Delphi collected works o.., p.948
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 948
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
I had been dreaming about this sentiment of love — love such as one reads of in poetry but seldom experiences in reality, and in the dream — a waking reverie, encouraged by idly swinging in a hammock under the trees one summer afternoon, I suddenly bethought me of an old escritoire full of papers which had just recently been left to me in a will by a relative whom I had never seen. It was a fine old piece of furniture of the time of Charles II, and its contents, so I had been told, were likely to interest me on account of sundry letters and documents having to do with certain members of my family.
On such a “lazy day” as the one I speak of, when the very sunshine, birds, and flowers seemed all to combine against my doing anything with the time save to pass it as suited my own whim, it occurred to me that it might be amusing to look through these old papers and see if there was anything of historic or literary value among them.
Deserting my hammock for the moment, I ran indoors and unlocked the old desk for the first time since it had come into my possession. A musty odour of worm-eaten wood mixed with the sweeter perfume of dried rose-leaves and lavender floated out on the air as I took up the first bundle of documents that came to my hand, and returning to the garden once more I again settled myself comfortably in the hammock and began to examine the records I held.
Letters there were from dear, dead people, breathing of tenderness and trust — of affection promising to be “eternal” — alas! letters written by hands long ago turned to dust, or shall we say to flowers? For I never see the wood anemones and wild lilies springing up through the dark earth without a fancy that they may have some remote association with the little white hands of girls and children who died in ages past, and who seek to remind us that they once lived, by pushing these mute blossoming appeals of love up to us above their graves. Nothing is sadder than to read old letters, and I soon found my eyes full of tears for the griefs of departed men and women unknown to me. What matters it whether the pen that writes is of the time of Charles II or Edward VII? The same heart pulsates through humanity always in all periods, submitting to no greater sovereign power than Destiny.
Setting aside for later perusal a small sealed bundle of documents marked “Concerning His Majesty’s (Charles II) Escape to France, 1651,” I came upon several folded sheets of paper, yellow with antiquity, and tied together with a tarnished silver ribbon. This was inscribed in a fine and delicate handwriting: “The Secret of my Single Life. Wherein is set forth the reason why I, Marjorie Lesley, have remained unmarried, so that if question be made thereof, no courteous and gallant gentleman shall ever suppose it to be from any want of humbleness, respect, or gratitude towards his gentleness for ladies, but solely for that God in His great mercy hath willed me to be true.”
This quaint wording fascinated me, and I untied and opened the packet, being careful not to tear the flimsy papers, which were worn and brittle with age. They were covered with fine writing, and, after some little time and study, I became gradually accustomed to the close yet flowing caligraphy, and I soon found myself absorbed in the story of a girl’s first love set down by her own hand nearly three hundred years ago. I transcribe it here for modern readers, not because I have any idea that it will touch their hearts or move their sense to any particularly tender or sympathetic emotion, but merely for the reason that the tone, temper, and spirit of its writer are in such direct opposition to the ways of modern girls and women that from this fact alone it is somewhat of a curiosity. It began very simply, and was throughout expressed with that directness which always accompanies the utterances of truth from the heart.
Thus it ran:
THE STORY OR MY BETROTHAL
Whereas it often chances that after the death of persons their deeds may be misrepresented, or the manner of their lives called in question by those who, coming after them, truly know nothing of the causes of their private conduct, I think it good to here set down in all plainness and with honesty the reasons whereof I have avoided the estate of honoured and honourable marriage. For such estate is, I know full well, heartily to be desired by every true woman, provided that her spoken vows before the altar of God are sincerely in keeping with such true love in her heart as shall find but poor expression in language. But if it should so chance that she hath pledged her maiden troth to one who by God’s will hath been suddenly separated from her by death, then surely it behoves her to remember that whereas this death is but a matter of brief parting or division between this world and the next, she is not loyal to herself if she do not faithfully hold to her own vows beyond the vanishing things of time and space, and so prepare for her eternal union with him to whom her soul hath been wedded in its first pure faith. Mayhap these grave thoughts are but ill expressed, for I have no skill in writing, and am ever slow to find right words for deep feeling, and even in speech I have always been fearful of myself lest by saying too little I should seem indifferent, or by saying too much I should unwittingly offend by my over-boldness.
