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

by Marie Corelli

  And he was more than usually affectionate to his wife when she came to him, dressed in a neat dark blue serge costume, with a fascinating little turned-up felt hat to match, and stated with a small sigh that she was now going to visit Mrs. Kiernan.

  “I think the weather has quite cleared,” — she said— “and I’ve got my thickest boots on, so I shan’t get my feet wet. It’s no good taking anything to read to her, is it, Dick? I’m such a bad reader!”

  He laughed, and slipping an arm round her waist looked at her with indulgent tenderness. —

  “You don’t like doing this sort of thing, I’m afraid, darling,” — he said.

  “Not very much,” — she admitted, with a demure uplifting of her blue eyes— “You see the people themselves don’t always like it, unless they’re very, very fond of you. I don’t think they’re a bit fond of me! I’m sure they’re not! I ought to be different — quite different, to really please them!”

  “In what way?” he asked, still smiling.

  “Well, to begin with, I ought to be able to talk about horrid things — quite horrid things!” she said with a comical earnestness— “Illnesses and funerals, for instance. They love those! Now Mrs. Linaker she has a bad leg — you know she has! — well, she likes to talk about it, and she will talk about it, oh ever so long! She tells you when it began to be bad — and how it went on, and how it is now, — and I do try to be interested, but I cant! And Mrs. Paterson was quite pleased when she heard that Mrs. Dunn’s eldest son had died — she really was! She said that he had six silver spoons and one picture — and she wondered how the spoons would be divided, and who would get the picture. And when I asked her what the picture was like, she said she didn’t think it was like anybody in particular — it was just a man and a cow in a sunset, but it had been in the family a long time!” Azalea stopped to laugh — then with twinkling eyes she went on— “And really, Dick, I inn so silly with these people! I never know what to say to them! Because I think it perfectly detestable to count up silver spoons when a poor man is lying dead, — and it seems to me just awful to dwell on bad legs and funerals. And then there are the babies! — oh dear!” Here she paused and grew suddenly reflective— “Of course I ought to be immensely interested in them, having one of my own — but I don’t think I’ve got the real mother-spirit — no, don’t laugh, Dick! — I really dont think I have, because all the women in the village talk quite differently about babies to the way I talk!”

  Everton was amused.

  “Well, of course!” he said, “you can’t expect them to have your pretty little fancies, can you? Their lives are different, to begin with, — and it’s wonderful — yes, when you come to think of it, it is wonderful that there should be so much deep sentiment and real tenderness among them, — you know they often love their children much more than people in our class do—”

  Azalea opened her eyes very wide at this.

  “Oh, I’m sure!” — she declared— “no one could possibly love any baby more than I love mine!”

  “No, dear, I didn’t say any one could,” — and Everton checked a slight sigh— “But you spoke of the mother-spirit — and you said, or you implied, that the women in the village had a different feeling about it to yours; — now I think it is just the same beautiful, divine spirit, only by different natures it is expressed differently.”

  She puckered her brows in a little line of perplexity.

  “That sounds like poor dear Dad, — dreadfully solemn and learned,” — she said— “But what I mean is that the village women talk about all the unpleasant little matters connected with babies,” — and she shook her head at him very sagaciously; “Because, of course, there are unpleasant things, — things that are not always nice and clean to talk about, — well, those things are just what the village mothers love to discuss by the hour! And, of course, your business is to look after the souls of the children, Dick; — but their mothers don’t really care a bit about that! — what they think about all the time are their stomachs!”

  He put his two hands on her shoulders and looked down smilingly into her eyes.

  “Come, come, Azalea! — have we, even we, thought much as yet of the soul of our wonderful baby Laurence?”

  She colored a little — then laughed.

  “Oh, but Baby’s too young! — too tiny altogether!” she said— “It would be nonsense to talk about his poor little soul—”

  “You think so?” and he loosened his gentle hold of her— “Well, I’m not quite sure about that, Azalea! I think I often see a Soul — neither little nor poor— ‘looking out of Laurence’s big blue eyes — a Soul so pure and sweet that I tremble at my own responsibility for its security in this world!”

