Читать книгу What a Man Wills - Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey - Страница 6

Claudia Berrington prided herself that if she had many faults, she had at least one supreme virtue—she was honest! She condescended to no subterfuges, no half-truths, no beatings about the bush. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth fell from her coral lips with a nakedness which astonished her hearers, and this despite the fact that few people had less consideration for honesty for honesty’s sake. There was no “I can, because I ought” in Claudia Berrington’s composition; her outspokenness was simply a means to an end. Very early in life her sharp wits had mastered the fact that honesty was the best policy, and that to speak the truth was at once to disarm criticism and to avoid the danger of pitfalls.

To Claudia’s supreme delight, she discovered that her adopted virtue was quite an asset in society. It was so uncommon, so arresting to meet a girl who really said what she meant, that it made quite a sensation, when found. People said to one another: “Have you heard Claudia’s latest?” and hung upon her lips in delighted anticipation of shocks. And Claudia duly shocked them, and enjoyed the process.

Openly, at the New Year’s party, Claudia had confessed that the one overwhelming ambition of her heart was to be rich, and as there seemed only one way in which a helpless young woman could obtain a limitless command of money, had declared herself ready to marry the highest bidder in the market. “A German Jew stock-broker, or a Maharajah of ‘something-core,’ or a soap-boiler bereft of h’s. Anyone will do!” she had cried, “if he can only give me enough.” And in a tête-à-tête with a girl friend over her bedroom fire the same night, she had repeated and defended the same statement.

“Ashamed?” she cried, “why should I be ashamed? I’m not a bit! How can I help my own nature? Most girls put love before everything else. Well, so do I; but it’s love for myself. I love myself better than any stupid young man, and I mean to make myself happy. I couldn’t be happy without money, therefore money I must have, and if I find a man who is ready and willing to give it to me, why on earth should I refuse?”

The friend looked at the fair, delicately cut face with a pang of envy.

“You are so lovely, Claudia; you’ll find him fast enough, and he’ll worship you, and think you a paragon of virtue. It is unfair! A plain-looking girl who would have loved him back, and been amiable and devoted, would have no chance, whereas you will carry all before you. It is unfair!”

“Oh, I’ll be quite sweet to him. I’ll have to be, to keep him in a good temper. I’ll be wickedly extravagant, you see, like all nouveaux riches, and I detest rows! Don’t you worry about the man, dear. He’ll be happy enough. So long as I get all I want, I’m quite easy to live with!”

“No one gets all one wants in life, Claudia,” said the friend tritely. “All the money in the world can’t protect you from the troubles which enter every life!”

“Perhaps not; but it can gild them! If I’m bound to have troubles, let me have them de luxe. A million or two can make anything picturesque. All the difference between sables and bombazine. Shouldn’t I look sweet, Meriel, as a widow, with a Marie Stuart bonnet and a cloak of priceless sables? He might die, you know! You never can tell!”

Then Meriel had arisen and swept scornfully from the room, and Claudia had laughed, and yawned, and gone to bed.

Several men proposed to Claudia during the next two years, only to be rejected with a finality which left no ground for appeal, and then, soon after the celebration of her twenty-fifth birthday, John Biggs appeared upon the scene. He was neither a Maharajah nor a German Jew, and he knew nothing whatever about soap-boiling. Probably in early years he had hardly been better acquainted with soap itself! He was an Australian by birth; a man of the people, who by a series of lucky chances had first discovered a gold reef, and then secured it for his own. A born fighter, he had experienced a delight in every step on the road to success, which was strangely lacking when the summit was reached. He was a multi-millionaire; he owned more money than he could spend. The battle had been fought and won, and henceforth life stretched before him barren of interest. He made his way to London, as millionaires have a habit of doing, was eagerly welcomed by a certain section of society, and in the course of a few weeks met Miss Berrington at a musical “At Home.”

“Who’s the Ogre?” asked Claudia of her companion as she watched the entrance of the big, lumbering man, who still carried his dress clothes with an air of discomfort. She shuddered daintily. “He looks like, ‘The better to eat you, my dear.’ Such teeth oughtn’t to be allowed! Has he any eyes? They are so buried in fat that one can’t see. It’s very inconsiderate of Lady Rollo to give us such shocks! If he comes over here, I shall scream!”

