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

by Marie Corelli

  John smiled involuntarily. There was a quaint affectation about the speaker that was quite irresistibly entertaining.

  “Mr. Julian Adderley is a poet,” said Sir Morton, whispering this in a jocose stage aside; “Everything is ‘beautiful’ to him!”

  Mr. Julian Adderley smiled faintly, and fixed a pair of rather fine grey eyes on Walden with a mute appeal, as one who should say with Hamlet ‘These tedious old fools!’ Meanwhile Sir Morton Pippitt had secured the last member of his party affectionately by the arm, and continuing his stage whisper said:

  “Permit me, Mr. Walden! This is one of our greatest London literary lights! He will particularly appreciate anything you may he good enough to tell him respecting your work of restoration here — Mr. Marius Longford, of the Savile and Savage clubs!”

  Mr. Marius Longford, of the Savile and Savage clubs, bent his head with an air of dignified tolerance. He was an angular personage, with a narrow head, and a face cleanly shaven, except at the sides where two small pussy-cat whiskers fringed his sharply defined jaws. He had a long thin mouth, and long thin slits for his eyes to peep through, — they would have been eyelids with other people, but with him they were merely slits. He was a particularly neat man in appearance — his clothes were well brushed, his linen spotless, his iron-grey hair sleek, and his whole appearance that of a man well satisfied with his own exterior personality. Walden glanced at this great London literary light as indifferently as he would have glanced at an incandescent lamp in the street, or other mechanical luminary. He had not as yet spoken a word. Sir Morton had done all the talking; but the power of silence always overcomes in the end, and John’s absolute non-committal of himself to any speech, had at last the effect he desired — namely that of making Sir Morton appear a mere garrulous old interloper, and his ‘distinguished’ friends somewhat of the cheap tripper persuasion. The warm May sun poured through the little shrine of prayer, casting flickers of gold and silver on the ‘Saint at Rest’ before the altar, and showering azure and rose patterns through the ancient stained glass which filled the side lancet windows. The stillness became for the moment intense and almost oppressive, — Sir Morton Pippitt fidgeted uneasily, pulled at his high starched collar and became red in the face, — the Reverend ‘Putty’ forgot himself so far as to pinch one of his own legs and hum a little tune, while the rest of the party waited for the individual whom their host had so frequently called ‘the damned parson’ to speak. The tension was relieved by the sudden quiet entrance of a young woman carrying a roll of music. Seeing the group of persons in the chancel, she paused in evident uncertainty. Walden glanced at her, and his composed face all at once lighted up with that kindly smile which in such moments made him more than ordinarily handsome.

  “Come along, Miss Eden,” he said in a low clear tone; “You are quite at liberty to practise as usual. Sir Morton Pippitt and his friends will not disturb you.”

  Miss Eden smiled sedately and bent her head, passing by the visitors with an easy demeanour and assured step, and made her way to where the organ, small, but sweet and powerful, occupied a corner near the chancel. While she busied herself in opening the instrument and arranging her musics Walden took advantage of the diversion created by her entrance to address himself to the knight Pippitt.

  “If I can be of service to your friends in explaining anything about the church they may wish, to know, pray command me, Sir Morton,” he said. “But I presume that you and Mr, Leveson” — here he glanced at the portly ‘Putty’ with a slight smile— “have pointed out all that is necessary.”

  “On the contrary!” said Mr. Marius Longford ‘of the Savile and Savage,’ with a smoothly tolerant air; “We are really quite in the dark! Do we understand, for example, that the restoration of this church is entirely due to your generosity, or to assistance from public funds and subscriptions?”

  “The restoration is due, not to my ‘generosity,’” replied Walden, “but merely to my sense of what is fitting for Divine service. I have had no assistance from any fund or from any individual, because I have not sought it.”

  There was a pause, during which Mr. Longford fixed a pair of gold- rimmed glasses on his nose and gazed quizzically through them at Sir Morton Pippitt, whose countenance had grown uncomfortably purple in hue either with exterior heat or inward vexation.

  “I thought. Sir Morton,” he began slowly, when Mr. Leveson adroitly interrupted him by the query:

  “Now what period would you fix, Mr. Longford, for this sarcophagus? I am myself inclined to think it of the fourteenth century.”

