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

by Marie Corelli

  What a night it was! What a scene of wild sky splendour! Overhead the moon, now at the full, raced through clouds of pearl-grey, lightening to milky whiteness, and the wind played among the trees as though with giant hands, bending them to and fro like reeds, and rustling through the foliage with a swishing sound like that of falling water. The ripple of the hill-torrent was almost inaudible, overwhelmed as it was by the roar of the gale and the low thunder of the sea — and Mary, going swiftly up the “coombe” to the churchyard, was caught by the blast like a leaf, and blown to and fro, till all her hair came tumbling about her face and almost blinded her eyes. But she scarcely heeded this. She was not conscious of the weather — she knew nothing of the hour. She saw the moon — the white, cold moon, staring at her now and then between pinnacles of cloud — and whenever it gleamed whitely upon her path, she thought of David Helmsley’s dead face — its still smile — its peacefully closed eyelids. And with that face ever before her, she went to his grave. A humble grave — with the clods of earth still fresh and brown upon it — the chosen grave of “one of the richest men in the world!” She repeated this phrase over and over again to herself, not knowing why she did so. Then she knelt down and tried to pray, but could find no words — save “O God, bless my dear love, and make him happy!” It was foolish to say this so often, — God would be tired of it, she thought dreamily — but — after all — there was nothing else to pray for! She rose, and stood a moment — thinking — then she said aloud— “Good-night, David! Dear old David, you meant to make me so happy! Good-night! Sleep well!”

  Something frightened her at this moment, — a sound — or a shadow on the grass — and she uttered a cry of terror. Then, turning, she rushed out of the churchyard, and away — away up the hills, towards the rocks that over-hung the sea.

  Meanwhile, Angus Reay, feverish and miserable, had been shut up in his one humble little room for hours, wrestling with himself and trying to work out the way in which he could best master and overcome what he chose to consider the complete wreck of his life at what had promised to be its highest point of happiness. He could not shake himself free of the clinging touch of Mary’s arms — her lovely, haunting blue eyes looked at him piteously out of the very air. Never had she been to him so dear — so unutterably beloved! — never had she seemed so beautiful as now when he felt that he must resign all claims of love upon her.

  “For she will be sought after by many a better man than myself,” — he said— “Even rich men, who do not need her millions, are likely to admire her — and why should I stand in her way? — I, who haven’t a penny to call my own! I should be a coward if I kept her to her promise. For she does not know yet — she does not see what the possession of Helmsley’s millions will mean to her. And by and bye when she does know she will change — she will be grateful to me for setting her free — —”

  He paused, and the hot tears sprang to his eyes— “No — I am wrong! Nothing will change Mary! She will always be her sweet self — pure and faithful! — and she will do all the good with Helmsley’s money that he believed and hoped she would. But I — I must leave her to it!”

  Then the thought came to him that he had perhaps been rough in speech to her that day — abrupt in parting from her — even unkind in overwhelming her with the force of his abnegation, when she was so tired with her journey — so worn out — so weary looking. Acting on a sudden impulse, he threw on his cap.

  “I will go and say good-night to her,” — he said— “For the last time!”

  He strode swiftly up the village street and saw through the cottage window that the lamp was lighted on the table. He knocked at the door, but there was no answer save a tiny querulous bark from Charlie. He tried the latch; it was unfastened, and he entered. The first object he saw was Charlie, tied to a chair, with a small saucer of untasted food beside him. The little dog capered to the length of his ribbon, and mutely expressed the absence of his kind mistress, while Angus, bewildered, looked round the deserted dwelling in amazement. All at once his eyes caught sight of the letter addressed to him, and he tore it open. It was very brief, and ran thus —

  “My Dearest,

  “When you read this, I shall be gone from you. I am sorry, oh, so sorry, about the money — but it is not my fault that I did not know who old David was. I hope now that everything will be right, when I am out of the way. I did not tell you — but before I left London I asked the kind gentleman, Sir Francis Vesey, to let me make a will in case any accident happened to me on my way home. He arranged it all for me very quickly — so that everything I possess, including all the dreadful fortune that has parted you from me, — now belongs to you. And you will be a great and famous man; and I am sure you will get on much better without me than with me — for I am not clever, and I should not understand how to live in the world as the world likes to live. God bless you, darling! Thank you for loving me, who am so unworthy of your love! Be happy! David and I will perhaps be able to watch you from ‘the other side,’ and we shall be proud of all you do. For you will spend those terrible millions in good deeds that must benefit all the world, I am sure. That is what I hoped we might perhaps have done together — but I see quite plainly now that it is best you should be without me. My love, whom I love so much more than I have ever dared to, say! — Good-bye!

  Mary.”

  With a cry like that of a man in physical torture or despair, Angus rushed out of the house.

  “Mary! Mary!” he cried to the tumbling stream and the moonlit sky. “Mary!”

  He paused. Just then the clock in the little church tower struck ten. The village was asleep — and there was no sound of human life anywhere. The faint, subtle scent of sweetbriar stole on the air as he stood in a trance of desperate uncertainty — and as the delicate odour floated by, a rush of tears came to his eyes.

  “Mary!” he called again— “Mary!”

