Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Sancta. vixit. Sancta obit.. In. coelum.. sanctorum., transmigravit… In Resurrectione Sanctorum resurget M.. Beatse. ma.. R.

  But to what perished identity these significant words applied remained an impenetrable mystery. Every old record was carefully searched, — every scrap of ancient history wherein the neighbourhood of St. Rest had ever been concerned was turned over and over by the patient and indefatigable John Walden, who followed up many suggestive tracks eagerly and lost them again when apparently just on the point of finding some sure clue, — till at last he gave up the problem in despair and contented himself and his parishioners by accepting the evident fact that in the old church at one time or another some saint or holy abbot had been buried, — hence the name of St. Rest or ‘The Saint’s Rest,’ which had become attached to the village. But at what exact period such saint or abbot had lived and died, was undiscoverable.

  When the restoration of the sacred shrine was completed, and an expectant congregation filled it to overflowing to assist at the solemn service of its re-dedication to the worship of God, not one among them all but was deeply impressed by the appearance of the restored chancel, with its beautiful columns and delicate capitals, arching like a bower of protection over the altar, and over that wonderful white sarcophagus lying turn it round and round. As they proceeded laboriously in this task, while the screw creaked and groaned under the process with a noise as of splitting timber, all at once the oblong slab of alabaster moved, and rose upward about an inch.

  “To it, boys!” cried Walden, his eyes sparkling; “To it again, and harder! We shall have it with us in an hour!”

  And truly, in somewhat less than an hour the strange old-world lever had lifted what it must often have lifted in a similar way in bygone years, — a magnificent and perfectly preserved sarcophagus, measuring some six or seven feet long by three feet wide, covered with exquisite carving at the sides, representing roses among thorns, the flowers having evidently at one time been centred with gems and which even now bore traces of gold. Round the lid there was some dim lettering which was scarcely discernible, — the lid itself was firmly closed and strongly cemented.

  Exclamations of wonder, admiration, and excitement broke from all who had been engaged in the work of excavation, and presently the whole village ran out to see the wonderful relic of a forgotten past, all chattering, all speculating, all staring, Walden alone stood silent; his head bared, — his hands clasped. He knew that only some great saint or holy recluse could have ever been so royally enshrined in ancient days, and the elaborate system of leverage used seemed to prove that the body laid within that wrought alabaster and gold must have been considered to be of that peculiar nature termed ‘miraculous,’ and worthy to be lifted from its resting-place into the chancel on certain particular occasions for the homage and reverence of the people. The sun poured down upon the beautiful object lying there, — on the groups of workmen who, instinctively imitating Walden’s example, had bared their heads, — on the wrinkled worn faces of old village men and women, — on the bright waving locks of young girls, and the clear enquiring eyes of children, all gazing at the strange treasure-trove their ruined church had given up to the light of a modern day. Presently the chief workman, asked Walden in a hushed voice:

  “Shall we break it open, sir?”

  “No, — never!” replied Walden gently but firmly; “That would be sacrilege. We may not lightly disturb the dead! The ashes enshrined in this wonderful casket must be those of one who was dear to the old-time church. They shall rest in peace. And as this sarcophagus is evidently fixed by its leversouls, and awakening them to hopeful considerations of a happier end than the mere grave.”

