Looking up at this moment, she saw Julian Adderley in the aisle on her left-hand side, — he too was staring at Walden as though he saw the figure of a saint in a vision. But Maryllia kept her face hidden, listening in a kind of awe, as each ‘Commandment’ was, as it seemed, grandly and strenuously insisted upon by the clear voice that had no tone of hypocrisy in its whole scale.
“Thou shalt NOT bear false witness against thy neighbour!”
Lady Beaulyon forgot to droop her head in the usual studied way which she knew was so becoming to her, — the NOT was so emphatic. An unpleasant shiver ran through her daintily-clothed person, — dear me! — how often and often she had ‘borne false witness,’ not only against her neighbour, but against everyone she could think of or talk about! Where could be the fun of living if you must NOT swear to as many lies about your neighbour as possible? No spice or savour would be left in the delicate ragout of ‘swagger’ society! The minister of St. Rest was really quite objectionable, — a ranter, — a noisy, ‘stagey’ creature! — and both she and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay murmured to each other that they ‘did not like him.’
“So loud!” said Lady Beaulyon, breathing the words delicately against her friend’s Titian-red hair.
“So provincial!” rejoined Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, in the same dulcet undertone, adding to her remark the fervent— “Lord have mercy upon us and incline our hearts to keep this law!”
One very gratifying circumstance to these ladies, however, and one that considerably astonished all the members of Miss Vancourt’s house-party, as well as Miss Vancourt herself, was that no ‘collection’ was made. Neither the church, the poor, nor some distant mission to the heathen served as any excuse for begging, in the shrine of the ‘Saint’s Rest.’ No vestige of a money-box or ‘plate’ was to be seen anywhere. And this fact pre-disposed them to survey Walden’s face and figure with critical attention as he left the chancel and ascended the pulpit during the singing of ‘The Lord is my Shepherd.’ At the opening chords of that quaint and simple hymn, Cicely Bourne glanced at Miss Eden and Susie Prescott with a little suggestive smile, and caught their appealing glances, — then, as the quavering chorus of boys and girls began, she raised her voice as the ‘leading soprano,’ and like a thread of gold it twined round all the notes and tied them together in clear and lovely unison:
“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want, He maketh me down to lie, In pleasant fields where the lilies grow, And the river runneth by.”
Everyone in the congregation stared and seemed stricken with sudden wonderment. Such singing they had never heard before. Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay put up her lorgnon.
“It’s Maryllia Vancourt’s creature,” — she whispered— “The ugly child she picked up in Paris. I suppose it really IS a voice?”
“It really is, I think!” responded Lady Beaulyon, languidly, turning her fair head to look at the plain sallow girl with the untidy black hair whom she had only seen for a few minutes on her arrival at Abbot’s Manor the previous day, and whom she had scarcely noticed. But Cicely saw her not — her whole soul was in her singing, — and she had no glance even for Julian Adderley, who, gazing at her as if she were already the prima donna in an opera, listened enrapt.
“The Lord is my Shepherd; He feedeth me, In the depth of a desert land; And, lest I should in the darkness slip, He holdeth me by the hand.”
Maryllia felt a contraction in her throat, and her eyes unconsciously filled with tears. How sweet that hymn was! — how very sweet! Tender memories of her father crowded upon her, — her mother’s face, grown familiar to her sight from her daily visits to the now no longer veiled picture in the Manor gallery, shone out upon her from the altar like a glorified angel above the white sarcophagus where the word ‘Resurget’ sparkled jewel-like in the sunshine, — and she began to feel that after all there was something in the Christian faith that was divinely helpful and uplifting to the soul.
“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want, My mind on Him is stayed, And though through the Valley of Death I walk, I shall not be afraid!”
Pure and true rang Cicely’s young, fresh and glorious voice, carrying all the voices of the children with it on the pulsating waves of the organ chords, — and an impression of high exaltation, serenity and peace, rested on the whole congregation with the singing of the last verse —
“The Lord is my Shepherd: O Shepherd sweet, Leave me not here to stray; But guide me safe to Thy heavenly fold, And keep me there, I pray! Amen!”