  He spoke with such grave earnestness that she was a little abashed. A silence fell between them. Then, after a minute or two she said in a meek small voice —

  “I think I’d better go now.”

  “To see Mrs. Kiernan? Yes! — do go, while the weather keeps fine” — he answered, affectionately— “It won’t cake you much time, because of course you mustn’t stay long with her, — she’s not well enough for that. I daresay you’ll meet Doctor Harry — if so, just ask him if she’s going on all right.” ‘Azalea nodded submissively, and left the room. Her husband went to the window and watched her tripping along on the dainty high-heeled shoes which she called her ‘thickest boots,’ over the sodden gravel of the garden paths, till her pretty figure disappeared behind a screen of laurel bushels, — then he seated himself at his desk to work.

  “Poor little woman!” he murmured tenderly, “It must be rather dull for her here sometimes. She ought to have married a millionaire — not a poor country clergyman! She was made for the graceful pleasures and gayeties of the world — not for the plain routine of Shadbrook. Yet Love is said to make even a desert blossom like the rose — and I think she loves me — I’m sure she does! God knows I love her, — more than my life!”

  In this assertion he used no exaggeration, — it was the exact and simple truth. His nature was deeply affectionate and the garrulities and ecstasies of a Romeo were worth nothing as compared with the intense and faithful passion of this quiet self-contained man whose love was not for ‘the uncertain glory of an April day,’ but for all time, and — as he hoped and devoutly believed — for all eternity as well. If some profound Thinker, versed in the strange occultism of human sympathies, had pointed out to him that an eternity passed with Azalea’s little butterfly soul might possibly be insufficient to satisfy all his stronger immortal aspirations, he would have been grieved and indignant. For one of the finest attributes of true love is, that it sees no limitations and no imperfections in the beloved object. Thanks to this gentle blinding power, he was unable to look too far into the future save with those imaginative eyes which always behold impossibly beautiful things destined never to be realized, but which in their visionary prospect serve to charm and stimulate the mind, keeping it patient and hopeful while ‘that Divinity which shapes our ends’ prepares our hardest and most needful lessons. Perhaps if he could have seen Azalea sitting by the bedside of the unhappy Mrs. Kiernan, with her pretty little face set primly in a line of rigid offense, and her whole attitude expressive of uncompromising virtue, he might have felt a certain misgiving as to whether she was really endowed with that delicate and sure instinct which he fondly fancied was the special qualification of her woman’s nature, — an instinct fine enough to know when pity is resented and advice unwelcome, and therefore wisely forbearing to proffer either. In most village communities the uninvited visits of the clergyman’s wife or the ‘district lady’ are regarded by the working-classes with considerable disfavor, — and when one comes to think of it, there is really something very grossly impertinent in the idea that because a man or woman is poor and lives in a small cottage, he or she is therefore to be considered a prey to interfering ‘Church people,’ who thrust their inquiring noses into homes that do not belong to them, and ask questions of a per
sonal nature on matters which are none of their business. One wonders how Mr. Millionaire would like it if the wife of the Reverend Mr. Peek-a-Bo walked into his palatial residence unasked and said:— “I hope you keep your rooms clean and tidy! Remember cleanliness is next to godliness!” or—’

  ‘You must read your Bible every day, my good man! Let me leave you this little Tract on the ‘Vanity of Riches’!” As a matter of fact, no clergyman’s wife and no district visitor would dare to so insult a rich man. Then must the poor man be insulted, simply because he is poor? Does wealth alone hold the key to the Church’s respect? If so, then the Second Coming of Christ will be the Church’s annihilation!

  Fortunately for herself pretty Mrs. Everton did not take this point of view at all into her consideration. She was the Vicar’s wife; and in that position felt that her visits to the parishioners were necessary. Whether the parishioners liked her presence in their houses, she did not pause to inquire. When she entered Mrs. Kiernan’s cottage she half expected to see the master of it, the redoubtable Dan himself, — but he was not there, and Mrs. Adcott, still at her post as nurse to her suffering neighbor, stated that “he’d bin gone to his day’s work since six in the mornin’.”

  “I hope he was sober,” — said Azalea, severely.

