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

by Marie Corelli

  “We may as well leave our cards together,” said Clara, with a malicious little smile, “though I hope to goodness the creature won’t be at home.”

  Bruce-Errington’s town-house was a very noble-looking mansion — refined and simple in outer adornment, with a broad entrance, deep portico, and lofty windows — windows which fortunately were not spoilt by gaudy hangings of silk or satin in “æsthetic” colors. The blinds were white — and, what could be seen of the curtains from the outside, suggested the richness of falling velvets, and gold-woven tapestries. The drawing-room balconies were full of brilliant flowers, shaded by quaint awnings of Oriental pattern, thus giving the place an air of pleasant occupation and tasteful elegance.

  Lady Winsleigh’s carriage drew up at the door, and Briggs descended.

  “Inquire if Lady Bruce-Errington is at home,” said his mistress. “And if not, leave these cards.”

  Briggs received the scented glossy bits of pasteboard in his yellow-gloved hand with due gravity, and rang the bell marked “Visitors” in his usual ponderous manner, with a force that sent it clanging loudly through the corridors of the stately mansion. The door was instantly opened by a respectable man with grey hair and a gentle, kindly face, who was dressed plainly in black, and who eyed the gorgeous Briggs with the faintest suspicion of a smile. He was Errington’s butler, and had served the family for twenty-five years.

  “Her ladyship is driving in the Park,” he said in response to the condescending inquiries of Briggs. “She left the house about half an hour ago.”

  Briggs thereupon handed in the cards, and forthwith reported the result of his interview to Lady Winsleigh, who said with some excitement —

  “Turn into the Park and drive up and down till I give further orders.”

  Briggs mutely touched his hat, mounted the box, and the carriage rapidly bowled in the required direction, while Lady Winsleigh remarked laughingly to Mrs. Marvelle —

  “Philip is sure to be with his treasure! If we can catch a glimpse of her, sitting, staring open-mouthed at everything, it will be amusing! We shall then know what to expect.”

  Mrs. Marvelle said nothing, though she too was more or less curious to see the “peasant” addition to the circle of fashionable society, — and when they entered the Park, both she and Lady Winsleigh kept a sharp look-out for the first glimpse of the quiet grey and silver of the Bruce-Errington liveries. They watched, however, in vain — it was not yet the hour for the crowding of the Row — and there was not a sign of the particular equipage they were so desirous to meet. Presently Lady Winsleigh’s face flushed — she laughed, and bade her coachman come to a halt.

  “It is only Lennie,” she said in answer to Mrs. Marvelle’s look of inquiry. “I must speak to him a moment!”

  And she beckoned coquettishly to a slight, slim young man with a dark moustache and rather handsome features, who was idling along on the footpath, apparently absorbed in a reverie, though it was not of so deep a character that he failed to be aware of her ladyship’s presence — in fact he had seen her as soon as she appeared in the Park. He saw everything apparently without looking — he had lazily drooping eyes, but a swift under-glance which missed no detail of whatever was going on. He approached now with an excessively languid air, raising his hat slowly, as though the action bored him.

  “How do, Mrs. Marvelle!” he drawled lazily, addressing himself first to the elder lady, who responded somewhat curtly, — then leaning his arms on the carriage door, he fixed Lady Winsleigh with a sleepy stare of admiration. “And how is our Clara? Looking charming, as usual! By Jove! Why weren’t you here ten minutes ago? You never saw such a sight in your life! Thought the whole Row was going crazy, ‘pon my soul!”

  “Why, what happened?” asked Lady Winsleigh, smiling graciously upon him. “Anything extraordinary?”

  “Well, I don’t know what you’d call extraordinary;” and Sir Francis Lennox yawned and examined the handle of his cane attentively. “I suppose if Helen of Troy came driving full pelt down the Row all of a sudden, there’d be some slight sensation!”

  “Dear me!” said Clara Winsleigh pettishly. “You talk in enigmas to-day. What on earth do you mean?”

