Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “I’m afraid I’m boring you, Mr. Walden,” — said the unconscious object of his musings, just then—” I am dull! I feel myself under a cloud. Pray excuse it!”

  The expression of his face was comically lachrymose, and John felt a touch of compunction at the nature of his own immediate mental attitude towards the harmless ‘moon-calf.’

  “Don’t apologise!” he said, with a frank smile— “I myself am not in a companionable humour. I think Miss Bourne’s music has not only put something into us, but taken something out of us as well.”

  “You are right!” said Julian— “You are perfectly right. And you express the emotion aptly. It was extraordinary music! But that voice! That voice will be a wonder of the world!”

  “It is a wonder already” — rejoined Walden— “If the girl keeps her health and does not break down from nervous excitement and overstrain, she will have a dazzling career. I think Miss Vancourt will take every possible care of her.”

  “Miss Vancourt is very lovely,” — said Adderley reflectively, “I have made up my mind on that point at last. When I first saw her, I was not convinced. Her features are imperfect. But they are mobile and expressive — and in the expression there is a subtle beauty which is quite provocative. Then again, my own ‘ideals’ of women have always been tall and queenly, — yet in Miss Vanconrt we have a woman who is queenly without being tall. It is the regal air without the material inches. And I am now satisfied that the former is more fascinating than the latter. Though I admit that it was once my dream to die upon the breast of a tall woman!”

  Walden. laughed forcedly. He was vexed to be compelled to listen to Adderley’s criticism of Maryllia Vancourt’s physical charms, yet he was powerless to offer any remonstrance.

  “But, after all,” continued Julian, gazing up into the pink and mauve clouds of the kindling sunset,— “The tall woman might possibly, from the very coldness of her height, be unsympathetic. She might be unclaspable. Juno seems even more repellent than Venus or Psyche. Then again, there are so many large women. They are common. They obstruct the public highway. They tower forth in theatre-stalls, and nod jewelled tiaras from the elevation of opera- boxes, blocking out the view of the stage. They are more often assertive than lovable. Therefore let me not cling to an illusion which will not bear analysis. For Miss Vancourt is not a tall woman, — nor for that matter is she short, — she is indescribable, and therefore entirely bewitching!”

  John said nothing, but only walked on a trifle more quickly.

  “You are perhaps not an admirer of the fair sex, Walden?” pursued his companion— “And therefore my observations awaken no sympathy in your mind?”

  “I never discuss women,” — replied Walden, drily— “I am not a poet, you see,—” and he smiled— “I am merely a middle-aged parson. You can hardly expect me to share in your youthful enthusiasms, Adderley! You are going up the hill of life, — I am travelling down. We cannot see things from the same standpoint.” Here, they left the fields and came to the high road, — from thence a few more paces brought them to the gate of the rectory. “But I quite agree with you in your admiration of Miss Vancourt. She seems a most kindly and charming lady — and — I believe — I am sure” — and his remarks become somewhat rambling and disjointed— “yes — I am sure she will try to do good in the village now that she has taken up her residence here. That is, of course, if she stays. She may get tired of country life- -that is quite probable — but — it is, of course, a good thing to have a strong social influence in the neighbourhood — especially a woman’s influence — and I should say Miss Vancourt will make herself useful and beloved in the parish—”

  At this period he caught Adderley’s eyes fixed upon him somewhat quizzically, and realised that he was getting quite ‘parochial’ in his talk. He checked himself abruptly and swung open his garden gate.

  “I’m sorry I can’t ask you in just now,” — he said— “I have some pressing work to do—”

  “Don’t mention it!” and Julian clasped him by the hand fervently— “I would not intrude upon you for worlds! You must be alone, of course. You are delightful! — yes, my dear Walden, you are delicious! So new- -so fresh! It is a privilege to know you! Good-bye for the moment! I may come and talk to you another time!”

  “Oh, certainly! By all means!” And Walden, shaking hands with all the vigour Adderley’s grasp enforced upon him, escaped at last into the sanctuary of his own garden, and hastened under the covering shadow of the trees that bordered the lawn. Adderley watched him disappear, and then went on his own way with a gratified air of perfect complacency.

  “Those who ‘never discuss women’ are apt to be most impressed by them,” — he sagaciously reflected— “The writhings of a beetle on a pin are not so complex or interesting as the writhings of a parson’s stabbed senses! Now a remarkable psychological study might be made — My good friend! Kindly look where you are going!”

