Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  As she lay quiet, watching the glimmering light upon the wall, it seemed as though her room were suddenly filled with shadowy forms, — she saw her mother’s sweet, sad, suffering face, — then her father’s sturdy figure and fine, frank features, — then came the flitting shape of the hapless Sigurd, whose plaintive voice she almost imagined she could hear, — and feeling that she was growing foolishly nervous, she closed her eyes, and tried to sleep. In vain, — her mind began to work on a far more unpleasing train of thought. Why did not Philip return? Where was he? As though some mocking devil had answered her, the words, “In the arms of Violet Vere!” as uttered by Sir Francis Lennox, recurred to her. Overcome by her restlessness, she started up, — she determined to get out of bed, and put on her dressing-gown and read, — when her quick ears caught the sound of steps coming up the stair-case. She recognized her husband’s firm tread, and understood that he was followed by Neville, whose sleeping-apartment was on the floor above. She listened attentively — they were talking together in low tones on the landing outside her door.

  “I think it would be much better to make a clean breast of it,” said Sir Philip. “She will have to know some day.”

  “Your wife? For God’s sake, don’t tell her!” Neville’s voice replied. “Such a disgraceful—” Here his words sank to a whisper, and Thelma could not distinguish them. Another minute, and her husband entered with soft precaution, fearing to awake her — she stretched out her arms to welcome him, and he hastened to her with an exclamation of tenderness and pleasure.

  “My darling! Not asleep yet?”

  She smiled, — but there was something very piteous in her smile, had the dim light enabled him to perceive it.

  “No, not yet, Philip! And yet I think I have been dreaming of — the Altenfjord.”

  “Ah! it must be cold there now,” he answered lightly. “It’s cold enough here, in all conscience. To-night there is a bitter east wind, and snow is falling.”

  She heard this account of the weather with almost morbid interest. Her thoughts instantly betook themselves again to Norway, and dwelt there. To the last, — before her aching eyes closed in the slumber she so sorely needed, — she seemed to be carried away in fancy to a weird stretch of gloom-enveloped landscape where she stood entirely alone, vaguely wondering at the dreary scene. “How strange it seems!” she murmured almost aloud. “All snow and darkness at the Altenfjord!”

  CHAPTER XXV.

  “Le temps où nous nous sommes aimés n’a guère duré, jeune fille; il a passé comme un coup de vent!”

  Old Breton Ballad.

  The next morning dawned, cold and dismal. A dense yellow fog hung over the metropolis like a pall — the street lamps were lighted, but their flare scarcely illumined the thoroughfares, and the chill of the snow-burdened air penetrated into the warmest rooms, and made itself felt even by the side of the brightest fires. Sir Philip woke with an uncomfortable sense of headache and depression, and grumbled, — as surely every Englishman has a right to grumble, at the uncompromising wretchedness of his country’s winter climate. His humor was not improved when a telegram arrived before breakfast, summoning him in haste to a dull town in one of the Midland counties, on pressing business connected with his candidature for Parliament.

  “What a bore!” he exclaimed, showing the missive to his wife. “I must go, — and I shan’t be able to get back tonight. You’ll be all alone, Thelma. I wish you’d go to the Winsleighs!”

  “Why?” said Thelma quietly. “I shall much prefer to be here. I do not mind, Philip. I am accustomed to be alone.”

  Something in her tone struck him as particularly sad, and he looked at her intently.

  “Now, my darling,” he said suddenly, “if this Parliamentary bother is making you feel worried or vexed in any way, I’ll throw it all up — by Jove, I will!” And he drew her into his warm embrace. “After all” he added, with a laugh, “what does it matter! The country can get on without me!”

  Thelma smiled a little.

  “You must not talk so foolishly, Philip,” she said tenderly. “It is wrong to begin a thing of importance, and not go through with it. And I am not worried or vexed at all. What would people say of me if I, your wife, were, for my own selfish comfort and pleasure of having you always with me, to prevent you from taking a good place among the men of your nation? Indeed, I should deserve much blame! And so, though it is a gloomy day for you, poor boy, — you must go to this place where you are wanted, and I shall think of you all the time you are gone, and shall be so happy to welcome you home to-morrow!”

