Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “She had rather a liking for Errington, hadn’t she?” inquired Mr. Marvelle, folding up the Times in a neat parcel, preparatory to taking it with him in order to read it in peace on his way to the Law Courts.

  “Liking? Well!” And Mrs. Marvelle, looking at herself once more in the glass, carefully arranged the ruffle of Honiton lace about her massive throat,— “It was a little more than liking — though, of course, her feelings were perfectly proper, and all that sort of thing, — at least, I suppose they were! She had a great friendship for him, — one of those emotional, perfectly spiritual and innocent attachments, I believe, which are so rare in this wicked world.” Mrs. Marvelle sighed, then suddenly becoming practical again, she continued. “Yes, I shall go there and stop to luncheon, and talk this thing over. Then I’ll drive on to the Van Clupps, and bring Marcia home to dinner. I suppose you don’t object?”

  “Object!” Mr. Marvelle made a deprecatory gesture, and raised his eyes in wonder. As if he dared object to anything whatsoever that his wife desired!

  She smiled graciously as he approached, and respectfully kissed her smooth cool cheek, before taking his departure for his daily work as a lawyer in the city, and when he was gone, she betook herself to her own small boudoir, where she busied herself for more than an hour in writing letters, and answering invitations.

  She was, in her own line, a person of importance. She made it her business to know everything and everybody — she was fond of meddling with other people’s domestic concerns, and she had a finger in every family pie. She was, moreover, a regular match-maker, — fond of taking young ladies under her maternal wing, and “introducing” them to the proper quarters, and when, as was often the case, a distinguished American of many dollars but no influence offered her three or four hundred guineas for chaperoning his daughter into English society and marrying her well, Mrs. Rush-Marvelle pocketed the douceur quite gracefully, and did her best for the girl. She was a good-looking woman, tall, portly, and with an air of distinction about her, though her features were by no means striking, and the smallness of her nose was out of all proportion to the majesty of her form — but she had a very charming smile, and a pleasant, taking manner, and she was universally admired in that particular “set” wherein she moved. Girls adored her, and wrote her gushing letters, full of the most dulcet flatteries — married ladies on the verge of a scandal came to her to help them out of their difficulties — old dowagers, troubled with rheumatism or refractory daughters, poured their troubles into her sympathizing ears — in short, her hands were full of other people’s business to such an extent that she had scarcely any leisure to attend to her own. Mr. Rush-Marvelle, — but why describe this gentleman at all? He was a mere nonentity — known simply as the husband of Mrs. Rush-Marvelle. He knew he was nobody — and, unlike many men placed in a similar position, he was satisfied with his lot. He admired his wife intensely, and never failed to flatter her vanity to the utmost excess, so that, on the whole, they were excellent friends, and agreed much better than most married people.

  It was about twelve o’clock in the day, when Mrs. Rush-Marvelle’s neat little brougham and pair stopped at Lord Winsleigh’s great house in Park Lane. A gorgeous flunkey threw open the door with a virtuously severe expression on his breakfast-flushed countenance, — an expression which relaxed into a smile of condescension on seeing who the visitor was.

  “I suppose Lady Winsleigh is at home, Briggs?” inquired Mrs. Marvelle, with the air of one familiar with the ways of the household.

  “Yes’m,” replied Briggs slowly, taking in the “style” of Mrs. Rush-Marvelle’s bonnet, and mentally calculating its cost. “Her ladyship is in the boo-dwar.”

  “I’ll go there,” said Mrs. Marvelle, stepping into the hall, and beginning to walk across it, in her own important and self-assertive manner. “You needn’t announce me.”

  Briggs closed the street-door, settled his powdered wig, and looked after her meditatively. Then he shut up one eye in a sufficiently laborious manner and grinned. After this he retired slowly to a small ante-room, where he found the World with its leaves uncut. Taking up his master’s ivory paper-knife, he proceeded to remedy this slight inconvenience, — and, yawning heavily, he seated himself in a velvet arm-chair, and was soon absorbed in perusing the pages of the journal in question.

  Meanwhile Mrs. Marvelle, in her way across the great hall to the “boo-dwar,” had been interrupted and nearly knocked down by the playful embrace of a handsome boy, who sprang out upon her suddenly with a shout of laughter, — a boy of about twelve years old, with frank, bright blue eyes and clustering dark curls.

