“For God’s sake!” he said in a low tone to Dr. Brand, who happened to be near him— “Get that man out of my sight, or I cannot answer for myself!”
Brand looked where he was looking, and saw the fox-like face of the brewer, Minchin, gleaming like a pale ugly mask amid the surging blackness of the assembled people, and while he was yet considering how it would be possible to eject so unwelcome an intruder, the face suddenly disappeared. More than one person had heard the Vicar’s agonized entreaty, and more than one person had understood it, and how it happened nobody quite knew, but certain it was that by dint of firm yet quiet pushing, Minchin found himself dislodged from his position and pressed over to the extreme edge of the crowd. There he waited in scornful impatience for a few minutes, trying to get another chance of admission to the churchyard, — but from the words and glances with which he was favored he saw, to his surprise and chagrin, that the people were in an ugly humor, and disposed to resent his presence at the funeral as superfluous. He, therefore, judged it wisest and safest to depart from the scene, — and as his thin angular figure detached itself and stood out clearly separate from the throng, a thousand angry eyes were turned upon him, and he heard something like a threatening hiss which boded no goodwill. He laughed to himself a trifle uncomfortably.
“One would think I had murdered the parson’s wife!” he inwardly ejaculated— “Or that I was a drunkard! I’ve had nothing to do with it. Kiernan was in my employ certainly — but I’m not answerable for the conduct of my men.”
So he argued — after the same specious manner in which most employers of labor argue, namely that they are ‘not responsible’ for either the degradation or the sufferings of those they employ. Which is one of those villainous perversions of the truth for which men are so deservedly punished in this world as in the world to come.
In deep silence the service for the dead began, — and Richard Everton, servant of Christ, stood rigid and tearless by the open grave which was soon to contain all that he had most cherished in the world. Not only sorrow but despair was in his soul, for he knew that his love for God was less than his love for her whom God had claimed. “He that taketh not his cross and followeth after Me is not worthy of Me.” So said his Divine Master, — and in shame and bitterness he knew he was ‘not worthy.’ All he could think of was that Azalea — lovely, loving, sweet Azalea, had been done to death by a drunkard’s malice! Done to death by a drunkard’s malice! His lips inaudibly murmured the words; — his reason asked — Was it God’s work? Or was it not rather the result of man’s vice, which all the forces of nature and powers of heaven are ever seeking to punish and exterminate? Tranced in miserable thoughts he saw nothing and felt nothing, — intense mental agony had, like a frost, numbed every nerve. He was unconscious of the strong warm wave of sympathy that swept through the hearts of his parishioners as they saw him, and moved them to a passion of love and respect such as they had never known for him before. They were a mere handful in the vast crowd that day — a crowd composed of people from all parts of the country as well as from London, Shadbrook having now become as notorious as it was once secluded. The villagers were overwhelmed by the numbers of tourists who arrived from every quarter, attracted by the horrid scent of murder like bloodhounds following up a trail. The natives of the place were few indeed compared to those hordes of sensation-seekers, and they felt bewildered and astray in the throng of strangers that occupied every inch of spare standing-room in their tiny parish churchyard. On the outskirts of the crowd several press reporters had gathered, one of them being supplied with an extra large camera. This individual, an ambitious youth who had grown more pimples than hairs on his chin, displayed a feverish anxiety to obtain a photograph of the unhappy Vicar of Shadbrook as he stood, a figure of utter wretchedness, by his wife’s graveside. In his mind’s eye this Fleet Street fledgling saw huge Americanized headings for his journal, such as—’ Clergyman in Throes of Agony,’ — or ‘Moving Scene at Grave of Murdered Wife,’ — and considerations of courtesy, feeling, pity and forbearance were less known to him than to the uncivilized savage. The journal for which he was employed was one of those modern vulgarities which have recently brought the country’s press into contempt, its chief stock-in-trade being smudgy pictures of persons and events, — the persons being unrecognizable and most of the events fictional, the whole production being of such a character as to shame even the most barbarous conceptions of art. While he was making several unsuccessful attempts to set his camera in position, Squire Hazlitt perceived him, and indignant at the open callousness of the man, signed to the sexton, Jacob Stowey, to go-and remove him. Stowey understood the implied order, but he had already experienced something of the insufferable insolence and intrusiveness of these ‘noospaper touts’ as he called them, and he determined to get rid of this one by a method of his own, which he had thought of once or twice but had not as yet put into practice. Approaching the objectionable press man, he pulled his forelock.
“Want a good shot at the Vicar in ’is day o’ dole an’ desolation, sir?” he said, obsequiously— “I can find ye a better place for that there machine o’ yours if ye like.”
The press man was delighted. —
“Thanks very much!” he answered— “I’ll give you half-a-crown for your trouble.”
Stowey kept a face of imperturbable gravity.
“Just follow me,” — he said— “An’ ye’ll be able to see Parson Everton’s mis’able looks an’ all the funeral business straight an’ clear.”
