Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “I don’t know whether the matter will interest you,” — he went on— “But Minchin’s Brewery—”

  Everton raised a hand appealingly.

  “Must I hear this?”

  “There’s no ‘must’ in the case,” — answered Brand with a smile— “But you may as well know that Minchin is in trouble. He can get no hands to work for him.”

  Everton was silent.

  “He has sent all over the place,” continued Brand—’ “And despite the number of unemployed both in the counties and London, it seems there are no men to be had for his particular job. In fact, the Brewery is regularly boycotted. And some one has doubled the mischief by starting a report that it’s haunted.”

  “Haunted!” Everton echoed the word — then gave vent to a long shuddering sigh— “It might well be so!”

  “So it might,” — and Brand walked to the window and looked out on the garden, now glorious with a wealth of early summer blossoms— “Though I don’t believe in ghosts myself. But a large majority of humankind are very superstitious, and a rumor of that sort is very successful in keeping people away from the supposed haunted spot. And a wandering phantom, real or imaginary, of Dan Kiernan, such as they say has been seen, is apt to create an unpleasant impression.” He paused, — then went on— “No single case of drunkenness in the village has occurred since — since—”

  The Vicar interrupted him by a gesture.

  “I understand!” he said— “For the time being there is a revulsion against the curse of our nation! But it is only for a time. No power on earth will stop the hideous debasement of the people by drink till the people themselves realize that the brewers and distillers are coining millions of money out of the degradation, ill-health and misery of millions of souls. Then, perhaps, when they see that they, the working-classes, who should be, and are at their best, the life and blood of the nation, are made to serve as the mere foolish tools of a trade, they will awake to their true position. They will refuse to be poisoned in order that the poisoners may become capitalists at their expense.”

  “I see you are as strong as ever on the subject,” — said Brand— “As indeed you ought to be — and even stronger. But you must remember it is not only among the working-classes that the vice prevails. Drink is as prevalent with the gentry as with commoners. And I’m not sure that my profession isn’t as much to blame for the evil as any.”

  Everton looked at him inquiringly.

  “I mean the medical profession,’’ — went on Brand, answering the look; “Nowadays it is quite a habit among doctors to recommend whisky to their patients instead of wine or any other beverage. Yet any scientific physician who has studied the matter and has not been ‘bought over ‘by the trade, knows that whisky is injurious to the human system. The old days when our forefathers took too much port, were better than the present time, when thousands of men and women alike are fuddled, if not actually drunk, soon after midday, through whisky-sipping. There was something distinctly respectable about the port-wine toper, — there’s nothing in the least ‘high-class’ in the whisky sot.”

  He paused, — then resumed— “You may, or may not be surprised at a story I can tell you, — at any rate it’s true! A celebrated London physician whose name is, as they say, one to conjure with, gave an eloquent lecture at one of the big institutions on the pernicious moral and physical effects of alcohol, and illustrated his sound and sensible theories by diagrams shown with magic-lantern brilliancy. A month after he was approached by a wealthy whisky distiller who offered him two thousand pounds to write a book on the tonic and restorative powers of whisky. Need I explain that the learned medico put his conscience in his pocket, went back on his own arguments, took the two thousand pounds, wrote the required volume, and is now looked upon as a staunch supporter of the spirit trade? The same thing is done daily on a smaller scale with doctors of less distinction.”

  Everton gave a wearied gesture of sorrowful contempt.

  “I am not surprised!” — he said— “Everything is done nowadays through influence, or money, — and even the honor of kings can be purchased for sufficient millions! The times we live in are corrupt, — our civilization is an over-ripe fruit rotting to its fall. What is falsely called ‘rationalism,’ or an ‘Age of Reason,’ has always accompanied national decline.

  It occurred in Greece and in Rome — it is upon us now in England. It is a sure symptom that the days of noble ideals and enthusiasms are past, and that man’s intellect has attained to such a fatal height of pure egoism that he will accept nothing greater, nothing higher than his own opinion. Never was there more urgent need of faith and prayer than now!”

