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

by Marie Corelli

  Her lovely face dimpled with smiles — her brilliant eyes, full of a compelling magnetism, filled him with a kind of inward rage — he gave a gesture of mingled wrath and pain.

  “You are quite unlike the old Diana,” he said, bitterly. “She was the, gentlest of creatures, — she would never have mocked me!”

  A rippling peal of laughter broke from her — laughter that was so cold and cutting that its very vibration on the air was like the tinkling of ice-drops on glass.

  “True!” she said. “She was too gentle by half! She was meek and patient — devoted, submissive and loving — she believed in a man’s truth, honour and chivalry! Yes — the poor ‘old’ Diana had feeling and emotions — but the ‘young’ Diana has none!”

  The afternoon sunshine pouring through the window bathed her figure in a luminance so dazzling and made of her such a radiant vision of exquisite perfection that he was fairly dazzled, while the same uneasy sense of the “supernatural” troubled him as it had troubled Mr. James Polydore May.

  “Well, if you will talk like this,” he said, almost reproachfully—” I had better not trouble you with my company — you said you wanted me—”

  “So I do!” she rejoined—” I want you very, much! — but not just now! You can go — but come again soon! However, I need not ask you — you are sure to come! And you need not tell your wife to call upon me — I will dispense With that formality! I prefer to ignore your ‘family!’ Au revoir!”

  She stretched out her hand — a little, lovely hand like that of the marble Psyche — and hardly knowing what he did, he covered it with kisses. She smiled.

  “There, that will do!” she said—” Another time—”

  She gave him a look that shot like lightning from her eyes into his brain, and set it in a whirl. —

  “Diana!” He uttered the name as if it were a prayer.

  “Another time!” she said, in a low, sweet tone—” And — quite soon! But — go now!”

  He left her reluctantly, his mind disquieted and terrorized. Some potent force appeared to have laid hold of his entire being, drawing every nerve and muscle as if by a strong current of electricity. In a dim sort of way he was afraid, — but of what? This he could not formulate to himself, but when he had gone out of her presence he was aware of a strange and paralysing weakness and tiredness, — sensations new to him, and — as he was a great coward where any sort of illness was concerned — alarming. And yet — such was the hold her beauty had on him, that he had made up his mind to possess it or die in the attempt. All the men he knew about town were infatuated with the mere glimpse of the loveliness which flashed upon them like the embodiment of light from another and fairer world, and there was not one among them who did not secretly indulge in the same hope as himself. But the craze of “obsession,” or whatever it was that dominated her, as he thought, gave him a certain advantage over her other admirers. For if she really believed he had formerly been her lover, then surely there was something in her which would draw her to him through the mere fancy of such a possibility. Like all men who are largely endowed with complacent self-satisfaction, he was encased in a hide of conceit too thick to imagine that with the “obsession” (as he considered it) which she entertained, might also go the memory of his callous treatment of her in the past, entailing upon him a possible though indefinable danger.

  She, meanwhile, after he had gone, sat down to think. A long mirror facing her gave her the reflection of her own exquisite face and figure — but her expression for the moment was cold and stern, as that of some avenging goddess. She looked at her hands — the hands her traitor lover had kissed — and opening a quaint jar of perfume on the table beside her, she dashed some of its contents over their delicate whiteness.

  “For he has soiled them!” she said—” They are outraged by his touch!”‘

  A deep scorn gathered in her eyes like growing darkness.

  “Why should I trouble myself with any vengeance upon him?” she asked herself inwardly. “A mere lump of sensuality! — a man who considers no principle save that of his own pleasure, and has no tenderness or memory for me as the ‘old’ spinster whom he thought (and still thinks) was drowned in Devon! — what is he to me but an utterly contemptible atom! — and yet — the only sentiment I seem to be. capable of now is hate! — undying hate, the antithesis of the once undying love I bore him! The revolt of my soul against him is like a revolt of light against darkness! Is he not punished enough by the gross and commonplace domestic life he has made for himself? — No! — not enough! — not enough to hurt him!” —

  She drew a long breath, conscious of the power which filled her body and spirit, — a power which now for the first time seemed to herself terrific. She knew there was pent up within her a lightning force which was swift to attract and equally swift to destroy.

