Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  I shook my head, half vexed, half amused.

  “All the English (not foreign) editors and journalists!” said Lucio with an air of pious rapture— “and why? Because they are so good, so just, so unprejudiced! Their foreign brethren will be reserved for the eternal dance of devils of course — but the Britishers will pace the golden streets singing Alleluia! I assure you I consider British journalists generally the noblest examples of incorruptibility in the world — they come next to the clergy as representatives of virtue, and exponents of the three evangelical counsels, — voluntary poverty, chastity, and obedience!” Such mockery glittered in his eyes, that the light in them might have been the reflection of clashing steel. “Be consoled, Geoffrey,” he resumed— “your fame is honourably won. You have simply, through me, approached one critic who writes in about twenty newspapers and influences others to write in other twenty, — that critic being a noble creature, (all critics are noble creatures) has a pet ‘society’ for the relief of authors in need (a noble scheme you will own) and to this charity I subscribe out of pure benevolence, five hundred pounds. Moved by my generosity and consideration, (particularly as I do not ask what becomes of the five hundred) McWhing ‘obliges’ me in a little matter. The editors of the papers for which he writes accept him as a wise and witty personage; they know nothing about the charity or the cheque, — it is not necessary for them to know. The whole thing is really quite a reasonable business arrangement; — it is only a self-tormenting analyst like you who would stop to think of such a trifle a second time.”

  “If McWhing really and conscientiously admired my book for itself;” I began.

  “Why should you imagine he does not?” asked Lucio— “Myself, I believe that he is a perfectly sincere and honorable man. I think he means all he says and writes. I consider that if he had found your work not worthy of his commendation, he would have sent me back that cheque for five hundred pounds, torn across in a noble scorn!”

  And with this, throwing himself back in his chair, he laughed till the tears came into his eyes.

  But I could not laugh; I was too weary and depressed. A heavy sense of despair was on my mind; I felt that the hope which had cheered me in my days of poverty, — the hope of winning real Fame, so widely different a thing to notoriety, had vanished. There was some quality in the subtle glory which could not be won by either purchase or influence. The praise of the press could not give it. Mavis Clare, working for her bread, had it, — I, with millions of money, had not. Like a fool I had thought to buy it; I had yet to learn that all the best, greatest, purest and worthiest things in life are beyond all market-value and that the gifts of the gods are not for sale.

  About a fortnight after the publication of my book, we went to Court, my comrade and I, and were presented by a distinguished officer connected with the immediate and intimate surroundings of the Royal household. It was a brilliant scene enough, — but, without doubt, the most brilliant personage there was Rimânez. I was fairly startled at the stately and fascinating figure he made in his court suit of black velvet and steel ornaments; accustomed as I was to his good looks, I had never seen them so enhanced by dress as on this occasion. I had been tolerably well satisfied with my own appearance in the regulation costume till I saw him; then my personal vanity suffered a decided shock, and I realized that I merely served as a foil to show off and accentuate the superior attractions of my friend. But I was not envious of him in any way, — on the contrary I openly expressed the admiration I frankly felt.

  He seemed amused. “My dear boy, it is all flunkeydom;” he said— “All sham and humbug. Look at this—” and he drew his light court rapier from its sheath— “There is no real use in this flimsy blade, — it is merely an emblem of dead chivalry. In old times, if a man insulted you, or insulted a woman you admired, out flashed a shining point of tempered Toledo steel that could lunge — so!” and he threw himself into a fencing attitude of incomparable grace and ease— “and you pricked the blackguard neatly through the ribs or arm and gave him cause to remember you. But now—” and he thrust the rapier back in its place— “men carry toys like these as a melancholy sign to show what bold fellows they were once, and what spiritless cravens they are now, — relying no more on themselves for protection, but content to go about yelling ‘Police! Police!’ at the least threat of injury to their worthless persons. Come, it’s time we started, Geoffrey! — let us go and bow our heads before another human unit formed precisely like ourselves, and so act in defiance of Death and the Deity, who declare all men to be equal!”