During the silence that immediately followed, Walden stood erect in the pulpit, looking down upon the people. He saw Maryllia’s face, — he saw all the eyes of her London friends fixed on him with a more or less critical and supercilious stare, — he saw his own flock’ waiting for his first word with their usual air of respectful attention, — every small point and detail in his surroundings became suddenly magnified to his sight, — even the little rose in old Josey Letherbarrow’s smock caught his eye with an almost obtrusive flare. The blithe soft carol of the birds outside sounded close and loud, — the buzzing of a bumble-bee that had found its way into the church and was now bouncing fussily against a sunlit window, in its efforts to pass through what seemed to itself clear space, made quite an abnormal noise. His heart beat heavily, — he fancied he could hear it thudding in his breast, — then, all at once, an inflow of energy rushed upon him as though the ‘fiery tongues’ of which Adam Frost had spoken, were in very truth descending upon him. Maryllia’s face! There it was — so winsome, so bright, and proud and provocative in its every feature, — and the old French damask roses growing in her garden borders could not show a prettier colour than her cheeks! He lifted his hands. “Let us pray!”
The villagers all obediently dropped on their knees. The Manor ‘house-party’ politely bent their heads.
“Supreme Creator of the Universe, without Whose power and permission no thought is ever generated in the brain of Thy creature, man; Be pleased to teach me, Thy unworthy servant, Thy will and law this day, that I may speak to this congregation even as Thou shalt command, without any care for myself or my words, but in entire submission to Thee and Thy Holy Spirit! Amen.”
He rose. The congregation rose with him. Some of the village folks exchanged uneasy glances with one another. Was their beloved ‘Passon’ quite himself? He looked so very pale, — his eyes were so unusually bright, — and his whole aspect so more than commonly commanding. Almost nervously they fumbled with their Bibles as he gave out the text:— “The twenty-sixth verse of the sixteenth chapter of the Gospel according to St. Matthew.”
He paused, and then, as was his usual custom, patiently repeated— “The sixteenth chapter of the Gospel according to St. Matthew, twenty-sixth verse.” Again he waited, while the subdued rustling of pages and turning over of books continued, — and finally pronounced the words— “What is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?” Here he closed the Testament, leaning one hand upon it. He had resolved to speak ‘extempore,’ just as the mood moved him, and to make his discourse as brief as possible, — a mere twelve minutes’ sermon. For he knew that his ordinary congregation were more affected by a sense of restlessness and impatience than they themselves realised, and that such strangers as were present were of a temperament more likely to be bored, than interested.
“What is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?” — he began, slowly, and with emphasis, his eyes resting steadfastly on the fashionably-attired group of persons immediately under his observation— “This was one of the questions put by the Divine Man Christ, to men, — and was no doubt considered then, as it surely is considered now, a very foolish enquiry. For to ‘gain the whole world’ is judged as so exceedingly profitable to most people that they are quite willing to lose everything else they have in exchange for it. They will gladly barter conscience, principle, honour and truth to gain ‘the whole world’ — and as for the ‘soul,’ that fine and immortal esse
nce is treated by the majority as a mere poetic phrase — a figure of speech, without any real meaning behind it. I know well how some of you here to-day will regret wasting your time in listening, even for a few minutes, to anything about so obsolete a subject as the Soul! The Soul! What is it? A fiction or a fact? How many of us possess a Soul, or THINK we possess one? Of what is it composed, that it should be judged as so much more precious than the Body? — the dear Body, which we pamper and feed and clothe and cosset and cocker, till it struts on the face of the planet, a mere magnified Ape of conceit and trickery, sloth and sensuality, the one unforgivable anachronism in an otherwise perfect Creation! For Body without Soul is a blot on the Universe, — a distortion and abomination of nature, with which nature by and by will have nothing to do. Yet I freely grant that while Soul animates and inspires all creation, man cannot or will not comprehend it; he may, therefore, in part, be condoned for not endeavouring to ‘save’ what he is not taught to truly recognise. To explain the ‘Soul’ more clearly, I will refer you all to the Book of Genesis, where it is written— ‘And God made man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became A LIVING SOUL.’ Thus we see that ‘Soul’ is the breath of God, which is also the Eternal breath of Eternal Life. Each human being is endowed with this essence of immortality, which cannot die with death, being, as it is, the embryo of endless lives to come. This is why it is pre-eminently valuable — this is why we should take heed that it be not ‘lost.’ It may be argued— ‘How can anything be lost which is eternally alive?’ That proposition is easily answered. A jewel may be ‘lost’ in the sea, but it is still existent as a jewel. In the same way a man may ‘lose’ his Soul, though he can never destroy it. It is the ‘breath of God’ — the germ of immortal Life, — and if one ‘loses’ it, another may find it. This is not only religion, — it is also science. In the present age, when all imagination, all poetry, all instinctive sense of the divine, is being subordinated to what we consider as Fact, there is one supreme mystery which eludes the research of the most acute and pitiless materialist — and that is life itself, — its origin, its evolution and its intention. We can do many wonderful things, — but we cannot re- animate the corpse of a friend! Christ could do this, being Divinity incarnate, — but we can only wring our hands helplessly, and wonder where the spirit has fled, — that spirit which made our beloved one speak to us, smile, and exchange the looks which express the emotions of the heart more truly than words. We want the ‘Soul’ we loved! The inanimate clay, stretched cold in its coffined rest, is a strange sight to us. We do not know it. It is not our friend! Our friend was the ‘Soul’ that lived in the clay, — the ‘breath of God’ that moved our own ‘Soul’ to respond to it in affection and tenderness. And we instinctively know and feel that though this breath of God’ is gone from us, it cannot be dead. And ‘lost’ is not an expression that we would ever apply to it, because we hope and believe it is ‘found’ — found by its Creator, and taught to realise and rejoice in its own immortality. All religion means this, — the ‘finding’ of the Soul. The passion of our Saviour teaches this, — His resurrection, His ascension into Heaven, symbolises and expresses the same thing. Yet, in the words of Christ Himself, it would nevertheless seem, that the ‘Soul’ divinely generated and immortal as it is, can be ‘lost’ by our own act and will. ‘What is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?’ I venture to think the text implies, that in the very attempt to ‘gain the whole world,’ the loss of the soul is involved. I am not going to detain you here this morning with a long exordium concerning how some of you can and may, if you choose, play havoc with the priceless gift God baa bestowed upon each one of you. I only desire to impress upon you all, with the utmost earnestness, that it is idle to say among yourselves ‘We have no souls,’ or ‘The soul is an unknown quantity and cannot be proved.’ The soul is as and actual a part of you as the main artery is of the body, — and that you cannot see it, touch it, or put it under the surgeon’s dissecting knife is no proof that it is not there. You might as well say life itself does not exist, because you cannot see its primaeval causes or beginnings. The Soul is the centre of your being, — the compass of your life-journey, — the pivot round which, whether you will or not, you shape your actions in this world for the next. If you lose that mainspring of motive, you lose all. Your conduct, your speech, your expression in every movement and feature all show the ungoverned and ungovernable condition in which you are. God is not mocked, — and in many cases, — taking the grand majority of the human race, — neither is man!”
He paused. The congregation was very quiet. He felt, rather than saw, that Maryllia’s eyes were fixed upon him, — and he was perfectly aware that Lady Beaulyon, — whom he recognised, as he would have recognised an actress, on account of the innumerable photographs of her which were on sale in the windows of every stationer in every moderate-sized town, — was gazing straight up at him with a bright, mocking glance in which lurked a suspicion of disdain and laughter. Moved by a sudden impulse, he bent his own regard straight down upon her with an inflexible cool serenity. An ugly frown puckered her ladyship’s brow at once, — and she lowered her eyelids angrily.
“I say God is not mocked,” — he continued slowly; “Neither is man! The miserable human being that has ‘lost’ his or her Soul, may be assured that the ‘gain’ of the whole world in exchange, will prove but Dead Sea fruit, bitter and tasteless, and in the end wholly poisonous. Loss of the Soul is marked by moral degradation and deterioration, — and this inward crumbling and rotting of all noble and fine feeling into baseness, shows itself on the fairest face, — the proudest form. The man who lies against his neighbour for the sake of worldly convenience or personal revenge, writes the lie in his own countenance as he utters it. It engraves its mark, — it can be seen by all who read physiognomy — it says plainly— ‘Let not this man be trusted!’ The woman who is false and treacherous carries the stigma on her features, be they never so perfect. The creature of clay who has lost Soul, likewise lacks Heart, — and the starved, hopeless poverty of such an one is disclosed in him, even if he be a world’s millionaire. Moreover, ‘Soul’ — that delicate, divine, eternal essence, is easily lost. Any earthly passion carried to excess, will overwhelm it, and sink it in an unfathomable sea. It can slip away in the pursuit of ambition, — in schemes for self- aggrandisement, — in the building up of huge fortunes, — in the pomp, and show, and vanity of mundane things. It flies from selfishness and sensuality. It can be lost in hate, — it can equally be lost in love!”
