Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “If you choose to live, you shall live!” said Valitsky firmly. “I will guarantee it, for so I have been commanded. Cancer shall not kill nor any other evil cut the thread of your existence. But, were I you, I would die rather than live.” Denver had grown very pale.

  “You — you will guarantee my life if I choose to live?” he asked, in low, tremulous tones. “Can you guarantee it?”

  “I can and will. I swear it! I came here today on purpose to tell you so. But think well before deciding! — the barriers of the unseen world are lifted now, ready for your admission. If by your own choice they close again, the Voice you heard will sing to you no more.”

  With a wild, searching glance Denver scrutinised his strange friend’s pale countenance. It was passionate and earnest — only the eyes sparkled with an intense, fiery gleam. Uncertain what to believe, and yet strongly impressed by Valitsky’s steadfast manner, knowing him, too, for a man who was credited, rightly or wrongly, with singularly occult powers, he suddenly made up his mind and spoke out impetuously.

  “I will live!” he said. “The next world may be a dream, the sweet voice that stole away my heart may be a delusion, but this world is real, a tangible fact, a place in which to move and breathe and think in. I will stay in it while I can! If you indeed have the force you seem to possess, why use it upon me and give me life — this life? I choose, not heaven but earth; I will live on!”

  Slowly Valitsky withdrew from the bedside, and, standing a few paces away, surveyed Denver with an intense expression of mingled scorn and compassion.

  “Be it so,” he said. “Live, and try to find joy, peace, or love in what life brings you. You have chosen badly, my poor friend! You have rejected a glorious reality for a miserable delusion. When you are tired of your choice let me know. For the present, farewell!”

  The door opened and closed softly — he was gone. For hours John Denver lay still with wide-open eyes, going over and over every detail of the strange conversation he had had with this strange man, and wondering whether it was true that he was granted a new lease of life, or whether it was mere fantastic boasting on Valitsky’s part. Finally he slept a sound and dreamless sleep. The next day, on awaking, he was free from pain, and during the ensuing week he was so far recovered as to be able to leave his bed and resume his ordinary occupations. The great physician who attended him was completely taken aback, the supposed cancerous ailment appeared after all to have no existence, and for the thousandth time an apparently infallible doctor was proved wrong. John Denver lived, as Valitsky had sworn he should do. He lived to see his son in the criminal’s dock for forging a friend’s name; he lived to see his daughter married to a vicious “nobleman,” whose days were passed in gambling and nights in drinking; he lived to know that his wife had been faithless to him for years, and that she had hoped for his death and was furiously disappointed at his continuance of life; he lived to entertain flatterers who fawned upon him for his wealth alone, to feed servants who robbed him at every turn, to realise to the full the cruelty, hypocrisy, meanness, and selfishness of his fellow-creatures, till, at last, after seven tedious summers and winters had passed away, a great weariness came over him and a longing for rest. Conscious of the failure and futility of his life, he sat all alone one evening in his great library, looking vaguely out on the misty moonlit lawn, and unbidden tears rose to his eyes as he thought, “If I could only dream again that dream of heaven, and wake to hear the sound of that beloved and beautiful voice singing.”

  On a sudden impulse, he drew pen and paper towards him, and wrote to Paul Valitsky, whom he had only very rarely and casually seen since that strange personage had offered him the choice of life or death.

  “MY FRIEND, — You told me when I was tired to let you know. I am tired now. Life offers me nothing. I made, as you said, a bad choice. If you believe in a heaven still, will you assure me of it? If that voice I once heard is real, if it is the voice of one who is pitiful, and true, and tender, may I not hear it again? Certain mysteries are unveiled to you, certain faiths are clear to you; if to your potent secret force I owe the gift of longer life, take it back I entreat you, and let me find myself where I was seven years ago, on the verge of the Eternal, with the golden gates ajar!”

  Several days elapsed before he received any reply to this letter, and he was growing restless, feverish, and impatient, when at last it came, its characteristic brevity quieting him into a strange and passive peace. It ran thus: “Heaven has not altered its design or changed its place, my friend, because blind Earth doubts its beauty. Your seven years is a little seven minutes to the dwellers in that higher sphere — a mere pause in the song you heard!

  Be satisfied, on the night you receive this letter the song shall be continued and the Singer declared.”

  Dreamily John Denver sat at his open window, with this missive in his hand; the glory of a rosy sunset bathed all the visible country, and a thrush, swaying to and fro on a branch of pine, piped a tender little evening carol. He listened to the bird with a vague pleasure; he was quite alone, alone as he had been for many months since his wife had fled from him with her latest lover. He was conscious of a singular sensation, an impression of duality, as though he, John Denver, were the mere frame or casing for another individual and intelligent personality, a creature that until now had been pent up in clay, suffering and resentful, but that at the present moment was ready to break loose from imprisonment into a vast and joyous liberty.

  “And yet,” he murmured, half aloud, “if there is a heaven, what right have I to enter it? I have done nothing to deserve it. I have honestly striven to do my best according to my poor knowledge; but that is of no account. I have missed love on earth, it is true; but why should I expect to find it in another world? Valitsky declares that all God’s work is founded on pure equity, and that every human soul has its mate either here or elsewhere; if that were true — if that could be true — perhaps by the very law of God which knows no changing, I may meet and love the singer of that heavenly song!”

  At that very moment a sound, sweet and penetrating, pierced the silence — the full, delicious cadence of a melody more dulcet than ever came from the throat of any amorous lark or nightingale; and John Denver, the weary and world-worn man of many cares and many disappointments, stood up alert, pale and expectant, peering wistfully yet doubtfully into the gathering shadows of his room. Earth and earth’s gains had proved delusions — would the hope of heaven prove equally vain?

  “The voice divine!” he whispered rapturously. “The same beloved voice I heard before!... it sings again! So sweet a voice could not deceive. I will accept it as assurance of the truth of God!” With straining sight he still gazed into the deepening darkness... Was it fancy? or did he see there an angel-figure, and face fairer than that of any pictured vision? — a face luminous as a star, and full of tenderest appeal, love, and ecstasy. He stretched out his arms blindly... wonderingly... with a supernal sense of joy.

  “It is true!” he said. “God is just, and heaven exists, despite all narrow, worldly doubtings! What has been missed shall be found; what has been lost shall be gained; and even to the poorest, the most sinful, and most ignorant shall consolation be given. For death is not death — but Life!” He staggered a little — his breath failed him — and falling back in his chair he closed his eyes. The mystic voice sang on, flooding the silence with exquisite music; he smiled, listening.

  “After long sleep, to wake up in heaven to the sound of a beautiful voice singing!” he murmured — and then was still.

  And even so John Denver slept the sleep of death; and, if all faiths are not frenzies, even so he woke!

  THE WITHERING OF A ROSE.

  I.

  IMMEDIATELY above the picturesque town of Lucerne there is a towering eminence clothed with pines, to the summit of which the exploring and aspiring tourist can ascend by one of those ingeniously contrived “funicular” railways, now so common in all the mountainous districts of Switzerland.


  The little passenger-car is worked by the cog-wheel-and-water system, and jogs slowly up a precipitous incline, which, surveyed from the bottom, appears to slant at about an angle of ninety degrees. But it is not so perilous as it seems. The journey is easy and safe enough; and those who are troubled with “nervous sensations,” and who insist on closing their eyes firmly while travelling up in the strange conveyance, which, when observed from a sufficient distance, certainly somewhat resembles a squat kind of blue-bottle clinging to a wall, will have their full consolation and reward on arriving at the top.

  For there one of the most glorious landscapes in the world is spread before the enraptured sight; the lovely “Lake of the Four Cantons” glitters below in all its width of vasty blue, surrounded by kindly mountains, the peaks of which, even in the height of summer, still keep on their sparkling diadems of virginal snow; on either hand a forest of tall pine-trees stretches away for miles, a forest where one may wander in solitude for hours, walking on a thick carpet of the softest moss strewn with the brown and fragrant “pine needles,” scarcely hearing one’s own footsteps, and seeing nothing but the arching cathedral-like splendour of solemn green gloom, flecked through here and there by the blue of the sky and the bright rays of the sun.

