Delphi collected works o.., p.681
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 681
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
“Then,” — said Reay, gloomily— “my book will never be finished!”
“Dear, dear!” Helmsley raised his hands with a very well acted gesture of timid concern— “So bad as all that!”
“So bad as all that!” echoed Reay, with a quick sigh; “Or rather so good as all that. I don’t know how it has happened, David, but she has quite suddenly become the very life of my work. I don’t think I could get on with a single page of it, if I didn’t feel that I could go to her and ask her what she thinks of it.”
“But,” — said Helmsley, in a gentle, argumentative way— “all this is very strange! She is not an educated woman.”
Reay laughed lightly.
“No? What do you call an educated woman, David?”
Helmsley thought a moment. The situation was a little difficult, for he had to be careful not to say too much.
“Well, I mean,” — he said, at last— “She is not a lady.”
Reay’s eyes flashed sudden indignation.
“Not a lady!” he ejaculated— “Good God! Who is a lady then?”
Helmsley glanced at him covertly. How fine the man looked, with his tall, upright figure, strong, thoughtful face, and air of absolute determination!
“I’m afraid,” — he murmured, humbly— “I’m afraid I don’t know how to express myself, — but what I want to say is that she is not what the world would call a lady, — just a simple lace-mender, — real ‘ladies’ would not ask her to their houses, or make a friend of her, perhaps—”
“She’s a simple lace-mender, — I was a common cowherd,” — said Angus, grimly— “Do you think those whom the world calls ‘ladies’ would make a friend of me?”
Helmsley smiled.
“You’re a man — and to women it doesn’t matter what a man was, so long as he is something. You were a cowherd, as you say — but you educated yourself at a University and got a degree. In that way you’ve raised yourself to the rank of a gentleman—”
“I was always that,” — declared Angus, boldly, “even as a cowherd! Your arguments won’t hold with me, David! A gentleman is not made by a frock coat and top hat. And a lady is not a lady because she wears fine clothes and speaks one or two foreign languages very badly. For that’s about all a ‘lady’s’ education amounts to nowadays. According to Victorian annals, ‘ladies’ used to be fairly accomplished — they played and sang music well, and knew that it was necessary to keep up intelligent conversation and maintain graceful manners — but they’ve gone back to sheer barbarism in the frantic ugliness of their performances at hockey — and they’ve taken to the repulsive vices of Charles the Second’s time in gambling and other immoralities. No, David! I don’t take kindly to the ‘ladies’ who disport themselves under the benevolent dispensation of King Edward the Seventh.”
Helmsley was silent. After a pause, Reay went on —
“You see, David, I’m a poor chap — poorer than Mary is. If I could get a hundred, or say, two hundred pounds for my book when it is finished, I could ask her to marry me then, because I could bring that money to her and do something to keep up the home. I never want anything sweeter or prettier than this little cottage to live in. If she would let me share it with her as her husband, we should live a perfectly happy life — a life that thousands would envy us! That is, of course, if she loved me.”
“Ay! — that’s a very important ‘if,’” said Helmsley.
“I know it is. That’s why I want you to help me to find out her mind, David — will you? Because, if you should discover that I am objectionable to her in any way, it would be better for me, I think, to go straight away from Weircombe, and fight my trouble out by myself. Then, you see, she would never know that I wanted to bother her with my life-long presence. Because she’s very happy as she is, — her face has all the lovely beauty of perfect content — and I’d rather do anything than trouble her peace.”
There followed a pause. The fire crackled and burned with a warm Christmas glow, and Charlie, uncurling his soft silky body, stretched out each one of his tiny paws separately, with slow movements expressive of intense comfort. If ever that little dog had known what it was to lie in the lap of luxury amid aristocratic surroundings, it was certain that he was conscious of being as well off in a poor cottage as in a palace of a king. And after a minute or two, Helmsley raised himself in his chair and held out his hand to Angus Reay, who grasped it warmly.
