Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Oh, she was wicked — downright wicked!” declared Mary, with some passion— “Any girl who would plan and scheme to marry an old man for his money must be a worthless creature. I wish I had been in that Lucy Sorrel’s place!”

  “Ah! And what would you have done?” enquired Helmsley.

  “Well, if I had been a pretty girl, in my teens, and I had been fortunate enough to win the heart of a splendid fellow like Angus Reay,” — said Mary, “I would have thanked God, as Shakespeare tells us to do, for a good man’s love! And I would have waited for him years, if he had wished me to! I would have helped him all I could, and cheered him and encouraged him in every way I could think of — and when he had won his fame, I should have been prouder than a queen! Yes, I should! — I think any girl would have been lucky indeed to get such a man to care for her as Angus Reay!”

  Thus spake Mary, with sparkling eyes and heaving bosom — and Helmsley heard her, showing no sign of any especial interest, the while he went on meditatively stroking his beard.

  “It is a pity,” — he said, after a discreet pause— “that you are not a few years younger, Mary! You might have loved him yourself.”

  Her face grew suddenly scarlet, and she seemed about to utter an exclamation, but she repressed it. The colour faded from her cheeks as rapidly as it had flushed them, leaving her very pale.

  “So I might!” she answered quietly, — and she smiled; “Indeed I think it would have been very likely! But that sort of thing is all over for me.”

  She turned away, and began busying herself with some of her household duties. Helmsley judged that he had said enough — and quietly exulted in his own mind at the discovery which he was confident he had made. All seemed clear and open sailing for Angus Reay — if — if she could be persuaded that it was for herself and herself alone that he loved her.

  “Now if she were a rich woman, she would never believe in his love!” he thought— “There again comes in the curse of money! Suppose she were wealthy as women in her rank of life would consider it — suppose that she had a prosperous farm, and a reliable income of so much per annum, she would never flatter herself that a man loved her for her own good and beautiful self — especially a man in the situation of Reay, with only twenty pounds in the world to last him a year, and nothing beyond it save the dream of fame! She would think — and naturally too — that he sought to strengthen and improve his prospects by marrying a woman of some ‘substance’ as they call it. And even as it is the whole business requires careful handling. I myself must be on my guard. But I think I may give hope to Reay! — indeed I shall try and urge him to speak to her as soon as possible — before fortune comes to either of them! Love in its purest and most unselfish form, is such a rare blessing — such a glorious Angel of the kingdom of Heaven, that we should not hesitate to give it welcome, or delay in offering it reverence! It is all that makes life worth living — God knows how fully I have proved it!”

  And that night in the quiet darkness of his own little room, he folded his worn hands and prayed —

  “Oh God, before whom I appear as a wasted life, spent with toil in getting what is not worth the gaining, and that only seems as dross in Thy sight! — Give me sufficient time and strength to show my gratefulness to Thee for Thy mercy in permitting me to know the sweetness of Love at last, and in teaching me to understand, through Thy guidance, that those who may seem to us the unconsidered and lowly in this world, are often to be counted among Thy dearest creatures! Grant me but this, O God, and death when it comes, shall find me ready and resigned to Thy Will!”

  Thus he murmured half aloud, — and in the wonderful restfulness which he obtained by the mere utterance of his thoughts to the Divine Source of all good, closed his eyes with a sense of abiding joy, and slept peacefully.