“That’s Biggs, the Australian millionaire, the third richest man in the world, so they say. He is an ugly beggar, and as glum as he’s ugly. Doesn’t appear to get much fun out of his pile! There’s no need to be introduced to him, Miss Berrington, if you’d rather not. Shall we go and hide in the conservatory?”

The speaker was a recent acquaintance, sufficiently under the spell of Claudia’s dimples to believe her everything that was disinterested and simple. Her reply gave him a shock.

“A millionaire, is he? That covers a multitude of—teeth! I shan’t scream, after all. No; I don’t want to hide. I’ve a penchant for millionaires! I’ll sit here and look pretty! How long do you give him, Mr Bruce, before he asks for an introduction?”

Mr Bruce gave him ten minutes, but, as a matter of fact, it was only seven and a half by the clock before the Ogre was bowing before the Beauty’s sofa, and being smilingly welcomed to a seat by her side. He was portentously ugly! Claudia, regarding him with her long green eyes, thought she had never before beheld so unattractive a man. “Flabby dabby” was her not inappropriate mental definition, but the small grey eyes looking out of the vast mass of flesh were disconcertingly keen and alert. Claudia realised that her description did not apply to the man’s mind, however aptly it might fit his body.

As for John Biggs, no words could describe his admiration of this wonderful new specimen of womanhood. Never in all his life had he beheld anyone so fair, so exquisite, so ethereal. Her hair was like threads of gold. The exquisite fineness and beauty of her complexion was like that of a child. It seemed a miracle in the eyes of the big, rough man that a grown-up woman should preserve such delicacy of charm. Yet as they exchanged the first commonplaces of conversation there was something in the expression of those sunken eyes which was not wholly approving. They seemed to Claudia like small steel gimlets, piercing into her soul! As he bade her good-bye that evening, John Biggs announced coolly:

“I shall see you again on Thursday, as arranged!” and when Claudia exclaimed, he waved aside her protests with a sarcastic laugh.

“You have been at pains to tell me exactly what you are to be doing every day of this week! Didn’t you intend me to meet you?”

Claudia shrugged her shoulders, and took refuge in her usual honesty.

“Well—I did! But you might have pretended that I didn’t. It’s rather unkind to show that you see through my poor little machinations with such ease.”

“I never pretend,” said John Biggs. His eyes rested on the string of imitation pearls encircling the slender neck, and he spoke again, roughly, insolently: “Why do you deck yourself with sham beads?”

“Because I have nothing better, of course. What a stupid question to ask!”

“You ought to wear emeralds,” he said. “They are the stones for you, with your complexion and eyes. You ought to wear emeralds. Ropes of emeralds.”

“I intend to!” answered Claudia calmly.

Their eyes met, and they stared at one another; a cold and challenging stare.

During the next fortnight Society watched with interest the progress of the affair between “Beauty and the Beast,” and speculation was rife as to its outcome. Would he propose; and, if so, would she—could she accept? It seemed impossible to her friends that even Claudia, the mercenary, could sell herself to this ogre-like man. But Claudia herself had no hesitation.

On the fifteenth day after their introduction, the couple sat together under a tree at one of the outdoor functions of the year, and John Biggs asked a sudden question:

“What did you think of me,” he asked, “when you first saw me that evening at the Rollos’?”

Claudia smiled at him with the sweetness of an angel.

“I thought,” she said, “you were the ugliest man I had ever seen!”

“And yet,” he said sneering, “you made eyes at me across the room. You willed me to come and be introduced!”

“Yes, I did. But that,” said Claudia serenely, “was because you were rich.”

The gimlet-like eyes stared long and straight at the lovely face, beneath the rose-crowned hat.

“I think,” John Biggs said deliberately, “you are the most soulless human creature on earth! That lovely body of yours is a shell—a beautiful shell with nothing inside. You have no soul!”

“I don’t want one, thank you. They’re such a bother. Why are you so cross with me all of a sudden?” cried Claudia, making a delightful little moue of childlike injury and distress. “I’ve been so nice to you all this time, and it’s mean to ask questions, and then get cross when I tell you the truth.”

