What had He done? Why nothing, — but good. What had He taught? Nothing — but purity and unselfishness. What was He? A determined reformer, who strove to upset the hard and fast laws of Jewish tradition, and unite all classes in one broad and holy creed of love to God and Brotherhood, — a union of the Divine and Human which should ultimately lead to perfection. Even the various tutors who had taken their several turns at setting poor Lionel’s little mind like a knife to the grindstone of learning, had been unable to say otherwise than that this Nazarene carpenter’s son was good and wise and brave. In goodness none ever surpassed Him, — that was certain. Socrates was wise and brave, — but he was not actually good; — many sins could be laid to his charge, and the same could be asserted of all the other famous moralists and philosophers who had essayed to teach the various successive generations of men. But against Christ, nothing could be said. True, He denounced the Jewish priesthood on the score that they were hypocrites; “and surely,” — thought Lionel with a prescience beyond his years, “He would have to denounce the Christian priesthood too, if it is true, as my father says, that they all preach what they don’t believe, simply to gain a living.” He sighed, — and his eyes wandered to the ‘big lilies on th’ Lord’s table’ with a wistful yearning. Those great white cups of fragrance! — with what sweet pride they stood up, each on its green stem, and silently breathed out praise to the Creator of their loveliness! “Behold the lilies of the field! — they toil not, neither do they spin, and yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” How true that was! Put ‘Solomon in all his glory’ or any monarch that ever existed beside ‘one of these’ tall fair flowers, and he in his coronation-robes and crown, would seem but a mere doll-puppet decked out in tawdry tinsel. Lionel drew the little Jessamine closer to him as she slept, and sighed again, — the unconscious sigh of a tired young thing overweighted with thought, and longing for rest and tenderness. The summer sunlight streamed down upon the two children with a broad beneficence, as though the l
ove of Christ for the weak and helpless were mixed with the golden rays, — as though the very silence and purity of the light expressed the Divine meaning,— “These ‘little ones’ are Mine as the lilies are Mine! Suffer them to come to Me and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.” And as Lionel mused and dreamed, becoming gradually drowsy himself, the church-door swung softly open, and Reuben Dale the verger entered, with another and younger man, who carried a roll of music under his arm, and who immediately ascended alone to the organ-loft. Dale meanwhile paused, lifting his cap reverently, and looking about him in evident search for his little girl. Lionel beckoned to him from the pulpit-stairs, at the same time laying a finger on his lips to intimate that Jessamine was asleep. Honest Reuben advanced on tip-toe, and surveyed the two small creatures encircled in one another’s arms, with undisguised and good-natured admiration.

  “Now that’s jest prutty!” he murmured inaudibly to himself— “An’ as nat’ral as two young burrds! An’ yon poor pale little lad looks a’most as if he was ‘appy for once in’s life!”

  At that moment a solemn chord of sound stirred the air, — the organist had commenced his daily practice, and was deftly unweaving the melodious intricacies of a stately fugue of Bach’s, made doubly rich in tone by the grave pedal-bass with which it was sustained and accompanied. Lionel started, — and Jessamine awoke. Rubbing her chubby little fists into her eyes, she sat up, yawned and stared, — then smiled bewitchingly as she saw her father.

  “We wos babes i’ th’ wood” — she explained sweetly— “An’ we wos waitin’ fur the robins to come an’ cover us up. Onny I ‘specs they couldn’t git froo th’ windows to bring th’ leaves.”

  “I ‘specs not indeed!” said Dale, the kind smile broadening on his mouth and lighting up his fine eyes— “Now ye jest coom out o’ that there poopit, ye little pixie — it’s dinner-time, an’ we’se goin’ ‘ome.”

  Jessamine rose promptly and skipped down the pulpit-stairs, Lionel following her.

  “Coom along wi’ us,” — she said taking him affectionately by the arm— “Ain’t ’e a’-coomin’ feyther?— ’e be a rare nice boy!”

  “If s’ be as ’e likes to coom, why sartinly an’ welcome!” responded Reuben,— “But he’s a little gemmun as ‘as got a feyther an’ mother o’s own, an’ mebbe they wants ’im.”

