Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “You knows that’s right enough! Bein’ parson doan’t save ye from bein’ a man. You preaches justice an’ ekal rights for rich an’ poor, but when it comes to tryin’ the game on square, you doan’t want your own wife blamed though mine’s lyin’ dead! An’ wheer’s the right an’ justice o’ that?” He threw up one hand with a defiant snap of his fingers, adding— “An’ all the bloomin’ fuss about a gel too! By the Lord! — as ef gels worn’t as cheap an’ common as blackberries on a hedge, waitin’ for men to gather ’em, an’ turnin’ sour too ef they ain’t gathered when ripe! What’s to do with ’em, I say? Let ’em rot? Or take ’em when they’re offered free?”

  Everton stood still and listened. There was a curious tension in the air like the oppressive sense of heat before thunder, and he waited with an irritated sense of impatience for the lightning-flash of a woman’s name.

  “Some gels likes men, an’ some doan’t,” — went on Dan— “Them as doan’t keeps off clear — them as does comes to the first whistle. An’ there’s gels as turns yer ‘ed silly more’n the drink, wi’ their looks an’ their smiles an’ their ‘dears’ an’ their ‘darlins’,’ an’ I doan’t mind tellin’ you an’ everybody else in the hull village that I went fair ‘mazed an’ crazy over Jacynth Miller.”

  Here he paused and seemed to gather himself into a black brooding cloud of anger. Everton remained standing in the same position and place, coldly attentive.

  “What the h — ll was it to you,” — burst forth Kiernan again, “whether I ‘ad the gel or she ‘ad me? What call ‘ad your missus to go muddlin’ an’ meddlin’ an’ tellin’ tales to mine? I’ve as good a right to ‘ave a gel as any man, an’

  I ain’t bound to ask leave of the parson neither!”

  Everton’s lips were dry, and he found it difficult to speak.

  A feverish tremor ran through his veins, — savage instincts such as he hardly knew he possessed, stirred within him, urging him to throw himself upon this boorish brute and shake him into utter speechlessness, — and it was only by the strongest possible effort that he maintained his self-control.

  “You are certainly not bound to ask a parson or any one else for leave to do anything,” — he said, at last, slowly, in accents of irrepressible scorn— “You are a free man in a free country, as men and countries go. You can commit as many sins as you like, — you can disgrace yourself and others — you can indulge in every sort of vice and abomination — you can drink yourself to death, if you decide to do so — and no other man can hinder you. But you are answerable to God for your conduct!”

  Kiernan laughed insolently.

  “God! Oh, that’s all right! I doan’t mind God! He doan’t interfere. He’s made men to mate wi’ wimmin, an’ wimmin to mate wi’ men, an’ ‘ow they do’t doan’t matter to ’im as long as ’tis done! God didn’t look out o’ the sky an’ say ‘Jacynth, doan’t ye go wi’ Dan!’ — or ‘Dan, doan’t ye go wi’ Jacynth!’ not ’e! There ain’t no nonsense o’ that kind in all creation ‘cept wi’ parsons an’ district visitors! Mind though, I woan’t say but that ef Jacynth ‘ad a’ bin a straight gel I’d a’ left ‘er alone — but she was born a reg’lar bad ‘un, as sweet as ‘ony an’ as coaxin’ as a kitten, an’ she’d a’ took any man she wanted. It ‘appened to be me — but it might a’ just as easy ‘appened to be you!”

  The Vicar drew his breath quickly and his eyes grew dark with repressed pain. But he said not a word in reply.

  “It might just as easy ‘appened to be you,” — repeated Dan, taking a sort of stupid satisfaction in the assertion— “One was as good as t’other to Jacynth. She’d a’ took any one she ‘ad a mind to. She fancied me — an’ I was the fust one — yes! — I was fust!” and he gave vent to a low snigger— “She can’t get over that whatever she doos an’ wheerever she goes. An’ the actor fellow she’s gone with now is the second, — much good may it do ’im! But ef she’d stayed on in the village, she’d a’ got every man she wanted, an’ she’d a’ ‘ad you as sure as you’re alive! She said as much to me once when she wanted to rile me. ‘I’ll make love to the parson some day, Dan, see ef I doan’t!’ sez she, an’ she pulls the pins out of ‘er ‘air an’ lets it all fall about ‘er, enuff to drive a chap silly — I’ll look at ’im so!’ an’ she makes a cherry of ‘er mouth, an’ twinkles ‘er big eyes—’ An’ I’ll ketch ‘old of ’im so,’ — an’ she puts ‘er arms round my neck—’ An’ when ’e goes to read the prayers in church, ‘e’ll see nothin’ but my face at the altar!’ That’s what she said, Gospel true! An’ she’d a’ kep’ ‘er wurrd!”

