Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “And when does your wife — the angel of your paradise — return?”

  A slight flush of color warmed the Vicar’s pale face.

  “Soon — very soon!” he replied hastily— “The sea air is very good for her and the child — —”

  “I see — I understand!” and Douay nodded amicably— “And do you hear any more of the drunkard who was so much cause of trouble? Shall I tell you some news of him?”

  “You?” exclaimed Everton, with interest— “Do you know how he’s getting on?”

  “I know!” and Douay nodded again a great many times— “I know that Mistaire Minchin gives him free beer!

  Free, my friend! — think of it! — nothing to pay for drinking as much poison as he likes! All day long, all night long, he can drink, if he so desires! He has a certain wage a week, free beer, and a cottage on the brewing estate of the excellent Minchin. He is what you call ‘in clover.’ He is drunk every night — his cottage is, unhappily to say, quite near to mine, — and he is to me a noisy and disagreeable neighbor. So, one day I go to Minchin — I say with all politeness—’ Monsieur, one of your men comes home every night drunk, and makes so much noise near my windows that I cannot sleep! Mistaire Minchin look at me with a grin — he has the face of a fox and the eyes of a wolf, — and he reply:—’ I am sorry! But I am not responsible for my men’s actions when they are off duty. What man is it?’ I name Dan Kiernan. Mistaire Minchin offers me another grin. ‘An excellent fellow!’ he say—’ excellent! He has recently lost his wife — poor woman! — she was worried to death by the Vicar of Shadbrook, who is always interfering with his parishioners—’”

  Richard uttered an indignant exclamation. Douay held up a pacifying hand.

  “Be patient, my friend! — be patient!” he said— “I am only telling you the liar’s way of lying — you do not expect truth from Minchin? — then why trouble yourself? ‘Dan Kiernan is a most valuable hand’ — he say again—’ I respect him very greatly. I have never seen him drunk — and I think you must be mistaken. In any case, I can do nothing.’ So he give me a bow and one more grin — and I go. Eh bien! — that is all. Except this” — here Douay folded his arms and looked defiant— “Suppose I try and reform this madman of drink — this Kiernan — suppose I make him Roman Catholique?”

  Everton stared — then smiled.

  “I should think you would have a poor convert!” he said.

  “Or ‘pervert,’” retorted Douay— “Now listen, my dear Protestant friend! — which will you prefer? That the man Kiernan remain as he is — a drunkard — or that the Church of Rome shall take hold of him and make him sober?”

  “If the Church of Rome can do that, she will perform more than many of her boasted miracles,” — said Everton, with a sense of pain and irritation which he could not quite control— “It is not for me to say a word in the matter. If you think you can succeed where I have failed—”

  “Attention!” and Douay shook a forefinger in the air again; “This is what I will point out — for of this I have cause to complain. Here is a man — bad, villainous, dangerous — and so far as we can see, the Church Protestant can do nothing with him. You are, for the moment, in Shadbrook, the Church Protestant. I am the very poor leetle avant-courier of the Church Roman Catholique in a neighboring parish. I say always ‘Roman,’ because some of your what you call ‘High’ Church parsons say they are ‘Catholique’ without the Roman. Now to my mind this cannot be. The Christian Church first began to form itself in Rome — or at least that is how I take it, — and we look back so far down the ages — so far! — and with all our faults — crimes if you will — our human mistakes and follies and cruelties, — our creed is older than the divorce of Henry the Eighth from Catharine of Arragon. Ah yes! — we count among us the early saints and martys! — my friend, we have great ancestors! But now see! — the priest of the Church Protestant will rather let a man’s soul perish altogether in wickedness than he will see a priest of the Church Roman Catholique save him! And I say to you — Is that Christian?”

  Everton had risen from his chair during the last two or three minutes, and was now standing facing his companion with a look of very real distress in his eyes.

  “Do you — can you — think me so narrow — so bigoted?” he began.

  Douay was beside him instantly, tapping a friendly hand on his arm.

  “No, no! I do not think that you — the man — are so, — but you, the priest, the parson of the Church Protestant — is it not your duty to keep all your own sheep in your own fold?”

  “It is so certainly — but— “Everton hesitated, pained and perplexed, “But! — ah, it is a but! Now I will tell you what your business is, my friend! It is to say at once that you do not think the Church Roman can save the soul of the drunkard, or any soul whatever, — that you do not believe that any Church has any good in it but the English Church Protestant. That is what you should say to me. Why do you not say it?”