  Ten years, however, had now passed since John Walden had bought the living, and of these ten years three had been occupied in the restoration of the church, so that seven had elapsed since it had been consecrated. And during those seven years not once had Bishop Brent been seen again in St. Rest. He remained in the thoughts of the people as an indefinable association with whom they would fain have had more to do. Sir Morton Pippitt had passed from the sixties into the seventies, very little altered; — still upright, still inflexible and obstinate of temperament, he ruled the neighbourhood, Riversford especially, as much as was possible to him now that much of the management of St. Rest had passed under the quieter, but no less firm authority of John Walden, whose will was nearly always found in intellectually balanced opposition to his. The two seldom met. Sir Morton was fond of ‘county’ society; Walden loathed it. Moreover, Miss Tabitha, wearing steadily on towards fifty, had, as the saying is, secretly ‘set her cap’ at the Reverend John; and the mere sight of the sedately-amorous spinster set his nerves on edge. Devoting himself strictly to his duties, to the care of the church, to the interests of his parishioners, young and old, to the cultivation of his garden, and to the careful preservation of all the natural beauties of the landscape around him, — John lived very much the life of a ‘holy man’ of mediaeval days; while Sir Horton built and ‘patronised’ a hospital at Riversford, gave several prizes for cabbages and shooting competitions, occasionally patted the heads of a few straggling school-children, fussed round among his scattered tenantry, and wrote paragraphs about his own ‘fine presence and open-hearted hospitality’ for publication in the ‘Riversford Gazette’ whenever he entertained a house party at Badsworth Hall, which he very frequently did. He kept well in touch with London folk, and to London folk he was fond of speaking of St. Rest as ‘my’ little village. But when London folk came to enquire for themselves as to the nature of his possession, they invariably discovered that it was not Sir Morton’s little village at all but the Reverend John’s little village. Hence arose certain discrepancies and cross-currents of feeling, leading to occasional mild friction and ‘local’ excitement. Up to the present time, however, Walden had on the whole lived a tranquil life, such as best suited his tranquil and philosophic temperament, and his occasional ‘brushes’ with. snow-like in the rays of the sun, which flashed clear on its stray bits of gold and broken incrustation of gems, sending a straight beam through the eastern window on the one word ‘Resurget’ like a torch of hope from beyond the grave.

  Bishop Brent, Walden’s old college friend, came to perform the ceremony of consecration, and this was the first time the inhabitants of St. Rest had seen a real Bishop for many years. Much excitement did his presence create in that quiet woodland dell, the more especially as he proved to be a Bishop somewhat out of the common. Tall and attenuated in form, he had a face which might almost be called magnetic, so alive was its expression, — so intense and passionate was the light of the deep dark melancholy eyes that burned from under their shelving brows like lamps set in a high watch-tower of intellect. When he preached, his voice, with its deep mellow cadence, thrilled very strangely to the heart, — and every gesture, every turn of his head, expressed the activity of the keen soul pent up within his apparently frail body. The sermon he gave on the occasion of the re-dedication of the Church of St. Rest was powerful and emotional, but scarcely orthodox — and therefore was not altogether pleasing to Sir Morton Pippitt. He chose as his text: “Behold I show you a mystery; we shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed;” and on this he expatiated, setting forth the joys of the spiritual life as opposed to the physical, — insisting on the positive certainty of individual existence after death, and weaving into his discourse some remarks on the encoffined saint whose sarcophagus had been unearthed from its long-hidden burial-place and set again where it had originally stood, in the middle of the chancel. He spoke in hushed and solemn tones of the possibility of the holy spirit of that unknown one being present among them that day, helping them in their work, joining in their prayers of consecration and perhaps bestowing upon them additional blessing. At which statement, given with poetic earnestness and fervour, Sir Morton stared, breathed hard and murmured in his daughter’s ear “A Roman! The man is a Roman!”

  But notwithstanding Sir Morton Pippitt’s
distaste for the manner in which the Bishop dealt with his subject, and his numerous allusions to saints in heaven and their probable guardianship of their friends on earth, the sermon was a deeply impressive one and lingered long in the memories of those who had heard it, softening their hearts, inspiring their for the news of her coming. It is the one cloud in an otherwise clear sky!

  The young moon swinging lazily downward to the west, looked upon him as though she smiled. A little bat scurried past in fear and hurled itself into the dewy masses of foliage bordering the edge of the lawn. And from the reeds and sedges fringing the river beyond, there came floating a long whispering murmur that swept past his ears and died softly into space, as of a voice that had something strange and new to say, which might not yet be said. Sir Morton only served to give piquancy and savour to the quiet round of his daily habits. Now, all unexpectedly, there was to be a break, — a new source of unavoidable annoyance in the intrusion of a feminine authority, — a modern Squire-ess, who no doubt would probably bring modern ways with her into the little old-world place, — who would hunt and shoot and smoke, — perhaps even swear at her grooms, — who could tell? She would not, she could not interfere with, the church, or its minister, were she ever so much Miss Vancourt of Abbot’s Manor, — but she could if she liked ‘muddle about’ with many other matters, and there could be no doubt that as the visible and resident mistress of the most historic house in the neighbourhood, she would be what is called ‘a social influence.’

