“Yes,” she answered, still hiding her face.
“And now Sibyl,” I went on— “remember, — there must be no more talk of money and bargaining. Tell me what you have not yet told me, — that you love me, — and would love me even if I were poor.”
She looked up, straightly and unflinchingly full into my eyes.
“I cannot tell you that,” — she said,— “I have told you I do not believe in love; and if you were poor I certainly should not marry you. It would be no use!”
“You are frank, Sibyl!”
“It is best to be frank, is it not?” and she drew a flower from the knot at her bosom, and began fastening it in my coat— “Geoffrey what is the good of pretence? You would hate to be poor, and so should I. I do not understand the verb ‘to love,’ — now and then when I read a book by Mavis Clare, I believe love may exist, but when I close the book my belief is shut up with it. So do not ask for what is not in me. I am willing — even glad to marry you; that is all you must expect.”
“All!” I exclaimed, with a sudden mingling of love and wrath in my blood, as I closed my arms about her and kissed her passionately— “All! — you impassive ice-flower, it is not all! — you shall melt to my touch and learn what love is, — do not think you can escape its influence, you dear, foolish, beautiful child! Your passions are asleep, — they must wake!”
“For you?” she queried, resting her head back against my shoulder, and gazing up at me with a dreamy radiance in her lovely eyes.
“For me!”
She laughed.
“‘Oh bid me love, and I will love!’” — she hummed softly under her breath.
“You will, you must, you shall!” I said ardently. “I will be your master in the art of loving!”
“It is a difficult art!” she said— “I am afraid it will take a life-time to complete my training, even with my ‘master.’”
And a smile still lingered in her eyes, giving them a witch-like glamour, when I kissed her again and bade her good-night.
“You will tell Prince Rimânez the news?” she said.
“If you wish it.”
“Of course I wish it. Tell him at once. I should like him to know.”
I went down the stairs, — she leaned over the balustrade looking after me.
“Good-night Geoffrey!” she called softly.
“Good-night Sibyl!”
“Be sure you tell Prince Rimânez!”
Her white figure disappeared; and I walked out of the house in a chaotic state of mind, divided between pride, ecstasy and pain, — the engaged husband of an earl’s daughter, — the lover of a woman who had declared herself incapable of love and destitute of faith.
XVIII
Looking back through the space of only three years to this particular period of my life, I can remember distinctly the singular expression of Lucio’s face when I told him that Sibyl Elton had accepted me. His sudden smile gave a light to his eyes that I had never seen in them before, — a brilliant yet sinister glow, strangely suggestive of some inwardly suppressed wrath and scorn. While I spoke he was, to my vexation, toying with that uncanny favourite of his, the ‘mummy-insect,’ — and it annoyed me beyond measure to see the repulsive pertinacity with which the glittering bat-like creature clung to his hand.
“Women are all alike,” — he said with a hard laugh, when he had heard my news,— “Few of them have moral force enough to resist that temptation of a rich marriage.”
I was irritated at this.
“It is scarcely fair of you to judge everything by the money-standard,” — I said, — then, after a little pause I added what in my own heart I knew to be a lie,— “She, — Sibyl, — loves me for myself alone.”
His glance flashed over me like lightning.
“Oh! — sets the wind in that quarter! Why then, my dear Geoffrey, I congratulate you more heartily than ever. To conquer the affections of one of the proudest girls in England, and win her love so completely as to be sure she would marry you even if you had not a sou to bless yourself with — this is a victory indeed! — and one of which you may well be proud. Again and yet again I congratulate you!”
Tossing the horrible thing he called his ‘sprite’ off to fly on one of its slow humming circuits round the room, he shook my hand fervently, still smiling, — and I, — feeling instinctively that he was as fully aware of the truth as I was, namely, that had I been a poor author with nothing but what I could earn by my brains, the Lady Sibyl Elton would never have looked at me, much less agreed to marry me, — kept silence lest I should openly betray the reality of my position.
“You see” — he went on, with a cheerful relentlessness— “I was not aware that any old-world romance graced the disposition of one so apparently impassive as your beautiful fiancée. To love for love’s sake only, is becoming really an obsolete virtue. I thought Lady Sibyl was an essentially modern woman, conscious of her position, and the necessity there was for holding that position proudly before the world at all costs, — and that the pretty pastoral sentiments of poetical Phyllises and Amandas had no place in her nature. I was wrong, it seems; and for once I have been mistaken in the fair sex!” Here he stretched out his hand to the ‘sprite,’ that now came winging its way back, and settled at once on its usual resting-place; “My friend, I assure you, if you have won a true woman’s true love, you have a far greater fortune than your millions, — a treasure that none can afford to despise.”
His voice softened, — his eyes grew dreamy and less scornful, — and I looked at him in some astonishment.
“Why Lucio, I thought you hated women?”
“So I do!” he replied quickly— “But do not forget why I hate them! It is because they have all the world’s possibilities of good in their hands, and the majority of them deliberately turn these possibilities to evil. Men are influenced entirely by women, though few of them will own it, — through women they are lifted to heaven or driven to hell. The latter is the favourite course, and the one almost universally adopted.”
