‘Royalty’ caught the rumour over its last glass of champagne, smiled incredulously, shrugged its distinguished shoulders, and finally guffawed with laughter at the idea of Miss Belmont wanting to turn everybody out because she had not been at once invited to sit down at her own supper-table. It was such an extraordinary thing, — such a mistaken idea. —
“What a ridiculous old woman she must be!” murmured a distinguished lord, lazily drinking an extra draught of the ‘ridiculous old woman’s’ best wine. “She can’t know anything about manners.”
“I expect she’s old-fashioned,” said a cynic of some fifty years of age. “There were days, you know, when hospitality was a stately, courteous kind of virtue, and when the hostess was everything to the guests who accepted her welcome. Private houses did not turn themselves into restaurants then, and there were not any scrimmages for food. I daresay old Miss Belmont dates from that period.”
Royalty, however, heeded not the words of the cynic, for it was getting under weigh for departure, and the snobs and snobesses who are accustomed to wait on it as pertinaciously as mosquitoes wait on fresh blood, were also getting ready to follow their leaders. Giggle and jest, loud guffaw and subdued hypocritical twitter echoed yet for a while through the great hall of Jane’s stately residence, mingled with the clatter of carriages, driving up and driving away, and the shouting of footmen and policeman, — and then the hall door finally closed, and all was silence. The Honourable Mrs. Maddenham had departed in a rage with the rest of the guests, vowing to herself and one other confidant (a man) that she would “never forgive Jane.” And Jane herself came down to the deserted supper-room and mildly partook of some of the ‘broken meats’ left from the luxurious menu which, printed on satin, adorned the various little empty tables, — moreover, she allowed herself the further liberty of drinking a glass of the very excellent champagne her money had paid for. This done, she bade the deeply attentive and respectful flunkey in waiting to close up all the rooms for the night. Peacefully Jane went to bed and slept the sleep of the just, — and excitedly the flunkey gossiped with his fellow-flunkeys in the servants’ hall, and stated that he “thought Miss Belmont knew a thing or two” — that “she was on her high horse this time and no mistake,” and that “he shouldn’t wonder if that blessed old Maddenham woman got the sack.”
In the latter part of his surmise he proved correct, — for when the Honourable Mrs. Maddenham struggled down to her breakfast the next morning about midday, after passing a horrible night, in which she dreamed that the old barbaric and ignorant periods had come back, and that she and Jane were being solemnly executed on Tower Hill for some affront to ‘Royalty,’ she received a polite little note from Jane running thus: —
“MY DEAR MRS. MADDENHAM,
“Allow me to thank you for the services you have rendered me in introducing me to ‘Society,’ and to say that as I propose selling my London residence and returning to Ashleigh-in-the-Dell as soon as conveniently possible, I am no longer in need of your kind superintendence of my conduct and deportment. You have taught me many good lessons, for which I am sincerely grateful, and which I should never have known without you, and I hope the enclosed may help to console you for any trouble or difficulty you may have had with me. I was not aware till last night that ‘swagger’ society was so essentially and hoplessly vulgar; but as you assure me that only the ‘best’ set were invited, I have no alternative but to regret that I ever was made aware that such a ‘best’ set existed. And with all my heart I compassionate the Royalties who are unfortunately obliged to be surrounded by such ill-bred vulgarians. After this free expression of my sentiments, I trust you will see the advisability of our ceasing to be acquainted with each other for the future, and wishing you every happiness in your social career, “I am, “Your very faithful and obliged “Jane Belmont.”
A cheque for one thousand pounds dropped out of this letter, and as Mrs. Maddenham, stricken to the soul, realised in one burst Jane’s extraordinary munificence, Jane’s remarkable usefulness, Jane’s apparent adaptability, and Jane’s ‘deceiving’ firmness of character, despite the ‘silly smile,’ she gave way to actual tears of rage and spite as she thought that never, never more would the great house of Grosvenor Place be open to her, — never, never more would she be able to invite her friends to luncheon or to dinner at Jane’s expense, — never, never more would she have the joy of advertising herself through Jane and using Jane as a sort of complacent and uncomplaining ‘sandwich-man.’ It was all over! And for such a trifling cause, too! — just the mere oversight of not having introduced Jane at first to the Royal personages who came to eat of Jane’s food. It was ridiculous, — aggravating beyond measure! Nevertheless, the fiat had gone forth, — Jane had suddenly developed a mulish obstinacy of disposition, and Mrs. Maddenham’s doom was sealed. She would have to find another Jane to live upon; so far as this present Jane was concerned, her career was ended!
