Delphi collected works o.., p.835
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 835
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
A slight shadow of meditative gravity clouded Diana’s face as she finished reading this letter. She was troubled by her own thoughts; Sophy’s lively strictures on her parents were undoubtedly correct and deserved, — and yet—” father and mother” were “father and mother” after, all! It is curious how these two words still keep their sentimental significance, despite “state” education! “Mother” in the lower classes is often a drab, and in the higher a frivolous wastrel; “father” in the slums may beat his children black and blue, and in Mayfair neglect them to the point of utmost indifference, — but “mother and father,” totally undeserving as they often are, still come in for a share of their offspring’s vague consideration and lingering respect. “Education” of the wrong sort, however, is doing its best to deprive them of this regard, and it appears likely that the younger generation will soon be so highly instructed as to be able to ignore “mother and father” as easily as full-fledged cygnets ignore the parent birds who drive them away from their nesting haunts. But Diana was “old-fashioned;” she had an affectionate nature, and she took pathetic pains to persuade herself that “Pa” and “Ma” meant to be kind, and must in their hearts love her, their only child. This was pure fallacy, but it was the only little bit of hope and trust left to her in a hard world, and she was loth to let it go. The smallest expression of tenderness from that ruffled old human terrier, her father, would have brought her to his feet, an even more willing slave to his moods than she already was, — a loving embrace from her mother would have moved her almost to tears of joy and gratitude, and would have doubly strengthened her unreasoning and unselfish devotion to the “bogey” of her duty. But she never received any such sign of affection or encouragement from year’s end to year’s end, — and it was like a strange dream to her now to recall that when she had been young, in the time of her “teens,” her father had called her his “beautiful girl,” and her mother had chosen pretty frocks for her “darling child!” Youth and the prospects of marriage had made this difference in the temperature of parental tenderness. Now that she was at that fatal stopgap called “middle-age” and a hopeless spinster, the pretty frocks and the “beautiful-girl-darling-child” period had vanished with her matrimonial chances. There was no help for it.
At this point in her thoughts she gave a little half-unconscious sigh. Mechanically she folded up Sophy Lansing’s letter, and as she did so, noticed that a slip of printed paper had fallen out of it and lay on the floor. She turned herself on her reclining chair and stooped for it, — then as she picked it up realized that it must be the advertisement in the five different languages which her friend had mentioned. Glancing carelessly over it at first, but afterwards more attentively, her interest was aroused by its unusual wording, and then as she read it over and over again she found in it a singular attraction. It ran as follows; “To ANY WOMAN who is alone in the world WITHOUT CLAIMS on HER TIME or HER AFFECTIONS.
“A SCIENTIST, engaged in very IMPORTANT and DIFFICULT WORK, requires the ASSISTANCE and CO-OPERATION of a Courageous and Determined Woman of mature years. She must have a fair knowledge of modern science, and must not shrink from dangerous experiments or be afraid to take risks in the pursuit of discoveries which may be beneficial to the human race. Every personal care, consideration and courtesy will be shown towards her, and she will be paid a handsome sum for her services and be provided with full board and lodging in an elegant suite of apartments placed freely at her disposal. She must be prepared to devote herself for one or two years entirely to the study of very intricate problems in chemistry, concerning which she will be expected to maintain the strictest confidence. She must be well educated, especially in languages and literature, and she must have no ties of any kind or business which can interrupt or distract her attention from the serious course of training which it will be necessary for her to pursue. This Advertisement cannot be answered by letter. Each applicant must present herself personally and alone between the hours of 6 a.m and 8 a.m on Tuesdays and Fridays only to “DR. FÉODOR DIMITRIUS, “Château Fragonard, “Geneva.”
The more Diana studied this singular announcement, the more remarkable and fascinating did it seem. The very hours named as the only suitable ones for interviewing applicants, between six and eight in the morning, were unusual enough, and the whole wording of the advertisement implied something mysterious and out of the common.
“Though I daresay it is, as Sophy suggests, only a snare of some sort,” she thought. And yet to me it sounds genuine. But I don’t think this Dr. Féodor Dimitrius will get the kind of woman he wants easily, A handsome salary with board and lodging are tempting enough, but few women would be inclined to ‘take risks’ in the inventions and discoveries of modern science. Some of them are altogether too terrible!”
She read the advertisement carefully through again, then rose and locked it away in her desk with Sophy Lansing’s letter. She glanced through the rest of her correspondence, which was not exciting, — one note asking for the character of a servant, another for the pattern of a blouse, and a third enclosing a receipt for a special sort of jam, “with love to your sweet kind mother!”
