Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  See the two with stars on their foreheads — see the round bodies and broad backs

  How straight and square they stand on their legs—’”

  “Stop, stop!” cried Lorimer, putting his hands to his ears. “This is a practical joke, Beau! No one would call that jargon poetry!”

  “Oh! wouldn’t they though!” exclaimed Lovelace. “Let some critic of reputation once start the idea, and you’ll have the good London folk who won’t bother to read him for themselves, declaring him as fine as Shakespeare. The dear English muttons! fine Southdowns! fleecy baa-lambs! once let the Press-bell tinkle loudly enough across the fields of literature, and they’ll follow, bleating sweetly in any direction! The sharpest heads in our big metropolis are those who know this, and who act accordingly.”

  “Then why don’t you act accordingly?” asked Errington, with a faint smile.

  “Oh, I? I can’t! I never asked a favor from the Press in my life — but its little bell has tinkled for me all the same, and a few of the muttons follow, but not all. Are you off?” this, as they rose to take their leave. “Well, Errington, old fellow,” and he shook hands warmly, “a pleasant journey to you, and a happy return home! My best regards to your wife. Lorimer, have you settled whether you’ll go with me to Italy? I start the day after to-morrow.”

  Lorimer hesitated — then said, “All right! My mother’s delighted at the idea, — yes, Beau! we’ll come. Only I hope we shan’t bore you.”

  “Bore me! you know me better than that,” and he accompanied them out of the smoking-room into the hall, while Errington, a little surprised at this sudden arrangement, observed —

  “Why, George — I thought you’d be here when we came back from Norway — to — to welcome Thelma, you know!”

  George laughed. “My dear boy, I shan’t be wanted! Just let me know how everything goes on. You — you see, I’m in duty bound to take my mother out of London in winter.”

  “Just so!” agreed Lovelace, who had watched him narrowly while he spoke. “Don’t grudge the old lady her southern sunshine. Errington! Lorimer wants brushing up a bit too — he looks seedy. Then I shall consider it settled — the day after to-morrow, we meet at Charing Cross — morning tidal express, of course, — never go by night service across the Channel if you can help it.”

  Again they shook hands and parted.

  “Best thing that young fellow can do!” thought Lovelace as he returned to the Club reading-room. “The sooner he gets out of this, into new scenes the better, — he’s breaking his heart over the beautiful Thelma. By Jove! the boy’s eyes looked like those of a shot animal whenever her name was mentioned. He’s rather badly hit!”

  He sat down and began to meditate. “What can I do for him, I wonder?” he thought. “Nothing, I suppose. A love of that sort can’t be remedied. It’s a pity — a great pity! And I don’t know any woman likely to make a counter-impression on him. He’d never put up with an Italian beauty” — he paused in his reflections, and the color flushed his broad, handsome brow, as the dazzling vision of a sweet, piquant face with liquid dark eyes and rippling masses of rich brown hair came flitting before him— “unless he saw Angela,” he murmured to himself softly,— “and he will not see her, — besides, Angela loves me!”

  And after this, his meditations seemed to be particularly pleasant, to judge from the expression of his features. Beau was by no means ignorant of the tender passion — he had his own little romance, as beautiful and bright as a summer day — but he had resolved that London, with its love of gossip, its scandal, and society papers, — London, that on account of his popularity as a writer, watched his movements and chronicled his doings in the most authoritative and incorrect manner, — London should have no chance of penetrating into the secret of his private life. And so far he had succeeded — and was likely still to succeed.

  Meanwhile, as he still sat in blissful reverie, pretending to read a newspaper, though his thoughts were far away from it, Errington and Lorimer arrived at the Midland Station. Britta was already there with the luggage, — she was excited and pleased — her spirits had risen at the prospect of seeing her mistress soon again, — possibly, she thought gladly, they might find her at Hull, — they might not have to go to Norway at all. The train came up to the platform — the tickets were taken, — and Sir Philip, with Britta, entered — a first-class compartment, while Lorimer stood outside leaning with folded arms on the carriage-window, talking cheerfully.

