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

by Marie Corelli

  “It was mere weakness and nervous prostration,” said Mr. Allingham, drinking his champagne with relish as he spoke, “and in these cases fainting-fits are a relief rather than a danger. I am sorry Rose has allowed herself to run down in this way. I am afraid it will necessitate my going with her to the sea-side for a short time. It would be particularly inconvenient to me just now — but if it must be done it must.”

  Fane could not speak. He gulped his food and wine down hastily with such a sense of impotent rage as almost choked him. He could scarcely bear to look at the composed, sleek, self-satisfied man beside him, attired as was his usual evening custom in irreproachable dress-suit, starchy shirt and white tie — he would have liked to knock him down and trample on him. As soon as dinner was ended, he left the room with a muttered hasty excuse about “having letters to write,” and went out in the soft night air to smoke by himself and “cool down,” as he inwardly expressed it, for his feelings were in a perfect tumult. Pity and anxiety for Mrs. Allingham, and contempt for her husband, struggled for the mastery in his mind; and he walked on and on through the grounds under the light of a full moon, not heeding where ‘he was going to in the heat of his wrath and excitement.

  “I can’t stand it!” he said, half aloud, at last. “I’ll leave the place to-morrow! I can finish the sketches at home now, I’ve got enough material to go upon. If I stay here any longer I shall come to fisticuffs with that egotistical prig, or — or — otherwise make a fool of myself.”

  A sudden shiver ran through him; and conscious of a certain dampness and unpleasant chill in the air, he stopped abruptly to see whither he had come.

  To his amazement, right in front of him stretched the “Haunted Mere,” glittering like polished steel in the silver rays of the moon. Something there was in the weird aspect of the still water and the twisted willows that impressed him with a sense of awe; and, as though a cold hand had been laid upon his heart, his anger died away into a dull, aching pain. He stood like one hypnotised, staring vaguely at the Mere, disinclined to move, and scarcely capable of thought. And as he remained thus, waiting for he knew not what, he saw distinctly a pale shadow fall like the reflection of a cloud across the shining width of water — a shadow that darkened slowly and grew, as it were, palpably into the shape of a small boat with a curved and curiously luminous prow; straining his eyes he watched, every nerve in his body throbbing with fear. The boat began to move out of shadow into moonlight, and as it moved it showed its spectral occupant — a woman’s figure veiled completely in misty white, that stood erect and waved its arms beckoningly towards the turret of Dunscombe Hall. Reaching the very middle of the Mere where the moonlight shone broadest and brightest, the ghostly skiff paused on the water motionless. Again and yet again the veiled phantom waved its arms appealingly, commandingly; then, like a wreath of mist or smoke, it vanished!

  Released from the terrible tension of his nerves, Fane uttered a loud cry; it was echoed among the dark woods and answered by the mournful hooting of owls. All at once he remembered the legend — that the ghost of Dunscombe Hall was said only to appear when death threatened some member of the family.

  “My God!” he exclaimed, “can it be possible!”

  And without waiting to think another moment he turned and ran, ran as though he were running a race for life, straight back to the Hall. Breathlessly rushing through the dark antiquated porch, he jostled against a man coming out.

  “Mr. Allingham,” he began.

  “I am not Mr. Allingham,” said the stranger, “I am Dr. Dean.”

  “The doctor? Oh, then—” And he leaned back against a pillar of the porch to recover breath and equanimity; “Mrs. Allingham is—”

  “Dead,” said the doctor gently.

  NEHEMIAH P. HOSKINS, ARTIST.

  “THEY,” said Mr. Hoskins, “made up my mind that this ‘Daphne’ will be the picture of the year — that is, so far as visitors to Rome are concerned. I do not exhibit at the French Salon, nor at the English Academy. I find” — and Mr. Hoskins ran his hand through his hair and smiled complacently—” that Rome suffices me. My pictures need no other setting than Rome. The memories of the Caesars are enough to hallow their very frames! Rome and Nehemiah Hoskins are old friends. What?”

