Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “I am sure they are!” she said decisively.

  He picked up two or three of the rose-petals her restless fingers had scattered, and laying them in his palm looked at the curved, pink, shell-like shapes abstractedly.

  “Well, they are saved a good deal of trouble,” he answered quietly. “They spare themselves many a healing heart-ache and many purifying tears. But when they grow old, and when they find that, after all, the happiest folks in the world are still those who love, or who have loved and have been loved, even though the loved ones are perhaps no longer here, they may — I do not say they will — possibly regret that they never experienced that marvellous sense of absorption into another’s life of which Mrs. Browning writes in her letters to her husband. Do you know what she says?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t!” and she smothered a slight yawn as she spoke. He fixed his eyes intently upon her.

  “She tells her lover her feeling in these words: ‘There is nothing in you that does not draw all out of me.’ That is the true emotion of love, — the one soul must draw all out of the other, and the best of all in each.”

  “But the Brownings were a very funny couple,” and the fair Lucy arched her graceful throat and settled more becomingly in its place a straying curl of her glossy brown hair. “I know an old gentleman who used to see them together when they lived in Florence, and he says they were so queer-looking that people used to laugh at them. It’s all very well to love and to be in love, but if you look odd and people laugh at you, what’s the good of it?”

  Helmsley rose from his seat abruptly.

  “True!” he exclaimed. “You’re right, Lucy! Little girl, you’re quite right! What’s the good of it! Upon my word, you’re a most practical woman! — you’ll make a capital wife for a business man!” Then as the gay music of the band below-stairs suddenly ceased, to give place to the noise of chattering voices and murmurs of laughter, he glanced at his watch.

  “Supper-time!” he said. “Let me take you down. And after supper, will you give me ten minutes’ chat with you alone in the library!”

  She looked up eagerly, with a flush of pink in her cheeks.

  “Of course I will! With pleasure!”

  “Thank you!” And he drew her white-gloved hand through his arm. “I am leaving town next week, and I have something important to say to you before I go. You will allow me to say it privately?”

  She smiled assent, and leaned on his arm with a light, confiding pressure, to which he no more responded than if his muscles had been rigid iron. Her heart beat quickly with a sense of gratified vanity and exultant expectancy, — but his throbbed slowly and heavily, chilled by the double frost of age and solitude.

