Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “He doesn’t like it now!” she said to Nurse Tomkins— “Isn’t it funny? He used to be so fond of that little woolly thing!”

  “Oh, he’ll take to it again by-and-bye,” — said the patient Tomkins— “You can’t expect him to like the same things always — even grown-ups don’t do that!”

  At that moment Master Laurence uttered a remark. He was beginning to talk in curious fragments of English — and only the trained ear could make out his efforts at wit and wisdom. He held up the letter A and said:

  “Muzza yame!”

  “Yes, that’s right!” said Nurse Tomkins mildly— “Mother’s name. Begins with A. A stands for Mother’s name. Quite right!”

  Azalea was almost breathless at this sudden outburst of Master Laurence’s learning.

  “The darling!” she cried— “Isn’t he sweet! Oh, Nurse, I’m sure he’ll be very clever!” She jumped up from the floor, and looked out of the window. “Oh, isn’t it raining, raining!” she said petulantly— “We might have gone out if it had cleared up only just a little! I hate being in doors all day.” She sighed. “Poor Dick! Fancy his going to watch that awful drunkard Kiernan!”

  “He wasn’t always so bad, I’ve heard,” — said Nurse Tomkins slowly— “There’s good in him somewhere — but it’s hard to discover. However, if it’s to be found at all, the Vicar will find it.”

  “You think so?” And Azalea drummed with her little white fingers on the window-pane as she looked out at the lowering sky— “I’m not at all sure! He’s too good and gentle — and some of the people about here call him ‘soft.’ That does make me so angry! And I wish he would be hard! Hard as nails!”

  “That wouldn’t be like Christ,” — said the nurse— “And a Christian minister has to try and be as like Christ as possible.”

  Azalea looked at her curiously.

  “You are a real believer, aren’t you?” she asked, “I mean, you really do think Christ wants you to be good and to take care of your soul?”

  Nurse Tomkins, who was a quiet, painstaking and devotional woman, seemed a little startled by the query.

  “I don’t think I quite look at it in that way,” — she replied, “but I love the beautiful life and teaching of Our Lord, and I don’t ask any questions — I just trust Him, and do the best I can.”

  “But that’s not orthodox, you know,” — said Azalea— “That’s not all you’ve got to believe. I sometimes think,” — Here she broke off and laughed— “Oh no! I never think at all. It doesn’t do! But I ought never to have been a clergyman’s wife really. Because I don’t like visiting the sick and the poor, and all that kind of thing — and though I’m a mother, I’m not fit to hold a mothers’ meeting, or preside over a Girls’ Friendly Society, or anything — it wants somebody old and plain and prim for that — and I’m not old — and I’m not plain, and I’m not prim! I’m just silly! Yes — silly! It’s so nice to be silly when one is young — and at present I really cannot be anything else. Even Baby looks wiser than I shall ever feel!”

  Here she lifted the child from the floor, and held him up to the window. He at once showed displeasure at the sight of the pouring rain, and struggled to get down.

  “Dear me, Nurse!” she exclaimed, almost pettishly— “How restless Baby is! He really seems dissatisfied with everything!”

  Nurse Tomkins smiled again.

  “Oh, I don’t think he’s dissatisfied, ma’am,” — she said, “But I’ve always noticed that he doesn’t like being taken away from one thing to do another. You see he was busy—”

  “Busy!” echoed Azalea, with wide-open eyes— “Why what on earth was he doing?”

  “He had his alphabet,” and the nurse pointed to the scattered blocks that lay about the floor— “And I think he was trying to make words. He often manages to spell quite long words correctly. If you put him down I’m sure he’ll go back to his work.”

  Azalea laughed merrily.

  “Go back to his work! Oh, Baby dear! You queer little soul!” Here she set him on the floor, much to his delight— “The idea of your working!”

  She laughed again, while Master Laurence, toddling unsteadily, yet determinedly, made straight for his bricks, and squatting down comfortably, set himself again to the labor of arranging them in such form and sequence as he imagined might lead to the comprehension of the language used by the strange human beings among whom he, as a small transformed angel, had now to take his place and part. His mother watched him for a moment, then yawned undisguisedly.