  And she kissed and clung to him for a moment in silence. All that day Philip was haunted by the remembrance of the lingering tenderness of her farewell embrace. By ten o’clock he was gone, taking Neville with him; and after her household duties were over, Thelma prepared herself to go and lunch with old Mrs. Lorimer, and see what she would advise concerning the affair of Sir Francis Lennox. But, at the same time, she resolved that nothing should make her speak of the reports that were afloat about her husband and Violet Vere.

  “I know it is all false,” she said to herself over and over again. “And the people here are as silly as the peasants in Bosekop, ready to believe any untruth so long as it gives them something to talk about. But they may chatter as they please — I shall not say one word, not even to Philip — for it would seem as if I mistrusted him.”

  Thus she put away all the morbid fancies that threatened to oppress her, and became almost cheerful.

  And while she made her simple plans for pleasantly passing the long, dull day of her husband’s enforced absence, her friend, Lady Winsleigh, was making arrangements of a very different nature. Her ladyship had received a telegram from Sir Francis Lennox that morning. The pink missive had apparently put her in an excellent humor, though, after reading it, she crumpled it up and threw it in the waste-paper basket, from which receptacle, Louise Rénaud, her astute attendant, half an hour later extracted it, secreting it in her own pocket for private perusal at leisure. She ordered her brougham, saying she was going out on business, — and before departing, she took from her dressing-case certain bank-notes and crammed them hastily into her purse — a purse which, in all good faith, she handed to her maid to put in her sealskin muff-bag. Of course, Louise managed to make herself aware of its contents, — but when her ladyship at last entered her carriage her unexpected order, “To the Brilliant Theatre, Strand,” was sufficient to startle Briggs, and cause him to exchange surprise signals with “Mamzelle,” who merely smiled a prim, incomprehensible smile.

  “Where did your la’ship say?” asked Briggs dubiously.

  “Are you getting deaf, Briggs?” responded his mistress pleasantly. “To the Brilliant Theatre!” She raised her voice, and spoke with distinct emphasis. There was no mistaking her. Briggs touched his hat, — in the same instant he winked at Louise, and then the carriage rolled away.

  At night, the Brilliant Theatre is a pretty little place, — comfortable, cosy, bright, and deserving of its name; — in broad day, it is none of these things. A squalid dreariness seems to have settled upon it — it has a peculiar atmosphere of its own — an atmosphere dark, heavy, and strangely flavored with odors of escaping gas and crushed orange-peel. Behind the scenes, these odors mingle with a chronic, all-pervading smell of beer — beer, which the stranger’s sensitive nose detects directly, in spite of the choking clouds of dust which arise from the boards at the smallest movement of any part of the painted scenery. The Brilliant had gone through much ill-fortune — its proprietors never realized any financial profit till they secured Violet Vere. With her came prosperity. Her utter absence of all reserve — the frankness with which she threw modesty to the winds, — the vigor with which she danced a regular “break-down,” — roaring a comic song of the lowest type, by way of accompaniment, — the energetic manner in which, metaphorically speaking, she kicked at the public with her shapely legs, — all this overflow of genius on her part drew crowds to the Brilli
ant nightly, and the grateful and happy managers paid her a handsome salary, humored all her caprices, and stinted and snubbed for her sake, all the rest of the company. She was immensely popular — the “golden youth” of London raved about her dyed hair, painted eyes, and carmined lips — even her voice, as coarse as that of a dustman, was applauded to the echo, and her dancing excited the wildest enthusiasm. Dukes sent her presents of diamond ornaments — gifts of value which they would have possibly refused to their own wives and daughters, — Royal Highnesses thought it no shame to be seen lounging near her stage dressing-room door, — in short, she was in the zenith of her career, and, being thoroughly unprincipled, audaciously insolent, and wholly without a conscience, — she enjoyed herself immensely.