  “And not for good!” mused John Walden, during a meditative stroll in his garden on the even of the May-day on. which he had heard the disturbing news; “Certainly not for good!”

  He raised his eyes to the sky where the curved bow of a new moon hung clear and bright as a polished sickle. All was intensely still. The day had been a very busy one for him; — the children’s dinner and their May-games had kept his hands full, and not till sunset, when the chimes of the church began to ring for evening service, had he been able to snatch a moment to himself for quiet contemplation. The dewy freshness of the garden, perfumed by the opening blossoms of the syringa, imparted its own sense of calm and grave repose to his mind, — and as he paced slowly up and down the gravel walk in front of his study window watching the placid beauty of the deepening night, a slight sigh escaped him.

  “It cannot be for good!” he repeated, regretfully; “A woman trained as she must have been trained since girlhood, with all her finer perceptions blunted by perpetual contact with the assertive and ostentatious evidences of an excess of wealth, — probably surrounded too by the pitiful vulgarisms of a half-bred American society, too ignorant to admit or recognise its own limitations, — she must have almost forgotten the stately traditions of the fine old family she springs from. One must not expect the motto of ‘noblesse oblige’ to weigh with modern young women — more’s the pity! I’m afraid the mistress of Abbot’s Manor will be a disturbing element in the village, breeding discontent and trouble where there has been till now comparative peace, and a fortunate simplicity of life. I’m sorry! This would have been a perfect First of May but Ha-ha-ha-ha!” And he broke into a laugh so joyous and mellow that Bainton found it quite irresistible and joined in it with a deep “Hor-hor-hor!” evoked from the hollow of his throat, and beginning loudly, but dying away into a hoarse intermittent chuckle.

  “Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the Reverend John again, throwing back his head with a real enjoyment in his capability for laughter; “You did quite right to disturb me, Bainton, — quite right! Where are Sir Morton and his party? What are they doing?”

  “They was jes’ crossin’ the churchyard when I spied ’em,” answered Bainton; “An’ Sir Morton was makin’ some very speshul observations of his own on the ‘herly Norman period.’ Hor-hor-hor! An’ they’ve got ole Putty Leveson with ’em—”

  “Bainton!” interrupted Walden severely; “How often must I tell you that you should not speak of the rector of Badsworth in that disrespectful manner?”

  “Very sorry, sir!” said Bainton complacently; “But if one of the names of a man ‘appens to be Putwood an’ the man ‘imself is as fat as a pig scored for roastin’ ‘ole, what more natrul than the pet name of ‘Putty’ for ’im? No ‘arm meant, I’m sure, Passon! — Putty’s as good as Pippitt any day!”

  Walden suppressed his laughter with an effort. He was very much of a boy at heart, despite his forty odd years, and the quaint obstinacies of his gardener amused him too much to call for any serious remonstrance. Turning back to his study he took his hat and cane from their own particular corner of the room and started for the little clap gate which Bainton had been, as he said, ‘keeping his eye on.’

  “No more work to-day,” he said, with an air of whimsical resignation; “But I may possibly get one or two hints for my sermon!”

  He strode off, and Bainton watched him go. As the clap gate opened and swung to again, and his straight athletic figure disappeared, the old gardener still stood for a moment or two ruminating.

  “What a blessin’ he ain’t married!” he said thoughtfully; “A blessin’ to the village, an’ a blessin’ to ‘imself! He’d a bin a fine man spoilt, if a woman ‘ad ever got ‘old on ’im, — a fine man spoilt, jes’ like me!”