  Footnote 1: A fact.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  And now by slow and beautiful degrees the cold and naked young year grew warm, and expanded from weeping, shivering infancy into the delighted consciousness of happy childhood. The first snowdrops, the earliest aconites, perked up their pretty heads in Mary’s cottage garden, and throughout all nature there came that inexplicable, indefinite, soft pulsation of new life and new love which we call the spring. Tiny buds, rosy and shining with sap, began to gleam like rough jewels on every twig and tree — a colony of rooks which had abode in the elms surrounding Weircombe Church, started to make great ado about their housekeeping, and kept up as much jabber as though they were inaugurating an Irish night in the House of Commons, — and, over a more or less tranquil sea, the gulls poised lightly on the heaving waters in restful attitudes, as though conscious that the stress of winter was past. To look at Weircombe village as it lay peacefully aslant down the rocky “coombe,” no one would have thought it likely to be a scene of silent, but none the less violent, internal feud; yet such nevertheless was the case, and all the trouble had arisen since the first Sunday of the first month of the Reverend Mr. Arbroath’s “taking duty” in the parish. On that day six small choirboys had appeared in the Church, together with a tall lanky youth in a black gown and white surplice — and to the stupefied amazement of the congregation, the lanky youth had carried a gilt cross round the Church, followed by Arbroath himself and the six little boys, all chanting in a manner such as the Weircombe folk had never heard before. It was a deeply resented innovation, especially as the six little boys and the lanky cross-bearer, as well as the cross itself, had been mysteriously “hired” from somewhere by Mr. Arbroath, and were altogether strange to the village. Common civility, as well as deeply rooted notions of “decency and order,” kept the parishioners in their seats during what they termed the “play-acting” which took place on this occasion, but when they left the Church and went their several ways, they all resolved on the course they meant to adopt with the undesired introduction of “‘Igh Jinks” for the future. And from that date henceforward not one of the community attended Church. Sunday after Sunday, the bells rang in vain. Mr. Arbroath conducted the service solely for Mrs. Arbroath and for one ancient villager who acted the double part of sexton and verger, and whose duties therefore compelled him to remain attached to the sacred edifice. And the people read their morning prayers in their own houses every Sunday, and never stirred out on that day till after their dinners. In vain did both Mr. and Mrs. Arbroath run up and down the little village street, calling at every house, coaxing, cajoling, and promising, — they spoke to deaf ears. Nothing they could say or do made amends for the “insult” to which the parishioners considered they had been subjected, by the sudden appearance of six strange choirboys and the lanky youth in a black gown, who had carried a gilt cross round and round the tiny precincts of their simple little Church, which, — until the occurrence of this remarkable “mountebank” performance as they called it, — had been everything to them that was sacred in its devout simplicity. Finally, in despair, Mr. Arbroath wrote a long letter of complaint to the Bishop of the diocese, and after a considerable time of waiting, was informed by the secretary of that gentleman that the matter would be enquired into, but that in the meantime he had better conduct the Sunday services in the manner to which the parishioners had been accustomed. This order Arbroath flatly refused to obey, and there ensued a fierce polemical correspondence, during which the Church remained, as has been stated, empty of worshippers altogether. Casting about for reasons which should prove some contumacious spirit to be the leader of this rebellion, Arbroath attacked Mary Deane among others, and asked her if she was “a regular Communicant.” To which she calmly replied —

  “No, sir.”

  “And why are you not?” demanded the clergyman imperiously.

  “Because I do not feel like it,” she said; “I do not believe in going to Communion unless one really feels the spiritual wish and desire.”

  “Oh! Then that is to say that you are very seldom conscious of any spiritual wish or desire?”

  She was silent.

  “I am sorry for you!” And
Arbroath shook his bullet head dismally. “You are one of the unregenerate, and if you do not amend your ways will be among the lost — —”

  “‘I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be, when thou liest howling!’” said Helmsley suddenly.

  Arbroath turned upon him sharply.

  “What’s that?” he snarled.

  “Shakespeare!” and Helmsley smiled.

  “Shakespeare! Much you know about Shakespeare!” snapped out the irritated clergyman. “But atheists and ruffians always quote Shakespeare as glibly as they quote the New Testament!”

  “It’s lucky that atheists and ruffians have got such good authorities to quote from,” said Helmsley placidly.

  Arbroath gave an impatient exclamation, and again addressed Mary.

  “Why don’t you come to Church?” he asked.

  She raised her calm blue eyes and regarded him steadfastly.

  “I don’t like the way you conduct the service, sir, and I don’t take you altogether for a Christian.”

  “What!” And he stared at her so furiously that his little pig eyes grew almost large for the moment— “You don’t take me — me — for a Christian?”

  “No, sir, — not altogether. You are too hard and too proud. You are not careful of us poor folk, and you don’t seem to mind whether you hurt our feelings or not. We’re only very humble simple people here in Weircombe, but we’re not accustomed to being ordered about as if we were children, or as if our parson was a Romish priest wanting to get us all under his thumb. We believe in God with all our hearts and souls, and we love the dear gentle Saviour who came to show us how to live and how to die, — but we like to pray as we’ve always been accustomed to pray, just without any show, as our Lord taught us to do, not using any ‘vain repetitions.’”