“You are false!” he replied coldly. “Your honesty is a blind to hide the falseness beneath. There is nothing true, nor straight, nor honest about you.” And then bending nearer, so that his huge brown face almost touched her own, he hissed a question into her ear: “Claudia—will you marry me?”

Claudia gave a trill of birdlike laughter.

“Yes, please!” she cried gaily. “But what a funny proposal! You don’t ‘lead up’ a bit well. They are generally so flattering and nice, and you were horrible. Why do you want to marry me, if you disapprove of me so much?”

“Why do you want to marry me?” he asked in return. There was no lover-like ardour in his voice; the sunken eyes gleamed with a mocking light; every tooth in his head seemed to show as he bent over her. “Is it because you love me, Claudia?”

“N-ot exactly,” said Claudia, with a gulp. His nearness gave her a momentary feeling of suffocation, but she braced herself to bear it without shrinking. “N-ot exactly; but I love the things you can give me! It’s a fair exchange, isn’t it? You want a hostess; I want a home. You don’t pretend to love me, either!”

Then suddenly his eyes blazed upon her.

“Not you, perhaps, but your beauty! I worship your beauty,” he cried. “Your beauty has driven me mad! Make no mistake, my girl, you don’t deceive me—you are not worth loving, not even worth buying, though you are so ready to sell your dainty pink and white self, but I am going to buy you all the same. I’ve worked hard for my money, and I can afford to indulge myself in worthless trifles if it suits my fancy. It is, as you say, a fair exchange. You want my money, I want your beauty. I have worked among grim sights; now, for a change, I shall look upon—You!” He stretched out his great hand, and laid it beside hers. “Hide and satin! Who would believe that we belonged to the same species! You’re a dainty morsel, my dear. We shall make a pretty pair.”

Claudia looked at him, and felt a shrinking of heart.

“You’ll be good to me?” she asked him. “You’ll promise not to quarrel, or be stingy? You won’t make me marry you, and then put me on an allowance, or fuss about bills? You’ll promise faithfully!”

“You shall have as much money as you can spend. You’re an object de luxe, my dear, and shall be shielded carefully in your glass case. I’m not a fool to buy a curio, and not look after its preservation. Take care of your beauty! Deck it up! It’s mine! I’ve bought it—see that I get my price!”

He lifted his hand and stroked the exquisite cheek. Seen close at hand, the fineness and smoothness of the skin was even more wonderful than from afar. He gripped the chin between finger and thumb, and turned her face to his, staring greedily at each curve and line. In appearance, as in manner, Claudia went in for honesty. There was no artificiality about her beauty, not even a brush of powder upon the skin. The man who had just settled his terms regarded his purchase with kindling eyes.

“I’ll buy you your emeralds, my beauty, the finest emeralds I can find,” he cried. “Everyone shall talk of you; everyone shall envy you. The Queen of Beauty, Mrs John Biggs!”

Claudia Biggs had been married for two years, and had flourished like the proverbial bay-tree. Her wedding had been one of the smartest functions of the season, her honeymoon had been spent in a lordly castle “lent for the occasion” by its titled owner. As Mrs John Biggs, she had made her presentation curtsey to her sovereign in a gown whose magnificence was the talk of the town; every house that was worth visiting threw open its doors to the millionaire and his wife, and Society flocked to the entertainments given by them in their turn. There had been those who had prophesied disaster from the marriage, who had felt convinced that Claudia would not be able to endure so close a companionship with her Ogre, but as time passed on they were obliged to confess their mistake, for Claudia bloomed into an amazing, an almost incredible, beauty. She had always been lovely, but the loveliness of Claudia the maid was as nothing compared with that of Claudia the wife. What had been, as it were, a flower of the wayside, had become the most rare and costly of exotics, tended with every extravagance of care. The most exquisite garments, the most costly gems, were showered upon her by a husband who took no account of money spent on the adornment of the beauty for which he had paid so high a price; but if he were generous in the fulfilment of his promise, he insisted that Claudia should do her own share. She must be sparing in food and drink, she must take regular exercise; she must keep early hours, and retire to the country for specified periods of rest. John commanded, and, after one memorable attempt at rebellion, Claudia had silently obeyed. She never voluntarily recalled that occasion, but from time to time it visited her in dreams, and then she awoke screaming, as from a nightmare.

