Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Ill news travels fast,” — said Bainton, sententiously, “Mister Primmins no doubt called on his young ‘ooman at the ‘Mother Huff’ an’ told ‘er to put on ‘er best ‘at. She’s a reg’ler telephone tube for information — any bit o’ news runs right through ‘er as though she was a wire. ‘Ave ye told Passon Waldon as ‘ow Miss Vancourt an’ visitors is a-comin’ to ‘ear ’im preach?”

  “No,” — replied Adam, with some vigour— “I ain’t told ’im nothin’. An’ I ain’t goin’ to neither!”

  Bainton looked into the crown of his cap, and finding his handkerchief there wiped the top of his head with it.

  “It be powerful warm this marnin’, Adam,” — he said— “Powerful warm it be. So you ain’t goin’ to tell Passon nothin’, — an’ for why, may I ask, if to be so bold.”

  “Look ’ere, Tummas,” — rejoined the verger, speaking slowly and emphatically— “Passon, ’e be a rare good man, m’appen no better man anywheres, an’ what he’s goin’ to say to us this blessed Sunday is all settled-like. He’s been thinkin’ it out all the week. He knows what’s what. ‘Tain’t for us,— ‘tain’t for you nor me, to go puttin’ ’im out an’ tellin’ ’im o’ the world the flesh an’ the devil all a- comin’ to church. Mebbe he’a been a-prayin’ to the Lord A’mighty to put the ‘Oly Spirit into ’im, an’ mebbe he’s got it — just THERE.” And Adam touched his breast significantly. “Now if I goes, or you goes and sez to ’im: ‘Passon, there’s fash’nable folks from Lunnon comin’ ’ere to look at ye an’ listen to ye, an’ for all we kin tell make mock o’ ye as well as o’ the Gospel itself in their ‘arts’ — d’ye think he’d be any the better for it? No, Tummas, no! I say leave Passon alone. Don’t upset ’im. Let ’im come out of ’is ‘ouse wise an’ peaceful like as he allus do, an’ let ’im speak as the fiery tongues from Heaven moves ’im, an’ as if there worn’t no fashion nor silly nonsense in the world. He’s best so, Tummas! — you b’lieve me, — he’s best so!”

  “Mebbe — mebbe!” and Bainton twirled his cap round and round dubiously— “But Miss Vancourt—”

  “Miss Vancourt ain’t been to church once till now,” — said Adam,— “An’ she’s only comin’ now to show it to her friends. I doesn’t want to think ‘ard of her, for she’s a sweet-looking little lady an’ a kind one — an’ my Ipsie just worships ‘er, — an’ what my baby likes I’m bound to like too — but I do ‘ope she ain’t a ‘eathen, an’ that once comin’ to church means comin’ again, an’ reg’lar ever arterwards. Anyway, it’s for you an’ me, Tummas, to leave Passon to the Lord an’ the fiery tongues, — we ain’t no call to interfere with ’im by tellin’ ’im who’s comin’ to church an’ who ain’t. Anyone’s free to enter the ‘ouse o’ God, rich or poor, an ‘tain’t a world’s wonder if strangers worships at the Saint’s Rest as well as our own folk.”

  Here the bells began to ring in perfect unison, with regular rhythm and sweet concord.

  “I must go,” — continued Adam— “I ain’t done fixin’ the chairs yet, an’ it’s a quarter to eleven. We’ll be ‘avin ’em all ’ere d’rectly.”

  He hurried into the church again just as Miss Eden and her boy-and- girl ‘choir’ entered the churchyard, and Bainton seeing them, and also perceiving in the near distance the slow halting figure of Josey Letherbarrow, who made it a point never to be a minute late for divine service, rightly concluded that there was no time now, even if he were disposed to such a course, to ‘warn Passon’ that he would have to preach to ‘fashionable folks’ that morning.