  “You’ll find her all right, Phil, I’m positive!” he said. “I think it’s very probable she has been compelled to remain at Hull, — and even at the worst, Britta can guide you all over Norway, if necessary. Nothing will daunt her!”

  And he nodded kindly to the little maid who had regained her rosy color and the sparkle of her eyes in the eagerness she felt to rejoin her beloved “Fröken.” The engine-whistle gave a warning shriek — Philip leaned out and pressed his friend’s hand warmly.

  “Good-bye, old fellow! I’ll write to you in Italy.”

  “All right — mind you do! And I say — give my love to Thelma!”

  Philip smiled and promised. The train began to move, — slowly at first, then more quickly, till with clattering uproar and puffing clouds of white steam, it rushed forth from the station, winding through the arches like a black snake, till it had twisted itself rapidly out of sight. Lorimer, left alone, looked after it wistfully, with a heavy weight of unuttered love and sorrow at his heart, and as he at last turned away, those haunting words that he had heard under the pines at the Altenfjord recurred again and again to his memory — the words uttered by the distraught Sigurd — and how true they were, he thought! how desperately, cruelly true!

  “Good things may come for others — but for you, the heavens are empty!”

  CHAPTER XXX.

  “Honor is an old-world thing, but it smells sweet to those in whose hand it is strong.” — OUIDA.

  Disappointment upon disappointment awaited Errington at Hull. Unfortunately, neither he nor Britta knew of the existence of the good Norwegian innkeeper, Friedhof, who had assisted Thelma in her flight — and all their persistent and anxious inquiries elicited no news of her. Moreover, there was no boat of any kind leaving immediately for Norway — not even a whaler or fishing-smack. In a week’s time, — possibly later, — there would be a steamer starting for Christiansund, and for this, Errington, though almost mad with impatience, was forced to wait. And in the meantime, he roamed about the streets of Hull, looking eagerly at every fair-haired woman who passed him, and always hoping that Thelma herself would suddenly meet him face to face, and put her hands in his. He wrote to Neville and told him to send on any letters that might arrive for him, and by every post he waited anxiously for one from Thelma but none came. To relieve his mind a little, he scribbled a long letter to her, explaining everything, telling her how ardently he loved and worshipped her — how he was on his way to join her at the Altenfjord, — and ending by the most passionate vows of unchanging love and fidelity. He was somewhat soothed when he had done this — though he did not realize the fact that in all probability he himself might arrive before the letter. The slow, miserable days went on — the week was completed — the steamer for Christiansund started at last, — and, after a terribly stormy passage, he and the faithful Britta were landed there.

  On arrival, he learned that a vessel bound for the North Cape had left on the previous day — there would not be another for a fortnight. Cursing his ill-luck, he resolved to reach the Altenfjord by land, and began to make arrangements accordingly. Those who knew the country well endeavored to dissuade him from this desperate project — the further north, the greater danger, they told him, — moreover, the weather was, even for Norway, exceptionally trying. Snow lay heavily over all the country he would have to traverse — the only means of conveyance was by carriole or pulkha — the latter a sort of sledge used by the Laplanders, made in the form of a boat, and generally drawn by reindeer. The capabilities of the
carriole would be exhausted as soon as the snow-covered regions were reached — and to manage a pulkha successfully, required special skill of no ordinary kind. But the courageous little Britta made short work of all these difficulties — she could drive a pulkha, — she knew how to manage reindeer, — she entertained not the slightest doubt of being able to overcome all the obstacles on the way. At the same time, she frankly told Sir Philip that the journey would be a long one, perhaps occupying several days — that they would have to rest at different farms or stations on the road, and put up with hard fare — that the cold would be intense, — that often they would find it difficult to get relays of the required reindeer, — and that it might perhaps be wiser to wait for the next boat going to the North Cape.

