Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  She was silent. He looked down at her flushing cheeks and tear-wet lashes attentively.

  “You are fanciful to-day, my pet,” he said at last. “You’ve been tiring yourself too much. You must rest. You’d better not go to the Brilliant Theatre to-night — it’s only a burlesque, and is sure to be vulgar and noisy. We’ll stop at home and spend a quiet evening together — shall we?”

  She raised her eyes half wistfully and smiled. “I should like that very, very much, Philip!” she murmured; “but you know we did promise Clara to go with her to-night. And as we are so soon to leave London and return to Warwickshire, I should not like to disappoint her.”

  “You are very fond of Clara?” he asked suddenly.

  “Very!” She paused and sighed slightly. “She is so kind and clever — much more clever than I can ever be — and she knows many things about the world which I do not. And she admires you so much, Philip!”

  “Does she indeed?” Philip laughed and colored a little. “Very good of her, I’m sure! And so you’d really like to go to the Brilliant to-night?”

  “I think so,” she said hesitatingly. “Clara says it will be very amusing. And you must remember how much I enjoyed ‘Faust’ and ‘Hamlet.’”

  Errington smiled. “You’ll find the Brilliant performance very different to either,” he said amusedly. “You don’t know what a burlesque is like!”

  “Then I must be instructed,” replied Thelma, smiling also, “I need to learn many things. I am very ignorant!”

  “Ignorant!” and he swept aside with a caressing touch the clustering hair from her broad, noble brow. “My darling, you possess the greatest wisdom — the wisdom of innocence. I would not change it for all the learning of the sagest philosophers!”

  “You really mean that?” she asked half timidly.

  “I really mean that!” he answered fondly. “Little sceptic! As if I would ever say anything to you that I did not mean! I shall be glad when we’re out of London and back at the Manor — then I shall have you all to myself again — for a time, at least.”

  She raised her eyes full of sudden joy, — all traces of her former depression had disappeared.

  “And I shall have you!” she said gladly. “And we shall not disappoint Lady Winsleigh to-night, Philip — I am not tired — and I shall be pleased to go to the theatre.”

  “All right!” responded Philip cheerfully. “So let it be! Only I don’t believe you’ll like the piece, — though it certainly won’t make you cry. Yet I doubt if it will make you laugh, either. However, it will be a new experience for you.”

  And a new experience it decidedly was, — an experience, too, which brought some strange and perplexing results to Thelma of which she never dreamed.

  She went to the Brilliant, accompanied by Lady Winsleigh and her husband, — Neville, the secretary, making the fourth in their box; and during the first and second scene of the performance the stage effects were so pretty and the dancing so graceful that she nearly forgot the bewildered astonishment she had at first felt at the extreme scantiness of apparel worn by the ladies of the ballet. They represented birds, bees, butterflies, and the other winged denizens of the forest-world, — and the tout-ensemble was so fairy-like and brilliant with swift movement, light, and color that the eye was too dazzled and confused to note objectionable details. But in the third scene, when a plump, athletic young woman leaped on the stage in the guise of a humming-bird, with a feather tunic so short that it was a mere waist-belt of extra width, — a flesh-colored bodice about three inches high, and a pair of blue wings attached to her fat shoulders, Thelma started and half rose from her seat in dismay, while a hot tide of color crimsoned her cheeks. She looked nervously at her husband.

  “I do not think this is pleasant to see,” she said in a low tone. “Would it not be best to go away? I — I think I would rather be at home.”

  Lady Winsleigh heard and smiled, — a little mocking smile.

  “Don’t be silly, child!” she said. “If you leave the theatre just now you’ll have every one staring at you. That woman’s an immense favorite — she is the success of the piece. She’s got more diamonds than either you or I.”

  Thelma regarded her friend with a sort of grave wonder, — but said nothing in reply. If Lady Winsleigh liked the performance and wished to remain, why — then politeness demanded that Thelma should not interfere with her pleasure by taking an abrupt leave. So she resumed her seat, but withdrew herself far behind the curtain of the box, in a corner where the stage was almost invisible to her eyes. Her husband bent over her and whispered —

  “I’ll take you home if you wish it, dear! only say the word.”

