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

by Marie Corelli

  Then — the shriek of a shell — a flash — and silence! — the silence of the cold ground and the heavy, penetrating, slow rain. Presently there came a movement — a light — a gleam of something warm and living among the tumbled heaps of dead. Somebody did some sort of kindness to “Sunny” which roused him from his swoon. He tried to stir; he managed to smile.

  “I’m all right!” he whispered. “Don’t bother!”

  Firm and gentle arms were placed round him and he was lifted tenderly, as though he were the merest infant, and carried away. Then to himself he seemed to fall into a long slumber of weeks or months or years — he could not tell which — and when he awoke he found himself in a cheerful room, on a neat white bed among several other neat white beds, where lads like himself lay with bandaged heads and limbs — some awake, some asleep, but all apparently placid and comfortable. As he looked about him wonderingly a sweet-faced woman came to his side and re-arranged his pillow, smiling down upon him as she did so.

  “I say! — is this a home?” he asked her.

  “A sort of one!” she answered. “It’s a Red Cross Hospital. Don’t look so surprised! You — you’ve been badly wounded — but you’re better! — much better! — you’re going to get well!”

  “Think so?” he murmured, and smiled. “Is this New York?”

  “No — it’s Paris. But this is an American Red Cross show!” And she laughed happily.

  He lay with his eyes closed for a while. Then he opened them suddenly.

  “Could you write to my mother for me?”

  She nodded, and her eyes twinkled.

  “You see, she’ll worry,” he went on. “She was always too fond of me, and if she doesn’t hear what’s become of me—”

  There was a sudden movement from behind a screen, and a lovely woman stepped forward like a vision in fairyland.

  “Sunny! My own Sunny!”

  “Mother!”

  She folded him in her arms.

  “I’ve been here for weeks, my boy!” she murmured. “They told me to come directly they found you on the field — my poor, darling brave boy! All the work of the American Red Cross, Sunny! — the splendid American Red Cross! It has saved you! — and me!”

  THE PANTHER

  A CONQUEST OF HEREDITY

  NIGHT had closed in upon the tropical forest.