  He looked up with a bright questioning glance. Everton was silent.

  “Let us be men, you and I!” went on Douay— “Let us say what we think, and be honest before all things — for the good God is surely looking at us! Let us bravely confess that neither of us are at all sure whether we, or our different churches are strong enough or pure enough to save any soul, — and so, in our different ways of teaching, let us do our leetle best without quarrel! It is quarrel that makes all the mischief! — quarrel that again nails our dear Lord to the Cross! We must not grudge one another our very small victories!”

  And with a quick impulsive movement he held out his hand. Everton pressed it warmly.

  “You are right!” he said— “And I certainly shall not grudge you any victory you may win over Kiernan. But I think you’ll have to conquer Minchin first!”

  Douay laughed.

  “Ah! That I will not try. A brewer is worse than a drunkard — when he does not drink his own beer! He then calls himself ‘respectable’ — and Monsieur the Devil begins to love him! The Church may have some power over a really bad man who knows he is bad and confesses it — but never over a ‘respectable’ fraud!”

  That evening the little priest remained to dine and sleep, — and what with the pleasure of an intricate game of chess, followed by an examination of certain old books and manuscripts which Everton possessed and of which Douay was an able and intelligent judge,’ the time passed so quickly and agreeably that all depression and dullness were banished, and for one evening at least, life at Shadbrook Vicarage ceased to be tedious and the Vicar’s ‘parochial’ outlook seemed to have insensibly widened. So much so indeed that he was in a manner startled when shortly after Douay’s departure next morning he received a telegram from his wife announcing that she was returning home that very day. Surprise, however, soon gave way to delight — and his spirits rose to an almost boyish pitch of excitement, as he went about the house, putting bunches of such flowers as he could find or procure, on the various tables in the different rooms, — urging the servants to make everything look as bright as possible for their mistress’s home-coming, and all the time feeling in his own mind that the best he could do was but poor service for so fair and winsome a creature as Azalea, who, so he romantically imagined, should have had a palace to dwell in, with gayly-attired ‘vassals’ at her beck and call, rather than an old-fashioned country parsonage, with only an old-fashioned country parson to place his heart under her little feet and thank her for trampling on it.

  “For I am old-fashioned!” he argued with himself— “There’s not a doubt of it. I’m old-fashioned in my opinions and my ways, and I’m dull. I don’t wish to disguise it. I’m certainly dull. I wonder how Azalea can put up with me sometimes. For if I find life in Shadbrook rather slow, what must she, with all her grace and beauty, find it? Poor little soul!”

  And yet no prettier, cosier home ever threw open its doors to any woman than Shadbrook Vicarage when, just as evening was closing in, Azalea arrived, and springing lightly
out of the old dog-cart which had been sent to the station to meet her, laughingly submitted to be caught in her husband’s embrace and kissed with all a lover’s ardor.

  “Oh, Dick!” she exclaimed, as she entered the house— “We have had such a good time! Look at Baby! Did you ever see such a brown darling?”

  The ‘brown darling’ here handed over by Nurse Tomkins to receive his father’s caresses, was indeed the picture of health, though he was only very slightly ‘brown.’ The sea had certainly given a warmer, ruddier tinge to his fair skin, and his eyes were more wonderful than ever — or at least, so Richard thought, as the little fellow raised them to his face with all the serious, divinely contemplative sweetness that Raffaelle painted in the eyes of his child-angels at the feet of the Virgin. It was difficult to imagine a child with such eyes ever growing up, — for eyes so pure and brilliant are never seen in the head of an adult man. Evil thoughts and gross desires soon darken the first heavenly clearness of those ‘windows of the soul,’ and such men and women as possess any heart, conscience or feeling must surely, when looking into a child’s eyes, feel something of regret, even of shame, that such beautiful trust and candor therein expressed should be destined to betrayal and disappointment. Everton himself was often troubled by such an emotion — and at times he would even think whether — the world being what it is — it is right or just to inflict upon any innocent spirit the doom of mortal life? Especially if, as advanced scientists maintain, life is only another name for death. “I am thankful,” — said a philosopher once— “that I have no children. I could not have endured the terrible responsibility of bringing more sufferers into such a hell as man has made this world for his brother man.”