  At the entrance of this forest stands one of the prettiest of rustic hotels known as the “Pension Gutsch,” a house built in the true Swiss style, with picturesque gabled roofs and wide wooden verandahs — its charming seclusion and simplicity offering a delightful contrast to the garish glories of the “Schweizerhof” and the other monstrous Americanized hotels of Lucerne, where the main object of every one concerned, from the portier down to the smallest paying guest, appears to be to forget as completely as possible the fact that Switzerland, as Switzerland, exists, and to live solely for the enjoyment of the table-d’hote, dress, flirtation, and lawn-tennis.

  It is a singular fact, but true, that all the big hotels in Lucerne have their table-d’hôte dinner served precisely at the sunset-hour — the very time when grand old Mount Pilatus is gathering around his frowning brows strange and mystic draperies of crimson and gold and green — when the lake looks like melted jewels, and all the lovely hues of heaven are merging by delicious gradations into the cool, pearly grey of such pure twilight as is never seen save in countries where the air is rarefied by the presence of perpetual snow. For this very reason persons of a fanciful and romantic turn of mind, who prefer scenery to soup, frequently do battle with their nerves to the extent of being lifted — like little frightened children in a basket — up the precipitous “Gutsch” where, at the unpretentious, spotlessly clean and fragrant hotel bearing that name, they can do pretty much as they like, and have the supreme comfort of quiet rooms and refreshing sleep, luxuries completely denied them at all the large hotels in the town.

  Moreover, by making a special arrangement and paying a little extra, they can have their meals served at their own stated hours, all of which sensible management and forethought on the part of the proprietor has the result of making his house a favourite resort of artists, poets, and dreamers generally. The frivolous and empty-headed would not care for such a place — it offers nothing but repose and beauty; it is not a suitable abode for golfers or tomboy tennis-players — they do well to remain in Lucerne and cling to the noisy and overcrowded “Schweizerhof.” But it is eminently fitted for lovers in the first stage of sentimental ardour, and it is an ideal nook wherein to spend a happy honeymoon.

  When, on one dazzling afternoon in early July, a gentleman with black moustaches got out of the little “funicular” car, and assisted a charmingly attired and very young lady with fair hair to alight also, and when these twain were followed by a Valet, a maid, and the porter bearing some very new-looking luggage, none of the people already staying at the “Gutsch” had any difficulty in classifying them. They were newly married; their very appearance betrayed them. One of the regular habitues of the place, a dark-eyed young man clad in carelessly-fitting tweeds, said as much to the landlord, who, having bowed the couple in, now stood on his doorstep benevolently surveying the prospect.

  “On their wedding tour, I suppose?” he observed, with a smile.

  “It is possible,” replied mine host discreetly. “The lady is young. Not so young the gentleman. They have engaged the best rooms.”

  “Ah! Plenty of money about, then?”

  “It is to be thought so,” replied the proprietor, as he continued to smile blandly at the scenery. “The lady has a maid, the gentleman a valet. Everything” — and he spread out his hands expressively—” is de luxe. They are English people — evidently well bred. Perhaps you know the name — Allingham — Mr and Mrs. Allingham, of Dunscombe Hall, Norfolk?”

  The dark-eyed artist thought a moment, then said “No.” A vague idea was in his mind that he had seen a sketch or photograph somewhere of Dunscombe Hall, but he was not sure. And mine host being called away at the moment, the conversation was broken off.

  The new arrivals had their meals served to them privately in their own apartments; so any curiosity felt concerning them among the table-d’hôte company at the “Pension Gutsch” was not destined to be largely gratified. One morning, however, Mr. Francis Fane, the dark-eyed artist, already mentioned, met Mrs. Allingham walking by herself in one of the lonelier and more outlying paths of the pine forest, and was quite taken aback by her extremely childish appearance. She was so small and light on her feet, she had such a young, wistful, wondering face, and her figure was cast in such a dainty and delicate mould, that, as she passed him silently by, in her simple white morning dress, tied round the waist with a knot of blue ribbon, she looked like a little girl just fresh from school, and it seemed impossible, almost absurd, to consider her as a married woman.

