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

by Marie Corelli

  “Yes, sir, but he said it was urgent.”

  “Somebody dying again!” sighed Azalea.

  Her husband made no answer to this, but quietly left the room. Brand was awaiting him in the study.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you so late in the evening, Mr. Everton,” he said— “But I thought I’d better come and tell you myself. Mrs. Kiernan—”

  “Is she worse?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Dead!” Everton stood amazed. There was a shock in the brevity of the announcement. “Dead! Why I thought she was getting well—”

  “So she was,” — and ‘Dr. Harry’ took two or three turns up and down the room in rather a perturbed way— “There was nothing at all in the nature of her physical injuries that should have killed her. It was worry — the woman fretted herself to death.”

  “When did she die?”

  “Just now, — half an hour ago. Mr. Everton,” — and the doctor spoke with sudden and emphatic earnestness— “We mustn’t think of charging Kiernan with having caused the death of his wife. One would be strongly inclined to do so, — but knowing all the facts—”

  He broke off, and again paced up and down restlessly.

  “It’s a wretched business!” he said, irritably— “I wish to God you had known the whole thing from the beginning, — then your wife would not have been mixed up in it—”

  “My wife!” The Vicar’s voice and face expressed utter and genuine bewilderment— “My wife!”

  “Well, it was your wife who told Mrs. Kiernan all about Dan’s fooling with Jacynth Miller, and of course it got on the poor creature’s mind — then, when Jacynth went away from the village the day before yesterday, Dan behaved like a madman and made a scene—”

  “Wait! — wait a minute!” and Everton put his hand to his forehead in a dazed way— “I don’t understand you. You say you wish I had known from the beginning. Known what?”

  Brand looked at him for a moment hesitatingly.

  “It’s not a pleasant story, Mr. Everton,” — he said, at last— “and I wish I hadn’t to tell it. The villagers have all been trying to hide it and hush it up — honestly I believe, only for the sake of the poor woman that’s gone, who was a decent, hard-working body. But here it is. Dan Kiernan has been Jacynth Miller’s lover for the past six months—”

  “Jacynth Miller! Kiernan her lover! Good God!” And Everton stared before him with strained unseeing eyes.

  “Naturally the women knew,” — went on Brand— “With all her cleverness Jacynth could not hide her guilt from them, — and Mrs. Everton was aware of it, — but I dare say she did not quite like to tell you. Anyhow, after Kiernan’s drunken attack on his wife, when Mrs. Everton went to visit her, she found — so I heard from Mrs. Adcott — that Jacynth had been up all night with Dan in the kitchen next to the room where Mrs. Kiernan lay ill. And she was so horrified and indignant that she told the truth to Mrs. Kiernan then and there — which I think was an unfortunate move.”

  Everton had been listening as though he were lost in a dream.

  “And then?” he queried, in a level tone of voice— “What happened?”

  “Nothing — except that Mrs. Adcott begged her not to mention the miserable scandal to you, till Mrs. Kiernan got well — and she promised. But the trouble of it is, Mrs. Kiernan never really rallied thoroughly — she was sometimes better and sometimes worse — and the finish of it all came when it was known that Jacynth had gone—”

  “Gone!” repeated Everton— “She has gone?”

  “Yes, — no one knows where.”

  There was a brief silence. Then the Vicar spoke.

  “I am sorry,” — he said gently, “very sorry I did not hear, or find out all this for myself, before. I should — I should have understood better how to act. It is very difficult for the clergyman of a parish to make his influence felt, or his presence useful, if he is purposely kept in the dark concerning matters which ought, rightly, to be brought to his attention. I do not easily suspect evil” — and a slight flush warmed the pallor of his face— “and it may be that I, — I myself, am possibly to blame for the incident of Jacynth Miller’s staying the night in Kiernan’s cottage, while his wife was ill, — for I chanced to meet her in the village on the day the assault took place, and she told me she could and would keep Dan away from the drink—”

  “Of course she could and would!” interposed Brand, grimly. “As long as he had her, he wanted no other poison!”

