“I am glad to find you alone—” he began.
“Yes? I am generally alone,” answered Sylvie with a little smile— “except for Katrine — she would be here to welcome you this evening, but she has a very bad neuralgic headache—”
“I am very sorry,” murmured Aubrey, with hypocritical earnestness, all the while devoutly blessing Madame Bozier’s timely indisposition. “She is a great sufferer from neuralgia, I believe?”
“Yes . . .” and Sylvie, to divert the cloud of embarrassment that seemed to be deepening rather than dispersing for them both, rang the bell with a pretty imperativeness that was rather startling to Aubrey’s nerves.
“What is that for?” he enquired irrelevantly.
“Only for coffee!”
Their eyes met, — the mutual glance was irresistible, and they both laughed. Sylvia’s Arab page entered in response to her summons, a pretty dusky-skinned lad of some twelve years old, picturesquely arrayed in scarlet, and bearing a quaintly embossed gilt salver with coffee prepared in the Arabian fashion.
“Do you like coffee made in this way?” asked Sylvie, as she handed Aubrey his cup.
Aubrey’s eyes were fixed on the small white hand that looked so dainty, curled over the trifle of Sevres china that was called a coffee-cup, — and he answered vaguely,
“This way? Oh, yes — of course — any way!”
A faint smile lifted the rosy corners of Sylvie’s mouth as she heard this incoherent reply — and the Arab page rolled his dark eyes up at his fair mistress with a look of dog-like affectionate enquiry, as to whether perhaps some fault in his serving had caused that little playful enigmatical expression on the face which he, in common with many others of his sex, thought the fairest in the world. The coffee dispensed and the page gone, there followed a spell of silence. The fire burned cheerily in the deep chimney, and the great logs cracked and spluttered as much as to say, “If these two curious people can find nothing to talk about, we can!” And then, just as luck would have it, a burning ember suddenly detached itself from the rest and fell out blazing on the hearth — Sylvie sprang up to push it back, and Aubrey to assist her, — and then, strange to relate — only the occult influences of attraction know how it happened — the little difficulty of the burning ember brought those two other burning embers of humanity together — for Aubrey, hardly conscious of what he did, caught Sylvie’s swaying, graceful figure as she rose from bending over the fire, closely in his arms, with a passion which mounted like a wave to tempest height, and knew no further hesitation or obstacle.
“Sylvie! Sylvie! I love you! — my darling! I love you!—”
No answer came, for there was none needed. Her face was hidden on his breast — but he felt rather than saw the soft white arms and dainty hands moving tremblingly upwards, till they closed round him in the dear embrace which meant for him from henceforth the faith and love and devotion of one true heart through all the sorrows and perplexities as well as the joys and triumphs of life. And when, with his heart beating, and all his pulses thrilling with the new ecstacy that possessed him, he whispered a word or two that caused the pretty golden head to raise itself timidly — the beautiful dark blue eyes to grow darker with the tenderness that overflowed the soul behind them, and the sweet lips to meet his own in a kiss, as soft and fragrant as though a rose had touched them, it was small blame to him that for a moment he lost his self-possession, and drawing her closer in his arms, showered upon her not only kisses, but whispered words of all that tender endearment which is judged as “foolish” by those who have never had the privilege of being made the subject of such priceless and exquisite “fooling.” And when they were calmer, and began to think of the possibility of the worthy Bozier suddenly recovering from her neuralgia and coming to look after her pupil, — or the undesired but likely entrance of a servant to attend to the lamps, or to put fresh wood on the fire, they turned each from the other, with reluctance and half laughing decorum, — Sylvie resuming her seat by the fire, and Aubrey flinging himself with happy recklessness in a low fauteuil as near to her as could be permitted for a gentleman visitor, who might be considered as enthusiastically expounding literature or science to a fascinating hostess. And somehow, as they talked, their conversation did gradually drift from passionate personalities into graver themes affecting wider interests, and Aubrey, warming into eloquence, gave free vent to his thoughts and opinions, till noticing that Sylvie sat very silent, looking into the fire somewhat gravely, he checked himself abruptly, fancying that perhaps he was treading on what might be forbidden ground with her whose pleasure was now his law. As he came to this sudden pause, she turned her soft eyes towards him tenderly, with a smile.
“Well!” she said, in the pretty foreign accent which distinguished her almost perfect English, “And why do you stop speaking? You must not be afraid to trust me with your closest thoughts, — because how can our love be perfect if you do not?”
“Sweetheart!” he answered, catching the white hand that was so temptingly near his own, “Our love IS perfect! — and so far as I am concerned there shall never be a cloud on such a dazzling sky!”
She smiled.
“Ah, you talk romance just now!” she said, “But Aubrey, I want our love to be something more than romance — I want it to be a grand and helpful reality! If I am not worthy to be the companion of your very soul, you will not, you cannot love me long. Now, no protestations!” For he had possessed himself of the dear little hand again, and was covering it with kisses— “You see, it is very sweet just now to sit by the fire together, and look at each other, and feel how happy we are — but life does not go on like that. And your life, my Aubrey, belongs to the world . . .”