  Helmsley, who was bending some stiff osiers in his hands, paused to listen. Arbroath stared gloomily at the noble, thoughtful face on which there was just now an inspired expression of honesty and truth which almost shamed him.

  “I think,” went on Mary, speaking very gently and modestly— “that if we read the New Testament, we shall find that our Lord expressly forbade all shows and ceremonies, — and that He very much disliked them. Indeed, if we strictly obeyed all His orders, we should never be seen praying in public at all! Of course it is pleasant and human for people to meet together in some place and worship God — but I think such a meeting should be quite without any ostentation — and that all our prayers should be as simple as possible. Pray excuse me if I speak too boldly — but that is the spirit and feeling of most of the Weircombe folk, and they are really very good, honest people.”

  The Reverend Mr. Arbroath stood inert and silent for about two minutes, his eyes still fixed upon her, — then, without a word, he turned on his heel and left the cottage. And from that day he did his best to sow small seeds of scandal against her, — scattering half-implied innuendoes, — faint breathings of disparagement, coarse jests as to her “old maid” condition, and other mean and petty calumnies, which, however, were all so much wasted breath on his part, as the Weircombe villagers were as indifferent to his attempted mischief as Mary herself. Even with the feline assistance of Mrs. Arbroath, who came readily to her husband’s aid in his capacity of “downing” a woman, especially as that woman was so much better-looking than herself, nothing of any importance was accomplished in the way of either shaking Mary’s established position in the estimation of Weircombe, or of persuading the parishioners to a “‘Igh Jink” view of religious matters. Indeed, on this point they were inflexible, and as Mrs. Twitt remarked on one occasion, with a pious rolling-up of the whites of her eyes —

  “To see that little black man with the ‘igh stomach a-walkin’ about this village is enough to turn a baby’s bottle sour! It don’t seem nat’ral like — he’s as different from our good old parson as a rat is from a bird, an’ you’ll own, Mis’ Deane, as there’s a mighty difference between they two sorts of insecks. An’ that minds me, on the Saturday night afore they got the play-actin’ on up in the Church, the wick o’ my candle guttered down in a windin’ sheet as long as long, an’ I sez to Twitt— ‘There you are! Our own parson’s gone an’ died over in Madery, an’ we’ll never ‘ave the likes of ’im no more! There’s trouble comin’ for the Church, you mark my words.’ An’ Twitt, ’e says, ‘G’arn, old ‘ooman, it’s the draught blowin’ in at the door as makes the candle gutter,’ — but all the same my words ‘as come true!”

  “Why no, surely not!” said Mary, “Our parson isn’t dead in Madeira at all! The Sunday-school mistress had a letter from him only yesterday saying how much better he felt, and that he hoped to be home again with us very soon.”

  Mrs. Twitt pursed her lips and shook her head.

  “That may be!” she observed— “I aint a-sayin’ nuthin’ again it. I sez to Twitt, there’s trouble comin’ for the Church, an’ so there is. An’ the windin’ sheet in the candle means a death for somebody somewhere!”

  Mary laughed, though her eyes were a little sad and wistful.

  “Well, of course, there’s always somebody dying somewhere, they say!” And she sighed. “There’s a good deal of grief in the world that nobody ever sees or hears of.”

  “True enough, Mis’ Deane! — true enough!” And Mrs. Twitt shook her head again— “But ye’re spared a deal o’ worrit, seein’ ye ‘aven’t a husband nor childer to drive ye silly. When I ‘ad my three boys at ‘ome I never know’d whether I was on my ‘ed or my ‘eels, they kept up such a racket an’ torment, but the Lord be thanked they’re all out an’ doin’ for theirselves in the world now — forbye the eldest is thinkin’ o’ marryin’ a girl I’ve never seen, down in Cornwall, which is where ’e be a-workin’ in tin mines, an’ when I ‘eerd as ‘ow ’e was p’raps a-goin’ to tie hisself up in the bonds o’ matterimony, I stepped out in the garden just casual like, an’ if you’ll believe me, I sees a magpie! Now, Mis’ Deane, magpies is total strangers on these coasts — no one as I’ve ever ‘eard tell on ‘as ever seen one — an’ they’s the unlikeliest and unluckiest birds to come across as ever the good God created. An’ of course I knows if my boy marries that gel in Cornwall, it’ll be the worst chance and change for ’im that ‘e’s ‘ad ever since ’e was born! That magpie comed ’ere to warn me of it!”