  “It’s time for lunch now,” — she said, with a glance at the clock— “I must go down and have it all by myself.

  It’s really too bad of Dick to put himself out so much, all for the sake of such a hopeless character as Dan Kiernan. He’ll do no good, I’m sure.”

  She sauntered out of the nursery, singing as she went. Nurse Tomkins made no remark, and only continued her sewing a little more quickly. Glancing at her young charge, she saw that he had set three letters of the alphabet in line on the floor — wide apart, but in a fairly straight position, — and that he was alternately looking at these and at a large colored text which hung on the wall: ‘God is Love.’ His baby brow was knitted, almost puckered with thought, and his little rosebud mouth was folded into quite a severe line. He studied his straggling blocks with deep earnestness. G. O. D. There was a mystery behind them, if he could only grapple with it.

  “Put them together, dearie!” said Nurse Tomkins coaxingly— “All together!” He turned and looked at her questioningly. She made a collective movement with her hand. “So! Side by side! All together!” His big blue eyes sparkled — and he understood. Soon he had the word clear: ‘GOD.’

  “That’s quite right!” said the nurse, in her soft, soothing voice— “That’s just as it should be. GOD. That’s like the pretty picture up there. ‘God is Love.’” And she smiled and nodded at him encouragingly. He gave her a responsive smile, but at the same time heaved a small sigh.

  ‘GOD.’ The word stared him in the face, and he folded his chubby hands together and stared back at it again. It was a great Sign; and some dim consciousness of it seemed to affect him. The real idea which had taken possession of his brain was that he must try and copy the text on the wall, — but the effort had been rather more than he had anticipated. He therefore permitted himself to pause and reflect. The nurse stopped her busy sewing for a moment and watched him. She was one of the very few women who think seriously about anything — and there was a certain suggestiveness in the attitude of the tiny child sitting with closely folded hands opposite that mystic name on which the whole world hangs like a dewdrop hanging on one petal of the immortal Rose of Life. GOD — and a Child! The two are near akin in purity, — and the words of Christ— “Except ye become as little children ye shall not enter the Kingdom of Heaven,” — are true for all time. Almost involuntarily the nurse’s lips moved in a sudden prayer: “God bless the dear little soul and make him a good man!” — and for once, she did not follow her usual habit of anticipation as to his possibly being a ‘great’ man. A ‘good’ man seemed the more natural outcome of that small sweet creature absorbed in the study of the Name by which he was to know his Maker.

  “Between him and Dan Kiernan,” — she murmured— “What a difference! And yet — even Kiernan was a little innocent child like that once!”

  CHAPTER III

  WITH the passing of the hours, the clouds thickened, and the rain poured persistently over Shadbrook as though it meant to drown both the old and new village for good and all. The polluted brook swelled to a torrent which rattled among the cast-away pots and pans and preserved meat-tins with quite an angry volume of sound, and the decaying vegetables began to float steadily away on a journey towards the river, there to be mercifully swept into the clean oblivion of the sea. Everton sat just within the open doorway of Kiernan’s cottage, looking at the heavy showers which spread a cold gray sheet of wet over the visible scene, and in the kindness of his heart
he felt sorry for Kiernan himself, who still sleeping in the porch, was likely to be chilled through by the creeping damp which penetrated to the very bones, despite the warmest clothing. In truth the wretched man made a miserable picture, rolled together as it were in what was more of a stupor than a sleep — his breathing was loud and irregular — his face was flushed with patches of feverish red, and the veins in his thick neck stood out like knotted whip-cord. The Vicar surveyed him anxiously — and from time to time glanced at his watch. It was nearing three o’clock. He had been more than two hours at his post — and it was only natural that he should feel tired. He was tired, and he admitted it to himself — tired and sick at heart. What, after all, was the good of his remaining beside this hopeless drunkard, who, when he woke would probably only resent his presence? He had no power to persuade — he was merely a parson, — he was not a brewer. The brewer was the physical and moral governor of such men as Kiernan; — the brewer could compel them to murder or robbery — but the minister of Christ could not hold them back from the brewer’s sway. How inefficient then — how more than feeble seemed the Minister of Christ!