Meanwhile, rumour’s many tongues got hold of the story of what it was pleased to call Jane’s ‘scandalous conduct.’ It was repeated from mouth to mouth, with all sorts of exaggerations and additions, till Jane became that ‘vulgar old Miss Belmont’ in one quarter, and that ‘mad old Miss Belmont’ in another. The brilliancy of her parties was forgotten, — the kindness and liberality with which she had treated all who had freely ‘sponged’ upon her was not even thought of, — and those who had been most frequently the partakers of her hospitality were the first to vilify her name and make her the butt of ridicule. But Jane did not care. She had found a purchaser for her house, and was leaving London. Sweet thoughts of ‘Restful Harbour,’ with its old china and scent of mignonette, were flitting across her mind, and the goose-like hiss and cackle of Society gossip, though some of it reached her ears did not affect her peace of mind. One of its unexpected results, however, was that young Arthur Morvyn, second son of the late Earl of Drumleigh, hearing old Miss Belmont’s name and fame pulled to pieces in every direction, took means to ascertain exactly the truth of the ‘scandal’ affecting her; and when he found that it was nothing more or less than an independent display of spirit which had moved her to resent the distinguished presence of Royalty in her house because of the crowd of snobs attendant on it, his admiration for her knew no bounds. Taking into due consideration her twenty thousand a year, her ‘grand manner,’ and this marked proof she had given of a straightforward and singularly firm character, Arthur Morvyn wrote her a remarkable letter. It spoke of his deep respect for her, — the desire he had to devote himself to making her happy, — in short, it was a clear, concise, business-like and perfectly honourable proposal of marriage.
Dear me! How Jane cried over it to be sure! She positively sobbed, did Jane, till her nerves were all in a quiver, and her gentle blue eyes were red and swollen. For hours she sat by herself reading Arthur Morvyn’s letter over and over again, and weeping, till at last, when her tears had had full vent and the shedding of them had eased her woman’s heart, she gradually regained self-control, and sitting down quietly at her desk she wrote her rejection of the only distinct offer of marriage she had ever had in all her life. And this was how she did it: —
“To the honourable Arthur Morvyn,
“MY DEAR YOUNG MAN, —
“Your letter has very heartily grieved me, as well as caused me shame, for surely it is in every sense shameful that you, who are a mere boy, should venture to address a woman of my years on such a subject as marriage. I should indeed be seriously offended with you if you were not the son of your father; but of his memory’s sake I will put aside my own hurt feelings and speak to you with the sincerity and feeling as well as the frankness of a true friend. You must know, therefore, that your father, before he became Earl of Drumleigh, was my sweetheart; we were girl and boy together, and loved each other very dearly in the old days when he used to visit us at Ashleigh-in-the-Dell. Circumstances connected with his position prevented any possibility of marriage between us, — his parents were against it,
and my good father would not allow me to think of wedding any man whose family might have looked upon me as an unwelcome intruder. So we parted; and never met again. He married, — I stayed single. For you must surely know that there are some hearts in the world which can never forget a great love, — this has been my case, and this will account to you for the great interest I felt in you when I first Had the pleasure of meeting you. Now, my dear boy, I know quite well what has made you commit the folly of asking an old woman like me to marry you, — it is the temptation my wealth has for you, and nothing more. Let me entreat of you to put such wrong and foolish notions out of your head for ever. They are the result of a bad system of education and the pernicious laxity of moral force and fine feeling which is so sad to see nowadays in latter-day society. Never marry a woman for her money, whether such woman be young or old; marry for love. It is the old-fashioned way, but it is the best way and the only one that God approves with His blessing. Find some sweet girl whose heart is yours, and yours only, and if you are not rich enough to keep her in all the wanton and foolish luxury which disfigures the manners of the age, at any rate be strong enough to work for her and surround her with whatever comforts you manfully can. Depend upon it, she will find them sufficient if love is made the great and only mainspring of life, which it surely is and must ever be. I have seen how very strangely and foolishly some people lead their lives in these days, and I am afraid a great many mistakes are being made which will lead to sad results hereafter, — but in spite of it all, I am convinced that a true and great love is the best blessing earth can give, — the strongest safeguard against evil, and the noblest incentive to work. Win that, my dear friend, whenever you can, and having won it, keep it. Look upon world’s wealth as a secondary consideration, for wealth does not bring happiness.
