Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  He put his arm through mine and we entered the dining-room. Here the table was laid out with costly fruit, flowers and delicacies of every description, — four men-servants in scarlet and gold stood silently in waiting, with Amiel, in black as usual, behind his master’s chair. We enjoyed a sumptuous repast served to perfection, and when it was finished, we strolled out in the grounds to smoke and talk.

  “You seem to do everything by magic, Lucio;” — I said, looking at him wonderingly— “All these lavish decorations, — these servants—”

  “Money, my dear fellow, — nothing but money” — he interrupted with a laugh— “Money, the devil’s pass-key! you can have the retinue of a king without any of a king’s responsibilities, if you only choose to pay for it. It is merely a question of cost.”

  “And taste!” I reminded him.

  “True, — and taste. Some rich men there are who have less taste than a costermonger. I know one who has the egregious vulgarity to call the attention of his guests to the value of his goods and chattels. He pointed out for my admiration one day, an antique and hideous china plate, the only one of that kind in the world, and told me it was worth a thousand guineas. ‘Break it,’ — I said coolly— ‘You will then have the satisfaction of knowing you have destroyed a thousand guineas’ worth of undesirable ugliness.’ You should have seen his face! He showed me no more curios!”

  I laughed, and we walked slowly up and down for a few minutes in silence. Presently I became aware that my companion was looking at me intently, and I turned my head quickly to meet his eyes. He smiled.

  “I was just then thinking,” he said, “what you would have done with your life if you had not inherited this fortune, and if, — if I had not come your way?”

  “I should have starved, no doubt,” — I responded— “Died like a rat in a hole, — of want and wretchedness.”

  “I rather doubt that;” he said meditatively— “It is just possible you might have become a great writer.”

  “Why do you say that now?” I asked.

  “Because I have been reading your book. There are fine ideas in it, — ideas that might, had they been the result of sincere conviction, have reached the public in time, because they were sane and healthy. The public will never put up for long with corrupt ‘fads’ and artificial ‘crazes.’ Now you write of God, — yet according to your own statement, you did not believe in God even when you wrote the words that imply His existence, — and that was long before I met you. Therefore the book was not the result of sincere conviction, and that’s the key-note of your failure to reach the large audience you desired. Each reader can see you do not believe what you write, — the trumpet of lasting fame never sounds triumph for an author of that calibre.”

  “Don’t let us talk about it for Heaven’s sake!” I said irritably— “I know my work lacks something, — and that something may be what you say or it may not, — I do not want to think about it. Let it perish, as it assuredly will; perhaps in the future I may do better.”

  He was silent, — and finishing his cigar, threw the end away in the grass where it burned like a dull red coal.

  “I must turn in,” he then observed,— “I have a few more directions to give to the servants for to-morrow. I shall go to my room as soon as I have done, — so I’ll say good-night.”

  “But surely you are taking too much personal trouble,” — I said— “Can’t I help in any way?”

  “No, you can’t,” — he answered smiling. “When I undertake to do anything I like to do it in my own fashion, or not at all. Sleep well, and rise early.”

  He nodded, and sauntered slowly away over the dewy grass. I watched his dark tall figure receding till he had entered the house; then, lighting a fresh cigar, I wandered on alone through the grounds, noting here and there flowery arbours and dainty silk pavilions erected in picturesque nooks and corners for the morrow. I looked up at the sky; it was clear and bright, — there would be no rain. Presently I opened the wicket-gate that led into the outer by-road, and walking on slowly, almost unconsciously, I found myself in a few minutes opposite ‘Lily Cottage.’ Approaching the gate I looked in, — the pretty old house was dark, silent and deserted. I knew Mavis Clare was away, — and it was not strange that the aspect of her home-nest emphasized the fact of her absence. A cluster of climbing roses hanging from the wall, looked as if they were listening for the first sound of her returning footsteps; across the green breadth of the lawn where I had seen her playing with her dogs, a tall sheaf of St John’s lilies stood up white against the sky, their pure hearts opened to the star-light and the breeze. The scent of honey-suckle and sweet-briar filled the air with delicate suggestions, — and as I leaned over the low fence, gazing vaguely at the long shadows of the trees on the grass, a nightingale began to sing. The sweet yet dolorous warble of the ‘little brown lover of the moon,’ palpitated on the silence in silver-toned drops of melody; and I listened, till my eyes smarted with a sudden moisture as of tears. Strangely enough, I never thought of my betrothed bride Sibyl then, as surely, by all the precedents of passion, I should have done at such a moment of dreamful ecstasy. It was another woman’s face that floated before my memory; — a face not beautiful, — but merely sweet, — and made radiant by the light of two tender, wistful, wonderfully innocent eyes, — a face like that of some new Daphne with the mystic laurel springing from her brows. The nightingale sang on and on, — the tall lilies swayed in the faint wind as though nodding wise approval of the bird’s wild music, — and, gathering one briar-rose from the hedge, I turned away with a curious heaviness at my heart, — a trouble I could not analyse or account for. I explained my feeling partly to myself as one of regret that I had ever taken up my pen to assault, with sneer and flippant jest, the gentle and brilliantly endowed owner of this little home where peace and pure content dwelt happily in student-like seclusion; — but this was not all. There was something else in my mind, — something inexplicable and sad, — which then I had no skill to define. I know now what it was, — but the knowledge comes too late!