  The giant trees, unmoved by a breath of wind, were scarcely visible in the thick darkness which had fallen with the suddenness common to far southern latitudes. The intense, suffocating heat seemed to crush and melt as in a crucible all the strange pungent odours of the rank and luxuriant vegetation, filling what little air there was with poisonous and sickening exhalations. It was one of Nature’s dark and cunning corners — a place never frequented by man, and fertile in the breeding of pestilential vapours and germs of deadly disease, ready to destroy the unfit when the time for their clearance should come. To an inattentive ear there would have seemed utter silence everywhere; but to the keen listener a steady almost rhythmic wave of sound swept to and fro — the mysterious beat of the life pulse in swarms of insect, bird, and animal creatures hidden among the thickets of fern and bush more intricately entangled than any barrier devised by human wit against a stealthily encroaching foe. Presently a flicker of emerald light pierced the dense gloom, as though some vast being walking through the sky had swung a lantern downward to illumine the way; it was a side glimmer of the moon, peering among the boughs, intensifying their close blackness. As this ghostly gleam shone pallidly there came a slow, rustling movement in the forest as of something pushing under the low-growing brambles — the branches crackled, and a dark, sinuous form crept swiftly along, bending now this way, now that, till breaking by force through a wall of brushwood it raised its head and uttered a half-savage, half melancholy howl. Where it had paused there was an opening in the arching roof of foliage, and the moon looked down upon it; the moon was familiar with all the beasts of prey in that fever-haunted wilderness, and this one was no stranger to its tropic glare — a superb panther which for many nights had wandered restlessly in search of its mate, the tantalizing female creature that with true feminine coquetry had eluded this fierce lover. Again and again the wild howl echoed through the stillness, followed by a swift, scurrying noise — the stampede of the smaller animals afraid of this monster whose huge fangs spared nothing. All at once, with a rapidity more instantaneous than a flash of lightning, there came a great, impetuous rush as of some heavy body throwing itself forward — an angry roar — and the brightening moonlight showed a second panther, which at first pouncing and tearing up the ground in its rage suddenly stood still — then crouched low, glaring at its fellow-brute — and, lashing its tail ominously like a whip of iron, prepared to spring. The other waited, ready for attack and rigidly drawn up on the defensive. The moonbeams now growing strong in their green-and-white luminance filtered through the branches, fully disclosing the lithe forms of the two powerful beasts preparing for conflict. A little distance away from them a patch of brighter light falling on a litter of dead leaves and moss showed a smaller, more supple animal gliding cautiously into the deeper shadows. This creature moved with a velvety softness — something secret and subtle marked its pace, and as it became lost in cavernous darkness it gave utterance to a whining cry, half tender, half fretful. This sound was the very herald’s trump of combat; the two males heard what to them was the resistless call of amorous desire, and leaping almost erect, they sprang furiously at each other. With merciless fangs and claws they grappled together, snarling and yelling as they sometimes stood up, half locked in a deadly struggle, and anon rolled on the ground, each one striving to get at the other’s throat, ripping each other’s flesh with a ferocity that grew more and more uncontrollable as they tasted blood and wallowed in it. The ground seemed to sway with the force of their terrific impact, and in the very thick of the fight the whimpering feminine cry resounded once more through the forest, giving fresh impetus to the insatiate cruelty and pitilessness of the wild beast nature. The moon smiled like the bland white face of an eyeless statue, showing no expression; and the stirless trees were as titanic sentinels in the dark, moving no leaf or twig to challenge the faintest quiver of the hot air now laden with the scent of blood. At last, one of the combating brutes showed signs of exhaustion — little by little it gave way under the repeated onslaughts of its opponent, and presently with a cry that was almost human in its desperation it ceased altogether to struggle and rolled over among the ferns and bush, stone dead. Its conqueror, trampling on its body, exultantly tore at its throat with all the instinctive knowledge of the vulnerability of the jugular vein, and, satisfied at last, stood lashing its tail in savage triumph, and, uttering roar after roar, proudly proclaimed to the forest-world the death of a rival. The roar was answered by the insidious whining call of the female, which echoing softly from safe distance was almost an appeal. The victorious beast turned quickly in the direction of that attractive sound and with velvet tread and blood-dripping jaws crawled rapidly into the further silence and darkness to meet the reward of love after murder. The moon smiled on complacently, and the tall trees remained stiff as moveless mists against the black ocean of the night — mysterious, hungry creatures small and great crept or ran from their holes and burrows to settle on the great dead panther that lay among the bushes and thorns, and drink its blood while the veins were yet warm. Uncouth night birds awoke and flapped their wings and uttered strange croaking sounds of desire or satisfaction; an ape or two, startled from some hidden lair, swung up on the tough branches of climbing and twisted parasites and chattered like indiscreet humans who know not what they say, save in the repeating of idle rumour — and over all the dark, wild scene there hung the everlasting sense of Desire and Death! — Desire, which brutalizes, because it is of self — Death which dignifies, because Self is no more.

  In the smoking-room of a London club two men sat talking. They were old friends, and had been boys at the same school together. They
had gone up to Oxford at the same time, and in later days had fought together side by side in a veritable hell of fire bombs, performing deeds of magnificent heroism which had won for them both the Victoria Cross as well as the “Croix de Guerre” from their French Allies. They had not finished fighting yet, but were home on leave, each man having a special reason for the respite, of which, however, they had said nothing to each other. They were — each in his own way — more than commonly good-looking. The elder of the two had a peculiarly strong face, with brilliant, greenish-gray eyes half hidden under heavy lids and deep brows — the rather sinister lines of mouth and jaw were partially softened by a tawny moustache which admiring women called “golden-brown.” When the lips smiled they parted to show white teeth very strongly and evenly set, and unkind people said that Major Chisholm only smiled with his teeth and never with his whole face, the eyes always keeping a grave and somewhat watchful sternness of expression under the massive brows. His friend, Walter Bruce, the captain of a gallant company, was of an entirely different type, young and boyish, with laughing blue eyes and a mass of curly dark brown locks which his mother loved to fondle, he was a spoilt and petted only son. His father possessed great estates and vast wealth, and from his childhood he had known nothing but ease and luxury, the pleasures of sport, society, and good living. Yet when brought to the test he had proved himself a hero of undaunted mettle — he had roughed it with his men, and had saved many of them at the risk of his own life — he had “played about” among bursting shells and flaming shrapnel as a child among tossing shuttlecocks, and was constantly getting “mentioned in despatches,” which he declared was absurd and superfluous.