  Then all at once a fearful idea entered his brain that filled him as it were with a mad panic. Rushing up the coombe, he sprang across the torrent, and raced over the adjoining hill, as though racing for life. Soon in front of him towered the “Giant’s Castle” Rock, and he ran up its steep ascent with an almost crazy speed. At the summit he halted abruptly, looking keenly from side to side. Was there any one there? No. There seemed to be no one. Chilled with a nameless horror, he stood watching — watching and listening to the crashing noise of the great billows as they broke against the rocks below. He raised his eyes to the heavens, and saw — almost unseeingly — a white cloud break asunder and show a dark blue space between, — just an azure setting for one brilliant star that shone out with a sudden flash like a signal. And then — then he caught sight of a dark crouching figure in the corner of the rocky platform over-hanging the sea, — a dear, familiar figure that even while he looked, rose up and advanced to the extreme edge with outstretched arms, — its lovely hair loosely flowing and flecked with glints of gold by the light of the moon. Nearer, nearer to the very edge of the dizzy height it moved — and Angus, breathless with terror, and fearing to utter a sound lest out of sudden alarm it should leap from its footing and be lost for ever, crept closer and ever closer. Closer still, — and he heard Mary’s sweet voice murmuring plaintively —

  “I wish I did not love him so dearly! I wish the world were not so beautiful! I wish I could stay — but I must go — I must go!— “Here there was a little sobbing cry— “You are so deep and cruel, you sea! — you have drowned so many brave men! You will not be long in drowning poor me, will you? — I don’t want to struggle with you! Cover me up quickly — and let me forget — oh, no, no! Dear God, don’t let me forget Angus! — I want to remember him always — always!”

  She swayed towards the brink — one second more — and then, with a swift strong clasp and passionate cry Angus had caught her in her arms.

  “Mary! Mary, my love! My wife! Anything but that, Mary! Anything but that!”

  Heart to heart they stood, their arms entwined, clasping each oth
er in a wild passion of tenderness, — Angus trembling in all his strong frame with the excitement and horror of the past moment, and Mary sobbing out all her weakness, weariness and gladness on his breast. Above their heads the bright star shone, pendant between the snowy wings of the dividing cloud, and the sound of the sea was as a sacred psalm of jubilation in their ears.

  “Thank God I came in time! Thank God I have you safe!” and Angus drew her closer and yet closer into his fervent embrace— “Oh Mary, my darling! — sweetest of women! How could you think of leaving me? What should I have done without you! Poverty or riches — either or neither — I care not which! But I cannot lose you, Mary! I cannot let my heavenly treasure go! Nothing else matters in all the world — I only want love — and you!”

