Delphi collected works o.., p.363
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 363
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
385”Egypt —— the Nile!” I murmured, — somehow the idea pleased me— “Yes, —— why not?”
“Why not indeed!” he echoed— “The proposal is agreeable to you I am sure. Come and see the land of the old gods, — the land where my princess used to live and torture the souls of men! — perhaps we may discover the remains of her last victim, —— who knows!”
I avoided his gaze; — the recollection of the horrible winged thing he persisted in imagining to be the transmigrated soul of an evil woman, was repugnant to me. Almost I felt as if there were some subtle connection between that hateful creature and my wife Sibyl. I was glad when the train reached London, and we, taking a hansom, were plunged into the very vortex of human life. The perpetual noise of traffic, the motley crowds of people, the shouting of news-boys and omnibus-conductors, — all this hubbub was grateful to my ears, and for a time at least, distracted my thoughts. We lunched at the Savoy, and amused ourselves with noting the town noodles of fashion, — the inane young man in the stocks of the stiff high collar, and wearing the manacles of equally stiff and exaggerated cuffs, a veritable prisoner in the dock of silly custom, — the frivolous fool of a woman, painted and powdered, with false hair and dyed eyebrows, trying to look as much like a paid courtezan as possible, — the elderly matron, skipping forward on high heels, and attempting by the assumption of juvenile airs and graces to cover up and conceal the obtrusive facts of a too obvious paunch and overlapping bosom, — the would-be dandy and ‘beau’ of seventy, strangely possessed by youthful desires, and manifesting the same by goat-like caperings at the heels of young married women; — these and such-like contemptible units of a contemptible social swarm, passed before us like puppets at a country fair, and aroused us in turn to laughter or disdain. While we yet lingered over our wine, a man came in alone, and sat down at the table next to ours; — he had with him a book, which, after giving his orders for luncheon, he at once opened at a marked place and began to read with absorbed attention, — I recognised the cover of the volume and knew it to be Mavis Clare’s “Differences.” A haze floated before my sight, — a sensation of rising tears was in my throat, — I saw the fair face, earnest eyes, and sweet smile of Mavis, — that woman-wearer of the laurel-crown, — that keeper of the lilies of purity and peace. Alas, those lilies! — they were for me
“des fleurs étranges,
Avec leurs airs de sceptres d’anges;
De thyrses lumineux pour doigts de séraphins, —
Leurs parfums sont trop forts, tout ensemble, et trop fins!”
I shaded my eyes with one hand, — yet under that shade I felt that Lucio watched me closely. Presently he spoke softly, just as if he had read my thoughts.
“Considering the effect a perfectly innocent woman has on the mind of even an evil man, it’s strange, isn’t it that there are so few of them!”
I did not answer.
“In the present day,” he went on— “there are a number of females clamouring like unnatural hens in a barn-yard about their ‘rights’ and ‘wrongs.’ Their greatest right, their highest privilege, is to guide and guard the souls of men. This, they for the most part, throw away as worthless. Aristocratic women, royal women even, hand over the care of their children to hired attendants and inferiors, and then are surprised and injured if those children turn out to be either fools or blackguards. If I were controller of the State, I would make it a law that every mother should be bound to nurse and guard her children herself as nature intended, unless prevented by ill-health, in which case she would have to get a couple of doctor’s certificates to certify the fact. Otherwise, any woman refusing to comply with the law should be sentenced to imprisonment with hard labour. This would bring them to their senses. The idleness, wickedness, extravagance and selfishness of women, make men the boors and egotists they are.”
I looked up.
“The devil is in the whole business;” — I said bitterly— “If women were good, men would have nothing to do with them. Look round you at what is called ‘society’! How many men there are who deliberately choose tainted women for their wives, and leave the innocent uncared for! Take Mavis Clare — —”
“Oh, you were thinking of Mavis Clare, were you?” he rejoined, with a quick glance at me— “But she would be a difficult prize for any man to win. She does not seek to be married, — and she is not uncared for, since the whole world cares for her.”
