And now to conclude this poor history. I do counsel all maidens to beware how they lightly receive the inestimable gift of love. For it is the greatest of all blessings — the richest of all possessions — and cometh directly from the hands of God, who will not suffer us to treat His benefits as of small account, without due punishment.
And I most heartily thank my Creator for the quiet happiness and peace in which I have passed my life — for the friends with whom I have had pleasant intercourse — for all the blessings which are too many and great for me to justly number. But of all gifts and benefits to me unworthy, I praise Him most for having given me the power to keep my faith to my love unbroken to the end!
(Signal) MARJORIE LESLEY November, 1693.
* * * * *
At the close of the manuscript there followed these words in a different handwriting:
“This same Marjorie died on the sacred vigil of the Nativity of our Blessed Lord, 1693, full of faith, hope, and surpassing joy and peace, so much so that they who stood around her bed ready to weep were perforce restrained by amazement at the exceeding rapture and youthful beauty of her countenance which, as the last breath passed her lips, became fair and lovely as that of a maid of seventeen, and so remained when she was laid upon her bier.
“And by her own desire, expressed in her last words, her body was interred beside that of one George Percy, to whom she had been betrothed in youth, a knight who met his death in a midnight scuffle, fighting for the late King Charles. Upon the third finger of her left hand she wore this knight’s ruby signet, which jewel was buried with her.
“All the people of the country followed her remains to the grave, for truly it seemed she had lived so holy and pure a life that she was honoured by the poorer classes as a saint. And so, though it was a cold season on Christmas mom the turf above the graves of her and the knight whom she had loved could scarce be seen for flowers that had been brought from all parts of the county by rich and poor, as offerings of reverence and affection.
“Therefore it would appear that she was an exceeding noble and virtuous gentlewoman, and so she will ever remain in the memory of all those her relatives and friends who knew her qualities, and who constantly commend their souls to her gentle intercession as well as to all parted saints, to whom, through God, be due praise and glory for ever!”
So ended the simple old-world chronicle. As I finished reading it, the thick boughs above me swayed whisperingly in a soft wind, and the clear, bright note of a happy thrush calling to its mate sent a throb of music through the air. I looked up from where I lay in the hammock, with the close web of luscious leaves over my head — cool and deep and darkly green, with flecks of light crossing the shadows, and thought of Marjorie Lesley and her lover — her happiness of one night, and her years of patient loneliness — and then the exquisite lines of Keats repeated themselves within my memory like the cadence of a song:
“For truly I would rather be struck dumb
Than speak against this ardent listlessness,
For I have ever thought that I might bless
The world with benefits unknowingly;
As does the nightingale, up-perched high
And cloistered among cool and bunched leaves,
She sings but to her love, nor e’er conceives
How tiptoe Night holds back her dark grey hood —
Just so may Love, although ’tis understood
The mere commingling of passionate breath
Produce more than our searching witnesseth!”
Even so it may! But to fall out of the “crystal dear empyrean” of a perfect faith unbroken, and find oneself on the hard highroad of modern life, with its cycling, racing, gambling, betting, unloving and unlovable women, who change their loves as capriciously as they change their gowns, and whom not even the sacred vow of marriage can restrain from open licentiousness openly flaunted, is as great a shock as it is to turn from Addison’s “Spectator” to the latest halfpenny rag of “up-to-date” journalism. Reading the information on matters both public and private, served up to us in our daily Press, can we truly believe in love at all nowadays?
And if we can, do we? Is there a “Marjorie Lesley” to be found among the gracefully flippant, cold-eyed débutantes at the Buckingham Palace “Courts”? One who, having plighted her troth to her first love, would or could remain faithful to her pledge even though he to whom she gave it were dead? Under all the satins, chiffons, and jewels beats there one such simple, loyal heart? Would not such a love be made a mere subject for idle mockery, even if it existed? And would not any woman capable of remaining unwedded all her life for the sake of it be jeered at by her own sex as an “old maid” in the ape-like derision of the majority for something higher and nobler than themselves? I fear so! For the days of Marjorie Lesley are not our days!
