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

by Marie Corelli

  Miss Lansing was worldly-wise; she had not gained the reputation of being one of the best-dressed women in London without learning many little ins and outs of “model” gowns which are hidden from the profane. Many and many a time had she been “taken in,” on this deep question, — many a “model” had she chosen, leaving it to be sent home, and on receipt had found it to be only a clever “copy” which, on being tried on, had proved a misfit. And well she knew that complaint was useless, as the tailor or modiste who supplied the goods would surely prove a veritable Ananias in swearing that she had received the “model,” and the model only. On this occasion she had her way, and, despite the deprecating appeal of the couturier that he might be allowed to send it, the becoming costume was packed and placed safely in the automobile, and she and Diana drove off with it.

  “You never could look better in anything!” declared Sophy. “Promise me you’ll wear it when you make your first call on Dr. Dimitrius!”

  “But, my dear, it may be too much for him!” laughed Diana. “He wants ‘a courageous and determined woman of mature years,’ — and so charming a Paris costume may not ‘dress’ the part!”

  “Never mind whether it does or not,” said Sophy. “I can’t believe he wants an old frump! You may not believe me, Di, but you look perfectly fascinating in that gown — almost young again!”

  Diana’s blue eyes clouded with a touch of sadness. She sighed a little. —

  “Almost! — not quite!” she answered. “But—’ dress does make a difference!’ — there’s no doubt of it! These last few years I’m not ashamed to say I’ve longed for pretty clothes — I suppose it’s the dying spirit of youth trying to take a last caper! And now, with all these vanity purchases, I am horribly in your debt. Dear Sophy, how shall I ever repay you?”

  “Don’t know and don’t care!” said Sophy, recklessly. “I’m not a grasping creditor. And something tells me you are going to be very rich! — perhaps this man Dimitrius is a millionaire and wants a clever woman for his wife — a sort of Madame Curie to help him with his experiments—”

  “Then I shall not suit him,” interrupted Diana, “for I never intend to be wife to any man. First of all, I’m too old — secondly, if I were young again, I wouldn’t. It isn’t worth while!”

  “But didn’t you say you wanted to be loved?” queried Sophy.

  “Does marriage always fulfil that need?” counter-queried Diana.

  They exchanged glances — smiled — shrugged shoulders and dropped the conversation.

  Two days later Diana left England for Geneva.

  CHAPTER VII

  GENEVA is one of those many towns in Switzerland which give the impression of neat commonplace in the midst of romance, — the same impression which is conveyed by a housewife’s laying out of domestic linen in the centre of a beautiful garden. The streets are clean and regular,’— ‘the houses well-built and characterless, sometimes breaking forth into “villas” of fantastic appearance and adornment, which display an entire absence of architectural knowledge or taste, — the shops are filled with such trifles as are likely to appeal to tourists, but have little to offer of original production that cannot be purchased more satisfactorily elsewhere, and the watches that glitter in the chief jeweller’s window on the Quai des Bergues are nothing better than one sees in the similar windows of Bond Street or Regent Street. There is nothing indeed remarkable about Geneva itself beyond its historic associations and memories of famous men, such as Calvin and Rousseau; — its chief glory is gained from its natural surroundings of blue lake and encircling chain of mountains; with Mont Blanc towering up in the distance,

  “In a wreath of mist,

  By the sunlight kiss’d,

  And a diadem of snow.”