  “Hullo, Mimsey!” cried this young gentleman— “here you are again! Do you want to see papa? Papa’s in there!” — pointing to the door from which he had emerged— “he’s correcting my Latin exercise. Five good marks to-day, and I’m going to the circus this afternoon! Isn’t it jolly?”

  “Dear me, Ernest!” exclaimed Mrs. Marvelle half crossly, yet with an indulgent smile,— “I wish you would not be so boisterous! You’ve nearly knocked my bonnet off.”

  “No, I haven’t,” laughed Ernest; “it’s as straight as — wait a bit!” And waving a lead pencil in the air, he drew an imaginary stroke with it. “The middle feather is bobbing up and down just on a line with your nose — it couldn’t be better!”

  “There, go along, you silly boy!” said Mrs. Marvelle, amused in spite of herself. “Get back to your lessons. There’ll be no circus for you if you don’t behave properly! I’m going to see your mother.”

  “Mamma’s reading,” announced Ernest. “Mudie’s cart has just been and brought a lot of new novels. Mamma wants to finish them all before night. I say, are you going to stop to lunch?”

  “Ernest, why are you making such a noise in the passage?” said a gentle, grave voice at this juncture. “I am waiting for you, you know. You haven’t finished your work yet. Ah, Mrs. Marvelle! How do you do?”

  And Lord Winsleigh came forward and shook hands. “You will find her ladyship in, I believe. She will be delighted to see you. This young scapegrace,” here he caressed his son’s clustering curls tenderly— “has not yet done with his lessons — the idea of the circus to-day seems to have turned his head.”

  “Papa, you promised you’d let me off Virgil this morning!” cried Ernest, slipping his arm coaxingly through his father’s. Lord Winsleigh smiled. Mrs. Rush-Marvelle shook her head with a sort of mild reproachfulness.

  “He really ought to go to school,” she said, feigning severity. “You will find him too much for you, Winsleigh, in a little while.”

  “I think not,” replied Lord Winsleigh, though an anxious look troubled for an instant the calm of his deep-set grey eyes. “We get on very well together, don’t we, Ernest?” The boy glanced up fondly at his father’s face and nodded emphatically. “At a public-school, you see, the boys are educated on hard and fast lines — all ground down to one pattern, — there’s no chance of any originality possible. But don’t let me detain you, Mrs. Marvelle — you have no doubt much to say to Lady Winsleigh. Come, Ernest! If I let you off Virgil, you must do the rest of your work thoroughly.”

  And with a courteous salute, the grave, kindly-faced nobleman re-entered his library, his young son clinging to his arm and pouring forth boyish confidences, which seemingly received instant attention and sympathy, — while Mrs. Rush-Marvelle looked after their retreating figures with something of doubt and wonder on her placid features. But whatever her thoughts, they were not made manifest just then. Arriving at a door draped richly with old-gold plush and satin, she knocked.

  “Come in!” cried a voice that, though sweet in tone, was also somewhat petulant.

  Mrs. Marvelle at once entered, and the occupant of the room sprang up in haste from her luxurious reading-chair, where she was having her long tresses brushed out by a prim-looking maid, and uttered an exclamation of delight.

  “My dearest Mimsey!” she cried, “this is quite too sweet of you
! You’re just the very person I wanted to see!” And she drew an easy fauteuil to the sparkling fire, — for the weather was cold, with that particularly cruel coldness common to an English May, — and dismissed her attendant. “Now sit down, you dear old darling,” she continued, “and let me have all the news!”

  Throwing herself back on her lounge, she laughed, and tossed her waving hair loose over her shoulders, as the maid had left it, — then she arranged, with a coquettish touch here and there, the folds of her pale pink dressing-gown, showered with delicate Valenciennes. She was undeniably a lovely woman. Tall and elegantly formed, with an almost regal grace of manner, Clara, Lady Winsleigh, deserved to be considered, as she was, one of the reigning beauties of the day. Her full dark eyes were of a bewitching and dangerous softness, — her complexion was pale, but of such a creamy, transparent pallor as to be almost brilliant, — her mouth was small and exquisitely shaped. True, — her long eyelashes were not altogether innocent of “kohl,” — true, there was a faint odor about her as of rare perfumes and cosmetics, — true, there was something not altogether sincere or natural even in her ravishing smile and fascinating ways — but few, save cynics, could reasonably dispute her physical perfections, or question the right she had to tempt and arouse the passions of men, or to trample underfoot? with an air of insolent superiority, the feelings of women less fair and fortunate. Most of her sex envied her, — but Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, who was past the prime of life, and, who, moreover, gained her social successes through intelligence and tact alone, was far too sensible to grudge any woman her beauty. On the contrary, she was a frank admirer of handsome persons, and she surveyed Lady Winsleigh now through her glasses with a smile of bland approval.