  An appreciative grin at his own expense spread among the furrows of his face at this consideration; — then he trotted

  IV

  Two days later on, when Walden was at work in his own room seriously considering the points of his sermon for the coming Sunday, his ‘head man about the place,’ Bainton, made a sudden appearance on the lawn and abruptly halted there, looking intently up at the sky, as though taking observations of a comet at noon. This was a customary trick of his resorted to whenever he wished to intrude his presence during forbidden hours. John saw him plainly enough from where he sat busily writing, though for a few minutes he pretended not to see. But as Bainton remained immovable and apparently rooted to the ground, and as it was likely that there he would remain till positively told to go, his master made a virtue of necessity, and throwing down his pen, went to the window. Bainton thereupon advanced a little, but stopped again as though irresolute. Walden likewise paused a moment, then at last driven to bay by the old gardener’s pertinacity, stepped out.

  “Now what is it, Bainton?” he said, endeavouring to throw a shade of sternness into his voice; “You know very well I hate being disturbed while I’m writing.”

  Bainton touched his cap respectfully.

  “Now don’t go for to say as I’m disturbing on ye, Passon,” he remonstrated, mildly; “I ain’t said a mortal wurrd! I was onny jes’ keepin’ my eye on the clap gate yonder, in case the party in the churchyard might walk through, thinkin’ it a right-o’-way. Them swagger folk ain’t got no sort of idee as to respectin’ private grounds.”

  Walden’s eyes flashed.

  “A party in the churchyard?” he repeated. “Who are they?”

  “Who should they be?” And Bainton’s rugged features expressed a sedate mingling of the shrewd and the contemptnous that was quite amazing. “Worn’t you expectin’ distinguished visitors some day this week, sir?”

  “I know!” exclaimed Walden quickly; “Sir Morton Pippitt and his guests have come to ‘inspect’ the church!”

  There was a pause, during which Walden, baring his head as he passed in, entered the sacred edifice. He became aware of Sir Morton Pippitt standing in the attitude of a University Extension lecturer near the sarcophagus in the middle of the chancel, with the Reverend Mr. Leveson and a couple of other men near him, while two more strangers were studying the groined roof with critical curiosity. As he approached, Sir Morton made a rapid sign to his companions and stepped down from the chancel.

  “Glad to see you, Mr. Walden,” he said in a loud whisper, and with an elaborate affectation of great heartiness; “I have brought His Grace the Duke of Lumpton to see the church.”

  Walden allowed his calm blue eyes to rest quietly on His Grace the Duke of Lumpton withou
t much interest. His Grace was an undersized fat man, with a bald head and a red face, and on Walden’s being presented to him, merely nodded with a patronisingly casual air.

  “Lord Mawdenham,” — continued Sir Morton, swelling visibly with just pride at his own good fortune in being able to introduce a Lord immediately after a Duke, and offering Walden, as it were, with an expressive wave of his hand, to a pale young gentleman, who seemed seriously troubled by an excess of pimples on his chin, and who plucked nervously at one of these undesirable facial addenda as his name was uttered. Walden acknowledged his presence with silent composure, as he did the wide smile and familiar nod of his brother minister, the Reverend ‘Putty,’ whose truly elephantine proportions were encased in a somewhat too closely fitting bicycle suit, and whose grand-pianoforte shaped legs and red perspiring face together, presented a most unclerical spectacle of the ‘Church at large.’

  The two gentlemen who had been studying the groined roof, now brought their glances to bear on Walden, and one of them, a youngish man with a crop of thick red hair and a curiously thin, hungry face, spoke without waiting for Sir Morton’s cue.

  “Mr. Walden? Ye-es! — I felt sure it must be Mr. Walden! Let me congratulate you, sir, on your exquisite devotional work here! The church is beau-ti-ful — beau-ti-ful! A sonnet in stone! A sculptured prayer! Ye-es! It is so! Permit me to press your hand!”

  John smiled involuntarily. There was a quaint affectation about the speaker that was quite irresistibly entertaining.