“To you! — to you!” said Aubrey passionately, “I give it to you! You know the song? — I set my life in your hand Mar it or make it sweet, — I set my life in your hand, I lay my heart at your feet!”
Sylvie rose impulsively, and leaning over his chair kissed his forehead.
“Yes, I know! And I know you mean what you say! I could not imagine you telling an untruth, — not even in making love!” and she laughed, “Though there are many of your sex who think any amount of lies permissible under similar circumstances! And it is just because I have found men such practised liars, that I have the reputation of being heartless. Did you ever think me heartless?”
Aubrey hesitated a moment.
“Yes,” he admitted at last, frankly, “I did till I knew better. I was told—”
“Stop! I know all you were told!” said Sylvie, drawing her slim figure up with a pretty dignity as she moved back to her place by the fire— “You were told that I was the cause of the death of the Marquis Fontenelle. So I was, unhappily — but not through my own fault. The actor Miraudin, — known to be one of the most coarse-minded and brutal of men, — slandered me in public, — the Marquis defended me. Hence the combat and its fatal end, which no one has deplored more bitterly than I. Miraudin was never a gentleman, — Fontenelle could have been one had he chosen. And I confess I cared very much for him at one time!”
“You loved him,” said Aubrey, trying to master a pang of jealousy.
“Yes! I loved him! — till he proved himself unworthy of love.”
There was a silence.
“I tell you all this,” said Sylvie then slowly and emphatically, “that you may know me at once as I am. I wish to hide nothing from you. I have read all your books — I know your views of life — your hatred of dissimulation — your contempt of a lie! In your love for me, you must have complete knowledge of my nature, and confidence in my truth. I would never give my life to any man unless he trusted me absolutely, — unless I was sure he felt I was a real helpmate for him. I love you — but I also love your work and your aims; and I go with all your thoughts and wish to share all your responsibilities. But I must feel that you will never misjudge me, — never set me down on the level of mean and small-natured women, who cannot sacrifice themselves or their personal vani
ties for another’s sake. It is not for me to say that the calumnies circulated concerning me are untrue, — it is for my life to show and PROVE they are not! But I must be trusted — not suspected; and if you give me your life as you say, I will give mine to help make yours happier, asking from you in return just your faith — your FAITH as well as your love!”
Like a fair queen she stood, royal in her look, bearing and attitude, and Aubrey bent his head low in reverence before her as he once more kissed her hand.
“My wife!” he said simply.
And the silence that followed was as that of God’s benediction on that perfect marriage which is scarcely ever consummated in all the world, — the marriage of two souls, which like twin flames, unite and burn upward clear to Heaven, as One.
XXVII.
Society soon learned the news of the Countess Hermenstein’s betrothal to the “eccentric Englishman,” Aubrey Leigh, — and with its million tongues discussed the affair in all tones, — most people preferring to say, with the usual “society” kindness, that— “Leigh was not quite such a self-sacrificing idealist as he seemed to be, — he was going to marry for money.” Some few ventured to remark that Sylvie Hermenstein was charming in herself and well worth winning, — but the more practical pooh-poohed this view of the case at once. “Pretty women are to be had by the score,” they said, “It is the money that tells!” Aubrey Leigh caught these rumours, and was in a manner stung by them, — he said very little however, and to all the congratulations he received, merely gave coldly civil thanks. And so the gossips went to work again in their own peculiar way, and said, “Well! She will have an iceberg for a husband, that is one thing! A stuck up, insolent sort of chap! — not a bit of go in him!” Which was true, — Aubrey had no “go.” “Go” means, in modern parlance, to drink oneself stupid, to bet on the most trifling passing events, and to talk slang that would disgrace a stable-boy, as well as to amuse oneself with all sorts of mean and vulgar intrigues which are carried on through the veriest skulk and caddishness; — thus Aubrey was a sad failure in “tip-top” circles. But the “tip-top” circles are not a desirable heaven to every man; — and Aubrey did not care much as to what sort of comments were passed on himself, provided he could see Sylvie always “queen it” over her inferiors in that graceful, gracious way of conquest which was her special peculiarity and charm. Among her friends no one perhaps was happier in Sylvie’s happiness than Angela Sovrani; her nature was of that rare quality which vibrates like a harp to every touch, and the joy of others swept over her with a gladness which made her more glad than if she had received some priceless boon for her own benefit. Florian Varillo was exceedingly angry at the whole affair, — and whenever Sylvie’s betrothal was spoken of he assumed an expression of pained and personal offence which was almost grotesque.
“Such a marriage is ridiculous!” he declared,— “Everyone can see how utterly unsuited the two are in tastes, habits and opinions! They will rue the day they ever met!”