Her ideas of love and constancy differed widely from ours, and her sentiments of honour and fidelity to her first love were as “old-fashioned” as ours are rapid, vapid, and wholly unworthy of the hallowing touch of a lasting remembrance. Sweet, foolish Marjorie! She had not the “arts” to calculate that perhaps if her “gallant Percy” had lived he might have proved false and unworthy! To devote one’s life to the mere shadow of a love-dream seems, when viewed by our latter-day notions, eminently impractical; yet there is something beautiful in it, something which we cannot despise in the memory of a woman who lived so purely, so simply, and so faithfully! And, despite the appalling personal selfishness and “push” of the present day, there is surely room for such women still. Perhaps, indeed, there was never so much chance for them to display their goodness as now. It is a doubting age; all the more need for the sweet prayer of faith from pure lips. It is a murky time, all the more reason for the light of stars. Mammon rules the hour; all the more radiantly would the light of a loyal, unselfish love burn in those grim Halls of Eblis, the haunts of modern society — where, as in the tale of “Vathek,” all cover their hearts with their hands, lest the gnawing flames of vanity, ambition, avarice, and pride should be seen. And, among many new fashions, perhaps the “old-fashioned” way of love is best!
BROWN JIM’S PROBLEM
BROWN JIM was an ordinary miner, with no aspiration to be anything more. He was a big, hulking, long-limbed fellow, with a skin so darkened by the sun that he seemed almost a mulatto, though he was truly a “white” man— “white” in more senses than one. He was the chief authority on manners and morals in a certain mining camp where for years men had been digging for gold, with unsatisfactory results. There was a rich vein somewhere, but so far it had not been found. All sorts of nationalities, ages, and dispositions had gathered in that camp from time to time. None of them seemed to care very much whether they stayed on or went away quickly, or whether the quartz crushed in the mill was rich or poor; they went on with their labours monotonously, and took their weekly pay from the taciturn director of the “works,” who appeared to live in a little office like a signal-box, as monotonously and resignedly as themselves. Brown Jim, however, was not quite like the rest of his mates. Nobody knew where he came from; he was a good worker, and of peaceable, contented, sober habits, and that was sufficient for all purposes. “Brown” he was called by reason of his tanned complexion, which gave curious effect to the clear blue of his eyes — eyes like those of a sailor accustomed to look a long way off. And by general consent he had been voted to take care of and play the host to a stranger who had strayed into the camp, partly by chance, partly through sheer exhaustion and craving for food. Brown Jim, lean and ungainly, had surveyed the wanderer from head to foot with an immediate perception of his calling and election, but had forborne all question or comment till he had fed him sufficiently to recover his weakening equilibrium; then he had said curtly:
“You’re a Gospeller, aren’t you?”
The stranger smiled deprecatingly.
“I’m a missionary,” he answered, “if that’s what you mean.”
Brown Jim nodded.
&n
bsp; “That’s what I mean. You’re the cut for it. Poor, weak little shaveling! Your friends ought to know better than to let you go wandering about the world with naught but the Bible to keep you going! What’s your name?”
The “little shaveling” replied at once, and frankly: “Matheson — John Matheson. I preach in camps and read to the men—”
“Oh, you do, do you? Well, you’d better not preach here, nor read, neither — the boys won’t stand it; but you can tell stories if you like.”
“Can I?” And the missioner smiled again. He was not a bad sort, and he liked this big lumbering man with the dark face and blue eyes. “What sort of stories?”
Brown Jim considered.
“Well, I s’pose they’d better be love stories!” he said. “There ain’t much love about here, and the boys get a bit hungry for wimin now and ag’in. Yes, they’d better be love stories!”
Matheson, who, when he was at home, was a Methodist preacher, hummed and hawed, and tried to look severe.
“I’m afraid I don’t know any!” he confessed.
Brown Jim glanced at him disdainfully.