“That is a sort of impersonal love;” — I answered— “It does not give her the protection such a woman needs, and ought to obtain.”
“Do you want to become her lover?” he asked with a slight smile— “I’m afraid you’ve no chance!”
“I! Her lover! Good God!” I exclaimed, the blood rushing hotly to my face at the mere suggestion— “What a profane idea!”
“You are right, — it is profane;” — he agreed, still smiling— “It is as though I should propose your stealing the sacramental cup from a church, with just this difference, — you might succeed in running off with the cup because it is only the church’s property, but you would never succeed in winning Mavis Clare, inasmuch as she belongs to God. You know what Milton says:
‘So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity
That when a soul is found sincerely so,
A thousand liveried angels lacquey her,
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt,
And in clear dream and solemn vision
Tell her of things which no gross ear can hear,
Till oft converse with heavenly habitants
Begin to cast a beam on th’outward shape
The unpolluted temple of the mind,
And turns it by degrees to the soul’s essence
Till all be made immortal!’
He quoted the lines softly and with an exquisite gravity.
“That is what you see in Mavis Clare,” — he continued— “that ‘beam on the outward shape’ which ‘turns it by degrees to the soul’s essence,’ — and which makes her beautiful, without what is called beauty by lustful men.”
I moved impatiently, and looked out from the window near which we were seated, at the yellow width of the flowing Thames below.
“Beauty, according to man’s ordinary standard,” pursued Lucio, “means simply good flesh, — nothing more. Flesh, arranged prettily and roundly on the always ugly skeleton beneath, — flesh, daintily coloured and soft to the touch, without scar or blemish. Plenty of it too, disposed in the proper places. It is the most perishable sort of commodity, — an illness spoils it, — a trying climate ruins it, — age wrinkles it, — death destroys it, — but it is all the majority of men look for in their bargains with the fair sex. The most utter roué of sixty that ever trotted jauntily down Piccadilly pretending to be thirty, expects like Shylock his ‘pound’ or several pounds of youthful flesh. The desire is neither refined nor intellectual, but there it is, — and it is solely on this account that the ‘ladies’ of the music-hall become the tainted members and future mothers of the aristocracy.”
“It does not need the ladies of the music-hall to taint the already tainted!” I said.
“True!” and he looked at me with kindly commiseration— “Let us put the whole mischief down to the ‘new’ fiction!”
We rose then, having finished luncheon, and leaving the Savoy we went on to Arthur’s. Here we sat down in a quiet corner and began to talk of our future plans. It took me very little time to make up my mind, — all quarters of the world were the same to me, and I was really indifferent as to where I went. Yet there is always something suggestive and fascinating about the idea of a first visit to Egypt, and I willingly agreed to accompany Lucio thither, and remain the winter.
“We will avoid society” — he said— “The well-bred, well-educated ‘swagger’ people who throw champagne-bottles at the Sphinx, and think a donkey-race ‘ripping fun’ shall not have the honour of our company. Cairo is full of such dancing dolls, so we will not stay there. Old Nile has many attractions; and lazy luxury on a dahabeah will soothe your overwrought nerves. I suggest our leaving England within a week.”
I consented, — and while he went over to a table and wrote some letters in preparation for our journey, I looked through the day’s papers. There was nothing to read in them, — for though all the world’s news palpitates into Great Britain on obediently throbbing electric wires, each editor of each little pennyworth, being jealous of every other editor of every other pennyworth, only admits into his columns exactly what suits his politics or personally pleases his taste, and the interests of the public at large are scarcely considered. Poor, bamboozled, patient public! — no wonder it is beginning to think that a halfpenny spent on a newspaper which is only purchased to be thrown away, enough and more than enough. I was still glancing up and down the tedious columns of the Americanized Pall Mall Gazette, and Lucio was still writing, when a page-boy entered with a telegram.
“Mr Tempest?”
“Yes.” And I snatched the yellow-covered missive and tore it open, — and read the few words it contained almost uncomprehendingly. They ran thus —
“Return at once. Something alarming has happened. Afraid to act without you. Mavis Clare.”