  CHAPTER III

  To see people eating is understood to be a very interesting and “brilliant” spectacle, and however insignificant you may be in the social world, you get a reflex of its “brilliancy” when you allow people in their turn to see you eating likewise. A well-cooked, well-served supper is a “function,” in which every man and woman who can move a jaw takes part, and though in plain parlance there is nothing uglier than the act of putting food into one’s mouth, we have persuaded ourselves that it is a pretty and pleasant performance enough for us to ask our friends to see us do it. Byron’s idea that human beings should eat privately and apart, was not altogether without æsthetic justification, though according to medical authority such a procedure would be very injurious to health. The slow mastication of a meal in the presence of cheerful company is said to promote healthy digestion — moreover, custom and habit make even the most incongruous things acceptable, therefore the display of tables, crowded with food-stuffs and surrounded by eating, drinking, chattering and perspiring men and women, does not affect us to any sense of the ridiculous or the unseemly. On the contrary, when some of us see such tables, we exclaim “How lovely!” or “How delightful!” according to our own pet vocabulary, or to our knowledge of the humour of our host or hostess, — or perhaps, if we are young cynics, tired of life before we have confronted one of its problems, we murmur, “Not so bad!” or “Fairly decent!” when we are introduced to the costly and appetising delicacies heaped up round masses of flowers and silver for our consideration and entertainment. At the supper given by David Helmsley for Lucy Sorrel’s twenty-first birthday, there was, however, no note of dissatisfaction — the blasé breath of the callow critic emitted no withering blight, and even latter-day satirists in their teens, frosted like tender pease-blossom before their prime, condescended to approve the lavish generosity, combined with the perfect taste, which made the festive scene a glowing picture of luxury and elegance. But Helmsley himself, as he led his beautiful partner, “the” guest of the evening, to the head of the principal table, and took his place beside her, was conscious of no personal pleasure, but only of a dreary feeling which seemed lonelier than loneliness and more sorrowful than sorrow. The wearied scorn that he had lately begun to entertain for himself, his wealth, his business, his influence, and all his surroundings, was embittered by a disappointment none the less keen because he had dimly foreseen it. The child he had petted, the girl he had indulged after the fashion of a father who seeks to make the world pleasant to a young life just entering it, she, even she, was, or seemed to be, practically as selfish as any experienced member of the particular set of schemers and intriguers who compose what is sometimes called “society” in the present day. He had no wish to judge her harshly, but he was too old and knew too much of life to be easily deceived in his estimation of character. A very slight hint was sufficient for him. He had seen a great deal of Lucy Sorrel as a child — she had always been known as his “little favourite” — but since she had attended a fashionable school at Brighton, his visits to her home had been less frequent, and he had had very few opportunities of becoming acquainted with the gradual development of her mental and moral self. During her holidays he had given her as many little social pleasures and gaieties as he had considered might be acceptable to her taste and age, but on these occasions other persons had always been present, and Lucy herself had worn what are called “company” manners, which in her case were singularly charming and attractive, so much so, indeed, that it would have seemed like heresy to question their sincerity. But now — whether it was the slight hint dropped by Sir Francis Vesey on the previous night as to Mrs. Sorrel’s match-making proclivities, or whether it was a scarcely perceptible suggestion of something more flippant and assertive than usual in the air and bearing of Lucy herself that had awakened his suspicions, — he was certainly disposed to doubt, for the first time in all his knowledge of her, the candid nature of the girl for whom he had hitherto entertained, half-unconsciously, an almost parental affection. He sat by her side at supper, seldom speaking, but always closely observant. He saw everything; he watched the bright, exulting flash of her eyes as she glanced at her various friends, both near her and at a distance, and he fancied he detected in their responsive looks a subtle inquiry and meaning which he would not allow himself to investigate. And while the bubbling talk and laughter eddied round him, he made up his mind to combat the lurking distrust that teased his brain, and either to disperse it altogether or else confirm it beyond all mere shadowy misgiving. Some such thought as this had occurred to him, albeit vaguely, when he had, on a sudden unpremeditated impulse, asked Lucy to give him a few minutes’ private conversation with her after supper, but now, what had previously been a mere idea formulated itself into a fixed resolve.

  “For what, after all, does it matter to me?” he mused. “Why should I hesitate to destroy a dream? Why should I care if another rainbow bubble of life breaks and disappears? I am too old to have ideals — so most people would tell me. And yet — with the grave open and ready to receive me, — I still believe that love and truth and purity surely exist in women’s hearts — if one could only know just where to find the women!”

  “Dear King David!” murmured a cooing voice at his ear. “Won’t you drink my health?”

>   He started as from a reverie. Lucy Sorrel was bending towards him, her face glowing with gratified vanity and self-elation.

  “Of course!” he answered, and rising to his feet, he lifted his glass full of as yet untasted champagne, at which action on his part the murmur of voices suddenly ceased sand all eyes were turned upon him. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, in his soft, tired voice,— “I beg to propose the health of Miss Lucy Sorrel! She has lived twenty-one years on this interesting old planet of ours, and has found it, so far, not altogether without charm. I have had seventy years of it, and strange as it may seem to you all, I am able to keep a few of the illusions and delusions I had when I was even younger than our charming guest of the evening. I still believe in good women! I think I have one sitting at my right hand to-night. I take for granted that her nature is as fair as her face; and I hope that every recurring anniversary of this day may bring her just as much happiness as she deserves. I ask you to drink to her health, wealth, and prosperity; and — may she soon find a good husband!”

