Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Oh, just a fair seventy thousand or so,” answered Macfarlane carelessly.

  “Well done, Mac!” said Errington, with a smile, endeavoring to appear interested. “You’re quite rich, then? I congratulate you!”

  “Riches are a snare,” observed Macfarlane, sententiously, “a snare and a decoy to both soul and body!” He laughed and rubbed his hands, — then added with some eagerness, “I say, how is Lady Errington?”

  “She’s very well,” answered Sir Philip hurriedly, exchanging a quick look with Lorimer, which the latter at once understood. “She’s away on a visit just now. I’m going to join her this afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry she’s away,” said Sandy, and he looked very disappointed; “but I’ll see her when she comes back. Will she be long absent?”

  “No, not long — a few days only” — and as Errington said this an involuntary sigh escaped him.

  A few days only! — God grant it! But what — what if he should find her dead?

  Macfarlane noticed the sadness of his expression, but prudently forbore to make any remark upon it. He contented himself with saying —

  “Weel, ye’ve got a wife worth having — as I dare say ye know. I shall be glad to pay my respects to her as soon as she returns. I’ve got your address, Errington — will ye take mine?”

  And he handed him a small card on which was written in pencil the number of a house in one of the lowest streets in the East-end of London. Philip glanced at it with some surprise.

  “Is this where you live?” he asked with emphatic amazement.

  “Yes. It’s just the cleanest tenement I could find in that neighborhood. And the woman that keeps it is fairly respectable.”

  “But with your money,” remonstrated Lorimer, who also looked at the card, “I rather wonder at your choice of abode. Why, my dear fellow, do you know what sort of a place it is?”

  A steadfast, earnest, thinking look came into Macfarlane’s deep-set, grey eyes.

  “Yes, I do know, pairfectly,” he said in answer to the question. “It’s a place where there’s misery, starvation, and crime of all sorts, — and there I am in the very midst of it — just where I want to be. Ye see, I was meant to be a meenister — one of those douce, cannie, comfortable bodies that drone in the pulpit about predestination and original sin, and so forth a — sort, of palaver that does no good to ony resonable creature — an’ if I had followed out this profession, I make nae doot that, with my aunt’s seventy thousand, I should be a vera comfortable, respectable, selfish type of a man, who was decently embarked in an apparently important but really useless career—”

  “Useless?” interrupted Lorimer archly. “I say, Mac, take care! A minister of the Lord, useless!”

  “I’m thinkin’ there are unco few meen-isters o’ the Lord in this warld,” said Macfarlane musingly. “Maist o’ them meen-ister to themselves, an’ care na a wheen mair for Christ than Buddha. I tell ye, I was an altered man after we’d been to Norway — the auld pagan set me thinkin’ mony an’ mony a time — for, ma certes! he’s better worthy respect than mony a so-called Christian. And as for his daughter — the twa great blue eyes o’ that lassie made me fair ashamed o’ mysel’. Why? Because I felt that as a meen-ister o’ the Established Kirk, I was bound to be a sort o’ heep-ocrite, — ony thinkin’, reasonable man wi’ a conscience canna be otherwise wi’ they folk, — and ye ken, Errington, there’s something in your wife’s look that maks a body hesitate before tellin’ a lee. Weel — what wi’ her face an’ the auld bonde’s talk, I reflectit that I couldna be a meen-ister as meen-isters go, — an’ that I must e’en follow oot the Testament’s teachings according to ma own way of thinkin’. First, I fancied I’d rough it abroad as a meesionary — then I remembered the savages at hame, an’ decided to attend to them before onything else. Then my aunt’s siller came in handy — in short, I’m just gaun to live on as wee a handfu’ o’ the filthy lucre as I can, an’ lay oot the rest on the heathens o’ London. An’ it’s as well to do’t while I’m alive to see to’t mysel’ — for I’ve often observed that if ye leave your warld’s gear to the poor when ye’re deed, just for the gude reason that ye canna tak it to the grave wi’ ye, — it’ll melt in a wonderfu’ way through the hands o’ the ‘secretaries’ an’ ‘distributors’ o’ the fund, till there’s naething left for those ye meant to benefit. Ye maunna think I’m gaun to do ony preachin’ business down at East-end, — there’s too much o’ that an’ tract-givin’ already. The puir soul whose wee hoosie I’ve rented hadna tasted bit nor sup for three days — till I came an’ startled her into a greetin’ fit by takin’ her rooms an’ payin’ her in advance — eh! mon, ye’d have thought I was a saint frae heaven if ye’d heard her blessin’ me, — an’ a gude curate had called on her just before and had given her a tract to dine on. Ye see, I maun mak mysel’ a friend to the folk first, before I can do them gude — I maun get to the heart o’ their troubles — an’ troubles are plentiful in that quarter, — I maun live among them, an’ be ane o’ them. I wad mind ye that Christ Himsel’ gave sympathy to begin with, — he did the preachin’ afterwards.”