  Returning to my own domains, I saw through the trees a vivid red light in one of the upper windows of Willowsmere. It twinkled like a lurid star, and I guided my steps by its brilliancy as I made my way across the winding garden-paths and terraces back to the house. Entering the hall, the page in scarlet and gold met me, and with a respectful obeisance, escorted me to my room where Amiel was in waiting.

  “Has the prince retired?” I asked him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He has a red lamp in his window has he not?”

  Amiel looked deferentially meditative. Yet I fancied I saw him smile.

  “I think —— yes, — I believe he has, sir.”

  I asked no more questions, but allowed him to perform his duties as valet in silence.

  “Good-night sir!” he said at last, his ferret eyes fastened upon me with an expressionless look.

  “Good-night!” I responded indifferently.

  He left the room with his usual cat-like stealthy tread, and when he had gone, I, — moved by a sudden fresh impulse of hatred for him, — sprang to the door and locked it. Then I listened, with an odd nervous breathlessness. There was not a sound. For fully quarter of an hour I remained with my attention more or less strained, expectant of I knew not what; but the quiet of the house was absolutely undisturbed. With a sigh of relief I flung myself on the luxurious bed, — a couch fit for a king, draped with the richest satin elaborately embroidered, — and falling soundly asleep I dreamed that I was poor again. Poor, — but unspeakably happy, — and hard at work in the old lodging, writing down thoughts which I knew, by some divine intuition and beyond all doubt, would bring me the whole world’s honour. Again I heard the sounds of the violin played by my unseen neighbour next door, and this time they were triumphal chords and cadences of joy, without one throb of sorrow. And while I wrote on in an ecstasy of inspiration, oblivious of poverty and pain, I heard, echoing through my visions, the round war
ble of the nightingale, and saw, in the far distance, an angel floating towards me on pinions of light, with the face of Mavis Clare.

  XXIII

  The morning broke clear, with all the pure tints of a fine opal radiating in the cloudless sky. Never had I beheld such a fair scene as the woods and gardens of Willowsmere when I looked upon them that day illumined by the unclouded sunlight of a spring half-melting into summer. My heart swelled with pride as I surveyed the beautiful domain I now owned, — and thought how happy a home it would make when Sibyl, matchless in her loveliness, shared with me its charm and luxury.

  “Yes,” — I said half-aloud— “Say what philosophers will, the possession of money does insure satisfaction and power. It is all very well to talk about fame, but what is fame worth, if, like Carlyle, one is too poor to enjoy it! Besides, literature no longer holds its former high prestige, — there are too many in the field, — too many newspaper-scribblers, all believing they are geniuses, — too many ill-educated lady-paragraphists and ‘new’ women, who think they are as gifted as Georges Sand or Mavis Clare. With Sibyl and Willowsmere, I ought to be able to resign the idea of fame — literary fame — with a good grace.”

  I knew I reasoned falsely with myself, — I knew that my hankering for a place among the truly great of the world, was as strong as ever, — I knew I craved for the intellectual distinction, force, and pride which make the Thinker a terror and a power in the land, and which so sever a great poet or great romancist from the commoner throng that even kings are glad to do him or her honour, — but I would not allow my thoughts to dwell on this rapidly vanishing point of unattainable desire. I settled my mind to enjoy the luscious flavour of the immediate present, as a bee settles in the cup of honey-flowers, — and, leaving my bedroom, I went downstairs to breakfast with Lucio in the best and gayest of humours.

  “Not a cloud on the day!” he said, meeting me with a smile, as I entered the bright morning-room, whose windows opened on the lawn— “The fête will be a brilliant success, Geoffrey.”

  “Thanks to you!” I answered— “Personally I am quite in the dark as to your plans, — but I believe you can do nothing that is not well done.”

  “You honour me!” he said with a light laugh— “You credit me then with better qualities than the Creator! For what He does, in the opinion of the present generation, is exceedingly ill done! Men have taken to grumbling at Him instead of praising Him, — and few have any patience with or liking for His laws.”

