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

by Marie Corelli

  There was a certain ‘man of worship’ in the world at the particular time when this present record of life and love begins, who found himself very well-disposed to ‘flourish his heart’ in the Maloryan manner prescribed, when after many dark days of unseasonable cold and general atmospheric depression, May at last came in rejoicing. Seated under broad apple-boughs, which spread around him like a canopy studded with rosy bud-jewels that shone glossy bright against the rough dark-brown stems, he surveyed the smiling scenery of his own garden with an air of satisfaction that was almost boyish, though his years had run well past forty, and he was a parson to boot. A gravely sedate demeanour would have seemed the more fitting facial expression for his age and the generally accepted nature of his calling, — a kind of deprecatory toleration of the sunshine as part of the universal ‘vanity’ of mundane things, — or a condescending consciousness of the bursting apple-blossoms within his reach as a kind of inferior earthy circumstance which could neither be altered nor avoided.

  The Reverend John Walden, however, was one of those rarely gifted individuals who cannot assume an aspect which is foreign to temperament. He was of a cheerful, even sanguine disposition, and his countenance faithfully reflected the ordinary bent of his humour. Seeing him at a distance, the casual observer would at once have judged him to be either an athlete or an ascetic. There was no superfluous flesh about him; he was tall and muscular, with well- knit limbs, broad shoulders, and a head altogether lacking in the humble or conciliatory ‘droop’ which all worldly-wise parsons cultivate for the benefit of their rich patrons. It was a distinctively proud head, — almost aggressive, — indicative of strong character and self-reliance, well-poised on a full throat, and set off by a considerable quantity of dark brown hair which was refractory in brushing, inclined to uncanonical curls, and plentifully dashed with grey. A broad forehead, deeply-set, dark- blue eyes, a straight and very prominent nose, a strong jaw and obstinate chin, — a firmly moulded mouth, round which many a sweet and tender thought had drawn kindly little lines of gentle smiling that were scarcely hidden by the silver-brown moustache, — such, briefly, was the appearance of one, who though only a country clergyman, of whom the great world knew nothing, was the living representative of more powerful authority to his little ‘cure of souls’ than either the bishop of the diocese, or the King in all his majesty.

  He was the sole owner of one of the smallest ‘livings’ in England, — an obscure, deeply-hidden, but perfectly unspoilt and beautiful relic of mediaeval days, situated in one of the loveliest of woodland counties, and known as the village of St. Rest, sometimes called ‘St. Est.’ Until quite lately there had been considerable doubt as to the origin of this name, and the correct manner of its pronouncement. Some said it should be, ‘St. East,’ because, right across the purple moorland and beyond the line of blue hills where the sun rose, there stretched the sea, miles away and invisible, it is true, but nevertheless asserting its salty savour in every breath of wind that blew across the tufted pines. ‘St. East,’ therefore, said certain rural sages, was the real name of the village, because it faced the sea towards the east. Others, however, declared that the name was derived from the memory of some early Norman church on the banks of the peaceful river that wound its slow clear length in pellucid silver ribbons of light round and about the clover fields and high banks fringed with wild rose and snowy thorn, and that it should, therefore, be ‘St. Rest,’ or better still, ‘The Saint’s Rest.’ This latter theory had recently received strong confirmation by an unexpected witness to the past, — as will presently be duly seen and attested.

  But St. Rest, or St. Est, whichever name rightly belonged to it, was in itself so insignificant as a ‘benefice,’ that its present rector, vicar, priest and patron had bought it for himself, through the good offices of a friend, in the days when such purchases were possible, and for some ten years had been supreme Dictator of his tiny kingdom and limited people. The church was his, — especially his, since he had restored it entirely at his own expense, — the rectory, a lop- sided, half-timbered house, built in the fifteenth century, was his, — the garden, full of flowering shrubs, carelessly planted and allowed to flourish at their own wild will, was his, — the ten acres of pasture-land that spread in green luxuriance round and about his dwelling were his, — and, best of all, the orchard, containing some five acres planted with the choicest apples, cherries, plums and pears, and bearing against its long, high southern wall the finest peaches and nectarines in the county, was his also. He had, in fact, everything that the heart of a man, especially the heart of a clergyman, could desire, except a wife, — and that commodity had been offered to him from many quarters in various delicate and diplomatic ways, — only to be as delicately and diplomatically rejected.

