Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

CHAPTER XV.

  DEATH BY LIGHTNING.

  The morning of the next day dawned rather gloomily. A yellowish fog obscured the air, and there was a closeness and sultriness in the atmosphere that was strange for that wintry season. I had slept well, and rose with the general sense of ease and refreshment that I always experienced since I had been under the treatment of Heliobas. Those whose unhappy physical condition causes them to awake from uneasy slumber feeling almost more fatigued than when they retired to rest, can scarcely have any idea of the happiness it engenders to open untired, glad eyes with the morning light; to feel the very air a nourishment; to stand with lithe, rested limbs in the bath of cool, pure water, finding that limpid element obediently adding its quota to the vigour of perfect health; to tingle from head to foot with the warm current of life running briskly through the veins, making the heart merry, the brain clear, and all the powers of body and mind in active working condition. This is indeed most absolute enjoyment. Add to it the knowledge of the existence of one’s own inner Immortal Spirit — the beautiful germ of Light in the fostering of which no labour is ever taken in vain — the living, wondrous thing that is destined to watch an eternity of worlds bloom and fade to bloom again, like flowers, while itself, superior to them all, shall become ever more strong and radiant — with these surroundings and prospects, who shall say life is not worth living?

  Dear Life! sweet Moment! gracious Opportunity! brief Journey so well worth the taking! gentle Exile so well worth enduring! — thy bitterest sorrows are but blessings in disguise; thy sharpest pains are brought upon us by ourselves, and even then are turned to warnings for our guidance; while above us, through us, and around us radiates the Supreme Love, unalterably tender!

  These thoughts, and others like them, all more or less conducive to cheerfulness, occupied me till I had finished dressing. Melancholy was now no part of my nature, otherwise I might have been depressed by the appearance of the weather and the murkiness of the air. But since I learned the simple secrets of physical electricity, atmospheric influences have had no effect upon the equable poise of my temperament — a fact for which I cannot be too grateful, seeing how many of my fellow-creatures permit themselves to be affected by changes in the wind, intense heat, intense cold, or other things of the like character.

  I went down to breakfast, singing softly on my way, and I found Zara already seated at the head of her table, while Heliobas was occupied in reading and sorting a pile of letters that lay beside his plate. Both greeted me with their usual warmth and heartiness.

  During the repast, however, the brother and sister were strangely silent, and once or twice I fancied that Zara’s eyes filled with tears, though she smiled again so quickly and radiantly that I felt I was mistaken.

  A piece of behaviour on the part of Leo, too, filled me with dismay. He had been lying quietly at his master’s feet for some time, when he suddenly arose, sat upright, and lifting his nose in air, uttered a most prolonged and desolate howl. Anything more thoroughly heartbroken and despairing than that cry I have never heard. After he had concluded it, the poor animal seemed ashamed of what he had done, and creeping meekly along, with drooping head and tail, he kissed his master’s hand, then mine, and lastly Zara’s. Finally, he went into a distant corner and lay down again, as if his feelings were altogether too much for him.

  “Is he ill?” I asked pityingly.

  “I think not,” replied Heliobas. “The weather is peculiar to-day — close, and almost thunderous; dogs are very susceptible to such changes.”

  At that moment the page entered bearing a silver salver, on which lay a letter, which he handed to his master and immediately retired.

  Heliobas opened and read it.

  “Ivan regrets he cannot dine with us to-day,” he said, glancing at his sister; “he is otherwise engaged. He says, however, that he hopes to have the pleasure of looking in during the latter part of the evening.”

  Zara inclined her head gently, and made no other reply.

  A few seconds afterwards we rose from table, and Zara, linking her arm through mine, said:

  “I want to have a talk with you while we can be alone. Come to my room.”

  We went upstairs together, followed by the wise yet doleful Leo, who seemed determined not to let his mistress out of his sight. When we arrived at our destination, Zara pushed me gently into an easy-chair, and seated herself in another one opposite.

  “I am going to ask a favour of you,” she began; “because I know you will do anything to please me or Casimir. Is it not so?”

  I assured her she might rely upon my observing; with the truest fidelity any request of hers, small or great.