  “What a good fellow you are, Mac!” said Errington, suddenly seeing his raw Scotch friend with the perverse accent, in quite a new and heroic light.

  Macfarlane actually blushed. “Nonsense, not a bit o’t!” he declared quite nervously. “It’s just pure selfishness, after a’ — for I’m simply enjoyin’ mysel’ the hale day long. Last nicht, I found a wee cripple o’ a laddie sittin’ by himsel’ in the gutter, munchin’ a potato skin. I just took him, — he starin’ an’ blinkin’ like an owl at me, — and carried him into my room. There I gave him a plate o’ barley broth, an’ finished him up wi’ a hunk o’ gingerbread. Ma certes! Ye should ha’ seen the rascal laugh. ’Twas better than lookin’ at a play from a ten-guinea box on the grand tier!”

  “By Jove, Sandy, you’re a brick!” cried Lorimer, laughing to hide a very different emotion— “I had no idea you were that sort of chap.”

  “Nor had I,” said Macfarlane quite simply— “I never fashed mysel’ wi’ thinkin’ o’ ither folks troubles at a’ — I never even took into conseederation the meanin’ o’ the Testament teachings till — I saw your leddy wife, Errington.” He paused a moment, then added gravely— “Yes — and I’ve aften fancied she maun be a real live angel, — an’ I’ve sought always to turn my hand to something useful and worth the doin’, — ever since I met her.”

  “I’ll tell her so,” said poor Philip, his heart aching for his lost love as he spoke, though he smiled. “It will give her pleasure to hear it.”

  Macfarlane blushed again like any awkward schoolboy.

  “Oh, I dinna ken aboot that!” he said hurriedly. “She’s just a grand woman anyway.” Then, bethinking himself of another subject, he asked, “Have you heard o’ the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy lately?”

  Errington and Lorimer replied in the negative.

  Macfarlane laughed — his eyes twinkled. “It’s evident ye never read police reports,” he said— “Talk o’ misters, — he’s a pretty specimen! He’s been hunted out o’ his place in Yorkshire for carryin’ on love-affairs wi’ the women o’ his congregation. One day he locked himsel’ in the vestry wi’ the new-married wife o’ one o’ his preencipal supporters — an’ he had a grand time of it — till the husband came an’ dragged him oot an’ thrashed him soundly. Then he left the neighborhood — an’ just th’ ither day — he turned up in Glasgie.”

  Macfarlane paused and laughed again.

  “Well?” said Lorimer, with some interest— “Did you meet him there?”

  “That did I — but no to speak to him — he was for too weel lookit after to need my services,” and Macfarlane rubbed his great hands together with an irrepressible chuckle. “There was a crowd o’ hootin’ laddies round him, an’ he was callin’ on the heavens to bear witness to his purity. His hat was off — an’ he had a black eye — an’ a’ his coat was covered wi’ mud, an’ a po
liceman was embracin’ him vera affectionately by th’ arm. He was in charge for drunken, disorderly, an’ indecent conduct — an’ the magistrate cam’ down pretty hard on him. The case proved to be exceptionally outrageous — so he’s sentenced to a month’s imprisonment an’ hard labor. Hard labor! Eh, mon! but that’s fine! Fancy him at work — at real work for the first time in a’ his days! Gude Lord! I can see him at it!”

  “So he’s come to that!” and Errington shrugged his shoulders with weary contempt. “I thought he would. His career as a minister is ended, that’s one comfort!”

