Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Let the music go on!” he said; “I am here to listen.”

  The Queen looked at him, — he met her eyes with an expression that she had never seen on his face before.

  “Suffer me to have my way!” he said to her in a low tone— “Let your singers finish their programme; afterwards do me the favour to dismiss your women, for I must speak with you alone.”

  She bent her head in acquiescence; and re-seated herself on her ivory throne. The sign was given for the continuance of the music, and the King, leaning back in his chair, half closed his eyes as he listened dreamily to the harmonious throbbing of harps and violins around him, in the stillness of the languid southern night. His hand almost brushed against his wife’s jewelled robes — the scent of the great lilies on her breast was wafted to him with every breath of air, and he thought— “All this would be Paradise, — with any other woman!” And while he so thought, the clear tenor voice of one of the unseen singers rang out in half gay, half tender tones:

  If I loved you, and you loved me,

  How happy this little world would be —

  The light of the day, the dancing hours,

  The skies, the trees, the birds and flowers,

  Would all be part of our perfect gladness; —

  And never a note of pain or sadness

  Would jar life’s beautiful melody

  If I loved you, and you loved me!

  ‘If I loved you!’ Why, I scarcely know

  How if I did, the time would go! —

  I should forget my dreary cares,

  My sordid toil, my long despairs,

  I should watch your smile, and kneel at your feet,

  And live my life in the love of you, Sweet! —

  So mad, so glad, so proud I should be,

  If I loved you, and you loved me!

  ‘If you loved me!’ Ah, nothing so strange

  As that could chance in this world of change! —

  As well expect a planet to fall,

  Or a Queen to dwell in a beggar’s hall —

  But if you did, — romance and glory

  Might spring from our lives’ united story,

  And angels might be less happy than we —

  If I loved you and you loved me!

  ‘If I loved you and you loved me!’

  Alas, ‘t is a joy we shall never see!

  You are too fair — I am too cold; —

  We shall drift along till we both grow old,

  Till we reach the grave, and gasping, die,

  Looking back on the days that have passed us by,

  When ‘what might have been,’ can no longer be, —

  When I lost you, and you lost me!

  The song concluded abruptly, and with passion; — and the King, turning on his elbow, glanced with a touch of curiosity at the face of his Queen. There was not a flicker of emotion on its fair cold calmness, — not a quiver on the beautiful lips, or a sigh to stir the quiet breast on which the lilies rested, white and waxen, and heavily odorous. He withdrew his gaze with a half smile at his own folly for imagining that she could be moved by a mere song to any expression of feeling, — even for a moment, — and allowed his glance to wander unreservedly over the forms and features of the other ladies in attendance who, conscious of his regard, dropped their eyelids and blushed softly, after the fashion approved by the heroines of the melodramatic stage. Whereat he began to think of the tiresome sameness of women generally; and their irritating habit of living always at two extremes, — either all ardour, or all coldness.

  “Both are equally fatiguing to a man’s mind,” he thought impatiently— “The only woman that is truly fascinating is the one who is never in the same mind two days together. Fair on Monday, plain on Tuesday, sweet on Wednesday, sour on Thursday, tender on Friday, cold on Saturday, and in all moods at once on Sunday, — that being a day of rest! I should adore such a woman as that if I ever met her, because I should never know her mind towards me!”

  A soft serenade rendered by violins, with a harp accompaniment, was followed by a gay mazurka, played by all the instruments together, — and this finished the musical programme.

  The Queen rose, accepting the hand which the King extended to her, and moved with him slowly across the rose-garden, her long snowy train glistering with jewels, and held up from the greensward by a pretty page, who, in his picturesque costume of rose and gold, demurely followed his Royal lady’s footsteps, — and so amid the curtseying ladies-in-waiting and other attendants, they passed together into a private boudoir, at the threshold of which the Queen’s train-bearer dropped his rich burden of perfumed velvet and gems, and bowing low, left their Majesties together.