  “What use am I?” he thought wearily— “I can read the services — I can preach sermons which are ‘orthodox’ — I can baptize, marry, and bury my parishioners — but I cannot hold one of them back from the public-house! I can talk to them of the evils of drink; — I can put a true scientific analysis of Minchin’s brew before them — oh yes! — I can do all this — without the least effect! They listen, of course, — they show that outward respect which they consider due to me — and having heard all I have to say, they straightway forget it. And I am not alone in my trouble. Thousands of men in my calling are attempting the same hopeless task, — others, wearied by their own ineffectual endeavors, have given it up in despair and are content to ‘let things go,’ — and there is always the same old cry in every rural town and village—’ the parson interferes with everybody and everything.’ God knows I do not seek to ‘interfere’ — it is only that if I see human souls rushing blindly to perdition, I cannot look on without interposing myself between them and the brink of Hell. And for that I am likely to be blamed — and worse than blamed — mistrusted!”

  At that moment the stupefied Kiernan gave a violent start, — stretching out his brawny arms, he entered into a kind of furious struggle with himself, in the course of which he opened his eyes and glowered about him like an angry bull.

  “‘Ullo!” he stammered, seeing Everton— “Who’s — who’s that?”

  “The Vicar,” — answered Everton.

  Kiernan gave vent to an inarticulate exclamation, and struggled up on to his feet.

  “The Vicar!” And standing upright, he swayed to and fro unsteadily— “G — good-morning, sir!”

  “Good-morning, Kiernan,” — responded Everton, composedly— “or rather, good-afternoon! It’s three o’clock. You didn’t think it was as late as that, did you?”

  Kiernan was rubbing his hand vaguely over his hair.

  “No,” — he said, thickly— “I didn’t think ’twas so late — I’ve overslept myself—”

  “You’ve over-drunk yourself, man — that’s what’s the matter” — and Everton stood up face to face with him as he spoke— “And, Kiernan — I know you’ll be sorry for it — you’ve hurt your wife very badly.”

  “‘Urt my wife?” Kiernan stopped rubbing his hair and looked startled—”’Urt Jennie? ‘Ow’s that? What’s the matter?”

  “Come and see!”

  And Everton turned into the cottage, beckoning Kiernan to follow. He did so with a stumbling step, and at the first sight of his wife lying in bed, with her pale face and closed eyes, he became as it were instantly sobered.

  “Jennie! Jennie!” he said, in quite a changed voice— “What’s wrong, lass? Eh? — Jennie!”

  She opened her eyes and her poor thin features were transfigured by a smile of inexpressible love and tenderness.

  “Dan!” She held out her arms, and as he bent over her she laid them gently round his neck— “Dear Dan! You didn’t mean it — I know you didn’t! — It was just the drink that drove you mad for a minute—”

  He lifted her up and held her against his breast.

  “What did I do, Jennie? Tell me! Did I ‘urt ye? God forgive me! Did I ‘urt ye?”

  “No!” said his wife, bravely— “Only a very little. Don’t you mind! I’ll soon be all right, Dan! But you’ll keep away, Dan — won’t you? — you’ll keep away from the drink. — not for my sake, but for your own, Dan, — it does upset you so! Kiss me, Dan!”

  He kissed her and laid her down — then looked in a bewildered way round the little room. Mrs. Adcott, in her self-appointed duty of nurse, had made some tea, and she now held out a cupful of that fragrant beverage.

  “Drink this, Dan!” she said brightly— “It’ll do you good and clear your ‘ed of that Minchin stuff. An’ you, Mr. Everton, — you ain’t ‘ad no lunch, an’ you must be right-down tired — will you take a cup?”

  “Thanks very much — I will,” — and Everton turned towards her, to avoid the pained stare of Kiernan’s eyes, and to give him a little time in which to realize the situation. Kiernan stood for a moment inert, as though in doubt — then, setting the cup of untasted tea down on the table, flung himself heavily into a chair. Mrs. Adcott looked at him.

  “Won’t you ‘ave your tea, Dan?” she asked coaxingly.

  He made no answer.

  Everton quietly drew another chair to the table, and sat down opposite to him.

