Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  He did not pursue the train of his reflections — he glanced at the moon, the tall straight pine-trees, the dewy turf — then, with a sigh over what he, as a modern pessimist, was disposed to consider the “fairness and futility” of creation generally, forgot everything in a sound and dreamless sleep.

  II.

  DURING the rest of their stay at the “Pension Gutsch” Mr. Fane saw a good deal of the Ailinghams. Moved by the consideration that the artist was a man not unknown to fame, Mr. Ailingham unbent towards him as much as so important a person could be expected to unbend, and even condescended to take a few “excursions,” such as he had once declared he hated, in his new acquaintance’s company. They parted in August — Mr and Mrs. Allingham to return to England, and the stately attractions of Dunscombe Hall, Norfolk, and Fane to make a climbing tour in the Tyrol. They left the “Gutsch” all together on the same day, jogging down the steep declivity for the last time in the odd little cog-wheel car.

  “It is like coming down from heaven!” said Rose Allingham, looking wistfully up at the receding pine-trees, bending to and fro like tall plumes on the height.

  “Let us hope we are not going to the ‘rival region’!” laughed Fane. “You liked the ‘Gutsch,’ then, Mrs. Allingham?”

  “Very much,” she answered.

  “It is a fairly pleasant place for a short sojourn,” said her husband disparagingly. “Very monotonous, of course. I should never care to go there again.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” murmured Rose timidly. “Oh, I should.”

  “No doubt!” retorted her husband, with a hard smile. “But then, you see, I shouldn’t.”

  And he began to read a London paper two days old, which had arrived for him that morning.

  At Lucerne station they said good-bye to Fane, Mr. Allingham expressing his hope in language that savoured more of command than entreaty, that the artist would undertake his “commission” in October to sketch the various beauties of Dunscombe Hall.

  “As to terms,” he said loftily, “I think we need not mention them, as nothing of that sort will stand in your way or mine. Whatever you choose to fix I shall very willingly agree to.”

  The young man flushed a little, but said nothing. Shaking hands again with Mrs. Allingham, he presented her with a pretty bunch of Alpine blue gentians and edelweiss as a parting “souvenir,” and lifting his hat, remained uncovered till the train had steamed off.

  “If it were not for her,” he mused, “I would see Dunscombe Hall and its priggish owner at Jericho before I’d go near either of them. As it is — well — I’ll think about it.”

  September passed in a glorious blaze of beauty and perfect weather; and by the time October was a week old, his “thinking about it” had resolved into a definite course of action. So that, on one solemn and shadowy evening, when the smell of falling leaves was in the air, and the indefinable melancholy of autumn darkened the landscape even as a sad thought darkens a bright face, he was driven under the frowning and picturesque gateway of Dunscombe Hall, and up the fine-but rather gloomy avenue of ancient elms that led to the stately building. The carriage had been sent to meet him at the station, and when he finally arrived and got out at the door of the house, he was received by a dignified man-servant in dark livery, who informed him that Mr. Allingham had been obliged to go out for an hour, but that Mrs. Allingham was “waiting tea” for him in the drawing-room. To the drawing-room he was therefore shown; and such was the size and antique splendour of that vast apartment, that for a moment he could scarcely perceive his young hostess, who at the announcement of his name came forward to meet him. And when he did realise her presence, such a shock of pain went through him that he could scarcely speak. The change wrought in her during a space of barely two months was so terrible, that he could only stammer out some unintelligible words, press her small cold hand and gaze at her wonderingly. She meanwhile met his pitying, inquiring regard with a gentle patience in her own eyes.

  “I see,” she said, with a faint smile, “you think I am looking ill, don’t you? — Yes — everybody does. It is quite true I am not well — I fancy sometimes this place” — and a light shiver ran through her—” does not agree with me. It is very, very big” — here she laughed— “and I am very small. I am sure a little woman ought to live in a little house to be comfortable. But I have a very good doctor — so kind and clever — he says it is only want of tone and a little heart-weakness — that’s all. Come and have some tea — there’s a fire at this end of the room.”

