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

by Marie Corelli

  “I tell you again,” repeated Lovelace firmly— “the whole thing is a lie. Will you apologize?”

  Mr. Grubbs threw himself back in his chair and laughed aloud.

  “Apologize? My dear sir, you must be dreaming! Apologize? Certainly not! I cannot retract the statements I have made — and I firmly believe them to be true. And though there is a saying, ‘the greater the truth the greater the libel,’ I’m ready, sir, and, always have been ready, to sacrifice myself to the cause of truth. Truth, truth for ever! Tell the truth and shame the devil! You are at liberty to inform Sir Philip Errington from me, that as it is my object — a laudable and praiseworthy one, too, I think — to show up the awful immorality now reigning in our upper classes, I do not regret in the least the insertion of the paragraph in question. If it only makes him ashamed of his vices, I shall have done a good deed, and served the interests of society at large. At the same time, if he wishes to bring an action for libel—”

  “You dog!” exclaimed Lovelace fiercely, approaching him with such a sudden rapid stride that the astonished editor sprang up and barricaded himself behind his own chair. “You hope for that, do you? An action for libel! nothing would please you better! To bring your scandalous printed trash into notoriety, — to hear your name shouted by dirty hawkers and newsboys — to be sentenced as a first-class misdemenent; ah, no such luck for you! I know the tricks of your vile trade! There are other ways of dealing with a vulgar bully and coward!”

  And before the startled Grubbs could realize his position, Lovelace closed with him, beat him under, and struck the horsewhip smartly cross his back and shoulders. He uttered a yell of pain and fury, and strove vigorously to defend himself, but, owing to his obesity, his muscles were weak and flabby, and he was powerless against the activity and strength of his opponent. Lash after lash descended regularly and mercilessly — his cries, which gradually became like the roarings of a bull of Basban, were unheard, as the office-boy below, profiting by a few idle moments, had run across the street to buy some chestnuts at a stall he particularly patronized. Beau thrashed on with increasing enjoyment — Grubbs resisted him less and less, till finally he slipped feebly down on the floor and grovelled there, gasping and groaning. Beau gave him one or two more artistic cuts, and stood above him, with the serene, triumphant smile of a successful athlete. Suddenly a loud peal of laughter echoed from the doorway, — a woman stood there, richly dressed in silk and fur, with diamonds sparkling in her ears and diamonds clasping the long boa at her throat. It was Violet Vere.

  “Why, Snawley!” she cried with cheerful familiarity. “How are you? All broken, and no one to pick up the pieces! Serve you right! Got it at last, eh? Don’t get up! You look so comfortable!”

  “Bodily assault,” gasped Grubbs. “I’ll summons — call the police — call,” his voice died away in inarticulate gurglings, and raising himself, he sat up on the floor in a sufficiently abject and ludicrous posture, wiping the tears of pain from his eyes. Beau looked at the female intruder and recognized her at once. He saluted her with cold courtesy, and turned again to Grubbs.

  “Will you apologize?”

  “No — I — I won’t!”

  Beau made another threatening movement — Miss Vere interposed.

  “Stop a bit,” she said, regarding him with her insolent eyes, in which lurked, however, an approving smile. “I don’t know who you are, but you seem a fighting man! Don’t go at him again till I’ve had a word. I say, Grubbs! you’ve been hitting at me in your trashy paper.”

  Grubbs still sat on the floor groaning.

  “You must eat those words,” went on the Vere calmly. “Eat ’em up with sauce for dinner. The ‘admired actress well known at the Brilliant,’ has nothing to do with the Bruce-Errington man, — not she! He’s a duffer, a regular stiff one — no go about him anyhow. And what the deuce do you mean by calling me an offending dama. Keep your oaths to yourself, will you?”

  Beau Lovelace was amused. Grubbs turned his watering eye from one to the other in wretched perplexity. He made an effort to stand up and succeeded.

  “I’ll have you arrested, sir!” he exclaimed shaking his fists at Beau, and quivering with passion, “on a charge of bodily assault — shameful bodily assault, sir!”

  “All right!” returned Beau coolly. “If I were fined a hundred pounds for it, I should think it cheap for the luxury of thrashing such a hound!”

  Grubbs quaked at the determined attitude and threatening eye of his assailant, and turned for relief to Miss Vere whose smile, however, was not sympathetic.

  “You’d better cave in!” she remarked airily. “You’ve got the worst of it, you know!”

  She had long been on confidential terms with the Snake proprietor, and she spoke to him now with the candor of an old friend.

  “Dear me, what do you expect of me!” he almost whimpered. “I’m not to blame! The paragraph was inserted without my knowledge by my sub-editor — he’s away just now, and — there! why?” he cried with sudden defiance, “why don’t you ask Sir Francis Lennox about it? He wrote the whole thing.”

  “Well, he’s dead,” said Miss Vere with the utmost coolness. “So it wouldn’t be much use asking him. HE can’t answer, — you’ll have to answer for him.”

  “I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Mr. Grubbs. “He can’t be dead!”

  “Oh, yes, he can, and he is,” retorted Violet. “And a good job too! He was knocked over by a train at Charing Cross. You’ll see it in to-day’s paper, if you take the trouble to look. And mind you contradict all that stuff about me in your next number — do you hear? I’m going to America with a Duke next month, and I can’t afford to have my reputation injured. And I won’t be called a ‘dama’ for any penny-a-liner living.” She paused, and again broke out laughing, “Poor old Snawley! You do look so sore! Ta-ta!” And she moved towards the door. Lovelace, always courteous, opened it for her. She raised her hard, bright eyes, and smiled.

  “Thanks! Hope I shall see you again some day!”

  “You are very good!” responded Beau gravely.

  Either his tone, which was one chill indifference, or some thing in his look, irritated her suddenly — for a rash of hot color crimsoned her face, and she bit her lips vexedly as she descended the office-stairs.

  “He’s one of your high-and-mighty sort,” she thought disdainfully, as she entered her cosy brougham and was driven away. “Quite too awfully moral!” She pulled a large, elaborately cut glass scent-bottle out of the pocket of her cloak, and, unscrewing the gold top, applied it, not to her nose but her mouth. It contained neat Cognac — and she drank a goodly gulp of it with evident relish, swallowing a scented bon-bon immediately afterwards to take away the suspicious odor. “Yes — quite too awfully moral!” she repeated with a grin. “Not in my line at all! Lord! It’s lucky there are not many such fellows about, or what would become of me? A precious poor business I should make of it!”

  Meanwhile, Lovelace, left alone again with Mr. Grubbs, reiterated his demand for an apology. Grubbs made a rush for the door, as soon as Miss Vere had gone, with the full intention of summoning the police, but Beau coolly placed his back against it with resolute firmness, and flourished his whip defiantly.

  “Come, sir, none of this nonsense!” he said sternly. “I don’t mean to leave this spot till I have satisfaction. If Sir Francis Lennox wrote that scandalous paragraph the greater rascal he, — and the more shame to you for inserting it. — You, who make it your business to know all the dirty alleys and dark corners of life, must have known his character pretty thoroughly. There’s not the slightest excuse for you. Will you apologize? — and retract every word of that paragraph, in your next issue?”

  Grubbs, breathless with rage and fear, glared at him, but made no answer.

  “If you refuse to comply,” went on Beau deliberately, balancing the horsewhip lightly on his hand, “I’ll just tell you what the consequences will be. I’ve thrashed you once — and I’ll thrash you again. I have on
ly to give the cue to several worthy fellows of my acquaintance, who don’t care how much they pay for their fun, and each of them in turn will thrash you. As for an action for libel, don’t expect it — but I swear there shan’t be a safe corner in London for you. If, however, you publish next week a full retraction of your printed lie — why, then I — shall be only too happy to forget that such an individual as yourself burdens this planet. There are the two alternatives — choose!”

  Grubbs hesitated, but coward fear made him quail the prospect of unlimited thrashings.

