Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  So it was settled; and Dr. Forsyth, vacillating uneasily between hope and fear, communicated the decision at once to the famous Italian surgeon, who, without any delay or hesitation responded by promptly fixing a day in the ensuing week for his performance of the critical task which was either to kill or cure a woman who to one man was the dearest of all earth’s creatures. And with such dreadful rapidity did the hours fly towards that day that Walden experienced in himself all the trembling horrors of a condemned criminal who knows that his execution is fixed for a certain moment to which Time itself seems racing like a relentless bloodhound, sure of its quarry. Writing to Bishop Brent he told him all, and thus concluded his letter: —

  “If I lose her now — now, after the joy of knowing that she loves me- -I shall kneel before you broken-hearted and implore your forgiveness for ever having called you selfish in the extremity of your grief and despair for the loss of love. For I am myself utterly selfish to the heart’s core, and though I say every night in my prayers ‘Thy Will be done,’ I know that if she is taken from me I shall rebel against that Will! For I am only human, — and make no pretence to be more than a man who loves greatly.”

  During this interval of suspense Cicely and Julian were thrown much together. Every moment that Walden could spare from his parish work, he passed by the side of his beloved, knowing that his presence made her happy, and fearing that these days might be his last with her on earth. Maryllia herself however seemed to have no such forebodings. She was wonderfully bright and cheerful, and though her body was so helpless her face was radiant with such perfect happiness that it looked as fair as that of any pictured angel. Cicely, recognising the nature of the ordeal through which these two lovers were passing, left them as much by themselves as possible, and laid upon Julian the burden of her own particular terrors which she was at no pains to conceal. And unfortunately Julian did not, under the immediate circumstances, prove a very cheery comforter.

  “I hate the knife!” he said, gloomily— “Everyone is cut up or slashed about in these days — there’s too much of it altogether. If ever a fruit pip goes the way it should not go into my interior mechanism, I hope it may be left there to sprout up into a tree if it likes — I don’t mind, so long as I’m not sliced up for appendicitis or pipcitis or whatever it is.”

  “I wonder what our great-grandparents used to do when they were ill?” queried Cicely, with a melancholy stare in her big, pitiful dark eyes.

  “They let blood,” — replied Julian— “They used to go to the barber’s and get a vein cut at the same time as their hair. Of course it was all wrong. We all know now that it was very wrong. In another hundred years or so we shall find out that twentieth-century surgery was just as wrong.”

  Cicely clasped her hands nervously.

  “Oh, don’ you think Maryllia will come through the operation all right?” she implored, for about the hundredth time in the course of two days.

  Julian looked away from her.

  “I don’t know — and I don’t like to express any opinion about it,” — he answered, with careful gentleness— “But there is danger — and — if the worst should happen—”

  “It won’t happen! It shan’t happen!” cried Cicely passionately.

  “Dear little singing Goblin, I wish you could control fate!” And, taking her hand, he patted it affectionately. “Everything would be all right for everybody if you could make it so, I’m sure! — even for me! Wouldn’t it?”

  Cicely blushed suddenly.

  “I don’t know,” — she said— “I never think about you!”

  He smiled.

  “Don’t you? Well, — perhaps some day you will! When you are a great prima donna, you will read the poems and verses I shall write about you in all the newspapers and magazines, and you will say as you take kings’ and emperors’ diamonds out of your hair: ‘Who is this fellow? Ah yes! I remember him! He was a chum of mine down in the little village of St. Rest. I called him Mooncalf, and he called me Goblin. And — he was very fond of me!’”

  She laughed a little, and drew away her hand from his.

  “Don’t talk nonsense!” she said— “Think of Maryllia — and of Mr. Walden!”

  “I do think of them, — I think of them all the time!” declared Julian earnestly— “And that is why I am so uneasy. For — if the worst should happen, it will break Walden’s heart.”

  Cicely’s eyes filled with tears. She hurried away from him without another word or glance.

  The fateful morning dawned. Walden had parted from Maryllia the previous night, promising himself that he would see her again before she passed into the surgeon’s hands, — but Forsyth would not permit this.

  “She does not wish it, John,” — he said— “And she has asked me to tell you so. Stay away from the Manor — keep quiet in your own house, if you feel unable to perform your usual round of work. It will be best for her and for you. I will let you know directly the operation is over. Santori is already here. Now” — and he gave Walden’s hand a close and friendly grip— “steady, John! Say your prayers if you like, — we want all the help God can give us!”

  The door opened and closed again — he was gone. A great silence, — a horrible oppression and loneliness fell upon Walden’s heart. He sank into his accustomed chair and stared before him with unseeing eyes,- -mechanically patting his dog Nebbie while gently pushing the animal back in its attempts to clamber on his knee.