He led the way, and the confiding reporter followed him. through a tangle of shrubbery and down a short avenue bordered by clipped firs. The extra-size-plate camera was heavy, and Stowey volunteered to carry it for him, an offer which was readily accepted. At a sharp bend in the path, which appeared to lead up against a dead wall, Stowey paused, and looked at his companion over his shoulder.
“See there?” he said, pointing sideways— “Top o’ that bank? That’s a fine open view!”
The press man hastily scrambled up to the spot indicated and pushed aside a few intervening boughs. There was nothing to be seen but a small turnip field and a glimpse of the back walls of Shadbrook Church. He turned round indignantly, just in time to hear a dull heavy splash, and to see Stowey standing without the camera, silently grinning.
“You fool!” he exclaimed— “What have you done with my camera?”
“Fool yourself!” retorted Stowey, calmly— “I ain’t none quite so much as I looks! This ‘ere’s the old well, a bit stagnant an’ smelly, an’ yer camera’s at the bottom of it. Arter funeral’s over, I’ll fetch it up for five pound!”
The press man swore till his oaths pattered on the air like rain.
“You brute, do you know what you have done!” he shouted, “You’ve destroyed a thing worth twenty-five guineas! I’ll summons you—” —
“All right! Summons away!” said Stowey— “I ain’t got twenty-five guineas in the world, nor the worth of it! Talk o’ summonses! — if I was the law an’ the commons I’d summons such as you for comin’ and tryin’ to take noospaper pictures of a poor man who’s seein’ ’is best o’ life laid in the yerth, as if that was fit for makin’ world’s game of! Ay, ye can go to Squire if ye like! Squire’s a magistrate, an’ ye can ‘ave it out with Jim! But I’ve ‘ad it out with you first! An’ I’m glad of it! — dormed glad of it! You an’ yer lot’s a reg’lar noosance to decent livin’ folk, an’ I wish I could a’ put yerself down the well along with yer machine! I’d a’ done it cheerful an’ willin’!”
But the irate reporter stayed to hear no more. He rushed away to relate to his professional comrades the injurious treatment he had sustained, and to ‘work up’ something in the papers that should bring his name into prominence as a victim of boorish interference while engaged in doing what he called his ‘duty.’
Meantime, all the last rites for the murdered Azalea were reverently performed; — and only when the coffin was about to be lowered into the
ground did the bereaved husband show signs of breaking down. Then, with hands wildly outstretched and oblivious of all the people crowding about him, he cried aloud— “My wife! My wife!” in tones of such poignant anguish that tears rushed to the eyes of the strongest men, and women broke out sobbing. Squire Hazlitt gently drew his arm within his own to hold and support him, for he felt the whole body of the man tremble as in a strong ague fit. Silently and with the tenderest care, as though a child were being put to rest, the little burden of white blossoms slipped down, down into soft mother earth, and with poetic fervor and earnestness the words were pronounced: “I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me: Write, From henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord; Even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors.” Then, with curious cold suddenness Everton caught himself questioning the phrase—’ die in the Lord,’ Had Azalea, — thoughtless, light-hearted Azalea, — died ‘in the Lord’? Had she ever really considered ‘the Lord’ at all, except as a necessary and conventional part of the day’s instruction and business? And how could she have had time to ‘die in the Lord,’ — swiftly and brutally murdered as she had been by a drunkard! A sickening qualm of unrest and despair came over his soul; — and when the funeral was over and the crowd slowly dispersed, he found himself wondering vaguely where he was, and why people came up to him, pressed his hand, and went away again, without venturing to say a word. It was all so silent — so mysterious, — so black and terrible — this ‘dying in the Lord’!
Almost before he could realize it he had been led away through the retreating throng back to his own home, and there he stood in his own drawing-room trying to understand that Squire Hazlitt was talking to him in a very earnest and friendly manner, but he could not grasp the purport of what he was saying. Some one offered him a glass of wine, — he pushed it away with a shudder. By degrees he became vaguely aware that not only Squire Hazlitt, but several other gentlemen of the neighboring counties were present, and that they were all expressing their deep sympathy for him in his sorrow. Some of them were total strangers to him — others he knew very slightly, — but, owing to the extreme smallness and isolation of his parish, he had never been on visiting terms with any of them, therefore their kindness now seemed to him quite extraordinary. As the dark mist that clouded his mind slowly cleared he saw Douay standing close beside him, with Dr. Brand and his college friend Darell, — and presently the sense of Squire Hazlitt’s words began to rivet his attention. And as he listened and gradually comprehended, he was roused to sudden energy by the thrill of a great fear — fear that he was going to be taken away from Shadbrook. He who had sometimes rebelled at the monotonous weariness of the little place, — he who had wondered whether he was doomed to pass all his life in Shadbrook, now trembled with terror at the bare idea of leaving it.