  This last remark was addressed to a half-drunken man who pushed past him roughly without apology, almost jostling him off the foot-path. It was Oliver Leach, who hearing himself spoken to, glanced round sullenly with a muttered oath, and stumbled on.

  “That is Miss Vancourt’s dismissed agent,” — said Adderley, pausing a moment to watch his uncertain progress up the road. “What an objectionable beast!”

  He walked on, and, his former train of thought being entirely disturbed, he went to the ‘Mother Huff,’ where he was a frequent visitor, his elaborate courtesies to Mrs. Buggins enabling him to hear from that lady’s pious lips all the latest news, scandal and gossip, true or untrue, concerning the whole neighbourhood.

  Walden, meanwhile, finding himself once more alone in his own domain, breathed freely. The faithful Nebbie, who had passed all the hours of his master’s absence, ‘on guard’ by the window of the vacant study, came running to meet him as he set foot upon the lawn, — three or four doves that were brooding on the old tiled and gabled roof of the rectory, rose aloft in a short flight and descended again, cooing softly as though with satisfaction at his return, — and there was a soothing silence everywhere, the work of the day being done, and Bainton having left the garden trim and fair to its own sweet solitude and calm. Gently patting his dog’s rough head, as the animal sprang up to him with joyous short barks of welcome, John looked about him quietly for a moment or two with an expression in his eyes that was somewhat dreamy and pathetic.

  “I have known the old place so long and loved every corner of it!” — he murmured— “And yet, — to-day it seems all strange and unfamiliar!”

  The glow of the sunset struck a red flare against the walls of his house, and beat out twinkling diamond flashes from the latticed windows, — the clambering masses of honeysuckle and roses shone forth in vivid clusters as though inwardly illuminated. The warmth and ecstasy of life seemed palpitating in every flush of colour, every shaft of light, — and the wild, voluptuous singing of unseen skylarks, descending to their nests, and shaking out their songs, as it seemed, like bubbles of music breaking asunder in the clear empyrean, expressed the rapture of heaven wedded to the sensuous, living, breathing joys of earth. The glamour and radiance of the air affected Walden with a sudden unwonted sense of fatigue and pain, and pressing one hand across his eyes, he shut out the dazzle of blue sky and green grass for a moment’s respite, — then went slowly, and with bent head into his study. Here everything was very quiet, — and, as it struck him then, curiously lonely, — on his desk lay various notes and messages and accounts — the usual sort of paper litter that accumulated under his hands every day, — two or three visiting cards had been left for him during his absence, — one on the part of the local doctor, a very clever and excellent fellow named James Forsyth, who was familiarly called ‘Jimmy’ by the villagers, and who often joined Walden of an evening to play a game of chess with him, — and another bearing the neat superscription ‘Mrs. Mandeville Poreham. The Leas. At Home Thursdays,’ — whereat he smiled. Mrs. Mandeville Po
reham was a ‘county’ lady, wife of a gentleman-at-ease who did nothing but hunt, and who never had done anything in all his life but hunt, — she was also the mother of five marriageable daughters, and her calls on the Reverend John were marked by a polite and patient persistency that seemed altogether admirable. She lived some two miles out of St. Rest, but always attended Walden’s church regularly, driving thither with her family in a solemnly closed private omnibus of the true ‘county’ type. She professed great interest in all Church matters, on the ground that she was herself the daughter of a dead-and-gone clergyman.

  “My poor father!” she was wont to say, smoothing her sleek bandeaux of grey hair on either side of her forehead with one long, pale, thin finger— “He was such a good man! Ah yes! — and he had such a lovely mind! My mother was a Beedle.”

  This last announcement, generally thrown in casually, was apt to be startling to the uninitiated, — and it was not till the genealogy of the Beedle family had been duly explained to the anxious enquirer, that it was seen how important and allsufficing it was to have had a Beedle for one’s maternal parent. The Beedles were a noted ‘old stock’ in Suffolk, so it appeared, — and to be connected with a Suffolk Beedle was, to certain provincial minds of limited perception, a complete guarantee of superior birth and breeding. Walden was well accustomed to receiving a call from Mrs. Poreham about every ten days or so, and he did his utmost best to dodge her at all points. Bainton was his ready accomplice in this harmless conspiracy, and promptly gave him due warning whenever the Poreham ‘‘bus’ or landau was seen weightily bearing down upon the village, with the result that, on the arrival of the descendant of the Beedles at the rectory door she was met by Hester Rockett, the parlourmaid, with a demure smile and the statement,— ‘Mr. Walden is out, mim.’ Then, when Walden, according to the laws of etiquette, had to return the lady’s visit, Bainton again assisted him by watching and waiting till he could inform him, ‘‘as ‘ow he’d seen that blessed old Poreham woman drivin’ out with ‘er fam’ly to Riversford. They won’t likely be back for a couple of hours at least.’ Whereupon Walden straightway took a swinging walk up to ‘The Leas,’ deposited his card with the footman, for the absent ‘fam’ly’ and returned again in peace to his own dwelling.