  “Very well,” he said sullenly. “Write what you want put in — I’ll attend to it — I don’t mind obliging Miss Vere. But all the same, I’ll have you arrested!”

  Beau laughed. “Do so by all means!” he said gaily. “I’ll leave my address with you!” He wrote rapidly a few lines on a piece of paper to the following effect —

  “We have to entirely contradict a statement we made last week respecting a supposed forthcoming divorce case in which Sir Philip Bruce-Errington was seriously implicated. There was no truth whatever in the statement, and we herewith apologize most humbly and heartily for having inadvertently given credence to a rumor which is now proved to be utterly false and without the slightest shadow of a foundation.”

  He handed this to Grubbs.

  “Insert that word for word, at the head of your paragraphs,” he said, “and you’ll hear no more of me, unless you give me fresh provocation. And I advise you to think twice before you have me arrested — for I’ll defend my own case, and — ruin you! I’m rather a dangerous customer to have much to do with! However, you’ve got my card — you know where to find me if you want me. Only you’d better send after me to-night if you do — to-morrow I may be absent.”

  He smiled, and drew on his gloves leisurely, eyeing meanwhile the discomfited editor, who was furtively rubbing his shoulder where the lash had stung it somewhat severely.

  “I’m exceedingly glad I’ve hurt you, Mr. Grubbs,” he said blandly. “And the next time you want to call me your brother in literature, pray reflect on the manner in which my fraternal affection displayed itself! good morning!”

  And he took his departure with a quiet step and serene manner, leaving Snawley-Grubbs to his own meditations, which were far from agreeable. He was not ignorant of the influence Beau Lovelace possessed, both on the press and in society — he was a general favorite, — a man whose opinions were quoted, and whose authority was accepted everywhere. If he appeared to answer a charge of assault against Grubbs, and defended his own case, he certainly would have the best of it. He might — he would have to pay a fine, but what did he care for that? He would hold up the Snake and its proprietor to the utmost ridicule and opprobrium — his brilliant satire and humor would carry all before it — and he, Snawley-Grubbs, would be still more utterly routed and humiliated. Weighing all these considerations carefully in his mind, the shrinking editor decided to sit down under his horsewhipping in silence and resignation.

  It was not a very lofty mode of action — still, it was the safest. Of course Violet Vere would spread the story all through her particular “set” — it made him furious to think of this yet there was no help for it. He would play the martyr, he thought — the martyr to the cause of truth, — the injured innocent entrapped by false information — he might possibly gain new supporters and sympathizers in this way if he played his cards carefully. He turned to the daily paper, and saw there chronicled the death of Sir Francis Lennox. It was true, then. Well! he was not at all affected by it — he merely committed the dead man in the briefest and strongest language to the very lowest of those low and sulphurous regions over which Satan is supposed to have full sway. Not a soul regretted Sir Francis — not even the Vere, whom he had kept and surrounded with every luxury for five years. Only one person, a fair, weary faced woman away in Germany shed a few tears over the lawyer’s black-bordered letter that announced his death to her — and this was the deserted wife, — who had once loved him. Lady Winsleigh had heard the news, — she shuddered and turned very pale when her husband gently and almost pityingly told her of the sudden and unprepared end that had overtaken her quondam admirer — but she said nothing. She was presiding at the breakfast-table for the first time in many years — she looked somewhat sad and listless, yet lovelier so than in all the usual pride and assertive arrogance of her beauty. Lord Winsleigh read aloud the brief account of the accident in the paper — she listened dreamily, still mute. He watched her with yearning eyes.

  “An awful death for such a man, Clara!” he said at last in a low tone.

  She dared not look up — she was trembling nervously. How dreadful it was, she thought, to be thankful that a man was dead! — to feel a relief at his being no longer in this world! Presently her husband spoke again more reservedly. “No doubt you are greatly shocked and grieved,” he said. “I should not have told you so suddenly — pardon me!”

  “I am not grieved,” she murmured unsteadily. “It sounds horrible to say so — but I — I am afraid I am glad!”

  “Clara!”

  She rose and came tremblingly towards him. She knelt at his feet, though he strove to prevent her, — she raised her large, dark eyes, full of dull agony, to his.