His brow darkened, and the lines round his proud mouth grew hard and stern. I watched him for a moment, — then with sudden irrelevance I said —
“Put that abominable ‘sprite’ of yours away, will you? I hate to see you with it!”
“What, my poor Egyptian princess!” he exclaimed with a laugh— “Why so cruel to her Geoffrey? If you had lived in her day, you might have been one of her lovers! She was no doubt a charming person, — I find her charming still! However, to oblige you—” and here, placing the insect in its crystal receptacle he carried it away to the other end of the room. Then, returning towards me slowly, he said— “Who knows what the ‘sprite’ suffered as a woman, Geoffrey! Perhaps she made a rich marriage, and repented it! At anyrate I am sure she is much happier in her present condition!”
“I have no sympathy with such a ghastly fancy,” — I said abruptly— “I only know that she or it is a perfectly loathsome object to me.”
“Well, — some ‘transmigrated’ souls are loathsome objects to look at;” — he declared imperturbably— “When they are deprived of their respectable two-legged fleshly covering, it is extraordinary what a change the inexorable law of Nature makes in them!”
“What nonsense you talk, Lucio!” I said impatiently— “How can you know anything about it!”
A sudden shadow passed over his face, giving it a strange pallor and impenetrability.
“Have you forgotten” — he said in deliberately measured accents— “that your friend John Carrington, when he wrote that letter of introduction I brought from him to you, told you in it, that in all matters scientific I was an ‘absolute master?’ In these ‘matters scientific’ you have not tested my skill, — yet you ask— ‘how can I know?’ I answer that I do know — many things of which you are ignorant. Do not presume too much on your own intellectual capability my friend, — lest I prove it naught! — lest I demonstrate to you, beyond all possibility of consoling doubt, that the shr
eds and strippings of that change you call death, are only so many embryos of new life which you must live, whether you will or no!”
Somewhat abashed by his words and still more by his manner, I said —
“Pardon me! — I spoke in haste of course, — but you know my theories—”
“Most thoroughly!” and he laughed, with an immediate resumption of his old manner—”’Every man his own theory’ is the fashionable motto of the hour. Each little biped tells you that he has his ‘own idea’ of God, and equally ‘his own’ idea of the Devil. It is very droll! But let us return to the theme of love. I feel I have not congratulated you half enough, — for surely Fortune favours you singularly. Out of the teeming mass of vain and frivolous femininity, you have secured a unique example of beauty, truth and purity, — a woman, who apart from all self-interest and worldly advantage, weds you, with five millions, for yourself alone! The prettiest poem in the world could be made out of such an exquisitely innocent maiden type! You are one of the luckiest men alive; in fact, you have nothing more to wish for!”
I did not contradict him, though in my own mind I felt that the circumstances of my engagement left much to be desired. I, who scoffed at religion, wished it had formed part of the character of my future wife, — I, who sneered at sentiment, craved for some expression of it in the woman whose beauty attracted my desires. However I determinedly smothered all the premonitions of my own conscience, and accepted what each day of my idle and useless life brought me without considering future consequences.
The papers soon had the news that “a marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between Sibyl, only daughter of the Earl of Elton, and Geoffrey Tempest, the famous millionaire.” Not ‘famous author’ mark you! — though I was still being loudly ‘boomed.’ Morgeson, my publisher, could offer me no consolation as to my chances of winning and keeping a steady future fame. The Tenth Edition of my book was announced, but we had not actually disposed of more than two thousand copies, including a One-Volume issue which had been hastily thrust on the market. And the work I had so mercilessly and maliciously slated,— ‘Differences’ by Mavis Clare was in its thirtieth thousand! I commented on this with some anger to Morgeson, who was virtuously aggrieved at my complaint.
“Dear me, Mr Tempest, you are not the only writer who has been ‘boomed’ by the press and who nevertheless does not sell,” — he exclaimed— “No one can account for the caprices of the public; they are entirely beyond the most cautious publisher’s control or calculation. Miss Clare is a sore subject to many authors besides yourself, — she always ‘takes’ and no one can help it. I sympathize with you in the matter heartily, but I am not to blame. At any rate the reviewers are all with you, — their praise has been almost unanimous. Now Mavis Clare’s ‘Differences,’ though to my thinking a very brilliant and powerful book, has been literally cut to pieces whenever it has been noticed at all, — and yet the public go for her and don’t go for you. It isn’t my fault. You see people have got Compulsory Education now, and I’m afraid they begin to mistrust criticism, preferring to form their own independent opinions; if this is so, of course it will be a terrible thing, because the most carefully organized clique in the world will be powerless. Everything has been done for you that can be done, Mr Tempest, — I am sure I regret as much as yourself that the result has not been all you expected or desired. Many authors would not care so much for the public approval; the applause of cultured journalism such as you have obtained, would be more than sufficient for them.”
I laughed bitterly. ‘The applause of cultured journalism!’ I thought I knew something of the way in which such applause was won. Almost I began to hate my millions, — golden trash that could only secure me the insincere flattery of fair-weather friends, — and that could not give me fame, — such fame as has sometimes been grasped in a moment by a starving and neglected genius, who in the very arms of death, succeeds in mastering the world. One day in a fit of disappointment and petulance I said to Lucio —
“You have not kept all your promises, my friend! — you told me you could give me fame!”
