* * * * *
* * *
With rose-crowned June, the rose-window in the church of St. Rest was filled in and completed. Maryllia had found all the remaining ancient stained glass that had been needed to give the finishing touch to its beauty, and the loveliest deep gem-like hues shone through the carven apertures like rare jewels in a perfect setting. The rays of light filtering through them were wonderful and mystical, — such as might fall from the pausing wings of some great ministering angel, — and under the blaze of splendid colour, the white sarcophagus with its unknown ‘Saint’ asleep, lay steeped in soft folds of crimson and azure, gold and amethyst, while even the hollow notches in the sculptured word ‘Resurget’ seemed filled with delicate tints like those painted by old-world monks on treasured missals. And presently one morning came, — warm with the breath of summer, sunny and beautiful, — when the window was solemnly re- consecrated by Bishop Brent at ten o’clock, — a consecration followed by the loud and joyous ringing of the bells, and a further sacred ceremony, — the solemnisation of matrimony between John Walden and Maryllia Vancourt. All the village swarmed out like a hive of bees from their honey-cells to see their ‘Passon’ married. Hundreds of honest and affectionate eyes looked love on the bride, as clad in the simplest of simple white gowns, with a plain white veil draping her from head to foot, she came walking to the church across the warm clover-scented fields, like any village maid, straight from the Manor, escorted only by Cicely, her one bridesmaid. At the churchyard gate, she was met by all the youngest girls of the school, arrayed in white, who, carrying rush baskets full of wild flowers, scattered them before her as she moved, — and when she arrived at the church porch, she was followed by the little child Ipsie, whose round fair cherub-like face reflected one broad smile of delight, and who carried between her two tiny hands a basket full to overflowing of old French damask roses, red as the wine-glow of a summer sunset. The church was crowded, — not only by villagers but by county folks, — for everyone from near or far that could be present at what they judged to be a ‘strange’ wedding — namely a wedding for love and love alone — had mustered in force for the occasion. One or two had stayed away from a certain sense of discrepancy in themselves, to which it is needless to refer. Sir Morton Pippitt was among these. He felt, — but what he felt is quite immaterial. And so far as his daughter was concerned, she, as Bainton expressed it, had ‘gone a’ visitin’.’ The Ittlethwaites, of Ittlethwaite Park, in all the glory of their Magnum Chartus forebears were present, as were the Mandeville-Porehams — while to Julian Adderley was given the honour of being Walden’s ‘best man.’ He, as the music of the wedding voluntary poured from the organ, through the flower-scented air, wondered doubtfully whether poetic inspiration would ever assist him in such wise as to enable him to express in language the exquisite sweetness of Maryllia’s face, as, standing beside the man whose tender and loyal love she was surer of than any other possession in this world she repeated in soft accents the vow: “to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey till death do us part!”
And when Bishop Brent placed her little hand in that of his old college friend, and pressed them tenderly together, he felt, looking at the heavenly light that beamed from her sweet eyes, that not even death itself could part her fond soul from that of the man whom she loved, and who loved her so purely and faithfully in God’s sight. Thus, when pronouncing the words— “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man. put asunder!” he was deeply conscious that for once at least in the troublous and uncertain ways of the modern world, the holy bond of wedlock was approved of in such wise as to be final and eternal.
Away in London, on this same marriage day, Lady Roxmouth, formerly Mrs. Fred Vancourt, sat at luncheon in her sumptuously furnished house in Park Lane, and looked across the table at her husband, while he lazily sipped a glass of wine.
“That ridiculous girl Maryllia has married her parson by this time I suppose,” — she said— “Of course it’s perfectly scandalous. Lady Beaulyon was quite disgusted when she heard of it — such an alliance for a Vancourt! And Mr. and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay tell me that the man Walden is quite an objectionable person — positively boorish! It’s dreadful really! But who could ever have imagined she would recover from that hunting spill? Wentworth Glynn said she was crippled for life. He told me so himself.”
“Well, he was wrong evidently,” — said Roxmouth, curtly. “English surgeons are very clever, but they are not always infallible. This time an Italian has beaten them.”
“Perhaps she was not so seriously injured as the local man at St. Rest made her out to be,” — pursued her ladyship reflectively.