  And truly there seemed no need for any change in his condition. He had gone on so far in life,— ‘so far!’ he would occasionally remind himself, with a little smile and sigh, — that a more or less solitary habit had, by long familiarity, become pleasant. Actual loneliness he had never experienced, because it was not in his nature to feel lonely. His well-balanced intellect had the brilliant quality of a finely-cut diamond, bearing many facets, and reflecting all the hues of life in light and colour; thus it quite naturally happened that most things, even ordinary and common things, interested him. He was a great lover of books, and, to a moderate extent, a collector of rare editions; he also had a passion for archaeology, wherein he was sustained by a certain poetic insight of which he was himself unconscious. The ordinary archaeologist is generally a mere Dry-as- Dust, who plays with the bones of the past as Shakespeare’s Juliet fancied she might play with her forefathers’ joints, and who eschews all use of the imaginative instinct as though it were some deadly evil. Whereas, it truly needs a very powerful imaginative lens to peer down into the recesses of bygone civilisations, and re-people the ruined haunts of dead men with their shadowy ghosts of learning, art, enterprise, or ambition.

  To use the innermost eyes of his soul in such looking backward down the stream of Time, as well as in looking forward to that ‘crystal sea’ of the unknown Future, flowing round the Great White Throne whence the river of life proceeds, was a favourite mental occupation with John Walden. He loved antiquarian research, and all such scientific problems as involve abstruse study and complex calculation, — but equally he loved the simplest flower and the most ordinary village tale of sorrow or mirth recounted to him by any one of his unlessoned parishioners. He gave himself such change of air and scene as he thought he required, by taking long swinging walks about the country, and found sufficient relaxation in gardening, a science in which he displayed considerable skill. No one in all the neighbourhood could match his roses, or offer anything to compare with the purple and white masses of violets which, quite early in January came out under his glass frames not only perfect in shape and colour, but full of the real ‘English’ violet fragrance, a benediction of sweetness which somehow seems to be entirely withheld from the French and Russian blooms. For the rest, he was physically sound and morally healthy, and lived, as it were, on the straight line from earth to heaven, beginning each day as if it were his first life-opportunity, and ending it soberly and with prayer, as though it were his last.

  To such a mind and temperament as his, the influences of Nature, the sublime laws of the Universe, and the environment of existence, must needs move in circles of harmonious unity, making loveliness out of commonness, and poetry out of prose. The devotee of what is mistakenly called ‘pleasure,’ — enervated or satiated with the sickly moral exhalations of a corrupt society, — would be quite at a loss to understand what possible enjoyment could be obtained by sitting placidly under an apple-tree with a well-thumbed volume of the wisdom of the inspired pagan Slave, Epictetus, in the hand, and the eyes fixed, not on any printed page, but on a spray of warmly- blushing almond blossom, where a well-fed thrush, ruffling its softly speckled breast, was singing a wild strophe concerning its mate, which, could human skill
have languaged its meaning, might have given ideas to a nation’s laureate. Yet John Walden found unalloyed happiness in this apparently vague and vacant way. There was an acute sense of joy for him in the repeated sweetness of the thrush’s warbling, — the light breeze, stirring through a great bush of early flowering lilac near the edge of the lawn, sent out a wave of odour which tingled through his sensitive blood like wine, — the sunlight was warm and comforting, and altogether there seemed nothing wrong with the world, particularly as the morning’s newspapers had not yet come in. With them would probably arrive the sad savour of human mischief and muddle, but till these daily morbid records made their appearance, May-day might be accepted as God made it and gave it, — a gift unalloyed, pure, bright and calm, with not a shadow on its lovely face of Spring. The Stoic spirit of Epictetus himself had even seemed to join in the general delight of nature, for Walden held the book half open at a page whereon these words were written:

  “Had we understanding thereof, would any other thing better beseem us than to hymn the Divine Being and laud Him and rehearse His gracious deeds? These things it were fitting every man should sing, and to chant the greatest and divinest hymns for this, that He has given us the power to observe and consider His works, and a Way wherein to walk. If I were a nightingale, I would do after the manner of a nightingale; if a swan, after that of a swan. But now I am a reasoning creature, and it behooves me to sing the praise of God; this is my task, and this I do, nor as long as it is granted me, will I ever abandon this post. And you, too, I summon to join me in the same song.”

