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

by Marie Corelli

  He was silent, standing before her with head bent, like some disgraced schoolboy.

  “Good-night!” she said, then, in a gentler tone—’ I do not know how long I have been the companion of your ‘Ordeal by Fire!’ — I suppose I ought to be hungry and thirsty, but I am not. To breathe has been to me sufficient nourishment — yet for the sake of appearances you had better let Vasho — poor frightened Vasho! — bring me food as usual. I shall be ready for him in an hour.” She motioned him away, and closed the door. As she disappeared, a light seemed to vanish with her and the dark entresol grew even darker. He went downstairs in a maze of bewilderment, dazzled by her beauty and conscious of her utter indifference, — and stood for a moment at the open door of the loggia, looking out at the still, dark loveliness of the summer evening.

  “And so it is finished!” he said to himself. “All over! A completed triumph and marvel of science! But — what have I made of her? She is not a woman! Then — what is she?”

  CHAPTER XXI

  WHILE Dimitrius thus perplexed himself with a psychological question for which he could find no satisfactory answer, Diana was happily free from doubts and fears of any kind whatsoever. When she found herself alone in her rooms she was conscious of a strange sense of sovereignty and supremacy which, though it was in a manner new to her, yet did not seem unnatural. She was not in the least conscious of having passed four days, practically, in a state of suspended animation, no more, perhaps, than is the Indian fakir who suffers himself to be buried in the earth for a sufficient time to allow the corn to grow over him. She looked about her, recognizing certain familiar objects which were her own, and others which belonged to the Dimitrius household, — she touched the piano lightly as she passed it, — glanced through the open window at the dusky, starlit skies, and then went into her bedroom, where, turning on the electric burner, she confronted herself in the mirror with a smile. Beauty smiled back at her in every line and curve, in every movement; and she criticized her own appearance as she might have criticized a picture, admiring the sheeny softness and sparkle of the mysterious garment in which she was arrayed. But after a few moments of this quiet self-contemplation, she recollected more mundane things, and going to the wardrobe, took out the rose-silk wrap Sophy Lansing had given her.

  “I wonder,” she said, half laughing, “what Sophy would say to me now!” But,; after all, what a far-away person Sophy seems!”

  Standing before the mirror she deliberately let the shining “robe of ordeal” slip from her body to the floor.

  Nude as a pearl, she remained for a moment, gazing, as she knew, at the loveliest model of feminine perfection ever seen since the sculptor of the Venus de Medici wrought his marble divinity. Yet she was not surprised or elated; no touch of vanity or self-complacency moved her. The astonishing part of the whole matter was that it seemed quite natural to her to be thus beautiful; beauty had become part of her existence, like the simple act of breathing, and called for no special personal notice. She slipped on a few garments, covering all with her rose-silk wrapper, and twisted up her hair. And so she was clothed again as Diana May, — but what a different Diana May! She heard Vasho moving in the sitting-room, and looking, saw that he was setting out a dainty little table with game and fruit and wine. He caught sight of her fair face watching him from the half-open door which divided bedroom from sitting-room, and paused, abashed — then made a sort of Eastern salutation, full of the most abject humility.

  “Poor Vasho!” she said, advancing. “How strange that you should be so afraid of me! What do you take me for? You must not be afraid i.”

  No goddess, suddenly descending from the skies to earth, could have looked more royally beneficent than she, and Vasho made rapid signs of entire devotion to her service.

  “No,” she said—” You are your master’s man. He will need your help — when I am gone!”

  The negro’s countenance expressed a sudden dismay — and she laughed.

  “Yes — when I am gone!” she repeated, “and that will be very soon! I am made for all the world now!”

  His eyes rolled despairingly, — he made eloquent and beseeching signs of appeal.

  “You will be sorry?” she said. “Yes — I daresay you will! Now go along, — they want you downstairs. It is foolish to be sorry for anything.”