At the end of two years, the girl friend who had lectured Claudia on the night of her confession that she wanted money came to pay a visit to the Mayfair mansion, afire with eagerness to see with her own eyes this strangely matched pair. Claudia was lazy about correspondence, and on the rare occasions when she did exert herself to write, her letters were stiff and artificial. She was aware of her own lack of epistolary skill, and was in the habit of referring her friends to the Society papers for news of her doings. “They’ll tell you all about my dresses,” she would say serenely, and following her advice her friends read accounts of wonderful brocades embroidered with real jewels, of trains composed of cloth of gold, and cobweb creations of lace, whose value ran high in four figures, and they laughed to themselves as they read, recalling the old days and the rich cousin’s “cast-offs.”

Certainly Claudia could now claim to be one of the most gorgeously dressed women in society, but—was she happy? Meriel, who was of a romantic and sensitive temperament, recalled the appearance of John Biggs as he had appeared at the wedding ceremony: the gross bulk of the man, the projecting teeth, the small eyes glowing like points of light, the large coarse face; remembering, she shuddered at the remembrance, and for the hundredth time repeated the question—was it possible that Claudia could know happiness with such a mate?

Meriel arrived at the Mayfair mansion late one March afternoon, and was escorted up a magnificent staircase into an equally magnificent drawing-room on the first floor. Everything on which the eyes rested was costly and beautiful, but, looking around with dazzled eyes, Meriel realised that this was but a show-room, an enlarged curio case, in which were exhibited isolated objects of value. There was no harmony about the whole, no skilful blending of effect; the loving touch which turns a house into a home was missing here. The perfect specimens stood stiffly in their places, there was no sign of occupation, not so much as a book lying upon a chair.

The first impression was undoubtedly disappointing, but presently the door opened, and Claudia herself appeared on the threshold, and ran forward, impulsive, loving, and unaffected as in the days of her obscurity.

“Meriel! Oh, Meriel! It is ripping to see you again, you dear, nice old thing! I’m ever so pleased you could come. I don’t often have visitors. I’m bored with visitors, but I wanted you. And you look just the same; not a bit older. I always did say you had the sweetest eyes in the world—and the ugliest hats! Meriel darling, I shall take you at once to my milliner’s.”

“No good, my dear, I’ve no money to spend. Besides, what’s the use of worrying about clothes while I’m with you? I’m bound to look the veriest frump in comparison, so why worry any more? We are not all the wives of millionaires.”

“No! Isn’t it a pity? I do wish you were. Sit down, dear, and we’ll have tea.”

Claudia touched the electric bell and seated herself on a sofa a little to the left of her friend’s chair, looking towards her with a smile in which complacency was tinged with a touch of anxiety.

“How do I look?”

Meriel looked, laughed, and waved her hands in the air with a gesture meant to convey the inadequacy of words.

“A vision! A dream. Snow white. Rose red. A fairy princess. A diamond queen. Quite unnecessarily and selfishly beautiful, my dear, and as sleek as a well-stroked cat! Really, Claudia, you’ve eclipsed yourself!”

“Oh, have I? You think so really? Honestly, you think so? Meriel, you are a dear; I do love you!” cried Claudia, and Meriel noticed with amazement that there was unfeigned relief in her voice. It was a new development for Claudia to show any uncertainty concerning her own charms!

Throughout the meal which followed Meriel was absorbed in admiration of the beautiful creature who sat beside her; her unaccustomed eyes dwelt with something like awe upon the costly intricacies of her attire, the limpid purity of the gems which glittered on the white hands. Claudia’s clothing expressed the last word in smartness, but she had not been infected by the modern craze for powder and rouge. The beauty of her face and hair were due to nature alone, but, despite the warmth, of her friend’s admiration, she herself seemed to feel some uncertainty as to their effect. From time to time she craned her head to study herself in a mirror which hung upon the wall, and at each glance her forehead wrinkled. Meriel pushed her chair slightly to the left so that she also might see that reflection, and discovered with amusement that the cause of this perturbation was a slight pink flush which rose above the lace collar, and touched the base of the cheek; she bit her lips to restrain a smile, realising with increased amusement that ever since she had entered the room Claudia had skilfully manoeuvred to hide this trifling disfigurement from observation. What a bore to be a society belle who was obliged to worry seriously about a trifle which would probably disappear in the course of a few hours!

