Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Everton sighed, — then meeting the warm, persuasive glance of his new friend’s kind eyes, smiled.

  “As you like!” — he said— “You are so very earnest about it that I should feel myself a churl to refuse you. But I am not at all the sort of man for society scenes—”

  “You are! You are just the sort of man for society scenes” — declared Howard;— “They exist for your comment and consideration. Society scenes made the fame of the Prophet Isaiah. Without society scenes he would not have been able to say: ‘Their land is full of silver and gold, neither is there any end of their treasures; their land is also full of horses, neither is there any end of their chariots.’

  And— ‘The shew of their countenance doth witness against them; and they declare their sin as Sodom, they hide it not. Woe unto their soul! for they have rewarded evil unto themselves!’”

  He spoke the words slowly, with a wonderfully musical rhythm of utterance, and Everton heard him with surprise as well as admiration.

  “I think you are a preacher yourself,” — he said.

  “Say an actor, and you might be nearer the mark,” — replied Howard, laughing. “I was on the stage for a short time as a youngster, but I got tired of the grease-paint and the footlights and took to a ranching life instead. However, my short probation with sock and buskin did me good; —

  I learned how to read properly; — an art in which few clergy excel, — and I imbibed Shakespeare as gratefully as a fish imbibes Water. The Bible and Shakespeare are my two literary bulwarks.”

  “You could not have any stronger ones,” — said Everton— “All literature leans upon those twain, — the two least understood great works of the world!”

  They drifted into generalities after this, and presently parted, to meet again two or three hours later at the entrance of the Savoy Restaurant. A number of brilliantly attired women were standing or sitting about in the hall or lounge of this famous London eating-house, talking to, or staring at each other during the ‘mauvais quart d’heure ‘before dinner; — most of them had their faces painted and their hair dyed, and one and all presented exactly the appearance of variety actresses waiting their ‘turn.’ Their dresses were much more worth observation than themselves, many of these being extravagant marvels of the costumier’s art, — their own persons were merely the props on which the wonderful garments clung and trailed and sparkled and swept round in serpentine folds of bewilderingly varied hue and much perfumed rustling. Jewels, both real and sham, the sham, of course, predominating, sparkled lavishly on the brows, bosoms and arms of these fair feminine diners-out, thus giving their artificial attractions that last ‘imperial’ touch which made them look the very queens of comedy, and as Everton, walking with his American acquaintance, slowly descended the softly-carpeted steps leading from the lounge into the dining-room, many heads were turned after him, and many eyes silently questioned his identity. That he was not an habitue of restaurants was evident at a glance. The repose of his manner, the calm dignity of his movements, the gravely observant expression of his pale, intellectual face — all these denoted a personality far removed from that of the ordinary Savoy lounger and epicure. People looked at him, whispered and wondered. He was quite unconscious that his appearance excited any comment. Howard caught one or two remarks that were half depreciatory, half flattering to his companion, and was faintly amused. Just as they were about to enter the dining-room, he touched Everton’s arm.

  “That’s Claude Ferrers,” he said.

  Everton looked and saw a massively built man of between forty-five and fifty, with a fat, clean-shaven face and reddish hair which he wore parted in the middle and rather long over the ears. The eyes of this individual were remarkable, — they projected slightly in their sockets like balls of pale-blue glass with a light behind them, and challenged all other eyes with a curious kind of insistent self-defense. There was no real human expression in them, — only the peculiar glassy brilliancy and the fixed ‘What do you know of me? ‘query.

  They turned on Everton as he passed by with a sudden opening stare; — then the white puffy lids dropped over them languidly in lazy disdain. This was the look Ferrers gave to all strangers; a look which generally had the effect of making them either uncomfortable or indignant. Everton, however, was unaffected by it; — one glance at the man sufficed to show him the type of creature he was, — one of those openly admitted decadents and libertines who, with the gracious permission and approval of the Pulpit and the Throne, are nowadays given free license to contaminate the minds of the women of England, and so undermine the future honor of the nation itself. Their vices are well known, but are ‘hushed up ‘; and the fact that many, if not most of them are ‘well-connected,’ moves even the Law to excuse them from appearing in their rightful place — the criminal dock.

  Following Howard into the dining-room, Everton presently found himself seated at one of the smaller side-tables which commanded a good view of a certain portion of the room set apart for private dinner-parties. Here there was a blaze of light and color, and a long table was set out for some sixteen persons, above which a large toy balloon, composed of red and white roses and lit from within by electricity, was so arranged as to appear rising from the center of the board, just held in place by cords of gold and silver attached to imitation ‘sand-bags’ of perfume. Tiny balloons of creamy satin, tied with gold thread, served as ‘menus’ and guest-cards, and were set at each person’s right hand, and the effective coloring of the whole design was furthermore enhanced by long trails of red and white roses laid with a carelessly lavish grace down the center of the whole length of the table. It was impossible to avoid looking at such an original and beautiful display of flowers, and Everton made a remark to Howard not only on the taste displayed in the decoration, but also on the pity and extravagance of it.

  “I deplore the fate of those glorious roses,” he said— “They are as living as we are, and no doubt when growing on the parent stem were sensible of the joys of life. It seems cruel to kill them for the pleasure of a night.”

  “It’s the spirit of Heliogabalus over again,” rejoined Howard;— “London and New York are merely repeating the orgies of Greece and Rome which took place just before their fall. Claude Ferrers is a modern Heliogabalus in his very modern way; he makes everything and everybody minister to himself and his personal comfort; and by dint of learning a few salacious witticisms out of Molière and Baudelaire, he almost persuades people to think him a wit and a poet. But he is the biggest Fraud nature and art ever perpetuated, — even his profound interest in science is only a ‘pose,’ — and he runs a balloon, instead of a motor-car or carriage, merely in order that the fool newspapers may notice his antics and print ‘interviews’ with him. See, — here he comes with his little flock of ‘souls’ which no creed can save!”

  Everton turned his head to look; — then the blood rushed to his face in a burning tide and as quickly retreated, leaving him deathly pale. For he saw one whom he had hoped and prayed never to see again. A woman, clothed in clinging gossamer white, with a band of great rubies and diamonds set in the rich coils of her hair, and the same precious stones blazing on her uncovered arms and bosom, entered the room on the arm of Claude Ferrers, moving so lightly that she seemed to float rather than walk, — a woman so perfectly lovely in face and form that even the most fastidious critic could not have found a flaw in her beauty, — a woman whom all eyes followed, — the men gloating upon her in mute admiration, the women watching her in speechless envy, — so that her appearance actually caused a sudden silence among the talkative Savoy diners, almost as though some heavenly angel should have swept white wings through the earthly crowd. She was smiling as she came, and listening with an air of graceful tolerance to the evidently eager and undisguised flatteries of her host of the evening, — whep, just as she reached the portioned-off recess where the table for Ferrers and his party was prepared, some strange instinctive impulse moved her, and, raising her dark, brilliant eyes
she met Everton’s calm sad gaze fixed upon her. For one second she paused, — and in that second two spirits rose up in arms and challenged each other for good or for evil, — then, smiling still, she passed on, leading the way for the other guests, who all followed her into the private room, whereupon obsequious waiters dropped a heavy velvet curtain across the entrance and veiled the scene of festivity from view. With her disappearance the tension of Everton’s nerves relaxed, — and he heaved a deep, unconscious sigh. Howard, noting his companion’s pallor, had watched him rather curiously, but had refrained from speaking. Now, however, he said quietly:

  “We’re rather lucky to-night. We’ve seen the most beautiful woman in London.”

  Everton started as if from a dream.

  “Have we? You mean the one that has just passed by?”

  “Of course! There’s no one else in the running! Why,” and Howard laughed— “You looked at her so very earnestly that I thought it was a case of love at first sight!”

  A faint cold shudder ran through Everton’s veins.