“Say!” he exclaimed. “Don’t you play old hide and seek with me. Don’t know any love stories? Where were ye born? Why, if ye were a bear in the Rockies you’d know a love story and growl it. Come, I don’t take that. If ye don’t know any love story you’ll have to make one. I’m just nuts on love!”
Matheson looked at him as he spoke in a kind of timorous amazement. The man was a giant in build and muscle — one that seemed capable of felling a tree with a couple of blows. It was the quaintest thing In the world to hear him say he was “nuts on love.” But a stray missioner in a wild part of Arizona, finding himself with a section of more or less lawless humanity, has little opportunities to argue niceties and conventions, and so it came to pass that John Matheson, known in some parts of his native state as a “pulpit thumper,” accommodated himself to the wishes of “Brown Jim,” who advised him that this was the only way to pay for his entertainment, food, and sleeping accommodation; and for about a week managed to please his rough audience by abridged versions of world-famous love stories, beginning with “Romeo and Juliet” and coming down to the latest tragedies of disillusioned romance he could find or remember in the “sensational” Press. The men for the most part listened in solemn silence — it was impossible to tell whether they were interested or bored; but on the last evening he spent in camp he took it upon himself to thank them for their friendliness, and to ask if he might “put up a prayer” for them all before he bade them farewell. No one raised an objection. They all sat round him, smoking in an imperturbable calm, while he, moved by a sudden fervour, knelt down and prayed for these “labouring souls of men” — that not one might be lost, but that all might be saved and brought into the heaven of the Father. And as he “wrestled” in his prayer a great and eager tenderness overwhelmed his mind. He looked at the brawny figures, the work-worn, furrowed faces, and thought of their hard, poorly recompensed toil — day after day the same thing — day after day, and no respite from the grinding of the quartz and the measuring of the gold! What uplifting influence was here to make these men all they might have been with a different sort of environment? And yet — was he any happier? He, with his poor health, his weak will, his vague efforts after an utmost good which he had not sufficient intelligence to define — was he any higher, any nearer to the goal of a perfect nobleness than any of these rough miners, smoking sedately and thinking unutterable things? He ended his prayer with an inward sigh and a sensation as of tears in his throat, and as he rose from his knees Brown Jim nodded encouragingly.
“That was well prayed!” he said. “It won’t be your fault, mister, if some of us boys don’t feel the tickle of the angels’ wings growing. Eh, lads?” And he looked comprehensively round the circle of smokers. Some of them nodded — one or two smiled sheepishly — but none resented the prayer; though all seemed glad it was over. Brown Jim got up, shaking himself like a big retriever. “Now, boys,” he continued, “this love-story teller will be on his way off in the morning, so you’ll not see him again mebbe in this world. Say good-night and good-bye. I’m taking him round to my shanty to sleep so I’ll be able to put him on the right road at sunrise.”
One by one the men rose, and gravely shook hands with Matheson. For the most part they were mute, though here and there a young fellow shyly murmured, “Thank you for your stories,” or “Hope you’ll get safe,” or “Wish you luck.” But otherwise the adieus were entirely undemonstrative. Brown Jim then strode away, Matheson following, to his own private dwelling, a wooden hut situated on a bit of clearing which commanded an open view of the surrounding country. Once inside he said —
“Now, sit down, Mister Prayer-man, and talk to me a bit. Ever since you’ve been here I’ve wanted to ask you a question. If you could answer it you’d take a weight off my mind and save me a powerful deal o’ thinking.”
Matheson, still heart-warm with his pious petitions, looked at his companion sympathetically.
“Anything I can do—” he began.
“Oh, it isn’t anything you can do,” retorted Jim, impatiently. “So far as I’ve seen you can’t do nothing for anybody except walk round with the Bible and tell a few stories. But you could just say what you think might be the truth — the whole truth — for to me ’tis a problem.”
He ruffled his dark hair with one hand, and his blue eyes filled with a yearning and wistful expression.