  Brand fixed a straight and penetrating glance upon him.

  “You still believe in faith and prayer?” he said.

  Everton met his eyes fully and calmly.

  “With all my soul!”

  The worthy ‘Dr. Harry’ give a short sigh of relief.

  “I am glad you have come out of the darkness,” — he said— “I thought — I feared—”

  “That I might prove a coward!” and Everton’s face grew warm with suppressed feeling— “To be candid with you, I feared the same! Such sorrow as mine pushes the brain to the verge of madness — and in mad moments all good things reel away from one — even God! But no sane man doubts his Creator, — and — as you say — I have come out of the darkness!”

  A silence more eloquent than speech fell between them, — and when they spoke again it was on ordinary topics connected with the village and its inhabitants. But when Brand left the Vicar that night he knew there was no fear of his being unable to preach the next morning. The man was full of strength, dignity and resolve, and his broken heart and ruined happiness had made of him a force to be reckoned with.

  Not only in Shadbrook itself, but through all the neighboring parishes, the news soon flew that Everton was to preach that Sunday;— ‘only a fortnight after the burial of his poor little wife!’ exclaimed the county gossips; — who would believe that a man, and a clergyman too, could be so callous! Actually to do his duty in that barefaced manner, so soon after the woman he ‘professed’ to love so much, had met with such a dreadful end! Ah, men, men! They had no feeling — really none! Here was a Christian minister who, instead of throwing up his work and going away to mourn decently amid the distractions of a foreign spa for six months, had actually stayed on in his own house, and was now going to take the services and preach as usual, just two weeks after the terrible tragedy which had devastated his home, almost as if nothing had happened! It was quite incredible!

  And a crowd such as had never been seen in the whole neighborhood swarmed up and tried to cram itself into the limited space of Shadbrook Church, packing the ancient little building to overflowing long before eleven, each person a-tiptoe with eagerness to catch the first glimpse of the Vicar when he made his reappearance. This general feeling of excitement was in a sense morbid, and of the same type as that which in the days of the Inquisition fired the minds of the torturers when they had a man on the rack, — but underlying all surface interest there was a deeper motive which was half unconscious, — the unspoken, almost unthought desire to know, to see, and to hear whether the victim of a loss so personal, so unmerited and so cruel, could stand up in the pulpit, and with unshaken voice and steadfast eye proclaim his faith in the goodness and mercy of God. Even old ‘Mortar ‘Pike, still alive, though now unable to walk, had himself wheeled in a chair as far as the church gates in order to take his feeble part in the unusual stir, — and when the bell slowly tolled the first chime of eleven o’clock, and the organist, ‘all of a shake,’ as he himself expressed it, began the opening bars of a simple voluntary, the silence of the closely-pressed congregation was so intense that the faintest rustle of the ivy that clung round the belfry tower outside could be heard distinctly within the building. Softly and tremblingly the organ music crept through the hushed air, like a whisper of the sea or the ripple of a stream, — and the pe
ople sat listening, waiting, and wondering in a tense condition of strained expectation. Then, — with one accord they rose as the Vicar entered, and all eyes were turned on the tall slim figure in its white surplice, and the pale, delicately-featured face, with its look of devout patience and unspeakable pathos, which expressed so much sorrow bravely borne, — and men and women alike shed tears at the first tones of the gentle deep voice as it uttered the familiar opening sentence:— “When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed and doeth that which is lawful and right he shall save his soul alive.” Then came a brief pause, — and the musical accents trembled ever so slightly on the next words chosen: —

  “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite heart, O God, Thou wilt not despise!”

  And when people sank on their knees to join in the general confession, sounds of suppressed sobbing mingled with the murmured prayer. Many wept heartily and were not ashamed of the weakness, — for as Mrs. Moddley afterwards remarked to her neighbors:— “to see Parson Everton looking as pale as a ghost, and as patient as a saint carved out o’ marble, was enough to break down the ‘ardest feelins, which some folks feelins was ‘arder than flints as the Lord very well know’d.”