  At the present moment, however, the glamour and gayety of Azalea’s bewitching presence drove every other thought out of her husband’s, head, and the happiness he felt in having his wife and child, the two treasures of his heart, safely home again under his own roof-tree, was too great to be clouded by so much as the briefest foreboding. And how the little woman chattered to be sure! — chiefly of the shops in Weston-Super-Mare — and of the ‘fashions’ in that far from fashionable sea-side resort, where the ‘tripper’ is the principal personage in evidence, and where the weirdly-attired élite of Bristol take the air much more frequently than my lady Tom Noddy of London Town. But such ‘stylish’ modes as Weston could display were, of course, positively dazzling to the fancy of a pretty feminine creature whose purchases had often to be made at the small ‘general store’ in Shadbrook village, where a mild, fat man dispensed gammon of bacon and plain calico with equally zealous and unwashen hands. Occasionally, but only occasionally, Azalea went to Cheltenham and even to Gloucester to buy little fineries for herself and ‘Baby dear,’ but Cheltenham shops were expensive, she said, and Gloucester shops a little ‘behind the time,’ and as for Birmingham — well! — no self-respecting woman would ever descend to such a level of costume as that set forth by Birmingham models! Weston seemed to have fitted itself into a blank place in her affections — and she babbled of dress continuously, in a running, rippling way that was quite bewildering to Richard, though he did his best to understand it all and to sympathize with the ardent feeling which no mere husband’s love could rouse in her, — the thrill of the lace blouse — the joy of the crazily-feathered hat — the dreamy delirium of the chiffon tea-gown.

  “I wish I were rich enough to buy such pretty things for you!” he said gently, as she finished a cooing rhapsody on the glory of a blue silk frock embroidered in silver— “You ought to have them—”

  “Of course I ought!” she agreed merrily, as she came and seated herself like a child on his knee— “I ought to have the most beautiful clothes, for I love them! I do! And Baby ought to be dressed like a little prince! But you’re only a clergyman, poor dear Dick! — and I’m only a clergyman’s wife — and there we stick! Don’t we?” Here she kissed him lightly. “And, after all, it’s no good having nice clothes when one lives in Shadbrook. There’s nobody to dress for.”

  “No — I suppose there isn’t,” — Richard sighed — then his eyes sparkled with a kindly, mischievous little smile— “There’s only Mrs. Minchin! And you can always make her jealous if you only wear a cotton frock!”

  Azalea nodded her fair head very decisively.

  “Of course! I always do and I always shall! But that’s such easy work! She’s so ‘horsey,’ and she hasn’t a particle of taste. She ought to have married Dan Kiernan!”

  Everton was silent. He held his wife’s left hand in his own, and his eyes rested on the wedding-ring that encircled her tiny third finger. What a symbol it was! “Till death do us part.” Till death! The thought of death gave him a pang, and he folded the warm little hand closer.

  “You’re glad to be home again, darling?” he asked wistfully— “Glad to be with me?”

  She looked at him, smiling.

  “Of course I’m glad to be with you, Dick! I’m not quite glad to be home — because — well, because it’s a bit dull, — and the Shadbrook people are so stupid — and the villagers drink so dreadfully—”

  His kind face clouded a little.

  “Yes, I know! — I know it must be dull for you — I wish I could change the character of the place and the people altogether for the better,” — he said, rather sorrowfully, “But you will have no more very great annoyance — Kiernan never comes near the village—”

  “Oh, I’m not afraid of him now” — she said carelessly— “It’s all over, you see. His poor wife is buried — I’m sure she must be glad to be out of her misery! — and that wicked girl Jacynth has gone away, nobody knows where. And we shall have peace, except when more drunken men knock their wives about as they’re sure to do — for the whole neighborhood simply swarms with drunkards. However, even peace is rather tame when one gets too much of it, isn’t it?”

  “Some people find it so,” — he answered, slowly— “till they make war. And then they crave for peace again.”

  “Never satisfied! — just like me!” laughed Azalea— “But I’m going to be very good, Dick, I promise! I’m going to visit all the old crippled men and women, and take cans of soup into all the stuffy cottages, and inquire after the pigs and the poultry and the babies, and I’ll leave tracts all about everywhere! I will! There! And the people shall show me all their bad legs and sore toes, and ulcers and other horrors — and I’ll look at them, because though I dont think God wants me to look at them particularly, still I suppose it’s my duty to do so. And I’ll be ever so prim and proper!” She broke into a silvery little ripple of mirth, and threw her arms coaxingly round his neck— “You wait and see! I’ll wear an old woman’s bonnet if you like! I’ll try and be very matronly and prosaic — in fact, you won’t know me, I’ll be so good and quiet!”