  “I haven’t really done anything” — he would say with almost an injured air to his military chief— “Any of my Tommies would do as much every moment of the day if they got the chance.”

  He had been “decorated,” as he playfully asserted, by a slight wound in the arm, and had come home to have it nursed and healed by his adoring mother, while his equally adoring father looked on; but now he was fully recovered and ready to return to the scene of action. Only — there were just a few things to do first.

  “I say, old man,” he began, suddenly, opening his blue eyes full on the dark, meditative face of Chisholm opposite to him, “what are you going to do with yourself for the next few days?”

  Major Chisholm met his inquiring look with a slight smile.

  “Why do you ask?” he counter-queried. “What are your own plans?”

  “Well, I’m going into the country to stay with some friends—”

  “So am I,” interrupted Chisholm, still smiling.

  “Oh, are you? That’s all right! Whereabouts?”

  “Surrey.”

  “Surrey? Curious! I’m bound for Surrey, too!” He paused a moment, flushed rosily like a girl, then laughed a little awkwardly. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t make a dean breast of it! I’m — I’m going to be married!”

  Chisholm raised his heavy eyelids, and his eyes, steely gray with the strange greenish glitter in them, opened in wide surprise.

  “You? Not really! What a sly chap you are! You’ve never said a word to me about it!”

  “No — but I didn’t mean to be sly. You see, Eustace,” and drawing his chair closer he laid a hand on his friend’s arm with an almost coaxing fondness, “it was just this way — I thought it best to say nothing. I might have been finished off any moment in that last affair, and no one would have been any the wiser or sadder. It didn’t seem fair to the girl to tie her up to me by any sort of promise or engagement, and I really meant still to wait — but when I came home a fortnight ago, she seemed so glad to see me and looked so lovely and sweet that I — well! — I just lost my head and told her all I’d been thinking about her out there in that hell — and then it turned out she’d been thinking the same of me! So we told our respective and respectable parents and it’s all settled. The wedding will be very quiet — no one but our own people — only of course I must have you to be my best man!”

  “Delighted!” and Chisholm smiled. “But who’s the lady?”

  “You know her quite well,” replied Bruce. “You’ve met her several times and admired her — Sylvia Brooke — old General Harvey Brooke’s only daughter.”

  Chisholm rose abruptly from his chair, turning his back to his friend as he did so.

  “Really! Sylvia Brooke!” he said, somewhat unsteadily, striking a match with a sharp sputter to light a cigar. “The sylph with the gold hair and pansy-coloured eyes!”

  “That’s her!” said young Bruce, delightedly. “She is the loveliest thing ever made, isn’t she?”

  Eustace Chisholm swung round, cigar in mouth, and standing full height looked down upon his friend reclining comfortably in the easy chair.

  “Yes, I suppose she is,” he answered slowly. “You think so, of course!”

  “And so do you!” declared Bruce. “Why, you were almost in love with her yourself at one time!”

  “Was I?” The glitter of the even white teeth shone for a moment under the tawny moustache, “Positively, now I come to remember it, I believe I was!”

  His massive, upright figure seemed just then to tower over the indolently reclining, handsome young man like a looming shadow. Walter Bruce leaned his curly head back on the cushion of his chair, half closing his eyes.