I have not been trained in such arts as may be learned by the culture of society in high places, inasmuch as from my earliest youth up I dwelt apart from all crowded resorts, and as the only daughter of my parents, remained with them always, subservient to their good wishes and command.
And looking back from my age now, to the time of my seventeenth year, I can never regret that till then I dwelt in ignorance of all save very simple things, and that I found sufficient joy in the gracious beauties of Nature by which our home among the woods and hills was well surrounded. Old as I am, I do not forget, and till my eyes close in their last sleep I shall always see in my mind the beloved home of my father as it stood in my young days, on a fair rising ground of greensward, showing its red brick turrets and gables among the plumy foliage of many trees, and decked in all its many courts and alleys with sweetly odorous flowers.
No more pleasant place of happy retreat was ever made for peaceful dwelling in; and here I was born, and here I passed the growing-time of life in gladness as unconscious as the gladness of a flower in the grass or a bird that sings without knowing why its heart is full of melody.
Here came the friends of my childhood, and the kindly neighbours who honoured my parents for their noble worth and good renown — and little cause had I to long for things I knew not of, or dream of fairer scenes than this of my home which always was to me most fair.
Far away from any town were we, and little news could we hear of the wider ways of men, for truly our hands were full of our own concerns, and our days were passed in tending the wants of the poor about our gates, and relieving such of the sick and hungry as came to us for help and comfort. And for myself, I thought of nothing save the sunshine and the joy of life, and the love of my parents, and all my care was to be ready to assist the sorrowful and lonely who had no such ease of mind or body as, by God’s mercy, I was permitted then to possess.
Many I have known who would perchance have judged the manner in which I spent the time as solitary, and lacking pastime, though truly this was not so at all. I was in all ways happy, and envied not those maidens of my own age who, travelling by coach to London, saw wondrous things which sorely bewildered them, and, to my humble thinking, rendered them less contented than if they had remained at home.
Now and again some noble did visit us that had seen great cities and spoken much with the dwellers therein; and very marvellous to me have always seemed the descriptions of what are common customs in that great world of wickedness, which I, for my part, have never desired to behold.
But all this concerneth not what I have to write of, inasmuch as the best life is not the life of worldly manners. And truly methinks there is but one life for women, and that is love. For when love comes to a maiden’s heart, then for the first time she lives; and when love departs that life is over, and she is but the ghost of herself, living upon the past memory of sweetness, as myself witnesseth. So here let me, while I am able, testify to the noble qualities and surpassing virtues of that excellent and courteous gentleman whose faith and honour are mine to cherish till I die, and to whom I hope to present myself in pure loyalty beyond the portals of the grave.
It was the sweetest season of the year when first we met; a tender April was passing into a fair May; and it was an afternoon full of sunshine and singing when my father returned from the hunt with the gallant George Percy by his side. I see him now as I saw him then, a noble figure of a man, with a brave and open countenance which seemed to reflect the brightness of the spring sunlight, so pleasing was the smile with which he gave us greeting as he, with my father, drew bridle-rein at our door.
“Hasten, Marjorie,” said my father, “hasten to thy mother, and tell her that this gentleman hath agreed to honour our poor dwelling for some brief days. Bring the silver flagon of wine to the small library, and the cups belonging, and serve it thyself, Marjorie, for we are faint with thirst, and thou art nimblefooted.”
I hastened to perform my father’s bidding, while he assisted his guest to dismount; and as soon as I beheld the men-servants leading the horses away through the courtyard, I placed the silver flagon and cups on a salver, and went swiftly to the library, where I stood in the presence of my father and the noble Percy, waiting their good pleasure.