  She thanked me and resumed:

  “You know I have been working secretly in my studio for some time past. I have been occupied in the execution of two designs — one is finished, and is intended as a gift to Casimir. The other” — she hesitated— “is incomplete. It is the colossal figure which was veiled when you first came in to see my little statue of ‘Evening’. I made an attempt beyond my powers — in short, I cannot carry out the idea to my satisfaction. Now, dear, pay great attention to what I say. I have reason to believe that I shall be compelled to take a sudden journey — promise me that when I am gone you will see that unfinished statue completely destroyed — utterly demolished.”

  I could not answer her for a minute or two, I was so surprised by her words.

  “Going on a journey, Zara?” I said. “Well, if you are, I suppose you will soon return home again; and why should your statue be destroyed in the meantime? You may yet be able to bring it to final perfection.”

  Zara shook her head and smiled half sadly.

  “I told you it was a favour I had to ask of you,” she said; “and now you are unwilling to grant it.”

  “I am not unwilling — believe me, dearest, I would do anything to please you,” I assured her; “but it seems so strange to me that you should wish the result of your labour destroyed, simply because you are going on a journey.”

  “Strange as it seems, I desire it most earnestly,” said Zara; “otherwise — but if you will not see it done for me, I must preside at the work of demolition myself, though I frankly confess it would be most painful to me.”

  I interrupted her.

  “Say no more, Zara!” I exclaimed; “I will do as you wish. When you are gone, you say—”

  “When I am gone,” repeated Zara firmly, “and before you yourself leave this house, you will see that particular statue destroyed. You will thus do me a very great service.”

  “Well,” I said, “and when are you coming back again? Before I leave Paris?”

  “I hope so — I think so,” she replied evasively; “at any rate, we shall meet again soon.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  She smiled. Such a lovely, glad, and triumphant smile!

  “You will know my destination before to-night has passed away,” she answered. “In the meanwhile I have your promise?”

  “Most certainly.”

  She kissed me, and as she did so, a lurid flash caught my eyes and almost dazzled them. It was a gleam of fiery lustre from the electric jewel she wore.

  The day went on its usual course, and the weather seemed to grow murkier every hour. The air was almost sultry, and when during the afternoon I went into the conservatory to gather some of the glorious Marechal Niel roses that grew there in such perfection, the intense heat of the place was nearly insupportable. I saw nothing of Heliobas all day, and, after the morning, very little of Zara. She disappeared soon after luncheon, and I could not find her in her rooms nor in her studio, though I knocked at the door several times. Leo, too, was missing. After being alone for an hour or more, I thought I would pay a visit to the chapel. But on attempting to carry out this intention I found its doors locked — an unusual circumstance which rather surprised me. Fancying that I heard the sound of voices within, I paused to listen. But all was profoundly silent. Strolling into the hal
l, I took up at random from a side-table a little volume of poems, unknown to me, called “Pygmalion in Cyprus;” and seating myself in one of the luxurious Oriental easy-chairs near the silvery sparkling fountain, I began to read. I opened the book I held at “A Ballad of Kisses,” which ran as follows:

  “There are three kisses that I call to mind,

  And I will sing their secrets as I go, —

  The first, a kiss too courteous to be kind,

  Was such a kiss as monks and maidens know,

  As sharp as frost, as blameless as the snow.

  “The second kiss, ah God! I feel it yet, —

  And evermore my soul will loathe the same, —

  The toys and joys of fate I may forget,

  But not the touch of that divided shame;

  It clove my lips — it burnt me like a flame.

  “The third, the final kiss, is one I use

  Morning and noon and night, and not amiss.

  Sorrow be mine if such I do refuse!

  And when I die, be Love enrapt in bliss

  Re-sanctified in heaven by such a kiss!”

  This little gem, which I read and re-read with pleasure, was only one of many in the same collection, The author was assuredly a man of genius. I studied his word-melodies with intense interest, and noted with some surprise how original and beautiful were many of his fancies and similes. I say I noted them with surprise, because he was evidently a modern Englishman, and yet unlike any other of his writing species. His name was not Alfred Tennyson, nor Edwin Arnold, nor Matthew Arnold, nor Austin Dobson, nor Martin Tupper. He was neither plagiarist nor translator — he was actually an original man. I do not give his name here, as I consider it the duty of his own country to find him out and acknowledge him, which, as it is so proud of its literary standing, of course it will do in due season. On this, my first introduction to his poems, I became speedily absorbed in them, and was repeating to myself softly a verse which I remember now:

  “Hers was sweetest of sweet faces,

  Hers the tenderest eyes of all;

  In her hair she had the traces

  Of a heavenly coronal,

  Bringing sunshine to sad places

  Where the sunlight could not fall.”