  Sir Francis condescended to smile. “Don’t be waxy, Clara!” he urged— “I mean what I say — a new Helen appeared here to-day, and instead of ‘tall Troy’ being on fire, as Dante Rossetti puts it, the Row was in a burning condition of excitement — fellows on horseback galloped the whole length of the Park to take a last glimpse of her — her carriage dashed off to Richmond after taking only four turns. She is simply magnificent!”

  “Who is she?” and in spite of herself, Lady Winsleigh’s smile vanished and her lips quivered.

  “Lady Bruce-Errington,” answered Sir Francis readily. “The loveliest woman in the world, I should say! Phil was beside her — he looks in splendid condition — and that meek old secretary fellow sat opposite — Neville — isn’t that his name? Anyhow they seemed as jolly as pipers, — as for that woman, she’ll drive everybody out of their wits about her before half the season’s over.”

  “But she’s a mere peasant!” said Mrs. Marvelle loftily. “Entirely uneducated — a low, common creature!”

  “Ah, indeed!” and Sir Francis again yawned extensively. “Well, I don’t know anything about that! She was exquisitely dressed, and she held herself like a queen. As for her hair — I never saw such wonderful hair, — there’s every shade of gold in it.”

  “Dyed!” said Lady Winsleigh, with a sarcastic little laugh. “She’s been in Paris, — I dare say a good coiffeur has done it for her there artistically!”

  This time Sir Francis’s smile was a thoroughly amused one.

  “Commend me to a woman for spite!” he said carelessly. “But I’ll not presume to contradict you, Clara! You know best, I dare say! Ta-ta! I’ll come for you to-night, — you know we’re bound for the theatre together. By-bye, Mrs. Marvelle! You look younger than ever!”

  And Sir Francis Lennox sauntered easily away, leaving the ladies to resume their journey through the Park. Lady Winsleigh looked vexed — Mrs. Marvelle bewildered.

  “Do you think,” inquired this latter, “she can really be so wonderfully lovely?”

  “No, I don’t!” answered Clara snappishly. “I dare say she’s a plump creature with a high color — men like fat women with brick-tinted complexions — they think it’s healthy. Helen of Troy indeed! Pooh! Lennie must be crazy.”

  The rest of their drive was very silent, — they were both absorbed in their own reflections. On arriving at the Van Clupps’, they found no one at home — not even Marcia — so Lady Winsleigh drove her “dearest Mimsey” back to her own house in Kensington, and there left her with many expressions of tender endearment — then, returning home, proceeded to make an elaborate and brilliant toilette for the enchantment and edification of Sir Francis Lennox that evening. She dined alone, and was ready for her admirer when he called for her in his private hansom, and drove away with him to the theatre, where she was the cynosure of many eyes; meanwhile her husband, Lord Winsleigh, was pressing a good-night kiss on the heated forehead of an excited boy, who, plunging about in his little bed and laughing heartily, was evidently desirous of emulating the gambols of the clown who had delighted him that afternoon at Hengler’s.

  “Papa! could you stand on your head and shake hands with your foot?” demanded this young rogue, confronting his father with towzled curls and flushed cheeks.

  Lord Winsleigh laughed. “Really, Ernest, I don’t think I could!” he answered good-naturedly. “Haven’t you talked enough about the circus by this time? I thought you were ready for sleep, otherwise I should not have come up to say good-night.”

  Ernest studied the patient, kind features of his father for a moment, and then slipped penitently under the bedclothes, settling his restless young head determinedly on the pillow.

  “I’m all right now!” he murmured, with a demure, dimpling smile. Then, with a tender u
pward twinkle of his merry blue eyes, he added, “Good-night, papa dear! God bless you!”

  A sort of wistful pathos softened the grave lines of Lord Winsleigh’s countenance as he bent once more over the little bed, and pressed his bearded lips lightly on the boy’s fresh cheek, as cool and soft as a rose-leaf.

  “God bless you, little man!” he answered softly, and there was a slight quiver in his calm voice. Then he put out the light and left the room, closing the door after him with careful noiselessness. Descending the broad stairs slowly, his face changed from its late look of tenderness to one of stern and patient coldness, which was evidently its habitual expression. He addressed himself to Briggs, who was lounging aimlessly in the hall.

  “Her ladyship is out?”

  “Yes, my lord! Gone to the theayter with Sir Francis Lennox.”