“Nay, then,” said Percy— “nay, then, fair Marjorie, if such be thy sweetest of names — suffer me, I pray thee, to relieve thee of thy weighty burden!” And bowing low before me, he took the salver from my hand and placed it on the table. “Now,” he continued, addressing my father, with that sunniest of smiles which hath always remained in my remembrance, “come, Sir Reginald; let us drain a stoup of wine to thy fair daughter’s health, if she will permit us thus much rough liberty with her name.”
“Certes, the wench should be proud of the distinction,” replied my father. “Come hither, Marjorie, and spare thy blushes for a more fitting occasion. Now, George Percy, thy toast!”
“To Marjorie Lesley, the fairest of her sex!” he answered gaily, turning to me and saluting me with so much gentle graciousness that I felt well-nigh overcome with confusion, and was right glad to escape from the room and get me to my own chamber, from which privacy I was, however, too soon called by my lady mother, who placed to my care sundry household matters concerning the comfort of our guest, which I made haste to dispatch with mine utmost care.
Now it is not possible that I, so unlearned and unskilled in writing, should be able to tell in suitable words how, from day to day, the presence of the noble Percy became more and more necessary to my peace of mind and happiness, though truly my mother and I saw little of him, for all the day he rode out apparently in urgent haste, and on his return in the evening remained most of the time with my father talking in the private library with shut doors. And my mother once said to me:
“Truly, I think this gentleman hath some secret service to perform for the King!”
At which words my blood seemed to freeze slowly within me, and I stood for some moments as one that is struck suddenly dumb. For though we had not seen much trouble in our retired part of the country, still, the rumoured distractions of the kingdom had not failed to reach us — and it had sorely grieved us to know that his Sacred Majesty King Charles was hunted like a noble stag from place to place by his lawless enemies; and my father, a staunch and loyal Cavalier, often prayed that his Majesty might honour our abode by his presence, in order that he might shelter him if need be, and personally defend him at the risk of his own life. All of which heroic loyalty in my good father I revered deeply, yet for myself I cannot say that I had ever shared his wishes regarding the King, for I am of a feeble and timid disposition and love the quiet of peace. Therefore, when my lady mother said, “I think this gentleman hath secret service for the King,” I grew amazed with terror, for well I knew that secret service meant danger and often death to him therein engaged. And so it happened that I began to look more earnestly than heretofore at the noble Percy, and my voice faltered foolishly when I spoke, so that a time came when he approached me unobserved, and said:
“Thou art troubled, fair Marjorie! Thy cheeks are paler than they were wont to be, and thy sweet voice hath lost its merry ring. Tell me, gentle lady, if I, unworthy as I am, have caused thee annoy, for I am willing to atone to the utmost for any fault I have unwittingly committed; only smile and assure me that I do not leave thee without a full pardon!”
“Alas, sir,” said I, “dost thou talk of leaving us?”
And I could utter no more for the strange sickness that oppressed my heart.
“Yea, that do I,” he answered me, his eyes flashing proudly as he laid his hand on his sword-hilt; “and thou, the worthy daughter of a worthy sire, wilt bless my going, and say God-speed! For know, fair Marjorie, the King passes through the neighbouring forest to-morrow night, and I, with a chosen band of Cavaliers, go to meet and escort him to the nearest port. But ere I leave thee” — and he stopped abruptly and his voice sank lower— “were it not for the hazardous errand on which I am bound, I should speak of what concerneth me deeply, but that I fear to risk thy displeasure — what, tears! — weeping, dear one! — and I the cause?”
Truly, my tears fell fast in spite of myself, and, hearing my father’s footstep on the outer stair, I rose, sorely ashamed, and scarce knowing what I did, hurried from the room and betook myself to the private oratory within our house, and there falling on my knees, I wept long and sore. Alone, I prayed for strength and resignation, and as I raised my weeping eyes to the figure of our dear Lord Christ upon the cruel cross, the patient, suffering countenance seemed to wear a smile. Some words that I had once read came back to me: “Whoso loveth must willingly embrace all that is hard and bitter for the sake of the beloved!” And so, repeating this phrase again and again for my inward comfort, I rose from my knees after a brief space, feeling marvellous calm though still most desolate.