“You see, ’tis this way,” he went on. “I’m a lone man, and, so far as I know, I never had a soul belonging to me. I was a foundling, and all I ever heard of myself was that I was found on a doorstep in Fifth Avenue.” He laughed and seemed whimsically amused. “Fifth Avenue! Great Scott! If I saw Fifth Avenue as a baby I’ve never seen it since. Well, let the between parts go to blazes. It’s enough to say that I’ve been working all my life at all sorts of jobs, but never settled down anywhere, and so nobody ever cared for me, nor I ever cared for nobody. Now, this is my pro-blem.” And he emphasized the word. “You being a Gospeller ought to know how to settle it. You’ve just been praying for the boys out there, and hoping they’ll all get to the ‘heaven of the Father.’ Now, what’s heaven?”
The “Gospeller” almost jumped off the bench whereon he was seated, the question was so sudden and unexpected.
“W-what’s heaven?” he stammered. Then, recovering his self-possession, he said: “Heaven is a state of perfect goodness, happiness, peace. Heaven is the next world where we go when we die — a beautiful world where we shall meet all those we love and who have loved us.”
Brown Jim held up a finger.
“Stop right there,” he interrupted, “because there’s my pro-blem. Take it well in! I’ve never had any one to love, and no one has ever loved me. There you are. What’s the good of my going to heaven? There isn’t anybody there that knows me! I’d be among strangers.”
Matheson’s little round eyes opened in wide perplexity. This was a position which had never occurred to him. He had always taken it for granted that everybody must have someone in heaven, loved and lost on earth — mother, father, sister, brother, friend, sweetheart, or child. Now, here was a man who declared he had nobody there that knew him. Well, what was he to say? Brown Jim, seeing his embarrassment, went on:
“I’d be among strangers, and ye know how downhearted and a bit shy you’re bound to feel when ye goes right into a strange world and find everybody looking at ye as though you’d no business to come. Then, again, I take it heaven is a world where they’re all good, powerful good. Now, I’ve never met a mortal man, nor woman neither, that’s good enough for such a place. I’m not — that’s clear enough! I haven’t been a bad chap — that’s to say, I’ve never murdered anybody or done a woman any wrong; but, all the same, I don’t stick up for being any better than any of the boys outside. So, you see, it’s hardly any use my trying to get to heaven, because it wouldn’t be a pleasant place to me, knowing n
obody.”
Matheson coughed, and made strange noises in his throat to cover his uneasy reluctance to speak.
“You put the case very oddly,” he said at last. “I’m not sure that you should think of heaven in quite such a personal light.”
“Wait a bit,” interposed Jim, stuffing tobacco into his pipe and beginning to smoke with leisurely enjoyment. “I like to be fair and square all round. There’s the other place— ‘tain’t polite to mention it, though all the Gospellers talk a deal about it — it’s hell. Well, now, there’s a world for you! So far as I can make out, it’s all raging fire down there, and everyone is roasted and boiled or, if preferred, grilled and fried. There’s devils putting on coals all the time, and keeping the furnace going. Now, with me it’s the same pro-blem as heaven. I don’t know anybody in hell. If I went there I should be among strangers just the same; kinder lonesome among the devils. They wouldn’t know me well enough to put me on the coals. And I’ve never come across any one, man or woman, who’s bad enough to be roasted and fried for ever and ever. No! By all the blessed saints!” And he brought his huge brown fist down upon his knee with an emphatic thump. “I can say that fair and free.
I’ve never known any poor human creature bad enough to deserve being stuck on a devil’s toasting-fork!”
Matheson, feeble of nerve and confused in mind, felt almost stunned at the explicit and peremptory tone of this assertion.
“So y’see,” went on Brown Jim more calmly, “I’m in a sort of fix. I don’t know anybody either in heaven or in hell. I couldn’t shake hands with anybody in one place or t’other. And I tell ye what, there must be thousands like me. I’m not the only foundling that’s been left on a Fifth Avenue doorstep. And what I want to know is just this: What’s to become of me when I get off this planet? I want to go where I can meet friends somewhere. That’s nat’ral, ain’t it? You’re a Gospeller, and you ought to be able to tell me something about it.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 950