“I’ll do my best,” — he said, quietly— “I know what you mean — and I think your feeling does you honour. Of course you know I’m only a kind of stranger here — just a poor old lonely man, very dependent on Miss Deane for her care of me, and trying my best to show that I’m not ungrateful to her for all her goodness — and I mustn’t presume too far — but — I’ll do my best. And I hope — I hope all will be well!” He paused — and pressed Reay’s hand again — then glanced up at the quaint sheep-faced clock that ticked monotonously against the kitchen wall. “She will be coming back from church directly,” — he continued— “Won’t you go and meet her?”
“Shall I?” And Reay’s face brightened.
“Do!”
Another moment, and Helmsley was alone — save for the silent company of the little dog stretched out upon the hearth. And he lost himself in a profound reverie, the while he built a castle in the air of his own designing, in which Self had no part. How many airy fabrics of beauty and joy had he not raised one after the other in his mind, only to see them crumble into dust! — but this one, as he planned it in his thoughts, nobly uplifted above all petty limits, with all the light of a broad beneficence shining upon it, and a grand obliteration of his own personality serving as the very cornerstone of its foundation, seemed likely to be something resembling the house spoken of by Christ, which was built upon a rock — against which neither winds, nor rains, nor floods could prevail. And when Mary came back from Church, with Reay accompanying her, she found him looking very happy. In fact, she told him he had quite “a Christmas face.”
“What is a Christmas face, Mary?” he asked, smiling.
“Don’t you know? A face that looks glad because other people are glad,” — she replied, simply.
An expressive glance flashed from Reay’s eyes, — a glance which Helmsley caught and understood in all its eloquent meaning.
“We had quite a touching little sermon this morning,” she went on, untying her bonnet strings, and taking off that unassuming head-gear— “It was just a homely simple, kind talk. Our parson’s sorry to be going away, but he hopes to be back with us at the beginning of April, fit and well again. He’s looking badly, poor soul! I felt a bit like crying when he wished us all a bright Christmas and happy New Year, and said he hoped God would allow him to see us all again.”
“Who is going to take charge of the parish in his absence?” asked Reay.
“A Mr. Arbroath. He isn’t a very popular man in these parts, and I can’t think why he has volunteered to come here, seeing he’s got several parishes of his own on the other side of Dunster to attend to. But I’m told he also wants a change — so he’s got some one to take his duties, and he is coming along to us. Of course, it’s well known that he likes to try a new parish whenever he can.”
“Has he any reason for that special taste?” enquired Reay.
“Oh yes!” answered Mary, quietly— “He’s a great High Churchman, and he wants to introduce Mass vestments and the confessional whenever he can. Some people say that he receives an annual payment from Rome for doing this kind of work.”
“Another form of the Papal secret service!” commented Reay, drily— “I understand! I’ve seen enough of it!”
Mary had taken a clean tablecloth from an oaken press, and was spreading it out for dinner.
“Well,” she said, smilingly, “he won’t find it very advantageous to him to take the duties here. For every man and woman in the village intends to keep away from Church altogether if he does not give us our services exactly as we have always been accustomed to them. And it won’t be pleasant for him to read prayers and preach to empty seats, will it?”
“Scarcely!”
And Angus, standing near the fire, bent his brows with meditative sternness on the glowing flames. Then suddenly addressing Helmsley, he said— “You asked me a while ago, David, why I didn’t go to Church. I told you I wished I could go, as I used to do with my father every Sunday. For, when I was a boy, our Sundays were real devotional days — our preachers felt what they preached, and when they told us to worship the great Creator ‘in spirit and in truth,’ we knew they were in earnest about it. Now, religion is made a mere ‘party’ system — a form of struggle as to which sect can get the most money for its own purposes. Christ, — the grand, patient, long-suffering Ideal of all goodness, is gone from it! How can He remain with it while it is such a Sham! Our bishops in England truckle to Rome — and, Rome itself is employing every possible means to tamper with the integrity of the British constitution. The spies and emissaries of Rome are everywhere — both in our so-called ‘national’ Church and in our most distinctly un-national Press!”