  “God forbid!” he murmured — then forcing himself to speak in a lighter tone he said:— “I think I have seen her face before—”

  “I daresay you have — she’s been photographed in every possible position — with clothes, — and — without! She was a ‘variety’ girl — a very daring dancer; — and now she’s Mrs. Nordstein, the wife of Israel Nordstein, the millionaire. Claude Ferrers calls her the ‘Magic Crystal’ on account of her name.”

  “And that name is — ?”

  “A pretty and uncommon one, — Jacynth.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  JACYNTH.’ He heard it with a sense of relief. Of course he had known it all the time. The unforgettable face with its jewel eyes and rose-red mouth could only belong to one woman — and that woman she whom last he had seen in the village street of Shadbrook on the day young Hadley had died. The day, too, on which she herself had sworn that the next time he saw her she would be ‘different.’ He recalled the defiant ring of her voice when she had uttered the vow!— “I swear to you that next time you see me I’ll be different. I will!” And when he had gently asked her if that was a promise, she had flung up her arms with a wild gesture and had affirmed it. “That’s a promise! Do you hear it, Almighty God? It’s a promise!” Almighty God had apparently listened to her adjuration, for she had kept her word.

  Oh, she had kept her word with a vengeance! She was indeed ‘different,’ — very different, and yet the same, — always the same Jacynth. The rubies and diamonds flashing on her white breast enhanced her beauty no more than had the simple bunch of primroses she had once worn at the opening of her blue cotton bodice, — the same dazzling fairness of skin gave its glamour to both. And yet her loveliness made her all the more loathed in his thoughts. To him she was an embodied curse and cruelty, — a pestilential cloud that had broken in black thunder over his life and made wreckage of that as well as of every other life its blighting influence had darkened. He looked upon her as a murderess. For though she had dealt no blows, and had used neither poison nor dagger, four deaths lay at her door. He counted them up inexorably in his mind, — young Hadley, Jennie Kiernan, his own wife Azalea, and, finally, Dan Kiernan — Dan, who had been her lover! Dan her lover! To think of it! — the huge, hulking, drunken sot had actually been the lover of that dainty lady of fashion who had just passed him by, robed in glistening white and wearing jewels worth a fortune! A bitter lump rose in his throat, — a swelling threat of tears commingled with fierce laughter, — and it was with the utmost difficulty that he restrained the hurrying tempest of his thoughts, and forced himself to listen to what his host was saying. Howard noticed his abstraction, but with kindly tact went on talking as though he had the most attentive of auditors.

  “Balloon parties are the newest things in social functions,” he said— “And Aero-Clubs are all the rage. The Scum-people — by which expression I mean the human stuff that rises to the top of Society soup and has to be skimmed off and thrown away — are tired of the earth and all that therein is. They have exhausted it by their own tedium. They want to see if the air is equally boresome. They have resolved to match their midget selves against the forces of the elements. It is a ‘new sensation.’ You will often notice (if you ever read society items) such sparkling statements as this for example: ‘Lord and Lady High-Liver will entertain a balloon house-party at their country seat this autumn for their son the Honorable Fool Rising. Their guests include Count Monten-Haut of the Belgian Aero-Club, Count Vol-au-Vent of the French Aero-Club, Mr. Claude Ferrers and Captain Batswing of the War Office. Four balloons are to be in use for ascents every day.’ Naturally such news is of the utmost moment to the world! Mrs. Nordstein is always included in these parties, not only because she is beautiful and a Court favorite, but because her husband is a millionaire and one of the largest shareholders in several of the halfpenny dailies, which eagerly chronicle such air-trips as being of rare importance to the working, thinking million who only give a dull curse or two of contempt for the whole farrago of nonsense. She is very daring, too, and ventures on the highest balloon ascents with the nerve and sang-froid of Claude Ferrers himself. A French impressionist lately made a picture of her, in the car of a balloon, with very scanty raiment on, which he called, ‘Beauty’s voyage to the stars.’ It was published in one of the papers that tickle the eyes of the groundlings with pictures of the semi-nude.”

  Everton’s face grew cold and stem.

  “So though she is married, she is still the variety mime!” he said.