  This afternoon he had again, as usual, missed the worthy lady, and he set aside her card, the smile with which he had glanced at it changing suddenly to a sigh of somewhat wearied impatience. Surely there was something unusually dark and solitary in the aspect of the room to which, for so many years, he had been accustomed, and where he had generally found comfort and contentment? The vivid hues of the sunset were declining rapidly, and the solemn shadow of evening was creeping up apace over the sky and outer landscape — but something heavier than the mild obscurity of approaching night seemed weighing on the air around him, which oppressed his nerves and saddened his soul. He stood absently turning over the papers on his desk, in a frame of mind which left him uncertain how to employ himself, — whether to read, — to write, — to finish a sketch of the flowering reeds on the river which he had yesterday begun, — or to combat with his own mood, fathom its meaning, and conquer its tendency? There came a light tap at his door and the maid Hester entered with a letter.

  “The last post, sir. Only one for you.”

  He took it up indifferently as the girl retired, — then uttered a slight exclamation of pleasure.

  “From Brent,” — he said, half aloud— “Dear old fellow! I have not heard from him since New Year.”

  He opened the letter, and began to read. The interested look in his eyes deepened, — and he moved nearer to the open window to avail himself as much as possible of the swiftly decreasing light.

  “DEAR WALDEN,” — it ran— “The spirit moves me to write to you, not only because it occurs to me that I have failed to do so for a long time, but also because I feel a certain necessity for thought- expansion to someone, who, like yourself, is accustomed to the habit of thinking. The tendency of the majority nowadays is, — or so it appears to me, — to forget the purpose for which the brain was designed, or rather to use it for no higher object than that for which it is employed by the brute creation, namely to consider the ways and means of securing food, and then to ruminate on the self- gratification which follows the lusts of appetite. In fact, ‘to rot and rot, — and thereby hangs a tale!’ But before I enter into any particulars of my own special phase or mood, let me ask how it fares with you in your small and secluded parish? All must be well, I imagine, otherwise doubtless I should have heard. It seems only the other day that I came, at your request, to consecrate your beautiful little church of ‘The Saint’s Rest,’ — yet seven years have rolled away since then, leaving indelible tracks of age on me, as probably on you also, my dear fellow! — though you have always carried old Time on your back more lightly and easily than I. To me he has ever been the Arabian Nights’ inexorable ‘Old Man of the Sea,’ whose habit is to kill unless killed. At fifty-one I feel myself either ‘rusting’ or mellowing; I wonder which you will judge the most fitting appellation for me when we next meet? Mind and memory play me strange tricks in my brief moments of solitude, and whenever I think of you, I imagine it can only be yesterday that we two college lads walked and talked together in the drowsy old streets of Oxford and made our various plans for our future lives with all the superb dominance and assertiveness of youth, which is so delightful while it lasts, despite the miserable deceptions it practises upon us. One thing, however, which I gained in the past time, and which has never deceived me, is your friendship, — and how much I owe to you no one but myself can ever tell. Good God! — how superior you always were, and are, to me! Why did you efface yourself so completely for my sake? I often ask this question, and except for the fact that it would be impossible to you to even make an attempt to override, for mere ambition, anyone for whom you had a deep affection, I cannot imagine any answer. But as matters have turned out with me I think it might have been better after all, had you been in my place and I in yours! A small ‘cure of souls’ would have put my mental fibre to less torture, than the crowding cares of my diocese, which depress me more and more as they increase. Many things seem to me hopeless,- -utterly irremediable! The shadow of a pre-ponderating, defiant, all-triumphant Evil stalks abroad everywhere — and the clergy are as much affected by it as the laymen. I feel that the world is far more Christ-less to-day after two thousand years of preaching and teaching, than it was in the time of Nero. How has this happened? Whose the fault? Walden, there is only one reply — it is the Church itself that has failed! The message of salvation, — the gospel of love, — these are as God-born and true as ever they were, — but the preachers and teachers of the Divine Creed are to blame, — the men who quarrel among themselves over forms and ceremonies instead of concentrating their energies on ministering to others, — and I confess I find myself often at a loss to dispose Church affairs in such wise as to secure at one and the same time, peace and satisfaction amongst the clergy under me, with proper devotion to the mental and physical needs of the thousands who have a right, yes a right to expect spiritual comfort and material succour from those who profess, by their vows of ordination, to be faithful and disinterested servants of Christ.