The two friends were talking merrily together when the door opened, and John Biggs entered the room. He was slightly thinner, a thought more presentable than of yore, but the small eyes had lost none of their sunken gleam. Meriel had to keep a strong control over herself to hide her shuddering dislike as his hand touched hers, but she acknowledged that he was a gracious host, and that she had no cause to find fault with the manner in which he gave her welcome. The greetings over, she discovered that Claudia had taken advantage of the breathing space to move her chair to the opposite side of the small tea-table, so that her husband from his arm-chair should see her to the best advantage, and the disfigurement of that slight rash should be inflicted upon the guest rather than upon himself. It struck Meriel as a pretty, almost a touching action, and she watched eagerly to discover if it were possible that the miracle of love had united this husband and wife.

First for the husband—his conversation was addressed as in duty bound mainly to his guest, but ever and anon his eyes returned to his wife, and dwelt upon her, fascinated, absorbed, as though of all the treasures which the room contained she was in his sight the most priceless of all. Then for the wife—a slight but very perceptible change had come over Claudia’s manner since the moment of his entrance. Her affectation of candour disappeared, an air of caution and reserve enveloped her like a mist. She gave the altogether new impression of considering her words, of shaping them continually to please the ears of her audience. Yet she had shown her old outspokenness during the first few minutes of the interview, had for instance had no hesitation in condemning the ugliness of Mend’s hat. Obviously then it was her husband whom she was considering, not her guest. Once more Meriel commended the attitude; once more hope raised her head. She addressed herself to her host in quite a cordial and friendly manner.

“I have been telling Claudia that she has eclipsed all her former records! She is looking younger, and more brilliant than I have ever seen her.”

John Biggs looked at his wife, and his eyes gleamed. What did that gleam mean? Did it mean love, the love which a man might naturally be supposed to cherish for a wife so young and lovely?

It was Meriel’s nature to believe in her fellow creatures, and she told herself that of course it meant love. What else could it be? It was imagination only which had read into that glance something cold and cruel, a triumph of possession more malignant than tender. When Claudia rose to escort her friend to her room, there came the first note of discord, for her husband rose too, and as she would have passed by stretched out one great hand to detain her, while with the other he held her chin, turning her face so that the pink rash was deliberately exposed to his gaze. A moment before it had been hardly noticeable, but at that touch the pink flush faded from Claudia’s cheek, leaving her so pallid that the disfigurement was increased by contrast.

“Still there, I notice!” he said shortly, and then with a certain brutality of emphasis: “Get rid of that!” he cried deeply. “Get rid of it. And quickly. Do you hear?”

“Yes, John,” Claudia said, and there was a breathless catch in her voice, as though his words filled her with fear.

Meriel marvelled still more!

Later on that evening, Meriel repaired to her friend’s room to indulge in one of those hair-brushing tête-à-têtes dear to the feminine soul.

“Well, Claudia,” she began, a touch of something approaching envy sounding in her voice, “you at least have gained what you wished for! You plumped for money, and you have more than you can spend. Do you find the experience as satisfactory as you expected?”

Claudia smiled, and leaned back luxuriously against her cushions.

“Oh, quite!” she cried emphatically. “After two years’ experience, I am still of the opinion that it is the only thing that matters. It’s wonderful what money can do, Meriel; it’s magical! Good people talk of greater gifts that you may get if you are good and self-denying, and have a dull time, but they are all in the clouds, and money is so delightfully, so tangibly real!” She glanced round the beautiful room, then down to the little ringed hand stretched out to the fire; she moved her fingers to and fro, so that the flames might wake the sparkle of gems, and heaved a sigh of luxurious content. “I used to long for things that I could not have; now I never need to long, for they are mine as soon as I think of them! How can one help being happy, when one has everything one wants?”

“There are some things that money cannot buy.” Once more Meriel could not resist echoing the truism of centuries, but Claudia shook her head with laughing contradiction.

“Rubbish! Don’t you believe it! Anyway, money can buy such good imitations that you can’t tell them from real! It can do more than that. It—” She paused, with a sudden intake of breath, and her voice sank to a deeper note: “It can cover things up!”