  She shook her head.

  “Clara enjoys it!” she answered somewhat plaintively. “We must stay.”

  Philip was about to address Lady Winsleigh on the subject, when suddenly Neville touched him on the arm.

  “Can I speak to you alone for a moment, Sir Philip?” he said in a strange, hoarse whisper. “Outside the box — away from the ladies — a matter of importance!”

  He looked as if he were about to faint. He gasped rather than spoke these words; his face was white as death, and his eyes had a confused and bewildered stare.

  “Certainly!” answered Philip promptly, though not without an accent of surprise, — and, excusing their absence briefly to his wife and Lady Winsleigh, they left the box together. Meanwhile the well-fed “Humming-Bird” was capering extravagantly before the footlights, pointing her toe in the delighted face of the stalls and singing in a in a loud, coarse voice the following refined ditty —

  “Oh my ducky, oh my darling, oh my duck, duck, duck!

  If you love me you must have a little pluck, pluck, pluck!

  Come and put your arms around me, kiss me once, twice, thrice,

  For kissing may be naughty, but, by Jingo! it is nice!

  Once, twice, thrice!

  Nice, nice, nice!

  Bliss, bliss, bliss!

  Kiss, kiss, kiss!

  Kissing may be naughty, but it’s nice!”

  There were several verses in this graceful poem, and each one was hailed with enthusiastic applause. The “Humming-Bird” was triumphant, and when her song was concluded she executed a startling pas-seul full of quaint and astonishing surprises, reaching her superbest climax, when she backed off the stage on one portly leg, — kicking the other in regular time to the orchestra. Lady Winsleigh laughed, and leaning towards Thelma, who still sat in her retired corner, said with a show of kindness —

  “You dear little goose! You must get accustomed to this kind of thing — it takes with the men immensely. Why, even your wonderful Philip has gone down behind the scenes with Neville — you may be sure of that!”

  The startled, pitiful astonishment in the girl’s face might have touched a less callous heart than Lady Winsleigh’s, — but her ladyship was prepared for it and only smiled.

  “Gone behind the scenes! To see that dreadful woman!” exclaimed Thelma in a low pained tone. “Oh no, Clara! He would not do such a thing. Impossible!”

  “Well, my dear, then where is he? He has been gone quite ten minutes. Look at the stalls — all the men are out of them! I tell you Violet Vere draws everybody — of the male sex after her! At the end of all her ‘scenes’ she has a regular reception — for men only — of course! Ladies not admitted!” And Clara Winsleigh laughed. “Don’t look so shocked for heaven’s sake, Thelma, — you don’t want your husband to be a regular nincompoop! He must have his amusements as well as other people. I believe you want him to be like a baby, tied to your apron-string! You’ll find that an awful mistake, — he’ll get tired to death of you, sweet little Griselda though you are!”

  Thelma’s face grew very pale, and her hand closed more tightly on the fan she held.

  “You have said that so very, very often lately, Clara!” she murmured. “You seem so sure that he will get tired — that all men get tired. I do not think you know Philip — he is
not like any other person I have ever met. And why should he go behind the scenes to such a person as Violet Vere—”

  At that moment the box-door opened with a sharp click, and Errington entered alone. He looked disturbed and anxious.

  “Neville is not well,” he said abruptly, addressing his wife. “I’ve sent him home. He wouldn’t have been able to sit this thing out.” And he glanced half angrily towards the stage — the curtain had just gone up again and displayed the wondrous Violet Vere still in her “humming-bird” character, swinging on the branch of a tree and (after the example of all humming-birds) smoking a cigar with brazen-faced tranquillity.

  “I am sorry he is ill,” said Thelma gently. “That is why you were so long away?”

  “Was I long?” returned Philip somewhat absently. “I didn’t know it. I went to ask a question behind the scenes.”

  Lady Winsleigh coughed and glanced at Thelma, whose eyes dropped instantly.

  “I suppose you saw Violet Vere?” asked Clara.

  “Yes, I saw her,” he replied briefly. He seemed irritable and vexed — moreover, decidedly impatient. Presently he said —

  “Lady Winsleigh, would you mind very much if we left this place and went home? I’m rather anxious about Neville — he’s had a shock. Thelma doesn’t care a bit about this piece, I know, and if you are not very much absorbed—”

  Lady Winsleigh rose instantly, with her usual ready grace.

