Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “And I am also a mistake I think,” I said with a forced smile— “At any rate if what you say be true, I must lay down the pen and try another trade. I am old-fashioned enough to consider Literature as the highest of all professions, and I would rather not join in with those who voluntarily degrade it.”

  He gave me a quick side-glance of mingled incredulity and depreciation.

  “Well, well!” he finally observed— “you are a little quixotic. That will wear off. Will you come on to my club and dine with me?”

  I refused this invitation promptly. I knew the man saw and recognised my wretched plight, — and pride — false pride if you will — rose up to my rescue. I bade him a hurried good-day, and started back to my lodging, carrying my rejected manuscript with me. Arrived there, my landlady met me as I was about to ascend the stairs, and asked me whether I would ‘kindly settle accounts’ the next day. She spoke civilly enough, poor soul, and not without a certain compassionate hesitation in her manner. Her evident pity for me galled my spirit as much as the publisher’s offer of a dinner had wounded my pride, — and with a perfectly audacious air of certainty I at once promised her the money at the time she herself appointed, though I had not the least idea where or how I should get the required sum. Once past her, and shut in my own room, I flung my useless manuscript on the floor and myself into a chair, and — swore. It refreshed me to swear, and it seemed natural, — for though temporarily weakened by lack of food, I was not yet so weak as to shed tears, — and a fierce formidable oath was to me the same sort of physical relief which I imagine a fit of weeping may be to an excitable woman. Just as I could not shed tears, so was I incapable of apostrophizing God in my despair. To speak frankly, I did not believe in any God — then. I was to myself an all-sufficing mortal, scorning the time-worn superstitions of so-called religion. Of course I had been brought up in the Christian faith; but that creed had become worse than useless to me since I had intellectually realized the utter inefficiency of Christian ministers to deal with difficult life-problems. Spiritually I was adrift in chaos, — mentally I was hindered both in thought and achievement, — bodily, I was reduced to want. My case was desperate, — I myself was desperate. It was a moment when if ever good and evil angels play a game of chance for a man’s soul, they were surely throwing the dice on the last wager for mine. And yet, with it all, I felt I had done my best. I was driven into a corner by my fellow-men who grudged me space to live in, but I had fought against it. I had worked honestly and patiently; — all to no purpose. I knew of rogues who gained plenty of money; and of knaves who were amassing large fortunes. Their prosperity appeared to prove that honesty after all was not the best policy. What should I do then? How should I begin the jesuitical business of committing evil that good, personal good, might come of it? So I thought, dully, if such stray half-stupefied fancies as I was capable of, deserved the name of thought.

  The night was bitter cold. My hands were numbed, and I tried to warm them at the oil-lamp my landlady was good enough to still allow me the use of, in spite of delayed cash-payments. As I did so, I noticed three letters on the table, — one in a long blue envelope suggestive of either a summons or a returned manuscript, — one bearing the Melbourne postmark, and the third a thick square missive coroneted in red and gold at the back. I turned over all three indifferently, and selecting the one from Australia, balanced it in my hand a moment before opening it. I knew from whom it came, and idly wondered what news it brought me. Some months previously I had written a detailed account of my increasing debts and difficulties to an old college chum, who finding England too narrow for his ambition had gone out to the wider New world on a speculative quest of gold mining. He was getting on well, so I understood, and had secured a fairly substantial position; and I had therefore ventured to ask him point-blank for the loan of fifty pounds. Here, no doubt, was his reply, and I hesitated before breaking the seal.

  “Of course it will be a refusal,” I said half-aloud,— “However kindly a friend may otherwise be, he soon turns crusty if asked to lend money. He will express many regrets, accuse trade and the general bad times and hope I will soon ‘tide over.’ I know the sort of thing. Well, — after all, why should I expect him to be different to other men? I’ve no claim on him beyond the memory of a few sentimental arm-in-arm days at Oxford.”