  Conscious of the deep sympathy that flowed out to him from his congregation, and hearing every now and again the stifled weeping of some of the women and children, Everton was at many a moment shaken from his enforced composure, but he carried the service bravely through, and only when he mounted the pulpit and looked down on the unusual crowd of faces below him, — many faces quite strange to him among others quite familiar, all expressing an eager curiosity as well as pity — did he feel a sudden sick terror of himself — a dread lest his powers should fail him at the last moment. He saw the place where Azalea used to sit, — where her golden hair had caught the light from a side window and had gleamed like a web of the sunshine itself, — where her loving and lovely blue eyes had glanced up at him in shy reverence as he had given out the text of his sermon; — the bench was eloquently empty; and though the congregation was inconveniently crowded, no one had trespassed upon its vacancy. He leaned both hands heavily upon the velvet cushion in front of him and closed his eyes with an inward prayer for strength, — his heart beat thickly, and the blood surged noisily in his ears, — his throat and lips grew dry and burning, and he wondered whether he could so much as utter another word. Yet to all appearance he was perfectly self-possessed, and when at last he essayed to speak, his voice, to his own astonishment, rang out with a thrilling clearness as he gave his text from the eighth chapter of St. John:

  “Because I tell you the truth you believe Me not.”

  With the very pronouncing of these words the flood-gates of long-pent-up thoughts were opened, and a tide of eloquence such as the parishioners of Shadbrook had never heard or dreamed of, came pouring from his lips, — such fiery eloquence as might have inspired an early apostle for whom neither thrones, principalities nor powers existed, but only the one Supreme God. He spoke of the pitiful egoism of modern thought, — of the apathy of the world to the gradual widening of the breach between itself and the Message Divine, — he drew a powerful and vivid picture of humanity left without the saving grace of the Christ Ideal; — and — pointing out the beautiful obedience to law displayed by the natural creation, he entered into a passionate pleading for all things good and tender and true, between man and his brother man. Such sentences as might have graced the pages of Novalis came to him with an ease and spontaneity that would have distinguished the finest of born orators, and yet he was himself unconscious that he was saying anything out of the usual commonplace run of orthodoxy. He did not realize that the long, quiet six years of his married life had, because they were happy and full of personal satisfaction, been unproductive, — or that the very sense of the settled security he had felt in his home had effectually kept his thoughts chained up as in a prison-house; — nor would he have admitted, even if it had been suggested, that intellectual growth and advancement are seldom, if ever, associated with purely domestic comfort and tranquillity. Certainly the Spirit moved him as it had often moved him to write though never to speak, — and his listeners hung on his every word, intent, enrapt, amazed and fascinated, — hushed into a stillness so intense that not even the fold of a woman’s garment stirred. Presently he came to a pause. With a straight unfaltering regard he looked down upon the upturned wondering faces, and his voice changed to a softer and sadder tone.

