Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  She smiled. “You are much better!” she declared. “You will soon be very well! But you must sleep now. Hush-a-bye! To-morrow we will talk!”

  She rearranged his pillow, and as he pretended to obey her, and closed his eyes, she leaned back in her own chair and also feigned sleep. He could just see her in the dim light — the pure oval of her face, the glossy sheen of her hair under the nursing sister’s cap, the long silky fringe of her dark lashes on the exquisite smoothness of her cheeks — and his heart grew strong with its tenderness for her as he thought how she had said not a word of the fatigues and terrors of her journey across the ocean to a strange land, which, for a girl who had never been out of the shelter of a safe and luxurious home, must have been indescribable.

  “Yes — she is right!” he said within himself. “I have served my king and country as far as I may — the rest of my life belongs to love and Lolita!”

  And a fortnight later he asked the “little priest” of whom Lolita had spoken, and who had become her great friend, what he thought about it.

  “My son,” the good man replied, “you must not seek my opinion on what is called ‘duty’ in this wicked war. I cannot reconcile it with my conscience or my faith to say it is ‘duty’ for one man to slay his brother-man even for what he considers the ‘Right.’ But you have done good service for your father’s country, and you have done it voluntarily and bravely — you are the loser by it, and I hope the country may realize its gain! ‘Duty’ in my mind means love to God and one’s neighbour — love especially, and the responsibilities which love enjoins. Love alone makes the world worth living in, and you, my son, being now rendered disabled and unfit for military service, may freely accept the privilege, not of killing, but creating! A beautiful, innocent life clings to yours for happiness and support — it is your ‘duty to make that life all that a dear, sweet woman’s life should be — is it not so?” and the old priest smiled benevolently, “Be at ease, my dear son, you have, as the good English Tommy says, ‘done your bit’ — and you may rest quite satisfied, now that you are deprived of your useful right arm, your ‘King and Country’ do not want you!”

  And so Lolita had her way and entered into her special type of “Homeland.” She and Anthony Graeme were married in a little whitewashed bam which did service as a chapel for the hospital, and after the brief and simple ceremony which made them man and wife they left the scene of battle and bloodshed, never to return either to France or to England again. Their experience had moved neither of them to wish to live in either country. As an honest fellow, Anthony Graeme did not know England well enough entirely to love it, and a certain vagueness and indifference in his father’s people had left a chill restraint upon his mind which could not be effaced. Yet he admired, with all a son’s affection, the pride with which his father would call the attention of friends and neighbours to “the loss of my son’s arm at Cambrai,” but he himself felt no particular pleasure in the incident. He would far rather have had two arms wherewith to embrace Lolita than one! And so would any man!

  Under warm Southern skies once more, lit with the effulgence of an ever-golden and kindly sun, the wedded lovers were content to rejoice in life and the undisputed possession of each other — such possession being valued more dearly because for a while they both had felt the raven-like hovering of the shadow of death over the promise of their youth. And in the radiant days when Lolita clasped her first-born son in her arms and felt the inexplicable tenderness of mother-love, she prayed— “O God, never, never let there be war again in this world! Never let mothers have to weep for slaughtered sons — or wives for husbands! Oh, let us all learn to love — not hate — each other!”

  The old, rather tiresome story of the Spartan mother made no appeal to her. She plainly said that any woman giving a shield to her son and bidding him return “with it or upon it” was “worse than a savage beast!”

  “Yes, indeed!” she declared. “Much worse! Fancy me saying such a thing to Baby!”

  And she dipped her pretty chin into “Baby’s” floss gold curls with a smile that sent all the light of heaven into her eyes.

  And often, while the thunders of war rolled long and loud over Europe, they would talk of the “Homeland” with anxious hope and pity.

  “But the England you knew,” once said Anthony to his father, “was ‘old’ England — Victoria’s England — an England of the past. It is not the same England now.”

  The father sighed.