  “Don’t be too sure o’ that!” said Sandy cautiously. “There’s always America, ye ken. He can mak’ a holy martyr o’ himsel’ there! He may gain as muckle a reputation as Henry Ward Beecher — ye canna ever tell what may happen— ’tis a queer warld!”

  “Queer, indeed!” assented Lorimer as they all rose and left the restaurant together. “If our present existence is the result of a fortuitous conglomeration of atoms, — I think the atoms ought to have been more careful what they were about, that’s all I can say!”

  They reached the open street, where Macfarlane shook hands and went his way, promising to call on Errington as soon as Thelma should be again at home.

  “He’s turned out quite a fine fellow,” said Lorimer, when he had gone. “I should never have thought he had so much in him. He has become a philanthropist.”

  “I fancy he’s better than an ordinary philanthropist,” replied Philip. “Philanthropists often talk a great deal and do nothing.”

  “Like members of Parliament,” suggested Lorimer, with a smile.

  “Exactly so. By-the-by — I’ve resigned my candidateship.”

  “Resigned? Why?”

  “Oh, I’m sick of the thing! One has to be such a humbug to secure one’s votes. I had a wretched time yesterday, — speechifying and trying to rouse up clodhoppers to the interests of their country, — and all the time my darling at home was alone, and breaking her heart about me! By Jove! if I’d only known! When I came back this morning to all this misery — I told Neville to send in my resignation. I repeated the same thing to him the last thing before I left the house.”

  “But you might have waited a day or two,” said Lorimer wonderingly. “You’re such a fellow of impulse, Phil—”

  “Well, I can’t help it. I’m tired of politics. I began with a will, fancying that every member of the house had his country’s interests at heart, — not a bit of it! They’re all for themselves — most of them, at any rate — they’re not even sincere in their efforts to do good to the population. And it’s all very well to stick up for the aristocracy; but why, in Heaven’s name, can’t some of the wealthiest among them do as much as our old Mac is doing, for the outcast and miserable poor? I see some real usefulness and good in his work, and I’ll help him in it with a will — when — when Thelma comes back.”

  Thus talking, the two friends reached the Garrick Club, where they found Beau Lovelace in the reading-room, turning over some new books with the curious smiling air of one who believes there can be nothing original under the sun, and that all literature is mere repetition. He greeted them cheerfully.

  “Come out of here,” he said. “Come into a place where we can talk. There’s an old fellow over there who’s ready to murder any member who even whispers. We won’t excite his angry passions. You know we’re all literature-mongers here, — we’ve each got our own little particular stall where we sort our goods — our mouldy oranges, sour apples, and indigestible nuts, — and we polish them up to look tempting to the public. It’s a great business, and we can’t bear to be looked at while we’re turning our apples with the best side outwards, and boiling our oranges to make them swell and seem big! We like to do our humbug in silence and alone.”

  He led the way into the smoking-room — and there heard with much surprise and a great deal of concern the story of Thelma’s flight.

  “Ingenuous boy!” he said kindly, clapping Philip on the shoulder. “How could you be such a fool as to think that repeated visits to Violet Vere, no matter on what business, would not bring the dogs of scandal yelping about your heels! I wonder you didn’t see how you were compromising yourself!”

  “He never told me a word about it,” interposed Lorimer, “or else I should have given him a bit of my mind on the subject.”

  “Of course!” agreed Lovelace. “And — excuse me — why the devil didn’t you let your secretary manage his domestic squabbles by himself?”

  “He’s very much broken down,” said Errington. “A hopeless, frail, disappointed man. I thought I could serve him—”

  “I see!” and Beau’s eyes were bent on him with a very friendly look. “You’re a first-rate fellow, Errington, — but you shouldn’t fly off so readily on the rapid wings of impulse. Now I suppose you want to shoot Lennox — that can’t be done — not in England at any rate.”

  “It can’t be done at all, anywhere,” said Lorimer gravely. “He’s dead.”

  Beau Lovelace started back in amazement. “Dead! You don’t say so! Why, he was dining last night at the Criterion — I saw him there.”

  Briefly they related the sudden accident that had occurred, and described its fatal result.

  “He died horribly!” said Philip in a low voice. “I haven’t got over it yet. That evil, tortured face of his haunts me.”