  “I had no idea,” — went on Everton, rather sadly— “I could not have possibly imagined or thought for a moment that a girl like Jacynth, — for, with all her recklessness she seemed to me to have some refinement about her — would have allowed herself to be compromised by such a man as Kiernan—”

  “There are certain women who love brutes,” — said Brand— “And Kiernan is a brute. But he is a fine brute, and that’s all that Jacynth Miller cares about. She has no sentiment of any kind. I dare say that type of woman is new to you, — but it’s common to me. Doctors see more than clergymen. And as for ‘refinement’ — well! — if Jacynth has any of that about her it’s the refinement of vice, which is particularly odious. Perhaps I ought to have told you what was going on—”

  “I wish you had,” answered Everton, gravely.

  The doctor looked at him meditatively.

  “Well, I don’t think it would have helped the situation,” he said— “And it isn’t my business to report the moral backslidings of the Shadbrook people. They’re no better and no worse, so far as I can make out, than other folks in lonely country villages, and from a perfectly common-sense and matter-of-fact point of view, I don’t believe any very great harm would have been done, if Mrs. Everton had not, most unluckily, spoken to Mrs. Kiernan of her husband’s infatuation for the Miller girl. Nobody would have said anything — Jacynth would have gone away, as she has gone now — she always wanted to go away, and it was what she was planning and intending to do — not out of shame for herself or sorrow — oh no! — don’t think that at all! — but merely because she was tired of Dan and his amorous jealousies, and thought she would like a change. Mrs. Kiernan would have recovered I’m sure, — and Dan might have still made her a fairly good husband, as such husbands go. But now I expect there’ll be mischief.”

  “Simply because my wife did what she thought was her duty to do?” queried Everton, with coldly sparkling eyes.

  ‘Dr. Harry’ smiled somewhat sadly.

  “Duty — or what we sometimes call duty — is not always a safe guide,” — he said— “We sometimes — even the best of us — mistake it. I’m sure that Mrs. Everton meant to be kindness itself when she warned Mrs. Kiernan of what was going on, — but it would have been better to have left the poor creature in ignorance. As matters stand — I’m afraid—”

  He broke off, and walked up and down reflectively.

  “You’re afraid — of what?” demanded Everton.

  Brand stood still and faced him.

  “Well, I’m afraid things may be made unpleasant for your wife,” — he said— “She’s not a fit person to contend with rustic boors, and if I were you I should not let her go alone into the village for a while. She might get insulted —

  The Vicar looked, as he felt, completely bewildered.

  “Insulted?” he echoed— “What do you mean?”

  “Simply this. Dan Kiernan is a brute, as you know, and in his brutish fury, which is more for the loss of Jacynth Miller than anything else, he swears that Mrs. Everton has killed his wife, and that he’ll have vengeance for it.”

  “Killed his wife!” exclaimed Everton, aghast— “What! Azalea? Azalea, who would not hurt a fly? The man must be mad!”

  “Probably he is,” — answered Brand— “But madmen are dangerous. I assure you, Mr. Everton, Dan is an ugly customer. Leave him alone. Don’t offer him any condolence on his wife’s death — he won’t understand it. If,” — here the doctor folded his arms and looked Everton squa
rely in the face— “if you could realize the condition of a tiger deprived of its mate and its prey together at one and the same moment, you might have some idea of Dan Kiernan’s present humor. He’s on the drink too — and there’s no one to keep him away from it. If you decide to see him yourself, that is, of course, your affair, though I think it will be most unwise — but for Heaven’s sake don’t let your wife go anywhere near him!”

  Everton’s eyes expressed a great wonder and sorrow.

  “My wife!” he said, pitifully— “Poor little woman! She has done him no harm!”