And not all the gentle remonstrances of his own fiancee Angela, could soothe his ruffled humour, or make him accept the inevitable with grace. Angela was exceedingly troubled and puzzled by his almost childish waywardness, — she did not yet understand the nature of a man who was to himself all in all, and who could not endure the idea that any woman whom he personally condescended to admire should become the possession of another, no matter how completely that woman might be beyond his own reach. Poor Angela! She was very simple — very foolish indeed; — she never imagined it could be possible for a man to carry on five or six love-affairs at once, and never be found out. Yet this was the kind of life her “ideal” found the most suitable to his habit and temperament, — and he had made a mental note of Sylvie Hermenstein as one whom he proposed to add to his little list of conquests. So that her engagement of marriage to one who, though reserved in manner and without “go,” was yet every inch a gentleman, and a determined opposer of sophistry and humbug, had considerably disturbed his little plans, and the unsettlement of anything he had set his heart upon greatly displeased him. He generally had his own way in most things, and could not at all comprehend why he was not to have it now. But among all the people who discussed the intended marriage there were two who were so well satisfied as to be almost jubilant, and these were the Monsignori Moretti and Gherardi. These worthies met together in one of the private chambers set apart for the use of the Papal court in the Vatican, and heartily congratulated each other on the subjugation and enthralment of Aubrey Leigh, which meant, as they considered, the consequent removal of a fierce opponent to the Roman Catholic movement in England.
“Did I not tell you,” said Moretti, as he untied some papers he had been carrying, and sat down at a table to glance over them, “Did I not tell you that when all other arguments fail, the unanswerable one of woman can be brought in to clinch every business?”
Gherardi, though in a way contented, was not altogether so sure of his goal. He remembered, with an uncomfortable thrill of doubt, the little skirmish of words he had had with the fair Sylvie in the Pamphili woods.
“You take your thoughts for deeds, and judge them as fully accomplished while they are still in embryo!” he said, “It is true that the engagement of marriage is settled, — but can you be certain that in religious matters the wife may not go with her husband?”
“What!” exclaimed Moretti, opening his dark eyes quickly, as a flash of hell-fire illumined them at the very idea, “Do you suggest that Sylvie Hermenstein, — the last of her race — a race which, back to its earliest source, has been distinguished for its faithful allegiance to Mother-Church, and has moreover added largely to the Papal revenues — could be otherwise than our obedient and docile daughter? Per la Santissima Madonna! — if I thought she could turn against us her marriage should never take place!”
And he brought his fist down with a fierce blow on the papers before him.
“The marriage should never take place!” echoed Gherardi, “How could you prevent it?”
“The Pope himself should intervene!” said Moretti, with increasing fury, losing a little of his self-control, “Gran Dio! Conceive for a moment the wealth of the Hermensteins being used to promulgate the reformer Leigh’s threadbare theories, and feed his rascal poor! Do you know what Sylvie Hermenstein’s fortune is? No, I suppose you do not! But I do! She tries to keep it a secret, but I have made it my business to find out! It is enormous! — and it is ever increasing. With all the fanciful creature’s clothes and jewels and unthinking way of living her life, she spends not a quarter, nor half a quarter of her income, — and yet you actually venture to suggest that her power is so slight over the man who is now her promised husband, that she would voluntarily allow him to use all that huge amount of money as he pleased, OUTSIDE the Church?”
Moretti spoke with such passionate insistence that Gherardi thought it prudent not to irritate him further by argument. So he merely said,
“You expect her to persuade him to embrace our faith?”
“Naturally!” answered Moretti, “And she can, and will do so. If she cannot or will not, she must be MADE to do so!”
He bent over his papers again and rustled them impatiently, but his hand trembled. The pale December sunlight glittered through a stained-glass window above him, and cast deep violet rays about his chair, — Gherardi stood where the same luminance touched his pale face with a crimson glow as of fire.
“This is a busy morning with us,” said Moretti, without looking up, “The excommunication of Denis Vergniaud will be pronounced to-day, — and, what is even more important, — Cardinal Bonpre is summoned by His Holiness’s command to wait upon him this afternoon, bringing the boy, — that boy who is always with him—”
“Ah, there is a history there!” interrupted Gherardi, “It should be remembered that this boy was a witness of the miracle in Rouen, and he was also present at the Vergniaud scandal in Paris — he should have been sent for ere now. He, more than anyone, must surely know
how the miracle was accomplished, — for the worthy Felix tells me he is ‘wise beyond his years’!”
“So! His wisdom will be put to the test to-day!” said Moretti coldly, “Do you not think it strange” — here he raised his eyes from his papers, “and somewhat incriminating too — always supposing the miracle is a case of conspiracy — that no trace has been discovered of the man Claude Cazeau?”
Gherardi had moved to a book-case, and was standing close to it, turning over a vellum-bound manuscript.
“Yes — the whole business looks as black as murder!” he said.
Moretti looked at him sharply.
“Murder? You suppose—”
“That Claude Cazeau has been murdered? Certainly I suppose it! It is more than a week now since we heard that he had mysteriously disappeared, and still there is no news. What can it be but murder? But I do not for a moment suppose that our good Saint Felix is concerned in it!”
And he smiled, turning over the vellum volume carelessly.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 498
