Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Here she dreamily recalled the fact that the last time she had seen Jacynth, the girl had worn a bunch of primroses at her throat. The remembrance was not pleasant, and she looked down almost vexedly at the blossoms she had gathered.

  “Ah well, she doesn’t wear primroses now!” she said— “It’s three years since she left Shadbrook, and I daresay she has plenty of jewels by this time. Bad folks get the best things! I’m sure I don’t know why! And it is horrid to think that the worse the woman is, the luckier she seems!”

  Her lips parted, and she began to sing an old Devonshire song of which her father used to be fond.

  “There stood a gardener at the gate,

  And in each hand a flower:

  ‘O pretty maid, come in,’ he said,

  ‘And see my beauteous bower!

  The lily it shall be thy smock,

  The jonquil shoe thy feet,

  Thy gown shall be the scented stock,

  To make thee fair and sweet!’”

  “Poor old Dad!” she murmured— “He used to love to hear me sing. I wish he had lived to see me married, — he would have adored Laurence — oh, how hard it is that people should have to die!” She shivered nervously, and without moving from her place began to pick all the primroses that were within reach immediately around her. “If Dick were to die — or my darling, beautiful baby Laurence — I know I should die too! I couldn’t bear the world without them!”

  She sang again very softly, while she tied more primroses together and added them to those already in her basket.

  “The gilly-flower shall deck thy head,

  Thy way with herbs I’ll strew,

  Thy bodice shall be marigold,

  Thy gloves the violet blue.”

  “I will not have the gilly-flower,

  Nor herbs my path to strew,

  Nor bodice of the marigold,

  Nor gloves of violet blue.”

  Checking her song she looked up at the sky and smiled at its cloudless radiance.

  “What a perfect afternoon!” she exclaimed, with a little sigh of enjoyment— “I do hope Dick won’t be long before he starts out to meet me. I think I’ll wait here till he comes.”

  She went on gathering and tying up bunches of primroses, her happy face flushed with the warmth of the sun, and a smile of pleasure sparkling in her eyes. Behind her the woods still spread upwards, gently rising to a ridge of land plumed with slender pine-trees and other evergreens which formed a kind of cover for game. This was one of Mr. Minchin’s ‘preserves’ and a board put up on a pole in a prominent position bore this legend inscribed upon it:— “Trespassers will be prosecuted and dogs destroyed.” But Azalea was not upon the forbidden ground, though she was within a few yards of it, — therefore the man who suddenly appeared on the ridge, slouching along with a gun in his hand, would not have startled her from her peaceful attitude, even if she had heard or seen him coming, which she did not. He was walking unsteadily, with his head down, apparently picking his way among the ‘snags’ and stumps of trees as though he were afraid of falling, and he had got half-way across the ridge before he caught sight of her figure quietly seated among the primroses. Then, with a smothered exclamation he stopped short, and pushed his hat up from his brows, showing a soiled, red bloated face, — the face of Dan Kiernan. Too drunk too stand straight, he swayed to and fro, one hand clutching at the branch of a tree to steady himself, the other gripping his gun harder.

  “By G — d!” he muttered thickly— “It’s that damned parson’s wife!”

  He laughed stupidly — staring fixedly at the little white figure below him. Just then a small sweet voice floated up to his ears, singing:

  “I -will not have the scented stock,

  Nor jonquils to my shoon,

  But I will have the red, red rose,

  That flow’reth sweet in June.”

  “The red, red rose it hath a thorn

  That pierceth to the bone.”

  “I little heed thy idle rede,

  I’ll have the rose, or none.”

  With a mocking movement of his head Dan kept time to the floating echo of the tune.

  “It’s the dolly wife for sure!” he said to himself in a savage whisper— “I haven’t seen her since — since—”

  A dark flush rose to his brows, and he uttered a horrible oath.

  “You lost me Jacynth, you little devil!” he said in a hoarse whisper— “You! You sneakin’ simperin’ baby-face! Oh, I don’t forget ye! Not much! Nor likely to!”