  Applause and laughter followed this conventional little speech, and the toast was honoured in the usual way, Lucy bowing and smiling her thanks to all present. And then there ensued one of those strange impressions — one might almost call them telepathic instead of atmospheric effects — which, subtly penetrating the air, exerted an inexplicable influence on the mind; — the expectancy of some word never to be uttered, — the waiting for some incident never to take place. People murmured and smiled, and looked and laughed, but there was an evident embarrassment among them, — an under-sense of something like disappointment. The fortunately commonplace and methodical habits of waiters, whose one idea is to keep their patrons busy eating and drinking, gradually overcame this insidious restraint, and the supper went on gaily till at one o’clock the Hungarian band again began to play, and all the young people, eager for their “extras” in the way of dances, quickly rose from the various tables and began to crowd out towards the ballroom. In the general dispersal, Lucy having left him for a partner to whom she had promised the first “extra,” Helmsley stopped to speak to one or two men well known to him in the business world. He was still conversing with these when Mrs. Sorrel, not perceiving him in the corner where he stood apart with his friend, trotted past him with an agitated step and flushed countenance, and catching her daughter by the skirt of her dress as that young lady moved on with the pushing throng in front of her, held her back for a second.

  “What have you done?” she demanded querulously, in not too soft a tone. “Were you careful? Did you manage him properly? What did he say to you?”

  Lucy’s beautiful face hardened, and her lips met in a thin, decidedly bad-tempered line.

  “He said nothing to the purpose,” she replied coldly. “There was no time. But” — and she lowered her voice— “he wants to speak to me alone presently. I’m going to him in the library after this dance.”

  She passed on, and Mrs. Sorrel, heaving a deep sigh, drew out a black pocket-fan and fanned herself vigorously. Wreathing her face with social smiles, she made her way slowly out of the supper-room, happily unaware that Helmsley had been near enough to hear every word that had passed. And hearing, he had understood; but he went on talking to his friends in the quiet, rather slow way which was habitual to him, and when he left them there was nothing about him to indicate that he was in a suppressed state of nervous excitement which made him for the moment quite forget that he was an old man. Impetuous youth itself never felt a keener blaze of vitality in the veins than he did at that moment, but it was the withering heat of indignation that warmed him — not the tender glow of love. The clarion sweetness of the dance-music, now pealing loudly on the air, irritated his nerves, — the lights, the flowers, the brilliancy of the whole scene jarred upon his soul, — what was it all but sham, he thought! — a show in the mere name of friendship! — an ephemeral rose of pleasure with a worm at its core! Impatiently he shook himself free of those who sought to detain him and went at once to his library, — a sombre, darkly-furnished apartment, large enough to seem gloomy by contrast with the gaiety and cheerfulness which were dominant throughout the rest of the house that evening. Only two or three shaded lamps were lit, and these cast a ghostly flicker on the row of books that lined the walls. A few names in raised letters of gold relief upon the backs of some of the volumes, asserted themselves, or so he fancied, with unaccustomed prominence. “Montaigne,” “Seneca,” “Rochefoucauld,” “Goethe,” “Byron,” and “The Sonnets of William Shakespeare,” stood forth from the surrounding darkness as though demanding special notice.

  “Voices of the dead!” he murmured half aloud. “I should have learned wisdom from you all long ago! What have the great geniuses of the world lived for? For what purpose did they use their brains and pens? Simply to teach mankind the folly of too much faith! Yet we continue to delude ourselves — and the worst of it is that we do it wilfully and knowingly. We are perfectly aware that when we trust, we shall be deceived — yet we trust on! Even I — old and frail and about to die — cannot rid myself of a belief in God, and in the ultimate happiness of each man’s destiny. And yet, so far as my own experience serves me, I have nothing to go upon — absolutely nothing!”

  He gave an unconscious gesture — half of scorn, half of despair — and paced the room slowly up and down. A life of toil — a life rounding into worldly success, but blank of all love and heart’s comfort — was this to be the only conclusion to his career? Of what use, then, was it to have lived at all?