Meriel’s eyes shot a curious glance. Through the evening she had studied the husband and wife with a puzzled scrutiny, and now, at the end of it, she felt as far as ever from solving the mystery which she sensed as lying beneath the surface. Claudia’s manner to her husband was gay and charming, but in the midst of her lightest badinage the friend of her youth had discerned an effort, a strain, an almost painful endeavour to win his approval.

And he? Nothing could be more marked than the man’s care for his beautiful wife. Why was it that through all his elaborate attentions there lurked a cold, a sinister effect?

“But what can you have that you wish to cover, Claudia?” Meriel inquired. “By your own confession, you have only to wish and it is yours, and you have a devoted husband who looks after you as if you were the most fragile of hothouse flowers. It’s absurd, you know, for you were always as strong as a horse! That transparent look of yours is a delusion; but how upset he seemed, poor man, because your cheek was just a little inflamed to-night.”

Claudia straightened herself; an involuntary shiver shook her slight form. Her voice had a nervous ring:

“It’s nothing—it’s nothing!” she cried. “Just spring, and these horrid east winds. But it won’t go! I’ve tried a dozen things; and he hates it—he hates any fuss or illness! I must never be ill, or have anything that spoils. There’s this ball coming on next week, and I am to be the Ice Queen. I must get my face better before then! I’ve got the most wonderful dress. He planned it for me. He is determined there shall be nothing to touch it in the room. Goodness knows the amount he has spent upon it! I simply daren’t look anything but my best!”

“My dear Claudia!” Meriel’s voice was full of protest. “What nonsense you talk! You are very beautiful, my dear, but you can’t expect an eternal perfection! You must have your ups and downs like other people, and grow old in your turn, and lose your hair and complexion, and grow withered and toothless!”

Claudia leaped to her feet with a gesture which was almost fierce in its intensity.

“Be quiet!” she cried. “Be quiet! Don’t dare to speak of it. I’m young still; not twenty-seven. I’ve ages and ages ahead before I need think of growing old. And women don’t lose their beauty nowadays. They know how to keep it. They have to keep it! And I—I more than anyone!”

She crossed the room to her dressing-table, and, switching on an extra electric light, bent low to examine her face in the glass.

“It’s only a slight rash, Meriel; but it won’t go! I—I don’t know what to do about it. I’m worried to death. Do help me. Do advise. Do tell me what to do.”

It was the first time that Claudia’s friend had ever heard her appeal for help, and there was a thrill in her voice which could not be denied.

“My dear girl,” she said quickly, “I’m no good at cosmetics. My complexion has to take its chance, and nobody cares whether it’s good or bad. But if you are specially anxious to look your best at this ball, why waste time in experiments? A few guineas more or less is nothing to you. Go to-morrow to consult the first skin specialist in London.”

Claudia looked at her, a long, thoughtful look. She began to speak and checked herself, subduing as it were a bidden fear. Then she nodded slowly, once and again.

“I will!” she said firmly. “I will. It’s folly putting it off. I’ll telephone at once, and make an appointment.”

The examination was over. A longer and more exhaustive examination than seemed necessary for so slight a cause. The specialist stood hesitating, his face puckered in thought.

Claudia smiled at him with her most dazzling smile.

“You think you can make me quite better for the ball?”

He looked at her swiftly, and as swiftly looked away.

“That is a very short time. I am afraid I can hardly promise that.”

“How soon can you make me better?”

“These skin troubles are sometimes lengthy affairs. It will be necessary for you to have a course of treatment. I should like to see Mr—er—your husband, and talk the matter over with him.”

But at that Claudia swept forward with a commanding air.

“It is impossible! I forbid it! He does not know that I am here to-day. He must not know! If there is anything to be done, I must do it without his knowledge! I cannot tell him. I dare not tell him: What is it that is wrong with my face? It is only a little rash. Why do you look at me like that? For God’s sake say that it won’t take long, that it won’t get worse; that I shall be able to—to hide it from him; to keep my beauty! What is the matter? Why don’t you speak? You must tell me. If you know! Whatever it is I must bear it alone! I daren’t tell him—he must never know!”

The great doctor turned away his face. His lips moved, once and again, before at last the dread word echoed through the room:

“Lupus!”