  “She is such a darling little soul!” he murmured, lazily. “You know what sweet eyes she has and what lovely hair! No angel in Heaven could look prettier than Sylvia, I’m sure! And she’s fond of me — that’s the most astonishing part of the whole business! I should never have thought it! I should have given her credit for better taste! You see, she might so easily have cared for you!”

  “She might!” And Chisholm flicked off the end of his cigar, turning toward the fireplace to do so. “But in this case the unlikely has not happened!”

  He changed his attitude again, and resumed his contemplative observation of his friend, who smiled confidingly up at him and stretched himself out with a comfortable yawn. Young Bruce wore rather an open collar, and a portion of his full white throat was bare. On that uncovered bit of soft flesh Chisholm’s eyes were fixed with a curious intentness.

  “No more unlikely than her caring for me,” went on Bruce, dreamily. “You’re really the sort of fellow that generally takes a girl’s fancy — and you danced with her at our county ball. You moved splendidly together! — and by Jove! — how pretty she looked! She wore a sparkling fairy frock with a sort of misty rose colour about it — you know! like a bit of pale sunset cloud, and she seemed to float about in your arms as lightly as gossamer! We all thought you made such a good-looking couple — don’t you remember?” Chisholm nodded, puffing at his cigar in hard, nervous impatience. Did he remember? As if he could ever forget! And now, an evil hour had come upon him, which, like a sudden tidal wave of utter despair, swamped every aspiration and ambition of his life. For months, in the horrors and suspense of war, he had held the memory of Sylvia Brooke’s exquisite face and eyes as the beckoning bright reward of victory, when victory came; night and day he had thought of her; and the thrill of her touch when he had danced with her, as Bruce had just said, clung to him with an insidious sweetness as sacred as it was tender. All his hopes had been secretly set on winning her love, and he had resolved to go and see her this very week and test his chance — too late — too late! This curly-headed young hero, his own familiar friend, had all unwittingly stolen a march upon him — and as he stood, outwardly calm, but inwardly raging with fierce and feverish trouble, he was tormented by a strange and terrible suggestion — a kind of overpowering instinct at first so awful to his mind that he repelled it with horror, but gradually strengthening and filling every nerve and sinew with purely brutal force. He loved Sylvia! — love? — the word was too weak to cover the passion which dominated him — stronger now than ever for having been pent up within him for so many weary months of absence and silence while he had fought face to face w
ith Death in all its most hideous forms. He loved Sylvia! — he wanted her; she was necessary to his life, and now he was to be deprived of her! Why should he suffer this loss? What had he done to deserve it? Thoughts, bitter and resentful, crowded hotly into his brain, and slowly, very slowly and gradually, there grew up in him a confused sense of animal greed, animal ferocity, animal lust of blood, till suddenly he hated — yes, hated the fair, boyish-looking comrade of his school and college days — the happy, prosperous fellow to whom capricious destiny had given all the goods and glories of life, withholding nothing. And his brooding eyes bent themselves with a pertinacity of which he was unconscious on that glimpse of the young man’s throat left open by the soft collar and careless tie. Then there began a dull buzzing in his ears like the noise of a whirring wheel, and clear above this a hissing whisper slid along the channels of his mind— “Kill! kill!” One quick, close grasp on that throat — one deft, throttling twist of the hand and clutching fingers! The cigar he was smoking tasted acrid and nauseous — he flung it aside — then straightening his figure to its full height, he said with a forced smile:

  “Well, old man, shall we be moving? — it’s getting late; you might come round to my rooms for half an hour and discuss this wedding business. If you really want me to support you on the great occasion I must know the day, hour, and all the rest of it. But I wish you’d let me off it!”

  Bruce sprang up from his chair, momentarily vexed and pained.

  “Let you off!” he echoed, amazed. “You, my best friend? Why?”

  “Why? Oh, chiefly, I think, because a ‘best man’ always looks such a fool! A sort of hanger-on — like the footman holding the straps of a state coach on Lord Mayor’s day!”