  Still Everton was silent. He was very pale, but he stood motionless. He had nothing to say. No argument was possible with such a man as this.

  “No one carn’t swear as she worn’t the finest gel any-wheers on the Cotswolds,” went on Kiernan— “As pretty as the devil could make ‘er, an’ as skeery an’ gay as a young colt thoroughbred. An’ ef it’s agin God’s will that a gel should take to a man an’ a man to a gel, why doan’t ’e show it? Why doan’t ’e talk to the birds an’ the beasts an’ tell ’em they’re all a-goin’ to ‘ell? They doos what we’re told not to do, — an’ it’s all rot an’ mawky stuff so far as a man’s consarned, for a man’s a man wi’ the ways of a man, an’ ef you worn’t a parson, you’d be ‘onest an’ say the same. I ain’t done no more ‘arm than a burrd what picks out a new mate every spring.”

  He paused, waiting for Everton to speak, while Everton himself vaguely wondered what he was expected to say. At last he forced himself into utterance.

  “When you married your wife,” he said, coldly— “You swore before God to be faithful to her, did you not?”

  Dan’s eyes shifted to and fro uneasily.

  “Mebbe I did,” — he answered, sullenly— “But there ain’t no man in the hull wurrld as sticks to one woman.” Then, meeting the Vicar’s straight, accusing glance, he burst out savagely:— “There ain’t, I say! Ay, ye may look an’ look at me till yer eyes falls out o’ yer ‘ed an’ it woan’t make no difference to my way o’ thinkin’! There’s not a man alive, low nor ‘igh, as ever kep’ to ’is wife all ’is days, year in an’ year out. I doan’t care who ’e be, — mebbe the Squire or mebbe Mister Minchin, — they’se all made o’ the same stuff, an’ Jennie she knew that well, bein’ a sensible wench all along. Jennie knew it — an’ so does all wimmin know’t, onny they jest pretends they doan’t unnerstand it. But they do! Ah, an’ parsons ain’t no exception — they goes for the wimmin more’n most, an’ many on ’em ‘ud risk ‘ell for a gel like Jacynth, — that they ‘ud, an’ small blame to ’em! I’d take the chance of an everlastin’ burnin’ in the next wurrld cheerful an’ willin’ so long as I could ‘ave Jacynth in this one! An’ now, thanks to your missus interferin’ where she ‘adn’t no business, I’ve lost Jacynth as well as Jennie. O’ course I know’d that there actor fellow as was a-tourin’ round Cheltenham way ‘ad got ’is eye on ‘er — a smooth, sleek-faced devil old enough to be ‘er father, wi’ gray ‘airs an’ a made-up skin — but ’e pertended to be a gentleman ’e did, an’ that’s what Jacynth wanted. She allus told me she’d be a lady somehows. Sez she: ‘I’ll be a lady in a theater like what we reads about in the ‘apenny Mail, as spends ‘eaps o’ money she ain’t got, an’ ‘as thousands o’ pounds worth o’ debts for the clothes she wears, an’ marries a rich ‘usband an’ lives with ever so many lovers, an’ is took about by duchesses, an’ goes on board the King’s yacht. That’s bein’ a real lady, that is!’ So she sez, an’ that’s what she’s after, an’ by G — d, she’ll ‘ave ‘er way! Look ’ere, Mister Parson, you talks o’ the drink, an’ the ‘arm the drink doos to the workin’-man, but ef you wants to put a stop to real mischief, you’ll ‘ave to stop the ‘apenny papers! — that’s your ticket! Stop them comin’ into the village wi’ the marnin’s London tale o’ what the dirty sassiety folks is a-doin’ wi’ theirselves — for those tales drives more country gels to the bad than any lot o�
� men makin’ love to ’em. The ‘apenny paper doos more ‘arm than all the public put together!”

  Everton heard this harangue with attentive patience. The coarse eloquence of the man moved him to a certain surprise, — he had not thought Kiernan capable, even when sober, of expressing himself so forcibly. For there was truth in what he said, — truth that could not be denied. And his thoughts wandered to the ‘actor fellow’ who had taken Jacynth, — he caught himself wondering whether he could be traced, and the girl rescued; — rescued? But to what purpose would the rescue serve? The world has grown apathetic and indifferent to the ruin of women! He sighed impatiently, and seeing that Kiernan was watching him, he said in accents of studied gentleness: —

  “You may be right. No doubt you are. But the existence of the cheap newspaper evil does not lessen the drink evil. Drink is your curse, Kiernan — fight against it if you are a man! Drink has brought you into your present ‘trouble, and drink will bring you to a wretched end if you don’t pull up in time. I’m not ‘preaching’ or giving you what you call ‘pulpit jabber’ — I’m speaking to you as” — he paused, — he could not say ‘as a friend’ — and he finished the sentence slowly— “as your Vicar.”