  At the very time when Lady Winsleigh’s carriage was nearing the Strand, the grand morning rehearsal of a new burlesque was “on” at the Brilliant — and Violet’s harsh tones, raised to a sort of rough masculine roar, were heard all over the theatre, as she issued commands or made complaints according to her changeful humors. She sat in an elevated position above the stage on a jutting beam of wood painted to resemble the gnarled branch of a tree, — swinging her legs to and fro and clinking the heels of her shoes together in time to the mild scraping of a violin, the player whereof was “trying over” the first few bars of the new “jig” in which she was ere long to distinguish herself. She was a handsome woman, with a fine, fair skin, and large, full, dark eyes — she had a wide mouth, which, nearly always on the grin, displayed to the full her strong white teeth, — her figure was inclined to excessive embonpoint, but this rather endeared her to her admirers than otherwise, — many of these gentlemen being prone to describe her fleshly charms by the epithet “Prime!” as though she were a fatting pig or other animal getting ready for killing.

  “Tommy! Tommy!” she screeched presently. “Are you going to sleep? Do you expect me to dance to a dirge, you lazy devil!”

  Tommy, the player of the violin, paused in his efforts, and looked up drearily. He was an old man, with a lean, long body and pinched features — his lips had a curious way, too, of trembling when he spoke, as if he were ready to cry.

  “I can’t help it,” he said slowly. “I don’t know it yet. I must practice it a bit at home. My sight’s not so good as it used to be—”

  “Such a pair of optics, love, you’ve never, never seen —

  One my mother blacked last night, the other it is green!”

  sang Violet, to the infinite delight of all the unwashed-looking supernumeraries and ballet-girls, who were scattered about the stage, talking and laughing.

  “Shut up, Tommy!” she continued. “You’re always talking about your eyesight. I warn you, if you say too much about it you’ll lose your place. We don’t want blind fiddlers in the Brilliant. Put down you catgut screamer, and fetch me a pint. Ask for the Vere’s own tipple — they’ll twig!”

  Tommy obeyed, and shuffled off on his errand. As he departed, — a little man with a very red face, wearing a stove-pipe hat very much on one side, bounced on the stage as if some one had thrown him there like a ball.

  “Now, ladies, ladies!” he shouted warningly. “Attention! Once again, please! The last figure once again!” The straggling groups scrambled hastily into something like order, and the little man continued— “One, two, three! Advance — retreat — left, right! Very well, indeed! Arms up a little more, Miss Jenkins — so! toes well pointed — curtsy — retire! One, two, three! swift slide to the left wing — forward! Round — take hands — all smile, please!” This general smile was apparently not quite satisfactory, for he repeated persuasively— “All smile, please! So! Round again — more quickly — now break the circle in a centre — enter Miss Vere—” he paused, growing still redder in the face, and demanded, “Where is Miss Vere?”

  He was standing just beneath the painted bough of the sham tree, and in one second his hat was dexterously kicked off, and two heels met with a click round his neck.

  “Here I am, pickaninny!” retorted Miss Vere holding him fast in this novel embrace, amid the laughter of the supers. “You’re getting as blind as Tommy! Steady, steady now, donkey! — steady — woa!” And in a thrice she stood upright, one foot planted firmly on each of his shoulders.

  “No weight, am I, darling?” she went on jeeringly, and with an inimitably derisive air she put up an eye-glass and surveyed the top of his head. “You want a wig, my dear — you do, indeed! Come with me to-morrow, and I’ll buy you one to suit your complexion. Your wife won’t know you!”

  And with a vigorous jump she sprang down from her position, managing to give him a smart hit on the nose as she did so — and leaping to the centre of the stage, she posed herself to commence her dance — when Tommy came creeping back in his slow and dismal fashion, bearing something in a pewter pot.

  “That’s the ticket!” she cried as she perceived him. “I’m as dry as a whole desert! Give it here!” And she snatched the mug from the feeble hand of her messenger and began drinking eagerly.