  “You are looking very well, Clara,” she said. “Let me see — you went to Kissingen in the summer, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did,” laughed her ladyship. “It was delicious! I suppose you know Lennie came after me there! Wasn’t it ridiculous!”

  Mrs. Marvelle coughed dubiously. “Didn’t Winsleigh put in an appearance at all?” she asked.

  Lady Clara’s brow clouded. “Oh yes! For a couple of weeks or so. Ernest came with him, of course, and they rambled about together all the time. The boy enjoyed it.”

  “I remember now,” said Mrs. Marvelle. “But I’ve not seen anything of you since you came back, Clara, except once in the park and once at the theatre. You’ve been all the time at Winsleigh Court — by-the-by, was Sir Francis Lennox there too?”

  “Why, naturally!” replied the beauty, with a cool smile. “He follows me everywhere like a dog! Poor Lennie!”

  Again the elder lady coughed significantly.

  Clara Winsleigh broke into a ringing peal of laughter, and rising from her lounge, knelt beside her visitor in a very pretty coaxing attitude.

  “Come, Mimsey!” she said, “you are not going to be proper at this time of day! That would be a joke! Darling, indulgent, good old Mimsey! — you don’t mean to turn into a prim, prosy, cross Mrs. Grundy! I won’t believe it! And you mustn’t be severe on poor Lennie — he’s such a docile, good boy, and really not bad-looking!”

  Mrs. Marvelle fidgeted a little on her chair. “I don’t want to talk about Lennie, as you call him,” she said, rather testily— “Only I think you’d better be careful how far you go with him. I came to consult you on something quite different. What are you going to do about the Bruce-Errington business? You know it was in the Post to-day that they’ve arrived in town. The idea of Sir Philip bringing his common wife into society! — It’s too ridiculous!”

  Lady Winsleigh sprang to her feet, and her eyes flashed disdainfully.

  “What am I going to do?” she repeated, in accents of bitter contempt. “Why, receive them, of course! It will be the greatest punishment Bruce-Errington can have! I’ll get all the best people here that I know — and he shall bring his peasant woman among them, and blush for her! It will be the greatest fun out! Fancy a Norwegian farmer’s girl lumbering along with her great feet and red hands! . . . and, perhaps, not knowing whether to eat an ice with a spoon or with her fingers! I tell you Bruce-Errington will be ready to die for shame — and serve him right too!”

  Mrs. Marvelle was rather startled at the harsh, derisive laughter with which her ladyship concluded her excited observations, but she merely observed mildly —

  “Well, then, you will leave cards?”

  “Certainly?”

  “Very good — so shall I,” and Mrs. Marvelle sighed resignedly. “What must be, must be! But it’s really dreadful to think of it all — I would never have believed Philip Errington could have so disgraced himself!”

  “He is no gentleman!” said Lady Winsleigh freezingly. “He has low tastes and low desires. He and his friend Lorimer are two cads, in my opinion!”

  “Clara!” exclaimed Mrs. Marvelle warningly. “You were fond of him once! — now, don’t deny it!”

  “Why should I deny it?” and her ladyship’s dark eyes blazed with concentrated fury. “I loved him! There! I would have done anything for him! He might have trodden me down under his feet! He knew it well enough — cold, cruel, heartless cynic as he was and is! Yes, I loved him! — but I hate him now!”

  And she stamped her foot to give emphasis to her wild words. Mrs. Marvelle raised her hands and eyes in utter amazement.

  “Clara, Clara! Pray, pray be careful! Suppose any one else heard you going on in this manner! Your reputation would suffer, I assure you! Really, you’re horribly reckless! Just think of your husband—”

  “My husband!” and a cold gleam of satire played round Lady Winsleigh’s proud mouth. She paused and laughed a little. Then she resumed in her old careless way— “You must be getting very goody-goody, Mimsey, to talk to me about my husband! Why don’t you read me a lecture on the duties of wives and the education of children? I am sure you know how profoundly it would interest me!”