  She smiled at him as he backed from her presence, looking utterly miserable, and disappeared. Left alone, she touched a glass of wine with her lips, but quickly set it down. —

  “What a curious taste!” she said. “I used to like it, — I don’t like it at all now. I’m not thirsty and I’m not hungry. I want nothing. It’s enough for me to breathe!”

  She moved slowly up and down with an exquisite floating grace, a perfect vision of imperial beauty, her rose-red “rest-gown” with its white fur lining trailing about her; and presently, sitting down by the open window, she inhaled the warm summer air, and after a while watched the moon rise through a foam of white cloud, which seemed to have sprayed itself sheer down from the Alpine snows. Her thoughts were clear; her consciousness particularly active, — and, with a kind of new self-possession and intellectuality, she took herself, as it were, mentally to pieces, and examined each section of herself as under a psychological microscope.

  “Let me be quite sure of my own identity,” she said, half aloud. “I am Diana May — and yet I am not Diana May! I have lost the worn old shell of my former personality, and I have found another personality which is not my own, and yet somehow is the real Me! — the Me for whom I have been searching and crying ever since I could search and cry! — the Me I have dreamed of as rising in the shape of a Soul from my dead body! I am clothed with a life vesture made of strange and imperishable stuff, — I cannot begin to describe or understand it, except as an organization free from all pain and grossness — and what is more positive still — free from all feeling!”

  She paused here, interested in the puzzle of her thoughts. Raising her eyes, she looked out at the divine beauty of the night.

  “Yes,” she went on musing—” That is the strangest part of it I — I have no feeling. This is the work of science — therefore my condition will be within reach of all who care to accept it. I look out at the garden, — the moonlight, — but not as I used to look. They have no feeling, and seem just a natural part of myself. They do not move me to any more sensation than the recognition that they live as I do, with me and for me. If I can get hold of myself at all surely, I think my chief consciousness is that of power, — power, with no regard for its exercise or result.”

  She waited again, disentangling her mind from all clinging or vague recollections.

  This man, Féodor Dimitrius, interested me at one time,” she said. “His utter selfishness and callous absorption in his own studies moved me almost to pain. Now he does not interest me at all. His mother is kind, — very simple — very stupid and well-meaning — but I could not stay with her for long. Who else must I remember?”

  Suddenly she laughed.

  “Pa and Ma!” she exclaimed—” I must not forget them! Those dear, respectable parents of mine, who only cared for me as long as I was an interesting object to themselves, and found me ‘in the way’ when their interest ceased! Flighty Pa! Wouldn’t he just love to be rejuvenated and turned out as a sort of new Faustus, amorous and ‘reckless of everybody’s feelings but his own! Oh, yes, I mustn’t forget Pa! I’m young enough to wear white now! — I’ll go and see him as soon as I get back to England — before Ma’s best mourning gown grows rusty!” She laughed again, the most enchanting dimples lightening her face as mirth radiated from her lips and eyes — then all at once she became serious, almost stern, and stood up as though lifted erect by some thought which impelled action. One hand clenched involuntarily.

  “Captain the Honourable Reginald Cleeve!” she said, in slow tones of emphatic scorn—” Especially the Honourable! I must not forget him! — or his fat wife! — or his appallingly hideous and stupid children! I mus
t look at them all! — and not only must I look at them — they must look at me!”

  Her hand relaxed, — her eyes, limpid and lustrous, turned again towards the open window and moonlit summer night.

  “Yet — is vengeance worth while?” she mused—” Vengeance on a mote — a worm — a low soul such as that of the man I once almost worshipped? Yes! — the gods know it is worth while to punish a liar and traitor! When the world becomes unclean and full of falsehood a great war is sent to purge its foulness, — when a man destroys a life’s happiness it is just that his own happiness should also be destroyed.”

  She had come to the conclusion of her meditations, and seeing the hour was ten o’clock she opened her door and put the untouched little supper-table with all its delicacies outside in the entresol to be cleared away; then locking herself in for the night, prepared to go to bed. It was now that a sudden thrill of doubt quivered through her beautiful “new” organization, — the nervous idea that perhaps she would not be able to pray! She took herself severely to task for this thought.