  She led the way to a sort of “cosy corner,” where light and warmth were concentrated near a tea-table set out with Queen Anne silver and Sèvres china, and sitting in a low chair opposite her, Fane watched her in compassionate silence.

  If she had looked a child before, she seemed more than ever one now — she had grown so thin and pale and fragile, that it seemed as if the merest puff of wind would blow her out of existence altogether. Her little hands, waxen-white and delicate, were scarcely equal to the task of lifting the teapot to pour out the tea, but as she busied herself with her hospitable duties, a faint colour came into her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled more brightly.

  “Isn’t this a huge room?” she said, as she passed Fane his cup. “It’s meant for hundreds of people, you know — people in powdered wigs and court suits. I don’t think it accommodates itself to modern life at all.”

  “It is indeed enormous!” and Fane glanced up and down and round about him. “The ceiling appears to be frescoed.”

  “Oh, yes, it is wonderful. Quite horrid, in my opinion — but Mr. Allingham says it is marvellous. Any number of fat goddesses and Cupids. You will see it much better by daylight. We have no gas in this room, because it would spoil the fresco — that is why it is always so dark — to light it up. We should have to put candles in all those four big Venetian chandeliers; and each one of them holds two hundred lights.”

  “No economy in candles there!” said Fane, laughing.

  “No, indeed! But, of course, we never have occasion to light it up — we never give parties; there are not enough people in the neighbourhood to come to them if we did.”

  “How far are you from Sandringham?” he inquired.

  “Oh, a long way. We are just conveniently out of the reach of everybody worth knowing, and everything that is going on.”

  And she laughed, a trifle bitterly.

  “It must be rather dull at times,” he said, studying her changed face attentively. “You should get some friends to come and stay with you — a jolly house-party.”

  “Oh, Mr. Allingham would never hear of such a thing,” she said quickly. “He cannot bear to have a number of people about him. My mother came down for a short time in September, but she declared the house was damp and gave her rheumatism. She went back to London after about a week, and then I fell ill.”

  “What was the matter with you?” he asked sympathetically.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “All sorts of things — fainting-fits, weakness, nerves — disagreeableness generally. Here is Harold.”

  She broke off her conversation with Fane directly her husband entered the room, and seemed to shrink into herself like a sensitive plant too roughly handled. Allingham himself was the same as ever — irreproachable in dress, demeanour, and what is understood by a portion of society as “gentlemanliness.” He greeted Fane with exactly the correctly measured air of cordiality — namely, that of the wealthy host and encouraging patron — and it was an air that galled the young artist’s pride considerably, though he was careful for Mrs. Allingham’s peace and comfort to show no offence. He certainly could not complain of his entertainment. A suite of rooms to himself, and perfect liberty of action; he breakfasted, lunched, and dined at a table appointed with the costliest luxuries; a carriage was at his disposal whenever he needed it; and Mr. Allingham had, furthermore, given him the choice of any horse in his stables, should he care for riding. He had engaged to make two dozen sketches of Duns
combe Hall from all the different points of view, and when once he began his work he became almost entirely engrossed in it.

  The place was undoubtedly a fine object for any artist’s study — its architecture was well-nigh perfect, and all the surroundings were eminently picturesque, though indubitably of a solitary and melancholy character. He did not see as much of Mrs. Allingham as he could have wished; she was often ailing, and though she invariably exerted herself to appear at dinner, there were times when she was not equal even to the effort, and her husband, seated in solitary state at his glittering board, would make formal excuses for her absence.

  “My wife is very young,” he would explain ponderously, “and is therefore inclined to give way to any trifling ailment. The doctor assures me she is suffering merely from a little want of tone, and the autumnal air depresses her; there is nothing at all serious the matter.”

  “She looks extremely ill,” said Fane impulsively. “You think so?” and Mr. Allingham smiled indulgently. “I expect you are not accustomed to the ways of women; they put their looks on and off as easily as their gowns. In her present nervous condition of health it quite depends on Mrs. Allingham’s own humour as to whether she looks well or ill — it has nothing whatever to do with any actually real organic mischief.”