  Dan gave a contemptuous gesture.

  “Oh, are ye? Well, ye woan’t be my Vicar arter to-morrer!” he said— “I ain’t a-goin’ to stop in Shadbrook now Jacynth’s gone an’ my wife’s dead. There ain’t nothin’ to stop for. I’ve got a better job, an’ I’m off.”

  Everton was quite still for a moment. His heart was lull of a smoldering anger, and he could feel it beating quickly.

  “You follow Jacynth, I suppose?” he said, meaningly.

  A tigerish gleam leaped into Kiernan’s eyes.

  “No, I doan’t!” he answered sharply, and with fierce emphasis— “So ye supposes wrong! As long as she was mine I’d a’ gone with ‘er to the devil! — but I doan’t take another man’s cast-off!”

  A silence followed, in which the measured ticking of the clock became painfully obtrusive. The sun had sunk, and the room was filled with dense shadows. In the wavering uncertainty of the semi-twilight, Kiernan’s bulky form loomed larger, darker, and more aggressive, and Everton, with a-sense of vague disquietude upon him, moved to his desk and lit the two candles which always stood there, in order to relieve the obscurity. Then he turned again towards his undesired visitor.

  “Have you said all you wish to say to me?” he asked.

  Dan gave him an ugly look.

  “Not quite all, Mister Parson!” he said— “Not quite all! There’s a goodish bit yet between you an’ me; ‘ow-somever, I’ll not ‘ave it out wi’ ye while Jennie’s above ground. But I’ll jest tell ye this much, that ye’ll not see me at the buryin’ to-morrer. I ain’t a-goin’ to stand by an’ see Jennie put into th’ yerth — not I, by a long ways! An’ ‘ave all the neighbors a-starin’ an’ a-whisperin’ round, an’ a-sayin’ as ‘ow I’d broken Jennie’s ‘art by reason o’ Jacynth; when ef it ‘adn’t been for the meddlin’ o’ your missus comin’ into my ‘ome wheer she ‘adn’t no business to be, Jennie ‘ud never a’ bin a bit the wiser nor the worser. So you’ll do the buryin’ this time without the chief mourner, Mister! — for I’ll say good-by to Jennie lyin’ in ‘er coffin to-night afore they screws ‘er down, — an’ as for mournin’, I’ve got a mournin’ way o’ my own, — an’ that way your wife ‘ull find out sooner or later, — by G — d, she shall!”

  Everton glanced him up and down in utter scorn.

  “You threaten a woman!” he said, contemptuously— “A bully is always a coward!”

  Kieman made one heavy stride towards him.

  “Come, I woan’t take that!” he exclaimed, fiercely— “I woan’t take it, I say! No damn parson shall call me a coward!”

  “You are a coward!” and Everton stood his ground firmly, looking unflinchingly into the savage face that so closely confronted him, “You talk like a coward, and you behave like one! If you have a grudge against me and want to avenge yourself, why don’t you do it here and now? I am alone, — why don’t you knock me down if that will be a relief to your feelings? I shall neither resist nor retaliate. You know I can’t raise a hand against you in self-defense, not because I fear you, but simply because I am a minister of Christ. Take your chance, therefore, and do what you like to me, ‘but for the sake of common manliness, if not for very shame, leave women out of the quarrel!”

  For a moment Kiernan stood confounded, staring stupidly at the pale, delicately built man who, with a perfectly grave and quiet demeanor, thus offered himself for attack. Then he fell back a few steps, and a slow, cunning smile darkened rather than brightened his heavy features.

  “Leave wimmin out!” he muttered— “No — that woan’t do! — that woan’t do! Wimmin was the beginnin’ and wimmin’ll be the end! You’re a peart man, Mister Parson, an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to touch ye. ‘Tain’t my game to get into trouble on your score, though I make no doubt ye’d like me to do it! But I’m a-clearin’ out o’ this part o’ the parish an’ I’ll go quiet. I doan’t intend to lose the place I’ve just took at Minchin’s all for the pleasure o’ givin’ ye a knock-me-down, — thank’ee kindly! I’ll settle up some other time!”