  Oh yes, ma’am, he was quite sober. He’s a fine man when he’s all right, is Dan — it’s only the drink as drives him wild. Jacynth Miller sat up with him ’ere all night, an’ he’s bin as quiet as a lamb!”

  Azalea gave a little gasp.

  “Jacynth Miller!” She bit her lips as though to keep in some imminent expression of thought from rash utterance, — and then she hurriedly entered the adjoining room where Mrs. Kiernan lay. The sight of the sick woman in her bed, pale and motionless, rather frightened Azalea, — and she hung back, awed by the aspect of the still face on the pillow with the closed eyes and the grayish brown hair swept back from the hollow temples, — it was a counterfeit resemblance or image of death which was not pleasant to contemplate. At last, —

  “Mrs. Kiernan,” — she murmured, in a nervous little voice, “I came to see how you were — I do hope you’re better — —”

  Mrs. Kiernan opened her eyes, and for a moment stared bewilderedly. Then a faint smile brightened her pallid features.

  “It’s Mrs. Everton, is it?” she whispered, weakly— “Thank’ee, ma’am, I’m better — much better — I’ll soon be about again— “Here her eyelids drooped, and she moaned wearily.

  Azalea took a chair and sat down by the bedside.

  “I’m afraid you’re badly hurt,” — she said— “That dreadful husband of yours is very cruel to you.”

  Mrs. Kiernan’s eyes opened again quickly.

  “My ‘usband!” she echoed— “Dan? Dan cruel? Oh no, ma’am! Don’t you believe it! Dan’s the best man ever woman ‘ad, — there’s no one like Dan in this world to me!”

  Azalea gave a little shrug of impatience.

  “How can you say such a thing!” she continued— “Why he has knocked you about most wickedly! Look how ill you are! And yet you say he’s the best man ever woman had!”

  “So he is, when he’s away from the drink, ma’am,” — and Mrs. Kiernan, moved by a sudden energy, lifted herself up a little on her pillows. “And ’e didn’t mean to ‘urt me — I knew he didn’t! But e’d ‘ad one glass on top of t’other, an’ ’is poor ‘ed was all a-swimmin’ like, an’ ’e struck out at the first thing ’e saw, which ‘appened to be me — an’ arter all I should a-know’d better than to stand in ’is way. That’s all, ma’am; an’ if you’ll tell Mr. Everton that Dan’s all right I’ll be real glad, for I wouldn’t ‘ave the Vicar o’ the parish think ill of ’im — —”

  Her voice failed her and tears stood in her eyes. Azalea was sorry for her, but at the same time remained more or less unconvinced.

  “I can’t understand you at all!” she said, perplexedly— “It seems to me so strange that you should care for a man like that—”

  “It shouldn’t seem strange to you, ma’am, you bein’ a wife an’ mother yourself,” — and Mrs. Kiernan let her head sink gently back again on her pillow— “No man’s ever like the man you’ve loved day and night an’ been everythin’ to in body an’ soul. An’ if ye’d seen Dan in ’ere last night, comin’ back’ards an’ for’ards, waitin’ on me ‘and an’ foot an’ doin’ all ’e could for me, you’d a-said what a kind ‘art ’e ‘ad for all ’is little faults o’ drink an’ temper. An’ ’e sent Mrs. Adcott away ‘ome to rest ‘erself, for she was fair tired out, poor thing, an’ ’e got one of the village gels in to ‘elp, an’ sat up all night in the next room, watchin’ an’ waitin’ lest I should want for anythin’—”

  “One of the girls of the village came in to help, you say,” — and Azalea looked at her with gravely compassionate eyes— “Do you know which girl it was?”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t,” — and Mrs. Kiernan sighed— “I was that sleepy an’ wore out that it was no matter to me who came or went so long as Dan was by.”

  “It was Jacynth Miller,” — said Azalea— “She sat up here with your husband all night. And you actually didn’t know it! Oh!” — this exclamation was uttered with shocked impressiveness— “I call it perfectly shameful!”

  Mrs. Kiernan turned her eyes wonderingly round upon her visitor.

  “I don’t quite follow ye, ma’am,” — she said, in tremulous accents— “What’s the shameful part of it?”