  “I daresay you remember how we used to talk religious matters over when we were young and enthusiastic men, studying for the Church. You will easily recall the indignation and fervour with which we repudiated all heresies new and old, and turned our backs with mingled pity and scorn on every writer of agnostic theories, estimating such heterodox influences as weighing but lightly in the balance of belief, and making little or no effect on the minds of the majority. We did not then grasp in its full measure the meaning of what is to-day called the ‘rush’ of life. That blind, brutal stampede of humanity over every corner and quarter of the earth, — a stampede which it is impossible to check or to divert, and which arises out of a nameless sense of panic, and foreboding of disaster! Like hordes of wild cattle on the p
rairies, who scent invisible fire, and begin to gallop furiously headlong anywhere and everywhere, before the first red gleam of the devouring element breaks from the undergrowth of dry grass and stubble, — so do the nations and peoples appear to me to-day. Reckless, maddened, fear- stricken and reasonless, they rush hither and thither in search of refuge from themselves and from each other, yet are all the while driven along unconsciously in heterogeneous masses, as though swept by the resistless breath of some mysterious whirlwind, impelling them on to their own disaster. I feel the end approaching, Walden! — sometimes I almost see it! And with the near touch of a shuddering future catastrophe on me, I am often disposed to agree with sad King Solomon that after all ‘there is nothing better for a man than that he should eat, drink and be merry all the days of his life.’ For I grow tired of my own puny efforts to lift the burden of human sorrow which is laid upon me, aloft on the fainting wings of prayer, to a God who seems wholly irresponsive, — mind, Walden, I say seems — so do not start away from my words and judge me as beginning to weaken in the faith that formerly inspired me. I confess to an intense fatigue and hopelessness, — the constant unrelieved consciousness of human wretchedness weighs me down to the dust of spiritual abasement, for I can but think that if God were indeed merciful and full of loving- kindness, He would not, He could not endure the constant spectacle of man’s devilish injustice to his brother man! I have no right to permit myself to indulge in such reflections as these, I know, — yet they have gained such hold on me that I have latterly had serious thoughts of resigning my bishopric. But this is a matter involving other changes in my life, on which I should like to have some long friendly talks with you, before taking any decisive step. Your own attitude of mind towards the ‘calling and election’ you have chosen has always seemed to me so pre-eminently pure and lofty, that I should condemn ray own feelings even more than I do, were I to allow the twin forces of pessimism and despair to possess me utterly without an attempt to bring them under your sane and healthful exorcism, the more so, as you know all my personal history and life- long sorrow. And this brings me to the main point of my letter which is, that I should much like to see you, if you can spare me two or three days of your company any time before the end of August. Try to arrange an early visit, though I know how ill your parishioners can spare you, and how more than likely they are to grumble at your absence. You are to be envied in having secured so much affection and confidence in the parish you control, and every day I feel more and more how wisely you have chosen your lot in that comparative obscurity, which, at one time, seemed to those who know your brilliant gifts, a waste of life and opportunity. Of course you are not without jealous enemies, — no true soul ever is. Sir Morton Pippitt still occasionally sends me a spluttering note of information as to something you have, or have not done, to the church on which you have spent the greater part of your personal fortune; and Leveson, the minister at Badsworth, appears to think that I should assist him by heading a subscription list to obtain funds for the purpose of making his church as perfect a gem of architecture as yours. Due enquiries have been made as to the nature and needs of his parishioners, and it appears that only twenty — five adult persons on an average ever attend his ministrations, and that the building for which he pleads is a brick edifice built in 1870 and deliberately allowed to decay by disuse and neglect. However, Sir Morton Pippitt is taking some interest in it, so I am given to understand, — and perhaps in ‘restoring’ a modern chapel, he will be able to console himself for the ruthless manner in which you stripped off his ‘galvanised tin’ roof from your old Norman church walls!