  This “What?” was one of Mr. Hoskins’s favourite expressions. It finished all his sentences interrogatively. It gracefully implied that the person to whom he was speaking had said, or was going to say, something, and it politely expressed Mr. Hoskins’s own belief that no one would or could be so rude as to hear his eulogies of himself without instantly corroborating and enlarging them. Therefore, when, on the present occasion, Mr. Hoskins said “What?” it was evident that he expected me to respond, and make myself agreeable. Unfortunately, I had no flatteries ready; flattery does not come easy to me, but I was able to smile. Indeed, I found it convenient to smile just then: the intimate association of the two names, “Rome” and “Hoskins,” moved me to this pleasantness. Then, without speaking, I took up a good position in the studio, and looked at the “Daphne.”

  There was not the least doubt in the world that it was a very fine picture. Drawing, grouping, colouring, all were as near perfection as human brain and hand could possibly devise. The scene depicted was the legended pursuit of Daphne by Apollo. It was an evening landscape; a young moon gleamed in the sky, and over a field of nodding lilies came the amorous god, with flying feet and hair blown backward by the wind, his ardent poetic face glowing with the impatience and fierceness of repulsed passion. Pale Daphne, turning round in fear, with hands uplifted in agonised supplication, was already changing into the laurel; half of her flowing golden tresses were transformed into clustering leaves, and from her arched and slender feet the twisted twigs of the tree of Fame were swiftly springing upward. The picture was a large one; and for ideality of conception, bold treatment, and harmony of composition would have been considered by most impartial judges, who have no “art-clique” to please, a marvellous piece of work. Yet the wonder of it to me was that it should have been painted by Nehemiah P. Hoskins. The “Daphne” was grand, but Hoskins looked mean, and the contrast was singular. Hoskins, with his greased and scented hair, his velveteen coat, his flowing blue tie, and his aggressive, self-appreciative, “up-to-date” American “art” manner, clashed with the beauty of his work discordantly.

  “I presume,” he said, twirling his moustache with a confident air, “that picture is worth its price. What?”

  “It is very fine — very fine, indeed, Mr. Hoskins!” I murmured. “What are you asking for it?”

  “Fifteen thousand dollars is my price,” he answered jauntily. “And cheap it is at that. My friends tell me it is far too cheap. But what matter? I am not hampered by mercenary considerations. I work for the work’s sake. Art is my goddess! Rome is my altar of worship! I will not debase myself or my profession by vulgar bargaining. When I first set this picture up on the easel for exhibition I said fifteen thousand dollars would content me. Since that time my countless admirers have reproached me, saying, ‘You ask too little, Hoskins; you are too modest, you do not realise your own greatness. You should demand a hundred thousand dollars!’ But no! Having said fifteen thousand, I stick to it. I know it is cheap, ridiculously cheap, but never mind! there are more ideas still left in the brain that produced this work. What?”

  “Indeed, I hope so,” I said earnestly, endeavouring to overcome my dislike of the man’s personality. “It is a magnificent picture, Mr. Hoskins, and I wish I could afford to purchase it. But as I cannot, let me say at least how warmly I congratulate you on the possession of so much true genius.” Mr. Hoskins bowed complacently.

  “A word of appreciation is always welcome,” he observed grandiloquently. “Sympathy is, after all, the best reward of the inspired artist. What is money? — Dross! — When a friend comprehends the greatness of my work and acknowledges its successful accomplishment, my soul is satisfied. Money can only supply the vulgar necessities of life, but sym
pathy feeds the mind and rouses anew the divine fires! What?”