  “Maybe!” he answered. “I know everything is greatly changed — manners, customs, men, and women. But I will keep ‘old’ England in my heart till I die! May God give her the victory!”

  “Amen!” said his son, gently.

  “Amen!” said Lolita.

  THE TRENCH COMRADE

  IT WAS a bitter night, moonless and frosty. Now and again a sharp east wind rushed fiercely along, bringing with it gusts of stinging sleet and hail. The men in the trenches moved closer together; some of them were trying to sleep — others had given up the effort, and, leaning against each other for warmth, were smoking as comfortably as they could under all the circumstances.

  “There’s plenty of water in this lovely ‘ome sweet ‘ome!” said one, with a laugh.

  “Ah! Some of us might take a swim for a change!”

  “D’ye know where yer feet are, Charlie?” growled another man.

  “Rather! Gone to bed by themselves in a mud cradle!”

  Laughter again. One would have thought it was great sport to be huddled in a sort of deep, extemporary grave where the living were entombed before the dead.

  “Sing us a song, somebody!” suggested a third man. “Jack! Where’s the boy with the voice?”

  “Here!” — and a head was pushed forward in answer to the call. “What shall I sing?”

  “Anything ye like! It’s Christmas time — how about ‘When shepherds’? We’re rather like them, keepin’ watch by night — only we’re all seated ‘in’ the ground — not ‘on’ it!”

  “I don’t feel like singing a Church hymn,” said Jack. “I’m not a Church man.”

  “Who said you was?” demanded the man who had been addressed as Charlie. “A fellow can sing hymns without church.”

  “Mebbe!” and an energetic puff of smoke came from the corner where Jack was more or less concealed in a waterproof blanket. “But I’ve seen more humbug in church than anywhere out of it, and hymns remind me of the humbug. And you can’t stand it, you know! — not in such a place as this — the thought of it makes you sick somehow—”

  “Even ‘when shepherds’?” and muffled laughter, came from all the men.

  “Yes — even ‘when shepherds.’ But, I say! — don’t you go and put it down that I don’t believe ! — or that I’m not a Christian. I believe so strong that I can’t stand any sham about it.”

  “Oh, that’s it, is it? You believe so strong?”

  “Yes — I believe so strong!” And the speaker’s head was pushed forward a little more prominently; “I believe so strong that I wouldn’t mind taking oath that angels are with us to-night — here in these muddy, wet trenches — just as they were with the shepherds on that first Christmas night you want me to sing about—”

  “Well, if they’re here, they don’t sing!” said a big, burly man, a corporal who had distinguished himself during the day by several acts of daring which he would have blushed to have had mentioned. “There’s not much noise about peace and goodwill in these parts! I guess those angels have gone silent!”

  “Only for a time,” protested Jack. “They will sing again!”

  “You’re a queer little chap!” and a man, lighting his cigarette, shed a momentary flare from the match he struck over the face near him, showing it to be boyish and fair-complexioned. “You haven’t long left Mammy’s ‘bedtime and say your prayers like a good boy!’ Where was you born?”

  “Near Quebec,” replied Jack. “But never mind about me — I’m nobody. You want a song — that’s better t
han talk.”

  He loosened some of his wrappings to give his throat and mouth more freedom and then in a singularly sweet tenor, carefully hushed to a softness calculated not to lure a wandering Boche from his lair, he sang:

  “Up — rise and go!

  Rise, and make you ready!

  The Captain stands upon the height

  Cheering his warriors to the fight!

  O Soldier true He calls for you!

  Up — rise and go!

  Rise, and make you ready!

  “Up — rise and go!

  Rise, and make you ready!

  Put on full armour, take the sword,

  Be swift in battle for the Lord!

  O Soldier dear,

  Thy Master’s near!

  Up — rise and go!

  Rise, and make you ready!

  “Up — rise and go!

  Rise, and make you ready!

  Angels shall guard you in the strife

  And Death is but a name for Life!

  O Soldier true Heav’n waits for you!