  Shutting the door upon him with his own hand, the King drew a heavy portière across it, — and then walking round the room saw that every window was closed, — every nook secure. The Queen’s boudoir was one of the most sacred corners in the whole palace, — no one, not even the most intimate lady of the Court in personal attendance on her Majesty, dared enter it without special permission; and this being the case, the Queen herself was faintly moved to surprise at the extra precaution her husband appeared to be taking to ensure privacy. She stood silently watching his movements till he came up to her, and bowing courteously, said: —

  “I pray you, be seated, Madam! I will not detain you long.”

  She obeyed his gesture, and sank down in a chair with that inimitable noiseless grace which made every attitude of hers a study for an artist, and waited for his next words; while he, standing opposite to her, bent his eyes upon her face with a certain wistfulness and appeal.

  “I have never asked you a favour,” he began— “and — since the day we married, — I have never sought your sympathy. The years have come and gone, leaving no visible trace on either you or me, so far as outward looks go, — and if they have scarred and wrinkled us inwardly, only God can see those scars! But as time moves on with a man, — I know not how it is with a woman, — if he be not altogether a fool, he begins to consider the way in which he has spent, or is spending his life, — whether he has been, or is yet likely to be of any use to the world he lives in, — or if he is of less account than the blown froth of the sea, or the sand on the shore. Myriads and myriads of men and women are no more than this — no more than midges or ants or worms; — but every now and then in the course of centuries, one man does stand forth from the million, — one heart does beat courageously enough to send the firm echo of its pulsations through a long vista of time, — one soul does so exalt and inspire the rest of the world by its great example that we are, through its force reminded of something divine, — something high and true in a low wilderness of shams!”

  He paused; the Queen raised her beautiful eyes, and smiled strangely.

  “Have you only just now thought of this?” she said.

  He flushed, and bit his lip.

  “To be perfectly honest with you, Madam, I have thought of nothing worth thinking about for many years! Most men in my position would probably make the same confession. Perhaps had you given me any great work to do for your sake I should have done it! Had you inspired me to achieve some great conquest, either for myself or others, I should no doubt have conquered! But I have lived for twenty-one years in your admirable company without being commanded by you to do anything worthy of a king; — I am now about to command Myself! — in order to leave some notable trace of my name in history.”

  While he thus spoke, a faint flush coloured the Queen’s cheeks, but it quickly died away, leaving her very pale. Her fingers strayed among the great jewels she wore, and toyed unconsciously with a ruby talisman cut in the shape of a heart, and encircled with diamonds. The King noted the flash of the gems against the whiteness of her hand, and said:

  “Your heart, Madam, is like the jewel you hold! — clear crimson, and full of fire, — but it is not the fire of Heaven, though you may perchance judge it to be so. Rather is it of hell! — (I pray you to pardon me for the roughness of this
suggestion!) — for one of the chief crimes of the devil is unconquerable hatred of the human race. You share Satan’s aversion to man! — and strange indeed it is that even the most sympathetic companionship with your own sex cannot soften that aversion! However, we will not go into this; — the years have proved you true to your own temperament, and there is nothing to be said on the matter, either of blame or of praise. As I said, I have never asked a favour of you, nor have I sought the sympathy which it is not in your nature to give. I have not even claimed your obedience in any particular strictness of form; but that is my errand to you to-night, — indeed it is the sole object of this private interview, — to claim your entire, your unfaltering, your implicit obedience!”

  She raised her head haughtily.

  “To what commands, Sir?” she asked.

  “To those I have here written,—” and he handed her a paper folded in two, which she took wonderingly, as he extended it. “Read this carefully! — and if you have any objections to urge, I am willing to listen to you with patience, though scarcely to alter the conditions laid down.”

  He turned away, and walked slowly through the room, pausing a moment to whistle to a tiny bird swinging in a gilded cage, that perked up its pretty head at his call and twittered with pleasure.

  “So you respond to kindness, little one!” he said softly,— “You are more Christ-like in that one grace than many a Christian!”

