Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  As she met his gaze, the rich color flushed her soft cheeks and her eyes drooped shyly under their long lashes. Love, with her, had not yet proved an illusion, — a bright toy to be snatched hastily and played with for a brief while, and then thrown aside as broken and worthless. It seemed to her a most marvellous and splendid gift of God, increasing each day in worth and beauty, — widening upon her soul and dazzling her life in ever new and expanding circles of glory. She felt as if she could never sufficiently understand it, — the passionate adoration Philip lavished upon her, filled her with a sort of innocent wonder and gratitude, while her own overpowering love and worship of him, sometimes startled her by its force into a sweet shame and hesitating fear. To her mind he was all that was great, strong, noble, and beautiful — he was her master, her king, — and she loved to pay him homage by her exquisite humility, clinging tenderness, and complete, contented submission. She was neither weak nor timid, — her character, moulded on grand and simple lines of duty, saw the laws of Nature in their true light, and accepted them without question. It seemed to her quite clear that man was the superior, — woman the inferior, creature — and she could not understand the possibility of any wife not rendering instant and implicit obedience to her husband, even in trifles.

  Since her wedding-day no dark cloud had crossed her heaven of happiness, though she had been a little confused and bewildered at first by the wealth and dainty luxury with which Sir Philip had delighted to surround her. She had been married quietly at Christiania, arrayed in one of her own simple white gowns, with no ornament save a cluster of pale blush-roses, the gift of Lorimer. The ceremony was witnessed by her father and Errington’s friends, — and when it was concluded they had all gone on their several ways, — old Güldmar for a “toss” on the Bay of Biscay, — the yacht Eulalie, with Lorimer, Macfarlane, and Duprèz on board, back to England, where these gentlemen had separated to their respective homes, — while Errington, with his beautiful bride, and Britta in demure and delighted attendance on her, went straight to Copenhagen. From there they travelled to Hamburg, and through Germany to the Schwarzwald, where they spent their honeymoon at a quiet little hotel in the very heart of the deep-green Forest.

  Days of delicious dreaming were these, — days of roaming on the emerald green turf under the stately and odorous pines, listening to the dash of the waterfalls, or watching the crimson sunset burning redly through the darkness of the branches, — and in the moonlit evenings sitting under the trees to hear the entrancing music of a Hungarian string-band, which played divine and voluptuous melodies of the land,— “lieder” and “walzer” that swung the heart away on a golden thread of sound to a paradise too sweet to name! Days of high ecstacy, and painfully passionate joy! — when “love, love!” palpitated in the air, and struggled for utterance in the jubilant throats of birds, and whispered wild suggestions in the rustling of the leaves! There were times when Thelma, — lost and amazed and overcome by the strength and sweetness of the nectar held to her innocent lips by a smiling and flame-winged Eros, — would wonder vaguely whether she lived indeed, or whether she were not dreaming some gorgeous dream, too brilliant to last? And even when her husband’s arms most surely embraced her, and her husband’s kiss met hers in all the rapture of victorious tenderness, she would often question herself as to whether she were worthy of such perfect happiness, and she would pray in the depths of her pure heart to be made more deserving of this great and wonderful gift of love — this supreme joy, almost too vast for her comprehension.

  On the other hand, Errington’s passion for his wife was equally absorbing — she had become the very moving-spring of his existence. His eyes delighted in her beauty, — but more than this, he revelled in and reverenced the crystal-clear parity and exquisite refinement of her soul. Life assumed for him a new form, — studied by the light of Thelma’s straightforward simplicity and intelligence, it was no longer, as he had once been inclined to think, a mere empty routine, — it was a treasure of inestimable value fraught with divine meanings. Gradually, the touch of modern cynicism that had at one time threatened to spoil his nature, dropped away from him like the husk from an ear of corn, — the world arrayed itself in bright and varying colors — there was good — nay, there was glory — in everything.