  Lionel stood silent and inert. They were going away ‘home,’ — this cheery verger and his pretty child, — and the old creeping sense of oppression and loneliness stole over the boy’s mind and chilled his heart. The music surging out from the organ-loft moved him strangely to thoughts hitherto unfamiliar, — and he thought he would stay alone in the church and listen, and try to understand the subtle meaning of such glorious, yet wordless eloquence. It seemed like angels singing, — only there were no angels! — it made one fancy the gates of Heaven were open, — only there was no Heaven! — it suggested God’s great voice speaking tenderly, — only there was no God! A deep sigh broke from him, — and all unconsciously two big tears rose in his eyes, and splashed down wet and glistening on his little blue woollen vest. In a second the impulsive Jessamine had thrown her arms about him.

  “O don’t ‘ee ky!” she crooned fondly in his ear— “We’se both goin’ ‘ome wi’ feyther, an’ ‘e’ll be kind t’ ye! An’ when we’ve ‘ad our dinner I’ll show ‘ee my dee ole ‘oss! — such a nice ole ‘oss ’e be!”

  Despite himself Lionel laughed, though his lips still trembled. Poor boy, he could hardly himself understand the cause of his own emotion, — why his heart had given that sudden heave of pain, — why the tears had come, — or why he had felt so desolately, sorrowfully alone in a huge, cold, pitiless world, — but he was grateful to Jessamine all the same for her sympathy. Reuben Dale meanwhile had been studying him gravely and curiously.

  “Would ‘ee reely like to coom an’ take a snack wi’ us, little zur?” he asked gently and with a certain deference— “Ours is onny a poor cottage, ye know, an’ sadly out o’ repair, — we’se ‘ad no lord o’ th’ manor coom nigh us for many a year to look arter us an’ see how we be a-farin’, — none o’ them fine folks cares for either our souls or bodies, purvidin’ they gits their money out o’ our labour an’ worrit. All we ‘as by way o’ remembrance from ’em is a ‘love-letter’ twice a year a-claimin’ o’ their rent, — they never fails to send us that ‘ffectionate message” — and his eyes twinkled humorously— “but as fur puttin’ a new fence or a new roof or makin’ of us comfortabler like for our money, Lor’ bless ‘ee, they never thinks o’t. But if ye’ll take us as ye find us, ye’ll be right welcome to coom on an’ play wi’ Jessamine a bit longer.”

  “Thank you very much, — I should dearly like to come,” — said Lionel wistfully— “You see I am all alone just now, — my tutor went away this morning, and another tutor is coming to-night to take his place, — but in the meantime there is nothing for me to do, as the plan of my studies is going to be changed, — it is always being changed, — and so I may as well be here as at home. I am giving myself a holiday to-day” — here he raised his eyes and looked Reuben Dale straight in the face— “and I wish to tell you Mr. Dale, that I am doing it without my father’s knowledge or permission. I am so tired of books! — and I love to be out in the fresh air. Of course now you know this, you mayn’t wish to have me, but then if you will please say so, I will go into the woods for the rest of the day, or stay by myself in the church. I should like to see more of the church, — it interests me.”

  Dale regarded the little fellow steadfastly, first in doubt and perplexity — then with a broadening smile

  “Tired o’ books, be ‘ee?” he queried— “Well! — ye’re young enough, sure-ly! An’ books can wait awhile for ye. Reyther than go wanderin’ i’ th’ woods by y’self, ye’d better coom along wi’ me an’ Jessamine, — onny mind, ye must tell yer feyther where ye ha’ been, — ye must be sartin zure o’ that!”

  “Of course I’ll tell him,” — responded Lionel manfully— “I always tell him everything, no matter how angry he is. You see he is very often angry, whatever I do or say, — though he means it all for my good. He is a very good man, — he has never done anything wrong in all his life.”

  “Ay, ay! Then he’s jest a miracle!” said Reuben drily,— “Well now, little zur, ‘fore we goes, I’ll take ye round th’ church, — there ain’t much to see, but what there is I know more about than any one else in Combmartin. Coom! — look at these ’ere altar-gates.”