  Lord Winsleigh turned upon him sharply. “I did not ask you, Briggs, where she had gone, or who accompanied her. Have the goodness to answer my questions simply, without adding useless and unnecessary details.”

  Briggs’s mouth opened a little in amazement at his master’s peremptory tone, but he answered promptly —

  “Very good, my lord!”

  Lord Winsleigh paused a moment, and seemed to consider. Then he said —

  “See that her ladyship’s supper is prepared in the dining-room. She will most probably return rather late. Should she inquire for me, say I am at the Carlton.”

  Again Briggs responded, “Very good, my lord!” And, like an exemplary servant as he was, he lingered about the passage while Lord Winsleigh entered his library, and, after remaining there some ten minutes or so, came out again in hat and great coat. The officious Briggs handed him his cane, and inquired —

  “‘Ansom, my lord?”

  “Thanks, no. I will walk.”

  It was a fine moonlight night, and Briggs stood for some minutes on the steps, airing his shapely calves and watching the tall, dignified figure of his master walking, with the upright, stately bearing which always distinguished him, in the direction of Pall Mall. Park Lane was full of crowding carriages with twinkling lights, all bound to the different sources of so-called “pleasure” by which the opening of the season is distinguished. Briggs surveyed the scene with lofty indifference, sniffed the cool breeze, and, finding it somewhat chilly, re-entered the house and descended to the servant’s hall. Here all the domestics of the Winsleigh household were seated at a large table loaded with hot and savory viands, — a table presided over by a robust and perspiring lady, with a very red face and sturdy arms bare to the elbow.

  “Lor’, Mr. Briggs!” cried this personage, rising respectfully as he approached, “‘ow late you are! Wot ‘ave you been a-doin’ on? ’Ere I’ve been a-keepin’ your lamb-chops and truffles ‘ot all this time, and if they’s dried up ‘taint my fault, nor that of the hoven, which is as good a hoven as you can wish to bake in. . . .”

  She paused breathless, and Briggs smiled blandly.

  “Now, Flopsie!” he said in a tone of gentle severity. “Excited again — as usual! It’s bad for your ‘elth — very bad! Hif the chops is dried, your course is plain — cook some more! Not that I am enny ways particular — but chippy meat is bad for a delicate digestion. And you would not make me hill, my Flopsie, would you?”

  Whereupon he seated himself, and looked condescendingly round the table. He was too great a personage to be familiar with such inferior creatures as housemaids, scullery-girls, and menials of that class, — he was only on intimate terms with the cook, Mrs. Flopper, or, as he called her, “Flopsie,” — the coachman, and Lady Winsleigh’s own maid, Louise Rénaud, a prim, sallow-faced Frenchwoman, who, by reason of her nationality, was called by all the inhabitants of the kitchen, “mamzelle,” as being a name both short, appropriate, and convenient.

  On careful examination, the lamb-chops turned out satisfactorily— “chippiness” was an epithet that could not justly be applied to them, — and Mr. Briggs began to eat them leisurely, flavoring them with a glass or two of fine port out of a decanter which he had taken the precaution to bring down from the dining-room sideboard.

  “I ham, late,” he then graciously explained— “not that I was detained in enny way by the people upstairs. The gay Clara went out early, but I was absorbed in the evenin’ papers — Winsleigh forgot to ask me for them. But he’ll see them at his club. He’s gone there now on foot — poor fellah!”

  “I suppose she’s with the same party?” grinned the fat Flopsie, as she held a large piece of bacon dipped in vinegar on her fork, preparatory to swallowing it with a gulp.

  Briggs nodded gravely, “The same! Not a fine man at all, you know — no leg to speak of, and therefore no form. Legs — good legs — are beauty. Now, Winsleigh’s not bad in that particular, — and I dare say Clara can hold her own, — but I wouldn’t bet on little Francis.”

  Flopsie shrieked with laughter till she had a “stitch in her side,” and was compelled to restrain her mirth.

  “Lor’, Mr. Briggs!” she gasped, wiping the moisture from her eyes, “you are a regular one, aren’t you! Mussy on us, you ought to put all wot you say in the papers — you’d make your fortin!”