  A soft low strain of music here crept through, the church, — the village schoolmistress was beginning her practice. She had a delicate touch, and the sounds her fingers pressed from the organ- keys were full, and solemn and sweet. His Grace the Duke of Lumpton coughed loudly; he hated music, and always made some animal noise of his own to drown it.

  “What matters the period!” murmured Julian Adderley, running his thin hand through his thick hair. “Is it not sufficient to see it here among us, with us, OF us?”

  “God bless my soul! I hope it is not OF us!” spluttered Sir Morton with a kind of fat chuckle which seemed to emanate from his stiff collar rather than from his throat; “‘Ashes to ashes’ of course; we are all aware of that — but not just yet! — not just yet!”

  “I am unable to fix the period satisfactorily to my own mind,” said Walden, quietly ignoring both Sir Morton and his observations on the Beyond; “though I have gone through considerable research with respect to the matter. So I do not volunteer any opinion. There is, however, no doubt that at one time the body contained in that coffer must have been of the nature termed by the old Church ‘miraculous.’ That is to say, it must have been supposed to be efficacious in times of plague or famine, for there are several portions of the alabaster which have evidently been worn away by the frequent pressure or touch of hands on the surface. Probably in days when this neighbourhood was visited by infection, drought, floods or other troubles, the priests raised the coffin by the system of leverage which we discovered when excavating (and which is still in working order) and allowed the people to pass by and lay their hands upon it with a special prayer to be relieved of their immediate sickness or sorrow. There were many such ‘miraculous’ shrines in the early part of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.”

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Longford; “I imagine you may be right, Mr. Walden; it is evidently a relic of the very earliest phases of the Christian myth.”

  As he spoke the last words Walden looked straightly at him. A fine smile hovered on his lips.

  “It is as you say,” he rejoined calmly— “It is a visible token of the time when men believed in an Unseen Force more potent than themselves.”

  The Duke of Lumpton coughed noisily again, and his friend, Lord Mawdenham, who up to the present had occupied the time in staring vaguely about him and anxiously feeling his pimples, said hurriedly:

  “Oh, look here, Sir Morton — er — I say, — er — hadn’t we better be going? There’s Lady Elizabeth Messing coming to lunch and you know she can’t bear to be kept waiting-never do, you know, not to be there to see her when she arrives — he-he-he! We should never get over it in London or out of London— ‘pon my life! — I do assure you!”

  Sir Morton’s chest swelled; — his starched collar crackled round his expanding throat, and his voice became richly resonant as under the influential suggestion of another ‘titled’ personage, he replied:

  “Indeed, you are right, my dear Lord Mawdenham! To keep Lady Elizabeth waiting would be an unpardonable offence against all the proprieties! Hum — ha — er — yes! — against all the proprieties! Mr. Walden, we must go! Lady Elizabeth Messing is coming to lunch with us at Badsworth. You have no doubt heard of her — eldest daughter of the Earl of Charrington! — yes, we must really be going! I think I may say, may I not, your Grace?” — here he bent towards the ducal Lumpton— “that we are all highly pleased with the way in which
Mr. Waldon has effected the restoration of the church?”

  “Oh, I don’t know anything at all about it!” replied His Grace, with the air of a sporting groom; “I’ve no taste at all in churches, and I’m not taking any on old coffins! It’s a nice little chapel — just enough for a small village I should say. After all, don’t-cher-know, you only want very little accommodation for a couple of hundred yokels; and whether it’s old or new architecture doesn’t matter to ’em a brass farthing!”

  These observations were made with a rambling air of vague self- assertiveness which the speaker evidently fancied would pass for wit and wisdom. Walden said nothing. His brow was placid, and his countenance altogether peaceful. He was listening to the solemnly sweet flow of a Bach prelude which Miss Eden was skilfully unravelling on the organ, the notes rising and falling, and anon soaring up again like prayerful words striving to carry themselves to heaven.

  “I think,” said Mr. Marius Longford weightily, “that whatever fault the building may have from a strictly accurate point of view, — which is a matter I am not prepared to go into without considerable time given for due study and consideration, — it is certainly the most attractive edifice of its kind that I have seen for some time. It reflects great credit on you, Mr. Walden; — no doubt the work gave you much personal pleasure!”