  A sigh escaped me in spite of myself, and a mist blurred my sight for the moment. Again I saw the grey towers of peaceful Magdalen, and the fair green trees shading the walks in and around the dear old University town where we, — I and the man whose letter I now held in my hand, — strolled about together as happy youths, fancying that we were young geniuses born to regenerate the world. We were both fond of classics, — we were brimful of Homer and the thoughts and maxims of all the immortal Greeks and Latins, — and I verily believe, in those imaginative days, we thought we had in us such stuff as heroes are made of. But our entrance into the social arena soon robbed us of our sublime conceit, — we were common working units, no more, — the grind and prose of daily life put Homer into the background, and we soon discovered that society was more interested in the latest unsavoury scandal than in the tragedies of Sophocles or the wisdom of Plato. Well! it was no doubt extremely foolish of us to dream that we might help to regenerate a world in which both Plato and Christ appear to have failed, — yet the most hardened cynic will scarcely deny that it is pleasant to look back to the days of his youth if he can think that at least then, if only once in his life, he had noble impulses.

  The lamp burned badly, and I had to re-trim it before I could settle down to read my friend’s letter. Next door some-one was playing a violin, and playing it well. Tenderly and yet with a certain amount of brio the notes came dancing from the bow, and I listened, vaguely pleased. Being faint with hunger I was somewhat in a listless state bordering on stupor, — and the penetrating sweetness of the music appealing to the sensuous and æsthetic part of me, drowned for the moment mere animal craving.

  “There you go!” I murmured, apostrophizing the unseen musician,— “practising away on that friendly fiddle of yours, — no doubt for a mere pittance which barely keeps you alive. Possibly you are some poor wretch in a cheap orchestra, — or you might even be a street-player and be able to live in this neighbourhood of the élite starving, — you can have no hope whatever of being the ‘fashion’ and making your bow before Royalty, — or if you have that hope, it is wildly misplaced. Play on, my friend, play on! — the sounds you make are very agreeable, and seem to imply that you are happy. I wonder if you are? — or if, like me, you are going rapidly to the devil!”

  The music grew softer and more plaintive, and was now accompanied by the rattle of hailstones against the window-panes. A gusty wind whistled under the door and roared down the chimney, — a wind cold as the grasp of death and searching as a probing knife. I shivered, — and bending close over the smoky lamp, prepared to read my Australian news. As I opened the envelope, a bill for fifty pounds, payable to me at a well-known London banker’s, fell out upon the table. My heart gave a quick bound of mingled relief and gratitude.

  “Why Jack, old fellow, I wronged you!” I exclaimed,— “Your heart is in the right place after all.”

  And profoundly touched by my friend’s ready generosity, I eagerly perused his letter. It was not very long, and had evidently been written off in haste.

  Dear Geoff,

  I’m sorry to hear you are down on your luck; it shows what a crop of fools are still flourishing in London, when a man of your capability cannot gain his proper place in the world of letters, and be fittingly acknowledged. I believe it’s all a question of wire-pulling, and money is the only thing that will pull the wires. Here’s the fifty you ask for and welcome, — don’t hurry about paying it back. I am doing you a good turn this year by sending you a friend, — a real friend, mind you! — no sham. He brings you a letter of introduction from me, and between ourselves, old man, you cannot do better than put yourself and your literary aff
airs entirely in his hands. He knows everybody, and is up to all the dodges of editorial management and newspaper cliques. He is a great philanthropist besides, — and seems particularly fond of the society of the clergy. Rather a queer taste you will say, but his reason for such preference is, as he has explained to me quite frankly, that he is so enormously wealthy that he does not quite know what to do with his money, and the reverend gentlemen of the church are generally ready to show him how to spend some of it. He is always glad to know of some quarter where his money and influence (he is very influential) may be useful to others. He has helped me out of a very serious hobble, and I owe him a big debt of gratitude. I’ve told him all about you, — what a smart fellow you are, and what a lot dear old Alma Mater thought of you, and he has promised to give you a lift up. He can do anything he likes; very naturally, seeing that the whole world of morals, civilization and the rest is subservient to the power of money, — and his stock of cash appears to be limitless. Use him; he is willing and ready to be used, — and write and let me know how you get on. Don’t bother about the fifty till you feel you have tided over the storm.

  Ever yours

  Boffles.