  “Mebbe Adam’s right,” he reflected— “An’ yet it do worry me a bit to think of ’im comin’ out of ’is garden innercent like an’ not knowin’ what’s a-waitin’ for ’im. For he’s been rare quiet lately — seems as if he was studyin’ an’ prayin’ from mornin’ to night, an’ he ain’t bin nowhere, — an’ no one’s bin to see ’im, ‘cept that scarecrow- lookin’ chap, Adderley, which HE stayed a ‘ole arternoon, jabberin’ an’ readin’ to ’im. An’ what’s mighty queer to me is that he ain’t bin fidgettin’ over ’is garden like he used to. He don’t seem to care no more whether the flowers blooms or doesn’t. Them phloxes up against the west wall now — a finer show I never seen — an’ as for the lilum candidum, they’re a perfect picter. But he don’t notice ’em much, an’ he’s not so keen on his water-lilies as I thought he would be, for they’re promisin’ better this year than they’ve ever done before, an’ the buds all a-floatin’ up on top o’ the river just lovely. An’ as for vegetables — Lord! — he don’t seem to know whether ’tis beans or peas he ‘as — there’s a kind o’ sap gone out o’ the garden this summer, for all that it’s so fine an’ flourishin’. There’s a missin’ o’ somethin’ somewheres!”

  His meditations were put to an end by the continuous arrival of all the villagers coming to church; — by twos and threes, and then by half dozens and dozens, they filed in through the churchyard, exchanging brief neighbourly greetings with one another as they passed quietly into the sacred edifice, where the soft strains of the organ now began to mingle with the outside chiming of the bells. Bainton still lingered near the porch, moved by a pardonable curiosity. He was anxious to see the first glimpse of the people who were staying at the Manor, but as yet there was no sign of any one of them, though the time wanted only five minutes to eleven.

  The familiar click of the latch of the gate which divided the church precincts from the rectory garden, made him turn his head in that direction, to watch his master approaching the scene of his morning’s ministrations. The Reverend John walked slowly, with uplifted head and tranquil demeanour, and, as he turned aside up the narrow path which led to the vestry at the back of the church the faithful ‘Tummas’ felt a sudden pang. ‘Passon’ looked too good for this world, he thought, — his dignity of movement, his serene and steadfast eyes, his fine, thoughtful, though somewhat pale countenance, were all expressive of that repose and integrity of soul which lifts a man above the common level, and unconsciously to himself, wins for him the silent honour and respect of all his fellows. And yet there was a touch of pathetic isolation about him, too, — as of one who is with, yet not of, the ordinary joys, hopes, and loves of humanity, — and it was this which instinctively moved Bainton, though that simple rustic would have been at a loss to express the sense of what he felt in words. However there was no more leisure for thinking, if he wished to be in his place at the commencement of service. The servants from Abbot’s Manor were just entering the churchyard-gates, marshalled, as usual, by the housekeeper, Mrs. Spruce, and her deaf but ever dutiful husband, — and though Bainton longed to ask one of them if Miss Vancourt and her guests were really coming, he hesitated, — and in that moment of hesitation, the whole domestic retinue passed into church before him, and he judged it best and wisest to follow quickly in silence, lest, when prayers began, his master should note his absence.

  The building was very full, — and it was difficult to see where, if any strangers did arrive, they could be accommodated. Miss Eden, in her capacity as organist, was still playing the opening voluntary, but, despite the fact that there was no apparent disturbance of the usual order of things, there was a certain air of hushed expectancy among the people which was decidedly foreign to the normal atmosphere of St. Rest. The village lasses looked at each other’s hats with keener interest, — the lads fidgeted with their ties and collars more strenuously, and secreted their caps more surreptitiously behind their legs, — and the most placid-looking personage in the whole congregation was Josey Letherbarrow, who, in a very clean smock, with a small red rose in his buttonhole, and his silvery hair parted on either side and just touching his shoulders, sat restfully in his own special corner not far from the pulpit, leaning on his stick and listening with rapt attention to the fall and flow of the organ music as it swept round him in soft and ever decreasing eddies of sound. The bells ceased, and eleven o’clock struck slowly from the church tower. At the last stroke, the Reverend John entered the
chancel in his plain white surplice, spotless as new-fallen snow,-and as he knelt for a moment in silent devotion, the voluntary ended with a grave, long, sustained chord. A pause, — and then the ‘Passon’ rose, and faced his little flock, his hand laid on the open ‘Book of Common Prayer.’