  With these ideas, and the healthy satisfaction they engendered, his heart grew light and joyous, — his eyes more lustrous, — his step gay and elastic, — and his whole appearance was that of man at his best, — man, as God most surely meant him to be — not a rebellious, feebly-repining, sneering wretch, ready to scoff at the very sunlight, — but a being both brave and intelligent, strong and equally balanced in temperament, and not only contented, but absolutely glad to be alive, — glad to feel the blood flowing through the veins, — glad and grateful for the gifts of breathing and sight.

  As each day passed, the more close and perfect grew the sympathies of husband and wife, — they were like two notes of a perfect chord, sounding together in sweetest harmony. Naturally, much of this easy and mutual blending of character and disposition arose from Thelma’s own gracious and graceful submissiveness, — submissiveness which, far from humiliating her, actually placed her (though she knew it not) on a throne of almost royal power, before which Sir Philip was content to kneel — an ardent worshipper of her womanly sweetness. Always without question or demur, she obeyed his wishes implicitly, — though, as has been before mentioned, she was at first a little overpowered and startled by the evidences of his wealth, and did not quite know what to do with all the luxuries and gifts he heaped upon her. Britta’s worldly prognostications had come true, — the simple gowns her mistress had worn at the Altenfjord were soon discarded for more costly apparel, — though Sir Philip had an affection for his wife’s Norwegian costumes, and in his heart thought they were as pretty, if not prettier, than the most perfect triumphs of a Parisian modiste.

  But in the social world, Fashion, the capricious deity, must be followed, if not wholly, yet in part; and so Thelma’s straight, plain garments were laid carefully by as souvenirs of the old days, and were replaced by toilettes of the most exquisite description, — some simple, — some costly, — and it was difficult to say in which of them the lovely wearer looked her best. She herself was indifferent in the matter — she dressed to please Philip, — if he was satisfied, she was happy — she sought nothing further. It was Britta whose merry eyes sparkled with pride and admiration when she saw her “Fröken” arrayed in gleaming silk or sweeping velvets, with the shine of rare jewels in her rippling hair, — it was Britta who took care of all the dainty trifles that gradually accumulated on Thelma’s dressing table, — in fact, Britta had become a very important personage in her own opinion. Dressed neatly in black, with a coquettish muslin apron and cap becomingly frilled, she was a very taking little maid, with her demure rosy face and rebellious curls, though very different to the usual trained spy whose officious ministrations are deemed so necessary by ladies of position, whose lofty station in life precludes them from the luxury of brushing their own hair. Britta’s duties were slight — she invented most of them — yet she was always busy sewing, dusting, packing, or polishing. She was a very wide-awake little person, too, — no hint was lost upon her, — and she held her own wherever she went with her bright eyes and sharp tongue. Though secretly in an unbounded state of astonishment at everything new she saw, she was too wise to allow this to be noticed, and feigned the utmost coolness and indifference, even when they went from Germany to Paris, where the brilliancy and luxury of the shops almost took away her breath for sheer wonderment.

  In Paris, Thelma’s wardrobe was completed — a certain Madame Rosine, famous for “artistic arrangements,” was called into requisition, and viewing with a professional eye the superb figure and majestic carriage of her new customer, rose to the occasion in all her glory, and resolved that Miladi Bruce-Errington’s dresses should be the wonder and envy of all who beheld them.

  “For,” said Madame, with
a grand air, “it is to do me justice. That form so magnificent is worth draping, — it will support my work to the best advantage. And persons without figures will hasten to me and entreat me for costumes, and will think that if I dress them I can make them look as well as Miladi. And they will pay!” — Madame shook her head with much shrewdness— “Mon Dieu! they will pay! — and that they still look frightful will not be my fault.”

  And undoubtedly Madame surpassed her usual skill in all she did for Thelma, — she took such pains, and was so successful in all her designs, that “Miladi,” who did not as a rule show more than a very ordinary interest in her toilette, found it impossible not to admire the artistic taste, harmonious coloring, and exquisite fit of the few choice gowns supplied to her from the “Maison Rosine” — and only on one occasion had she any discussion with the celebrated modiste. This was when Madame herself, with much pride, brought home an evening dress of the very palest and tenderest sea-green silk, showered with pearls and embroidered in silver, a perfect chef-d’oeuvre of the dressmaker’s art. The skirt, with its billowy train and peeping folds of delicate lace, pleased Thelma, — but she could not understand the bodice, and she held that very small portion of the costume in her hand with an air of doubt and wonderment. At last she turned her grave blue eyes inquiringly on Madame.