  We entered our carriage and were soon on our way to St James’s Palace.

  “His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales is not exactly the Creator of the universe;” — said Lucio suddenly, looking out of the window as we approached the line of soldiery on guard outside.

  189”Why no!” I answered laughing— “What do you say that for?”

  “Because there is as much fuss about him as if he were, — in fact, more. The Creator does not get half as much attention bestowed upon Him as Albert Edward. We never attire ourselves in any special way for entering the presence of God; we don’t put so much as a clean mind on.”

  “But then,” — I said indifferently— “God is non est, — and Albert Edward is est.”

  He smiled, — and his eyes had a scornful gleam in their dark centres.

  “That is your opinion?” he queried— “Well, it is not original, — many choice spirits share it with you. There is at least one good excuse for people who make no preparation to enter the presence of God, — in going to church, which is called the ‘house of God,’ they do not find God at all; they only discover the clergyman. It is somewhat of a disappointment.”

  I had no time to reply, as just then the carriage stopped, and we alighted at the palace. Through the intervention of the high Court official who presented us, we got a good place among the most distinguished arrivals, and during our brief wait, I was considerably amused by the study of their faces and attitudes. Some of the men looked nervous, — others conceited; one or two Radical notabilities comported themselves with an air as if they and they alone were to be honoured for allowing Royalty to hold these functions at all; a few gentlemen had evidently donned their Levée dress in haste and carelessness, for the pieces of tissue-paper in which their steel or gilt coat-buttons had been wrapped by the tailor to prevent tarnish, were still unremoved. Discovering this fortunately before it was too late, they occupied themselves by taking off these papers and casting them on the floor, — an untidy process at best, and one that made them look singularly ridiculous and undignified. Each man present turned to stare at Lucio; his striking personality attracted universal attention. When we at last entered the throne-room, and took our places in line, I was careful to arrange that my brilliant companion should go up before me, as I had a strong desire to see what sort of an effect his appearance would produce on the Royal party. I had an excellent view of the Prince of Wales from where I myself waited; he made an imposing and kingly figure enough, in full uniform with his various Orders glittering on his broad breast; and the singular resemblance discovered by many people in him to Henry VIII. struck me more forcibly than I should have thought possible. His face however expressed a far greater good-humour than the pictured lineaments of the capricious but ever popular ‘bluff King Hal,’ — though on this occasion there was a certain shade of melancholy, even sternness on his brow, which gave a firmer character to his naturally mobile features, — a shadow, as I fancied of weariness, tempered with regret, — the look of one dissatisfied, yet resigned. A man of blunted possibilities he seemed to me, — of defeated aims, and thwarted will. Few of the other members of the Royal family surrounding him on the daïs, possessed the remarkable attraction he had for any observant student of physiognomy, — most of them were, or assumed to be, stiff military figures merely who bent their heads as each guest filed past with an automatic machine-like regularity implying neither pleasure, interest, nor good-will.
But the Heir-Apparent to the greatest Empire in the world expressed in his very attitude and looks, an unaffected and courteous welcome to all, — surrounded as he was, and as such in his position must ever be, by toadies, parasites, sycophants, hypocritical self-seekers, who would never run the least risk to their own lives to serve him, unless they could get something personally satisfactory out of it, his presence impressed itself upon me as full of the suggestion of dormant but none the less resolute power. I cannot even now explain the singular excitation of mind that seized me as our turn to be presented arrived; — I saw my companion advance, and heard the Lord Chamberlain announce his name;— ‘Prince Lucio Rimânez’; and then; — why then, — it seemed as if all the movement in the brilliant room suddenly came to a pause! Every eye was fixed on the stately form and noble countenance of my friend as he bowed with such consummate courtliness and grace as made all other salutations seem awkward by comparison. For one moment he stood absolutely still in front of the Royal daïs, — facing the Prince as though he sought to impress him with the fact of his presence there, — and across the broad stream of sunshine which had been pouring into the room throughout the ceremony, there fell the sudden shadow of a passing cloud. A fleeting impression of gloom and silence chilled the atmosphere, — a singular magnetism appeared to hold all eyes fixed on Rimânez; and not a man either going or coming, moved. This intense hush was brief as it was curious and impressive; — the Prince of Wales started slightly, and gazed at the superb figure before him with an expression of eager curiosity and almost as if he were ready to break the frigid bonds of etiquette and speak, — then controlling himself with an evident effort he gave his usual dignified acknowledgment of Lucio’s profound reverence, whereupon my comrade passed on, — slightly smiling. I followed next, — but naturally made no impression beyond the fact of exciting a smothered whisper from some-one among the lesser Royalties who caught the name ‘Geoffrey Tempest,’ and at once murmured the magic words “Five millions!” — words which reached my ears and moved me to the usual weary contempt which was with me growing into a chronic malady. We were soon out of the palace, and while waiting for our carriage in the covered court-yard entrance, I touched Rimânez on the arm.

