Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “The parting cup, my friends!” he exclaimed— “To our next merry meeting!”

  With plaudits and laughter the guests eagerly and noisily responded, — and as they drank, the pavilion was flooded by a deep crimson illumination as of fire. Every face looked blood-red! — every jewel on every woman flashed like a living flame! — for one brief instant only, — then it was gone, and there followed a general stampede of the company, — everybody hurrying as fast as they could into the carriages that waited in long lines to take them to the station, the last two ‘special’ trains to London being at one a.m. and one thirty. I bade Sibyl and her father a hurried good-night, — Diana Chesney went in the same carriage with them, full of ecstatic thanks and praise to me for the splendours of the day which she described in her own fashion as “knowing how to do it,—” and then the departing crowd of vehicles began to thunder down the avenue. As they went an arch of light suddenly spanned Willowsmere Court from end to end of its red gables, blazing with all the colours of the rainbow, in the middle of which appeared letters of pale blue and gold, forming what I had hitherto considered as a funereal device,

  “Sic transit gloria mundi! Vale!”

  But, after all, it was as fairly applicable to the ephemeral splendours of a fête as it was to the more lasting marble solemnity of a sepulchre, and I thought little or nothing about it. So perfect were all the arrangements, and so admirably were the servants trained, that the guests were not long in departing, — and the grounds were soon not only empty, but dark. Not a vestige of the splendid illuminations was left anywhere, — and I entered the house fatigued, and with a dull sense of bewilderment and fear on me which I could not explain. I found Lucio alone in the smoking-room at the further end of the oak-panelled hall, a small cosily curtained apartment with a deep bay window which opened directly on to the lawn. He was standing in this embrasure with his back to me, but he turned swiftly round as he heard my steps and confronted me with such a wild, white, tortured face that I recoiled from him, startled.

  “Lucio, you are ill!” I exclaimed— “you have done too much to-day.”

  “Perhaps I have!” he answered in a hoarse unsteady voice, and I saw a strong shudder convulse him as he spoke, — then, gathering himself together as it were by an effort, he forced a smile— “Don’t be alarmed, my friend! — it is nothing, — nothing but the twinge of an old deep-seated malady, — a troublesome disease that is rare among men, and hopelessly incurable.”

  “What is it?” I asked anxiously, for his death-like pallor alarmed me. He looked at me fixedly, his eyes dilating and darkening, and his hand fell with a heavy pressure on my shoulder.

  “A very strange illness!” he said, in the same jarring accents. “Remorse! Have you never heard of it, Geoffrey? Neither medicine nor surgery are of any avail, — it is ‘the worm that dieth not, and the flame that cannot be quenched.’ Tut! — let us not talk of it, — no one can cure me, — no one will! I am past hope!”

  “But remorse, — if you have it, and I cannot possibly imagine why, for you have surely nothing to regret, — is not a physical ailment!” I said wonderingly.

  “And physical ailments are the only ones worth troubling about, you think?” he queried, still smiling that strained and haggard smile— “The body is our chief care, — we cosset it, and make much of it, feed it and pamper it, and guard it from so much as a pin-prick of pain if we can, — and thus we flatter ourselves that all is well, — all must be well! Yet it is but a clay chrysalis, bound to split and crumble with the growth of the moth-soul within, — the moth that flies with blind instinctiveness straight into the Unknown, and is dazzled by excess of light! Look out here,” — he went on with an abrupt and softer change of tone— “Look out at the dreamful shadowy beauty of your gardens now! The flowers are asleep, — the trees are surely glad to be disburdened of all the gaudy artificial lamps that lately hung upon their branches, — there is the young moon pillowing her chin on the edge of a little cloud and sinking to sleep in the west, — a moment ago there was a late nightingale awake and singing. You can feel the breath of the roses from the trellis yonder! All this is Nature’s work, — and how much fairer and sweeter it is now than when the lights were ablaze and the blare of band-music startled the small birds in their downy nests! — Yet ‘society’ would not appreciate this cool dusk, this happy solitude;— ‘society’ prefers a false glare to all true radiance. And what is worse it tries to make true things take a second place as adjuncts to sham ones, — and there comes in the mischief.”