  “It certainly did so,” replied John,— “and I’m afraid I am arrogant enough to be satisfied with the general result so far as it goes, — with the exception of the eastern window, of course!”

  “Ah, that eastern window!” sighed the Reverend ‘Putty’ with an air of aesthetic languor which was in comical contrast with his coarse and commonplace appearance; “That is a sad, sad flaw! A terrible incongruity!”

  “I made up my mind from the first,” pursued Walden, his equable voice seeming to float pleasantly on the tide of music with which the little sanctuary was just then filled; “that nothing but the most genuine and authentic old stained glass should fill that fine circular rose carving, and those lance apertures; so I am collecting it slowly, bit by bit, for this purpose. It will take time and patience, no doubt, — but I think and hope that success will be the end of the task I have set myself. In the meantime, of course, the effect of plain glass where there should be only the richest colouring is decidedly ‘crude’!”

  He smiled slightly, and there was an uncomfortable pause. Sir Morton Pippitt took out a voluminous red handkerchief covered with yellow spots and blew his nose violently therein while the Reverend Mr. Leveson nodded his large head blandly, as one who receives doubtful information with kindly tolerance. Mr. Marius Longford looked faintly amused.

  “I understand!” said the light of the ‘Savile and Savage,’ slowly; “You seek perfection!”

  He smiled a pallid smile; but on the whole surveyed Walden with more interest than he had hitherto done. Julian Adderley, who had during the last couple of minutes stepped up to the chancel, now stood gazing at the sarcophagus of the supposed Saint with a kind of melancholy interest. Reading the only legible words of the inscription in sotto voce, he sighed drearily.

  “‘ In — Resurrectione — Sanctorum — Resurget!’ How simple! — how new! — how fresh! To think that anyone ever held such a child’s faith!”

  “The Church is still supposed to hold it,” said Walden steadily, “And her ministers also. Otherwise, religion is a farce, and its professors much less honest than the trusted servant who steals his master’s money!”

  Marius Longford smiled, and stroked one feline whisker thoughtfully.

  “So you actually believe what you preach!” he murmured— “Strange! You are more of an antiquity than the consecrated dust enclosed in that alabaster! Believe me!”

  “Much more, — much, more!” exclaimed the fantastic Adderley; “To believe in anything at all is so remote! — so very remote! — and yet so new — so fresh!”

  Walden made no reply. He never argued on religious matters; moreover, with persons minded in the manner of those before him, it seemed useless to even offer an opinion. They exchanged meaning glances with each other, and followed Sir Morton, who was now moving down the central aisle of the church towards the door of exit, holding the Duke of Lumpton familiarly by the arm, and accompanied by Lord Mawdenham. Walden walked silently with them, till, passing out of the church, they all stood in a group on the broad gravelled pathway which led to the open road, where the Pippitt equipage, a large waggonette and pair, stood waiting, together with a bicycle, the property of the Reverend Mr. Leveson.

  “Thank you, Mr. Walden!” then said Sir Morton Pippitt with a grandiose air, as of one who graciously confers a benefit on the silence by breaking it; “Thank you for — er — for — er — the pleasure of your company this — er — this morning! My friend, the Duke, — and Lord Mawdenham — and — er — our rising poet, Mr. Adderley — and — er — Mr. Longford, have been delighted. Yes — er — delighted! Of course you know MY opinion! Ha-ha-ha! You know MY opinion! It is the same as it ever was — I never change! When I have once made up my mind, it is a fixture! I have said already and I say it again, that the church was quite good enough for such people as live here, in its original condition, and that you have really spent a great deal of cash on a very needless work! I mustn’t be rude, no, no, no! — but you know the old adage: ‘Fools and their money!’ Ha-ha-ha! But we shan’t quarrel. Oh, dear no! It has cost ME nothing, I am glad to say! Ha-ha! Nor anybody else! Now, if Miss Vancourt of Abbot’s Manor had been here when you began this restoration business of yours, SHE might have had something to say — ha-ha-ha! She always has something to say!”