  I really could not find any words to meet his interrogative “What?” this time. It seemed to me that he had said all there was to say, and more than was necessary. I took my leave and passed out of the studio, vaguely irritated and dissatisfied. The “Daphne” haunted me, and I felt unreasonably annoyed to think that one so vulgar and egotistical as Nehemiah P. Hoskins should have painted it. How came such a man to possess the all-potent talisman of Genius? I could now comprehend why the American colony in Rome made such a fuss about Hoskins; no wonder they were proud of him if he could produce such masterpieces as the “Daphne”! Still thinking over the matter perplexedly, I re-entered the carriage which had waited for me outside the artist’s studio, and should have driven away home, had it not been for the occurrence of one of those apparently trifling incidents which sometimes give the clue to a whole history. A little dog was suddenly run over in the street where my carriage stood — one of its forelegs was badly cut and bled profusely, but otherwise it was not seriously injured. The driver of the vehicle that had caused the mishap came to me and expressed his regrets, thinking that I was the owner of the wounded animal, as, indeed, I seemed to be, for it had limped directly up to me, yelping pitifully, as though appealing for assistance. I raised the small sufferer in my arms, and seeing that it wore a plain brass collar inscribed “Mitû, 8, Via Tritone,” I bade my coachman drive to that address, resolving to restore the strayed pet to its owner or owners. It was a pretty dog, white and fluffy as a ball of wool, with soft brown eyes and an absurdly small black nose. It was very clean and well kept, and from its appearance was evidently a favourite with its master or mistress. It took very kindly to me, and lay quiet on my lap, allowing me to bind up its wounded paw with my handkerchief, now and then licking my hand by way of gratitude.

  “Mitû,” said I, “if that is your name, you are more frightened than hurt, it seems to me. Somebody spoils you, Mitû, and you are affected! Your precious paw is not half so bad as you would make it out to be!”

  Mitû sighed and wagged his tail; he was evidently accustomed to be talked to, and liked it. When we neared the Via Tritone he grew quite brisk, perked up his silky ears, and looked about him with a marked and joyful recognition of his surroundings; and when we stopped at No. 8 his excitement became so intense that he would certainly have jumped out of my arms, in complete forgetfulness of his injured limb, had I not restrained him. The door of the house was opened to us by a stout, good-natured-looking lady, arrayed in the true Italian style of morning déshabille, but who, in spite of excessive fat and slovenliness, possessed a smile sunny enough to make amends for far worse faults.

  “Oh, Mitû! Mitû!” she cried, holding up her hands in grave remonstrance, as she caught sight of the little dog. “How wicked thou art! Well dost thou deserve misfortune! To run away and leave thy pretty signora!”

  Mitû looked honestly ashamed of himself, and tried to hide his abashed head under my cloak. Curious to see the “pretty signora” alluded to, I asked if I might personally restore the stray pet to its owner then and there.

  “But certainly!” said the smiling padrona, in mellifluous tones of Roman courtesy. “If you will generously give yourself the trouble to ascend the stairs to the top — the very top, you understand? — of the house, you will find the signora’s studio. The signora’s name, Giuletta Marchini, is on the door. Ah, Dio! But a minute ago she was here weeping for the wicked Mitû!”

  Plainly, Mitû understood this remark, for he gave a smothered yelp by way of relieving his feelings. And to put him out of his declared remorse, suspense, and wretchedness as soon as possible, I straightway began to “generously give myself the trouble” of climbing up to his mistress’s domicile. The stairs were many and steep, but at last, wellnigh breathless, I reached the topmost floor of the tall old house, and knocked gently at the door, which directly faced me, and on which the name “Giuletta Marchini” was painted in neat black letters. Mitû was now trembling all over with excitement, and when the door opened and a fair woman looked out, exclaiming in surprised glad accents “Oh, Mitû! caro Mitû!” he could stand it no longer. Wriggling out of my arms he bounced on the floor, and writhed there with yelps and barks of mingled pain and ecstasy, while I, in a few words, explained to his owner the nature of his misadventure. She listened, with a sweet expression of interest in her thoughtful dark eyes, and a smile lighting up one of the most spirituelle faces I ever saw.

  “You have been very kind,” she said, “and I do not know how to thank you enough. Mitû is such a dear little friend to me that I should have been miserable had I lost him. But he is of a very roving disposition, I’m afraid, and he is always getting into trouble. Do come into the studio and rest — the stairs are so fatiguing.”

  I accepted this invitation gladly, but scarcely had I crossed the threshold of the room than I started back with an involuntary exclamation. There, facing me on the wall, was a rough cartoon in black and white of the “Daphne” as exhibited by Nehemiah P. Hoskins!

  “Why!” I cried, “that is a sketch of the picture I have just seen!”

  Giuletta Marchini smiled, and looked at me attentively.

  “Ah! you have been visiting the American studios?” she asked.