  Up — rise and go,

  Rise, and make you ready!”

  The voice ceased. There was a silence, and a kind of uneasy movement among the huddled men.

  “That’s a queer sort of song, Jack,” said one. “Where did you learn it?”

  “I made it,” replied Jack, enveloping himself in mufflers and silence.

  “Tune and all?”

  But there was no answer. Then someone began to hum in a gruff sotto voce —

  “I wish I was at home in my shanty dry

  With the red-gold maple leaves nodding at the sky —

  Red-gold maple leaves!

  Red-gold maple leaves,

  Red-gold maple leaves nodding at the sky!”

  “Oh, stop that row!” said a man. “It’s no good singing about red-gold maple leaves at Christmas. Out in Canada you bet it’s all white snowdrifts by this time.”

  “Better than rain in torrents,” growled another voice, “and a ditch full of water!”

  Silence fell again. The men settled to a sort of slumber. Jack, who had sung the “queer sort of song” was, despite the miserable conditions by which he was surrounded, beginning to feel an almost pleasant sensation of sleep stealing over him, and stretching out his arms, threw aside, by his action, his blanket, which though supposed to be waterproof was fairly well soaked by the rain. Someone immediately put it over him again, drawing it round him in a soothing and protective manner.

  “Thanks!” murmured the lad, sleepily. “Very kind!” And he was conscious that the blanket instead of being cold and clammy was quite warm and almost dry. This discovery roused him to friendly protest.

  “Oh, I say!” he began. “You’re giving me something of your own, whoever you are! Don’t you deprive yourself — I’m all right. Why bother about me?”

  “I am your Comrade,” said a low voice, infinitely gentle, “here to help you when I can.”

  Jack looked up — the night was dark, and he could only see a shadowy figure bending over him — he did not recognize the voice.

  “Let me raise you a little,” went on this “comrade.”

  “If you rest against my arm — so! — you will sleep more easily.”

  Again the lad tried to discern the features of the speaker but could not; he fancied, in the drowsy stupor that was stealing over him, that he saw a strange light, like an aureole, round the figure.

  “Very kind!” he murmured once more. “It reminds me — of home — when I was a kiddie. I often leaned my head on my mother’s arm like this. But — you ought not to trouble about me!”

  “I am your Comrade,” repeated the gentle voice. “You will know me when you wake.”

  And so Jack slept, in wonderful comfort and warmth, on the arm of his almost invisible supporter, and the night wore away among clouds that poured out rain fitfully, ceasing from time to time as dawn drew near. With the first pale glimmer of silvery gray that heralded the morning a thick mist rising, as it were, from the ground in masses of greenish smoke, began to roll and sweep toward the trench where the weary men were dozing in their cramped and drenched condition, and the patrol gave swift warning. Volumes of the deadly poison-gas let loose by the cowardly and inhuman foe came rushing onward, and Jack, roused by the general stir and commotion, sprang to his feet. But scarcely had he stood upright, and before the choking fumes had time to reach him, what seemed to be a miracle happened — the death-dealing fog was swept suddenly backward — back, and full on to the enemy lines hidden in distance — while immediately over the trench where the soldiers, Canadians all, were hurrying on their gas-masks, a stretch of clear blue sky opened like a lovely canopy in heaven! Sweet air, pure and fragrant as the breath of lilacs and hawthorn in spring, flowed in and around the trench; no touch of winter froze the marvellous softness of the Christmas morning!

  The men dropped their masks to inhale the delicious, life-giving atmosphere, staring about them in amazement — then, with one instinct, their wondering glances became centred on Jack, who stood erect, his fair, boyish features turned to the dawning light, and his hand extended in such a manner as to suggest that it held another hand in its clasp. All suddenly, as they looked, they saw distinctly and close beside the lad in the widening clearness of the coming day a shadowy Figure — tall, majestic, and beautiful, which seemed, while they watched it, to emit a mysterious radiance from its cloudy outline like the glow of the rising sun. Awed and afraid, they dared not call to Jack, but he himself, ceasing to look at the waves of poison-vapour so steadily and surely retreating to work their foul errand on the originators of their existence, and conscious that his friend of the night still stood beside him, turned eagerly toward that Presence.