  “All things are of God!” she said, aloud—” Whatever science has made of me I can be nothing without His will. To Him belong the sun and air, the light and fire! — to Him also I belong, and to Him I may render ‘thanks without fear.”

  She knelt down and uttered the familiar “Our Father” in slow, soft tones of humility and devotion. To anyone who could have watched her praying thus, she would have seemed

  “A splendid angel newly drest

  Save wings, for heaven!”

  And when she laid her head on her pillow she fell asleep as sweetly as a young child, her breathing as light, her dreamless unconsciousness as perfect.

  The morning found her refreshed by her slumber, stronger and more self-possessed than before; and when clad in her ordinary little white batiste gown she looked, as indeed she was bodily, if not mentally, a mere slip of a girl, — a lovely girl, slender as a rod and fair as a lily, radiating in every expression and movement with an altogether extraordinary beauty. After the breakfast hour came Madame Dimitrius, eager, curious, affectionate but at first sight of her, stood as though rooted to the floor, and began to tremble so violently that Diana put an arm about her to save her from falling. But, with a white, scared face and repelling hand, the old woman pushed her aside.

  “Do not touch me, please!” she said, in feeble, quavering tones—” I — I did not expect this! I was prepared for much — but not this! — this is devil’s work! Oh, my son, my son! He is possessed by the powers of evil! — may God deliver him! No, no!” — this, as Diana, with her beautiful smile of uplifted sweetness and tolerance, strove to speak—” Nothing you can say will alter it! It is impossible that such a thing could be done without rebellion against the laws of God! You — you are not Diana May — you are some other creature, not made of flesh and blood!”

  Diana heard her with a gentle patience.

  “Very possibly you are right,” she said, quietly. “But whatever I am made of must be some of God’s own material, since there is nothing existent without Him! Why, even if there is a devil, the devil himself cannot exist apart from God!”

  Madame Dimitrius uttered a pained cry, and then began to sob hysterically.

  “Oh, do not speak to me, do not speak to me!” she wailed. “My son, my son! My Féodor! His soul is the prey of some evil spirit — and it seems to me as if you are that spirit’s form and voice! You are beautiful — but not with merely a woman’s beauty! — his science has called some strange power to him — you are that power! — you will be his doom!” She wrung her hands nervously, and moaning, “Let me go! — let me go! “turned to leave the room.

  Diana stood apart, making no effort to detain her. A look of wondering compassion filled her lovely eyes.

  “Poor woman!” she breathed, softly.” Poor weak, worn soul!”

  Then suddenly she spoke aloud in clear, sweet, decisive tones.

  “Dear Madame,” she said—” you distress yourself without cause! You need not be afraid of me, — I will do you no harm! As for your son, his fate is in his own hands; he assumes to be master of it. I shall not interfere with him or with you, — for now I shall leave you both for ever! I have submitted myself to his orders, — I have been his paid ‘subject,’ and he cannot complain of any want of obedience on my part, — his experiment has succeeded. Nothing therefore now remains for me to do here, and he has no further need of me. I promise you I will go as quickly as I can! — and if, as you say, I am not human, why so much the worse for humanity!”

  She smiled, and her attitude and expression were royally triumphant. Madame Dimitrius had reached the door of the apartment, and with her hand leaning against it turned back to look at her in evident terror. Then she essayed to speak again.

  “I am sorry,” she faltered—” if I seem strange and harsh — but — but you are not Diana May — not the woman I knew! She had grown younger and prettier under my son’s treatment — but you! — you are a mere girl! — and I feel — I know you are not, you cannot be human!”

  A light of something like scorn flashed from Diana’s eyes. “Is humanity so valuable?” she asked.