  I laughed. “Well, you must admit those laws are very arbitrary!”

  “They are. I entirely acknowledge the fact!”

  We sat down to table, and were waited upon by admirably-trained servants who apparently had no idea of anything else but attendance on our needs. There was no trace of bustle or excitement in the household, — no sign whatever to denote that a great entertainment was about to take place that day. It was not until the close of our meal that I asked Lucio what time the musicians would arrive. He glanced at his watch.

  “About noon I should say,” — he replied— “Perhaps before. But whatever their hour, they will all be in their places at the proper moment, depend upon it. The people I employ — both musicians and ‘artistes’ — know their business thoroughly, and are aware that I stand no nonsense.” A rather sinister smile played round his mouth as he regarded me. “None of your guests can arrive here till one o’clock, — as that is about the time the special train will bring the first batch of them from London, — and the first ‘déjeuner’ will be served in the gardens at two. If you want to amuse yourself there’s a Maypole being put up on the large lawn, — you’d better go and look at it.”

  “A Maypole!” I exclaimed— “Now that’s a good idea!”

  “It used to be a good idea,” — he answered— “When English lads and lasses had youth, innocence, health and fun in their composition, a dance round the Maypole hand in hand, did them good and did nobody harm. But now there are no lads and lasses, — enervated old men and women in their teens walk the world wearily, speculating on the uses of life, — probing vice, and sneering down sentiment, and such innocent diversions as the Maypole no longer appeal to our jaded youth. So we have to get ‘professionals’ to execute the May-revels, — of course the dancing is better done by properly trained legs; but it means nothing, and is nothing, except a pretty spectacle.”

  “And are the dancers here?” I asked, rising and going towards the window in some curiosity.

  “No, not yet. But the May-pole is; — fully decorated. It faces the woods at the back of the house, — go and see if you like it.”

  I followed his suggestion, and going in the direction indicated, I soon perceived the gaily-decked object which used to be the welcome signal of many a village holiday in Shakespeare’s old-world England. The pole was already set up and fixed in a deep socket in the ground, and a dozen or more men were at work, unbinding its numerous trails of blossom and garlands of green, tied with long streamers of vari-coloured ribbon. It had a picturesque effect in the centre of the wide lawn bordered with grand old trees, — and approaching one of the men, I said something to him by way of approval and admiration. He glanced at me furtively and unsmilingly, but said nothing, — and I concluded from his dark and foreign cast of features, that he did not understand the English language. I noted, with some wonder and slight vexation that all the workmen were of this same alien and sinister type of countenance, very much after the unattractive models of Amiel and the two grooms who had my racer ‘Phosphor’ in charge. But I remembered what Lucio had told me, — namely, that all the designs for the fête were carried out by foreign experts and artists, — and after some puzzled consideration, I let the matter pass from my mind.

  The morning hours flew swiftly by, and I had little time to examine all the festal preparations with which the gardens abounded, — so that I was almost as ignorant of what was in store for the amusement of my guests as the guests themselves. I had the curiosity to wait about and watch for the coming of the musicians and dancers, but I might as well have spared myself this waste of time and trouble, for I never saw them arrive at all. At one o’clock, both Lucio and I were ready to receive our company, — and at about twenty minutes past the hour, the first instalment of ‘swagger society’ was emptied into the grounds. Sibyl and her father were among these, — and I eagerly advanced to meet and greet my bride-elect as she alighted from the carriage that had brought her from the station. She looked supremely beautiful that day, and was, as she deserved to be, the cynosure of all eyes. I kissed her little gloved hand with a deeper reverence than I would have kissed the hand of a queen.

  “Welcome back to your old home, my Sibyl!” I said to her in a low voice tenderly, at which words she paused, looking up at the red gables of the house with such wistful affection as filled her eyes with something like tears. She left her hand in mine, and allowed me to lead her towards the silken-draped, flower-decked porch, where Lucio waited, smiling, — and as she advanced, two tiny pages in pure white and silver glided suddenly out of some unseen hiding-place, and emptied two baskets of pink and white rose-leaves at her feet, thus strewing a fragrant pathway for her into the house. They vanished as completely and swiftly as they had appeared, — some of the guests uttered murmurs of admiration, while Sibyl gazed about her, blushing with surprise and pleasure.

  “How charming of you, Geoffrey!” she said, “What a poet you are to devise so pretty a greeting!”

  “I wish I deserved your praise!” I answered, smiling at her— “But the poet in question is Prince Rimânez, — he is the master and ruler of to-day’s revels.”

