Читать книгу The Young Diana: An Experiment of the Future - Marie Corelli - Страница 8

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On that same eminently tragic afternoon when Mr. Polydore May found it necessary to change his white flannels so soon after putting them on, and his wife had to think seriously of a crape poppy for her bonnet, two ladies sat in the charmingly arranged drawing-room of a particularly charming flat in Mayfair enjoying their afternoon tea. One was a graceful little woman arrayed in a captivating tea-gown; the other, a thin, rather worn-looking creature with a pale face and bright hair tucked closely away under a not very becoming felt hat, garbed in a severely plain costume of dark navy serge. The butterfly person in the tea-gown was Miss Sophy Lansing, a noted Suffragette, and the authoress of a brilliantly witty satire entitled “Adam and His Apple,” which, it was rumoured, had made even the Dean of St. Paul’s laugh. The tired-featured woman with the air of an intellectual governess out of place, was no other than the victim of the morning’s disastrous “death by drowning,”—Diana May. Dead in Devonshire, she was alive in London, and her friend, Sophy Lansing, was sitting beside her, clasping her hands in a flutter of delight, surprise and amusement all commingled.

“You dear!” she exclaimed. “How ever did you manage to get away? I never was so astonished! Or so pleased! When I got your note by express messenger, I could hardly believe my eyes! What time did you arrive in town?”

“About midday,” replied Diana. “I felt comfortably drowned by that time,—and I lunched at the Stores——”

“Drowned!” cried Sophy. “My dear, what do you mean?”

Diana released her hands from her friend’s eager grasp and took off her hat. There was a gleam of whimsical humour in her eyes.

“One moment, and I’ll explain everything,” she said. “But, first of all, let me tell you why I sent you a message in advance, instead of coming to you direct. It’s because I’m obliged for the present to be like a travelling royalty, incog. Your servants must not know my real name,—to them and to everybody else who sees me here, I’m Miss Graham,—not Miss May. Miss May is dead! As Peggotty says in ‘David Copperfield,’ she’s ‘drowndead.’ ‘Drowndead’ this very morning!”

She laughed; Sophy Lansing looked as she felt, utterly bewildered.

“You are a positive enigma, Diana!” she said. “Of course when I got your note I understood you had some reason or other for wishing to be incog., and I told my maids that I expected a friend to stay with me, a Miss Graham, and that she would come this afternoon,—so that’s all right! But about the drowning business——”

“You’ll see it mentioned, no doubt, in the papers to-morrow,” said Diana. “Under various headings: ‘Bathing Fatality’ or ‘Sad End of a Lady.’ And you’ll probably get a black-bordered letter from Ma, or Pa, or both!”

“Diana!” exclaimed Sophy, vehemently. “You are too provoking! Tell me all about it!—straight!”

“There’s not so very much to tell,” answered Diana, in her sweet, mellow accents, thrilled at the moment by a note of sadness. “Only that last night I had the final disillusion of my life—I found that my father and mother did not really love me——”

“Love you!” interrupted Sophy, heatedly. “You dear goose! There’s no such thing as love in their composition!”

“Maybe not,” said Diana. “But if there is, they’ve none to spare for me. You see, dear Sophy, it’s all the fault of my silly conceit,—I really thought I was useful, even necessary to the old people, and that they cared for me, but when I heard my father say most emphatically that I was ‘in the way,’ and my mother rather agreed to that, I made up my mind to relieve them of my presence. Which I have done. For ever!”

“For ever!” echoed Sophy. “My poor dear Diana——”

“No, I’m not a poor dear Diana,” she answered, smiling,—“I’m a dead and gone Diana! You will see me in the leading obituary columns of the newspapers to-morrow!”

“But how——”

“The how and the when and the why are thus!” and Diana played with the silken tassels of the girdle which belted in the dainty chiffon and lace of her friend’s tea-gown. “This very morning, as ever was, I went for my usual morning dip in the sea at a cove not a quarter of a mile away from the house. I knew that at a certain hour there would be a high tide, which, of course, on any other day I would have avoided. I went to the spot, dressed in two of everything——”

“Two of everything?” Sophy murmured bewilderedly.