  “He thinks she has,” — and the doctor looked away for a moment from the clergyman’s pale, puzzled face, “And thinking, as we all know, is more than half believing. He has made up his mind that if she had not told his wife about Jacynth and himself, nothing would have happened. Mrs. Kiernan would have lived, — and Jacynth would have stayed on in the village. Of course it’s true enough that there’s often an extraordinary lot of mischief caused by talk, — no end of trouble might be avoided by keeping a still tongue in one’s head—”

  “Dr. Brand,” interposed Everton, with gentle dignity —

  “I am quite sure my wife had not the slightest idea of causing any mischief or distress to poor Mrs. Kiernan or to any one. I don’t know what she said, — she has not told me a word about it — but I am sure she meant everything in the best and kindest manner. She never gave me the least hint of what you tell me concerning Kiernan and Jacynth Miller — and, naturally, I myself should never have suspected it—”

  He paused, moved by a sudden revulsion of feeling. For one fleeting instant Jacynth’s beautiful face and brilliant eyes flashed before him like a picture in a dream, — and the thought that she — she with all her youth and winsome loveliness should have consented to become the wanton partner of Dan Kiernan’s vices, revolted his every sense to the verge of nausea. He steadied his nerves by an effort.

  “I am very sorry for all this trouble,” — he went on quietly, “Sorrier than I can express in words! I suppose I am very dense, — but I have always believed in the goodness rather than the badness of my fellow-creatures, — and I had hoped to see even Dan Kiernan turn out a nobler fellow than he seemed. As for Jacynth Miller — I knew she was vain of her beauty, and heartless to the corresponding measure of her vanity — but I never thought she was,” — he broke off, — then with a slight sigh, continued —

  “Perhaps I had better not speak of her. I will tell my wife what you say, — I shall understand the whole situation better when I have talked it out with her, — but I shall let nothing interfere with the course of my duty — you may be sure of that.”

  The doctor looked at him kindly.

  “Well, don’t exceed your duty, that’s all, Mr. Everton,” — he said— “Leave well — or ill — alone for the present. Don’t in this case offer your sympathy or service till you’re asked for either. Let the storm blow over first,-or, in other words, let Dan Kiernan drink himself to death if he likes! — don’t interfere!”

  “Rather singular advice!” murmured Everton, faintly smiling, “And not in keeping with Christian charity.”

  “Christian charity is out of place in some quarters,” — answered Brand, gloomily— “So is Christian forgiveness. General Gordon forgave the treacherous rascal who afterwards trapped and killed him. Certain races don’t understand forgiveness, or kindness either. And drunkards are not, in my opinion, of any race at all. They are an artificial, monstrous spawn of the bottle and the beer-cask, and the less one has to do with such microbes of disease, the better.” He paused, — then went on in a cheerier tone— “Well, good-night, Mr. Everton! I’m sorry I had to come up at so late an hour, but I thought it would be the wisest course to tell you myself just how things stood—”

  “It’s very kind of you,” — said Everton, shaking hands with him— “Forewarned is always forearmed, and though I do not anticipate any serious trouble with Dan Kiernan, still I shall keep an eye on him. I’m sure my wife will be quite shocked to hear of poor Mrs. Kiernan’s death — we had no idea her condition was so serious—”

  “It wasn’t serious,” — said Brand— “Not really serious in the way of actual danger to life till — till she knew. Good-night!”

  In another couple of minutes he had left the house, and Everton, with a slow step and troubled countenance, returned to the drawing-room where his wife was still at the piano singing ‘coon’ songs. She saw by his manner that something was wrong, and springing up from the music-stool ran two or three steps to meet him.

  “What’s the matter — ?” she began.

  He took her hands gently in his own.

  “My dear child,” — he said— “Why didn’t you tell me about Jacynth Miller and Dan Kiernan?”

  A hot blush crimsoned her face and neck.

  “I couldn’t, Dick! It seemed too horrid! And you were so unsuspecting — and you thought the girl had some good in her—”

  He sighed heavily.

  “I did, — I certainly did think so!” he said— “But, Azalea, if you couldn’t tell me, your husband, was it quite necessary for you to tell Mrs. Kiernan?”

  She opened her eyes in genuine wonderment at his question.

  “I thought so, certainly,” — she replied— “Under all the circumstances, I felt it was the proper thing to do! But I promised the woman who was nursing her — Mrs. Adcott — that I would not say a word to you about it till she got better—”

  Again he sighed.

  “She will never get better,” — he said, sorrowfully— “My dear, she is dead!”

  “Dead!” The delicate rose-tint of the pretty face so close to his own, paled into sudden whiteness.

  “Oh, Dick! I’m — I’m so sorry!”

  And like the emotional little creature she was, she began to cry.

  “I’m sure,” she whimpered, “I’m sure I never thought she was so ill as all that! I wouldn’t have told her—”

  He drew her into his arms, and stroked her shining hair soothingly.

  “That’s just it, darling! — of course you wouldn’t have told her! I know you wouldn’t. Forgive me if I say you shouldn’t have told her. I don’t often scold you, little one, do I? — and this is my only word — you shouldn’t have told her! But you didn’t think — you didn’t think—”

  He kissed her and held her tenderly, while she wept and rubbed her eyes and made her little nose red, after the fashion of a vexed child. And half vaguely he wondered how many troubles in the world could be set down to that first cause ‘Didn’t Think.’ In nine cases out of ten, the statesmen who have led their nations into war ‘didn’t think,’ — the millions of bitter and slanderous tongues that have broken millions of loving hearts had ‘Didn’t Think’ behind them, — and half the mistakes, cruelties and evils of mankind could be put down to ‘Didn’t Think,’ if all the truth were known.

  “When — when did she die?” murmured Azalea presently.

  “To-night. Dr. Brand came up here to tell me — and — to warn me—”

  “To warn you?” She looked at him with startled wet eyes.

  “Yes. To warn me against Dan Kiernan. He is on the drink again — and is dangerous, — more dangerous than ever, so it appears now Jacynth Miller has gone.”

  “Jacynth Miller gone? Where?”

  “No one knows.”

  Here he released her from his arms and walked slowly up and down the room. Presently he stopped again and faced her. “It seems an awful thing to say to you, Azalea, but I suppose you must know it, — Brand wants you to keep away from the village just now — for a few days at any rate.”

  “Wants me to keep away? Me?” she exclaimed— “But why?”

  “For a reason that is almost too horrible and unnatural to think of!” and Everton’s voice trembled with indignation as he spoke— “Dan Kiernan says you have killed his wife — you, my poor little Azalea! — and swears he’ll have vengeance for it — now there! — don’t look so
frightened!”

  For at his words, she had dropped on the sofa in a small huddled heap,’ her dainty tea-gown falling about her in cloudy folds, from which her face peered pallidly like that of a ghost.

  “Killed his wife!” she whispered, with white lips —

  “He says! I have killed his wife! Oh, Dick, Dick!”

  And she stretched out her arms to him— “Let me go away! Don’t let me stay here! It’s too awful!”

  She seemed about to faint, and the terrified expression of her eyes alarmed him.

  “My dearest, you mustn’t take it in this way,” — he said, sitting down beside her, and putting an arm round her waist— “The man is an habitual drunkard and doesn’t know half his time what he’s talking about. The fact is he killed his wife himself — no one else had any hand in it—”

  “I’m not so sure — oh, I’m not so sure!” and she shuddered violently— “She had not a word to say against him — she loved him! Even when I told her what I had heard, and what I knew about Jacynth Miller, she wouldn’t believe it — oh, Dick! It’s my fault! — it’s my fault, really! — I know it is! — it is through me that the poor woman has died!”

  And she suddenly gave way to an outbreak of hysterical weeping, uttering little gasping cries and sobs that convulsed her whole slight frame. Everton was in despair. He knew not what to say that would comfort her — he could only hold her in his arms and try to soothe her by murmured words of love, mingled with kisses and caresses.

  “You must send me away — oh, you will send me away!” she sobbed— “I’m afraid — I’m afraid of Dan Kiernan! He’ll say something cruel to me — he will, Dick! — oh, don’t let him come near me — don’t! I never meant any harm — but though I never meant it, I see I have done it! — and I shall never get over it, Dick, never! How can I go on living in Shadbrook after this? Oh, Dick! — to think that I — your wife — should be so dreadfully accused! I must go away! — darling, you will let me go away at once, won’t you? — I and Baby and Nurse — we will all go together to the sea-side for a while till this trouble is over— “And as she spoke she dried her eyes, choked down her tears, and looked hopefully at him— “Let us start to-morrow morning!” —