Roxmouth said nothing. She studied his face with amused scrutiny.
“Perhaps it was another little ruse to get rid of you and your wooing,” — she went on— “Dear me! What an extraordinary contempt Maryllia always had for you to be sure!”
He moved restlessly, and she smiled — a hard little smile.
“I guess you’re hankering after her still!” she hinted.
“Your remarks are in rather bad taste,” — he rejoined, coldly, helping himself to another glass of wine.
She rose from her chair, and came round the table to where he sat, laying a heavily jewelled hand on his shoulder.
“Well, you’ve got ME!” she said— “And all I’m worth! And you ‘love’ me, don’t you?”
She laughed a little.
He looked full at her, — at her worn, hard, artificially got-up face, her fashionable frock, and her cold, expressionless eyes.
“Oh yes!” he answered, drily— “I ‘love’ you! You know I do. We understand each other!”
“I guess we do!” she thought to herself as she left him— “And when I’m tired of being called ‘My lady’ or ‘Your Grace’ I’ll divorce him! And I’ll take care he isn’t a penny the richer! There’s always that game to play, and you bet the Smart Set know how to play it!”
But of the ways, doings or saying of the Smart Set the village of St. Rest knows little and cares less. It dozes peacefully with the sun in its eyes, year in and year out, under the shadow of the eastern hills, with its beloved ‘Passon’ and now its equally beloved ‘Passon’s wife,’ as king and queen of its tiny governmental concerns, drawing health and peace, contentment and tranquillity from the influences of nature, unspoilt by contact with the busier and wearier world. ‘Passon Walden’s’ wedding-day was the chief great historic event of its conscious life. For on that never-to-be- forgotten and glorious occasion, the tenantry of Abbot’s Manor, together with all the villagers and the school-children were entertained at an open-air festival and dance, which lasted all the afternoon and evening, on the broad smooth greensward encircling the famous ‘Five Sister’ beeches where bride and bridegroom had looked upon each other for the first time. What a high tide of simple revelry it was to be sure! Never had the delicate tremulous green foliage of the rescued trees waved over a happier scene. ‘Many a kiss both odd and even’ was exchanged among lads and lasses at that blithe merry-making, — even Cicely and Julian Adderley were not always to be found when they were wanted, having taken to ‘composing music and poetry together,’ which no doubt quite accounted for their long rambles together away from all the rest of the merry crowd. Mrs. Spruce, with a circle of her gossips round her, sat talking the whole livelong day on the ‘ways o’ the Lord bein’ past findin’ out.’
“For,” said she, “when Miss Maryllia first come ‘ome she ‘adn’t an idee o’ goin’ to hear Passon Walden, an’ sez I ‘do-ee go an’ hear ’im,’ an’ she sez— ‘No, Spruce, I cannot, I don’t believe in it’ — an’ I sez to myself, ‘never mind, the Lord ’e knows ’is own, which He do, but ‘ard as are His ways I never did think He’d a’ brought her to be Passon’s wife, — that do beat me, though it’s just what it should be, an’ if the Lord don’t know what should be why then no on
e don’t, an’ that ‘minds me o’ when I sent for Passon to see me unpack Miss Maryllia’s boxes, he was that careful he made me pick up a pair o’ pink shoes what ‘ad fell on the floor— ‘Take care o’ them,’ he sez — Lor! — now I come to think of it, he was mortal struck over them pink shoes!”
And Bainton commenting on general events observed: —
“Well, I did say once that if Passon were married he’d be a fine man spoilt, but I’ve altered my mind now! I think he’s a fine man full growed at last, like a plant what’s stopped a bit an’ suddenly takes a start an’ begins to flower. An’ so far as my own line goes, if Missis Walden, bless ‘er, comes round me talkin’ about the rectory garden, which is to be kep’ up just the same as ever, an’ fusses like over the lilac bush what he broke a piece off of for her, well! — I DID say I’d never ‘ave a petticut round MY work — but a pretty petticut’s worth looking at, it is reely now!”
So the harmless chatter among the village folks went on, and the feasting, dancing and singing lasted long. Chief of important personages among all that gathered under the old beech-trees was Josey Letherbarrow, — very feeble, — very dim of eye, but stout of heart and firm of opinion as ever. Beside him sat Bishop Brent, — with Walden himself and his bride, — for from his venerable hands Maryllia had sought the first blessing on her marriage as soon as the wedding ceremony had ended.
