Books: The Master Christian

M >> Marie Corelli >> The Master Christian

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And on St. Cecilia's morning he was in sad and sober mood,--too
vexed with himself to contemplate his future work without a sense of
pain and disappointment and loneliness. He loved Sylvie Hermenstein,
and admitted his passion for her frankly to his own soul, but at the
same time felt that a union with her would be impossible. He had
seen her nearly every day since their first introduction to each
other, and had realised to the height of soul-intoxication the
subtle charm of her delicate beauty, and the sweetness of her
disposition. But--(there was a but in it,--there always is!) he was
not sure of her constancy. The duel between the Marquis Fontenelle
and the actor Miraudin had furnished food for gossip at all the
social gatherings in Rome, and Sylvie's name, freely mentioned as
the cause of the dispute, had been thus given an unpleasant
notoriety. And though Aubrey Leigh was far too chivalrous and noble-
natured to judge and condemn a woman without seeking for the truth
from her own lips, he was indescribably annoyed to hear her spoken
of in any connection with the late Marquis. He had a strong desire
to ask Angela Sovrani a few questions concerning the affair, but
hesitated, lest his keen personal anxiety should betray the depth of
his feelings. Then, too, he was troubled by the fact that the
Hermenstein family had been from time immemorial devout Romanists,
and he felt that Sylvie must perforce be a firm adherent to that
faith.

"Better to leave Rome!" he said to himself, "Better to shake off the
witchery of her presence, and get back to England and to work. And
if I cannot kill or quell this love in me, at any rate it shall
serve me to good purpose,--it shall make me a better and a braver
man!"

He had promised to meet the Princesse D'Agramont that morning at the
Catacombs of St. Callistus, to see the illumination of the tomb of
St. Cecilia, which takes place there annually on the Saint's Feast-
Day, and he knew that Angela Sovrani and the Comtesse Hermenstein
were to be of the Princesse's party. He was somewhat late in
starting, and hired a fiacre to drive him along the Via Appia to his
destination, but when he arrived there Mass had already commenced. A
Trappist monk, tall and grim and forbidding of aspect, met him at
the entrance to the Catacombs with a lighted taper, and escorted him
in silence through the gloomy "Oratorium" and passage of tombs,--the
torch he carried flinging ghastly reflections on the mural paintings
and inscriptions, till, on reaching the tomb of St. Cecilia where
the murdered saint once lay, though her remains are now enshrined in
the Church of St. Cecilia in Trastevere, the Trappist suddenly left
him at a corner to attend to other incoming visitors, and
disappeared. Aubrey looked around him, vaguely touched and awed by
the solemnity of the scene;--the damp walls on which old Byzantine
paintings of the seventh century were still visible, though
crumbling fast away,--the glimmering lights,--the little crowd of
people pressed together,--the brilliantly illuminated altar,--the
droning accents of the officiating priests;--and presently the sound
of a boy's exquisite young voice rose high and pure, singing the
Agnus Dei. St. Cecilia herself might have been enraptured by such
sweet harmony,--and Aubrey Leigh instinctively bent his head, moved
strongly by the holy and tender fervour of the anthem. Growing
accustomed to the flickering lights, he presently perceived the
Princesse D'Agramont a little in front of him,--and beside her were
her two friends, Angela Sovrani and Sylvie Hermenstein. Sylvie was
kneeling, and her face was hidden. Angela was seated,--and her eyes,
full of the radiance of thought and dreaming genius, were fixed on
the altar. Gradually he moved up till he reached the rough bench
where they were all together--the Princesse D'Agramont saw him at
once, and signed to him to take a vacant place next to Sylvie. He
sat down very gently--afraid to disturb the graceful figure kneeling
within touch of his hand--how devout she seemed, he thought! But as
the Agnus Dei ceased, she stirred, and rose quietly,--as quietly as
a bent flower might lift itself in the grass after the rush of the
wind,--and gave him a gentle salute, then sat down beside him,
drooping her soft eyes over her prayer-book, but not before he had
seen that they were wet with tears. Was she unhappy he wondered? It
seemed impossible! Such a woman could never be unhappy! With beauty,
health, and a sunny temperament,--wealth and independence, what
could she know of sorrow! It is strange how seldom a man can enter
into the true comprehension of a woman's grief, though he may often
be the cause of the trouble. A woman, if endowed with beauty and
charm, ought never, in a man's opinion, to LOOK sad, whatever she
may FEEL. It is her business to smile, and shine like a sunbeam on a
spring morning for his delectation always. And Aubrey Leigh, though
he could thoroughly appreciate and enter into the sordid woes of
hard-worked and poverty-stricken womankind, was not without the same
delusion that seems to possess all his sex,--namely, that if a woman
is brilliantly endowed, and has sufficient of this world's goods to
ensure her plenty of friends and pretty toilettes, she need never be
unhappy. Sylvie's tears were therefore a mystery to him, except when
a jealous pang contracted his generally liberal and tender soul, and
he thought, "Perhaps she is grieving for the Marquis Fontenelle!" He
glanced at her every now and again dubiously,--while the service
went on, and the exquisite music beat rhythmic waves against the
ancient walls and roof of the murdered Saint's tomb,--but her face,
fair and childlike, was a puzzle to his mind,--he could never make
out from its expression whether she were thoughtful or frivolous.
Strange mistakes are often made in physiognomy. Often the so-called
"intellectual" face,--the "touch-me-not" dignity--the "stalking-
tragedy" manner, covers a total lack of brain,--and often a large-
featured, seemingly "noble" face, has served as a mask for untold
depths of villainy. The delicate, small face of Nelson suggested
nothing of the giant heroism in his nature, and many a pretty, and
apparently frivolous woman's face, which suggests nothing but the
most thoughtless gaiety, is a disguise for a strong nature capable
of lofty and self-sacrificing deeds. There is nothing likely to be
so deceptive as a human countenance,--for with the exception of a
few uncomfortably sincere persons, we all try to make it disguise
our feelings as much as we can.