  “And now,” — he said— “now, in conclusion, I venture to address you more personally than generally, — not as your Vicar only, but as your friend and neighbor, who is ordained to work with you, suffer with you, and if it so please God, to live and die with you. It is possible that, so far, my administration of this parish has been something of a failure, — I am quite sure I have made many mistakes, — and some of you I may have offended, while others I may not have understood; but before you go out of church this morning, I will ask you to believe that whatever I have done has been done out of honest love and care for you, and because I thought my duty lay in doing it. What I have left undone is through some fault in myself which is not intentional and which I shall strive to amend — for I want,” — he paused again — then went on bravely— “I want you to trust me! I want you to understand that there is no selfish, narrow, or puritanical motive in my heart when I try to keep down the besetting evil of this place — the accursed Drink. I have nothing to gain by it. On the contrary, I have much to lose. If I, from this pulpit, could tell you vice was virtue, and that men when they are drunk are more to be respected than men when they are sober, I should win far more commendation from what are called ‘local authorities’ than I do when I declare to you that the health of your bodies is ruined and the safety of your souls endangered by drink, and that nothing can alter the fact. It is not for me to speak concerning the dark cloud of horror that has swept over this peaceful-seeming little village within the last three weeks, — for I am he on whom the storm has broken, and I must bear it all alone. But one thing I very earnestly desire to say, and it is, that I fasten no blame on the memory of the evil-doer of the deed that has left me desolate, — for he never was and never could be considered as fully responsible for his actions. One might as well blame a wild beast for ravaging the forest to seek what it could devour. A man, drugged by poison, which the laws of the realm most wickedly allow to be sold to him as pure and wholesome liquor, cannot be held as personally guilty of any crime, — and therefore, I have only to say that even as God has punished the unhappy sinner, so may God forgive him! And so may God equally forgive all sinners who are led astray by sinners worse than themselves! For herein is our most terrible responsibility in this world, — it lies not so much in the wrong that we ourselves do, but the wrong we make others do. If I commit a sin I must learn the enormity of my own wickedness, and abide by my own punishment; but if I drag others into my sin, then my sinning is a hundredfold augmented, because I force or persuade others into a punishment which I alone should have received. I am not seeking to draw any personal inference from this, or to drive the point too closely home. What I wish you to feel and to know is, that I humbly and devoutly wish to be your friend in all things — in matters small as well as great, — that I desire to sink myself and the particular misery of my own life entirely out of sight, and so comport myself among you that you may have no cause to reproach my ministry. I tell my men parishioners here plainly that, if, in spite of all they know, and all they must surely realize respecting the evils of drink, they still choose to help make large fortunes for those who brew and distill poison for their undoing, I shall not reprove or attempt to control them. I shall merely try to help them when they are in sickness and trouble. For this is a ‘free’ country, — and no amount of legislation will alter the mind of the free-willed man who chooses Drink as his career. I tell the women that if it is their pleasure to see their homes laid waste, and their young children brought up
to believe that the chief object of existence is to drink away every penny that husbands and fathers earn, I shall remain passive, though sorrowful, and do no more than offer consolation when it is needed. In brief, I shall not ‘interfere’ with you, — save to rescue and comfort when I can. But I shall pray.”

  Here he waited a moment, gathering all his strength together for his concluding words —

  “I shall pray God daily and nightly that He may see fit in His wonder-working wisdom to remove the temptations to sin that abound in this neighborhood, and that He will give you — you yourselves, — the sound sense and perception to understand and to know the measure of the physical and moral disaster which the national scourge of Drink brings on you and on your children, — ay, even on those unborn! — and if I personally am afflicted, — if I personally am struck at and my life’s joy swept away in one day through the working and result of this very curse among you, I claim from Almighty Justice no vengeance for my grief and desolation, except to see you, my little flock, saved!”

  And in the passion of the moment he stretched out his hands with an eloquent gesture as though he would have gathered the whole congregation into some heavenly haven of shelter and peace. —

  “For you only I will ask — that God may give you to me! That God may show me how to make you happy in your labors and your lives, — that He may help me to teach your children the sweet unspeakable content that is found in clean, simple and temperate ways, — and that the tears I have shed, and the despair I have known, may be acceptable to Him as a poor sacrifice of love on my part, so that if He sees it good and fitting, you may receive more comfort from me, left comfortless. For I am now detached from all desire in this world for myself; — I have finished with hope, — I have done with delight; what strength I have, — what brain I have, what heart I have — all are yours! — and my sole effort from henceforth must be and shall be, to help you, if I may, no matter how feebly and inadequately, a little further on the road towards Heaven! If you will not come with me, I cannot force you, — my only persuasion must be through ‘the love of Christ which constraineth us.’ Give me your prayers, my friends, that I may not fail! Give me your trust!”