  “People talk foolishly of a ‘declining birth-rate,’” he went on; “yet if, according to the modern scientist, all civilisations are only so much output of wasted human energy, doomed to pass into utter oblivion, and human beings only live but to die and there an end, of what avail is it to be born at all? Surely it is but wanton cruelty to take upon ourselves the responsibility of continuing a race whose only consummation is rottenness in unremembered graves!”

  At that moment the door opened and Lucy Sorrel entered softly, with a pretty air of hesitating timidity which became her style of beauty excellently well. As he looked up and saw her standing half shyly on the threshold, a white, light, radiant figure expressing exquisitely fresh youth, grace and — innocence? — yes! surely that wondrous charm which hung about her like a delicate atmosphere redolent with the perfume of spring, could only be the mystic exhalation of a pure mind adding spiritual lustre to the material attraction of a perfect body, — his heart misgave him. Already he was full of remorse lest so much as a passing thought in his brain might have done her unmerited wrong. He advanced to meet her, and his voice was full of kindness as he said: —

  “Is your dance quite over, Lucy? Are you sure I am not selfishly depriving you of pleasure by asking you to come away from all your young friends just to talk to me for a few minutes in this dull room?”

  She raised her beautiful eyes confidingly.

  “Dear Mr. Helmsley, there can be no greater pleasure for me than to talk to you!” she answered sweetly.

  His expression changed and hardened. “That’s not true,” he thought; “and she knows it, and I know it.” Aloud he said: “Very prettily spoken, Lucy! But I am aware of my own tediousness and I won’t detain you long. Will you sit down?” and he offered her an easy-chair, into which she sank with the soft slow grace of a nestling bird. “I only want to say just a few words, — such as your father might say to you if he were so inclined — about your future.”

  She gave him a swift glance of keen inquiry.

  “My future?” she echoed.

  “Yes. Have you thought of it at all yourself?”

  She heaved a little sigh, smiled, and shook her head in the negative.

  “I’m afraid I’m very silly,” she confessed plaintively. “I never think!”

  He drew up another armchair and sat down opposite to her.

  “Well, try to do so now for five minutes at least,” he said, gently. “I am going away to-morrow or ne
xt day for a considerable time — —”

  A quick flush flew over her face.

  “Going away!” she exclaimed. “But — not far?”

  “That depends on my own whim,” he replied, watching her attentively. “I shall certainly be absent from England for a year, perhaps longer. But, Lucy, — you were such a little pet of mine in your childhood that I cannot help taking an interest in you now you are grown up. That is, I think, quite natural. And I should like to feel that you have some good and safe idea of your own happiness in life before I leave you.”

  She stared, — her face fell.

  “I have no ideas at all,” she answered after a pause, the corners of her red mouth drooping in petulant, spoilt-child fashion, “and if you go away I shall have no pleasures either!”

  He smiled.

  “I’m sorry you take it that way,” he said. “But I’m nearing the end of my tether, Lucy, and increasing age makes me restless. I want change of scene — and change of surroundings. I am thoroughly tired of my present condition.”

  “Tired?” and her eyes expressed whole volumes of amazement. “Not really? You — tired of your present condition? With all your money?”

  “With all my money!” he answered drily, “Money is not the elixir of happiness, Lucy, though many people seem to think it is. But I prefer not to talk about myself. Let me speak of you. What do you propose to do with your life? You will marry, of course?”

  “I — I suppose so,” she faltered.

  “Is there any one you specially favour? — any young fellow who loves you, or whom you are inclined to love — and who wants a start in the world? If there is, send him to me, and, if he has anything in him, I’ll make myself answerable for his prosperity.”

  She looked up with a cold, bright steadfastness.

  “There is no one,” she said. “Dear Mr. Helmsley, you are very good, but I assure you I have never fallen in love in my life. As I told you before supper, I don’t believe in that kind of nonsense. And I — I want nothing. Of course I know my father and mother are poor, and that they have kept up a sort of position which ranks them among the ‘shabby genteel,’ — and I suppose if I don’t marry quickly I shall have to do something for a living — —”