  “When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.”

  Walden’s voice rang clear and sonorous, — the sunshine pouring through the plain glass of the high rose-window behind and above him, shed effulgence over the ancient sarcophagus in front of the altar and struck from its alabaster whiteness a kind of double light which, circling round his tall slight figure made it stand out in singularly bold relief.

  “If we say that we have no sin we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us, but if we confess our sins He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”

  A ripple of gay laughter here echoed in through the church doors, which were left open for air on account of the great heat of the day. There was an uneasy movement in the congregation, — some men and women glanced at one another. That light, careless laughter was distinctly discordant. The Reverend John drew himself up a little more rigidly erect, and his face grew a shade paler. Steadily, he read on: —

  “Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us in sundry places to acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and wickedness; and that we should not dissemble nor cloke them before the face of Almighty God our Heavenly Father, but confess them with an humble, lowly, penitent and obedient heart—”

  He ceased abruptly. A glimmer of colour, — a soft gliding swish of silken skirts, an affectation of tip-toe movement up the nave, — a wave of indescribable artificial perfume, — and then, a general stir and head-turning among the people showed that a new and unaccustomed element had suddenly merged into the simple human material whereof the village of St. Rest was composed, — an element altogether strange to it, not to say troublous and confusing. Walden saw, and bit his lips hard, — his hand instinctively clenched itself nervously on the ‘Book of Common Prayer.’ But his rigid attitude did not relax, and he remained mute, his eyes fixed steadily on the fashionably dressed new-comers, who, greatly embarrassed by the interruption their late entrance had caused, — an interruption emphasised in so marked a manner by the silence of the officiating minister, made haste to take the chairs pointed out to them by the verger, with crimsoning faces and lowered eyelids. It was a new and most unpleasant experience for them. They did not know, of course, that it was Walden’s habit to pause in whatever part of the service he was reading if anyone came in late, — to wait till the tardy arrivals took their places, — and then to begin the interrupted sentence over again, — a habit which had effectually succeeded in making all his parishioners punctual.

  But Maryllia, whose guests they were, — Maryllia, who was responsible as their hostess for bringing them to church at all, and who herself, with Cicely, was the last to enter after service had begun, felt a rebellious wave of colour rushing up to her brows. It was very rude of Mr. Walden, she thought, to stop short in his reading and cause the whole congregation to turn and stare curiously at herself and her friends just because they were a little bit behind time! It exposed them all to public rebuke! And when the stir caused by their entrance had subsided, she stood up almost defiantly, lifting her graceful head haughtily, her soft cheeks glowing and her eyes flashing, looking twenty times prettier even than usual as she opened her daintily bound prayer-book with a careless, not to eay indifferent air, as though her thoughts were thousands of miles away from St. Rest and all belonging to it. Glancing at the different members of her party, she was glad that one of them at least, Lady Eva Beaulyon, had secured a front seat, for her ladyship was never content unless she was well to the foremost of everything. She was a reigning beauty, — the darling of the society press, and the model of all aspiring photographers, — and she could hardly be expected to put up with any obscure corner, even in a church; — if she ever went to the Heaven of monkish legend, one could well imagine St. Peter standing aside for her to pass. Close beside her was another wonderful looking woman, a Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, a ‘leader’ in society, who went everywhere, did everything, wore the newest coat, skirt or hat from Paris directly it was put on the market, and wrote accounts of herself and her ‘smartness’ to the American press under a ‘nom-de-plume.’ She was not, like Lady Beaulyon, celebrated for her beauty, but for her perennial youth. Her face, without being in the least interesting or charming, was smooth and peach-coloured, without a line of thought or a wrinkle of care upon it. Her eyes were bright and quite baby-like in their meaningless expression, and her hair was of the loveliest Titian red. She had a figure which was the envy of all modellers of dress-stands, — and as she was wont to say of herself, it would have been difficult to find fault with the ‘chic’ of her outward appearance. Painters and sculptors would have found her an affront to nature — but then Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay had no acquaintance with painters and sculptors. She thought them ‘queer’ people, with very improper ideas. She was exceedingly put out by Walden’s abrupt pause in his reading of the ‘Dearly beloved,’ while she and the other members of the Manor house-party rustled into their places, — and when he recommenced the exordium she revenged herself by staring at him quizzically through a long- handled tortoiseshell-mounted lorgnon. But she did not succeed in confusing him at all, or in even attracting his attention, — so she merely shrugged her shoulders, with what the French call an ‘air moqueuse.’