  “Why, she can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen!” he mentally ejaculated, staring after her bewilderedly. As a matter of fact she was twenty, and had seen two “seasons” in town; but things of the “world worldly” had as yet left no trace on her fair features, and her eyes still held their dreams of innocence unsullied, — hence, though a woman, she was still a child.

  “Mrs. Allingham, of Dunscombe Hall, Norfolk!” repeated Frank Fane to himself, with a short gruff laugh. “By Jove! It seems preposterous!”

  It did seem, if not preposterous, a little strange; and Rose Allingham herself sometimes thought so. She had been married just a fortnight, and had not yet got over the novel sensation of having a big thick wedding-ring on the tiny third finger of her little white hand. She would turn it round and round with a whimsical solemnity, and now and then she secretly polished it up with a small bit of chamois leather kept in her jewel-case for the purpose. And as she regarded her wedding ring even so she regarded her husband. The well-dressed gentleman with the perfectly irreproachable manner, even features, and well-groomed moustache, was Harold Brentwood Allingham, of Dunscombe Hall, Norfolk; and she was Mrs. Harold Brentwood Allingham, of Dunscombe Hall, Norfolk.

  It all seemed very interesting, and new, and important. She was never tired of going over and over the events which had, in their sequence, led her up to this lofty position of matrimonial dignity. She had left school to be “brought out” and “presented” — oh, that presentation! Would she ever forget the misery of it? The bother of her long train — the nasty, spiteful behaviour of the ladies who pushed her, pinched her, and generally “scrimmaged” for entrance into the Throne-room; the bitter cold of the weather, and the horrible draughts that blew all over her uncovered neck and arms; the disappointment of there being no Sovereign to receive her when she made her pretty curtsey (practised for three weeks under the tuition of one of the best mistresses of deportment in London) but only one of the Princesses; the extreme hunger and thirst from which she suffered during the long “wait;” then, her utter prostration and sinking into a dead faint when she got home, and having beef-tea put down her throat in hot spoonfuls by her anxious mother; all this was perfectly fresh in her mind.

 
; Then came the memory of several balls and dances, at many of which she had met th goodlooking and rich Mr. Harold Brentwood Ailingham, and had danced with him — he was a splendid dancer — then Henley, where the same Harold Brentwood Allingham had invited her to his house-boat, and given her flowers and bon-bons; then, a visit to a beautiful country house in Devonshire, where she had found him installed as one of the house-party; then, that afternoon when he had discovered her alone in the rose-garden, reading poetry, and taking the book out of her hands, and begun to make love to her. Such funny love! Not at all like the love the poets write about — nothing in the least like it. There was no nonsense about “breaking hearts” and “wild despairs” and “passionate tinglings” in Mr. Harold Brentwood Allingham. He was a very self-complacent man — he thought marriage a sensible and respectable institution, and was prepared to enter upon it in a sensible and respectable manner.

  So, without verbiage, or what is called “high-flown” sentiment, he had put his case kindly and practically. He had said “Rose, would you like to marry me?” And she had surveyed him in such astonishment that he was quite amused.

  “I have spoken to your parents,” he had then continued, taking her hand, and patting it encouragingly; “and they approve — very highly. You are a charming, unspoilt girl; and though I am some years older than you, that is just as it should be. I am sure we shall be very happy together. You know I can give you anything you want.

  My wife” — and here his back had stiffened slightly—” would naturally occupy an enviable position in society.” And Rose had trembled all over with nervousness.

  “I know!” she had faltered. “But I am not sure that I — I love you, Mr. Allingham.”

  He had laughed at this. “Oh, but I am sure,” he had replied, “I know you better than you do yourself. There is no one else you care for, is there?”