  Noiselessly letting go the branch he held, he crouched ‘down like a wild beast among the brushwood and peered through the network of leaf and bramble, his eyes fastened greedily on the uncovered fair head that shone like a gleam of vivid gold among the paler tinted primroses.

  “The red, red rose it hath a thorn

  That pierceth to the heart.”

  “The red, red rose I still will have

  I shall not heed the smart.”

  Once more the clear little voice rang gently upward on the air, and a thrush swinging on a branch of hazel warbled a cheerful answering strain. Dropping on his knees, Kierman stretched himself stealthily along the ground under cover of the brambles, still clenching his gun.

  “Sing away, sing away!” he snarled, his coarse face growing darkly purple with suppressed fury— “But you’re not going to get off your reckoning with me, my fine lady! A bit of a fright won’t hurt ye — a bit of a fright—”

  And he slowly raised his gun to his shoulder. A bough cracked near him and he paused irresolute.

  “She bent her down unto the ground

  To pluck the rose so red—”

  The song trembled again towards him on a wave of the wind. He brought his gun to position, — then, — without considering his aim, — fired. A flash — a sharp report — one thin puff of pale-blue smoke — and the little white figure among the primroses sprang up erect with a shrill cry, reeled, fell forward and lay prone on its face, motionless. He burst into a loud laugh.

  “Hallo!” he shouted— “Hallo, Missis Everton! Don’t be scared! It’s only Dan Kiernan shootin’ rabbits!”

  And bending aside the intervening boughs he watched the fallen heap of white among the orange-brown leaves, vaguely expecting it to rise and run away. Rut it remained still so long that he grew angry. Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled down through the woods and approached it — then stopped short, checked by a nervous horror. The innocent eyed primroses, the tender points of young unfurling leaves, danced before his sight like dizzying flecks of green and yellow fire, — he saw the folds of a woman’s white dress, and a thin dark stream of red blood oozing slowly through the whiteness, and he began to shake all over like a man in an ague fit. He tried to speak, — but his throat was dry; his lips refused to frame an utterance. There was a heavy silence everywhere — the report of the gun had scattered all the woodland birds away. A flaring pomp of crimson flooded the west and burned among the dark tree-stems, — the sun was going down. He stood stricken as it were by some inward horrible amazement, striving to control the trembling of his limbs, the chattering of his teeth, — and not daring to move a step nearer to the little huddled form that lay before him in such ghastly mute helplessness. He could not touch it — and for some minutes he struggled with himself trying to think what he had done — what he had intended to do. Drink had so dominated and poisoned the cells of his brain that he was unable to grasp the full meaning of his own act, — he had no power to regret it, and scarcely any sense to understand it. The first thing that brought him to a kind of confused realization of his position was the chiming of a bell in the near distance. It was the bell of Shadbrook Church, striking the hour. He counted six strokes. Moistening his parched lips with his tongue, he strove to recover his voice, and presently whispered hoarsely:

  “Missis Everton!”

  Silence! But it seemed to him that the oozing blood soaking its way through the white dress of the dead woman made a strange creep
ing sound. He listened with growing terror. Then there seemed to come upon him like a clang of iron hammers beating in his ears, the cry of ‘Murder!’ Brutal, barbarous murder! And he — was he the murderer?

  No! — no! — it was not so bad as all that, — he had frightened the stupid ‘dolly wife,’ and she had fainted. He was sure, quite sure he had not killed her! In a kind of futile frenzy he threw down his gun, and pressing both hands to his head tried to steady the whirl of the trees, the leaves, the masses of primroses that danced and twisted and writhed like mere blotches of color, all concentrating in one glaring focus on that white central spot with the red blood crawling slowly through it, blurring it with a deep dark stain. Then, all at once, as though a curtain had been torn away from the eyes of his drugged inner consciousness, the awful truth flashed upon him, and with its crashing force came a mad access of fear. He had murdered a woman — and the law would exact penalty for his crime! The law! What was the law? It meant hanging. Not always — no, not always! There were the halfpenny newspapers, — they would help him! — they would find some means to get him out of his trouble, as they would never help a just man! — they could, if they liked, work up a whole nation to beg that he might be pardoned for his dastard deed! When they knew all! — yes, when they knew how Jennie had died, and how Jacynth had left him, they would make of him a hero and a martyr! He had not read those papers for nothing! And an ugly smile darkened his face.