  “It is just like you to run down your own indefatigable labours in the splendid successes of the day,” — I said laughing— “You may call it a ‘false glare’ if you like, but it has been a most magnificent spectacle, — and certainly in the way of entertainments it will never be equalled or excelled.”

  “It will make you more talked about than even your ‘boomed’ book could do!” said Lucio, eyeing me narrowly.

  “Not the least doubt of that!” I replied— “Society prefers food and amusement to any literature, — even the greatest. By-the-by, where are all the ‘artistes,’ — the musicians and dancers?”

  “Gone!”

  “Gone!” I echoed amazedly— “Already! Good heavens! have they had supper?”

  “They have had everything they want, even to their pay,” said Lucio, a trifle impatiently— “Did I not tell you Geoffrey, that when I undertake to do anything, I do it thoroughly or not at all?”

  I looked at him, — he smiled, but his eyes were sombre and scornful.

  “All right!” I responded carelessly, not wishing to offend him,— “Have it your own way! But, upon my word, to me it is all like devil’s magic!”

  “What is?” he asked imperturbably.

  “Everything! — the dancers, — the number of servants and pages — why, there must have been two or three hundred of them, — those wonderful ‘tableaux,’ — the illuminations, — the supper, — everything I tell you! — and the most astonishing part of it now is, that all these people should have cleared out so soon!”

  “Well, if you elect to call money devil’s magic, you are right,” — said Lucio.

  “But surely in some cases, not even money could procure such perfection of detail” —— I began.

  “Money can procure anything!” — he interrupted, a thrill of passion vibrating in his rich voice,— “I told you that long ago. It is a hook for the devil himself. Not that the devil could be supposed to care about world’s cash personally, — but he generally conceives a liking for the company of the man who possesses it; — possibly he knows what that man will do with it. I speak metaphorically of course, — but no metaphor can exaggerate the power of money. Trust no man or woman’s virtue till you have tried to purchase it with a round sum in hard cash! Money, my excellent Geoffrey, has done everything for you, — remember that! — you have done nothing for yourself.”

  “That’s not a very kind speech,” — I said, somewhat vexedly.

  “No? And why? Because it’s true? I notice most people complain of ‘unkindness’ when they are told a truth. It is true, and I see no unkindness in it. You’ve done nothing for yourself and you’re not expected to do anything — except,” and he laughed— “except just now to get to bed, and dream of the enchanting Sibyl!”

  “I confess I am tired,” — I said, and an unconscious sigh escaped me— “And you?”

  His gaze rested broodingly on the outer landscape.

  “I also am tired,” he responded slowly— “But I never get away from my fatigue, for I am tired of myself. And I always rest badly. Good-night!”

  “Good-night!” I answered, — and then paused, looking at him. He returned my look with interest.

  “Well?” he asked expressively.

  I forced a smile.

  “Well!” I echoed— “I do not know what I should say, — except — that I wish I knew you as you are. I feel that you were right in telling me once that you are not what you seem.�
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  He still kept his eyes fixed upon me.

  “As you have expressed the wish,” — he said slowly— “I promise you you shall know me as I am some-day! It may be well for you to know, — for the sake of others who may seek to cultivate my company.”

  I moved away to leave the room.

  “Thanks for all the trouble you have taken to-day,” — I said in a lighter tone— “Though I shall never be able to express my full gratitude in words.”

  289”If you wanted to thank anybody, thank God that you have lived through it!” he replied.

  “Why?” I asked, astonished.

  “Why? Because life hangs on a thread, — a society crush is the very acme of boredom and exhaustion, — and that we escape with our lives from a general guzzle and giggle is matter for thanksgiving, — that’s all! And God gets so few thanks as a rule that you may surely spare Him a brief one for to-day’s satisfactory ending.”

  I laughed, seeing no meaning in his words beyond the usual satire he affected. I found Amiel, waiting for me in my bedroom, but I dismissed him abruptly, hating the look of his crafty and sullen face, and saying I needed no attendance. Thoroughly fatigued, I was soon in bed and asleep, — and the terrific agencies that had produced the splendours of the brilliant festival at which I had figured as host, were not revealed to me by so much as a warning dream!