  He started, as a light touch fell on his shoulder, and he saw the Queen standing beside him. She held the paper he had given her in one hand, and as he looked at her enquiringly she touched it with her lips, and placed it in her bosom.

  “I swear my obedience to your instructions, Sir!” she said,— “Do not fear to trust me!”

  Gently he took her hands and kissed them.

  “I thank you!” he said simply.

  For a moment they confronted each other. The beautiful cold woman’s eyes drooped under the somewhat sad and searching gaze of the man.

  “But — your life!—” she murmured.

  “My life!” He laughed and dropped her hands. “Would you care, Madam, if I were dead? Would you shed any tears? Not you! Why should you? At this late hour of time, when after twenty-one years passed in each other’s close company we are no nearer to each other in heart and soul than if the sea murmuring yonder at the foot of these walls were stretching its whole width between us! Besides — we are both past our youth! And, according to certain highly instructed scientists and philosophers, the senses and affections grow numb with age. I do not believe this theory myself — for the jejune love of youth is as a taper’s flame to the great and passionate tenderness of maturity, when the soul, and not the body, claims its due; when love is not dragged down to the vulgar level of mere cohabitation, after the fashion of the animals in a farmyard, but rises to the best height of human sympathy and intelligent comprehension. Who knows! — I may experience such a love as that yet, — and so may you!”

  She was silent.

  “Talking of love,” — he went on— “May I ask whether our son, — or rather the nation’s son, Humphry, — ever makes you his confidante?”

  “Never!” she replied.

  “I thought not! We do not seem to be the kind of parents admired in moral story-books, Madam! We are not the revered darlings of our children. In fact, our children have the happy disposition of animal cubs, — once out of the nursing stage, they forget they ever had parents. It is quite the natural and proper thing, born as they were born, — it would never do for them to have any over-filial regard for us. Imagine Humphry weeping for my death, or yours! What a grotesque idea! And as for Rupert and Cyprian, — it is devoutly to be hoped that when we die, our funerals may be well over before the great cricket matches of the year come on, as otherwise they will curse us for having left the world at an inconvenient season!” He laughed. “How sentiment has gone out nowadays, or how it seems to have gone out! Yet it slumbers in the heart of the nation, — and if it should ever awaken, — well! — it will be dangerous! I asked you about Humphry, because I imagine he is entangled in some love-affair. If it should be agreeable to your humour to go with me across to The Islands one day this week, we may perhaps by chance discover the reason of his passion for that particular kind of scenery!”

  The Queen’s eyes opened wonderingly.

  “The Islands!” she repeated,— “The Islands? Why, only the coral-fishers live there, — they have a community of their own, and are jealous of all strangers. What should Humphry do there?”

  “That is more than I can tell you,” answered the King,— “And it is more than he will himself explain. Nevertheless, he is there nearly every day, — some attraction draws him, but what, I cannot discover. If Humphry were of the soul of me, as he is of the body of me, I should not even try to fathom his secret, — but he is the nation’s child — heir to its throne — and as such, it is necessary that we, for the nation’s sake, should guard him in the nation’s interests. If you chance to learn anything of the object of his constant sea-wanderings, I trust you will find it coincident with your pleasure to inform me?”

  “I shall most certainly obey you in this, Sir, as in all other things!” she replied.

  He moved a step or two towards her.

  “Good-night!” he said very gently, and detaching one of the lilies from her corsage, took it in his own hand. “Good-night! This flower will remind me of you; — white and beautiful, with all the central gold deep hidden!”

  He looked at her intently, with a lingering look, half of tenderness, half of regret, and bowing in the courtliest fashion of homage, left her presence.

  She remained alone, the velvet folds of her train flowing about her feet, and the jewels on her breast flashing like faint sparks of flame in the subdued glow of the shaded lamplight. She was touched for the first time in her life by the consciousness of something infinitely noble, and altogether above her in her husband’s nature. Slowly she drew out the paper he had given her from her bosom and read it through again — and yet once again. Almost unconsciously to herself a mist gathered in her eyes and softened into two bright tears, which dropped down her fair cheeks, and lost themselves among her diamonds.