  The suburbs are far more attractive than the town; for, beyond the radius of the streets and the hateful, incessant noise of the electric trams, there are many charming residences set among richly wooded grounds and brilliant parterres of flowers, where the most fastidious lover of loveliness might find satisfaction for the eyes and rest for the mind, especially on the road towards Mont Saleve and Mornex. Here one sees dazzling mists streaming off the slopes of the mountains, — exquisite tints firing the sky at sunrise and sunset, and mirrored in the infinite blue of the lake, — and even in the heats of summer, a delicious breeze blows over the fresh green fields with the cold scent of the Alpine snow in its breath. And here on a fresh beautiful autumn morning, Diana May found herself walking swiftly along with light and eager steps, her whole being alive with interested anticipation. Never had she felt so well; health bounded in her pulse and sparkled in her eyes, and the happy sense of perfect freedom gave to every movement of her thin, supple figure, that elasticity and grace which are supposed to be the special dower of extreme youth, though, as a matter of fact, youth is often ungainly in action and cumbersome in build. She had stayed two days and nights at a quiet little hotel in Geneva on arrival, in order to rest well and thoroughly, after her journey from England before presenting herself at the Château Fragonard, the residence of the mysterious Dr. Dimitrius; and she had made a few casual yet careful inquiries as to the Château and its owner. Nobody seemed to know more than that “Monsieur le Docteur Dimitrius” was a rich man, and that his Château had been built for him by a celebrated French architect who had spared neither labour nor cost. He was understood to be a scientist, very deeply absorbed in difficult matters of research, — he was unmarried and lived alone with his mother. Just now he had so much to do that he was advertising in all the papers for “an intellectual elderly lady” to assist him. Diana was indebted for this last “personal note” to a chatty bookseller in the Rue du Mont Blanc. She smiled as she listened, turning over some of the cheap fiction on his counter.

  “He is not suited yet?” she inquired.

  “Ah, no, Madame! It is not likely he will be suited! For what lady will admit herself to be sufficiently elderly? Ah, no! It is not possible!”

  Later on, she learned that the Château Fragonard was situated some distance out of Geneva and well off the high road.

  “Madame wishes to see the grounds?” inquired the cheery driver of a little carriage plying for hire. “It would be necessary to ask permission. But they are very fine! — Ah, wonderful! — as fine as those of Rothschild! And if one were not admitted, it is easy to take a boat, and view them from the lake! The lawns slope to the water’s edge.”

  “Exquisite!” murmured Diana to herself. “It will be worth while trying to remain in such a paradise!”

  And she questioned the willingly communicative cocher as to how long it might take to walk to the Château.

  “About an hour,” he replied. “A pleasant walk, too, Madame! One sees the lake and mountains nearly all the way.”

  This information decided her as to her plans. She knew that the eccentric wording of the Dimitrius advertisement required any applicant to present herself between six and eight in the morning, which was an ideal time for a walk in the bracing, brilliant Alpine air. So she determined to go on foot the very next day; and before she parted with the friendly driver, she had ascertained the exact position of the Château, and the easiest and quickest way to get there.

  And now, — having risen with the first peep of dawn, and attired herself in that becoming navy serge “model,” which her astute friend Sophy had borne triumphantly out of the French tailor’s emporium, she was on her way to the scene of her proposed adventure. She walked at a light, rapid pace — the morning was bright and cool, almost cold when the wind blew downward from the mountains, and she was delightfully conscious of that wonderful exhilaration and ease given to the whole physical frame by a clear atmosphere, purified by the constant presence of ice and snow. As she moved along in happiest mood, she thought of many things; — she was beginning to be amazed, as well as charmed, by the various changes which had, within a week, shaken her lately monotonous life into brilliant little patterns like those in a kaleidoscope. The web and woof of
Circumstance was no longer all dull grey, like the colour her father had judged most suitable for her now that she was no longer young, — threads of rose and sky blue had found their hopeful way into the loom. Her days of housekeeping, checking tradesmen’s bills and flower-arranging seemed a very long way off; it was hardly credible to her mind that but a short time ago she had been responsible for the ordering of her parents’ lunches and dinners and the general management of the summer “change” at Rose Lea on the coast of Devon, — that fatal coast where she had been so cruelly drowned! Before leaving London, she had seen a few casual paragraphs in the newspapers concerning this disaster, headed “Bathing Fatality”— “Sad End of a Lady” — or “Drowned while Bathing,” but, naturally, being a nobody, she had left no gap in society, — she was only one of many needless women. And it was an altogether new and aspiring Diana May that found herself alive on this glorious morning in Switzerland; not the resigned, patient, orderly “old maid” with a taste for Jacobean embroidery and a wholesome dislike of the “snap-snap-snarl” humours of her father.