  “My God, my God!” he muttered— “What shall I do without her?”

  Someone opened the door again just then. He started, thinking that Forsyth had returned perhaps to tell him something he had forgotten. But the tall attenuated form that confronted him was not that of Forsyth. A look of amazed recognition, almost of awe, flashed into his eyes.

  “Brent!” he cried, — and he caught at the pale hands extended to him, — hands like those of a saint whose flesh is worn by fasting and prayer; — then, with something of a sob, exclaimed again— “Harry! How — why did you come?”

  Brent’s eyes met his with a world of sympathy and tenderness in their dark and melancholy depths.

  “I have come,” — he said, — and his musical voice, grave and sweet, trembled with deep feeling— “because I think this is your dark hour, John! — and because — perhaps — you may need me!”

  And John, meeting that sad and steadfast gaze, and shaken beyond control by his pent-up suffering and suspense, suddenly fell on his knees.

  “Help me!” he cried, appealingly, with the tears struggling in his throat— “You are right — I need you! Help me to be strong — you are nearer God than I am! Pray for me!”

  Gently the Bishop withdrew his hands from the fevered clasp that held them, and laid them tenderly on the bowed head. His lips moved, but he uttered no words. There was a solemn pause, broken only by the slow ticking of the clock in the outer hall.

  Presently, rising in obedience to his friend’s persuasive touch, Walden stood awhile with face turned away, trying to master himself, yet trembling in every nerve, despite his efforts.

  “Brent,” — he began, huskily— “I am ashamed that you should see me like this — so weak—”

  “A weakness that will make you stronger by and by, John!” and the Bishop linked a friendly arm within his own— “Come into the church with me, will you? I feel the influence of your enshrined Saint upon me! Let us wait for news, good or bad, at the altar, — and while waiting, we will pray. Do you remember what I said to you when you came to see me last summer? ‘Some day, when we are in very desperate straits, we will see what your Saint can do for us’? Come!”

  Without a word of demur, John obeyed. They passed out of the house together and took the private by-path to the church. It was then about noon, and the sun shone through a soft mist that threatened rain without permitting it to fall. The faint piping of a thrush in the near distance suggested the music of the coming Spring, and the delicate odour of plant-life pushing its way through the earth gave a
pungent freshness to the quiet air. Arriving at the beautiful little sanctuary, they entered it by the vestry, though the public door stood open according to invariable custom. A singularly brilliant glare of luminance reflected from the plain clear glass that filled the apertures of the rose-window above the altar, struck aslant on the old-world sarcophagus which doubtless contained the remains of one who, all ‘miraculous’ attributes apart, had nobly lived and bravely died, — and as the Bishop moved reverently round it to the front of the altar-rails, his eyes were uplifted and full of spiritual rapture.

  “Kneel here with me, John!” he said— “And with all our hearts and all our minds, let us pray to God for the life of the beloved woman whom God has given you, — given, surely, not to take away again, but to be more completely made your own! Let us pray, as the faithful servants of Christ prayed in the early days of the Church, — not hesitatingly, not doubtingly, not fearingly! — but believing and making sure that our prayers will, if good for us, be granted!”

  They knelt together. Walden, folding his arms on the altar-rails, hid his face, — but the Bishop, clasping his hands and fixing his eyes on the word ‘Resurget’ that flashed out of the worn alabaster — wherein the unknown ‘Saint’ reposed, seemed to gather to himself all the sunlight that poured through the window above him, and to exhale from his own slight worn frame something like the mystic halo of glory pictured round the figure of an apostle or evangelist.

  The minutes slowly ebbed away. The church clock chimed the half-hour after noon — and they remained absorbed in a trance of speechless, passionate prayer. They were unaware that some of Walden’s parishioners, moved by the same idea of praying for Maryllia while she was undergoing the operation which was to save or slay, had come to the church also for that purpose, but were brought to a pause on the threshold of the building by the sight they saw within. That their own beloved ‘Passon’ should be kneeling at the altar in the agony of his own heart’s Gethsemane was too much for their simple and affectionate souls, — and they withdrew in haste and silence, many of them with tears in their eyes. They were considerably awed too by the discovery that no less a personage than the Bishop of the diocese himself was companioning Walden in his trouble, — and, moving away in little groups of twos and threes, they stood about here and there in the churchyard, waiting for they knew not what, and all affected by the same thrill of mingled suspense, hope and fear. Among them was Bainton, who, when he had peered into the white silence of the church and had seen for himself that it was indeed his master who was praying there beside his Bishop, made no pretence to hide his emotion.