  “Maybe, maybe, Flopsie,” returned Briggs with due dignity. “I will not deny that there may be wot is called ‘sparkle’ in my natur. And ‘sparkle’ is wot is rekwired in polite literatoor. Look at ‘Hedmund’ and ‘‘Enery!’ Sparkle again, — read their magnificent productions, the World and Truth, — all sparkle, every line! It is the secret of success, Flopsie — be a sparkler and you’ve got everything before you.”

  Louise Rénaud looked across at him half-defiantly. Her prim, cruel mouth hardened into a tight line.

  “To spark-el?” she said— “that is what we call étinceler — éclater. Yes, I comprehend! Miladi is one spark-el! But one must be a very good jewel to spark-el always — yes — yes — not a sham!”

  And she nodded a great many times, and ate her salad very fast. Briggs surveyed her with much complacency.

  “You are a talented woman, Mamzelle,” he said, “very talented! I admire your ways — I really do!”

  Mamzelle smiled with a gratified air, and Briggs settled his wig, eyeing her anew with fresh interest.

  “Wot a witness you would be in a divorce case!” he continued enthusiastically. “You’d be in your helement!”

  “I should — I should indeed!” exclaimed Mamzelle, with sudden excitement, — then as suddenly growing calm, she made a rapid gesture with her hands— “But there will be no divorce. Milord Winsleigh is a fool!”

  Briggs appeared doubtful about this, and meditated for a long time over his third glass of port with the profound gravity of a philosopher.

  “No, Mamzelle,” he said at last, when he rose from the table to return to his duties upstairs— “No! there I must differ from you. I am a close observer. Wotever Winsleigh’s faults, — and I do not deny that they are many, — he is a gentleman — that I must admit — and with hevery respect for you, Mamzelle — I can assure you he’s no fool!”

  And with these words Briggs betook himself to the library to arrange the reading-lamp and put the room in order for his master’s return, and as he did so, he paused to look at a fine photograph of Lady Winsleigh that stood on the oak escritoire, opposite her husband’s arm-chair.

  “No,” he muttered to himself. “Wotever he thinks of some goings-on, he ain’t blind nor deaf — that’s certain. And I’d stake my character and purfessional reputation on it — wotever he is, he’s no fool!”

  For once in his life, Briggs was right. He was generally wrong in his estimate of both persons and things — but it so happened on this particular occasion that he had formed a perfectly correct judgment.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  “Could you not drink her gaze like wine?

  Yet in its splendor swoon

  Into the silence languidly,

  As a tune into a tune?”

  DANTE ROSSETTI.

  On the
morning of the twenty-fifth of May, Thelma, Lady Bruce-Errington, sat at breakfast with her husband in their sun-shiny morning-room, fragrant with flowers and melodious with the low piping of a tame thrush in a wild gilded cage, who had the sweet habit of warbling his strophes to himself very softly now and then, before venturing to give them full-voiced utterance. A bright-eyed, feathered poet he was, and an exceeding favorite with his fair mistress, who occasionally leaned back in her low chair to look at him and murmur an encouraging “Sweet, sweet!” which caused the speckled plumage on his plump breast to ruffle up with suppressed emotion and gratitude.

  Philip was pretending to read the Times, but the huge, self-important printed sheet had not the faintest interest for him, — his eyes wandered over the top of its columns to the golden gleam of his wife’s hair, brightened just then by the sunlight streaming through the window, — and finally he threw it down beside him with a laugh.

  “There’s no news,” he declared. “There never is any news!”

  Thelma smiled, and her deep-blue eyes sparkled.

  “No?” she half inquired — then taking her husband’s cup from his hand to re-fill it with coffee, she added, “but I think you do not give yourself time to find the news, Philip. You will never read the papers more than five minutes.”

  “My dear girl,” said Philip gaily, “I am more conscientious than you are, at any rate, for you never read them at all!”

  “Ah, but you must remember,” she returned gravely, “that is because I do not understand them! I am not clever. They seem to me to be all about such dull things — unless there is some horrible murder or cruelty or accident — and I would rather not hear of these. I do prefer books always — because the books last, and news is never certain — it may not even be true.”