  Fane swallowed a glass of wine hastily to keep down the angry remark that rose to his lips, for the cold callousness of his host was almost more than he could bear. Reflecting quickly, however, that it was not his business to interfere, and that the less he said the better for Mrs. Allingham, he was silent.

  “You have not tried your hand yet at the Haunted Mere?” inquired Mr. Allingham presently.

  “No. I — er — the fact is — I have not yet had time to go and look at it.”

  “True — you have been very much occupied with the house itself,” and Mr. Allingham nodded approvingly—” and your work is admirable — quite admirable! But I should suggest your visiting the Mere before the foliage quite falls. I fancy you will find it well worth your study.” —

  “I will go to-morrow,” said Fane.

  And on the morrow he went. He started early in the morning, one of the gardeners directing him as to which path to follow. When he came in full sight of the glittering sheet of water he could scarcely refrain from uttering a cry of rapture. It was so mystically beautiful; the deep solitude surrounding it was so intense and unbroken, that he no longer wondered at the reputation it had of being “haunted.” Grand old willow-trees, with gnarled trunks and knotty stems bent above its glassy surface, and beyond it in the distance the land rolled away in gentle undulations of green and brown, relieved here and there with a clump of stately elms or a tangle of bright yellow furze. The place was so still that not even the twitter of a bird broke the breathless calm — and, powerfully impressed by the whole scene, Fane took a rapid pencil sketch in outline to begin with, his ultimate intention being to make a large picture of it, with a view to exhibition in one of the London galleries. Returning rapidly to the house, to finish what he had commenced the previous day, he met Mrs. Allingham walking slowly to and fro on the terrace.

  “Have you been to the ‘Haunted Mere’?’” she asked, smiling.

  For a moment he could not speak. The very pathos of her young face, the fatigue of her soft eyes, the listless expression of her very figure, all this went to his heart, and made him pity her as he had never pitied any woman. He felt her to be no more than a little tired-out child — a child longing to be taken up in tender arms and gently carried home. There was a slight tremble in his voice as he answered, with an effort at playfulness —

  “Yes, I have seen the Mere, but not the ghost. Do you know, Mrs. Allingham, I begin to think you must be the ghost — you look like one this morning.”

  “Do I? I’m sorry. I hate to be ill — my husband doesn’t like it. I wish I could get strong more quickly.”

  “Are you feeling worse, then, to-day?” asked Fane, with a touch of real anxiety in his tone, which made her look at him in grateful wonder.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I am only a little ‘run down,’ as the doctor says, and weak. Harold declares it is all woman’s nonsense, and thinks I don’t exert myself to get well; but indeed I do. It is very kind of you to take so much interest—”

  “Kind!” echoed Fane, almost irritably; then, glancing about him to make sure there was no one in sight, he approached her more closely.

  “Look here, Mrs. Allingham, do forgive me if I seem officious or impertinent, but I can’t help asking you this one question — are you quite happy?”

  She glanced up at him almost affrightedly, and meeting his friendly eyes, her own filled with sudden tears.

  “No, I am not,” she faltered. “But it is wicked of me to say so, because you see it is quite my own fault. I ought to be happy — I have everything I want.”

  “Except — love!” said Fane, in a half whisper, struggling mentally with the insane desire that had suddenly seized him, to take this pale little child-woman in his arms and show her what the tenderness of love could be.

  She looked at him almost reproachfully.

  “I think you mistake,” she said gently, with a curiously sad little old-world air of dignity. “Harold loves me very much in — his own way. He is not of a demonstrative nature.”

  Fane was silent. Presently she resumed in the same gentle accents.

  “It is not his fault, indeed, it is nobody’s fault that I do not feel as happy as I ought to do. It is something in my own temperament. I fancy that perhaps I am too young to be married; not in years I mean, but in feeling and education. You see, being quite small and slight as I am, I have always been treated as more or less of a child. Even when I came home from being presented at the Queen’s Drawing Room, and fainted away all in a heap on the stairs, my mother called me a ‘poor baby.’ You remember what I told you at the ‘Gutsch’?