The service concluded, and St. Cecilia solemnly commended once more
to her eternal rest, the people all rose and wandered like black
ghosts, through the darkness of the Catacombs, following the flicker
of the torches carried by the Trappist monks, who always perform the
duty of guides on this occasion,--and, once out in the open air, in
the full blaze of the sunshine which had now broken brilliantly
through the mist of the previously threatening rain-clouds, Aubrey
Leigh saw with pain that Sylvie looked very pale and ill. He
ventured to say something solicitous concerning this to the
Princesse D'Agramont, whose bright dark eyes flashed over him with
an enigmatical look, half wonder, half scorn.

"What strange creatures men are!" she said satirically, "Even you,
clever, and gifted with an insight into human nature, seem to be
actually surprised that our poor, pretty little Sylvie looks ill!
With half Rome declaring that she WAS the mistress of Fontenelle,
and the other half swearing itself black in the face that she IS the
mistress of Gherardi, she certainly ought to be very happy, ought
she not? Indeed, almost dancing with the joy and consolation of
knowing how pleasant her 'Society' friends are making her life for
her!"

Aubrey's heart beat violently.

"Princesse," he said, in a low tone of vibrating earnestness, "If I
thought--if I could think such abominable lies were told of her . . ."

"Chut!" And the Princesse smiled rather sadly,--"It is not like you
to 'pretend,' Mr. Leigh--You DO know,--you MUST know--that a coarse
discussion over her name was the cause of the duel between the
Marquis Fontenelle and that miserable vaurien of the stage,
Miraudin,--gossip generously lays the two deaths at her door--and
the poor child is as innocent of harm as the lilies we have just
seen left to die in the darkness of St. Cecilia's tomb. The fact is,
she came to Rome to escape the libertinage and amorous persecution
of Fontenelle; and she never knew till the day she heard of his
death, that he had followed her. Nor did I. In fact, I asked him to
be my escort to Rome, and he refused. Naturally I imagined he was
still in Paris. So we were all in the dark,--and as often happens in
such cases, when the world does not know whom to blame for a
disaster, it generally elects to punish the innocent. All the Saints
we have heard about this morning, bear witness to THAT truth!"

Aubrey lifted his eyes and looked yearningly at the sylph-like
figure of Sylvie walking a little ahead of him with her friend
Angela.

"I thought," he said hesitatingly,--"I confess, I thought there
might have been something between her and the late Marquis . . ."

"Of course there was something!" answered the Princesse impatiently,
"Oh, mon Dieu! Plus de sottises! There always IS something where
Sylvie is, Mr. Leigh! She cannot smile or sing, or turn her head, or
raise her eyes, or smell a bunch of violets, without some one of
your audacious sex conceiving the idea of making himself agreeable
and indispensable to her. And when she will not compromise herself--
(is that not your convenient little phrase?)--she is judged much
more severely than if she had done so! And do you know why? Because
you men can never endure defeat in love-matters! You would rather
spread abroad the rumour that you had conquered, than confess that
your libertinism had been perceived and repulsed with indignation
and scorn! And I will tell you another thing if you do not know it.
In the frequent destruction of an innocent woman's reputation. it is
a rejected suitor who generally starts the first rumour and hands
the lie over to debased women, knowing that THEY may be trusted to
keep it up!"