  But Errington would hear of no more delays — each hour that passed filled him with fresh anxieties — and once in Norway he could not rest. The idea that Thelma might be ill — dying — or dead — gained on him with redoubled force, — and his fears easily communicating themselves to Britta, who was to the full as impatient as he, the two made up their minds, and providing every necessary for the journey they could think of, they started for the far sunless North, through a white, frozen land, which grew whiter and more silent the further they went, — even as the brooding sky above them grew darker and darker. The aurora borealis flashed its brilliant shafts of color against the sable breast of heaven, — the tall pines, stripped bare, every branch thick with snow and dropping icicles, stood, — pale ghosts of the forest, — shedding frozen tears — the moon, more like steel than silver, shone frostily cold, her light seeming to deepen rather than soften the dreariness of the land — and on — on — on — they went, Britta enveloped to the chin in furs, steadily driving the strange elfin-looking steeds with their horned heads casting long distorted shadows on the white ground, — and Philip beside her, urging her on with feverish impatience, while he listened to the smooth trot of the reindeer, — the tinkle of the bells on their harness, and the hiss of the sledge across the sparkling snow.

  Meanwhile, as he thus pursued his long and difficult journey, rumor was very busy with his name in London. Everybody — that is, everybody worth consideration in the circle of the “Upper Ten” — was talking about him, — shrugging their shoulders, lifting their eyebrows and smiling knowingly, whenever he was mentioned. He became more known in one day than if he had served his country’s interests in Parliament for years.

  On the very morning after he had left the metropolis en route for Norway, that admirably conducted society journal, the Snake, appeared, — and of course, had its usual amount of eager purchasers, anxious to see the latest bit of aristocratic scandal. Often these good folks were severely disappointed — the Snake was sometimes so frightfully dull, that it had actually nothing to say against anybody — then, naturally, it was not worth buying. But this time it was really interesting — it knocked down — or tried to knock down — at one blow, a formerly spotless reputation — and “really — really!” said the Upper Ten, “it was dreadful, but of course it was to be expected! Those quiet, seemingly virtuous persons are always the worst when you come to know them, yet who would have thought it!” And society read the assailing paragraph, and rolled it in its rank mouth, like a bon-bon, enjoying its flavor. It ran as follows: —

  “We hear on excellent authority that the Norwegian ‘beauty,’ Lady Bruce-Errington, wife of Sir Philip Bruce-Errington, is about to sue for a divorce on the ground of infidelity. The offending dama in the question is an admired actress, well-known to the frequenters of the Brilliant Theatre. But there are always two sides to these affairs, and it is rumored that the fair Norwegian (who before her marriage, we understand, was a great adept in the art of milking reindeer on the shores of her native Fjord) has private reasons of her own for desiring the divorce, not altogether in keeping with her stated reasons or her apparent reserve. We are, however, always on the side of the fair sex, and, as the faithless husband has made no secret of his new liaison, we do not hesitate to at once pronounce in the lady’s favor. The case is likely to prove interesting to believers in wedded happiness, combined with the strictest moral and religious sentiments.”

  Quite by accident this piece of would-be “smartness” was seen by Beau Lovelace. He had a wholesome contempt for the Snake — and all its class, — he would never have looked at it, or known of the paragraph, had not a friend of his at the Garrick pointed it out to him with half a smile and half a sneer.

  “It’s a damned lie!” said Beau briefly.

  “That remains to be proved!” answered his friend, and went away laughing.

  Beau read it over and over again, his blood firing with honest indignation. Thelma! Thelma — that pure white lily of womanhood, — was she to have her stainless life blurred by the trail of such a thing as the Snake? — and was Errington’s honor to be attainted in his absence, and he condemned without a word uttered in his defence?

  “Detestable blackguard!” muttered Lovelace, reverting in his mind to the editor of the journal in question. “What’s his name I wonder?” He searched and found it at the top of a column— “Sole Editor and Proprietor, C. Snawley-Grubbs, to whom all checks and post-office orders should be made payable. The Editor cannot be responsible for the return of rejected MSS.”

  Beau noted the name, and wrote the address of the office in his pocket-book, smiling curiously to himself the while.

  “I’m almost glad Errington’s out of the way,” he said half aloud. “He shan’t see this thing if I can help it, though I dare say some particularly affectionate friend will send it to him, carefully marked. At any rate, he needn’t know it just yet — and as for Lorimer — shall I tell him! No, I won’t. I’ll have the game all to myself — and — by Jove! how I shall enjoy it!”