She put them all by, and stretching her arms languidly above her head, caught another glimpse of herself in the mirror. This time it was more satisfactory. Her hair, hanging down to her waist, was full of a brightness, made brighter just now by the sunlight streaming through the window, and her nun’s veiling “rest gown” had a picturesque grace in its white fall and flow which softened the tired look of her face and eyes into something like actual prettiness. The fair ghost of her lost youth peeped at her for a moment, awakening a smarting sense of regretful tears. A light tap at the door fortunately turned the current of her thoughts, and the maid Grace Laurie entered, bearing a dainty little tray with a cup of tea invitingly set upon it.
“I’ve just taken some tea to Mrs. May in her bedroom,” she said. “And I thought you’d perhaps like a cup.”
“You’re a treasure, Grace!” — and Diana sat down to the proffered refreshment. “What shall we all do when you go away to be married?”
Grace laughed and tossed her head.
“Well, there’s time enough for that, miss!” she replied. “He ain’t in no hurry, nor am I! You see when you’re married you’re just done for, — there’s no more fun. It’s drudge, wash, cook and sew for the rest of your days, and no way of getting out of it.”
Diana, sipping her tea, looked at her, smiling.
“If that’s the way you think, you shouldn’t marry,” she said.
“Oh yes, I should! “and Grace laughed again. “A woman like me wants a home and a man to work for her.
I don’t care to be in service all my days, — I may as well wash and sew for a man of my own as for anybody else.”
“But you love him, don’t you?” asked Diana.
“Well, he isn’t much to love!” declared Grace, with twinkling eyes. “His looks wouldn’t upset anyone’s peace! I’ve never thought of love at all — all I want is to be warm and comfortable in a decent house with plenty to eat, — and a good husband is a, man who can do that, and keep it going. As for loving, that’s ail stuff and nonsense! — as I always say you should never care more for a man with your ‘ed than you can kick off with your ‘eels.”
This profound utterance had the effect of moving Diana to the most delightful mirth. She laughed and laughed again, — and her laughter was so sweet and fresh that it was like a little chime of bells. Her voice, as already hinted, was her great charm, and whether she laughed or spoke her accents broke the air into little bars of music.
“Oh, Grace, Grace!” she said, at last. “You are too funny for words! I must learn that wise saying of yours by heart! What is it? ‘Never care more for a man with your ‘ed than you can kick off with your ‘eels?’ — Splendid! And you mean it?”
Grace nodded emphatically.
“Of course I mean it! It don’t do to care too much for a man, — he’s always a sort o’ spoilt babe, and what he gets easy he don’t care for, and what he can’t have lie’s always crying, crying after. You’ll find that true, Miss Diana!”
The sparkle of laughter quenched itself in Diana’s eyes and left her looking weary.
“Yes — I daresay you are right,” she said—” quite right, Grace!” And looking up, she spoke slowly and rather sadly.” Perhaps it’s true — some people say it is — that men like bad women better than good, — and that if a woman is thoroughly selfish, vain and reckless, treating men with complete indifference and contempt, they admire her much more than if she were loving and faithful.”
“Of course!” assented Grace, positively. “Look at Mrs. Potter-Barney! — the one the halfpenny newspapers call the ‘beautiful Mrs. Barney!’ I know a maid who was told by another maid that she got five hundred guineas for a kiss! —— and Lady Wasterwick has had thousands of pounds for—”
Diana held up a hand, — she smiled still, but a trifle austerely.
“That will do, Grace!”
Grace coughed discreetly and subsided.
“Is mother still lying down?” then asked Diana.
“Yes, miss. She’ll be on her bed till the dinner dressing bell rings. And Mr, May’s asleep over his newspaper in the garden.”
Again Diana laughed her clear, pretty laugh. The somnolent habits of her parents were so enlivening, and made home-life so cheerful!
“Well, all right, Grace,” she said. “If there’s nothing for me to do I shall go for a walk presently. So you’ll know what to say if I’m asked for.”
Grace assented, and then departed. Diana finished her cup of tea in meditative mood, — then, resolving to throw her retrospective thoughts to the winds, prepared to go out. It was an exceptionally fine afternoon, warm and brilliant, and instead of her navy linen gown which had seen considerable wear and tear, she put on a plain white one which became her much better than the indigo blue, and, completing her costume with a very simple straw hat and white parasol, she went downstairs and out of the house into the garden. She had meant to avoid her father, whom she saw on the lawn, under the spreading boughs of a cedar tree, seated in one rustic arm-chair, with his short legs comfortably disposed on another, and the day’s newspaper modestly spread as a coverlet over his unbuttoned waistcoat, — but an inquisitive wasp happening to buzz too near his nose he made a dart at it with one hand, and opening his eyes, perceived her white figure moving across the grass.