  XXV

  A few days after the entertainment at Willowsmere, and before the society papers had done talking about the magnificence and luxury displayed on that occasion, I woke up one morning, like the great poet Byron, “to find myself famous.” Not for any intellectual achievement, — not for any unexpected deed of heroism, — not for any resolved or noble attitude in society or politics, — no! — I owed my fame merely to a quadruped;— ‘Phosphor’ won the Derby. It was about a neck-and-neck contest between my racer and that of the Prime Minister, and for a second or so the result seemed doubtful, — but, as the two jockeys neared the goal, Amiel, whose thin wiry figure clad in the brightest of bright scarlet silk, stuck to his horse as though he were a part of it, put ‘Phosphor’ to a pace he had never yet exhibited, appearing to skim along the ground at literally flying speed, the upshot being that he scored a triumphant victory, reaching the winning-post a couple of yards or more ahead of his rival. Acclamations rent the air at the vigour displayed in the ‘finish’ — and I became the hero of the day, — the darling of the populace. I was somewhat amused at the Premier’s discomfiture, — he took his beating rather badly. He did not know me, nor I him, — I was not of his politics, and I did not care a jot for his feelings one way or the other, but I was gratified, in a certain satirical sense, to find myself suddenly acknowledged as a greater man than he, because I was the owner of the Derby-winner! Before I well knew where I was, I found myself being presented to the Prince of Wales, who shook hands with me and congratulated me; — all the biggest aristocrats in England were willing and eager to be introduced to me; — and inwardly I laughed at this exhibition of taste and culture on the part of ‘the gentlemen of England that live at home at ease.’ They crowded round ‘Phosphor,’ whose wild eye warned strangers against taking liberties with him, but who seemed not a whit the worse for his exertions, and who apparently was quite ready to run the race over again with equal pleasure and success. Amiel’s dark sly face and cruel ferret eyes were evidently not attractive to the majority of the gentlemen of the turf, though his answers to all the queries put to him, were admirably ready, respectful and not without wit. But to me the whole sum and substance of the occasion was the fact that I, Geoffrey Tempest, once struggling author, now millionaire, was simply by virtue of my ownership of the Derby-winner, ‘famous’ at last! — or what society considers famous, — that fame that secures for a man the attention of ‘the nobility and gentry,’ to quote from tradesmen’s advertisements, — and also obtains the persistent adulation and shameless pursuit of all the demi-mondaines who want jewels and horses and yachts presented to them in exchange for a few tainted kisses from their carmined lips. Under the shower of compliments I received, I stood, apparently delighted, — smiling, affable and courteous, — entering into the spirit of the occasion, and shaking hands with my Lord That, and Sir Something Nobody, and His Serene Highness the Grand Duke So-and-So of Beer-Land, and His other Serene Lowness of Small-Principality, — but in my secret soul I scorned these people with their social humbug and hypocrisy, — scorned them with such a deadly scorn as almost amazed myself. When presently I walked off the course with Lucio, who as usual seemed to know and to be friends with everybody, he spoke in accents that were far more grave and gentle than I had ever heard him use before.

  “With all your egotism, Geoffrey, there is something forcible and noble in your nature, — something which rises up in bold revolt against falsehood and sham. Why, in Heaven’s name do you not give it way?”

  I looked at him amazed, and laughed.

  “Give it way? What do you mean? Would you have me tell humbugs that I know them as such?, — and liars that I discern their lies? My dear fellow, society would become too hot to hold me!”

  “It could not be hotter — or colder — than hell, if you believed in hell, which you do not,” — he rejoined, in the same quiet voice— “But I did not assume that you should say these things straight out and bluntly, to give offence. An affronting candour is not nobleness, — it is merely coarse. To act nobly is better than to speak.”

  “And what would you have me do?” I asked curiously.