And if, as I am afraid, you are in money difficulties just now, confide in me, — let me be your banker and help you out of any trouble I can; it will be a pleasure and a pride to me to be of use to you, if only for your father’s sake. I am returning to my old home in the country, where I hope to pass the rest of my days in quietness, — you will always be welcome there, and your joys and sorrows will never be indifferent to me. I return you your letter that you may yourself destroy it, for it is a very foolish and ill-advised one, and I shall forget that it ever was written.
Your sincere old friend,
JANE BELMONT.
It would be difficult to describe the feelings with which young Arthur Morvyn received this gently-worded epistle. It is no discredit to his manhood to say that tears sprang to his eyes, and that he was so unwontedly stirred up in that set of emotions which used to be called honour and chivalry before apathy and laissez faire took their place, that he went straight off to Jane and apologised for his indiscretion. And the result of his frankness was a strong friendship for life, which was beneficial to his young lordship in many more ways than one.
And Jane herself returned to Ashleigh - in - the - Dell, a wiser woman, if not a better one, for her London experiences. The mignonette had never smelt so sweet, — the old china had never looked so brightly polished and homelike, as on the day when she re-entered ‘Restful Harbour,’ never to leave it again. Satisfied with simple things for herself, but doing great deeds of generosity for others, Jane has now become the blessing and honour of all the country-side, — the helper of the afflicted, rescuer of the distressed, the gentle, noble, never-failing friend of all in need. Her portrait appears no more in the Lady’s Pictorial, and she has never again visited Court, — but her kind, bright face is the sunlight of many an otherwise dark home, and it may be that in the High Court of Heaven her name is not unknown. She lives her life as the famous Disraeli would have us all live it, ‘in peace with honour,’ and the little ‘social incident’ connected with her London career has been gradually forgotten by all except a few people with long memories and keen wits, who secretly regret the departure of Jane from town, and wish there were a few more like her. For in the appalling vulgarity, selfishness, and apathy of Society nowadays, the lack of straightforward principle is everywhere painfully manifest, and a lesson or two in honesty and courage might not be without wholesome effect. Half a dozen ‘Janes’ dotted about in various quarters during a London ‘season’ might work wonders, and bring Society round to the remembrance and re-cultivation of its lost graces, such as courtesy, simplicity, truth, and dignity, which in themselves constitute the whole art of perfect breeding. But of our Jane, ‘the’ Jane who ‘received’ Royalty and dismissed it again without being presented to it, there is no more to be said beyond that the whole village of Ashleigh-in-the Dell seems to be permeated in summer with the scent of the mignonette that grows in the garden of ‘Restful Harbour,’ and that the contented mistress of the little place indulges in her passion for old china to such a lavish extent that her collection is beginning to be known and envied by the best connoisseurs. It may likewise be added that Arthur Morvyn and his wife are near neighbours of hers, and that their small family of golden-haired, laughing children are perpetually to be seen romping about ‘Restful Harbour,’ standing up to their little bare knees in the mignonette and shouting for a certain ‘Auntie Jane.’ So we may presume that Jane, after all, is something of a social ‘leader,’ in her own way, though she has no longer any connection with the Swagger Set.
The Strange Visitation of Josiah McNason
A GHOST STORY
THE STRANGE VISITATION
A WILD night, with a gale of wind, a wind that scratched and tore and howled at doors and windows like an angry cat spitting and spluttering — its miauling voice now rising, now sinking — at one moment savage, at another querulous, but always incessant of complaint, with a threatening under snarl of restless rage in its tone. A wild night! — full of storm and quarrel, with occasional dashes of cold rain sweeping down on the shrieking blast like gusts of angry tears — a noisy night in which the elements were at open war with themselves, making no secret of their hostile intentions — and yet it was the one night of all nights in the year when “peace and goodwill” were the suggested influences of the time. For it was Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve! What a wonderful anniversary it is, if we would but pause in our reckless and senseless rush onward to the grave, just to think quietly about it for a moment! Long, long ago — yet but a short while since — if we count by the world’s great epochs of civilisation wherein a little two thousand years are but a moment — a host of Angels descended from heaven and sang a joyous hymn of general amnesty to mankind on the first Christmas Eve that ever was — and according to the noble poesy of high-thinking, God-revering John Milton:
“No war or battle’s sound
Was heard the world around,
The idle spear and shield were high up hung;
The unhooked chariot stood
Unstain’d with hostile blood,
The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;
And kings sat still with awful eye
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
“And peaceful was the night
Wherein the Prince of Light
His reign of peace upon the earth began;
The winds, with wonder whist,
Smoothly the waters kist,
Whisp’ring new joys to the mild oceàn,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave!”
One wonders if — in those far-off days of angel-singing — there was such a thing as a millionaire? Not a merely “rich” man; — not a “Wise Man of the East,” who, possessing knowledge and insight as well as wealth, hastened to bring his gold with frankincense and myrrh, and to lay these reverently in the humble manger which served as cradle to a Child, whose vast power was destined to conquer and subdue all the mightiest kings of the earth: — but an actual money-gorged, banknote-stuffed ruler of some octopus-like “Trade,” whose tentacles clutched and held everything within its reach — some owner of huge factories w
here human creatures “sweated” their lives out to fill his pockets, and died in their hundreds, — perchance their thousands — in order that he, like some monstrous bloated leech, should swell to the point of bursting on the blood he sucked from their throbbing arteries! Was there such an one existing in the miracle days when the “Glory to God in the Highest!” rang from star to star, from point to point of the myriad constellations, like a great wave of melody breaking against illimitable and endless shores? Surely not! — else there would have been some break in the music! — some ugly jar in the divine chorus! For instance, if there had at that time been living a multi-millionaire at all resembling the one whose strange experiences are now about to be related, the angels would have fled in dismay and weeping from the spectacle of a soul so warped from good, so destitute of sympathy, so drained and dry of every drop of the milk of human kindness, and so utterly at variance with the “peace and goodwill” of which they sang!
Yet no one will deny that a multi-millionaire is a great man. What multi-millionaire was ever considered otherwise? It was the glorious environment of multi-millionaire-ism that made Josiah McNason great — and Josiah McNason was a very great man indeed. Quite apart from his connection with you and me, dear reader, as the immediate subject of this story, he was great in business, great in success, great in wealth, great in power, and more than great in his own opinion. Small wonder that he thought much of himself, seeing that thousands of people thought so much of him. Thousands of people had him on their minds, and lay awake at nights, uneasily wondering what might be his next financial “deal.” For on his little finger he balanced mighty “combines.” At his nod “companies” collapsed like card-houses, or rose up again with the aerial brilliancy of “castles in Spain,” — the pulse of Trade beat fast or slow as suited his humour, — speculators on ’Change whispered his name in accents of mingled hope and terror, — aye, even kings were known not to be averse to receiving Josiah in private audience, though they might, and did, deny the privilege to such others of their subjects whose plea was one of merit more than cash. The fact stood out very patently to both royalty and commons alike, that Josiah McNason was a man to be reckoned with, — a man to be studied and considered, — a man whose moods must be tolerated, and whose irritations must be soothed, — a man to be coaxed and coddled, — a man to whom the highest personages in the land might safely — (and even advantageously) — send presents of grouse and salmon in their seasons, — a man whom it was considered politic not to offend. But why? Why all this trouble and anxiety from Majesty itself down to toiling bank-clerks, with respect to the fits and vagaries of one puny biped, neither handsome to look at, nor pleasant to speak with, but merely, taken as nature made him, an irascible, cut-and-dry pigmy of a man, not worth either a curse or a blessing, to judge by his outward appearance? Oh well! Merely because, by speaking him fair and flatteringly, it might be easier to borrow money of him! Everyone with even a small surplus quantity of this world’s goods, knows the taste of that diplomatic bread-and-honey which is always cautiously administered by one dear friend to some other whose pockets are to be tested. Josiah got such bread-and-honey all day long. Someone was always feeding or trying to feed him with it. His appetite however was fastidious, and he seldom swallowed the cloying bait. Even when he did gulp down a large wedge of it with a distrustful smile, it did not have the effect intended. Instead of softening his financial digestion and rendering him pliable, it appeared to make him harder and tougher in mental fibre. The gleam in his cold expressionless eye bored through the soul of the would-be-borrower of cash like a gimlet, and divined his intention before the said borrower could so much as mumble out—” Could you — would you, Mr. McNason — make me a trifling advance? — offer good security — great convenience to me just now!” — trailing the sentence away into indistinguishable fragments as Josiah snapped his thin pale lips on the “No!” which, with sharp snarling sound, hopelessly closed the discussion.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 929