Aubrey flushed, and winced under the lash of her cutting words. "You
are very cruel, Princesse!" he said, "Surely unnecessarily bitterly
cruel!"

"Cher philosophe, I have loved!" she replied, "And that is why I am
cruel. I have loved and have been deceived in love,--and that kind
of thing often turns the most patient Griselda into an exceptionally
fierce tiger-cat! I am not quite a tiger-cat,--but I confess I do
not like one-sidedness in anything, Nature's tendency being to
equalise--equalise--till we are all flattened down into one level,--
the grave! At the present moment we are treading on a mixture of
kings and saints and heroes,--all one soil you see, and rather
marshy,--badly in need of draining at all times!" She laughed a
little. "Frankly, I assure you, it is to me the most deplorable
arrangement that a true woman should be destined to give all the
passion and love of her life to one man, while the same man scatters
his worthless affections about like halfpence among dozens of drabs!
My dear Mr. Leigh, do not frown at me in that tragic way! I am not
blaming YOU! I am not in the least inclined to put you in the
general category,--at least not at present. You do not look like the
ordinary man, though you may be for all that! Expression is very
deceptive!" She laughed again, then added, "Think of our sweet
Angela, for instance! Unless a merciful Providence intervenes, she
will marry Florian Varillo,--and no doubt he will make her invite
Mademoiselle Pon-Pon to her house to dine and sleep!"

"She loves him!" said Aubrey simply.

"Yes, she loves him, because she deludes herself with the idea that
he is worthy of love. But if she were to find him out her whole soul
would indignantly repulse him. If she knew all _I_ know of him, she
would rather embrace the mildewy skeleton of San Carlo Borromeo,
with the great jewels glistening in his ghastly eye-sockets, than
the well-fed, fresh coloured Florian Varillo!"

"If you fear for her happiness, why not warn her?" asked Aubrey.

"Warn her against the one creature she loves in the world?" said the
Princesse, "Thanks very much! I would rather not. She would never
speak to me again, and I should lose every chance of comforting or
helping her when affliction comes--as of course it is bound to come!
Each individual man or woman makes his or her own life,--we poor
'friends' can only stand and look on, waiting till they get into the
muddle that we have always foreseen, and then doing our best to drag
them out of it; but God Himself I think, could not save them from
falling into the muddle in the first place. As for Sylvie, I have
advised her to leave Rome and go back to Budapest at once."

Aubrey started.

"Why?"

"Why? Can you ask? Because she is misjudged here on account of
Fontenelle's death, and calumniated and wronged; because the women
hate her for her beauty and wealth, and the men hate her too because
she will not flatter them by accepting their ridiculous attentions.
She will be much happier in her own home,--such a grand old castle
it is!--a cluster of towers and broad battlements, with purple
mountains in the background, and tall pine-trees everywhere . . ."

"It must be lonely for her!" said Aubrey quickly, "She is so
mignonne--so caressable--so made for love and care and tenderness--"
Here he broke off, vexed with himself for having said so much,--and
his face flushed warmly. The Princesse stopped in her walk and
looked at him straightly.

"Mr. Leigh," she said, "I think--I hope you are an honest man! And
do you know the best advice I can give you?"

He answered no word, but his eyes questioned her meaning.

"Remain honest!" she said, smiling an answer to his look, "Be true
to your own instincts and highest impulses. Do not allow yourself to
be swayed by opinion or rumour; stand clear of both,--and treat even
a woman as you would treat a man!--squarely--candidly--faithfully!"

She moved on and rejoined her companions, and Aubrey followed. The
Comtesse Hermenstein's carriage was waiting for her, and the
Comtesse herself was just entering it with Angela Sovrani as he came
up.

"Good-bye, Mr. Leigh," she said gently, extending her hand, "I may
not see you again perhaps. I am going home to Buda this week."

"Must you go?" he asked, looking earnestly into the lovely eyes,
lovelier than ever in their present sorrowful languor.

"I think so," she answered, "I may wait to see Angela's great
picture, but--"

"Do not hurry your departure," said Aubrey, speaking in a softer
tone--"Tell me--may I come and see you this evening,--just for a few
moments?"

His eyes rested on her tenderly, and at the passion of his glance
her own fell.