  “Those old Greek stories of gods and goddesses whose unveiled glory slew the mortals who dared to doubt them were quite true prophecies,” she thought—” only they did not penetrate far enough into the myth to discover the real scientific truth of how the mortal could put on immortality. Not even now, though the fusion and transmutation of elements every day discloses more and more marvels of Nature, they have not tested the possibilities of change which science may bring about in the composition of human bodies — that is for the future to discover and determine.”

  At that moment Mrs. Beresford entered the room with a telegram.

  “For you, Diana,” she said. “It has just come.” Opening it, Diana read the message it brought.

  “Professor Chauvet has died suddenly. Has left you his sole heiress. Please meet me in Paris as soon as possible to settle business. Your presence necessary. Reply Hôtel Windsor. — DIMITEIUS.”

  The paper dropped from her hands. She had forgotten Professor Chauvet altogether! The crusty yet kindly old Professor who had asked her to marry him — she had actually forgotten him! And now — he was dead! She sat amazed and stricken, till the gentle voice of Mrs. Beresford roused her.

  “Anything wrong, my dear?”

  “Oh, no! — yet — yes! — perhaps a little! A friend has died suddenly — very suddenly — and he has made me his heiress.”

  Mrs. Beresford smiled a little.

  “Well, isn’t that good news?”

  For the first time since her “awakening” under the fiery ordeal of Dimitrius’s experiment, she experienced a painful thrill of real “feeling.”

  “No — I am sorry,” she said. “I thought I should never feel sorry for anything — but I forgot and neglected this friend — and perhaps — if I had remembered, he might not have died.”

  A beautiful softness and tenderness filled her eyes, and Mrs. Beresford thought she had never seen or imagined any creature half so lovely as she looked.

  “We must go to Paris,” she said. “We can easily start to-morrow. I will answer this wire — and then write.” She pencilled a brief reply:

  “Deeply grieved. Will come as soon as possible. — DIANA.” —

  — and ringing the bell, bade the servant who answered the summons take it to the telegraph office and send it off without delay, “Yes — I am very sorry!” she said again to Mrs. Beresford—” I reproach myself for needless cruelty.”

  Mrs. Beresford, mild-eyed and grey-haired, looked at her half timidly, half affectionately.

  “I’m afraid, my dear, you are cruel! — just a little!” she said. “You make havoc in so many hearts! — and you do not seem to care!”

  Diana shrugged her shoulders.

  “Why should I care?” she retorted. “The ‘havoc’ you speak of, is merely the selfish desire of men to possess what seems to them attractive — it goes no deeper!”

  Then, noting Mrs. Beresford’s rather pained expression, she smiled. “I seem hard, don’t I? But I have had experience—”

  “You? My dear, you are so young!” and her kindly chaperon took her hand and patted it soothingly. “When you are older you will think very differen
tly! When you love someone—”

  “When I love! and the beautiful eyes shone glorious as light-beams—” Ah, then! Why then— ‘the sun will grow cold, and the leaves of the Judgment Book will most certainly be unrolled!”’

  That night she came to a sudden resolve to put away all her formerly cherished ideas of revenging herself on Reginald Cleeve. Standing before her mirror she saw her own beauty transfigured into a yet finer delicacy when this determination became crystallized, as it were, in her consciousness.

  “What is my positive mind?” she asked herself. “It is a centre of attraction, which has through the forces of air, fire and water, learned to polarize atoms into beautiful forms. It organizes itself; but it is also a centre which radiates power over a world of visible effects. So that if I choose I can vitalize or Revitalize other forms. In this Way I could inflict punishment on the traitor who spoiled my former life — but I live another life, now, in which he has no part. This being so, why should I descend to pulverize base clay with pure fire? He will meet his punishment now without any further effort of mine, beyond that which I demand of justice!”