Helmsley listened with keen interest. As a man of business, education, observation, and discernment, he knew that what Reay said was true, — but in his assumed rôle of a poor and superannuated old office clerk, who had been turned adrift from work by reason of age and infirmities, he had always to be on his guard against expressing his opinion too openly or frankly.
“I don’t know much about the newspapers,” — he said, mildly— “I read those I can get, just for the news — but there isn’t much news, it appears to me — —”
“And what there is may be contradicted in an hour’s time,” — said Angus— “I tell you, David, when I started working in journalism, I thought it was the finest profession going. It seemed to me to have all the responsibilities of the world on its back. I considered it a force with which to educate, help, and refine all peoples, and all classes. But I found it was only a money speculation after all. How much profit could be made out of it? That was the chief point of action. That was the mainspring of every political discussion — and in election times, one side had orders to abuse the other, merely to keep up the popular excitement. By Jove! I should like to take a select body of electors ‘behind the scenes’ of a newspaper office and show them how the whole business is run!”
“You know too much, evidently!” said Mary smiling— “I don’t wonder you were dismissed!”
He laughed — then as suddenly frowned.
“I swear as I stand here,” he said emphatically, “that the press is not serving the people well! Do you know — no, of course you don’t! — but I can tell you for a fact that a short time ago an offer was made from America through certain financial powers in the city, to buy up several of the London dailies, and run them on American lines! Germany had a finger in the pie, too, through her German Jews!”
Helmsley looked at his indignant face with a slight imperceptible smile.
“Well!” he said, with a purposely miscomprehending air.
“Well! You say ‘Well,’ David, as if such a proposition contained nothing remarkable. That’s because you don’t understand! Imagine for a moment the British Press being run by America!”
Helmsley stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“I can’t imagine it,” — he said.
“No — of course you can’t! But a few rascally city financiers could imagine it, and more than that, were prepared to carry the thing through. Then, the British people would have been led, guided, advised, and controlled by a Yankee syndicate! And the worst of it is that this same British people would have been kept in ignorance of the ‘deal.’ They would actually have been paying their pennies to keep up the shares of a gang of unscrupulous rascals whose sole end and object was to get the British press into their power! Think of it!”
“But did they succeed?” asked Helmsley.
“No, they didn’t. Somebody somewhere had a conscience. Somebody somewhere refused to ‘swop’ the nation’s much boasted ‘liberty of the press’ for so much cash down. I believe the ‘Times’ is backed by the Rothschilds, and managed by American advertisers — I don’t know whether it is so or not — but I do know that the public ought to be put on their guard. If I were a powerful man and a powerful speaker I would call mass meetings everywhere, and urge the people not to purchase a single newspaper till each one published in its columns a full and honest list of the shareholders concerned in it. Then the public would have a chance of seeing where they are. At present they don’t know where they are.”
“Well, you know very well where you are!” said Mary, interrupting him at this juncture— “You are in my house, — it’s Christmas Day, and dinner’s ready!”