  The little red-faced man interposed. “Now, Miss Vi,” he said, “is that brandy?”

  “Rather so!” returned the Vere, with a knowing wink, “and a good many things besides. It’s a mixture. The ‘Vere’s Own!’ Ha, ha! Might be the name of a regiment!”

  And she buried her mouth and nose again in the tankard.

  “Look here,” said the little man again. “Why not wait till after the dance? It’s bad for you before.”

  “Oh, is it, indeed!” screamed Violet, raising her face, which became suddenly and violently flushed. “O good Lord! Are you a temperance preacher? Teach your granny! Bad for me? Say another word, and I’ll box your ears for you! You braying jackass! — you snivelling idiot! Who makes the Brilliant draw? You or I? Tell me that, you staring old—”

  Here Tommy, who had for some minutes been vainly endeavoring to attract her attention, raised his weak voice to a feeble shout.

  “I say, Miss Vere! I’ve been trying to tell you, but you won’t listen! There’s a lady waiting to see you!”

  “A what?” she asked.

  “A lady!” continued Tommy, in loud tones. “A lady of title! Wants to see you in private! Won’t detain you long!”

  Violet Vere raised her pewter mug once more, and drained off its contents.

  “Lord, ain’t I honored!” she said, smacking her lips with a grin. “A lady of title to see me! Let her wait! Now then!” and snapping her fingers, she began her dance, and went through it to the end, with her usual vigor and frankness. When she had finished, she turned to the red-faced man who had watched her evolutions with much delight in spite of the abuse she had heaped upon him, and said with an affected, smirking drawl —

  “Show the lady of title into my dressing-room! I shall be ready for her in ten minutes. Be sure to mention that I am very shy, — and unaccustomed to company!”

  And, giggling gently like an awkward school-girl, she held down her head with feigned bashfulness, and stepped mincingly across the stage with such a ludicrous air of prim propriety, that all her associates burst out laughing, and applauded her vociferously. She turned and curtsied to them demurely — then suddenly raising one leg in a horizontal position, she twirled it rapidly in their faces, — then she gave a little shocked cough behind her hand, grinned, and vanished.

  When, in the stipulated ten minutes, she was ready to receive her unknown visitor, she was quite transformed. She had arrayed herself in a trailing gown of rich black velvet, fastened at the side with jet clasps — a cluster of natural, innocent, white violets nestled in the fall of Spanish lace at her throat — her face was pale with pearl-powder, — and she had eaten a couple of scented bon-bons to drown the smell of her recent brandy-tipple. She reclined gracefully in an easy chair, pretending to read, and she rose with an admirably acted air of startled surprise, as one of the errand boys belonging to the Brilliant tapped at her door, and in answer to her “Come in!” announced, “Lady Winsleigh!”

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nbsp; A faint, sweet, questioning smile played on the Vere’s wide mouth.

  “I am not aware that I have the honor of—” she began, modulating her voice to the requirements of fashionable society, and wondering within herself “what the d —— l” this woman in the silk and sable-fur costume wanted.

  Lady Winsleigh in the meantime stared at her with cold, critical eyes.

  “She is positively rather handsome,” she thought. “I can quite imagine a certain class of men losing their heads about her.” Aloud she said —

  “I must apologize for this intrusion, Miss Vere! I dare say you have never heard my name — I am not fortunate enough to be famous, — as you are.” This with a killing satire in her smile. “May I sit down? Thanks! I have called upon you in the hope that you may perhaps be able to give me a little information in a private matter — a matter concerning the happiness of a very dear friend of mine.” She paused — Violet Vere sat silent. After a minute or two, her ladyship continued in a somewhat embarrassed manner —

  “I believe you know a gentleman with whom I am also acquainted — Sir Philip Bruce-Errington.”

  Miss Vere raised her eyes with charming languor and a slow smile.

  “Oh yes!”

  “He visits you, doesn’t he?”

  “Frequently!”

  “I’m afraid you’ll think me rude and inquisitive,” continued Lady Winsleigh, with a coaxing air, “but — but may I ask—”