  “Better now, Kiernan?” he said cheerily — and nodding towards the little doorway which opened into the adjoining room where Mrs. Kiernan lay, he added— “She’ll be all right in a day or two if you’re careful of her. Her life depends on you — of course you know that.”

  “Her life — her life!” muttered Kiernan, — then, with a sudden darkening of his features he looked full into Everton’s face— “What I want to know is this — how do you ‘appen to be ’ere? What’s your business?”

  “My business?” and the Vicar flushed slightly and then grew pale— “My business, Kiernan, is to treat you as I would treat my own brother, and see that you get into no’ more mischief.”

  “Oh, that’s what it is, is it?” and Kiernan gave a short laugh of incredulity— “Well, I’m obleeged t’ye — an’ if ye’ll be so good as to clear out, I’ll not ask ye to call again!”

  Mrs. Adcott, who had been sweeping up the hearth, and was now putting a fresh kettle full of water on the fire to boil, looked round, startled.

  “Dan!” she exclaimed— “You don’t mean that!”

  “I do mean it!” And Kiernan brought his fist down heavily on the table with a fierce blow— “I mean that this ’ere reverend gentleman ‘asn’t no right to enter my ‘ouse or sit at my table without I permits ‘ini, an’ I dont permit-’im! An’ I sez to ’im ‘Clear out!’ an’ if ‘e’s a man ‘e’ll do it — straight!’

  Everton rose quietly.

  “All right, Kiernan!” — he said— “I came as a friend, — but I’ll go.”

  “An’ the sooner the better!” said Kiernan, with a kind of angry grin— “What! Do I pay rent for a ‘ouse to myself an’ yet can’t keep a busy-bodyin’ parson out of it? Came ’ere to see me drunk, eh? Well, you’ve see’d it, an’ I ‘ope you liked it! An’ as for my wife, you’ve ‘eard ‘er say as ‘ow I ‘aven’t ‘urt ‘er — why should I ‘urt ‘er? Ain’t she my wife? Why should I go to ‘urt what’s my own? Do I sneak up to your ‘ouse, Mister Parson, an’ see ‘ow you carries on when the doors is shut? Do I come in an’ say to your missus—’ Oh, my pore woman, your ‘usband’s no good an’ I’m coming to look arter ye’? No, I doan’t! An’ what the devil do you mean by a-doin’ what no ‘spectable workin’-man would do, all ‘cos you’re a parson? You takes too much on yerself, Mister Everton! — a deal too much! an’ so I tells ye to clear out o’ this ’ere ‘ouse afore I makes ye!”

  Mrs
. Adcott stood as it were rooted to the ground in terror at the tone of this speech, accompanied as it was by threatening gestures, but Everton maintained a perfectly tranquil demeanor.

  “You mistake me, Kiernan,” — he said— “You mistake me altogether. But — never mind! Perhaps you’ll understand better later on. I’m sorry you look upon me as an intruder, — I had hoped otherwise—”

  He paused — then took his hat and prepared to leave the cottage.

  “I wish,” he continued, fixing his brave, clear, keen eyes on the drunkard’s sullen countenance— “I wish I might, as your Vicar, ask you to make me a promise.”

  Kiernan gave a kind of grunt.

  “Oh, ye may ask anything ye like,” — he muttered.

  “Well! — don’t drink any more poison to-day,” — and Everton, going fearlessly up to him, laid one hand kindly on his shoulder— “Give me your word you won’t, and I’ll believe you! Come, Kiernan! As man to man, promise me!”

  With a smothered oath Kiernan sprang up from his chair and seemed about to give vent to a torrent of abuse, — but meeting Everton’s steady, appealing gaze, full of a sorrowful, almost affectionate reproach, his head drooped shamefacedly, and he gave a forced angry laugh.

  “All right!” he said— “Anythin’ for peace an’ quietness! I promise!”

  The friendly hand dropped from his shoulder.

  “Thank-you! And to-morrow you’ll see things in quite a different light, I’m sure.”

  Kiernan stood stolidly silent, and Everton with an encouraging smile and nod to the visibly distressed Mrs. Adcott, left the cottage without another word, outwardly composed, but inwardly sorely troubled. Again he felt his own helplessness, — again he questioned himself as to the usefulness or the utter inefficiency of the position he occupied.