  “My dear Sir Philip!” she said sweetly. “As if I would not, do anything to oblige you! Let us go by all means! These burlesques are extremely fatiguing!”

  He seemed relieved by her acquiescence — and smiled that rare sweet smile of his, which had once played such havoc with her ladyship’s sensitive feelings. They left the theatre, and were soon on their way home, though Thelma was rather silent during the drive. They dropped Lady Winsleigh at her own door, and after they had bidden her a cordial good night, and were going on again towards home, Philip, turning towards his wife, and catching sight of her face by the light of a street-lamp, was struck by her extreme paleness and weary look.

  “You are very tired, my darling, I fear?” he inquired, tenderly encircling her with one arm. “Lean your head on my shoulder — so!”

  She obeyed, and her hand trembled a little as he took and held it in his own warm, strong clasp.

  “We shall soon be home!” he added cheerily. “And I think we must have no more theatre-going this season. The heat and noise and glare are too much for you.”

  “Philip,” said Thelma suddenly. “Did you really go behind the scenes to-night?”

  “Yes, I did,” he answered readily. “I was obliged to go on a matter of business — a very disagreeable and unpleasant matter too.”

  “And what was it?” she asked timidly, yet hopefully.

  “My pet, I can’t tell you! I wish I could! It’s a secret I’m bound not to betray — a secret which involves the name of another person who’d be wretched if I were to mention it to you. There, — don’t let us talk about it any more!”

  “Very well, Philip,” said Thelma resignedly, — but though she smiled, a sudden presentiment of evil depressed her. The figure of the vulgar, half-clothed, painted creature known as Violet Vere rose up mockingly before her eyes, — and the half-scornful, half-jesting words of Lady Winsleigh rang persistently in her ears.

  On reaching home, Philip went straight to Neville’s little study and remained with him in earnest conversation for a long time — while Thelma went to bed, and lay restless among her pillows, puzzling her brain with strange forebodings and new and perplexing ideas, till fatigue overpowered her, and she fell asleep with a few tear-drops wet on her lashes. And that night Philip wondered why his sweet wife talked so plaintively in her sleep, — though he smiled as he listened to the drift of those dove-like murmurings.

  “No one knows how my boy loves me,” sighed the dreaming voice. “No one in all the world! How should he tire? Love can never tire!”

  Meanwhile, Lady Winsleigh, in the seclusion of her own boudoir, penned a brief note to Sir Francis Lennox as follows —

  “DEAR OLD LENNIE,”

  “I saw you in the stalls at the theatre this evening, though you pretended not to see me. What a fickle creature you are! not that I mind in the very least. The virtuous Bruce-Errington left his saintly wife and me to talk little platitudes together, while he, decorously accompanied by his secretary, went down to pay court to Violet Vere. How stout she is getting! Why don’t you men advise her to diet herself? I know you also went behind the scenes — of course, you are an ami intime — promising boy you are, to be sure! Come and lunch with me to-morrow, if you’re not too lazy.”

  “Yours ever, CLARA.”

  She gave this missive to her maid, Louise Rénaud, to post, — that faithful attendant took it first to her own apartment where she ungummed the envelope neatly by the aid of hot water, and read every word of it. This was not an exceptional action of hers, — all the letters received and sent by her mistress were subjected to the same process, — even those that were sealed with wax she had a means of opening in such a manner that it was impossible to detect that they had been tampered with.