He looked at me curiously.
“Did I? Well, — and are you not famous?”
“No. I am merely notorious,” I retorted.
He smiled.
“The word fame, my good Geoffrey, traced to its origin means ‘a breath’ — the breath of popular adulation. You have that — for your wealth.”
“But not for my work!”
“You have the praise of the reviewers!”
“What is that worth!”
“Everything!” he answered smiling— “In the reviewers’ own opinion!”
I was silent.
“You speak of work;” he went on— “Now the nature of work I cannot exactly express, because it is a divine thing and is judged by a divine standard. One must consider in all work two things; first, the object for which it is undertaken, and secondly the way in which it is performed. All work should have a high and unselfish intent, — without this, it perishes and is not considered work at all, — not at least by the eternal judges invisible. If it is work, truly and nobly done in every sense of the word, it carries with it its own reward, and the laurels descend from heaven shaped ready for wearing, — no earthly power can bestow them. I cannot give you that fame, — but I have secured you a very fair imitation of it.”
I was obliged to acquiesce, though more or less morosely, — whereat I saw that he was somewhat amused. Unwilling to incur his contempt I said no more concerning the subject that was the nearest to my heart, and wore out many sleepless hours at night in trying to write a new book, — something novel and daring, such as should force the public to credit me with a little loftier status than that obtained by the possession of a huge banking account. But the creative faculty seemed dead in me, — I was crushed by a sense of impotence and failure; vague ideas were in my brain that would not lend themselves to expression in words, — and such a diseased love of hypercriticism controlled me, that after a miserably nervous analysis of every page I wrote, I tore it up as soon as it was written, thus reducing myself to a state of mind that was almost unbearable.
Early in April I made my first visit to Willowsmere, having received information from the head of the firm of decorators and furnishers employed there, that their work was close on completion, and that they would be glad of a visit of inspection from me. Lucio and I went down together for the day, and as the train rushed through a green and smiling landscape, bearing us away from the smoke, dirt and noise of the restless modern Babylon, I was conscious of a gradually deepening peace and pleasure. The first sight of the place I had recklessly purchased without so much as looking at it, filled me with delight and admiration. It was a beautiful old house, ideally English and suggestive of home-happiness. Ivy and jessamine clung to its red walls and picturesque gables, — through the long vista of the exquisitely wooded grounds, the silver gleam of the Avon river could be discerned, twisting in and out like a ribbon tied in true love-knots, — the trees and shrubs were sprouting forth in all their fresh spring beauty, — the aspect of the country was indescribably bright and soothing, and I began to feel as if a burden had been suddenly lifted from my life leaving me free to breathe and enjoy my liberty. I strolled from room to room of my future abode, admiring the taste and skill with which the whole place had been fitted and furnished, down to the smallest detail of elegance, comfort and convenience. Here my Sibyl was born, I thought, with a lover-like tenderness, — here she would dwell again as my wife, amid the lovely and beloved surroundings of her childhood, — and we should be happy — yes, we should be happy, despite all the dull and heartless social doctrines of the modern world. In the spacious and beautiful drawing-room I stopped to look out from the windows on the entrancing view of lawn and woodland that stretched before me, — and as I looked, a warm sense of gratitude and affection filled me for the friend to whose good offices I owed this fair domain. Turning, I grasped him by the hand.
“It is all your doing, Lucio!” I said— “I feel I can never thank you enough! Without you I should perhaps never have met Sibyl, — I might never have heard of her, or of Willowsmere; and I never could have been as happy as I am to-day!”
“Oh, you are happy then?” he queried with a little smile— “I fancied you were not!”
“Well — I have not been as happy as I expected to be;” I confessed,— “Something in my sudden accession to wealth seems to have dragged me down rather than lifted me up, —— it is strange — —”
“It is not strange at all” — he interrupted,— “on the contrary it is very natural. As a rule the most miserable people in the world are the rich.”
“Are you miserable, for instance?” I asked, smiling.
His eyes rested on me with a dark and dreary pathos.
“Are you too blind to see that I am?” he answered, his accents vibrating with intense melancholy— “Can you think I am happy? Does the smile I wear, — the disguising smile men put on as a mask to hide their secret agonies from the pitiless gaze of unsympathetic fellow-creatures, — persuade you that I am free from care? As for my wealth, — I have never told you the extent of it; if I did, it might indeed amaze you, though I believe it would not now arouse your envy, considering that your trifling five millions have not been without effect in depressing your mind. But I, — I could buy up kingdoms and be none the poorer, — I could throne and unthrone kings and be none the wiser, — I could crush whole countries under the iron heel of financial speculation, — I could possess the world, — and yet estimate it at no higher value than I do now, — the value of a grain of dust circling through infinity, or a soap-bubble blown on the wind!”
His brows knitted, — his face expressed pride, scorn and sorrow.
“There is some mystery about you Lucio;” — I said— “Some grief or loss that your wealth cannot repair — and that makes you the strange being you are. One day perhaps you will confide in me ...”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 345