  Then I was startled by the sound of a clock striking six. I bethought myself of the people who were coming to dinner, and decided to go to my room and dress. Replacing the “Pygmalion” book on the table whence I had taken it, I made my way upstairs, thinking as I went of Zara and her strange request, and wondering what journey she was going upon.

  I could not come to any satisfactory conclusion on this point, besides, I had a curious disinclination to think about it very earnestly, though the subject kept recurring to my mind. Yet always some inward monitor seemed to assure me, as plainly as though the words were spoken in my ear:

  “It is useless for you to consider the reason of this, or the meaning of that. Take things as they come in due order: one circumstance explains the other, and everything is always for the best.”

  I prepared my Indian crepe dress for the evening, the same I had worn for Madame Didier’s party at Cannes; only, instead of having lilies of the valley to ornament it with, I arranged some clusters of the Marechal Niel roses I had gathered from the conservatory — lovely blossoms, with their dewy pale-gold centres forming perfect cups of delicious fragrance. These, relieved by a few delicate sprays of the maiden-hair fern, formed a becoming finish to my simple costume. As I arrayed myself, and looked at my own reflection in the long mirror, I smiled out of sheer gratitude. For health, joyous and vigorous, sparkled in my eyes, glowed on my cheeks, tinted my lips, and rounded my figure. The face that looked back at me from the glass was a perfectly happy one, ready to dimple into glad mirth or bright laughter. No shadow of pain or care remained upon it to remind me of past suffering, and I murmured half aloud: “Thank God!”

  “Amen!” said a soft voice, and, turning round, I saw Zara.

  But how shall I describe her? No words can adequately paint the glorious beauty in which, that night, she seemed to move as in an atmosphere of her own creating. She wore a clinging robe of the richest, softest white satin, caught in at the waist by a zone of pearls — pearls which, from their size and purity, must have been priceless. Her beautiful neck and arms were bare, and twelve rows of pearls were clasped round her slender throat, supporting in their centre the electric stone, which shone with a soft, subdued radiance, like the light of the young moon. Her rich, dark hair was arranged in its usual fashion — that is, hanging down in one thick plait, which on this occasion was braided in and out with small pearls. On her bosom she wore a magnificent cluster of natural orange-blossoms; and of these, while I gazed admiringly at her, I first spoke:

  “You look like a bride, Zara! You have all the outward signs of one — white satin, pearls, and orange-blossoms!”

  She smiled.

  “They are the first cluster that has come out in our conservatory,” she said; “and I could not resist them. As to the pearls, they belonged to my mother, and are my favourite ornaments; and white satin is now no longer exclusively for brides. How soft and pretty that Indian crepe is! Your toilette is charming, and suits you to perfection. Are you quite ready?”

  “Quite,” I answered.

  She hesitated and sighed. Then she raised her lovely eyes with a sort of wistful tenderness.

  “Before we go down I should like you to kiss me once,” she said.

  I embraced her fondly, and our lips met with a lingering sisterly caress.

  “You will never forget me, will you?” she asked almost anxiously; “never cease to think of me kindly?”

  “How fanciful you are to-night, Zara dear!” I said. “As if I COULD forget you! I shall always think of you as the loveliest and sweetest woman in the world.”

  “And when I am out of the world — what then?” she pursued.

  Remembering her spiritual sympathies, I answered at once:

  “Even then I shall know you to be one of the fairest of the angels. So you see, Zara darling, I shall always love you.”

  “I think you will,” she said meditatively; “you are one of us. But come! I hear voices downstairs. I think our expected guests have arrived, and we must be in the drawing-room to receive them. Good-bye, little friend!” And she again kissed me.

  “Good-bye!” I repeated in astonishment; “why ‘good-bye’?”

  “Because it is my fancy to say the word,” she replied with quiet firmness. “Again, dear little friend, good-bye!”