  THE END

  Holy Orders

  THE TRAGEDY OF A QUIET LIFE

  CONTENTS

  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

  Corelli, 1904

  CHAPTER I

  A STORM of rain was sweeping over the Cotswolds. The clouds drifted along the sky in low uneven masses, — breaking asunder now and then to show fitful glimpses of blue between their dividing gloom, — the hills looked bare and wan, and their ridges were blurred like the outline of a picture which the painter has smudged in haste and carelessness. Every now and again a restless wind arose and blew the tree-tops drearily to and fro, — the landscape wore a dismal expressionless aspect, and as the clammy wet mists crept over the field and common, they brought with them a shuddering chill which penetrated coldly to the warmest blood, and created an uncomfortable sense of physical and mental depression. In a certain small village, — which, to save all contest for supremacy, shall not here be given its true name, but shall be called Shadbrook, — the rain seemed to gather special force, pouring in torrents over the irregularly clustered houses and trickling down from their roofs into wide puddles of mud through the ‘main street,’ as it was called, merely because the Post-office, a combined business of small groceries and the country’s mails, happened to be located therein. Shadbrook was in some respects constructed so as to give the greatest possible inconvenience to those who by chance or fortune found themselves constrained to dwell in it. There were two portions of it, — one ancient — the other modern. The ancient part was composed of small, strongly-built stone houses, many of them rich in the possession of old oak rafters and stray bits of fine panelling left here and there where the dealer in antiquities had found it impossible to remove them without destroying the whole structure, — the modern was one of those ‘model villages’ which well-meaning landowners go to the pains of erecting at great cost and little profit for their often ungrateful ten ants, who not only find fault with the houses, but, as occupants, demur at paying their rents. Between the two there ran a brook of not very clear water, over which there was a picturesque bridge of a single span, which was traditionally reputed to have been built by the Romans. Looking down from this bridge into the stream, one saw various mute expressions of the interior life of the village — broken china, empty preserved-meat tins, old kettles, pots and pans of every description, commingled with unsightly portions of decaying vegetable matter which were not altogether odorless. And here indeed, though the passing stranger knew it not, was the center of a great faction, — the core of an internal party strife. Year in and year out it was a matter of dispute as to which inhabitants of the village on either side of the bridge thus turned the river into a dusthole. Was it the ‘original’ or the ‘model’ village? No one could tell — no one dared. Many had been the protests from the kindly landowner, something of a benefactor in his way, whose mansion and deer-park were some two miles distant, — urgent and persuasive had been the requests both from him and his wife, a great lady of fashion, that their tenants should try to keep the rivulet clean, — and most effusive had been the promises received in return. But no real change was ever effected. Each side blamed the other. The people in the old stone houses declared they never did see such ‘mucky’ folk as those who occupied their landlord’s ‘model’ cottages — while the dwellers in the model cottages declared that their neighbors of the ‘stone hut period’ were semi-barbarians, ‘as didn’t know a clean thing when they see’d it.’ Only on Sundays was a kind of silent truce effected — for there was but one church — a small and very ancient edifice, once the chapel, so legended, of a holy hermit in the early Christian era and carefully preserved by the monks until the stormy days of the Reformation, when it was — like all the churches in the neighborhood-deprived of its images and relics, and considerably disfigured, though not destroyed. Of late years it had been carefully restored to something of its pristine appearance, and the simple services of the Church of England were faithfully performed in it Sunday after Sunday by the resident Vicar, the Reverend Richard Everton. He was a good and kindly man, and when the living was first bestowed upon him, he was moved to a sense of overpowering and grateful wonder at his amazing fortune. He had been working as a poor curate in the East End of London, and happened by chance to be chosen to preach a sermon on a particular occasion for some great cause of charity. Among his hearers was the wealthy patron of the living of Shadbrook, and so pleased was this good country squire with the young preacher’s eloquence, that he sought him out and made his personal acquaintance — an acquaintance which soon deepened into friendship — the result of which friendship was his present position. And the Reverend Richard thought himself a more than lucky man. For not only was the church of Shadbrook an interesting one from the point of antiquity, — but there was a vicarage attached to it, which was quite a beautiful sixteenth-century house — full of untouched oak-panelling, and connected by poetic tradition with the love-story of a lady of that romantic period when young women were supposed to die straight off as soon as lovers betrayed their trust, even as lilies die when deprived of water. There were leaning gables and big latticed windows and quaint chimney-stacks to this house, — and a garden of the loveliest ‘old-fashioned’ type, shut in from the outer world by trees beneath some of which Sir Philip Sidney might have composed a sonnet. And so when Richard Everton first took up his abode in this charming rural retreat, he was as happy as a poet is when inspired with a fine idea. Life seemed to radiate joy upon him, inwardly and outwardly — for he was young. And on the faith of his dreams and his delight and his respite from all financial care, he did what most men would have done under similar circumstances — he fell in love and got married.

  Mrs. Everton was very pretty. She was, it may be at once stated, much too pretty for a clergyman’s wife. She was dainty, mignonne, golden-haired, blue-eyed, light-footed, merry, — with a voice like a lark’s and a smile like the very sunshine — everything, in fact, that a clergyman’s wife ought not to be, if she would stand in a ‘respectable’ position with county society. Her quite un-Christian name, too, Azalea — was absurd and almost ‘stagey.’ Her dress was always exquisitely tasteful — though not extravagant — and people said — such people as there were in Shadbrook to say anything — that they ‘wondered how she could do it.’ She was a daily joy and bewilderment to her husband during the first year of their marriage. Then there arrived a baby-boy — like, yet unlike her, with a wise angel face, and a noble head like that of the infant Hercules. Where he came from neither of his parents could imagine. The Reverend Richard stared for hours at his offspring, wondering why it l
ooked so grandly at him. For he himself was quite a plain, ordinary sort of man — his two best features being his eyes and mouth — eyes which were deeply set and darkly blue, — and lips that were finely sensitive and accustomed to gentle lines of speech and smile. The beauty of his baby son confused and oppressed him. He was troubled by it, though he knew not why. His wife was not so much perplexed as delighted with her child — she looked like a little girl suddenly presented by a kind friend with a model doll.

  After the birth of this wondrous boy, the family in Shadbrook Vicarage considered itself complete. Everything smiled upon the happy trio. The house was lovely — the garden delicious — the air good, and the surrounding landscape perfect. At the time this ‘ower true tale’ opens, the Vicar and his wife had enjoyed their enviable condition of connubial bliss for three years, — and their beautiful son was two summers old — just at what is called the ‘interesting’ age. And it was at this very juncture that a kind of mysterious change came over the spirit of the dream — so far at least as the Vicar himself was concerned. In the joy of securing Shadbrook living, and the greater bliss of winning the love of Azalea, — felicity crowned and completed by the arrival of the boy with the fine head and angelic countenance, — the Reverend Richard had forgotten altogether one trifling circumstance, — namely that he was a clever man. That is to say, a man gifted above the ordinary, with a wide knowledge of books, a keen grasp of things social and political, and a natural bias towards the graces of art and learning. Amid the smiles of his wife and the prattle of his infant, he had so obliterated himself that he had completely lost sight of the fact that perhaps there might be wider and more useful fields of labor than Shadbrook. When this thought first came to him he put it away as though it were a suggestion from the evil one, involving some deadly sin — yet every now and then it persistently recurred to him and forced itself upon his pained attention. He was ashamed of it, and angry with himself for giving way to what he called a ‘weakness’ — but nevertheless the question rang in his ears with haunting persistence— “Are you going to spend all your life in Shadbrook?”