"If you like--yes," she murmured. And just then the Princesse
D'Agramont approached.

"May I drive you home, Mr. Leigh?" she asked.

"Thank you!" And Aubrey smiled as he accepted the invitation.

And presently the carriages started, Sylvie's light victoria
leading, and the Princesse D'Agramont's landeau following. Half way
back to Rome a picturesque little beggar, whose motley-coloured rags
scarcely clothed his smooth brown limbs, suddenly sprang out of a
corner where he had been in hiding with a great basket of violets,
and threw the whole fragrant heap dexterously into Sylvie's
carriage, crying out,

"Bellissima Signora! Bellissima! Bellissima! Un soldo! Un soldo!"

Laughingly Sylvie threw out four or five francs, but Aubrey, carried
beyond all prudence by catching a glimpse of Sylvie's pretty head
gleaming above the great purple cluster of violets she had caught
and held, tossed a twenty-franc piece to the clever little rascal
who had by "suiting the action to the word, and the word to the
action" as Italians so often do, gained a week's earnings in one
successful morning.

And the evening came, misty but mild, with the moon peering
doubtfully through a fleecy veil of fine floating vapour, which,
gathering flashes of luminance from the silver orb, turned to the
witch-lights of an opal,--and Aubrey made his way to the Casa
D'Angeli, which in his own mind he called the "Palais D'lffry," in
memory of the old Breton song Sylvie had sung. On giving his name he
was at once shown up into the great salon, now made beautiful by the
picturesque and precious things accumulated there, and arranged with
the individuality and taste of the presiding spirit. She was quite
alone, seated in a deep easy chair near the fire,--and her dress, of
some faint shell-pink hue, clung about her in trailing soft folds
which fell in a glistening heap of crushed rose-tints at her feet,
making a soft rest for her tiny dog who was luxuriously curled
therein. The firelight shed a warm glow around her,--flickering
brightly on her fair hair, on her white arms, and small hands where
one or two diamonds flashed like drops of dew,--and Aubrey, as he
entered, was conscious of an overpowering sense of weakness, poverty
of soul, narrowness of mind, incompetency of attainment,--for the
tranquillity and sweet perfection of the picture his eyes rested
upon--a picture lovelier than even the Gretchen which tempted
Goethe's Faust to Hell,--made him doubtful of his own powers--
mistrustful of his own worth. In his life of self-renunciation among
the poorer classes, he had grown accustomed to pity women,--to look
upon them more or less as frail, broken creatures needing help and
support,--sometimes to be loved, but far more often to be despised
and neglected. But Sylvie, Comtesse Hermenstein, was not of these,--
he knew, or thought he knew that she needed nothing. Beauty was
hers, wealth was hers, independence of position was hers; and if she
had given a smile or nod of encouragement, lovers were hers to
command. What was he that he should count himself at all valuable in
her sight, even as the merest friend? These despondent thoughts were
doubly embittered by the immense scorn he now entertained for
himself that he should have been such a fool as to listen for a
moment to the silly and malignant gossip circulated among the
envious concerning a woman who was admittedly the superior of those
who calumniated her. For clearest logic shows that wherever
superiority exists, inferiority rises up in opposition, and the
lower endeavours to drag the higher down. Such vague reflections,
coursing rapidly through his, brain, gave him an air of
embarrassment and awkwardness not by any means common to him, as he
advanced, and Sylvie, half rising from her chair, greeted him in her
turn with a little touch of shyness which sent a wave of soft colour
over her face, and made her look ten times prettier than ever.

"I am glad to find you alone--" he began.

"Yes? I am generally alone," answered Sylvie with a little smile--
"except for Katrine--she would be here to welcome you this evening,
but she has a very bad neuralgic headache--"

"I am very sorry," murmured Aubrey, with hypocritical earnestness,
all the while devoutly blessing Madame Bozier's timely
indisposition. "She is a great sufferer from neuralgia, I believe?"

"Yes . . ." and Sylvie, to divert the cloud of embarrassment that
seemed to be deepening rather than dispersing for them both, rang
the bell with a pretty imperativeness that was rather startling to
Aubrey's nerves.

"What is that for?" he enquired irrelevantly.

"Only for coffee!"

Their eyes met,--the mutual glance was irresistible, and they both
laughed. Sylvia's Arab page entered in response to her summons, a
pretty dusky-skinned lad of some twelve years old, picturesquely
arrayed in scarlet, and bearing a quaintly embossed gilt salver with
coffee prepared in the Arabian fashion.

"Do you like coffee made in this way?" asked Sylvie, as she handed
Aubrey his cup.