  “We be all fools together,” — he said to Adam Frost in hoarse accents, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand— “We ain’t no stronger nor wiser than a lot o’ chitterin’ sparrows on a housetop! Old Josey, he be too weak an’ ailin’ to get out in this kind o’ weather, but he sez he’s prayin’ ‘ard, which I truly believe he is, though he ain’t in church. All the village is on its knees this marnin’ I reckon, whether it’s workin’ in fields or gardens, or barns or orchards, an’ if the Lord A’mighty don’t take no notice of us, He must be powerful ‘ard of ‘earin’!”

  Adam Frost coughed warningly, — jerked his thumb in the direction of the church, and was silent.

  Suddenly a lark sang. Rising from the thick moss and jgrass which quilted over the grave of ‘th’ owld Squire,’ Maryllia’s father, the bird soared hoveringly aloft into the sun-warmed February air, — and by one common impulse the villagers looked up, watching the quivering of its wings.

  “Bless us! That’s the first skylark of the year!” said Mrs. Frost, who, holding her blue-eyed ‘Baby Hippolyta,’ otherwise Ipsie, by the hand, stood near the church porch— “Ain’t it singin’ sweet?”

  “Fine!” murmured one or two of her gossips near her,— “Seems a good sign o’ smilin’ weather!”

  There was a silence then among the merely human company, while the bird of heaven sang on more and more exultingly, and soared higher and higher into the misty grey-blue of the sky.

  All at once the clock struck with a sharp clang ‘one.’ Inside the church, its deep reverbation startled the watchers from their prayers with an abrupt shock — and Walden lifted his head from his folded arms, showing in the bright shaft of strong sunshine that now bathed him in its radiance, his sad eyes, heavy and swollen with restrained tears. Suddenly there was a murmur of voices outside, — a smothered cry, — and then a little flying figure, breathless, hatless, with wild sparkling eyes and dark hair streaming loose in the wind, rushed into the church. It was Cicely. “It’s all over!” she cried.

  Walden sprang up, sick and dizzy. Bishop Brent rose from his knees slowly, his delicate right hand clutching nervously at the altar rail. Like men in a dream, they heard and gazed, stricken by a mutual horror too paralysing for speech.

  “All over!” — muttered John, feebly— “My God! — my God! All over!”

  Cicely sprang to him and caught his arm.

  “Yes! — Don’t you understand?” and her voice shook with excitement— “All over! She is safe! — quite safe! — she will be well! — Mr. Walden! — John! — don’t look at me like that! oh dear!” and she turned a piteous glance on Bishop Brent who was, to her, a complete stranger— “He doesn’t seem to hear me — please speak to him! — do make him understand! Everything has been done successfully — and Maryllia will live — she will be her own dear bright self again! As soon as I heard the good news, I raced down here to tell you and everybody! — oh John! — poor John!”

  For, with a great sigh and a sudden stretching upward of his arms as though he sought to reach all Heaven with his soul’s full measure of gratitude, John staggered blindly a few steps from the altar of the Saint’s Rest and fell, — senseless.

  * * * * * * * *

  Again the merry month of May came in rejoicing. Again the May-pole glorious with blossoms and ribbons, made its nodding royal progress through the village of St. Rest, escorted by well-nigh a hundred children, who, with laughter and song carried it triumphantly up to Abbot’s Manor, and danced round it in a ring on the broad grassy terrace facing the open windows of Maryllia’s favourite morning room, where Maryllia herself, sweet and fair as a very queen of spring, stood watching them, with John Walden at her side. Again their fresh young voices, gay with the musical hilarity of happiness, carolled the Mayer’s song: —

  “We have been rambling all this night, And almost all this day; And now returning back again, We bring you in the May!

  A branch of May we have brought you, And at your door it stands, ’Tis but a sprout, But ’tis budded out, By the work of our Lord’s hands.

  The heavenly gates are open wide, Our paths are beaten plain; And if a man be not too far gone, He may return again!”

  “That’s true!” said John, slipping an arm round his beloved, and whispering his words in the little delicate ear half-hidden by the clustering gold-brown curls above it— “If a man be not too far gone as a bachelor, he may perhaps ‘return again’ as a tolerable husband? What do you think, my Maryllia?”

  Her eyes sparkled with all their own mirth and mischief.

  “I couldn’t possibly say — yet!” she said— “You are quite perfect as an engaged man, — I never heard of anybody quite so attentive — so — well! — so nicely behaved!” and she laughed, “But how you will turn out when you are married, I shouldn’t like to prophesy!”

  “If the children weren’t looking at us, I should kiss you,” he observed, with a suggestive glance at her smiling lips.

  “I’m sure you would!” she rejoined— “For an ‘old’ bachelor, John, you are quite an adept at that kind of thing!”