  “Oh well!” and Azalea gave a kind of hopeless gesture with her neatly gloved little hands— “You’re too ill to talk just now — but when you’re better you really ought to know exactly how things stand — you really ought—”

  “I’m quite able to hear anything as I ought to know now, ma’am,” — and Mrs. Kiernan anxiously watched Azalea’s pretty face that looked so young and kind and expressive of a thoughtful spirit— “An’ it’s better you should say just what’s in your mind rather than have me worritin’ like Azalea began to feel a little nervous.

  “Oh no, you really mustn’t be worried,” — she said, with a delightful unconsciousness of having already prepared the way for worry— “I didn’t think — I’m sorry I spoke—”

  “So am I, ma’am, if you don’t go on speakin’,” — answered Mrs. Kiernan, with sudden energy— “An’ ye’ll oblige me more than I can say if ye’ll just tell me plain what it is you’re meanin’ in the way that’s shameful—”

  Azalea thought a moment, the color coming and going in her delicate cheeks, and her heart beating a little more quickly than usual. She had done mischief without intending it, — she had started an uneasiness in Mrs. Kiernan’s mind, and she had not the tact to allay the misgivings which her thoughtless words had excited. She felt rather afraid of the poor bruised and beaten, yet loving and faithful woman — nevertheless there was a struggling under-sense in her of’ outraged propriety, — that resistless emotion which so often possesses the minds of clergymen’s wives, and leads them to say and to do the most cruel and uncharitable things, not out of any intentional unkindness, but simply because they are personally pricked by the hedgehog bristles of a virtue so aggressive and opinionated as to be almost vice.

  “Yet after all,” — she inwardly considered— “Mrs. Kiernan is not a woman of such very sensitive feeling! If she were, she wouldn’t, she couldn’t take her husband’s brutal conduct so quietly! I don’t suppose anything he does would surprise her. The common people look on these sort of things so differently!”

  Alas, poor Azalea! She knew nothing at all of the special point of view taken by the ‘common’ people. She would have been surprised, possibly offended, had she been told that the ‘common’ moral sense is more poignant because more instinctive, and that the ‘common’ passions are more powerful because more primitive, — and that, therefore, the ‘view’ of things social is often straighter, saner and cleaner among ‘common’ folk’ than among over-cultured, hot-house specimens of ‘high-class’ humanity. A
t last she spoke, though a trifle hesitatingly:

  “Well I do think it’s shameful that Jacynth Miller should have been sitting up with your husband all night in your own house and in the very room next to you” — here her voice grew stronger with her excess of indignation— “For, of course, he was only pretending to be anxious about you and sorry for you that you might have no suspicions. You poor thing! Don’t you know?”

  Mrs. Kiernan sat suddenly upright, and put her thin work-worn hands to her head in a bewildered way.

  “God ‘elp me!” she muttered— “Don’t I know — what?”

  “Why, what half the village knows,” — said Azalea, desperately— “Oh, it is really so difficult to tell you! I thought the Vicar was the only one who did not guess the truth, he’s so simple and good! — and I had made up my mind to break it to him somehow, because it is disgraceful! — and now you are just as bad — nobody seems to have given you the least hint—”

  Mrs. Kiernan feebly caught her by the arm.

  “Tell me — tell me, quick!” she gasped— “It’s cruel keepin’ me like this — it’s cruel! What’s — what’s wrong?”

  “It’s all wrong!” and Azalea, rather scared by the distraught agony on the sick woman’s face, shook up the pillow and tried to make her lie down— “Now do rest comfortably! — you can’t make things any better by worrying yourself! It’s all wrong — nothing could be worse — at least not in my opinion — and if you will know it, it is just this, that your husband is perfectly crazy about Jacynth Miller — he meets her every day when he leaves his work, and they’re always seen about together — always! — and now they’ve actually passed the whole night together under your own roof — and you ill and knowing nothing about it! Why, it’s simply dreadful! — don’t you see how dreadful it is?”

  The poor creature’s mouth quivered, and large tears welled up in her tired eyes.

  “No, ma’am! — it’s not dreadful to me,” — she said, bravely choking back the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her strength— “Because — because I don’t believe it!”