Again he paused — then went on— “Yes — for even in love, that purest and most elevating of human emotions, the Soul must have its way rather than the Body. Loss of the ‘Soul’ in love, means that love then becomes the mere corpse of itself, and must needs decay with all other such dust-like things. In every sentiment, in every thought, in every hope, in every action, let us find the ‘Soul,’ and never let it go! For without it, no great deed can be done, no worthy task accomplished, no life lived honourably and straightly in the sight of God. It shall profit us nothing to be famous, witty, wealthy, or admired, if we are mere stuffed figures of clay without the ‘breath of God’ as our animating life principle. The simple peasant, who has enough ‘soul’ in him to reverently watch the sunset across the hills, and think of God as the author of all that splendour, is higher in the spiritual scale than the learned scholar who is too occupied with himself and his own small matters to notice whether it is a sunset or a house on fire. The ‘soul’ in a man should be his sense, his sight, his touch, his very inmost and dearest centre, — the germ of all good, — the generator of all peace and hope and happiness. It is the one and only thing to foster, — the one and only thing to save, — the only part of man which, belonging as it does to God, God will require again. Some of you here present to-day will perhaps think for a little while on what I have said when you leave this church, — and others will at once forget it,
— but think, forget, or remember as you choose, the truth remains, that all of you, young and old, rich and poor, are endowed in your own selves with the ‘making of an angel.’ The ‘Soul’ within you, which you may elect to keep or to lose, is the infant of Heaven. It depends on you for care, — for sustenance; — it needs all your work and will to aid it in growing up to its full stature and perfection. It shall profit you nothing if you gain the whole world, and at death have naught to give to your Maker but crumbling clay. Let the Angel be ready, — the ‘Soul’ in you prepared, and full-winged for flight! According to the power and purity with which you have invested and surrounded it, will be its fate. If you have voluntarily checked and stunted its aspirations, even so checked and stunted must be its next probation, — but if you have faithfully done your best to nourish it with loving thoughts and noble aims, — if you have given it room to expand and shine forth with all its own original God-born radiance, then will its ascension to a higher sphere of action and attainment be attended with unimaginable joy and glory. Let the world go, rather than lose the Divine Light within you! For that Light will, and must, attract all that is worth knowing, worth loving and worth keeping in our actual environment. The rest can be well spared, — whether it be money, position, notoriety or social influence, — for none of these things last, — none of them are in any way precious, save to such ignorant and misguided persons as are deceived by external shows. The Soul is all! Keep but that ‘breath of God’ within you, and the world becomes merely one step of the ladder on which you may easily mount through everlasting love upon love, joy upon joy, to the utmost height of Heaven!”
He ceased. For a moment there was a profound stillness. And then, with the usual formula— “Now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost be praise, honour and glory for ever and ever” — the congregation stood up. Lady Beaulyon shook her silken skirts delicately. Mrs. Bludlip Oourtenay put her hand to her back hair coil and made sure that it was safe. And there was a general stir and movement, which instantly subsided again, as the people knelt to receive the parting benediction. Maryllia’s eyes were riveted on Walden as he stretched out his hands; — she was conscious of a certain vague awe and reverence for this man with whom she had so casually walked and talked, only as it seemed the other day; — he appeared, as it were, removed from her by an immeasurable distance,- -his spirit and hers had gone wide apart, — his was throned upon a height of noble ideals, — hers was low, low down in a little valley of worldly nothings, — and oh, how small and insignificant she felt! Cicely’s hand caught hers and gave it an affectionate little pressure, as they bowed their heads together under the solemnly pronounced blessing.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 620