  Here the little village dancers slackened the speed of their tripping measure and moved slowly round and round, allowing the garlands and ribbons to drop from their hands one by one against the May-pole, as they sang in softer tones —

  “The moon shines bright, and the stars give light, A little before
it is day, So God bless you all, both great and small, And send you a merrie May!”

  Ceasing at this, they all gathered in one group and burst out into an ecstatic roar.

  “Hurra! Three cheers for Passon!”

  “Hurra! Hurra! Hurra!”

  “Three cheers for Miss Vancourt!”

  “Hurra!” But here there was a pause. Some one was obstructing the wave of enthusiasm. Signs of mixed scuffling were apparent, — when all suddenly the bold voice of Bob Keeley cried out:

  “Not a bit of it! Three cheers for Missis Passon!”

  Shouts of laughter followed this irreverent proposal, together with much whooping and cheering as never was. Ipsie Frost, who of course was present, no village revel being considered complete without her, was dancing recklessly all by herself on the grass, chirping in her baby voice a ballad of her own contriving which ran thus:

  “Daisies white, violets blue, Cowslips yellow, — and I loves ‘oo!

  Little bird’s nest Up in a tree, Spring’s comin’, — and ‘Oo loves me!”

  And it was after Ipsie that Maryllia ran, to cover her smiles and blushes as the echo of the children’s mirth pealed through the garden, — and with the pretty blue-eyed little creature clinging to her hand, she came back again sedately, with all her own winsome and fairy-like stateliness to thank them for their good wishes.

  “They mean it so well, John!” she said afterwards, when the youngsters, still laughing and cheering, had gone away with their crowned symbol of the dawning spring— “and they love you so much! I never knew of any man that was loved so much by so many people in one little place as you are, John! And to be loved by all the children is a great thing; — I think — of course I cannot be quite sure — but I think it is an exceptional thing — for a clergyman!”

  * * * * * * *

  * * * * *

  * * *

  With rose-crowned June, the rose-window in the church of St. Rest was filled in and completed. Maryllia had found all the remaining ancient stained glass that had been needed to give the finishing touch to its beauty, and the loveliest deep gem-like hues shone through the carven apertures like rare jewels in a perfect setting. The rays of light filtering through them were wonderful and mystical, — such as might fall from the pausing wings of some great ministering angel, — and under the blaze of splendid colour, the white sarcophagus with its unknown ‘Saint’ asleep, lay steeped in soft folds of crimson and azure, gold and amethyst, while even the hollow notches in the sculptured word ‘Resurget’ seemed filled with delicate tints like those painted by old-world monks on treasured missals. And presently one morning came, — warm with the breath of summer, sunny and beautiful, — when the window was solemnly re- consecrated by Bishop Brent at ten o’clock, — a consecration followed by the loud and joyous ringing of the bells, and a further sacred ceremony, — the solemnisation of matrimony between John Walden and Maryllia Vancourt. All the village swarmed out like a hive of bees from their honey-cells to see their ‘Passon’ married. Hundreds of honest and affectionate eyes looked love on the bride, as clad in the simplest of simple white gowns, with a plain white veil draping her from head to foot, she came walking to the church across the warm clover-scented fields, like any village maid, straight from the Manor, escorted only by Cicely, her one bridesmaid. At the churchyard gate, she was met by all the youngest girls of the school, arrayed in white, who, carrying rush baskets full of wild flowers, scattered them before her as she moved, — and when she arrived at the church porch, she was followed by the little child Ipsie, whose round fair cherub-like face reflected one broad smile of delight, and who carried between her two tiny hands a basket full to overflowing of old French damask roses, red as the wine-glow of a summer sunset. The church was crowded, — not only by villagers but by county folks, — for everyone from near or far that could be present at what they judged to be a ‘strange’ wedding — namely a wedding for love and love alone — had mustered in force for the occasion. One or two had stayed away from a certain sense of discrepancy in themselves, to which it is needless to refer. Sir Morton Pippitt was among these. He felt, — but what he felt is quite immaterial. And so far as his daughter was concerned, she, as Bainton expressed it, had ‘gone a’ visitin’.’ The Ittlethwaites, of Ittlethwaite Park, in all the glory of their Magnum Chartus forebears were present, as were the Mandeville-Porehams — while to Julian Adderley was given the honour of being Walden’s ‘best man.’ He, as the music of the wedding voluntary poured from the organ, through the flower-scented air, wondered doubtfully whether poetic inspiration would ever assist him in such wise as to enable him to express in language the exquisite sweetness of Maryllia’s face, as, standing beside the man whose tender and loyal love she was surer of than any other possession in this world she repeated in soft accents the vow: “to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey till death do us part!”