A curious chill came over me, — the telegram fell from my hands on the table. Lucio took it up and glanced at it. Then, regarding me stedfastly, he said —
“Of course you must go. You can catch the four-forty train if you take a hansom.”
“And you?” I muttered. My throat was dry and I could scarcely speak.
“I’ll stay at the Grand, and wait for news. Don’t delay a moment, — Miss Clare would not have taken it upon herself to send this message, unless there had been serious cause.”
“What do you think — what do you suppose — —” I began.
He stopped me by a slight imperative gesture.
“I think nothing — I suppose nothing. I only urge you to start immediately. Come!”
And almost before I realized it, he had taken me with him out into the hall of the club, where he helped me on with my coat, gave me my hat, and sent for a cab to take me to the railway station. We scarcely exchanged farewells, — stupefied with the suddenness of the unexpected summons back to the home I had left in the morning, as I thought, for ever, I hardly knew what I was doing or where I was going, till I found myself alone in the train, returning to Warwickshire as fast as steam would bear me, with the gloom of the deepening dusk around me, and such a fear and horror at my heart as I dared not think of or define. What was the ‘something alarming’ that had happened? How was it that Mavis Clare had telegraphed to me? These, and endless other questions tormented my brain, — and I was afraid to suggest answers to any of them. When I arrived at the familiar station, there was no one waiting to receive me, so I hired a fly, and was driven up to my own house just as the short evening deepened into night. A low autumnal wind was sighing restlessly among the trees like a wandering soul in torment; not a star shone in the black depths of the sky. Directly the carriage stopped, a slim figure in white came out under the porch to meet me, — it was Mavis, her angel’s face grave and pale with emotion.
“It is you at last!” she said in a trembling voice — — “Thank God you have come!”
3 Edmond Rostand. ‘La Princesse Lointaine.’ Back
XXXIV
I grasped her hands hard.
“What is it?” — I began; — then, looking round I saw that the hall was full of panic-stricken servants, some of whom came forward, confusedly murmuring together about being ‘afraid,’ and ‘not knowing what to do.’ I motioned them back by a gesture and turned again to Mavis Clare.
“Tell me, — quick — what is wrong?”
“We fear something has happened to Lady Sibyl,” — she replied at once— “Her rooms are locked, and we cannot make her hear. Her maid got alarmed, and ran over to my house to ask me what was best to be done, — I came at once, and knocked and called, but could get no response. You know the windows are too high to reach from the ground, — there is no ladder on the premises long enough for the purpose, — and no one can climb up that side of the building. I begged some of the servants to break open the door by force, — but they would not, — they were all afraid; and I did not like to act on my own responsibility, so I telegraphed for you — —”
I sprang away from her before she had finished speaking and hurried upstairs at once, — outside the door of the ante-room which led into my wife’s luxurious ‘suite’ of apartments, I paused breathless.
“Sibyl!” I cried.
There was not a sound. Mavis had followed me, and stood by my side, trembling a little. Two or three of the servants had also crept up the stairs, and were clinging to the banisters, listening nervously.
“Sibyl!” I called again. Still absolute silence. I turned round upon the waiting and anxious domestics with an assumption of calmness.
“Lady Sibyl is probably not in her rooms at all;” — I said; “She may have gone out unobserved. This door of the ante-chamber has a spring-lock, — it can easily get fast shut by the merest accident. Bring a strong hammer, — or a crowbar, — anything that will break it open, — if you had had sense you would have obeyed Miss Clare, and done this a couple of hours ago.”