  Her gay laughter rang out again, and Richard, half pained, half amused, was fain to laugh with her. But that night as she lay sleeping on his arm, her lovely gold hair falling loosely round her like a shower of sunbeams round a rose, he looked at her with a strange dawning sense of complete isolation. The pale glimmer of the night-lamp showed him the whiteness of her throat and bosom — the long fringes of her eyes sweeping the delicate bloom of her cheeks — the crimson of her slightly-parted lips through which the breath came and went evenly — all this beauty of body was his, he thought, and yet — yet he had somehow failed to possess the soul that surely was contained like a jewel in that exquisite casket of pearl and ivory. It was an elusive soul, — the soul of a butterfly rather than the soul of a woman — but this he would not admit even to himself. No man cares to realize that his wife is of all persons in the world the one least sympathetic to him, for he has generally made both his own choice and his own mistake. And Richard Everton was, for the immediate hour, no stronger or wiser than most of his sex, and therefore satisfied himself with the outward loveliness of the woman he adored, accepting it as the reflex of an inner nature which he was not pure enough to fathom. So he soothed and tr
anquillized his restless mind with the gentle balm of humility and self depreciation, — while the dumb, mysterious forces that secretly work in unison with natural laws to mold the character of a human being of whom the world has need, gathered closer together around him in light clouds of premonitory counsel — clouds which were destined to darken and break over his devoted head in a resistless storm of command.

  CHAPTER XI

  TIME passes slowly in an English country village, — so slowly indeed that to active and ambitious minds the lapse between one Sunday and the next seems more like months than days. The smaller the community of persons the narrower is their outlook on life, and the more self-centered do they become. The infinitely little matters of a provincial town loom large to the restricted brain of the provincial town-councillor, and still more important are the ethics of the village pump to a handful of villagers. Such people know and care to know nothing of the larger world; whether kings or republics handle the reins of government is a matter of indifference to them, provided their own cabbage plots are prospering. Seasons come and go, — the sharp inclement spring offers them just sufficient matter for grumbling till summer arrives to be grumbled at in its turn as being either too moist or too dry or too windy or too ‘muggy,’ — summer passes into autumn, which brings them their annual burden of cherished complaints, — colds, rheumatism and divers other aches and pains, — then the long winter darkens over them with its mornings and nights of black frost, and its pale cold noons of utter cheerlessness, when nothing occurs of any interest from the beginning of the day to the end of it, — nothing to rouse the dormant intellect or give the slightest impetus to the vital forces — and no reason is apparent why such lives should be lived at all, unless it is necessary to remind man that in his bucolic type he is not much higher in the scale of creation than a beetle. Of course, for those whose minds are ‘tempered to fine issues,’ and whose brains are not rendered numb by the constant pressure of solitude and monotony, there is much pleasure to be found in the rural life so bepraised by certain poets who have never lived it; for the intellectual eye perceives beauty everywhere and in everything — in the hectic red of dying leaves at the damp fall of the year — in the sparkle of frost on the window-pane — in the thousand and one small things that help to strike harmonious vibrations on the strings of emotional sentiment; but even to a cultured intellect, no matter how well controlled by a philosophic spirit, a rural district which is wholly lacking in refined or intelligent society is apt to grow more difficult to live in as the time goes on. For intellect is like steel — it must strike against something of the same resisting quality as itself, before sparks of fire can be generated. Thus it happened that the Reverend Richard Everton, shut, as it were, within himself, ceased to struggle against what appeared to be life’s destiny, and unconsciously, but none the less surely, became more and more of a silent, reserved and almost shy man, quite unintentionally managing in this way to widen the breach which had been so unreasoningly created between himself and his parishioners by the Kiernan episode. It was a breach that he could not help, — his gentle efforts to build up harmony again out of what had been a discord in the parish were not appreciated; and Dan, drunken, foulmouthed and villainous, — Dan, in a place of trust at Minchin’s Brewery — Dan, earning good wages every week and drinking two quarts of ‘free’ poison every day, one quart in the morning and one more in the evening, besides a number of other ‘drinks’ at his own expense, was spoken of by the Shadbrook people as something of a hero, while his dead wife was reverenced as a martyr to ‘church’ interference. Jacynth Miller’s name was seldom mentioned, though rumors were about that her portrait as one of the chorus girls in a Greek classical play, had been seen in a London pictorial. It was Mrs. Moddley who heard this piece of news, and she repeated it to Mortar Pike.