  “’Twas the drink that drove me to it!” he said suddenly and loudly, as though answering some invisible accuser— “Make what you like of it, ’twas the drink!”

  A slowly moving current of air swayed softly through the trees, causing them to rustle gently, — a line of ethereal blue mist floated delicately upward from the moist ground, suspending itself like a fine web against the deepening rose tint of the western sky. He looked once more, furtively and shudderingly on the motionless form of his victim.

  “’Twas the drink!” he repeated— “From beginning to end. D’ye hear? The drink! Naught else!”

  The faint wind stirred a tress of golden hair on the little fallen head, and waved it gently to and fro. He sprang back, terrified. That hair seemed living, — was she — was she perhaps alive after all? She might be! — who could tell? It was incredible — unnatural — impossible that she should be dead! Dead, dead, dead! He muttered the word over and over again like an idiot child. Dead, dead! He had seen two or three dead people, — his father, who had been killed by the swing of a ponderous machine in an iron foundry, — his mother, who had died in her sleep, — and — Jennie. Poor Jennie! She had looked so old and waxen-yellow in her coffin! And Jennie’s death had been brought about by that white thing there, lying face downward among the primroses. So that by a kind of monstrous special pleading he could contend that justice itself had sped the bullet which had so surely hit its mark! His glance fell on the gun he had thrown down — and with his foot he pushed it nearer the prone body. He would leave it there; — it had his name upon it. He was not a coward — no! — he would not evade justice — he would be a Halfpenny Newspaper hero! But stay! — how came he to have a gun with him that day? With a painful effort he remembered, — it was through the kindness of Mr. Minchin. Through the kindness of Mr. Minchin! Mr. Minchin had paid him his week’s wages and had said that if he liked to shoot over his, the great Minchin’s land, for a rabbit or two, he was welcome. And he had had a drink — several drinks — and had come out looking for the innocent prey, — and then — then he had seen the ‘dolly wife’ in her white muslin frock, set down like a target in the midst of the green woods — yes — a target! — a mark for practice — and — and he had fired, simply for fun! Simply for fun! That was what he would say to the law — if — if the law had anything to say to him! And the drink was to blame, — the drink had made his hand shake — he had not meant to kill her — .

  Just then his ears caught a sound which filled him with delirious panic. It was a man’s whistle. It pierced the sunset silence with a flute-like clearness — and again and again rang through the quiet air. For a moment Kiernan was rooted to the spot where he stood, paralyzed by sheer terror. Then, pulling his nerves together he turned and fled, — fled in furious haste, stumbling breathlessly and dizzily up the ascent leading to the ridge of land from whence he had descended, — heedless of how or where he went, but only blindly conscious that he must get away. Away out of the neighborhood — miles and miles away! All the trees seemed to stand like a crowd of accusing witnesses in his path — he felt he could have twisted them up by the roots and cast them aside in his mad hurry, — their creaking boughs seemed to groan ‘Murder!’ as he passed, and he fought his way along in a feverish frenzy of fear, urging his trembling limbs to running speed, now falling, now scrambling up and reeling on, till at last breaking desperately through a close thicket of brushwood, he reached the summit of the ridge and disappeared. As his dark figure vanished like a blot in space, a little brown bird flew across the purpling mist of the sundown, and perching on a branch of budding hawthorn, caroled sweetly above the small white figure that lay motionless among the last year’s withered leaves and the primroses of the spring. And once more, clearer and nearer through the evening stillness, rang the cheerful whistle.