“Yes, you pretty little thick-head! Two of everything! Don’t you see? Being as thin as a clothes’-prop, that was easy for me. Two ‘combys,’—two chemises, two petticoats, two serge gowns,—having no figure I wear no corsets, so I didn’t have two of those. Two pairs of knickers, two pairs of stockings,—one pair of shoes on, another pair off and carried secretly under my bathing gown along with my felt hat, as to start with I wore a black straw one. Then, when I got to the cove, I disrobed myself of one set of garments, and put them with my straw hat and one pair of shoes all in an orderly heap on a rock out of the way of the water, as any sensible person preparing to bathe would do. Then I waited for the high tide. It came swiftly and surely, and soon filled the cove,—big waves came with it, rolling in with a splendid dash and roar, and at the proper psychological moment, I threw in all my bathing things, as far out to sea as I could from the summit of the rock where I stood—I saw them whirled round and round in the whelming flood!—in the whelming flood, Sophy!—where my dear Pa and Ma believe I also have been whelmed! Then, when they had nearly disappeared in the hollow of a receding mass of water, I put on my felt hat, and, completely clothed in my one set of decent garments, I quietly walked away.”

“Walked away? Where to?”

“Not to the nearest railway station, you may be sure!” replied Diana. “I might have been known there and traced. I’m a good walker, and it was quite early—only a little after seven,—so I struck across some fields and went inland for about six or eight miles. Then I came upon a little out-of-the-way station connected with a branch line to London—happily a train was just due, and I took it. I had saved five pounds on the housekeeping last month,—I had intended to give them back to my mother—but—considering everything—I felt I might take that small sum for myself without so much as a prick of conscience! So that’s my story—and here I am!”

“And here you’ll stay!” said Sophy eagerly. “Not a soul shall know who you are——”

“I’ll stay for two or three days, but not longer,” said Diana. “I want to get abroad as quickly as possible. And I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to lend me a little money——”

“I’ll lend or give you anything you want,” interrupted Sophy quickly. “Surely you know that!”

“Surely I know that you are one of the kindest-hearted little women in the world!” said Diana. “And your wealthy old bachelor uncle never did a wiser thing than when he left you two thousand a year! Why you remain single I can never understand!”

“That’s because you are a sentimental goose!” declared Sophy. “If you were worldly wise you would see that it’s just that two thousand that does it! The men who propose to me—and there are a good few of them!—want the two thousand first, and me afterwards! Or rather, let us say, some of them would be glad of the two thousand without me altogether! All the nonsense in poetry books about love and dove, and sigh and die, and moon and spoon doesn’t count! I’ve lived till I’m thirty-five and I’ve never met a man yet who was worth a trickle of a tear! They are all sensualists and money-grubbers,—polygamous as monkeys!—and the only thing to be done with them is to make them work to keep the world going, though even that seems little use sometimes.”

“Sophy dear, are you becoming a pessimist?” asked Diana, half smiling. “Surely it is a beautiful world!”

“Yes—it’s beautiful in a natural way—but the artificiality of human life in it is depressing and disgusting! Don’t let us talk of it!—tell me why you are going abroad? What are your plans?”

Diana took a neat leather case from her pocket and drew out of it a folded slip of paper.

“You sent me that!” she said.

“That advertisement!” she exclaimed. “The man who wants ‘Any woman alone in the world, without claims on her time or her affections’? Oh, Diana! You don’t mean it! You’re not really going on such a wild-goose chase?”

“What harm can it do?” said Diana, quietly. “I’m old enough to take care of myself. And I fulfil all the requirements. I am a woman of mature years—I’m courageous and determined, and I have a fair knowledge of modern science. I’m well educated, especially in ‘languages and literature,’ thanks to my solitary studies,—and as I’ve nothing to look forward to in the world I’m not afraid to take risks. It really seems the very sort of thing for me! At any rate I can but go and present myself, as suggested, ‘personally and alone’ to this Dr. Dimitrius at Geneva,—and if he turns out an impostor, well!—Geneva isn’t the worst of places, and I’m sure I could find something to do as a teacher of music, or a ‘companion housekeeper.’ In any case I’m determined to go there and investigate things for myself,—and whatever money you are good enough to lend me, dear Sophy, be sure I’ll never rest till I pay you back every penny!”

Sophy threw an embracing arm round her and kissed her.

