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

by Marie Corelli

  Then I spoke up bravely and gladly, for me-seemed death must be beaten back by the force of true love.

  “I love thee!” I said— “Truly I love thee with all my heart and soul; and O, I do beseech thee to guard thy most dear life for my sake!” And my strength gave way and I wept bitterly.

  “My love, my Marjorie!” he murmured; and, taking me in his arms, he kissed me on the mouth and eyes, and pressed me strongly to his breast. And I thought: “If death came now to both of us how welcome it would be, for we should part no more!” And we were silent in that long and first embrace. At last my lover spoke.

  “My sweet one, I will doubly guard my life tomorrow night for thy sake, and, please Heaven, all will be well. It is rumoured that the Roundheads have laid an ambuscade in the forest, and purpose to surprise us; but have no fear, I am only one of many, and I doubt not that we shall be victors in the fray, if fray there be. But thou, my Marjorie, knowest thou what thou hast done? Thou hast pledged thy love to one in danger of death, and who can say if this has been well or wisely done?”

  “Nay, dearest,” I answered him, smiling, for I had grown suddenly full of hope and courage, “we are all in danger of death, and death will not take thee from thy love so soon. I shall welcome thee back in triumph, please God’s good mercy!”

  “Pray Heaven it may be so!” he said, with solemnity. “My loved one, thou wilt be true to me? for I may need to be absent from thee many weeks — thou wilt not regret thy vow of love — thou wilt keep my memory in thy heart?”

  “For ever!” I answered. “Doubt me not! I will love thee and be true to thee always — through life and after death! I swear to thee my faith!”

  “And I mine to thee,” he said. “As God heareth us, I am in soul thy husband, and thou my wife! And so Heaven guard us both, and the Divine will be done! Bless me, my Marjorie, before we part, and kiss my lips of thine own free will!”

  And I kissed and blessed him, and clung to him, sorrowing deeply; and he, commending me to the care of Heaven, went with me to the foot of the winding stair that led to my room. There, once more taking me in his arms, he said: “To-morrow night, my Marjorie, before this hour, thou wilt know the result of my mission. If fortunate, my messenger will bring thee tidings; if the reverse, I will come to thee myself. Ask me no more. Farewell, my gentle one! Love of my life, farewell!”

  And, as if he could trust himself no more in my presence, he turned, hurried away, and disappeared in the darkness of the hall, and I sped swiftly up the steep stair to my chamber, full of a strange confusion.

  My first care on reaching my room was to kneel down and offer up thanks to God for having given me so inestimable a gift as the love of this true and noble gentleman, and to pray for his safety in the dangerous duty he was called upon to perform. I passed a troubled night, my head being full of dreams and fantasies, and with the daylight my countenance looked pale and heavy. On descending to the morning meal, I found my mother weeping, and sorely affrighted, I asked her the cause.

  “Alas, child!” she said, “thy father, foolhardy as he is, hath equipped himself and gone with Percy to join in the escort to His Majesty through the forest tonight. I knew that their secret converse had some deep reason, but I never dreamed that thy father, at his advanced age, would leave me and thee, without a word of parting save this piece of writing which I hold.” And my poor mother, with sobs and tears continuing, gave me a scroll of paper on which was hastily written, in my father’s hand: “Blame me not, good wife, that I leave thee without farewell, for I dread thy tears and weakness more than a thousand armed Roundheads. His Sacred Majesty must be protected, and I go to help the gallant Percy in this honourable cause, though he would fain have left me behind. Embrace our child for me, and pray for my safe return, which, if all goes well, will be about midnight, for our duty consists but in guarding His Majesty to the forest boundary. Farewell, and God save King Charles!”

  My heart sank with dreary foreboding as I beheld my mother’s tears, though I urged myself to offer her the best consolation of which I was capable. Little did she dream of the sorrow that filled my mind all that fatal day, for though I desired most ardently my father’s safety, my dearest prayers and wishes were with my lover to whom I stood pledged. And almost did I loathe the King, for beseemed he was but one man, and not so much nobler and better than others, that so many brave gentlemen Cavaliers should shed their blood for his sake. And truly, I known not if I am disloyal, but, as disconsolate widows and orphans can testify, we owe many griefs to our late King Charles, and few joys.