  “It is not finished?” she asked. “Where is the upper part of it and the sleeves?”

  Madame Rosine gesticulated with her hands and smiled.

  “Miladi, there is no more!” she declared. “Miladi will perceive it is for the evening wear — it is décolletée — it is to show to everybody Miladi’s most beautiful white neck and arms. The effect will be ravishing!”

  Thelma’s face grew suddenly grave — almost stern.

  “You must be very wicked!” she said severely, to the infinite amazement of the vivacious Rosine. “You think I would show myself to people half clothed? How is it possible! I would not so disgrace myself! It would bring shame to my husband!”

  Madame was almost speechless with surprise. What strange lady was this who was so dazzlingly beautiful and graceful, and yet so ignorant of the world’s ways? She stared, — but was soon on the defensive.

  “Miladi is in a little error!” she said rapidly and with soft persuasiveness. “It is la mode. Miladi has perhaps lived in a country where the fashions are different. But if she will ask the most amiable Sieur Bruce-Errington, she will find that her dress is quite in keeping with les convenances.”

  A pained blush crimsoned Thelma’s fair cheek. “I do not like to ask my husband such a thing,” she said slowly, “but I must. For I could not wear this dress without shame. I cannot think he would wish me to appear in it as you have made it — but—” She paused, and taking up the objectionable bodice, she added gently— “You will kindly wait here, madame, and I will see what Sir Philip says.”

  And she retired, leaving the modiste in a state of much astonishment, approaching resentment. The idea was outrageous, — a woman with such divinely fair skin, — a woman with the bosom of a Venus, and arms of a shape to make sculptors rave, — and yet she actually wished to hide these beauties from the public gaze! It was ridiculous — utterly ridiculous, — and Madame sat fuming impatiently, and sniffing the air in wonder and scorn. Meanwhile Thelma, with flushing cheeks and lowered eyes, confided her difficulty to Philip, who surveyed the shocking little bodice she brought for his inspection with a gravely amused, but very tender smile.

  “There certainly doesn’t seem much of it, does there, darling?” he said. “And so you don’t like it?”

  “No,” she confessed frankly— “I think I should feel quite undressed in it. I often wear just a little opening at the throat — but this — ! Still, Philip, I must not displease you — and I will always wear what you wish, even if it is uncomfortable to myself.”

  “Look here, my pet,” and he encircled her waist fondly with his arm, “Rosine is quite right. The thing’s perfectly fashionable, — and there isn’t a woman in society who wouldn’t be perfectly charmed with it. But your ideas are better than Rosine’s and all society’s put together. Obey your own womanly instinct, Thelma!”

  “But what do you wish?” she asked earnestly. “You must tell me. It is to please you that I live.”

  He kissed her. “You want me to issue a command about the affair?” he said half laughingly.

  She smiled up into his eyes. “Yes! — and I will obey!”

  “Very well! Now listen!” and he held her by both hands, and looked with sudden gravity into her sweet face— “Thelma, my wife, thus sayeth your lord and master, — despise the vulgar indecencies of fashion, and you will gratify me more than words can say; — keep your pure and beautiful self sacred from the profaning gaze of the multitude, — sacred to me and my love for you, and I shall be the proudest man living! Finally,” — and he smiled again— “give Rosine back this effort at a bodice, and tell her to make something more in keeping with the laws of health and modesty. And Thelma — one more kiss! You are a darling!”

  She laughed softly and left him, returning at once to the irate dressmaker who waited for her.

  “I am sorry,” she said very sweetly, “to have called you wicked! You see, I did not understand! But though this style of dress is fashionable, I do not wish to wear it — so you will please make me another bodice, with a small open square at the throat, and elbow-sleeves, — and you will lose nothing at all — for I shall pay you for this one just the same. And you must quite pardon me for my mistake and hasty words!”