  “You made a veritable sensation Lucio!”

  “Did I?” He laughed. “You flatter me Geoffrey.”

  “Not at all. Why did you stop so long in front of the daïs?”

  “To please my humour!” he returned indifferently— “And partly, to give his Royal Highness the chance of remembering me the next time he sees me.”

  “But he seemed to recognise you,” — I said— “Have you met him before?”

  His eyes flashed. “Often! But I have never till now made a public appearance at St James’s. Court costume and ‘company manners’ make a difference to the looks of most men, — and I doubt, — yes, I very much doubt, whether, even with his reputed excellent memory for faces, the Prince really knew me to-day for what I am!”

  XVII

  It must have been about a week or ten days after the Prince of Wales’s Levée that I had the strange scene with Sibyl Elton I am about to relate; a scene that left a painful impression on my mind and should have been sufficient to warn me of impending trouble to come had I not been too egotistical to accept any portent that presaged ill to myself. Arriving at Lord Elton’s house one evening, and ascending the stairs to the drawing-room as was now my usual custom, unannounced and without ceremony, I found Diana Chesney there alone and in tears.

  “Why, what’s the matter?” I exclaimed in a rallying tone, for I was on very friendly and familiar terms with the little American— “You, of all people in the world, having a private ‘weep’! Has our dear railway papa ‘bust up’?”

  She laughed, a trifle hysterically.

  “Not just yet, you bet!” she answered, lifting her wet eyes to mine and showing that mischief still sparkled brightly in them,— “There’s nothing wrong with the funds as far as I know. I’ve only had a, —— well, a sort of rumpus here with Sibyl.”

  “With Sibyl?”