  I laughed as I read the absurd signature, though my eyes were dim with something like tears. ‘Boffles’ was the nickname given to my friend by several of our college companions, and neither he nor I knew how it first arose. But no one except the dons ever addressed him by his proper name, which was John Carrington, — he was simply ‘Boffles,’ and Boffles he remained even now for all those who had been his intimates. I refolded and put by his letter and the draft for the fifty pounds, and with a passing vague wonder as to what manner of man the ‘philanthropist’ might be who had more money than he knew what to do with, I turned to the consideration of my other two correspondents, relieved to feel that now, whatever happened, I could settle up arrears with my landlady the next day as I had promised. Moreover I could order some supper, and have a fire lit to cheer my chilly room. Before attending to these creature comforts however, I opened the long blue envelope that looked so like a threat of legal proceedings, and unfolding the paper within, stared at it amazedly. What was it all about? The written characters danced before my eyes, — puzzled and bewildered, I found myself reading the thing over and over again without any clear comprehension of it. Presently a glimmer of meaning flashed upon me, startling my senses like an electric shock, ... no — no — ! — impossible! Fortune never could be so mad as this! — never so wildly capricious and grotesque of humour! It was some senseless hoax that was being practised upon me, ... and yet, ... if it were a joke, it was a very elaborate and remarkable one! Weighted with the majesty of the law too! ... Upon my word and by all the fantastical freakish destinies that govern human affairs, the news seemed actually positive and genuine!

  II

  Steadying my thoughts with an effort, I read every word of the document over again deliberately, and the stupefaction of my wonder increased. Was I going mad, or sickening for a fever? Or could this startling, this stupendous piece of information be really true? Because, — if indeed it were true, ... good heavens! — I turned giddy to think of it, — and it was only by sheer force of will that I kept myself from swooning with the agitation of such sudden surprise and ecstasy. If it were true — why then the world was mine! — I was king instead of beggar; — I was everything I chose to be! The letter, — the amazing letter, bore the printed name of a noted firm of London solicitors, and stated in measured and precise terms that a distant relative of my father’s, of whom I had scarcely heard, except remotely now and then during my boyhood, had died suddenly in South America, leaving me his sole heir.

  “The real and personal estate now amounting to something over Five Millions of Pounds Sterling, we should esteem it a favour if you could make it convenient to call upon us any day this week in order that we may go through the necessary formalities together. The larger bulk of the cash is lodged in the Bank of England, and a considerable amount is placed in French government securities. We should prefer going into further details with you personally rather than by letter. Trusting you will call on us without delay, we are, Sir, yours obediently....”

  Five Millions! I, the starving literary hack, — the friendless, hopeless, almost reckless haunter of low newspaper dens, — I, the possessor of “over Five Millions of Pounds Sterling”! I tried to grasp the astounding fact, — for fact it evidently was, — but could not. It seemed to me a wild delusion, born of the dizzy vagueness which lack of food engendered in my brain. I stared round the room; — the mean miserable furniture, — the fireless grate, — the dirty lamp, — the low truckle bedstead, — the evidences of penury and want on every side; — and then, — then the overwhelming contrast between the poverty that environed me and the news I had just received, struck me as the wildest, most ridiculous incongruity I had ever heard of or imagined, — and I gave vent to a shout of laughter.

  “Was there ever such a caprice of mad Fortune!” I cried aloud— “Who would have imagined it! Good God! I! I, of all men in the world to be suddenly chosen out for this luck! By Heaven! — If it is all true, I’ll make society spin round like a top on my hand before I am many months older!”

  And I laughed loudly again; laughed just as I had previously sworn, simply by way of relief to my feelings. Some one laughed in answer, — a laugh that seemed to echo mine. I checked myself abruptly, somewhat startled, and listened. Rain poured outside, and the wind shrieked like a petulant shrew, — the violinist next door was practising a brilliant roulade up and down his instrument, — but there were no other sounds than these. Yet I could have sworn I heard a man’s deep-chested laughter close behind me where I stood.