  “Comrade—” he began!

  Then... he saw!

  Saw — and fell on his knees! That glorious Angel-Shape, clothed in white armour glistening like moonbeams on the sea! — those wing-like shafts of light that shot upward into heaven! — that face divine! — those searching eyes full of so deep a tenderness! — was this indeed his “comrade” of the past dark and dangerous hours? Speechless in adoration, he knelt, vaguely he thought it would be well to die now! — now, with that god-like splendour so near to his own poor humanity!

  “O Soldier dear

  Thy Master’s here!

  Up, rise and go,

  Rise, and make you ready!”

  And he remained kneeling, his whole soul absorbed in worship — till with a smile in which ineffable love and pity for mankind seemed expressed the Vision passed, and disappeared into the broad glitter of the morning. The dream had vanished — the spell was broken!

  He sprang to his feet, alert, all his pulses beating with emotion, and at once his companions pressed up and gathered about him.

  “Jack!” they whispered, almost simultaneously, “WHO was that with you?”

  Never could the fabled Sir Galahad have worn a nobler, purer aspect than did this young Canadian soldier at that moment.

  “You saw?” he asked.

  They nodded a quick affirmative.

  “He was with me all night,” went on the boy. “He covered me and I never felt the rain! He made me rest upon His arm—”

  He stopped — overwhelmed. Great tears were in his eyes. He went on, tremulously:

  “He said I would know Him when I woke... but how could I — how dared I even think I knew! Boys, never forget! — we none of us know!”

  One of the listening men spoke in a hushed voice:

  “It’s Christmas morning, lad!” he said. “Mebbe we were all in a dream! But the gas—”

  “Was driven back full on the Boches without a change of wind,” said another. “Put it how you like, that was a miracle!”

  Jack stood entranced — the enraptured look of the “maiden knight” of God was on him still. With an effort he pulled himself together, and smiled cheerily upon his fellow-soldiers.

  “Boys,” he said, “it’s Christmas morning
! At home in Canada our folk are singing their Christmas hymns. I wouldn’t sing one last night — but I can now!”

  Bareheaded, and lifting his eyes to the eastern sky where a wintry gleam of palest rose betokened the rising sun, he sang very softly —

  “When shepherds watch’d their flocks by night All seated on the ground, The Angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around!”

  “Boys!” he said again, “that was true then! And it’s true now!”

  THE SIGNAL

  TWO girls were walking on the smooth, sun-lighted slope of an English down facing the Channel. They were a considerable distance apart; one, slim and tall, with a quick restless step; the other, small in stature, looked almost a child with her little light figure and hair falling loose over her shoulders in an auburn shower. The tall girl held a handkerchief in her hand; the little one had a book which she read as she walked. Now and again she raised her eyes from its pages and looked inquisitively at the tall figure going on in front of her, wondering what sort of a creature she was, as folks often wonder when they can only see the back of a stranger. There came a deep hollow in the down, and the small girl, descending it, was almost lost to sight; but the tall one, springing rapidly across it, reached the verge and suddenly paused. Some odd instinct — she knew not what — made the little one pause also and dive down under the shelving bend of the land, where she could see without being seen. She became interested, for the tall girl, first looking round her as if to make sure there was no one near, raised the handkerchief she held high above her head, and waved it five times. A short interval followed. Then a man came leisurely climbing up across the downs from the seashore and joined the tall girl; they clasped hands, kissed, and turning, began to walk back to the place where the little watcher lay hidden. But on the edge of the dipping hollow they paused, talking in low tones.

  “To-night,” said the man, speaking with a strong German accent; “to-night you will place the signal.”

  “I will,” replied the girl.