  “Yes,” — and she rested the point of her little embroidered shoe on a footstool and looked at it critically— “You see it’s the Catsup’s ‘At Home’ to-night, and I’m invited and Sibyl’s invited; Miss Charlotte is knocked up with nursing the Countess, and of course I made sure that Sibyl would go. Well, she never said a word about it till she came down to dinner, and then she asked me what time I wanted the carriage. I said ‘Aren’t you going too?’ and she looked at me in that provoking way of hers, — you know! — a look that takes you in from your topmost hair to your shoe-edge, — and answered ‘Did you think it possible!’ Well, I flared up, and said of course I thought it possible, — why shouldn’t it be possible? She looked at me in the same way again and said— ‘To the Catsups? with you!’ Now, you know, Mr Tempest, that was real downright rudeness, and more than I could stand so I just gave way to my mind. ‘Look here,’ I said— ‘though you are the daughter of an Earl, you needn’t turn up your nose at Mrs Catsup. She isn’t half bad, — I don’t speak of her money, — but she’s a real good sort, and has a kind heart, which it appears to me is more than you have. Mrs Catsup would never treat me as unkindly as you do.’ And then I choked, — I could have burst out in a regular yell, if I hadn’t thought the footman might be outside the door listening. And Sibyl only smiled, that patent ice-refrigerator smile of hers, and asked— ‘would you prefer to live with Mrs Catsup?’ Of course I told her no, — nothing would induce me to live with Mrs Catsup, and then she said— ‘Miss Chesney, you pay my father for the protection and guarantee of his name and position in English social circles, but the companionship of my father’s daughter was not included in the bargain. I have tried to make you understand as distinctly as I can that I will not be seen in society with you, — not because I dislike you, — far from it, — but simply because people would say I was acting as your paid companion. You force me to speak plainly, and I am sorry if I offend. As for Mrs Catsup, I have only met her once, and she seemed to me very common and ill-bred. Besides I do not care for the society of tradespeople.’ And with that she got up and sailed out, — and I heard her order the carriage for me at ten. It’s coming round directly, and just look at my red eyes! It’s awfully hard on me, — I know old Catsup made his pile out of varnish, but varnish is as good as anything else in the general market. And —— and —— it’s all out now, Mr Tempest, — and you can tell Sibyl what I’ve said if you like; I know you’re in love with her!”

  I stared, bewildered by her voluble and almost breathless outburst.

  “Really, Miss Chesney,” I began formally.

  “Oh yes, Miss Chesney, Miss Chesney — it’s all very well!” she repeated impatiently, snatching up a gorgeous evening cloak which I mutely volunteered to put on, an offer she as mutely accepted— “I’m only a girl, and it isn’t my fault if I’ve got a vulgar man for a father who wants to see me married to an English nobleman before he dies, — that’s his look-out — I don’t care about it. English noblemen are a ricketty lot in my opinion. But I’ve as good a heart as anyone, and I could love Sibyl if she’d let me, but she won’t. She leads the life of an ice-berg, and doesn’t care a rap for anyone. She doesn’t care for you, you know! — I wish she did, — she’d be more human!”

  “I’m very sorry for all this,” — I said, smiling into the piquante face of the really sweet-natured girl, and gently fastening the jewelled clasp of her cloak at her throat— “But you mustn’t mind it so much. You are a dear little soul Diana, — kind and generous and impulsive and all the rest of it, — but, — well —— English people are very apt to misunderstand Americans. I can quite enter into your feelings, — still you know Lady Sibyl is very proud — —”

  “Proud!” she interrupted— “My! I guess it must feel something splendid to have an ancestor who was piked through the body on Bosworth field, and left there for the birds to eat. It seems to give a kind of stiffness in the back to al
l the family ever afterwards. Shouldn’t wonder if the descendants of the birds who ate him felt kinder stuck up about it too!”

  I laughed, — she laughed with me, and was quite herself again.

  “If I told you my ancestor was a Pilgrim Father, you wouldn’t believe me I expect!” she said, the corners of her mouth dimpling.

  “I should believe anything from your lips!” I declared gallantly.

  “Well, believe that, then! Swallow it down if you can! I can’t! He was a Pilgrim Father in the Mayflower, and he fell on his knees and thanked God as soon as he touched dry land in the true Pilgrim-Father way. But he couldn’t hold a candle to the piked man at Bosworth.”

  Here we were interrupted by the entrance of a footman.

  “The carriage is waiting, Miss.”

  “Thanks, — all right. Good-night Mr Tempest, — you’d better send word to Sibyl you are here; Lord Elton is dining out, but Sibyl will be at home all the evening.”

  I offered her my arm, and escorted her to the carriage, feeling a little sorry for her as she drove off in solitary state to the festive ‘crush’ of the successful varnisher. She was a good girl, a bright girl, a true girl, — vulgar and flippant at times, yet on the whole sincere in her better qualities of character and sentiment, — and it was this very sincerity which, being quite unconventional and not at all la mode, was misunderstood, and would always be misunderstood by the higher and therefore more hypocritically polished circles of English society.