  “I never seem to have been my own real self till now!” she said inwardly. “And now I hardly realize that I have a father and mother at all! What a tyrannical bogey I have made of my ‘duty’ to them! And ‘love’ is another bogey!”

  She glanced at her watch, — one of Sophy Lansing’s numerous dainty trifles—” Keep it in exchange,” Sophy had said, “for yours which your bereaved parents are going to send me as an ‘In Memoriam!’” It was ten minutes to seven. Looking about her to take note of her bearings, she saw on the left-hand side a deep bend in the road, which curved towards a fine gateway of wrought iron, surmounted by a curious device representing two crossed spears springing from the centre of a star, — and she knew she had arrived at her destination. Her heart beat a little more quickly as she approached the gateway — there was no keeper’s lodge, so she pulled at a handle which dimly suggested the possibility of a bell. There was no audible response, — but to all appearance the gates noiselessly unbarred themselves, and slowly opened. She entered at once without hesitation, and they as slowly closed behind her. She was in the grounds of the Château Fragonard. Immense borders of heliotrope in full bloom fringed either side of the carriage drive where she stood, and the mere lifting of her eyes showed masses of flowering shrubs and finely-grown trees bending their shadowy branches over velvety stretches of rich green grass, or opening in leafy archways here and there to disclose enchanting glimpses of blue water or dazzling peaks of far-off snow. She would have been glad to linger among such lovely surroundings, for she had a keen comprehension of and insight into the beauty of Nature and all the joys it offers to a devout and discerning spirit, but she bethought herself that if Dr. Dimitrius was anything of an exact or punctilious person, he would expect an applicant to be rather before than after time. A silver-toned chime, striking slowly and musically on the sunlit silence, rang seven o’clock as she reached the Château, which looked like a miniature palace of Greek design, and was surrounded with a broad white marble loggia, supported by finely fluted Ionic columns, between two of which on each side a fountain played. But Diana had scarcely time to look at anything while quickly ascending the short flight of steps leading to the door of entrance; she saw a bell and was in haste to ring it. Her summons was answered at once by a negro servant dressed in unassuming dark livery.

  “Dr. Dimitrius?” she queried.

  The negro touched his lips with an expressive movement signifying that he was dumb, — but he was not deaf, for he nodded an affirmative to her inquiry, and by a civil gesture invited her to enter. In another few seconds she found herself in a spacious library, — a finely proportioned room, apparently running the full length of the house, with large French windows at both ends, commanding magnificent views.

  Left alone for several minutes she moved about half timidly, half boldly, looking here and there — at the great globes, celestial and terrestrial, which occupied one corner, — at the long telescope on its stand ready for use and pointed out to the heavens — and especially at a curious instrument of fine steel set on a block of crystal, which swung slowly up and down incessantly, striking off an infinitesimal spark of fire as it moved.

  “Some clock-work thing,” she said half aloud. “But where is its mechanism?”

  “Ah, where!” echoed a deep, rather pleasant voice close at her ear. “That, as Hamlet remarked, is the question!”

  She started and turned quickly with a flush of colour mounting to her brows, — a man of slight build and medium height stood beside her.

  “You are Dr. Dimitrius?” she said.

  He smiled. “Even so! I am he! And you — ?”

  Swiftly she glanced him over. He was not at all an alarming, weird, or extraordinary-looking personage. Young? — yes, surely young for a man — not above forty; and very personable, if intelligent features, fine eyes and a good figure can make a man agreeable outward view. And yet there was something about him more than mere appearance, — she could not tell what it was, and just then she had no time to consider. She rushed at once into the business of her errand.