  “It must have been my fancy;” I murmured, turning the flame of the lamp up higher in order to obtain more light in the room— “I am nervous I suppose, — no wonder! Poor Boffles! — good old chap!” I continued, remembering my friend’s draft for fifty pounds, which had seemed such a godsend a few minutes since— “What a surprise is in store for you! You shall have your loan back as promptly as you sent it, with an extra fifty added by way of interest for your generosity. And as for the new Mæcenas you are sending to help me over my difficulties, — well, he may be a very excellent old gentleman, but he will find himself quite out of his element this time. I want neither assistance nor advice nor patronage, — I can buy them all! Titles, honours, possessions, — they are all purchaseable, — love, friendship, position, — they are all for sale in this admirably commercial age and go to the highest bidder! By my soul! — The wealthy ‘philanthropist’ will find it difficult to match me in power! He will scarcely have more than five millions to waste, I warrant! And now for supper, — I shall have to live on credit till I get some ready cash, — and there is no reason why I should not leave this wretched hole at once, and go to one of the best hotels and swagger it!”

  I was about to leave the room on the swift impulse of excitement and joy, when a fresh and violent gust of wind roared down the chimney, bringing with it a shower of soot which fell in a black heap on my rejected manuscript where it lay forgotten on the floor, as I had despairingly thrown it. I hastily picked it up and shook it free from the noisome dirt, wondering as I did so, what would be its fate now? — now, when I could afford to publish it myself, and not only publish it but advertise it, and not only advertise it, but ‘push’ it, in all the crafty and cautious ways known to the inner circles of ‘booming’! I smiled as I thought of the vengeance I would take on all those who had scorned and slighted me and my labour, — how they should cower before me! — how they should fawn at my feet like whipt curs, and whine their fulsome adulation! Every stiff and stubborn neck should bend before me; — this I resolved upon; for though money does not always conquer everything, it only fails when it is money apart from brains. Brains and money together can move the world, — brains can very frequently do this alone without money, of which serious and proved fact those who have no brains should beware! Full of am
bitious thought, I now and then caught wild sounds from the violin that was being played next door, — notes like sobbing cries of pain, and anon rippling runs like a careless woman’s laughter, — and all at once I remembered I had not yet opened the third letter addressed to me, — the one coroneted in scarlet and gold, which had remained where it was on the table almost unnoticed till now. I took it up and turned it over with an odd sense of reluctance in my fingers, which were slow at the work of tearing the thick envelope asunder. Drawing out an equally thick small sheet of notepaper also coroneted, I read the following lines written in an admirably legible, small and picturesque hand.

  Dear Sir.

  I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to you from your former college companion Mr John Carrington, now of Melbourne, who has been good enough to thus give me the means of making the acquaintance of one, who, I understand, is more than exceptionally endowed with the gift of literary genius. I shall call upon you this evening between eight and nine o’clock, trusting to find you at home and disengaged. I enclose my card, and present address, and beg to remain,

  Very faithfully yours

  Lucio Rimânez.

  The card mentioned dropped on the table as I finished reading the note. It bore a small, exquisitely engraved coronet and the words

  Prince Lucio Rimânez.

  while, scribbled lightly in pencil underneath was the address ‘Grand Hotel.’

  I read the brief letter through again, — it was simple enough, — expressed with clearness and civility. There was nothing remarkable about it, — nothing whatever; yet it seemed to me surcharged with meaning. Why, I could not imagine. A curious fascination kept my eyes fastened on the characteristic bold handwriting, and made me fancy I should like the man who penned it. How the wind roared! — and how that violin next door wailed like the restless spirit of some forgotten musician in torment! My brain swam and my heart ached heavily, — the drip drip of the rain outside sounded like the stealthy footfall of some secret spy upon my movements. I grew irritable and nervous, — a foreboding of evil somehow darkened the bright consciousness of my sudden good fortune. Then an impulse of shame possessed me, — shame that this foreign prince, if such he were, with limitless wealth at his back, should be coming to visit me, — me, now a millionaire, — in my present wretched lodging. Already, before I had touched my riches, I was tainted by the miserable vulgarity of seeking to pretend I had never been really poor, but only embarrassed by a little temporary difficulty! If I had had a sixpence about me, (which I had not) I should have sent a telegram to my approaching visitor to put him off.