  An hour later he stood in the office of the Snake, courteously inquiring for Mr. Snawley-Grubbs. Apparently he had come on horseback, for he held a riding-whip in his hand, — the very whip Errington had left with him the previous day. The inky, dirty, towzle-headed boy who presided in solitary grandeur over the Snake’s dingy premises, stared at him inquiringly, — visitors of his distinguished appearance and manner being rather uncommon. Those who usually had business with the great Grubbs were of a different type altogether, — some of them discarded valets or footmen, who came to gain half a crown or five shillings by offering information as to the doings of their late masters and mistresses, — shabby “supers” from the theatres, who had secured the last bit of scandal concerning some celebrated stage or professional “beauty” — sporting men and turf gamblers of the lowest class, — unsuccessful dramatists and small verse writers — these, with now and then a few “ladies” — ladies of the bar-room, ballet, and demi-monde, were the sort, of persons who daily sought private converse with Grubbs — and Beau Lovelace, with his massive head, fine muscular figure, keen eyes, and self-assertive mien, was quite a novel specimen of manhood for the wondering observation of the office-boy, who scrambled off his high chair with haste and something of respect as he said —

  “What name, sir, please?”

  “Beaufort Lovelace,” said the gentleman, with a bland smile. “Here is my card. Ask Mr. Grubbs whether he can see me for a few minutes. If he is engaged — editors generally are engaged — tell him I’ll wait.”

  The boy went off in a greater hurry than ever. The name of Lovelace was quite familiar to him — he knew him, not as a distinguished novelist, but as “’im who makes such a precious lot of money.” And he was breathless with excitement; when he reached the small editorial chamber at the top of a dark, narrow flight of stairs, wherein sat the autocratic Snawley, smiling suavely over a heap of letters and disordered MSS. He glanced at the card which his ink-smeared attendant presented him.

  “Ah, indeed!” he said condescendingly. “Lovelace — Lovelace? Oh yes — I suppose it must be the novelist of that name — yes! — show him up.”

  Shown up he was accordingly. He entered the room with a firm tread,
and closed the door behind him!

  “How do you do, my dear sir!” exclaimed Grubbs warmly. “You are well known to me by reputation! I am charmed — delighted to make the personal acquaintance of one who is — yes — let me say, who is a brother in literature! Sit down, I beg of you!”

  And he waved his hand towards a chair, thereby displaying the great rings that glittered on his podgy fingers.

  Beau, however, did not seat himself — he only smiled very coldly and contemptuously.

  “We can discuss the fraternal nature of our relationship afterwards,” he said satirically, “Business first. Pray, sir,” — here he drew from his pocket the last number of the Snake— “are you the writer of this paragraph?”

  He pointed to it, as he flattened the journal and laid it in front of the editor on the desk. Mr. Snawley-Grubbs glanced at it and smiled unconcernedly.

  “No I am not. But I happen to know it is perfectly correct. I received the information on the highest — the very highest and most credible authority.”

  “Indeed!” and Beau’s lip curled haughtily, while his hand clenched the riding-whip more firmly. “Then allow me to tell you, sir, that it is utterly false in every particular — moreover — that it is a gross libel, — published with deliberate intent to injure those whom it presumes to mention, — and that, whoever wrote it, — you, sir, you alone are responsible for a most mischievous, scandalous, and damnable lie!”

  Mr. Grubbs was in no wise disconcerted. Honest indignation honestly expressed, always amused him — he was amused now.

  “You’re unduly excited, Mr. Lovelace,” he said with a little laugh. “Permit me to remark that your language is rather extraordinary — quite too strong under the circumstances! However, you’re a privileged person — genius is always a little mad, or shall we say, — eccentric? — I suppose you are a friend of Sir Philip Errington, and you naturally feel hurt — yes — yes, I quite understand! But the scourge of the press — the wholesome, purifying scourge, cannot be withheld out of consideration for private or personal feelings. No — no! There’s a higher duty — the duty we owe to the public!”