  She was a very clever French maid was Louise, — one of the cleverest of her class. Fond of mischief, ever suspicious, always on the alert for evil, utterly unscrupulous and malicious, she was an altogether admirable attendant for a lady of rank and fashion, her skill as a coiffeur and needle-woman always obtaining for her the wages she so justly deserved. When will wealthy women reared in idleness and luxury learn the folly of keeping a trained spy attached to their persons? — a spy whose pretended calling is merely to arrange dresses and fripperies (half of which she invariably steals), but whose real delight is to take note of all her mistress’s incomings and outgoings, tempers and tears — to watch her looks, her smiles and frowns, — and to start scandalous gossip concerning her in the servants’ hall, from whence it gradually spreads to the society newspapers — for do you think these estimable and popular journals are never indebted for their “reliable” information to the “honest” statements of discharged footman or valet? Briggs, for instance, had tried his hand at a paragraph or two concerning the “Upper Ten,” and with the aid of a dictionary, had succeeded in expressing himself quite smartly, though in ordinary conversation his h’s were often lacking or superfluous, and his grammar doubtful. Whether he persuaded any editor to accept his literary efforts is quite another matter — a question to which the answer must remain for ever enveloped in mystery, — but if he did appear in print (it is only an if!) he must have been immensely gratified to consider that his statements were received with gusto by at least half aristocratic London, and implicitly believed as having emanated from the “best authorities.” And Louise Rénaud having posted her mistress’s letter at last, went down to visit Briggs in his private pantry, and to ask him a question.

  “Tell me,” she said rapidly, with her tight, prim smile. “You read the papers — you will know. What lady is that of the theatres — Violet Vere?”

  Briggs laid down the paper he was perusing and surveyed her with a superior air.

  “What, Vi?” he exclaimed with a lazy wink. “Vi, of the Hopperer-Buff? You’ve ‘erd of ‘er surely, Mamzelle? No? There’s not a man (as is worth calling a man) about town, as don’t know ‘er! Dukes, Lords, an’ Royal ‘Ighnesses — she’s the style for ’em! Mag-ni-ficent creetur! all legs and arms! I won’t deny but wot I ‘ave an admiration for ‘er myself — I bought a ‘arf-crown portrait of ‘er quite recently.” And Briggs rose slowly and searched in a mysterious drawer which he invariably kept locked.

  “’Ere she is, as large as life, Mamzelle,” he continued, exhibiting a “promenade” photograph of the actress in question. “There’s a neck for you! There’s form! Vi, my dear, I saloot you!” and he pressed a sounding kiss on the picture— “you’re one in a million! Smokes and drinks like a trooper, Mamzelle!” he added admiringly, as Louise Rénaud st
udied the portrait attentively. “But with all ‘er advantages, you would not call ‘er a lady. No — that term would be out of the question. She is wot we men would call an enchantin’ female!” And Briggs kissed the tips of his fingers and waved them in the air as he had seen certain foreign gentlemen do when enthusiastic.

  “I comprehend,” said the French maid, nodding emphatically. “Then, if she is so, what makes that proud Seigneur Bruce-Errington visit her?” Here she shook her finger at Briggs. “And leave his beautiful lady wife, to go and see her?” Another shake. “And that miserable Sieur Lennox to go also? Tell me that!” She folded her arms, like Napoleon at St. Helena, and smiled again that smile which was nothing but a sneer. Briggs rubbed his nose contemplatively.

  “Little Francis can go ennywheres,” he said at last. “He’s laid out a good deal of tin on Vi and others of ‘er purfession. You cannot make enny-think of that young feller but a cad. I would not accept ’im for my pussonal attendant. No! But Sir Philip Bruce-Errington—” He paused, then continued, “Air you sure of your facts, Mamzelle?”

  Mamzelle was so sure, that the bow on her cap threatened to come off with the determined wagging of her head.

  “Well,” resumed Briggs, “Sir Philip may, like hothers, consider it ‘the thing’ you know, to ‘ang on as it were to Vi. But I ‘ad thought ’im superior to it. Ah! poor ‘uman natur, as ‘Uxley says!” and Briggs sighed. “Lady Errington is a sweet creetur, Mamzelle — a very sweet creetur! Has a rule I find the merest nod of my ‘ed a sufficient saloot to a woman of the aristocracy — but for ‘er, Mamzelle, I never fail to show ‘er up with a court bow!” And involuntarily Briggs bowed then and there in his most elegant manner. Mamzelle tightened her thin lips a little and waved her hand expressively.

  “She is an angel of beauty!” she said, “and Miladi Winsleigh is jealous — ah, Dieu! jealous to death of her! She is innocent too — like a baby — and she worships her husband. That is an error! To worship a man is a great mistake — she will find it so. Men are not to be too much loved — no, no!”