Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  His voice sank. Moved by a passionate wish to rouse him once more, Violet Morrison suddenly put her arms round him as he lay and said clearly, —

  “Boy!”

  He stared at her, and a little smile crept round his mouth.

  “Boy,” she went on sobbingly, “can you hear me — can you understand?”

  He made a faint sign of assent.

  “I know Miss Letty,” she went on, in her sweet, thrilling tones, “and you have seen me, and I have seen you, only you don’t remember me just now. Poor Boy! I know Miss Letty, and I know how she loves you and wants to see you again.”

  The smile grew sweeter on the poor, parched lips.

  “Does she?” His voice seemed to come from a long way off, so faint and feeble it had grown. “Ah! But I must do something great — and she will forgive me—”

  “She has forgiven you,” said Violet. “Oh Boy! — dear Boy! — try to understand!”

  A grey shadow fell warningly on his features, but he still kept his eyes fixed on Violet.

  “Does — she — know?”

  “She knows — she knows!” answered Violet, unable now to restrain her fast-falling tears. “She knows how hard everything was for you — yes, dear Boy, she knows! — and she loves you just as dearly now as when you were a little child.”

  A grave peace began to compose and soften his face, as though it were touched by some invisible sweet angel’s hand.

  “Tell her — that I enlisted — to get a chance — of making amends — doing something good — brave — to make her proud of me, — but it’s too late now — too late—”

  A terrible convulsion seized him, and the sharp agony of it caused him to spring half upright. The surgeon caught him and held him fast. He stared straight before him, his eyes shining out with an almost supernatural brightness; then all the light in them suddenly faded, the lids drooped, and he sank back heavily. Violet put her arms round him once more, and drew the fallen head, disfigured and bleeding, to her bosom, weeping and murmuring still, —

  “Boy! — Oh, Boy!”

  “It’s all right!” he said dreamily. “All forgiven — all right! Don’t cry. Tell Miss Letty not to cry. Tell her — Boy — Boy left his love!” An awed silence followed, and then young Alister McDonald, with a tenderness which, though he knew it not, was destined to deepen into a husband’s life-long devotion later on, drew the weeping Violet gently aside that she might give her tears full vent, while the surgeon reverently drew a covering over the quiet face of the dead.

  At home in England and by the whole world the news of the battle of Colenso and the capture of the British guns was received with incredulity and dismay. Throngs of people crowded the War Office, clamouring for news, pouring out enquiries and lamentations, reading the terrible list of casualties, and, while reading, scarcely believing what their own eyes beheld. Major Desmond, furious at the mere idea of any disaster to the British arms, stood reading the list without half understanding what he saw, so bewildered and stunned was his mind with the cruel and unexpected nature of the dispatches from the front, till all at once he saw, —

  “Captain Fitzgerald Crosby. Killed.”

  He staggered back as though he had received a blow.

  “What, Fitz? — poor old Fitz? Gone so soon? No, surely not possible!”

  He read the announcement again and again, feeling quite sick and giddy, and his eyes, wandering up and down the column, suddenly fell on the name, “D’Arcy-Muir.”

  “Robert D’Arcy-Muir, private. Killed.”

  “Now, wait a bit,” said the major, sternly apostrophising himself. “This won’t do! You’re dreaming, old man! It’s no good fancying oneself in a nightmare. Robert D’Arcy-Muir, — private — in what regiment? — Scots Fusiliers. Now let me see!”

  He went straight to one of the chief authorities at the War Office, a man whom he knew intimately and who would be most likely to help him.

  “Robert D’Arcy-Muir, private, Scots Fusiliers? Curious you should ask me about him! — his name came under my notice quite by chance two years ago. Yes, I remember the case quite well. He was the only son of an officer of good family, Captain the Honourable D’Arcy-Muir. He was at Sandhurst, but, unfortunately, got expelled for being drunk and disorderly. He told his story, it appears, quite frankly when he enlisted, and his honesty stood him rather in good stead. He was quite a favourite with the regiment, I believe. Killed, is he? And you knew him? Sorry, I’m sure. Will I see that his parents are informed? Certainly. Have you the address? Thanks! They didn’t know he had enlisted? Odd! They couldn’t have cared much. I suppose they dropped him when he was expelled. Good-morning! I’m afraid you’ve had a shock. These are trying times for everyone.”