  The momentary confusion caused by the pause in the service soon passed, and the spirit of calm again settled on the scene after the ‘General Confession.’ But Maryllia was deeply conscious of hurt and vexation. It was too bad of Mr. Walden, she kept on. saying to herself over and over again, — too bad! Her friends and herself were only five or six minutes late, and to have stopped in his reading of the service like that to put them all to shame was unkind— ‘yes, unkind,’ she said in her vexed soul, — vexed all the more because she was inwardly conscious that Walden was right and herself wrong. She knew well enough that she could have reached the church at eleven had she chosen, and have brought her friends punctual to time as well. She knew it was neither reverent nor respectful to interrupt divine worship. But she was too irritated to reason the matter out calmly just then, — all she could think of was that she and her London guests had received a reproof from the minister of the parish — silent, but none the less severe — before all the villagers- before her own servants — and on the first occasion of her coming to church, too! She could not get over it.

  “If he can see me,” she thought, “he will know that I am angry!”

  Chafed little spirit! — as if it mattered to Walden whether she was angry or not! He saw her well enough, — he noted her face ‘red as a rose,’ with its mobile play of expression, set in its frame of golden-brown hair, — it flitted, sunbeam-like between his eyes and the ‘Book of Common Prayer’ — and, when he ceased reading, while the village choir, rendered slightly nervous by the presence of ‘the quality,’ chanted the ‘O come let us sing unto the Lord,’ he was conscious of a sudden lassitude, arising, as he knew, from the strain he had put upon himself for the past few minutes. He was, however, quite calm and self-possessed when he rose to read the Lessons of the Day, and the service proceeded as usual in the perfectly simple, unadorned style of ‘that pure and reformed part of Christ’s Holy Catholic Church which is established in this Realm.’ Now and then his attention wandered — once or twice his eyes rested on the well-dressed group directly opposite to him with a kind of vague regret and doubt. There was an emotion working in his soul to which he could scarcely give a name. Instinctively he was conscious that a certain embarrassment and uneasiness affected the ordinary members of his congregation, — he knew that their minds were disquieted and distracted, — that the girls and women were open-eyed and almost open
-mouthed at the sight of the fashionable costumes and wondrous millinery which the ladies of Miss Vancourt’s house-party wore, and were dissatisfied with their own clothing in consequence,- -and that the lads and men felt themselves to be awkward, uncouth and foolish in the near presence of personages belonging to quite another sphere than their own. He knew that the showy ephemera of this world had by a temporary fire-fly glitter, fascinated the simple souls that had been erstwhile glad to dwell for a space on the contemplation of spiritual and heavenly things. He saw that the matchless lesson of Christ’s love to humanity was scarcely heeded in the contemplation of how very much humanity was able to do for itself even without Christ’s love, provided it had money and the devil to ‘push’ it on! He sighed a little; — and certain words in the letter of his friend Bishop Brent came back to his memory— “Many things seem to me hopeless,-utterly irremediable … I grow tired of my own puny efforts to lift the burden which is laid upon me.” Then other, and stronger, thoughts came to him, and when the time arrived to read the Commandments, a rush of passion and vigorous intensity filled him with a force far greater than he knew. Cicely Bourne said afterwards that she should never forget the thrill that ran through her like a shock of electricity, when he proclaimed from the altar:- -”GOD spake these words and said: Thou shalt have none other gods but me!”