  “I’ve been a wicked woman, Harry,” she said, with a strange, imploring thrill of passion in her voice, “I am down — down in the dust before you! Look at me — don’t forgive me — I won’t ask that — you can’t forgive me, — but pity me!”

  He took her hands and laid them round his neck, — he drew her gently, soothingly, — closer, closer, till he pressed her to his heart.

  “Down in the dust are you?” he whispered brokenly. “My poor wife! God forbid that I should keep you there!”

  BOOK III. THE LAND OF THE LONG SHADOW

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  “They have the night, who had, like us, the day —

  We, whom day binds, shall have the night as they —

  We, from the fetters of the light unbound,

  Healed of our wound of living, shall sleep sound!”

  SWINBURNE.

  Night on the Altenfjord, — the long, long, changeless night of winter. The sharp snow-covered crests of the mountains rose in white appeal against the darkness of the sky, — the wild north wind tore through the leafless branches of the pine-forests, bringing with it driving pellets of stinging hail. Joyless and songless, the whole landscape lay as though frozen into sculptured stone. The Sun slept, — and the Fjord, black with brooding shadows, seemed silently to ask — where? Where was the great king of Light? — the glorious god of the golden hair and ruddy countenance? — the glittering warrior with the flaming shield and spear invincible? Where had he found his rest? By what strange enchantment had he fallen into so deep and long a drowsiness. The wind that had rioted across the mountains, rooting up great trees in its shrieking career northwards, grew hushed as it approached the Altenfjord — there a weird stillness reigned, broken only by the sullen and monotonous plash of the invisible waves upon the scarcely visible shore.

  A few tiny, twinkling lights showed the irregular outline of Bosekop, and now and then one or two fishing-boats with sable sails and small colored lamps at mast and prow would flit across the inky water like dark messengers from another world bound on some mournful errand. Human figures, more shadowy than real, were to be seen occasionally moving on the pier, and to the left of the little town, as the eye grew accustomed to the moveless gloom, a group of persons, like ghosts in a dream, could be dimly perceived, working busily at the mending of nets.

  Suddenly a strange, unearthly glow flashed over the sombre scene, — a rosy radiance deepening to brilliant streaks of fire. The dark heavens were torn asunder, and through them streamed flaring pennons of light, — waving, trembling, dancing, luminous ribbons of red, blue, green, and a delicious amber, like the flowing of golden wine, — wider, higher, more dazzlingly lustrous, the wondrous glory shone aloft, rising upward from the horizon — thrusting l
ong spears of lambent flame among the murky retreating clouds, till in one magnificent coruscation of resplendent beams a blazing arch of gold leaped from east to west, spanning the visible breath of the Fjord, and casting towards the white peaks above, vivid sparkles and reflections of jewel-like brightness and color. Here was surely the Rainbow Bridge of Odin — the glittering pathway leading to Valhalla! Long filmy threads of emerald and azure trailed downwards from it, like ropes of fairy flowers, binding it to the earth — above it hung a fleece-like nebulous whiteness, — a canopy through which palpitated sudden flashes of amethyst. Then, as though the arch were a bent bow for the hand of some heavenly hunter, crimson beams darted across it in swift succession, like arrows shot at the dark target of the world. Round and round swept the varying circles of color — now advancing — now retreating — now turning the sullen waters beneath into a quivering mass of steely green — now beating against the snow-covered hills till they seemed pinnacles of heaped-up pearls and diamonds. The whole landscape was transformed, — and the shadowy cluster of men and women on the shore paused in their toil, and turned their pale faces towards the rippling splendor, — the heavy fishing-nets drooping from their hands like dark webs woven by giant spiders.

  “’Tis the first time we have seen the Arch of Death this year,” said one in awed accents.

  “Ay, ay!” returned another, with a sigh. “And some one is bound to cross it, whether he will or no. ’Tis a sure sign!”

  “Sure!” they all agreed, in hushed voices as faint and far-off as the breaking of the tide against the rocks on the opposite coast.