  Mary tried to look serious, but Helmsley was listening to the conversation, and she caught the mirthful glance of his eyes. So she laughed, and taking Mrs. Twitt by the shoulders, kissed her heartily on both cheeks.

  “You’re a dear!” she said— “And I’ll believe in the magpie if you want me to! But all the same, I don’t think any mischief is coming for your son or for you. I like to hope that everything happening in this world is for the best, and that the good God means kindly to all of us. Don’t you think that’s the right way to live?”

  “It may be the right way to live,” replied Mrs. Twitt with a doubtful air— “But there’s ter’uble things allus ‘appenin’, an’ I sez if warnings is sent to us even out o’ the mouths o’ babes and sucklings, let’s accept ’em in good part. An’ if so be a magpie is chose by the Lord as a messenger we’se fools if we despises the magpie. But that little paunchy Arbroath’s worse than a whole flock o’ magpies comin’ together, an’ ‘e’s actin’ like a pestilence in keepin’ decent folk away from their own Church. ‘Owsomever, Twitt reads prayers every Sunday mornin’, an’ t’other day Mr. Reay came in an’ ‘eerd ’im. An’ Mr. Reay sez— ‘Twitt, ye’re better than any parson I ever ‘eerd!’ An’ I believe ’e is— ‘e’s got real ‘art an’ feelin’ for Scripter texes, an’ sez ’em just as solemn as though ’e was carvin’ ’em on tombstones. It’s powerful movin’!”

  Mary kept a grave face, but said nothing.

  “An’ last Sunday,” went on Mrs. Twitt, encouraged, “Mr. Reay hisself read us a chapter o’ the New Tesymen, an’ ’twas fine! Twitt an’ me, we felt as if we could ‘a served the Lord faithful to the end of the world! An’
we ‘ardly ever feels like that in Church. In Church they reads the words so sing-songy like, that, bein’ tired, we goes to sleep wi’ the soothin’ drawl. But Mr. Reay, he kep’ us wide awake an’ starin’! An’ there’s one tex which sticks in my ‘ed an’ comforts me for myself an’ for everybody in trouble as I ever ‘eerd on — —”

  “And what’s that, Mrs. Twitt?” asked Helmsley, turning round in his chair, that he might see her better.

  “It’s this, Mister David,” and Mrs. Twitt drew a long breath in preparation before beginning the quotation,— “an’ it’s beautiful! ‘If the world hate you, ye know that it hated Me before it hated you.’ Now if that aint enuff to send us on our way rejoicin’, I don’t know what is! For Lord knows if the dear Christ was hated, we can put up wi’ a bit o’ the hate for ourselves!”

  There was a pause.

  “So Mr. Reay reads very well, does he?” asked Mary.

  “Fine!” said Mrs. Twitt,—”’E’s a lovely man with a lovely voice! If ‘e’d bin a parson ‘e’d ‘a drawed thousands to ‘ear ’im! ’E wouldn’t ‘a wanted crosses nor candles to show us as ’e was speakin’ true. Twitt sez to ’im t’other day— ‘Why aint you a parson, Mr. Reay?’ an’ ’e sez, ‘Cos I’m goin’ to be a preacher!’ An’ we couldn’t make this out nohow, till ’e showed us as ‘ow ’e was a-goin’ to tell people things as they ought to know in the book ‘e’s writin’. An’ ’e sez it’s the only way, cos the parsons is gettin’ so uppish, an’ the Pope ‘as got ‘old o’ some o’ the newspapers, so that there aint no truth told nowheres, unless a few writers o’ books will take ‘art o’ grace an’ speak out. An’ ’e sez there’s a many as ‘ll do it, an’ he tells Twitt— ‘Twitt,’ sez he, ‘Pin your faith on brave books! Beware o’ newspapers, an’ fight off the priest! Read brave books — books that were written centuries ago to teach people courage — an’ read brave books that are written now to keep courage goin’!’ An’ we sez, so we will — for books is cheap enuff, God knows! — an’ only t’other day Twitt went over to Minehead an’ bought a new book by Sir Walter Scott called Guy Mannering for ninepence. It’s a grand story! an’ keeps us alive every evenin’! I’m just mad on that old woman in it — Meg Merrilies — she knew a good deal as goes on in the world, I’ll warrant! All about signs an’ omens too. It’s just fine! I’d like to see Sir Walter Scott!”