  I felt bewildered, but she would not give me time to utter another syllable. She took my hand and hurried me with her downstairs, and in another moment we were both in the drawing-room, receiving and saying polite nothings to the Everards and Challoners, who had all arrived together, resplendent in evening costume. Amy Everard, I thought, looked a little tired and fagged, though she rejoiced in a superb “arrangement” by Worth of ruby velvet and salmon-pink. But, though a perfect dress is consoling to most women, there are times when even that fails of its effect; and then Worth ceases to loom before the feminine eye as a sort of demi-god, but dwindles insignificantly to the level of a mere tailor, whose prices are ruinous. And this, I think, was the state of mind in which Mrs. Everard found herself that evening; or else she was a trifle jealous of Zara’s harmonious grace and loveliness. Be this as it may, she was irritable, and whisperingly found fault with, me for being in such good health.

  “You will have too much colour if you don’t take care,” she said almost pettishly, “and nothing is so unfashionable.”

  “I know!” I replied with due meekness. “It is very bad style to be quite well — it is almost improper.”

  She looked at me, and a glimmering smile lighted her features. But she would not permit herself to become good-humoured, and she furled and unfurled her fan of pink ostrich feathers with some impatience.

  “Where did that child get all those pearls from?” she next inquired, with a gestu
re of her head towards Zara.

  “They belonged to her mother,” I answered, smiling as I heard Zara called a CHILD, knowing, as I did, her real age.

  “She is actually wearing a small fortune on her person,” went on Amy; “I wonder her brother allows her. Girls never understand the value of things of that sort. They should be kept for her till she is old enough to appreciate them.”

  I made no reply; I was absorbed in watching Heliobas, who at that moment entered the room accompanied by Father Paul. He greeted his guests with warmth and unaffected heartiness, and all present were, I could see, at once fascinated by the dignity of his presence and the charm of his manner. To an uninstructed eye there was nothing unusual about him; but to me there was a change in his expression which, as it were, warned and startled me. A deep shadow of anxiety in his eyes made them look more sombre and less keen; his smile was not so sweet as it was stern, and there was an undefinable SOMETHING in his very bearing that suggested — what? Defiance? Yes, defiance; and it was this which, when I had realized it, curiously alarmed me. For what had he, Heliobas, to do with even the thought of defiance? Did not all his power come from the knowledge of the necessity of obedience to the spiritual powers within and without? Quick as light the words spoken to me by Aztul regarding him came back to my remembrance: “Even as he is my Beloved, so let him not fail to hear my voice.” What if he SHOULD fail? A kind of instinct came upon me that some immediate danger of this threatened him, and I braced myself up to a firm determination, that, if this was so, I, out of my deep gratitude to him, would do my utmost best to warn him in time. While these thoughts possessed me, the hum of gay conversation went on, and Zara’s bright laughter ever and again broke like music on the air. Father Paul, too, proved himself to be of quite a festive and jovial disposition, for he made himself agreeable to Mrs. Challoner and her daughters, and entertained them with the ease and bonhomie of an accomplished courtier and man of the world.

  Dinner was announced in the usual way — that is, with the sound of music played by the electric instrument devoted to that purpose, a performance which elicited much admiration from all the guests. Heliobas led the way into the dining-room with Mrs. Everard; Colonel Everard followed, with Zara on one arm and the eldest Miss Challoner on the other; Mr. Challoner and myself came next; and Father Paul, with Mrs. Challoner and her other daughter Effie, brought up the rear. There was a universal murmur of surprise and delight as the dinner-table came in view; and its arrangement was indeed a triumph of art. In the centre was placed a large round of crystal in imitation of a lake, and on this apparently floated a beautiful gondola steered by the figure of a gondolier, both exquisitely wrought in fine Venetian glass. The gondolier was piled high with a cargo of roses; but the wonder of it all was, that the whole design was lit up by electricity. Electric sparkles, like drops of dew, shone on the leaves of the flowers; the gondola was lit from end to end with electric stars, which were reflected with prismatic brilliancy in the crystal below; the gondolier’s long pole glittered with what appeared to be drops of water tinged by the moonlight, but which was really an electric wire, and in his cap flashed an electric diamond. The whole ornament scintillated and glowed like a marvellous piece of curiously contrived jewel-work. And this was not all. Beside every guest at table a slender vase, shaped like a long-stemmed Nile lily, held roses and ferns, in which were hidden tiny electric stars, causing the blossoms to shine with a transparent and almost fairy-like lustre.