  But it is meet that I should hasten on with this narrative of my suffering, which now approacheth to the bitter end. How that day passed with us I know not. My mother spoke little, and sighed oft, and, gazing constantly out of the window, we both watched for we knew not what.

  Day dragged slowly on, and lengthened into evening.

  The retainers served the supper on the board, and though we feigned to eat, it was a poor pretence. And when the meal was cleared, we again took our places by the window, and resumed our weary watching. The hours passed away, and still we remained, silently looking at the long shadows that the moon cast upon the greensward.

  It was a strangely still night; and the sound of the ancient timepiece in the hall striking eleven caused us to start as though an alarm had rung in our ears. My mother rose and came to me. She placed her hand on my neck — a hand so cold that I shivered at the touch, though it was a mild and balmy night.

  “Thinkest thou, Marjorie,” said she, in faint accents— “thinkest thou they will return in safety?”

  My heart ached for her. Her voice sounded feeble, and, in the uncertain light, her face was pale as the face of the dying.

  “Yes, sweetest mother!” I answered her, striving to speak with cheerfulness. “In a brief space we shall hear the ring of the horses’ hoofs upon the stone court, and we shall know our fears have all been vain and foolish. Only, I pray thee, look not so pale, for thou will fright my father when he enters. Thou must look gay and grave, as befits the wife of so noble a Cavalier.”

  “Ah!” sighed my mother, “and art thou so brave, my Marjorie? But it is easy for thou to be fearless; thou hast never loved!”

  I shuddered as with deadly cold, but said no more, and then followed a space of time during which we neither spoke nor moved, and the silence between us was a silence as of some unknown warning. It was broken by the sharp, ringing sound of a horse’s hoofs galloping furiously into the courtyard, and my mother and I sprang up and rushed out.

  “What ho!” called my father’s voice, in accents of loud impatience, “Send some of those lazy varlets hither! We have fought and dispersed the rascally Roundheads, but the gallant Percy lies wounded to death about a mile from here, and I must needs send help to bring him hither. What, Marjorie, Marjorie!” For I had sprung to my father’s bridle-rein and was beseeching him, I know not in what words, to take me beside him. “The horse will trample thee, girl! Art mad? Wife — Marjorie! Our Lady, help us! Is the child frantic?”

  “Father,” I cried desperately— “father, for the love of God, take me with thee! I must, I shall go!” And now came up my mother, dazed with tears and astonishment, and to her I turned with the calmness of despair. “Mother, I pray of thee to hear me! I am George Percy’s promised wife! Will ye deny me his last words?”

  Then my father stared wildly upon me, saying— “If this be true before God, I will take thee; but how can I believe so strange a tale?”

  “Thou knowest full well,” I said, “that I have never told thee a lie, my father, therefore waste no words, but let me go!”

  And, waiting no further parley, I put forth all my strength to reach the saddle. My mother clung to me, with sobs and tears, but it seemed as though I heard her not; while my father, as one in a dream, placed me before him; and so, followed by mounted servants bearing sundry matters of useful aid, we galloped away — I all unheeding that I had left the house without mantle or hood, and s
carce feeling the quickness of our movement, for it seemed we travelled far too slowly for the necessity that called us.

  Once methought my father kissed my brow and strove to put up in seemly order my unbound hair, but this was as though I might have dreamt such a thing had happened long ago. For I had but one fixed thought in my mind — it was that he, my lover, my promised husband, lay wounded unto death, and that with our utmost speed we might be too late. And on we galloped, till suddenly my father called aloud to his men behind, “Halt!” and drew rein. Dismounting, he lifted me from the saddle and assembled his servants together, leaving but one to care for the horses; and treading swiftly yet cautiously, we penetrated into the shadow of a cluster of elm-trees, through the leaves of which the moon shone softly.

  There, on the sward, lay the gallant Percy, and as I sprang to his side the moonbeams showed me how his life blood had soaked through the gay crimson of his vest, just where but the previous night my head had lain. And now, beholding the paleness and stillness of his countenance, my heart grew cold with anguish. I kissed his lips — I felt for the beating of his heart — all was still! I looked up, and saw my father and his retainers standing near me with bare heads bent low as though in prayer.

  “What!” I cried. “He is not dead — he cannot be dead, my father! Have ye brought remedy, and ye stand inert and foolish as though there were no help or hope? Lift his head! Oh, Percy, my love, my life!” And here I threw my arms wildly about that passive figure lying straightly on the sward. “Speak to Marjorie! — speak to me for the love of God!”

  A heavy silence followed, and I, looking once more upward, saw the cold stars pitilessly shining on my agony and on the noble dead face that seemed as though it smiled. Then it was as though dark, clutching fingers seized my throat — a noise as of a surging sea broke upon my ears. I grew blind and sick and feeble in all my limbs, and sank in a heavy swoon. I remember nothing of the time that followed, but when I came to sense and sight I was in my own chamber at home. My mother sat beside my couch, and wept when I spoke. But with my waking came the thought of my misery and loneliness, and I asked with tears; “Where — where have they laid him?”

  “Oh, my child,” murmured my mother, “if thou wouldst be but silent and calm! Think of me, thy mother, and cherish thy life, my daughter, for my sake!”

  “I will!” I answered, for her better content. “Only tell me where they have laid him!”

  “But a day has passed since he was brought here,” said my mother softly. “His body lies ready for burial in the eastern hall.”

  I was silent. The eastern hall was the place of my betrothal — it should be the scene of my only bridal! I knew then what I should do; but to compass my design I feigned to be at peace, and, telling my mother that I could sleep, I lay motionless, counting the minutes of the long afternoon, and watching it deepen into evening. About an hour after sunset my mother brought me food and wine, whereof I partook, to her joy and satisfaction.

  “Leave me, my mother,” then said I, “and let me have this night alone without thy anxious watching, for I can sleep far better, knowing thee also to be at rest, than if thou wert here through the long hours of the night, exposing thyself to anxiety and fatigue. Leave me” — and my voice faltered— “and I will pray for a better resignation to my sorrow, and so, by God’s help, to-morrow I shall be well!”

  And my mother, with many kisses and tears, embraced and left me.

  I passed the intervening time in prayer till all the household had gone to rest and unbroken silence reigned. Then I rose from my bed, but my limbs were so feeble I could scarcely stand to attire myself in the same white gown which I wore when I had listened to the vows of my first and only love. But with rest between-whiles at last I did succeed, and, placing a diamond ring of good value — my richest possession — on my finger, I opened my chamber door noiselessly, and, walking as swiftly as in my weakness I was able, I went to my marriage with the dead.

  Arriving at the eastern hall I looked not to right or left, but went unfalteringly up to the spot where I saw they had laid the body of the gallant Percy on an open bier. They had left him in the attire in which he fell — they had but placed a crucifix upon his breast and a wreath of bays at his feet, while over him was flung a dark velvet covering bordered with gold.

  So he lay, calm and cold and smiling, with uncovered visage, his drawn sword lying close to his right hand. And I, kneeling down, did solemnly vow my wifely troth, holding the dead hand of my love in mine own, and by good chance perceiving on his third finger a ruby signet ring, I drew the jewel therefrom with reverent care, and in lieu thereof did humbly place my diamond circlet. And so was my marriage with my love completed, and I was free to weep my fill of tears as I kissed again and again the cold and quiet countenance that I should see no more. And truly God knoweth it is great wonder my heart broke not as I looked my last upon my love, for scarce could I summon force to part from him, though well I knew his spirit lived and loved me with ever-quickening tenderness, and that this cold clay, so dear to me, was naught but a fair, empty casket from which the jewel had been taken.

  And hardly could I feel my way back to my chamber so blind was I and choked with tears; and when at last I reached it I could not rest upon my bed, but I knelt before my crucifix and prayed sore. And the morning came, and found me kneeling still.

  With the earliest twittering of the joyful birds, I heard the hushed tread of many feet passing under in the eastern hall. And then I knew they were carrying my bridegroom to his last rest, and so I moved not nor wept, but still continued in my prayer. After some time, I know not how long, there came a quiet step to my door. It opened, and my mother stood before me.

  “What, dressed, my Marjorie, and at thy prayers?” she said, embracing me. “Nay, that is well!”

  And I replied not, but suffered her to speak and lavish her caresses upon me. So, after a while, entered my father; and methought for so rugged and rough a man he was marvellous tender for me, for he gave way to tears, a thing whereat my mind was strangely perplexed. And when he spoke, it was still with a faltering voice.

  “The noble George Percy is at rest, my child,” he said. “And what thou hast told me must needs be true, for on the brave knight’s finger I saw thy diamond circlet. Fear not!” — for I had started up in dismay lest they should have moved my pledge of love from the dear, dead hand. “Fear not, my Marjorie! Thinkest thou thy father would commit a sacrilege? — for sacrilege it would have been to remove the token of love exchanged between ye! Thou hast his signet, I see! And yet my eyes must have been dim with age, or sorrow, or both, for I would have sworn I saw that ruby signet on his hand when we laid him on his bier last night. I must have erred; and so thy diamonds, Marjorie, lie buried with thy first love, who was, without denial, worthy of thy maiden affection. Yet thou must take heart, my child, and pray to God to give thee fortitude, and cheer thyself to know that thy two brothers, absent so long, have returned to their native land, and will be with us tomorrow. And George Percy lost his life in a noble cause, for His Sacred Majesty hath escaped his enemies for this time at least. Though if Percy had not fought single-handed with two of the crop-eared scoundrels who were upon us it would have gone hard with the King! I would give much to know the history of the brave gallant, for he gave me no details of his birth or family. It was in the name of King Charles our friendship commenced, and it has ended in sorry fashion, though little did I think that thou, my Marjorie, so young and tender, wert destined to this love and sorrow! But cheer thee, chear thee, sweetheart, and Our Lady bless and keep thee!”

  And my father blessed me solemnly and left me with my mother, to whom I said, “If it be possible, and thou lovest me, say no more of what has passed!”

  And my mother promised.

  So from that day my life was lived as one apart from earthly things. My brothers, two noble youths, dwelt with us at home, till both of them chose sweet wives, and wedded; and at the time I write now their children surrou
nd me, and call me “Aunt Marjorie.” My eldest nephew but yestereve brought me his promised bride, a sweet maid of eighteen summers old, to receive my blessing. My honoured father and mother lived unto a ripe old age, and passed away in the fullness of peace and trust in Christ. And now I thank Him who ordaineth all things that the time of my pilgrimage is nearly done. I have lived out my youth and my prime, and am declining slowly unto the rest for which I have long waited.

  While I was still young, many a worthy and true gentleman desired to have me to wife; but I was so sorely distressed at such approaches that in good time they ceased to trouble me. Once, indeed, my father and mother strove to make me consider deeply how much I wilfully lost by rejecting honourable profilers of marriage, and they used many gentle persuasions to move the resolve I had made in my heart. But to all their words I gave the sole reply that I was already wedded, and that if they truly believed our holy Christian creed, I was not to blame for keeping my troth where it was plighted; for at the last day, when parted spirits meet again, of a verity it would not beseem me to greet my love with a broken faith.

  And seeing me so resolved, they let me be, though truly I believe it was a cause of mourning to them to know that when they laid the gallant Percy in the grave they also buried their daughter’s heart and hope of happiness in this life.

  But how joyful it is to consider the briefness of this period of our existence! For all my being thrills with gladness as the days travel on apace, making this body of mine more feeble and weakened, while my soul groweth ever more strong and young. For full well I know how soon now I shall join my love whom I have loved so long and tenderly — and God be thanked that I can look into his radiant face fearlessly and say: “I have been true to thee, my beloved, even as I promised!”