  She raised her hand appealingly, as though she were a priestess invoking a deity, — then, turning to her writing-table, she penned the following lines:

  “To REGINALD CLEEVE.

  “I am summoned unexpectedly to Paris on business, — and the chances are that I shall not see you again. All that I have told you is absolutely true, no matter how much you may disbelieve the story. I am the woman you once pretended to love, and whose life you spoiled, — and I am the woman whom you love now, or (to put it roughly) whom you desire, but whose life you can never spoil again. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ — and when you read this, it is probable I shall have gone away, which is a good thing for your’ peace, and — safety. You have a wife, — you are the ‘father of a family’ — be content with the domestic happiness you have chosen, and fulfil the responsibilities, you have accepted. Good-bye! — and think of me no more except as the ‘old’

  “DIANA.”

  Now when this letter reached Captain the Honourable Reginald Cleeve at his club, to which it was addressed, and where he had dined on the evening of the day it was posted, which was the next but one to the day of his interview with Diana, it was brought to him in the smoking-room, and as his eyes ran over it he uttered an involuntary oath of such force that even men inured to violent language looked up, amused and inquisitive.

  “What’s up?” asked an acquaintance seated near him.

  “Oh nothing! A dun!” he answered, — then, calming down, he lit a cigar. After a few puffs at it he took up a newspaper — read a paragraph or two — then laid it down.

  “By the way,” he said, to the man who had spoken—” the famous beauty — Diana May — is off to Paris.”

  These words created a certain stir in the smoking-room. Several men looked up. —

  “Oh, well! All lovely women go to Paris for their clothes!”—’

  “Pardon!” said a dark-visaged young man, coming forward from a corner where he had been writing a letter, and speaking with a foreign accent— “Did I hear you mention a lady’s name — Diana May?”

  Cleeve glanced him over with military frigidity.

  “I did mention that name — yes.”

  “Excuse me! — I am a stranger in London, and a friend has made me an honorary member of this dub for a short time — Ï knew a Miss Diana May in Geneva — permit me—” And he proffered his visiting-card, on which was inscribed:

  “Marchese Luigi Farnese.”

  “I met Miss May,” he continued, “at the house of a very distinguished Russian scientist, Dr, Féodor Dimitrius. She had come from England, on a visit to his mother, so I was informed. But I had an idea at the time that she had arrived in answer to an advertisement he had put in the Paris newspapers for a lady assistant, — of course I may have been wrong. She was a very bright, rather clever middle-aged person—”

  “The Miss May I spoke of just now,” interpolated Cleeve, “is quite a young girl — not more than eighteen or nineteen.”

  “Oh, then!” — and Farnese made a profoundly apologetic bow—” it cannot be the same. The lady I met was — ah! — thirty-five or so — perhaps forty. She left Geneva very suddenly, and I have been trying to trace, her ever since.”

  “May I ask why?” inquired Cleeve.

  “Certainly! I have for long been interested in the scientific investigations of Dr. Dimitrius — he is a very mysterious person, and I fancied he might be trying some experiment on this lady, Miss May. She gave me no idea of such a thing — she was quite a normal, cheerful person, — still I had my suspicions and I was curious about it. She went with him and his mother to winter at Davos Platz — I was unable to follow them there, as I had a pressure of business — but I heard from a friend that Miss May was the ‘belle’ of the season. This rather surprised me, as she was not young enough to be a ‘belle’ unless” — here he paused, and uttered the next words with singular emphasis—” Dimitrius had made her so.”

  Cleeve uttered a sharp exclamation and then checked himself.

  “This is not an age of fairy tales,” he said curtly.

  “No — it is not, but it is an age of science, in which fairy tales are realized,” rejoined Farnese. “But pray excuse me! — I am detaining you — you could not by chance give me the address of this young lady you speak of? — the Miss Diana May you know?”

  “I do not consider myself entitled to do so,” answered Cleeve, coldly, “without her consent.”

  Farnese bowed.

  “I entirely understand! If you should see her, you will, perhaps, do me the kindness to mention my name and ask if she has ever heard it before?”