  He spoke in soft tones, and trod softly as befitted the sanctity of the place, — and the two children followed him, hand in hand, as he approached the oaken screen and pointed out the twelve apostles carved upon it.

  “Now do ‘ee know, little zur,” said he, “why this ’ere carvin’ is at least two hunner’ years old — an’ likely more’n that?”

  “No,” answered Lionel, squeezing Jessamine’s little warm hand in his own, out of sheer comfort at feeling that he was not to be separated from her yet.

  “Jest watch these ’ere gates as I pull ’em to an’ fro,”* — continued Reuben,— “Do what ye will wi’ ’em, they won’t shut, — see!” and he proved the fact beyond dispute,— “That shows they wos made ‘fore the days o’ Cromwell. For in they times all the gates o’ th’ altars was copied arter the pattern o’ Scripture which sez— ‘An’ the gates o’ Heaven shall never be shut, either by day or by night.’ Then when Cromwell came an’ broke up the statues, an’ tore down the picters or whited them out wheresever they wos on th’ walls, the altars was made different, wi’ gates that shut an’ locked, — I s’pose ’e was that sing’ler afraid of idolatry that ’e thought the folks might go an’ worship th’ Communion cup on th’ Lord’s table. So now ye’ll be able to tell when ye sees the inside of a church, whether the altar-gates is old or new, by this one thing, — if they can’t shut, they’re ‘fore Cromwell’s day, — if they can, they’re wot’s called modern gimcrackery. Now, see the roof!”

>   Lionel looked up, much impressed by the verger’s learning.

  * The description of Combmartin Church in these pages is given as nearly as possible in the words of the verger, one James Norman, (may he long enjoy his cheerful, manly and contented life!) who, all unconsciously, “sat” to the author last summer for the portrait of “Reuben Dale.”

  “Folks ‘as bin ’ere an’ said quite wise-like— ‘O that roof’s quite modern,’ — but ‘tain’t nuthin’ o’ th’ sort. See them oak mouldings? — not one o’ them’s straight, — not a line! They couldn’t get ’em exact in them days, — they wosn’t clever enough. So they’re all crooked an’ ‘bout as old as th’ altar-screen, — mebbe older, for if ye stand ’ere jest where I be, ye’ll see they all bend more one way than t’other, makin’ the whole roof look lop-sided like, an’ why’s that d’ye think? Ye can’t tell? Well, they’d a reason for what they did in them there old times, an’ a sentiment too, — an’ they made the churches lean a bit to the side on which our Lord’s head bent on the Cross when He said ‘It is finished!’ Ye’ll find nearly all th’ old churches lean a bit that way, — it’s a sign of age, as well as a sign o’ faith. Now look at these ’ere figures on the pews, — ain’t they all got their ‘eds cut off?”

  Lionel admitted that they had, with a grave little nod, — Jessamine, who copied his every gesture for the moment, nodded too.

  “That wos Cromwell’s doin’,” — went on Reuben,—”’E an’ ’is men wos consumed-like wi’ what they called the fury o’ holiness, an’ they thought all these figures wos false gods and sym- symbols bols of idolatry, an’ they jest cut their ‘eds off, — executed ’em as ‘twere, like King Charles hisself. Now look up there,” — and he pointed to a narrow window on the left-hand side of the chancel— “There’s a prutty colour comin’ through that bit o’ glass! It’s the only mossel o’ real old stained glass i’ th’ church, — an’ it’s a rare sight older than the church itself. D’ye know how to tell old stained glass from new? No? Well, I’ll tell ye. When it’s old it’s very thick, — an’ if ye put your hand on its wrong side it’s rough, — very rough, jest as if ‘twere covered wi’ baked cinders, — that’s allus a sure an’ sartin proof o’ great age. Modern stained glass ye’ll find a’most as smooth an’ polished on its wrong side as on its right. Now, if ye coom into th’ vestry I’ll show ye the real old chest what wos used for Peter’s pence when we wos under Papist rule.”