  And the major’s informant shook hands with him kindly and turned to other matters, for business was crowding his hours of time, and there was more than enough for him to do. Desmond went out of his presence, weary, broken down, and, as it were, stricken old for the first time. The curt and sudden announcement of the death of his old chum “Fitz” had overwhelmed him, and now the certainty of Boy’s death as well, a death so swift, so tragic, so far away from home, made him shudder with fear and horror as he thought of Miss Letty. She had been very ailing since Violet had gone to South Africa, and yielding to the major’s entreaties she had sent for old Margaret, her former faithful attendant. And Margaret had come at once, and now scarcely ever left her. To Margaret she talked constantly of Boy, and the hopes she had of seeing him again — hopes, alas! that were now to be completely and forever destroyed.

  “Shall I tell her?” thought the major wefully, “or shall I keep it secret for a little while?

  But if I do not speak, his parents will be sure to write and inform her. Nothing would please that woman D’Arcy-Muir more than to frighten her with a big black-bordered envelope. I think I’d better try and break it to her gently. Poor Fitz! He’s got his promotion! Well, I suppose it’s the way he would have liked best to die if he’d been given a choice. But Boy — so young! Poor fellow — poor little chap! — with mettle in him after all! Wasted life, wasted hope, wasted love — all a waste! God knows I’ve done my best to keep a stout heart, but, upon my soul, life is a sad and cruel business!”

  With slow and lagging footsteps he made his reluctant way to Hans Place and to Miss Letty’s always bright house, though it was scarcely so bright now as it used to be, for the hand of its gentle mistress was not so active and her supervision was not so careful and vigilant. And to the major’s deeply afflicted mind the fact that some of the blinds were down impressed him with an uncomfortable sense of gloom.

  “Looks as if she were mourning for Boy already,” he murmured, as he rang the bell.

  Margaret opened the door.

  “How is Miss Letty?”

  “Well, sir, she was a bit anxious last night and low in her spirits, but this morning she woke up quite bright and bonnie-like — more like her old self than she’s been for many a day. And she said to me, ‘Margaret, I think I shall hear news of Boy to-day.’”

  The major gave a sigh that was more a groan.

  “She said that?”

  “Ay, sir, ‘deed she did. But you’re lookin’ wan and weary yourself, sir. I hope there’s no bad news —— —”

  The major interrupted her by a grave gesture.

  “Where is she?”

  “Just in the morning-room as usual, sir, reading. I left her there an hour ago, — she had some letters to write, she said, — and she was just as bright and cheery as could be, an’ a little while since I peeped in and she was sitting by the fire wi’ a book—”

  “All right, I’ll go to her. If I want you, I’ll call.”

  He entered the morning-room with a very quiet step. There was a bright fire sparkling in the grate, and Miss Letty was seated beside it in her arm-chair, with a book on her knee, her back turned towards him. Her favourite bird was singing prettily in its cage, pecking daintily now and then at the bit of sugar she d
aily gave it with her own hands. The major coughed gently.

  Miss Letty did not stir. Somewhat surprised at this, he advanced a little further into the room.

  “Letty!”

  No answer.

  “My God!”

  He sprang to her side.

  “Letty! — Letty dear! Letty! Not dead! — Oh Letty, Letty! — Not dead.”

  A smile was on her sweet old face, her eyes were closed. The great Book resting on her knee was the Book which teaches us all the way to heaven, and her little, thin, white hand, with its diamond betrothal ring sparkling upon it, lay cold and stiff upon the open page. Overcome by too great an awe for weeping or loud clamour in the presence of this simple yet queenly majesty of death, her faithful lover of many years knelt, humbly down to read the words on which that hand rested.

  “Peace I leave with you, — My peace I give unto you, — not as the world giveth, give I unto you!”