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE sun had sunk below the horizon when Everton, leaning his arms across his garden gate, looked down the darkening road outside with some anxiety. Not having been able to finish his writing as quickly as he had anticipated, he had sent Douay to meet Azalea on her way back from the woods, saying, playfully:

  “She’s very smart to-day in a new white frock which she declares she has put on to please you, not me! — so I’ll be generous and give you all the advantage of it! You go and find her among the primroses and be her escort home.” Douay had accepted the errand with delighted alacrity, and had gone off at once, — but he had now been absent some time, — evening was beginning to close in, and there was no sign of his return. One or two early stars twinkled mildly in the warm sky, and the silence of a perfect peace deepened with the deepening shadows. The scent of budding leaves and sprouting herbs ascended sweetly from the dewy earth, and just where the Vicar stood, a bush of lilac thrust its flowering sprays against his shoulder, expressing in its delicate fragrance all the spirit of the spring. He could not see the village from his point of observation — and yet — as he waited, listening eagerly for the first approaching footfall, or the first sound of his wife’s laughing voice as he had so often heard it ringing out merrily in conversation with Douay, he fancied he heard a strange smothered cry, as of several persons moved by one overwhelming sense of horror. A sudden foreboding thrill ran coldly through his heart; he unlatched the gate and took one or two hesitating steps beyond it — then paused, listening again. Surely there was some unusual commotion in the village? His ears caught the echo of a confused noise like that of hurried feet running to and fro, mingling with an increasing murmur of men’s and women’s voices, — then he saw the gleam of lanterns flickering uncertainly along the road. An inexplicable dread gripped his nerves, — anon, shaking off the momentary misgiving, he walked on quickly for several paces, thereby stumbling almost before he realized it into the outstretched arms of Douay.

  “Go back! Go back, Richard!” — and the little priest’s face, convulsed and wet with tears, terrified him by its ghastly pallor— “My poor friend! ‘Go back — back into the house! — do not ask me why — do not look at me—”

  And his quivering voice broke into hard sobs of irrepressible anguish. Everton staggered and threw out his hands catching blindly at the empty air.

  “God!” he muttered— “What is this? What has happened? Where is my wife?”

  Seizing him by the arm Douay strove to drag him back to his own gateway.

  “Come — come!” he entreated him— “Don’t wait here — you must not, Everton! Come with me, — come, I beg —

  I pray of you! Your wife—”

  “My wife!” �
�� and Everton’s struggling hands suddenly closed on Douay’s shoulders like a vice— “Yes! — what of her? Tell me quick — quick! Where is she?”

  “She is — coming!” and Douay made a strong effort to speak calmly— “They are bringing her — bringing her — home. Oh, my friend, try, try to be brave! — there may perhaps be hope! God is good — she may not be dead—”

  “Dead!” Everton cried out the word in a loud wild voice. “Dead! Azalea! How should she be dead? What are you talking about? She is well — quite well! Have you not met her? Could you not find her?”

  “Yes — yes — I found her!” — and Douay, battling with his own emotions, strove to support and guide the Vicar’s swaying figure towards his own home— “I found her ill — very ill! I ran to the nearest farm to fetch help — I did all I could — Richard, for God’s sake do not look at me like that! I cannot bear it!”

  His voice broke again, and Everton’s brain swung round and round dizzily — strange black monster shapes seemed looming at him out of the evening shadows, beckoning him and drawing him with resistless force into some frightful chasm where there was no life, no world, but merely blank Nothingness. Some one — who was it? — told him Azalea was dead! He gave involuntary way to a fit of wild, half-groaning laughter, horrible to hear.

  “My wife!” he cried— “Dead? No, no! Not if there is a God!”

  More vague dark forms approached, — creatures of bulk and substance who seemed to gather in a little crowd around him; — some of them held him by the arms and spoke to him, but he could not understand what they said, — they all looked to him like devil figures in a delirious dream, and he fought with them reasonlessly and blindly, not knowing what he did, till overcome by a sudden sick faintness he reeled and nearly fell. Then he heard the subdued exclamations of men, and the sobs of women — he felt, rather than knew, that he was being half led, half carried into his own garden, and that he was too weak and helpless to resist. The blossoming sprays of the lilac at his gate brushed his face with a dewy freshness as he passed, and he closed his eyes heavily with a kind of dim hope that he might never open them again. At last, without any consciousness of how it happened, he found himself in his own study, lying back in his own chair with Dr. Brand bending over him and holding a glass of some odorous cordial to his lips. He pushed it away.