  She paced up and down the room slowly while Mrs. Marvelle remained discreetly silent. Presently there came a tap at the door, and the gorgeous Briggs entered. He held himself like an automaton, and spoke as though repeating a lesson.

  “His lordship’s compliments, and will her la’ship lunch in the dining-room to-day?”

  “No,” said Lady Winsleigh curtly. “Luncheon for myself and Mrs. Marvelle can be sent up here.”

  Briggs still remained immovable. “His lordship wished to know if Master Hernest was to come to your la’ship before goin’ out?”

  “Certainly not!” and Lady Winsleigh’s brows drew together in a frown. “The boy is a perfect nuisance!”

  Briggs bowed and vanished. Mrs. Rush-Marvelle grew more and more restless. She was a good-hearted woman, and there was something in the nature of Clara Winsleigh that, in spite of her easy-going conscience, she could not altogether approve of.

  “Do you never lunch with your husband, Clara?” she asked at last.

  Lady Winsleigh looked surprised. “Very seldom. Only when there is company, and I am compelled to be present. A domestic meal would be too ennuyant! I wonder you can think of such a thing! And we generally dine out.”

  Mrs. Marvelle was silent again, and, when she did speak, it was on a less delicate matter.

  “When is your great ‘crush,’ Clara?” she inquired, “You sent me a card, but I forget the date.”

  “On the twenty-fifth,” replied Lady Winsleigh. “This is the fifteenth. I shall call on Lady Bruce-Errington” — here she smiled scornfully— “this afternoon — and to-morrow I shall send them their invitations. My only fear is whether they mayn’t refuse to come. I would not miss the chance for the world! I want my house to be the first in which her peasant-ladyship distinguishes herself by her blunders!”

  “I’m afraid it’ll be quite a scandal!” sighed Mrs. Rush-Marvelle. “Quite! Such a pity! Bruce-Errington was such a promising, handsome young man!”

  At that moment Briggs appeared again with an elegantly set luncheon-tray, which he placed on the table with a flo
urish.

  “Order the carriage at half-past three,” commanded Lady Winsleigh. “And tell Mrs. Marvelle’s coachman that he needn’t wait, — I’ll drive her home myself.”

  “But, my dear Clara,” remonstrated Mrs. Marvelle, “I must call at the Van Clupps’—”

  “I’ll call there with you. I owe them a visit. Has Marcia caught young Masherville yet?”

  “Well,” hesitated Mrs. Marvelle, “he is rather slippery, you know — so undecided and wavering!”

  Lady Winsleigh laughed. “Never mind that! Marcia’s a match for him! Rather a taking girl — only what an accent! My nerves are on edge whenever I hear her speak.”

  “It’s a pity she can’t conquer that defect,” agreed Mrs. Marvelle. “I know she has tried. But, after all, they’re not the best sort of Americans—”

  “The best sort! I should think not! But they’re of the richest sort, and that’s something, Mimsey! Besides, though everybody knows what Van Clupp’s father was, they make a good pretense at being well-born, — they don’t cram their low connections down your throat, as Bruce-Errington wants to do with his common wife. They ignore all their vulgar belongings delightfully! They’ve been cruelly ‘cut’ by Mrs. Rippington — she’s American — but, then, she’s perfect style. Do you remember that big ‘at home’ at the Van Clupp’s when they had a band to play in the back-yard, and everybody was deafened by the noise? Wasn’t it quite too ridiculous!”

  Lady Winsleigh laughed over this reminiscence, and then betook herself to the consideration of lunch, — a tasty meal which both she and Mrs. Marvelle evidently enjoyed, flavored as it was with the high spice of scandal concerning their most immediate and mutual friends, who were, after much interesting discussion, one by one condemned as of “questionable” repute, and uncertain position. Then Lady Winsleigh summoned her maid, and was arrayed cap-à-pie in “carriage-toilette,” while Mrs. Marvelle amused herself by searching the columns of Truth for some new tit-bit of immorality connected with the royalty or nobility of England. And at half-past three precisely, the two ladies drove off together in an elegant victoria drawn by a dashing pair of greys, with a respectably apoplectic coachman on the box, supported by the stately Briggs, in all the glory of the olive-green and gold liveries which distinguished the Winsleigh equipage. By her ladyship’s desire, they were driven straight to Prince’s Gate.