“Let me persuade you,” — he heard the Squire say— “to accept another living. I shall miss you from my own part of the country, of course, — but I’m sure it would be kinder to you to remove you from the scene of the awful tragedy that has befallen you. I have no other living vacant in my own gift, but I can help you to secure an excellent one where you will be among more congenial people and surroundings, and then — perhaps — in time, — the wound will heal —— —”
So far Everton listened, silently, — then he answered in low and trembling accents —
“It is a wound too deep for healing!” — he said— “And I cannot leave Shadbrook, — not now!”
“Why not?” persisted the Squire— “My dear Everton, think of it! You will be insufferably lonely here, — the whole character and type of the place is opposed to your character and type, — besides your capabilities fit you for a wider field of action—”
“A man makes his own field of action,” — answered Everton, gaining strength as the burden of his thoughts found relief in speech— “It is my own fault that I have not made mine yet — but I will, — and in Shadbrook! It is large and wide enough to contain a great sorrow — perhaps it will also hold a great love! My dear Mr. Hazlitt, you are goodness itself, and I thank you from my heart! — but, do not urge me to accept your offer! My work is cut out for me here.”
The Squire looked distressed.
“The work is not important,” — he began, “And much of it must be distasteful—”
“All the more reason why I should do it,” — said Everton— “Besides,” — and his eyes grew dark with repressed anguish— “you surely would not ask me to leave this house where she lived — or the churchyard where she rests? — and where I pray God I may be permitted to rest beside her!” His voice quivered, — the Squire pressed his hand sympathetically.
“There, we will speak no more of it,” — he said— “But if at any time you should change your mind, remember I am ready always to do my best for you.”
Everton thanked him mutely by a glance, — and by-and-bye he and the other funeral guests departed their several ways, and the shadows of evening closed darkly in upon the desolate Vicarage. Edward Darell, who had wished very much to stay the night with his old college friend and help to comfort him in his affliction, could not do so on account of duties elsewhere, but he went away with considerable reluctance.
“Do you remain with the Vicar to-night?” he asked Sebastien Douay on leaving.
“That will be as he pleases,” — answered Douay— “I am only one poor friend at his service, — he has another and a better one in his son.”
Darell smiled gravely.
“Ah! — Only a child of five,” he said— “The poor little fellow cannot understand his father’s grief.”
“Perhaps not,” — said Douay— “But that is because he’s more of a Christian than any of us.”
Darell looked surprised.
“More of a Christian?” — he repeated queryingly. “Precisely! He really believes. We do not.”
“We?” Darell echoed the word markedly.
Douay gave a slight expressive gesture of sadness.
“Enfin! Monsieur, if I question your faith, pardon me! I personally do not believe as the little child believes, and so I am not of the Kingdom of Heaven. But I will accept your assurance that you are as the little child, and, therefore, an exception to all Churchmen, both Catholique and Protestant alike!”
Darell reddened. —
“I do not say that I am as a little child in simplicity and innocence,” — he answered— “But I do say that I believe!” Douay raised his eyebrows plaintively.
“Do you? Do you believe the poor little murdered woman we have just laid in the earth is now still alive and happy? That she is an angel in that Somewhere, which with all our creeds, we can place Nowhere? If so, she must be a very solitary and sad angel, crying her pretty eyes out for husband and baby! For that is all she cared for in this world, and for the marvels of unknown worlds to come she had no inclination! That does not make the cruelty of her end less, but rather more.”
Darell listened, a trifle perplexed. He did not know in what spirit to take this little professing priest of a rival Church, who, despite the restrictions of his order, appeared to be something of a secular philosopher as well. Moreover he was one of those clergymen whom acute sorrow has not closely and personally touched; and he moved austerely within the somewhat narrow circle of a college education in theology, bordered by an equally narrow boundary of conventional custom and prejudice. He considered Douay eccentric; and, unwilling to continue a conversation which might draw him beyond his usual ‘form’ or out of his depth, he ended it by murmuring a few more commonplace expressions of sympathy respecting Mrs. Everton’s untimely end, and then took his leave. Douay watched him go out of the Vicarage gate with a rather pained smile.
“There is a man,” he thought, “one of thousands, — who would rather not ask himself the reasons for his faith and ministration, — who declines to be honest with himself, or try to see his own soul as God sees it. The position is good in one way, but bad in another. For it is selfish! It s
eeks to save personal trouble — but it is not faith. To have the courage to know and to do! — that is what God demands from the truly faithful, — that is what Everton has, when he is sufficiently strong to realize it. What a gain he would be to Rome! — but he will never belong to us — never! For he will obey no Superior save God!”
Entering the study where he had left Everton sitting solitary and silent in his arm-chair, he found him looking over the various letters and cards of condolence which lay scattered in profusion on his writing-table.
“Is it needful to do that to-day, my friend?” he asked gently— “Would it not be better to rest?”
Everton looked at him with eyes that expressed an unutterable despair.
“I shall never rest again!” — he said— “Not in the full sense that rest implies — until the end! I must occupy every moment now, — every moment, Douay! — or I shall go mad! The old days of leisurely study are over, — there is no more pleasure in peace! I must work, and I must fight — Oh my God, yes! I must fight hard—” —
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 730