  “Not all of them. This morning I have only seen Mr. Hoskins’s work.”

  “Ah!” she said again, and was silent.

  Impulsively I turned and looked at her. She was attending to Mitû’s injured paw. She had placed him on a cushion and was bandaging his wound carefully, with deft, almost surgical skill. I noticed her hands, how refined they were in shape, with the delicate tapering fingers that frequently indicate an artistic temperament — I studied the woman herself. Young and as slight as a reed, with a quantity of fair hair partially lifted in thick waves from a broad intelligent brow, she did not bear any semblance to that type known as an “ordinary” woman. She was evidently something apart from the commonplace. By and by I found out a certain likeness in her to the “Daphne” of Hoskins’s wonderful picture, and, thinking I had made a discovery, I said —

  “Surely you sat to Mr. Hoskins for the figure of Daphne?”

  Smiling, she shook her head in the negative.

  I felt a little embarrassed. I had taken her for a model, whereas it was possible she might be an artist herself of great talent. I murmured something apologetic, and she laughed — a clear, sweet, rippling laugh of purest mirth and good-humour.

  “Oh, you must not apologise,” she said. “I know it must seem to you very singular to find the first sketch of the ‘Daphne’ here and the finished picture in Mr. Hoskins’s studio. And it is really such an odd coincidence that, through Mitû, you should come to me immediately after visiting Mr. Hoskins that I feel I shall have to explain the matter. But, first, may I ask you to look round my studio? You will find other things beside that ‘Daphne’ cartoon.”

  I did look round, with ever-growing wonder and admiration. There were “other things,” as she said, things of such marvellous beauty and genius as it would be difficult to find in any modern artstudio. In something of incredulity and amazement I instantly asked —

  “These studies are yours? — you did them all yourself?”

  Her level brows contracted a little — then she smiled.

  “If you had been a man I should have expected that question. But, being a woman, I wonder at your suggesting it! Yes — I do my work myself, every bit of it! I love it! I am jealous of it while it remains with me. I have no master — I have taught myself all I know, and everything you see in this room is designed and finished by my own hand — I am not Mr. Hoskins!”

  A sudden light broke in upon me.

  “You painted the ‘Daphne’!” I cried.

  She looked full at me, with a touch of melancholy in her brilliant eyes.

  “Yes, I painted the ‘Daphne.’”

  “Then how — why—” I began excitedly.

  “Why do I allow Mr. H
oskins to put his name to it?” she said. “Well, he gives me two thousand francs for the permission — and two thousand francs is a small fortune to my mother and to me.”

  “But you could sell your pictures yourself!” I exclaimed. “You could make heaps of money, and fame!”

  “You think so?” and she smiled very sadly. “Well, I used to think so, too, once. But that dream is past. I want very little money, and my whole nature sickens at the thought of fame. Fame for a woman in these days means slander and jealousy — no more! Here is my history,” and with a quick movement of her hand she drew aside a curtain which had concealed another picture of great size and magnificent execution — representing a group of wild horses racing furiously onward together, without saddle or bridle, and entitled “I Barberi.”

  “I painted this,” she said, while I stood lost in admiration before the bold and powerful treatment of so difficult a subject, “when I was eighteen. I am twenty-seven now. At eighteen I believed in ideals; and, of course, in love, as a part of them. I was betrothed to a man — an Austrian, who was studying art here in Rome. He saw me paint this picture — he watched me draw every line and lay on every tint. Well, to make a long story short, he copied it. He brought his canvas here in this studio and worked with me — out of love, he said — for he wished to keep an exact fac-simile of the work which he declared would make me famous. I believed him, for I loved him! When he had nearly finished his copy he took it away, and two days afterwards came to bid me farewell. He was obliged to go to Vienna, he told me, but he would return to Rome again within the month. We parted as lovers part — with tenderness on both sides — and when he had gone I set to work to give the last finishing touches to my picture. When I had done all I thought I could do, I wrote to a famous dealer in the city and asked him to come and give me his judgment as to the worth of my work. Directly he entered this room he started back, and looked at me reproachfully. ‘I can do nothing with a copy,’ he said; ‘I have just purchased the original picture by Max Wieland.’”