  He was silent for a moment, and seemed to be earnestly, almost painfully considering, — then he answered, —

  “My advice will seem to you singular, Geoffrey, — but if you want it, here it is. Give, as I said, the noble, and what the world would call the quixotic part of your nature full way, — do not sacrifice your higher sense of what is right and just for the sake of pandering to anyone’s power or influence, — and — say farewell to me! I am no use to you, save to humour your varying fancies, and introduce you to those great, — or small, — personages you wish to know for your own convenience or advantage, — believe me, it would be much better for you and much more consoling at the inevitable hour of death, if you were to let all this false and frivolous nonsense go, and me with it! Leave society to its own fool’s whirligig of distracted follies, — put Royalty in its true place, and show it that all its pomp, arrogance and glitter are worthless, and itself a nothing, compared to the upright standing of a brave soul in an honest man, — and, as Christ said to the rich ruler— ‘Sell half that thou hast and give to the poor.’”

  I was silent for a minute or so out of sheer surprise, while he watched me earnestly, his face pale and expectant. A curious shock of something like compunction startled my conscience, and for a brief space I was moved to a vague regret, — regret that with all the enormous capability I possessed of doing good to numbers of my fellow-creatures with the vast wealth I owned, I had not attained to any higher moral attitude than that represented by the frivolous folk who make up what is called the ‘Upper Ten’ of society. I took the same egotistical pleasure in myself and my own doings as any of them, — and I was to the full as foolishly conventional, smooth-tongued and hypocritical as they. They acted their part and I acted mine, — none of us were ever our real selves for a moment. In very truth, one of the reasons why ‘fashionable’ men and women cannot bear to be alone is, that a solitude in which they are compelled to look face to face upon their secret selves becomes unbearable because of the burden they carry of concealed vice and accusing shame. My emotion soon passed however, and slipping my arm through Lucio’s, I smiled, as I answered —

  “Your advice, my dear fellow, would do credit to a Salvationist preacher, — but it is quite valueless to me, because impossible to follow. To say farewell for ever to you, in the first place, would be to make myself guilty of the blackest ingratitude, — in the second instance, society, with all its ridiculous humbug, is nevertheless necessary for the amusement of myself and
my future wife, — Royalty moreover, is accustomed to be flattered, and we shall not be hurt by joining in the general inane chorus; — thirdly, if I did as the visionary Jew suggested — —”

  “What visionary Jew?” he asked, his eyes sparkling coldly.

  “Why, Christ of course!” I rejoined lightly.

  The shadow of a strange smile parted his lips.

  “It is the fashion to blaspheme!” he said,— “A mark of brilliancy in literature, and wit in society! I forgot! Pray go on, — if you did as Christ suggested — —”

  “Yes, — if I gave half my goods to the poor, I should not be thanked for it, or considered anything but a fool for my pains.”

  294”You would wish to be thanked?” he said.

  “Naturally! Most people like a little gratitude in return for benefits.”

  “They do. And the Creator, who is always giving, is supposed to like gratitude also,” — he observed— “Nevertheless He seldom gets it!”

  “I do not talk of hyperphysical nothingness,” — I said with impatience— “I am speaking of the plain facts of this world and the people who live in it. If one gives largely, one expects to be acknowledged as generous, — but if I were to divide my fortune, and hand half of it to the poor, the matter would be chronicled in about six lines in one of the papers, and society would exclaim ‘What a fool!’”

  “Then let us talk no more about it,” — said Lucio, his brows clearing, and his eyes gathering again their wonted light of mockery and mirth— “Having won the Derby, you have really done all a nineteenth-century civilization expects you to do, and for your reward, you will be in universal demand everywhere. You may hope soon to dine at Marlborough House, — and a little back-stair influence and political jobbery will work you into the Cabinet if you care for it. Did I not tell you I would set you up as successfully as the bear who has reached the bun on the top of the slippery pole, a spectacle for the envy of men and the wonder of angels? Well, there you are! — triumphant! — a great creature Geoffrey! — in fact, you are the greatest product of the age, a man with five millions and owner of the Derby-winner! What is the glory of intellect compared to such a position as yours! Men envy you, — and as for angels, — if there are any, — you may be sure they do wonder! A man’s fame guaranteed by a horse, is something indeed to make an angel stare!”