  “You think she would have objected?” queried Walden, coldly.

  “Oh, I won’t go so far as that — no! — eh, your Grace — we won’t go so far as that!”

  The Duke of Lumpton, thus suddenly adjured, looked round, and smiled vacantly.

  “Won’t go so far as what?” he asked; “Didn’t catch it!”

  “I was talking of Maryllia Vancourt,” said Sir Morton with a kind of fatuous leer; “YOU know her, of course! — everyone knows her more or less. Charming girl! — charming! Maryllia Van! — ha-ha!”

  And Sir Morton laughed and leered again till certain veins, moved by cerebral emotion, protruded largely on his forehead. His Grace laughed also, but shortly and indifferently.

  “Oh, ya-as — ya-as! She’s the one who’s just had a rumpus with her rich American aunt. I believe they don’t speak, After years of devotion, eh? So like women, ain’t it!”

  The Reverend ‘Putty’ Leveson, who had been stooping over his bicycle to set something right that was invariably going wrong with that particular machine, and who was redder than ever in the face with his efforts, now looked up.

  “Miss Vancourt is coming back to the Manor to reside there, so I hear,” he said. “Very dull for a woman accustomed to London and Paris. I expect she’ll stay about ten days.”

  “One never knows — one cannot tell!” sighed Julian Adderley. “Sometimes to the satiated female mind, overwrought with social dissipation, there comes a strange longing for peace! — for the scent of roses! — for the yellow shine of cowslips! — for the song of the mating birds! — for the breath of cows!”

  Mr. Marius Longford smiled, and picked a tall buttercup nodding in the grass at his feet.

  “Such aspirations in the fair sex are absolutely harmless,” he said; “Let us hope the lady’s wishes may find their limit in a soothing pastoral!” “Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Sir Morton. “You are deep, my dear sir, you are very deep! God bless my soul! Deep as a well! No wonder people are afraid of you! Clever, clever! I’m afraid of you myself! Come along, come along! Can I assist your Grace?” Here he pushed aside with a smothered ‘Damn!’ the footman, who stood holding open the door of the waggonette, and officiously gave the Duke of Lumpton a hand to help him into the carriage. “Now, Lord Mawdenham, please! You next, Mr. Longford! Come, come, Mr. Adderley! Think of Lady Elizabeth! She will be arriving at the Hall before we a
re there to receive her! Terrible, terrible! Come along! We’re all ready!”

  Julian Adderley had turned to Walden.

  “Permit me to call and see you alone!” he said. “I cannot just now appreciate the poetry of your work in the church as I should do — as I ought to do — as I must do! The present company is discordant! — one requires the music of Nature,-the thoughts, — the dreams! But no more at present! I should like to talk with you on many matters some wild sweet morning, — if you have no objection?”

  Walden was amused. At the same time he was not very eager to respond to this overture of closer acquaintanceship with one who, by his dress, manner and method of speech, proclaimed himself a ‘decadent’ of the modern school of ethics; but he was nothing if not courteous. So he replied briefly:

  “I shall be pleased to see you, of course, Mr. Adderley, but I must warn you that I am a very busy man — I should not be able to give you much time—”

  “No explanations — I understand!” And Adderley pressed his hand with enthusiasm. “The very fact that you are busy in a village like this adds to the peculiar charm of your personality! It is so strange! — so new — so fresh!”

  He smiled, and again pressed hands.

  “Good-bye! The mood will send me to you at the fitting moment!”

  He clapped his hat more firmly on his redundant red locks and clambered into the waiting waggonette. Sir Morton followed him, and the footman shut to the door of the vehicle with a bang as unnecessary as his master’s previous ‘Damn!’

  “Good-morning, Mr. Walden!” then shouted the knight of bone-melting prowess; “Much obliged to you, I’m sure!”

  Walden raised his hat with brief ceremoniousness, and then as the carriage rolled away addressed the Reverend Mr. Leveson, who was throwing himself with hippopotamus-like agility across his bicycle.

  “You follow, I suppose?”

  “Yes. I’m lunching at Badsworth Hall. The Duke wants to consult me about his family records. You know I’m a bit of an authority on such points!”