  Everton still kept his eyes upon him.

  “Are you going to work at Minchin’s Brewery?” he asked.

  Dan nodded his bullet head a great many times.

  “I am,” he answered, with a kind of surly triumph— “I’ve got a good job there an’ good pay.”

  “God help you, man!” said Everton abruptly— “You go from bad to worse!” —

  He turned away and sat down at his desk. The clock ticked off two or three minutes with uninterrupted distinctness. At last, oppressed by the stillness and the weight of Kiernan’s hateful presence in his room, he said:

  “I think your business with me is finished? I understand you will not be at your wife’s funeral to-morrow and that you are leaving Shadbrook. That’s what you wished me to know, isn’t it?”

  His curt matter-of-fact tone seemed to bewilder Kiernan for a second. He put his hand to his head, and rubbed his thick stubbly hair in a meditative way.

  “That’s it,” — he replied slowly— “That’s it, Mister Parson, — for the present. But doan’t ye leave out the best part o’ my bizness with ye — an’ that’s what I said about your missus, an’ it’s what I stick to. My Jennie’s death lies at ‘er door — an’ for that matter Jacynth’s goin’ off suddenlike lies at ‘er door too — and I’ll — I’ll” — here he raised a clenched fist in air— “I’ll have it even with ‘er yet! She’s runned away — I knows she’s runned away this marnin’ afraid to ‘ear of all the trouble she’s brought upon a poor man’s ‘ome — but she’ll have to come back — an’ I can wait patient — I can bide my time!”

  Everton made no answer. He was inwardly quivering with suppressed rage — but he knew it would be worse than useless to continue arguing with a man for whom there was no God and no conscience. He drew some papers towards him and feigned to be busy examining them.

  “D’ye ‘ear me?” said Kiernan, in a louder tone— “I can bide my time!”

  Everton turned a calm pale face upon him.

  “I hear you!” he rejoined, quietly— “And I say — God forgive you!”

  His eyes shone steadfastly and clear, despite their strained look of suffering; — they were eyes that expressed a soul braced to the performance of duty, no matter how difficult or galling such duty might be. Never was a braver ‘God forgive you!’ uttered than by the lips of this country cleric, whose passions as a mere man were all on fire, — whose lithe hands longed to be at the throat of the sodden brute whose threats were so vague and yet so suggestive of uncompromising cruelty, — and who would have given every penny he possessed to be permitted to kick the cowardly accuser of his wife out of the house. No early Christian martyr saying ‘God forgive you!’ to his Roman torturers merited more praise for self-restraint and he
avenly patience than Everton at that moment, for he showed no sign of what was passing in his mind, and so immovably tranquil did he seem, that Kiernan, dully staring at him, began to be angrily conscious of his own inferiority as boor to gentleman. He gave a coarse laugh.

  “That’s all ye sez, is it— ‘God forgive ye!’” he sneered. “.That’s all ye’ve got to say?”

  Everton looked straightly at him.

  “That’s all!” he said.

  There was a pause, — and for one moment the two men gazed full at one another as though each sought to drag forth some prisoned thought in both their souls. Then Dan Kiernan opened the study door roughly, went out, and banged it after him. He was gone. With a deep sigh of relief Everton sprang up and threw back the lattice windows, admitting a rush of fresh, cold air.

  “I don’t think I could have stood it a moment longer!” he said half-aloud— “Pah! The room reeks of the pothouse! Good God! Is the soul of a man like Kiernan precious to the Infinite and Divine Powers? Does it deserve to be? Can it be honestly considered as more valuable than the soul of a beast of the field which has the virtues of temperance and humility? And if it is so considered, who is to save it? What force on earth or in heaven could stop this churl from drinking himself into madness, — save death? None — surely none! It is his own choice — and no one can hinder him, least of all the ‘parson’ whom he despises, and whom others like him equally despise, because religion is brought into contempt by the very laws of the land. Such laws! They would punish a newspaper for printing insults against the King — but they leave it unscathed for publishing the vilest blasphemy against Christ! We, the clergy, preach, — and though there are bad amongst us, the good predominate — the good who faithfully try to do their duty — but what is spoken from the pulpit is contradicted by the press, — the whole country swarms with pernicious and filthy literature which so-called ‘reviewers’ praise — and the ministers of Christ’s Gospel appeal in vain against the wickedness and corruption in high places, because these are grown so strong and are so well-established by actual Law that it will need a second coming of Christ to cleanse the foulness of the social hive. The second coming of Christ! When will that be! God knows I would it were soon!”