He laughed, and they all three sat down to table. It had been arranged for fully a week before that Angus should share his Christmas dinner with Mary and “old David” — and a very pleasant and merry meal they made of it. And in the afternoon and evening some of the villagers came in to gossip — and there was singing of songs, and one or two bashful attempts on the part of certain gawky lads to kiss equally gawky girls under the mistletoe. And Mary, as hostess of the haphazard little party, did her best to promote kindly feeling among them all, effacing herself so utterly, and playing the “old maid” with such sweet and placid loveliness that Angus became restless, and was moved by a feverish desire to possess himself of one of the little green twigs with white berries, which, looking so innocent, were apparently so provocative, and to try its effect by holding it suddenly above the glorious masses of her brown hair, which shone with the soft and shimmering hue of evening sunlight. But he dared not. Kissing under the mistletoe was all very well for boys and girls — but for a mature bachelor of thirty-nine and an “old maid” of thirty-five, these uncouth and calf-like gambollings lacked dignity. Moreover, when he looked at Mary’s pure profile — the beautifully shaped eyes, classic mouth, and exquisite line of neck and shoulder, the very idea of touching those lips with a kiss given in mere lightness, seemed fraught with impertinence and irreverence. If ever he kissed Mary, he thought, — and then all the powers of his mind galloped off like wild horses let loose on a sun-baked ranch — if ever he kissed Mary! What a dream! — what a boldness unprecedented! But again — if ever he kissed her, it must be with the kiss of a lover, for whom such a token of endearment was the sign of a sacred betrothal. And he became so lost and abstracted in his musings that he almost forgot the simple village merriment around him, and only came back to himself a little when the party broke up altogether, and he himself had to say “good-night,” and go with the rest. Mary, while giving him her hand in farewell, looked at him with a sisterly solicitude.
“You’re tired, Mr. Reay,” — she said— “I’m afraid we’ve been too noisy for you, haven’t we? But one can’t keep boys and girls quiet!”
“I don’t want them kept quiet,” — said Reay, holding her hand very hard— “And I’m not tired. I’ve only been thinking.”
“Ah! Of your book?”
“Yes. Of my book.”
He went then, and came no more to the cottage till a week later when it was New Year’s Eve. This they celebrated very quietly — just they three alone. Mary thought it somewhat imprudent for “old David” to sit up till midnight in order to hear the bells “ring out the Old, ring in the New” — but he showed a sudden vigorous resolution about it which was not to be gainsaid.
“Let me have my way, my dear,” — he implored her— “I may never see another New Year!”
“Nonsense, David!” she said cheerily— “You will see many and many a one, please God!”
“Please God, I shall!” he answered, quietly— “But if it should not please God — then—”
“There! — you want to stay up, and you shall stay up!” she declared, smiling— “After all, as Mr. Reay is with us, the time won’t perhaps seem so long for you.”
“But for you,” — put in Angus— “it will seem very long won’t it!”
“Oh, I always sit up for the coming-in of the New Year,” — she replied— “Father used to do it, and I like to keep up all father’s ways. Only I thought David might feel too tired. You must sing to us, Mr. Reay, to pass the hours away.”
“And so must you!” he replied.
And she did sing that night as she had never sung to them before, with a fuller voice and more passion than she had hitherto shown, — one little wild ballad in particular taking Reay’s fancy so much that he asked her to sing it more than once. The song contained just three six-line stanzas, having little merit save in their suggestiveness.
Oh love, my love! I have giv’n you my heart
Like a rose full-blown,
With crimson petals trembling apart —
It is all your own —
What will you do with it. Dearest, — say?
Keep it for ever or throw it away?
Oh love, my love! I have giv’n you my life,
Like a ring of gold;
Symbol of peace in a world of strife,
To have and to hold.
What will you do with it, Dearest, — say?
Treasure it always, or throw it away?
Oh love, my love! Have all your will —
I am yours to the end;
Be false or faithful — comfort or kill,
Be lover or friend, —
Where gifts are given they must remain,
I never shall ask for them back again!
“Do you know that you have a very beautiful voice, Miss Mary?” said Angus, after hearing this for the second time.
“Oh, I don’t think so at all,” — she answered, quickly; “Father used to like to hear me sing — but I can only just give ballads their meaning, and pronounce the words carefully so the people may know what I am trying to sing about. I’ve no real voice.”
“You have!” And Angus turned to Helmsley for his opinion— “Hasn’t she, David?”
“Her voice is the sweetest I ever heard,” — replied Helmsley— “But then I’m not much of a judge.”