“Everything’s all right if we’ll only believe it!” he said now, looking with a wistful tenderness from one to the other— “Life’s all right — death’s all right! I’m sartin sure I’ll find everything just as I’ve hoped an’ prayed for’t when I gets to th’ other side o’ this world, for I’ve ‘ad my ‘art’s best wish given to me when all ‘ope seemed over — an’ that was to see Squire’s gel ‘appy! An’ she IS ‘appy! — look at ‘er, as fresh as a little rose all smilin’ an’ ready to bloom on ‘er husband’s lovin’ ‘art! Ah! Th’ owld Squire would a’ been proud to see ’em this bright day! And as for the Lord A’mighty He knows what He’s about I tell ye!” and Josey nodded his head with great sagacity— “Some folks think He don’t — but He do!”
The Bishop smiled.
“Verily I have not found so great a faith — no, not in Israel!” — he murmured, as presently he rose and strolled away by himself for a while to muse and meditate. Towards sunset Walden, going in search of him found him in the rose garden, looking at the profuse red clusters of bloom in the old French damask border.
“How they smile openly to the sun!” he said, pointing to them, as John approached— “Like love! — or faith!”
John was silent a moment. Then he said suddenly —
“Are you going over to Rome, Harry?”
“No!” And Brent’s eyes looked full into those of his friend, straightly and steadfastly. “Not now. I will do the work appointed for me to the end!”
“Thank God!” said Walden, simply. And their hands met in a close grasp, thereby sealing a wordless compact, never to be broken.
The sun sank and the moon began to rise. Song and dance gradually ceased, and the happy villagers began to disperse, and wend their ways homeward. Love was in the air — love breathed in the perfume of the flowers — love tuned the throats of the passionate nightingales that warbled out their mating songs in every hazel copse and from ever acacia bough in the Manor woods, and love seemed, as the poet says, to ‘sit astride o’ the moon’ as its silver orb peered over the gables of the Manor itself and poured a white shower of glory on the sweet face and delicate form of Maryllia, as she stood in the old Tudor courtyard, now a veritable wilderness of flowers, with her husband’s arm round her, listening to the faint far-off singing of the villagers returning to their homes through the scented green lanes.
“Everyone has been happy to-day!” she said, looking up with a smile- -”All the world around us seems to thank God!”
“All the world would thank Him if it could but find what we have found!” answered John, drawing her close to his heart— “All it wants, all it needs, both for itself and others, for this world and the next, is simply — Love!”
THE END
Treasure of Heaven
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
AUTHOR’S NOTE
By the special request of the Publishers, a portrait of myself, taken in the spring of this year, 1906, forms the Frontispiece to the present volume. I am somewhat reluctant to see it so placed, because it has nothing whatever to do with the story which is told in the following pages, beyond being a faithful likeness of the author who is responsible for this, and many other previous books which have had the good fortune to meet with a friendly reception from the reading public. Moreover, I am not quite able to convince myself that my pictured personality can have any interest for my readers, as it has always seemed to me that an author’s real being is more disclosed in his or her work than in any portrayed presentment of mere physiognomy.
But — owing to the fact that various gross, and I think I may say libellous and fictitious misrepresentations of me have been freely and unwarrantably circulated throughout Great Britain, the Colonies, and America, by certain “lower” sections of the pictorial press, which, with a zeal worthy of a better and kinder cause, have striven by this means to alienate my readers from me, — it appears to my Publishers advisable that an authentic likeness of myself, as I truly am to-day, should now be issued in order to prevent any further misleading of the public by fraudulent inventions. The original photograph from which Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co. have reproduced the present photogravure, was taken by Mr. G. Gabell of Eccleston Street, London, who, at the time of my submitting myself to his camera, was not aware of my identity. I used, for the nonce, the name of a lady friend, who arranged that the proofs of the portrait should be sent to her at various different addresses, — and it was not till this “Romance of Riches” was on the verge of publication that I disclosed the real position to the courteous artist himself. That I thus elected to be photographed as an unknown rather than a known person was in order that no extra pains should be taken on my behalf, but that I should be treated just as an ordinary stranger would be treated, with no less, but at the same time certainly no more, care.