  Lovelace was only slightly shocked. He had known Lennox’s life too well, and had despised it too thoroughly, to feel much regret now it was thus abruptly ended.

  “Rather an unpleasant exit for such a fellow,” he remarked. “Not aesthetic at all. And so you were going to castigate him?”

  “Look!” and Philip showed him the horsewhip; “I’ve been carrying this thing about all day, — I wish I could drop it in the streets; but if I did, some one would be sure to pick it up and return it to me.”

  “If it were a purse containing bank-notes you could drop it with the positive certainty of never seeing it again,” laughed Beau. “Here, hand it over!” and he possessed himself of it. “I’ll keep it till you come back. You leave for Norway to-night, then?”

  “Yes. If I can. But it’s the winter season — and there’ll be all manner of difficulties. I’m afraid it’s no easy matter to reach the Altenfjord at this time of year.”

  “Why not use your yacht, and be independent of obstacles?” suggested Lovelace.

  “She’s under repairs, worse luck!” sighed Philip despondingly. “She won’t be in sailing condition for another month. No — I must take my chance — that’s all. It’s possible I may overtake Thelma at Hull — that’s my great hope.”

  “Well, don’t be down in the mouth about it, my boy!” said Beau sympathetically. “It’ll all come right, depend upon it! Your wife’s a sweet, gentle, noble creature, — and when once she knows all about the miserable mistake that has arisen, I don’t know which will be greatest, her happiness or her penitence, for having misunderstood the position. Now let’s have some coffee.”

  He ordered this refreshment from a passing waiter, and as he did so, a gentleman, with hands clasped behind his back, and a suave smile on his countenance, bowed to him with marked and peculiar courtesy as he sauntered on his way through the room. Beau returned the salute with equal politeness.

  “That’s Whipper,” he explained with a smile, when the gentleman was out of earshot. “The best and most generous of men! He’s a critic — all critics are large-minded and generous, we know, — but he happens to be remarkably so. He did me the kindest turn I ever had in my life. When my first book came out, he fell upon it tooth and claw, mangled it, tore it to ribbons, metaphorically speaking, — and waved the fragments mockingly in the eyes of the public. From that day my name was made — my writings sold off with delightful rapidity, and words can never tell how I blessed, and how I still bless, Whipper! He always pitches into me — that’s what’s so good of him! We’re awfully polite to each other, as you observe — and what is so perfectly charmi
ng is that he’s quite unconscious how much he’s helped me along! He’s really a first-rate fellow. But I haven’t yet attained the summit of my ambition,” — and here Lovelace broke off with a sparkle of fun in his clear steel-grey eyes.

  “Why, what else do you want?” asked Lorimer laughing.

  “I want,” returned Beau solemnly, “I want to be jeered at by Punch! I want Punch to make mouths at me, and give me the benefit of his inimitable squeak and gibber. No author’s fame is quite secure till dear old Punch has abused him. Abuse is the thing nowadays, you know. Heaven forbid that I should be praised by Punch. That would be frightfully unfortunate!”

  Here the coffee arrived, and Lovelace dispensed it to his friends, talking gaily the while in an effort to distract Errington from his gloomy thoughts.

  “I’ve just been informed on respectable authority, that Walt Whitman is the new Socrates,” he said laughingly. “I felt rather stunned at the moment but I’ve got over it now. Oh, this deliciously mad London! what a gigantic Colney Hatch it is for the crazed folk of the world to air their follies in! That any reasonable Englishmen with such names as Shakespeare, Byron, Keats, and Shelley, to keep the glory of their country warm, should for one moment consider Walt Whitman a poet! Ye gods! Where are your thunderbolts!”

  “He’s an American, isn’t he?” asked Errington.

  “He is, my dear boy! An American whom the sensible portion of America rejects. We, therefore, — out of opposition, — take him up. His chief recommendation is that he writes blatantly concerning commonplaces, — regardless of music or rhythm. Here’s a bit of him concerning the taming of oxen. He says the tamer lives in a

  “‘Placid pastoral region.

  There they bring him the three-year-olds and the four-year-olds to break them, —

  Some are such beautiful animals, so lofty looking, — some are buff-colored, some mottled, one has a white line running along his back, some are brindled,

  Some have wide flaring horns (a good sign!) look you! the bright hides