  “A wonderfully ‘advanced’ Christian way of looking at life, for a pagan slave of the time of Nero!” thought Walden, as his eyes wandered from the thrush on the almond tree, back to the volume in his hand,— “With all our teaching and preaching, we can hardly do better. I wonder—”

  Here his mind became altogether distracted from classic lore, by the appearance of a very unclassic boy, clad in a suit of brown corduroys and wearing hob-nailed boots a couple of sizes too large for him, who, coming suddenly out from a box-tree alley behind the gabled corner of the rectory, shuffled to the extreme verge of the lawn and stopped there, pulling his cap off, and treading on his own toes from left to right, and from right to left in a state of sheepish hesitancy.

  “Come along, — come along! Don’t stand there, Bob Keeley!” And Walden rose, placing Epictetus on the seat he vacated— “What is it?”

  Bob Keeley set his hob-nailed feet on the velvety lawn with gingerly precaution, and advancing cap in hand, produced a letter, slightly grimed by his thumb and finger.

  “From Sir Morton, please sir! Hurgent, ’e sez.”

  Walden took the missive, small and neatly folded, and bearing the words ‘Badsworth Hall’ stamped in gold at the back of the envelope. Opening it, he read:

  “Sir Morton Pippitt presents his compliments to the Reverend John Walden, and having a party of distinguished guests staying with him at the Hall, will be glad to know at what day and hour this week he can make a visit of inspection to the church with his friends.”

  A slight tinge of colour overspread Walden’s face. Presently he smiled, and tearing up the note leisurely, put the fragments into one of his large loose coat pockets, for to scatter a shred of paper on his lawn or garden paths was an offence which neither he nor any of those he employed ever committed.

  “How is your mother, Bob?” he then said, approaching the stumpy urchin, who stood respectfully watching him and awaiting his pleasure.

  “Please sir, she’s all right, but she coughs ‘orful!”

  “Coughs ‘orful, does she?” repeated the Reverend John, musingly; “Ah, that is bad! — I am sorry! We must — let me think! — yes, Bob, we must see what we can do for her — eh?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Bob meekly, turning his cap round and round and wondering what ‘Passon’ was thinking about to have such a ‘funny look’ in his eyes.

  “Yes!” repeated Walden, cheerfully, “We must see what we can do for her! My compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, Bob, and say I will write.”

  “Nothink else, sir?”

  “Nothing — or as you put it, Bob, ‘nothink else’! I wish you would remember, my dear boy,” — and here he laid his firm, well-shaped hand protectingly on the small brown corduroy shoulder,— “that the word ‘nothing’ does not terminate in a ‘k.’ If you refer to your spelling-book, I am sure you will see that I am right. The Educational authorities would not approve of your pronunciation, Bob, and I am endeavouring to save you future trouble with the Government. By the way, did Sir Morton Pippitt give you anything for bringing his note to me?”

  “Sed he would when I got back, sir.”

  “Said he would when you got back? Well, — I have my doubts, Bob, — I do not think he will. And the labourer being worthy of his hire, here is sixpence, which, if you like to do a sum on your slate, you will find is at the rate of one penny per mile. When you are a working man, you will understand the strict justice of my payment. It is three miles from Badsworth Hall and three back again, — and now I come to think of it, what were you doing up at Badsworth?”

  Bob Keeley grinned from ear to ear.

  “Me an’ Kitty Spruce went up on spec with a Maypole early, sir!”

  John Walden smiled. It was May morning, — of course it was! — and in the village of St. Rest the old traditional customs of May Day were still kept up, though in the county town of Riversford, only seven miles away, they were forgotten, or if remembered at all, were only used as an excuse for drinking and vulgar horse-play.

  “You and Kitty Spruce went up on spec? Very enterprising of you both, I am sure! And did you make anything out of it?”