  And, kneeling still, he reverent kissed that dear, loyal, pure little hand, — once and twice for the sake of the slain “Boy” lying at rest in his South African grave, — once and yet again for his own deep love of the Angel gone back to her native home with God, and murmured, —

  “Better so, Letty! Better so!”

  The Master-Christian

  CONTENTS

  I.

  II.

  III.

  IV.

  V.

  VI.

  VII.

  VIII.

  IX.

  X.

  XI.

  XII.

  XIII.

  XIV.

  XV.

  XVI.

  XVII.

  XVIII.

  XIX.

  XX.

  XXI.

  XXII.

  XXIII.

  XXIV.

  XXV.

  XXVI.

  XXVII.

  XXVIII.

  XXIX.

  XXX.

  XXXI.

  XXXII.

  XXXIII.

  XXXIV.

  XXXV.

  XXXVI.

  XXXVII.

  XXXVIII.

  XXXIX.

  TO

  ALL THOSE CHURCHES

  WHO QUARREL IN THE

  NAME OF CHRIST

  I.

  All the bells were ringing the Angelus. The sun was sinking; — and from the many quaint and beautiful grey towers which crown the ancient city of Rouen, the sacred chime pealed forth melodiously, floating with sweet and variable tone far up into the warm autumnal air. Market women returning to their cottage homes after a long day’s chaffering disposal of their fruit, vegetable, and flower-wares in the town, paused in their slow trudge along the dusty road and crossed themselves devoutly, — a bargeman, lazily gliding down the river on his flat unwieldly craft, took his pipe from his mouth, lifted his cap mechanically, and muttered more from habit than reflection— “Sainte Marie, Mere de Dieu, priez pour nous!” — and some children running out of school, came to a sudden standstill, listening and glancing at each other, as though silently questioning whether they should say the old church-formula among themselves or no? Whether, for example, it might not be more foolish than wise to repeat it? Yes; — even though there was a rumour that the Cardinal-Archbishop of a certain small, half-forgotten, but once historically-famed Cathedral town of France had come to visit Rouen that day, — a Cardinal-Archbishop reputed to be so pure of heart and simple in nature, that the people of his far-off and limited diocese regarded him almost as a saint, — would it be right or reasonable for them, as the secularly educated children of modern Progress, to murmur an “Angelus Domini,” while the bells rang? It was a doubtful point; — for the school they attended was a Government one, and prayers were neither taught nor encouraged there, France having for a time put God out of her national institutions. Nevertheless, the glory of that banished Creator shone in the deepening glow of the splendid heavens, — and — from the silver windings of the Seine which, turning crimson in the light, looped and garlanded the time-honoured old city as with festal knots of rosy ribbon, up to the trembling tops of the tall poplar trees fringing the river banks, — the warm radiance palpitated with a thousand ethereal hues of soft and changeful colour, transfusing all visible things into the misty semblance of some divine dwelling of dreams. Ding-dong — ding dong! The last echo of the last bell died away upon the air — the last words enunciated by devout priests in their cloistered seclusion were said— “In hora mortis nostrae! Amen!” — the market women went on their slow way homeward, — the children scampered off in different directions, easily forgetful of the Old-World petition they had thought of, yet left unuttered, — the bargeman and his barge slipped quietly away together down the windings of the river out of sight; — the silence following the clangour of the chimes was deep and impressive — and the great Sun had all the heaven to himself as he went down. Through the beautiful rose-window of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, he flashed his parting rays, weaving bright patterns of ruby, gold and amethyst on the worn pavement of the ancient pile which enshrines the tomb of Richard the Lion-Hearted, as also that of Henry the Second, husband to Catherine de Medicis and lover of the brilliant Diane de Poitiers, — and one broad beam fell purpling aslant into the curved and fretted choir-chapel especially dedicated to the Virgin, there lighting up with a warm glow the famous alabaster tomb known as “Le Mourant” or “The Dying One.” A strange and awesome piece of sculpture truly, is this same “Mourant”! — showing, as it does with deft and almost appalling exactitude, the last convulsion of a strong man’s body gripped in the death-agony. No delicate delineator of shams and conventions was the artist of olden days whose ruthless chisel shaped these stretched sinews, starting veins, and swollen eyelids half-closed over