  “My name is May, — Diana May,” she said, conscious of nervousness in speaking, but mastering herself by degrees. “I have come from England in answer to your advertisement. I am interested — very deeply interested — in matters of modern science, and I have gained some little knowledge through a good deal of personal, though quite unguided study. I am most anxious to be useful — and I am not afraid to take any risks—”

  She broke off, a little confused under the steady scrutiny of Dr. Dimitrius’s eyes. He placed an easy chair by the nearest window.

  “Pray sit down!” he said, with a courteous gesture, — then, as she obeyed: “You have walked here from Geneva?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you arrive from England?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “Have you stated to anyone the object of your journey?”

  “Only to one person — an intimate woman friend who lent me the money for my travelling expenses.”

  “I see!” And Dimitrius smiled benevolently. “You have not explained yourself or your intentions to any good Genevese hotel proprietor?”

  She looked up in quick surprise.

  “No, indeed!”

  “Wise woman!” Here Dimitrius drew up a chair opposite to her and sat down. “My experience has occasionally shown me that lone ladies arriving in a strange town and strange hotel, throw themselves, so to speak, on the bosom of the book-keeper or the landlady, and to her impart their whole business. It is a mistake! — an error of confiding innocence — but it is often made. You have not made it, — and that is well! You have never married?” Diana coloured — then answered with gentleness:

  “No. I am what is called a spinster, — an old maid.”

  “The first is by far the prettiest name,” said Dimitrius. “It evokes a charming vision of olden time when women sat at their spinning-wheels, each one waiting for Faust, à la Marguerite, unaware of the Devil behind him! ‘Old -maid’ is a coarse English term, — there are coarse English terms! and much as I adore England and the English, I entirely disapprove of their ‘horseplay’ on women! No doubt you know what I mean?”

  “I think I do,” replied Diana, slowly. “It is that when a woman is neither a man’s bound slave nor his purchased toy, she is turned into a jest.”

  “Precisely! You have expressed it perfectly!” and his keen eyes flashed over her comprehensively. “But let us keep to business. You are a spinster, and I presume you are, in the terms of my advertisement, ‘alone in the world, without claims on your time or your affections.’ Is that so?”

  Quietly she answered:

  “That is so.”

  “Now you will remember I asked for ‘a courageous and determined woman of mature years.’ You do not look very ‘mature’—”

  “I am past forty,” said Diana.

  “A frank, but unnecessary admission,�
� he answered, smiling. “You should never admit to more years than your appearance gives you. However, I am glad you told me, as it better suits my purpose. And you consider yourself ‘courageous and determined’?”

  She looked at him straightly.

  “I think I am — I hope I am,” she said. “I have had many disillusions and have lost all I once hoped to win; so that I can honestly say even death would not matter to me, as I have nothing to live for. Except the love of Nature and its beauty—”

  “And its wisdom and mastery of all things,” finished Dimitrius. “And to feel that unless we match its wisdom with our will to be instructed, and its mastery with our obedience and worship, we ‘shall surely die!’”

  His eyes flashed upon her with a curious expression, and just for a passing moment she felt a little afraid of him. He went on, speaking with deliberate emphasis:

  “Yes, — if you are indeed a student of Nature, you surely know that! And you know also that the greatest, deepest, most amazing, and most enlightening discoveries made in science during the last thirty years or so are merely the result of cautious and sometimes casual probing of one or two of this vast Nature’s smaller cells of active intelligence. We have done something, — but how much remains to do! “He paused, — and Diana gazed at him questioningly. He smiled as he met her eager and interested look.

  “We shall have plenty of time to talk of these matters,” he said—” if I decide that you can be useful to me. What languages do you know besides your own?”

  “French, Italian and a little Russian,” she answered. “The two first quite fluently, — Russian I have studied only quite lately — and I find it rather difficult — —”

  “Being a Russian myself I can perhaps make it easy for you,” said Dimitrius, kindly. “To study such a language without a teacher shows considerable ambition and energy on your part.”