  “No, sir, — there ain’t no ladies there, ‘cept Miss Tabitha, — onny some London gents, — and Sir Morton, ’e flew into an orful passion — like ’e do, sir, — an’ told us to leave off singin’ and git out,— ‘Git off my ground,’ he ‘ollers— ‘Git off!’ — then jest as we was a gittin’ off, he cools down suddint like, an’ ’e sez, sez ’e: ‘Take a note to the dam passon for me, an’ bring a harnser, an’ I’ll give yer somethink when yer gits back.’ An’ all the gents was a-sittin’ at breakfast, with the winders wide open an’ the smell of ‘am an’ eggs comin’ through strong, an’ they larfed fit to split theirselves, an’ one on ’em tried to kiss Kitty Spruce, an’ she spanked his face for ’im!”

  The narration of this remarkable incident, spoken with breathless rapidity in a burst of confidence, seemed to cause the relief supposed to be obtained by a penitent in the confessional, and to lift a weight off Bob Keeley’s mind. The smile deepened on the ‘Passon’s’ face, and for a moment he had some difficulty to control an outbreak of laughter, but recollecting the possibly demoralising effect it might have on the more youthful members of the community, if he, the spiritual director of the parish, were reported to have laughed at the pugnacious conduct of the valiant Kitty Spruce, he controlled himself, and assumed a tolerantly serious air.

  “That will do, Bob! — that will do! You must learn not to repeat all you hear, especially such objectionable words as may occasionally be used by a — a — a gentleman of Sir Morton Pippitt’s high standing.”

  And here he squared his shoulders and looked severely down an the abashed Keeley. Anon he unbent himself somewhat and his eyes twinkled with kindly humour: “Why didn’t you bring the Maypole here?” he enquired; “I suppose you thought it would not be as good a ‘spec as Badsworth Hall and the London gents — eh?”

  Bob Keeley opened his round eyes very wide.

  “We be all comin’ ’ere, sir!” he burst out: “All on us — ever so many on us! But we reckoned to make a round of the village first and see how we took on, and finish up wi’ you, sir! Kitty Spruce she be a- keepin’ her best ribbin for comin’ ’ere — we be all a-comin’ ‘fore twelve!”

  Walden smiled.

  “Good! I shall expect you! And mind you don’t all sing out of tune when you do come. If
you commit such an offence, I shall — let me see! — I shall make mincemeat of you! — I shall indeed! Positive mincemeat! — and bottle you up in jars for Christmas!” And he nodded with the ferociously bland air of the giant in a fairy tale, whose particular humour is the devouring of small children. “Now you had better get back to Badsworth Hall with my message. Do you remember it? My compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, and I will write.”

  He turned away, and Bob Keeley made as rapid a departure as was consistent with the deep respect he felt for the ‘Passon,’ having extracted a promise from the butcher boy of the village, who was a friend of his, that if he were ‘quick about it,’ he would get a drive up to Badsworth and back again in the butcher’s cart going there for orders, instead of tramping it.

  The Reverend John, meanwhile, strolled down one of the many winding garden paths, past clusters of daffodils, narcissi and primroses, into a favourite corner which he called the ‘Wilderness,’ because it was left by his orders in a more or less untrimmed, untrained condition of luxuriantly natural growth. Here the syringa, a name sometimes given by horticultural pedants to the lilac, for no reason at all except to create confusion in the innocent minds of amateur growers, was opening its white ‘mock orange’ blossoms, and a mass of flowering aconites spread out before him like a carpet of woven gold. Here, too, tufts of bluebells peeked forth from behind the moss-grown stems of several ancient oaks and elms, and purple pansies bordered the edge of the grass. A fine old wistaria grown in tree-form, formed a natural arch of entry to this shady retreat, and its flowers were just now in their full beauty, hanging in a magnificent profusion of pale mauve, grapelike bunches from the leafless stems. Many roses, of the climbing or ‘rambling’ kind, were planted here, and John Walden’s quick eye soon perceived where a long green shoot of one of those was loose and waving in the wind to its own possible detriment. He felt in his pockets for a bit of roffia or twine to tie up the straying stem, — he was very seldom without something of the kind for such emergencies, but this time he only groped among the fragments of Sir Morton Pippitt’s note and found nothing useful. Stepping out on the path again, he looked about him and caught a glimpse of a stooping, bulky form in weather- beaten garments, planting something in one of the borders at a little distance.