  “I will certainly do that,” agreed Cleeve, — whereupon they parted, Captain the Honourable with his mind in a giddy whirl, and his passions at fever heat. Come what would he must see Diana before she went to Paris! He must ask her about this Dimitrius, — for the story he had just heard seemed to hang together with her own fantastic “obsession!” But no! — ten thousand times no! — it was not, it could not be possible that the “old” Diana could thus have been miraculously transformed! Even Science must have its limits! He glanced at his watch. It was past nine o’clock, — very late for a call — yet he would risk it. Taking a cab, he was driven with all speed to Diana’s flat, — the servant who opened the door to him looked at him in surprise.

  “Miss May and Mrs. Beresford have gone to Paris,” she said. “They left this evening by the night boat train.”

  He retreated, baffled and inwardly furious. For one moment he was recklessly moved to follow them across Channel next morning — then he remembered, with rather an angry shock that he was “the father of a family.” Convention stepped in and held up a warning finger.

  “No — it wouldn’t do,” he ruminated, vexedly. “She” — here he alluded to his fat wife—” she would make the devil’s own row, and I have enough of her sulks as it is. I’d better do nothing, — and just wait my chance. But — that exquisite Diana! What is she? I must know! I must be off with the ‘old’ love, before I’m on with the new! But is she the ‘old’? That’s the puzzle. Is she the ‘old,’ or a young Diana?” This was a question which was destined never to be answered, so far as he was concerned. Diana had gone from him, — gone in that swift, irrecoverable way which happens when one soul, advancing onward to higher planes of power, is compelled to leave another of grosser make (even though that other were lover or friend) to wallow in the styes of sensual and material life. She, clothed in her vesture of fire and light, as radiant as any spirit of legendary lore, was as far removed from the clay man of low desires as the highest star from the deepest earth. And though he did not know this, and never would have been able, had he known, to realize the forceful vitality of her existence, the same strange sense of physical weakness, tiredness and general incapacity which had before alarmed him came upon him now with such overwhelming weight tha
t he could hardly drag his limbs across the fashionable square in which his own house was situated. A great helplessness possessed Mm, — and a thought, bitter as Wormwood and sharp as flame, flashed through his brain: “I am getting old!” It was a thought he always put away from Mm — but just now it bore down upon him with a kind of thunderous gloom. Yes — he was “getting old” — he, who had more or less contemptuously considered the “age” of the woman he had callously thrown over sufficient cause for the rupture, — he, too, was likely to be left out in the cold by the hurrying tide of warmer, quicker, youthful life. The vision of the radiant eyes, the exquisite features, the rose-leaf skin, and the supple, graceful form of the marvellous Diana who so persistently declared herself to be Ms former betrothed, floated before Mm in tempting, tantalizing beauty, — and as he opened his own house-door with his latch-key to enter that abode of domestic bliss where Ms unwieldy wife talked commonplaces all day long and bored him to death, he uttered something like a groan.

  “Whatever her fancy or craze may be,” he said, “she is young! Young and perfectly beautiful! It is I who am old!”

  EPILOGUE

  IT was night in Paris, — a heavy night, laden with the almost tropical heat and languor common to the end of an unusually warm summer. The street-lamps twinkled dimly through vapour which seemed to ooze upwards from the ground, like smoke from the fissures of a volcano, and men walked along listlessly with heads uncovered to the faint and doubtful breeze, some few occasionally pausing to glance at the sky, the aspect of which was curiously divided between stars and clouds, brilliancy and blackness. From the southern side of the horizon a sombre mass of purple grey shadows crept slowly and stealthily onward, blotting out by gradual degrees the silvery glittering of Orion and drawing a nun-like veil over the full-orbed beauty of the moon, while at long intervals a faint roll of thunder suggested the possibility of an approaching storm. But the greater part of the visible heavens remained fair and calm, some of the larger planets sparkling lustrously with strange, flashing fire-gleams of sapphire and gold, and seeming to palpitate like immense jewels swung pendant in the vast blue dome of air.