“Who’s that? What’s that?” he called out, sharply. “Don’t glide about like a ghost! Is it you, Diana?”
“Yes, — it’s me,” she replied, and came up beside him.
He gave her a casual look, — then sniffed and smiled sardonically.
“Dear me t How fine we are! I thought it was some young girl of the neighbourhood leaving cards on your mother! Why are you wearing white? Going to a wedding?”
Diana coloured to the roots of her pretty hair.
“It’s one of my washing frocks,” she submitted.
“Oh, is it? Well, I like to see you in dark colours — they are more suited to — to your age. Only very young people should wear white.”
He yawned capaciously. “Only very young people,” he repeated, closing his eyes. “Try and remember that.”
“Mrs. Ross-Percival wears white,” said Diana, quietly. “You are always holding her up to admiration. And she’s sixty, if she’s a day.”
Mr. Polydore May opened his eyes and bounced up in his chair.
“Mrs. Ross-Percival is a very beautiful woman!” he snapped out. “One of the beautiful women of society. And she’s married.”
“Oh, yes, she’s a grandmother,” murmured Diana, smiling. “But you don’t tell her not to wear white,”
“Good God, of course not! It’s no business of mine! What are you talking about? She’s not my daughter!”
Diana laughed her pretty soft laugh.
“No, indeed! Poor Pa! That would be terrible! — she’d make you seem so old if she were! But perhaps you wouldn’t mind as she’s so beautiful!”
Mr. May stared at her wrathfully with the feeling that he was being made fun of.
“She is beautiful!” he said, firmly. “Only a jealous woman would dare to question it!”
Diana laughed again.
“Very well, she is beautiful! Wig and all!” she said, and moved away, opening her parasol as she passed from the shadow of the cedar boughs into the full sun.
“She’s getting beyond herself!” thought her father, watching her as she went, and noting what he was pleased to consider “affectation” in her naturally graceful way of walking. “And if she once begins that sort of game, she’ll be unbearable! Nothing can be worse than an old maid who gets beyond herself or above herself! She’ll be fancying some man is in love with her next!
He gave a snort of scorn and composed himself to sleep again; meanwhile Diana had left the garden and was walking at an easy pace, which was swift without seeming hurried, down to the sea shore. It was very lovely there at this particular afternoon hour, — the tide was coming in, and the long shining waves rolled up one after the other in smooth lines of silver on sand that shone in wet patches like purest gold. The air was soft and wann but not oppressive, and as the solitary woman lifted her eyes to the peaceful blue sky arched like a sheltering dome above the peaceful blue sea, her solitude was for the moment more intensified. More keenly than ever she felt that there was no one to whom she could look for so much as a loving word, — not in her own home, at any rate. Her friends were few; Sophy Lansing was one of the most intimate, — but Sophy lived such a life of activity, throwing her energies into so many channels, that it was not possible to get into very close or constant companionship with her.
“While I live,” she said to herself, deliberately, “I shall have no one to cafe for me — I must make up my mind to that. And when I die, — if I go to heaven there will be no one there who cares for me, — and, if I go to hell, no one there either!” She laughed at this idea, but there were tears in her eyes. “It’s curious not to have anyone on earth or in heaven or hell who wants you!
I wonder if there are many like that! And yet — I’ve never done anything wicked or spiteful to deserve being left so unloved.”
She had come to a small, deep cove, picturesquely walled in by high masses of rock whose summits were gay with creeping plants, grass and flowers, and though the sea was calm, the pressure of the incoming tide through the narrow inlet made waves that were almost boisterous, as they rushed in and out with a musical splash and roar. It was hardly safe or prudent to walk further on. “Any of those waves could carry one off one’s feet in a minute,” she thought, and went upwards from the beach beyond the highest mark left by the fringes of the sea, where the fragments of an old broken boat made a very good seat. Here, she rested awhile, allowing vague ideas of a possible future to drift through her brain. The prospect of a visit to Sophy Lansing seemed agreeable enough, — but she very well knew that it would be opposed by her parents, — that her mother would say she could not spare her, — and that her father would demand angrily:
