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

by Marie Corelli

  “That is so!” answered Wilcox, evidently delighted at the impression his statement had made on the mind of an English Conservative. “And as far-sighted as a native Injun on a trail! You can deceive a weasel mebbe, but you can not deceive Claudia! Bogus companies don’t get a look in with her! What she don’t know about stocks and shares isn’t worth knowing at all. If she puts you on anything you’re there all the time! She’s got a whole army of clerks under her working like movies on piece jobs, and you bet she keeps things humming! If you’re one of her pals—”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t that honour,” said Markham somewhat frigidly — he was divided between irritation, curiosity, and admiration, and his ideas of the proper sort of conventional marriage were all overthrown. How could he make a female stockbroker of Wall Street, N’York, Lady Markham of Markham Hall? The notion was perfectly preposterous! “I met the lady in Paris,” he continued, “but I have never known her intimately.”

  Wilcox took a big cigar from his pocket and looked at it meditatively.

  “Ah!” he murmured— “Wal! If she don’t put you on anything it’s because she won’t — that’s about it! I’m sorry — I always pity a man when he’s got a chance to fill his pocket and somehow misses doing it. But you English are slow — darned slow!”

  Markham smiled.

  “Probably you are right,” he agreed. “We are. But, ‘slow and sure’ you know!”

  The American looked him over keenly.

  “Mebbe!” he answered—” I hope so! But a bit of hustle wouldn’t hurt you!”

  With that he lit his cigar and strolled off.

  Lord Markham, left to himself, sat down to think. He had, by chance, found out what he wanted to know, but the discovery was not exactly pleasant. She, the dainty feminine thing, whose interests, so far as he had observed, seemed centred in Paris hats and other frivolities of attire, was actually a busy stockbroker with a “whole army of clerks,” buying and selling shares, watching the fluctuations of the money-market, and keeping a close finger on the varying pulse of the brute-god Mammon! What an unwomanly career! How unlike the “ideal” he, Markham, had formed of Woman as she ought to be — half-drudge, half-toy — devoted to the interests of her sovereign ruler, Man! He believed in rigid discipline and subordination of the frailer sex; and as for woman being allowed to have any control of finance, he considered the quality of their intelligence too utterly inferior and inadequate for such an idea ever to be seriously entertained. He belonged to that very ordinary class of men who stick to an ancient and worn-out tradition as limpets stick to a rock — who talk glibly of progress and advancement for the male part of creation, with the mental proviso that this shall not include the female. To a man of Markham’s type and up-bringing, a woman of education is only a better-informed sort of squaw, amused with beads, feathers, and trinkets, made solely to bear children, and attend to their wants and the necessities of the home — or the wigwam — and the proposition that any one of the sex should take independent action apart from her lord and master is so astounding as to seem positively insane. A woman who has made a fortune by her own brain and hand, without man’s assistance, finds herself always looked upon with more or less grudging suspicion by men; she seems to them a kind of “adventuress,” and they call her “unsexed” because she seldom cares to have anything to do with them. Lord Markham’s views on matrimony were distinctly correct and conventional — he wanted a “lady” to manage his house and his servants — with sufficient good looks to be an attractive personality to other men and make them envious — and, in due time, to give him an heir. Of “love” he never thought, except as a sort of idiotic sentiment affected by the “common” people; among his “set” it was voted a bore, though “souls” were tolerated in order to give the necessary spice of something “not quite proper,” to stimulate idle and worthless lives. And he felt that Claudia Strange would not suit him or his surroundings.

  “We should never pull together,” he mused, twisting the ends of his moustache irritably. “She would want to run the whole show. Yet she has an odd fascination for me. Anyhow, I’ll take her to the theatre, and see what happens next.”

  Accordingly to the theatre they went together. He called for her at the appointed hour, and had no need to go in the lift up to nearly the top of the skyscraper where she had her flat, for she was ready and waiting for him in the entrance hall. Exquisitely dressed, she looked prettier and more bewitching than ever as she stepped lightly into his automobile, and smiled at Mm as she said she was “going to have a good time!”

  “I hope so!” responded Markham, with the usual air of cautious depression which every well-bred Englishman thinks it proper to assume when others are expectant of pleasure. “I hear the acting is not very good —— —”

  “Oh, never mind!” laughed Claudia, lightly. “Poor things, I’m sure they do their best! We mustn’t be too critical — it spoils the fun!”

  Markham had no reply ready. “Mustn’t be too critical” was to him an unknown view of life. From his schooldays at Eton and onward he had accustomed himself to find flaws in every conceivable thing — from the shape of his mother’s bonnet to the latest speech in the House — everyone was wrong save himself, and every form of argument erroneous save his own. So he sat by his fair companion in an almost unbroken silence during the drive to the theatre — a silence which she privately commented upon as “dull but English.”

  At the play she enjoyed herself with all the zest of a child taken to its first party. The piece was not very good, and the actors struggled gallantly with unrewarding parts, while the orchestra played dismally out of tune, but Claudia found no fault at all, and, seated in the luxurious box which her lordly admirer had secured for privacy as well as comfort, talked to him between the acts with a charm, intelligence, and vivacity which renewed his admiration for her, though he was reluctant to own it to himself. At last, when convenient opportunity occurred, he drew his chair a little nearer to hers and taking up her jewelled fan played with it absently for a moment — then spoke.

  “It was such a surprise for me,” he said, softly, “to hear what a busy and important personage you are! Almost a controller of the money-market!”

  Her clear bright eyes flashed full upon him.

  “Didn’t you know?” she asked. “Well, after all, Fame is a bubble! I thought I was as celebrated as Rockefeller or J. P. Morgan! What did you take me for?”

  He smiled.

  “I took you for — just a woman!”

  She nodded her head.

  “That’s so! That’s what I am!”

  He still toyed with the fan he held, and looked away from her.

  “Not exactly!” he said. “You are — a man of business!”

  “A woman of business, you mean,” she retorted, quickly. “It isn’t necessary to be a man in order to have a little plain judgment and common sense.”

  “Ah!” He shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly. “But a woman — a charming woman like yourself — is made for something sweeter and more beautiful than mere business and common sense.”

  “Oh, you think so?” and Claudia laughed. “Like a box of chocolates, each sweet to be taken out and eaten according to fancy! Yes, I know! That’s the old-time man’s way of looking at the thing! You don’t like women in business?”

  “Well,” he hesitated. “Hardly!”

  “No, I thought not. May I have my fan? Thanks. It was made by a man, and it isn’t very strong.”

  Her eyes sparkled with subtle mischief, and the smile stayed on her lips as she spoke. But just then the curtain went up again and she gave her whole attention to the play.

  He looked at her half-vexedly where she sat, and noted the clearness of her complexion, the delicious little dimple in her chin, the soft hair swept back in bright curls to the top of her well-shaped head and banded in with a circlet of diamonds — such an exquisite, fairy-like creature, and — a broker! It was preposterous! Suddenly she seemed to divine his t
houghts, for she turned toward him, smiling, and said:

  “You may come to my office to-morrow if you like! And if you’ve got five hundred English pounds lying round loose doing nothing, I’ll turn them into a thousand for you in seven days. How would that suit you?”

  “It would suit me perfectly,” he answered, with some amusement. “But I don’t quite see—”

  “That’s just it!” she smiled. “No man quite sees! That’s where I come in! I quite see! — quite! — all round and everywhere, I don’t talk, smoke, or whisky-soda my business! A man does those sort of things — a woman doesn’t.”

  He gave a little deprecatory laugh.

  “Men do the work of the world,” he observed. “Some of it — not all,” said Claudia, quickly, “and what they do is often done very badly. They muddle through, but not without wars and endless horrible criminalities. If a really fine man turns up among them, they crucify him, like Christ, or doubt his genius, like Shakespeare, or want to deprecate his services, like Kitchener. And as for the ‘work of the world,’ how much of it do you undertake, for example?”

  He bit his lip, and felt his blood tingle with annoyance at her direct question. She saw his vexation, and her eyes sparkled.

  “Don’t bother to answer!” she said. “You’re not the only do-nothing man who thinks he’s helping on civilization by preserving game and inviting his friends once a year to shoot it. Oh, yes, I know! I’ve been in your country often and love it! I’ve seen your place, too — Markham Hall. You ought to live there always!”

  His eyebrows went up with an expression of profound indifference.

  “You think so?” he queried, indolently. “Why?”

  “Why?” and she looked at him full and candidly, “Because your place and duty are there! You have your tenantry to help with their farms and their crops — you ought to make them feel you are their friend, so that they are happy in their work and eager to bring prosperity to you as well as to themselves. Every landowner has a gold mine in his estate if he only makes up his mind to work it.”

  He was silent. The last act of the play was in progress, and in a few minutes more it was finished. He assisted her to put on her cloak, and she thanked him prettily for “a charming evening.” He took her home in his automobile, and when they parted she said: “You’ll come to-morrow?”

  “If you wish.”

  “Oh, I don’t particularly wish!” she answered, gaily. “But I should like to put you on a good thing.

  I’ll keep half an hour for you between eleven and twelve. Good-night!”

  He raised his hat, and stood bareheaded till she had disappeared within the portico of the tall Tower of Babel built up in residential flats. The white light of the full moon in the cloudless American sky made all things clearly visible, and the ugliness of his surroundings suddenly smote him with a sharp sense of memory — memory that conjured up before his eyes a vision of the stately and appealing Tudor architecture of his own home in England, with its clustering gables and mullioned windows — its smooth green lawns like stretches of velvet, fired at their edges by clumps of glorious rhododendrons — its noble park, adorned with splendid oaks and beeches, some of which had been saplings when Henry VIII was King, and when his own ancestor had served in the train of nobles and courtiers attending at the nuptials of that fickle monarch with the fair and ill-fated Anne Boleyn. A brief sigh escaped him.

  “After all,” he murmured — but left the sentence unfinished as he stepped into his car and was driven back to his hotel.

  Next day, yielding to the irresistible attraction which drew him on like an iron filing to a magnet, he found himself at Claudia’s “office” in Wall Street. It was a big place, full of interminable passages, rooms, and telephone “call” boxes — and there seemed to be no end to the number of clerks and typists male and female, all as busy as they could be. A sharp-faced boy in a kind of semi-official livery asked him whether he had an appointment, and on his replying in the affirmative, ushered him through a long series of “bureaus” to the inmost sanctuary of affairs, a small plainly furnished apartment where, at a big desk, sat the small and mignonne Claudia, arrayed in a neat, dark navy serge costume and holding a telephone receiver to her pretty little ear.

  “So here you are!” she said, stretching out her disengaged hand to him. “Well, just sit down for a minute and wait till I get this customer rung off. Jakes!” and she addressed the office boy. “Mind I can’t see any one now for half an horn.”

  Jakes nodded, and took his rapid departure without further ceremony.

  Markham, seating himself in a rather stiff upright chair, gazed curiously about him. There was nothing to indicate the presence or influence of a woman anywhere, yet with the strange, preconceived ideas and fixed obstinacy of his temperament, he looked here and there in expectation of seeing at least a mirror, a “vanity bag,” a ball of worsted and knitting needles, or even a pet dog! — but no, there was no sign of anything more than the strictest office necessities and documentary paraphernalia of the money-making male. There was just one hint of a higher grace than gold — a freshly gathered rose, lightly laid on a pile of account books as if it had been accidentally dropped there by a passing fairy. The sight of it gave him a sense of pleasure, almost of relief. Just then Claudia laid down the receiver and turned to him, smiling.

  “Well! How about that five hundred?” she queried.

  He took out his pocket-book, opened it, and handed her a cheque.

  “I wrote it this morning before coming,” he said. “I thought I would prove my confidence in you at once.”

  She glanced at the slip of paper and sat for a moment thinking.

  “Let me see!” she murmured, talking more to herself than to him. “This is Wednesday — yes! — that will do! See now! I’ll buy for you to-day, and next Wednesday I’ll sell, and you’ll make a thousand for your five hundred. It will be your spec., of course — but I’ll work it for you.”

  “You are — you are very — what shall I say? — energetic!” said Lord Markham, hesitatingly. “I suppose it’s all fair and above-board?”

  Her clear eyes flashed sudden fire upon him.

  “Fair and above-board? I should think so indeed!

  No hanky-panky tricks here! If I buy shares to-day that I know are going to be double their present price next week, and sell again for that double, isn’t that fair and above-board? Isn’t that the way money’s made?”

  “I suppose it is!” he answered, amusedly. “But you — you seem so quick and so sure!”

  “It doesn’t do to be slow in our country,” said Claudia. “We haven’t half enough time to live as it is. That is to say we haven’t half enough time to enjoy life. We want to make money while we’re young — it’s no use to us when we’re too old to have any fun. You’re just trying the game with a little five hundred pounds, but suppose you had placed ten thousand with me, you’d have twenty thousand next Wednesday. See! Now let’s talk!”

  She left her desk, and taking an easier chair sat down opposite to him.

  “Why don’t you go home to England?” she asked, pointedly.

  Her eyes were so clear and candid in their straight regard that without an instant’s thought he answered at once.

  “Because you are too attractive!”

  A sudden laughter and whimsical astonishment lightened her charming face.

  “I guessed that was so!” she said, frankly. “Well, now, if I tell you it’s no use! — and that I’m not taking any, what will you say?”

  “Not taking any?” he queried, smiling. “That’s slang! And just now it means—”

  “It means that I’m not taking any Englishman’s home!” she laughed. “Now do listen! When we first met in Paris I saw you had a sort of ‘wanting’ on you for me, like a boy who sees a new sort of popgun and thinks it better than any other he’s ever tried! You thought I was a little bit of feminine frippery — the kind of woman you noble lords often choose for your wives. Mind, I’m not
saying I don’t love fripperies! I do. I can pin an hour’s pure joy on a hat, and I revel in a pretty frock and lovely jewels. But there are other things. For ten years I’ve been making a home — a real home, you know! Where a man and woman who love each other can settle down and be happy — a home full of beautiful things drawn from the deepest wells of life” — and, as she spoke, her eyes darkened and deepened, and the smile on her lips shadowed away to a more serious sweetness— “Books by great thinkers — pictures by great artists — furniture designed by real craftsmen who love their work — gardens where flowers can bloom freely and trees can grow strong, so that when we walk among them we can believe they thank us for making them so happy!”

  “‘We’!” interrupted Markham. “‘We’ means yourself and another?”

  “Why, yes! Another who is all me, as well as himself! Without him there wouldn’t be any use in making the home — without him, I should be asking God why He made the world. You understand?”

  “I think I do,” he responded, quietly. “You are engaged to be married.”

  “That’s the correct way of putting it!” she said. “It’s years and years ago since we fixed it up between us with a hickory nutshell. He was twelve and I was ten. ‘Here’s half my nutshell,’ he said. ‘You keep it — and I’ll keep the other half. And we’ll be married, and on our wedding day we’ll join the two halves together and make it a one again. And we’ll have it fitted in a gold case all set with sparkling diamonds!’ So we settled it. He’s a rancher, and one of the finest men you ever saw! He’s got thousands of heads of cattle, and he’s making his pile while I’m making mine, and we’re both putting into the home — we’ve been putting in ever since we were old enough to earn — but I guess we’re near joining the old hickory nutshell this summer!”

  She laughed joyously, and held up a gold chain which hung round her neck, at the end of which was fastened a small brown object highly polished from much wear.

  “You see!” she added. “It’s not much of an improvement on a ring broken in halves, like the love-token of the poor unfortunate Bride of Lammermoor, though she always seemed to me a very weak creature. No ‘go’ and no pluck! I should have run away to my Master of Ravenswood long before any sort of Bucklaw had a chance to look in!”