the tired eyes! — he must have been a sculptor of truth, — truth downright and relentless, — truth divested of all graceful coverings, and nude as the “Dying One” thus realistically portrayed. Ugly truth too, — unpleasant to the sight of the worldly and pleasure-loving tribe who do not care to be reminded of the common fact that they all, and we all, must die. Yet the late sunshine flowed very softly on and over the ghastly white, semi-transparent form, outlining it with as much tender glory as the gracious figure of Mary Virgin herself, bending with outstretched hands from a grey niche, fine as a cobweb of old lace on which a few dim jewels are sewn. Very beautiful, calm and restful at this hour was “Our Lady’s Chapel,” with its high, dark intertwisting arches, mutilated statues, and ancient tattered battle-banners hanging from the black roof and swaying gently with every little breath of wind. The air, perfumed with incense-odours, seemed weighted with the memory of prayers and devotional silences, — and in the midst of it all, surrounded by the defaced and crumbling emblems of life and death, and the equally decaying symbols of immortality, with the splendours of the sinking sun shedding roseate haloes about him, walked one for whom eternal truths outweighed all temporal seemings, — Cardinal Felix Bonpre, known favourably, and sometimes alluded to jestingly at the Vatican, as “Our good Saint Felix.” Tall and severely thin, with fine worn features of ascetic and spiritual delicacy, he had the indefinably removed air of a scholar and thinker, whose life was not, and never could be in accordance with the latter-day customs of the world; the mild blue eyes, clear and steadfast, most eloquently suggested “the peace of God that passeth all understanding”; — and the sensitive intellectual lines of the mouth and chin, which indicated strength and determined will, at the same time declared that both strength and will were constantly employed in the doing of good and the avoidance of evil. No dark furrows of hesitation, cowardice, cunning, meanness or weakness marred the expressive dignity and openness of the Cardinal’s countenance, — the very poise of his straight spare figure and the manner in which he moved, silently asserted that inward grace of spirit without which there is no true grace of body, — and as he paused in his slow pacing to and fro to gaze half-wistfully, half-mournfully upon the almost ghastly artistic a
chievement of “Le Mourant” he sighed, and his lips moved as if in prayer. For the brief, pitiful history of human life is told in that antique and richly-wrought alabaster, — its beginning, its ambition, and its end. At the summit of the shrine, an exquisite bas-relief shows first of all the infant clinging to its mother’s breast, — a stage lower down is seen the boy in the eager flush of youth, speeding an arrow to its mark from the bent bow, — then, on a still larger, bolder scale of design is depicted the proud man in the zenith of his career, a noble knight riding forth to battle and to victory, armed cap-a-pie, his war-steed richly caparisoned, his lance in rest, — and finally, on the sarcophagus itself is stretched his nude and helpless form, with hands clenched in the last gasping struggle for breath, and every muscle strained and fighting against the pangs of dissolution.

  “But,” said the Cardinal half aloud, with the gentle dawning of a tender smile brightening the fine firm curve of his lips,— “it is not the end! The end here, no doubt; — but the beginning — THERE!”

  He raised his eyes devoutly, and instinctively touched the silver crucifix hanging by its purple ribbon at his breast. The orange-red glow of the sun encompassed him with fiery rings, as though it would fain consume his thin, black-garmented form after the fashion in which flames consumed the martyrs of old, — the worn figures of mediaeval saints in their half-broken niches stared down upon him stonily, as though they would have said,— “So we thought, — even we! — and for our thoughts and for our creed we suffered willingly, — yet lo, we have come upon an age of the world in which the people know us not, — or knowing, laugh us all to scorn.”

  But Cardinal Bonpre being only conscious of a perfect faith, discovered no hints of injustice or despair in the mutilated shapes of the Evangelists surrounding him, — they were the followers of Christ, — and being such, they were bound to rejoice in the tortures which made their glory. It was only the unhappy souls who suffered not for Christ at all, whom he considered were truly to be compassionated.