“If you never paid me back a farthing I shouldn’t mind!” she said, laughing. “Dear Di, I’m not one of those ‘friends’ who measure love by money! Money and the passion for acquiring it make more than half the hypocrisy, cruelty and selfishness of the age. But all the same I’m not quite sure that I approve of this plan of yours——”

“My dear Sophy, why should you disapprove? Just think of it! Here am I, past forty, without any attraction whatsoever, no looks, no fortune, and nothing to look forward to in life except perhaps the chance of travel and adventure. I’m fond of studies in modern science, and I believe I’ve read every book of note on all the new discoveries,—and here’s a man who plainly announces in his advertisement that he needs the assistance of a woman like me. There can be no harm done by my going to see him. Very likely by the time I get to Geneva he’ll be what the servants call ‘suited.’ Then I’ll try something else. For now, as long as I live I’m alone in the world and must stand on my own.”

“Do you mean to say that you’ll never go back to the old folks?” asked Sophy.

“How can I, when I’m dead!” laughed Diana. “No, no! It would be too awful for them to see me turning up again just when I had ceased to be in the way!”

Sophy frowned.

“Selfish old brutes!” she said.

Diana demurred.

“No, don’t say that!” she expostulated. “You must bear in mind that I’ve been a terrible disappointment to them. They wanted me to marry well,—for money rather than love—and when I wasted my youth for love’s sake, of course they were angry. They thought me a fool,—and really, so I was! I don’t think there can be anything more foolish than to sacrifice the best part of one’s life for any man. He is never worth it,—he never understands or appreciates it. To him women are all alike,—one as good or as bad as t’other. The mistake we make is when we fail to treat him as he treats us! He is a creature who from very babyhood upwards should be whipped rather than spoilt. That is why he is frequently more faithful to his mistress than his wife. He’s afraid of the one, but he can bully the other.”

Sophy clapped her hands.

“Well said, Di! You begin to agree with me at last! Once upon a time you were all for believing in the chivalrous thought and tenderness of men——”

“I wanted to believe,” interrupted Diana, with a half smile—“I can’t honestly say I did!”

“No one can who studies life ever so superficially,” declared Sophy. “Particularly the ordinary matrimonial life. A man selects a woman entirely for selfish purposes—she may be beautiful and he wishes to possess her beauty—or rich, and he wants the use of her money,—or well-connected, and he seeks to push himself through her relations; or a good cook and housekeeper and he wants his appetite well catered for. As for children—well!—sometimes he wants them and more often he doesn’t!—I remember what an awful fuss there was in the house of an unfortunate friend of mine who had twins. Her husband was furious. When he was told of the ‘interesting event’ he used the most unedifying language. ‘Two more mouths to feed!’ he groaned. ‘Good God, what a visitation!’ From the way he went on, you’d have thought that he had had no share at all in the business! He didn’t mind hurting his wife’s feelings or saying hard things to her,—not he! And it’s the same story everywhere you go. A few months of delightful courtship,—then marriage—then incessant routine of housekeeping, illness and child-bearing—and afterwards, when the children grow up, the long dull days of resigned monotony; toothlessness, which is only partially remedied by modern dentistry, and an end of everything vital or pleasurable! Except, of course, unless you kick over the traces and become a ‘fast’ matron with your weather-eye open on all men,—but that kind of woman is always such bad form. Marriage is not worth the trouble it brings,—even children are not unmixed blessings. I’ve never seen any I could not do without!—in fact”—and she laughed—“a bachelor woman with two thousand a year doesn’t want a man to help her to spend it!”

“Quite true,” said Diana, with a slight sigh. “But I haven’t got two thousand a year, or anything a year at all!”

“Never mind!” and Sophy looked wisely confident—“you’ll have all you want and more! Yes!—something tells me you are going to make a great success——”

“Sophy, Sophy! In what?”

“Oh, I don’t know!” and the vivacious little lady jumped up from her chair and shook out her filmy skirts and floating ribbons. “But I feel it! It is one of those ‘waves’—what do you call them?—‘etheric vibrations!’ Yes, that’s it! Don’t you feel those sort of things ever?”

Diana had also risen, and as she stood upright, very still, there was a curious look in her face of expectancy and wonder.

“Yes,” she answered, slowly, “I felt one just now!”

Sophy laughed merrily.