And I waited with enforced composure, while my instructions were carried out as rapidly as possible. Two of the men-servants appeared with the necessary tools, and very soon the house resounded with clamour, — blow after blow was dealt upon the solid oaken door for some time without success, — the spring lock would not yield, — neither would the strong hinges give way. Presently however, after ten minutes’ hard labour, one of the finely carved panels was smashed in, — then another, — and, springing over the débris I rushed through the ante-room into the boudoir, — then paused, listening, and calling again, “Sibyl!” No one followed me, — some indefinable instinct, some nameless dread, held the servants back, and Mavis Clare as well. I was alone, ... and in complete darkness. Groping about, with my heart beating furiously, I sought for the ivory button in the wall which would, at pressure, flood the rooms with electric light, but somehow I could not find it. My hand came in contact with various familiar things which I recognised by touch, — rare bits of china, bronzes, vases, pictures, — costly trifles that were heaped up as I knew, in this particular apartment with a lavish luxury and disregard of cost befitting a wanton eastern empress of old time, — cautiously feeling my way along, I started with terror to see, as I thought, a tall figure outline itself suddenly against the darkness, — white, spectral and luminous, — a figure that, as I stared at it aghast, raised a pallid hand and pointed me forward with a menacing air of scorn! In my dazed horror at this apparition, or delusion, I stumbled over the heavy trailing folds of a velvet portiére, and knew by this that I had passed from the boudoir into the adjoining bedroom. Again I stopped, — calling “Sibyl!” but my voice had scarcely strength enough to raise itself above a whisper. Giddy and confused as I was, I remembered that the electric light in this room was fixed at the side of the toilet-table, and I stepped hurriedly in that direction, when all at once in the thick gloom I touched something clammy and cold like dead flesh, and brushed against a garment that exhaled faint perfume, and rustled at my touch with a silken sound. This alarmed me more thoroughly than the spectre I fancied I had just seen, — I drew back shudderingly against the wall, — and in so doing, my fingers involuntarily closed on the polished ivory stud which, like a fairy talisman in modern civilization, emits radiance at the owner’s will. I pressed it nervously, — the light blazed forth through the rose-tinted shells which shaded its dazzling clearness, and showed me where I stood, ... within an arm’s length of a strange, stiff white creature that sat staring at itself in the silver-framed mirror with wide-open, fixed and glassy eyes!
“Sibyl!” I gasped— “My wife ... ! ...” but the words died chokingly in my throat. Was it indeed my wife? — this frozen statue of a woman, watching her own impassive image thus intently? I looked upon her wonderingly, — doubtingly, — as if she were some stranger; — it took me time to recognize her features, and the bronze-gold darkness of her long hair which fell loosely about her in a lavish wealth of rippling waves, ... her left hand hung limply over the arm of the chair in which, like some carven ivory goddess, she sat enthroned, — and tremblingly, slowly, reluctantly, I advanced and took that hand. Cold as ice it lay in my palm much as though it were a waxen model of itself; — it glittered with jewels, — and I studied every ring upon it with a curious, dull pertinacity, like one who seeks a clue to identity. That large turquoise in a diamond setting was a marriage-gift from a duchess, — that opal her father gave her, — the lustrous circle of sapphires and brilliants surmounting her wedding-ring was my gift, — that ruby I seemed to know, —— well, well! what a mass of sparkling value wasted on such fragile clay! I peered into her face, — then at the reflection of that face in the mirror, — and again I grew perplexed, — was it, could it be Sibyl after all? Sibyl was beautiful, — this dead thing had a devilish smile on its blue, parted lips, and frenzied horror in its eyes! Suddenly something tense in my brain seemed to snap and give way, — dropping the chill fingers I held, I cried aloud —
“Mavis! Mavis Clare!”
In a moment she was with me, — in a glance she comprehended all. Falling on her knees by the dead woman she broke into a passion of weeping.
“Oh, poor girl!” she cried— “Oh, poor, unhappy, misguided girl!”
I stared at her gloomily. It seemed to me very strange that she should weep for sorrows not her own. There was a fire in my brain, — a confused trouble in my thoughts, — I looked at my dead wife with her fixed gaze and evil smile, sitting rigidly upright, and robed in the mocking sheen of her rose-silk peignoir, showered with old lace, after the costliest of Paris fashions, — then at the living, tender-souled, earnest creature, famed for her genius throughout the world, who knelt on the ground, sobbing over the stiffening hand on which so many rare gems glistened derisively, — and an impulse rose in me stronger than myself, moving me to wild and clamorous speech.