  Maladi’s manner was so gracious and winning, that Madame Rosine found it impossible not to smile in a soothed and mollified way, — and though she deeply regretted that so beautiful a neck and arms were not to be exposed to public criticism, she resigned herself to the inevitable, and took away the offending bodice, replacing it in a couple of days by one much prettier and more becoming by reason of its perfect modesty.

  On leaving Paris, Sir Philip had taken his wife straight home to his fine old Manor in Warwickshire. Thelma’s delight in her new abode was unbounded — the stately oaks that surrounded it, — the rose-gardens, the conservatories, — the grand rooms, with their fine tapestries, oak furniture, and rare pictures, — the splendid library, the long, lofty drawing-rooms, furnished and decorated after the style of Louis Quinze, — all filled her with a tender pride and wistful admiration. This was Philip’s home! and she was here to make it bright and glad for him! — she could imagine no fairer fate. The old servants of the place welcomed their new mistress with marked respect and evident astonishment at her beauty, though, when they knew her better, they marvelled still more at her exceeding gentleness and courtesy. The housekeeper, a stately white-haired dame, who had served the former Lady Errington, declared she was “an angel” — while the butler swore profoundly that “he knew what a queen was like at last!”

  The whole household was pervaded with an affectionate eagerness to please her, though, perhaps, the one most dazzled by her entrancing smile and sweet consideration for his comfort was Edward Neville, Sir Philip’s private secretary and librarian, — a meek, mild-featured man of some five and forty years old, whose stooping shoulders, grizzled hair, and weak eyes gave him an appearance of much greater age. Thelma was particularly kind to Neville, having heard his history from her husband. It was brief and sad. He had married a pretty young girl whom he had found earning a bare subsistence as a singer in provincial music-halls, — loving her, he had pitied her unprotected state, and had rescued her from the life she led — but after six months of comparative happiness, she had suddenly deserted him, leaving no clue as to where or why she had gone. His grief for her loss, weighed heavily upon his mind — he brooded incessantly upon it — and though his profession was that of a music master and organist, he grew so abstracted and inattentive to the claims of the few pupils he had, that they fell away from him one by one — and, after a bit, he lost his post as organist to the village church as well. This smote him
deeply, for he was passionately fond of music, and was, moreover, a fine player, — and it was at this stage of his misfortunes that he met by chance Bruce-Errington. Philip, just then, was almost broken-hearted — his father and mother had died suddenly within a week of one another, — and he, finding the blank desolation of his home unbearable, was anxious to travel abroad for a time, so soon as he could find some responsible person in whose hands to leave the charge of the Manor, with its invaluable books and pictures, during his absence.

  Hearing Neville’s history through a mutual friend, he decided, with his usual characteristic impulse, that here was the very man for him — a gentleman by birth, rumored to be an excellent scholar, — and he at once offered him the post he had in view, — that of private secretary at a salary of 200 pounds per annum. The astonished Neville could not at first believe in his good fortune, and began to stammer forth his gratitude with trembling lips and moistening eyes, — but Errington cut him short by declaring the whole thing settled, and desiring him to enter on his duties at once. He was forthwith installed in his position, — a highly enviable one for a man of his dreamy and meditative turn of mind. To him, literature and music were precious as air and light, he handled the rare volumes on the Errington book-shelves with lingering tenderness, and often pored over some difficult manuscript, or dusty folio till long past midnight, almost forgetful of his griefs in the enchantment thus engendered. Nor did he lack his supreme comforter, music, — there was a fine organ at the lower end of the long library, and seated at his beloved instrument, he wiled away many an hour, — steeping his soul in the divine and solemn melodies of Palestrina and Pergolesi, till the cruel sorrow that had darkened his life seemed nothing but a bad dream, and the face of his wife as he had first known it, fair, trustful, and plaintive, floated before his eyes unchanged, and arousing in him the old foolish throbbing emotions of rapture and passion that had gladdened the bygone days.