  “He is brave!” she murmured— “Braver than I thought he could ever be—”

  She roused herself sharply from her abstraction. Emotions which were beyond her own control had strangely affected her, and the humiliating idea that her moods had for a moment escaped beyond her guidance made her angry with herself for what she considered mere weakness. And passing quickly out of the boudoir, in the vague fear that solitude might deepen the sense of impotence and failure which insinuated itself slowly upon her, like a dull blight creeping through her heart and soul, she rejoined her ladies, the same great Queen as ever, with the same look of indifference on her face, the same chill smile, the same perfection of loveliness, unwithered by any visible trace of sorrow or of passion.

  CHAPTER VI. — SERGIUS THORD

  The next day the heavens were clouded; and occasional volleys of heavy thunder were mingled with the gusts of wind and rain which swept over the city, and which lashed the fair southern sea into a dark semblance of such angry waves as wear away northern coasts into bleak and rocky barrenness. It was disappointing weather to multitudes, for it was the feast-day of one of the numerous saints whose names fill the calendar of the Roman Church, — and a great religious procession had been organized to march from the market-place to the Cathedral, in which two or three hundred children and girls had been chosen to take part. The fickle bursts of sunshine which every now and again broke through the lowering sky, decided the priests to carry out their programme in spite of the threatening storm, in the hope that it would clear off completely with the afternoon. Accordingly, groups of little maidens, in white robes and veils, began to assemble with their flags and banners at the appointed hour round the old market cross, which, — grey and crumbling at the summit, — bent over the streets like a withered finger, cr
ook’d as it were, in feeble remonstrance at the passing of time, — while glimpses of young faces beneath the snowy veils, and chatter of young voices, made brightness and music around its frowning and iron-bound base. Shortly before three o’clock the Cathedral bells began to chime, and crowds of people made their way towards the sacred edifice in the laughing, pushing, gesticulating fashion of southerners, to whom a special service at the Church is like a new comedy at the theatre, — women with coloured kerchiefs knotted over their hair or across their bosoms — men, more or less roughly clad, yet all paying compliment to the Saint’s feast-day by some extra smart touch in their attire, if it were only a pomegranate flower or orange-blossom stuck in their hats, or behind their ears. It was a mixed crowd, all of the working classes, who are proverbially called ‘the common,’ as if those who work, are not a hundred times more noble than those who do nothing! A few carriages, containing some wealthy ladies of the nobility, who, to atone for their social sins, were in the habit of contributing largely to the Church, passed every now and again through the crowd, but taken as a spectacle it was simply a ‘popular’ show, in which the children of the people took part, and where the people themselves were evidently more amused than edified.

  While the bells were ringing the procession gradually formed; — a dozen or more priests leading, — incense-bearers and acolytes walking next, — and then the long train of little children and girls carrying their symbolic banners, following after. The way they had to walk was a steep, winding ascent, through tortuous streets, to the Cathedral, which stood in the centre of a great square on an eminence which overlooked the whole city, and as soon as they started they began to sing, — softly at first, then more clearly and sweetly, till gradually the air grew full of melody, rising and falling on the capricious gusts of wind which tore at the gilded and emblazoned banners, and tossed the white veils of the maidens about like wreaths of drifting snow. Two men standing on the Cathedral hill, watched the procession gradually ascending — one tall and heavily-built, with a dark leonine head made more massive-looking by its profusion of thick and unmanageable hair — the other lean and narrow-shouldered, with a peaked reddish-auburn beard, which he continually pulled and twitched at nervously as though its growth on his chin was more a matter of vexation than convenience. He was apparently not so much interested in the Church festival as he was in his companion’s face, for he was perpetually glancing up at that brooding countenance, which, half hidden as it was in wild hair and further concealed by thick moustache and beard, showed no expression at all, unless an occasional glimpse of full flashing eyes under the bushy brows, gave a sudden magnetic hint of something dangerous and not to be trifled with.