  Again the rich colour flushed her cheeks, and she gave Lucio her hand. He bowed over it in courtly fashion, — but did not kiss it as he had kissed the hand of Mavis Clare. We passed into the house, through the drawing-room, and out again into the gardens, Lord Elton being loud in his praise of the artistic manner in which his former dwelling had been improved and embellished. Soon the lawn was sp
rinkled with gaily attired groups of people, — and my duties as host began in hard earnest. I had to be greeted, complimented, flattered, and congratulated on my approaching marriage by scores of hypocrites who nearly shook my hand off in their enthusiasm for my wealth. Had I become suddenly poor, I thought grimly, not one of them would have lent me a sovereign! The guests kept on arriving in shoals, and when there were about three or four hundred assembled, a burst of exquisite music sounded, and a procession of pages in scarlet and gold, marching two by two appeared, carrying trays full of the rarest flowers tied up in bouquets, which they offered to all the ladies present. Exclamations of delight arose on every side, — exclamations which were for the most part high-pitched and noisy, — for the ‘swagger set’ have long ceased to cultivate softness of voice or refinement of accent, — and once or twice the detestable slang word, ‘ripping’ escaped from the lips of a few dashing dames, reputed to be ‘leaders’ of style. Repose of manner, dignity and elegance of deportment, however, are no longer to be discovered among the present ‘racing’ duchesses and gambling countesses of the bluest blue blood of England, so one does not expect these graces of distinction from them. The louder they can talk, and the more slang they can adopt from the language of their grooms and stable-boys, the more are they judged to be ‘in the swim’ and ‘up to date.’ I speak, of course, of the modern scions of aristocracy. There are a few truly ‘great ladies’ left, whose maxim is still ‘noblesse oblige,’ — but they are quite in the minority and by the younger generation are voted either ‘old cats’ or ‘bores.’ Many of the ‘cultured’ mob that now swarmed over my grounds had come out of the sheerest vulgar curiosity to see what ‘the man with five millions’ could do in the way of entertaining, — others were anxious to get news, if possible, of the chances of ‘Phosphor’ winning the Derby, concerning which I was discreetly silent. But the bulk of the crowd wandered aimlessly about, staring impertinently or enviously at each other, and scarcely looking at the natural loveliness of the gardens or the woodland scenery around them. The brainlessness of modern society is never so flagrantly manifested as at a garden-party, where the restless trousered and petticoated bipeds move vaguely to and fro, scarcely stopping to talk civilly or intelligently to one another for five minutes, most of them hovering dubiously and awkwardly between the refreshment-pavilion and the band-stand. In my domain they were deprived of this latter harbour of refuge, for no musicians could be seen, though music was heard, — beautiful wild music which came first from one part of the grounds and then from another, and to which few listened with any attention. All were, however, happily unanimous in their enthusiastic appreciation of the excellence of the food provided for them in the luxurious luncheon tents of which there were twenty in number. Men ate as if they had never eaten in their lives before, and drank the choice and exquisite wines with equal greed and gusto. One never entirely realises the extent to which human gourmandism can go till one knows a few peers, bishops and cabinet-ministers, and watches those dignitaries feed ad libitum. Soon the company was so complete that there was no longer any need for me to perform the fatiguing duty of ‘receiving’; and I therefore took Sibyl in to luncheon, determining to devote myself to her for the rest of the day. She was in one of her brightest and most captivating moods, — her laughter rang out as sweetly joyous as that of some happy child, — she was even kind to Diana Chesney, who was also one of my guests, and who was plainly enjoying herself with all the verve peculiar to pretty American women, who consider flirtation as much of a game as tennis. The scene was now one of great brilliancy, the light costumes of the women contrasting well with the scarlet and gold liveries of the seemingly innumerable servants that were now everywhere in active attendance. And, constantly through the fluttering festive crowd, from tent to tent, from table to table, and group to group, Lucio moved, — his tall stately figure and handsome face always conspicuous wherever he stood, his rich voice thrilling the air whenever he spoke. His influence was irresistible, and gradually dominated the whole assemblage, — he roused the dull, inspired the witty, encouraged the timid, and brought all the conflicting elements of rival position, character and opinion into one uniform whole, which was unconsciously led by his will as easily as a multitude is led by a convincing orator. I did not know it then, but I know now, that metaphorically speaking, he had his foot on the neck of that ‘society’ mob, as though it were one prostrate man; — that the sycophants, liars and hypocrites whose utmost idea of good is wealth and luxurious living, bent to his secret power as reeds bend to the wind, — and that he did with them all whatsoever he chose, — as he does to this very day! God! — if the grinning, guzzling sensual fools had only known what horrors were about them at the feast! — what ghastly ministers to pleasurable appetite waited obediently upon them! — what pallid terrors lurked behind the gorgeous show of vanity and pride! But the veil was mercifully down, — and only to me has it since been lifted!