Aubrey's eyes were fixed on the small white hand that looked so
dainty, curled over the trifle of Sevres china that was called a
coffee-cup,--and he answered vaguely,

"This way? Oh, yes--of course--any way!"

A faint smile lifted the rosy corners of Sylvie's mouth as she heard
this incoherent reply--and the Arab page rolled his dark eyes up at
his fair mistress with a look of dog-like affectionate enquiry, as
to whether perhaps some fault in his serving had caused that little
playful enigmatical expression on the face which he, in common with
many others of his sex, thought the fairest in the world. The coffee
dispensed and the page gone, there followed a spell of silence. The
fire burned cheerily in the deep chimney, and the great logs cracked
and spluttered as much as to say, "If these two curious people can
find nothing to talk about, we can!" And then, just as luck would
have it, a burning ember suddenly detached itself from the rest and
fell out blazing on the hearth--Sylvie sprang up to push it back,
and Aubrey to assist her,--and then, strange to relate--only the
occult influences of attraction know how it happened--the little
difficulty of the burning ember brought those two other burning
embers of humanity together--for Aubrey, hardly conscious of what he
did, caught Sylvie's swaying, graceful figure as she rose from
bending over the fire, closely in his arms, with a passion which
mounted like a wave to tempest height, and knew no further
hesitation or obstacle.

"Sylvie! Sylvie! I love you!--my darling! I love you!--"

No answer came, for there was none needed. Her face was hidden on
his breast--but he felt rather than saw the soft white arms and
dainty hands moving tremblingly upwards, till they closed round him
in the dear embrace which meant for him from henceforth the faith
and love and devotion of one true heart through all the sorrows and
perplexities as well as the joys and triumphs of life. And when,
with his heart beating, and all his pulses thrilling with the new
ecstacy that possessed him, he whispered a word or two that caused
the pretty golden head to raise itself timidly--the beautiful dark
blue eyes to grow darker with the tenderness that overflowed the
soul behind them, and the sweet lips to meet his own in a kiss, as
soft and fragrant as though a rose had touched them, it was small
blame to him that for a moment he lost his self-possession, and
drawing her closer in his arms, showered upon her not only kisses,
but whispered words of all that tender endearment which is judged as
"foolish" by those who have never had the privilege of being made
the subject of such priceless and exquisite "fooling." And when they
were calmer, and began to think of the possibility of the worthy
Bozier suddenly recovering from her neuralgia and coming to look
after her pupil,--or the undesired but likely entrance of a servant
to attend to the lamps, or to put fresh wood on the fire, they
turned each from the other, with reluctance and half laughing
decorum,--Sylvie resuming her seat by the fire, and Aubrey flinging
himself with happy recklessness in a low fauteuil as near to her as
could be permitted for a gentleman visitor, who might be considered
as enthusiastically expounding literature or science to a
fascinating hostess. And somehow, as they talked, their conversation
did gradually drift from passionate personalities into graver themes
affecting wider interests, and Aubrey, warming into eloquence, gave
free vent to his thoughts and opinions, till noticing that Sylvie
sat very silent, looking into the fire somewhat gravely, he checked
himself abruptly, fancying that perhaps he was treading on what
might be forbidden ground with her whose pleasure was now his law.
As he came to this sudden pause, she turned her soft eyes towards
him tenderly, with a smile.

"Well!" she said, in the pretty foreign accent which distinguished
her almost perfect English, "And why do you stop speaking? You must
not be afraid to trust me with your closest thoughts,--because how
can our love be perfect if you do not?"

"Sweetheart!" he answered, catching the white hand that was so
temptingly near his own, "Our love IS perfect!--and so far as I am
concerned there shall never be a cloud on such a dazzling sky!"

She smiled.

"Ah, you talk romance just now!" she said, "But Aubrey, I want our
love to be something more than romance--I want it to be a grand and
helpful reality! If I am not worthy to be the companion of your very
soul, you will not, you cannot love me long. Now, no protestations!"
For he had possessed himself of the dear little hand again, and was
covering it with kisses--"You see, it is very sweet just now to sit
by the fire together, and look at each other, and feel how happy we
are--but life does not go on like that. And your life, my Aubrey,
belongs to the world . . ."

"To you!--to you!" said Aubrey passionately, "I give it to you! You
know the song?--I set my life in your hand Mar it or make it sweet,--I
set my life in your hand, I lay my heart at your feet!"

Sylvie rose impulsively, and leaning over his chair kissed his
forehead.