  “Of course! What do you expect? Her husband is proud of her ‘variety’ conduct. If she could not draw other men into his ‘Company’ nets, what use would she be to him? Marriage is not a sacrament nowadays — it is merely a form for the legalizing of children in order that they may inherit what their fathers leave them. The fathers always have lots of other children who don’t inherit, — the law takes no notice of them. ‘Love’ in the twentieth century is not the love depicted in the novels of Scott and Dickens. Great and noble as these two writers were and are in their ideals, we know, sadly enough, that the characters they depict are not true to life as life is presented to us here and now, for example, — in this Savoy Restaurant — in that private curtained-off dining-room — in the crowded streets outside, or in modern society anywhere. Novelists should write of what is, not of what they dream should be, — and you may bet what you like, sir, if they did, they would be unable to find much idyllic sentiment in modern matrimony!”

  At these words a vision flitted before Richard’s eyes of a sweet, childlike face framed in fair hair, that looked at him with the tenderest dark blue eyes, — of soft kissing lips, and a dear little voice that said: “You are my husband, — my husband, my darling and my best in the whole world!” Oh, Azalea! Oh, sweet life so cruelly done to death! Poor fond little woman! She had loved him! With all her pretty graceful follies, inconsistencies and caprices, she was pure as a drop of dew, and her memory came to him now with a freshness and fragrance as though a cluster of cool lilies should be suddenly laid in feverish hands.

  “I think you generalize too much,” — he said, in a voice that trembled ever so slightly;— “All marriages are not sordid. Love is still a vital force, if not with the rich, with the poor. I ought not perhaps to speak of myself in the matter, yet in simple justice to the loveliness of true womanhood, I know that whatever ability I have or whatever use I may be to my fellow-creatures is entirely owing to the great happiness of my married life, which helped and strengthened me. And, — though my wife is dead — her influence upon me remains present and actual; indeed I know it would not be possible for me to do anything without her.”

  He spoke with a grave simplicity that was infinitely pathetic, and his companion, looking at him, saw that he was most wonderfully and sacredly in earnest. The steadfast eyes reflected the poise of a soul fixed on one love and one purpose, and there was not a shadow of affectation in the feeling he exp
ressed. A great and tender respect filled Howard’s mind for the man’s gentle yet powerful character; — the temperament which was that of half-child, half-hero; and he answered quickly and with some compunction: —

  “I understand — and I believe you! I will not even say that I consider you may be an exception to the rule of husbands. And — you must try to forgive my cynicism! I have traveled far and seen much, — and have grown somewhat disheartened as to the ‘betterment’ of humanity. I forgot” — and his face flushed with the warmth of a sincere emotion— “I forgot that to you of all men I should not have spoken of the modern degradation of the marriage tie.”

  Everton thanked him silently by an eloquent glance, and the conversation fell into a lighter vein. Howard was an entertaining and brilliant talker, and under the influence of the warmth and brightness of the Savoy dining-room, the crowds of gay people, and the sound of the exquisite music with which the diners were regaled, the trouble and storm which had stirred the waters of sorrowful remembrance in Everton’s soul at sight of Jacynth, gradually subsided, and left him possessed of even more than his usual calm. Encouraged to do so, he told his new friend some of the difficulties of a country clergyman’s life in England, — of the various oppositions to good with which such an one has to contend, — and above all of the potency of drink in a neighborhood where the chief employer of labor is a brewer or distiller.

  “You may fight for the cause of Christ,” he said, “till every fiber of your spirit is strained to breaking — but the man who teaches Drink always overcomes the man who preaches God. It is horrible to have to say such a thing, — it is a disgrace to our holy religion, — yet so it is. No Church can really reform a drunkard, — he is the child of the devil and the devil keeps his own. We try, we clergy — with all our faults, and they are many, — we try our best — in vain! And the cause of our failure is not far to seek. It is really more physical than spiritual. The bodily craving of a man for strong drink is a disease, generated by what he has imbibed. The brewers put stuff into their beer to excite an unnatural thirst for more — the distillers do the same with the spirituous liquors — in fact, I look upon a drunkard as a poisoned man, needing the immediate assistance of the doctor. The clergy are not qualified to deal with purely medical matters.”