  But this question was more than enough for Madame Dimitrius. With a shuddering exclamation of something like utter despair, she hurriedly opened the door, and stumbled blindly out into the corridor, there to be caught in the arms of her son, who was coming to Diana’s rooms. “Why, mother!” he ejaculated—” what is this?” Diana stood at her half-open door, looking at them both like a young angel at the gate of paradise.

  “Your mother is frightened of me,” she explained gently. “She says I am not human. I daresay that’s very likely! But do try and comfort her, and tell her that I have no evil intentions towards her or you. And that I am going away as soon as you will allow me to do so.”

  His brows contracted.

  “Mother,” he said reproachfully, “is this how you keep your promise to me? I gave you my confidence — you see the full success of my great experiment — and yet you reward me thus!”

  She clung to him desperately.

  “Féodor! — Féodor!” she cried—” My son, — my only child! You shall not blame me, — me, your mother! I love you, Féodor! — and love teaches many things! Oh, my son! — you have drawn from your science something that is not of this world! — something that has no feeling-no emotion! — this creature of your making is not Diana!” As she spoke her face grew livid, — she beat the air with her feeble old hands, as though she fought some invisible foe, and fell in a dead faint.

  Quickly Dimitrius lifted her in his arms, and laid her on the sofa in Diana’s sitting-room. Diana came to his aid, and deftly and tenderly bathed her forehead and hands with cool water. When she showed signs of returning consciousness Diana said whisperingly:

  “I will go now! She must not be frightened again — she must not see me when she wakes. You understand?

  [YOUNG DIANA BOOK]

  Poor, dear old lady! She imagines I am not human, and she has told me I shall, be your doom!’” She smiled. “Do you think, I shall?”

  Her loveliness shone upon him like a light too brilliant to endure. His heart beat furiously, but he would not look at her, — he bent his head over his mother’s passive figure, busying himself with restoratives, — and answered nothing.

  She waited a minute, — then added—” You will arrange for my leaving here as soon as possible? After what she has said, it will be best for your mother that I should go at once.”

  Then, and then only, he lifted his dark eyes, — they were sad and strained.

  “I will arrange everything,” he said. “No doubt the sooner we part, the better!”

  She smiled again, — then moved softly away into her bedroom and locked the door. Slowly Madame Dimitrius recovered and looked around her with an alarmed expression.

  “She has gone?”

  “Yes,” her son replied, with a bitterness he could not restrain. “She has gone! — a
nd she will go! You have driven away the loveliest thing ever seen on earth! my creation! Through you she will leave me altogether — and yet you say you love me!”

  “I do! I do love you!” cried his mother, weeping. “Féodor, Féodor, I love you as no other can or will! I love you, and by my love I claim your soul! I claim it from the powers of evil! — I claim it for God!”

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE swiftness and silence of Diana’s departure from the Château Fragonard was of an almost uncanny nature. There were no affectionate leave-takings, — and she made no attempt to see Madame Dimitrius, who, thoroughly unnerved and ill, remained in her bedroom, — nor would she permit of any escort to the station, or “seeing off” by way of farewell. She simply left the house, having packed and labelled her own luggage to be sent after her, — and walked quietly with Dr. Dimitrius, through the lovely gardens all in their summer beauty, to the private gate opening out to the high road, from whence it was an easy ten minutes to the station. He was very silent, and his usual composure had entirely deserted him.

  “I cannot part with you like this,” he said, in low, nervous tones, as she gave him her hand in “good-bye.”

  “As soon as my mother recovers from this strange break-down of hers, I shall follow you. I must see you again—”

  She smiled.

  “Must you?”

  “Of course I must! I am deeply grateful to you, — do not think I can forget your patience — your courage—”

  He paused, deeply moved, “I hate the idea of your travelling all alone to London!”

  “Why?” she asked, in an amused tone—” I came all alone!”

  “Yes — but it was different—” —

  “You mean I looked ‘mature,’ then?” she laughed. “Oh, well! Nobody will interfere with a girl returning home from school in Geneva!”

  A pained smile crossed his face.