  — how I had always imagined that married women must be big and fat, and important? Well, really they are, as a rule, and I am so different! All the married ladies in this neighbourhood, for instance, look upon me as quite an absurdity.”

  “Then they are very impudent and ill-bred,” said Fane hotly.

  “Oh, no, they’re not,” and she laughed a little. “They come and call on regular days, and ask me if I am equal to the management of such a large house? Do I not find the servants a great trial? Have I a strong constitution? One lady always surveys me mournfully through her pince-nez, and says, ‘You are very young to have secured such a magnificent establishment.’ And that is quite true! Dunscombe Hall is magnificent — don’t you think so?”

  They paused on the terrace just at a point which faced the extensive left wing of the grand old pile. Carved escutcheons, flying buttresses and heraldic devices were all thrown up into sharp prominence by the mellow rays of the autumnal noonday sun, and immediately opposite them was the sculptured figure of a warrior-saint in a Gothic niche, festooned with clambering white roses, whose delicate blossoms surrounded and softened the statue’s frigid aspect of frozen prayer.

  Fane shivered slightly. “Yes,” he said in a tone of one who makes reluctant admission. “It is a fine old place. But its character is distinctly melancholy. It is not a Beethoven ‘Sonata’ or a Mendelssohn ‘Lied’ — it is one of Chopin’s most mournful ‘Nocturnes.’”

  Rose Allingham gave him a quick glance of perfect comprehension, but said nothing in reply. Moving in her light, bird-like way across the terrace, she gathered one of the roses that hung near the statue in the niche and gave it to him. He had scarcely taken it from her before its leaves fell in a white fragrant shower at his feet. She smiled a little forcedly.

  “I was afraid of that,” she said. “They are all on the very point of falling. I will not give you another from that tree. This afternoon — or tomorrow — I will get you one from the rosery; they are in better condition there. Now I must not detain you from your work any longer; you want all the daylight possible. Have you got thi
s old stone saint in any of your sketches yet?”

  “Not yet,” he answered abstractedly, looking first at her and then at the petals of the fallen rose.

  “Oh, I hope you will put him in somewhere!” she exclaimed, almost playfully. “He is such a dear old thing! You seem quite melancholy over that wasted rose.”

  “I am,” he admitted. “I hate to see any beautiful thing perish.”

  “But then so many beautiful things do perish,” she said, with a musing regret in her eyes. “One must get accustomed to that. You recollect your picture of the great pine-tree on the ‘Gutsch,’ split through by lightning? That suggested to me the ruin of a noble life. Well, all these little white roses that fall so easily at a touch, they are to me the emblems of just such a number of little lives; quite little lives, you know, of no actual use to anybody; only just pretty and fragrant and harmless, that at a rough touch or hasty misunderstanding drop to pieces and sink into the ground unnoticed and unmissed. I believe each little rose has its own little secret sadness.”

  She smiled and waved her hand to him, and she moved away slowly and re-entered the house.

  When she was quite out of sight Fane, moved by some odd sentiment which he could not himself analyse, picked up every one of the fallen rosepetals and put them in his pocket-book. Then he set about sketching the ancient sculptured saint, while the sun was still bright on its weather-beaten features and piously folded hands.

  The next day was the first of November, the “Feast of All Saints.” The weather was beautifully clear and warm, and Fane went out early, without even seeing his host and patron as usual, in order to profit by the clearness of the atmosphere and get a long day’s steady work. When he returned in time for the late dinner he heard that Mrs. Allingham had been seized with a succession of fainting-fits, and that the doctor had been sent for. Greatly disconcerted by this news he entered the dining-room full of eager and sympathetic inquiries, but found his host so bland and calm, and so perfectly satisfied that there was no cause whatever for anxiety as to his young wife’s condition, that he felt it would be deemed odd and out of place if he, as a visitor and “paid artist,” had exhibited any unduly great concern.