On leaving the chapel, a boy, who was oft employed for house errands, gave me a sealed note, and touching his lip in token of silence, hurried away before I could so much as question him. I broke the seal and read:
“To the fair hands of Marjorie Lesley, these lines, to pray of her gentle grace and courtesy that she will pity one who may soon be shut from the light of her face for ever, and come to the eastern end of the large hall to-night, where the armour hangs, as soon as the worthy Sir Reginald and his worshipful lady shall have retired to rest, that I may take farewell of her in the fashion that suiteth a true man and her devoted lover. George Percy.”
Now, at any other time, methinks a letter of this character would have much affrighted me; for, certes, to hold a secret assignation did go contrary to my best thoughts of maiden propriety. Yet, when I reflected within myself that in sorry truth it might be I should never behold the gallant Percy more, my reason and judgment gave way before the mighty force of my affection, while the joy and gratitude of my soul was great to know that he, so brave a gentleman, should have declared himself my lover. So with exceeding impatience I lived through those weary hours of the evening, and worked at my tapestry-frame with my lady mother till the hour came for the household to retire to rest. Then said my mother: “Dost thou sleep well, my Marjorie, or are thy nights troubled by ailments, that thou speakest not of! For truly thy cheeks are feverish in colour and thine eyes are too bright for health. Dost thou conceal a trouble from me, thy best friend?”
At this I was sorely grieved and ashamed, and for the first time I felt I could not meet my mother’s glance. And here I would say that I have truly an exceeding pity for those poor maidens who are in the same trouble as I was then — for to conceal a thing from one with whom ye have had beforehand no secrets is surely a grievous thing. And yet it would appear that parents are themselves sorely to blame for these things when they thus happen, for an we should confide all things unto them, we well know they would not have all the patience with our weakness that we so greatly need.
Thus I, before my mother, had no answer save, “Nay, surely, madam, trouble not for my welfare, for I sleep well, and naught ails me that I wot of.” Whereupon she sighed heavily and said no more, but bade God bless me.
After she had thus left me, I, going slowly toward my own sleeping chamber, was struck with strange remorse. For was it not almost a cruel and unnatural circumstance that I, in the brief space of a few weeks, should have learned to love a stranger more than she who bore me, and whose tenderness for me had ever been great and untiring? And I, being thus heartily sorry and amazed at myself, paused an instant at my mother’s door, and, kissing the oaken panels thereof, besought pardon in my soul of her whom I unwillingly wronged, while my tears fell fast. Yet did I not shrink from my undertaking, and I could scarce endure the quick throbbing of my heart while I waited in my own room listening intently for my father’s step upon the stair — the signal of his retiring for the night. It came at last, firm and unfaltering. I heard him open, close, and bolt their bed-chamber door; and then, after some further little delay, I hastened from my room. Noiselessly, for I was dad in white garments of a soft and quiet texture, I sped along the dark length of the passages till I came to the eastern hall, where through the painted windows the moonbeams shone, casting strange shadows and patterns upon the ancient armour that hung upon the wall. The stately figure of the noble Percy stood out in bold relief from the darkness of the window embrasure, and as I approached him he turned hastily, and dropping on one knee, said softly:
“Our Lady and her angels bless thee, gentle Marjorie, for this exceeding favour thou hast shown to one who feels that he must speak to thee as a dying man speaks to his nearest and dearest. Thou must know already what I have to say — thou hast seen my confession in my eyes — and alas! I fear it hath displeased thee. Yet must I tell thee the utmost truth; for as Heaven hath willed it, love and death dispute my life between them, and honour, dearer than all, forces me to the grave while love would call me to thine arms! Yes, for I love thee, Marjorie — love thee with the utmost strength and truth of a loyal heart; but thou, for thine own sake, I almost pray of thee to scorn me even as thou must forget, while thou dost forgive me, Marjorie!” And he took my hands and kissed them tenderly, saying again: “Pray God thou dost not love me, sweet! But tell me whether thou dost or no, that I may the better understand the value of my life!”