I may add, in conclusion, for the benefit of those few who may feel any further curiosity on the subject, that no portraits resembling me in any way are published anywhere, and that invented sketches purporting to pass as true likenesses of me, are merely attempts to obtain money from the public on false pretences. One picture of me, taken in my own house by a friend who is an amateur photographer, was reproduced some time ago in the Strand Magazine, The Boudoir, Cassell’s Magazine, and The Rapid Review; but beyond that, and the present one in this volume, no photographs of me are on sale in any country, either in shops or on postcards. My objection to this sort of “picture popularity” has already been publicly stated, and I here repeat and emphasise it. And I venture to ask my readers who have so generously encouraged me by their warm and constant appreciation of my literary efforts, to try and understand the spirit in which the objection is made. It is simply that to myself the personal “Self” of me is nothing, and should be, rightly speaking, nothing to any one outside the circle of my home and my intimate friends; while my work and the keen desire to improve in that work, so that by my work alone I may become united in sympa
thy and love to my readers, whoever and wherever they may be, constitutes for me the Everything of life.
MARIE CORELLI
Stratford-on-Avon
July, 1906
CHAPTER I
London, — and a night in June. London, swart and grim, semi-shrouded in a warm close mist of mingled human breath and acrid vapour steaming up from the clammy crowded streets, — London, with a million twinkling lights gleaming sharp upon its native blackness, and looking, to a dreamer’s eye, like some gigantic Fortress, built line upon line and tower upon tower, — with huge ramparts raised about it frowningly as though in self-defence against Heaven. Around and above it the deep sky swept in a ring of sable blue, wherein thousands of stars were visible, encamped after the fashion of a mighty army, with sentinel planets taking their turns of duty in the watching of a rebellious world. A sulphureous wave of heat half asphyxiated the swarms of people who were hurrying to and fro in that restless undetermined way which is such a predominating feature of what is called a London “season,” and the general impression of the weather was, to one and all, conveyed in a sense of discomfort and oppression, with a vague struggling expectancy of approaching thunder. Few raised their eyes beyond the thick warm haze which hung low on the sooty chimney-pots, and trailed sleepily along in the arid, dusty parks. Those who by chance looked higher, saw that the skies above the city were divinely calm and clear, and that not a cloud betokened so much as the shadow of a storm.
The deep bell of Westminster chimed midnight, that hour of picturesque ghostly tradition, when simple village maids shudder at the thought of traversing a dark lane or passing a churchyard, and when country folks of old-fashioned habits and principles are respectably in bed and for the most part sleeping. But so far as the fashionable “West End” was concerned, it might have been midday. Everybody assuming to be Anybody, was in town. The rumble of carriages passing to and fro was incessant, — the swift whirr and warning hoot of coming and going motor vehicles, the hoarse cries of the newsboys, and the general insect-like drone and murmur of feverish human activity were as loud as at any busy time of the morning or the afternoon. There had been a Court at Buckingham Palace, — and a “special” performance at the Opera, — and on account of these two functions, entertainments were going on at almost every fashionable house in every fashionable quarter. The public restaurants were crammed with luxury-loving men and women, — men and women to whom the mere suggestion of a quiet dinner in their own homes would have acted as a menace of infinite boredom, — and these gilded and refined eating-houses were now beginning to shoot forth their bundles of well-dressed, well-fed folk into the many and various conveyances waiting to receive them. There was a good deal of needless shouting, and much banter between drivers and policemen. Now and again the melancholy whine of a beggar’s plea struck a discordant note through the smooth-toned compliments and farewells of hosts and their departing guests. No hint of pause or repose was offered in the ever-changing scene of uneasy and impetuous excitation of movement, save where, far up in the clear depths of space, the glittering star-battalions of a wronged and forgotten God held their steadfast watch and kept their hourly chronicle. London with its brilliant “season” seemed the only living fact worth recognising; London, with its flaring noisy streets, and its hot summer haze interposed like a grey veil between itself and the higher vision. Enough for most people it was to see the veil, — beyond it the view is always too vast and illimitable for the little vanities of ordinary mortal minds.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 648