“Of course! I imparted it to you! and you’re going to be a wonderful creature!—I’m sure of it! Your poor brain,—so long atrophied by the domestic considerations of Pa and Ma, is about to expand!—to breathe!—to move!—to act! Yes, Diana!—Think of it! Cinderella shall go to the Prince’s Ball!”

Her bright laughter pealed out again, and Diana laughed too.

“Come and see your room,” went on Sophy. “You’re here at any rate for a day or two, and I’ll keep you as secretly and preciously as a saint in a shrine. You’ve no luggage? Of course, I forgot!—I’ll lend you a nightie!—and you must buy a lot of clothes to-morrow and a box to pack them in. It won’t do for you to go abroad without any luggage. And I’ll help you choose your garments, Di!—you must have something really becoming!—something not after the taste of ‘Pa’ or ‘Ma!’”

“Am I to make a conquest of Dr. Féodor Dimitrius?” asked Diana, playfully. “One would think you had that sort of thing in view!”

“One never knows!” said Sophy, shaking a warning finger at her. “Dr. Dimitrius may be hideous—or he may be fascinating. And whether hideous or fascinating, he may be—amorous! Most men are, at moments!—and in such moments they’ll make love to anything feminine.”

“Not anything feminine of my age,” said Diana, calmly. “He distinctly advertises for a woman of ‘mature’ years.”

“That may be his cunning!” and Sophy looked mysterious. “If we are to believe history, Cleopatra was fifty when she enchanted Anthony.”

“Dear old Egyptian days!” sighed Diana, with a whimsical uplifting of her eyebrows. “Would I had lived in them! With a long plaited black wig and darkened lashes, I too, might have found an Anthony!”

“Well, dress does make a difference,” said Sophy seriously. “That is, of course, if you know where to get it made, and how to put it on, and don’t bundle it round you in a gathered balloon like ‘Ma!’ What a sight that woman does look, to be sure!”

“Poor mother! I tried to make her clothes sit on her,” murmured Diana, regretfully. “But they wouldn’t!”

“Of course they wouldn’t! They simply couldn’t! Now take Mrs. Ross-Percival,—a real old, old harridan!—the terror of her grown-up daughters, who are always watching her lest her wig of young curls should come off,—she gets herself up in such a style that I once heard your father—an easily duped old thing!—say he thought her ‘the most beautiful woman in London!’ And it was all the dress, with a big hat, cosmetics and a complexion veil!”

Diana laughed.

“Pa’s a very susceptible little man!” she said tolerantly. “He has often amused me very much with his ‘amourettes.’ Sometimes it’s Mrs. Ross-Percival,—then he becomes suddenly violently juvenile and pays his devoirs to a girl of seventeen; I think he’d die straight off if he couldn’t believe himself still capable of conquering all hearts! And he’ll be able to get on in that line much better now that I’m drowned. I was ‘in the way.’”

“Silly old noodle!” said Sophy. “He’d better not come near me!—I should tell him a few plain truths of himself which he would not like!”

“Oh, he wouldn’t mind!” Diana assured her. “To begin with, he wouldn’t listen, and if he did, he would grin that funny little grin of his and say you were ‘over-wrought.’ That’s his great word! You can make no impression on Pa if he doesn’t want to be impressed. He has absolutely no feelings—I mean real feelings,—he has only just ‘impulses,’ of anger or pleasure, such as an animal has—and he doesn’t attempt to control either.”

They had by this time left the drawing-room, and were standing together in a charming little bedroom, furnished all in white and rose-colour.

“This is my ‘visitor’s room,’” said Sophy. ”And you can occupy it as long as you like. And I’ll bring you one of my Paris tea-gowns to slip on for dinner,—it’s lovely and you’ll look sweet!”

Diana smiled.

“I! Dear Sophy, you expect miracles!”

But Sophy was not so far wrong. That evening, Diana, arrayed in a gracefully flowing garment of cunningly interwoven soft shades, varying from the hue of Neapolitan violets to palest turquoise, and wearing her really beautiful bright hair artistically coiled on the top of her well-shaped head, was a very different looking Diana to the weary, worn and angular woman in severely cut navy serge who had presented the appearance of an out-of-place governess but a few hours before. If she could not be called young or beautiful, she was distinctly attractive, and Sophy Lansing was delighted.

“My dear, you pay for dressing!” she said, enthusiastically. “And—you mark my words!—you don’t look ‘mature’ enough for that Dr. Dimitrius!”